Chapter Text
The sun of Lombardy plants gentle kisses along his cheeks on the day f*ckuzawa arrives at Lake Como, a half-filled suitcase in his hand and a head full of ideas.
He enjoys the talks. He enjoys the food even more. Italy melts on his tongue in the abundance of Venetian shrimp; stings him with a pungent gold of Sicilian liquor - a late summer afternoon trapped inside a translucent bottle.
When a free morning comes around, he boards the ferry departing from Colico and occupies its lower deck, marveling at the posh villas lined along the bank of the lake in a strip of colorful mosaic. In one of them, Leonardo da Vinci would spend his summers pondering his newest wonders of engineering at the dawn of the XVI century.
They pass Varenna. A scattering of private yachts parts before them, maneuvering across the steady surface of the lake in patches of white and auburn. Every once in a while, solitary splats of water land across f*ckuzawa’s face carried through the air on the hands of the April wind.
Cold, he notes, but then again, it’s still too early in the season for the lake to be anything but a sight to admire.
When the ferry docks at Bellagio, he disembarks, passing through a crowd of cheerful tourists lined up in front of the ice cream stand. The paved sidewalk stretches along the waterfront, sheltering tiny hotels and restaurants with waking villagers reclined in their comfortable chairs, chatting over espresso.
It takes him twenty minutes of leisurely walk in the morning sun to get to the front gate of Villa Melzi.
“I’m here with the annual ERHG convention,” he informs, retrieving a badge from the inner pocket of his jacket.
The lady in the ticket booth squints at him through the thick frames of her glasses, eyes skimming the permit in his hand.
“Va bene ,” she says without much interest, waving him off. “Avanti il prossimo!"
Putting the badge back inside his pocket, f*ckuzawa turns around and strides toward the entrance -- a miniature cave leading into the garden. On the other side, a thin trail winds across the endless greenery, interrupted by speckles of pink and crimson. He follows it almost instinctively, falling victim to the fusion of smells, losing himself in the euphonic symphony of surrounding noises.
The petals of azalea blossom tremble beneath his fingers. As he lingers to admire the statues, parting his lips in the heat of the morning sun, the garden claims him as part of its scenery -- another timeless piece celebrated by the acclaimed and the unknown.
With the entrance far behind him, the sound of waves lulling the boats near the bank fades beneath the chitter of crickets. Passing a delicate arc of a bridge stretching across the pond, he winds up embraced by the familiar ambiance of a Japanese garden. Somewhere in the distance, a repetitive sound of bamboo hitting the stone propagates through the sizzling air.
Standing there, shielded from the sun by a canopy of maple trees, for the first time since he’d left, f*ckuzawa misses Tokyo.
As he continues along the trail, the cool breeze of the lake finds him again eventually. So does the endless blue of the water, stretching to the base of the Alpine mountains.
He tries not to think about his employer — anything but him .
But like many things, Italy too must have belonged to Mori. Late at night, the streets of Bellagio smell like him—burned sugar and cigarette smoke, broken by the undercurrent of double espresso. He’s in the taste of chianti on f*ckuzawa's avid lips and in the glorious opulence of wisteria blossoms blocking his view of the lake in abundant purple.
Even when f*ckuzawa closes his eyes that night, hoping for a momentary escape, Mori comes to him in his sleep—cherry blossoms woven into his silken hair, lips plump and pink like their delicate petals. He watches him through half-lidded eyes, hiding his porcelain skin in the sleeves of f*ckuzawa's haori. A child's laughter echoes in the distance, and before f*ckuzawa can reach out to tuck a stray hair behind his ear, Mori turns, dissipating into the void.
The last two days of his trip slip away with the same ease. Savoring the last of Italy in the crunch of his breakfast pastry, f*ckuzawa catches his flight back to Tokyo on Friday morning. He changes planes in Shanghai, maneuvering through crowds of travelers lined up for additional security checks to enter China. A few hours later, Narita airport welcomes him with its usual buzz, and he rushes to escape it on the nearest arriving train.
The automatic door slides shut behind him as f*ckuzawa slips inside and occupies a seat in an otherwise empty car. Rubbing his temple to stay awake, he reaches into his pocket to get his phone. There aren’t any new notifications—not that he’d expect any. When people want to get a hold of him, they usually email him. Simple and professional.
The only exception to the rule was f*ckuchi. On numerous occasions, when he’d had a few too many drinks, he’d call. He’d call until f*ckuzawa answered. And f*ckuzawa always did—picked up the phone, then picked up f*ckuchi himself: wasted, slumped inside a booth at some cheap bar until f*ckuzawa’s hands would find their place around his shoulders. Too close. Too familiar for his liking.
“You’re so warm, Yuki,” he’d mumble mindlessly through his drunken breath. That sweet nickname no one else has ever dared to use. On Friday nights, with the comfortable weight of f*ckuchi's body in his arms, f*ckuzawa missed that moniker way too much.
Upon checking his train connection, he opens a browser to scroll through the weather forecast. Mostly out of habit, as he won’t get to do any garden work until after the weekend. Then he returns to his home page, searching for a news app to kill some time. 'The Japan Times' -- the title reads as f*ckuzawa finally hits the familiar icon on his screen and waits for the application to load.
Skipping through the first few tabs, he quickly finds his usual category – Design and Innovation - and opens an article that catches his attention, immersing himself in reading. The Tokyo landscape keeps shifting behind the glass door of the commuter train, flashing with neon lights and the lit-up windows of the high-rise apartment buildings. Every few minutes, f*ckuzawa looks up to register the names of the passing stations.
The editor's choice feature on the Gardens of Tomorrow turns out somewhat disappointing, as it primarily focuses on its financial aspect. f*ckuzawa scrolls again through the remaining articles, hoping to find something to fill the time during the remainder of his trip, but nothing stands out. He's about to close the app when a headline in the top corner of the screen catches his attention.
'Mori Corporation: Will the Business Empire Prosper Again With the Return of Mori Ougai to Japan?’
Hesitantly, f*ckuzawa clicks on the link and waits for the article to expand until a picture of a young Mori standing by his father’s side finally comes into view. He hasn’t gotten any older , the gardener notes internally, looking at Mori’s trademark smile – one he’s received firsthand whenever his employer would try to sway him.
Peeling his eyes away from the image, he focuses on the supporting story. Much like the previous one, it revolves around finance, although this time, f*ckuzawa has expected no less. Six-digit numbers and percentage signs fill every paragraph, accompanied by places he’s never been to and names he’s never heard. All except for one set of kanji familiar to him both in writing and on the tip of his tongue.
Natsume Soseki.
With all other pieces in place, the author speculates that Mori’s return to Japan might drastically change Natsume’s role as a senior executive on his current chessboard. Is Mori Ougai going for a classical bishop sacrifice?
Skimming through the last few paragraphs, f*ckuzawa moves his thumb to the return button on his screen. Before he can close the article, one particular sentence catches his attention, forcing him to linger.
When asked about his private life, the CEO of Mori Corporation hides behind his usual answer that hasn’t changed throughout the years…
Almost instinctively, f*ckuzawa presses the play button on the embedded video clip. On the tape, a young female reporter leans forward in a tub chair, her soft features illuminated by the studio lights.
“Mori-dono,” she begins, gracing her guest with a cheeky smile. “I believe I speak for all of us when I say there is one question we all want answered.”
The audience cheers in approval, a wave of applause rising and falling across the room, prompting her to continue. After another pause, sending a premeditated look at the camera, the reporter turns her attention back to Mori, ready to break the tension.
“Is there perhaps… a special woman in your life?”
The Mori in the recording smiles back at her, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind his ear. When he parts his lips to speak, f*ckuzawa feels his heart sinking.
“A special woman,” the businessman reiterates, his voice full of its usual poise, as he leans forward in his chair, mirroring the reporter. “Now that you mention it… yes, there is one.”
Maintaining the suspense for another moment, he suddenly breaks into hearty laughter.
“My daughter, of course.”
The crowd coos collectively in adoration, then bursts into another round of applause. Letting out a breath he’s been holding, f*ckuzawa locks the screen of his phone and tucks it back inside his pocket.
The high-rise buildings of Tokyo continue shifting behind the glass door of the train, their proud heads tangled up in the thick blue of the night clouds. When f*ckuzawa gets off at the Tokyo Skytree station, the first raindrops settle on his silver strands like morning dew. Unfurling his umbrella, he looks up at the horizon, where purple bolts of lighting lacerate the skies with their spiky teeth.
Thunderstorms had never been his favorite weather. They robbed him of a chance to do what he loved most -- have his feet on the ground and feel it welcome him whole. But that night, their roar was the only sound loud enough to mute his thoughts on what it must be like to hold power over the word special in Mori's life without being another piece on his intricate chessboard.
The weekend goes as quickly as it comes - days merging into a smooth continuum, as f*ckuzawa spends them in bed, fighting his jet lag symptoms.
Eventually Monday arrives, and, after a short subway ride, f*ckuzawa takes his usual route to Mori’s estate, leisurely walking along the side of the road by the blooming fields. The buzz of the bees cuts through the air in a familiar song as they hop from flower to flower and merge into the opulent yellow sea. Lost in a daydream, he doesn’t notice the landscape shifting before his eyes. Or how the road twists and turns as his feet obediently carry him through the peaceful countryside. He only realizes he’s reached the mansion when the sound of his name, or at least an iteration of it, snaps him out of his morning reverie.
“Yukichi-san!”
The fluttering of fabric permeates f*ckuzawa’s hearing before a pair of small hands suddenly clutches at his legs – a grip so powerful that he has to stop in his tracks to maintain balance.
“How could you leave for so long! You’ve been gone for ages!” a determined, petulant voice cuts through the air around him.
Bewildered, he looks down to see Elise’s golden curls, neatly tied into two ponytails, bounce over her shoulders as she pulls on his yukata, stubbornly trying to get his attention.
“Elise-chan,” he soothes, hesitantly squeezing her shoulder. “I am not going anywhere any time soon. Do you think you could let go now?”
A pair of blue eyes squint at him with suspicion as the girl tightens her grip around his legs, lips twisting into a petulant pout. One glance at her, and f*ckuzawa already knows that she isn’t going to budge with ease, and perhaps part of him missed it - that adamant will he quietly indulged more often than he should have.
Letting out a small sigh, he involuntarily runs his fingers across one of the golden strands.
“You have my word.”
A package of Italian biscuits in his bag he chooses not to mention: not until he’s sure she already had a proper breakfast, at least.
Hiding both hands in the sleeves of his traditional attire once again, he lets his eyes travel up to where the daylight disappears amongst the decorated walls of the mansion. For a moment, he hopes to see a familiar figure lingering in the doorway: arms crossed, slim frame slightly bent beneath the weight of the present.
“Papa is working late tonight,” Elise murmurs, following his gaze as she finally lets go of his yukata. It wouldn't be the first time she managed to read him without effort. Or maybe she also often glanced in that direction, hoping to find Mori standing there, ready to scoop her up in another embrace, only to be met with the sight of an empty door frame.
“Mmm,” f*ckuzawa hums in acknowledgment as he thinks of a way to distract her from wistful thoughts. “Did you take good care of the garden?”
The missing glow returns to her eyes in an instant. So does her grip on his clothes, ever determined and impatient.
“Wanna see?” she exclaims, bouncing with excitement.
With a subtle smile, f*ckuzawa stretches out his arm, waiting until a set of tiny fingers clutches his and drags him after her – further and further, around the wing of the mansion and out into the serenity of the morning garden.
Eager, Elise leads him around the plots, pointing her tiny finger here and there as she smiles at every sprout that used to be but a vulnerable seed planted beneath a layer of soil to be reborn. In his absence, the shrubs of peonies he had planted the week prior seemed to have taken root, while hydrangeas managed to dress themselves in thick emerald leaves. Elise took particular pride in the latter.
“There’s something else I need to show you, Yukichi-san,” she mumbles with uncertainty, hands clenching at the sides of her skirt, as she lets go of his hand for the first time that morning.
With a nod, f*ckuzawa follows her to the opposite side of the garden. The heels of her rubber boots sink into the mud, squeaking with every step -a sound that used to be muffled by Elise’s cheerful voice that suddenly halted. Even before they get closer, he spots the source of her sudden anxiety – a sight that used to move him in his early days as a gardener.
“I watered them twice when it didn’t rain, I promise,” the girl whispers, barely audibly, when they make it to the plot, where the ground lays covered in the carpet of yellow leaves.
“Mmm,” f*ckuzawa hums in response and reaches out to pick up the stem of a withered plant. He should have expected the sun would be too harsh for it in this part of the garden.
“Are you upset?” Elise asks, keeping her eyes on the ground.
“No,” he answers plainly.
“No?” the girl’s blue eyes fly up to him. Behind them – a familiar curiosity and a tinge of disbelief.
Glancing at the dead flower in his hand, f*ckuzawa tells her the truth that life bestowed upon him through the years.
“Sometimes even the most experienced gardener can do nothing to save a plant from dying, Elise-chan. In the end, we must let plants choose their destinies.”
They leave the garden when Hirotsu peaks through the door, calling on Elise to eat breakfast. After a short debate, f*ckuzawa agrees to a cup of tea. Following their tradition, the butler serves it in the parlor, where he rests on his usual side of the leather sofa, flipping through the volume of van Gogh's biography. A single piece of strawberry daif*cku occupies a tiny saucer, matching a delicate porcelain cup filled to the brim with warm liquid. Taking a sip, f*ckuzawa savors the unparalleled sweetness that could only belong to fine quality ichibancha and, once again, finds himself wondering why Mori pays so much attention to his tea collection when he has only ever seen him indulge in coffee.
As he finishes reading the second chapter, Elise inevitably finds him again, plopping down on the opposite side of the sofa. She throws a glance at the book in his hand and pretends to respect his activity until her patience gradually wears out and reaches its lowest point.
“Are you done yet, Yukichi-san?”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward in a subtle smile as he hides from her behind a glossy hardcover and flips the page.
“Almost. Why?”
“I can’t tell you,” she explains, smiling in the way she could only pick up from Mori. “It would ruin the surprise.”
The surprise.
He hadn’t had one of these since f*ckuchi took him to the Sapporo Snow Festival when they were twenty.
Closing the book, he returns it to its usual spot on the shelf, then carries the pottery back to the kitchen. The moment the dishes hit the bottom of the sink, Elise grabs his hand, pulling him to the second floor across the infinite spiral of stairs. A collection of paintings and photographs looms over them from the walls of an endless corridor, connected to other rooms by the familiar stripe of burgundy carpet. f*ckuzawa catches them with the corner of his eye, curious, but before he can study any of them, an insistent tug on his hand prompts him to keep going.
Passing three more rooms, they finally come to a stop. Elise reaches for the door, tiny fingers wrapping around its metal knob.
“Close your eyes, Yukichi-san,” she demands at the last minute, twisting it open.
f*ckuzawa obeys silently and steps inside, guided by her hand, gritting his teeth when his knee hits a rough corner of the bed as they pass through the girl’s bedroom.
“Okay. You can look now.”
He opens his eyes with permission. On the white strip of the windowsill, bathed in the soft light of the morning sun, he spots three origami shapes aligned next to each other in a triangular pattern. The one in the middle he recognizes immediately - a tiny red crane he had folded for Elise on a whim almost a month ago. Now, it was surrounded by another two, slightly larger ones, in black and green.
“Papa bought me some origami paper so I could practice while you were gone,” the girl comments, gripping the windowsill to pull herself up.
Feeling something warm spread across his chest, f*ckuzawa looks for the right words to express it. Praise had always been an elusive concept to him, earned through the sacrifice of what he loved most and never given out for free.
“You did well,” he says in the end, hesitantly pulling out his hand to pat her head like he’d seen Mori do before. Was it a show of affection reserved only for parents? Thinking back to his own childhood, he wouldn’t know.
“Will you read for me downstairs now?” Elise asks, looking up at him as he hides his hands back inside the sleeves of his yukata – that same pleading gaze she uses to sway him in every matter. In such moments, f*ckuzawa loathes to deny her.
“I have work to do, Elise-chan,” he responds nonetheless, glancing pensively at the garden, concealed like in a snow globe behind the tall bay window of her bedroom.
“Alright,” the girl concedes with evident disappointment. “I will finish my math homework then.” Crestfallen, she leans across her desk to grab some notebooks and a pencil case, then heads out of the room, gaze fixed upon the floor.
f*ckuzawa tries not to think of it too much; hides his hands further in the sleeves of his attire. The origami arrangement catches his eyes once again. Three delicate birds lined up next to each other in a triangular pattern.
"Elise-chan," he calls out, turning around.
The girl lingers in the doorway, expectant, golden curls falling effortlessly across her back, almost as if she walked out of the oil painting.
“First work, then I will read for you in the afternoon. Is that acceptable?”
Elise looks at him like she's considering it, fingers clutching at the cover of her notebook.
"Can we also have cake after lunch?" she says at last, voice full of renewed enthusiasm.
f*ckuzawas studies the bright blue abyss of her eyes from afar; reasons with himself, searching for the correct answer. Maybe there isn’t one because he's not supposed to be granting her any permissions in the first place. But Mori isn't around, and Elise looks at him like he's holding the key to every door she ever wanted open.
Fighting a warm, suffocating feeling of guilt beneath his ribs, he makes a decision.
"Alright. Cake after lunch it is."
