Thanks to Maurice Merleau-Ponty and The Shins for references.

CARNIVAL TOWN Version 2.1

In which Kogure Meets the Spike-haired Again, Sendoh Deliberates & the Open-ended Dispute Begins

It occurred to him now.

Intimacy is an appreciation of pleasure whence fortuity marked flash seconds; for if it becomes too mature it leaves an acrid taste. And another thing was that daytime only makes these candy-coated moments too raw, and so Sendoh Akira preferred the moonbeams, the way the cool breeze would tingle him for all the warmth it provides; and alcohol would be a best friend. Now it had been three days since he re-captured this sweet creature; after the supposed lameness of his introduction he never re-established contact with Kogure, owing to a hesitant handsomeness against a delicate (but always absent) russet-eyed, owing to a wasted time – and owing to a growing disinterest. Never the less it became a wondrous contradiction for him as a realization illumines the dark caverns of his mind to unconsciously pine for the brown-haired lad as days pass by with his non-presence. So much so that he began with the subtle squeals of the tongue, a constant urge to go back at the bar; and to create his own syllogisms which defied the laws of logic. How could a teddy bear resemble Kogure in any way, a withering plant, or even his bed sheets?

He finds it that this underdog of a basketball player never really drew strength from the game itself; and despite his mediocre abilities it seemed to have power over his teammates. With a three-point shot and a rhythmic voice he has crushed his own team's dreams to reach Inter High. What a contrast really; and finally yielding to the compulsion to challenge such a force he went back to the saloon three days after and saw Kogure, by himself, downing his own venerable vodka. And like his usual insinuations, he made his way towards him, investing all his earned wealth of emotional safety.

Kiminobu Kogure has often thought of himself an insipid, accidental existence; and he has often proved to himself, too, how perfectly such insipidness worked well when adapting to the charades of people, these little games of so-called humanness. But it was exactly this bland of a personality which made him smarter than everyone else; for he can always brew affinities and measurements that seventy-percent of the time he's one thought ahead of the other. One discourse can mean one thousand possibilities, and only thirty percent of the time do his judgments become hazy and empty.

And to further a sense of pride within him was also and precisely this all-too-human normality which attracted the atypical spirits, the untimely embodiments of the higher standards of them all. For surely, yet surely; even in the distance he can sense the spike-haired's eyes watching him over a silhouette of a perch, a psychological human force, beckoning him to come down.

So for the both of them, they spend the night with sheepish talks and quips, with compliments and accordant gratitude, with half-meant gestures of touching hands and a beacon for the body's respite. Seven minutes of surging words for introductions and almost two hours of gestured words fueled by alcohol Sendoh risks himself with a question next.

"Why are you here?"

Kogure's reply was a murmur, almost like a secret to keep. "Oh you know, same old excuse. Among other things."

Among other things? He thought he heard that before. Sendoh can feel his cheeks burn; and despite the vagueness that the reply has bestowed upon him, a feeling of empathy emerges to his eyes and he felt serious this time. "I always felt the other way around," he smiles, "I want to remember, so I go here."

"Well at least you got an excuse when you're drunk," the other kids, sipping his liquor. "Memories are beautiful but only those you want to live with,"

"What was that?"

He slowly repeats them as Sendoh buys enough time to hark back those joys which lay hidden in some kind of anonymity. He forgot their faces (even Haruko), but he remembers the feelings each of the moments have given him, measuring their relative difference between them all, and only then was he confounded, ambiguous past-selves who wished oblivion, if not a headstrong self towards the future. Is this bitter liquid to blame? He cannot tell; he was only seeing the russet-eyed.

"Are you all right?"

He snaps; at the pub, his weakness.

"Yeah. Listless me, ne?" he takes a sip, emptying his glass. The crushed ice are left melting.

"Not at all," the other says, "I think you just remembered something."

"Really perceptive, Kimi-kun. You mind me calling you that?"

He hesitates. "Not at all."

Silence paralyzes them for minutes. "You're not as poker-faced as what they've told me, Ayako and Miyagi,"

This earns a smile, the seemingly first genuine act of the day. "That defies the rules of first impressions."

Kogure's reply was a wholehearted laugh. "And me? I've always thought I was too boring."

"I've always thought of that. Now we're in this place for three hours."

Kogure empties his own glass. "Yeah, but there's actually no telling, right?"

Yes, the gesture he's waiting for. "We'll see..."

And although Kiminobu Kogure can only aggregate blurred visions and reasons as to why he's suddenly staring at the far-eyed wide kind of dark fields and grey pavements as he slouches himself on the spike-haired's black Pontiac Solstice; he spends the night in Sendoh's room, he sleeps with him. His voice fades into soft rhythms; his exhaustion entwined with the blue-eyed's snores of triumph. And as he dreams, he sees himself stepping into a void, a blackness of unknown territory; as his sight outlines a full moon, he suddenly transports himself into an amusement park, and he sees the happy faces, riding carousels and bump cars and ferris wheels. In front of him is Sendoh, walking with cool demeanor, smiling. The feeling of lightness grabs him, infecting him; and as he snores himself to slumber, he too would smile.

But the morning soon seizes this midnight revelry and the fresh sunbeams will touch the brown-haired's eyes, opening them anew; and with this haste of a time was also the sight of a sleeping frailty that is Sendoh. It's Sunday and the warm breeze of eight in the morning placates him; school works take their rest, the basketball retires momentarily. He gently pulls himself out of the spike-haired's grasp and quietly dons his clothes, despite the flourishing hesitation and in spite of the soft mattress calling his body.

It's 8:25 as he turns the knob; it hit him no worry since his parents only visit him during holidays. His refined touch against the door made a soft cracking sound, worrying him and takes a last glimpse at the sophomore.

There was a smudge of beauty rousing within Kogure, an effluence of emotions; somehow, the brittle spirit of Sendoh has suddenly metamorphosed into a crippled dog and needing provisions. It effects something like a concern for being condescending, or something like a universal duty to be this sleeping frailty's safeguard; for after all proximity cannot be the content of intimacy for him. Certainly, yet certainly; the way their differences in character cluster together into a conflagration of sorts, a fairy tale of sorts. He blames his incorrigible state of mind to care for others, a sickness triggered only with a touch, or vague hints; at the doorway, his weakness.

And so he leaves with his own emotional investments.

Unbeknownst to the brown-haired lad, however, Akira Sendoh was thirty minutes ahead of him, suddenly opening his eyes as the closed door reverberates through his earshot. A grin escapes to his mouth, fully waking himself up with wanton thoughts, and a waning weight within him has made him yawn happily.

It came upon him to make it a necessity to break upon himself everything he's learned so far and create a better version of him. This owes not to the dainty touches, to an appreciation of neither pleasure nor the sweet words escaping both from their lips. He sighs in contentment as he sits, leaning his back by the bed's frame.

Yes, he has proved the seer wrong.

But at the same time, lonely are the ones who're not wet blankets. It's shallow, almost like an unfounded superstition. And but all the same, there is an ambiguity in all these; his handsomeness still seems to address a self who constantly relates his past in the decisions of the present, decisions which ultimately try to cogitate the future. What does it hold for him? If he gives Kogure a buzz, would the russet-eyed even bother? If Kogure accepts his offer, would he also even bother?

A sense of terror bursts beautifully within him. Yes, he thought; the lonely is such a delicate thing.

tbc.