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It’s a real cold one, the night that Akane goes back home after the Selection Round, with a nasty chill. But it’s not too bad. The girl looks to be in high spirits as she skips all the way to her house, hoping that a warm glass of chocolate milk will greet her when she opens their doors. Though there is a starless sky looming over her, she is unperturbed; the important thing is that Master Shiguma had allowed her to go straight back home tonight.
When she announces her arrival, she is face to face with her father. He meets her gaze with a smile, inviting her to sit with him at the table — the same table where he used to stay up all night talking shop with her mother, the same table that Akane used to recreate the same scene all those nights ago. She can’t help but loudly gulp at the prospect, impressively expressive even when she’s off the stage, but her father only laughs.
In part because he thinks his daughter is the funniest person in the world. In part because her sudden, uncharacteristic nervosity reminds him of himself.
“When good friends go out for a drink,” the man formerly known as Arakawa Shinta says, pouring beer for himself and juice for Akane, “it is customary to start with some small talk before delving into the main meat of the night. You need to set the right mood and make sure that the atmosphere is friendly before the secrets start spilling.”
“Right,” Akane says, hesitant but dutiful nonetheless. She doesn’t know what to think of this situation nor what it means, but she figures that it’s no harm done for her to sit across him.
Still, anxiety creeps upon her. In the first place, it is rare for her father to be home this early. Osaki Tohru, like any good company man, works until the sun sets and drinks with his co-workers until long past that. For him to stray from the schedule that he had followed for six years, the schedule that had supported his family when his passion for rakugo could not . . . well, it was no secret that he would move mountains for her. On that fated day of the shin’uchi promotion test, he had even been moved enough by the mere reminder of her presence to fully believe in himself.
Cement paid the bills, but Akane filled his heart. She hadn’t ever told him directly what she was doing, but one day, she had started sitting in textbook perfect rakugoka posture, and he knew. Before Masaki had built up the courage to tell him later that very same night, he knew.
Tohru smiles. He offers, “Let’s begin with something light. How was the travel back home?”
Akane is known as someone who jumps at the chance to tell a story, and so she does. She forgets about the day’s events and regales her father with a skillful demonstration of the way the old lady on the train had sharply admonished her grandson, the way the flickering streetlight had made it seem like the shadows were chasing her, and the way the comfort of the chattering neighbors around her had felt like an well-worn, well-loved blanket falling upon her shoulders. A very different kind of noise from the Shiguma house, she says, because the rooms are filled with her ani-sans practicing and bickering and working—
“Does Kyoji still panic at the thought of knocking over the vases?” Tohru wonders, absentmindedly. “His gestures used to be so wide. He worried about not having the money to replace them.”
“Ah.” Akane blinks, caught off-guard. She tries to imagine her controlled, disciplined senior losing command over his body like that and fails. Of course, she belatedly realizes, there were many sides to her seniors that she didn’t have the opportunity to know; the same lesson she had learned in trying to understand the art of the person calmly sipping alcohol front of her. “No? Did he really use to be like that?”
“Let me put it this way. Kyoji had a late puberty,” Tohru says, unable to stop his smile from widening when Akane giggles in surprised delight. “You have to understand, he would often wake up with longer limbs than what he was used to. Very disorienting, so he says. I still remember, he would burst into breakfast and shout, I grew another inch since last week! And then Koguma would say, Well, that makes one of us.”
Akane gasps. “Koguma ani-san said that?”
He pours out another glass for himself, raising an eyebrow at Akane’s still untouched juice. “He was, understandably, a bit displeased at having Kyoji outgrow him so quickly. That’s before he figured out he could now ask Kyoji, rather than me, to reach into the top shelves for him at the bookstore. Ah, but don’t let him know I told you that.”
The way Tohru looks up at her is mischievous, and she can’t help the warm mirth filling up her insides at the sight. She hadn’t seen much of that youthful, daring air since he quit rakugo. Her own grin widens. “Only if you promise to tell more stories for me,” Akane teases, knowing that her dad has never failed to be indulgent with her.
“Only if you promise to pour out some more for me,” Tohru challenged, smiling over the rim of his cup. “In this situation, I’m your senior. You have to serve me. Remember that.”
“Does that mean I should call you Shinta ani-san now?” Akane laughs. “Feels weird.”
“A little weirdness is a pre-requisite, when you’re a rakugoka,” Tohru says. “Otherwise, you can’t be entertaining. That and you probably wouldn’t have pursued such a dying artform in the first place.”
There is a pause before Akane questions, “Dying?”
“Maybe not dying,” Tohru acknowledges. At this, he raises his glass in a silent toast — respectful still, despite everything. “Heaven knows how much work the Foundation has put into helping the art stay afloat. But it’s not at the level it used to be. It’s not at the level he wants it to be.”
Silence falls. It goes unsaid, but they both know who he was referring to anyway. Akane grips her cup.
Their house may be warm but the air is cold.
“Dad,” Akane says, “I—”
Again, when it matters most, the words fail her. Her shred of doubt, her single missed point, her quiet despair at Kaisei’s last taunt all come crashing into her like a great wave. She feels small enough that today’s heavy sadness is large enough to completely consume her. The tears feel like they’re being wrenched out of her, hot and sudden and painful.
Tohru hurts. He reaches out. “I know. I watched. I’m sorry.”
“I feel like I failed you,” Akane croaks out. “I tried. I tried so hard. I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to win and prove your art, your rakugo, was the best. I wanted to show the entire Arakawa school that they were wrong for kicking you out. Dad, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She repeats her apologies until her throat constricts. She cries as much as she can, as much as she should. Akane has always given everything her all. She will give everything to this moment too.
“Akane,” Tohru — no, Arakawa Shinta says. He bows his head in respect to his kouhai. “I’m thankful you tried to show my art. Being passed on to a new audience is the highest praise any rakugoka can achieve. However, you must also remember this.”
Shinta — no, Osaki Tohru smiles at his daughter. “You are the rakugoka of the family now. Before anything else, it should be your art your audiences should hear. So when your troubles are heavy, putting on a smile is the best thing you can do to improve your mood. Then the rest will follow.”
“Okay,” Akane says between sobs. Her smile is wobbly. “Okay.”
It’s not, they both know, but tomorrow is a new day.
Arakawa Shinta will return back to his grave. Arakawa Akane will wake to the dawn.