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Tetsuro watches from the wings as Izumi Tachibana takes center stage.
Like her father, Izumi directs like she was born to do so. She’s always seemed perfectly content to work in a supporting role, and she appears to have no interest in picking up acting again. But in moments like these, Tetsuro can’t help but feel like she belongs on stage. The spotlights spin gold threads into her brown hair, rain light upon her outstretched arms, illuminate the dimples of her smile.
She’s the kind of person who glows when everyone’s gazes are on her – a flower that not only blooms under pressure, but thrives.
Tetsuro, meanwhile, belongs in the dark.
“And finally-” Izumi’s been speaking to the audience for the past minute “-please give a round of applause to our brilliant set designer and prop builder, without whom this show would not be possible!”
Tetsuro jolts out of his thoughts. Is she doing what he thinks she’s doing?
He tries to shrink further into the shadows, but Izumi is already striding towards him, and as she grabs his arm he shakes his head frantically, tugging – no no no no no – but even though he’s got fifteen inches and at least a hundred pounds on her, she drags him onstage with the strength only a girlfriend on the warpath can possess.
He can’t see the audience at all – the lights paint his vision white – but he can hear them as they burst into applause.
Not knowing what else to do, he lifts his free hand and twitches it to and fro, in some approximation of a wave. Mercifully, Izumi seems satisfied with this. With one more bow, she strides offstage with Tetsuro in tow, and the curtains trap the audience’s cheers outside. Only then does it occur to Tetsuro that he probably should have bowed as well, but it’s too late.
Izumi turns to him, eyes kind but unapologetic. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Tetsuro frowns, making his opinion known.
“I’ll try to give you more warning next time – but really, you deserve a proper acknowledgement. The audience ought to know whose sets they’re gazing at all evening. And we really couldn’t put on these plays without you. Truly.”
Hearing that, Tetsuro yearns to disagree. It’s never mattered to him whether his creations are loved by ten people or a thousand. But he can’t deny the small flicker of pride in his heart. To Izumi, he’s not just useful. He’s necessary.
After a lifetime of being treated like a zoo exhibit – careful around the wild Tetsuro, children. We know he’s an animal, because he doesn’t talk – being treated like a person is almost frightening. Better a familiar hell than an unknown heaven, he used to think.
He doesn’t think that way anymore.
He lets go of Izumi’s hand, but only to sign his response. [Next time, tell me before the show.]
She smiles. “So there will be a next time?”
He smiles back. That’s the only reply that’s needed.