I wanted to ask him so many more things, like why he’d gone to my place at all and why he was messing with my stuff, but I felt like his clear eyes could see right through me, so I kept my mouth shut. I suspected I would only be digging my own grave.
Instead, he said something we must have both known.
“You were planning to die, weren’t you?”
When I was unable to reply, he grinned and added, “Aren’t you glad you got to keep your stuff?”
It was a question I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know what he was thinking. Nonetheless, he didn’t appear to be lying. He really must have saved my stuff from going to the dump.
He wouldn’t throw away my mother’s ashes.
I remembered thinking that after the funeral. I thought it still.
Then... Wasn’t that enough?
I didn’t understand what he was hoping to achieve. I didn’t know what he might expect me to do in the near future or how I would respond.
But my life had never been this good, and the same could be said about my living situation. I didn’t have to worry about my next meal. I had a roof over my head. What if he was right and not knowing was better? I could spend the next four years like this, and then I’d be free. What more could I possibly want?
What if something were to happen, like someone killed me—would that really be such a great loss?
My future was never worth very much, was it?
I missed my chance to die, and even now I wasn’t sure what I was living for. I just ended up in a comfortable living situation through the force of inertia.
As long as my mother’s remains were taken care of, my death wouldn’t make a difference.
When I met his gaze after getting lost in thought for a moment, he crossed his legs theatrically. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“I won’t ask.”
“Good. So we’re done with that?”
“Yeah.”
“Great.”
His face immediately returned to his childlike expression, and he dashed from the sofa to the piano stool like a completely different person.
If he was going to refuse a grand piano anyway, he shouldn’t have accepted one at all. It felt like a symbol of wealth, and I couldn’t get used to it even now. But his family must have felt bad to make him live in a house without a piano. I agreed with them there.
The piano was white and pristine. Only the black keys stood out next to the white stool and white pedals. It had no ornamentation, and its straight lines were eye-catching. Its design was different from the piano at the Nishikawa residence—this one felt more modern.
Perhaps it was their similar levels of beauty or similar lack of malice, but the piano suited him well. It was almost as if they were made to match. Fair skin next to a white piano. Magnificent lines and slender, powerful fingertips. Just looking at them pissed me off.
He gracefully placed his hands on the keys. As I watched him in a different environment than usual, I realized I had become accustomed to his movements. What came forth was the melody I knew all too well.
The first time I went to the Nishikawa residence, he’d played this piece and had only deepened my anxiety.
“You know, I’ve always hated that piece.”
“This one?”
“It’s music you hear when you’re placed on hold.”
“Oh, I see. That would be an odd thing to enjoy.”
Even though we were born and raised in entirely different circumstances, we were able to empathize without going into detail. As impressive as it was for us to connect at all, it was possible only because we’d bothered to learn about each other, like investigators studying their subjects. Even though I’d found him strange at first, I’d gotten used to him, just as I’d gotten used to his music piece.
He played it often because he liked it.
Even watching closely, I couldn’t understand how he played the piano. The sound flowed along with his gently moving fingers, but I didn’t know what key made what sound, so I couldn’t predict what note would play when I watched. Nishikawa performed what must have been a difficult piece with ease, then turned around and flashed a big smile.
As if he were laughing off all my struggles.
As if he were gently soothing me.
I told myself that I never knew when he might betray me. His eyes were so warm that if I didn’t remind myself, I’d waver.
In the end, my futon didn’t arrive in time.
I told him I’d survive one night on the floor, but he insisted it was going to be too chilly.
“Who’ll have to take care of you if you catch a cold?” he asked, and I had nothing to say to that.
I suddenly realized what it meant for us to live together.
We lay down on the futon in his room as far apart from each other as possible. That being said, it was a semi double, so it wasn’t nearly as far as I’d have liked. Still, he lay facing me, so I turned to face away.
“Hey, Sacchan.”
“What? Go to sleep.”
“Can you look at me for a moment?”
“No, you’re too close.”
“Come on.”
He’d already decided I would do as he asked. I gave in and turned to him. His face really was a breath away from mine.
My heart skipped a beat. The way he unabashedly looked at me was the same as the day we met. The tactless frankness in his gaze still made me want to flee.
When I averted my gaze, I felt his fingertips on my cheek. When I told him to stop, he apologized and pulled away.
“Welcome home, Sacchan. I look forward to working with you,” he said with his characteristic smile.
His voice, his personality...
They were a stunning transparent color.
He was beautiful.
I didn’t mean his face or his body. He approached me with his heart on his sleeve—a heart that had avoided all the filth of this world. I wanted to avoid touching it at all costs.
The more I learned about him, I grew to neither like him nor hate him. Rather, I discovered a new kind of fear.
That what I had believed might fall apart.
Those moonlike eyes—unblemished and striking, always watching me so intently—made me want to run.
His penetrating eyes, his voice, his smile, his very nature...
Something warm that shone through... That beautiful color...
I had always hated them, but from that moment onward, I feared them too.