Rooftops At Sunrise

34

After they exit the bathroom and return to Aoi's room, the young woman locks the door behind them, then shows Damian the mattress her father put out on the floor for him earlier today. "I'd tell you what this is, but you obviously already know."

Damian's shoulders shake as he barks out a laugh. "I can't argue with that, friend!" he exclaims, whilst he softly nudges her sides with his elbow.

Instead of directly going to sleep, however, the two turn off Aoi's bedroom's lights and stare out at the streets below, that are populated by cricket-song, still illuminated by the ever so faint, odd stoplight they are able to see a little further down the road, if they know where to look for them.

Aoi huffs, as they both sit cross-legged against the bed. Their shoulders touch. "Do you think he's okay?" she mutters.

"Who?" Damian chuckles. "Lucas?"

She nods, once.

And Damian laughs again. "I think he's fine, wherever he is." Above their heads, a shooting star slices the darkness of the ever-growing night in two. Damian turns to face the young woman once more. "Aoi?" he says, as he grasps at his dark, navy sweat pants. "What's wrong?"

"What's the point of tributes?"

"Uh..." the young man raises a single finger into the air.

Eventually though, Damian gives up and furrows his brows. "Sorry, but I don't really think I follow."

"You know," she tells him. "Like whenever someone goes missing, or passes away, suddenly they're all people ever talk about. Especially artists, or famous figures—it's like... so stupid?"

Damian rests both his palms behind his head. He falls back against the young woman's mattress, then lays his head against her pillow. He hums; perhaps, years ago, he would have called Aoi offensive for saying such things, yet, now that he is in the very process of grieving, her words make sense to him. "Because they never got to hear or see those tributes?" he asks her.

"Exactly!" She punches the cotton blanket beneath them and points to his face with much enthusiasm. "Why shout about how much you love a person after they've died?" The young woman stands up, onto her bed, rests both her fists against her hips, then huffs with determination.

Meanwhile, Damian observes her with a newly grown frown. "What are you doing?"

"I've decided!" Aoi declares with pride. "From now on, everyone will have one day in their life called an appreciation day! It'll happen when they are alive, and it'll replace tribute days. That way, they'll get to experience every nice flower, every nice word and memory with everyone else, instead of dying without ever seeing them." Aoi huffs. "It's too sad, otherwise! They need to know they're loved while they're still alive! P-plus... who knows, maybe it'll help someone live longer, too..." Aoi clears her throat. Her finger is still up in Damian's face. "A-anyway," she blurts, "what I'm trying to say, is that this special celebration day starts with you!" she tells the young man, before she falls down to her knees again, wraps her arms around his neck, as they both tumble onto the bed, and remain there—still and silent—until the insects start to sing again.

"Thanks for not giving up on me, Damian," she whispers, next to his ear.

And although Damian knows they are mere friends—albeit, close ones—he still cannot help how his chest warms at the attention; it has been a while, since someone has told him how much they appreciate his efforts, despite the fact that he still believes deep down, that he could have done better. That he could have prevented Aoi getting hurt, just like he thought that maybe, if he'd called his sister more, she would not have died.

But, unfortunately, the young man also knows it is not that simple. He cannot say for certain, how his actions will impact the world. And whether or not they are making it a better, or a worse place.

The thought that it could be the latter scares him immensely.

He wraps his arms around Aoi's back. He embraces her and all that she is. "You've helped me, too, Aoi," he tells the young woman. "More than you'll ever know."

"Is it bad that I'm not correcting my parents?"

"Huh?" He pauses. Their voices are quiet—hushed, ephemeral whispers, lost to the night and flimsy, tiny crickets. "What do you mean?"

"They still think you're a girl."

"Ah." Damian lets out an awkward laugh. "I don't know, honestly. You know, everyone thinks I'm crazy because I'm not conforming to the typical stereotype of taking testosterone to ease my woes... but, it just doesn't feel like the right time for me. At least, not now. I want to take it easy. Slow. I don't just want to do things to conform to what society says a man is and should be. It used to piss me off, honestly." Damian scoffs.

He stares up at the pale, empty ceiling. "Like, we're both made out of the same skin—the same guts—and we start off the same in the womb, too! It's just... that my shape was different from most guys, when my mom had me. I wish people could understand that." He tenses against her. "I wish they'd leave me alone. It's... painful, when they make fun of me for just existing. And it sucks that I have to be afraid because I'm different. And, you know, Aoi," he holds her a little closer and takes a deep, shaky breath. "You know, we're all different, and I think that's what makes us beautiful. Unique, children of the stars."

"Well," Aoi clears her throat and chuckles, "that's definitely the first time someone has managed to make me feel better about my condition. But I get that," she nods against him once more. "Even though I'm not like you, people don't understand either. But... to be honest, I feel like I've come to realize that it doesn't really matter anymore—what the world thinks of me. As long as I'm happy with myself, and that my closest friends and lovers know who I am, it's like... should I care what a stranger thinks of me when I'm sipping on that goddamned medical food? Do I have to make it my problem? It's weird how I'm just expected to educate someone just because there aren't a lot of people like me. Why is that my job again? I never wanted to be a teacher. I just wanted to be normal. To be me. Despite that," she sighs, "two times out of three, I have to tell doctors what the hell my diagnosis means, and cross my fingers that they won't mess me up because they literally didn't know about the issue at hand five minutes ago. It sucks," she huffs again, "it really sucks. And I know it's not the same as your situation, but... I guess, in that sense, I do kind of get it."

"About how much it sucks?"

Aoi pulls away from Damian's figure. She smirks. "Yeah." As the lights from the outside world cast a warm, artificial glow across their features, Aoi does not look away from the young man. "But it sucks less when I'm with you," she tells him.

In the sky, a fleet of fireworks reflect against her window like giant, deep red lanterns that dissolve into strange, glittering feathers.

Ah, they've been doing that a lot lately, Aoi thinks, even if festival season is almost over.

The odd pair that she and Damian make spend another hour exchanging silly stories and late-night ruminations. When the time finally comes for them to sleep, Damian slips back down under his blanket.

Although Aoi was relieved to find him in better spirits than when she had left him a week ago today, the young man's sniffles echo across her bedroom walls, once he believes she is already dreaming.

As she listens to Damian cry himself to sleep, Aoi supposes that this wound will take more time to heal than others, especially since—like hers—Damian's aches are also of the invisible sort.

She wants to turn around. To reach out and tell him it will be okay. But Aoi does not know that for certain. And, if the young man had waited for her to be unconscious, for him to allow himself to let out a small sob or two, Aoi figures there is a reason for this.

Although it is a difficult choice for her, Aoi will respect Damian's wish, of him not wanting her to hear his cries.

The young woman shuts her eyes to the sounds of fireworks and drunkards in the streets below, that soon dissipate. Eventually, so do Damian's cries, too, disappear, as all, small nightly occurrences do, once morning come.