dedicated to Deena san

in this story, mates, 'soccer' is referred to by its proper name: football.
 
 

At 10:53 that morning Ken Hidaka already knew that he didn't want to show up for work. But he had to. He rolled slowly out of bed and felt his way in the dark towards his bathroom and splashed some cold water in his face and tried not to think about why the water smelled so funny. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway. Complaints would mean questions and questions meant ID or birth dates or street addresses, and as far as the world was concerned, or at least as far as the city of Tokyo was concerned, he didn't even exist. Legally dead and erased from the paper work. He popped his toothbrush in his mouth and squeezed out the last dregs of toothpaste left on the tube, bits of it dripping down into the sink. He brushed slowly, thoughts of death and sleep correlations drifting through his head. The paste tasted watery.

Silence enveloped his room as he stepped out. It was a strange sort of silence. It hung on the chill of the floor boards and the cold sleep in his bed covers and lay suspended in a slight humming in his ears. His alarm clock beeped out that eleven in the morning was thirty minutes old. He rubbed his face. Damn. It took me thirty minutes to brush my teeth? The voices coming from the radio were jabbering in an animated lingo. The male voice was exuding about the weather, sunny, possible scattered showers. The female voice was chattering about the next group's love life and that of the group's that had just played. A song by Siam Shade followed their voices. Ken turned the volume up two notches and padded towards the closet. The music was soothing. The tempo was fast and slippery, it sounded oddly familiar. He was singing along by the second chorus, slipping into a pair of jeans and pulling on a dark green jumper. He picked up his shoes from the corner he had left them, clambering over the Sony Playstation he could only get to function properly with the aid of a dented clip. He unhooked the radio as he went, taking it with him to the kitchen.

There was not much left to eat. He sighed and turned down the radio's volume again as the voices began to chatter again. He could almost hear them bowing. Rapidly. Up and down, up and down. Hai hai ne sou desu ne, ne? He found some left over rice balls in the fridge and pulled them out. He couldn't even remember having put them in the fridge. It was probably Yoji, dumping stuff on me again. But he couldn't complain this time. He finished off the last of the rice balls and scribbled out a quick note to himself on the plastic Whipe n' Write board on the fridge door: remember to buy groceries. His shoes slipped on easily, long days at the shop having worn them to a comfortably soft squishiness, and he was out the door and down the stairs, slipping his room key into his back pocket.

The apartment complex was quiet, only the sound of traffic and feet on asphalt echoing in from outside. White plaster walls reflected scattered pockets of sunshine. Ken lay his hand over the main stair's railing and looked over his shoulder at the worn, silent door to his room. It still looked alien to him. He wished he could pin up a poster, maybe paste on a few scattered stickers, a banner, anything. Regulations wouldn't allow it, though. He sighed. He wished his regulations could be the same as any other boarder. But other boarders didn't answer to an image on a screen kept in a basement. Other boarders didn't keep weapons in the closet, muffled under old jumpers and frayed jeans. Their records weren't erased from every data bank that had ever known anything about them by a slip of a boy not even out of high school. Others were real. They could cheer for the Tokyo Tigers and not question anything, not worry about how long the night could last, how fast they could run, how often they would have to shred their clothing apart because the blood stains glared back at them, huge and ugly?

Ken shook his head. The door seemed to shift and stretch for a moment, freezing back into its original position with a groan. Ken turned his gaze to the hand lying over the railing. It didn't do any good to question. Idealistic students questioned. Inflamed youth at rock concerts questioned. Not him. He could only pull on his jeans and his jumper and his shoes and climb down to street level and show up late for work. He shook his head again. Come on, Ken, get a grip on yourself. Focus. He took in a deep breath, held it. The air escaped from his mouth slowly, his eyes closed as he listened to the sound of his own breath. His. Still his. Still alive, despite of everything. He squared his shoulders. He was late enough for work already.
 
 
 

"Something's not quite right here. I can't quite put my finger on it yet, but boy will I be glad when I do, 'cause something just not quite right."

Yoji Kudo stepped down from his place atop the Koneko no Sumu Ie Flower Shop's sales counter and framed the new display of sunflowers and margaritas he had set up by the seed racks. It looked crooked to him. Just the slightest bit crooked. He had been certain that yellow and white and brilliant yellow would look stunning, but now the huge sunflowers looked like alien vegetable forms from the planet X, poised and waiting to devour the pitiful, shivering population of the planet Margarita. He sighed, running a hand through his wavy hair. He should have just left decorating to Omi.

"Hey, Ken, buddy of mine, whadda ya think? Too much cart, too much yellow? What?"

Ken thought there was certainly too much yellow. He had never really liked margaritas to begin with. Sunflowers he could tolerate only if the mood was right. "A bit too much, yeah. Maybe if you moved the cart farther away from the seeds…? They're gonna be hard to reach with all those sunflowers in the way."

He heard Yoji turning over his suggestion under his breath. The cart moved with a hollow, metallic creak. It got on Ken's nerves. He sighed, looking down at his hands. He had been feeling on edge since he had come in for work at twelve thirty. He didn't want to do anything. Omi was gone when he stepped in. He found a note taped behind the counter: biology class has a special lunch meeting today, be back at around two. That was just wonderful. It set his teeth on edge and made him want to rip the note to shreds, and he didn't know why. He felt guilty for not knowing. I'd feel at least a little better if I knew why I want to rush out of here and scream…

He wanted to remember how he had felt that morning, what it had been about the song on the radio that had made him so happy for such a brief time. Memories came back in slow motion, a sticky blackness that tired itself out with the strain of trying to reconstruct itself. He pushed away from the counter.

"Listen, Yoji, I’m going out for a bite to eat, ok?"

Yoji ran his hands through his hair. "So soon…? You just got here. It's only one forty two, man. Don't you wanna wait for Omi at least?"

The door to the flower shop opened and closed quickly, the shrill call of an afternoon traffic horn his only answer.
 
 
 

Coffee had always mystified Ken. He had eaten lunch at the Kokuei Nomimono many times and sat at his table, minding his own business, watching the American tourists ordering coffee and cradling cup after cup, newspapers held over their faces. He wondered why they liked it so much. It was hot and sharp and burned the roof of your mouth and left an unpleasant aftertaste. Like tea, but worse. He couldn't understand it.

He looked down at his own cup and wondered if it was too late to give it back. He poured sugar into it, stirred in a tube of half & half, took a sip and made a face. He set down the cup and decided to just let the money he had spent slide by. Around him the bustle of businessmen at lunch mingled with the chatter of young girls and the bravado of young men. Cups and bowls and chopsticks and exhaust fumes and the cool, regulated air that escaped whenever anyone stepped out from the depaato next to the coffee shop. It smelled of fabric and the sharp click of high heels over polished floors.

A can of Nichirei acerola juice appeared at the edge of the table. "You've been sitting here for an hour, Ken. It's not like you.

Ken looked up in silence, edging his chair away before he had realized what he had done and just sat there, looking back down at his cup of coffee. Aya Fujimiya popped open his can of juice and took a sip. Ken didn't expect him to say much. Aya was a silent young man, introverted and not much of a bother. He had never thought of him as the type to drink acerola juice. He wondered if it tasted all right. Better than coffee, that much he knew. He sighed and drew his chair nearer to the table.

"Shouldn't you be back at the shop, Aya? Yoji's likely to break something if left alone."

Aya took a sip from his drink, turned his head to follow a little child whose toy had rolled onto the ground. "We're not going to be here long. Are we?"

Ken frowned. "What do you mean by we? Listen, Aya, I don't need you to sit here with me. If you think I'm feeling sorry for myself..."

"No, I'm not. I'm just wondering why you're feeling sorry for yourself."

That was it. No small talk, no questions. As direct as anything he could expect. Ken took a gulp of coffee, felt the liquid travel down his throat. He could feel the sentences forming in the back of his head, running into each other and into formation. He knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to be normal again. He wanted a poster in his door. He wanted to remember the title to that song he had heard on the radio. Didn't that make him normal? He set his cup down.

"There's nothing to say. I just wanted to get away for a while."

He could feel Aya's eyes on him. A motorcycle sped by, a trail of exhaust fume making him cough, Aya's fingers tightening around his can of juice. He heard him lift the can, swallow quickly, set it back down. He could feel the seconds ticking by. He wanted to get up. Just get up and leave. He wanted to be alone. But didn't normal people sit at open aired cafes and drank with their friends? He could see himself on the cover of his German I book, laughing and tanned. He didn't know what he wanted. He felt trapped again. Like in the flower shop, his apartment. He just wanted to leave.

He heard Aya's chair as it was drawn back. "Iku so. Let's leave this place."
 
 
 

They walked in silence, the guilt for the flower shop and the half finished coffee he had dropped into the trash stretching out with his shadow, creeping over walls and telephone poles and metal fences. A dog barked in the distance. Left and right rose dwellings, rising above their fences and front yards in a well manicured hymn to all that was modern and Western and yet ancient and Nihonjin and comfortable in the deepening afternoon light.

"Are we going anywhere?"

"You said you wanted to get away for a while. I thought you might like to come through here."

They stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, Aya turning his head left and right before crossing even though the street was empty. Up ahead, Ken could see where the houses became fewer, drawing further apart, a manicured field coming into view. He knew what it was. Aya walked past him as he stopped, his worn, cream jumper crumpled around his hips as he put his hands in his pockets. He stopped a few feet away and turned his head. If there was any malice in his actions, Ken couldn't see it in his eyes. He simply stood there, looking back at him, waiting for him to follow. Ken took a deep breath.

"A football field? I'm feeling a little out of it, and so you think I need a football field?"

Aya reached up to pull at the fine hairs of his left eyebrow, a nervous habit. He looked beyond at where the football field spread out, green lawn and rusted goal posts standing still in the weakening sunlight. "You used to play, right? I've seen you playing with those little kids, the ones that call you niichan. You're very good."

"Was very good. I need practice. But we're not going to have this conversation."

Aya didn't answer. He ran his fingers over his eyebrow, turning to go down the last bit of road towards the field. Ken watched him go, the smell of grass beneath his feet climbing towards his nostrils. Pockets of deep golden sunlight played across the fence, the posts, casting dark shadows across the floor, wrapping around Aya's shape until his features seemed to dissolve, stretching and yawning into themselves. He saw him reach the fence. His fingers curled around it. Pensive. Appreciative. Curse him. So he just wants me to go down there with him and look at that damn field and feel better?

He came up to where Aya stood, silent, his fists balled into his pockets. He didn't look at the younger boy. The green held his eyes. "My team almost made the national league, you know. We were a pretty tough bunch of guys."

"I don't doubt it."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Listen, Aya. You don't have to do this. I feel a bit out of it, that's all. Look, I still play football. I'm still here. No big deal. You don't have to do this."

"You could have been a member of the national league..." Aya's fingers played over the fence, snapping as they hooked and unhooked themselves across the links. "But instead you're a member of Weiß, right? Something different from everybody else."

The younger boy turned to look at him, the sunlight playing across his red hair, dyeing it a dark auburn. Ken thinned his lips. He wanted to turn away, maybe lean against the fence and act as if he didn't care. He heard himself sigh. It surprised him, the sound ringing in his ears like guilt. It drifted out with the wind, stayed with him as Aya's eyes held onto his own. He wanted to anticipate his words.

"You're so strange, Ken..."

His eyebrows knit together, confusion writing itself out in his face. He buried his fists deeper into his pockets. "Strange, huh?"

"You seem so at ease, so comfortable. I keep forgetting you're not just another passer-by. I don't know what to tell you. I don't think you want me to tell you anything. I've always thought you were happy. That's all. It's strange."

Aya's eyes held his own, deep purple against blue, deepening skies and a golden myriad of reflected surfaces. Aya stepped away from the fence, his hands in his pockets. Ken's mouth wouldn't work, the words stumbling against one another before he could organize them.

"Ken, you're not like everybody else. You're right. You play football, you didn't make it to the national league. You're a member of Weiß. That's all, right? That's all there is."

"It isn't all there is. Maybe you can see it that way, Aya, but why should I?" He sighed, the sound familiar this time, his. He leaned against the fence, the links biting into his back, the smell of grass sharp and fresh. "I can't call this my be all end all. I look happy...? I'm glad. I guess I'm glad. I feel like Hell and like I'm tired of blood and not being able to make my apartment door my own and I guess I don't know how to tell you how I really feel. I think you know. But it doesn't feel any better. I wish... I wish this wouldn't be all there is."

"But it is."

He pushed away from the fence, drawing a hand through his hair. He lay it against the back of his neck, feeling the tension in his muscles. He heard Aya move away, his steps careful over the uneven ground. His feet looked up at him in silence. Tennis shoes, scruffy and covered with mud and grass. Worn jeans folding over his ankles, the seams frayed. He wanted to laugh. He looked up at Aya, his figure growing smaller as he climbed the hill back towards the silent rows of houses, lights coming up here and there in second story windows and living rooms.

"Aya..." The red head cocked his head in acknowledgement. "You make for lousy comfort, you know? Remind me to keep away from you next time I feel like this, ok?"

He thought he saw Aya smile, the movement melting into the shadows as he turned to climb the rest of the way. He was waiting for Ken at the edge of the first sidewalk when he had climbed as well. They walked in silence, the rows of houses melting unobtrusively into high rise buildings and the Tokyo Tower and evening, their feet muted scuffles over the sidewalk. Aya climbed the stairs towards their apartment rooms two at a time. He stopped at the third landing, his eyes fixed on the far wall. His lips thinned, eyebrows knitting together.

"Next time I find you feeling like this, Ken, I won't say anything. I promise."

Ken climbed past him, his left hand already fishing out his keys, the turn of the floor and the shadows at the corners of his eyes a comfortable part of habit. He couldn't explain why exactly, but he smiled down at Aya. The red head blinked once.

"It's all right, Aya. All you need is practice. Oyasumi. See ya tomorrow. Yoji won't put up with this two times in a row."
 
 
 

At 7.45 in the evening Ken Hidaka's room seemed smaller. The darkness rushed to empty corners as he switched on the lights. He side stepped his Playstation, pulling his green jumper over his head and dropping it on the bed. He slid open the closet doors, one hand massaging the back of his neck as he drew aside shirts and pants until he found what he was looking for and had unhooked it from its hanger. He slid into it easily, a worn blue and white shirt, faded numbers in the back and front. He brought down a blue and white gym bag and draped it across his shoulders. He left his room in silence, locking the door with one quick turn of the key.

His footsteps echoed in his head as he made his way down the stairs. There was a giddy impatience in his shadow, running ahead of him, long and slim, fingers outstretched towards the night air. He stepped out into the curb, drew in a sharp breath. Crisp night air, the accentuated smell of cooling asphalt under his feet. Above him the stars folded and winked into themselves, the clouds drifting by. He placed his gym bag on the floor, drawing back the zipper. He felt silly. The bag smelled of sweat and socks and deodorant and plastic. Tired smells, rancid and left alone for too long.

He reached in quickly, tossed the ball up against the night sky. He watched it spin silently among the stars, white and black and blue and silver streaks. He stood poised beneath it, waiting, his muscles tensing, waiting for first contact, for the moment when shame would melt away and the heady sense of balance and speed and now would take over. The ball spun one last time, its momentum succumbing to gravity, and it came down. Ken set his feet firmly against the ground. A split second. He could feel the adrenaline rushing up within him. A split second, and he felt his body leap up, muscle and breath and anticipation. It was so strange. Leap up and savour the impact. That's all there was to it.
 

Author's Note

April 11th, 1999. Finished this story, after much planning and deliberation on my part. Thanks go out to Yoji kun, for telling me to just sit down and do it, and to Deena san, for wanting to be flabbergasted again. Story written out to the beat of Yoji's Oldies station and my Natalie Merchant Ophelia CD, simultaneously. Any and all comments may be sent to the care of the Ken, Takuto, and Tsubasa Football Fund Some letters may be subject to in field passes, but they should nevertheless arrive in one piece at my desk.
 

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© March 22th-April 11th, 1999 Team Bonet. Weiß Kreuz is © 1997 Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiß. Thank you for stopping by and taking the time to read.