Such Great Heights

songs by The Postal Service.

Part I: Such Great Heights

I am thinking it's a sign

That the freckles in our eyes are mirror images

And when we kiss they're perfectly aligned.

And I have to speculate

That God himself did make

Us into corresponding shapes

Like puzzle pieces from the clay.

“Hey, Ichimaru, look at this.”

Ichimaru looked up from the stove in the kitchen, where he was making stir-fry for lunch, and into the living room. His friends were at the TV. The one who had spoken pointed at it. “Have you ever noticed how much the lead singer of Mirror looks like you?”

The other friend shrugged. “What are you talking about, Gin? They look nothing alike.”

Gin looked back at the TV. “Yeah, but that’s only if you don’t look closely. Give that guy Ichimaru’s blonde hair and take away the make-up, and they’re practically the same person!”

Ichimaru laughed lightly. “Gin, he isn’t just ‘that guy.’ His name is Jirou.”

“Do you listen to this band a lot, Ichimaru? I mean, since you know his name and all,” said the second friend. Ichimaru smiled.

“I… I guess you could say that.”

“You sure you guys aren’t related, though?” asked Gin, with a motion towards the TV with his thumb. Ichimaru gazed at the band there for a long time. Jirou had such melodic voice. He could get lost in it. “Hey, earth to Ichimaru?”

“Oh, what? I mean, yeah. I’m sure.”

Ichimaru smiled again. Gin shrugged and turned back to the TV. He changed the channel.

And true, it may seem like a stretch,

But its thoughts like this that catch

My troubled head when you're away,

When I am missing you to death.

Ichimaru looked down at the meal he had prepared.

Again he had set two places at the table. Again he had foolishly hoped that maybe there would be two people at dinner tonight. He had worked so hard on it, too.

He was sure he was with some lover right now- some beautiful woman who didn’t need anything more than cash to keep her satisfied.

The food tasted horrible, anyway.

When you are out there on the road

For several weeks of shows

And when you scan the radio

I hope this song will guide you home.

Ichimaru was sick of hearing Mirror's music played everywhere. Shouldn’t the stores be playing Christmas music at this time of year?

Everywhere he went, he heard his voice again. And every time he heard it, for a fleeting moment, it would feel like he was there beside him in the snow.

But then the song would end.

It would be another Christmas without him.

They will see us waving from such great heights,

"Come down now," they'll say.

But everything looks perfect from far away,

"Come down now," but we'll stay...

He was tired of coming home to an empty house. Why was he the only one living here?

To everyone else, things must have looked perfect. Rich parents, big house, plenty of freedom. But he hated living in this huge house. It was empty. So empty.

It didn’t surprise him no one knew he had a brother. A twin.

Maybe it was best they never knew.

I tried my best to leave

This all on your machine,

But the persistent beat, it sounded thin

Upon listening.

The phone felt heavy, like lead. But he had to hear his voice.

The songs weren’t enough. He needed it to be directly to him, like it used to be. He wanted to hear it whispered into his ear, a song just for him. His fingers were clumsy as they dialed the number. The number only he knew. Jirou had promised he would pick up whenever he called.

“Hey, Jirou here…”

“Jirou, I - !”

“…I must be busy right now, so you know, leave a message. Ciao!”

The beep that followed was like a long, drawn-out reality check. Ichimaru swallowed hard. It felt like something was stuck in his throat.

“Hey, Jirou…” When had he stopped calling him Onii-chan? “This is Ichi. I, uh, just wanted to… talk. I haven’t seen you in a while, and…” Ichimaru rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. If he started crying, Jirou would definitely hear it. But it was so hard to keep his voice steady. “I know this sounds childish, but…" ...I miss you. "...Come home soon, okay?”

Why hadn’t he said what he meant?

And that frankly will not fly.

You will hear the shrillest highs,

And lowest lows with the windows down

When this is guiding you home.

Jirou took the cigarette from his mouth and hung it out the window. His chauffeur said nothing. He seemed rather uncomfortable with his passenger in the front seat. After all, he had the whole limo.

But he didn’t understand. Jirou hadn’t wanted a chauffer. He wanted to drive himself. He had always been the chauffer at home. So he sat in the passenger’s seat. Close enough.

His ears perked as he heard a familiar string of notes on the radio. He cranked it up. He smiled and closed his eyes.

The glass behind him rolled down. Another member of the band appeared there. “Hey, Jirou. What is this?”

“What is what?”

“This music! It’s weird. Not the sort of stuff you usually listen to.”

“I just like this song, is all. Got a problem?”

The band member gave him a strange look. “Nah, not really.” He rolled the glass back up.

Jirou took another waft of smoke and blew it out the window. It disappeared into the wind.

No one would ever know that he really hated this song. It was just his little brother’s favorite.

They will see us waving from such great heights,

"Come down now," they'll say.

But everything looks perfect from far away,

"Come down now," but we'll stay...

“Ichi? Ichi, you awake?”

Jirou had come back to a dark house. It was late. Ichimaru should be home. He started up the stairs, but then heard something coming from the living room.

It was his voice.

The first things he saw in the darkness were the flashing lights of the video. Then he saw them reflecting off the face of a figure sitting on the floor.

“Ichimaru?”

He didn’t look up. He was fixated on the television screen, where Jirou was on stage, singing. Jirou walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Ichi. I’m home.”

Slow, heavy tears rolled down the blonde’s face as he finally looked up.

“Jirou, why don’t you answer your phone anymore?”

He didn’t get an reply, but Jirou’s kiss tasted like cigarettes and white wine and too many breath mints. His black hair was soft and his pale skin felt warm beneath Ichimaru’s cold fingertips. He smelled like someone else's perfume.

When had they stopped being brothers?

When had they become something more, or was it something less? When had this all become a twisted game of pretend, pretend that they were nothing to each other but sometimes-lovers?

But Ichimaru told himself he didn’t care. As long as he could hear his voice, a sweet song, just for him…

“Let’s stay up here forever, Ichi…”

They will see us waving from such great heights,

"Come down now.”

They will see us waving from such great heights.

(Come down now...)