Bright white light fills Natsume's field of view. The sparkle of pristine snow in the sunlight is a beauty that quiets Natsume's world. It leaves him suspended in time and space. He breathes in—cold and sharp. He breathes out—white condensation.
The cold embraces him in moaning gusts of wind. He tucks his bare hands in his jacket pockets. A gift, he recalls. Touko-san and Shigeru-san had bought him a new jacket for winter. Though they do not call it a gift, as if they were regular parents and child.
Natsume remembers, with outgrown envy, how the families he had been with had always bought their children clothing with no hint of expectation. In contrast, every time he had gotten cast-offs, he was expected to be grateful, as if a standard item of clothing was worthy of adulation and was all that he was worth. What did they know that he never did? What did they know that he could never fully understand?
Alone in the snow, Natsume stands still in silent appreciation. The vast whiteness is empty of footprints. He has never felt so alone until now in this pristine snow. Nyanko-sensei's absence is a larger void than usual.
Students pour out of the building like waves crashing over sand in an undulation that speaks of freedom. After-school activities are abandoned for the drifting piles of snow. Kitamoto and Taki walk sedately. The fall of their footsteps is the crunch of snow.
Natsume and Tanuma fall behind. A gust of wind steals away their breaths and flutters the ends of Natsume's untucked scarf. Tanuma gives a little wheeze, the sound punched out of his chest. The stutter of his breath generates a frown on Natsume's face. His is a face well-suited to frowning, yet slowly, his muscles grow accustomed to smiling.
Nishimura strides up to Kitamoto and slings an arm over his shoulder with all the boundless energy of a puppy. His floppy brown hair rustles with his quick movements. "Ask me what time it is!" he singsongs.
"What time is it?" Kitamoto obediently asks. He stays still as Nishimura tries to give him a little friendly shake.
"Time for a snowball fight!" Nishimura crows gleefully. "First snow of the year, remember?"
"First snow of the year?" Taki inquires.
Nishimura beams at Taki, preening at her momentary attention. He opens his mouth to respond and is promptly cut off by Kitamoto. Kitamoto doesn't think Taki is ready for Nishimura's grandiose boastings of past fights.
"Yeah," Kitamoto says, "when we were kids, we used to always have a snowball fight after the first snowfall. Though we haven't done that in—"
Nishimura urgently cuts in, "We do it every year!" His voice projects and catches Natsume's attention. He had been awkwardly fretting over Tanuma's lack of a scarf, sure that he would succumb to illness.
Nishimura glances at Natsume and flicks his eyes back to Kitamoto. Kitamoto nods minutely before Natsume's voice rings out.
"What do you do every year?" Natsume broaches. His voice is tentative, as if unsure he's intruding or not, even though Nishimura's loudness is a clear invitation. It's kind of heartbreaking, Kitamoto muses. The way a beaten down stray won't approach you even if you had a palmful of food and a kind smile.
"Snowball fight!" Nishimura says.
"Oh," Natsume says. He pauses for a moment. "I've never been in a snowball fight before." He had always been on the fringes of the playground, never fully rejected but never fully invited in. By winter, his classmates had usually grown tired of him, unable to deal with his eccentricities. Children liked simplicity and Natsume was anything but simple.
Nishimura smiles. "Well," he says, sidling up to Natsume, "now you will be!" He flings an enthusiastic arm around Natsume's shoulders. Natsume goes oddly still beneath his touch.
Kitamoto watches the interaction. So focused on Natsume's reaction, Nishimura has yet to realize Taki is sneaking up behind him. In her hands, there lies a misshapen snowball that is passingly reminiscent of a sphere. Her sudden movement breaks the buildup of charged tension.
A shriek fills the air as Nishimura cringes from Taki's hands. Snow melts down his neck and dampens the shirt beneath his jacket. He wheels around to face Taki, dislodging himself from Natsume.
"Taki!" Nishimura squawks. "It's not a fight if you don't give me the chance to attack!" Betrayal gapes his mouth unattractively. He clutches at his chest in faux pain.
Soft laughter fills the air. The group's focus redirects to Natsume. Laughter suits him, Kitamoto realizes. Natsume has dimples .
"And now Natsume's laughing at me," Nishimura playfully complains. "Defend my honor, Kitamoto!" He sweeps a demonstrative arm at Kitamoto.
A sigh coalesces in the air, hazy white. Kitamoto bends down as Taki ducks behind Tanuma's spindly form.
There is only the sound of laughter in the air. Tilted lips and slitted eyes complement the joy that suffuses heat through the body. Excited puffs of air render the world in a transient white haze. The crunch of snow is accompanied by the thudding of snowballs hitting targets.
Exertion and cold makes for flushed cheeks and panting breaths. They collapse in the snow. Nishimura angles to get as close to Taki as possible and Kitamoto waylays him with a gentle shove. That's the way they've always worked—Kitamoto, a mitigating influence and Nishimura, an energizing influence. It's a synergistic friendship. They have always been a pair—Kitamoto-and-Nishimura. But they don't mind extending the bounds of their friendship to Natsume, Tanuma, and Taki.
Beanpoles that they are, Natsume and Tanuma seat themselves with all the grace of thin wire unraveling. It's abrupt and almost clumsy. The displacement of snow crunches.
A gap is left between the two pairs. It is a gap just right for a slim form to fill in. Taki sits in between the two pairs, brushing up against Kitamoto and Natsume.
"Now," Nishimura says in a mock-solemn tone, "it's time for snowmen!" He flings a demonstrative arm at the snow drifts shuffled around by the heavy wind. A playful gust of wind makes havoc of hair.
"Sounds fun," Tanuma says, deadpan. Tanuma can't help the huff that escapes. That snowball fight sapped a lot of energy. His spirit is willing, but his body… He flops a little further into the snow. Taki was surprisingly ruthless; Natsume had unerring aim; Kitamoto was relentless; and Nishimura was… enthusiastic.
And yet...Tanuma doesn't mind the exhaustion. It's the exhaustion of a job well done. He looks at Natsume's dimpled smile and finds the heaviness weighing down his limbs to be just compensation.
"Hmm, all it needs is a hat and a scarf now," Nishimura says. In front of him, a snowman with an alarming lean to the left stands with stones for eyes and mouth, and sticks for arms. Nishimura stands with his arms akimbo with a determined set to his brow. Kitamoto quietly despairs. If only Nishimura applied the same amount of determination to his schoolwork.
"Does it really need a hat?" Natsume asks. Personally, he thought a hat would only emphasize the misshapen head. He tilts his head a bit, visualizing the end result. Definitely no need for a hat.
"Yes, it does," Nishimura decides. "Thanks for volunteering!" He leans over and plucks the hat from Natsume's head. It is a soft knit hat in powder-blue.
The middle-aged woman in Natsume inwardly gasps, "Rude!" Audibly, he squawks in indignation. With only a second's hesitation, Natsume lunges at Nishimura.
"Touko-san made that for me!"
"Geeze, Natsume, just call her your mom alre—" A yelp cuts off Nishimura's words as Natsume's pointy elbow digs into his sides.
"Let go!" Natsume growls in mock frustration. His face creases into a grin as his slender hands grasp futilely at Nishimura's firm grip on the hat.
They roll around in the snow as Tanuma, Taki, and Kitamoto watch on in amusement. It's the most animated they've seen from Natsume in a while.
Nishimura sidles up to Natsume on the sidelines. They bump shoulders, or more accurately, Nishimura bumps Natsume's shoulder. He jostles Natsume's cup of tea. The curl of water vapor continues to float lazily in the air.
After a mumbled apology, Nishimura's gaze follows Natsume's out the window. Snowflakes drift in the wind and inevitably reach the ground to join their brethren. The earth is unseen beneath piles of snow. Tree branches droop, heavy with snow. The occasional gust of wind dislodges snow from branch with a quiet thump.
"What are you looking at?" Nishimura says. His usual enthusiasm is traded for something oddly subdued. Natsume cannot the parse the expression on his face.
"The snow. It's…so much." Natsume says weakly. There is a feeling he can't articulate. It lingers in the hollow of his chest and twists his tongue. It overwhelms him.
"Yeah," Nishimura agrees, "but when you think about it, Natsume, it's only overwhelming when you're alone. In fact, look! By the tree, there's our snowman…wait a minute, why does it have my scarf?" Nishimura gropes at his neck with a betrayed expression.
Natsume's face contorts into a hybrid expression of fondness and exasperation that makes Nishimura laugh. He sheepishly ruffles his earthy hair.
"Hey," Nishimura protests, "I can be serious!"
"Yeah, you can be," Natsume agrees. He smiles. Together, the snow isn't an endless swathe of white. Nishimura is warm against his side.
There is a life out there waiting for Natsume Takashi to seize it. His healing isn't a reminder of weakness but of the strength of his conviction. To examine his character is to recognize that he has endured all manners of indifferent cruelties only to come out with understanding.