Page 196 of Mercy Written in Blood

"Why do you remember this?"

"I told you. I forget nothing."

Haruki stepped around the table. His left foot caught beneath the edge. What followed happened too quickly for dignity. His balance shifted; he reached for the sofa and missed. His knee struck the table. The coffee cup jumped. The lid separated. A wave of pale brown liquid rose into the air with impossible grace.

Haruki watched it arc across the polished wood, over the stack of books, towards Renji.

Renji moved with supernatural speed. One moment he was seated. The next he stood three feet away, coffee untouched on his clothes. The books were less fortunate.

Haruki landed on one knee beside the table while his drink spread across the surface and dripped steadily onto the rug. Silence followed. Haruki looked at the books. Then at Renji.

"I can explain."

Renji stared at him. Haruki became aware of coffee soaking into his trouser leg.

"The table moved."

Renji's mouth opened. No sound came. His expression changed. Haruki had seen Renji smile — rarely, usually a small movement restrained almost before it began. This was different. The first sound escaped like a breath Renji had failed to control. Then another. Renji looked away, one hand rising to cover his mouth. It did not help. The laugh broke free.

Warm. Unpolished. Completely unlike the man Haruki knew.

Renji laughed with his entire body. His shoulders shook. His eyes closed. The sound filled the apartment, startling in its fullness, too alive for the quiet rooms that had contained only measured music and centuries of careful silence.

Haruki remained kneeling beside the coffee table. For several seconds, he forgot the spill, the books, the ache in his knee. He watched.

Renji tried to speak.

"You—"

The word dissolved into another laugh. Haruki looked down at himself: one slipper had come off, his trouser leg was soaked, one hand remained braced against the sofa while the other held the rescued book above the coffee as though it were the only survivor of a shipwreck.

"This isn't funny," he said.

That made it worse. Renji turned away, placing one hand against the bookshelf, either for support or to hide his face. Haruki had never seen anyone surprised by his own laughter. Renji seemed almost helpless beneath it. Every time he began to regain control, he looked back at Haruki and lost it again.

"You said you were coordinated," Renji managed.

"I am."

"You nearly died retrieving coffee."

"I did not nearly die."

"You looked directly at the table before falling over it."

"I was watching the cup."

"It was on the table."

"That's why I was watching it."

Renji laughed again. Haruki felt his own mouth curve — not because the situation was funny, though it was, but because he understood, without yet knowing how, that movement might end this. Renji's laughter altered his face. Years disappeared from it. Not physical years. Something heavier. The stillness he carried loosened, his guarded mouth softened, the severity around his eyes vanished until Haruki could imagine anotherRenji — young, human, laughing in a house full of people who assumed they had endless time.

Haruki's chest tightened. The thought arrived with the force of grief. How long had it been since anyone heard this? He did not ask. Not then.

Renji finally drew a controlled breath. His hand remained against the shelf. Haruki looked at the coffee dripping from the table.

"Are you finished?"