"Germany. That's far away."
Fuji knew that the country was located in Europe, that the place was once war-torn and a mass grave for those who died because of one man's distorted vision, that the people there spoke a completely different language and led a completely different lifestyle.
Fuji knew that the sea of stars in the distance was artificial, that the white foams snaking through the velvet heavens was not some divine light, but the signal light for airplanes. He knew that in Germany, it was daytime.
"Yes, it is. But I'll be back."
In the window, Fuji saw Tezuka's phantom reflection: dark wavy hair, chiseled face, wireless glasses that gleamed silver in the light. The murmuring of a red blazer and jeans ghosted into his ear like a lover's sigh, and he couldn't help but think that Tezuka was fading.
Fuji shivered. The arm of the red blazer came around his shoulder, and he caught the shimmering of gold on the other's finger. Unconsciously, he touched the gold band on his own, and was struck by a sudden anxiety that twisted his insides with a vicious jerk.
"Hm. Of course. Because you know that I'll hunt down whoever kept you there," Fuji said easily, even if that easiness was deliberate and forced. He could feel his smile tightening at the corners, but there was no way he was going to cry. Tezuka didn't like cry babies, and a Fuji was anything but one.
Still, it was hard to look Tezuka in the eye. Eyes are windows to the soul, and Fuji knew what would happen if their eyes met.
Tezuka would see Fuji's thought: "I'm not going to cry for you, 'Mitsu."
And Fuji would see Tezuka's thought: "It's okay to cry, Syuusuke."
So instead, Fuji focused on the darkness outside: the trail of lights – blue and red and orange – that dispersed in the black backdrop and distorted the airport into an alien landscape. He wondered if Germany was like that; Germany, a place that was halfway around the world and suddenly seemed so foreign and unfathomable.
He could feel Tezuka move to stand behind him, feel the soft breath against the back of his neck. He could suppress the urge to turn around and just hold Tezuka, but he could not suppress the shiver that crawled down his back.
Tezuka said, "I'll be going now."
Fuji wanted to laugh. Tezuka sounded like he was announcing his intent to buy milk at the little grocery store down the street from their apartment. Of course he wasn't going to hop on a plane and fly hundreds of miles just to negotiate a company deal. Of course not.
"Go awe them with your prowess," Fuji said. The small, expected twitch in Tezuka's brows gave Fuji a small amount of comfort. At least the ability to annoy Tezuka was still his.
"Please don't turn into Atobe," Tezuka said. "Besides, if the negotiation succeeds, it'll be a major breakthrough for the company. We'll be able to enter the foreign market for the first time." Then in an even tone that seemed impossible to sound reproachful – but because he was Tezuka, he could achieve the impossible – he said, "It's an honor to be selected to travel overseas."
"No, not really," Fuji thought as he watched the airplane slowly head towards the runway. The bright headlights shone like balls of fire, momentarily blinding him, and his vision burned. What honor was there in leaving home?
Even when he diverted his eyes, the burning sensation persisted. He blinked the welling emotions back behind closed eyes and a practiced smile. Beyond the terminal window, workers in neon-orange vests bustled around the plane. Their hair and clothes were tousled. Fuji hoped the wind wasn't too bad that night.
"I'll be back in a few days."
Fuji knew he really shouldn't be worried: Tezuka was only doing his job. But the engagement ring felt cold when he rubbed his fingers over it, and the wind seemed to be snarling cruelly outside.
The announcement for the next flight came on. He could feel Tezuka's hesitance behind him, caught between the desire to part with a kiss and the need to conform to social standards.
To help him out, Fuji waved at the glass, and his own doppelganger waved back. "Take care."
In that intangible world reflected in the window, Fuji saw Tezuka nod. "Later…Syuusuke."
Fuji watched Tezuka's image step onto the ramp, believing that if he didn't physically see him leave, then the next time he saw him, it would be as if he had never left in the first place. But at the last minute, something made Fuji turn around, and he saw only the profile of a bespectacled man in his early-thirties, with wind-blown hair and a sad smile.
Fuji knows it is the first day of spring. He knows it is that time of year again. He knows it has been long enough.
There is a little shop down the street from his apartment, sandwiched between a grocery store and a magazine vendor. Every morning, the old lady behind the counter waters the roses and tulips and other flowers that splashed color onto the concrete jungle around them.
The doorbell jingles as Fuji enters. Immediately, he is swept away by the fresh floral scents that cling to his cotton shirt.
"Good morning, Yamamoto-san," he said.
"Good morning, Fuji-san." The old lady smiles from where she is watering a pot of bluebells. The shop is empty, as most people are still asleep at the peak of dawn. The old lady pauses for a moment, peers at the sky that's streaked by hazy golden light, and says, "For him?"
"Yes." Fuji looks around. Soft shadows smudge the edges of leaves and petals, giving the miniature garden a soft look. "I'd like something different this time."
The old lady looks momentarily surprised. "Not the usual ones?"
"No." For the first time, the old lady sees him truly smile. "How do flowers bid farewell?"
The old lady tries to smile back, but her dull brown eyes are like autumn leaves and speak of pity. "Fuji-san…no, Syuusuke-san, I have just the thing for you," she says softly, and heads to the back of the shop.
Later, Fuji leaves the flower shop with a dozen fresh roses that blaze yellow in the rising sun. He is grateful for the old lady's assistance, as he is never good with the language of flowers and would probably have chosen the wrong ones.
Then again, the old lady knew what had happened.
"They all know," he thought.
Fuji called Tezuka on the first night, without even thinking about the time difference between Germany and Japan. Tezuka answered in a bleary voice. Fuji was struck with an image of him still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, bare-chested and clad in a pair of loose sweatpants. He licked his lips absentmindedly.
"Did you miss me?" Fuji asked.
"Would if I said no?"
He could see the smile behind Tezuka's tease, and shot back, "Then I'll have to divorce you."
"But we're not even married yet."
"Well, I'll just have to marry you first, and then divorce you."
Instead of a rebuttal, Fuji heard a yawn. Suddenly, he felt guilty for calling. Just a little. "What time is it in Germany?"
"One-thirty," Tezuka answered.
Fuji paused. "Mitsu…"
"It's okay, Syuusuke. Good morning to you too." Behind those words, Fuji could hear Tezuka say, "You don't have to apologize."
"Ah. Good morning."
The taxi driver can't figure out his gender. That's fine by Fuji, because it's hell of a lot better than the sympathetic glances people have been sneaking at him for the past few years.
"So, where to, beautiful?" the young man asks. He switches on the timer, and the red numbers counting the fare start rolling.
Fuji wonders if the young man is trying to hit on him. He smiles charmingly and recites the location.
"Visiting?" The driver watches him through the rear view mirror. Fuji can bet all his triple counters that he is trying to peek at his ring finger.
"You could say that," he says.
"Some nice flowers you got there."
Fuji thinks that the driver should be focusing more on the road than on his chest, which was hidden behind the bouquet of roses and a cream-colored box. He smiles in response for the rest of the ride.
Just before getting off the taxi, Fuji says, "By the way, I'm gay."
He never stopped to see the young man's reaction, but he thinks it must have been amusing at the very least.
Two days later, Fuji found a brown package outside his door. Inside was a Fuji apple. There was no letter, but he knew who the sender was.
The next day, he received a roll of Fuji film. When he developed the negatives, he ended up with a stack of pictures of Germany. Again there was no note.
On the third day, he had a postcard of Mt. Fuji. On the back, the inscription "printed in Germany" was highlighted in blue.
"Why?" Fuji asked over the phone.
"Why not?" Tezuka said. Then added, "How was the apple?"
Fuji opened the refrigerator door and looked at the glossy red fruit inside. "It was delicious."
Fuji stops at the wrought-iron gates. Sunlight bounces off the black bars, drawing phantom shadows over plots of neatly trimmed grass. An assortment of flowers dotted the field, mitigating the usually grave occasion with a dose of nature's beauty. A breeze stirs, brushing against the back of his neck.
"Hello to you too," he murmurs.
The place is familiar as Fuji walks through the gates. But this time, although the scenery is still the same, there is a different feel to it. He can sense the wind rising, emerging from the distant horizon, enfolding him in familiar arms.
Halfway down the gravel path, he steps onto the grass and stops in front of a bronze plaque. Kneeling, he places the flowers and box in front of it. For a moment, he hesitates, before opening the box. The photos and postcard are still inside. He regretted that he couldn't prevent the apple from rotting.
Fuji gingerly takes the items out and looks through them once more. One last time.
On the fourth day, Fuji received nothing and wondered if Tezuka was running out of money. On the evening news, he learned about the earthquake in Germany. His hand reached for the phone without thinking, but all he heard in the end was, "We're sorry, but your call could not be forwarded." He tried to convince himself that Tezuka was busy, probably at some important meeting with some big-time executive. Besides, earthquakes didn't happen in Germany, right? He must've misunderstood the report…
On the fifth day, Fuji found a copy of the local paper and a letter in his mailbox. The headlines stopped his world: "Earthquake kills Japanese man in Germany."
He opened the letter instead with shaky hands, because he was afraid of what the article would reveal. A letter was more personal, and Tezuka's name was on the front anyway. However, the soil stains and crumpled face of the paper unnerved him. He read the letter, feeling something in him die with every word.
Dear Syuusuke,
Sorry. Looks like I won't be able to keep my promise. It's strange to be writing to you from beneath the remnants of a building. I apologize for the poor penmanship. The lighting here is dim.
The negotiation went well. I was about to leave when the earthquake struck. The building I was in was collapsing inward, and the residents were departing in a rather chaotic manner. I, too, was hurrying out, when I saw the executive I had been negotiating with trapped between a wall and a table. During the frenzy, someone must've shoved the table into him. His size hindered his movements, and I couldn't just ignore his pleas for help. In that minute it took me to get him out, the wall collapsed. At least one of us escaped.
I'm currently sitting in a pile of rubble. I suspect perhaps four, maybe five, days have passed. A glass of water would be nice. But I trust that the rescue team will eventually arrive. Meanwhile, during my time of solitude, I came to realize something: I'm not alone.
I never told you this, but I believe in God. Did I surprise you? When I was trapped, I asked God, "Why me? Syuusuke and I are going to be married soon." At one point, either because I was struck with a vision or I became delirious, God answered me. This is I saw:
God and I were walking on a field of snow. I was livid and bitter, and demanded to know why I was on the edge of death.
"It is fate," He said.
"Help me. Where are you when I need you?" I asked.
"I am always with you. I have been with you all along."
I looked at the path behind us and saw only one set of footprints. "Lying is a sin."
"I am God. I do not commit sins," He said. "Those footprints are mine. I have been carrying you."
"Where are we going?"
"Forward."
I was curious to see where God was taking me, but then I remembered you and asked, "What about Syuusuke? I can't leave him behind. I love him."
"You are not leaving him. Like I have been carrying you, you will be his support. No one in this world is alone. Until now, you have left your footprints beside his as the two of you walked down a common road. But footprints change. Just as I am carrying you now, your footprints are no longer there. Yet that does not mean you are not there. You have merely assumed another form and do not need to leave footprints."
I think I understood. Perhaps one day, you will too. In the meantime, let's continue to travel down this road together. But remember, although my spirit will always be with you, don't let your guard down.
Take care,
Tezuka Kunimitsu.
Fuji shredded the newspaper without reading it, because he already knew what had happened. He cried and cursed and raged at this God Tezuka believed in, because he did not understand.
Fuji places the photos and postcard back into the box and closes the lid. They originally belonged to Tezuka, and it was time to return them. It was time to stop clinging onto what Tezuka once was, and accept the way he is now.
The sturdiness of the leather case balances the fragility of the yellow roses.
"I hope you like the flowers."
As Fuji stands up, a gust of wind sifts through the grass, tousling his hair and dancing around his body. He laughs and calls to the sky, "Is that the best you can do, Tezuka Kunimitsu?"
The wind blows harder.
Fuji laughs harder, because he can feel Tezuka beside him.
Thanks for reading! And you know, I would really appreciate it if you could spare a moment of your life and visit my website at http://mikaway. infinites. net (delete the spaces)
The site features my debut novel. The summary and other pertinent information is on the first page. Please buy a copy if you enjoy a good dose of sarcasm... :D Thank you!
- chibiryu