[Fanfiction - Mixed] Apple Crumble and Broken Dreams [Mao/Kyo w/ Aoi] Oneshot [1/3]
Title: Apple Crumble & Broken Dreams [1/3]
Author: sorrowofanangel
Genre: Romance, angst, drama, slice of life
Band(s): Dir En Grey, Sadie, The GazettE
Pairing(s): Mao x Kyo/ Kyo x Mao, Mao x OC, Aoi cameo
WARNINGS: Unbeta'd, language, sex, boy x boy, etc.
Rating: R
DISCLAIMER: No, of course I don't own these lovely boys. If I did, I would have dressed Mao in a bunny suit by now (///3///)
Synopsis: "The Apple Crumble record shop had held a fountain of memories for Mao. He discovered dreams there, fell in love there, had his life saved there... met Sensei there. In 1986, Mao stands outside the Apple Crumble even now, reminiscing on old times ~ how he fell in love, how he made the most terrible mistakes in his life... and how his Sensei, Shiroyama Yuu, was quite possibly the most fascinating person he'd ever met..."
Notes: I came up with this idea in the car after a long drive. I think I should do it more often; driving seems to get me thinking a lot haha! Hope you enjoy ~ it's different from all my other works, I think (*^^*) <3
Music ~ If You Want Me, A Day To Be Alone, Your Beautiful Ending, Pocket Change, Worthless ~ One Less Reason | Bottom of the Death Valley (Both versions), Vanitas, Unknown.Despair.Lost, 鼓動 (Kodou) ~ Dir en Grey | BALLAD ~ lynch.
(The song Mao refers to can be found here -> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQlfUrIMyGg )
*
1988, Sapporo, Japan.
Sapporo was fairly quiet this time of night; no strange faces to avoid, the streets exempt from interruption or intrusion from other passersby. Mao took to preferring that side of things. As secluded as it was, there was something about the crisp winter air ghosting over his cheeks and sending chills across his bare hands that made him feel more alive than most people would care to embrace.
He took his daily route to the record store as usual; a tiny shack-looking thing that took residence in one of Sapporo’s many backstreets. Ever since he could remember, Mao recalled going into that store every Thursday night on the way home from school. The name was the one thing that stood out to him; Apple Crumble. Of all the names the owner could have picked for a store selling music, why a dessert? Mao had thought. Even after all these years, he still hasn’t come to understand why Sensei chose that name or where it came from. Hell, knowing him he probably took it off the back of a takeaway menu and thought nothing of it.
That was the thing about Sensei, or Shiroyama Yuu as Mao had heard his old friends call him. A 1950s born crone with an exceptional taste for life, but held the lack of living it, Sensei had owned the Apple Crumble record shop all of Mao’s life. He would be there every Thursday evening behind the cash register in a dirty, worn leather chair; skimming through columns in his selection of newspapers like he’d read it all before. Mao remembered the floral designs of his shirts, the blandness of his baggy shorts and how ridiculous he looked with socks tucked into sandals. But of course, Sensei didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything much.
Because Sensei never would tell Mao anything that was of worth, really; Mao had to read through and pick apart Sensei’s stories like he would a Freudian thesis. As the months passed by and Mao kept his weekly routine of browsing record after record shortly after 4:30pm on each and every Thursday; Sensei began to notice his presence like Mao was a fly buzzing around his head. As a child, Mao, while slightly put off by Sensei’s attire, never really did think to look properly into the older’s face. Sensei always had a pair of aviators wrapped strictly around his ear helixes. Always. He never thought to take them off; not even on a wintry evening such as tonight where the nights drew in and the stingy, dull lamp hanging on the ceiling was barely enough to light the entire shop,
“Aren’t you going to fix that, Mister?” 8-year-old Mao had asked one November afternoon; a navy woolly hat a size-too-big his Grandma had knitted for him hanging low over his eyes.
Mao had been too small to see past the cash register; so he waited until he saw the peaks of Sensei’s aviators peer down from over the top to stare at him,
“Why? Has it broken?” Sensei muttered, staring up at the lamp through his shades as though he was trying to figure out just how dark he was looking at things,
“N-No.” Mao shook his head, clutching his chosen record to his chest, “It just doesn’t work very well, that’s all.”
“Well, boy, I’ll fix it when it’s broken.” Sensei adjusted his glasses with a pause, “Are you looking to buy that?”
Mao nodded until his hat had almost slipped down to the end of his nose, “Yes, please!”
Mao had saved his pocket money all month to buy it; but in all truth he didn’t really know all that much about the song… or the band. He’d happened to hear it on the radio inside the car one morning with his father, an upbeat rock tune that had Mao singing the words, “ii janai ka?!” for an entire week at school; almost to the point where it became his catchphrase. It was only when his neighbour, the sweet and somewhat aged Takahiro-san, had heard Mao singing at the top of his lungs in his back garden that Mao had finally learned what the song was all about,
“Aye, that’s The Mops you’re singing there, Mao, my boy!” Takahiro-san beamed over the fence, lighting up a cigar, “It’s quite an old one though. 1971! That was the year my daughter was born!”
“Really, Takahiro-san?!” Mao was almost giddy, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a copy?”
“I don’t see why not. That record’s been around for just over five years!”
And so off Mao had gone; straight down to Apple Crumble to see if Sensei had actually stocked The Mops on his shelves. Luckily for him, there was a single copy left; a dusty case with a corner slightly bent and the colours worn beyond repair but… nevertheless Mao wanted it. And so every week he’d save what pocket money he received from his Grandparents and rushed from school each Thursday checking his record was still safe and sound. That day, when he’d finally gathered up ¥500, he was as proud as punch.
Sensei seemed to agree too;
“You’re buying a classic there, boy.” Sensei adjusted his aviators, “You like rock music?”
“I love it!” Mao exclaimed, reaching high on his tip toes to empty his coins onto the counter and push them towards Sensei, “My dad plays it in the garage all the time.”
“He does, eh?” Sensei mused, counting Mao’s change with delicate and ageing fingers, “Lemme guess, you want to be a rock star when you’re older?”
“Yep! I’m going to be famous!” Mao replied, “ii janai ka?!”
And Sensei had chuckled; perhaps the first time that Mao had ever seen him smile. The two had formed a strange bond after that. Sensei, for some reason, developed a liking to him that Mao couldn’t quite put his finger on. Sensei donated record after record into Mao’s possession and asked for no money in return. Some psychedelic rock, some jazz, even some American country folk that Mao didn’t understand the words to. But Mao accepted them; partly because he and Sensei had the same music taste but… also because Sensei’s taste had fascinated him to no degree. He learned a lot about the world faster than other kids his own age, and he liked to think he had avoided the latter half of life’s mistakes that fell abundantly onto his generation.
He had Sensei to thank for that…
But not so much now.
*
By the time he’d turned 16 and was busy getting his head around puberty and the troubles of teenage-hood, Sensei offered Mao a job at the record store; on a June afternoon in 1984. Even now at 20 he found himself gliding past its windows and peering inside; much like tonight.
Mao couldn’t really explain to people what it was about the place he had fallen in love with. Sensei himself was an odd character; a daffodil among a field of roses or a flake of snow in spring. Mao liked to think he was contingently misplaced; and the more he observed his actions around the shop, the more he concluded that Sensei was probably like him once. A carefree child fascinated by the small things hiding in the world, wanting to know what secrets lied in every corner, every footstep, every cloud… no matter how happy or bleak the consequences.
He had fascinating stories to tell, that was as much. The shop’s revenue had slowed down over the years and both Sensei and Mao found themselves with more than enough spare time; of which would only be taken up by dusting away spider’s cobwebs or rechecking stock that hadn’t shifted… again.
But despite his business problems, Sensei never seemed to mind. Or care for that matter. Better yet, it was like he didn’t even want to acknowledge the fact at all. He was pleasantly content with the present, Mao found, but even more enthusiastic about the past. There was no room for future in there at all; as far as Sensei was concerned it had been cast aside in favour of abstinent memories,
“Did I ever tell you, Mao, about the time I visited my uncle in Canada?” Sensei smoked as Mao finished brushing the floorboards with a twenty-or-so year old broom; the summer air hot and Mao gratefully accepted Sensei’s invite to another tale, pulling up a chair adjacent to the older man and opening a bottle of pear juice to cool his sweating chest,
“Don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” Mao thought aloud, after a brief mental count of the thousands Sensei had told him already, taking a swig, “Tell me.”
“My Uncle Denji owned a small cottage near Vancouver.” Sensei mused, his eyebrows creasing against the sweat beading on his tanned forehead, “So peaceful, it was. Pine trees covering every blade of grass, the smell of musty mountain air… the lakes, the greenery, the clouds in the sky…” Sensei closed his eyes, as though he had carved a small box in his mind to capture such an atmosphere, revisiting it whenever he pleased,
“The cottage was beautiful too. Boy, you should have seen it.” Sensei’s eyes wrinkled with a small smile, meeting Mao’s briefly before he returned them to staring deep into the wooden beams of the ceiling again, “Uncle Denji had the greatest Kendo room I’d ever seen. The floorboards were as creaky as hell and there was the odd leak during winter but…” Sensei let out a gruff laugh, “Aa~ we had some fun times in there.”
“Did you ever play Kendo, Sensei?” Mao chipped in, taking another swig of pear juice.
Sensei merely nodded, a thoughtful look passing his face, “I did. My Uncle Denji was a fierce teacher, competitive too. He’d have me and my cousins fighting all the time. We fought by the rivers, under the branches of pine trees. Heck, one year, Denji had me and my older cousin fight on a log in the middle of the lake at the back of his house!”
Sensei chuckled lightly at the memory, and Mao smiled tautly behind his bottle,
“And you know…” Sensei mused thoughtfully, “… I never once managed to beat him. At Kendo at least. I trained the hardest I ever had in my life. I practiced with sticks in the woods by my neighbourhood until I could afford a proper one and even then, my uncle always defeated me.”
Mao watched as Sensei hung his head low. He reminded Mao of the withered old branch of an oak tree; having witnessed seasons passed, yet found no splendour in them,
“I strived to change that.” Sensei muttered quietly, taking a good long drag from his pipe, “I exhausted myself; trained my hands and feet until I came home covered in blisters and bruises from accidental whacks against my knees or… attempted to take on a gang of bullies at school until they snapped my Kendo stick in half and, well, beat me into the ground.” Sensei huffed impetuously.
Mao studies his face a moment, the way Sensei’s hazelnut eyes clouded, the small wrinkle lines around his eyes and hollow cheeks, his dark flop of hair slowly sliding down to drape over them,
“At least you were brave.” Mao offered,
“… Brave.” Sensei scoffed, “Boy… true bravery lies not in the hands of the hero, but in the arms of the ego.”
“… Huh?”
Sensei sighed; Mao never was good at figuring out these things… and he knew it, “A hero cannot succeed without his frame of mind. Fear runs only as deep as our minds allow, and so too, does bravery succeed from it.”
Mao continued to stare, his eyes drifting to the floor and his eyebrows knitted together as he tried to unravel the riddle.
Sensei sighed again, leaning back in his chair and taking another long puff of his pipe, the silence he offered waiting for Mao to return an opinion,
“So… what you mean is; you used your fear of losing to your uncle to craft that into bravery?”
Sensei was the least impressed, and he leaned forward to snatch Mao’s pear juice out from his hands,
“When life takes a swing at you, don’t try to beat it with just a stick in your hand. You’ve got to have steel boy.” Sensei told him sternly, polishing off the rest of Mao’s lukewarm juice.
And this was how Sensei’s stories would always end; with some kind of motto or refined analogy. Mao often found himself wondering how Sensei found it in himself to face normality. The analogies he created were of worlds intertwining and dancing into the emotions of stranger’s souls; of pictures bleak and feelings too close to home. How on earth could someone live the average day-to-day happenings of a normal human being when their imagination was taking them to better places?
Mao never found out. But, no matter what they were, Mao always found he had a use for them later; like an old stack of encyclopaedias. When periods of Mao’s life distilled such troubles upon him, all Mao need do was think through each of Sensei’s stories and he’d find the answer he needed to solve it.
Though, staring into the black canvases of empty glass, he realised that no story Sensei shared could have prepared him for this. Mao’s already been there. Scanned each analogy, every motto, one by one…
None of them gave him any hope of a solution.
*
When Mao met Kyo, it had been in the middle of a rough spring. Northern Japan had been rocked by a large tsunami on May 23rd while the rest of the country was propelled into aftershocks. The earthquakes were mild and unpredictable; and Sensei’s shop had been the target of one or two unsteady lampposts. Mao had rushed outside to assess the - now shattered - front window when he’d wandered too close to the road and into the path of an oncoming car. Kyo, a young, aspiring musician walking back from band practice had happened to be on the opposite side of the path when he called out to Mao. If it hadn’t been for Kyo grabbing his shirt and throwing him to the pavement, Mao wouldn’t be here today. Or at least, that’s what Kyo says. Mao only thinks he managed to spare him of a broken leg and a few bruises,
“Are you alright?!”
Mao rubbed the back of his head with a heavy grimace, squinting through the sunlight to meet the eyes of a concerned young man around the same age; wearing an oversized Rolling Stones band t-shirt and jeans slashed at the knees. Mao couldn’t really see what he looked like thanks to this blinding ray of sunshine but gladly accepted the helping hand offered to him,
“Fine, thank you… umm…” Mao brushes himself down,
“Kyo.” The other boy smiled, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too. I’m Mao.”
Mao really did manage to see Kyo then. Peroxide blonde hair, piercings as eccentric as his jewellery and a small round face too friendly to be considered anything other than kind natured. Mao liked to think he fell in love that day. Even if he wasn’t sure what being in love actually felt like. He still doesn’t know now.
Since the day Kyo saved him, he never let Mao forget it. That was a period of his life where Mao had come across his first real life trouble.
Am I gay?
He wandered around the shop one night a week later; the last seven days spent basking in Kyo’s company. They went out to eat sushi, sing karaoke… even as Kyo’s parents were in the midst of divorce papers, Mao would drop by his house and they would stay up late into the night; talking about things that didn’t even matter or make sense. Inside Kyo’s bedroom, the only light emanating from Kyo’s TV, Kyo only wanted Mao to comfort him through it as a friend, and Mao made sure to do that. One Friday, and after drinking their way through a truck load of beer, Kyo and Mao had lain on the bed in each other’s arms, listening to The Mops on repeat over and over again. Kyo confessed then that having Mao there with him on those nights was probably the only thing keeping him alive.
Mao never forgot that… even if they had been drinking.
He even agreed that he felt the same, though only managed to whisper it to the sound of Kyo’s soft snores.
*
Lemme guess, you want to be a rock star when you’re older?
Yep! I’m going to be famous!
“ii janai ka?” Mao had whispered in front of a rusty old microphone; replaying the song’s chorus over and over in his head to distil the butterflies fluttering around wildly in his stomach. Though he had only met Kyo almost a week ago, his new friend had instantly asked Mao if he was good with instruments and invited him to fill in for their bassist who, for reasons Kyo wouldn’t say, couldn’t make it to their first live show. Mao, while only a beginner at the bass guitar, recalled the childhood dream he had clung to since he had heard The Mops on his father’s radio and didn’t hesitate to accept Kyo’s proposal; who smiled the widest Mao thought he’d ever seen on a person.
So there he was; on a rusty old stage at a worn down jazz club that probably served snacks past their sell by date and cheap beer so weak it made eyes sting. But Mao didn’t mind, and it seemed neither did Kyo; they rocked that stage like their lives depended on it… to an audience of five people who were half-listening, and perhaps another three who, while playing their game of pool at the back of the club, probably weren’t paying any sort of attention at all.
One thing Mao couldn’t forget about that night was, not the adrenaline; not the scratchy sound quality, not the round of dreary applause afterwards, not the intensity of Kyo’s songs or the lyrics he sung but… his voice. It was like no other Mao had ever heard. It was sultry, it was inviting; it was heart wrenchingly soul-breaking. It tore Mao apart, then put him back together like an on/off relationship between uncertain lovers. If it wasn’t love that had swept Mao head over heels… he knew something, whatever it was, had seized and suffocated him.
Covered in sweat after the show and shooed out the back door by a severely overweight bouncer, Kyo gave Mao the biggest of hugs, despite their beginner of a relationship,
“Here. Take your share.” Kyo grinned, slamming a few notes of their pay check into Mao’s palm.
Mao looked at them wildly, “N-No, Kyo, I can’t take this. I was just filling in!”
“Take it.” Kyo insisted, as his other, much taller bandmates sauntered away with freshly lit cigarettes between their teeth; “You earned it.”
Earned it…
It wasn’t but an afternoon later when Kyo rushed into the Apple Crumble all hot and bothered. Mao recalled his flushed face, his worried eyes; his posture bleak and his aura scared beyond reason. He looked like he’d just had a crushing argument, one that had perhaps turned his life upside down.
After Kyo’s question, Mao had identified just who that argument had occurred with,
“How would you like to join my band?”
Of course Mao didn’t hesitate to say yes. The 8-year-old inside of him longed to be a rock star; the much older side did it because it was, well, Kyo asking him.
Mao paused now and then to run his fingers over the edges of his palm; recalling Kyo’s touch, his brief hugs, the way he sung, the way he smiled… the touch of his hand on Mao’s, their skin partly separated by crumpled yen notes…
Sensei, of course, never missed a thing,
“What is it now?” He grumbled behind last week’s newspaper, “Girl trouble?”
Mao couldn’t take his eyes off his hand, “… Something like that.”
He could feel Sensei’s eyes drifting over him, an avid fox searching for a rabbit in the woods, “Well come on then. Out with it; if you’re going to stand there and be a nuisance…”
Mao sighed; could he ever keep anything from Sensei a secret? “I think… I might be in love.”
“Hn. A pebble in the ocean.” Sensei said slowly… almost carefully. For once, Mao couldn’t stand it,
“Do you only ever sigh at life these days, old man?” Mao scolded somewhat moodily, finally retracting his hand from the soft skin of his palm and shuffling records on the shelf in front of him in a forced pretence to be productive, “I happen to be very troubled.”
“About?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Oh, come on boy. Out with it. I’ve heard worse. Did I ever tell you about the Great Jellyfish Accident of ’63?”
“Yes. About a million times.” Mao mumbled under his breath. He was in such a bad mood today; a grey dullness that had latched onto him like that jellyfish on Sensei’s -
“- Well, suit yourself.” Sensei huffed, turning back to his newspaper, “Was only offering an ear to the troubled mind that desired it.”
Mao tried to take a cleansing breath behind the safety of the tall shelf; wondering if he had any room in this frustrated space of his to even consider what reckless life teaching Sensei had to offer him for this one,
“Have you ever been in love, Sensei?” Mao muttered mechanically at last, outstretching his fingers again and smiling at the memory of Kyo’s hand on his.
Behind his newspaper, Sensei shrugged, in as much a robotic arrangement as Mao’s own voice, “Like a magpie to a diamond.”
“Yes, but…” Mao hesitated, “… Has that person ever been, you know… different?”
“Boy, there wouldn’t be any excitement in love if they weren’t.”
“No, I mean, a different kind of different.”
A corner of the newspaper slid down and a shade of Sensei’s aviator glinted at Mao from across the room, “What kind of different?”
Mao flinched inwardly at the underlying suspicion lacing Sensei’s voice, yet let his thumb glide over his palm again, feeling his pallid skin tingle warmly,
“I just meant…” Mao broke off; reconsidering it as his cheeks flushed hotly. Of course it had only occurred to him now that telling Sensei this was probably a bad idea. The man was old fashioned, not exactly accepting of these sorts of issues that made no sense to his generation.
Mao scoffed at his own conclusion; As if being gay has made sense to anyone in this day and age…
“You know what?” Mao started, letting go of his palm at long last, “Never mind, i-it doesn’t matter.” Mao rushed his words out hurriedly, breathing out a brief goodbye as it neared 6pm and the end of his shift, grabbing his jacket and closing the shop door behind him before Sensei even had the chance to say anything more.
Outside, Mao inhaled the spring air like he’d just experienced an asthma attack. Despite the thoughts about his sexuality whirling in a merry-go-round of uncertainty in his head, Mao knew, as much as he trusted Sensei with his life, there were just some things that maybe the old man couldn’t fix after all,
“ii janai ka?” Mao whispered into the wind.
*
Part Two is HERE
Author: sorrowofanangel
Genre: Romance, angst, drama, slice of life
Band(s): Dir En Grey, Sadie, The GazettE
Pairing(s): Mao x Kyo/ Kyo x Mao, Mao x OC, Aoi cameo
WARNINGS: Unbeta'd, language, sex, boy x boy, etc.
Rating: R
DISCLAIMER: No, of course I don't own these lovely boys. If I did, I would have dressed Mao in a bunny suit by now (///3///)
Synopsis: "The Apple Crumble record shop had held a fountain of memories for Mao. He discovered dreams there, fell in love there, had his life saved there... met Sensei there. In 1986, Mao stands outside the Apple Crumble even now, reminiscing on old times ~ how he fell in love, how he made the most terrible mistakes in his life... and how his Sensei, Shiroyama Yuu, was quite possibly the most fascinating person he'd ever met..."
Notes: I came up with this idea in the car after a long drive. I think I should do it more often; driving seems to get me thinking a lot haha! Hope you enjoy ~ it's different from all my other works, I think (*^^*) <3
Music ~ If You Want Me, A Day To Be Alone, Your Beautiful Ending, Pocket Change, Worthless ~ One Less Reason | Bottom of the Death Valley (Both versions), Vanitas, Unknown.Despair.Lost, 鼓動 (Kodou) ~ Dir en Grey | BALLAD ~ lynch.
(The song Mao refers to can be found here -> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQlfUrIMyGg )
*
1988, Sapporo, Japan.
Sapporo was fairly quiet this time of night; no strange faces to avoid, the streets exempt from interruption or intrusion from other passersby. Mao took to preferring that side of things. As secluded as it was, there was something about the crisp winter air ghosting over his cheeks and sending chills across his bare hands that made him feel more alive than most people would care to embrace.
He took his daily route to the record store as usual; a tiny shack-looking thing that took residence in one of Sapporo’s many backstreets. Ever since he could remember, Mao recalled going into that store every Thursday night on the way home from school. The name was the one thing that stood out to him; Apple Crumble. Of all the names the owner could have picked for a store selling music, why a dessert? Mao had thought. Even after all these years, he still hasn’t come to understand why Sensei chose that name or where it came from. Hell, knowing him he probably took it off the back of a takeaway menu and thought nothing of it.
That was the thing about Sensei, or Shiroyama Yuu as Mao had heard his old friends call him. A 1950s born crone with an exceptional taste for life, but held the lack of living it, Sensei had owned the Apple Crumble record shop all of Mao’s life. He would be there every Thursday evening behind the cash register in a dirty, worn leather chair; skimming through columns in his selection of newspapers like he’d read it all before. Mao remembered the floral designs of his shirts, the blandness of his baggy shorts and how ridiculous he looked with socks tucked into sandals. But of course, Sensei didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything much.
Because Sensei never would tell Mao anything that was of worth, really; Mao had to read through and pick apart Sensei’s stories like he would a Freudian thesis. As the months passed by and Mao kept his weekly routine of browsing record after record shortly after 4:30pm on each and every Thursday; Sensei began to notice his presence like Mao was a fly buzzing around his head. As a child, Mao, while slightly put off by Sensei’s attire, never really did think to look properly into the older’s face. Sensei always had a pair of aviators wrapped strictly around his ear helixes. Always. He never thought to take them off; not even on a wintry evening such as tonight where the nights drew in and the stingy, dull lamp hanging on the ceiling was barely enough to light the entire shop,
“Aren’t you going to fix that, Mister?” 8-year-old Mao had asked one November afternoon; a navy woolly hat a size-too-big his Grandma had knitted for him hanging low over his eyes.
Mao had been too small to see past the cash register; so he waited until he saw the peaks of Sensei’s aviators peer down from over the top to stare at him,
“Why? Has it broken?” Sensei muttered, staring up at the lamp through his shades as though he was trying to figure out just how dark he was looking at things,
“N-No.” Mao shook his head, clutching his chosen record to his chest, “It just doesn’t work very well, that’s all.”
“Well, boy, I’ll fix it when it’s broken.” Sensei adjusted his glasses with a pause, “Are you looking to buy that?”
Mao nodded until his hat had almost slipped down to the end of his nose, “Yes, please!”
Mao had saved his pocket money all month to buy it; but in all truth he didn’t really know all that much about the song… or the band. He’d happened to hear it on the radio inside the car one morning with his father, an upbeat rock tune that had Mao singing the words, “ii janai ka?!” for an entire week at school; almost to the point where it became his catchphrase. It was only when his neighbour, the sweet and somewhat aged Takahiro-san, had heard Mao singing at the top of his lungs in his back garden that Mao had finally learned what the song was all about,
“Aye, that’s The Mops you’re singing there, Mao, my boy!” Takahiro-san beamed over the fence, lighting up a cigar, “It’s quite an old one though. 1971! That was the year my daughter was born!”
“Really, Takahiro-san?!” Mao was almost giddy, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a copy?”
“I don’t see why not. That record’s been around for just over five years!”
And so off Mao had gone; straight down to Apple Crumble to see if Sensei had actually stocked The Mops on his shelves. Luckily for him, there was a single copy left; a dusty case with a corner slightly bent and the colours worn beyond repair but… nevertheless Mao wanted it. And so every week he’d save what pocket money he received from his Grandparents and rushed from school each Thursday checking his record was still safe and sound. That day, when he’d finally gathered up ¥500, he was as proud as punch.
Sensei seemed to agree too;
“You’re buying a classic there, boy.” Sensei adjusted his aviators, “You like rock music?”
“I love it!” Mao exclaimed, reaching high on his tip toes to empty his coins onto the counter and push them towards Sensei, “My dad plays it in the garage all the time.”
“He does, eh?” Sensei mused, counting Mao’s change with delicate and ageing fingers, “Lemme guess, you want to be a rock star when you’re older?”
“Yep! I’m going to be famous!” Mao replied, “ii janai ka?!”
And Sensei had chuckled; perhaps the first time that Mao had ever seen him smile. The two had formed a strange bond after that. Sensei, for some reason, developed a liking to him that Mao couldn’t quite put his finger on. Sensei donated record after record into Mao’s possession and asked for no money in return. Some psychedelic rock, some jazz, even some American country folk that Mao didn’t understand the words to. But Mao accepted them; partly because he and Sensei had the same music taste but… also because Sensei’s taste had fascinated him to no degree. He learned a lot about the world faster than other kids his own age, and he liked to think he had avoided the latter half of life’s mistakes that fell abundantly onto his generation.
He had Sensei to thank for that…
But not so much now.
*
By the time he’d turned 16 and was busy getting his head around puberty and the troubles of teenage-hood, Sensei offered Mao a job at the record store; on a June afternoon in 1984. Even now at 20 he found himself gliding past its windows and peering inside; much like tonight.
Mao couldn’t really explain to people what it was about the place he had fallen in love with. Sensei himself was an odd character; a daffodil among a field of roses or a flake of snow in spring. Mao liked to think he was contingently misplaced; and the more he observed his actions around the shop, the more he concluded that Sensei was probably like him once. A carefree child fascinated by the small things hiding in the world, wanting to know what secrets lied in every corner, every footstep, every cloud… no matter how happy or bleak the consequences.
He had fascinating stories to tell, that was as much. The shop’s revenue had slowed down over the years and both Sensei and Mao found themselves with more than enough spare time; of which would only be taken up by dusting away spider’s cobwebs or rechecking stock that hadn’t shifted… again.
But despite his business problems, Sensei never seemed to mind. Or care for that matter. Better yet, it was like he didn’t even want to acknowledge the fact at all. He was pleasantly content with the present, Mao found, but even more enthusiastic about the past. There was no room for future in there at all; as far as Sensei was concerned it had been cast aside in favour of abstinent memories,
“Did I ever tell you, Mao, about the time I visited my uncle in Canada?” Sensei smoked as Mao finished brushing the floorboards with a twenty-or-so year old broom; the summer air hot and Mao gratefully accepted Sensei’s invite to another tale, pulling up a chair adjacent to the older man and opening a bottle of pear juice to cool his sweating chest,
“Don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” Mao thought aloud, after a brief mental count of the thousands Sensei had told him already, taking a swig, “Tell me.”
“My Uncle Denji owned a small cottage near Vancouver.” Sensei mused, his eyebrows creasing against the sweat beading on his tanned forehead, “So peaceful, it was. Pine trees covering every blade of grass, the smell of musty mountain air… the lakes, the greenery, the clouds in the sky…” Sensei closed his eyes, as though he had carved a small box in his mind to capture such an atmosphere, revisiting it whenever he pleased,
“The cottage was beautiful too. Boy, you should have seen it.” Sensei’s eyes wrinkled with a small smile, meeting Mao’s briefly before he returned them to staring deep into the wooden beams of the ceiling again, “Uncle Denji had the greatest Kendo room I’d ever seen. The floorboards were as creaky as hell and there was the odd leak during winter but…” Sensei let out a gruff laugh, “Aa~ we had some fun times in there.”
“Did you ever play Kendo, Sensei?” Mao chipped in, taking another swig of pear juice.
Sensei merely nodded, a thoughtful look passing his face, “I did. My Uncle Denji was a fierce teacher, competitive too. He’d have me and my cousins fighting all the time. We fought by the rivers, under the branches of pine trees. Heck, one year, Denji had me and my older cousin fight on a log in the middle of the lake at the back of his house!”
Sensei chuckled lightly at the memory, and Mao smiled tautly behind his bottle,
“And you know…” Sensei mused thoughtfully, “… I never once managed to beat him. At Kendo at least. I trained the hardest I ever had in my life. I practiced with sticks in the woods by my neighbourhood until I could afford a proper one and even then, my uncle always defeated me.”
Mao watched as Sensei hung his head low. He reminded Mao of the withered old branch of an oak tree; having witnessed seasons passed, yet found no splendour in them,
“I strived to change that.” Sensei muttered quietly, taking a good long drag from his pipe, “I exhausted myself; trained my hands and feet until I came home covered in blisters and bruises from accidental whacks against my knees or… attempted to take on a gang of bullies at school until they snapped my Kendo stick in half and, well, beat me into the ground.” Sensei huffed impetuously.
Mao studies his face a moment, the way Sensei’s hazelnut eyes clouded, the small wrinkle lines around his eyes and hollow cheeks, his dark flop of hair slowly sliding down to drape over them,
“At least you were brave.” Mao offered,
“… Brave.” Sensei scoffed, “Boy… true bravery lies not in the hands of the hero, but in the arms of the ego.”
“… Huh?”
Sensei sighed; Mao never was good at figuring out these things… and he knew it, “A hero cannot succeed without his frame of mind. Fear runs only as deep as our minds allow, and so too, does bravery succeed from it.”
Mao continued to stare, his eyes drifting to the floor and his eyebrows knitted together as he tried to unravel the riddle.
Sensei sighed again, leaning back in his chair and taking another long puff of his pipe, the silence he offered waiting for Mao to return an opinion,
“So… what you mean is; you used your fear of losing to your uncle to craft that into bravery?”
Sensei was the least impressed, and he leaned forward to snatch Mao’s pear juice out from his hands,
“When life takes a swing at you, don’t try to beat it with just a stick in your hand. You’ve got to have steel boy.” Sensei told him sternly, polishing off the rest of Mao’s lukewarm juice.
And this was how Sensei’s stories would always end; with some kind of motto or refined analogy. Mao often found himself wondering how Sensei found it in himself to face normality. The analogies he created were of worlds intertwining and dancing into the emotions of stranger’s souls; of pictures bleak and feelings too close to home. How on earth could someone live the average day-to-day happenings of a normal human being when their imagination was taking them to better places?
Mao never found out. But, no matter what they were, Mao always found he had a use for them later; like an old stack of encyclopaedias. When periods of Mao’s life distilled such troubles upon him, all Mao need do was think through each of Sensei’s stories and he’d find the answer he needed to solve it.
Though, staring into the black canvases of empty glass, he realised that no story Sensei shared could have prepared him for this. Mao’s already been there. Scanned each analogy, every motto, one by one…
None of them gave him any hope of a solution.
*
When Mao met Kyo, it had been in the middle of a rough spring. Northern Japan had been rocked by a large tsunami on May 23rd while the rest of the country was propelled into aftershocks. The earthquakes were mild and unpredictable; and Sensei’s shop had been the target of one or two unsteady lampposts. Mao had rushed outside to assess the - now shattered - front window when he’d wandered too close to the road and into the path of an oncoming car. Kyo, a young, aspiring musician walking back from band practice had happened to be on the opposite side of the path when he called out to Mao. If it hadn’t been for Kyo grabbing his shirt and throwing him to the pavement, Mao wouldn’t be here today. Or at least, that’s what Kyo says. Mao only thinks he managed to spare him of a broken leg and a few bruises,
“Are you alright?!”
Mao rubbed the back of his head with a heavy grimace, squinting through the sunlight to meet the eyes of a concerned young man around the same age; wearing an oversized Rolling Stones band t-shirt and jeans slashed at the knees. Mao couldn’t really see what he looked like thanks to this blinding ray of sunshine but gladly accepted the helping hand offered to him,
“Fine, thank you… umm…” Mao brushes himself down,
“Kyo.” The other boy smiled, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too. I’m Mao.”
Mao really did manage to see Kyo then. Peroxide blonde hair, piercings as eccentric as his jewellery and a small round face too friendly to be considered anything other than kind natured. Mao liked to think he fell in love that day. Even if he wasn’t sure what being in love actually felt like. He still doesn’t know now.
Since the day Kyo saved him, he never let Mao forget it. That was a period of his life where Mao had come across his first real life trouble.
Am I gay?
He wandered around the shop one night a week later; the last seven days spent basking in Kyo’s company. They went out to eat sushi, sing karaoke… even as Kyo’s parents were in the midst of divorce papers, Mao would drop by his house and they would stay up late into the night; talking about things that didn’t even matter or make sense. Inside Kyo’s bedroom, the only light emanating from Kyo’s TV, Kyo only wanted Mao to comfort him through it as a friend, and Mao made sure to do that. One Friday, and after drinking their way through a truck load of beer, Kyo and Mao had lain on the bed in each other’s arms, listening to The Mops on repeat over and over again. Kyo confessed then that having Mao there with him on those nights was probably the only thing keeping him alive.
Mao never forgot that… even if they had been drinking.
He even agreed that he felt the same, though only managed to whisper it to the sound of Kyo’s soft snores.
*
Lemme guess, you want to be a rock star when you’re older?
Yep! I’m going to be famous!
“ii janai ka?” Mao had whispered in front of a rusty old microphone; replaying the song’s chorus over and over in his head to distil the butterflies fluttering around wildly in his stomach. Though he had only met Kyo almost a week ago, his new friend had instantly asked Mao if he was good with instruments and invited him to fill in for their bassist who, for reasons Kyo wouldn’t say, couldn’t make it to their first live show. Mao, while only a beginner at the bass guitar, recalled the childhood dream he had clung to since he had heard The Mops on his father’s radio and didn’t hesitate to accept Kyo’s proposal; who smiled the widest Mao thought he’d ever seen on a person.
So there he was; on a rusty old stage at a worn down jazz club that probably served snacks past their sell by date and cheap beer so weak it made eyes sting. But Mao didn’t mind, and it seemed neither did Kyo; they rocked that stage like their lives depended on it… to an audience of five people who were half-listening, and perhaps another three who, while playing their game of pool at the back of the club, probably weren’t paying any sort of attention at all.
One thing Mao couldn’t forget about that night was, not the adrenaline; not the scratchy sound quality, not the round of dreary applause afterwards, not the intensity of Kyo’s songs or the lyrics he sung but… his voice. It was like no other Mao had ever heard. It was sultry, it was inviting; it was heart wrenchingly soul-breaking. It tore Mao apart, then put him back together like an on/off relationship between uncertain lovers. If it wasn’t love that had swept Mao head over heels… he knew something, whatever it was, had seized and suffocated him.
Covered in sweat after the show and shooed out the back door by a severely overweight bouncer, Kyo gave Mao the biggest of hugs, despite their beginner of a relationship,
“Here. Take your share.” Kyo grinned, slamming a few notes of their pay check into Mao’s palm.
Mao looked at them wildly, “N-No, Kyo, I can’t take this. I was just filling in!”
“Take it.” Kyo insisted, as his other, much taller bandmates sauntered away with freshly lit cigarettes between their teeth; “You earned it.”
Earned it…
It wasn’t but an afternoon later when Kyo rushed into the Apple Crumble all hot and bothered. Mao recalled his flushed face, his worried eyes; his posture bleak and his aura scared beyond reason. He looked like he’d just had a crushing argument, one that had perhaps turned his life upside down.
After Kyo’s question, Mao had identified just who that argument had occurred with,
“How would you like to join my band?”
Of course Mao didn’t hesitate to say yes. The 8-year-old inside of him longed to be a rock star; the much older side did it because it was, well, Kyo asking him.
Mao paused now and then to run his fingers over the edges of his palm; recalling Kyo’s touch, his brief hugs, the way he sung, the way he smiled… the touch of his hand on Mao’s, their skin partly separated by crumpled yen notes…
Sensei, of course, never missed a thing,
“What is it now?” He grumbled behind last week’s newspaper, “Girl trouble?”
Mao couldn’t take his eyes off his hand, “… Something like that.”
He could feel Sensei’s eyes drifting over him, an avid fox searching for a rabbit in the woods, “Well come on then. Out with it; if you’re going to stand there and be a nuisance…”
Mao sighed; could he ever keep anything from Sensei a secret? “I think… I might be in love.”
“Hn. A pebble in the ocean.” Sensei said slowly… almost carefully. For once, Mao couldn’t stand it,
“Do you only ever sigh at life these days, old man?” Mao scolded somewhat moodily, finally retracting his hand from the soft skin of his palm and shuffling records on the shelf in front of him in a forced pretence to be productive, “I happen to be very troubled.”
“About?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Oh, come on boy. Out with it. I’ve heard worse. Did I ever tell you about the Great Jellyfish Accident of ’63?”
“Yes. About a million times.” Mao mumbled under his breath. He was in such a bad mood today; a grey dullness that had latched onto him like that jellyfish on Sensei’s -
“- Well, suit yourself.” Sensei huffed, turning back to his newspaper, “Was only offering an ear to the troubled mind that desired it.”
Mao tried to take a cleansing breath behind the safety of the tall shelf; wondering if he had any room in this frustrated space of his to even consider what reckless life teaching Sensei had to offer him for this one,
“Have you ever been in love, Sensei?” Mao muttered mechanically at last, outstretching his fingers again and smiling at the memory of Kyo’s hand on his.
Behind his newspaper, Sensei shrugged, in as much a robotic arrangement as Mao’s own voice, “Like a magpie to a diamond.”
“Yes, but…” Mao hesitated, “… Has that person ever been, you know… different?”
“Boy, there wouldn’t be any excitement in love if they weren’t.”
“No, I mean, a different kind of different.”
A corner of the newspaper slid down and a shade of Sensei’s aviator glinted at Mao from across the room, “What kind of different?”
Mao flinched inwardly at the underlying suspicion lacing Sensei’s voice, yet let his thumb glide over his palm again, feeling his pallid skin tingle warmly,
“I just meant…” Mao broke off; reconsidering it as his cheeks flushed hotly. Of course it had only occurred to him now that telling Sensei this was probably a bad idea. The man was old fashioned, not exactly accepting of these sorts of issues that made no sense to his generation.
Mao scoffed at his own conclusion; As if being gay has made sense to anyone in this day and age…
“You know what?” Mao started, letting go of his palm at long last, “Never mind, i-it doesn’t matter.” Mao rushed his words out hurriedly, breathing out a brief goodbye as it neared 6pm and the end of his shift, grabbing his jacket and closing the shop door behind him before Sensei even had the chance to say anything more.
Outside, Mao inhaled the spring air like he’d just experienced an asthma attack. Despite the thoughts about his sexuality whirling in a merry-go-round of uncertainty in his head, Mao knew, as much as he trusted Sensei with his life, there were just some things that maybe the old man couldn’t fix after all,
“ii janai ka?” Mao whispered into the wind.
*
Part Two is HERE