It's hot where you're sitting in the sun, but he's still dressed in all black, hair perfect and glasses reflecting the light, though you don't need to see to know that his eyes are closed.

He never actually watches the water when you come out here to meditate. The dojo is just across the street and there are no houses for a ways. It is mostly silent except for the breathing of the bodies around you, the movement of the air and the ceaseless waves as they crash upon themselves against the ground. Perhaps that is a metaphor, you think, but you save it for later. He will bear no mention of your defeat, so you allow the silence to speak for itself.

Finally, he shifts, only the slightest movement but enough to signal the end of this vigil. The sun has disappeared into the horizon, though it is still bright enough to see and warm enough to sit. You sigh in response, shifting a little closer to his side. You are the last two to stay - all the rest have left without noise, respectful of his mourning. It had been, after all, his dream the most out of all of you. And you - you were only here because of him. Because he had beat you on the mat and on the courts until you couldn't stop your eyes from following him no matter where he went. And where the eyes went, so too went the body.

His shoulder bumps into yours and you freeze, waiting for him to lash out. Nothing comes.

His voice speaks suddenly out of the night.

"Everything I have done is wrong."

You open your mouth to argue with him on instinct and then stop before the sounds leave your lips. He is taking off his glasses and looking at you with weary eyes. He is leaning forward, sand-rough hand on your cheek, pushing back your hair from your face. He is kissing you and you are filled wholly with a light joy as you kiss him back.

So much work has come to this point. So much pain, so much suffering.

And so you let him push you down onto the darkening sand, let him feel your skin and the shape of your body. In return, you smooth your fingers over his aching muscles and avoid the bruises carefully. You get lost in the force of him, the strength and the power like the sea that envelops you and holds you close.

None of your clothes come off but you feel satiated all the same when he pulls back to look at your flushed and panting face before lowering himself down to rest his head on your chest. You wonder if he can hear the fluttering of your heart as you try to accustom yourself to this sudden tenderness. You relax slowly and breathe deep.

He has fallen asleep.

Next time will be different, you promise to his sleeping consciousness. You are Okinawan men, you are strong and ever-changing as the sea. You will always crash against the stone, but neither you nor the stone will ever win. But neither will you loose.

Next time will be different.