Work Text:
On some Wednesday afternoon, the sun shining down on the damp grass, Aizawa Shota watched his friends play. He sat on a worn bench across the sidewalk, his arms wrapped around himself, and listened to their laughter ring throughout the park.
These friends were ones he knew well; Iida, with his constant movement; Nemuri, with her sharp, witty humor; Yamada, with his bright hair and even brighter smile; and Oboro, with his vibrant, wild hair. Years spent at desks pushed against each other, after-school practices among the steel bleachers, and long performances and games attended in support of each other pulled this group together despite their differences.
Oboro linked his arms with Iida and the two spun through the sunshine. Nemuri sat down next to Yamada on the checkered blanket that someone had spread out. The two giggled as the others danced on the grass. Oboro threw his head back and shrieked with laughter, his hair streaming out behind him as he pressed his eyes closed.
As he observed from the sidelines, Shota felt something sour curl in his stomach at the bright scene. Out of all of them, Oboro and Yamada were the ones Shota was closest with. After long nights spent together swapping secrets, they were meant to be a comforting presence for him. Despite that history, the promises they shared, something about the way Oboro moved in the overly bright sunshine disturbed him.
Eventually, Iida, panting from the violent spinning, collapsed down onto the blanket and wheezed with laughter when he almost crushed Nemuri. Shota watched, squinting against the light, as Oboro froze on the grass. Beneath a cloud of blue hair, he observed the scene on the blanket unfold. The odd feeling in Shota’s gut worsened, but he couldn’t bear to tear his eyes away from Oboro.
All of a sudden, the sun seemed to get even brighter, and Oboro looked up at Shota like he was noticing him for the first time. He smiled, and Shota sat dazzled in the sunlight as he strolled across the grass and crossed the sidewalk.
Sitting down next to him, he asked, “Why don’t you join us?”
Shota lifted his shoulders in what could barely be called a shrug. He wouldn’t meet Oboro’s eyes, instead choosing to stare pointedly at their friends in the grass.
“It’s finally nice out.”
That odd feeling made him feel sick. He didn’t reply.
Oboro paused a moment before he said, “I’m sorry.”
It clicked. It was some Wednesday afternoon, under the bright sun, and it clicked.
“What’s wrong?”
“You won’t be alive tomorrow,” He said, finally meeting his friend’s gaze.
“Hmm…” Oboro sat back on the bench and looked up at the sky. “Maybe not. But I’m alive now, aren’t I?”
When Shota didn’t respond, he continued.
“I’ll be alive tomorrow morning. I’ll still be alive at lunch, where we’ll share my final meal. I’ll be alive right up until five-seventeen p.m. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“You’re still going to die,” Shota insisted. It came out harsher than he meant, but his voice wavered.
“And I’m okay with that,” Oboro said quietly, “Let’s enjoy this moment while it lasts.”
Shota inhaled, his breath stuttering in his throat. He watched as Iida and Yamada tussled in the grass, unconcerned with the ghost on the bench. In a way, he felt like a ghost too. He sat on the sidelines, watching the others silently. None of them were aware of the reality that would make itself known tomorrow.
After a long moment of listening to their laughter, Shota turned to Oboro and opened his arms. Oboro smiled sadly and accepted it, and they curled their arms around each other in a way that made Shota’s chest ache with nostalgia for the times before this moment, when Oboro was alive and breathing and more than everything for him.
All the promises, ranging from the reassurance that they would have each other’s backs whenever the other needed it, to the declaration that Oboro would be there at his wedding, right by his side, were rendered empty that next day. Shota still looked back at those days and tried to carefully peel him out of his sunbaked memories, pasting him back into the life he had now. He imagined Oboro all dressed up in his wedding photos, in a suit and tie at some business conference in the newspaper, sitting across the table from him at their favorite restaurant with the biggest smile on his face.
Oboro pulled away and stood up, stretching his fingertips up towards the sky. Shota admired the way his skin glowed and the way his veins stretched beneath it. He looked alive.
The soon-to-be deceased turned back with a smile, wild hair haloing his head in the bright sunshine, and stretched out his hand in invitation.
Shota took it.