What We Where, What We Want to Be

Chapter Eight, We Forget How to Speak, But Not How to Cry

The train reentered the bustling city filled street-to-street with activity and strangers passing through their lives. Massive building complexes extended into the afternoon sky, identical oppressive walls planted into a maze called civilization. Construction and traffic drilled raucous shrieks into the air and everyone pushed onward without regard for each other. The never-ending life squeezed him tight until he could scarcely breathe, but without absorbing him into that normal standard every person seemed comfortable with.

The buildings shrunk from view as the train descended into the subway systems under Tokyo, the daylight cut away at once and plunging them into a darkness that glowed of eerie orange lighting. The interior remained lit by blinding white, clean and empty and filled with the thin sense of security he found in familiarity. The cold breath of the air conditioning blew on his skin. While the train decelerated as the white tiled station came into sight, he forced a stiff hand to the rail and lifted himself to his feet. The floor shivered beneath him and the container came to a shuddering stop.

Rakuto reminded himself that living free of oppression was not a right, but a privilege. He could not be ungrateful. A second chance was a blessing that by no means should be disregarded. The city and its unsettling atmosphere were just two of the prices he had to pay for his release. Normal people coped with everyday life and at some point, he had done the same, so it was a simple matter of adjustment to another phase, another chapter he would have to patiently read until the end. Within a year he should have been acclimated again, maybe with a part time and some unsteady income of his own.

Store clerks, his landlord and unsuccessful interviews aside, Hayama and the boy with him were the first people he had held a proper conversation with in a little under a year. And he used the term "proper conversation" very loosely. It had not been as short, brief or emotionally detached as he would have preferred it to be. Not that he had expected much better results the minute those words entered his sight. Considering all of the possibilities that had run through his head last night, he supposed the day had gone far beyond his expectations.

Metal doors slid open with a hiss and warm subway tunnel air blasted into the steely cold domain. Rakuto slid through the crowd of loading passengers, careful to avoid contact, brushing shoulders only when necessary. The busy, purposeful aura that surrounded everyone still put him on edge, as did the subconscious knowledge- or paranoia- that anyone could snap at any given moment. The doctors had taken great pains to convince him that not each person on the street was mentally deranged or had some ulterior motive, but that had been a long time ago.

Hayama and that boy had followed him. He swiped his card through the slot at the tolls and slipped into the throng heading upstairs into daylight and the city. They could follow him for all he cared, but they wouldn't discover much more about him than he had already told them. Rakuto was living one of those lives a notch below average, the type of person mothers warned their kids to not become. Tomorrow he worked his backbreaking shift at the supermarket and today he had nothing except for his mind to amuse himself with.

Other forms of entertainment had the unfortunate side effect of bringing his memories to happier times, and he liked to run himself in circles with his thoughts. They were mostly silly nothings and pointless rhetorical questions that no one bothered to think about, let alone answer. It was all unconstructive and he hated it. He let his mind wander far too often upon subjects that either hurt to touch or meant less than a speck of dust. As it was, now he pulled his feet through the streets without reading the signs and barely sparing a glance for oncoming traffic.

Bushels of treetops emerged as he rounded the corner to the park where children liked to play and where a small gathering of animals consistently visited. The park was a good memory, the calming sort that brought his mind back to happier times without the bitter ones tagging at their heels. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast but the hunger that had gnawed at his stomach on the train melted away as he crossed the street. The trees here were different somehow from the ones that surrounded Tachikawa. Maybe it was the height or scrawny trunks or distinct lack of broad-leafed firs that changed his perception of the past.

If Rakuto concentrated hard enough he could find familiar faces underneath those falling leaves and lose himself in another him. They were mostly patients or caretakers from the hospital, but on occasion an old friend would stop by and say hello. Rakuto had yet to respond to any of them, though. Even Naoto whose charisma never failed to open him up no matter how down the day had been went without reply. He was afraid. He was so afraid that if he answered those illusions would return and he'd have to spend another seven years of his life in prison.

Today there were real, solid people on the metal bench beside him- Hayama Takumi and his friend with the auburn-tinted hair. They were talking quietly, holding hands, a light flush on the dark haired boy's cheeks that was not from the June heat. Dappled shade glimmered over them, a cool breeze playing amongst the branches. Rakuto closed his eyes and tried to erase the sight of shifting patterns against his clothes and skin, and the scents and emotions that came with them. Hayama Takumi was very much Naoto's little brother in physical appearance, if not in personality.

He could not allow his vision to flutter over them when Hayama spoke out to him. He had enough problems with ghosts without having an almost concrete one beside him.

"Will it really be okay, Ishikawa-san? I mean, won't it be lonely…or something? If you want, I wouldn't mind keeping in touch." So what Naoto had always said about his brother was true, he thought as he tore a few loose strings from his shirt. He was considerate of others, a bit of a saint at his own expense. But he had changed from the version Rakuto heard about over four years ago. Of course he did. Without Naoto he could be a different person. Six years offered a lot of room to grow, after all, in the point of life when a person was easily shaped by their surroundings.

Rakuto almost winced. It had been a long four years. It would be a long future if he stuck to his therapy and killed the urge to commit suicide. Unfortunately, he had grown rather attached to life again, no matter how crappy his seemed at the moment and no matter how bleak the kilometers ahead of him were.

He had almost forgotten that Hayama had spoken to him. "It's okay; you don't have to bother. There's no reason for us to stay in touch…its better if we don't. It's not you," he said hastily at the implication. He cursed his politeness; it made him flustered and threw his control over his words out the window. He distinctly remembered being a rude child when he was little. "It's uh, me, I guess. I…try not to having anything to do with the past, you know? It's bad for my rehabilitation and therapy. The doctors would prefer if I didn't remember those things.

"I know, people don't really like thinking about the past but…I tend to get absorbed in it, is all," he shrugged. That he hadn't spoken to anyone at length in a year might have been why his words didn't quite come out as eloquently as he would have liked. What he said at the cemetery had been rehearsed to a point- and Naoto's mother had completely undone his mouth with her biting comments. He comforted himself with the fact that once they left he might not see these two for a long time, if Hayama didn't pursue the matter.

Maybe it was influence from his friend, but the boy didn't repeat his request. They lapsed into silence again, the comfortable sort Rakuto didn't mind and the rest of the population found awkward. With so much time in a day, he didn't see the merit of rushing through conversations and forcing out words that didn't want to be spoken. Something better would come by if it was meant to, and they only had to wait. Something did arrive to replace the gap a few minutes later, but it was not "better" by any of his definitions.

He had been pointedly ignoring the two seated beside him, his blunt fingernails digging into the underside of the metal bench. The playground in the distance brought the noisy chatter of children across the park, and somewhere beyond that a dog was barking when he saw her. Time of day had little correlation since he frequented this grove of trees no matter the hour; this was a person who did not belong here. The familiar face immediately set him on edge and his hands squeezed so hard that he slipped, and a sharp pain flooded his hand.

Hayama inquired after him at his low hiss and movement to nurse the wound. A welt of autumn-red swelled at his finger, numb with the sensation of pins being struck through his flesh and veins and nerves. The sight was somewhat gruesome, but concern fled from his mind the moment he caught movement in the distance and a rounded face now slim with maturity turned. He bolted from his seat to flee somewhere- maybe among the thin mock of a forest or back into the bustling city where anonymity came natural.

As instinct had told him when Hayama's friend made that sudden protective threat against him, the boy was strong in every way Rakuto had never had to chance to be. His uninjured hand was caught in a firm grip, not cruel but far from gentle. An anxious grimace touched the corner of his lips and all of those old, old uncertainties came flooding back, and they frightened him more than seeing Naoto wave from around the corner. These were urges just as real, if not more dangerous than hearing ghosts he never had the heart to let go of.

"Ishikawa-san, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost," Hayama's friend said. If he concentrated for a moment, Rakuto could hear the concern behind this perfect stranger's tone, a gentleness that had not been around before. For the moment his mind was too muddled and clouded by emotions with words he couldn't express, desires that he had never wanted to name before. Tokyo was massive; he had been so sure that he would never see them again and he had not prepared for this. Naoto had given him a grace period of a year, at least.

"Worst than a ghost," Rakuto muttered as he wrestled for control over his arm, twisting every which way in search of some slack in the younger guy's grip. He spared a glance for the other direction and panicked. Nothing in his life was a coincidence, nothing a freak accident he could shake off. The kindness of these two strangers had not been a sudden stroke of luck. Meeting Naoto out of all those patients had not been as simple as the event seemed in his memories. And her change in direction was not because she wanted to wander near the grove of trees or bask underneath the spotted shade.

People changed drastically in eight years. Naoto's little brother was not the same overshadowed second son his recollections had painted; Rakuto was not the same petulant child with a slight mean streak and a way of getting things done. These tender years molded them and while she had been nearly an adult that day she pushed him out the door with his suitcase, they had done much to change her, too. Her body had matured, as did her facial features and the steady emotions behind them. From her teenage years she had put on a little weight, now healthy instead of skinny and conscious of fashion.

The biggest change was probably the two children she had left with a man at the playground. In comparison, Rakuto had remained relatively the same all these years.

"Let me go," he hissed at the high school student holding him. The skin of his wrist was uncomfortable against the chafing and the large hand engulfed his. What was he kidding? He wasn't getting out of that grip. Surrendering, Rakuto allowed some slack between them and sighed in relief when he regained control over his body parts. He allowed a glare towards the two students before turning around, all the while cursing the resemblance between his deceased friend and his little brother. With a flick of a wrist or a disarming smile, even a fake one at that, Naoto had rendered him with the both the courage to do anything and butterflies that made him melt.

"Who is that?" Hayama asked as she approached. Her intent was clear at such a close distance. At the same time she spoke with a much different voice than he remembered:

"…Rakuto…?"

"She…she's my older sister," he mumbled, backing away to the growing familiarity of these people he had met under not so excellent circumstances just this morning. Maybe Naoto's haunting memory had something to do with it, but he found it sad that he took more comfort in strangers than his own sister. He couldn't back away any further without falling into the space next to Hayama's friend and he wanted to play his height for all it was worth. She had always been taller.

"They…they let you out?" He winced; perhaps her tone had not been laced with accusation as Naoto's mother's had been, but he couldn't help but take the negative connotation anyways. It had taken months of careful scrutiny and rigorous therapy sessions for him to realize the truth, and knowing it did not soften the impact. He almost liked it better when he wholeheartedly believed that his sister was coming back for him when he recovered. Now he had a niece and a nephew and hadn't known for three or four years. His sister was a mother. He always thought she wouldn't marry until late, but maybe that had been his illusion of her- strong and academic.

"I'm sorry; I didn't think I'd ever see you here because Tokyo is so big, but I guess I was wrong," he shrugged with a tight swell in his throat and words that were quickly fleeing. He couldn't make eye contact as he had done with Hayama and his mother, instead settling for the grass compressed under his feet and his hands twisting and turning in his lap. He had given in once again, and was now sitting next to Hayama's friend. "I swear I didn't plan it. The hospital and the government set me up here, so I can't exactly move."

Hayama leaned over and flashed him a sympathetic smile, but didn't move from the bench. He seemed to have realized the importance of having an anchor, no matter if that anchor was an acquaintance.

"I…I won't bother arguing that I've gotten better because I haven't, not really, not when I still see people around and hear things. I mean, I know they were murdered now and all, and that dying isn't a good thing." And there were other things he had learned, lessons no textbook ever talked about in excruciating detail that brought tears and emotions to his eyes. He could not convey how he had learned what loneliness was, and how hopeless true hopelessness was. He could never describe how uplifting it was to smile at a friend with the knowledge that he would not be judged, nor of the pain that came with carrying both their burdens.

"But I mean…what I really want to say I guess, is that I know. I know…you don't want your kids growing up knowing me. You don't even want your husband to see me over here, which is why you're standing in his way. You didn't want Masaki to remember me; I asked the hospital, way back when and they told me. And if he knows even a little about me, if he can remember anything, I know he hates me. And it's okay. It's okay if you do, too. I did," Rakuto finished on a soft note. He voice was of acceptance, of pure facts as he had come to piece them together.

Hayama had a discerning expression on his face and he wondered what he had done wrong on instinct. Naoto sometimes had that look when he had berated himself too much or when he had gotten out of line of their discussion. He had to admit, being examined under everything except a microscope by therapists and psychologists had its benefits. He could talk this way without running into or around emotional barriers, and he could piece together fragments other people might normally overlook.

"R-Rakuto, I was young when all that happened, too." He glanced upwards and found another discerning face. Maybe normal people didn't talk as informally of these things as he had thought. "I made some bad decisions, like sending my little brother away forever. I thought that was what I wanted, and it was what I wanted for a long time. But then I had a family and…and I realized that family is most important, and I'm already missing over half of it. T-that's why I…I don't hate you anymore."

Her voice broke into a remnant Rakuto had hidden away deep within his subconscious, a memory so faint beneath the indignant pain and frustration he was liable to believe it had never happened. Except now he understood the type of pain she had experienced at that time, and it didn't seem so strange to remember her voice hitched with sobs and grief anymore. That angry sixteen year old wanted nothing more than to blame someone else and when the police did not deliver, he erased all of those illusions he'd had of his sister and replaced them with a villain.

That didn't justify his actions, just as his revelation of Naoto's past had not made his crimes worth any less. Rakuto shook his head and glanced upwards with a small, empty smile. "You don't have to pretend. Masaki remembers me, doesn't he? Wouldn't it just drive away the only other sibling you have, who you've been close to, by saying you don't hate me anymore? People don't forget injuries so fast," he said with a glance towards Hayama. They were all testament to that fact.

"It's okay; I don't mind." Rakuto bit his tongue as deep within his chest stirred a stinging pain, the kind that made him drive over the brink of his emotions. He stood and without lifting his head, swerved around his sister and across the grassy field that swayed in the light breeze. He convinced himself that living in solitude was safe years ago. Letting in ghosts of the past and allowing them to tear apart his heart again hurt more than letting in traitorous strangers.

Two pairs of feet trotted after him, but all the time until they departed at the station was spent in silence.


A single day had not been nearly enough time to consider and weigh every possibility that might result from either answer. His displacement early in life had made him inherently different, and it came down to more than geographic location. Had he remembered his family and birthright, he might have been much like everyone else even if he had stayed in America. Had the two most important influences in his life not vanished in a wink, he would have changed.

But he had grown up in the aftermath of a life-altering accident unable to speak the common language, with no ally in sight. He had spent the rest of his childhood and teenage years in rough households, and became friends with the kindest, most selfless person he'd ever met. Souta hated running away from his problems by that point almost as much as Aaron unconsciously did the opposite. Because there were a few good friends by his side, he hadn't wanted to run away from the prejudices he faced.

Maybe he hadn't been willing to give this place a chance, but he was now willing to give the people in it a chance, however small.

But he was letting his thoughts wander too far and focused on the mirrored wall of the studio to steady his mind. He still didn't know what to say. The fact that they were both boys didn't bother him, of course. Aaron had liked boys for awhile and had always treated Souta as a brother, never as a love interest. But because of how society shunned people like that, his friend had been hurt. He didn't let himself look for love and Souta, maybe as a consequence of never really fitting in, didn't either. When love came to him, he didn't know how to respond.

Nishimura wasn't cruel; beyond all of those manipulations, he had the best intentions. Souta was sure that he was a genuinely nice person. But Aaron's boyfriend had been nothing but nice too- until they found out the truth. Souta wasn't weak in asserting himself like Aaron was, but the memories struck him mute. Sometimes love- and desperation- blinded people. Sometimes he could see the benefits and merits of running away and never looking back.

The doors screeched open and swung to a close, a rush of night air swirling into the studio. Soft footsteps entered. He didn't have much time. Think, think, think, he repeated in his mind, what do you really want? Aaron would tell him to try, that he would never know unless he tried and might regret not pursuing it later. He told him that about dancing and it took him across the world, back to his homeland, away from his first real friends, and gave him an irreplaceable happiness.

Nishimura stopped behind him at his shoulder; Souta saw him through the mirror and felt the heat from his legs mere inches from his back. "I know it was sudden. I know you have…issues with it, but I still want to ask. It's strange for you; it's strange for me. I keep on wondering if I'm going to regret this one day."

"It's not strange," Souta muttered. Well, the social taboo of it was not strange in the least to him. What was strange was that someone he barely knew found enough of something in him to ask that question. "My best friend is…well, you heard all that. I'm not going to regret my decision if I say "yes"…but I don't know if that's what I really want either. Relationships aren't as easy as "try it once, if you don't like it, quit" things. I guess what I really want to ask is…do you really, really like me- enough not to make this a mistake?"

There was silence for awhile. Souta refused to look into the mirror, afraid of his reflection, afraid of Nishimura's emotions. He hadn't said it, but he wasn't sure about dating an upperclassman either. There were consequences to everything of course, but would it really make them both happy? For the first time since this ordeal started, his stomach melted into a churning tide of nerves. Before, he'd just been empty and considering.

Nishimura touched him lightly on the shoulder with his fingers and pulled a little, asking him to turn. The impersonality of the situation must have unnerved him. At this point, Souta wasn't entirely comfortable with it either. He consented, having little trouble with eye contact. Souta was still a ways shorter than Nishimura, not that much, but not tall enough to easily meet the other boy's eyes. His hands suddenly needed something to do besides clench into fists. He didn't want to give the wrong impression- though he found himself wondering what impression he did want Nishimura to have. It shouldn't have mattered.

He only tapped Souta's chin, but it was enough a signal for him to figure out that Nishimura wanted them to see each other. Maybe he felt that their emotions might be more real that way. He lifted his head. If he felt anything for his sempai he wouldn't regret this. If he didn't feel anything for him and went through with it, he'd have to maneuver his way out of a mess alone. That was his issue- that, and he couldn't seem to grasp at what he felt towards Nishimura. He was thankful for the presence of someone to talk to, and a little spiteful at being used.

"Nishimura-san, I…" Someone had to start, even if it didn't accomplish anything. It worked. Nishimura tilted his head downwards a bit and interrupted him in a soft voice, unusual since they were alone.

"My name's Tatsuya," he whispered. Souta's eyes widened, but they were on two different wavelengths here. Nishimura had probably intended it to hold some special weight, but Souta had never actually heard his entire name spoken before. Something weird and brief had happened when they were introduced, so his sempai on the dance team only introduced him as "your Nishimura-sempai". Just so that he didn't get the wrong idea, Souta forced a small chuckle to his throat. Confused, he said, "What?"

"I never got your first name before. Sorry," he shook his head. Nishimura was still puzzled for a moment before he smiled and realized what had happened.

"You can call me Tatsuya, I don't mind." Souta nodded, but the name felt weird on his tongue after all this time. Not that the name didn't fit his senior; it just sounded foreign. Nishimura- Tatsuya actually- shifted for a moment as if undecided about something before gripping him around his upper arms. The hold wasn't tight, but firm. Souta wasn't bothered by it much since the second year had done it a few times to shake the sense out of him. Suddenly he was very glad that he wasn't the one facing the mirror anymore.

"Do-do you like me?" Maybe the entire night was a little clichéd, Souta admitted to that. Maybe they weren't the best speakers and didn't know what to do with their emotions, but just maybe things would work out. Nishimura caught himself before he said anything and paused a moment while butterflies danced in Souta's heart.

If Nishimura answered Souta neither cared nor heard. His sempai leaned down an inch or so with his head tilted, and pressed warm lips against him, and for a moment neither of them moved. It was a simple first kiss, nothing complicated or intense as Souta had seen it get back home, but it was at least a little bit special. The older boy moved a fragment further by opening his lips, allowing them to slide against each other a little easier. He was probably just grateful that Souta hadn't started spitting like a wildcat. Sometimes he had a temper, but he liked to believe that it didn't always manifest itself at the worst moments.

He had no objections this time. Nishimura (he would probably never really get rid of that habit) seemed much more nervous than Souta had imagined he might be, and soon they had broken apart for air with heat tingeing their skin. They were close, so close he could feel the warmth from his sempai through his clothes. Sometimes, most of the time, he didn't know how or why this stuff happened to him. For once, the unexpected shock had been pleasant.

Now if only he could stop calling his boyfriend by his surname, then he would be a lot happier. When- if- their relationship went beyond awkward little kisses they would be in a much more awkward situation if he didn't shake himself of the habit. But it hadn't been his fault for not receiving his first name when they met. After being in the dark for months, it was hard to change habits.

When he'd told Aaron, he was quite sure that he wouldn't want to return to America just yet. That was a first, but with good reason; he was rather afraid of his friend's wrath. Aaron was rightfully protective of his adopted little brother, and he was a doting person who would never shut up about his finally liking someone. No, Aaron didn't need to see him that desperately yet. Talking over the phone was enough for now.

Home was where the heart was. While everyone over on the east coast would always be his second home, for now he allowed a piece of it to inhabit Japan for the second time in his life. Their noses brushed as they pulled away from another wet, warm kiss, and a small yet contented smile crossed his lips. Yes, he confirmed; he could entrust that little piece to Nishimura with the confidence that he would hold it dearly for this moment in time.

"Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time." (Haruki Murakami)


• I'm busy, so I've been building a buffer. This chapter has been finished for quite a while now and I'm about to start chapter nine. I know people are reading this, so please review. .