–

Tsuyoshi starts his mornings looking at the sky. He sits in the back of manager-san’s car, Koichi sometimes beside him. Outside, the sun is not up yet, the skies still dark and hushed. Koichi, too, is quiet in his seat, slumped against the headrest and half-slumbering still. Tsuyoshi leaves him alone and looks out the window. He does not watch the buildings flash past, but fixes his eyes up at the pre-dawn sky: the moon lonely and pale; the stars dimmed by the lights of Tokyo. And the sky–the sky is many forevers of dark, an inky infinity. Tsuyoshi rests his head against the window panes, looking and looking and looking.

>Tsuyoshi’s mornings begin before sunrise, when it seems as if all the world is still asleep.

–

He’s at CERN doing some disgustingly esoteric research on the Higgs boson when Nagase knocks on his lab door. “Hi,” says Nagase, smilingly cheerful, “the producers at BBC think you’re the next big thing for Nobel physics, and also very pretty; so they’re inviting you to dance with me. This is an opportunity, I feel, that anyone would jump at. The weather here is, by the way, disgusting.” And Koichi, who’s been holed away in his lab for the past 52 hours subsisting on possibly toxic amounts of caffeine, is probably not in his right mind when he says, “Huh? What? Okay?”

(“No, no,” insists Nagase afterwards. “I just have mad persuasive skills.”)

Koichi’s fellow researchers all think this is a fantastic idea (mostly because they think Koichi needs to stop living in the lab); and it really is a fantastic idea. It’s a fantastic idea while Nagase takes him pub-hopping (“Because new friendships must be forged in a pact of ungodly amounts of alcohol!”) and while they stuff themselves to the esophagus with barbecued meat and while they roar around the northwestern suburbs of Geneva on motorcycles. It keeps being a fantastic idea until Koichi’s sitting in the studio conference rooms with a contract on polished oakwood tabletops in front of him. Then, it very quickly stops being a fantastic idea. “Wait,” Koichi frowns, and skipping the whole why am I dancing with a guy? or did you run out of female professional dancers? or even why do I have to wear a dress? rants, chooses to ask instead: “How comehe gets to lead?”

“Don’t worry,” smiles Nagase. He does this a lot. In fact, Nagase spends a fair majority of his time smiling at Koichi, as if he can’t help himself. “I am a great leader. I learned it from Leader.”

(This is, of course, grounds for a lot of worry; but Koichi doesn’t know that yet.)

Nagase’s smile might be a little like toxic amounts of caffeine: it makes Koichi’s heart thrum too fast and gets him all confused and leaves him probably not in his right mind. Because Koichi says, “Okay,” again; even though he knows that this is a terrible idea. It’s a terrible idea when they give him a frilly Matsuda-Seiko white ballgown for the Viennese waltz, and it’s a terrible idea when the Sorimachi-Matsushima pair from next door come over and Nanako keeps cooing about how adorable Koichi looks, and it’s a terrible idea when Nagase starts looking all proud and calling him things like “Kou-chan” and then adding possessive pronouns to that, i.e. “my Kou-chan.”

“I’m not, you know,” says Koichi, taking off the dress after the cameras leave. He changes back into his tracksuits, and bends to do post-practice stretches. “I’m not, like–I’m not the Ginger to your Fred or anything.”

“Of course not!” Nagase looks a little appalled. He flops down on the floor next to Koichi–still in tuxedo tailcoats but looking remarkably casual nevertheless. “They were never like that, you know.” He pauses, then, toeing off his dance shoes and leaning back on his elbows, turns to beam at Koichi: “You’re more like–I don’t know, the Irene to my Vernon. The Bert to my Ernie.”

Koichi kicks at Nagase’s ankle. “Who’s Ernie? You’re like Cookie Monster, you bottomless pit of–”, and Nagase calls him, “OSCAR. OSCAR. YOU’RE A GROUCHY GROUCH, OSCAR,” and they grin at each other, stupid and ten-years-old inside.

(“Also,” Nagase tells Koichi later that night. Koichi had opened his hotel room door and found Nagase looming outside in the hallway, case of beer in one hand and a DVD ofTotoro in the other. “Also: you have to wear heels for the paso doble. And maybe fake boobs.”

“You lying asshole,” says Koichi. Then: “Really?”

“The heels, yeah.” Nagase lifts his case of beer, “Let’s at least get shitfaced first.”)

“Oh,” she says; and then: “Hello.”

-

Sakura never sends them, never tells anyone, but she writes letters to Sasuke, every week for three years. Dear Sasuke-kun: they always begin, and then a carefully drawn smiley face. She tells him about her week, the kite that she’d bought for Ino, the new type of ramen at Ichiraku; updates him on the happenings in Konoha, local politics and shinobi gossip, who’s going out with whom, things he cares absolutely nothing about. She ends with “From, Sakura,” never “Love,” because she doesn’t want to be presumptuous.

She folds these letters, these little bits of nothing, half-daydream and half-hope; seals them into envelopes and puts them in the bottom drawer of her desk. She has no address to send them to; he would not accept them even if she did.

-

Sasuke never writes letters to anyone, not to those he left behind and not to those who left him behind. There is nothing that needs to be said these days; his actions are conversation enough.

“You do not kill,” Orochimaru whispers with hoarse sibilance in each consonant, “Your heart is yet lacking.” He does not sound disappointed though; he never sounds disappointed, only smug, insufferable.

Sasuke thinks about things that he has yet to learn, thinks about a sword through Orochimaru’s heart, thinks about the tunneling catacombs of Sound lit in flickering torchlight. He says, “Aa,” and bows, and waits.

(He does not think about sunshine dappling forest leaves, does not think about the smell of trees in autumn. There are other things to think about, katas and jutsus and a promise of hatred written in blood. His heart is yet lacking, but he does not think about the pieces that he left behind.)

–

Sakura watches three Chuunin exams go by, but never attempts to retake them herself. “I am not waiting,” she promises Kakashi, “It’s not about teammates.”

“You’re ready,” Kakashi tells her, careless as ever. “So–you can, if you want. I’d nominate you again. Or something.” He shrugs, lackadaisical.

“Thank you,” she says; she, who was least his student, she, who stayed. She smiles at him, brave and honest, and he ruffles her hair, still short these days.

“Maa,” he says, already slouching off, “you’re worth both of those brats. I’ll have them doing D-ranks for years when they come back.”

–

The passage of time is different in Sound, no occasion to mark, no anniversary to observe. Each day blends into the next, an eternity in repetition, seamless and fluid. Sasuke does not keep count, has no need of calendars. The important changes he can observe himself; speed and agility and stealth, hallmarks of what makes a shinobi, traces of little deaths in his fingertips. He learns, grows, and that is enough measurement of time.

–

Sakura is not waiting: she does no sit by any window, does not look anxiously at any front gates, never twiddles her thumbs or taps her feet. Sakura is not waiting, because there is no one to wait for: she is not among those who have gone ahead.

–

Patience has never been Sasuke’s strong suit, though he can synthesize some decently when stealth and missions require it. His life, though, thrums to the rhythm of an impatient heart. There is someone to whom he must catch up: the urgency of it beats at him. He never shows this, though, always still and calm on surface; he keeps it hidden and secret, locked away with the laughter of childhood and the smiles of friendship and the million other shards of a broken life that pierce at his heart.

–

Life goes like this for Sakura: on and on and on and on, because other cannot wait for you and you cannot wait for others. Life does not happen in fits and starts, in broken pauses, in disasters or crises or moments of heroism. Life does not happen like stories, exposition and climax and denouement, a plot diagram with clean straight lines.

Life happens in the moment before dawn, in the warmth of sunlight on your skin, in the sound of street vendors selling tomatoes, in the blanks between spaces of letters you never send, in the three years between meetings of old friends. Life happens “despite” and not “because of”, but there are quiet little love stories: dew on grass tips in the early morning, fireflies coming out after dusk, the blueness of the skies at the end of summer, three stripes of sunlight on a forest floor at sunset.

(“Oh,” she says; and then: “Hello.”)

–

Life goes like this for Sasuke: in massacres and betrayals and vengeance and bloodshed, in hatred and in love because it’s never about you in the end. Life happens in untruths and deceptions, happens always slightly beyond your control, always slightly past your awareness. Life happens too fast, and leaves you gaping to catch up. Life is always someone else’s story–you are never the hero.

(but sasuke, tired tired tired, has never expected and never wished to be one)

Life, then, happens on the peripherals and in unexpected moments: memories of your mother’s eyes, the steadiness of your brother’s piggybacks, a pretty girl crying because she thinks you are dead. Life happens–

Life happens, remembers Sasuke, learns Sasuke; it happens, happens, regardless and irresistible.

(There are three stripes of sunlight on the forest floor, and Sakura has dropped her hat.)

–

There is a phrase of homecoming that Sasuke has half-forgotten. There is a phrase of welcome that Sakura has been waiting to say.

–

“Oh,” she says; and then: “Hello.”

He pauses for a moment, unsure. He could go on, walk through these forests; missing-nin again and she would not stop him. Or he could stay, and pick up her hat, and–

It’s a choice. Sasuke’s never had much practice with choices.

“Sasuke-kun,” she calls him, familiar echoes of long ago.

He takes a step, forward to where her hat has rolled. It is a plain thing, woolen and warm for autumn. Sasuke looks at it for long moments, and then: “Sakura.”

She is not smiling at him, but he recognizes the expression. He’s seen it before: a bridge, fog, mirrors, a death he had not died. And then, from that: “Okaeri.”

And it is reflex, it is unconscious, it is the easiest thing in the world to say: “Tadaima.”

(Hayato doesn’t think about Ryu’s cleverness in the same way that he doesn’t think about Ryu’s family. Ryu’s different, Hayato recognizes, everyone recognizes. Ryu isdifferent, set apart by his wealth and station and silence; but, thinks Hayato, not where it matters. Ryu’s not different like that.)

-

Hayato forgets Ryu’s birthday some years, never red-circles any date on any calendar, never keeps track of which month and which week. Ryu doesn’t mind: his birthday has always been solemn affairs, family dinners at fancy restaurants, expensive entrees and stiff conversation, the whole thing an interrogation on “what have you done with your life so far?” The answer has always been never enough.

Hayato forgets Ryu’s birthday, but gives him gifts anyway. The gifts mark no special occasion, do not really mean anything but “I want you to have this”: Hayato gives them to Ryu because it is a Saturday, because the sun is bright, because summer has begun, because Ryu’s hair glints red even in the fluorescence of the classrooms. Hayato gives them to Ryu because he wants to, because gift-giving to Ryu should be a reason onto itself.

-

Yankumi hadn’t been the first to ask them about their future plans, though she does get more answers out of them than her predecessors. Still, most of those answers were either, “I don’t know,” or “I don’t care.”

“I will go to university,” Ryu told her, quiet and slow like glaciers. She asked him which university and what he planned to major in. He sat back in his chair and looked out the window, silent and far away.

“Odagiri-kun,” said Yankumi, patience stretching long and thin like strands of taffy. “There must be some more details to this. Have you been going to cram school? How are you preparing for the entrance exams? Have you given any thought as to–”

He looked away from the window and focused back on her. He had a way of speaking, very removed and remote and quiet like the moon. “I will go to university,” he said again, and then: “I will go to Canada.”

-

Hayato never courted any girl in high school, not like Take with his barista-lady. Hayato never visited any girl day after day, never mooned about any girl’s beautiful soul, never offered to get beat up for any girl.

Hayato’s bruises were for Ryu, one way or another, either caused by him or in defense of him; but Ryu’s. The rest of it all, the visiting and the mooning and the beautiful soul crap–

(“i’m not a girl, you asshole,” ryu told him, and hayato didn’t try to hold any doors open for him again.)

-

let’s go to karaoke, take says, one march afternoon when the air is still cold with the lingering winter, but spring blooming underneath that. the sky is blue, prescient of summer; and the sunlight drips like warm golden honey over their skin. let’s go to karaoke, says take, eyes bright and smile brighter yet, bouncing a little on his toes, full of merry energy. hyuuga rolls his eyes, tells take that he is lame, that he is a girl, that karaoke is lame and for girls and real men go bowling, retard.

“no, i want to go to karaoke too,” hayato announces abruptly. e-eh? stutters hyuuga, while tsucchi cackles from behind his fan, and ryu smiles, faintly amused. “you shut up,” hayato tells hyuuga, and hyuuga fake-punches him–because hayato’s not the boss, even if he sort of is. none of them think about their group dynamics too much, too full of laughter and nakama-ship instead. they walk, fanning across the streets of shibuya, loud with noisy chatter.

these are their days of endless spring.

-

And one day, Ryu will go away, will go on a plane and fly across an ocean. They will all go their own separate ways, bound now by other duties and responsibilities and loyalties. There will be jobs, and maybe wives one day; children after that and mortgages, taxes to pay and lawns to mow and they never quite forget 3-D, but the remembrance will fade, will pale. One day, they will grow up, spring melting into summer and fading into autumn. One day, one day–

But not yet today. Tomorrow, tomorrow, they know; but today, Hayato pins Hyuuga into a headlock and Tsucchi shouts abuse; Take laughs and tells them not to hurt each other too much. And Ryu meets Hayato’s eyes over the clamor, faintly exasperated but more affectionate; he means you retard but he also means don’t change.

–

Yankumi’s speeches–after she finishes kicking ass–are always sort of dorky, but her teary eyes are sincere each time. “You guys,” she says, each time, and neither Hayato nor Ryu nor Tsucchi nor the rest of the gang understand how she can pack so much emotion into so common a phrase. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, and “Your friendship is strong,” and “I knew you’d come through for each other,” and “Let’s run off into the setting sun!”

“I’m pretty sure she reads too many shoujo mangas,” Hyuuga decides. They straggle behind Yankumi, who is heading off, one fist raised, into the blazingly crimson sunset.

“It’s a nice ending, though,” Take says, mild and cheery, “Happily-ever-afters always end with riding off into the sunset.”

“Huh,” says Hayato. He has one arm thrown over Ryu’s shoulders and is limping a little, but looks speculative anyway. He glances over at Ryu, sly and wicked, “Ne, Ryu-chan. Is this our happy ending?”

“Fuck off,” Ryu tells him, to the laughter of the rest of their friends. And Hayato laughs too, because theirs isn’t a fairy tale, theirs isn’t a love story; theirs isn’t anything, really, to be so labelled.

-

(but later, after they have seen their friends home, after the stars begin to peek out from the night sky, when it is just hayato and ryu, side by side on the sidewalk–

this is life, you know, ryu says, quiet and certain. we don’t have an ending.

and hayato laughs, calls him a romantic sentimentalist, and does not disagree.)

Cathy’s pretty and radiant, of course–she’s not beautiful and probably never will be, but Lewis can live with that. He likes her; which isn’t love and probably never will be, but he can live with that too. She smiles at him when she gets to the altar, bright and happy, and Lewis feels a little guilty that she’s not marrying another man, a better man, a man who doesn’t slouch in rumpled disarray during marriage ceremonies.

There’s a reception afterwards, extravagant in only the way old money can buy. Cathy’s smiles are a bit twitchy at the corners but Lewis figures that she ought to know what she married into, and so is content to leave her in the clutches of his (evil) aunts.

On his way out, slinking past the guests and after a brief detour hiding from his mother–he sneaks a bottle of Bordeaux under his tuxedo and goes to get shitfaced in some oak-paneled, gold-leafed bathroom.

It’s not an auspicious beginning to a marriage; but auspicious isn’t what Lewis wants anyway. It’ll be an unhappy marriage probably, once Cathy gets over her illusions of romance and ideas of love–but Lewis has always been able to hold his own in arguments and he’s never been afraid to raise his voice against women. He’ll be all right, he thinks.

He’ll be all right.

–

Seven months later, he yells, “Good grief, woman!” and slams the door on his way out of the house and doesn’t think about why Cathy’s crying and doesn’t think about why he’s so tired these days and doesn’t think about his parents and doesn’t think about his job and doesn’t think about the empty whiskey bottles in the kitchen sink. He scowls up at the sky, hands fisted in his pockets; wonders about the dog and considers doing something monumentally stupid.

–

And he signs up for the 101 Airborne Division.

–

He buys Vat96 in bulk.

There’s little else that need looking after. Cathy’s farewell is perfunctory, not that he’d been expecting more. (Still, he wishes she wouldn’t be so angry all the time about everything. He has not fucking idea what the hell she’s angry about anyway.) He tells the Kid “G’bye,” and the Kid echoes back, “Bye-bye.” He ruffles her hair, and thinks she won’t remember him in two months, tops. He isn’t sure what he ought to feel about that: so he doesn’t really feel much of anything.

“Look after the dog,” he instructs Cathy, and Cathy says, “Sure, sure;” and he frowns, “I mean it, Cathy,” and Cathy frowns back, “All right, Lewis;” and he really hates how she says his name, all rough edges and sharp disappointment and acrid bitterness, like the aftertaste of Vat96 burning in his throat.

–

He remembers: he doesn’t look back when he leaves.

–

There is a dichotomy to Dick Winters that Lewis–no, no; he’s Nixon now, because that’s what his dogtags spell: Nixon, Nixon, which thankfully, means nothing here–a dichotomy to Dick Winters that Nixon finds fascinating. A summer child with a winter name; a water spirit with a head of fire. Nixon takes perverse pleasure in listing all of the ways Richard Winters does not make sense: quiet and kind and good-hearted, who all the instructors expect to become a superb field officer, killer machine extraordinaire.

(When Nixon met Winters, the latter extended a hand and half-smiled, all slow and quiet and kind, and had said Hello and I’m pleased to meet you. The thing is, thinks Nixon, half in disbelief and half in love–the thing is: Winters may actually mean that.)

Later–much, much later, tens of thousands of years later, which still doesn’t seem long enough–Nixon tries to say goodbye and says, “Come with me,” instead. Winters–but he’s Dick these days, eyes warm and smiles soft–Dick says, “I’ll think about it.” Nixon figures: what the hell.

It’s a little like this, see: he’s spent the past couple of year jumping out of planes when there are people trying to blow the shit out of him. He doesn’t really know if there’s another way of living at this point; he doesn’t really know what else to do but jump: scared the fuck out of his mind, but still jumping. There nothing else for it; so he follows Dick. He jumps.

(And it’s also a little like this, see: sometimes, Dick catches the sun just so, golden light all warm and molten and beautiful on his skin, and maybe this is just Nixon wasting that Yale education by waxing poetic, but he doesn’t think so. Sometimes, Dick catches the sun in that perfect way, like the sun is actually under his skin.)

What the hell, thinks Nixon. And he says, “There’s–there’s this place in New Jersey. It’s, uh, it’s called–Nixon.”

And Dick smiles, the same smile from Toccoa, from Carentan, from Bastogne, from their several eternities of acquaintanceship, the same smile of old: “Sounds picturesque.”

“He’s driving the stylists crazy,” Tsuyoshi says with some bitterness. “He’s driving me crazy. Don’t let him corner you. He talk you to death, I mean it. No one comes to our dressing room anymore. The Juniors are all scared shitless of him–and me by proxy, as if I carry Cooties Of Koichi around.” Go makes a sympathetic noise, and tactfully does not say anything about how the Juniors never visit Kinki’s dressing room, not only because Koichi is aloof and scary and eats Juniors alive, but also because Tsuyoshi has a habit of insulting their hairstyles, often without meaning to. Hair, being what it is within the company (i.e. 55-80% of an idol’s composition), if insulted usually leaves the Juniors irreparably scarred for life. “He just goes on and on and on about uncertainty principles and dead cats and photo emissions. Hair-stylist-san was ready to burn him with the curling iron yesterday. I don’t know why she didn’t.” Tsuyoshi pokes glumly at his soba, and then, grudgingly like each word causes him physical pain: “F1 was—preferable.”

Okada replies with something probably meant to be sympathetic, but it emerges (like all Okada-isms) manfully stoic instead. Tsuyoshi rolls his eyes. He calls Okada things like “emotionally vacuous” and “lump of granite” and other such abuse acceptable only between old friends. When that gets old, Tsuyoshi changes the subject: care and feeding of ancient tropical fish, the number of frets on his new Caparison, his stylist’s current and somewhat disturbing fascination with tulle. They detour a little into company gossip (“Heard Joshima-Leader walked in on some couple in the costume closets again. Scarred him pretty bad, apparently. Taichi can’t stop laughing.” “What was he doing in there in the first place? No one actually goes in there except to—I mean, obviously, it’s not like he’s going to–” “You know how Leader likes to sulk in there.” They pause and nod at each other, remembering how Leader used to live in closets, back in the day. “And the couple? Was it some Juniors again? Man, why are they so young these days?” “I heard it was those kids in NEWS. Tegoshi and the, um, y’know—the surly one.” Another pause. Yes, they know Tegoshi and the surly one.) Eventually, they say goodbyes after lunch, Kamisen off to find the rest of V6, Tsuyoshi hoping to spend the afternoon hiding from Koichi and his ramblings on the nature of particle physics.

Of course, Ken and Go a) are married, b) are evil, c) have never actually quite hit puberty. They interpret warnings not so much as messages of caution as messages of invitation. Moreover: Inohara drew purple peanuts all over Ken on their last tour, which demands retribution. Revenge, they muse, creepily giggling their way down the hall, has a way of working itself out.

They find Inocchi in the V6 dressing room. “Hey,” says Go, settling into the seat next to their bandmate, Ken on the other side. Inocchi looks up from the schedule on the table and smiles sunnily at both of them.

“You know,” says Ken, casual, “have you seen Koichi around lately? I haven’t seen him since Countdown at all. D’you wish him a happy birthday yet? Wouldn’t you like to talk to him?” (Ken does not believe in ‘subtle’. If you had a face like his, Go says, you wouldn’t either.)

“It’s SHOCK season,” says Inocchi with mild bemusement. For one, Koichi doesn’t talk much with Kamisen and has never been particularly close to Go or Ken. There’s something strange here. “SHOCK season,” repeats Inocchi, which is the second strange thing of Ken’s comment. “No one, except maybe Tsuyoshi and MA, see Koichi.” This is true. Koichi basically lives at Teigeki in the early months of the year.

“I think you should go visit him. Say hi to him for us, for V6. Ask him how he’s been lately. What he’s been up to. If there’s anything he’s interested in. ” Go blinks calmly at Inocchi. (Go does not believe in ‘subtle’ either. If you had a face like his, Ken also says, but different, you wouldn’t either.)

“Build up the inter-group-ai and all that,” Ken adds, beaming with puppyish charm.

Inocchi regards them with suspicion. They’re up to something, of course; Morita Go and Miyake Ken are always Up To Something. “What did you do?” Inocchi asks, eyes narrowing. “Do I have to apologize to him for anything the two of you did? Did you make someone cry again? MA?” though that last one is highly improbable. Musical Academy are sort of hardcore and scary (especially Yonehana’s face). “You didn’t make fun of Tsuyoshi’s hair, did you?” because the basis of Kinki’s relationship with each other is some sort of exclusive sadism that Inohara doesn’t quite understand. Koichi makes hideous fun of Tsuyoshi’s hair and style, and Tsuyoshi snidely comments that at least hehas hair and style, and things go downhill very rapidly from there; but it’s a Kinki thing and no one else is allowed to scratch at Tsuyoshi’s furry beanies or tug at his turbans.

“No, no, no,” Ken insists. “Of course not. Koichi’s not mad at us.”

Which, Inohara figures (pathologically disbelieving of Go and Ken), means that Koichi is pissed. Inocchi has never actually seen Koichi pissed–Koichi’s temper is the product of long years of utter humiliation on national television, which is to say that very little upset him these days, and like all bullied leaders in the jimusho, he’s gotten very good at self-deprecating acceptance of life. Still, seeing how the juniors are all in semi-religious awe of Koichi, of good deal of which is likely comprised of fear, Inohara figures the Wrath of Koichi is something pretty spectacular.

“You…” but he doesn’t really want to vocalize the rest of so horrible a prospect. “You–didn’t do something to his car, did you? Scratch its paint job?”

If anything happened to Koichi’s car, Inohara is pretty sure that Koichi might kill someone. With torture instruments. Over the course of several days.

Ken rolls his eyes hugely, tells Go: “He doesn’t believe us. He doesn’t trust us. After all these years as bandmates–”

Go nods in martyred agreement and says with guileless hurt, “We just thought maybe Koichi is lonely, and maybe it’d be a good idea for you guys to catch up and–”

And Inocchi would have called them little liars and continued prying into What Morita And Miyake Are Up To, but Mom and Dad come into the room at that moment, forestalling further discussion. Sakamoto sits down without a smile–he’s probably the least bullied leader in the company (aside from how V6 enjoy making him scream like a sissy girl) due likely to his Terrifying Mask of Sternness. Reaching over, he takes the afternoon schedule from Inocchi. Nagano, meanwhile, glances around the room and does a silent headcount, like a mother hen with her chicklings. He comes up short one, and asks, frowning, “Where’s Okada?”

“Around,” says Ken, disinterestedly. “He’ll show up eventually.”

“Mm,” agrees Sakamoto with a grunt. “Let’s start,” so Mom sits down too. Later, twenty minutes into the meeting, Okada does show up, materializing silently from out of nowhere. “Where’ve you been?” asks Sakamoto.

“….here,” says Okada, straight-faced. V6 decide not to ask. Okada’s skills for appearing out of nowhere is sort of ninja-like, yes–but also really sort of frightening.

After the meeting, Sakamoto tells Go and Ken to stay behind, something about “your suspicious inquiries around the company for mousetraps, what the fuck is that about?”, which is followed by Go’s perfectly serious reply of “There’s a rat infestation in this dressing room,” and Ken shouting “There! There!” and Sakamoto’s subsequent wail of terror. Inocchi, outside in the hallway, rolls his eyes and makes a mental note to draw purple polka dots all over the Evil Two next time V6 goes on tour.

Still, their comments about Koichi aren’t entirely wrong. Inohara hasn’t seen Koichi around lately, not since Countdown at all. It’s probably not a bad idea to check in on him, and it’s never a bad idea in the company to ask if Koichi’s eating properly. ‘Feed Koichi’ is sort of an implicit company initiative.

He sends a text, tapping it out on his phone as he makes his way down the company halls to a rehearsal studio. Tiny juniors scramble out of his way.

Hey, he writes: Kou-chan. <3 How’ve you been? Let’s go for dinner sometime.

-

The reply comes at two-thirty in the morning, when, presumably, Koichi gets off work:

Ok.

–

Which is completely unacceptable.

Inohara calls Koichi the next afternoon, in between shoots for some variety show that Okada never watches, a fact which V6 find hilarious and so spend the majority of their time not promoting their new single and making Okada feel as awkward as possible instead. Okada’s complete lack of expression (which Inohara chooses to interpret as bland, bland repression of fury) does not prevent him from emanating a general air of homicidal intent. This prompts Go and Ken to cackle and then poke more fun at him. Inohara reflects philosophically, waiting out the dial tone on the phone, that some of his bandmates have absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.

“Eh?” says Koichi, upon answering his phone, the most retarded greeting ever. He sounds half drunk and half asleep; standard Koichi, then.

“Kou-chan! Kou-chan!” Inohara beams. “Kou-chan!”

There is a significant pause, while Koichi audibly thinks about how to respond. His confusion in the face of such effusive affection is palpable. “….Oh. Inocchi.”

“Kou-chan!” says Inocchi again. Most of his phone conversations with Koichi begin this way: repeating Koichi’s name over and over, half a cajoling attempt at conversation, half some sort of demented mating ritual. Mostly, because Inohara is actually very fond of Koichi. Underneath that great natural reserve which the company tries to sell off as stoic elegance but is really just social awkwardness–beneath that, Koichi is actually completely batshit insane. (Inohara is very fond of the crazy ones.)

“Kou-chan, when are you coming out to dinner with me?”

“Ehh….” says Koichi, obviously stalling as he contemplates things like leaving his apartment and i>eating</i> and leaving his apartment to eat. “Next month?”

“Are you eating properly?” Inohara asks. He imagines that must be a standard phrase among the managers: “Is Koichi eating properly?” right next to “Good morning,” and “Otsukare.”

“….yes?” offers Koich, and then, more proudly, “Gained half a kilo yesterday.”

(In the background, Inohara hears someone–probably MA–yell, “And lost three today!” before the sound is quickly muffled.)

“Koichi,” sighs Inohara, “I’ll tell Leader about this.”

“Sakamoto?” asks Koichi, sounding confused.

“Joshima,” says Inocchi. “And then he’ll invite you on Ai no Apron again and you’ll have to eat–”

“Okay, okay!” laughs Koichi. “Next week. Isn’t there something gathering next week? You can take me there.”

It takes a little while longer to bully Koichi into a promise of attendance, but Inohara knows what he’s doing. Even better, Nagano has noticed Ken and Go’s teasing of Okada and is frowning gently. Inohara expects a massive and magnificent guilt-trip in the very foreseeable future.

All in all, it’s been a productive day. Whistling cheerfully, Inohara drops by the Kinki rooms before dinner to see if he can corner Tsuyoshi and bully that recluse into attending as well.

–

Jumanji 55 in Roppongi isn’t a place Tsuyoshi frequents: the pink fluorescent ’55′ above its door is too glittery and clubbish. Still, the seafood paella that Inocchi keeps heaping on Tsuyoshi is good, and Tsuyoshi is long overdue to meet up with company friends. Meanwhile, Koichi, who’s not particularly fond of seafood paella or avocado salad and who would prefer not to be nagged to eat more, please, why don’t you try the spinach pasta, that’s a specialty–has hermitted himself in a corner, slightly behind a potted plant. Inocchi keeps an eye on him, to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep or slink away home–but Nagase is to arrive in a bit. Inocchi figures that things are about to get very rowdy and very drunk in Koichi’s corner soon, and so allows Koichi a few moments of quiet. Tsuyoshi, on the other hand, Inocchi feels needs cheering up.

“It’s a horrible idea,” says Tsuyoshi. (There had been some proposal within management of a company-wide assassin game. The entire way over, Kinki had bitched about it in the backseat. Ostensibly a promotional deal with Hakuhinkan, Tsuoyshi had distilled the entire thing into: 1) waterguns, 2) kindergarten games, 3) crazy stupidity, 4) soaking wet men. Koichi had distilled it into: Thumbprint of Johnny-san Everywhere.) “We’re all going to be paranoid within two days, and wardrobe is going to be so pissed when we soak each other’s clothes.”

Inocchi begins to reply to this but–

“BAM, BABY!” heralds Nagase’s arrival. By the time Inocchi turns around, Nagase is already standing on a table, beer fisted in one hand. He gives the room a once over, then spots a diminutive figures curled in the corner, looking vaguely sulky. “KOU-CHAN!” booms Nagase, jumping off the table. He barrels into Koichi with a laugh, exclaiming, “YOU CAME TOO!”

Inocchi turns back to Tsuyoshi, who rolls his eyes. “Terrible,” sniffs Tsuyoshi, but it’s a fond disdain. “The two of them are terrible together. Five minutes before they pass out drunk,” he predicts, obviously lying, because it’s common knowledge that Nagase and Koichi have crazy alcohol tolerances. Inohara smiles anyway.

“Okada’s coming in a bit too, I think, as soon as his filming for today wraps up. Isn’t this nice though, everyone in attendance? It’s far too rare that we get together like this.” Inocchi reaches over to pile more seafood paella on Tsuyoshi’s plate.

“Stop it, stop it,” Tsuyoshi gripes. “I can eat by myself fine. Go attack Koichi or something; retard keeps forgetting to feed himself. Idiot.” He grumbles with the disgruntled familiarity of long years. It is, thinks Inocchi, a little like Ma and Pa in twenty years, if Nagano was a little more gaudy and a little less gentle.

Tsuyoshi tilts his chin at something past Inocchi’s shoulder. Inocchi turns around to look at the potted plant corner again, where Koichi has shrugged off his usual reserve and is sprawled in his chair, beaming, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Nagase, too, is grinning like his face might break as he slams his beer down on the tabletop and launches himself at Koichi, reaching for the sides and stomach with tickling fingers. Koichi shrieks and flails and chairs crash over, but loudest of all is their laughter.

-

It drags into the small hours of the morning, but Tokyo does not sleep and neither do idols. Inohara finds himself sitting in formation with V6 at the bar counter. Ken, who has absolutely no head for alcohol, is whining about his socks– “Take ‘em off,” he mumbles to Okada, who blinks slow and blank. “My socks,” says Ken, then tugs at Go’s sleeve. “My socks, my socks, take off my socks,” and then Okada bends down, without comment, and obliges. Go snickers a little, but it’s halfway in the middle of a sip from his drink; the snicker turns into a snort and then a full-blown cough spasm. Ken turns around and sticks his tongue out; Go threatens to show Ken how to use that tongue. Inohara considers this for a moment, decides that he is not drunk enough yet for this, concludes that he will never understand Kamisen anyway. Sakamoto and Nagano’s heads are close together, their voices quiet; they sip their beer slowly, in no hurry, in no rush. Inocchi looks at them for a long moment, feeling suddenly a surge of sunlit affection, and decides not to intrude. He takes his beer from the counter and wanders away (only a little unsteadily) to go find TOKIO. TOKIO, who are probably playing strip poker or strip arm-wrestling or who are naked already perhaps; TOKIO, who always know how to have a good time.

Tsuyoshi is with them, eyes bright and animated—his hair is blue down the center tonight, rippling into purple on the sides, and it catches the light in a strange, pretty way. He holds court in a corner booth, at turns witty and charming, weaving stories into the shimmering air. Leader and Gussan listen, Gussan with good-humored cheer. Mabo beside them has pulled up a chair, slouching down low with long legs sprawling; he has won a bowl of peanuts from Sakamoto in the last poker round, and now sits eating it, alternately flicking one or two in Leader’s direction. Leader looks very put-upon and long-suffering.

Slightly outside their circle, but not far, Nagase has claimed the couch. His grins gleam white in the low light, irresistible; Koichi is next to him with quiet smiles and laughter like the pine winds. They are a strange pair, in size and temperament, but their edges fit, and this, Inocchi has never doubted, not since their Junior days. Every now and then, Koichi glances up, his gaze landing on Tsuyoshi—a brief glance, almost careless, but Inocchi is familiar with this too: Tsuyoshi’s alcohol tolerance, Koichi’s little gestures of strange loyalty, the inexplicable nature of a duo’s existence.

“This is really—you know, I think sometimes that we argue too much, or we don’t know how to work together, y’know—” Taichi has snuck up silently next to Inohara. His gaze is a little unfocused, but his words are coherent and clear still. Always the proper host, thinks Inohara with wry affection. “And I think, Guys, we have to work harder,–I mean, don’t you, Inocchi? We have to work harder, right? We can be so much more. But then—like this, and we’re all together, and everyone—” Inocchi looks over in alarm, to see Taichi a little wavery in the mouth, a little teary in the eye. “—There’s just so much love.”

Love. Inohara looks around, idols who have been the in the industry almost too long, who don’t sing about dreams and hope and flower fields anymore; perhaps not past their primes yet, but no longer the fresh-faced youths they used to be. And it’s all right, he thinks, he’ll trade all that for this, these friends, this easy comfort among them, their long histories of glittering costumes and year-end concerts and scripted banter, their long histories of rooming together and stupid pranks and getting locked in dishwashers and epic video game matches.

“Yeah,” Inocchi pats Taichi on the shoulder. Maybe it’s the late hour, or maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe he’s just getting old, but he thinks their sappy sentimentalism can be excused. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

He does.

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

note: all the songs are on imeem: i, ii, iii, iv, v. translations to i, iv, and v are here, here, and here.

-

i. hybrid rainbow | bump of chicken

koichi doesn’t decorate his side of the room with posters or family pictures. his walls are bare and clean and white, minimalist, because koichi is all about the essentials. in the window, though, he hangs a little crystal dangling on string; it’s a bauble made to hang from rearview mirrors in cars. some sunny lazy mornings, the sun filters through the glass panes and hits the crystal in the perfect way, refracting rainbows on the walls in dizzying array.

nagase, on his side of the room, is dozing still; a late night last night, but all nights are late for nagase these days. ‘debut,’ he had whispered to koichi, hushed because that’s how debut is spoken of among the juniors, with quiet reverence. koichi had gotten up early and finished his homework–he’s studious, which had been a surprise to some at first. now, math is finished and chemistry nearly so. his bed is already made, but he crawls into nagase’s, stealing some pillow. it’s not yet lunch; he has time for a quick nap. in the afternoon, there will be dance rehearsals, more work–but sunday mornings are slow, tranquils things; thick and sweet and golden-lit like honey. koichi dozes to the even breathing of nagase.

later, there will be lunch, will be dance rehearsals and concert planning and television filming for koichi; variety shows and studio recordings and photoshoots for nagase. later, they will smile for the cameras and interview for magazines; be idols to an adoring public. later, nagase will wear leather and fur and boots, too short shorts and too tight vests–his limbs will be slim and boyish still to those of his bandmates, but he will stand in the front, will stand in the center, will sing his throat raw. later, koichi will meet up with tsuyoshi, always tsuyoshi–that’s how it’s been, how it always will be, koichi and tsuyoshi, koichi and tsuyoshi, kinki kids; and they will sing about dreams and forever and love; will promise always, always, always–

later, later; tomorrow, tomorrow.

later, later: they will move out of the dormitories, will host their own shows and have their own careers and do their own projects, will meet only when their schedules coincide–

(debut, nagase had said, and maybe there was a frightened lilt to his voice; it’s a beginning, not an end, koichi had smiled; koichi, unsentimental, uncomforting, but who had immense faith in some things, some things don’t end, occhan)

later, later, but not yet. the kaleidescope of sunburnt colors swing gently on koichi’s white walls, in time to the crystal prism hanging in the window. they have time yet, slow weekend mornings to nap away.

tomorrow, tomorrow: but it isn’t a limit, not a limit at all.

here is only partway through.

ii. so what | pink

kinki don’t fight, in the traditional sense of the term. they don’t shout and they never throw things and they’re too self-conscious to resort to physical violence. tsuyoshi sulks, though, sometimes: he becomes vicious, contemptuous, acid dripping from his insults. koichi goes cold and silent; for all his fastidiousness, he’s slow to anger, but also slow to appease. no one gives a cold shoulder quite like koichi; silent and aloof for sometimes months on end.

koichi isn’t bothered by tsuyoshi’s solo debut; he doesn’t lie about that in the interviews. koichi’s the consummate showman, but it’s all learned. he’s never been comfortable in front of the camera, he’s never loved the attention of thousands at a time, he’s never been a natural performer like tsuyoshi. he doesn’t grudge tsuyoshi his solo debut.

“what are you doing?” he asks, though, at the outfits, the lack of usual cheery sparkle during MCs. some things, koichi doesn’t understand; doesn’t understand how easily tsuyoshi can verbalize emotions, doesn’t understand tsuyoshi’s propensity for introspection, doesn’t understand tsuyoshi’s colors or moodiness or whimsicality. but koichi understands  what it takes to be an idol, understands what he has to do for his job; koichi understands that an idol who doesn’t dance, who doesn’t smile, who doesn’t promise always, always, always is no idol at all.

“it’s not me,” says tsuyoshi, and he means this world, this industry, these lies. tsuyoshi isn’t about business, isn’t about professionalism; tsuyoshi is Artist. his world is about the truthfulness of expression, the evocation of emotions, the reflection of life.

but: “this isn’t about you,” says koichi, cold and biting, because that how koichi lives; because for koichi, work transcends everything else. this isn’t about you is koichi’s truth; but it isn’t tsuyoshi’s–and that’s their schism, the million hairfine, tiny fractures in the existence called ‘kinki kids’.

their impasse, their stalemate. it never shows too visibly; koichi’s too professional, and tsuyoshi’s sense of privacy too strong. they’ve both been with the company for too long, have been at the top since their junior days, for personal relations to leak into their working one.

but tsuyoshi’s mocking is little more biting, a little less sardonic and little more sarcastic. and koichi grows cold: all hard edges and bitter wintriness, icy like the december winds.

you can’t go on like this, their managers says to each: i can, says tsuyoshi, i’m all right, i’ll be–i’ll be fine; and so what? says koichi, can we go on either way?

(they get over it, though, because that’s how they are, because they’re not stupid, because they’ve been at this for too long. their edges have never quite fit, but the years are sanding away the imperfections. they’re not quite friends, but they’re partners, and maybe that means more.)

iii. on the radio | regina spektor

koichi does not love in generalities. he knows people who do, people who love people for being people, people who love humanity en masse. koichi’s affection is hesitant, stuttering; full of pauses and tentative starts, like koichi’s shyly spoken sentences. his heart is always partly closed–an unsentimental heart, but frail.

did someone break your heart once? nagase likes to ask. koichi suspects that nagase’s actually a big girl, the way he likes to gossip with koichi.

no, says koichi, which is sort of a lie. he’d had a cat once. and because nagase–even outside their world of television cameras and too-bright spotlights and layers of concealing makeup, the screaming thousands and the glittering, scratchy costumes and the careful, brilliant smiles–even outside their public personas, nagase is his friend; because nagase is–is nagase, koichi says: that is. well. i had a cat once, you see. but then it died.

and then you closed your heart forever and forever, laments nagase. there is something dramatic in his tone, the narration of a tragedy. and promised never to love another.

koichi smiles, faint, amused. no, he says. koichi does not believe in love stories. he’s very practical about some things, mostly because he doesn’t think about them too much.

(you’re young until you’re not. you love until you don’t. you try until you can’t)

“that’s not how it works, occhan,” he says.

yeah? asks nagase, but it’s not a challenge. because this is nagase: full of easy smiles and warm laughter, a comfortable presence. he invites koichi out to yakiniku in the early mornings, before the sun’s yet up. nagase’s this hands are large and broad, though his fingers are surprisingly slim; and he’s careful with koichi’s heart.

(–you hope it don’t get hurt; but even if it does–)

they stagger home, bellies too full, leaning against each other for support. “‘m glad,” nagase tells koichi, “‘m glad your heart’s not broken,” and aho, koichi calls him, slipping into accented dialect, with sunlit affection in his chest.

(even if it does; you’d just do it all again.)

iv. supernova | bump of chicken

koichi’s not good with words. when they’re his, when they’re not on a scriptboard, they emerge clinking and fragmented like pieces of broken porcelain. there’s something imprecise about words; they never mean quite what he wants them to; they always mean a little too much.

to the audience, he doesn’t know what else to say sometimes but thank you. it seems small, pale; worn thin and formulaic. there’s no other phrase that he knows, though; nothing else that approaches his meaning.

you are my marriage, he can’t say, doesn’t know how. you are my work. you transcend all else.

you’ve been here, always.

one day, he knows, he will fade. it’s already been more than ten years and the lifespan of an idol is short. they’re old, he and tsuyoshi. one day, they’ll be replaced; there will be someone else, fresh-faced and young, full of idealism and dreams, the embodiment of hope. that’s how the business works.

they’re commodities.

but–

“what are your plans for the future?” the interviewers loved to ask.

“i think,” koichi would answer, quiet but firm, “right now is most important.”

(because this is what koichi also knows: that he goes back to SHOCK, year after year after year, because of how hard it is, how exhausting it is, how suicidal it is. the burn in his lungs with each breath, the tremor in all his limbs as he stumbles backstage, the way his knees buckle while the staff strip the bloody armor off of him–each is a litany of i’m alive, i’m alive, i’m alive.)

the audience still come, are here, now. this is enough for koichi. thank you is insufficient, does not fully express what he means, the immensity of his gratitute, but he’s never been good with words. they’re here to see him, still so awkward in front of cameras even after all these years; buy the magazines though he’s never been good at photoshoots; listen to him though he stumbles and trips over his words. they’re here, for him, and koichi, who would like to but cannot convey emotions in mathematics, can only say:

i’ll work harder.

v. seikai no yakusoku | baisho cheiko

koichi and tsuyoshi meet like this: backstage at a hikaru genji concert, introduced to each other by a short, stooped old man who spoke strange japanese. this story, they tell often; tsuyoshi in sneakers and cap on backwards, cheeky and rebellious; koichi, the filial child, neatly dressed and eyes shy behind his glasses.

the other stories they tell, backdancing for hikaru genji before smap; setting off fireworks onstage and spilling their bucket of water and causing hikaru genji to fall. the apologies afterwards, the magnanimous pardons. the embarrassment of that incident has faded with time, has sublimed into humor instead. it’s a good story, and the audience’s laughter spills bright and gratifying.

a memory that they do not tell:

they’re going to kill us, aren’t they? tsuyoshi asked in a tremulous hush. his eyes were huge, his face white. koichi was beside him, where they stood before one of hikaru genji’s dressing room doors. johnny-san wasn’t happy. it wasn’t like we did it on purpose though. do you think they’re going to be very angry? w-we’re still kids, right, and there are–there are, like, laws against that sort of violence, aren’t–?

they were roughly the same height, though koichi looked a lot taller, partly because of how slim he was, partly because of the way he carried himself. they were about the same age too, but koichi was a year ahead in school, and that was a big difference at thirteen. standing in front of that door, in front of that doorway, koichi too was pale; but tsuyoshi was looking at him with nervous, unblinking eyes.

it’ll be all right, said koichi, because that felt appropriate, and managed a steady (though rather thin) voice. he thought about it. tsuyoshi wasn’t much good at apologies; he was cheekily charming and his smiles were bright and impossibly cheerful. but he had grown up in a privileged household, doted on by his parents. he’d never had much practice with apologies.

koichi, who’d grown up in a household of women, was a bit better at the duty thing.

i’ll--you know, said koichi, and breathed in, and knocked.

(he meant: don’t worry.

and tsuyoshi nodded, and breathed in; and trusted.)

Taichi does most of the talking; smiles honey-sweet, pushing papers and contracts across glossy oakwood tabletops. “Sign here,” he says, “and here. And here,” pointing with a pen. (Pelikan’s Souveran 805 fountain pen, dark blue with a rhodium-designed 18kt gold nib. Taichi pays attention to details.) Nagase stands behind Taichi, folds his arms and looms, doing his best to look menacing. His face is sharp and angled and fierce, like a wolf’s, so it’s not that hard. Whoever sits on the other side of the table usually signs with minimal protest.

The extortion cases are easy.

They don’t do a lot of trafficking. Security’s increasingly tight about drugs, and the money’s just not there anymore. Arms, though, weaponry, gunrunning–they dabble in that sometimes.

It’s a bit more complicated, though.

–

It used to be that on his off days, Okada sat alone in the park and watched children play on the jungle gyms. Some days, he carved little animal figurines out of blocks of wood, and left them behind on a bench for the children to take.

Tsuyoshi’s opinion of it was: “You’re really kind of creepy, aren’t you?” He touched his bangs (purple that week), fiddled with the lace ribbons on his fedora, and added, “Strange middle-aged man. Sitting all alone. Staring at kids.” Tsuyoshi raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m not middle-aged,” replied Okada. He meant: I don’t need to hear this from you. Because it wasn’t like Tsuyoshi was the definition of normal or anything.

“Hm,” said Tsuyoshi, bland, but left Okada to his paperwork. And that, thought Okada, was that.

The next week though, Tsuyoshi was at Okada’s usual bench in the park when Okada arrived. Tsuyoshi had a guitar in hand, strumming and singing something low and mournful, in minor key–something about eggs and rice, the beauty of such a union. The kids on the jungle gym stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Ah. It’s not creepy for two strange middle-aged men to sit together and stare at kids, then,” said Okada by way of greeting, settling down beside Tsuyoshi on the bench.

“Hm?” Tsuyoshi turned to look at him, though his fingers didn’t stop. It was late afternoon, the sunlight filtering through tree leaves to land in dancing, dappling patterns all over Tsuyoshi’s hands and guitar. Okada looked at the bright spots and the shadows, looked at those slim hands, and thought about what a strange thing friendship was. “Well, no. I mean–you’re still creepy,” but Tsuyoshi smiled, soft and affectionate and boyish around the edges.

A very strange thing.

• Okada, because Okada is Good At Everything, talks to the police; repeats the story that Tsuyoshi had made up, something about terrorists and banana cream pie and how it totally hadn’t been their fault;
• Okada also smiles a lot at the police (mostly because Tsuyoshi just wanted a repeat of the spontaneous bone liquification he’d witnessed at the airport);
• The police coo sympathetically at Okada, ask him if he’s all right, if he’s suffering from trauma, if there’s anything they can get him, if he wants some hot chocolate, if–
• Okada, therefore, is occupied for quite some time;
• They are kicked out of the hotel;
• Nagase disposes of the bodies;
• Nagase writes in his report: “Tsuyoshi and Okada saved the day, rescuing my sorry ass”;
• Nagase is bullied a lot that night (because Tsuyoshi had endured airplane food and had given up a date with Photoshop on his computer to come “save the day, rescuing [your] sorry ass”);
• Koichi says, “Terrorists,” and Koichi says, “Banana cream pie,” and Koichi looks skeptical;
• Tsuyoshi thinks: There’s no way he’ll believe that;
• Koichi smiles, bright and blank, does not talk about the exploding door, does not ask why Nagase sent him to get ice (that is now melting in the bucket, unused), and says instead, “Okay” in such easy acceptance that it leaves Tsuyoshi in flabbergasted awe;
• Then Koichi takes their bags out to the car–and wails, a high piercing shriek of indescribable agony.

The general consensus is that he’s fucking the boss. Or that she’s fucking him. The power dynamics of that particular relationship is a bit questionable.

(This is what they don’t know, what–if Ayumi can help it–they never will: that Nagase is a better shot than anyone she’s ever known, a gunslinger in the old, romantic sense of the term; that he may not be very good at math or science or literature, but he knows how to talk, how to listen, how to make people feel comfortable; that when he smiles, there isn’t a bitter shadow to it; that, for all his apparently retarded ways, Nagase knows people. People may not understand him, but they like him all the same.

(Charm, thinks Ayumi, is more dangerous than any other weapon at her disposal.)

Koichi doesn’t own many things, though this is more out of disinterest than lack of ability. Among the things that he does own are: 1. a red couch, because Koichi likes red; 2. cars (Porsche 991, Ferraris Modena and f430; and with the latter, a 4.3 liter V8 engine, electrohydraulic shift transmissions, and 0 to 60 mph in 3.5 seconds, the thought of which makes Koichi a little weak at the knees) because Koichi likes cars; 3. suits, Armani and Versace and all specially tailored, because someone (Koichi’s not really sure who) had insisted.

Aside from a laptop, that is about the extent of Koichi’s worldly possessions. He’s pretty satisfied.

On weekdays, he does some chauffeuring business for a very pretty lady. Weekends, Nagase comes over and they watch the Saturday morning cartoons on TV and Nagase makes a mess of Koichi’s apartment and Koichi beats him over the head with pillows and they laugh a lot.

(Sometimes, though, Koichi drives other people. They wear sharply pressed suits, maybe sunglasses, and don’t talk much, which is okay, because Koichi doesn’t talk much either. But sometimes they’re bleeding, which isn’t so okay, because Koichi doesn’t like getting stains over the upholstery in his cars. He doesn’t know why they don’t just call an ambulance. Weird rich people. Sometimes, too, they tell him things like “follow that taxi” (Koichi rolls his eyes at this, because that’s a bit cliche; but he obliges) or “step on it” (which earns another eye roll, because, again, cliche) and sometimes, there are little click-ping-ping sounds behind him, and once the rear window shatters (why would you do that to a Porsche?), and it’s almost like there are people shooting at him. With guns or something.

Mostly, Koichi doesn’t think about it too much.)

Nagase likes to wear dorky boxers with cartoon figures dancing across them. Koichi doesn’t make fun of Nagase for this, because Nagase buys Koichi similar underwear (Koichi being too lazy to buy his own). Today, it’s Loony Toons. He leans against the countertop of the kitchen island, bowl of Cocoa Puffs in one hand. The milk in the bowl is turning brown. “Y’know,” he remarks to Koichi through a mouthful, licks his spoon clean and points it at the television. “I don’t really see the point of having a Gold Ranger. Why didn’t they just keep him as Red?”

“Mhgm,” says Koichi, vaguely, not really paying any attention, eyes glued to the screen. He perches on a counter stool next to Nagase, slowly works his way through the array of fruits before him: apples and blueberries and cantaloupes and papayas.

Nagase bops him over the head with his spoon, whines, “You’re not listening to me.”

Koichi turns to look at Nagase, a bit blankly. He blinks, slow, eyes huge. “Eh?” says Koichi, and then: “Eww,” touching his hair, “Were you eating with that? I got milk and your spit in my hair.”

“You should pay attention next time,” Nagase replies, unrepentant. He pauses, and then adds, “Also. While I’m giving you such wonderful advice, you should check your phone more often. I sent you like–five hundred texts yesterday–”

“‘Bout what?” asks Koichi, chewing thoughtfully on his pineapple.

“Dinner. And then a drive around the neighborhood. Y’know–” Nagase shrugs, even though Koichi stares at him with large, uncomprehending eyes and it’s obvious that Koichi doesn’t know. Still, Nagase does this a lot, inviting him on drives through the neighborhood, for reasons like it’s a nice night or let’s go visit some friends or (Koichi’s favorite) I want to show you around town as if Koichi hadn’t been living there as long as Nagase. Really. It’s all a bit suspicious.

“Stop trying to take me on dates, Occhan,” Koichi tells him, turning back to the television. “And the phone’s a hassle to check. And pick up your socks; I keep finding them under my bed. No wonder your socks never match.”

“It’s a style,” Nagase protests.

Their conversations are random like that.

Ayumi had asked Nagase to find a driver for her, someone reliable and discrete. She asked because the last one had met a rather nasty end, which had involved switchblades and handcuffs and a displeased Ayumi; he hadn’t been as discrete as she would have liked. She asked Nagase because–despite what people said–Nagase was sotto capo for a reason, and he would find her the best.

She hadn’t expected Domoto Koichi, whose only recommendation that she could gather at the end of the interview (he didn’t talk much) was that he was Nagase’s best friend.

“What the hell,” she hissed at Nagase later. “Who the hell is he? Where the hell did you find him? Is he a driver at all?”

“Kou-chan?” asked Nagase. “Eh? You didn’t talk to him yet?”

“He doesn’t talk.“

“He’s very discrete.” Pause. “Also used to work for Johnny-san. Well. Before the old man croaked.”

Johnny, thought Ayumi, one-time capo di tutti capi. She thought about that for a while.

“Tell him to come pick me up tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock,” she said. And: “You’d better come too. Make appointments with the tailor. His track-suits are unacceptable.”

Nagase laughed, loud, unaffectedly cheerful. “I’m not your secretary. Make the appointment yourself. I’ve got an extortion case in half an hour. Have to go make myself look pretty, sweetheart.”

Koichi remembers Tsuyoshi’s name, not because they share their last, but because Tsuyoshi’s the first passenger to introduce himself. Also, because his suit is the most hideous thing Koichi has ever seen. He flinches every time he glances in the rearview mirror and catches a glimpse of that lime green, pale lavender, frou-frou-ed abomination.

“I designed myself,” Tsuyoshi says in a sort of soft, rolling ramble. Continues on about the cut and the fabric and sewing it together himself and how the lace had been a bitch to attach and it’s just like talking to a girl, Koichi thinks; except Koichi listens. Tsuyoshi talks exactly opposite of his appearance–understated, wry, deadpan. He’s not quite Koichi’s kind of soft-spoken, but he’s more subdued than his outfit might lead you to believe.

They get thrown together a lot, Koichi driving him into the city to tall, glass-paned skyscrapers with fancy elevators and important-sounding names. He sometimes asks Tsuyoshi things like: so, do you actually go into business meetings like that? and you’re not in the fashion industry, are you? and do you have secretaries? Do they dress like you do? Koichi’s straight-forward like that.

Tsuyoshi listens to these questions, and smiles very slightly. He meets Koichi’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, says wryly yes and no and they don’t mind. When he gets out of the car and watches Koichi drive away, he thinks about Koichi’s good luck in your meeting, thinks about how Koichi thinks he works for a bank; thinks about it and laughs a little and hopes that no one ever tells Koichi otherwise.

“Is he retarded?” the consiglieres ask Nagase after the first week. Nagase scowls instinctively before realizing that the pronoun hadn’t been you; that they weren’t talking about him.

“Who, now?” he asks pleasantly, though still with a rusty undercurrent of threat. Nagase doesn’t like people calling other people retarded.

“Her new driver,” the consiglieres say, and out of deference to their rank and status, Nagase only beats them up a little.

“He’s not,” he tells them later, bares his teeth at one who doesn’t look sufficiently cowed. “Kou-chan’s brilliant.”

Most people don’t understand this, however.

“How is he still alive?” Ayumi wants to know. She taps her finger against a bottle of Château Margaux, then opts for a bottle of vintage port instead (Cockburns 1963, and terribly expensive). She offers Nagase a glass, but he’s “too hardcore for wine; d’you have whiskey?”

“What do you mean?” Nagase asks, after they settle into Ayumi’s comfortable, rosewood armchairs. “Who, again?”

“Koichi,” says Ayumi. She looks pensively at her port, swirls it, adds, “He thinks I work for a marketing company, you know. Thinks I go to board meetings in the morning. Thinks Okada’s my butler or something.” She levels a hard look at Nagase, bites out, “I thought you said he used to work for Johnny.”

“He did,” says Nagase.

“You don’t work for Johnny and not know what business you’re in,” Ayumi glares. “The old man wasn’t exactly…subtle.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your uncle that way. After he passed the family business to you and everything,” Nagase teases. And: “Koichi’s discrete, isn’t he?”

That he is, admits Ayumi. In part because Koichi doesn’t like to talk. Mostly, though, because he’s completely ignorant.

“And he’s a good driver, isn’t he?” Nagase continues, ignoring that last part.

This is also true. Outside of elite professional racing, like maybe F1, Ayumi doesn’t think there’s a better driver. And Koichi parallel parks beautifully, which had been a bonus.

Nagase grins at her, says, “He’s very good at his job.”

“Lucky for him,” mutters Ayumi. “He’s not good at much else.” Nagase looks like he might protest, but Sakamoto enters the office at that moment, looking grim. “The Avec deal not work out?” asks Ayumi. Sakamoto shakes his head. Ayumi exchanges a look with Nagase; she tilts her head at the door, means go.

Nagase stands, face settling into icy lines of purpose. He doesn’t smile, his eyes gone cold and focused. Nagase, too, is very good at his job.

Nagase is Ayumi’s sotto capo and also her favorite, but Tsuyoshi is probably her best. Technically, he is a capodecina, but Tsuyoshi’s never had much interest in commanding men. Sometimes, he works with Okada–who is generally and affectionately known as “Ninja”, not only because he can run on water–but they’re not partners, not officially. Tsuyoshi has never really had an official partner. He’s not very good at teamwork, or maybe he’s never found someone whose edges fit his; Tsuyoshi’s always been too unique, too unconventional, dresses always in psychedelic colors and talks too much about fish. He doesn’t get enthusiastic often, his personality more lethargic than not, and his sense of humor is a bit off-kilter, razor-sharp and a bit wicked. He speaks in more poetry than prose, and isn’t very good at relating to people sometimes. But he’s good at what he does.

He’s also probably the most ruthless in the company. This surprises people, because Tsuyoshi looks like a big, fluffy teddy bear a lot of the time, soft cheeks and round shiny eyes and small pouting mouth. But Tsuyoshi believes in jobs well done.

These days, if Tsuyoshi has to pick, Koichi’s probably the closest things Tsuyoshi has to a partner. The capofamiglia‘s driver isn’t hers exclusively; she shares with her best and most trusted. Koichi drives Tsuyoshi everywhere, picks him up and drops him off, into the city and out of the city and to people’s homes and to plantations in the countryside and, sometimes, to dinner at a nearby diner. Koichi likes diners, likes the stainless steel and the simple food. Tsuyoshi likes the retro-ness of it all.

Koichi’s quiet, except about aerodynamic flow and why electrohydraulic shift transmissions are the best things ever. Sometimes he drives Tsuyoshi in the company car, black and nondescript; other days, he drives Tsuyoshi in trendy, flamboyant race cars, always bright red and with unnecessarily powerful engines. Those days, Tsuyoshi can feel the tension humming under Koichi’s skin, can feel how Koichi wants to press on the gas and accelerate and accelerate, faster and faster and faster until it’s like flying. Koichi wears impeccably tailored suits, Armani jackets and Versace shirts and Gucci pants, wears Prada sunglasses in the summer and Hermès gloves in the winter, black and white, always monochrome, wears it all with a sort of understated elegance. He’s also sort of fumbling and shy when Tsuyoshi talks to him, which Tsuyoshi finds terribly amusing. They’re almost complete opposites.

“He’s kind of an airhead, isn’t he?” Tsuyoshi says lightly to Nagase one day, and watches in amusement as Nagase bristles. “Maa, maa,” appeases Tsuyoshi, with his usual mildness (that hides his utter sadism, thinks Nagase), “Maaa. I like him.”

“Are you sure this is the right place?” frowns Koichi. He cranes his head back to look at Tsuyoshi, squints thoughtfully. “Aren’t you a bit….overdressed?” looking with bemusement at Tsuyoshi’s cravat. He turns back to the rundown warehouse in front of them, looks around the wire fence that circles the property. “Why would you hold a party here?”

It’s probably a talent, thinks Tsuyoshi, just how selectively observant Koichi can be.

“Well, I’m off. Come pick me up in twenty. Don’t be late.”

“I’m never late,” sniffs Koichi, putting the car in reverse. He pauses, rolls down the window. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Tsuyoshi doesn’t reply, turns and walks toward the entrance. His gun is a comfortable weight at the small of his back, and the press of cold metal against his legs from the knives sheathed in his boots feels reassuring. He straightens his suit jacket, readjusts his grip on the suitcase handle, and then enters.

Negotiations last for five minutes. The last two are spent making up increasingly profane insults. After that, everything goes to hell.

“I thought you said this was going to be an easy deal,” Tsuyoshi hisses into his phone, crouched behind crates of he-doesn’t-care-what. Nagase yawns loudly on the other end. “Asshole. Asshole. You’d better hope I run out of bullets, ’cause I’m coming after you after this.”

“When I said ‘easy’,” drawls Nagase, “I meant it’s okay if you want to kill them a little bit. No diplomacy needed.”

(Of course. Typical Nagase logic. Tsuyoshi doesn’t know why he bothers.)

The crates to Tsuyoshi’s left explode, splintered debris flying everywhere. “Sounds like you’re busy,” Nagase says cheerfully. “Well. I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Asshole,” says Tsuyoshi one final time before he hangs up, because Tsuyoshi always gets the final word. Always.

He’s outnumbered today, but Tsuyoshi isn’t the best in Ayumi’s cosca for nothing. He does run out of bullets (which means that Nagase, the bastard, lives to see another day), but Tsuyoshi’s always been better with knives than guns. It’s a bit messier, though, and ruins his suits. Tsuyoshi blames Nagase for this as well. Asshole.

Fifteen minutes after Koichi had dropped him off, Tsuyoshi collects his knives, wipes them off, finds his suitcase, finds the other party’s suitcase, and exits the building to wait for Koichi. At exactly twenty after, Koichi pulls up in front of him.

“You look a bit peakish,” says Koichi, looking up at Tsuyoshi pale face, window rolled down. He frowns. “Are you bleeding?”

Some asshole had got in him the shoulder, Tsuyoshi remembers. “Only a little.” Or, well. At least it hadn’t been a major blood vessel.

Koichi clucks, leans over and gets something from underneath the passenger seat. Opens the door and gets out. Bandages in his hand. “You’re not getting in my car like that,” he says, looking momentarily fierce. “All leather inside, you know.” So Tsuyoshi throws the two suitcases in the trunk, and lets Koichi bandage his shoulder. There’s not much to be done for the bloodstains on his clothes, but Koichi digs under the passenger seat again and comes up with sheets of newspaper. He pads the seat with those, sighs sadly, and then lets Tsuyoshi in the car. “Try not to bleed too much,” he says.

“I can’t really help it,” replies Tsuyoshi, dryly. He shifts a little, newspaper rustling. There’s a grocery bag by his foot. He stares at it. “Where’d you go while I was busy?”

“Grocery shopping,” says Koichi. Adds happily, “For peaches. Want one?”

Tsuyoshi doesn’t understand Koichi at all, doesn’t know how he can accept that Tsuyoshi is bleeding all over his car and not ask a single question like what happened?. But he’s a good driver, and he’s never been late, and he’s offering Tsuyoshi peaches, so Tsuyoshi says, not thinking about it too much, “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

At seventeen, Koichi had done a season of F1 for Ferrari. Then his manager, white-faced and shaking, had stammered something incomprehensible to him, and the next thing he knew, he was driving some old man around. The old man (Johnny-san) called Koichi “YOU” all the time. He also had to wear suits all the time, which was something of a hassle, because Koichi wasn’t very good at knotting ties. Still, it was all right, because he still got to drive all day, and there were still Ferraris involved–not as good as the racing ones, which was a pity, but prettier without all the commercial sticker logos.

Koichi wasn’t really sure what Johnny-san did; he didn’t think about it too much, because Johnny-san seemed to not want Koichi to know. There were lots of things Johnny-san seemed to not want Koichi to know, like what he did and where he went and who his friends were and why Koichi had to follow cars or run from cars and why sometimes, some of Johnny’s friends came back bleeding or battered or half dead. Johnny-san seemed to prefer Koichi not know any of this, so Koichi very carefully didn’t think about it.

His life isn’t some action movie after all. Not every car chase meant thugs or mafia or running from a crime scene.

Koichi just had to do his job well.

Then one day, Johnny-san stopped calling Koichi. Koichi didn’t think about it. There were television reports about something or other, some sort of gang war, some sort of feud. Koichi didn’t think about that either. Then Nagase had said, “Ayumi-chan’s going to take over the world. You should be her driver,” and Koichi had called him “stupid” and agreed.

These days, Koichi thinks about Einstein’s theories of relativity and the Lorentz equations, thinks about de-localization of particles and about quantum theory, thinks about infinite mass at the speed of light, thinks about the properties of water and the properties of light, thinks about engine mapping and who’s probably going to win next season’s F1.

He doesn’t think about the other things.

(Koichi’s always been very good at compartmentalization.)

Friday nights, the family (but it should be in capitals, thinks Nagase) has a family dinner. It’s always a suit and tie affair, but everything in the family is. Koichi never attends, because he’s never been formally inducted; because he’s never sworn any blood oaths, because he’s never burnt any image of saints, because he deliberately doesn’t know anything about any of this.

Sometimes, Nagase stays late, talks to Yamaguchi and Matsuoka about how their units are doing, asks Inohara about his wife, makes small talk with the sub-units, the ones with the fanciful names like KAT-TUN and ARASHI and KANJANI8 and NEWS. They’re all still young, need looking after sometimes; and though Nagase isn’t much good as a parental figure, he figures it’s better than leaving them to Tsuyoshi’s tender mercies. Tsuyoshi makes the kids cry a lot.

More often, though, Nagase skips out early on dinner, says his goodbyes after the second course and kisses Ayumi affectionately on the cheek and then heads over to Koichi’s apartment, where there is instant ramen noodle dinners and epic videogame matches over Tekken and Mario Kart 64. “DIE! DIE! DIE!” Nagase shouts at the screen, and Koichi laughs high and obnoxious like a hyena. Later, while Nagase tries to maneuver his way through Biohazard, Koichi falls asleep on the red couch behind him. In the mornings, they eat breakfast in the kitchen and watch the morning cartoons.

“Man, that’d be a sucky way to live,” says Nagase after an episode of X-Men: the Animated Series. “Always having to hide.”

Koichi wrinkles his nose at Nagase’s cereal, which is probably more sugar than cereal. “You think so?” he says absently, peeling an orange. “Everyone has secrets, though.” He looks up at Nagase, suddenly thoughtful. Koichi’s eyes are very large and very dark, like something out of those shoujo mangas that Ayumi likes to read. “Sometimes I think you’re not telling me something.”

“No, no, no,” says Nagase, grinning. “I’m a man of mystery, you see. I don’t tell you a lot of things.”

“You should probably stop that,” says Koichi mildly, turning back to the television. The smell of oranges hangs in the air, bright like sunshine.

Nagase thinks about Hamasaki Ayumi, thinks about helping her take over the world. He thinks about the dark suits lined up in Koichi’s closet, thinks about how even if Koichi’s not really inducted, there’s no pulling out now. Thinks about secrets, about keeping Koichi safe, thinks about the sharp curve of Koichi’s hips, thinks about how Koichi looks closer to thirteen than thirty, thinks about telling and not telling and if maybe Koichi doesn’t know for a reason.

Koichi hops off his stool and goes to rummage in the fridge; makes an outraged sound. “You drank all my milk again!” he turns and scowls at Nagase over his shoulder. “Buy your own goddamn milk.”

“I don’t know why you’re so angry,” replies Nagase. “It wasn’t even that good. Strawberry milk doesn’t go so well with Fruity Loops, you know.”

“Milk-thief,” says Koichi, grumpily. He closes the fridge door and returns to his seat.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Nagase takes a moment, looks fondly at Koichi mourning over his milk carton. Then: “You’ll be okay,” he says, more statement than promise.

“‘Course I will,” Koichi rolls his eyes. “What’re you talking about? It’s not like I’m going to kill myself over milk, asshole.”

But Nagase leans over, hugs him tight across the shoulders, pulls him in. “You’ll be okay. Promise.”

“Is this still over milk?” asks Koichi, “Are we talking about something else now? Why don’t you ever make sense?” but then, after a moment, hugs Nagase back with disgruntled affection. “Okay, fine, yes. I like you too.” Pause. “Also. Pick up your fucking socks. We’re not married, asshole, why do I have to nag you so much?”

Nagase laughs, and presses his face against Koichi’s neck, where he smells like oranges and sunshine, bright and sweet.

you’ll be okay

1. Fitzwilliam Darcy, a brilliant astrophycist from CalTech. He’s in Switzerland at CERN, doing some very smart-people and very esoteric research on particle physics and dark matter and black holes. He thinks String Theory is silly and ridiculous, because, really, eleven dimensions?; has his own “Theory of Everything”; does not believe in the Higgs boson; gets very earnest about neutrinos; and thinks “quark” is the greatest word ever. He’s brilliant beyond brilliant, and he knows it too. This annoys a lot of people, but he doesn’t really care about that, because, again, brilliant beyond brilliant. Coming from CalTech, he finds the Genevan weather too wet, too cold, and too miserable. This makes him snappish and curmudgeon-y. He’s very passionate about his work–at least, we suppose he is underneath all that impassivity and icy cool detachment, because he’s something of a workaholic scientist, who can and does get brilliant beyond brilliant ideas at two in the morning. When this happens, he bullies his entire research staff out of their beds and makes them come in to the lab too. They all think he’s a bit wacky, but they love him for it, and they’re loyal to the death (possibly even loyal in the face of coffee deprivation, which is Very Serious Shit.) Sometimes he’s a total dork with them, because they’re sort of all one big family, and he makes lame jokes and remembers people’s birthdays and they’ve all know him too long to be put off by his most-of-the-time freakish perfectionism. On Sundays, he drives into France and gets baguettes from Bingley’s patissier.

2. Elizabeth Bennet, who is from some indeterminate origin. She’s in France because she feels like being in France. (This is a lie.) She is actually in France because she is studying postmodern art. She does not really like postmodern art, but maintains that: “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not cool. Just because you’re bitchy doesn’t mean I don’t like you. Well…I don’t like you. But it’s not because you’re bitchy. Or maybe it is. It’s not the only reason, at any rate.” (Her philosophy on this confuses Darcy very much. Darcy does Not Like being Confused.) She likes faking bad French accents, and likes canned soup, and is not really fluent in any foreign language but can swear very colorfully and has basic survival skills in fourteen, including Flemish and Japanese. If there’s one thing to say about Elizabeth, it is that she is really, very, terribly camp. Very camp. Darcy has a difficult time knowing when to take her seriously or not. On weekends, she works at Bingley’s little bakery, doing God knows what. Darcy certainly doesn’t know. She gives him his baguettes each week and looks at him strangely: she doesn’t understand why he limits himself to baguettes when there is a whole, beautiful world of quiches and pies and tarts out there. For Christmas, she gives him a copy of Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche. Darcy is sort of just blankfaced. Elizabeth concludes that Darcy is a douche.

3. …and everyone/thing else, which is all background information anyway. So Elizabeth thinks that Darcy’s douche, and his requests for baguettes are obviously Compensating For Something, because, come on, big bread? Darcy does not like this insinuation and does not like quiche and does not like how Elizabeth browbeats him every weekend to try some quiche. She scowls and is terribly flippant; he stands there like a big lump of granite and is very stoic. Elizabeth talks about postmodernism sometimes; most of it goes over Darcy’s head. Darcy talks about black holes and the space-time continuum sometimes; not all of it goes over Elizabeth’s head. Eventually, Elizabeth gets him to admit that he “does not dislike” eclairs or cream puffs (“Cream puffs,” she snickers), which makes Darcy okay in Elizabeth’s book. Elizabeth doesn’t really do anything to make herself okay in Darcy’s book, except maybe breathe, because since their second meeting, Darcy’s book has pretty much been The Book of Elizabeth. Darcy works on his Theory of Everything, but Elizabeth just succinctly sums her theory of everything up as: “Well, it’s sort of like this. You have music and literature and dance and theater, and it’s all this big blob of messy creativity. You have your Impressionism and your Baroque and your Postmodern and your Realism; you have Manet and El Greco and Warhol and Raphael. And everything’s confusing, except you stop to remember that, in the end, they’re just trying to say something. They’re just trying to leave behind some truth (and it may not be a true truth, but it’s their truth and you have to respect that)–and they just want that truth to brush your heart, even the tiniest flutter. That’s all any of us want, really. We’re all trying to say something: you with your Theory of Everything and me with my quiches–we all want to flutter against somebody’s hearts, and that’s something universal. That’s what makes us human, because we just want our words to reach someone, our one person–we just want to be heard, and that’s a motivation of every artist. And each artist being joined by that, each artwork is thus connected, and in the end, you see, there’s really only one sort of art: ours. Humanity’s.”

(Darcy says that she generalizes too much. She says D:< in reply.)