Chapter 80 - Tiger's Eye Overture
Ooda is eleven years old. His mother has just informed him that she has a job for him—though not a usual job. It is a job outside the house. This confuses him, so, she explains.
They are in the kitchen of their house, sitting at the table together. It is nighttime, after-hours. The smell of the dinner that Ooda cooked a short while earlier still lingers.
"Ooda, I talked to a friend of mine in town about part-time work for you, and he said that he has a job for you sweeping the stage at the theater downtown. Isn't that wonderful?"
"It's… that's nice, Mom, but… why do I need a job there…? I want to stay home and help you."
His mother sighs.
"Ooda, I'm starting to get a little concerned about how much you're staying home, okay?"
"Mom, I go out and get groceries and deliver prescriptions, I get out enough..."
He pauses, judging her expression.
"That's enough, right…?"
She shakes her head.
"Ooda, darling, when we were expecting Yuki I had the temperature so low that you were almost constantly sick, okay. Even Suigetsu noticed. But you stayed inside anyways. That worried me."
Ooda knits his fingers together.
"I want you to get out, Ooda. It's not healthy."
There is no room for negotiation in her voice. She continues, however, far more softly.
"Besides, you'll be paid. A little spending money might be nice! You can buy whatever books or movies you want, okay? Since it'll be your money, not mine."
"…I guess that would be nice."
Ooda figures that agreeing with her will make it less uncomfortable to think about.
"If you want me out of the house, Mom, then I'll… go, I'm just…"
He seals his pause with his lips.
"You're just what, darling…?"
Ooda is mumbling, but manages to clear his words near the end of his sentence.
"…that the people at the theater won't like me."
All he can think about is school, and his mother knows.
She blinks, thinking this over. She puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Ooda, you're perfectly all right running my errands for me. And my clients like you very much, okay? So I'm sure the theater people will too."
He lowers his head, trying to believe her.
"There's nothing to worry about. Besides, most cleaning is done after hours, so you won't have to talk to many people, okay? You'll just have to sweep."
His mother knows him very well, and this comforts him some.
"…okay... When do I have to start…?"
"I told him I'd bring you Sunday afternoon, okay?"
"Okay…"
Sunday arrives. Ooda doesn't feel any better.
The owner of the theater is a broad man named Yaku. He has a very, very brown beard and a beery laugh, and he stands with his hands on his hips.
Ooda's mother is with him, for support.
"So this is your little boy, eh, Karin-sensei? You're a lot bigger since I saw you last."
Ooda nods nervously, somewhat intimidated, if not terrified, avoiding eye contact.
"Just the guy we need. Want me to show you around?"
Ooda stands still, hands clasped together at his stomach. His mother pushes him forward, gently.
"Go ahead, Ooda, let him show you around. I'll go with you."
Yaku seems to spend more time describing the history of the theater than Ooda's actual duties.
In all honesty, it's fascinating. Ooda hangs onto every word, vastly preferring it to the prospect of work.
The theater—constructed in the wake of the second war, and rebuilt after the Mist raids of the third—is a delicately-balanced building of bold modesty, glowing with wood and paper. The set backdrops are hand-painted for each production and stored in the basement, rolled up into scrolls, re-used if needed. Currently, the stage is naked, with no backdrops nor sets upon it.
The details help to soothe Ooda's heart once his mother coaxes Yaku back to business.
"Broom closet's over here. I need you to sweep backstage and onstage before and after rehearsals and performances. Not much on stage now, 'course, but once we get this performance rollin' you'll have props and things to get around."
Yaku speaks with booming words, grand hand gestures.
"I don't doubt you'll be able to figure it out, though. You seem like a smart kid."
"He is a very smart kid. He'll do just fine, okay."
Ooda's mother speaks both to Yaku and to him.
"I'll… try my best, sir…"
Yaku catches onto Ooda's discomfort. He is an actor, after all, and well-trained to read everything from body language to vocal tone.
"Tell you what, as an added bonus, I'll let you sit in on rehearsals and performances if you want. We don't let just anyone do that."
His mother smiles.
"Ooda, you hear that? It's like going to the movies for free, okay? Won't that be nice?"
Ooda tenses, though only a little.
"…that sounds nice."
Yaku's smile is also very broad.
"Why don't we get you started, then? Just a little… practice, haha. Get a broom and sweep the stage to get a feel for it. We'll get you back for real next week."
Ooda's mother moves away from him, slightly. Ooda clings to her sleeve in return.
"Darling, I'm going to go home. You know your way back."
Saving her the embarrassment, he lets go of her sleeve and watches her leave. She stays in the lobby and watches him for a while as he goes to the broom closet and begins to work, before leaving for real.
Ooda begins to sweep, gingerly. Yaku watches him with his arms crossed, though his expression is not disproving. The entire time, Ooda speaks only once:
"Sir, um, you're making me nervous, am I doing something wrong…?"
Yaku laughs. It almost sounds like applause.
"Sorry, I'll leave you alone."
Ooda's day proceeds just as uncomfortably with Yaku gone.
Yaku returns to pay Ooda in cash, unexpectedly, after a time. Ooda nearly drops the broom in receiving the money.
"E-excuse me?"
"Your pay for today. Oh, and here's our rehearsal and performance schedule. I need you at least an hour before and an hour after each blocking. You did good today."
Yaku hands Ooda another piece of paper from out of his pocket. Like the bills, it is slightly wrinkled.
"Um, sir, though… what do you want me to do in between…?"
"Didn't you hear me? You can sit in on rehearsals and watch the performances for free. I heard from your mom that you're a bit of a budding theater buff."
Ooda's face turns a very pale shade of pink. In his room at home he has a significant VHS tape collection of both purchased and recorded-from-television films and theater performances, which he watches on the small set that a grateful client tried to give his mother as payment one year. One bookshelf is also filled with every volume of No to date, the other shelves crammed with medical textbooks and cookbooks and anything else capable of giving him something useful to learn.
Of course, Yaku doesn't know much of this, but Ooda's mother has said some things.
Yaku continues.
"If you wanna go home in between, though, I understand, just as long as you're back to sweep up after us. Though if you're not comfortable with staying after our night performances then I can just have you come in the morning after to clean."
Ooda shakes his head.
"I'm not scared of staying out late or going home in the dark or anything… But I dunno just yet…"
Yaku just nods.
"I think we're gonna have a fine time together, no matter what. You head on home to your mom, now. Send her my best."
Ooda nods and leaves very quickly.
The kitchen again. At dinner that night, he discusses the situation with his mother. He hasn't touched much of his meal.
"Did it not go well?"
"No, it was… fine, I guess… I just kept thinking about if you were okay or not without me."
His mother sighs, shakes her head, smiles.
"Well, I'm still in one piece, aren't I?"
"Well… yeah, Mom, but…"
"But what, Ooda."
Ooda cannot answer. He lets his hair fall further into his face. His mother continues.
"You need to get out more, darling. I told you. Okay? It's not healthy for you. You don't need to be home all the time. There's no need."
Ooda's mouth tightens as he thinks of a rebuttal.
"But the little ones, Mom, and the patients, and Juugo-san…"
His mother's face sharpens as she interrupts.
"They need me, Ooda. Not you. You're a help, but honestly, darling, that's all you are."
Ooda looks like he's trying to make himself as small as possible.
"But what about when you're sick, Mom…"
His mother pauses in her reply.
"I'm not sick now, and goodness knows when I'll get to work on the next one…"
Her son's miserable expression stops her again.
"…Ooda, if I ever need you here then I'll keep you here and explain to Yaku-san if you're working at the time. He'll understand. Okay? I won't keep you from me if I need your help at all."
The decision is only a bare comfort for Ooda. He gets out of his chair and gives his mother a tight, awkward hug.
"Oh, darling, shh, it'll be okay."
She strokes the back of his head.
"You're still the best help I could ever ask for, and an even better son. And I love you very much, okay?"
His response is soft, muffled by her shoulder.
"I love you too, Mom…"
A few weeks pass.
Ooda, for a few hours every weekday, sweeps the stage floor at the theater. Though, at first, he always walks home right away instead of staying to watch the rehearsals that have recently started.
His mother notices, and gets annoyed. And, despite his protestations and apologies, convinces him to watch at least one rehearsal before making his mind up about needing to be home so much still.
Ooda does.
One rehearsal is enough to keep him from going home early for a good long while, the theater and its golden-light magic very much getting its hold on him.
The production in rehearsal in question is an older, traditional piece titled The Thousand-Swordsman. It concerns a samurai utterly devoted to the craft of the blade, to the point where his best friend turns on him and steals his lover from him as well. Naturally, the samurai rescues said lover and they live happily ever after, though not before a dramatic, pantomimed swordfight between the two former friends.
By his third day watching the rehearsals, Ooda finds himself mouthing the lines along with the actors and continuing on with whole words where they stumble and still read from scripts. But he doesn't dare speak up from where he sits, at the far left of the stage, by the wall, waiting for them to clear out. He considers it blasphemy and tends to hold his mouth together tightly whenever he catches himself about to speak.
By the time they're in dress rehearsal, Ooda finds moments where he cannot stay quiet, perhaps because they're so far into production that it's utterly shameful for such things to still be occurring. But his voice is never louder than a mutter.
The actors largely leave him alone, anyways. He is recognized as "the doctor's boy," his position already explained to them by Yaku, who pays him at the end of each week with his wrinkled bills and broad smile, and unwanted claps on the back.
Ooda tells his mother that it's not so bad, each time he returns. This pleases her and, in private, she shares her joy with Suigetsu, who is less than vocal in his opinions.
"So he's enjoying his job, that's fine, I guess."
And then the performances start.
And Ooda starts to adore going to work, leaving far too early and coming back far too late.
His mother is incredibly pleased, however; not only by this, but by the warm smiles she finds growing out of him, and the clearer speaking trailing along behind the smiles.
Even though, physically, there is nothing terribly much to differentiate the dress rehearsals from the actual performances, there is a tangible sense of realness that comes from the presence of an audience, something that brings out the very best or worst in performers.
Ooda is no exception.
Swept up in the energy and new reality injected within him by the performances—he always has a chair in the back of the theater, and a doorway to hang out in when the play is sold out—he finds himself reliving the scenes to entertain himself while sweeping, trying to recreate, perfectly, the cadence of one actor's voice, or the delicate way in which one actress holds her arm.
Mostly, Ooda tries to recreate Dokudami Ryusuke's work.
Ryusuke is the star, the actor who plays the samurai. And for good reason. Ryusuke has a strange, incredible ability to give off the air of quiet intensity that the samurai's role demands, and somehow manages to sound very soft and thoughtful while projecting his voice halfway across the theater.
Reenacting his work, even in his mind, is an incredible challenge for Ooda, and severely entertaining. Especially in how he seems to notice subtle nuances appearing in each performance that he hasn't seen before—the slight shifting of weight back to indicate surprise, the curling of fingers around his sword's handle for suppressed anger. It is incredible.
Though acting it out with his own body makes these things so much easier to imagine. Likewise speaking.
Though Ooda always shuts himself up and forces himself back to sweeping when he catches himself doing this.
At first. Until he realizes that he's almost entirely alone on the stage, with nothing but his broom. Yaku, lately, has started trusting him to turn the lights off and lock the theater before he leaves, having a penchant for joining his actors for drinks after performances. He has given Ooda a key, which Ooda keeps on a string around his neck beneath his shirt.
So Ooda begins to take risks, speaking louder, making bigger gestures, using his broom as a prop sword. The stage is his own.
The thrill is fantastic, and the play never feels more alive than when Ooda is letting it out through his mouth and fingers.
In this particular evening, it is the finale of Act 1 that takes residence within Ooda's mind. And, as usual, the urge to let it out begins with a hum in his ears, dialogue rippling across his lips.
Ooda looks left. He looks right. The theater is empty.
He clears his throat.
He begins. Curtains up.
Arms spread wide, his broom-sword clutched tightly in his right hand, the thousand-swordsman declares his love.
He is no longer Ooda, not for several minutes.
His voice booms.
"And so! This, I swear upon my sword!"
He pauses thoughtfully, balancing the blade of his sword on his hand. His most precious possession.
"My… beloved."
He raises the sword high above his head, holding it with both hands.
"I shall not rest until my blade has known the skill of a thousand ages!"
And, suddenly, there is applause.
But it is not in Ooda's mind.
Ooda's back seizes up and he clutches the broom tightly, whipping his head around to see where the audience has come from.
The audience, as it turns out, is one person, emerging from backstage. He has sharp, angular features—high cheekbones, a thin nose, and sharp, glassy eyes, making him look rather like some sort of lizard, or snake; his dark brown hair is tied into a high ponytail with an elastic band.
It is Ryusuke, the lead actor.
"Bravo, bravo!"
Ooda can't stop shaking.
"Very interesting performance there, I must say. I was rather impressed."
Ryusuke comes closer. He is dressed-down, in a sweatshirt, and his makeup has been wiped off.
"I'd never thought to have interpreted the lines in that way. Very interesting…"
He has his hands in his pockets, thoughtfully.
Ooda grips the broom tightly, fearing that he'll fall to pieces if he lets go.
"I, I, I, I'm sorry, sir, I'll be leaving now…"
Ooda turns to leave.
"No, wait. I want to ask you something."
Ryusuke is the lead actor, the lead actor, and his words cannot be denied. Though Ooda does not speak in reply, Ryusuke reads the shift in his head as a go-ahead.
"When I perform the finale I usually have it go something like this:"
And suddenly, Ryusuke is the samurai. Swordless, but still utterly recognizable.
"And so, this I swear upon my sword, my beloved... I shall not rest until… my blade has known the skill of a thousand ages!"
And is just as suddenly himself again. Ooda is in awe of the change.
"When I say it, I'm talking to the samurai's lover. Making a promise to her, sort of apologizing. What made you so focused on the sword instead?"
Ooda almost doesn't catch the full question, he's so dazed. But he manages to pull himself together a little.
"Well, I… in the play, the samurai is almost… obsessed with his sword, see… And it's not until his friend steals his lover that he realizes that she means a lot to him too, and he has to choose between devoting himself to his sword or having to balance his life between the sword and her…"
His fingers run up and down the broom handle as he speaks, his head bowed slightly, eyes to the floor in thought.
"But that hasn't happened yet, so… I just thought that, at that point, the sword would be more important to him… That the sword is a more fitting 'beloved' to him than she is."
Ooda looks up, nervously, one of his eyes visible through his bangs. He tries to shake his hair back into his face as he answers, his voice growing far less confident.
"…but I see now that I got it totally wrong, I was trying to have it be like your performance…"
Ryusuke, however, shakes his head.
"There's no such thing as a wrong interpretation. I actually think yours is far more accurate to the spirit of the story that the play is based on, in my opinion. Yaku-sama's a bit of a romantic, though, and of course I have to listen to his directions."
There's a small, curious smile on Ryusuke's face, angular and pretty.
"Did you come up with this interpretation on your own?"
"W-well yeah, I guess… I mean, I haven't… read the original story or the script or anything, I mean I sorta knew it already, I've only been sitting in on rehearsals, that's how I know the lines…"
Ryusuke's eyes widen slightly.
"You know the lines by hearing them?"
"I… sorta had them memorized a few weeks ago…"
Ooda naturally memorizes things very quickly, half out of necessity and half out of innate genius. The majority of his education as a child, when he was not learning history and excavating the literature his mother brought home, was in making himself an expert in medicine and medical jutsu. Memorizing recipes for some prescriptions (and especially the medicines that kept the little ones alive), learning surgical procedures perfectly through old reports and film reels.
All of it, of course, is for his mother's sake. Though he is reluctant in imagining himself as a doctor like her, someday.
He is afraid it would make him too much like him.
Ryusuke considers Ooda's words for a while. He speaks after Ooda gulps loudly, growing far more nervous with his thoughts.
"I think I've seen you around. You're Karin-sensei's little boy, aren't you?"
Ooda nods.
"Ah, I thought so. I've seen you at your mom's clinic, and she talks about you a little too. She's a fantastic woman, you know, I owe her a lot."
"Ah…? Were you sick recently…?"
Ooda focuses on his mother to keep the attention well away from him.
Ryusuke shakes his head.
"Not recently, but I had a very hard time settling in once I managed to get out of the Land of Water. But she helped me out."
"Oh, so you're a refugee…"
Ryusuke nods.
Ooda taps the broom handle for lack of a better action.
"…well I shouldn't pry, I'm sorry for bothering you…"
"You weren't bothering me. I really enjoyed watching that performance of yours. Do you like acting?"
Ooda takes a while to think of his answer.
Even though, whenever watching a movie, or a show, or even thinking scenes over again in his mind, he gets a wonderful, warm fluttering in his stomach that very few other things can cause in him.
"…I like watching shows, but I don't know about acting, I'm just imitating people…"
"What you did just now wasn't imitation. That was your own Thousand-Swordsman. I couldn't have portrayed him like that. Only you."
A fluttering variation nestles into his chest. Ooda gulps again.
"…well, um, Ryusuke-sama, I'm going to… go home now, you should too, I'm going to lock the door behind me…"
"Oh, of course. Your name's… Ooda, isn't it?"
Ooda nods, again, uneasily.
"Well I'll see you later, Ooda-kun."
The two of them leave, after Ooda turns off the lights and locks the theater door.
He is extremely jumpy upon his return home. His mother more than notices.
"Are you okay? What's wrong, darling?"
"Oh, nothing, Mom, nothing, I'm fine, just a little excited from… the performance! It was really something…"
His words are laced with a fidgeting laughter. His mother crosses her arms, but does not press further.
Ooda has a hard time falling asleep that night, replaying his encounter with Ryusuke over in his head, even after trying to distract himself with a book. He awakens late.
When he returns to the theater the following afternoon, Ryusuke is waiting for him on the stage, and greets him loudly.
"Afternoon, Ooda-kun!"
Ooda, trying to get to the broom closet, freezes and waves his hand nervously.
"G-Good afternoon, Ryusuke-sama."
Ryusuke is wearing a very good-natured smile. He is holding a thin paperback book in one hand.
"Can I ask a favor of you?"
"S-sure, I guess, what do you need me to do…?"
Ryusuke holds the book out in front of him.
"Take this, read it over a little, and pick one to memorize. Doesn't matter which one, just so long as you enjoy it. And once you've memorized it, I want you find me and act it out for me. Okay?"
Ooda's eyes quiver from the book's cover—it says 25 Classic Monologues on the cover—to Ryusuke's smiling face.
"What…? Oh, no, I couldn't do this…"
"Come on, Ooda-kun. At least read the book for me, it's interesting even if you don't feel up to performing any of them. At least that?"
Ooda bites his lip.
"I just… may I ask why?"
"I'm curious about something, that's all."
Thoroughly confused and very unsure, Ooda reluctantly takes the book and goes to stick it in the broom closet to retrieve later, once he's done with work.
"All right, then, Ryusuke-sama…"
Ryusuke smiles, putting his hands back in his pockets, and leaves for the dressing rooms.
Ooda can barely concentrate on the performance that afternoon, thinking only of the book, and why Ryusuke would possibly want to give him such a thing, much less ask him to perform.
When he gets home, after dinner, he cracks the book open.
Ooda doesn't sleep that night, the twenty-five characters and their monologues utterly absorbing him into their being.
To Ryusuke's great surprise, Ooda is the first to seek him out the next day.
"It's, um, about that book you gave me yesterday…"
Ryusuke's eyes light up some.
"Ah, yes, did you like it?"
"I did, I really did… I just… well, I couldn't pick one to perform, so…"
"You couldn't pick one?"
"Well, they were all so interesting, so I couldn't, really… I've kinda memorized most of them, though, so if there's one you want to see then I suppose I could do that if you really wanted me to…"
Ryusuke pauses.
"You mean to tell me you've memorized all twenty-five?"
"…well, mostly…"
Ooda is shuffling his feet, clearly embarrassed. Then again, this is Ryusuke he's talking to, subject matter put aside.
Ryusuke considers this.
"Do the first one, then. About the boy and his younger brother. Have it ready for me after the performance, I'll listen to you then."
Ooda nods far too eagerly.
"Right away, I'll, uh, I'll do my best…!"
Ryusuke grins.
"I'm sure you will."
The performance goes ahead as planned, and the theater, as it always is, is emptied of its audience and cast and crew. Only Ooda and Ryusuke, now alone on the bare, harshly-lit stage, are left.
Ooda is shivering, badly, and keeps sneaking glances at Ryusuke. Ryusuke only smiles.
"Breathe out, like this. Hoo…"
Ryusuke breathes in deeply and exhales even more deeply.
Ooda does the same, but half-heartedly so.
"Get all that nervousness out of you. There's nobody here but me."
Ooda tries again. This time, breathing in deeply, exhaling even more deeply.
He closes his eyes and swallows.
"Now, begin."
Ooda stares at the floor, then out at the empty audience. Nobody there but him.
"I'm the older brother. Technically. We're twins, but I was born first, so I'm older. Yet, somehow, so many people seem to forget that, what with this heart of mine."
The first few words are nervous, but as Ooda continues, an angry, snotty sneer begins to leak in.
Ryusuke simply watches, and listens.
"Because if I strain myself even a little, if I run too fast or if I get too upset, I might die. It's scary, yeah, so everyone treats me real carefully."
Ooda's mouth twists itself with his pause.
"But not my little brother. Kosuke. He was born second, but you'd never know it. He looks exactly like me, but he's stronger, and more popular, and everyone likes him. Well."
There is a tiny, inappropriate laugh to break off the growing annoyance in Ooda's voice.
"Except my mother, though, she always criticized him and told him not to be so reckless. But he can't help how he is."
The giggling cadence fades, replaced by an unfitting solemnity.
"He only does it 'cos he worries about me so much. Says he wants to be able to protect me."
The older brother, shamed of his weakness, lowers his head, grumbling.
"Which kind of makes it my fault, that he ran away. To get stronger. I wish he hadn't. I…"
Even quieter.
"…need him here."
A laugh through the nose, a needed one. Biting sarcasm, much louder.
"Besides, if he's not here, then who's going to protect me, huh? Not my family, they're not here any more."
Anger begins growing in his voice, like a cloud.
"And nobody in town cares enough to look after a… useless kid with a weak heart. And there's nothing I can do about that."
The tone shifts slightly. The anger is transmuting.
"But I can… try and get stronger. Maybe not like he was, but… but strong enough to take care of myself."
Sharply.
"So I won't need him any more. So maybe, one day, I can go out and… and find him, or… I don't know…"
Quietly.
"…I just don't want to want him back so badly. But I know that'll never happen…"
The monologue ends on a stinging, sour note, with the boy shuffling his feet.
Ooda only seems to notice when Ryusuke hums a bit, in thought.
"Very nice. When you go home tonight, though, read it carefully. Because I want you to perform it differently tomorrow."
"Differently? Did I do it wrong?"
Ryusuke shakes his head with his eyes closed.
"No, no. You did wonderfully, that was some beautiful expression. That was really nice, too, that balance of shame and anger. I just want to see if you can read into it a little more. Find out what the monologue is hiding, and use that to alter your performance. As differently as you can make it. All right?"
Yaku leaves first.
Ooda remains on stage for a short while, just thinking.
The monologue is all he can think about during his quiet dinner, and once he finishes the dishes, he takes the book out again and reads it over, and over, wondering what Ryusuke meant.
"Find out what it's hiding…?"
Words pop out as he reads.
If I get too upset.
But he's stronger, and more popular, and everyone likes him.
Not my family, they're not here any more.
"What the monologue is hiding…"
Ooda is at his desk for a very long time.
The next evening, after the performance, Ryusuke joins him on the stage after he cleans it.
"Go ahead, Ooda-kun. Perform the monologue."
Ooda breathes in, out, once.
And his shoulders hunch. His posture and limbs crinkle weakly, as does his expression.
His voice is gentle, halting, like a child with half permission.
"I'm… the older brother. …technically. We're twins, but I was born first, so I'm… older."
Gentle disbelief, almost self-depreciating.
"Yet…. somehow, so many people seem to forget that. What with this heart of mine… Because if I strain myself even a little, if I… run too fast or if I get too upset, I might… die."
The words here seem to carry weight that the previous words lacked.
"It's… scary, yeah, so everyone treats me real carefully…"
And then, a very, very small smile.
"But not my little brother. Kosuke. He was born second, but… you'd never know it. He looks exactly like me, but he's stronger, and more popular, and everyone likes him."
Absolute and utter admiration. Though almost defensive, now, in a subdued way.
"Well, except my mother, though… she always… criticized him and told him not to be so reckless. But he can't help how he is…"
The subdued tone shrivels into an ashamed mumble.
"He only does it 'cos he… worries about me so much. Says he wants to… be able to protect me."
As if the very question of such a notion were unthinkable. Why would he need to be stronger?
"Which kind of… makes it my fault, that he ran away. To get… 'stronger.'"
What might be tears.
"I wish he hadn't. I need him here."
A gulp. Fear is creeping in, tinged with shame.
"Besides, if he's… if he's not here, then who's going to protect me…? Huh? Not my… family, they're not… here any more."
His head lowers.
"And… nobody in town cares enough to look after a… useless kid with a… weak heart."
And further.
"And there's nothing I can do about that…"
A very, very long pause.
He raises his head slightly.
"But, I can…"
A shake of the head, a dismissive shake.
But his head rises again, with a lighter tone.
"But I can try and get stronger. Maybe not like… he was, but… strong enough to take care of myself…!"
Hope, maybe?
"So I won't… need him any more."
The feeling is pricked with a pin and floats away, replaced by the heavy shame of before.
"So… maybe… one day, I can go out and… and find him, or… I don't know…"
It's a silly notion, anyways.
"…I just… don't want to…"
Leaking out.
"…want him back so badly."
A very deep sigh.
"…but I know that'll never happen…"
The monologue settles with a dusty, blue air onto the stage.
And Ryusuke starts to clap.
Ooda's look of misery and is replaced like a slap with an expression of anxiousness. He waits for Ryusuke to speak.
"So, Ooda-kun, tell me why this was different."
"This one? You mean, the one I just did…?"
Ryusuke nods.
"Yes, what made that one different from the last time?"
Ooda doesn't have to think for very long.
"Well, the first time I read it, I sorta took it at face value, see… I mean, the kid sorta sounded like he was my age, so I just tried to put myself in his shoes. He seemed kinda jealous of his younger brother, and I thought about how I reacted at times like that—well, sorta—and went from there…"
"And this time?"
Ooda thinks a bit more.
"Well… I read it more carefully. Like you told me to. And I started to notice, it wasn't that he was jealous of his younger brother, it was that he was… proud, almost. Like, he thought it was really cool, and that he really blamed himself for not being strong enough to not need protection, whatever that means…"
A bit more thinking, because Ryusuke hasn't said anything.
"And… well, I figured, if a kid really had a heart condition where it was so dangerous that if he even got a little angry it could be dangerous… well, I figured he wouldn't be the sort to raise his voice much or get too angry, is all… That was the biggest thing, I think."
Ryusuke's smile widens.
"That's what I'm looking for. You have to read between the lines, use contextual clues to really find out who your characters are. Excellent work, Ooda-kun. You think you can do the same with the next one in the book?"
Ooda tenses up a little, though not unpleasantly.
"Gosh, well, I could try…"
"I'd highly encourage it."
Ryusuke begins to leave.
"Come to me when you're ready with the next one."
Ooda stays on the stage for a while, alone, a bit overwhelmed.
But a day or two later, the lessons continue; and, from there, until the book is finished.
Once that is completed, Ryusuke gets another book. Ooda takes it, eagerly, and is a quick study.
The other actors start to notice, since Ryusuke is far more inclined to spend his time after performances and rehearsals with Ooda. Many of them react with incredulity when told he prefers this practice to partying, when asked in the dressing rooms.
"What, you mean that odd little janitor boy? Why the heck are you even bothering?"
Ryusuke smiles, rubbing off his makeup.
"He's got a real talent for character interpretation. I'd hate to see it go to waste."
Some of the cast stick around to see what, exactly, the great Ryusuke is so excited about. It makes Ooda nervous, to so suddenly have an audience.
"Just pretend they're not there. Besides, in a real show, you'd have a lot more audience members than that."
This seems to trip something inside of Ooda's mind.
"B-but I wouldn't, I'm not that good, I'm not a real actor…"
Ryusuke's expression is sly but reassuring.
"For now."
It doesn't comfort Ooda. But there is a flutter of pride in his stomach.
He continues on as well as he can, even with the additions. Some of them leave, some of them stay. Most of them feel he has talent, but don't speak of it much.
Ooda feels he is still just imitating, that his lessons with Ryusuke and his monologues will never amount to anything.
He can't imagine himself as an actor. But it's a better possibility than a doctor.
He'd still rather stay with his mother, and help her.