Work Text:
Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.
He’s ordered himself a cake—a single vanilla cupcake with spiral frosting and sprinkles. He does not deserve it, but he ordered it anyway, because eating cake is what people do on their birthday.
Now, he tracks his way up from the basement of ES’s main building, safe in the metallic embrace of the vents that seclude him from the eyes of those who live above. They don’t want to see a creature like him wandering about; they don’t deserve to be subjected to such a loathsome sight.
A notification on Mayoi’s phone pops up, saying that the delivery driver left his cake on the little patch of grass by the vent opening. When he arrives there, unfamiliar sunlight strikes him blind, a pure white glare reflecting up from the concrete pavement. He cups a hand over his eyes and finds his treasure as described. It sits tied in a little white cardboard box, his delivery receipt placed underneath. Mayoi tucks the receipt into his pocket and clasps the box with both hands before slipping back into the refuge of his vent.
He treats himself to a little wander around the building, peering through the slits in the vents to watch over the lives of the trainees he was supposed to be classmates with. In the hallway, one boy laughs over a joke his friend makes, arms curled around his middle, while in the practice room next door two friends stand beside each other, shaking their heads over a piece of complex sheet music. In a secluded storage room, a trainee sheds a secret tear, the email on his phone screen telling him that unfortunately, this time, he hasn’t been selected to join the unit he auditioned for.
Mayoi imagines himself beside them, sharing their laughter, their struggles, their tears. Then he imagines them turning to him, eyes narrowing, noses wrinkling, asking him what right he has to be standing among them, and that Mayoi slinks away, insults peppering his back.
He clutches his cake box closer to his chest, thankful that he decided against leaving the vents this time.
After all, Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today. It is a good day to be thankful.
As he continues his way through the building, a chorus of cheers and laughter echoes against the vents’ thin metal walls, and he heads towards the source to investigate. It’s not long before he’s sitting above a training room, a crowd of a dozen or so trainees gathered below him. They each wear a shiny paper hat, and the boy with the largest hat stands beside a table that spans the far wall of the room. On that table, handmade cookies and other homemade dishes compete for prime position, the scent of gingerbread and fresh ramen floating up through the vent opening.
Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today, but the numbers written on multicoloured balloons bobbing around the room say that this trainee is seventeen.
The trainee’s friends—his dear friends who love and cherish him—gather round, preparing to sing him his happy birthday song. Mayoi joins in—quietly enough that no one will notice the filth-stained being crawling in their ceiling—adding his own name to the lyrics, too, because Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.
The song concludes, and it’s time for him to go, because ghosts do not belong at birthday parties.
Before he leaves, he sends a little slip of paper fluttering down to the ground, and the trainees crowd around excitedly, urging the birthday boy to pick it up.
A gift from the Phantom of Ensemble Square, because good children receive presents on their birthdays.
A joyful whoop echoes along the resonant metal. The boy has opened his note and read the words that wish him a happy birthday, that praise how he’s developed his skills over the past year. He sounds happy.
In a corner of the vents, Mayoi pauses, listening to the boy’s joy among his friends’ congratulations. The phantom has done his job.
Mayoi returns to his basement, the familiar company of its single flickering light and the combined aroma of dust and damp welcoming him home. There are no presents waiting here; Mayoi Ayase was never a good child. His feet click upon stone as he drops into his secret home, the echo visceral—skin connecting with skin, a sudden sting, a cry that was maybe his own, a secret never to spill. But he was a bad child whose traitorous mouth betrayed him, alien words—it hurt, it hurt, he didn’t just fall, please please believe him—dripping from an alien tongue. He was a bad child who made a fuss when he shouldn’t have, caused trouble when he should have simply moved on and let it be, let it be, let it be.
Mayoi has never received presents. But that’s okay; he still cradles his box to his chest, and it is time to eat cake, because Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.
He eats his cake in bed—the covers drawn over his head, the flickering light turned off. The after-ache of the glaring sun rests heavy behind his eyes, and the din of the party echoes in his ears, so he treats himself to the sensory joy of nothing except smooth sugar kissing his lips, the icing sliding soft across his tongue as he presses it to the roof of his mouth.
Once he has finished, he sits for a while, listening to the comforting soundtrack of the creaking of the building and the faint footfall in the corridor above.
But that cannot occupy him forever, so he gets up to partake in his favourite activity, because that is what people do on their birthday.
In the space next to his makeshift bedroom, there is a makeshift practice studio, featuring a mosaic of mirrors that were due to be thrown out, all patched together along the long wall at the back. He connects his phone to the similarly acquired sound system, and the tinkling of a lone piano fills the space.
His body takes over, his fingers reaching out towards no one, and then he folds forward, cradling himself, curled like a flower waiting to bloom. Then, as a melancholy scale reaches its peak, his calves tense, and the balls of his feet press against cracked wood, propelling him through the air, his arms arcing overhead, dislodging the filth from his skin. Although he performs to no one except the little mouse that pauses to watch on its way to the kitchen, the size of his audience doesn’t matter, because when Mayoi Ayase performs, his mind is silent and the world is no longer too bright, too loud, too beautiful.
He is new and pure. He is clean and beautiful and—for a few brief minutes—deserves more than to rot in the darkness.
When the track concludes, he bows to no one.
Mayoi sits on the floor, avoiding meeting the eyes of the ghost in the mirror with the too-sharp teeth and eyes that died a decade prior.
He ponders what to do next.
He could try calling, but it’s been years since he last tried. Besides, they’ve never been interested in hearing from the insect they spawned, the maggot that betrayed them. It’s better if he doesn’t. He is not welcome there.
Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.
In the past, he often wondered if this day would ever come, but Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today, and he ate cake and attended a birthday party and took part in his favourite hobby.
He supposes that is a good thing.
It should be a good thing.
Down in the basement, time passes on its own whim, but his phone tells him it is 5pm, so it must be true.
A training session for the trainees two years younger than him will be held in the main practice studio at 6pm, so he takes himself to bed, setting his alarm for a twenty-minute nap. When their rehearsal begins, the Phantom of Ensemble Square will be watching, waiting to slip them the appraisal notes that make them grin and gossip and compare what they have each received. Then they will head back to their dorms or another training room to implement the advice within, bringing themselves a little closer to dreams of sparkling lights and a sea of devoted fans.
Mayoi Ayase is a useless, worthless person, but the Phantom of Ensemble Square might bring this small value to the world.
He pulls the sheets over his head.
Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.