He recorded everything.
He could see more than his eyes offered. When he watched others, he could see their parents, their school grades, their history, and potential profits. The myriad facts were their identities, the shadows of their entire lives—the only facts of worthy of contemplation. Sometimes those information would appear in a ghostly image on his glasses, haunting reminders of his countless notes and charts.
He could hear more than his ears offered. Ordinary, passing conversations were classified in their potential importance and stored inside. Every minute detail was crucial, every fleeting clue needed attention, and every whisper surrounding him was invaluable. If supernatural senses indeed existed, even they could not compete with his acuity.
When he stood alone in the crowd, their small actions, their multitudinous habits were a déjà vu—all predicted, all analyzed. Nothing could be unpredicted.
The breaking of the vase.
Nothing could have escaped his predictions. The pain of prophets, the pain of tedium, and the pain of dread—the emotion impossible to overcome when some events could not be avoided…
He felt it all, and wrote all in his notes, which became more bloated and crusty, like the discarded leaves of autumn trees. They would discard their beloved leaves, the results of their labor without hesitation. The leaves would pile around them, the tragic reminders of inevitable events—as inevitable as the turning of seasons.
His notes were like fallen leaves, and they piled around him.
He was exhausted.
And the vase broke.
When the scholarship student entered the room, he instantly recognized her gender, her school grades, and her family—her lost mother. A tingling of recognition sparkled within his heart, the effects of the lack of maternal love—he wondered. Yet he drowned the emotions, buried the unnecessary quirk within the mountains of notes.
He had never expected the vase to break.
Everything happed suddenly, yet with painful slowness. He had opened his mouth for a fleeting moment, yet had closed it instantly. It was not fit for an Ootori to display his emotions openly.
The vase shattered into thousands of fragments, showering the marble floors with refreshing ring.
He had never expected that.
When the vase had broken, he felt a part of him freed, mounds of memorandum bursting into flames.
For a moment, he had shelved all information away, and for the first time, he saw everything clearly, freed from the burden, all the data.
However, he extinguished his rebellion, for an Ootori is nothing without information. Yet—
Yet he felt refreshed.
His father had sent his secretary outside, wishing that he was left alone for a moment. The occasional summer breeze briefly stirred the monsoon drenched leaves in the garden. The 10 year old Ootori silently gazed at his idol, peering silently through the slightly opened door.
His father silently took out a worn out picture frame. He was smiling at the worn out picture, sometimes gazing out wistfully outside the window. The boy squinted as he tried to find out who was in the picture. The woman was his mother, he recognized. He was disappointed.
How could his father show such human weaknesses, he thought.
He shook his head, denying the image that he thought, and slowly ran out, erasing the image from his mind.
7 years later, he was sitting inside the same heat of late summer. The clubroom was bursting with customers, fraternizing with the club members. His blond friend was flaunting his charms, and others were acting in their given scenarios. In the center was the sole female member of the club.
She was sitting in the center, smiling brightly to the clueless women. His forehead creased slightly for the first time. Should he tell her that he did not want her to serve the customers, that the debt was a mere guile to keep her near the group?
Or should he tell her that he was experiencing more than he never did, in the presence of the commoner? Should he tell her that when he pinned her on the bed during the summer, he was tempted for an unbearable moment?
Yet he did nothing, and directed his gaze to the cloudy sky above. And he smiled bitterly, disgusted how he was mimicking his father even in this pitiful manner, unable to express his emotions even though the opportunity was so tangible.
"Father," he said without hesitation, for he had planned the conversation for a long time. "What do you want from me?"
"What could you offer me?" the older Ootori scrutinized his son. It was early morning, and the office was inundated in silent light.
"Father, I thought that I could offer you the most profit."
His father remained silent.
"And my belief has never wavered. However," he faced his father directly for the first time. "I am uncertain."
"Uncertain about what?"
"Father, did you marry my mother according to your own emotions?" he hesitated, wondering if he asked an impertinent question. Both were silent in the office, and the morning light was filtering through the curtains.
"What do you think?" The older Ootori smiled, his stiff features loosening for a moment.
"I do not know, father. I—" he hesitated again. "I feel myself changing, and I do not know what to do."
"That is quite unusual of you, to feel this way. Especially," the man observed his son through his edged spectacles, "that you expressed this dilemma to me."
"I have always ensured that my method would bring out the most profit. I even believed that I was the man that you wanted me to become, proficient and calculating."
The younger Ootori gazed down, his round glasses reflecting the light. The glasses were passed down through the generation, but it became rounder, looser.
"She saw through me, and I felt—" he struggled to find an appropriate word, "—uncomfortable, father."
"Hmm?"
"Through her, I could see who I truly am. Until now, even though I could analyze everyone else, I could not observe myself correctly. Even though I am wearing glasses… I could not see clearly."
The glasses were the traits of his father. His emulation of his father, his idolization of his father—the past emotions shone through his glasses, now shining in the light.
"Even with these glasses, I could not see what I was…… Yet she made me realize. She cleared my vision."
"And?" the older man felt amusement, yet an unknown pride.
"She is special, I realized."
"Special indeed……" the aged man smiled.
"I am sorry, father. I could not become the man you wanted me to become."
"Kyouya……" the man rose from his seat. "I do not recall telling you that I want you to become a cold, mechanical man."
The son raised his head in surprise.
"Information can sometimes hinder one, Kyouya. The truly powerful force lies in your emotions."
After that, he walked out of his office.
The student was alone in the silent office. He took off his glasses. The early morning sun entered his bare eyes. He smiled, his eyes no longer clouded.
The spectacles hung loosely on his hand.
"Special indeed, Fujioka………" he whispered.
He recorded everything, considered everything, and calculated everything. Yet he failed to predict the breaking of the vase, and that had crumbled everything.