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It was not unusual for mornings at the Daitenkuu Temple to be filled with raucous shouts and laughter. Despite its tranquil surroundings of luscious, towering trees and delicate birdsong, the interior was host to loud discussions of paranormal happenings, the Ganma, and arguments being launched across dining table, especially if Onari had cooked up an especially tasty dish for breakfast.
However, today was one of those rare mornings where the only sounds at the breakfast table were the soft clinks of chopsticks on ceramic.
Makoto glanced at the empty chair beside him as he pulled out his own seat, rubbing the last remnants of sleep out of his eyes with his free hand.
“Where’s Takeru?” he asked Onari, who was setting down the last two bowls of rice.
The monk tilted his head in thought. “He should already be done with his morning meditation. It might be best for me to check up on him,” he answered. “In the meantime, please feel free to start eating, Makoto-dono.”
“I might wait for Alain. He said he’ll be up soon,” Makoto replied, taking a sip of his miso soup. “But I will have this; I don’t want it to go cold.”
Onari nodded and left swiftly, calling out for “Takeru-donooooo!”
Shibuya and Narita were already at the table. The two greeted Makoto as he sat down. Makoto nodded back, still sipping his soup, trying to disregard the rather awkward air. Akari had taken Kanon out to a local science fair for the day (“she needs a breather from you idiot boys”), so it was just the three at the table.
Unlike the other temple residents, Makoto had not known Shibuya and Narita for very long, and they in turn had only known of him from fading childhood tales. They got along well enough in the field; being earnest workers with the same objective, there was no awkwardness in communicating what had to be done, and where they had to go. However, things were different in their time off. They did not have much in common, and although Shibuya and Narita were trusted and valuable allies, at the end of the day they were still strangers – people Makoto’s hardened instinct had been raised to be wary of.
“I’m going to go get Alain,” Makoto said flatly and left.
Shibuya paused.
“Narita, do you feel like Makoto-san doesn’t like us?” he sighed, poking at a piece of fish. “He’s always really quiet when it’s just us. I’d like to talk to him but it’s hard to start a conversation.”
Still chewing his breakfast, Narita shook his head and replied. “Nah, he just doesn’t know how to act around us. I mean, he just came back from living in the Ganma world for ten years.”
Shibuya popped a pickle into his mouth, mulling over his thoughts. “I suppose. But he’s always talking and laughing when the others are around.”
Narita shook his head again, wolfing down the last of his rice. “Like I said, he just doesn’t know how to act around us. You can tell he’s really a kind person.”
The bespectacled apprentice stared at his friend in slight disbelief. “That sounds really weird coming from you. I didn’t think you were the type to think deeply.”
“What? I’m offended. I’m taking your pickles.”
-
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Makoto murmured, lightly shaking Alain by the shoulder.
Sunlight was filtering through the window, dust softly drifting and glistening in the shafts of light. The tree by their window shivered in the gentle breeze, sending speckles of shadow dancing across the room. Makoto’s futon laid in neatly folded rectangles, while Alain’s had been kicked into a wringed mess. Half the blanket was twisted up in his arms, crushed in a tight grip. He continued to lightly snore despite being shaken and prodded at.
Makoto sat back with a sigh. Alain had made a habit of watching the sunrise every morning and was usually the first in the temple to wake, along with Onari, so he normally did not need to be woken. In fact, Makoto was usually the one to be woken by Alain; the ex-Ganma occasionally wanted to share with him a particularly beautiful sunrise, or, on cloudy mornings, a wriggling specimen he had dug up from the dirt.
Bored, Makoto began to absently unravel the futon from underneath Alain, flattening it, then freeing the wrinkled blanket from the sleeping boy’s grip. Their hands brushed against each other briefly, a slight whisper of cold playing across Makoto's skin. Although Alain was now human, his hands had retained tendency to be ice cold no matter how warm the weather was, unlike Makoto’s which radiated warmth even on the coldest of days.
Taking Alain’s hand, Makoto unconsciously cradled it in his own and traced a finger down Alain's palm, feeling the cool and smooth, yet slightly tough skin. He recalled the time when the two were sitting in a park together on a particularly bright day, just admiring the scenery, when a child playing tag fell. They both silently hurried over to help, and Alain pulled her up by the hand.
“Are you all right?” he offered.
“Thanks, but why are your hands so cold? That’s kind of creepy,” the girl said bluntly. “Sorry. My mum said I need to stop asking people weird questions,” she continued, and ran off.
Alain frowned, peering down at his hands. “Am I really creepy?” he asked, crestfallen. He began to rub them together frantically, trying to generate some sort of warmth, but with little success.
“No, you’re not. Don’t worry about it; a lot of people have naturally cold hands,” Makoto reassured.
Alain took Makoto’s wrist and held his palm against the back of his own. “Your hands are always so warm. I wish mine were, too.”
Makoto brought his other hand up, clasping Alain’s gently. “Well, I like how cool yours are.”
“Makoto?” a voice said.
The black-haired boy shook his head with a start, snapping out of his daydream, wondering who was calling him. He had not noticed Alain was now sitting up, nor the fact that their hands were still together. Embarrassed, he jerked his hand away on reflex.
“Come on, breakfast is ready,” he mumbled, pressing his knuckles to his cheek, trying to hide the rising redness.
“Wait.”
Noticing that Alain’s breathing was shallower than usual, Makoto slid next to him and wrapped an arm around his back.
“Bad dream?”
Alain nodded. “I can never get used to these things. They’re not bad most nights, but –” he gulped. “You started to disappear bit by bit after using the Deep Specter eyecon, and I just –”
Bringing his arm back around, Makoto took Alain's hand. “Well, I’m here right now. See?”
Their palms met. Alain pressed his hand deeper into Makoto’s, and finally brought his fingers down, interlacing them with the others, letting the warmth seep into them. Makoto gently squeezed back.
“I won’t let that eyecon or anything else take our time away. I promise.”
-
“Makoto-niichan!” Takeru called, running down the hallway and nearly slipping on his socks. He’d have to go back and fetch his slippers which he had left behind after Onari rushed him to the breakfast table.
“Makoto-niichan!” he called again. “Breakfast is getting cold!” Takeru drew closer to the room where Makoto and Alain slept and, noticing the door was ajar, he slowed down and crept closer. He grinned and placed his hand on the frame, ready to slide it open and surprise Makoto.
“Wake up already! Or are you up to something with Alain-” he joked, shoving the door aside.
Alain had fallen asleep again, with his head resting against Makoto’s shoulder. Their hands were still laced together, and Makoto had his gaze on Alain, although now he was looking at Takeru with a stunned expression.
“Takeru, I-” he began.
Biting back a burst of laughter, Takeru slid the door back in place.
“It’s okay, Makoto-niichan. I’ll heat your breakfast up when you’re ready.”