we can turn the world to gold
By: TG
Summary: Miyuki Kazuya is a travel writer who's lost his edge, Kuramochi Youichi is a (very) patient editor trying to help him recover it, and Sawamura Eijun is the grad student who will help him get it back.
Disclaimer: I don't own daiya.
Warnings: non-explicit sex
AN: this was written for the misawa big bang event over at daiyabigbang on tumblr! so many talented ppl participated with me this year! pls go check them out! and ofc this wouldnt have been possible without my insanely talented artist falsehero or my patient beta aarondotburrsir! pls go check out karins beautiful art on her tumblr!
tbh this fic is better read on ao3 (my username there is trumpetgeek) bc it allows me to insert karins art into the fic, so pls consider going over there to check it out!
day zero - Rome
They meet at the Colosseum.
Kazuya happens to be walking past, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the long line of tourists waiting to get a glimpse of something ancient and famous, when he hears something very familiar -the sound of angry Japanese.
It's not like it's totally strange to hear his native language on the streets of Rome; Italy is big and diverse, and Rome is on every traveler's bucket list. What is strange is where the voice is coming from.
There's a boy standing off to the side, away from the queue for the Colosseum's ticket office. He's framed in the late afternoon sunlight against a backdrop of ancient, crumbling stone, alone and mumbling to himself. He's playing a game of charades with a pair of Roman gladiators -the kind who prowl around outside of famous tourist attractions and swindle the unwary masses out of their money by promising them 'authentic' and 'historical' photos. The boy is mumbling and waving his arms around and it dawns on Kazuya that he's probably the only one around who can understand the filthy things falling out of this kid's mouth.
Kazuya doesn't mind admitting to himself that the boy is cute, maybe even gorgeous. He's a real spitfire judging from the sparks flying from pretty yellow eyes and the heated flush on his cheeks. He looks wild, like a hot, quick-burning forest fire -energetic and dangerous and uncontained. He looks so alive among all the people queued up like cattle, he looks like entertainment -and judging from the phrases flowing from behind clenched teeth he's scandalously creative, too.
He stamps his foot and turns his back, but the gladiator on the left reaches out, whip-quick, and grabs his wrist. The boy throws a golden glare over his shoulder but the other gladiator holds his phone in one hand and holds out his other, palm up and hand flat, making the situation perfectly clear. The boy with eyes like sunshine is caught and he knows it.
After a moment of indecision, Kazuya takes pity.
"Hey," he says to the gladiators in English. "Delete the photo and leave. He clearly doesn't want it."
The gladiator -the one who has his fingers wrapped around the kid's wrist- makes a slashing movement with his free arm. "No. He owes money."
"What? No, I -"
Kazuya curls his fingers loosely around the kid's other wrist and tugs him gently away. He goes willingly, standing instinctively behind his savior even though his body is rigid, muscles tight with tension where he presses into Kazuya's back.
His body is warm, too, like the rest of him.
The gladiators look at each other, weighing their options, but in the end they shrug and toss the phone back at them. The kid makes a noise of distress as the gladiators move away, scoping out their next scam victims from the crowd.
"What the heck -what the heck is your name!?" The kid shouts. He forcibly turns Kazuya around to face him and balls up the front of Kazuya's shirt in his fists.
Kazuya raises a brow. "Miyuki Kazuya, at your service -"
"What the heck, Miyuki Kazuya!? I wanted that picture, why did you tell them to delete it?! Just who do you think you are to dictate what kinds of photos I have on my phone?!"
Kazuya grins and throws an arm around the kid's tensing shoulders to drag him in close, because annoying him garners the most entertaining reactions. "Welcome to Rome!"
Kazuya lies in bed, arms folded behind his head and eyes staring vacantly at the slow-turning fan on the ceiling. Why couldn't Kuramochi have booked him a hotel with air conditioning? His editor knows Rome is stifling in the summer.
He probably did it on purpose, the jerk.
It's a little unfair; he knows his friend and editor is just worried about him. Kazuya's been lost for a while now, and he thought he'd been hiding it pretty well but Kuramochi has always been far too keenly observant for his own good.
"You are a goddam mess," Kuramochi says with a frown.
"Thanks, Yo-i-chi-kuuuun~!
"Seriously man. You haven't written anything in weeks. How do you even still have a job?"
"Probably my good looks and charming personality."
"Doubt it."
Kazuya hums in wordless agreement. He knows his editor is right, that he needs to write something, anything. He's been in this dry spell for a while now and it's frustrating staring at a blank document day after day, and he knows if he doesn't do something to fix it soon he will probably have to go back to the difficult and unpredictable life of freelance travel writing.
Kuramochi sighs and collapses into the chair across the desk from him. He looks tired, and the child inside Kazuya takes glee in the fact that the weariness written on his editor's face is probably his doing. "Y'know, as much as you piss me off it's really weird seeing you look so pathetic and mopey."
"Ouch, Kuramochi-kun, you wound me!"
"I'm about to wound you more."
Kazuya blinks.
"I'm sending you to Europe for a few weeks so you can get your shit together and maybe not get fired."
"...you're joking."
"Hyaha, nope! Go get inspired, shitty four-eyes!"
It's so frustrating.
How do you find something when you don't know what's missing?
Over the next week Kazuya ends up running into the kid two more times -a feat to marvel over, considering the city is already swollen with summer vacationers, filled to the brim with locals and tourists alike. Kazuya finds himself kicking around some of the more popular tourist areas, old haunts he'd told himself he would visit again should he come back to the city with time on his hands.
The first time he sees him it's only a glimpse, a chance sighting through the gaps in the crowd at Trevi Fountain. The kid -he'd never managed to get his name through all the bluster and bark at the Colosseum- is nearly lost among the mesh of bodies gathering in the sweltering Italian heat at the edges of the fountain. He looks determined, patient but in a way that is most definitely artificial -like he would wait all damn day with a smile on his face just to be able to cross this particular thing off his bucket list if he had to, but he wasn't going to like it.
Kazuya chuckles to himself, amused by the shifts in the kid's nature; where there had been fierce brashness and a sense of justice that outweighed amenity, there is now the typical patience and politeness Kazuya has come to expect of his fellow countrymen -something that seems so out of place in the chaos of Rome. The crowd pushes and pulls, less eager to welcome new bodies than it is to dispense them, but the smile doesn't drop from the kid's face, nor does he lose the excited gleam in his eyes.
Pretty soon the kid is at the front of the crowd, practically smushed up against the cool white stone lip of the fountain by the crush of the midday crowd. He maneuvers himself so that he can take some selfies, left arm stretched up high and a bright, toothy smile that makes him look both soft and mischievous somehow. He snaps a few photos and then turns to stare, gaze cast across the peaceful water at the intricate statues.
Kazuya's heart speeds up and he looks away, fighting to control the warm rush of blood in his ears and the trip of his pulse under his suddenly overheated skin.
By the time he calms down enough to glance back the boy is already gone.
The second time they meet Kazuya bumps into him on a tour of the Vatican -literally.
He's walking into the Sistine Chapel, paying attention more to the breath-taking art that surrounds him than to what's immediately in front of him, and he ends up tripping over something that's on the floor. When he looks down he's confronted with golden eyes he's beginning to think he can recognize anywhere, and a face full of tears and snot.
"I -what're you -you -!"
A nearby tour guide shushes him with a fierce glare and a stern frown.
The Sistine Chapel is a place for quiet contemplation, a place of worship not just for the religious but for the zealots of fine art and cultural history. His bewildered stuttering is entirely unwelcome, a heinous crime against the heavy shroud of peace that settles around them.
Under the watchful gaze of the tour guide he crouches down to the kid's level and fishes a pack of tissues out of his pocket. Even sniveling and face tracked with salt he looks stunning.
Oops.
"What are you doing here," he murmurs. "And why are you crying?"
The kid tips his face up and Kazuya follows his gaze, eyes following along the lines and contours of frescoes painstakingly crafted by Botticelli, and Perugino, and of course Michelangelo himself -three walls and a ceiling coated in paint and the ghost of hard work and love's labor, restored to a vibrancy that even Michelangelo would be proud of. The Last Judgment commands the room though, a huge testament to mankind's faith and humanity in bright swaths of color.
Just like the first time he saw it, he's transfixed, held still and reverent at the foot of the second coming. Things like these, they have a way of making a person feel small, a brief flash in the pan of a timeline that feels both short and impossibly vast. It's a strange notion to think that his footsteps might align with someone who walked the earth five hundred years ago, and even stranger still that something painted onto wet plaster so long ago has become a symbol that encapsulates not just an art movement but an entire religion, an entire period in history.
Strangest of all, though, is that, of all the people he could have stumbled upon, it's the kid with the burning eyes.
"Some guy named Goethe said that looking upon the Sistine Chapel makes a man understand what he is truly capable of," the kid says flatly.
Kazuya glances back to find the kid watching him.
He thinks he understands.
"Is that why you're blubbering down there on the floor?" Kazuya asks, standing up from his crouch. He winces as his knees crack -too many years playing baseball and not enough years wearing knee-savers. But then, kids always fancy themselves invincible.
He extends a hand down to haul the kid up to his feet; his palm is warm and calloused from hard work. When Kazuya lets go he has to rub his hand down his jeans to get rid of the tingly feeling.
The kid shrugs and grabs another tissue. "Art history, post-grad."
Kazuya considers him for a moment, and then grins. "Say kid, where are you headed off to after this?"
"Okay, I'm not 'kid,' my name is Sawamura Eijun! And why do you want to know, anyway? Are you some kind of stalker?!"
The tour guide turns her sharp, hawkish gaze on them again and Kazuya feels himself start to sweat. "Oi -"
"I'll fight you!"
"That's it! Out!"
Kazuya steers his new friend toward the basilica while he rants with his fists up, and grins.
"So kid," he says, because he's an asshole, "what do you think of having a travel partner?"
Maybe this banishment-that's-not-a-banishment won't be so bad after all.
To: kuramochiyouichi
From: miyukikazuya
Subject: I hate you
This is probably not what you meant when you shipped me off to Europe to 'find my inspiration' (which is gross, by the way, every travel writer has had their fingers in Europe. I feel dirty Youichi-kun.), but I've found a cute and inexperienced traveler. His name is Sawamura Eijun and I'm planning to let him whisk me away to parts unknown and maybe frisk me a little. I don't know, he's pretty cute.
I think he wants to elope and have my babies so you might have to find a new writer to replace me because I don't think I'm coming back~
Love,
Miyuki Kazuya
day seven - Florence
Or perhaps this will be exactly as bad as Kazuya thought it'd be.
They meet up at Roman Termini. Luckily Sawamura isn't too late; after a few moments of waiting Kazuya had grown a bit antsy, already ready to shrug off this whole half-baked idea. Why had he thought traveling with a stranger -someone whom he knows nothing about beyond his name and his field of study, for goodness sake- sounded like a good plan? He's not exactly a novice traveler, he knows how to take care of himself well enough on the road, but he's never done something quite this bold -an open-ended invitation, a ticket to a travel partnership with no expiration date and no concrete plans and no excuses for escape in case things go sour. For someone who usually has backup plans for backup plans, this kind of thing is -well. But Sawamura shows up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with a grin that's almost infections -almost, because it's still far too early in the day for a normal person to be this chipper.
"Are you real," Kazuya mutters as Sawamura bounces toward him with his rolling suitcase.
"Morning person," Sawamura offers, unrepentant. "Just a heads up though, if we go anywhere on a train I will fall asleep immediately. And I drool."
Kazuya mumbles under his breath. They sidle up to the ticket counter together and lay their money down for tickets to Florence. Kazuya had been genuinely surprised to hear that the art historian had been in Europe for a whole year and hadn't yet managed a visit to a city whose legacy is literally art history.
"I'm really excited to see the Uffizi, like that's what i've been looking forward to the most this whole semester! I've been wanting to see Botticelli's work in person, he's one of my favorite artists! Well, favorite Renaissance artists anyway, there are too many… And the Sistine Chapel doesn't count! But I heard there's an entire room dedicated to him and -"
Kazuya yawns. This is going to be a long ride.
True to his word -and much to Kazuya's amusement- Sawamura conks out before the train even leaves the station.
Kazuya pretends to be busy with his phone, but as they get up to speed he gives up resistance and glances down at his sleeping companion. He's usually pretty fair at reading people, but Sawamura has perplexed him ever since that day in the Sistine Chapel. He'd had him pegged as someone who is too innocent and too trusting, a single-minded spitfire country boy who can't read subtle nuances to save his life, someone who takes things at face value and doesn't bother to dive any deeper than that. But he's also pretty good at admitting when he's wrong, and he was definitely wrong about Sawamura.
Well, not wrong, necessarily. But he knows now -he'd had a feeling, but now he knows- that there is more to Sawamura than he might've guessed.
He thinks back to the look on Sawamura's face when he'd asked him, back in the Vatican, who inspired him to study art history.
"Was it Dali? van Gogh? Michelangelo?"
He'd been teasing him, expecting a mundane answer -something perfectly respectable but overdone, barely scratching the surface of the realm of art- but he'd also been genuinely curious about what makes this kid tick.
Sawamura's answer had been unexpected.
"None of those, Miyuki Kazuya!" he'd declared. "It was Botticelli, actually. He was a goldsmith!"
But then again, he has a feeling Sawamura will continue to surprise him.
(It kind of gives him whiplash, but he thinks he'll learn to like it.)
They stop by a gelateria on the way to Uffizi.
Sawamura's humming to himself and spooning his limoncello into his mouth like it's the nectar of the gods, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with satisfaction. It's one of Italy's traditional flavors, a perfect marriage of sugar and bitterness and alcohol that's endured for generations. It's traditional and it's boring, but Sawamura is sucking at his spoon like he can't get enough of the taste on his tongue, like each spoonful of it is a new experience for him to appreciate.
It reminds Kazuya of the look he'd worn when he'd seen the Duomo, and Ponte Vecchio; it's the same nearly-loving look he'd given Donatello's David and Michelangelo's Bacchus earlier at the Bargello; the same adoring gaze he'd turned on Michelangelo's David. Eyes alight and inquisitive and fingers eager to touch, he'd look at the art like it was something for him to savor the flavor of, like he wanted to break it all down and take the pieces with him.
Maybe Kazuya's jaded. Maybe he's seen too many eager faces on too many tourists -that windswept, swept-off-their-feet sort of daze that's both irritating and uninformed. People will fool themselves into admiring a brick wall if it's sold to them with enough confidence and a few well-placed embellishments. It's a world full of fake Romeo and Juliet balconies in Verona and unimportant statues in unimportant fountains and cheap plastic souvenirs in cheap plastic stands run by scammers with cheap plastic smiles.
Kazuya licks the last of his gelato from his spoon and chucks the cup into a nearby trash can. Sawamura's near-worship is irritating, but there's a strange yet sweet mix of wide-eyed innocence and aged knowledge in the lines of his face that makes it hard for Kazuya to truly hate it. He is bright and brassy and bold and he looks at the aged, weary world around him like it's all inviolable; it's cute on him, actually -grudging though Kazuya is to admit it- and it probably encompasses all of the things Kuramochi had sent him here to rediscover, damn him. Damn them both, actually. It should annoy him in principle, but all he feels is curious, intrigued, and a little charmed.
Kazuya glances over at his companion; Sawamura is busy on his phone, gelato cup dangling precariously from between his pinky and ring fingers, thumb flicking through the images he'd captured, spinning a story of his travels like yarn in a tapestry.
Something catches his eye, blurs of grey and marble white under the smudge of fingerprints.
"Is that -?"
"No!" Sawamura whips his head up. The denial comes fast and hard and Kazuya feels his lips twitch into a sly grin. Sawamura fumbles, nearly dropping everything in his hands. He tries to shove his phone into his pocket but Kazuya is faster and unencumbered by melty gelato and grabs it out of his hands. "Hey -!"
"It is!" Under his thumb are picture upon picture of Michelangelo's David's naked, marble ass. Sawamura wails, hidden face beet red between the gaps of his fingers. "I can't believe what I'm seeing, how many pictures did you -? Ahahaha!"
"Shut up! The guide lady yelled at a five year old child! She scared me! The benches behind the statue were safer! Give me my phone back!"
Sawamura dives for his phone and Kazuya thinks, Limoncello is perfect for you.
Kazuya discovers early on that Sawamura Eijun has a tendency to wander indiscriminately, apparently without fear of becoming lost or ending up somewhere he doesn't belong. Like a dog chasing after a rabbit, once Sawamura picks up on the scent of something interesting it's difficult for him to pay attention to anything else -like traffic, for example, or people.
Sawamura had nearly got away from him the first day in the city already -the moment he'd laid eyes on the Duomo Kazuya knew he would be fighting a losing battle trying to keep him from running off. He'd had to chase him down after he caught sight of Michelangelo's Bacchus in the Bargello, and by the time he'd caught up to him in the Galleria Dell'Accademia he was already staring starry-eyed at David while he twitched his way around the viewing area.
So -yeah. Maybe he should have known Sawamura's patience at the entrance of the Uffizi was too good to be true. Maybe he should have known better than to take his eyes off of him, even if it was just to hand his ticket to the employee. Maybe he should have put the kid on a leash, because one moment Sawamura was next to him, bouncing with excitement, and the next he vanished like a ghost, with only a trail of disapproving looks to show his path.
He sets off at a more sedate pace. He's been here before -both to Florence and to the Uffizi- but displays change, and he's interested now in a way that he wasn't back then.
It's easy to get lost in the art that decorates the halls, but it's just as easy to grow bored of it. Galleries and museums have never been his forte, especially not after he's walked the lengths of so many of them in search of the perfect pitch for his articles. After a while, everything takes on a quality of sameness; the colors and the faces blend together, statues become inseparable beacons of white marble, and Kazuya's fingers hover over the keyboard without a single smudge of black marring the white canvas of his livelihood.
Kuramochi always says he's too skeptical and critical for the business. The thing is, he didn't used to be. He used to look forward to the challenge of finding cheap flights, he used to look forward to the simple hospitality of hostels. He'd placed value on even the most mundane thing, like walking around and getting lost, like his first encounter with a scammer dressed as a stormtrooper at Checkpoint Charlie, like his first bite of food that's not some watered down version of ethnic cuisine from back home. Those mundane moments had lead to beautiful things; moments creating connections with locals he knew he'd never see again, moments where his fingers would find the soft yarn of those stupid scam bracelets tied around his wrists, the moments when the flavor of the food would burst on his tongue… Those are all things he's lost along the way, things Kuramochi expects him to find again.
Maybe with Sawamura he can.
That night, sitting across from each other at the hostel bar, Sawamura discloses to Kazuya that he feels that looking between the frames of paintings is to set eyes on the human condition, to see the things that made them happy, the things that hurt them.
"You know, people spend hours and hours carving fingernails out of marble and setting paint brushes to canvas. The things they create are important to them -they have to be, or the endeavor of creation wouldn't be worth the time and the effort that go into baring the human soul. All of the things they surround themselves with in their everyday lives somehow end up immortalized in the art that hangs in galleries around the world. Isn't that kind of amazing?"
Sawamura glances up at him then, and the look on his face brings Kazuya back to the moment he'd walked into the Botticelli room in the Uffizi. He'd been one among dozens, but Sawamura had caught his eye immediately.
He stood in front of The Birth of Venus, so still and quiet that Kazuya nearly had trouble distinguishing him from the rest of the artwork. People milled around but Sawamura was riveted and reverent, like time bypassed him, like he'd been waiting his whole life to set his eyes on the iconic beauty of Venus and to move or look away would shatter the illusion of the dream.
Like he was slowly and methodically discovering the secrets of the universe in the master's brushstrokes.
Kazuya hadn't realized he'd walked up to him until Sawamura turned to look at him. His mouth curved up into a tiny smile, and sitting here it strikes him now, as Sawamura turns that same smile on him over his drink, that in a room full of gold and timeless treasure he'd thought of Sawamura as a work of art, too.
"Art breathes life," Sawamura says earnestly, "but it works the other way around, too."
To: kuramochiyouichi
From: miyukikazuya
Subject: Shut up
I just watched this kid spend two hours feeding the ducks on the Arno River with stale bread he puppy-eyed off of some bakery store clerk and the entire time he was smiling like it was the best thing he's ever done, like feeding ducks for two hours was the best possible way to spend his time and money. I mean one minute he's spouting things like "art is important because it reflects the condition of man" and the next he's smiling like an idiot at unintelligent animals and giggling every time a duck quacks at him. I don't know whether to feel inspired or exasperated.
On second thought he kind of reminds me of you. Except cuter. And I only want to throttle him half of the time instead of most of the time.
Anyway, I'm not saying you were right, but maybe you were less wrong than I originally thought.
Maybe there is something that I lost somewhere along the way. Maybe it was just buried. Maybe it's still here, and I can just dust it off and put it back where it belongs and with a little cultivating it'll start to grow roots again.
You're a nerd,
Miyuki
P. S. - Show this to anyone and I will tell them about the time I walked in on you crying over shoujo manga. Don't think I won't, I have video evidence.
day fourteen - Venice
"Wow," Sawamura says. "We are really lost."
Anyone else making that observation would probably sound upset or frustrated, but the thing is, Sawamura doesn't. He doesn't sound ruffled or defeated or even vaguely disheartened. It's like he's not at all bothered by the fact that they've been dragging their rolling suitcases behind them on uneven cobble for the last three hours, or the fact that they overshot lunch and it's now creeping into dinner territory and they haven't eaten in hours.
Instead he just seems -surprised, mostly, but not in a bad way. Like he didn't expect to find this many combinations in which to get lost in a small island and he's a little impressed with himself. Like he really, honestly doesn't mind the kilometers of extra walking or the way their suitcases feel ten times heavier than when they started out, or the irritated looks the locals throw at them whenever Sawamura stops in the middle of the street to consult his map.
It's actually kind of cute.
But even if Sawamura looks like he can go for another thousand kilometers, Kazuya's steps are becoming heavier. He's starting to long for a warm shower and warm food, something to take away the the hunger gnawing away at his stomach and the metallic, stale scent that comes with train travel.
Besides, there's an art to being lost in Venice.
It's in the little things, like trying to pick your way down seventy different narrow alleyways that all look the same because there's no straight path from one point to another. It's about the winding fingers of canals and the hundreds of bridges where no two are alike, and discovering family-owned hand-made pasta shops, and the feeling of satisfaction that comes from seeing the way the water laps at the bottoms of buildings that look like their rising from the Adriatic itself. It's finding a tiny restaurant nestled away from the main attractions and being the only people there. It's about listening to the sounds of the bells ring through the city and knowing no matter where you are, you can always hear the music that Venice is known for.
But it's an art that would be much easier without having to lug their lives around behind them.
"Maybe you should let me look at the map now, so we can make it to the hotel before we have to fly out, hm?"
The look Sawamura throws over his shoulder is one of cat-eyed disappointment, like he would never have thought Kazuya would have such little faith in him.
"Miyuki Kazuya! It's not about the destination! It's about the journey!"
(It's too bad he has to see that bright look of wonder and discovery dim, though.)
They get to their hotel in record time after Kazuya takes control of the map. It's a beautiful place, nestled between two taller buildings and butted up against a canal at the back. It's open all the way through from one end to the other, and a gentle breeze ruffles the leafy plants that make their homes in the foyer. The water from the canal adds its music to scene as it gently laps at the stairs that descend out the back and into nowhere, and a every so often a gondolier lends his voice in support as he passes.
He lets Sawamura go in first and is rewarded with sunny eyes and a smile that makes his heart beat heavy beneath his ribs.
"I wanna go on a gondola ride but they're kind of expensive."
"Yep."
"Like, really expensive."
"They are."
Sawamura gives him a look.
"But I really wanna," he says with intent. "Really."
"I'm sure you do."
The look doesn't subside. Kazuya wants to squirm.
"No," he says. "No way." But even as the word leaves his mouth he can feel his resolve melting away under the intensity of that golden stare and the cute pout.
(They go on a gondola ride. Kazuya pays.
"I'm doing this under duress," he tells the gondolier.
Sawamura smiles so hard that it doesn't really matter.)
Kazuya's discovered over the last couple days that Sawamura sleeps like he does everything else -that is, energetically.
Tonight they go to bed with the windows thrown open to welcome the cool breeze coming off of the Adriatic Sea, so at first Kazuya doesn't notice it much. The gondoliers and tourists are still making noise down below -a small city in motion, trying to hold off the edges of sleep that encroach in the peripheries.
It starts out small -little movements that don't seem too out of place for someone who is in the throes of sleep. He stretches out and then curls up, turns to his left side and then on his back, pulls the covers up tight to his shoulders and then drags them down. Then he starts to sigh, frustrated and tired but trying so hard not to wake up his partner whom he thinks is sleeping soundly just a few feet away. It's the same restless rustling that's been the soundtrack of every other night he's spent with Sawamura so far, something to which he's grown accustomed.
Sawamura sleep-talks; he once told Kazuya a story about how his grandfather had been forcibly removed from a shogi tournament for being too noisy; he's caught Sawamura yelling "ONE OUT" at imaginary outfielders, with his finger in the air above his pillow. Sawamura sleepwalks; one night he even caught Sawamura trying to pack his bag, and when he woke up the next morning he had no recollection of picking up the hotel chair and placing it gently in his open suitcase.
But tonight Sawamura isn't asleep at all, he's just restless, but Kazuya has a cure for that.
"Alright," Kazuya says with a yawn. "What's up with you? You can't sleep?"
Sawamura flinches in the dark, obviously surprised that Kazuya's awake. "Sorry," he mumbles, "didn't know you were still awake."
"Hard to sleep with you moving around so much over there." He doesn't mean to sound angry, but Sawamura's head drops like he's being admonished. Kazuya mulls over his options -at this point trying to sleep when Sawamura is so obviously unable to would be pointless, but -he glances over at the clock; it reads 23:27- at this point in the evening the shops and restaurants will be closed.
Down beneath their open window a group of tourists passes by, their laughter filling up the narrow spaces around them, echoing off of the stone, and it gives Kazuya an idea.
"Get dressed."
"Wha -?"
"C'mon," he says, swinging his feet down to the carpet.
In a rare show of wordless obedience on Sawamura's part, they get dressed in silence and leave the hotel in silence, slipping through the front door and into the light of the half moon. Sawamura drags his feet but it's not far to walk, and when they round the corner and find themselves in Piazza San Marco just before midnight Sawamura's entire mood shifts -from uncertainty and guilt blooms soft surprise and gratitude, and he blinks owlishly up at Kazuya.
He'd confided earlier that San Marco was what he really wanted to see while he was in the city, because he'd heard that the bells of the Campanile are all hand-wrung, and that when they ring out over the city they join with hundreds of others, adding an eerie quality to a city that's already sort of ethereal.
Kazuya glances at his watch -it's 23:59.
The Piazza is empty except for the two of them. Sawamura stands close enough that if he wants to reach out and touch his hand it would take hardly any movement at all.
00:00.
The Marangona starts to ring, and all of the cracks in the ancient stones and empty alleyways and rooms with open windows fill up with its ghostly, beautiful sound.
(Only once they're back in their beds and Sawamura is kitten-snoring across the room does Kazuya realize it's not obedience that moves Sawamura's feet when Kazuya commands, but trust.)
To: kuramochiyouichi
From: miyukikazuya
Subject: =0
Attachment: 4
I forgot how beautiful the bells of the Campanile are, Kuramochi, and how essential it is to let yourself get lost and take your time finding your way again.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls,
Miyuki Kazuya
P.S. It tolls for thee.
P.P.S. We took a video for you so you can hear the noon bells, but MOSTLY it's so you can see what I am forced to deal with every single day =( seriously this kid is such a dork =(=(=(
day seventeen - Athens and Aegina
Seeing as his travel partner is a bit less endowed financially -or perhaps it's more appropriate to say that Kazuya is on company dime and isn't terribly worried about expenses because it's Kuramochi who will have to deal with the budget issues- Kazuya has had to lower his standards of travel, right down to the bottom rung.
They catch a plane at Marco Polo International -one of the budget airlines, where the seats don't recline and there are no folding trays and passengers are crammed in like sardines. They're barely on time, because Sawamura left his jacket in the water taxi and had to rush after it, arms waving like a madman to flag down the operator before he left back across the Venetian Lagoon. But 'on time' is a relative term in southern Europe, so they make it and are well on their way by the time Kazuya realizes Sawamura had left out the part about himself where planes keep him awake. Perhaps it's the inescapable small space that signals within him the need to be even more twitchy and energetic. Maybe he just hates flying.
Kazuya ruminates on it while passengers send angry glares back at them. Sawamura remains oblivious.
It's a long flight.
(It's only two hours.)
The passengers and crew clap when they land.
This makes Kazuya feel incredibly grateful to be stepping foot on solid land again.
Of course, Sawamura claps with them.
Greece is kind of a mess, and getting to Aegina is a series of unfortunate happenstances that leads Kazuya to wonder why he agreed to travel there in the first place when he knows better.
It starts off with Athens International. Unlike most international airports, Athens International is a single-celled organism, with only one terminal and no arteries directly connecting it to its parent city. They have to step outside once they collect their bags to find the metro station, and from there it should have been a fairly simple journey -take the train to Syntagma, switch out, take the train to Piraeus, get on a ferry, and arrive in Agina Marina in time for an early supper. However, as per the status quo of Kazuya's life, it doesn't quite follow the recipe.
They get on the wrong train, miss their fix-it stop, get off at the wrong interchange station. It's a travel nightmare the likes of which Kazuya hasn't experienced since he first began to travel for a living, but for Sawamura it's just another Tuesday abroad. But, Kazuya supposes, Sawamura makes travel disasters fun.
They get into a heated discussion about the state of Japanese baseball at the station while they wait for the right train to come. He learns that Sawamura had been a pitcher -a good one. He learns that if Sawamura hadn't injured himself in his second year of high school he might have been playing pro by now, instead of living his second choice. He learns that Sawamura is happy anyway, that Sawamura loves what he does anyway.
Kazuya learns that Sawamura lives in Tokyo but calls Nagano his home. He learns that there is a Sawamura family farm and that they grow sunflowers in addition to animal husbandry and dairy farming. He learns that Sawamura misses the farm and the quiet and the clean clear air at night.
He learns that Sawamura smiles effortlessly, laughs wholeheartedly, and trusts implicitly, and he does all three with Kazuya.
When they finally get into Piraeus Kazuya buys both of their ferry tickets and a cup of subpar coffee at a tiny little cafe with a view of the sea, just to see Sawamura's eyes light up like the light glistening from the surface of the water.
Sawamura discovers a few minutes out from the marina in Piraeus that he gets seasick, so most of the hour-long trip to Aegina Town is spent feeding him motion sickness medication and alternating between watching him sit stiffly in one of the benches in the interior, or pace back and forth like a caged puppy. About halfway through Kazuya tells him he's going to the toilet but instead he goes out onto the deck to get some photos of the pristine water and far-off dots of land, because he knows Sawamura by now, well enough to know Sawamura will regret not having photographic evidence of his maiden ferry voyage.
After a while Sawamura ventures out on his own, looking decidedly less green, and snaps a few photos of his own. Kazuya discreetly deletes the ones on his phone.
The port town of Aegina Town is a hive of activity. The beaches are filled with people playing sand volleyball and tented restaurants teem with life. The sun is warm and the water is blue and the boats all bob in the gentle waves of the Saronic Gulf. It looks postcard-perfect.
Cross the street into town, though, and Aegina Town might as well be a ghost town.
"Glad we're staying in Agia Marina," Sawamura mutters as they wander through a few empty side streets.
"There's not really anything there either," Kazuya points out. "This is a sleepy island, you know. Not exactly a tourist hub."
And it's really, really not. All of the restaurants and shops they come across are closed for the night, even though the sun is still above the horizon. They find one bus stop not far from the port, but it appears to be in disuse. The timetables are all torn and yellowed with age, and when Sawamura scratches the salt off of one with his nail it reads 'July 1998.'
This is what they get for making the rookie mistake of expecting reliable public transportation on a lesser-traveled Greek island. In fact, this has to be some sort of karmic retribution for all of the assholery Kazuya has dealt in his life. Kuramochi is probably smiling in his dreams right now, sleeping sweet on his comfortable bed and not stranded in some foreign town where everything closes down as soon as the edge of the sun touches the horizon.
"Well fuck," Sawamura says flatly. "I take it back, we should have stayed here."
Kazuya can't help it -he throws his head back and laughs.
"C'mon Sawamura, might as well get something to eat while we figure out what we're going to do. My treat."
"Throw in a drink and I'm in."
"Your wish is my command," Kazuya says, throwing in a sweeping arm gesture for effect. Sawamura snorts but allows Kazuya to lead him back toward the beach once he realizes that waiting is a futile effort.
They argue about the best beach food and what to get to drink and end up settling on gyros and vodka lemonades (Kazuya wins), and then they argue about who should go get the food while the other person luxuriates in the sun and warm sand (Kazuya loses). He can't complain though, because when he returns to the spot that Sawamura picked out it's to the most breathtaking view -the sun, dipped in the oranges and pinks of early evening, sinking slowly behind a vast backdrop of the clearest blue water Kazuya's ever seen.
(The best view, though, is seeing it all reflected in Sawamura's eyes.)
"Good news or bad news first?" Kazuya asks as he sits. Sawamura's taken his shoes off to dip his toes into the Saronic Gulf. It's probably not as warm as it seems like it should be, given that it's barely summer, but the water looks so inviting that Kazuya joins him anyway.
Sawamura makes a questioning sound around a massive bite of gyro.
"Okay, I'm gonna assume that was bad news first. The bartender back there," he says, jerking his thumb back toward the tent he'd just come out of, "says there's no bus and there's, like, one cab on this entire island and it kind of operates whenever it wants to, which I think is polite-speak for 'don't get your hopes up'."
Sawamura's shoulders slump and he moans softly, likely mourning the loss of their nonrefundable hotel deposit.
"The good news is I must've looked pathetic enough that he agreed to take us after he closes tonight."
"Thank god," Sawamura says. "Thought I might have to camp out here with you all night long."
"I don't think that'd be so bad," Kazuya says. He looks down at his vodka lemonade to find it nearly gone already and frowns. "It'd be kinda nice, lying under the unspoiled stars and listening to the sound of the waves. All that salt in the air might make you thirsty though."
When he looks back up Sawamura is in his space, a small lopsided smile on his face in place of his usual sunny grin.
"That was kind of pretty, senpai. You should be a writer."
"I am a writer, idiot," Kazuya points out, "I'm a travel writer -"
He cuts himself off, a bit distracted by his companion's sudden closeness -when had he moved?- and the little bit of tzatziki on the corner of his mouth. Sawamura smells like the salt breeze and an underlying hint of sandalwood and something Kazuya can't quite name, but whatever it is it smells ridiculously good, and it's distracting, and -
Maybe he's a little drunk. This isn't the first time he's been so close but it is the first time he's been so keenly aware of his companion's scent and the negative space between them, which Sawamura closes steadily until all Kazuya is aware of is the heat rolling off of his body and the brief, gentle softness of his lips pressing at the corner of Kazuya's mouth.
Maybe Sawamura's a little drunk, too.
A few hours after sundown the bartender finds them leaning sleepily against each other with their toes in the surf. He packs them into his tiny car and the three of them take off into the green hills of the interior of the island.
The half hour ride is spent listening to Sawamura and the driver talk excitedly about pistachios in broken English and trying not to touch the places that still tingle with Sawamura's touch.
The next day they trek up the hill -
("Mountain," Sawamura wheezes. "This is a mountain.")
-to see the temple of Aphaia, and because they spend too much time goofing off on the hilltop and staring at the near-panoramic view of the island and meandering through dingy local souvenir shops, they miss getting back to Athens in time to visit the Acropolis.
The look of disappointment on Sawamura's face when he reads that they missed the closing time by less than half an hour damn near breaks Kazuya's heart. He spends a few moments tugging half-heartedly at the iron gate that keeps them out, and then he sits dejectedly at the foot of it to sulk.
Kazuya gets it, he does. It's hard to come all the way here and not be able to see something that touts itself as being the main tourist attraction, something with lots of history and architectural value. He's been there, he's done that, he knows that disappointment.
He doesn't want Sawamura to know that disappointment, not if he can help it.
Once he ascertains that Sawamura is planted for the duration of his sulk, he strikes off on his own, moving parallel with the iron fence that surrounds the archaeological site's grounds. One thing he's come to learn about Greece's infrastructure is that it's not the most sound. In most places you can't even flush the toilet paper. Luckily it doesn't take long before he finds what he's looking for -an opening in the fence.
"Hey, c'mon, I can get us in," he says. He bullies a weary Sawamura into movement, ushers him in between the opening of the fence.
"Are we allowed to do this?" Sawamura asks, suspicious as he steps through the uncut brush.
"No we are not."
"Okay, but if we get arrested I'm blaming you."
"Sure sure," Kazuya says, flapping a hand in Sawamura's face.
(They don't get arrested.)
They walk up the middle of a wide path that had once been one of the main arteries of ancient Greece, surrounded by the remnants of a culture preserved in crumbling statues and pottery pieces. It lends a surreal feel to the whole experience, the fact that they are the only two there. Kazuya can almost imagine what it must have been like to discover this place, nestled here at the bottom of the cliff that houses the Acropolis, and it's been a long while since he's felt that kind of nearly overwhelming sense of awe.
The first proper building they come across is the remains of the Odeum of Herodes Atticus, and from the ground there they can see the tip of the Parthenon. Fences block access to the theatre itself but the great stone facade that looms above is free to roam, and Sawamura takes advantage. He presses his body in between the facade arches, right up against the fence, and stares out at the rows of stone seats. Kazuya can almost see the wheels of his mind turning, imagining the ancient performances that must have entertained the Athenian masses. It's one of the youngest buildings at the Acropolis but it still radiates history.
They take a walk through the sloping grounds. Sawamura either doesn't notice he's being steered or he doesn't mind it, but as the sun sets they find themselves at the top of Pynx Hill. It's not the highest spot in Athens but it does offer some beautiful views of the city, and most importantly a stunning view of the Acropolis, lit orange and pink by the pending twilight. Sawamura takes it all in with hungry eyes.
"I know how badly you wanted to see the Acropolis. I thought this would be the second-best view," Kazuya says. He feels suddenly nervous, like he's a teenager again going on a first date. He wants Sawamura to be happy, and he's surprised by how badly he wants it to be his doing.
Sawamura doesn't respond except to wrap both arms around Kazuya's waist and lean into him, body warm against the spreading chill in the air.
(He doesn't say anything when he feels the first touch of wetness seep into the collar of his shirt. Sawamura cries when he's sad and when he's angry but he also cries when he's happy, too, and that's okay.)
To: kuramochiyouichi
From: miyukikazuya
Subject: Re: ur gay lol
omg you're right i am SO gay
help =(
Regards,
Miyuki
day twenty-five - Istanbul
In keeping with the run of bad luck that's followed them through their entire experience of the country thus far, their exit from Greece is mired in wrong turns, delays, and close calls with airport security.
It's barely escaping coffee stains courtesy of harried passengers in the cramped terminal, and momentary panic when Sawamura thinks he's forgotten his iPod on the train (he didn't; after a vigorous pat down he finds it in his pocket, right where it usually lives; Kazuya barely resists the urge to put his hands around Sawamura's throat and shake him). It's long lines at the baggage check and long lines at the toilet and long lines at boarding.
It's Sawamura once more demonstrating his singularly unique ability to impersonate a five year old by fidgeting in one of the most tightly packed flights Kazuya's ever had the displeasure of experiencing, and of course instead of directing their ire toward the cause of the disruption their fellow passengers decide as one angry unite that Kazuya is somehow responsible, like he's one of those parents who irresponsibly sugars up their child and then brings them out in public and lets them wreak havoc with a vacant smile.
Of course.
He wonders -and not for the first time- how many flight crews around the world have heaved sighs of relief the moment he and Sawamura deplane, or if, perhaps someday, their experiences will be memorialized in some training handbook or video on how to deal with unruly passengers.
He takes a moment to send a prayer of deepest thanks up to the heavens for all of the people who have had to deal with how much Sawamura is, and two prayers for Sawamura's mother because she probably deserves them.
She must have put up with so much over the years. She must be a saint.
But now that they're deplaned Sawamura is quiet and small, eyelids drooping from exhaustion. He's nothing but dead weight shucked up against Kazuya's side, and Kazuya is half-tempted to shove him away and tell him to walk himself because he is not a five year old, contrary to earlier behavior, but Sawamura genuinely looks dead on his feet, and despite his less than kind thoughts he finds himself tucking Sawamura closer against his body instead.
"Mph," Sawamura mumbles. "Tired."
"Really? Couldn't tell," Kazuya says, grinning when Sawamura half-heartedly smacks at him. "C'mon kid, we're almost done."
Kazuya steers his lead-limbed partner toward the visa counter, where he staunchly ignores the look the man pressing visas into their passports gives them, and then over to baggage claim. It's a bit difficult, juggling a whiny Sawamura and two rolling suitcases, and he's sure he's getting several suspicious looks from other late-night travelers, but it is late and he's too tired to care. Besides, it's not like he hates the feeling of Sawamura so close.
It's a realization he'd stumbled upon in that moment when, despite the sun sinking behind the earth and bathing them in chilly twilight, Kazuya had still found warmth in the lines of Sawamura's body -the consequences of which he's still trying to figure out.
They perform a synchronized shuffle toward the cab stand queue to wait their turn in the pressing darkness, and when their cab pulls up Sawamura all but flops into it. His sprawl takes up most of the back seat and Kazuya expects him to move aside when he slides in but instead Sawamura just adjusts to his presence, tucks himself into the negative space between his side and his arm, and settles.
Just like that.
"For the eighth time, Sawamura, let's just ask someone," Kazuya says, exasperated. They've been walking for nearly an hour, trying to find the nearest port that services Bosphorus cruises because Sawamura insisted despite his apparent tendency toward seasickness, and they definitely should have been there by now. Their hostel is not that far from the water. "We are totally lost."
"There is no lost, Miyuki Kazuya. Only unplanned adventure!"
"Okay well we are unplanned adventuring into some pretty weird places," Kazuya replies, gesturing to a massive walled off building several meters in front of them, complete with spiky iron gates and… Yeah, those are definitely some very unfriendly-looking armed guards at the entrance.
They both stop to gawk.
"Y'know, when I first met you, you were arguing with a pair of poorly dresses gladiators and I remember thinking 'this kid is going to be the victim of his own stupidity -"
"Hey -"
"-but I never thought you'd take me down with you. I should have known -"
"Okay enough, this isn't pick on Eijun hour!"
"Are you sure about that? I mean, are you sure -"
"I will fight you."
"With them as witnesses?" He points toward the closest guard and raises a brow.
"I'll fight them too!"
"Alright, calm down slugger," Kazuya laughs. Sawamura puts up both of his fists but Kazuya can tell he's fighting back his own laughter. He slings an arm around the idiot's neck and drags him in close. "Well, might as well go in, since we're apparently adventuring."
They join the crowd that pushes slowly through the gate, and on the other side they discover ornate buildings, an ancient church, and perfectly manicured gardens. There are more guards touting guns, milling in between rows of brightly-colored tulips, and in the background the Bosphorus sparkles blue in the sunlight.
Istanbul has a long history of being conquered and tamed and built over, and most of it has been turned over into the hands of people who want to preserve the complicated story of the city. This place was probably a palace at some point, or maybe still is.
Sawamura leaves his side to pet one of the stray cats napping in the grass. He pulls up tiny handfuls of grass blades and tosses them at the cat, and Kazuya is left to wonder if there's any poignancy there.
Sawamura used to play baseball, used to be one of the best pitchers in Tokyo.
Is a palace still a palace if its purpose is stripped away?
(The answer is yes.)
When they get back to their hostel and trudge up the stairs to their room, Kazuya takes Sawamura's hand again and tugs him in for a goodnight kiss.
It's impulsive and still new and the rush of warmth Kazuya feels when he realizes he can taste the Turkish delight on Sawamura's mouth makes him feel pleasantly weak-kneed and dizzy. He slides his nose down along Sawamura's and kisses him again, at the corner of his growing grin. He can't help it.
"Go take your shower," he murmurs against Sawamura's lips.
Their hands fold up together between their bodies, fingers tangling for just a moment before Kazuya steps back. Sawamura grabs his towel and shower shoes and leaves Kazuya with a tiny, almost shy smile. Kazuya stares at the closed door for several minutes after Sawamura leaves, until he can hear the water gush in its pipes through the thin, thin walls.
"Holy crap," Sawamura moans. "This is the best food I have ever tasted in my short, pathetic life."
Kazuya snorts into his water glass, thankful in passing that he hadn't been drinking when Sawamura opened his mouth for that one. Honestly.
Kazuya has to agree though -the lamb kebabs in Istanbul are rivaled by none other. They're fragrant and savory and just tender enough to melt in your mouth but not slop off the end of the kebab, and the veggies are crisp and flavorful. Perfection in the kitchen is definitely something Kazuya can appreciate.
"Seriously, this is so good."
"Shut up and eat," Kazuya says fondly. "And if you're a good boy I can make you some lamb kebabs when we get home. Recipe should be simple enough to find."
The image of them cooking together in Kazuya's roomy kitchen back in Tokyo is easy on the mind's eye. Him, standing at the grill, spices and yogurt and fresh-cut veggies at his fingertips and Sawamura behind him, mouth going a kilometer a minute. But it's comfortable, like sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the kind of warm silence shared between friends and the ambient noise of another person moving around you.
Across the table Sawamura hums in affirmation. Under it their knees touch, warm through their jeans, a solid contact.
Kazuya doesn't realize until they're in their beds -not until the soft sound of Sawamura's breathing fills the room, and thoughts of that tiny, genuine lopsided smile fill Kazuya's mind from one edge to the other-
There are a myriad more tiny adjustments he's made to make room for Sawamura's existence in his life, all of which seem to have happened while he wasn't looking, and that's perhaps what startles him the most.
He'd told Sawamura he'd cook for him when they got home. He forgot they wouldn't be going home together.
Sawamura's laugh is clear and bright, a pretty contrast to the dim lanterns and hazy smoke curling in the air around them. He's relaxed and pliant, settled deep into the restaurant's cushions, hookah pipe dangling lazily from long, slender fingers.
It's late, probably way past closing time, but the employees don't chase them out. Instead they settle in the cushions around them, a whole pitcher of the apple tea Sawamura loves so much sweating on the table next to soft warmth of the hookah vase. It's not often they get Japanese visitors in Sulthanamet, not often they have someone as dynamic as Sawamura sitting at their tables.
One of them brings a guitar out with him and begins to pluck. Pretty, aimless notes turn into chords, and a bittersweet melody emerges from the man's wandering fingers. It's slow and kind of sad and he sees Sawamura's eyes fill with emotion as a few of the employees begin to sing. Kazuya knows Sawamura doesn't understand a lick of Turkish -he doesn't either, for that matter- but the song crescendoes and music is a universal language, a thing that bridges cultures, a living breathing entity that joins hearts and resonates with the very composition of people.
It's bittersweet and sad, and Sawamura looks so soft and beautiful and focused, and before he can stop himself he reaches out, under the corner of the table, until his fingers meet the warmth of Sawamura's hand.
This is something I've always wanted to do, he'd confided earlier. I want to drink apple tea and eat turkish delight and smoke hookah til I burst.
I know a place, Kazuya had told him, mouth curved up in a jaunty grin. Don't worry Sa-wa-mu-ra, I'll take care of you.
The men finish their song on a minor chord. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but it's off-set by the sweet smell of hookah smoke and the powdered sugar that lingers on Sawamura's bottom lip from the turkish delights. His fingers twitch in Sawamura's hand, restless with the sudden urge to touch more of him, to tuck the tuft of hair behind his ear so he can see Sawamura's pretty eyes better, to press his mouth to the sugar crumbs and find out what he tastes like.
He watches the way the lanterns cast their light across the curves and angles of Sawamura's face and realizes maybe he'd meant it. I'll take care of you. Maybe he'd meant it, and god all this beauty around them -all the ancient, dusty cathedrals and the poignant, smooth faces of marble statues, and cityscapes that provoke in people the most incredible sense of smallness in a world so full of history- with all of that beauty at their fingertips, he'd been staring at Sawamura all along.
Sawamura turns to look at him, mouth curved in a lopsided smile that Kazuya has learned is reserved for moments like this, and says, "Senpai, let's go to Hagia Sophia tomorrow."
Golds and pinks and dusty greys flit through his mind, a memory of massive stone pillars and minarets from his last visit years ago. He wonders what it would be like to hold Sawamura's hand there too, how it would feel to have their fingers laced between them. He wants to show Sawamura the mosaics, see how the gold in them compares to the gold in Sawamura's eyes. Most of all he wants to see how Sawamura's strength and beauty stack up against a building so timeless and beautiful that it would be better labeled a work of art rather than a structure.
Hagia Sophia is nearly 1500 years old -it has been privy to the rise of empires and it has seen the ruins left in the wake of their falls. In a place like that you wear the history around you like a cloak -it's in the air, on the walls, and he wants to be the one next to Sawamura while he discovers the film it leaves on his skin.
He squeezes the hand curled up under his and meets Sawamura's warm gaze. "Your wish is my command," he says. Sawamura's smile softens into something pretty and delicate, and he squeezes back.
I'll take care of you.
They are in a cramped but cozy restaurant in Istanbul when Kazuya realizes he has fallen in love with the boy sprawled out on the cushions next to him.
"Hey, where do you want to go next?" Kazuya asks.
They're standing on the balcony just above the bar, just the two of them, and there's light and noise all around them. They're sharing this moment with a hundred other people, but Sawamura's gentle smile is his.
"With you? Anywhere."
Kazuya's heart beats, beats, beats.
To: kuramochiyouichi
From: miyukikazuya
Subject:
Yesterday Sawamura cried because a stray dog approached him after he waved meat at it. It ate the meat from his hand, and the kid just petted it and repeated 'good dog' and cried.
He cried, Kuramochi.
Best,
Miyuki
day thirty-two - Paris
"Alright, what do you wanna do today?"
"Disneyland Paris!"
"No."
"WHY."
"Whoa! This is possibly the most beautiful window I've ever seen!"
"Knew you'd like it."
Sawamura unglues his eyes from Notre Dame's north rose window to give him a look. "If by that you mean 'Oh Sawamura, I knew you would like this because you are frequently in awe of the incredible ability of people to create amazing, complex, and massive works of art that endure for centuries and which reflect all of the beautiful, positive things about the human condition amid all of the turmoil and violence in this world,' then yep."
"Yeah, that. And the organ is pretty neat, too."
Sawamura's surprised laugh echoes in the quiet of the sanctuary. "Neat."
Kazuya's heart soars at the quiet, fierce happiness written into the creases at the corners of his partner's eyes.
They get accosted as soon as they get off the funicular at Sacre Coeur. Sawamura gives him this hilarious long-suffering look as the woman deftly wraps a bracelet made of thread around his wrist and braids it off, and then holds out her hand for payment.
When they leave Kazuya glances down at Sawamura's new decoration. It's white and gold and dark blue, and it looks pretty on Sawamura's tan wrist. He slips his hand into his partner's and leans in to whisper, "I kinda like it."
The night is beautiful. They have dinner at a restaurant on the corner of a cobblestone street, Eiffel Tower and the bright round moon perfectly in view, surrounded by the pretty ebb and flow of of a language neither understand but which sounds a little like flowers blooming in the spring. It's somewhere between the first and second bottle of red wine that Kazuya realizes he can hardly keep his eyes off of his partner -and when he realizes that each time he looks, Sawamura has been looking back.
The thing is, he's been playing at indifference and cynicism his whole goddamn life. His feet have only ever been firmly planted on the ground, but Sawamura makes him feel like he's flying and freefalling at the same time, like he's letting go and holding on, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating. He's been silent in the trees this whole time, standing cowardly by, ready to pass it all up because reality is just around the corner, but watching Sawamura sitting across from him and the way the tiny flame from the candle flickers and reflects in the gold embers of Sawamura's beautiful -god, gorgeous- eyes, he tucks it all away.
He reaches out across the table, past his mostly-eaten plate of coq au vin and their second bottle. Sawamura meets him halfway, fingertips gentle on the back of his hand as covers Kazuya's hand with his own.
He's tired of being grounded, he wants to fly.
Sawamura's back hits the hotel room door hard enough to rattle it, right down to the screws and hinges. He doesn't seem to mind too much though, barely seems to register the door handle pressing into his lower back -he's too busy with his hands up Kazuya's shirt and his mouth doing wicked things to Kazuya's collarbone through the open, sagging neck of his button-down. Kazuya's hands take the brunt of the impact anyway, cupped against the back of Sawamura's head with his fingers tangled up in his soft, soft hair and sliding up to map out the solid muscles of his back. He doesn't mind the pain in his knuckles though, it's just another spark of light in a world made blinding by the press and shift of Sawamura's body against his.
It gives him the perfect leverage to yank Sawamura's head back to suck pretty purple marks into the column of his pretty throat. Sawamura muffles a curse wrapped up in a moan, and his fingers twitch and drag down Kazuya's skin and he hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to hear these sounds in this voice, or how much he'd wanted to be the one who coaxes them out.
They fumble through the doorway, a little drunk on the wine from dinner but mostly drunk on each other. They'd been fumbling through a lot of things lately -extended eye contact and warm hands and the press of knees under tables, and kisses that linger a little longer each time they're given. Kazuya knows the wine has lifted his inhibitions -and Sawamura's too, not that the the kid had many to begin with- but he can tell that the heat underneath his skin is less because of the alcohol and more because of the way Sawamura's nails scratch down his back when Kazuya rubs a knee between his legs, or the way he breathes hot and wet and heavy into the crook of Kazuya's neck and then leaves imprints of his teeth there for Kazuya to find in the morning.
He presses his hands against Sawamura's chest and watches him fall onto the bed, and burns burns burns under the weight of Sawamura's hungry gaze. His partner watches his hand shake as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it away, and then unbuttons his jeans and steps out of them. He feels like he's on fire, like he's pinned down and dying and trying to breathe through the heat and the smoke, and he shakes and shakes against his own skin because he's never really wanted something so much before, not like this.
They don't have lube -Kazuya never could have expected something like this would happen, not in a hundred lifetimes. But they make do without it. They don't need it. There's expensive hotel lotion in the bathroom that Kazuya has to go grab before he forgets, and then -
Sawamura's hand folds around his cock, and he struggles through the fog in his brain to remember to touch Sawamura too, to remember how much he wants to put his hands on him, how fucking desperate he is to make his partner feel good, how much he wants to drown in the feeling of Sawamura's hips pressing up into his hand and the smell of his sweat and the feeling of his teeth against his chin and the way his voice breaks when he orgasms.
Kazuya follows after him, helpless to the push and pull of his hands on his cock and on his heart, and when their heart beats finally return to normal they fall asleep together, Kazuya's back pressed to Sawamura's chest and wrapped up in his arms.
He is so happy.
(The second bed remains untouched for the rest of their time in Paris.)
"How did I end up here," Kazuya laments.
"You came up in the elevator."
Sawamura's stupid, excited grin doesn't fade a wink. In fact, he looks even more excited, if possible. Kind of like a puppy, and while Kazuya usually isn't in the business of kicking puppies he might make an exception today.
"I know that, idiot. I mean how did I end up here. As in, how could I have possibly let you talk me into walking into an elevator that's going up, and then walk back out of it when it reaches the top."
"Because I've always wanted to go up in the Eiffel Tower? And because you love me?"
"I -" Kazuya pauses, and it dawns on him that he can't really deny that, not anymore. "You are the worst."
"Senpai, are you scared?"
Yeah, Kazuya's scared. They are high up. He can feel the wind on his face, can see the Earth curve around the horizon kilometers and kilometers away. Sawamura is smiling like he can't get enough, like he was born to fly and feel the wind in his hair but all Kazuya can think of is Icarus and how far he had to fall to reach the ground.
Sawamura leans against the rail and looks out at the city of lights. They only made it up to the second floor landing but the view is clear and for a moment Kazuya remembers what it's like to feel like the world is in his palms.
"Isn't it pretty though?" he asks. He glances back at Kazuya over his shoulder. "You know, art is more than just pretty paintings and statues collecting dust. Art is Notre Dame and Invalides and Sacre Coeur, too."
Kazuya's sure it is, but he's having a hard time looking. "They'd be prettier up close. You know, on the ground."
Sawamura laughs and turns around to lean against the rail, and for a moment Kazuya forgets to be scared.
Sawamura is gorgeous.
It's not a new revelation but god sometimes it just sneaks up on him, and each re-realization leads to something new, something else to fall in love with -like the freckles over the bridge of his nose or the laugh lines that gather in the corner of his eyes when he laughs so hard he can't keep them open. Tonight it's in the way he smiles, the way the city lights are no match for the mischievous sparkle in his eyes; it's in the way Kazuya's heart rate skyrockets when Sawamura comes close enough to touch his arm, and the way he looks up at him from underneath his wind-ruffled bangs, and the way his eyes soften when he meets Kazuya's gaze.
"Don't worry," Sawamura murmurs. He slides his palm up Kazuya's arm and over his shoulder to tangle his fingers in the fingers at the nape of his neck. He licks his lips, grinning when Kazuya's eyes follow the movement of his tongue. "I'll be your hero."
Kazuya stares for a moment, and then gives an ugly snort. "You're kidding, right? That was awful! Is that really your line? Rea-"
Sawamura kisses him, which is a completely legitimate way of shutting him up as far as Kazuya's concerned.
He can't help but wonder though.
If he's Icarus, does that make Sawamura Apollo?
The shower runs in the background, but Kazuya's not paying much attention; he's too busy staring at the plane ticket in his hand.
All he'd wanted to do was help his partner pack, because Sawamura is awful at it and liable to stuff things willy-nilly into his suitcase and call it good. He hadn't meant to -
He hadn't asked when Sawamura was planning to go back to Japan -at first because it didn't matter, and then because he wasn't sure he wanted to know. But the ticket in his hands confirms his suspicions -that London, their next stop, is the end; the final stop; their goodbye.
He hadn't noticed that everything had shifted the moment he'd seen Sawamura at the Colosseum, and now it's all sideways because this, with Sawamura, had been so good, but it's -
All this time he'd felt like he and Sawamura had been out of the reach of the hands of time, but he'd forgotten that time catches up to all things, and, well.
Nothing gold can stay, right?
To: kuramochiyouichi
From: miyukikazuya
Subject:
This has been a mistake.
day forty - London
Sawamura drags him all over London like he's on a mission.
They visit Cool Britannia, a shop with wall-to-wall Union Jacks, double decker buses, and tube signage. It's perhaps the most non-British British shop Kazuya's ever laid eyes on. He's pretty sure the only people who would willingly set foot through the outlandishly-decorated doors are tourists and Britons looking for prank gifts, but Sawamura is having a field day rifling through pots of pens shaped like beefeaters. He looks so happy Kazuya can't find it in himself to complain, so he just stands awkwardly by and accepts the tokens Sawamura stuffs into his hands to hold while he peruses the aisles upon aisles of souvenirs.
They check out the Tower of London, where Sawamura talks his ear off about all of the things he's learned from his previous tours. He falls silent in the Jewel House, though, when the sparkling crown jewels come into view. He looks nearly reverent as they pass them by on the moving walkway, like if he could he'd have his hands pressed up against the glass like a child.
They watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, too. The grounds are jam-packed with tourists sporting fanny packs and cameras dangling on neck straps. They detract from the regal beauty of the palace itself and the Victoria monument, a contrast of khaki jorts and the lush green of the parks that border the grounds. Kazuya is only mildly annoyed when someone jostles him to grab a selfie as the Coldstream Guards march past, because he's distracted by Sawamura's excited bouncing and the way he grabs at Kazuya's hand and laces their fingers together.
Sawamura's excitement and happiness are infectious, and he's lost his immunity over the weeks they've been together. The attractions Sawamura has insisted on visiting with him are places he's already seen, places he passed every day while in university, places he and his friends have already traversed while they got to know their new city. Kazuya can imagine him in the art museums staring with those sharp golden eyes at the works laid out before him, can imagine him standing atop the London Eye with the whole world at his feet. That Sawamura can still look at these places with the same awe and reverence the twentieth, fiftieth, hundredth time he's passed them by is precious.
He brings it up that evening over fish and chips -the old-fashioned kind, wrapped up in newspaper and messy with grease- while they wander slowly down Victoria Street.
"I thought you'd have done all this by now," he says.
"What do you mean?"
"All this touristy stuff." He waves a hand. "You know, visiting Parliament, the Strand. What we're doing now."
"I have," Sawamura says. He leans over and plucks a fry out of Kazuya's wrap.
"Then if you've seen them and I've seen them, why are we seeing them again?"
"Because," he says slowly, like he can't believe Kazuya is dumb enough to ask, "I wanted to make memories with you. And it's been fun, right? Does it -does it bother you?"
Kazuya pauses.
Does it?
Maybe a few weeks ago it would have. It wasn't really all that long ago that he'd looked around him in ancient cities and only seen dust.
Kazuya stops walking and Sawamura stops a few paces ahead, confused. When he doubles back Kazuya reaches out for him, fingers gentle along his jaw, and kisses him. Despite the vinegary taste on his mouth the kiss is sweet and tender, and Sawamura steps closer to him like he can't stand the negative space between them.
"No," he murmurs when he pulls back. Sawamura's eyes slide open, and all he sees now is gold.
He tries so hard not to think about it, but somehow he still ends up counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds he has left with Sawamura.
He knows Sawamura is too, and he knows Sawamura hates it, but he can see the ticking clock every time he looks into his eyes.
He steals Sawamura's last fry and eats it right in front of him.
Sawamura chases him down the block, and he should be embarrassed but all he feels is happy.
He wants to share everything with Sawamura.
He has the realization at three in the morning, with his chest pressed against Sawamura's back and his arm around Sawamura's waist to keep him close. The blankets are tucked up around their shoulders but underneath they're naked and tangled. Kazuya wonders if he can find a simile or metaphor in that -a pretty string of words to describe the way he's laid bare under Sawamura's penetrating gaze despite all of the shields he's spent years building up around himself.
He wants to share everything with Sawamura, but -
"Hey," Sawamura says. They're both still in bed even though the sun has climbed up past the curtains. It's fine though; everyone needs a lazy day, especially them. They'd just spent the last month and a half running all over Europe under the hot sun, cramming as much into 24 hours as they could get away with. They're exhausted, but Kazuya knows an excuse to stay in bed when he sees it.
Not that he's complaining.
"Hm?"
"Where else would you go? With me. If you could."
"Everywhere," he says, without hesitation.
Sawamura rolls over and presses his softest, sweetest smile to the corner of Kazuya's mouth. "Not what I meant."
"Why? Where would you go?"
'If we had more time together; if goodbye wasn't inevitable,' is what he doesn't say.
Sawamura flops over onto his back and nearly smacks Kazuya in the face with his loose limbs. "Hmm… Definitely Prague. And Barcelona, I've always wanted to see Sagrada Familia and Parc Güell. Budapest, and Bruges, and Munich, Dubrovnik, and Lake Bled, and, like, everywhere in Switzerland."
Kazuya laughs and tucks Sawamura up under his chin.
"Someday."
"Yeah…"
Sawamura's voice goes breathy and he presses his naked hips against Kazuya's.
They don't talk much after that.
They end up in Westminster Abbey on Sawamura's last day, which, well, sort of makes sense given how they started this journey. They could've gone to Tate Modern but Sawamura had argued that buildings were works of art as well, "and besides," he said, "I've been to Tate Modern so much in the last year that I might burst into tears if I have to go again."
So they begin and end in a church.
They make their way through the abbey in peace and quiet except for the sound of their footsteps and brush of their shoulders -through the nave, around the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, through the meandering memorials in Poet's Corner, and over the Cosmati Pavement, where Sawamura lingers looking down at the floor with reverence.
God, it's beautiful inside and out. How something with so much mass can manage to look delicate is beyond him. The church is gorgeous, and ancient, and full of graves.
Sawamura takes his hand and holds on tight, and Kazuya swallows down something like despair.
He wonders if this is what it will feel like to watch Sawamura pack up everything he owns.
Sawamura has a habit of not looking back.
Kazuya sees it sometimes, like in the way he talks about losing his baseball. They'd talked about it sometimes on nights when sleep couldn't drag Sawamura into its warm embrace. 'I was too injured,' Sawamura had said, but Kazuya knows how to read between the lines; what he'd really said was 'I failed.' Lying there in the dark, with the sound of the city and Sawamura's steady breath in his ears, it had been difficult to understand what he'd meant. He'd said it so matter of factly, like it was just an observation about the weather, like the loss of baseball hadn't meant that his entire future, for a few brief days-weeks-months, had been gone -taken away in some fluke accident Sawamura felt like he should have seen coming.
(But it hadn't taken long for Sawamura to point at something new and decide he was going to do it, and that something had been art history at Todai. His family and friends had been skeptical; it would mean Sawamura leaving the farm to strike out in the big city on his own, at a university known for its rigorous academics, with no one to support him if he should flounder. But Sawamura had never doubted; he'd set his eyes on the thing and in the end he'd done it and more, and he'd never once looked back. When Kazuya had asked him how -how could he just give all of that up, how could he just accept it?- Sawamura had sighed and rolled over to look him straight in the eyes and said, 'why would you want to dwell on something you can't change when you could just keep moving forward?')
They pack their bags up together like they always do, and they argue over the merits of public transportation versus taxis like they always do. Sawamura wins like he always does, so they lug their 22kg lives down flights of stairs and tuck them between their thighs on the tube carriage like they always do.
And when they get to the airport, just like always, Kazuya's the only one who looks back at the cityscape they just left behind.
Sawamura didn't look back then, on the worst days-weeks-months of his life, and he's not going to look back today either.
Sawamura doesn't notice that Kazuya is plus one plane ticket and minus one suitcase until they get to security, when he realizes that Kazuya is still in line with him. Kazuya would make fun of him for his painful lack of observation skills, but, well. Sawamura's doing his best to keep his head up, but he made London his home when he settled here over a year ago, and Kazuya knows how hard it is to leave that behind.
They bicker about stupid things, like whether to walk or use the walking escalator, and whether Dunkin' Donuts has better coffee than Starbucks (and how Sawamura doesn't need coffee anyway, not when he's about to be on a plane for almost twelve hours). Sawamura's hand finds his halfway to Sawamura's gate and this, too, feels like home.
(Kazuya wonders if, maybe, maybe, he's allowed to mourn the loss of his home, too.)
Sawamura manages to wait until they reach his gate to ask about the plane ticket, which is probably a new Sawamura curiosity record.
"Where are you going from here?" 'Without me,' he doesn't say. Kazuya can still hear it, loud and clear, somewhere in the softness of his voice.
"From here I go to Prague, but after that I'm not sure. See," Kazuya says, "I've got a list of places to visit from this guy I know. He wanted to go to Dubrovnik and Amsterdam and Barcelona too, so I've got my work cut out for me."
"And here I thought you would slack off."
"Ah, see, I would, but I still have an article to write that someone keeps distracting me from."
Sawamura grins unapologetically, but even that is tinged with sorrow.
Kazuya drops his carry-on to the ground and presses the palm of his shaking hands to Sawamura's cheeks. His fingers spread and span down the side of his neck, like he wants to encompass as much of Sawamura as he can while he's got the chance. All this time Sawamura has been so eager to leave a trail of cities and memories behind him but here he wishes that time could stop, just to get an extra hour, an extra minute, an extra second to spend with this most beautiful person.
But he doesn't have that luxury, so he just presses his forehead against Sawamura's and closes his eyes.
"Promise me you'll send me postcards," Sawamura says, but his voice is losing traction, slipping into dangerous territory. "Promise me -"
"Last boarding call for flight 1902," comes over the loudspeaker.
"I promise. Sealed with a kiss."
Literally and figuratively. Sawamura laughs against his mouth -he laughs until it turns into a sob, until his cheeks are streaked with tears and he can hardly catch his breath, until their press of lips can hardly be called a kiss anymore, and his nails dig into the skin of Kazuya's waist underneath his t-shirt where Sawamura's hands are warm and solid and here.
"Last boarding call for flight 1902," the loudspeaker repeats, in its emotionless, inflectionless voice.
Untangling himself from Sawamura is so hard when all he wants to do is keep holding on, but it's -fine. It's fine. Sawamura will be fine, Sawamura is resilient, Sawamura is amazing. Sawamura will keep moving forward, even if he has to crawl on his hands and knees, and that's one of the things Kazuya loves most about him.
"Please be safe," he says.
'I love you.'
"Try to get some rest, it's a long flight."
'I'm going to miss you.'
"Let me know when you get home, okay?"
'Please tell me that you will miss me, too.'
Sawamura wipes his tears on his sleeve and turns away and disappears into the gangway.
He doesn't turn back.
So Kazuya won't either.
He's going to be here for a while yet, his flight doesn't leave until the evening. So he settles in, takes out his computer, and gets to work.
Why We Travel
Miyuki Kazuya
There comes a time in all our lives when we lose sight. Perhaps it's standing in line at the supermarket, or driving the same stretch of road to and from work every day. Even the most confident and happy of us fall victim to the ennui of our daily routines, shuffling from one place to the next on autopilot without so much as a second thought. There's an element of sameness to even the most unpredictable of jobs -yes, including mine. Sometimes we don't even know what's missing until there's nothing but a vacuous, cavernous emptiness inside where there used to be purpose and drive. And still we shuffle on, tired, bored, vacant.
I am a travel writer. This means I eke out my living by documenting different experiences and creating top ten lists in magazines, telling my readers the hottest new vacation trend or what not to do to offend locals. I am privileged enough to see things some people only dream of, whether that's living like a local or no-expenses-spared luxury, because my job affords me to. My life should be everyone's dream, but just like you I too fall prey to the rigors of day-to-day sameness. I board and deplane, I check and pick up luggage, I take public transportation back and forth, and I check in and out of hotels.
It's with the same ennui that I boarded the plane to Rome, a city I have been to many times over the years. I deplaned, I picked up my luggage, I checked into my hotel, I took public transportation, I knew something was missing -something essential, something imperative, something I used to have but lost somewhere along the way.
[ The best way to open your eyes to your own faults is to travel with someone who doesn't wear blinders. That's who he was for me. ]
But I didn't know what, until I met him.
We met three times. The first time I saw him we were at the Colosseum, and he was being taken advantage of by tourist scammers. I took mercy and helped him out of his jam, and then went on my way. The second time I saw him we were at Trevi Fountain. He didn't know I was there, but I knew he was. The third time I saw him at Sistine Chapel, on the floor crying -crying!- over the art. He looked so ridiculous -so open and vulnerable and wise- that I couldn't help it. I did something I never do, something I advise my readers to never do; I said 'come with me.'
He was a nuisance -loud, animated, exasperating, and exactly the kind of person I tell my readers not to be while traveling abroad. He was far too trusting -he let me, a total stranger, whisk him off to parts unknown without a game plan or a purpose. He was too soft -he smiled at everyone he passed on the street and let his soft heart show on his sleeve. He was everything I'm always telling you, my readers, not to be.
We went to Florence together, and then Venice, and Athens and Aegina. I discovered his loud laughter filled up all the empty spaces around us, and his personality was too big to be made small. I discovered that he loves wholeheartedly, whether that's pasta or Botticelli or his mother. And I found myself discovering things about each of these places that I'd forgotten I'd loved at one point or another. I'd become blind to the simple pleasures of traveling that I had once held very dear, and it was this person who reminded me by just being himself.
We went to Istanbul and Paris and said goodbye in London. It was painful, but not for the reason I expected. Watching him walk away was hard, because over the almost seven weeks we'd been together I found that I had discovered, somewhere along the way, all of the things I'd forgotten I'd loved at one point or another. I'd become blind to the simple pleasures of traveling that I once held very dear. The day you find something in your life that makes you want to become more -a pet, a friend, a work of art, a stranger, a lover- to suddenly wake up one morning and realize, hey, this isn't it, that's a special day. They say journeys end in lovers meeting, but to me that's just the start. We have our whole lives to move forward, to make proud, to expand. Why should the journey end once you've found it?
The best way to open your eyes to your own faults is to travel with someone who doesn't wear blinders. That's who he was for me.
So what is the purpose of traveling? Why do we continue to shell out the money? Why do we subject ourselves to cramped, illness-infested metal tubes, and lost luggage, and horrible hotel rooms? Why do we put up with the possibilities of becoming lost, or kidnapped, or stranded with no common language and nowhere to escape if we stop enjoying it?
Why?
Because.
Traveling is a reminder to the self that good people exist everywhere. It's a reminder that there is so much more -out there, beyond our own horizons, beyond our own comforts. It's a reminder to never let ourselves become complacent -that the world is always changing and shifting, and that we must change and shift with it. It's a reminder that people are capable of incredible, beautiful things, from the gorgeous frescoes in the Sistine Chapel to the man who gives a traveler with nowhere else to go a warm meal and bed at the end of the day.
We travel to rediscover the things we thought we'd lost somewhere along the way.
Sawamura, I found you. I took your hand and showed you the world, and you showed me myself.
Kuramochi looks up at him, eyebrows raised to his hairline. "This is good," he says. "You sure you want to print this? It's not exactly inside the norm for you."
"I'm sure."
"What if he reads it?" The 'it's practically a love letter' goes unsaid.
"Then I'm even more sure."
"Okay then, it's done." Kuramochi leans back in his chair and his mouth loses that professional edge. "Glad I don't have to fire you, I guess."
"Like you would have." But honestly he's glad he can take some of that pressure off of Kuramochi's shoulders. He knows his friend would never abandon him even if Kazuya's stuck on a sinking ship; he'd just go down him, and then help him pick up the pieces of their shattered careers afterward.
"Glad to have you back, too," Kuramochi says. His voice says 'welcome back to Japan' but his eyes say 'welcome back to yourself,' 'welcome back to writing,' 'welcome back to your passion,' 'I missed this,' 'I was worried.'
"Ah. It's good to be back."
day sixty-five - Tokyo
"Eijun-kun, you have mail again!"
Eijun's head whips up at the sound of Harucchi's voice. On the screen, Furuya's character clobbers his over the head with a metal bat; his character grunts and falls, and then goes silent. Furuya glows at the victory but Eijun's already setting his controller down, following his roommate's voice into the kitchen where the pink-haired boy is dropping his keys onto the table and shuffling through thick white envelopes.
He's been getting postcards lately, several times a week after he got back from London -all from places like Zurich, and Gdansk, and Stuttgart, and Salzburg. The images on the fronts are beautiful, but it's the writing on the back that fills him with longing and fondness. It's nothing special, nothing romantic or sweet or life-altering -just 'I went into the mines today and thought about how much work it must've been to pull the salt from the earth,' or 'I saw the Alps and thought about the cold and the snow that falls in Nagano over the winter, maybe someday I can visit,' or 'I saw one of Botticelli's works in the Rijksmuseum and the only reason I could recognize it on sight is because of you; I really wish I could share it with you, but I guess a postcard will have to do.'
None of them have ever included a return address or a signature, but Eijun doesn't need either of them to know who they're coming from.
So he savors them. He savors the beautiful scenery on the fronts and the loops and angles of Miyuki's familiar handwriting on the back. He savors the stamps in languages he doesn't understand, and the dirt that smudges and stains the white backing from weeks of travel -over ocean and along roads, all to get from Miyuki Kazuya to Sawamura Eijun. It's the only connection they have now, besides memories.
Harucchi hands him the thick package he's been holding onto, which is -different. It's most certainly not the postcard Eijun's used to receiving, but sure enough Eijun's name is printed on the front in that same handwriting, there's no mistaking it. His best friend gives him a hesitant smile, and Eijun knows -he knows- that Harucchi's been worried about him ever since he came back.
There are pamphlets outlining out to deal with reverse culture shock, how to be healthily sad and mourn the loss of his experiences and the daily life he cultivated for himself while he was living in London -
But he never expected to experience Miyuki Kazuya.
There's no pamphlet to tell him how to deal with the emptiness that sits on his chest because he left part of himself behind, or how to cope with missing someone this much.
"Thanks, Harucchi!" he pastes on his best smile even though he knows Harucchi can see right through him. "I'm going to go to my room for a while if you need me! Don't let Furuya start dinner on his own!"
His roommates know this drill.
Whenever Eijun gets a piece of mail he knows is from Miyuki, he accepts it will the brightest smile he can muster and then retreats to his room, where he dumps out the shoebox filled with all of the other postcards he's received and reads them all, one by one, front to back, until he runs out of Miyuki's words. Then he looks at the newest one, follows the letters with his fingers until he knows every nuance and stroke of the pen by heart, and once he's done he carefully stacks them up -oldest to newest- and packs them away again in the space beneath his bed.
Today he's too eager, too curious to see what's in the package to go through the whole ritual. Instead of spreading out the old postcards like a fan on top of his bed he slits open the package -so carefully, he doesn't want to rip anything important, he'd be so upset if he accidentally destroyed something Miyuki had sent to him with so much care- and out spills seven new postcards, a short hand-written letter, and a magazine called Transitions.
The postcards are of seven of Gaudí's greatest works, all from Barcelona -Casa Batlló, Casa Vicens, Casa Calvet, Palau Güell and its eponymous park, Casa Milà, and the gorgeous cathedral Sagrada Familia. The backs are all blank, so he moves on to the letter.
Sawamura,
Do you remember that day we spent doing nothing, when we talked about the things we wished we could do, the places we wished we could go? I know postcards aren't the same as actually being here, but I felt like I needed to go anyway. Because you couldn't.
Ah, anyway, I spent these last few weeks writing my article and spending a small fortune on postcards and postal service, but I saved the best for last. I just. Remember the way you looked when you said you wanted to visit Barcelona, like it mattered more to you than just another stamp in your passport. I figure Gaudí inspired you -after all, you're the one who taught me that art history is about more than just a painting in a canvas.
I included the magazine I work for, I think there's something in there you might like too.
Yours,
Miyuki Kazuya
P.S. Thank you. For everything.
P.P.S. Come find me, I'm waiting.
Sawamura smiles -smiles so wide and so hard that his eyes begin to sting. He picks up the mag and follows the index with his forefinger, and he knows he's found what he's supposed to be looking for when he finds Miyuki's name in a byline.
Huh. So the four-eyes really does write.
He flips to the page and begins to read.
omake
Haruichi has been calling Eijun-kun's name for the last fifteen minutes with no response from behind the closed door of his room. He's starting to become concerned -Eijun-kun wouldn't voluntarily miss a home-cooked meal unless something was terribly awry.
"Don't worry," Satoru says from the other side of the table. "I'm sure he's fine. He probably got distracted reading shoujo."
Haruichi's frown doesn't subside. "Maybe. It's not like Eijun-kun to miss dinner though. I better go and check on him."
He can hear his partner's soft sigh as he pads down the hallway toward Eijun-kun's door, but he pays it no attention. Satoru's always had his own way of dealing with Eijun-kun's moods. It's not like him to worry.
It makes him nervous though, because on the other side of the door to Eijun-kun's room is dead silence. Eijun-kun is never silent. So he grasps the knob and opens the door, mouth open and all of his words about dinner that had been lined up on his tongue fall away at the sight.
He should have knocked.
He takes a moment to register what he's seeing, because, honestly, he is baffled.
He sees Eijun-kun sitting on his bed.
He sees Eijun-kun's tear-tracked, snot-nosed face.
He sees Eijun-kun's wide, guilt-ridden eyes.
He sees Eijun-kun's lips pressed against the writing side of the postcard Haruichi had just handed to him twenty minutes earlier.
Haruichi blinks.
Eijun-kun blinks.
"Eijun-kun, are you -were you kissing that postca -"
"N-NO! I JUST -! I WAS JUST! SMELLING IT! I -"
"I don't want to know," comes Satoru's voice from just behind him.
"FURUYA!" Eijun-kun wails.
He definitely should have knocked.
AN: like last yrs bang entry from me, this is loosely based on real events from my time living in london and traveling around europe!
on a personal note, some of you might know that a family member was diagnosed with cancer in july, and since then its been a whirlwind of doctors visits and hospitalizations and surgeries. finishing this fic was my everest, bc it was so hard to stay motivated thru all of that. so special thanks to my beta and my artist, as well as sawanko and kur0hina for encouraging me to keep going when things got tough.
and thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed! pls consider following me at my writing blog trumpet-geek or my main blog kuramisawa! i hope you join me for next years misawa bang!