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“Uh? You can't have milk?”
That's the question that started it all -- in more ways than one.
Nene tilts her head, mimicking the way that Tsukasa does the same. “No, I'm lactose intolerant. Haven't I told you that before?”
Apparently, yes.
Tsukasa doesn't remember, but he feels like this is information he knows already. There's something that sets off a lightbulb in his brain, one that says "we knew this information already." He sincerely can't remember asking before, can't even recall the scenario in which this would need to have been asked.
And, by her response, surely she's had to tell him this more than just twice, now.
That thought terrifies him.
He can't help but wonder;
What else have I forgotten about?
Tsukasa doesn't think there's anything else.
On the other hand, what the hell would he know? How would he know he's forgotten something? He's forgotten it.
What other little tidbits about his friends has he learnt, then conveniently discarded within his mind when the time came for the information to be useful?
He tries to wrack his brain and remember details of days and conversations of likes and dislikes, little tidbits of information, bigger facts like house addresses, classrooms, hell, he doesn't think he remembers how to write anyone's family name properly.
He can't tell. He doesn't remember any of it, if he's been told these things and should know them or not, if he's observed this information and should know it or not.
There's not even a sliver of something to hold onto, not a strand or a splinter, of a memory lost. Nothing he can clutch onto to prove the existence of something he's forgotten.
Standing there, silent, Tsukasa comes to a realization.
It's in his head all day. Wrapped around his brain as if it were a snake's prey, squeezing, giving him a headache -- or maybe that was all the effort he'd made to try and remember, to dive in just to come up empty handed.
As he's performing, as he's saying goodbye, as he's walking home, as he stops by a vending machine for a drink, as he walks through his door and immediately up the stairs to his room - far too dark for him to wonder about Saki's location. He might have heard her moving around in her room, maybe that was just their cat.
Tsukasa lays down, staring up at his ceiling, spotting the remaining, tiny little glow in the dark stars he'd put up there as a kid. Some had fallen off over the years, but the adhesive has proven rather resilient.
He only has one thing on his mind.
I know next to nothing about the people I'm calling my best friends.
His best friends and his boyfriend. He knows nothing. He knows what they look like, he knows what they sound like, and he knows what lines they're supposed to say in the current production they're putting on.
That's it.
That's the extent of his knowledge.
Everything else has been lost to time, within the trenches of his mind, tucked away not-so-safely in a messy filing cabinet somewhere up there.
He knows so little about them.
Tsukasa tilts his head and looks at the soda he'd been holding onto. He twists it in his hand, still unopened, and stares at the label. His favorite, orange soda.
What are everyone else's favorites?
Doesn't someone prefer juice? He thinks there's multiple, but his mind has been proven to be untrustworthy. Grapefruit? Pomegranate? Strawberry? What was it?
If he was tasked with getting everyone something from vending machines, what would he get them? Would he have the courage to ask? What if they got upset?
Would his friends get upset if they knew the sheer deficit of information present in his mind?
Tsukasa sits up. He takes a big breath in through his mouth and holds it. He furrows his brow, counting to ten before he exhales. He recognizes that he needs to stop thinking about this, get away from the train of thought, distance himself so he doesn't do something dumb.
He's not sure what to occupy himself with. He opens his soda with minimal effort, shakes around the little marble to hear the clinking noise it makes against the glass, then realizes he shouldn't be shaking his drink while in bed.
Tsukasa looks around his room, idly. He feels pretty bad, and he considers just calling it a night and going to bed, but he's not confident he'll be able to keep his mind from wandering back into a panic for long enough to get to sleep.
Speaking of, actually, it's about time for him to fail to keep that in check.
Surveying his room, his walls, Tsukasa realizes just how goddamn empty it is in here.
It's not like he hasn't noticed this before, he's tried many-a time to make it look a little more personalized, less like it's on display, less like they're about to sell this house and need it to look nice. Each time he's done so, he puts up some posters or some polaroids and realizes that it doesn't fit.
Nothing fits in his room. Nothing looks natural, nothing fits on his walls without looking unnatural, it all looked like "teenager having a breakdown about having no personal effects in his room" had caused those decisions.
Maybe he should buy something? Shelves or a cork board? He can't buy them now, and affixing them to his walls would be both annoying and time consuming, not to mention the fact that they would both require him to damage the walls. He doesn't want to be responsible for fixing those holes in the future.
Tsukasa stands. He walks over to his dresser, and reaches for the pile of show pamphlets. He goes to a lot of different musicals around town, and he keeps the program and ticket for all of them, but they're just sort of laying on his desk. He doesn't want to make holes in his walls, could he use tape? He doesn't want to damage the paint -- maybe he can use the glass window wall, or tape them to the railing? Alternating, ticket-program-ticket-program?
Tsukasa finds he's cheered himself up a little bit, with a new idea that seems feasible. If he tapes it to the inside, so only he can see, it might make it difficult to see from the ground floor! If he decorates the window too high, you'll be able to see it from the first floor, and he doesn't want that, because… because…
Because it doesn't look professional and nice, that's why. It's visible, it needs to match the look of the rest of the downstairs, since it's in such plain view!
He feels like he should put a little bit more on the railing, though, doesn't he have some of the programs for his own shows? He swore he kept them, but now can't find them anywhere.
He looks in his closet, under his bed, on his desk and the table, picks up the edges of his rug to see if they somehow slid under there. Nothing.
He makes an annoyed huffing sound and furrows his brows. He wanted to make his room more personal, and how else could he do that other than filling it with his memories with his friends?
… Did he ever keep those programs in the first place?
Or did he conveniently choose to start believing that he did, just so that he could call himself a better friend?
He would have thought at least that he would have kept the earliest ones, as they represented the beginning of his stardom, his first proper big break on a stage, one that wasn't orchestrated by a school.
Tsukasa will be the first to say that he was really arrogant then, and even if some of that arrogance came from a place of doubt, from ‘I deserve this because I've worked too hard for too long to not get anything out of it,’ there was a big part of him that wanted to celebrate himself. A part that wanted to be self centered and self important, because he deserved it! So he'd let it. Maybe he thought that some self confidence would get him far, even though it probably did him more bad than good.
Did that arrogance really lead to him not keeping a single one? He's forgotten. He wished he could picture himself grabbing an extra program on his way out, but there's no such thread to lead him to that spool of memory in his mind.
As he's thinking about it, he paces around his room, folding the papers of the programs he does have in his hands, he tries to think of some way of remedying this. Would staff have any left? There's a high chance they were thrown out a few days after they stopped doing that show, but maybe not. Perhaps they were kept, maybe Emu requested to keep them, for memories. She seems like the sort, right? He thinks so.
Tsukasa walks to the railing and leans on it. He looks down.
What would his friends think if they knew he didn't keep a single program? Shit, what if he'd lied about it? He thought that he had kept them, he really did, did he ever mention it to anyone? Ohh, what if they find out he lied about keeping them?? They'd think he did it on purpose, to make himself seem like a better friend, when in reality he obviously doesn't care enough!
Tsukasa runs his hand through his hair and purses his lips. Does he really care so little? He looks around his dark room again. There's nothing on the walls, no photos, programs, costumes, props, trinkets or gifts, nothing. Nothing is on display, no proof of friendship, no proof of a relationship, nothing, nothing!
He bites his lip.
Would they be offended?
No, no, surely not, they have to know at this point, right? Memory problems aren't something you can hide, generally, especially not in his case. They should know he's got an issue, he can't help it, can't control what he remembers or what he forgets. But…
…
Would they think he wasn't trying hard enough? He doesn't have any preservation techniques, doesn't put in any effort to aid his faulty memory. He doesn't write anything down, doesn't make notes, doesn't keep a memory journal.
Should he? It might help, to keep an organized journal of everything that happens, everything he's told, anything he thinks could possibly be helpful in the future.
It's an idea with merit, such merit that he considers wiping his tears and venturing out right now to go buy one, but as he deliberates, he realizes that there are quite a few holes in this plan.
How would he take the notes in the first place? When he's at home? Will he be able to remember everything by then? Usual people sometimes have trouble remembering all the details, he won't be able to remember an offhand comment hours after it was made, while way more interesting and distracting things have happened after it!
The obvious solution is to then, simply, carry it everywhere and write things down whenever he has the time. But, what does that mean for him? He would be writing it in front of all his friends, writing down their words and their plans and schedules in front of their eyes. How would they feel if they knew he couldn't retain important information about them for more than a few minutes, had to write them down within that time so he doesn't lose it? That he cares so little he can't even repeat it in his head a few times to do this in private?
He can picture any one of his friends making a sad or upset face, avoiding looking at him, saying ‘you could have tried keeping a journal,’ ‘you could do that later’ ‘Is it so hard to wait five minutes?’
It makes his chest constrict. It pains his heart.
He tries to rationalize, who would say what, how could he micromanage this to keep everyone happy. This doesn't really help him, as he finds he can't remember what annoys or frustrates certain members. Emu-- she gets upset when others are upset, right? If she felt like her or others' friendship wasn't valued, that'd make her upset?
Tsukasa thinks she could be the one to suggest a journal to him, so she would probably be upset at the fact that he didn't put in the effort to keep this all sooner. Maybe she did suggest the idea and he just forgot she did - it makes sense, it was too weird of an idea to occur so conveniently naturally to him.
God, what about Rui? Would he be sad, disappointed, angry that Tsukasa didn't retain much from the time they spent together, or dates and gifts?
He gets so caught up in thinking about the scenarios it takes him a while to realize that there are no voices to these faces.
He has descriptions, ‘bright and cheery, usually loud,’ ‘quiet and quick, typically annoyed near me,’ ‘low, cheeky, either mischievous or soothing depending on his mood.’
No matter how specifically he tries to describe their voices, he can't actually hear them. It's like he's reading the description for a character's voice in a book or a script and left to create it in his mind for himself.
This is the most devastating realization he thinks he's ever had.
He hears these peoples' voices every single day, typically for multiple hours at a time. How is it even possible that he doesn't remember them?
Well, maybe being able to describe them in such depth means that he does remember? But- he still can't hear them in his head! He can hear his own voice! He can hear Saki's and his parents'!
What kind of a fucking friend is he?!
Nono, no this can't be real, this can't be happening to him right now, he can't really have forgotten, right? This is his brain playing a cruel trick on his already panicking mind.
Tsukasa turns on his heel and rushes back towards his bed, feeling around his blankets in the dark for his phone. He needs to hear him, he needs to hear Rui's voice, needs to make sure he's not going crazy.
Before, he could picture people saying things in his head that they'd never said before. Now, he can barely picture people saying things that they have said.
Tsukasa finds his phone and turns it on, immediately turning to pull up Rui's number and give him a call. There's no further deliberation. He needs to hear him.
His breath is uneven and his hands and legs are shaking, he has to sit down on his mattress to keep himself from dropping to the floor in distress, waiting for Rui to pick up.
What if he doesn't answer? What then?
It's taking longer than usual. He's always up at this time, right, no way he's asleep already! That's right, right? Rui is the one that stays up too late, falls asleep at his desk? Was that Nene? Is he waiting for Rui to wake up right now?
“Tsukasa?” there he is. “Fufu, I didn't think you would still be up at this time. Aren't you always pestering about recommended... hours..” all Tsukasa does is open his mouth, he doesn't think he's very loud, but Rui stops. Maybe his mouth is too close to the mic, his mouth made that noise it only makes when you've been distressed and crying, all disgusting and mucus-y and dry. “Tsukasa? What's going on?” his tone flips on a dime, reacting to the slightest of shifts in the way he breathes.
Such a stark contrast to the boy who can't even care enough to remember what his boyfriend sounds like on an everyday basis.
“I..” that's it, it's just one word, and the tears start flooding and he's doubling over, grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut so as to not start openly sobbing. Not that he's all that good at that, mind you. “I don't-- I just- I needed.. to hear you…”
His voice wavers, wet and thick with this night's pent up despair. It really was a matter of time until Tsukasa was caught in this shame spiral.
“Okay.” Rui is quiet just a moment as he thinks of his method. Tsukasa can hear him take a deep breath. “Would you like to talk about something specific?” His voice is smooth and even. Oh, what Tsukasa wouldn't give to have Rui in front of him right now to lean into and hold onto.
“I d- I don't know.” Tsukasa tries to keep his voice down. He doesn't know if his sister is here, or awake. He doesn't think he could take it if she knew about this, about how awful of a friend, of a person, her big brother is.
“Hm...”
“I'm sorry, Rui, I just...” Tsukasa sets his jaw with a click, and he closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the ceiling. He tries to inhale slowly, but it's messy, and shakey, and probably does more harm than good. “I needed to.. hear your voice.”
“Would speaking in person help?” God yes. “I can walk over now, if you would like me to.”
“No!” Tsukasa gasps, it's almost a shout, right from the pit of terror in his gut.
If Rui comes over, he'll see this empty room, he'll see the missing pamphlets, he'll see the lack of personalization, and presentation, and any sort of photographs. Not just in his room -- in this whole house. Saki has photos and flowers and all sorts of things lying around, plushies and pillows and throws that make her space hers, and that she's sharing it with the people she loves.
Tsukasa isn't. He has nothing. He doesn't have any personal belongings to put anywhere.
He can't let Rui see. He can't. No way. He won't allow it. He can't have Rui seeing it - his room, his house, his space - he can't have Rui finding out just how little he cares.
“Okay. That's ok. Would you rather come to me?” Rui asks, keeping his calm.
Tsukasa's heart is beating out of his chest. He nods and makes a noise of affirmation, gripping onto his shirt for support. He considers getting down and reaching under his bed for one of his plush toys, but he already feels humiliated enough crying over a few pamphlets. How could something so little set him off so badly?
“Okay. I can meet you halfway.” Tsukasa can hear movement on the other end. Fabric rustling and footsteps, mostly. He must be putting his jacket on. “Just stay on the line. You don't have to say anything.”
Tsukasa's mouth opens with an audible wet noise again. He thinks it's gross. “Okay.”
Tsukasa stands as well. He doesn't think he needs to do that much right now, he just needs to leave. He needs to get out of this environment, out of this house, and into Rui's arms.
--
Rui keeps speaking about nothing throughout the whole walk.
It's not a gratuitously long walk. Not unbearable by any means. It still feels like an eternity, holding in a breakdown the way Tsukasa is right now.
He busies himself by trying to calm down, take deep breaths, compose himself. This night has been a nightmare, maybe some fresh air is what he needs. It's cool, cuts past his bitten lips, readies his lungs and chest for a warm embrace by chilling them up a tad beforehand. He uses Rui's voice as his rock, holding onto every word and trying to commit them to memory.
When he starts hearing double, hears his name through the phone receiver and by his own ears through the mild fog, he looks up and removes the phone from his ear.
“Rui?”
“Tsukasa!”
Rui hurries over, and Tsukasa loses it. Efforts of calm composure forgotten, he rushes forward and throws his arms around Rui, sniveling and gasping, shutting his eyes and squeezing him tight.
Rui holds him, he holds him as hard as he can, supports the back of his head even. “I'm here. I'm here now.” he says softly. “What's happening, Tsukasa?”
Tsukasa can't say it. He can't get the words out. He tilts his head downwards so he can sob without coughing onto Rui's shirt -- because he really doesn't know how to cry without those pathetic coughing noises, never learned how, never properly was allowed to cry. God-- he's so selfish for just assuming that Rui would be emotionally available for him, and at this time of night.
He bends his knees, finding it too much effort to stay up, and Rui follows him down, kneeling and allowing Tsukasa to become a crumpled heap on his lap.
“I-- it was…” he can't get the words out. Rui shushes him soothingly, tells him to take his time and to take a deep breath, but that's not the issue.
Tsukasa still tries -- rests his head against Rui's chest and does his best to replicate his breathing. It sure works better than it did while he was alone and trying to regulate it by himself. With Rui narrating, it feels easier to leave it all behind, but he can't. Not this time. He can't go without talking about this. It bubbles up in his chest and rises in his throat like bile, and Tsukasa opens his mouth to speak.
“I-it was that.. when…”
Rui nods, then looks to the side to give him a bit of privacy, mistaking his stuttered silence as a need to bring his thoughts together to say the correct thing out loud.
Well, the former of those is true, but not for the way he thinks it is.
Tsukasa wracks his brain, retracing his steps of the day, trying so hard to remember where he came from, where this started, how all of this came to be in the first place.
It was today, wasn't it? No, it couldn't be, he can remember events of the day in the evening. Nothing special happened today, he doesn't think. He doesn't really remember it, but that's because it was unremarkable, not because he's missing something. Right?
“I… I don't… I-I don't know…”
He doesn't know what happened.
He can't remember.