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Hizashi’s desires linger on the tip of his tongue. Succulent, swirling hopes and dreams and marzipan swelling in his throat, a crescendo of a hand reaching out; never making contact. They roam, drift in the in-between, never reach. It’s always a question of ‘if’, and never ‘when’.
Present Mic always gets what he wants. He cruises on the waves of life, pressing calloused hands to mouth, only to fail the muffling of orange outbursting, bright chimes of careful laughter.
He is met with nothing but open toothed grins and rekindled laughter riffing off his own -- perhaps a shaking of a head and a wincing sigh, if the throat feels the twist of rebellion shivering and his quirk pitches up an output far too whiny for the occasion -- yet he is always greeted with a reaction.
Present Mic wants something, anything, and he hadn’t even wanted it at all at first.
He always gets what he wants, and Hizashi? Hizashi can only wait on pointed toes and cast-aside glances in the foreground, the backstage, the place where planet Neptune resides lonely in the orbit of the cold sun; a smile will reach Hizashi’s face and pour down his eyes and mouth like precipitation and doubt, and no one will be none the wiser as to the difference between Mic and his lesser half.
No one but the ghost of a now-stranger.
But the other -- the ghost, the wanderer -- had gotten what he wanted. He’d left Hizashi in the dust of smog and the silent reassurance of not being wanted at all in his life, thrown-away numbers and ditched voice-mails asking for nothing but a talk. Maybe just a word. Something biting, mean and bloody.
He’d just wanted something other than silence. So maybe,
that should be enough for Hizashi.
Others can want. They can have what they want. Present Mic can have what he wants. A ghost, someone dead and alive and someone he’d wanted to know, love, can want.
Just not him.
Life is a cracked cassette tape. He can rewind it all he wants, but there’ll never again remain a trace of sound that will speak to the same frequency it once had in Hizashi’s ears.
It will whisper and whisper and whisper and he’ll never hear it in his selfish desire to want and have.
(Blind and hearing, deaf and speaking, mute and seeing)
And that should be enough.
His want will ghost on the periphery of wiry digits as he reaches out toward a claw that refuses to even bite. Dejected, trembling hands will fall back into place, flushed a bruising, phantom purple.
Present Mic will scoff, laugh, push them aside and reach bloodily for palms that’ve known nothing but kindness.
He will succeed in making lift-off. Making contact.
He always does.
Scars, full of stardust, will form in the creases between his skin and what makes up his wrist and the edge of the road leading to his thumb, and he’ll have done nothing but toss a touch to warrant it.
And that’s just how it is, huh? Present Mic, voice extraordinaire, always gets what he vies for, and nothing less.
Isn't that so neat?
Hizashi certainly thinks so.