Ā Soulmates could see each otherās memories. Yes, because their connection was so all-prevailing, that all theyād witnessed in all their lives in the world, all of it was for or with their destined one. But such a thing was too naive to be believed in.Ā
Ā Tamakiās knees wobbled as the man spoke on his phone. His own, Japanese phone. The man had found him pressed against a wall on a side-street at midnight, so it was no wonder heād had questions. It was no wonder he was a police. It was lucky he was so insistent to help.
Ā The friendly strangerās free hand was compensating for the movement of the occupied, emphasizing each word with such an animation it was shame the hotel manager in the end of the line couldnāt see it. But Tamaki could, and he was somehow glad. It was the cherry on top of all the hospitality heād been shown so far.
Ā He was in a foreign country. Yes, heād been before. But not alone. And oh, how splendidly it had worked out for him thus far. Instead of even the promise of inspiration and references and a clearer future, heād discovered a new kind of horror. One of being stuck in a place where all he could say wasĀ excusez-moi, merci, je vous remercie and baguette, and he had a housing catastrophe to solve at one in the morning.
The notion of the misfortune being unlinked to himself offered some relief. But it was still misfortune. He tried to catch some words in the conversation that he might recognize from his beginner French course. (It could justly be called a conversation, for the managerās rampaging tone broke through even on the deviceās lowest output.) It was futile. But that could in part be accounted to his current state of dread. Or the jet-lag.
Ā The stranger, being finally cut off by the furious manager, looked palpably agitated, before he very overtly pushed the feeling aside to smile apologetically. Tamaki took his phone as it was handed back to him, and they exchanged names.
Ā Heād never dared to dream, never in even the most remote of his speculations, that heād end up in a strangerās apartment in Brussels at two in the morning. He wasnāt that kind of person. And this wasnāt that kind of situation.Ā
Ā The file he carried under his arm was comically large in comparison to his thin frame, and apologetic didnāt even begin to describe his expression. His eyes darted around helplessly, and once more, he was aided with a smile. He stared at it a second too long.Ā
Ā The place was bigger than heād expected, but not big enough to comfortably house two. Then again, Tamakiās preferences in personal space were a little unusual, and he was never at ease in foreign homes.Ā
Ā The clock on the wall was louder than he was used to, the ceiling higher, rooms narrower. He sat at the kitchen table, looked up at the man as he talked. He was in his undershirt, behind him a pan of water heating. The cherries on the table, in their best season, tasted mature. Like theyād been on the table for a day.
Ā They set him a mattress onto the floor beside the manās bed. Tamaki insisted it be so, insisted he was fond of futons and it was thus very okay. Soon, they laid in the dark room. Tamaki wondered if his accent sounded as odd to the man as Belgiumās tap water tasted to him. Some shuffling, the clock in the kitchen. The man spoke first.
Why do you study architecture?
Ā Tamaki told, first briefly, like he told everybody. That heās just drawn to it. But it was like Mirio could see right through it, becauseĀ he continued asking. And Tamaki told him. How his father was a doctor, how his mother had given birth to him at home. How there hadnāt been time to reach a hospital in the rural area they lived in. How he wanted to be the one to design one there, one day. How it was the way he could help people. Of course, it was silly to frame oneās dream so narrowly. But it was a pointing arrow.Ā
ā Why are you a police, then?Ā ā
Ā He told him, and asked, whatās your favorite place?
Ā The sunflower field in his childhood neighborhood, he told him, and didnāt catch his reply, because sleep took him.
Ā It veiled him in an airy shroud. It was light, feather light. He felt it before he sensed it as a gentle glow of red on his eyelids. A cacophony was threaded into it, distant like constellations. An unspeakable plethora of sounds and places and all their sensations like a book paged through, all of it eerily comforting, like he belonged in each blink of a scene. It all condensed, condensed, and his eyes could finally flutter open.
Ā The room was a sepia photograph, seeped with color and depth until it became reality. The window was open, letting in the rumbling of vehicles and foreign voices and heels against street-bricks. The curtains heaved, like sighing. It was warm. Tamaki felt stuffy, like heād sweated during the night, and immediately craved a shower.Ā
Ā The front door... had it opened? Closed? It hit him, that he was still at a strangerās home. Too late did he clamber to sit on his mattress, Mirioās eyes were already on him. The man stood by the door with a grocery bag, and something in his smile made Tamaki hold his breath, made his embarrassment flutter in a way it shouldnāt.
Ā Loathe to leave the man waiting, he found himself helping him unload the groceries, setting the table with him. Well, it was almost a table. Almost a desk. As they sat, he tried to keep their knees from touching. It was very difficult, credit to everything expectable. But there was a foreign tension to the unease. Something... magnetic. He didnāt want to dwell on it, so he listened to the man laugh about preparing breakfast in the afternoon. Tamaki was again embarrassed, and the new tinge in that feeling persisted. Or was it only accentuated by it? He complimented the food, then changed the subject.
Ā Would it be embarrassing to continue from the night? It felt so remote now, so free from all social structures and intricacies. Theyād somehow skipped all that. Speaking to each other as just people. As just souls. Tamaki had never spoken with such ease to... anyone. Scarcely so even to Nejire. Maybe it was just the culture barrier.
Ā He was sure he couldnāt tap into it, and yet, he was talking before he knew better.Ā ā A lot of formidable people of the industry will be there in the seminar. Dad, too. Thatās why I... took all of those files with me. Iāll have to display my designs, and, ā he sunk against his shirt, croissant crumpling in his grasp,Ā ā I donāt know. It feels like Iām lying to myself. I donāt even know how to describe something I worked on for a year.Ā ā @le1000000
