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“I want to sing.”
Akito hears himself utter those words into a seemingly empty room, but he doesn’t feel his mouth moving to form sounds, and doesn’t feel his brain express that very desire. He doesn’t remember where this desire to sing came from, but it feels like singing is his only source of air, a thread holding on to him as he dangles on the very edge, a comfort in the darkest of nights. In this very moment, Akito wants to sing. He thinks. He hopes. He’s sure.
“Okay, we’ll sing together. Like always.” Is the only response he gets from the emptiness. The vacant furniture by his bedside speaks to him everyday, grants every wish he spews like a genie that won’t disappear. This genie speaks melodies to him, lulling him into a blissful daze that span for days, treating him as if he’ll break at any moment. This genie speaks to him like he has known him for decades, and Akito’s heart aches with a distant longing for something, someone. He wonders why the slightest mention of them singing together has him in clutches, grasping for whatever is left of the vacancy beside him.
Akito nods in response. He provides a small smile to the emptiness before looking away, refusing to look him in the eyes. Akito doesn’t have the slightest clue of why he feels guilty, but his heart threatens to shatter into the tiniest of pieces if he ever faces the nothing that sits by his bed everyday. He hates that pain.
The silence stays.
Akito feels himself being carried in someone’s arms.
He feels like he’s floating, he can briefly make out the sound of cars, trains, everyday conversations, but they all blend into a comfortable cacophony of background sound. The hands gripping onto his limp body are firm but gentle, they hold onto him like a fading lifeline, and Akito feels safe in those arms. The strides taken by this stranger are precise, as if this route has already been decorated by his footsteps over a thousand times and all he has to do is follow the prints – left, right, left, right. Akito can’t make out his face, his lips are pinched into a frown, his cheeks are lined with the faintest of freckles, but Akito wasn’t sure if it was actually there. Regardless, this stranger’s presence was soothing, and Akito relishes in the safety of his tight hold.
The next time Akito blinks, he realises the stranger has stopped. He looks up at the building they’ve stopped at, and his breath hitches. The building itself is not particularly large, its walls lined with colourful music posters and its interior displaying a catalogue of microphones and speakers. From the outside, the building passes itself off as a simple music store, but for Akito, it’s different.
The mere presence of this building unlocks memories of him performing song after song on stage for a booming audience to hear, putting his best effort into every chance he got to stand on stage, practising endlessly to perfect his singing, refusing to throw even one second away just so he could sing, basking in the fact that he finally had a dream that he could chase after with all his might and enjoying – no, loving – the absolute freedom that came with it. All these memories hit him, and they hit hard, knocking the wind out of him and dragging him out of his blurry haze.
This building – this livehouse is my home.
His heart screams. It screams for someone to hear his plight, for the world to give him back his freedom, for fate to regret abolishing his dream. Akito wonders how he had forgotten the only thing that made him whole, when it used to be the only thing that he never forgot. It hurt him to know that not even a minute ago, he had looked down the familiar streets with eyes of skepticism, not trusting the place that welcomed him home after his arduous journey.
“I- I’m sorry. I’m so-” He struggles a breath, “I– forgot.”
Akito looks up at the stranger, still cradling him in his arms. A small part of him knows this stranger will simply give him a small, sad smile and tell him it’s okay. He doesn’t know where that part of him came from. He doesn’t remember the history that comes with it. He doesn’t want this stranger to be sad anymore. He doesn’t want to call him a stranger. He wants to remember this stranger. He’s so sorry. He wants to remember. He really does. He’s so tired. So tired. He wants to remember, to sleep, to love. Please. I want to remember you.
“It’s okay Akito, you remembered yourself. That’s–” The stranger he wants to remember chokes a little.
“That’s all I wanted for you.”
Akito notices a lone cherry blossom fall onto the stranger’s hair.
Akito wonders if the stranger will ever hate him.
The stage is illuminated in vividly coloured lights, with instruments sitting at the back of it, waiting for use. Below the stage lies a sea of supporters, donning lightsticks and banners as they cheer for the performer singing on stage. Loud, blaring music rings in Akito’s head as he watches the performance, seated at the back of the livehouse. Here, he wonders again if the stranger will ever hate him.
He watches with half-lidded eyes as the lights shine a soft pink on the linen floor, strewed with falling blossom petals. On the centre of the rose-coloured scene, singing his lungs out, stands the same stranger who held him in his arms to this livehouse. Akito doesn’t know how those gentle hands are able to grip the microphone with such intensity, how the legs that walked in perfect synchronisation earlier are now stomping with precise irregularity, how those lips that have only shown him sadness are now curved in the brightest smile as the stranger continues to sing with seemingly great fervour.
Yet, despite all this, Akito can’t feel his passion.
The stranger’s singing is missing something. The delivery of his song sounds incomplete, his figure trembles slightly as if he isn’t used to standing alone on that stage, his voice sounds like it’s complementing the absence of another voice. Akito wants to go up there and sing with him, to show him how perfect their voices would sound together.
He knows this stranger, he’s sure. He knows that a part of him remembers the figure on the stage currently giving his all into a single performance, and he wants to embrace that part of him. He’s frustrated, irritated, tired. He wants to see the stranger’s eyes. He knows all the answers to his questions lie in those beautiful, grey eyes. He needs to get drunk on those eyes so that he can love before he falls asleep–
Ah, his eyes are grey.
As if on cue, the stranger starts a new song. It’s slower than the previous song; this is full of melancholy, yearning and it brings Akito close to tears, eyes brimming with pearls that threaten to fall. The stranger's voice is softer, as if threading on thin ice and tugging at Akito’s heartstrings. He feels the sorrow. He feels the desperation. He feels the hopeless acceptance.
The stranger lifts his head – in the raining pink, Akito sees Toya’s shining grey eyes.
Suddenly, all Akito feels is Toya’s passion. Everything clicks, and the meaning in his music comes to life for Akito. He remembers the times they sang together at every event they could find, their eyes holding nothing but unfiltered love for the tunes they created together. He remembers the countless of times he finds himself lost in Toya’s grey eyes as they sing, filled with newfound determination and fiery passion despite them looking anything but that at first glance. The music that rings in the confined air now sings to him, and Akito understands the solemn suffering that it holds.
It hurts him. Toya’s singing hits him like a freight train and he wants to let his tears fall freely. He wants to sob in disbelief, run up to Toya, slap him in the face, and hug him and never let go. How did he even forget the one person who taught him how to love and be loved? Why didn’t Toya try to make Akito remember him? How could he treat Toya like he didn’t exist? Like a stranger? Why didn’t he give up on Akito for his selfishness? I love you, I’m sorry I forgot you. Everything blends into this one thought that Akito can only dwell on, repeating like a mantra in his head as he watches the love of his life continue his lonely, blue melody in the sea of petals– a song that used to only be sung by them. Together.
His legs fail him, and Akito can only sit there with dull olive eyes, watching as the song reaches its conclusion and Toya takes his leave. There’s so much that Akito wants to do right now but a part of him knows that he can no longer fight, his body bound by the inaction of sleep, and lack thereof. He blinks, and there’s suddenly a hand pressed onto his face.
Toya.
“Why are you crying? Are you hurt anywhere?” Was he? Akito can’t remember the last time he cried, but now he can feel the blurriness of his eyes as warm tears trickle down his cheeks. He doesn’t care though, the only thing that matters is the boy in front of him, whose shoulder sits a lone sakura flower, eyes shining with the faintest glint of cautious hope,
“Toya.” His voice is quiet, hoarse with the lack of use, but he sees Toya’s eyes widen in shock anyways, the hand gently wiping his tears coming to an abrupt stop.
“Akito?”
“I’m sorry.”
“H– How did you remember?” He hears the crack in Toya’s voice, and he wants to soothe the hurt in his heart – the hurt that he caused. But he knows that with this broken version of him, with the ticking time bomb of his body, that he can only place fragile bandages on Toya’s bleeding heart, temporarily cauterising whatever wounds he has inflicted on him.
He can’t speak, his mind goes foggy, all he can think of is that he’s sorry . He wants to be the Akito that Toya deserves, because Toya deserves everything that Akito cannot give. He wants to give, give, and give, but he knows it’s futile with who he is now. Toya deserves someone who knows how to be alive with him. But Akito doesn’t know how to live anymore, because life has turned into a simple, tragic wait for the day he turns into a mere ghost of Toya’s memory.
All he can muster is a shaky smile as Toya seems to comprehend Akito’s fragile state. Toya’s lips shift from its initial shock to a comforting smile, his arms wrapped around Akito as if he’ll run away at any moment, returning to the boy who referred to him as a stranger. Akito can see the heartbreak in his eyes, the fresh tears that welled up betraying his attempted portrayal of stability. He doesn’t want that. He wants Toya to smile without the burden of Akito weighing him down.
He sees the gathering cherry blossoms falling on Toya, making him look more beautiful than ever in Akito’s eyes.
“Do you– want to see– the cherry blossoms– together?” A last-ditch effort to create a final happy memory for Toya.
“It’s win–” Toya’s eyes shine with recognition.
“Okay.” Toya carries him with the same gentleness as when he was a stranger to Akito.
Akito wonders how Toya doesn’t hate him.
Akito's lost track of time ever since he forgot everything, but he guesses that it’s now blooming season.
Vivid Street is littered with cherry blossoms, as if the trees have been blooming all year long, waiting for him to stumble upon the majestic view of pink. The deep alleys are decorated with the soft, blooming petals, the shops shine with a pastel hue, the livehouses are lit bright with sakura flowers, lively music emanating from them. Vivid Street glows with the season, and Akito knows this is the last time he’ll feel this light.
Toya carries him to a nearby river, its clear, bluish tones contrast with the world of pink they’re currently in. They sit on the fresh dew grass, closing their eyes and relishing in the comfort nature brought to them. Akito leans his head on Toya’s shoulder, feeling the happiest he’s ever been in a while. Toya’s hand is on his head, brushing off any stray petals that land on it. It feels so comforting. Akito feels like his heart is about to break with the inexpressible love he feels in this moment.
He thinks back to simpler times, when life was all about choosing the next song to practise, enjoying another plate of delicious pancakes, fighting with his sister, trying to pass his tests (and failing), bickering with An, chiding Kohane about the excessive toppings on her coffee, spending almost every second of his life with Toya. He thinks about Toya, and how he was always by his side, as an emptiness, a stranger, a performer, a lover. He’s sorry that he could never fully reciprocate the love Toya always showered him in, and he’s sorry that he will never have the chance to do so again.
The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and their beauty becomes suffocating. Akito is crying again. He doesn’t want this to end. He doesn’t want to let go of his dreams. He doesn’t want to stop shutting his door on Ena when she comes to check up on him. He doesn’t want to stop eating dinner with his family everyday. He doesn’t want to stop arguing with An over the most simple things. He doesn’t want to stop seeing Kohane grow even more as a singer. He doesn’t want to become a single memory sitting on Toya’s shelf, waiting to be forgotten.
Akito doesn’t want to be forgotten.
He’s already lost his voice. But he struggles with whatever small sobs he can conjure, the tears flowing endlessly now. His hiccups become more frequent, and his body wracks with his weeping, trembling as more flowers land lifelessly on him. He feels a hand holding his face, his head no longer using Toya’s shoulder as support. He looks up, coming face to face with a Toya whose eyes are tinged with red. He’s crying too.
Toya leans in, and Akito tastes a fond sweetness on his lips. Their noses bump lightly, and Akito can feel the slight coldness of their tear tracks, the only evidence of bitterness in this moment. Toya’s lips are so warm , like a tight hug during the coldest of winter nights, promising to never leave. He feels breathless with the soft kiss, melting under Toya’s hold on his body and letting his boyfriend carve a lasting memory with this chaste contact between them. Akito selfishly hopes that with this kiss, he’ll become more than just a fleeting memory, and that Toya will understand how much he means to Akito.
I love you.
He hopes their kiss can convey that.
The cherry blossoms lie on Akito’s fingertips, cold.
He can’t talk, can’t smile, can’t move anymore. All he can do is lie there with bated breath, wondering if the next time he blinks is his last.
It’s strange, Akito has always been afraid of death. The idea of being confined to confinement itself, the inability to have dreams and chase dreams, having to face some unknown instead of living in the known — he was afraid of all of that. So afraid.
But at some point, he’s supposed he’s accepted it, with this wretched body of his. It’s okay , he tells himself. Again and again. It has to be okay, because he got to see the cherry blossoms. He got to spend time with Toya. He got to live in whatever time he had left. It’s okay.
“It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” A gentle grip on his hand, swiping the stray petal away.
The room is no longer empty. He can feel Toya’s encompassing warmth beside him, a genie fulfilling its last wish. He thinks the slight numbness he feels on his palm belongs to Toya’s hand, tracing gentle circles in reassurance.
It’s warm. He’s thankful.
He’s grasped for the vacancy that was beside him, that boy who stayed with him throughout everything.
It’s enough, it’s okay.
He looks over and hopes his eyes conveyed a smile.
I love you.
Toya smiles back.
I love you.
Akito sleeps a dreamless death.
Toya looks at Akito’s lifeless form, his body taking its last breath.
If he lies to himself, he can think that Akito is merely sleeping. His eyes are closed with the impression of sleep, his lips are slightly dry, his ears are flushed red with the cold. He looks peaceful. Toya can play pretend. Toya can pretend he’s sleeping. But he knows better.
His boyfriend hasn’t been able to sleep for a long time now.
Toya looks out the window, where endless, white snow continues to fall. I’m glad Akito didn’t see all this snow. He thinks. He recounts. He remembers the times Akito talks about cherry blossoms, wanting to see them, how it’s blooming season, telling Toya to swipe the petals off his own shoulder. He remembers his own heavy recognition of Akito’s hallucinations, taking him to the sea of dead sakura trees during winter.
He remembers swiping snow off his own shoulder and telling Akito the cherry blossom petal was gone. His heart broke in that moment.
But for the Akito who was dying, he’s glad Akito got to live in a world of cherry blossoms. He’s glad Akito got to smile in a world of pink. He’s glad Akito only saw flowers, for they were much warmer than the bleak snow.
He holds Akito’s hand.
Toya remembers.
We never got to sing together.