Chapter Text
the bank of yokohama
i.
Akaashi Keiji had been born, and always assumed he would inevitably die, in the hustle and bustle of Tokyo city streets. It was something he blamed his parents for when he was younger and forced to zip through towns alone on long train rides to school, but now he was growing into adulthood he could appreciate what made them settle down in a place like this; job prospects. There was little else it could be, after all, unless they had a secret passion for transport links and detestation of natural greenery.
Buildings stretched to the skies, barely visible from the station's shelter as Keiji switched the hand holding his briefcase to free his sore fingers, loosening the knot of his tie with the other.
The train should be here any minute. His phone buzzed in the pocket of his slacks and he dragged an achy arm to pull it free.
Okaasan
(19:29) Could you please grab some tomatoes on your way back? We’ve just run out
In all honesty Keiji didn’t want to spend a second longer in getting home than he had to, but there was no way he could say no to his mother. It was perhaps one of the downsides of still living at home.
Keiji
(19:30) of course
Waiting times between trains weren’t too bad regardless. An extra half an hour home, maybe, if he was fast. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to make a detour at all- the convenience store near their flat probably sold them. But if they were out… Keiji didn’t want to risk it. He just accepted with a sigh and slid the phone back into his pocket.
The train rumbled into the station and a shoal of people fled from the open doors, quickly replaced by the idle men and women previously lining the platform, pushing to be sure the train would not leave without them. Keiji stepped on politely but did not take a seat. It wouldn’t be long until he had to get off and even though his back ached and his body begged for a seat it was prudent he stood. He would never get up otherwise.
There was a better view of the window from here anyway, standing shoulder to shoulder with a man in a black blazer and a woman with a child strapped to her front, both with their heads craned over their phones. Keiji shimmied the briefcase to his front self-consciously and held onto the railing with one hand, the glossy logo on the front shining bright under the fluorescent light glare. Bank of Yokohama. How official.
Finding a job had been more difficult than he anticipated, primarily because his parents were highly concerned with Keiji making good links to safeguard a secure position in the future, and so that narrowed his prospects down to three sectors; business, law or medicine. As the one with the least prerequisites and most branches, Keiji decided to try his hand at banking. He was clever enough, and the job was just dull enough to keep his parents quietly proud.
And, ultimately, it wasn’t what he did that mattered- it was the size of the pay-check in the lockbox at the end of every calendar month, a number which increased incrementally with every slip he received. He was good at his job and getting better every day. Perhaps in four years he would get promoted. Some days that was the only thing that kept him going.
Therefore, Keiji justified, it did not matter if his back ached after an eleven-hour shift in a Yokohama branch just off the edge of Tokyo, and it did not matter how little desire he had to wake up each and every day. Life’s daily sludge didn’t matter; the immediate tumble into bed and the cash slipping into higher numbers he knew he wouldn’t touch for years.
Today didn’t matter because Keiji could ignore today if it meant he would be happier tomorrow. One more day and he would rest. Just one more day, for twelve more years, just until he secures some corporate promotion that lets him have two days off a week without a blemish on his credit score and then he could enjoy the work he has been slowly mounting for years.
Keiji didn’t want a day off anyway, didn’t need one. He found life was better enjoyed when he didn’t have the time to think.
The evening sun peeked through the grubby train window, illuminating all its tired passengers in dusky pink. Someone had scratched the word pornslut into the glass and now the etching filled with light. Then the interval between buildings disappeared as they re-entered the city and the sun disappeared entirely, replaced by thick concrete slabs and metal panes reaching up.
Keiji didn’t need a day off. That ten second gap of light in his day was enough.
—
There was no lift in their building so Keiji had no option but to climb the stairs to their fifth-floor apartment, though there was always someone behind the front desk to exchange pleasantries with right as he approached home. Today it was a man who was balding ever-slightly at his temples and had deep crows feet beside either dark-brown eye. He never gave Keiji his surname, only his given one, so Keiji had taken to calling him Mr Hideo or Hideo, sir.
Mr Hideo rested his crossed arms on the desk just beside his computer, slouching down further when Keiji made eye contact. Hideo eyed the paper grocery bag he carried with the briefcase.
“Some late-night shopping, Akaashi?”
“Nothing exciting, just tomatoes.”
Hideo laughed. Keiji slowed his pace just to humour the small talk. Then Hideo’s laugh stopped as he eyed Keiji’s face.
“You’ve not been back before eight in weeks, sir. Not a day off.”
Immediately Keiji curled in on himself, the way he was so often prone to. “Work has been hectic recently.”
“They didn’t offer you even a weekend off?”
“That would be illegal.”
“So you’ve turned them down?”
Keiji forced a small laugh. The conversation was erring towards a more serious tone he often sidestepped. “I don’t get paid on the days I don’t work, Hideo-san. I don’t hate my job. I think my time is better spent there than elsewhere.”
“Forgive me, Akaashi-san, perhaps I am overstepping,” Hideo said, which was the first sign Keiji took to start walking to the stairwell, to feign looking for his keys in his blazer jacket. “You’re so young. There’s more to life than bills and bank statements. You can’t- have you even reached your twenties?”
“I’m twenty-one.”
Hideo sounded exasperated. “These are the years you’re meant to drink yourself silly and tell people you love them at two am and not go to bed and to see what the world really has to offer you. The bags beneath your eyes are darker than most of the elderly here. Save the twelve-hour shifts to your thirties-”
“I have to go, Hideo-san,” Keiji interrupted. There were only so many pleasantries he had in himself each working day. “I need to be up at seven.”
Hideo could take a hint. It was what they paid him to do. Sighing, he crossed his arms and rested them once again on the cold marble. “It’s Aiko’s shift tomorrow. I’ll see you on Saturday, sir.”
“Have a good evening, Hideo-san.”
And then Keiji was climbing that industrial staircase and the briefcase was dully thudding against his thigh, and he sincerely hoped he had not squashed the tomatoes in his haste. Outside their door, apartment 509, Keiji searched for the key in his pocket. Not for the first time he wished for a keychain to shave down those few wasted seconds, but once he finally jimmied the door open and flicked on the fluorescent lighting he noticed his mother sat on one of their kitchen stools, wrapped in a dressing gown which she held shut with crossed arms. Her attention was directed his way before he even had the time to shuck off his shoes at the entrance.
“I got the tomatoes,” he called out up the hall. She didn’t respond.
Akaashi Mariko was, perhaps for most people, somewhat of a forgettable woman. Even to Keiji she sometimes faded from the edge of his mind (and his memories, too, where he sometimes struggled to remember if she was there on that particular day until he caught a glimpse of her shoes in a photograph). Keiji thought it had something to do with her reserved nature which, in contrast to most of the quiet people Keiji had met in his life, failed to make her mysterious and instead left her bland. If she had any vaulting interests she never showed them. Her side of the bedroom was devoid entirely of personality.
Keiji hung his jacket on the rack and left his briefcase by the door and his mother watched him walk through the open kitchen door. He dropped the bag on the counter and moved to make a mug of coffee. “Would you like one?” He offered, but shut the cupboard before she answered.
“No, thank you.” She never did.
“How was work?”
“Tiring,” she responded, and Keiji clinked a spoon around the mug. All the ware in their kitchen matched- white with black trimmings- and the mug was identical to the other three in the cabinet, bar the brown ring at the top. “I don’t know what Danai-san wants from me. Honestly, I just want to go to bed.”
“Why don’t you?”
“It’s not even eight.”
“So?”
“If I go to bed now I’ll be up at four.”
“You could just go back to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep my life away, Keiji.”
Keiji shrugged. He thought it might make her laugh but instead she narrowed her eyes at him. Keiji took the tie off from around his neck.
“Are you working tomorrow, too?” She asked.
“Yeah.”
“When’s your next day off?”
“Why?” He enquired. “Are you planning something?”
She brushed a piece of mousy hair off her shoulder. It had escaped from its low ponytail. “No. Just want to know.”
“I get my schedule fortnightly. I only know my availability until Saturday.”
“Well you must have accrued some holiday with how much you’ve been working- why don’t you take it?”
“I don’t need to.”
“I worry about you Keiji. I’m so proud of you for putting so much time into the world of work, of course I am, but look at your face, your eyes.” If she was a pinch more affectionate she may have reached for his chin or his arm, but she wasn’t. “I’ve been talking to Hideo on my way to the hospital and he’s noticed too. How early you’ve been leaving, how late you’ve been coming home.”
Keiji stayed silent. He found it was the best way to deal with his parents while waning off any unnecessary fights. She continued.
“Just because I’m not always here doesn’t mean I don’t notice.”
“Okaa-san,” he tried to pour as much emotion into his voice as he could but found the well ran dry. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
She was tight-lipped, tapping her nails on the hardwood counter. It was a nervous gesture Keiji had either inherited or learned. When Keiji didn’t move to say anything else she stood from her seat and tucked it in behind herself.
“I’m heading to bed. I’ve left your food in the microwave.”
She switched the overhead light off, almost as though she had forgotten Keiji was there, and he was left alone in the flickering dim of the kitchen lamp. Retrieving the lukewarm bowl of donburi from the microwave he took a seat at the counter and ate in silence. His phone would not stop vibrating, all messages from his work group chat (a new starter was beginning tomorrow and they were discussing who she would be shadowing) and though he tried to ignore them, to have one work-free evening, he found himself inexplicably reading through.
TBOY - Tokyo Branch. Exec. Chat.
Tsubasa (08:12) Rotas will be posted Saturday. Please contact me with availability if you have not already.
Harada (9:27) is Watanabe late or is he off sick?
Tsubasa (9:38) sick
Sasaki (12:23) Cash office havent arrived yet.
Tsubasa (12:26) ok
Tsubasa (20:21) Hi all. Just a reminder for those who weren’t in today that we have a new starter tomorrow under the name Futami. She’ll be arriving at 10 and I’m going to take her on a prompt tour of the premises, but then she will be paired off with somebody for the next week. She interned at ShinGinko so she’s not completely clued out. I’ll be adding her to the chat tomorrow.
Kimura (20:45) She? I didn’t know women could do math LOL
Kana (20:46) oh I hope shes fit
Eita (20:48) theres gonna be office fights over her now good job chief
Yoshida (20:51) lmao she can read these messages tomorrow you know
They continued to load through, although they were entirely unconcerned with Keiji as he wasn’t even of a position that could be shadowed, acting as little more than an intern himself. He did worry for a moment, though, of who she would possibly be paired with.
Banking was an overwhelmingly male-dominant field, and of that most of the men Keiji knew there were well over the age of forty. And, he couldn’t help but note, married. Keiji kept almost entirely to himself but he couldn’t bat away the fear that these were the people he surrounded himself with. Close-minded, arrogant mathematicians.
But the money was good. As always, he would thank himself in the long run.
He scrubbed a hand over his face as though it could wipe away the long day he had and rinsed his plate off in the sink, shirt drawn up to the elbows so it wouldn’t soak in the sudsy water.
It was just a day of thousands. Nothing about it was memorable- his days never were. The sooner he went to bed the sooner it would be tomorrow, and the sooner it was tomorrow the sooner he would be forty and it would all have been worth it.
The suit was off the moment he was in his bedroom, dark blue and impersonal. There was one small window the shape of a box by his bed but it was too dark to let anything in beside the fuzzy orange streetlight, but even so Keiji’s room was pointed directly at the side of some brick building. Almost entirely he was shut in the dark.
—-
As Hideo-san mentioned, he was not at the desk in the morning. In his place was Aiko-san, a woman with tightly wound blonde curls and eyes so dark they looked as though they might absorb sunlight. However she was erring on her forties and the rising sun made her soft.
“Three on, three off,” she explained to him once how her shifts worked. Keiji had tried to track her days when he was younger but had never quite figured out the pattern. “I work for three days, then I have three days off.”
She also wasn’t the only one in the building. Aiko-san would get a break at some point in the day and Abe-san would cover her (a man with hair white as snow) until she inevitably made her way back.
That was who was there when Keiji trudged home from work (only an eight-hour shift today, and with an hour-long break). Abe-san. Of the concierge he was one of the ones Keiji liked the least, and so he exchanged little more than a nod and hello, oh it's warm out before taking the stairs one by one.
Though his days all blurred into one the ache in Keiji’s thighs was very much real and somewhat impossible to ignore. Cars and horns could be heard from outside, shouting and music and general city ambience. Everywhere he went was so full of it, noise, that he almost missed it when he stepped over the threshold of their two-bed apartment. As always it was eerily silent and he could make out the shape of his mother over the counter.
“Evening,” he called out to her. It always felt rude to kick off his shoes and not yell out some sort of greeting, even though she never called back. Today was no different. She sat in solemn silence, back towards him as he dropped the briefcase and pulled off his jacket.
“Have you eaten?” He asked as he toed his way to the kitchen, opening cupboards and pausing at the bowls. There were only three in the cupboard so she must have used one already. Then he remembered the shattered mess it left on the kitchen tile less than a week before. Keiji stalled for merely a moment, before forcing his tongue to continue. “I’m just thinking of making something easy, though. Ramen maybe. I’m so tired from work, and I still need to take a shower-”
But when he turned to face his mother he saw where all the silence stemmed from.
White paper gleaned up at them from beneath dyed-blue pleather, tightly bound by two black strings. His mothers' eyes were flickering between the paper and her son.
“Did you read my diary?” His heart escaped into his words. He could hear it. “That’s private.”
Instead of answering his question she cleared her throat and continued reading from the page she was on.
“March seventeenth,” her crisp voice read, and he could hear emotion slipping out from her mask too. “‘Sometimes I wonder if this is all I have to offer the world- hunched over a desk just like four thousand other men, solving simple equations and counting bills and developing onset arthritis before I turn thirty. Because that’s what my life is, and I am unsure how to escape it besides the obvious answer. And I have contemplated that option, deeply, and at length. It’s difficult not to, sometimes, especially on that train ride home. It would be so easy.’” She cut herself off, slipping her eyes up to her son's sallow face. “Does that sound familiar, Keiji? ”
Keiji was rooted to his spot in the kitchen, bowl clutched tight to his chest as if it could keep his heart from laying dead on the table. He tried to be angry, because if he wasn’t furious he would cry. Nothing in the world was more humiliating than having your private words read aloud to you. “You weren’t meant to read that-”
“‘ March 27 t ,’' she said instead, louder, and Keiji had no choice but to shut his eyes against it. Fuck. “‘ I don’t think I want to die. Perhaps I don’t enjoy life but that's only because I am at the hard bit, the impasse, at the work before the reward. I don’t want to die. Rather I would like to sleep for twenty years and wake up when all of this is over, when I can live in a home without my parents and not worry about what I’ll do in the middle of the night without them there.’”
“I said I didn’t want to do it-”
“‘ That’s when it’s most appealing,’ ” she continued, firm. “‘ At night.’”
Keiji vacated himself. With careful hands he scooped the emotion out of himself and flung it through the window. It was the only way he would be able to look at his mother again after all this.
“What the fuck is this, Keiji?”
Keiji assumed the question was rhetorical. He couldn’t have answered it anyway. Instead he fixed his gaze on the moon, a swell just inside his periphery just large enough to focus on.
“You want to kill yourself?”
His voice came out smaller than he wanted it to. “No.”
“Then what is this?”
“They’re just thoughts.”
“Just thoughts about- about flinging yourself in front of trains?”
Keiji remained quiet.
This was what he liked to do when he felt too much. Succumbing to numbness and running away within his own head was the only thing that made the pain bearable.
He wasn’t going to deal with this. Not with her. He needed to go to bed.
“Keiji, this isn’t nothing. This is serious.” She sounded exasperated. “I thought you were better-”
“Stop.”
“Have you been to a doctor?”
“I don’t need to go to a doctor, mom. I just need- I need to eat dinner and sleep and I need to-”
“Go back to work?”
He could hear it laced in her words. The bite. It was then he realised just how cornered he was.
“I like work.”
“It doesn’t sound like you do.”
“I- I need to work, okay? I’m thinking ahead.”
“Future you can’t thank you if he’s not around.”
“You make it sound like-”
But his words fizzled out. The look on his mother's face was written plainly.
Grief. Worry.
She had gotten out of her chair at some point and even though they were separated by a counter she felt closer. It was harder to keep her out.
“Keiji. This isn’t a thing we can ignore.”
Part of him was so angry she had gone through his things while he was away, had read through his most private and personal thoughts, and part of him just wanted this whole thing to be over.
He couldn’t make eye contact. The window was so far away. “I just want to go to bed.”
“We need to make an appointment with the doctor. Maybe they can give you something to make all of this go away.”
The thought churned his stomach. Something chemical changing the way he saw the world.
“No. No.”
“Then, Keiji, I want you to talk to Tsubasa-san and take out your holiday hours. Immediately.”
“Why?”
“Are you seriously asking that?”
Something in her tone suggested she wasn’t joking, and that no part of what she was saying was to be taken lightly. In fact, he hadn’t ever seen her so serious in his life.
And he himself had never felt so tired. It was near impossible to swallow around the golf ball-sized lump in his throat.
When the words didn’t come out, he nodded. Defeat tasted like bile on his tongue.
His mother gestured towards the door. “Go to sleep Keiji.”
She sounded exhausted.
He didn’t even ask for the diary back when he left, but he hadn’t had to worry about her reading through it further. When he turned around her head was firmly placed in her hands.
—
Tsubasa was not as bothered by Keiji’s disappearance as he thought he might be.
“You’ve got three weeks of holiday accrued under statutory pay, so all of those will be fully embursed under your contract. You can also put forth a request for further time off after this period but these weeks will go unpaid, if they’re approved at all.”
“I won’t want more than three weeks,” Keiji said. Tsubasa shrugged. His spectacles gleamed in the light.
“Alright, then. If you fill in this form-” he slid it across the desk, “-then drop that in the box outside. I'll have it approved by tonight. Before the rotas go up. Usually we ask for two weeks' notice but we’ve enough workers for next week, and I appreciate that you came and asked in person.”
“Thank you, Tsubasa-sama. Sorry for the hassle.”
As Tsubasa had already said, the holiday was approved by that evening.
Leaving the office on Saturday almost made him wistful. Though they were so dull in their complexion, a place designed to pull sweat from working men and cause as little inspiration as possible, he couldn’t help but feel minorly upset that he wouldn’t see this place for almost another month. Coming in had become a thing so mundane he could work with his eyes closed, not even needing to think before stepping onto the 7:29 train.
It wasn’t going anywhere. He’ll be back in a few weeks.
Why was he even getting sad?
His mother waited up for him as usual, but this time it was not out of curiosity or care, but to make sure the holiday had been approved the moment he stepped in the door.
“Did you ask Tsubasa-san?” Keiji could tell she thought the answer would be no, and that that was where she was prepared for the conversation to be heading. Already she was riled up.
“Yes,” Keiji said instead. “Three weeks off from Monday. It’s all I had for the year.”
“It’ll do you good to have this time off. It might not seem like it, Keiji, but I promise you it will.”
“Mm.”
All he wanted was to go to bed. It was all he ever wanted these days.
But his mother clinked her nails against the counter, and when Keiji stepped over to prepare a late dinner she slid something over towards him.
“ Miyazu,” Keiji read aloud, then looked up to his mother. “A postcard?”
On the front was a picture of a place Keiji distantly recognised visiting in childhood but somewhere he hadn’t been in years. Mountains of lush green and sprawling blue lakes, tiny cottage houses and warm yellow sun in the top corner. How idyllic.
“Read the back.”
He flipped it over. In a scrawl he didn’t recognise it said,
Akaashis!
Its ever so nice here! You need to visit more- especially now!
Warm hugs always, grammy and gramps.
Keiji cocked an eyebrow at the message and noticed how yellow-stained the edges were.
“How old is this?”
“I dug it out from Hidemi’s things. His parents moved there a while back- I don’t know if you remember visiting.”
“I guess.”
“They’re getting old, you know, your grandparents.”
Keiji realised all at once the meaning of it all.
The time off work. The postcard. The mention of his father.
“No,” he said and tossed the card back onto the table, picture-side up. “Mom, no.”
“It’ll be a nice break away from this all. Think of it as a nice holiday.”
“I’m an adult. I don’t need you to meddle.”
“And I’m your mother,” her tone was final. “I called them up last night. They’ve not seen you in years, Keiji. Think how happy this will make them. You could help them out around the farm, maybe go visit the sea, just have a break from it all. Have a break from here. They miss you.”
There was so little he could say about any of this.
“When am I going?”
“This isn’t the end of the world, Keiji. You could be a little more excited.” When Keiji didn’t reply she sighed. “Tuesday.”
Keiji nodded small, imperceptible. “I’ll take the train there.”
“I don’t mind driving you-”
“You’ve got work. I don’t mind going alone.”
It was as obvious as he could make it without being rude. She seemed to take it, nodding.
Keiji put the bowl he had pulled back into the cupboard. He wiped the front of his hands down his slacks to free some invisible dirt.
“I feel I should better start packing.”
“You haven’t eaten-”
But he had shut the door before she could finish.
He wanted a moment alone. He just needed a second to breathe.
Sometimes it was difficult to see the world as anything but bleak. Especially on days such as today, which was meant to be the start of Keiji’s escape and yet began with blankets of rain.
Literature loved things like that- symbolism. Signs from the world that coincided with thoughts and feeling, the sky opening up when Keiji is at a low. By the time he got to the train station his clothes were sticking to the lines of his back and his two bags of clothes were soaked the way through.
His mother was meant to come and say goodbye to him (which was the sole reason Keiji chose a train as early as this) but she received a call into work before she could drop him off.
“Sorry, Keiji,” she said, hurried in the doorway. She wrapped a brief arm around his neck in an imitation hug while simultaneously trying to avoid being late. “You’re going to enjoy it, okay? Give it a week. If you still hate it at the end of the week, call me and you can come home. But leave it a week, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Love you. Safe travels.”
It was at least a four-hour journey. Keiji had been on longer but used to the frequent Tokyo links he hadn’t been on one over an hour in nearly six years.
The crowded train lost passengers at every stop. An hour deep into the journey and almost nobody was left in his carriage besides a father and his sleeping son six seats over.
Just outside the window the whole world unfurled. It was bizarre how in just under an hour he had been transported into an almost entirely new world- one free of concrete and instead birthing dark green bustles and plumes of yellow flowers, skies so blue and vast Keiji could see why people once thought the world was flat and why people thought it was whole now. White watercolour clouds in the sky and, every now and again, a brick station they would pull into so people could leave the carriage.
How different it was from his train rides home, which Keiji now saw as nothing more than a wasteful interlude digging into the time he could be asleep, or eating, or working. He slid his headphones into his ear and was listening to soft dulcet tones of nineties bands (his favourites) and old-times ballads as trees whipped past the windows. It provided a mellow moment for thought.
He hadn’t seen his grandparents for so long he could almost have forgotten their faces. Already he couldn’t recall their house. What if they hated him? It was plausible. The last time they saw Keiji he was barely in school, a child impossible to dislike because of his perfected manners and permanent politeness. Now he was an adult, and worse, he was one who had decided a while ago that he would rather just serve his time and go. He wasn’t the child they would visit in Tokyo and he wasn’t the boy who would run along the white-sand beaches and squeal his happiness for the heavens.
He hadn’t always been this way. Those visits were a reminder that though he was quiet and reserved and preferred to keep to himself, he was happy. He was still happy now, even if others thought he wasn’t.
This was all he had to do to prove it. Spend three weeks with his grandparents and then his mom would let him go back to work and he would keep his diary somewhere safer next time.
They were going to meet him at the train station. That’s what his mother said. And then they would drive him the half-hour or so drive to the village they lived at which, if Keiji remembered correctly, couldn’t have been too far from the coast at all. It was relieving to know he wouldn’t have to walk, at least.
From there the scenery changed so gradually until Keiji almost missed it entirely. Verdant hills and mountains off in the distance, the slow pull of ocean tides in and out and back in. Over the intercom the train announced we are now approaching Miyazu station. Please bring all belongings with you before you exit the carriage. Thank you for travelling with us.
Keiji took his bags in both hands and began to walk up the carriage, watching the station blur into view as the surroundings slowed to a stop. A wave of heat hit him as soon as he stepped out into the Miyazu air.
When he exited out the barriers it took only a moment before he located his grandparents in the crowd. It was almost shameful to admit, but he had almost overlooked them entirely. Just like his mother they blended into crowds easily, something of the air of them almost forgettable. He thought they almost missed him, too, which was understandable- he had always looked more like his father.
“Keiji!” His grandmother called out, and before he could comprehend it her arms were wrung tight around his neck.
“Obaasan.”
The last time Keiji saw Grandma Kana her hair had been more black than grey, but over the years that ratio had shifted. Now there was very little that wasn’t grey. Her face hung in fat wrinkles and she barely reached his shoulders in height. Otherwise she was as he remembered- portly and maternal and somewhat absent.
“It’s nice to see you, Keiji. Gawsh, how you’ve grown,” said Grandpa Daigo as Keiji was shifted from one set of arms to the next.
He was taller, with wide-set eyes and a prominent chin, though smile lines were worn deep into his cheeks. His skin was deeply tanned from a lifetime of the sun.
“You too, Ojisan.”
“Ojisan?” He laughed. His belly wobbled with it. “Gah, Keiji. You’re so formal!’
“Sorry, Ojisan.”
Daigo laughed again. Keiji nearly flushed. “No need to apologise, son. You’ve always been polite, even when you were little. Used to get compliments on it all the time youse did.”
Both of them had thick regional accents, softening their words together and rounding their consonants into elongated sounds, almost as if their teeth didn’t touch when they spoke. It was so different from the harsh chatter of Tokyo. He didn’t know if it was a Miyazu thing or just a them thing, as there were few other people in the train station beside a ticket lady and an underage woman selling drinks for discounted prices.
“These all your things?” Kana asked, swooping to pry the two bags from Keiji’s hands. “Pack light, dont’cha? Though I s’ppose you’re only a little one.”
Keiji was almost six foot, and Kana couldn’t have been five-four. His height was something he had certainly inherited from his fathers' side.
“I can carry my own bags-” he tried to offer, but Kana had already turned around.
“Nonsense. Can’t have guests doin’ all the work here. Don’t want’cha to go telling that mother of yours that youse had a bad time.”
Daigo was leading them out the station to his incredibly tiny, incredibly-old and incredibly-orange car. Though they had said he packed light, Keiji was worried about the bags fitting in the back. However, after a moment, Keiji realised the car didn’t have a trunk at all, and instead Daigo laid the bags out over the backseat.
“Front seat, Keiji?” Kana offered him.
He opened his mouth, and then shut it, dry as sand. “I’d prefer the back, if that's okay with you.”
“You sure? Ya’ got long legs on you. Don’t want you getting cramped back there.”
He was shaking his head before the words came out. “I’d rather be with my things.”
Kana shrugged. “Suit cha’self.”
She shimmied into the small vehicle and Daigo took a seat in the driver's side. Ambling, Keiji picked his way into the backseat, crammed in tight between his bags. Kana was right; the car was small enough that he had to draw his knees close to his body to accommodate his long legs.
Keiji tried to keep his breathing calm but the air was so humid he could taste heat on his tongue. It went right to the back of his throat.
“How far is your place?” Keiji asked as Daigo started the ignition. It took a few attempts. Kana met his eyes in the mirror, which had assorted air fresheners and dice and a little t-rex hanging off it.
“Maybe half an hour out? We don’t live in this bit, we’re in a little village a bit off from here. But it’s pretty there too, Keiji, trust!”
Keiji nodded. He could last half an hour. He had the windows- that was all he ever needed.
Unlike metropolitan Tokyo City there were shocks of green dotted between houses and street signs. Sparse smatterings of families running up sidewalks and eating ice-creams, reading newspapers. Most surprising of all, even from the window Keiji could see the bright, blue sea.
Distantly he hoped Kana was exaggerating how far away the house was, firstly because he didn’t know quite how much further he could keep his breathing calm, and secondly because he didn’t want to veer so far from a place as beautiful as this, especially when he hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car in so long. He also hoped that this village was at least moderately populated, because he worried about the number of things he could do with his grandparents before they all grew desperate for escape. Though, that said, Keiji had never been one for friends. That was the trauma of living inside your head for so long.
“Do you have any music?” Keiji asked suddenly as they steered into a foresty piece of road. The silence was unbearable.
She grinned and ran a wrinkled hand over the dials. “Course, my love. Anythin’ you want?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Daigo?”
“Whatever’s goin’, darling.”
A CD must have already been in the player because Kana pressed play and the music started midway through, something old and sweet, something which made Kana say “oh,” and his grandfather tap in time against the wheel, mouthing the words out loud.
“Oh I do love Crosby,” he said and crooned out the open window. “Oh Crosby.”
And have I told you that I love you, the radio sang along, have I told you there's no-one else above you?
Though Keiji thought he was somewhat distant from his mothers' side of the family, in both an emotional and physical sense, his grandfather's music taste was perhaps the one thing he could wholeheartedly agree on. Everyone on his fathers' side liked music that was upbeat, but Keiji liked music like this- that you could equally fall asleep or fall in love to, walking that fine bittersweet line.
“We got married to Crosby, did you know that Keiji? Before your time, it was. Our first dance was a little kiss each morning. How fitting, ahaha. Do you like music like this?”
“I do.”
“Oh, you and gramps will get on then. He loves it. Gawsh, you need’ta see the record player- he’s got all these out on vinyl! It’s quite the collection.”
Keiji’s interest piqued. “Really?”
Kana laughed. “Of course!”
“We’ve got other stuff too, Keiji! What do you like?” But before Keiji could answer. “Sinatra? Do you like Sinatra?”
Keiji loved Sinatra. “Yeah. I’ve not listened to it on vinyl though. Just on my phone.”
“We’ll have to dig it out the loft for you. Maybe we could get Bokuto to do it tomorrow, the boy never minds lending a handout and about.”
Bokuto. Keiji had never heard that name before, and his eyebrows crinkled together. Before he could think about it he asked, “Bokuto?”
Daigo drove over a particularly rough patch of road and the car shuddered, sending Keiji’s bags crashing into his legs. Hastily he wrapped an arm around them to keep them secure. Kana laughed.
“Bokuto! We hired him maybe a year back now-”
“-two years,” Daigo butted in. “Just before your birthday, remember? In the rain season.”
“Ah, yes. Two years then, you’re right, love.” Kana smiled and met Keiji’s eyes in the mirror before flicking back to the road. “We live on a little ranch on the village if youse remember, Keiji. But we’ve been getting old, you know, so we just needed someone to come and look after things. Feed the pigs, sow the field, pick the fruit. He’s good as gold that boy, though. Probably ‘bout yer age, too.”
“Does little things like that fer us too, mind. Going up in the loft for us, sometimes he’ll go grab packages for me. Nice boy like that. And, you know, we’re gonna have to pass the farm on at some point.”
They wanted to leave the farm to someone Keiji hadn’t even met? Did his mother know?
It was then Keiji realised just how distant he had really been from them. Not once in the last ten years had he thought to visit or to call to see how they were, even though it was evident they had been sending postcards and letters. Every now and again he could even hear them on the phone to his mother, always talking about vineyards and rice season. He had been distant enough that their first choice to pass on this inherited farm was a man they had known for a year. Or two.
It was silly to have a predetermined grudge against a person he had never met before, or even knew existed up until a minute ago.
After a chattery car ride through pastures and planes, Keiji concluded that they must be close, purely because the road markings were becoming more specific and the people few and in-between. Then he knew he was correct because Kana turned to face him and was positively beaming. “We’re almost there!”
All the roads gave way to dirt paths and bouncy, uneven tarmac which jostled them up and down as they drove. The signs all read the same thing: Yamanaka. The name now felt vaguely familiar to Keiji, forgotten childhoods sprawling out in his memory like newspaper pages. The word dissolved on his tongue. No two houses looked quite the same.
“Home sweet home,” Daigo grinned and swivelled his head to the back, staring directly at Keiji. “Sorry, just reversin’ in.”
Keiji took the opportunity to collect his bags before Kana had unbuckled from her seat and sprung free. He couldn’t leave the vehicle quickly enough. And then she was opening his door too, and then he was out in the musky air and looking at his home for the next three weeks- perhaps the longest he had ever been away from home since birth.
Something about the house screamed falling apart, but in the same breath cobbled together, which were perhaps not quite as synonymous as Keiji may have first thought. Where his own house was sturdy and rigid and identical to the other thousands beside it, this house was made of dust and air and memories. The walls looked paper-thin and lined with rotting wood beams, and even from here Keiji could see one of the windows was so wrung with condensation it wouldn’t take a season for mould to begin to fester.
The chimney puffed out grey-black smoke and a grimy black nameplate had affectionately named the house The Honeypot, decorated with intricate floral carvings and yellow-painted bees. The neighbours were barely within eyesight, separated by a large field and three crippled barns, a faded greenhouse and small outhouse made of the same rotted wood that held The Honeypot house up.
Stepping out of the car Keiji firstly noted the smell. Thick, reeking manure, cloying against the all too-strong smell of saltwater. Kana and Daigo didn’t say anything about it, though, so out of politeness to his hosts Keiji didn’t broach it either.
And secondly, Keiji noticed, when his feet finally made contact with the grassy plane beneath the car they did not hit smooth gravel or tarmac but instead began to sink.
Shit.
He had not dressed appropriately for this at all. As Daigo and Kana grabbed his bags from his arms and headed up to the door Keiji could make out the heavy mud-stained wellies they wore, biting back against the wetland they were so intimately familiar with. He had hastily judged them at the station for their odd sense of dress but Keiji suddenly regretted wearing some of his nicest clothes for today.
His shoes, his nicest shoes (that had cost him nearly a full weeks paycheck, fuck) would be ruined with his next step. Mud like this would be impossible to clean out of the slick leather grooves.
They can be replaced, he tried to console himself. They’re just shoes. It’s just for a week.
He was just about to take that second damning step when an unfamiliar voice called out behind him.
“Sir, sir, wait-”
And before Keiji even had the time to turn around two strong arms had picked him up at the thighs and hoisted him up.
The first thought Keiji had was, I’m being kidnapped. And his second was, I’ve only booked three weeks off work.
And his third thought was, my leg.
“What are you-” he asked before he could even figure out what he wanted to ask, and then he caught a glimpse of the man.
Tall, muscular and tanned, with the craziest hair Keiji had ever seen on a person (black and white. He hadn’t even known that was possible.) But he wasn’t looking at Keiji. He looked forward, in the direction of his grandparents' house.
“Your shoes!” The man said. His eyebrows scrunched together and he laughed, jostling Keiji on his hip. Instinctively Keiji grasped the man's shoulders to resist falling. He seemed hardly to notice. “They're gonna get ruined if you walk!”
What the fuck. Keiji’s grip tightened, and the man hastily carried him through the mud until he was safely situated on The Honeypots outside decking, and now Keiji was looking down on the man, who was grinning and swiping a hand down his forehead.
Keiji was about to voice his thoughts out loud (what the fuck ?) when his grandmother called out from somewhere behind him.
“Oh, hello my boy! How are you?”
“Kana!” He beamed. That smile transformed his face entirely. “I’m good! I wanted to organise the back-house just a bit so I’ve been doing that all morning. You don’t know where the step-ladder is, do you?”
“Gosh, I’m gonna have to have a look, I think it might be over in the barn. Or maybe Dai put it down in the cellar,” Kana said, and then she stepped out the door to join them on the porch. She was wiping her hands down the front of her stained dress, and when she noticed Keiji was here her eyes and her grin widened.
“Ah, Keiji!” She started and then gestured wildly. “This is Bokuto! Our farmhand- I told you about him in the car. Bokuto, this is our grandson, Akaashi Keiji.”
Keiji’s eyes darted back to the man.
This was Bokuto?
He wasn’t sure quite what he was expecting, but it was far from the man in front of him, who had his hair up in two giant spikes and forearms the size of excavator loading trucks.
“Nice to meet you, Bokuto-san,” Keiji said at last and thrust his arm out in front of him.
Bokuto grabbed it. “You too, Akaashi-san. Sorry for just grabbing you earlier! Are you staying?”
“For the next week or so.”
“I thought you were staying for three weeks, Keiji?” Kana asked. Keiji looked at her with measured composure.
“I’ve got three weeks off of work but it’s probably best I go back with some time to catch up,” Keiji said. He wasn’t expecting Kana to react to this news, but at the sudden crestfallen look on her face he tacked on, “but I’m in no rush. I just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Somehow, even though everybody called him overly polite Keiji couldn’t help but feel as though he was so incredulously rude at every turn, no matter what he did.
But instead of focusing on it Kana just nodded, and then turned back to face Bokuto. “I’ll go find the step-ladder for you, Bokuto.”
“Thank you Kana!”
She stepped into the house and, Keiji noticed, didn’t take her shoes off at the entrance.
Keiji followed tamely behind.
—
When he got to the room Kana pointed out was for him his bags were already on the bed.
It must have been smaller than his room back home, though that may be because a double bed had been unceremoniously shoved in the centre when there clearly wasn’t enough floor space for it. However in spite of it, and despite Keiji having never set foot in this room before, it looked infinitely more homely, too. Lined with the same chipped wood from outside and ochre-wood furniture to match, it looked so much more lived-in than the glossy white interiors of his apartment.
It was as if they had tried to cram as much furniture in as possible- a small desk by the bed where the chair didn’t look as though it could come out the whole way, a tall mahogany wardrobe and a mismatched set of splintered drawers and, to Keiji’s surprise and curious interest, a bookshelf lined with titles. After crossing the tight threshold between the bed and the drawers Keiji ran his fingers along the shelf and found it caked in dust.
He pulled one out at random. To the Lighthouse, a small brown paperback.
“This was your mothers' bedroom, way back when,” Daigo said from the doorway.
Keiji startled and dropped the book on the floor. A plume of dust jumped from it.
Daigo moved into the room (a very difficult task) and sat down on the foot of the bed, the duvet almost shockingly patterned with gold and red and brown. The curtains clashed in a way that was physically painful. Keiji picked up the book.
“It was?”
“Yeah. I mean, we’ve changed it a lot. Moved a bigger bed in and such but some things we just couldn’t change. Like tha’ shelf,” he nodded towards the bookcase. “All them books are hers. And the desk too. It’s a guest room now, but still there’s loads of her in here.”
“Did she like reading?”
“ Like it?” Daigo chuckled, and Keiji didn’t know what was funny. “Couldn’t pull her away from ‘er books. Swear it! She read like she breathed.”
“She doesn’t have any books in the flat.”
“She doesn’t?” He asked, and something in his face fell flat, like bread that rises in the oven only to deflate once it's taken out too early. “Perhaps she just doesn’t have the time anymore. They’re hefty, too, books are. Tha’s the reason she left so many here.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” his grandfather patted the bed, then stood. “I’ll let you settle in. Make yourself at home, Keiji. We’re really glad to have you here.”
“Thank you, Ojisan.” And then after a moment, “I’m glad to be here too.”
His grandfather gave a wrinkled smile. Keiji moved to the bed once he left, running his fingers over the bumpy words on the front cover of the book. Then he flipped it open and was surprised to see the pencil inscriptions on the front.
Darling,
You would love this book. I know it. I read it just last week and I was thinking of you the whole time.
It’s full of complexities, just like I know you enjoy. I would love it if you could lend me one of your favourites, too.
Akaashi Hidemi. 19.03.86
Akaashi Hidemi. His father.
Keiji closed the book suddenly and thrust it back on the shelf, nearly toppling the thing entirely. He didn’t want to be snooping through his parents' lives and that is exactly what he was doing, reading their intimate notes to each other.
He didn’t know his father liked reading. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he didn’t really know his father at all.
—-
When he came down for dinner two hours later, Bokuto had invariably disappeared.
It was back to just them three: his grandpa, his grandma and himself, and though Keiji thought this might bring back a degree of comfort it only served to highlight the awkward way they sidestepped one another. It could also be attributed to the fact that it was only his first day here and they were all trying hard to be overly polite, and he supposed it was better without Bokuto here anyway, who would only serve to highlight that wide gap difference in affections between his grandparents and the two boys.
He had met Bokuto once and yet had already concluded that he was his foil, his literary opposite. Both of them were competing for the attention of his grandparents where there was only one slot available. If they were in a TV show, or a book, that is the way it would be- they would hate each other out of principle because the similarities are there, they must be, but it was only natural for them to be pitted against one another.
The dark stair creaked beneath his weight and Daigo turned around, wooden spoon in hand as though he had just finished stirring, and a small smile ghosted his wispy face.
“D’ya like vegetables, Keiji? We’ve loads leftover, was wonderin’ if you wanted extra. You’ve had quite the long day gettin’ up here to us.”
“That would be amazing, thank you,” Keiji smiled as he slipped into the room. He was always hungry, and home-cooked meals were his favourite.
Daigo continued stirring and Keiji found his way to the table, which was hulking and had the wood scraped away on the legs as though something had gnarled at it, and when Keiji asked Daigo said, “from Pazu, our dog.”
“Your dog?” Keiji asked. He hadn’t seen a dog.
Daigo suddenly turned. “Oh lord, did we not mention Pazu? You’re not allergic are you? Gawsh, why didn’t we ask-”
“No, no, I’m fine with dogs,” Keiji said. “I love dogs.”
“Well thas a relief, cause Pazu is as dog as they get. He’s probably in the backfield right now, loves bein’ outside, but he’ll be in soon. He can smell dinner as soon as it goes in the microwave.”
Keiji hadn’t had a dog, ever. They’d lived in Tokyo as long as he could remember, going from apartment to apartment, all of which didn’t allow indoor pets, and so even though he had seen them on the streets and in films and yearned for one ever since he was tiny he had never put his arms around one. He had to resist asking to go see Pazu, now, how desperate that would make him. Keiji would have asked what breed he was but he didn’t know enough to distinguish one from another.
Kana took her place at the table and brought out dishes and cutlery with her. As she started to lay them out Keiji suddenly realised how rude it was of him not to offer. Kana must have sensed something when Keiji’s arm shot out, as she quickly shook her head in the same reprimanding way as when he tried to take his own bags earlier.
“No, no. You’re a guest!”
“Is there anything I can help with?” He asked anyway.
“Nope, it’s all done now. I do hav’ta say, though, this is a good dinner today! Daigo went to all the stops when we heard you was coming.”
“Don’t embarrass me in front of the boy!” Daigo shouted out, and then he was ladling Keiji’s plate in a rainbow of colourful vegetables and meats and rice, steam rising off in waves. Keiji couldn’t tell if it was that which warmed his face or what Kana had just said.
“ Itadakimasu ,” they said in unison before tucking in.
After they had finished, Keiji washed up out of respect, finally pushing Kana’s politeness out the way long enough to scrub the three dishes clean. Then he announced that he was heading to bed for the night.
“See you in the morning, Keiji. We’re out workin’ so if we’re gone before you’re awake please just help yourself.”
“Thank you, Obaasan. Goodnight.”
“Night!” They jeered in unison.
Keiji had no plans to unpack his suitcases, which was seemingly pointless given he was only planning on being here for a week, so he pulled his pyjamas out from the bottom and changed quickly, shoving the bags into the empty wardrobe to clear space for sleep.
But the comforter was thick, and the humid air kept him tossing for hours. And when he woke for the first time alone in that dark room, a place he hadn’t spent the night and a place worlds away from his own, Keiji realised for the first time just how far from home he was.
III.
The service out here can’t be as strong as Tokyo, because when Keiji woke it was to all the messages that hadn’t come through the night before. He read through them while lying in bed, letting the sun stream in through the gauzy curtains.
TBOY - Tokyo Branch. Exec. Chat.
Sasaki (12:23) hi I need financial info regarding a customer can someone help in the archives
Tendai (13:01) is akaashi off sick not seen him
Tsubasa (13:06) hes taken holiday will be back in a few weeks
Tendai (13:15) lol alright
Sasaki (15:30) hi I need an ammendment to the rota for Thursday I need to attend a funeral. Could someone cover?
Yoshida (16:21) yeah i can
Sasaki (16:28) ok thanks
Tsubasa (16:41) make sure to pass that through the office. Thanks
And then, after scrolling through the work group chat he notices the messages from his mother, which he supposes he should have noticed first.
Okaasan
(13:31) Keiji, you’re on the train so I know you won’t see this for a while, but I just wanted to let you know how proud of you I am. I know how hard everything has been for everyone but you especially, I know how hard you work and how upset you’ve been feeling
(13:40) and im proud of you for taking this time off. I promise it will make you feel better. I promise.
(13:49) im always on your side, even if it sometimes seems im not
(13:55) I love you so much. Im so happy you’re here
(14:01) anyways, call me when youre there !! say hello from me x
Suddenly Keiji felt overwhelmingly guilty for his complete resistance to coming. Pushing himself up with his elbows he called his mother, swathed in blankets and bedsheets. It rang three times before connecting and her tinny, lilting voice filled the line.
“Keiji?” She asked, and then again, as if there was a brief disconnect between his ear and her words. “Keiji?”
“Mom.”
“Hello?” And then she must have finally got through. “Hi! Are you there? Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I got in yesterday.” He bundled deeper in the blankets, basking in the morning warmth. “The reception’s not very good here, your messages only just came through.”
“Really? Oh, that's alright. You don’t really need your phone for anything there. You’re on break, Keiji, enjoy it!”
“Yeah,” he agreed, though he wasn’t entirely sure.
“Have you settled in alright?”
“I guess so.”
Then she said something and the words dissolved into static, and the line went dead before she could say whatever her next sentence was, instead replaced by a long, droning bzzzzzzzz. Keiji sighed and hung up.
No signal, the screen said in the top left. He stared at it for a moment longer. Then, unceremoniously, dropped it on the bed and swung his legs over the side in one great swoop.
He wasn’t a caveman. The setback was annoying but he could live without his phone for now, and it wasn’t like he was completely void of contact- his messages would send through, eventually, though they may just take a few hours to do so. It just meant no prolonged, sustained conversation with anyone beyond the Miyazu borders.
For a moment Keiji wondered if heading downstairs in his pyjamas (could they really be called pyjamas? An oversized sweater and sweatpants) would be considered improper, but then he checked the time on the bedside clock: 8:41. Kana and Daigo probably wouldn’t even be home.
Last night they left a pair of slippers in his room so Keiji wore them down the hall, taking a moment to take in the house's complicated cobbled structure. He hadn’t had long enough to appreciate it yesterday with all the commotion, so now he looked laboriously.
All the house was made of that same dark wood (or at least so filled with it that it seemed as though the walls themselves were panelled in it) and so full of things they leaked from every corner, as though the house itself was a cumulation of everything Kana and Daigo had ever owned. In every corner was something- a bookplate, a leathery armchair with the feet missing, a broken grandfather clock, a collection of porcelain animals- and all in that same washed-out brown, a tea-stain filter in the air.
There were also more doors than he had initially noticed. Five on the upstairs landing. Of these Keiji had been in two, being the guest bedroom and the bathroom. Of course he knew one must be his grandparents' bedroom but the others were a complete mystery, and Keiji wasn’t so impolite to pry behind them. Instead, he forced himself to take the steps down, hand skimming the railing as he went.
It felt odd to be rifling through the cupboards without supervision, as Keiji was hyper-aware of the fact that this was not his house, but it was apparent when he came downstairs that his grandparents were, in fact, not home, and they had told him he could help himself, and he would die if he didn’t eat soon.
He had just put the first spoon of granola in his mouth when two knocks rapped on the door. Tap tap. Keiji put the spoon down and waited, but then the knock came again, tap tap, and he got up to answer it.
When he swung the door open Bokuto’s fist was still raised, as though he was ready to knock one more time. Just like yesterday, he was dressed mostly in mud, alongside a stained white tee and shorts.
“Sorry, the door’s usually left open, your grandparents probably locked it because you were here!” Bokuto’s grin was made of sunlight. Keiji squinted against it- it was too early in the morning for him to be staring at it directly.
Bokuto gave him a once over, then settled back on Keiji’s face, grinning. “Are you in your pyjamas? It’s almost ten am!”
Keiji flushed, suddenly overly aware of how underdressed he was. “Sorry, I thought it would only be me. I don’t mean to be so informal.”
For a moment Bokuto paused, as if he had to take a moment to understand what Keiji was saying, and then he laughed out- a loud, unrestrained noise- and grabbed onto the back of his own neck. “Gawsh, Akaashi, you use some funny words.”
Funny?
Keiji crossed his arms over his chest self-consciously. “Is there anything you need, Bokuto-san?”
A lightbulb seemed to flash over Bokuto’s head.
“Oh, yeah! I just came to let Pazu in!”
And, as if summoned by Bokuto’s voice, the dog came bustling up behind him, pushing through Bokuto’s legs in an effort to get in through the door frame, and Keiji got his first look at the subject of his and Daigo’s conversation last night.
Daigo had described him as as dog as they get, and at the time Keiji hadn’t quite known what that meant, but now he did, because the dog was huge (almost up to Keiji’s waist) and so shaggy its hair must have obscured at least half of his vision.
For a second Keiji was met with an increment of fear. He hadn’t much experience with animals, and although he loved them in theory this dog was big, but when the dog sat on his haunches and looked up to Keiji with wide, brown (obscured) eyes he melted instantly, dropping to his knees and plunging his hands deep into his mottled fur.
Pazu’s tongue lolled out immediately. He was so warm below Keiji’s hands, which were combing through the thick hair, and Keiji couldn’t beat the happy smile off his face. Bokuto was watching with a smile on his face and Keiji was only somewhat self-conscious.
“He likes you!” Bokuto laughed, and then dropped down too. Pazu immediately nuzzled into Bokuto’s hands and Keiji moved his own to the dog's chest instead. Then, in the most ridiculous voice he had ever heard, Bokuto started crooning, “ who’s a good boy? Huh, it’s you Pazu! Yes you!”
Pazu licked at Bokuto happily. Keiji watched. “What is he?”
Bokuto relocated his eyes to Keiji. “Huh?”
“What breed is he? I don’t know them very well.”
“He’s a sheepdog!”
Bokuto and Pazu looked like they were the best of friends, happily lounging together in the doorway of The Honeypot. Keiji noticed (with a spark of laughter) that their playfulness wasn’t the only similarity- they were both big and soft, and their hair was that odd mix of black and white.
And then Pazu barrelled past the two of them to finally plod back into the house, disappearing around the corner into the dining room, and the two of them were left alone.
“He’s bigger than I thought he would be,” Keiji blurted as Bokuto scrambled back to his feet. “I thought my grandparents would have wanted something smaller?”
“Really?” Bokuto laughed, and then his eyebrow cocked playfully, grin making him malleable. “I think that’s the most them dog ever. He’s been here longer than I have.”
And Keiji was again suddenly made aware of how much better Bokuto, a farmhand, knew his family better than even Keiji did. A flood of shame pooled over him, and Bokuto must have felt this after he said the words because he quickly cleared his throat.
“Well, it was nice seeing you ‘Kaashi but I need to get back out there. I’m mucking the pigs today.”
Keiji wished he could say such a thing with a straight face, but Bokuto somehow managed (though he was quickly becoming aware, a straight face for Bokuto was a smile.)
“I should get going too, Bokuto-san. I’ve got work of my own to get on with.”
“Like putting clothes on,” Bokuto offered.
“Like putting clothes on,” he agreed, though he didn’t know whether to laugh or wallow in shame. He would never be caught in his pyjamas back home.
“I’ll probably see you later then. Pazu will need to be let out later so maybe keep the back door unlocked? The keys are in the bowl! Or just let him out in a few hours.”
Again, the pang.
“Of course.”
When he walked away Bokuto waved over his shoulder, grinning as though that conversation was something that warranted such happiness. Keiji shut the door, and after a second he flicked the lock.
—
For somebody who fastened a career out of numbers and algorithms, Akaashi Keiji had a profound and intimate relationship with literature. This relationship was much quieter, as it was much more shameful than some of his other pursuits, but it was still there thrumming inside him.
It was why he began journalling all those years ago, keeping written logs of his days and thoughts- a way of bringing his love of words into a life which seemed to thrive without them (had he held a sustained conversation with anyone at the offices beside Tsubasa, which were only out of necessity? He couldn’t remember). Even at home it was rare his mother had time to talk to him in between their busy schedules, and it was rarer still that Keiji might talk back.
Shamefully, Keiji didn’t even have many friends. A long time ago there were recurring characters in his life (Konoha and Komi, and Chiaki) but they inevitably filtered out when he readjusted his priorities and their lives no longer aligned. Friendships of convenience , he thought, just because they were in proximity to one another and in need of people to fill their days. Sometimes he felt lonely but most of the time he didn’t feel anything at all.
That was the best part, and perhaps one of the few benefits of his career path. The offices didn’t care for feelings, whereas it was the only thing literature called for.
And clearly feelings were doing him no good. Scribbling down thoughts in his journal was the reason he was sent here, after all, a product of his small self-indulgence. He was careless to think his thoughts were safe anywhere other than his head.
That’s when it’s most appealing, he had written. At night.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it often during the day. Sometimes it was difficult to think about anything other than his insignificance, or to think of nothing at all. Even now, stood in his pyjamas at a kitchen counter so far from home he could feel himself zoning out, staring at nothing just to listen to the loud crashing waves of thoughts.
Akaashi Keiji reached the height of his potential when he was fifteen years old, back when he was smart enough to go anywhere and happy enough to fill whole oceans with his laughs. Now he was on the come-down, the after. But if he worked hard in his twenties, maybe his thirties, then his forties would be good. They had to be good, because at this point they were the only thing he was living for, a life he could work diligently toward.
So while there was a life already pre-prepared for him (office work, marrying at thirty-five to a nice-enough lady and having two children) he kept his one passion as pastime.
It didn’t take long to select a title out of the books his mother had left ( The Waves, by Virginia Woolf. Adjacent to the one his father had written in the front cover of ) and, knowing his grandparents would be out for the larger portion of the day Keiji let himself lounge on one of their upholstered sofas in the living room, red and velvety and draped with green-gold circle cushions and blankets that closer resembled tapestries.
He nestled himself into the couch corner. From here the midday sunlight streamed in through the big central window and Keiji curled into the warmth like a kitten. Then he propped open the book, intent on reading like he hadn’t in a long time.
On the inside cover this time was his mothers' scrawl, Fujita Mariko, in loopy pencil. Not only was it bizarre to imagine his mother reading, but to imagine she read this at a time long before Keiji existed. Had she even met his father at this point? If she had, did she know the future they would cultivate together? Keiji didn’t believe in love at first sight but he thought perhaps they might. He ran his finger over the grey lead, following its loops and swirls until the barest hint of it was left on his fingertip.
He didn’t even know how they met, and he regretted not asking. It seemed like it would be a sweet story.
Cracking the book open he began to read. The sun has not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.
For the better part of the afternoon, he sat there reading in silence , contempt wrapping around his insides and rendering him still. It had been so long since he had the time to surrender to his hobbies, to dedicate hours to something which brought him nothing other than happiness.
It had been so long since the ocean inside him was still.
—
“Keiji,” Kana called out that afternoon, and it took a moment for him to realise where he was. “Keiji, are ya’ up?”
Keiji groaned, and it took more effort to blink himself awake than it had in a long while. Everything was warm around him and sleep slowed his movements. He came to slowly, and when he wiped a warm fist over his eyes to shake the dreariness from them he realised that he was no longer wearing his glasses, even though he was certain he was wearing them earlier.
“Obaasan?” He asked. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine. We got back a while ago but I don’t know if you’ve eaten or not, and you’ll get an awful crick in your neck if ya’ stay down here.”
He was still in the living room on one of the bedecked couches, though the sunlight had long since vanished. When he tried to sit up he realised that his lower half had been covered with one of the tapestry-blankets he had seen earlier. On the floor below him was a soft snore, and when he looked down he saw Pazu had curled up on the carpet, a giant heap of fluff and continual warmth.
“Sleep well?” She asked with a hearty laugh, patting a rough hand on his bicep and pushing herself up from the couch.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said quickly, smoothing the creases out his shirt with his hand. “I was reading, uh, Woolf, and I must have just lost track of the time.”
“No need to apologise dear,” she shook her head. “There’s a plate in the microwave for you. Don’t stay up too late, it’s not good for you!”
“Thank you,” he replied earnestly as she walked away. “I won’t.”
When she left Keiji thought he was finally alone. As he swung his legs out from under the blanket he sighed, letting his shoulders drop tiredly with the motion, and pushed his way through to the dining room, lit dimly in orange lamplight. But Kana hadn’t left for bed like he thought and instead stood perched by the counter.
“Oh- I thought you were going to bed,” he said, and she turned around hastily.
“Keiji,” she smiled and shifted, and it was then Keiji realised she was making space for him to stand beside her at the counter. “Look what came today.”
“What?”
She was turning something in her hand, and when he hit the counter he could finally make out what the slip of paper was.
A beautiful horizon at nighttime, the skyline littered with towering buildings and glowing lights. Greetings from Tokyo! the front said, and when he turned it around he could make out his mothers' loopy handwriting.
“A postcard?” He asked.
Kana smiled. “From your mother. Not often she writes to us.”
Mom and dad, it reads.
hello from Tokyo !! i hope you don’t mind keiji coming to stay, i promise you he’s a good kid. Will do him worlds of wonders to come and see the sky for a change! Hope you all are well.
Love and miss you always,
Mariko
“Bit of a delay in the post, there is. Must’ve sent this a few days ago, before you got here, prolly.”
Keiji frowned and put the card back. Kana continued talking, bent on ramble.
“She don’t call very often anymore. Which makes sense, I guess. We do miss her though, mind you, miss all of you. Makes me wonder why she sent you up here now of all times. Not that we ain’t excited to have ‘ya, but makes you wonder.”
Keiji shrugged as if he didn’t know in excruciating details the reason his mother has sent him halfway around the country, as if his life wasn’t on hold because of it. Instead he danced around it, feeling the cool wood beneath his fingers and asking the question on the forefront of his mind.
“What was my mother like? When she was young?”
“What was she like?” Kana repeated back at him, a conflicted emotion troubling her face, both pulling her mouth into a smile and creasing her eyebrows. “She loved a contradiction. So loud at home but she was so quiet out at school, and she kept very few friends but she loved them so much. Loved ta read. Loved a lotta things.”
“She’s very quiet now,” Keiji said. He watched Kana’s face carefully, intent on noting her expression, but found it stayed very still.
“She don’t call us very much anymore,” she said after a while. “And she don’t sound very happy when she do. Do you get on with your mom, Keiji?”
Keiji wrung his fingers together. He looked to the ceiling to avoid Kana’s eyes. “Not particularly.”
“Mm. That’s sad,” she hummed. “I didn’t get on with my ma’ either. It’s sad but it happens sometimes.”
“We just don’t…. we don’t understand each other, I don’t think.”
“How come?”
He worried the fabric of his sweatpants. “She doesn’t understand me.”
“What’s not to get? Yer’ a perfectly respectable young man, Keiji. The two of yous seem so similar.”
He didn’t know how to explain how his heart fell hearing that, how being compared to her was something so closely akin to an insult in his head.
“I want to make something out of my life and she doesn’t get it,” he huffed. “I work so hard and it seems like something she should be proud of but she isn’t. She just tells me to stop.”
“Would it be so bad to live the life yer mother has?”
“Maybe,” he says. “It’s not that her life is bad. I just want something else. I don’t want to be stuck in an apartment forever with my- my kid.”
Kana smiled at him, warm and sad, and finally took a seat beside him.
“Keiji, no matter how it sometimes seems, yer mom loves you very much. And she would never want you to live a life yer not happy in. But you just have to make sure it’s a life you’ll be happy in, too.”
She moved across the kitchen with grace and opened the stiff microwave door. From it she pulled out a plate heaped with still-steaming food and slid it across the counter to him, and he eyed the red meat with wariness.
“I guess,” he sighed, and then timidly dug into the food. “Thank you for the meal.”
“Eat up, and then rest up Keiji. You got too much going on in here.”
She dug a finger into his forehead, tapping it twice. Keiji leaned away from the soft gesture and shrugged.
“Maybe.”
“ Yes,” she said firmer, an echo of a laugh filling the hollows of her cheek. “I’m yer old, wise grandma. I know these things, I do.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Your mother?” Kana tilted her head, like the question confused her, though the owlish blink of her eyes suggested otherwise. “Of course I do. She got her own life now, though. I know she can’t always be here. That’s life, Keiji.”
“I suppose.”
“Missing people gets easier, though, with time. ‘Specially when they send you things like this.”
She fanned the postcard against her face, the dull Tokyo skyline little more than a black spot against her warm hands. She slid it across the counter towards Keiji, landing inches before his bowl, and he struggled to rip his eyes away from the familiar view, and when he finally looked up he noticed Kana was gone.
—
Words came easy to Keiji; perhaps even more so than numbers did. Maybe that was the curse of overthinking, he thought, that he spent so much time in his own head that his thoughts had become pre-written phrases, dripping from him was practised ease from how often they circled his thoughts.
Although he had haphazardly unpacked, throwing shirts and pants in the wardrobe where they found a home amongst the dust, just enough to look settled, most of his things resided below the decorative bed.
It strained his wrists to reach for it, fitting awkwardly around the drawers and the scratchy rug, but he pulled the battered case out and heaved it onto the covers, unzipping it with careful fingers, as though intention alone could damage the interior. And from beneath a collection of t-shirts, of beaten paperback books he had no intention of reading, he pulled it free.
The familiar blue pleather, the same black-worn strings.
His diary.
It was his; he should feel no guilt bringing it and yet he did, because he understood the implications when his mother sent him away with it that night. Get rid of it.
But he couldn’t. Because words were the only escape he had from the prison of his own head, and the safety of these paper pages was the only barrier between him and some higher, unwanted help. It was all the comfort he could need, tightly bound and pliant beneath his fingers; a collection of his deepest and truest self. It was his greatest vice, the only thing that promised him to see through tomorrow, and he couldn’t let it fall into the wrong hands again.
After kicking the case back below the bed frame he climbed under the covers and stared at the material for a long time. Just looking at it simultaneously healed and hurt.
Reading it was too much, so instead he deigned to add one more entrance, July 18 th , and snap it shut immediately upon finishing.
The windows were dark and it was shameful. That’s when it’s most appealing, he had written. At night.
There was no feeling like writing it down, his morbid and intricate thoughts, the things he would do if the pen and paper didn’t stop him. For a brief moment after the pen stopped scratching it was as though Keiji had resigned from his body entirely. There was no hurting, no feeling, just the empty space you can only find when you sleep.
It was the only time his head was truly empty, when the thoughts couldn't hurt him. Instead, he was resigned to numbness, which hurt in its own, weird way.
Then he tucked the diary away on the bookshelf, alongside his mothers' tomes and novels, hoping it would collect the same dust as every other.