Chapter Twenty-One Renji’s Birthday
Chapter Twenty-One
Renji's Birthday
Haruki learned Renji's birthday from a hospital form. Not from Renji. That distinction mattered.
He had arrived shortly before noon carrying lunch from a restaurant Renji claimed to dislike and continued ordering from at least twice a week. The surgical ward was busy enough that Haruki had been directed towards Renji's office rather than allowed to wander through the corridors.
He found the door open. Renji sat behind his desk with a tablet in one hand and a paper form laid flat before him. A young administrator stood opposite. She looked barely old enough to have finished university and deeply regretted whatever task had brought her there.
"I understand the year may be approximate," she said.
"It is not approximate."
"Then could you write it here?"
"I have already entered my date of birth into the hospital system."
"The system rejected it."
"That is a fault in the system."
"Yes."
She said it with the exhausted patience of someone who had already agreed several times.
"But the insurance audit requires a signed form."
"I do not use the hospital insurance plan."
"It still requires a form."
"Why?"
"Because the audit requires one."
"That is circular."
"I know."
Renji looked down at the paper. Haruki stopped outside the doorway. The administrator noticed him first. Relief passed across her face.
"Mr Ishida."
Renji looked up. His expression changed almost imperceptibly — not a smile, recognition warmed by something private. Haruki had begun noticing the difference.
"You are early," Renji said.
"You said noon."
"It is eleven fifty-three."
"That's seven minutes early."
"Yes."
"Most people consider that punctual."
"Most people are imprecise."
The administrator glanced between them. Haruki raised the bag of food.
"I brought lunch."
"You brought too much."
"You haven't seen it."
"You always bring too much."
"That's because you forget to eat."
"I do not forget."
"You postpone it until it becomes forgetting."
Renji looked at the administrator as though expecting her to object to the interruption. Instead, she seemed interested. Haruki stepped into the office and placed the bag on the side table.
"What's the crisis?"
"There is no crisis," Renji said.
"The hospital wants Doctor Takahara's date of birth," the administrator explained. "The computer doesn't accept the year."
"That sounds reasonable."
"It is not."
Haruki looked at the form. Most of it had already been completed in Renji's precise handwriting — full name, position, department, employee identification number. The date-of-birth line remained blank.
Haruki leaned against the filing cabinet.
"What year did you put?"
Renji gave him a warning look. The administrator brightened.
"Doctor Takahara entered ten twenty-eight."
Haruki looked at Renji. Renji looked back.
"Ten twenty-eight," Haruki repeated.
"Yes."
"As in the year?"
"Yes."
"The hospital computer rejected a nearly-thousand-year-old employee."
"Machines are frequently narrow-minded."
Haruki bit the inside of his cheek. The administrator looked from one man to the other.
"I assumed it was a typing error."
"It was not."
"Doctor Takahara explained that."
She had the expression of someone who had been given too much information and had decided not to examine any of it. Haruki respected her immediately.
"What day?" he asked.
Renji looked at the form. The administrator looked hopeful. Renji did not answer.
Haruki's amusement faded.
"What day is your birthday?"
"I heard the question."
"Then answer it."
Renji continued looking at the blank line. The pause lengthened. At first, Haruki thought Renji was deciding how much truth to reveal in front of the administrator. Then Renji's brow tightened. Not secrecy. Calculation. He was trying to remember.
Haruki straightened. Renji glanced towards the calendar on his desk. The movement was small. It told Haruki everything.
"Tomorrow," Renji said.
The administrator blinked. Haruki said nothing. Renji looked at the date again as though verifying the answer.
"Yes. Tomorrow."
"You forgot," Haruki said.
Renji picked up his pen.
"I did not forget."
"You had to check the calendar."
"I was confirming today's date."
"You knew today's date when I arrived."
"I knew the time."
"That is not the same thing."
Renji wrote the date onto the form. The administrator accepted it quickly, perhaps sensing that remaining would become uncomfortable.
"Thank you, Doctor Takahara."
She lifted the paper. Then hesitated.
"And happy birthday for tomorrow."
Renji looked at her as though she had offered condolences.
"Yes."
Haruki waited until she left. The door remained open behind her. He crossed the office and closed it. Renji set the tablet on the desk.
"That was unnecessary," Renji said.
"What was?"
"The door."
"You forgot your birthday."
"I did not."
Haruki stood before the desk. Renji reached for the food bag. Haruki moved it out of reach. Renji looked up.
"Return that."
"Answer me."
"You are behaving childishly."
"You had no idea your birthday was tomorrow."
"I knew the date."
"You knew it after looking at the calendar."
"That is how dates are generally verified."
Haruki studied him. Renji's face had settled into controlled irritation. It was not irritation. Haruki knew enough now to recognise what lay beneath it. Embarrassment. Not because he had forgotten. Because Haruki cared that he had.
"When did you last celebrate it?" Haruki asked.
Renji leaned back.
"I have work."
"So do I."
"Then you should return to it."
"When?"
Renji's gaze cooled. Haruki remained where he was. They had learned each other's methods. Renji used silence like a closed door. Haruki had stopped treating it as one.
"I do not know," Renji said eventually.
Haruki's chest tightened.
"How long?"
"I said I do not know."
"You remember everything."
"Not everything."
"You remember an argument about a hospital trolley."
"It obstructed a corridor."
"You remember a physician insulting your taste in wine nearly a thousand years ago."
"I read that in the journal."
"You remember dates of battles you weren't present for."
"They are historically significant."
Haruki lowered his voice.
"Is your life not historically significant?"
Renji's expression changed. The question had struck more deeply than Haruki intended. Or perhaps exactly as deeply. Renji looked away.
"This is not productive."
"It isn't supposed to be."
"Then what is the purpose?"
Haruki did not answer immediately. The easy response would have been concern, affection, the fact that tomorrow mattered because Renji existed in it. None of those felt safe to say while Renji sat behind his desk as though the furniture could turn the conversation clinical.
So Haruki dragged the chair opposite closer and sat.
"The purpose is lunch."
Renji looked back.
"Lunch."
"Yes."
"You closed the door and interrogated me about my date of birth for lunch."
"I'm versatile."
Renji glanced towards the bag.
"You brought food I did not request."
"You were going to eat cafeteria noodles."
"They are adequate."
"They resemble wet string."
"That is an exaggeration."
"Ken saw them once and asked whether the hospital had started treating parasites."
"Ken has limited culinary understanding."
"He eats anything."
"That supports my position."
Haruki opened the bag. The smell of grilled fish, rice and ginger filled the office. Renji's attention moved towards it despite himself. Haruki placed the containers between them. He did not mention the birthday again. Not yet.
Renji watched him unpack the food.
"You ordered from Yamashita's."
"The place you dislike."
"I said the menu lacks variety."
"You order the same meal everywhere."
"That is unrelated."
Haruki handed him chopsticks. Renji accepted them. For several minutes, they ate in silence. It was not the silence from the rooftop. That had required nothing. This one contained the birthday between them. Haruki could feel Renji waiting for the subject to return. He let him wait.
Renji finished half the fish before speaking.
"You knew."
Haruki looked up.
"Knew what?"
"My birthday."
"Yes."
Renji's chopsticks stilled.
"How?"
"You told me."
"I did not."
"You did."
"When?"
"At the café."
Renji frowned. Haruki remembered the conversation clearly. It had occurred before the warehouse, before the journal, before the hospital and the kiss. They had been discussing old seasonal traditions after Renji criticised the café's winter decorations for being culturally incoherent.
"You said your mother used to make chestnut cakes for the first snowfall," Haruki said. "Then you said your birthday sometimes fell near it."
"That is not a date."
"You also complained that modern calendar conversion placed it on the twenty-seventh."
Renji stared at him.
"You remember that."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Haruki looked down at his meal. The answer arrived too honestly.
"Because it was about you."
Renji went still. Haruki had not planned to say it. He did not take it back. The air shifted — less guarded, more dangerous.
Renji lowered his chopsticks.
"You remember everything I say?"
"No."
"Most things?"
"Only the important ones."
"My birthday is not important."
Haruki looked at him. Renji held the gaze for several seconds. Then looked away first. There it was — the truth beneath the forgotten date. Not carelessness. Renji genuinely believed the day held no value.
Haruki leaned back.
"Do you celebrate other people's birthdays?"
"Occasionally."
"Akiko's?"
"Yes."
"Every year?"
"When she permits it."
"Kael's?"
"He claims not to know when it is."
"Hiroshi would celebrate his for a month."
"Hiroshi celebrates Thursdays."
"That isn't a denial."
Renji took another bite. Haruki watched him chew.
"You remember theirs," he said.
"They are alive."
The words landed quietly. Haruki's hand tightened around his chopsticks.
"So are you."
Renji's expression did not change.
"That is not what I meant."
"I know."