time is nothing

[[<img src="http://i.imgur.com/rrUSokT.png" width=875 height=493 />->Untitled Passage 1]]

[[<center>1934</center>->Untitled Passage 2]]

It’s getting late, the shadows stretching farther and darker. Still, the streets are full and bright, people coming and staying, moving around the bench where Kazuya’s waiting. The wind’s a little colder, too–summer’s not quite here yet–but Kazuya is wearing a sweater, so he doesn’t mind. Kazuya is quite good at waiting—one of the best, probably. He wasn’t always, but he’s always been one of the worst at giving up, so now he’s one of the best at waiting, too. Kazuya hasn’t told anyone else this. Kazuya doesn’t talk to anyone else at all, usually. Which is fine–Kazuya doesn’t think he’d like talking to just anyone else, anyway. Youichi’s okay, though. Kazuya thinks he wouldn’t mind talking to Youichi more. They don’t even have to talk, if Youichi would rather not today. Kazuya would be alright if Youichi just wanted to play catch, or sit outside–the park’s still nice even when it’s a little cold. Staying inside is fine, too, if Youichi thinks it’s too cold. Youichi looks like he’d get cold easily, running too fast and laughing too loud, like summer, like sunlight. Kazuya thinks he’s more like winter, even though he likes summer, too. He just doesn’t like running all over the place when he can sit and wait and watch, instead. Dad says kids should run around more. Maybe Kazuya hasn’t found somewhere to run just yet. He’s only seven, barely anything at all. Dad says: give it some time, so Kazuya does. Maybe he’ll finally feel like running once Youichi gets here. And while Kazuya is perfectly alright with waiting, [[he thinks it’s alright to hope that Youichi gets here soon, anyway.->Passage 3]]

“You were late,” Youichi says, later. Kazuya wasn’t, though, even though Youichi was. Actually, Youichi wasn’t anywhere at all– “I wasn’t late,” Youichi insists, and Kazuya nods and huffs and doesn’t believe him. –until Youichi’s crashing into him, tackling the two of them to the ground. It tilts slightly, and Kazuya thinks of a downhill slope Youichi talked about once, near train tracks close to his house, before everything rights itself. Then it’s just Youichi, grinning down at Kazuya. There’s a small adhesive bandage stuck across the bridge of Youichi’s nose. Kazuya pokes at it lightly, laughing when Youichi scrunches his nose. “Kazuya,” Youichi whines. Youichi can make anything sound like a whine. But Kazuya can whine, too. “I was early,” Kazuya says back. “I was.” Youichi blinks, opens his mouth. Closes it. Says, not whining this time: “Hey, don’t cry.” Kazuya doesn’t. Everything is soft around them, hazy like before Kazuya got his first pair of glasses. Except it doesn’t hurt to look at the blur of the world here, and Youichi’s face is mostly clear. More than once, Kazuya wonders if this is a dream. He doesn’t wonder if Youichi’s just dreamed, too, however. ”Oi, Kazuya.” Oh, Youichi’s talking again. [[“You still here?”->Passage 4]] “Yes,” Kazuya says, because he is.

[[<img src="http://i.imgur.com/Ja8brZw.jpg" width=900 height=1273 />->1-2 interlude]]

[[<center>1972</center>->Passage 6]]

There’s a dream Kuramochi has every so often. The dream always has certain components. His father leaving—for good, never looking back. An unsettled, helpless feeling that wraps around Kuramochi, so tight he can’t shake it. The realization that even years later, even in a dream, he can’t do anything but watch. He’s never shared that dream, that feeling, with anyone. Not once. Until— Normally, Kuramochi wakes up, turns over in bed and tries to forget about it, and about the feelings it leaves. Goes back to sleep if he can. This time, he doesn’t wake up when he usually does. When he feels like he might, a hand wraps around his wrist. Someone calls his name, pulling him out of the haze—out of darkness, into light. [[Miyuki.->Passage 7]]

The setting morphs: colored, brighter, normal. They sit in silence on a grassy hill, side by side. When he thinks he’s ready, Kuramochi says, “You can say something, y’know.” “Say what?” Miyuki’s treading carefully, and Kuramochi appreciates the patience, but he doesn’t want to tiptoe around what Miyuki saw in Kuramochi’s dream. Kuramochi shrugs. “It’s not a big deal, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings or anything.” “Didn’t look like ‘not a big deal.’” So that’s how Miyuki wants to play. “Depends on what you think is a big deal, then, I guess.” “You’re upset.” Sometimes, Kuramochi forgets Miyuki can read him just as well as he can read Miyuki. In this space—separated in reality, united only in dreams—they somehow learned to do that. Maybe just as well as if they could be friends outside of this, if time wasn’t a huge barrier between them. Maybe this is how it’d be. “So what?” Maybe it’s months of loneliness and isolation making him answer. Or maybe it’s that he’s been waiting to talk about this for a long time, and he just didn’t have the right person to talk to until now. “Kuramochi.” When Kuramochi looks at Miyuki, the usual glimmer of mischievousness or playfulness in his eyes is absent. He’s serious, concerned, and—and he’s still here. Still sitting by his side, trying to make him feel better. “People always leave,” he finally mumbles, more to his knees than to Miyuki. Silence hovers over them after Kuramochi says it, and he wonders what Miyuki’s response will be. It’s a small, breath of a laugh. “Isn’t that the truth?” So Miyuki understands too. Miyuki’s been the one constant Kuramochi could count on these past few months. They don’t dream of each other every night, but Kuramochi knows he can count on him. To be there when he’s been without that assurance for a long while. He can’t spend forever here, with Miyuki, in this space they’ve created for themselves. Dreams always end, and it’s disheartening, but— “Is that a smile I see?” Miyuki leans closer, like he’s trying to get a better look. “Bestill my heart!” “Shut up.” Kuramochi’s laughing now, leaning close and bumping Miyuki’s shoulder with his own. “You’re too close! Get away, you loon!” But even then, [[this is something he’d never stop hoping for.->2-3 interlude]]

[[<center>1944</center>->Passage 9]]

No one, it seems, is safe from the threat of the most unwelcome of guests to drop unexpectedly on the doorstep—even if that guest was an innocuous slip of paper. In its time and place, though, it bore the power to influence a person’s entire life—their entire fate. Miyuki believes he’s safe, the first and only son born to his father—who was himself exempt from conscription, having been deemed far more useful at home. He spends his time not firing a gun but in the local factory, turning every piece of scrap metal available into bullets, weapons, and sheet metal for use on the front lines and beyond. “You should join me, where you’ll be safe from any threat of having to join the army lines.” It’s a warning his father gives him too many times to count. Miyuki marks each occasion by way of how his father’s cough worsens, his health deteriorating with each hour he puts into the dusty, sweaty, sweltering factory recycling the old and broken down to born-again materials. The thought of what men and boys can and will do with the end product of all his father’s work turns Miyuki’s stomach into a lead weight. In the meantime he prays, travelling daily to the shrine in between work and home to wish for the safe return of both family members and friends who he may never see again in the midst of all the conflict. The turmoil bleeds into even the safest of places, into even what Miyuki thought to be the one haven from the war’s dark influence. Still, Kuramochi’s presence in his dreams steadies him when it feels like little else can. “Do you think you’ll end up being drafted?” Kuramochi’s voice wavers, trying to keep his own fear from seeping into Miyuki’s bones. Miyuki is tense, drawn tight as a bow as he considers all the outcomes and implications. It’s in moments like these that he tries, more than he likes to admit, to piece together whether or not this conversation is real in the way he thinks it is. It’s a certainty, yes, that he’s dreaming, but there’s no guarantee Kuramochi isn’t some creation of his own subconscious. It’d make sense, really, for his mind to create someone that could help him chase away the loneliness when he couldn’t seem to shake it on his own. With effort, he sets that aside. “There was once little chance of it happening to preserve each family’s namesake,” he says, “but with the Americans becoming involved and how quickly the country is losing men…” He wishes he could share his true feelings and fears openly, to reach out and feel how soft Kuramochi’s skin was under his hand for reassurance, even if only once. Kuramochi, though, doesn’t have as much reluctance: “No matter what happens Miyuki, remember that I'll always be here. [[Even if I’m only here in your dreams I will always be by your side—no matter what happens in the real world.”->Passage 9.2]]

Kuramochi’s life goes on slowly, but it’s not long after his summer break that he dreams of Miyuki again. The air around him is heavy and dark, so oppressive he can barely breathe. It’s humid too, and Kuramochi trudges through this soup until he sees who he’s looking for. He instinctively knows that it’s Miyuki sitting on the ground in drenched fatigues and Kuramochi takes off running. The dreamscape he passes is muddled and undefined, but Miyuki’s face is a stark contrast against this amorphous background of greens and smeared brown. “Miyuki!” he yells, feeling the unease and dread hanging in the air, afraid of what this means. The fact that Miyuki is dreaming means that he’s still breathing, but Kuramochi feels so much fear—one that he knows isn’t just his own. Miyuki lifts his head and smiles sadly when Kuramochi falls to his knees next to him. “Hi,” Miyuki says quietly, and Kuramochi realizes the smile is more of a grimace. Miyuki is trying to pretend that everything’s alright when it clearly isn’t; Kuramochi’s heart twists painfully. “Hi,” Kuramochi whispers, only then noticing that he’s got a white-knuckled grip on the fabric of Miyuki’s jacket. There are unnamed dark splatters along the length of the sleeve that he doesn’t even want to address. “So, war isn’t very enjoyable, in case you were wondering,” Miyuki says, with the air of one commenting on the weather, but he leans into Kuramochi for comfort. A distant sound of gunfire makes Kuramochi jump, but Miyuki doesn’t seem to hear it—or if he does, he’s unphased, as though he’s grown accustomed to it. Now that Kuramochi is closer, he can see that Miyuki’s cheeks, streaked with tears, are the only place his face isn’t covered in grime. “I learn so much from you,” Kuramochi jokes, for lack of anything better to say. How was he supposed to console him when no words can hold up to the gravity of the situation? Miyuki does laugh at his attempt at sarcasm, which Kuramochi counts as a small victory. “I have to make sure something sticks in that brain of yours.” “You’re just gonna have to keep tryin.’ Not very sticky.” Kuramochi shrugs, looking into Miyuki’s eyes. They’re still gorgeous, but there’s a pain there now that Kuramochi doesn’t recognize. He feels nauseated knowing there’s so little he can do, that he can’t keep Miyuki from getting hurt or even help him get home alive. Perhaps worse is knowing that he can’t help keep up Miyuki’s spirits, [[knowing that Miyuki is alone out here.->Passage 10.2]]

[[<img src="http://i.imgur.com/ozydPbc.jpg" width=900 height=1938 />->Passage 12]]

Kuramochi wakes with tears on his face, and a [[persistent ache in his chest.->Untitled Passage 3]]

For the first time in months, Miyuki’s dreams aren’t bleak or nightmares. No more gunshots or explosions. The usual haze—blurry, unsettled and gray—morphs into something colorful. Just a bright sky and green grass. Sunlight, along with a pang of longing as he thinks of someone who often accompanies sunlit dreams and bright summer skies. But he last dreamed of Kuramochi months ago, during an endless stretch of dark days that stretched even into the space of their dreams—the one place he’d hoped might serve as an escape from desolation of war. He asks himself why now would be any different, but there’s something telling him to hope. Just a sliver of hope is what got him out of the war alive. Maybe it’s why he’s here, too, dreaming again, keenly feeling Kuramochi’s absence more than ever. Miyuki first sees Kuramochi running. Running toward him, like a mirage appearing in the desert, calling for him, and growing more solid by the moment. And Miyuki’s never been much of a runner, but he takes off, too, and doesn’t stop until he’s in Kuramochi’s arms. “Kazuya!” Kuramochi’s smile and touch are enough to momentarily erase all the days without light and warmth. This moment is enough to counteract months of nothing. “You’re alright… you’re here.” “I’m here,” he confirms—for both of them. “I’m here, Youichi.” Kuramochi’s eyes are watery—like he wants to cry but is holding back. Miyuki wonders if he looks the same, but doesn’t dwell on it. Just laughs when their foreheads bump together, hoping that’ll relieve some of the aching pressure in his chest. It doesn’t. But Kuramochi tangles a hand in his hair, presses his face against Miyuki’s shoulder as he hugs him again, and maybe that’s alright. [[As long as they’re together again.->Passage 15]]

They lie side by side on the grass, fingers intertwined, quiet until Kuramochi whispers, “I have to be dreaming.” Miyuki laughs. “Isn’t that the idea?” “No… I mean…” He hesitates. “What if you did die, and I’m finally dreaming of you to make up for it… or what if you’re just someone I dreamed up to begin with?” It’s not something they’ve spoken about—not aloud, not ever, not when it threatened to shatter what semblance of peace they managed to build. Miyuki sits up, pulling Kuramochi with him. Old doubts begin to resurface, as if Kuramochi’s question blew away the dust. What if that’s it? What if that’s all this had ever been? Kuramochi, a creation of his mind, to fill the gaps in his own life—nothing more than an apparition. But… there’s something about this that’s always felt like more. “Kuramochi…” Miyuki trails off, unable to articulate what’s on his mind, unsure if he even wants to. “I just… want to know you’re real.” Kuramochi presses his hand to Miyuki’s cheek, thumb brushing against it. “Wish there was some way I could tell.” “I am real.” For just a moment, he doesn’t want to doubt. They may be barred from meeting in reality, but if this small space is all the hope they have, he’ll take it. He’ll always take it. “Prove it,” Kuramochi challenges, leaning closer. Like he’s saying ‘please give me a reason to believe it.’ So Miyuki does. This is the closest to Kuramochi’s lips he’s ever been. Kuramochi’s breath mingles with his own until he leans in and [[closes the gap—->Passage 16]]

There’s lingering warmth on his cheek, a light pressure on his lips when Miyuki wakes. Like something just brushed against them. Kuramochi… gone as quickly as he’d come back. [[Out of reach once again.->Passage 18]]

Sometimes, Miyuki’s afraid he’ll stop dreaming of this and he’ll forget, lose all recollection of Kuramochi’s smile, his touch, his presence. [[Sometimes, he wonders if remembering something he can never have would be more painful than forgetting.->date interlude 3]]

In this dream Kazuya is alone. Their dream place is still soft, everything a quiet blur, even if it doesn’t feel as warm as it used to be. But it’s dark, and there’s no trace of the lingering sun, that last, last brightness. Kazuya doesn’t know how to bring the sunlight back into their dream. He doesn’t know where to find Youichi, either, so Youichi can bring the sunlight back, too. Kazuya doesn’t know how to bring Youichi back. A voice, everywhere and nowhere at once, says: You can’t. Kazuya ignores it. The voice does not let itself be ignored: You can’t bring him back. But Kazuya’s shaking his head, hands over ears. A cover, a shield. He feels small, seven years old all over again. Curled around himself on the ground. He doesn’t remember when he stopped standing. Kazuya thinks, ridiculously, of his glasses. As if he could put the voice to rest if he could just see… You can’t bring him back, the voice repeats, but you can follow after him. And Kazuya is by no means a trusting person–may never be a trusting person. That’s always been Youichi’s job. Still– “Where,” Kazuya says. What will you give up to follow? the voice answers. Something is wrong here, but Kazuya can’t bring himself to listen. Everything is wrong without Youichi, here. Kazuya smiles, small. The voice is silent, waiting. Youichi would definitely tackle him again for being so reckless. As if he doesn’t know Kazuya better than that. Or maybe because he knows Kazuya better than that. Kazuya bites into his lip, tries to stop his smile slipping out as a laugh. Kazuya has always been a rather selfish person, after all. “I told you,” he tells the voice. “Haven’t I already told you? Tell me where I need to go.” He thinks: Just leave me this. He thinks: I don’t need anything else but this. And when the voice answers, loud but distant, [[Kazuya follows.->Passage 20]]

<center>a trade: snatches and glimmers, precious but so few, together in nearly every way that mattered. except one—the chance to relearn each other in full. [[it’s barely a choice at all, in the end.->present]]</center>

It’s bright outside, and everything is too warm. Kazuya feels like he’s been running forever. God, Kazuya hates running. He looks up, glances around. There’s barely anyone else left on the field–everyone with any good sense gone for the day–except one other person, halfway across the field, running laps at the same time as Kazuya. He’s fast on his feet, the kind of runner that’s handed a lead-off position, not punishment laps. Kuramochi Youichi, his brain supplies. Shortstop. Switch hitter. Runs like it’s all he’s got going for him. Maybe it is. Kazuya wouldn’t know. He’s pretty sure Kuramochi’s in the same class as him, though. A lucky coincidence. Kazuya grins. Then, ever a glutton for punishment, [[he cuts across the field to join him.->final art]]

[[<center>1975</center>->Passage 10]]

[[<center>1946</center>->Passage 13]]

[[<center>1950</center>->Passage 19]]

But just as they barely touch, it’s as if arms wrap around him, wrenching him away from what he’s wanted for so long until everything’s a muddled, blurred haze once again. [[<img src= "http://i.imgur.com/ixruzAI.jpg" width=900 height=1273" />->Passage 17]]

Miyuki awakens to a brilliant sunrise, to the start of his morning routine until a radio announcement of the National Resistance Program shakes everything he knew to its core. Until a knock sounds on his own front door later that morning with the grim news that all past exceptions had been eliminated, and he’s to report for training the very next day. In late February, 1945, Miyuki is barely eighteen years old when he’s [[conscripted into the Imperial Japanese Army.->3-4 interlude]]

“Watching people die is—it kinda feels the same after awhile, but thinking about you—it helps—” Miyuki looks down at his hands and rubs them together. “Ah, sorry.” “Don’t apologize.” Kuramochi struggles with words, struggles with keeping his own emotions in check to spare Miyuki, and more than anything else he hurts. “I won’t make a habit of it, I promise!” Miyuki smiles cheekily, but Kuramochi sees fresh tears on his cheeks. His smile falters as he says, softer this time, “It’s not like our dreams, Youichi.” Increasingly loud, discordant sounds of chaos begin in the distance, and Miyuki’s eyes widen. He clings to Kuramochi’s shirt, looking at him like he’s trying to memorize his face. Kuramochi starts to realize that the dream is drawing to an end, and with that comes the all too real knowledge that this might be the last time he sees Miyuki. “No, no, fuck—please—stay alive—” Their bodies begin to float apart and separate as the distant roar envelops both of them, drowning out anything else. [[They reach for each other helplessly,->Passage 11]] stretching as far as they can while the dream around them dissolves into the ether.

<center>the worst nights are when they wake with little recollection of their dreams, details slipping between between their fingers like water in cupped hands. waking up with only the vaguest sense of confusion or pain or, worst of all, [[deep, unutterable longing.->date interlude 2]]</center>

<center>[[present->Passage 21]]</center>

[[<img src="http://i.imgur.com/Sq0g2Lo.jpg" width=900 height=1092 />->Untitled Passage]]

<center>some nights, fragments and pieces fall together amidst the nonsensical landscape of their dreams. not every night, but on the nights that they do, everything else—the limits of space and time—just falls away. some nights, they build their own worlds. in these dreams they are samurai or soldiers or anything in between—the dreams of children translate easily from day to night and back again. but the daylight hours follow them as they get older. [[unwanted, inevitable.->Passage 5]]</center>

<center>sometimes it’s hard to remember the dreams. sometimes it gets more difficult to believe them at all, to believe that they’re anything more than an effort to make the waking hours more bearable. they live separated by time, but turmoil slowly engulfs reality—harder to avoid, easier to believe. the gulf between them widens and widens, time apart creating a chasm between reality and belief. [[(how remarkable, then, that it takes only one dream to heal the rift, one moment to seal the gap.)->Passage 8]]</center>

<center>does it matter, in situations of dire need, if the comfort is real or imagined? [[(in hindsight, their time spent playing soldier seems impossibly childish.)->date interlude]]</center>