CHOCOLATES IN MONSOON | HRK

10 | the warning and the warned

CHAPTER TEN ;; HARUTO
the warning and the warned

"Uh...erm...that's a lot of bluh- bl-", Haruto said helplessly, a little surprised.

He bent low over the now hauntingly familiar washbasin of his bathroom and retched. Red splattered the white marble and slid down, circled the drain and went out of sight. His father stood beside him, looking grave and angry, yet with a protective arm wound firmly around his shoulders. Grateful for the support beside him, Haruto leaned against Mr. Watanabe and breathed, wiping off blood from the corners of his mouth.

"You still want to go son ? I don't know why -"

"I - I want to. You don't underst -", he retched again, this time letting out an audible moan of pain as boiling hot liquid flowed from between his lips. His stomach flipped and he let go of his father's hand, now gripping the edges of the sink tightly. Of course he would go. Mr. Watanabe just didn't understand. He didn't understand the importance of having to go to Junkyu's school. He wouldn't in a thousand years. Even if he did understand someday, Haruto wouldn't know.

He didn't have a thousand years to live. He had five months.

Four months since he had ran away from home and exactly ninety six days since he had come back again. He didn't know why he had come back. Junkyu's home had been hospitable enough - kind enough, understanding. They had curled up in the younger's small bed at night, Haruto cuddling Junkyu to his chest, Junkyu curling into a ball in his arms. He had read almost the whole lot of the boy's fascinating books in that one week that he had stayed there. He had learned to cook stuff from Mrs. Kim. Mastered chess from Mr. Kim. What could have possibly gone wrong then ?

Why, the cancer had infected his stomach too of course. For all he knew, he could fall dead any moment.

And for all Junkyu knew, Haruto Watanabe just had fever. Nothing much, just some fever and he would come to his school just like always - this time, to attend their exhibition. Some inter-school thing for art students but which had everything a carnival usually had. There were going to be gaming booths, tattoo stalls, rides - everything - but they were going to have Junkyu's art on display and that's what mattered to him. He had things he wanted to do before he was declared bedridden and unable to move, talk and breath.

He wanted to ensure Junkyu lived a happy life after this exhibition. He would be there. Obviously he would be there. But his time was limited - while the younger's stretched onto some indistinguishable future he couldn't be a part of. And it needed to be happy. He would make it happy if it was the last good thing that he did.

There wasn't much he could actually do. But he could try.

Haruto uttered pitiful moans as the blood still flowed, now regurgitating nearly the whole of his early lunch. Mr. Watanabe gripped his son's shoulders tightly and closed his eyes in pain and regret. If only he could have been a better parent. Haruto tried to sigh as his father rubbed a comforting hand up and down his back but there was no breath left to be spared. Only one singular thought clouded his mind.

He could try, couldn't he ?

When a few minutes passed and a slow, heavy silence fell over the two of them - punctuated only by Haruto's heavy, strained breathing - he turned away from the basin. He had seen enough of his gaunt, pallid face reflected back at him in the mirror, he didn't think he could stand to see it much more. That would just make him cry. There were spots of blood upon his grey sweater, some trickled down his chin and traveled down his neck. Some dried upon the corners of his lips giving him the sickeningly pitiful look of a boy who had just been beaten.

Mr. Watanabe noticed this and hurriedly called for Haruto's mother down the stairs. He saw his father's retreating back and staggered onto his bed. These sudden vomitings and sickness usually tended to leave him incapable of moving for hours. He couldn't move. Couldn't talk. Couldn't walk. Just laying there on the bed, staring fixedly at the ceiling. He would hear Junkyu hum and walk around in his room across and would smile to himself. But that was all he could have done recently. Just smile and pass away this delirious, impatient stage of his life as some sort of viral fever.