Stitches

Tomoe pieces it all together in clothes and clocks:

He had a jacket that he always wore when he wasn't in school. There was quality in its disrepair and at the time she still didn't know Kotetsu incredibly well, so she sort of rolled her eyes. So he wanted both to be a hero and he wanted to be stylish— Tomoe thought she knew why, and she gazed upon the jacket with a fond exasperation.

It was stretched in the shoulders and sleeves, but Kotetsu was a broad-shouldered boy and in any case he always bunched the sleeves into the crook of his elbows. There were a handful of rips along the back and sides that were sewn back together with big dark thread, into lines of x's that lent the thing a punkish, dark look. The little bits of metal were orange and black and gray in splotches.

It was very well taken care of: on a date once to the skating rink, Kotetsu shrugged it off with dignity if not exactly finesse. He asked Tomoe if she wanted a hotdog, and she asked for just a plain one, ketchup and nothing else. He gave her a look like she was the strangest girl on the planet, and then he draped the jacket over the back of his chair. For a few minutes, Tomoe was on a date with Kotetsu's worn, punkish, well-loved jacket.

He came back with one plain hotdog, ketchup only, and one hotdog that had everything but the kitchen sink on it. They ate, they chatted, they skated for a long time. There was a whole-rink game and Tomoe got out early. Kotetsu offered to purposefully fail the next round for her.

"Noble," she said teasingly, "but I would be much more impressed if you won me the prize!" And she pointed to the prize on the DJ's podium: a cute little backpack shaped like a tiger. "I'll be your fan forever!"

She hadn't meant forever— or maybe, being a smitten teenager on a date with the boy who wanted to be a hero and who had saved her life once already, she had— but the point is that Kotetsu took this matter as seriously as making sure he caught HeroTV every night. He shrugged off his jacket and handed it to her. He said, "Please take care of it."

And Tomoe did. She sat on a bench outside the rink to watch her hero-boy do incredible laps around the rink, and she threaded her arms through the sleeves of his favorite jacket. She dipped her chin into the thick woolen collar, gently brushed her fingers against the navy blue cotton. She expected it to smell like cologne because she read about that sometimes in books, but instead she got a whiff of earth and muted oil. Not bad, but not incredibly romantic.

Kotetsu ended up in 2nd place by the end of it all. Aware only after that it was a bit cruel, she said, "I suppose I can't be your fan forever now!"

He walked her home in a very bad mood but didn't ask for his jacket until they got to her doorstep. Tomoe asked him where he bought it. He looked at her blankly for a moment before frowning. He said, "I didn't."

"So it was a gift?"

"Sort of. It was my dad's."

"Oh! You mean he's-"

"What? Oh, no! No, he just bought a new one!"

—and here Tomoe was thinking he was a very stylish guy this whole time. Now she discovered he was just a dork with a purely accidental and mostly unconscious propensity for coolness. She felt very good about handing the jacket back and also a lot more comfortable kissing him. She thinks he believed her explanation that it was a consolation prize for second place.

About three years later, his father really did die, and strangely enough, the jacket fell beyond salvation in a short following. It was really quite awful, but Kotetsu was— is —an incredibly strong person— in more ways than one —so he accepted her offer to go shopping after two weeks of him shivering in the early winter winds. The new jacket was rather unremarkable.

Kotetsu has more shoes than Tomoe does, and that's saying quite a lot. Now, she likes clothes and fashion just as much as the next girl, but she'd never been incredibly enthused by shoes. Trying on shoes is one hundred times more tedious than trying on clothes, mostly because of all those pesky salespeople and how similar each shoe looks to another. Rather, it was Kotetsu who taught Tomoe to appreciate a cool pair of shoes, but to this day she flatly refuses high-heels.

Kotetsu has incredible shoes. His shoes steal the show. Every pair is very different. There's no way he got them at a department store, she once accused, and he laughed and admitted that he got a lot of them from thrift stores. Thrift stores! Yes, thrift stores, and the trick is to take care of your shoes as much as you would take care of jewelry.

Tomoe liked watching Kotetsu polish his shoes, but he never does it at the hospital. It's a pity. She liked the way his face would stop looking so goofy for once and how he would sit in his 'bad pants' on the kitchen floor. Underneath the dirty light of a fixture she swore to change— what were the previous owners thinking, installing that monstrosity, honestly —he would set his shoes on this little box he had especially for the task. He had many different rags and jars and brushes and tools that she didn't know all the purposes for and never bothered to ask. She felt she didn't need to ask because he picked up her slack and then some in the knowledge of proper shoe-care.

He worked quietly, shoe by shoe, pair by pair, as she would watch while absent-mindedly drying off the dishes from dinner. There was this particular pair he had that she always was fascinated by: it was a very deep, shining black on the outside, polished grandly very often, but on the insides of the shoe and on the sole, hardly ever visible, was a wild, rich-colored paisley pattern. When he wore them out to serious parties, they looked quite respectable, except for that point she always waited for when he would lean too far one way— reaching over tureens and servers for a pastry at the back of the display, no doubt —and his pants would ride up and his ankle would lean away. The opening would widen and a strip of that paisley would show itself. It was like a strip-tease.

Unfortunately those shoes gave up the ghost after ten years of said fancy parties. There just came a time when nothing Kotetsu did would repair them, and so now they rest in a little shoe-heaven— a shelf in their hall closet where only good shoes go, wrapped in boxes like coffins, waiting for, well, something. Waiting for Kotetsu and Tomoe to lose their fond memories. For there to be no more room in the closet. For some mad genius to come up with new shoe-repairing technology. Also in their little shoe-heaven are Kaede's first tiny little pink shoes, and Tomoe's late mother's favorite high heels, and also Kotetsu's late father's heavy work-boots.

Kotetsu taught Tomoe this love of shoes by being a damn sexy man with very sexy shoes, even if, like his coolness, his sexiness is nothing more than accident and coincidence. And of course there was that one date when they were in their twenties to the grand opening of some mall in the neighboring city of Sternbild that she always remembers fondly.

"I thought you said you didn't get your shoes in normal stores," she said.

"I usually don't, but it doesn't hurt to look. Come on, you need shoes for the dress you got, right?"

It didn't take long for perusing the designer shoe store to get very, very boring. She slumped into a red-cushioned chair and huffed at him. He pouted. Didn't she want the proper shoes to go with that dress? She challenged him then, too: "You're the expert. Find them for me. If you do, you've won me over and I'll have no choice but to be a fan of your prowess."

What kind of prowess she was intentionally vague on, and she thinks he enjoyed that. They exchanged somewhat naughty smiles and he started pulling box after box, examining and shoving back. He moved along and along until she didn't see him any longer amongst the shelves. She had no qualms about lovingly and lightly making fun of him in a text to her friends. He came back with three boxes of wild shoes that she wasn't so sure she could pull off.

The first pair he took out of the box, held up to her— not offering to her, just comparing to her —and he shook his head and tossed it aside. The second pair he went so far as to slip her toes in— without, she might add, even considering that she might want to put on her own shoe, thanks very much. Then he seemed to find them wrong, all wrong, and he tossed them aside too. The third and final pair he held up, then slipped her toes in. Then he checked the straps of the sandal against her bare foot, rough fingers probing gently at tender skin. With his fingertips he followed the curve of her, up to cup her ankle, at which point he changed his kneel and rested her heel to his knee. She smiled, hoping it came out as indulgent and not quite like— well. She was a little breathless by the time he took the ribbons and wound them, ever so slowly, around her ankle, up and up, skating, caressing, whispering against the smooth skin of her leg. He got them up so far and then, genteely, he tugged the edge of her skirt up and up in one hand, until the hem rested on her thighs, pooling in the v of her lap. He tied the ribbons into big bows just beneath her knee, fingers dancing in the sensitive area behind.

They were wild and she was blushing and he looked up at her and smirked. His hands skated back down, retracing his path, coming to settle his large palm against the top of her foot, warming her and brushing against the flesh at the base of her toes.

"Do you like them?"

"Yes," she admitted quite breathlessly. And that's how she trapped herself into being Kotetsu's fan.

Of course, it would have happened anyway.

Now, about the clocks— well, quite aside from the gratuitous and somewhat eerie countdown that echoes in her head ever since she remembered that date at the skating rink in which the DJ called each race's beginning with a "10! 9! 8! —"

There was this one moment in their lives where they were using the Kaburagi liquor van to transport a clock— a clock, yes, a clock— a very old clock. They were taking it and a few duct-taped boxes over to Tomoe's sister's house. See, it had belonged to Tomoe's mother, who was actually not a spring-chicken when Tomoe was born. Her mother had been a decade and a half too young to die in Tomoe's opinion, but on the other hand, her father, who owned the clock in tandem with her mother— well her father was even older than her mother and he died at a good age. Convoluted though the whole explanation to a rather clueless Kotetsu was, the point is that Tomoe's mother had loved that clock, and Tomoe's father had loved his wife and so had also loved the clock. And when both of them died, the family couldn't bare to see the clock go, so Tomoe's sister said that she would take the clock for herself. But the clock was far too big for any of their cars and so it was Tomoe who had said, "Don't worry. I'll convince my boyfriend to pick it up for you."

That was the story, in a few words too many. So there they were, Kotetsu convinced— that wasn't hard —and Tomoe in the passenger seat, and the clock in the back just tick-tocking away. What Tomoe had not anticipated, however, was the icy silence between herself and Kotetsu, and just how horrifically annoying the clock was. It was a rather stupid situation in which Tomoe had gotten subconsciously comfortable with the fact that a few sharp words would not end their relationship and in which Kotetsu was nearing the age of twenty-four and had yet to fulfill his dreams or find an education or even move out of his mother's house. Despite their argument, Kotetsu had shown up— albeit late —and fulfilled his promise to help her family move "the goddamn clock", as he snappishly called it.

It was important even then, the tick-tock of the clock. Kotetsu was still there, still with her technically— but they did not speak and the clock went tick-tock, tick-tock. Kotetsu gripped the steering wheel in anger until his knuckles shone. Neither of them were ever particularly poetic, but both of them were thinking the same thing: tick-tock, tick-tock. The clock went on, and time with it, and yet here they were: in a relationship since high school, nearly eight years on, and there were no talks of anything more. Tomoe was still cutting hair and waiting for the big break Kotetsu always talked about. Kotetsu was still as he was, still strong and noble but really fairly useless, for lack of better word. Oh, their love was there; but love by itself, they learned, was nothing to a tick-tocking clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Love without progress brought them no happiness.

As it turned out, they were quite late in delivering the goddamn clock, because Kotetsu's big break finally came.

"Hey Tomoe," Kotetsu murmured into the grumpy silence. His voice was both gentle and rough— a tiger's purr. "I'm gonna pull over."

And she could've snapped a why or a no or reminded him that her sister was expecting them— except she looked to where he had looked moments before and saw a car broken down on the side of the road, and they understood each other instantly. And oh, she loved him. She loved him so much. She reminded him of that with an apologetic smile as he pulled to the shoulder behind the poor stranded motorist. He grinned back and hopped out of the van. She took the wheel in his wake.

The man in the car and Kotetsu exchanged words. Kotetsu came back to the rolled-down window. "Hey, Tomoe— the nearest gas station— how far is it?"

"Five minutes away, I'd think."

Kotetsu grinned even wider. "Well it's just gonna have to be, eh?"

The motorist stepped back into his car at Kotetsu's signal, looking rather bewildered. Kotetsu stepped behind the man's car, gave them a thumbs up, and hunkered down. One flash of blue and a few turn signals later, one made manually of the hand of the driver, Tomoe followed the car at a brisk highway pace of 60 miles per hour. One minute remaining, they sped to 70 mph, but the day was blissfully trooper-free, and amongst the howl of the wind and the man's either thrilled or terrified screaming coming back to her, they pulled smoothly into the Love's gas station amongst stunned, wide-eyed truckers.

Tomoe remembers most clearly of that day the image of Kotetsu, bashfully gleeful, having his entire arm shaken by the incredibly enthused driver. She saw this through the window of the minute market as she stood in line to purchase a few snacks and some drinks for the road. And, without hearing their words, she saw Kotetsu's face go slack and wondering, and then Kotetsu clutched at the man right back. Tomoe glanced above the counter as the clerk checked her out. It was something different to have the choice of acknowledging that time had passed instead of being reminded quite so insistently, and Tomoe felt the frost melt.

When Tomoe stepped out of the minute market, the driver was on his cellphone and Kotetsu rushed forward, swinging her up into his arms and all around in tight circles.

"He really liked me, Tomoe!" Kotetsu had been yelling. "He really liked me and he thought I was impressive and Tomoe, he's going to talk to his boss and everything—"

The man's name turned out to be Ben, and he really did call his boss. Kotetsu and Tomoe left for the road again with a business card each. She remembers saying, "If you get that job as a hero... I will marry you." They nearly crashed because Kotetsu had taken his eyes off the road to stare at her in wonder. He then wiped his eyes and grinned at the road the rest of the trip.

So, yes. Clocks. It reminds her of the clock now ticking in her hospital room that means something entirely different than it ever has before. Or, it does when she's alone. Right now, at this moment, it means that visiting time is over.

"Kotetsu," she calls softly, shaking his shoulder gently. "Kotetsu, the nurse will be by to kick you out any minute."

Kotetsu raises his tired head from the edge of her bed and blinks away the sleep. "Sorry... I fell asleep..."

"It's fine," she says, and she admires the smoothness of his button-up as it pulls across his strong muscles when he stretches out to wake.

He leans in for one more hug and she sets her cheek to his hair, her hands to his back. He encircles her, envelops her, doesn't let go— a physical gesture to mirror how utterly he's taken her over —and she is fine with that, leaning weakly into his strength, running her hands over the silk of his finest vest. When he sits back, she reaches up and straightens his tie for him, picks up his hat, squishes it onto his head for him. He smiles, warm and loving and just a tad bit grim. As always, he waits until the nurse comes by and he has no other choice but to leave.

There was also a ticking clock when she was waiting for him to come home from the interview. Not just any interview. The final interview. The interview.

She didn't feel like cleaning the dishes or sweeping the floor or cooking some great dinner. No candles were lit, no music played. Because what if. If if if. If he didn't get the job— if after all this he still—

She fingered the little box in her pocket and hoped she would not have to return it.

He stepped into her apartment solemnly at exactly eight twelve, she remembers. He looked very nice in suit and tie— she'd said so that morning as she lovingly fingered his lapels, not used to seeing him so formally. They had always been so casual, even in their relationship, that this was something new. This was a change.

That he did not remove his suit jacket upon entering said a lot to her. She felt her heart climb bravely to the precipice of their lover's bluff. They said nothing but looked at each other, trying to find truths in each other's eyes.

And then he stopped looking so solemn and instead he grinned in that cheeky way of his and said, "Wild Tiger!" And just by his excitement she knew that their dreams had come true, would continue to come true— their promises and their futures and all of a sudden she was in his arms and he in hers. Her heart leapt off that cliff and enjoyed the free fall.

They weren't exactly graceful in their celebratory embrace— not like in movies and commercials. No, in fact, they ended up breaking the goddamn clock that had been tormenting her for hours and then they broke a mirror but you know, that's a bullshit superstition anyway because the following seven years were the best of her life. More regrettably, they also broke a very nice vase that had been a housewarming gift from her best friend, but never mind that—

Oh. Why so clumsy? Well. They had also been making out rather passionately and they were pretty much blindly throwing off clothes, and—

Anyway.

It was with great effort that she tore herself away and dropped to one knee, never mind her blasted skirt riding up because he'd be seeing more of that very soon. He looked down at her blankly, probably because she had before then absolutely refused to administer anything even close to a blow job on her knees, so that couldn't be why she was down now. Then she pulled out the ring— "My promise. Kotetsu, will you marry me?" —and he sort of threw a loud, pouty, childish, but ultimately goodnatured fit. Something about how he was the one that was supposed to do that and how he was going to be ridiculed forever and that she'd totally ruined his surprise.

She had just given him a look. The look.

By way of explanation and supplication he fell also to his knees and took out his own little box with it's own little ring. "See, I remembered you said—"

"This is awesome."

"I know!"

"So we don't have to go out and buy the secondary rings, then—"

"Well no, but we won't match..."

"Who cares, this is hilarious and awesome."

"Wait, so does this mean yes?"

"What do you think it means?"

"Yes."

"Good. Yes."

Understandably, sex was put on hold for a lot of hugging and rolling around on the carpet and laughing.

...but not indefinitely, of course.

She let him bare her first for once, but then there was an awkward moment that they both laughed through where he decided to pause to hang up his suit because really, it was a very, very nice suit— and probably because she called it 'sexy' on him. "Give me the tie," she said, and he did. And whatever she told him to do for the rest of the night, he obeyed without question, including laying on his back on the bed and holding still while she took the broad silk and knotted it behind his eyes. He touched when she said touch, holding his hands out blindly, asking them to be filled and she filled them.

And as much as she liked his clothes, she also liked him like this: bare and willing and happy to be with her, and tanned and muscled and defined. She took it slowly, raising and lowering herself. He did not protest, mouth hanging open and body hanging on her every whim and command. When she went up, so did her hands, across strong abs and pecs and to broad, strong shoulders; when she went down, so did her hands, across defined pecs and abs and to straight hips. He was lovely and she told him so.

When finally he begged, she leaned forward and gave him her mouth, and he wrapped his arms about her waist as steady as steel. He thrust up and up, taking her work away. She kissed his lips, his jaw, and then up where his brows met the blindfold, and he came with a soft moan. At this she finally took mercy and freed his eyes. They shone and crinkled into a smile in the half-dark of the room, and then he rolled them over and worshipped her until her end, too.

He's been rather fond of ties ever since, she notes.

She has a shirt of his with her in the hospital, actually. It's old and one of his favorites, and he let her have it because it smells like him. He started using cologne as he got older. It is quite romantic.

She remembers these things while curling her shaking, pale body to his shirt, and many more, while the clock steadily tick-tocks away and she is unable to sleep for her pain. She gets this way when she is alone with the clock. More, more— she wants to remember it all, cherish it all. She wants to gather up every bit of him and her and thread it together, as if just with memories she could make a cloak that would gather about her and comfort her and hide her from Death.

In socks and a hospital gown, with that motherfucking clock just ticking and tocking and counting, and the echoes of the DJ in her memories calling "10! 9! 8! 7! 6!—" she wants to remember his long legs that he really had to grow into with time, and she wants to remember his bracelet, the little beaded bracelet that was made by— oh, Kaede. Kaede (tick). Kaede (tock). She wants to remember Kaede, how Tomoe and Kotetsu went through the isles at the baby stores, looking at teensy little jumpers and suits and the tiniest socks known to man, wondering if it was a little girl or little boy. She wants to remember the day after they found out it was a girl and the adorable little dress Kotetsu came back from work with.

His hat. His hat. She wants to remember—

"10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! —"

—she wants to remember the local fairs they used to go to, those towering piles of wares, of foods and furniture, the furniture they used to decorate their home. The racks of clothes where Kotetsu found his hats— tried to find the right style— trying on, hat after hat—

—wants to remember the time, that dare, remember, when they switched clothes for the day—

—his watch, damn his watch, it goes tick tick tick and that makes it seem even faster than if it had a tock—

She thinks there's no way she can sleep with the ticking of this damn clock, but she wakes in the morning anyway. When she does she is not alone, and she doesn't feel quite so bad.

She props up and winds his shirt round and round her hands. The nurse who takes away her food smiles sweetly. She is a young thing with a beautiful engagement ring on her finger. Tomoe stops her with her own smile and the nurse listens as she says, "You know what's important in marriage? That you think he's cool, and he thinks you're cool."

"Cool, Mrs. Kaburagi?" the nurse chuckles.

"Yeah, cool."

The nurse indulges her and bows out of the room without another word. Tomoe clicks the television over to a live showing of HeroTV and wonders if Wild Tiger knows his biggest fan is watching.

She imagines that Kotetsu must be tired after a day of saving the lives of complete strangers, but he is a hardworking man and it doesn't bother him much. He stops by home and relieves his mother of babysitting duty and brings Kaede up to the room. Kaede hugs Tomoe and then spends the rest of the visit asking for candy from the vending machines and wanting to play and watching TV.

Kotetsu looks a little sad.

"Hey," she whispers.

Kotetsu raises his head and braves a smile for her. She grins back and steals his cap right off his head. Twists it down over her own. He grins a little wider.

"Chin up, hero."

He gets out his phone and they take a picture. Gotta do something to make it last. Because Kotetsu will still be here; he's not going anywhere, not like her. She has to leave him behind. She has to beat the clocks now, stitch their life together, as if merely with memories she can weave a coat for the long journey arm in arm with Death. She tilts her head and kisses her husband's cheek and she knows that if she can take all of the moments she loved him most and put them all together, she has nothing to fear.

.

.

.

Thanks for reading!