Work Text:
Through the glass: the jagged tooth of the Bay, the geometric pipework of tungsten-lit avenues gliding below the outstretched wing of the plane.
“We are now preparing for landing,” announces the flight attendant over intercom. “Please adjust seats to be upright and store all carry-on luggage in the overhead bin or under the seat in front...”
Ryousuke pops out his earbuds inattentively and returns his in-flight magazine to its pocket. The passenger beside him stirs awake with an odd, deep hiccup originating in the loose swell of the throat.
Like a rooster, Youichi would whisper if he were here, to the right of Ryousuke’s elbow. Blank space, the cool curve where wall meets window. Y’know, ‘cause they have the, the thing.
It’s called a wattle.
Ryou-san, that’s two syllables long, I’m not a lit major for fuck’s sake.
Laughter beneath the surface of pretend-Youichi’s voice. Ryousuke has a keen ear for it, the staticky inhale before the gasp, hyahahaha, a sound Ryousuke’s learned to cup close to his ear over the phone. The wheels hit the runway and Ryousuke’s imaginary reply jolts out of reach, individual nerve signals bumping against each other like a seven car collision on 680.
--Wait for the AirTrain to BART--
Lost weight, Haruichi will worry--
My name’s two syllables, but you say it just fine when we’re--
--Youichi.
“It is currently 1:24 AM in San Francisco, an outside temperature of 42 degrees Fahrenheit...”
After retrieving his small hardside four-wheel carry-on, Ryousuke ascends the jet bridge and exits the terminal, hit by a blast of bone-cold peninsular wind. A part of him expects to see a black motorbike kicked up by the curb, firm leather-clad shoulders and a wide guileless grin, Ryou-san!
But there’s nothing, merely the familiar criss-cross of concrete ramps leading up and out of the airport, the clouded red eye of pollution gazing back at him, cluttered by streetlamps.
--
The air in Ryousuke’s old room smells like fresh laundry and boxed-in bedclothes, courtesy of Haruichi. Ryousuke towels off from his shower, about to spiral into deep sleep when his Samsung lights up on the bedside drawer, a silver beacon washing over the walls.
A red number three in the upper right corner, Youichi’s Facebook Messaging icon hovers in the center of the screen.
sorry i couldnt meet u at the airport
work piled up and shit
r u still awake
While Ryousuke scrolls down to reply, Youichi’s fourth message pings in.
oh fuck did i wake u up
oh fuck
No, you didn’t, Ryousuke answers, text on Auto-caps and Auto-spacing. He squints at the characters marching across the dazzlingly bright chatbox like it’ll gift him with X-ray vision, allow him to trace the cascading algorithms bridging him and Youichi. But I’m going to bed soon, it was a four hour flight and then some. Flight delays at O’Hare are legendary.
ok u get ur beauty rest
A beat and: u free tmrw tho?
Another beat and: i wanna see you
Icon-Youichi is glancing to the side and rubbing the back of his neck, a lopsided smile on his face. Ryousuke remembers capturing the moment on his phone, the accidental warning flash when he thought he could get away with it, Oh hell no Ryou-san! Let me see, let me seeeeee, what did you take, c’mon. But now the secrets hidden in the line of Youichi’s mouth have become irretrievable, and once-obvious details seem muddled by time and distance and the retroactive editing of memory, impervious to Ryousuke’s scrutiny.
Don’t you have work? Ryousuke types out slowly, and hits enter.
man ill figure it out somehow
if ur busy i can come by later but if i gotta wait any longer knowing ur in the same city im gonna have a coronary
not a threat or anything
We have time, Ryousuke points out without lingering on it, because if he lingers he’ll ask, and there should be something inherently good about withholding desire, about not asking when it possibly means asking too much.
Shouldn’t there?
Backspace on Can we do tomorrow, tap in I’m in town for a week. We can meet when you’ve got more time, like the weekend.
Placeholder ellipses show up as Youichi cobbles together a response, deleting and pausing and restarting.
if thats what u want, as though Ryousuke isn’t looking out for Youichi, isn’t trying to be a good boyfriend.
ill text u a pic of this weeks schedule anyway
Sounds good. Ryousuke only hesitates for a second before sending I miss you, because he’s got to be honest about at least one thing, and the blankets settle over his head, a fluffy cocoon shielding him from second-guessing himself, Can we do tomorrow, Can we do tomorrow, Can we do tomorrow.
miss u too man
now go to sleep
like u said
weve got time
--
love you
--
In the dream, foamy suds line the soft inside of Haruichi’s forearm, a trail of iridescent blue-pink trailing down his wrist and drip, drip, dripping into the sink.
“You always do this, Brother,” says Haruichi without looking up--or, more accurately, looking down, since Haruichi’s gained an extra inch or four in the last few years.
Ryousuke snatches another plate from the precarious stack on the counter and dries it off, the scalloped edges gathering like lace under his fingertips. “Clarify, please,” he says, eying the Leaning Tower of Porcelain, a looming monolith like the thick vein of panic in his chest.
“He wants to see you,” Haruichi says, and Ryousuke dries faster and faster as plates add themselves to the top of the pile.
“He’s got work.”
“There’s something called ‘after work,’ Brother.”
“He’ll be tired,” Ryousuke counters, sleekly avoiding the steady drizzle of soap bubbles and Haruichi’s narrow-eyed stare. The stack hits the ceiling and starts to tip. “Today’s a full day for him at the car shop, and he has early bird shifts at Starbucks on Thursdays, among other things. I don’t intend to stop him or get in the way, he has his own goals and I have mine.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” says Haruichi, as undried plates begin falling and shattering. Ryousuke has grown accustomed to silence where there used to be sound, and the boom-crash recedes into background noise. What’s another few days to the six months in two quarters? Bearable. Tolerable.
“I’m trying to make this easier, Haruichi.”
“Well, if you want to suffer, then suffer,” sighs Haruichi, disappointed, and Ryousuke watches the tower bend above him in a perfect rainbow arc before coming apart.
“Fine,” Ryousuke retorts so he can have the last word, and braves the blow like it’s the hurt that makes a task worthwhile.
Isn’t that what love is, being strong for people, giving up needs for people, sacrifice, sacrifice, rinse and repeat. Isn’t that what being good is, holding back until the absolute last moment, then a brief disclosure, repackaging what previously was significant into something distant and manageable, Now look at that, tell me I’ll be okay and we can be done.
So he’s been bad at this from the start. He can change. Or maybe he can’t, maybe he’s incapable of loving the right way, making mistakes that he doesn’t know how to fix because he doesn’t know what’s missing in the first place.
One more plate on the counter and it’s not falling.
Ryousuke reaches out, picks it up, smashes it.
--
11 AM and the radiator in Ryousuke’s room pings loudly, rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. The thick glass barely muffles the hubbub of outside construction, and one yellow-white strip of light cuts clean across the floor, dust motes swarming in a hazy column.
Facebook Messenger reads: 5:23 AM, image attached. From the thumbnail, Ryousuke can tell it’s Youichi’s schedule, blocked-out sections relegated to CAR SHOP SHIT, MORE SHIT, SHIT THAT CAN BE MOVED, SHIT THAT CAN’T BE MOVED, FREE!! FREE!!.
Sent 5:24 AM: message me urs?
Ryousuke marks the free space of two hours between CAR SHOP SHIT and SHIT THAT CAN BE MOVED, and after that, FREE!! FREE!!
Sorry, I changed my mind, can we meet up tonight. I’m available when you are. And the day after.
Don’t worry about where. I’ll go to you.
--
Gray peacoat, cheetah-print leggings, red scarf, blue jeans, umbrella (useless in inclement weather), glossy pumps on pavement. Cigarette smoke, the smell of piss and toilet paper, wrong street, wrong street again, clatter of sewer cap underfoot, electric wires intertwined with thicker bus cables.
“Ryou-san!!” Youichi hollers at the top of his lungs, shouldering aside a disgruntled businessperson.
Ryousuke’s head jerks up of its own accord. Youichi is sprinting uphill as fast as he can, which is very slow on a street with a vertical incline of almost ninety degrees, and the effect is hilarious, almost adorable.
“Ryou-san,” Youichi repeats, panting hard and stumbling to a halt. His work uniform looks stiflingly warm, but he’s got a scarf wound around his neck, nose red from the bite of the wind.
“Yes, that’s me,” agrees Ryousuke, smiling because it’s impossible not to smile and mean it. He doesn’t have time for a follow-up before Youichi’s hugging him, and Ryousuke winds an arm around Youichi’s shoulders, overwhelmed by Youichi’s weight, Youichi’s smell, new cologne, new aftershave, new haircut.
The world pares down to the two-feet square of pavement that they occupy, disrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic.
“I haven’t shrunk, so that means you put on an inch,” Ryousuke notes when Youichi pulls back to knit their fingers together.
Youichi cackles, face splitting into a gleeful grin. “That’s my Ryou-san. Man, I am so glad you changed your mind, wait ‘til you see what I did to my bike.”
He tugs Ryousuke back down the sidewalk, turning around every few seconds to look at Ryousuke, who feels swollen and ready to burst, Youichi, Youichi. Torn between cynicism and a ballooning affection that threatens to consume him, Youichi, Youichi.
“I told you I’d go to you,” Ryousuke says, somewhat bemused, “you didn’t have to meet me halfway.”
“I mean, the faster I go, the sooner I get to see you, right? Fought gravity for you,” Youichi adds, and glances over his shoulder for the umpteenth time.
“How noble,” Ryousuke compliments, and holds onto Youichi’s fingers as tight as he can. “Neither of us can do things the easy way.”
--
Youichi’s voice resonates through his back and Ryousuke can feel it against his heart, a near-indecipherable hum.
“Almost thought you didn’t want to see me or something.”
Ryousuke rests his helmeted head between Youichi’s shoulderblades.
“I did, though. Very much.”
“Yeah, I got that figured out now.” The intersection is an arena of asphalt and exhaust fumes, and the red light changes, opening up another lane. “Sometimes I can’t read you like I used to--and that’s okay,” Youichi amends hastily, shifting on his motorbike. “I dunno, it felt kinda cold at first, that’s all. Freaked me out a bit.”
“I was trying to be considerate,” Ryousuke admits. “Of your schedule, of your time--”
“I can make time--”
“But you have a life outside of our relationship that you should prioritize. And I have lab work and study.”
Youichi covers Ryousuke’s hands, knit around Youichi’s waist, with one gloved palm, and Ryousuke doesn’t shake him off.
“Man, but U of C is a real good school.”
“Youichi.”
“Okay, okay, but I can make it work for when you’re here, you know?”
“Don’t make any unnecessary sacrifices,” Ryousuke orders, thoroughly concerned, and Youichi leans into Ryousuke’s touch.
“I wanna spend time with you, so I’ll find time, all right.”
“Lamb to the slaughter.”
“Ryou-san,” says Youichi, “I told you I wanna do this.”
“And I want to too. We still need to be realistic,” Ryousuke argues, purely to be contrary. He feels most like himself perched on the back of Youichi’s recently-painted bike, old misgivings and the grain of Skype calls washed away, Youichi within touch, skin to skin, the shell of his ear dyed red and green from car beams and neon signs.
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Ryousuke relents, fingers hovering over Youichi’s heart. Youichi’s pulse picks up, brave boy, but love is not a flak jacket or a battering ram, love can’t protect people in love from themselves and each other. “I won’t do it again.”
“You better not,” Youichi warns. “I swear I’ll cry and get piss drunk. We can go through this together, we can--”
The light flashes green.
“Of course,” Ryousuke says.
Youichi exhales and revs his engine, joining the surround-sound discophony of motors.
“We’ll get better at this long-distance thing, like gain legit experience. You can put it on your resume. And once this shitshow is done with,” Youichi calls over the roar of speed, “you’ll get a research grant, I’ll live on your couch until you become famous, and we can both retire early.”
“Ambitious, but you’ve long earned your place on the bed.”
“Think about it, Ryou-san! We could sleep all fucking day and buy a whole mansion full of Cup Ramen, that’s luxury. And sometime in between I wanna open my own garage, wake up knowing I’ve made something for myself.”
Won over, Ryousuke promises, “I’ll do my best to buy you a life of decadence, minus the Cup Ramen.”
“That’s the spirit, positive thinking.”
Youichi grins into the wind, and Ryousuke knows that the most he can do is try, and that he’s already trying, and that it must be enough.
And if it isn’t, then at least Ryousuke will have this: the motorbike on the downwards-slanted street, the exhilarating diagonal velocity of lights and telephone wires, and the bright, glimmering city at the bottom. Youichi’s solidness cradled in Ryousuke’s arms, and beneath the accelerating speedometer and the sting of night, the certainty that Ryousuke is in love, and in this moment will forever be in love, hiding the curve of his smile in Youichi’s shoulder, as fearless now as he could ever hope to be.