5 AM, cold sweats, waking up to the sky;

[inuyashacooks]

title: The Palace of Dreams (1/3)
pairing(s)/character(s): Japan, Greece, China, Korea; Greece/Japan and slight China/Korea
rating: i actually think it's pretty tame, but i'll say PG-13 just in case.
summary: By several strange twists of fate, Kiku Honda becomes one of the proprietors of a Kabukicho host club, with Heracles Karpusi as his number one host. As something like love develops between the two, Kiku has to face the fact that desires, dreams, and hopes are something that inevitably make up every person, including himself. [AU; written for disownmereturns for the giripanexchange winter exchange.]

☆THE PALACE OF DREAMS (1/3)

The first time Kiku Honda met Heracles Karpusi was a pale denim blue winter day in Shinjuku Central Park; Kiku was cutting through the park to get to the subway station, walking at a steadily fast pace, when he suddenly discovered by his eyes that e was thirsty, and stopped at a vending machine to get something to drink.

He was thinking of what he wanted (without realizing that subconsciously, his mind was on many other things- namely school matters), eyes opaque charcoal, when he realized that he was standing next to someone. It wasn’t physical proximity that made him notice- the person was, after all, standing at the same distance from him as that salaryman, as that bewildered housewife- it was some other kinda nearness, maybe in the way he was shaking or in the direction he was standing. He was a foreigner; Kiku looked over him for a moment, just a split moment.

He couldn’t tell where he was from. They seemed to be the same age, but he was, of course, taller than Kiku, who at 5’4” wasn’t much of a match for anybody. He had a solid frame; brown hair that curled around his face in a way that invoked sea salt, that made its color seem darker than it actually was. He had blue eyes. He was also shivering in a way that to Kiku seemed painful- underneath his down jacket, his entire body absolutely racked with waves of quiet violent shivering; his peaceful tan was being assaulted, put on trial, by the edges of one of the coldest days of that winter, and his expression was overwhelmed.

Kiku gave him a few fugitive glances (wondering without realizing it: is this person in trouble? shall I assist him? shall I care?) and then went on to make his purchase at the vending machine. He pressed the button that would get him a can of Black and then waited for that decision to come with him. It clattered down the stomach of the machine and then he took it- and then he paused, and wondered.

He’s probably from a sunny country, Kiku thought, with a confusing angle of hope.

He found himself buying another can of Black; and then found himself turning to the foreigner with a tired expression, handing him the can. It wasn’t so much out of kindness that he did it as out of a desire to see things in their right place, a curiosity, and a strange dark feeling that almost resembled guilt.

The foreigner awoke from a walking daydream, or an interior monologue, and moved slowly as a statue newly come to life. At first he seemed somewhat surprised; then an understanding look washed over his face. He reached, took the can; from his fingers, Kiku realized that when he wasn’t being harassed by the cold, there was an aimless, steady flow of energy in this man’s body. “Thank you,” he said, with a warm tongue that handled the Japanese syllables without much confidence. Kiku saw that the sky had started to become blue behind his head.

Kiku nodded formally and then turned to go on his way. As he started off, his thinking paused; then he kicked himself for having treated him like he was a homeless person or something, and then for having spent money on being rude. The winter was coming down like powder and he had other things to think of so he mostly forgot about it in moments. Took the train, went through his classes, went out with a couple of his classmates, and then came back, didn’t think too much about it.

He passed back through the park to go back home around sunset. The bare branches were dripping with bloody honey and the buildings were blazing orange in the reflection of the sun; Kiku thought fleetingly as he passed through that he might be there, but he wasn’t.

But there he was the next morning, same time, sitting idly on one of the benches, reading a newspaper (or maybe trying to read a newspaper? making sense of a newspaper?). Kiku saw him before he saw Kiku; when he looked up and noticed him, Kiku gave a sort of- shadowy awkward wave, which he returned with the reward of a nod, a calm smile. Kiku nodded back and then went on his way.

That happened a couple more times; Kiku saw him invariably every morning, wondering why he hadn’t noticed him there before, thinking vaguely that if he didn’t go to school he might spend his mornings the same way- sitting and watching things go by and fall apart and fall together like an old man. That was, if he didn’t have a job that required an early presence, which most jobs did.

One day one of Kiku’s classes was cancelled, and he saw nothing better to do than go home; he was going through the park again, carrying with him as he walked the breathless storm of the underground train, and there was the person who he’d mentally dubbed The Foreigner, watching some birds overhead with a dreamy expression. Kiku wondered whether or not he should try and get his attention, but he didn’t need to; he looked down from the sky (it seemed like the color of the sky dripped into the color of his eyes) and at
Kiku- and then waved him over.

Kiku had a small attack of confusion- was it appropriate to go over? was it inappropriate to refuse?- but seeing as he had nothing in particular to do, he went over to the bench and found himself standing close to tranquil air, to intelligent, lazy eyes- and a shade of smile as he said, “Hello.”

“-Hello,” Kiku returned, with a nod, “Good afternoon.”

A slight pause; “Can I ask your name?”

“Kiku Honda,” he answered, “And yours?”

“Heracles Karpusi...Sit?” he asked, gesturing torpidly to the spot next to him on the bench.

Kiku sat down, with the shadowy grace of good posture, folding his books under his arm. Heracles commented on the weather; Kiku looked to the clouds. Kiku asked where he was from and found out that Heracles was Greek (ah, he should have known from the name- the name of a hero- or was it a god?). Heracles then asked Kiku where he was from, and Kiku, wondering if perhaps Heracles was having a problem with the language, replied that, of course, he was from Japan. Heracles sort of nodded and said, “I just wanted to make sure. Some things aren’t obvious even if they look it.”

Heracles actually spoke Japanese pretty well; they had no problems communicating, and if anything, it was only his accent that was a little off. Conversation was fluent, fluid, in a way that Kiku was surprised as he reflected on it later. They seemed to be on the same wavelength- seemed to know what to say and how far speech could go- clicking in words and falling back on the pace of a slow winding river. Kiku asked what he did, afterwards amending his question with, “I’m sorry, I just happened to notice you’re always in the park early in the morning and-”

Heracles just waved his hand, no transgression passed, and replied that he washed dishes in some restaurants and then detailed his schedule with, “When I have a day off one place, I go to another place. I only work at night.” He didn’t seem to notice the quiet surprise that held Japan’s expression; instead he went on, watching people passing by. “Sometimes they have- Greek culture festivals. Things like that...so I volunteer.” He paused, looking up at the sky with a seeing, detailed expression that evoked the life of concrete. “There are Turkish festivals, too. More of those, though...I think there’s more Turkish people in Japan than Greek,” he said, as though the fact perplexed and troubled him deeply.

“Ah- I see,” Kiku said, nodding as though empathizing with Heracles’s loss.

Heracles smiled, halfways, and looked back to Kiku- with a sort of soft, steady attention that was somewhat unnerving- eyes flashed to his face, to his clothes, to the books under his arm. “You’re studying?” Heracles asked, nodding toward the books.

“Ah- yes,” Japan said, looking at his books, untucking them and showing them to Heracles. “Architecture.”

Heracles gave a warm, appreciative smile as he glanced over the titles of the books. “It suits you,” he commented, because eyes solidly colored like Kiku’s always seemed to conceal those kinds of dreams.

Kiku didn’t know whether to thank him, but did anyway. “Thank you,” he said, and then looked at Heracles askew- “If I may ask- what did you study?”

Heracles paused; then said, “Hm. I didn’t.”

Kiku couldn’t hide the wave of puzzlement that colored his expression; Heracles sort of chuckled, and Kiku asked, “Why not?”

Heracles’s eyes flickered up, patient, waiting. “...I never really saw the point.” He looked in front of him for a couple of moments; leaned forward, and then put his hand on Kiku’s shoulder- the touch shot surprise, blue sparks, up to Kiku’s mind- and he indicated the path before them where people passed by eyeslessly. “This is school enough, I think.”

Kiku bit his lip slightly and turned to watch what Heracles was watching (thinking, it’s because he’s a foreigner, foreigners don’t have the same standards of personal space- it’d be rude to correct him- I don’t mind too much). An old man batted his grandson on the head with a newspaper, a delicate way of education; schoolgirls laughed, complained about how cold it was, and old men followed their legs like it was a shot to their conscience they were willing to take; birds flew, garbage rolled; things were existing in a sort of natural chaos, all together, history occurring at the same moment all around them. “I see,” Kiku said, nodding, and to his surprise, actually understanding what Heracles was getting at.

They talked for a while more, and Kiku lost track of the time- its boundaries slipped through his fingers and he only realized himself when the first obscure hints of amber and purple settled into the sky, darkening the blue just a bit. “Ah,- I’ve been here too long- I’ve lost track of the time,” he said, getting up, “I hope you’ll forgive me- I have to excuse myself.”

Heracles smiled, a little crooked. “Oh, that’s fine,” he answered.

The sun was sleepy and held fast like toffee. Kiku sort of tarried- awkwardly- body angled away but mind remaining. “I- it was nice speaking with you,” he said, trying to see if that was an appropriate byway into asking Heracles- something.

Heracles just held his hand up, allowing, gentle. “You too...we’ll see each other if we see each other,” he said, clearing off any formal doubt, “See you later, Kiku.”

“-Yes,” Kiku nodded, not knowing what else to say. He didn’t pause; he turned to go, and moments later he sort of turned back, against a small sidewalk winter breeze stirring up with veiled craziness, and saw Heracles walking away- with a casual air of half-sleepiness, the intelligence of confidence as a foundation of his steps. Kiku had a strong feeling that Heracles didn’t know where he was going- had no destination in particular, was just walking anywhere- and at that fact felt, in quiet shades, admiration, curiosity, a wave of envy. As a matter of duty his mind steered away from the conversation and to his homework, and to whose turn it was to make dinner at home.

They met again in Shinjuku Central Park; they saw each other once in a while, always stopped to talk, and every time their conversations held the unselfconscious fluidity of conversations between people who walked the same paths in life, had seen and touched the same things. (although that was in actual terms untrue- they came from very different places and walked in very different ways). They formed a very casual relationship that stemmed out of a certain kinship and a certain knowledge of when silence was appropriate and when words were appropriate.

They got along without ever really knowing or questioning why. Heracles had a certain way of putting things that made Kiku think that life was strange, for such an intelligent person to be washing dishes for a living. He had a very calm air about him and never seemed out of his element- even in this crowded, singular city that confused even its inhabitants. Kiku for his part didn’t know what Heracles liked about him, but he didn't dwell on it too much.

Warmer weather came, found Heracles sitting in the grass instead of on the benches- watching clouds or people pass, reading a book, smoking a cigarette, what have you. “Do you have any hobbies?” Kiku asked once conversationally, standing above him and watching the clouds overhead.

“...Not really,” Heracles answered, shifting, making himself comfortable as though he was going to take a nap right there. “I just like to think, mostly.”

“That’s all?” Kiku asked.

Heracles paused, thoughtfully. “Yup. I think so. I like sleeping, too. And reading. And fucking.”

Kiku’s eyes, perturbed, flickered down to Heracles.“E-excuse me?”

Heracles chuckled. “Sorry, never mind.”

Above them the clouds- a sheet passing by for the quick heart of rain- were smooth and quick like water running; Kiku figured that Heracles would be happy just to watch clouds and think. He found himself thinking that perhaps he might be that way, too, but then a darker cloud swallowed his dreaming and he reaffirmed that he was, in his life, guided by responsibility, by a clear path.

They were little more than strangers, casual acquaintances strung together by similar thinking. Once Kiku asked Heracles, more out of a sense of propriety (because was their relationship normal?) than anything, if he wanted to talk over coffee; but that was the extent of it, because the thing that made them the most similar to each other was their implacable, steady solitude.

That was enough, though. Warm weather came and Kiku graduated from school, and noticed that, when not covered by a lying coat, there was something about the solid planes of Heracles’s body that gave off a perturbing sort of energy. Kiku noted that energy like an endangered animal and kept a physical distance from Heracles. Warm weather came and so did monsoon rains, and they found Kiku in trouble- in a kind of crisis.

How did the college graduate, studying architecture, come to be the proprieter and producer of one of Shinjuku’s finest host clubs? A trick of will, as it were. He was 21 by then; it was time for him to launch into a career, and he, at the tarrying hands of the fork in the road, was pretty much sure of what he’d be doing- looking for someplace to apprentice at, work for a firm, etc., etc. He had nothing definite planned, but would be looking for an apprenticeship as soon as possible. He had only to discuss his plans with Yao, his- what was he? A guardian? A caretaker? A parent?

Yao Wang was eight or nine years older than he; he had been taking care of Kiku since he was in his late teens, 18 or 19 years old. Kiku’s parents had died when he was ten, and mysteriously- he never asked Yao why, nor did he care to- he was left with Yao, a naturalized Chinese citizen who wasn’t even twenty yet. Yao, against all expectations, gave his time and energy to raising Kiku, worked hard to ensure Kiku security, and lay his heart and mind open to Kiku should he ever want them. But it didn’t go quite the way
Yao would have liked; Kiku was cognizant, a fully conscious being, when his parents had died: their deaths crept up on him and coiled him in a gray untouchable shell that only completed his predestined isolation. He responded to Yao’s offer of love, his put-on parental pressures, with nothing but disdain, resentfulness, and exasperation; once, Yao- remarking on Kiku’s uncanny ability to seamlessly navigate Tokyo even at a young age- said, “This country is your heart. Hah, your heart- a chain of islands, right?”

220 years in isolation; however, just as that sentence was the only bit of asperity Yao ever let past his lips, Kiku’s feelings were the only rebellion he allowed himself, and their relationship developed into one of parallel interest, like a business partnership. They both needed things from each other, and that was enough to satisfy complicity (it was true, Yao couldn’t hide that he was vaguely fond of Kiku; but it never was more than that).

In that way, Kiku’d never bothered to become independent from Yao- he just sailed along, content to drift until he could take a sure direction away from that river. So he was still at the last step of childhood- and he still wasn’t aware that this was the last way out, the final fork in the road- when over breakfast he casually brought up his plans after graduation. “I’m looking to take an apprenticeship at a firm; I’ll start a search as soon as possible,” he said across their bowls of rice.

Yao- seemed not to pay attention. There was a disconcerting pause, tense like changing blue, and he just said, “Hm,” with a nod. A kind of resentment rose, billowed, like fear in the corners of Kiku’s body, but he decided not to pay any attention- Yao was unreadable when he wanted to be, opaque like smoked glass. Perhaps he just didn’t care, maybe his approval didn’t matter. That was fine.

Kiku didn’t think much of it; instead, he went his way, went about things as one normally would- tying loose ends, getting the correct papers- going through the motions. Yao was still silent about it; no encouragement, no discouragement. They were just moving in the same circles as usual. Kiku had the vague idea that Yao was waiting to tell him something, but he decided that he wouldn’t ask- he would sidestep the notion as long as he could.

It was a surprise when it was revealed just what Yao was looking to say. It was a warm night, almost like summer with its shaking nightlight fevers, and Kiku came home, through the door, to the smell of Yao cooking. That doughy smell, like summer moon- Yao was probably making pork buns or something. Kiku always wondered why Yao just didn’t go to a convenience store if he wanted that kind of thing; but then again, Japanese ingenuity, while something Yao admired, was not something he’d stand for. Especially since until
recently they’d been living on that stuff, konbini meals and all that.

Kiku didn’t feel a particular presentiment as he shed his coat and kicked off his shoes, stepped into the slippers waiting silent by the closet door; didn’t feel like there was any kind of atmosphere as he came into the kitchen where Yao was standing above the counter, reading a newspaper. A teapot was on the stove, low flames underneath it.

He did start to feel a vague uncomfortability when he and Yao’s eyes met. “Welcome home,” Yao said, with a slight nod.

“Hm,” Kiku answered, nodding back.

A pause stretched out along the silent dark avenues coming through the window, and it pulled back along with those when Yao asked, “Are you hungry, aru?”

Kiku shook his head. “Ah, no, thank you; I ate with some classmates of mine.”

“Hm,” Yao answered, and went back to his paper. His fingers traced along ink streets graceful and Kiku had the idea of effortlessness as he turned the page. Nothing was going on for the moment. Kiku sat down at the kitchen table with another slight nod, as though to make such an action permissible, and fell into thought.

Yao closed his newspaper and he turned to Kiku- just slightly angled from the counter. “How was your day?” he asked. Then he seemed to remember himself, and, saying it with kitchen casualty, “Aiyah, I’ll get you some tea.”

Kiku looked up. “Fine, thank you. And yours?”

Yao snorted. “I’ve been better, aru. Anyway- what did you do?”

The question was a shadow and as it cut past him, Kiku suddenly felt the need to be guarded. “Oh- I had my last classes and went out with classmates...I interviewed at a firm.”

“Oh? How did that go?”

Kiku’s eyes shifted- he noticed that there was a strange kind of peak in Yao’s voice, went with the lilt and singsong cadence. Yao didn’t turn though; he was pouring the tea and he seemed unperturbed. “Oh...fine. I suppose.”

“Good place, aru?”

“...I am strongly considering them.”

“Hm,” Yao answered, and he seemed to snort the syllable. Kiku decided to put up the road blocks, to close off all roads leading to conversation because he wasn’t sure where Yao was going. Yao was taking it someplace, though, and he was never the type to quit when he wanted something. As though to give himself time he checked on whatever was in the oven; then he swept up and turned back to Kiku, and there was this-
brightness in his eyes that invoked some kind of amber. Kiku shuddered.

Yao sighed and smiled. “Is architecture really what you’re going for, aru?”

Kiku shifted. “Hm. I suppose so, you could say that.”

“‘Suppose,’” Yao repeated like it was something he’d heard somebody say on the news, in a dream. “You wouldnt go into anything else, aru? Nothing?”

“...I suppose I might.”

“Because I was thinking- it takes a long time in this world to do anything, aru. It’s the way the modern world is.” He set down the teacups and poured as they spoke.

Kiku nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”

“But- some things don’t take so long,” Yao went on, and Kiku wondered what he was selling- Yao waved his hand- “I mean, all this school, all these things- it’s just a waste of time!”

“Well-” Kiku began, but let the syllable slip off onto the floor with anything else he was thinking. “Thank you,” he added, as Yao finished pouring his tea.

“I think it’s a waste of time, aru,” Yao answered, taking a seat, “I think- all these motions, these- things- things can be done quicker! Time can be better spent. You can do many things all at once.” His eyes seemed darker, or like they came from someplace old, someplace thick with honey. He yawned. “Life is long. There’s no need to do everything immediately.”

Kiku didn’t want to address it directly- he felt more comfortable sliding in from the side. His eyes flickered away from Yao’s, color of charcoal. “-Are you proposing another opportunity?” he asked, almost conversationally, picking up his teacup.

“I’ve been thinking, Kiku,” Yao continued, nodding, almost determined, “Of going into the water trade!”

There was a thick ceramic clatter that sounded just like confusion as Kiku fumbled with his teacup, almost spilling it on the table. He was disoriented for a moment, and then he looked up at Yao, as though in a state of alarm. Yao continued on, but the words came out like a neon sign or like an advertisement- easily ignored under the impressions of other things. “The water trade?” Kiku repeated, as though he had heard wrong.

“Hm- yes, yes!” Yao snapped. He looked up at Kiku, and at once his expression flashed in irritation. “Don’t look so surprised, aru. A person can do well for himself in these kinds of trades!”

“Yes, I- I suppose one can,” Kiku answered, “You were- what were you thinking of- in particular?”

“A host club, aru!”

As he sat there, Kiku began to understand the feeling of parents who are disappointed in their children for wanting to be rock stars. “A- host club?” His tone was shaded heavily. Why not a hostess club? At least that was a degree more conventional.

“You can make a lot of money- enough to live comfortably on,” Yao went on, “It’s becoming more and more popular; and easier than other things, too, aru. Less trouble.” He paused and he leaned over his cup of tea, the steam matching the warmth of his face as he smiled on his thoughts.

“I- assume you’re thinking of Kabukicho?” Kiku asked, eyes worrying as he took a sip of his tea.

Yao nodded. “Hm.”

A slight pause. The smell of the food cooking swelled and colored the room yellow from Kiku’s point of view- he didn’t understand the buzzed feeling he was under, as though this was suddenly under a sea of light, or like light was flooding the room. Was he being asked something? Was something being requested of him?

“-If you’ll excuse my asking- the money?”

“That, aru,” Yao said, waving his hand. “We’ve-” he skipped over that word, it was like a stone on his tongue and he got rid of it quick- “There’s money saved, anyway, aru. And I can handle a loan.” He looked cross for a moment, waved a finger at Kiku. “I have good credit, you know, aru.”

Kiku would have normally said he meant no offense; but instead his expression withdrew, and he ebbed away, shoulder raised and turning toward the wall. His thoughts came in a steady stream. “-Do you have counsel? On how to run the business, I mean?”

A laugh came through, bubbled up over the tea- that easily-swiped gold laugh that came whenever Yao thought something was too heavy. “Aiyah,” he said, with a smile that was like a mask, “It’s a working idea, Kiku.” Kiku didn’t stir and didn’t trust the lightness.

“Well,” Kiku answered, with a nod- as though to say do your best. Yao seemed to take that in stride, because it was a low blow, if an indirect one. The silence settled over the steam and sank into all the meaningless plastic. It seemed to sing from outside.

“What’s the point,” Yao said at length, the tone of his voice like stone as he picked up his cup of tea, put it down again, “of dreaming all the time? Dreams later, aru. Money now. Dreams when you can afford them.”

It wasn’t in Yao to be accusing. It was in neither of them to back down from each other; Kiku nodded, and that brewed into the tea, too. The surrounding air was light, and after the game of silence Yao got up and checked on the oven. Kiku finished his tea, cleaned up his place, and excused himself. He really wasn’t sure at the moment if he dreamed, or if he had that kind of mentality.

Kiku was under the shadow of the hall when Yao threw back at him, “These will be done, soon, aru.- Oh, you ate out.” Kiku nodded and then he went back on.

In short, Kiku knew that it was all directed at him- that it wasn’t useful information but an offer of partnership, and Kiku was determined (adamantly, as a rebellious child would be- he realized that early on, and it was somewhat shameful to him) to politely decline and proceed as planned. He didn’t give the industry itself a second thought; he didn’t even think of the matter- it was a subconscious force of his will, and it pushed him in the opposite direction.

The issue was drawn in circles around each of them- perhaps it wasn’t an issue so much as a matter of choreography. Kiku graduated, and he didn’t see Heracles anywhere for a week, two weeks; only saw him once or twice more in the month that followed, because it slipped his mind to even look for him. Kiku’s life was lived, as is normal for young people, by the seasons; it was just the business in vibrant colors that came with spring. Great green and cherry pink, spring burning like fireworks into an early summer. But with the the contention of a precariously built future, the days had an undercurrent of neon dark, and it
made them tremor.

Yao would casually inform him how the whole business was going; tell him, Ah, right, the loan went through, or, Oh, by the way, I’ve been talking to the lease holders and it looks like it’s going well. If Kiku was home- which he was more often now, having no school- Yao would, as he was leaving, drop him details, where he’d be going, doing what, and how Kiku could reach him. It was an exercise of push and pull and it was obviously more troubling to Kiku than it was to Yao- it was a sort of dark current shaking through his stomach and arms, to wonder why Yao wanted him in on this. Why he wasn’t satisfied with his own chosen way. They never argued about it once; in fact, it was barely even spoken of.

Did he owe anything to Yao?- If he did, did that mean automatic surrender of himself? No, he knew it didn’t; that was too extreme, too absolute. That wasn’t the way people interacted with each other. It had nothing to do with reality, to think that way. There was maybe an inch of old resentment, that rot and spiral; and it had something to do with fear, too. Something to do with unfamiliarity.

He kept away from that, he stayed with the familiar. Offers this and offers that; “it was a pleasure to speak with you” to “yes, thank you very much for your time;” the world created by a storm of ink and paper. Kiku’s will wasn’t a solid force and it didn’t have a clear color; it manifested as a stream, steady flowing till the mouth of the sea. He was determined, in his own way.

It was a gray day out one day- or gray as spring could be- with tiny sparks in the heat-heavy air, and Yao was going out to sign the lease. “I’ll be there for an hour, maybe an hour and a half,” he said, sliding into his shoes. “I left the address on the kitchen table, if you need to get in touch with me. Ah, and my cell phone is always on!”

“Understood,” Kiku answered, nodding; and then, after a considerate pause, wondering if he should say it, “Do your best.”

“-Aiyah, don’t be so formal,” Yao laughed; when he was in good spirits, Yao was untouchable. “Thank you. I’ll be back soon!”

Kiku closed and locked the door behind him. With things going like this, Yao could convince anybody; when he left all the roads to his mind open, it was hard not to take them. He had left the papers with the address, and some papers concerning the transaction, on the kitchen table, neatly stacked; Yao was of an exciteable, somewhat eccentric disposition, and that well concealed how wise he was under all of it.

It didn’t matter. Kiku wondered what he was going to do today. The hum of sleeping electricity was thicker than silence; that bright cluttered mess of birdsong was warm from the outside. He opened the window, and a window in the apartment building across lit and transfixed him. There was a flash of negative feeling- something dark, billowing, shadowy so as to elude real solidity- but he tempered it and folded it away, allowing the burn of the blue above the rooftops burn it away.

He didn’t know himself; he didn’t understand what had happened- or what he had been thinking on the long run from their apartment to the office- or if he was thinking at all. He didn’t seem to be, as he asked the secretary the specifics, thanked her, slipped into the elevator and walked down the long sterile hall to- this door, that door. His pride was a far-off country as he opened the door, excused himself for being late; as his eyes, dark and sinking into stone bitterness, met Yao’s warm smile.

He was despairing; it was a whirlwind of desperation; everything that was gray was busy. Everything started immediately from that moment and the months seemed totake on a different color. He was, from that point, involved in paperwork, involved in business plans, goals for the coming years, business meetings...renovations, too; Kiku did everything he could to be involved in renovating the place (a fairly standard place on the second floor of a commercial property, big windows that looked on Tokyo flash and
scream and lots of space to be used). That was maybe the last stab at the beast before it wheezed its way back into a lost forest.

He felt as though things were closing in around him; he felt the summer’s caress was useless to his mind. He had decided to simply not think of it, but his thoughts were in a chaos, and he was waiting in pain for the chaos to die down. Chaos had a way of slipping things in, though; he was on his way, one day, from the apartment to the club. He’d stopped at a convenience store and turned right coming out- and, the scene bright as summer sea would be, and brushing off his eyes just slightly, there was Heracles, walking
up the street with that casualness about him that made him untouchable.

Kiku was disoriented by familiarity for a moment; more so when he realized there was a girl beside him, hair in dark salon waves and with a pretty face that burned smoky. They were talking, laughing, Heracles lit her a cigarette with eyes at a low angle. The thought that stamped itself on Kiku’s mind was something like, Ah- people other than me, like it was another piece to truth. Heracles didn’t see him; he stood with the girl at the crosswalk and then she crossed- he touched her shoulder and said goodbye, and she seemed at once uncomfortable and enamored of the lines that he was leaning in. He turned up the street, and recognized Kiku.

He saw recognition pass, only a slow wave, and brighten Heracles’ eyes. Kiku held up his hand in a short wave before anything was said. Although he still felt the chaos and shades of gray clattering a tribal song around him, the weight of thinking was somehow lifted. Heracles came closer, and Kiku said, “Hello, how have you been?”

Heracles paused, seeming to think about it sincerely. “Hm. Okay, mostly.” He smiled. “And you?”

Kiku paused too, but it was for a different reason. “Fine, fine,” he finally said, the syllables clipped.

“That’s good,” Heracles hummed, with a very grave nod. A breeze, turquoise and blanched white, came up the street. “-Right, you graduated already...did I get that wrong?” He paused again, thoughtfully. “So you’re apprenticing now?”

For some reason the way Heracles was angled toward him was another chaos in itself, another reason to be shaken; and then there was his eyes, and Kiku felt off-track and distant. “Ah- yes- of course,” he said, with a too-quick nod. Heracles made no move at all, but it suddenly seemed like his concentration was closer. Then Kiku shook his head and said, “No, actually, I’m not. Forgive my lying,” with a slight bow.

You could tell by the expression on his face that Heracles was taken aback- he’d seen this sort of little darkness, closed-off crowding of thoughts, in hopeless salarymen stumbling out of hostess bars and wanting to kill themselves, and it was nothing short of something horrible to see it in Kiku. He settled his panic though, and he fell into a more catlike observance, not asking much with his eyes. “-Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”

Kiku looked up at him; made eye contact and then broke it. “Yes,” he answered, and then realizing that this in itself was a bit too direct and plain, “If you’d like to- ?”

“Mm, sure,” Heracles nodded, and then turned in the other direction; settled his hand on Kiku’s shoulder for a moment, but took it off before Kiku could even register the touch.

The place they ended up in was small, bright, just some shack off the street. Heracles got the coffee and came back to the table- and it was odd, as he slid into his seat, that Kiku noticed how every movement was in accordance with the previous, the next, one, how his arms seemed consolidated. Heracles handed him his cup of coffee and Kiku nodded his thanks. He asked how much he owed him, but Heracles shook his head.

“It’s my treat,” he said, unsmiling.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes- silence that always seemed to come natural to them, like electric faces, hidden voices from a long bit-off memory. Heracles seemed in tune with the noise of people around him, and watched the people on the street walking here and there. Kiku sat and watched the steam lick off the surface of his coffee.

Heracles moved and the movement seemed sudden, like the movement of a stone would seem. He stirred his coffee; his eyes took the sparks off coffee and he made eye contact with Kiku for a moment, and that seemed to be telling enough. Kiku leaned forward, and though he hadn’t known to say anything, the words came out. “My-....guardian- is looking to open a host club,” he said, making it casual, like it wasn’t anything but the latest news.

“Hm,” Heracles answered.

“Once preparations are done, I’m to be appointed a management position.”

Heracles’s glance seemed to take whatever was before him apart, consider it carefully. “Simply put, it’s been busy,” Kiku went on, and then managed a smile, “However, I plan to do my best.”

The smile seemed thin to Heracles, and tired; he didn’t ask the question he was thinking to ask. Instead, he asked Kiku to elaborate on that. Kiku unraveled the scene for him, and although Kiku’s tone was always guarded and his speech was always filled with qualifiers and omissions, Heracles was able to tell why he seemed so shook up. He could tell maybe by his eyes or mouth; or, more probably, by what he omitted (the way the ghosts of words made shadows on the bright air).

“We’re, of course, not finished with initial preparations,” Kiku went on, taking a sip of his coffee and looking to Heracles more lonely than anybody else in the room, “However, we do expect to have business starting within the near future...although I do expect that it’ll be hard to find staff.”

“-How much money does a host make?” Heracles asked.

Heracles’s tone was up-front; Kiku paused. “I’m not excessively familiar with the industry, but I believe in a month you can make- at least what a salaryman makes. At most, I suppose you could do quite well. I believe it depends upon the popularity of the club and the amount of work one puts in.”

“Is it easy?” Heracles asked, taking a gulp of his coffee.

Kiku bit his lip slightly in thought, eyes veiled again. “That would depend upon one’s disposition. Certain people are more fit for this kind of work than others, I’d imagine.” Over the wisping steam he smiled, bemused, and Heracles did the same because it was probably the first time he’d seen Kiku smile sincerely. “Are you thinking of going into the business?”

Heracles chuckled, shrugged slightly. “I was just thinking...I wouldn’t mind working.” He paused again, eyes drifting thoughtfully to the street outside. “It could be interesting.”

Kiku paused in consideration. Their eyes brushed across each other, directly and for a moment, but Kiku forgot about it just as soon as it happened. “In that case- here- do you have a cell phone?”

Heracles shook his head. Kiku rummaged through the bag he’d been carrying and produced a small notebook and a pen; paused to write something down, and handed Heracles the piece of paper. Heracles looked it over with that look he always had- measured, intelligent, far-off- he looked at anything like that. “My cell number and email address. Call me there if you choose to.” Kiku paused, and, finding that statement dissatisfactory, added, “Unfortunately the business number isn’t set up yet.” He reflected on that the reasons for that were the obvious one of timing, and Yao’s sudden fixation with the numerological soundness of the number.

Heracles folded the number, slow like he did everything, and stuffed it into one of his jeans pockets. Turning his eyes up, he looked at Kiku askance for a moment- Kiku wondered for a moment if something was wrong, or if he had something on his face- but then he just smiled, with all of the noise of this place right behind him.

They got up from their places, threw out empty coffee cups and napkins, and started toward the door. “Thanks,” Heracles said, belatedly and sincerely.

“Not at all,” Kiku answered, holding up his hand, “Thank you for the coffee.”

Heracles smiled (he always smiled closed); he mussed Kiku’s hair, much to Kiku’s confusion, and then waved and walked off to- anywhere, wherever it was that Heracles went. Heracles seemed to be able to go anywhere. Kiku thought briefly, on his way to the club again, that Heracles did show the qualities of a host. But what were those, even?

The months went by, four, five; they kept in touch. The club seemed to be going fine, although it was still all under a shadow to Kiku. His conversations with Heracles were a patch of light, respite, from the gloom of other things. It wasn’t anything he thought about though; he needed to press on.

Yao didn’t think much of it when Kiku introduced him to Heracles as a “potential host.” He wasn’t even surprised; he just looked over him, the quickness of his eyes flashing like a whip, and turned back to his papers, sighing. “I wanted our token foreigner to be American, aru,” he said, “But this is fine.” He talked as though he knew the business, because a valuable first step to knowing anything is acting like you do. Kiku was a little taken aback at the fact that he had said that to Heracles’s face, but Heracles was fine with it.

One of the problems was putting ads out; just opening, the most that you could hope for were second-rate hosts, and the thing to expect was people who were new to the business. Obtaining a bartender and cleaning staff, of course, wasn’t hard. And they had at least two hosts by the time they were ready to hire; Yao, for his part, took that as a good sign.

Heracles was their first employee. The second employee- employed as a host, that was- was Im Yong Soo, a Korean boy who had grown up in Okubo but now lived in the Shinjuku Golden Gai. Yao had, with an irritated expression, come into the club one day with the boy tailing him, and, showing him to Kiku, grumbled, “This followed me here.” Kiku was extremely disinclined to ask anything of it.

It was raining out one day, and the way it dripped off the night was sweet, had the texture of music. The lights outside were shining through the fog and everything outside was moving with the limbs of the dark; Kiku, getting off the phone with a supplier, noticed Yao coming out from the office. Yao said that he had called Heracles and Yong Soo to discuss some things; Kiku nodded and went back to his work.

There was no moon, maybe that was why everything seemed gray. Heracles arrived first and sat down on one of the couches- posture completely casual, slack; not the posture that resulted from comfort in the environment, but a natural confidence. Yao put on some tea; Heracles and Kiku had a conversation that seemed to be made of headlines between the bar counter and the couch.

The door opened, and the frenetic energy that was Yong Soo came in, shaking off his umbrella. “Hey everybody! Yong Soo’s here! Let’s start making money!” Yao rolled his eyes; Yong Soo went on, sort of talking to himself as he came into the main room. “You know, everybody, I was reading about it today and I think that there’s sufficient evidence that host clubs originated in Korea. Don’t ask me for proof though. Hey where is-” His translucent umbrella hung slack at his side, and his eyes settled on Heracles. And then he began to sparkle. “A foreigner!?” he exclaimed, excited, clasping his hands together, “Oh man, this place is gonna make so much money!”

“Aiyah,” Yao groaned, “Just sit down already and shut up.”

“How rude,” Yong Soo pouted, and then plopped himself down across from Heracles. He looked at Heracles for a moment, the way children look at things, outward and blinking. He leaned across the small table and shook Heracles’s hand, introducing himself.

“Alright, enough of that, aru,” Yao snapped, “You’re a host and he’s a host. End of story. Let’s begin.”

“That’s not fun, Jii-chan.”

“What did you just call me-”

Their words were batted back and forth for a while; Kiku looked up from his work every once in a while and sighed- but Heracles caught his eye with a subtle movement of his own and smiled, so he smiled back.

Yao sufficiently threatened Yong Soo into silence, and began his briefing. Kiku noticed that, with the rain, with the silence of the lights in the windows, and the size of the group before him, it seemed somehow more intimate than it was; it didn’t seem like very much of a business meeting. Yao started off by saying that since they were his first hosts, he’d need them to learn very quickly what was expected of them, and suggested (since they had no other hosts to train them) that they go to host clubs themselves and watch. (“Aniki!” Korea said, raising his hand, “That’s gay though!” “Shut up. Just pretend to be a host yourself, aru, and go in for a drink.”) They would need to dress themselves, and for reference, there were magazines. He was counting on them, as the first hosts, to give it their best and stay hard-working and focused. He asked for their ages. Heracles was, to Kiku’s surprise, a year or two older than he was, at 23. Yong Soo was only 19 and, much to Kiku’s horror, Yao advised him to start learning how to smoke and drink because that was business. One of the other issues was names; hosts didn’t go by their real names, and they weren’t expected to, either.

Yong Soo paused, deep in thought, deep in a grin. He was going to name himself The Great Catsby after a successful manhwa, but when that suggestion was met with shock and disappointment, he decided to go with Munsu.

When asked to name himself, Heracles was completely thrown off-track. He said he didn’t really know about any of that stuff, what was a good name?

“Do you read any manga?” Kiku asked from the counter. Heracles shook his head and Kiku felt vaguely ashamed for being an avid manga fan.

“Think of anything- characters from movies, or from books, aru,” Yao advised.

Yong Soo leaned forward, concentrating hard. “Why don’t you call yourself...Apollo!?”

“Stop talking, aru,” Yao said, his eyes sliding to Yong Soo, darkly, with exasperation.

“Why can’t I just use my own name?” Heracles asked, “I don’t really mind...and it’s not a common name, either.”

Yao shrugged. “Fine, whatever you like, aru.”

Yao gave them some dates that they should both keep in mind. Yong Soo put them down in his phone; Heracles did nothing, just nodded. They were opposites, the two of them, in a way. Yong Soo, when he listened, nodded, said “yes,” made comments. Heracles just leaned back and watched, that look in his eyes of clear observance, like looking into the face of dark; he only spoke when spoken to or when asked a question.

“What’s your name again?” Yong Soo asked, flopping across the couch and looking at Kiku.

“Kiku Honda,” he replied, straightening out some papers.

“Okay, Kiku, so here’s what I think,” Yong Soo went on, “I think you and me and Jii-chan and Heracles should make a toast! To the success of our new host club!”

Yao’s eye twitched. “You and Heracles are not included in that ‘our,’” he pointed out. “And if you call me Jii-chan again I’ll fire you.”

Yong Soo pouted. “Testy, testy. Well you couldn’t fire me because I haven’t started working yet! Get a bottle of champagne, Aniki!” he exclaimed vigorously, and Kiku pretended that he didn’t hear the way Yong Soo had addressed him (the boy was clearly out of his mind).

“Champagne! I’ll take it out of your paycheck, then,” Yao balked; he turned to Kiku- “Get a bottle of something cheap, aru.”

Kiku nodded and leaned down to get a bottle of one of the cheap champagnes; Heracles got up from his place and rounded the counter to help him get glasses- smiling vaguely when they bumped into each other, which confused Kiku’s thoughts for a couple of moments. The rain outside sang and lilted low; car lights, neon signs, blinked in the dark. The rain like an ache, a feeling of that stripe.

Kiku held up his glass out of obligation; Yao held his in reluctance; Heracles out of something that seemed to skirt curiosity; Yong Soo leading with his full of restlessly glittering gold, breathed white and held high to the lights. “To success!” he cheered.

The stuff was good; tasted like a cheap champagne, though. Yong Soo insisted on toasting over and over again- “To money! To love! To Japan! To dreams! To Kabukicho!’- even when there was no reason to. Yao told him to knock it off and stop trying to annoy him, and that it was time to go, anyway. He gathered himself up and said he’d be leaving first. Kiku had things to finish, so he’d unfortunately not be going home with him. Yong Soo bounded after Yao like a puppy, gathering his coat and umbrella sloppily, and begged Yao to treat him to McDonald’s. When Yao refused, Yong Soo grabbed him and dragged him into the elevator. The last they heard of them before the door slammed shut was “Aiyah! Get your mitts off me, aru! I’ll sue you!”

There was a silence that quickly covered the remnants of sound and there was only the sound of the rain and the papers that Kiku was shifting through. Heracles asked if it was okay to have a cigarette and Kiku said of course it was, that he should feel free.

Heracles examined his glass of champagne; the pale gold was a strange angle of light into his burned blue. “It’s good,” he mused, and then got up to sit at the counter where Kiku was just finishing putting things away, bringing the glasses and bottle to the counter so that they could be taken care of. Kiku was turned around, shuffling papers away behind the counter, when Heracles tapped on his shoulder. He turned back around; Heracles handed him a cigarette. He took it gingerly- as though cautious of it- and leaned into the lick of flame when Heracles lit his own.

Through the wet and touches of haze, a large advertisement outside the window was revolving its colors, marking its numbers- making itself clear and bringing statistics down. Pinwheel movement, plain 1990s rainbow, and then the bursing of the shape.

“I like what he toasted to,” Heracles said, after a silence.

Kiku paused, and tried to think back to it. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch it,” He took a drag and looked long out the window.

Smoke like a vine, or like a vein leading to the heart. Heracles watched outside the window. “Your mind was elsewhere?” he asked, looking back to Kiku.

Kiku nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Heracles chuckled and settled back in his seat; the revolving colors changed to white outside and yelled about a soft drink. They sat under the veil of silence and smoke for an indeterminate amount of time; then Kiku got up and got an ashtray, ran it under water, and threw the damo stubs out in the trash can while Heracles got his jacket, his umbrella, and stood by calm.

“Shall we go?” Kiku asked, distracted, looking for the keys.

“Didn’t you have something to finish?”

Kiku’s smile turned apologetic, and then it turned to ash. “No, I didn’t,” he answered, and closed the matter there. He slipped into his coat and got his umbrella from the closet, not wanting to meet Heracles’s eyes about the matter; but then again, Heracles wasn’t the type to read into things.

They shut off the lights, the place looked like a tomb in progress. Heracles was right behind him as he locked the door; pulled down the metal guard to spare Kiku’s having to reach it.

The hall was buzzing and empty of anybody’s life, of anybody’s personal history; but still the rain shone soft in the lights that were still on and in the elevator on the way down. “Did you do the interior?” Heracles asked.

Kiku paused- it was like a snap in his mind, skipped through his throat, that somebody realized. “Ah, yes. Oh. As much as I could have done; I’m afraid I’m not licensed.”

Heracles smiled; the smile seemed for himself, for Kiku as well. The elevator went down, down. “I like it,” he offered.

Kiku settled back and paused. “Thank you.”

They went across the lobby in silence, and then went their separate ways; each leaving with an impression of the other that was seen in every light going home. Each of them had the impression of spring- that whirling on solitary night that promises the breath of something new.

Yao’s logic in opening the host club was that since host clubs made so much money, that in and of itself would take care of the loan and the cost of renovations and whatever else followed. That was a false dichotomy and Kiku had a minor heart attack and visions of poverty and a clandestine life lived from a cardboard box when he realized so. However, there were things that made up for their inexperience. One was that Kiku had a sense of propriety, and a sense of aesthetics, of where things should fall and how they should do so. Another was that Yao- as Kiku should have guessed- had a natural flair for business. Instinctual, it seemed. He excelled especially in telling people what to do.

The transitions of times made no mark and really weren’t anything but regular motions; seasons and then seasons, and nobody took much notice because they were in the whirlwind of a working business. Within a year the club was a notable establishment; within another half of one, it was one of the premium host clubs in Kabukicho. Everything went from jeans and hoodies to two-piece suits and leather shoes and brand names, Comme des Garcons, D&G- it all sped by fast-forward, skipping just as the trains rumbling beneath the city and breathing with just as much machinated power. Every night the club pulsed with new life, everybody with their empty eyes, sins and innuendos- that kinda place that burns ephemeral, its heady atmosphere almost surreal. It was well-designed; it looked like the kind of place that love could go hiding.

Aside from the general quality of the business, the club was also noted for the quality of its hosts. Through some strange evolution that Kiku had never really bothered to look at in-depth, Heracles became the number-one host of the club (perhaps it was odder that Yong Soo became the number-two). It was a slow migration there, and it was much stranger than just passing seasons that this man- by nature quiet, solitary, cerebral, and casual- was sought out in desperation and laughter by so many strange woman in the city. If Kiku had stopped to think of it, he probably would have thought it extremely odd that Heracles had found such success in a profession that was basically a licensed deception.

The first months of business were slow; but when things picked up, that was when the change started. At the beginning Heracles was full of mistakes. It was nothing that might put his job in jeopardy (his only slip-up in that department was when he had asked Yao for some money to rent a suit; Yao had narrowed his eyes and, as he gave him the money, replied, “You better make double this within the month, aru”).

His mistakes were perhaps rudimentary. He made the error at first of sleeping with the girls who asked him to sleep with them. That meant the loss of a client, and if not the loss of a client, then the gain of a clinger. He also made the mistake of telling them the truth. Of course he knew how to talk to women, but how to professionally talk to women is a different matter altogether. The worst thing he did was give his opinion, because Heracles had some opinions that were long as textbooks and just as complicated. After many girls who just looked at him bored, confused, or irritated, and after many girls who said to Kiku “Get me somebody else! I don’t want a history lesson!” Heracles resolved to tell girls the truth in a series of darknesses, one veiled behind another, for the sake of their entertainment and vanity.

That was thankfully the worst of it. Most of the time girls found him very entertaining, and he was certainly more than okay-looking. He wisened up soon, though. One of the most valuable assests Heracles had was his intelligence; knowledge is one of the most useful weapons. Through observation, you can learn what a person wants- you can learn what they’re asking you from their eyes, and in business of the sexes there’s much that you must pay attention to between the lines.

While he donned the traditional dark suit, he declined the traditional prima donna rocker-bleached hairstyle (which was fine, since he was a foreigner). More mysteriously, he refused the pointy leather shoes with an almost childlike vehemence.

“I don’t get what his deal is,” Yong Soo said, vexed as he gazed down at his own perfectly shining shoes, “I think they’re really cool!”

“Well,” Yao answered, through a bite of food, “You would.”

In the beginning, he had to approach girls on the street and reel in customers that way, like most hosts. Thankfully, he was possessed of a natural air of calm that made it easy to approach strangers- calmly slipping into conversation like it was meant to happen anyway, good from the moment he offered a cigarette. Yong Soo, on the other hand, had a 50/50 method of asking girls silly questions and making ridiculous compliments (sometimes for fun he’d just go “Check your blinkers baby, to me it looks like you’ve been right all day!”).

Another thing that was an asset to Heracles was the animal calm of his body- that perturbing energy that Kiku had noticed only a few times before and had decided to ignore each time. The way he turned his body all the way from hips to shoulders was intoxicating, the hint of something ancient, seaborn in his hands. He just seemed like somebody who knew what to do with himself. The perilous air was set off by his breezy informality, by the languid, sincere interest he took in people- with the movement of eyes and mouth. Once in a while a woman wouldn’t like him, would complain with bored teeth and acid nails to Yao or Kiku- “He looks like he’s going to fall asleep- get me one who’s awake-” but for the most part women liked the aura of electric salt, the waves coloring his eyes, the subtlety of conversation like a net. It was deception and manipulation at the end of it, but he didn’t seem disturbed by that. Nor was anyone else; they’d learned to live with it. Anybody who’d stayed working for long had become desensitized to the exchange of values- time for pleasure, money for affection, diamond shining dead ends for dreams.

It was an empty-mouthed business. Like said, anybody who’d stayed long learned to deal with the pains because of the lifestyle involved. For example, Yong Soo was, by now, used to the burn of alcohol on the hollow walls of his throat; he plopped down in a seat and called for a glass of water to ease the discomfort.

“Jeez! The champagne calls are too much,” he whined as Kiku passed by, taking a gulp of his water. “Seven bottles? Really? Who does that?” It was late, almost five in the morning; there were only a few customers, some girls taking naps in the booths with their hosts, and some girls with dead eyes still finding sun enough to laugh with.

“Please don’t say such things out loud,” Kiku half-chided, with a sigh.

“Huh? How come? That girl’s gone- Heracles walked her to the lobby,” Yong Soo answered.

“One shouldn’t speak so freely if there are still customers,” Kiku answered, with a small shrug.

“Your tie’s a little loose there, Aniki,” Yong Soo grinned. Kiku shrank away, seeing that Yong Soo was in a mood; but the puppy’s attention was elsewhere turned- he looked toward the door, said, “Oh, there’s Heracles now!”

Kiku looked toward the door (why did he do that? there was no point in doing so, really); Heracles walked in their direction, seeming to take notice of nothing that wasn’t in his mind, idly flicking his lighter on and off, on and off. “Hey! Hey!” Yong Soo called, waving his hand wildly.

Heracles toward them and nodded; then he seemed to see something worth looking at, so he went over to them- asked for a glass of water as well, and leaned against the counter.

“Mr. Number One!” Yong Soo hooted; Heracles raised his eyebrows. “You got that girl to buy seven bottles- seven bottles!”

Heracles kind of shrugged it off; he was always quite patient with Yong Soo which in itself was nothing short of miracle working. “Well...I’m tired,” he said, stretching out, catlike.

“How do you do it?”

“I don’t get enough sleep...”

“No, no! I mean with your customers- what’s your secret?” Yong Soo asked, completely oblivious to the fact that Heracles was teasing him.

“Reading.”

“Reading what?”

“Hm...psychology,” Heracles answered; Yong Soo’s expression fell and crumbled. Heracles smiled. “Magazines, too. Like Cosmo.”

“Cosmo?” Yong Soo asked, blinking, mind running with images of stars and suns and planets. Yong Soo was the type of boy who only read magazines that had manga in them.

“Hm. Cosmo,” Heracles affirmed, with a nod. Kiku leaned against the counter as well, feeling his own tiredness settle on him. Heracles offered him some of his water and Kiku, curious as to whether or not Heracles found it inappropriate to drink from the same glass, declined. Yong Soo was in the middle of a wide yawn when Yao passed by.

“It’s about time to close up, aru, isn’t it?” he asked.

Kiku checked his watch. “It seems so, yes.”

“Aiyah!” Yao yawned, and stretched out; his eyes flickered over to Yong Soo, who was watching him with avid interest. “You, go tell the others to get up and get their girls out.”

“Okay! Wait- why not Heracles?”

“Because I’m the boss and I didn’t say Heracles,” Yao muttered grouchily.

Yong Soo gasped dramatically. “So that’s how it is! Fine, Sensei! Just know you’ve hurt this number two deeply!” And he ran off being a fool to wake up his co-workers. Yao cursed his fate a thousand times and said he’d be leaving first, and did, breezing past Heracles and Kiku with his jacket over his shoulder and deep bags bruising beneath his eyes.

Kiku looked up to Heracles, who was taking a sip from his glass (Adam’s apple bobbing, that ripple of muscle as he swallowed). Kiku smiled, said, “Ah, yes. Thank you for your hard work. I’d ask you to please continue working so.”

Heracles looked back at Kiku- Kiku bristled under his glance, like he’d been burned by that glance before (did he have to look at him so directly?)- and then cocked his head slightly. “You mean with that girl?” he asked.

“Oh- hm, yes- for everything else as well,” Kiku answered, slightly off-put.

Heracles’s eyes flicked a low shade, down two shades of blue; he made a sound a little like laughing and mussed Kiku’s hair, saying, “You don’t need to be so formal, Kiku...We’ve known each other for- almost two years, right?”

“A-ah,” Kiku answered, nodding, turning away immediately, “Even so.” It wasn’t blushing; or maybe it was a different kind of blushing, illegible and seeming cold to anybody but Heracles, who seemed to understand him easily- a shade of gray obscured Kiku’s face, his eyes suddenly colder.

PART II

PLEASE NOTE there's no time lapse from this part to the next linked part; it was separated because it was too large XD