what is this, can i eat it

[igiko]

New fixtures and roads line the once familiar corner of town, making for a foreign sight as Celadon wanders down the street with wide eyes. His fingers curl into gentle fists and he purses his lips. He doesn’t have long before he must return to the hotel where his respected mother and father slumber on, oblivious to his absence.

The sun has barely risen into the sky. Celadon can count on one hand the number of cars he’s passed on his quest to find the church, and not a single pedestrian has yet to cross his path. He bows his head, then snaps to attention when the clickety clack of heels striking against cement close in on his direction.

“Ah, excuse me!”

Calling out, Celadon jogs over to the man in a hoodie rounding the corner. The man, whose gaze is glued to the ground, looks up and blinks.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Celadon starts, taking a moment to recover his breath, “but would you happen to know where the church is?”

He lifts his head. Their eyes meet, and Celadon’s breath catches when the man, with a curious stare, lifts a hand from the hoodie pocket to point in the direction from which he had come.

“It’s just down that road, to your right,” says the man.

“Oh, so I was close. Thank you.”

Celadon straightens and turns toward the indicated street. Before he takes off, he notices the man’s raised hand unfurl into an uncertain gesture. Blinking, he looks over his shoulder with a smile.

“I’m meeting someone.”

The man just stares in response, his lips parted as he studies Celadon’s face. He closes his mouth and goes his way, saying nothing. Celadon waves after him, then dashes off to the nearby church, where the door opens with a deafening creak as he shuffles his way inside.

He walks the aisle between the pews lining the hall, which seems empty. His expression brightens when he, at last, spots a head of green at the frontmost pew.

“Is that you, Eton?”

The boy sitting in the pew perks up at the call of his name. Within a matter of seconds, Celadon and Eton close the gap between them to embrace. Many years have passed since their last reunion, and they hold onto one another for another moment before separating.

“You made it,” says Eton, smiling sweetly.

“Yes. I was almost certain that I wouldn’t find this place before I ran out of time, but a kind stranger”—how strange, to call that man with startling red eyes thus—“pointed the direction out to me. I think he must have visited earlier.”

Touching his chin, Eton’s lips turn down in thought.

“You must have met Roland. He comes here every morning around this time.”

“Roland . . . ”

For some reason, the name doesn’t seem to suit the man Celadon met earlier. Whatever reason that may be, he finds himself hoping that he meets Roland again, if to repay the great favor that was done for him.

“How have you been?” asks Eton, smiling again.

It’s a loaded question, one that they both know bears a complicated answer. But Celadon returns his brother’s smile with his own, and they talk not about the fact that he’d had to sneak away from the watchful eyes of his protective parents. Instead, they sit side-by-side on Eton’s favored pew and exchange a couple stories from the years since their paths diverged.

But time is not on their side this morning, and Celadon soon bids Eton farewell.

“I have to go now, but I’ll be back to see you tomorrow. Since I know where to go now, we’ll have more time together. Please wait for me . . . ”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Celadon.”

Celadon’s heart swells from the fondness that Eton’s gaze holds. They give each other one last embrace for the day before Celadon rises from the pew.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

🎶
The next morning, Celadon rises earlier than the previous day. The commute by foot is thrice shorter as he powerwalks to his destination. He carefully lets himself inside, and he catches the tail-end of a conversation that abruptly stops at the sound of the door’s creaking.

Roland and Eton are seated together in the frontmost pew. They glance over their shoulders at him. Eton’s gaze is one of excitement; Roland’s, of reserved curiosity. Shutting the door behind him, Celadon nods sheepishly.

All but leaping over Roland to exit the pew, Eton rushes to Celadon for a hug.

“Celadon, this is Roland,” he says in lieu of a greeting, gesturing over to the man who’s still sitting in the pew. “I told him about you.”

With Eton by his side, Celadon approaches the pew in question to regard Roland with a grateful smile.

“Thank you again for your help yesterday. My name is Celadon.”

Their eyes meet, just like they did the day before, and something flickers in Roland’s. Surprising himself, Celadon swallows. He raises a hand to his chest. A strange emotion akin to anxiety wells in his heart, even though he has no reason to feel nervous around this man.

“I heard from Eton that you come here every day. Do you do so to pray?”

“Yeah,” says Roland, whose hands are clasped on his lap in a gesture of faith.

Behind Celadon, Eton pipes up, “Roland visits me, too.”

“Really? That makes me happy to hear. Are you two friends, then?” asks Celadon, blinking when Roland frowns slightly.

“I have to go.”

Celadon pauses, wondering if the question might have been too intrusive. His shoulders relax once Eton explains that Roland works at the coffee shop a block away, and that his shift is due to start any minute now. He waves at Roland’s retreating back.

“Let’s talk again tomorrow!”

The door closes between them, cutting off the clicks of Roland’s heels and casting a veil of sudden silence over the hall. Celadon turns to Eton, who wastes no time in asking questions.

“Before you left, you said you’ve been having dreams. What are they like?”

Celadon looks down at his feet. The dreams come to the forefront of his mind, so vivid yet elusive.

“They’re . . . It’s difficult to explain. They’re imaginative for sure—stories of sword and magic, sometimes even life and death, yet sometimes . . . they feel so real, even for dreams. Have you experienced anything like it?”

A brief silence settles between them when Eton answers thoughtfully, “I had a dream like that once.”

Celadon’s head snaps up.

“You did? What happened in it?”

“It was . . . hot, and hard to breathe. So I climbed out.” Eton stares off, then snaps back to focus. “I told Roland about it once. He said he has strange dreams, too.”

🎶
The next morning, Celadon inquires as to the dreams, only to be met with resistance.

“I’d rather not,” says Roland.

His tone brooks no argument. Stunned by the sharpness of the answer, Celadon draws back with a blink.

“May I ask why?”

“They’re just dreams. If I daydreamed about them all the time, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my work.”

Celadon’s face falls. As much as he would like to hear more about these strange dreams, Roland makes a reasonable argument. It would be impertinent to insist on prying, especially without any sort of guarantee that their idea of a strange dream is the same.

“Oh . . . I see.”

“Why do you want to know, anyway?” asks Roland.

“Well, I’ve been having them for a while now, myself. The setting is almost always the same . . . The only thing I haven’t been able to figure out is the people in them. For some reason, I can never recall their faces once I wake up. I suppose . . . given that they’re dreams, that shouldn’t be too surprising. But they just feel so familiar—so . . . real.”

Gasping softly, Celadon sits up and shakes his head. Beside him, Eton cants his head to the side in both curiosity and concern.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say so much.”

He nervously turns his head toward Roland, who regards him with a piercing look. He must now think me strange and foolish, thinks Celadon. His heart skips a beat when Roland sighs.

“You’re better off not overthinking it. If you get hung up on those details, you’ll never see what’s in front of you right now.”

“Y . . . yes, you’re right. Of course. Like you said, perhaps I’m daydreaming too much. It’s just . . . would it be so bad to look for an answer?”

“I don’t know. Will knowing make you feel better? At the end of the day, dreams are dreams. They’re not real.”

The vehemence with which Roland gives his cutting response raises both of Celadon’s eyebrows. Before long, it’s time for Roland’s departure, and Celadon watches his retreating back once more while Eton scoots closer beside him. The quiet that enters the hall with the man’s departure is almost unsettling.

“Celadon?”

“Eton . . . I wonder what sort of dreams Roland has had to feel so strongly about forgetting them. Not all my dreams have been happy, but those that were have given me so much hope over the years.”

To hear himself say it aloud, Celadon pauses in realization.

“Hope for what, I wonder . . . What do you think?”

Eton, who’s only dreamed such a dream once in his life, looks upon his brother with a thoughtful expression. As he searches for an answer, a wide smile blossoms on his face.

“Hope that you’ll see everyone again?”

“Again? They’re dreams . . . ,” Celadon trails off.

“I got to see you again,” says Eton, his expression unchanging.

“What do you mean?”

“Our brothers were in my dream. Some of us were infants when we separated, but, for a while, everyone was together in this church. Maybe you’re hoping for something like that, Celadon.”

While Eton continues to smile, Celadon looks on in a mixture of surprise and shock, speechless.