Chapter Text
Within the tapering walls of a small Ookayama high school resided a small, comfortable library stuffed to the brim with books as the smell of aging paper permeated throughout its meager premises. It was a humble library, no doubt, one that only saw the engagement of hardened students desperate for assistance in their various assignments. Though, another kind of person lurked these premises; the kind that would hide within the walls of the bookcases, a weighty book resting upon their crossed legs, their eyes blankly wandering the pages as their minds filled to the brim with outside thoughts and concerns. A distracted person taking refuge in a distracted place. Such was the obvious case of Ichijou Seiya, third year socialite recluse.
Ichijou existed in a strange gray in terms of the school’s hierarchy. He was popular, charming, and well-liked. Though, this didn’t propel him to associate beyond acquaintances with others, for that was Ichijou’s fault. His mind was the only barrier between him and everyone else. Had anyone been in his well-known status, they would surely, at this time of recess, be socializing and developing favor with their peers. But not Ichijou. Despite his appearances, he harbored a mind that was his best friend and worst enemy.
And now, as he sat, curled in the corner of a library, an unloved textbook sprawled before him, his mind swells with thoughts of worry and apprehension. He had a presentation coming next period, and, though he had thought of preparing for it all the time, he hadn’t prepared for it whatsoever. The inertia of his concern led him to inactivity, causing him to hide in the library in fear. Ichijou was like this, often. Against his own best interest, his mind would swell and calculate until it could do nothing else, leaving Ichijou to simply deal with his own misgivings.
Though, unbeknownst to this worry-ridden Ichijou, there sat, parallel to his own corner, another boy. A boy who, contrastingly, had no such worry and no such fear. Truly, there wasn’t a bone inside him that folded under apprehension. Surely, he had not the capacity of Ichijou, and that in itself was a blessing to him. Murakami was his name.
Even though Ichijou hadn’t noticed him, Murakami had been staring at Ichijou’s seemingly demure appearance for quite some time – the entirety of the recess period, to be specific. He waits not out of fear of approaching him but rather patience. In his misguided mind, the well-versed and intelligent Ichijou is studying hard and working with efficiency, so much so his pointed face betrays no concern. Murakami had been thinking of Ichijou a lot recently.
Thus, the two stay like this. Both are absorbed in their own worlds independent of anyone else. It is only the quiet ding of the next period bell that pushes either to move – Ichijou to his next class, and Murakami to Ichijou.
All the same, Ichijou couldn’t feel the presence of anything else except the foreboding reality of his presentation. So, it confused him greatly when he was met with a broad chest before his face and, upon looking up, a vaguely familiar peer looking to him with benevolent eyes and a satisfied grin. Ichijou stared at him momentarily before assuming his appearance of acquaintance.
“Ichijou-san,” he spoke with confidence. His voice was clearly one used to loud booming environments, betrayed fairly obviously by his weak attempt at whispering. “We have economics next, right?”
Ichijou, clutching his unread books, smiled an awkward smile, before nodding. “Oh, yes. Presentations. I’d totally forgotten. You are…”
The boy stared at him momentarily, perhaps paused out of the reality of the situation, before he resigned to gleam once again. “I see. Well, I suppose we’ve never had a proper conversation until now,” he said, mostly to himself. He puffed his chest and spoke with pride, “my name is Murakami Tamotsu. I’m a third-year and in your Economics and English classes. I think you know Tamada, right? We’re both on the school football team.”
Silently, Ichijou nodded with a simper of confusion, and Murakami continued.
“Well, anyway, that’s just preamble. I guess I’ve just been meaning to talk to you since, well, I’d realized you and I had never had a proper conversation before, and graduation is coming soon anyway, so…” Murakami rambled on as he absentmindedly moved beside the forward trudging Ichijou, who watched his eccentric motion all throughout.
Ichijou noticed the vigor with which this Murakami spoke to him and was somewhat off put; he never really had conversations with people who so blatantly wore their intents on their sleeves. Externally, he displayed a countenance of delight and humor, but he couldn’t help but feel a mild irritation at this protrusion. He had no real reason to talk to Ichijou, it seemed, and this lack of purpose fundamentally bothered him.
Ichijou pressed on, the pace of his footsteps increasing with every passing second. The passing period was relatively long, but he had no intentions to spend it strolling on a chat. However, Murakami didn’t struggle to match his pace.
“I suppose we haven’t talked, indeed. Have you done your presentation for Econ?” Ichijou attempted to pass off the conversation to something more relevant, his energy not interested for some random peer with an irrational interest in him.
“Oh, I’m doing mine next time.” Murakami answered curtly.
Ichijou frowned mildly. The conversation apparently ended on a null, before Murakami took the hint and seemed to approach what he really came to Ichijou for.
“So, Ichijou-san,” he began, his eyes wandering his mind for a moment. “There’s a rumor I heard about you.”
Oh, a rumor, is it? Ichijou felt the irritation boil, as his mind immediately jumped to what he assumed this rumor referred to. Of course, Ichijou thought, of course. There was apparently nothing else more interesting to these country bumpkins (thought by a country bumpkin, himself) than something so apparently foreign and queer. The subject matter itself didn’t bother him, as it wouldn’t bother anyone else of reason, but its growing relevance to his every conversation in this institution had tired him.
“I’m sorry to bring it up as a rumor. I know it seems a bit rude to know your business without knowing you personally,” Murakami apologized, but Ichijou didn’t hear a word of it. His footsteps seemed to boom louder with the force and urgency at which he moved. At this point, he wanted to be free of any conversation from anyone, and would rather have undertaken his unprepared presentation than entertain such menial intrusion.
“But,” Murakami continued innocently, “I couldn’t help but be somewhat curious. I mean, it’s something quite rare, isn’t it?”
At that, something in Ichijou sparked and he swiveled to Murakami, who didn’t notice the apparent vitriol in Ichijou’s glare. Ichijou, out of force of habit, was about to spur unwarranted anger at Murakami, but, fortunately for Ichijou, Murakami spoke first.
“I mean, moving to Tokyo!” Murakami smiles broadly. In his mind, Ichijou slowing down and turning to him was a sign of interest and he took it with pride. Albeit, he had misread. “How many of us Ookayamans can say we’d do that?”
Immediately, Ichijou’s muscles lost all tension as he realized the reality of what he’d mentally accused Murakami of doing. He stared at Murakami’s gleeful face for a moment, in awe at his unreasonably aggravated state, and looked down at the ground in shame and embarrassment. Where had his cool gone?
“Ichijou-san?” Murakami called to him, confused at his strange reaction.
Ichijou looked up, a newfound placid amiability worn. “Tokyo… right.”
Murakami furrowed his brow at the lukewarm reaction. “You… you are moving to Tokyo, Ichijou-san?”
Ichijou perked up, holding his books tighter to his chest. “Oh, yes. Those rumors are true. As soon as graduation finishes, I’m leaving.”
Murakami’s eyes seem to glow at this information and he leans in closer to their shared space. “That is really incredible, Ichijou-san! I mean, Tokyo.. the capital! It must be a scary idea to go all the way out there, but I’m sure you’ll be able to do it.” With the settled down conversation, the two once again begin a light walk to their closer Economics class. “Could I ask why?” Murakami asked with an abashed expression.
For a moment, Ichijou was perplexed by the question. He had his fair share of conversation about his moving to Tokyo, but never really been questioned as to why exactly. And even if he were asked, his reasons weren’t ones he’d publicize to peers in school. As such, he took a moment to contemplate on his answer for Murakami.
“I suppose Tokyo just has a lot more to offer than the countryside, no?” He replied flatly.
Murakami made a mild face of displeasure at this answer. Even as the relatively straightforward character that he was, Murakami could tell this answer wasn’t truly what Ichijou thought. Though, he assumed, for the moment, the reasons weren’t ones Ichijou would be telling him otherwise. He moved on from the subject.
“But, all alone? Do you have any family in Tokyo, Ichijou-san?”
“Oh, no. All my family live in Ookayama. Though, I don’t mind being alone in Tokyo. It’s an authentic life, isn’t it?” Ichijou made a contorted grin at the answer. In truth, going alone did scare him somewhat. As pompous as Ichijou could pretend to be, even he was acutely aware of his inability to really deal with problems head-on. Though, that pomposity would never allow him to admit such a weakness.
The two slowly approached the Economics class. There still remained some passing time so it was relatively barren for the moment, but all the same, Ichijou approached his seat near the window and sat down. Murakami, still intent on conversation, simply resided to take the empty seat beside him. He pulled the chair close to Ichijou’s desk and stared at him with a bold gaze.
“Still, it would be nicer to go with someone, right? You don’t have anyone you want to go with?”
Ichijou’s gaze moved to the courtyard, of which he saw students clearing out with ease and leisure. This school, this place, it was one of serenity, Ichijou realized. He’d realized it a long while back when he argued passionately with his parents about leaving for Tokyo, when his peers laughed at him for thinking Tokyo was worth going to, and when he walked alone in Ookayama and found there was no warmth in this home of his. Ookayama was a place of complacency, of people who lived life based on predestined paths of which they never challenged; it was a place unfit for someone as internally tormented as he. Thus, when he turned back to Murakami, and found his friendly face, sunlit, looking at him with such poignant intention, he was startled.
It hadn’t occurred to him that this line of questioning had any real purpose. Truly, his mind still remained preoccupied with the idea of the presentation. Had he given Murakami any thought, it would’ve been obvious what exactly he wanted out of him. Though, all the same, when the question formed itself out of his lips, Ichijou couldn’t help but be astonished.
“Could I come with you to Tokyo, Ichijou-san?”
Moments passed between the two. The delicate shuffles of the leaves against the glass outside and the scuttling shoes of students entering the classroom inside were all that echoed between the two. The two boys were still, as if the question had functioned as a pause button for both of their movements.
Murakami felt a weight off his shoulders. He had been meaning to ask this question for a long time. Ever since he even learned of the matter, he had been incredibly curious and it pestered him deeply. The exact reasons were unclear to him, in reality: he wasn’t as ambitious as Ichijou. He didn’t see Tokyo as this place of opportunity as most. In fact, he was exactly the complacent person ichijou had come to hate in Ookayama, but all the same the idea only seemed to grow in his mind as time passed. Ever since he truly laid his eyes on Ichijou, as he learned more and more about him, he found that a growing feeling of respect developed within him. He couldn’t help but want to know more about him.
“Why?” was the only word that could come out of Ichijou’s mouth.
Murakami eased in, placing his hands on his knees. “I figured that if anyone had a good plan, it may as well be you, Ichijou-san.”
Ichijou was stunned. “What does that even mean? I mean… you and I haven’t ever talked. For what good reason would you want to move to Tokyo with me?” Ichijou’s polite demeanor fell very quickly.
Murakami inhaled with a sheepish grin. “It is a bit stupid of a proposition, I know. But, Ichijou-san, ever since I heard that you’d be moving to Tokyo, I couldn’t help but feel that I wanted to join you. I know it’s weird, and you don’t have to oblige me. I probably don’t fit well in your plans, but could you consider it?”
With every passing moment, Ichijou lost grasp on Murakami’s character. He didn’t know whether to laugh, yell, or hug him for his inane line of reasoning. Ichijou was a mess like this when it came to honest discussions, his rationality going haywire when someone so eccentric acts like this. At the present, however, he scoffed and looked away for a moment as a prevalent heat seemed to build up on his face.
“I don’t have any plans for you to intrude upon,” he ridiculed. “How can you so easily trust someone you don’t know, you moron? For all you know, I could go to Tokyo and fail terribly and become poor, and you’d just bear witness to a man’s downfall. You don’t have any reason to follow me.” Unknowingly, Ichijou spoke his truth.
However, this truth had an adverse effect on Murakami. Perhaps others would have played into this demeaning sense, for it was true in logic, but Murakami found it only attracted him more to Ichijou. In his world, Ichijou was so different from all those he had met. Everyone in the school was friends, even relatively new students, but Ichijou stood above it all; both of them had been in the school for the same amount of time, and, yet, Murakami found Ichijou was always a loner by choice. Murakami, who was used to big groups in the form of his family and friends, was inherently captivated by this fact about Ichijou. Ichijou, with his long hair and pierced ears, was a rebel to all Murakami had ever known. Thus, when he exposed even more of his contrarian reasoning, Murakami felt deeply enlightened and motivated by it.
“Well, if I’m with you, perhaps your chances of failure would go down a bit. Plus, it would ease the burden of being alone, wouldn’t it?” Murakami moved closer to the averted Ichijou.
Murakami had reason but Ichijou was hesitant to see it. He was about to retort before the chime of the class bell rang and the teacher called all students to their seats. Murakami, as respectable a student as ever, stood quickly to move to his seat. Though, before he left, he placed a broad hand on Ichijou’s desk and whispered loudly.
“We can talk more about this after class, Ichijou-san. For now, good luck with your presentation!” He raised a thumbs-up before dashing to his distant seat, and Ichijou was left feeling a stunned sense of ridicule for both himself and Murakami.
“That was horrible,” Ichijou stated, mortified. Though it wasn’t a shocking statement, it surprised Murakami, as it had been the only words that came out of his mouth for long while the two had been sitting on a bench facing the courtyard. In all truth, Ichijou wouldn’t remember how exactly he got to this bench, that he had mindlessly followed an incessant Murakami’s lead; all he would remember was the sinking feeling he felt as he concluded his presentation.
“Oh, it wasn’t horrible, at all, Ichijou-san!” Murakami latched on to any point of conversation to bring Ichijou back down to planet Earth, speaking a partial truth; he liked hearing Ichijou’s attempts at presentation and watching him, so to him it was successful. “Your information was good,” said Murakami, who retained none of it, “and you had a strong cadence. You did great!”
Once again, had Ichijou been in a right state of mind, he would’ve seen through these fleeting compliments, but, alas, he was not. So, when this distraught Ichijou heard the reassuring words of his oddly passionate compatriot, he took it to heart and turned to him with his thinly kept brows upturned. “Do you mean it?” He pleaded.
Murakami, starved of Ichijou's proper attention and ravished by his strange expression, was excited by this reaction. “Of course! You gave a great presentation, Ichijou-san! You don’t need to worry at all, you can relax.”
At these words, Ichijou turned away, to the dismay of Murakami, and rested his spine more into the bench’s curve as his body seemingly ragdolled. Murakami watched as he did this, and as the moments passed where Ichijou clearly resigned to saying nothing and barring himself to his mind once again, the passive Murakami took action. He dug into his bulky school bag, filled to the brim with items of random purpose, and retrieved from his lunch an uneaten cookie. His mom always was a bit generous with the lunch portions and, even with Murakami’s abnormally large appetite, he couldn’t stomach all of it. He presented the cookie before Ichijou’s gaze.
A lukewarm recognition prompted Murakami to shove the cookie to Ichijou’s lips, who eventually sat up and took it slowly. Murakami watched as he ate it with reservation.
However, the cookie ultimately did revitalize him somewhat. He turned slowly to Murakami, the realization of what likely lingered in his mind clarifying itself once more.
“Tokyo… have you ever been there?” Ichijou asked with an uncharacteristically soft tone.
Murakami was (privately) in awe of how strange Ichijou was to talk to. He was such a different character from what he’d imagined but it deterred him very little. “Oh, no…I think the only really far place I’ve really gone to was Hokkaido on a trip in elementary school. Have you been to Hokkaido, Ichijou-san?”
“Why do you want to come with me, Murakami?” Ichijou looked down and furrowed his brow. “You don’t know me and you don’t know Tokyo. You don’t have any reason to want to go.”
Murakami tilted his head as he thought. “I suppose. I can’t really explain it other than I just believe you’re making the right decision, so I want to follow that. I don’t really think about it too much.”
Ichijou chuckled humorlessly. With inexplicable purpose, he turned and looked Murakami deeply in his black eyes. After a small while, he murmured. “I should try that sometime,” he thoughtlessly moved his hand and lightly flicked Murakami’s forehead, “not thinking, that is.”
Strangely, Murakami seemed to be oddly humored by this, smiling broadly as he tensed his brow in reaction. Without really understanding it, Ichijou liked the expression but soon passed the thought as he spoke once again.
“I’ll think about letting you join, okay?” His mood was lightened somewhat. “But first, I gotta know who I’m going to live with, right? Isn’t that reasonable?”
Murakami nodded, the smile refusing to leave his face. “Of course.”
“How am I supposed to get to know you when graduation is in two months?”
Murakami thought upon this complex problem for a brief second, before responding with odd simplicity.
“I could invite you to my house?”
