Hymn of Ame (COMPLETED)

[06] The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

A car honks as Ame scurries across the road a little too late, the cross light changing from green to red and he is still halfway. Ame gives them a slight bow in apology, but doesn't really slow down.

"What are you doing here again?" I ask, discreetly watching how the raindrops that caught on his hair run teasingly down his fringes. I'm curious where that fancy dome of air he uses to protect himself go, but I don't dare ask. "I told you I don't need protection."

He fakes a shiver, smiling cheekily. "It's cold here. Why don't we go to that coffee shop, and talk this out over a cup of coffee? Your treat, of course — I don't have any human money in me."

"That's a good excuse for a glutton like you," I said.

"I'm not a glutton!" he protested, puckering out his lips.

"Right," I deadpan, "when you just told me you could eat for hours and still be hungry."

Ame stands by my side as I toss the umbrella in the basket, waiting for me to pull open the glass door. Glancing around, Ame is right on my heels as I cross the shop towards the counter.

“Welcome to Aroma Mocha!” said the girl that is working the counter. I look at the menu, though my order is already decided in my head. “Can I get you anything?”

I tell her my order, and when the girl looks at Ame to ask for his, the latter says, "What she says." I add two slices of strawberry shortcake, though I don't have a great experience with their pastries before.

We sit at the far end, out of other customers' earshot. A moment later, before we can think of something to say, I see the girl rounds the counter and starts walking towards our table. She puts our orders down the table so gently it is almost soundless, then she ducks back towards the counter.

It's been a while since our orders are served, and I'm already halfway through my cup but Ame hasn't touched his yet. The thin smoke has mostly dissipated. It gets cold faster than usual because of the weather. He hasn't touched the cake yet, too.

"You don't want it cold," I say, nodding at his cup.

"Ah, right," he exclaims, but he keeps his hand under the table. He has uncharacteristically awkward smile plastered on his face. My eyes go between his cup, and his hand. Back and back again, as though trying to make sense of them. Wait, I tell myself. I hear the glass breaking from last night, and that's enough for me to spring up and yank his hand out of its hiding place.

Relief spreads through me because I am still able to hold his hand. That means it hasn't faded away completely. Not yet, at least. The relief has been immediately switched with fear as I take in the sight of it. If the other customers hear how loud my gasp is, they don't comment on it. I'm thankful for that. But I'm not thankful that Ame literally has no strength to fight me, to get his arm back, to hide it from me again.

I inspect his hand, placing it delicately over mine. I can't see anything but his hand's faint outline and the lines of my own palm. I've thought that's the worst of it, but under his sleeve, the ghost-like appearance continues. Shaking, I roll up his jacket, and I almost fall off my chair. The fading reaches up until his elbow. I roll it down immediately because I can't stare at it any longer, and because I'm afraid the other customers will see it.

"This won't do," I say, shaking my head. "This won't do. You need to go."

He slips away from my hold. "I'm just here to ask you a question."

I don't reply. I can't reply. There's like a rock stuck in my throat, and it also impedes me to breathe. Calm down, I tell myself.

“Do you love rain?”