Chapter Text
By the time I get to the park, I’m terribly out of breath. Perhaps, in my defence for later on, that would account for my behaviour in the next thirty minutes or so. Yeah, blame it on my oxygen deprived brain.
As to why I am so out of breath — the reason being that I had to run all the way from my home to the park — all because I only realised, when I was just about to leave, the wheel on my bicycle has got a puncture. And by then, it was too late to get a replacement wheel. So, I ran as fast as I could, afraid I was going to be late.
As it happens, though, my G-Shock tells me I’m still fifteen minutes early when I get to the park. I look around, but don’t see any of my friends. Looks like I’m the first one here. I can’t remember if Kousei mentioned a particular meeting point, so I end up simply wandering about.
At first, nothing particularly interesting catches my attention, apart from a bunch of high schoolers playing baseball. I force myself not to watch the baseball practice — not only because I’d probably get caught up and be late for the meet up in the end, but also because it would remind me of how much I miss the sport. I guess a part of me still can’t let go of it … So I wander off to the far end of the park, where there is a little hill, on top of which you can see the whole park. I figure I’d be able to spot my friends from that vantage point when they get here.
Eh, what is that…?
When I’m halfway up the hill, I am greeted by a rather odd sight. There is a makeshift construct built from what looks like two giant frozen salted salmon or swordfish, stuck vertically into the ground five feet apart from each other. Leaning across, somehow attached, is a huge canvas — the kind artists use to paint life-size portraits. Behind it is someone I can’t make out clearly, as they are shrouded in the shadow cast by the construct. Although I can’t make out any distinguishing feature of the person, I can see that they are absorbed by what I presume is their painting or some sort of artwork — because I can see part of a large easel peeking out from behind the makeshift structure, on which there is another canvas that the figure of the person is leaning over. I see … so this makeshift construct is a clever solution to block out the sun or the wind from disturbing the artist, huh…?
I find myself drawn to the sight. So I approach to get a better look, but the person doesn’t seem to notice me. I shouldn’t interrupt such dedication, so I dare not get too close, or I might distract them. From where I stand, though, all I can see are part of the painting and the tip of a long brush, as it darts in and out of sight across the canvas.
What little I can see of the art fascinates me. Something itches at the back of my mind … like I’m seeing something familiar … I just can’t get my finger on what … exactly — ahah! Thats what it is…! The painting — even the limited section I can see properly — reminds me strongly of the many artworks that cover the walls in the MA-Cafe!
Suddenly, I hear shouting from somewhere behind me. I turn around to see that a couple of guys from the baseball group have detached themselves to practise their throwing and batting near the base of the hill. To my horror, as I watch, the batter — a huge muscular guy, who looks more like he’s in college rather than high school — accidentally sends the ball flying at the wrong angle.
Uwah! It’s gone too far, too high! Oh no, oh no! I panic. Somebody help — quick — or it’s going to hit the artist and his painting —!
As the ball flies pass me, it finally occurs to my slow brain that I’m the only one who might have a chance of stopping this catastrophe happening in front of my eyes. Damn — do I even have it in me? It’s been ages since I did any baseball. And I can tell the speed and force of this ball are powerful — stopping it will be no easy task.
All these thoughts fly through my brain in a split fraction of a second, as my adrenaline charged reflexes kick in and I dive to get under the ball. Huh — under?!
By the time I think, ‘uh-oh!’, it’s already too late.
My form and position are all wrong. My original half-cooked plan is to create a inpenetrable wall between the artist behind me and the ball — beat down the ball and absorb the impact with my chest or something. But, when I try to catch the ball, I lose my balance and — BAM! I crash through the makeshift structure, tumble into the easel, and fall flat on my back!
From somewhere above I hear what sounds like angry explosive cursing in an unfamiliar language. Is that German…? I wonder vaguely, recalling the few times I’ve heard Conrad and the others in the MA-Cafe slip into their native tongue.
I look up and think to myself in a daze … whoa…!
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!”
His alto voice resounds in an offensive tone. Ah … so he can speak Japanese after all…! Not that I’m surprised by it, since I’ve been working at the MA-Cafe …
As for the super beautiful shape of the person’s figure …
Even if I might be able to match his physique physically —
It can’t be helped, because characteristics like the length of the legs is a feature by ratio, like height and shoulder width and body structure … Since when have I become someone who cares about someone else’s body build…?
But even if our bodies are evenly matched, when I just glance up, I’ve already been defeated … utterly. How can he be this beautiful?!
His face seems to emit an aura of glowing radiance. It’s more than just because of his dazzling blond hair. His looks and voice are like an older Vienna chorus boy’s. His white skin seems almost translucent. And his irises are an emerald green that make me think of the bottom of a lake.
Furthermore, he doesn’t have a split chin — if only he has a split chin, maybe I would stop disbelieving how inhumanly beautiful he is. He’s an angel — definitely an angry angel. However, being in this situation, he’s also probably a beautiful demon.
“Do I have to repeat myself?” His hostile glare intensifies at my dumbfoundedness. “Or should I not bother? Judging from appearances you don’t seem to be intelligent or dignified, lying around in the dirt like that…!”
Don’t seem … intelligent or dignified? Snapping out of my daze, my bad ‘Turkish March’ habit rears its ugly head.
“How can you call someone unintelligent and undignified when they’re down in such a vulnerable position?” I push myself up from my sprawled position at his feet. “Certainly my enrollment in a prefectural high school is not really because I surpassed anyone’s results or am someone to be jealous of. Even if I was a child who returned to his home country, I can be persistent. But I was only in Boston for half a year after I was born, aside from the number of extended visits back to the United States.”
Eh, some distant and detached part of me is thinking to myself, what has that got to do with the situation? Maybe I’m trying to make my case relatable to him, since he’s from abroad and all …
“All the same, I’m not an idiot! And what’s with calling me an idiot all of a sudden? If you look at it, my father is an elite banker, and my brother is a student at Hitotsubashi, and, by the way, my mother graduated from Ferris!”
I try to cover up my mediocre self by bringing up my family pride, but he doesn’t seem to be impressed in the least. I stand up to face him.
“And how can you just call a guy an idiot the first time you meet him? Especially after he risks himself to save you and protect your artwork?!”
“Hmph!” The irritable pretty boy snorts derisively.
“What’s with this ‘hmph, hmph’?”
Before I could carry on, the bishounen rolls his gorgeous eyes in contempt and throws out his hand as if inviting me to witness a grand scene.
I follow his gesture and see a picnic blanket on the ground next to his easel, on which he has, or had, his art supplies laid out. To my dismay, the ball I was so determined to stop had crashlanded into his paint palette, shattering the delicate porcelain, scattering art supplies all over the place, and spraying paint of varying colours everywhere. The painting — which is still on the surprisingly sturdy easel that didn’t seem to have toppled over when I stumbled off it — is completely ruined.
“For the record,” says the angry angel in a clearly hostile tone, “I did not call you an idiot, even if you really are one. And I don't need someone who relies on some woman with loose morals to get him a job saving me, when he can’t even—!”
By the time the thought, ‘damn it!’ crosses my mind, it’s already too late. I only regret what I do afterwards. It’s because of this quick temper and the whole flying into a rage thing that I stopped playing baseball after ten years. There are moments when my small-town sense of justice just can’t be suppressed. As a catcher, that was a fatal flaw. It’s also very disadvantageous in life.
I have just slapped that beautiful face right in front of me …
It was a good smack … The sound and angle were good … It was better than a one-base hit …
But how much damage it has done to him is yet revealed. And the extent of the damage it has done in general…? Immeasurable.
He stares at me, stunned. For a moment, everything becomes so deadly still you could hear a leaf falling. His left cheek, where I had hit him, is flaming red. Except … the red is spreading from his left cheek across his whole face. But before his rage boils over, my temper gets the better of my tongue again.
“I don’t plan on taking it back or apologising! You said something you shouldn’t have said, you did something you shouldn’t have done! I don't care if you make fun of me and insult me! But how can you say someone else’s mother — someone you haven’t even met — has loose morals?! What the hell do you mean, huh?! That my mother is some floozy?! If someone talks about your mother that way, what do you think you would do as a son?! That’s right, I’m not apologising! I definitely won’t take it back! You have a pretty face, so I slapped you instead of punching you—!”
“SHUT UP!” Finally seeming to have regained himself, he shouts at me. “How dare you?! This is the first time I’ve ever been humiliated like this!”
“Heeeh, really? You’ve had a really blessed life, then. When I was told to wash the juniors’ socks, or was designated the slowest one on the team, now that’s really humiliating. But if you’ve gone through life this long and still can’t live down one single humiliation —”
Consumed by rage, he sweeps his arm out and knocks over the easel, sending everything everywhere once more. In the storm of flying art supplies I could not name, something long and large lands by my foot. A knife…?
“Uwah, h-hey, that’s dangerous! That’s reckless — completely reckless.”
I squat down and pick it up.
It’s a … sword…? Uwah, what the—?! Now that I have a closer look at it, it’s actually one of the two supports that look like frozen salted salmons holding up the makeshift screen — only, it’s really actually a practice sword …
I look around from my squatting position, only to see the other frozen salmon in the right hand of the pretty boy.
“You picked it up,” he states with a sardonic smirk.
“Huh?”
“You picked it up. Good.” He hoists his sword with both hands, aiming for me like Ichiro in the batter’s box.
“Uwahhh!” I yelp. “Wh-what is this? Is this some sort of challenge for your hand? I-I mean, for your honour?”
For some reason, this seems only to infuriate him even more. His white skin flushes even redder, and he steps into position threateningly.
“What’s wrong? Are you just going to make excuses and run away?”
“Wait wait wait! Can’t we settle this in a civilised manner?” I say frantically. “Or, if you really need to have a challenge for your honour, can’t we at least select a less violent method, like sumo wrestling — gah!”
I jump back in fright when he swipes his sword expertly. I hope that’s really just a practice sword…! Swinging around that sort of thing alone would knock a ball out of the park. I feel like I’m chickening out already.
“Hey, don’t I get to select the method of challenge? You know, since I’m the one being challenged and all…?” I call desperately. “If so, I choose sumo wrestling!” Not that I particularly want to see him in his underwear, of course.
“”Men trying to knock each other down almost naked?!” huffs the blond, jabbing experimentally with his sword.
“Right,” I back away further while I explain, “with bouncing bodies, and sweat scattering.” As a foreigner, I’m not sure if he knows much about the sport.
“Stop screwing around!” he yells. “You expect to challenge me to such a savage and lewd match?!”
“Lewd?! How can you say something so rude about Japan’s national sport? It’s much better than killing someone!”
“Are you ready, coward?” he snarls, ignoring me.
“Coward? You’re the one attacking me with a freaking sword, and now you’re calling me a coward?” I feel my sense of injustice awakening again. “My name is Shibuya Yuuri. If you want, you can call me ‘Your Majesty’, I don't mind.”
“Don’t screw with me!”
And with that, the match starts abruptly. The angry angel comes at me with a huge swing, aiming to strike me down. In an instant, out of reflex, I move myself under it and hold up my practice sword above my head in order to catch the blow. The impact feels like I have just been hit by a metal ball, and the pounding passes through my whole body.
I like to think I’m no chicken, but when something that big and dangerous is coming at your face, it’s really scary. Damn it — I should have joined the kendo club after all! I don't know much about any form of sword play … but if I really think about it, this is kind of like holding up a baseball bat — and in baseball, I was always told, absolutely never let the ball pass …
That’s it…!
I remember that day, when I was about ten years old or so … I had attended this one-day baseball class tought by professional baseball players. Back then, I was terrified of fast balls and runners — I had a faceguard, of course — but I was still scared of things coming at me like that. But, he tought me otherwise. He had made me squat, then squatted behind me himself, before calling out to a fellow professional player — a pitcher — to throw a ball at me. He coached me on catching it, and once I caught it, he told me, “you’ve already caught a ball thrown by a pro player … Are you still scared of playing on a junior team?’.
My role model was right. I needn’t be scared.
I grip the hilt of my sword with both hands and position the practice weapon in front of my body to fend off his strikes.
Before I can respond with any moves of my own, another swing comes. And another, and another, and another. With vehement vigour, the angry angel rains down strike after strike, from every which direction. The effort it takes to catch the blows with my sword is wearing me down. My arms and shoulders are getting numb, but somehow my senses have sharpened and I am able to assess the situation better.
I’m trying to read his moves and rhythm, when I notice him getting distracted. Taking advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration, I dig my heels in and plant my feet, one foot in front of the other. Then, I throw everything I’ve got into the swing, letting the force travel through my body and into the strike, while somehow at the same time grabbing for the belt at his waist to throw him off balance.
Yes! A swing through!
It’s the high-pitched clang of metal bats that I was used to hearing. I feel an intense pain in my arms, as the shock from the blow shoots up my limbs and vibrates throughout my whole body. Meanwhile, the pretty boy’s weapon flies through the air and falls point down into the ground some distance away.
“I won…?” I say, still processing my victory. “Yeah, I won …! I won I won I won! Yay!”
It feels like a homerun has been hit, with bases loaded, to turn the game around, but from a distance it was a second fly ball. At any rate, my opponent is unarmed now, and I awkwardly try to offer the olive branch of peace to call a ceasefire.
“I’m worn out…!” I offer, laying down the practice sword. “So, if it’s OK with you, maybe we could call it a draw for — Uwah!”
I jump back in shock, feeling myself go pale. In the right hand of the demon that looks like an angel is a wolf-shaped — um — sculpture…? — that looks entirely too real, and is flaming red as if it were molten hot! And, damn, that thing looks like it might be made of solid metal too!
“What is that?!” I yelp in a shrill voice. “Hey — wait, wait! You’re not thinking of throwing it, are you? Don’t be such a poor loser. That’s not very manly, is that?”
“Shut up!” yells the bishounen, his face twisted in anger.
I panic and scramble aside to avoid the fire wolf object, as he pulls his arm back for the throw. Unfortunately, I slip in my haste and the object flies pass, missing my hair by inches. From watching countless pitchers at their game, I could tell that throw was going to be a hard and fast one, even before he released it! I whip around to watch its flight, twisting my neck painfully in the process, and see a young girl walking pass the foot of the hill, directly in the path of the flying object.
“Watch out!” I shout, but it’s already too late.
The girl is somehow flipped over and disappears behind the trees — she must have tumbled into the bushes. In hindsight, maybe I should have gone after her first, but my small-town sense of justice — already cranked up to maximum after everything else this afternoon — burst out again, this time in full force.
My vision blurs in my fury, and my chest feels like it might explode with outrage. I whirl on the blond perpetrator, and grab him by the collar.
“This is your victory? Involving a girl who had nothing to do with this, this — this pathetic selfishness of yours!” I storm, practically nose-to-nose with that beautiful face..
“Wh-what are you saying—?” the pretty boy chokes out through clenched teeth. “And why the hell are you talking like you’re in some kind of historical drama?”
“You refuse to except defeat, running around wildly and ignoring the rules. Is this what you call a fair fight?! You would do anything to get your way. And then an innocent girl was dragged into it, and still you greedily want victory?” I shake him roughly by the collar. “I absolutely won’t allow it!”
“Get your hands off me!”
“Yo, Shibuya, she’s fine — she’s not in any danger!” A familiar voice calls cheerily from far … far … far away …
I could never explain what happens next …
Maybe it’s the smell and fumes from the paints and art supplies all around us …. Or rather, maybe it’s the excitement … or the aftermath from the heated interaction with the blond bishounen … What ever the case, I could feel the blood rush to my head, and suddenly all I could see are those beautiful emerald green eyes flashing in anger …
They really look like the bottom of a …