僕らが月

∙ bokura ga tsuki ∙

∙ We Are the Moon ∙

"And the wild regrets,
and the bloody sweats,
none knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
more deaths than one must die."
- Oscar Wilde

Beneath the glass it has been pleasantly cool for a long time. How long, he can't begin to guess. Long enough that he's started to miss the vapors on his skin. Hours, days, even centuries could have passed quietly without his knowing, bleeding together like fresh paint washed by a rainstorm. Fortunately he doesn't mind, doesn't care to guess at all.

Later it occurs to him that it isn't cool he feels. It is still.

Still as a tangible sensation is a new idea, but fitting. All around him is still, from the smooth silver suspended above him, to the clasped hands rigid at his breast.

It is into this utter tranquility that he awakens. Awareness trickles in like sand in an hourglass, one grain at a time, until he treads the brim of consciousness. There are others whose presence is a constant at his elbows, each without a single breath. At first they provide the comfort of companionship. But as reality filters through his dreamworld – the sigh of wind, the shudder of sunlight – he is seized with trepidation.

For the companions beside him are wholly without warmth.

- Part I: Courage -

When we die, what's leftover - the flesh, the meat of the body - is swallowed by the earth. Soft tissues are the first to rot, and in their wake comes that awful smell. Hemoglobin breaks down, and the corpse releases gases and becomes bloated. Next the skin and the nails detach and crumble away. Eventually all the fluids dissipate, the bones decay into dust, and the body folds in on itself. By this time, only the parasites are left.

It's all very orderly and predictable, like following a recipe for sesame chicken. Of course there are variables that affect the process. Children's bones are smaller and not as dense as adult bones, so they decay faster. Acidity, temperature, even the food trapped in the stomach influence the rate of decomposition.

That reminds me. Once in elementary school, my class took a day trip to a museum. The highlight of the day was an exhibit on Egypt, which was Brand New and For a Limited Time Only. I remember peering up at a wall adorned with old paintings, the colors peeling away and half the pictures missing. Equally ancient artifacts lined the halls, side by side with panels explaining how the stick-like animal figures carved on this ivory comb were over four thousand years old, how this crude stone bowl was used to offer libations to the gods.

But I was eight, a manic fan of Beetlejuice for the simple reason that he was gross, and my favorite color was "snot green" because saying so put wrinkles into my best girl friend's (not girlfriend) pert little nose.

So the main attraction was naturally the mummy. Who doesn't love a dead guy?

And maybe it was because we'd been anticipating the mummy for so long, or maybe it was just that the mummy was our last stop in the exhibit. Either way, with the superstitious, giddy excitement that is synonymous with eight- to nine-year-olds, we barely paused to look at anything else. The corridor seemed to darken with every step. I vividly remember asking a friend if Nike sneakers were acceptable footwear before a Pharaoh's throne. The mummy's chamber looked like a gaping maw, in spite of being sectioned off with red rope, and afterwards several of my friends swore they heard a guttural, thunderous moan from within.

Inside, the first thing I remember is the sarcophagus. It was huge and ornate, carved meticulously out of alabaster. It had probably never belonged to the mummy on display, which right away scared the crap out of me. All those movies about ruthless, flesh-eating mummies, and no one ever thought they might be mad that their bed had been taken away? I would be. If I were dead.

Next to the sarcophagus, encased in glass like a window into another world, was the mummy.

His cheeks were crushed in and his nose had long since disintegrated. His skeletal hands were splayed over his chest, exposed down to the last blackened bone. We half-expected roving eyeballs to roll into his empty sockets and pin us with a deadly curse. His jaw hung open, lined by the remnants of brown and rotten teeth.

At first I was like, wow, how cool is that. Especially how those ancient Egyptians extracted his brain through his nose. I want to be embalmed too!

And then Sora – that's my girl best friend's name – sucked in her breath and said, "Geez, I'd hate to be naked like that in front of all these people."

It's weird sometimes, the things kids fixate on. But after she said that, I had trouble looking at the mummy, even for a brief glance. I even had those naked dreams – you know the ones – for a couple weeks afterward. The other kids tried to count his ribs, without much success. They rapped on the smeared glass with their knuckles and called me sissy when I hung back, nearest the light. But I kept thinking how awful it would be if long after I'd died, people were still staring at me and calling me names and mock-pleading with me not to be eaten. This guy had a face as ugly as camel dung, but I didn't think he'd have ever eaten anybody. He probably just wanted everyone to shut up so he could get some sleep.

Years after I realized how silly it was to get so worked up over a mummy (and convinced myself that he must have written a will donating his body to science), I went to a classmate's funeral. Not a kid I ever knew too well. It just so happened that my sister was dating his brother and had only just decided to tell me after the dude was lying cold in the morgue. Therefore I felt obligated (by some ridiculous and obsolete sense of brotherly duty) to go to the funeral and introduce myself.

That's how I met Ishida Yamato. At the mouth of his open casket, on a particularly cold and blistery autumn afternoon, as I surreptitiously tried to watch my sister while she let a tall blond boy cry on her arm. The kid had been dead for just about a week, which was probably why he looked so calm and everything. The truth hadn't quite sunk in yet.

And because he hadn't figured out how to talk, he just gave me this cold look that said, "You let her hurt my little brother and I'll haunt you until you're mad as the bum who skulks around the Rainbow Bridge chewing scraps of leather."

And that's a true ghost story for you.

Chapter One

Mondays are not my specialty. Especially when they come after a weekend of rigorous training at the soccer club per Coach's vengeful decree. We'd missed out on the prefectural tournament, again. When I entered Kasumigaoka Junior High, the first thing Coach said to me after I made it to regulars was, "Now that we have you on board, maybe we can actually make it to the subfinals this year."

So he was fairly disappointed when, after pinning so much hope on this year's team, I failed to get us into the running. But I wasn't too messed up over that. I mean, everyone knows a striker, no matter how amazing he is, can't carry a team by himself. If you'd asked me, I would have said that we needed to up our defense – our No. 11 Wingback was especially weak with feints. Plus the Captain was a grade-A bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of Sony Tower –

– but I'm getting off track (that happens kind of a lot).

I don't even remember who represented Tokyo at the games. Actually I do, but they weren't from Odaiba so it'd be an insult to my hometown if I named them. They were incredible, though, not that anyone cared. The rest of Japan was too busy gushing over the high school baseball tournament at Koushien, which was broadcasted on TV and caused all this hoopla. Baseball is fun but its fan club attracts some serious wackos.

(Focus, Taichi. You were talking about Mondays. Which does lead somewhere relevant, I promise.)

Anyway, so this Monday morning my calves ached like I'd spent the weekend racing a steamroller, and I found goose bumps all along my arms for no apparent reason, which was foreboding enough in itself. You know those mornings when you wake up and you're not sick, but you feel as if you've spent the entire night retching, and there's this foul taste in your mouth like you haven't brushed your teeth since the invention of jazz? That's what this was like. I'm usually an early riser, but that day my eyelids stung with exhaustion, and the thought of breakfast made my stomach go chilly and sick.

It was quarter to seven and my sister was in the bathroom conducting a small, out-of-tune orchestra starring the hair dryer. I kicked the covers off with less than my usual gusto and sat up. Outside, I remember, the gray sky was one mass of cloud threatening to expend itself, which is worse than an actual downpour because it taunts you with the hope that maybe, if you're very quick, you can beat the rain. So you rush around, crushing your homework in your bookbag, getting your comb trapped in your knots, dashing madly outside with a slice of toast clenched between your teeth. And then the sky opens up, and it's not just a drizzle, not just your average rain, but a veritable typhoon and soon you're soaked through and shivering like an underfed hare.

Ah, went down another route there, sorry. I'm what you call "absent-minded." At least that's the polite term, what Sora calls me is a different matter.

So there's me finally getting up – that's not bedhead either, that's what I look like on a daily basis – and I entered the kitchen to discover my mom had, once again, attempted french toast for breakfast. I don't know who told her banana and kimchi are a good combination but you've never tasted anything truly disgusting until you've combined those flavors with the richness of french toast.

"Mom," I said without much hope, "I made my own breakfast last night. It's the egg salad sandwich in the fridge."

"Sorry honey, your father ate it when he got home. He didn't know." Mom cast an apologetic glance over her shoulder, then flipped a piece of toast on the pan. "Would you get yourself and your sister some yogurt?"

Yogurt, at least, is generally safe from my mother's crazy culinary whims. I found two containers of the vanilla variety and poured them in a pair of bowls. As an afterthought, I threw in some banana slices, since it would be a tragedy if my sister lost her taste for banana completely after that mangled french toast.

Speaking of Hikari, my sister – she was eleven years old at the time. She's known for her age-exceeding wisdom and common sense, two attributes I can't put any claim to myself. Some people have even referred to her as semi-ethereal. That's bull, of course – my sister's smart, and kind, and I'm proud of her, but she's no shining angel when she doesn't get her way. She cuts her hair in a short, not exactly boyish, but practical style and before that day, she'd almost never worn any hair accessories to school. So when she pranced in with a shiny pink barrette clipping her bangs to the side, my mom and I couldn't help but notice.

"That's cute," my mom said, pointing. "Where did you get it?"

Color flooded Hikari's cheeks. "It was a present," she muttered, looking at the floor. She scampered to the table and ducked her head behind the newspaper.

Mom and I exchanged a glance. "A present from who?" I asked, sidling over to the chair next to her.

"A friend," was her informative reply. I propped my chin in my hand.

"Chika?" I guessed.

"No."

"Reimi? Momoko? Ayu?"

"No."

"It's not from Koushirou, is it?"

Finally she looked up, mouth open, gawking me like I were some monkey in the zoo making a show of picking at his butt. "Of course not, why would you think that?"

"Because I've gone through your close girl friends, and if it's not from them, it must be a gift from a boy," I lied. Actually I'd been sure from the start that the barrette was a present from an admirer. First, because my sister is cute and smart, and second, because otherwise she wouldn't have tried to hide it from us. "And Koushirou was a natural starting point because he's here around you all the time."

"If Koushirou-san likes anyone, it's you," Hikari grumbled into the TV listings.

I frowned and swatted at her. "Koushirou is married to his computer. But I don't know of any other guys you know. It had better not be someone from my school."

"Oniichan, I'm not going to date a junior high schooler."

"Aha! So you are dating!"

"I'm trying to read, would you leave me alone, please?" She said this very primly – anyone less proficient in Hikarese would have believed she really was not flustered. Meryl Streep would have been impressed.

"Maybe I should try to guess who he is." I wracked my brain for the names of Hikari's schoolmates. "Oh lord, it's not that Motomiya, is it? He's been ogling you since the third grade. Back then it was, well, more funny than cute, but –"

"If he likes anyone, it's you," Hikari repeated, starting to sound annoyed. "His fan boy crush was only diverted to me, since I wear skirts more often."

"That reminds me, I need to go shopping for some of those in seasonal colors."

"It's definitely not Daisuke-kun, so don't even think it," she sighed, folding the newspaper and pushing it away from her. I recognized the signs of defeat and gave a satisfied smirk. "You don't know him. He moved to Odaiba from Sangenjaya at the start of the spring semester."

"And his name is?"

"He's on the basketball team. And he's one-quarter French, and can actually speak it a little. He's an A student, except in calligraphy. His penmanship is abysmal."

"Hikari, his name..?"

She pursed her lips and looked at me squarely. That expression on my sister always means Serious Business. Mom passed by serenely and slid two plates of exotic french toast towards us. Simply because I had nothing else to do with my hands, I picked up my fork and dug in.

"If I tell you, you have to promise you won't follow me to school and harass him," Hikari said.

I pretended to be hurt. "Hikari, how can you say that? You would strip me of my duties as your brother, which are all in your best interest, to capriciously do away with the blessing of virginity?"

"Oniichan!" She smacked me this time, so I shoved her back. Soon we were off the chairs, tussling in the hallway, our breakfasts forgotten. Thinking we were just playing, I reached for her hair clip, but she kicked me swiftly in the groin. As I doubled over, she dashed to the genkan, pulled on her shoes, and slung her bookbag over her shoulder.

"If you're going to be a jerk about it, I'm not going to tell you!" she shrieked, slamming the door behind her.

I gasped for breath, scratching at the walls. I heard the soft pad of my mother coming up behind me. "You sure blew that one," she said cheerfully. She held up my plate. "Don't you want any more?"

"I can't believe you're not worried now that she has a boyfriend." Wincing, I wrapped my fingers around a corner of the end table and levered myself up.

"She never said she has a boyfriend. It's natural for a pretty young girl to have fans. And even if she does, what's to worry about? She's eleven, and dating is an uncharted territory for her. If she's been bit by puppy love, the worst we have to look out for is some timid hand-holding and lots of giggling around the dinner table."

My mom is, to say the least, unusual in her life philosophy. It might take more than the fall of the nation to stress her out. She has a zillion and one hobbies which take up most of her time, so it's probably a good thing that she ended up with two very independent kids. Sometimes she has to lecture me about my study habits (or lack thereof), or fuss over Hikari when she gets sick because her immune system is full of kinks. But as for the rest of it, Hikari and I mostly take care of ourselves. So I wasn't really surprised that she wasn't concerned about the mysterious boyfriend. Just sore because I don't like losing a fight, and because Hikari kicks like a pro-QB.

My mood simmered down a bit on the ride to school. I had this rusting lime green bike with an orange bell which didn't really work anymore, only made this sad sort of toothless sigh. It was a shoddy piece of junk and man, I miss it. I named it Bastian because it seemed like a completely unsuitable name, even though I hadn't read The Never-Ending Story.

Bastian was the laughing stock of Kasumigaoka Jr. High. When I parked at the bike rack, anyone who happened to coast in near me would advise me to forget my key and let someone steal it, and then maybe my parents would buy me a new one. Other kids liked to pretend its color was the result of having been dipped in nuclear waste. The less creative claimed it looked like something chucked up by a very large cat.

I didn't mind their jeers, and I don't think Bastian did either. We both loved the attention. I'm sure that if you don't like people paying attention to you, you don't ride rundown lime green bicycles.

Which brings me to Ishida Yamato.

He was definitely the kind of person who loathed the spotlight. In fact, I only have two memories of him from before It happened. Once in P.E., he somehow ended up the only player left on his dodgeball team, and we all pelted him with rubber balls at once. Another time, during math class, he gave a presentation on how math and music are interrelated. I actually found that very interesting, even though we called him a show-off and a suck-up.

He wasn't an athlete, but that doesn't mean he was a weakling. By the time we were in sixth grade, most of us were struggling in different stages of prepubescent discord. Yamato neatly bypassed that hellish period of awkward vocal squawks, and was speaking in butter-smooth stentorian tones in time for Christmas. The rest of him matured along with his voice, until he was the third tallest in our year, but somehow his limbs never seemed gangly or underdeveloped. His long legs gave him an advantage during the mile run, and he was particularly adept at the high jump. I think a part of him liked exercise, and would have enjoyed playing a sport, but he was always too stiff-necked to work with a team.

He had beautiful eyes. It sounds strange to say that, but it's the truth. I've been told a few time times that my eyes are one of the few redeeming features of my otherwise clownish face, and yet Yamato's eyes were far more enchanting. They were a vivid blue, darkly and thickly lashed, and when he wasn't thinking about anything in particular, just gazing off in that distant way of his, you'd get a chill like you were spying as someone peeped into another world. Once you met his eyes, no matter how briefly, you were riveted.

You're probably wondering how I know so much about a guy I claim I hardly knew before he died.

Well, let me backtrack a bit.

The first clue that something was wrong at Kasumigaoka came when I locked up Bastian and no one bullied me over it. If I'd been more alert, I would have noticed the solemnity that covered the school like a shroud. But I was too preoccupied thinking about Hikari's boyfriend, and which of the twelve methods I knew to put the fear of Big Brother in him I should try first.

When I slipped into my classroom, it was eerily silent – no one sat perched on the desks, chatting in groups or softly in pairs. Even my homeroom teacher, Kikuchi-sensei, set his mouth in a grave line as he stood in front of the chalkboard, palms pressed on either side of his desktop. I covered my mouth with my hand, which was the only way I could think of to let my classmates know I would respect the somber mood, since normally I couldn't be counted on to stay quiet and still for any reason.

Kikuchi-sensei didn't say a word until after the first period bell. Then he straightened up and raked a hand through his receding salt and pepper hair. I thought, Now he's going to tell us the district's changed our curricula in the middle of the semester, and we've got to start over from the beginning.

Instead, he puffed through his mouth, clasped his hands in front of him. He stared across the room, barely grazing the tops of our heads. "I know it's not our usual day for the all-school morning meeting, but we're stepping outside of routine for a short while today so we can hear an important announcement. Now everyone please line up at the door."

We filed down the hall with less shuffling and griping than usual. I noticed some girls sniffling and holding on to each other, and a couple boys wiping their sleeves across runny noses. I turned to my soccer club mate, Seiichi, and asked, "What happened, is the district bringing back school lunches or something?"

Seiichi only shrugged and shook his head. In retrospect, he wasn't the best person on whom to spring a pop quiz. Seiichi wouldn't notice his own house if it weren't for the giant soccerball decal glued to the door.

In the gymnasium, we found seats on the floor and waited. The principal emerged shortly, tugging at his collar. The bald spot on the top of his head shined pink with sweat. He stepped up to the microphone and inched his polished dress shoes to the very edge of the makeshift stage.

"Students," he began in a voice rough and curdled with age, "I'm afraid I have to share some very sad news. I've debated with myself for a long time, trying to find the easiest way to break this to you, but the truth is there is no easy way. I can only believe that you are all mature enough, strong and kind-hearted enough to understand and accept the gravity of the situation, and handle it with proper care.

"I'm sure you've all noticed the absence of one of our highly esteemed students. I'm sorry to inform you that second year, class two, Ishida Yamato, died early this morning after a drunk driver crashed into him in the bike lane."

An audible gasp echoed through the rows of students. I think I froze with my knees pressed to the floor, staring dumbly at the teachers arranged at the foot of the stage like the grim guards at Buckingham Palace.

The principal cleared his throat. "I would like to take this moment," he said hoarsely, "to remind you of the importance of minding traffic rules. They are there for your safety. Please make sure you always keep to the left side of the road, and ride on sidewalks and bicycle paths as much as you can. Avoid the main roads. If your bike isn't in good condition, especially if you're having difficulty with the brakes, please have it repaired quickly.

"Ishida Yamato," he went on, shoulders heaving, "was a beloved student with a very promising future ahead of him. He was intelligent, and tremendously skilled in music and science. At the end of his first year he received an Award of Excellence for high marks in those same subjects. To his teachers he always showed due deference, and he was never anything but courteous to his fellow students. Our hearts go out to the family of this fine young man who was taken from us in such an untimely fashion. He will be well missed… Kasumigaoka will not be the same without him."

Miwa-sensei, Yamato's homeroom teacher, had started to cry during the principal's speech, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Another teacher gripped her shoulder and held out a lighter. Together they lit the wax candle in Miwa-sensei's hands, and she in turn held her flame to Kikuchi-sensei's wick. This pattern repeated down the whole row of teachers, until the stage glimmered with flickering yellow lights.

"We light these candles in the memory of the brilliant soul of our fellow classmate, student, and friend. Ishida Yamato."

The principal fell silent. The soft inhale, exhale of my breath sounded disruptively loud in face of whatever heavy spirit possessed the room. I don't know exactly how long we waited, only that it felt like eternity, and my chest grew tighter with each passing second. Finally, the principal blew out his flame. The rest of the teachers followed suit. Students eventually began to talk in dim, almost reverential whispers, as if Ishida Yamato himself were lurking nearby, listening.

"I want you all to know that we are here for you," continued the principal. "Each of your teachers has an open ear to listen should any of you feel the need to talk. Additionally, we have counselors on site, and they are at your disposal. The minute you feel overwhelmed, come to us. Let us help. Don't ever feel ashamed of your emotions, or try to deal with them on your own. It is a perfectly natural thing to be frightened and confused after an event like this, and we are here to help you cope. As things stand, I am contacting your parents and sending you all home. Take this day to come to terms with what has happened, and remember our classmate fondly in the future."

It was in a daze that I made myself get up and trudge to my locker. A group of my buddies caught up with me, and started reviewing the school meeting, taking guesses at how exactly Ishida got himself killed. That's to be expected of teenage boys, I guess, and I act the same often enough. But that day my cheeks burned as other red-eyed students passed by, shooting the group of us reproachful looks.

Part of me wished I could cry. But it was tough, because I didn't know Yamato, and the most I felt was the sickness in my stomach churning miserably. I wondered if this was the shame the principal had mentioned – the shame of not being able to miss someone you never knew.

At the same time, that this tragedy had occurred at my school really did hit home. That was troubling enough itself. I remember wondering if they'd close down the school, turn it into a memorial of sorts and relocate the rest of us elsewhere. It didn't feel right to go on with classes the same as always.

Of course, there was no new school. We took our classes in the same rooms as always, horsed around in the same halls as always. Our initial discomfort passed in time. A photograph of Yamato was placed in the library, on a shelf labeled "Ishida Yamato's Favorite Books." The school newspaper ran his picture with a flowery obituary in the following month's edition.

But that Monday, none of that seemed imaginable. Or rather, we imagined it, but to admit to having such normal thoughts left us feeling uncomfortably like traitors.

Chapter Notes:

A/N: Hi again, kittens! Thanks for reading. There are probably quite a few spelling/grammar errors in my current draft of this fic. There's always a few I don't catch, but particularly here I keep stumbling upon stupid mistakes. It's partly because I'm using a font I'm not used to, but mostly because I'm writing this very fast (just finished chapter four!) and late at night, so my skills are failing me. Therefore, if you catch any glaring errors, let me know and save me future embarrassment.

Also, the reference to Takeru living in Sangenjaya is a tidbit I picked up from a LiveJournal translation of the Digimon novels. I don't know for sure how official the novels are, but the translator thinks they can mostly be considered canon. Currently I don't have Internet access on my PC, so I can't access my favorites and find the translator's name. If anyone happens to remember it, please let me know so I can give proper credit!

Lastly: I know next to nothing about soccer, so please forgive me for any inaccuracies.

I hope you enjoyed this opening chapter, and stick around for the next!

(BTW, I really, REALLY wanted to put "Yamato's dead! Oh no'z! Beware the wrath of JUN THE ZOMBIE SLAYER" as the summary just to see what kind of responses I would get.)