The Sound of Hello
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: I remembered to water my plants today. So I figured I should polish
off chapter four of Some Half-Baked Ideal Called Wonderful while I was thinking
about it as well. Characters—borrowed from Pretear (watch it), X 1999 (watch it),
Gundam Wing (you've seen that one haven't you?) and Utena (grown ups only
please, watch it!). Keisuke, of Fushigi Yugi fame, is my darling narrator, complete
with great quirks and terrible drawbacks. Lyrics, "The Actor" by the Moody Blues.)
***
The curtain rises on a scene,
With someone chanting to be free.
I fell in love for the first time in sixth grade. First crushes: when you do it right.
When they're worth their salt. First crushes make the best memories. The hesitant,
false starting flings, romances, dalliances since sixth grade have always ended in
heartbreak. But the first one is kept safe by the innocence of it all and from the
person we become after it's over.
I don't have much luck in the meantime. Any infatuation I've had since then has
ended poorly. Mostly with a week's bitter retort, a drinking binge, and being too
dizzy to remember when yesterday was. Let alone what happened in it. And who.
So what spoiled the first one? What about it makes us change, give up, forget about
ideal love?
See that's the problem. I don't think we do forget.
And it's that perfection, ideal, that something wonderful that taints everything
earthly afterward. Making even more beautiful people seem homely in the memory
of the first.
Sorata. It was Sorata. And who was the second? Sylvia. And that's why I am who
I am.
What was it that Sylvia had said? Something like,
"You think no one knows you better than him?
"You think you know him?
"You don't know anything."
She's right, of course. But Sorata was my first love. And because of that, he can do
nothing wrong. But in order to maintain that flawlessness, we can never learn
anything more of it than that it exists. Disguising the truth with the idyllic. And
everything after it, a shadow.
In the end, it's all pretense.
The play unfolds before my eyes.
There stands the actor who is me.
So I wax philosophic for five minutes as I stand in front of the apartment door. Key
poised. See, I'd had this revelation. This revelation that I didn't know Hayate at all.
I didn't know much more than this: He let me steal his cereal within limits. He
watched the news. He worked way too hard at a peculiarly ordinary road
construction job. And . . . not much more.
Even when we'd hang out at Four Door together, Hayate was always peripheral.
Which is odd, he's a real beauty of a man. Trim, but well built. Dark blue eyes and
that black hair combination that just smolders with inner passion. Well, at least the
surface impression of passion. I've never seen Hayate that passionate about
anything.
I've seen him get angry. And my jaw clicks as I work it side to side. Remembering
the sudden fury that unlocked this latest chapter in my life.
Funny, I'd never seen that coming. But would I have known what signs to look for?
I mean, Hayate is physically far beyond my wiry, slim in all the wrong places, soft
and pudgy everywhere else, frame. His voice. His hair. His surface.
Hadn't I gotten beneath the surface? No, guys don't do that naturally. Not even
guys who think they're gay. Nope. I'm almost blaming it on my own stupidity, but
I'm not ready to go that far yet, mind you. Paying attention to Hayate hadn't been
my most obvious necessity. He was a swell roommate, paid his share of the bills,
didn't smoke, drank way less than me. He didn't complain. I couldn't complain.
Who would go digging for trouble?
Except now, now I realize that what I say and do suddenly might be important.
What I remember might make the difference.
Hayate's not going to get off his ass to seek out his infatuation.
I wonder if Himeno was his first love.
She must have been.
And while I wonder this, the door suddenly disappears and Hayate's standing there
with it full open. Staring at me with the hyper-puzzled expression. A bit of worry
flashing in his eyes.
"You." He says, his voice. As always, seemingly under control. For the first time I
wonder if it has as much control as I'd given it credit. I had assumed. "Are you
going to just stand there? It's been ten minutes."
The sleeping hours take us far,
From traffic, telephones and fear.
Put out your problems with the cat,
Escape until about your here.
You think after all of that Hayate and I would have had a big heart to heart and
sorted out all our differences. Bonded. Grown closer. Drank hot chocolate. Giggled
like girls until three am. But I'm pretty sure even then Hayate wouldn't let me braid
or curl his hair.
Nope. Even after philosophy 101 ended, I forgot the majority of the notes I'd taken.
I'm a C+ student, at best. Spending most of my time trying to decipher the doodles
in the margins and what in a lecture might have inspired them. My note taking
habits left a lot to be desired. They still do.
No. He turns back to the couch. Sits. Stares at the news that hasn't changed much
since this morning. When I was suiting up for church and Hayate was geared up for
some weekend landscaping.
Landscaping! A hobby. A Hayate hobby. I feel a stupid smirk of triumph cross my
features. I have one piece to the puzzle. Hayate had hobbies. I go back to my
room and sit on the edge of my bed, suddenly furrowing my brow. What did Hayate
do during the week? I'm predicable. He had to have patterns to, I just had never
taken the time to pick up on his the same way I forced mine on him. Or maybe he is
simply more observant than I am.
There was the everyday and Saturday road construction that was giving his skin a
more summer sealed color. He spent nights at home, but never resting.
Except, Tuesdays. Tuesdays. There was something on Tuesdays.
Okay. Enough Hayate.
If I can't play the role of an arms bearer. I can be a saboteur.
Even though it's Sunday night. I'm going to the Four Doors. Now that he's got an
opportunity Duo's not going to let his new benefactor escape so easily.
If I can't help Hayate, maybe I can undermine his rival.
Time to go to Four Doors and drink beer.
Our reasons are the same,
But there's no one we can blame,
For there's no where we need go,
And the only truth we know comes so easily.
"Drink it Keisuke."
"I have to work tomorrow . . ." I manage to muddle the words through my lips
which I swear are bruised and swollen. I'd been damaging that last bottle pretty
seriously. Nursing it to last forever, giving up and ordering another. Giving it the
same pathetic treatment. Wishing I wasn't kissing the bottle.
Why, you ask?
Sorata's car is working again.
He's leaning across the table at me, his eyes crossing over his nose and I know that
his sister is going to be the one driving tonight regardless that his clunker's repaired.
Juri and Kozue are at a table across the room from us, minding their own business.
They can be so conservative, but they're honest about their feelings.
On the other hand, I toss back the last shot. In no way letting my behavior be
conservative tonight. But my feelings? Oh God, my feelings.
Sorata laughs, this time in a lower register. He's twisted his baseball cap around
backwards for most of the evening, but now he's pulling at it with loose agitation
from the liquor in his system. When the brim shades his eyes, he's boyish for a
moment then extremely seductive with those shaded glances. Sorata's damn
fortunate that I'm a coward. Then he pulls it back around, a few waves of his short
black hair pulling through the space above the band.
He's back to normal again. Laughing, almost nervously. I laugh with.
"Who won?" Dorothy has crossed near our table, she's playing a solitary game of
billiards tonight. Her usual partner apparently not seeking out their company again
that evening. Releasing me of that mission tonight.
I suppose Himeno isn't such a regular. She does do other things. I don't really
know the kid that well.
"Who won?" Sorata says, then is trying his best not to suddenly laugh again. He's
such a charming drunk. Reminding me that I haven't had the chance to see him
sober in a while. But I'll take what I can get.
"Depends on which way you look at it." I display the many empty glasses in front of
us. More piled in front of Sorata.
Dorothy raises an eyebrow. While it settles again, her gaze drifts over to a table in
the corner.
Ah, yes. Duo and Sesame. I feel a twang of regret and forgetfulness, but they
subside as Sorata starts telling another story about something extraordinary he'd
seen in the past few days, and undoubtedly letting the events benefit from grand
embellishments. His story telling astonishes me. I might have even heard this one
before, but from his lips, in his style, each time I hear something new.
The sound I have heard in your hello,
Oh darling, you're almost part of me.
Oh darling, you're all I'll ever see.
It's Tuesday. Himeno has been scarce from the Four Doors scene. Which my lazier
personality finds satisfying, I don't have to play interference as far as her reunion to
any suddenly returned silvery-blond haired spokesman.
I think this is the same strategy I used on high school papers. Don't write them and
pray for an extension. The one time it worked I promised to believe in God forever.
And once I was committed, my luck ran out. That's religion for you.
The pet store had been having adoptions this week with the no-kill shelter bringing in
different animals each day. I pleaded with Hayate several hours that Monday.
Asking for a dog, or a cat, or even a hamster. I tried tears, pouted lips, anger and
logic. Maybe my process was backwards. Anyway, it didn't work.
I decide to eat cereal after work, sneaking into the kitchen. Finding the milk had
somehow expired (a rare occurrence with the way Hayate usually drinks the stuff),
and brandished my theft boldly as I cross into the living room. Where Hayate is no
longer watching the news.
The TV is still turned to the news you see. But Hayate has slipped out. His keys are
gone. Then I remember, Tuesday. Tuesday is the mystery day.
I hear his motorcycle engine revving from the parking lot and shoveling the cereal
into my throat, where it was dry, got lodged and nearly made me choke-I grab my
own keys and decide to play super-sleuth.
For the record, stalking a motorcycle isn't all that hard. The summer sun was
staying up later, and among all the cars, it was fairly simple to keep track of the
solitary rider.
I drive tapping the steering wheel, singing awfully to the radio. I never sing nice in
the car, defeats the purpose. Besides, what pop stars really sing all that properly
themselves to begin with? Miaka calls me embarrassing. I call it fun.
I'm singing "watermelon" to the latest one-hit wonder I don't remember that well
and probably never will when I pull into the campus parking. It's a junior college in
the area. I almost leave, thinking that Hayate's taking some dull night class. Not
that I've ever seen him working on his studies at home. Bristling with agitation at
the thought of Hayate being a natural student, I find myself sneaking into the doors
behind him.
Standing a bit in awe of the foyer. They have an indoor water fountain. Obviously a
terribly practical gift given by some arrogant alumnus. I'm distracting myself
however, and almost miss seeing the corners that Hayate has slipped around ahead
of me.
Along the walls are these showcases. One side a display dedicated to some
particular individual. Complete with those telephone like receivers you can pick up
and listen to. The other side a row of framed artwork. With taped up printouts,
temporarily identifying what appeared to be student work.
I'm in the art building.
Unable to deny myself any longer, I pick up one of the black receivers, and the
computer screen just before my face sparkles to life. I hear the accompanying music
play through the device at my ear. Just then a heavy tap at my opposite shoulder.
Hayate. I'm caught.
"Hi." I chuckle sheepishly, my lips pulling to one side in a feeble smile.
"Why did you follow me?" He says, I'd guess by his expression he's a tad
exasperated, but his tone is even.
"J-ju-just curious." I say, feeling my eyebrows lift into my unruly hair, my lips still
exposing a toothily grimaced grin. Running my fingers through that hair as my teeth
chatter.
His face twitches, losing the tenseness and almost becoming friendly again. He looks
to the side, his dark hair waving around with the movement. He sighs, in a relieved
manner. "Well, do you want to see my stuff?"
Stuff. Stuff. He says stuff.
He's a practical one man art making army. Hayate tells me he's been using the
school supplies and art room in some sort of independent study. But I'd say he's
almost making the place his own. I'm staring mouth open at all of his work:
sculptures, etchings, charcoal, a carving from wood, oils on canvas, and a self-
declared mediocre watercolor.
The watercolor subject lets me close my mouth and fall onto equal footing again.
"Hayate," I say, my tone drips of warning, teasing and rare understanding. "What
are you calling this one?"
His voice becomes husky, "Tulip-head."
I cross my arms, studying this one longer. I'm sure that Himeno is Hayate's first
love.
This watercolor is perfect.
It's such a rainy afternoon,
No point in going anywhere.
The sounds just drift across my room,
I wish this feeling I could share.
"No Duo?" I ask, Four Doors is pretty empty and I'm coming in late after my
excursion to the junior college.
"It's just us," her voice makes me pause, and the way she calmly tilts her head in
the subtle lights unnerves me. She looks just like the picture. Hayate remembers
Himeno so clearly, even though I'm certain he has not seen her in at least a year.
"No Duo." Dorothy sinks another shot, and pulls back to stand up her full height.
She's a tall woman, but I remember when her hair was still long she'd seemed taller.
Almost elfin, but her hair is shorter now. And this evening it's pulled back into a
severe pony tail. As severe as that is, I know that Dorothy enjoys her games with
Himeno.
I never quite understood why. Something about Himeno must be charming, but I
just don't see it.
Ayame must have. He still had her clean his home. Unless he was enticed by her
short skirt and frilly apron black maids dress. Aya's always had a weak spot for
costumes, and I'm fairly certain that attire isn't standard anymore. Regardless,
Himeno is too innocent to work for anything but a straight and narrow Molly Maid-
type of service, I'm convinced.
"No Aya?" I say, dumbly running through the list of our inner circle and regulars.
"No Aya," Himeno scowls at the table, she's not winning. And she doesn't really
improve from what I've seen. I wonder if the games are more of a female co-
dependency to escape the idiotic male gene that we men seem to release as the
evening deepens. Aya, however, she's quite fond of. When Himeno first came she
only came when Aya was there. Left when he seemed about to leave.
I can't remember when she shuffled in to be her own regular self.
It's Himeno's turn this time. I watch as she lines up her shot.
"Ahem." I cough into my fist politely. She twists to look up at me, her arms still
wrapped strangely around the stick.
"Yes?" She says with friendly agitation.
I tilt my head to the left, trying to make a suggestion without having to vocalize it. I
wonder if her center of gravity is off or if her eyes are crooked. At her current angle,
she more likely to launch the white ball into the jukebox.
"Excuse me?" She's not picking up on my subtle hints, so I playfully tilt my head
time and again until my whole body is rocking with deliberation, twisting my
shoulders even as my hands are in my pockets, pulling my right foot off the floor.
"Shift left." Dorothy says after a painful pause of Himeno shaking her head in
bewilderment. Himeno tries, misses everything, but the jukebox is saved.
Dorothy puts two down with her return to the game. She watches where the
remaining pieces place themselves, then says, "Keisuke, there really is little benefit
to being secretive in your suggestions. Some things are best said aloud."
I act like I don't know what she's talking about. In fact, I'm not sure I do.
I sit with the girls a while, and we talk about nothing much. I'm finishing one drink
and I'm feeling fine enough. Himeno's had four vanilla cokes and I scold her. No
one can drink that much junk and stay pixie thin forever. I warn her that even my
food-ambitious sister is getting more voluptuous as she ages.
"What's wrong with voluptuous?" Himeno wails with mock-childishness, she might
look younger than her age, but she's a fairly clever girl. "It's better than a walking
waif skeleton."
"In all the wrong places, it's still a bad thing." I cackle, trying to ignore the insulted
maturity from Dorothy's corner of the table.
"You're a horrid big brother." Himeno pulls back from her playful attitude, to almost
scold me herself.
"I know." My head bobbing in agreement.
"Is it just the two of you?"
"Yup," I answer, remembering how our mother at one point, near the end of her log
ending patience, had declared Miaka and myself sufficient punishment for her own
horrible childhood. Mother had been very hard on herself, and us. Miaka came
under the worst of it, as Mother tried to relive her own missed successes through a
daughter who's ambitions couldn't have been more different. My gender guarded me
from the more obvious conflicts. Mom had never known how to deal with her
boyfriends, our fathers . . . let alone a son.
"I'm an only child." Himeno says, twirling the straw around her latest, half-finished
Coke. Then my father remarried and I have two sisters now."
"Cute, I imagine you're a horrible big sister." I laugh with my lips wrapped around
the same bottle I'm still drinking.
"It's odd. They're his wife's daughters, not little sisters." Himeno doesn't explain.
Dorothy seems disinterested, but that's her way of telling me to stop with this
particular conversation or she'll tear out my guts and dry them across the sidewalk
for making Himeno uncomfortable.
"Most of us come from patchwork families these days anyway," I raise my hands
defensively and pull away from the conversation.
"Not even those that look ideal, those that suit the standard . . . not even those are
wonderful." Himeno says, getting wiser as the evening makes us all just a bit
sleepier. Watching as she seems to shrink around her beverage.
And somewhere. Somewhere where I couldn't be, because I couldn't be everywhere.
Somewhere, Hayate was struggling with something perfect. As Himeno pulled
herself through everything imperfect.
Our reasons are the same,
But there's no one we can blame,
For there's no where we need go,
And the only truth we know comes so easily.
So I decide the kid is charming. Not my sort, but pretty and not too innocent. Not
innocent at all as I remember how she grew this quite sly grin when someone
(probably myself) brought up Sorata.
Just as long as everyone knows that he's mine.
And when I come back from work that Friday in order to change and head over to
Four Doors, there in the middle of the wall is the watercolor. And on the stand by
the television is one of the carvings from wood. And staggered between the kitchen
and the hallway to the bedrooms is a series of photographs. Candids. A linear
series of pictures. Black and White.
Of me.
It's a tad unnerving. But I really can't complain. Hayate knows how to get my
permission. They're pictures from last summer. Picture of me and Duo. The Four
Doors inner circle last summer. Dorothy. Aya. Me and Sorata. Damn him. I want
that one on the wall more than anything, and so they all stay.
Hayate's just come from the shower, towel wrapped around his hips. Brushing his
teeth. "Oh hi." He says, "Brought home some stuff."
Stuff, he calls it stuff again. Doesn't he know he's a talented moron? I hate to
admit it, but he's certainly added some character to what had been a bachelors'
pigsty. Now it was a well decorated disaster. I glance at a pile of plates, the food on
the top most one crusting. I decide that if it had been Hayate's inclination he could
have mounted it on the wall and called it "After Dinner."
And I would have had to let him.
"Are you going to Four Doors?" Hayate asks, trying even as he speaks to keep the
toothpaste in his mouth. It makes his lips work in a provocative manner.
"Yeah," I glance around, still a bit dumbfounded.
"I'll come with you." He turns immediately as if he needs to spit. And I'm sure he
does. But I'm also sure he doesn't want to see the expression of shock on my face
as I go into cardiac arrest.
We drive separately. Heaven forbid that Hayate be a passenger in any vehicle, and
there is no way I'm riding behind him on that machine, arms wrapped around him
for dear life. I'm a wild boy, but I still sense a little maniac death-wish in Hayate's
eyes.
He waits for me outside the bar, seeming terribly out of place. I know he hasn't
seen her since the day he left the bar all those months ago. Never to come back.
Because he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to say, "hello." That day that Aya
snuck Himeno into all of our hearts with her uneven hair and goofy grin. I was too
thick-skulled to notice at the time of course. Or even weeks later, to realize what
the reason for his rejection of our company.
I feel a wash of power knowing that he needs me. He came because I had opened
and accepted the part of him that wanted his perfect love.
But he should have known. With my track record, I'm not the best to bring about
the dream. To actualize that love he felt.
We make it to the table, Duo's half standing in front of his chair, re-enacting what
appears to be a bear attack even as I surely know that it isn't. Dorothy's watching
coolly as Sorata doubles over in mirth. His laugh a charming first sound, warming
me quite thoroughly. He turns.
"Hey, Keisuke!" His hand half-raised as he twists in the chair to see me. Grin. Then
see his eyes sparkle with amazement. "Hayate!"
As Sorata hops out of his seat to welcome my wayward roommate, openly receptive
and cheerful. I pull my eyes away from him just long enough to see Himeno blink
rapidly. Her lips pulled into a small o. Her cheeks rosy.
I've never felt the Four Doors so warm, so friendly, so much like home.
It's such a rainy afternoon,
She sits and gazes from her window.
Her mind tries to recall his face,
A feeling deep inside her grows.
Himeno's fingers have a pretty good grip on the back of her chair as she follows us
with her eyes. I'm buzzing with eagerness. Quite pleased with myself to have
managed to pull such a reaction from her. To have pulled such ambition from
Hayate. Not that I knew exactly how it come to be.
"Hayate, you've met Himeno, right?" I say with poorly disguised curiousity.
"Hello." Their voices mingled together in greeting.
The sound I have heard in your hello,
Oh darling, you're almost part of me.
Oh darling, you're all I'll ever see.
The sound I have heard in your hello,
Oh darling, you're all I'll ever see.
Oh darling, you're almost part of me.
But like I say, best not leave a job to Keisuke Yuuki if you have any hope of doing it
properly. And least of all, I have no experience securing a romantic endeavor. I'm
in perpetual hope and ridiculous bliss whenever Sorata Arisugawa's around. What
sort of role model am I?
And when I don't know how to initiate love. I certainly don't know how to secure it.
Because no sooner had I sparked Hayate's hope, I'd also successfully doused it.
"Why, hello, Hayate. It has been a while." And as cool as a silver snake, with no
further preamble, Sesame reclaims his seat and hands Himeno another vanilla coke.
tbc.
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: I remembered to water my plants today. So I figured I should polish
off chapter four of Some Half-Baked Ideal Called Wonderful while I was thinking
about it as well. Characters—borrowed from Pretear (watch it), X 1999 (watch it),
Gundam Wing (you've seen that one haven't you?) and Utena (grown ups only
please, watch it!). Keisuke, of Fushigi Yugi fame, is my darling narrator, complete
with great quirks and terrible drawbacks. Lyrics, "The Actor" by the Moody Blues.)
***
The curtain rises on a scene,
With someone chanting to be free.
I fell in love for the first time in sixth grade. First crushes: when you do it right.
When they're worth their salt. First crushes make the best memories. The hesitant,
false starting flings, romances, dalliances since sixth grade have always ended in
heartbreak. But the first one is kept safe by the innocence of it all and from the
person we become after it's over.
I don't have much luck in the meantime. Any infatuation I've had since then has
ended poorly. Mostly with a week's bitter retort, a drinking binge, and being too
dizzy to remember when yesterday was. Let alone what happened in it. And who.
So what spoiled the first one? What about it makes us change, give up, forget about
ideal love?
See that's the problem. I don't think we do forget.
And it's that perfection, ideal, that something wonderful that taints everything
earthly afterward. Making even more beautiful people seem homely in the memory
of the first.
Sorata. It was Sorata. And who was the second? Sylvia. And that's why I am who
I am.
What was it that Sylvia had said? Something like,
"You think no one knows you better than him?
"You think you know him?
"You don't know anything."
She's right, of course. But Sorata was my first love. And because of that, he can do
nothing wrong. But in order to maintain that flawlessness, we can never learn
anything more of it than that it exists. Disguising the truth with the idyllic. And
everything after it, a shadow.
In the end, it's all pretense.
The play unfolds before my eyes.
There stands the actor who is me.
So I wax philosophic for five minutes as I stand in front of the apartment door. Key
poised. See, I'd had this revelation. This revelation that I didn't know Hayate at all.
I didn't know much more than this: He let me steal his cereal within limits. He
watched the news. He worked way too hard at a peculiarly ordinary road
construction job. And . . . not much more.
Even when we'd hang out at Four Door together, Hayate was always peripheral.
Which is odd, he's a real beauty of a man. Trim, but well built. Dark blue eyes and
that black hair combination that just smolders with inner passion. Well, at least the
surface impression of passion. I've never seen Hayate that passionate about
anything.
I've seen him get angry. And my jaw clicks as I work it side to side. Remembering
the sudden fury that unlocked this latest chapter in my life.
Funny, I'd never seen that coming. But would I have known what signs to look for?
I mean, Hayate is physically far beyond my wiry, slim in all the wrong places, soft
and pudgy everywhere else, frame. His voice. His hair. His surface.
Hadn't I gotten beneath the surface? No, guys don't do that naturally. Not even
guys who think they're gay. Nope. I'm almost blaming it on my own stupidity, but
I'm not ready to go that far yet, mind you. Paying attention to Hayate hadn't been
my most obvious necessity. He was a swell roommate, paid his share of the bills,
didn't smoke, drank way less than me. He didn't complain. I couldn't complain.
Who would go digging for trouble?
Except now, now I realize that what I say and do suddenly might be important.
What I remember might make the difference.
Hayate's not going to get off his ass to seek out his infatuation.
I wonder if Himeno was his first love.
She must have been.
And while I wonder this, the door suddenly disappears and Hayate's standing there
with it full open. Staring at me with the hyper-puzzled expression. A bit of worry
flashing in his eyes.
"You." He says, his voice. As always, seemingly under control. For the first time I
wonder if it has as much control as I'd given it credit. I had assumed. "Are you
going to just stand there? It's been ten minutes."
The sleeping hours take us far,
From traffic, telephones and fear.
Put out your problems with the cat,
Escape until about your here.
You think after all of that Hayate and I would have had a big heart to heart and
sorted out all our differences. Bonded. Grown closer. Drank hot chocolate. Giggled
like girls until three am. But I'm pretty sure even then Hayate wouldn't let me braid
or curl his hair.
Nope. Even after philosophy 101 ended, I forgot the majority of the notes I'd taken.
I'm a C+ student, at best. Spending most of my time trying to decipher the doodles
in the margins and what in a lecture might have inspired them. My note taking
habits left a lot to be desired. They still do.
No. He turns back to the couch. Sits. Stares at the news that hasn't changed much
since this morning. When I was suiting up for church and Hayate was geared up for
some weekend landscaping.
Landscaping! A hobby. A Hayate hobby. I feel a stupid smirk of triumph cross my
features. I have one piece to the puzzle. Hayate had hobbies. I go back to my
room and sit on the edge of my bed, suddenly furrowing my brow. What did Hayate
do during the week? I'm predicable. He had to have patterns to, I just had never
taken the time to pick up on his the same way I forced mine on him. Or maybe he is
simply more observant than I am.
There was the everyday and Saturday road construction that was giving his skin a
more summer sealed color. He spent nights at home, but never resting.
Except, Tuesdays. Tuesdays. There was something on Tuesdays.
Okay. Enough Hayate.
If I can't play the role of an arms bearer. I can be a saboteur.
Even though it's Sunday night. I'm going to the Four Doors. Now that he's got an
opportunity Duo's not going to let his new benefactor escape so easily.
If I can't help Hayate, maybe I can undermine his rival.
Time to go to Four Doors and drink beer.
Our reasons are the same,
But there's no one we can blame,
For there's no where we need go,
And the only truth we know comes so easily.
"Drink it Keisuke."
"I have to work tomorrow . . ." I manage to muddle the words through my lips
which I swear are bruised and swollen. I'd been damaging that last bottle pretty
seriously. Nursing it to last forever, giving up and ordering another. Giving it the
same pathetic treatment. Wishing I wasn't kissing the bottle.
Why, you ask?
Sorata's car is working again.
He's leaning across the table at me, his eyes crossing over his nose and I know that
his sister is going to be the one driving tonight regardless that his clunker's repaired.
Juri and Kozue are at a table across the room from us, minding their own business.
They can be so conservative, but they're honest about their feelings.
On the other hand, I toss back the last shot. In no way letting my behavior be
conservative tonight. But my feelings? Oh God, my feelings.
Sorata laughs, this time in a lower register. He's twisted his baseball cap around
backwards for most of the evening, but now he's pulling at it with loose agitation
from the liquor in his system. When the brim shades his eyes, he's boyish for a
moment then extremely seductive with those shaded glances. Sorata's damn
fortunate that I'm a coward. Then he pulls it back around, a few waves of his short
black hair pulling through the space above the band.
He's back to normal again. Laughing, almost nervously. I laugh with.
"Who won?" Dorothy has crossed near our table, she's playing a solitary game of
billiards tonight. Her usual partner apparently not seeking out their company again
that evening. Releasing me of that mission tonight.
I suppose Himeno isn't such a regular. She does do other things. I don't really
know the kid that well.
"Who won?" Sorata says, then is trying his best not to suddenly laugh again. He's
such a charming drunk. Reminding me that I haven't had the chance to see him
sober in a while. But I'll take what I can get.
"Depends on which way you look at it." I display the many empty glasses in front of
us. More piled in front of Sorata.
Dorothy raises an eyebrow. While it settles again, her gaze drifts over to a table in
the corner.
Ah, yes. Duo and Sesame. I feel a twang of regret and forgetfulness, but they
subside as Sorata starts telling another story about something extraordinary he'd
seen in the past few days, and undoubtedly letting the events benefit from grand
embellishments. His story telling astonishes me. I might have even heard this one
before, but from his lips, in his style, each time I hear something new.
The sound I have heard in your hello,
Oh darling, you're almost part of me.
Oh darling, you're all I'll ever see.
It's Tuesday. Himeno has been scarce from the Four Doors scene. Which my lazier
personality finds satisfying, I don't have to play interference as far as her reunion to
any suddenly returned silvery-blond haired spokesman.
I think this is the same strategy I used on high school papers. Don't write them and
pray for an extension. The one time it worked I promised to believe in God forever.
And once I was committed, my luck ran out. That's religion for you.
The pet store had been having adoptions this week with the no-kill shelter bringing in
different animals each day. I pleaded with Hayate several hours that Monday.
Asking for a dog, or a cat, or even a hamster. I tried tears, pouted lips, anger and
logic. Maybe my process was backwards. Anyway, it didn't work.
I decide to eat cereal after work, sneaking into the kitchen. Finding the milk had
somehow expired (a rare occurrence with the way Hayate usually drinks the stuff),
and brandished my theft boldly as I cross into the living room. Where Hayate is no
longer watching the news.
The TV is still turned to the news you see. But Hayate has slipped out. His keys are
gone. Then I remember, Tuesday. Tuesday is the mystery day.
I hear his motorcycle engine revving from the parking lot and shoveling the cereal
into my throat, where it was dry, got lodged and nearly made me choke-I grab my
own keys and decide to play super-sleuth.
For the record, stalking a motorcycle isn't all that hard. The summer sun was
staying up later, and among all the cars, it was fairly simple to keep track of the
solitary rider.
I drive tapping the steering wheel, singing awfully to the radio. I never sing nice in
the car, defeats the purpose. Besides, what pop stars really sing all that properly
themselves to begin with? Miaka calls me embarrassing. I call it fun.
I'm singing "watermelon" to the latest one-hit wonder I don't remember that well
and probably never will when I pull into the campus parking. It's a junior college in
the area. I almost leave, thinking that Hayate's taking some dull night class. Not
that I've ever seen him working on his studies at home. Bristling with agitation at
the thought of Hayate being a natural student, I find myself sneaking into the doors
behind him.
Standing a bit in awe of the foyer. They have an indoor water fountain. Obviously a
terribly practical gift given by some arrogant alumnus. I'm distracting myself
however, and almost miss seeing the corners that Hayate has slipped around ahead
of me.
Along the walls are these showcases. One side a display dedicated to some
particular individual. Complete with those telephone like receivers you can pick up
and listen to. The other side a row of framed artwork. With taped up printouts,
temporarily identifying what appeared to be student work.
I'm in the art building.
Unable to deny myself any longer, I pick up one of the black receivers, and the
computer screen just before my face sparkles to life. I hear the accompanying music
play through the device at my ear. Just then a heavy tap at my opposite shoulder.
Hayate. I'm caught.
"Hi." I chuckle sheepishly, my lips pulling to one side in a feeble smile.
"Why did you follow me?" He says, I'd guess by his expression he's a tad
exasperated, but his tone is even.
"J-ju-just curious." I say, feeling my eyebrows lift into my unruly hair, my lips still
exposing a toothily grimaced grin. Running my fingers through that hair as my teeth
chatter.
His face twitches, losing the tenseness and almost becoming friendly again. He looks
to the side, his dark hair waving around with the movement. He sighs, in a relieved
manner. "Well, do you want to see my stuff?"
Stuff. Stuff. He says stuff.
He's a practical one man art making army. Hayate tells me he's been using the
school supplies and art room in some sort of independent study. But I'd say he's
almost making the place his own. I'm staring mouth open at all of his work:
sculptures, etchings, charcoal, a carving from wood, oils on canvas, and a self-
declared mediocre watercolor.
The watercolor subject lets me close my mouth and fall onto equal footing again.
"Hayate," I say, my tone drips of warning, teasing and rare understanding. "What
are you calling this one?"
His voice becomes husky, "Tulip-head."
I cross my arms, studying this one longer. I'm sure that Himeno is Hayate's first
love.
This watercolor is perfect.
It's such a rainy afternoon,
No point in going anywhere.
The sounds just drift across my room,
I wish this feeling I could share.
"No Duo?" I ask, Four Doors is pretty empty and I'm coming in late after my
excursion to the junior college.
"It's just us," her voice makes me pause, and the way she calmly tilts her head in
the subtle lights unnerves me. She looks just like the picture. Hayate remembers
Himeno so clearly, even though I'm certain he has not seen her in at least a year.
"No Duo." Dorothy sinks another shot, and pulls back to stand up her full height.
She's a tall woman, but I remember when her hair was still long she'd seemed taller.
Almost elfin, but her hair is shorter now. And this evening it's pulled back into a
severe pony tail. As severe as that is, I know that Dorothy enjoys her games with
Himeno.
I never quite understood why. Something about Himeno must be charming, but I
just don't see it.
Ayame must have. He still had her clean his home. Unless he was enticed by her
short skirt and frilly apron black maids dress. Aya's always had a weak spot for
costumes, and I'm fairly certain that attire isn't standard anymore. Regardless,
Himeno is too innocent to work for anything but a straight and narrow Molly Maid-
type of service, I'm convinced.
"No Aya?" I say, dumbly running through the list of our inner circle and regulars.
"No Aya," Himeno scowls at the table, she's not winning. And she doesn't really
improve from what I've seen. I wonder if the games are more of a female co-
dependency to escape the idiotic male gene that we men seem to release as the
evening deepens. Aya, however, she's quite fond of. When Himeno first came she
only came when Aya was there. Left when he seemed about to leave.
I can't remember when she shuffled in to be her own regular self.
It's Himeno's turn this time. I watch as she lines up her shot.
"Ahem." I cough into my fist politely. She twists to look up at me, her arms still
wrapped strangely around the stick.
"Yes?" She says with friendly agitation.
I tilt my head to the left, trying to make a suggestion without having to vocalize it. I
wonder if her center of gravity is off or if her eyes are crooked. At her current angle,
she more likely to launch the white ball into the jukebox.
"Excuse me?" She's not picking up on my subtle hints, so I playfully tilt my head
time and again until my whole body is rocking with deliberation, twisting my
shoulders even as my hands are in my pockets, pulling my right foot off the floor.
"Shift left." Dorothy says after a painful pause of Himeno shaking her head in
bewilderment. Himeno tries, misses everything, but the jukebox is saved.
Dorothy puts two down with her return to the game. She watches where the
remaining pieces place themselves, then says, "Keisuke, there really is little benefit
to being secretive in your suggestions. Some things are best said aloud."
I act like I don't know what she's talking about. In fact, I'm not sure I do.
I sit with the girls a while, and we talk about nothing much. I'm finishing one drink
and I'm feeling fine enough. Himeno's had four vanilla cokes and I scold her. No
one can drink that much junk and stay pixie thin forever. I warn her that even my
food-ambitious sister is getting more voluptuous as she ages.
"What's wrong with voluptuous?" Himeno wails with mock-childishness, she might
look younger than her age, but she's a fairly clever girl. "It's better than a walking
waif skeleton."
"In all the wrong places, it's still a bad thing." I cackle, trying to ignore the insulted
maturity from Dorothy's corner of the table.
"You're a horrid big brother." Himeno pulls back from her playful attitude, to almost
scold me herself.
"I know." My head bobbing in agreement.
"Is it just the two of you?"
"Yup," I answer, remembering how our mother at one point, near the end of her log
ending patience, had declared Miaka and myself sufficient punishment for her own
horrible childhood. Mother had been very hard on herself, and us. Miaka came
under the worst of it, as Mother tried to relive her own missed successes through a
daughter who's ambitions couldn't have been more different. My gender guarded me
from the more obvious conflicts. Mom had never known how to deal with her
boyfriends, our fathers . . . let alone a son.
"I'm an only child." Himeno says, twirling the straw around her latest, half-finished
Coke. Then my father remarried and I have two sisters now."
"Cute, I imagine you're a horrible big sister." I laugh with my lips wrapped around
the same bottle I'm still drinking.
"It's odd. They're his wife's daughters, not little sisters." Himeno doesn't explain.
Dorothy seems disinterested, but that's her way of telling me to stop with this
particular conversation or she'll tear out my guts and dry them across the sidewalk
for making Himeno uncomfortable.
"Most of us come from patchwork families these days anyway," I raise my hands
defensively and pull away from the conversation.
"Not even those that look ideal, those that suit the standard . . . not even those are
wonderful." Himeno says, getting wiser as the evening makes us all just a bit
sleepier. Watching as she seems to shrink around her beverage.
And somewhere. Somewhere where I couldn't be, because I couldn't be everywhere.
Somewhere, Hayate was struggling with something perfect. As Himeno pulled
herself through everything imperfect.
Our reasons are the same,
But there's no one we can blame,
For there's no where we need go,
And the only truth we know comes so easily.
So I decide the kid is charming. Not my sort, but pretty and not too innocent. Not
innocent at all as I remember how she grew this quite sly grin when someone
(probably myself) brought up Sorata.
Just as long as everyone knows that he's mine.
And when I come back from work that Friday in order to change and head over to
Four Doors, there in the middle of the wall is the watercolor. And on the stand by
the television is one of the carvings from wood. And staggered between the kitchen
and the hallway to the bedrooms is a series of photographs. Candids. A linear
series of pictures. Black and White.
Of me.
It's a tad unnerving. But I really can't complain. Hayate knows how to get my
permission. They're pictures from last summer. Picture of me and Duo. The Four
Doors inner circle last summer. Dorothy. Aya. Me and Sorata. Damn him. I want
that one on the wall more than anything, and so they all stay.
Hayate's just come from the shower, towel wrapped around his hips. Brushing his
teeth. "Oh hi." He says, "Brought home some stuff."
Stuff, he calls it stuff again. Doesn't he know he's a talented moron? I hate to
admit it, but he's certainly added some character to what had been a bachelors'
pigsty. Now it was a well decorated disaster. I glance at a pile of plates, the food on
the top most one crusting. I decide that if it had been Hayate's inclination he could
have mounted it on the wall and called it "After Dinner."
And I would have had to let him.
"Are you going to Four Doors?" Hayate asks, trying even as he speaks to keep the
toothpaste in his mouth. It makes his lips work in a provocative manner.
"Yeah," I glance around, still a bit dumbfounded.
"I'll come with you." He turns immediately as if he needs to spit. And I'm sure he
does. But I'm also sure he doesn't want to see the expression of shock on my face
as I go into cardiac arrest.
We drive separately. Heaven forbid that Hayate be a passenger in any vehicle, and
there is no way I'm riding behind him on that machine, arms wrapped around him
for dear life. I'm a wild boy, but I still sense a little maniac death-wish in Hayate's
eyes.
He waits for me outside the bar, seeming terribly out of place. I know he hasn't
seen her since the day he left the bar all those months ago. Never to come back.
Because he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to say, "hello." That day that Aya
snuck Himeno into all of our hearts with her uneven hair and goofy grin. I was too
thick-skulled to notice at the time of course. Or even weeks later, to realize what
the reason for his rejection of our company.
I feel a wash of power knowing that he needs me. He came because I had opened
and accepted the part of him that wanted his perfect love.
But he should have known. With my track record, I'm not the best to bring about
the dream. To actualize that love he felt.
We make it to the table, Duo's half standing in front of his chair, re-enacting what
appears to be a bear attack even as I surely know that it isn't. Dorothy's watching
coolly as Sorata doubles over in mirth. His laugh a charming first sound, warming
me quite thoroughly. He turns.
"Hey, Keisuke!" His hand half-raised as he twists in the chair to see me. Grin. Then
see his eyes sparkle with amazement. "Hayate!"
As Sorata hops out of his seat to welcome my wayward roommate, openly receptive
and cheerful. I pull my eyes away from him just long enough to see Himeno blink
rapidly. Her lips pulled into a small o. Her cheeks rosy.
I've never felt the Four Doors so warm, so friendly, so much like home.
It's such a rainy afternoon,
She sits and gazes from her window.
Her mind tries to recall his face,
A feeling deep inside her grows.
Himeno's fingers have a pretty good grip on the back of her chair as she follows us
with her eyes. I'm buzzing with eagerness. Quite pleased with myself to have
managed to pull such a reaction from her. To have pulled such ambition from
Hayate. Not that I knew exactly how it come to be.
"Hayate, you've met Himeno, right?" I say with poorly disguised curiousity.
"Hello." Their voices mingled together in greeting.
The sound I have heard in your hello,
Oh darling, you're almost part of me.
Oh darling, you're all I'll ever see.
The sound I have heard in your hello,
Oh darling, you're all I'll ever see.
Oh darling, you're almost part of me.
But like I say, best not leave a job to Keisuke Yuuki if you have any hope of doing it
properly. And least of all, I have no experience securing a romantic endeavor. I'm
in perpetual hope and ridiculous bliss whenever Sorata Arisugawa's around. What
sort of role model am I?
And when I don't know how to initiate love. I certainly don't know how to secure it.
Because no sooner had I sparked Hayate's hope, I'd also successfully doused it.
"Why, hello, Hayate. It has been a while." And as cool as a silver snake, with no
further preamble, Sesame reclaims his seat and hands Himeno another vanilla coke.
tbc.