"You really are a fire hazard, huh," mused Ooishi amongst the clinking of plates and dishes, and the rustling of a newspaper.
She just laughed her musical laugh and continued with the cooking, back faced to her husband and an apron tied around her waist.
A goodbye kiss before he left the house.
When he came back the place was in flames.
--
He gripped Maaya's hand tighter in his own sweaty palm as they stood in the dimly-lit corridors. Evening was turning into night, and the sky was slowly filling with ink-coloured darkness.
"Well, this is it," he said, more to himself than the daughter who stood beside him.
"So we'll be staying here until Mama gets back, right?"
Ooishi did not answer, but rung the doorbell one more time.
There was a flurry of muffled footsteps, someone fumbling for the right key on a key ring, and finally the door swung open.
"Ah, it's Ooishi," said Tezuka, adjusting his glasses and smoothing down the hair which still persistently stood up.
"Sorry for the short notice," Apologetically, he bowed, and squeezed Maaya's hand meaningfully.
She followed suit unsteadily.
"We really appreciate this, Tezuka."
"No, it's no problem," It appeared that he was having trouble meeting Ooishi's eyes. "I – I'm not married yet, so…"
Ooishi nodded understandingly.
"Well, let's go in," Tezuka stepped away from the door and showed them into the apartment.
--
The place was a sparse collection of badly-placed furniture. On the coffee table was a stack of dog-eared paper; next to it stood a precarious tower of files topped with a dirty cup -- evidently there had been too many drinks of coffee from it and not enough washes.
Maaya used her other hand to clutch Ooishi's shirt.
Tezuka gesticulated desperately for a few seconds, before he took a deep breath and managed to choke out a few words.
"I was clearing out the room," he coughed.
Ooishi wondered for a while if this really was the same Tezuka he knew from his tennis days, but dismissed it as his personality changing over time. In this case it had been ten years, now both were twenty-five.
"I'll show you the room you two can sleep in," Tezuka regained his composure as fast as he lost it, and pointed to a small door down the hallway. "It's a bit small for two people, but the apartment's quite small."
Ooishi brushed a hand over Maaya's head and smiled at her. She gave a weak smile back; apparently she was still apprehensive about living in Tezuka's house.
His thoughts flew back to before the fire. The place was spick and span everyday. Housework, he recalled, smiling to himself, had always been her forte. All floors were swept, she organized his files like a secretary, only unpaid, and there had never been a need to wash his own cup during late nights at his desk -- she'd always do it for him.
The perfect woman with a fatal flaw; the reason why Ooishi always had to do most of the cooking.
"Let's go, Maaya," he tugged lightly on his daughter's hand, and both entered their new home.
--
Ooishi lay on the thin futon, eyes on the ceiling and hand running through the fine hair on Maaya's scalp as she slept in hers. The day had been a long one and she had fallen asleep within minutes. Her chest heaved up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, and it made him feel relieved, that at least one person dear to him was still alive.
The door creaked slightly open, before a small thud resounded through the cramped room as it hit the cardboard box.
"What is it, Tezuka?" he whispered, clambering up and careful not to disturb the sleeping child.
Tezuka said nothing, but brandished the six-pack of beer (or at least, a part of it) he'd bought from the convenience store downstairs through the tiny crack.
--
The clinking of cans as they touched the glass of the coffee table punctuated their conversation regularly.
"It's been long," Ooishi took a sip from the can, and lay back on the sofa.
The pushing of all the documents onto the floor had resulted in a small flood, but they decided it could be resolved later and left it as it was for the moment.
"Hn," came the reply. "How are you coping?" Tezuka was not at all confident in what exactly he should ask one who had suffered a loss such as Ooishi, and made do with a neutral statement.
Ooishi didn't say anything, but drank deeper and longer, finishing the can in one gulp. He usually didn't drink much alcohol unless the time called for it, and the time definitely called for it.
"At least, I've not lost everything," he added after a short pause. He squeezed the can tighter – perhaps a little too tightly, a large dent crossed it where his fingers met the metal.
Tezuka could only stare at his friend, who pointedly looked away and faced the closed door of the room where Maaya slept with a slightly wistful look.
The empty tin stayed crushed in Ooishi's palm, and Tezuka knew he could not do much to help.
--
Large plumes of flame licked the sky dyed red by the sunset, blending in with a surprising amount of grace. They enveloped the building completely, and were moving on to the neighbouring ones. Passer-bys stared, the heat from the fire intense, their eyes locked onto the steadily charred house.
The sound of sirens.
Maaya, clinging to his back, faintly stirred in her sleep.
The bright red fire engine parked next to them, and several firemen rushed out of it, their yellow protective gear glinting in the fading sunlight - somehow the scene enhanced the blaze's image.
Water spilled over the inferno, dousing some flames, bringing others back to life.
He already knew she couldn't be saved. It was too late.
And tears poured from his eyes as he whispered her name.--
He knocked on the door and entered his mentor's office.
"Miyazaki-sensei?"
Miyazaki Nobuhito, in his late thirties, motioned at Ooishi to sit, quickly forcing a large stack of paper into one of the drawers at his desk.
Ooishi placed himself on the green swivel chair in front of him, letting his arms rest on the sturdy metal armrests.
"You seem preoccupied,"
He cringed at Miyazaki's words, fiddling nervously with the edge of the armrest and not meeting his eyes. It was awkward; he didn't like anyone sympathizing with him, much less worrying for him -- bearing the brunt by himself was more bearable than anything else.
"I understand. Don't come back to work until you feel you're ready,"
This struck Ooishi by surprise -- he hurriedly opened his mouth to protest.
But Miyazaki held up his hand, and that ended the argument.
That day, the walk back to Tezuka's house seemed especially long, and the uneven concrete that paved the road up to the apartment block particularly painful to step on.
--
Fuji laughed softly to himself as he ran his hand over the steering wheel, in anticipation for the light to turn green.
"Fuji-san, where are we going?" came the soft voice, demure if slightly shaky.
"To visit an old friend," his foot applied pressure on the pedal and the car continued its journey. "Ayame-san."