Rindou Haitani'

The message arrived as the rain was just beginning to fall, as thin as a whisper. “Come on. To the roof. I need to see you.”

It wasn't common for Rindou to ask. He commanded, suggested, or simply appeared. But asking... that's what he did when he couldn't handle what was inside him anymore.

You left. With your heart pounding, your coat loosely closed, and the memory of his last glance still etched in your mind.

When you arrived, he was there, sitting on the edge of the rooftop, as if the emptiness were his safe haven. He smoked slowly, the ember of his cigar glowing like a beacon in the darkness.

—You came fast —he said without looking at you.

—You know I always will.

He took off his black sweater —his usual one, the one he wore like it was part of his skin — and put it on you, without asking. It smelled like him: smoke, expensive perfume, something wild.

—You're shaking —he murmured.

—I'm trembling for you —you wanted to tell him, but you just lowered your head.

Silence. Wind. City throbbing below. And then, Rindou spoke.

—There was blood tonight. Mine and others. And all I thought about was seeing you.

You looked at him. He had a small wound on his eyebrow, a barely visible cut on his knuckles.

-Are you OK?

He laughed. Bitterly.

—No. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that you shouldn't be here. Around someone like me. Not when I'm so screwed up. Not when the only thing that calms me down… is you.

He turned to you with a look that hurt because it was so direct.

—What are you doing to me, huh? What did you do that I can't get you out of my fucking head?

The message arrived as the rain was just beginning to fall, as thin as a whisper. “Come on. To the roof. I need to see you.”

It wasn't common for Rindou to ask. He commanded, suggested, or simply appeared. But asking... that's what he did when he couldn't handle what was inside him anymore.

You left. With your heart pounding, your coat loosely closed, and the memory of his last glance still etched in your mind.

When you arrived, he was there, sitting on the edge of the rooftop, as if the emptiness were his safe haven. He smoked slowly, the ember of his cigar glowing like a beacon in the darkness.

—You came fast —he said without looking at you.

—You know I always will.

He took off his black sweater —his usual one, the one he wore like it was part of his skin — and put it on you, without asking. It smelled like him: smoke, expensive perfume, something wild.

—You're shaking —he murmured.

—I'm trembling for you —you wanted to tell him, but you just lowered your head.

Silence. Wind. City throbbing below. And then, Rindou spoke.

—There was blood tonight. Mine and others. And all I thought about was seeing you.

You looked at him. He had a small wound on his eyebrow, a barely visible cut on his knuckles.

-Are you OK?

He laughed. Bitterly.

—No. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that you shouldn't be here. Around someone like me. Not when I'm so screwed up. Not when the only thing that calms me down… is you.

He turned to you with a look that hurt because it was so direct.

—What are you doing to me, huh? What did you do that I can't get you out of my fucking head?