FINGERS CROSSED, yuzuha usagi

CHAPTER TWO

Setagaya had been the last place Yasuko would've chosen to be at after what happened in The Beach. Communities were dangerously marked by tragedy; one way or another, it stuck with them like a ghost feeling at the back of their necks, firing up their cervical and splitting up their occipitalis.

They were destined to reach an end. It was all about the finish line closing the distance, swallowing their laughs. Drowning them.

Yasuko and Ikehara had made a pact of not talking about it, the yearning for somewhere it didn't exist, but eyes told more than tongues did. Ever since she was little, she was well-acquainted with that language, one that was spoken in soft, kind looks and doe-like innocence that betrayed any word spilling out of their mouths. The acknowledgement of desire twisting the doorknob side to side. They didn't fail to notice each other's gazes dawdle more time than necessary on the sidewalks, the green eating any rest of what were camping chairs and dirty shoes; she caught his longing stare on a mother caressing her child's back, and she knew he saw her turning the other way, unable to bear the welcoming smiles. Because that was the root of their problem, eyes.

"You two are here already?" A man waved at them. Behind him, a caravan turned off the engine, allowing the street to fill up with chatter once again. "We have another passerby, he's interviewing people about this place."

"With what, paper and pens?" Ikehara said, brow lifted, face torqued with interest. "Electronic devices don't work."

The house trailer swayed the slightest as someone made its way out of it. It was a young man, holding a small camera and one shoulder bag.

The reflection of a laminated card peeking out of a pocket of his belongings blinded her for a second. Kaito Kameyama wrote below his ID photo.

"I use motion picture film format, eight millimeter film," he clarified, "Any new technology that allows for visual storytelling may be better for today's developments, but nothing beats film, you know?"

"Sure seems like it." Ikehara pointed at it with his chin.

It was familiar, the camera's model. It reminded her of the one that her mother used to bring to the beach every day of the summer they could barely afford the travel; she had a fascination about filming the waves and her little feet jumping and splashing water all over themselves. She always laughed it off even if she later on the night deeply cursed at the ruined takes and the sand she couldn't get off it. Yasuko's mother made memories behind lens, never through eyes; it was curious how the sand never stuck to her skin and the ocean's smell never lasted long on her hair as it did on the air. Unlike her daughter, she prayed summer ended sooner than her salty kisses abandoning Yasuko's cheeks, hoping not to taste the sunburns left on them.

"So you're a photographer."

Yasuko looked between the two mindlessly. Enthusiasm suddenly awoke a forgotten thought that roamed Kaito's mind, remodeling his whole semblance.

"Yes! You can join the documentary, if you want." He offered, his eyes alternating from Ikehara's and Yasuko's as if asking for consent. "It'll be great to have different insights about what's happening, and it's not gonna take us much time, I promise."

"Okay." Ikehara answered for them, like he always did.

An unstoppable wave rose through her when he placed a hand on her lower back, though all she did was bite her tongue.

Love, her grandma once told her, was a murderously simple thing. Around then, she hadn't understood the meaning of it, she had missed the opportunity to ask. She let her words hid themselves in the farthest corner of her room for years, and starved her brain out of them, feeling her bed quiver the same way her heart did inside her chest every night wondering why. Why love, of all things, like dancing or reading or howling with laughter, dissolved from her vocabulary like sea foam on sand. Why it had became a low-frequency sound wave lost underwater, an unregistered vibration not even her mother was capable of hear.

But he heard it, and so she held on to that somewhere deeper the abyss, Ikehara's presence sent a buzz through her blood current, like a whisper in the middle of the night sweetening her mind into what could feel like letting someone take care of her. Film her again.

"Okay? Okay, great, okay!" Kaito smiled. He held the door open for a second, visibly stunned by their compliance, but more than content with being able to keep his project up going. "Come inside! I'll show you all the stuff!" His voice started to partially muffle as he moved things out of the way inside the van.

Ikehara's tongue darted over his lips, thoughtful. However, it was Yasuko's turn to take the word.

"Don't you dare do that to me, you hear me?" She said, only giving him a sideways glance, "Aguni could've forgiven you, but I won't."

They both knew everything changed right after The Beach's downfall. That was what they had left between their fingers and the blood dried on their flesh, an uncomfortable fear of loneliness and trust walking on glass.

She had taken half step towards the caravan when his hand wrapped itself around her bicep, studying the people that reunited in groups behind their backs and the blimp tracing a circle in the sky. A cold metal cut her palm accidentally as he placed it between their hold, the blade unfolding from the handle by the usage and his strong grip.

"If something happens," He looked her dead in the eye, "You know what to do. I'll be out for a moment, I'm coming back."

Yasuko nodded after a beat, like she always did, her image then trapped inside an old camera's lens.