Chapter Text
Summer was for seizing the day.
Rei Hino took this fact to heart. She didn’t spend eight years in Catholic school in order to not know the phrase “carpe diem.”
So from mid-May to early September, Rei was the acolyte of summer. When the sun rose, she saluted it with a prompt application of 50 SPF sunblock. Her offering to the summer gods took the form of steam from simmering curries, or the vapor off of shaved ice. Or, of course, the ice in her cocktail of choice. The summer gods demanded pilgrimages to the beach; who was Rei to deny them? On the sands she would sunbathe for hours, letting the sun’s radiance seep into her limbs and her hair, until by late August she practically glowed from within.
In short, every day she honored with a new adventure. She wore out three pairs of sandals.
Snap .
Make that four pairs.
Rei’s yelp of surprise was swallowed up by the music. She got her bearings and laughed. Four pairs of sandals, she must be doing something right !
At the moment, Rei was with the other Inner Guardians in a crowded dance hall. Through the artificial fog, beams of blue, green, and red cast geometric shapes on all surfaces. The band on stage wailed a lament in medieval French with a techno bass.
It was September ninth, Ami’s birthday. For about twenty more minutes.
Ami took Rei by the hand. “Are you alright?” she asked in Rei’s ear, pointing to Rei’s mismatched sandals.
“It’s just the heel,” Rei assured her. “Are you having fun?”
Ami beam and nodded vigorously.
Then the keyboardist on stage began a new chord, where the notes rippled over and across one another. The crowd went wild, including Ami. heard her say “—my favorite!” over the noise.
Minako took Makoto’s hand and Rei’s, and Rei took Usagi’s hand, and Usagi clasped hands with Mako. Without a word, they formed a ring around Ami, so that wherever Ami looked there was love looking back at her. Ami raised her hands and danced. Bubbles bloomed in light around her feet, and Minako laughed for sheer joy.
Rei wanted to hold this moment forever.
When the song ended, Usagi’s cheers and whoops were the loudest in the whole hall. Ami, her eyes still shining, looked over her shoulder at Rei and said something— it was lost in the cheers for the next song, but Rei suspected it was something to do with her shoes.
Rei nodded and tapped Minako on the shoulder. Off to do some emergency fixing.
In the club bathroom, Rei leaned against the sink and inspected her sandal. Her left shoe’s heel had snapped almost clean off, held on by a few fibers and a prayer.
“Another one bites the dust,” Minako said sympathetically as she rummaged through her purse. “Yeah, I got nothing, but maybe Mako has some duct tape.”
“I have a better idea.”
Heel in one hand, sandal in the other. Rei wrenched them apart and was left with a flat sandal that had a bend in its sole.
Mina whistled. “Whoo! Destruction!”
Rei slipped the sandal on her foot and flexed experimentally. It would do.
“Round two,” she said, and took up her right hand sandal.
“Vent that suppressed rage!”
Rei laughed darkly. “Oh, you don’t want that kind of destruction,” she said. Wrench. “Farewell with my thanks,” she said to the broken-off heels as she tossed them in the trash.
“And the sandals still work?” Mina checked. “I guess they do. Good. It’s too early to stop dancing!” She bumped her hip to Rei’s, and then unslung her evening bag from her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s freshen up.”
As Rei uncapped her lipstick, she said to Mina into the mirror, “It’s been too long since we’ve had a night out like this.” She filled her lips with color. “I was afraid Zander was going to come along with us tonight.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Have you noticed how when it’s just us, we can all relax and be ourselves. But add one man to the equation, and the dynamic changes like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“I hear you,” Mina said.
Rei frowned at her reflection. “You must be sick of hearing me complain.”
“Well, who would I complain to?” was Minako’s reply. “Don’t worry, Rei, go on.”
Rei reached into her evening bag and drew out a tiny deck of Tarot cards.
“What the heck,” said Mina. “Those are the littlest Tarot cards I’ve ever seen!”
“Yeah.” Rei drew a card from the top of the deck and held it out. “I was thinking about it earlier— see this?”
“Do you carry those cards everywhere? Yes, I see it,” said Mina. “Three girls, flower crowns, dancing in a garden. Raising three cups skyward.” She grinned. “Lovely.”
Rei looked at the card herself and smiled slightly. “Yes, it is lovely. That’s what this summer has been like. Especially you and me.” She returned the card to its fellows, and the deck to her bag. “I’m almost grateful to them for running late.”
Minako put an arm, dusted with golden glitter, around Rei’s shoulders. “Yeah?” She knew who
they
were without so much as asking.
Rei leaned into Minako. Through her painted lids she watched them in the mirror. She said, “You know, Mamoru could have just made new friends.”
Minako snickered. “But they’d still be out there,” she said.
“They can stay out there.” Rei looked in Mina’s eyes. “Anyway, I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I know.” Mina nodded. Then she straightened up and (in her four-inch heels while Rei was now in flats) she pressed a kiss to the middle of Rei’s forehead.
Rei felt a flare of heat there, and heard a soft metallic chime. “Thanks.”
Hand in hand they hurried out to the dance floor again:
There's blood on your lies
And the sky's open wide,
There is nowhere for you to hide
The hunter's moon is shining—
And there was Ami, cool and reserved Ami, singing along with all her heart:
I’m running with the wolves tonight,
I’m running with the wolves—
The words turned into howls, and all the dance floor joined in, Rei included.
A wild night, a night for the pack, a night that would end all too soon.
Outside, the first chill breezes slunk in over the sea. A faint drizzle would begin before dawn, and by morning all of Tokyo would know that autumn had arrived.
But for now, Rei would celebrate.
I’m running with the wolves…
***
It was eleven thirty pm, and James Sun wore the misery of summer.
He knew it, because he’d spent some time in the airport bathroom trying to correct his appearance, from “bedraggled” to “presentable.” His appalling bedhead, he’d combed into obedience; he took care to neaten his cuffs and collar. There was little enough he could do about the slight tremor in his hands or the shadows under his eyes. Still, the improvements had been worth the time.
After all, thought James, you only got one chance at a first impression.
The train ride into Tokyo proper seemed to stretch on for hours… and the wait to rent a storage locker, interminable… but finally he was free of his luggage. He rolled his shoulders and stretched. The long lines of his athletic body begged for exercise after hours aboard cramped sheets. He set out with a striding gait. It felt good to move.
The city entered his awareness not as a whole, but as little parts: the smell of exhaust or restaurants he strode past; the flow of pedestrians criss-crossing a massive intersection. It’s not home, he thought, it just resembles home in a superficial way.
At length he reached Tokyo Tower. Even at this late hour crowds gathered at the base.
James looked up at the building, which glowed in seashell colors. He was this close to vibrating like a plucked guitar string, but the nerves weren’t a burden. He felt more like he was attuned, like he could slip into the energy of Tokyo without disrupting the whole.
Besides, it was healthy to be nervous, considering what he was about to undertake. Considering who he was about to meet.
He walked until he was outside the fence that surrounded Tokyo Tower.
He took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket. On the side it read “Cloud & Crane School, 87 Maple Square.” James regarded it for a moment. Then he tossed it in the air.
By the time he caught the pen, it had grown into a walking-stick with a curved silver head. An ominous rattle betrayed the blade in its rosewood heart. And James was a hero of the night, with white gloves, a black top hat, and, of course, a cape.
Yes, a good prop made all the difference.
He ran a hair through his hair, and it darkened from blonde to black. The crowd began to shape itself around him. No longer was he anonymous. Now…
“Light,” James commanded, and a spotlight appeared from a nearby streetlamp. The easiest of all illusions. “Camera…”
A deep inhale. “Action!”
He tapped his cane to the sidewalk and began to speak:
“ Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried…”
He thanked all the gods of theater that he had the piece down by heart.
He reached the line, “I am determined to be a villain, and hate the idle pleasures of these days,” without interruption. He ended the monologue with a cold, defiant stare into a point of sky. He couldn’t help scanning for the slightest trace of movement. All he saw were pigeons. He dimmed the spotlight to nothing, and then, in his best Japanese, he thanked the audience and removed his hat, partially for good manners, and partially to hold out for donations. Well, the gods of theater have their traditions, too.
Some of the audience clapped, some moved away as if embarrassed; a gratifying number of people did toss in money. James thanked each contributor.
Someone was even so kind as to toss in a rose.
“Thank you so kindly—” James began, when the sight of the flower stopped him. A deep memory sent a serenade to his conscious mind.
He looked up into a white mask.
“A fine performance,” said Tuxedo Mask.
“Shujin,” James breathed. My lord.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a tremor run through Tuxedo Mask’s frame. He stood back from James and asked, “What is your name?”
“James Sun,” he replied. “At your service.”
After considering him for a moment, Tuxedo Mask said, “You have added more beauty and strangeness to the landscape of Tokyo, and for that I thank you. The arts enrich and beautify our lives…” this was addressed mostly to the benefit of the crowd, “and remind us of what it is to live a good life. Support your local theater!”
He turned to James and inclined his head. “We shall meet again,” he said, only for James’s ear.
“As soon as you like,” James replied.
That said, Tuxedo Mask spun on his heel, ran a few meters, and then leapt to a balcony and out of sight.
Everyone around applauded. A good show by all accounts.
While the crowd was distracted, James shook his head. The illusion broke apart. Black seeped from his hair and he only held a ballpoint pen. He set off on foot in the direction Tuxedo Mask had gone. The crowd behind him noticed the disappearance of the cosplayer, but nobody took note of an itinerant tourist from Hong Kong.
The rose had deep red petals and a calling card tucked in its petals. Just the thing for a gentleman thief.
The card offered an address— a park secluded in a residential area— but not inaccessibly by metro. “NE Corner” was a little more difficult to locate, but James was tenacious. He passed under a hedgerow arch, and found a refuge within a refuge: a little garden circled a bubbling fountian. And such roses! Roses in white around the fountain, or striped with red as they climbing on trellises within the hedges. Four arbors stood in a circle, and their roses were deep crimson.
My lord, he thought, has dwelt here.
The wind picked up. The amber streetlights sent eerie shadows dancing across the ground. The roses took the light well, and seemed to reflect it back with carnelian joy. Of course, James thought. These roses know Tuxedo Mask, and he makes them bloom so vibrantly. It’s no illusion. He brings the essence of life.
James crossed to the fountain and glanced around. He took out the calling card and waited for something to happen. Unless… he was meant to take the initiative?
He was about to throw the card into the fountain, just to see, when the lights shut off soundlessly. City darkness covered him, the paths, the roses. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. Finally.
As the moonlight grew stronger in his eyes, he could make out the faint sound of castanets. Was that a Spanish guitar?
James stood up straighter. This he could understand. This was theater .
“If music be the food of love,” he said, clearly and evenly, “play on. Give me excess of it,” he pressed a hand to his heart, “that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.” He held his hand out. Don’t leave me hanging, he thought.
The guitar notes slowed. “ Twelfth Night — correct?”
James breathed again. “That’s right,” he said.
“I’ve only studied William Shakespeare a little,” said Tuxedo Mask, and he stepped out of a tree’s shadow and into the moonlight, “but I always wanted to be better friends with him. Good evening,” and he bowed.
James bowed in return. “Good evening.”
Tuxedo Mask remained at the same distance. “I’ve had cosplayers before,” he said, “I’ve had fans who crossed oceans to meet me. But you’re not like the others.”
“How so, sir?”
“No one else conjures spotlights out of thin air.”
James shrugged. “You could call it the magic of theater, sir.” He took a deep breath and plunged. “You could call it just… magic.”
Tuxedo Mask stepped closer. “And what do you know about magic?”
“I know that your magic, sir, is the magic of life itself. The energy paths of the human body, and the ley lines along the body of our planet. I know that you disguise yourself as a jewel thief. I know your destiny is more than that.”
“Where are you from?” Tuxedo Mask asked. “And what brings you here?”
“I’m from Hong Kong,” James answered. “But I was born in Tibet.”
Tuxedo Mask’s nod prompted James to go on.
James steeled himself. It was time for the monologue, the one he had constructed with great care and a lot of help from online dictionaries. “January first, of this year,” he began, “at one in the morning, something happened to me. I heard bells that no one else heard. And then, things went wrong for me.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “In my head, things were going wrong.”
“Go on,” Tuxedo Mask prompted.
“I took a pilgrimage to Tibet,” he said, “to where I was born. At the local shrine…” He hesitated. “It was a place where the veil— between our world and the world of spirits— it’s very thin. At that spot, I had a vision. I saw myself, in a grey uniform trimmed in blue. And… I knew my destiny waited in Tokyo. The ringing bells were calling me there.”
“So what happened next?”
James held out his hands, palms up. With focus, he conjured a tiny illusion— a little bell, which tilted from side to side. The sound that emerged was that of a deep temple bell, but from a great distance. The bell rang five times, and then went still. And James dispelled the illusion, and lowered his hands (which were trembling now, worse than before. He really should have eaten at the airport).
“What happened is I began to remember things,” James said. “Mirrors. Magic. Smoke. Nothing really useful.”
Tuxedo Mask nodded. “And… how do I enter the picture?”
“You’ve been on the radar for a long time, sir. Tuxedo Mask is an icon of gentleman’s fashion across Asia.”
Tuxedo Mask ducked his chin. “Well,” he said, “I did give that interview with GQ Japan a few years back…”
“Why did you stop giving interviews?”
“I am a private person. All that fame and attention… I cherish my privacy while I can.”
“Yes, but the world of men’s fashion needs you. Have you seen what passes for formalwear these days…” James stopped himself. “I’m getting sidetracked.”
“Yes, but this is a discussion to come back to,” Tuxedo Mask tilted his head to the side. “You— James Sun, you heard bells and you crossed all the way from Hong Kong to see me.” He held out a gloved hand. “May I?”
A minute hesitation. Then James put his hand into Tuxedo Mask’s hand.
James thought, my hand is cold against his.
Then he felt the magic, not in his hand but in his feet. He’d been walking over concrete and asphalt— miles of it— all day, and suddenly his feet were warm, in contact with the living Earth, and all weariness fell away. James’ gaze was fixed on Tuxedo Mask’s eyes but he would have sworn that golden vines reached up through his limbs and to his heart, soothing the thousand aches and pains that flesh is heir to. And as the magic seeped into him, and faded to invisibility— he heard a drum. Such a drum as might have sounded at the end of Hamlet . The performance is over, now reality begins again.
James knelt, his hand still clutching Tuxedo Mask’s. “Sir,” he said, “I am at your service.”
“Arise, Jadeite,” said the Prince.
James stood.
“Be welcome, and be well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that’s enough of ‘sir.’ Tuxedo Mask is many things to the people of Tokyo— but a prince in disguise isn’t one of them.”
“But I’m not one of the people of Tokyo.”
“True. You have the right to know my given name.” Tuxedo Mask took his mask off. “My name is Mamoru Chiba. It’s good to meet you, James Sun.”
At the close of that sentence, all the lights in the park came on again. The two of them faced each other, precisely of a height.
Looking at Mamoru Chiba in good light was a surreal experience, to James. Their faces were alike in proportion, enough that James felt an uncanny assurance: Yes, give me a few minutes’ time to prepare and I could impersonate him. Someone who meant ill-will would take me for him, and his life would be spared— while mine? Eh, I’d figure that out as it came up.
It was bizarre. It came close to sheer self-abnegation. It was also the most comforting image of his future that he’d had since— frankly, since well before January 1.
“When was the last time you ate?” asked Mamoru Chiba.
James tried to play it chill. “Oh, you know, they always feed you on international flights.”
“Yeah, you’re starving. Come on home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah, you’ll stay at my place tonight. And tomorrow you’ll meet the others.”
For the first time in ten hours, a smile broke across James’s face. “Very good, sir.”
On foot they set off, past the burbling fountain, the arbors of roses, and out of the secluded garden. James felt warm and content and well— although exhaustion was creeping up to take its due— he felt that he wasn’t an anonymous visitor to a hostile metropolis. Side by side with Mamoru, they were distinct, named and identified in a way that rang down to James’ bones.
Yes, this summer had finally paid off.