1 The Perfect Meeting
The wind whipped around the streets of Tokyo that day. It lifted hats from their owner's heads in the business district and turned ladies' umbrellas inside out in the shopping centers. It swirled through the gutters in the slums, making miniature cyclones of old paper scraps and cigarette butts. And in one not-so-distinctive section of the city, it deposited a rather unremarkable booklet at the feet of a rather ordinary teenage boy. If the slim pamphlet had been blessed suddenly with the gift of sight, it would not have wondered at the view of the young boy. He, looked, in fact, very like all the other fifteen-year-old boys in the various schools through the district. He wore a drab school uniform that was clean but slightly wrinkled. His eyes matched the dark brown hair that fell slightly below his ears. He was neither short nor tall, not a bishounen, but not ugly either. His voice was as generic as the rest of him. His only talent, one would have thought, was that rare ability to blend into the background just enough to be overlooked, but not enough to be pitied. Even his age was unremarkable, old enough that he could wander through the streets without being stopped, but young enough that he was not constantly irked with solicitations for whorehouses.
But the pamphlet did not have the gift of sight, nor the capacity to know when it was touched. It did not, therefore, notice when the young boy reached down past his slightly scuffed right loafer to pick it up. Someone else, however, did observe him.
"Hey! Excuse me! You! In the uniform!"
The boy looked over first his right shoulder, then his left. There was no one on the street but him—an eerie experience in itself, for Tokyo was a city that never rested. The ghostly feeling was enhanced, however, by the nagging suspicion that, since he and the stranger were the only ones on the street, he must be the one the young man was trying to talk to.
As these deductions finished racing through his brain, he realized that he was still bending over, his fingertips hovering a fraction of an inch over the booklet. He quickly straightened, self consciously brushing dust from his hands.
Quietly, in case it should turn out that the stranger had been addressing someone else, he replied. "Yes?"
The young man smiled easily, white teeth flashing briefly over his light skin. He was one of those classic blue-eyed blonds who is common in northern climates but appears slightly out of place among the darker-haired Japanese.
"I think you've got something of mine…"
Something of his? The young boy's mind raced, trying to figure out what this cryptic remark meant. Was he being accused of theft? The possibilities ran through his mind like water, but it was so hard to concentrate on any of them while the clear blue eyes were locked on his. The idea of simply losing himself in the cool depths of the stranger's eyes was momentarily much more appealing.
The boy was jolted out of his reverie by a gentle touch on his shoulder. Instinctively, he shied away from the mild contact. The stranger raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Sorry! I wasn't trying to scare you or anything… you just sorta spaced out for a second. I called you, but you didn't seem to hear me… are you okay?"
The boy shook himself mentally. "I'm fine" he answered quickly, then realized he sounded irritated. He softened his words with a quiet "thank you".
The stranger grinned. "No problem! But hey, do you think you could hand me that sketchbook? By your foot?"
The words ran through the boy's brain like honey on a winter's day. Ah, he just wanted the booklet. Nothing had been stolen, no accusations. Just a request to give him the… sketchbook, apparently. Well, no problem with that. He could just hand him the book, smile politely, and walk away. No difficult interaction necessary, unlike a few past situations, wherein he had been forced to attempt friendly chatter. Oddly enough, though, as he bent again to recover the book and delivered it to its owner, he felt a few words fly unbidden out of his mouth. "A sketchbook? Do you draw?"
The stranger smiled again… the boy noticed absently that he seemed to do a lot of that. "A little… I'm not very good at it, though. Do you?"
"Yes… I'm not very good either, though, but I enjoy it." There, that was enough information for politeness' sake. Now he could make a civil exit and escape any more fake interest. Oddly enough, though, it wasn't too hard to feign interest in the conversation. As he mused over this revelation, he heard the other man clear his throat to speak.
"I know this is terribly rude, but do you think I could ask you a question about a drawing? I can't get it to come out quite right, and it's really irritating me. I thought you might be able to help?"
The boy ran through his mental list of polite refusals and ready excuses, as was his habit whenever something was requested of him. Which one would fit this situation? But even as a few plausible ones ran through his mind, he knew very well what his answer would be. It was not surprising, then, when this time he agreed to look at the sketch. He did shock himself slightly, though, by offering a shy, tentative smile to match the agreement.
The other's grin widened, if that was even possible. "Thanks a lot! I just can't get it right…"
The boy looked at the picture and his eyes widened. How very odd… he began rummaging in his book bag, without a word to his companion. He shoved books and papers aside impatiently until he found the one item he'd been searching for. With a gentle reverence most saved for crown jewels, he displayed a scrap of paper to the other man. Both looked from one sketch to the other, shock apparent on their faces. The drawings were identical. Two rough sketches of the same landscape, a quiet pond marred only by a few ripples cascading from a pebble. Water lilies were scattered in a careless and yet perfect pattern across the calm surface. The serenity of the picture was somehow enhanced by the should-be-ominous thunderheads gathering in the clear sky and their twins in the water beneath.
The two tore their eyes from the sketches at exactly the same time, and cerulean blue met chocolate, as four eyes met, clashed briefly, and then seemed to melt and become something greater than before. It was like nothing the boy had ever known. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted before he could begin.
"Did you…"
"At the park?"
"The green bench?"
"Yes."
Their eyes met again, and the boy saw his own emotions play across the other's face like a living, breathing, beautifully unique mirror.
Much to his surprise, this time he was the one to break the silence.
"That's… odd. I wouldn't have thought anyone else would draw that. It seemed… unique. A personal sort of thing."
The stranger nodded. "It was the same for me…"
They looked deep into each other's eyes. It seemed as though neither of them moved, but suddenly there was no space between them. Suddenly their lips were touching, and suddenly, though neither of them remembered moving, they were melting into each other's arms. It was so perfect that neither stopped to consider the situation. In normal circumstances, the boy would be appalled at the thought of kissing a complete stranger, who was, to make it even more horrifying, a MAN. But these were not normal circumstances… not at all.
The boy did not know how long they sat on the bench. Long enough for it to be warm under his body, apparently, though it seemed as though no time had passed. They departed from their trance slowly, coming to realize that it was growing dark, not to mention quite cold. They rose from the bench as one, hands clasped together, not desperately or hungrily, but gently. The other man's touch was as soft as the wing of a butterfly. As they strolled off together, the boy knew that, at last, he had found the perfect person. At last, he was whole. Nothing could ever separate them.
***********************************************
The same boy smiled bitterly and added a few lines to the top of the e-mail message before sending it and closing his laptop. Somewhere that did not exist in physical space, the story waited for Tsukiyono Omi to retrieve it from his inbox. Waited for his eyes to brighten as he saw the message from his lover. Waited for him to read the short introduction—Omi, this is how our first meeting should have been. Love, Nagi. —before clicking on the "Download Attachment" button, then sending an enthusiastic reply that would chide Nagi for his description of himself.
Somewhere that did not exist, the message waited patiently for the time when Omi would read it. It did not know that it was waiting in vain. It did not know that it would wait for thirty-seven days before the time limit expired and the e-mail account was deleted. But Naoe Nagi knew this would happen. He also knew why. Omi would never be able to download that file, because Omi was dead.
One more tear slid softly down the boy's smooth cheek, falling off the tip of his chin to join the thousands of others that had already been shed. Nagi shut his eyes. He might as well be dead too.
A/N Wow, that was rather depressing, ne? Should I continue? Should I throw my keyboard in the sea? Feedback, onegai!
The wind whipped around the streets of Tokyo that day. It lifted hats from their owner's heads in the business district and turned ladies' umbrellas inside out in the shopping centers. It swirled through the gutters in the slums, making miniature cyclones of old paper scraps and cigarette butts. And in one not-so-distinctive section of the city, it deposited a rather unremarkable booklet at the feet of a rather ordinary teenage boy. If the slim pamphlet had been blessed suddenly with the gift of sight, it would not have wondered at the view of the young boy. He, looked, in fact, very like all the other fifteen-year-old boys in the various schools through the district. He wore a drab school uniform that was clean but slightly wrinkled. His eyes matched the dark brown hair that fell slightly below his ears. He was neither short nor tall, not a bishounen, but not ugly either. His voice was as generic as the rest of him. His only talent, one would have thought, was that rare ability to blend into the background just enough to be overlooked, but not enough to be pitied. Even his age was unremarkable, old enough that he could wander through the streets without being stopped, but young enough that he was not constantly irked with solicitations for whorehouses.
But the pamphlet did not have the gift of sight, nor the capacity to know when it was touched. It did not, therefore, notice when the young boy reached down past his slightly scuffed right loafer to pick it up. Someone else, however, did observe him.
"Hey! Excuse me! You! In the uniform!"
The boy looked over first his right shoulder, then his left. There was no one on the street but him—an eerie experience in itself, for Tokyo was a city that never rested. The ghostly feeling was enhanced, however, by the nagging suspicion that, since he and the stranger were the only ones on the street, he must be the one the young man was trying to talk to.
As these deductions finished racing through his brain, he realized that he was still bending over, his fingertips hovering a fraction of an inch over the booklet. He quickly straightened, self consciously brushing dust from his hands.
Quietly, in case it should turn out that the stranger had been addressing someone else, he replied. "Yes?"
The young man smiled easily, white teeth flashing briefly over his light skin. He was one of those classic blue-eyed blonds who is common in northern climates but appears slightly out of place among the darker-haired Japanese.
"I think you've got something of mine…"
Something of his? The young boy's mind raced, trying to figure out what this cryptic remark meant. Was he being accused of theft? The possibilities ran through his mind like water, but it was so hard to concentrate on any of them while the clear blue eyes were locked on his. The idea of simply losing himself in the cool depths of the stranger's eyes was momentarily much more appealing.
The boy was jolted out of his reverie by a gentle touch on his shoulder. Instinctively, he shied away from the mild contact. The stranger raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Sorry! I wasn't trying to scare you or anything… you just sorta spaced out for a second. I called you, but you didn't seem to hear me… are you okay?"
The boy shook himself mentally. "I'm fine" he answered quickly, then realized he sounded irritated. He softened his words with a quiet "thank you".
The stranger grinned. "No problem! But hey, do you think you could hand me that sketchbook? By your foot?"
The words ran through the boy's brain like honey on a winter's day. Ah, he just wanted the booklet. Nothing had been stolen, no accusations. Just a request to give him the… sketchbook, apparently. Well, no problem with that. He could just hand him the book, smile politely, and walk away. No difficult interaction necessary, unlike a few past situations, wherein he had been forced to attempt friendly chatter. Oddly enough, though, as he bent again to recover the book and delivered it to its owner, he felt a few words fly unbidden out of his mouth. "A sketchbook? Do you draw?"
The stranger smiled again… the boy noticed absently that he seemed to do a lot of that. "A little… I'm not very good at it, though. Do you?"
"Yes… I'm not very good either, though, but I enjoy it." There, that was enough information for politeness' sake. Now he could make a civil exit and escape any more fake interest. Oddly enough, though, it wasn't too hard to feign interest in the conversation. As he mused over this revelation, he heard the other man clear his throat to speak.
"I know this is terribly rude, but do you think I could ask you a question about a drawing? I can't get it to come out quite right, and it's really irritating me. I thought you might be able to help?"
The boy ran through his mental list of polite refusals and ready excuses, as was his habit whenever something was requested of him. Which one would fit this situation? But even as a few plausible ones ran through his mind, he knew very well what his answer would be. It was not surprising, then, when this time he agreed to look at the sketch. He did shock himself slightly, though, by offering a shy, tentative smile to match the agreement.
The other's grin widened, if that was even possible. "Thanks a lot! I just can't get it right…"
The boy looked at the picture and his eyes widened. How very odd… he began rummaging in his book bag, without a word to his companion. He shoved books and papers aside impatiently until he found the one item he'd been searching for. With a gentle reverence most saved for crown jewels, he displayed a scrap of paper to the other man. Both looked from one sketch to the other, shock apparent on their faces. The drawings were identical. Two rough sketches of the same landscape, a quiet pond marred only by a few ripples cascading from a pebble. Water lilies were scattered in a careless and yet perfect pattern across the calm surface. The serenity of the picture was somehow enhanced by the should-be-ominous thunderheads gathering in the clear sky and their twins in the water beneath.
The two tore their eyes from the sketches at exactly the same time, and cerulean blue met chocolate, as four eyes met, clashed briefly, and then seemed to melt and become something greater than before. It was like nothing the boy had ever known. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted before he could begin.
"Did you…"
"At the park?"
"The green bench?"
"Yes."
Their eyes met again, and the boy saw his own emotions play across the other's face like a living, breathing, beautifully unique mirror.
Much to his surprise, this time he was the one to break the silence.
"That's… odd. I wouldn't have thought anyone else would draw that. It seemed… unique. A personal sort of thing."
The stranger nodded. "It was the same for me…"
They looked deep into each other's eyes. It seemed as though neither of them moved, but suddenly there was no space between them. Suddenly their lips were touching, and suddenly, though neither of them remembered moving, they were melting into each other's arms. It was so perfect that neither stopped to consider the situation. In normal circumstances, the boy would be appalled at the thought of kissing a complete stranger, who was, to make it even more horrifying, a MAN. But these were not normal circumstances… not at all.
The boy did not know how long they sat on the bench. Long enough for it to be warm under his body, apparently, though it seemed as though no time had passed. They departed from their trance slowly, coming to realize that it was growing dark, not to mention quite cold. They rose from the bench as one, hands clasped together, not desperately or hungrily, but gently. The other man's touch was as soft as the wing of a butterfly. As they strolled off together, the boy knew that, at last, he had found the perfect person. At last, he was whole. Nothing could ever separate them.
***********************************************
The same boy smiled bitterly and added a few lines to the top of the e-mail message before sending it and closing his laptop. Somewhere that did not exist in physical space, the story waited for Tsukiyono Omi to retrieve it from his inbox. Waited for his eyes to brighten as he saw the message from his lover. Waited for him to read the short introduction—Omi, this is how our first meeting should have been. Love, Nagi. —before clicking on the "Download Attachment" button, then sending an enthusiastic reply that would chide Nagi for his description of himself.
Somewhere that did not exist, the message waited patiently for the time when Omi would read it. It did not know that it was waiting in vain. It did not know that it would wait for thirty-seven days before the time limit expired and the e-mail account was deleted. But Naoe Nagi knew this would happen. He also knew why. Omi would never be able to download that file, because Omi was dead.
One more tear slid softly down the boy's smooth cheek, falling off the tip of his chin to join the thousands of others that had already been shed. Nagi shut his eyes. He might as well be dead too.
A/N Wow, that was rather depressing, ne? Should I continue? Should I throw my keyboard in the sea? Feedback, onegai!