Night was setting in. Makoto glanced around. There were five others with him; the usual crowd. He ignored them, as they ignored him. But he was aware of them, as they were aware of him. It was a game they played, a competition silent, yet fierce. The wait, watching the trucks come by, dumping their loads, then leaving, waiting to see who would be the first to break.

This night, it was Sticksan, elderly and dignified; one of the mighty brought low who still ironed his clothing. Maybe he’d even been company president once. Had probably fired men in the past. Now he scrounged in the local dump, as they all did. Probably hated the irony. He sauntered out next. He didn’t care when he went out, as long as he wasn’t first, and wasn’t last.

He held his territory as he poked among the new bags. He took his time and picked up a few decent shirts and a pair of jeans he could roll up a bit, some magazines, some old comics, a big cushion with only a minor rip. Amazing what the rich threw out. He flicked a glance to his left and bit his lip. Wheezersan was gloating over a nice, big frying pan. Some had all the luck. He turned back to his turf, shoved what he’d found in his duffle bag and firked around the remaining bags.

Nothing.

“Ksou.” He kicked a pile of garbage to the side and stubbed his toe on something hard. Mou. He toed the dirty sheet out of the way to find a wooden box.

How interesting.

He picked it up and opened the lid. What he saw made his heart sink.

A notebook. It looked old. He picked it up gingerly; it looked none too robust. He flipped the pages without really reading it; it was just a diary. When he opened to the front though, his eyebrows rose. The first entry was dated March the first, 1876. Old. Antique, even. Perhaps it was even worth some money.

He replaced the diary into the box with care and shoved it into his bag. It was worth a shot, anyhow. He slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way back home. The sky seemed to slide into twilight right before his eyes. One or two early stars, the whisper of the trees, the silence. The dump seemed to snake tendrils of it’s own essence along the narrow streets; an air of abandonment, of what was thrown out followed him all the way home. Huddles of the homeless, dirty, cheap apartments, small, old shops that lingered. Most of the street lights worked, though.

A crisp spring breeze whipped his hair into his eyes, made him shiver. He tried to shove the unruly black mass behind his ears with his fingers while using his elbows to keep his coat close to indifferent results. He was about ready to rip his hair out at the roots when the dirty grey apartment block that was his home loomed up before him, with all the hospitality of a monolith of death.

He took the stairs; the elevator had given up years before, and the landlord even earlier. Room 31, right in a little nook on the corner, all by its self. Next to the elevator, of course, not the stairs.

The door was still locked.

If his arms weren’t full of his haul, he’d be tempted to go down on his knees and give thanks. Only last week he’d trudged by the apartments on his floor to find one door open and the sounds of breaking glass. He’d kept his face down and had hurried on. Whoever was doing the breaking, he didn’t wanna meet him. Why had the housebreaker bothered, anyway? Anyone with half a brain could see there was nothing worth stealing here. As it was, he glanced around, dumped the bag, fished his key out from his pocket and dragged the keychain up high enough to fit it into the lock. Doing so forced the crotch of his jeans up high enough to turn him briefly falsetto but somehow he never got around to lengthening it. Always tomorrow.

He threw open the door, toed off his shoes, shoved them into the shelving that flanked the genkan, and padded down the short corridor that led to the one main room - his bedroom. His eyes swept over the small room. A plain wooden floor, an unadorned iron bedpost with two mismatched mattresses on top to the left. A small, old bar fridge in the near right corner, a set of draws in the far right corner, a wardrobe with the doors missing along the right wall. Nothing more.

Still, it was his home. He opened his bag, tossed the diary on top of his bed, dumped the magazines and manga on top, then gathered up his ‘new’ clothes and dumped them in the small , old washing machine.

He then made himself a sandwich, grabbed some tea out of the fridge and settled down with the magazines. There were two women’s magazines that bored him senseless and a month-old music magazine that he enjoyed very much. On impulse, he shoved the CD of his favorite band in the DVD player he’d filched; the CD was due back at the library soon. As he listened, he grabbed his sketchpad and pencils and got to work on his latest drawing. He didn’t always draw; sometimes he went for walks, read books or watched movies on DVD; either at the library or at home.

The hours passed by quickly, as they always did when he was lost in the maelstrom of creation. The magic was there that night, and the result made his heart swell with quiet pride. He held the sketchpad back at arm’s length and contemplated. A warrior caught in the rush of battle. His long hair was swept up into a high ponytail and it whipped in the unseen wind. His purple keikogi top and black hakama pants flared as his body twisted to the downward rush of the katana. The warrior’s chiseled features and narrow gaze was determined.

He’d captured him exactly how he’d appeared in his dreams. It wasn’t every day it came out just right. He let out a happy sigh and cleared up his room, returning everything to it’s rightful place. The dump he lived in wasn’t much; the least he could do was keep it tidy. As he cleared, his hand came down on the diary. He held it for a minute, opened the top draw of his set to put it away, then took it to bed with him. Maybe they’d be something in it to inspire a new drawing. He detoured to the bathroom, gave his teeth a scrub, hurried into his warm tracksuit, then snuggled under the covers and opened the diary with care.

March 01st, 1876

Well, it’s over. I’m not quite sure whether to be sorry or glad. I didn’t want to go in the first place, I didn’t enjoy all of it, I was even looking forward to this day when I would leave…but now that I’m on my way home again, I feel…lost. In the middle of a slender rope bridge that sways two hundred meters above a raging river below. Unsettled, uneasy, not belonging anywhere. I guess five years in a foreign country, especially those as bizarre as England and France, is bound to have an effect. It was interesting, and I learned a lot of new things, but I didn’t expect to leave feeling that strings were breaking. But I do. Strange, there’s no one to miss me now that I’m gone, and no one for me to miss, diplomatic relations only going so far. I’m going to miss so much that delightful bad smell look on people’s faces as I walk by. Ah well, my reception was as warm as a foreigner’s would be back home, I guess. So why the lost feeling? Must be the scones. Now that I’ve found them, how on earth can I live without them?

Of course, when I first came to England I was apprehensive over how I would be treated, so I read as much as I could that had previously been printed in magazines and periodicals, about Japan. I barely recognized my own homeland and people. On the whole the opinion has been quite amazingly generous, and therefore more than a little distorted. Blackwood san, whom I actually saw once in Edo, wrote that “…In it’s climate, it’s fertility, and it’s picturesque beauty, Japan is not equaled by any country on the face of the globe; while, as if to harmonize with it’s surpassing natural endowments, it is peopled by a race whose qualities are of the most amiable and winning description, and whose material prosperity has been so equalized as to insure happiness and contentment to all classes.” And this is the killer: “…We never saw two Japanese quarrel and beggars have yet to be introduced with other luxuries of Western civilization”. Well, I agree beggars weren’t introduced by Western civilization - I’ll bet my best katana all the beggars were hidden away whenever Blackwood strolled by - And lord, if they believe the Japanese never quarrel, they should have seen my father and my uncle have a face off! On the whole, I think I was considered an interesting exhibit at the Zoo that had escaped. A sort of frightened politeness from the ladies and blustering from the men. Ah, well. I’ve done my duty to Matsumoto san, it was for the most part very interesting, and now I can go back home where I belong.

Crossing the channel is proving to be a strain. Up and down, up and down, up and down…the next person who joyfully asks me if I’m glad the passage is so smooth as they skip around the deck is getting my katana through the belly, screw diplomatic relations.

March O4th

We arrived in Calais this afternoon, and not a moment too soon. It’s proved to be an interesting town, from what I saw of it. I had one day to wait for my train to depart, so I enjoyed myself strolling around the main city streets. The hotel was adequate, rather quaint, with lampposts out the front and a cobbled street. The food was interesting. Delicious, but strange. I can now boast to all I encounter back home that I have eaten ‘escargots’. They seemed to have a bland taste, their flavor was provided by sauce. Would it ever become popular at home, I wonder? The train itself is quite comfortable, I have a small bunk bed with all my crates and boxes piled up on top of each other. All my luggage takes up one carriage of the train by itself, so I am in the circumstance of being quite alone for the journey. At first I found the constant rocking motion and the rhythmic noise distracting, but now I find it soothing, somehow. Perhaps I feel somewhat like a unborn child safe inside it’s mother’s belly. Cut off from the outside world and quite alone. The scenery is beautiful. This morning I passed by mountains still snow-topped, majestic, but somewhat stark and lonely. When I think about it, the past four years has been that way, has it not? Majestic, but stark and lonely. I think perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten those snails, they obviously induce melancholy.

March 06th.

Today I passed through Moscow. There was only a brief stop in Germany, which is a shame, I would have liked to have seen more of it. Frankfurt had a most interesting atmosphere, rather “gothic”. I like this style very much.

I wish I knew what I was coming back to. It’s been five years since Meiji’s been restored to power and I really don’t know what the hell’s going on anymore. I hope whoever is governing Japan now is managing to pick up all the pieces. I don’t want to go home to find more civil war. I just want to go back to my house, find everything as it should be, draw, paint, and make music. I don’t even really care who governs Japan anymore, not really. It used to mean so much, I used to think I fought and killed for a noble cause….but now that Matsumoto sempai is gone, now that my family is gone, I just don’t care.

March 08th.

A strange day. It started out like the others, I woke up, changed my clothes and freshened up as much as possible, and moved into the dining cart for breakfast. Naturally I caused a fair amount of furtive looks and whispered comments, but after four years of it, I am almost immune, I just ignore them back. They all pretty much look the same anyway, especially the men, with their matching suits, matching hats, matching mutton-chop whiskers and Old Boy mentality. Let them scorn me if they want, one day Japan will rise to be a great economic power, I’m sure of it. In any case, I ate the more edible dishes, stashed some food away for lunch and hurried back to my own compartment. Inside I found a dirty old man rummaging around in my belongings - I forgot to say we’d made a brief stop some time earlier just as I’d started breakfast, I assume this man snuck on board, because I hadn’t seen him around before and he didn’t look the type to have the means of buying a ticket. He smelt bad. I asked the man what he thought he was doing, but he started screaming at me, god only knows what he was saying, it was nothing I recognized, then he started flailing a knife around. So I snatched my katana from where I’d left it and promptly ran him through. I didn’t want to kill him, but he left me no choice. So I had a bleeding carcass on my hands, I didn’t know what the hell to do, so in the end, I opened a window and shoved him through it. We were passing woodland at the time, he landed on slight embankment and rolled down. God only knows who he was, what he was doing in my compartment, and if he’ll even ever be found.

Strange.

March 9th

Arrived in Vladovistok today. Miserable, grey sort of a place. Still snow on the peaks, everything washed over with grim practicality. Glad I’m not staying here long. Will be stopping in HongKong, apparently.

March 10th

Today I started the last leg of the journey, on the Queen Elizabeth. I’ve been told by one individual that the journey will be mercifully brief, and then we shall land at Yokohama. My room is quite small, just a bed, a basin, and all my books and plants crowding up the rest of the space. I hope they’ll prove useful, because they’ve sure been annoying to haul around everywhere. I think they will be, and let’s face it, they’ll give me a distinct advantage. I’ll find a place as advisor to the government, impress them with my skill at English, French and modern technology, then retire to my home, to drink tea, indulge in the arts, and enjoy blessed solitude. The crew are a military sort, Englishmen based in Hong Kong with too much facial hair and a firm belief in England’s supremacy over the entire human race. Toss a pack of bushi warriors amongst the crowd and life would become interesting, I swear widespread mixing of the English and Japanese fills me with foreboding, my years in England taught me that. The ship itself is quite modern, large and supposedly a joy to travel on, but that’s what I was told when I left from Yokohama in the first place! Matsumoto sempai deliberately lied to me! Oh yes, smooth sailing indeed. We’re supposed to be hitting the rough water in the next two days or so and I have a bad feeling I know what’s in store.

March 17th.

As I feared - seasick!

March 21st

Dying…can’t write. Didn’t want my life to end this way. If anyone finds this, send it to the Sakurai estate, Ueno, Tokyo, Japan.

April 22nd

Feeling somewhat better now, I believe I might pull through after all. It appears we of the Sakurai family are tougher to kill than one would expect. According to the captain, we’ll be within sight of Yokohama tomorrow. More and more I’m looking forward to walking the corridors of my home again, feel the crunch of the tatami under my feet, to eat proper rice, to drink real tea. I admit I grew rather fond of Earl Gray, but nothing can beat real green tea. It’s a pity the sakura blossoms won’t be there to greet me. Nor anyone, I guess, unless you count the servants. I thought I’d mind, but actually, now that Matsumoto sempai is gone and there’s no family left, there’s really no one I’d want to be there, so perhaps it’s better this way. To enjoy my house and gardens and my familiar things alone without irritating questions and chit chat and the thrust and cut of politics.

April 23rd

Today we crossed into Yokohama. Ah, to see my home at last again! The heavens shone blue over the dark-green trees, and above rose Fuji san, proud and absolutely breath taking. There were fishermen out at the bay, I was glad to see nothing changed about them, still half naked, still silent. Then I realized the bay has become rather Westernized. Somehow it was a shock, I spent three years learning Western customs, language and agriculture and technology, but it never really occurred to me that Japan itself would also learn. I don’t really like it, I don’t want Japan to change so much.

When I wandered through the port I could sense hostility between my people and the foreigners. I stayed the night in a tearoom, there seems to be resentment towards the gaijin merchants, and from what I overheard, the merchants complain they are cheated and my countrymen are dishonest in their commercial dealings. Custom House officials are corrupt. Interesting what one can learn when one’s neighbor doesn’t realize one can understand everything they say! Later I went upstairs to change back into proper clothing. One of the sisters gave me a bath - I was kind of hoping she’d keep me company tonight, I threw out a few vague offers but I worked out from her tangle of poetic regrets and bitter self recriminations she’s already made promises to other patrons and will be too busy. Damn.

There’s a change in the air, a restless feeling, nothing’s settled anymore, no one knows where they are or where they’re supposed to be, kind of like me.

April 25th.

This morning I arrived back home. As expected, there was none to greet me and I gave old Takaguchi and his wife a heart attack. They had been eating breakfast in their quarters with nothing prepared and fussed around for the next five hours unpacking all my belongings and castigating me for not letting them know of my imminent arrival. I suppose I really should have, I don’t know why I didn’t.

The house is as ever. The gardens look beautiful, Takaguchi has never slacked off in all his years of service to my house. I shall plant some of the species I brought back with me in a corner and see how they manage sooner or later. The rooms are pristine, a little cold and lifeless, I was expecting ghosts, but there are none. My fault for not being as close to my parents as I should have, maybe, they have no reason to linger. The furniture remains, Takaguchi assures me the family fortune is well and thriving, nice to know I won’t be out on the streets. I’m not sure what my next step should be. Of course my original intent was to seek out work with the government, but now that my parents are dead I’m in no need of money, I find I have no enthusiasm for getting involved in politics. Offer an inch and they’ll take a mile, I’m not sure I really want to spend the rest of my life breaking my back over a government perhaps worse than the last. I shall wait and see.

No matter how Makoto tried, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He marked his page with great care and placed the diary on the floor by his bed. Then he pulled the covers up tight, settled down and smile a little as he imagined a shadowy warrior with flowing long hair walking around his estate.

CHAPTER 2

Once the sporting equipment was stacked neatly on the appropriate shelves in the sports shed, Makoto locked the door and did his usual round around the three main buildings of the local primary school; down every corridor, opening each room, checking that all was as it should be – chairs neatly under desks, all lights off, no pencil cases under the seats or forgotten hats. He found two hair bands, a Snoopy ruler, one lunch box and a sock. These he took to his office – the Janitor’s room – and put in the “lost property” cupboard. Then came the final task before locking up – mopping the floors. He sloshed a good amount of hospital-grade detergent into the large plastic pail, filled the rest with water, grabbed the mop, clipped a small portable radio to his belt, and turned the volume up.

Despite the monotony of the task, this was his favorite part of the job. There were no more children around, making him nervous with their wide eyes, perennial chatter and misplaced faith in his ability to answer any bizarre question they put forth to him. No more teachers looking through him, no more parents guiding their kids away from him. The endless drag of putting misplaced items away, fixing broken things, and re-stocking empty things was done, all that was left was to sweep the mop around the floors and he was done. He had solitude, and he had music.

The mop flew across the rooms in brisk tempo, swished between desks, flew down the corridors. The muscles all the way through his arms, shoulders, and back ached at his pace. But he didn’t hesitate or slow down. When he was done, he looked at his watch. Fifty minutes. Not his best time, but a good clip nevertheless. He gave his arms a brisk rub and ran the hem of his shirt over his face. The parents could look down their noses at him, but his job kept him fit. He dumped the dirty water in the nearest bushes, shoved the mop and pail into the janitor’s room, and he was done. He grabbed his bag and locked up.

The sky was soft, warm and dim as he walked the path home. The spring breeze chilled his clammy skin. He went to the cheapest supermarket in his area, detouring to the local atm on the way. The supermarket door dragged open, he grabbed a trolley and guided it down the aisles, dreaming of large platters piled high with domburi, sashimi, tonkatsu, yakitori. Sukiyaki and Shabu Shabu restaurants with elegant waitresses, atmosphere and he didn’t have to pay. He dumped generic brand cup noodles, plain rice, cheap curry packets and green tea into the trolley. The check-out girl was not elegant. He had to pay.

On the way home, he stopped for a few precious seconds under the lone Sakura tree in the tiny park near the apartment builing. There were a few brave, early blossoms. As he watched, a blossom fell at his feet. He picked it up and carried it home. By the time he opened his apartment door, the usual weight of fatigue had settled. He toed off his shoes, went straight into the bathroom, stripped off, showered, and let the bath run. He padded naked to the tiny kitchen area, put the kettle on and once boiled, made noodles and green tea. These he brought back to the bathroom and put on the plastic tray by the bath. Then he ate and soaked, for a long, blissful hour. In his imagination, there was an elegant room. Tatami mats. Fresh tatami mats. Embroidered zabuton, and a polished oak table. The platters of food and steaming tea. The walls had elegant paintings, the furniture rich, but not ostentatious. Geisha move in an elegant dance, and he was wearing a luxurious Yukata, deep blue with gold thread. The room was warm and he wasn’t alone. He was there.

Of course, he’d be witty. Not the usual stuttering, silent, fucked up moron he usually was. He’d be able to speak the way he could in his poetry. He would listen to him, smiling a little, the food forgotten. They’d talk about different lifestyles. They’d talk about music. They’d pour each other tea. During the day, they’d go walking in gardens, they’d visit temples, they’d….what else would they do? A hundred years ago, there were no movies, no TV, no Playstation. Well, he’d teach him how to play baseball. And he liked walking around temples and stuff. They could go out giving alms to the poor or something.

When the water was cool, he rose, let the bath drain, dried off and dressed. He looked at the time, it was seven. Now came the best part of the day (besides finishing work) when the night stretched before him and he could do whatever he pleased. He knew what he wanted to do; his fingers itched. They’d been itching all day. He grabbed his sketch pad and pencils and threw himself into his latest idea. He thumbed through all the pictures he’d ripped out of magazines and chose a scene of temple steps, rocks and flowers. Only in his drawing, a man sat on the steps, reading a book. Him, of course. With his long, dark hair and falcon eyes. The cheekbones. Oh yes, he could see him so clearly, that man.

After a while, the itching stopped. It wasn’t finished by a long shot, but he didn’t like to rush it; his best work came from letting it seep out over weeks. Instead, he made himself a fresh cup of tea and settled down with the diary.

April 30th, 1876.

The past few days have been quiet. Most of the time I have spent out in the garden, returning my plants to soil. I’m not sure what pained Takaguchi more; the fact that I polluted his garden with nasty, foreign plants or that I polluted his garden with nasty, foreign plants. He spent each morning pacing the terrace that skirts the scene of horror, torn between his need to push me away and take over the task, and his utter disgust at the very idea. This continued for three days. Resolution comes slowly to Takaguchi, a trait his wife certainly does not share; she has been bullying me mercilessly with a respectful demeanor that wouldn’t fool a child of two.

Other than that, I’ve been sorting through the accounts. Suzuki presented the accounting books to me on the second day of my return with a complacent smile he deserves; all the Sakurai affairs are there in plain black ink, each figure, column and page as crisp and clear as a master’s sword stroke. Honesty is a rare commodity, and one that deserves reward; I gave him twenty percent of the profits for each year I was away. His boundless amazement at receiving a just reward from the family he had served all his life saddened me. I offered twenty five percent in a mad rush of guilt, but this he refused. I am determined to be a more generous landlord than those before me.

Both Takaguchi and Suzuki have been describing the new Japan to me. So far at least, it doesn’t seem like a disaster. It could so easily have been a disaster. The Emperor is young, and by all accounts, idealistic. Maybe even unsure. But the people seem to have settled down into the new era, some eagerly, some reluctantly. Some, of course, refuse to settle. Today I wrote some letters to a few comrades back in the fighting days. Perhaps they can give me a deeper picture.

The reluctance I feel to become involved again – it bothers me. I went overseas as Matsumoto sempai’s last request because he believed this new Japan was worth fighting for and believed we should be a part of it. He wanted me to learn western ways and bring what was worth learning to our glorious new era. I just wish I knew. I wish I could somehow see into the future. Because now all I want to do is forget about it all and spend my days on the estate. And yet, I need to do something.

Makoto’s brow rose. Spending all day on that luxurious estate doing nothing sounded fine to him. “Try slogging away as a janitor,” he muttered.

May 4th, 1876.

I had a visit from Masahashi today. It’s been eight years since I saw him last, after the last skirmish. He’d been lying on a futon, bleeding and looking thin and pale. He is still thin and pale, older, but strong. When he saw me, his mouth actually turned up at both corners and his eyes crinkled a little – just a hint. Then I knew he was really pleased to see me. We spent a few hours reminiscing and swapping stories as his wife and young son played in the garden. He was eager for details about the outside world, I was sorry to frustrate him with my disjointed, fumbling explanations. I wish he had had an orator to dazzle him as he deserved. In return he filled me in on the politics, the state of the economy, the plight of the people. What he had to say reinforces what I suspected – the new government would have no need of me. However, we did slip a few tentative musings over the possibility of a trading company. It would give me something to do. We were halfway through celebrating this unofficial venture with hot tea when his heir returned, proffering a branch of a rose bush and demanding to know what it was. I was then subjected to a display of utterly fatuous parental pride – undetectable to the casual observer, I have no doubt, but simply drenching if you knew what to look for. I explained as best I could what a rose looked like, but the child was impatient with me. I wish I hadn’t missed the blooming of the sakura blossoms.

Makoto gave a brief smile to himself in his room, placed the book on the plastic tray next to the bed and placed the sakura blossom he’d saved on top of the open book to mark his page. “Here, have a blossom,” he yawned. He turned off the lamp and settled down to sleep.

CHAPTER 3

It had been okay until little Miya Seki had lost her shoes one hour before knock-off time. Then the afternoon quickly slid into hell. They weren’t just any shoes, they were Louis Vuitton shoes. And little Miya’s mother wasn’t just any mother, the click of her heels on the corridor floors was enough to make the entire staff tremble. And when her gimlet glare focused on her Precious Child’s homeroom teacher, the woman took refuge as they all took refuge; by pointing the finger to the lowest rung. Makoto resigned himself to a late night and let the recriminations wash over him as he searched the compound from corner to corner. By the end, he was hot, grubby, exhausted, pissed off, and could barely restrain exploding with fury when the little sweetheart suddenly remembered putting the shoes in her bag ‘for safe keeping’. The icing was to be told that if he’d had any brains he would have checked the girl’s bag straight off. It wasn’t until her chauffer had driven the two away that he thought of a few devastating ripostes. And a good thing, too; he was lucky to have this job.

Of course, there was still the rest of his chores to finish.

By seven he was done, by eight he was home and by nine he had soaked in the tub long enough to calm down. By ten years time he might even laugh. But the day had it’s own special magic to soothe his lacerated nerves; it was Friday. Before him stretched two days of nothing to do but what he wanted. Bliss. What he wanted the most was an early night. He padded into his bedroom in his slippers and surveyed the fallout from his frantic dash of the morning. The last thing he wanted was another round of clearing up, but long experience told him he’d find it less appealing on the morrow. So he washed his bowl and spoon, his mug, put the washing away, tidied up. Everything went back to its rightful place. There really wasn’t much to do.

Then he settled into bed and reached for what he’d been itching for all day - the diary. The blossom he’d laid to mark the page had fallen off. He glanced down to the floor but couldn’t see it. Instead, he unwrapped a bar of chocolate, let the comforter cuddle him, and settled down with a sigh of content. Finally he could be alone with Him. He’d been thinking of Him all day. Imagined showing him around modern Japan, imagined the man’s reactions. And he knew it was ridiculous; this long-dead man had nothing to do with his fantasies, it was just a coincidence. He’d watched an old Samurai movie at the library just two weeks ago, no wonder he’d started dreaming. Anyone who cleaned a school for a living would thrill to honour, nobility and luxury. Anyone who was alone as he was alone would dream of a friend, or a lover. Anyone who didn’t have a friend or a lover would dream of someone who fulfilled both those roles. If he wanted to pretend, it wasn’t hurting no one. He turned the page to a fresh entry.

May 5th, 1876.

It seems word soon spread that I had returned. I had a visit by one of the Oligarchs of the Meiji government, an uncle of Matsumoto sama’s; Kitamura san. The man had the nerve to inform me that as a lord and warrior, my land is to be confiscated. I will be allowed to keep this estate and the gardens, I am told, if I ‘assist’ them by providing information. Well, there isn’t any choice, is there? Of course, I acceded with as much dignity as I could manage. This Kitamura looked so smug I wanted to ram my blade through his belly. Instead Takaguchi offered him tea. I was half hoping he’d poisoned it, but then I would have had to cut his head off myself so he could escape a criminal’s execution.

I should have foreseen this. Bad enough that I’ve lost the land, I couldn’t bear to lose this estate too. I love it, I’d rather commit seppuku then give it up, and somehow they know it. I wonder if they guessed I would be somewhat reluctant.

Makoto managed a wry smile. Nice to know he had had just as bad a day as he had. He felt a surge of kinship with the man.

And so I am to visit the Oligarch in three days time to give an account of all that I have seen and heard during my years abroad. And I shall be forced to somehow hide the fact that I learned more about music, literature, art and scones than weaponry and industry. They have a delegate from America over a trading issue, and I am to help interpret. What fun. I sent a note to Masahashi, and he has promised to come with me for support. It makes me feel better; he’s rich enough for them to want to stay on his good side. Besides this monumental event, nothing else has occurred beyond the ordinary. I went for a walk along the old paths. I realized that Masahashi is the only real friend I have. Aoki kun is in Kyoto, clearing up the mess there, Matsumoto sama is gone. There’s a certain bittersweet pleasure in walking alone, but I can’t help knowing how much better it would be if the right person were with me. I found Sakura petals lying on this diary this morning, I am at a loss to explain it, expect that perhaps little Taro kun picked the last bloom of the season and left them for me. For which I am grateful. And now I must see Suzuki about the accounts.

Makoto stared at the entry, hardly able to believe his eyes. A coincidence, of course, but quite amazing. Cute to imagine he’d somehow sent it over. Although he knew it was stupid, he felt a warm glow of the satisfaction someone felt when they’d given a loved gift. He flipped the page in a hurry.

The page was blank.

What? No!

His heart plunged to his toes as he bit out a curse and feverishly flipped through the remaining pages – blank.

Blank. Blank. Fucking BLANK!

He was seconds away from hurling the diary across the room but stopped himself just in time. But the heartbreak and fury of loss was overwhelming. He grabbed a pencil and scribbled on the page. Damn it, why did you stop there? Why did you have to stop? I didn’t even get to know your name.

He shoved the diary away and flopped down into bed, in turmoil. For the next few hours he tossed and turned and roiled at the frustration. So it was stupid. So he was cracking up. The guy had been dead for almost a hundred years and he was never going to meet him. But it didn’t make any difference, he felt abandoned and cheated.

When consciousness returned the next morning, Makoto lay in bed, groggy, blinking, and wondering why he felt like crap. Then he remembered, which sank his spirits even lower. Even glancing at his sketchbook didn’t bring any itch, and that wasn’t normal. Instead, he eased out of bed, staggered over to the shower, shaved and dressed. He took some time to prepare miso soup with vegetables and rice. One really needed to eat well on weekends at least.

Outside the apartment building, the sun shone enough to banish the shivers the cold stone stairs had produced. The air was crisp, but not too windy. All in all, it was a nice day. Insult. It wasn’t like he wanted to complain, but still.

He took the subway to the library and jogged up the shallow stairs to the entrance. Five minutes till opening time. The little old lady was there as usual. She gave him her ususal suspicious glare, but hell - she looked the same at everyone. Eventually the doors opened with a cultured little swish, heralding the lady with the sneering bow. He stomped in defiantly and went straight for the computers. At the search prompt he typed in ‘Meiji Era’ ‘England’ ‘Oligarch’ and ‘Advisor’ and actually got results. He would have liked to have seen a book entitle ‘X-san – The handsome Bushi warrior who went to England, came back, and then reluctantly became the Oligarch’s advisor”, but the best he found was “Local administration, 1860 to 1890: structure and costs: the example of Awa/ Tokushima” There were a mass of maybe books and journal articles that seemed possibilities and heaps of references that didn’t seem to have any connection to what he wanted at all. He wrote down the call numbers of the most likely books and went off in search of them. Most of them were there, which amazed him; usually the books he wanted were always out. He piled them in his arms and found his usual sofa; it was in a little-known nook, it had stains he didn’t want to know the origin of and a variety of rips that proffered up the padding. He loved it; it was like it was there just for him. He picked up the first book.

Three hours later, he threw the last tome down in disgust. Nothing. Not even a hint of possibility. Obviously He had not grown in importance over the years. Maybe He’d been right and the Oligarch had no use for a man who knew about scones. A painful stab knifed his heart. Maybe he’d died young. And he’d never know; that was the galling thing.

In the end he put the books back on the nearest trolley and stood there for a moment, unusually indecisive. He found his feet taking him over to the DVD section, with the tables sporting TVs with their own headsets. This was where he usually went on a Saturday morning, when he wasn’t tramping around the nearest garden, shrine, or trail. A thousand hours he’d spent lost in the wonderful world of make-believe, courtesy of the city council. It was their entire fault. If they hadn’t seduced him with their bushi movie collection, he would never have started dreaming and he wouldn’t feel so tormented now. He wouldn’t feel like he’d lost his one chance for happiness.

Makoto snorted to himself. Ridiculous. Slobbering over some dead guy he never even knew existed three days ago and so convinced he looked just like his dream warrior. It showed just how desperate he was. Fucking embarrassing.

The day was still early, he could take the nearest train to the nearest of his favorite shrines and draw or snooze under a tree in the sunny spot. Yeah. He mooched out of the library and made his way back home. Some random guy was coming down the stairs as he was heading up. He snuck a glance as he passed; the man ignored him completely. He curled his lip a little but continued on.

When he was back, he grabbed his pencil case, his sketchbook, and shoved them with his wallet in his bag. The diary lay spread on the floor, where he’d left it. For a second, he was tempted to just leave it to show just how much he didn’t care, only he ended up picking it up and shoving it in his bag. Oh yeah – real indifferent.

He was in Kanazawa station and staring up at the station map when he had another idea. Instead of going to the quiet shrine he liked, he took a slight detour and ended up at the local cemetery. It was over a hundred years old and held some famous names; if a bushi warrior with any prestige at all had died, chances were he’d be among the rows of monuments. He, of course, had had an estate in Tokyo, but there was always that chance. The air was somnolent and calm, he couldn’t help feeling his distraught restlessness was a sacrilege. Nevertheless he started going through the entire area systematically. When he came to the first possibility, he grabbed the diary opened up to the back page, and wrote the details down. This dead guy would have been about forty at the time of the diary, and he seemed younger, but then, he only thought so because he wished it were so. So he wrote it down, and continued his stroll. By the time he was halfway through, he was thoroughly depressed and half inclined not to bother. One day, he himself would be here, alone and forgotten. Ignored in life and forgotten in death. He managed a small smile. Perhaps if he wrote a diary, some future version of him would read it and obsess, as he was. He made a face. Well, he’d make damn sure he’d have enough sense to write his name down on the inside cover, at least.

He found the next possibility nearby a small tree. Not a bad place to end up. He wrote down the details under the first and promptly dropped his pencil. He cursed, bent down to pick it up, and of course dropped the diary. In the end, he dropped his bag too, and pulled out the onigiri and sandwhich he’d picked up at the nearest combini; one shouldn’t ignore signs, and the grass under the tree was the perfect cushion. He picked the diary up from where it lay splayed pages down on the ground intending to dust it off.

The diary had opened up to his impassioned angst of the night before.

There was writing under that.

He froze. His heart stopped. It burst back into life into a pressurized explosive throbbing painfully in his chest.

It wasn’t possible. Someone had broken into his room and scribbled something down while he’d been at the library. But why would anyone bother? An amusing joke? But the place hadn’t looked like anyone had broken in. How was it possible?

These thoughts raced through his head as he forced his eyes to get back into focus. He read feverishly.

Well, I feel very stupid for writing this, but there doesn’t seem much I can do. The only reason I am writing this is that Suzuki, Takaguchi and Masahashi all insist that they did not touch my diary (and in fact hadn’t known it existed till now), and it seems impossible that a stranger could have crept into the estate, into my rooms and found my diary, written in such strange words and then departed with no one seeing him. The only reason I am not committing ritual suicide for fear of insanity is because I remember Matsumoto sempai telling me he’d found it at the Yuuma shrine, which is a strange place indeed.

And so; who are you? How did you find my diary, and why did you write such words? What did I stop? And why should I tell you my name?

Makoto stared at the page for a full half hour, his mind chaotic. At once he was in limbo; cut off from the world he’d lived in all his twenty-eight years, yet not in the world that lay before him, at once terrifying, exciting, and so, so seductive. He was a fool, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was Him, somehow, speaking straight to him through time and distance and logic. It wasn’t possible and he was dreaming, but it was the most delicious dream he’d ever fantasized about and every cell in his body was tingling with unbearably sweet evanescence. Of course someone was somehow playing a trick on him. And when it was over, the crash would kill him. But it was all too sweet, he wanted to pretend, for as long as he could. You’re there. How can I get to you?

He fumbled for his pen and balanced the book on top of his bag on his lap.

I found your diary… He was about to add “on a rubbish dump” but the offense he pictured on his face stopped him. And I want to know about you. I’m from the year 2004. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s true. He thought for a moment. My name’s Makoto, and I’m…. He hovered over writing something like doctor or lawyer as his occupation, but in the end, he went for honesty. He so badly wanted to impress him, and janitor sucked, but he couldn’t bear to pretend. That’s someone who… he went for ‘cleans’ and instead wrote ‘organizes’ the day-to-day running of schools.

Which is true enough, he thought defiantly. The place would collapse without me. The guy had lived in England, he’d know about schools.

And somehow this diary is letting us talk to each other, I don’t know why.

Because it’s fate, came a quiet, whispered voice. Because he’s yours, and you’re his.

“Oh, shut up.” Perhaps if he said the words out loud, his moronic, hopeful side might actually pay attention. He wished he could kill it.

No such luck.

He let out a sigh and tried to calm the traitorous rush of warmth. “You wish,” he said firmly. “You just wish.”

So anyway, please write back to me. I was the one who sent the sakura blossom, I hope you liked it.

Oh god, I sound so desperate, so eager and fatuous. Why had he used non-erasable ink? Too late now.

I mean, it’s really curious that this is happening. Please tell me your name okay?

Tell me everything. Tell me what you’re going through. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me you’ve been dreaming of me, that you feel this magic too.

He sighed and dropped the pen. No use making a damned ass out of himself scribbling all that idiotic rubbish out. Then he stared at the page in eager anticipation.

Nothing happened.

Well?

He stared longer. Just in case, he closed the book, held it shut as long as he could bear it, and then opened it, his hands shaking.

Blank.

Damn! Obviously he was going to have to wait until he next looked at his diary – that could be days away!

No, surely he’d be curious? Surely he’d wait to see with just as much impatience at something so amazing, so miraculous?

Right?

No one could be that blasé at pure magic.

Right?

He forced himself to eat his lunch, nice and slow. He savoured the taste of the onigiri, the sandwich. He sipped at his iced tea. Then he grabbed his pencils, put the diary down on the nearest tombstone and sketched, catching every nick, every darkness, every flash of sunlight on rock. He wanted it to be so real the wind would rustle the leaves of his creation and the ants crawl.

Then he couldn’t bear it anymore. He fumbled with the diary and somehow managed to get the page open, all the while trying to convince himself that nothing could possibly be there yet.

There was nothing.

He cursed and threw the precious tome down onto the ground, but not hard enough to actually damage it. How long was he going to have to fucking wait anyway?

There was nothing for it but to retrace his steps and take a train to one of his favorite shrines, as he had originally intended; he needed to do something to take his mind of things. The small train station he was at was empty but for one old guy and two teens smoking in a corner. They were trying to be badass but were too young and too self-conscious to carry it off, and that small devil of sneering self-contempt poked him. He hunched an aggressive shoulder. Okay, so he’d probably looked just as stupid at their age. He wanted to warn them both that they were heading the right way to a desperate struggle against poverty, but undoubtedly they’d just sneer. Like he had. Pity there’d been no one to give him a kick up the ass.

By the time the train came, the sky was overcast. When he first stepped foot in the temple grounds, it had started spiting. But he was warmly dressed and the trees softened the blow. He wandered around the twisting paths, the trees, the stone lanterns and the shrine on top of the hill, the small bridge over the little creek, until it started to rain in earnest, and then he dove into the small tea house. The old woman who worked there served good, old-fashioned green tea as her husband dealt with the grounds work. He didn’t know how she knew, but she only ever let him pay for the first pot, after that, she wouldn’t charge him no matter how much he bullied or complained. Even when she accepted the first payment, he got the feeling it was only a sop to his manly ego. All he could do was draw for her, and get embarrassed when she framed them for all to see. Funny; they never really talked to him, he was too shy to talk to them, but there was still that silent understanding that family had.

When the tea was served, he sipped at it while gazing through the windows to watch the rain drip down the trees and make the scene before him glow in the afternoon light. A few other silent guests came in; he shifted to his favorite corner and ignored them.

Then he opened the diary again.

New black ink. Oh my god, it worked! It really worked! He’s written again! His heart leapt and he spilt the dregs of the tea and he clattered the cup down. He shot an embarrassed look around, but only the businessman had glanced over; the young foreign couple and the two girls were too involved in their own quiet conversations. His eyes flew to the paragraph below, there was a great deal written; it excited him.

Well, I have carried this diary around with me ever since I found your first note, and yet another message arrives. As impossible as it is, it seems this diary is special. I imagine I’m supposed to feel uneasy or even scared, but anyone who sends me a Sakura blossom is either kind-hearted or trying to seduce me to his own twisted, evil ends; I find both possibilities quite pleasing. Well, then, Makoto san. It’s nice to meet you. I want to know more about you.

His heart seemed to melt with pleasure. He wanted to know more about him! He was even flirting with him!

Tell me about your life there in the future. I’ve wanted so much to know how Japan will survive in the coming years. Tell me everything. It’s all so fascinating. My name is Sakurai Tsukasa, an insignificant man. I was raised as a Bushi. My father was a minor noble, and my upbringing was strict, but I was given many things. I was well educated, and when I was fourteen, I went to Matsumoto sempai’s court, my daimyo, to train under him.

Sakurai Tsukasa. Tsukasa. Makoto smiled to himself as the Obaasan came back and offered more tea, and better yet, the special Anko, azuki-bean based sweet cake that she always made for him. He accepted this with his own shy grin and bowed his head in gratitude as she left. His gaze and heart floated back to the diary. On the page was a large inkstain; as though Tsukasa had hesitated over his words. He was under no illusions; this Matsumoto sempai had undoubtedly been his lover; and from the sounds of it, his first. That was fine; he’d hardly expected the man to be a virgin, and this Matsumoto guy was dead now. And so is Tsukasa, he reminded himself. But somehow he didn’t seem dead at all.

He dragged me into politics, made me study English and French with the gaijin missionaries and made me interested. He was determined to build a better, more modern Japan that could hold its own against the world. I fought for him when the revolution came, and then he sent me off to England, as you may have already read. Then he was killed in valiant battle, right at the end of the fighting. He was a visionary and a great man. Five years passed overseas, the details are in my old diaries, and I decided I’d had enough, I was restless and lonely and I missed home. So here I am, due to meet with the Oligarches tomorrow and not too pleased about it.

So, tell me more about you and how you grew up. And tell me what the future is like, and write back quickly, I’m dying of curiosity. Write back as soon as you can.

Tsukasa.

What he liked most about it, was that Sakurai Tsukasa didn’t just want to know about Japan, he also wanted to know about him. He lowered the diary, poured himself another cup of tea and bit down on the Anko. He let the smooth sweet bean flavour wash over him as his mind caressed his private letter. He snuck a glance around at the other patrons. An older married couple and three twenty-something men loaded up with cameras, keitai and backpacks had joined the other guests. He repressed the feeling of being invaded; no matter how much he secretly thought it; this tea house, this very shrine, wasn’t his own private find. He comforted himself with the knowledge that they did not currently enjoy the secret thrill he felt now. But then, maybe someone did – maybe this diary wasn’t the only one. He didn’t like that thought, it was embarrassing, but deep down he liked the idea that only he was worthy. Never mind, they don’t have him, do they.

After he’d turned to face the table, he grabbed a biro and drank some more tea as he though about what he wanted to say.

CHAPTER 4

Funny, how important chance could be. Makoto stroked his finger down the diary as he lay in bed. It had been a day just like any other; just like the present day; up, shower, the daily drudge at the school, the once-a-month scrabble for things at the local dump. And then – wham! There it was; his reason for existing. Like an answer to a prayer. Not that he’d actually been praying for it, just hoping really, really hard. Well, maybe not hoping, exactly, more like a vague, wistful yearning that happened to be really, really strong.

On a fresh, new page lay fresh, new ink. He’d found it there during his lunch break, but he’d forced himself to leave it alone and wait until he was home before he read it. He wanted privacy, and time to linger over every word for as long as he wanted with no Hurry up I need you to do this or Where’s this baseball bat or that training equipment because the asker couldn’t be bothered to look in the usual spots. No Shouldn’t you be getting back to work? Or Michiko’s mom just called to say Michiko can’t find her lunchbox… No, it was just him, a splurge on take-away, and him. All him. Deliciously him.

So he’d written back at the teahouse that Saturday, taking his time, determined to write something witty. He’d spent hours there, laboring over each sentence until all the other guests had left, trying to get it all to make sense. About him. About his childhood, about what life was like. Some things he found hard to explain; how could he explain TV when he didn’t really know how the damned things worked himself? But he’d done his best, and he’d had his reward; fresh black ink.

Hello again, Makoto kun.

(I’m Makoto kun already!)

I’m glad you wrote back to me.

(Like I wouldn’t.)

I’m so glad you told me about what it’s like where you’re when.

This made him smile.

It sounds as though this whole mess was the right decision, more or less. Hardly an ideal future, but probably the best we could have hoped for, so thank you. You’ve set my mind at rest. Given that the interview today was shattering, I needed the reassurance! I had to strain every nerve I had to worm out of being thrust into a variety of political roles that would have had me slaving from dawn to dusk for the rest of my miserable existence struggling to keep various difficulties from blowing up in their faces – no thank you. Being part of a large family (albeit distant) has its advantages – all I needed to do was to explain with magnificent humility that taking on this role would cause offense to this branch of the family and I couldn’t possibly oversee that because my uncle Sakurai Yasuhiko would demand to know why he’d been overlooked for the role etc etc – a delicate operation. The Oligarch, I must add, were not fooled for a moment, but such are the twisted, convoluted intricacies of court etiquette that they couldn’t admit they could see right through me. It was exhilarating. My humble self could never aspire to the tactitional brilliance that epitomized Matsumoto sempai, but I seem to have succeeded; I feel my piece de resistance lay in my servile, abject bow upon triumphant departure; Several sets of teeth gnashed.

Although it feels somewhat blasphemous to say this, I felt sorry for the Emperor, he seems so young, unsure, and probably bullied by those who should be guiding him. He asked me to visit him to tell him all about my travels, and naturally I accepted. Someone needs to help him. I go tomorrow. In any case, the future sounds fascinating, I only wish I could see it.

This Makoto was in total agreement with. Although his whole body thrilled to his secret, he longed for something more. It would be so cool, to show him around, explain everything, laugh at the expressions on the man’s face.

And thanks for telling me about your life up until now. Nice to know I’m not the only one who had completely disinterested parents. Although I suspect parental neglect amongst the relative wealth, which I enjoyed, was easier than neglect in poverty. You must…

There was a large ink blot here, and he could picture Tsukasa hesitating over his words. “…have been lonely”. That’s what he’d gone to write, before he’d become too embarrassed to finish the sentence. Lonely people recognized other lonely people.

…have found it difficult.

Yes, that was more discrete. Makoto smiled to himself as he yawned and snuggled further under the covers.

I’d love for you to tell me more about things in greater detail. All about those ‘electrical appliances’ and ‘CDs’ and ‘iPods’ and ‘guitars’. It sounds like magic. This is so exciting!

Which only made him feel twice as excited – if it was possible to be even more so. He grabbed his pen, and wrote all about the things he’d never had anyone to tell before; all about his favorite bands, his favorite foods, his favorite movies, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He stripped off his day clothes, cradled the diary in his lap, and drifted off to sleep.

There was a disorientating, woozy feeling of surfacing from too deep a sleep, darkness, then light, then a fuzzy shape in front of him that slowly came into focus. It was a door, a simple sliding door. Elegant cranes, sakura trees and grass graced the rice paper that covered it. It looked fresh and clean and new. He looked around. He was surrounded by dark, shining wood, well polished. A corridor. There were many wicker baskets and chests flanking the area, all in the same polished wood, decorated with simple carvings. He glanced behind. Another corridor intersecting this short space. He glanced down. He was naked. There was a vague feeling of excitement somewhere in the back of his mind, grateful to be dreaming of him, and of being naked while dreaming with him, but he felt calm.

There was no need to hesitate, not in a dream. He walked forward, slid the door open, and closed it again. Tatami crunched under his feet. He curled his toes into it; it felt springy and fresh under his soles, a totally delicious sensation. But ah, before him was an even more delicious sensation; a bedroom; the walls cradling more chests, and book cases, and foreign artwork. The one tiny portion of his mind that wasn’t focused on the futon in the center noted it before joining the rest of his brain in deep appreciation. In the middle of that plush, plump, super-cozy futon, lay him, fast asleep, one hand under his ear, the other clutching the rich, embroidered comforter. It was him, just as he’d always imagined him; the bushi warrior from his dreams. He should be in shock, but somehow it just seemed right. His hair spilled out onto the pillow, a faint smile turned his lips up. And naked shoulders.

Yes, naked shoulders.

Naked shoulders meant a naked chest. A naked chest meant a naked belly. It didn’t necessarily mean naked hips or naked legs, of course, but it might.

And the best part of it was he could do whatever he wanted in a dream; things he would never consider doing in real life. He crossed softly. It would be best if the man stayed asleep; he knew his psyche well; if the man woke, his dream would go off into unwanted tangents. If the man stayed asleep, a bad direction was less likely. So he knelt softly, and enjoyed himself staring, just for a little while. Then his legs got tired so he shifted.

Bad mistake; it made him stir. So he held his breath. Tsukasa stirred some more, muttered something, blinked and opened his groggy eyes. Straight at him. He sucked in a breath and held it again; since it was his dream, he’d like it to be a nice one and have him smile, not go all disappointed. He attempted a warm smile, but it felt uncertain, even to him.

But he smiled. A somewhat vague smile that signified complete incomprehension, but at least it held interest and appreciation. Then the eyes widened as knowledge filled him; he held still, his expression arrested. Makoto tried for another smile and hoped being naked didn’t seem too threatening.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m, uh…I’m Makoto.”

And then – gloriously – Tsukasa’s sleepy smile deepened. “Makoto,” he murmured. “Ah…”

Unbearably sweet electric warmth speared straight through him and pooled into his groin, making him feel heavy and full and tight. It’d been so long since he’d felt it last. “I uh…um…” Great, fumbling!

Tsukasa smiled again, lifted himself up (Naked chest! Naked belly!) and slid his arms around him; everything went more warm, more tight, more throbbing, more aching.

“Makoto…”

His voice was gravel but the tone soft. He had one last rational realization - He thinks he’s dreaming too! – before he found himself being pulled down and across onto the futon. He lay beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Disbelief. Heart-stopping excitement. Bliss.

If only all his dreams were this good.

There was another sleepy smile, he knew his own was horribly sappy but he couldn’t help it and hell, no one would ever know. Tsukasa then moved over him, (Naked hips! Naked legs!). The feel of bare skin – hell, human contact at all! – pressed against his was so rare, so good it ached. Tsukasa’s hands touched him, then, touched his thighs, his torso, ran over his arms and chest, drew back a little to touch him there, exclaiming over the size of him, how good it looked, how good it felt. Makoto was feeling pretty damn good himself, more good then he’d ever felt in his life. So fucking good it made him want to kiss the man. And why not? His dream; he could do whatever he damn well wanted. So he reached out and drew the man close enough, then pressed his lips to those thin lips that parted for him. He slipped his tongue in; just a little. Tsukasa moaned softly and clung. Lovely.

They gripped each other tight and kept kissing, rubbing their hips together, both moaning in soft pleasure. Soon Makoto drew back and moved lower. He wanted a taste of the man before he woke up. Tsukasa’s skin was warm as he licked it, he pulled one of the man’s legs over his own and gloried in the hot hardness against his hip pulsing and weeping for him, as he was for Tsukasa. When he bit and licked one nipple he was rewarded with a rough, throaty growl and Tsukasa’s arms holding him there, demanding more. He was more than happy to oblige. He nipped and licked and sucked until Tsukasa thrashed against him, his moaning sharp and urgent. Tsukasa then ripped his head away and forced him to take the other one, and he did so gladly. There was nothing like it, sucking on the soft skin, knowing where he was heading next and knowing how much Tsukasa was enjoying torturing himself by delaying it. But he wanted to do it, wanted to suck on him so bad, before it was too late. He drew down, down, to his belly, speared his tongue into the man’s navel, enjoyed the laboured panting.

He stuck his finger in his mouth and coated it, then reached the apex of the man’s body. Ran his tongue along it. Felt the heat, the pulse, the tightening. The panting that grew sharper. He took it in and sucked gently, enough to tease but not release. And Tsukasa loved it, he could hear it in the unashamed sexual cries, feel it in those hips lifting and circling for him. When the time drew close, he parted the man’s cheeks, waited for the right moment, and then slid his finger in.

Tsukasa screamed out quietly against his pillow, a high keen of bliss that skewered through his belly and groin and made him moan as he swallowed. He kept moaning as it came, he couldn’t help it; his own body trembled in exquisite excitement, and the pleasure of knowing he’d given pleasure to him was indescribable. He didn’t want it to end, but it did. Tsukasa lay spent and sweating beneath him, panting and moaning so softly.

He hesitated. His cock was aching for attention, more demanding than he’d ever felt in his life, but he didn’t want to disturb the quiet throes of bliss that Tsukasa was enjoying. But then the man opened his eyes, with a roguish twinkle that relieved him and made him grin in delight.

“Come here, Makoto.”

The man’s voice was soft but warm with humor. He hesitated. He was already straddling the guy’s legs. Tsukasa’s smile widened, and he crooked a finger.

“Up. Up, Makoto.”

Then he understood. He shuffled up him, his knees sinking into the futon as he went. Tsukasa sat up a little to meet him, and then he was there, his hips at the right height. He lifted up to brace himself against the chest lid before him and leaned forward as his head tilted back. It slipped into warmth and wetness.

Oh, god.

He chocked back his scream, forced back his need to thrust and held still for one timeless moment. Then Tsukasa’s lips and mouth tightened on him and started a rhythmic sucking. Everything in him melted and tightened at once, and he couldn’t stop it; he started to thrust. Gently, shallowly, but relentlessly. He moved faster. Harder. He panted and bucked and felt sweat slide down his temples. He wanted it behind too, but he couldn’t get the words out.

But of course, he knew it. Parted him, then slid into him, pushing back and forth to the motions of his hips. He couldn’t bear it but it wound him tighter and higher and sweeter until he came in a burning, raging river of heat and pleasure. He continued to pant, to feel the sweat slide down, and held still until his shaky legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. And then somehow he was lying beside Tsukasa, snuggled into his arms, feeling warm and cozy on the futon, listening to sleepy, sated endearments that felt close, but fuzzy as his eyes slid shut and it all drifted away.

When he next opened his eyes, blinked, and found himself in his apartment, the radio clock churning out the latest pop sensation, he was torn between a stab of bitter disappointment and gratitude that he’d got anything at all. Even a nice dream was something to treasure; and what a dream it had been; so vivid – he’d never, ever had such a vivid dream before. It had seemed just as real as…well, the real thing. In his solitary little world of poverty, free gifts were never to be unappreciated. He shut the alarm off and indulged himself in a long, smug, voluptuous stretch. Mmmmm… What a dream! He let out a long, happy sigh.

Of course, now he had to go to work.

Still, he felt lighter than usual, the sun seemed brighter. He eased out of bed, grabbed fresh clothes and padded into the bathroom. When he was in, he shaved, turned on the taps was under the spray. For the first time in his life, he hummed a upbeat pop song as he washed. He shoved cup ramen and green tea into his bag, along with the precious diary, threw on a light jacket and went to work.

The day passed by with the usual grievances, put-downs and irritations, but he floated through the day oblivious to the weird looks from those accustomed to his dour mien, and to the affront exhibited by those vainly wishing him to shoulder the blame for their own indiscretions. He was too happy daydreaming of Tsukasa, relieving his dream of the night before and anticipating their future conversations to care. At the end of the working day, he went to the state library to do a little research.

There was only an hour till closing time, but he managed to snag a computer fast and use a search engine on his name. When books and references turned up, he wanted to crow; there weren’t many, but at least there was some mention of him. Of the five books, only three were available, with the best option, of course, being unavailable for the next two weeks. Nevertheless, he scribbled the references down as fast as he could, scooted off to the appropriate sections, and borrowed the books out with five minutes to spare. After a quick detour to the cheap local Chinese takeaway shop, he arrived home, had a shower, crashed onto his bed and started to read as he ate his Chinese.

The book was about trade between America and Japan through history, so he flipped to the period that covered Tsukasa’s life. There he found a brief reference to ‘Kai Booeki’ trading company started by three men, Tsukasa Sakurai, Yasuhiko Sakurai (he remembered this was Tsukasa’s uncle) and Masahashi Takada. The company was prosperous. That was all the information available. Makoto sighed. At least I can tell him he’s supposed to go into business and he winds up successful. It was exciting to be able to help the man. Because he was tired, he dropped the other two texts on the floor and finally did what he’d been wanting to do all day; he opened the diary. Tsukasa had written to him again. He grinned and turned red and was glad he didn’t know about the dream. There was nothing of note to the disinterested observer; Tsukasa’s thoughts on what Makoto had told him about the world, a lot of questions, his interest in hearing more about guitars and DVDs and movies. His wonder at how quickly the world had changed, his desire to see it. The day he’d spent with Masahashi, talking business, and the hour he’d spent with the Emperor. Nothing of interest to anyone else, but every word fascinating to him. The man had a way of making so many things, especially his own screw-ups, seem hilarious. He chuckled and read, and re-read. And then he came to the last sentence. And Makoto, you were in my dreams last night.

Makoto stared and stared at those simple words. You were in my dreams last night. And his imagination took off and soared. Had the man dreamt what he had dreamt? Had they somehow met? Had he really been there, with Tsukasa, last night? It had felt so real, so real his body had felt utterly replete – deliciously so – that morning. And there was that sakura petal – could it be done?

He gave his head a shake. Coincidence. It wasn’t possible. So the man’s dream had probably been perfectly innocent and nothing like the porn flick his own had been. But then, this whole deal wasn’t possible, but it was happening all the same. If only the man had given details!

But was it significant, those lack of details? If it had been nothing, surely he’d have described what the dream was about? Was he being coy? Makoto grinned. Only one way to find out.

He could barely keep his eyes open, but he spent the next hour writing replies to Tsukasa’s questions, asking his own, trying to find out more about him. He wrote about what he’d read in the history textbook, and hoped it would help. He described about the day he’d had. He wrote about the things he’d been thinking about, about society and the way it was heading; Tsukasa made him think of it, and what they were heading towards. And right at the end, he wrote I dreamt about you, too. And that was all. If Tsukasa had had the kind of dream he’d had, it would probably be enough to send him wild with the need to know. He managed a smile both sweet and nasty, closed the diary, turned off the light and went to sleep, hoping for a repeat.

CHAPTER 5

There was no damned repeat.

Instead he got twisted, scary dreams that left him shaken and miserable the next morning. He jerked awake and lay there, pushed his hair off his face and reminded himself that it wasn’t real. It never was real. But it sure felt like it; being locked in an underground cell in the school grounds surrounded by the dying and dead. The stench of rotting corpses, of lack of air, of hopelessness. He shivered and hastened to the shower.

By mid morning the effects of the nightmare had worn off – largely due to the fresh, black ink he’d glimpsed in the diary during a spare five minutes - thus he went through his routine in the same dreamy daze that had so worried those around him the day before. He could still hear the whispers, see the furtive glances, but he didn’t give a stuff. He had written again. It was agonizing to not read it right there and then, but the thrill of looking forward to it more than made up for the unbearable curiosity. Besides, be seen slacking off meant getting his ass fired; better to leave it to his lunch hour.

When the blessed hour arrived, he closeted himself away in the Janitor’s room as per usual and both read and ate voraciously. And just as he’d hoped, Tsukasa was dying for details. Oh, he didn’t come right out and say it, at least not at first. He thanked him for the head’s up over the trading company, had a meeting with both his uncle and friend, and had started things rolling. There was the estate and gardens to talk about, the people he’d seen, the suppliers he’d contacted. Modern technology to wonder over and to question. So many questions, it was like listening to one of the kids’ with their non-stop motor-mouths. And then, finally, What was your dream about?

That was it. But the way it came right at the end, the telltale blot of ink that came from pausing over the question just a little too long…..

Yeah, he was wild to know.

It tickled him no end. For a second he wanted to string it out over a few more days, but then he imagined how he’d be feeling and decided not to. But then again, Tsukasa probably half suspected, just as he did, what both their dreams had been about. It was just too coincidental, that they’d both dreamt of each other in the same night, and had dreamt about something that precluded the ability to write down the details without first fishing for possible reactions.

So, he fished his favorite pen out of his bag and got to work composing. He waxed lyrical over his favorite books, movies and cds. He described all the shrines and temples he’d been to, and decided to put photos inside the diary. If a sakura blossom could somehow make it across, perhaps photos and pictures could, too. He talked about what had been happening in the news; the terrorism and politics. Bizarre threads in the local news that had caught his attention. He filled up four pages before he finally wrote, I dreamt I visited you last night in your room, when you were sleeping.

That was enough. If his suspicions were correct, Tsukasa would know.

He’d just put the diary back into his bag when the door opened. His head whipped around; and he had to fight down the instinct to apologize; he still had five minutes of his lunch hour left. But there stood whom he least wished to see; Yoshi, the bitchy, the spiteful, the raging snobbish secretary who had taken rejection badly. His heart sank; her expression was layered with guilt, self-righteousness and triumph; it couldn’t be good. And when the school principle, Ueda, followed on her heals, he knew it was very bad. Although he had a feeling it was pointless, he stood his ground.

“What’s going on?”

The principle ignored him as he always did and went straight for his bag, rummaging inside. He stiffened. “Hey! That’s my bag! You’ve got no right…!”

“There have been allocations of drug use,” the man sighed, “which must be investigated.”

“What?” Makoto shot a furious glare at Yoshi, who flicked him a venomous, defiant look before examining her nails.

“I’ve been told you’ve been acting spaced out over the past few days. More than one person has suggested you should be examined. What’s this?” Ueda flipped through the diary with little interest and tossed it aside before rummaging in his bag.

The man sounded more bored than anything else; one more hassle in the day. All the same, Makoto wanted to complain but knew it wouldn’t do any good, instead he snatched the diary up and cradled it to his chest moments before Yoshi got to it. Her eyes narrowed spitefully.

“Give that to me!” she demanded.

“No.”

Her foot stamped. “Give it to me!”

“No.”

Impotent fury washed over her face, it gave him some measure of satisfaction while his belongings were mauled.

“That will do, Miss Suzuki,” Ueda gave a nod of dismissal, which didn’t please her one bit. Makoto wanted to snicker. She wanted to believe she had the authority to come or go as she pleased, and here she was getting put in her place in front of the man she wanted to look in complete control in front of. She hesitated until Ueda looked from her to the door too pointedly to ignore, and she was forced to turn on her heels and leave, but not before shooting him that same annoying, smug, triumphant look. Since the best defense possible was to be indifferent to her, he ignored her.

“What’s this?”

His attention shifted back to the principle. A boulder plunged into his belly. Ueda held up a package. He’d gone through a stage in his teen years of course, but not now; couldn’t afford to even if he wanted to, but he knew what it was. A million thoughts crashed through his mind, a thousand denials sprung to his lips, but a sickening crash of fury and bitterness locked his mouth shut.

He’d been framed.

Looked like Yoshi had got her little revenge after all.

Damn it, I should have expected it! But how was he to know she’d taken his polite disinterest so badly? So Little Miss Rich Girl had wanted to slum it by fucking the Janitor; there were other men lower on the rung than her to turn to, small blame to him he’d disregarded the dangers.

The principle heaved a world-weary sigh. “I’m disappointed in you…” There was a hesitation, the man had forgotten his name. “…You know what this means; I’m afraid I’m going to have to fire you.”

Fury chocked him up too strong for words. He grabbed his bag, shoved the diary inside and hoisted it over his shoulder. “Well I want my fucking paycheck, then,” he spat bitterly.

Ueda waved him away. “I’ll send it in the mail.”

“No, I want it now,” he hissed back through ground teeth. “That way I know for sure I’ll get it.”

He was rewarded with a sour glance but no protest, so he followed the man all the way through the grounds up to the hallowed higher grounds that comprised of the principle’s office. As he followed the man down the main corridor, he noticed a number of eyes that hastily looked away as he passed.

Great, they all knew before I did.

What was this, anyway? One mass frameup by the entire staff? No, the shy, middle-aged woman who dealt with timetabling looked lost and sent him a quick glance of sympathy. Somehow it made him feel a lot better. He might be getting tossed out on the scrap heap but at least the one he’d somewhat liked wasn’t in on it. Ueda called Shimizu in accounting to find out how much he was due for. He nodded a few times, rang off, and then took out his checkbook, scribbling. Makoto craned his neck a little to read the amount. Paid up to the very day, and not a single bloody yen more. When the man proffered the cheque with the air of one suffering (Oh, poor thing), he grabbed it and stuffed it in his wallet. Then his gaze fell on the package still gripped in the other’s hands. He snatched up the weed, too. It was obviously the only bonus he was going to get, and considering he was losing his job over it, he deserved it.

“What a pity,” Ueda observed.

As he understood the man’s pity was reserved strictly for himself, he managed not to cry for him. Instead he stomped out and was about to crash back down the corridor swearing as loudly as he could when the timetable woman tugged his shirtsleeve.

“You’re leaving?” she asked anxiously.

“Fired,” he bit out.

“Oh.” She hesitated. “I’ll ask around. My husband might know someone needing a laborer. Give me your number.”

He paused. Her kindness touched him. “I don’t have a phone,” he admitted. “I’ll give you my address.”

And so he did.

She smiled a little. “Good luck.” And then she was back in her little hole.

It somehow cured him of wanting to go out with a bang. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and just walked.

Once he was outside, he was glad – better to go with dignity, a tantrum would just be gloated over by the Yoshi bitch. And hey, she’d basically given him a few hundred thousand yen worth of pot without him having to pay a cent, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t derive any satisfaction from it.

Look on the bright side. The job sucked. Maybe I’ll find a better one.

He managed to keep these thoughts going right until he flopped on his bed, then the depression set in. Who the hell would employ me, tossed out of a fucking Janitor’s position accused of being high on the job?

Because he couldn’t help himself, he dragged the diary out and scribbled down about two pages worth of his woes and worries. Once it was out, he felt a little bit better, but not much. At least it was getting warmer – by the time the rent was overdue and he was tossed, being out on the streets wouldn’t be so bad; the weather would be warm and one could always scrounge food at the back doors of the local restaurants. He had a few months at least before it really, really sucked.

For a while he moped around his apartment, then he went off to the local unemployment office, where he spent a few laborious and decidedly dull hours typing up a new resume, looking for possibilities, making himself known to the staff as he pulled his shirt sleeves down over his tattoos. When he’d done all he could, he went back home, ate a solitary meal, then dragged out the ol’ peace pipe he’d shoved into the back of the closet as a last remnant of his rebellious youth. Of course, at his age, it wasn’t rebellion; it was alternative. And he enjoyed a few very alternative hours. After a while, his shock plunge into unemployment seemed distant and well, it didn’t bother him anymore. He simply lounged on his bed, dreamy and mellow. And thus he fell asleep.

He was woken by a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder. For a moment his brows furrowed and he tried to ignore it, but eventually the realization that someone was actually in the room jerked him awake. He froze. There was a strong scent of pot in the air but closer to him was a different, cleaner herbal scent. The figure was sitting on his bed next to him. He knew very well that he’d locked the door behind him on returning home; he always did.

Then the figure bent down, hovered over him. “Makoto…”

And he knew – him. A big grin washed over his face. He fumbled for the bedside touch lamp until it was on the lowest setting. The man before him looked more than a little startled; he stared at the lamp as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. And then, the cutest thing – he hesitantly reached out and tapped it, just like a curious kitten. It got brighter and Tsukasa was lost in rapturous fascination. “Sugoi,” he breathed. “How did it do that?”

Makoto looked on; if it hadn’t been so cute, he’d have been disgruntled. Cut out by a lamp. Could life get any worse? “I’m over here,” he reminded tartly.

The bashful look the man sent him made him melt. His first impulse was to ask how he got there, but then decided it was irrelevant. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he simply said.

Tsukasa leaned down, stroked his hair back out of his face and kissed him. “I wanted so much to come,” he replied. “I read your letter – I was worried.”

A big, bashful smile washed over him before he could stop it. He affected a shrug. “I’ll just have to hope for a lot of luck.” He scooted over to allow Tsukasa room if he wanted it. He hoped he didn’t seem too eager. Then he decided he didn’t care. Tsukasa took full advantage of the silent offer and snuggled down, facing him. He was wearing some kind of opulent Yukata. He wondered if he could convince the man to leave it behind; he could probably sell it for a million yen. They stared into each others faces for a moment, smiling, when Tsukasa sniffed a little and made a funny face. “Been having fun?”

He shrugged. “Hey, since it was forced on me, might as well enjoy it.”

The man grinned. “Got any left?”

He fought down a chuckle. “Maybe.” Some deeper aspect of his psyche couldn’t believe he was acting like a coy girl but he couldn’t seem to help himself. And when Tsukasa kissed him so tenderly, he decided he’d be sickeningly coy if that’s what it took for more. He lost himself into it, trying to find the rhythm he used to know. Neither of them seemed particularly expert at it, but that’s what made it all the more pleasurable. All he wanted was to lose himself in it and know that his feelings were returned. When Tsukasa’s hands went under his shirt he murmured encouragement and then the damn thing was off. He lifted his hips when Tsukasa’s hands slid down to his belly and then the pants were off too.

He fumbled at Tsukasa’s waist until he found the sash knot and untied it. The smooth movement of Tsukasa’s body lifting and twisting to allow the robe’s removal was sinuous and graceful. One hell of a turn on. Tsukasa snaked on slender thigh between his and it seemed natural to lift his leg over and draw the man in closer. The man felt so solid and real against him, a vague part of his mind wondered how it could be possible – he was almost sure this wasn’t a drug-induced hallucination or only a dream, but he couldn’t be positive because it still felt unreal. Tsukasa’s hands massaged his body, running up and down his sides, down his back, over his ass and slid up and down his thighs, and all the while his lips nipped and kissed him, over his forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, but mostly on his lips. It was a little overwhelming; his limited experience with girls had involved him doing all the work, and even less time with other males hadn’t been exactly romantic. He liked it very, very much.

When Tsukasa pushed him onto his back and started kissing his neck, his collar bones, he sighed and concentrated on the excitement and urgency he felt; the building pressure, the building pleasure. Tsukasa licked and bit and teased both nipples over and over until he couldn’t bear it and found himself lifting his knees back, spreading his legs and moaning wordlessly in supplication. Tsukasa let out a long, husky murmur of pleasure and licked up and down the backs of his thighs, his buttocks, lightly rimmed him, making him groan and tighten. He vaguely wondered through the pleasure if he was still high; he’d never imagined submitting to this before; he’d never allowed anyone that close. But now he couldn’t seem to do anything else.

Then Tsukasa hesitated and sat up to stare down at him. “You want this?”

He managed a smile and nod.

“…Oil?”

Makoto cursed and fumbled in the tray beside the bed. He shoved the tube into Tsukasa’s hands. Tsukasa stared down at it utterly at sea. Of course; he wasn’t used to plastic stuff. Makoto grabbed it back and flipped the lid. The warrior smiled in wonder but didn’t hesitated over it this time; he simply accepted it and turned it upside down, to no effect. Makoto gasped “Squeeze!” Tsukasa did so and made a small sound of triumph when the clear liquid came out. He fingered it experimentally and used it to good effect, his eyes drifting shut in bliss as he rubbed it on. The sexy little sounds he made, made him groan; he lifted up, grabbed Tsukasa around the waist and dragged him down on top of him. Tsukasa chuckled against his ear.

“Impatient?”

“Yes, damn you!”

Tsukasa laughed at his tone and hugged him tight, hooking his arms under his armpits and pressing his lips to his own. He forgot about dignity and moaned in unbearable yearning when he felt Tsukasa pressing against him. Tsukasa pushed; it hurt like hell and he flinched before he could stop it.

“Done this before?” Tsukasa gasped.

Makoto hesitated over being honest or cool. The discomfort he felt when Tsukasa pushed a little harder decided him. “No. Not this.”

“Ahh…” The man sat back a little. “Then let’s take this slow.”

And then Tsukasa tortured him, using his fingers to play with his hole, dipping in, tickling, alternating one or two fingers, getting him used to it. His other hand slicked lube over his sex and subjected him to a slow, burning tease. He lay there with his head to this side, his eyes shut, panting deeply until he couldn’t stand the bliss anymore. “Ooohhhh, Tsukasa…please…” he finally begged.

He couldn’t manage to drag his eyes open, but he felt the man mount him once more and settle his weight lightly over his body. Then the pressure was back, but this time, when the gentle push came, he welcomed it; wanted it, and it was easier this time. He arched his back and moaned, overwhelmed, as Tsukasa filled him. Tsukasa grabbed both his wrists, he could hear him gasping, could feel his hair against his cheek and the feel of his body pressed down on his. Then Tsukasa’s hips were slapping against his butt – fast and light, he was amazed at how satisfying it felt. One of the hands let go of his wrist to slide down his waist and then shove between their bodies to his erection, and then the pleasure doubled, tripled and soared. He’d never, ever experienced anything like it before; this desire from someone else to pleasure him, to make him the focus. He clutched Tsukasa’s shoulders, buried his face into the crook of the man’s neck and sobbed from the force of the pleasure until he finally burned in a long, hard orgasm. He was vaguely aware of Tsukasa sucking in one last, tight breath and then freezing in his own bliss and then they seemed to melt into each other in the afterglow; that was the best bit.

For a while they lay silent, panting. Makoto felt strange. To think he’d thought of himself as a bit of a hardass; no sentimental bullshit, no lovey-dovey crap; he had it tough etc etc. And now he was simply drowning in warm, sentimental-as-hell fuzzies. The more you rail against it, the harder you fall in the end. Where had he heard that before? He sighed. It wasn’t logical. He’d drifted into dreams of a warrior over the past year, always the same man, drawn pictures of him, seen movies, and pretended to himself that the whole point of his sub-standard existence was that he was simply waiting for him to arrive. He’d never really believed it, of course, it was just a fantasy to make the days a little sweeter. But suddenly it did happen against logic and reality and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to feel scared or even weirded out – it was somehow just right. It felt strange to feel such a powerful commitment to a man he’d only met (if that’s what you could call it) a few days ago. Very strange. But also wonderful. And scary. How long would the tentative happiness be allowed to last? Would Tsukasa be there in the morning? Was this all they’d have – a few dreamy nights? He sighed and snuggled into Tsukasa’s arms. It was better than nothing.

They settled down into a comfortable cuddle and drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER 6

He woke up. For a second he hovered in a state of tabla rasa without a single thought in his head. Then he remembered about the night before, and he sat up and looked around. Although he’d pretty much expected it, he still felt let down when he saw that he was alone. Then he remembered work, looked at the clock, saw he was over an hour late, and was halfway out of bed when he caught a whiff of weed and remembered he didn’t have work. He couldn’t decide whether to celebrate or cry. He let out a sigh, flopped back down into bed and let himself doze for another half hour, thinking over the night before, planning his day. He shifted. His butt ached a little, but in an entirely pleasant way. His mind lingered over the feelings, how good it had felt to have a nice, solid, warm weight over him, who cared about him. He forced down the skeptical voice that informed him that love at first sight was a bullshit phrase for lust that didn’t last. This was special. They’d met through a magic diary for god’s sake.

So he enjoyed another fifteen minutes in remembrance, tracing the man’s skin, breathing in the man’s scent. Going over every touch, every thrust. Then his mind drifted to the blank slate that was the current day. Since he still had money in the bank, and had such a wonderful night, he felt like he was on an impromptu holiday; he couldn’t help feeling cheerful. The first thing he did was open the diary. To his pleasure, Tsukasa had written to him. Before he read it, he made himself some tea and instant ramen, then settled back down in bed.

Makoto, last night was wonderful.

He smiled. No more subtle fishing questions; the man had no doubts.

After all these years, it felt good to be with someone again, and I don’t mean just the sex (although that was fantastic too).

He chocked over a laugh, it was good he was alone because he felt embarrassingly emotional.

Makoto, I really want to find out more about this diary, and how it lets us meet. I want to find out if there’s a way to make it permanent. So I’m going to the shrine where Matsumoto-sempai said he’d found it. Who knows? Someone there might know something. I’m going to leave the estate business to my uncle Yasuhiko for a few days. He lost a lot with the change of government so he’s very keen to get the business underway. I’ll keep you informed as I find things out.

Yours, Tsukasa.

He closed the diary with care, trying to force the hope bubbling up back down where it belonged. What were the chances of some priest or caretaker conveniently being familiar with the diary and telling Tsukasa all about it? After all, the diary was hardly famous now; no-one knew it existed, it was just some strange anomaly. God? He shut his eyes for a moment. If you’re out there, and this is yours, please gimme a break? He almost made a rash promise to clean up his act, become more religious, dedicate his life to the poor or something but he had a feeling he’d break the oath in under a week and would doubtless be punished by having Tsukasa smartly whipped away. Better to promise nothing.

Once he’d finished breakfast, he went through the usual morning routine, dressed with a little more care than usual, and left his apartment. A loud argument from the couple next door shattered the cold silence of the apartment complex, he winced and walked a little faster, hoping things wouldn’t turn violent. Half way down the stairs, an elderly woman struggled with shopping. He hesitated, then offered to help her carry them, half afraid she’d glare at him suspiciously and tell him to bugger off. But she was too tired to be suspicious, and he went all the way back up with most of the bags. The tears in her eyes when she thanked him embarrassed the hell out of him and he made his escape before she could ‘reward’ him with something she could ill afford to give. The bad thing about it was he felt guilty; like the only reason he’d helped her was to build up brownie points with Tsukasa as the jackpot. Hey, I helped another old man just a month ago, lugging that sofa around, and before that, I helped that old lady find her cat. But he still felt irrationally guilty.

His first stop was the unemployment office. He looked through the database for available jobs. Oh, the tedium of scanning through the hundreds of jobs that he wasn’t qualified for to find the meager three he had a chance at. He sighed and got to work writing applications. This was a task he loathed; trying to kiss ass and lie about why he wasn’t in a job. Trying to make it look all professional. And he could never think of the words. Lyrics to random songs chased through his head at rapid fire rate, he’d even been known to write poetry, but official crap? At least the office had free emailing, photocopying and printing. Once it was done, he skipped out of the office with the virtuous glow of knowing he’d done the best he could for the day, and the rest was his own. Therefore, he took the next train to his shrine.

It was a sunny day, which meant crowds. He skirted them as best as he could; thumbs in his pockets, head down. They talked about the latest movies, gossip, the clothes they’d bought, the latest in everything they were going to buy next. He felt contemptuous and jealous. No matter how many times he told himself to ignore them; treat them as somehow not a part of his world, it still rankled. Partly because his pathetic grades at school that precluded a real job were his own fault, partly because he still felt resentful that there’d never been a single damned person who’d cared enough to slap him around and force him back on the right path. In the end, he forced himself to shove it into a corner and enjoy the moment. He was at his favorite shrine, the forest paths teased him and egged him on with indulgent familiarity, while the gardens and trees loved him with a warm, gentle beauty. They didn’t care about the others – for them they were indifferent - they lived and breathed for him.

The end of his wanderings always took him to the teahouse. He followed the routine - shoes off, bathroom, brush the hair a little because he knew it pleased the obaasan. He wandered out into the main room to find the place crowded and felt cheated. People were staring at him; a gaggle of cute, smug girls with their cute, smug boyfriends sipping their tea and eating cake and pleased that a lowlife like him was standing there, awkward and alone and about to get turfed because there was no room for him. He felt his heart sink. But then the obaasan came, loaded with fresh tea, and observed the scene. She took time to serve the tea to guests in the corner, bowed graciously and padded back over the tatami mats. She then turned to him.

“Makoto kun – private room.”

He couldn’t ever remember having given them his name, but he wasn’t surprised that she knew it. She gestured, and he followed. He flashed a smirk behind him and had the satisfaction of seeing annoyance on every stuck-up face. He followed the obaasan around the back to the small private living room. There were a lot of interesting knick-knacks and carvings and statuettes, but although the room was small, it didn’t look cluttered. The main centerpiece was the center table, with tea and their special home-made cake and a sushi platter already waiting. The Ojiisan was already there, sipping tea. He glanced up as he entered the room.

“Ah.”

Makoto bowed and took his place at the table at the Obaasan’s prodding. She sat opposite him and set sushi and cake before him, and poured tea. Behind her was a private garden he’d not yet seen – it surprised him. He thought he’d seen it all, but this was hidden by a stone wall that supported a natural rise in the ground, with bushes framing all round. He thought over the structure of the place – this small nook was hidden by the bushes. Somehow he’d never thought of it before. The garden was beautiful. A stone bench, a stone lantern, and a profusion of wildflowers that weren’t exactly trimmed back but somehow managed to look simple and uncluttered. He could almost catch what he thought might be a pond just out of his sight. He felt an instant burning desire to sit there. He sipped at his tea and said nothing. They weren’t talking, so he didn’t, either. He liked to think it wasn’t necessary, not after all their years of knowing each other. The obaasan proffered three slices of cake and four cups of tea before she was satisfied he’d been thoroughly attended to. When she cleared the plates away, he felt a little awkward. He wanted to pay, he was worried they’d be offended if he did, and was even more worried they’d be offended if he didn’t. However there was no time to think of that; as one they moved out to the garden. He hesitated for a moment and joined them. Their very silence was an invite in itself, right? In any case, they said nothing as he joined them on the wooden seat outside. He sat and contemplated.

The garden was every bit as beautiful and he’d imagined. The pond even more so. Inside, goldfish drifted under the shade of the overhanging flowers. While they sat in silence, he clutched at his bag and felt the outline of the diary inside. He wondered how Tsukasa’s trip was going, and if he’d found out anything useful. He was struck with a burning desire to look, but didn’t want to be rude to his hosts. It was agonizing though. Instead, he tried to convince himself that hope was impossible and invent many reasons why it didn’t matter; that Tsukasa would still be there, in his dreams, which certainly felt real enough and was light-years better than not having him at all. But if he wasn’t really there, in the flesh, he could so easily disappear for good.

Finally, the old man sighed and put his cup down. A chill of unease made him break away from contemplating the pond to stare at the ojiisan. It was something about that sigh; some nebulous feeling of the ending of things in that long, quiet breath. The old man spoke.

“The local government is selling this place, Makoto.”

He froze. For a moment his heart rate accelerated even though his mind was blank, then a wave of rage, injustice, bitter unfairness crashed over him. “…Selling? To who?”

The old man mentioned a company name that didn’t mean a thing to him. “ The company wishes to build an upmarket Ryokan here.”

“Oh, fucking great.” Makoto shifted on the bench as the obaasan rose and left without a word, probably to go back to the guests. “Another expensive Ryokan. And what about you?” he asked angrily. “What are you going to do?”

“We’ll be okay.” The old man took a sip of tea. “We’ll have just enough to live quietly with one of our daughter’s family.”

Makoto snorted. His old couple being forced out and into the spare room of a family that would probably look at them as a nuisance to dump all the housework onto. His old couple losing their sense of pride and independence!

They wouldn’t be ‘his’ anymore. They’d be gone. And he certainly wouldn’t be welcome here anymore. “…When?”

“We need be out by the end of the month.”

Makoto did a quick tally and muttered a curse. Just under three weeks. “Where are your family?”

“In Kyuushuu.”

He choked on his tea. “Kyuushuu?” Oh great. May as well be moving to mars. He was hit with a sense of loss so deep it felt weird. It wasn’t like they were a huge part of his life, he only saw them once or twice a week, didn’t speak to them much – in fact this was the longest conversation they’d ever had. But they’d been there – there as no one else was - or had ever been. “…What are your family like?”

The man shifted a little. “Dutiful. We shall be fine.”

Which meant, of course, that they were going to be accepted under sufferance and they weren’t going to be fine, just as he’d thought. And he couldn’t do anything. It was crushing. Frustration and a completely horrible feeling of impotence roiled inside him. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry, Makoto.”

He snorted again. “Hey, it’s not your fault. And I don’t have some kind of right to this place, anyway.”

“It means something to you. Not many feel that way.”

“Yeah, well…” he shrugged, embarrassed. “Most people have a life.”

“Are you going to be okay? We’re worried about you.”

And suddenly all the bad feelings worsened as a wonderful feeling was born. It was a tangle that made him fight to suck in a breath and not do something absolutely unthinkable like cry. He forced his chin up. “No shit? Kinda neat to have someone actually give a fuck. Thanks.”

The old man shocked him by biffing him over the head.

“We’ll have no foul language polluting this shrine, young man.”

He rubbed his head and laughed, even though he still felt rather startled. “Sorry.”

“Youngsters today,” the man sniffed.

“Oh don’t gimme that – I bet you were ten times worse when you were younger,” he protested. “What, like during the wars and stuff…” The man looked like he was trying not to smile. “Ah hah!” he pounced. “See? Hypocrite.”

The man laughed. Then self-consciousness returned and he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Will you be okay?” the old man repeated.

He remembered he’d just lost his job. For a second he was tempted to blurt out his woes but he didn’t want them to worry even more then they were already. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just…keep on as always.”

“Perhaps you might write to us.”

“Of course, just gimme your address…” then he froze. He may not even have his own address soon. “Uh…I’ll give you the local post office’s address,” he added carefully. “Lots of kids live around my place, sometimes they steal the mail, you know…”

His companion inclined his head in acceptance and he felt like a worm for lying. But it wasn’t a mean lie and it was all for the best. A silence settled between them again, and he let his mind drift. So he was to lose both his job and his shrine. Perhaps the Deity that breathed life into the diary wasn’t an entirely benevolent creature; perhaps He or She demanded a sacrifice for what was given. Well He or She could at least give a warning, first – some kind of contract to sign, or at least a warning on the front page. It was like cheating. If only Tsukasa could come. Somehow, things would be better.

For a while he sat until the tea ran out. Then he wondered how long he could stay before he became a pain in the ass. Finally the old man rose with a sigh, so he did, too.

“I guess…I guess I’d better get going,” he mumbled. “I’ll come tomorrow, too.”

“But what about your work?”

He hesitated. “After work – just for an hour or two.”

The old man smiled. “It will be good to see you.”

He nodded and followed the man back out into the public rooms. Most of the guests had departed. The obaasan was waiting as he headed towards where he’d put his shoes.

“Douzo.” She handed him a package wrapped up in a worn but clean handkerchief. He flushed and stuttered and thanked her gruffly. She beamed at him fondly. “Come again soon.”

He nodded, hugged the package tight to his chest and mooched out the door before his feelings could overwhelm him. It was only three o’clock, but somehow it felt later. People passed him; happy, busy, bad tempered or indifferent people who knew nothing about his problems and didn’t care. He always felt alone, but at times like these it bit harder, felt more stark. He passed a small, grassless park. It held one swing, one slide and a see-saw – cheap but clean. By the swing a big, black dog sat and stared at him. He watched it for a moment, then bent his head down and trudged the rest of the way home.

In his mailbox was a letter from the library telling him the book he’d ordered was available for him to borrow out. He debated heading right over, then decided he’d get it the next day after he’d been to the unemployment office. Instead, he cleaned up the apartment , made up a quick stir fry and ramen, dragged some home-made green tea out of the fridge, and ran himself a hot bath. While it was running, he grabbed some more of the pot and the associated paraphernalia, returned to the bathroom, sank into the steam, and ate. When he was done, he lit the pipe and smoked as the water slowly cooled, thinking back over the day, and what he’d been told. He felt so helpless. If his life was a movie, he’d somehow manage to band together a motley group of oddballs who would annihilate the Evil Company by finding some obscure law forbidding development on a sacred site, while the whole community right at the end when it all seemed hopeless would donate the funds in a burst of sentiment. Plus there’d be the romantic angle too – only he had no motley misfit friends, the community wouldn’t give a stuff, and he didn’t want any romance that didn’t involve Tsukasa. So he smoked and tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter; it all simply meant he was destined for something else.

Maybe Tsukasa would find a way; maybe the God behind the diary had found him worthy and was preparing the way to have him dragged back in time to be with Tsukasa. Makoto let a wisp of smoke stream from his nostrils and smiled in hazy pleasure. Nice to imagine it, even if it did mean a loss of certain modern conveniences he would miss. Living in the past wasn’t so bad if it meant he was going to become a consort of a rich man. And not just any rich man; an intelligent, well-traveled, handsome man who wasn’t too grand to poke fun at himself and to laugh at the world in turn. Funny, Friendly, and fascinating. And sexy. And gorgeous.

And to all appearances, liking him in return.

He sat in the water and enjoy the pot until the water got cold before he dried off and went to collect the diary. Perhaps Tsukasa wouldn’t have found anything to say in the intervening hours since he’d written that morning, but he was feeling too mellow to let that bother him. He settled down on his bed, and opened up the diary. There were only a few lines, but he read avidly.

Makoto, I don’t know how often you read this, but I wanted to let you know I made it here to the shrine in Kanazawa…

Makoto started. Kanazawa! The shrine was here in Kanazawa! It had to be his own shrine. Never mind that Kanazawa was large and had hundreds of shrines, his sense of the rightness of things demanded it.

…and asked some acolytes here a few questions. They politely side-stepped everything I asked, but I pulled rank and managed to scrape a meeting with the head priest half an hour ago. Before that, they gave me a broom and left me to it for two hours– only the humble deserving grace and so on. The shrine grounds were vast. I just wanted you to know that.

He snickered.

My dinner was less than superlative – more humbling and esoteric living etc etc. The acolytes kept glancing at me and hiding snickers - it amuses them to watch a lord rough it. I was invited to join them for their late-afternoon training but being fully aware that they expected me to agree out of pride – and that they wanted to enjoy see me fail at feats of strength they took for granted at the age of eight – I firmly declined. I claimed I had a lot of managerial letters and private business to attend to, which shut the giggles up. Hence I am now tired out and wrapped in a sufficiently humbling old, cotton robe, nursing blisters and aching arms as I strain to dip my pen into ink. And all this for you.

“Crawler,” Makoto mumbled around a grin. Suddenly, he remembered his gift, retrieved it, and undid the furoshiki. Anzo bean traditional cake – his favorite. And she made it the best. He sliced off a corner of the confection and enjoyed the flavour as he read the rest of his latest message. The next sentences made him sit up and his eyes widen.

The priesthood here is a family tradition dating back to the birth of Japan, if one believes him. Certainly there have been at least ten generations keeping this shrine. At first he would only talk to me about the history of the shrine itself and how it miraculously survived destruction through all the clan wars over the years, and he didn’t mention the diary at all. I didn’t want to risk offending him so I let him talk for about two hours. The story of the shrine might have been quite interesting if I hadn’t been so wild with impatience to find out about the diary. Still, the rather miraculous good luck the shrine has had did keep my attention. When I threw out a few tentative feelers about possible magic, he sidestepped in the most infuriating way, so in the end I asked about the diary. At first he simply just looked at me. Imagine me giving my best steely-eyed warrior glare. Finally he told me that there was a legend that the God who formed this shrine gave a reward to five scholar Bushi warriors who had defended the shrine against invaders. According to report, the five Bushi were lively and each demanded a separate gift. Four asked for long lives, money, women and riches, while one, who apparently already had riches and women, simply wanted to communicate with someone from the future or past, for he had a curious mind. And the God gave him a diary. Guess which one? And so each received their gifts and lived long, successful lives, except for the curious one who one day disappeared, and no one ever knew what happened to him.

And that was all the priest knew. However, he did give me the name of the man – one Jin Takafumi. I didn’t tell him about having the diary or about you; I was too worried someone would steal it from me. I simply told him that Matsumoto-sempai had told me about it and I wanted to know – I tried to act like it didn’t mean much to me, and that was hard. I am trying not to hope for too much, but I fear my heart won’t listen to my mind. I am determined to somehow find a way – maybe if I search around his area, he may have family members who kept records. The fact that he ‘disappeared’ makes me wonder – did he travel through time? How? We must work it out! We will be together, Makoto, somehow. On the journey to this shrine I had a lot of time to think about my life, my role in the uprising, my years in Europe, and our meeting when I returned, and I thought of this.

“Fire and wind sweeps the day,

Snowstorm rages in the night

A flower blooms in the dawn.”

Which is how I think of you, Makoto.

He shut the book and held it tight to his chest for a long moment, sucking in a deep breath and then letting it slowly out. His chest was tight and he teared up – it was everything he’d ever wanted and thought he’d never have – it was the kind of joy that hurt. He sank down into bed, savoring each word, caressing the diary as if he could somehow make Tsukasa feel it, until he slowly drifted to sleep.

CHAPTER 7

He drifted in and out of slumber, and finally woke up with a sense of disquiet, of things not right. He shifted and hesitated – whatever was covering him wasn’t his thick, warm comforter, but something rough and scratchy on his skin. He felt a quick flash of pure panic before he realized, and his heart soared – Of course! He must be at the shrine, with him! However he wrinkled his nose in bleary distaste and stuck out a hand to feel tatami mats under him – not the fresh, clean tatami mats of Tsukasa’s room but mats that felt and smelt older and dirtier. He sucked in a breath and sat up, only to have a figure next to him stir and sit. He blinked. It was so very dark.

“Who’s there?” A familiar voice whispered harshly. A bubble of joy flared up inside him.

“….Tsukasa?”

“…Makoto? Oh, Makoto!” He heard Tsukasa fumble around over his side of the bed, heard a variety of scraping sounds, and then a small light flickered in the darkness. He sat up, blinking, and looked around. Yes, there was Tsukasa, nursing a cheap lamp. He saw the diary on Tsukasa’s lap. It was the same, but looked far newer. His face glowed from the lamplight – he was so beautiful. What a contrast to the plain, unattractive room they now shared that was so unworthy of him. And then, when he looked at him, and he smiled – that was the best part.

“Makoto…somehow I thought you’d come.”

He grinned – and then Tsukasa wrapped his arms around him and pulled him down beside him on the futon. He followed willingly – eagerly – Tsukasa lifted his face up just as he grabbed it and kissed him.

The next few minutes passed very pleasantly.

The next hour passed in ecstasy.

When they’d both given each other all they had within them, Makoto reluctantly pulled out and slid off the man’s body until they were back to where they’d started, in each others arms, only this time, pleasantly hot, sweating and naked. Tsukasa pulled the blanket up over them and gave him a final kiss. Makoto felt all the drugging power of that tender mouth on his; it made his eyes drift shut and languor settle through every inch of his skin. But he forced himself to pull away and wake up. If he slept, that would be the end, and he’d wake up back home. And it hadn’t been enough; he wanted to actually talk to him for a while, first. He opened his eyes and grinned a little. “And to think when I first woke you up, you sounded highly unfriendly.”

Tsukasa laughed a little; Makoto could hear the embarrassment there. “Mmm…for a second I thought - one of the priests kept staring at me all the way through dinner…”

He snorted. “And instead of a lecherous priest, you got lecherous me instead.”

He then felt the man trailed his hand up his thigh, over his hip, and caressed along his torso and belly with an utterly voluptuous, sensuous smile. His eyes sank shut in bliss.

“Poor me – ravished against my will as I lay here, helpless and completely at your mercy…”

Makoto giggled – and turned red at doing so – but he couldn’t help it, it was such an exciting vision.

“…Forced to endure your animalistic desires as you desecrated my pure, warrior’s body…you dragged me down into the cesspit of your twisted, evil desires…you shocked me…” he sighed. “…Scared me…Took more from me than I could bear…used me, abused me….” He bit down on his earlobe and sucked on it. “…Do it again…”

He kept giggling. He was too much in awe of the man to do anything but take and give to him with reverent passion; but oh, his words conjured up so many images of all the things he’d secretly wanted to do – and receive. His laughter made Tsukasa chuckle and the moment passed – they settled down comfortably and Makoto managed – after a long struggle – to force the blush down and gaze bashfully lover. “I’m glad I somehow managed to get here tonight.”

Tsukasa smiled. “Me too.”

“I wish I knew how this happened.”

Tsukasa’s smile turned wry. “Me too.”

“Have you found out anything more?”

The man sighed. “No, not yet. I’m going to head out to Mie tomorrow to talk to this Jin Takafumi’s descendents to see if he left any letters or something.” Tsukasa stroked down his cheek, his chin. “And what are you going to do? Are you okay?”

He shrugged. “I’m okay for now. I’ll just have to keep looking for a job.” He paused. “The shrine I told you about – the one I often go to – even this one, maybe…” He looked around, but there was no familiarity. “…the government is selling it to a private company that’s going to turn it into a expensive Ryokan.”

“What?” He was silent for a moment. “You really loved that place, didn’t you.”

Makoto tried for a casual shrug. “Well, yeah, but…” he cleared his throat. “Well, it’s tough shit, basically.”

Tsukasa looked wistful. “If I had money here, I could give it to you. But I like to travel light.”

Makoto brightened. “That’s an idea – I could probably sell a few coins for millions!”

His companion’s eyes widened. “Millions? But…”

“They’re antiques!” Makoto explained happily. “Probably worth a fortune!”

Tsukasa stared at him and made a wry face. “Antiques? Disquieting.”

This took a while to permeate through Makoto’s mind, which had already taken flight. “…I could say I found it somewhere…would you mind…?” he frowned. “But people would probably think I stole it and I’d wind up in jail – or worse, the coins would be taken from me and some bastard would profit from them, instead…” He then shot a glance to his lover as the words finally sank in. “…Dis…?” He thought. “Oh. Sorry.”

Tsukasa rubbed his thumb along his jaw – it felt nice. “It’s strange to think that I’m dead to you.”

“You’re not dead to me,” Makoto shot back. “You’re as real as I am.”

Tsukasa pulled him close and he settled down with his head resting against Tsukasa’s shoulder and his arm across his chest. For a moment they simply lay there in silence, enjoying each other’s presence. Then Tsukasa shifted.

“If we do find a way, where shall we stay? Here, or in your time?”

He shrugged. “Don’t care,” he murmured sleepily. “Just as long as we’re together. My place sucks though, and I’m poor, so here’s probably better.”

His companion chuckled. Well, if I can somehow go forward to your time, I should be able to take money and furniture – you know, antiques which you can sell for a lot of your modern money…”

The self-mocking tone made him laugh. “Well that’s true – I could sell you, too. Bushi for Sale – Willing to serve any master, knows five forms of ritual suicide – no vendetta or Honor Killing too small.”

Tsukasa snorted. “There’s no such things as Bushi anymore – except in your…moories?”

“Movies.”

“Yes, that was it - Mooovies.”

The greedy tone Tsukasa couldn’t quite hide spoke volumes. To please the man, he started a conversation about movies he’d seen, music he’d listened too. Tsukasa was eager for information and asked question after question. Three hours passed by while he got sleepier and sleepier, murmuring erratic answers before falling asleep without even being aware of it.

When he woke up alone and in his usual bed he was sour but resigned. He sighed, flopped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, yawned, and took his time recalling the facts of his existence. None of it enthralling – except for Tsukasa. He luxuriated in a few delicious memories and the fact that he didn’t have to go to work. Then he remembered that the rent was due. He curled up into a tight ball under the blankets and buried his face in his knees. “Oh shit.”

He had about five days before the landlord came knocking. He gave a quick mental review of his finances. He had enough to pay for one more month, but there was fuck all to live on after that. Or he could sneak out now, keep the money for food and spend his days in the library and the nights…somewhere else. It was getting warmer now; it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe some of the nights he could spend there with Tsukasa – and with that thought he managed to smile.

Since he was awake, he eased out of bed and went through the usual morning routine. He was halfway through cleaning his teeth when he remembered the library book he’d ordered had come. Largely pointless since he’d managed to ‘meet’ Tsukasa anyway, but who knew if there was some important point about Tsukasa’s life mentioned? Perhaps it would say the man “mysteriously disappeared” – or what if he read that he himself were there? How awesome –and strange - if it were so.

Before he went to the library, he did his duty at the unemployment office. It was a quiet morning. Two or three desperate high-school graduates were battling through the miasma of apathy wafting from the old timers and staff. He felt sorry for them – they looked keen and sharp, seemed a shame they’d had no luck. He waited in line and when his turn finally came, he quoted his reference number to the terse staff member and waited. She informed him that of the three jobs he’d applied for, one was taken, one hadn’t responded yet, but one was offering him an interview in two days time. The way the receptionist offered the news like she was giving him an undeserved treat put his back up, but he was careful to take the details down without showing a hackle.

He gave himself a quiet pat and tried to reign in his excitement as he left the office. It was another janitor’s job, but he wasn’t inclined to be picky. In fact, although it was boring, at least it meant he knew what he was doing and wouldn’t suffer through the trauma of being trained in something he had no clue about. Still, ten to one he’d get knocked back for having no reference. What would be the best way to get around being fired? Lie and risk exposure, or be completely honest and hope to be given the benefit of the doubt? Neither option appealed. As he mooched along to the library, he reviewed his one good outfit. It had long sleeves, which would cover the tattoos. He considered snitching some more long-sleeved shirts off people’s lines. If he looked more wholesome he might keep the job longer – assuming he got it.

The library was even quieter than the unemployment office. He picked up his waiting book and picked up a few likely-looking novels while he was at it. He decided to spend a few hours in the armchair and lasted fifteen minutes – the aircon was too cold. Instead, he made his way back home – since it wasn’t going to be his much longer, he figured he might as well make the most of it. He fixed tea, and let his mind wander over him, wondering where he was, what he was doing. He was going to Mie, that was all he knew. When the tea was fixed, he took it over to his bed, placed it down on his bedside table, and flopped down onto the mattress. With a sigh, he picked up the textbook – it was huge – and began to read. The writer was pedantic and boring, and it wasn’t indexed very well, which meant he’d have to slog all the way through it to find any information. He forced himself through the first chapter to no avail, then switched over to his novel, and after that, he dragged out his drawing pad. Tsukasa flowed out from his fingers, no surprise there. But this felt more real; it was Tsukasa naked in bed, sleeping, skin slightly creased, the faint lines under his eyes, the stubble and blemishes, the skin rougher and less perfect than his dream Tsukasa, but so much more dear. It was Tsukasa at his last glimpse of him before he, too, had fallen asleep. How’s it going, Tsukasa? I hope you find something out. Anything.

The day passed by pleasantly, until the afternoon came and he could go visit his shrine. He had another quick shower, made sure his jeans were clean and his shirt passable. He felt stupid doing so, but since ‘his’ ojiichan and obaachan weren’t going to be around much longer, he wanted to make them proud of him. The journey was uneventful, the trains crowded with home makers, shoppers, and far too many kids going home from school. The girls gossiped and the boys spent the entire time bragging and trying to look cool with their school pants down low and their white shirts untucked. One displayed pink Snoopy boxer shorts to the world. The epitome of cool, apparently. Makoto snorted to himself as he exited the train. He’d never been such a dork.

His shrine, he was pleased to note, was quiet. Mostly middle-aged women, a few men. He tuned them out and did his usual slow trek around the shrine, until he came to his favorite sunny spot. The late afternoon sun warmed the area; a two meter square carpet of light green grass that rested on top of the incline that sloped down to the main pond. Trees lined the two thirds of the small nook that wasn’t adjacent to the pond, ensuring maximum privacy. He opened the diary and hid a grin behind his hand – Tsukasa had written again.

Makoto, I hope you had a good day. Have you found out about the job yet? Considering that we meet up at night, I assume we’re on a similar time frame, so I am imagining you at your shrine. I don’t know what the gardens look like, but I enjoy picturing you in a yukata, sitting by a pond, or maybe on a log in a quiet corner. Or perhaps you’re drinking tea in the teahouse, with your obaachan floating by.

Makoto grinned. Not yet, anyway.

Right now I’m at a quiet Inn at Hakone. I’ve been making good time, and changing horses as often as necessary. The journey was uneventful, although a small-town policeman took exception to my wearing a sword. He didn’t take exception to a bribe, however. Imagine my sneer. To save further hassle, I hid it amongst my belongings, but I can’t bring myself to abandon it. I wanted to press on into the night, but I wouldn’t have made the next town before nightfall, and anyway it’s been such a long time since I’ve been in the saddle all day, I’m sore and chaffed now and wishing for a certain sexy man to rub ointment into my aching body and bathe me. I’ve heard the baths here are quite superlative and I’m looking forward to indulging in a long bath after I’ve finished dinner. But it’d be twice as heavenly with you by my side.

He sighed wistfully. Although he’d normally tell anyone who ordered him to do something to fuck off, being Tsukasa’s bath-time slave sure sounded like bliss. Maybe one night they could soak together in his tub.

I’ll see you tonight.

He grinned again, although the wistfulness didn’t fade. If only he could be so sure that they would meet up again that night. If only it wasn’t so ephemeral. He closed the book with a sigh, returned it to his bag, and headed over to the teahouse. His obaasan greeted him in her usual quiet way. He hesitated.

“…Any new information? About the takeover, I mean,” he finally asked.

She shook her head. “The situation is unchanged.” She shooed him over to the table nearest to the window. “But never mind that, I have tea freshly brewed and cake. But before that, please try this.” On the table lay a selection of sashimi. “It’s fresh.”

He stared at it and then at her. “This must have cost heaps.”

“Not at all. We have a friend…” she let it go at that, and he knew better than to question further. Probably that friend wasn’t quite entitled to give freebies to friends, but that only made him admire the mystery donor more. “But I can’t eat this! It’s yours.”

“Oh, we’ve already eaten more than our fair share at lunch, and this needs to be eaten up today while it’s fresh.”

There didn’t seem much point to further argument; in the end he simply sat, thanked her with his best (and somewhat rusty) manners and dug in. It was delicious. Sashimi was an extremely rare treat, and he savored every mouthful. He kept his eyes half-mast and trained on the grounds outside while he fantasized about Tsukasa being here with him, with the other guests magically gone. They’d be wearing yukata and eating together, chatting, laughing, teasing each other, casting small smiles of shared knowledge as they feasted. One day. Somehow. He stayed for two hours, eating, drinking tea and dreaming, until he rose with a sigh, bowed to his hostess and promised to return on the morrow. As he traveled home, a tight, anxious longing curled up in his gut, and he forced himself to relax. We’ll find a way. We’ll always have the nights, at least.

Somehow, when he felt himself being gently shook awake, he wasn’t real surprised. He blinked groggily, turned over and groped in front of him until he grabbed soft material. He gave a satisfied little moan and pulled. Tsukasa squawked and a large weight dropped on him without ceremony. He grinned and firmly entangled his limbs amongst Tsukasa’s. “Konban wa.”

He felt hot breath against his neck and then Tsukasa chuckled.

“Konban wa.”

He grinned and offered a quick kiss to the man’s jaw. “How did you know?” He felt Tsukasa’s weight shift over to the side, he gave a little grunt of displeasure and followed him over until they’d both settled wrapped in each others arms, side by side. “That you’d be here tonight, I mean.”

“Last time, I was holding the diary when I went to sleep. I figured if I held it again…and it worked.”

He blinked. “It’s that simple?” He thought back to all the times he’d made it across. Come to think of it… “I think you’re right.” He frowned in the darkness. “Then why doesn’t it last?”

“I haven’t worked that bit out yet.” Tsukasa sighed and he felt the man’s lips travel over his jaw in soft little kisses and nips. He purred deep in his throat and stretched voluptuously against his lover. “And neither do I care…right this very minute.”

A perfectly satisfactory hour passed on both sides.

Makoto hugged Tsukasa tighter as the man attempted to slide off him. “No – stay. Just a little longer.”

Tsukasa sighed and sank down on top of him, and he gloried in the hot, heavy, wet skin that pushed him down into the mattress, the warm length inside him, not so hard and thick now but still satisfying the aching need to be filled. He wrapped his legs tight around Tsukasa’s upper thighs and hugged him even tighter. “Mmm…I could stay like this forever…”

“You’d get squished.” Tsukasa rolled over, dragging him with him until he was the one on top. He considered grumbling but…He sighed and snuggled down on his new warm bed. Nah. “How was your bath?” He could hear the smile.

“Good. The owner’s daughter gave every inch of my skin a brisk scrub, then pummeled my body until it was liquid. Then I soaked. It was wonderful.”

Makoto lifted his head. Everyone knew what serving girls did back in the days. “…What? Let’s get one thing clear.” He poked the man in the chest. “I’m not going to be some kind of damned concubine waiting here patiently while you take your pleasure where ever you go.”

Tsukasa chuckled. “She just warmed me up for the main event, that’s all. I was so horny I could barely get to sleep – and therefore onto the solution. I’m not going to say it wasn’t on offer, but I wanted only you.”

Which wasn’t quite a definitive answer but he let it slide. As long as it wasn’t another man. He imagined what it’d be like to go through the whole pampering experience beside him before they cuddled in a tub. “I wish I could come with you – tomorrow I mean. I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

“You haven’t?” Tsukasa gave a mock groan. “Trust me, it’s fun for the first half hour, then comes the saddle sores, the aching muscles, the aching back…it’s overrated. I want one of your…what are they? Those metal carriages that run on their own.”

“Cars?”

“Yes, the cars. They sound amazing.”

“You could get to Mie in about two hours.”

“Two Hours?” The arms around him tightened. “I don’t believe it.”

Makoto snickered. “It’s true.

“And everyone has one?”

“Well, I sure don’t,” Makoto snorted. “Most people have one, yeah, but they spend the next ten years paying it off. They’re expensive.”

“Ah…”

There was silence for a minute, and Makoto couldn’t help laughing to himself. He could imagine the merry hell he was going to go through if Tsukasa somehow made it to his side. The man would be insatiable in wanting to explore all the wonders of the modern world, and he’d been brought up as a nobleman, with all the privilege, wealth and autonomy that entailed.

A deadly combination.

He forced himself to ignore visions of Tsukasa blithely taking someone else’s car in the manner of an old lord commandeering a peasant’s horse, or his belief that red lights were designed so that everyone could give way to him. Why borrow trouble, and maybe he’d make it back in time instead. Speaking of which, if their prayers were answered, where would they end up? It was all very well to gush poetic phrases about only needing each other screw the location, but they’d have to decide some time, and while the idea of him winding up back in time and Tsukasa taking his spot here in the present had rather an appealing irony, he’d rather they wound up together – without fighting over it. Did he really want to go back in time? No plumbing, no instant hot water, no movies. But there were servants, right? All he knew was the wealth was back there, not here. Call him mercenary, but he figured the Splendor of Love was decidedly more enjoyable with a few creature comforts to back it up. “How long will it take you to get to Mie, do you think?”

Tsukasa sighed. “Maybe a week. Providing I can get fresh horses regularly. And if a certain person will massage and oil my tender ass each night.”

Makoto snickered. “I promise. I’ll even buy some Soov. It’s a antiseptic and numbing cream so it should reduce the pain a little.”

“Anti what?”

He explained as best he could. “Tsukasa, if we get to choose, do I come to you or do you come here?”

“I’ll come here.” There was no hesitation at all.

“Yeah, I know it’s all endlessly fascinating, but…I’m poor. And no offense – but you aren’t a nobleman here. You have even less employable skills than I do.”

Tsukasa stiffened. “I have lots of skills!”

“I know you do,” Makoto leered. He sobered. “But you need to have gone through school and uni and stuff here to cut any ice with employers here. Or have work experience. Trust me, it’s a totally different world here.”

“I can speak French and English? Or is that commonplace now?”

Makoto pondered this. “No actually, I didn’t think of that. You could do like, a teaching course and become a teacher. But still…just make sure you bring lots of money or something okay?”

He felt Tsukasa’s lips turn up into a smile against his neck. “I’ll do my humble best. You have the job interview tomorrow, right?”

He started. “Yeah. Hey, you remembered!”

“Of course.”

He felt himself being shifted so he moved with the guidance until they were lying side by side.

“Sleep.”

Said in a tone that brooked no argument. He wondered whether he should be defining their roles in this relationship in no uncertain terms, but he simply smiled and settled down to do as commanded.

CHAPTER 8

The next few days passed by slowly. The job interview seemed to go well, and they didn’t ask him for a reference – they just wanted proof that he’d worked there, which he could provide. When they asked why he wasn’t there anymore, he proffered an extremely moving account of having grandparents from Hokkaido who had recently moved in to a house nearby to the school, and he could therefore be nearer to them in order to look after them. He was rather proud of the story; it was eminently believable and made him look sweet too. He attempted to look keen and responsible without overdoing it, and thought it had gone off rather well. Time would tell.

The rest of his time he spent plugging through the boring book, bit by bit, searching for clues. Chapter two yielded nothing, chapter three held a tantalizing hint of a business making a name for itself in trade which may be related to Tsukasa but nothing more. He dutifully scoured for jobs at the unemployment office each morning with little enthusiasm, but sent off five more applications. The afternoons he spent at his shrine, sitting with his honorary parents and drinking tea. The deal with the government was in the process of being written up – not yet signed, but as good as. It was depressing, all the more so for seeing the resigned dignity and refusal to complain displayed to him. If he thought their family would welcome them he could be more philosophical about it, but as it was, it rankled. He thought back to his own grandparents, before they’d died, back in the simpler times of his childhood. He’d always loved being with them, but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever shown it, before they’d died. He wondered if they’d known. He hoped so. All he could do know was be there and hope his awkward presence and fumbling words would be good enough for his current unofficial foster parents to read between the lines. He thought a lot about his parents, his father’s fury and his mother’s indifference when he’d been tossed out of home. He wondered if they’d ever regretted it, but he didn’t think so. Thinking back on it, it had always been about duty, not love.

The nights were better; he spent them with Tsukasa. Once he crept under the blankets at some primitive inn, finding out firsthand what it meant to not have plumbing, but most of the time Tsukasa came to him. He’d throw Tsukasa’s clothes into the washing machine, hang them outside on the verandah, then run a nice, hot bath, and soak with his lover for an hour. Every gadget from the washing machine to the kettle was fascinating to Tsukasa’s eyes; it was fun to watch him. He was only sorry he didn’t have a TV to amaze the man. Sometimes they had sex, sometimes they simply gave pleasure with their hands and tongues. Afterwards, they snuggled down to talk until they fell asleep. Makoto listened to Tsukasa’s account of his journey to Mie; the strange things he’d seen, the people he’d met. It was fascinating. How come his old history teacher had made it seem so boring?

On the day Tsukasa was due to reach Jin Takafumi’s relatives, Makoto went to the unemployment office to find a message telling him he had the janitor’s job and would start the next Monday, where the old janitor, due for retirement, would show him the ropes for the next week. He took the details down and voiced gruff thanks to the man at the counter. When he got outside, he wandered over to a quiet corner and then did a small victory dance. Of course, it wasn’t any different from the crap job he’d had last time, but it meant money, and maybe the people would be better. He felt so good he went straight to the shrine to share the news with his old couple.

He found the old man first, in the garden, pulling out some weeds.

“Why are you even bothering?” he greeted. “In a week you won’t even be here anymore. Leave it to the expensive landscaping company they’re going to hire in.”

The old man straightened and frowned at him. “That’s not the point, young man. We’ve been paid to work up to the end of this week, and that’s what we’re going to do. You young people have no sense of work ethics.” He glared harder. “And why aren’t you in work today, young man?”

Makoto grinned sheepishly. “I got fired.” When the man’s face turned distressed, he hastily added, “That was last week though, and I’ve got another job starting Monday.”

“Last week?” They both paused at the back entrance to the teahouse while the old man removed his overalls and boots. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well I didn’t want you to worry,” he muttered. He hurried in to the house before the old man could reply. “Obaasan!”

“Ehhh?” His obaasan’s face popped out from the main reception area. She was holding an empty tray. “Makoto kun? What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to visit.”

“EH? But your job!”

The old man came into the room. “He got fired.”

“Fired? But why?”

“That’s what I want to know,” the old man replied grimly.

He looked just like his old grandfather had looked when he admitted to getting a bad grade in school. He should have been annoyed (he was twenty-eight!) but he wasn’t. It made him grin. The old woman urged him into their private room again, and soon brought out all the ingredients for a truly splendid temakizushi meal. As he stuffed himself, he gave an account of all that had passed, and what details he knew about his new position. On hearing about Yoshi, both lost no time in reviling her. It was very satisfying. “But why did she do that in the first place?” His obaasan wondered. She looked up to see his embarrassed expression. “Turned her down, did you?” She asked. He cleared his throat and nodded. She looked understanding. “You must have that problem a lot.”

Makoto choked on a mouthful of rice while the old man hooted with laughter.

“That ugly mug?” the man scoffed. “You’re out of your mind, woman!” At that point the phone rang, he made an annoyed noise, eased to his feet and left the room.

“Don’t listen to him,” the woman advised while pouring him another cup. “We women know these things.”

Makoto wondered if his face looked as red as it felt and took refuge behind the tea. “Uh…”

“Do you have a girlfriend, Makoto?”

He cleared his throat and shook his head. She looked disappointed.

“No one special at all?”

Then he knew his face was red as it felt.

“Ah hah!” she pounced. “So there is someone.”

At this point he paused. He was dying to tell someone about Tsukasa, but what could he tell her? That Tsukasa was a man? That he happened to exist over a hundred years ago and he wrote to him through a diary and made love with him in his dreams? “Kind of.”

“Well, where did you meet her? Doesn’t she like you?”

“She’s a he,” he whispered. The words were out before he realized and he couldn’t take them back. If he lost their love over it, at least they’d be gone in a week anyway. But he watched anxiously as shock and dismay chased over her face before she poured herself another cup of tea and smiled. It was a careful smile, but at least it was there.

“I see. I’m glad you’ve found someone who appreciates you. If you’re happy that’s all that matters.”

She sounded like she was convincing herself, but at least she didn’t politely (or not politely) toss him out.

“He’s…he’s really wonderful,” he mumbled. “I haven’t known him for that long yet, but he’s fascinating and beautiful and when I’m with him it all just seems so…natural, like we were destined for each other.”

“Well I hope you’ll bring him here before we go. I’d like to meet him.”

He muttered something and sipped at his tea. She laid one dry hand on his arm.

“You’ll always be my foster son, Makoto. Yes I was surprised, but it makes no difference to me; all I want is for you to be happy.”

Makoto floundered in a mire of emotion and embarrassment. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what the hell to say. “I wish…I wish I could save the shrine for you.” After this totally inadequate offering, he fell horribly silent and thanked god when the old man came in and they both drew back a little. He didn’t need to tell her to keep quiet about it. He stayed a while longer and muttered a gruff thanks when she pressed a package on him. Then he smiled at her; a sweet grin which made her ruffle his hair.

“You get on with you. And bring your young man,” she whispered.

He ducked out of the door and went home. On the way up he visited the landlord and managed to wrangle a week’s grace on the rent, then dumped his package on the bed and himself with it, landing with a mighty thump.

What a day.

After eating he fished the textbook out from it’s hiding spot between the wall and the bed and got started on chapter four. Every so often, he checked in the diary to see if Tsukasa would write anything. He tried to imagine what was happening. By now he should have reached this Jin’s ancestors. Perhaps these ancestors would know nothing. It was over four hundred years before Tsukasa’s time, after all. He sighed, fixed himself some tea, and when it was done, got on with the book.

An hour later he checked the diary. Fresh writing! He threw the text down and grabbed it eagerly.

Makoto. Just a short note – I’ve reached Jin san’s ancestors, and to my relief, they were welcoming. They were surprised I knew as much as I did, but were willing to be helpful. They even have some letters he wrote to his family at the time, and they’re hunting them up for me; they’ve been lying in storage. When I’ve read them I’ll write again. Tsukasa.

It was something, anyway. He hoped like hell this Jin guy had planned his disappearance and had written all the details down for posterity, or at the very least given enough hints. He turned back to the text with a big sigh. So dull. So dry. If only the writer had a grain of talent in communication. At the end of chapter was a fleeting reference to Sakurai Enterprises. “Yes!” He eagerly skipped skimmed the rest of the chapter but there was nothing. Maybe the next chapter. It focused on commerce; finally! He poured over it eagerly and was rewarded with a subsection outlining the paths of noted companies. He skimmed each paragraph impatiently until he finally struck gold. He read avidly.

“…The history of Sakurai Corporation is a history of growth. The company’s roots trace to the May 1876, established by Sakurai and Kitamura.”

Makoto frowned. Kitamura? Who the hell...? Why did that sound vaguely familiar? And wasn’t the company supposed to have been run by Tsukasa, his uncle and his friend Takada Masahashi? He shrugged. Perhaps Tsukasa would tell him later.

“…In October 1876 they started a trading company based in Tokyo. Utilizing the family wealth inherited from his nephew, Sakurai, with Kitamura began dealing in iron ore and other industry materials. The first decades were a time of growth through expansion in the production of industrial chemicals and chemical derivatives such as caustic soda, chlorine, fertilizers, nitrocellulose and industrial explosives. The years following World War II began broader ranging expansion into new fields. Towards the end of his life, Sakurai and Kitamura changed the company name to IchiDaiAsahi, and has since been the forefront of the Japanese chemical industry…”

He frowned again. A horrid feeling sank like a stone in his gut. This strongly suggested that Tsukasa never went anywhere. Perhaps it meant he went there instead? He hoped so – he prayed so. He let the book rest for a minute while he imagined what his life would be like. Maybe it was due to him that the company became so big? Somehow his knowledge would be just what Tsukasa needed to succeed? For a second he floated on a wave of smug pride before it sank lower and lower into a nasty, weighty feeling – suspiciously like pressure – and guilt. What the hell did he know about economy, trading, finance and big business? What kind of help could he possibly give? He could just imagine Tsukasa coming to him with some kind of question and gazing at him eagerly as he winced, knowing that that eager expression would soon fade to hastily concealed disappointment. He resolved to go to the library on the morrow and borrow out all the books he could find on business and trading over the past hundred years – maybe he could take them with him.

Then a different point nudged him. He re-read the paragraph. Hang on - Tsukasa has – had? - a nephew? But hadn’t he been an only child? Was this even the right company? He read on past the boring details until he reached the end.

“…The success of the company did not come without a price. Although never proven, there were whispered suspicions that the death of Sakurai’s nephew, one Sakurai Tsukasa, was not the accident it was purported to be.”

The world froze and jumped and shattered all in one heart-stopping moment. A sick wave of shock smashed into him, making the page blurry. A strangled noise escaped him but he never even noticed, he struggled to get the textbook back into focus and read feverishly.

“…According to rumor, Sakurai Tsukasa was only thirty years old when he was killed in Mie, suffering from a gunshot wound to the heart while reading letters on the back porch of an acquaintance’s home. It was purported that this was due to an act of aggression on the part of a rebel left over from the restoration conflict, given that Sakurai Tsukasa was heavily involved in the changeover. However, some whispered that Sakurai and Kitamura, discontent with the nephew’s ideals and lack of ambition, and greedy for wealth, connived at his murder in order to inherit his estates. The truth remains unknown to this day.”

“Oh fuck…!” Makoto jumped to his feet. “Bastard! Bastard…! Fucking god!” He tore at his hair for one long, panicked moment his eyes darting around the room, helpless. On a porch in Mie, reading letters! It could happen any minute – it already might be too late. He had to get to him! But how? He only got there in his sleep…! He needed to sleep!

Sleeping tablets? Could he buy some and take heaps at once? How close was the nearest pharmacy? The train station – fifteen minutes walk away! He could run – but weren’t they only on prescription anyway? “Oh fuck…think! Think!”

His eyes searched the room frantically but there wasn’t anything useful there and the panic wasn’t helping him to think clearly. Finally he grabbed the diary, held it tight and held his breath, determined to hold it until he fainted, no matter how ridiculous it was. Would it work…? Was it the same as sleeping…? He held on, forced his hands over his nose and mouth when it started to hurt, kept on no matter how much he wanted to rip his hands away and suck in oxygen. He keeled over onto the bed, forcing himself past the pain…If only he could….

The first hint he had of re-awakening was a heavy, dragging feeling tearing at him. A wild panic exploded through him and he was sitting up before he remembered why and saw that he was sitting in a pile of leaves on grass under a tree, and it was raining. To his left was a unfamiliar house with a rustic look – he was in Mie! I made it! I made it! Wild relief tore through him as he jumped up and ran. He had no idea what to do except to somehow drag Tsukasa away before it was too late. It seemed to take forever to run up the wooden front steps. He grabbed the sliding door and wrenched it open and went flying down a corridor. He heard a startled scream and a crash but he didn’t pause to even glance to the side. He headed straight for where he imagined the back door was, but the house was infuriatingly big, there were so many rooms, so many doors to force aside. Where is it? Fuck…! He crashed through some rice paper, ran through a room where two children were playing without hesitating. He heard them scream as he went on. “Tsukasa!” he yelled. “Tsukasa, watch out! Watch out! TSUKASA?”

When he wrenched open one more screen he found the outside. He gasped for breath and ran out; looked to the right as he heard his lover gasp “Makoto?” his head whipped around and there he was, half sitting, half standing on the porch, letters in his hand, his expression shocked.

“Tsukasa!” he screamed. He ran forward and threw himself against the man, sending them crashing when he heard a report, something slapped at his arm and then it hurt – big time. He vaguely realized he’d been shot as he forced them both under a table. He ignored the pain and tipped the table over so that the smooth wood formed a barrier to the sniper and spared half a second to be grateful of remembering the maneuver from the last Jet Li movie he’d watched. Screams came from inside the house, but there were no more shots.

“…Makoto? What…?”

“Shh. It’s your uncle’s doing,” he whispered venomously. “He sent out an assassin!”

“What?”

“An assassin! He wanted – I mean wants – your money and lands for himself!”

Tsukasa was silent for a time. Finally he spoke. “How did you know?”

“I read it in that history book I told you about.”

This made his lover laugh – a wild, whispery sound. “Just in time, apparently!” His voice deepened. “You’ve been shot.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered impatiently. “Just the arm, nothing dangerous.”

“You could lose a lot of blood! It could get infected! Will he be back?”

“I hope not. We’d better get inside.” Makoto turned and used his good arm to nudge the sliding door open. He had to use his left hand and it was surprisingly hard. “Thank god I got here in time! Another second…”

“…I’d have been dead.” Tsukasa said it humorously but as he wormed his way into the house with Tsukasa by his side, supporting him, he was glad he wasn’t the bad guy in this. Tsukasa shoved the screen door closed, not that the thin rice paper was any great barrier. Tsukasa stuffed the letters he was still holding into his Yukata and helped him to his feet. He staggered upright and they both stumbled further into the house. They ran across a woman who was crouching under the table, her children tight against her. They were all unnaturally silent, unnaturally still. Probably the woman he’d heard screaming before. Makoto held his arm as Tsukasa held out his hand.

“We need to get out of here. I have placed you in danger. I am sorry.”

The woman nodded in fear, scrambled out and scolded her children into flight. “I shall go to my husband.”

“Don’t worry, they are after me. When I am gone, you will be bothered no more.” Tsukasa ushered them all down the front corridor and out the front door. Makoto let him take over control of the whole thing; this was more Tsukasa’s forte anyway. The man herded them all to the stables, they all ran for cover with the children in the middle. Once inside, both Tsukasa and the woman got to work saddling the horses. All he could do was watch and curse his helplessness. Tsukasa helped the woman up, thrust both children up before her, and she used one arm to hold them to her as she accepted the reigns. “Thank you.”

“There is truly no way I can apologize for this.” Tsukasa bowed hastily. “I can only assure you I had no idea…”

The woman sent Makoto one wild glance of wonder before she gave a brisk nod. “May Kannon protect and guide you. Goodbye.”

The woman turned the horse around and Makoto followed her progress as she and her children disappeared.

“Now us,” Tsukasa muttered. Makoto watched him saddle a horse that looked a hell of a lot finer than the other horse that had just left, even to his untrained eye, and when he was done, he followed his lover’s prompting and got into the saddle. It took him four tries; he’d never done it before and his arm hurt; but Tsukasa finally helped him over. Tsukasa then vaulted onto the horse as if by magic; he could still retain enough of his normal self to envy that. Tsukasa lead them out of the barn and down the path the woman had taken.

They set up a brisk gallop that did no favours to his arm. Since the alternative wasn’t appealing he kept his mouth shut and held on for grim life. The traveled down a quiet path that seemed to stretch out forever; a vision of the sniper jumping out from behind a tree kept his heart in his mouth the entire time. It was only when they reached other houses, then individuals, then shops and buildings and crowds that he felt comfortable enough to relax to a mild state of anxiety. Tsukasa was forced to slow the horse right down to a walk as he negotiated the crowds, but the quiet town evidently was still enough in awe of a noble on a horse to get out of the way promptly.

As he held his arm, he looked around in wonder. It was all so primitive; so quaint, and yet so much more interesting than the ugly, gray, boring buildings of modern Japan. The crowds were noisy and cheerful in a way modern streets were not; hawkers selling wares, women chatting, men boasting. He himself was on the receiving end of plenty of strange looks; he could imagine their thoughts; some ugly runt in strange clothing with blood all down his arm wrapped in the fiercely protective arms of an obviously wealthy man. In spite of all that had happened, he started to smile happily. This isn’t so bad.

Tsukasa however, said nothing. Although he couldn’t see his face, he could feel the grim rage burning a fiery aura around them. So he kept the questions about the things he saw around him to himself. They weren’t important, comparatively. For two hours they traveled without rest, moving past the town and onto a main road. The Tokaido road, most likely. There were other travelers, of course, but none that paid them any mind. Part of his mind marveled that he, Makoto, of no account to anybody, was traveling down the famous Tokaido road, before time and progress had cemented, sanitized and degraded it.

“How is your arm, Makoto?”

He started, opened his eyes and blinked groggily. A second later, his arm started throbbing. He was still on the horse, in front of Tsukasa, but it was a lot darker, and there was only one other traveler with them, a few meters on ahead. “Wha…?” He realized he’d fallen asleep – or lost consciousness. “…What time is it?”

“You’ve been out for about two hours. I thought it was preferable to the pain.”

He sighed and straightened as much as he could without disturbing the man behind him. “It’s okay.”

Tsukasa hissed impatiently. “It needs a doctor. I should have stayed to find one for you!”

“No, really!” Makoto turned slightly to run the hand of his good arm down Tsukasa’s cheek. “It’s no biggie. It’ll be fine.”

“It could get infected,” Tsukasa muttered grimly. “I’ve seen it happen.”

“Nah, I’ll get it seen to back home, get some antibiotics…it’ll be fine.”

His lover was silent again for a while. “…I don’t know what those anti…go…?”

“Antibiotics,” Makoto offered dreamily.

“Antibiotics are, but I hope they can help you. We need to get you back to your time. As soon as I’ve found somewhere quiet, we’ll hide and sleep.”

Makoto nodded. He didn’t want to worry his lover, but he did feel a trifle out of it. “Don’ wanna go without you…” he mused.

Suddenly he felt his hair lifted from the back of his neck and Tsukasa’s lips press to his nape in a fierce kiss that sent a shaft of feeling straight to his groin.

“I swear I won’t leave you. I’ll never leave you again. Damn it, Makoto…”

The hot breath on his neck sent a delicious warm shiver to tease out the jolting shaft longer. “Mmm…stay with me?”

“Always.”

They rode for a while longer, until Tsukasa exclaimed under his breath and lead the horse off the path. In front were thick bushes that looked impenetrable. Further along the Tokaido path, the road rose steeply, with rocks on the left and a forest to the right. They were in the middle of nowhere. “I remember…” Makoto forced his eyes open wider as Tsukasa shifted. “Hold on.” The man slid down from the horse, grabbed the reigns, and led them over to the edge bushes and pushed the branches aside. There was a narrow gap. It took a while to get the horse willing to move in, but Tsukasa managed. Makoto looked around. In front of him was a tiny grassy area, just big enough to hold maybe ten men lying side by side. It was surrounded on all sides by steep, hilly rock interspersed with bushes. A large tree provided shade over most of the area.

“We’ll stay here tonight, okay? I’m hoping when we sleep, we’ll go to your world.”

He nodded. He was so sleepy. Tsukasa helped ease him down to the ground, and he sank to his haunches. Tsukasa sent him an anxious look that warmed his heart, then removed saddle bags and a rolled up blanket from the horse. Tsukasa spread the blanket out and helped him down, then shoved up his sleeve to view the injury. Makoto did his best to peer down at his arm. It didn’t worry him. There was plenty of blood and it hurt, but from the looks of it it hadn’t touched bone, just the flesh of his arm. Tsukasa tisked and tore at the plain cotton yukata he wore under the more elaborate over robes.

“What? No, don’t do that…!” Makoto whispered in exasperation. “Now look, you’ve ruined your robe.”

“Who cares?” Tsukasa ripped back with equal feeling. He bound the wounded arm tightly. “This is all I can do for now. Are you comfortable?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” Inexplicably, Tsukasa moved over to the horse, whispered something into it’s ear and guided the horse back out onto the path.

“What did you do that for?” he whispered when his lover came back.

“Don’t worry - Thunder is trained war horse. He won’t let anybody touch him until he finds his way back home.”

“Dandy – what about us?” he returned tartly.

“We won’t need him anymore.” Tsukasa moved over and settled next to him on the blanket, hugging his saddlebags to his chest. Makoto stared at him.

“Won’t need him anymore?”

“I’m hoping I come with you tonight, forward to your time. I have the diary in here,” he tapped one of the bags on his chest, “and I’ll keep hold of your hand. Perhaps we’ll both make it across.”

“Yes, but what about when you go back? Won’t you just end up here with no horse?”

Tsukasa grinned; a slow, long grin. He took the diary out, opened it up flat on his chest, and cooched forward to spoon him. “Not if I can help it.”

“What?” Makoto turned to face him. “What do you know that I don’t?”

I wasn’t out on that porch sleeping, was I? I was reading.”

Makoto stiffened and would have turned over if his lover would have let him. He hardly dared to hope…“What? No way! You found out how…?”

Tsukasa chuckled. “It’s simply a matter of going to the shrine and telling the God that you want to stay.”

“That’s it?”

“Apparently. The downside is that He confiscates the diary and washes away all the contents of the diary for the next person who takes it to use. This Jin Takafumi didn’t know the ins or outs of it perfectly, but apparently he was told the God found the whole idea of the diary so amusing He wanted to give it to others. Perhaps that’s why you found your link in the dump – He put it there for you to find.”

“Why me?”

“Need you ask?” Tsukasa kissed him again. “Because you deserved it.”

“Think you’re such a prize, do you?” he teased.

“Or maybe it’s because you wanted it so much.”

Makoto smiled wryly. “Sounds about right. So Jin was certain about this?”

“Yes. Since he was the original recipient I’d guess he’d know. The letters I looked at weren’t the original, of course, they’ve been copied a few times as the previous copies wore away. Even the ones I looked at were so old they were crumbling to bits so I copied what I’d read onto these pages.” He waved the crumpled pages around. “Interesting guy. He went to the priest of the shrine who originally gave him the diary, through the god, apparently, and asked how he could make it permanent, and was told all about it. He wrote down what he was told, I don’t know why, but he didn’t say what the sealing was for or why he was leaving; I guess he knew they’d think he was mad. So one day he left his home, and his family never saw him again. So he went to a ‘new’ time to be with the person he was communicating with, through the diary, and he left his copy back at the shrine, where about three hundred years later, Matsumoto sempai picked it up and gave it to me. The copy that was in a different time somehow ended up on your rubbish heap. I guess Jin Takafumi is dead now. I wonder where he went.”

Makoto let out a long breath. “I wonder if he found someone he couldn’t bear to be apart from, too, and I wonder who it was.”

“Well, we’ll just have to use your computer to find out, won’t we?”

He laughed under his breath. “You just can’t wait to explore, can you.”

Tsukasa laughed until he had no more breath. “I really can’t wait.”

Tsukasa proceeded to run a series of passionate kisses down his neck, he giggled and grinned to himself. A self-satisfied, private grin of the underdog who just won a lifelong dream. Then the smile faded. “Are you sure about this? Won’t you miss your life here?”

Tsukasa stopped kissing him long enough to consider it well. “No,” he finally pronounced. “It was the years I spent in England and Europe I guess.” He paused. “No; everything, maybe. No close family, or murderous family,” he snarled, “Matsumoto sempai gone, so many years overseas. I guess I just don’t feel like I really belong here. Especially since I’ll probably wind up poisoned or shot or stabbed,” he added bitterly. Makoto leaned back to kiss his shoulder and he laughed shortly. “I wanted to come back to Japan, but there’s nothing here for me. Nothing to do. I want to be here, just not now.” He started up the kissing again. “Besides, I want to be with you.”

He ignored the enticement with great difficulty. “I’m dirt poor,” he warned. “The apartment’s crap, you might find it hard to get a job, who knows? And you won’t be able to buy a tenth of all the stuff you want.”

“Stop worrying.” Tsukasa gave one of the saddlebags a pat. “I’ve got a lot of money here and the family jewels, too.”

“The family jewels!” Makoto shifted around despite his aching shoulder and poked his lover hard. “Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I don’t care how poor we are, you are not going whore yourself, got it?”

“Whore myself?”

“You know – become a prostitute.”

“What?” Tsukasa looked so stunned it was funny. “I never said I was!”

“Yes you did – you just said you had the family jew…” Finally he understood. “Holy crap – you mean you really have jewels? Like, diamonds and rubies and shit…”

“I said I did, didn’t I?” Tsukasa rubbed his forehead. “Why do I feel we were totally at cross purposes here?”

“Never mind that – tell me about the jewels!”

“That got you interested, didn’t it? Well, the family heirlooms are mainly pearls and lacquer ware, but I bought a lot of precious stones while I was in England. I just didn’t know what to do with them, so I’ve just been carrying them around with me.”

Makoto stared at him in awe. “Woah. I’ve never met someone who actually had, like, family jewels like that.”

“Well, now you have. Anyway, we should be okay.”

Makoto relaxed with a happy sigh. Then he straightened again. “But that bastard uncle of yours is going to get it all! He’s totally going to get away with it! I hate that.”

Tsukasa shrugged. “Well I can’t say I’m thrilled about it either, but I couldn’t prove anything, and I’m not going to screw up my chance for happiness simply to get even with him, no matter how it galls me.” He felt Tsukasa’s mouth turn up in a grim smile against his neck. “Besides, my disappearance ought to keep him uneasy for a while. Wondering if and when I’m going to show up again.” He sighed. “I just wish I’d made provisions for Takaguchi and his wife. Never mind, I’m sure Masahashi will take them in.”

Makoto smiled and yawned. “I’m…I’m sure he will.” He sighed. “Tired.”

Tsukasa chuckled and snuggled closer. “Well, we’d better hurry up and go to sleep, shouldn’t we?”

“Shush.”

EPILOGUE

Makoto let out a big sigh, shoved his bag on the wooden rack, pried off his shoes, padded over the tatami mats and thumped down next to his lover. “Whew. God it’s cold outside. What a day.”

Tsukasa looked up from his guitar, sneaked a quick look around, and gave him a brief kiss. “How was work?”

“Yeah, okay, nothing much. They’ve put me in charge of organizing Sports Day. Principle Yakamura said I did a great job of the PTA meeting.”

Tsukasa ruffled his hair, then turned back to his acoustic and struck a decided A major. “See? I told you all you needed to do was be a bit assertive and offer your services.” He followed the A major with a progressive chord and finally rocked out to a funky beat.

“Hey!” Both turned to the middle aged businessman who sat at a different table. He glared at them. “How dare you play that filthy instrument in a public shrine? This isn’t your own private property, you know! Put it away.”

Tsukasa simply raised his brow, leaving Makoto to reply smugly “Oh yes it is. He bought it.”

“Liar!”

“Am not. He’s rich.”

“Prove it.”

“Don’t need to.”

The businessman fumed before turning to Makoto’s obaachan, who came forward to pour them tea. “Can’t you get rid of these young hooligans? Call the police.”

The obaasan smiled at Makoto before turning to the businessman. “Sorry, sir, but this young gentleman is correct. This is a private property owned by that gentleman there. His generosity allows it to remain open to the public.” She glided away, probably to fetch food.

Stunned wasn’t even close, but the man had the grace to turn to them stiffly and offer an apology. Tsukasa waved him away with a return of his former aristocratic grace. “It’s nothing. Please enjoy some tea at my expense.”

The man declined with more stiff politeness and left. Makoto cackled, raised his arm in the air and fell back on the tatami mats with a thump, trusting to his thick winter jacket to cushion his back. “Oh yeah! It’s all ours. Ours. It ain’t some stuffy snotty Ryokan and Ojiisan and Obaasan didn’t have to go. Cool! Six months later and I still can’t believe it.”

They turned to each other and laughed.

“The coincidence is so coincidental it’s no coincidence at all,” Tsukasa pronounced.

“Oh, come on,” Makoto protested, “The way things were going, it almost had to happen. It’s the perfect fairytale irony.”

They both turned to stare out the window towards the small shrine at the top of the hill, a good twenty meters away. A gentle layer of snow added a festive look. Makoto thought about the wooden god that dimpled mischievously at them from His enclosure there, drinking in the incense the Ojiisan lit there morning, noon and night. “To think I never really wondered about Him before,” he mused. “I mean, I did ask, but Ojii and Obaa didn’t know, so I just let it drop and forgot about it, though once you told me that shrine was in Kanazawa, I did hope…”

“See? It was you He wanted to find the diary. You, who dreamed of me, who dreamed of you. If I hadn’t known you, if I hadn’t fallen so bad for you, I wouldn’t have come here and we wouldn’t have been able to save His shrine from being destroyed.”

Makoto made a wry face. “And here I thought he was rewarding me.”

“Well, you’re happier now, right? He is rewarding you, as well as covering His own ass.” They paused momentarily as the obaasan entered once more with a plate full of seafood and another plate of cake balanced in her arms.

Makoto jumped up to help her serve and grinned at her. “Domou.” Tsukasa inclined his head. “Likewise.”

“Get on with you.” She shook her head and bustled away.

“I’m just amazed that the shrine has lasted so long.” Makoto muttered.

“He can look after Himself just fine.”

“Mm.” Makoto stuffed a slice of sashimi in his mouth and crooned in bliss. He turned to his lover once more. “How was the exam?” he garbled. “Economics, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It was about investing. Went well, I think. It’ll be useful, too.” He managed a wry smile. “I don’t mind leaving the money to an accountant for now, but I’ll feel more comfortable when I can control it myself.”

“Oh well. How are our finances?”

“Good. I’m not sure if it’s Him or not, but the investments are raking in quite a lot.”

Makoto kissed him, long and languid. “Even without considering Him, this place means a lot to me. I know it pretty much wiped us out buying it. Thank you.”

Tsukasa shrugged in his This is Embarrassing way and stuffed food into his mouth. “Yeah, well…we’ve got a great apartment in a nice suburb with all the mod cons….a cool car and my guitar…” he gave it a parental strum. “What more could I ask for?”

Footsteps sounded behind them. More guests entering the inn. Both ignored the interruption and continued to indulge in their food and their nearness. When a voice cleared it’s throat, they turned around.

Two men were standing there. The one in front looked cheerful, the one a little further back diffident, he kept sniffing; he had a cold. The one in front held up the Wanted; guitarist, bassist and drummer to form garage band notice they’d put up in the local guitar shop.

“Hi. I called you yesterday? About the band?”

They both sat up. Makoto raised a brow to Tsukasa. “You didn’t tell me someone answered!”

Tsukasa flushed guiltily. “I’m so sorry, I forgot. I was about to go into my exam…”

He hastily stood, and so Makoto did likewise. He stared at their potential bandmates. “Hi, I’m Makoto, this is Tsukasa.” He paused expectantly.

The man grinned; a big, happy grin that lit up his whole face. “Jin Takafumi. And this is Hiro. Call me Taka.”

THE END.