It was true that over the centuries, Tamuramaro nurtured Sora’s young and stubborn heart. Sora had feared this change in himself, and that was what had made him run away from home forty years ago. He was startled that Fuuka could read his feelings so well, even if only by instinct.
“That might be true.”
Both of them had grown up to be adults, probably thanks to Tamuramaro’s efforts to raise them.
“Ugh! He’s horrible!” Fuuka puffed out his cheeks like a sulky little boy, and he was still nothing but endearing.
“Have you been curious about studying for a long time?” asked Sora. He felt ashamed for not noticing such an important wish in his younger brother.
“Nope. There’s nothing I wanna do. Ever,” said Fuuka quietly. All trace of his childishness was gone in a blink.
“Really?”
“As long as you’re smiling, and as long as you’re eating yummy food, I’m happy.”
There had been times in the past when Fuuka would talk like this. Sora had listened to him without questioning it, as natural as the rustle of the wind.
“As long as you’re happy, that’s all I want,” Fuuka declared.
“Fuuka,” Sora cut in, unable to let the words pass this time. “You wanted to learn how to read and write. Isn’t that true?”
“Yup.”
“The other day, when the burglar drew his knife, you tried to tear out his throat, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
Sora wanted to explain that Fuuka had wanted to do those things of his own accord, not by Sora’s will. But he couldn’t find the right words.
The brothers had been like two people sharing one soul. They were only a year apart. But why had Sora already received some education at twelve, while Fuuka hadn’t?
“Once you know your letters, what do you want to write?”
“Do you remember when Fuuka was born?”
At some point in their 1,200-year journey, Tamuramaro had raised this question to Sora. As he pondered the question over and over again, Sora realized it wasn’t just that he didn’t remember Fuuka’s birth because they were born a year apart. For a long time, he’d seen Fuuka as his other half—a piece that matched up perfectly with himself.
“I wanna put a curse on Tamuramaro,” Fuuka replied.
Now things were different. Fuuka absolutely lived outside of Sora’s existence. Sora had never noticed until Fuuka himself existed. Fuuka was an independent, separate life from Sora.
“Don’t be so hard on him.”
For a long time before that, Sora hadn’t been able to distinguish Fuuka from himself. They were one pair without any boundaries.
“I really, really hate him!”
But it was clear that Fuuka—with his deep, lake-blue eyes, shining silver hair, and tall, sturdy build—was completely different from Sora now.
“Don’t you go killing him, okay? I know he can’t die, but still. Let’s go for a walk, Fuuka. Sanpouji Lake.”
“Whoo-hoo!”
For centuries, Sora had accepted Fuuka’s words without question: that he lived only for his older brother, was devoted only to Sora, and was happy to wait by himself at home. Now, however, Sora couldn’t just accept what Fuuka told him. He had learned more with Tamuramaro and come to have second thoughts about things he had so resolutely believed in; he could see more of the world.
“It’s nice out today. How about a lap around Shakujii Park?”
“Yippee!”
“You really have grown into a fine, full-fledged man.”
When Fuuka stood up, he had the appearance of a tribal leader—a strong, sturdy core that no one could shatter, with a heart to match; a sinewy body, solid yet supple; a long, dignified mane of flowing hair; and deep-blue eyes like the water of a lake.
“Sorry I can’t turn into a little puppy, Sora.”
“Huh?” Sora looked up from his seat on the tatami floor in surprise as Fuuka touched on something that was hidden deep inside him.
“In the beginning, I could stay young like you. Maybe that’s the way you want me to be. I dunno.” Fuuka tilted his head. “I could’ve disappeared, too. Sorry. I could’ve, but I didn’t.”
“What are you saying?” Sora raised his voice, getting up on one knee.
“You tried to kill me, didn’t you?” Fuuka said with a troubled look. He didn’t usually seem to remember Awata-guchi.
“Fuuka, that time…” Sora could hardly breathe, but he pressed on. “I was going to die with you.”
“The other day, you said you wouldn’t mind if I killed you. I bet your life would be easier if I wasn’t here.” Fuuka spoke casually, neither serious nor accusatory.
“That’s not true!” cried Sora. “Definitely not! You’re…you’re all I have, Fuuka. If you weren’t here, I’d…!”
Sora groped for the words in vain. He was so flustered that he could only shout, “No,” over and over again, shaking his head. He felt like his throat would rupture.
“I’m sorry,” Fuuka said, for the third time, and knelt down to hug Sora. “That’s not what I meant.” He pulled Sora close with arms as wide as a father’s. “In the old days, I could stay a puppy, and I could make myself disappear if I’d wanted to.”
“You…could?”
“Yeah. I knew I could, but I guess you didn’t. I just never told you ’cause I didn’t think it was anything important at first. I didn’t know it was special,” Fuuka explained anxiously. “And as time went on, I wanted to stay more and more—to stay with you, Sora. So I couldn’t break it to you.”
Fuuka loosened his embrace and peered closely into Sora’s eyes. “And then I got big. I don’t have any control of myself anymore. I can’t go back to being little. Looks like I can’t disappear, either.”
“You don’t have to! Don’t!!”
“These days you talk about me getting bigger a lot, so I thought you didn’t like it.” Fuuka was taken aback by Sora’s unusual burst of agitation, and he stroked Sora’s hair with his large hand as Sora always did to him.
“Of course I do. I’m really impressed by you, growing up so tall and strong. Now you’re even learning to write.”
“Then I’m happy. I just thought you might be sad.”
“I’m not sad at all.”