Send me a symbol and I’ll write a short drabble
“And this,”Tatara says, gesturing to a row of apartments, converted from awarehouse quite obviously, for the height and breeziness, the shoddydivides and hastily cropped-up, dead-grass lawns, “Is where we usedto live.”
This whole time,Arima hadn't said a word to him, just taking in the tour of Tatara'sold home in China without interrupting. He listened as the other manwent up and down in conversation and tone – he had picked well upon the melancholy that accompanied nearly every statement he made,for much had changed in the great span of time since he had left. Butthe memories seemed not to have faded; a decade with Eto, a decade inTokyo, and he recalled everything as though he had left a week ago.
“It was awarehouse then, still. But we had partitioned out rooms, and there isplenty of underground space.” The Chinese ghoul continued. “A lotof the gang had other places to live – but this was where we allended up returning to. This is where we divvied up meals we caught,where we trained and played and socialized.”
At the small catchin his words – a hint that lasted a few mere seconds beforedisappearing, Arima came just slightly closer and leaned his shoulderagainst Tatara's, foggy eyes going over the crooked mailboxes, theabandoned toys and gnarled gardens. It was difficult to imagineTatara living in such a converted place; he was regal, he sat on achair as tall as a throne and he took a large room for himselfwhenever he dared bother to sleep in his own bed, away from Eto'sgrasp, or from Arima's forgetful neediness. All that came to mind forArima was the cold, high roof that the converted warehouse had.
“It felt like asky inside, but a private one.” As if his mind was being read,Tatara went on, one hand pressing Arima's shoulder and turning himabout, starting them walking again on the narrow road where the sundidn't seem quite to pierce. “We had made a second level, but therewas a spot in the middle you could look up at. Yan and Fei and someof the others – everyone, honestly, they would paint a little partof the mural here or there, and eventually we had a whole scenearound it, swirling around to the center- just stars there, endlessstars. I wonder if they kept it. They probably didn't.”
His voice faded;only the clacking of their footsteps on cracked pavement went on. Afew minutes passed; Tatara's eyes were distant, even though he wasclose in body. Arima glanced up toward sthe sky, towards the dyingsun and caught sight of a single star flickering weakly. “Did youpaint anything of it?”
“They gave me avery tall ladder when I insisted I would paint something good. Ipainted my brother and Fei and myself and some of the others all upon the ceiling. Because my dream then wasn't anything grand, it wasjust this calm life, these people I loved that I wanted to be around.I wanted it to remain the same. I suppose I've always been thatway.”
That said a lotmore; Arima picked up on it too. It was no mystery to the man thatTatara loved people and got far too attached to them when he allowedhimself. That his dream was to have people, to protect people, and tobe loved by people. It only happened that his two most beloved peoplewere wrapped up in something quite large.
He worried again ifit were unfair to him. If this tragedy would unfold and leave himdead or alive and alone. The misgivings came again; he could leavethis to other people, he could just live his life. But it would stillbe short. Too short.
So Arima turned withTatara back to the hotel, and he remained silent.
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