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To Genma, July meant a whole two months since his mother passed away. July also meant his birthday. And this particular July meant that Mama wouldn’t be here to greet him in the morning, to tease him with stories of past birthdays, or with the promise of a cake when he got home from training or the Academy.
She tried to bake him a cake every year and failed jut as often, running to grab a cake from a bakery before he came home.
Thinking of her now as the smell of gardenias surrounded him in the futon in their shared bedroom, Genma couldn’t help but cry.
He let out large sobs, the sounds harsh and grating in the quiet apartment in this long-forgotten corner of the Red Light District.
So, when someone knocked on the door, he didn’t hear it the first time. Or the second.
But he did register the knocking on the third attempt.
He stood, one hand reaching out to hastily rub his eyes, whisking his terribly tied bandana askew, the other reaching blindly for a tissue to blow his nose with.
The knock sounded again, and he nearly tripped as he hastily got up from the futon, kicking the covers aside with his feet as he did so.
“I’m coming!” He yelled out to the person on the other side of the door. He made a quick detour in the kitchen to rid himself of the used tissue, wiping his eyes once again before opening the door.
Dai-san and Gai stood there, the two of them wearing matching green leotards. Dai-san held a box of something, something that looked so achingly familiar to Genma that he couldn’t help but stare at it. Next to him, Gai held a square package wrapped in a bow, situated on top of a large pot.
“Genma-kun!” Dai-san greeted! “I’m so glad we caught you! Since your team has a free day today, Gai and I thought it would be nice to celebrate your birthday together with you.”
Genma stared for a moment longer and then burst into large, ugly sobs once again, the thoughtfulness of Dai-san and Gai’s actions meaning more to him than he ever thought possible. Gai stared at his father in panic only to see Dai smile sadly. The older man transferred the box he was holding to one hand and patted Genma on the head with the other. He let himself into the apartment, Gai following, ushering Genma to a seat at the old, scarred dining table.
There, Dai-san let Genma cry, busying his own son with tea-making, rice-making, and plating duties, while holding Genma close and giving him the reassuring hugs of a parent: hugs that the boy had missed so so much since his mother had passed away.
“Come on now, Genma-kun,” he finally stated pulling the young boy away, “let’s have some food and cake and celebrate, shall we? And then, we can get to your present.”
Genma still hurt, still felt so raw and emotional inside, but he nodded, wiping his tears once more. Gai handed him a napkin shyly, and Genma took it with a muttered thanks, using it to clean his face.
They ate a dinner of warm, belly filling curry, and had a small sponge cake to celebrate afterwards. And then, Genma opened his gift.
It consisted of a series of wooden sticks, a small shelf underneath them all, and a bright white cloth—embroidered with white lilies—folded neatly in a packet.
He looked up at Gai and Dai-san confused.
“It’s a shrine!” Gai explained. “I noticed, and Papa noticed, you don’t have one for your mother. We thought we would get you one! And we can help you build it too if you’d like?”
Genma clutched the gift tighter, unable to believe the words coming out of Gai’s mouth, heart sore, and emotions at a breaking point. He had no idea how to thank these two males.
“Would you like us to help you put it together, Genma-kun?” Dai-san asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Unable to muster words, Genma nodded, holding out the gift to Dai-san.
Together the three of them placed the flat shelf on the floor, screwed in the wooden sticks as walls and a roof, and draped the white cloth on top of it all. Genma ran into the bedroom then, to the picture of his mother he kept by his bedside, decorated in a small wooden frame he had found lying around the apartment. He reverently placed it into the shrine, hands shaking, fingers fumbling.
And then, along with Gai and Dai-san, he bowed and said a prayer.
He liked to think that his mother blessed him that day, watched over him with a smile on her face, glad to see that he had two men in his life who would care for him when she was unable to.
Years and years later when he and Gai moved in together, Genma took that same shrine with him. He didn’t notice Gai staring long and hard at the rudimentary shrine that he was reverently placing in a corner of their living room.
“You still have it.” Gai muttered, eyes wide.
Genma turned, to see his partner, eyes softening at the expression he noticed on Gai’s face.
“I still have it.” He confirmed with a smile. Then, he frowned, moving his mother’s picture frame to the right, creating a small space next to it. “Hey Gai, where’s your dad—Dai-san’s—s picture? We can place it here too if you want. I think the two of them would like that.”
Gai smiled, a few tears misting around his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I think they would like that.”
And so, they placed the two pictures of their parents together side by side in that small shrine they had built with Dai-san all those years ago.
And every morning they would give a short bow, say a prayer, and hope that Dai-san and Genma’s mother were glad to see their two children where they were today.