Another fic about Bakuman. Because I love Bakuman so much. Yes, I am insane. Thank you : )
Disclaimer: I do not own Bakuman. Bakuman is the brainchild of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata, of course. If I owned Bakuman, the Editor-in-Chief's moustache would be a full, extravagant handlebar instead of the wimpy thing it is now. Why? Well, would you want a wimpy moustache or a dramatic handlebar? Yes, that's what I thought.
When he first saw her, his heart echoed deep in his eardrums, his surroundings became liquid crystal, and all he could really see clearly was her. Just like in a manga, everything slowed down until time nearly stopped, and every breath lasted an age, every blink an eternity. Except the feeling was so much stronger than manga depicted, like expecting the wattage of a soft white light bulb and turning on the light to meet a light as strong as if someone had condensed the sun.
In his eleven years of life, it was the most shocking thing that he had ever experienced.
As he watched her, he noticed that he held his breath, as if even one tiny gasp would erase her forever. Unwillingly, he blinked, but discovered that she was still there. She was not a vision, nor was she a dream. She was real, and even if she would never even do so much as cast a glance in his direction, he knew that she wouldn't leave his thoughts for some time.
At the time, Nobuhiro Mashiro knew that he had fallen head over heels in love, but he didn't necessarily realize the imprint Miyuki Haruno had left on his soul.
-o-
It didn't matter if he had to tap pencils on his desk, or shuffle papers, or scratch loudly in his notebook as he copied down notes. It didn't matter that the studious class representatives would always give him dirty looks for making such a ruckus, or that his things constantly got taken from him so he wouldn't have them to fiddle with, or that he was high on the list of students his teacher would love to get expelled. No, he was sure that if he didn't make enough noise, the entire class would hear how audibly his heart thudded in his chest.
He would have gladly traded a constantly talkative stomach for an ever-fluttering heart, especially when she was only two rows and one seat to the right from him. This distance, though, felt like only a hair's breadth. When he focused his eyes on the teacher's lecture, he could still smell her shampoo. When he painstakingly took the care to copy every last decimal and function down from the board, he could still see every strand of her hair that caught the light.
When he told himself she wasn't everything to him, his heart punched his stomach like a prize fighter for being such a liar.
To him, her voice was a million times Mozart's finest composition. Her laugh was amrita. The lift of her cheek as she smiled had the innocence of a playground of small children. Her presence tasted like the first breath of fresh air taken after holding his breath in to the point where it felt like his lungs would burst.
The gentle pursing of her lips, the soft sweeping of her hair, the graceful curve of her neck… He didn't remember exactly when he realized it, but one day it occurred to him that every bit of the girl he loved could potentially be drawn by a human hand. It would never be exactly like her, for perfection could never be recreated. But a human hand could come close.
He'd always been told that he was good at drawing. Even his brother would now and again nod in the direction of one of his sketches or paintings. It was the only thing even close to a talent that he had, and he decided that he would put it to good use. Even if it got him nowhere, even if he failed drastically, even if it made him lose everything… He would try.
Nobuhiro would try with what he was best at to release some of his feelings. He would spill the words he could not say onto paper and form them into pictures. He would try as hard as he could to store his love for Miyuki Haruno between pages and ink because he knew that if he kept on holding it in his soul, it would brim over and overflow, and he didn't want to give up even a drop of it.
-o-
With every passing second, the air got heavier, the atmosphere became more unbearable, and his heart beat louder. It was the end of everything—junior high, freedom…
And of course, she would be gone.
He didn't even want to think about it, especially when he looked back and realized that he hadn't even exchanged ten words with her during the last four years. How big a coward was he? How hard could it have been to say three simple words—I like you—to her? What was the worst that she could do? Slap him? Cry? Run away?
Tell him to erase himself from her forever?
But what if that wouldn't happen? What if she smiled if he told her? What if she said it made her happy to hear it? What if, magically, she liked him too?
By now, he knew almost everything to know about her. He knew how she would tilt her head when greeting someone. He knew how she inhaled and exhaled in four-second cycles as she ran laps in physical education. He knew how she always had a bookmark on hand, but instead used gossamer-thin hairpins to mark her page. He knew how she would cover her right hand with her left, because there was a small scar near the base of her ring finger from when she fell out of a tree when she was younger.
He could close his eyes and move his pencil across paper and still draw her with precision. He could stand in a beauty store and pick out her conditioner by scent. He could be stuffed into a room crowded with noisy people and be able to find her across the room by hearing her voice just once.
A room crowded with people, except everyone was silent.
He really didn't care about the speech the bald principal was reciting for their graduation. He just stared at the reflection of the ceiling fans overhead on the principal's shiny scalp and waited to be let go of. The quicker the better. Besides, no doubt that Miyoshi would find him and tackle him into celebrating at the arcade with a few other guys. He wasn't up for any type of festivity; he just wanted to go home and lie down and stare at the ceiling until he saw stars.
Someone nudged him, telling him to go and get his diploma. He did, wearily, trying as hard as he could not to cringe when the principal took his hand into his own pudgy, clammy one and shook vigorously. Principal Frog-Face had frog hands, too. He did manage to learn something in junior high, then.
It was over too quickly, and before long girls were running around hugging each other, tears streaming from their eyes and handkerchiefs pressed to noses. Squeals and promises to keep in contact floated through the air between friends and faint acquaintances, as if moving onto high school suddenly opened up the barrier between them. Boyfriends and girlfriends exchanged love letters and congratulations under the blooming cherry trees, stealing quick kisses as teachers turned their backs. He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair.
"M-Mashiro-kun…"
And all too quickly, he narrowly missed falling flat on his face from shock. She was here, less than even a meter from him, so close that he was aware that every hair stood up on his neck.
"Here."
"Ah… a letter?"
"I… I wanted to wish you good luck in high school, since we won't be going to the same one…"
"Right, I heard you're going to an all girl's…"
"Yes…"
"Well, good luck to you too, then…"
"Thank you…"
"No, thank you…"
Had he ever noticed how her head tilted just slightly when she smiled? Or how she looked away when she blushed, but peered back at him through her eyelashes? Or how her fingers trembled lightly like a leaf caught in a breeze as she handed him the letter?
Every day he noticed, but he was captivated all the same.
And while his breath was caught, taking in these little things that he already knew about her anew, he barely had the time to murmur another quick 'thanks' before she turned and ran to rejoin her friends. For moments afterwards, he stood with that letter in hand, not daring to open it in fear that it would crumble away with even the slightest movement. But he realized that, like the distant laughter of classmates bidding each other farewell, like the cherry blossom petals drifting down like tinted, eternal snow…
This letter was real, just as real as its writer.
As he opened the envelope, he noticed her faint scent mingling with the pale pink stationary. He didn't read it; he instead stared at her handwriting, at the delicate curves and precise lines, and knew exactly the words she was trying to convey.
He went home and carefully tucked the letter, envelope and all, into the very bottom of his desk drawer, the one that held all his sketches of her. Then he sat down and scribbled furiously across sheets of paper until his hands were splattered with ink and his afternoon's events were recorded in a rough comic outline. 'Name', it was called.
Nobuhiro sat back and sighed. Without her he couldn't dance, because she was his music. Without her he couldn't see, because she was his light. Without her he couldn't draw, because she was his muse. Without Miyuki, he would have never wanted to be a mangaka, but now he wanted nothing more, except maybe her.
-o-
Akatsuka Award… Akatsuka Award… Akatsuka Award… Akatsuka Award…
It was his mantra, the words he had on his lips as he woke up and as he stumbled into dreamless sleep. It was his very breath, his blood, his spirit…
For once, he had to pull his mind away from her.
He didn't know if it was because of his jangling nerves, his breakouts of cold sweat, or everything else that showed his panic. All he knew was that he couldn't think of anything else besides the award, because it was all that mattered.
If he won, he would be one step closer to her. Even if it was only one step, it was a step, and she was that much closer. If he just reached out, he would be able to touch her…
…and leave an ink blot on her clothing. That was just it. It was impossible to get to her directly, but all he had to bridge the gap between them was a Kabura pen. And not even a good Kabura pen, a second-hand Kabura pen a retired artist had given him out of pity. (He used it because he hoped that the artist's talent would somehow rub off on him, but…)
Fighting and winning a war wasn't so easy when all you had was paper and ink, and a brain full of hot air and gags, and all you could do was wait anxiously as other people decided your fate. He wondered if this was what murder suspects felt as they waited to be convicted or acquitted. Okay, so maybe it wasn't that bad for him. But maybe it was. All of his hopes were riding on this one phone call, and his editor—
"Hello, this is Kawaguchi…"
"Oh… really?"
"I see…"
"Tomorrow's okay. I'll be by at four."
"Oh, thank you. Okay."
"Goodbye."
And his editor had been the one to tell him the direction of his future. Well.
Not caring that he was already in his twenties, he flopped down onto the floor and spread his limbs out like he used to in the empty field behind the elementary school. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, until his nasal cavity felt raw. He yanked his glasses from his face and tossed them aside, hearing them clatter to the floor somewhere between his bookshelves. All he wanted to do was sleep so that maybe someone would stop by to wake him up and tell him that he needed to get back to reality, and reality was where he was sitting at his desk, waiting for the news of how he did with his one-shot…
Except that he had already gotten past that point in his life, and this was not a fictional world, and that reality had been delivered to him. A reality that he dared not to believe.
And Nobuhiro grinned slowly, wider and wider, until he had to yell out to prevent his face from splitting in two. He had won, and with this he had established his name as a mangaka. With this, he had achieved what would be one of the greatest milestones in his career.
With this, he could at the very least make Miyuki smile.
-o-
He had waited so many years to hear her voice again, and it made his heart flutter just like he remembered. Her quiet but sweet voice, the soft 'mm' at the end of her sentences, the way she stifled a giggle behind her fingers even when on the phone… All of these were so familiar that he felt like he would melt and burst and float and fly, all at once, and he didn't want to do anything to stop how happy he felt while he spoke to her.
Except that one simple phrase yanked the bottom out of his soul and drained all the warmth swirling in him.
"I've been promoted to secretary of the president! I can't believe it!"
"I— Wow, I can't believe it either…"
And he really couldn't. How could this have happened? This… It walloped him hard in the stomach and didn't the let air back into his lungs. She was already secretary to the president of her already-excellent company, and where was he? Sitting on the floor of his apartment, hopefully sketching names for potential series that he would show to his editor while slurping undercooked instant ramen out its soggy paper container? His proudest accomplishment to date was marked by buying five copies of the issue of Jump that announced him as winner of the Akatsuka Award. What else did he have?
Well, he didn't have her, of course.
She was so far ahead of him that this accomplishment of hers had drowned the bridge he'd carefully been constructing over the past few years with a single flash flood. Her success was secured; after all, who would fire her from being their personal secretary? But he… he didn't have a stable job. He was lucky if an editor bothered to meet with him every once in a while. She deserved the world, and he wasn't nearly enough.
But he would work for her. This was a minor setback, but it wasn't the end of the line. He still had time, and he would grab every second of it to claw his way back to her. He would do anything for her, and everything.
If nothing else, Nobuhiro had a new goal to strive for. Well, maybe not a new goal; all his life, he had been longing after Miyuki, and maybe this was a sign that she would soon reach her hand out to him.
-o-
He lived around his deadlines. He pushed his body and spirit forward towards his editor's expectations. He no longer cared if crumpled paper littered the floor of his apartment. He stopped visiting his family and compromised with one phone call a week to his mother. He stopped cutting his hair and tied it back when it got too long to keep out of the way. He lost an average of two pounds per week.
He didn't care. He didn't care that his job was working him instead of the other way around, or that he was usually so unkempt that he didn't even want to go outside to get the mail. He didn't care that he had circles under his eyes so dark that they looked like makeup, or that he hadn't gone shopping for any new clothing in nearly a year. He didn't care that the clothes he wore hung off his body like drapes. He didn't care that his glasses were so old that they sat crooked on his nose. He didn't care that the smell of cigarette smoke had permeated his upholstery and skin. He didn't care that he might fail.
Nobuhiro didn't care about the 'now' as much as he did about the 'soon', because just maybe he'd find Miyuki soon.
-o-
Good-luck charms were everywhere; spiders crawling along the windowsill, sunlight hitting glass prisms perfectly, clear blue sky with single white clouds…
He took these to be signs, and willed himself to work even harder than before. Things were getting brighter, and work was speeding up. At this rate, his dreams would become realities before people had the time to do something incredibly stupid, like fuse together a blanket and sweater or something.
Besides, Nobuhiro had cause for celebration already. Miyuki's letters had to be moved out of his drawer and into a larger box, because their memories had overflowed his desk, and he couldn't bear bending even one. The letters, of course.
-o-
He'd placed first in Akamaru. His editor had said that he should get on a series as soon as possible. Even the editor-in-chief had said he had a lot of promise and sure success. He couldn't have asked for a better holiday gift.
Nobuhiro had declined the invitation to Jump Magazine's New Year party and instead sat at his kotatsu with a bottle of spiced sake he'd bought especially for celebrating. It tasted awful, but Nobuhiro grinned and relished every cupful, toasting his editor, his family, and Miyuki, who inspired him to chase the goose known as 'mangaka'.
-o-
He was so close… Just another two pages of inking, and his manuscript would be done. He had a strong feeling that this would be it. He kissed his fingers and pressed them to the drying ink, and then filled in the spot where his fingerprint was.
-o-
They had loved it. They had said that he was going to the top with this one. He couldn't help but to agree whole-heartedly with them.
-o-
He couldn't wait to write to her about the prospect of his future. He stayed up all night trying to write the perfect letter, but he didn't mind sacrificing his sleep and everything else for her.
-o-
Smiling, Nobuhiro wrote his final letter to Miyuki and slipped his first-ever sketch of her into the envelope, sealing it away with a final sweep of his tongue, brushing the envelope so close to his lips that it might have been a kiss, except for the fact that the sharp paper edge left a cut that shed a single drop of blood.
-o-
Haruno-san,
Congratulations on your marriage. I wish you much happiness in the years to come.
Thank you for everything.
Nobuhiro Mashiro
-o-
What was depressing wasn't the fact that the quality of art supplies had plummeted in the past years, or that the prices had rocketed up equally fast, or that what he used to be able to purchase with his weekly pocket-money had been reduced to half. He didn't find it particularly sad that the ink stains on the pads of his fingers denoted him as a regular to this particular shop, or that all the salespeople knew his name, or that he knew all of theirs. It didn't even bug him that he could tell customers prices as well as any employee, or that he was often mistaken for one of them.
No, no, what bothered him the most was the fact that he had chosen to spend his first day off in a year at the tiny stationary store right below his apartment building. Quite honestly, he could see the back of the store from his bedroom window. His social life had deteriorated to the point that the only place he could think of to get away from his work… was the place where he purchased the fuel for his work.
The only word he could think of was 'Uroboros' at this point.
As he turned a protractor with refillable ink around in his hands, the bells over the door sounded and two people raced over to the isle with the glitter glue. Young girls, no doubt, who had heard about the new strawberry-scented crystal-prism pink glue. He smiled faintly and turned his attention back to the protractor. The barrel was high quality and the supplied nibs would last quite a while, but was it worth ¥4800…?
"And I told Kazue that it was true, and she's like 'No way', and I said 'Yes way', and Kazue's like— ack! Oh, sorry, Mister!"
Something about the little voice floating up from around his kneecap was familiar somehow, but he couldn't pinpoint it. "Ah, no, it's nothing…"
"Kaya, what happened?"
He froze as another little girl came trotting around the corner with features so familiar to him that his breath had unconsciously ceased. The dark, deep eyes that were set under delicately arched eyebrows, the face that subtly curved into the shape of a heart, and the lips that were always slightly turned up at the corners…
This little child had the face of the girl he loved copied with precision onto hers.
When he was finally able to gasp for breath after the initial shock of seeing the girl, he had to grip the closest shelf to keep himself from staggering. The speed of the thoughts racing through his head was so great that he was having difficulty pinpointing any one clearly. Who was this girl? Why was she here? How could she look so much like that girl? Was she even real? Was she an illusion of his sleep-deprived brain? A cruel slap of the imagination? His failures incarnated into an innocent child?
No…she was real. He had to think rationally. This girl could be a relative, a niece, maybe, or the child of a cousin. Or a daughter.
He swallowed and shook his head. What was so inconceivable about that? He had gotten a letter saying she was to be married, and that was several years ago. How many, exactly? Five, six? That was plenty of time to settle down and start a family. In that time, he'd even achieved one of his longest-standing goals, an anime. A hit anime, to boot.
A lot could happen in five years: a country could change its government; a species of deep-sea fish could go extinct; an apple tree could start bearing fruit; a Hollywood celebrity could get married and divorced; a child could go from elementary school to high school; a dream could come true; a dream could be crushed.
In five years, you could gain success while losing the only thing you truly worked towards with all your determination and passion.
"Hey, girls, what are you doing back here? The glue's over that way."
"I know, Dad, but I wanted to look at the notebooks they had with Sailor Moon on their covers…"
"Sailor Moon? What's that?"
"Daaaaad, you haven't heard of Sailor Moon? It's only, like, the coolest anime ever!"
"I don't really watch anime, Kaya. You know that."
"Yeah, but Mom says you buy Shonen Jump every week."
"Well, that's…"
As the man scratched his head, thinking of a response to use in order not to be bested by his kindergartener daughter, he took on the look he always had during finals when there was that final math problem with an answer that was at the tip of his pencil, but not quite. It was kind of a nostalgic sight, and slightly surprising that he had become a father; the idea was certainly not even plausible during junior high. But… time had gone on.
"And, you know, Dad, even Miho's mom reads Jump at the supermarket every now and then. Miho told me so."
"But Kaya, she only reads one story in Jump…"
"Oh, for real? Which one? Maybe it's one that my dad reads."
"Now, now, Kaya, I'll have you know that I only read one series too, just like Miho's mom."
"Wow, really? Are all grown-ups like that?"
"No, not all…"
"Well, which series do you read, Dad?"
"Um… Superhero Legend. But don't tell Mom, okay?"
"Wow, that story? A lot of the boys in my class like that one…"
He felt something flutter at the base of his throat, a warm feeling that seeped through his veins. So, Miyoshi still looked out for him…
"Ah… Superhero Legend is the one my mom reads…"
The fluttering suddenly ended with one dramatic flourish that made him cough.
"I didn't know your mom was into that stuff, Miho!"
"She said that Superhero Legend had a special place in her heart."
The fluttering returned, only it felt like it had engorged itself with about a million bottles of high-power energy drink.
"Hah… I bet he'd be really happy to hear that…"
"Huh? Who'd be happy to hear that, Dad?"
"Uh, well, the writer of Superhero Legend, of course. The mangaka."
"Why?"
"Well, hearing that your work is special in someone's heart would make anyone happy, Kaya, it really would…"
"I don't get it."
"It's like the time in gym when you beat up Saburo Inada and the teacher told you that you were the best at karate in the class."
"Oh, I get it now."
"That's my girl."
As he ruffled his daughter's hair, Miyoshi turned to Nobuhiro and nodded, his cheek lifting in what looked like half a grin and half a smirk. You did it, his face read. You really stuck to your dreams and became a mangaka. I'm proud.
Nobuhiro smiled back. Thanks.
"Oh, hey, Miho, look at these!"
"What is it, Kaya?"
"These chocolates! They're so cute, they're shaped like pencils, see?"
"Wow, that is cute!"
"Dad, can we buy them?"
"What? Why? These are chocolates for Valentine's Day. You don't have a boy that you want to give them to, do you…?"
"No way! Boys are gross!"
"I'd like to give these to a boy someday."
"Huh? Really, Miho?"
"Yep. I think that I'll come back here when I find the boy that I like. Maybe I won't tell him that I like him… but I'll find a way to let him know! "
And Nobuhiro couldn't help but to let loose a grin as he heard the words from Miyuki Haruno's daughter.
-o-
"Bye, Uncle! I'll see you again tomorrow, I promise!"
"Don't you have homework to do? You're almost in seventh grade now."
"But it's much more fun coming here to watch you draw!"
"Put your studies first, Taka, or your mother will come after me with a meat cleaver."
"Do you really think so, Uncle…?"
"Never underestimate the fury of a woman, Taka, and never forget that."
"Okay, fine… See you later!"
He stood at the open door, leaning against the frame as he watched his nephew trot along the veranda towards the elevator. Even long after Moritaka had disappeared, he continued to stand there and stared at the horizon, orange stained with stray threads of pink, all the way out to where Mount Fuji was just visible. He pictured himself hiking all the way to the peak, not stopping at any rest stations or even bathrooms until he reached the very top, his breath ragged and clothes sweat-drenched beneath the winter coat required for Mount Fuji's snowy summit. He would be just in time to see the sun rise. He would find a 50 yen coin to stick into a crack of the shrines that stood at the peak and make a wish. He would fling himself down on the ground and not go back down until he'd had enough time to drink in the majesty of Japan. He would stand on the highest point he could find and reach up so that maybe his fingers could graze the finest filaments of heaven.
He decided that he would do that as soon as he won another award.
He was on a good path; the manuscript he'd handed in less than a week ago had impressed the editor he had been assigned to. His former editor had gone to another magazine.
Ignoring the discomfort he felt in his chest nowadays when he breathed, he stuck a cigarette between his lips and found a lighter in his shirt pocket. With a weary strike of the flint, a feeble blue flame emerged from the plastic lighter and grabbed onto the end of the cigarette before sputtering out completely. The lighter was out of fuel; no matter, the cigarette was lit, anyhow. Out of habit, he stuck the lighter back into his pocket.
Carefully, he blew a stream of smoke towards the hazy blue mountain in the distance, obscuring it from sight completely. Sighing, he shook his head and retreated inside, shutting the door behind him quietly.
He sat at his desk and switched on his frog-shaped lamp, but he ended up staring blankly at the sheet of paper laid out on the wooden surface for over five minutes. The cigarette that had been dangling from his jaws was now smoldering at the damp filter, a small pile of fallen ash serving as the only remains of it. He blinked, the smoke beginning to sting behind his glasses, and took one last quick drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray that was once an inkpot. Releasing the smoke made him cough, more violently than usual; the core of his chest shuddered with the movement, only making him cough more until his eyes watered and he gasped for breath. He considered opening a window, but the evening breeze might shove all his pages off his desk. Nah, it was worth it.
The first wave of cool air brought slight relief he inhaled it slowly into his lungs to prevent further irritation to his larynx. The redness in his eyes disappeared, but the dark shadows under them would still rival those of a panda, especially since they stood out in relief to his stark-white skin. He ran a hand across the stubble on his face and instead found his fingers sinking into the hollows of his cheeks, so deep that the outlines of his teeth were visible when he opened his mouth. He had forgone shaving for the past few days and hadn't eaten in the last forty hours, and had gotten even less sleep. Each limb felt like a ton or two, and oxygen struggled to squirm its way into his lungs and to his brain. He was dizzy to the point that the world before his eyes swirled or doubled.
Still, he had work to do. He couldn't throw away what he had worked for for the better part of twenty years. He saw the opportunity to claw his way back to the top, and he intended to do so. But his brain was wrung dry. No matter how hard he willed himself to create more, to chase after his long-lost dream, he just couldn't. It was like his body had given up and was bugging his mind to do the same. But he couldn't.
Unwilling to move, he dragged himself to the couch and lay down heavily on it. He flung his arm over his eyes to remove the spots of red that resulted from fluorescent light shining on his closed eyelids. He had lost the gamble; there was no denying it, no masking it with pretty words. He had chosen to become a mangaka, and had failed in the long run. He had chosen to work himself to exhaustion to stand out, and it had ended up being in vain. He had chosen to run after his dreams with free abandon, only to have them rear their ugly heads just as he reached the final stretch.
Maybe he would find the time and money to go to Las Vegas to perfect his gambling skills, or lack of thereof. Maybe he'd then fly to Atlantic City to show off his new skills, and travel further to New York City and stand in the center of Times Square under the illumination of all the screens and neon signs that littered it. Maybe he'd go on to Niagara Falls in Canada and stand close enough to feel the mist from the waterfall on his skin. Maybe he'd visit Germany and wander through the Black Forest in Bavaria to catch glimpses of wood nymphs, and then say "Ich bin ein Berliner" in Berlin just to laugh at the reactions of the locals. Maybe he'd head down to Egypt to see the pyramids of Giza, something he'd dreamed of doing as a child in history class, and ask someone passing by to take a picture of him posing so that it looked like he was pinching a pyramid between his fingertips. He would gather a small jar full of sand just for the fun of it. He would find somewhere to buy a scarab imprisoned in amber.
He grinned. In order to fund his globe-trotting adventures, he would have to do some work first. He could stray from the superhero theme and try his hand at something daring, like a martial-arts manga, or something psychological, like a mystery. He could try to write romance.
He twirled the ends of his ponytail around his bony fingers and he planned out a name in his head. A boy who was too naïve to admit his love to the girl he longed for… The girl who loved him back but was waiting for him to say it first… A single letter that linked them both… The link, no more than a red thread, staying intact though the riptides and rushes of life…
And maybe in the end, they would find each other and live happily ever after.
"Uncle, I have a crush on a girl… I think…"
Maybe he could ask Taka to be an assistant while drawing this manga. Or, better yet, have him write out the whole story from the perspective of an outsider. They'd both wage war against his G-pen and they'd argue over who spilled a drop of black ink onto the drawing of a cloudy sky. They'd laugh and talk about what was ahead.
"I just saw her from across the pool and, like, zing! I knew there was something special about her to me."
That's right. After this, he would be able to let go and sprint headlong into the future where there were so many possibilities were waiting for him! The past was a hellish place to live in when the future was spread wide and open in front of you. He needed to get out of his memories and clear space to make new ones.
"Uncle, what's love like? Not that I'm in love or anything, but in case I ever need to know about it…"
He had other futures that he wanted to see happen, too. He wanted to see the reception of Superhero Legend as time slowly dwindled by. He wanted to make a toast at his brother's twenty-fifth anniversary and wish them the best for forever through a glass of golden champagne bubbles. He wanted to celebrate Moritaka's twentieth birthday by supplying him with bottles of the finest sake he could find and drinking with everyone until the sun had set and risen once again. He wanted to see his nephew take the hand of the girl he loved and slip a ring onto her finger, binding them as man and wife. He wanted to see Moritaka following his hopes and dreams and finally reach the stars he wanted so desperately to touch.
"She wasn't looking away. Do you think that, maybe, she felt the same electricity between us that I did? Is that love?"
But first, he had to draw.
"I'd like to see her again."
A stroke, a line, a design… That was all that Nobuhiro Mashiro needed to finally sew shut the space in his heart that had been waiting so long for Miyuki Haruno. With ink and paper and a pen, he could finally clean his slate and start anew on the future stretched out before him. But first and foremost, he needed a deadline. Where to begin, and how?
"Uncle, do you think that one day we'll just… drift together?"
This story was just beginning.
-o-
Sunshine touched his cheeks for the first time in days. He had been holed up in his studio for a week on end with completing a manuscript. This was the lucky one; he could feel it.
Shakily at first, as if they were in shock from being in use after so long, his legs began moving, walking him faster and faster until he was going at a full sprint down the street to wherever his feet would take him. He let a whoop escape his throat, a cracked and quiet one at first, and then louder, and louder, and louder, until housewives poked their heads out of their windows to see what the ruckus was.
He didn't stop until he reached the riverbank, skidding to a halt on the grassy slope leading to it. He flung his arms out and felt like shouting "I'm king of the world!", but he didn't think that he had quite enough breath left in him to do so. He lay down, panting and sweating and smiling, and gazed up into the sky.
The colors had never been so vivid, and a sunset had never been more captivating. The water had never sparkled as much as it did, and the grass beneath him had never felt more like a bed of velvet. Everything was dyed a light red from the light of the sinking sun. Maybe this was what is meant to see the world through rose-colored lenses.
His dreams were within sight, and practically close enough to touch. The lull of his life was gone. He had a goal to spring for every morning when he rose out of bed. He had a smile that always lingered behind his other facial expressions, just waiting to burst out. He had a chance to find her.
He had many people to thank for building the bridge that linked him to her. He didn't dare cross it now; the work he had built up as a mangaka was too fragile to support his weight as he crossed that bridge. But every now and then, the little lines and strokes of ink made a support strong enough for him to venture out and reach across to her. And, by sheer luck, she was always on the other side reaching back.
Moritaka Mashiro owed a lot of people. Shujin, of course, for slamming him onto the road of his very existence; Miyoshi, for cheerleading him out of his deepest funks; his parents and grandfather, for letting him chase wild stallions; Hattori and Miura, for dragging him along on the ride; Eiji, for fueling his drive; Fukuda, Aoki, Hiramaru, Nakai…
And especially Miho Azuki, for leading him by the hand along his path.
But before manga became his raison d'être, his soul and fire, he had had a love for it. Just a love, not the way that it burned against his heart now. And he had just one person to thank for the kick start of the rest of his life.
"Thank you… Uncle…"
A spur-of-the-moment fic that I hope you enjoyed. .:smiley face:.
It's kinda hard to write for Bakuman because the plot is so tightly knitted that I'm afraid to make holes in it, so I usually just end up elaborating the canon or whatever, and the final product is what you have just read. But I can't help but to write for Bakuman; the plunnies feed off the fluff and their poo results in my postings, like this one here. Heh, you just read bunny-poo. .:is booed at:. But there's basically no point (no 'moral') to this fic and there isn't really a clear message or meaning I want to get across. (So like a moral, but whatever.) I just wrote it to get it out of my brain. My brain capacity is very limited, you know. .:ahem:.
Bakuman is finally coming to America!! Yay!! I know that we have scanlations and stuff, but I'm still excited to see it in print in Shonen Jump. Because I'm a sucker for color pages and the tankobon volumes don't have color but the magazines do. Because I'm just like that. I'm pretty sure that once American Jump prints Bakuman's first 3 chapters, its popularity will skyrocket and a whole mess of new fans will swarm FF-dot-net and DeviantArt and stuff like that. But if you're reading this fic before that explosion, feel proud of yourself for discovering Bakuman first, and don't be afraid to refer to yourself as "BakuMaster" or something. This has been a public service announcement.
In other news, Bakuman is getting an anime soon! I'm sure you knew that, though. I wanna hear what you think; who do you want for voices? What artist do you think should sing the opening and ending songs? Do you think that the 25 episodes they've allotted to Bakuman is enough? Do you think they'd continue it if it isn't enough? What about the dub?
I wanna know what you think about all these things (because I'm nosy like that)! But I'm gonna end my rant now and wrap up by saying "Thank you for reading" and "I hope you enjoyed it" and "I hope that you'll write your own Bakuman fics for me to read, please!". My love for Bakuman is far from over, dude.
Oh, and I dare you to find a guy who is as awesome as Eiji Niizuma. Find someone who sticks pencils up his nose during an important confrontation. I guarantee you'll not find one. (Peacy outu)