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Of 18 years of existence, Sano Mikoto concludes the celebration for 17 of them is an unchanged banality.
Mortals are hell-bent on having their ways with life, like seeking vengeance in retribution or simply being an asshole by harbouring ill will for no reason, and he is fundamentally the manifestation of their belief. To put it bluntly, titularing as the yakubyougami, his very essence is an offense to anything that is positive and audacious like heartfelt cheers, playful bacchanals, all those wonders that are opposite of being scorned then died alone like a leper.
The god of pestilence has forgone lavish cakes and friendly banters, passed that, and till today, lodging quietly in his house seems to be the most ideal plan, lest the catastrophe wrecking havoc after him wherever he be. He can’t pinpoint the exact time when passive longing is replaced by indifference, which would eventually grow into a disciplined contentment. Did he envision being surrounded by friends while cutting cakes like a normal person? Sure, as soon as the mental image formed, however, it was brutally crushed by the probability that the knife would just conveniently slip out of his hand and plunge into the nearest kid, and said scenario was almost made reality when he was 5. Dreams are often transient before disillusionization.
Oh, but Mikoto is not melodramatic in any sense; the blond regards social distancing is a necessity rather than an inevitable tragedy. A forged mentality than anything, really.
This year, the scene of him spending time in his humble abode is scheduled, at least standing as an annual certainty a few minutes ago when the young god approached his locker. Here’s the thing: his physical symmetry more or less gains certain favouritism from youkais in school, especially the girls who religiously pour their heart, soul and unidentified composites like sorcery or magical recipes into presents for every holiday of a year. Said presents now are dangerously on the verge of overflowing based on how they are peaking ominously from his locker.
Mikoto sighs, inwardly counting his savings as he fetches the packages. If he cannot reciprocate their feelings, the least he could do is compensate for the goodwill, a learned habit from the guilty conscience.
Amongst the devoted gifts various in forms and style cached a wrinkled piece of paper. It poses as a casual reminder than a revered offering, effectively piquing the blond’s interest. The teen does hope that nobody is mean enough to do others’ effort dirty as he carefully glances around should there be any ambush he needs to be aware of then unfolds the newly-found mystery.
Mikoto can feel how taut his facial muscles are.
Why, isn’t it Seimei and his stupid antics promised within the “Go to the garden after school” of his. His brows knit together at the tiniest hint of the source of his recent migraines. Suspicions for the chief motive of this message isn’t so different from other givers’ rise, foreseeable but not unstimulating to say the least.
He can hear the principal shriek of dismay before the mess they ought to make.
Although Mikoto isn’t a jerk to look a gift horse in the mouth per se, most circumstances that associate with Seimei end up with a thing or three broken. Ever since the human teacher set foot into this precinct, infrastructure keeps being destroyed, someone keeps screaming in the background, and said teacher is the most likely to destroy and scream while getting himself into trouble. Sometimes Mikoto questions between him and that wimpy teacher, who is a more befitting god of misfortune.
For all he cares, anything that man initiates does not end well.
True to his assumption, ever since he receives the human’s little note, his day is not so uneventful as he originally hoped it to be. To be more accurate, and ironically enough, it’s so uneventful that it’s strange.
Time drags. The continuous ticking does not act as tranquility like one would normally infer, it challenges the peace, the patience, the sanity of beings under its control. Time sets a painful pace as well as an opportunity. A predator waiting for the right moment to strike, a prey alerting to the right signal to run, and Mikoto is both.
He watches the passers-by, the empty hallway, the bored classroom, the crafty human who is monopolizing his attention. He is expecting something to happen.
Though, for the past 4 hours, nothing happened.
Unwitting to the vigilance of the blond, the homeroom teacher is of no novelty.
It’s the same amiable smile that he shows the world how he loves every charm of it, the cowlick strand that sways when his pretty little head is easily pleased, the eyes that shine of brilliance and sincerity of the heart he wears on his sleeve. Them embellishing one Abe Haruaki is utterly annoying no matter how hard he looks at it. Mikoto cannot comprehend why he is so familiar with Seimei that close speculation of him in class is becoming a constant.
“Whatcha doin’?”
Needless to meet the addressee’s eyes, the god replied automatically.
“Say, you think Seimei is different?”
“Different how?”
“He’s… odd.”
Mame tilts to the side in confusion.
“Since when he’s not all but odd?”
The blond slightly droops his lids. “Like, at this time of the day, Seimei would pester me for the umpteenth time, but today, he doesn’t do much.”
The tanuki youkai raises a doubtful brow, “And why is that a problem? Isn't it good for you?”
“I would rather have him acting like the usual sailor uniform fanatic.”
Mame hums in contemplation, then continues.
“Aren't you the strange one here, Sano?”
“How so?”
“You are the one who has been antsy since morning. Don’t be offended, but aren’t you looking forward to Seimei’s antics?”
Mikoto is offended.
“Animal instinct doesn’t lie, and it’s telling me that you are bothered by the fact that Seimei isn’t as clingy as he usually is.”
Mikoto pins his gaze on the nape of the person in question. He is used to Seimei being an absolute nuisance indeed, but there’s no goddamned way Mikoto is waiting for this nutbar to get into his periphery. There is barely anything from this guy noteworthy of. His hair is always unkempt and wastes his visage, his fashion is dull and mommy’s selections, his incessant commentary about sailor uniform is arbitrary, his schedule with only teaching and sleeping is lame, his music taste is crappy, his doodles silly, and why the hell does Mikoto remember all of these?
As if on cue, the source of his queries glances at him cluelessly then quickly returns to his speech when he detects there is no concern other than an irritated look from one of his students.
Yeah, no, no no no, nope, no way José. Animal acumen be damned. Just the thought of one black-haired man with smiles rivaling the grandeur of the sun makes his blood boil, let alone the sight of the stupid puppy face. He detest the idea to the point of wanting to pinch said face until tears glaze over those rufous orbs.
“Always one to jest, I see.”
The tanuki youkai seems tempted to retort but any endeavor is quickly masked under resignation. One of many things about Mame that Mikoto adores.
“Well, in any case, it’s understandable for birthday boys to get antsy on this occasion.”
One of the few things about Mame that leaves Mikoto miffed.
“Right.” The young god mutters conclusively, letting the discussion slide.
But of course, Sano Mikoto sees himself as many things, but not an entirely opinionated god. He considers his best friend’s words with respect and care, regardless of pleasant matters or not.
Why would Mikoto want Seimei to do anything with him? Mikoto clearly exhibits distaste towards the man, but why can't he take his eyes off of him? What’s with Seimei? What about him that makes Mikoto can’t help but feel infuriated with him? What’s with Sano Mikoto?
Wait… What’s with him?
Mikoto feels something twist inside.
Realization dawns on him like an ice bucket pouring all over. Not just today, he is quick to lose his composure on any day that involves one Abe Haruaki. Even when he disliked Hijita and Zashiki during the first year (sorry guys you were shitty to Mame), it was a mild cagey aggression rather than a full-on display of unadulterated indignation like now. Mikoto can list all the things he despises about Seimei on and on, so his contempt for him is understandable. Though, however big his dissatisfaction with the human, at the end of the day, Mikoto seeks Seimei and the subtle reminders of him. And he is yet to find a reason for this illogical behaviour.
A pang lets itself be known on his tempers.
Is this puberty? Gods’ are different from humans’ do they? Or do gods still have to go through a rollercoaster of emotions? No wait, why is he disclosing the part that he initially wanted to hide? Did he change? Or was he changed?
Everything which comes after that self-interrogation is a daze. He walks through the hall, does what needs to be done on duty day, lets Mame climb on his shoulders, chats with Hijita and Zashiki without actually saying anything just because, he carries out his daily activities on autopilot for the rest of the afternoon. But his mind wanders, venturing into a maze that allows him to discover the unconscious nooks and crannies of his mind. Mikoto knows he can find the way out, but he stalls. He does not welcome the answer. The hunch is like howls of wind, shapeless but cutting through skin, biting into bones across the span of his back. The god of misfortunes attracts misfortunes.
Like always, the god mourns for his own misery.
Before he knows it, a hand waves in front of him.
“Earth to Sano?”
The blonde coughs, trying to cover the blunder of spacing out.
“Uh, yeah?”
Now in a better mind, Mikoto can’t help but notice the way Zashiki, Nyuudou, Mujina and Akisame share a knowing glance with each other, then looking at him with anticipation. Ah, that .
“Yo Sano, happy birthday. The four of us got a bunch of plushies from crane games for you.”
Zashiki, whose hands are occupied with stuffed animals that threaten to fall from her grasp, congratulates. Nyuudou and Mujina have that shy look on their face when the former confesses that the hard work lies with the bespectacled girl while the Nekomata displays little wit by blending in the prizes.
Before he can register the situation, Mame the youkai version tackles him from behind with the party poppers.
“Come on, birthday boy.”
And so, the gifting session begins.
Admitting aloud would be as if claiming he is a materialistic individual, but Sano Mikoto feels his heart ache. To the crane-machine plushies, to the belly-scratch vouchers, to questionable things such as ecchi CDs, unspecific chemicals, tanuki-printed boxers, the teen finds himself treasuring them all the same. It’s not the gifts themselves, it’s the tentativeness and understanding from the givers, acquaintances or closed ones. Unlike the not-so-secret admirers who love the fantasized version more than the real deal, whether out of genuine care or playful intentions, these guys have been keeping a close eye on his preferences.
Albeit fighting back the smile tugging at his cheeks, it’s hard to keep a cool facade.
“Thank guys, I can’t express enough how grateful I am.” Difficulty to find the right words is like a lump in throat, stealing him of any eloquence.
However, not letting him reorganize what he wishes to expound any further, the tanuki youkai grabs his hand whilst Hijita shoves his shoulder forward, both dragging somewhere. Leaving no room for objection, Mame grins with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Save that for later, okay? You haven’t arrived at your own party yet.”
Mikoto is dumbfounded.
His own party? Class 2-3 is throwing a birthday party? For him? Mikoto finds himself gaping while being escorted to whatever planned destination. He can’t remember when he finally stopped holding parties, perhaps after the knife incident? Well, consolation cakes and presents by Ebisu were still there, just no new attendees. Another consolation is that his big brother has eternal health insurance by being the god of fortune himself, but that’s about it.
Mikoto doesn’t ask for more.
Standing before thick planks blocking out any prying eyes, Mikoto takes a leap of faith.
“Ah, Sano-kun is here!”
The god recognizes the voice painfully well. Warmth engulfs him the moment light escapes. Bathing in celestial illumination, one with the florescence in its full glory, is Abe Haruaki.
“Sano-kun, thank you for being born! Happy birthday to you!”
Seimie’s giggle of childish delight flutters along with petals gliding on summer breezes. His hands raise up as if to return the gentle embrace of the fathomless ether while surrounding nature bloom in sync with his unbridled mirth. Pink paints over his cheeks, across his lips, on his hair, everywhere, dancing around and frolicking. His smile is wide and pure, the epicenter of Mikoto’s world.
Oh, he gets it now. It’s not that Sano Mikoto hates Abe Haruaki, the god simply hates the fact that he loves each and every thing about this man excruciatingly hard.
Even unconsciously doing so, he hums to uncanny tunes that his teacher listens to, he remembers those squiggly stickers that his teacher gives, he ventures to places that his teacher ensconces, he waters the flowers that his teacher plants. Slowly but surely, Sano Mikoto learns to appreciate what his teacher holds dear.
On the 18th celebration, the god of misfortune learns to cherish his birth for the first time.
To marvel through the lens of his beloved, how strange that the sky is brighter, the air is lighter, and Abe Haruaki is more beautiful than he could ever imagine. Suddenly, all the resentments for his fate, his title, even the destined tribulation seem so fleeting, so small compared to the urge to cross the flora and return the love that Haruaki has been unfailingly showered him with.
Mikoto doesn’t ask for more. Born as the yakubyougami, his life is an unchanging permanence, an oath, a truth that the earth quakes and storms brew after his steps. He thought he wouldn’t ask for more.
Now though, he finds himself yearning.