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The tomatoes Seishirou chose at the grocery store were beautiful: perfect little ellipsoids, their bright red skin delicate as satin. He washed them carefully under the running water, mindful not to bruise, and dried them with paper towels. Setting them on the counter he checked the other ingredients. Garlic, onions, basil, olive oil, red chili, salt, yes, the basics were there.
Satisfied, he chose his knife carefully and started peeling the tomatoes one by one. The flesh was soft and malleable underneath, the juices fragrant as they spread over his hands. As soon as one fruit was bare he chopped it into squares and placed these into a bowl. He then chose his next target.
Although this was not a particularly notable day, Seishirou had felt like cooking something different for dinner. Italian had instantly come to mind, and so penne with tomato sauce was inevitable. He had decided to make the sauce from scratch; none of those industrialized packages or canned pomodori pelati were good enough for tonight.
The front door clicked shut as Seishirou started on the third vegetable. He heard a faint "Tadaima." and a rustling of plastic bags as he asked, "Did you get everything?"
"No, they were out of mascarpone. I got the rest, though," came from the living room, the steps soft. "You'll have to do without desert."
"Oh well." Murmuring more to himself than as an answer, Seishirou started chopping, and added the cubes to the bowl. He picked another tomato, starting at the tip and slowly making his way down, the flap of skin over the hand that was holding the knife. By now the juice had covered everything, from the hilt in his hand to the white chopping board, pink and red with the remains.
Subaru entered the kitchen with the plastic bags in hand. Seishirou was concentrating on his task, and so the elbow that brushed his back was completely unexpected. Nausea overcame him, kitchen smells became offensive, his vision blurred. His hands steadied, supporting his weight on the chopping board as the world suddenly warped.
Colours appeared to have switched amongst themselves, sounds seemed unbearably high pitched, the floor felt like sand. He was not supposed to be fourty-three years old, turning forty-four today.
He was not supposed to be alive.
He slowly turned, looking at Subaru, and felt images superimpose.
So Seishirou did the only familiar thing he could in a circumstance such as this. He lashed out against the only other living thing in the kitchen, against the only living thing he cared about.
Before Subaru could react he was pinned against the far wall, feet off the ground, air knocked out of his lungs. He wheezed, reaching out to envelop the hand that held his neck. The grasp, however, was light, only enough so he could ground himself. "Why?"
Seishirou could feel Subaru's trachea in his hand, the cartilaginous rings bobbing up and down as the other man swallowed, vibrating as he rasped the question.
Because he was not supposed to be here either. In Seishirou's company. Sharing a life with him.
Tightening his grip his fingers curled around the windpipe, and he was suddenly aware how slick his hand was, how slippery his hold had become. His hands had still been filthy from his previous occupation and now the substance trickled down Subaru's neck, staining his white collar. Somehow that seemed right.
And suddenly the world made sense again, even though he knew none of them should be alive and this was idyllic at best. Humanity should not have been saved ten years ago, Subaru should not have won the bet and Hokuto should not have been spared. Nevertheless, all of that had happened; he was now here in the kitchen with Subaru choking against the white tile wall, stained in a diluted red. He let the other man go.
Subaru crumpled to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath, hands around his neck. He looked up at Seishirou as his throat kept convulsing for air, eyes not accusatory but questioning. Seishirou turned around, cleaning his hands on a white tea towel.
"What time is Hokuto-chan getting here?"
Subaru coughed one final time and stood. "In about forty minutes."
Seishirou eyed the chopping board, the forgotten fruit sitting half-peeled. Washing his hands in the sink, Seishirou revaluated what still had to be done. "Can you set the table?"
"Of course." Subaru brushed against him again as he passed, but this time Seishirou was only left with a smile on his lips. He picked up the knife again and resumed his work, carefully removing the final piece of skin.
So that's why he was feeling so cheerful that morning. He had forgotten it was his birthday.