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Try as he might to visit frequently, months passed and Chihiro grew centimeters in the time it took Shiba to complete a single blink. When he did visit, the stairs outside the house were swept of any leaves, assumedly pushed towards the grass for future fertilization, the trees stood naked, and winter started making its presence known through a gentle snowfall.
A part of Shiba wished he could teleport inside the Rokuhira house without giving him a heart attack before he reached adulthood, if only for scenarios such as these. He oughta train Chihiro to get used to his sudden appearances like he did with her and Kunishige, who barely flinched the few times he dropped in while they were engaging in passionate love making, peeved as they were at his presence.
After knocking a familiar rhythm it was Chihiro who greeted him, as exuberant as ever.
“Hello,” Chihiro said. He did not smile, or frown, nor was he surprised or heartbroken or anything at all. A quiet baby, child, and now pubescent teenager who had yet to shed baby fat or a single tear in front of Shiba. Blink, blink, blink.
“Hey there,” Shiba said after a brief pause. The house’s heat streamed through the doorway, soothing his skin that accumulated to the chilly air. In spite of the volcano he lived in, Chihiro wore a long-sleeved shirt, stopping short midway down his forearm and cinched tight around his chest. His pants matched the missizing, hovering right above his ankles. Socks were deemed no longer necessary, for he padded around barefoot in unclipped toes.
“You didn't tell us you’d be visiting,” Chihiro said. Coming from anyone else Shiba would take offense.
“I forgot to call ahead. Life, adulthood, y’know how it goes.” He raised a soggy, salty takeout bag. A half-assed apology, sure, but he could report it drew a pleased hum.
“Not really,” Chihiro said, slanting his body in a strange door imitation and revealing a tidy indoor space. No stray clothes littered the floor and there was a striking lack of trashbags on the verge of exploding.
Chihiro was about a head shorter than Shiba, a smaller difference than the last time they met where he was a head and a quarter, and he still trimmed his hairline like he preferred using a sword over a razor. He placed the takeout atop the wooden dining table, empty beyond a misshapen ceramic centerpiece likely originating in a factory off the coast rather than a master potter’s hands. It suited the kitchen’s scruffed walls.
Shiba never thought he’d call the Rokuhira residence as cozy, but there it was, and it was a fat chance its cleanliness attributed itself to the owner. Kunishige was best described as a neat-freak’s direct antonym, leaving a disaster in his wake invoking fear into the greatest cleaners. She found it normal for five seconds when they were children unaware of the hygiene’s true importance. Then she found herself perturbed. Plus endeared. To be fair, Kunishige found her miscellaneous junk collecting habit rather odd until Shiba informed him of her letter collection. Afterward, he proclaimed not a single other hobby compared in cuteness.
“How old are you now?” Shiba asked when Chihiro shuffled in view. Shiba answered, “I’m thinking… six?”
“In what world would that make sense?”
“The world I’m living in.”
“Please check in with a physiologist,” Chihiro said, moving around the empty kitchen with practiced ease.
“A psychiatrist.”
“Ah.”
“I figured you’d know that,” Shiba teased.
“Are six year olds required to know advanced vocabulary in your world?” A pile of about zero dishes sat unwashed in the sink. The counters lacked crumbs and screwdrivers. Maybe Shiba did live in a different world.
Chihiro stretched the tips of his feet to reach a cupboard and retrieve plates for his guest, accidentally riding his shirt up. His stubbornness was cute. Old scars and fresh acne bumps leading to the dip in his back like scattered constellations, nestling in his dimples of Venus peaking out from his underwear's elastic waistband.
“Nah, but homeschooled thirteen year olds might,” Shiba said.
Chihiro huffed. On the table he placed a vintage plate Shiba gifted the family right after they settled in the mountains. It screamed snobbiness sitting alongside a few utensils from a thrift store, a jarring but amusing juxtaposition. Shiba had little clue where it originated. Teleportation had its advantages, because few joys matched nabbing pretty items without alerting their owners or losing a single bill in his wallet. One of the comparable joys was in his reach, separating the cheap takeout and ensuring Shiba's portions slightly dominated his own.
They sat across each other and dug into their food, sparing no time for pleasant conversation. The noodles stung as they slithered down Shiba’s throat, slimy as an eel, and chewing the salty beef took an eternity and a half, but he couldn’t complain given the cheap price.
Chihiro was similarly unfocused on anything beyond the meal, slurping to the point of choking then carrying on like nothing occurred. A habit he inherited. Or mirrored; nonetheless adorable across generations. Rice crumbs kissed his cheeks, and the spice plumped his lips to a blaring vermilion.
Shiba waited until they were both stuffed to speak again. At some point, his scarf waddled off his neck onto the table ledge while his outer coat slumped over the chair, happily abandoning their preoccupied owner. Screw them.
“Don’t tell me that damn Rokuhira is passed out in the forge,” Shiba said. He used his shirt to fan himself, less from the food's spice and more so the room’s sweltering temperature. “Not you, by the way.”
“Obviously,” Chihiro said, burping like a puppy. He apologized under his breath.
“There’s lots of Rokuhiras around here, alright?”
“Is there?” Chihiro asked genuinely.
“Uh,” Shiba said. “So, where is he? Tell me he’s not slaving away in this weather.”
Chihiro pulled his hands into his lap, hidden from view. After a second of hesitation he shoved his chair back and began clearing the table, all frantic like someone late to an interview. No matter his emotional state, his voice rarely wavered when he spoke. “He’s resting in his room.”
“I see,” Shiba said. He twirled a piece of hair around his finger, waiting for it to cut off circulation. If it were capable of such, anyway.
“I brought food for him earlier.”
“Of course.”
Chihiro frowned. “He was in the forge for a long time last week, and he wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to get him to take a break or when I wanted to help, either. A burst of, uh, inspiration for dealing with the Shinuchi. He left two days ago and has been in his room the whole time.”
Was Shiba surprised? Kunishige’s habit of locking himself away and honing his craft was as inspirational as it was frustrating. His highs soared towards the sun, but he crashed in a fiery ball and cooled to a dull rock, locked in a painful cycle. She held strong as pieces of her chipped away bit by bit, allowing herself to melt for a brief respite before she hauled herself together within a flash. They pushed until they couldn’t anymore. He had half a mind to wonder if their shared drive attracted them to one another subconsciously, some biological imperative dictating they needed a partner able to withstand adversary even if it destroyed them. Their crash birthed a kid who had little chance of an alternative coping style.
A shame Kunishige didn’t have the energy to leave his room. They met during grocery trips and supply outings, more than the sporadic visits Shiba saw Chihiro, but that day he hoped they’d pop open a bottle and drink the night away, letting left become right and allow morning to arrive unceremoniously. Shiba would never have enough Kunishige, or enough Rokuhira, especially with her gone.
“I imagine this isn’t new, being his roommate ‘n all,” Shiba said. “Swords are his world, then and now, for better and for worse, and the Shinuchi stays on his mind the most. He gets caught in the spell when smithing. Creation and all that. Destruction ain't any different.”
“I wish he’d let me help him.” Anguish did not suit Chihiro, at all. “Why can’t I do better?”
“Better at what? You’re young. He doesn’t want to push his ‘responsibility’ on you. He wants to deal with it on his own, as foolish as that thinking is,” Shiba said.
“Mhm.” Chihiro turned the sink’s faucet, brows drawn in a perfect arch not dissimilar to his cupid’s bow. He constructed a self-imposed, impenetrable brick wall.
Shiba scratched his head, janky words filling his mouth. “He’ll be okay. If you’re by his side, he’ll get better, even if he doesn't want to. Trust me, I’ve known him longer than you have, in case you didn’t already know, but I can forgive such a transgression.”
A world without his son wasn’t one Kunishige could survive in. Baby Chihiro relied on his father for basic tasks, because he was a baby, and Kunishige often let his hair grow wild and let weeks-old laundry strew around, but he fed himself to have the strength to feed Chihiro. Dawns were refreshing because Chihiro greeted him, as were dusks because Chihiro bid goodnight. Wilting away before seeing your seed grow just ain’t right, and he was well aware.
Chihiro glanced at Shiba, and a beat later exhaled so harshly his shoulders dropped. Unlike his father’s, they were puny, bereft of the weight of the world. “Think so?”
“I know so.” Shiba sent a reassuring smile.
Chihiro nodded. He pressed the tip of his fork against his bottom lip before dumping it in the sink. The wrinkle between his brows did not dissipate. “Alright. Thank you.”
“No need.”
The conversation teetered into a loaded silence.
It was as if Shiba missed a step walking down a flight of stairs, but he refused to blame himself. He wasn’t an expert at comforting a boy who lacked a quarter of the knowledge needed, since said knowledge concerned events he lacked consciousness or was a straight up fetus. Comforting Kunishige properly was not a refined skill, either, but he’d done it enough times to yield tried and true methods. Much involved alcohol, something Chihiro was a little too young for.
Shiba’s scarf and coat called to him, begging to snuggle him like pythons once the sun dippied its toes below the horizon. Unfortunately, they were drowned out by the near stifling heat of the Rokuhira household engulfing his senses.
Shiba coughed. “What you should be sorry for is this heat, Chihiro. My skin’s turning pinker than salmon.”
“Salmon is orange.”
“I meant the color. Salmon pink. Visit a home improvement store, shimmy on to the paint aisle, head for the pinks ‘n it’ll be right there.”
“Wait another hour and you will be hot pink,” Chihiro said. “Still, I’m sorry, it’s going to stay like this until Dad wakes. He was very cold.”
Kunishige didn’t like the cold, but this was a step too far in the opposite direction. Chihiro appeared unaffected beyond the pit stains seeping through his black shirt. Genetics, huh.
Chihiro walked to the living room, turned on the TV, then examined the nearby insect enclosure that definitely wasn’t there during his last visit, fraught with an unawareness of his surroundings Shiba never had at a younger age . Then again, nothing slipped past Chihiro when he truly focused.
Shiba dropped on the living room’s maroon couch, arm slung over the back. Scratches and divots marked the surface like it travelled tundras and jungles before landing in the Rokuhiras’ hands, areas safer to explore than the atrocities stuck to the back side only the gods and Shiba knew, because he knew Kunishige.
Using the remote he set the channel to a low quality cartoon older than his existence. Little creatures scuttled like he remembered, as engrossing at thirty-two as it was at five. Outside, pitch black tree silhouettes pierced the foreboding skyline, akin to dark matter. Shimmery snow overwhelmed the ground, the leaves no longer visible as they got buried underneath the onslaught showing no signs of slowing.
He split his attention between the cheesy action on screen and the view from beyond, content to fuse with the couch if the other occupant in the room desired to join him. They’d be a steaming dumpling duo lazing away. Instead, Chihiro’s eyes flicked over the insects in rapt attention.
“When’d y’all get those?” Shiba gestured at the entrapment.
“Dad went to the store for some groceries and bought them. I’m not sure why or how long he thought we’re supposed to keep them, because he didn’t bring any insect care books. He kept going, ‘Look, Chihiro, this ant is like you’.”
“He’s so right. Like, the ant on the left there is basically your son.”
“I don’t think Dad is ready to be a grandfather.”
“Shame!”
Chihiro slipped a finger in the enclosure, unconcerned about the bugs’ chances of escaping by crawling on his body. Whenever he and Shiba went on hikes, Chihiro often halted their progress to observe insects stomping along the path, on occasion pinching one between his rough fingers, careful to avoid smushing them. Moths were a favorite, alongside fireflies.
Kunishige, on the other hand, loathed insects. Seitei War veterans tended to hate bugs, after all. He hated hiking and ventured to the nearby forests on the condition his son accompanied him, whining the entire way how they were flying up his clothed ass and laying eggs in his hair, grievances heard by none but them and the wind.
The beaten child in Shiba yearned for the ability to appreciate them like he did back then. Eight year-old him found her caterpillars intriguing; now they unnerved him. Kunishige was bold to settle in the middle of nowhere land. Give Shiba the choice and he’d ship them to Hokkaido, since there were no incessant cicadas. Probably.
“I guess if he's letting ants in his home he’s turning over a new leaf,” Shiba said. He chucked his inner jacket over the side of the couch, leaving him in a thin t-shirt.
“Sort of,” Chihiro said. “We talked about letting them go tomorrow.”
“They’ll die,” Shiba pointed out the obvious.
“They will die here, too. There’s no need to keep them trapped,” Chihiro said, all commanding like they were in the midst of the war while death loomed around every corner. A photo of a katana hung on the wall behind his head, snug inside a decorated frame and amateurish in a way Kunishige outgrew a decade prior. “He shouldn’t have brought them in the first place,” he said, exasperated.
“The snow?”
“It’ll be gone by tomorrow. I was going to shovel the front yard, too.”
His assuredness was fascinating.
Chihiro placed the lid atop the enclosure then settled on the couch, rolling his sleeves and revealing his tan forearms. Though not as swole as his father’s they were toned in a manner that’d have other teenagers falling to their knees begging for a touch. At this angle Shiba noted a small scar at the intersection of his neck and ear; how his mouth opened slightly when he lost himself in his mind; how his waist was closer to the mother’s litheness than his father’s muscle. An unexpected prick of happiness shot up Shiba's spine at how close Chihiro sat.
“Do you prefer dragonflies or praying mantises?” Chihiro asked.
Shiba pretended to ponder. “Neither.”
“I’d say dragonflies.”
“Is that supposed to be mine?” Shiba wiped his brow. As it happened to be, they were his favorite as a child. “Presumptuous, much?”
“It’s true.” Chihiro yawned.
“And what do you like? Ladybugs? They’re definitely your type.”
“I like butterflies. Their wings are pretty. I draw them on my scratch paper, because Dad doesn’t like me drawing on my homework. Except katanas, they’re okay.”
Goosebumps afflicted Shiba’s arm. Chihiro had Kunishige’s eyes but they weren’t carbon copies, and when he made comments about simple things like butterflies and their colorful wings and cute shape the amount of resemblance to him was uncanny at best. His blood was hers, therefore it was his. Admittedly, the first time Shiba witnessed Chihiro writing he smoked half a pack in five minutes.
“I don’t like them,” Shiba said.
Chihiro presented his delayed response as a shrug, brushing Shiba’s arm like a tentative dandelion flown by Spring’s breeze. “That’s okay. I also like flies.”
“Are you serious,” Shiba said. “I've never heard anyone say they liked flies before.”
“They're vital to Earth's ecosystem.”
“Which is very relevant.”
“To the Earth, yes.”
“Earth's got bees. They pollinate ‘n got sick colors. Well, they sting, too, and I’ve been stung enough times they scare me a bit. They’re hard to avoid when they’re out for blood, okay. They also make honey, and that evens the scale. The clear flies, who suck ass.”
“Dad said you can’t curse in front of me.”
“Flies piss me off that much.”
“Your hatred is making me sad.” Chihiro scolded, resisting a smile. His lips rarely curved in such a manner, equivalent to a thousand kilowatt beam when they did. He lacked his father’s miniscule dimples but atoned by embodying his mother's sweetness. Shiba fought the urge to squish his face like he did when he was an aloof child, though he doubted Chihiro would protest. Kunishige was a blessed man.
“There's gotta be somethin’ else. Who the hell rates butterflies then flies as their top two bugs? What’s the logic there? Wait, you're homeschooled. Nevermind, it makes sense.”
“You like dragonflies.”
“I never confirmed nor denied that fact.”
Chihiro hummed and grabbed the remote. “Cicadas are nice, too.”
“You’re incredible. Somehow, you found a creature more disgraceful than flies. There is no reason you can provide to justify their incessant noise, man, I refuse to believe it.”
“I like the noise.” Sweat trailed across Chihiro’s face. It started at his temple, dragged down to his glistening upper lip. His pink tongue licked the corner of his mouth, and he twisted his pink ears between his pink fingertips. He was like if a peach became human.
In contrast, the remote steadily deteriorated over the years, far past the norm even considering its hefty age, its corners chewed and buttons missing. Chihiro's fingers struggled to wrap around its girth, his pinched expression settling after he reached a twenty-four hour news channel. He dropped the remote, leaving behind a damp hand mark on its scruffed surface.
“Noise, shmoise.”
The news went on about local topics, such as a story promoting an upcoming pop-up event at the museum focused on the Seitei War and the country’s saviors, including Kunishige Rokuhira, notwithstanding the man’s own opinion. Whenever Shiba watched the news—i.e. every few months—they promoted a new story or exhibition or war role-play. All the damn time. He had little idea what nonsense the Kamunabi pushed to the public and school textbooks. Rokuhira and the others were heroes, true; some of the best. Thinking about the clan he served and how they ended, how they were described, the lack thereof, then witnessing the twisted news depictions… It was difficult.
After the war’s end the country recovered well. People were no longer cowering under buildings like the act made any difference in their survival chances, and they no longer powered themselves forward using sheer spite towards an advisory they had never met. The reporters donned fancy jewelry over ragged excuses for uniforms. It glared too frequently in the camera lenses to be practical.
“Is the reporter’s earring gold or silver?” Shiba asked, squinting. The TV wasn’t outdated, per say, just overdue for an upgrade given the ease in differentiating the ‘R’ dots from the ‘B’ and ‘G’.
“Gold. Her necklace is silver.” Chihiro blinked and settled against the couch. His hair smelled like nothing and seemed soft in spite of the lack of conditioner in the household, because Kunishige found it unnecessary, like shaving cream.
Shiba fought the urge to scratch him like he would a kitten, reminded of how she liked he and Azami’s terrible braiding skills, and how she loved a scalp massage, and how Kunishige did not. He had never scratched Chihiro’s scalp.
Damn. He really did not know how much he knew about his best friends’ sons.
A kid changed a lot within a few months, let alone a year. Shiba did not grace teenagers with his presence often enough to obtain a reliable dataset, but he contained his own memories to fall back on. One day all he dreamed of was protecting the Sogas and improving his sorcery beyond everyone’s expectations. The next day he dreamt the same thing. The next, that, and him and Kunishige in a shared shower, then them and her in school, then him and her shirtless in a pulsing crimson void, then an empty field, and at some point Azami’s broken fingers dripping blood on his tongue; none of which he desired to examine in depth seeing as there wasn’t any clarity to gain he hadn’t already thirteen years ago.
Tangent aside, he reached his teen years and awoke and experienced a mini big bang universe birth fuckfest every other day, and he went through this process an innumerable amount before he reached his twenties. Iteration after iteration. Chihiro as a thirteen year old was a sophisticated child, who was a conscious toddler, who was a mobile baby. Those states blended together, but adolescence brought transformations like bombs brought revamped cities.
Maybe his favorite color changed. Did tickling bother him, or was that her? What if he secretly wanted to be a football player rather than a swordsmith? Chihiro kept growing, and peek-a-boo did not work on a teenager, as tempted as Shiba was to try.
Would he be like Kunishige, or her?
It all would’ve been much easier if she were with them. She wouldn’t have made the perfect parent, and in the best situations nor would Kunishige. However, two pairs of willful hands—and prophetic abilities—raised their chances of successfully preparing a child for the cruel world way more than a pair and a half. Hell, with Kunishige’s disposition post-war, he and Shiba combined to make just a single pair.
If she were there, all he’d need to do was pop by during holidays and drop off gifts like a good family friend and save his remorse for his night routine of staring at a ceiling. They’d be wonderful parents, in love and eager to spread it to their son. Watching them make-out wouldn’t even hurt that bad. At least Chihiro would’ve found it gross.
“The other reporter is wearing an emerald ring,” Chihiro said.
“It creeps me out when you do that,” Shiba said, gnawing on a cuticle. He thought he kicked his nail-biting vice, though the stub on his barren ringfinger told a different story.
“I’m not doing anything weird,” Chihiro said. He blinked again. “Dad has good vision, too.”
“It’s also weird when he does it,” Shiba said.
“Is everything we do weird?”
“So weird. Super weird. If aliens were real they’d fit right in with y’all. Immediate cousins.”
“Does Dad sneeze weird?”
“Awfully weird. He’s one of the strangest dudes ever, alongside all them enchanted blade wielders." A certain blind man came to mind.
“You sneeze like him.”
Shiba wrinkled his nose. “First, no, I don’t. Second, it’s a normal kind of weird.”
“I guess.” Chihiro absentmindedly picked at the pilling fabric on his thigh. “I don’t hear people sneeze much.”
“Seriously? Man, we can fix that, easy. Let’s go out—” Shiba’s stomach dropped. “Oh, shit. Your birthday. Fuck, it passed months ago. You’re not even thirteen anymore.”
“Dad said you can’t curse in front of me.”
Shiba wanted to dive in the couch and resurface never. This conversation presented the perfect opportunity to test his long-standing hypothesis of how his body would crush if teleported into a space too small for its size. Teleporting in an iceberg’s core in Antarctica wouldn’t be a bad option either, just to accompany the ice coating his throat and the chilling emptiness in his chest.
“I’m sorry, Chihiro. I completely forgot. Shit.”
“It’s fine.”
It was. Chihiro didn’t care, not one bit. He raised a brow at Shiba smacking his forehead multiple times, a total non-reaction worse than if wept a single tear like she did when they held a surprise celebration and pretended they didn’t remember her birthday. The depths of Shiba’s depravity grew lower and lower, year after year.
It took all he had to not postulate for forgiveness. He had to maintain a level of composure despite the sludge begging to spill out his mouth and coat Chihiro until it caked him entirely. “I got so busy with work and travelling, and it slipped my mind. I’d have come by if I remembered. It’s not forgettable, or anything. What’s wrong with me?”
“It’s not a big deal, Shiba-san. It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Chihiro said, bewildered. His faith was infallible and aggravating. “Dad was a bit—what was the word—despondent, so we didn’t celebrate. He tried making me a cake a couple days later but it wasn’t very good. I think he thinks you and Azami-san visited while he slept in his room, because he slept for a while, so it was like any other day.”
If Kunishige realized, he’d be disappointed. She’d be disappointed.
“What do you do for work, anyway?” Chihiro asked, subtly.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Shiba waved him off, annoying him more than anything else that evening. Chihiro stayed sullen but quiet. “We’re gonna go out. I saw a poster for a festival near the town in a few days. We can stop by.”
“I don’t care,” Chihiro said, brimming with honesty. He snuggled into the couch, wrapping his arms around his legs and tucking his head. A small rock ignoring the crashing waves, eyes on Shiba, almost contemplative.
Shiba wanted to throw a tantrum at Chihiro's lack thereof. There was no way to atone to someone who didn’t want it, no matter how much you failed them as one of the approximately three people they knew. It should’ve been four. Guilt was an icky feeling, and it pounded a deafening rhythm in his skull.
He needed to make amends. “Alright, so let’s go. We’ll go, find trinkets your dad will go ga-ga over ‘n eat so much we’ll embody gluttony to a tee.”
Shiba curled his fingers around the base of the boy’s neck, scratching the base where his head met his spine. Spikey hair so rough it could only fit a swordsmith, like his father's. Chihiro peered from under his long eyelashes, but he did not lean in like her, or whack him like Kunishige. Accommodating Shiba’s touch like it made no difference.
Immense awkwardness slammed into Shiba. He removed his hand and let his arm fall around Chihiro’s shoulders, then the couch, then his own lap. Chihiro directed his gaze at the TV.
“Take Dad.”
“Great idea! All three of us can go.”
Yet, Chihiro shook his head.
“I don’t want to go. You take Dad and I’ll stay here. I want to forge on my own, and I want you two to go out together.”
“Chihiro,” Shiba said, fighting the urge to cringe. “You know how Rokuhira is with crowded public spaces. My temple’s are gonna turn gray before I convince him to take a single step down those stairs.”
“Fine. I’ll just stay mad at you.”
If the country hosted a competition for the worst liars, Chihiro’d make podium. Regardless, his proclamation was effective. The very possibility of Chihiro disliking Shiba was nauseating. Might as well tie him to a ship in a tsunami in that case.
“Okay, shit, me and Rokuhira will have an awesome time eating grease while you stay and stare at swords all day.” Shiba threw his hands up and sighed. Stubbornness was not cute, but he knew when to cut his losses. There were plenty of opportunities for him and Chihiro and even Kunishige to visit a festival in the future. All Shiba needed to do was drop by intermittently, or at least whenever one occurred and not the day before or later.
Time passed. They watched an assortment of slop deemed entertainment by random executives, plus the general populace who needed to watch a classic or two. Chihiro was no exception, unless Kunishige the VHS player hooked to the TV wasn’t for show.
Eventually, Chihiro’s yawns overpowered his silence, and he stood to stretch. He lacked abs.
As etiquette and his own desire would dictate it was time for Shiba to exit, if not for the raging snowstorm outside. No problem for a teleporter who lived in an apartment with functioning heat, which Shiba was not. Staring out a window in a dark, freezing brick studio was a hobby he quite enjoyed. Unless the space was closer to unlivable than freezing, then it sucked.
“You can stay in the guest room,” Chihiro said, reading his mind.
Shiba yawned so obnoxiously he cracked his jaw. “I hope Rokuhira washed the sheets.”
Chihiro rubbed his eye and, in a shocking display of emotion, snorted. Too bad the scene existed in Shiba's memories and not a video recorder, a fact he’d bemoan the rest of his life.
“The sheets are washed. Your room is—”
“Down the hall on the left, yeah, yeah. I might watch a bit before heading to bed, and don’t worry, I know where the bathroom is, too.” Cartoons were cool and he didn’t own a TV, sue him.
Shiba twisted his torso, leading to his back cracking in ways surely abnormal for a man in his thirties. His companion cracked his fingers using his thumb, measuring the room’s cleanliness and ticking a mental checklist.
“Okay. We have spare toothbrushes underneath the counter, in the drawer. I’ll be in the kitchen. We’re going to have eggs for breakfast tomorrow, and I can make it omelet style, like you prefer,” Chihiro said.
The bedrooms were all decent sizes. Shiba wondered what decorations filled Chihiro’s bedroom walls. He might’ve fancied an idol group he saw briefly on TV, becoming instantly enamoured and finding a way to import their posters into his abode. Likely, the walls were barren. Then again, Shiba proved he wasn’t the most informed on Chihiro, so it was anyone’s guess.
“A chance to try your famous eggs, eh? Rokuhira raves about them all the time, so why not, ‘n I’ll be outta your hair afterward.” Shiba winked.
“Please don’t do that again,” Chihiro said.
“Sorry,” Shiba said.
Chihiro went to clean like a dutiful worker as Shiba let the TV devolve into strange sitcoms that made less sense sober than drunk. Gravity pushed his neck lower as time passed. Plates splashed, and the softness of the couch sung to him like a siren.
The house smelled of iron, lavender, and oak, but in the couch’s corner lingered a refreshing musk a step away from the cheap cologne overlaying his oldest memories in a haze the war’s hauntings could barely penetrate. Perhaps he’d hassle the Rokuhiras so they’d allow him permanent residence in the living room, allowing him to sleep in the midst of the serene scent and sounds forever. Close to their side at all times, should they desire it as much as Shiba. Which they don’t.
The craving to be near the perfect combination humanity had to offer was so overpowering some days it nearly drove him mad. Starving was all he could do before it consumed him.
In between snow pounding on the walls and flickering color beyond his eyelids, he dreamt. Serene and unremarkable dreams speckled with flashing images. Silky hair, spikey hair, moles, a scruffy beard, a wrist smaller than his own. Cats’ habit of sleeping in the sunlight was understandable if the oceanic scent replaced the light.
Then he was dreaming like he was a teenager. Shiba and her, Shiba and Kunishige. Her and Kunishige, then her and Kunishige, then scattered letters and punctured, broken bodies, a broken tape stuck repeating the same pictures he desperately wanted to rip apart. His lungs inhaled ash and oxygen, then and now, but it made no difference. They burned his retinas and forever stained his teeth a bloody crimson. The suffering was almost stagnant.
Then Chihiro’s hand was on his shoulder, his minty breath puffing right into Shiba’s mouth.
“Don’t fall asleep here. The bed is softer,” Chihiro whispered, shaking gently.
Shiba didn’t reply. He let Chihiro help him stand and drag him to the bathroom, fingers curled around Shiba’s dress shirt, avoiding skin-to-skin contact. Shiba’s heart had no reason to stutter over a miniscule act of kindness identical to how she expressed herself, nor did his nostrils have any reason to sting like they did. Pathetic may as well be his middle name at this point.
When they reached the bathroom Chihiro pulled out a blue plastic toothbrush, applied a dollop of sparkling green toothpaste, then grabbed Shiba’s hand to wrap around the base. Eyebags marred his face and he chewed his chapped lip; his common look, her bad habit.
“I can brush my own teeth,” Shiba said, a tad more irritated than he intended. He wrestled his hand away and began scraping the bristles over his premolars.
Chihiro nodded. His hand clenched then relaxed abruptly. Stiff and small. “Okay. I’m going to bed.”
“Uh-huh,” Shiba said.
“Goodnight, Shiba-san.”
“G’nigh’,” Shiba mumbled. Chihiro lingered in the doorway. A step backward into the pitch inky hallway and he’d practically disappear, gone without a trace. Black hair, black shirt, black pants. Chihiro’s didn’t stand a chance.
Shiba spat in the sink. He splashed numbing water on his face, uncaring that pieces of his hair got drenched as well. The mirror reflected him perfectly: ghoulish with unbrushed hair, a five o’clock shadow phasing in.
He looked at the doorway. Chihiro was gone.
The guest room was as he remembered. The futon was as comfortable as any futon out there, surpassing his apartment bed, although that wasn’t saying much. A running ceiling fan, smooth hardwood, an empty nightstand. Not a speck of dust in sight. He dropped atop the covers.
The blinds were drawn shut and the room lacked a clock, so he wasn’t sure if minutes or hours passed as he measured the dimensions of the wooden ceiling tiles. As nice as the futon was, sleep eluded him.
Then, right as his eyelids grew heavy, a cough bubbled in his throat, and he realized how parched his mouth was. In the dead of night he waddled to the Rokuhira’s kitchen, using the moonlight filtering in through the windows as a guide. With no one else awake, the house felt sterile and brooding, not unlike Shiba’s typical abode.
He grabbed a cup on the dish drying rack. The tap water sputtered then spilled like a revived fountain, soothing when he guzzled it at a surprising speed. He shut his eyes and saw through as if they were translucent. It was difficult to parse if he was dreaming or not.
Shiba headed towards his room, passed it, and went off to Kunishige’s at the end of the hall. The guest room and Chihiro’s were about the same size, meant for single residents to have their own privacy. Kunishige’s, meanwhile, was double the size. Perfect for a couple.
And it was empty.
Chihiro was a diligent boy who loved his father, so he checked on him prior to them eating, and Kunishige was a man who dearly loved his son, enough that he wouldn’t walk out without them noticing or without saying hello, in addition to being a heavy-set man whose steps rattled the ground. The window was chained shut. The sheets were warm, leaving a single existing possibility.
Like his father’s, Chihiro’s bedroom door was unlocked. The top cover was thrown astray to show two people lying in the futon.
Chihiro was on his side, drooling on the pillow underneath, eyes fluttering in the midst of his REM phase. He was so red. No other hue on the spectrum better fit him. It permeated his outside presentation as much as it filled his veins and as much as it pooled in his elbows and the flesh surrounding his inner mouth and pumped his young, kind heart. He donned pajama shorts decked in tacky embroidered swords. They slunk upward, baggy around his thighs akin to silk despite their cotton exterior.
Kunishige spooned him from behind, squeezing Chihiro like he was a giant body pillow. His arms flexed in his hold. The man hardly changed since the last time Shiba saw him, though it was difficult to verify his assessment's validity since Kunishige’s face was buried into his son’s neck. One leg slung over Chihiro's, wearing shorts just like his. An earthquake of unprecedented magnitudes would find itself unable to wake them—they were out cold.
Shiba curiosity he refused to quell led him to many unfortunate situations, so he kneeled in front of the duo, observing a life he'd never have. A roaring in his ears like it was fourteen years ago. It hurt to think, to breathe, but the crushing weight pressing his lungs was ignorable.
The bedroom was scorching, a little less than he presumed his final destination in life would be, so the sheets beneath them were doused in sweat. Damp patches dotted the surface in large, blotted patterns. Chihiro’s cheeks flushed. Tiny scars sequined Kunishige's arm, close to smothering Chihiro’s face.
Shiba attempted to pry Kunishige away, his skin simmering on contact. Kunishige refused to let go, snuggling further in the boy’s neck to the point Chihiro’s brows furrowed in unconscious chagrin.
Crushing Chihiro to his chest like he had nothing left to lose, he whispered a wavery “Chiaki…”
Shiba stepped back.
He went to the kitchen and put on his coat and scarf. He teleported to his apartment, changed to his sleepwear, then fell asleep after an unknown amount of time.
A couple days later, the country decided blizzards were so last week and demanded the weather beamed bright rays of amicable sunshine upon its children. The snow didn’t melt, but trudging to the residence wasn’t a workout, so it sufficed.
Shiba went to pick up Kunishige, a bottle of sake stored in his coat encapsulated by super impressive thermal technology, and a pack of cigarettes in his outer pants pocket awaiting their demise.
His friend showed no reluctance towards their excursion, except the grumbling at the state of his tattered gloves Chihiro had yet to amend. The gauntness Shiba remembered from the previous visit, a.k.a. Kunishige’s birthday, vanished. His beard was sharp like his eyes, and he accepted Chihiro’s flimsy excuse with deep dimples and a tight hug goodbye. A grin Shiba couldn’t get rid of etched itself on his face. It ached.
Chihiro waved as they walked to the festival. He did not frown.
Years later, his father’s corpse disintegrated into the soil, and his mother occupied minimal space in his brain. Chihiro was seventeen, she was gone, and he was gone.
Since childhood, Shiba held a steadfast belief: souls weren’t real, and if they were they hid inside flesh and bones and blood and were visible to no one. Then he added a caveat for his witch's hour nightmares: if souls were real, maybe they lived on in others, unseen by those who miss them most.
When Chihiro slumped on a worn mattress in a shitty motel, pressing ice on his throbbing scar, his red eyes glossy and her red lips wobbling, Shiba conceded. He believed the theory in all its agonizing angles, and he couldn’t be blamed for leaning in.