"We're joined by pop sensation, Ryōta Kise. Ryōta you've played with, and against, all of the Japanese players on both teams. What do you think of this match up?"
"Oh, Marv, I couldn't be happier. All my friends are gathered together and playing basketball. I haven't seen them smile this much in a long time."
"Japan has done surprisingly well in the games and even when they lose here, they'll still be in the running for a medal."
"Don't count Japan out too soon, Marv. With Kurokocchi Aominecchi, Murasakibaracchi, and Kagamicchi on one team… not to mention, their fantastic Point Guard – "
"What's the 'chi' thing, Ryōta?"
"It's a sign of respect."
"Well, no disrespect, Ryōta, but your boys don't have a chance against the Dream Team."
Midorima's POV
Akira's Pokemon backpack is open on the bed and she debates what she will bring with her. We have approximately twenty-four hours before we board the plane and I fear that all of them will be spent putting things in, and taking things out of, Picachu's empty carcass.
Kazu is marking his classes' final papers of the semester and inputting grades. He smiled as he left the two of us alone in her bedroom. He will pay for that later. I kneel beside her bed as she stands in front of three rows of stuffed animals, organized by height, color, and animal. She is most definitely my daughter.
"I can only bring one," she says and her little eyes moisten as she contemplates the myriad of choices, all staring back at her with happy eyes. She turns and looks at me. "Why only one?"
"There will be new friends to collect on this trip. If you bring more than one, you will have less space to bring back new companions for them."
She tilts her head to one side and considers this. My three-year-old daughter is an old soul, far more mature than her years permit. She sighs loudly through her nose.
"Which one should I take?" she looks at the army of furred soldiers, unable to decide.
"Which one will be best at telling all your stories to the others when you return?" She has no imaginary friends, but she talks to each toy as if it is alive. She looks them over, before picking up her oldest toy, a rabbit that my father sent us before she was born. As instructed, I put it in the crib with her on her first day of life and it has always been her favorite.
Unlike toys I remember from my early days, hers are immaculate, with one exception. Usagi-kun has had many adventures with Akira. He's been lost at daycare, vomited upon, dropped in the potty chair, and put through the washing machine many times – always in a pillowcase to protect his features. His fur is a little duller than he was when I took the tags off him three and a half years ago, but he is loved.
"Usagi-kun should go. Grandpa will want to see him again."
"That's true," I say. She puts him reverently on top of her two favorite books for bedtime reading, a coloring book and crayons, her portable video game system, and a stash of snack foods.
"You don't need to bring Pocky," I tell her. "It is everywhere in Japan."
"But not on the plane," she says, very seriously, her eyes going wide.
"No, that's true."
"I will eat on the plane and make room. Atsushi-kun told me about yummy Japanese snacks."
I chuckle and zip her bag closed. I open the large suitcase and then look at her perfectly organized closet.
"Kazu, can I trade with you? I'll grade the papers and you pack the suitcase?"
For a second there is no reply, then he appears in the doorway, a smudge of green ink on his nose.
"Can you?" he asks and hands me a paper. "My eyes are so tired." The Japanese is atrocious, and the English from which they translate is…
"No," I sigh and hand the test back. "How do you even read that?"
"Over the entire semester, I've grown accustomed to their scribble. But, I can stop and help if you need me."
"No, get them done. At least our bags our packed. How bad can it be? Packing a child's bag?"
He puts his arms around my neck and squeezes. He kisses my hair and then leaves with a lingering touch that trails across my shoulders.
"Alright, so we'll be gone for seven weeks, but you can wear the same thing more than once…" I stand and put my hand on a shirt.
"No, Daddy, not that one, it is pink. I don't wear pink in June."
I finally realize what Kazu has put up with all these years.
"Of course not," I say, "how could I be so careless. What color is June again? And what of July?"
"Silly Daddy, June is blue and, maybe white. Yes, white is ok. July is red."
Before she can argue, I pull everything that is blue, white, or red, out of the closet and begin folding it into her luggage.
Akashi POV
Six year old Akashi had not yet learned the grace that he would one day be known for, so he sat with the too large Stradivarius in his lap as he strained to hear the difference between the peg turned left or right.
To his uninitiated ears there was virtually no difference, but his father insisted that the instrument was out of tune.
He turned the peg again and heard the string hiss angrily as it snapped before he could react. With a twang it broke free and laid a hot flash of pain across his tiny hand. He watched as the line glowed red and then spilled out blood. Without conscious thought, tears exploded.
"Stop that immediately," his father's strident voice cut over the sobs. He tried vainly to pull himself together.
The violin was torn from his hands. He turned to look up at his father, the tears and cries suddenly locked in his throat as the blood-red instrument descended.
When Akashi's correction was complete, the expensive instrument was reduced to splinters of wood and a tangle of cat-gut strings. From the fetal position at his father's feet, Akashi clutched at a broken tuning peg and listened to the whispered voice of comfort in the quiet recesses of his mind where his father's rage wasn't capable of reaching.
His father left the room in silence and servants rushed in to clean the debris from the floor and the abrasions on his back.
The next morning when Akashi came for his music lesson, a new violin stood waiting for him, but instead of the two hundred million yen Stradivarius, this was a thirty thousand yen Suzuki. Akashi picked it up and it immediately felt better in his tiny hands. He plucked at the strings and heard the difference in the notes at once. He tuned the strings quickly and had begun practicing his scales by the time his father arrived…
Akashi woke, sweating in the middle of the night. His eyes snapped open and he swung his legs over the side of the bed without thinking about the pain that had haunted his sleep until the chiropractor had worked his magic.
"Jiro," Furihata mumbled, still asleep.
"I'm going for a glass of water," Akashi said and left the bedroom before his movement could disturb Furihata to fully awake.
The nightmares are getting worse, he thought as he flipped the light on in the kitchen, wincing in the sudden brightness. He fetched a glass and filled it with water, simply so that he would not lie to Furihata. I've lied to him enough for this lifetime.
He drank the glass down, refilled it, and then walked across the house to his office. The screensaver flashed rotating photographs of his friends, the people he chose to call family. There he was with Atsushi and Himuro at the opening of Les Délices de la Justice, the French bakery he'd opened in Akita in April. The picture dissolved into the wedding portrait of Satsuki and Daiki. That gave way to an informal snapshot of Shintarō and Kazunari with Akira on the day she was born. He watched as the parade of his friends rotated on the screen, and their smiles thawed the place in his heart that had frozen during the nightmare. Ryota on the cover of a magazine, Tetsuya with his first kindergarten class, Reo and his partner, married in all but legal terms in Japan… It was about time the playboy settled down.
As he watched, a ding came from the speakers, alerting him that an email had been received. At three in the morning, he felt no obligation to answer his emails – at most times of the day he felt no obligations, actually, as email correspondences were handled by Furihata – but he felt warm and safe with his friends, so he wiggled the mouse and maximized the window, hoping it was one of those friends reaching out through the miles and hours to him.
It won't be Shintarō, it's nearly five on that coast and Akira will be escaping her bedroom soon, if she hasn't already. Ryōta is in Paris this week, working the catwalk. Reo is on a cruise in the Mediterranean…
He tapped the mouse and then his hand stopped as he saw the preview pane open.
[Seijūrō, it has come to my attention…] He closed his eyes, willing the email to be yet another nightmare. Here in California his father was just a dark cloud on the horizon, not a central figure, so he counted to ten and opened his eyes.
[Seijūrō, it has come to my attention that practice for the American basketball team will be held at Ariake Sports Center on June 24th.]
It's not a secret, he told himself. The schedule has been highly publicized. Breathe, Jiro, just breathe and read the rest of the message.
[You will satisfy your familial duties while you are in Japan.]
The missive wasn't signed, but the email address left no doubt in his mind. He closed the message without responding. Why bother? It's not like he expects me to argue with him.
He opened a new message and began typing Murasakibara's name. The program autocompleted before he got halfway through the address.
[Atsushi, I will return to Japan on June 20. I would like to arrange for a full spread of pastries on June 25 for a TEAM breakfast. Will you be able to cater the event? – SJ]
It was subtle enough, he prayed, that only one word – team – was italicized. He had to hope that his father would overlook the emphasis and that Murasakibara wouldn't.
I hate relying on people…
"Jiro? Is everything alright?" Furihata asked from where he was leaning on the door leading into the office. He yawned and scratched at his head. "You must have been very thirsty."
...except for Kōki, I don't mind relying on him.
"I was," he said, holding up his glass. "And I decided to check email. There was one from my father."
"Oh?" Furihata said, unable to mask the slight edge in his voice.
"Yes, he wishes to see me while I am in Japan; it is nothing to worry about, Kōki. After all, the Akashi family is well-known for its 'closeness.' It is only right that I see my father and mother. Let's go back to bed. We have a long day ahead of us and even though we technically get a later start than the Midorima family, we'll be on the plane for longer."
"They should have come to Los Angeles, instead of us going to Toronto, but whatever," Furihata yawned again.
"Shintarō's disorders require certain patterns. He has always come and gone using Toronto as a layover, therefore it makes him comfortable. A contented Shintarō will hopefully make for a tranquil Akira."
"Don't remind me…" Furihata murmured. "Sleep, now, come on."
"As you wish."
A/N: I'd like to thank Ruth Dedallime and her friends for helping me pick a correct translation for the name of Murasakibara's pastry shop.