It’s so easy to be swept in the bright sunlight; from the dark corner of his world, the warmth of the yellows and the light-oranges caresses his hair and wraps him in a pleasant body-warmth that’s not his own.
He is here, present, and not all at once; the term sunlight fits him like a well-worn glove. He’s something of the surreal–bright, warm, soft, like anyone would imagine–and hides the calluses and the broken skin under the too-long sleeves and soft white socks and smiling yellow slippers. Energy, unassuming and brilliant; an ebullience that reaches the smallest of corners, effortless.
Occasionally when Ichimatsu is with him he forgets to look for the shadows under his feet; he finds himself searching for a horizon that stretches higher than he remembers. His brother’s light isn’t the sense of luminescence he finds comfort in: streets warm with a soft blue overlay, shadows stretching leisurely over nooks of a city he knows by heart.
Moonlight has a way of gently enveloping the whispers of the nightlife; hides away the pitter-patter of clumsy young feet from those that intend them harm and veils the moans of those who grieve.
Starlight is not sunlight; the light of the sun, in its radiance, reaches corners the night kindly hides away.
It’s just a different kind of warmth, he thinks.
In the pocket of his jersey he fingers the crumpled thousand-yen note, and remembers a lemon-flavored lollipop for the way home.