Chapter Text
Himeji, 1913
The air around him felt heavy as he walked up the pathway leading to the estate. Fingers swatting at the back of his neck came back slick with sweat. He figured the late July heat and the clothes he’d been forced to adorn were to blame for the excessive perspiration he now attempted to rub off on his thigh, but this knowledge did little to improve his situation. It wasn’t that the temperature was unfamiliar to him. No. It was that, in all nine years of life, Miya Osamu had never felt so suffocated by an outfit before.
The hat, sitting uncomfortably on his head, was unfamiliar, as were the socks pulled past his kneecaps. He wasn’t used to the jacket with too many buttons or the shorts that were itchy against his thighs. He especially wasn’t used to the shoes pinching his toes with each step he took. But, as his mother had told both him and his brother just minutes before, they would have to get used to the hats and the buttons and the socks.
For the rest of the summer, the Miyas were the guests of a distinguished family from Tokyo; and when you were in the presence of a pedigree like the Akaashis, it was imperative that you looked like you belonged.
Osamu complained about the order silently.
Atsumu expressed his displeasure aloud.
The sound of his brother’s incessant whining, though—which came from the other side of their mother—allowed Osamu to momentarily forget about the sweat building behind his kneecaps and under his armpits. As he walked, he listened to Atsumu prattle on about things that didn’t matter, or things that mattered to no one but Atsumu himself.
But it was a distraction that Osmau could only stomach for so long.
When the sound of his brother’s voice became as insufferable as the shoes pinching his toes, he turned his attention to the scenery around him. Lush greenery greeted him on both sides of the pathway, a blend of trees and neatly-trimmed bushes. The ground underneath his feet was even, well-kept.
Osamu got the impression that it only stayed that way because it was hardly traveled on; because, when you were as rich as the Akaashi family claimed to be, you could afford to buy and build homes that would only hold occupants for three months out of the year. To Osamu, who lived in a single-story house with his mother and brother, and who’d never traveled outside of Himeji, having a lavish estate that sat vacant for the other nine months of the year seemed like such a waste.
Then again, Osamu didn’t understand the lifestyle of the wealthy.
As he took in the sights around him, he wondered what he would do if he ever came into a fortune like the one boasted by the Akaashi family. Nine years of life had given him plenty of time to dream; but even still, he had enough awareness of the world around him to know that seldom was it the case that dreams came true for people like him.
(That didn’t change the fact that he envisioned himself owning a restaurant one day, or at least having enough money to buy his mother the equipment she needed to open her own; but still, a dream was a faraway thing.)
He continued to let his mind wander as he trudged along the path. To stubby legs, it felt like an eternity had passed since he’d moved through the first gate. Really, Osamu and his family had been walking for no more than ten minutes when a second gate—this one more intricate and imposing than the last—came into view.
As they neared it, Osamu felt his mother reach for his hand. Her grip was tight, and he could only hope that Atsumu was receiving a similar (or harder) warning squeeze. “We’re guests of the family,” she said, glancing from one twin to the other. “I expect ya both to be on yer best behavior. These kinds of opportunities don’t often happen to people like us.”
Don’t ruin it, were the words left unspoken. It wasn’t that his mother was a cruel woman; in fact, the opposite was the case. Osamu knew, though, that her serving as part of the Akaashi’s kitchen staff was what the Miyas needed in order to elevate their own status. In his mother’s eyes, that meant giving the twins the opportunity to live a life she’d never experienced.
It was a chance to take their dreams and turn them into realities.
When Osamu directed his attention back towards the grand gate, he noticed two figures that hadn’t been there before now standing at the threshold. The first was a woman who looked to be his mother’s age. Her kimono was elegant, fabricated in shades of black and gold. The presence around her felt imposing. Wealthy.
The other was a young boy, likely the same age as the Miya twins. His dress was less intricate than the woman’s, but nevertheless served as a symbol of the family’s status. He wore a black yukata with an obi colored gold, an outfit that differed from the simple indigo and white yukatas Osamu was used to seeing. He suspected that the difference in the young boy’s dress was a deliberate show of power: a way to say his family wasn’t like the rest without having to say those words aloud.
Not wanting to disappoint his mother, Osamu forced himself to shrug the thought off and put on his best listening face. He tried to appear attentive when the woman introduced herself as Akaashi Fuku. The boy at her side was her son, Keiji: the twins’ playmate for the duration of the summer. His tone was polite when it was his turn to welcome the Miyas to the estate, but there was an underlying haughtiness in his mannerisms that didn’t go undetected by Osamu.
And if he picked up on them, Osamu was certain Atsumu was thinking the same.
They would debrief later, he figured. For now, all he could do was let his mother introduce him to the Akaashis and give a respectful greeting of his own. As he spoke, Osamu was cognizant of the way Keiji watched him: carefully, as if he was trying to pick him apart from the outside in. It was a stare that made Osamu apprehensive.
If he’d been anywhere else, he probably would have stuck his tongue out at the other boy—just to scare him a little. The sound of his mother’s voice thanking Akaashi Fuku for allowing them into her home, however, forced Osamu to pull his shoulders back and ignore the silent scrutiny he thought his new playmate studied him with.
He tried instead to listen to Akaashi Fuku explain where the Miyas would be staying during their time at the estate—an effort carried out in vain. Once they’d started walking, it had taken less than ten steps past the gate for Osamu to stop paying attention. He didn’t care about the status of his family’s belongings or how, if they needed anything—be it clothing or personal supplies—the house would supply his family with them. Akaashi Fuku’s explanation sounded a lot like grown-up talk, as he and Atsumu often called it. Osamu couldn’t care less for those types of conversations.
With little else to keep him distracted from the heat or the shoes that continued to pinch his feet, though, he found his eyes lingering on the head of messy black hair in front of him.
On Keiji.
His new playmate, or something like that.
As they approached the house, Osamu noticed the way Keiji’s head kept turning in the direction of a well-manicured black pine tree at the center of the courtyard—like something was waiting for him there. The sole time he looked far enough to the left for Osamu to catch his expression, though, the other boy seemed melancholy. Bothered. His lips dipped downward and there was an uncertainty in his eye unmistakable to Osamu, making it seem as if he wanted to be anywhere but at his mother’s side showing three strangers around his home.
Whether this behavior could be attributed to Keiji having a standoffish personality, or because he didn’t know how to engage in casual conversation with kids his age, Osamu didn’t know.
What he did know was that, for better or for worse, he and Keiji would be spending plenty of time together before the summer’s end. All he could do in the interim was keep a smile on his face and a kind word on his tongue.
For his mother.
He wouldn’t ruin this opportunity for his family just because he figured conversing with the heir to the Akaashi fortune wouldn’t come easy to him.
He wasn’t Atsumu, after all.
❁
The thing about Akaashi Keiji was that he wasn’t anything like what Osamu had been expecting.
He spent most of his time in the courtyard under the shade of the black pine, and always with a book in-hand. Keiji immersed himself in stories bearing titles Osamu had never heard of and spewed facts about unfamiliar people and places, treating them as if they were household names. The way he carried himself proved he was a child whose education differed from the one the Miyas received; yet, when he spoke to the twins, his tone wasn’t condescending.
Really, it sounded like he just wanted someone to listen.
(Osamu could relate.)
It hadn’t taken long for Atsumu to grow tired of spending time with him, but Osamu didn’t mind Keiji and his quirks. In fact, he preferred quietly sitting beside him in the courtyard to spending his day trapped in the room he shared with his twin. Atsumu never granted him a chance to unwind, mouth always running and legs constantly thundering from one end of the room to the other.
The courtyard was peaceful, comforting.
At first, Osamu would sprawl himself across the grass a few paces away from Keiji. Sometimes he would tilt his head up and watch the clouds, others he might grab a stick and poke around at a newly formed ant hill. Their conversations were minimal in the beginning, limited to Osamu commenting about the shape of a cloud or Keiji reading him a line from his book that he found particularly interesting.
Slowly, as the summer stretched on, they began to talk about other things, too.
Keiji explained in more detail than necessary what life in Tokyo was like—stuffy, crowded, noisy. Osamu recalled a prank he’d played on Atsumu when they were six. As their conversations grew, their laughter grew with it. The standoffish, melancholy kid Osamu had observed on the day the Miyas had arrived at the estate differed from the boy he now joined in the courtyard every afternoon. It was as if this small pocket of greenery allowed Keiji a freedom he couldn’t experience when he was forced to stand at his mother’s side.
He didn’t have to be the heir to a fortune when the only person around was Osamu. Here, under the shade of the black pine, he was just Keiji. A boy who liked to read fantastical stories and invent his own, asserting that one day he would become a writer who traveled the globe in search of inspiration. Hearing Keiji talk made Osamu believe that he, too, could embark on a voyage across the sea. He could sample foods from countries whose names he didn’t yet know and bring those recipes home to share with his family.
And maybe, if he was feeling generous, he would take Atsumu on one of his adventures, too.
(He knew that he would.)
There was something about the way Keiji talked that made Osamu believe the dreams that were once far away longings could become real, tangible things. Even if the other boy was pragmatic in the way he approached his own dreams—always having a plan for how he would get from Point A to Point B—it made Osamu believe that the future he desired was attainable, too.
He was hopeful; and at nine years old, that was one of the best things a child could be.
❁
They solidified their friendship just as August came to a close—on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon.
It happened after Osamu marched his way into the courtyard following the completion of his morning tasks. He flopped himself down next to Keiji with an unceremonious huff and announced, “I think I’m gonna stay here forever.” His hands came to rest behind his head then; eyes turned skyward. “Tsumu can go home with our Ma and I’ll make ya stay here with me. Or better yet, Tsumu can stay here and I’ll take ya home with me an’ Ma.”
Keiji set down the book he’d been reading, scarlet binding contrasting sharply with the grass. “What happened?”
“He never stops talkin’ ‘bout yer neighbor!” Osamu told him. His eyes remained fixed on the sky, watching as a cloud began to take the shape of what he thought looked like a rabbit. “It’s drivin’ me nuts!”
“Oh,” was all Keiji said at first. When Osamu turned his head to look at him, though, he saw an amused look on the other boy’s face. “I’m surprised he likes it over there.”
“Whaddya mean?”
Keiji sighed. “The Sakusas are family friends from Tokyo. They have a son our age, but we don’t talk much. He never wants to go outside and is very picky when it comes to the people he spends time with, which is why—”
“Ya can’t believe Tsumu enjoys hangin’ out with him?” Osamu finished for him. When Keiji nodded in confirmation, he added, “The thing about my brother is that he doesn’t care what other people think of him. I bet he enjoys rilin’ yer neighbor up, or somethin’ like that. All he ever talks about is ‘Omi-kun said this,’ or ‘ Omi-Omi did that.’ I almost thought he made him up because I couldn’t imagine Tsumu actually wantin’ to spend that much time with someone else.”
Osamu knew his brother well, and one thing he could say for certain was that Atsumu hated feeling trapped. He was always trying new things, sticking his nose in places where it didn’t belong. He wasn’t content to just sit back and watch life go by; Atsumu needed thrill, a challenge—
Ah.
It all made sense.
“I guarantee yer neighbor’s bothered by Tsumu,” Osamu said. He kept his attention on Keiji when he sat up, noting the way the other boy looked at him in confusion. “My brother probably found someone whose skin he can get under and now he’s never gonna leave him alone.”
“Hmm,” Keiji mused. His features softened as understanding began to set in, furrowed brow smoothing itself back out. “That’s probably why he doesn’t hang out with us.”
“I think he hates that ya don’t put up with him.”
“I don’t dislike your brother, Osamu,” Keiji assured him. “He’s interesting; you both are, just in different ways.”
Just in different ways. The words continued to echo as Osamu sat there, cheeks turning red. If anyone asked, he would blame it on the heat, would claim the blush now covering his face had everything to do with the sun burning above and nothing to do with what Keiji had just said to him. Because that would be ridiculous, obviously.
Internally, though, he knew that wasn’t the case.
Different was the word his mind fixated on: he and Atsumu were different. Not the same. Individuals. For once in his life, there was someone outside of his mother who didn’t think of him and his twin as a matched set. It was nice, something Osamu hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear until Keiji had said it. That single statement unlocked a feeling of hope within him, one predicated on the knowledge that he could be his own person. His path wouldn’t have to mirror the one his brother walked.
A smile accompanied the flush on his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, though—content with the comfortable silence—until Keiji asked him: “What’s wrong?”
Osamu waved him off. “Nothin’s wrong, I was just thinkin’ that yer interestin’ too. It’s why I like bein’ yer friend.” He said it with conviction, purpose. Osamu knew that Keiji was more than just his assigned playmate for the summer; they were friends, a distinction he hoped would last forever. Because, even if circumstances hadn’t brought them together in the way that they had, Osamu was certain he would seek Keiji out a hundred times over, in a hundred different lifetimes. Because it was nice to have a friend.
The novelty of his declaration wore off, though, when he noticed the look of shock on Keiji’s face.
“What?” Osamu asked with less conviction than before.
It was Keiji’s turn to wave him off. “It’s nothing,” he said, shrugging then. “I just think you’re the first person who’s ever called me their friend.”
“Well, you and me,” Osamu told him, flopping back down on the grass and bringing his hands behind his head once more, “we’re gonna be friends for life. And one day, when I open my restaurant, I’m gonna have you write stories about the places where the recipes came from.”
Keiji joined him in laying on the grass, body turned so that he faced Osamu. “I think I’d like that.”
“Yeah,” Osamu said. “Me too.”
❁
Life came to an unexpected halt one week after Osamu and Keiji said their goodbyes.
The sun hanging high in the September sky, casting its brilliant light about the Miya’s living room, felt like an unnecessary insult to the boy curled against his mother’s chest. The hold she had on him was strong, unwavering. Her gentle hands rubbing circles across his back did what they could to soothe the sobs Osamu tried so hard to silence. He wasn’t the type to cry—always the comforter, never the comforted. But now, with the weight of his mother’s words setting in, he found himself unable to stop.
At his feet, a promise lay broken, scattered about like shards of glass from a toppled down mirror. Before the Akaashis had departed for Tokyo, he and Keiji had assured one another that they would pick up where they left off when next summer came. They would find each other under the shade of the black pine and everything would fall back into place.
We’re gonna be friends for life, Osamu had said. And he’d meant it, too.
Now, as his nose clogged and tears continued to fall from red-rimmed eyes, he knew that would never be the case. He wouldn’t see Keiji next summer. He wouldn’t see Keiji ever.
It took an indiscernible amount of time for him to gather the strength necessary to budge; but eventually, with movements slow and hesitant, Osamu lifted his head from his mother’s chest. He was certain snot was beginning to drip from his nose, yet he couldn’t bring himself to wipe it away. Instead, he looked at his mother through blurry vision and asked, “Yer sure it was all of ‘em?”
He already knew the answer, had heard it once before—but Osamu needed to be sure, because maybe something had been missed. Maybe there was an addendum to the letter that his mother had forgotten to read the first time, something that claimed everything written was nothing more than speculation. Maybe there was still hope.
Maybe—
“Yes.” His mother’s words were careful, precise. “All of them.”
“Bu—”
“I’m sorry.” She pulled Osamu back to her chest. “I’m so sorry, baby; but he’s gone.”
Osamu didn’t know how long he remained there, clinging to his mother as she attempted to console the unfathomable hurt building inside him. Nothing she said would bring Keiji back; the letter discarded on the floor beside them was proof of that. It was a notice from the Akaashi’s estate letting the Miyas know that their contract would be terminated—not because of their poor performance over the summer, but because multiple members of the Akaashi family had perished on their journey back to Tokyo. Their train car’s explosion following its derailment left no survivors. Skeletal remains mixed with the rubble, some pieces likely never to be recovered.
Keiji’s grandmother, Akaashi Fumiko—who’d left for Tokyo one week before the rest of her kin—was all that remained of the once-distinguished family. When she passed, the family’s legacy would pass on, too. They would become nothing more than a line in a textbook, their stories left in the hands of those holding the pen. The tone of the letter made Osamu believe that history would be unkind to the family he thought of as anything but cruel.
Rumors of their deaths being the result of a deliberate attack from an anti-imperialist faction had already begun to circulate in the Asahi shinbun, so the letter claimed. At nine, Osamu’s knowledge of his country and its politics was rudimentary at best—views influenced by the household he grew up in and the stories he heard grumbled between his elders whenever he ventured into town. He knew the elites were ill-favored, just as he knew his mother accepted work with them as a means to provide for her children.
The world and its workings would become more apparent to him with time—distinctions between good and bad changing the older he got. Right now, though, all Osamu could say for certain was that his friend was gone, and he would allow himself the time to mourn.
He burrowed his head further into his mother’s chest and continued to let her soothing hand dull his senses until his sobs quieted and heavy-lidded eyes no longer forced themselves to stay open. An exhaustion that was equal parts mental and physical crept over him, lulling him into a fitful sleep.
When he dreamt, it was Keiji’s face he saw: rosy cheeked and full of a life he would never get back. In his dreams, nothing had changed between them. They sprawled themselves under the shade of the black pine—Osamu with his eyes on the sky, and Keiji’s skimming the pages of the same scarlet-bound book Osamu had seen him with countless times over the course of the summer.
“It’s my favorite,” Dream Keiji said to him when he noticed Osamu staring at the gold lettering on the front cover. Osamu couldn’t read all of the kanji, but Keiji told him that it said: Kaitei gunkan: Kaito boken kitan. It seemed incredibly boring to Osamu, who only read when he was forced to.
“But if you’ve already read it, then ya know how it ends,” he said aloud. “That doesn’t seem like much fun.”
Dream Keiji looked down at Osamu. There was a thin, wistful smile on his lips. “I like being able to go back and catch the things that I missed the first time. It makes the hero’s journey more exciting at the end when you realize how everything was planned out from the start.”
Osamu didn’t get it, but he didn’t have to. All that mattered was the calm he felt sitting in the courtyard beside Keiji. As if this was their own corner of the universe, a place no one else could touch. If this was what it meant to dream, Osamu wasn’t sure he ever wanted to wake. Here he was safe. Here he was free.
Just like the boy at his side.
Eventually, though, reality crept back in.
When Osamu woke, he found himself no longer curled against his mother’s chest, but sprawled across a futon in the room he and Atsumu shared. His brother sat cross-legged beside him, eyes trained on the sliding door—as if he were a sentry keeping diligent watch over the weak. The shadows cast around the room indicated that it was late in the day; nightfall was nearing. Osamu wondered how long his brother had been at his side, realizing that the fading daylight meant several hours had passed since he’d first closed his eyes.
Maybe Atsumu had even helped their mother carry him into the bedroom.
Did it matter? was his follow-up thought.
Did anything matter?
Osamu didn’t know. The only thing he could be certain of was the lead-like feeling weighing heavy on his body when he finally forced himself to sit up. His senses continued to drift somewhere between the conscious and the unconscious; the world balanced precariously on his slender, haggard shoulders.
What a terrible Atlas he made.
His throat burned with each swallow; itchy, swollen eyes fought to stay open. When Osamu tried to form something to say to his brother, the words died on his tongue, bitter aftertaste continuing to linger even after he’d forced himself to push the things left unsaid back down.
He didn’t want to talk about it.
He didn’t know what else to say.
But, as things often went when it came to the twins, Atsumu was quick to fill the heavy silence. He turned to face Osamu and offered a casual: “Oh good, yer awake. Ma went out, but she said there’s food for us whenever ya want it.” It was decidedly not the first thing Osamu thought his twin would have said to him, and yet his greeting was undeniably Atsumu. The realization was oddly comforting.
“Ya didn’t eat already?” Osamu croaked, voice hoarse.
Atsumu shook his head. “I was waitin’ for you.”
At this, Osamu’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like his brother to pass up an opportunity to grab the first helping of their mother’s cooking, especially when Osamu wasn’t around to chastise him for it. Atsumu was uncouth in that regard. So then why—
“Samu, I’m not gonna tell ya everything’ll be okay.”
Osamu sat up straighter, body going rigid. “Wh—” he started to ask, but was quickly waved off by his twin.
“And before ya try to say somethin’, just know Ma didn’t put me up to this.”
“Yer bein’ weird, Tsumu,” was all Osamu could manage in response. He continued to stare at Atsumu, neither of them moving from their spots on the floor. Gray eyes watched brown in silent scrutiny.
As always, his twin was the first to re-break the silence—never one to let it go on for too long. His expression this time was more serious, a look he seldom showed, when he told Osamu: “Life sucks, but the best way to remember Keiji-kun is to keep going.”
“Ts—”
“Shuddup and let me keep talkin’,” Atsumu insisted. He gave a second dismissive wave of his hand; the expression on his face remained unchanged. “I bet’cha think I don’t listen when ya tell me things, but that’s not true. I remember every single thing you said about him this summer, so I know what he meant to ya. Even when ya didn’t tell me things, I got the sense that Keiji-kun was someone important to ya.”
Osamu blinked. When he went to swallow, he felt a lump in his throat that rendered him speechless once more.
“Did’ya really think I don’t pay attention to the things ya tell me, Samu?”
Did he? Osamu wasn’t sure. There was a part of him that thought their relationship had always worked in the reverse—with Osamu listening to every word his brother said, forever the one to provide comfort or rationality when the situation called for it. Even at nine, he’d cemented his role as the provider. Never the provided for.
Perhaps he was a fool.
“Anyways,” Atsumu added when his brother didn’t respond. “I know I say a lot of stupid stuff, but I mean what I’m tellin’ ya now. The best way to remember him is to keep doin’ the things ya said you’d do together. He might not be here, like in this room or whatever; but that doesn’t mean he’s not in here.” He tapped his own forehead to illustrate his point—that Keiji would live on, forever ingrained in Osamu’s memory.
It took a moment for him to process what his brother had just said, the gravity of Atsumu’s advice slow to sink in. Just because a person was gone physically, didn’t mean the rest of who they were died with them. Osamu knew he would never see Keiji again; but he realized now that he would always carry a piece of his friend with him. Both in his head—as Atsumu had just explained—and in his heart.
They would be together always, even if it wasn’t in the way they’d once promised.
Osamu continued to hold onto that thought when he finally gathered himself enough to speak. “Tsumu,” he began, voice barely above a whisper. “Where’d ya learn to talk like that?”
His question was honest—Atsumu sounded mature; wise. It was equal parts admirable as it was frightening. Osamu wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to receiving helpful advice from his twin. In that moment, though, it was exactly what he needed to hear. He was grateful for Atsumu, and had been prepared to say as much to his twin until he noticed the way Atsumu’s mouth opened in shock and brows came together in mock agitation.
“Whaddya mean ‘where’d ya learn to talk like that?’” Atsumu asked, voice growing in volume in tandem with his agitation. “Do ya really think I don’t listen to anyone?! Ma taught me that.”
Oh.
A thin, knowing smile began to spread across Osamu’s lips. “You have a heart after all, Tsumu,” he innocently teased. “Now let’s go eat.”
With nothing left to say, he stood from the futon and offered a hand for his brother to take. Atsumu started to protest, but an impeccably timed stomach growl forced him to relent. There was a bit of laughter shared between them as they made their way over to the door, hands now back at their sides.
The moment was familiar, something they had done countless times before: Atsumu would go first and Osamu would follow behind. They would squabble over who took the bigger portion only to deposit some of their food into the other’s bowl when they thought they weren’t looking.
Life for the twins would continue to go on.
Even if hope felt like a fleeting thing, Osamu told himself to keep going. Step by step. Just like his mother had preached when she’d first taught her sons to walk. Navigating life without Keiji felt a lot like learning to walk again; Osamu would stumble and fall, but the key was always to get back up. To try again.
As he followed his brother out of their bedroom, Osamu sent a single, silent promise to the stars: I’ll make a name for us one day.
At nine years old, that was all he could do.