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Language or the Kiss The train ride is long. I keep dozing off. I can't keep my eyes open. A few more stops and then I'll be there, then I have to find my hotel, then I can sleep. The invitation is crumpled in my only bag which rests by my feet. I yawn, my mouth wide, and count the number of people on the train to keep focused. A little girl sleeping in her mother's lap. An old man gazing out the window at the black of nothing. A young woman about my age reading a comic book. There are others, further down, dark heads, globes above the roundness of the seat. I feel hollow, as if I've been riding this train forever. A few more stops, and then the hotel, near where I grew up, near where the man I called my brother and I used to play when we were small. The rumble of the train is hypnotizing, and before I know it, my stop is called. Shakily, I stand, hopping down from the train, a phantom from a distant past. Pausing a moment, I lean against the wall as the train rushes out again. So many memories. Home, but not home. Belonging, but not belonging. Here for the moment, but not returned. I pick up my bag again, and start heading toward the hotel. It's just sundown. I should pay them a visit tonight. My invitation was for supper, after all. The hotel is brief and chilly. I throw my belongings in the room, take my key in my pocket, assure myself of my fine appearance, and start off. The way is short. The hotel is close to everything I used to cherish. I'm lingering at the door. I can see inside, where the people I once called my family are waiting, my grandfather, my mother, my father, my brother, and that new woman. Five of them, clustered around the living room, talking and laughing. I watch as my mother glances at the time, shrugs, and then starts to serve the meal. I'm transfixed. The chair left for me is open, empty, waiting, hungry. I can see so well inside that it's a wonder they can't see me, but the darkness out here would account for that. Funny, that almost seems a metaphor for my life, surrounded by the darkness, always kept apart by an invisible wall, an intangible yet vivid barrier. Maybe it was visible though. Anyone could see that I didn't belong with my family. I don't look like any of them. I'm not their blood. My mother is smiling at my brother and the girl, and my father is speaking, probably saying something deep and meaningful. My grandfather, getting along in years, is glaring into his tea with a dignity and pride that even age can't taint. Nothing is changed from when I saw them last. Only this new girl, this intruder, not of their blood, is different. I crumple my brother's wedding invitation in my fingers. I shut my eyes, leaning back against the tree under which I was found. It's so dark that I can imagine I'm in a tunnel, a pit, a black hole, except for the faint sounds coming from the temple. My brother is laughing, his kind, spontaneous laugh, that laugh he had when he was comfortable and happy, the one he laughed so rarely around me. There is another laugh threaded through his, unfamiliar, young, feminine. His fiancee's, obviously. My mother's voice, interjecting, carrying more than a smile as it always did. I can remember when there would be five places at the table, one for each of us, before I had gone away to school. I had not belonged then either, but by force of not knowing better, had thought nothing could be done about it. Now, there were five again, but this fifth one, the one who didn't belong, was brought in by choice. I had not been. I had been brought in by charity and pity and kindness. I remember when I was younger than I used to try to outshine my brother, but as I grew older and realized my position, it dawned on me that I had no right to do so. I was the leech who was to steal his inheritance. I was the outsider. After I understood that, I stopped trying so hard, but my efforts seemed so futile. I couldn't stop the girls who wanted me and not him. I couldn't lie about my grades that I didn't study for. I couldn't help that I was more athletic than him. So I did the only thing I could. I fled. I could walk up to the door of the temple right now, easily, raise a hand and knock lightly, and they would come, embracing me with that honest love and kindness in their eyes. I could call out. It would require so little of me. They would welcome me back, their prodigal son, though I was not. I don't. The crumpled invitation is still in my hand. It was kind of him to send me one. I haven't spoken to him in nearly five years, ever since my graduation from Tokyo University. Our last words had been spoken in anger, words I had regretted ever since, but had not reneged. But, as I knew he would, he patched himself up, continued in school and got a degree in religion from Sophia University, much to the delight of his grandfather, I'm sure. The letter my mother had sent along with the invitation had detailed these to me, and his subsequent romance with a girl at his school, this new fiancee. I, of course, had not married. The one I had loved I had left as well. It was only fair. I'm glad that he's happy, though. He deserves only the best, as he always had. He was always so kind, and I'm sure this hasn't changed at all. He doesn't need me interfering with his life again. I turn from the house, gleaming with lights and happiness, my footsteps soft and silent. The grass hasn't been cut recently, but assuredly Sho hasn't been home and his father is getting older. It had been my job. There's a time in your life, I've come to discover, when you feel that you utterly don't matter. And I never did. The grass will get cut, though not by me. And even if it never is cut again, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. It's funny, almost. They never even knew where I was living. Sho sent me the invitation through my publisher. I wonder why they haven't sent anything before. Perhaps they respected my desire to be away from them, from their kind eyes. I was ridiculously popular, of course, though not even I expected it. The first book suddenly became a series, and then it spawned a new series, and I was rich. I sent many of my checks back to the Ikedas, a pitiful attempt at trying to return their benevolence. I wasn't a poor man now. Maybe they'll hire a boy to cut the grass for them with the money. I feel worn, as if every step is an effort. My feet have led me away from the temple, the glittering promises of comfort, and I turn the corner and lean against the fence there. Everything is dark, but the stars which glare hazily through the pollution that has become increasingly obvious in the past few years. Streetlights and house lights litter the darkness in splotches, the pox of the night. I can't hear voices anymore, which is a relief and a burden at the same time. How does one go about apologizing for existing, anyway? My books weren't autobiographies at first, but slowly, as I continued writing, my own fears and pain leaked through visibly to my characters. I tried to use this to distance myself from my pain, but it only succeeded in making it obvious for thousands of my readers. I remember wincing as my publisher announced that they planned to translate my works into other languages. I had enough money to live on. This was surely enough for me. I invested my money in bonds and other such things that I was mainly ignorant of, but was assured they would continue to give me a profit. Relaxed about my future, I started on my last book, one which I still have not finished. Into this one I am unabashedly pouring my heart and soul. Everything is in there – my family, my feelings, my life, and him. It's him that I miss the most. I pick myself up from against the wall and start back toward my hotel, feeling much colder than the night warrants. The walk is lonely and bleak, starved by memories. His words had been firm, assuring me we would live together after graduation, that we would live together after college, that we would live together forever. At eighteen years of age, one can know nothing of forever. I was always the insecure one, the dependent, feeble one. I clung to him like a parasite, sucking him dry, and since him, fortunately, there have been no other victims. I was always scared of losing him, that one day he'd simply tire of me and leave. Perhaps that's why I left first. Why delay the inevitable? All I did was abuse his love and friendship, which he would have realized soon enough. I would have loved to be with him, but I had to be fair. If not to him, then for my own good. It was hard living with someone you knew you abused. Of course, he would have denied it, but truth has a way of coming to light. It was always security I wanted, simple and pure. I press the button on the elevator in the hotel and wait till the small dings announce its arrival. I step in, and the doors close smoothly behind me. My finger lifts almost unwillingly to press the button for the seventh floor. I loved him deeply then, precociously almost. The strange thing is that I think I still love him. He is never far from my thoughts, but I always am hesitant to admit this. Is just thinking about him love? In his arms was the one place I felt the most secure. There, I could almost put aside my doubt and guilt and fear and remember that he loved me. I would force away reality and surrender myself to my dubious fantasy, born of a rejection-ridden brain. And his smooth voice assured me it was real. Maybe it's because, in the end, he was a boy too, and I was afraid of the rejection of the world. Maybe it's because I did not want to see the disgust in my brother's eyes. Maybe it's because I was a coward, and still am. He never wrote me after I left. I called him occasionally, light-hearted, meaningless words streaming out of my lips, and he would answer, his own calm voice adagio to my staccato. And I would keep speaking, my voice so carefree, but I was always leaning heavily against the wall, my eyes shut, trying to keep from crying silently, burning up inside. Idle chatter, empty, hollow. Are you married? No. You? No, of course not, my career keeps me too busy. A laugh, a bit too quick. Yes, I read your latest book. A pause. It was lovely, Mitsuru. Another pause, my nervous laugh breaking the silence. Thanks, I'm glad you liked it. His voice was always so smooth, controlled. Are you working on another? Yes… it's my last one. I look forward to reading it. I wonder if he ever cried over me. He had, in his way, always taken care of me, from silly things like homework assignments that I missed, or when I was sick, to more serious things, like when my emotions ran too high for me to control. He slowly taught me how to stop hating myself, though the scars always lingered. Yes. I think I do still love him. The elevator door opens and I step out, tracing the path to my room. My electronic key doesn't work the first time, but the second time it does, and I twist the handle of the door, pushing it open. My room is stark, bare, and disillusioningly cold. I flick off the air conditioner and take off my suit coat, draping it rather unevenly on the lone chair in the room. I flop backwards onto the bed, a bit annoyed at the chilliness of the blankets. Sighing, I raise my eyes. In the dorm, when we had slept in the same bed, it had almost always been his. Those beds had been cramped and small, but that only inspired me to move closer to him. I loved to rest my head on his smooth chest and just listen to his heartbeat, wordless and warm. He would stroke my hair lightly, also silent. Those times were my favorite, when I felt the safest, when I knew I could grasp onto forever because we had made it tangible. I remember one time, the only time he had ever joined me in my bed, he had curled up next to me. I slipped an arm around his shoulder and drew him nearer, so that I could hear his breath. I was flat on my back, and he raised his dark eyes to me, those eyes so opaque to everyone else. Shinobu… Yes? And I paused, afraid of seeming foolish, but then realized he must be quite used to it. Do you ever imagine that you can see the stars through the ceiling, through all these floors of people above us? He was silent a moment, mulling this over, but when he spoke it was sure. Only when I'm with you, Mitsuru. That moment always stuck with me, and I mentioned it to him in my note of farewell, explaining my reasons for leaving. I planned on telling him face to face, of course, but since that was liable to get messy and emotional, I decided I needed to write down my reasons as well, so he would understand that it wasn't him, that it was never him. That my selfishness and my leaving was not his fault. That he should find someone else, someone more suited to him, someone good enough for him. I stand again, slowly, undoing the buttons of my pressed, starched shirt, sliding out of my pants, then picking them up and draping them on the same chair as my suit coat. I wondered if Sho and my family – his family, rather – would be angry at my lack of appearance this evening. Maybe I could tell them my train hit unexpected delays. I pull my socks off (Heaven knows he hated my habit of sleeping without socks. My feet were always too cold, he said.) and rifle through my suitcase. I pull out my nice pair of flannel pajamas and snuggle into them. It wasn't late yet, but I wasn't going anywhere. For some reason, after I dress, my eyes are drawn to the window. Faint scattered lights glaze over the parking lot like some sort of brainwashed, fallen stars, a secret garden of light over a shabby, asphalt field. My eyes lift to the real stars for a moment, but then I look away. The memories, despite the time that has passed, are too sharp. It's funny how things come full circle. When I was smaller I would go outside, alone, and just wonder, looking up the day draining away. Now, here I am, grown, yet still alone, wondering. One of the questions that had danced through my mind when I was a boy has been answered. Will I ever fall in love? Yes. I'm still working on the meaning of the universe. I sink down slowly into the chair that is already decorated by my discarded clothing. When I was small, my parents had not hidden the fact of my adoption from me. How could they have? My parents and brother were dark-haired, and my mother and Sho had the same sparkling blue eyes that for some reason always reminded me of summer. My father had dark eyes as well. And then there was me, markedly out of place. And I do have to admit I was happy growing up. I had two parents that loved me and a constant playmate. There was little else a child could ask for. It was only when I started to realize who I actually was to these people that I understood helplessness and being lost. My pride did not want me to admit that pity and kindness had reared me, but it was true. After they wouldn't start hating me by my poor behavior, I gave up and did what was necessary. I left. I think my hands are shaking. Maybe I should turn up the heat. Maybe I should crawl under the covers. I did the same thing to him. I expected his rejection, and so left before he could give it to me. It's always so cold now without him. I'm sure everyone thought me the warm one, but really, it was him. I just pretended better. Did I want him to hate me, like I wanted my family to hate me? Yes, my hands are definitely shaking. I sit on them. We had been so happy, so content… and I had thrown that away. I wonder if he hates me now. Of course, he wouldn't show it, especially not to me. I am not sure whether that is kind or not. I don't want to be this predictable, this patterned. Something has to change. I can't keep doing this. Heavily, I get up and shut the curtain. I don't want to see those false stars. I feel more alone tonight than I've ever felt since I left him, hollow, shallow. Could he have really loved this husk of a man that I know too well? It seems improbable, but he was always doing things that made sense to no one else. I reseat myself and set my hands in my lap. I feel like an old man. Have I come this far just to be lost now? Have I really been causing myself this pain all along? What if he and my family were never really going to reject me? The thought is haunting. My room is almost completely dark now. I reach over and flick on a light. Certainly, it's not some celestial object, but it will do for lighting. I pull out my notebook and a pen, chewing the tip, then press pen to paper. I wonder for a moment if this will be the last chapter of my final book. Really, that's all my last book was about, an auto-biography masked by different names. There were, of course, some unbelievable parts, ghosts and such, but that didn't faze me. The most important part was him. Somehow, everything in the book rotated around him as the core. It was obvious to me from the start, but I hadn't let that deter me. This needed to be written; I needed to get it out. Maybe he would read it and finally understand, finally see what I was all along. Maybe he would hate me, but I don't care. I want him to see me. Is that love? My pen finally pauses in the blue trails on the paper and I glance at the time. Only eight o'clock. Good. I slowly set my notebook down, determination bubbling in my mind, then reach over and pick up the phone. I dial. "Hello?" "Sho?" There is a pause on the line and I can almost see him thinking about who it might be. When he speaks, his voice is surprised, almost shocked. "Mitsuru?" I smile slightly. It's good to hear his voice again. "Yeah. Can I…" I pause, fear in my voice, though I don't think he heard it. "Can I stop by tomorrow?" I know that he's grinning and this makes me feel somewhat better. "Sure! Great! You can meet my fiancee!" He hasn't sounded this childishly excited in a long time. "Thanks. I need to make some more calls while I'm in town." I pause again, not wanting to hang up, but needing to before I lose my nerve. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay, Sho? Early too." His face is so clear in my mind. "Great! I'll tell Mom you're coming." His excitement fades to a lower level of seriousness, his voice deeper than I seem to have remembered. "Thanks, Mitsuru. You don't know how much this means to me." I feel choked. "No, Sho… thank you." I wipe a hand across my eyes. "Good night." "Good night. See you tomorrow." A click, and he is gone. I did lie to him though. I only have one other phone call to make. The number is engraved in my mind as if with a dagger. I press the numbers slowly, and the line rings an answer. One ring. Two. Three. Four. Click. "You've reached Tezuka Shinobu, please leave a message at the beep." I almost go to hang up, but suddenly someone picks up. "Hello?" "Shinobu?" This felt familiar. He, however, recognizes my voice right away. "Mitsuru? How are you?" There's a guarded quality in his tone. Not that I blame him. I freeze momentarily. "I…" I know he's puzzled. This isn't like any of our other conversations. "Mitsuru? Are you all right?" At the tenderness of his voice, my last reserves collapse. It is over now. My breathing is shaky and unsteady. "Shinobu… I'm sorry." His voice is quick. "Where are you?" Almost numbly, I give him my location and room number. "I'll be right there." Then a click, and he is gone. I think that I'll let him read the manuscript to my last novel first. I think it's his right. And I want him to. I missed him.
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Language or the Kiss
By: Kiri
Another ever-so-cheery (ha ha :p) grown-up M and S story. They're not together. ^_^; Mitsuru reflects on his abandonment of everyone dear to him.
Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Romance/Drama - Words: 4,111 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 9/27/2001 - id: 417769
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Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten