Chapter Text
There was a gloomy student in Yoshida’s school that quickly grabbed his attention.
With wild golden hair and a hunched back, he would always be wandering around with a mobile phone in hand—those that had become widely popular lately, with a big screen and the advantage of taking photographs and recording video in high quality.
Yoshida, on the contrary, still had a flip-phone himself—not that he made much use of it. He understood their appeal, yet could not relate to it. It was true that everyone seemed eagerly committed to sharing texts, sending emails, browsing the internet with them; nevertheless, it was that blonde boy who stood out from the rest—being the only one interested in recording rather than communicating.
Yoshida saw him nearly everywhere at school—be it in the hallways, capturing people walking by; during break, recording a baseball match from afar; even while going back home, aiming its lens at his feet, clumsily filming his steps.
He was oddly intriguing, a breeze of fresh air into Yoshida’s dull life. Without realizing, he became someone that Yoshida looked forward to seeing day after day.
He seemed to go unnoticed amongst the rest of students, but Yoshida couldn’t take his eyes off him. There was something openly enticing about him, the same way a stray dog looked gruff and worn out, yet would wag his tail and at the sight of anything out of the ordinary—be it proper food or a toy ready to be shredded.
That day, Yoshida spotted him crouching near a flower bed on the way to the gym building. There were plenty of students hurrying up for club activities, wearing their sports uniforms and carrying all sorts of equipment; but he remained there, immersed in his own world through the camera, as if life went on but had forgotten about him.
He was filming the flowers at different close-ups and angles—sometimes, he touched them, very gently, afraid that his touch would instantly wither their petals.
“Hey, Denji! I don’t think you’ll earn Mrs Tachibana’s trust back with some random flowers!” a male student in a volleyball uniform shouted by his side as he was heading towards the gym.
Yoshida’s eyes narrowed, observing how the boy strode past him without even waiting for a response.
Denji, the boy had said.
So that was his name.
Not that it changed anything—they were still strangers, in different years even, so Yoshida wouldn't need to address him at all, he thought.
It was nice to finally give him a name, though.
Yoshida darted a quick glance at Denji again, only to be met by intense, amber eyes looking straight at him.
It would be disingenuous to say that Yoshida's knees buckled. Instead, he merely stopped breathing for a moment, only to be pierced by Denji's gaze, which bore right into his lungs.
Anger, tiredness, loneliness—Yoshida saw a blend of all in his honest eyes.
Before he could even muster a word to utter, perhaps to apologize, or to ask why, Denji stood up. It was the first time Yoshida saw him face-to-face on equal terms. Most of the times he was used to seeing him from afar, almost anecdotally.
“What’re you staring at? You gonna laugh at me, too?”
Denji didn’t allow him time to answer, as he groaned with annoyance and stormed away under Yoshida’s stunned expression.
It seemed like they weren’t meant to get along at all, were they.
Once Denji’s figure faded away, Yoshida’s eyes flickered upon the flowers he had been curiously paying attention to. As if drawn to them, he walked to the neatly disposed flower bed and knelt down before it. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, just some white, orange and yellow chrysanthemums, arranged in a long sinuous line that disappeared around the corner of the building. They were beautiful, indeed, but Yoshida didn’t understand why Denji would be so hung up on such a mundane thing.
However, there was another kind of flower that Yoshida hadn’t noticed at first, as they hadn’t fully bloomed yet. Right behind the chrysanthemums, the shy sprouts of red spider lilies were about to emerge soon—some of them already had a few of their dormant buds pointing upwards, impatient to unfurl their curvy petals.
Yoshida vaguely remembered a Science project he had to carry out last year, relating to flowers blooming during unconventional seasons.
Denji must have been working on something like that as well.
Yoshida didn’t catch sight of Denji for a week. Whenever he saw students taking selfies of themselves, his mind would travel to Denji, wondering if he’d ever done the same, or whether his camera roll would be stacked with trees and flowers instead.
After class, he thought of heading to the same spot he’d last seen him, near the flower bed. It was a rainy day, but Yoshida hadn’t brought his umbrella. Some raindrops were already leaving darker circles on his uniform, so he hurried up. He wished the spider lilies would have bloomed by then.
As he turned the corner leading to the gym in a hasty pace, he bumped into someone else. There was a muffled groan, a brush of uniform fabrics, and then a hard, flat object hit his chest. Before he could make out what it was, a cracking sound surrounded them from below.
It was Denji who he’d run into, and his mobile phone was lying on the floor between the both of them.
“Fuck!”
Denji swiftly bent over to pick it up. Yoshida shot an anxious glance at it, fearing the inevitable—indeed, its screen glass was all cracked, accompanied by irregular, long lines in different colours that showed from within, not looking promising at all.
“Fuck me, not now...”
Denji began to press all over the screen and buttons on its side, a mix of hope and despair dragging them erratically. Yoshida observed while trying to come up with the right words, still baffled by the accident.
“Might be possible to repair,” he suggested, having absolutely no clue if that was true at all; he hoped Denji wouldn’t throw the phone back at him.
He didn’t seem to pay him any attention, still focused on bringing the broken device back to life.
“The only thing I could use to record stuff and now it’s fucked.” Denji’s lament sounded more sorrowful now—disappointed, even. His grumpy behaviour suddenly vanished.
Yoshida felt really, really bad. His mind swirled in a blur, looking for a reasonable way to apologize and find a solution.
“I’m so sorry. I think I can--”
Denji held up his palm bluntly and Yoshida went silent. Denji looked up and Yoshida’s remorseful face might have soothed him, judging by the way Denji’s eyes drooped with no consolation.
“It’s okay. Guess it wasn’t meant to be. Why bother with something that’s going nowhere.”
Denji put his hands inside the pockets of his uniform and left, languid steps sinking into mud.
Yoshida stood there, the weight of guilt plummeting on his shoulders.
It was already pouring. Yoshida took notice of everyone who was yet wandering the yards rushing for shelter. He then remembered he was there in order to check up on the flowers and strode towards the other side of the building.
Even from afar, and with his bangs soaked and stuck to his face, he was able to make out several spider lilies which had burst into bloom. Their shade of red was such a stark contrast to the rest of flowers, as if they’d claimed their place in the garden. Lush and fresh under the rain, they timidly shook by the unceasing, falling raindrops.
Yoshida didn’t understand why the beautiful sight of them embraced him with anguish.
Yoshida’s drenched uniform left a wet trail on the floorboards of his silent apartment. It was pitch dark inside—the clouded sky at dusk that evening only provided rain.
Another day at his solitary place, with no other company than himself. He threw his school bag on his chair. His books might have got wet, but he couldn’t care less.
He wasn’t hungry yet, so perhaps a warm bath would be best. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and checked the time. 18:17.
Yoshida stared at the screen—so bright, spotless, uncracked. He could even see his reflection on it.
His chest shrunk. Perhaps he should’ve given Denji his own phone in exchange. He wouldn’t miss it at all, would he? He had nobody to call and no pictures to take. True, it was his only means of communication with his parents, but what was the point when he hadn’t seen his mother in months, and his father was on yet another business trip during which he hadn’t even sent a text to check up on his son for nearly two weeks.
The only thing I could use to record stuff and now it’s fucked.
As struck by a gong, Yoshida cocked his head and knelt in front of one of his cupboards. If he remembered well, there could still be a chance to make amends with Denji. He wished he were right.
Inside the cupboard, behind old boxes with who knows what, there was what Yoshida was looking for. A dusty white cardboard box which could convey the impression of a brand-new purchase. Yoshida grabbed it, opened it, and upon seeing it had what he expected, he sighed in relief.
Yoshida stared at a video camera—the one his parents used to film him with when he was a child. Not that it had been used that much, and not that it was of any use anymore. Yoshida had grown used to being alone, and getting rid of their forgotten camera wouldn’t change a thing. Cameras couldn't make new memories when there was nobody in front of them.
Its body was sturdy and graceful to the touch, its shiny plastic almost like its first day outside the box. Yoshida switched it on; the battery was at around 30% and its gallery was empty—no photos nor videos to evoke, no old memories to bask in.
It might have been too naïve of him to expect otherwise. He grimly put it back in its box.
Unsure whether it would make a difference after all, he tossed it into his school bag with the hopes that it would find a better home.
The following day, Yoshida wandered all around school during break but he couldn’t find Denji anywhere. Now that he didn’t have his phone, there was no place he would be gazing at and taking pictures of.
He finally headed toward what he assumed was his classroom—although he wasn’t completely sure. He glanced at several of them but in none he could make out his wild mane of golden hair.
Perhaps he simply missed school that day. Yoshida would have to wait a bit longer, unfortunately.
The thought of it made his chest pound.
The last lessons went by quite hazily, where Yoshida’s mind drifted beyond the windows—he tried to imagine what face Denji would make once he gave him his camera. Would he smile? Would he slap his shoulder? Or... would he simply not care?
As if that would matter at all.
The next morning, he didn’t have to even attempt to look around, because it seemed as if Denji found him instead.
Yoshida saw him walking towards him, only to realize he was just coming from his opposite direction and about to cross the school gates as the rest of students. Yoshida swore their eyes met for a fleeting second, but Denji barely looked up anyway. His head was ducked and he dragged his body as if he carried a weight upon his shoulders.
I have to give it to him.
Yoshida feared many things in life, but his determination always got the best of him. So he leapt forward and tapped Denji on the back.
Denji turned around—his eyes glared at Yoshida, but once he recognized him, or maybe didn’t, his expression seemed to soften into mere perplexity.
“Hi,” Yoshida greeted, because one must be polite despite all odds, yet Denji’s pupils stared at him in a way that he almost regretted being so sudden. “I’m sorry for what happened to your phone.”
Denji’s posture unstiffened, but his eyes remained blurry.
Yoshida looked away—they were distracting him from his commitment. He reached the box from inside his schoolbag and handed it before Denji.
Denji’s eyes followed Yoshida’s hands and stared at the box he was holding. Yoshida could see the precise moment his pupils dilated—once he saw the brand name and picture of the videocamera.
“Please accept this in return.”
It took a couple seconds for Denji to understand what was going on. His mind seemed to short-circuit which was quite amusing to witness, but Yoshida simply wished for him to take it without any further trouble.
Denji finally lifted his head and stared at him directly. His eyes were a mesmerizing shade of amber brown.
“What?” is what came out of his mouth.
He eagerly sought answers in Yoshida’s.
“It’s not new,” although judging by its pristine appearance it really seemed so, Yoshida felt like he should clarify. “I just—don’t make much use of it anymore. I think you’ll make the best of it instead.”
Yoshida pushed the box forward, hitting Denji’s chest and making him grab it almost by force.
“H-Huh!?”
Yoshida took the opportunity to let go of it and step back before it might be too late.
“Apologies again. Bye.”
That’s it. Done. It wasn’t so hard at all.
“Hey!”
Yoshida had already walked several steps away but Denji’s voice inevitably made him turn around.
A couple meters apart, he stood reluctantly shaking the box in hand, and with a dazzled expression Yoshida had never seen before.
“...Thanks,” Denji said so low that Yoshida knew he didn’t hear him but could make out the words by reading his shy lips.
Yoshida waved in response, motioning good-bye and reassuring that everything was fine.
He did what he had to, right? When you do something wrong, you have to fix it somehow.
He hoped Denji would put it to good use. Not that it was his business anymore.
He checked his watch—he was five minutes late to first period.
Yoshida saw Denji several times between lessons, always camera in hand. He no longer seemed crestfallen, but strolled in high spirits. Whenever their gazes crossed ways, Denji would wave at Yoshida.
After a couple times, Denji accompanied his gesture with a nod of his head, and then a timid, crooked smile that allowed a generous glimpse at his sharp teeth.
As if pulled by a thread of fate, Yoshida always smiled back.
Mid-terms week arrived and Yoshida didn’t see any point in studying back home, where the absolute silence and isolation would make him drift off. The school library wasn’t the most pleasant option either, but at least he knew he’d be able to grab any book and find all information were it necessary.
That day, the aisle in which he was sitting was louder and more crowded than usual. Some classmates approached him a few times; asked him for his notes, knowing that Hirofumi Yoshida, president of the student council, wouldn’t bat an eye and help anyone in need.
The thing was, Yoshida wasn’t a model student at all. He simply did as he was meant to, followed what was expected of him, trying to please everyone in the end.
Yet the truth was that none of that made him feel better. Rarely would he have something to look forward to. The Denji-camera incident had been a nice distraction, that was true, but that matter had also been wrapped up, and Yoshida was left to his dull life once again.
“Gosh, when will he get the hint?”
A couple of girls emerged from the nearest bookshelf, hiding clumsy giggles and eyerolls, as they strolled away. When one of them noticed Yoshida by the desk, her expression suddenly changed and waved goodbye with a clear sparkle in her eyes.
Yoshida had no idea who that was.
He resumed his reading while his hand jotted down a few more dates from his History lesson. He couldn’t really concentrate further as more whispering and hushed words made their way from the end of the bookshelves to his right. That was where those girls came from before—the two closed rooms reserved for projects, with soundproof walls made of glass in order to give more freedom when discussing in groups.
“. . . No, thank you. I gotta go.”
Another female student walked past the aisle hurriedly, the sound of her soles drumming in Yoshida’s head.
Out of curiosity, Yoshida craned his neck forward and glanced towards the corridor. It was empty, but then a black uniform turned up from the other side of the shelves, and his eyes met Denji.
He was holding his videocamera with one hand while looking dejected—hunched shoulders and tired legs dragged through the library floor until he looked up and finally noticed Yoshida.
It seemed like his expression brightened, but Yoshida’s eyes might as well have got blurry after an hour of long study.
“Uh,” Denji uttered, no less than two meters apart. He sent Yoshida a nod. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Yoshida replied immediately.
Denji got closer, his hip hitting the edge of the desk as he darted a curious look at Yoshida’s notebook. “You studyin’?”
“...Yes.”
Yoshida’s eyes focused on the camera in his hold. It was oddly satisfying to see it in Denji’s hands.
“Is it working well?”
Denji’s face gently grew warmer as he waved the camera before them.
“Y-yeah. It’s great so far.” He placed the camera on the desk and turned it off. “Thing is... nobody actually wants to appear in it.”
Yoshida cocked his head.
“You’re recording people?”
As soon as he heard that, Denji gave him a scowl.
“I’m trying to make a movie.”
That was something Yoshida didn’t expect at all.
“Really?”
Denji scratched his nape, his pose unstiffening. “Yeah. You know the end-of-year festival? I’m trying to make it in time for it, but... schedule’s being a bit tight.”
Yoshida thought Denji was overthinking, as they'd barely started their second term, and March was a long way ahead.
“There’s plenty of time still,” he reassured, but Denji’s eyes remained hazy.
“Yeah... I guess.”
Yoshida wondered why Denji would choose to make a film when there were dozens of other activities available for the festival which required way less effort and skills than becoming an amateur filmmaker.
Perhaps Denji really had a passion for the art scene beneath that aura of bluntness.
“What’s your favourite movie?” Yoshida asked.
That question clearly came as a surprise to Denji, judging by the way his face went blank and his mouth turned ajar.
“Uh—I don’t have any?”
Yoshida frowned a little. Most people couldn’t pick a single one so that could be understandable.
“And favourite director?”
Now Denji’s face showed an expression hard to interpret. It was like Yoshida had thrown him a cubic equation problem.
“I don’t know any.”
“What do you mean you don’t know any.”
Denji shrugged. “Why would I know? It’s not like we learn about the history of cinema in class.”
Yoshida frowned hard this time. This conversation was starting to make no sense.
“Then why are you so keen on filming?”
“Well... duh, chicks love intellectual, artsy guys. They’ll swoon all over me once I release this blockbuster.”
Yoshida should’ve been flabbergasted by such response, but even by the little he knew about Denji, it sounded so natural and predictable for most students their age.
Girlfriends and love, family and care—everyone seemed to wallow in them.
“Anyhow... you,” Denji darted him a curious, long glance to which Yoshida raised an eyebrow. “You must have a girlfriend,” he ventured, a hint of jealousy in his voice, while his eyes flickered towards a couple girls who were prying from afar.
Yoshida’s expression grew even more confused.
“I don’t,” he wasn’t sure why he was being so... open with Denji all of a sudden, but it was hard to lie to him. The way he stared at him, seeking the truth, Yoshida couldn’t simply dodge his remarks. “I’m... not interested.”
Denji’s mouth went agape once again. This time, it was almost funny to watch, and it drew an almost unnoticeable twitch on the lips from Yoshida.
“Huh,” was his reaction, glancing back to the girls by the bookshelves. “You’re so weird, man.”
Yoshida had been called many things in his life, although weird was a first. Not that it sounded wrong out of Denji’s lips at all.
Denji groaned, and sat down opposite Yoshida at the end of the desk. He leaned forward, finally realizing where they were, and spoke in a low voice.
“Say what you want but you’re a popular guy. So... can you lend me a hand and become my assistant?”
Yoshida thought he’d heard wrong.
“An assistant? What would th—”
“I’m more into directing,” Denji interrupted, as he slid the camera back to him and gently tapped on it, “behind the camera, you know, so it’d be great to have someone else... an actor, right? Well, actor-assistant, if you may. I’m sure girls will like to see you on screen.”
Yoshida had lost count the times Denji mentioned girls during this bizarre exchange between the two of them, and it certainly didn’t escape him how committed he seemed to the cause of this rare endeavor.
But above all, Denji thought he could be of help.
Was it that obvious that Yoshida was popular, though? Truth be told, he couldn’t care less about that fact—he actually hadn’t lied when he said he bore no interest.
Seeing that no response was coming out of his mouth, Denji grabbed his camera and stood up.
“Sorry, you must be busy. I don’t know why I asked you.”
Yoshida snapped out of his thoughts.
“No, wait--it’s fine.”
Denji locked eyes with him. Yoshida would wager there was some kind of tremor in his amber irises, despite his initial resolve. He recalled their first encounter, how he found a solitary Denji seeking solace in nature where nobody else would mind him. “I’ll help you,” Yoshida stated, holding his gaze.
“You sure? I don’t wann—”
“Sure.”
It was brief and subtle, but Yoshida saw how Denji let out a sigh of relief, and how his shoulders were no longer tense.
As his eyes fell on the camera, his fingers fidgeted around the plastic.
“Can I ask you a question?” since Yoshida had been the one to enquire not only one, but many times, it was simply fair to get on the other end and answer some at last. Denji didn’t wait for a nod or a yes, as he raised his gaze. “Don’t you have friends?”
Out of all the questions Denji could ask him, this was one that truly made sense—because it had swum in Yoshida’s mind for a very long time.
Yoshida could admit that it was pitiful not to have friends. Friends were alright, necessary even, sometimes. Yet, there was nobody in his life he could call as such. Classmates? Sure. Someone closer than that?
The truth was that he never allowed himself the chance.
Denji’s eyes were waiting for his answer, oddly earnest and non-judgmental.
Yoshida poured honesty over him once again—effortlessly, naturally. He should give it a thought as to why it was so . . . easy.
“Not really.”
Denji’s upper lip curled coyly, and Yoshida’s chest grew larger at the sight.
“That makes two of us, then.”
Or perhaps it was something else.
“By the way, I think I never introduced myself. I’m Denji.”
I know, it echoed in Yoshida’s mind.
“I’m Yoshida,” he replied likewise.
Just as he heard his name, Denji tilted his head and his pupils pierced right through Yoshida—he looked offended.
“I know.”
Yoshida barely held in a chuckle.
Denji definitely looked like someone who could brighten his grey school life. And, for the first time, Yoshida would dare to try.
- HIGH SCHOOL - AFTERNOON
- Muffled voices in the background, distant crows cawing. Only pavement and sneakers in sight.
- YOSHIDA (O.S.)
- Zoom in with this,
- (Low buzzing)
- zoom out like this.
- (Higher low buzzing)
- DENJI (O.S.)
- Wait, let me do it.
- (Buzzing repeats)
- (School backyard appears. Some students walk away, others are getting their bikes off the park lot.)
- Wow, this is so cool. Can’t believe I was just filming so flat. Hey, how much did this cost, really? Are you a rich kid?
- YOSHIDA (O.S.)
- I’m not. This one’s actually quite old, though. I’m sure there must be better ones out there by now.
- Camera shakes. YOSHIDA comes into view. He has a confused face.
- DENJI (O.S.)
- Hey, don’t look at the lens or it won’t look like a real movie.
- YOSHIDA
- You just pointed it right at me, what do you expect me to do?
- DENJI (O.S.)
- You’re an actor now, so act like one. Do your stuff.
- YOSHIDA
- (Squints.)
- My stuff?
- DENJI (O.S.)
- Yeah, like I’m not here. Every day stuff. Let’s start simple. Just mundane activities.
- YOSHIDA
- Is that what your film’s gonna be like? Mundane?
- DENJI (O.S.)
- If you keep questioning it, yeah, it might as well be.
- Whirring sound. Only YOSHIDA’s nose and mouth are visible now. The beauty mark under his lower lip is clear as day.
- YOSHIDA
- What are you doing?
- Camera vibrates. DENJI chuckles.