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Sometimes Ryuuji wonders if Isa notices that Ryuuji notices him. He sees all too clearly those furtive looks as he bends over the microscope. Those brief touches of skin when Isa passes him documents, books, petri dishes sprouting flowers of poison. The flicker in his eyes behind thin red frames when Ryuuji says, Good morning, Isa! It’s not a friendly look, it’s something else, something other.
Every surreptitious glance is a snapshot, Dr Kawara frozen in sun and filed away in the strange, brilliant nest that is Isa’s mind. Each quick brush of the fingertips says I want to linger.
Maybe he’s reading too much into it.
Once Isa left his coat behind in a white heap, collapsed on the floor. Ryuuji, rather than returning it, lifted a skin cell from the cuff. He placed Isa’s cell on a slide, slipped it under the microscope. Blown up to one hundred times its original size, he sees life. He’s nurtured a love affair with science that began early, and in Isa’s skin he sees the incredible puzzle containing everything that matters in this world. The crush of the stratum corneum will soon flake from wind and age, and under the barrier lay a series of lipids and fibers like tiny ships, ready to sail away. It’s so present, so vital.
Isa’s so young, only nineteen. Once he’s writing out a paper and Ryuuji is supposed to be researching but he’s watching Isa instead. He has set his glasses off to write, a rarity. They glint slightly on the desk. Isa’s hair is the color of the earth, from whence all creatures spring. There’s a mole on the side of his neck where his hair is pulled away. His skin is crystalline, as perfect from afar as it was under the microscope. His tie is askew. Ryuuji wants to straighten Isa’s tie, striped like his own. He wants to run his fingers through Isa’s mysterious hair, touch the spaces between Isa’s slender fingers, kiss him right on the mole. Isa’s been writing a while, and Ryuuji’s just staring at the back and forth flow of Isa’s right hand when Isa’s fingers begin to tremble, a tiny shake that turns into a shudder. The pen falls from his pale hand. Ink rolls across the desk. In an instant the earthquake is over, and Dr Kawara is there.
Isa’s face is turned up to him; Ryuuji can’t read his expression. Ryuuji touches the inside of Isa’s wrist, strokes a few times over the blue veins. He rotates his wrist upward, closes around the small bones. Isa’s skin is translucent, his veins stark blue like tributaries of some underground river. Ryuuji rests his fingers at that soft heat. There is a pulse. Isa says nothing.
The drip of ink is almost silent as it falls from the table.
Ryuuji wants to speak, wants to say any stupid jokey thing to break the silence. Instead he just swallows. A beat sounds, in his head. But then, he can’t stop himself. He traces over the mole with his mouth, kisses Isa once, then breaks away. Then what does he say? “Isa. You look tired. You should rest.” How pathetic. What he really wants to say is: Isa. You put nature to shame. You’re so beautiful. Don’t ever go. Isa. Isa. I think I’m in love with you. What does he do? He swallows. Utters a nervous laugh. Runs a hand through his own hair. Shakes his head. Ushers Isa towards the door. I want to do so much more. I am a ruined man. You have ruined me. Isa, don’t go. Please don’t leave me. I love you, Isa. Some things are best left unsaid.