Chapter Text
Three Years Ago:
It’s warmer than he anticipated, but it’s counterbalanced by how lush the trees are surrounding the graveyard, and the fact there isn’t a single cloud in the sky.
Nanba is mentally transported back to his childhood, for the first time since reaching Shibukawa, just by the weather. He thinks about being eight years old and trapping chubby green caterpillars in an empty hard candy tin til he got home. Sometimes they would be beetles, sometimes worms on mornings after the rain. One time he dropped his glasses in a puddle and they caught the sunlight in odd, kaleidoscopic ways with dots of dirt he couldn’t wipe off well enough.
It’s probably the smell of grass and dirt, unadulterated by smog or smoke, that made the old memories sink in. The train into town was so…stifling. Even in the mid-aughts, the open spaces felt like longer stretches of green without an Aeon Mall or pachinko parlor every twenty seconds, dotting the country landscape like pox. One station on the way advertised Gunma Insect World, and Nanba wasn’t one to really lament how the youth of today grew up, but it made him wonder if kids ever crawled through the dirt to find their own bugs anymore, and ruined their clothes and glasses to the point of getting scolded when they got home. A little scolding and soil never hurt anyone, he thought. Well, maybe his childhood wasn’t a great one for comparison.
Most of Shibukawa feels weird and polished to him now. Taking the shuttle to their onsen resort, and gazing out the backseat window at the town with the sunset casting shadows over the older buildings, felt so conflictingly foreign yet familiar. It was barely taller, as a whole city skyline, with some buildings getting fresh coats of paint and others falling apart and missing a roof tile or two. The convenience stores had the same new advertisements as the branch across from their apartment, but the window paneling they were plastered in was rusting and scratched. The cafe with towering fruit parfaits was still open across from the train station, and still had retro decor from the inside. He always wanted to try one, but his father said those kinds of sweets were for “girls and fairies,” so he just never had the heart to be spotted inside. Maybe Ichiban would want one on the way back home. Dear lord, Shibukawa has Uniqlo now. Well, if he ever decides to make another trip and bring some friends along, Saeko couldn’t complain about a total lack of civilization. He feels like the only part he can say was the same as his adolescence was the ridges of the mountains in the distance.
But Nanba is distracting himself. He’s trying to procrastinate thinking about what’s in front of him and is instead thinking about the past, because on this morning, far from the Yokohama seabreeze, he’s about two feet apart from the unpolished, gray slabs where his parents’ ashes were laid to rest. Shibukawa’s cemetery is small, crowded, and sandwiched between a stream, an all-girls high school, and a hamburg steak restaurant that desperately needs a deep cleaning. Or an exorcism. He has unpleasant memories involving all three, if he’s being honest with himself. Nanba’s grandparents had been buried here as well, and their parents, and Nanba isn’t planning on continuing the tradition. He sees his parents’ names: Yui spelled with “tie” and Toushirou spelled with “winter.” For all the money problems their family had later in life, at least his father must’ve stashed away enough for dignified markers such as theirs.
He’s kneeling on a picnic blanket he remembered to stuff into his suitcase, the one that bugs from Hamakita Park probably hitched a ride on. It’s his splash of color. He’s dressed as always in black slacks and a black button up with the sleeves rolled up, because why would he fix a look that isn’t broken? There’s a piece of paper folded into quarters in his hands, and there’s so many creases and wrinkle marks pressed into it because of how many times Nanba debated throwing it away. It’s half a heartfelt letter, half a script to keep on topic. His fiance watches him wring it back and forth in his hands before finally unfolding it to unveil his sloppy handwriting.
Even Ichiban is dressed up for the occasion and kneeling next to him, with a pair of pants he borrowed from someone in the Seiryu Clan and his white dress shirt from that strange instance Nanba had to pay for him to dress like a corporate VP. Since Nanba hadn’t started talking yet, Ichiban’s arms are stretched behind him and his thumbs twiddle with the blanket folds, as he waits for the big speech to start. His eyes are mostly fixed on Nanba, full of reassurance and love, but in between all that doting he steals glances at the way swallows fly over them or at some trees shaking on a hill in the distance. He was born and raised in the city, but appreciates the long, drawn out quiet. Nanba guesses half of it is because birdsongs and rustling leaves are all adventurers and heroes have to listen to.
“This is stupid,” Nanba says as he sighs and crumples up the sides of his paper for the umpteenth time.
“Hey,” says Ichiban while taking one of his fidgety hands to Nanba’s shoulder. “You got this!” He’s so alarmingly cheery for someone at the equivalent of a two-person wake.
“We should’ve just gone on a regular hot spring vacation without all this attached to it,” he grumbles and thinks about how nice wearing only a coarse, in-suite yukata would feel over black formalwear with the sun beating down his neck. He can use that as motivation to finish reading his letter and get the hell out of here (that and a few bottles of sake from room service.)
Ichiban smiles at him in his usual innocuous way that makes Nanba feel like he could conquer anything. The sun slowly crawling straight above them feels like nothing. He’s weightless, fearless, and can live through what will be the new most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of his life if it means Ichiban is right there with him. “You said it’d be important to get it all out of your system, and I think you’re right. Nobody out here is gonna hear us but me, okay?”
He’s right, so he sighs again and clears his throat before beginning. “Mom, Dad.” What a fantastic start. The stiffness of his opening makes Nanba grateful that he never actually came out to his parents in person. Maybe his father wouldn’t have felt as tragically disappointed in how his life turned out. Maybe he needs to stop creating fake scenarios instead of talking to stone, he thinks as he glances back down at his notes. “I’ve been meaning to get out here and pay my respects for the longest time. As you can imagine, it’s been…a bit difficult. I didn’t even know if you’d want me here, but I think it’s important that I am.”
Nanba’s eyes wander to other plots, and their bases adorned with incense, wilting flowers, and empty beer cans. He should’ve brought some flowers. His father wouldn’t have cared. His mother loved everything that grew from the ground and would’ve been elated at a simple dandelion, but would it have been worth it if he wouldn’t be back to replace them? Their fragrance would spoil and the color would fade from their petals, and who knew if he would ever come back to a town that moved forward without him.
“I don’t really know what’s real or fake, with the afterlife. But, in case you can’t see what’s been happening, I saw Shoichi again after all these years.” He leaves an awkward pause for audience laughter or divine intervention. Meeting up implies they talked over coffee and agreed to add each other on Line, not that they stewed in a soapland lobby til their faces turned as red as the velvet curtains out of frustration and anger. “It didn’t start or end the way I thought it would. He’s in jail now, because of me. Er, sort of because of you. I don’t plan on speaking to him again, and…”
Huh. Up until now he avoided any questions about the chance Shoichi was on parole. He always had an inkling he’d file a restraining order, but the chance of that happening is close to none. A sniping broadcast on the NHK isn’t easily forgiven by most. He feels nothing at the thought of never speaking to him again. Maybe a quick pang of resentment, but nothing more. “I don’t think I ever said that out loud before, Ichiban.”
Ichiban blinks at him and purses his lips. “Really? Guess I just always assumed that’s what you were thinking.”
“It’s what it is, but…it sucks to say, y’know?”
Nanba has a great found family of his own full of social outcasts, multi-talented individuals, and probably a few unconvicted murderers, which he decided to push to the back of his mind for as long as possible. He can have that wonderful family, but it didn’t scrub away the loss of the one he was born into. Every subway ad or morning cartoon packaged up the importance of a traditional family and shoved it down his throat for most of his life. He can try his best to proudly go against the flow but it doesn’t change how pathetic and wrong the outcome feels, like the face of a salmon that reached the top of the waterfall after quite literally fucking everything up.
Once again he’s getting sidetracked, so Nanba looks back down at the paper in his hands for a saving grace. “Anyway, in a way, thanks to what Shoichi did, I’m not actually in the yakuza anymore. Well, I was kicked out, but I don’t plan on finding a way back in. I have a decent job at a technology company and it’s honest work, which is the most important thing to me. I actually get to help people the right way now. No more blood money. And I…”
Here is where the notes got more complicated. Nanba’s scribbles go from coherent sentences and a drawn-out timeline to just the word “Ichiban.” What more is there to say? He turns his head right to Ichiban, and no really, what more was he supposed to say, because even after six months he loses his train of thought half the time being awestruck by him.
“I met someone.” Ichiban perks up at the mention of them, and can sense how difficult the next part is to say. His left hand is still resting on his shoulder, but Ichiban moves his right to envelop Nanba’s right hand holding onto his notes. Their rings clink together and send out a shockwave strong enough to get Nanba’s tongue moving again. “I think Mom always knew that I was a little different. I remember how if I didn’t take something well, or cried too much when you used to yell at me,” he says, pointedly towards his father’s gravestone, “she would always click her tongue and say something like ‘Dear, you know Yu is a very sensitive boy, you don’t need to be so hard on him.’ And then it got a little easier and she didn’t have to say it as much, because once Shoichi was my age you…”
His father got the son he always wanted to have. One who didn’t have his head in the clouds, who enjoyed sports, who reveled in playing arcade games in which the objective was to kill rather than to save.
“Yeah, I think no matter what Dad would hate him, actually. Mom would come around to him for sure, because he eats like a garbage disposal and is just sunshine shaped like a fitness model,” Nanba mutters, but ends up laughing to himself. Aside from Sawashiro, he still hasn’t met anyone that truly disliked Ichiban. He’s universal appeal in a fluffy red jacket and a children’s Dragon Quest watch. “But he’s amazing. He’s saved my life more than you could ever know. He really forced me out of my comfort zone, and helped me make more friends and get out of the long rut I was in. He’s here with me right now, because there’s no way in hell I could do all this alone.”
Ichiban gives his hand a little squeeze of encouragement. He’s dealing with this surprisingly well, Nanba thinks. There’s no one else around, and the only sound that fills the gaps as he catches his breath reading aloud his imaginary letter is tires on asphalt a few streets over. He’s nearing the end of his notes, and the noise of schoolgirls, hungry crowds, or raging water would be enough to throw him off. Nanba has to see this through. He’s become a man who can see it through to the end, as much as this last part is the worst of it. “Honestly, when I heard you both died, I had no idea what to do. From how Shoichi messaged me, you had both been gone for some time and I wasn’t given any details. I tried calling but no one picked up. Aunt Mariko wasn’t picking up either. I was just stuck, not sure whether I should come here or not, living day to day without knowing why I was working so hard. I thought I was just going to drink myself to death.”
That last, lonely sentiment that didn’t set up shop in his head anymore warrants another tight squeeze from Ichiban. Maybe Nanba hasn’t said that part out loud either, even if he’s dipped into that bank of morbid thoughts when they were alone.
“I was fine with that too. Shoichi wasn’t. He thought I was having the time of my life in Tokyo when really I would come home to an empty apartment every night with nothing to lose anymore. He got me thrown in jail, and when I wasn’t locked up long enough for his liking, tried to get me framed for murder for so many stupid fucking reasons that-”
Nanba is conscious of the tears rolling down his face, as steady and quiet as the neighboring stream. Ichiban’s hand finally moves and he brings Nanba into a side hug, his fingers kneading half into his rolled-up sleeve, half into his arm hair matted to his skin by sweat. He knows this is necessary to move on, but even digging the toes of his dress shoes into the dirt drags up all of the remorse. Isn’t that the same hamburg steak diner with the American records on the wall, where his family got into a small argument but his father dragged him out by his arm? The sensation of nails digging into his right forearm arises but he can’t scratch it away. That high school nearby is where Maeda Ikumi went, the girl with the white hair tie that took him to second base. Well, at least her friends dared her two thousand yen to. And he remembers bringing flowers to this family plot with his mother. She’d reminisce the same way he had to Ichiban on the train to Gunma, the day before. He regresses every time he steps in this fucking town. Twelve years doesn't make a difference. Nanba needs to fucking concentrate.
So he does. He drowns out the noise of the past by honing in on that back and forth rubbing that Ichiban is still doing to his arm. He focuses on the good. The best that’s ever happened to him. These tender little motions that Ichiban never runs out of could lull him into anything.
“It doesn’t matter what he wanted. I uncovered the truth, and with the help of people who are so important to me, I lived through it all. I think I’ve made a really nice life for myself now, even if it took me so many years to get it right.” The crying doesn’t stop, and now every harsh consonant sound is so nasally. He feels like he’s speeding through his words before the dam truly breaks. “I wish I could’ve just gotten it right the first time.” Well that’s redundant. They probably all did. His arms tremble in his lap, and Ichiban presses a light kiss on his temple as he stutters more and more.
“I don’t think you’ll ever fully forgive me for lying or being,” Nanba pauses again to sniff, and cough, and stall one last time. On one hand, it’ll be over, but on the other, does that really mean anything? “Who I am, and how everything fell apart. I just…”
But it does, Nanba realizes, as Ichiban’s lips still haven’t left the side of his face. He’ll get to soak in a hot spring as the smell of sulfur and minerals wafts past his nose, and he’ll go home the next day with souvenirs for his friends. He’ll dole out steam buns and handkerchiefs over a few whiskies at Survive. He’ll talk about the trip with non-answers like “Family, you know? Can’t live with it, can’t live without it,” and they’ll all know he’s full of shit, but they won’t pry if Ichiban sopped up the tears in real time. That’s how family works sometimes, after all.
Nanba’s concentration breaks one last time, because of a sharp, whining caw above them. It feels cruelly poetic for a crow to be crying while he’s trying to push through the past, then again, they’re permanently etched into his future. In a way, the black splotch, half-shaded by the branches, is somewhat comforting. Ill fate be damned, he thinks as he looks down at the last, scribbled line on the paper. He can do it. Eyes on the prize.
“I hope that part of you is still proud of me.”
The crow keeps cawing as Nanba falls apart in the crux of Ichiban’s neck. He notices a change in texture, something soft against his fingertips, and looks down through the rainy windshield that is his glasses. Ichiban replaced his notes with a tissue, and Nanba gives him a messy, sorrow-soaked half-smile.
He wonders when the homesickness will finally start to dissipate.
One Week Ago:
“I thought I was supposed to receive a text message before a call to get out of the kids’ reach. There’s only so long I can hide having a second smartphone when they think I can barely work one.”
“How do you feel about taking a vacation?”
“...Careful, Hanawa. Your superiors might think that you’re playing favorites with how many breaks I’m allowed to take.”
“I’d never stoop to such inappropriate protocol. Plus, think of it as them still being in your debt for stopping that sedition before it hit the ground running. How does Hawaii sound in a few days?”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re bringing me on for something way over my head?”
“It’s a simple search and rescue mission. I’ll be there for support along with a few other field agents.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever care about working on your tan.”
“Please. I look like a strawberry after ten minutes without sunblock. While you’re on the line, how did that skirmish with Nanba Yu go a few years ago?”
“Nanba Yu?"
"..."
"...Heh. He won.”
“Come again?”
“It's not that I hadn't dealt the last punch in the fight. But seeing him surrounded by a group that wouldn’t let him shoulder his burden alone, now…that felt like the real killing blow in his favor.”
“I’m glad you’ve sharpened your poetry skills while back in Okinawa. I suppose that answer will suffice.”
“Why bring him up?”
“Kiryu…had he spoken about his mother at all?”