HONEKUJIRA

The first memory that Keitaro has is of Takatoshi peering over the fence, all thick brows over sharp eyes.

"Keitaro!" he cries, straining on what must be the tips of his toes to bring his chin above the edge, and this one action has always confirmed something for Keitaro—namely, that this is not their first meeting. It probably isn't their second, or their fifth, or even their thirtieth. By the way that Takatoshi beams at him with such familiarity, by the way that Keitaro already knows how tall he is relative to the fence around his childhood home, there must have been an unquantifiable amount of time that they had spent together before that moment. Yet for Keitaro, there was never a world without Takatoshi. One day, he simply found himself staring up at this seven-year-old boy with dirt smudged on his rounded cheeks and knew, with a knowing beyond knowing, that he was his best friend in the whole wide world.

"Hi, Takkun!" Keitaro grins back at him. "What are you doin' here?"

"Ain't it obvious? I wanted—" Takatoshi manages to hoist himself over the fence, and Keitaro chuckles as his friend tumbles roughly onto the barren dirt. He bounces back onto his feet, unbothered by the stains on his clothes, and continues— "to ask if you're comin' to the ball game! The Ashitaba Titans are goin' up against the Shibugaki Cranes today, y'know."

"That's today?" Keitaro squawks. Ashitaba has been buzzing with excitement over the upcoming showdown, their hometown heroes against the veritable terrors of the recently formed Japanese Baseball League, and Keitaro is no exception. He loves spectating the matches in the nearby field, loves listening to the play-by-plays of away games over the radio. "Well, what're we standin' around for? Let's go!"

"That's what I was waitin' to hear," Takatoshi declares, grinning, and he takes Keitaro by the hand.

This street is a labyrinth of houses inhabited by a mixture of classmates and grandmothers who will pinch their cheeks and offer them freshly made onigiri when they pass by, but Keitaro knows it like the back of his hand. He lets Takatoshi lead the way anyway, their hands tangled together. Familiar, too: the paradoxically calloused softness of the palms of a boy who sharpens fallen sticks and plays make-believe war.

"How's your grandpa been?" Keitaro asks. Shrii-shrii-shrii, chirp the crickets.

"Oh," Takatoshi says, and if he hesitates for a beat Keitaro pretends not to notice. "Gramps has gotten way better, actually! Turns out a few days of rest is a real help, not that my old man'd ever admit it. He started workin' on a new piece of furniture, soon as he got outta bed. Hang on, did I tell you about the argument he got into with Fuyutsuki-sensei?"

Keitaro hums a no, and Takatoshi delves into an entire spiel about how his grandfather nearly fought their elementary school teacher over a single piece of fruit. There's something about the way that Takatoshi tells stories, the excited motions of his hands and the thousand expressions dancing across his face, that has always been so engaging to Keitaro. if Takatoshi ever became an author—that is, if he ever acquired the patience to sit down for more than five minutes at a time and write—Keitaro would read every one of his novels.

"Oh, and worst part is?" Takatoshi is saying. "Gramps didn't even buy the fruit in the end! He told me it was all about 'a man's pride,' or somethin'."

"Sounds about right," Keitaro says. Takatoshi's grandfather is the type of man to never back down from something once he's put his mind to it. In fact: "You're a lot like him, Takkun."

"Hey!" Takatoshi whirls around, bringing the two of them to a stop. "C'mon, I'm not half as stubborn as he is."

"You're provin' my point!" Keitaro says, doubling over with laughter at the scowl on his friend's face.

"Gramps would sleep outside in the pouring rain to win an argument!"

"So would you!" Keitaro points out. He wouldn't be surprised if he already has.

"Geez," Takatoshi mutters, sighing to veil the silly grin tugging at his mouth. He marches onward, Keitaro trailing behind him. "How 'bout you, Keitaro? Any new stories 'bout your family, or anythin' else?"

"Hmm." Keitaro thinks for a moment. "I don't think so. Not anything half as interesting as your stories, anyway."

"C'mon, don't say that." Takatoshi, though focused on navigating the street before them, tugs on his hand. "You got plenty o' stuff rollin' around in that head o' yours. You just need to man up and say 'em aloud."

"If you say so," Keitaro says, skeptical.

"I know so," Takatoshi insists, as always. "I—Hey, look!"

As they round the corner, Ashitaba's baseball field comes into view. It's nothing nearly as grand as what Keitaro hears the Americans have in their home country, but the sight is always breathtaking regardless: players warming up on the wide-open field, the stands packed and spectators spilling onto the grass around them. Takatoshi pulls him out of his slack-jawed staring and drags him toward the shade of a nearby tree, the boughs decorated with leaves that sway in the cool breeze.