DISCLAIMER: Gravitation belongs to Maki Murakami. I'm just borrowing the characters to fulfill the needs of my own morbid plot bunnies.
AN: Just a short little oneshot describing how Eiri and Shu met in the park from Eiri's POV. Rated M for language.
I enjoy watching people. There's so much inspiration to be found in common, everyday Japanese life. People are extraordinary. They grow, love, and live with such vibrancy. Sometimes it makes me jealous, other times, I'm glad to be distanced from it. I let my heart get tangled up once and that had ended badly for everyone involved. Not to mention, I never did get my heart back.
To get the most out of my obscure, little hobby, I liked to go to different wards of Tokyo, just to observe. I tend to discover so many diverse people, unique to their specific ward. So, that night was unlike any other. I had recently finished my latest novel, I had my fill of sleep, and now I was out on the prowl. Someone may, given my reputation, construe that to imply something other than what I mean. For clarification: I was on the prowl for inspiration; I was looking for a muse. What better place to find one than the densely populated area of Chūō?
So, imagine my surprise when I first saw him. I had carefully selected my seat in a non-descript cafe so that I could look out onto the street and gather as much information as possible. Across the street, there was a restaurant. Just a typical, run-of-the-mill, European eatery. The waiters we're all dressed in tuxedo shirts and bowties. Every single on of them had a wide smile on their face. Did they fake them, I wondered. Or, more intriguingly, were they real? In some strange way, I got the impression that they were overcompensating for something. And that's when I saw him, running in the rain.
He was young, no more than high school senior, at best. His feet were sneakered and the bottoms of his pant legs bore the migrating stains of puddle water, slowly crawling up his legs as he ran. There was a distinct air of latent energy and overabundant spirit surrounding him. Maybe that crackle of electricity that circled his very being was what made me so intrigued, because other than that he was nothing more than a dirty, little punk. He even had long, shaggy hair, just like that guy.
As he appeared through the door, I realized that they'd all been overcompensating for him. Their smiles, which I had wondered about, became real in an instant. The kid laughed in this extremely uncouth manner and yet, he seemed to feel no embarrassment. And everyone forgave him for it. There was something about the way everyone genuinely liked this kid that irked me. What was it like to be that kind of person? To have never known the scorn of others? To have never been looked down upon? What was it like to be loved by everyone you met? Conversely, what was it like to love someone like that?
As a general rule, once I start asking myself a million questions, I know I've found my muse. I pulled out my notebook and pen, but no words flowed forth. My fingers remained stagnant and my eyes remained locked on the flighty teen. I watched him converse with his coworkers spiritedly and I found myself wondering what could possibly be coming out of his mouth that was so interesting. What did this kid's existence revolve around? A girl? No, he seemed too focussed to be driven mad by girls. School? Not really likely seeing as he had come bounding into work late. That left something more extracurricular then. Sports? No. Another job? Probably not. Besides, he'd need to be working towards something to have two jobs.
The more I watched him, the more I became obsessed with the possibilities of his hidden passion. He was a good looking kid with a small frame and a cute, almost feminine face. He must have been popular with girls. Maybe he modelled. I didn't really see that one either. What was it that made this kid tick? And then I saw it: while the others cajoled and put away dishes, he pulled out a pen and a notebook and started jotting down words. The kid was a writer. No wonder I felt so drawn to him.
Even still, that didn't feel quite right. It was almost as though I were missing an important piece of the puzzle. I picked up my coffee and took a sip, nearly spitting it across the room when I realized how cold it'd become. How long had I been staring at that brat? Glancing at my watch and the irritated faces of the wait staff in the cafe, I quickly paid my bill and left. It was well past closing and I'd worn out my welcome.
I should have just left, or at least stopped staring, but I didn't. Instead, I pulled out a cigarette, leaned against the wall, and continued to watch him through a nicotine haze. He was talking again, a loud, non-stop banter. Did people like him more because he talked so much? Or was it just that it came so easily to him? With charisma and looks like those, he could be a star of some sort. An actor, maybe? Listen to me; I think the kid is turning me gay. It looked as though they were just about done closing up the restaurant, and I was certainly done with my cigarette. Of course, that didn't mean that I couldn't have another.
The kid was the first one to leave. As he exited the restaurant, he glanced up into the sky, tentatively searching for rain. When he was satisfied that it was no longer pissing down, he pulled his backpack, which was roughly the same size as him, onto his back and started to walk away. I was tempted to follow him to feed my morbid curiosity, but I didn't. I just stood there, inhaling nicotine and watching.
The door creaked open, drawing my attention away from him for a moment. One of the waiters stuck his head out the door and waved the now familiar notebook in the air.
"Shuichi! Hey, Shuichi!"
The kid turned. His name was Shuichi. Shuichi. I wanted to roll the word off my tongue. Shuichi. It fit.
"You forgot your lyrics!"
Lyrics. Huh. A songwriter. Still, something was missing...
Shuichi ran back and snatched the book out of his co-worker's hands in record speed.
"Thanks, Kenichi-kun! Hiro would have killed me if I'd lost those!"
His voice was bright and uplifting; I had the distinct impression of clouds parting in front of the sun when he spoke. I could see why people liked him and he hadn't even done anything yet. The punk was special. The waiter, Kenichi, teased Shuichi a little about his lyrics, threatening to read them. I smiled to myself at the brat's wild, over-the-top reactions. Teasing a person like Shuichi could be good sport.
Finally, Kenichi went back inside, but not before giving me a strange look. I smiled coldly at the younger man and he frowned at me, then I turned and followed Shuichi's route in a parallel sense, along my side of the street. I heard his bright voice quietly floating over the rush of cars driving on the rain-slicked road. At first I thought he was talking on a cell phone, but then I realized that he was just talking to himself. How peculiar. Then he started singing. There were several colliding thoughts that went through my mind then. First, his voice, which he was clearly only using in a small capacity, was incredible. Seguchi would say that it was rough around the edges, but it would even out with time. He was just a kid, after all. Secondly, he was a vocalist. And the world seemed to make a little more sense again. Thirdly, and most bizarrely, I had a feeling of intense desire begin to well inside me. I wanted to know what other sounds that kid could make with that fucking fantastic voice. I was surprised by that last thought. I'd only been attracted to one male before in my lifetime, and that had ended in tragedy.
Shuichi glanced across the street, as though he wanted to cross, but was put off by the sheer volume of cars as the road widened, splitting our paths apart. I didn't want to lose him just yet. I had the distinct feeling that I wasn't quite done with him. I didn't know what I wanted from him, or how I expected to get it, but I wanted to be near him. I needed to be near him.
He disappeared from my sight, taking a path I couldn't see for all the Goddamn cars. I'd lost him and so simply, too. I had a philosophy about these sorts of things: if it was meant to happen, it would have. The fact that I had lost him so easily, my potential muse, was a clear indicator that I wasn't meant to have him. Mindlessly, I veered onto a pathway that cut through a park. I wasn't ready to return to my empty apartment, nor was I particularly inspired to write anything. In fact, all I could think of was an enthusiastic brat of a supposed vocalist who I had created a whole profile for in my head. He was my exact opposite. He said things without thinking them through, he lived with passion, he gave himself over to matters he didn't understand, and when he finally did understand, he'd write a song about it. Oddly, this wasn't enough. I didn't want this kid to be one of my characters. I selfishly wanted to hang on to him even though I knew nothing about him.
Shaking my head in absolute disbelief, I popped yet another cigarette into my mouth and stared out into the brightly lit metropolis of Tokyo. So much inspiration was there for the taking and I had to get stuck on some highschooler with dreams of grandeur. A scuffling sound caught my attention on the pathway as a paper rustled to a stop at my feet. I picked up the crumpled note and read the messily scrawled hiragana. Who the hell wrote full sentences in hiragana? And what, exactly, was this drivel? It looked and read like something a lovesick, middle school girl would write. Destiny is unstoppable. Everyone has to give in... Give up—let life win. Seriously?
A gasp for breath drew my attention away from the shoddily composed lyrics. Ah, Shuichi. And I'd had such high hopes for him…