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The quiet, subdued sniffling that Rin had heard as he knelt by his father’s grave with Haru overlooking his shoulder earlier today hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to bring up right now—at least not directly. He didn’t want to break up the tranquility Haru had built around himself ever since they got home from their visit, nor crack the armor he had most probably put on to do that thing he did, whenever he felt something he didn't want to feel.
Instead, Rin asked: “Haru, why do you rarely talk about yourself?”
Haru, engrossed in perusing a magazine from a set Makoto had gotten him for his birthday, looked up with a quizzical expression. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just…” Rin scratched his head awkwardly. He stared at the dark whorls covering the surface of the wooden dining table, wondering if they’d give him courage the longer he stared. “I talk about myself all the time.” He could hear Haru snort under his breath at this, but he barreled on. “I talk about my dreams, I talk about my dad and his dreams, I talk about Gou and my mother and my emotions… Hell, I embarrass myself with just how much I talk about everything all the time, but—”
Haru blinked. “But?”
“But I rarely hear you talk about… well, you, without anyone having to force you to do so.”
They looked at each other quietly, studying each other’s features, both wondering whether Haru should be the one to speak up, or if Rin would have to add something to what he’d said to drive his point home.
“Nobody forces me to do anything,” Haru said curtly, closing his magazine and setting it aside on the sofa. “I say what I want to when I feel the need to.”
Rin pushed himself up, making a beeline for the sofa. He picked up the magazine Haru had set aside and moved it to the coffee table, careful not to crease it. Sinking into the leather, he turned to Haru, raising a brow. “You don’t feel the need to say anything much at all, do you?”
Haru folded his arms. “In case you haven’t noticed by now, Rin, I’ve never been much of a talker.”
“Right,” Rin agreed, nodding slowly for his own sake rather than Haru’s, as if to slowly but surely convince himself that there was no argument to be made against what Haru had just firmly proclaimed. He would’ve—should’ve—left it at that because he knew how much Haru disliked being probed with too many questions, but… it wasn’t exactly the answer he was searching for or why he’d asked the question in the first place. “But why aren’t you much of a talker in the first place?”
Now, Rin wasn’t stupid. He was well aware of the fact that people were different, some more introverted than others. He knew Haru was more reserved in nature than he was; that Haru existed as a humanoid manifestation of gentle oceanic waves lapping against the shore, and Rin, the resounding crash of said waves, echoing through the sea breeze. They were similar in some ways, and different in others.
Rin could’ve easily chalked up Haru’s quiet nature to being one of those differences, but it felt like there was something more to it. Perhaps he had read one too many of those self-help, human psychology books during his free time in between international meets, but he felt like he was onto something here. Reading those books helped him build a connection between his upbringing, the relationship he’d had with his parents, the attachment he’d had to his father, and how these things made him the man he was today.
It helped him understand his own anxiety and the fears that manifested because of it. It helped him make sense of why he needed a push from an external source, i.e. Haru, to keep him running towards his dreams.
To move him forward.
But along the way, he’d also learnt that Haru was nothing like him in this aspect—that while Rin needed Haru as some sort of beacon, a current to move his boat along the river of life, Haru, on the other hand, needed his motivation to be intrinsic, to come from within. Having people to push him forward certainly wasn’t a bad thing, but first and foremost, he needed to want to do something in order to accomplish it.
Rin was a go-getter, or a high-achiever of sorts. At least that was what Sousuke often told him.
But Haru was content just going with the flow of things, rarely ever reaching beyond what was already set within his sights, unless it involved swimming.
Rin couldn’t help but wonder why. What was it about the way Haru was raised that made him this way? Why was he so different from Rin when it came to this?
Why wasn’t Haru as expressive about who he was or what he wanted as Rin was?
Haru barely spoke of his upbringing, apart from only vaguely mentioning things his late grandmother used to say to him as she raised him. They were always rather cryptic, metaphorical sayings that any person who didn’t know Haru personally would struggle to comprehend, or would make them think Haru was just waxing poetic about nothing for the sake of it.
But Rin knew Haru long enough to understand there was a depth to him that could easily go unnoticed if you simply waved off his tight lip as him being an introvert. Even if Haru rarely spoke much on his own accord, Rin knew Haru felt things deeply, or mulled over his words (or that of others) for longer than he let on. Makoto would agree with him.
Haru wouldn’t have quit swimming all those years ago on account of thinking he’d hurt Rin by beating him in a silly race in winter if he wasn’t someone who felt deeply. Rin still had trouble getting over the guilt he felt when he found out about this from Rei. He couldn’t have guessed that Haru would overthink that incident to the point of giving up on swimming, something he so dearly enjoyed.
Sometimes, he even wished Haru had told him himself—that he should’ve reached out and let Rin know that he thought he had hurt him; that he, too, was hurt by what happened because he thought he had hurt his friend.
But of course, Haru never spoke much about his own feelings. If ever.
Rin looked at Haru imploringly, but the latter was struggling to speak, his throat bobbing and eyes squinting like he was thinking really hard about what to say. Rin couldn’t help but to feel sheepish for putting him on the spot by asking such a loaded question.
So instead, he did what he did best: he talked about himself until he could get Haru to cave and talk about himself too.
“My father, he—” Rin paused, frowning.
He felt like he needed to be cautious of what he was about to say, not because he thought Haru would be offended by any of it, but rather because he didn’t want to come across as a nag, or a worrywart. He didn’t want Haru to mistake his oncoming rambling as him speaking without a purpose for the sake of filling the silence either—a common conclusion Haru seemed to jump to whenever Rin just wouldn’t stop talking that often led to childish squabbling.
Rin was on a mission to understand Haru better, and in order to do that, to peel off the carefully wrapped layers of Haru’s defenses and understand the parts of his childhood he very rarely brought up on his own accord, he knew he had to lay himself bare first.
A compromise.
He figured that if he wanted to understand Haru’s character better (and eventually find out if Haru really had been crying when they visited his father’s grave that morning), he’d have to model the dialogue and steer it in the appropriate direction first. Only then would Haru follow suit.
Okay, not would. Might. Haru might follow suit.
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“My father was a superhero,” he said quietly, looking off into the distance as the words settled. If he had said this to any other person, he’d have felt self-conscious over his choice of words, but he knew Haru had never been one to judge. “He was my role model, growing up. He was a good dad. He was hardworking, and he always showered my mother—and Gou and I, of course—with affection. He laid the foundation for what it means to experience familial love.”
Rin stared into the blank television screen, carefully watching Haru’s reflection for any signs of a bodily response, but Haru remained stock-still, listening intently.
“I was nine when we got the call,” Rin continued. “I was the only one home at the time. My mother had gone out to buy groceries with Gou, and I remember picking up the phone and being greeted by this really anxious voice, telling me my father had been caught in the storm out at sea, and that he… he didn’t make it out alive.”
Haru looked down at his hands, unsure of what to do with them. “That must’ve been a lot for a nine-year-old to take in,” he whispered softly. “I always knew how much your father meant to you, though. When we first met as children, you spoke about him so much, it hadn’t even registered to me that he’d passed away. I thought you were just doing what, um, most nine-year-olds do—bragging about their parents. I didn’t…”
He trailed off, not knowing what to say. And then, off-handedly, he remarked: “I was jealous. Of how easily you spoke about him. How easily you still do speak about him. And to him, even though he’s not here.”
“Is that why,” Rin started, carefully watching Haru’s body language for any signs of discomfort, in case he’d wandered into uncharted waters that would cause him to curl back into himself, “you were crying when we were visiting my dad’s grave?”
“I wasn’t crying,” Haru retorted, but his voice sounded too watery to be believable, and his eyes were rapidly blinking back unshed tears.
Rin swallowed the lump in his throat and dared himself to reach out, placing a comforting hand on Haru’s lap. “There’s nothing wrong with crying.” He had said it to reassure Haru that he didn’t have to hesitate about opening up, even if it made him feel vulnerable, and partly to comfort himself. He was the resident crybaby in their circle of friends after all. “And there’s nothing wrong with it if you weren’t—crying, that is. I just thought I heard you sniffling, but if you weren’t, then… yeah. Nothing wrong with that. I was just wondering.”
“I just thought it was weird,” Haru mumbled mostly to himself. Rin, despite himself, bristled a bit.
“You thought it was weird… that I was talking to my dad’s gravestone?”
“No,” Haru quickly denied, shooting a hand out to grab the hand Rin was carefully stroking over his lap. “No, that’s not—that’s not it.” He averted his eyes, boring holes into the black screen of the television instead. “It’s just… weird how you can openly talk to your father, even though he’s passed on, while I struggle to speak to my parents, even though they’re still here.”
Rin frowned. “It’s different, Haru. My father—he was present, but your parents…” He paused, thinking carefully of how to phrase his next words. “Your parents were never there for you growing up. It was mostly your grandmother who raised you, wasn’t it?”
Haru nodded. His hands were beginning to fidget, so he squeezed Rin’s hand once, tightening his hold on it. Subconsciously, he found the desire to move the conversation away from his… complicated family dynamic, centering it around Rin again.
“So why do you still speak to your father the way you do when you visit him?” He asked.
“I keep doing it as a routine,” Rin explained, looking down at the hem of his shirt. There was a loose stitch peeking out from under it, which he welcomed as a distraction, rolling the thread between his fingers. It never got easier talking about this particular part of his life.
“Everytime I visit my father’s grave, I speak to him as though he’s still here with me. I think of it as maintaining a connection, or just, y’know, pretending I still have the privilege of having those intimate, father-son conversations one would have when they need advice, as a son that’s growing into a man, from the man that raised him. And maybe, just maybe, I keep doing it so that I don’t forget… him. So that I can keep the memory of him alive. Do you… do you ever do that with—with your grandmother? Do you talk to her?”
Haru shook his head. He was frowning now, and the wrinkle between his brows made Rin want to rub it away.
“I honour my grandmother’s memory by talking about the things she used to tell me. I’m.. aware that everyone thinks I’m… weird, because of it.”
Rin widened his eyes. “I don’t think you’re weird, Haru.”
Haru sighed, looking away. “I’m sure everyone else does. But,” he swallowed, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Rin pouted. “It’s fine if it matters and it’s fine if it doesn’t. I, of all people, know that sometimes, we do certain things to cope with our grief, even if it looks funny to others.” He paused, smiling gently. “I actually think it’s really nice hearing what your grandmother would once have said through you. She must’ve been very wise.”
At that, Haru visibly perked up. “She was.” It was quickly occurring to him that no one had ever really asked or spoke to him about his grandmother before, and that this conversation with Rin was welcome and novel. Most other people, even Makoto, would skirt around the topic, assuming Haru wouldn’t open up about it, or that he preferred keeping that part of his life to himself. He appreciated this.
“Tell me more about her,” Rin goaded, gently squeezing Haru’s hand back.
Haru thought hard. Images of his late grandmother’s serene features flooded his mind, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like she was here again, doting on him, wandering around him in that calm, reassuring way that she had.
“She was mild-mannered,” Haru said quietly, suddenly drawn to the photo on the television console of him and her, “and kind. I was a quiet child myself, and I rarely wanted to do anything but swim, or play with the garden hose, or help her cook, and she always included me. She never scolded me, and she never made me feel like my parents’ absence made me any less…”
He paused.
“...loved.”
The word stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was odd. For most of his life, he knew his grandmother had loved him; a love so bountiful he never really comprehended what its absence would feel like until she was gone, left behind without a grandmother, and parents who virtually forgot about him.
“She loved me a lot,” Haru whispered, and then he choked.
Tears began flooding, and for the first time in his life, long after his grandmother had passed, they spilled over, trickling over his cheeks in hot, fresh rivulets, rendering him unable to do anything else but to fall against Rin heavily. Rin hugged him, silently, stroking his hair and hushing him gently.
Both of them were well aware this was unlike the usual, stoic Haru that everyone was used to, but Rin knew all of this—all of Haru’s armour cracking and clamouring to the ground—was necessary, so he held him close and let him cry.
“She did,” Rin whispered back. “She did love you a lot. As do I.”
It hadn’t occurred to Rin how lucky he’d been, to be able to grieve his late father openly and bring him up in conversations as candidly as he did, while someone like Haru felt forced to clam up and manage things quietly on his own. This conversation, as painful as it was, dredging up parts of Haru’s life that he had worked carefully to keep his reign on, was so important, and Rin was glad that it was him Haru had chosen to tear his walls down with.
“What’s something she’s said to you that has stuck with you until now?” Rin asked, trying his best to steer the conversation into lighter territory.
Through his sniffles, Haru seemed to ponder for a while.
“She told me to forgive my parents,” he croaked. “Though I’m not sure what to forgive them for. I’ve never really… hated them or anything. There’s nothing to forgive.”
Rin frowned. “Well, for starters, they did leave you behind to grow up on your own even after your grandmother had passed. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s kind of messed up.”
Haru shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t have a choice. Father was always traveling for work and mother was joined at the hip.”
“That’s not a good excuse,” Rin countered, feeling annoyed. Not at Haru, but at his negligent parents, of course. “You were a child.”
“Maybe,” Haru said, “but the way I see it, maybe my mother loved my father too much to let him wander across the world alone, and besides, I think I grew up fine, in spite of it.”
Rin was ready to interject once more, feeling a sense of injustice for Haru, but—
“And I think I get it now,” Haru added, nuzzling his cheek against Rin’s neck. “How love can make you do crazy things, like finding dreams in a country across the sea with the person you love most, and following him wherever he goes, whether physically or by spirit.”
Rin blinked. “Haru…”
“I don’t blame my parents for leaving me behind,” Haru said. There was a sense of finality in his tone. “I still made it out somehow. And…” He smiled faintly. “I found you, didn’t I?”
“Haruuuu…”
Haru chuckled, straightening up. Rin felt the immediate loss of warmth by his shoulder, but he was glad Haru felt better now.
“I’m okay, Rin.” Haru smiled.
Rin looked at him carefully, making sure Haru meant it.
“Talking helps, doesn’t it?” He asked, smiling back.
Haru nodded. “Yeah. Thank you, Rin.”
That night, long after Rin had gone to bed, Haru sat up, toggling through his phone. He contemplated what to do next and seesawed between a myriad of emotions, but after recalling what Rin had said about why he continued to talk to his father’s gravestone, he steeled his resolve.
He began typing.
“How are you, okaasan?”