Author's Notes: Inspired by Cake's "Stormy Weather." I haven't written in a while, so I'm not sure where I'm going with this, really. Perhaps a series of short scenes -- whatever, really. Not sure. But, all the same, standard disclaimers apply; and this is from Yohji's perspective. Because, you know, I heart him. And stuff. - glaube.
Stormy Weather:
movement one: doors.
We know of an ancient radiation While Frank Sinatra sings "Stormy Weather"
That haunts dismembered constellations
A faintly glimmering radio station
The flies and spiders get along together
Cobwebs fall on an old skipping record
On days when the weather is so terrible that we have to close shop early, Ran silently turns from me and treads up the stairs and into the room which is, distinctly and completely his. You might not know it, standing on the outside, as I have done so many times, certainly not by looking at the door and imagining what lies beyond it, but you would if you'd been granted a glimpse beyond -- into a room with a perfectly made bed, sheets folded into hard, solid angles. Into a room with walls a pristine white; like a hospital -- I don't know how how stands them. Into a room with a dresser and a closet; into a room whose only touches of personality are the katana which rests on its stand at the foot of his bed and the picture frame of his smiling sister, propped up on a nighstand.
Once, I saw him smile in his sleep. So perhaps it is plausible -- perhaps they are related.
Most people would stand outside this door, on rainy days, and suspect that Ran has gone inside to be alone, to meditate on the ways of the warrior; perhaps to write dark and vengeful poetry in a little journal he keeps tucked away just for rainy days -- just for days when he can angst properly.
The people who think so are the ones who have never gone behind the door. He opens the door and he retrieves the katana and he walks right past me -- smoking my cigarette -- in the hallway.
Some days, he'll take it as he passes.
The truth is that Ran and I are not so different -- he doesn't like to sit still, either. You may not know it by looking at him, the quiet redhead, the stoic. But in that sense, he is not so different from the door, either.
On stormy days, he retrieves his katana; on stormy days, I get my wire and follow him.
On stormy days, we spar on the roof, under the heavy rainful, soaked to the bone. His hair, already such a rich auburn, becomes an even deeper shade of crimson, plastered just so to a pale, rain-streaked face. You would think it would slow us down, but it doesn't, and we spar, and I marvel at him as I leap between the arcs of the katana; at the grace and strength and power of his movements.
Perhaps someday we'll kill eachother.
But on this rainy day, we spar until we're too tired to spar anymore, until he's propping himself up with his katana and until my fingers ache from the lengths of wire I've dragged through them.
On rainy days like this one, when it's all over, I kiss him, and he lets me. On rainy days like this one, I hand him one of my cigarettes and we both light up before heading inside. He tolerates this bad habit of mine, because, on days like this one, he knows I need it -- he knows he needs it..
On days like this one, Omi leaves towels at the foot of the stairs, and we dry off, and he pretends like nothing has happened or will happen when I follow him into his room.
That's the funny thing about doors, though.
Once you've gone through them and seen the other side, there's never really any going back.
While Frank Sinatra sings "Stormy Weather"
The flies and spiders get along together
Cobwebs fall on an old skipping record