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With time, your grazed hands scabbed over and peeled. Your bruised ribs turned from mottled purple to yellow and healed, though at times it still felt difficult to breathe. You kept your head down in school, occasionally skipping art class to avoid your eagle-eyed, heavy-footed classmate. It was hard enough to hurry past her and her devotees in the corridor; they only spat at you when no-one was watching.
While your physical injuries faded into the recent past, the mental wounds continued to weep. In the purgatory between lessons, your mind often drifted to the boy with shaggy hair, pronounced collarbones, and a kind nature: the boy who dove feet first into a dumpster to help a stranger, to help you.
It had been nearly two months since you’d last seen him: sitting together by the fountain in the park. The comfortable heat of the summer evening. You watched with mirth as he and Pochita shared a humble egg sando, too embarrassed to tell him that he had a bit of mayonnaise on his cheek, let alone smudge it off with your finger.
Come find me after school.
The unanswered invitation hung heavy in the humidity, as you pondered whether the upcoming summer break would change anything at all. Would you leave the school gates to find him waiting before you parted temporarily for the summer break? You’d checked every day, loitering around the grounds for too long during the first few weeks. It felt childish to keep holding out and hoping for something different. Hope was the slow death of dreamers, after all.
With a sigh, you dragged your scuffed shoes to your last official lesson of the day, drained by the thought of Mr. Tanaka babbling on about poetry written by short-lived, long dead, privileged men. Too often he wasted his breath trying to persuade the whole class of its potent relevance to modern readers.
You spent much of the long sixty minutes gazing out of the upper storey window, conjuring up little narratives about the people walking by. A woman waddling by as she carried two large bags of shopping, going home to cook a fancy anniversary meal for her partner. A slow black car on a reconnaissance mission, trying to find new recruits to hire or chew up in the corporate machine. But no boy with an eyepatch and a mop of straw-like hair.
Having skipped Art earlier today, you packed up quickly and headed to Ms. Nakayama’s classroom to catch up with the work you had missed. From the papers littered around the room, they’d been working with charcoal: drawing portraits that, when unsuccessful, turned into ugly fruit. A portrait of a child with an uncanny resemblance to a squash sharing a page with a poorly carved jack o’lantern parent. While demonstrating some useful techniques with the dusty sticks of charcoal, Ms. Nakayama absentmindedly chatted about her day and asked about yours, tactfully avoiding your absence. Of all your teachers, Ms. Nakayama was the most understanding and by far the kindest.
Following her guidance, you began to sketch; an eye, floating in solitude on the page, then a nose, teeth, another eye, a sibling to the first. As your focus grew, your mind quietened. Ruminations about your apparent failed friendship with Denji were pushed aside in favour of a number of portraits etched in pure black on crisp white paper: Ms. Nakayama; your quiet classmate who had an explosion of freckles across their face; Pochita then Denji, as best as you could recall from memory. They were by no means identical, but held “a likeness to be proud of”, according to Ms. Nakayama.
It was early evening by the time you left; the sun still high in the blinding blue sky. Not a soul around, besides the odd teacher shuffling to their car with a pile of last minute marking. Ultimately, it was too lovely a day to waste; you decided to walk the long way home, taking a detour through the park, just in case.
As you drifted through the streets, you listened to the distant sound of tires on tarmac, the rumble of traffic punctuated by the odd beep of a horn. It was altogether peaceful; buildings painted gold by the slowly descending sun. You, too, decided to walk in the light, avoiding the darker alleys, their secrets, and your memories of being hunted down like an animal.
When it came into sight, you popped into the convenience store for a snack for yourself. An act that lessened your hunger, but exacerbated your isolation: no need to buy bread or jam this time. You absentmindedly picked at your purchase, the dorayaki packaging rustling beneath your fingers, as you sauntered over to the park and took a seat by the fountain. The stone was cold beneath your legs, the water still looked sudsy. From your vantage point, it was possible to see the main road and all of its traffic, the convenience store and its constant flow of customers, and the happy people of all ages wandering leisurely through the open plan park. Couples, families, the odd lone jogger.
The dorayaki tasted bittersweet, tainted by your disappointment at being alone in the last place you felt a bubble of spontaneous happiness. Ephemeral, ready to ‘pop’ on any dry surface or strong wind. You began to tear your food into tiny crumbs, scattering them on the ground for birds to peck at once most of the people had returned home to their loved ones, before a loud tut from a passing woman with a stroller guilted you into stopping. Instead, you scanned the myriad of strange faces around you, shoulders slumped, swallowing down a kernel of hope with a bite of dry dorayaki.
He saw you first, while he was being chaperoned to the Devil Hunters Tokyo HQ by his latest cause of grief, Hayakawa Aki. Aki had been a problem from the start - if it wasn’t for him, he’d have been paired up with Makima. Instead he was trapped in the insufferable company of the moaning man bun. To say they hadn’t got to the best of starts would have been a significant understatement; their earlier disagreement of tense words and harsher actions leaving them both bedraggled and sore. It was a small detour, a worthy deviation to see if it really was you; to be able to catch up while annoying the life out of Aki was, in itself, a reward.
At first, you thought you were imagining it: your name floating to you on the memory of the wind. Too much sun. But the noise persisted and when you looked around and saw a familiar figure waving his arms wildly in the air, you had to do a double take as he bounded over.
It was Denji - no doubt about it - but he looked so different. Gone was his eyepatch, two bright eyes shining so brightly in the evening light. He looked cleaner, stood taller, acted much bolder than before, like he wasn’t afraid of existing anymore. Or he’d found something to live for. Jealousy bloomed for a second before a strong feeling of relief firmly took its place. He was fine, he was better than fine by the look of him: fresh white shirt rolled up to his elbows, hair still messy but no longer weighed down by dirt and grime.
When you’d imagined seeing him again, it was never like this. While his boyish enthusiasm provided some evidence that you were something valuable in his life, he seemed like the type of person to greet any good friend like an overexcited puppy.
You weren't to know how your absence was felt deeply with each slice of bread, sticky with sweet jam. How you were remembered every night when he brushed his teeth, as the tingle of mint settled on his tongue - that took some getting used to. The delicate scent of soap that lingered on his skin when he washed his hands and face, each time he imagined you sat by the fountain, touching him like he may dissolve in the very water you were washing his hands in. Treating him like a human being for what felt like the first time in his life.
You were more than a good friend, besides Pochita, you were his only friend.
From behind him, you heard a dark haired man in his early-to-mid twenties shout.
“Oi!”
It was hard to pay attention to them both. A quiet solitude interrupted by unexpected energy. Denji seated himself opposite you, unsure whether to offer his hand to shake or not. It hovered awkwardly between you, before he used it to punctuate his animated speech. Just when had he become so bold?
“Don’t mind him”, Denji declared, dismissively waving in the direction of his acquaintance, before continuing loudly, “he’s so chalant.”
Too many questions swirled around your thoughts. 'Chalant'? Who was this other guy? Come to think of it, where was Pochita? Before you could say anything, the dark haired man piped up again, coming to a stop in front of you both.
“‘Chalant’ isn’t even a word. Idiot.”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you over how chalant you’re being.”
He turned to you, “Y’know, I’m so nonchalant, all laid-back and cool, right? But this guy right here", he pointed a finger at Aki, "totally chalant.”
Said guy rolled his eyes before muttering something under his breath, too quiet to hear, and walked a few yards away, pinching the bridge of his nose in what you could only assume was complete annoyance. As soon as his back was turned, Denji stook out his tongue and, catching your gaze out of the corner of his eye, barely stopped short of blowing a raspberry.
“Who is that?”
“Oh! I work with him. Aki, part human, part crusty paintbrush. Total pain in the… neck.”
It was surreal, having him beside you again. He was still that charmingly goofy boy you knew, but there was a newfound distance that wasn't there before, something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Effortlessly, the conversation continued, questions about school and work bouncing between the both of you. Amongst other things, you asked about his new job as a Devil Hunter - “it’s not easy work, but someone’s gotta save the day” - and him checking to see if those girls at school had been giving you any more trouble. It was easier to smile and downplay it, especially with things going so well for Denji. He nodded along to your every word, hair swishing with enthusiasm, which made your chest tighten uncomfortably. You had your secrets, he surely had his own.
On it went, the verbal spar between you punctuated by content smiles, uncertain but friendly touches - a hand on a knee or arm, shoulder to shoulder - and eye contact that lingered a touch too long to be purely friendly. You wanted to ask about his eyepatch, about all the things he wasn't telling you, but couldn't find the right time nor words to do so.
Instead, when a comfortable silence settled between the two of you, you asked something easier but of equal importance.
“How’s Pochi?”
His face dropped for a moment, easy smile falling from his face, before recovering.
“He’s doing better, too! I, uh, I gotta keep him safe from the job, though. But I’ll let him know you were asking after him.”
“Thanks."
For a brief moment, you looked down at your fingers resting on your thighs.
"I’m. I’m not gonna finish this”, holding up the dorayaki that had been resting in your lap, “I haven't dropped it or anything. Do you want it? Or you could give it to him?”
“Oh, I get three square meals a day now”, taking the snack from you, eyeing it closely, “But Pochi will love it. Y'sure?”
“Of course,” you smiled.
Before either of you could chat about something else, tiptoeing around your place in each other’s lives, Aki walked over, a slight limp in his step that went unnoticed by you before.
“C’mon. Makima will be expecting us.”
At this he clambered to his feet and stood bolt upright, bowing deeply to you before walking away backwards while shouting a near constant stream of goodbyes and apologies, despite the growing distance. Aki shook his head. With each step, Denji would shout about how fun it was to see you, that you should do this again sometime, that he’d try not to be a stranger, but you knew how work can be. When they were almost out of sight, you thought you saw Aki slap the back of Denji's head; the unmistakable yelp from Denji practically confirmed it. What an odd 'professional' relationship...
Ignoring the part of you that wanted to follow them, follow him, you remained sat by the fountain, being lulled by the sound of running water. While your face felt warm with companionship, you tried to ignore the growing unease that flitted around your chest before firmly wedging itself under your ribcage. By the sounds of it, you were no Makima.