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On his twenty-fourth birthday, Osoto has two practice tests back-to-back. December exams require a month or more of preparation time. He has a practical at the end of this term as well, asking a competency of him that he cannot pretend he has through rigorous study of medical textbooks and case studies. It’s pure application, a strict adherence to procedure.
If these plans didn’t bury all thoughts of a celebration, he wouldn’t have thought much of it anyway. His peers and his girlfriends award the date an arbitrary significance with a series of texts, calls, and gifts. All of these he accepts with a friendly smile before a feigned expression of apology when he refuses their offers to go out for the occasion. He doesn’t drink alcohol, he’s not prepared for a proper date, and he has too many assignments due anyway.
He’s fired off the last of these rejections to girlfriend number four, the weather forecaster, with a text including a promise of a makeup date in the future. Then he scrolls down the rest of his contacts.
Nothing from mother and father. Of course, there wouldn’t be. The last text in their chat was from himself months ago, announcing the honors he’d received for the last academic term. Another ignored birthday on top of over two decades of apathy shouldn't uptick his stress to the degree it does.
The dissatisfied downturn of his lips lessens as he stops on another name. Thanks to his awful mood, Osoto is quick to follow through on the whim that strikes him.
“I need to let off some steam,” he texts his best-friend-slash-partner-in-crime.
A few seconds later, Tsukahara replies with a dancing, bug-eyed monster emoji.
They stop at their usual cafe after completing the assault. Tsukahara purchases a drink that’s more sugar and cream than coffee while Osoto lays out some sheets on their table, organized neatly by subject and notes neatly penned in the margins of the paper. With her college entrance exams imminent, they found some study guides from previous years for her target universities. Her grades have improved during these offhand tutoring sessions, but it’s no excuse for her to start slacking, he’s said in response to her grousing about how it’s only November.
“Oh, by the way.” Tsukahara sucks loudly on her straw as she digs through the pocket of her hoodie. There’s the thin sound of paper crumpling, likely her receipt for the latte or some other trash she had stowed in there.
Osoto quirks a brow as she holds out a keychain to him. Pinched between her fingers is a bead chain attached to a small dog plush with caramel fur and shiny, helpless black orbs for eyes.
“Why are you shoving this in my face?”
“For you. Happy Birthday, Osoto-san.”
His brows scrunch together, more confused than appreciative.
“How did you know it was my birthday?”
“Your student ID,” she answers. But he’s never had any reason to take it out in front of her. He couldn’t have simply forgotten, could he? He only needs to think about it a little more to get to her actual meaning.
Oh…right.
“The hotel,” Osoto guesses in a soft mutter, and Tsukahara bobs her head in confirmation. The doggy plush sways slightly with the motion, still suspended between them.
“Take it. It’s yours.”
“No, thank you.”
“But I got it for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my friend.”
He smirks in spite of himself. “Friends get each other 100-yen gachapon garbage for their birthdays?”
“It was 300 yen,” she protests. “Friends give gifts that remind them of each other. Haven’t you ever been to a birthday party before?”
On his eleventh birthday, Masaki is home alone.
He sits at the end of an empty dinner table with a one slice of cake set in front of him. He’d dropped by the convenience store on his way home from cram school for a strawberry shortcake and a pack of candles. He only uses one out of the set, its single flame wobbling as it lights up the boy’s face in the dim kitchen. The sky is already dark outside of the window, as the autumn days only grow shorter and shorter. The solitude means there’s not much of a point to turning on the light.
Masaki closes his eyes, bows his head, and thinks of a wish. The only thing he can think to ask:
“Next year, I hope my parents wish me a happy birthday.”
The candle goes out in a trembling puff of breath.
He shakes the memory from his mind with an exasperated sigh.
“Put that away. I shouldn’t be surprised that your taste in gifts, like women, is subpar…”
“Isn’t it the thought that counts? You’re so picky!”
They spend another minute quibbling over the toy before she decides to unceremoniously shove it into his hands. Relenting, he places it in his bag. He knows she’ll just keep pestering him about it if he doesn’t accept it, but she can’t stop him from throwing it out later.
As it turns out, he’s completely forgotten about the thing by the time he empties out his belongings at his desk for another study session later that night. Moonlight from his window washing over the side of his face, he considers the pitiful dog keychain in the palm of his hand with a wry look. Glossy black orbs and a woven pink tongue return his stare.
How does this remind her of me? He can’t tell whether the gift is a mockery or merely another one of the endless idiosyncrasies he’s found in his partner in crime. His thumb runs over the fur, ruffling it, then back over, smoothing it out again.
It's not a special day. This gift doesn't change that.
Maybe he’ll keep it a little longer, though.
It’s evidence that he was in her thoughts. And he cannot say that she doesn’t occupy his, either.