[barcelona]
Title: Death of an Umpire
ID: [barcelona]
Word Count: 7,000
Character(s) or Pairings: Yagyuu Hiroshi, Niou Masaharu, OC
She left the introduction to the last. She had thought that it was because of a writer’s block that the opening words refused to come to her; she thought wrong. It dawned on her, as she was checking through the manuscript the last week before she was to go, that the beginning eluded her before because the end was yet to come. Naively she had thought that with this book that marked her end she would bring everything between the three of them to a closure with her own death.
But she had carried things too far for her own trivial end to be the conclusion to anything; she had created a monster and the end was only the beginning. It troubled her a little, initially. Yet, when she sat down to complete the final missing piece, the words that came smoothly to her betrayed her true intentions, whispering of a conspiracy that was too dark, too dark altogether, and revealed her innermost desires which had eluded her till then.
It frightened her, but there was no stopping what she had begun. So she did the only thing she could and completed the book that would set the rock tumbling down the slippery slope to an unthinkable end…
“Sometimes she wondered what it was that she was looking for, what they were all looking for. Sometimes she wondered if she was the only one still searching; it was at times like these that she felt betrayed and alone. She never thought that she had any destructive streak within her, but when she snapped on that fateful summer day, having caught them looking at each other with that look one time too many, she was horrified by just how destructive she could be.
She tried to stop herself, she really did, but the dead part of her didn’t want to be the only corpse around; it wanted company and it knew that neither of them would ever turn down any of her requests. So, like a rolling stone that brought about an avalanche, she continued falling, falling…
Finally, all was white.”
**
The night was alive and restless. He sat at the table alone, waiting, as seconds dragged into minutes into hours that slipped fretfully by. People flowed in and out, a great anonymous and faceless mass that tossed and turned fitfully in night’s uneasy breath, but those whom he waited for did not come. Perhaps he should have called, but he didn’t; the irrational fear that his call would go unanswered had left his phone untouched throughout the night. All the while, the ghost of past memories wavered in the seat opposite him and he looked deliberately away, away from the reproachful glare of yesteryears.
She had pleaded helplessly, hopelessly. But he had looked away; he hadn’t known what to say, what to think.
He didn’t know; didn’t want to.
The waiter kept coming to ask if he needed anything beside the glass of water he had on his table. He could barely suppress the urge to tell the brat to shut the fuck up and mind his own business while the strained smile on the waiter’s face said that the feeling was completely mutual.
“I’m feeling better these few days, Niou. Why don’t the three of us meet up for dinner?” He could hear the smile in her voice, as well as the underlying lethargy, but he chose to believe in the smile and made her wait a week.
He didn’t know-chose not to know.
The night burnt out eventually and still they did not come. He should have known that he hadn’t been the only one waiting that night, should have known that she’d postponed her other appointment for far too long to keep it off any longer. But he didn’t know, that just as he stepped out of the restaurant into the wispy midnight air, so did she pass into the eternal darkness that had waited for seven long years in the hospital only three streets down.
He should have known.
The next day dawned with news of her death in the headlines and all he could do was to stare dumbly at the papers while the ghost watched and laughed.
**
It was half past eight in the morning now; he had only half an hour left before work. There had been many forms to be filled, many questions to be answered, many arrangements to be made, but he couldn’t remember a single thing he had done that night. It was as if he were trapped in a bubble of time that was growing, growing, growing, all the time; nothing seemed real-the forms, the people, everything… every bloody detail of the night seemed unreal. Even Yui’s death seemed unreal. It was a fantastically grotesque dream that he couldn’t wake from, clawing and scratching at the shiny surface of the bubble that wouldn’t give. His bubble. Faceless spectres, creatures of the surrounding, growing darkness, came and went, each trying to tear the protective sphere apart, but it held and he was safe.
Safe in here. With Yui.
Removing his glasses, he pressed his cold, clammy palm to his face-like the touch of the dead. Such a lifeless hand-dead, dead and cold like Yui’s, completely drained… and empty; a shell crumbling, crumbling to pieces to dust, at the touch of his fingers…
No!
“Hiroshi, are you okay?” The light touch and gentle voice of warm familiarity agitated his bubble; his head snapped up violently for fear it would burst. There she was before him, his mother-in-law, trembling, peering down at him with swollen eyes that betrayed her grief despite her success at forcing an impeccable smile.
Yet another monstrous birth of the nightmare, part of the unreality, trying to tear the shivering bubble apart, to get at him, to swallow him.
Yui…
For a split second he almost sneered-at the wretched apparition and her pathetic pretence, her feeble attempt at pity; at her pitiable offering of kindness which he did not need. Perhaps he would have felt more… empathetic, if she had just continued bawling her eyes out. But this, this was something disgustingly weak and absolutely unsightly. Yui would have hated the sight, he knew; she had always been so full of contempt for the weak because she had been so full of life that she could have been life itself…
... that she was life itself and feared no demons.
He suppressed the impulse and forced a smile. “Yes, mother, I’m fine. Please do not worry about me. Why don’t you go home and have a good rest now that everything is more or less settled? You look really tired,” he said, quietly, putting his hand over her shaking hand, still clinging to his arm like the tentacle of a dying octopus. He shuddered at the contact, feeling her hunger for his words, meaningless and empty vessels that they were, for the momentary relief they brought; the delusion that everything was fine, like morphine-induced fantasies, created by mindless words of artificial comfort.
They fell freely from his mouth, those soothing words of nothing that he did not believe in-anything, anything to keep his bubble safe and the monstrous dream at bay.
Save me.
“Thank you, Hiroshi,” she said finally, her smile turning watery, “thank you for everything you have done, and everything you’re doing. Marrying you was the most fortunate thing to have ever befallen Yui. My poor child...”
The dream’s final, unexpected assault took him by surprise, and at the mention of her name, the bubble trembled and shattered into a million little pieces swallowed up by the immense unreality of reality as time unfroze itself.
**
“Betrayal-that was what it felt like when he turned away on that summer day.
It was on an ordinary day in the summer of their first year in high school that Yui told Niou about her illness. She stumbled over the unfamiliar name and hesitated about its effects, but the doctor’s estimate of how much time she had left was painfully seared into her mind although it remained unspoken. Nervous laughter. She hurried on to say that the doctor also talked about the possibility that she could prolong her remaining time if she was willing to work hard for it. The pitying look in the doctor’s eyes, the honesty in his voice, cut and burnt like branding iron upon her consciousness and left her trembling and alone. It was ugly, how she was desperately grasping at empty, meaningless words to shield herself from the fact that she would have no miracles.
He looked straight ahead and kept walking; he did not speak, did not seem to hear. But it was there, hanging dreadfully in the air between them, the unspoken and untouchable: she was going to die.
Slowly, slowly, the air around her congealed like a bubble of vacuum even as they walked; it was becoming more difficult to breathe by the second and she started burning all over-her eyes, her lungs, her chest… Helplessly, frantically, desperately, she turned to him, forced him to look at her. His face gave nothing away, and still he did not speak; he was watching her like a child would a fascinating insect, dissecting and analyzing, as if he was real and she wasn’t and everything was but a dream. As if he could not understand, and that she could not understand that he couldn’t understand.
It was all very confusing.
In the days to come, she would often look back on this moment and wonder what it was that she wanted, that she was looking for, when she looked to him that day, when she reached out and turned his face towards her own, thoughtless words tearing out of her throat as her hands grabbed blindly at him. But everything seemed to freeze when he gruff voice cut through her plea like a knife.
‘Don’t be morbid,’ he said as he pulled her hands away roughly. Suddenly she was cold, cold all over, even the hurt that had distilled into tears hung frozen and motionless at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t think that she had been expecting anything of him, having known him for far too long and far too well, so she could not understand how it could hurt so much, so deeply that her body resonated with the pain, to see him being his normal careless self.
Then he turned and continued walking, muttering something about she didn’t know what under his breath, and the suspended moment shattered into dust, leaving her utterly abandoned in a swiftly tilting world that never fell for such a trifle as her suffering.”
**
Takada Kenshirou was vaguely surprised in the morning when he picked up the copy of newspapers that his secretary had left on his table by his routine cup of coffee: the death of one of his youngest clients had made it to the papers.
Whatever.
While he agreed that her death would be quite a loss to the literary world, and that it was always depressing when young talented people died, work was work and his professionalism had killed off his propensity for emotions a long time ago. Some people called him a cynical old man while others called him an unfeeling bastard; it did not matter much to him either way, although he preferred the more romantic, roguish ring to the latter.
Tossing the paper aside, he leaned into the back of his chair and thought about the manuscript that was presently sitting in his safe; it was the only possession that she had been concerned about. She had passed it to him at their very last meeting, barely a week ago, with specific instructions for its publication after she died. It had been somewhat disturbing, listening to a girl less than half his age talking so calmly about her own death and making arrangements so methodically, as if she had known she was going to die, and how, and when; she might as well have been talking about the weather, with that look on her face.
He clicked his tongue distractedly in detached semi-annoyance: the manuscript would be more trouble than it seemed, he was sure. Not personally, of course-her instructions were rather comprehensive and straight forward, after all-but he had a nagging suspicion that this was going to be one of those books that were powerful enough to destroy lives. There had been malice in her eyes, a purely malignant intent that she made no attempt to hide… He shrugged. Well, it wouldn’t be any of his business even if it destroyed the world; he wasn’t paid to feel sorry for his clients’ actions, was he? He took up a pen and noted down a few reminders before passing a card to his secretary and instructing her to fix a meeting that same afternoon with the person whose name was neatly printed on it in his client’s meticulous handwriting. She raised a carefully pencilled eyebrow at the name but said nothing. Impatient, he waved her away, staring into space for a little while longer after she was gone before leaning forward again to cancel out something he had just written.
It was going to be a somewhat interesting afternoon and he looked forward to it.
**
“Everything began with tennis, in the second year of middle school.
Niou Masaharu didn’t have many friends-didn’t see the point of it; it was an utter waste of time to attempt civility with people with personalities that were flat as paper and fake as plastic. Besides, there was more fun to be had in being the restless draught that messed with the ash-like crowd than mingling in the dull, wasted residue that knew nothing about living. He was constantly bored and therefore was never still, never satisfied.
Yagyuu Hiroshi was the wall that held against the violent wind, unperturbed by its aggressive onslaught. It was only inevitable that Niou would find him fascinating-a mystifying existence that promised endless entertainment and amusement; a riddle that yielded different answers every single time it was solved, when it could be solved. To Yagyuu, isolated constancy was the key to survival in a mundane, stagnant world; he scoffed at the grovelling everyman while he constructed the fortress for his own imaginative mind. There was constancy in persistence, and persist he did, alone. Therefore, Niou’s aggression was absolutely bewildering and disruptive, tearing at his carefully erected walls and disturbing his perfect isolation. And yet, there was something tempting in the wildness and abandon that beckoned, that mocked the order he had revered all his life-something shockingly, obscenely seductive.
It puzzled them excessively, this fascination of the thing they abhorred the most. They struggled initially, against each other, against themselves, but excitement was something that was impossible to resist in a life of boredom.
And there was excitement in partnering your own shadow.
All this time Yui had watched from the sidelines and understood perfectly even if they didn’t; the spectator always had a better view of the game after all. But at that time, none of them knew that this was only the beginning before everything started to change in the years to come.”
**
Niou woke up in the dark, to the sound of falling rain against his window. It was pitch black and everything was silent and still except for the light patter of rain against glass and trees and the painful throbbing rhythm in his head. The cold morning air was agitated and impatient with an incomprehensible latency. It was waiting, waiting, for he didn’t know what, holding its breath and fidgeting and watching him. He closed his eyes, even though it did not make much difference, and focused on the incessant beat in his head, mentally shutting out the sensation of expectant breath upon his skin.
Go away.
For a moment he contemplated trying to go back to sleep-he had woken up more than a full hour before time, after all-but there was no point in the attempt: he had always been a light sleeper and these days sleep eluded him even more. So he got out of bed into the chilly twilight air, nursing a terrible migraine, and switched on all the lights in the apartment.
There, it’s gone. For now.
He turned to go the bathroom then, but there was his black suit hanging ominously by the door, ironed and pressed-a reminder. He looked away almost guiltily and stumbled into the shower. The water was freezing cold in the morning and he welcomed the numbness it induced. He took his time getting ready that morning; he wasn’t prepared for the suit yet. He didn’t think he ever would be.
The phone rang as he got out of the bathroom, and he was relieved for the distraction. He glanced at the caller ID and was mildly surprised to see Yukimura’s name flashing on the screen; Yukimura had ceased to be a morning person after he started working.
He breathed in deeply before picking up the phone. “Yo, buchou,” he drawled in greeting. It pleased him to hear how exceedingly normal his voice sounded.
“Seiichi’s in the shower now; he wants to ‘confirm the location’ with you,” Sanada returned grumpily, making no effort to conceal his exasperation at Yukimura’s request; this made it the third time this week that Yukimura was calling to ‘confirm the location’ with Niou.
“Oh it’s you, Sanada fukubuchou,” Niou replied, “I didn’t realise that you’ve finally moved in with buchou. Took you long enough.” He allowed the suggestion of a grin to creep into his voice.
“That’s none of your business,” Sanada snapped instinctively, giving himself away like an open book as he always did.
“Ooh… touché.” Niou laughed teasingly; he could just imagine Sanada turning several brilliant shades of red in turn on the other end.
“You sound pretty normal to me,” Sanada spat in distaste, his scowl prominent in his voice.
“Ah, so you’re concerned about me. How touching,” Niou drawled into the phone in the way that he knew grated on Sanada’s nerves the most. Sanada spluttered incoherently and Niou congratulated himself on successfully changing the subject. He didn’t think he would be able to handle any discussion about himself, his state of mind, or his past in his current condition; he didn’t think he would be able to handle anything in this condition.
Inwardly, Niou thanked whichever god was listening right now for having Sanada make the call in place of Yukimura. He knew what it was that Yukimura wanted from him; he had meant well and Niou appreciated it. But school and tennis had happened a long time ago and the titles and names they kept for one another had been reduced to no more than shells hollowed out by time. Yukimura was no longer captain-and he certainly had never been captain of Niou’s life; he intended to keep it that way. If anyone needed any counselling from their ex-captain, it wouldn’t be him; Yagyuu could use the help-Yui was his wife after all…
What am I to you, Niou?
“This is a complete waste of time,” Sanada fumed, “I don’t know why anyone bothers when you don’t even care. As usual.” Niou found himself searching for a witty comeback instinctively, but the sudden wrench in his chest wiped his mind blank.
No, he hadn’t meant it that way-the vehemence of his own spitefulness stung; that wasn’t what he meant-but even he could not believe himself any more, not where Yui was concerned. Or Yagyuu. Whichever. It was all very confused and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to even try sorting out the mess that was the relationship between the three of them.
… do you want to know what you are to me?
Sanada hung up without waiting for a response, leaving Niou utterly alone with the watchful dark and its inscrutable intent. He put down the receiver, slowly, but his hand was shaking so much that it slipped and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. He stared dumbly at the piece of plastic at his feet, lost as to what to do next. He had reached the breaking point where everything was fast becoming unravelled with him standing alone at the exposed centre, and he knew it. He couldn’t remember how he got here, really, but he must have started travelling a long time ago, he was sure-a long time ago when he was still very much himself and very much in control. A time, long ago, which he could no longer recall.
What was it that he traded his past for-he wondered-what was it that he wanted, really? He could not remember it now, but he could not recall if he had ever known, either.
Slowly regaining his senses, Niou bent over to pick up the receiver and replaced it in its cradle. His hand lingered, as if there was something that it wanted to do, but could not, because his mind was unwilling. A number flashed across his consciousness unexpectedly and he fell back, letting go of the receiver as if it burnt, flushing uncontrollably at what he had been about to do. The air and the dark seemed to quiver then, laughing at his antics, and he was suddenly stricken with an incomprehensible urge to leave the apartment and these haunting inexplicable presences behind. He got dressed, hurriedly and distractedly; there were creases in the shirt he pulled out, and he missed out a button on his suit, but he did not see.
Did not care.
He escaped into the greater darkness beyond his apartment, completely bewildered and confused, seeking refuge in its anonymity and ignorance, but he did not know that the ghosts lingered still, waiting and watching as they weighed down upon his shoulders in the form of the black suit.
**
He was exhausted.
How many days had it been, since that Tuesday afternoon when he met up with her lawyer? How long, since the entire ordeal began and he was forced to be its captive audience? All he wanted was to… to…
In his mind, he saw her as she was the last time he visited her at the hospital, large beautiful eyes gleaming strangely and her lips curved into the ghost of a smile, taunting him for his vulnerability, promising a solution filled with horror to his unanswered questions.
Yukimura was visibly distressed; not being in control disoriented him. Nothing had gone right that morning. Niou had switched off his phone and Yagyuu had remained civil and distant as he received guest after guest and handled reporter after reporter. They were avoiding him, he was sure; they had to be. He watched the chaos around him and struggled to suppress his rising bewilderment at the complete disorder before him. It showed in the darkness of his looks and the hardness of the line in which his mouth was set and the way he couldn’t stop tapping his fingers against his crossed arms. Sanada was invariably affected and he fought hard against the rising urge to scowl and hit someone.
The funeral was supposed to be a quiet affair, between friends and family. No one expected the noisy crowd that turned up and disrupted the ceremony with their excessive sobbing, their self-professed misery a ghastly parody of the grief of family and friends. The vulgarity of their intrusion eluded them; cooped up in their exclusive enclave they must imagine that they, her loyal readers, were the only people who understood and loved Seihara Yui. Their presence was an insult, a slight, a mockery; why ever did Yagyuu let them in?
Suddenly, a sobbing woman in her thirties collapsed beside the pair. Neither made any move to help her, although Yukimura managed to deliver a surreptitious kick to her side while appearing completely uninterested. They were not the only ones who didn’t care, though. The woman had lain on the ground for five minutes, soaking up the rain and mud, by the time Yagyuu discovered her among the sea of moving bodies and helped her into the temple and out of the rain. “You could have helped her,” he said quietly when he returned. Yukimura shrugged in response, completely unapologetic.
Yagyuu understood the gesture perfectly; he had a way of reading Yukimura that Sanada and Yanagi didn’t-their understanding came from years of adjustment and fine-tuning to one another, but his was an instinct. “Her parents aren’t here and I don’t mind anyway. Everyone has a right to mourn in the manner of their own choosing,” he explained placidly in reply to Yukimura’s unasked question, as if placating an unreasonable child.
Yukimura became uncharacteristically agitated at the calm response. It felt wrong, the composure that Yagyuu wore around himself like a protective shroud; it couldn’t be real, it just could not be. “You’re just glad for the distraction, aren’t you?” he blurted out with mounting frustration. Yagyuu tensed a little at his friend’s accusation although his face remained unnaturally serene. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he said nothing. On an impulse, Yukimura reached out for Yagyuu’s arm. His friend flinched visibly at the contact and jerked away from his touch almost instinctively. “Yagyuu…” he started to say, but a boisterous man armed with a camera suddenly appeared by Yagyuu’s side to demand an interview. Sanada’s hand shot out to hold Yukimura back.
Damned reporters.
Ever the gentleman, Yagyuu nodded politely at the intrusive man who rudely announced that he had no time and demanded that Yagyuu hurried up. Yagyuu offered them an apologetic smile then. “Thank you for coming; I really appreciate it,” he said, his voice quiet and reserved, “but I’m afraid I have to go. Please excuse me.” With a slight incline of his head, he turned to the reporter, who, like a minion of the churning black mass of absurdity around them, dragged him back into the milling crowd that closed around them like water. Yukimura did not know what to think; a sinking feeling welled up within him as he watched his friend disappear from sight and he struggled against the overwhelming wave of helplessness that threatened to wash over him.
What should he do now? What could he do, when he was a mere spectator to the dangerous game they were playing? “Don’t be too involved, Yukimura-san. You’ll get hurt, and they won’t even notice,” she had whispered to him then, a promise of dreadful, unthinkable things; a threat fulfilled by her manuscript that had passed into his hands.
He started trembling, helplessly, as guilt began to surge through him
Damned manuscript.
Beside him, Sanada was watching. As Yukimura started to shake, he let go of Yukimura’s arm and, with an awkward tenderness, pulled the other man to himself. “You can’t be captain forever, Seiichi,” his muttered softly against Yukimura’s hair. “They are not your responsibility, and you’ve already done your best. Let them sort everything out on their own.” Yukimura felt his eyes flutter close as he clung desperately to the comfort of Sanada’s voice, an anchor to hold on to amidst the riot of turbulent emotions within himself.
Yukimura knew that it wasn’t fair to Sanada-the monster that preyed on him had nothing to do with Sanada at all-but all the same, he clung to Sanada’s assurance desperately as a temporary relief from the insanity which was fast claiming him for its own.
Save me.
Sanada blushed involuntarily when he felt himself encircled by Yukimura’s long, slender arms. He had never really gotten used to such public displays of affection and he didn’t think that he ever would, but now wasn’t the time to pull away. He knew how worried Yukimura had been about their friends; he was sure that Yukimura knew things about Niou and Yagyuu that he didn’t-after all, he had been Yui’s editor before she died-but it did not change the fact that Yukimura had been more worried than he should be.
It was strange, how time had changed them, all of them. As they remained still in the sea of shifting faces, Sanada found himself suddenly recalling a time when they were all less afraid and vulnerable than they were now; a happier time during which none of them understood what happiness truly meant.
A time which…
Glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, Sanada pressed his lips gently to Yukimura’s forehead on an impulse. He was extremely embarrassed but the ghost of a smile about Yukimura’s lips made it all worthwhile; he had never been good with words, but what he couldn’t express verbally he tried his best to express with his actions.
A time which they didn’t have to worry about not trying hard enough.
“Ah, I see we’ve come at an inconvenient moment.” Yanagi’s monotonous voice surprised both of them and Sanada almost jumped when he realised that Yanagi wasn’t the only one watching. Beside him, Kuwahara smiled in understanding while the homophobic Marui and Kirihara looked as if they wished they were somewhere else. The feeling was mutual where Sanada was concerned.
Yukimura pushed away from Sanada immediately, all traces of worry beginning to resurface once more. “Have you seen Niou?” he asked Yanagi, his soft voice belying an urgent anxiety. For a split second, Sanada felt an acute sense of displeasure tear through him; he missed the surreptitious glance that Yanagi directed sideways at him.
“Yes. He is helping Yagyuu out,” Yanagi answered briefly. He looked discreetly at Sanada once again. “By the way, Seiichi, may I talk to you for a moment?” he asked, and when Sanada frowned in suspicion, he added in explanation, smoothly, “It’s work-related.” Neither waited for a response before walking off together; they did not speak until they were a safe distance from the others.
“He doesn’t know,” Yanagi deadpanned, staring straight at Yukimura. Yukimura looked away from the silent reproach in those eyes.
“He doesn’t have to, does he?” he returned, refusing to look up. “It’s work after all.” Yanagi did not reply, making it clear that the awkward silence was his answer to his friend’s shaky defence. Yukimura scowled. “So what is it that you want to tell me, Renji? Hurry up already.”
Yanagi was used to the unpredictable Yukimura. He had always had a mild temper, of course, but years of experience had done wonders for his tolerance level. “Calm down, Seiichi, throwing a tantrum doesn’t solve matters anymore,” he said, crossing his arms. The scowl on Yukimura’s face softened, but he still refused to meet Yanagi’s gaze. Yanagi waited for a moment before he continued. “I thought you should know that her book will be out today. I dropped by the company today and I saw them sorting out the copies.”
Slowly the scowl melted away to reveal a crack in Yukimura’s façade of perfection and authority. Yanagi felt a sudden incomprehensible wrench in his chest at the sight of a defeated Yukimura before him.
“Well, in that case, there isn’t anything I can do now, is there?” Yukimura asked finally, looking up at his friend with frenzied eyes that that utterly betrayed his own vulnerability.
Something unspeakable stirred within Yanagi at the sight of the completely broken and exposed Yukimura before him; this was a side of Yukimura that no one else had seen. No, not even Sanada. “No, I’m afraid there isn’t. They’re on their own now, Seiichi,” Yanagi managed to force himself to say, struggling to maintain his composure.
They stood together in complete silence. Aware of Sanada’s watchful glance in the distance, Yanagi determinedly kept his arms crossed, resisting the impulse to reach out for his friend. “Well, since I can’t do anything, there’s no point in worrying now, is there?” Yukimura said eventually. He tried to smile but he looked like he was going to cry. “Let’s go; the ceremony is going to start.”
“Yeah, let’s,” Yanagi acceded quietly, and the two of them slowly made their way back to their waiting friends.
**
Yagyuu stood in the rain, alone, for a long while after everyone was gone, staring at the newly turned earth under which Yui had been laid to sleep. There was a void within him now, a hanging sensation, as if he were on the end of a fraying rope and his feet couldn’t touch the ground. It felt like a terrible letdown, an anti-climax; was this how the end was supposed to feel like? This feeling of suspension… he didn’t think he will ever get used to it.
What had he been expecting, actually, in those last hours when he watched life drain out of the frail vessel that was her body? He had stayed with her till the very end; he supposed he had been waiting for the legendary heart-wrenching grief that followed in the wake of death. He anticipated pain and destruction but they did not come, and he was left with a hole within him that made him feel lighter than ever.
Light as air, but could not fly.
He stood for a long time, lost in thought and the falling rain. It took him a while before he realised that he had stopped getting any wetter. He looked up in surprise to see Niou beside him, holding an umbrella over the both of them.
“Found you,” Niou said, grinning; Niou did not look as sure as he normally did, but he was normal enough. It did not seem fair that he was the only one left hanging when the other two were firmly on the ground. He did not know what to say, so he said nothing. He did not notice the lines of strain about Niou’s eyes, did not see the exertion barely hidden in those depths; he saw only what he expected himself to see. Niou continued, “Everyone helped, so everything’s cleared up by now. They want to ask if you’d like to go for dinner together.”
Yagyuu didn’t think he heard right. “Who is ‘everyone’?” he asked in confusion; he had thought he was the only one left.
Niou blinked. “The usual people, you know. Buchou and fukubuchou and Yanagi, and… you know, the team.” He gestured vaguely.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
An awkward silence settled between them then but-strangely-he did not find it uncomfortable. All the while the rain was getting heavier and his mind was urging him to go back, to seek shelter, to break the unnatural comfort of their closeness, but his body would not move; in his confusion he did not notice that he was not the only one who displayed no intention of turning back. They were standing so close to each other that he could feel Niou’s breath hot upon his skin despite the surrounding coldness of the rain. It felt wrong, this proximity between them, when they were right in front of Yui’s grave, and he was vaguely mortified to feel the thrill that coursed through his entire body at the knowledge. The intensity of the feeling confounded him; how long ago had it been since the last time he had felt this alive? This… aware?-that everything else around him became faded and indistinct and meaningless, and only this searing sensation and Niou were real. The acute consciousness of the closeness between them, they were who were utterly isolated and cut off from the unreal world of reality by the veil of rain… it filled him and for a split second he thought he could feel the solid ground beneath his feet again.
This was not right, and yet he found himself wanting…
What was it that he wanted?
“Yes,” he said finally, slightly flustered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Huh?” Niou stared blankly at him, his confusion clear on his face.
He cleared his throat nervously. “The dinner,” he reminded Niou, “with the team.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes… that.”
Pause.
“So, I guess we should get going.”
“Yes, we should.”
Pause.
“Let’s go then.”
“Okay.”
It took them a while, but eventually they managed to make their way back to the temple. They were completely drenched by then, but neither seemed to notice. Stepping out of the rain was like stepping into another world, and when the door slid close behind them, Yagyuu shut his rioting emotions outside with the rain. It was easier than he thought it would be, but then again, the emptiness was something that he could learn to live with; what happened in the rain was a thing that belonged to another dimension, another time. Better the chasm in which he could cast himself adrift than the fire in which he would be burnt. He stepped away from Niou, once again keeping up the polite distance that he had been maintaining the entire day.
Better this than that.
Niou’s hands constricted momentarily on the handle of the umbrella but Yagyuu did not see.
The others were waiting for them, and as they burst into various forms of complaints that the two of them were way too slow, each in his distinctive style, Yagyuu was assaulted by a warmth that belonged to a time long ago and long forgotten. It felt a little deliberate and awkward, as if everyone had forgotten what it had felt like and was equally unused to the emotion. He knew that all of them were worn out and this was their way of showing that they cared. They were doing this for him, and he appreciated it, he really did, but it could not touch him; there was nothing within him now for it to resonate with. This felt strangely like the time when he watched a film that he loved as a child and could no longer understand what a younger him had found so appealing, no matter how hard he tried. The past could not come back.
There is nothing spectacular about a moment. The moment and everything about the moment diminishes because time never stops; moments are created and moments are destroyed, and eventually everything will be behind you where you can’t reach. And then you start to forget. Or remember that there is nothing to forget in the first place.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, managing a tentative smile at the same time. The mood in the room shifted and he supposed that he must have responded in the right way; everyone became visibly relieved. A debate between Marui and Kirihara soon broke out over what they should have for dinner, with Kuwahara caught in the middle.
“Just like old times, huh?” Niou said in a conspiratorial manner, slinging an arm over his shoulders. Yagyuu almost jumped when he felt Niou’s fingers brush against the nape of his neck and his breath upon his ear. Niou was too close, much too close… just like old times. For the second time today, something dangerously close to panic welled up in him, and before he realised what he was doing, he had shrugged off the offensive limb just like how he had reacted to Yukimura in the morning.
You cannot repeat the past; the past is behind you. Time changes you and the past is no longer relevant. It is a ghost, a reminder of things that have been, that taunts and haunts and fills you with dread about the things you have left behind.
“Yes, just like old times,” he replied quietly, struggling to keep calm; he did not look at Niou.
Behind him, Niou was watching, a strange inscrutable look upon his face He allowed his hand to linger about Yagyuu’s body a little longer, even after it was shrugged off, before letting it fall as he sauntered over to the crowd to join the debate, leaving Yagyuu all alone by the door.
**
“Many things happened in that first summer of high school, besides her finding out that she was going to die; one of them was her confession to Yagyuu, and another was his saying ‘yes’. They were classmates and she supposed that he did like her-after a fashion-just like how she liked him, after a fashion. Niou was slightly surprised when they told him and that was all; nothing between the three of them was changed and she remained on the sidelines, watching a game in which she had no part-yet. They did not have much in common. They shared the same interests, but their tastes diverged; they had similar temperaments, but they were on different ends of the spectrum. Appearances were all they had in the relationship, but she had not expected much anyway. Neither had he. It was tasteless like water, but it felt alright; it was something they could bear with.
It was something that she could work with.
In the summer of their graduation from high school, she told Yagyuu about her illness; they married soon after. Niou did not know how to respond when they told him. Nothing seemed any different, but she could feel the change in dynamics the moment Niou looked away; the game had changed and the spectator stand became no more than a thing of the past.
She had made her way to the umpire seat and taken control of their game without their notice. She did not realise then how tormenting the seat could be, how lonely and helpless it would be to hold on to the seat in the days to come. It had not mattered then, and it did not matter in the end; all that mattered was that they could ignore her no longer.
She didn’t think that was all that she wanted, but it was something she could live with.”