Chapter 18 — Mitsuri

The coin rolls through the palm of my hand, from the right to the left, back and forth. The problem with flipping a coin, though, is that you must have a direct yes or no question to ask it. If there is a time when you don't know what the answer might be or you're not sure what the question even is, the coin is useless.

Staring at it now in my room, I recall how I ever got into the habit in the first place. It was during the first week we'd been in America. Mom had taken us out to a mall, but somehow, Reiha and I had got separated from her in the crowd. Homesick and scared, I had collapsed in the corner of a store, sobbing. Reiha had then pulled a five yen coin from her pocket.

"Look," she had said. "It's from home." She tossed the coin up into the air before catching it between her palms. "And . . ." She peaks at the side it landed on. "It says we'll be okay! Here, you try."

She held the coin to me. I hesitated, but then I took it. Will we find Mom? I silently asked, then I clumsily flipped the coin.

It landed on the side with the flowers.

Yes.

At the time, grinning up at Reiha, it had seemed like a miracle, and even after I had moved back to Japan, I had kept the coin on me. Relying on something else for your decisions? I know, how pathetic. I should be more like Reiha, who doesn't worry about choices or outcomes, but simply does what she wants. But without her by my side, the habit had stuck.

And now that she's back, challenging me just like she used to . . . what do I want?

I want to see Akashi.

Not because Reiha told me to. Not because I'm the manager of the basketball team. No, I just want to see him.

I'd told him that I would help him, and I've been waiting. Waiting for him to rely on me. But maybe that wasn't the right choice. All my life, I've let people come to me. Give me my choices. Tell me what do. Flip a coin.

But maybe waiting for people to show me the right direction isn't what I should be doing.

For a moment, I close my eyes, and in my head, I see a sketch. Akashi, standing in a rain of pencil lines. Akashi, his eyes pulsing with the colors of my gel pens. Akashi, holding a shōgi piece in his hand, edges blurred with an eraser. Then, I see myself . . . waiting in the corner. Always just there. Yet, as time passes, my form becomes clearer, and Akashi slowly disappears, like a ghost.

For some reason, I feel like if I continue to wait, he will vanish entirely.

Standing up, I throw the coin onto my desk, and without another thought, leave to find Akashi Seijūrō.

This time, he is the one to open his door.

"Kasayama-san," he says. "I was surprised when I received your text. Is there something you need?"

"Not really, no. I just wanted to see you."

It seems to take him a moment to process the words. In the meantime, I take his hand, the one still holding the door handle, and push past him, leading him into his own house. Undoubtedly, it's the most daring I've ever been, and I'm probably just as surprised as he is.

"Kasayama-san —" he starts.

"Where's your room?" I ask him.

"My —?" For the first time ever, Akashi Seijūrō falters. For a moment, his face appears completely blank, like he has no idea what I even asked.

"Your room," I repeat. "Let's go there. Let's talk."

He glances down for a moment at our hands, then he says, "Okay." Then, seeming to regain his composure, he squeezes my hand slightly and takes the lead. We head up the stairs and to the right. His room is grand, but simple at the same time. Personalizations and warm touches in all the right places. There is a nostalgic feeling to it, almost, part sad and wanting. The air in the room almost carries a childish hope, and I wonder, momentarily, if this is the room Akashi lived in as a kid as well. If, perhaps, he never really changed the way it appeared.

Akashi lets me have a cushioned armchair, while he takes his desk chair. The way he is staring at me now, curious and intrigued, almost makes me feel uncomfortable. But . . . it also feels good.

"How has your debate club been, Kasayama-san?" he asks, folding his arms in his lap. Always polite, even after I've just barged into his house and demanded to see his room.

"Good," I answer. "We've been getting some great discussions in. We have a really invigorating group this year. I'm going to submit applications for a tournament soon."

I hadn't wanted to, at first. I was scared of the club, something I had raised into existence, going so public, with my name stamped on the front. But Watanabe-sensei seemed optimistic about our chances, and Akashi . . . well, he's always been encouraging me.

"I am glad," he says. "And your work as a manager?"

The fact that he has to ask me that . . . speaks of his own absence. It used to be that he'd come to the clubroom and help me, then walk me home, but now he rarely does that. The last time was the shōgi game.

"Good," I say again, my mouth dry. "What about you? I mean, how has the basketball club been?"

We are just going through formalities right now. It has never felt so strained before. Why is it that now . . . ?

"The basketball team is progressing well," he says, and his voice seems all too cold.

Once again, I see that image of him in my mind: his body fading away on the page, the lines being erased.

"Akashi-kun," I begin, "is your father being hard on you again?"

He stiffens at the question. "My father . . . I told you that he expects a lot from me. It is only my duty to live up to those views."

"And I also told you that you don't need to force yourself. Do what you want, Akashi-kun. Not what your father expects you to."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Another phenomenon today: Akashi Seijūrō, at a loss for words.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and says, "Why did you come here?"

"I already told you that. I wanted to see you."

He still cannot seem to comprehend such words.

"Is that so wrong?" I ask him. "I like being with you. You're an interesting person to talk to, and you're always so polite, so considerate. You're comfortable and easy to be around, because you always bring out the best in everyone around you. And you . . . you get me. So I wanted to see you. Because I also want to understand you. Everything about you."

"Kasayama-san . . ."

I close my eyes for a moment. Usually, I'm not so bold. Is the debate side of me coming out? I say, "Do you know why I always draw your eyes? Because they're captivating. They've swallowed me whole, and no matter how much I try, I just can't seem to get them right on paper. Probably . . . because a paper imitation would be nowhere close to the real thing. Akashi-kun, you have beautiful eyes."

I can hear his sharp intake of breath. His eyes are level on me — the eyes I just confessed to loving. Their intensity, the dark hue, and the layers — all the layers of emotion that I can see, but can't unravel.

"Thank you for telling me," he says. "I am flattered that you think that way."

"Will you tell me what's bothering you?"

"Yes. I am sorry that I worried you, Kasayama-san. It was not my intention." Even now, he's so polite.

"It's fine," I insist. "I just wanted you to know that you can tell me anything you want . . . that you're not alone."

"I know," he says softly. Then, "My father wants me to quit the basketball team."

A/N: Hi, guys! Hope you all are doing well and that you're having a good holiday season! Originally, this chapter and the next were one, but together, they seemed too long, so I split them into two shorter chapters. I swear, I'll try and get the next chapter up soon!

Thanks for reading!

~ J. Dominique