Chapter Text
The first twenty-four hours in Okinawa had Langa convinced that this move across the globe was a huge mistake.
Arriving at the Naha Airport was both uneventful and entirely stress-inducing. Even though it was relatively small and quaint compared to the stops along the way, Langa felt like he had stepped off the plane into a new world. He was too tall and lanky and pale to be able to slip into the anonymity that airports normally afford, and he wasn’t built for the heat in the same way that everyone else seemed to be. His back was sticky with sweat and when his mother grabbed his hand to pull him around like a child on a leash, their palms glided against each other in an upsetting way. Even when Langa had been bundled up and snowboarding for hours at a time, he hadn’t experienced this much sweat in his life.
The car ride to their new home was dreadfully quiet. Palm trees, tropical plants, colorful vending machines, and flashes of the ocean whizzed by and blurred together as Langa’s head rattled where it was rested against the window. All of the advertisements flew by too quickly for him to attempt to read the Japanese characters, which made his stomach twist with worry.
They’ve arrived on a Saturday, and on Monday he will have to join the new school. His mom says that they will be understanding of the mild language barrier, but he isn’t so sure. Even if the teachers are accommodating and kind, teens his age are not so forgiving – at least not back home. That could have something to do with his own reputation back home, though. It wasn’t always a breeze being the token trans kid and having dozens of childhood friends either leave you behind or ask a thousand invasive questions.
Maybe a new reputation could be written here, one that has nothing to do with his past. He would much rather be picked on for being clumsy in the native language than being singled out for his gender identity or being the kid with the dead dad. His mom says learning the language is a breeze when you're surrounded by it, and that is probably true. They had been practicing back home in Canada, but Langa had often gotten frustrated and switched back to English when he didn’t immediately know how to say something. It sounded a little more natural here, at least.
The driver of the car kept his mom entertained on the way home, speaking in such an excited and animated way that Langa only half-listened to. He caught onto some of the words as his mother responded with matched enthusiasm, not ever slipping over her words, or pausing to translate it in her head– ‘new start, just the two of us, long trip…’ – Just the two of us. That’s something he needed to get used to hearing as well. He wasn’t sure how his mom could drop it so casually into the conversation, keeping that smile on her face the entire time. He knows she’s in as much pain as him, if not more. She’s much better at remaining composed. Langa wanted to sink into the backseat of the car and plug his ears like a child, but he already felt as though his first impressions on this island were not great. Instead, he closed his eyes and pretended to fall asleep, even as his head continued to rumble and bounce against the window.
-
Sundays have always been rough for Langa, but he wakes up on this particular Sunday with a tight knot already living in the cavity of his chest. His bed frame is still unassembled and leaned against the plain white wall, and he nearly rolls off the mattress he’d collapsed onto last night.
It’s eerily quiet in the house.
He peels himself off the floor and trudges like a zombie to the bathroom, only pausing twice to remember which direction to walk in. It takes a matter of minutes to get ready, with a lazy hair brushing and gargle of minty mouthwash. Getting dressed is a little more annoying, as most of his clothes had become wrinkled on the long journey. He manages to find a decent button-up shirt that isn’t a total disgrace and layers it over an unassuming black tank binder. He had learned his lesson yesterday by wearing too many layers, but even this is guaranteed to leave him gross and damp later. It’s one of those things he’ll have to grow used to.
His mom is still asleep as he slips out of the front door, so he sends her a brief text about wanting to explore the neighborhood a little. Explore is technically the correct term, but he does have a goal in mind: finding a job.
It’s no secret that his mom has been struggling a bit financially in the absence of his dad, despite her attempts to keep it under his radar. Langa has seen the costs of moving laid out over their kitchen table, seen the way his mom went a bit pale when she passed by the papers with unintelligible numbers scribbled across them. It would be cruel of Langa not to pitch in, right? He’s grown enough now to manage school and a job! He just needs to find some sort of job posting…
-
An hour later, he finds himself sitting in front of perhaps the prettiest man he’s ever seen in real life.
He had tried to scour the town for a newspaper, but once he found one, he couldn’t quite make out the exact job description for an open position at the location he currently finds himself in. All he saw in the paper was that the pay was good, and the hours were flexible. He didn’t expect his phone GPS to lead him to such an aesthetically pleasing office with a whole shelving system solely for awards the business had won. He feels wildly out of place watching the way the owner conducts himself, gracefully taking a seat and skimming over the shakily filled-out resume Langa had offered wordlessly.
From the corner of his eye, he sees a faint purple glow, which seems to be some kind of electronic skateboard or something when he dares to turn his head to check it out. A curt clearing of the throat causes him to snap his head forward again.
The man (who had introduced himself, but Langa had quickly forgotten the name due to its length), smiled at him with what could be read as pity in his expression. Great. He pushes back some of his long pink hair, sliding the resume back to Langa with a sigh.
“I apologize for not including a clause about age in the application requirements,” he said.
“Right.”
“What was your name again?”
Before Langa could respond with some offhand remark about how it was literally written on the application, that same purple glow suddenly appeared right before his eyes, a “C”-shaped hologram floating just above the low table and honestly scaring the shit out of him. A robotic voice sounded out from somewhere –
“Langa Hasegawa. Age: 17. Nationality: Canadian.”
Langa’s eyes widen as he tries to comprehend how the hell this weird robot thing knows who he is, gaze darting around the room for answers. The man just smiles as if this isn’t the strangest job interview ever and nods.
“Thank you, Carla.”
-
That was a bust. It was almost bizarre enough for Langa to write off getting a job in general, but he knows that not every business could have such… interesting owners. He probably wouldn’t have liked that place anyways – it turns out it was something about calligraphy and artificial intelligence, and Langa could never land a position as a calligrapher. The robot had a better chance of reading his writing and deciphering his name than the actual human person interviewing him. It was hopeless before he had even stepped through the door.
Now, he’s trudging back home in search of lunch to eat his feelings. It’s not as unbearably hot outside today, with the gentle breeze hitting his face and the grey clouds swarming overhead. He’s almost in an okay mood by the time he makes it back to the new house.
His mom is in the kitchen, packing away dishes and silverware without a care in the world. She seems… happier, somehow, here. Maybe she was right about her hometown helping her heal. It’s more in her element than Canada could have ever been, and she had been all too happy in the car ride yesterday to point out old hangout spots she had claimed as a teenager. She knows this place, and it seems to welcome her warmly.
Langa only wishes he had spent more time here than the measly two years he had as a baby – he doesn’t remember it a bit.
“Hi,” he says shortly, squeezing past her to rummage through the fridge.
There aren’t a lot of options, so he settles for a quick sandwich and starts gathering the materials.
“Hi, darling. Back so soon?”
“It’s been a couple of hours, actually.”
“I know, but there’s so much to see! Did you do anything fun? Meet any cute girls?”
Langa tries not to laugh at that, knowing it’s really his own fault that his mom seems so oblivious to his sexuality. It’s not like he’s ever corrected her before; he’s just been holding onto the hope that one day he’ll have a nice boy to bring home and it can go unspoken. But yeah – he’s very, very gay. It’s never felt like the right time to come out to any of his family, unlike the trans coming out, which had felt rather urgent as he didn’t know how to deal with transitioning in secret. His parents had been very helpful in that process, so he doesn’t want to make things complicated once again.
Besides, it’s kind of funny.
“No, no cute girls. I didn’t see anyone my age.”
“Well, no worries. You certainly will tomorrow. How are we feeling about the first day of school?”
Langa feels his shoulders drop, and he slaps the top piece of bread onto his sandwich a little too harshly. A few stray crumbs fly to the floor. He’s sure his mom is staring at his back, can sense the tension between his shoulder blades. He had somehow managed to avoid thinking about school for most of today.
“Dunno. You said it’s smaller than my last school, yeah?”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t get lost at least. I’ve emailed most of the staff to explain why you’re showing up in the middle of the semester, they seem very nice. Please try your best to be open-minded, Langa. It will be different, but that’s good sometimes.”
An awkward pat lands on his shoulder, and then his mom is wandering off to the next room full of unpacked boxes. He really should help her, but the rumbling in his stomach is a much stronger pull.
-
It's like something out of a cheesy American high school movie. Langa is made to stand in front of his entire class and introduce himself, feeling at least twenty-five pairs of eyes boring into his skin. Back home, new transfer students usually tried their hardest to immediately blend in with the class, and introductions were made on an individual basis during lunch or something. Somehow, Langa hadn’t even considered this a possibility. He stammers out his name as the teacher prompts him, and then some basic facts about himself when that hadn’t been good enough to warrant an end to this embarrassment.
He’s already coming across as a weirdo, huh?
On the way to his desk, he tries to discreetly gauge his new classmates' reactions but finds that they’ve mostly gone back to their previous activities. A couple of girls catch his gaze with timid smiles, and he tries to look normal and polite as he nods back at them. There’s one open seat at the back of the class, which he gratefully slides into.
The rest of the lesson passes by in a haze, with the sounds of pencils gliding across paper and the occasional enthusiastic hand in the front row shooting up to answer a question. Langa takes some notes on what he understands, which isn’t a lot. Back home, he hadn’t been too interested in his studies either, so it’s even less appealing now when he has to use the extra brainpower to concentrate on what’s being said.
Being dismissed at the end of the day feels like being released from the most boring purgatory he’s ever been subjected to.
-
School let out an hour ago and he’s standing outside of the weird calligraphy place again. It’s surrounded by other, less eccentric businesses, and Langa figures that at least a couple of them must be hiring. He’s feeling too awkward to just walk into one and ask for a job, though. He’s pretty sure that that’s how it worked back in his parents’ prime, but it probably isn’t how it works anymore. Maybe someone will take pity on him? The sad Canadian boy with a single mother and no friends or prospects – yeah, that story sells.
He’s about to square his shoulders and march into a cozy-looking ramen shop when suddenly the harsh sound of wheels grinding across the hot pavement is growing closer and closer to where he’s sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. He turns to look and lets out an embarrassing squeak when he sees a skateboarder literally ten feet in front of him, barreling haphazardly in his direction.
“Hey! Move!” The guy yells, looking flustered as if he isn’t in control of the speed of his board.
It’s literally wobbling under his feet.
Langa’s reaction times are piss poor at best, so he kind of just cowers and makes himself as small as possible on the sidewalk, covering his head with his hands.
What the hell, I’m still going to get hit, he thinks with a wince.
There’s a small gasp and then the rolling of wheels stops, only to resume on the other side of his body. He looks up just in time to catch the skater landing on the pavement again and then forcing the board to stop with a sneaker landing and dragging across the ground.
You couldn’t have done that before?
“Did you just jump over me?”
The guy at least has the sense to look embarrassed. His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and then to fidget awkwardly with his headband that looks close to falling off entirely. His skin is warm and glowing in the sun and his hair is a distractingly bright red that is messily kept out of his face. Langa sits up a little straighter and tries to fix his button-up and tie. This kid looks familiar…
“Yeah, sorry. I told you to move!”
“It was a little late for that.”
“I saved your life, basically. You’re the new guy, right? From Canada?”
“No,” Langa says flatly.
“What? Yes, you are! I literally sat next to you in your first class today. Hasegawa.”
The guy props his board up against his leg and sticks out his hand. Langa hesitantly gives it a shake, only to receive a fist bump immediately after. He’s never been well-versed in those boyish handshakes and he’s surprised that he doesn’t mess it up somehow. The guy’s hands are warm and rough against his own.
Langa remembers a flash of red next to him in class, but he had been so intent on staring straight down at his desk that he barely registered the kid’s existence.
“Your name is Hasegawa too?”
“No, idiot. That’s you. I’m Kyan – I mean, just call me Reki, okay?”
“Hi, Reki. Thanks for not killing me. You can call me Langa.”
Reki smiles at him, or rather beams, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up.
“Awesome, Langa. You ever been on a skateboard?”