Back: 1999.
My name is Syaoran Li, born on the thirteenth of July 1984—under a starless night, when the golden, round full-moon was illuminating Tokyo's boundless sky all by itself. My father said when he heard me crying for the first time, a vision immediately came to his mind: a wolf pup howling in the midst of Tokyo's lonely night, asking if they could be friends so that the moon wouldn't feel outcast anymore. Funnily enough, I'm more like the moon than the wolf, despite where name comes from—somewhat indifferent and aloof. I'm just like any other ordinary boys, but with little to zero interest in virtually anything; own family, social life, health care, you name it. What is this story about, you ask? This is just a story about how meeting her colourized my monochromatic world—no, actually scratch that. This is a story about how the tone of the paint strokes on each of our canvas of life that were once bland and sombre intensified when pink blended with green.
Saturday, 14 February 1999
The sky cleared up as pure white, cotton-like flurries stopped falling from the piles of golden-hued clouds peering from the vault of the heavens. A beautiful bright orange sunset on the far horizon emerged, painting the ensaffroned sky pink and purple as the day sang itself into evening. Tokyo looked magical blanketed in dusk-tinted snow.
Propping his chin on his palm, Syaoran let his pair of ambers blankly gaze out the transparent window next to his round, wooden table; observing pedestrians, old and young, toddlers and adults, excitedly buried their winter boots in fresh snow. For a moment, he thought the winter shades taking over the busy, metropolis city landscape was breath-taking, but when his eyes wandered from the window to the dark-coloured chic furniture, and to the rusty metallic photo frames mounted on the brick-walls, and finally to the empty velvet single sofa in front of him, he was once again reminded why no place could ever compare to the warm atmosphere enveloping that little coffee shop.
He liked the aromatic smell of roasted coffee beans that clung to each and every nook of the room, and how the scent would linger in his coat for hours even after he had left the shop. He also liked the harmony crafted between the jazz instrumental music playing in the shop and the sound of the burning firewood: the sizzling, flickering flame in the rustic rock fireplace. Just then, a young man pushed the wooden glass door and entered the shop with a girl, causing the mini bell hanging above the door frame rang—a little detail that he also liked about that coffee house. As a matter of fact, he liked everything about that tiny café just 6-minute-walk away from his mother's workplace, which was none other than the Li Institute of Medicine Hospital—rated as the best hospital in the country and well-known for its affiliation with one of the most prestigious universities in Japan, Tomoeda Daigaku, or Tomoedai for short. But he couldn't care less about the short distance between the shop and his mother's workplace; he didn't come here because of it. No, in fact he didn't come here because of it anymore.
The black mechanical pencil that had been twirling in between his finger dropped to the table as Syaoran stared at his revision notes, scattered on the oak table in an organised fashion. He reproached himself for unnecessarily rewinding a fragment of his past in the recess of his mind. Now that he had lost his concentration, he could only knead his temples—aching at the thought of next week's end-of-year exams. And now that he had already lost his concentration, he didn't intend to waste the opportunity to let himself take a small detour down the memory lane of his soul-soothing olden days.
The lines on his forehead gradually vanished and the corner of his lips quirked up when he reminisced the days when his mother, his father and him—the three of them walking side-by-side—crossed a road under bright, crisp day. In less than ten minutes, they would've arrived in front of Twin Bells, which his father—a coffee-addict—approved and repeatedly proclaimed as the best coffee shop in town. The shop's bell rang as elementary schooler him entered the shop with a broad grin; his left hand clasped with his mother's and the other held his father's. On the counter, his mother would always be tempted to order a pork quiche, but in the end she always settled with a cup of hot Americano, be it in summer or winter, and a bowl of chicken salad with spicy lemongrass dressing. On the other hand, his father would almost always order a cup of capuccino or espresso and a double-portion tuna aglio olio or seafood linguine, sometimes along with one pack of ham, cheese and egg sandwich as a side. As for Syaoran himself, his young self would always crave for a cup of iced mocha, topped with a big dollop of vanilla ice cream, a plate of eggs benedict and a slice of tiramisu for dessert. They would then carry their own meal tray to the round table next to the big window at the corner of the shop—the one his 14-year-old self was occupying now. The three of them would always chat and laugh together while gobbling down their food.
His parents, a plastic surgeon and a cardiologist, were extremely busy. Oftentimes, he would always have to eat dinner and spend the night alone at home while they needed to fulfil night duties in the A&E department, perform surgeries, hold meetings with the hospital's executives, give evening lectures to aspiring medicine students or attend ground-breaking research seminars. He had four sisters, but all of them would always came home from cram school late after dinner only to confine themselves in their own separate rooms; diligently studying in order to become future medicine practitioners as expected by the big Li Family. That was why he valued lunchtime above anything else—because he got to spend it with the special people he craved for care and affection from.
Yes, he felt lonely and would even always grimace at the thought of clean plates and stained napkins, which heralded the dying noon, bringing an end to his precious lunchtime. But those unpleasant cold nights were compensated with a rewarding feeling and pride of being a part of the renowned Li doctor family, who had been dedicating their lives to the Li Institute of Medicine Hospital since it was founded in 1930s. It was ironic that he no longer felt the same though—not after the death of his two years ago. The familial warmth that he felt every noon around lunchtime had evaporated to a wisp of dull, smoke of bittersweet memories along with the respect and soft spot he previously had for medical professions.
After his father passed away, he barely saw his mother, let alone talked with her. And when he had the chance to do so, his mother never smiled; neither would she ever ask how his day went. The only thing she seemed to care about was his academics—she always reminded him to study whenever they met, to the point where Syaoran loathed hearing the word "study" alone; but because he didn't know how to spend his free time, he ended up studying anyways. His sisters continued to avoid him; always locking themselves up in their bedroom and wouldn't answer even when Syaoran knocked, as if dismissing the existence of their only brother. He was a stranger in his own house; isolated, uncomfortable, unsafe.
Only later on he came to realise that his life probably didn't change that much. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember even one mundane moment when his mother would make an effort to initiate a conversation and have an intimate son-mother conversation with him. He also knew that his father had long suffered from chronic promise breaker, but it was easier for Syaoran to lie to himself how he wasn't upset and how proud he was of his father instead. Because that way, he didn't have to choke on the reality that since the very beginning, he was always alone; huddling his own legs enduring the coldness, staring at the rays of moonlight that pervaded his dark, bleak room.
He despised that profession; the idea of his whole family, especially of his parents wearing two distinct masks every single day: one worn when treating patients—or strangers—and one worn when treating himself—a family—made his stomach churn and boil with wrath. He couldn't help himself not to abhor that profession; the very one that maliciously snatched the fatherly and motherly affection, the sisterly love and the friendly family atmosphere he deserved to receive from his life. Another reason why he was disgusted with the term "doctor" was because this profession made him realise that his life was, from the very beginning, never as bright as he had once perceived.
Syaoran sighed and liberated himself from the thoughts of his past. He gulped down the last sip of his lukewarm "hot" chocolate, given free to him by Matsumoto Maki, the shop manager he was acquainted with, supposedly as a valentine gift for Twin Bells' most loyal customer. Once again, he surveyed the inside of the coffee shop and found a group of three people chattering in one corner of the room; one of them sat on a wheelchair, dressed in a familiar hospital gown—yes, he knew it was from the Li Hospital—and her head was neatly wrapped in a scarf. Not a single hair could be spotted on her pale-skinned face—not even a brow or a lash. As the grandson of the current chairman of Li Hospital who also happens to be the Head of Oncologist, he easily recognised that she was most likely a cancer patient. His brain automatically extracted all of the relevant information regarding said disease he collected from years of observing his grandfather's work.
Cancer—a single term assigned to more than 100 diseases. All are alike in the way that in all cases, cells grow and divide in an anomalous fashion; but cancer is diverse, since it can originate in any part of human body. Lung cancer cells behave differently from breast cancer cells, and when lung cancer cells migrate to a healthy organ, say, bowel, and infect it, they will still behave as lung cancer cells. Add to that the fact that each of them has their own genetic identity, meaning that how fast they spread to other organs and how susceptible they are to certain medications can be hard to predict.
Some research denoted it as the main culprit of human death in developed countries and the second leading leading cause of mortality in developing countries, right after heart disease. It becomes more prevalent with aging—but cancers can really seem to infect anyone including children. In most cases, they're treatable yet incurable— especially when diagnosed at late stage. Cancer treatment is a big deal; at least for him, it seemed to be. Chemotherapy and radiotherapy are able to eradicate cancer cells, but at the cost of destroying the healthy ones as well; consequently, leading to possible nausea, physical pain and hair loss, even though they are temporary. But some side effects can unfortunately be more gruesome than those, like heart failure and infertility, which are permanent.
Why was it that his grandfather decided to specialise in such cruel disease where cure hadn't been totally developed; and even in the cases where they were fully curable, sufferers still needed to undergo excruciating pain—both physically and emotionally? If there was no definite cure for cancer, wouldn't it be futile to be an oncologist? Why was it that his grandfather chose to become one, knowing how hard it would be for someone to say to advanced cancer sufferers that they were dying, and no treatment known to humanity as of now would work; especially with a high likeliness that some parties weren't as accepting and even blamed him for being incompetent or worse, accused him of giving up on them, when all he did was being honest? Knowing it was his grandfather, the reason most probably had something to do with money. To hell with hospital being ethical, moral and all about saving a patient's life. To his business-oriented grandfather, cancer patients who come for regular controls and chemotherapies are just cash cows that needed to be carefully kept so that they didn't switch to another hospital. It disgusted Syaoran that one day he had to sit in the same chair in the Chairman's office to continue such a corrupted legacy left for him by his family.
Without knowing, he had subconsciously doodled three stick figures, representing him and his parents. He sighed again and blackened the scribble with repeated crosses and lines. His mind tangled, he decided to call it a day and went home—even though he knew only the maids would be greeting him. Well, at least, there, he could eat delicious, prepared meal for free. He shoved his notes and pencil case to his black school handbag, and stood from his chair; one hand carrying an empty cup of hot chocolate and the other lazily clutching only one of the handles on his handbag.
Perhaps it was due to his melancholy-induced absent-mindedness or perhaps it was just him being rarely clumsy, but he doomed whatever it was that made him forget zipping his bag. He took one step from the spot where he stood, and his bag vomited its insides to the ground. Great. Now his notes, books, random papers and pencil case were kissing the wooden flooring. His ears were burning red when he saw what he at least prayed for wouldn't happen a nanosecond ago became real—red and pink polka-dot boxes and transparent bags of chocolates scattered on the floor, some were wrapped in heart-pattern ribbons and some were straight up heart-shaped. Without even looking up, he knew all eyes were already on him. He even heard giggles and whistles. If only he had the ability to dig a hole or make himself disappear, he would do it now, immediately. He was certain there couldn't be a more perfect time to use it other than now.
Syaoran placed the cup back on the table next to him and bit his tongue, trying to maintain a poker face. He squatted to hastily erase all traces of shame and embarrassment while swearing at and mentally kicking himself non-stop in doing so. Suddenly, the mahogany wooden tiles surrounding him grew darker, overcast by a shadow. A young man knelt in front of him; a large white paper bag with a picture of a familiar building—the Li Hospital—printed on it leaning on his waist. He grabbed a range of Syaoran's scattered stationery in a blink of an eye with one hand while the other readjusted his circular glasses slipping down his nose. "Here you go."
He slightly nodded to him as a courtesy. "Thank you very much."
Still wearing his broad smile on his pale-toned face, the young man pointed at the translucent bags of heart-shaped chocolate Syaoran desperately rammed into his messy bag, "Wow, all of them look like they're very well-made! I know someone who's really popular at high school and he always ended up with loads of chocolate on Valentine's day despite rejecting some. The best thing was he'd always share the chocolates with me, hahaha. Anyways, looks like you're one of popular kind of guys!"
Blood gushed from the tip of his ears to his cheeks. Syaoran stuck his chin on his chest, hoping that his bangs would somewhat conceal his scorching face. Just then, an unfamiliar voice interrupted, "Yukito-san, sorry for waiting. The blackforest and the cheesecake are already sold out so I bought you everything except those..."
"Oh my! You said you wanted to treat me for accompanying you, but isn't this a bit too much?" Yukito stood up as he took the tray from the girl whose face was eclipsed with of towering stacks of slices of cakes and macaroons on the tray. "I mean, I could eat triple of this size, but I was talking about the price."
"No worries, Yukito-san! You've accompanied me to the hospital for so many times, even with this number of this cake wouldn't be enough to thank you." As soon as the towers of cakes left her vision, she sighted Syaoran—crouching there like a balled-up hedgehog, looking like he had just committed a grave sin and now cowering, seeking for atonement. She blinked her eyes and gave a confused hum, "Hm?" Something about him looked familiar, and so she kept him on the corner of her eyes while taking off her red backpack and hanging it on the back of the chair next to her.
Recognising her puzzled eyes, Yukito tried to explain, "Oh, I was just helping this boy picking up the things that he dropped."
Syaoran stood, awkwardly scratching his itchless nape and deliberately avoided making eye contact with the one who had come to his aid. Seeing his full figure, it finally came to her what was familiar about him. "Oh, that uniform! You're from Tomoeda Junior High?"
As he turned to her, his eyes suddenly refused to blink and against his minds, decided to savour the universe that existed within her lustrous emerald eyes for as long as time would allow him to.
Feeling the fiery stare of ambers piercing into her, her shoulders stiffened. Worried if she had probably offended him, she bowed slightly. "F-Forgive me if I acted a bit too friendly! You're a senpai after all."
Caught in the act of staring at her, he mumbled a broken, unintelligible slur. Realising that he probably looked like some kind of a retard to her, he wished he could stop time for the sake of banging his head on somewhere—the wall or that jukebox near the fireplace would be the perfect candidate.
Syaoran thanked the heavens when she smiled instead of asking what he was saying. For some reason, he felt like suffocating; and with his current state, his brain wouldn't be able to cope with making up lies, being severely oxygen-deprived. Sobering up his mind, Syaoran had just noticed the familiarity in her black, long-sleeve sailor uniform—the exact same cloth every girl worn when he went to Tomoeda Elementary.
She continued, "Uhh, I'm currently a sixth-year grader and I will be attending Tomoeda Junior High this April— that's... If I pass the exam, though..."
Yukito moved the rustling paper bag from the ground to the sofa nearby. "Don't worry, Sakura-chan. You did your best, so everything will be just fine!"
The girl hid her ballooned cheeks with her hands. "I know, but I just can't help being worried..." Her face flushed when she realised she had done something childish (disgraceful) in front of a potentially future senpai. She cleared her throat and held out her right hand. "My name is Kinomoto Sakura. Please take care of me if I happen to do well in my entrace exam."
He wrapped his hand around hers; the friction he felt against her skin was surprisingly warm and he never realised how tiny and delicate a girl's hand may be compared to his. For one second, he was terrified if he had used too much strength grasping it and damaged her fragile-looking hand. He tried his best to stay calm and make sure he didn't stutter. "Li Syaoran, second year student."
He smiled, partly because he genuinely wanted to, but majorly because he was proud of himself for not stumbling over his words. "I'll be sure to take care of you if we meet again sometime in the future."
Syaoran bowed to them, excusing himself, and waved goodbye to Maki-san at the counter before pushing the wooden door handle to enter the harsh, cold world, leaving the only safe haven on Earth known to him. His way back to home would be to firstly go to Tomoeda Station, which was west of where he was. Before taking his first step towards the setting sun, he stole one final glance to the east and immediately regretted it. A boiling uprush of anger and loathing simmered his blood and crisped the back of his throat. Seeing the enormous modern white building where his agony stemmed from with his own two eyes, he was once again reminded of the intense hatred he felt towards the entire aspect of his family business. He admitted even he himself was afraid of looking at his reflection on the little shop's glass windows next to him at the moment. Because he knew how hideous he'd look like, with torrid hate and pure venom fuming in spirals from his twisted face.
A/N: First of all, please don't berate me for "insulting" doctors and/or patients—those were Syaoran's thoughts, not mine lol. With this, I declare that each and every medical profession as well as every patient—with their own unique story—is wonderful and admirable—actually, I admire health professionals so much that they inspired me to write this fic.
From the very beginning, I was determined to make Syaoran older than Sakura—because kouhai-senpai Syaosaku is cute, as simple as that. (Please, can anyone validate this humble opinion of mine?)
And I'd like to stress that it is a fact that it was full-moon on 13 July 1984 night! Go check on google if you deem me unreliable. I was struggling to write the sentence following "born on the 13th of July 1984". For Sakura, it was pretty easy and obvious anyways. I couldn't think of a reason why he was named "little wolf". But when we think of "wolf", doesn't the image of "full-moon" cross our mind? So I asked google the lunar phase of 13 July 1984 night—without much expectation. And dang, boy! I accidentally found out that the moon appeared full and round on 13 July 1984 night. What a coincidence!