Work Text:
Eichi slips the exchange diary into Wataru’s hand as they pass in the hallway, almost stealthily enough to pass for sleight of hand. Eichi doesn’t skip a beat as he continues to chat with the men in suits as he leads them out of the STARPRO offices.
Wataru sees no issue with opening to the latest page right then and there, just to see what he’s dealing with. Eichi’s had the diary for a full week this time, so Wataru is expecting nothing short of a novel. Instead, there are only five words written beneath Wataru’s last entry.
Tell me about our future.
Wataru is glad he peeked, because there’s a lot going on here.
First, he finds himself overcome with fondness at the audacity of having the diary for seven whole days and choosing to write so little, and to not even acknowledge anything Wataru wrote. Did he do this on purpose, that cheeky little devil? If so, it’s working. And if not, the brevity would speak volumes on its own. But what lies within those few words, the soul of its wit, is by far the most interesting development here.
Tell me about our future.
That’s a lot more direct than Wataru is used to Eichi being. Or is it? What does he mean when he says “our?” Given this sentence is written in a place that only two people will read it, Wataru would like to believe that it means “you and I,” but he is also not going to assume that, because assumptions are a dangerous thing to have in general, but much more so in the liminal that exists between Eichi and Wataru, this little world of theirs always straddling the knife’s edge of fantasy and reality.
Either way, Eichi has set the board up and invited Wataru to play with him. Later that night, before bed, Wataru moves his first pawn forward.
In the year 2100, Tenshouin A.I.-chi will unleash a fleet of six-story-tall Wata-robos, all equipped with nuclear laser eyes, to conquer the planet once and for all. Earth is ushered into a millennium of peace and prosperity under the watchful eyes of their overlord supercomputer.
Wataru includes a purposefully juvenile drawing of a Wata-robo blowing up the Taj Mahal with its nuclear laser eyes for good measure. Of all the world’s wonders, Eichi seems most fascinated with its tombs, but the Pyramids are a bit too meaningful to them to blow up without implying something entirely different.
The diary is tucked into Eichi’s arms as he sleeps, Wataru escaping back out of his room through the vents.
—
Wataru receives the diary again two days later, at the beginning of rehearsal for an upcoming fine live. The beginning of rehearsal, not the end, as if to dare Wataru to be as shameless as possible, to crack open the book and read it right now. Right here, in front of Eichi, and not only him but Yuzuru, Tori—the lattermost presence making the prospect especially indecent.
Wataru slides the book into his bag for later, barely even glancing at it.
Only hours later does the book feel safe to open.
Tell me about our future.
Of course he’s not satisfied with Wataru’s first answer, Wataru would be worried if he was, but he’s really keeping his playbook close to the vest with this one, isn’t he? Wataru spends quite a while strategizing, finally writing his answer down on the eve of the third day. Even then, he keeps it until lunchtime the day after that. Eichi can’t be the only one allowed to have fun with the waiting game, after all.
Wataru presents it about ten minutes after the diner’s waitress has taken their order. (They get their usual.) Eichi opens the book up right away, looking Wataru right in the eyes as he does so, keeping his gaze trapped for several long, burning seconds, only eventually tearing himself away to look down at Wataru’s reply. If it’s a more immediate future he wants, then that’s what he gets.
You and I will eat hamburgers together very, very soon.
Eichi closes the diary so suddenly that the force of its pages returning to meet one another sends a few strands of his hair flying back. Eichi’s burger lands in front of him not a moment later.
—
Tell me about our future!
An exclamation point—that’s new. Given what Wataru did to him, though, his frustration is understandable. It still feels like it’s largely Eichi’s fault, though. Wataru still has no more information to go off. Though that feels like his own fault—there is a lot of time between the current moment and the year 2100.
Maybe he and Eichi both are just awful at this game. Every strategy game involves a few measured losses, though, Wataru supposes.
They say the fall is the best time to visit the Big Apple. Allot time for at least three Broadway shows, the rest of the itinerary is yours.
—
A piece of paper falls out of the book onto Wataru’s bed. It is a print-out confirming reservations at an extremely pricey hotel in Manhattan for the last week of September.
Wataru’s gambit has paid off. His piece was taken, but the board should be a lot more open now.
Tell me about our future.
Subaru asks Wataru why he’s laughing so hard.
“Oh, just a little something Eichi wrote me.”
Subaru doesn’t buy it, looking downright offended in his incredulity. “Since when is he funny?”
Eichi has been a riot for as long as Wataru has known him. Wataru cannot begrudge anyone for not knowing, Eichi’s sense of humor is simply annoying to most. But so is Wataru’s. He supposes they will drag each other to the depths of hell, where the most annoying people rot for eternity.
Wataru walks to Eichi’s office to deliver the book after having it for so long. He stops before entering, hearing Himegimi’s voice.
“I don’t get any power in the company at all until I’m twenty, but by then my sister will already be fifteen and a half! I don’t know if I can even get anything fixed in only six months.”
“That’ll be our last resort, then. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to break off the engagement before then.”
“It’s not fair,” Tori whines. “Nobody wants this! Why can’t I stop it?”
“Not nobody. The shareholders want it.”
“Who cares about the stupid shareholders!”
“We do, Tori-kun. Unfortunately, running a business entails caring a great deal about the shareholders.”
Wataru decides not to give back the exchange diary, not today. He has some revisions to make, anyhow.
In our future, I will be the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thing you see before you go to sleep, for the rest of your life.
A few days later, the diary is placed on Eichi’s nightstand while he’s away.
—
Eichi gives the diary back the next morning. Wataru raises a quizzical eyebrow as he opens it in front of him.
Brevity is the soul of wit, but a picture is worth a thousand words, so the amount of content in Eichi’s reply depends on one’s perspective.
He’s drawn a Wata-robo firing his nuclear laser eyes at a bunch of men in suits holding briefcases, causing them to explode, sending bloody limbs and flaming ten-thousand-yen bills flying everywhere.
Wataru looks back up at Eichi, their smiles meet. “I hope that will suffice,” he says, wishing to explain himself without having to compromise the poetic lack of words in their diary. “I’m a terribly impatient man, Wataru, as I’m sure you know.”
“Of course,” Wataru replies simply, holding his elbow out so they can link arms and walk to their next destination together. He needs no further explanation.
Eichi keeps going: “There are some games, however, where it pays off to spend time developing your pieces and your position on the board.”
Wataru thinks the picture speaks for itself, but Eichi really, really likes the sound of his own voice. A flaw they often share. That’s one of the reasons the exchange diaries exist, to give their voices room to breathe. But it also gives them a space that is anchored to the present moment, to physical space, but still boundless as fantasy, as full of infinite possibilities as the future, an unknown star lightyears away, forever being reached for, but still its coordinates cataloged and written down, definite borders carved out between the pages.
“Eichi, tell me about…” He lets him sweat it for a moment with an impish grin, letting the possibilities blind his companion before dragging him back to reality, where they walk side by side. “...your day.”