fic for allodole
For: allodole
From: satsumatsu
Title: Tokyo, 90 degrees, fine
Pairing: Ninomiya Kazunari / Matsumoto Jun
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: He changed his address often enough, but strangely, he always found his way back to Tokyo for one reason or another. Though if he was completely honest with himself, there was just one.
Notes: Dear allodole, your prompt was challenging because I wanted to include as much as I could. (There are the 1930s and the 1940s, there’s Jazz, there is glimpse-and-you-will-miss-the-wall-sex--obviously I can’t write smut). Nino’s character and life is based on Fumio Nanri. So all the stops and musicians in this story are based on his biography.
He changed his address often enough, but strangely, he always found his way back to Tokyo for one reason or another. Though if he was completely honest with himself, there was just one.
1924
Graduating felt like a relief--really--if it didn’t cause his first band to disband. He called it a band because it sounded cool in front of his sister, but in reality it was just the school orchestra owned by the Takashiyama chain. It was the first group he ever joined.
He attempted to play the first weak sounds from his trumpet back in the days when he had still lived in Osaka where he was born and his mother still stayed. He had been a boy of mere seven years, telling everybody who had wanted to hear that he would form his own band one day--and if no one wanted to play with him... didn’t matter, then it would be a one-member-band. So, he had continued practising in Hiroshima where he had dwelt for a year with his aunt when his mother went through the divorce.
He had played in Kobe, soon joining the school’s orchestra on his sister’s behalf--he wouldn’t have cared, seriously, playing alone, teaching himself from jazz recordings on the radio until his sister’s husband would come up and ask him to stop, please.
He was obsessed with jazz--the rhythm, the flow, the feeling it would give him (relaxed, cool, aloof). His sister teased him often about it, calling the relationship with his trumpet symbiotic and if he didn’t pay attention, one day it would be glued to his mouth. She was right though; that once he was hooked on something, he wouldn’t let go.
The change of locations didn’t make him more sociable or open as one would read in novels. He even developed a certain aversion against kids his age or just kids in general, maybe due to the constant bullying or due to the fact he really did prefer spending time on his own. He was a loner, and the only thing that made him more sociable was his trumpet and in addition, the school band.
But after graduation, Nino did not find any reason to stay in Kobe, so he returned to his mother in Osaka, where he knew the jazz scene was larger, wider and oh the possibilities. There were close to twenty dance halls he could launch out without any trouble. He was young. He was talented enough and he was able to adapt fast to an orchestra. He was sure Osaka was the town where he could self-actualize. A town where he could settle.
1927
The first thing Nino saw of Tokyo, having slept through the long train ride from Osaka, was the red brick building of the Manseibashi Station where he arrived, giving him a feel of something more European than Japanese. He stepped through the tall, imposing building to the exit. Red street cars greeted him, rushing from side to side and ringing alarmingly on their way. He looked up the brick facade once more in wonder of just how much Japan was changing these days. Just a few meters away, the usual wooden Japanese buildings lined up neatly, appearing tiny and dirty in comparison. He preferred them anyway.
Nino once again studied the address his former conductor scribbled hastily on a newspaper sheet. Ida Ichiro. Actually, he was lucky to get a recommendation and a new workplace in a foreign city; municipal officials had previously issued ordinances that forced the dance halls in Osaka to close, leaving Nino empty handed (so much for settling in Osaka) if Takahashi-san had not advised him to switch to the jazz scene in Tokyo--and from what he had heard, Ida’s jazz orchestra wasn’t the worst to swap to. Just that it had to be Tokyo bothered Nino. He never wanted to live in the capital--too big, too noisy, too gray; even in comparison to Osaka.
But there he was, waiting for the right streetcar to turn up within the masses of rushing red vehicles. Fastening his trumpet case, he gripped his suitcase harder to assure it was still there in midst all the hustle and bustle while he observed the people around him. Indeed, Tokyo had a different flair, it was urbane. He wasn’t too sure if he would fit.
He tapped with his toe-cap the rhythm of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” on the sand, humming along under his breath as he spotted a boy, around his age, not too far away from him, waiting in the first line with a huge trombone case on his back. Curiously, Nino eyed him from top to toe. His posture was as straight as a stick despite its weight. From where Nino stood, facing the other from the side, he could see his high cheekbones framed by flashily curled hair. His coat was black and tailored just right, his shoes long and elegant, giving him a sophisticated air despite his young age. He idly studied his notebook with a slight frown, biting his lower lip.
Nino watched him chew his lip until suddenly, the boy looked up and turned his head right to where Nino stood. Nino didn’t even have time to avert his eyes. The boy raised a disapproving eyebrow. Those eyebrows had something very outstanding (hilarious, really), underlining the aloof image Nino had gained just from looking at his back. Not willing to back down to somebody as snotty, Nino returned the gaze, raising an eyebrow himself.
Their eyes were locked until Nino’s tram blocked his view. He entered the streetcar, catching a seat and slumping down on it in relief. He looked outside the window to search for the boy but he was nowhere to be seen. Then the tramp took off and Nino had to brace himself for a ride full of ringing, swearing, full braking and turns at a ridiculously fast pace. He clutched at his trumpet case a little sick once he reached his station and finally his new orchestra.
The band itself was, like most big bands, an all purpose group which served up dance, novelty, waltz and jazz arrangements. Nino quite liked the new earned ability to play that range of pieces. Though Ida turned out to be a strange man with a squeaky voice when excited, Nino wouldn’t complain. He bowed in front of the troop while they polished their instruments or studied the note sheets. There was an uninterested chorus of murmur and once he lifted his head, his eyes came across raised eyebrows. Unique raised eyebrows.
Coincidences, Nino thought with a grin as he headed towards the quite offending boy.
That promised a rather up-and-coming start and after two months, he had already established some kind of routine. Playing until late night, sleeping until midday, practicing “Sing Song Girl” in his jumpy variations or writing his own sets until his neighbor hammered against the thin wooden walls. He still didn’t bother too much with the names of each members. But he bothered with Matsumoto. That boy, a wanna-be trombone player, always dressed in crisp chemises and vests and shiny shoes, despite his god damn age. It was irritating. He was aloof, giving the an elite air though his performance wasn’t the best; often enough, he missed the cue. That was irritating, too.
Nino snapped at him more often than not--not only because he played just plain wrong at times, but because he was that kind of guy who clearly got everything because of his looks (and knew it full well!). From Nino’s point of view, Matsumoto wasn’t talented enough to be part of this orchestra, or any orchestra, really. Nino told him that often enough but Matsumoto always just gave him that bored expression, that look that seemed to tell And who are you to tell me that?’, before turning around and walking away, swaying his hips so damn girly that Nino clenched his fists.
He didn’t like Matsumoto, but that didn’t help the fact that Matsumoto was pretty--that kind of pretty where one would find himself pressing the other against the nearest wall after practise, bodies flushed against each other. There was heat, there was tongue, teeth, fingertips pressing into his shoulders a tick too hard and too needy.
The kind of pretty where one would trace soft skin and moan into the flesh, leaving damp spots. The kind of pretty Nino wanted to bite.
Matsumoto was shuddering helplessly beneath him, moaning deliciously and Nino’s hand just slipped beneath the dress pants, feeling more skin, kneading, groping, leaving Matsumoto’s breath ragged, when Ida caught them.
Two months after joining, Nino was thrown out.
1929
Over time, Nino earned himself a name--a reputation of a trumpeter with flowing logic, rhythmic subtlety and drive. The other side of the coin was his undeniable image of a playboy. Often enough, he was caught fooling around not only with Matsumoto, although he spent most of his time with Matsumoto. But Matsumoto was a man of privacy and knew how to hide his troublesome predilection. Nino couldn’t say he was too fond of the other (he was neurotic, for god’s sake) but that didn’t impair the fact that Matsumoto just got prettier, more handsome even, each day and that was hard to resist, though he had never seen himself as a man liking pretty things.
How the press got wind of his affairs, he wouldn’t know or care. Just like he wouldn’t tend to set up his own reputation as a trumpeter. All he wanted was to make music, and with that he was very much content.
Hence, he couldn’t guess how Teddy Weatherford would know him, honestly, but there he was, in Shanghai, sitting at the world’s longest bar, sipping expensive whisky, chuckling to himself in his rather grown state of drunkenness.
Matsumoto would love this--no, he would appreciate this while Nino couldn’t bring himself to. He could sit in his old shabby room in Tokyo, drinking cheap sake and would not feel any difference. And he would prefer the latter by far.
He laid his cheek on the unpolished mahogany surface, his vision already blurred around the edges.
“Heh~ from here you can even see the curvature of the earth,” he attempted a joke, a little slurred.
“Boy,” Teddy was laughing beside him, his American accent strong and funny to Nino. He was a solid and tall figure next to him; they must have made a strange couple. His hands, gripping his own whisky glass, were huge like paws compared to Nino’s and still he was a marvelous jazz piano player, even willing to teach Nino (in any kind of aspects, really).
In the background, the second shift on duty played “Sing Song Girl”, a piece Nino long mastered by now which put a smug smile on his face while tapping along the rhythm.
They sat at the end of the bar, having finished their session for the day. Moving down the length of the bar was like moving down the social scale; managers and fancy taipans sat at the other end of the room.[1] The club itself had a strong restricted membership to the white males of the higher class--close to a British men’s club as Teddy told him the day he arrived. That Nino was able to sit here counted as a privilege. (You wouldn’t know how to appreciate at all, Matsumoto's sharp voice berated in his head, and for a brief second, Nino wondered just how drunk he was.)
But indeed, unlike him, Matsumoto would merge into the atmosphere, would blend in perfectly. Nino imagined him in one of his fancy suits and elegant leather shoes, swirling his whisky glass in a smooth movement, starting from his wrist. He would look straight forward rather than at Nino while he spoke with a pleasant smile on his lips.
Shanghai was stylish, if Nino had to describe it. Truly, it was more a city for someone like Matsumoto rather than himself. Nino thought he could tease Matsumoto at least a little about it, that they called for Nino and not him. But Matsumoto, the ever so handsome Matsumoto, just continued to button up his starched chemise and smiled at him when Nino had casually mentioned it.
“That’s cool,” he had said, nothing more. Nino remembered how his white shirt had made his sheets appear even more dirty, gray, although they were supposed to be just as white.
Nino tottered down Nanjing Road. The streets were still pulsating with music, alcohol and laughter.
“Write a postcard?” Matsumoto had continued, and it had sounded teasing, knowing that Nino wouldn’t. “From the city of sin, opulence and adventures.”
Just with that remark, he had made his jealousy clear. But at the same time, there was amusement simply for the fact that Nino would have to adapt to the scene, having to wear the same chic suits like Matsumoto did and gave off the same air of sleek arrogance.
“I will have my errant affair do that.”
Matsumoto had raised an eyebrow. “Another one? I highly doubt it.” He had smiled a little bitterly, now that Nino remembered. “That’s too much to handle for you: too many affairs, too much trouble. You’re a lazy guy, Ninomiya-san,” Matsumoto had sing-songed then, grabbing his trombone case. “You settled with me even though you can’t stand me.”
Nino chuckled at the memory. Matsumoto had been just partially right. It wasn’t really a matter of sloth.
He was still humming "Sing Song Girl" on his way to his apartment, walking down the long road where western buildings lined up, neat and impressive, just like the ones in Tokyo. Only the kanji of the shop signs gave away the fact that he was indeed still in Asia, leaving Nino to feel a huge discrepancy.
He came across the early newspapers headlines, decoding the kanji he knew.
“Epidemic of meningitis.”
“Many communists were killed in a major surprise gangster attack.”
He chuckled under his breath, clearly picturing Matsumoto scraping every tiny piece of each newspaper on the status in Shanghai. He wouldn’t admit it, but Matsumoto was the kind of person who cared too much and worried too often, even about a playboy like Nino.
Matsumoto was a sheep in wolf’s clothing. He played hard-to-get and offish, but once Nino had him, he softened--melted, so to say. He was that kind of guy who loved it rough and would trace random patterns on Nino’s skin afterwards, absentmindedly. Nino smiled at the thought, chuckling fondly until he stopped amid and realization hit him--far away, on the Nanjing Road in Shanghai--that it was that change, the tsundere personality, that made Nino come back to Matsumoto Jun over the years. It was so absurd, he rubbed his face exasperatedly.
Four months. Four months more and he would be in Tokyo again--his very own city of opulence and sin.
1930
Jun was waiting for him at the Manseibashi Station exit. Nino spotted him from afar, even though his hair was different--straight and sleek with pomade that Nino got the urge to just bury his hands into, if only to mess it up. It took mere seconds from there until his mind started with pictures, flashes of scenes--of Jun’s mouth around his cock and his hands indeed in Jun’s sleek hair, gripping harshly, only to release him soon to trace along his jaw smearing the pomade in process, then forcing Jun to stop and look up, mouth hot against his own--until Jun noticed him with a smile.
“Ninomiya-san~” It sounded taunting, as if he just had to look at him to know what Nino was thinking. “Welcome back.”
“I’m back,” Nino couldn’t help but mutter, wincing at the oddness of it.
Jun laughed, sprawling an arm around his shoulder to drag him forward. To his apartment, Nino hoped, but he was wrong.
“I want you to meet someone,” was all Jun offered while entering the streetcar and claiming the window seat. Nino sighed heavily, placing his trumpet case carefully next to him. So much to pomade on Jun’s jaw, damn it.
Soon enough he found himself in front of a bird shop. Cages, angled or rotund, piling up in endless colors. The chirping was loud, too loud, drowning the melody Nino recognized as “Lil’ Liza Jane”, and it was only a matter of time that it became nerve wrecking. He winced at the even louder, even higher “Jun-chan~”.
Jun-chan. One had to savor that.
A man appeared from behind the cages. He was bouncy, if Nino had to describe him, tall in his looks and clearly delighted as the sunny smile gave away.
“Aiba-san,” Jun bowed but a smile was visible on his face. It was fond.
“Ninomiya, I want you to meet Aiba-san. He plays the sax at Cherryland.”
Nino bowed while Aiba chirped, “Ninomiya-san, what a pleasure! Really a pleasure!” He bowed. “I’ve been waiting ag--OW!”, he bumped into a cage in his excitement, affronting a poor parrot. Aiba bowed repeatedly to the bird in process while mumbling distractedly, “That’s why I wanted Jun-chan to introduce us--wait a moment!”
And with that he vanished, leaving Nino a little dumbfounded in front of the cages and birds. Jun was already inspecting them curiously and after a minute while Aiba was nowhere to be seen, he joined Jun, who was bowing in front of a red cage, inserting his long digit through the filigree fence, cooing at a particular blue budgerigar which was somehow shrinking away, leaving Jun looking hurt in process. That scene itself was beyond cute and still, Jun managed to maintain a clear image of grace; in the way he bowed, the way his arm reached out or the way his coat crinkled just perfect at the crook of his arm--it drove Nino mad.
He leaned close, aspirating a “Pretty...” into Jun’s ear.
“Isn’t it?” Jun asked. "They are really popular right now."
“I didn’t mean the bird.”
Jun blushed. And in that moment, Nino knew it had been too long for him as well. Relief washed over him, knowing that he still somehow had Jun, affirming it not much later when he was writhing underneath him on his ever gray sheets.
1932
The ship was stodge, leaving him pressed like a sardine into the railing. That was like a cherry on top of his seasickness.
“There!” An arm shot out beside him, finger pointing to the tall white tower, the ferry building of San Francisco still far away. “We’re there!”
Nino couldn’t help but smile. Jun was excited. He knew Jun would be excited. If Nino were alone, he would have stayed in the least shaking corner of the ship, miserable and self-pitying. But this time Jun had tagged along and forced Nino to stay with him on deck when the captain announced land.
Nino didn't know what he would do without Jun's excitement keeping him distracted.
“San Francisco,” Jun said beside him, trying to pronounce it just right and very American that Nino had to chuckle.
Jack Coakley invited Nino to play in his orchestra, having seen him in Shanghai. His orchestra played at Tait's in San Francisco, and it had the reputation to be one of the most distinctive of the Bay Area; it was out of question for Nino not to go. Plus the deal of free board and lodging if he was willing to do some extra shifts at the Hotel Vitale was an extra cookie. Coakley even asked if Nino could recommend other musicians, wanting to bring an exotic image into his band.
Of course he had suggested Jun. Maybe he could've recommended Aiba as well. That boy got some talent, glowing with his sax, with his energy--their occasional jam sessions just proved that--but he didn't sleep with Aiba. That boy was as straight as an arrow.
The closer they got to the shore, the more people came into view. It was crowded, it was busy, there was shouting in English, there was Jun jumping beside him and for a moment, it was all too much, leaving Nino dizzy and uncomfortable. It vanished almost instantly once they set foot on land and America greeted them in all its glory and Americanness.
They squeezed their way through the docks, reaching the long market hall until finally, they were able to breathe. Jun’s eyes were huge like saucers, like a kid in a candy store, his hand actually on Nino’s elbow not to get lost. Nino found it highly amusing, seeing Jun so insecure, haltingly curious and nescient.
They made their way through colorful candy stands, tobacco vendors and flower ladies.
“San Francisco!” Jun repeated, whistling. Nino laughed.
They reached the Hotel Vitale within minutes and checked in within seconds. It offered a great view from each window on the ferry building and the bridge. It felt so very much American, from the western beds and the curved chairs and fluffy cushions to the hotel’s own restaurant, the Americano. Jun had dragged him in there instantly and Nino could have bet it was only because of the name. Ironically, ever since they first tasted the Americano’s hamburger steaks, it was Nino who dragged Jun there, frequently visiting in the late afternoon. Every time, they would favor the outdoor seats with the view on the palm trees and pier 39, dining on typical North Carolina cuisine only to play the finest jazz six hours later.
In San Francisco, everything was filled with jazz. There was simply no spot one could pass by without catching bits and pieces of “My Baby Just Cares For Me” or “Come Easy Go Easy Love”. The music was better, jazzier, and in some cases, more exciting than everything else Nino had heard and played before. It made him glow with unusual energy and enthusiasm when he played with the Americans.
They often ended the evening with the equally popular piece “My Future Just Passed” as a good night note and Jun would always bow to the other orchestra members, earning himself a good-willed laugh, to which he would reply with a sheepish grin, not being able to forget his Japanese manners. Nino would watch him pack up with deliberate, practiced movements; would watch him polishing his trombone quickly with his long digits sliding over the tube, and Nino would be by his side already, hand on his elbow--an ever so silent demand.
More often than not, everything Jun did screamed of sex. For Nino, it came close to an addiction without--heaven forbid!--any great feelings of commitment. It worked out perfectly for both of them, Nino wanted to believe--not spending too much time contemplating how Jun could view the things and just took what the other was willing to give (which was plenty and damn satisfying enough).
It was like living off the fat of the land, those days.
1934
The rare days Nino actually was in Tokyo, touring through America after succeeding his successful San Francisco gig, Jun dragged him to go shopping; saying that if he was in the city--generously enough (there was a bitter undertone that Nino couldn't help but notice)--and wanted to spend time with Jun, Nino had to go along with Jun's plans. He didn’t care much at first, since it wasn’t his money, so he simply tagged along.
The Chuodori in Nihonbashi was busy that particular day in August, cars and streetcars fighting for dominance while Nino followed Jun around. It was hot, humid, sticky--he did mind then. He sighed as he observed Jun skipping through ensembles and socks and shoes as if he had all the time in the world; and how he changed from chemise to vests to simple shirts. Through the countless changes, Nino caught glimpses of skin--smooth and milky white. Quite fed up, he eventually let himself into the cabin to latch his tongue on the exposed skin. It tasted just as it looked like.
Jun himself showed very little resistance, biting on his hand to make no sound as Nino pushed in hurriedly, thrusting at a haphazard pace. Just the look on his face afterwards--the worried frown, the typical biting of his lower lip, not willing to meet Nino’s eyes--made Nino think that maybe Jun was at his limit; that the thing between them, whatever it was, would come to an end. The thought frightened Nino more than it should, more than he thought it would.
They stepped out of the store and were instantly swallowed by a swarm of busy people that was roaming on the shopping area from Nihonbashi to Ginza. Nino sweated in his suit, his chemise already soaked. He tugged his bowler down, following Jun and wondered where his own limit was.
1938
The winters of Ryojun, a part of Dailin, were cold, windy and dry. (Nino didn’t appreciate either but he didn’t appreciate a lot of things as Jun never got tired to tell him.) Even though he was in the north of China, he could feel something distinctly Japanese.
Here he belonged to the privileged Japanese minority. He played in the Perroquet Dance Hall. His boss was a fairly laid back, young guy--maybe a little older than him with sleepy eyes but quick slender fingers, playing the alt sax, and a great singing voice. Nino could have him he reckoned, and it wouldn't be his first away game besides Jun; he just didn’t. He would like to think it was a matter of the lack of time.
He visited Japan rather often those days, partly because he had the money, partly because several recordings were waiting for him. Every time Jun would fetch him from the Manseibashi Station, never refusing his wish to meet. Seeing the tall red brick building with Jun’s ever so straight and slender silhouette at the exit, Nino strangely got some sense of home.
Just recently, Nino had the feeling that he was somehow overwhelming Jun when having meet-ups and inevitably, sex. He was participating just so, his expression distant. It made Nino angry, rougher, shoving in without giving Jun the time to adjust while the other grunted in disapproval but not willing to show any discomfort.
This time, he stepped into the apartment building without Jun knowing that he would come. Fishing for his keys in his coat pockets, he could already hear Jun’s trombone from the hallway. He smiled the moment he noticed it, quickening his steps.
He opened the door, not bothering with his shoes when Jun was about to end "My future just passed" just like he did play in San Francisco way back. He was about to enter the living room when he heard someone clapping. He shoved the sliding door silently with just one hand, seeing Jun by the window, blushing, an embarrassed smile on his lips.
“You’re really good, Matsumoto-kun,” a man Nino didn’t recognize said, smiling kindly from the sofa chair, making Jun’s blush deepen.
Nino had never seen Jun so (damn) bashful.
“Indeed,” he interfered and Jun’s head snapped towards him, eyes wide with surprise, and soon enough, discomfort.
“Ninomiya, I didn’t expect you.”
“Surprise,” Nino answered dryly, his eyes flickering towards the man in the chair to make Jun introduce them. The man had intelligent eyes but a rather snotty aura--even just sitting like that, Nino could tell. Nino could also tell that it was just the type of man Jun would fall for--unlike himself.
“Ninomiya, this is Sakurai Sho, the columnist of the Japan Times,” Jun gestured smoothly, having overcome his initial surprise. “Sho-san, this is Ninomiya Kazunari, trumpeter and jazz pianist.”
“I know you,“ Sakurai nodded in approval. Nino wanted to punch him. “I truly admire your talent.”
“Thank you,” he said sweetly.
Jun smiled at him then. The same smile as ever and at the same time, he realized, a very different smile from the one he directed Sakurai with, as he said, “Sakurai-san, isn’t it getting late?” It was softer, kind and warm. It made Nino's stomach turn all over.
When Sakurai was gone, Jun closed the door unhurriedly, leaning against it with his back, watching Nino with searching eyes for a moment until he pulled himself from the door, heading towards the kitchen, probably to make some coffee.
"How are you, Ninomiya?" he asked while passing by him.
That moment, Nino understood that he had no right to seek more from Jun what he himself wasn’t willing to give.
1941
He was in Japan the day Pearl Harbour was all over the news, with Jun beside him at the breakfast table who turned rigid over the slightly contorted words from the radio he could so hardly believe.
Nino watched Jun’s expression shifting from disbelief to horror to pure angst, reaching out for his tea in strained silence.
Nino wanted to grasp his hand, which was laying on the kitchen table, but he didn’t. He couldn’t do it without giving away his own fear. Wordlessly, he stood and left the kitchen, the words of the announcer following him to the living room, repeating the news endlessly.
He breathed out slowly the instant his fingers touched the keys of his piano, playing the first notes of “When the Saints Go Marching in”. He moved swiftly across the keys, too fast. He let his fingers linger on the keys on each note more than necessary. He shook his head, too slow. What a poor attempt to simmer down.
And then, a warm hand landed on his shoulder, sliding to his chest just where his heart was racing.
1944
The station was foreign to him, like everything else he had seen so far in Tokyo. Nothing looked familiar anymore. No building seemed in its right place even if it were still standing, the missing surroundings leaving it strange and alienated.
Well, he wasn’t the same anymore. He hadn’t touched his trumpet for what felt like ages, didn’t slide his fingers over piano keys. He felt at loss, he felt off. At that point, nothing about himself felt familiar. So in hindsight, he had no right to demand that from Tokyo, right?
He had been called to the combat medic platoon and went into the service of Kurume, the 48th Military Unit. He had served only for a few months, but this had been enough to be left behind, traumatized and deranged. He would never forget the feeling of the blood seeping through his hands.
He felt forlorn walking along the abandoned platform of the station, wondering if anybody was even in this area.
In a letter that arrived while he was in combat, Jun told him that Manseibashi Station had already been destroyed back in 1943, and that he would fetch him from Chiba Station anytime, knowing that Nino would need a place to stay if he returned. In a rare calm minute, when he read those words, warmth spread through his stomach, reaching his fingertips. The words sounded so much softer in his head than he ever heard Jun speaking.
Then Nino spotted him at the entrance, dressed as proper as ever--a long trench coat and a hat on his head. Maybe he wanted to give Nino some sense of normality, but the frayed edges of his sleeves betrayed Jun’s intentions. He was scraggly, with dark rings under his eyes and his skin as pale as Nino’s.
Nino smiled warmly for a second. If he briefly wondered whether Jun would be really there to come for him, he shouldn’t have. Jun was forever in Tokyo.
Jun beheld him, and as soon as he did, he went to meet him half way, reaching out, suffocating him in a hug that truly left no room for breathing. Nino let himself fall, maybe for the first time, as Jun buried his face in the crook of his neck.
“You’re here!” He said, his voice muffled and a little puzzled, repeating it over and over again. His fingertips pressed into Nino’s shoulders to make sure. Nino could only nod.
That night, somewhere in Asahi in the summer house of Aiba’s family, Jun embraced him, carefully this time, as if not to break him, and Nino clung to him, trembling. Jun kissed his temple in hushed gestures, spilling one after another, rocking him back and forth through the sounds of sirens, through the heat radiating from the soil, through countless firebombs far away and still too near, coloring the midnight sky orange.
“I am here,” he whispered, and Nino could barely understand. “And I won’t leave.”
1946
“Tokyo, hot and dark, hidden and cowed; night and day, rumours of new weapons, fears of new bombs; first Hiroshima, then Nagasaki, next is Tokyo--”
Nino averted his eyes from the column, pinching the bridge of his nose in distress, folding the newspaper. He passed Tokyo Station, where blood-stained and desperate slogans like “Now is not a time to forget our obligations, they are who we are” or “It is time to reveal the true essence of the nation” were displayed.
He crossed the street towards Jun’s apartment while the the jackhammers worked on the new city in a steady ton-ton-ton-ton. Tokyo's reconstruction was relentless as it always had been, as if it was a natural disaster like the Great Kanto Earthquake rather than a World War. Tokyo was recovering fast. It was time he did the same.
He climbed up the wooden stairs, the sounds of a sax rehearsing already reaching his ears.
He had realized very late what he wanted, that he longed for normalcy, for steadiness, and steadiness was something precious these days when things were changing rapidly, when Tokyo was changing yet again. Nino did realize very late why he came back to Tokyo over the years. He had realized very late that it was one constant in the ever metamorphosing Tokyo which gave him some sense of home. It had not been the sight of the Manseibashi Station.
He opened the door, slipping out of his shoes and stepping onto the tatami.
He saw Aiba bowing over his sax in ecstasy with his eyes closed while Jun stood by the window, facing the scenery, his trombone on the sofa, the only furniture in the room--western and out of place. Satoshi was laying next to it, dozing off. Somehow the old man found his way back to Japan as well and somehow he found his way into Nino’s band.
Jun’s posture was as straight as a stick. Nino smiled softly.
He had realized it very late--there was a moment when he thought too late--that Jun was his constant. That he had visited Tokyo because of him all those times, addiction and more, making him return and return and return. It was a miracle to him now that Jun had been always there. Steady, not always willing, not always bright, but he had been always there.
He strode forward, reaching Jun in a few steps, before slipping his hands around his waist, leaning into his back while Jun turned around halfway, a mildly surprised smile creeping up his lips. A warm, fond and gentle smile. A smile made and formed only for him.
~
He changed his address often enough but he always found his way back to Tokyo for one reason or another. But in the end there was just one. Tokyo was his home, his place to return to, but only if Jun was there.
Oh dear, stop with the cheesiness, he said to himself and pinched Jun in the side.
[1] - Taipans was originally used to describe a foreign businessman in China
From: satsumatsu
Title: Tokyo, 90 degrees, fine
Pairing: Ninomiya Kazunari / Matsumoto Jun
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: He changed his address often enough, but strangely, he always found his way back to Tokyo for one reason or another. Though if he was completely honest with himself, there was just one.
Notes: Dear allodole, your prompt was challenging because I wanted to include as much as I could. (There are the 1930s and the 1940s, there’s Jazz, there is glimpse-and-you-will-miss-the-wall-sex--obviously I can’t write smut). Nino’s character and life is based on Fumio Nanri. So all the stops and musicians in this story are based on his biography.
He changed his address often enough, but strangely, he always found his way back to Tokyo for one reason or another. Though if he was completely honest with himself, there was just one.
1924
Graduating felt like a relief--really--if it didn’t cause his first band to disband. He called it a band because it sounded cool in front of his sister, but in reality it was just the school orchestra owned by the Takashiyama chain. It was the first group he ever joined.
He attempted to play the first weak sounds from his trumpet back in the days when he had still lived in Osaka where he was born and his mother still stayed. He had been a boy of mere seven years, telling everybody who had wanted to hear that he would form his own band one day--and if no one wanted to play with him... didn’t matter, then it would be a one-member-band. So, he had continued practising in Hiroshima where he had dwelt for a year with his aunt when his mother went through the divorce.
He had played in Kobe, soon joining the school’s orchestra on his sister’s behalf--he wouldn’t have cared, seriously, playing alone, teaching himself from jazz recordings on the radio until his sister’s husband would come up and ask him to stop, please.
He was obsessed with jazz--the rhythm, the flow, the feeling it would give him (relaxed, cool, aloof). His sister teased him often about it, calling the relationship with his trumpet symbiotic and if he didn’t pay attention, one day it would be glued to his mouth. She was right though; that once he was hooked on something, he wouldn’t let go.
The change of locations didn’t make him more sociable or open as one would read in novels. He even developed a certain aversion against kids his age or just kids in general, maybe due to the constant bullying or due to the fact he really did prefer spending time on his own. He was a loner, and the only thing that made him more sociable was his trumpet and in addition, the school band.
But after graduation, Nino did not find any reason to stay in Kobe, so he returned to his mother in Osaka, where he knew the jazz scene was larger, wider and oh the possibilities. There were close to twenty dance halls he could launch out without any trouble. He was young. He was talented enough and he was able to adapt fast to an orchestra. He was sure Osaka was the town where he could self-actualize. A town where he could settle.
1927
The first thing Nino saw of Tokyo, having slept through the long train ride from Osaka, was the red brick building of the Manseibashi Station where he arrived, giving him a feel of something more European than Japanese. He stepped through the tall, imposing building to the exit. Red street cars greeted him, rushing from side to side and ringing alarmingly on their way. He looked up the brick facade once more in wonder of just how much Japan was changing these days. Just a few meters away, the usual wooden Japanese buildings lined up neatly, appearing tiny and dirty in comparison. He preferred them anyway.
Nino once again studied the address his former conductor scribbled hastily on a newspaper sheet. Ida Ichiro. Actually, he was lucky to get a recommendation and a new workplace in a foreign city; municipal officials had previously issued ordinances that forced the dance halls in Osaka to close, leaving Nino empty handed (so much for settling in Osaka) if Takahashi-san had not advised him to switch to the jazz scene in Tokyo--and from what he had heard, Ida’s jazz orchestra wasn’t the worst to swap to. Just that it had to be Tokyo bothered Nino. He never wanted to live in the capital--too big, too noisy, too gray; even in comparison to Osaka.
But there he was, waiting for the right streetcar to turn up within the masses of rushing red vehicles. Fastening his trumpet case, he gripped his suitcase harder to assure it was still there in midst all the hustle and bustle while he observed the people around him. Indeed, Tokyo had a different flair, it was urbane. He wasn’t too sure if he would fit.
He tapped with his toe-cap the rhythm of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” on the sand, humming along under his breath as he spotted a boy, around his age, not too far away from him, waiting in the first line with a huge trombone case on his back. Curiously, Nino eyed him from top to toe. His posture was as straight as a stick despite its weight. From where Nino stood, facing the other from the side, he could see his high cheekbones framed by flashily curled hair. His coat was black and tailored just right, his shoes long and elegant, giving him a sophisticated air despite his young age. He idly studied his notebook with a slight frown, biting his lower lip.
Nino watched him chew his lip until suddenly, the boy looked up and turned his head right to where Nino stood. Nino didn’t even have time to avert his eyes. The boy raised a disapproving eyebrow. Those eyebrows had something very outstanding (hilarious, really), underlining the aloof image Nino had gained just from looking at his back. Not willing to back down to somebody as snotty, Nino returned the gaze, raising an eyebrow himself.
Their eyes were locked until Nino’s tram blocked his view. He entered the streetcar, catching a seat and slumping down on it in relief. He looked outside the window to search for the boy but he was nowhere to be seen. Then the tramp took off and Nino had to brace himself for a ride full of ringing, swearing, full braking and turns at a ridiculously fast pace. He clutched at his trumpet case a little sick once he reached his station and finally his new orchestra.
The band itself was, like most big bands, an all purpose group which served up dance, novelty, waltz and jazz arrangements. Nino quite liked the new earned ability to play that range of pieces. Though Ida turned out to be a strange man with a squeaky voice when excited, Nino wouldn’t complain. He bowed in front of the troop while they polished their instruments or studied the note sheets. There was an uninterested chorus of murmur and once he lifted his head, his eyes came across raised eyebrows. Unique raised eyebrows.
Coincidences, Nino thought with a grin as he headed towards the quite offending boy.
That promised a rather up-and-coming start and after two months, he had already established some kind of routine. Playing until late night, sleeping until midday, practicing “Sing Song Girl” in his jumpy variations or writing his own sets until his neighbor hammered against the thin wooden walls. He still didn’t bother too much with the names of each members. But he bothered with Matsumoto. That boy, a wanna-be trombone player, always dressed in crisp chemises and vests and shiny shoes, despite his god damn age. It was irritating. He was aloof, giving the an elite air though his performance wasn’t the best; often enough, he missed the cue. That was irritating, too.
Nino snapped at him more often than not--not only because he played just plain wrong at times, but because he was that kind of guy who clearly got everything because of his looks (and knew it full well!). From Nino’s point of view, Matsumoto wasn’t talented enough to be part of this orchestra, or any orchestra, really. Nino told him that often enough but Matsumoto always just gave him that bored expression, that look that seemed to tell And who are you to tell me that?’, before turning around and walking away, swaying his hips so damn girly that Nino clenched his fists.
He didn’t like Matsumoto, but that didn’t help the fact that Matsumoto was pretty--that kind of pretty where one would find himself pressing the other against the nearest wall after practise, bodies flushed against each other. There was heat, there was tongue, teeth, fingertips pressing into his shoulders a tick too hard and too needy.
The kind of pretty where one would trace soft skin and moan into the flesh, leaving damp spots. The kind of pretty Nino wanted to bite.
Matsumoto was shuddering helplessly beneath him, moaning deliciously and Nino’s hand just slipped beneath the dress pants, feeling more skin, kneading, groping, leaving Matsumoto’s breath ragged, when Ida caught them.
Two months after joining, Nino was thrown out.
1929
Over time, Nino earned himself a name--a reputation of a trumpeter with flowing logic, rhythmic subtlety and drive. The other side of the coin was his undeniable image of a playboy. Often enough, he was caught fooling around not only with Matsumoto, although he spent most of his time with Matsumoto. But Matsumoto was a man of privacy and knew how to hide his troublesome predilection. Nino couldn’t say he was too fond of the other (he was neurotic, for god’s sake) but that didn’t impair the fact that Matsumoto just got prettier, more handsome even, each day and that was hard to resist, though he had never seen himself as a man liking pretty things.
How the press got wind of his affairs, he wouldn’t know or care. Just like he wouldn’t tend to set up his own reputation as a trumpeter. All he wanted was to make music, and with that he was very much content.
Hence, he couldn’t guess how Teddy Weatherford would know him, honestly, but there he was, in Shanghai, sitting at the world’s longest bar, sipping expensive whisky, chuckling to himself in his rather grown state of drunkenness.
Matsumoto would love this--no, he would appreciate this while Nino couldn’t bring himself to. He could sit in his old shabby room in Tokyo, drinking cheap sake and would not feel any difference. And he would prefer the latter by far.
He laid his cheek on the unpolished mahogany surface, his vision already blurred around the edges.
“Heh~ from here you can even see the curvature of the earth,” he attempted a joke, a little slurred.
“Boy,” Teddy was laughing beside him, his American accent strong and funny to Nino. He was a solid and tall figure next to him; they must have made a strange couple. His hands, gripping his own whisky glass, were huge like paws compared to Nino’s and still he was a marvelous jazz piano player, even willing to teach Nino (in any kind of aspects, really).
In the background, the second shift on duty played “Sing Song Girl”, a piece Nino long mastered by now which put a smug smile on his face while tapping along the rhythm.
They sat at the end of the bar, having finished their session for the day. Moving down the length of the bar was like moving down the social scale; managers and fancy taipans sat at the other end of the room.[1] The club itself had a strong restricted membership to the white males of the higher class--close to a British men’s club as Teddy told him the day he arrived. That Nino was able to sit here counted as a privilege. (You wouldn’t know how to appreciate at all, Matsumoto's sharp voice berated in his head, and for a brief second, Nino wondered just how drunk he was.)
But indeed, unlike him, Matsumoto would merge into the atmosphere, would blend in perfectly. Nino imagined him in one of his fancy suits and elegant leather shoes, swirling his whisky glass in a smooth movement, starting from his wrist. He would look straight forward rather than at Nino while he spoke with a pleasant smile on his lips.
Shanghai was stylish, if Nino had to describe it. Truly, it was more a city for someone like Matsumoto rather than himself. Nino thought he could tease Matsumoto at least a little about it, that they called for Nino and not him. But Matsumoto, the ever so handsome Matsumoto, just continued to button up his starched chemise and smiled at him when Nino had casually mentioned it.
“That’s cool,” he had said, nothing more. Nino remembered how his white shirt had made his sheets appear even more dirty, gray, although they were supposed to be just as white.
Nino tottered down Nanjing Road. The streets were still pulsating with music, alcohol and laughter.
“Write a postcard?” Matsumoto had continued, and it had sounded teasing, knowing that Nino wouldn’t. “From the city of sin, opulence and adventures.”
Just with that remark, he had made his jealousy clear. But at the same time, there was amusement simply for the fact that Nino would have to adapt to the scene, having to wear the same chic suits like Matsumoto did and gave off the same air of sleek arrogance.
“I will have my errant affair do that.”
Matsumoto had raised an eyebrow. “Another one? I highly doubt it.” He had smiled a little bitterly, now that Nino remembered. “That’s too much to handle for you: too many affairs, too much trouble. You’re a lazy guy, Ninomiya-san,” Matsumoto had sing-songed then, grabbing his trombone case. “You settled with me even though you can’t stand me.”
Nino chuckled at the memory. Matsumoto had been just partially right. It wasn’t really a matter of sloth.
He was still humming "Sing Song Girl" on his way to his apartment, walking down the long road where western buildings lined up, neat and impressive, just like the ones in Tokyo. Only the kanji of the shop signs gave away the fact that he was indeed still in Asia, leaving Nino to feel a huge discrepancy.
He came across the early newspapers headlines, decoding the kanji he knew.
“Epidemic of meningitis.”
“Many communists were killed in a major surprise gangster attack.”
He chuckled under his breath, clearly picturing Matsumoto scraping every tiny piece of each newspaper on the status in Shanghai. He wouldn’t admit it, but Matsumoto was the kind of person who cared too much and worried too often, even about a playboy like Nino.
Matsumoto was a sheep in wolf’s clothing. He played hard-to-get and offish, but once Nino had him, he softened--melted, so to say. He was that kind of guy who loved it rough and would trace random patterns on Nino’s skin afterwards, absentmindedly. Nino smiled at the thought, chuckling fondly until he stopped amid and realization hit him--far away, on the Nanjing Road in Shanghai--that it was that change, the tsundere personality, that made Nino come back to Matsumoto Jun over the years. It was so absurd, he rubbed his face exasperatedly.
Four months. Four months more and he would be in Tokyo again--his very own city of opulence and sin.
1930
Jun was waiting for him at the Manseibashi Station exit. Nino spotted him from afar, even though his hair was different--straight and sleek with pomade that Nino got the urge to just bury his hands into, if only to mess it up. It took mere seconds from there until his mind started with pictures, flashes of scenes--of Jun’s mouth around his cock and his hands indeed in Jun’s sleek hair, gripping harshly, only to release him soon to trace along his jaw smearing the pomade in process, then forcing Jun to stop and look up, mouth hot against his own--until Jun noticed him with a smile.
“Ninomiya-san~” It sounded taunting, as if he just had to look at him to know what Nino was thinking. “Welcome back.”
“I’m back,” Nino couldn’t help but mutter, wincing at the oddness of it.
Jun laughed, sprawling an arm around his shoulder to drag him forward. To his apartment, Nino hoped, but he was wrong.
“I want you to meet someone,” was all Jun offered while entering the streetcar and claiming the window seat. Nino sighed heavily, placing his trumpet case carefully next to him. So much to pomade on Jun’s jaw, damn it.
Soon enough he found himself in front of a bird shop. Cages, angled or rotund, piling up in endless colors. The chirping was loud, too loud, drowning the melody Nino recognized as “Lil’ Liza Jane”, and it was only a matter of time that it became nerve wrecking. He winced at the even louder, even higher “Jun-chan~”.
Jun-chan. One had to savor that.
A man appeared from behind the cages. He was bouncy, if Nino had to describe him, tall in his looks and clearly delighted as the sunny smile gave away.
“Aiba-san,” Jun bowed but a smile was visible on his face. It was fond.
“Ninomiya, I want you to meet Aiba-san. He plays the sax at Cherryland.”
Nino bowed while Aiba chirped, “Ninomiya-san, what a pleasure! Really a pleasure!” He bowed. “I’ve been waiting ag--OW!”, he bumped into a cage in his excitement, affronting a poor parrot. Aiba bowed repeatedly to the bird in process while mumbling distractedly, “That’s why I wanted Jun-chan to introduce us--wait a moment!”
And with that he vanished, leaving Nino a little dumbfounded in front of the cages and birds. Jun was already inspecting them curiously and after a minute while Aiba was nowhere to be seen, he joined Jun, who was bowing in front of a red cage, inserting his long digit through the filigree fence, cooing at a particular blue budgerigar which was somehow shrinking away, leaving Jun looking hurt in process. That scene itself was beyond cute and still, Jun managed to maintain a clear image of grace; in the way he bowed, the way his arm reached out or the way his coat crinkled just perfect at the crook of his arm--it drove Nino mad.
He leaned close, aspirating a “Pretty...” into Jun’s ear.
“Isn’t it?” Jun asked. "They are really popular right now."
“I didn’t mean the bird.”
Jun blushed. And in that moment, Nino knew it had been too long for him as well. Relief washed over him, knowing that he still somehow had Jun, affirming it not much later when he was writhing underneath him on his ever gray sheets.
1932
The ship was stodge, leaving him pressed like a sardine into the railing. That was like a cherry on top of his seasickness.
“There!” An arm shot out beside him, finger pointing to the tall white tower, the ferry building of San Francisco still far away. “We’re there!”
Nino couldn’t help but smile. Jun was excited. He knew Jun would be excited. If Nino were alone, he would have stayed in the least shaking corner of the ship, miserable and self-pitying. But this time Jun had tagged along and forced Nino to stay with him on deck when the captain announced land.
Nino didn't know what he would do without Jun's excitement keeping him distracted.
“San Francisco,” Jun said beside him, trying to pronounce it just right and very American that Nino had to chuckle.
Jack Coakley invited Nino to play in his orchestra, having seen him in Shanghai. His orchestra played at Tait's in San Francisco, and it had the reputation to be one of the most distinctive of the Bay Area; it was out of question for Nino not to go. Plus the deal of free board and lodging if he was willing to do some extra shifts at the Hotel Vitale was an extra cookie. Coakley even asked if Nino could recommend other musicians, wanting to bring an exotic image into his band.
Of course he had suggested Jun. Maybe he could've recommended Aiba as well. That boy got some talent, glowing with his sax, with his energy--their occasional jam sessions just proved that--but he didn't sleep with Aiba. That boy was as straight as an arrow.
The closer they got to the shore, the more people came into view. It was crowded, it was busy, there was shouting in English, there was Jun jumping beside him and for a moment, it was all too much, leaving Nino dizzy and uncomfortable. It vanished almost instantly once they set foot on land and America greeted them in all its glory and Americanness.
They squeezed their way through the docks, reaching the long market hall until finally, they were able to breathe. Jun’s eyes were huge like saucers, like a kid in a candy store, his hand actually on Nino’s elbow not to get lost. Nino found it highly amusing, seeing Jun so insecure, haltingly curious and nescient.
They made their way through colorful candy stands, tobacco vendors and flower ladies.
“San Francisco!” Jun repeated, whistling. Nino laughed.
They reached the Hotel Vitale within minutes and checked in within seconds. It offered a great view from each window on the ferry building and the bridge. It felt so very much American, from the western beds and the curved chairs and fluffy cushions to the hotel’s own restaurant, the Americano. Jun had dragged him in there instantly and Nino could have bet it was only because of the name. Ironically, ever since they first tasted the Americano’s hamburger steaks, it was Nino who dragged Jun there, frequently visiting in the late afternoon. Every time, they would favor the outdoor seats with the view on the palm trees and pier 39, dining on typical North Carolina cuisine only to play the finest jazz six hours later.
In San Francisco, everything was filled with jazz. There was simply no spot one could pass by without catching bits and pieces of “My Baby Just Cares For Me” or “Come Easy Go Easy Love”. The music was better, jazzier, and in some cases, more exciting than everything else Nino had heard and played before. It made him glow with unusual energy and enthusiasm when he played with the Americans.
They often ended the evening with the equally popular piece “My Future Just Passed” as a good night note and Jun would always bow to the other orchestra members, earning himself a good-willed laugh, to which he would reply with a sheepish grin, not being able to forget his Japanese manners. Nino would watch him pack up with deliberate, practiced movements; would watch him polishing his trombone quickly with his long digits sliding over the tube, and Nino would be by his side already, hand on his elbow--an ever so silent demand.
More often than not, everything Jun did screamed of sex. For Nino, it came close to an addiction without--heaven forbid!--any great feelings of commitment. It worked out perfectly for both of them, Nino wanted to believe--not spending too much time contemplating how Jun could view the things and just took what the other was willing to give (which was plenty and damn satisfying enough).
It was like living off the fat of the land, those days.
1934
The rare days Nino actually was in Tokyo, touring through America after succeeding his successful San Francisco gig, Jun dragged him to go shopping; saying that if he was in the city--generously enough (there was a bitter undertone that Nino couldn't help but notice)--and wanted to spend time with Jun, Nino had to go along with Jun's plans. He didn’t care much at first, since it wasn’t his money, so he simply tagged along.
The Chuodori in Nihonbashi was busy that particular day in August, cars and streetcars fighting for dominance while Nino followed Jun around. It was hot, humid, sticky--he did mind then. He sighed as he observed Jun skipping through ensembles and socks and shoes as if he had all the time in the world; and how he changed from chemise to vests to simple shirts. Through the countless changes, Nino caught glimpses of skin--smooth and milky white. Quite fed up, he eventually let himself into the cabin to latch his tongue on the exposed skin. It tasted just as it looked like.
Jun himself showed very little resistance, biting on his hand to make no sound as Nino pushed in hurriedly, thrusting at a haphazard pace. Just the look on his face afterwards--the worried frown, the typical biting of his lower lip, not willing to meet Nino’s eyes--made Nino think that maybe Jun was at his limit; that the thing between them, whatever it was, would come to an end. The thought frightened Nino more than it should, more than he thought it would.
They stepped out of the store and were instantly swallowed by a swarm of busy people that was roaming on the shopping area from Nihonbashi to Ginza. Nino sweated in his suit, his chemise already soaked. He tugged his bowler down, following Jun and wondered where his own limit was.
1938
The winters of Ryojun, a part of Dailin, were cold, windy and dry. (Nino didn’t appreciate either but he didn’t appreciate a lot of things as Jun never got tired to tell him.) Even though he was in the north of China, he could feel something distinctly Japanese.
Here he belonged to the privileged Japanese minority. He played in the Perroquet Dance Hall. His boss was a fairly laid back, young guy--maybe a little older than him with sleepy eyes but quick slender fingers, playing the alt sax, and a great singing voice. Nino could have him he reckoned, and it wouldn't be his first away game besides Jun; he just didn’t. He would like to think it was a matter of the lack of time.
He visited Japan rather often those days, partly because he had the money, partly because several recordings were waiting for him. Every time Jun would fetch him from the Manseibashi Station, never refusing his wish to meet. Seeing the tall red brick building with Jun’s ever so straight and slender silhouette at the exit, Nino strangely got some sense of home.
Just recently, Nino had the feeling that he was somehow overwhelming Jun when having meet-ups and inevitably, sex. He was participating just so, his expression distant. It made Nino angry, rougher, shoving in without giving Jun the time to adjust while the other grunted in disapproval but not willing to show any discomfort.
This time, he stepped into the apartment building without Jun knowing that he would come. Fishing for his keys in his coat pockets, he could already hear Jun’s trombone from the hallway. He smiled the moment he noticed it, quickening his steps.
He opened the door, not bothering with his shoes when Jun was about to end "My future just passed" just like he did play in San Francisco way back. He was about to enter the living room when he heard someone clapping. He shoved the sliding door silently with just one hand, seeing Jun by the window, blushing, an embarrassed smile on his lips.
“You’re really good, Matsumoto-kun,” a man Nino didn’t recognize said, smiling kindly from the sofa chair, making Jun’s blush deepen.
Nino had never seen Jun so (damn) bashful.
“Indeed,” he interfered and Jun’s head snapped towards him, eyes wide with surprise, and soon enough, discomfort.
“Ninomiya, I didn’t expect you.”
“Surprise,” Nino answered dryly, his eyes flickering towards the man in the chair to make Jun introduce them. The man had intelligent eyes but a rather snotty aura--even just sitting like that, Nino could tell. Nino could also tell that it was just the type of man Jun would fall for--unlike himself.
“Ninomiya, this is Sakurai Sho, the columnist of the Japan Times,” Jun gestured smoothly, having overcome his initial surprise. “Sho-san, this is Ninomiya Kazunari, trumpeter and jazz pianist.”
“I know you,“ Sakurai nodded in approval. Nino wanted to punch him. “I truly admire your talent.”
“Thank you,” he said sweetly.
Jun smiled at him then. The same smile as ever and at the same time, he realized, a very different smile from the one he directed Sakurai with, as he said, “Sakurai-san, isn’t it getting late?” It was softer, kind and warm. It made Nino's stomach turn all over.
When Sakurai was gone, Jun closed the door unhurriedly, leaning against it with his back, watching Nino with searching eyes for a moment until he pulled himself from the door, heading towards the kitchen, probably to make some coffee.
"How are you, Ninomiya?" he asked while passing by him.
That moment, Nino understood that he had no right to seek more from Jun what he himself wasn’t willing to give.
1941
He was in Japan the day Pearl Harbour was all over the news, with Jun beside him at the breakfast table who turned rigid over the slightly contorted words from the radio he could so hardly believe.
Nino watched Jun’s expression shifting from disbelief to horror to pure angst, reaching out for his tea in strained silence.
Nino wanted to grasp his hand, which was laying on the kitchen table, but he didn’t. He couldn’t do it without giving away his own fear. Wordlessly, he stood and left the kitchen, the words of the announcer following him to the living room, repeating the news endlessly.
He breathed out slowly the instant his fingers touched the keys of his piano, playing the first notes of “When the Saints Go Marching in”. He moved swiftly across the keys, too fast. He let his fingers linger on the keys on each note more than necessary. He shook his head, too slow. What a poor attempt to simmer down.
And then, a warm hand landed on his shoulder, sliding to his chest just where his heart was racing.
1944
The station was foreign to him, like everything else he had seen so far in Tokyo. Nothing looked familiar anymore. No building seemed in its right place even if it were still standing, the missing surroundings leaving it strange and alienated.
Well, he wasn’t the same anymore. He hadn’t touched his trumpet for what felt like ages, didn’t slide his fingers over piano keys. He felt at loss, he felt off. At that point, nothing about himself felt familiar. So in hindsight, he had no right to demand that from Tokyo, right?
He had been called to the combat medic platoon and went into the service of Kurume, the 48th Military Unit. He had served only for a few months, but this had been enough to be left behind, traumatized and deranged. He would never forget the feeling of the blood seeping through his hands.
He felt forlorn walking along the abandoned platform of the station, wondering if anybody was even in this area.
In a letter that arrived while he was in combat, Jun told him that Manseibashi Station had already been destroyed back in 1943, and that he would fetch him from Chiba Station anytime, knowing that Nino would need a place to stay if he returned. In a rare calm minute, when he read those words, warmth spread through his stomach, reaching his fingertips. The words sounded so much softer in his head than he ever heard Jun speaking.
Then Nino spotted him at the entrance, dressed as proper as ever--a long trench coat and a hat on his head. Maybe he wanted to give Nino some sense of normality, but the frayed edges of his sleeves betrayed Jun’s intentions. He was scraggly, with dark rings under his eyes and his skin as pale as Nino’s.
Nino smiled warmly for a second. If he briefly wondered whether Jun would be really there to come for him, he shouldn’t have. Jun was forever in Tokyo.
Jun beheld him, and as soon as he did, he went to meet him half way, reaching out, suffocating him in a hug that truly left no room for breathing. Nino let himself fall, maybe for the first time, as Jun buried his face in the crook of his neck.
“You’re here!” He said, his voice muffled and a little puzzled, repeating it over and over again. His fingertips pressed into Nino’s shoulders to make sure. Nino could only nod.
That night, somewhere in Asahi in the summer house of Aiba’s family, Jun embraced him, carefully this time, as if not to break him, and Nino clung to him, trembling. Jun kissed his temple in hushed gestures, spilling one after another, rocking him back and forth through the sounds of sirens, through the heat radiating from the soil, through countless firebombs far away and still too near, coloring the midnight sky orange.
“I am here,” he whispered, and Nino could barely understand. “And I won’t leave.”
1946
“Tokyo, hot and dark, hidden and cowed; night and day, rumours of new weapons, fears of new bombs; first Hiroshima, then Nagasaki, next is Tokyo--”
Nino averted his eyes from the column, pinching the bridge of his nose in distress, folding the newspaper. He passed Tokyo Station, where blood-stained and desperate slogans like “Now is not a time to forget our obligations, they are who we are” or “It is time to reveal the true essence of the nation” were displayed.
He crossed the street towards Jun’s apartment while the the jackhammers worked on the new city in a steady ton-ton-ton-ton. Tokyo's reconstruction was relentless as it always had been, as if it was a natural disaster like the Great Kanto Earthquake rather than a World War. Tokyo was recovering fast. It was time he did the same.
He climbed up the wooden stairs, the sounds of a sax rehearsing already reaching his ears.
He had realized very late what he wanted, that he longed for normalcy, for steadiness, and steadiness was something precious these days when things were changing rapidly, when Tokyo was changing yet again. Nino did realize very late why he came back to Tokyo over the years. He had realized very late that it was one constant in the ever metamorphosing Tokyo which gave him some sense of home. It had not been the sight of the Manseibashi Station.
He opened the door, slipping out of his shoes and stepping onto the tatami.
He saw Aiba bowing over his sax in ecstasy with his eyes closed while Jun stood by the window, facing the scenery, his trombone on the sofa, the only furniture in the room--western and out of place. Satoshi was laying next to it, dozing off. Somehow the old man found his way back to Japan as well and somehow he found his way into Nino’s band.
Jun’s posture was as straight as a stick. Nino smiled softly.
He had realized it very late--there was a moment when he thought too late--that Jun was his constant. That he had visited Tokyo because of him all those times, addiction and more, making him return and return and return. It was a miracle to him now that Jun had been always there. Steady, not always willing, not always bright, but he had been always there.
He strode forward, reaching Jun in a few steps, before slipping his hands around his waist, leaning into his back while Jun turned around halfway, a mildly surprised smile creeping up his lips. A warm, fond and gentle smile. A smile made and formed only for him.
~
He changed his address often enough but he always found his way back to Tokyo for one reason or another. But in the end there was just one. Tokyo was his home, his place to return to, but only if Jun was there.
Oh dear, stop with the cheesiness, he said to himself and pinched Jun in the side.
[1] - Taipans was originally used to describe a foreign businessman in China