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Futakuchi can actually see where the sea begins and where the sky ends. Strange. For what seemed like years, he thought that it would be difficult to tell. But now that he’s watching the sails whip across the horizon, he feels like an idiot. All that excitement for something so… so little.
“Futakuchi, scooch over. You’re blocking the onions.”
“Huh?” He turns towards Suga, notes the angry scars crawling across his chin, up his face, and to his ears. A burn that never really healed right. Futakuchi makes a face at Suga’s half-smile, and mumbles a sorry before moving an inch.
“Mooove.” Suga bumps his hips against him, certainly a finishing blow if not buffered by their layers of clothing. “I know the sea is pretty and all, but we need food.”
He nods, but his attention was already elsewhere. Above them a seagull cries dolefully, and Futakuchi follows its shadow crawling across the pavement and then off the edge and down into the sea. Gone.
“Hey, Futakuchi.”
The bustle of the market roars in his ears. Suga in his turtleneck and his ridiculously fluffy blue overcoat come back into focus. He laughs -- a beat late -- and makes some half-thought trash comment before moving out of the way.
There’s no way Suga doesn’t notice how out of it he is, but Suga doesn’t say anything and instead draws closer to the stall to pick out a couple of the brownish-white bulbs. Not for the first time, Futakuchi finds himself grateful for Suga and his tact. It’s one of the things he likes about the guy.
Well, for now, he should try to be a little more attentive.
Already a queue of produce hangs in the air between them and the vendor, all waiting to be weighed and priced. Suga picks an onion and then raises them to catch the vendor’s attention. Futakuchi eagerly looks on as, with a wave of the vendor’s hand, the vegetable joins the others for their turn on the scale. Amazing, if he could do magic like that he wouldn’t need to carry such a heavy crate around.
Futakuchi shifts said crate in his arms, already three-quarters full. He’s sure that his poor arms were going to ache again later. If only Suga wasn’t so stingy with his own magic and didn’t stubbornly insist on the useless handles, then this wouldn’t be a problem at all.
He sniffs. Indignantly. “Is this even necessary? How long are we even going to be on the road?”
Suga hums at him as he releases a few more onions into the floating line. “Three days before our first trading point, then another three to the next town.”
“That’s a lot of time.”
“Thus, a lot of food.” Suga pats Futakuchi’s cheeks before slipping his hands in his pockets, finally satisfied with his selection. “Remember, it wouldn’t do to come empty-handed. Also, you’re a growing boy -- trainee.”
His mentor laughs just a bit louder when he rolls his eyes. “A temporary one, Suga.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t even teach me the cool things.”
“Boo,” Suga pouts. “Haven’t you heard? They always save the best for last.”
It’s not long before everything is accounted for. Suga hands over some silver and the man thanks them for their business before they go.
Futakuchi has never been so relieved to see their baby. The Baby -- the car -- is a scruffy gray thing that cried on the drive and broke down at unfortunate times. The precious but damned car is supposed to seat four, but, for some ungodly reason, it just barely gives the two of them enough leg space in the front.
As a band-aid measure, they made sure to line Rune-inscribed paper in its nooks and crannies for space and luck -- even if luck runes were more superstition than actual legitimized runes. Suga once told him that the The Academics™ don’t believe luck could be swayed by simple runes.
Currently, it is parked by the seawall in a parking lot that was empty, save for a tree in a weedy patch of ground -- nostalgic and sad, almost like himself.
Nonetheless, at the moment the Baby seems like the greatest thing since sliced bread.
“This hotdog is so good, Futakuchi.” Suga, the little shit, says and takes a bite for good measure. “It tastes like the sea.”
Honestly.
“How cruel, how horrible of you. Letting me, your growing boy of a trainee do all the work!” He scoffs, and then makes a point to roughly handle the crate. “I’m glad it’s salty.”
Completely remorseless, Suga opens the door to the backseat and grins.
Futakuchi seriously considers upending the crate all over the backseat, but ultimately, and woefully, doesn’t. Suga then hands him his hotdog and their drinks, effectively freeing himself enough to clamber up and take his usual perch on the car roof. Watching Suga for a moment, even in his ire, Futakuchi thought that Suga looked like he belonged there. There, amongst the clouds, outlined by the blue of the sky.
Lunch proceeds, as per usual, with Futakuchi learning the literal ropes of magical trade via a rope of fake unicorn hair he found on their way back to the car (this receives an approving nod from Suga). Followed by a heated debate about dried potion ingredients stored in cling-wrapped bowls (“They need room to breathe!” “Better safe than blown away.” Suga blows a raspberry.) However, their discussion on washed-up mermaid scale prices is interrupted by Suga’s phone ringing in a lively pop rendition of Puff the Magic Dragon.
Futakuchi knows Suga almost dropping his phone and nearly choking on his sweet tea is just a front to cover his blush. “It’s Daichi,” Suga says, attempting to be all factual.
Futakuchi wiggles his eyebrows.
“Oh shut up,” Suga swats Futakuchi before turning to his phone, “Hello sunshine, what can I do for you?”
The reply makes Suga frown, but he nods at the reply and also at the following ones. Maybe Suga was receiving instructions? Some mission Futakuchi won’t be privy to. He quietly observes as he finishes the remains of his hotdog and milkshake. The latter of which was chocolate, because it’s not a milkshake unless you’re thirsty afterwards.
It takes a while, but the call eventually ends and Suga knocks back the last of his tea. He squints at the horizon before slipping off the roof of the car. At this point, Futakuchi is confident enough to know that his guess is probably right.
“What’s up?” he asks anyway.
Suga throws Futakuchi an uneasy half-smile. “Ah, we’ll have to split up for the rest of our shopping.”
“You’re not taking me again.”
Suga remains silent. And it pisses him off. Futakuchi clicks his tongue. “You’re the only one who doesn’t want to take me, you know.” It irks him, all this secrecy.
“That’s not the issue,” Suga says, calm.
“Hasn’t it been a year now?“ Futakuchi said. ”Haven’t I learned enough?”
“Of course you have, and you’ve been doing wonderfu--”
“Then why not?”
“Futa--”
“Is it because of this?” Futakuchi jabs a finger on his temple.
Suga closes his mouth, waits for Futakuchi’s anger to subside. Futakuchi wanted to know why too. And why he’s so bothered over this temporary arrangement -- something that’s ultimately not his business.
“I’m an amnesiac not incompetent, so why won’t you take me?”
Suga’s shock lasts for only a few seconds before his face eases out into a frown, scrutinizing Futakuchi. It’s unnerving, the way Suga looks so out of place, like he’s both hundreds of years old and just twenty-five at once. Ash hair, like silver burning for a millenia.
It makes Futakuchi become increasingly aware of the rip in his jeans, his cloth-stuffed scruffy chucks, his sort-of ‘newness’ hidden beneath his layers of hand-me-downs. And the more the air stayed silent the more he felt like his anger was misplaced.
“It’s personal business,” Suga finally says.
Futakuchi averts his eyes and crumples the hotdog wrapper still in his hands. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Suga says, words measured. “I should have known it was bothering you.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
Suga hesitates only a little before placing a hand on Futakuchi’s shoulder, getting the latter to look up at him. “It’s not fine. You’re not supposed to feel that way.”
Before anything could be said a text alert goes off. Futakuchi doesn’t bother checking his phone. Suga looks at the notification on his, then, apologetically, at his student.
Futakuchi shakes his head, glad for the opportunity to drop the subject. “Go on, then shoo. We’ll talk later or something.“
“You’re a good kid, you know that right?”
“The best.”
Sugawara Koushi shakes his head as he walks away. “The best brat.”
Books are made of too much history. Paper and ink passing under fingertips. Thought to word to thought. Memory to page to memory. All that jazz.
This is a mistake. Futakuchi thinks as he traces titles on spines, slowly, carefully. Slats of light track dust motes trailing towards shelves. The heavy hush of silence magnifies his buzzing thoughts.
He doesn’t know what went through him. Let’s kill time researching magical artifacts, I said. It’ll be fun, I said. Bullshit. He pinches his nose. As far as he knows he isn’t the studying type. Maybe he should just redo his errands in a different order, or rearrange their trunk for the nth time. Anything to occupy his mind and his hands.
Whatever possessed him to swing by the bookshop should feel free to leave him now. Or else he was going to look through their supplies of banishing and exorcism supplies and figure something out. And he doesn’t want to know what idiocy he’s capable of getting himself i--
“I think this one will interest you.”
Futakuchi swears and swears his heart jumps into the nether. When he turns to face his almost-murder, he doesn’t expect a droopy-eyed man with a slow lazy smile. Dark hair, good face, clearish skin. It’s always the unassuming ones that hide the darkest secrets.
The man shifts, but doesn’t wither under his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Did I startle you?”
“No. I’m used to strange voices giving free book recommendations,” Futakuchi says. “Sadly, I don’t like books.”
The man’s expression turns unreadable. Impassive, he turns over the book to read the cover. “A History of Dragons: Discovering Identities through the Past.”
He pauses, gauging Futakuchi’s reaction before continuing. ”It’s pretty relevant, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
In lieu of an answer, he slides his hands over the hardcover and flips through the pages, revealing glimpses of colored illustrations -- of wings, claws, fires, and burns. Then, he stops on the portrait of a man with silver hair staring ahead before closing the book. There were no scars.
“By the way,” he says, offering him the book. “My name is Ennoshita.”
The man named Ennoshita had a smile on his face. Amicable. Nervous. As if he told a joke and was waiting for Futakuchi to laugh and reply with the punchline. Was this a local custom kind of thing? Tough luck, though. He has horrible memory.
“Futakuchi,” he says, taking it. “Are you from here?”
The confusion must have shown on his face because Ennoshita’s face fell. At least, Futakuchi thinks it did.
Maybe the shadows are playing tricks or it’s just clouds with good-timing. Suddenly, in the half-light, Futakuchi realizes that Ennoshita is waiting for something. Not a joke, but for him. But there’s nothing. Futakuchi won’t remember anything.
Ennoshita continues looking and looking and looking. The weight of his stare is so expectant that Futakuchi can’t help but feel the same.
Time to run. Today is cursed.
Futakuchi laughs the most awkward laugh in recent memory. “Thanks for the book!” He turns, but Ennoshita catches his wrist.
“Wait, please.” He says.
Inhale. Exhale. “Okay, you’re weirding me out, but okay?”
He waits for the dreaded words. Maybe some sort of pleading, but there’s no reply. He turns to see Ennoshita pursing his lips, like he’s about to puke. Then, inexplicably, he lets go. Smile up. Mask-like.
“Forgive me, Futakuchi. It’s just” -- an exhale -- “you remind me of someone I know.” Ennoshita laughs, just under his breath, and a hand goes into his pocket and stays there. Clenching and unclenching within the fabric.
Futakuchi somehow pulls a smile from somewhere, straining his cheeks. “First time someone’s said so.”
They laugh, and it’s a hollow sound that does nothing but strain and pull.
It’s only after he bought the book and left the bookstore that Futakuchi allows himself to breathe easy.
To say that his trip to the bookstore put a damper on his already downer mood would be an understatement. The evening turned everything crooked and lonesome. The sea became cold and dark and dead.
Their position near a line of restaurants trailing the seawall is too bright, too carefree. Suga keeps vigil by his side. Occasionally throwing him worried looks, but nothing more.
The night wears on, as it does, second by excruciating second.
Futakuchi knows that he’s being quite unfair. Suga just came back from whatever his business was to him and the book. The latter of which, Suga immediately recognized and was just as quickly and even more apologetic over. The jig was up -- one of the jigs was up. Who knew what else was going to fall into his lap.
Futakuchi breaks the silence. “When were you going to tell me?”
Suga spares him a glance, relieved. “Soon. But I didn’t plan on soon being today. The timing felt off.”
“It’s always off,” He says.
He considers his teacher’s past, it’s every bit a mystery to Futakuchi as his own. Suga’s scarred face is a visible reminder to both of them and to everyone else too, that something special happened. That there was a story, mundane or not, that left a permanent mark on him.
Why was he so angry?
An approaching shadow blocks his periphery and the rest of his thoughts -- Ennoshita. Of course. The sight of him spurns the fitful unnameable block clanging hollowly in his stomach. Nothing, nothing, nothing, it cries.
“Futakuchi, fancy meeting you here.” He says.
Suga hardly looks at his mentee’s face when he stands between him and the stranger, “what can I do for you?”
“I’m not here for you.” Ennoshita is nonplussed. “We met at the bookstore earlier. I was wondering if you had any plans with Futakuchi.”
“If you have any business here, it’s with me.”
“Hmm. You’re not his keeper.”
Suga’s smile is electric -- the thin edge of a knife. ”Not any more than you are.”
It’s silent only for a tense moment, because Futakuchi jumps to his feet and blocks Suga from view. Better end this before things got out of hand. It even seemed like they forgot he was there. “You need to talk to me?”
Ennoshita nods slowly. “In private. I’ll be quick.”
“Wait he’s--”
“Don’t eat dinner without me!” Futakuchi interrupts, half-walking half-jogging away from Suga before he can object further.
“Is that fine?” Ennoshita says, trailing behind him.
He shrugs off the feeling of daggers on his back. No doubt, Suga was cursing at him in his mind. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Nodding, Ennoshita takes the lead and walks them into an alley filled with enough dim lighting and despondent props to be theatrical. Wow. Suspicious, if not for the view of a distant Suga dejectedly waiting for him to come back.
Futakuchi snorts. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you about strangers and alleyways?”
Ennoshita’s laugh is as resonant as an inch of paper (which is to say, it isn’t). “We’re not really strangers.”
“Sure,“ he raises his eyebrows. ”And we were lovers in a past life.”
Ennoshita drags a hand down his face, before he reaches into his pocket. Futakuchi’s instincts tell him to run, but Ennoshita holds up a photo before he can.
“Please,” He says. “Believe me.”
There’s a single fold line, stark white against the faded colors of the photo. Two men have an arm slung around each other’s shoulders as they sit on the counter of some bar. They were smiling. They were wearing identical uniforms in various states of minor disarray -- almost as if they just got off work. Futakuchi recognized they were military -- based on the pin sitting proudly on their lapel. A dragon eating its own tail.
“Your name,” he ventures. “Is Futakuchi Kenji, we--”
“Stop. Please. Give me room to think.”
Futakuchi never found an opportunity to properly and thoroughly examine Ennoshita, but now, with the picture in his hands, it seemed unavoidable. Maybe even stupid, that Futakuchi only now sees the sagging of his shoulders. Sees that his smiles are lethargic rather than lazy. That the Ennoshita in the picture was the face the long-gone Futakuchi would have known. And that, ultimately, that Futakuchi would know this Ennoshita.
“We...” Ennoshita falters at Futakuchi’s look. “We were friends.”
He could learn it all again.
“And if you’ll allow me to, I can help you.”
Futakuchi scans the picture. Again, again, again.
He closes his eyes. What would that be like? Reclaiming some form of that past he lost. What about the tenuous already-breaking peace he held in his hands? What would he do with it?
Would he trade one kind of peace for another?
“They say that when someone magics away their memories, their past must have been horrible and unbearable for one person to carry.”
He waits for a reply, but Ennoshita is silent.
“Until today, my name has always been Futakuchi. Just Futakuchi,” He says, as he looks over at his mentor, at the faint far figure with the unmistakable head of silver. “They found me with only half a name and the clothes on my back. I bet you didn’t know that.”
There was also no way for Ennoshita to know about the grave he dug with a garden spade in the middle of the night. Or of the tarnished metal he threw into the junkyard. No way he could understand what those first few weeks were like.
“You knew me, Ennoshita. I did things on my own terms,” Futakuchi says. “It’s always been my choice.”
It takes a while before a reply is had, and even then it was barely a whisper, “yeah.”
“Of course, you always do. You’ve always been a jerk.” Futakuchi watches as Ennoshita’s face crumples into a smile. On the verge of tears, maybe, but it was genuine. In the end there was nothing to do, and Futakuchi could not speak for the dead.
Futakuchi offers back the photo -- a peace offering. “Thank you, for my name.”
Ennoshita only looks at his hand, outstretched in the middle of space. “Keep it for me?” He says. “To remember me by.”
And then, despite themselves, because there was nothing else to do, they laugh. A low shared laughter, almost like an inside joke.
But Futakuchi does keep the picture. They’re both fools after all. Sad hopeless fools.
They didn’t talk that night. Not yet. And probably won’t, not for a while.
When he told Suga his name, Suga smiled and asked him what he preferred to be called.
When he showed Suga the picture, Suga made no comment, and he was grateful. There were secrets ready to break through the surface between them. And they would do so when they wanted to.
Now, they were standing barefoot on the seawall, their backs to the empty lot. The sky and the sea bled into each other as the dawn arrived.
“Suga, we don’t really need to swim.”
“You want to do it, don’t lie,” Suga said, hands on his hips. “You kept bringing it up on our way here.”
“What can we do? I’m forgetful.”
Laughter bubbled out, unbidden, free.
“Hush, you wanted to swim right? Now’s the time.”
“You go first.”
Suga rolled his eyes playfully, but he went and jumped anyway. He’s enveloped in blue flames within a second, his body lengthening then arcing then twisting into a silver serpentine dragon. It caught the dawn in its scales. All sunsets and light burning white hot, even as shadows seeped into the dark crevice running from its maw to its belly.
“Suga, you show off!”
The dragon twirled in the sky, almost as if it were laughing. Your turn, it said. Your secrets, your past, they’re yours to find. Where will you go looking?
The future, thought Futakuchi Kenji. Then, he jumped.