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Bon had fond memories of chocolate. Considered a luxury item up until this day, his mother would save up her earnings to splurge on a Meiji milk bar by the end of every odd numbered month. She’d split an ounce and they’d share it after mealtimes. Always in the privacy of her room, of course, never at the table. Miss landlady there, the class act. She’d say, blowing cigarette smoke out the window. She’d snatch it off your little hands, you must never show her. There were five of them living in the okia back then. His mother, young and beautiful, had managed to secure a place even after being with child. She was simply too profitable to let go, times were hard and a crying baby was a small price to pay. Though this meant no one in the okia ever liked him that much, things were better back then. He still had his mother; her rouge and white powder puff in the lacquered vanity - all for him to play with. Of that simple happiness there were only faint memories left, he’d forgotten the taste of chocolate. After the injury, darling, sweetheart little Bon was no more. His dancing, once a fun little treat for their after dinner lounging, was deemed out of place when he’d become of age anyway. The injury, in the eyes of everybody there, had just finally rendered him completely redundant. Just another mouth to feed in a cramped okia.
Bon is not allowed to go outside by himself. Having refused to use a cane out of what he was smart enough to identify -but felt anyway- as useless, stupid pride, his mother had forbidden him to be seen unaccompanied out of the fear of being recognised as the sickly son. How much of his mother’s savings had also gone to buying red meat in an effort to try and bring out some colour on his face - just so he did not look both pale and squalid, all in vain. And now, the limp! What terrible luck, she must have thought. This child brings only misfortune. He had resigned himself and his days now consisted of staring out into the street from the same window his mother used to blow smoke. In a way, he thinks, left hand cupping his cheek with his elbow rested on the worn wood of the windowsill, the view now perpetually looks clouded to him - as if viewed through a curtain of smoke. Even in spring, even in summer. Even when the sun was bright.
“Bon.” He hears. But only faintly, not loud enough to wake him from his dazed slumber. He turns his head at the sound of the door sliding open. Miss Fujimori, the once nightmarish landlady, is now in her late eighties and seems the only one willing to spare Bon the odd kind word here and there. Not that he cares for her sympathy, he knows it does not come from a place of purely good intentions. Though she adamantly denies her ill health, she still expects to be looked after in return. He’ll be the one breaking his back to care for her in her deathbed, it’s been decided for him. In the end, they are the only two recluses of that house - they ought to get along, right? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, yadda yadda.
“Is anything the matter, Miss Fujimori?”
“Your meal.” She says, two frail hands pushing forth a tray with a bowl of rice, a side-dish of spinach and a small cut of fish. She leaves it on the floor carefully and then swiftly hides her hands into the pleats of her long sleeves. Bon is still able to notice them shaking violently.
“Thank you.” Bon smiles a courteous, cold smile before lightly lowering his head in gratitude. Miss Fujimori reciprocates, then leaves the room.
Bon eats in silence. The house feels empty at this hour, with most of the girls sleeping until noon. He can’t blame them, it really has to be exhausting. If only they could just sing and dance and perform and not have to engage rich yet ordinary dull men with an inflated sense of self importance in conversation. It’s no surprise to Bon they have to drink themselves stupid in order to last the night. Bon stops after having three bites of the overcooked cut of fish, his gaze getting lost somewhere out the window. The breeze hits his face and he breathes it in. It smells of rain.
Yes, he thinks. If only they could just dance.
---
Shin has the stupid habit of counting his leftover money in public. Out loud, with an open palm. This not only means that plenty a time he’s had his lunch and dinner fare stolen by children, but also that he’s almost willingly made himself the perfect target for salesmen, scammers and the sofisticated combination of the two - gambling parlour owners. He never seems to learn but, to be fair, he enjoys himself and doesn’t mind missing a meal or two. One could argue a real lesson for him to learn hasn’t come up just yet. There is little he regrets about those irresponsible escapades of his, he’s fine living day by day. He’s done it for nearly twenty years, after all.
“Two, four, eight-” He walks ahead without even sparing a glance at what's in front of him, nearly trampling over two chickens and stepping right square on a rain puddle. “Shit-” He drops half his earnings on the stone cobbled floor. “Damn it-!”
He squats to collect the money and counts it again right there, in the middle of the road. A smile grows larger as he realizes he has enough to spend the afternoon getting drunk and doing so in good company. Shin is happy until he looks up and realizes where he’s at, then it all goes to shit. The Hanamachi is way too expensive for him to even think about spending his evening there, so he avoids that part of town completely. Yet now, without realizing, he’s walked himself right into the middle of temptation. And it's a stupid temptation, too. Because he knows Geisha won’t go further than serving him sake nicely and titter at his bad jokes. No way, he’d rather hit the red light district. But they’re done up so pretty, he thinks. No one will charge him for just looking, right?
“Get off the road!” A merchant yells at him and when Shin looks up there’s a horse staring down at him with hate in its eyes. His eyes widen when the animal neighs loudly and he jumps out the way, cocking an eyebrow at the merchant’s creative insults as he moves on by.
Shin moves to the side of the road and ponders his strategy, pocketing his money before life throws another curveball at him and he ends up losing it stupidly - not recklessly, as is tradition. He scans the houses with his gaze, the windows, the main and backdoors. Nothing. And it's dead quiet, too. He sighs, what did he expect? You barely get a chance to spare a glance at them sometimes, it's that secretive. If he’s lucky he’ll get a glimpse of an ankle as they’re helped onto the carriage on their way to some general’s fatcat dinnerparty. But its not even the right time, he tells himself, its barely even noon. He’s gonna have to stand there for a few more hours if he wishes to gawk at the beauties and even then there’s no guarantee - why waste his afternoon? He’s about to leave with his head down and tail between his legs, defeated. Then, a miracle.
Someone peeps their head out the window right above the front door of one of the smaller houses. Bingo! Shin thinks, and squints. Such nice skin, she must be young. A young sweet Maiko, with sharp eyes like a cat. Shin smiles, resting his back on a wooden fence as he admires the view. She’ll be successful, he thinks. She really is pretty. On second thought, pretty doesn’t cut it. She’s elegant, like a statue or a painting. She has character. The bridge of her nose slopes nicely in an outwards curve, like a fine brush stroke, and Shin can’t stop looking at it. He gets lost in a daydream until he hears the sharp sound of the main door sliding open, rattling violently against the wooden doorframe.
A woman in her thirties barely stands in front of the okia entrance. She’s not done up, her face clean and her hair sitting limp on one of her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed in a way that is telling of her habits, a solo sake session kind of red. It’s not party drunkenness and Shin easily spots that, but what strikes him is something else. The woman is the spitting image of the girl in the window.
“What’re you lookin’ at-” She says, slurring her words as she keeps herself up by holding onto the doorframe. Somehow, in her drunken stupor, she still manages to pull off a distinguished kind of disgusted stare - like a swan realising its feathers have gotten dirty. She gets visibly agitated when Shin does not react, hitting the doorframe hard with her fist. “Leave!”
Through the corner of his eye, Shin spots the one peeking her head out the window now looking down - having just heard the ruckus. At that exact moment, his legs refuse to move. His feet are planted firmly on the ground despite the woman belting at him to scatter. Now that he’s got a better look at them, he notices theirs is a different kind of beauty. Different than that of a woman.
“Beat it!”
Shin snaps out of it when a slipper flies dangerously close to his head. He laughs, running off, and turns back a couple times as he does so - still being able to catch a glimpse of him at the window if he squints hard enough.
---
Shin knows he’s in trouble when he realises he keeps frequenting the district despite not having a substantial increase - no increase at all, in fact - in his earnings. He knows there’s an issue when there is nothing to do there, nothing cheap enough for him to spend his money on, yet that’s where he willingly decides to spends his evenings wandering aimlessly. Except not aimlessly. Not at all. More like taking turns between pacing nervously on the street and standing right below the window, like a dog begging for the scraps at the table. For a morsel, a glance. Anything. Shin’s not just curious anymore, and that's a problem. He’s fascinated.
After a month of fruitless waiting he spends a whole week’s wages on booze out of desperation. He’s drunk enough to not see straight yet he still manages to make his way to the Hanamachi. Right there, below the same window, he begins to make an ass of himself to a degree that he will only ever begin to appreciate once he’s sober. Which will most likely be, he calculates taking into consideration the amount of sake he just downed, about a week from now.
“Come out, come out!” He says giggling, clapping avidly as if asking a performer for an encore. His shouting is met with silence for a couple of minutes and then the dogs start barking. Five minutes later, the first distraught neighbours emerge.
“Shut your trap!” He hears, turning to face a man popping his head out the window of one of the opposite houses.
“Now, sssir-” His speech and movements sluggish as he turns to face the man and waves his index finger in the air comically, like a teacher scolding a child. “I’m just requesting audience with the pretty gent-”
“Requesting audience, my ass! Get outta here!”
Shin ignores him, going right back to serenading in his own particular way - badly. He’s left alone for a good twenty minutes before a significant number of lanterns are lit up, the dogs now barking wildly. Grumbling complains echo in the alleyways, the patience of the neighbouring tenants running low. He’s oblivious to all of this, lost in his inebriety, but the cold pot of tea that gets poured on him - now that, he notices.
“Scram, ya beggar!”
Disoriented and shamed, despite alcohol still blocking a good amount of his self awareness, Shin stands there contemplating the extent of the damage. He pulls a face, tugging on the fabric of his old juban now reeking of over-brewed tea. At that moment he has an unwanted moment of lucidity and realises he’s got no money to go to the public baths. He sighs, looking up at the window one last time with no expectations - purely out of habit this time - but encounters a handkerchief on a mid-way course to falling daintily on his face. When he puts two and two together and removes it so he can look up, it’s too late. There’s no one at the window yet he grins stupidly, with his juban ruined and hair dripping wet - handkerchief scrunched in his left hand. Happier than a pig in shit.
---
Bon has seen him pacing under the window throughout the month so he’s positive the man screaming his lungs out last night is the same person. It was unnerving at first. After all, it was a stranger. Bon had half a mind to let himself be seen whenever the other was outside. Yet for some reason he kept a discreet eye out for him, curious to see how long this behaviour would last. His intuition told him it was harmless, the other didn’t look like a threat. Not even like a pervert, more like a halfwit with too much time on his hands. That performance of last night had somewhat confirmed it and, somehow, the ridiculousness of it all had managed to make him laugh. Out loud, which was no small feat. He was lucky the screams of distraught neighbours had concealed it, he could only imagine what would have happened if his hysterics had been met with silence at those hours. In that moment, he realised he’d almost forgotten that feeling of catching his breath - of laughter slowly building in one’s gut. It made him angry. Yet, somehow, witnessing the finale of the man’s showdown with the neighbours had substituted that with something close to courage. As if it were a gesture of gratitude - and who is he to lie, out of sympathy for the man given his state - Bon had rummaged through the drawers quickly and threw a handkerchief out the window, getting himself out of sight as soon as he felt it float in the air. He’d stayed like that for a moment, crouched down with his back to the wall reflecting on his newfound determination. If the other could bare to make himself look like a fool like that, surely he could muster up the will to leave the house by himself.
The following morning Bon wakes up early, early enough that the songbirds are not even singing yet. He doesn’t have breakfast. As he gathers his belongings he re-convinces himself of his decision, knowing full well he’ll have doubts until the very last moment. He’s had it with his mother’s antics having gotten worse recently. Its Monday, the market’s crowded - no one will notice him. And if someone does, so what. So what if someone sees him as the sickly son, she’ll live. His hands shake as he grabs some money, it’s been more than a year. More than a year in this cage. As he walks downstairs quietly he swallows hard. He can’t do it. But then it’s two more steps out the door. Two more, and he’s out. He doesn’t take his cane.
Bon opens the front door and spots the same man from last night standing across the road, half asleep with the back of his head touching the neighbour’s fence. Bon did not plan for this and freezes, and when the other catches sight of him -waking himself up in a snore - he freezes even more.
“Hey-!” He says. The man’s got the intimidating aura of a goldfish yet the hairs at the back of Bon’s neck stand up. He did not plan for this. This is out of his control and it shakes him. What poor judgement for him to believe that the other would just disappear into the night, to give up so easily. If he’d been so insistent up until that point, the logical thing was for him to persist. Bon decides to pay him no mind, closes the door behind him and pretends he didn’t see. “Hey, wait-!”
He walks to the market in silence and once the streets start getting busy he manages to block the other’s presence despite the continuous ramblings he produces by trying to get his attention. Being outside by himself feels foreign but soon he feels comfortable enough to forget about the limp, about his mother. About the okia and miss fujimori. The man follows him around the market like a lapdog as he goes about his business. He’s amazed at how the other has managed to keep quiet for quite some time now, especially given how long he screamed at two in the morning the other night. He half smiles remembering the instance then stops to look at the beautifully displayed trinkets on a vendor’s stall; hair ornaments and small vanity mirrors. Suddenly, he hears bells.
After several minutes of throwing conversation starters at him, Shin realises it’s perhaps best to keep his mouth shut. When he first saw him standing at the door he looked startled to the point he thought he’d run back into the house if he even lifted a finger. Like a deer in headlights, he thinks, following the other as he strolls through the market. It takes a lot of willpower for Shin to stay this quiet, he doesn’t enjoy it. But then the other stops and he sees his golden opportunity arise right then and there. The wait was worth it. Taking advantage of the vendor’s distraction he lifts a silver kanzashi up to the others hair, a big grin on his face as he watches him turn around to face him at the sound of the bells ringing to the movement.
“This one.” He says, his grin getting goofier. “This one suits you.”
Bon stands there, not knowing what to do with himself.
“Talk about chance encounter, huh?” He adds, turning to the merchant. “How much?”
The price, more so when said out loud, slaps Shin across the face. For a split second he almost forgets he’s poor. He lowers the kanzashi and places it back on the table with a love and care unbecoming of him, demonstrated here only as a response to the realisation that if he breaks it he may have to pawn his entire existence to pay it off. As he tries to recover his dignity he hears a composed chuckle which should be the final blow to his pride, but not to him it's not. To him it's a victory. He turns to the other to confirm he’s the source and watches him try to conceal it, turning away. The goofy smile returns.
“Sir, please. I’m just a poor little boy.”
“Stop”
“Don’t laugh at my misery, sir. It ain’t nice.”
“Care to explain how this a chance encounter?” Bon turns back, his red face a dead giveaway of his controlled laughing fit despite the dignified expression. When his comment is met with silence, he continues. “I’ve seen you prancing under the window for a month”
Shin’s mouth falls open. It stays like that.
“Not to add that it was near impossible to stay oblivious to the scandal you made the other night. And that you were standing in front of my door this morning.”
“Why didn’t you say anything-!” He says, grabbing Bon’s wrist. As if it were a cruel way to remind him of his situation, Bon’s left knee buckles. He reaches for a vendor’s stand and holds onto the display table for dear life. He thought he could hide it by not taking his cane, but no. He gets no mercy.
“Hey there- sorry-” Shin says, presenting an even goofier smile as he helps him to his feet. “Streets get slippery with rain, and you ain't even wearing the fancy shoes out. I don’t know how the girls do it, I’d break a leg!”
Bon blinks, taking in the others comment and not being able to contain himself in the face of the universe’s cruel sense of humor. He laughs, from deep in his belly like he hasn’t done since he was a child - even louder than the prior night. To Shin it sounds like the tinkling of a wind chime, like a summer afternoon. He can see it, the rice paper slowly moving with the wind in the summer heat, the cicadas crying loudly. A slice of watermelon.
“Do you know if they dance in those?”
“Sometimes.” Bon says, a leftover chuckle clouding his words. Blood rises to the others cheeks again and Shin is enchanted. He doesn’t know what makes him ask the next question, perhaps an image he’d already formed in his mind.
“D’you dance?”
Bon is caught off guard. He thought the sadness would reemerge at the mere mention of it, but it does not. Something about the others excited expression makes it not so. It somehow reflects his own when he first saw his mother dance. Full of wonder, excitement. He sees himself mirrored in the other.
“No.” He lies. “No, I’m just the errands boy.”
The other stays quiet but something in his eyes tells Bon that he might not be a complete knucklehead. There is some intuition in him, and it's enough for him to tell he’s lying.
“I-” He starts, watches the other expectantly waiting for him to continue. “I used to.”
“Not anymore? And here I was hoping to get a freebee from ya.” Shin groans exaggeratedly and then it transitions into begging. “C’mon.”
“I’m retired” Bon says, surprising himself for joining in on the other’s theatrics.
“C’moon, it’d be like charity! I can’t afford an official one.”
“I beg your pardon?” He says, one eyebrow cocked sharply. Shin’s whole body shivers. “Am I not official?”
“I didn’t mean it like that!” He says. Bon smirks, enjoying him squirm. He hasn’t had this much fun in ages. “C’mon, I’ll trade you a poem for it. I’m famous, you know.”
Bon scoffs. Shin is not deterred by it.
“Pleeaase?”
And just like that, under the same amount of pressure a five year old throwing a tantrum could exercise, Bon cracks.
“Allright.” He says. “Give me a week.”
Bon practices in his room and he feels stupid. He doesn’t know whatever possessed him to agree, it's not like he owes the man anything. He winces when the weight of his body all comes down on his left leg, but soon learns to mask it. He perfects it, makes it beautiful. He feels seven again. The next time he goes to the market, he buys chocolate.
---
A week after their meeting and as soon as the sun lowers, there’s a knock on Shin’s door. Bon had only agreed to dance somewhere other than the okia, as men were not allowed in unless their wallets were full - he was the only exception. Shin had no problem having him come over. He had found himself manically cleaning up the place, though. Suddenly self-conscious of the fact that he’d been living in filth. It was a strange fit of nervousness that had driven him to that, something he didn’t quite comprehend. He’d never done that, not even when he’d had girls over.
Bon shows up wearing a black robe over him. He looks like a monk and Shin bursts out laughing as soon as he sees him at the door. Bon shushes him, pushes past him and Shin mouths a comic ow before he closes the door. Bon doesn’t say anything more despite Shin’s blabbering attempt at courteousness. He offers him tea in an old, rusty teapot before he’s forced to shut up at the sight of the other when the robe hits the floor. Though the fit is far from perfect, the deep blue kimono still looks striking. Bon lifts an arm, hand slightly curved in the air, and stays in position with eyes on him till he sits down. Shin does, without making a sound - with eyes stuck on the other. Then, without music, or flourishings, or even an audience that a kimono of that standing calls for, Bon dances and proves that there really is no need for all that to do the garment justice.
Shin claps avidly. For a long time. For way too long for Bon to be comfortable. He goes to sit down before his leg gives and Shin grabs his wrist, wildly yelling for an encore. There’s a trail of sweat starting at the back of Bon’s neck and going down his spine, a throbbing pain in his left calf. Yet, he smiles.
“You’re exaggerating.” He says, watching as the other lets him go to be able to clap louder. He sits down.
“Don’t be modest, you’re an artist.” Shin says. “You need a stage name. What about Kiku? Like the flower. It suits you.”
Shin grins and Bon feels the tip of his ears burn red, but he smiles prideful. It is a beautiful name, much more beautiful, he thinks, than the one his mother gave him. He quickly makes it his own but, as always, his pride and the sudden threat of vulnerability don’t let him showcase just how pleased he is with it. He puts up a front.
“You liked it.” Shin says, smile widening into a smirk as he brushes short strands of black hair behind the others’ right ear. Bon hates being this transparent. “I told ya I was good poet and ya didn’t believe me.”
“Stop.”
“D’ya want a sonnet? Kikuhiko, my muse.”
“You’re insufferable.” Bon says, the long pause he takes to brush dust off the kimono’s right sleeve apparently not long enough to get the filter in his brain to work. When he looks up at the other, it just comes out. As if someone had hijacked it. “Kiss me.”
Bon goes through a range of expressions to showcase the horror he experiences by hearing himself say that out loud. He can’t imagine they can be very pleasant to look at but that doesn’t stop the other. The so-called poet kisses him and in that very moment Bon realises that he does not know his name.
“Your-” He starts, but the other doesn’t let him finish. Bon’s petrified. Whatever possessed him to say such a thing, an accumulation of a year's’ repressed desires packaged together with childish impulse, has vanished. He’s left with nothing, nothing to feel for the other. Or so he thinks. Because he kisses him like he’s been waiting under that window for years, not just a month, and his heart races. And that's not nothing. He scrunches the fabric of the others’ clothes, clawing at his back - his legs shaking under the weight hovering over him and his mouth parted and wanting. Who cares about a name.
“Shin.” He hears, looking up at the feeling of the other’s lips still brushing over his own. Something about his expression makes the other dissolve into laughter.
“Don’t laugh.” Bon scolds him and it’s pathetic because all that’s left of his voice is a thin whisper. His blood burns and then he realises it must have done so for a long time, painting his skin red from chest to ears, everything. Bon stares at the other while he laughs. No wonder.
“Right, right.” The other trails off into a chuckle, still recovering.“This is serious.”
“I’ll leave.” Bon’s voice slowly comes back, in all its severity. Shin realises he ought to hurry, his punchlines don’t seem to have that much lasting power.
“It ain’t my fault, you’re not letting me concentrate.” He says, and Bon can feel the smile press against his skin when he kisses below his jaw. “You’re very beautiful, you know.” One of his hands slides under the front slit of the kimono, moving up as it caresses his right thigh. Bon forgets his pride. He sighs, and there are no more words.
---
Deep in the night, Bon awakes to heavy snoring. He squints, sitting up on the futon then looking down at the other in a disoriented stare. The sight of him makes him come to a paralyzing realization. He hopes, prays to the gods that he didn’t see the scar. The fact that the room was poorly lit and the suspicion that the other had been drinking are the two only things that allow him to slip back into a relative peace of mind, but that split second of terror is enough for him to snap back into judgement. Before sunrise, Bon gathers his things and gets out of the house. He makes a lot more noise than he’d planned for, far more ruckus than is ever expected of him. The other remains unbothered, sleeping like a log. He walks back to the okia and gets there before the first rays of sunlight hit the streets. As soon as he sets foot in that house his ability for quietness and secrecy returns, his old persona. He slides through the hallways, returns the kimono and heads back to his room. Throughout all of it he remains unseen, unheard. Like a ghost.
---
Bon’s terrified and it has nothing to do with the possibility of getting caught, though that possibility hovering over his head certainly doesn’t help. His fears are absurd and he knows it, yet in an effort to escape from them Bon locks himself in his room and redirects his thoughts to denial. Nothing ever happened. He never met the other, never got charmingly coerced into dancing again. He never enjoyed it, never let himself open his mouth without thinking first. Never laughed out loud, or kissed until midnight. He didn’t like it. He doesn’t miss him.
A month goes by and Bon’s close to convincing himself of it all. Then, he gets sent to run errands. He’s asked to escort Miyokichi, the oldest sister, to get her hair done for an upcoming grand party. Bon has never much cared for her character. She’s haughty. And she has the right to be, she’s successful. But it borders on pretentious and she talks too much, particularly about other people’s business.
Walking arm in arm to make sure she doesn’t fall, or so that's what they always tell him, Bon listens to Miyokichi gossip as they make their way down the main street. When they’re about to turn the corner he feels a sharp tug on his sleeve and within seconds gets pulled aside, getting sucked into a narrow alleyway. From the depths of it he can see Miyokichi tumbling in her tall shoes, doing her best to keep standing but failing miserably - falling straight into the mud. She’ll have his head for this.
“Hey!” He hears. Up until now it hadn't occurred to him that he’d been pulled by an actual someone, not just a gracious force of the universe who took pity on his inability to show interest in that conversation. As soon as he looks up to face the source of the voice, he regrets it. “I’ve been looking for you for weeks!” Shin’s expression is desperate, hands grabbing at Bon’s shoulders. Bon stays quiet. At the silence, Shin’s grip slowly softens. When he next speaks, his tone - at first apologetic - quickly turns sad. “Say something.”
“I can’t see you.” Shin’s face falls and the shattering of something within him is so visible Bon can’t bare it. He looks away but not fast enough to avoid the sight of what comes next - outrage. And there is so much of it in the others face, and in his voice. He raises it but somehow it remains innocent, like a child’s plea. A tantrum.
“You can’t pretend it was nothing!”
Bon’s whole body tenses. He’d almost done it, he’d almost forgotten. And it would have been so easy, he thinks, if the other had stayed away. Bon had crafted this character to be able to live with himself, someone who’d never do something as careless as what he had let himself do just over a month ago. To steal and lie and to risk losing the trust of the people who’d put a roof over his head and meals for him at the table. For him, an invalid - a dead weight. And to fall in love. So quickly, so reckless. So remarkably stupid. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him.
“I don’t know your name.” He says. Bon blinks his gaze up. Shin is smiling. “Your real one.”
Bon stares. At his welcoming expression, his unkempt hair. The warmth in his eyes.
“You’re unhappy.” He says, and the words echo in the alleyway and in Bon’s mind. “Come with me.”
You’re unhappy.
Bon takes Shin’s hand.
---
Two weeks into them living together Shin realises his place has never looked this clean. And it is not the result of Bon slaving over it, quite the contrary. He has this power, which he’d already exercised without having even set foot in the house the first time he came around to dance, to get Shin off his ass. The same nervous impulse he’d had to clean the mess that evening returns every time.That afternoon, as he’s dusting the shelves, Shin squints in Bon’s direction and wonders. Is it persuasiveness or magic? Is it both? Is it just that he’s really good looking?
“You’ll fall down, focus on what you’re doing.” He says. Now this time, Shin’s convinced it's magic because Bon didn’t even glance over - his gaze somewhere out the window as he smokes.
“But you like it when I play clumsy maid, don’t lie.” Shin grins and waits, and the wait’s worth it. Bon smiles, the left corner of his mouth curling lightly before he takes the next drag. Shin could watch him smoke for hours, and sometimes he does. He looks as if he’s from a different time as he sits there by the window, occasionally mouthing the lyrics of whatever houta is playing on the neighbour’s radio. A vivid image of the Taisho era, when enka was just delving into the erotic - decadent and beautiful.
“If you fall down I’m not patching you up.”
Shin comes back down to earth at the other’s words and his foot slips, barely managing to hold onto the nearby doorframe for support. Bon puts down the cigarette and looks over at Shin just so he can tut disapprovingly by clicking his tongue. Shin grins stupidly. He loves that.
“Get down from there.”
“Yessir.” Shin happily abandons his post, now officially released from the others’ spell. He goes to sit with him near the window and begs with his eyes for a drag of what probably is their next to last cigarette. Bon obliges. He stays quiet while watching Shin savour the smoke. “We need money, huh.” He says, a cloud forming around the words. Shin works the odd jobs he can get, but it is not enough - not for two people. Bon avoids his gaze, feeling guilty. He can’t really do much, nothing that entails manual labour. A few steps down the market or the main street, fine, but anything more taxing than that will get him exhausted and render him completely useless - stranded in bed with a cold sweat. He can’t explain this to Shin, his fears remain there - as absurd as ever. Yet, there they stay. Bon is grateful the other doesn’t asks questions.
“Hey.” Shin says, aware of the others quietness elongating beyond what's natural for him. He waves the cigarette in front of him, a smile on his lips. “Here, you finish it.”
Bon doesn’t talk but his eyes speak for him. Shin’s smile widens, kissing the corner of his mouth before bringing the cigarette back to his lips.
“You’re so cute, you know that?”
“Shut up, I’ll snatch it off your mouth.”
Shin laughs.
“You could sing.” He says, burning the cigarette out in one last drag. “You know the words to all the songs that come on the radio.”
“No one would pay to see that.”
“I would.” Shin grins. “And if you showed some leg while you were at it, I’d tip.”
Bon smacks him in the arm. Shin laughs again, harder this time.
“No one listens to those kind of songs anymore.” Bon says. His eyes drift out the window once again, one elbow resting on the windowsill. He thinks of his mother. “They’re too sad.”
“Jazz is popular. D’you not like it?”
“Too loud.”
Shin snorts. Bon cocks an eyebrow, fulminating the other with his gaze.
“Well forgive me for liking the trumpets, your majesty.”
Bon laughs and his dignified expression breaks apart. It's quite a sight, Shin thinks, his smile widening as he watches it shatter into pieces.
---
A burning desire to make himself at least somewhat useful drives Bon to push himself beyond what he can handle. Concealing the limp takes a toll on him, and he’s done it now for far longer than his body can tolerate it. Despite being fully aware of his state, the next time Shin is gone to beg publishers to look at his work Bon begins his own quest. Perhaps the elderly lady who lives downstairs needs something sewn back together, or the landlord’s wife could use some help with the household accounts. By midday, he’s earned enough for them to stay fed for five more days. Ignoring his shallow breathing, he goes to the market.
Bon buys rice and vegetables, enough for a broth for two. It has been a while since he’s been on his own like this, and his thoughts quickly drift away to a sad yet familiar place. He’s not surprised no one’s gone looking for him. Besides Miss Fujimori, there was nobody in that house that really required his services. Or cared for his presence, for that matter. Perhaps they were all just waiting for him to get out of their hair. One less mouth to feed.
A song plays from a radio, its sound faint and distant. But the wind carries it and Bon can hear it as if it were loud and clear. Just like his thoughts, the woman’s voice that sings it is sad and familiar. A child and his mother cross the street on their way to the market. Bon feels ill, his left knee gives. He holds onto a lamppost so as to not collapse. The cold sweat he dreaded now soaks his entire body. People come to his assistance, vendors and bypassers. He refuses them. A young woman is insistent. Two weeks worth of physical damage fall hard on him. Years worth of sadness.
Bon faints.
After giving his eyes some time to adjust to the light, Bon realises he’s waking up to a room he remembers having cleaned at some point. He turns his head slowly, exploring the surroundings. Miyokichi is sat next to the futon, looming above him. If his legs allowed it, he’d run.
“Where have you been.” She says. Bon squints annoyed by her sharp demanding tone, turning away. She grabs his arm and forces him to sit up, her grip so tight it bruises. “Spit it out!”
Bon stays quiet, letting her have her tantrum. He’s got no energy to fight this fight.
“You selfish brat.” Miyokichi hisses. “Miss Fujimori is dead and I cannot handle your mother!”
Silence falls, heavy and dense like a led curtain.
Ah.
Bon turns to face her, slowly taking in the details he just missed. The tired expression, the bloodshot eyes. Has she slept at all? Was there a funeral? He wonders if she wore a mofuku but can’t imagine her in it, she couldn’t even stand to look at herself in dark blue. Miyokichi had always been bright and now she looked spent, diluted. Like watercolors.
“She made such a scene at the mortuary, I can’t control her.” She whispers, eyes fixed on her own hands - resting open palmed on her lap. She flexes her fingertips slowly, then looks up. “When you left she drank enough to drown, I thought we’d be burying her instead.”
Despite the white noise enveloping everything around him, getting louder with each word Miyokichi speaks, Bon can hear his mother.
Ungrateful child.
“Come back.” She says. No please, no begging. Not that he was expecting it, not from her.
Bon knows he’s not wanted. He’s never been wanted. He does not belong and living in that house sucks the life out of him because aside from the times he’s needed, always practical purposes, its perpetual rejection. Yet he sits there, unable to refuse Miyokichi request. Would she have come looking for him, had his mother been stable? If the okia had gone to her, instead of his mother as was the planned arrangement? Does it matter?
Bon thinks of music, of new silk moving with each twirl. The smell of white rice powder, the taste of chocolate.
“Give me two days.” He says, adding nothing more. Miyokichi bows her head. The only gesture of gratitude Bon ever got from her.
---
“I don’t understand!” Shin speaks, pacing back and forth from one corner of the room to the other. A tenderly condescending thought, or the closest thing to it if there ever were such a thing, crosses Bon’s mind as he watches him - sat near the window with an unfinished cigar on his lips. Do you ever?
“With Miss Fujimori gone, she has no one.” Bon says, tapping the ash off. “She’s only ever had me.”
“Where’s her husband?!”
Bon’s expression, which has been neutral throughout the evening, changes ever so slightly. Its enough to let Shin know he’s put his foot in his mouth. He approaches Bon, placing one hand on his shoulder as he lowers himself to the ground to sit next to him.
“Sorry-”
“Don’t be.” Bon smiles. Shin can’t help but think it's always pleasant to see it, even when it's just camouflage. He takes the cigar when Bon offers him a drag and stays quiet.
Its been such a long time since Bon has ast thought of that man. He was too young to even remember a face - but everything else that came with it, he remembered. The disgust, the refusal. The kid’s too small, too pale, too sickly. And of course, what better final blow to a father's pride than for his child to prefer arranging flowers over fighting in the mud. After that, indifference. After that, nothing.
“She doesn’t want me there, but she needs me.” Bon says. He has no courage to look the other in the eye. His gaze travels looking for anything that’ll allow him to divert his attention, catching glimpse of the stack of wrinkled papers the other holds in his left hand.
“Can I read them?” He asks. Shin turns to him after he finishes blowing cigarette smoke in the opposite direction. Bon’s request makes him smile softly.
“‘Course.” he says, handing them to the other. Bon reads, his knee pressing softly against the others - leaning against him. Shin places an arm around him, his knuckles caressing the back of his neck gently. Shin stares amused at Bon’s deliberately focused expression - a form of subtle flattery. As if interpreting his simple verses really took that much concentration.
Shin’s fingertips press lightly at the nape of Bon’s neck and his eyelids lower, the only sign he allows himself to show of the pleasant feeling pooling in his gut. Shin grins, realising he expects him to purr. It’s yet to happen and perhaps it never will, but he’s still hopeful.
“You like them?” Shin says, fingertips moving up to brush through the short strands of black hair.
“I’m a biased judge.” Bon speaks, closing his eyes momentarily.
“Just say yes or no.” Shin chuckles, pressing a kiss to the soft skin below the other’s left ear.
“You do have nice calligraphy.” Bon says. Shin brings the other closer, nosing at his neck - his hold on him tightening.
“Stay.”
Unable to find the words he needs to accompany that request, Shin lowers his arm and places his hand over Bon’s bent left leg. It stays there long enough for Bon to understand the significance of the gesture. He pushes himself away.
“Bon, please-”
“Who told you.” Bons’ words are cutting, suddenly suspicious of everything and everyone.
Shin looks at him in away that's way too close to pity and it makes his stomach turn.
“Nobody.” He says. Bon doesn’t believe it.
“Who told you.” He repeats, unconvinced. But then, having no choice but to face the other’s eyes this time, he realises Shin is innocent and the person he’s trying to convince is none other than himself. Bon shakes with anger at the extent of his denial. It was obvious. It was obvious since the beginning and Bon can read it in Shin's face and it kills him.
"The first time I saw it, I thought it’d healed. It looked like a clean cut.” Shin says. He looks down at his hands like he’s embarrassed, like a schoolboy apologising for his bad behaviour. “Then I noticed you hiding it, I could tell you didn’t want people to-”
“Stop.”
“You’re in pain-”
“Stop!”
Bon’s frustration comes from fear, the absurd one that's always haunting him - rejection. Even with Shin, who’d never confirm it, there it is. Shin grabs at him, holding him close. Bon squirms to get away and claws at his back, nails digging deep into the fabric enough to reach the skin - but the other is stubborn. Bon has no choice but to stay there, panting, exhausted and pathetic. Shin’s heart resonates loud and unrelenting, beating wildly against his chest. Stubborn, just like the body it inhabits.
“I ain’t got nice calligraphy.” Shin says, a small chuckle following. Bon registers nervousness in the others’ voice. He feels his hand which just before was resting open palmed at his back now fidgeting with the wrinkles of the fabric. Bon looks up to a very particular kind of sadness in the others’ eyes. “That’s the landlord kids’ hand you were admirin’. I give him some candy and dictate to him, he writes everything down. ” Shin laughs and there’s embarrassment in it, regret. “I can read and memorize. Beyond my name, I can’t write anythin’ else.”
Bon stares and Shin blinks his gaze away, in his lips a thin smile that trembles. It remains strained but widens when Bon moves his hand to cup his cheek gently, without saying a word. For the other to share this just so he wouldn’t feel alone in his moment of vulnerability is unbelievably kind and in that moment Bon is glad they met. It's fitting, he thinks. A dancer who can’t dance and a poet who can’t write.
“You gotta take care of yourself.” Shin says, the smile he gives him growing warmer but still melancholic - transmitting wistfulness for things he’s yet to experience. At that point in time Bon doesn't realise just what kind of farewell those words entail. It's only when dance halls start to get shut down and the jazz records Shin enjoyed become forbidden, when all of the ‘enemy’s music’ is slowly pushed away from public life. That's when he realises the extent of it, the implications.
During the following months, many houses within the Hanamachi close down. Neither his nor Miyokichi's attempts at persuading his mother to move to the countryside prove effective. A year later Tokyo burns, and she burns with it.
---
Shin had managed to escape the draft on the eve of the Manchurian war. How he did this, Bon did not know - he just knew this time he hadn’t been so lucky. For him, the recruiters knocking on everyone's door had been quick to realise the extent of his limited capabilities - they didn’t even bother to look at him twice this time around.
After the evacuation, Bon begins to write to him knowing full well that there won’t be a response. But Shin manages to convince some poor soul who gets the pleasure of typifying his bad jokes into five page letters. He writes weekly, and the calligraphy is beautiful too. Upper rank calligraphy. Bon cannot imagine the amount required to bribe an official into that kind of submission. For the first time in months, Bon laughs out loud again. By himself, in his rented room in the Minami district. It’s no luxury accommodation, but one of the windows overlooks the canal. Then, as abruptly as they came, the letters stop. Shortly after, the whole country falls silent for a day - as if there had never been music. The war ends with surrender.
Miyokichi is god knows where. They both came to Osaka together, following the wave of those displaced by the air raids. Bon last saw her locking arms with a US private, wondering about in the Tobita quarter. She didn’t recognise him. He pities the girls of the house, now looked down upon and relocated from one city to another as if they’re cattle - unable to find their place outside the small bubble of a universe they’d been brought up in. He struggles, too, but even as cripple he manages to find tutoring jobs for the children of the wealthy - the kind of people who just get wealthier whenever there’s a war. They seem to appreciate his demeanor. Either that or it’s pity. Bon doesn’t care to find out. He doesn’t enjoy it but it puts food on the table and after rationing he’s ready to take whatever he can get. With his first wages he buys rice and after swallowing his pride, a new cane.
It's 1946. Bon is by himself and has more free time than he knows what to do with. He wonders just how much of it is freedom and how much of it just loneliness. He returns to Tokyo, hoping the familiarity of the streets comforts him. It does not. With the first wages of his continued work as a tutor, with great references from the pompous Osaka fortunes, Bon buys chocolate. He continues to write to Shin, including his new address many a time. Whether his letters reach him anymore, he does not know.
---
What was supposed to be a simple tour of duty for him became a fixed position around 1944. The military needed everyone they could get their hands on, mediocre poets and untrained young men were not an exception. Shin knew that if he survived this, the dismantlement of such an uncoordinated army would be chaotic. And when it’s over, chaos is exactly what everything gets reduced to. Everyone, even generals walk around in a perpetual state of unbearable disillusionment. No one knows how to direct him, no one has any idea where they were going - much less how to get there. Despite this and the horror stories, the rumors of Tokyo being reduced to rubble, all he wants is to go home. And he’d been waiting for so long, sat at the stations packed with the sons of farmers and fishermen who had no idea how they’d ended up there. He waits for a train and then another one and then another one. Kyoto, Fukuoka, Chiba, Sendai. Is it coming? Is it here? Simply impossible, young man. Can’t you see this one’s full to the brim? Try tomorrow. Tired of hearing higher ups swinging the lead, Shin opts for the slow route. Better than no route, after all. He rides in the back of abandoned yank jeeps, even in the back of horses wagons - right next to unfriendly chickens if he has to. The point is to get there.
When he gets to Tokyo all he has is a stack of letters he hasn’t written and a hope that the directions he’s been given so far are correct. After all, he thinks, there can are only be so many math tutors in town. Shin knocks on what he thinks is his door and is terrified all of sudden. He’d managed to take a bath somewhere down the road but is now overly conscious of the remaining poorly shaved scruff and his mess of a haircut. It becomes a problem just as of now, as if he hadn’t had the same appearance for over two years. But that is it, two years. Who knows what the other remembers after all this time, what he feels. Shin knocks on the door. He does it again, impatient, and brushes the dirt off his busted uniform in an absentminded, absurd gesture. He realises the futility of it and smiles, chuckling out loud, and it's like breathing fresh air. It’s been a while.
---
Bon lifts his head at the noise, surprised he can hear anything at all over the ruckus. After saving some more, he’d bought a radio. When the Americans move in Jazz comes back. It’s as loud as ever and yet, somehow, this time around it doesn’t bother him. He finds himself listening to it frequently. Bon glances at his wristwatch on the low coffee table. It’s early for his afternoon pupils to be showing up. He puts out the cigarette, supports himself by grabbing onto the windowsill as he sits up and walks downstairs. When he opens the door, the music only seems to get louder.
“Mailman.” Shin speaks in sing-song, waving a stack of unsent letters in the air. He looks worn, thinner, yet his smile is immovable - unchanged by the years or the war. Goofy and ridiculous and delightful. It’s so striking that Bon mirrors it unconsciously, not knowing until the tears start running that at the same time he cries with happiness.
Shin giggles like a kid when Bon has to go through the ordeal of cancelling all of his afternoon tutorials. Tomorrow too, he hears him say on the phone. Well, ain’t he generous. Shin grins and noses against the skin on the back of the others’ neck, making him squirm as he stands with his back to him. Bon keeps composure and maintains courtesy, apologising for the short notice to concerned mothers till the other's arms lock around his waist - pulling him closer. When he hears him hum a quiet I missed you he hammers down the receiver.
He’d always been careful with him in bed but Bon had never attributed this behaviour to his injury. Or perhaps he just hadn’t noticed it, too focused on concealing the very thing that would account for others’ gentleness. But now Shin touches the scar like it's the most beautiful part of him and Bon cannot ignore it. When they lay side by side, sharing a cigarette at the end of it, he hears the stubborn heartbeat he’s missed loud and clear - not just in a dream. Not anymore.
“So.” Shin says, grinning. “How’re the rich kids treating ya.”
“Don’t start.” Bon says, brimming with agony just thinking about the arrogant little pricks. “I’m just doing it for the money.”
“I spoke to a writer, from Shibuya.” Shin says. “He told me Asakusa is the place to be.”
“And just what would we do in Asakusa?” Bon smiles, stealing the cigarette from the others’ hand. Shin whines like a child and Bon chuckles, joining in in the theatrics and adding a maleficent twist. Shin barks a laugh like he hasn’t done in ages.
“I did spoken word, guy’s at the barracks loved it. Stories, too.”
“Rakugo?” Bon says, one eyebrow arched. He can’t believe that's’ still around, it's much like the songs he likes to sing - from another time. He smiles fondly, glad not everything has been annihilated by postwar cynicism.
“I’m real good.” His grin widens, confidently puffed up like a lone rooster in a coop. Bon can’t help but indulge him.
“Is that so?” He says. “Will you do nozarashi for me?”
“Whatever the gent desires.” Shin says. Bon snorts, then listens and laughs till he cries before falling asleep to the sound of his voice. That was no lie, he’s good.
They relocate to Asakusa, where audiences gladly welcome the nostalgia of better times that rakugo carries. Shin gets very successful very quickly, too quickly, but Bon doesn’t intervene. There’s no danger, it’s clear to him the other does it for the fun of it and the money’s just a nice touch - not the motivator. Throughout the next few years, the city is rebuilt around them. The area, harshly damaged by the bombings, begins to show slivers of what had once been its golden years. Many theaters and cinemas reopen, tea houses too. Dance schools. Entertainment is beginning anew and those known in their trade are wanted, called in as instructors. Despite Shin’s encouragement, Bon hesitates. What could he possibly offer in his state? What would it to do him to return to such a place, willingly exposing himself to remembering memories he believed long forgotten? They wouldn’t even consider him, he says, convincing himself for a while. Nevermind the war, never mind the injury - above all, this continued to be a woman’s world. He just happened to be born in such an environment but he did not belong.
Yet when he caves in and sets foot in one of those houses, nervous like a child in front of a scolding parent, he feels at ease. This sort of place, albeit now seen in a completely different light, has always been his home. Bon sits in the drawing room and waits for the mistress of the house to receive him, cane resting on his lap in plain sight. If he’s to be rejected, he’ll at least know the true reason. He looks up at the sound of conversation. Two young women, he thinks, about to turn the corner. But it’s only one, speaking to herself - her long hair in a low ponytail. The red obi she wears suits her and looks familiar. When she locks eyes with him Bon knows there is no way he could be mistaken. Miyokichi cries at the sight of him, in a mixture of relief and distension that only the aftermath of a war can bring - even for not so amicable acquaintances. Bon smiles and the reaction is due to similar circumstances, happy to see she’s well even if they never were the best of friends. He gets the job.