Aoi Mitsuzaki
The chatter of the restaurant feels warm somehow, with the buttery, pastel yellows of the wallpaper and the classic vinyl seats. Hiro is nearly vibrating with excitement as the waiter seats us in a booth in the corner, next to the window where we can look out at the street and gloat at the people still in line.
Mori bumps her head on the lantern as she slides into the seat next to Hiro. I sit across from them both, eyeing the dwindling crowd outside the diner doors. It was a strategic move on our parts; next to Mori, Hiro looked like he could be her little brother or cousin. Then Mori could order a kid's portion of food without getting strange looks, and Hiro could eat probably more human food than he should have been eating.
I pull the menu towards me, though we'd already ordered. Happiness pancakes. Cloudy day pancakes. Summer sun pancakes. Stacks of souffle pancakes covered in various sauces and toppings flash by as I turn the pages idly. Mori and Hiro begin a round of gaming, but I rest my head on my arms, half shutting my eyes against the glare of the sun.
Sleep blankets me in a thin shroud of dreams, images flashing by from the previous night. A dark room, my screen lit up like an oasis in a desert, my clock spinning forward, each second an hour. I sit immobilised, struggling to get my body to move because I have something to do.
"Aw." Aoi's voice in my ear. "Going so soon?"
"Hey! Isn't that Aoi?"
Hiro's voice breaks into my dream. I gasp awake, my head jerking up so violently I feel my neck knot up in the process. Clapping a hand to the throbbing muscle, I look around wildly inside the restaurant for a moment, convinced that Aoi had been there, until I notice where Hiro's looking.
He gapes outside the window. Aoi stalks by in a black turtleneck and slacks, following after a similarly blonde girl - unmistakably Aoi, in the way he stuffs his hands in his pockets and curls in his shoulders as if he was afraid of being too tall.
Something about the hard lines of his shoulders betrays his tension, and when the girl turns around to say something, I can see the furrowed lines of her brow.
Mori begins to wave, but I quickly shush her and force her hand down.
"What? Why not?" she asks, bewildered.
I lie on the spot. "Looks like they're feeling bothered. We shouldn't disturb them."
Hiro eyes me. My face feels too warm, my head too full. "Actually, I'm gonna run to the toilet."
"Okay," he replies, his expression unreadable as his gaze returns to his phone. "Want us to wait for you?"
"Nah, it's fine." I slide out of the booth, hurrying off without looking back. "You guys start eating without me."
I stand by the sink, splashing my face with water, but a number of people mill about the bathroom and I can't bear to look into the mirror. I pick a stall at random.
The lock clicks behind me, and with it a feeling of security settles in my chest. I fan at the water left on my face. The cooling effect helps settle my racing heart, slowly making me feel like myself again.
Call me a weirdo, but I'd been having some… interesting dreams lately. Strange ones, definitely, of one of the members of the Dogs. If they were of compromising situations, maybe I'd have been more understanding of my teenage body. But they were cryptic - concerning, even, and I never admitted it, but I was a little superstitious.
Taking a few more deep breaths, I flush the toilet and return to my seat. Mori and Hiro are talking rapidly between themselves, smack in the middle of the game. The pancakes appeared some time while I was away, thankfully still steaming lightly.
They look delectable, piled high with fluffy cream, but I keep finding my gaze drawn toward the outside of the diner. Aoi was nowhere to be seen, supposedly queueing outside where I couldn't see.
I dig in first, finding the renewed presence of mind to watch them game and joining in the raucous conversation. It was just a dream. Dreams weren't reality. And if anything, it was just Aoi, Mr Blue, Aoi Mitsuzaki who I had known for two years.
But did I really know anything about him?
Like it or not, I have to admit to myself that we all know the least about Aoi. Hachi answers questions about himself when we ask, and it's not hard to gather that he must have a simple, uninteresting life outside of games.
But Aoi deflects, distracts, and answers vaguely where he can, a habit we're all used to by now. What did his parents do? Did he have any siblings? What did he do all day?
Sure, we'd met in person before, but compared to two years ago, Aoi was probably the one I still had learnt the least about.
"The two of you can sit here," a waiter murmurs close by.
"Thank you," a lady replies. The musical cadences of her voice make me look up.
Aoi hovers by their table, waiting for the blonde girl to take her seat first.
"Aoi," I call, before I realise I'm saying it.
He looks up, an expression of surprise on his face so perfect it must be practised. "Oh! Yoshi!"
"We're here too," Mori exclaims, peeking around the partition between the tables.
"Guys," he greets warmly, clasping Mori's outstretched hands in both of his. "Figures I'd meet you here!"
But the way his gaze flicks impersonally from face to face gives me the impression that he isn't entirely glad to see us. Hiro waves at Aoi, but he's never been good at poker, and I can see that he's observed as much as well.
The girl behind him eyes us so expressionlessly, it's almost cold. I meet her gaze by accident. She blinks, and her eyes slide away derisively. An uncomfortable chill runs down my spine.
As if sensing this, Aoi turns to me, still smiling.
"I missed you, Yoshi," he says, though I can hardly feel any emotion from his words at all.
"We just spoke last night," I reply automatically.
"It's been too long anyway." He wrinkles his nose, reaching for my hands too. I move away out of instinct.
Aoi hesitates, looking almost hurt.
The girl interrupts the awkward silence.
"Aoi. Hurry up."
He tilts his head, and the smile returns. "Well, duty calls. I'll see you guys tonight?"
A murmur of assent rises from us. Aoi offers me another smile, then moves off with the grace of someone sporting a great trench coat.