[[drabble]] queens of the roost

On days like this, when the clouds threatened to burst and the air dropped to nearly freezing, they would take over the living room and Shuichi’s couch, shooing (or in Gumi’s case, beating up) the boys out of the house. Then, they would drag down all the clean feather comforters from upstairs, and Yume would frown at Gumi’s face, as Gumi wondered how much laundry she would have to do after this. They would build what could only be described as a nest around the warm and crackling fireplace, and curl up in the blankets, in front of the warm fire, with a pot of hot water and a box of hot chocolate, and talk, well into the evening until Shin called them and started whining that his toes were blue.

Usually, they let him in, but when they felt particularly naughty, the two of them would make the men sleep outside in Icarus’s forge and overtake the house.

[[drabble]] simplicity.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Shuichi asked Hito one day, when everyone was out, Shuichi was attempting to get comfortable on the couch, and Hito was staring at the Travel Channel. (It was doing a special about deepsea diving.)

“Nothing much,” Hito replied, eyes never leaving the screen. Shuichi raised his head slightly, to look at Hito, then at the television.

“I wish my life was that easy,” Shuichi muttered. Hito turned then, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Isn’t it?” he asked.

[[backstory]] ginza

We came back to Tokyo amid a ridiculous piles of boxes and bags, most of which are Shin’s, and most of which are forgotten as soon as they are set down in the foyer.

“It’s good to be home!” Shin crows, slipping back into Japanese from French like one of Hito’s pet fish.

“You don’t have a home,” Shuichi mutters in reply, not really making any coherent sense. But then again, he did spend the entire journey by ship being seasick. He head straight for the furniture, which, by the sound of his contented sight, still remembers his shape and form.

Gumi tears off her over-sized, fashionable hat, so fast and suddenly that I can hear the hairpins popping out of her head, as her hair holds its rolled up shape for a minute before unraveling into its long mane. She immediately throws the hat onto Shuichi, and begins poking around the bags.

“Where’s your bag, Shuichi?” Gumi demands, “I can’t wait to get out of this damned contraption. What is it–?” she scowls.

“Corset,” Hito offers, from where he brings in more bags, carrying more then it looks like he can take. Gumi nods.

“Yes,” she says, digging her hands deep, “corset. Devil take it.”

“Here–” I offer, and grab a few bags from him.

“Thanks,” he replies, giving me a half smile. Like how Shuichi is unsteady in the water, Hito is unsteady on land. It takes him a few days to adjust.

“Aha!” Gumi crows triumphantly, yanking out a particularly wide pair of pants.

“You could wear a kimono,” Shin said, looking rather forlorn as Gumi sweeps off hastily, her skirts trailing behind her. He picks up the hat, smoothing out its feathers, and then placing it on his own head, where it serves to make him look like a rather idiotic feminine man.

“Don’t want to,” Gumi says simply, and heads upstairs to change. Shin sighs, again.

“Why can’t she be more like a girl?” he whines.

“Shin,” I interject then, “you‘re more of a girl then Gumi is.” And then,  I too brush past Shin, leaving him with a pouting, mock-outraged face, and Shuichi’s low chuckle.

The first thing I note as I step outside is how overgrown our yard is–that will have to be fixed, soon. But otherwise, everything seems to be fine, even Shuichi’s strange meditation house/dojo that Shin insists on fixing haphazardly. My destination is not there though, but the forge.

It is just the way I left it, if a bit mustier and a bit cooler. But the same smell of metal and ashes fill the air, and I breathe it in, deeply. And then, I go to work, starting the fire up again, coaxing it back up to its perfect, fiery temperature. And I am just getting ready to begin work when Hito knocks, entering silently.

“We’re going out,” he says, “Shin seems to have forgotten that food does not last years.” I roll my eyes, for this is exactly like Shin. And then, reluctantly, I sigh, and pull myself away from the warmth of  the forge.

–

Somehow, I become the only one who is shopping, properly, for food. Shin disappears into the local bar to flirt with the new maids (which means we’ll probably be run out of town before long), Shuichi to sleep somewhere like a beggar. Then Gumi is distracted by some strange noise, and Hito wanders over to the goldfish winning games. So that leaves me, to wander the market with a narrowed eye, listening for any particularly good deals and looking for particularly nice fruit, until–

“Oh!” the voice is so soft that it startles me, and instinctively, I hold out my hand, catching two handfuls of fruit. I catch it before I look at the person who dropped it, and I nearly drop it again.

Had I seen this face before? Her eyes flash, and the answer lies therewithin. A scared girl, and a newfangled automobile. A human girl, with a decidedly non-human man calling her name.

“Hello,” I find myself smiling. She blushes, and somehow, I feel like I have been rewarded.

“You’re…from before,” she says. She says it so hesitantly, with something else hidden in her tone. So I take the basket from her, drop the fruit in it, and smile again.

“Yes,” I say, “my name’s Takahashi. Takahashi Icarus.” Tentitively, she smiles too.

“Ito,” she says, “Ito Yume.”

“Well, Ito Yume,” I say, “shall I walk you home?” She blushes, and does not object.

–

“Don’t you have servants to do the shopping?” I ask her, as she leads me back to her home. Ito Yume smiles serenely, and giggles, like a schoolgirl.

“Yes,” she says, “but I’ve been in that house far too long. I couldn’t stand being inside all day.” She spins for emphasis, the silk of her kimono flaring out slightly.

“You like the outdoors?” I ask her, “most young ladies prefer to keep their complexions–err, well, in Europe, anyways.”  Yume gives me her interpretation of a haughty disdaining glance, showing what she felt about those European young ladies.

“I like the flowers,” she confesses, the expression dropping from her face, “they make backyard seem so nice.”  I have to laugh, then, thinking of my own backyard.

“Are you laughing at me?” Yume inquires, leaning in unconsciously.

“No,” I reply, “at my own…family. And our backyard. We’ve been away for so long that it’s a disaster.” I laugh again, and she laughs along with me.

“You’ve just returned, then? From Europe?” she asks. I nod.

“My…brother, he’s fond of Europe. France, especially,” I explain. She smiles, dreamily.

“Is it nice, in France? I’ve always wanted to go somewhere outside of Japan. But I never had the opportunity. Tell me all about it,” she says, excitedly, grabbing my sleeve slightly and sending a strange jolt through my chest.

My expression must show this, for she blushes, and looks mortified, and drops my arm automatically. She looks around, frantically, until her eyes light up in recognition.

“This is my house,” she says hastily, taking the basket back from me. She makes towards the gate, pauses, turns her head slightly, as if to say something else, and then scampers into the house, leaving my heart to pound, strangely, and my feet to propel me home, subconsciously.

When I arrive at home, it is Shin who berates me.

“Where have you been?” he asks me, half-whining, “I’ve been hungry!” His eyes flicker to my empty hands, “didn’t you buy food?” he whines. This snaps me out of my daze, and I glare at Shin.

“If you wanted to eat so badly, you should have bought your own food!” I snap at him, and then stalk past him once more, to the forge, where I stare at the metal more then work at it.

That night,  I dream of soft, small warm hands.

–

I notice them about the same time Shuichi and Hito do, while Shin and Gumi are squabbling. For every three people in the crowd, one of them is not human. Not Human. The cause seems strange, until Hito blinks, and figures it out.

“Elections,” Hito says simply. My eyes flicker, to the familiar face of a man. A man whose face had once contorted in anger as he yelled at a young girl who was running away from a car.

“Elections?” Shin asks, but he figures it out as he says it. It is hard not to, with the sheer amount of them here.

“Well,” Shuichi says then, “seems like home won’t be peaceful anyways.”

I feel strangely relieved when Ito Yume exits her house, straightening her hair and her basket. But Tokyo is not safe right now, and I do not really feel like discovering that she is gone one day. So I casually stroll up to her, pretending to look surprised.

“Yume,” I smile, “fancy meeting you here.” She looks surprised, then delighted, then composed and neutral.

“My, Mr. Takahashi,” she says, “since when were we on first name terms?”

“Since I decided it,” I say firmly, and take her basket from her. She smiles, and makes as much fuss as a proper lady should, but lets me carry her basket, and by the time we return, slips as she scolds me.

“Icarus!” she shrieks, as I hold the basket high above her head. She jumps. I lean in, and laugh.

“I thought you said we weren’t on first name terms,” I tell her. Her lips tilt up.

“I’ve only known you for two days,” she protests weakly.

“Three,” I correct her, leaning in more. She stares at me, as if transfixed.

“Mr. Takahashi…” she trails off.

“Icarus,” I correct.

“Takahashi…” she whispers, her resolve wavering.

“Icarus,” I press. Her lips tilt up.

“Icarus,” she finally says again.

–

Shin realizes it before I do. But then again, Shin never takes anything seriously, so I was a little disinclined to believe him.

“Icarus,” he says, one evening as I return from escorting Yume, “you’re back. Are you ever going to introduce us to the lucky lady?” When I just stare at him in response, Shuichi falls off the couch from sheer shock, Gumi breaks the plate she is holding (17th century, French. Antique.), and Hito just  stares.

“What are you talking about?” I frown at Shin, imagining Yume meeting him. He’d overwhelm her. Shin gives me a scathing look for once.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be stupid. It’s tattooed across your face, Icarus. You’re in love,” Shin says. He says it so bluntly.

“I’m not,” I argue, “I’m just making sure she doesn’t get hurt.” Shin points an accusing finger at me.

“Ah!” he says, “so there is a her!” I glare at him.

“Yes, there is a her. But she’s just a friend. Someone I’m–” I start, but Shin interrupts me.

“Trying to protect? Keep to yourself? Get closer to? Kiss?” Shin presses, one rapid question after another. He slams the table, and I slam the wall in reply.

“Yes!” I roar, before I can stop myself.

Shin smiles then, as if having accomplished something.

“Good,” he says, “now that you’ve admitted it, when are we having her over for dinner?” I growl. Shin frowns, and takes the entirely wrong connotation.

“Oh, goodness no,” he says, “we wouldn’t dream of eating her. That’s bad manners, right Shu?” he asks. Shuichi wisely keeps his mouth shut. Gumi stares at me, as if she has never seen me before.

“Elections,” Hito says then, breaking the silence. His voice brings us back to reality.

–

“Don’t go outside at night,” I tell Yume as she leaves her house, not even bothering to pretend I am not waiting. Yume looks surprised.

“Why…why not?” she asks me, as I take her basket once more.

“It’s not safe,” I say, firmly. She frowns.

“Well, I know that much,” she says, “any reason in particular now?”

“My…sister, Megumi,” I tell her, a white lie, “she was attacked as she was coming back from an errand last night.” It wasn’t quite a complete lie. Gumi had been attacked, while we were out feeding, by another vampire who could not stand the smell. Luckily, Shin liked to trail Gumi, and managed to intervene. But now…the ratio of vampire to human had become two to one.

“Is she alright?” Yume demands of me. While I hadn’t taken her to meet them,  I had talked about them to her. Even only in words, Yume seemed to have taken a liking to Gumi, especially. ‘Underloved,’ Yume had declared. I wasn’t quite sure that was true, but it was an interesting idea.

“She’s fine,” I say, brushing this off. Gumi can take care of herself. “But you have to promise me, alright?” She bites her lip.

“Yume,” I say, firmly. She sighs.

“I promise,” Yume says.

“Good,” I reply, and let myself give in and touch her face.

–

The danger, however, lay not outside, but at home. As soon as the election results were in, vampires left the city in droves. By this time, we were so used to sensing them and the smell of blood that it was easy, unconscious, almost, to smell it. I had expected the smell of blood.

I just hadn’t expected it coming from the house of Ito Yume.

I do not think, I do not yell. I react out of pure instinct, forcing the door to an empty, dark house open. There are no servants, there are no lights. So I follow the scent of blood, to where there is a crumpled pile of human. Human, and blood, so pungent.

Human, blood, and Yume.

“Yume,” I hiss, moving over to her, cradling her gently. She is pale, much too pale. Her body is small–does it even hold the normal amount of blood? Is she already dead? Her face contorts, in sheer pain.

“Please,” she rasps, her voice barely audible.

“Yume, ” I whisper, “Yume.”

“End it,” she says then, in such a tiny voice that my heart nearly shatters there from what she begs me to do. I do not think. I act.

There is more blood, and satisfaction, but I make myself focus on Yume, smiling, proper Yume, and then there is more  blood, and then nothing else I can do but wait and hope.

So I take her home.

–

“Upstairs,” Gumi says after taking one look at me and Yume in my arms, “she can have the bedroom next to mine. Unless she wants the one next to yours.”

“We’ll let her decide that when she wakes up,” I shrug. If she wakes up. But she has to wake up. Gumi shrugs, too. She comes over, and looks at Yume, not saying anything. Then, she shrugs.

“It’ll be nice to have another female in the house,” Gumi comments then, half to herself. But then she shrugs again, and I take Yume upstairs.

–

I wake up when she shifts, the slightest movement which means she is alive. Alive. And then, when her hand twitches and she yawns–I never thought a yawn could be so beautiful–I jump up, startling her.

“Thank God,” I say, sighing in relief, and reaching over to draw her into an embrace–which she returns. Her hands linger on my back, running them up and down, a bit curiously.

“Am I dead?” she asks faintly then, “because this must be heaven.”

“After all the pains I took to ensure you wouldn’t die,” I reply, “I sure hope we both haven’t died.” That manages to get a soft laugh from her.

“What am I now, then?” she asks me, the hands pushing back so I had to look her in her face. I smile, wryly.

“Vampire,” I tell her, “that is what we are.” She frowns, and I smile to show her my fangs, proving my point. She reaches out towards them, then seems to think twice about it, and then her fingers stretch towards her own mouth.

“I see,” she says, “But then…what about…what am I going to do…?” she hedges, ever the proper lady. And because she is a lady and I am not a gentleman but a common blacksmith, smirk at her, pull her close in, and whisper in her ear.

“You are going to marry me,” I tell her, letting all my desire for her show in my voice, “in a lavish and expensive wedding. Trust me, Shin will take charge and it’ll somehow become a national holiday. And then, we are going to go away to France for our honeymoon, and I am going to buy you a house with the biggest garden you can find. And then, after you’ve had your fill of Paris, I am going to hole you up in a hotel and make love to you for decades.” She shivers, and turns red.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Yume replies, “and I think that’s physically impossible.” I just smirk, making her turn even redder, and I chuckle.

“I love you,” I tell her, and I kiss her, everywhere. And when she finally has to push me away, face still flushed, she replies.

“Yes,” she says. I raise an eyebrow.

“Yes?” I inquire. She smiles.

“Yes,” she clarifies, “I’ll marry you.”

[[drabble]] made for tv movie

He found her in front of the TV one day, with a ridiculously out-of-character dreamy expression on her face. She was watching one of those movies where there was always a prince, and jousting tournament, and a fair lady with a token. Gumi didn’t hear him, until he shifted slightly, the Goldfish bag in his hands crackling. She had jumped then, and instinctively flipped the channel before turning to see who it was.

Gumi had her fierce expression on, the one that dared whoever happened to be the recipient of it to say anything. But Gumi’s face seemed to relax as she realized it was Hito, and not Shin or Shuichi.

“Oh, Hito,” she said then, “did you want to watch something?” Gumi made to get up, but Hito shook his head.

“What were you watching?” he asked. Gumi turned red.

“Nothing,” she said hastily, trailing off.

Hito just sat down next to her, handed her the Goldfish bag, and flipped back to the movie, where a knight had just fell off a horse.

[[backstory]] takahashi icarus, blacksmith

Before he could walk, he remembered hunger. The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he didn’t dare cry out for, as his mother lay motionless on the tangle of rags they called a bed, a bright purple splotch on her cheek.

Even then, he understood. He understood hunger, he understood fear, he understood sadness.

He understood why his father came home incoherent, roaring at his mother for food that simply was not there. He understood that food cost money, of which his father used up the minute he managed to get it.

He understood that his father was a farmer, who was supposed to be coaxing life out of the ground rather than beating the life out of his mother.

He understood all this. What he didn’t understand was when his mother picked herself off the floor and took his hand, and led him out of the house, not looking back, not saying a word in reply when he asked her where they were going.

She didn’t say anything until they reached the next village over, and his mother knocked on the door of the first house in the village. The man who opened the door looked worn and calloused, but not in the way that his father did, menacing and cruel. This man looked stern, but not cruel.

“Help me,” was all his mother said.

This, this he didn’t understand.

–

“BOY!” Icarus heard the master call, and jumped at the loud noise.

“Coming!” he called, jumping up and running into the shop. Master glared, but Icarus was used to it.

“Just what are you doing out there all the time, boy?” he grumbled, and Icarus shrugged in reply.

“Don’t dawdle so much, ” Master continued then, “nothing gets done if my striker disappears. Now fetch the hammer, boy!” Icarus ducked his head, complying, with a ‘yessir.’

They had told him that his mother couldn’t take it anymore. That she wanted a better life for her son then to watch his mother being beat, or worse, he himself doing the same thing to some poor girl. So, one day, while his father was away, she had left him sleeping and gone to the next village over, to beg some tradesman to take in her son and apprentice him. Everyone turned him down, except the blacksmith, who had looked into her worn eyes and seen his own mother. And so, one day, she had taken Icarus to him, as she had said she would, and then left, continuing on through the village, northwards. Icarus hadn’t seen or heard from her again after that day.

But he tended not to dwell on it much. Worrying about someone who wasn’t even there anymore seemed to be too much at this point, and besides, Icarus would rather look towards the future, when he would take over the forge and wouldn’t have to be striker anymore. Now, that was hard work. Icarus would rather carry out all those sword designs he did in his spare time with charcoal. But, of course, Master had always been more practical when it came to his work, and did nothing more then the usual shoeing of horses and fixing chains.

Icarus, though, he was a dreamer.

–

After Master died, though, he may have dreamed a little less. Like how he had understood the grown-up world of hardship and lackings, he now understood why his master had never drawn a single sword. His life was busy, extremely so. Icarus spent, more or less, his entire day in the forge, sweating and pounding and near burning off his fingers. By the end of the day, all he wanted to do was sleep. Life seemed to be creeping up on him in its entirety now.

On this occasion, though, Icarus could not sleep. So instead, he sketched. He sketched until his eyes blurred, and he went down to the forge, started the fire, and worked.

What resulted wasn’t a masterpiece, but it wasn’t very bad, either. What it was enough for, though, was for the men who came into the shop to stop and admire it, and mention offhandedly that they wouldn’t mind a sword like that, and would be wiling to pay a handsome sum for one. Icarus went home, and calculated costs and prices and profits. Being a blacksmith didn’t mean he was poor, but it also didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up in life too.

So in his spare time, Icarus made swords. They were simple at first, but as time passed, became more and more ornate. Experience led to skill, which led to rumors passed along, and finally a bit of celebrity around the area, and a nice purse of gold tucked away neatly somewhere.

By this time, he was used to strangers wandering into town and demanding swords as if they were entitled. Icarus always set them straight though, usually with a sharp word, but with his own sword once or twice. It was one of these strangers that came into his life and did not quite leave.

–

He came into town as the rest of them had. Haughty, sneering at the smallness of the village. But he didn’t barge through the door and demand Icarus drop whatever he was doing to make him a sword, though. Icarus had to give him that, although what he did otherwise was slightly unnerving. He watched, as Icarus slowly fit a new shoe to a horse, his strange copper eyes never leaving Icarus’s hands. Icarus pretended not to notice, but it was starting to ice his spine. So he leaned back against the floor, and glared at the man through his bangs.

“Yes?” he asked, “may I help you?” The stranger looked surprised, and then smiled, a slippery, slimy smile.

“You are the blacksmith,” he stated. Icarus eyes narrowed, wordlessly passing judgment. But the stranger just smiled, amicably.

“I hear you make swords on the side, too,” he said, “beautiful things.”

“They don’t come cheap,” Icarus immediately said. The stranger laughed.

“My. So young, yet already so greedy?” he inquired. Icarus stood, brushing the dirt off his clothes and then glaring at the man.

“Far too many people thing they can cheat me just because I’m young and they’re noble,” Icarus replied by way of explaination. The stranger chuckled again, like a cat playing with a mouse. He pulled out a heavy, bulging bag of what sounded like coins then, and tossed it to Icarus.

“Luckily,” he said with a cat’s smile, “I always come prepared. There’ll be the rest of your payment after it’s completed.” Icarus made a show of opening the bag, shifting the coins to make sure they were all there, and biting down on them to make sure they were real. Satisfied, he tossed the pouch onto the table.

“I’ll have it done in two weeks,” Icarus said then. The stranger narrowed his eyes.

“Make it one,” he commanded, and strode out of the room.

It was finished in three days.

–

Icarus would never admit he was nervous, but the truth was that he was nervous. It was probably the finest piece of work he had ever created–and it was going to the stranger who made him most nervous. Icarus tried to hide his nervousness with his gruffest frown, as the stranger picked up the sword, giving it a test swing. He looked surprised, and then frowned, swinging again and going through and whole set of motions before finally setting down the sword.

“Well,” he finally directed at Icarus, “I must say, I’m surprised. I didn’t expect something quite so nice.” Icarus shrugged in reply.

“I try,” he said. The man stared at Icarus for a minute, and then dug another pouch out of his pocket, throwing it lightly to Icarus, who did his usual checking of money.

“It’s a shame, though,” he commented, half to himself, “because swords break, and in another fifty or hundred years you’ll be–” he cut off suddenly, as if he had said too much. Then he smiled, a sinister, plotting smile, as if he had just thought of something very interesting.

“Well,” he said then, “I think I have not paid you in full, Takahashi Icarus.” He took a step towards Icarus, who took a step back, instinctively. The man smiled, indulgent.

“Tell me,” he said, so close now that he could whisper these words, “what are your thoughts on immortality, boy?”

–

When Icarus finally awoke later, he found the forge near overturned, and blood–whose blood? His blood?–staining the floor.

“Oh, good,” someone drawled, “you’re awake.” Instinctively, Icarus jumped up, but regretted it, as he swayed on the spot.

“What did you do?!” he hissed at the man, who was sitting down at his planning table and helping himself to some of his food. The man merely raised an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t stand, if I were you,” he commented correctly, as Icarus gripped the anvil to the side of him and gritted his teeth, lowering himself to the ground so his head would stop spining.

“What did you do?” Icarus repeated, again. The man smiled.

“In my homeland, we are called ‘upyrs,’” he said, and then translated, “vampires.” As Icarus shot up yet again, the man laughed, and stood.

“You can thank me in another hundred years or so,” he said, looking a bit amused, “but first I think you might want to get out of this little village. Unless, of course, you don’t mind giving in and–”

“Get out,” Icarus hissed, striding across the room and pulling the door open roughly. The man chuckled again, as Icarus’s knuckles grew white from gripping the doorknob so hard.

“Another hundred years, then, boy?” he asked, half to himself as he walked out the door. But Icarus slammed the door so hard it shook in its hinges, and then braced himself against it, running his hand through his hair and closing his eyes to catch himself. As soon as he gathered enough energy to, Icarus set to work scrubbing the floor clean, and, when all the bloodstains were gone, figuring out what to do next.

He had to admit, though, that man was right. He couldn’t stay here, if he was what he was. These people…he knew them too well.

So, that night, Icarus left the village with nothing but a bag of gold, the clothes on his back, and his blacksmithing tools. For the first time in his life, he was alone. Not even when his father had been there, wreaking havoc on his life, had he been alone.

So, Icarus decided, the only solution to that was to find others like him. There had to be others. They could form an alliance. Protection and companionship, all in one. The only question was who and where.

[[drabble]] hubris

They were not afraid. They were too firmly immersed in their immortality, their hubris, to take care in anything that they did. And of course, it was Shin who took the least care.

He smiled as they advanced, their eyes narrowed, their hands clenched around anything they could find.

“We know what you are,” they hissed. Shin continued to smile, for they could not possibly kill him. They were human, and he was not, after all.

But hubris is hubris, no matter who commits it.

[[drabble]] 1989

“Your hair is getting long,” Yume commented one evening, running her hands through said hair. Icarus smirked.

“D’you want me to cut it?” he asked her. Yume laughed, as he kissed her.

“If you want to,” she replied, “but aren’t you supposed to be setting a good example for the rest of the school?” Icarus, then, had been the president of the student council, a straightforward rule-follower.

“I don’t want to be good anymore,” Icarus muttered in reply, and tickled Yume to emphasis his point.

The next day, Icarus came home with his hair bleached blonde. The next year, he became the leader of class 3-D. The delinquents.

[[submitting]] fading

[[A/N: submitting this to my high school literary magazine. all rights reserved.]]

“I wish you would just leave,” I had told him scathingly one day, “I wish you would leave and never come back.” He had just smiled, a sad, wry smile, as if sharing a joke with himself.

“Your wish shall be granted,” he said cryptically in reply, leaving me to clench my fists and wish him away with all my might.

The next day, he was gone.

When he had first made his way into our art class, none of us knew what to make of him. Not my quiet, glasses-clad tablemate, Martin, not the matronly teacher, Ms. Leary, and certainly not me. Our class had been comprised of quiet, contemplative people before he had come along, people who faded into the background.  He, in contrast, seemed determined not to fade into the wallpaper. He was loud and boisterous from the moment he entered the room.

“My name’s Eugene,” he said with an over-exuberant grin, bouncing where he stood before listing off the most random list of things: his breakfast, his thoughts on the school, this room. Finally, when she managed to get him to quiet down long enough, Ms. Leary put him at another table, with two timid girls. But by the end of the class, they were in tears, and Ms. Leary had moved Eugene to another table.

It was the same cycle over and over again, until inevitably, Eugene ended up at my table.

“Whatcha’ drawing?” he asked Martin, who jerked as Eugene leaned over, invading his personal space.

“Nothing,” Martin muttered in response, pulling his sketchbook away. But Eugene plucked it out of Martin’s hands easily, and surveyed the drawing Martin was working on with a critical eye.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” he asked Martin, pointing at me. Martin muttered in reply that it was none of his business, and I pointedly looked down at my own work. Eugene ignored Martin’s words and my clear aversion to being put on the spot, and instead squinted at me, holding out the sketchbook at arm’s length.

“You’re pretty good,” Eugene declared then, “but you haven’t quite caught her essence yet. See—” he grabbed the pencil Martin had been drawing with out of his hands, and as Martin seethed, Eugene erased and sketched, his hands and eyes a blur as they moved across the page and across my face, which I tried my best to hide, but somehow could not. Finally, as Eugene gave one final flourish across the paper and a satisfied nod, the bell rang, and he pushed the sketchbook back to Martin, who scowled again.

“See you tomorrow!” Eugene called then, as I see Martin’s eyes widen. He taps me on the shoulder then, and thrusts the sketchbook at me.

“Look,” he commands, as my hands instinctively curl around the sketchbook. When I see what Eugene has drawn on the page, my eyes widen.

The first thing I learned about Eugene was that he drew well. Incredibly well. The second thing I learned was that his boisterousness, which came and went like a never-ending series of seven hills, usually revealed his moods, which were volatile and explosive. At his best, he would sketch quietly like the rest of us, and we would receive a few minutes to scrap up whatever work we could that day. At his worst, he would be everywhere, and paint would spill over just finished paintings, markers splattered insoluble ink, and ceramic pieces broke. Usually, though, he remained in a happy medium, chattering constantly about nothing and everything in a way that allowed us to pretend he was background noise.

His better days revealed his own secrets. On those days, Eugene would lean over his own sketchbook, tattered and bent, and sketch. Since that first day he had come to our table and drawn me, Eugene had only sketched one woman, over and over. He would bend over his sketchbook, a tender, yearning expression on his face as he filled in shadows and individual strands of hair. He drew her in a variety of poses, but it was always the same woman, over and over, as if he was afraid of one day being unable to remember her face.

I asked him, one class, who she was. Eugene smiled back at me, and shook his head.

“Just someone who needs to be remembered,” he had said, and then, diverting my attention away, “you’re going to knock over that jar of paint if you don’t watch out.”

On his better days, I was almost fond of Eugene and the unique color he had brought to our classroom. On his worst days, my head would rage and I would find myself unable to stand him at all.

It was on one of these worse days that I finally snapped, and wished out loud that he would leave. He gave me that strange, sad look, and then seemed to fade away into the background for the remainder of the class, as if he was already gone.

Perhaps naively, I had expected him to come in as usual the next day, loud and asking me or Martin what we were drawing. Instead, there was the silence of wallflowers. It was disconcerting, and after Martin and I had a frowning conversation (it seemed almost disrespectful to say anything out loud), I finally got up, and asked Ms. Leary where Eugene had gone.

“Oh, dear,” she said to me, her eyebrows shooting up, “didn’t you know? Eugene’s been adopted. He’s moving to Maine.”

“Adopted?” I asked, like a child trying to put together two pieces of a puzzle that was not meant to fit.

“Oh, didn’t he say anything?” Ms. Leary said then, pausing, and then frowned, “it was in all the newspapers a while ago. Eugene’s mother died in an accident. Tragic, isn’t it?” She shook her head, as I returned to my table, a bit stunned.

“What?” Martin asked me, leaning in. But I shook my head, as the puzzle finally made sense.

The woman he drew must have been Eugene’s mother, a ‘person who needed to be remembered.’ He was afraid she would fade into the back of his memories, so he drew her constantly. And now, alone in the world, Eugene was afraid that he too, would fade into the background of life and be forgotten. So he too, constantly drew himself for us, making an impression in all our minds so that at least by somebody, he could not possibly be forgotten. Eugene was afraid, I realized, of being nobody.

“Nothing,” I tell Martin, and bent to get my sketchbook before he could say anything more. When I opened the book though, a medley of papers fell out.

It was a set of drawings, first a replica of the one Eugene had drawn in Martin’s sketchbook that first day, of me. The second one was of Martin and me, our heads bent over the table, our expressions serious as we labored over our projects. The third one was of the same pose, but Eugene had inserted himself into the picture too, tentatively sitting between us, his own head bent over a sketchbook. The fourth and final drawing was of a woman—the same woman Eugene always drew, which I assumed was his mother, and a little boy—who must have been Eugene himself, then. I stared at that picture for a while, and then went back to the second one. I frowned, for despite its finished quality, it didn’t quite seem complete.

It was only until I looked at the third picture a second time that I figured out why. The people who fade away fastest leave the greatest holes.

[[literary]] hito takeda, stockbroker

Megumi offers to take me home, but I offer to drive her instead, claiming that she had just had a concert and shouldn’t be exerting herself. So, ,as I drove (safely), Megumi leaned back into the seat, and mentioned to me,

“Yamada wants you to invite Yume over for tea.” I blink, my eyes flickering to her briefly.

“Invite Yume for tea? Uhh, I guess,” I shrug. Megumi nods, again. And then she closes her eyes, and lets out a sigh.

“I like you, Hito Takeda,” Megumi says then, half a laugh in her voice, “you’re a very straightforward person. You don’t find many straightforward people in this world.”

Whether it was because of her sudden words or my own feelings towards her, my head jerked, and suddenly, the car swerves anyways, despite my intent do avoid it. Megumi opens one eye.

“Watch where you’re going, Hito,” she says amicably, “we wouldn’t want to crash now, would we?”

–

The next day, I call up Shin Yamada, who seems a little surprised, and then enthusiastic, as I inform him of what Megumi has told me.

“Shall I send someone over?” he asks then, “to trim the lawn? Yes, the lawn, most definitely. And maybe…” I hear the frown in his voice.

“Hito,” Shin asks me, “how are you regarding tea? And decorations? Yume loves bluebells. Maybe I should order some bluebells?” I am barely able to get a word in edgewise, as Shin half talks to himself, excited. Shin is a very excitable person, it seems.

“And Hito!” Shin suddenly says, in a voice that makes me snap to attention, “wear the gray suit. It brings out the color of your eyes.”

Before I can fully process this, he hangs up, and the dial tone fills my ears. So, bemused, I hang up the phone, and call Yume to invite her for tea.

“Tomorrow?” Yume trills into the phone, as I hear rustling–she’s probably checking her schedule, “tomorrow, at four? Yes, that’s fine.” I hear her smile.

“Don’t bring Icarus,” I tell her. She laughs, and makes a shushing noise to indicate she has understood. And then, she hung up too, leaving me to survey my little house and wonder just how to clean it up. Maybe I should have listened to that real estate agent when he offered to have a pond put in to liven up the place.

[[drabble]] snow

He remembered the first time she had seen snow. They were in Germany, for God knows what reason, and the weather had seemed to be getting worse and worse, until it finally burst in a flurry of small, cold snowflakes. She had been bewildered that one morning, when she pushed back the curtains and the world was covered in white. Then she had screamed for Shin, unexpectedly, and he and Shuichi tripped over themselves getting to her, expecting red and instead finding Gumi pressed up against the window, her breath fogging up the glass.

“It’s snow,” Shin laughed, explaining, “haven’t you ever seen snow?” She smacked him as he laughed, but later, Shin took her outside, and taught her how to pack snowballs. She was surprisingly good at it.