Absence is temporary yet it spreads doubts like dandelion seeds in the wind; the greater the distance, the bigger the uncertainty and, Miyuki thinks, gaze toward the vastness of the night above, distance measured in light falls on an entirely different scale. Questions are left unanswered as time stretches by and sleepless nights become a steady routine.
The winter sky considers him in silence, the milky way a smudged stain to his right, its smooth line severed by the shredded silhouette of the mountains. The sky is clear with too many stars to count and it's a shame he's become immune to the beauty of the scenery. Habit does that sometimes.
Miyuki puffs out a breath of cold air. Chris is somewhere floating in the immensity up there, has been for the last three years. Will be for another two.
He stares at his feet, buried ankle deep into the light coat of snow covering the ground. Chris had said once that gravity exists between living beings. Its influence is so little it's practically unnoticeable but in theory, it's still there. The further away two people are, the lesser its effect.
It must still be there somehow, even with the thousands of miles between them. How else could he explain the longing that lingers under his skin after all this time? Maybe it's a tiny invisible filament wrapped around his heart, stretched to infinity and reaching Chris wherever he is, an unbreakable link acting like a bittersweet reminder for the both of them.
Miyuki scoffs to himself, turning around and heading back toward the base. Maybe he's just being delusional, too.
It's true what they say. Worst than a heartache is when you think you're not entitled to it.
Kuramochi is there when he comes back, which isn't that surprising in itself. He doesn't even comment on the late hour, instead hands him a small package, wrapped in a grey opaque wrapping paper that crinkles when he holds it.
"What's that?"
The object weights heavy in his hand. It's cylindrical, the surface smooth under the wrapping paper. He can feel small concavities beneath his fingers. Metal?
Kuramochi shrugs. "Beats me. I'd open it if I were you, though," he adds, pointing at the object with his chin, "look who sent it."
Miyuki's eyes grow wide. Chris? There is no mistaking the name of the sender on the label. But how? "Is this a joke?"
"He probably had someone at the station holding onto it until now," Kuramochi says. He tries to look detached, but Miyuki can tell curiosity is eating him away.
"Okay. I'll..." He swallows. "I'll go ahead and open it, then."
Kuramochi squeezes his shoulder and leaves the room with a nod.
Miyuki takes a deep breath and rips the paper in one movement. He puts his hand to his mouth, repressing a small laughter.
It's a telescope, one of the most recent models. Its advanced technology compensates for his size, Miyuki remembers Chris telling him about it when it was still being developed. He shifts it around in his hand, careful and amazed at the same time.
A note falls to the ground when he points the telescope to the window.
Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?
He chuckles, feeling inexplicably giddy. Chris is just as far away as before, yet he somehow feels a little closer.
FILL: TEAM MIYUKI KAZUYA/SAWAMURA EIJUN, G
Absence is temporary yet it spreads doubts like dandelion seeds in the wind; the greater the distance, the bigger the uncertainty and, Miyuki thinks, gaze toward the vastness of the night above, distance measured in light falls on an entirely different scale. Questions are left unanswered as time stretches by and sleepless nights become a steady routine.
The winter sky considers him in silence, the milky way a smudged stain to his right, its smooth line severed by the shredded silhouette of the mountains. The sky is clear with too many stars to count and it's a shame he's become immune to the beauty of the scenery. Habit does that sometimes.
Miyuki puffs out a breath of cold air. Chris is somewhere floating in the immensity up there, has been for the last three years. Will be for another two.
He stares at his feet, buried ankle deep into the light coat of snow covering the ground. Chris had said once that gravity exists between living beings. Its influence is so little it's practically unnoticeable but in theory, it's still there. The further away two people are, the lesser its effect.
It must still be there somehow, even with the thousands of miles between them. How else could he explain the longing that lingers under his skin after all this time? Maybe it's a tiny invisible filament wrapped around his heart, stretched to infinity and reaching Chris wherever he is, an unbreakable link acting like a bittersweet reminder for the both of them.
Miyuki scoffs to himself, turning around and heading back toward the base. Maybe he's just being delusional, too.
It's true what they say. Worst than a heartache is when you think you're not entitled to it.
Kuramochi is there when he comes back, which isn't that surprising in itself. He doesn't even comment on the late hour, instead hands him a small package, wrapped in a grey opaque wrapping paper that crinkles when he holds it.
"What's that?"
The object weights heavy in his hand. It's cylindrical, the surface smooth under the wrapping paper. He can feel small concavities beneath his fingers. Metal?
Kuramochi shrugs. "Beats me. I'd open it if I were you, though," he adds, pointing at the object with his chin, "look who sent it."
Miyuki's eyes grow wide. Chris? There is no mistaking the name of the sender on the label. But how? "Is this a joke?"
"He probably had someone at the station holding onto it until now," Kuramochi says. He tries to look detached, but Miyuki can tell curiosity is eating him away.
"Okay. I'll..." He swallows. "I'll go ahead and open it, then."
Kuramochi squeezes his shoulder and leaves the room with a nod.
Miyuki takes a deep breath and rips the paper in one movement. He puts his hand to his mouth, repressing a small laughter.
It's a telescope, one of the most recent models. Its advanced technology compensates for his size, Miyuki remembers Chris telling him about it when it was still being developed. He shifts it around in his hand, careful and amazed at the same time.
A note falls to the ground when he points the telescope to the window.
Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?
He chuckles, feeling inexplicably giddy. Chris is just as far away as before, yet he somehow feels a little closer.