People think Ginji is some sort of idiot. That is partially his fault because he walks around trustingly asking questions a grammar school graduate should be able to answer. But, Ginji isn't stupid. Ginji is far from stupid. In fact, he could be, in some ways, one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. However, he grew up without any formal education whatsoever. So, frankly, it's a miracle that he is literate.
I on the other hand, while mostly self-educated, had the opportunity to school myself in art and music, history, chemistry, physics, anatomy, biology, basic algebra through statistics and calculus, literature and the martial arts. I speak German fluently. However, I prefer Japanese. I have some college credits and I have traveled Europe. I am quick with numbers. I have numerous awards for essays I have written.
I'm also a perfectionist and a control freak. I'm extremely competitive. I have no idea how to share. And I never entirely learned how to get along with people. Specifically, I was never taught the value of a good first impression. I have always been a little bit edgy with new acquaintances.
So, Ginji astounds me. I think he could make it in this world depending solely on his sweet smile. I have not met anyone who truly does not like him. Any dislike of Ginji is fueled by jealousy, not an aversion to his personality. He is innately trustworthy. People follow him because he has a kind heart. Sometimes, I envy him for this. But, we are learning from one another.
For example, I started teaching him the names, locations and functions of the different bones, muscles and tendons in the human body in an attempt to make him a more precise fighter. And he started teaching me not to be afraid of his masculine touch. Admittedly, I'm a slow learner. But, he picks up new material quickly. His favorite bone – actually it is not properly a bone, only part of a bone – is the iliac crest. Every time he slides his hands along mine he tells me how beautiful he thinks they are. He tells me, "You have the most beautiful iliac crests I have ever seen." And I can't help but smile.
Before I met Ginji I was convinced that the only 'bi' I would ever be would be 'bilingual.' Sure, I'll acknowledge that I had a little bit of a man-crush on Yamato. But, that didn't really count for anything because I was still kissing Himiko behind his back. Also – and this only goes to support Shido's ever-growing case that I am a jackass – I'm loudly homophobic in public. Ginji hates it when I make fun of Jubei and Kazuki. And I hate it that I taught Ginji the meaning of the word hypocrite.
I spent all night thinking about Ginji with an odd sense that if I concentrated hard enough he would pull through. The doctors and nurses didn't keep me updated on his progress. In fact, they purposely avoided eye contact with me each time they bustled by. I'm used to this in people. Instinctually some know that even though my eyes are enchanting they are also dangerous. However, I couldn't help but worry that they had some terrible news and were too afraid to tell me.
For all I knew he was dead or had permanent brain damage from the oxygen deprivation his organs were sure to have suffered after losing so much blood. But, somehow, at some point I managed to fall asleep. When I woke up in the hospital waiting room with sunlight streaming across my face and a pigeon-toed doctor standing in front of me I had the feeling of being shaken from a nightmare.
He asked if I was with Ginji Amano. I nodded slowly, mentally bracing for the worst news. But, it didn't come. He only told me with detachment that, although Ginji had lost a little over third of his blood, they had been able to stop the bleeding before it got any worse. He was currently having a transfusion and, with rest, he would be fine. A strange dreamlike sense of relief flooded me.
I was barley listening when he told me that I should go home to get some rest too. But, I had a suspicion that I was making him uncomfortable by loitering around in the waiting room. So, I left just to make him feel better after asking when I could see Ginji.
There were still a few hours before the hospital was open for visitation. And I still had to deliver our recovered item to the client at the Honky Tonk. Outside I lit a cigarette and called the contact number I had been given to tell them that the job had been a success. They told me that they would meet me in a half an hour.
I did not want to look at the car. But, business is business and we would need money. I found a rag in the trunk and, after wetting it in a fountain nearby, began cleaning off the window and steering wheel and leather seats as well as I could. We would have to do something about the upholstery at the foot of the passenger side seat. I had to wring out the rag twice. The water was the same color pink as Ginji's cheeks when he blushes. It made a puddle on the sidewalk. Looking at it made me want to be sick.
So, I got into the car and drove away as quickly as possible. Miss Ladybug purred familiarly as I guided her down the streets and her noise calmed my nerves. Legal parking by the Honky Tonk was easy to find this early in the morning. After I stopped the car on a side street I changed from my ruined shirt into one of Ginji's. My shirt was bloody and torn. His shirt was soft cotton and it was too big for me and looked completely unprofessional. But, there was nothing I could do about it. I was supposed to meet the clients soon.
I brushed out my tangled hair without using the mirror. Ginji sometimes laughs at me because he thinks that it is odd that I should avoid my own reflection. I have never liked looking at myself. When I was a child I had the not completely irrational fear that if I met my own eyes I would accidentally get caught in a dream. I have a little more control over my gifts now. But, I still don't like to look into mirrors out of habit.
Our cargo was sitting peacefully on the back seat in a nondescript, white grocery bag. The plastic was covered in rust colored finger-prints. I opened the bag and looked at the piece. It would be a disaster if anything had stained it. Luckily, nothing had. So, I discarded the bag calmly as I walked down the street towards the café, leaving the windows rolled down in the hope that the acrid smell of Ginji's hurt would drift away from the car.
I entered the Honky Tonk tired and was greeted by Natsumi's customary cry of, "Welcome home!" It was Sunday. So, she was working. She is a nice girl. I suppose that her mother would be proud of her. There was a strange pause between us. She pointed with concern to my glasses. Her fingers are dainty and small like the rest of her. Ginji is convinced that I have a crush on her. That isn't true at all. I just like her smell – which is, I'll admit, very weird. She asked fearfully, "Is that brown stuff on your glasses blood?"
I responded honestly, "Don't worry. It isn't mine." There was so much of Ginji's blood everywhere. I hadn't noticed. I licked my thumb and wiped the lenses in a circular motion. They came clean easily.
Now she asked, "Where is Ginji-san?"
"He is resting." Ginji would have called that a lie. But, I call it damage control because, in a sense, it was true. Ginji was resting – resting in the hospital – and I did not have the energy or time to explain to Natsumi, who would surely be very concerned, what had happened.
"Oh," she nodded knowingly. "He must be tired." The answer seemed to have satisfied her because she trotted off to fill my favorite mug with coffee
The clients arrived right on time. I liked them. They were rich – and professional, an old married couple. Ginji had wanted to treat them – when he had met them – as grandparents. But, they wouldn't stand for it maybe, because they did not like the Japanese. They were from Korea. Ginji didn't understand.
Their case was simple. Their home had been robbed and something very precious had been taken from them, specifically a very old bojagi or wrapping cloth. In accordance to tradition they used the bojagi to cover their wedding documents. So, in that way it was very special to them personally.
However, it also happened to be a piece from the early to middle Choson dynasty which had fallen into their family's hands towards the end of the Choson reign around 1910. The embroidery on the piece was exquisite. I counted seven different types of stitches when I glanced at it. Collectors practically pissed themselves when they saw the opportunity to add such a piece to their wall.
I allowed the old man to inspect the cloth. He touched it delicately and found the piece to be in satisfactory condition. Flouting all rules of dignity and refinement, I counted the ¥ 1,500,000 he handed me – just to make sure it was all there. When they first offered that amount of money I was uncertain if we should take it. The job seemed like cake. Somehow, they had figured out that their bojagi had been transported to Japan and was traveling towards Tokyo to be sold at auction by the Mallet Company. They wanted us to retrieve their piece before it got to the auction hall and they were forced to bid on their own possession.
It had sounded easy enough. But, as usual we ran into some unexpected problems. So, I guess that we got paid the right amount in the end. The old couple wasn't much for hanging around and their Japanese only the fragmented bits they had learned when they were children. They excused themselves after refusing a cup of tea from Natsumi claiming that they had to catch a flight back home. I left soon after they did abandoning poor Natsumi to tend the barren café alone.
I decided to leave the care where it was – parked both legally and for free. I figured if I started walking right away I would make it back to the hospital in time to see Ginji. The yen was heavy in my wallet. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and enjoyed the feeling of knowing that, for the next few weeks at least we would be able to fill our stomachs with good food.
The streets became more and more congested with people as I neared the hospital. I stopped at a corner kiosk to buy a pack of cigarettes. For a moment I considered buying flower. But, I went the more practical route and bought fruit instead. I found the two plumpest, juiciest pears I could find.
It is strange to look back at this time. I remember when I first met Ginji he worried a lot and hardly ever smiled. When the corners of his mouth turned upwards no joy reached his expressive eyes. The look was more of an ironic, somewhat sad smirk than anything else. He reminded me of Yamato. But, where I failed with him I succeeded with Ginji.
The first occasion I recall seeing my Ginji's smile was about three weeks after I brought him out of Mugenjou. It was warm outside and he sighed. He sighed a lot back then. A man was selling apples on a street corner. And, while looking at that man, for one instant his countenance held the hungriest expression of want I had ever seen. But, when he noticed me looking at him he glanced guiltily aside, then down at his shoes. Out of curiosity I silently purchased two apples when Ginji's back was turned. I waited until we were a few blocks away from the fruit vendor before pressing half of my purchase into his surprised hand.
He stopped. I bit into my apple and coolly observed his reaction. Suspiciously, he asked, "For me?"
"For you," I nodded and pushed my sliding glasses up the bridge of my nose. His eyes gently melted and his sweet mouth broke out in an uncontainable grin. He was pure happy gratitude for the rest of the day. He ate that apple voraciously – almost like it was the first fruit he had ever sunk his teeth into.
It wasn't until later, when I recounted the story to Paul over a cup of coffee, that I learned how scarce produce is in the Infinity District. I should have known. Hardly any shipments of anything move in or out of Mugenjou. For the most part the people live off of military issue rations. The place is officially a disaster area. That apple could very well have been one of the first pieces of fruit – meaning fresh, unaltered fruit – Ginji ever had.
I chain smoked all the way uptown. When I reached the hospital I flicked the butt of my last cigarette into a flower bed near the main entrance. An old woman with her granddaughter gave me a dirty look. I smiled at them. The woman averted her eyes and hurried away in the opposite direction. At the front desk a nurse gave me a stupid tag to wear and had a porter guide me to Ginji's room.
It was a shock to see Ginji covered in blankets with an IV dripping fluids into his veins. The covers were pulled all the way up to his chin. All you could see of him was a messy blonde head. He was silently watching a cartoon flicker on a TV in the corner. I startled him by putting one of the pears on his covered chest. I wanted to say something like, 'I'm so glad you're okay.' But, all I could do was adjust my glasses to cover my eyes and stand over him as he looked welcomingly up at me. The only words that came to my lips when I opened my mouth were, "What's up with all the blankets, lightening rod?"
I pulled a chair over to his bedside as he simply explained, "I was cold." Ginji weighs more than I do. But, I somehow got the feeling that he was smaller than I am in that bed. He grinned now, "Do I look tough?"
There were stitches above his left eye and each of his fingertips were bandaged. He ate ravenously but, bit carefully as not to soak his digits with pear juice. His gloves sat on a table to my right. I did not see any of his other clothes anywhere. They had been ripped to tatters and had probably been discarded. I would need to go out and buy him something to wear when he was released from the hospital. His cheeks were still pale.
"I was just thinking," I chided. "That you look sort of pitiful."
He replied through a mouthful of pear. Already, there was almost nothing left of the fruit, "The nurses seem to like me."
Everyone likes you, Ginji. "They just feel bad for you because you are so pathetic. There is a difference."
"You're just jealous," he yawned and turned on his side towards me. His voice changed from playful to hopeful. But, it wasn't the shade of light, optimistic hope I was used to in Ginji. Rather, it was a worn hope – the kind that men cling to when they have nothing else left. I hadn't heard him speak like that for a very long time. The only thing he said was, "Ban-chan?"
"Yes?" He looked exhausted – not only physically but, emotionally. There was a frighteningly hard sheen in his eyes that he probably did not even realize was there. It said to me without speaking, 'Ban, I hurt. I am so very tired – tired of absolutely everything. What should I do? Tell me what I should do.' I wanted to reach out and hold him. I wanted to tell him that everything would be okay. It could have been simple. But, I did not know how.
"We got paid. Didn't we?" He blinked and his eyelids fell heavily then flitted softly open after a few moments. "I mean – they got their cloth and they were happy?"
"They were delighted, Ginji." He relaxed a little. "Now go back to sleep. You need to rest."
"But—" he opened his petulant lips to argue.
I interrupted, "Don't you even try to tell me that you aren't tired, Gin. You can barley keep your eyes open. Now," I insisted firmly because this is the only way he ever listens, "sleep."
He sighed, "You don't mind watching me sleep?"
"No. I don't mind watching you sleep." The bastard's soft smile at those words almost broke my heart. "I'll be here when you wake up."
He didn't speak anymore. He only closed his gentle eyes. His breathing evened and he dropped quickly and peacefully off to sleep. I leaned in then, when I was completely sure he was dreaming, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
"Gomen, Ginji. I should have been there to protect you."
