Archive of Our Own

“Oka-san. O-kaaa-san, Oka-san. Oka-kun, Oka-sama, Oka-sensei–”

Satomi is so startled, he jumps about five centimetres out of the seat of his office chair. His head snaps up.  

“Yo, yo. Earth to Oka-san. You back with us, buddy?”

Satomi loathes the casual chumminess. His least favourite colleague had immediately brandished an overfamiliar way of speaking with him when he had joined the company, and Satomi could not bring himself to feign reciprocation of the rapport. Over two years of taciturn responses had done nothing to dissuade the behaviour.

A few of his female colleagues are also standing nearby, tapping on their phones but almost certainly eavesdropping on the conversation too. Satomi puts on his best smile for the sake of social cohesion. After all, the young man addressing him is technically his superior.

“Shigenobu-san,” Satomi says mildly. “My apologies, I was lost in our client’s case summary. It’s been formatted quite poorly.”

“Ah, but our cute kōhai could definitely format it better, right?” Shigenobu Souta laughs. The girls echo him, on cue.

It’s so juvenile that Satomi is instantly reminded of Morioka Middle School, and feeling like everyone was waiting for him to fail. He couldn’t tell at the time whether peers like Wada were just fellow chicks in the nest, or cuckoos waiting to oust him.

Of course, it didn’t matter – Satomi fell out of the tree of his own accord.

“I’m not that confident in my own ability yet,” Satomi lies. 

“So humble,” Shigenobu says, with exaggerated awe. “But even the greatest of gods must deign to dine with us mortals, now and then. Ichikawa-san and Taniguchi-san here begged me to make sure you came this time. We can’t have you working late every night, Satomi, you make the rest of us look bad!”

Shigenobu and the girls laugh again, as though it’s entirely a joke, and not – at least on some level – a warning.

“Make friends with your colleagues,” his mother had said sternly, which would have been easy enough if machismo-inflated Shigenobu hadn’t been around.

Satomi looks past the man in question to the two girls, Taniguchi Hina and Ichikawa Ayaka. For some reason, the sight of their freshly-done make-up annoys him, too. It’s all so irritating – when did Satomi become so resentful? He doesn’t feel like this towards his university friends, or strangers on the street.

“Please, Oka-san,” begs Taniguchi, bouncing up and down in a way that makes her ponytail bob along with her. “You never come out! You’ve gotta live life while you’re still young!”

Her diamond earrings sparkle in the fluorescent lighting.

You have never had to eat nothing but instant ramen for a month, Satomi thinks viciously. It’s not a fair judgement, and not even true of himself – even during the worst, cheapest months of his early student life, he did vary his diet somewhat. And for all he knows of jewels, Taniguchi’s earrings could have been bought for 200 yen at a convenience store.

“Okay,” Satomi relents, feeling the powerful, gravitational force of guilt reel him into Shigenobu’s grasp. The girls turn to each other, clasp their hands together and cheer.

“There will be some other people I know there too, by the way,” Shigenobu says flippantly. “It’s sort of a mixer, but we’ve met up a couple of times before.”

Satomi keeps his expression neutral as he powers down his workstation. “Sure.”

“Great!” Shigenobu exclaims, either guileless or a very good actor. “But remember Oka-san, you’re not allowed to seduce all the other women at once! That’s not playing fair!”

The girls make noises like annoyed cats, and Taniguchi hits Shigenobu with a half-hearted karate chop that lands near his shoulderblades.

“I’ll tell all the women you speak like that, Shigenobu-san!”

“Ah, Taniguchi-san, you wound me. I know it’s just because you want me for yourself!”

There’s a faint buzzing in Satomi’s ears, which is probably just the humming of the overhead fluorescent lighting.

The izakaya isn’t far, just a short fifteen minute walk from their office building. On the street, they pass people of all ages ending the day’s work and going about their evenings. Long-standing friends, new colleagues, and lovers both young and old. Every pair of strangers seems relaxed and authentic in their interactions in a way Satomi envies.

He wonders if the jagged hunger in his peers would mellow with age, or if it was the curse of his chosen vocation to always be surrounded by those kinds of personalities. “Satomi-kun is so driven,” Kyouji had remarked often, whenever Satomi had told him about his career. It was one of the things he said in the kind of distant, proud, grandfatherly way that made Satomi want to punch him.

For all his casual airs, Shigenobu is cut-throat when he needs to be. On this occasion, it means he does the hustling necessary with the bar staff to find the group they’re with and get them all to a booth in mere seconds. It looks like there are four other people there as well, none of whom Satomi recognises. The girls land on the opposite side of the table to the men, Taniguchi and Ichikawa across from himself and Shigenobu, with the strangers squashed together next to the wall.

“These are our colleagues from STL Associates,” Shigenobu declares to Satomi, introducing them all one by one. It’s impossible to look at the other men properly over Shigenobu while he’s standing up, so instead Satomi looks at the girls. One of them, Ishii Natsumi, has audacious, bleach-blonde hair that surely couldn’t be accepted at a normal company, let alone a law firm. Certainly nobody in their office has that kind of dye job.

Nagai Miyuki is the name of the girl with a neat, regular hairstyle and a nervous smile. Satomi decides he likes her best, if only because she obviously feels as uncomfortable as he does. The two men are so similar-looking and overly familiar with each other that Satomi wonders if they are in some way related despite their differing last names.

But it’s the platinum blonde, Ishii, who first asks Satomi a direct question.

“Are you from Kansai, Oka-san? You have the accent.”

“Osaka,” Satomi confirms, with a quick, polite smile. “I came here for university. I thought about going back there after I graduated, but I got offered the internship role last year and decided to stay. And… I think it was a good experience for me to grow into adulthood somewhere outside of my hometown.”

“Ah,” Shigenobu says, like a shark to blood. “And has Oka-san found his way to adulthood? Have you gotten a girlfriend?”

He grins widely, despite Taniguchi elbowing him aggressively in the hip.

Satomi was expecting the question at some point, and is well-trained in his reply. 

“No girlfriend,” he says blandly. “I’m not really looking.”

Taniguchi stops elbowing Shigenobu immediately and opens her mouth into a little ‘o’ of outrage. “What do you mean Oka-san? I knew you worked too hard! My sweet kōhai, how can you be such a workaholic at such a young age? You have to go outside and enjoy life more!”

“Or you’ll end up with too much money, and nobody to spend it on,” one of the male STL employees – Kazuhiko, Satomi thinks – agrees, nodding vigorously and spilling some of his beer on the table in his enthusiasm.

“Ah,” Satomi replies. “That would be unfortunate.”

He’s not being very generous to them, he knows. But he hasn’t even told Mana and Maruyama about Kyouji, except in vague hints and hypotheticals. The thought of these peers getting even one centimeter closer to the truth in his heart terrifies him.

“So stoic, Oka-san,” Shigenobu laughs, unphased. “Do you think any of these girls are cute, maybe?”

It’s vulgar of him, and he’s only had one beer. Satomi wonders if he’s a lightweight, or if Shigenobu just carelessly lets the mask slip as soon as they’re out of sight of HR.

“Everyone here is beautiful, Shigenobu-senpai,” Satomi says, leaning in with just the slightest bit of flirtation in his tone. Shigenobu looks poleaxed, but the others laugh louder and harder than they have at any other time during the evening.

Good, Satomi thinks vindictively, as Shigenobu struggles to reassemble his expression. 

Maybe Satomi’s a bit drunk, too.

Somehow in the aftermath of that joke, the girls are even friendlier with Satomi. They ply him with questions about his school and university, how often he sees his family, and the best foods to eat in Osaka.

“Oi, oi,” Kazuhiko complains. “I’m from Hokkaido, you know.”

“We know!” Taniguchi exclaims, and the other three girls laugh in unison. “But Satomi is new here, so we want to hear all about his background, okay?”

“I’m really not that interesting,” Satomi says, perplexed. 

“A mysterious workaholic,” Ishii counters, grinning at him.

“No fair,” grumbles the other STL employee sitting on the far end, whose name Satomi never managed to remember.

Despite himself, Satomi has fun. Not the kind of real fun he would have with Mana and Maruyama, but a different kind. He’s worked out that everything that has been annoying him about Shigenobu can be neutralised if he reacts correctly, and once Shigenobu is dealt with the others are friendly enough. And there’s a lively atmosphere and lots of cheap beer, so Satomi ends up laughing a lot more than he means to.

They stay out until just before midnight, and then a few of the girls make excuses to leave because they have to be up early the next day. Taniguchi makes a half-hearted joke about continuing on to karaoke, and Satomi’s heart clenches for just a moment.

He’s very drunk, by this point.

Three of them – Shigenobu, Taniguchi and Satomi – wander to the JR station together. Satomi drifts behind the other two for a moment at a pedestrian crossing, and idly takes out his phone.

“Ah, man,” Satomi slurs. His mother had called him twice, and he’d missed both calls. He quickly sends off an apology text, promising to call in the morning.

“Girl trouble, Oka-san?” Taniguchi asks, looking back at him curiously.

“Just my mother,” Satomi says quickly. He sees the group chat with Mana and Maruyama has twenty new notifications, as well. 

Nothing from Kyouji. Satomi, self-pitying in his intoxication, nearly opens the message tab until he thinks better of it.

How are you tonight? he thinks. Is it boring? Is it exciting? Are you in danger? Are you at a desk, doing paperwork?

Maybe Kyouji was out drinking, too. Satomi wonders if he comes up in conversation with the other Matsuribayashi; they probably remembered him, Kyouji’s sensei, but it had been over half a decade since then. And Kyouji doesn’t mention them much, always dancing around his day-to-day when they talk. Satomi isn’t sure whether or not he prefers it that way.

His colleagues say their farewells and go their separate ways at the station, each on different lines. Satomi, newly melancholy in his solitude, tries not to look too closely at every tall, well-built male that walks past him in a suit.

Are you lonely? 

Satomi impulsively sends off a message before he can second-guess himself again.

OKA SATOMI [11:42pm]: I went to an izakaya with my new colleagues tonight.

His phone buzzes almost immediately, and Satomi nearly drops it in shock.

NARITA [11:43pm]: Super! It’s good to make friends at work. Do your best, Satomi-kun! 

After the message are three LINE stickers sent in rapid succession, all of different cartoon animals waving pompoms. 

The initial rush of getting a text message is counteracted immediately by Kyouji’s tone, smothering the electric fire in Satomi’s chest with something damp and heavy.

This stupid fucking yakuza, Satomi thinks, all the vehement rage he had stored up during the night coming to an abrupt boil.

He wants to call Kyouji, but he can’t. For all he knows, the man could be standing over a dead body, surrounded by his colleagues. For all he knows, Kyouji is the colleague holding the bloody knife.

Though, he probably wouldn’t have texted me if he were, Satomi thinks, trying to stop his imagination from running too wild.

OKA SATOMI [11:44pm]: Go to bed, old man.

Kyouji sends him back a LINE sticker of a crying cartoon rabbit with an arrow in its heart. ‘YOU WOUND ME’ proclaims the puffed-up bubble characters around it.

Satomi feels his jaw twitch twice.

He closes the app and scrolls his social media feeds aimlessly as he boards the train, not expecting Kyouji to send him anything else. To his surprise, the name NARITA pops up in a little notification bubble a few minutes later.

NARITA [11:52pm]: I’ll be in Tokyo on the 15th. Let’s go to an izakaya, too.

Satomi reads the message immediately, but waits a full two minutes before giving Kyouji the satisfaction of his reply.

OKA SATOMI [11:54pm]: Ok. But I’m paying. You paid for that expensive meal last time, and my new role has a good salary.

NARITA [11:55pm]: We were celebrating your promotion, last time!

NARITA [11:55pm]: But if that’s what Satomi-kun wants, then I’ll concede defeat.

NARITA [11:55pm]: Even though it’s still totally unfair for you to pay for someone like me.

Not for the first time, Satomi wonders what kind of money Kyouji pulls in.

OKA SATOMI [11:56pm]: Do you even pay taxes?

Kyouji sends him a cartoon bear, rolling around and laughing.

NARITA [11:56pm]: Everyone pays taxes. Ask me in person.

Satomi types out a vague reply, deletes it, and then nearly turns his phone screen off again – until yet another message comes in.

NARITA [11:59pm]: Have you been drinking?

OKA SATOMI [11:59pm]: Yeah. So what?

OKA SATOMI [12:00am]: I’m not a kid anymore.

NARITA [12:00am]: Get home safe, Satomi-kun.

OKA SATOMI [12:01am]: You’re so annoying.

No more typing animations appear on Kyouji’s side of the screen after that. Satomi slumps his body against the cool glass of the train door and lets out a long exhale. It’s only when the train comes into the next platform that he registers the fact that he missed getting off at the right stop several minutes ago.

Jumping off the train in a panic, he yanks out his phone again and brings up the train timetable app. Once he’s hazarded a guess at the best line to take, he texts Kyouji, irrationally irritated with him too.

OKA SATOMI [12:07am]: I’m losing sleep because of you, you know.

The station is only vaguely familiar, so Satomi has to double check his phone against directory signs before confirming the platform he needs. Then he has to sprint to make the next train, and cuts it so close that the doors knock against the back of his satchel as they close.

Panting from exertion, and already overheating from the alcohol, he sinks into one of the empty seats in the carriage and resolves he will not open his messages app again until he is safely home.

Said resolve instantly comes undone with a sudden, familiar vibration in his pocket.

NARITA [12:12am]: Sorry. Don’t lose sleep. I’ll see you soon.

Abruptly realising all the implications of the previous message he had sent Kyouji, Satomi groans and hides his flushed face in the palm of his hand, mortified. He types out ‘I just meant I missed my stop’, then, feeling as though he has already embarrassed himself enough, deletes it and shoves his phone forcibly in his jacket pocket.

Let him think whatever he wants, Satomi thinks furiously. It’s not as though it isn’t true.

“Oka-san?”

It might be Satomi’s imagination, of course. But it seems that, for once, there is no layered lilt anywhere in Shigenobu’s voice. 

“Yes, Shigenobu-san?”

His colleague is leaning a little awkwardly against the expansive glass windows on the outside of their building, smoking a cigarette. Satomi doesn’t think smoking suits him.

“I was wondering if we could talk?” Shigenobu says. He looks almost apologetic, although that could just be the hangover-induced squinting scrunching up the man’s features.

“Um,” Satomi says, pausing for a moment as though there were a choice, a socially acceptable option to refuse. “Of course.”

The other man gestures to the great concrete expanse of sunny, newly-renovated cityscape outside their office. “I was thinking of getting an ice-cream. You wanna walk with me?”

Satomi looks up at the pristinely blue sky, and privately curses himself for forgetting to bring a packed lunch. He doesn’t feel like ice-cream at all.

“Of course,” Satomi says again.

Shigenobu smiles easily and crushes his cigarette out against the metal lid of a shiny, recently-installed street bin. “You know, I kinda get the feeling you hate me sometimes.”

Satomi prays for a quick, easy death.

“I’m just not very social.”

“I’ll say,” mutters Shigenobu. “Is it some chip on your shoulder thing? You’re allowed to have fun and work hard, you know.”

It’s very irritating how much Shigenobu sometimes reminds him of a certain someone.

When Satomi is speechless for half a beat too long, Shigenobu sighs in defeat. “Look, that was rude. Oka-san, I just want to get to know you better. I’m not used to being ignored.”

Satomi closes his eyes against the light and heat of the day, and tries not to think about anything else in particular. “It’s alright.”

“No,” Shigenobu says defiantly. “No, I’m too aggressive sometimes, I’m sorry, I was just… jealous, that you work so hard, and the girls all think you’re cool and handsome and mysterious, and even while I’m feeling awed that my junior is so much better than me, you seem sort of above it all.”

Even in his confession, Shigenobu is characteristically brash. Still, part of Satomi wonders if the crude honesty isn’t some sort of ploy to get his guard down.

“That’s not really my intention.”

“I know,” Shigenobu mutters. They approach the ice-cream truck that services all the offices in the vicinity. The truck, like the offices, is newly built, newly painted, and completely free of any kind of blemish whatsoever. It also charges twice as much for an ice-cream as Satomi would be willing to pay.

“What flavour do you want?” Shigenobu asks. “What’s your favourite? It’s on me.”

Satomi closes his eyes again. “Chocolate,” he decides, randomly. Then abruptly remembers to add, “but you don’t have to buy anything for me, they’re expensive–”

Shigenobu orders for them both anyway.

“Please allow me to,” Shigenobu adds pleasantly, after handing over his credit card to the vendor. “It’s the least I can do for my junior who I’ve been harrassing.”

“Ah… it wasn’t really harassment.”

“You seem happier today,” Shigenobu continues blithely, handing Satomi his chocolate cone. “So that’s something. I hope that mixer helped a bit. You’ll have to come to all the other ones we organise. Was there a girl you liked?”

Satomi licks his ice-cream, which is disappointing both for tasting very ordinary despite its price, and for not being his favourite flavour.

“There’s someone I like back home,” Satomi says finally, because there’s really only one way to stop this line of questioning.

Shigenobu’s smile is as wide as a hyena’s. “Oh? Satomi-kun has a childhood sweetheart?”

Really, he should have brought a hat. Or sunglasses.

“Something like that,” he replies vaguely.

“Does she like you back? She must, you’re so popular.”

“I think so,” Satomi says. “But it’s complicated.”

“Oh my,” Shigenobu breathes, absolutely gleeful with the inhalation of this new piece of gossip. “Is she engaged? Perhaps, promised in an arranged marriage?”

“Um,” Satomi says, and thinks of an old man pulling a face at him from across a karaoke bar. He snorts. “They’ve got a strict father, I guess.”

“Amazing,” Shigenobu sighs. “No wonder you’re so mysterious. Like a hero in a tragedy.” There is no doubt in Satomi’s mind that Shigenobu is picturing some virtuous young maiden sitting at her bedroom window, pining away beautifully in a summer yukata. “You must be thinking about her all the time.”

“Not really,” Satomi says casually. “Sometimes we haven’t talked for months.” The latter, at least, is true.

He bites into the chocolate ice cream scoop, and ignores the painful chill that runs through his teeth.

“Damn, that’s cold of you, Satomi,” Shigenobu remarks, shaking his head. “At least you’re not running around seducing Tokyo locals while she’s back home. I bet she’s scared of losing you to all the girls here.”

“Shigenobu, I didn’t realise you liked romance novels so much,” Satomi remarks mildly. 

His coworker roars with laughter, not insulted in the least. “You got me, Satomi-kun! Well, I’m glad. We both got to know each other a little better, then.”

And Satomi finds he’s not even annoyed that it’s true, even if his lunch meal does end up being overly-sweet, overly-expensive ice-cream. 

His phone screen lights up later that evening.

NARITA [8:52pm]: Is the 15th still good?

OKA SATOMI [8:55pm]: Yes. Not somewhere near my office!

NARITA [8:56pm]: What about this? 8:00pm?

Satomi inspects the address Kyouji has sent, and makes sure it is at least three districts removed from the law firm. It also has rave reviews and a cheap price list.

OKA SATOMI [9:02pm]: Sounds good. 

He resists the urge to add something pathetic like, ‘looking forward to it’, even though his skin is vibrating and a smile is threatening to escape containment.

Instead, Satomi looks at the venue on Google Maps again, and realises the restaurant isn’t far from Satomi’s apartment – it’s only a few stops from Kamata. He wonders if Kyouji planned that, or if it was an accident.

At once he thinks; of course Kyouji planned it. But equally; Kyouji would never plan it like that. It was definitely out of consideration for Satomi’s ease of travel, and nothing else.

Still.

Satomi only notices he’s been chewing insistently on the edge of his pen when the plastic splits and bends flat. He winces and sticks out his tongue instinctively, even though no ink has actually escaped the narrow refill chamber.

Even if Kyouji came back here… Satomi thinks hopelessly. What he really, desperately wants from Kyouji… he doesn’t know if he has the courage to just ask for it. Or the knowledge of how to do it, and do it well. He has the internet, obviously. But there’s a gap between that, and doing it, and then another gap between doing it with someone normal, and doing it with Kyouji.

He’s imagined it, of course. Lack of experience hasn’t stopped him from avid study, since – as his peers have always intimated, but never gone so far as to outright state – he has a relentlessly egotistical sense of pride, a competitive attitude, and a perfectionist streak. 

Satomi knows it can make him unlikeable. Kyouji though… Kyouji seems to find it admirable. And maybe attributes like that are positive qualities to have in the yakuza. Satomi would never want to walk down that path, but he can see the appeal in the bold-faced attitudes, the way nobody has to hide behind smiles and platitudes.

Then again, Kyouji’s customer service smile was Ginza-perfect. So maybe it wasn’t so different, no matter where you ended up working.

“Annoying,” Satomi mutters under his breath.

“What is, Satomi-kun?” Kyouji says, grinning widely. 

All of it, Satomi wants to say. The fact Kyouji is familiar enough with the owner that they’ve received a reserved booth at the back, despite the izakaya being fully packed. The fact he’d been so tense all day that he’d ended up staring at his work computer for several minutes at a time, fully inert. The fact that Kyouji is as handsome as ever under the warm lighting, eyes sparkling with careless amusement even as he approaches fifty. 

But there are more lines under his eyes than before. Satomi keeps track, bitterly envious of the years claimed in others’ company.

“I should have remembered the Matsuribayashi had bars in Tokyo.”

Kyouji’s smile thins a little as they settle into their chairs across from each other. “It’s not one of ours. Just a friend of the family.”

Satomi glares. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Kyouji shakes his head, oddly sincere. “No. I wouldn’t do that. The places you’re talking about… this one is clean, I promise. The owner is a regular citizen.”

Satomi huffs a little with acknowledgement, but not apology. 

“And the food will be better than the one you went to,” Kyouji pronounces, slinking back in his seat and into the posture of his usual languid, smirking self.

“How do you know? Have you kept a tail on me?”

Kyouji chuckles indulgently. “Not exactly. I know the new district where your office is – everything there is too new to be decent. But I’m glad you went – you should be enjoying your youth, rather than working all the time.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Satomi says petulantly, pouring himself some water into a plastic tumbler. He debates internally for a second, then does the same for Kyouji as well. “I’m not that young anymore. And I need to make money.”

“To support a girlfriend?”

It passes through Satomi’s head; the vision of him throwing one or both glasses of water into Kyouji’s face. But they’re in public, and Satomi is hungry for food and for Kyouji’s company – so he settles on the most icy glare he can muster.

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“You shouldn’t be paying for my meals, if you’re saving up again,” Kyouji says, but there’s a guarded quality to his usual casual cadence that Satomi only picks up because he’s so familiar with the man.

“I want to pay for them.”

Satomi looks down at the table grain when he says it. The wood is surprisingly sturdy, like it survived from the Taisho era.

“I know,” Kyouji sighs, picking up a menu and scanning through it. From behind the menu he says quietly, “Say, Satomi-kun, you’re not still aiming to pay for a tattoo removal after all these years, right?”

Satomi feels the twitch of a smirk. Every crack in the façade of Kyouji’s nonchalance is so hard-won, Satomi can’t help but savor each one slowly.

“No. I told you I gave up on that.”

“Right,” Kyouji says, lowering his menu but still looking down at it and not at Satomi. “Because the boss isn’t doing so well, so it would be a shame if… I had to get someone else to re-create it, and not him, you know.”

Satomi thinks his jaw might have dropped open. He doesn’t care.

“Are you serious?” he asks in a creaking voice, which is removed enough from his usual timbre that Kyouji glances up from his previously riveting menu.

Satomi continues to stare, wide-eyed. A few seconds pass. Then Kyouji kicks him under the table with one foot, and looks down at his menu again. There’s a faint smile about his lips, which is totally inappropriate. Satomi has a similar expression, too.

“Figure out what you’re eating, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji complains, like a child. “I’m hungry.”

Satomi rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling, then straightens his facial muscles into a more neutral place and directs his focus studiously towards his own menu. The smells coming from the kitchen are all mixed together this far back in the restaurant; the strong smell of oil is almost off-putting, enough to make him look firmly towards the non-fried foods on offer.

“I’ll have the grilled fish,” Satomi declares. It’s not something he would usually get for himself, but he needs to order something expensive so Kyouji doesn’t feel obligated to eat something cheap.

“Okay, I want the soba noodles.”

Then again, he should have known better than to expect Kyouji to follow his lead.

“You’re joking.”

“What? I’m hungry. It’s a big serving.”

“C’mon, they’re just carbohydrates. Don’t you need to eat better than that?”

“Is Satomi-kun in charge of my diet now?”

Satomi thinks violently, yes, if I had my way. But commenting on Kyouji’s age was something he tried to avoid. 

“We’ll share everything,” Satomi says instead. “There’s no need to limit ourselves. I’m hungry. Nothing spicy for you, right? Then let’s order the mixed meat, and the rice combo too.” The meat is more expensive again, but Satomi is feeling argumentative. 

“Satomi-kun is meant to be saving.”

“For what, I wonder,” Satomi mutters. “Hey, was the Osaka water donation your doing?”

Kyouji laughs raucously. “Does your apartment need a repairman? Your landlord should handle that.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Satomi says, pushing his glasses up his nose. They’re slipping down all the time, in the humid heat of the izakaya.

Kyouji chooses to flag down a member of staff to order the food instead of answering Satomi’s line of enquiry. 

Satomi scratches at the table varnish idly with a fingernail while Kyouji rattles off their order and exchanges pleasant small talk with the girl serving their table.

“Are you having anything to drink?” Kyouji asks, as an afterthought.

“Are you?” Satomi challenges.

Kyouji makes a face. “I don’t like drinking. Something about beer…”

Satomi remembers the conversation they had about Kyouji’s past, the night his life changed and he was recruited to the yakuza. It’s engraved in steel in his memory, like everything about Kyouji, even when the details of everything else about his life seem blurry and vague.

Probably, Satomi thinks, Kyouji hates beer for the same reason Satomi likes strawberries.

“You don’t drink at all?” Satomi presses, trying to imagine what it’s like being a sober member of the yakuza. “Not saké? Not wine?”

Kyouji leans his head to one side, staring off into the distance at something, an immature, whining note in his voice. “Of course I drink sometimes… but I have to be a responsible adult.”

His words are so at odds with his demeanour that Satomi laughs. Kyouji looks back at him immediately and something primal in Satomi thrills at his intense attention.

“Fine. Then I’ll drink for you,” Satomi says, smiling. The alcohol will excuse anything said recklessly, later, and Satomi desperately wants the excuse to be reckless.

“Thank you.”

“This time,” Satomi continues, holding up a finger. “But I want us to be equals. Therefore… Kyouji-san has to find an alcohol he likes, so we can enjoy drinking together.”

Kyouji’s teeth gleam when he smiles, even in the low lighting. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

Satomi’s heart rate picks up.

They both look at each other, and Satomi feels the air tighten.

“Um… so, shall I give you more time to decide which drink you’re ordering? Or I could offer a recommendation?” the waitress asks nervously, her voice inflated with an awkward politeness. 

Satomi flinches. He’d completely forgotten she was there.

“Um, draft beer is fine,” Satomi says quickly, even though he doesn’t like it that much. He’s too embarrassed to take up more of her time deciding on something else. “Thank you.”

“Thank you so much, it’ll be here shortly!” the girl says cheerily, back on script. Satomi feels his face heat violently.

“She was cute, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji drawls idly.

Satomi ignores his perfunctory diversion, and instead asks pointedly about Kyouji’s business in Tokyo. Kyouji answers him with more specificity than he expects, talking about the errands he’s running for various parties, though Satomi assumes there are still elements of his dealings that Kyouji leaves out.

When Kyouji asks after Satomi’s family, Satomi suddenly remembers to dig through his satchel for his apartment keys. He quickly finds the newest, shiniest one, unhooks it from the keyring, and all but flings it across the table at Kyouji.

Kyouji holds it up to the light. After a moment, the mild confusion in his expression resolves into comprehension. 

“Satom–”

“You don’t have to use it,” Satomi blurts, his words all crashing into each other in their haste to get out of his mouth. “They’re cheap to copy, so I thought it would be… you could just use them in an emergency. Or whenever you want.”

He hadn’t really thought through what Kyouji’s reaction would be. He’d just wanted Kyouji to have the option, the knowledge that if something happened to him, he had somewhere safe to go, even if it was a tiny 1DLK in Tokyo.

Satomi grits his teeth when Kyouji doesn’t answer, seemingly lost for words. “You can throw it away, if you want, too. Like I said, it was cheap.”

Kyouji suddenly snaps out of whatever trance he was in. 

“No way,” he says seriously. “I have the perfect keychain for it, too.”

And from his inside breast pocket, he retrieves a slightly faded – but still extremely recognisable – good-luck charm.

Satomi feels his eyelids stretch as they accommodate the heavy strain of his incredulity.

“You kept it?”

“Of course,” Kyouji replies nonchalantly. “After all, Satomi-kun’s charm probably saved my life in that car crash all those years ago. Maybe I wouldn’t still be alive, if I wasn’t carrying around this talisman.”

“Then…” Satomi says, and trails off, a familiar burning sensation in his throat. Around Kyouji, he always feels like he’s fourteen again and on the verge of tears at any tiny provocation. 

He watches Kyouji attach the strings of the charm to the key, smile at it fondly, and put it back in his inside pocket. Satomi is irrationally envious of it, tucked away against Kyouji’s breastbone.

“Your meal is here!” the server announces in a high, sing-song voice. “Let’s see, we have the draft beer for you, sir, and then we have the soba noodles, the mixed meat, the grilled fish, the rice combo, the edamame… is that everything for now?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kyouji says pleasantly, smiling generously at her.

Satomi feels another poisonous spike of envy. As soon as the server leaves, Kyouji’s mask melts away again, and Satomi belatedly feels guilty for the spite he had just mentally directed towards the girl.

“Thanks for the meal,” Kyouji says sombrely as he contemplates the food in front of them with reverence.

Satomi helps himself to several things at once, and has to take a moment to close his eyes and enjoy how good the food is. Kyouji’s choice in venues always results in exceptional meals, to Satomi’s mild irritation. It’s not as if Satomi wants him to fail, exactly… 

I wish he would have to rely on me more, Satomi realises. But there is so little that Satomi feels he can offer Kyouji that he doesn’t already have.

“The money I’m saving,” Satomi starts, after a few minutes of pleasant silence. “It’s for you, but not like last time.”

Kyouji sighs, and starts protesting again. “I told you, Satomi-kun, I–”

“Let me finish,” Satomi interrupts. “If you… leave the Matsuribayashi, when your boss dies. You’ve been to jail, so you can’t easily get a job, right? And if something happened with your money for whatever reason, it would be really tricky for you to live normally, so… I wanted to have money for you, if you needed it.”

Kyouji takes in the full implications of that, and goes dead still. Satomi can’t read his eyes, or tell what he thinks of the declaration.

“Satomi-kun wants to support me?” Kyouji asks quietly. There’s no trace of mockery in his voice, thankfully.

“Yeah,” Satomi says firmly. “I do.”

Kyouji closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, letting his chopsticks fall to one side as he runs a hand over his hair, catching and releasing the stray strands. “You shouldn’t be wasting your hard work – your future–”

“I think it’s been long enough,” Satomi interrupts again, new resolve building a fire in his gut. Something in Kyouji’s voice has given him away – Satomi’s going to win this time, he knows it. “Can’t I decide for myself what I want my future to be? I said I wanted to be with you always, and I meant it. And I want to make sure that’s a future we can have – if you want it, too.”

Kyouji’s eyes snap open again and he stares at Satomi, still unreadable. Satomi is reminded of the steady weight of attention that glared down at him from on high in that auditorium all those years ago, a gaze he never saw but somehow felt all the same.

He starts eating the food in front of him, as though he doesn’t notice Kyouji at all. He’s intent this time on not breaking the brewing silence, determined to put the ball in Kyouji’s court to answer Satomi however he chooses.

Kyouji starts eating, too. They make their way systematically through the food in front of them, neither speaking a word. There have been some meals like this over the years, times where words didn’t flow between them because they were so stifled by things that went unsaid. Satomi is used to it. He can bear it easily. He still drinks a little too quickly, though, and ends up ordering another bottle of beer to go with the rest of his meal.

There are only small crumbs of food left on their plates by the time Kyouji deigns to speak again.

“When I was younger,” Kyouji says slowly. “I think I… didn’t tell you all of it at the time, you were too young. But I didn’t have any money, so I had to sleep with a lot of people to have a bed every night. Or food, or clothes.”

He glances up at Satomi, and chuckles nervously. “Wow, Satomi-kun has a really angry expression, right now.”

Satomi quickly attempts to reschool his face, but finds it near impossible.

Kyouji continues, “The only kind of relationship I’ve had was… fleeting things like that. I joked when I met you that you were like the women who had sat in my passenger seat; I didn’t ever expect that to be true.”

“I’m not like them,” Satomi hisses instantly. “It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” Kyouji says seriously. “Which is why I cannot let you do that. It’s not right, and I can’t…”

“I want to,” Satomi whispers harshly, hyperaware that any passing server or customer could hear their conversation. “Kyouji-san, I’m a full-grown adult. If we’re equals, then there shouldn’t be any shame in it.”

“Let’s say it happens,” Kyouji continues cooly. “Let’s say I lose everything, even though I have no reason to expect that to be the case, even if I left the business. I told you I pay tax like anyone else; that’s true. We have clean companies, and there’s clean money in my personal accounts.”

Clean from the laundry, probably, Satomi thinks.

“...even if that were to happen, wouldn’t Satomi-kun grow to resent me?”

Satomi wants to laugh derisively, but refrains from agitating the already fraught atmosphere.

“Does Kyouji-san not think I’ve had enough time to dream of every possible scenario, run a thousand experiments in my head, and find every possible angle from which this could end in misery and failure?”

The pits of Kyouji’s eyes are dark, and deep. Satomi can’t look away.

“I don’t care. This is what I want. No matter what you want our relationship to be… you wouldn’t have to share my bed, like… like the women. I’d still support you even if you didn’t.”

It’s too embarrassing to keep looking at Kyouji after talking about wanting sex, so Satomi frantically downs the rest of his beer, excuses himself and then goes to pay the bill and find the bathroom.

There’s a painting of two overly-cute kittens on the back wall of the bathroom. They look cherubic. Satomi thinks of the restaurant he used to work at, and smiles to himself.

It might be the undercurrent of alcohol in his blood, but upon a self-diagnosis carried out while urinating, Satomi finds he’s actually not embarrassed, nor ashamed.

“I’ve paid,” he says to Kyouji, when he returns to their booth. “Walk to my apartment with me. It’s close. You can test your key.”

They both know it’s an excuse.

“If that’s what Satomi-kun wants…” Kyouji says with another inscrutable expression, and rises from his seat. They leave in single file, the entrance door of the izakaya closing in their wake and instantly muffling the din of those inside. Satomi pulls up his jacket collar to ward against the evening chill.

It’s not exactly a long journey, but Satomi feels the tension stretch the minutes out like strings of sickly, stifling taffy. They don’t talk on the train, each holding themselves in quiet stillness in contrast to the other chatty, drunk salarymen making their way home.

Kyouji looks at him, and Satomi looks determinedly out the train window.

The silence grows louder and louder once they exit the station and leave the crowds behind them. The various brightly lit signs and windows of Kamata blink down at Satomi mockingly, wavering together in a strange syncopation, while the familiar, steady pressure of Kyouji’s gaze rests on his back in counterpoint.

They’re out of the main strip and into the darker residential areas before Kyouji drifts closer.

“Is Satomi-kun a lightweight?” Kyouji asks suddenly, his breath tickling Satomi’s ear. “You only had two beers.”

“I’m not drunk,” Satomi says, not bothering to rise to his bait. 

He feels a large hand ruffle his hair, and tenses against it.

“Whatever you say.”

Satomi does turn around then, glaring at Kyouji. The other man is only dimly lit by the streetlights around them, but he has that old expression on his face that means he finds Satomi both amusing and adorable. 

“Let’s go,” Satomi says hastily and turns back again, marching forward with a false confidence he doesn’t feel in his newly tremor-prone heart.

“I’m surprised you haven’t moved yet,” Kyouji remarks, as they approach the front stairwell of Satomi’s apartment building.

“I told you, I have to save money,” Satomi mutters. That’s not the whole truth of it, though; the truth of it is that he’s planned for a future where the next time he moves, it might have to be with Kyouji in mind – and if Kyouji is going to live with him, he wants his input for what kind of place they have. But all of that is only one path forward, and Satomi still doesn’t know when – or if – that future might become a reality. 

“And I told you,” Kyouji says quietly, as they walk along the common balcony. “You don’t need to save it for me.”

“I can do what I like with my money,” Satomi rebuts angrily, unlocking the door before he can remember the excuse he made before about the new key. He kicks off his shoes in the entrance, not bothering to look back at Kyouji as he drops his keys onto the little shelf above the shoe rack.

He hears the door close, and then suddenly feels the unmistakable warmth of arms folding around him. His heart goes into overdrive as Kyouji embraces him from behind, his scent overwhelming Satomi as the other man nestles into his shoulder.

“Is this alright?” Kyouji asks softly. 

Satomi is frozen. He can’t remember how to speak at all. It’s only when Kyouji starts to pull away he manages to squeak out a noise of protest, and Kyouji rumbles with laughter that Satomi feels against his back.

“Okay,” Kyouji says, relaxing and pulling Satomi back in against him.

It’s so unfair, Satomi thinks. He’s wanted this for so many years, Kyouji hugging him back properly – and now he has it, he immediately wants more. He wants to see Kyouji’s face. He wants to– 

“Your whole life is on the line, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji breathes. “Things could get really… you say you’ve thought of everything, but is that true? Have you thought of what would happen at your work, if someone saw us together?”

“That would happen even if you weren’t yakuza,” Satomi says defiantly, finding his voice again.

“It would be worse if they found out I am. You can’t introduce me to your parents properly. Everyone will think…”

“I don’t care anymore,” Satomi rasps. “Yes, I thought of it all. You think it’s an easy choice? That I wouldn’t choose something else, if I could?”

Kyouji’s body tenses, and then he withdraws. Satomi whirls around and catches Kyouji’s forearm to keep him from pulling any farther away.

“You should choose something else,” Kyouji says. Satomi never got around to turning on the lights. He wishes he did, so he could see Kyouji’s eyes more clearly.

“I can’t choose anything else,” Satomi says slowly, articulating every syllable. “Anyone else.”

Kyouji sighs, and tilts his head towards the ground, not meeting Satomi’s hard glare. 

“I should have stayed away from you at that airport. No – I should have never gone into that auditorium.”

Satomi cannot imagine what his life would have been like without Kyouji to anchor it all. He thinks it would have been colourless and incomplete, like a backing track without anyone to sing the melody.

“I’m glad you didn’t stay away,” Satomi says softly, and raises his hand to cradle the right side of Kyouji’s face. He lets his fingers trail against the stray hairs around his ear. Kyouji’s lips part a little, and Satomi finds his focus drawn to the space made there.

“You’re drunk,” Kyouji says, speaking even more quietly than Satomi.

“I’m not. And you know how long I’ve wanted this,” Satomi replies easily. He feels their heads fall closer and closer towards each other, as though pulled by magnets. Kyouji is looking at his lips now, and then looking away at the wall and clenching the jaw muscles underneath Satomi’s hand.

Satomi’s nose brushes against Kyouji’s, and the other man lets out a surprised exhale as Satomi rubs their noses gently against each other.

If I don’t kiss him now, I’ll die, Satomi thinks.

“We shouldn’t, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji whispers. He inserts one of his hands into the space between their lips, and stops Satomi from closing the distance between them.

Satomi, foiled, bites down on Kyouji’s palm in retaliation.

“Ow!” Kyouji exclaims, drawing back and inspecting the bite. 

“Do you not want me?” Satomi blurts out before he can think better of it, voice trembling and jaw aching with sudden and irrepressible tears.

Kyouji looks aghast. “That’s not it.”

“So then, what?!” Satomi exclaims. “What if you get put in jail again tomorrow? Or get stabbed the day after that? How many years have to pass, Kyouji, where I don’t get to–”

“Then I’d deserve it, because I’m not a good person!” Kyouji interjects suddenly, his voice rising over Satomi’s. “Satomi-kun, you don’t really know – the things I’ve done… You know, we deal with drugs, brothels, bad loans... I’ve had to hurt people… I’ve had to let men do what they want with women who deserved better. And I don’t deserve…”

He trails off and sighs in exasperation, and then cups Satomi’s face with both hands, in a mirror of what Satomi had done earlier.

“You are so good,” Kyouji says firmly. “And I have spent so long trying not to ruin that.”

“Well, it’s too late,” Satomi remarks coldly. “I’m already ruined. I only like Kyouji-san. I have never gotten over you, and I never will. So what difference would anything else make?”

There’s silence for a minute, and Satomi thinks for a wild, impossibly hopeful moment that Kyouji might even say something like, and I like Satomi-kun, too. But instead–

“You don’t know what the world is like,” Kyouji says, aggravated. He  moves away from Satomi and leans back against the opposite wall. “What this will do to you, what people will think of you–”

“I’m not a child anymore!” Satomi objects furiously. “I know, and I don’t care – about any of it, you, or the world, or anyone’s opinion!”

Kyouji shakes his head. “That naïvety is how I know you’re still too young.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Satomi snarls. “Fine, then. If you don’t want me… just don’t pretend it’s for my happiness.”

Satomi can’t quite storm away in such a small apartment, but he can at least retreat to his bedroom. He starts flinging his outer layers off, not caring enough in his anger to put them in the wardrobe and simply letting them fall against the tatami. He feels tears stinging at his eyes, but thinks he’ll at least wait until he hears Kyouji closing the front door before he starts wailing out loud like a child.

But the sound of the latch doesn’t come. Swallowing back his tears, Satomi turns to find Kyouji leaning on the side of the sliding doorframe, watching him. He’s taken off his suit jacket; he must have left it on one of the coat hooks at the entrance.

“What the hell,” Satomi mutters. “Go away, creepy old man.”

“Is that what you want?” Kyouji asks. 

Satomi has a sense of deja vu, remembering the last time Kyouji had asked a question like that in this apartment.

“You know what I want,” Satomi replies, staring at the shoji screen just to the left of Kyouji, his voice somehow remarkably even despite the tears threatening to break the banks of his lower eyelashes at any moment.

“You said…” Kyouji says slowly, “...that you wouldn’t sleep with me, if I didn’t want to.”

Satomi grits his teeth, resolutely not meeting the gaze of the other man. “Yeah, and I meant it. So it’s fine if you don’t want me, I’ll still–”

Kyouji says something so quietly that Satomi doesn’t hear him over the sound of his own voice.

He blinks, and in spite of himself, looks straight at Kyouji.

Kyouji says it again.

“I do want you.”

His eyes are blazing with a dark fire, and Satomi is absolutely done for.

Heedless of anything else, he marches over to Kyouji and pulls him down by the collar. Kyouji goes easily, and Satomi kisses him, lightly at first brush, and then with a harsh bite down on Kyouji’s lip when Kyouji doesn’t respond in kind.

“Such a brat,” Kyouji chuckles, his breathy laughter reverberating against Satomi’s mouth.

“Stop being selfish,” Satomi retorts, and licks against Kyouji’s defiant bottom lip in the same place where he had bitten it.

Kyouji groans, and moves his head to the side, resting his forehead against Satomi’s shoulder. “You win, Satomi-kun. But we can take it slow, okay? You’re new to this, and we can stop whenever–”

Satomi reaches for Kyouji’s belt, and starts unbuckling it clumsily, the angle awkward for his hands.

“You already went too slow. Now we have to make up for lost time.”

He feels Kyouji laugh silently again, against his shoulder blade. “When did Satomi-kun get so bold?”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?” Satomi says, in an echo of what Kyouji had said to him once. 

Kyouji hums, and uses one of his hands to guide Satomi’s fumbling fingers down to brush against his crotch. Satomi gasps slightly as he feels the hard flesh there, overwhelmed.

“We can go slow,” Kyouji repeats kindly, lifting his head up to look at Satomi with gentle fondness. “You don’t have to prove anything. I may be getting old, but I can be passionate every day when it’s Satomi-kun that’s the one in front of me.”

“You really want me,” Satomi says, and is embarrassed to find his voice shaking.

“I want you, Satomi,” Kyouji murmurs, staring deep into Satomi’s eyes. Satomi gasps a little. “I’ll want you for the rest of my life. I’m done resisting you, because I think if I hold out anymore, Satomi-kun will hate me forever, and I would regret it. So… this old man will be selfish.”

Satomi’s heart might explode at any moment.

“You mean it?”

Kyouji smiles. “I told you, the boss is dying… so I’ve been setting up things in Tokyo, too, just like you were. In case… you wanted me. But you know, I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t change your mind, or you didn’t have a choi–”

“Change my mind?” Satomi asks incredulously. He knocks their foreheads together gently. “Idiot, you could change your mind on me too.”

“Not likely,” Kyouji says, and he rolls back one of his sleeves, leaning back to wave the old, fading tattoo in front of Satomi’s face. His expression is unusually serious. “I realised when I got this, you know. It was permanent, for me.”

Satomi’s breathing is verging on hysterical. “I told you to get rid of that.”

“I didn’t want to. It’s like the ink on my back. Sins that can’t be erased so easily.”

“Whatever your sins,” Satomi says, shaking his head. “They’re part of you, Kyouji-san. I want to see all of it.”

Kyouji lowers his tattooed arm to wind it around Satomi’s back, pulling him in. 

“It’s your last chance,” he murmurs. “And no matter how good I am tomorrow, no matter what I do in the future to make up for it… my soul is not bound for Heaven, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji confesses, all while looking at Satomi with such unguarded heat that Satomi feels like he’ll melt away.

“Then we’ll share our souls,” Satomi says, meeting his burning eyes with an intense look of his own. “And wherever you end up, I’ll be there too.”

Kyouji makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat, and then surges forward to kiss Satomi with a passion Satomi never realised he possessed. Their lips and tongues press together in ways Satomi never imagined would feel as good as it does, and both of their hands scramble as they clutch at bits of flesh and clothing, trying to get closer together as quickly as possible.

Satomi’s glasses quickly get in the way of things, and he clumsily attempts to take them off in between rounds of kissing. Kyouji presses the attack, nudging Satomi further and further backwards, until he’s tripping over his own futon.

“Let me put these– Kyouji-san,” Satomi yelps, as Kyouji bites his ear. He fumbles with the glasses, managing to throw them gently onto the pile of clothes he’d stripped off earlier on.

“Satomi,” Kyouji purrs in reply, enjoying the dropped honorific far too much for his own good. He tightens his grip around Satomi’s waist and licks into his neck, and Satomi has a peculiar full-body shiver go right through him.

They tussle back and forth until Kyouji successfully pushes Satomi down on the futon. Kyouji remains standing, unbuttoning and pulling off his white shirt. Satomi strains his neck looking up at him, wide-eyed as he absorbs the inked colours along his shoulders, arms, and chest. 

Kyouji casually discards his shirt on top of the other clothes and glasses, then lowers himself onto his knees right in front of Satomi.

“Can you…” Satomi says breathily, and Kyouji freezes just as he’s about to tilt forward and kiss him again. “I want to see… your back.”

Kyouji is silent for a moment, then nods and turns around, sitting down in a cross-legged position so Satomi can look. 

“Beautiful,” Satomi says, without really meaning to. But it is; unlike the blurred characters of Satomi’s name, the crane design was clearly created by someone extraordinarily good at their craft, and has been maintained in sharp condition. 

He sits up, and reaches to touch the length of the crane’s wing running along Kyouji’s back. Kyouji peers over his left shoulder, and grins. 

“Like what you see?”

Satomi leans forward and kisses the wing. “Yes.”

“Weirdo,” he hears Kyouji say. Satomi can tell he’s smirking, just from the tone of his voice.

“You can turn back around now,” Satomi commands, once he’s had his fill and seared it into his memory.

“Well, if the young master says so–” Kyouji starts, but then Satomi rushes in to grab Kyouji’s torso, using all of his weight to pull him down to the futon.

Satomi isn’t strong enough to move an unwilling Kyouji, but the other man goes down without resistance and collapses just beside him. He chuckles at Satomi’s insolence, before pulling himself up on the futon and winding his arms around Satomi properly so the two of them are fully entwined.

They kiss enthusiastically as Satomi at last removes the belt around Kyouji’s waist that had been partially unbuckled before. He tugs insistently at Kyouji’s pants until the other man obligingly takes them off; their remaining clothes are then thrown haphazardly on the tatami around the futon.

Satomi gasps when Kyouji finally takes them both in hand. He’s barely able to breathe or kiss with how good everything feels, instead squirming in Kyouji’s arms erratically, and finding himself unable to hold back.

“Kyouji-san, I–”

“It’s fine,” Kyouji murmurs into Satomi’s ear. Satomi gasps and shudders as he comes, and feels Kyouji silently do the same a moment later as a second spray of semen hits his stomach. They’re both breathing heavily, Kyouji leaning against his shoulder again, which Satomi is grateful for – he’s too embarrassed to look at Kyouji directly right now.

“Mmph,” Kyouji says, moving from beside Satomi. “I should get something to clean us up. Otherwise it’ll be annoying, later.”

“I… it’s my apartment,” Satomi says, too dazed to think straight. “Shouldn’t I… you don’t know where things are.”

Kyouji laughs as he gets to his feet. “I have a key now, right? So I should probably find out sooner or later.”

As it turns out, it’s not difficult for Kyouji to locate an adequate cloth in Satomi’s bathroom. Satomi watches him work at cleaning them both in slow, unhurried motions, looking as unbothered by it as though he were cleaning a table rather than someone else’s body.

“I know I don’t…” Satomi starts, and then trails off. 

“Hmm?”

He tries again. “I don’t have a lot of experience, so I can’t be as good as… but I’ll try really hard to learn.”

Kyouji grins widely. “Ah, Satomi-kun is so cute. What am I going to do?”

Satomi pouts and looks away, feeling his face flush. “You don’t need to mock me.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I promise,” Kyouji says placatingly. “Satomi-kun has always been cute. But it’s especially adorable that you think you have to work hard to please me.”

“I did have to work hard to get you into my bed,” Satomi points out.

“Only because this old man was being so stubborn,” Kyouji sighs, tracing a pattern on Satomi’s chest. “Sorry. I thought you could live a normal life, find a normal lover, get married. Have children.”

“I’m gay,” Satomi pronounces drily, and then blushes. He had never really said that to anyone. “I think. Probably.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kyouji drawls. “Even when you told me about your feelings… I didn’t know if Satomi-kun wanted other men, or… I’d just confused you, done something wrong when you were a kid and gotten your wires crossed.”

Satomi thinks back to Kyouji’s handsome, younger face, and the way he’d leaned over Satomi sometimes in ways that made his teenage self feel hot and annoyed and confused. 

“Um…” Satomi says, recollecting other moments in life he’d found himself more flustered and annoyed talking to some of his male classmates than his female ones. “I was probably always going to… be like this. But I don’t know if I would have met anyone that I would have liked half as much as I like you.”

Kyouji shakes his head. “Satomi-kun always makes things so hard for himself.”

Satomi laughs. “You made things hard.”

“Yes,” Kyouji agrees, and buries his face into Satomi’s chest. “My sincere apologies, Satomi,” he continues, voice muffled. “Since you pledged the entwining of our immortal souls, please accept the work my soul will do for the next ten thousand years to make it up to you.”

Satomi groans. “Oi. That sounds like you’re going to procrastinate and not do anything to make it up to me for the first nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine years.”

Kyouji laughs into Satomi’s chest, and Satomi smiles helplessly too.

The izakaya is dark and crowded, and Satomi is more than a little drunk. So when he first bumps into the other man on the way to the men’s toilet, he doesn’t recognise him.

“Sorry, excuse me.”

“Oka-senpai?”

Satomi blinks, and readjusts his glasses.

“Wada-kun?”

The other boy has grown to be even taller than he was when Satomi last saw him.

“I didn’t expect to see you here! Are you working nearby?”

“Yeah,” Satomi says slowly. “Are you in… the last year of university, now?”

A drunken old man stumbles as he brushes past both of them in the narrow, dimly lit corridor, and Wada smiles in that polite, quiet way of his. 

“Yes, but I’m here with some colleagues – I’m interning at an accounting firm.”

“Huh,” Satomi says. He didn’t take Wada to be the kind of person to work in accounting. Then again, he hadn’t really thought about the future of any of his middle school peers.

“Have you found any good takoyaki yet in Tokyo?” Wada asks. “I can’t find anything I like as much.”

“Nothing’s as good as Osaka.” Satomi notices as he speaks that he easily slips back into the natural accent he usually tries to mask in Tokyo.

“Yeah,” Wada grins, like they’ve shared a secret.

Satomi didn’t realise he’d enjoy seeing Wada so much. He wants to keep talking to him, and not go back to the table of his colleagues at all.

“Um, listen, it’s getting late – I was going to leave soon, and walk to the station. Do you want to – I mean, when you want to leave–”

“I’d really like that,” Wada says, and grins widely.

“Oh, good,” Satomi says, somewhat taken aback by Wada’s enthusiasm. “Um, I’ll just say goodbye to everyone–”

“Okay,” Wada says, still looking at Satomi, and still smiling.

Satomi wanders back to the table, feeling disoriented.

“Sorry everyone, I’m going to head home–”

“NO!” Shigenobu cries. His volume always increased the more alcohol he had, and tonight he had imbibed a particularly large amount. “Stay here, we’re having so much fun!”

Satomi shakes his head. “I’ll come out next time too.”

Ichikawa perks up in her seat, peering analytically at Satomi’s face. “Are you going home with a girl? You look happy.”

“No, I ran into a friend from school.”

“A FRIEND FROM SCHOOL?” Shigenobu bellows. “THE SECRET LONG-DISTANCE ENGAGED LOVE OF YOUR LIFE?”

Satomi really hopes Wada can’t hear from the other table.

“A male kōhai,” Satomi explains calmly. 

“GENDER IS NO BARRIER TO LOVE,” Shigenobu howls, inexplicably. “Satomi-kun is so handsome these days and smiling so often… even I can see the appeal of such a man…”

Taniguchi punches Shigenobu’s head lightly, and he starts to cry in overly exaggerated pain. “Taniguchi-san is so mean to me…”

“Shut up, drunkard,” Taniguchi retorts. “Oka-san, we’re happy you ran into a childhood friend, make sure to message us when you’re home safe, okay?”

“I’m a guy, y’know…” Satomi says, amused by her protectiveness. 

“A PRETTY GUY,” Shigenobu wails. “THE PRETTIEST GUY IN THE WHOLE OFFICE–”

“I’ll be off then,” Satomi says politely, while Taniguchi attempts to gag Shigenobu with his own scarf.

Wada meets him at the entrance, and they set off together into the night. Satomi realises a little belatedly that neither of them had offered to introduce each other to their respective colleagues. He supposes it’s something to do with the fact they were both from Osaka. Or maybe nobody wants to show their adult colleagues someone who knew them as an embarrassing teenager, no matter where they hail from.

Wada had never really embarrassed himself, though. That was all Satomi.

“So, are you going to join that firm after university?” Satomi asks, after the silence between them lingers too long to be anything but awkward.

“Oh!” Wada exclaims, as though he had been lost in thought. “Yeah, I might. What I really want is to join the civil service, but I don’t know if I’ll get in. So it’s a good backup.”

“The civil service,” Satomi says, his breath coming out in white puffs in the cold night air. “Wow. You know, I wanted to do that at your age, too.”

Wada keeps darting sideways glances at him that make Satomi feel self-conscious. “What happened?”

Satomi scratches behind one of his ears. “Honestly? I kinda had a breakdown the night before the exam, and totally flunked. I could have retaken it, but in the meantime I needed to build an income and one of my law professors suggested interning…”

Wada looks pensive. “Life happens that way sometimes, huh?”

“Yeah.” Satomi crosses his arms over himself, guarding against the night chill. “Some totally random misstep that decides your whole fate.”

He thinks of the photo of a young Kyouji he once saw, and makes a face. “Could have been worse, though. At least my parents were still thrilled I became a lawyer.”

Wada looks concerned for him, so Satomi quickly continues, “Don’t worry – the exam isn’t impossible if you study for it, I just had some sort of mental block and crashed out. As in, I didn't eat and barely slept for a week… fell asleep for 14 hours right before the exam and had nightmares the whole time…”

He still remembered one of the nightmares, in which the Prime Minister – who for some reason looked like the manga artist who used to draw at that family restaurant – had held up that picture the journalist had taken of him and Kyouji eating together, and told Satomi he was exiled both from the public service and also from the entire country of Japan. There had been a lot of judgmental cats all around him, too.

“Anyway, I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines.”

He feels like it would be appropriate for him to clap Wada on the back in ways he’s seen other people do when supporting a kōhai, but he aborts the idea when it’s still just a twitch of his hand muscles. It just doesn’t seem right, with him.

“It’s a long shot,” Wada says, chuckling a bit self-consciously and rubbing the back of his head. “But I have to try. Interning for this current company… I feel like I don’t fit in with the others, sometimes.”

“I felt like that too at the start. But I’m not an intern anymore, and I like my colleagues now much more than I ever thought I would. Sometimes it takes time.”

Wada hums a noise of gentle understanding under his breath. “I’m happy for you, Oka-senpai,” he says, smiling again. “It seems like you’re much more at peace with life these days. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you always felt like – the times we met before, even in school – you were somewhere else.”

Satomi makes a strangled noise in his throat. “Yeah, well. I guess I was thinking a lot about things. You get enough courage to make decisions, and you don’t have to overthink as much.”

Wada looks at him curiously, and Satomi feels himself blushing. “Not that I know anything, really,” he continues, looking down at the pavement self-consciously. 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Wada says. Then suddenly, he whistles in amazement. “Hey, look! Snow!”

“Huh,” Satomi says, now staring upwards too, as tiny white flakes start descending down on them. Snow was pretty rare, even at this time of year.

Wada turns to him with a strange look on his face, and Satomi feels a chill go through him that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Actually, Oka-senpai, I always wanted to say–”

Satomi’s phone starts ringing in his pocket, and he flinches. He quickly takes it out and checks the name on the screen, before scowling and deliberately declining the call. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. You can answer that, if you like.”

“It’s fine,” Satomi says dismissively. “It’s nothing important. Sorry for interrupting what you were saying.”

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” Wada says a bit stiltedly, and then continues giving him that perplexed, curious look. “Was that your mother calling you? Or… your boss calling you this late? I’ve never seen Oka-senpai look like that.” He laughs nervously. “You had such an annoyed expression.”

Satomi considers lying, but doesn’t feel right about it. “No, it’s… neither of those. It’s someone else.”

Wada takes that in stride. “I see.”

Satomi wonders how much he does see. 

They reach the station, the bright subway signs coming up far too soon for Satomi’s liking. He wishes Kyouji hadn’t called; now he’s all torn up with a feeling of wanting to tell Wada more, while simultaneously wishing he’d never revealed anything at all.

“You know, I…” Satomi says slowly, thinking through what he really wants to say. “I’m really sorry I haven’t made more of an effort to catch up with you recently. Maybe we could find a time to get takoyaki somewhere, on a weekend or… after work?”

“But it wouldn’t be as good as Osaka,” Wada says, smiling inscrutably.

“No, I suppose not,” Satomi says, huffing. A snowflake lands on his nose, and he rubs it off self-consciously.

“Still, I’ll be looking forward to it,” Wada says, nodding with an expression as though they were business acquaintances and not school friends. “You still have my LINE, right?”

“Yeah, I think…” Satomi says, and digs out his phone again from where he’d stuffed it back in his jacket pocket.

NARITA [10:43pm]: The funeral will be held on the 17th, so I’ll be in Osaka until then.

Satomi immediately feels terrible for not picking up the phone when it had rung. He’d assumed it would be Kyouji saying something stupid, probably an inane story he’d just remembered from years ago with no real punchline. Satomi secretly enjoyed whenever Kyouji called him, but he wished sometimes the man would say something like, ‘I just wanted to hear your voice’, instead of talking about how someone in the Matsuribayashi had once scammed the elite fish market with counterfeit tuna.

“Oka-senpai?” Wada says, staring at him with that odd expression again.

“Sorry, I uh,” Satomi says. He quickly checks down his contacts, and sees Wada’s name still there. “Yeah, I have it.”

Wada doesn’t even reply to that, his jaw muscles tensing as though he’s holding back from saying something. 

“I’m not really your senpai, anymore, so you don’t have to call me that either,” Satomi adds helpfully, willing the awkwardness to pass. “You can be more casual.”

“Mm,” Wada says, looking nervous. “I always wanted to… do you remember your graduation essay?”

Of course Satomi did. “Yeah, why?”

White puffs of air fog up the air in front of Wada’s mouth as he speaks. “I always thought it must have been some kind of metaphor, you know, because it was too crazy. Like you had some sort of trauma that year, and you were covering up whatever it was that made you miss the choir contest.”

“Mm,” Satomi says, noncommittally. 

Wada looks at him with something like guilt complicating his expression. “And I suppose if you were involved with some yakuza stuff it’s not… like you would tell me.”

Satomi wishes they were still walking. He’s getting cold, standing around outside the station.

“I guess I’m just glad I could be there for you, so you could miss the contest,” Wada finishes, a bit helplessly. “I really cared about you, you know? You were always pushing yourself so hard, and so angry with yourself… I…”

Wada trails off, and looks up towards the snow falling down on them both. 

“... But you look happier now. So I’m relieved that your life worked out, however it did.”

Satomi doesn’t know what to say.

“Um, thanks,” he manages eventually. “I’m glad your life has gone well, too.”

Wada smiles politely, and Satomi feels the inadequacy of the words swallowing him up.

“Thank you. Well, I should get going, Oka-kun.”

“I’ll see you around,” Satomi says, holding up his phone and waving it around.

“See you around,” Wada says, nodding courteously.

Satomi watches him leave for a little while, and then once he’s out of sight nearly fumbles and drops his phone in his haste to call Kyouji.

“Satomi-kun?”

“I saw your message,” Satomi says immediately. “I’m sorry, Kyouji-san.”

Satomi hears the distorted sounds of Kyouji breathing out a stifled laugh. The rush of air against the speaker is far too loud, but Satomi refuses to move the phone further away from his ear.

“It’s alright. You always said you wanted the old man to die, even if you felt bad about it.”

“I did feel bad!” Satomi barks, agitated. “It’s not like – I mean, you know, for that kind of guy… he seemed – not that scary!”

Kyouji laughs outright this time. “That should go on his obituary.”

Satomi sighs and rubs his forehead with his free hand. “Do you want me to come to Osaka?”

“Nah,” Kyouji says casually. “Certainly don’t need you turning up at a yakuza funeral and being associated with those guys. Though they all miss their sensei, believe me. They always bring you up when I’m around.”

Satomi feels his face heat, despite the cold air. 

“You can call me until you’re back in Tokyo, then. Usually I’d pick up, but–”

“You were out with colleagues tonight, right?” Kyouji replies. “I remember you telling me that was happening this week.”

“Kinda. I ran into Wada-kun. From school, from the choir. He’s the one that took over for me when… uh, never mind.”

Satomi hears the sounds of Kyouji moving, like he’s juggling his phone from one ear to the other. “Oh, I remember him. Didn’t he eat a bunch of takoyaki one time?”

“Yeah,” Satomi says, surprised. “I can’t believe you remember me telling you something like that.”

Kyouji huffs a little noise of fond exasperation. “Sure do. Did he invite you out for takoyaki? I know how much you love it.”

“I guess I kinda invited him.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Takoyaki’s not as good in Tokyo.”

“Yeah,” Satomi says, leaning over a metal railing and ignoring the chill against his hand and arm. “We said the same thing. But you’ll… you’ll have to get used to it, if you’re going to live here.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line, where Satomi holds his breath and even the snow seems to stop falling. Then Kyouji speaks, and the world starts spinning again.

“Yeah, I guess I will. Hey, do you want me to bring up anything from Osaka? A gift? I can bring some food from 551, but maybe you’d like something else too… What about a wallet? I never properly gave you something to celebrate your new job.”

“That was ages ago!” Satomi laughs. “You’re nearly a year too late for that.”

“I missed my chance,” Kyouji whines. “You have to let me make up for lost time, right? And you… always seemed to get angry when I gave you something. Before.”

Satomi thinks suddenly of the smell of boiled leather. “You know, I boiled that watch you gave me ages ago. Sorry.”

Kyouji laughs, and laughs. “Boiled it? Like, in a kettle? In a soup?”

“Kind… of…” Satomi says, embarrassed. “I can buy you a new one.”

Kyouji snorts with more laughter. “No, that mental image is payment enough. Besides, apparently it was a women’s watch – it didn’t really suit me, I guess.”

Satomi yowls with indignation. “Are you serious? It was so expensive! I thought – I was tearing myself up over it, and – Kyouji, you didn’t even buy it, did you? Was it one of your old girlfriends’?”

Kyouji laughs on the other end of the line while Satomi seethes. “I don’t remember. I wore it for a really long time. They even gave it to me again when I got out of prison.”

“Unbelievable,” Satomi mutters. Kyouji is still laughing, so Satomi can’t help but smile a little too. Since Kyouji can’t see it, he supposes it’s alright.

The snow is heavier now, almost fog-like over the glowing lights of the station.

“Hey, Kyouji. My brother’s coming up here later this month. Has a girlfriend studying in Tokyo, or something.”

There’s a pause on the other end. 

Eventually, Kyouji says, “You know, I don’t have to stay with–”

“I was thinking,” Satomi interrupts, before Kyouji can continue that train of thought. “Maybe I would tell him I’m living with someone. He’d have an excuse to stay with his girlfriend then, too.”

More silence. Satomi can see Kyouji in his mind’s eye, that familiar mask falling over his face, hiding the gears churning inside of his head. It used to scare Satomi, that expression. Now he knows why Kyouji hides, and what he’s really feeling, he isn’t afraid of it anymore.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Your parents will ask–”

“Kyouji,” Satomi says insistently, emphasising the way he says his name. “You think I’d change my mind?”

Satomi hears an exhale, and wonders if Kyouji is smoking.

“You deserve the option,” Kyouji says eventually. “You’re so young. You can walk away without… you don’t need to bind yourself to this in so many ways, so quickly.”

“So should I get a tattoo of your name, instead?” Satomi retorts. 

Kyouji sighs again. “That’s not the same. And it was the boss’ idea, really.”

“Perhaps I should pay my respects, then,” Satomi replies quickly, “if he is responsible for your feelings, too. You don’t want to meet my family?”

Kyouji shuffles his phone around again. Satomi wishes, suddenly, that he could see the snow in Tokyo too. It wasn’t really fair that it was snowing when he wasn’t around to see it.

“I can’t imagine anything I’d want less for my dear son than… whatever this looks like,” Kyouji says softly.

“Well, I wasn’t going to mention the yakuza bit,” Satomi admits. 

Kyouji huffs a short laugh on the other end of the line, and exhales again. He’s definitely smoking, Satomi thinks. He never smoked around Satomi, even now; Satomi thought he’d stopped entirely, and the whiff of cigarette smoke that clung to him was just from being around others who did. 

“I’ve already ruined your life enough. You don’t need to ruin your relationship with your parents as well.”

Satomi doubts his parents’ reaction would be so drastic; he thinks there’s nothing short of mass murder that could possibly cause his parents to disown him. Sometimes he wonders if his mother or brother have ever suspected anything about his sexuality, but neither of them ever said anything.

“Look at you,” he quips. “Big scary yakuza, afraid of my small-time parents.”

“With good reason!” Kyouji exclaims, and Satomi giggles. He supposes he doesn’t particularly want his parents imagining the intricacies of his sex life, either.

“Alright, I’ll start small for now,” he concedes. “And I suppose I have to think about coming out, even before mentioning you.”

There’s more silence and static on the line, and Satomi feels a little annoyed. “What?”

Kyouji huffs. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re brave, you know? You’re so determined to get things done, and confident in who you are.” 

Then he lilts his voice into a more teasing tone, never staying serious for too long if he can help it.

“It’s sexy, Satomi-kun.”

Satomi supposes it’s an upgrade that at least he’s now ‘sexy’ as much as he is ‘cute’ in the rolodex of Kyouji’s adjectives.

“Great,” Satomi replies briskly, ignoring the heat suddenly blooming across his cheeks. “Anyway, I better get home. It’s snowing here, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Satomi pauses, goes to say goodnight, and then changes his mind halfway and instead says in a rushed confession, “I wish you were here, to see it. Just um– well, never mind,” he trails off, embarrassed.

“Satomi.” 

Kyouji’s voice is so warm with affection, Satomi thinks it puzzling that it doesn't melt all the snow within earshot instantly.

“Y-yeah?”

“I miss you too.”

Satomi closes his eyes, blocking out everything but the sound of Kyouji’s voice. “Mhm.”

“You can call me when you get lonely. And send me a picture of the snow.”

“Okay,” Satomi says, the restlessness in his heart settling a little. “Goodnight, Kyouji.”

“Goodnight, Satomi-kun.”

Satomi hangs up, and hums a short little melody of a sigh. He folds his hands over the railing, looking across the ditch to the station as he hears a familiar howling noise, and a moment later sees the warm flickering lights of a train coming towards the station.

He sprints for it, over the little bridge and through the entrance archways, just making it past the ticket barrier and up the stairs in time to see the train pull out of the platform again. Satomi feels a momentary annoyance when he sees the listing for the next train is several minutes away, but he supposes it doesn’t matter too much. Instead, he uses the time to flip his phone back out and opens up the chat window of one of his recent conversations.

OKA SATOMI [11:15pm]: You know a lot of manga, right?

The reply is instantaneous.

MORITA K [11:15pm]: Stupid. Obviously.

OKA SATOMI [11:15pm]: What about BL?

There’s a typing indicator that stops, and then starts again, deliberating for so long on the three little dots that Satomi starts to regret the choice to text his former coworker.

MORITA K [11:18pm]: Motherfucker. You texted me after all this time just to confess your love? Of course my answer would be yes, but I wish you’d said something sooner. I’ve been reconnecting with that friend of yours, and I don’t want to mess things up. When it rains, it pours, right? But don’t worry, after the rain, the ground hardens. You will be okay, although I understand how devastating a rejection from me must be.

“Huh,” Satomi says to himself, out loud.

OKA SATOMI [11:20pm]: Wait, Maruyama-kun? He hasn’t mentioned you at all.

MORITA K [11:20pm]: Oh shit. Well I didn’t want to out him or anything, I thought you knew…

Satomi thinks back over some conversations he had with Maruyama, and realises he’s not really that surprised.

OKA SATOMI [11:22pm]: I guess I know now. If you have any serious BL manga. I want to help a friend to come out to his family. Not Maruyama-kun.

MORITA K [11:23pm]: How many gay friends do you have???

MORITA K [11:23pm]: I’m bisexual, by the way.

Satomi presses the thumbs up emoji reaction on Morita’s last message, and then switches message tabs to his chat with his brother.

OKA SATOMI [11:24pm]: Hey, are you still planning to come up to Tokyo this month?

OKA MASAMI [11:25pm]: Y?

The next train finally comes into the platform. Satomi lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he steps into the compartment and the doors close behind him. He hadn’t realised how cold he had gotten until he was sheltered inside, the thin metal walls and other passengers providing welcome relief from the chilled air.

Satomi glances down at his phone again, and sees Morita has sent a long paragraph of title recommendations. He ignores it for the moment, and opens the other unread message notification. 

OKA MASAMI [11:26pm]: R u ok? Textin kinda late

OKA SATOMI [11:26pm]: I’m fine. I never asked if you needed to stay with me in Tokyo or if you were staying with your gf.

OKA MASAMI [11:27pm]: Y r u askin at 23:30…

OKA MASAMI [11:27pm]: Bro… do u have a gf???

OKA SATOMI [11:27pm]: NO

OKA SATOMI [11:27pm]: Not really

OKA SATOMI [11:28pm]: It’s complicated

OKA SATOMI [11:28pm]: Don’t tell anyone

OKA MASAMI [11:28pm]: WOW

Satomi hears the sound of the PA mentioning his stop next, and determinedly ignores the vibration of his phone, eager to announce an incoming call. Once it’s settled down again, and he’s safely alighted on the platform outside, he chances a look at his lock screen.

OKA MASAMI [11:30pm]: Can I meet her?

It’s so cold outside that Satomi’s eyes and cheeks have started stinging. There’s a bad wind tunnel on the platform, and the gust buffets against Satomi’s jacket and scarf with relentless aggression.

Fingers barely functioning, Satomi manages to tap out a short reply to his brother.

OKA SATOMI [11:35pm]: Maybe some day.

He leaves the station by the east exit, welcomed home by the familiar buildings around him. It’s a cold walk back to his apartment, and the thin layer of melting snow on the ground makes Satomi’s every absent-minded step on the pavement more treacherous than he’d like. He misses the days where he’d wear sneakers around to and from university, instead of his business attire. There’s not enough grip on the soles of his oxfords, and he knows from experience that enough water ingress will mean he has to hang them up over the heater overnight.

At the walkway by the Nomi River, he pauses. The trees here are bare, but they’re still beautiful, especially with the lights of the city behind them, the moon high in the sky, and the snow falling all around. He takes out his phone again and snaps a photo, scowling at it when his camera lens blows out a light flare across the screen, distorting the image.

He texts it to Kyouji.

OKA SATOMI [11:43pm]: Bad photo. My phone is old. At least you can see the snow.

He stares at the phone screen for longer than he needs to, but Kyouji doesn’t start typing. Irrationally annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket and continues to walk home.

Then he hears and feels a distinctive pattern of vibrations, and Satomi nearly flings his phone into the river in his eagerness to get it back out of his pocket again.

NARITA [11:50pm]: The moon is beautiful. 

Following that is a Neko-Neko Panic sticker of two cats looking at the moon, their backs facing the camera and their tails entwined.

Satomi’s face burns, and his jaw hurts from how hard he’s grinding his teeth. He makes a muffled noise to vent all of the pent-up emotion he feels about Kyouji’s stupid clichés, and then continues homeward, this time not bothering to put his phone away but instead keeping it tightly grasped in his hand.

“The one in Kawasaki was nice.”

“Yeah, and it’s under the flight path,” Kyouji huffs. “It won’t appreciate value.”

“Appreciate value…” Satomi says in a gruff, terrible impression of Kyouji. Kyouji smirks and kicks him under the table. “If you want to maximize appreciation, we should be looking at the deceased estate in Senzoku.”

“Deceased estate is bad luck.”

“Such a superstitious old man,” Satomi huffs. “The tatami pattern never did me any ill.”

“You failed the civil service exam twice,” Kyouji points out, using his chopsticks to gesture at Satomi, in a way which would be rude if he were doing it to anyone else.

Satomi scowls. “That wasn’t the tatami’s fault.”

Kyouji just continues smirking. “Whatever you say. I bet you’ll pass it once we’ve moved.”

The waitress approaches to deftly collect their empty bottles and glasses, and Satomi leans back from the table to allow her more room. “There’s not a next time, I’m too old for that.”

“That’s nonsense, lots of people stay in university far longer than you did.”

Satomi runs his hand over his face and leans forward again, slouching over the newly-vacant table. “The law firm makes good money.”

Kyouji raises his eyebrows. “Well, if that’s all you care about. But you don’t have that excuse anymore.”

Satomi grumbles a noise of disagreement, even though Kyouji is right. 

“You know that real estate agent in Senzoku asked me what our relationship was?”

For the first time in a while, a slight chill goes through Satomi. “Really.”

Kyouji, on the other hand, looks totally unperturbed. “Really, really.”

“And?”

“Well, she started out by mentioning the other clients who had seen the place, and how she hadn’t seen anyone else in our demographic – she wondered if I was your father or uncle, helping you buy your first apartment–”

He’s playing with his food very slowly and deliberately, and ordinarily Satomi wouldn’t take the bait. But he’s a little drunk, so he gives in to his baser instincts.

“Kyouji.” 

Kyouji never resists him for very long anymore.

“Alright, alright. I said you were my sugar daddy.”

Satomi’s mouth is wide open. “You’re jokin’.”

“Nah. I said I’d fallen on hard times and you were helping me out, a super whiz rich kid type. Y’know, it’s not totally untrue.”

“It’s totally untrue,” Satomi argues. “You’re paying the ridiculously oversized deposit.”

“Legally, you’re paying for all of it,” Kyouji shrugs. “I’m just paying you to consult on my business affairs. Though really I should be charging you some deductions for the driving lessons.”

Satomi folds his arms and curls his lip with derision. “I’m not paying for that. You’re the worst driving teacher ever. You never tell me off, and even when I bumped your car against that pole and scratched it, you said nothing.”

“Mistakes are the best teacher,” Kyouji replies in a totally serene voice.

“Stupid.”

“You like me anyway,” Kyouji croons. 

Satomi glowers at him from behind his glasses, and then abruptly gets up to leave. 

“Oi, don’t leave me behind!”

“You can get this round,” Satomi informs him imperiously, and marches out of the izakaya with a forceful, determined gait.

The spring air is unusually warm, as all the spring nights had been this year. The cherry blossoms around Kamata have bloomed and melted away faster than Satomi could pay attention to them. He looks around at the neighbourhood he’s called home for so many years with the fond, melancholic reverence of someone five standard drinks deep into their evening.

When Kyouji joins him, it’s with a similarly silent and melancholic air that catches Satomi off guard. They walk together towards Satomi’s apartment, drifting towards one another until the back of their hands are occasionally touching.

Kyouji laughs to himself softly, and Satomi shoots him an inquiring look.

“You know, I can’t believe it, but sometimes I miss the karaoke contests,” Kyouji admits in a low voice.

Satomi pushes his glasses up his noise, and looks down at the ground. “That’s natural.”

Kyouji pats Satomi reassuringly, reaching around his shoulder in the kind of half-hug that men coming back from an izakaya can get away with. “Obviously I don’t miss them as much as I missed you.”

Mollified, Satomi hums in acknowledgement.

“When we last got together…” Kyouji starts again. “He sang too. He cried the whole time. It was so bad, his voice was cracking, maybe even worse than the time you sang ‘Crimson’. I think he should have been the sucky song king.”

“But then who would do the tattoo…?” Satomi wonders. For a moment, he sees a vision of Kyouji tattooing a smudged abomination of his own name onto Satomi’s arm. He shudders.

“Yeah, well, the rest of us were crying as well. He sang that Masayoshi Yamazaki song, you know the one. I think he was thinking of his son…”

Kyouji trails off in a way that indicates he’s lost in his reminiscing. 

Satomi coughs. “Did his son… um… see him before he died?”

Kyouji comes back to himself. “Yeah, he did, at the hospital. We were all relieved he made it, everyone was crying there, too. I don’t think many people would be intimidated by the Matsuribayashi if they saw the state of the group that week, seriously.”

Satomi considers this, and takes a few moments to make sure his next statement is delivered in as neutral a tone as he can manage.

“You’re not in the yakuza anymore. So you could see your nephew, if you wanted.”

Kyouji is so surprised he stops walking entirely.

“In Osaka?”

“I don’t know where your relatives are,” Satomi huffs. “Yeah, in Osaka, I guess?”

Kyouji hums consideringly, and then starts walking beside Satomi again. “I don’t know if my nephew would want to see a strange old man appear out of nowhere. It’s not hard to guess where I’ve been. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to find him.”

Satomi bites back the instinctive reply. “I can stalk him online, then,” he offers instead, bracingly casual.

Kyouji blinks rapidly, eyes straining with disbelief as they look at Satomi. 

“What? It’s not hard these days.”

“Young people are terrifying,” Kyouji mutters disgustedly.

“You like me anyway,” Satomi observes casually, and isn’t surprised when Kyouji forgoes all propriety and keeps their hands entwined together for the rest of the journey home.