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They arrive in Tokyo sweaty and exhausted. The flight had been delayed and Eddy had taken forever to find his passport as they stood in immigration in Haneda; Brett had watched him with little anxiety until they were standing in second-in-line and the lady in front argued passionately with border control over something neither could understand. No passport. Not until the very last moment they both remembered Brett had stuffed both of theirs into his satchel.
They had been through this rodeo before. No matter, now. They’re here.
Cicadas warble passionately as they exit the hotel, after quick showers. It’ll be washed away soon enough by late June humidity, but Brett will savor the freshness of the citrus shampoo for as long as he could.
This sidetracking had been Eddy’s idea. They planned (well, Brett planned) a few days off between their concerts in Tokyo and Osaka, and he wanted to see all the places he hadn’t yet. The ones they hadn’t, together.
“You’re such a weeb,” Brett tells him, and Eddy just laughs—in that embarrassed, knowing way, the kind of laugh Brett’s heard a million times and remains indelibly fond of. They’ve been to Shibuya Crossing a hundred thousand times before, and Akihabara, and all of those temples Brett’s already starting to forget the names of. It’s slightly more interesting than traipsing around the glitzy stores of Roppongi and Ginza again, anyhow. He can get nice clothes elsewhere.
They get lost on the way to Suga Shrine, where there’s already too many tourists milling around angling to get the best picture of the skyline behind iconic red rails. Eddy adds himself to the mix, and though Brett protests he takes position anyway, allowing a British tourist to snap a photo of them. Eddy’s mouth is open wide, and Brett looks cross-eyed, and it’s perfect. Brett considers posting it on Instagram, but saves a copy to his drafts instead.
He thinks about how nothing would change if they’d switched bodies now—he knows Eddy too well, and Eddy him, and they’d probably be able to slip into each others’ lives mostly unnoticed. There would be no drama to a film like this, save the inevitable teasing about how Eddy couldn’t reach high places anymore and Brett’s development of a visceral hatred of mushrooms. They would keep filming silly videos and get used to how their instruments sat differently beneath their fingers and shoulders and have their backs hurt the same once every audience member has dispersed from the concerts they’d still hold. They’d want badly to switch back, of course, but if they were cursed forever maybe Eddy is the one person Brett would maybe be okay with this happening.
It’s an alarming thought. Eddy yawns at him behind a snowcone, a smear of pink syrup on his nose, and Brett pushes that thought to the very back of his mind.
Sota-san had told Eddy, who told Brett, about that one korokke stall. Predictably, they get swallowed up by the crowd before they get there. It’s not his fault he can’t navigate through the suffocating throng of people between the giant red gates and giant red temple. Eddy’s taller, and he says something about Tanjiro as they squeeze through a large tour group, but Brett smells the korokke before Eddy can drift away into the yawning, never-ending wave.
“You can have it, it’s the last one.”
Eddy makes a face, even if Brett can see he’s salivating. “Really? Nah, we can share.”
The korokke is piping hot in his hands, almost as hot as the summer sun above their heads. Brett watches Eddy bite - crunch - into the crisp pastry and lean away, his lips oily and shiny and eminently kissable. Brett doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that—he’s hungry and he wants the rest of the korokke. Focus.
“It’s good,” Eddy says, fanning his mouth. “Ouch, hot— you should try it.”
Eddy says, “Can we get out of the city?” the next day, after an arduous journey of crawling out of bed from the hangover from last night. Sumina had dropped by in the middle of her family trip and brought them to an izakaya deep inside an alleyway with twinkling yellow lights strung up all around. Brett barely remembers what the furnishings look like anymore, much less what its name is.
Smoke and chicken skewers and apple-flavored sake swirled in his mind, and Eddy, his hand slapping the small of Brett’s back as he hunched over the tiny chair in laughter at some joke Brett had blithely popped out in his alcoholic stupor. It's the only thing clearer than the smell of charcoal still lingering as he turns around.
And so Brett says, sure, where do you want to go?
“Do you remember Slam Dunk?”
Of course Brett remembers. Eddy used to watch religiously, pulling Brett in front of the TV to watch episodes instead of practicing, cheering when Shohoku won. Brett doesn’t really remember the characters, just a vague memory of hotheaded summers and sweaty highschoolers who looked like they were thirty. Just like we are now, Eddy jokes, and Brett imagines another white hair forming atop his head.
Eddy’s favorite was Kaede. He was broody and popular with girls and didn’t care about anything other than basketball, and sometimes he reminded Eddy of Brett. He says this fondly, as if daring Brett to shake his head and change the subject, which he always does.
“There’s this spot in the opening—it’s outside Tokyo, but I think… I think I’ve figured out the transfers. Look,” Eddy shoves his phone in Brett’s face, and he sees blue. Blue sky, bluer sea. A dark green train hugging the shoreline, schoolchildren waiting patiently behind the crossing. Picture-perfect.
“I’m up for that,” Brett says. Eddy’s eyes crinkle genially and he thinks oh, I’ve made a mistake.
The train is tiny. A fair bit of passengers squeeze into the doors, though not enough to be suffocating. Eddy’s seashell bracelet - he’d bought it in a stall in Fujisawa on a whim, because it was cute and inexpensive and because they’re going to the beach - brushes against Brett’s wrist, a whisper of the sea. “It itches,” Brett says, but he doesn’t pull away.
When the doors close the train starts meandering through a narrow narrow track that winds tightly through the neighborhoods, not a few meters from the apartments and houses and trees whose branches brush by the top of the cars every so often. So close, in fact, that were Brett to open a window he’s sure to feel each roof-tile warm beneath his fingers. Eddy’s face is pressed to the window—his eyes on the pedestrian crossings and parking lots and the glimpses of blue in gaps between houses. Brett points out a tabby cat sleeping on a rooftop, and he holds up his phone.
And Brett looks at Eddy through the screen, continuously exhilarated at the sight of small things, and he feels his heart swell like the waves just beyond reach.
They walk across the long white bridge to Enoshima, the early afternoon sun bearing hard down on their heads. Brett had thought to bring hats, though they did little to combat the heat. Eddy buys chocolate soft-serve at the foot of the long stairs, and Brett groans as feels it drip onto his arm. A busker is playing a horrible off-tune rendition of Csardas in the background, just so.
“Don’t lick it,” he warns, and Eddy just rolls his eyes fondly. The foliage above shields them for a while as they sit on some stumps, already sore from the brief climb. “You going up top?”
Eddy takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “I kinda want to see the shrine.”
They’ve seen a hundred shrines already, on all of their trips combined. They’d seen a thousand more in all the anime they’ve watched together and the j-dramas Eddy cried over during his brief foray into them in college. Brett looks up past the steps and the forest and the glimmer of blue behind the leaves.
He says, “Yeah, I wanna get out of the sun too.”
“Look!”
It’s the same as in Eddy’s photo, just more people. The sea breeze is sticky on his skin, and Eddy’s hand is sticky on his shoulder.
“I’m thirsty,” Brett complains half-seriously, his mouth dry from the salt air and the way seawater lingers on Eddy’s arms, crystallized in the sun. The crowd jostles around the steps and they almost miss the next train rolling into station. He looks up and Eddy’s eyes have gone a bit dreamy, the way they do when he’s Thinking with a capital T. He’s thinking about the way the sky meets the sea, or the way the train moves across his vision just like in the opening song when Sakuragi waits to cross. Looking forward to a new day and new adventures. Or something. “Eddy?”
“It’s nothing,” Eddy says, which means a conversation for later, when they’re eating in one of the dozen tiny ramen joints in the alleyways or after they’ve showered and watching a game show on the hotel TV Brett can understand perhaps 30% of. He grins and points at the vending machine next to the bike rental sign. “There’s your drink, hey. I'll get you a Pocari.”
Brett likes the beach. He likes the warmth of the seawater and the way the waves wash over his feet. He likes observing creatures scuttle about in tidepools and picking up shells and smooth, colorful stones. He likes being outside, alive, feeling everything around him. He doesn’t like almost having to scrub off his skin to feel clean again when he gets out of the water, but well, that’s for future him to worry about.
Eddy likes looking into the horizon. It’s very dramatic, but considering what they do for a living a little drama is necessary, maybe. The sun crawls bit by bit over their heads and Eddy sits on the boulder he’s found, until most of the other tourists have moved on to the next stop and they’re alone on the sunset-colored sand. Were he twenty again Brett would be tirelessly chasing the crabs crawling across wet sand into their little holes, but he just sits with Eddy and takes in the warm wind on his face, mussing up his hair.
Eddy’s humming along with it, and Brett thinks about how after today they’ll be back on the road again, in concert halls and arenas and glittering lights. For a moment the waves seem to swell up only to whoosh gently past the rock, spotting their pants with dark splotches of seafoam. The saltwater stings his eyes, just a little.
“Remember the photoshoot we did?” Brett says, moving closer. “La Mer? Remember—”
“Oh my god, yeah, I couldn’t hear you and—”
“The wind was so loud—"
“Yeah, and you almost dropped the camera—”
“That’s wasn’t me, you knocked it over—”
A seagull shrieks overhead, going almost unnoticed in their laughter. The sun casts a golden glow across Eddy’s cheeks, and his brown eyes sparkle the same as they have time and time again when he turns to look at Brett, mouth half-open, his grin lopsided and lovely as he leans in.
And well, how could Brett say no to that.
Brett had caught the ending of some unknown anime once, in childhood, while waiting for Power Rangers to come on. The protagonist declared he would come back and wed his beloved after completing a long string of impossible tasks, and they kissed chastely on a sunset-laden beach. Alan had said ew, cooties and made him switch channels, and that was the end of it.
Eddy is asleep next to him, lulled abed by the quiet rumbling of the train. His hair tickles Brett’s neck, and his seashells tickle Brett's side, and he still smells like the ocean even if they’ve washed off before coming abroad. They both do.
“Brett?” Eddy says, sleepily, moving into his shoulder. He makes to reach over, but Brett presses his hand down gently. Nobody is watching them, all intent on their phones or newspapers. “I just remembered, did you ask about the extra mics, or should I…”
“I did,” Brett replies. “They’ll take care of it. We’re not there yet.”
“Okay,” Eddy murmurs. And then, ever so softly, “Thanks, you’re the best.”
The train heads north, leaving the coastline behind. Brett listens to the mechanical voice drone on: Yokohama, Yokohama, please alight for transfers…
He thinks about all of the trains they've been on, all the announcements in a dozen languages. Thinks about the rise and fall of Eddy’s chest, here on the train and there onstage in a hundred cities, locking eyes as they duet. All of these years later and Eddy has a memory for this place, and with him besides.
The lights of the city remain ahead, flickering to life as night settles in. A wave of buildings towering over them. They’re waiting, Brett thinks, sleepily too. Even now. Wait for us.