Masks
Who knew a piece of paper could be so damned heavy?
Takaishi Takeru sat at a desk in a typical office featuring overhead fluorescent lights and scratchy carpets that could withstand an apocalypse. This area was populated by interns and fresh employees, people too junior to merit their own cubicle. The office slums packed four people into each gray box.
Takeru stared at his computer screen, which displayed a patent he was meant to edit, but absorbed nothing. He was too numb to notice his neighbor, who sat almost elbow-to-elbow with him, staring.
"Alright, Takaishi-kun?"
Takeru startled, but in the second it took to turn to his cube mate, he manufactured a calm smile. "I'm fine. Just having trouble concentrating, I guess."
Mahara Shinji, a fresh graduate student with scruffy black hair, raised both arms in an overblown stretch. "Tell me about it! Staring at patents is the last thing I wanna do after classes!"
"We're paid," a calm, measured voice pointed out behind them. Takeru swiveled his chair to face Junko, a fellow intern and graduate student with dark hair, glasses, and a serious mien. "And we're making connections that will help us after we graduate. Not everyone gets a chance like this."
Chiaki, the young woman beside Junko, smiled. She had amber-colored hair in loose curls and a bright smile. "That's true... But everyone has to let off steam sometimes."
Junko allowed a wry grin; she was soft on Chiaki. "Do it away from the office, then. You don't want to offend someone who might have put in a good word for you, otherwise."
"Alright, alright," Shinji said, lowering his arms. "More importantly, are you sure you're alright, Takaishi-kun?"
Junko looked away from her work- a rarity outside of breaks. "You have been quiet today. My productivity is up, so I'm sure of it."
Takeru's laughter was bright and easy, even as his insides twisted. "Now, now," Chiaki murmured, her voice serene. "Productivity is good, but being happy at work is important, too. Takaishi-kun cheers us up every day." She caught his eye and smiled. "If you're down, I'd like to help, if I can."
"If anyone cheers us up, it's you!" Takeru deflected. "I do feel tired, though… I'll go to bed early tonight."
"Aww, man," Shinji sighed. "No drinks, then?"
"You drink too much, regardless," Junko scolded, with zero heat. Her tone suggested that she was commenting on the weather: It was raining. Shinji drank too much. She was correct, of course, but Junko either didn't know or didn't care that saying so would not win her points with Shinji.
"I really am fine," Takeru said, ending that conversation before it escalated. "Thanks for worrying, guys."
"If you're sure," Chiaki said. "Feel better soon! I like the laughing and teasing Takaishi-kun best!"
"How nice for you!" Smirking, Shinji elbowed Takeru.
"Not like that!" Chiaki laughed. "It's unprofessional to date coworkers, even if we are interns!"
Friendly bickering filled their cube, and Takeru tuned the conversation out. The letter in his backpack pulled his brain back in, like a black hole exerting its gravitational pull. After another half hour of exactly zero patent-related work, Takeru slipped away from his cube, ostensibly for coffee.
But when he was alone in the tired kitchenette, he slipped his mobile out of his pocket, selected Yamato's name, and sent a text: Can you come over tonight and make dinner? I'm sick of instant noodles.
If Takeru wrote 'Onii-chan' in his text, then Yamato would know that something was up. Hell, he'd probably guess, regardless. He dithered, finger hovering over the send icon. Was reaching out worth the risk of Yamato noticing his struggles? Takeru preferred to rely on himself, and he didn't want to bother Yamato, not when he was working while pursuing higher education.
But being alone with this, without Patamon...
Swallowing hard, he sent the message. After all, if anyone would let him be a little selfish without thinking less of him, it was Onii-chan.
XXX
Yamato was reading an engineering article on his work computer when someone clapped his shoulder. He flinched and turned, annoyed at being caught off guard. Makoto, a coworker with dark features and a goofy grin, stood above him, carrying two coffees. "Yikes!" he said, grinning. "You could peel paint with that scowl."
Yamato tsked. "Don't sneak up on people."
Makoto produced a put-upon sigh. "Is that how you thank me for picking up coffee?"
With effort, Yamato relaxed the muscles in his face. He took the cup Makoto offered and nodded. "Thanks."
"Your treat next time." Makoto sat beside him. They shared a long table pushed against a window, decent work spaces- better than the ones he had as an undergraduate and a master's student, anyway. The office was standard, but reflected the budget of a successful engineering firm.
Noticing Makato's stare, Yamato cocked an eyebrow. Makoto shrugged playfully. "What? I was just thinking, with your looks and build, you could be swimming in dates. But they'll be too scared to approach you if you scowl like that!"
"I'm not scowling anymore." Yamato wasn't irritated by Makoto's teasing. After sharing neighboring desks with him for months, he knew that mischief was in Makoto's nature. And regardless, he had heard this argument before, although it never struck him as fair. He smiled plenty, when positively engaged. It just wasn't his neutral expression.
"You're not AS scary, sure," Makoto agreed. "But if you smiled-"
Makoto leaned towards Yamato, reaching for his face. Yamato grabbed his wrists, holding him back. "Damn," Makoto laughed. "You're fast!" He jerked his arms, but they didn't budge. "And strong!"
Being Takeru's sibling had honed his reflexes by necessity, but Yamato kept that to himself. And, as a hopeful future astronaut, of course he was physically fit. He could have informed Makoto that he needed to hit the gym, but frankly, Yamato was in a good mood. The spring day was fine, he aced the report he got back today, and work was going well.
So he simply released Makoto and said, "If you stretch my face into a smile, you won't get your hands back."
"Damn!" Makoto laughed. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You have to smile if you say that kind of thing! Otherwise, I'll think you're serious."
And finally, Yamato gave Makoto what he wanted: a genuine grin. "I am."
Makoto snorted and whacked Yamato on the back. "Fine, fine. Just saying, smiling will make you more approachable."
So far, Yamato had brushed off Makoto's teasing, but his patience was very much finite. "I haven't driven you off yet," he pointed out, and not without some rancor.
Laughing, Makoto held both hands up, palms out. "Alright. I gotta get to work, anyway."
Yamato nodded, then turned back to his screen. Shortly after, his phone buzzed. He kept his phone on silent during work hours- except for a few select contacts. He glanced down and read: Can you come over tonight and make dinner? I'm sick of instant noodles.
Friends sometimes teased Yamato for lacking in diplomacy, but he understood Takeru, and his big brother instincts were stirring. He hesitated, planning his approach. What do you want to eat?
Anything.
Yamato's resting scowl deepened. If Takeru really wanted food, he would have a dish in mind. So, he wanted companionship- but, for some unfathomable and potentially cursed reason, was trying to be sneaky about it.
The gods only knew what was going on with him. Even they wouldn't risk placing bets.
Fine, Yamato texted back. But don't complain if it's not what you wanted.
Deal. What time can you come?
Yamato sent his response, then pocketed the phone. He didn't want to be seen using it too much at work, but also... Well, focusing on his job was less stressful than focusing on his sudden worries.
XXX
Takeru opened his apartment's front door with a sigh that rose from the depths of his soul- and possibly released a sliver of it to the void. When he was an undergraduate, he lived in a dorm, surrounded by classmates. It was loud, obnoxious, and fun. As a graduate student studying literature, he had no choice but to live alone. His friends scattered after graduating, and Takeru needed a home between campus and his job, which limited his options. So, for the first time, he has his own minuscule studio.
The novelty was short-lived. The tiny apartment felt enormous, and despite those paper-thin walls and the background din of Tokyo, it was too damned quiet. Writing demanded a certain degree of solitude, and there were times when dorm life and roommates irritated him. But having no one to greet him and nothing to distract him when his mood was heavy…
To be succinct, it sucked.
Takeru removed his shoes in the entry and slung his backpack off. He had picked up his mail on his way in, and the letters seemed to omit a chilling sense of dread. With another dramatic sigh, Takeru trudged to his bed, which also served as a sofa, and plopped onto it. After a few mental pep talks (and you know you're screwed when the thought that your mail might be bills is uplifting), Takeru managed to investigate the letters.
One bore a publisher's logo. With shaking hands, Takeru cast the others aside. His stomach dissolved when he freed the paper. This letter had a staggering number of older siblings, including one in his backpack; he knew at once that it was a rejection.
When Takeru began sending his work to publishing houses, brushing off failure wasn't too difficult. He would meet friends at bars and laugh about it over drinks. Those first few rejections were rites of passage, and everyone submitted to the most prominent publishers first and worked down. Eventually, new writers believed, someone would accept their submissions.
So Takeru kept applying, applying, applying. And the rejections kept coming, coming, coming. Poetry, essays, short stories, even a novel. At some point, Takeru switched from submitting work he cared about to desperately trying everything- a new angle, a new medium, a new genre, whatever might unlock the door to the publishing world.
Takeru rubbed his stinging eyes and placed the rejection letter on the coffee table by his bed, beside a stack of CDs released by Yamato's old bands and framed photographs, talismans against loneliness. Seeking distraction, or maybe solace, he grabbed his phone- and found a new text from Ken.
I don't know... It might be hard for us to talk about the Digital World and the digimon right now. I want to support you, but... I'm sorry.
Takeru tossed the phone aside, unwilling to entertain any form of communication. Deep down, he understood where Ken was coming from. Slowly, more Chosen lost their partners, the way Taichi, Yamato, and Sora did after Menoa's attack. The Digital World gates were closed, even to the D-3s, and had been for some time. Koushiro, his company, and his contacts worked furiously to restore the digimon and their access to the Digital World, but for now, they had little choice but to accept their painful reality.
The reasons for these events were beyond Takeru. He believed that Menoa's theory on why digimon partners faded as the Chosen aged (adults can no longer sustain their partners with their diminishing potential) was incorrect, but he couldn't offer another explanation. All he knew was that Patamon was gone, as were the rest of the Japanese partner digimon, except for Armadimon- and that he desperately needed to write about the Digital World.
Among the Japanese Chosen, Takeru was present for the greatest percentage of their adventures, but he didn't witness everything. He needed everyone's cooperation to craft a full account- although he had already lost his chance to interview the digimon, except for Patamon and Armadimon.
The digimon's heroism and sacrifices should be memorialized and shared with the world they protected in a book. That's what Takeru told himself, but really, in the depths of his tender heart, he couldn't bear the idea of forgetting anything about them. But right now, the Chosen were hurting too much to talk about the Digital World. Takeru had a surfeit of experience in interpreting reluctant pauses after asking a friend a question they didn't want to answer. Hell, an Endless Pause was the most common response among the Chosen these days.
Takeru lifted his legs and hugged them against his front. Living alone, locked out of the Digital World, divided from the Chosen by a mourning too raw to share, and launching his adult life without Patamon, he had never felt so alone- not even after the divorce. At least he lived with his mother back then. There was someone to reach out to, someone who knew how to navigate those damned Endless Pauses.
A knock on the front door lifted Takeru from his miserable haze and thrust him into panic. His eyes were wet and full- and Yamato was here! He dabbed them with his shirt sleeve, absorbing liquid, and paused near the mirror on the wall by the door. He tested his smile and made adjustments. Not perfect, but close enough, or so he hoped.
Then he opened the door- and his fake smile warmed and brightened. "Onii-chan!"
Yamato cocked an eyebrow. He was scowling, and his hands were shoved in his pants pockets, with reusable shopping bags dangling from his wrists. Since he came from work, Yamato's clothes veered closer to office worker than local cool motorcyclist, but Takeru knew his weekend wardrobe still manifested those vibes. Or maybe they came from Yamato himself; he was fit, wore a leather jacket over his button down shirt, and had a windswept look courtesy of his bike.
"Surprised? You knew I was coming."
Takeru patted Yamato's arm, unbothered by his ribbing, but aware that his relief and pleasure were too obvious. "Grump, grump. Come in." He made way for Yamato, accepted the shopping bags, and placed them on his tiny kitchen counter. Takeru's mood shifted from cheered to pensive as he observed him.
Despite Yamato's razzing and resting scowl, Takeru knew he was happy. His body language was relaxed and smooth, and his tone was warm. When he texted earlier, Takeru wondered if his sudden request for dinner would annoy Yamato, but his smile when their eyes met hinted otherwise.
"Let me put my things down." Yamato stepped further into the studio, freeing himself from the press of the entryway. Takeru's apartment opened into a cramped kitchen off the entry, featuring a mini fridge/microwave combo with a toaster oven precariously perched on top, a single open counter, a sink, and a stovetop. Many Japanese apartments had separate toilet and bathing rooms, but Takeru's was too small, and his combo restroom was opposite the kitchen. There was an open space beyond that, with a glass wall opposite the entry leading to his balcony. This living space was mostly filled by his bed, the coffee table in front of it, his television, books, and hats, although he managed to squeeze in a tiny table with two chairs beside the kitchen counter. It was more… crammed than decorated.
Yamato placed his backpack on the floor beside the coffee table and draped his jacket over it. When he returned to the kitchen, he said, "You know, learning to cook is part of living alone." As he chided, Yamato began unpacking his shopping. Curious, Takeru joined him. He found beef, a few types of cheese, buns, bacon, and veg.
Takeru didn't have food on the brain when he texted about dinner, but suddenly, his mouth was watering. "Burgers?"
"Haven't had 'em in a while," Yamato replied. "It's hard to buy supplies for just one person." And, as was often the case when Yamato spoke, Takeru heard two statements. One was literal, and the other...
The other revealed the impossibly soft core that no amount of resting scowls, leather jackets, and motorcycles could obscure. Yamato wanted to treat his kid brother, and probably sensed that something was wrong with him. Cheese and meat were expensive, especially beef, and everything Yamato brought- including snacks and beer, Takeru noticed- was high quality. "What about the fruit?" Takeru teased, hoping to god that the lump in his throat wouldn't make his voice tremor.
Yamato tsked. "You said you were eating cup noodles! That's garbage." His shoulders snapped up, meaning that he was embarrassed, annoyed, or both.
Takeru patted Yamato's back. His eating habits weren't stellar, but by grad student standards, they weren't the worst. Still, he had no desire to pick at his brother in return for caring about him- not right now, anyway. "Thanks, Onii-chan."
Yamato relaxed. "You should watch me cook if you don't know how."
Takeru could manage hamburgers, but he knew Yamato's would taste better. Obediently, he observed while Yamato narrated his process, sometimes finding spices or tools for him, like the steamer for the veggies. Eventually, the lesson ended- there wasn't much to say about cooking the meat, other than not to overdo it, and some advice on when to add the bacon to the pan. After a period of silence, Yamato started humming a song that Takeru couldn't place, which was... oddly lonely. What music did he listen to these days? Did he have time for much outside of school, work, and exercise?
It wasn't as if they had drifted apart. Even if they didn't see each other in person much, they were in frequent contact. It was just… The more their lives expanded with school, jobs, personal dreams, and old and new friends, the harder it was to keep track of everything. This was why Takeru believed Menoa's theory was incorrect- adulthood brought more experiences, choices, and opportunities to change and grow, not fewer. But it was already clear that juggling everything was beyond difficult- and often lonely.
"You're happy," Takeru pointed out, hoping he didn't sound jealous. "But your face is scary."
The humming came to an abrupt stop, but Yamato just shrugged. Takeru fought down a tsk. Everyone grew up someday, but he thought he would have a few more years of easy teasing left before Yamato learned not to react every time he was poked.
Yamato's eyes landed on Takeru's and held them. Although they were brothers, they didn't look all that alike. Yamato's hair was lighter blond, but his eyes were darker blue, and more electric, more intense. Takeru looked friendly and approachable. Yamato looked like he might bite, but everyone who loved him knew that a bark was the worst they would get (except for maybe Taichi, although that, too, was long past).
Usually, Yamato's intensity didn't impact Takeru; it couldn't intimidate or dissuade him like it could most strangers and acquaintances (in fact, it often amused him). But today... Today, he sensed that Yamato might have a plan behind those serious eyes.
Calmly, but in a tone that allowed no quarter, Yamato replied, "And you're smiling, even though you're upset."
The sizzling and popping from the pan and the soft hiss of the steamer were deafening in the silence- one of those Endless Pauses that so vexed Takeru. Contrarily, his smile grew, causing a pinch of facial discomfort. It took him far too long to respond, "How could I be upset? You're making me burgers."
Stupid, stupid, stupid! The best way to prevent Yamato from asking questions Takeru didn't want to answer was to bait him with teasing or distractions. But Yamato was a pHD student working a demanding engineering job now. He wasn't so easily handled.
"I saw the rejection letter on your coffee table." Yes, not so easily handled indeed.
Idiot! Why didn't I put that away?! "It happens," Takeru sighed, allowing his shoulders to sag. "It's a rite of passage for wannabe writers."
Somehow, Yamato's expression was blank and intense at the same time- he was not buying what Takeru was selling. It was a relief when he turned to the sizzling burgers. "You know... A few months ago, you kept telling me about new projects you were submitting. You never mentioned one getting published, and it's been a while since you've mentioned a new one."
Takeru clenched the seat of his chair. By all that was good and holy, he vowed not to let his brother- his brother!- pin him down. He wouldn't give a damned inch! And so, with an easy grin, he replied, "Don't worry! I'm still trying."
Yamato opened the toaster oven, removed the warm buns, and placed the patties on them. Takeru had given up on receiving a response when he murmured, "But you're not excited about it anymore."
Takeru twitched, then swallowed a curse. There was no way Yamato didn't see that. "It can be discouraging, but... It's okay, as long as I keep trying."
Yamato's eyes flicked to his. Takeru braced himself, but all he said was, "Bacon?"
"Y-yeah." His stammer annoyed the hell out of him. To cover it, Takeru rose and opened his fridge, removing relevant condiments. They fixed their burgers while waiting for the veggies to finish steaming.
Soon, they were seated at the tiny table, each outfitted with a plate of food and a beer. Takeru was beginning to regret inviting Yamato over- until he took a bite of his burger. The meat was savory and juicy, and cheese flooded from the center, warm and gooey, mellow and tangy. With Takeru's basic cooking skills and limited budget for eating out and buying expensive ingredients, it had been ages since he ate something so good- or since someone cooked for him. And when that someone was Yamato…
Sensory memory ripped him through time to weekends spent at Hiroaki and Yamato's apartment when he was a kid. Takeru adored his mother, and he didn't prefer one apartment to the other back then. What he wanted, desperately, was to have his whole family around him- especially his brother, a peer he could play with who was old enough to dote on him and watch out for him. A friend and protector. Those rare days with Yamato were vivid in his memory, clear and colorful, while ordinary days blurred together.
Yamato cooked him healthy food back then- even now, he made vegetables as a side instead of the more classic fries. But when Takeru was upset, Yamato always knew, no matter how hard he tried to mask it. When he needed it, or when a treat was in order, Yamato spoiled him. Suddenly, Takeru's goddamned eyes were wet. All it took was the taste of nostalgia and love.
"Takeru-" Yamato's voice was sharp, but Takeru knew concern was beneath it, not anger or judgment. He couldn't bear it.
"I'm fine." It was obvious that Takeu was not, in fact, fine. Long practice with forcing smiles warned him that this one was too wobbly to pass, but what could he do? "It's good. Really good."
Yamato's gaze was heavy, piercing. He lowered his burger to his plate. "I know how hard it can be to talk about..." He hesitated, and Takeru feared and hoped it would become an Endless Pause, that familiar closed door, in equal measure. But, after a deep breath, Yamato pushed on, "You know..."
Takeru's weak smile warmed. Emotional conversations weren't Yamato's strong point, so he knew how hard he was trying. But Yamato was asking difficult questions, which was far easier than answering them, and he was already struggling! It was irresistibly tempting to tease, but... Well, he'd let Yamato off the hook. Just this once.
"I do know. But I really want to enjoy this meal. Let's talk after?"
Yamato's stare shifted from cautious to openly baffled. When Takeru burst into laughter, color flooded Yamato's cheeks, which only made him laugh harder. "Fine," Yamato nearly growled. "But I'm holding you to it."
"Sure." Takeru wasn't happy with the prospect of opening up, but at least he had time to consider his approach. He savored the meal, and all the fond, safe memories it conjured- memories that Yamato conjured, just by being with him. They cleaned after, and then Yamato revealed another little surprise: ice cream.
"You didn't have to get all this," Takeru said as Yamato divided the pint into two bowls. It was his favorite flavor, of course (birthday cake with sprinkles and cake bits mixed in), not Yamato's. Yamato snorted, but offered no comment. As always, he was going to do what he was going to do.
Takeru returned to the table and took a bite. Sugar lit his brain like a pinball machine revving into life. It tasted creamy and sweet and even colorful, somehow. He felt Yamato's stare, but didn't offer an opener. As promised, he would cooperate, but he had no intention of making this easy, not even when bribed with ice cream. Yamato's eyes narrowed, as if he had read his mind- an ability Takeru was half convinced he possessed when he was a child.
"So you're upset because of the rejection letters?" was Yamato's blunt opener. And, despite himself, Takeru laughed.
"Noooo, I love those. Live for 'em."
Yamato didn't bother reacting, except to scowl harder. "You said rejection is normal, but has it put you off from writing?"
Takeru's brow furrowed as he considered. "For a while, I actually wrote more- trying different things to see if something stuck. But..."
"The forced pieces were worse than the ones you started with." Takeru dropped his spoon into the bowl with an obnoxious clatter, annoyed that Yamato nailed it in one go.
"What makes you say that?"
Yamato lifted a single eyebrow, nonplussed. "I've written lots of songs. I know what happens when you try to squeak out one more track for an album, or push to make a deadline."
And, despite himself, Takeru snorted. "Ah, I can name some of those songs-"
"Stop." Yamato lifted a hand, palm out, looking distinctly put-upon. "I've written some clunkers, and I'm sure you have, too. That doesn't mean you won't write well again."
Takeru knew his smile was slipping, but no matter how much he grasped for control, he couldn't secure it. Both of them siphoned their excess emotions into creating: Yamato with music, Takeru with writing. "It's been years since you've been in a band. Do you miss that?" Turning the subject to Yamato was misdirecting, he knew, but he was genuinely curious- and suddenly worried.
At last, Yamato's sharp gaze fell from Takeru's face to his soupy ice cream. "I decided that music is a hobby for me. I've been focusing on work and school, but… Yeah, I miss being in a band."
Teasing his brother was one of Takeru's chief delights, but he just couldn't right now. "Hobbies are important. And I miss your music, too."
Yamato managed a wry grin. "I saw my CDs on your coffee table. I thought my music was boy band garbage."
The gods only knew why Takeru was suddenly displaying his heart for everyone to see on his damned coffee table. Clearly, living alone had dulled his once keen talent for hiding his cards. "That was just The Teenage Wolves," he said, flapping a hand. "Knife of Whatever This Week was more alt rock. And I liked how you blended in punk elements as an undergrad."
The muscles around Yamato's eyes and mouth tightened, suggesting pain. "Metal, not punk."
Takeru, who knew full well that it was metal, grinned from ear to ear. "Ah, sorry, sorry. Anyway, have you thought about joining a band?"
Yamato shook his head. "Can't. Training to become an astronaut is time consuming."
Fear, greasy and jittery, registered deep in Takeru's stomach. "Well, you're studying aerospace engineering. You could become an engineer instead of an astronaut."
Suddenly, Yamato's gaze was wary again- and a little hard. "I know what I want, Takeru."
Takeru couldn't bear to look at him; he knew he had overstepped. In a small voice that sounded far too much like the kid brother he once was, he murmured, "It's dangerous..."
How could he ask Yamato to drop his dream, just because he was scared of losing him? But then, how much could he lose before he lost himself, too? Half of him walked away with Hiroaki and Yamato when they moved out following the divorce, and when he was with them, half of him remained with his mother. Young children build their identities around their families, and start crafting their own and focusing on peer groups around late elementary school. Takeru lost half of his identity well before then with the divorce, and sometimes, he wasn't sure if he had scraped together a complete, mature character yet.
And with Patamon gone… Gone for real, this time… Takeru kept his eyes on the table, willing them to remain dry.
Yamato sighed. "I know. We're no strangers to that, though."
Something snapped, blindly thrusting Takeru from chastened and lost to furious. "That was different! We had-"
Takeru didn't fall, or even move, but suddenly, he was winded. He could barely breathe, let alone speak. After a terrible pause, he whispered, "We had them."
There was a series of clinks as Yamato pushed his bowl aside. "Takeru... Is that what this is actually about?"
"Yes?" Takeru paused and considered, cupping his aching forehead. "No? Always. But not just that?"
Everything was about that loss, from waking up without Patamon drooling on his pillow to falling asleep without his snuffles in his ear, and every moment in between. He wasn't even safe in his sleep, where visions of Angemon dissolving and Patamon vanishing for good haunted his dreams. How do you say farewell to the other you? Months later, Takeru was no closer to knowing.
Yamato's glazed eyes made Takeru wonder if he regretted asking. There was nothing anyone could say that could make losing a digimon partner easier, so he couldn't blame him for changing the subject. "Well… I need to finish my pHD and work as an engineer for a few years before I try to qualify for astronaut training. I might not make it, so don't worry about that, at least."
Takeru felt like crying, so he forced a shaking laugh instead. "Ha! When you make up your mind about something, you do it. You'll make it." Yamato likely knew that he was his favorite, most beloved person. Takeru said as much, although always aiming to tease or embarrass. But did he know how much Takeru looked up to him? Yamato was indefatigable, powerful, unwavering. He could move mountains; hell, he was one.
Splotches of color darkened Yamato's cheeks as he looked away. "That's true for you, too. You'll write again and get published, if you let it come naturally."
"I... Don't know. Maybe I am pushing too hard to get published, but that's not the only problem. Ever since I started working at the patent office whiletrying to earn a master's degree…"
Yamato's brow furrowed as he crossed his arms. "Hmm… Writing at work, writing for school, and writing for yourself... Are you burnt out?"
Takeru hesitated. Japanese culture enforced high educational and career standards, often with long working hours. He was familiar with burnout, and knew people who self-sabotaged and even withdrew from society in search of relief from it. Years of balancing education, a fledging career, and personal projects had chipped away at him, sure. But until now, he held onto conviction that his efforts were worthwhile, because he loved writing.
What words could paint an accurate picture of such an abstract concept? "It's worse than that, I think. It's more like... I haven't been enjoying the thing I used to love so much."
"That can be caused by burn out." Yamato pushed his hair away from his face, looking frustrated. "But it can be caused by mood disorders, too, or at least Jyou says so. But I don't see how you can take a break from writing if it's part of your work, education, and personal life."
Takeru laughed- force of habit- but it was dry and lifeless. "Right. But even worse than my favorite pieces being rejected and writing things I don't care about... I can't work on the only project I want to do."
"What's that?" Yamato shifted from frustrated to focused. Takeru tensed. He hadn't talked about this project much, except to interview Patamon and to ask the others for interviews...
But he hadn't asked Yamato yet. Somehow, sharing with him was even more vulnerable than the others. Maybe because he understood him the most, and would glean things from his ideas and writing that no one else could. Or maybe because he was the most likely to agree to the interview, which would push his project from the conceptual realm to the physical world. Something he actually had to put time, effort, and far too much heart into.
As a writer, Takeru intimately understood that words, both written and spoken, could give life, could make things real. Did he have the courage to wield that power? He had shut Yamato out so many times before; it would be easier to do that than to speak. And yet… Somehow, today, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Who would be left, if he did?
Voice shaking, he murmured, "I want to write a memoir about our adventures in the Digital World. But to capture the whole story, I need to interview everyone. And so far... No one wants to."
Yamato's expression wasn't quite neutral, suggesting that he was struggling to manufacture the appearance of calm. "That... could take time. The loss is fresh for some of us, and even for Taichi, Sora, and me..."
When he hesitated, Takeru found himself interjecting. A resentment, known but buried deep, seeped through his control, fetid and noxious. "You seem like you're doing fine. You bounced right back and launched a demanding career."
Sometimes, voicing feelings was a relief for everyone, as it eased the speaker's tension and provided context and expectations for the listener. But when those feelings were left to fester, they developed an edge, a violence. Takeru hated this aspect of himself, the part that hid and ignored problems until they erupted.
He couldn't even look at Yamato. He felt clammy, hot and cold all at once. "Onii-chan- I'm sorry." What else could he say? The meal he took such pleasure in churned in his stomach.
He heard Yamato's deep breath, a calming exercise, the kind that starts in the diaphragm, spreads ribs, and vents through the nose. "You know better."
"Yeah. I'm sorry." He did know better. Why the hell couldn't he control himself?! What did it mean that he couldn't?
He risked a glance and saw Yamato's severe expression soften. He smiled, but his eyes were heavy-lidded and wet. "We're all hurting. I get it. But we have to be gentle with each other, not..."
"Shitty?" Under any other circumstances, Takeru would have pointed out that Yamato was the last person he'd describe as gentle. It would be true, as he went straight for the heart in conversation and rarely backed down when he thought he was right. But it would be astonishingly incorrect, as Yamato fought, worked, and risked himself to take care of others. Which was why talking to him like that was so… Well, shitty.
Yamato didn't agree, but he didn't argue, either. "It hurts, but… Gabumon is right here." And, with a smile made all the more tender by his wet eyes, he thumped his chest over his heart. "That's where he'll be until Koushiro and his contacts figure things out. I try to be grateful for the time we had and look forward to that day- and do everything I can with the life Gabumon protected."
And, cursing himself in every language he knew, Takeru felt his eyes fill with liquid. "I, I'm not- I can't-"
Yamato was in agony when Gabumon vanished- Takeru knew that, as much as anyone could know someone else's feelings. But somehow, he processed the loss and reached the acceptance stage, putting in the emotional work and fighting for a way forward. In contrast, Takeru still felt almost as tortured as he did on the day he lost Patamon.
All his life, he knew he wasn't like Yamato. His brother looked to the future and actively worked towards lofty goals. Takeru lived in the moment, prioritizing personal projects and time with friends over ambition. Hell, even his master's degree was more about putting off entering the adult world than preparing for it. Yamato confronted situations and feelings, and he endured. Takeru was more convinced everyday that he could only freeze, avoid, and succumb.
"I've had over three more years than you to process," Yamato began, with a softness reserved for Takeru. "You're not weak if you have different coping methods, or if you're in a different stage of..."
Mourning. Yamato couldn't say it, and Takeru didn't bother.
Takeru often smiled, but this one was bitter, and more terrible to look upon than he could know. Yamato's expression twisted, knocked from compassion to a pained unknown. His hand twitched towards Takeru's, but stopped short of contact. Takeru wanted to reach out, but something impeded him. Resentment or embarrassment, maybe? Or perhaps the general disconnect he felt from everyone right now?
"What coping methods?" Takeru's tone was surly, but the tremor in his voice hinted at the fear beneath. "I used to write to figure things out. Now, writing is a pressure- and I can't escape it. I'm writing random garbage just to get published- I need to make money to live. And the only project I'm interested in..." He wanted to stay angry, or at least frustrated. But when Yamato grabbed his hand, he looked up- and saw the raw concern in his brother's eyes.
And suddenly, he was the same small Takeru who cried to Yamato on the phone when he was lonely, or in the Digital World when he was scared, or in his arms whenever something happened to Patamon. Like when Angemon fell, and when the Reboot wiped Patamon's memory. Like when Patamon vanished, beyond the hope of rebirth, beyond the reach of Koushiro's skills. Gone beyond the miraculous power of the bond that united them for so long, even through those other losses.
Takeru's chest lurched. That was all the warning he received before the sobs hit, and his hand gripped Yamato's hard enough to ache. "C'mon," Yamato murmured, standing. Takeru lacked the bandwidth to care about where he cried, but he let Yamato tug him to his bed, where he collapsed.
Yamato sat beside him and held an arm out. Takeru was pursuing a master's degree. He was far too old to-
Before he could finish that thought, he was sobbing into Yamato's shoulder. Takeru always tried so hard to smile, to be grown up, to avoid being worried about or coddled, despite his home situation- or because of it, more accurately. When something hurt him, from little things like a tiff with a friend to big ones like the divorce, he told himself he could handle it. And, as if to prove to himself that he could, he smiled through every obstacle.
But invariably, everything exploded, as containers must when the pressure within creeps too high. And today, Takeru cried until he was beaten, until his voice rasped his throat like sandpaper, until his diaphragm ached, until his eyes burned. He eventually quieted, but only because his spent body could do no more. His head felt swollen, filled with fog, and everything hurt, damn it!
Sometimes, crying offered catharsis, a release of pent up negative emotions. Today, it just made him feel like shit.
"Want a tissue?"
Takeru snorted- that was his brother's opener, after that?! "Can't be fucked," he croaked.
Yamato tsked and reached for the tissues on the coffee table. "Well, I'm not wiping your damned nose." He hooked the box with a fingertip, pulled it in, and waggled it in front of Takeru. He didn't have the strength to argue, so he grabbed a sheet and separated from Yamato to wipe his face.
He grimaced when he noticed the enormous wet spot on the shoulder of Yamato's shirt. "S-sorry."
Yamato's resting scowl was restored, which hinted that he was calm; not flustered, not impatient, and most importantly, not judgmental. "You've never apologized for crying before. Don't start now."
There was a burst of pain in Takeru's throat as he chuckled- or wheezed, more like. "I'm a grown ass adult-"
"And you still have feelings."
Yamato's stern tone prodded Takeru out of a post-cry haze. "Y-yeah." What else could he say? He wasn't in a position to deny anything, even if he wanted to.
"Why didn't you tell me you were struggling?" Yamato asked.
Irritation spiked, frankly a relief after the rising panic and despair of the last few months. "You never tell people when you feel down!"
He expected Yamato to argue, and he did tsk. But after a pause, he nodded. "It can be hard. But if you push it down and keep smiling... Well, nothing will change."
Takeru scowled- that was a direct hit, damn him. "Hey, I don't get on you for frowning all the time-"
Tonelessly, Yamato interrupted, "You literally did that earlier."
They glared at each other, mutually annoyed. Finally, Takeru sighed and scratched his head. "Um- Is it bad, though? My smiling, your scowling."
"That's... Not something I'm sure I can answer." Yamato bent forward, propping his forearms against his knees. "I think... It's okay to wear a mask."
"It's okay for your inner world and outer world not to match?" Takeru asked, seeking clarity- as writers always do.
"Mm. We don't owe the world total transparency, anyway."
"Hmm…" Takeru gripped his knees as he considered. Yamato was often upfront about his thoughts and feelings, especially when safety was involved. But, contrarily, he sometimes hit a limit and retreated: sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally, sometimes both. Those sudden withdrawals could feel dramatic and hurtful, but was leaving to calm down a viable method for managing emotions? Takeru saw the logic there, but…
Well, he hated being abandoned, and thought it was better to stay, even when storms brewed inside him.
Takeru managed a wobbly smile. "Can you imagine what it would be like if we had to be totally honest all the time? Let every little annoyance be known, every thought or feeling spoken?" Again, as a writer, Takeru adored hypotheticals, and this one seized his imagination and exploded.
Yamato winced. "We'd be like Daisuke and Mimi-chan. Except most of us would come off way worse, since they're so good-natured."
Takeru knew he was joking, but he looked away. He was more aware than anyone that there was a hard side to him. Was he a liar, to smile and say he was fine when he was furious? But wasn't it better to smother flashes of resentment, fear, or fury?
"Where is the line?" he wondered. "Between communication and knowing when to keep things to yourself? Between being authentic and burdening or hurting others with unfiltered thoughts and feelings?"
Yamato's brow furrowed above his scowl; he was serious once more. "How you present yourself is your choice. What you tell people or hold back is your choice. If a mask helps you cope, then fine. But if you use it to avoid dealing with something you don't want to deal with..."
And once again, Yamato jabbed the sore spot that Takeru was so painfully conscious of. "Do you think I'm weak for not dealing with things head on, like you do?" He didn't want an answer, but contrarily, he had to have it.
Yamato grabbed both of his shoulders hard enough to ache. "I have never thought you're weak. Never." The hardness of his tone, the ferocity, was easy to mistake for anger, especially when combined with the force of his grip, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his rawness. Normally, Takeru would divert him with a joke or a grin when he was worked up. Today, he just stared back, growing increasingly cognizant of the depth of his brother's love.
"It takes strength to stay calm- you know I struggle with that. And you always keep going, no matter what. I'd say that you should reach out more when you need help, but it sounds like you have been doing that. You asked the others to talk about the digimon, right?"
Takeru blinked. He thought he wanted to write about the Digital World to make sure he remembered everything. But if that was the only reason, would he have persisted when the others hesitated to be interviewed? Was he really reaching out to friends he rarely saw, now that they no longer worked together as Chosen? Was he trying to talk about his loss with the few people who could truly understand?
"I do wish you'd tell me when you have a problem. It's your choice, but I'll never think less of you, no matter what you need to get off your chest."
And here, at last, was a chance for a joke, a way to push back against mounting emotions. "Hah! You can tell what I'm thinking every time, anyway."
The sudden pain in Yamato's eyes made Takeru hurt, too. "I can't. I've sat opposite you and known something was wrong, and I still somehow left thinking you were alright."
Takeru swallowed hard. That had happened a million times- Yamato trying to help, and Takeru misdirecting him, whether with laughter or teasing distractions. Sometimes, he felt bad about doing so, but usually, he preferred to avoid burdening Yamato. But of course, what he feared most was being vulnerable- and being left behind if others perceived him as too troublesome.
Even shaken as he was, Takeru heard what Yamato was telling him: he would be there, judgment-free, always. In some ways, this was exactly what Takeru needed, and yet…
Technically, Yamato did abandon him once. He could have stayed with him and Natsuko after the divorce, but he left with Hiroaki. As an adult, Takeru understood that Yamato was also a child then, and that he couldn't be held responsible for anything surrounding the divorce. And even then, he was relieved that Hiroaki wasn't alone.
And yet, clearly, the dread of losing his brother again lingered.
"But you always show up," Takeru murmured, more to himself than Yamato. "It helps every time. I guess the people who matter can see under the mask… But I'll try to be more open with you."
Yamato released him and appeared to go limp with relief. "Yeah? Thanks. And you always see through me, too."
This time, Takeru's laugh was genuine. "How could I not? The people in the next apartment know what you're thinking when you start screeching about it!"
"I don't do that anymore," Yamato protested- his volume just a bit too loud. Laughing harder, Takeru whacked his back.
"Look," Yamato growled, rubbing his forehead. "The point is that we need to take care of ourselves, and each other when we can. You can interview me about our time in the Digital World. And I'd like to hear what you want to write about Patamon, if you feel up to it. I can encourage the others to agree to interviews, but we need to accept it if they aren't ready to talk."
Yamato stared at the floor, slightly bent forward, hands clasped between his knees. Takeru tried to discern how he was feeling, but he looked serious and frowney, as he often did. "Are you sure you're okay with the interview?"
Yamato offered a tentative smile. "Yeah. It's been a while since I've talked about Gabumon, even though I think about him all the time. Reminiscing might be good for me, too." He looked away with a soft, rueful laugh. "Although admitting to some things I said and did back then might be hard."
Takeru patted Yamato's shoulder, but the reassurance might have been marred by his laughter. "We were kids."
Yamato shrugged. "Anyway, working on something that you're excited about- something that you're writing for you and Patamon, not for your job or school or for publishing- I think it could help."
"What about you?" Takeru was eager to shift the spotlight away from himself, but he also wanted to offer Yamato support.
Yamato straightened, looking a touch confused. "I'm fine. I told you, I'm focusing on living my life. But... This made me realize that I've kept my head down and focused on work for… a long time."
"You're amazing, Onii-chan. You've come so far and accomplished so much, but... Don't forget to have fun, too." Yamato blinked, and Takeru tried to keep smiling. He was far more likely to tease his brother than praise him. He couldn't regret it- that was his personality, and hey, he deserved to have fun, too. But it wouldn't hurt to tell Yamato how much he admired and loved him.
You know, sometimes. As a treat.
When the compliment registered, Yamato colored and abruptly looked away. "I don't know where to start, or how to fit activities in..."
"Then let's do something together! We could go to a nice restaurant or see a movie. Or a theme park- make sure you can handle those gs."
"A roller coaster isn't a centrifuge," Yamato replied, lifting an eyebrow. "But sure. Whatever you want. We could go on vacation, too. It's been years…"
"Hah!" Takeru laughed, hoping to distract from how touched he was. Had he and Yamato ever traveled together, outside of the Digital World and summer camp? If so, he was too young to remember. But now that they were adults, they could do whatever they wanted, within budget and schedules. Excitement surged, but he opted to tease instead of saying so. "Sure, if you can put up with me that long! But you should start simple. How about writing a song?"
Yamato's smile was trepid. "What would I write about? I barely get out these days, beyond work and school."
Takeru shrugged. "I dunno, the stars and the galaxy? That's where your head is, right?"
Yamato snorted. "I'm more than a hopeful astronaut. I guess it's time to act like it again. And besides..."
Shifting, Yamato pulled something out of his pants pocket. A lump formed in Takeru's throat when he recognized that old, beat up harmonica. A tender smile softened Yamato's face as he gazed at it.
"I haven't written a song since I said goodbye to Gabumon. If you're going to write about Gabumon and me, then I will, too."
Takeru's voice seemed beyond his reach. After a few false starts, he placed his head on his brother's shoulder and relaxed into him, as he did when he was a child. "Alright. And I'll write about Patamon, too." And although it was a struggle, Takeru pushed himself to share his feelings. "Onii-chan... Thanks for coming."
Yamato jerked upright. He smiled- the kind of smile that touches and brightens the eyes. "Hey, don't push yourself. I want you to decide what you're comfortable telling me. But if you need help, I'm there."
Takeru grinned. "I know. Can you play?"
He expected some grumbling, but Yamato simply raised the harmonica to his mouth. Takeru didn't need to guess what he would play, and sure enough, the moody melody of Gabumon's favorite song filled his room. Sensory memory transported him once more to nights around a flickering campfire, listening to the chatter of the Chosen and digimon as he drifted off beside Yamato, with Gabumon huddled against him for warmth and Patamon snoozing on his lap.
Takeru closed his eyes and allowed a few tears to spill…. And found that they offered comfort, at last.
Author's Notes: Happy Odaiba Day, my friends! I hope you have a great one!
I wanted to point out that I don't actually think all of the Chosen would lose their partners if the situation went unsolved- I think the "your partner vanishes if you lose sight of your true self and will return when you accept your true self" fan theory is correct, more or less. Buuuut I also wanted to write this story and explore Yamato and Takeru in this way, so here we are!
Happy Odaiba Day again! Thank you to everyone in the fandom for making it such a great place!
