Chapter Twenty-One Renji’s Birthday #2
The dead had birthdays. Haruki understood that.
Dates marked by absence. A cake no longer made.
A season arriving without the person who once belonged to it.
Renji had survived so many people that perhaps his own birthday had become another memorial — a count not of years lived but of years since everyone who once celebrated him disappeared.
"How did your family mark it?" Haruki asked.
Renji's eyes lowered.
"It varied."
"That means you remember."
"I did not say I didn't."
"You said you forgot the date."
"I lost track of the day."
"That's different?"
"Yes."
Haruki waited. Renji sighed. The sound carried resignation rather than anger.
"My mother made chestnut cake," he said. "You remembered that correctly."
"I usually do."
"She added too much honey."
"You dislike sweet food."
"I did then as well."
"But you ate it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"She made it."
Haruki smiled faintly.
"What else?"
Renji's gaze moved beyond the office. Not towards anything visible. A room centuries gone.
"My father gave practical gifts."
"Such as?"
"A winter cloak. Books. A replacement scabbard."
"That sounds useful."
"It was."
"Your sister?"
The question changed him. Only slightly.
"She gave useless gifts."
Haruki smiled.
"What kind?"
"Once, she gave me a stone."
"A stone."
"She claimed it resembled my face."
"Did it?"
"No."
"Do you still have it?"
Renji looked at him. Haruki already knew the answer.
"Yes," Renji said.
"Of course you do."
"It is historically significant."
"It's a rock your sister insulted you with."
"That is historical context."
Haruki laughed. Renji's mouth moved faintly. The expression vanished quickly — not from fear this time, from the weight attached to the memory.
"What happened after they died?" Haruki asked.
Renji looked down.
"I stopped observing it."
"Immediately?"
"I do not remember."
Haruki believed him. That was the part that hurt. Renji could recall his sister's scar and his mother's recipe. He could remember the exact shape of gifts received nearly a thousand years earlier. But the day itself had dissolved. No one had remained to tell him it mattered. So he had stopped.
"How old are you tomorrow?" Haruki asked.
Renji gave him a flat look.
"You know the year."
"I want to hear you say it."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you will be pleased with yourself."
"I'm already pleased with myself."
"That is rarely in question."
Haruki began counting mentally. Renji saw it.
"Haruki."
"Nine hundred and—"
"Do not calculate it."
"Why?"
"Because you will be pleased with yourself."
Haruki smiled.
"You look good."
"That statement is absurd."
"For nine hundred and ninety-eight."
"I understood the implication."
"You don't look a day over seven hundred."
Renji opened his eyes.
"I could have you removed from the hospital."
"You won't."
"I know people in security."
"So do I."
"My people are employed here."
"Mine frighten yours."
"That is not reassuring."
Haruki continued smiling. Renji's expression resisted. Then softened. Only for a moment. The birthday had stopped feeling entirely like grief. Haruki saw it happen. A small shift. Enough.
He returned to his lunch. Renji did the same. They finished without further discussion.
When Haruki began packing the empty containers, Renji spoke.
"I am working tomorrow."
"I assumed."
"I have surgery in the morning."
"What time?"
"Seven."
"When do you finish?"
"I do not know."
Haruki tied the bag closed.
"That wasn't an invitation."
"I did not interpret it as one."
"You asked when I finish."
"Because schedules exist."
"For what purpose?"
Haruki stood. Renji watched him.
"Dinner," Haruki said.
"No."
"That was quick."
"I do not celebrate."
"I heard you."
"Then why ask?"
"I asked whether you were free."
"For dinner on my birthday."
"Yes."
"That is celebrating."
"It is eating."
"With you."
"We've done that before."
"Not on my birthday."
Haruki lifted one shoulder.
"That sounds coincidental."
Renji studied him. Haruki picked up the rubbish.
"No cake."
"I didn't mention cake."
"No gathering."
"I didn't mention a gathering."
"No gifts."
"You're becoming demanding for someone declining an invitation."
Renji's eyes narrowed. Haruki moved towards the door.
"Seven is too early for dinner," he said.
"The surgery should finish by noon."
"Then I'll message you later."
"I did not agree."
"You didn't refuse clearly."
"I said no."
"To celebrating."
"Dinner would be celebrating."
"Only if we call it that."
Haruki opened the door.
"Haruki."
He looked back. Renji remained behind the desk. His expression was suspicious. Tired. And beneath both, almost hidden, uncertain — not whether Haruki was planning something, but whether he was allowed to want him to.
Haruki's chest tightened. He made his voice deliberately ordinary.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"You will not."
"Probably around seven."
"I may still be working."
"I know where you work."
"That sounded threatening."
"It was practical."
Renji stared at him. Haruki smiled once. Then left before Renji could refuse again.
He did not return to the Ishida residence immediately. Instead, Haruki sat in his car in the hospital car park with his phone in one hand. For several minutes, he did nothing.
He thought of Renji looking at the calendar.
The blank pause before the word. Tomorrow.
As though his own birthday were an appointment he had nearly missed.
Haruki had known the date for weeks. He had not planned anything because planning would make assumptions.
The kiss remained new. Whatever existed between them remained unnamed.
A birthday carried expectation. Intimacy.
It suggested a place in someone's life Haruki had no right to claim.
Now he understood that doing nothing would say something too. It would confirm Renji's belief that the day did not matter.
Haruki opened his messages. His first instinct was to contact Reina.
He stopped. A Family dinner would overwhelm Renji.
Hiroshi would buy decorations. Ken would find candles shaped like numbers.
Ayako would understand immediately and watch them both with that infuriating expression.
Too much. Renji did not need spectacle. He needed proof that remembering did not always lead to pain.
Haruki opened another message thread. Akiko, he typed. He paused before sending anything. She knew Renji better than anyone still alive. She would know what he tolerated. What food he actually liked. Whether chestnut cake would be comfort or cruelty.
Haruki looked back at the hospital. Somewhere above him, Renji had already returned to work.
To patients. Charts. A life measured by usefulness.
Nine hundred and ninety-eight years. Haruki wondered how many of them Renji had lived for himself.
Not survived. Not endured. Lived. The answer frightened him.
He began typing. Then deleted the message. Too obvious. Akiko would tell Renji. Or worse, she would help so enthusiastically that the quiet evening Haruki imagined became an event.
He opened Reina's contact instead. Deleted that too.
He could do this alone. No crowd. No surprise party.
No speeches. No attempt to recover six centuries in one night.
Dinner. Coffee made correctly for Haruki and incorrectly for Renji, according to each man.
Perhaps one gift. Something useful enough that Renji could accept it without feeling indebted.
Something personal enough that the day could not be mistaken for ordinary.
Haruki thought of the old restaurant guide damaged by coffee.
The one Renji had kept because the streets remained even after the restaurants closed.
An idea formed. He searched for the title.
No immediate results appeared. He tried the author.
Then the publisher. One second-hand bookseller listed a copy in good condition.
Haruki stared at the screen. The shop was two hours away. It closed at six. He checked the time. Twelve forty-one. Possible.
He called Ken. Ken answered on the second ring.
"Boss?"
"Clear my afternoon."
A pause.
"You have the port meeting."
"Move it."
"The accountants are already there."
"Give it to Reina."
"Is something wrong?"
"No."
"Then why do you sound like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to commit a crime personally."
Haruki started the engine.
"I need to buy a book."
Silence. Then, cautiously, "Is that code?"
"No."
"You want me to move a meeting because you're going shopping?"
"Yes."
"For a book."
"Yes."
Another pause.
"Is it for Doctor Takahara?"
Haruki looked through the windscreen. He could deny it. Ken would not believe him.
"Yes."
"Birthday?"
Haruki's grip tightened on the phone.
"How do you know?"
"Reina knows everyone's birthday."
"Of course she does."
"She said not to mention it because he hates people knowing."
Haruki closed his eyes briefly.
"Do not tell her."
"That you're buying him something?"
"That I called."
Ken laughed.
"I enjoy being alive, so absolutely not."
"Ken."
"I won't."
Haruki heard the smile in his voice.
"What kind of book?"
"One he already owns."
"That seems inefficient."
"It's damaged."
"Ah."
Ken's tone changed. Understanding more than Haruki had explained.
"I'll move the meeting."
"Thank you."
"Do you need anything else?"
"No."
"Cake?"
"No."
"Decorations?"
"Absolutely not."
"Candles?"
Haruki hung up. He pulled out of the parking space. The hospital rose behind him, rows of windows reflecting the pale afternoon.
Renji would finish late. He would claim exhaustion. He would insist the day was no different from any other. Haruki would allow him to say it. He would not argue. He would simply arrive.
Renji had spent centuries surviving. Haruki could not teach him how to live in a single evening. But he could remember the day Renji had forgotten. He could place something new beside everything the date had once meant.
Haruki said nothing to him yet. He drove towards the bookseller, already planning.