“Back then, I didn’t know it was about you. I didn’t know you’d be so young,” Tamuramaro went on. He’d seemed to have in mind the day they’d first met 1,200 years ago. Sora wondered what words this friend had left behind.
“Well, you’re not so little anymore, are you, Sora? You’ve grown into a man.”
Tamuramaro stopped by the edge of the lake, colored by delicate shades of green, and looked straight at Sora. Eventually, he met Fuuka’s eyes, too.
“I remember his eyes that day. They were blue as a deep lake,” said Tamuramaro, kneeling down before Fuuka and peering into his eyes, putting a hand to his cheek. “And I gave my promise.”
Fuuka stood still, and for a second, Sora felt as if he wasn’t the Fuuka he knew anymore. Anxiety gripped his heart.
“Ow!”
But the moment passed, and Fuuka chomped on Tamuramaro’s arm, half in jest, half serious.
“Stop, Fuuka! I told you—no munchy-munchy!!” Sora grabbed him and pulled him away, glancing around to check if they’d been seen.
“Woof!” Fuuka barked grumpily and snuggled up against Sora’s legs.
“Don’t expect Fuuka to warm up to you just because his eyes have turned blue,” Sora said with Fuuka’s leash in his hand, laughing more lightheartedly than ever before.
He’d finally managed to offer the thanks that had been stuck in his throat for a long time. There were still important things that he hadn’t been able to say out loud. He had to go one step at a time, but he felt like he might never bring himself to say the most crucial thing of all.
“It’s a big deal, though, those eyes changing color. His jaws are too powerful!” Tamuramaro cried out as he rubbed his own arm.
Where was that friend Tamuramaro had just mentioned?
For some reason, Sora had a fleeting feeling that the spirit of the man he had always deeply loved wasn’t in the Pure Land, either.
With a few well-placed forehead nuzzles, Fuuka convinced Sora to buy a few Kyoto vegetables from Keita on their way home for another round of chicken hot pot.
“Your hot pot was close to Ms. Tatsuko’s, Fuuka. I’m impressed,” Sora said after he’d cleared away the bowls and did the washing up in his unpracticed way, just as he’d promised. At the clean table, Tamuramaro was now teaching kanji to Fuuka.
Though both Sora and Tamuramaro were busy with the Odajima case, Tamuramaro never missed his daily after-dinner reading and writing lessons for Fuuka.
“I didn’t simmer it for three days, though,” Fuuka answered. “I boiled chicken with bones and kombu kelp stock for around three hours, then put in some salt and the other ingredients. And I only checked on it a few times, ’cause I wanted to practice kanji.”
Ever since his lessons began, Fuuka had been an eager student, reading easy books on his own, too. He’d told Sora that he enjoyed being able to read hiragana.
“Really? Your hot pot was something special,” said Tamuramaro. “The chicken broth was so rich, but the meat melted in my mouth, too.”
“It was truly delicious,” Sora added, wiping the clean bowls in the kitchen. One almost slipped from his hands, but he managed to catch it just in time.
“Wonder if Ms. Tatsuko was in the kitchen for three whole days,” Fuuka said, suddenly pausing his writing. “I kinda felt like her. It made me want to keep simmering for three days, too.”
“What kind of feeling was that?” Sora asked, coming back to the living room with three glasses of barley tea on a tray.
“It’s a secret.” Fuuka laughed in a somewhat melancholy voice as Sora placed the tray on the table. He still talked like a little boy, but his blue eyes had a look far beyond his apparent years.
“Aren’t you cold in that outfit?” asked Sora. Fuuka had been constantly wearing his favorite blue outfit that Tamuramaro had given him, washing it often. Seeing him in it made Sora worried for no apparent reason.
“It’s so cozy. I love it.” Fuuka tilted his head to one side, puzzled at himself.
“But the temperature’s really going to drop soon,” Tamuramaro chipped in. On this particular day, it seemed as though he couldn’t bear to see blue-eyed Fuuka in that blue outfit.
“Say, Fuuka, you’ve mastered putting curses on me. What kanji do you want to learn next?” Tamuramaro asked, nudging him to start writing again.
Fuuka mulled over the question for a while, as if tracing back a long-lost memory, then he looked up.
“Sheath.”
“Sheath?” Tamuramaro asked back, unsure what he meant. Sora, who was listening next to them, also wondered what this was about.
“It’s the first word I ever heard,” Fuuka said, though he didn’t say from whom.
“You mean the sheath of a sword?” Tamuramaro asked again to make sure.
A strong gust of wind blew across the deep autumn night outside, where a crescent moon shone like ice over the garden. There was a sudden chill in the air.
“I dunno.” Fuuka shook his head evasively, though he looked like he knew more than he let on. “I heard it means I’ll protect my older brother.”
“…Who said that?” Sora asked, fearing the answer he might hear. It was the first time Fuuka had said anything like this.
“Am I doing a good job of protecting you, Sora?”
Fuuka didn’t answer Sora’s question. Sora couldn’t tell whether he simply didn’t know, or he had no intention of telling him.
“You do protect me,” said Sora, stroking his brother’s hair. At the same time, he felt there might be only one answer to his own question. “But don’t kill anyone to protect me anymore, Fuuka. Can you do that?”
Sora hoped these words would reach Fuuka for the first time. Fuuka seemed to be talking about their fate at the very beginning of their long journey.
“That’s impossible. Sorry,” Fuuka said simply.