Chapter Text
Heels that are just slightly uncomfortable click against metal steps as the fabric of her skirt flows across her calves. She’s happy she decided to buy a prom dress, even if she hadn’t intended to use it for a party, and even happier she had gotten this one instead of the floor-length gown she had been debating on, if only for the easier journey up the many flights. Soon, the door comes into sight and it's not long before she clicks onto the last step. She takes a deep breath, resists the urge to use her phone to check her appearance, and opens the door.
Behind the door is a boy. He’s dressed formally in black slacks, a black vest, and a black shirt that has the first two buttons undone. There’s a red handkerchief in his breast pocket, a bright color that matches the all–too–familiar shoes he wears. The girl has a pair exactly the same, if in a different size, at a house, the soles worn until almost breaking from use. She looks up from his shoes to meet his eyes. He smiles at her.
“Hello.”
“Hi!” She beams back at him, and a weight seems to lift off her shoulders as she practically skips over. “I wasn’t sure if you would be here. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course! Thank you for inviting me.” They smile at each other in silence for a moment before he takes his hand out from behind his back. “I brought this for you, by the way, but you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.” In his hand is a red poppy, its petals full and vibrant and pretty. “It’s a present.”
She blinks in surprise, then takes it, and her smile glows brighter as her eyes turn into crescents. “Thank you, you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to! And I also brought a drink and glasses, for a toast, and if you wanted to talk.” He coughs. “You don’t have to, of course, but if you want to, I... I can listen.”
Her expression softens. “A conversation would be nice, actually. I haven’t really talked to someone for… I can’t remember, to be honest. A long while. It’d be really nice.” Her eyes refocus on him. “Is there anything in particular I should talk about?”
“Anything you want! Your likes or dislikes, your dreams, how your day has been, a memory you’re fond of– anything at all.”
She’s hesitates, unfamiliar with such conversation and no clue how to go about it, so the boy leads the way. He talks about how he likes strategizing and gives examples as he opens a bottle of sparkling apple cider and pours a glass for each of them. By the time he gives her a glass, she’s taken the lead, reminiscing about a friend who was also good at analysis, and the fictional worlds they would come up with together. She switches to her childhood and the fond memories she has of her friends back then. When it strays too close to the topic of school, she changes tracks to her hobbies: playing games and reading books and listening to D&D podcasts. She talks about her dreams in a hushed voice, as though it was forbidden, and how she wants to help people, to be a nurse like her father. She doesn’t mention why it will only be a dream, and instead gives a story about her father, a story from before she got her diagnosis.
Her tales flow almost seamlessly into each other and the hours tick by until there’s a tinge of light gray on the horizon. She lets her last story trail off, her eyes becoming distant as she looks towards the sky, then clears her throat. “You should probably go soon.”
A sharp inhale, and a harsh swallow. He reflexively averts his eyes, but quickly looks at her again. “I-Is there any way I can help? Resources, a place to learn self-defense– anything?”
“No. I…I’ve tried, already, and they haven’t gotten me anywhere. And even if a dojo or job does accept me, I still don’t think I’ll ever really be happy. I’ll have to live through life being discriminated against, looked down upon, unable to do anything against…this.” Her hand gestures vaguely in the air, the motion as dispirited as the situation they're in. It seems to encompass everything. The rundown building they're on, the quiet city, the sky that some people may be able to fly in, but not them. “You get it, right?”
“Yeah, I do.” His voice is hushed, and he doesn’t think any amount of time will take away the phantom feeling, the memory, of being beaten to the ground and crushed to the dirt. "...I'm sorry I can't do more for you."
She has to take a moment to process, then a puff of amusement turns into bright laughter. When she opens her eyes again she can still feel her smile and cherishes the unfamiliar but warm burst of affection. "What do you mean? You've cared more than anyone else and done more than I ever expected. Really, this whole thing is even better than I dreamed. Please don't feel sorry."
His eyes shine with too many emotions to name, but she can see the edges of regret in the line of his brow and the downturn to his lips. She wishes she could take that regret away but she knows that the regret and feeling of helplessness isn't something that can be helped so easily, and she won't last long enough to do so. Instead, she grasps his hand and squeezes it reassuringly, allowing for a brief companionate silence before letting go and changing the subject. “What are you going to do after this?”
“Go home, first of all.” He says with a light hum, then he glances at her uncertainly. “And, uh, I have a notebook of parties I’ve been to, and I’ll probably add yours to it, as well. As a memory.”
She blinks, and asks, curious, “Really? What are you going to write about me?”
“A- A lot of things! Good things, I promise. I’ll write about how pretty you look in your dress, with all the embroidery and the colors, and how I don’t understand how you got your hair like that, but it looks amazing. I’ll write down some of the stories you told me, and that you’re a good storyteller, and that I could listen to you for hours. I’ll write about your dreams, and your habits, and draw a sketch, too, for a better memory.” He’s rambling a bit, embarrassed and wondering if he'll be seen as creepy or overzealous, but she listens carefully, with no hint of disgust. Rather, her eyes are wide in wonder.
“Thank you.” The words are said on an exhale, weightless, full of emotion. Her voice is slightly choked and there are tears in her eyes, but she blinks them away and he doesn’t say anything about them, either.
“I’ll remember your name too, if you want me to.” So that someone will know, he doesn’t say. So that he can file a report and have her name in a system. At the very least, so that her name can be remembered fondly by at least one person.
She pauses, considers, and finally shakes her head. “I think I prefer things to be like this. I’m sure you could find my name easily, or even know it already, but right now, I’m nameless. I’m not that girl who’s known as an easy target, the girl that teachers will brush off and the police see as a pain, who cowers into her own body and walks in shadows of hopes of going unnoticed. Now, I’m none of that. I’m just me.” She pauses, then gives a cheeky smile as a blush dusts her cheeks. “A pretty girl in a pretty dress that tells pretty stories.”
He grins back at her. “That you are.” She doesn’t ask for his name, so he doesn’t give it. Instead, he asks “How do you feel?”
The laugh she gives in response is airy, diaphanous. “Weightless. Unburdened. I’ve never felt so free before. I thought I would be more scared– and I am, a little bit– but I mostly feel relieved. Never again will I be laughed at, or rejected, or locked into a closet. It’s– I– I’m happy, right now.” She meets his eyes and smiles, more softly, as she answers his unspoken question. “I feel ready.”
He breathes. “Okay.”
The bottle of cider is almost empty, and he drains the rest of the contents into their glasses. Then, he raises his glass.
“To you, the life you live, and your strength in getting this far.”
She giggles as she clinks her glass against his. “To us, for living in this society, and to our meeting.”
They finish their drinks and she stands up. Taking the hint, he follows her lead. “Is it okay if I take your glass?”
“If you don’t mind; I’d be grateful.” The glass is taken from her hands, and for a moment they stare at each other. He smiles at her, only a little awkward.
“I’ll be going now.”
“Yep.”
She watches him as he walks away, the glasses and bottle in his hand, memorizing his features so that it- he, this interaction- can be like a photograph in her memory, vivid and bright. His posture looks casual, but his steps are slowed, and he lingers by the door.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
She shakes her head and smiles peacefully. “No, I think I’ll see this party to the end.”
“I see.” He turns then, fully facing her, and bows. “It was an honor to meet you.”
She restrains a laugh at the formality, and curtsies in return. “You as well. Thank you. Really.”
The door closes and it’s only her on the roof, the air of the coming dawn cool against her skin. The sky is brightening, and she admires the sunrise, smiles as she thinks of the conversation, then checks her phone: 20 minutes since he has left. That should be enough time.
Her red heels are taken off and carefully placed onto the ledge. She holds her phone and presses send on a post, then takes the time to factory reset it. She drops it down for good measure, even though she doubts that anyone who finds it would care enough to check the contacts or browsing history of a quirkless girl. She spares a short apology for whoever has to clean up, then briefly thinks if it would have been better to go missing instead of this– another depressing statistic for an unfortunate soul to think about. It feels fitting, somehow, and yet wrong for even this to be a burden on someone else, a long series in a never ending story of being an inconvenience. But she’s made her decision and these burdens, at least, will be her last.
She steps on the ledge and smooths her dress, smiling at the memory that someone had found her pretty and complimented her and even gave her a flower, far more than what she would have gotten at any prom. She holds the poppy to her nose and breathes in the scent. Her eyes rise to the beautiful sunrise and she closes her eyes to relish the air against her cheeks, the breeze soothing through her hair, the gentle sound of wind in her ear. She wonders if this is how it feels to be able to fly, and, as she takes a step, thinks that at least this time, she’s the one choosing to go down instead of being shoved by someone else.
The sun rises without a sound, and he continues his trek back to the dorm with the rays lighting his way back. Now that he’s far from her sight, tears trail down his cheeks unhindered. Within the hour, he will be back in his room. The cup he gave her will be placed on the shelf, alongside a series of other glasses-turned-planters, and will wait to be prepared, to have a seed placed in it and be a home for a new life. He will sit at his desk with a heavy thump and a sigh, drink a bit of water to replenish some of his tears, and open a drawer. The secret compartment will be unlocked, a notebook taken out, and the pages flipped through.
He will land on a blank page and title it Hinashi, in place of a name that he was never told. Hinashi, for the stories she gave; Hinageshi, for a flower as pretty and red as the dress she wore, and a hanakotoba that fit the way her eyes sparkled as she talked and how her expressions shifted with every spoken line. He will draw a red poppy and think of how he has a flower of remembrance for every party, and how he will now think of her every time he goes to one. Then he’ll sketch, and try his best to capture the light in her eyes, the lines of her hair, the shadows of her dress. Next to the drawing will be traits: her online handle, the notes on her body language, or the likes and dislikes she hinted at. Under that will be her story, all the things he told her he will write. He will mention the friends she once had, memorialize her joys, empathize with her sadnesses, and engrave the girl into his memory. Once the page has been filled, and a second one if needed, he will turn to the next blank page.
There, he’ll write the things he didn’t tell her, like how, in a different universe, she could have been a story-teller, with how well she weaved her stories, or a leader, with how riveting she was when she talked. He’ll make a plan for how she could have become a nurse, like she said she wanted to be, and make a list of recommendations and resources that could have been given, a step-by-step course to reach her goal. He’ll close the notebook and end there, before he can spiral into how things could change to be that universe, one where she achieved her dreams; the spiral will be futile, and too late anyway. The world they live in is their reality. It’s not a different universe nor will it be, and thinking of how things could be different is only depressing and time-consuming, far too time-consuming when he has class in three hours and needs to sleep. And he will fall asleep, but it will take over an hour as snippets of their meeting replay over and over in his mind. When he is finally able to rest, it will be with tears drying on his cheeks.
If you ask about the people behind a depressing number, the answers you get will vary.
A few, depending on their ignorance and shamelessness, will say that it’s a good thing, that those people were just taking up resources anyway, and it’s better that the genetic chances of being like them have decreased. Others will say that it’s unfortunate, but some words are empty words, and they don't really care at all. Most will say that it’s a tragedy and may feel sad for a moment, but they may never know those obscured people, and the moment will pass. There will be those who shake their heads, saying that they don’t understand why the numbers are there, or why these things happen at all.
A few might stay silent, thinking of the stories of a person they'll never have a chance to know better, and of how many people have experienced the same thing. Among them, some will cry, the wounds caused by their passing forever engraved on their hearts. Others might use that silence as a precursor to a scream or equivalent, ranting about how unfair it all is and too scared to say how much it hurts to be one of few– or the only one at all– to remember.
One will say something, but what his response is will change depending on who you are. He might give a platitude, or exchange stories, or go deeper into the issue and all the factors that lead to that number. Regardless of what he says, what he won’t mention is his notebook, the pages slowly filling, or the glass planters lining his wall. He won’t talk about how even if he desperately wished those numbers didn’t exist, he can understand why they do. He won’t say a word about how every insult, every hit, every notebook burned or scar added makes the air harder and harder to breathe, and how he doesn’t know where he would be if he didn’t have his mom there to support him, if, in that potential universe, he is still alive at all.
If you ask about that one, with green hair and green eyes, a smattering of freckles, and a sometimes–too-bright-smile, the answers you get will vary.
His classmates will talk about his strength, his intelligence, his recklessness, and his warmth, along with enough descriptions and anecdotes to fill a dictionary. More than a few will say how inspirational he is, and how much help he has given. Some of them might mention how he goes out more often than they’d expect, always out to some party or other while dressed in black formal wear. Depending on who you ask, they might mention how he has a shelf full of glass cups housing plants, and never really talks about them. If they trust you enough, they’ll worry about how he doesn’t let anyone come with him to those parties, how they never see him in full black otherwise, or how he always somehow seems a bit down the day after.
If you ask a hidden community, they’ll say he’s a lucky bastard, and most of them will say that they’re happy for him, even if at least a little envious. But they’ll also speak of his trustworthiness, of how he’s done them favors and they’ve done him favors in return. They’ll mention his posts and his work, and some will even reminisce about their meetings with him. They’ll agree that they’re happy he got it, happy he didn’t forget them, happy that there’s an up-and-coming hero they can trust.
If you were able to ask the people taken by the wind, their memories scattered in a hidden forum and written carefully onto the pages of a notebook, they’ll say that he is kind. They’ll mention a private message, a mention, the fragile hope of someone offering to be there with them, or having someone they might be able to ask. They’ll talk about how relieved they were to have someone in their final moments, and how happy they are to have someone remember them. They’ll note how he brings a flower and a drink, and how he gives them chances but respects the choice they make. If you ask them what they would say to him, they would reply with “thank you, for being with me then, and for remembering me now.” If you ask them what they want, their voices would say— soundlessly, nothing more than a caress of a breeze— “please, be happy.”