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Another laugh erupts from the window, Kiku flicks at his lit cigarette and watches the ashes drift in the wind. Behind him the house is bright and filled; a party is taking place. He is half conscious of it, glancing every few minutes into the muslin curtains and waving at whoever addressed him. Muffled and contained as if peering off into a distant memory.
He stands lonesome in the terrace, papers strewn half written on the garden table, glinting in deep jewel colours. It had been gifted to them from one of the neighbours, a hand crafted circular thing constructed with scrap sections of stained glass. Arthur had been unsure of it at first thinking it’d clash with the pale exterior of the balcony. Kiku convinced him otherwise, liking the charm it added even during gloomy weather.
It is a beautiful day however, with the view of the shoreline lapping up the sun shine, sparkling in equal dazzlement. A favourite pastime of his was standing here, to the heightened view of the coast, alongside oblong cosy cottages and clustered white washed holiday homes; a perfect nesting place to people watch. Ever so often he would pick up the scent of fresh linen and seasalt, criss-crossing through neighbouring back gardens, sweetening in tone as it passed honeysuckle trails that crept up the house.
Though there wasn’t ever much to watch, what was there came in lounging neighbours, oblivious to the world, trailing footprints of sand and water after their dip in the ocean. Children running amok with their feet plastered in muddied grass stains, parents carefully scaling them from the corner of their eyes and sometimes wandering further. Tracing the shapes of each house, making their way around until they reached a peculiar set of plants that lined a holiday home, opening to a terrace that flashed swaying colours of stained glass. Kiku would hide himself then. Caught behind the foliage, arms turning to spiky tufts of cabbage trees, legs that softened to feathery cycads, ripening to plump succulent leaves below his feet. People watching, a pleasure from hidden eyes only.
At simple glance it seemed like a scene from a much warmer climate, somewhere in the Mediterranean and other coastal paradises, his own southern tropical islands spoiled by the sun. But then a sharp breeze would cut away the facade reminding Kiku of where he really was. Taking another puff of his cigarette, breathing in the cold air. The turquoise waters, deceptive in their nature, phasing vivid to dull. Southern England still lines itself with restraint; it is a beautiful day, but it is one that is rare and temperamental, only showing off its beauty when it wants to be. Tomorrow it says to promise sunny spells, but Kiku has gotten used to reading the air and knows it will be much cloudier.
They had timed it perfectly. Turning he rests his elbows to the railing, facing the windows to the gathering. A leaving party for one of Arthur’s oldest housekeepers reaching retirement age. Surrounded by the many workers of the house, Kiku spots her from the sea of faces, sees her overjoyed chatter with a figure that was obscured by a cluster of people. Though, the closeness of interaction– her motherly affection, signalled to him who it was.
Stretching to embrace her, the sight of him comes forward, coloured in his usual tones of olives wearing a dress shirt under a woollen vest, a shadow of facial hair on his upper lip. He is gentle with her, holds her dearly, a disposition equally as rare as the sunny weather present. And everyone hushes, voices catching in their throats at the tenderness of the sight. There are tears, happy smiles and soft whispers; levels of closeness in the conversational back and forth. Scenes that show the sacredness of the simple.
It takes cover, blanketing the room elsewhere, leaving Kiku a forgotten onlooker, watching from a limbo-like state, ghostly cold, exhausting smoky wisps, pulled by the warmth of the moment left to reminisce. His assumption was wrong in the beginning; he feels stretched and fading, a distant memory himself scant in recollection.
He has experienced these situations many times over; farewells and departure, the permanence of their wake. Overlooked in the length of his existence but he sees its effect in others, how cumbersome and weighted once adorned. In desperation, it clings, fighting against a lifetime that was only ever promised but a leap across a pond.
Yet despite the endless repetition, he feels it all, the ache of a parting lays bittersweet, gaping and prickly to the senses. Like friction to the skin, leaving it raw and mottled, too tired to heal. The yearning, unbearable in its chase, as it soothes and numbs. Or perhaps as he finishes his smoke, it is the nicotine coursing through him that heightens his sensitivity.
As the two separate, more arrive at the party. She is pulled for greetings, kisses pressed on the cheek and Arthur over at the side opening the champagne. A far cry to who he actually was in their lives. No longer their employer, the lord of the house they serve. No longer as the personification of the earth they stood, the place that nurtured them from birth till death. Not the thing that carried the lives passed before them, the one that will provide the far future continuing. Pouring the liquid into their crystal glasses, he is something so unfamiliar; humble and ordinary, an equal to their form.
How perfectly he mimics others in the environment, much looser, softer in his guise. Where it felt as if Kiku were to lose sight of him he’d find him to be unidentifiable, one with a sea of faces. What life could he lead now that he had shedded his skin? Would it be exhilarating to wake and not dream of lifetimes before? To be a part of the temperate, inconspicuous to the world but to fill it with more soil, more clutter, pressing upon others a quiet life to remember him by then fade.
What she would be for them, the briefest of winds on a late summer evening.
The curtains sway as it snags on strangers that pass by. Their shape fragmented, obscuring his sight, voices barely understandable, sing-songy and elated. Kiku tries his hardest to make him out, a deep unwinding from within that he cannot quite place, that makes him drawn to what he sees, what the other was able to so comfortably acquire. But more people pile on and cover up the last of him, as if Kiku had seen too much, barred from gaining anything more. Left intangible, left to freeze over, granted to watch the colour of his vest turning away until he is no longer.
He will never be able to find him now.
Kiku finds this to be good.
Kiku thinks this was exactly what he wanted.
It was what he waited for through the window that weaved in and out of his life. Always short from his grasp, tantalising like berries on a bramble, prickling his fingers, deep purple and bloodied. A necessary exchange for his share of the moment which he knows will be there, back in the party, a certain satisfaction to his yearning. He is unsure what he will have to offer this time, the party beckons him in and he thinks to make his leave.
He is paid no mind when he enters. The papers he had barely touched shoved under a side drawer to think of later. A glass is given to him in passing, his acceptance to the mass. He is just like any other, another stranger to liven the party, more laughter to fill the gaps between the group. Following the nature of others, the clinking of glasses, the shuffling between tight spaces, adjusting one's hair and tie, bridging the gap between his immortality and the lack of theirs.
The sharing of names that melt away to nothing after the end of the night.
He shares his like it is his to keep.
Filling him up, quiet in release and exhaled through a deep sigh.
Like he could disappear and be seen as Kiku alone.
He is mentioned, beside the foyer, they say and he is reminded again of the other. Arthur, placing emphasis on each syllable, liking how it sharpens in sound, bright, fully formed and human.
He remembers.
Barely.
Taking a sip of his glass, pulled away by another story of someone at sometime.
He finds comfort in the idea that both he and Arthur could blend into obscurity.
She finds him first.
Her arms outstretched, one hand carrying a glass half emptied with its contents mostly down the sleeve of her dress, he walks into her hug as she grips Kiku firmly. Her laughter cracked, still weighed from the tears she had shed. Kiku apologises for leaving earlier for work he needed to do, she cuts him off with a sly wink knowing well he had done very little. The pearl earrings he had gifted dangle gently from her ears, glistening like her eyes, amber filled and expressive. Though not entirely the most friendly to strangers, he had bonded well enough with her through his many stays in Arthur's southern cottage. He knows of her sternness and its necessity in order to run the house to Arthur's particular needs.
They are pulled to the side where they find seats to perch on, she shares with him updates of her family, a grandson who had recently graduated and entering his first job, a new set of wooden furniture to fill in the empty spot of the living room. A surprise trip mysteriously booked to Thailand, a trip of a lifetime. Flights, hotels, boat rides, resorts, drinks, all included. Done only with a friendly push of relations– (a joint effort of donations between a few mysterious wealthy estates from Britain and Japan) had made sure to send off boxes of gifts as gratitude, post haste.
Seeing her face to face, despite the greying of her hair and the new wrinkles around her eyes, her youth still exudes, the distance in the gap between their age particularly telling. Two older individuals society regards up to, yet only one is visible a testament of the current century, whilst his is visible to the timeline that never seems to cease in its years. Time doesn’t seem to concern itself with showing age; if it is constant, there is no need to measure what is boundless.
She is only half way done with her enthusiasm until she is called again, but not before dragging Kiku up to convince him to eat, pushing through the crowd towards the table of food. It is stacked with finger foods, mostly deserts, comfortable things that Arthur was able to make. Simple choux pastries; eclairs and profiteroles filled with creams and rich chocolate, sponge cakes with pressed wildflowers intricately piped, tarts and bakewells with fresh berry compotes.
Kiku feels pleased, having spent weeks planning and preparing the desserts alongside Arthur. During their long walks around the countryside and in their time spent in the garden, they would harvest the bushes of fruit and the flowers that grew abundantly. A good chunk of his summer, cherry filled, lips stained a deep red, stem tongue tied in his mouth wide open.
Hours go by, he is not quite at the singing stage of drunkenness yet but he had been taken in several times by the staffing members, pink faced and beaming with liquor. It takes much more for him to get at the same level of drunkenness as everyone else, he chooses instead to stay at the comfortable level, just enough to blur his surroundings. Light of the day having found refuge at the party, he cracks a window open to the darkness who greets him with the sound of the ocean.
There is something exhaustive about joining in on human pleasures. He had experienced conversations of fleeting no note to economics, history, his life and the fragility of such curiosity. Despite him always wanting these connections he finds it overwhelming, too much. Too many voices astray, pushing and pulling in each direction. In the end he is needing to clear his head ready to spill over; dam to a stream. The water entices him, he feels to make himself out for an evening walk to the shores, to free himself from the ties he had just made.
Then there is a crash.
Heavy bottles of wine roll on the carpeted floor spilling its bloodied contents, as the noise of the room weakens in startle before heightening to delirious laughter.
And Kiku thinks he’s found his exit.
He is the first to move. Dropping a quick line to the house staff about grabbing towels. They fuss in retaliation to no avail as Kiku heads out of the room towards the pantry. Around the corner to the left of the cottage, following a corridor where the party fragments itself from clipped cheering to a soothing silence. He takes his time to compose himself, flipping the switch when he finds the door, pale sepia flickering alight. A thoroughly used room that remained much an afterthought, remaining dishevelled with stacks of hold house cleaners, beddings and in the corner, a select few bottles of hand made liquor.
Crouching down, Kiku rummages through the cupboard for some towels when he hears the door behind him shut and the sound of leather Derby shoes shuffling on the floor. A hand comes forward, freckled and pale and Kiku gently swats it away.
“Not those ones, the wine will ruin them.”
Arthur had a tendency to be careless with his things, he would willingly use his expensive towels for something trivial and it irked Kiku to no end, finally taking hold of a few rags at the back. Arthur leaves him alone, creeping towards the shelves and uncovering a clothbound bottle of gin.
“Want a glass?”
Kiku makes an uninterested noise that Arthur overlooks, filling his glass to the brim anyways. It is the bottle they had infused with honeysuckle. Its scent mellowing the sharpness of the alcohol; Kiku could almost taste it at the tip of his tongue. Of heated yesterdays, nectar ridden by the flowers they hand picked. Trailing responsibilities, trading meals with the neighbours, self indulgent in the mindless idle. Living lives not as theirs but of any other middle aged couple: boring, worn, content.
When he finally looks at Arthur towels on hand, he is lost in thought, swirling the liquid in his glass. From the contours of his face Kiku is able to decipher the pressure he had been under, a sudden reminder of how their summer had truly been, short lived interspersed with meeting calls and worrying paper reports of the future. Kiku too was a short lived distraction soon to leave, connection to stretch thousands of miles yet again, staring out at different seas.
Earlier in the morning it had been a whirlwind rush to get ready, Arthur partly shaved, with the both of them barely making themselves and the house presentable. Kiku pinpoints his tiredness to that; their failure as two nations to present themselves with others without experiencing the passing of time, fitting too awkwardly to the rigidity of human conventions.
But there is a joy to it, red lipstick to Arthur's cheek, the rewards of closeness and vitality that one gets. Closing the gap between them, Kiku swipes away at it and he is able to get some of Arthur back who turns to him with a half smile.
“I’m a little out of date with the style.”
“I don’t think we’ve ever been in date with style.”
Nations were time collectors saving objects from oblivion, bleeding knowledge and carrying the burdens of before, one century to another. In the bedroom, the boro patchwork that spans centuries used as a heavy duvet. By the foyer a blackthorn walking stick, commissioned by an artisan from decades ago. In the kitchen held clumsily whittled cutlery still in use. On Arthur, a vest that carries work spanning histories. Kiku traces his hand over the subtle embroidery that lined its collar, feeling Arthur ease at the amused click of his tongue.
Something still lingers, a certain restless discontent in Arthur hidden in shade, clung to him from the moment Kiku had arrived for the summer. It affects him now. He’s not one to be too bothered in small settings like this; there were reasons for the meticulous planning and conscious care to his appearance despite the stress Arthur was in. Unspoken yet laid clearly for those who pay attention to see, Kiku picks up the pieces and tries to thread them together.
“It looks like she’s enjoyed herself.”
“It does, it does…”
“She quite liked the wine.”
“I might send her another bottle or two when she goes.”
“Let me add some wagashi, she enjoyed it the last time I gave it to her.”
“That’ll be enough, I think.”
It’ll never be enough, but Arthur makes the best of the situation.
It may be the last of her Arthur will ever see, and he wants to be seen in the best of ways. To show his gratitude for all her long years of service. Kiku knows of this insecurity, showing appreciation was something Arthur had always struggled with.
“You’ve done well.”
It is gentle, just enough for Arthur to see how Kiku understands.
Arthur sighs, a conclusion.
He isn’t particularly happy but there is an ease to him, rolling his eyes because he is aware of how silly he is being. There is a gentle tug to Kiku’s waist and he finds himself being tucked into Arthur's arms. It is an awkward fumble of their bodies, already heated and sweating from the warmth of the room, but Kiku still leans into it regardless.
“Ignore me, I think the drinking is getting to me.”
“You’re like this even without the drinking.”
Kiku feels the Arthurs laughter rumble through his chest when he nods in agreement, leaning his head on Kiku’s shoulder. They stay savouring each other's touch, Kiku skating his free hand on Arthur’s back to hold him tighter when he feels a breath to his ear.
“You were out on the terrace for quite a while. I was coming to fetch you but you disappeared from my sight.”
“Have you been watching me?”
“In the beginning. Ever so often, to check up on you. From when you stood watching the scene go by in a daze. Before I got too preoccupied with hosting and left you be. The night continued on, then the spill across the room where eventually, I found you.”
Arthur's voice softens, a trailing thought that curls with curiosity. Kiku doesn’t reply at first, he’s not sure what to answer. His silence made the question lay deeper, his absence even more gaping, he’s not quite ready to share his thoughts. Hesitance in part due to thinking he was unnoticed only to have been spotted all along, Arthur equally as observant to the other, suspected that there was something more to Kiku’s mind.
They worked in parallels, Arthur knowing him like the back of his palm. A constant reminder that even at their age both were still filled with contradictions, Arthur more willing to express and Kiku happy to observe. When they are placed in opposites, Kiku is less versed, reluctant in some way to give himself up. Unfamiliar with being able to be read in such honesty, on how terrifying and raw it was to be known and understood.
Worse to think he’d confess himself like this. The pantry feels a little too empty for these moments echoing and permanent, amplifying all that is said. He finds moments like this should be found in the comfort of better privacy, in the bedroom, in the car, on a brisk walk somewhere so it could catch in the wind and disappear.
“I just needed to clear my head,” His voice is strained, throat dry. He licks his lips and wonders where his breath has gone, thin and trembling in exhale. “I felt like disappearing,” Arthur nods. Kiku knows he wouldn’t prod further, though the question lies, still ringing in ocean filled, silver tones.
The reflection of their bodies hazy on the pipes that lined the pantry. Kiku becomes more aware of himself; the aching on the soles of his feet and the strain of his neck wedged on the nook of Arthur’s shoulder.
How small and insignificant it made them to be. Dipping and changing; how time seemed to give them infinite chances. Finding themselves drawn to a point like they had done so many times before; back of the stables, in the darkness of a garden, in a forgotten pantry in a southern country house, eyes solely for the other. Separating and reuniting, time and time again. Running on alcohol that bleeds away his composure to little details, sweet nothings.
He’d let himself go, just this once.
“I was thinking…” an image through the window, so tangible to him now. The simplest of lives, present and full, short lived.
Just enough.
He closes his eyes.
“How wonderful it would be to settle down here.”
He is faraway now, wine drunk twisting stems to knots. Sharing teatime cakes with another, handmade and split apart alongside familiar hands. Rinsed and roughened. Summer dancing between their bodies, dormant until midday. Waking up to nighttime sunshine washing oranges and reds, no urgency or address to please, coming about their days as leisurely as they wished. A lapse of time, a space of their own and truly theirs. Where if they said the right words, the right pleas they would leave this room transformed, shedding the burden of their current lives.
Just the right words.
“No.”
A creek of the pipes, the aching of his feet.
Kiku is back in the room, overheated. Dishevelled.
No. He pulls away from Arthur, contemplating his rejection. How strange it was to feel the clash. Bodies unwinding at the edges to jagged frays, helpless in their connection.
“Not here. Too quiet, too slow.”
Kiku finds the glass of gin, half full in Arthur’s hand, taking it from him to have a sip. Feeling the liquid warm him. He finds it to be as sweet as he had imagined it to be.
“We’ll tire from the views and our mood will sour in the colder weather. We’ll find not much to do here. We’d lock ourselves inside, the weather temperamental and the isolation suffocating. The quiet will bore us until we find ourselves wasting our days away. Sick with ourselves, sick of each other.”
Arthur pauses, jagged edges weaving, correcting itself to embroidery stitches on a sweater vest. Fixed images set on the outcome. Another sip of gin.
“We wouldn’t last.”
Purposefully bitter.
Always the optimist, Arthur was. Restraining himself because he knows what it’s like to sink, how yearning could cause more damage than it could fulfil.
Leaning against the countertop, Arthur is shadowed and hard to define, the towel Kiku once had slipped from his hands and now slung on his shoulder. At this angle Kiku is reminded of cliff sides at the edge of the island, guarded and worn with realism. He sees the waves frothing and rolling, meditative in motion, sad.
Arthur, brooding and lovely.
In most conditions Kiku would agree with him, but the line of evidence was too clear to ignore. On his hand, the way it glimmers in the lowlight; a sliver of the moon tucked around his fourth finger, stolen from a starry hill.
That was enough to confirm it.
“What if I said that I think otherwise, that perhaps we could make it through?” Kiku says delicately, gaze leveled, steady in his wait for Arthur to turn to him; locking eyes and ready to reel. Rolling the stem of the glass in his fingers, brittle but sturdy. “How I think we'd make the most of what we have. Lead a simple life. Find happiness in our own way.”
They will last.
“Perhaps it may seem that bleak at first. We see the same things, we get bored and complacent. The quietness might be too much, and we may even tire of each other all together,
“But then we find new paths to walk, new places to visit; enjoy our solitude, together and apart. Where the idleness and the space it provides becomes full of a secured truth; that we can truly be ourselves without feeling the press of others. Pretend even, to not feel the looming threat that one day we may separate.”
“After all, isn’t that all we've ever done?”
And will continue to do so.
Arthur is unmoving, though behind his eyes there is a stirring, busy in its inspection of each thought like a gem to the light. Kiku feels as faint as he did by the window, then a pang of exhaustion, weary but fulfilled. Unaware of how much he’d needed the release, to pour himself over no matter the consequence of how he was taken. That was when Arthur cracks a smile on his lips, a touch sad showing all the signs that he understands.
It is all he yearns for.
“Well, we’d better get back to it then. We don’t have much time of it left.”
Outside the ocean quiets itself, waves receding in shyness, soft spoken, with the shadowed fauna of the surface straining over to hear of their lapping. It was easy for anyone to be dazzled, momentarily. Brought in by the darkness of a moonless night. Much of the light had gone but a single room in a crowd of houses. Where the pantry creaks and old floorboards bend, window panes shudder. Consciousness, so easy to fragment in the convergence of wallpaper and polish. Brought back only by the clinking of glass left by a window ledge, blinking at the little residue that had pooled at the bottom of the cup as he remembers. Something is a miss, the room too empty; he needed to return. Flight of an owl swooping low as it flees, that he misses as he folds himself into dark hallways.
It comes to him naturally, finding the path that weaves himself back to life, voices filling around him ever closer to fullness. Beyond him, already halfway down the hall, Arthur walks, always a few spaces ahead it seems, as he follows. Watching the moment his shadow warms and the buzz starts to surface, the outline of the door glowing invitingly, like seeing the city passing in travel, teeming with life and possibilities, a never-ending point of beginning.
Though just as he comes to meet him he falters his steps, not quite there yet, turning his head back, caught at a point, sepia hued. A part of him was still echoing with a hollowness that sought for something to fill its place. Of all the infinite things he could be. Until a voice calls, his hand by the door, a certain magnetism that breaks his spell.
“Kiku.”
He says his name like a surge in the sea. The recall, so definite he sways, finding his feet, fully in form and coming towards him. Remembering then what he’d been searching for all evening laid right there, between two people, most human of all. Raking golden curls through his fingers, the fit of each shape, hands to his waist, to cup gently on his cheek. His lips search for his, savouring the last of the summer, in the connection of their breaths its end, and Kiku finds that yesterday tasted sweetest on his lips.