Chapter Text
A cherry blossom donut with raspberry filling at the local bakery, limited edition. In that wet spring day, it was the sole thing Minato wanted.
His father, even at the apartment door, had insisted on him wearing a better jacket than the oversized, faded denim one he was wearing, but Minato didn’t care, for it just stopped raining, the weather could go bad again, and he didn’t want to mess with his better stuff. Besides, it still was a fine piece, just not tailored or shapely. And, last of all, it was a birthday gift.
Sartorial choices resolved, Minato picked up his bike and left with a last warning from Dad not to step on puddles this time of the year.
It was all a bit stupid, but endearing nonetheless — his father was not Japanese, and gave him the surname Hawthorne, together with blue eyes and above average height. England? Ireland? Minato could not remember the country, but he never forgot the silly superstitions about how stepping in a puddle in spring, around the time of hanami, could transport him to Dad’s country.
It was a cute fairy tale, and would make a nice story for the manga club Minato was part of before graduating. However his friends from the club — all girls — preferred contemporary romances with the music industry as a backdrop. Sure, Nana was a great title, Yazawa-sensei was a genius, but come on! If he wanted mundane stories, he would stick to the literature club!
Which was full of pretentious losers, but had Riku — who was probably straight. Damn!
He had let him slip through his fingers in school, but he would not let the same happen to that donut. Noticing that the bakery was empty, with all the kids busy with summer projects and club activities, Minato parked his bike in a hurry, not caring about the puddles on the sidewalk.
Oh, he could already see all of those pretty pink pastries, and he would eat them all if not for the price and his vanity about his figure. It might be unmanly having a sweet tooth at his age, but Minato already knew that most girls and some guys didn’t actually care about that.
In the middle of his hurry for some pastry, he felt something wet on his white sneakers. Crap! But he could clean then later, for the most important thing at the moment was to choose a beverage to match his confection.
Or would, because instead of pushing a glass door and finding a place to sit, Minato’s vision flashed, making him hit his face on something moist. After wincing from the pain, he noticed that the door became of rotten wood, with boards crossing it. Perhaps his vision got blurry or his glasses foggy. Okay, okay, Minato, step back, breathe, and pay attention to your surroundings, lest you do something dum—
Ouch!
That puddle again, and Minato was on the floor. What happened to his composure? Sure, he was not the most athletic guy, but not the clumsiest! And those sneakers weren’t supposed to slip on anything he stepped on! He hoped that after he pressed his eyes and put his glasses back, the glass door would be right there and he could get his sweets.
Alas, it was the derelict building again, and this time Minato was sure it was not a trick. He stood up, ready to take his bike back home, but even the rack was missing.
What the hell?
Right. Someone tried to mug him, beat him on the head, and left him in a different part of town. Time to call the cops, call home, and get things sorted. But first, he had to check for his smartphone on his pants pockets, if they were not taken, and…
Good news: it was there. Bad news: no signal at all. So-so news: His phone wasn’t damaged. Better news: a pair of police officers was coming.
Minato waved to them, hoping to get their attention. In such an empty street, they sure did.
“Any problem, mister?” the female officer said, her uniform too ornate for regular patrol. A pencil skirt and lots of gold braiding? Black skin and curly hair? A tourist in cosplay, but perhaps she had some answers.
“I was hoping to visit Kuroneko Cafe, but I hit my head, and now I’m in front of this abandoned place.”
Both officers looked at him, than to each other with a mix of confusion and concern.
“Excuse me? I’m afraid I didn’t understand,” the male officer said, with a high, clear voice that indicated he was twenty-three at most. His uniform had less golden accents, but tight pants and knee-high boots also gave him that cosplay look.
Right, Minato, right. The claim was outlandish. Those people weren’t even officers. Get simple.
“I got lost, and my bike is gone.”
“Where are you from, boy?” The female officer, with Evans on her nameplate, smiled. Her voice was warm and welcoming, similar to the child guidance officers Minato met in elementary school. She was quite good at staying in character, from intonation, to costume, even posture. Perhaps she had a fake gun somewhere, to give the final touches on her Western look?
Wait — a foreign cosplayer would never ask a native where they came from.
All of this madness began because he stepped on a puddle.
“Ikebukuro…” His blood froze. “Tokyo. Japan.”
“Puddle?” Said the very blond and rosy-skinned male officer, Parker.
“Yes, puddle, I stepped on it.” Minato spoke like a robot, all clipped tones and fast speech. And the language that left his mouth wasn’t Japanese.
It was all true. Everything his father said was true.
***
No, really, they were actual officers!
The police station looked like it came from an old American movie, with dark wooden furniture, a faded checkered floor and leather chairs. While Minato waited for the officers to find a solution for his trapped in another world problem, he looked at the maps.
Lilium, the city. Maia, the continent. Cities named after flowers and the continent named after a Roman flower goddess, as he learned from one of the club girls. Straight from a fairy tale.
Forget that. What his father loved to talk about, loved to show pictures and magazine excerpts, was Minato’s birthright, his culture. Because it was too “pretty” and too “princessy”, he believed it was a lie, and now he got trapped in it.
Minato had to ask him forgiveness after returning home, if he could return. But maybe… there was something about the puddle story, there was a way back, not immediate, but still… if only he remembered.
The scent of coffee, brought by Parker in a proper ceramic mug instead of a paper cup, interrupted his thoughts. It was syrupy and sweet, but strong, the way Minato liked.
“Tell me if it’s too strong. Boys tend to like it with milk.”
Minato shook his head and grinned, but Parker’s words left him puzzled — boys disliking black coffee? Almost apologizing for offering it to a guy? Going back to his father’s stories again, there was a thing or two about people from Maia bring better dressed and more polite, not about boys liking their coffee in the opposite way they were supposed to like in Japan! Maybe girls were even more obsessed with their weight than back home?
“Boy!” His meandering was cut short again, this time by Evans. “The chief wants to have a word for you, to get you settled here.”
The next room was even more like a film set than the rest of the station, with those huge ceiling fans, a large desk with lots of papers, and a nameplate written Jennings. The desktop computer with a flat screen made Minato sigh in relief, for a place with similar or more advanced tech was easier to deal with somewhere without the internet. What caught him off-guard was the police chief’s appearance — a woman in her mid-forties, the picture of propriety with her even more ornate uniform… and hair was of a fading peach-pink, with all signs of it being natural, even with her light brown skin.
Oh, the girls from the club would love that.
“Sit down, young mister, and tell us your name. Get some candy in the bowl, if you want,” she said.
On one hand, it was nice to be well treated by strangers. On the other hand, it was like they were treating him like a younger boy. Sure, the situation was shocking and new, one would need an extra shot of sugar if not for the coffee, but since reaching school age, no one offered him candy in serious situations.
He declined the chief’s offer, and accommodated himself on a chair that was softer than he expected. “I’m Minato Hawthorne. If it helps… my father came from here.”
Jennings’ eyes widened and her mouth froze, followed by the other two cops.
“Any problem, officer?” Minato really, really hoped her father’s family did not consist of criminals, terrorists or worse.
“Your father’s name, Hawthorne. And I also want to check your documents, if you have them, please.”
No doubt it was part of the protocol. From his jacket pockets, he got his social insurance card, together with passport, something drilled on him since young, and only then he realized why: it contained his name in romaji, easier for foreigners to read.
“Here. And his name is Vincent Hawthorne,” he said, wanting to know the reason for their shock. “I don’t remember my grandfather’s name, but grandmother’s was Mei— I mean, May Hawthorne.”
Jennings checked the documents, and her warm countenance soon returned.
“Oh, young mister, I’ve met your father and your uncles, both of them. Those blue eyes! That explains it!” She pointed to a globe close to the file cabinets. “You see, Japanese people who reach us by puddle often arrive in Chrysanthemum, eastwards, instead of here in Lilium. Of course you arrived here, you have family!” This time, she opened a drawer, and slid a chocolate truffle in elaborate packaging to Minato. “Be happy, this means you’ll not need to be put on welfare, they can support you!”
Well, that was good. However, the fact that his father ran away to another world made him wary of meeting his relatives. Sure, Grandmother May sent letters and they were quite sweet, but he had a feeling that he only knew of the nice ones. Or maybe grandmas were grandmas no matter where, and she would be happy to see her grandson for the first time?
“Thank you!” was what he said at first. “But any means of return, except for, I don’t know, stepping on the same puddle one year later or something like that?”
The question was earnest, but could be interpreted as sarcastic. For that, he apologized and made a small bow with his head.
Jennings typed something on the computer, and Parker served water.
“You see, the closest aether-train to Tokyo is in Chrysanthemum,” said Evans, taking her mug of water. “It’s a long trip from here, and not cheap. Besides, it’s under maintenance except for the aether-mail service. I’ll give it three months.”
“Understood.” Minato had a sip from his water, dropping his shoulders and lowering his eyes when facing the impossibility of an easy return. “Other trains?”
“Well, you could accept welfare and get the first payment to get into the Lilium-London train, but then you’re on your own. Not a good deal.”
He nodded in agreement but did not raise his head, the reality finally sinking in — he was stranded in a place far from home, and the quickest way to return would nevertheless take too much time.
“I’ll lose college, and my parents will be worried.”
“Study here,” said Parker, with the shining eyes of someone who discovered all the mysteries of the world. “It’ll be easy for you, since you’re Japanese and a—”
“Parker!” Evans interrupted him.
“No, no, it’s fine. Great idea!” said Minato, trying to distract his mind from the stress he would soon bring to his family. It was true, though — he could apply to a university for the next semester if he couldn’t return, but what would he choose? Literature, as he did in Japan? He would need to learn about all the local works from scratch. Business was boring. Anything with Math or Science would be a smart choice, as numbers and calculations would be the same, no matter the place. But even if he had no difficulty with the subjects, he hated them.
There would always be his perennial second choice, Fine Arts, though. A bit of catching up on Art History, but shapes, colors, and light would work the same. That was it — Fine Arts, try to convince his grandmother to find him a private tutor, get approved, and he could stop burdening an unknown relative until it was possible to return.
He was sure a grandmother would never refuse to spend money on education. It would not solve the problem of not letting his parents know he’s with relatives, but having a plan for the near future soothed Minato’s mind.
“Oh, Hawthorne? I exchanged some messages with your relatives, they will send a car for you in...” Jennings clicked around with her mouse. “Three minutes. Don’t worry with your papers, your grandmother asked for them to be sent to her house.”
The last thing left to do was to thank the police officers with all his heart, and accept another truffle.
He believed three minutes would take forever to pass, but from Jennings’ room to the exit, it was all quite fast. To be fair, he meandered through the corridors, observing that most of the officers were women and almost no men had much golden trimming in their uniforms. They were also prone to serve food and drink, like office ladies back home. And, of course, all of that colorful hair in conventional hairstyles. Considering the variety of ages between the officers, no doubt it was natural, like in a 1990s anime.
And just when he put one of the truffles on his mouth, someone called his name, pointing to a large black car on the outside. Parker followed him outside, but instead of checking on him until the car left, he waited until Minato got snug on the soft leather seat to leave his farewell:
“I would wish you good luck, but I think you wouldn’t need it, Golden Boy,” with a wink and finger guns.
As the driver close the door, Minato realized, from the officers’ words, that his family was much wealthier than he imagined. While that was good to know, he was afraid he would make a fool of himself to dear grandmother, even if people complimented him for his politeness back home. It was just that… rich people.
***
Unlike the officers, the driver — a woman — asked no questions. Minato took his time to glance through the glass: there was an interesting mix of glass towers, some even iridescent; and older-looking stone buildings, imposing and ornate. One of them piqued his attention, occupying an entire block, called Rêverie, according to a neon sign.
Judging by the people that went down the stairs and the bags they carried, a clothing store for young adults, most of them girls his age or a bit older, runaways from a vintage Margaret with their fancy hats, high boots and velvet mini-dresses. There were also boys in the same range, also looking very good, but their clothes were tighter and more colorful than Minato was used to see, except from the times he visited Harajuku.
The difference between the alternative boys back home and those Rêverie boys is that the latter were dead sexy with their short shorts and fitted jackets. Such rich patterns, too. He reached one of his jacket pockets to retrieve a little sketchbook and a mechanical pencil, but this time, of all times, he forgot them home.
As he continued his travel, he could also notice that the women were taller than he was used to, around the same height of men. Even outside the cool boutiques, they dressed well, not sticking to a particular look and not afraid to wear pants, unlike in Japan. The guys, though — kids and teens wore lighter colors all the time, and all the clothes were loose, soft and nonthreatening, like eternal elementary schoolers. The adults could wear something more fitted and darker, but they still looked stuffy. Almost none of them walked alone, unlike the women.
That, plus the female officers, the female driver, his father’s elopement… No, it could not be. That came from the trashiest kind of light novel, the kind the club used as an example of what not to do. Fine, fine, Minato, breathe. Men weren’t rare and they dressed more conservative, so what? It was not as if Maia needed tender virile flesh from another world to impregnate young women to improve the continent’s birth rate or something just as ridiculous.
Nothing else captured his interest, until the car stopped in an intersection, where, in one of those translucent needle towers, a large screen could be watched. He couldn’t hear a single voice, but from the images, it was an ad for a face cream or similar. Then, an interview with a redheaded reporter and an older woman in a white pantsuit that screamed expensive. Probably the owner of the company, as typical of a longer ad. He would pick his smartphone to play an offline game if not for the name displayed on the bottom as she spoke: May Hawthorne.
Maybe it was postproduction, maybe it was some excellent makeup, but she was no hunched, wrinkly granny. Still, Minato expected a more modest image of her, instead of the self-assured woman in the video. More pleasant to look at, but that meant that Grandmother was not the type to bake him cakes and knit him sweaters.
The driver just looked at him with a smile and a nod, and he returned the gesture.
It did not make him any less nervous.
Buildings made way to trees; streets to roads, and the only thing of note were signs showing the direction and distance to Hemerocallis and Lycoris. The sky was clear, the cars weren’t numerous, and the smooth movement of the car made Minato a bit drowsy, but he couldn't sleep. Would it take so much time to find a good place to rest?
“Excuse me,” he said, “are we close to Grandma’s house?”
The car left the main driveway for a winding road and the trees got more abundant.
“Oh, pretty much,” she pointed to the GPS screen. “Five minutes to Whitebloom, then you can relax. You’re so quiet!”
“Another city? And… sorry for my silence.”
“No, just the name of Ms. Hawthorne’s house. You know, hawthorn tree, white flowers.”
Minato thanked her, glad his arrival was close.
As a wrought iron gate got bigger and bigger, he expected guards alongside it, but some touches on the GPS screen later, it opened. Probably some type of verified IDs: not something far beyond the kind of technology he knew, yet still unusual to watch in action.
So, Whitebloom was a huge white marble house in the woods, fine, Grandma was loaded. But what about the front garden, bigger than his school sports fields! And those columns and large windows? The rows of hawthorn trees? The fountain in the middle of the ring driveway? Shit, was she also nobility or something?
As he left the car and passed through the main hallway — high, quiet, bright, with the checkered floor adding to the dreamlike atmosphere — he noticed rows of young men in uniforms similar to a black gakuran, but with a white collar, and some of them with aprons. Maids — male maids. The closest to female maids he noticed were older than them, wore long dresses, and the first image on his head was gothic governesses, despite knowing it was wrong.
To counteract the tunnel of dark clothes, came a white-haired, fair-skinned older woman in diamonds, pale chiffon, and vivid blue eyes: Grandmother, looking as good as she was on the ad.
“Goodness, James and that police officer were right,” she said, her fingers hovering around his body, but never touching him. “You look like Vincent, you do, my grandson… Oh, such beautiful black hair...”
For once, someone commented on a body part other than his eyes. For that, Minato let her pass her spindly fingers through his bangs without complaining. He wasn’t fussy about his hair — it fell in its place most of the time — but he was not used to the touch of strangers, even if she was family.
“From Mom’s side, thanks. I’m Minato.”
“Of course you are! Your father sent pictures. Come.” She turned around, waving her right hand forwards. “Granny, grandma, nanna, call me whatever you want. Follow me. I suppose our talks need a catch-up after some years.”