Hiroto / Tora
(PG13)
Withered hands, bent with arthritis and age, grip tightly a black lacquer walking stick, gnarled knuckles turning white in the intensity of their hold. Eyes that once gazed out over crowds of people in awe and exhilaration in a brown nearly black now glimmer dully beneath a worry and care creased brow. Lines etch across a once youthful and beautiful face that has long forgotten how to smile, lines that do not bear witness to laughter, and have not for many years. A heart that once beat wildly before throngs of people now beats painfully in an old man’s chest, the long past pain still throbbing within.
He still can’t believe, even after all these years past, that they once considered rebuilding on this plot of land. He and Shou had protested for months before the city planners relented. It still angered him that they wanted to plow under all of the memories of the place, to disregard what had happened, and just put up new steel, concrete, and glass.
Watery eyes sweep the area, taking in without really seeing the shrine and the fountain, the blooming sakura trees lining the walkway. It’s the memorial stone that he’s interested in seeing. The only part of the original structure left standing; it was cleaned, smoothed, and engraved with a list of names. One shaking hand releases its grip on the walking stick and reaches out, slowly, fingertips barely brushing a particular line of kanji. Memories long thought forgotten begin to stir.
*
“Tora?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
The dark haired guitarist turned from his book to survey his younger friend and lover. Hiroto was kneeling at the other end of the couch, his eyes wide beneath his unstyled hair.
“What is it, Pon?”
“Will… will we always be together?”
Tora’s brow furrowed, deep brown eyes studying the young man.
“What kind of silly question is that?”
The older guitarist stood up, heading for the kitchen.
“Shinji!”
Tora stopped, sighing. It wasn’t so much that Hiroto had used his birth name to call him back, but the way he’d said it. Hiroto’s voice was layered with sadness, anger, and something akin to grief. Something was definitely bothering him if he sounded so put off. Slowly, Tora turned around and went back to the couch, sitting next to Hiroto and pulling him into his arms. Hiroto’s hands immediately curled into his shirt.
“What I meant,” Tora said softly, petting the younger man’s hair, “is that your question is a hard one to answer. I can’t predict the future. I can’t say with any certainty what tomorrow holds, or the day after, or next week, or even ten years from now. I can’t say yes, that we’ll be together forever. I can’t do that. What I mean is I don’t want to make you a promise that I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep. I will make a smaller promise, though. I promise that I’ll always live for the here and now, and that every moment that I get to spend with you will be the best moment of my entire life.”
Hiroto bit back his tears, clinging tighter to the firm body and strong arms holding him. In his heart, something didn’t feel right at all.
*
He blames his age when he comes to kneeling in front of the pillar, walking stick discarded and both hands pressed flat against the stone. He’s eye level with the line of kanji now, and he brings his shaky fingertips back to it once more.
It’s been forty-five years, and he still comes here. Every year, unless he’s ill and bed-ridden, he makes the trek here on the anniversary of that day, just to think, to remember. Sometimes, the memories have been good, other times bad, but he cherishes them all the same. But, in the past four or five years, the memories have been harder to recall. They don’t come as easy as they once did, and perhaps, his wife tells him, that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s time that he lets go.
Those forty-five years spent alone, spent wondering what might have been, what could have happened, what should have been done. Forty-three of those years have been spent in marriage to a good woman, an understanding woman. He knows he could have done worse, but he knows that he doesn’t love her, not the way a woman should be loved. No, his heart died here, in this place, on that fated day forty-five years ago.
*
“Do you really have to go today?”
“Pon…”
“I mean,” Hiroto cut across him, sitting up in the bed to watch Tora dress for the day, “it’s our day off. Why do you have to go to the studio now anyway? Can’t it wait?”
“Hiroto,” Tora tried to keep the testiness from his voice, “Nao wants Saga and I to work on our solos for the new song. The way the three of us figure it, if we get an early enough start, we can be finished around lunch time.”
“Don’t go,” Hiroto murmured to his lap, fingers twisting in the bedspread.
“Hiroto, what’s wrong with you lately? You’re as jumpy as a mouse in a cat pen.”
“I don’t know!” Hiroto looked up, tears leaking down his young face. “I don’t know, I don’t know! All I have is bad dreams and dreadful feelings anymore! Tora, what’s wrong with me?”
The young man fisted his hair, crying into his drawn up knees. Tora watched, shocked and scared, paralyzed by Hiroto’s sudden outburst. But when one of the fists moved to strike its owners head, the guitarist launched into action.
“No! Stop it!”
Tora moved quickly, crossing the room in long strides to sit at the edge of the bed and gather Hiroto into his arms.
“Calm down, Pon. Please, calm down. It’s alright, it’s alright. Calm down, don’t cry, it’s alright.”
Slowly, Hiroto did calm down. His tears tapered and vanished, leaving behind an emotional headache and a stuffy nose.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Tora’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I got like that.”
“It’s okay, I promise. And I’ll be back before you know it. Just watch.”
Tora pulled Hiroto into a long, deep kiss. The younger man melted, relenting outwardly although inside he was screaming. The older man left him with a smile, assuring him that he’d be back soon, but for Pon, ‘soon’ wouldn’t arrive fast enough.
Something didn’t feel right at all.
*
He remembers clearly the events of that particular day. Even now, when he can barely remember where he’s left his glasses or which cupboard his coffee mug is in, that one day stands out in perfect clarity. And how he hates it, that one memory. He curses it and tries to forget, but it’s stained, engrained, etched into his memory forever.
It was a Saturday morning in the spring. The sakuras were blooming and the weather was turning warm. He’d been looking forward to a nice, leisurely day with the man he loved, a day without worry or work, but then the phone call had come and his lover had left.
One of the elevators at the east side of the building had shorted, causing a mass power outage. Without the alarms, no one had known that the short had sparked a fire, and by the time anyone noticed, it had been too late. Close to one hundred people had been in the building before the fire. Of them, only forty walked out alive.
Alice Nine’s studio was on the fifth floor, playing home to the rhythm guitarist, drummer, and bassist for the morning. On the third floor, the GazettE had occupied a studio, all five members in for some pre-live workouts. Other bands, either all or a few, were in their studios or sound rooms. On the administrative sixth floor, a handful of the executives were in their offices, playing catch up after a hectic week. No one above the second floor of the PSC building had had a chance.
Tears stream down his face at the memory of Shou coming to give him the news. Oh, how he’d cried and screamed. How he’d fought to leave the apartment, to go see for himself if Shou was telling the truth. Instead, the vocalist turned on the news, made him sit and watch. And had let him cry.
*
“I can’t believe they’re gone,” Shou whispered, cradling Hiroto in his arms on the floor in front of the couch. “I can’t believe it. All those people…”
Hiroto stared blankly at the television screen, numbed to his soul by the images of the rubble, the smoke, and the body bags they were pulling from the wreckage. The names of the survivors were being strung across the bottom of the screen in a ticker.
“Oh look,” he thought sourly. “Yuka from the front desk made it out. Good for her. And Toshi the janitor has minor burns, but he’s alright. Mina and Sakura from the cafeteria are okay, they just have nasty coughs…”
On and on, throughout the afternoon and into the night, they watched, waiting, hoping, praying for a glimpse of a face or a name from someone, anyone, they knew. Shou was worried about Reita and Kai on top of his own band mates, having become fast and strong friends with them. Hiroto, on the other hand, knew better.
“They’re gone,” he finally said around midnight. “Nao… Saga… T-Tora…” he choked, “they’re gone. Aoi… Kai… all of them… Reita… R-Ruki… Uru…”
Shou stifled a sob, pulling Hiroto closer to him. The two men clung to one another, grieving and crying, finally lapsing into exhausted sleep on the floor just after dawn, the television still droning on and on in the background.
*
Two years later, at the urging of Shou and his own parents, Hiroto had settled down with a fine young woman. The first thing he had done before even thinking of marriage was explain everything to her. Everything. He’d told her about Tora, about their relationship and all of the nightmares leading up to the fire. He had to know how she’d take it. For her part, she took it well, understanding his pain and allowing his love for Tora to be the first love in his heart.
Now, forty-three years later, she still stands by him, still understands him and loves enough for the two of them. Even now, she waits for him, keeping their two young grandchildren at the car while he visits. He could have done so much worse.
One hand reaches blindly for his walking stick; the other traces the line of kanji once more. Aoi, Uruha, Ruki, Kai, and Reita are further up the pillar, but the name he wants is right here, nestled between the names of two of the greatest friends he’d ever had. The name of the man he hasn’t stopped loving in nearly fifty years.
Amano Shinji, “Tora,” 1980-2007
“I understand your answer now,” he whispers to the name. “When you told me you couldn’t tell me about forever. Thank you for not making me that promise. And thank you for loving me while you could. You have no idea what that meant to me, what it still means to me.”
“Ojiisan?”
He turns, smiling softly at the pretty young girl who has come to stand beside him.
“Yes, Orehime?”
“Ojiisan, who is that?”
She reaches around his hand to touch the character for ‘Tora’ with her finger. Hiroto looks at the name for a moment longer before struggling to his feet. His granddaughter steps back, wide eyes watching him attentively. A good girl, just like her mother and grandmother, and promising to be just as beautiful.
“Tell you what,” Hiroto says, reaching for the girls hand and leading her back to the car. “Let’s see if your obasan will take us home for cocoa and milk, and I’ll tell you about the tiger. He was a great man, you know.”
~End~
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