"I want to see you
As you are now
Every single day
That I am living
Painted in flames
All peeling thunder
Be the lightning in me
That strikes relentless."
The lightning strike - Snow Patrol
It was an ordinary day. With the usual coffee, the usual conversations, the smell of asphalt that pervaded Tokyo everyday. It was an ordinary warm May morning, as yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the last week, and the last month.
The same coach, the same white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. The same eau de parfum. The same faces in the newspaper. The same weary look. There was nothing in that day that would make Akaashi Keiji think it would be a different one.
Actually, there had been nothing in those last few months that had caused a glimmer of hope in him. Everything was the same, every day: Go, do your work in the office, and come back home. He watched the TV, too. He ordered a pizza, some days. But then he went to sleep to start again next day. "This is the life you chose." He repeated to himself often, when his fatigue was higher than usual.
He had turned 26 a couple of months ago, and his mother had told him occasionally that "it was time to settle down." But the truth is that Akaashi Keiji hadn't even woke up yet. When he looked back, he realized that he had spent his youth in studying, being respectful and doing what people wanted him to do.
Not a single love. Not a single girlfriend. Not a single binge.
He took a deep breath. He hated the smell of the subway at rush hour. He hated everything he had, so he had learned how to live among his own shit. "This is the life you wanted." He mutters again. And, actually, it was, although what really interested Akaashi was the art.
Painting as a form of expression. He loved watching the great paintings. His parents, however, never accepted that future for their child. "You're too old for this; you're not a bohemian."
And he accepted what his parents said. Because "that is what good children have to do." It was an impossible dream. It was reckless. "Life is not about these things". So one day, he threw away his brushes. "What a nonsense." He muttered. And since, his life were the coffee, the scent of cologne, those faces in the newspapers.
The heat of May.
That subway.
That fake smile each morning.
Eventually, the train stopped. But when he was about to leave the coach, an individual, who also tried to leave in panic of being late, approached him from the right. The next thing he remembered was seing all his papers on the floor.
It was a head-on collision. The iced coffee slipped from his hand and landed on his brand new shoes. His papers started flying in the little morning breeze. And if it wasn't hot enough outside, his anger inside was higher than hell. His face remained frozen in surprise.
He waited for an immediate apology. He waited for an apology after several seconds. He waited for an apology until he realized that the man had not even realized the mistake he had made.
"Tch, watch where you're going, asshole!" He shouted. The last word felt sharp in his mouth. He was not accustomed to cursing, but in situations like these his education can take a break.
The man stopped, turning slowly, eyes wide open due to astonishment.
And on that moment, Akaashi saw the most weird, stupid and out-of-place man he had ever seen at that boring coach.
Black baseball jacket, baggy pants, sneakers whose color had been white at some time , but were now brown. White dyed hair, slicked back with dark roots. Hazelnut-Brown eyes. Droppy eyelid.
You'd think our friend was returning from a rave, but, judging by the papers he was carrying in his hands, it wasn't true. Keiji watched them closely, waiting for the pardon that never came.
They were sketches. Drawings. Cartoons. Landscape paintings.
"They're beautiful." He thought. Actually, there was something beautiful in the aura of the other boy. Akaashi had almost forgotten the anger that had born inside him seconds ago.
"Did I do that?!" - Asked the bohemian, loudly, causing the attention of the whole platform. -Did I hit you!? I-I'm so sorry, I don't even know where I put my feet, I'm in a hurry ... "
Akaashi raised an eyebrow.
"... I'm not from here ... I'm not used to take the subway often, so ... hehe ... B-but relax, bro, I swear I'll clean the coffee, I'll pick up your things... and everything will be ok ... and I'll go my way, ok?…"
Without moving, Akaashi waited for the boy to clean his shiny shoes. He felt bad, but he could not help but smile.
"Are they yours...? The paintings. "
The white hair looked up and smiled, as if he had forgotten all the previous situation. "Yes, do you like them?" His eyes gleamed like stars.
He had some freckles. It was a strange beauty. Akaashi coughed and tried to silence his thoughts. "What the hell are you thinking, Keiji."
"Yes, they are fine."
The artist said something, but suddenly the subway bell started to ring. With a smirk, he took his paintings and started running to nowhere.
When he realised, everyone was gone. And there he was, Akaashi Keiji, on a boring morning. On a boring day.
"If I had, at least, asked his name ..."