Chapter Text
It's different under the suit.
First of all — it's fresher. Not by much, and the head of it kind of undoes the hard work of the fans running, wrapped, around his body — but on most days, when he just has to stand around and look pretty-pretty-strawberry, it's manageable.
He wouldn't stay in it for an additional second (would have to be offered a thousand more yen for that to happen) — but it's bearable, okay, even.
Nevertheless, taking it off after a hard day of work is a genuine relief, and Atsushi can never get enough of the good it does to him, to sit on the bench of the locker rooms; in his all-black suit, droplets of sweat running down his bangs, his back, making his hands all clammy, disgusting, begging for a shower that'll only come an hour later — eyes getting used to a gridless-sight, objects becoming whole again, colours blooming back to their full shades, bestowing him with so many of them he always has to close his eyes, slowly blink back into reality.
It's different, outside the suit — it's warmer, so much more colourful and - quieter, too.
After a long day of being called in every direction, in a name that isn't his, Atsushi likes to slither out of work, blend into the constant crowd of people until he evaporates back home, safe without a single sound.
Sometimes, on his way out, he bumps into Lucy, or Kyôka — but he doesn't mind: he likes to hear his name, as they greet him goodbye, instead of the Taro-chan of children and adults alike. It's refreshing — real, to be called by his namesake, acknowledged by the name he chose. To have the one single character on his ID card acknowledged and uttered out loud, and to exist as such, before settling back into his apartment, living for only himself, until the sun greets him with another day, far high up in the sky when he rises.
He's Nakajima Atsushi — and it's always nice to have that on someone's lips.
It just happens that to most, he's Taro the tiger of Fragment 9, in Yokohama.
⁂
Taro the tiger is pink, hot pink — his toebeans and belly are a soft one, and his stripes, a dark green that Kyôka says contrasts beautifully with his coat.
Cartoonesque.
Taro the tiger is split into two people: himself, working the main shift; and Naomi, last name Tanizaki, a black-haired woman, younger than him, arbeiting in-between her master's degree. Infinitely smart; just as funny; but too caught up in university to truly bother with socialising at work — she has yet to not mix up Lucy and Kyôka, and call him by his full name, rather than Nakasushi!!, something her brother, fish-seller from a nearby store, has caught on, and uses whenever he bumps into him, preferably into the suit, while he, Jun'ichirô, is picking up some instant food for his lunch.
(It used to bother Atsushi, when he thought both were taking the piss, but it turns out it's Naomi's way of remembering him without forgetting about secure links or whatever it is she's learning about.)
(It is Jun'ichirô's way of taking the piss, but Lucy always makes sure to return the favour whenever she's around, so Atsushi sweats it off, metaphorically, literally.)
Taro the tiger has a schedule of 10-to-8, sometimes 10-to-6, for him; an everchanging one for Naomi, that he has long given up on remembering — all he knows is that they bump into each other on Tuesdays and Fridays; the rest of the week, days off aside, Taro is his duty, his role to play out for the crowd passing by Fragment 9.
Naomi does a more cheerful tiger than him, tends to attract more people with her shenanigans — but she lacks the stamina to pull off an entire day, to take picture after picture after picture for children on a field trip, or tourists unable to resist capturing everything with their phones. Both have their own charms, noticeable if anyone cared, but Taro the tiger is a fleeting thought for passerbys, and not much of a personality outside of the usual mascot for anyone else — both of them get the job done, well at that, and Taro's boss is pleased with it, compliments them whenever he comes by, which is usually once a week, or every two weeks if he's busy.
(Neither of them has any idea where he is most of the time, and what he actually does for a living. He's available at all times, but never in person at Fragment 9.)
(Lucy is convinced he's part of the yakuza — a theory that always has Kyôka's eyes rolling back in her skull.)
Taro the tiger allows for somewhat-lazy mornings, with a seated spot in the subway — although, going home at six, it forces him to endure rush hours, and these
are a lot less fun. People glued to him, be it front, side, or back — brushing against the spot of his injection whenever he's gotten a new one, as if they could see through his clothes — breathing down his neck or in his face, remnants of coffee, chewing-gum and general teacherism testing his will to live…
Surrounded by shades of people who suffocate rather than notice him, he blends himself in, sticks to the corners of the doors — fuses with its black framing, becoming part of the decor; letting the scenes unfold without his involvement; pecking at the scarce bites they offer him.
Not ample enough to sustain him — but there is an exception, when the time is right:
Two stations after getting on, a handful of metrolites get off at Kannai, allowing him to turn around, face the doors, take one step away — just in time for (when their schedules match) a lanky, pale, black-haired man to step in, take his spot, offer up an interesting view until Atsushi's stop.
Approximately his age, his height; he stands out from other metrolites: he's slightly unattractive, in a way that captures Atsushi's attention, holds it prisoner until his time is up, making way for another beholder. Bent nose; gaunt face; nearly invisible eyebrows framing black eyes — thin, dark pink lips, the only ounce of colour in his otherwise monochrome palette, as he's only clad in black (his pants, his shoes) and white (his shirt, only barely a shade brighter than his skin). Lips that never move; not when he bumps into Atsushi, during rather rough tremors; nor when he's, accidentally, blocking the way for a person, who has to tap on his shoulder to get his attention; not even when Atsushi announces that this is his stop, as a way to brace the both of them for the pushing around that will ensue the moment the train stops — in these moments, only inky pools are offered to him, though not devoid of warmth; and when Atsushi points to the doors, as a way to put his message across, all he gets is a brief nod, before the train stops and, surprisingly, the young man stands back as best as he can.
Silent, monochrome, he fits, somehow, at Atsushi's side — and though Atsushi wishes he, they had a few inter-titles, the view is fine as is. He favours it over the countless sorry, young man elder people often give him — or the watch out, Marylin a foreigner once gifted him with (rather inaccurate, Lucy had commented).
Besides, when the tremors of the train shake the both of them, and Atsushi's chin lands on the man's shoulder, he gets to taste surprise, as it drips from his eyes — when the man is unable to give him proper access for his exit, and Atsushi's arm, shoulder, body, brushes against his chest, he gets a pout, the closest he'll get to a sorry.
Sound does not exist between them, and neither of them has discovered colours yet — but their interspersed runtime plays on loop in Atsushi's mind, already hungry for another scene. He wouldn't mind spending years before figuring it all out.
⁂
Taro the tiger is getting interviewed,
Their boss announces on his biweekly visit, one week later. His daughter is with him, blond locks spilled on her blue dress, holding his hand with one of hers, a red plushie with the other, while she peers curiously at the both of them — Atsushi, Naomi, Atsushi, Naomi; then back at Atsushi, who, unable to endure the strength of her gaze, steers his own back to his employer.
Clad in black from head to toe, a little too chic for the summer (but definitely on-brand for the yakuza, a certain someone would remark), his elegance collides with his mannerism, the gestures his free hand draws in the air, as he talks about the interview taking place in two weeks.
'I will remain anonymous, or, rather, uninterviewed,' he explains, holding an imaginary spoon, eating twice from it before moving on to holding a just-as-imaginary broom. 'But this is your moment to shine, kids. I believe in you.'
He's rather excited, sparkly eyes following his daughter's' movements, going from one employee to the other, and Atsushi tries his best to keep his small-but-honest smile on as he monologues on and on, shedding his uptight appearance for a warmer one, noir exiting his frame as colours are brought to his cheeks, his gaze, his words.
It's a pity he won't be a part of the interview — Taro the tiger is his, after all. But he'd rather leave him in the unbelievably-capable hands of his favourite employees — perhaps he doesn't want to influence the interviewer with his views, his ideas, and the way Naomi and Atsushi bring them to life.
'Or perhaps he has shady business to conduct, and he'd like to remain anonymous for that reason,' Lucy offers during lunchbreak, around donburis for which she, Atsuhi and Kyôka have been saving up for weeks — while Naomi the tiger, on her last hour, takes pictures with an overjoyed kindergarten class in the middle of the mall. 'You know, because if he shows his face to the world, then his enemies will know who he is. And kill him.'
Red hair tied up in space buns; arctic blue eyeliner enhancing her green eyes, contrasting with her ginger-pale skin; she holds her chopsticks as if they were her point, before gulping down her morceau of donburi, along with several others — she cites an argument she's already made to Atsushi, flowery droopy earrings clinking which every move she makes during her statement, and, captivated, Atsushi
Nearly takes her hand, nearly follows her to the world where houses are upside down, magic is real, and his boss is a yakuza in disguise.
'Do well-dressed men belong to the mafia in your country too, or is it just in Japan?'
Nearly.
Jet black hair tied in a long, loose braid, the white sleeves of her shirt rolled back so that she doesn't stain them; Kyôka glares at Lucy the way a cowboy, hand on their gun at high noon, would. Atsushi, innocent citizen, reclines in the shadows of his seat, water in hand, going down his throat, and watches as Lucy pulls out her own weapon.
'Well, duh! Have you seen the British? The better dressed one is, the more corpses they hide under their attire.'
Besides, she adds, it's not just about clothing. It's about behaviour, how available you are for others, and how often you linger in the dark — painting a gangsterish portrait of Atsushi's employer as she goes on and on, sun high above her and Kyôka, burning them to a crisp until Kyôka resigns from the battle, and sinks back into her own seat, leaving Lucy victorious, too colourful for the dryness of the desert she was put in.
Swallowing the rest of his water, Atsushi pours some of it on the parched grass, starved earth as he puts his glass back on the table — he steps sideways, where additional shades are visible, but gravity is too heavy to allow Lucy to float away.
He shrugs.
'He's nice. To Naomi and me both. I think that's what counts.'
Resulting in a gasp from Lucy, and a quick counterargument — but Kyôka is even quicker to duel, and as they launch into a verbal joust, less than a metre apart rather than the more common twenty, Atsushi sticks to the sidelines, porch protecting him from the sun, sheltering him from duties. He knows, by now, that being more than a bystander would only result in him getting shot, so, like his boss, he lingers in the dark, sticks to the black spots.
Which, unlike his employer (because he does have a certain air to him — though Atsushi likes to pretend the opposite, so that the balance he holds between the girls never favours either of them), makes him barely noir: the change revealed in his finale, he went through long ago; the bodies he's amassed along the years, took their own lives themselves; and the girl he's after doesn't really exist — or when he thinks she does, she's more of a boy
And she's not running after him; does little more than stand in front of him, eyes locking with his when Atsushi mentions the next station being his stop; dark pink lips never once moving, not once speaking to him, certainly not kissing him.
In that, only, does he fit the genre: the girl of his dreams is just that, a pipedream, an idea he constructed all on his own, bewitched by the sweet nothings her physique whispered to him — in his reveries she calls him by his name; but in real life she remains silent, and even a benshi could not spell a happy ending onto them. Atsushi speaks, even if it is only once every train ride; he plays his part as Taro the tiger, then disappears, from Fragment 9, from the subway, shrouds himself in the comfort of his home — in that, he is more akin to an old tale, long forgotten about; releases from the same year favoured over him, remembered through time. He doesn't mind — likes to see the variety in his friends, to know they all differ from each other. But on some days, he wishes he peeled himself off the dusk of the scenery, long enough for the lights to kiss him — he wishes his film burnt a little, rendering him impossible to view again
But recorded in scrawly handwriting; black, white, distillated between scenes, so that he is
Somehow remembered, for who he was.
⁂
Taro the tiger will be captured on film, Naomi, the most occupied out of the two of them, and thus the one more qualified to set a date, informs him after exchanging with the interviewer through texts —
'And so will we,' she adds with a smile, a little too dazzling for him — but just right for a girl passing by, swooning over her openly. 'Can you believe I'll be known as Fragment 9's tiger before even making it as an alumna?'
Nakasushi!! grimaces.
'Tough luck. Can you picture being known as nothing else?'
(Laughter, escaping Naomi's lips, even brighter than her smile — taking Nakasushi!! by the arm, she lends him her rose-coloured glasses, and lets him bask in her late-coming-of-age as they head back to the locker's room.)
The interview will take place in the morning, so that they look presentable — which Atsushi hopes is journalist jargon for please look your best and not we've looked you up already, nature didn't give us much to work with — you're both very ugly.
(It has to be the former, because Atsushi's internet footprint is akin to one found in the Sahara — and while Naomi knows what a tweet is, she's also smart enough not to put her full name as her handle.)
The date's set to Tuesday, of the following week. Leaving Atsushi enough time to mentally prepare himself, or physically leave the country — a dilemma that has Lucy snorting when he explains it, Kyôka rolling her eyes in the background, as she finishes up her client's drink before joining them on their break.
'You don't even have enough money to do that,' both girls reason, five minutes apart, and, both times, Atsushi sighs from the comfort of his crossed arms, eyes blinking up at them, remnants of his daydreams floating away, soaring high, away from his heart as it opens up to his two best friends.
lt's not that he doesn't want to do the interview — though he's less excited than Naomi, he's also… eager for Taro to make himself known. What he's less enthusiastic about, is to make Nakajima Atsushi known, even if, realistically, that fame will only last five seconds, and will quickly be replaced by Taro, the true celebrity of Fragment 9. He's fine, great, even, with being the tiger's unknown puppeteer; with standing around for hours, playing with the crowd in bright colours, and shedding his skin on his way out, going back to a dull shadow, slipping into cracks unnoticed, unsearched, unwanted. With the interview… people might recognise him on the subway, might wave at him on his way out. Which is an enjoyable perspective, for a fleeting moment, but whenever such thought licks at his brain, another comes, and another, until only a tsunami of worries remains, and Atsushi
Would rather die with it, than attempt to survive it.
His friends know; his nurse knows; a few people close to him know — it isn't necessary to add more people to it, to blow his niche into an open country, a plain without a single wall to hide behind, a mountain whose summit he stands on, visible to everyone crossing into his expanded territory.
'But it might be a hill', Lucy reasons, knocking shoulders with him, and Kyôka nods, adds it might even be flatter than that.
And the both of them are probably right (he's not about to be deified, not even going to make it to the next century as a big, average, or even little name)
But traces of the tsunami follows him on his way home, back to work, home, and again, and again, and again; tides on his mind; rising as he catches a glimpse of a few ads for destinations overseas; ebbing as he's shoved into a corner by white collars — carving patterns in his cavae, as it lulls, then frightens his heart; tremors shaking it here, there, refusing to let him settle down.
Lying in bed does not end the quaking — neither does working; neither does talking; neither does daydreaming; neither does
(Certainly does not)
Taking the tube home: rocked ubiquitously, his hand gripping the hand strap is the nearest thing he gets to equilibrium in the sea of passengers flowing around him — he has to change his footing constantly, so that he remains upright while making way for fellow metrolites; while the train starts and stops; while he gets pushed into the doors, then back into people, as a few riders stream in, dark shades of blue, red, blue, green sticking to the sides; while white, after glimpsing at him all through the way to Ishikawachô, comes forward, forward,
Blinds him, as the train starts again, and someone lands flat against him, nearly throws him off balance.
Someone smelling of aftershave and fresh laundry; with black and white hair that gets in Atsushi's eyes, tickles his skin, his nose — someone so unstable they have no other option than to hold onto the back of Atsushi's jacket for dear life; their face buried in his shoulder, perhaps out of momentum, perhaps out of shame; someone who remains quiet, even in this kind of situation, merely stepping back (as best as he can) as soon as the train stops.
The girl of his dreams — her pallor gone, replaced by bright red; pink at its frontiers, incessantly pushing back, as the hue creeps down his neck, the undone button of his shirt; stretching, invading him like vines, pushing him out of monochromatic tones, drawing him into the world of colours. Still, not a single sound — but his big eyes are wide in surprise, distress, and his lips, wine red, are parted open — the usual view, except closer: Atsushi can spot a few pimples here and there, on his cheeks; can catch the fluttering of eyelashes as his chimera blinks; can catch wrinkles joining his eyebrows, as if his days were spent frowning; then crow's feet, as if his nights were spent squinting — or perhaps, smiling?
Atsushi has never once seen him do so — he wishes he had, but no opportunity has ever risen to the occasion, and the train starting again is far from offering one: propelling the man forward, right back into Atsushi's arms, it only offers humiliation; disgrace — a grip that is too tight, a clavicle against Atsushi's shoulder, a knee between his; an imbalance that cannot be solved by shifting, that slowly drags him, them, into the train's rhythm as it picks up speed, tilts to the right. Atsushi perseveres, literally digs his heels in, dreaming of the sweet release that will come in two stops — but as the train turns further and further to the right, it dawns on him that tenacity will not be sufficient.
He'll have to speak up, talk to him before his stop. Break the one dialog per ride rule that he shares with none but himself, as the man has yet to utter a single word — fracture their long take into multiple ones, uncreative shots/countershots that will get them nowhere; poor acting in the future at best, a nonreturn from the love interest at worst. On par with Atsushi's long forgotten story, expected but nevertheless heartbreaking — but
It's either that, or collapsing, faster than Atsushi pictures it — and he might have reservations about being known as Taro the tiger, but being known as the guy who fell down in the metro is definitely worse.
Taking a large gulp of air, letting it sit in his lungs before releasing it, Atsushi lifts his hand, lightly taps the man on the shoulder.
Discovers sound.
'Hey,' he murmurs, definitely too low to be heard — but he's much closer than necessary, and the air blown on the man's ear seems to do the trick: Monochromatic turns his way, eyes as big as saucers, face still red from shame, if not even redder than before.
He's cute, painfully so; but now is not the time — Atsushi paints him in black and white, the way they're supposed to be, and continues.
'I'm sorry, I'm so close to you,' he laughs — embarrassment creeping up on him, too, even as he fights back, swears to his heart colours aren't real (organ that never listens, pumps blood even faster, sends it all to his face). 'I'm just… The way we are, it's… kind of taking a toll on me. Do you mind grabbing onto the handle? I'm fine with sharing.'
With his free hand, he helpfully (stupidly) points to said-handle — but Monochromatic doesn't seem to catch on: eyes darting up from his lips to his eyes; the wrinkles Atsushi caught earlier now settling between his eyebrows, gently but visibly; he remains immobile, hand holding onto Atsushi, while the other sticks to his side.
Is the discovery one-sided? Or is Atsushi so terrible at operating it that he still needs an inter-title, a benshi to translate him into words?
He's unused to this, even with the practice rounds from before — his voice is all wrong, too quiet, too high, too scared to break a routine that doesn't mean anything to anyone apart from him — he attempts repeating himself, but all he gets is eyes on his lips, looking up, back once he's done, and a sharp tremor from the train, that nearly does him in.
A moving scene, with immobile characters, watching as events unfold before them — perhaps Atsushi got it right from the start, and neither of them is significant; part of the decor, they aren't meant to step out of it.
A script Atsushi would consider fair game in the usual scene he stars in — but in this slightly-modified one, his arm is killing him, and the leg he extended in order not to fall is stretching him like gum — his mind is starting to follow, thinning and thinning, until moving is its only thought, playing on repeat, echoing against every corner of it, to the point it spreads, further and further. It exsiccates his mouth, his throat; wraps around his heart and makes it drum louder, faster, the intense rhythm knocking against his ribcage, leaving Atsushi to wonder if it will fall out of his chest — it builds up tension in every part of him, cristallising him; until parched, sucked dry by the loop in his head, he gains courage to take hold of the moment, rewrite its ending.
Stretching out the arm somewhat held captive by the man's grip, he taps him on the shoulder, whose arm is free from holding onto him — he forgoes words, because those have not worked a single time so far, and points up at the handle with his face.
Monochromatic's inter-eyebrows' wrinkles deepen (cute); new ones appear at the top of his nose (cute!); his eyes fleet from Atsushi to the hand strap, several times. Nothing happens — but as Atsushi is about to give up and reiterate,
The man moves: grip relaxing on the back of his jacket; pressing himself further against Atsushi — an attempt, to go from the spot right above the small of his back, to the handle.
Which Atsushi aborts.
'No,' he says — changes course as soon as the word is out: shaking his head instead, his free hand soon following suit — the man stops, looks at him with raised eyebrows (forehead wrinkles — cute!!!).
For a second, Atsushi forgets his act. He opens his mouth — then closes it again, refusing to ruin this development with progress. He's gotten further than ever by miming — he doesn't need to improve, speed things up with sound — which he's been making poorly; which the other, somehow, has not been…
Hearing.
Head tilting, lips parting again — Atsushi catches himself before he can pick up the trail that's been there all along; ignores the breadcrumbs, in favour of changing his ending.
Stretching his free arm even further, uncomfortably, unwillingly hugging the man (definitely mentally recording it, so that he can replay the scene in the cinema of his mind later on; in bed, at work, on the train when he's on his own) — he insistently taps his free arm's shoulder blade, barely reaches above it. Eyes going up, chin following the movement, he points to the handle onto which he's hanging, again — and waits for the other to get it, gaze returning to his, hope planting a seed in his heart.
And it blooms: after a few blinks, a deeper furrowing of his brows — a sparkle lights up the man's eyes; spreads through Atsushi as the man's hand knocks against his chest on its way up; it sets fire to his heart, as fingers touch his, wrapping around the handle as best as they can (index finger resting on his, middle one bumping against Atsushi's pinky); relieving him of a heavy weight, but not the hand on his back, whose warmth remains, even as its grip softens.
As the flower in his chest gorges on light, on heat; takes itself to heights it could never dream of; Atsushi survives. No tremor gets to sweep him off his feet; his fall is postponed — none gets to see his demise; his name is unsung
For most: Monochromatic, now shades of red all over, gives him an impossibly tiny bow, with a nod of his head — he gives Atsushi a smile, just as small, to make sure he's not the only one burning up, that the both of them
Share crimson.
Without fail, without an end in sight, they do — even as the train stops, delivers a few passengers to their stop: other metrolites climb on, and Monochromatic
Remains where he is, facing him, sharing a look with him, after a failed attempt to stand back — hand holding onto the handle, while the other remains on Atsushi's back, for additional stability; Atsushi's free one hovering in the air, until a tremor, once the train has started again, leads it to grab onto Monochromatic's elbow. Resulting in another look; eyebrows lifting while Monochromatic's eyes shine; Atsushi flushing harder, grimacing in reply — looking away, embarrassed, before going back for seconds, who
Never strayed, remained firsts on their side — flee as they meet, delayed mirror of Atsushi, before coming back, settling there, temporary pied-à-terre,
Until they part, and — never interact again? Stick to what Atsushi thought they were?
Eyes lost in black, impure, glittering as it looks back; Atsushi wonders, if perhaps he hasn't gotten it wrong; misread the genre based on the first lines of the script, holding too fast onto it, without bothering to finish it. Though they nearly stand in his usual corner; they do not, not quite — here, a little further back from its darkness, sunlight filters through the buildings outside, reaches them through the windows; it feasts on them as they cross the Horiwari river, and bathes Monochromatic in light, silhouettes him in gold; caresses the parts of his white shirt it can grasp, kisses the crown of his head — embraces him the way light never does, to girls who only appear in dreams; too caught up with the love interests from other genres, who fall for the main character. But
It stretches further, and makes a place for itself in Atsushi's heart, nudging the flower there, encouraging it to grow even more — it pushes him out of the backdrop, and into the forefront; hits on him for a split-second, during a tremor that has Monochromatic shifting; before returning to second place, eclipsed by the man, whose eyebrows twist in empathy; every feature of his then following, dark pink lips offering a gentle smile as consolation. Far enough to water Atsushi's plant, but sunlight, even with a shield this dedicated to the task, remains the most powerful chaser, and it breaches, again and again, through the buildings; pierces Monochromatic's defenses; and nudges Atsushi once, twice, thrice, poking, stabbing him in the eyes; carving itself in it, haunting it even as he blinks, blinks, blinks, in an attempt to rid himself of the glimmer.
He releases Monochromatic's elbow, in hope to soothe his wounds with a good rub — but before he can even lift his arm, the pressure on his back deepens. Temporarily; a palm, fingers, making themselves known; a forearm coming to light in the shadow of his back — brushing against Atsushi's mind, when another touch distracts him: fingers, atop and right by his, disentangling themselves from the handle, one by one. Sunlight catches Atsushi as he blinks up in curiosity, but he gets a glimpse of a turned, protruding hand before closing his eyes — and as pastel blue settles in the middle of his eyesight, as Monochromatic repositions himself, a little closer to him, the touch on the small of his back recedes.
Even more than before: the forearm, only there for a few seconds, disappears completely, uncommitted to memory — but the hand, that hung onto him so dearly, withdraws too. Unnecessary for support (Atsushi could always withstand his own weight) — but as it departs, Atsushi lifts a cerulescent gaze to the man, questions on the tip of his tongue.
Responses come, quick, without even needing to hear what they must answer to: Monochromatic's newly-freed hand slithers between their chests, catches Atsushi's attention along with a few of his heartbeats; moves up and up before it gets to steal his heart entirely; then settles on his biceps, knocking on it a few times, in an echo of Atsushi's taps from earlier. Distorted reflection of him, Monochromatic points up, to the hand strap, not with his head but with his hand, forefinger straight as an I, then making a liaison between the two of them; before turning into a U as he crooks it, giving it the company of his thumb as he twists his wrist.
He looks at Atsushi, expectant, sparkle still in his eyes, and Atsushi, slipping in them instead of replying, has to grimace, silently ask him to reiterate as he extracts himself out of them — but
When Monochromatic does, kindly, slowly, it's the sun's turn to plunge into him, force its claws into his eyes, pushing him underwater — and even as he squints, shifts for a shot of air, a chance of cover against the light, Atsushi misses half of Monochromatic's signs, has no idea how the ones he did capture fall into the rest of them.
Drowning under shots of sunshine, in confusion, Atsushi shakes his head, brings his free hand up in hope to resurface — but as soon as he's made a visor out of it,
The pressure on his back reappears:
Briefly tapping him on the shoulder; sign that unfortunately does not add up to the ones Atsushi remembers — a failed operation that must be visible, for the numeration promptly stops, becomes geography.
Descending, the hand maps the area of his shoulder blade, his ribcage — stops at the reliefs of his waist, and settles there. The once-lost forearm follows; becomes equator as it delineates, splits his back into two hemispheres; delimits him, them, as it unfurls on his side, frontier pulling him closer, merging continents together. Atsushi's heart quakes at the collision, but the intensity of its drumming must be low: Monochromatic, maker of this world, moves onto reshaping his standing, knocking into both of his feet with one of his own; as if
Asking for attention, to announce an upcoming change — giving ancient lands a heads-up, before they're moulded into something else. Calling out to a pupil, once more after the failed attempt on his shoulder; urging them to record the unfolding evolutions both with their presence, and their actions —
And so Atsushi, with the pen and paper of his eyes, does.
With his chin, much like Atsushi earlier, Monochromatic points up to the skies above, the cloud onto which they hang — introduction to his movement, that Atsushi combines with the knocking on his feet; threading both into a beginning paragraph, the start of a reflection that he weaves into a second one, listing supporting evidence. He notes the reversed wrist, impractical on the long term; the hold on his back, necessary only if the world heaved; the indecipherable glyphs; the insistence in Monochromatic's gaze — catches a glimpse of a conclusion between the lines; whose outline he scribbles down in the margin of his paper; then rereads it, to test out its plausibility outside of his mind
Finds it ludicrous
But has no time for antithesis,
For he is right: as his mind wraps around the theory, Monochromatic demonstrates it:
Chest against chest, arm tightly wrapped around his waist; he steps to the right. Once on his own — glimpsing at Atsushi right after, questions in his gaze.
Caught off-guard by the veracity of his own analysis, unsure of its significance, the disciple allows himself a frown (reflection of wrinkles), but nods, follows as Monochromatic mentors him into a dance, a 180-degree turn. Unprepared partner, he drops his hand as it twists (suddenly understands the pointy forefinger; the crooked U); lessens its fall by making it cup Monochromatic's biceps — remarks, as they fall into place, that this makes them mirror images of their earlier selves: him red from the shame of his improvisation, but free of the sun; while Monochromatic, paler now that he's seized the situation, squints his eyes shut, the only protection he has against the hungry star, as Atsushi's frame cannot shield him properly.
A digression, that raises questions as it merges with the stated facts — crawls out of Atsushi's thesis, connects the spaces between the lines; emends everything that's been written, with new concepts, tugging Atsushi out of his cecity, allowing enlightenment
To dawn on him.
But just as he picks up on it, hand reaching up for his crayon to pen his final conclusion,
The bell rings; the doors open — classmates spill out of them. Fingers of chalk release him; gently touch his chest, before pointing to the outside — the lecturer, shadowed by Isogo's building, gives him a gentle smile, motions with his eyes to leave the lesson behind; go home.
Before you miss your stop, he insists — smile widening; eyes shining; glowing softer, gentler than the sun; heating up Atsushi's heart just right for his plant to bloom.
Wordlessly, Atsushi collects himself, obeys — feet heavy as they land on the old cement of the station; light as they turn back, before he can even order them not to.
Captured in the shadowed carriage, considerably darker than the world Atsushi stands in, Monochromatic stares, space empty before him — Atsushi looks at the wide shot, captures it in his mind as the doors come together, ready to cut to the next scene, brighter for him, blazing for Monochromatic.
Already missing this part of his film, he lifts his hand, pen still held between his fingers, and signs a goodbye.
Cinema, having never waited for its spectators' reaction to keep going — kicks the train into gear, and takes Monochromatic away with it.
Atsushi cuts the camera,
and takes his film home.