(Touga and Saionji, at eleven years old.)
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Souvenirs
by Alexandra Lucas
kohlcrimson@hotmail.com
=======================
His bags are packed. He's left them in a corner of his room, a strapped down, compact part of him that he will take with him when they go, like his life in shorthand. Underwear, socks, sandals for the beach. A ribbon for his hair that Touga gave him. A generic sailor's hat that will do nothing to keep the sun out of his eyes. His room looks empty already,
He goes out, one last time, to meet Touga in the fields. His mother is turning off the gas and heaters downstairs, talking a mile a minute about the care the maid must take with the garden while they are gone. He slips past before she can see him and call him back, down the road and across the ditch to their tree.
Touga is already there, leaning casually against the trunk, uprooting grass stalks with one hand and pulling the blades to pieces. There's an entire pile beside him, and it smells like a fresh-cut lawn, eeriely similar to blood in its wetness. The chlorophyll has stained his palms, his fingers, down under the white of his nails. He looks up and sees Saionji and smiles, shredding the clump of grass absently and patting a picked-free spot beside him. Saionji sits down immediately, folding himself miserably up by Touga's side.
"So you're going, then." Touga states indifferently. His hair spills over the roots of the tree and pools around his face, just this side of too long for a boy. Saionji pulls his own ponytail over his shoulder. It is a nervous gesture, and he plucks at it at odd intervals.
"In half an hour."
Touga glances at him, the look half-lidded and too old for his face. It is a look that sees too much about Saionji and he shifts uncomfortably underneath it. It is already an unbearably hot summer, early in the year. "You don't seem too enthusiastic."
"It's just a cruise." He sounds distinctly sulky, and knows it, but is unable to keep it out of his voice. Or his expression, apparently, because now Touga reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes once, almost too hard, just at the juncture of Saionji's shoulder and neck, fingers curling into the hollow of his collarbone.
"Just a cruise? Saionji, it's a vacation. On a ship. Which will take you to all sorts of interesting places. You'll have fun." Touga sounds supremely confident in this, but he sounds supremely confident all the time. It reassures him, because Touga knows him better than anyone. And Touga is always right.
"It would be more fun if you could come along."
Touga laughs, and it is not a laugh he likes to hear from Touga. It is sharp, and dark and rough-edged, more a bark than the bell-like tones that Touga usually uses with him. "My father would never allow it." Touga's hand tightens on Saionji's shoulder, too hard this time, an almost involuntary kind of violence. His voice drops to a low, soft tone, a deeper register. "We're going on vacation, too. In a couple of days."
Saionji's hair is clinging to his fringe, damp and heavy. It is almost in his eyes - he forgot to cut it before, and now it is too late. He pushes at it, already feeling suffocated by his travelling clothes. They prickle at him, all along his back and along his legs, but maybe that's just the things he imagines hearing in Touga's voice. Secrets, dark and sharp-eyed, moving just under the surface of his words.
"With your family?" He is not sure why he asks - it is a question with an obvious answer.
"Just with my father." Softer. Deeper. Darker. Saionji abruptly gets the feeling that Touga is no longer really beside him, but somewhere else, far away, in places he doesn't understand, doesn't want to know or ever want to be. With the monsters in his voicebox. The sun is beating down on his face, but his back is suddenly cold, and clammy with sweat. He remembers that he has to be back at the house soon, that he had left the straps of his bags unlocked, that he should stuff a baseball cap into his bag before he leaves, to shade his eyes from the sun.
Touga continues, in that far away voice. "A business trip. To Venice. Mother and Nanami will join us there, in a couple of weeks. They stop by Rome for some shopping first."
The smell of broken grass is too strong in Saionji's head, too sweet and cloying, making him feel more than a little ill. He pulls away from Touga, and stands, wobbling a little. Queasy, though he hasn't eaten since breakfast. Touga looks up at him, surprised, shadows flickering across his face briefly. "I... I have to go. Or I'll be late."
Touga settles back again, in the position Saionji had found him in. As if the conversation had not happened at all. "I know." He grins at Saionji, perfectly Touga again. "Enjoy your trip."
Saionji is relieved, as if he has narrowly avoided a disaster. Caught a glass just before it would have smashed itself to pieces. "I will. Bring me something from Venice." He turns to leave.
"Kyouichi."
He looks back over his shoulder, already halfway to the road to his house. Touga has one knee drawn up to chest, arms wrapped around it. He looks at Saionji from behind it, so all that is visible of his face is his eyes. "I wish I could have gone with you as well."
He has never heard Touga so wistful before. "I know," he tells him, smiling, but Touga remains as he is, unmoving.
"You had better get moving - I think that's your mother at the gate."
It is, and he has to run back. He forgets to pack the baseball cap after all.
Saionji brings Touga a gift, from his vacation, and they trade in the privacy of Saionji's bedroom. Saionji is sunburned, red all along his shoulders and back, and a stripe down his nose. It itches and pulls painfully when he moves. He sits stoically, though, as Touga rubs lotion into it for him, gently. The bottle slips, and there is lotion everywhere, cooling on his skin.
Saionji has brought Touga a conch shell, too impossibly large and perfect to be found on any beach. It is whorled, delicately, and iridescently sheened on the inside. He had thought that he had packed it carefully, wrapped in the shop's paper and among layers of clothing, but when he pulls it out, the very tip of the conch has broken off. Touga puts it to his ear anyway, closes his eyes. He can hear the sea, he tells Saionji. It's perfect.
Touga brings him two souvenirs from Venice, actually. A wide-brimmed straw hat that he said the gondoliers wore, with a navy stripe, a proper hat to keep the sun off his face, though a little too late for this summer, and a pair of rose-coloured glasses. Saionji puts them on, and agrees that he is a lot more comfortable now.
=======================
Souvenirs
by Alexandra Lucas
kohlcrimson@hotmail.com
=======================
His bags are packed. He's left them in a corner of his room, a strapped down, compact part of him that he will take with him when they go, like his life in shorthand. Underwear, socks, sandals for the beach. A ribbon for his hair that Touga gave him. A generic sailor's hat that will do nothing to keep the sun out of his eyes. His room looks empty already,
He goes out, one last time, to meet Touga in the fields. His mother is turning off the gas and heaters downstairs, talking a mile a minute about the care the maid must take with the garden while they are gone. He slips past before she can see him and call him back, down the road and across the ditch to their tree.
Touga is already there, leaning casually against the trunk, uprooting grass stalks with one hand and pulling the blades to pieces. There's an entire pile beside him, and it smells like a fresh-cut lawn, eeriely similar to blood in its wetness. The chlorophyll has stained his palms, his fingers, down under the white of his nails. He looks up and sees Saionji and smiles, shredding the clump of grass absently and patting a picked-free spot beside him. Saionji sits down immediately, folding himself miserably up by Touga's side.
"So you're going, then." Touga states indifferently. His hair spills over the roots of the tree and pools around his face, just this side of too long for a boy. Saionji pulls his own ponytail over his shoulder. It is a nervous gesture, and he plucks at it at odd intervals.
"In half an hour."
Touga glances at him, the look half-lidded and too old for his face. It is a look that sees too much about Saionji and he shifts uncomfortably underneath it. It is already an unbearably hot summer, early in the year. "You don't seem too enthusiastic."
"It's just a cruise." He sounds distinctly sulky, and knows it, but is unable to keep it out of his voice. Or his expression, apparently, because now Touga reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes once, almost too hard, just at the juncture of Saionji's shoulder and neck, fingers curling into the hollow of his collarbone.
"Just a cruise? Saionji, it's a vacation. On a ship. Which will take you to all sorts of interesting places. You'll have fun." Touga sounds supremely confident in this, but he sounds supremely confident all the time. It reassures him, because Touga knows him better than anyone. And Touga is always right.
"It would be more fun if you could come along."
Touga laughs, and it is not a laugh he likes to hear from Touga. It is sharp, and dark and rough-edged, more a bark than the bell-like tones that Touga usually uses with him. "My father would never allow it." Touga's hand tightens on Saionji's shoulder, too hard this time, an almost involuntary kind of violence. His voice drops to a low, soft tone, a deeper register. "We're going on vacation, too. In a couple of days."
Saionji's hair is clinging to his fringe, damp and heavy. It is almost in his eyes - he forgot to cut it before, and now it is too late. He pushes at it, already feeling suffocated by his travelling clothes. They prickle at him, all along his back and along his legs, but maybe that's just the things he imagines hearing in Touga's voice. Secrets, dark and sharp-eyed, moving just under the surface of his words.
"With your family?" He is not sure why he asks - it is a question with an obvious answer.
"Just with my father." Softer. Deeper. Darker. Saionji abruptly gets the feeling that Touga is no longer really beside him, but somewhere else, far away, in places he doesn't understand, doesn't want to know or ever want to be. With the monsters in his voicebox. The sun is beating down on his face, but his back is suddenly cold, and clammy with sweat. He remembers that he has to be back at the house soon, that he had left the straps of his bags unlocked, that he should stuff a baseball cap into his bag before he leaves, to shade his eyes from the sun.
Touga continues, in that far away voice. "A business trip. To Venice. Mother and Nanami will join us there, in a couple of weeks. They stop by Rome for some shopping first."
The smell of broken grass is too strong in Saionji's head, too sweet and cloying, making him feel more than a little ill. He pulls away from Touga, and stands, wobbling a little. Queasy, though he hasn't eaten since breakfast. Touga looks up at him, surprised, shadows flickering across his face briefly. "I... I have to go. Or I'll be late."
Touga settles back again, in the position Saionji had found him in. As if the conversation had not happened at all. "I know." He grins at Saionji, perfectly Touga again. "Enjoy your trip."
Saionji is relieved, as if he has narrowly avoided a disaster. Caught a glass just before it would have smashed itself to pieces. "I will. Bring me something from Venice." He turns to leave.
"Kyouichi."
He looks back over his shoulder, already halfway to the road to his house. Touga has one knee drawn up to chest, arms wrapped around it. He looks at Saionji from behind it, so all that is visible of his face is his eyes. "I wish I could have gone with you as well."
He has never heard Touga so wistful before. "I know," he tells him, smiling, but Touga remains as he is, unmoving.
"You had better get moving - I think that's your mother at the gate."
It is, and he has to run back. He forgets to pack the baseball cap after all.
Saionji brings Touga a gift, from his vacation, and they trade in the privacy of Saionji's bedroom. Saionji is sunburned, red all along his shoulders and back, and a stripe down his nose. It itches and pulls painfully when he moves. He sits stoically, though, as Touga rubs lotion into it for him, gently. The bottle slips, and there is lotion everywhere, cooling on his skin.
Saionji has brought Touga a conch shell, too impossibly large and perfect to be found on any beach. It is whorled, delicately, and iridescently sheened on the inside. He had thought that he had packed it carefully, wrapped in the shop's paper and among layers of clothing, but when he pulls it out, the very tip of the conch has broken off. Touga puts it to his ear anyway, closes his eyes. He can hear the sea, he tells Saionji. It's perfect.
Touga brings him two souvenirs from Venice, actually. A wide-brimmed straw hat that he said the gondoliers wore, with a navy stripe, a proper hat to keep the sun off his face, though a little too late for this summer, and a pair of rose-coloured glasses. Saionji puts them on, and agrees that he is a lot more comfortable now.