AN: Well, I'm in bold new territory here. There doesn't seem to be any Garden of Words stories on the site. So it pleases me to be the first! May many more follow! Enjoy the fic! Or not, I'm not the boss of you after all!
A Faint Clap of Thunder
I know what you're thinking.
That I'm a hypocrite.
That I deserved every bit of it.
That everything they said was true.
I won't repeat the rumors, but if you haven't heard them, it's not difficult to figure out what was said. I'm an adult, a teacher nonetheless, and they were still kids. That's all that needs to be said, isn't it?
Fill in the blanks.
The mere accusation was enough to jeopardize everything that I am.
So, maybe I am a hypocrite. The only reason I survived that ordeal was because I became very close to someone so much younger. But it's different. It's not the same as the rumours.
The word to describe it escapes me, but it's not some cheap lust or sentimentality. It's something more essential than that. Maybe it is a sort love, but it's not the simple physical kind. It's something deeper, and I know it is so much more important than any of the connections I've made with people in the past.
The connection I feel with him isn't superficial, which is more than I can say about the bonds with the people who melted away when those rumors began. They seemed afraid to have their names tarnished by association. But even before that, those connections didn't feel real to me like this one does. Maybe I formed relationships with those people because I felt obligated to. I was supposed to have a boyfriend. I was supposed to go where my career took me. I was supposed to have certain people in my life. I don't feel like many of them ever really tried to know me. Maybe I'm partly to blame too.
Everything flowed easily between us. What drew us together wasn't a desire to take anything from each other, other than companionship. Although, he did give me so much before we parted. The truth is, it was about opening up our hearts to one another when the rest of the world seemed so benign and so distant and so uncaring. That's how I feel anyway.
When I finally recognized what this connection meant to both of us, a great rush of happiness overtook me. It happened that day, standing in the rain on the stairs, when he feigned a change of heart and said that he hated me. It sounds strange, I'm sure, but it brought me happiness when he said those things.
I had hurt him only moments before, and his pain was clear as day. For the first time, the first, I had pushed him away. I had built the first wall between us when he said he was falling in love with me. I shouldn't have handled it the way I did, but I didn't know how to react. His confession scared me, but I knew I'd made a mistake.
When he said he hated me, he wore such honesty on his face, even as the words he spoke were untrue. His true feelings were bare for me to see. Nobody had ever opened themselves to me like that before, so it moved me deeply. To see him, so like myself, desperate to make a connection. By saying he hated me he was attempting to wash himself clean of his feelings; it was how he intended to protect himself. I embraced him then and made sure he knew just what he had done for me. He had saved me. It was both a confession and an apology.
In each other's arms, I knew that I was happy, and that I would remain happy for as long as our bond held. No longer holding back my tears, it was suddenly so clear what we meant to each other. The two of us were struggling to overcome a lonely sadness, something we could not do alone. Yet, as uplifting as his companionship had become, I knew that he had laid his heart open to me much more readily than I had done for him. He'd told me about his dreams before I truly let him know me. That day in the rain, that realization weighed heavy in my heart. At that moment, I opened up fully at last. I let him see how broken I truly was, and that it was he alone that kept me from crumbling into dust.
I'm certain that we both came to see whatever this is between us as something more meaningful than a trivial forbidden romance. I don't want to call it romance. It's something like love, surely, but it's beyond my words. You could say it's complicated. I only wish I knew clearly how he feels.
Right now, what I'm doing isn't so complicated; not on the surface anyway. I'm in the mall, walking and thinking. Tomorrow I'm catching a train back to the city, where I'll spend at least one day. Takao is on my mind. It's been more months than I care to count since we parted, and I miss him.
Not long after I left the city, we started sending letters to each other. We exchange them sporadically, so we both tend to write a lot when we send them. I make sure to cram as much into each page as he does, as I don't want him to think I'm still doing all the listening and none of the talking. Each letter I receive makes me smile. It's clear that his dreams are becoming more real every day. His ambition and dedication tend to rub off on me, even through the mail. It makes me want to work harder for what I want.
But what do I want? That much isn't completely clear to me yet, but at the very least I want to keep what I already have. That's why I continue to write him. Sure, it's an antiquated way of communicating these days, but I feel that it's fitting. When I unexpectedly find a letter in my mail box, I feel like I used to when I'd wake up to see rain dripping down my window. The weather is something out of my control, so when it rained I felt like I'd received a blessing. Something or someone must have been sending me the rain to make me happy. It let me know that on that day, I would be alright. I feel the same way about the letters.
Then one day, I called him. When he answered the phone I lost my nerve. It was very unlike me. One of the things that drew us together was that talk came easy. But when he answered, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know why I was calling. I imagine it's simply because I was lonely.
At last I spoke, and immediately felt at ease. His voice seemed to warm when he recognized my own. We talked for a long while. By chance, it was raining in the city that day and he was at the garden, sketching as usual. It seemed so fitting, and my heart filled with happiness and regret upon hearing this. Regret because I wanted to be there too, but had not stayed.
I'll spare you the complete details of our call, except that we both confessed we missed each other's companionship and our conversations. He wanted to talk again, and so did I. In the end, we decided that we should only talk over the phone when it rained. That way, it would feel like we were less distant from each other. So with that, I began watching to weather forecast for the city every morning.
It doesn't rain here very often. What's it say about me that sunny says actually make me sad? God, that's so depressing when I think about it. Who doesn't love the sun? But still, I miss the rain. I miss our garden. It didn't seem to rain much for several months. Sometimes weeks passed between phone calls and during those weeks I was more likely to receive a letter. We didn't put any restrictions on those after all.
And so it went for a few more months.
Yesterday, we talked on the phone again. There wasn't much planning to this trip, it sort of just happened all of the sudden. Because it was raining in the city, and the temperature was mild, I said it would be a beautiful day to spend at our shared place. He thought so too, and told me that the weather was going to be the same over the next few days, so, why didn't I come and find him there? There was no reason to object. I wanted to be there. He said he'd pick up some beer and chocolate just for me. I'm sure he heard me trying to stifle a giggle over the phone. I told him that he could buy all the chocolate he wanted, but not to get himself into trouble trying to buy beer. I told him to leave that to me. Not that I was seriously planning on drinking with him. Like I told him when we met, I'm not a crazy person.
Even in a small town like this, the mall is crowded with people; all of them strangers, and me an outsider. I feel so anonymous in the crowd. The flow of people carries me like an indifferent river before I spot a shoe store and navigate toward it. I stop in front of the window and look over the display selection. Some of them look rather cute. Lifting me head, I read the name of the store "La…something." It's a French name. Perhaps the selections are European imports. The idea of authentic shoes from far away allows me to dream.
I picture a petite French village. The roads are cobblestone, the roofs of the houses are clay tile or tin, on many of which there is a chimney from which rises a gentle white smoke. It's idyllic of course, perhaps too perfect to really exist. Somewhere in that village is a shoe maker. I picture him perched on a four legged stool while bent over his work bench. He forms leather into intricate shapes, manipulating it delicately until it takes the form he has in mind. He pours his love into the material. And of course, he looks just like Takao. It is Takao. In my mind, I watch him as he concentrates on his work, putting such precision and care into every detail. I imagine that watching him at his craft must be beautiful. The idea of that quiet little village of my imagination compels me to enter the store.
There is a generous selection and many of the shoes on the wall look just as nice as the ones in the front display. Before long my eyes settle on a pair that looks different from anything I own. I tend to wear refined shoes, built more for comfort to allow me to stand in front of my class all day. This pair isn't especially flashy either. it's more of the middle ground between comfy and classy. I find my size and try it on.
They're certainly comfortable, and they look good too. As I consider whether I want to buy them, my mind wanders back to my imaginary French village. Could these have been crafted by someone like the shoemaker who I had dreamed up. I remove the right shoe and look at the insole. What I see sinks my heart.
Made in China.
They aren't from France. It makes the whole store feel so false. It's got nothing to do with a place from my heart. It's a fake. Perhaps it's silly to get upset about it, but I don't care. I put the shoes back in the box and close the lid firmly. I want to seal these blasted things up in the box like it's a sarcophagus. Disappointed with my discovery, I exit the store.
As I'm walking, I ponder what someone reading our letters might make of them. Would they say they are love letters? Would they say it's inappropriate for me to continue writing him? Would they call me a bad person?
I don't think anyone would understand what they were reading. These aren't love letters, not the type of love dreamed up to sell Valentine's Day cards and Hollywood movies anyway. We don't write about running away together or anything like that. I usually write about my new school, my wonderful students and how I'm doing better. I've landed on my feet, for the most part. He usually writes about his goals, which should come as no surprise. He often writes about his brother, who I've never met, but I sense they are close. He's only written a few words about his mother, which saddens me. I wish he would write more.
My mind continues to wander. What will we talk about tomorrow?
I will tell him that I'm happy here, but that there are days when I'm still lonely. In my letters or our phone calls, I've kept some things out. Like nights when I've just wanted to feel what I feel when we're together. One night in particular, when I sought that feeling out. I didn't know where to look, if I can be honest. I ended up in a bar, which is not something I've ever done all alone.
I did meet a stranger. We talked for a little while. He bought me some drinks. He wasn't a bad person, but as we talked I recognized a sort of lifelessness in our conversation. We weren't looking for the same thing in that place. It probably seems selfish and naïve to think I could connect with someone the way I wanted to in one evening, so perhaps I am naïve. Maybe what he wanted was more realistic even, but I couldn't take part in it. That wasn't what I was seeking. I excused myself and went home.
It's time for me to get out of this mall. I've spent enough time here. I don't need to buy anything to prepare me for tomorrow. I just need to go there. That's the only thing I need to do.
The night passes and tomorrow comes. The train ride is uneventful, and I arrive on time. The low hanging clouds that I've been accustomed to seeing in the city are beginning to break apart.
Standing on the arrival platform, I decide that there really is no point stopping anywhere else. I'll go straight there. Hopefully he's there already.
The buildings look bigger than they used to: daunting almost. I've been living a rural existence for longer than I'd like to admit. I've been away far too long, but now the distance is closing.
The tired concrete veneer of the city gives way to the greenery of this oasis like park almost all at once. It's familiar and welcoming. I take the time to take in a deep breath, savouring the scent of trees and water.
I see him before he notices me approaching. I don't allow my pace to quicken, although I almost want to run. As I cut across the grass, I can see that he's got his sketchbook with him, and he's invested in it. Perhaps he's striking up a new design.
When my foot lands on a branch, snapping it, the crunch it makes causes his ears to perk. He traces the origin of the sound, and his eyes find me at last. This moment which I've been longing for has finally arrived, and the weight of it freezes me in place.
Tossing his notebook to his side, he springs to his feet. He climbs over the bench on which I usually sit, but loses his footing as he does so. I cringe in fear that he's about to tumble to the ground and hurt himself, but he manages break his fall. He pushes himself off of the grass and back onto his feet and then trots toward me.
He's in such a hurry that he slides on the grass, as it's still dewy from the light rain. He fights to maintain his balance as he approaches. Just before he reaches me, his feet shoot out from under him, and he tumbles onto the ground. My reaction is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
He shakes it off like it didn't happen and climbs to his feet, now right in front of me. At last, we're reunited.
"Yukino! I didn't think you were serious! I didn't know you were actually planning on coming to day! I thought you were just, you know, kind of playing," he chimes, his voice flaring with elation.
"Well if you weren't expecting me, maybe I'll just go right back home then. I wouldn't want to intrude," I tease. Inside, I feel somewhat embarrassed that I didn't make my intentions clear.
He stands there, looking in my eyes with a stoic expression. His lips begin to curl first, and then we both grin widely together. We burst into laughter as he covers the final step that separates us. We grab each other tightly, both of us brimming with happiness.
"I can't believe you came all this way," he says, wearing astonishment on his face.
"Believe it," I reply.
He stands back and seems to be studying me with his head tilted quizzically. "You look exactly as I remember you, but, there's also something different," he states.
"It's probably got to do with me getting on better these days. I feel like I hold myself differently, you know?" I confidently explain.
"That could be it," he nods. "That could be it."
His smile morphs into a grimace, and for a brief moment I am struck with worry.
"Damn, you know what, I didn't buy any chocolate. I didn't expect I'd actually need it," he jokes.
I laugh heartily, bringing my hands to my mouth to contain myself. "Don't beat yourself up over that," I insist playfully. "Besides, I didn't bring any beer either."
We laugh out loud, together.
Now I take my turn looking him over and a faint smile forms on my lips. "And you," I begin, "you do look different. You're a little older, certainly, but also a little wiser maybe? And a little closer to where you're going?" I muse.
"Yeah, a lot closer to where I'm going," he answers, with his eyes looking deeply into my own.
"C'mon, let's go sit down," he continues. He slides his hand into mine and pulls me along. When we reach the bench he lets go, and we take our usual seats.
Sitting just like we used to, I find myself biting my lip in an attempt to contain my giddy happiness. I want to explode with laugher. I'm not sure why my urge is to laugh. Perhaps it's the natural response to being overwhelmed with positive energy.
"I finished your shoes," he states.
My mind wanders to that day in this very place. He took my measurements while I was beginning to understand the depth of everything that was happening. He was becoming someone very important to me before I knew it. I wonder if he got to work on those shoes that very day.
"Are you happy with them?" I ask.
"I'll be happy with them if you're happy with them," he answers.
His response brings me warmth. However, I want to know how he feels about his work. Is he progressing? Is he challenging himself?
"They were inspired by this garden, actually," he informs me.
"Really? Now I'm truly curious to see what they look like," I confess.
He smiles at my interest. I can see that he hopes I'll love what he's made for me. Something tells me I will. Yes, I'm sure of it.
Finally back in the place where it began, I want to talk about all the things we haven't discussed in our calls or letters. He hasn't said much about school recently, so I decide to start there
"How is school going? And I ask you this as your friend, not as a teacher. So don't think that I'm telling you to smarten up and stop skipping classes. Although, as a teacher, I feel sort of obligated to give you that speech as well," I say.
He laughs at my joke, and I join in. I'm happy to see that we can laugh at our past.
"I'm doing better. As you know, I squeaked by the last year's round of exams. It's been easier this year so far; one reason being that I haven't been skipping class as much. It kind of makes me lonely coming here all alone, you know?"
A coy smile forms across my face and I turn away, averting my eyes. I can't help it. His sentiment makes me blush.
He chuckles at my reaction and leans forward.
"When did you get so bashful? Where's the woman who drank beer in the morning without concern, in public no less?" he jokes.
His playfulness only widens my smile.
"It's a good thing you chose a Saturday to come here, otherwise I might have been in class," he explains.
"Well I'd be happy knowing you went to class," I say, sincere in my words.
Now he grins bashfully. He sees that I'm being genuine and that I really do want him to succeed, in all aspects of his life.
"As far as school goes, I'll be ready for my exams," he acclaims proudly.
"It makes me happy to hear that," I respond.
"Other than that, things have been pretty quiet for me. Oh, except that my brother is getting married! I just about keeled over when he gave me the news!"
"That's wonderful!" I beam. "I'd really like to meet your brother soon. I gather that you two are close."
"Pretty close, yeah," he confirms.
"So, you haven't been getting into any more fights then?"I tease.
"No, I haven't had a reason to lately. Not since you left, if I can be perfectly honest," he confides.
"I always suspected that fight had something to do with me," I confess.
"What can I say, you know how to read me," he shrugs.
We find ourselves talking just as easily as we always had. Now however, there is no sign of an underlying sadness. The rain doesn't hold up long. Within an hour, the light drizzle has faded and the sun is glowing between the remnants of clouds. It's just as well, as I didn't even bring a change of clothes. Thankfully I won't be getting soaked today.
The hours fade away, and we both seem delightfully unconcerned. Eventually, it's time to leave the garden. He invites me to come with him to his apartment, and we begin the journey there, talking and laughing the whole way.
It's odd, seeing where he lives. He's by himself. It's a testament to his resolve that he is so independent at his age. Yet, I feel a deep lament when I see how empty the apartment is. It could accommodate three. At one time, his mother and his brother had been here. I imagine Takao's life, alone, throughout the days and weeks. I'm reminded of the isolation I felt in the midst of my ordeal.
Alone in my apartment all day.
Abandoned by people I thought cared about me.
Resentful of myself for being so useless.
I hope to God that he isn't feeling those things.
"Well, this is my place," he proclaims.
"It's certainly spacious," I comment.
"Yeah, I suppose that's true," he responds as he walks into the kitchen. "Are you hungry? I can prepare some food," he calls from out of sight.
"Sure, but don't trouble yourself too much. If you've got something quick and easy, that'll be fine," I shout back as I remove my coat and then hang it on the rack beside the front door.
"If you insist, Miss Yukino," he coos.
I laugh loudly. "Please, please, please don't take to calling me that. You're going to make me feel guilty. Just Yukino will be fine" I quip back as I slip out of my shoes.
"Very well," he replies, his voice muffled because his head is buried in the fridge.
We settle on pre-packaged bento boxes. They'll do in a pinch. We talk over our meal, and more hours pass. Neither of us mind when the sun disappears and is replaced by the moon which shines bright in the sky.
"Takao, I have something to ask you," I begin, ready to say things that need to be said before this trip is over.
Without a word, his eyes meet mine and a calm quiet fills the room.
My mouth has suddenly become dry. The words I'm searching for seem to have fled. My lips part as I mull over how to phrase what is on my mind, but it's difficult. I don't want to say this the wrong way. I can't afford to mince my words.
"Takao," I begin, my voice trailing off.
"I'm here, Yukino," he answers.
"Do.." I huff with frustration, "I….dammit..what I want….to say…"
A moment passes as I fumble for the right combination of words.
"Take your time, Yukino," he says calmly.
"If…what If I….ask you if you love me? What would you say to me now? What do I mean to you?"
He leans back in his seat. He considers the question for a few seconds.
"Yukino, I don't think that's the question you want to ask, not really. When I said I loved you, I meant it. And it's still true, yes, I love you. I can't think of anyone else more important to me, so if I can't call what I feel about you love, I can't call it a damn thing. But I think we've both been wondering the same thing; what does that love really mean? I think the question you want to ask is one that you need to ask yourself, and that question is, do you love me? And if you do, what does that love mean?"
I break eye contact with him and settle my gaze on the floor. He's tapped into something raw within me. He's gotten to the truth of the matter so succinctly. All the careful weighing of words and tiptoeing around questions gives way to emotion. He's opened himself up to me once again, and I won't push him away this time. I'll be honest with him, and with myself.
"Yes!" I shout. "Yes, I love you. Dammit, I do! You might be the most important person that's ever come into my life. If you hadn't, I don't know what would have happened to me, but I fear the worst. You're right, it can't be called anything but love. That's the easy part. But the more I've thought about it, the less sure I've been that it means the same thing to us. Perhaps I've been away for too long. But here, now, I'm beginning to see."
As I finish talking, I feel like a dam has burst inside me. I wipe away tears that are beginning to form in the corner of my eye.
"I think I saw it in a far too simple light," he continues. "I think that's what frightened you when I said I loved you for the first time. I must have appeared so naïve. As if I was expecting you to tell me you were in love with me as well, and that we'd settle down together. I know I don't always like to admit it, but I'm still young, and I don't have much experience with this kind of stuff. It's the first time I'd ever felt those things in my life. I didn't stop to consider what it meant, or how you might have felt. But time has gone by and I'm a little older and a little wiser, just like you said."
"So what does it mean to you exactly?"
"That we're important to each other. That's the only conclusive thing about it," he says with certainty.
"Is it so simple?' I ponder.
"Does it need to be more complicated? Doesn't it make you happy just as it is? Does it need to be different? I thought it did back then, but doesn't need to be. Maybe it will be one day, maybe not. It's now that matters."
He's right. Just as things were, just as things are, this time together is still among the happiest I've ever known.
"It's late," I note, as it dawns on me how long we've been talking.
He looks through the window, and sees the stars clear in the sky. The rain clouds have long since dispersed. His expression suggests that time has escaped him as well.
"There won't be any trains running right now," he insists as he rises from the floor. "Stay here tonight. I'll get some extra pillows and blankets and sleep on the couch. You take my bed."
I'm about to tell him that he doesn't have to do that, that I'll take the couch, but I refrain.
"Thank you," I reply in acceptance.
The mention of bed immediately makes me tired. The day has been long after all. The train ride, the excitement of reuniting, and these countless hours spend talking suddenly begin to take a toll on me.
"You didn't bring a change of clothes with you, did you?" he asks.
"Um, no," I admit, a little embarrassed by my total lack of preparation.
"My brother's girlfriend, well I suppose she's his fiancée now, she's left whole bunch of stuff over here. If you want some pyjamas, I'm pretty sure she's left a few pairs around."
"Sure," I reply.
He disappears into another room, only to reappear less than a minute later.
"Here," she says, handing me a set of women's sleep wear.
"Thank you," I reply graciously.
"Tomorrow, we'll talk some more," he calls as he settles into the couch and pulls a blanket over his head. I turn and head toward the bedroom.
I see that it's not just a bedroom, but also doubles as a workshop. This is where he does what he does. A long table sits opposite the bed, and it's filled with bits and pieces. It looks cluttered to me, almost manic, but it's likely organized in a way that makes sense to him. I have trouble identifying most of what rests on the table. There are specialized tools of all sorts, and spools of fabrics and strings which look the same to me, but are probably all unique.
I kick of my socks. The floor is mild and soothing on my feet. I stretch out my toes and feel at ease. I slip out of my pants and fold them over my arm and then place them next to the bed in a neat pile. Goosebumps run up my bare skin. With my legs exposed, I take notice that the night is bringing with it a cold air.
I catch myself in the mirror, standing here in nothing but a t-shit and my underwear. What would be the next step if he were older? What if the distance between us were simply one of space, not of time as well? Would the nature of the feelings between us be different? Would we become lovers? Would we share this bed tonight?
I sit down at his work bench, placing both elbows atop it and cradle my chin in palms. I look into my own eyes in the mirror, demanding from myself and answer to these questions. It seems my reflection isn't any more in the know than I am.
There's a knock on the bedroom door, and I avert my eyes to the tapping.
"Yukino, are you still awake?" he calls quietly.
"Yeah, come in," I call back.
The door opens slowly without a sound. He stands in the open space with something in his hand. He seems to hesitate. That should come as no surprise; I'm half naked after all. Perhaps I should have put on the pajamas before he entered. Now, however, I don't feel the need.
"It's okay," I insist. "Come in."
He enters at last, and I see that he is carrying the shoes he's made for me.
"Are those…..mine?" I ask.
"Yes they are," he answers. "I didn't want to wait any longer. I want you to have them now. I want to see if they are right."
I pivot in my seat and face him directly. No more words are spoken. He walks toward me and crouches. I extend my leg, and he takes my foot in his palm. He looks at me before continuing, and something in my eyes tells him to go on. He slips the first shoes onto my foot. It fits perfectly. The next shoe finds its way on with just as much tenderness in his grasp.
I understand what he meant when he said they were inspired by the garden. They capture the natural beauty and honesty of that place.
Now he stands, offering me both of his hands. I grasp them with my own, and he pulls me to me feet. In these shoes that he's made for me I begin to walk, my first step taking me into his arms.
End
AN: I spent quite some time on this story, but I'm still not sure I've got it quite right. I really got wrapped up in the complexity of the idea of "love" that this movie explored. The way it expresses it is so much more interesting, and ultimately more complex, than what I normally see. What I wanted to do here was take a look at how the characters interpret what this sort of love means, as they struggle to contrast it to the narrow definition of love that we're encouraged to search for. You know, the idea of love that says we all get some sort of happy, cathartic ending? That we will know exactly what to do when we meet that person that we love? It's never so simple, is it? These two characters were undeniably happy together, despite not being in a "romantic" relationship. And at its core, isn't love about being happy with someone? If that's the case, can what they had be called love? Of course it can! That's my opinion anyway. If you'd be kind enough to leave some feedback, or better yet, discuss what this movie was about, I'll be grateful!