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Despite claiming to hate every tradition, only attending social events begrudgingly, and holding the opinion that most holidays are near pointless, Shōta Aizawa was a creature of habit.
On every other day he’d limit both time away from his students and time spent around flowers, accrediting these aversions to school days wasted and his mild allergy to pollen as the motivators respectively.
Entering the quaint shop, Aizawa wastes no time with pleasantries before heuristically scanning the rows of flowers for the same baby blue petals he finds himself buying annually. Nemophila menziesii, in the back corner of the second to last isle, are baby blue blossoms. The same color as Shirakumo’s hair, they’ve remained his favorite plant for the last fifteen years. The tiny delicate flora were only sold in pre-potted groups or as seeds due to their size. He opts for four of the smaller containers instead of one of the larger ones. It’s less of a hassle, as he’d come to realize.
Approaching the counter with his small bounty, he pays for the service with cash. Cadenced albeit, he moves with practiced precision, carefully pulling out neatly folded bills and paying off his small ¥5,000 debt. He sets each one down gently into a paper bag with the cash-and-carry’s logo on it. He nods a silent ‘thank you’ at the employee before taking his leave.
It’s wonderful outside, sunny despite the cool breeze and white-cloud-filled sky. He’s obligated to go for a walk. It’ll be good for himself.
He walks with purpose, every step measured and goal-derived. Completely rational in each action, as if even walking an illogical path will awaken his right brain and bring back everything he swore he had gotten over.
The road he’s trekking is unusually empty. The usual hustle and bustle of daily life seems, just for a moment, to have slowed to a halt in this area. Walking down the pedestrian boulevard, he tries to focus on the environment. The sunlight, coming through the gaps between the leaves, the way the tree-lined street tapers as he steadily trudges towards the end of it, the gentle breeze. Each deep breath is taken in an attempt to drive away the familiar sinking feeling accompanying each unpleasant, graphic memory.
Shirakumo. I miss you more than anything.
His feet drag themselves over gravel. He was so lost in thought that he hadn’t realized he was nearing his destination until the tactile input of kicking the small stones had alerted him. He picks up his pace, deciding that a longer stride was somehow more respectful in the moment. Despite knowing exactly which one belongs to Shirakumo, Aizawa scans each stone, reading the vertical kanji on each one while weaving in and out of the unpaved pathways.
With his increased tantivy, he soon reaches the familiar memorial marker. He removes the long wilted flowers from the stone, replenishing them with the ones he had bought previously and replacing their now vacant space in the plastic bag with the dead bouquet. He keeps the bag hanging on his forearm while digging through his belt pockets for a lighter. Conveniently enough, whoever was here last left about half of their last incense stick unused in the holder. It’s a miracle in itself that it hadn’t been drenched or degraded by the time he arrived. His hand wraps around the chilled metal of his old reliable Tsubota Pearl, pausing to identify each familiar, characteristic ridge before pulling it out of his pocket. In a single smooth motion, he raises his hand, lights the incense, and releases the fuel button. Then, he tucks the lighter away, back in its spot: at the back of the outermost pocket; before securing the magnetic button clasp closed. Squatting down with his heels raised, he stares at the headstone and presses the palms of his hands together.
Shōta had never been religious. He doesn’t believe in an afterlife. It would certainly be comforting to think Oboro Shirakumo, in one life or the next, was rewarded for his bravery by way of eternal paradise… but it was simply irrational. Yet, he finds himself here and now, bowing his head and folding his hands as if to pray- in the midst of the Obon Festival, no less. No matter how hard he thought, no matter how long he tried to convince himself, no matter what media he chose to surround himself with, he could never truly convince himself in Nirvana or Valhalla or any type of Heaven beyond the grave. It’s this horrible realization’s fault, the fact that he was finally forced to admit a simple truth: he would never see Oboro Shirakumo again.
Conversely, until recently, that is.
He toiled for a decade and a half with the grief and guilt that came with losing a friend. A friend that had died mere meters away from him. He worked with counselor after another, explaining and re-explaining himself; processing and re-processing his emotions. He had thought he was done with this feeling. He was done. Then, new evidence came to light.
Fake evidence, certainly.
He was there, after all. Every detail is painfully crystal clear. Permanently burnt into his memory and replayed consistently. He watched the falling debris crush him. He watched the paramedics uncover him- if only to immediately put his remains in a body bag. Then again, he remembers, just as clearly, his voice. Long after the autopsy said he had passed, Shōta heard him, clear as day, cheering him on, ushering him forwards. Everyone he had ever expressed this to, including his own internal reasoning, had concluded that it was a stress-induced hallucination. Even so, a regular memory is everything but infallible, so what else could he be misremembering about the event?
He stands. Staring with dry, tired eyes, he remains lost in thought. The facts are, he remembers seeing him. Both as the rubble fell and as the excavation teams revealed the bloody puddles, the deep red eventually diluting in the heavy downpour. Yet now, the police are saying they’re keeping Oboro in their custody. Rather, they’ve informed him that they’re keeping Kurogiri, the infamous criminal, imprisoned and that his DNA matches Shirakumo’s profile too closely to be anyone else.
That single call had shattered his worldview. It crushed his spirit and gave him hope simultaneously. Just like that, the possibility that Shirakumo had survived was once again plausible. In spite of everything, Aizawa refused to hold out hope. He refused. However, now, standing in front of the Shirakumo family plot, he finds himself -for once- irrationally, deciding to have faith anyways.