FIC: The Twelve Ways of Christmas, Multipairing, NC17 (1/3)
Title: The Twelve Ways of Christmas (1/3)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: Up to and including NC17
Pairing(s): Multipairing (aka, lots of different pairings)
Wordcount: 21 000
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Gackt, infidelity, some het, and Keanu Reeves. Concept borrowed from Love, Actually-wouldn't Yuushi approve!
Author's notes: Big thanks to my beta, mayezinha! Written for the community at santa_smex 2008.
This fic has been truncated into 3 parts due to length. These parts are NOT CHAPTERS. This is a one-shot fic.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
1.
The baggage carousel goes around and around again, and still, there is no blue duffel bag.
Yet another announcement sounds over the PA: Final boarding call for JAL Flight 362 to Haneda. Please report to gate 47. Final boarding call for JAL Flight 362 to Haneda.
Tezuka glances back to the carousel. He checks his watch and frowns. No one else remains from the Brisbane flight except him. A lone package spins around the carousel. Tezuka paces the end and checks the other side. Twinkling garlands of tinsel hang from the airport signs.
It's Christmas Eve and he has missed his flight home.
Tezuka fixes his glasses and sighs. His eyes are heavy with jet lag, but he's wide awake. Inside, disappointment mixes with vague annoyance. So much for priority baggage, he thinks. The airline was careless.
At the baggage claim counter, the attendants wear red uniforms. They have polite smiles for the customers ahead in the queue. "Happy Holidays", "Have a good flight home". Tezuka frowns. He checks his watch again. Through the expansive glass windows, the runway is covered in flickering lights: gold, red and white.
He reaches the counter.
"My baggage from Brisbane is lost," he says.
The attendant types his data. Tezuka hands them his boarding pass (a little folded at the sides from sitting in his damp pocket all afternoon-night, morning, whichever). The attendant flips the pass over to scan the baggage claim sticker.
She blinks.
"Sir, your luggage is waiting for you in the oversize area at the end of the concourse."
Tezuka says, "Ah."
"I'm sorry, but the next three flights to Haneda are full. We can put you on standby for the first available seat?" she asks.
Tezuka frowns. "When is the next available flight?"
She types, clack clack clack. Christmas carols play over the PA in dreamy strands. Tezuka shifts his weight, and he waits.
"Ten tomorrow."
Tezuka nods.
He walks off to pick up his bags. He sighs again.
His connection was the last flight to Haneda for four hours.
At the oversize baggage counter, the blue duffel bag sits behind the attendant. Across from the counter, the carousels turn around and around and around. Between flights, the area is empty. Tezuka slings the duffel bag over his shoulder. He's got a wallet filled with Australian dollars worth nothing in Japan. His glasses are grimy at the edges and he's got an exhibition match against Yukimura in three days.
Jet lag crawls under his skin and up through his body. Once or twice, he's been to Osaka before. The noodle bars and bento joints have closed their windows for the night. A glowing convenience store is open at the end of the terminal. Tezuka walks inside. A salesclerk picks at her fingernails. The drink shelves have been picked through-nothing but a dented can of energy drink is left.
Tezuka leaves it.
He's tired and he smells. And the airport hotels are booked. They say the same thing over and over to him: "We're sorry. We have no vacancy. Please try another hotel."
It's Christmas Eve. Of course every hotel is booked up. Through the lobbies of dark carpets and gold-plated lights, Tezuka can see couples sitting in lounge chair. Couples stand close to each other at the bar, and they check in together too.
Tezuka adjusts his duffel bag. The strap cuts into his shoulder deeper. An old injury aches under his muscle. He frowns.
The last hotel apologizes. "Please try our Namba branch. I contacted them and they have a vacancy for you-one single, one night."
Tezuka says thank you. The concierge hands him the address, scrawled on a hotel business card.
From the airport, the train is nearly empty. The carriage jostles. Tezuka slides his duffel bag onto a rack overhead. The lights of Osakan suburbs whir by. Street lights and apartment buildings bleed into the murky sky. Tezuka watches them: only his eyes move. A stifled yawn breaks his reflection up. The doors open, and close, and people begin to pour onto the train with each passing stop.
When Tezuka can no longer see, he gets off the train. His duffel bag catches into the groups of teenagers. Here, no one seems to recognize him. He looks around and no one sees him. He pushes past a salaryman texting on his cellphone. There is a rush of stale air on the platform. Tezuka takes a deep breath. Osaka smells different. Moist cold creeps into his sneakers. Tezuka wiggles his toes. Australia spoiled him.
Outside the train gates, an arcade is filled with people. Tezuka walks through the crowd. It pushes him along with the rhythmic pulse of shoppers and students. The air sizzles with grease and takoyaki stands. Everything is hung with fairy lights and fake poinsettia blossoms. Tezuka hesitates. People walk into his arm. When he looks up, they are gone in the thousand people all around him.
Tezuka reads the address once more. There are sock shops and okonomiyaki joints, a camera shop with glittering lights, and a games arcade further ahead. Lights flash and blink. Streamers of wishes on gilt paper flutter between boughs of pine and eucalyptus. Tezuka rubs the bridge of his nose. Nothing is familiar. Nothing slows down.
Someone runs into his duffel bag. It slips off his shoulder. There's only really some tennis shorts and underpants, and a box of chocolates for his mother inside. Still, the silent thunk the bag makes on the pavement echoes in Tezuka's mind. He closes his eyes for a split second, and he bends down to pick it up.
"Thief bro." A girl holds the strap of the bag. She must have caught it. A pageboy cap hangs over her eyes-and long layers of hair, too.
Tezuka starts to mumble a thanks.
(Funny how the past has a way of catching up)
He knows the voice. He remembers that Hakata twang doesn't belong in Osaka, and neither does a tall, lanky girl with a wide grin.
"Yo, thief bro," she says. "Fancy meeting you here."
Tezuka blinks. Miyuki's grin spreads.
She pulls his arm, and they go. Her words go a mile a minute and Tezuka only notices half of them. "I seen ya play in the Master's tournies," she says. "Your serve is good, bro, but ya gotta watch that arm of yours! Didn't you have that habit of keepin' your shoulder too tight in school? Tcha."
Tezuka says, "Aa."
They weave through the crowd. Miyuki nearly runs around the couples holding hands, and the old woman pulling carts of late-night vegetables and leftover oden from hole in the wall shops. A bicycle cuts through the arcade right in front of Tezuka. Finally, Miyuki stops long enough to spit out her gum. "Oi! Watch it!" she shouts.
The Namba streets glitter. The canal doubles the electric glow. Out here, the air is sharp enough that Tezuka can see his breath. His glasses feel cold. Miyuki's hand tightens on his jacket.
"You got any place to go tonight, thief bro?" she asks.
Amerika-mura's canal-side advertisements and signs are a wash of colour and blinking bulbs. It takes Tezuka a moment to ingest her question. Then, he shakes his head once.
"Cool," she says. She pushes her cap back and her eyes glow blue, then red. To either side, people rush by. Miyuki, though, is still. Tezuka steps closer.
"I have to-" he starts.
She butts in with a cheeky smile. "Oi, thief bro, if a girl invites you over on Christmas Eve, shut up and agree, okay?"
Tezuka forgets about the hotel address in his jacket pocket. Miyuki leads him through the maze of people, and then the web of back streets. Oil slicked pavements pour into the next one-way street. It's grungier between the high rise department stores and shopping blocks. Light seeps between the dumpsters, and the abandoned bicycles. The cold is deeper here. The rushing sounds of a million people are drowned out when Miyuki darts around another corner.
The street is long and Tezuka can't see where it leads out. A single lorry rattles a block behind them. Ahead, a Laundromat is lit up, but the machines are empty.
Miyuki stops at the first apartment block after. "Home sweet oniisan's home," she says.
"Oh," Tezuka says.
In the elevator, Miyuki says, "He's not home. He wandered off again." She makes a noise and rolls her eyes. Suddenly, the elevator seems to take twice as long. Tezuka looks down at his shirt-it was clean when he left Brisbane. Now, it's wrinkled beyond recognition.
It smells like a greenhouse inside. In the kitchen is a bowl of pears that have seen better days. The apartment is cold, and the curtains match the colourless walls. Miyuki hangs up her jacket, and then she tucks her cap on top. Tezuka keeps his jacket on.
"Do you gotta…?" she asks. She nods to a door off the kitchen. Hair falls over her face.
Tezuka stares at her.
"Don't make a lady say it," she warns. But she answers his question when she adds, "The TOILET, thief bro!"
Tezuka says he's fine.
The kettle boils for two cup ramen, Hakata-style. Tendrils of pork-flavoured steam lick the air. The balcony window fogs up at the edges where the curtains don't quite reach. Miyuki sits Indian-style on the tatami floor. Tezuka folds his knees under himself.
"Oniisan doesn't have a kotatsu," she says. Miyuki slurps up her noodles before Tezuka is half finished. Salt sticks to his lips as Miyuki drags a heater from the closet. It sputters glowing red dust motes, and his entire left side bakes in the radiant heat. Tezuka says nothing.
Miyuki keeps grinning. "So you're a pro now, eh thief bro?"
"Aa," Tezuka says.
"None of those jips anymore?"
Tezuka frowns. He glances left, but his arm doesn't ache. His right shoulder is stiff from the duffel bag, which now sits by the apartment door.
"And you're stuck in Osaka with me, of all nights!" Miyuki falls back on the tatami floor. Her arms are spread eagle; her fingertips touch the apartment walls. Tezuka sets the cup ramen down to look at her.
She grins up at him. In the light of the bare incandescent bulb, her teeth gleam. "Your girlfriend in Tokyo's gotta be jealous right now."
There is an awkward pause before Tezuka says he doesn't have a girlfriend. It might be the light, but it might be something else that makes Miyuki's eyes shine a little deeper.
"Hey thief bro," she says.
The air is dry. The heater hisses. Sparks collect and catch on the tatami floor before they die a slow, cold death. Faintly-maybe from the apartment next door-Tezuka can hear the tiny chimes of Christmas carols playing on a tv. The floor creaks. Tezuka glances down to see Miyuki's hand, splayed flat. She leans on it, and leans closer.
Tezuka doesn't know her. He hasn't seen her in ten years. He's sitting in Chitose Senri's apartment on Christmas Eve and Miyuki is staring at him. "You don't have to be alone, you know," she says.
To miss an opportunity would be careless.
So Tezuka takes his glasses off. He folds them and sets them on the table, beside the cup ramen. Anticipation sparks in his stomach as he bows his head to Miyuki's level. She's licked her lips, but the edges have tiny crystals of ramen broth. Tezuka can almost taste the salt.
His mouth brushes them.
Or the air between them, because Miyuki's cell goes off.
Tezuka whips his head away. Miyuki scrambles over the table to her jacket. As Tezuka reaches for his glasses, Miyuki answers. Her accent lengthens as she clicks her tongue and tells her brother off. "So you're not coming back tonight, oniisan?" She glances over her shoulder to Tezuka, with a wink and a roll of her eyes.
Tezuka's face is hot. He pushes the heater away from himself, but the metal casing burns to the touch.
When she's finished, she sits back down beside Tezuka, except now, she's closer. It's harder to see without his glasses, of course, but this close, Tezuka isn't so sure it matters. Should I kiss her? he thinks. Tezuka exhales-it sounds like a sigh.
Miyuki grabs his hand. She turns it over, and then back. She tugs on it hard enough to make Tezuka say "Ow". Miyuki grins. "Your shoulder's all tense," she says.
"Aa," is the only thing Tezuka can respond with.
"Your face is all red, thief bro," she adds.
Tezuka blinks.
Miyuki makes his face hotter still when she places his palm on her chest. The knit of her sweater is thin enough that Tezuka can feel the outline of her bra, and her stiffening nipples, too.
She tastes like reconstituted green onions, and greasy Hakata-style cup ramen. Miyuki smiles against his lips as Tezuka kisses harder.
He doesn't have the jips anymore.
2.
It was so stupid that he can hardly remember just what was the reason.
Yukimura stirs the hot milk tea. With his sunglasses on, no one recognizes him. With his sunglasses on, he also sticks out from the OLs like a sore thumb. The milk has a tendency to curdle in his stomach. Yukimura slurps faster. The café will close in a half hour. Employees shuffle around with trays and hopeful looks that all the patrons will leave soon. Frankly, Yukimura is more than content to sit here at a table with his suitcase propped up against the table leg.
He yawns. Yukimura belches up a gulp of milk. He swallows it right back down and his stomach starts to churn. When he stands, his legs creak. The flight from Brisbane was long, and even though it's only an hour difference, his body droops. Mostly, he wants to grab the train back to his parents and sleep until supper time tomorrow.
Instead, Yukimura flips his cell open. No calls from anyone yet. He frowns. His flight got in over two hours ago.
On the streets is a steady stream of traffic: all young students and office workers on dates. Strings of red lights drip off the street lamps and shop fronts. Trees are studded with the clearest lights. Yukimura looks up at them. His heart aches a little. The trees are as filled with stars as Yokohama will ever be.
In Brisbane, he could have stayed another night or two with Olga in that hotel room. She was blonde and tall and willing to wrap her big tennis-playing thighs around him. Yukimura stuffs his face deeper into his scarf. He could have stayed, but he said no.
Six years has been long enough.
He's probably a fool for waiting-hesitating?-this long already.
At the zebra crossing, he stops. The light switches to red. For a moment, Yukimura closes his eyes. He can remember that day. It was early summer, wasn't it? The mosquitoes weren't quite out, but the lazy laughter of crows filled the air. They practiced together, like always. Yukimura probably drank an Aquarius when they stopped the game. The words have been lost with time. Yukimura's face is hot with memory.
He said something, maybe. It was so trivial, and he walked away.
He never apologized.
And Sanada never came back to the tennis courts to practice again.
Now, he's alone on Christmas Eve waiting for the light to change. Girls in mukluk boots bump into him. Yukimura turns. He pushes the sunglasses up over his hair. On second thought, he takes them off and stuffs them into the back pocket of his jeans. Everything smells of the evergreen trees, imported from the mountains to decorate the city's medians.
Cafés and restaurants are open late. Yukimura cuts through the shopping arcade, leading down toward the subway. The three-storey escalator is lit up with stars and hearts and red-ribboned boughs. His eyes linger over the advertisement for a painting gallery, and then another for half-price bookings at the plaza hotel before the fifteenth of the month. Under his breath, Yukimura laughs a little. All around him are lights and people and reminders of girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands and wives.
He can only hope that Sanada is unchanging. Six months ago, Niou called him. Yukimura was in London and Niou was in Manchester. They never met up. Yukimura didn't ask about Sanada-Niou brought him up. As he waits at the subway platform, in the rush of stagnant air before the train pulls up, he can almost hear Niou's voice in his ear.
It cuts off. Yukimura didn't want to hear about Sanada. Milk bile creeps up his throat. His stomach is in lactic knots. Yukimura plays with the tassels on his scarf as the train arrives with a whoosh of lights and commuters.
With one last glance to the digital display board, Yukimura steps on. He dumps his suitcase near the door and stands around it. The train is a local line, which is what he wants: Sanada lives in the sticks.
Yukimura leans against the train. He stretches his feet out and wiggles his toes. He can feel them now, but on the flight to Osaka, at times, the numbness would drift in and out. With it, the fear of relapse is never far behind. Beads of sweat gather along his forehead. Never again! he thinks, as he wipes them away with the hem of his scarf.
It's nothing.
He's changed.
His eyes drag the further the train rolls into the suburbs. There is a rush of light as it exits the subway tunnels and emerges in an ocean of apartment blocks and convenience stores. Fat slush dribbles down the windows, gilding the dark landscape as they catch the city lights. In Brisbane, the sun was unforgiving and yellow. In Osaka, as he waited for the layover, the sky was crystalline. At home, the drizzle makes Yukimura shiver in his coat.
At the station, he's the only person to get off. There's no one around, not even the gate attendant. Yukimura's footsteps echo in the severe cement walls. He waits under the overhang by the bus stop. Singular cars roll by on the main road. He takes a deep breath, but the milkiness clings to his tongue. Yukimura horks up a wad of mucus that he spits to the sidewalk. He yawns again. The bus schedule lists one last number 3. It should have arrived two minutes ago.
Two minutes later, the bus pulls up.
Six years ago, he took this bus for the last time. The route cuts through familiar tight streets between old-fashioned houses with tall fences at the front. Yukimura sees the post office, with its blackened windows, and the yellow sign for Sunkrus. It's probably closed for the night, but a group of teenagers stands in the tiny parking lot. Clouds of smoke drift up over them. Their cigarette butts glow red on the pavement.
Yukimura's throat goes dry when the bus pulls onto the highway. At this time of night, the bamboos are a curtain opening into the halls of cryptomeria deeper down the highway. The bus weaves. Yukimura is the only person, except for the bus driver, who announces every stop they drive by. Not yet, Yukimura thinks.
Maybe this was impulsive. Maybe he should have waited another six months, or another six years. Yukimura reaches into his bag, but the water bottle is empty. He drank the last of it on the express train from Haneda to Yokohama.
He doesn't know what to say. Yukimura looks out the window. The bus drives around another hair-pin turn in the highway, and then, through the tops of the trees, the sky is awash with milky stars.
Yukimura takes a deep breath. He presses the stop button.
Up here in the hills, it's frigid. The bus drives off and Yukimura stands at the side of the road. Part of him wants to flag the bus back down, just in case Sanada isn't there. Part of him wants to flag the bus back down, because he can't go through with it. His insides freeze up. His hand, though, stays deep in the warm lint of his pocket.
And the bus disappears into the black pavement of the highway.
Remnants of earlier rain cling to the sides of the dirt road Yukimura turns onto. He steps in a puddle of half-frozen mud. "Aw, fuck," he mutters. It seeps into his shoes and through the hem of his jeans. It smells of vegetation here, and motor oil. Yukimura huddles into himself. Winter bites his face, and the damp hair at the back of his neck.
It used to be fun to traipse up the dirt road to Sanada's house. He and Yanagi and Sanada could race up the twisting hill in no time. Stamina training for tennis! Yukimura would joke. The ditch was steep and the incline even steeper. It's never-ending now. Yukimura catches his breath. He's sweaty under his coat, and it freezes on his face and upper lip. His toes itch with the beginning of frostbite-but at least he can feel them.
Showing up with something to say would probably be a good idea.
I didn't mean that you were wasting your tennis talent.
I didn't mean that you were an asshole.
I didn't mean that it was funny you liked me.
Each excuse sounds worse than the last in his mind. Yukimura keeps walking. His sneakers slip again, but he catches his balance. At least his coach picked up his tennis bag in Tokyo-one less thing to carry over his back. The exhibition match with Tezuka is on the twenty-seventh.
How much time does it take to say I'm sorry?
The old house rises between the trees like a samurai in the mist. Whispy steam from the forest floor hangs in the forest, moss from the trees, bark from the cryptomerias. Leaves crunch underfoot, followed by gravel. It sticks between the muddy treads of Yukimura's sneakers. The winter sticks to his face, and lethargy clings to his legs. Tennis courts are flat and finite on his muscles. The mountains toward Yamanashi are anything but.
Yukimura takes one last swallow of the milkiness on his tongue. The Sanada family sign is still at the gate. There's still a tangled garden in the front, barely different from the forest surrounding. December frosts have killed all of the summer blossoms. Dead brown petals scatter the pathway, stirred up by the rain. Yukimura does his best to avoid them. He does his best to avoid thinking about the lack of the Toyota in the driveway.
Maybe he's not home…?
But there is a light on in one of the front rooms. In shines through the reed curtains and the wooden slats of the walls. At the fountain, Yukimura hesitates. Something rustles behind him. He whips his head around, just in time, to see two pigeons dissolve into the night. Feathers float down, like snow, and their coos echo under the eaves.
Yukimura flips his cellphone open again. Still, no one has called. The clock has struck midnight-it's Christmas, and the buses and trains will have stopped running.
It's so stupid to show up with nothing prepared.
Yukimura bites his lip. He wiggles his toes to sate the itch-even for a moment. His stomach cramps up in the instant his finger hovers over the buzzer. When he hears the sharp echo, he doesn't remember pressing it at all.
And there is nothing.
A long, thick silence hangs over the house. Yukimura exhales. He inhales. He does it again, thirty times, and no one shows up at the door. No one answers the buzzer. Wind stirs the pine boughs above him, and a shower of frozen mist falls to the garden floor. It sprinkles Yukimura's hair, and it sparkles in the light of the window.
Yukimura lets the frozen smile slide off his face.
And then he leaves.
His footsteps are louder on the pavement stones. His heart feels heavier than ever. He wonders if it was a mistake telling Olga no, he had something he needed to do back home, don't call me, I'll call you.
"Yukimura."
All it takes is one word in that voice and Yukimura is eighteen again, and so fucking stupid. He freezes and stiffens and he doesn't believe his ears until he hears Sanada call his name a second time.
So Yukimura turns around. If he was any good at faking, he might brush this off as nothing. Instead, there's no way he can. He flew halfway across the Pacific to come see Sanada.
And Sanada is standing in the doorway of his parents' house, wearing a yukata and new lines in his forehead. Yukimura glances at him, and around him, and Sanada's left hand on the doorframe is bare. Yukimura glances to his own hand.
It's the same.
And Sanada hasn't changed. His scowl is unchanged and his eyes are unmoving and blacker than the Christmas night. Yukimura swallows the last of the milk tea from his mouth.
"I'm sorry," he says.
Sanada holds the door open, and Yukimura walks inside.
3.
He's pacing holes into the flooring of the arrivals lounge.
He checks his phone for the twelfth-or thirteenth?-time.
His nails are chewed down to the quick.
Oishi spins around to pace the other direction. Tezuka where are you!? he thinks. The flight from Osaka arrived nearly two hours ago. Oishi watched and waited and paced. Streams of people walked past him towards the train links, and the automatic doors out to taxis. A guy in sunglasses walked out-he was oddly familiar, but Oishi was too busy scanning the crowd for a tall, lanky guy in glasses.
Vivid, horrible thoughts plague his mind.
What if Tezuka was killed in Brisbane by drug lords?
What if Tezuka injured himself in Osaka and is in a Kansai hospital?
What if Tezuka…?
Oishi wrings his hands together. His cellphone drops to the floor and, in his pacing, he steps on the end. His eyes widen. A little noise escapes his lips. Oishi picks it up. There's a crack in the screen, but the buttons still work. Mostly. Hopefully.
What if Tezuka tries to call now and the cellphone doesn't work?
Oishi starts to panic. The Christmas music playing on the PA system makes it worse. His lungs are going to burst if he gasps on oxygen any harder. Breathe, Shuuichiroh, breathe! Tezuka can take care of himself!
Besides, his cell does work. The ringtone goes off with the peaceful sound of water falling. Oishi takes a deep breath. His head swims.
"Yes?"
"Oi, O-i-shiiii! Where are you?"
Insta-relief.
He stops pacing a matte trail into the linoleum.
He stops drumming his fingers on a payphone.
He stops chewing on his fingernails-but they hurt a bit.
"The show starts soon! You're supposed to pick me up!"
"Aa, Eiji…" Oishi glances around, to the left, to the right, and back towards the baggage claim. There's no one except a janitor pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. Oishi swallows hard.
"Tezuka's not here," he says. His voice sounds small and tiny in the cavernous airport.
"He's fine, he's fine, Oishi. Maybe he wanted to stay longer in Australia?" When Oishi starts to cut in with a scenario of drug lords or random shootings, Eiji keeps going. He laughs and the cheerful sound settles the knots in Oishi's belly a little.
"Maybe he just met a pretty girl? It's Christ-mas Eve after all!"
"Aa…maybe you're right," Oishi admits.
"Now hurry up and pick me up before we miss the show-you don't want two people mad at you today, do you Oishi?"
Eiji knows just which strings to pull. Oishi concedes. As he flips his cellphone closed, the crack spreads and the liquid LCD screen dies a flickering death. Oishi sighs. With one last look to the automatic security doors, he gives up.
It's not as though Tezuka will be able to reach him now.
Oishi bites his lip. Maybe he should call Eiji, just in case…?
No! No! Eiji's right! Tezuka probably has a good reason for missing his flight. It'll be fine. It'll be fine.
On the highway, it turns into a bit of a mantra. Winter bites his face as the scooter revs down the expressway toward the belly of Tokyo. Oishi sucks on exhaust fumes from late-night lorries. His head float a little; his hair fangs whip up against his helmet. He pushes the gas harder to make another light, just before it changes to yellow.
Tezuka will be fine…he'll be fine…fine…Oh, turn here!
Oishi cuts across a lane to make the turn. He winces under his scarf-no one was in this lane, but he hates disobeying traffic laws. It's not right! At the same time, if he's any later and Eiji misses the show tonight…
He chews the inside of his lip until it's raw. Metallic blood taste fills his mouth. He rides past a blinding block of ramen joints with flapping noren curtains and red lanterns. He can smell fried onions and greasy broth. Oishi breathes it in, then he rides onto an off ramp. A bus cuts him off-Oishi frowns, but he holds back on his horn. Through the fogged up windows of the bus, he can see the stooped backs of old women. His heart twists a little. He feels briefly guilty for wanting to honk, but as soon as he sees the sign for Aoyama, the thought has flashed away.
The shop is on a side street, closer to Sendagaya than Omotesando. Oishi weaves through the glistening Ferraris and the Familymart trucks bringing stocks of Coke and tea and Kirin. The tall zelkova trees of the main drag are hung with lights. Oishi turns past the Wendy's. The streets are a bit uneven. He stops once a block, twice a block to allow teenagers to cross. The scooter spits smoke into the night. He revs the engine and goes again, starting and stopping until he reaches the pet shop.
From the outside, it could be any other store front: there are fat red Santa-san pictures and frosted letters advertising a sale. Fake green garlands hang in the window and the bell on the door jingles when Oishi goes inside. The lights are low. It smells of animals: strong and musky.
"Hello?" he calls out. "E-Eiji?
There's no answer for the longest while. Oishi sucks on the raw inside of his lip. He takes a deep breath. Puppies pace in their cages. When they see him, their eyes light up and their tongues hang out. Oishi walks up to their cages. He sticks a finger through the slat. A warm, wet tongue licks his hand. Oishi smiles at the ticklish feeling.
"Oi!"
Oishi jumps three feet.
Eiji stands behind him with his arms crossed and narrowed eyes. His apron is red and hemmed with tinsel. "No touching Ryan-chan without permission," Eiji says. The hard scowl on his face dissolves into a laugh as Oishi yanks his hand away.
"Joking!" Eiji says.
Oishi sighs. Eiji slings an arm around Oishi's neck-like Ryan's lick, the touch is warm and comfortable. Oishi leans into it. He can almost forget about Tezuka in the light of Eiji's big smile.
"I was just cleaning up the back," he says. "Can you check the birds and make sure their feeder is full?"
Eiji runs to the backroom, past a row of aquariums and terrariums. Soft blue light seeps up into the front of the pet shop. Oishi lingers by the fish for a moment or two. The silvery schools are beautiful and soothing en masse. He smiles.
"The show's only a ten minute walk," Eiji shouts from the back room. Oishi nods. He adjusts his helmet under his arm.
The budgies twitter and shuffle down their perches as Oishi approaches. He reads the sign: a pair for five thousand, special deal just for the holidays! Pressing his face to the glass, he can make out the feeder. It's filled to the brim with seeds. A trio of hens peak out at him from a low swing. They ruffle their feathers. Oishi whispers, "It's okay…"
Of course, they flap around the cage at the sound of his voice. His motions herd the budgies. Blue and yellow and green feather fly up, and the down drifts to the bottom of the cage. Oishi sighs-Eiji's the one who has the way with birds, not him.
"All right, Oishi?" Eiji asks.
Oishi nods. Eiji locks the shop up with a final goodbye to all the animals, including Ryan-chan, the beagle crossbreed.
"If you like him so much, maybe you should buy him," Oishi says.
Eiji gives him a crooked smile and a wink. Oishi knows better than to ask.
"Do you think my bike is okay here?" Oishi asks. He chews on his lip. Eiji says it's fine, he leaves his bicycle here all the time. As they turn the corner at the end of the dead-end street, Oishi hesitates.
"Maybe I should…?"
"It's fine, Oishi," Eiji says. He pulls on Oishi's bottom lip with his fingers and pretends to pout. "Don't worry about it. The Chocolates show won't be too late!"
"But if Tezuka calls-"
"It's. Fine."
Oishi opens his mouth. Eiji gives him a look, so Oishi keeps his worry to himself.
Christmas Eve is but once a year-he should enjoy it without any worries, right?
Right! Oishi thinks.
The show is in Akasaka, not too far from the tall tv headquarters and the buildings with silvery skins of windows. Red and green lights swirl with pictures and patterns. Eiji hops up a flight of concrete steps towards the concert building. Oishi grabs the railing, just in case he trips. He doesn't, but he might.
The sky sparkles with glowing beams from the office towers. The sides of the concert hall seethe with a moving, living mass of concert goers. Eiji flits between the merchandise tables and the main doors. Bouquets of poinsettias and ghostly amaryllis stalks fill the venue lobby. Eiji hands Oishi a ticket. His own, he slips out from the envelope of posters and photosets. "I LOVE Karen-san!" Eiji shouts. His jacket is unzipped enough that Oishi notices Eiji's favourite t-shirt: it's the one he bought at the last Chocolates show they went to, in August.
In the line to enter the hall, Oishi paces up and down the set of stairs: he can only move between three steps. Behind him, a group of teenage girls with the same KAREN ballcap as Eiji block his pacing. In front of Oishi, Eiji shivers.
Oishi grabs him by the shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asks. His face twists up.
Hypothermia!
Shock!!
HEART PALPATIONS!!!
At the August show, a girl passed out. What if Eiji does too??
Eiji isn't listening, though. His eyes have clouded over. Panic rises inside and Oishi can hardly breathe. Louder, he shouts, "Are you OKAY, EIJI?!"
Eiji blinks. When he turns around, his face is beatific. It shines with the weak light from the ceiling overhead. "O-i-shi," he says.
Oishi digs his hands into Eiji's arms. "YES?" He's on the edge of the step and ready to call for an ambulance, if need be. I won't let you die, Eiji!
Eiji holds up his ticket. "I forgot I put it in my pocket," he says. "No worries."
Oishi slithers off the step.
Eiji is the one to catch him.
Their section of ticket numbers is called.
Oishi looks at Eiji, who nods. His eyes widen and there are stars in his pupils. Oishi shuffles into Eiji's side to keep close, but Eiji is the one to reach out. Their hands meet in a sticky clasp. It's warm and damp and the most comfortable feeling. Tension dissolves from Oishi's body, even though the air stifles with too many people. The hall is cramped and smells dusty from dry ice. Strobe lights make it hard to see anything further from six inches away.
Luckily, Eiji is close enough.
"Oishi," he says.
"Eiji," Oishi says.
"I'm glad that we're spending Christmas Eve together."
The show begins with an explosion of sparkles and light. Everything reflects in Eiji's eyes, even though he's staring at Oishi instead of the stage.
Oishi squeezes Eiji's hand back. No hint of worry invades the solid grip of their hands.
"Me too," he says.
4.
The view from the balcony kinda almost makes up for all the boxes stacked through the entire apartment.
Shishido arranges manga volumes on the shelf. Next to them, are stacks of music books. He can't read a word of it, and he doesn't know if Choutarou wants it organized or not. With each box of stuff (crap, junk, old notes from high school, why the heck are you keeping those, Choutarou?) he unpacks, three more take its place.
It's a big place, and sorta closer to Kawasaki than where he works, but Shishido thinks it's all right. The heater works. They have curtains from his mom (aw, jeez, lame, much?) and a view of the bleeding red sunset in the west. Shishido opens the curtains and sticks out his jaw. He can almost see all the way to Mount Fuji from here-okay, not quite. But the view over the tops of apartment blocks and rows of pre-fab houses, glowing red in the dying sun? It's pretty cool.
Besides, they have an apartment together.
It makes Shishido feel a bit gooey and lame thinking about it. Twenty-four and he's got his own apartment with Choutarou now. Fessing up to his parents will be worth it, he just knows.
The rice cooker shuts off. Shishido checks the pot on the cooktop. It looks more like cat food than beef casserole. Still, it's the thought that counts. He sniffs the curls of steam that rise up. With a rice scoop, he tests the slop. Shishido chews on a strand of cabbage. Maybe more salt. And cheese.
He adds the last of the cheese, and another pink of salt. And a dash of shoyu, too, because that never hurts, does it?
Choutarou's gotta be done work soon. Shishido paces a bit. He opens another box in the main room: it's stacked to the brim with sheet music and classical CDs. He flips one over, but it's an import from Europe, or something, all covered with gaijin dudes in old-fashioned wigs and capes. Harry wanders into the room with a hopeful glance to Shishido. Shishido nods.
"C'mere," he says. Harry's tongue lolls as Shishido bends down to get a big kiss on the neck. Beagle kisses are almost on par with Choutarou's-but in a totally, not uncool way, of course. Shishido buries his face in Harry's back and he breathes in deep the smell of dog.
It smells like home.
Until Harry backs up. His claws clack on the laminate floor. The back of Shishido's neck prickles. He glances over his shoulder, and he knows.
The cat stares at him from on top of a stack of boxes-of his boxes, no less, important stuff, like his good jeans and his magazines and his spare hats. Harry tiptoes around the cat as much as Shishido. Old bitch, he thinks.
The cat narrows its eyes at him. It gave Harry a scratch two days ago.
For the sake of world peace (or rather, compromise with Choutarou; they're grown ups and living together and that's what grown ups who live together do), Shishido agreed to live with Muffin-san, the miserable old tabby.
Purplish light coats the floor of the apartment when the door opens wide. Choutarou calls out Shishido's name. "I'm home!" he says.
Shishido shivers a little-it's weird and awesome all at once that they're actually doing this. He looks down and his eyes go wide at the sight of the apron he forgot to take off.
"Aw, shit," he mutters.
Before he's got the apron yanked off, Choutarou catches him with a big grin. He sets his briefcase down and Shishido forgets how uncool and, well, gay, he looks. Fluttering, mushy feelings sink through his middle and he glances at the floor to break Choutarou's look. You still do this to me, babe, he thinks.
Choutarou picks Muffin-san up. "How were you, baby?" he asks. He rubs his nose in Muffin-san's belly. Muffin-san gives Shishido a look of pure satisfaction. Harry paws at Choutarou's leg, but Choutarou ignores him.
"Good day at work?" Shishido asks.
Choutarou follows his nose into the kitchen. He nods. "Mn. I just dropped off that container of cookies you made to Kikumaru-san, but he must be at work late."
"Cool," Shishido says. He runs his hand through his hair. "I guess there was a lot extra of those."
"And it's Christmas," Choutarou says.
"Guess so," Shishido says.
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says. (It's not as if Shishido hasn't tried to break Choutarou from the habit, because he totally has. And it hasn't really worked. So Shishido gives up and rolls with it, cool, whatever)
Choutarou has that look in his eyes that makes Shishido's knees start to give out. For all he's sweet and nice and naïve, that look is anything but. It rolls down over Shishido's body, and back up to his face. It eats him up through his pupils as he sinks toward Choutarou. His balls are straining and his dick is hardening and Choutarou, like, sucks the air out of his lungs, or something.
Because when they kiss, Shishido forgets to breathe.
He grabs at Choutarou's tie, because it's the closest thing to him. He pulls and Choutarou jerks forward, pushing Shishido into the edge of the kitchen counter. Choutarou runs his tongue over the soft part just under Shishido's jaw. Shishido gasps. He moans when Choutarou pulls at the apron strings to get under the hem of his shirt.
Shishido loves the feeling of Choutarou's warm, big hands on his stomach. It tickles and tingles and it makes his eyes roll back (just a little!). Choutarou's got a knee between Shishido's thighs and they rub against each other. Arousal rises with the steam from the pot. Shishido breaks another kiss.
It would be way uncool if the casserole burned.
But Choutarou kisses him again, long and hard until Shishido groans against Choutarou's tongue. He kisses with all his soul, and all his heart, and he holds Shishido up as he starts to wiggle out of his jeans. An apron string gets stuck under his foot and Shishido trips.
Choutarou is always there to catch him.
Shishido lifts the apron up over his head. Choutarou pulls it back down.
"Shishido-san, is it okay…?" He doesn't finish. His face is bright pink and his lips are puffy. Shishido's mouth drops a little: his pants are on the floor, Choutarou's fingers are trailing over the top of his hipbone, and he's still got the damn apron on.
He reaches up and out to Choutarou to grab his head. Instead, Shishido kinda ends up combing his hands through Choutarou's soft hair. He's so warm and big and there's a throbbing erection through Choutarou's trousers sending numbing waves all the way to Shishido's toes.
He swallows. This is totally, horribly uncool that he says, "Okay, babe."
They do it against the kitchen counter. Choutarou grabs the first thing (okay, the second-the first was a bottle of BBQ and yuck, no way is that going up my ass, Choutarou!) he finds, a bottle of hand lotion that someone left there this morning before work. His fingers push into Shishido. He hisses. Choutarou hesitates for a moment. He almost winces, but not quite. Shishido exhales and nods. He's so full that he doesn't know how much longer he'll last if Choutarou doesn't hurry up.
Choutarou pushes inside. The pot on the cooktop clangs and clacks as he thrusts. Shishido clings to Choutarou's shoulders, digging his hands in tight as he can. He moans. He groans. There's sweat on Choutarou's forehead and it's dripping into Shishido's eyes and he can smell the casserole starting to scorch, but fuck, yes, Choutarou, keep going, you're hitting that spot again, don't stop, ever!
So Shishido may-or may not-do something really, really lame like sob and shake and bite Choutarou's shoulder when the feeling builds up inside so bad it hurts. And he may-or may not-choke on another cry when everything finally explodes in sweet, agonizing sensation as Choutarou fucks that spot inside over and over until Shishido is kinda sorta yeah, okay, a sobbing mess of gasping mewls pressed into the hard edge of the countertop.
He slides down and away to the floor as Choutarou stiffens and does that funny (cute) thing where his eyelashes flutter and he mumbles Shishido's name-Ryou-and comes with one last, slapping thrust.
They both lie on the floor for a moment or three to catch their breath. Shishido can smell supper starting to go, but at the same time, Choutarou is heavy and warm and sweaty and comfortable, like an old ball cap Shishido can't bring himself to throw into the rubbish. Choutarou presses kisses to the skin under Shishido's ear. Shishido plays with the hem of Choutarou's open shirt. Choutarou sucks his belly in-he's ticklish, and it makes Shishido bite back a grin.
"You made dinner," Choutarou says. When he closes his eyes, he looks a little suspiciously young sometimes. Shishido almost feels guilty for it, but not quite-after all, Choutarou was the one who approached him way back when. It wasn't like Shishido was robbing any cradles.
"Yeah," Shishido says.
"Your apron is really…"
"Uncool?"
Choutarou snorts through his nose. Shishido pokes him in the soft part of his belly, right above his hip where there are dark, downy hairs trailing downward. "Didn't know you had a thing for them, Choutarou," he says.
Choutarou hangs his head. He mumbles something that means nothing, really, and Shishido laughs off the flush of his face. He reaches for his jeans, but the damn cat is sitting on the one leg. Shishido tugs. Muffin-san glowers.
"Muffy-wuffy," Choutarou says. He uses that sing-song nice voice than once or twice he's used with Shishido, at the crack of dawn, when one of them has a morning stiffy.
Muffin-san walks off Shishido's jeans. Harry waits, and when Muffin has sauntered into the back bedroom, he sits at the doorway and wags his tail on the floor. Shishido wipes off the jizz on his stomach with one of the new kitchen towels Choutarou's sister bought them. It feels kinda weird to think about, so he stuffs it into the corner, behind the shoyu.
The beef casserole is okay-the stuff on top, anyway. Shishido slops it up into a couple dishes. Choutarou scoops rice for them. They sit around a low box, across from each other, and in the soft, nebulous glow of the outskirts of Tokyo.
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says, "how was work?"
"Aw," Shishido says. He starts to talk with a mouthful of food, but Choutarou frowns a little, so he stops to swallow. World peace, and all. "The rugrats were good today, I guess? Masami didn't puke during nap time today."
"Cool," Choutarou says. "Shishido-san, you're the best kindergarten teacher ever, you know."
Shishido rolls his eyes. Inside, it feels sorta good when Choutarou tells him that. It makes it worth all the puke-cleaning and potty-helping and finger-painting he does on a daily basis.
"Oh!"
Choutarou runs to the front door. He squats down and rummages around his briefcase. Harry sticks his nose in to help, but Choutarou just leans away and rummages deeper. Shishido chews on a wad of rice-he must have added too much water, because it's gummy and sticks to the roof of his mouth.
He watches Choutarou come back with a bottle of wine. Choutarou ducks his head down a little, before he holds it out to Shishido.
"Merry Christmas, Shishido-san," he says.
"Thanks, Choutarou," Shishido says. When Choutarou doesn't stop making those soppy, wet, sorta-dog-like eyes at him, Shishido pushes his arm and snorts. "It's just any other day," he mutters.
"No," Choutarou says.
"Eh?"
Choutarou blinks. "Shishido-san, it's our anniversary."
Oh.
Way uncool, loser. You forgot!
From on top of a box, Muffin-san stares Shishido down with a look as long and unimpressed as the one Choutarou gives him. Shishido shifts a bit on the floor. City lights reflect in Choutarou's wavering eyes. On the balcony, four birds sit in a line, cooing and calling out to all the other pigeons in the neighbourhood.
Shishido flashes Choutarou a crooked smile as he pushes his hand back through his hair. Then he reaches out to squeeze one of Choutarou's warm, slightly sweaty hands that fit perfectly in the small of his back.
"Happy anniversary, babe," he says.
Author: Ociwen
Rating: Up to and including NC17
Pairing(s): Multipairing (aka, lots of different pairings)
Wordcount: 21 000
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Gackt, infidelity, some het, and Keanu Reeves. Concept borrowed from Love, Actually-wouldn't Yuushi approve!
Author's notes: Big thanks to my beta, mayezinha! Written for the community at santa_smex 2008.
This fic has been truncated into 3 parts due to length. These parts are NOT CHAPTERS. This is a one-shot fic.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
1.
The baggage carousel goes around and around again, and still, there is no blue duffel bag.
Yet another announcement sounds over the PA: Final boarding call for JAL Flight 362 to Haneda. Please report to gate 47. Final boarding call for JAL Flight 362 to Haneda.
Tezuka glances back to the carousel. He checks his watch and frowns. No one else remains from the Brisbane flight except him. A lone package spins around the carousel. Tezuka paces the end and checks the other side. Twinkling garlands of tinsel hang from the airport signs.
It's Christmas Eve and he has missed his flight home.
Tezuka fixes his glasses and sighs. His eyes are heavy with jet lag, but he's wide awake. Inside, disappointment mixes with vague annoyance. So much for priority baggage, he thinks. The airline was careless.
At the baggage claim counter, the attendants wear red uniforms. They have polite smiles for the customers ahead in the queue. "Happy Holidays", "Have a good flight home". Tezuka frowns. He checks his watch again. Through the expansive glass windows, the runway is covered in flickering lights: gold, red and white.
He reaches the counter.
"My baggage from Brisbane is lost," he says.
The attendant types his data. Tezuka hands them his boarding pass (a little folded at the sides from sitting in his damp pocket all afternoon-night, morning, whichever). The attendant flips the pass over to scan the baggage claim sticker.
She blinks.
"Sir, your luggage is waiting for you in the oversize area at the end of the concourse."
Tezuka says, "Ah."
"I'm sorry, but the next three flights to Haneda are full. We can put you on standby for the first available seat?" she asks.
Tezuka frowns. "When is the next available flight?"
She types, clack clack clack. Christmas carols play over the PA in dreamy strands. Tezuka shifts his weight, and he waits.
"Ten tomorrow."
Tezuka nods.
He walks off to pick up his bags. He sighs again.
His connection was the last flight to Haneda for four hours.
At the oversize baggage counter, the blue duffel bag sits behind the attendant. Across from the counter, the carousels turn around and around and around. Between flights, the area is empty. Tezuka slings the duffel bag over his shoulder. He's got a wallet filled with Australian dollars worth nothing in Japan. His glasses are grimy at the edges and he's got an exhibition match against Yukimura in three days.
Jet lag crawls under his skin and up through his body. Once or twice, he's been to Osaka before. The noodle bars and bento joints have closed their windows for the night. A glowing convenience store is open at the end of the terminal. Tezuka walks inside. A salesclerk picks at her fingernails. The drink shelves have been picked through-nothing but a dented can of energy drink is left.
Tezuka leaves it.
He's tired and he smells. And the airport hotels are booked. They say the same thing over and over to him: "We're sorry. We have no vacancy. Please try another hotel."
It's Christmas Eve. Of course every hotel is booked up. Through the lobbies of dark carpets and gold-plated lights, Tezuka can see couples sitting in lounge chair. Couples stand close to each other at the bar, and they check in together too.
Tezuka adjusts his duffel bag. The strap cuts into his shoulder deeper. An old injury aches under his muscle. He frowns.
The last hotel apologizes. "Please try our Namba branch. I contacted them and they have a vacancy for you-one single, one night."
Tezuka says thank you. The concierge hands him the address, scrawled on a hotel business card.
From the airport, the train is nearly empty. The carriage jostles. Tezuka slides his duffel bag onto a rack overhead. The lights of Osakan suburbs whir by. Street lights and apartment buildings bleed into the murky sky. Tezuka watches them: only his eyes move. A stifled yawn breaks his reflection up. The doors open, and close, and people begin to pour onto the train with each passing stop.
When Tezuka can no longer see, he gets off the train. His duffel bag catches into the groups of teenagers. Here, no one seems to recognize him. He looks around and no one sees him. He pushes past a salaryman texting on his cellphone. There is a rush of stale air on the platform. Tezuka takes a deep breath. Osaka smells different. Moist cold creeps into his sneakers. Tezuka wiggles his toes. Australia spoiled him.
Outside the train gates, an arcade is filled with people. Tezuka walks through the crowd. It pushes him along with the rhythmic pulse of shoppers and students. The air sizzles with grease and takoyaki stands. Everything is hung with fairy lights and fake poinsettia blossoms. Tezuka hesitates. People walk into his arm. When he looks up, they are gone in the thousand people all around him.
Tezuka reads the address once more. There are sock shops and okonomiyaki joints, a camera shop with glittering lights, and a games arcade further ahead. Lights flash and blink. Streamers of wishes on gilt paper flutter between boughs of pine and eucalyptus. Tezuka rubs the bridge of his nose. Nothing is familiar. Nothing slows down.
Someone runs into his duffel bag. It slips off his shoulder. There's only really some tennis shorts and underpants, and a box of chocolates for his mother inside. Still, the silent thunk the bag makes on the pavement echoes in Tezuka's mind. He closes his eyes for a split second, and he bends down to pick it up.
"Thief bro." A girl holds the strap of the bag. She must have caught it. A pageboy cap hangs over her eyes-and long layers of hair, too.
Tezuka starts to mumble a thanks.
(Funny how the past has a way of catching up)
He knows the voice. He remembers that Hakata twang doesn't belong in Osaka, and neither does a tall, lanky girl with a wide grin.
"Yo, thief bro," she says. "Fancy meeting you here."
Tezuka blinks. Miyuki's grin spreads.
She pulls his arm, and they go. Her words go a mile a minute and Tezuka only notices half of them. "I seen ya play in the Master's tournies," she says. "Your serve is good, bro, but ya gotta watch that arm of yours! Didn't you have that habit of keepin' your shoulder too tight in school? Tcha."
Tezuka says, "Aa."
They weave through the crowd. Miyuki nearly runs around the couples holding hands, and the old woman pulling carts of late-night vegetables and leftover oden from hole in the wall shops. A bicycle cuts through the arcade right in front of Tezuka. Finally, Miyuki stops long enough to spit out her gum. "Oi! Watch it!" she shouts.
The Namba streets glitter. The canal doubles the electric glow. Out here, the air is sharp enough that Tezuka can see his breath. His glasses feel cold. Miyuki's hand tightens on his jacket.
"You got any place to go tonight, thief bro?" she asks.
Amerika-mura's canal-side advertisements and signs are a wash of colour and blinking bulbs. It takes Tezuka a moment to ingest her question. Then, he shakes his head once.
"Cool," she says. She pushes her cap back and her eyes glow blue, then red. To either side, people rush by. Miyuki, though, is still. Tezuka steps closer.
"I have to-" he starts.
She butts in with a cheeky smile. "Oi, thief bro, if a girl invites you over on Christmas Eve, shut up and agree, okay?"
Tezuka forgets about the hotel address in his jacket pocket. Miyuki leads him through the maze of people, and then the web of back streets. Oil slicked pavements pour into the next one-way street. It's grungier between the high rise department stores and shopping blocks. Light seeps between the dumpsters, and the abandoned bicycles. The cold is deeper here. The rushing sounds of a million people are drowned out when Miyuki darts around another corner.
The street is long and Tezuka can't see where it leads out. A single lorry rattles a block behind them. Ahead, a Laundromat is lit up, but the machines are empty.
Miyuki stops at the first apartment block after. "Home sweet oniisan's home," she says.
"Oh," Tezuka says.
In the elevator, Miyuki says, "He's not home. He wandered off again." She makes a noise and rolls her eyes. Suddenly, the elevator seems to take twice as long. Tezuka looks down at his shirt-it was clean when he left Brisbane. Now, it's wrinkled beyond recognition.
It smells like a greenhouse inside. In the kitchen is a bowl of pears that have seen better days. The apartment is cold, and the curtains match the colourless walls. Miyuki hangs up her jacket, and then she tucks her cap on top. Tezuka keeps his jacket on.
"Do you gotta…?" she asks. She nods to a door off the kitchen. Hair falls over her face.
Tezuka stares at her.
"Don't make a lady say it," she warns. But she answers his question when she adds, "The TOILET, thief bro!"
Tezuka says he's fine.
The kettle boils for two cup ramen, Hakata-style. Tendrils of pork-flavoured steam lick the air. The balcony window fogs up at the edges where the curtains don't quite reach. Miyuki sits Indian-style on the tatami floor. Tezuka folds his knees under himself.
"Oniisan doesn't have a kotatsu," she says. Miyuki slurps up her noodles before Tezuka is half finished. Salt sticks to his lips as Miyuki drags a heater from the closet. It sputters glowing red dust motes, and his entire left side bakes in the radiant heat. Tezuka says nothing.
Miyuki keeps grinning. "So you're a pro now, eh thief bro?"
"Aa," Tezuka says.
"None of those jips anymore?"
Tezuka frowns. He glances left, but his arm doesn't ache. His right shoulder is stiff from the duffel bag, which now sits by the apartment door.
"And you're stuck in Osaka with me, of all nights!" Miyuki falls back on the tatami floor. Her arms are spread eagle; her fingertips touch the apartment walls. Tezuka sets the cup ramen down to look at her.
She grins up at him. In the light of the bare incandescent bulb, her teeth gleam. "Your girlfriend in Tokyo's gotta be jealous right now."
There is an awkward pause before Tezuka says he doesn't have a girlfriend. It might be the light, but it might be something else that makes Miyuki's eyes shine a little deeper.
"Hey thief bro," she says.
The air is dry. The heater hisses. Sparks collect and catch on the tatami floor before they die a slow, cold death. Faintly-maybe from the apartment next door-Tezuka can hear the tiny chimes of Christmas carols playing on a tv. The floor creaks. Tezuka glances down to see Miyuki's hand, splayed flat. She leans on it, and leans closer.
Tezuka doesn't know her. He hasn't seen her in ten years. He's sitting in Chitose Senri's apartment on Christmas Eve and Miyuki is staring at him. "You don't have to be alone, you know," she says.
To miss an opportunity would be careless.
So Tezuka takes his glasses off. He folds them and sets them on the table, beside the cup ramen. Anticipation sparks in his stomach as he bows his head to Miyuki's level. She's licked her lips, but the edges have tiny crystals of ramen broth. Tezuka can almost taste the salt.
His mouth brushes them.
Or the air between them, because Miyuki's cell goes off.
Tezuka whips his head away. Miyuki scrambles over the table to her jacket. As Tezuka reaches for his glasses, Miyuki answers. Her accent lengthens as she clicks her tongue and tells her brother off. "So you're not coming back tonight, oniisan?" She glances over her shoulder to Tezuka, with a wink and a roll of her eyes.
Tezuka's face is hot. He pushes the heater away from himself, but the metal casing burns to the touch.
When she's finished, she sits back down beside Tezuka, except now, she's closer. It's harder to see without his glasses, of course, but this close, Tezuka isn't so sure it matters. Should I kiss her? he thinks. Tezuka exhales-it sounds like a sigh.
Miyuki grabs his hand. She turns it over, and then back. She tugs on it hard enough to make Tezuka say "Ow". Miyuki grins. "Your shoulder's all tense," she says.
"Aa," is the only thing Tezuka can respond with.
"Your face is all red, thief bro," she adds.
Tezuka blinks.
Miyuki makes his face hotter still when she places his palm on her chest. The knit of her sweater is thin enough that Tezuka can feel the outline of her bra, and her stiffening nipples, too.
She tastes like reconstituted green onions, and greasy Hakata-style cup ramen. Miyuki smiles against his lips as Tezuka kisses harder.
He doesn't have the jips anymore.
2.
It was so stupid that he can hardly remember just what was the reason.
Yukimura stirs the hot milk tea. With his sunglasses on, no one recognizes him. With his sunglasses on, he also sticks out from the OLs like a sore thumb. The milk has a tendency to curdle in his stomach. Yukimura slurps faster. The café will close in a half hour. Employees shuffle around with trays and hopeful looks that all the patrons will leave soon. Frankly, Yukimura is more than content to sit here at a table with his suitcase propped up against the table leg.
He yawns. Yukimura belches up a gulp of milk. He swallows it right back down and his stomach starts to churn. When he stands, his legs creak. The flight from Brisbane was long, and even though it's only an hour difference, his body droops. Mostly, he wants to grab the train back to his parents and sleep until supper time tomorrow.
Instead, Yukimura flips his cell open. No calls from anyone yet. He frowns. His flight got in over two hours ago.
On the streets is a steady stream of traffic: all young students and office workers on dates. Strings of red lights drip off the street lamps and shop fronts. Trees are studded with the clearest lights. Yukimura looks up at them. His heart aches a little. The trees are as filled with stars as Yokohama will ever be.
In Brisbane, he could have stayed another night or two with Olga in that hotel room. She was blonde and tall and willing to wrap her big tennis-playing thighs around him. Yukimura stuffs his face deeper into his scarf. He could have stayed, but he said no.
Six years has been long enough.
He's probably a fool for waiting-hesitating?-this long already.
At the zebra crossing, he stops. The light switches to red. For a moment, Yukimura closes his eyes. He can remember that day. It was early summer, wasn't it? The mosquitoes weren't quite out, but the lazy laughter of crows filled the air. They practiced together, like always. Yukimura probably drank an Aquarius when they stopped the game. The words have been lost with time. Yukimura's face is hot with memory.
He said something, maybe. It was so trivial, and he walked away.
He never apologized.
And Sanada never came back to the tennis courts to practice again.
Now, he's alone on Christmas Eve waiting for the light to change. Girls in mukluk boots bump into him. Yukimura turns. He pushes the sunglasses up over his hair. On second thought, he takes them off and stuffs them into the back pocket of his jeans. Everything smells of the evergreen trees, imported from the mountains to decorate the city's medians.
Cafés and restaurants are open late. Yukimura cuts through the shopping arcade, leading down toward the subway. The three-storey escalator is lit up with stars and hearts and red-ribboned boughs. His eyes linger over the advertisement for a painting gallery, and then another for half-price bookings at the plaza hotel before the fifteenth of the month. Under his breath, Yukimura laughs a little. All around him are lights and people and reminders of girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands and wives.
He can only hope that Sanada is unchanging. Six months ago, Niou called him. Yukimura was in London and Niou was in Manchester. They never met up. Yukimura didn't ask about Sanada-Niou brought him up. As he waits at the subway platform, in the rush of stagnant air before the train pulls up, he can almost hear Niou's voice in his ear.
It cuts off. Yukimura didn't want to hear about Sanada. Milk bile creeps up his throat. His stomach is in lactic knots. Yukimura plays with the tassels on his scarf as the train arrives with a whoosh of lights and commuters.
With one last glance to the digital display board, Yukimura steps on. He dumps his suitcase near the door and stands around it. The train is a local line, which is what he wants: Sanada lives in the sticks.
Yukimura leans against the train. He stretches his feet out and wiggles his toes. He can feel them now, but on the flight to Osaka, at times, the numbness would drift in and out. With it, the fear of relapse is never far behind. Beads of sweat gather along his forehead. Never again! he thinks, as he wipes them away with the hem of his scarf.
It's nothing.
He's changed.
His eyes drag the further the train rolls into the suburbs. There is a rush of light as it exits the subway tunnels and emerges in an ocean of apartment blocks and convenience stores. Fat slush dribbles down the windows, gilding the dark landscape as they catch the city lights. In Brisbane, the sun was unforgiving and yellow. In Osaka, as he waited for the layover, the sky was crystalline. At home, the drizzle makes Yukimura shiver in his coat.
At the station, he's the only person to get off. There's no one around, not even the gate attendant. Yukimura's footsteps echo in the severe cement walls. He waits under the overhang by the bus stop. Singular cars roll by on the main road. He takes a deep breath, but the milkiness clings to his tongue. Yukimura horks up a wad of mucus that he spits to the sidewalk. He yawns again. The bus schedule lists one last number 3. It should have arrived two minutes ago.
Two minutes later, the bus pulls up.
Six years ago, he took this bus for the last time. The route cuts through familiar tight streets between old-fashioned houses with tall fences at the front. Yukimura sees the post office, with its blackened windows, and the yellow sign for Sunkrus. It's probably closed for the night, but a group of teenagers stands in the tiny parking lot. Clouds of smoke drift up over them. Their cigarette butts glow red on the pavement.
Yukimura's throat goes dry when the bus pulls onto the highway. At this time of night, the bamboos are a curtain opening into the halls of cryptomeria deeper down the highway. The bus weaves. Yukimura is the only person, except for the bus driver, who announces every stop they drive by. Not yet, Yukimura thinks.
Maybe this was impulsive. Maybe he should have waited another six months, or another six years. Yukimura reaches into his bag, but the water bottle is empty. He drank the last of it on the express train from Haneda to Yokohama.
He doesn't know what to say. Yukimura looks out the window. The bus drives around another hair-pin turn in the highway, and then, through the tops of the trees, the sky is awash with milky stars.
Yukimura takes a deep breath. He presses the stop button.
Up here in the hills, it's frigid. The bus drives off and Yukimura stands at the side of the road. Part of him wants to flag the bus back down, just in case Sanada isn't there. Part of him wants to flag the bus back down, because he can't go through with it. His insides freeze up. His hand, though, stays deep in the warm lint of his pocket.
And the bus disappears into the black pavement of the highway.
Remnants of earlier rain cling to the sides of the dirt road Yukimura turns onto. He steps in a puddle of half-frozen mud. "Aw, fuck," he mutters. It seeps into his shoes and through the hem of his jeans. It smells of vegetation here, and motor oil. Yukimura huddles into himself. Winter bites his face, and the damp hair at the back of his neck.
It used to be fun to traipse up the dirt road to Sanada's house. He and Yanagi and Sanada could race up the twisting hill in no time. Stamina training for tennis! Yukimura would joke. The ditch was steep and the incline even steeper. It's never-ending now. Yukimura catches his breath. He's sweaty under his coat, and it freezes on his face and upper lip. His toes itch with the beginning of frostbite-but at least he can feel them.
Showing up with something to say would probably be a good idea.
I didn't mean that you were wasting your tennis talent.
I didn't mean that you were an asshole.
I didn't mean that it was funny you liked me.
Each excuse sounds worse than the last in his mind. Yukimura keeps walking. His sneakers slip again, but he catches his balance. At least his coach picked up his tennis bag in Tokyo-one less thing to carry over his back. The exhibition match with Tezuka is on the twenty-seventh.
How much time does it take to say I'm sorry?
The old house rises between the trees like a samurai in the mist. Whispy steam from the forest floor hangs in the forest, moss from the trees, bark from the cryptomerias. Leaves crunch underfoot, followed by gravel. It sticks between the muddy treads of Yukimura's sneakers. The winter sticks to his face, and lethargy clings to his legs. Tennis courts are flat and finite on his muscles. The mountains toward Yamanashi are anything but.
Yukimura takes one last swallow of the milkiness on his tongue. The Sanada family sign is still at the gate. There's still a tangled garden in the front, barely different from the forest surrounding. December frosts have killed all of the summer blossoms. Dead brown petals scatter the pathway, stirred up by the rain. Yukimura does his best to avoid them. He does his best to avoid thinking about the lack of the Toyota in the driveway.
Maybe he's not home…?
But there is a light on in one of the front rooms. In shines through the reed curtains and the wooden slats of the walls. At the fountain, Yukimura hesitates. Something rustles behind him. He whips his head around, just in time, to see two pigeons dissolve into the night. Feathers float down, like snow, and their coos echo under the eaves.
Yukimura flips his cellphone open again. Still, no one has called. The clock has struck midnight-it's Christmas, and the buses and trains will have stopped running.
It's so stupid to show up with nothing prepared.
Yukimura bites his lip. He wiggles his toes to sate the itch-even for a moment. His stomach cramps up in the instant his finger hovers over the buzzer. When he hears the sharp echo, he doesn't remember pressing it at all.
And there is nothing.
A long, thick silence hangs over the house. Yukimura exhales. He inhales. He does it again, thirty times, and no one shows up at the door. No one answers the buzzer. Wind stirs the pine boughs above him, and a shower of frozen mist falls to the garden floor. It sprinkles Yukimura's hair, and it sparkles in the light of the window.
Yukimura lets the frozen smile slide off his face.
And then he leaves.
His footsteps are louder on the pavement stones. His heart feels heavier than ever. He wonders if it was a mistake telling Olga no, he had something he needed to do back home, don't call me, I'll call you.
"Yukimura."
All it takes is one word in that voice and Yukimura is eighteen again, and so fucking stupid. He freezes and stiffens and he doesn't believe his ears until he hears Sanada call his name a second time.
So Yukimura turns around. If he was any good at faking, he might brush this off as nothing. Instead, there's no way he can. He flew halfway across the Pacific to come see Sanada.
And Sanada is standing in the doorway of his parents' house, wearing a yukata and new lines in his forehead. Yukimura glances at him, and around him, and Sanada's left hand on the doorframe is bare. Yukimura glances to his own hand.
It's the same.
And Sanada hasn't changed. His scowl is unchanged and his eyes are unmoving and blacker than the Christmas night. Yukimura swallows the last of the milk tea from his mouth.
"I'm sorry," he says.
Sanada holds the door open, and Yukimura walks inside.
3.
He's pacing holes into the flooring of the arrivals lounge.
He checks his phone for the twelfth-or thirteenth?-time.
His nails are chewed down to the quick.
Oishi spins around to pace the other direction. Tezuka where are you!? he thinks. The flight from Osaka arrived nearly two hours ago. Oishi watched and waited and paced. Streams of people walked past him towards the train links, and the automatic doors out to taxis. A guy in sunglasses walked out-he was oddly familiar, but Oishi was too busy scanning the crowd for a tall, lanky guy in glasses.
Vivid, horrible thoughts plague his mind.
What if Tezuka was killed in Brisbane by drug lords?
What if Tezuka injured himself in Osaka and is in a Kansai hospital?
What if Tezuka…?
Oishi wrings his hands together. His cellphone drops to the floor and, in his pacing, he steps on the end. His eyes widen. A little noise escapes his lips. Oishi picks it up. There's a crack in the screen, but the buttons still work. Mostly. Hopefully.
What if Tezuka tries to call now and the cellphone doesn't work?
Oishi starts to panic. The Christmas music playing on the PA system makes it worse. His lungs are going to burst if he gasps on oxygen any harder. Breathe, Shuuichiroh, breathe! Tezuka can take care of himself!
Besides, his cell does work. The ringtone goes off with the peaceful sound of water falling. Oishi takes a deep breath. His head swims.
"Yes?"
"Oi, O-i-shiiii! Where are you?"
Insta-relief.
He stops pacing a matte trail into the linoleum.
He stops drumming his fingers on a payphone.
He stops chewing on his fingernails-but they hurt a bit.
"The show starts soon! You're supposed to pick me up!"
"Aa, Eiji…" Oishi glances around, to the left, to the right, and back towards the baggage claim. There's no one except a janitor pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. Oishi swallows hard.
"Tezuka's not here," he says. His voice sounds small and tiny in the cavernous airport.
"He's fine, he's fine, Oishi. Maybe he wanted to stay longer in Australia?" When Oishi starts to cut in with a scenario of drug lords or random shootings, Eiji keeps going. He laughs and the cheerful sound settles the knots in Oishi's belly a little.
"Maybe he just met a pretty girl? It's Christ-mas Eve after all!"
"Aa…maybe you're right," Oishi admits.
"Now hurry up and pick me up before we miss the show-you don't want two people mad at you today, do you Oishi?"
Eiji knows just which strings to pull. Oishi concedes. As he flips his cellphone closed, the crack spreads and the liquid LCD screen dies a flickering death. Oishi sighs. With one last look to the automatic security doors, he gives up.
It's not as though Tezuka will be able to reach him now.
Oishi bites his lip. Maybe he should call Eiji, just in case…?
No! No! Eiji's right! Tezuka probably has a good reason for missing his flight. It'll be fine. It'll be fine.
On the highway, it turns into a bit of a mantra. Winter bites his face as the scooter revs down the expressway toward the belly of Tokyo. Oishi sucks on exhaust fumes from late-night lorries. His head float a little; his hair fangs whip up against his helmet. He pushes the gas harder to make another light, just before it changes to yellow.
Tezuka will be fine…he'll be fine…fine…Oh, turn here!
Oishi cuts across a lane to make the turn. He winces under his scarf-no one was in this lane, but he hates disobeying traffic laws. It's not right! At the same time, if he's any later and Eiji misses the show tonight…
He chews the inside of his lip until it's raw. Metallic blood taste fills his mouth. He rides past a blinding block of ramen joints with flapping noren curtains and red lanterns. He can smell fried onions and greasy broth. Oishi breathes it in, then he rides onto an off ramp. A bus cuts him off-Oishi frowns, but he holds back on his horn. Through the fogged up windows of the bus, he can see the stooped backs of old women. His heart twists a little. He feels briefly guilty for wanting to honk, but as soon as he sees the sign for Aoyama, the thought has flashed away.
The shop is on a side street, closer to Sendagaya than Omotesando. Oishi weaves through the glistening Ferraris and the Familymart trucks bringing stocks of Coke and tea and Kirin. The tall zelkova trees of the main drag are hung with lights. Oishi turns past the Wendy's. The streets are a bit uneven. He stops once a block, twice a block to allow teenagers to cross. The scooter spits smoke into the night. He revs the engine and goes again, starting and stopping until he reaches the pet shop.
From the outside, it could be any other store front: there are fat red Santa-san pictures and frosted letters advertising a sale. Fake green garlands hang in the window and the bell on the door jingles when Oishi goes inside. The lights are low. It smells of animals: strong and musky.
"Hello?" he calls out. "E-Eiji?
There's no answer for the longest while. Oishi sucks on the raw inside of his lip. He takes a deep breath. Puppies pace in their cages. When they see him, their eyes light up and their tongues hang out. Oishi walks up to their cages. He sticks a finger through the slat. A warm, wet tongue licks his hand. Oishi smiles at the ticklish feeling.
"Oi!"
Oishi jumps three feet.
Eiji stands behind him with his arms crossed and narrowed eyes. His apron is red and hemmed with tinsel. "No touching Ryan-chan without permission," Eiji says. The hard scowl on his face dissolves into a laugh as Oishi yanks his hand away.
"Joking!" Eiji says.
Oishi sighs. Eiji slings an arm around Oishi's neck-like Ryan's lick, the touch is warm and comfortable. Oishi leans into it. He can almost forget about Tezuka in the light of Eiji's big smile.
"I was just cleaning up the back," he says. "Can you check the birds and make sure their feeder is full?"
Eiji runs to the backroom, past a row of aquariums and terrariums. Soft blue light seeps up into the front of the pet shop. Oishi lingers by the fish for a moment or two. The silvery schools are beautiful and soothing en masse. He smiles.
"The show's only a ten minute walk," Eiji shouts from the back room. Oishi nods. He adjusts his helmet under his arm.
The budgies twitter and shuffle down their perches as Oishi approaches. He reads the sign: a pair for five thousand, special deal just for the holidays! Pressing his face to the glass, he can make out the feeder. It's filled to the brim with seeds. A trio of hens peak out at him from a low swing. They ruffle their feathers. Oishi whispers, "It's okay…"
Of course, they flap around the cage at the sound of his voice. His motions herd the budgies. Blue and yellow and green feather fly up, and the down drifts to the bottom of the cage. Oishi sighs-Eiji's the one who has the way with birds, not him.
"All right, Oishi?" Eiji asks.
Oishi nods. Eiji locks the shop up with a final goodbye to all the animals, including Ryan-chan, the beagle crossbreed.
"If you like him so much, maybe you should buy him," Oishi says.
Eiji gives him a crooked smile and a wink. Oishi knows better than to ask.
"Do you think my bike is okay here?" Oishi asks. He chews on his lip. Eiji says it's fine, he leaves his bicycle here all the time. As they turn the corner at the end of the dead-end street, Oishi hesitates.
"Maybe I should…?"
"It's fine, Oishi," Eiji says. He pulls on Oishi's bottom lip with his fingers and pretends to pout. "Don't worry about it. The Chocolates show won't be too late!"
"But if Tezuka calls-"
"It's. Fine."
Oishi opens his mouth. Eiji gives him a look, so Oishi keeps his worry to himself.
Christmas Eve is but once a year-he should enjoy it without any worries, right?
Right! Oishi thinks.
The show is in Akasaka, not too far from the tall tv headquarters and the buildings with silvery skins of windows. Red and green lights swirl with pictures and patterns. Eiji hops up a flight of concrete steps towards the concert building. Oishi grabs the railing, just in case he trips. He doesn't, but he might.
The sky sparkles with glowing beams from the office towers. The sides of the concert hall seethe with a moving, living mass of concert goers. Eiji flits between the merchandise tables and the main doors. Bouquets of poinsettias and ghostly amaryllis stalks fill the venue lobby. Eiji hands Oishi a ticket. His own, he slips out from the envelope of posters and photosets. "I LOVE Karen-san!" Eiji shouts. His jacket is unzipped enough that Oishi notices Eiji's favourite t-shirt: it's the one he bought at the last Chocolates show they went to, in August.
In the line to enter the hall, Oishi paces up and down the set of stairs: he can only move between three steps. Behind him, a group of teenage girls with the same KAREN ballcap as Eiji block his pacing. In front of Oishi, Eiji shivers.
Oishi grabs him by the shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asks. His face twists up.
Hypothermia!
Shock!!
HEART PALPATIONS!!!
At the August show, a girl passed out. What if Eiji does too??
Eiji isn't listening, though. His eyes have clouded over. Panic rises inside and Oishi can hardly breathe. Louder, he shouts, "Are you OKAY, EIJI?!"
Eiji blinks. When he turns around, his face is beatific. It shines with the weak light from the ceiling overhead. "O-i-shi," he says.
Oishi digs his hands into Eiji's arms. "YES?" He's on the edge of the step and ready to call for an ambulance, if need be. I won't let you die, Eiji!
Eiji holds up his ticket. "I forgot I put it in my pocket," he says. "No worries."
Oishi slithers off the step.
Eiji is the one to catch him.
Their section of ticket numbers is called.
Oishi looks at Eiji, who nods. His eyes widen and there are stars in his pupils. Oishi shuffles into Eiji's side to keep close, but Eiji is the one to reach out. Their hands meet in a sticky clasp. It's warm and damp and the most comfortable feeling. Tension dissolves from Oishi's body, even though the air stifles with too many people. The hall is cramped and smells dusty from dry ice. Strobe lights make it hard to see anything further from six inches away.
Luckily, Eiji is close enough.
"Oishi," he says.
"Eiji," Oishi says.
"I'm glad that we're spending Christmas Eve together."
The show begins with an explosion of sparkles and light. Everything reflects in Eiji's eyes, even though he's staring at Oishi instead of the stage.
Oishi squeezes Eiji's hand back. No hint of worry invades the solid grip of their hands.
"Me too," he says.
4.
The view from the balcony kinda almost makes up for all the boxes stacked through the entire apartment.
Shishido arranges manga volumes on the shelf. Next to them, are stacks of music books. He can't read a word of it, and he doesn't know if Choutarou wants it organized or not. With each box of stuff (crap, junk, old notes from high school, why the heck are you keeping those, Choutarou?) he unpacks, three more take its place.
It's a big place, and sorta closer to Kawasaki than where he works, but Shishido thinks it's all right. The heater works. They have curtains from his mom (aw, jeez, lame, much?) and a view of the bleeding red sunset in the west. Shishido opens the curtains and sticks out his jaw. He can almost see all the way to Mount Fuji from here-okay, not quite. But the view over the tops of apartment blocks and rows of pre-fab houses, glowing red in the dying sun? It's pretty cool.
Besides, they have an apartment together.
It makes Shishido feel a bit gooey and lame thinking about it. Twenty-four and he's got his own apartment with Choutarou now. Fessing up to his parents will be worth it, he just knows.
The rice cooker shuts off. Shishido checks the pot on the cooktop. It looks more like cat food than beef casserole. Still, it's the thought that counts. He sniffs the curls of steam that rise up. With a rice scoop, he tests the slop. Shishido chews on a strand of cabbage. Maybe more salt. And cheese.
He adds the last of the cheese, and another pink of salt. And a dash of shoyu, too, because that never hurts, does it?
Choutarou's gotta be done work soon. Shishido paces a bit. He opens another box in the main room: it's stacked to the brim with sheet music and classical CDs. He flips one over, but it's an import from Europe, or something, all covered with gaijin dudes in old-fashioned wigs and capes. Harry wanders into the room with a hopeful glance to Shishido. Shishido nods.
"C'mere," he says. Harry's tongue lolls as Shishido bends down to get a big kiss on the neck. Beagle kisses are almost on par with Choutarou's-but in a totally, not uncool way, of course. Shishido buries his face in Harry's back and he breathes in deep the smell of dog.
It smells like home.
Until Harry backs up. His claws clack on the laminate floor. The back of Shishido's neck prickles. He glances over his shoulder, and he knows.
The cat stares at him from on top of a stack of boxes-of his boxes, no less, important stuff, like his good jeans and his magazines and his spare hats. Harry tiptoes around the cat as much as Shishido. Old bitch, he thinks.
The cat narrows its eyes at him. It gave Harry a scratch two days ago.
For the sake of world peace (or rather, compromise with Choutarou; they're grown ups and living together and that's what grown ups who live together do), Shishido agreed to live with Muffin-san, the miserable old tabby.
Purplish light coats the floor of the apartment when the door opens wide. Choutarou calls out Shishido's name. "I'm home!" he says.
Shishido shivers a little-it's weird and awesome all at once that they're actually doing this. He looks down and his eyes go wide at the sight of the apron he forgot to take off.
"Aw, shit," he mutters.
Before he's got the apron yanked off, Choutarou catches him with a big grin. He sets his briefcase down and Shishido forgets how uncool and, well, gay, he looks. Fluttering, mushy feelings sink through his middle and he glances at the floor to break Choutarou's look. You still do this to me, babe, he thinks.
Choutarou picks Muffin-san up. "How were you, baby?" he asks. He rubs his nose in Muffin-san's belly. Muffin-san gives Shishido a look of pure satisfaction. Harry paws at Choutarou's leg, but Choutarou ignores him.
"Good day at work?" Shishido asks.
Choutarou follows his nose into the kitchen. He nods. "Mn. I just dropped off that container of cookies you made to Kikumaru-san, but he must be at work late."
"Cool," Shishido says. He runs his hand through his hair. "I guess there was a lot extra of those."
"And it's Christmas," Choutarou says.
"Guess so," Shishido says.
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says. (It's not as if Shishido hasn't tried to break Choutarou from the habit, because he totally has. And it hasn't really worked. So Shishido gives up and rolls with it, cool, whatever)
Choutarou has that look in his eyes that makes Shishido's knees start to give out. For all he's sweet and nice and naïve, that look is anything but. It rolls down over Shishido's body, and back up to his face. It eats him up through his pupils as he sinks toward Choutarou. His balls are straining and his dick is hardening and Choutarou, like, sucks the air out of his lungs, or something.
Because when they kiss, Shishido forgets to breathe.
He grabs at Choutarou's tie, because it's the closest thing to him. He pulls and Choutarou jerks forward, pushing Shishido into the edge of the kitchen counter. Choutarou runs his tongue over the soft part just under Shishido's jaw. Shishido gasps. He moans when Choutarou pulls at the apron strings to get under the hem of his shirt.
Shishido loves the feeling of Choutarou's warm, big hands on his stomach. It tickles and tingles and it makes his eyes roll back (just a little!). Choutarou's got a knee between Shishido's thighs and they rub against each other. Arousal rises with the steam from the pot. Shishido breaks another kiss.
It would be way uncool if the casserole burned.
But Choutarou kisses him again, long and hard until Shishido groans against Choutarou's tongue. He kisses with all his soul, and all his heart, and he holds Shishido up as he starts to wiggle out of his jeans. An apron string gets stuck under his foot and Shishido trips.
Choutarou is always there to catch him.
Shishido lifts the apron up over his head. Choutarou pulls it back down.
"Shishido-san, is it okay…?" He doesn't finish. His face is bright pink and his lips are puffy. Shishido's mouth drops a little: his pants are on the floor, Choutarou's fingers are trailing over the top of his hipbone, and he's still got the damn apron on.
He reaches up and out to Choutarou to grab his head. Instead, Shishido kinda ends up combing his hands through Choutarou's soft hair. He's so warm and big and there's a throbbing erection through Choutarou's trousers sending numbing waves all the way to Shishido's toes.
He swallows. This is totally, horribly uncool that he says, "Okay, babe."
They do it against the kitchen counter. Choutarou grabs the first thing (okay, the second-the first was a bottle of BBQ and yuck, no way is that going up my ass, Choutarou!) he finds, a bottle of hand lotion that someone left there this morning before work. His fingers push into Shishido. He hisses. Choutarou hesitates for a moment. He almost winces, but not quite. Shishido exhales and nods. He's so full that he doesn't know how much longer he'll last if Choutarou doesn't hurry up.
Choutarou pushes inside. The pot on the cooktop clangs and clacks as he thrusts. Shishido clings to Choutarou's shoulders, digging his hands in tight as he can. He moans. He groans. There's sweat on Choutarou's forehead and it's dripping into Shishido's eyes and he can smell the casserole starting to scorch, but fuck, yes, Choutarou, keep going, you're hitting that spot again, don't stop, ever!
So Shishido may-or may not-do something really, really lame like sob and shake and bite Choutarou's shoulder when the feeling builds up inside so bad it hurts. And he may-or may not-choke on another cry when everything finally explodes in sweet, agonizing sensation as Choutarou fucks that spot inside over and over until Shishido is kinda sorta yeah, okay, a sobbing mess of gasping mewls pressed into the hard edge of the countertop.
He slides down and away to the floor as Choutarou stiffens and does that funny (cute) thing where his eyelashes flutter and he mumbles Shishido's name-Ryou-and comes with one last, slapping thrust.
They both lie on the floor for a moment or three to catch their breath. Shishido can smell supper starting to go, but at the same time, Choutarou is heavy and warm and sweaty and comfortable, like an old ball cap Shishido can't bring himself to throw into the rubbish. Choutarou presses kisses to the skin under Shishido's ear. Shishido plays with the hem of Choutarou's open shirt. Choutarou sucks his belly in-he's ticklish, and it makes Shishido bite back a grin.
"You made dinner," Choutarou says. When he closes his eyes, he looks a little suspiciously young sometimes. Shishido almost feels guilty for it, but not quite-after all, Choutarou was the one who approached him way back when. It wasn't like Shishido was robbing any cradles.
"Yeah," Shishido says.
"Your apron is really…"
"Uncool?"
Choutarou snorts through his nose. Shishido pokes him in the soft part of his belly, right above his hip where there are dark, downy hairs trailing downward. "Didn't know you had a thing for them, Choutarou," he says.
Choutarou hangs his head. He mumbles something that means nothing, really, and Shishido laughs off the flush of his face. He reaches for his jeans, but the damn cat is sitting on the one leg. Shishido tugs. Muffin-san glowers.
"Muffy-wuffy," Choutarou says. He uses that sing-song nice voice than once or twice he's used with Shishido, at the crack of dawn, when one of them has a morning stiffy.
Muffin-san walks off Shishido's jeans. Harry waits, and when Muffin has sauntered into the back bedroom, he sits at the doorway and wags his tail on the floor. Shishido wipes off the jizz on his stomach with one of the new kitchen towels Choutarou's sister bought them. It feels kinda weird to think about, so he stuffs it into the corner, behind the shoyu.
The beef casserole is okay-the stuff on top, anyway. Shishido slops it up into a couple dishes. Choutarou scoops rice for them. They sit around a low box, across from each other, and in the soft, nebulous glow of the outskirts of Tokyo.
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says, "how was work?"
"Aw," Shishido says. He starts to talk with a mouthful of food, but Choutarou frowns a little, so he stops to swallow. World peace, and all. "The rugrats were good today, I guess? Masami didn't puke during nap time today."
"Cool," Choutarou says. "Shishido-san, you're the best kindergarten teacher ever, you know."
Shishido rolls his eyes. Inside, it feels sorta good when Choutarou tells him that. It makes it worth all the puke-cleaning and potty-helping and finger-painting he does on a daily basis.
"Oh!"
Choutarou runs to the front door. He squats down and rummages around his briefcase. Harry sticks his nose in to help, but Choutarou just leans away and rummages deeper. Shishido chews on a wad of rice-he must have added too much water, because it's gummy and sticks to the roof of his mouth.
He watches Choutarou come back with a bottle of wine. Choutarou ducks his head down a little, before he holds it out to Shishido.
"Merry Christmas, Shishido-san," he says.
"Thanks, Choutarou," Shishido says. When Choutarou doesn't stop making those soppy, wet, sorta-dog-like eyes at him, Shishido pushes his arm and snorts. "It's just any other day," he mutters.
"No," Choutarou says.
"Eh?"
Choutarou blinks. "Shishido-san, it's our anniversary."
Oh.
Way uncool, loser. You forgot!
From on top of a box, Muffin-san stares Shishido down with a look as long and unimpressed as the one Choutarou gives him. Shishido shifts a bit on the floor. City lights reflect in Choutarou's wavering eyes. On the balcony, four birds sit in a line, cooing and calling out to all the other pigeons in the neighbourhood.
Shishido flashes Choutarou a crooked smile as he pushes his hand back through his hair. Then he reaches out to squeeze one of Choutarou's warm, slightly sweaty hands that fit perfectly in the small of his back.
"Happy anniversary, babe," he says.