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Wakasa has always loved the way Shinichiro looks when he smokes. The way his shoulders unconsciously relax even as soon as he languidly takes the cigarette out of its case (a small luxury he allowed himself), puts it between his teeth and lights it; the way his sea-black eyes slightly narrow as he watches the smoke curl and disappear into the chilly air; the way the corners of his chapped lips lift ever so subtly after the first drag, anyone would miss it. Anyone but him.
The way he's humming their song under his breath.
He takes a draw on his own cigarette, as if burning those three selfish words that ache to leave his mouth. He’s always been stubborn like that, but Shin’s the same, so perhaps it’s better that way. The thing is—they know .
You see, in this world, you have a soulmate—everyone does. You hear the same song in your head since you turn eighteen, an original song that only the two of you know. (That's all it means, though; there’s no promise that you'll actually meet or that you'll be happy. The only thing that's certain is that the song will stop playing once one of you passes away.)
It's not set in stone, but most soulmates keep their song private once they find each other. It varies depending on your soulmate's mood, but the notes remain even as the dynamics, tempo or even instrumentation might change.
His has been in a minor key, largo, for a small eternity now. It's a sonata for piano four hands, but it used to be played by a full orchestra, a lively symphony of a hundred dreams doomed to shatter into a billion pieces. And there's nothing they can do but listen, helplessly, as it unravels before their eyes.
(The music is relentless, seemingly never-ending, for the show must go on, even when the musicians’ fingers bleed crimson red or their spirits waver at the world’s indifference.)
He’s heard Shin croon the main melody to himself a couple times, especially on rare gentle evenings like this one. He makes it sound like a lullaby; like the sun’s falling in love with the moon, or the moon’s falling in love with a shooting star. It's hard to explain and he's never been the best with words.
But Shin lets out their song on these gasoline nights like little sparkles and it’s like he doesn’t care whether someone overhears it or not. Wakasa’s not sure how he feels about that, doesn’t even know if he understands what that means.
Waka hummed it once, when they were fixing his motorcycle together and he got distracted, just a few days before Manjiro’s accident. Shin had stared at him dumbfounded. "Is that your song?" he'd asked out of breath, making Waka's heart skip a beat.
Words are overrated, according to him, but he had been pretty damn sure Shin was going to spend the next week coming up with something eloquent, articulate and utterly cliché to say to him. He's always been sappy like that.
Sometimes, he catches himself wondering what would’ve happened if fate hadn’t been so harsh on the Sano family; would we have gotten together? He stops himself after that first question every time, no use in dwelling on impossible what-ifs.
“You okay?” Shin asks without even having to spare him a glance. Smoke billows from his mouth and nostrils, creating a halo around him, and the silvery moonlight illuminates his pale face in a very mesmerizing way.
(People keep walking past them on the street like a drifting river and he vaguely wonders how they can just keep walking when Shin's right there.)
He looks ethereal and Wakasa thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever gotten to see. How can he worry about how he is doing when his life is such a mess? Shin’s always been like that, with everyone, and Waka can’t decide whether he hates or loves that about him.
“Yeah,” he forces out. Then he shrugs, “Just… thinking.”
He nods, lips pursed, as if trying to decide whether to let it go or not.
However, before he has a chance to say anything, Wakasa asks, “Wanna go for a drink?”
Shin takes one last drag on his cigarette and then crushes the butt beneath his heel. “Can’t, I have a test I have to study for,” he sighs, running his fingers through his tousled, inky-dark hair. “You know how it is.”
He doesn’t, he doesn’t actually know what it’s like. He just sees Shin overworking himself day in and day out, and he’s worried about him. He gives too much of himself to a world that only takes and breaks, and he hates that world, wants to watch it all burn down like the ashes of his last cigarette. Nonetheless, somehow, Shin still has it in him to dare to hope and love and hope some more.
That scares him, too.
An icy current of air blows past them, making Wakasa realize he’d been staring like an idiot, and Shin suddenly starts chortling at how disheveled his perfectly done half-ponytail ends up. He glares at his immaturity, unwelcomed butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. (If this moment lasted forever, Waka thinks he wouldn’t mind it.) “I like it when you laugh like this,” he says before he can stop himself, as he finishes fixing his hair.
“Mm,” Shin becomes silent all of a sudden and Wakasa questions if it would’ve been better to keep quiet. But then the brunet looks at him from the corner of his eye and smirks mischievously, “... I like laughing at you, too.” And that’s all it takes for him to erupt in childish laughter once more.
“Tsk, since when are you the one doing the bullying?" He rolls his eyes, before he begins laughing along, at his own expense, finding he doesn't really care. It's contagious.
When their laughter dies down, a few smug clouds skimming past by the moon, Shin, one hand in his pocket, cheekily takes the nearly forgotten cigarette from between his fingers like he’s not taking his breath away with it, and takes a long drag on it before smoothly handing it back as if it was just a habit of theirs. Wakasa doesn't want to think about how dumbstruck his stupid face must look. (He will, though, because his mind hates him.)
“I gotta go,” Shin says cheerfully, waving a hand at him before also slipping it into his pocket. “It’s getting late, you should go home, as well.”
“Will you sleep tonight?” Wakasa asks, and consequently concludes that maybe he has no self-control because apparently he can't help saying the first thing that comes to his mind.
He takes one last draw on his cigarette, inanely wondering if this counts as an indirect kiss before shutting his pathetic mind up, and drops it on the floor for Shin to stub it out with his heel. This actually is a habit of theirs; he likes to think of it as a romantic gesture.
“I will if you go home now,” he gives him a fake smile, the one Wakasa despites, pretending they don’t know each other well enough that he can tell the difference.
He snorts, “You should take better care of yourself.”
“Right back at you.”
“... Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, then,” Wakasa reluctantly relents. He has one last cigarette in his pack—his lucky cigarette—and hesitates to ask him to let him share it with him before they part ways, but changes his mind when he sees him checking his phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shin,” he states instead, like it's a promise he better not dare break.
His eyes, still as dark as a starless nocturnal sky, soften with something akin to fondness and his smile seems wistful, but it's sincere so Wakasa will take it. "See you… Waka." He's always liked the way his name sounds in that raspy voice of his; like strawberry lollipops, the enticing smell of cigarette smoke to a smoker and the color lavender. He knows him and still makes him feel needed and trusted. Perhaps even indispensable. As much as Wakasa knows he doesn’t deserve it.
He watches the brunet walk away and get on his motorcycle, and continues watching until he's out of sight and there's no proof he was even there anymore. The moon's still there up in the starry firmament but Wakasa only cares about it when it's shining on Shin. It’s always Shin.
Shin and the way the yellowish street lights reflect off his ebony hair. Shin and the way he closes his tired eyes—too tired for a 22 year-old—whenever a soothing breeze brushes past them. Shin and the way he's lying when he smiles, the way he smiles when he’s hurting, and the way he tries to protect everyone from the suffering reality brings like he doesn’t need it, too.
Shin and the way he loves too much.
Shin and the way Wakasa can’t have him.
Shin, Shin, Shin.
Waka starts walking towards the bar down the street, chin up but shoulders hunched, as if he were carrying a heavy burden somewhere in his chest.
Their song will play in his head even as he halfheartedly attempts to tune it out with a forth shot of the most expensive vodka he can afford, even as he tries convincing himself he should get over him with some stranger he could never fall in love with lying underneath him, even as he looks into the girl's bright cerulean eyes and thinks to himself I've always liked the night better, you know? Even without stars.
(Only to later realize he'd actually said something along the lines of, "His eyes are way more beautiful," out loud. He's always more poetic and enigmatic in his head. But that explains her slap.)
He will think back on those cigarette breaks with Shin, the only ones worth thinking back on, and try in vain to remember their song, which will start fading away from him the morning his soulmate decides there's nothing left for him in this unforgiving world anymore—nothing left for him to give and perhaps even no one to offer it to, anyway. He'll dream about him humming it, but somehow it'll be gone as if it wasn't even there in the first place when he inevitably wakes up.
And he'll be afraid that maybe he'll forget about Shin, too.
For now, though, he takes out his lucky cigarette and just looks at it for a moment before lighting it.
He's not naive enough to wish for anything.