Apple Pie and Love
They eat some in the afternoon, enjoying the foreign taste. Atobe discovered a penchant for it a few years ago at a restaurant downtown, though he doesn't know exactly how it came to this. Every messy, dissolving lump smells of sentiments from other lands. He knows that in America, apple pie means home and grandparents in some warm pastoral nostalgia. To him, it isn't exactly exotic, not anymore, just a little misplaced.
"Why don't you use a fork?" he says. Jirou blinks at him, chopsticks pausing hastily midway to mouth, like Atobe had clicked a pause button. The effect is ruined when bits of crust and melt slip off and land in a puddle back on Jirou's plate. "See what I mean?" Atobe notes sagaciously.
"You're using chopsticks too," Jirou protests, popping the bits of apple into his mouth, animated once again.
"Yes, but I can pull it off." Atobe deftly manipulates the pieces, lifts them quickly before they drip. His house is a well-lit, high-roofed vault, enveloping the both of them. Out of the windows he can see the lawn. The sprinklers have just turned on.
The path that led him to today, eating unhealthy apple pie with Jirou in the dining room every Wednesday, feels entirely too coincidental to be real. It had been an oddly humid day when Gakuto snuck into Jirou's lunch while Jirou dozed, and came away with a mysterious glob. ("What is this?" - Gakuto had eaten it anyway.) Intrigued, Atobe had immediately identified it as pie. He had been practically able to taste it.
There's a satisfaction in connections that not even Atobe is exempt from. Not that the simple fact of sharing an American dessert led simply to having Jirou regularly come over to Atobe's house to eat it. Nor is it meaningful, laid out in a line; the process is more like a diffuse cloud of cause and effect, where the causes and effects drift.
Atobe is aware, for he's aware of most things, of certain ghostly outgrowths from body to body, electric. Still, right now, he's more interested in the chemistry of taste and cream.
Jirou laughs brightly, a little too clear. "It's more fun this way," he declares. The way he shuffles the food is inefficient, but cute. "Are you going to have more?"
"Not today," Atobe demurs. Mindful of overindulgence, that's what he says every time.
Jirou sets his chopsticks neatly down on the plate with a clink, next to what's left of his pie - mostly crust crumbs. Atobe admires the ironic mix of traditions in the tableaux. "Next week," Jirou affirms. Their own tradition has been erected over the weeks, and Atobe wonders if someday they'll burn their building. Maybe if he feels mischevieous, he'll get blueberry.
Today, as per ritual, they'll retreat to the sitting room. Maybe Jirou will fall asleep on the floor. If alert, Jirou might be induced into doing some homework assignments, and Atobe might help him with his English.
Atobe's home is, for now, devoid of servants, and his parents are gone, though they could still be in the house somewhere. Soon Atobe will ride in the limosine with Jirou, who will undoubtedly snore on the way, taking him to Jirou's house. Atobe will return by seven, and eat dinner, but he'll leave out the dessert.
They eat some in the afternoon, enjoying the foreign taste. Atobe discovered a penchant for it a few years ago at a restaurant downtown, though he doesn't know exactly how it came to this. Every messy, dissolving lump smells of sentiments from other lands. He knows that in America, apple pie means home and grandparents in some warm pastoral nostalgia. To him, it isn't exactly exotic, not anymore, just a little misplaced.
"Why don't you use a fork?" he says. Jirou blinks at him, chopsticks pausing hastily midway to mouth, like Atobe had clicked a pause button. The effect is ruined when bits of crust and melt slip off and land in a puddle back on Jirou's plate. "See what I mean?" Atobe notes sagaciously.
"You're using chopsticks too," Jirou protests, popping the bits of apple into his mouth, animated once again.
"Yes, but I can pull it off." Atobe deftly manipulates the pieces, lifts them quickly before they drip. His house is a well-lit, high-roofed vault, enveloping the both of them. Out of the windows he can see the lawn. The sprinklers have just turned on.
The path that led him to today, eating unhealthy apple pie with Jirou in the dining room every Wednesday, feels entirely too coincidental to be real. It had been an oddly humid day when Gakuto snuck into Jirou's lunch while Jirou dozed, and came away with a mysterious glob. ("What is this?" - Gakuto had eaten it anyway.) Intrigued, Atobe had immediately identified it as pie. He had been practically able to taste it.
There's a satisfaction in connections that not even Atobe is exempt from. Not that the simple fact of sharing an American dessert led simply to having Jirou regularly come over to Atobe's house to eat it. Nor is it meaningful, laid out in a line; the process is more like a diffuse cloud of cause and effect, where the causes and effects drift.
Atobe is aware, for he's aware of most things, of certain ghostly outgrowths from body to body, electric. Still, right now, he's more interested in the chemistry of taste and cream.
Jirou laughs brightly, a little too clear. "It's more fun this way," he declares. The way he shuffles the food is inefficient, but cute. "Are you going to have more?"
"Not today," Atobe demurs. Mindful of overindulgence, that's what he says every time.
Jirou sets his chopsticks neatly down on the plate with a clink, next to what's left of his pie - mostly crust crumbs. Atobe admires the ironic mix of traditions in the tableaux. "Next week," Jirou affirms. Their own tradition has been erected over the weeks, and Atobe wonders if someday they'll burn their building. Maybe if he feels mischevieous, he'll get blueberry.
Today, as per ritual, they'll retreat to the sitting room. Maybe Jirou will fall asleep on the floor. If alert, Jirou might be induced into doing some homework assignments, and Atobe might help him with his English.
Atobe's home is, for now, devoid of servants, and his parents are gone, though they could still be in the house somewhere. Soon Atobe will ride in the limosine with Jirou, who will undoubtedly snore on the way, taking him to Jirou's house. Atobe will return by seven, and eat dinner, but he'll leave out the dessert.