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The weather can’t seem to figure out what it wants to do lately. It’s been operating on an alternating schedule for around a week—rain, sun, rain, sun, rain. The past day has been sunny, but now it’s almost morning and the sky is slate-colored and the air is beginning to feel heavy. If Ide had checked the weather before he left his apartment, he might’ve brought an umbrella.
As it stands, though, he’s armed with nothing but his jacket and a Canon EOS against the likely onslaught. He faces his palm upwards for just a moment, but it comes away dry. He’s still safe for now.
Soon enough, he won’t be; soon enough, the clouds will descend upon Tokyo. It’s a sign that he should turn and head back to his apartment before he reaches the point of no return (or, before the point of no return reaches him), and he usually pays heed to warnings, but there’s an odd itching at his skin tonight that tells him to keep walking, to let the sprawling cityscape pass him like waves on a beach. Of course, the only thing that’s going to leave him drenched is the rain.
He stops long enough to take a picture of a display in a store window, fabrics in blue and gray lit brightly even though the business itself is closed. A group of youths are out of focus to the right of the building, all grins and caught in the middle of a conversation. One of them is halfway through a demonstrative gesture.
Ide is not particularly good at photography, but then, he also isn’t awful, especially for someone who’s hardly been doing it for a year, and especially for someone who didn’t think to pick it up until his early fifties. He doesn’t do it because he’s good at it, though, even if he’d certainly like to be good at it, even if he really is trying. He could say he’s doing it because he enjoys it, but “enjoy” doesn’t feel like the word he’s looking for; it’s not that he thinks it’s fun.
A sort of connection comes with it, that’s all. The longer Ide stays in his line of work and the longer he remembers the particular case that used to occupy so much of his time, the easier it is to be consumed by that whopping mass of bodies, the more the sheer number of them crowds out the physical flesh, the easier it is to think of them as a statistic. Everything is just statistics.
But that isn’t what he wants. Ide isn’t a particularly sentimental person, but that doesn’t make him unempathetic. He has his personal connections, and he values those above all, but the strangers outside contain worlds of their own. That is what he wants to remember. Besides, everything seems so quickly-changing these days, even if it’s just as much stagnant. He wants to capture moments as they are now, to preserve a blink in time here or there, just to make it all a bit easier to digest.
Matsuda has tried to make fun of him for it before, in a teasing way that’s felt commonplace for a long time now. He hasn’t come up with much. It doesn’t bother Ide either way; he’s still annoyed by his partner sometimes, but he’s also too fond for it to do any harm. Being mildly irritating from time to time is really a part of Matsuda’s charm. Accepting that fact has been liberating.
The last time Ide had seen Matsuda was a few hours ago—he hadn’t been keeping track, exactly. He had gone to bed early, leaving Ide and Aizawa up together while Ide carefully taped his newest collection of photos into his journal. Aizawa had lingered a while longer before Ide talked him into retiring for the night. Not long after that, the same restlessness that crept up on him every so often reared its head. He had glanced into their shared bedroom, found the both of them asleep, left a note, and headed out. He planned to be back within the hour, but he didn’t want to risk one of them waking up and getting worried.
As it turns out, Ide’s excursion had hit the hour mark a while ago and is only continuing to climb. Still, it’s nothing worth getting worried over; he’ll be fine. This isn’t anything new.
He feels a drop of water hit his nose and makes the reluctant decision to turn back. It doesn’t do much good, because the apartment is still a while away and, before he can get very far, there’s a distant rumble of thunder and the rain begins falling in great, heavy swaths.
Ide spots the nearest shelter and immediately seeks out refuge. It’s an oden shop run by a thin-haired woman around his age, and he’s almost amazed it’s open at this hour, especially now that it’s spring. Then again, judging by the woman’s tired experience and the posture and alcoholic stench of the two other patrons, it and its owner have been stuck like this for a while.
He gives the cook a polite greeting and makes an order, but it’s more out of decency than anything. He isn’t very hungry.
He turns his back to the shop and peers into the downpour that has so quickly materialized outside. After a moment of hesitation, Ide tilts his camera upwards at the great looming buildings around them and begins to snap pictures. A strike of lightning briefly illuminates the world around him, and he hopes he was fortunate enough to catch it.
“This storm came out of nowhere, didn’t it?” the shop owner asks pleasantly as he seats himself. “You nearly got drenched.”
“Nearly,” Ide says. His back is getting sprayed a bit as it is, but he’s counting his blessings. “I’ll be out of your hair once I can get an Uber. Sorry to trouble you.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. I appreciate your business.” Despite her words, the owner still looks fairly exhausted. She hands him his bowl before being called to attention by one of her less-sober customers. Ide pointedly places his camera on the side of him opposite his company.
He still isn’t very hungry, but he takes a few bites anyway. There’s a certain feeling, he finds, that comes with eating something warm and familiar while a storm rages on outside, and for a while he stays immobile there, gazing out into the humming street.
Then his phone rings. A quick glance at the screen tells him who it is.
“Hey.”
“Are you alright out there, Hideki?” Aizawa replies immediately, skipping past the greeting. “It’s raining cats and dogs. Are you on your way back?”
“I had just turned around when it started,” Ide answers. “I’m taking shelter for now, but I’ll head back there in a few. Is Touta awake?”
“He—”
“Yes, and I hope you get rained on. That’s what you get for being dumb!” comes Matsuda’s distant, sleepy voice.
Aizawa half-sighs-half-laughs away from the receiver. “Thank you, Touta. Anyways, Hideki, how far away are you?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been walking slowly, so it can’t have been more than a few miles. Besides, my legs aren’t as strong as they used to be.”
“‘My legs aren’t as strong as they used to be,’” Matsuda echos in a high-pitched voice.
“Shush, you,” Aizawa says with an almost audible eye roll. “Anyways, send me your location. I’ll come pick you up.”
Ide’s face warms. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. You know, I never have to do anything for you, I just want to. So I’m doing it, unless you really don’t want me to.”
“No, that’s—that’s fine. I’ll send it to you. It shouldn’t be far.”
“It’d be fine if it was. I’ll see you then, Hideki.”
“Tell him I love him before you hang up,” Matsuda interjects.
“Touta says he loves you.”
Ide glances over and finds both the owner and the other customers engaged in other conversations. He looks back out into the rain. “I love you both.”
“Yeah. I love you too. I’ll be there in a few.” Aizawa hangs up.
“That’s a nice family you’ve got there,” the great observer of a cook comments, pouring another bowl.
Ide smiles to himself and says, “It is.”
Another flash of lightning illuminates the street, dancing off the raindrops in a brief frenzy. A gust of wind tosses a few against Ide’s back, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it; after all, the storm won’t last forever. The storm never lasts forever, and when it finally ends, he’ll be well at home with the people he loves. Out of all the things that have happened over the past two decades, out of all the things that Ide has realized—and in spite of the rest of them—that is the best one. They will be there when the storm ends.