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It is a universal truth that as you move closer to your destination, the less sure you are that you ever wanted to be there. The more the future recedes and is replaced by the past, the more behind there is than front, the more you become disoriented and confused, unable to tell the North of your desires by virtue of there being too little of it to hold in the cradle of your hand.
So Kiryu thinks when he looks at Majima, eighty if he was a day, and indeed Majima has had many days (how many days is 81 years old? A thousand thousand?) and they had had many of those days together.
The more they were together, the more sweat-stained futons that'd been Used, the more it seems as if the accumulated heaviness of all their exertions wore down Kiryu's idea of love.
That love was like smoke in water - or more precisely it was an image double-exposed of Tiger on Dragon, and the more fervently Kiryu held onto the memory of their relationship, the more it seems true that there was never a relationship, and he had always been a replacement for a long lost Saejima.
Majima-no-nii-san, he asks the groping, creeping, daylight.
It was thick in here in Okinawa. Daylight had more substance than Kamurocho's, more weight and demand. It existed so heavily that sitting in the morning room with the morning sun, legs crossed and head back, Majima could feel isolated and faraway from him.
Ya, kyoudai?
Breakfast. Porridge or soup.
None of that shit, he says angry. Meat and lots of it.
You have no teeth, nii-san. Would be hard to chew
None of that shit. None of that shit. Meat or else!
Aged clawed hands seized the arms of the chair like baseball bats. Kiryu had no doubt that in times past it would have swung at his head. Batting cage, betting cage - how much would he have bet that Majima would have been unreasonable and violent?
Soup it is, he says, and ducks into the kitchen, shuffling on his excellent health and Grey-checkered slippers. He ladled steamy fermented soup into a bowl and brought it back to Majima-san like an offering, the mist of fresh soup adding yet another layer of daylight between them.
Kyoudai, ya know I fucking hate this shit.
Yes, yes, you tell me, every morning in fact.
Still, damn it. Still.
Majima held the bowl of soup like a precarious thought. Coughs racked him, coughs that turned to sighs, then to blood. The bowl trembled in his skinny arms that Kiryu prepared to receive like a supplication, almost-boiling soup on his hands and apron and Majima's thighs. Goddamit, fuck this shit, Kiryu-chan what the fuck, and then a whole lot of cleaning up. Kiryu didn't resent it. He was resigned to it; this is the kind of price you pay for love.
Fucking Miso.
He drank the soup, and then the morning was over. The bowl was washed and returned to the kitchen, relieved of its contents and duty. Kiryu settled down beside Majima, both their chairs overlooking the Southern window and seas. There was a long afternoon ahead of him of sea-watching and Majima-watching, ebb and flow of tides, along with Majima's mood. Would he be lucid today, or raving and insane (as he'd always been)?
Ehhh-ehh-ehh, Majima spat.
Kyoudai, he said. Do you remember? The ramen place with the watermelon on Shichifuku.
Yes, I remember, Kiryu says. But you didn't go there with me.
Majima is deaf to his pleas, pleased.
That was some shit, wasn't it? That was some shit.
His eyes were both glassy and milky white in the afternoon sun, reflective almost, so that unless you looked closely you couldn't tell or remember which eye it'd been that had been blind for most of his life. There was a gentle grove where eyepatch had pressed closely to skin and angrily made borders between good and rotten flesh, but besides that Kiryu sometimes had trouble remembering which eye had always been on him and which eye not. Lately, as Majima's memories unraveled more and more in this room, it became doubtful at all if that one good eye had ever been on Kiryu at all. Maybe he had, from the very first moment, been nothing but a replacement for Majima's Kyoudai.
Maybe it had never really mattered if he was a Kiryu-shaped driftwood floating in the turbulent waters of the Gokudo, or some other poor unsuspecting log. As long as he was strong and available and undemanding of Majima's affections he would do, have done, etc. As long as he did not ask too closely or pry too much exactly who it was that Majima saw behind his blacked-out eye when they were together.
Seized in the throes of patience, he patted Majima's hand. He was comforting himself. Majima was beyond comfort.
Ehh-ehh-ehh? Majima asked. It's like he reads Kiryu's mind.
Ya've gone all sappy and soggy on me.
Like soft ramen, Kiryu said.
E-xact-ly!
Coughs that turned into a sigh that turned into a shudder. Godfuckingdammit I hate being old.
Yes, Kiryu said. I hate that we are old. Not aloud.
They watched with noisy breathy coughs the zenith of the afternoon. Haruka would not be home for hours and hours yet, the short period to their sentence, a short period of reprieve from their sentence. They are bound by daylight and the long stretches of time where nothing happens that happens in your eighties, where you have nowhere to go and nothing to do, everything already having been done, and you only have memories and a long stint of time to do.
And pleasure, and love, and all the warm stuff that is supposed to happen right about now.
Kiryu had expected more than this. In the privacy of yesterday's darkened room, to the sound of Majima's labored breathing, he could admit that he had expected more. That Majima and his' 50-year-old relationship, older than most people who die young, would last all the way to their old age. He had thought it would be Miso soup and sake and shogi and then mahjong all week long at the parlors, and sometimes starting shit with wrinkled knuckles and bad backs. It would be wonderful, won-der-fuuul, and what had he not expected? Not much really - he had expected many worsts, even that Majima would have a late-life-crisis and walk out on him at 71. He had not expected Majima to confuse him more and more with his Kyoudai, this long dead and dusted Saejima, and that it would seem that Kiryu had never existed in his past, and had always been a rudely pressed imprint on an otherwise pristine love.
See Driftwood. See anonymous driftwood, anyone-would-do, etc.
Blood is after all, thicker than water. With enough washes, it's the only thing that will stain.
Hey, Kyoudai.
Yes?
Hey, remember the batting cages? What-hey, stall number 6 and that fucked up throw it had.
Sure, sure.
Hey, ya listening to me? Remember the batting cages?
Sure, sure, sure.
There ain't a sixth stall at the batting cages. What-the-fuck. Are ya even listening?
Caught and embarassed, Kiryu shrugged. It was a long time ago, Goro-nii.
Well, then ya fucking shoulda said ya don't remember and none of this yes-no-yes-sure act. Ya think ya fucking Nishida or something? When did ya learned to be such a bitch-boy?
Surprised at the vitriol, Kiryu looked over. In itself this was rare; many afternoons had passed where Majima was not a sight, but an idea. He could have existed as much if he was dead or Kiryu was blind. Majima was pissed, many brows wrinkled and furrowed. In times past Kiryu might have found a tanto between the shoulder blades for being careless, depending on Majima's mood. Many a nights had been spent in the emergency ward because Kiryu hadn't paid attention, or paid attention to Majima, and instead had to pay that price in other ways, mostly in energy drinks and late night stitches for the both of them after a make-up fight.
Well, he said. I was thinking.
Ya think? News to me. Kiryu-chan, I can count the thoughts you have on my toes, and I have three of them missing thanks to you. That's ten minus seven thoughts you've had all your life.
Ten minus three, Kiryu corrected. A rare smile.
Ehh-ehhh? That's what I said.
Okay, sure.
Ya acting like I'm fucking senile.
Well, he said.
Maybe I am, but it started some sixty-years ago. What's eating ya, Kyoudai. What's bugging ya, making you all morose and sad, like a shit-sack?
Woah there, nii-san,.
Woah nothin. I'm asking twice here. What-is-bugging-you? Don't make me go over there and cut it out of ya.
Daylight shimmered violently between them, reflecting loose teeth, fractured knuckles, broken ribs. It wrapped Majima up in the dust of his threats and showed that they were as old as diamonds.
Well, nothing, Kiryu said. He had many secrets and thoughts, all ten-minus-three of them, and he would not share and would not tell but would let it brew inside him like toxic, septic waste until it explodes one day in a fistfight. Then and only then, lying in a pool of each other's blood, had he ever been able to admit his own feelings. His feelings were religious, to be muttered to himself and invisible airs in the dark and alone, and they were too old for fistfights and religion now.
Nothing, he said.
No-nothing. You know-nothing, Kiryu-chan you daughterfucker. Out with it, and let someone with brains hear it. Why are you sitting there stewing in your own shit. You're angry, you're pissed. Why the fuck? Don't make me go over there and cut it out of you.
Well, Kiryu said. And after a lot of thought and some seventy years of learning emotional intelligence, he added:
Kyoudai.
Ya?
You keep calling me Kyoudai. He clarified.
Okay-so?
And you keep these memories that aren't ours, and you hold them up and ask me - look, do you remember? Well, I don't.They aren't mine and I'm not in them. I can't recognize these photos, these people, these places. I don't know. I don't remember. They're not ours.
Yeah-but-so?
But I'm ---- because I know who they are about.
You are what, Majima insisted.
I am--- he said, censored himself because he had no words for feelings like he'd never. What is anger minus rage plus envy, unfolded by jealousy? Is it ten-minus-three, or negative seven?
I'm ---
Pissed, okay. Sad-shit-sack, ya. Ya okay, you don't know your own feelings if they strangled you in your sleep.
No not pissed, he said, frustrated. I'm sad. Upset. Alright, pissed too.
He tried, in his own bumbling way, to explain.
These are all Saejima - in every photo and people and place, I can't cut a corner with you without bumping into him. Here, you say. Remember this takoyaki place. Remember this bathhouse. And I'd look and I'd see him like a ghost, your kyoudai and you - and me not ever having been there. Me not ever going to be there.
And more and more these memories are all yours, never ours. I see less and more that maybe I've never been in anything, that maybe I'm just there all these years as an outline so you can color me with Saejima when the time is right.
So it's all ghosts now.
Remember the Shogi, you said. Remember purgatory. Was I ever there with you at all, or was it Saejima all along? Kyoudai, you keep calling me. Kyoudai, you call me now. Do you even know who I am? Hey, are you listening? Do you know who it is right now, having spent sixty-years with you, is sitting beside you? Do you--
Kiryu-channnn
This quieted Kiryu, both inside and out.
Kiryu-channnn, ya boring me here. Of course I know who you are, ya think I'd forget the last thing I ever saw, that fucking blinded me?
That was a mistake ---
(a bath, a knock-about like they always had, but only this time with a sharp corner. Oh well, Majima had said, I had some seventy years of sight, it's all good.)
No, this right here is the mistake.
Ah, thought Kiryu. That hurts. For a second that lasts forever he no longer breathes, or breathes like the newly dead, lungs and ribs crushed as no man and fight had ever done to him. Air systematically pressed out of him, top-to-bottom, squeezed out and lathered and left to dry at the beach, to be pecked on by seagulls. Does it hurt here? He imagines a doctor might ask, tapping his chest with a maul. It hurts everywhere, everywhere.
Alright, he said, and made to rise. Okay. Fine. I gotta. The rice. I'll check --
Sit your ass down.
Majima's claw hands stretched out to seize him. He had not been rigorous with trimming Majima's nails lately, and paid for them with little sickle pools of blood. The claw had as much strength as it had thirty, forty, years ago, and there was no extracting himself unless Kiryu wanted the pools to become rivers. Majima would rip skin and more of course, if he wanted his way done.
Kiryu sat.
Okay, he said. What?
You are a mistake, Majima said.
Are you trying to replace your tanto with words, Majima-no-niisan, because it's working. It is a weak attempt at humor, like all his attempts.
You sure are, that brain of yours. I swear to God, I close both eyes for a sec and you get yerself wanked out of shape. Okay, so I'm confused sometimes. My memory ain't what it was. You take this yarn, and you spin a whole damned sweater outta it and said, okay I'm wrapped in sadness now. What-the-fuck.
But, Kiryu said. But, but.
Shut the hell up. Ya confused. Okay, so I call you Kyoudai. Ever occurred to you it's because I think of you that way? Ever thought about that?
Yes, but.
Maybe I just forgot to ask, do ya think?
Okay, I did. I forgot. I didn't say, with a pretty ring and a knee - hey, wanna be important to me? Maybe I didn't want dust on my pants. I don't know. And I forgot. Un-remembered that I never did ask, and skipped to the important part, the part where you're important to me. Or maybe I called you that in my head all this while and only now that my head is splitting apart that I've gone and spilled my guts.
Kiryuuuu-chan, Kyoudai; what does it matter? Ya there, ain't ya?
Yes, but Saejima.
Who cares? Who cares?
My brain goes: here's an important person and a ramen store with pumpkin soup. Could be you, could be Saejima. How the fuck should I know who's who? Ya think I'm a genius? That's why I ask ya, hey Kiryu-chan was that you? Was that you? And you? You said yes - yes to everything. Makes me think I'm fucking senile -- all my memories are you now. Where the fuck was Saejima? Why am I brawling with you over watermelons in 1980? What-the-fuck. But you just say, yes, yes, that's me. Somebody senile here it ain't me.
Kiryu looked deep into the milky white eyes, and saw neither truth or lies. It would have been the same otherwise.
Sometimes I think--
Ehh-ehh?
He admitted in a soft small voice the things he thought of in the dark. The words were groping, seeking, beseeching. Stalled and started like an old car. Amalgamation of badly arranged thoughts and deathly worries, worried to death in his own personal hells.
Sometimes I think I'm just there as a stand-in for Saejima. Someone you waited with until your wait was over. Could be I could have been anyone, if I was strong enough to drop punches like he did.
Somebody really senile here it ain't me.
Mmmm.
Of 'Cos I liked you cuz you could drop punches like he did. What do you think I like weaklings? Don't mean I gotta let them fuck me and hold my hand on tall rides. Don't mean I gotta put up with them when they can hold liquor but not heights and spill swill all over me. I don't gotta put up with that shit. I want a good fight and a friend I don't need you, I got plenty of fools all lined up like Mahjong-tiles. Rii---chi ya get me?
I didn't stalk ya halfway across town and all the way to shithole sun-hell here 'cos you were standing in for Saejima. By-the-way you are nothing like him. Ya don't know him and I can tell you not even your ass is shaped right. Ya don't got enough fucking hair too for one, and then ya had too much. Ya know how many years I coulda have with him if I ditched your ass the moment he was out? Thirty years. The age of good whisky. Who the hell are you if I didn't want you?
I stuck with ya cuz I wanted to, and you disrespecting me when you say shit like that.
When you put it like that. Kiryu watched little pools of sickle-shaped blood, because both the sun and the glare from Majima was too much, too intense.
Damn straight I put it like that, kyou-dai, drawled long to the Nth degree. The claw hand loosened up, but Majima's other hand flew up to seize him by the neck. He was pulled down, into Majima's vortex, and they did the slow dance of a kiss and headbutt that they'd always had, almost more a fight than love. Then again with them fight and love had no distinction, no demarcation, all the same country blended up like a protein shake.
Yes, he said. I'm sorry.
Ya should be.
Mmmm.
And stop muttering in the dark. It's fucking creepy. Ya think I'm deaf? Ya keep your thoughts in your head unless I said gimme.
I didn't know I was doing that. I thought my thoughts were thoughts.
Somebody senile here it ain't me, I told ya. Ya got the legs and I don't, Kiryu-chan, and you can still lift barrels and me okay-like. But you still got the EQ of napa cabbage. Next time you do the week-long sulk, I'll ask Haruka for my damned knife, ya hear?
I'm here, Kiryu said, with a small chuckle of the greatly relieved.
Ya best don't be. Yer rice is burning, and I don't fancy myself eating burned porridge. Meat or-else. Fuck off and save the day, Kiryu-chan.
He went. The rice was burnt, unsalvageable, tripe, so in the end he celebrated the end of silence and silent grievances with meat bought 20-percent-off, cut into tiny pieces so that they could swallow it whole, like life. They burnt it badly because they were fools, and salted it overly much for their heavy palate, and because they were still not full they ate the damned awful rice, saying all the way, damn it, damn it. This damned rice that proved that water could be made as thick - no, thicker - than blood.