Chapter Eleven Renji’s Apartment #3
The music continued. They finished eating slowly.
Conversation moved without effort from music to books, from books to Haruki's childhood in the Ishida household, from there to the first time Renji had seen snow.
He gave no year. Haruki assumed it had been during childhood. Renji allowed the assumption.
He learned that Haruki had once run away from home at fourteen and lasted six hours before hunger drove him into a restaurant owned by the Family.
That Reina had followed him through a drainage ditch because she refused to let him escape alone.
That Ken hated classical music but pretended otherwise around Ayako.
Haruki learned that Renji could play piano badly, cooked well when persuaded and had walked almost every street in Takamori after midnight.
Neither mentioned the hospital. Neither mentioned the Accord. No one interrupted to ask Haruki for decisions. No alarm demanded Renji's hands. For one evening, they were not men defined by who required them. They were simply there.
Renji had forgotten how ordinary pleasure felt.
It did not arrive dramatically. It was the rain against the window.
A nearly empty bowl. Music low enough that conversation could pass over it.
Haruki sitting barefoot on the rug after Renji had finally persuaded him that wet socks were not a matter of dignity.
Renji had given him the spare pair of slippers Akiko once left behind.
They were too small. Haruki wore them anyway.
"You're smiling," Haruki said.
Renji realised he was.
"Your feet look ridiculous."
Haruki looked down. The slippers ended before his heels.
"So cruelty amuses you."
"Occasionally."
"I knew it."
Renji sat in the chair beside the record player.
Haruki remained on the rug, one shoulder resting against the sofa.
There was a sofa. Haruki had pointed this out after claiming the apartment was constructed entirely for one person.
Renji had replied that a sofa had purposes beyond accommodating guests.
Haruki had asked him to name three. Renji had named five.
The second side of the record ended. The needle lifted automatically. Silence returned. Haruki looked towards the clock. It was after midnight. Neither had noticed.
"I should go," he said.
Renji felt the shape of the evening change. Not disappointment. Awareness of an ending.
"Yes."
Haruki rose. He moved towards the chair holding his coat, then stopped beside the sword. He did not touch it.
"You said old."
"It is."
"Family heirloom?"
"No."
"Gift?"
Renji hesitated.
"Something like that."
Haruki looked at the blade, then at him.
"There are a lot of dead people in this apartment."
The statement contained no accusation. Renji joined him beside the sword.
"Yes."
"And no living ones."
"Until tonight."
Haruki's eyes met his. Renji had not meant to say it. Or perhaps he had. The air between them changed. No hospital monitors. No café table. No one else near enough to turn the moment into a joke.
Haruki stood less than an arm's length away, close enough that Renji could see the faint scar near his jaw, the slight shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the pulse moving steadily at his throat. Human. Brief. Alive.
Haruki did not move closer. That restraint affected Renji more than confidence would have.
"Thank you for letting me stay," Haruki said.
"You did bring dinner."
"So this was payment."
"Partially."
"And the rest?"
Renji looked towards the room — the empty containers, the record left on the player, the second bowl beside his own. Evidence of another person that would remain after Haruki left.
"I have not decided."
Haruki smiled.
"Will you?"
"Possibly."
"I'll take that."
He reached for his coat. Renji helped him into it before considering whether the gesture was necessary.
Haruki's shoulders settled beneath the wool.
Renji's hands remained near the collar for one second too long.
Haruki turned slightly. They were closer now.
Neither spoke. Renji could hear the rain.
Haruki's breathing. His own, unnaturally measured.
Then Haruki stepped back. Not rejection. Permission deferred. Renji was grateful. He was also not.
At the door, Haruki put on his shoes and returned the undersized slippers to their place.
"Your neighbour thinks I'm dangerous," he said.
"She thinks everyone is dangerous."
"She likes you."
"She monitors me."
"That is how some people show affection."
"An alarming philosophy."
Haruki opened the door, then paused with one hand on the frame. The landing beyond was empty.
"Renji."
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You have spent the entire evening doing so."
"This one is different."
Renji studied him. The humour remained in Haruki's face, but only at the edges. Beneath it was the same seriousness he had shown when speaking of his father. And something else. Something careful.
"I need an honest answer," Haruki said.
Renji's hand tightened around the edge of the door. He should have refused. Instead, he stepped back from the threshold.
"All right."
Haruki met his eyes.
"Then don't answer as my doctor."