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Clink. Clink. Clink. Hajime searched his pockets, produced more coins, slipped them into the machine. Clink. Clink. The great tree-shaped thing whirred, shook, whirred again, and produced something. Fuyuhiko angled his head, trying to catch a glimpse. Potato chips. The third bag in a row.
His jacket brushed the tree he was leaning on with a resounding noise. Shit. So much for being discreet.
"Oh. Hey," Hajime greeted. "Were you waiting, or...?"
"Nope. Just... getting fresh air."
"Okay... Let me know if you change your mind."
Fuyuhiko rolled his eyes. Hajime's nonchalance was almost insulting, the way he just brushed him off. It was as if Hajime knew. He knew, and he was deliberately trying not to draw attention to it, just to humor Fuyuhiko. Next thing he knew, Hajime was going to pull some shit like asking him if he --
"Can I get you something?"
God fucking damnit. "...Why?"
"I dunno. I just had extra coins. Might as well."
Okay. If that was his excuse, Fuyuhiko could take it. "...Sure. Whatever."
Hajime nodded, tipping a few coins into the Yachine once more. It whirred, chugged, then thunked, and produced... a doll. Not a shitty little toy capsule doll, but a real one. A doll with a ruffled dress, curls, and glass eyes. The kind you might see on a collector's shelf.
Fuyuhiko's eyes widened.
Hajime, turning beet red, noticed. "Oh my god. I am. I am so sorry. I can, uh, get you something else, you don't have to--"
"It's fine. I'll take it."
"No, really, you don't have to. I didn't mean to-- Wait, what?"
"I said I'll take it." He lifted it up, noting its weight. Real porcelain. Damn. He'd have to repay Hajime for this later. Covertly, of course. "Um. Thanks."
"You're... welcome." Hajime let out a sigh of relief the minute Fuyuhiko left, and Fuyuhiko didn't blame him. On any other day of the year, he'd take this as an insult. Not today, though. No. He'd marked his calendar for this one.
Leading up to it, the hours had crept by, then the minutes, then the seconds, just like every year, but now he had no handmade card to slip under a door when the moment came. No words of gratitude to summon -- for how can he thank a classmate he'd never met before, let alone one whose birthday he wasn't supposed to know? Let alone tell her he believes with all his heart that she had a birthday worth celebrating, that she was worth celebrating? It made him sick.
The way she'd been treated, it nauseated him. There was no way to tell her this.
Because how would she respond? Fuyuhiko ran through it in his head, trudging up the path to the hotel.
Polite denial, that's how. Reassuring him that she is fine, she is only doing her best. She can't ask for more than that. Why? He knows why. Tools don't get to ask for nice things.
Fuyuhiko bit the inside of his cheek, clenched his fist, stomped down the boardwalk. Searched for the right thing to tell her, came up empty-handed. What do you tell her? She doesn't get to ask for nice things, and you don't get to be honest. What a trade-off. What fucking luck I have--
Peko's cottage door was before him, now. Fuck. Moment of truth.
He glanced over his shoulders. No one else was around. All of them were off somewhere else, minding their own business. As they should.
He looked down at the doll, smoothing its curls.
I could... just leave this here. She'd understand why. She'd know it was me. Right?
The doll gave no answer. It just stared back glassily, as dolls do. To Fuyuhiko, that was an answer in itself.
Right.
He leaned it, ever-so-gently, up against the door. If she was out, she'd come back to find it. If she was in, she'd open up to find it. Hopefully.
Was this worth more than a handwritten card? He didn't know. If she likes it, she likes it. If she doesn't, he wouldn't care. It wouldn't bother him. They could go back to being strangers without a hitch. Or she'd confront him. More polite denial.
Fuyuhiko didn't know which scared him more.
He gave up and returned to his own cottage, which was suffocatingly close by and a million light-years away all at once.
---
Night. From out Fuyuhiko's window, the stars looked watchful again, and he drew the blinds, drew the canopy. He slumped onto the bed, sinking into the mattress like quicksand. He squeezed his eyes shut. He willed sleep to come, but it just wouldn't. Everything was too much.
He counted backwards from two hundred. One hundred ninety-nine. One hundred ninety-eight. One hundred ninety--
Carefully, carefully, something slid under his cottage door, papery and discreet.
Fuyuhiko jolted upright. No. It couldn't -- could it?
He didn't have the patience to question it anymore, and threw open the canopy, rushed to the door.
At his feet, there sat a little piece of calligraphy paper, neatly folded. He opened it, slow, and found familiar script waiting inside. The roaring in his ears grew quicker, deafening. He read the contents aloud, as though to preserve the words in time.
I cherish your gift. Thank you so much for thinking of me.
This, Fuyuhiko thought, was the nicest thing he could have ever received.