Fic for littlealex
Title: you must never love a monster
By: froidaux
Pairing: Akame
Rating: R
Genre/Warnings: Angst, death
Notes: Thanks very much to my beta who tackled this monster even though she seemed busy! ♥ And I hope you enjoy the fic, littlealex, and that AU is within your like. :x And thanks to the mods who I must've burdened greatly. ♥
Summary: AU (8700 words) Jin is the last on on Kame's list.
On October 3, 2006 at 23:15, a bus going from San Jose, CA to Los Angeles, CA departs. The estimated arrival time is 05:55, October 4, 2006.
At 01:45, the bus stops at Coalinga Jct, CA and Tokisada Masuda boards. He sits next to Arturo Martinez Tapia who is at this time, asleep.
At 02:25, the bus departs.
There are 28 people on this bus: 27 passengers, and the driver.
At approximately 04:30, the driver hears Sally McIntyre scream that there is a murderer on board. Tapia is dead. Masuda continues to carve into his body with a knife and begins to throw pieces of flesh at the other passengers, many of who are sleeping.
The driver stops the bus and evacuates. Masuda does not attempt pursuit and continues to cut Tapia.
At 04:32, the police are notified and arrive at the scene while the passengers are transported to safety.
At approximately 05:00, Masuda is arrested. He is charged with second-degree murder.
On March 28, 2007, Masuda’s trial is held. Many of the passengers are present to testify.
On March 31, 2007, Masuda is found not criminally responsible due to insanity, and is admitted to a mental health facility.
---
February 28, 2010
赤西 仁
There were a bunch of newspapers stacked on the side of Akanishi Jin’s doorstep. Certainly not the Asahi Shimbun that had accompanied Kamenashi Kazuya on the train ride, but a lesser known title specific to the small town that he was currently in. The newspapers sat there in the corner atop the concrete, some mutilated by the rain, beside the plain, black mat that was going grey with age, made even more apparent by the absolute black of Kamenashi’s shoes. Despite the clutter there, he still appreciated the house. Rather sizeable due to it being outside the city-the only way someone of Akanishi’s age could afford it, Kamenashi was sure, unless he lived with his parents. He didn’t know, but that’s what he had come to find out-though not directly, it was all part of meeting the other man.
Living in this neighbourhood, however, Kamenashi was already beginning to feel a connection form between him and Akanishi. Here was peace. The houses, though not entirely uniform, some more traditional, some-like the one in front of him-more Western, and some with shockingly colourful garages, doors, or flowers. It was an expression of the individual after all, when everything could be so stifling: please his parents, his boss, his co-workers. And even if Kamenashi couldn’t see inside the walls here, he knew the silence and was calmed. He had been standing at this doorstep for sixteen minutes now, and his surroundings were already becoming less foreign, more welcoming.
Those were the misconceptions of an outsider unfortunately, and Akanishi knew much better having lived there for the past couple of years. The silence stifled, and he hated it. When he would lie down in his bed to sleep at night, sometimes he’d wake up when the sun was still nowhere to be seen and wonder if he’d gone deaf. He had his music on most times, whether for work or pleasure, volume kept low, but he had to turn off even that every now and then. Sometimes he’d hear a foreign voice among the melodies, turn off his iPod to be greeted with silence. It was maddening; was driving him crazy to look out his window, and wonder where his neighbours had gone when he didn’t see them. Tokyo was never this silent.
Tokyo was full of people, full of buildings, full of cars, full of distractions. People clustered that closely together depended on each other too much, placed too much trust in one another. As far as Kamenashi was concerned it was too dangerous, stacking so many families into towers hitting the sky. But it was hard to escape once one became that dependent. That’s what he was doing here, after all. He had been caught in a cluster of people: twenty-seven people, to be exact. A smaller cluster than that of Tokyo’s, the dependence greater. He needed them in order to get his closure, and find his peace again.
Akanishi was the last on his list, and Kamenashi could already taste the relief settling over his tongue and relaxing his muscles as he raised a hand to ring Akanishi Jin’s doorbell.
The ring cut through the silence of the house with no resistance.
---
“Can I help you?”
Akanishi stood warily at his door; a suspicious expression on his face that Kamenashi found rather peculiar considering that the door was wide open. He didn’t hide behind it, peeking out to peer at the stranger. Akanishi wasn’t that type of person, hardly that cautious even now, but he wasn’t dumb. No uniform meant no delivery. No suit meant no salesmen. No bag hanging at his side while the strap dug a harsh red line into his shoulder, weighed down by all the unnecessary material. Not a writer. Akanishi had learned to read the signs in people, as superficial as they may be.
“I’m here for Akanishi Jin?” Kamenashi said, voice a question despite his almost absolute certainty that the man in front of him was the one he was looking for. Akanishi could tell that much as well, the way his name fell from Kamenashi’s mouth, it came out naturally. He wondered how many times Kamenashi had to have said it to make it sound like that.
Akanishi shifted, planting one hand high against the doorframe, leaning on it as if he was trying to make himself look bigger. “That’s me.”
Akanishi Jin. Twenty-five years old. Blood type O. One brother, both parents alive and married. Currently unmarried himself. A musical technologist employed at Dog Ear Records where he had been working for the past two years. One of the twenty-eight people that had been aboard the bus in California to witness Masuda Tokisada commit murder. The last one on Kamenashi’s list.
“Kamenashi Kazuya,” he greeted, his own name coming out as naturally as Akanishi’s before it. He was smiling a smile meant to ward off Akanishi’s suspicions, though he wouldn’t be surprised if they remained. Hardly anyone could witness such a thing and come out thinking the world was the same as it had always been. “I came here to apologize,” Kamenashi continued, his smile wavering before he bowed deeply, hands pressed closely against his sides. He could see Akanishi’s bare feet on the floor in front of him, toes curled against the slight chill of the doorframe and the February air.
That silence stretched on between them, despite the ring of the doorbell still echoing in Akanishi’s mind. It had rung no more than five minutes ago and yet was already a memory. He wondered what Kamenashi would have done if he hadn’t answered the door. There was an obvious determination packed into that small body. Yet, he couldn’t imagine the other man doing something as dramatic as waiting outside all night. He seemed like the type of person to return everyday and watch the house with those small, serious eyes.
“What for?” Akanishi asked eventually, mouth turned down in distaste as he raised his free hand to scratch the side of his neck.
Kamenashi straightened, breathing out heavily from where the blood was no doubt rushing through his body. Akanishi hoped he didn’t get dizzy. “For the murder four years ago-I know it must be impossible for you to forgive me. But I hope that my regret will at least…”
“Did you plan it?” Akanishi cut him off, raising an eyebrow as he looked down at Kamenashi. He was used to hearing apologies and eloquent words. If he had to be honest, he doubted that even a perfectly sincere apology would mean much to him anymore. He didn’t care for people apologizing about what they couldn’t help. His brother had diligently read him the reports: no one that knew Masuda could’ve predicted the attack; no one could’ve prevented it. Unless this Kamenashi was about to tell him that he had personally tormented Masuda so that he could become a killer, Akanishi wasn’t concerned.
But Kamenashi wasn’t deterred; he’d experience this response before. “I’m Masuda’s relative,” he explained, waiting for recognition to spark in Akanishi’s eyes. Detest, anger. Fear. Some people got physically ill at the mention of the name, some got violent. “I just wanted-”
“One of my relatives is a beauty queen but you don’t see me walking around with a tiara and sceptre, do you?” Akanishi cut off Kamenashi again, letting his arm drop so that he could cross them both across his chest, shoulder pushed against the pristine white doorframe, some of the fabric catching against the wood and wearing the shirt down a bit more. “Listen, I’ve heard apologies from the family already. The poor bastard was nuts, wasn’t he? Leave it at that.”
“Akanishi-san, I need to do this.” Kamenashi’s voice came out a little strained then, wearing away at the perfect image he presented: neatly combed hair, clothes free of any wrinkles. Akanishi himself was wearing his rumpled hoodie and jeans. If it had been later in the day, he would’ve looked even less presentable wearing his sweatpants.
“I need to meet every one of you. To apologize, to help. Or at least try,” he stated, tongue sweeping across his lips nervously. After so many encounters, he felt both tired and strong. He wanted this to be over, to be free of California. It had been four years now; he had spent nearly all that time in California looking for the passengers of that bus. Akanishi Jin lived in Japan so he was the last one on his list, and Kamenashi wouldn’t stop when he was this close.
“They’ve got professionals for that kind of thing, I don’t need help anyway,” Akanishi replied with a roll of his eyes. He understood that Kamenashi probably felt guilt, but the other obviously needed help of his own if he was going so far because of it. There had been twenty-eight people on that bus; there was no way he could save them all. “Wait.” His eyes lit up and he stood up straight, away from the door unconsciously closer to Kamenashi. “Wait, how many people have you seen already? Did you see a Japanese girl? Okita Anna?”
The strength seemed to drain from Kamenashi at the mention of that name, and he nodded. He looked tired. “Yes, I met her. I’ve met them all. You’re the last one.”
---
On July 4, 2006, Akanishi Jin and Okita Anna officially began dating.
Anna was born in Nagoya on September 24, 1985, as the younger sister to two older brothers. Her family moved to San Jose in 1991.
In 2006, she returned to Japan on an internship at a recording label in Tokyo. There, she met Akanishi whom she eventually began seeing.
On September 22, 2006, both Akanishi and Anna travelled to San Jose to celebrate Anna’s twenty-first birthday.
On October 3, 2006, both Akanishi and Anna boarded a bus going to Los Angeles to spend the last three days of their two-week vacation there as celebration for their three month anniversary.
On October 4, 2006, on that bus, Masuda Tokisada killed one of his fellow passengers.
For six months, Akanishi and Anna both remained in San Jose until the trial on March 28, 2007.
On April 4, 2007, Akanishi returned to Japan. Anna remained in San Jose. The two have not since reunited.
---
“I know she was your girlfriend, she mentioned you,” Kamenashi said, leaving his black shoes by the door and following Akanishi to the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, leading into the backyard and covered in a white tile that was cold in February. Kamenashi still had on his black socks. Akanishi was barefoot.
“How’s she doing?” Akanishi asked, taking a glass from one of his cupboards and filling it with water before handing it to Kamenashi who was leaning against the counter beside him.
They hadn’t kept contact after he’d left San Jose-they’d barely kept contact while he was still in San Jose. They’d both attended therapy, and a support group with the other passengers. Anna had wanted to stay with her family, and Akanishi had stayed behind with her, confident that they could help each other.
But she’d taken it so much worse than he had. He’d had the window seat, leaving her much closer to the murder. None of the blood had gotten onto him, whereas part of a finger had hit her in the chest. It left a dark stain over her right breast where she’d been wearing a low-cut top. He hadn’t even seen the body before rushing out of the bus, only the dark red stain on Anna.
“She cried talking about it,” Kamenashi answered, pursing his lips as he remembered. There had been worse. One of the women couldn’t even look at him without crying once he’d mentioned that he was a relative. Anna was stronger than that, just not strong enough. “She’s alright- just jaded. But she’s doing her best.”
Anna hadn’t wanted to come back to Japan, stricken with horror that the murderer had been one of her own: Japanese. It didn’t matter to her that the people she loved were Japanese-no, they lived in California, and they were American. Masuda Tokisada had lived in Los Angeles for 34 years. But she would find new things to hate, new things to be frightened of. If Masuda’s name had started with an “A” Akanishi was sure Anna would hate herself. And him.
“She really regrets the way she treated you, back then. But she’s trying not to let the guilt get to her; she’s trying not to let the negative emotions control her. She’s really trying,” Kamenashi continued. She was trying, which was more than he could say for some of the others. Some tried to forget it had ever happened, some had let it swallow them, strip them of clothes, flesh, defences until hardly anything was left.
“I had my ear buds in,” Akanishi admitted. He’d said it many times now, to whomever he told about the incident when he felt like talking, and yet it hadn’t become mechanical. Somehow, it was hard to strip him of emotion. “We were both sleeping because we didn’t want to be tired when we got to LA, but I had my music on just, y’know.” He could still remember the song that had been playing when he’d woken up: My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas. It made him laugh until he remembered the blood on Anna’s breast.
“But how are you?” Kamenashi asked as he turned his attention to Akanishi and away from the memories he had of meeting Anna. She had been twelfth on his list.
Akanishi sighed in annoyance, running a hand through his hair as he glared at Kamenashi. He hadn’t been done talking, and the other had interrupted with such an irritating question. He didn’t like it, and pushed away from the counter to walk to the back of the kitchen where a simple table sat in front of the glass doors leading to the backyard. Or the small patch of grass that they called their backyard, not that Akanishi was complaining. This house was a blessing.
He lived in this house with his younger brother, Reio, who had some ridiculous job in IT, and talked about chips and micros, and other gibberish that Akanishi didn’t care to understand anyway. Reio had only recently gotten the job; it was new and exciting for him. Akanishi only hoped that the excitement would last, and that his brother wouldn’t soon find it to be dull, getting bored with work and forcing himself up every morning to do a job that made him miserable.
“Don’t ask me that, I’m telling you, aren’t I?” Akanishi answered irritably, mouth twisted back into that frown as he sat down on a chair at the table, sideways so that he could face Kamenashi. “Like I said, I had my music on. I only sorta heard the scream in between the chant of ‘my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps’.” He attempted to mimic Fergie’s voice as he recited that line, amused with himself before he noticed Kamenashi’s deadpan expression and sighed. “I didn’t look at anything before getting the hell out of there, alright? It was just… surreal to me. So, I’m fine, and not traumatized or anything.”
Kamenashi’s brows were knitted as he looked at Akanishi. He didn’t understand how the other man could be so nonchalant about it. Out of twenty-eight people, he had met a few whose lives were still in order despite the incident, but they were still spooked by what had happened-even those that had barely witnessed anything. He didn’t believe that Akanishi could be so unaffected.
“How?” It finally tumbled past his lips, eyes open wide, revealing more of the pink veins that appeared to slither through the white of Kamenashi’s eyes, not that Akanishi could see from his position so far away. “How can you not care about what happened four years ago?”
“Not care?” And there was a bit of indignation on Akanishi’s face, eyebrows rising as he returned Kamenashi’s look with his own like they were sparring to see who could outdo the other when it came to moral righteousness. “Of course I fucking care, it changed my life. Why the hell wouldn’t I care?”
Anger blossomed on Akanishi’s face, like the veins there had burst to seep red underneath his skin, though Kamenashi was sure the colour would be something closer to purple if that had happened. He was also sure that Akanishi would not be standing so tall; clear strength packed in those tense muscles. In fact, he was almost positive that if something like that had happened, Akanishi’s big, brown eyes would roll right back into his skull as he collapsed onto the floor. Most likely hitting his head against the tile to let more of that angry, red blood seep out. The thought made Kamenashi sick.
“It’s just that you don’t seem very-”
“Don’t seem what?” Akanishi was getting good at cutting Kamenashi’s off, voice aggressive and sharp like he enjoyed letting Kamenashi’s words dangle like that. Half, the rest removed. “I’m not sobbing on the floor at the memory? This is what pisses me off, as soon as someone’s okay with something bad, they’re not normal. Everyone thinks they’re faking it.”
Akanishi’s floor was so white, and that was the problem. A stain like that would be so obvious, and everyone would know. They would think that he did it, and hadn’t he, really? If Akanishi fell to the floor, and the crack of his skull echoed through the room, it wouldn’t matter how loud it was, Kamenashi would stand still in shock. He wouldn’t react fast enough to save Akanishi’s life-that would make him the murderer, he was sure.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Kamenashi gripped the counter hard; knuckles white like the bones had pushed right past the skin. His other hand was at his stomach, clutching the fabric of his dark blue oxford shirt, adding the wrinkles that Akanishi had noted were missing before.
“Where’s my bathroom-what?” Akanishi was full on scowling now, not appreciating being ignored by the other man after being judged by him, but the distaste faded into a look of mildly concerned surprise when he saw the pathetic figure Kamenashi presented. All of his small body heaving with each heavy breath he took. Akanishi eventually managed to mumble, “Down the hall toward the front door, on your right.”
The heavy thuds of Kamenashi sock-clad feet were almost in sync with his frantic heart, the imprint of the kitchen counter still bright pink against his palm even as he pressed it against the toilet seat.
---
“I didn’t realize you were the nervous type,” Akanishi said, hovering in the doorway of his bathroom, watching Kamenashi with openly concerned eyes. He supposed he should’ve expected it, he sometimes forgot that not everyone was like him. Kamenashi was someone that was personally seeking out the victims of his relative’s crime, it was only natural he was a sensitive individual. Akanishi could feel guilt lurking in the corners of his heart.
He was wrong, of course. Kamenashi’s reaction wasn’t a direct result of being yelled at, not entirely. He was just like this. He just had thoughts like this, about blood. Perhaps that’s why Masuda’s crime had affected him so deeply, except he knew that his thoughts were a result. His own guilt a result. Making Akanishi feel bad didn’t help his cause any, and he was about to explain when the man dropped down next to him on the toilet. Akanishi reached out to rub a hand down his back, and Kamenashi was filled with a warmth that didn’t remind him of fire and boiling flesh.
“I yell all the time like that-I’m a pretty loud guy, you can’t let it bother you this much.” If Akanishi’s voice could be gentle, Kamenashi was sure it would sound like this. He was surprised by how low it could get, how smooth and comforting it felt, like a blanket made of silk, not that Kamenashi had ever been able to afford such a thing. He’d spent a lot of his money in California, hunting down all the passenger-victims. Like this, at least he could feel that he never needed to personally buy such a luxury when he was sure the experience of Akanishi’s voice would produce the same result. He remembered that the other man was a musical technologist.
“Do you sing too?” Kamenashi asked. His own voice was raspy and broken like something had cut it into tiny pieces so small that the whole was unrecognizable. His voice had been somewhat cheerful before, a little piece of hope lodged in there that Akanishi only noticed now that it was missing. Or maybe smaller, not gone. “At work, do you sing?”
Akanishi simply stared at the other in response, trying to pinpoint where the question had come from. Was it because he had said he was loud? Kamenashi seemed too logical for that. Besides, there were many singers who were quiet, soft spoken, not uttering a word unless spoken to.
“No, I. Uh, I’m a musical technologist. I record sounds, and music, and sort of…” Akanishi waved a hand, figuring that Kamenashi wasn’t interested in an explanation since he’d only asked a yes or no question in the first place. He was a little frazzled, that they had moved onto this unexpected topic so quickly despite how doggedly Kamenashi had been pursuing the issue of the murder.
The eyes that Kamenashi turned toward Akanishi were full of doubt, and Akanishi couldn’t imagine why. He rarely told anyone about how he used his voice, how he enjoyed karaoke more than just a way to fool around with his friends. It was strange that Kamenashi could almost tell, when the other had only met him fifteen minutes ago.
But time was of no consequence apparently, not to Kamenashi who had spent so long watching, looking at the layers people had around themselves, defences they weren’t aware of. Personalities, habits, traits they weren’t aware of. He wondered how much Akanishi knew about himself.
“No, you have to,” Kamenashi stated again, firm in his belief and clenching his jaw. The taste in his mouth was putrid, though he hadn’t actually vomited anything, just remained crouched over the toilet dry heaving, each time feeling like the air wouldn’t fill his lungs again and he’d suffocate there on Akanishi’s bathroom floor. But now the life was coming back to him, and he had to know this. This would give him a handle on Akanishi, a hook that he could use to pull himself closer and invade Akanishi’s personal space, take something private for him until he had to accept that Kamenashi was there, that Kamenashi would talk about the murder and what exactly it had done to Akanishi Jin’s life.
Akanishi hesitated. “Sometimes they use me as a backing vocalist,” he admitted, a shy smile spreading across his lips now that he’d gotten it out. He wasn’t ashamed, even though he knew it wasn’t anything prestigious or worthy of fame. It was something that he enjoyed, and was allowed to indulge in every now and then, thus there was no reason not to be happy for it. One of the reasons he didn’t dwell on California. He had other problems now, and he also had happiness now.
Even if Kamenashi didn’t think that was all there was to it, he smiled back at Akanishi’s answer. “I think that’s a very smart decision on their part,” he said, sincerely. While he did want to know that Akanishi was all right, that the murder hadn’t truly ruined him, he wasn’t saying this only to get the other to trust him. He wondered if Akanishi could see that.
Akanishi turned a thoughtful gaze his way, head cocked just slightly to the side. “I know you were just pretty nauseous, but do you want something to eat?”
---
“Why’d you get sick all of a sudden?” Akanishi asked, bringing a tray holding two bowls of fried rice and cups of tea into the living room where Kamenashi was sitting on the couch. There was a short coffee table in front of him where Akanishi set the tray down before sitting next to the shorter man.
The television was on, tuned to an episode of an anime that Kamenashi couldn’t recognize. It sat against the wall, and there were no windows though the room was still bright. The hallway just outside led to the front door, and Kamenashi briefly wondered if Akanishi was only feeding him so that he could send him off without guilt after causing him to get sick. He wondered if Akanishi, while in the kitchen heating up the rice-Kamenashi hadn’t heard any sounds of cooking so he could only assume they were leftovers-had run the words over and over in his head: “well, it was interesting meeting you, but it’s getting kind of late so maybe you should go now.” That sounded like the sort of thing Kamenashi would do himself; he should probably stop projecting his own habits onto others, especially Akanishi. Because if he knew anything about the other man, it was that they were different.
“Apparently I come off sort of intimidating, but that’s not…” Akanishi trailed off, picking up his bowl of rice and glancing at the clock. “You pissed me off saying all that. You don’t have the right to judge how I’m coping with the murder-you weren’t even there.”
“You’re right,” Kamenashi replied humbly, leaning over to take his own bowl and offering his thanks for the food. There was a certain scent to the chicken that implied it had spent a night in the fridge, a certain texture to the rice, but Kamenashi wouldn’t complain. How could he when Akanishi was doing this out of pure kindness?
Akanishi sighed, watching the suddenly quiet man beside him. There had been a strength there even as Kamenashi had been bent over the toilet, and now where was it? He shook his head, chastising himself for expecting to understand this man who he’d just met. “Why’d you get sick suddenly?” he asked, leaning back into the couch, one leg up and tucked underneath the other as he shovelled the rice into his mouth. His lips glistened just slightly from the oil. “Are you… terminal?”
There had been a movie like that, Akanishi remembered. He hadn’t seen it, but he remembered one of his friends mentioning it to him, about a man who had found out that he was dying and sought out to right the wrongs of his past. Akanishi didn’t know what one person could’ve done so wrong in their lives that they would spend their last moments so selflessly, rather than with those they cared about, doing what made them happy. Maybe Kamenashi was more deeply connected to this murder than Akanishi had first thought, that wouldn’t be something to admit while standing on someone’s doorstep after all.
Lowering his bowl, Kamenashi raised a fist to his mouth as he began to laugh, and Akanishi relaxed, watching with amusement as Kamenashi’s eyes became something that resembled upside-down smiles in their mirth. There was some sort of relief in knowing that the other was in no danger, had no illness weighing him down and trapping him while it broke down his body. It was the natural compassion people had for each other, a small wonder that let Akanishi keep his faith.
“No, no,” Kamenashi answered, waving a small hand as if he could physically dispel Akanishi’s concern. “No, it’s just…” That hand fell back into his lap lifelessly, and he faced Akanishi who had turned those brown eyes on him. Kamenashi noticed the slight heaviness underneath them. “I must’ve eaten something that didn’t suit the train ride.”
Recognition lit up Akanishi’s eyes as he nodded, but even that certain brightness that came when the concern faded couldn’t undo that heaviness that Kamenashi had noticed, and now couldn’t stop noticing. He wondered at the causes. Why did the body so easily betray weakness?
“Did you come from Tokyo?” Akanishi asked, eyes travelling Kamenashi’s body though his clothes didn’t scream “city-dweller”. He knew the city well enough to tell anyway.
“Yeah, how’d you know?” Hand back at Kamenashi’s lips to cover his mouth while he spoke, a bit of food still in his mouth. Somehow he doubted that Akanishi would care if he spoke which his mouth full.
And Akanishi didn’t, shrugging in response as he leaned forward to pick up his tea, blowing into the cup gently before taking a drink from it. “I dunno, everyone from Tokyo has this way of talking.”
“Accent?” Kamenashi cut in, he wasn’t sure what type of accent he had anymore, having spent so long in California speaking English, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was Tokyo’s. He’d lived his entire life there, save for his detour to America.
“No,” Akanishi answered, his brows furrowed in a way that implied he didn’t like being interrupted while he was talking despite it being something he himself was guilty of. It didn’t bother Kamenashi, he wasn’t here to cater to Akanishi’s whims. If he had to be invasive, he would be, and if he had to be annoying, he would be that as well, but only if the situation called for it. He wanted to be on Akanishi’s good side.
“No, just this way of talking really fast, like no one has enough time to say everything slowly,” Akanishi explained, shrugging again and dropping his head to look back at his bowl as he brought it closer to his mouth, put the cup back on the coffee table. He smirked when he thought of another explanation, tilting his head back to just barely look at the other man, almost like a tease. “Plus, most people come from there. Tokyo’s greedy.”
“You’re from Tokyo, too, aren’t you?” Kamenashi asked, catching the dark blue cuff of his shirt with his small fingers and wiping it over his lips. Akanishi hadn’t brought any tissues, and Kamenashi couldn’t see any nearby. He didn’t feel like sending the other man away in search of them, feared what that break in conversation could do. Breaks were harder to mend than one would assume. Anna had told him that she and Akanishi had met in Tokyo.
Akanishi nodded, sifting through his rice and mixing up the contents of his bowl before taking a bite that automatically led to another. He swallowed this time before answering while shifting on the couch so that he was facing Kamenashi a little more. It irritated his neck to constantly turn to look at the other, a sharp pain that he was sure would persist and grow into a dull ache that would follow him around for the rest of the day if he didn’t do something to alleviate it.
“Yeah, spent most of my life there. My mom and dad are still there too, but.” Akanishi shrugged. “I didn’t want to live in some cramped apartment, y’know? And I can do most of my work at home, and I don’t mind the drive whenever I go in so it worked out.” Except if Akanishi had been able to afford one of the luxurious apartments he knew Tokyo housed, he might’ve gone back. “It doesn’t have anything to do with California.” It didn’t have anything to do with a fear of big cities and psychos lurking in corners-Akanishi didn’t fear the world.
They ate in silence.
Kamenashi set down his bowl once he was done, tea considerably cooler now so that he could drink it without fear of burning, but that wasn’t any reassurance. It felt like it’s life had been stolen and now it was slowly going cold with death. It didn’t have the luxury of being human: living while dying.
“You drive to work?” Kamenashi asked. He hadn’t seen any car in the driveway and could only assume it was in the garage in an attempt to escape the cold, though he doubted the garage was much warmer. At least it would be free from the strange snow they had seen this year. “Do you… I mean, how are you with public transport now?”
Akanishi didn’t answer at first and Kamenashi knew he’d found a weakness. (Why had he even been looking for one? Couldn’t he be content that Akanishi had moved on?) Akanishi took a moment to stare at his own now empty cup sitting on the coffee table, fingers laced. He knew it was only a logical to ask such a question, knew it wasn’t abnormal to be paranoid that every bus and train could turn into the scene of a murder. Could be somebody’s deathbed.
“I get a little nervous,” Akanishi managed to admit, surprising himself with the words. It had been four years now, somewhere across the globe he had been on a bus with a murderer and now in Japan, the trains made him nervous. “I like driving, but sometimes my brother takes the car, so I can’t.” His eyes trailed the movement of Kamenashi’s hand setting down his cup. It was empty. Akanishi looked back up at the other man from where both his legs were planted on the floor, elbows on knees as he leaned forward. “Maybe you should go now.”
It wasn’t a suggestion, and Akanishi stood up. Out of politeness, Kamenashi followed, but he didn’t want to leave. He had more to say and his closure hadn’t come yet-there wasn’t any comfort yet, no sense of accomplishment in all that he’d done yet. And if it was all worthless then how many steps would he be going back on the path of recovery? Back to that office, onto that couch with the bespectacled man with the soft voice telling him to try again. There was no point in trying again.
“I’m sorry that my question made you uncomfortable, Akanishi-san, but I can’t go just yet,” Kamenashi replied firmly. He was anxious and jittery like someone had replaced the blood in his veins with bees, but without the honey they were angry. Angry, buzzing bees that were flocking to fill up his heart like it was a hive, and with every contraction of the muscle it squeezed closer to them, forcing their stingers into his angry red walls. He couldn’t leave yet.
“Are you for real?” Akanishi asked, mouth open with incredulousness. Certainly his life wasn’t average, but this went beyond the realm of anything else. A stranger appearing in his life, asking him these questions like his life depended on it. Akanishi had no reason to listen to Kamenashi’s whims and requests. He had no reason to deal with some stranger who had appeared out of his past-he had his own problems to deal with now.
“This is my house.” He was speaking sternly, that furrow of the brow that was characteristic of his father, and that he never realized he unconsciously mimicked. To him it was as natural as the blood that ran through his body, not that he was aware of that either. Barely aware of the intimidating strength he carried, reaching out to press a hand against Kamenashi’s shoulder-surprisingly broad for how delicate it looked. “You’ll go when I tell you to go.”
“No-” Kamenashi replied almost automatically, unsure where this desperation was coming from. He could come back again tomorrow; he had never spent only one day with any of the previous passengers but he couldn’t leave. It was that distress that forced power into his muscles, forced an aggression Kamenashi didn’t normally have. Small hands came out with a sudden power to grip Akanishi’s forearm, bare from where he had pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, but that heat distracted him. A heat that didn’t make him think that the skin of his palm was boiling, turning red then black into ash. It was a heat that warmed the icy shield he had over his mouth, the cold, calculated words.
“On the train ride over here, I wondered what I would do if I turned around and all I saw was the guy behind me getting his throat slit,” Kamenashi rushed out, eyes wide with the imagery. The man who had been sitting behind him was wearing a grey sweater, a red hat. Bald with a bit of facial hair. “If some of his blood squirted onto the window, and all over the seat, it’d be a real hassle to clean up, and I would probably help the janitor because I didn’t do anything and it was happening right behind me. Who would even want to ride that train again knowing someone had been killed there? The company would lose so much money, just because nobody had stopped the murderer. And how could I not notice if was-”
Akanishi shot out a hand to cover Kamenashi’s mouth, unable to listen anymore. He’d tried to interrupt earlier but didn’t think that the other man heard him. With his hand over Kamenashi’s mouth he almost felt like he could feel Kamenashi’s heartbeat, pumping so frantically in an attempt to match the pace of his words. The smaller man’s hand tightened over Akanishi’s arm as if to imply that even if he couldn’t speak anymore, he wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t leave.
“Jesus! Calm down, no one died, alright? You’re fine. It’s fine.” Akanishi furrowed his brows, his own heartbeat picking up as a slow chill settled over him. He didn’t know why the other man would say all that. He didn’t know why he was so guilty about something he couldn’t control-hadn’t even been around to witness. But still, Akanishi wasn’t stupid and he knew there was a lie lingering in there somewhere, and suddenly he wanted to know. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to help, but he wanted to know.
“That’s a pretty detailed image,” Akanishi murmured as his hand fell away, but Kamenashi’s grip only tightened and he wondered if there would be a bruise there even though it didn’t particularly hurt. It was firm enough to hold him captive, but nothing more than that. Somehow the hold wasn’t repulsive; the proximity wasn’t an intrusion despite the foreign landscape of Kamenashi’s body, it didn’t make him apprehensive. He was curious.
“I know,” Kamenashi breathed out, his wide-eyes have fallen to half-mast as he watched those big eyes travel his small figure. With eyes that expressive, Kamenashi didn’t know how Akanishi got away with anything. Eyes that curious, that seeking, he didn’t know how Akanishi had managed not to catch sight of the bloody scene on that bus. Then again, the taller man was wilful. He saw what he wanted, and didn’t see what he didn’t want. Kamenashi wanted that power so that he didn’t feel so helpless sometimes. Helpless, and unable to stop feeling the warmth of Akanishi’s arm press into his own body. He wondered if his own distress was seeping into the other man: his desire, his unexplainable urge to get something more from the other.
Shifting his gaze down toward the hold that Kamenashi had on his forearm, Akanishi turned his own hand to return the favour, his long fingers circling Kamenashi’s arm more wholly. This was them: trying to get a hold of each other, linked by flesh. How could it be so easy to drop formalities and pretences around a stranger, just because of a shared event so far in the past? Akanishi could hardly believe how deeply his life had been affected by this one event, something that only lasted seconds in his memory.
“Why do you think like this?” Akanishi asked, his voice as breathless as Kamenashi’s though he was standing still. There was no need to whisper when they were the only ones in the house, and yet he couldn’t help the intimate way the words left his mouth.
Kamenashi shook his head in response, signalling that there was no easy way to answer this question, and not guaranteeing perfect coherency when he did attempt to explain. “Don’t you ever feel guilty about something terrible that’s happened? Even when it’s outside of your control?” And when Akanishi opened his mouth to answer, Kamenashi held up his free hand to stop him from answering-neither man was angry at being interrupted. “Don’t you sometimes think, ‘why them’?”
Why not me was the hidden question there, and Akanishi knew it well. If he’d been the one on the aisle seat, he was sure he wouldn’t be living like this now, sure that he wouldn’t be able to talk about it without tears breaking free from his eyes. He would’ve turned Kamenashi away on his doorstep for mentioning that name, for being a relative-thank God it wasn’t me.
“Why wasn’t I the one in the aisle seat,” Akanishi murmured, eyes away from Kamenashi and filled with torment, and images of Anna. Anna and the ruin her life had become, the way she couldn’t look at her own body anymore. The way she wasn’t comfortable being human anymore. Akanishi wondered what it felt like to be an alien in your own body.
Kamenashi chuckled something that lacked any sense of amusement, and though Akanishi felt his concerns belittled, he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything until the other man spoke. “Why wasn’t I the one sitting beside Masuda Tokisada?” he said with a humourless smile. Akanishi wondered what it felt like to wish you’d been killed.
Cold. It must be cold, Akanishi thought, ignoring how simple he must have been making the problem. He pressed his other hand against Kamenashi’s shoulder as if to infuse some of his own heat into the other man, unaware he had been doing that all along. “You weren’t meant to die,” he said simply, an answer to the question that had been plaguing Kamenashi for four years no doubt. Akanishi didn’t know if he believed in fate-it was a tricky thing-but he believed this. Kamenashi Kazuya was not meant to die on that day four years ago.
“Are you saying that this is better than death?” Kamenashi asked and the question was like a monster clawing its way into Akanishi’s heart. It was a question that he didn’t even acknowledge sometimes in the delirium of drowsiness when he could hear Anna crying into her pillow and scratching at herself. He wondered if that existence was better than the exit Tapia had been given.
“Are you saying that thinking about blood and pain all the time is better than just-”
“Stop.” Because it didn’t matter how fast Tokyoites spoke, Akanishi was good at cutting them off. He’d lived there so long, it wasn’t anything to be afraid of, he knew. “Smile.” Akanishi ordered, and for some reason, Kamenashi listened to him. He was’t a difficult person. But it was a crooked smile, one that was trying to find joy but wasn’t sure where to look. “Laugh,” Akanishi said this time, softly because he didn’t know if Kamenashi could do it. And sure enough the sound that followed was hollow, a breathless mockery for what a laugh should be.
“What were you before the murder?” Akanishi asked. He’d leaned in closer to Kamenashi, big eyes trailed on that tired face, those desperate eyes: more and more wrinkles appearing in his image. How fast people could cripple.
“I worked for-”
“No,” Akanishi interrupted harshly, shaking his head and suddenly the thoughts were falling from his head like dead bodies shot down one after the other. “Were you happy? Do you want that again? Didn’t it feel good?”
“Yes,” Kamenashi mumbled, remembering that life. Remembering his two dogs and the joy that had come with something as simple as their names: Ran and Jelly. It was a miracle to be able to find happiness in that.
“Then find it again. That’ll make this better than death, right?” It was certainly a simple answer to Kamenashi’s problems, and Akanishi knew it wasn’t that easy. He was certain that Kamenashi must have been getting therapy-recovery was a slow process, and there was hardly ever one magic answer, but it was all Akanishi could offer.
Kamenashi seemed to already know that Akanishi was just pulling whatever answer he could think of out of thin air. “It’s not that easy-”
“It is,” Akanishi insisted, even though he didn’t know if all the conviction in the world could make his words true. He wasn’t anything spectacular. Just because he’d witnessed something terrible didn’t mean that he suddenly understood the meaning of life. It didn’t mean that he could help Kamenashi, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t either because he wanted to so badly. He was almost desperate to help, like Kamenashi had taken his own desperation and pressed it into his skin. “What did you have before? What makes you happy?”
“Panties,” Kamenashi mumbled automatically, and Akanishi wanted to laugh at that answer because it was absolutely ridiculous when Kamenashi continues. “Kisses, his smile…”
Akanishi barely thought about it, already warmed by their joined arms and the way Kamenashi’s shoulder turned to him in his hold. He went beyond a mere invasion of Kamenashi’s personal space and kissed him.
---
“I gotta admit, if I said I didn’t think this was gonna lead to sex, I’d be lying,” Akanishi confessed slowly from where he was laying on his bed beside Kamenashi.
His bedroom was on the second floor of the house, and bathroom connected to the side. There was a window in this room, and Akanishi could see the light outside streaming across the air and lighting up everything in the room. Including Kamenashi who was next to him, the top buttons of his oxford shirt undone and one side of his collar rumpled. The bottom of his shirt was bunched up from where Akanishi had pulled it out of his pants. Akanishi’s hands had never made it any further south than the belt wrapped so snugly around those narrow hips.
When they’d been going up the stairs, hands tentatively exploring and finding more skin, one of the steps had caught Akanishi by surprise-never mind this being his house-and he fallen onto the second floor with a rather undignified shriek. Apparently the pitch of his voice had brought Kamenashi to tears with laughter until he collapsed on the floor beside him. They’d both ended up laughing then, crawling into Akanishi’s bedroom to the right and onto the bed where they’d both collapsed, wide smiles on their faces.
“We might’ve gone there,” Kamenashi admitted, somehow unable to be shy. There was a rosy tint to Akanishi’s cheeks that Kamenashi was sure was mirrored on his own face and it was beautiful. That body could be beautiful. “Do you do that a lot? It must impress the ladies.”
“I, maybe?” Akanishi pursed his lips, trying to remember any accidents he’d had lately, and winced before shrugging nonchalantly and trying to look cool. “I’m not particularly a klutz.”
“You’d be an awesome lady killer with those moves,” Kamenashi couldn’t help retort before quieting. He didn’t want to ruin the good mood that they’d found themselves in, something he couldn’t have imagined from the apprehensive man that he had first met on that doorstep, but this was direction his mind took. Remaining quiet for a few more moments, he eventually spoke again, “Have you been back to California since you left?”
Akanishi only shook his head in response, picking at a spot on his bed sheet without remorse, and Kamenashi only nodded before speaking again, “I think you should go back. Ride the bus from San Jose to LA.”
That could only be the most horrific suggestion Kamenashi could think of, and Akanishi’s expression said just that. There was a difference between recovering from something, and being entirely unaffected by it. But Akanishi could feel change settling inside him, like the silence that wasn’t so stifling when he could hear the birds and cars go by outside, when his brother was home and geeking around the house.
“Will you come with me?” Akanishi asked, and he could already see the hesitation and the answer coming from Kamenashi’s lips before he even had the chance to finish voicing his question, and he knew why. He had caught the lie that had been hovering around Kamenashi and he wondered why he had even said it. Maybe to escape the pity. Akanishi knew all about the pity and he hadn’t even seen anything, but whenever he said that, they’d claimed he was just trying to “downplay” his trauma. “We’ll sit in my spot, not yours. I’ll take the aisle seat.”
The look that Kamenashi sent him admitted that he wasn’t going to deny Akanishi’s assumption. He was right, and there was no point in Kamenashi trying to prove him wrong. But still, Kamenashi was considering it, which was a marvel of its own. That a man who couldn’t look at a body without imagining at least a dozen ways for it to suffer at the hands of death was willing to revisit the circumstances of the murder that had turned him into this. It was difficult to believe that his own mind was thinking this, when it had been so tortured minutes earlier, and he wondered if he was beginning to delude himself, that maybe his mind had gotten tired of waiting for him to recover and was beginning to fake it.
“How can your life change this fast?” Kamenashi asked, looking up from the bed sheets to meet Akanishi’s big, brown eyes. Akanishi smiled in response, reaching one hand out to take Kamenashi’s and Kamenashi looked down at the hand, then back at the man and thought that there was more to Akanishi than this body, and somehow he liked that he knew it, if only a piece.
Akanishi answered, “I think you of all people should know how.”
---
Kamenashi Kazuya was born in Edogawa, Tokyo on February 23, 1986.
On September 24, 2006, Kamenashi travelled to California to watch the Giants play in San Francisco.
On October 3, 2006, he boarded a bus travelling to Los Angeles. This bus stopped in San Jose.
On October 4, 2006, a murder was committed on that bus.
For three years, Kamenashi found each of the passengers of that bus in hopes of helping himself cope.
On February 7, 2010, he returned to Japan. He met Akanishi Jin on February 28, 2010.
On May 2, 2010, Kamenashi and Akanishi returned to San Jose. The two rode the bus to Los Angeles on May 4, 2010.
By: froidaux
Pairing: Akame
Rating: R
Genre/Warnings: Angst, death
Notes: Thanks very much to my beta who tackled this monster even though she seemed busy! ♥ And I hope you enjoy the fic, littlealex, and that AU is within your like. :x And thanks to the mods who I must've burdened greatly. ♥
Summary: AU (8700 words) Jin is the last on on Kame's list.
On October 3, 2006 at 23:15, a bus going from San Jose, CA to Los Angeles, CA departs. The estimated arrival time is 05:55, October 4, 2006.
At 01:45, the bus stops at Coalinga Jct, CA and Tokisada Masuda boards. He sits next to Arturo Martinez Tapia who is at this time, asleep.
At 02:25, the bus departs.
There are 28 people on this bus: 27 passengers, and the driver.
At approximately 04:30, the driver hears Sally McIntyre scream that there is a murderer on board. Tapia is dead. Masuda continues to carve into his body with a knife and begins to throw pieces of flesh at the other passengers, many of who are sleeping.
The driver stops the bus and evacuates. Masuda does not attempt pursuit and continues to cut Tapia.
At 04:32, the police are notified and arrive at the scene while the passengers are transported to safety.
At approximately 05:00, Masuda is arrested. He is charged with second-degree murder.
On March 28, 2007, Masuda’s trial is held. Many of the passengers are present to testify.
On March 31, 2007, Masuda is found not criminally responsible due to insanity, and is admitted to a mental health facility.
---
February 28, 2010
赤西 仁
There were a bunch of newspapers stacked on the side of Akanishi Jin’s doorstep. Certainly not the Asahi Shimbun that had accompanied Kamenashi Kazuya on the train ride, but a lesser known title specific to the small town that he was currently in. The newspapers sat there in the corner atop the concrete, some mutilated by the rain, beside the plain, black mat that was going grey with age, made even more apparent by the absolute black of Kamenashi’s shoes. Despite the clutter there, he still appreciated the house. Rather sizeable due to it being outside the city-the only way someone of Akanishi’s age could afford it, Kamenashi was sure, unless he lived with his parents. He didn’t know, but that’s what he had come to find out-though not directly, it was all part of meeting the other man.
Living in this neighbourhood, however, Kamenashi was already beginning to feel a connection form between him and Akanishi. Here was peace. The houses, though not entirely uniform, some more traditional, some-like the one in front of him-more Western, and some with shockingly colourful garages, doors, or flowers. It was an expression of the individual after all, when everything could be so stifling: please his parents, his boss, his co-workers. And even if Kamenashi couldn’t see inside the walls here, he knew the silence and was calmed. He had been standing at this doorstep for sixteen minutes now, and his surroundings were already becoming less foreign, more welcoming.
Those were the misconceptions of an outsider unfortunately, and Akanishi knew much better having lived there for the past couple of years. The silence stifled, and he hated it. When he would lie down in his bed to sleep at night, sometimes he’d wake up when the sun was still nowhere to be seen and wonder if he’d gone deaf. He had his music on most times, whether for work or pleasure, volume kept low, but he had to turn off even that every now and then. Sometimes he’d hear a foreign voice among the melodies, turn off his iPod to be greeted with silence. It was maddening; was driving him crazy to look out his window, and wonder where his neighbours had gone when he didn’t see them. Tokyo was never this silent.
Tokyo was full of people, full of buildings, full of cars, full of distractions. People clustered that closely together depended on each other too much, placed too much trust in one another. As far as Kamenashi was concerned it was too dangerous, stacking so many families into towers hitting the sky. But it was hard to escape once one became that dependent. That’s what he was doing here, after all. He had been caught in a cluster of people: twenty-seven people, to be exact. A smaller cluster than that of Tokyo’s, the dependence greater. He needed them in order to get his closure, and find his peace again.
Akanishi was the last on his list, and Kamenashi could already taste the relief settling over his tongue and relaxing his muscles as he raised a hand to ring Akanishi Jin’s doorbell.
The ring cut through the silence of the house with no resistance.
---
“Can I help you?”
Akanishi stood warily at his door; a suspicious expression on his face that Kamenashi found rather peculiar considering that the door was wide open. He didn’t hide behind it, peeking out to peer at the stranger. Akanishi wasn’t that type of person, hardly that cautious even now, but he wasn’t dumb. No uniform meant no delivery. No suit meant no salesmen. No bag hanging at his side while the strap dug a harsh red line into his shoulder, weighed down by all the unnecessary material. Not a writer. Akanishi had learned to read the signs in people, as superficial as they may be.
“I’m here for Akanishi Jin?” Kamenashi said, voice a question despite his almost absolute certainty that the man in front of him was the one he was looking for. Akanishi could tell that much as well, the way his name fell from Kamenashi’s mouth, it came out naturally. He wondered how many times Kamenashi had to have said it to make it sound like that.
Akanishi shifted, planting one hand high against the doorframe, leaning on it as if he was trying to make himself look bigger. “That’s me.”
Akanishi Jin. Twenty-five years old. Blood type O. One brother, both parents alive and married. Currently unmarried himself. A musical technologist employed at Dog Ear Records where he had been working for the past two years. One of the twenty-eight people that had been aboard the bus in California to witness Masuda Tokisada commit murder. The last one on Kamenashi’s list.
“Kamenashi Kazuya,” he greeted, his own name coming out as naturally as Akanishi’s before it. He was smiling a smile meant to ward off Akanishi’s suspicions, though he wouldn’t be surprised if they remained. Hardly anyone could witness such a thing and come out thinking the world was the same as it had always been. “I came here to apologize,” Kamenashi continued, his smile wavering before he bowed deeply, hands pressed closely against his sides. He could see Akanishi’s bare feet on the floor in front of him, toes curled against the slight chill of the doorframe and the February air.
That silence stretched on between them, despite the ring of the doorbell still echoing in Akanishi’s mind. It had rung no more than five minutes ago and yet was already a memory. He wondered what Kamenashi would have done if he hadn’t answered the door. There was an obvious determination packed into that small body. Yet, he couldn’t imagine the other man doing something as dramatic as waiting outside all night. He seemed like the type of person to return everyday and watch the house with those small, serious eyes.
“What for?” Akanishi asked eventually, mouth turned down in distaste as he raised his free hand to scratch the side of his neck.
Kamenashi straightened, breathing out heavily from where the blood was no doubt rushing through his body. Akanishi hoped he didn’t get dizzy. “For the murder four years ago-I know it must be impossible for you to forgive me. But I hope that my regret will at least…”
“Did you plan it?” Akanishi cut him off, raising an eyebrow as he looked down at Kamenashi. He was used to hearing apologies and eloquent words. If he had to be honest, he doubted that even a perfectly sincere apology would mean much to him anymore. He didn’t care for people apologizing about what they couldn’t help. His brother had diligently read him the reports: no one that knew Masuda could’ve predicted the attack; no one could’ve prevented it. Unless this Kamenashi was about to tell him that he had personally tormented Masuda so that he could become a killer, Akanishi wasn’t concerned.
But Kamenashi wasn’t deterred; he’d experience this response before. “I’m Masuda’s relative,” he explained, waiting for recognition to spark in Akanishi’s eyes. Detest, anger. Fear. Some people got physically ill at the mention of the name, some got violent. “I just wanted-”
“One of my relatives is a beauty queen but you don’t see me walking around with a tiara and sceptre, do you?” Akanishi cut off Kamenashi again, letting his arm drop so that he could cross them both across his chest, shoulder pushed against the pristine white doorframe, some of the fabric catching against the wood and wearing the shirt down a bit more. “Listen, I’ve heard apologies from the family already. The poor bastard was nuts, wasn’t he? Leave it at that.”
“Akanishi-san, I need to do this.” Kamenashi’s voice came out a little strained then, wearing away at the perfect image he presented: neatly combed hair, clothes free of any wrinkles. Akanishi himself was wearing his rumpled hoodie and jeans. If it had been later in the day, he would’ve looked even less presentable wearing his sweatpants.
“I need to meet every one of you. To apologize, to help. Or at least try,” he stated, tongue sweeping across his lips nervously. After so many encounters, he felt both tired and strong. He wanted this to be over, to be free of California. It had been four years now; he had spent nearly all that time in California looking for the passengers of that bus. Akanishi Jin lived in Japan so he was the last one on his list, and Kamenashi wouldn’t stop when he was this close.
“They’ve got professionals for that kind of thing, I don’t need help anyway,” Akanishi replied with a roll of his eyes. He understood that Kamenashi probably felt guilt, but the other obviously needed help of his own if he was going so far because of it. There had been twenty-eight people on that bus; there was no way he could save them all. “Wait.” His eyes lit up and he stood up straight, away from the door unconsciously closer to Kamenashi. “Wait, how many people have you seen already? Did you see a Japanese girl? Okita Anna?”
The strength seemed to drain from Kamenashi at the mention of that name, and he nodded. He looked tired. “Yes, I met her. I’ve met them all. You’re the last one.”
---
On July 4, 2006, Akanishi Jin and Okita Anna officially began dating.
Anna was born in Nagoya on September 24, 1985, as the younger sister to two older brothers. Her family moved to San Jose in 1991.
In 2006, she returned to Japan on an internship at a recording label in Tokyo. There, she met Akanishi whom she eventually began seeing.
On September 22, 2006, both Akanishi and Anna travelled to San Jose to celebrate Anna’s twenty-first birthday.
On October 3, 2006, both Akanishi and Anna boarded a bus going to Los Angeles to spend the last three days of their two-week vacation there as celebration for their three month anniversary.
On October 4, 2006, on that bus, Masuda Tokisada killed one of his fellow passengers.
For six months, Akanishi and Anna both remained in San Jose until the trial on March 28, 2007.
On April 4, 2007, Akanishi returned to Japan. Anna remained in San Jose. The two have not since reunited.
---
“I know she was your girlfriend, she mentioned you,” Kamenashi said, leaving his black shoes by the door and following Akanishi to the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, leading into the backyard and covered in a white tile that was cold in February. Kamenashi still had on his black socks. Akanishi was barefoot.
“How’s she doing?” Akanishi asked, taking a glass from one of his cupboards and filling it with water before handing it to Kamenashi who was leaning against the counter beside him.
They hadn’t kept contact after he’d left San Jose-they’d barely kept contact while he was still in San Jose. They’d both attended therapy, and a support group with the other passengers. Anna had wanted to stay with her family, and Akanishi had stayed behind with her, confident that they could help each other.
But she’d taken it so much worse than he had. He’d had the window seat, leaving her much closer to the murder. None of the blood had gotten onto him, whereas part of a finger had hit her in the chest. It left a dark stain over her right breast where she’d been wearing a low-cut top. He hadn’t even seen the body before rushing out of the bus, only the dark red stain on Anna.
“She cried talking about it,” Kamenashi answered, pursing his lips as he remembered. There had been worse. One of the women couldn’t even look at him without crying once he’d mentioned that he was a relative. Anna was stronger than that, just not strong enough. “She’s alright- just jaded. But she’s doing her best.”
Anna hadn’t wanted to come back to Japan, stricken with horror that the murderer had been one of her own: Japanese. It didn’t matter to her that the people she loved were Japanese-no, they lived in California, and they were American. Masuda Tokisada had lived in Los Angeles for 34 years. But she would find new things to hate, new things to be frightened of. If Masuda’s name had started with an “A” Akanishi was sure Anna would hate herself. And him.
“She really regrets the way she treated you, back then. But she’s trying not to let the guilt get to her; she’s trying not to let the negative emotions control her. She’s really trying,” Kamenashi continued. She was trying, which was more than he could say for some of the others. Some tried to forget it had ever happened, some had let it swallow them, strip them of clothes, flesh, defences until hardly anything was left.
“I had my ear buds in,” Akanishi admitted. He’d said it many times now, to whomever he told about the incident when he felt like talking, and yet it hadn’t become mechanical. Somehow, it was hard to strip him of emotion. “We were both sleeping because we didn’t want to be tired when we got to LA, but I had my music on just, y’know.” He could still remember the song that had been playing when he’d woken up: My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas. It made him laugh until he remembered the blood on Anna’s breast.
“But how are you?” Kamenashi asked as he turned his attention to Akanishi and away from the memories he had of meeting Anna. She had been twelfth on his list.
Akanishi sighed in annoyance, running a hand through his hair as he glared at Kamenashi. He hadn’t been done talking, and the other had interrupted with such an irritating question. He didn’t like it, and pushed away from the counter to walk to the back of the kitchen where a simple table sat in front of the glass doors leading to the backyard. Or the small patch of grass that they called their backyard, not that Akanishi was complaining. This house was a blessing.
He lived in this house with his younger brother, Reio, who had some ridiculous job in IT, and talked about chips and micros, and other gibberish that Akanishi didn’t care to understand anyway. Reio had only recently gotten the job; it was new and exciting for him. Akanishi only hoped that the excitement would last, and that his brother wouldn’t soon find it to be dull, getting bored with work and forcing himself up every morning to do a job that made him miserable.
“Don’t ask me that, I’m telling you, aren’t I?” Akanishi answered irritably, mouth twisted back into that frown as he sat down on a chair at the table, sideways so that he could face Kamenashi. “Like I said, I had my music on. I only sorta heard the scream in between the chant of ‘my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps’.” He attempted to mimic Fergie’s voice as he recited that line, amused with himself before he noticed Kamenashi’s deadpan expression and sighed. “I didn’t look at anything before getting the hell out of there, alright? It was just… surreal to me. So, I’m fine, and not traumatized or anything.”
Kamenashi’s brows were knitted as he looked at Akanishi. He didn’t understand how the other man could be so nonchalant about it. Out of twenty-eight people, he had met a few whose lives were still in order despite the incident, but they were still spooked by what had happened-even those that had barely witnessed anything. He didn’t believe that Akanishi could be so unaffected.
“How?” It finally tumbled past his lips, eyes open wide, revealing more of the pink veins that appeared to slither through the white of Kamenashi’s eyes, not that Akanishi could see from his position so far away. “How can you not care about what happened four years ago?”
“Not care?” And there was a bit of indignation on Akanishi’s face, eyebrows rising as he returned Kamenashi’s look with his own like they were sparring to see who could outdo the other when it came to moral righteousness. “Of course I fucking care, it changed my life. Why the hell wouldn’t I care?”
Anger blossomed on Akanishi’s face, like the veins there had burst to seep red underneath his skin, though Kamenashi was sure the colour would be something closer to purple if that had happened. He was also sure that Akanishi would not be standing so tall; clear strength packed in those tense muscles. In fact, he was almost positive that if something like that had happened, Akanishi’s big, brown eyes would roll right back into his skull as he collapsed onto the floor. Most likely hitting his head against the tile to let more of that angry, red blood seep out. The thought made Kamenashi sick.
“It’s just that you don’t seem very-”
“Don’t seem what?” Akanishi was getting good at cutting Kamenashi’s off, voice aggressive and sharp like he enjoyed letting Kamenashi’s words dangle like that. Half, the rest removed. “I’m not sobbing on the floor at the memory? This is what pisses me off, as soon as someone’s okay with something bad, they’re not normal. Everyone thinks they’re faking it.”
Akanishi’s floor was so white, and that was the problem. A stain like that would be so obvious, and everyone would know. They would think that he did it, and hadn’t he, really? If Akanishi fell to the floor, and the crack of his skull echoed through the room, it wouldn’t matter how loud it was, Kamenashi would stand still in shock. He wouldn’t react fast enough to save Akanishi’s life-that would make him the murderer, he was sure.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Kamenashi gripped the counter hard; knuckles white like the bones had pushed right past the skin. His other hand was at his stomach, clutching the fabric of his dark blue oxford shirt, adding the wrinkles that Akanishi had noted were missing before.
“Where’s my bathroom-what?” Akanishi was full on scowling now, not appreciating being ignored by the other man after being judged by him, but the distaste faded into a look of mildly concerned surprise when he saw the pathetic figure Kamenashi presented. All of his small body heaving with each heavy breath he took. Akanishi eventually managed to mumble, “Down the hall toward the front door, on your right.”
The heavy thuds of Kamenashi sock-clad feet were almost in sync with his frantic heart, the imprint of the kitchen counter still bright pink against his palm even as he pressed it against the toilet seat.
---
“I didn’t realize you were the nervous type,” Akanishi said, hovering in the doorway of his bathroom, watching Kamenashi with openly concerned eyes. He supposed he should’ve expected it, he sometimes forgot that not everyone was like him. Kamenashi was someone that was personally seeking out the victims of his relative’s crime, it was only natural he was a sensitive individual. Akanishi could feel guilt lurking in the corners of his heart.
He was wrong, of course. Kamenashi’s reaction wasn’t a direct result of being yelled at, not entirely. He was just like this. He just had thoughts like this, about blood. Perhaps that’s why Masuda’s crime had affected him so deeply, except he knew that his thoughts were a result. His own guilt a result. Making Akanishi feel bad didn’t help his cause any, and he was about to explain when the man dropped down next to him on the toilet. Akanishi reached out to rub a hand down his back, and Kamenashi was filled with a warmth that didn’t remind him of fire and boiling flesh.
“I yell all the time like that-I’m a pretty loud guy, you can’t let it bother you this much.” If Akanishi’s voice could be gentle, Kamenashi was sure it would sound like this. He was surprised by how low it could get, how smooth and comforting it felt, like a blanket made of silk, not that Kamenashi had ever been able to afford such a thing. He’d spent a lot of his money in California, hunting down all the passenger-victims. Like this, at least he could feel that he never needed to personally buy such a luxury when he was sure the experience of Akanishi’s voice would produce the same result. He remembered that the other man was a musical technologist.
“Do you sing too?” Kamenashi asked. His own voice was raspy and broken like something had cut it into tiny pieces so small that the whole was unrecognizable. His voice had been somewhat cheerful before, a little piece of hope lodged in there that Akanishi only noticed now that it was missing. Or maybe smaller, not gone. “At work, do you sing?”
Akanishi simply stared at the other in response, trying to pinpoint where the question had come from. Was it because he had said he was loud? Kamenashi seemed too logical for that. Besides, there were many singers who were quiet, soft spoken, not uttering a word unless spoken to.
“No, I. Uh, I’m a musical technologist. I record sounds, and music, and sort of…” Akanishi waved a hand, figuring that Kamenashi wasn’t interested in an explanation since he’d only asked a yes or no question in the first place. He was a little frazzled, that they had moved onto this unexpected topic so quickly despite how doggedly Kamenashi had been pursuing the issue of the murder.
The eyes that Kamenashi turned toward Akanishi were full of doubt, and Akanishi couldn’t imagine why. He rarely told anyone about how he used his voice, how he enjoyed karaoke more than just a way to fool around with his friends. It was strange that Kamenashi could almost tell, when the other had only met him fifteen minutes ago.
But time was of no consequence apparently, not to Kamenashi who had spent so long watching, looking at the layers people had around themselves, defences they weren’t aware of. Personalities, habits, traits they weren’t aware of. He wondered how much Akanishi knew about himself.
“No, you have to,” Kamenashi stated again, firm in his belief and clenching his jaw. The taste in his mouth was putrid, though he hadn’t actually vomited anything, just remained crouched over the toilet dry heaving, each time feeling like the air wouldn’t fill his lungs again and he’d suffocate there on Akanishi’s bathroom floor. But now the life was coming back to him, and he had to know this. This would give him a handle on Akanishi, a hook that he could use to pull himself closer and invade Akanishi’s personal space, take something private for him until he had to accept that Kamenashi was there, that Kamenashi would talk about the murder and what exactly it had done to Akanishi Jin’s life.
Akanishi hesitated. “Sometimes they use me as a backing vocalist,” he admitted, a shy smile spreading across his lips now that he’d gotten it out. He wasn’t ashamed, even though he knew it wasn’t anything prestigious or worthy of fame. It was something that he enjoyed, and was allowed to indulge in every now and then, thus there was no reason not to be happy for it. One of the reasons he didn’t dwell on California. He had other problems now, and he also had happiness now.
Even if Kamenashi didn’t think that was all there was to it, he smiled back at Akanishi’s answer. “I think that’s a very smart decision on their part,” he said, sincerely. While he did want to know that Akanishi was all right, that the murder hadn’t truly ruined him, he wasn’t saying this only to get the other to trust him. He wondered if Akanishi could see that.
Akanishi turned a thoughtful gaze his way, head cocked just slightly to the side. “I know you were just pretty nauseous, but do you want something to eat?”
---
“Why’d you get sick all of a sudden?” Akanishi asked, bringing a tray holding two bowls of fried rice and cups of tea into the living room where Kamenashi was sitting on the couch. There was a short coffee table in front of him where Akanishi set the tray down before sitting next to the shorter man.
The television was on, tuned to an episode of an anime that Kamenashi couldn’t recognize. It sat against the wall, and there were no windows though the room was still bright. The hallway just outside led to the front door, and Kamenashi briefly wondered if Akanishi was only feeding him so that he could send him off without guilt after causing him to get sick. He wondered if Akanishi, while in the kitchen heating up the rice-Kamenashi hadn’t heard any sounds of cooking so he could only assume they were leftovers-had run the words over and over in his head: “well, it was interesting meeting you, but it’s getting kind of late so maybe you should go now.” That sounded like the sort of thing Kamenashi would do himself; he should probably stop projecting his own habits onto others, especially Akanishi. Because if he knew anything about the other man, it was that they were different.
“Apparently I come off sort of intimidating, but that’s not…” Akanishi trailed off, picking up his bowl of rice and glancing at the clock. “You pissed me off saying all that. You don’t have the right to judge how I’m coping with the murder-you weren’t even there.”
“You’re right,” Kamenashi replied humbly, leaning over to take his own bowl and offering his thanks for the food. There was a certain scent to the chicken that implied it had spent a night in the fridge, a certain texture to the rice, but Kamenashi wouldn’t complain. How could he when Akanishi was doing this out of pure kindness?
Akanishi sighed, watching the suddenly quiet man beside him. There had been a strength there even as Kamenashi had been bent over the toilet, and now where was it? He shook his head, chastising himself for expecting to understand this man who he’d just met. “Why’d you get sick suddenly?” he asked, leaning back into the couch, one leg up and tucked underneath the other as he shovelled the rice into his mouth. His lips glistened just slightly from the oil. “Are you… terminal?”
There had been a movie like that, Akanishi remembered. He hadn’t seen it, but he remembered one of his friends mentioning it to him, about a man who had found out that he was dying and sought out to right the wrongs of his past. Akanishi didn’t know what one person could’ve done so wrong in their lives that they would spend their last moments so selflessly, rather than with those they cared about, doing what made them happy. Maybe Kamenashi was more deeply connected to this murder than Akanishi had first thought, that wouldn’t be something to admit while standing on someone’s doorstep after all.
Lowering his bowl, Kamenashi raised a fist to his mouth as he began to laugh, and Akanishi relaxed, watching with amusement as Kamenashi’s eyes became something that resembled upside-down smiles in their mirth. There was some sort of relief in knowing that the other was in no danger, had no illness weighing him down and trapping him while it broke down his body. It was the natural compassion people had for each other, a small wonder that let Akanishi keep his faith.
“No, no,” Kamenashi answered, waving a small hand as if he could physically dispel Akanishi’s concern. “No, it’s just…” That hand fell back into his lap lifelessly, and he faced Akanishi who had turned those brown eyes on him. Kamenashi noticed the slight heaviness underneath them. “I must’ve eaten something that didn’t suit the train ride.”
Recognition lit up Akanishi’s eyes as he nodded, but even that certain brightness that came when the concern faded couldn’t undo that heaviness that Kamenashi had noticed, and now couldn’t stop noticing. He wondered at the causes. Why did the body so easily betray weakness?
“Did you come from Tokyo?” Akanishi asked, eyes travelling Kamenashi’s body though his clothes didn’t scream “city-dweller”. He knew the city well enough to tell anyway.
“Yeah, how’d you know?” Hand back at Kamenashi’s lips to cover his mouth while he spoke, a bit of food still in his mouth. Somehow he doubted that Akanishi would care if he spoke which his mouth full.
And Akanishi didn’t, shrugging in response as he leaned forward to pick up his tea, blowing into the cup gently before taking a drink from it. “I dunno, everyone from Tokyo has this way of talking.”
“Accent?” Kamenashi cut in, he wasn’t sure what type of accent he had anymore, having spent so long in California speaking English, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was Tokyo’s. He’d lived his entire life there, save for his detour to America.
“No,” Akanishi answered, his brows furrowed in a way that implied he didn’t like being interrupted while he was talking despite it being something he himself was guilty of. It didn’t bother Kamenashi, he wasn’t here to cater to Akanishi’s whims. If he had to be invasive, he would be, and if he had to be annoying, he would be that as well, but only if the situation called for it. He wanted to be on Akanishi’s good side.
“No, just this way of talking really fast, like no one has enough time to say everything slowly,” Akanishi explained, shrugging again and dropping his head to look back at his bowl as he brought it closer to his mouth, put the cup back on the coffee table. He smirked when he thought of another explanation, tilting his head back to just barely look at the other man, almost like a tease. “Plus, most people come from there. Tokyo’s greedy.”
“You’re from Tokyo, too, aren’t you?” Kamenashi asked, catching the dark blue cuff of his shirt with his small fingers and wiping it over his lips. Akanishi hadn’t brought any tissues, and Kamenashi couldn’t see any nearby. He didn’t feel like sending the other man away in search of them, feared what that break in conversation could do. Breaks were harder to mend than one would assume. Anna had told him that she and Akanishi had met in Tokyo.
Akanishi nodded, sifting through his rice and mixing up the contents of his bowl before taking a bite that automatically led to another. He swallowed this time before answering while shifting on the couch so that he was facing Kamenashi a little more. It irritated his neck to constantly turn to look at the other, a sharp pain that he was sure would persist and grow into a dull ache that would follow him around for the rest of the day if he didn’t do something to alleviate it.
“Yeah, spent most of my life there. My mom and dad are still there too, but.” Akanishi shrugged. “I didn’t want to live in some cramped apartment, y’know? And I can do most of my work at home, and I don’t mind the drive whenever I go in so it worked out.” Except if Akanishi had been able to afford one of the luxurious apartments he knew Tokyo housed, he might’ve gone back. “It doesn’t have anything to do with California.” It didn’t have anything to do with a fear of big cities and psychos lurking in corners-Akanishi didn’t fear the world.
They ate in silence.
Kamenashi set down his bowl once he was done, tea considerably cooler now so that he could drink it without fear of burning, but that wasn’t any reassurance. It felt like it’s life had been stolen and now it was slowly going cold with death. It didn’t have the luxury of being human: living while dying.
“You drive to work?” Kamenashi asked. He hadn’t seen any car in the driveway and could only assume it was in the garage in an attempt to escape the cold, though he doubted the garage was much warmer. At least it would be free from the strange snow they had seen this year. “Do you… I mean, how are you with public transport now?”
Akanishi didn’t answer at first and Kamenashi knew he’d found a weakness. (Why had he even been looking for one? Couldn’t he be content that Akanishi had moved on?) Akanishi took a moment to stare at his own now empty cup sitting on the coffee table, fingers laced. He knew it was only a logical to ask such a question, knew it wasn’t abnormal to be paranoid that every bus and train could turn into the scene of a murder. Could be somebody’s deathbed.
“I get a little nervous,” Akanishi managed to admit, surprising himself with the words. It had been four years now, somewhere across the globe he had been on a bus with a murderer and now in Japan, the trains made him nervous. “I like driving, but sometimes my brother takes the car, so I can’t.” His eyes trailed the movement of Kamenashi’s hand setting down his cup. It was empty. Akanishi looked back up at the other man from where both his legs were planted on the floor, elbows on knees as he leaned forward. “Maybe you should go now.”
It wasn’t a suggestion, and Akanishi stood up. Out of politeness, Kamenashi followed, but he didn’t want to leave. He had more to say and his closure hadn’t come yet-there wasn’t any comfort yet, no sense of accomplishment in all that he’d done yet. And if it was all worthless then how many steps would he be going back on the path of recovery? Back to that office, onto that couch with the bespectacled man with the soft voice telling him to try again. There was no point in trying again.
“I’m sorry that my question made you uncomfortable, Akanishi-san, but I can’t go just yet,” Kamenashi replied firmly. He was anxious and jittery like someone had replaced the blood in his veins with bees, but without the honey they were angry. Angry, buzzing bees that were flocking to fill up his heart like it was a hive, and with every contraction of the muscle it squeezed closer to them, forcing their stingers into his angry red walls. He couldn’t leave yet.
“Are you for real?” Akanishi asked, mouth open with incredulousness. Certainly his life wasn’t average, but this went beyond the realm of anything else. A stranger appearing in his life, asking him these questions like his life depended on it. Akanishi had no reason to listen to Kamenashi’s whims and requests. He had no reason to deal with some stranger who had appeared out of his past-he had his own problems to deal with now.
“This is my house.” He was speaking sternly, that furrow of the brow that was characteristic of his father, and that he never realized he unconsciously mimicked. To him it was as natural as the blood that ran through his body, not that he was aware of that either. Barely aware of the intimidating strength he carried, reaching out to press a hand against Kamenashi’s shoulder-surprisingly broad for how delicate it looked. “You’ll go when I tell you to go.”
“No-” Kamenashi replied almost automatically, unsure where this desperation was coming from. He could come back again tomorrow; he had never spent only one day with any of the previous passengers but he couldn’t leave. It was that distress that forced power into his muscles, forced an aggression Kamenashi didn’t normally have. Small hands came out with a sudden power to grip Akanishi’s forearm, bare from where he had pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, but that heat distracted him. A heat that didn’t make him think that the skin of his palm was boiling, turning red then black into ash. It was a heat that warmed the icy shield he had over his mouth, the cold, calculated words.
“On the train ride over here, I wondered what I would do if I turned around and all I saw was the guy behind me getting his throat slit,” Kamenashi rushed out, eyes wide with the imagery. The man who had been sitting behind him was wearing a grey sweater, a red hat. Bald with a bit of facial hair. “If some of his blood squirted onto the window, and all over the seat, it’d be a real hassle to clean up, and I would probably help the janitor because I didn’t do anything and it was happening right behind me. Who would even want to ride that train again knowing someone had been killed there? The company would lose so much money, just because nobody had stopped the murderer. And how could I not notice if was-”
Akanishi shot out a hand to cover Kamenashi’s mouth, unable to listen anymore. He’d tried to interrupt earlier but didn’t think that the other man heard him. With his hand over Kamenashi’s mouth he almost felt like he could feel Kamenashi’s heartbeat, pumping so frantically in an attempt to match the pace of his words. The smaller man’s hand tightened over Akanishi’s arm as if to imply that even if he couldn’t speak anymore, he wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t leave.
“Jesus! Calm down, no one died, alright? You’re fine. It’s fine.” Akanishi furrowed his brows, his own heartbeat picking up as a slow chill settled over him. He didn’t know why the other man would say all that. He didn’t know why he was so guilty about something he couldn’t control-hadn’t even been around to witness. But still, Akanishi wasn’t stupid and he knew there was a lie lingering in there somewhere, and suddenly he wanted to know. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to help, but he wanted to know.
“That’s a pretty detailed image,” Akanishi murmured as his hand fell away, but Kamenashi’s grip only tightened and he wondered if there would be a bruise there even though it didn’t particularly hurt. It was firm enough to hold him captive, but nothing more than that. Somehow the hold wasn’t repulsive; the proximity wasn’t an intrusion despite the foreign landscape of Kamenashi’s body, it didn’t make him apprehensive. He was curious.
“I know,” Kamenashi breathed out, his wide-eyes have fallen to half-mast as he watched those big eyes travel his small figure. With eyes that expressive, Kamenashi didn’t know how Akanishi got away with anything. Eyes that curious, that seeking, he didn’t know how Akanishi had managed not to catch sight of the bloody scene on that bus. Then again, the taller man was wilful. He saw what he wanted, and didn’t see what he didn’t want. Kamenashi wanted that power so that he didn’t feel so helpless sometimes. Helpless, and unable to stop feeling the warmth of Akanishi’s arm press into his own body. He wondered if his own distress was seeping into the other man: his desire, his unexplainable urge to get something more from the other.
Shifting his gaze down toward the hold that Kamenashi had on his forearm, Akanishi turned his own hand to return the favour, his long fingers circling Kamenashi’s arm more wholly. This was them: trying to get a hold of each other, linked by flesh. How could it be so easy to drop formalities and pretences around a stranger, just because of a shared event so far in the past? Akanishi could hardly believe how deeply his life had been affected by this one event, something that only lasted seconds in his memory.
“Why do you think like this?” Akanishi asked, his voice as breathless as Kamenashi’s though he was standing still. There was no need to whisper when they were the only ones in the house, and yet he couldn’t help the intimate way the words left his mouth.
Kamenashi shook his head in response, signalling that there was no easy way to answer this question, and not guaranteeing perfect coherency when he did attempt to explain. “Don’t you ever feel guilty about something terrible that’s happened? Even when it’s outside of your control?” And when Akanishi opened his mouth to answer, Kamenashi held up his free hand to stop him from answering-neither man was angry at being interrupted. “Don’t you sometimes think, ‘why them’?”
Why not me was the hidden question there, and Akanishi knew it well. If he’d been the one on the aisle seat, he was sure he wouldn’t be living like this now, sure that he wouldn’t be able to talk about it without tears breaking free from his eyes. He would’ve turned Kamenashi away on his doorstep for mentioning that name, for being a relative-thank God it wasn’t me.
“Why wasn’t I the one in the aisle seat,” Akanishi murmured, eyes away from Kamenashi and filled with torment, and images of Anna. Anna and the ruin her life had become, the way she couldn’t look at her own body anymore. The way she wasn’t comfortable being human anymore. Akanishi wondered what it felt like to be an alien in your own body.
Kamenashi chuckled something that lacked any sense of amusement, and though Akanishi felt his concerns belittled, he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything until the other man spoke. “Why wasn’t I the one sitting beside Masuda Tokisada?” he said with a humourless smile. Akanishi wondered what it felt like to wish you’d been killed.
Cold. It must be cold, Akanishi thought, ignoring how simple he must have been making the problem. He pressed his other hand against Kamenashi’s shoulder as if to infuse some of his own heat into the other man, unaware he had been doing that all along. “You weren’t meant to die,” he said simply, an answer to the question that had been plaguing Kamenashi for four years no doubt. Akanishi didn’t know if he believed in fate-it was a tricky thing-but he believed this. Kamenashi Kazuya was not meant to die on that day four years ago.
“Are you saying that this is better than death?” Kamenashi asked and the question was like a monster clawing its way into Akanishi’s heart. It was a question that he didn’t even acknowledge sometimes in the delirium of drowsiness when he could hear Anna crying into her pillow and scratching at herself. He wondered if that existence was better than the exit Tapia had been given.
“Are you saying that thinking about blood and pain all the time is better than just-”
“Stop.” Because it didn’t matter how fast Tokyoites spoke, Akanishi was good at cutting them off. He’d lived there so long, it wasn’t anything to be afraid of, he knew. “Smile.” Akanishi ordered, and for some reason, Kamenashi listened to him. He was’t a difficult person. But it was a crooked smile, one that was trying to find joy but wasn’t sure where to look. “Laugh,” Akanishi said this time, softly because he didn’t know if Kamenashi could do it. And sure enough the sound that followed was hollow, a breathless mockery for what a laugh should be.
“What were you before the murder?” Akanishi asked. He’d leaned in closer to Kamenashi, big eyes trailed on that tired face, those desperate eyes: more and more wrinkles appearing in his image. How fast people could cripple.
“I worked for-”
“No,” Akanishi interrupted harshly, shaking his head and suddenly the thoughts were falling from his head like dead bodies shot down one after the other. “Were you happy? Do you want that again? Didn’t it feel good?”
“Yes,” Kamenashi mumbled, remembering that life. Remembering his two dogs and the joy that had come with something as simple as their names: Ran and Jelly. It was a miracle to be able to find happiness in that.
“Then find it again. That’ll make this better than death, right?” It was certainly a simple answer to Kamenashi’s problems, and Akanishi knew it wasn’t that easy. He was certain that Kamenashi must have been getting therapy-recovery was a slow process, and there was hardly ever one magic answer, but it was all Akanishi could offer.
Kamenashi seemed to already know that Akanishi was just pulling whatever answer he could think of out of thin air. “It’s not that easy-”
“It is,” Akanishi insisted, even though he didn’t know if all the conviction in the world could make his words true. He wasn’t anything spectacular. Just because he’d witnessed something terrible didn’t mean that he suddenly understood the meaning of life. It didn’t mean that he could help Kamenashi, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t either because he wanted to so badly. He was almost desperate to help, like Kamenashi had taken his own desperation and pressed it into his skin. “What did you have before? What makes you happy?”
“Panties,” Kamenashi mumbled automatically, and Akanishi wanted to laugh at that answer because it was absolutely ridiculous when Kamenashi continues. “Kisses, his smile…”
Akanishi barely thought about it, already warmed by their joined arms and the way Kamenashi’s shoulder turned to him in his hold. He went beyond a mere invasion of Kamenashi’s personal space and kissed him.
---
“I gotta admit, if I said I didn’t think this was gonna lead to sex, I’d be lying,” Akanishi confessed slowly from where he was laying on his bed beside Kamenashi.
His bedroom was on the second floor of the house, and bathroom connected to the side. There was a window in this room, and Akanishi could see the light outside streaming across the air and lighting up everything in the room. Including Kamenashi who was next to him, the top buttons of his oxford shirt undone and one side of his collar rumpled. The bottom of his shirt was bunched up from where Akanishi had pulled it out of his pants. Akanishi’s hands had never made it any further south than the belt wrapped so snugly around those narrow hips.
When they’d been going up the stairs, hands tentatively exploring and finding more skin, one of the steps had caught Akanishi by surprise-never mind this being his house-and he fallen onto the second floor with a rather undignified shriek. Apparently the pitch of his voice had brought Kamenashi to tears with laughter until he collapsed on the floor beside him. They’d both ended up laughing then, crawling into Akanishi’s bedroom to the right and onto the bed where they’d both collapsed, wide smiles on their faces.
“We might’ve gone there,” Kamenashi admitted, somehow unable to be shy. There was a rosy tint to Akanishi’s cheeks that Kamenashi was sure was mirrored on his own face and it was beautiful. That body could be beautiful. “Do you do that a lot? It must impress the ladies.”
“I, maybe?” Akanishi pursed his lips, trying to remember any accidents he’d had lately, and winced before shrugging nonchalantly and trying to look cool. “I’m not particularly a klutz.”
“You’d be an awesome lady killer with those moves,” Kamenashi couldn’t help retort before quieting. He didn’t want to ruin the good mood that they’d found themselves in, something he couldn’t have imagined from the apprehensive man that he had first met on that doorstep, but this was direction his mind took. Remaining quiet for a few more moments, he eventually spoke again, “Have you been back to California since you left?”
Akanishi only shook his head in response, picking at a spot on his bed sheet without remorse, and Kamenashi only nodded before speaking again, “I think you should go back. Ride the bus from San Jose to LA.”
That could only be the most horrific suggestion Kamenashi could think of, and Akanishi’s expression said just that. There was a difference between recovering from something, and being entirely unaffected by it. But Akanishi could feel change settling inside him, like the silence that wasn’t so stifling when he could hear the birds and cars go by outside, when his brother was home and geeking around the house.
“Will you come with me?” Akanishi asked, and he could already see the hesitation and the answer coming from Kamenashi’s lips before he even had the chance to finish voicing his question, and he knew why. He had caught the lie that had been hovering around Kamenashi and he wondered why he had even said it. Maybe to escape the pity. Akanishi knew all about the pity and he hadn’t even seen anything, but whenever he said that, they’d claimed he was just trying to “downplay” his trauma. “We’ll sit in my spot, not yours. I’ll take the aisle seat.”
The look that Kamenashi sent him admitted that he wasn’t going to deny Akanishi’s assumption. He was right, and there was no point in Kamenashi trying to prove him wrong. But still, Kamenashi was considering it, which was a marvel of its own. That a man who couldn’t look at a body without imagining at least a dozen ways for it to suffer at the hands of death was willing to revisit the circumstances of the murder that had turned him into this. It was difficult to believe that his own mind was thinking this, when it had been so tortured minutes earlier, and he wondered if he was beginning to delude himself, that maybe his mind had gotten tired of waiting for him to recover and was beginning to fake it.
“How can your life change this fast?” Kamenashi asked, looking up from the bed sheets to meet Akanishi’s big, brown eyes. Akanishi smiled in response, reaching one hand out to take Kamenashi’s and Kamenashi looked down at the hand, then back at the man and thought that there was more to Akanishi than this body, and somehow he liked that he knew it, if only a piece.
Akanishi answered, “I think you of all people should know how.”
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Kamenashi Kazuya was born in Edogawa, Tokyo on February 23, 1986.
On September 24, 2006, Kamenashi travelled to California to watch the Giants play in San Francisco.
On October 3, 2006, he boarded a bus travelling to Los Angeles. This bus stopped in San Jose.
On October 4, 2006, a murder was committed on that bus.
For three years, Kamenashi found each of the passengers of that bus in hopes of helping himself cope.
On February 7, 2010, he returned to Japan. He met Akanishi Jin on February 28, 2010.
On May 2, 2010, Kamenashi and Akanishi returned to San Jose. The two rode the bus to Los Angeles on May 4, 2010.