Work Text:
Osamu was sure he had heard the story at least a million times. Even more than the recurring Christmas ads playing in a loop on the TV every time November came around. It was the spicy side dish to every family dinner, the bubbly dry champagne of every birthday party. It rolled down everyone’s tongue bittersweet, a fond reminder of a time when no one’s back ached with age and VHS tapes were still in use, not replaced by whatever streaming platform their parents were at odds with at the moment.
A toast, a cheerful song sung out of tune. A Wham low-quality music video playing on the old TV of Chuuya’s parents’ western-style living room, gift paper shredded on the wool cut pile carpet. Christmas cake lovingly baked by Osamu’s mother, Chuuya’s father with his fifth glass of champagne recounting his life back as a young salesman in France. His stories went on for hours, carrying the small group of people catered in the room- his wife, Osamu, and his mother, Chuuya, his brother Paul and his fiancee Arthur, a lanky man of few words and lots of stutters- through the afternoon, straight to the clock ticking midnight.
It was usually around then that, as Chuuya and Osamu tried to escape upstairs to play video games and escape the terrible dad jokes, someone would bring up the story, in the hope of tying the two teenagers with the group for a little longer.
It started rather clichèe-y, one warm evening in June of 1990. Back then, the warmth wasn’t still unbearable and Osamu’s parents were still together. His father’s presence was supposedly the reason behind Osamu’s mother's scrupulousness in remembering the exact race result of the F1 race playing on the TV that day. When she was the assigned narrator, it was her duty to remind everyone that Alain Prost had won the Mexico stage of the Gran Prix, snatching first place in his red 641 Ferrari. If Chuuya’s father had never been a big fan of cars and races, then that went ignored. He always commented on how much of an amazing race that one had been.
Osamu couldn’t exactly have a personal comment on that. Still, he had an inkling of a suspicion that Mister Nakahara’s comment was made up to accommodate his mother’s rare recalling of her former husband.
The tale progressed quickly past the commentary of the race and occasional trips down in the pilots’ lives- Did you know he retired? Did he? Oh, he cheated on his ex. He has a son your age, did you know, Osamu? Miss Nakahara always added, before urging the narrator to pick up where they’d left.
Right, June 24th, Osamu’s parents had walked through the mahogany front door of their neighbors with a scruffy, crying newborn in a black stroller.
They hadn’t had much contact with the Nakahara before, as Osamu’s parents had moved in only five months earlier. They knew the father didn’t speak Japanese fluently and they had an older son, an eight-year-old blond kid named Paul, but that was all. Outside of a few formalities when they had moved in and fewer visits when they had had their second born, a little boy who was born with a surprising amount of red hair- Chuuya- they had just exchanged greetings and a bag of flour when Miss Nakahara had run out.
Miss Nakahara however, had seen them struggle with their newborn for a few days, hearing constant crying every time she opened the windows to prevent the house from heating, flooded with the early summer humid air. The kid apparently couldn’t stop crying. She had rang them up and invited them for coffee as an excuse to give as much help as she could to them.
Miss Nakahara had always been like that. Kind-hearted, a giver. Osamu admired her for selflessness, just as much as he despised her stubborn son for it. The same stubborn son who, by the time the elders were commenting on how young they used to be back then, was already fake gagging and adding “ew”s every once in a while. Because of course, asking him to act his age was too much for that peanut-sized brain of his, even at Christmas dinner.
Point is, Osamu’s parents had walked through that door absolutely exhausted, burgundy eye bags under and a not-so-faint smell of burnt coffee on their second-hand clothes.
“Oh dear, he doesn’t seem very happy, doesn’t he?” Miss Nakahara had compliantly stated, welcoming them in the genkan of the house, kneeling in front of the cheap stroller. Her black curls were intact, clothes were ironed. Osamu’s mom loved to comment on that, adding on how Miss Nakahara always managed to look stunning, earning a sheepish laugh from her and a smile. Back then, however, Osamu had kept crying his heart out, too busy screaming to admire her newly done spiral perm. She hadn’t backed down. “Hi, little one. Might you be feeling lonely?” She had tugged at his small, closed fist to no avail, “What if I give you a friend? He’s as small as you” she continued, in a sweet high-pitched voice to try and catch his attention, “Will you stop crying then?”
In a grand response, he had cried even louder.
“Well, he has a career as an opera singer ahead!” Miss Nakahara had laughed. She had then stood up, asked for permission to carry the stroller in the living room, and placed it next to an old-style wooden crib. She had helped Osamu’s mother lift the crying baby squirming like a wild animal and placed him inside the crib next to Chuuya, now two months old and thoroughly asleep.
Osamu, for the first time since he had taken his first breath five days earlier, stopped crying. It was quick, mouth shut as soon as he was laid down on the hard mattress. He had squirmed a bit, adjusting himself, but within a few whines, he had seemingly fallen asleep.
A miracle, one could call it.
“But of course, we should’ve known that you can’t expect silence from you two,” Chuuya’s mom added, laughing as she poured herself a glass of water. Unlike her husband and her sons, she rarely drank alcohol.
Quiet for the first time in days, Osamu had stretched his little arm and bumped into Chuuya’s head, causing the tiny redhead’s eyes to shoot open. Not even five seconds later, the room had been filled to the brim with the other kid's blood-curdling cries.
At this moment, it was important for Miss Nakahara to note that Chuuya, for the mere two months he had been alive, had been an angel of a child. He barely ever cried, except in rare cases where he was hungry or he got scared. Nothing that couldn’t be shooed away with a kiss and a lullaby. So, when Paul had run down the stairs and found his little brother screaming his lungs out, he was met with his parents staring in utter shock at the crib.
Osamu’s mother had been the first to react, grabbing his son from the crib and working to put him back in the stroller as she profusely apologized, bowing repeatedly.
“No, wait. Look at Osamu's face.” Miss Nakahara had stopped her, laughing and pointing at said baby with her chin. Meanwhile, she picked up the screaming redhead, who started wiggling his fists in the air.
Osamu's mother always laughed when she told this part of the story. “I never knew a newborn could look so annoyed.” Then, she ruffled Osamu’s hair fondly. “Really, you looked so pissed off it was almost unreal. It’s a shame no one took a picture.”
Not that the lack of pictures hadn’t been soon made up for. After the story has been told, with Chuuya rolling his eyes annoyed and Osamu pouring himself a glass of stolen whiskey, Chuuya’s mom got up and pulled out the copper, leather-bound picture album with their pictures. It had been originally purchased at the dollar store down the street to be Chuuya’s picture album, alongside Paul’s blue one. Soon enough it had become Chuuya and Osamu’s album, just like Osamu’s one had rarely a page without an energetic redhead present.
The picture of their first words, taken in the Nakahara’s living room, with a permanent marker writing under it that signaled the date and the occasion. It portrayed the two of them hitting each other with colored rattles. Chuuya’s first word is a desperate call for his mothers to attempt winning a dispute over their favorite toy- a red car that lights up when you make its wheels spin.
Their first steps had been taken together, a race to get a toy Osamu had thrown to the other side of the room. The first fall, the first matching band-aids on their knees, the first trip to the ocean, the first day of kindergarten. Osamu’s mother kept on the fridge the picture of them standing next to each other in front of the colorful door of the school. Matching backpacks and matching Doraemon T-shirts, they faked a smile to the camera as Osamu not-so-secretly tried to kick Chuuya’s left shin.
Nothing much had changed as they grew up. Pictures ruined from being kept in wallets, portraying their first day of elementary school. This time Osamu was sporting a Detective Conan T-shirt and two missing teeth, and Chuuya a red shirt with a big motorbike printed on the front. Pictures of their first sleepovers, fallen asleep on the floor of Chuuya’s bedroom surrounded by legos. Pictures of their first Christmas after Osamu’s father had left slightly before his seventh birthday.
Where there was Chuuya, there was Osamu. It was an unspoken rule for everyone who knew them, so strictly bound that teachers sometimes mixed their names together. If one of them happened to show up without the other, it was etiquette to ask where the missing one was. Not that an answer was needed, most of the time the missing one was just behind the corner, ready to kick his partner in crime’s ass.
When there was Osamu, there was Chuuya. It had always been like that, even when at twelve they hated each other’s guts and risked suspension multiple times for beating each other in the hallways.
“Don’t sit next to each other, if you’re gonna argue,” their parents always told them, after they had picked another fight during a shared dinner. What it was over, Osamu couldn’t remember. It was easier to recall the amazing dinner they had had, a raclette with multiple side dishes to celebrate Mister Nakahara’s fiftieth birthday.
“That’s not how it works,” Osamu had replied, annoyed, stuffing a mouthful of food into his mouth. Chuuya grunted at his side. Osamu remembered perfectly the black hoodie Chuuya was wearing, as it was one of his own he had lent him and then ended up permanently in his closet, back when their clothes still had the same size and could be easily exchanged.
“What do you mean? Look, just come sit here, and we’ll switch places,” Paul had said with a huff, twenty, still living with his parents and not doing anything that might’ve seemed like an attempt to hide his dislike for his little brother’s peculiar best friend.
Osamu had quickly shut him out, telling him with a hand flap to him to sit back down. “No! This is my seat!”
“You were just complaining about having to sit next to him” Paul had stated, painting out the absurdity. His blond hair was longer than he ever kept it, one side tied up in a French braid that joined the other half in a low ponytail. Osamu never particularly liked that style, but the Nakahara always had peculiar taste in haircuts in their DNA, from Chuuya’s weird mullets to his mother’s perm. Must’ve been the French genes.
“Yes.” Blankly, Osamu had said, and kicked Chuuya under the table, earning himself a hiss.
“I offer you a change, and you refuse.” Paul had uttered, with a gesture towards him, and furrowed his eyebrows.
“Paul, let it go. You know how they are.” Chuuya’s dad laughed, taking a sip of wine from his glass.
Osamu had ignored that and shoved the last bite of food in his mouth, followed by a quick and rushed sip of water. “Exactly.” He had looked at Chuuya, then they both stood up, with a screech of their chairs.
“Then what do you- Hey! Where are you two going?” Paul had shouted, as the two preteens shot up the stairs, elbowing each other in the process and almost choking on the last bite of food.
The last thing Osamu heard, as he ran into Chuuya’s bedroom and launched himself on the unmade bed, messing even more the Pokemon bed sheets, was Paul’s resigned, irritated voice. “I will never understand those two.” Then, Chuuya shut the door with a bang.
The picture of that night was one portraying the both of them asleep on Chuuya’s bed, curled up together under the cartoonish blankets as they held in their hands the controllers of Chuuya’s newly bought gaming console. In the dim atmosphere their faces, barely visible under the tangle of limbs and blankets, reflected softly the cold light of the TV.
When the group got to that page of the album, it was past two in the morning. Osamu and Chuuya had been vibrating in their chairs, begging their parents to allow them to get up, for about fifty minutes. Verlaine had already left for his old bedroom turned into a guest one, both to save himself from his parents' mushy talk about how cute they used to be as kids and to save his fiancee from the embarrassment of witnessing two angsty teens bickering over their childhood pictures.
“It’s fine, you can go. Don’t stay up too late though!” Chuuya’s mother said to the two teens with resignation, closing the picture album with a silent thud that caused the glasses on the table to vibrate.
Osamu and Chuuya bolted to their feet. They quickly grabbed the new video games they had been gifted- Osamu’s copy of Pokemon Pearl, Chuuya’s copy of Pokemon Diamond, and a shared copy of Call Of Duty 3- from the floor and ran up the stairs, slipping multiple times on the freshly waxed floors.
Chuuya’s room was ample, the second one to the left, with two large sliding windows. One faced the inner garden and one faced the Dazai household, Osamu’s room to be specific. Snow was slowly accumulating on the windowsill. It would’ve been a pain to clean away. Band posters covered the wall from the floor to the ceiling and a rather new red electric guitar sat in the corner, a matching item along Chuuya’s now calloused fingertips. Osamu had felt them on his skin, harsher but somehow more graceful than they had ever been. Chuuya had been helping him wrap new bandages around his arms and he had to fake a whine and an excruciating pain to excuse the sudden goosebumps. The memory was fresh in his mind, something he struggled to bring up without the urge to bash his head through the wall.
Chuuya’s room had changed with time but as Osamu threw himself on the bed, he was met with the same old Pokemon sheets they had back when they were twelve, four years earlier.
“Oh, come on! What the fuck did I just tell you?” Chuuya complained, turning on the TV and sitting next to him, “You’re heavy, stop jumping on my bed!”
“Not until Chuuya keeps these ugly sheets!” He poked his cheek with a finger, mirthfully watching the scowl on the redhead’s face. “No wonder he doesn’t get girls. Imagine bringing a beautiful lady here and trying to woo her on Charmander bed sheets! I’d puke.”
Chuuya hit him on the head with the back of his hand. “Can you stop bringing up my love life every chance you get?” He huffed, pursing his upper lip like he always did when Osamu irked him, “And what do my sheets have to do with you breaking my stuff?”
Osamu grabbed the spare PS3 controller and sat up straight next to his best friend. “Chuuya should know~”
“Chuuya’s not a clairvoyant, nor a mind reader.”
“But he’s known me since I was five days old… He should be able to know what I’m thinking…” Osamu whined. He wobbled to the right, crashing his full body weight on Chuuya with a dramatic sigh.
“I do! When you’re not making shit up just to annoy me! Now get off me and look at the screen.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Then don’t get off me and just look at the screen! If you miss the cutscenes I can't replay them.”
When Osamu heard the door of the room click open a few hours later, slightly parting his eyelids to see the silhouette of his mother asking if he wanted to sleep over at Chuuya’s, he didn’t move. He just faked being asleep. It was an easy task, splayed over Chuuya’s softly heaving chest, one of Chuuya’s hands somehow having found its way to brown locks.
“They’re not growing out of it, I’m afraid.” Miss Nakahara whispered with a chuckle, stepping into the room after Osamu’s mother. She turned the TV off with a click.
“They still sleep like when they were five.” Osamu’s mother walked to the bed and threw the plaid blankets over the two young men. Osamu couldn’t see her, having closed his eyes once again, but the smile on her face was easy to imagine by the pinkish tone of her voice. She ruffled both of their hair and walked back to the door.
“I know you’re awake, Osamu,” she said, from the hallway, “goodnight. Come home early tomorrow, we're going to grandma's.” The door closed behind the two women with a thud.
Chuuya ended up joining them for their quick visit to Osamu's grandmother. Chuuya had tried to protest, but his revolt hadn’t lasted long. He knew damn well that the old clumsy lady loved him as much as her only blood-related grandchildren. Besides, Osamu had spent ten minutes on the phone with Chuuya’s motherly grandparents just the day before.
So, after washing their teeth while prodding at each other, which caused Osamu’s toothbrush to get stuck in his braces, and after fighting over who got to wear their favorite hoodie- “It’s way too big for you!” Osamu insisted, trying to snatch it from Chuuya’s grasp and almost tripping over a shirt left on the ground. “I don’t care! You’re already fully dressed anyway, so stop it!” Countered Chuuya, turning onto itself in a comical twirl and using the spin’s leverage to finally obtain the fought-over clothing.- they hopped in the backseat of the car.
It wasn’t until the late afternoon, sitting in the traditional living room of his grandma’s house, all bamboo and handmade carpets, that a question cut through the warm, calm atmosphere Osamu had been floating in for a few days.
“Lads, what do you plan on doing after school?”
Osamu scoffed at that, a shrug of his shoulders and he kept on drinking his cup of Sencha from the skillfully painted forest green ceramic mug his grandma always reserved for him.
“Still haven’t thought about it,” he said gulping down the last sip of tea. A more correct phrasing would’ve been “I don’t want to think about it,” but he wasn’t going to admit it. Not in front of Chuuya, who was already boasting about the thousands of ideas and hypotheses he had roaming in his brain.
“Physics would be nice. I’ve already taken a few extra classes for it and I wouldn’t mind getting into the field.” He said, a faint smile as he vaguely gestured something in the air. His habit of moving his hands a little bit too much while talking had never really faded away, from when they were little and Paul still hadn’t had his hearing aids. Paul’s hearing loss wasn’t severe, but Chuuya had been determined to learn sign language and, before he could get the gist of it, he used to make grand gestures hoping that his brother would understand. That habit had stuck with him through time, with Osamu being the victim of his movements. “But my mom suggests looking into medical school. It’s hard, but it pays well.”
To be honest, Osamu hated these conversations. They had manifested as soon as they had begun their second year of high school back in spring and had not stopped popping up like weeds at every family dinner or celebration. Now that their second year was soon going to come to an end, with their older friends already getting ready for the graduation ceremony, it was only a matter of time before empty questions and ice-breakers turned into modules to file, and decisions to make. Stuff that this time, he couldn’t have let his mother or Chuuya file out for him.
Osamu wasn’t a fan of the practice.
He was a fan of theory, of what ifs , of castles made out of ideas built at three a.m. while lying under the glow-in-the-dark stars of his room with Chuuya. He dreaded the moment Chuuya’s ideas had started turning realistic, straying away from their dreams of becoming astronauts or circumnavigating the globe and settling on more boring, set-stone words like doctor, pharmacist, or physicist.
It felt like Chuuya was slowly stepping into a world he wasn’t welcomed in, while he did nothing but try to grasp onto the tumbling and tacky monument that was their childhood.
Worst of it all? Chuuya seemed to not notice any of it.
He was infinitely grateful when his mother drifted the topic towards her latest bought china, a fine set painted in white and blues she had seen in a shop downtown in Yokohama, right next to the Seven Eleven with the broken insignia she always ran her errands at when coming back from work late.
“Oi.”
“What?”
“You never told me you wanted to study economics.”
Summer break had just started when the topic came back around. For the first months of his third and final year, he had somehow skillfully managed to duck and escape any official discussion on the matter with his teachers, succeeding only thanks to his decent grades; not too bad for elders to be too worried about him, not good enough to be at the center of attention.
Evading the matter however became a whole nother thing when the interlocutor was Chuuya, who had a degree and various years of training in a wonderfully intricate field called spotting his bullshit from miles away.
“I don’t want to, that’s why I haven't.”
It was mid to late July, and they had been sealed shut in Chuuya’s room, the blinds down to avoid the sun overheating the room and the brand new air conditioning implant turned to the max, just so Osamu could lay down with his head on Chuuya’s lap. Chuuya had tried to fight him off, even reaching the step of threatening to send him home but, surprisingly as a hot day in hell, it hadn’t worked.
Osamu had always been touchy, throwing hissy fits as a kid when they didn’t let him sit next to him, and Chuuya had long grown accustomed to the weird, clingy habits of his neighbor. Even now that a new family member had joined them- a five-month-old, overexcited Golden Retriever named Baki-, he had made peace with having two bodies pressed against him round the clock.
He scooted a little on the bed, watching as Baki snuggled closer to his leg and Osamu, head on his lap and his legs up, parallel to the wall, played Pokemon on his DS. “You said, and I quote, ‘I was thinking of studying economics in Tokyo’ to Miss Yamada, like, this morning. And don’t say I’m making up things!”
“Chuuya!” Osamu chanted a mocking but airy tone in stark contrast with how aggressively he was pressing the buttons on his console, as those were cockroaches and he was Japan's most renowned exterminator. Chuuya wondered how he hadn't broken the DS yet. “It was a lie, of course!”
“Jackass,” he said with a clashing fondness. He hit his head with the back of his hand, “what’s that head of yours telling you? You should take this stuff seriously.”
Osamu took his fair share of time catching a rather zealous Milotic before answering. He watched the ultraball -because the bastard refused to fit into any of his normal pokeballs or megaballs, of course- swing a few times, then sparkle, and only then he turned his head towards Chuuya. The cloth of Chuuya’s tank top was rough but fresh against his cheek. “I don’t want to.”
“Do you know how to say anything else other than that?”
“Ugh, Chuuya is boooring.”
“At least I know what the fuck I’m doing, unlike someone else here!”
“Unfair. You should quit everything and be my dog full-time.”
“I think you should fuck off full-time.” Chuuya scoffed and once again attempted to hit him as best as he could with his arm, without bothering the puppy. Osamu rolled his eyes and went back to his game.
Another handful of minutes flew by in silence. Chuuya watched him win a match against a very aggressive Bidoof, and he sat up and snatched the console from his hands. Osamu looked up at him with those big, brown doe eyes of his and attempted a pout. Too bad, Chuuya was well above any of his attempts at making him feel sorry.
“You know we’ll still see each other. It’s not like I’m moving to Siberia or anything.” Chuuya said, awkwardly. Osamu attempted and failed at regaining his DS but Chuuya threw it on the nightstand, way out of his reach.
“I wish you would actually,” he said with a sigh, poking at Chuuya’s stomach. “You’d feel tall between the penguins.”
“You… Siberia doesn’t have penguins. Don’t go off-topic.”
“I’m not going off-topic! Chuuya was the one who talked about Siberia first!”
“That was not the point, and you know it! Could you be serious for once? I’m trying to make an important discussion here.” Chuuya was nervous now, scratching the palm of his hand with his fingernails. Osamu hoped that a few more puns would have him shove him away and forget about the topic.
“The point being that penguins don’t exist in Siberia?”
“Osamu.”
“Siberia has red-necked gooses and tigers. You’ll fit perfectly there.”
“Dazai Osamu.”
“Wow, full name and everything? You know, geese have full names too. I mean, if you want to consider their scientific name as their full name.”
“I fucking hate it, when you do this.”
“Do what? Thought you liked anima-”
Chuuya hit him. It wasn't a heavy hit, it didn’t hurt. It was just a sharp, quick slap aimed straight at his cheek. The sting went away after a mere second. Nothing new. It was usual for them to jump straight to violence. They had at least one fight worthy of the WWE a week, which consisted of way more violence than a fake slap to have him shut up.
But Osamu was dramatic, ever so, and desperately needed to run away from the prospect of a serious discussion. So he stuck out his bottom lip, looking at Chuuya with the biggest and most watery eyes he could manage.
“You’re a brute.” Osamu whined, sniffling as he was on the verge of crying.
“You deserved it."
“Mh…” wailed Osamu, high pitched, and raised a hand to gently stroke his poor, aching skin.
“So, you’re gonna listen to me?”
“Only if Chuuya kisses it better.”
“Like hell.”
“Then I won’t.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re such a baby.”
Chuuya grabbed his shoulders, brought him up to a seating position, causing his legs to fall from the wall sideways, pulled him forward, and pressed his lips almost offensively against his very much not-hurting cheek. Osamu laughed at Chuuya’s grimace.
“Happy now?”
“Come on Chuuya, nothing wrong with kissing your homies. What are you, homophobic? I’ll tell Paul.”
“What?! Of course I… no. Fuck that, you’re going off-topic again.”
“You’re no fun.”
Chuuya wasn’t having it. “You already said that. Osamu, we will see each other again, you know?”
“Did you buy a new guitar pick? I don’t remember it being red.”
“Answer me.”
“Ugh, I know it. Of course, I know, the slug can’t live without me.”
Osamu’s provocation went ignored. Chuuya grabbed his shoulders and moved him from the awkward sitting position, dragging him down so that they were lying down next to each other, heads on the pillow. The movement had Baki whine in his sleep, scooting a little closer to his Osamu-free side.
“We’re talking about this once and only once, so you better listen, okay? I’m not gonna disappear into thin air, nor will you. But you have to pick out something to do after high school. It’s not like it will disappear if you refuse to look at it.”
“I know it won’t.”
“Then why can’t you make up your mind? I mean, you’ve gone through way harder decisions in your life. Like, picking between Pokemon starters.”
Osamu laughed, leaning against Chuuya in the process, “I think that’d be easier.”
“You like reading, you’re good with that stuff. You could keep that up.”
“I guess I'll do that. But…”
“But?”
“I don’t know.”
Chuuya raised his hand and moved one lock of hair away from his face. “You never liked changes.” He said without thinking, as it was an axiom and not a cruel breach into his mind. Even a simple fact like the color of the sky would’ve sounded less obvious than that, coming from him.
“Maybe I don’t.”
“Right. But again, not everything will change. I mean, we’ll keep talking, and I’ll come back home on the weekends.”
And Osamu knew he was right. He did, really. But-
He couldn’t tell Chuuya that what he dreaded the most, what awaited him at the end of every daydream about his future was the reminder of the day they would've never been neighbors again; the day they wouldn’t see each other every day. The day Chuuya would've met someone, fallen in love with them, and he wouldn't have been his priority anymore.
Because that’s what people do. They live, breathe, fall in love, and die. Chuuya will fall in love, and Osamu will fall behind.
Osamu wasn’t scared of picking a major. He would’ve picked literature, and worked as a teacher if needed, even if he’d prefer to work at a library, one of those old-fashioned ones he always got lost in and left with his backpack filled to the brim with old books, ink smudged and pages carrying that acre, stuffy smell they’ve earned from not being opened in years. He wasn’t scared of that.
He just didn’t want this- Chuuya’s hand in his hair, Osamu and Chuuya, the band posters on the walls, Chuuya and Osamu, their bodies smushed together like sardines in the single bed,- to end.
He couldn’t tell Chuuya that though.
So he nodded, whined a little, and accused Chuuya of being annoying. Then he agreed with him as subtly as he could, just so Chuuya would give him back his DS. Chuuya did, Osamu snuggled closer, and they spent the afternoon trying to evolve an Eevee into an Espeon. The topic died there, sinking between the cotton blanket’s folds.
Their last summer slipped away faster than Osamu would’ve wanted it to, leaving nothing but thousands of freckles on Chuuya’s skin -that Osamu made sure to make fun of enough for it to become more endearing than offensive- Sinnoh’s Pokedex completed, two brand new pages on their photo album and a cast on Osamu’s left arm.
That, and Osamu’s mind messier than the leftovers of a summer storm.
It was the end of the summer of 2007 and as GIRLFRIEND by Avril Lavigne clogged the radios of every shop and bar in Yokohama, somehow surpassing even Japanese artists, Osamu couldn't help but notice .
Take apart and inspect every movement, every word, every instinct he had developed in those seventeen years they had spent together. Chuuya had been by his side for so long that he had become something obvious, undeniable, natural.
He wasn’t sure what he felt for Chuuya was love . That was a big word, something he had long given up on understanding. He wasn’t sure he could love people as shown in movies and songs with corny piano melodies and rain pouring outside the window. He had never had a crush, and never really cared to have one either.
It just didn’t come naturally to him, romance and all that stuff.
But, he didn’t want to be alone. It scared him.
It wasn’t like Osamu didn’t have friends. He did. A few older guys he used to attend the chess club with, a blunt redhead named Oda- Odasaku for him- and a four-eyed nerd called Ango he both kept contact with even now that they were in university. His classmate and seatmate Kunikida, strict as a military general, and his other neighbor Akiko, quick-witted and the fastest one when it came to racing down the hill, had known the both of them since they were four and she was seven.
They were all close friends, people he trusted, people who had been there at his birthday parties for all the years he had known them. People who, somehow, for some reason, cared about him.
Still, when the party ended, it was Chuuya who helped him clean the mess.
It had been Chuuya the one to look for him after every argument with his mother, after every bad grade, after all of his fuck-ups. He had been the one to wipe away his tears in the backseat (“You’re such an idiot. I had told you the floor was wet five minutes earlier.” He was rambling, careful not to touch his broken arm as he carded his fingers through his hair.) as their parents rushed them to the hospital.
Chuuya had been the one to find him sitting on his bathroom floor, white and blue glazed ceramic tiles, back when they were twelve, with dark red blood all over his arms and shirt. He had called his mother the first time, stormed off in anger the second, and sat down next to him the third.
“Is there something I can do to make you knock it off?” He had asked, voice trembling like a guitar string, words more mature than what probably was the norm for a twelve-year-old.
Osamu had shaken his head so slowly it had almost been imperceptible.
“Ok.” Chuuya had said. Then, as Osamu expected him to walk away, he had gotten up and retrieved the unused first aid kit from the cabinet next to the sink and kneeled next to him. Carefully, with a certain grace he had never seen intertwined with his fingers, he had soaked the cotton pads with antiseptic and cleaned away every trace of red from his skin. He had clumsily wrapped his arms with clean bandages, still a rookie with the technique he would have mastered within the years.
He had hugged him. When he was done, Chuuya hugged him, even if they were twelve, and for some reason, Chuuya had become a little adverse when it came to stuff such as sleeping in the same bed or showing affection. Whatever that had been, however, he had dropped it all that one day, a cloudy Sunday morning of January 2002, and let it shatter on the humid tiles of the bathroom.
“If… I don’t know, if you can’t not do this…uh…” he had pulled back, still holding Osamu by the shoulders. He sounded uncertain, like he was an explorer stepping into uncharted land. “I still wanna help you. If you want.”
Osamu had nodded. Chuuya had smiled awkwardly, then went to fetch a black hoodie for him to change into and washed the bloodstained one.
“Wanna come over? My mother made those French things you like.”
"Eclairs, Chuuya, they’re called eclairs.” Osamu’s voice was weak in his throat, but he still pulled off a mocking tone.
“If I say it you’ll make fun of me.”
“Chuuya sounds funny when he speaks French! It’s his fault.”
Chuuya had scoffed. Furrowed his eyebrows too. He had reached out a hand from his standing position next to the sink and “so? You coming or not?” he had asked. Osamu had grabbed it and lifted himself up.
“Only if Chuuya asks me in French.”
Chuuya had directed him a sensational bras d'honneur, then dragged a crying-laughing Osamu out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind them.
Chuuya had always been there if not to fix things, to make them a little better.
And now that Chuuya was going to move on, he would’ve had to find someone else. But how could he replace this? A bond so obvious and unquestionable it never even had a name different than theirs. Osamu and Chuuya, Chuuya and Osamu. No one else would’ve wanted something like that. People wanted labels, wanted reassurance. People couldn’t trust each other as much as they did.
All he wanted, he already had. All he had, soon would’ve been lost.
That was the conclusion he came to as winter break came waltzing under their doors once again.
Christmas, they always spent it at Chuuya’s house. The French definitely had a stronger Christmas spirit than the Japanese people and moreover, Osamu’s house was accustomed to two, not eight. So, Chuuya’s house it was.
The story of five days old Osamu hitting Chuuya and causing havoc was told again, and the godforsaken picture album fetched out of its drawer. The only difference was that as midnight struck, Chuuya was half slouching on the table, mumbling incoherently.
“I told you not to give him wine! He’s just seventeen!” Chuuya’s mom complained, eyebrows furrowed, smacking her husband’s arm. Osamu and his mother exchanged a knowing look.
“It was just two glasses of champagne! Osamu here has been stealing whiskey since he was fifteen, your son is just a terrible lightweight!” Objected Chuuya’s dad, barely holding back a laugh.
Osamu leaped on the occasion. On a silver plate, in front of him. He jostled to his feet, almost knocking down his empty glass.
“Well, guess I’ll have to carry him back to his room!” he said, sliding his arms under Chuuya’s and lifting him. “Say goodnight to everyone!”
Paul pinched the bridge of his nose as Osamu grabbed one of Chuuya’s arms and lifted it, mimicking a wave, then dragged his little brother out of the room, almost kicking down the Christmas tree. Baki jumped off the couch and followed her owner.
Osamu had to lift Chuuya and carry him upstairs in his arms, Chuuya’s head limp on his shoulder and his arms weakly tying themselves around his neck.
“Mh… me down…”
“If I put you down, you’ll fall down the stairs, Chuuya.”
Chuuya mumbled, nuzzling against his hoodie, "No… no chairs…”
“Oh God,” Osamu laughed. He bypassed Baki, who had followed them and was now happily waltzing around his legs. It would’ve been cute, if she hadn’t almost sent the three of them flying down the stairs.
Chuuya’s room was the same as usual. The Pokèmon blanket however had been replaced by a Lightning McQueen one, after they had spilled tea on it just the day before. Even worse, if you asked him. Good luck on finding a girlfriend, Chuuya. He moved it and slid the both of them onto the mattress.
“Baki, want to join?”
The puppy happily jumped on the bed, and he knew Mr. Nakahara wouldn’t have been happy about that. Osamu yanked the blanket back up and covered the three of them. Chuuya stirred against him, face still against his neck. He snuggled closer.
“Samu…” he mumbled. Osamu rubbed circles on his back.
“Oi.”
“My head hurts."
“You’re drunk.”
“M’ not.”
“Whatever you say, tiger!” Osamu managed to grab a water bottle from his nightstand and help him take a few sips.
From downstairs, Happy Xmas by John Lennon and Yoko Hono played softly. He could hear his mother laugh, Paul describing some weird encounter he had with a parent at the school he taught French at, Arthur adding details there and then. They had met like that, two French teachers at the same high school in Yokohama.
The stars on the ceiling smiled back at him, Chuuya’s weight on his chest, Baki’s snores, the snow falling outside.
Then, a slash. Cutting through the calm surface of the water he was drowning into, something sent goosebumps to rise on his every limb. Something he was quick to identify with Chuuya’s fingers having slid under his sweater, softly grazing his fingertips up and down his side. Up, he could feel his nails against his skin. Down, he felt the rough pads against the softness of his stomach.
It took an unnameable amount of strength for him not to let out any embarrassing sound. Heat rushed to his cheeks way faster than it ever had. He blamed it on the alcohol.
(It later occurred to him that he hadn’t even drunk a glass of champagne.)
“I miss you.” Chuuya whispered against his jaw, turning in a vague attempt to face him. Hell, he had to be awfully drunk to say something like that so outright. Osamu deflected, swerving right to spare his heart a head-on collision.
“Is Chuuya stupid? I’m right here~”
But Chuuya was adamant on crashing. “Mh…” he grumbled, irritated. He sounded like a kid throwing a hissy fit. “That’s the problem.”
His breath was warm against Osamu’s skin, and alongside the fingers tracing patterns on his skin, it was sending him into a wreckage. No, he wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He didn’t fall asleep easily that night. Even as Chuuya’s incoherent babbling came to an end, his stiffened muscles didn’t relax. Next Christmas, it will be different, he kept telling himself. Next Christmas, I’ll be alone. He watched the snow fall, twirls and pirouettes, it landed on the windowsill.
When his mother walked into the room around two a.m. she walked silently and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Mom, I don’t want to,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. A kiss on his forehead, a ruffle of his hair. I know darling, I know, it said. Her hands were tender, calloused ever so slight on the pads of her fingers and wrinkly on the knuckles. They felt like home.
Osamu wasn’t big on affection, never had been. But as he watched her close the door, he felt the unprompted urge to call her back, to hug her, and never let go. For some reason, it felt like that simple gesture could’ve fixed everything.
Graduation came, and Chuuya moved to Tokyo. Tokyo University of Science. A small cramped apartment with white walls and tiny rooms next to the campus, to avoid hours spent commuting.
“It’s just an hour by train, half that by car.” Chuuya said as he pushed one last box into his minuscule bedroom. Empty walls, a tiny mirror. No stars are allowed on the ceiling.
“It used to be a one-minute walk.” Osamu countered. He slouched down on the floor, against a pile of boxes.
“Oh for fuck’s sake Osamu, It’s just for a few years.”
“But-”
“Shut up. You have my number, we can call. Skype exists. I’m coming back on the weekends.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It had grown long, so long he now kept the back up in a little ponytail. “Why am I telling you this again? You won’t die. It’s just for a few years.”
It isn’t, Osamu wanted to say. You’ll find a girlfriend, a job, and move in with her.
He stayed silent.
That night he stared at the dark window of Chuuya’s room. It faced his own. Back when they were kids, they used to point flashlights in each other’s direction as a signal. Then, they’d talk with signs and gestures for hours, from one window to the other.
He rummaged through drawers, and found the flashlight. It was black and old, the rubber parts on the handle were dry and the batteries had almost run out. He pressed the button, and shone the feeble light towards Chuuya's window. The room was empty. No one signaled back.
He turned eighteen, Chuuya did too. He started university in Yokohama. It was fine. He made friends, got good marks. The teachers hated his attitude, but loved his work. He got a job at a little library, and accidentally cut his hair a little too short on the front. His mother came home one day with a little orange kitten. He named it Mewtwo and sent a picture to Chuuya, who made fun of him for the name. Chuuya got his driver’s license.
In October, he and his mother moved. Not too far away, just a block North. It was closer to the metro station, the rent was cheaper. He hated every second of it.
The story of their first meeting was told quickly that December; no one grabbed the picture album in an attempt to get the boys to spend more time with them. At one a.m. he and Chuuya were still sitting at the table, no attempt at escaping upstairs done.
“I’m going out to get some fresh air, my head hurts.” Osamu said when Chuuya left for the bathroom, grabbing his coat. His mother shot him a knowing look but didn’t say anything. He walked outside the door and sat on the steps, sheltered from the snow by the protruding room.
“What are you doing here, asshole?” Chuuya appeared from behind him after a while. He sat down next to him. He was wearing a black coat that used to be Paul’s and it looked awfully large on him.
Osamu didn’t know what to say. His arms itched way more than usual, the bandages coming undone way easier than the one Chuuya tied. Doing it himself was harder and quite pathetic.
So, “Needed some cold air.” he sputtered, and turned his head to face Chuuya. He regretted it right away. Had his cheeks always turned so red because of the cold? His hair was longer. His absence itched on his palms like an allergy. He needed to reach out but, for the first time in his life, he didn’t know if he could.
“Don’t lie. You’ve been acting like a creep all night.”
“Chuuya drank so much the alcohol is making him see things!”
“Ahah. Very funny.”
A car passed. Chuuya put his hand on Osamu’s arm and scooted closer, leaning forward so he could see his face better. “Answer me. What’s wrong?”
You wear your hair differently. When did you buy that sweater? You always asked for my opinion when it came to new clothes. Why did you stop?
“Nothing.”
“Quit saying nothing, I can spot your bullshit from miles away. Look at me. Do you really think a few months apart made me that fucking gullible?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Did it?”
He missed him. It was almost insane to admit it. Preposterous. He missed what they were, what had long been lost. He and Chuuya were never going to walk home from school together, never cuddle up on the big armchair in the living room, never spend a Christmas night beating each other at video games in Chuuya’s bedroom. Never-
“I’m dead serious. Look at me.”
Chuuya was growing up and they would’ve soon grown apart. Soon, Chuuya wouldn’t have known him as well as he always did.
What got into him next, he didn’t know. A demonic possession, maybe. Or maybe it was the snow, quietly covering every surface around them. Perhaps it was Chuuya’s bangs, all curled up due to the humidity; or his freckles, or the faint blush on the tip of his nose. Maybe it was the foreign sense of hunger gnawing at his chest. He wanted to… no, he needed-
Osamu grabbed his face and kissed him.
Chuuya’s lips were shamelessly soft against his chapped ones.
It was quick. A peck and he was already pulling back. Chuuya stared at him wide-eyed, incredulous. He wondered why he’d done it, and why hadn’t he done it earlier. He didn’t know the answer to either of those.
“I’m sorry.” Osamu jumped to his feet. “I’m really sorry.”
He wasn’t, not really.
“Osamu-” Chuuya called him, but he was already sprinting out of the garden, into the slippery, snowy streets.
[01:16 26/12/08] Osamu: Mom, I wasn’t feeling well. Headache. I walked back home. Don’t worry about me.
The day after, he woke up to one message. It was from Chuuya. All his limbs hurt.
[09:58 26/12/08] Dog: Tonight at 5 p.m. meet me at the park next to the school. No is not accepted as an answer.
He considered not showing up. Once, twice, thrice. After he burned his tongue with a too-hot cup of tea, he decided to go. Maybe the rejection would’ve cleared his head, shattered the copper red colored glasses he watched the world with. Twenty minutes before the set time, he left the house. He left his phone on his nightstand. He grabbed an umbrella, even though it had stopped snowing hours ago. His mother kissed him on his forehead, which required him to kneel for her to reach.
The park was small, a fifteen-minute walk from his home, thirty from Chuuya’s. He didn’t think much of it when Chuuya didn’t show up at five o’clock.
He must have found a blocked road, he thought to himself. He sat on the swing and waited, rocking himself back and forth. Cars passed by, and a few kids jostled through the park with their parents. A wailing ambulance sound sped by not many streets over, and a group of middle schoolers fought a violent snowball fight. He waited.
Too bad, Chuuya never showed up.
He hates me, he thought as he walked home kicking the snow with his boots.
A week later, sitting on Chuuya’s empty bed, he could only do as much as wish Chuuya hated him enough to play such a cruel joke on him.
Chuuya died the day after Christmas.
A car crash, they told Osamu over the phone.
The road was slippery due to the snow, and the truck's brakes had broken. Chuuya’s car had been totaled against a wall. Closed casket funeral, Osamu hadn’t even been able to hold his hand one last time. “There’s not much left of him, it took two morticians four hours to get him together.” Someone from the burial chamber staff had mumbled, not realizing he was listening. Osamu had to find the closest bathroom to throw up.
Knock. Knock-knock.
“Yes?”
Paul walked into the empty room and sat next to him on the bare mattress.
“Hi. How are you?” he asked. It was so clear he was trying to act normal, collected. His eye bags, bitten nails, and crumpled clothes betrayed him.
Osamu didn’t answer.
“Stupid question, huh?” He let out a weak giggle that rattled like a broken dusty-pink carillon. He fetched something in his pocket.
“I…” Paul took a deep breath. His hair was long, dirty, tied up in the messiest bun Osamu had ever seen. He tried to ignore the stinging smell of smoke exhaling from his thick flannel shirt and worn-out jeans. “Listen, I don’t know if right now it’s the best moment to do this. I could be making a mistake. Or… You know, they don’t give out fliers for this kind of situation…” another pathetic giggle, “but I think he would’ve wanted you to know.”
He handed the previously fetched object to him.
“What’s this?”
His hands itched, and a little velvet box burned his skin, melting his flesh.
“A ring.” Paul said. If Osamu’s ears weren’t so busy screaming, he would’ve heard how broken the man’s voice sounded.
No.
His heart was in his throat, in his stomach, in his head. There was a reckless beat thrumming against his skin from inside, a time bomb. His chest closed, tight as vice.
“What does this mean?” his voice was trembling.
“When you ran away on Christmas… Chuuya spent the whole night roaming in his room, you know? I could hear him, thud thud thud, walking back and forth. Me, Mom, and Dad knew something was up, we knew it was something about your escapade, but we just… let him be. Thought he’d be over it the next morning. You two always argued like that. But then, the morning after he ran down the stairs like a madman, almost tripped on Baki and entered the living room babbling nonsense.”
“He wouldn’t even sit down to eat. Dad had to grab him and sit him down on the couch to have him stay still. We look at him, he looks at us. He’s red in the face and he looks like he hasn’t slept. Mom asks him what’s happening, he tells us you kissed him. Of course! No one is surprised. Mom and Dad had a bet about it since you two were thirteen. Mom said he’d make the first move, Dad said you would. Dad was ecstatic. He rubbed it in everyone’s face for a good five minutes. You know how he is.”
“Anyways, this is not the point. He was almost hysterical, bouncing both of his legs and talking with that annoying voice he has when he’s angry, all pitchy and stuff. When Dad stopped his charade, Mom asked him what was wrong. It’s not like he had to be scared of their judgment…I mean, I had already paved the way for him. Older brother duties, am I right?” Another giggle, broken, miserable.
This man had just lost his little brother. Yes, he had acted grumpy all of their childhood, rolling his eyes at their antics and latching onto every chance of calling his tiny menace of brother names. Stupid, loser, idiot. That’s mine, you ugly gremlin! Put it down! I’ll tell Dad!
But Osamu remembered all the times Paul had patched up their scratched knees, made them breakfast, and accompanied them to school. He remembered it way too well, how proud he looked when Chuuya came rushing through the door with his letter of admission to university.
This man had just lost his little brother, and yet he was holding himself together for him. He wanted to punch him. Or hug him. He didn’t know. God, he didn’t know anything.
“Well, he’s speechless at this point. He doesn’t know where to start, he’s just gesturing around and cursing at you. I remember him distinctly calling you a huge stupid mackerel. Creative, right? Well, Mom manages to calm him down, and he finally says it. ‘That stupid fucking idiot thinks I’m going to leave him behind just because I’ve moved away’ he says. Then he pauses, cracks his knuckles, and sighs, like the dramatic idiot he is-” Paul stopped, and corrected himself. “He was. He looks at us like a fish out of water. ‘He’s been acting weird because he thinks, I don't know what goes on in that head of his, that I’ll go away and won’t talk to him again.’”
“We’re all confused because now we have no idea of what he’s trying to say. I mean, he was just stating facts everyone had caught up to. Mom asks him what he wants to do, and he… God, I feel like a piece of shit telling you this.”
“Why?” Osamu stumbled out quicker than lightning. Paul’s face was painted with the bluest smile he had ever seen.
“He looked at us and asked, ‘Is it wrong if I want to spend my life with him?’”
The beige velvet box.
“We said no, of course. He insisted with nonsense stuff about how he meant that he didn’t want to get married or have a family, just keep up whatever stupid business you two had. Mom shushed him right there and told him that there’s nothing wrong with being with the person he loves. He said ‘I don’t know if I love it the way you mean it’, which was odd, but it left no one surprised, because never has there been a single fucking time you two have done things conventionally.”
“Mom asked him if he wanted to be with you, and he said yes. ‘Then anything else doesn’t matter’, mom tells him. He still looks worried. ‘He doesn’t believe me. I need him to understand it.' So dad, still happy about his victory- you know Osamu, he adores you- goes, 'marry him.' I tell him that's not possible. It's not legal here, or me and Arthur would've already been married. But Chuuya isn't listening anymore."
"He looks at us and says 'Should I?' Because of course, he’s really thinking about it and he needs to ask. Mom tells him to follow her. She gave him that," he points at the velvet box.
"She didn't give it to me because it was Arthur who asked me out first, when we started dating, but it was her mother's ring. She kept it for this occasion. For when one of her sons wanted to ask the big question."
“We told him he had to think about it. Of course, we knew no marriage was going to happen, not right away at least, but a committed relationship is not as easy as it sounds. Still, he was adamant about it.”
Paul stopped, took his head between his hands, and rubbed his eyes. His hand slid apart, rubbing his temples. His voice was falling apart now, a medieval stone fortress crumbling down from the inside, onto itself. Osamu felt like the witness to the end of the world as he watched the man break into restrained tears.
“By lunch, he had decided he was going to ask you to marry him as soon as you two were both done with university. You know, if I hadn’t seen and heard all that commotion myself, I wouldn’t believe it. He’s never been the romantic type. But I guess calling your… thing ‘romantic’ would be an insult, wouldn’t it?”
Osamu felt like floating. The mattress under him wasn’t holding him anymore. He was falling, every part of his being shred to pieces as he tumbles and gets caught through thorns.
“Osamu, if you ever doubt how much he trusted… no, how much we all trust you, I need you to know that we were ready to send that boy to marry you in a period of three hours."
“What do I do now?” Osamu asked. What a stupid question, he thought right away. He should’ve thanked Paul, and said something to cheer him up too. But his tongue was tied, stuck in his mouth with glue. All he could spit out, the only words urging him to run out were those.
“You… You try to forget about him. And move on. That’s all you can do.”
‘I can’t do that’ he wanted to counter. ‘I’d have to forget myself.’
Instead, he stayed silent. A nod. Whatever Paul had said after, he didn’t know. His limbs melted down on the mattress, on the pavement, through the cracks of the wooden flooring he and Chuuya used to lose beads and coins into.
That night, his mother walked quietly into his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. Graying hair, puffy eyes from crying. She reached out and caressed his arm as he lay on his side and stared emptily at the white wall behind her.
Osamu hasn’t heard their story in years. It's a disorienting feeling to find himself as the narrator as three pairs of eyes stare at him and at the picture album on his knees, attentive.
“You know, I used to have a really special friend when I was younger,” he starts. It’s a shallow beginning, but he’s given up on trying to make their story justice with his words. He’s already tried, and he has failed. He hopes the faded pictures will make up for it.
Things have changed. He finished university, he’s a teacher. A writer too, with a couple books doing well in the rankings. He’s married, two kids. They’re not his, biologically, but it doesn’t matter. His wife, she’s like him. Lost the love of her life way too soon; unable to fall in love once again, too scared of being alone. They are fine now. A few kisses are all they exchange, for the kids. Intimacy has never gone past that and a few occasional cuddles. He’s fine with that, she is too.
“See, our parents were neighbors. When I was born, I was just like you two, I wouldn’t stop crying.”
“We don’t cry that much!” says Ichiro. He’s a smart kid, the oldest. He sports deep brown eyes and brown curls, similar to the ones of his mother. Osamu smiles, pinches his cheek, then goes on.
“You do though. I did too. I wouldn’t shut up, so my parents brought me to the neighbors to ask for help. They already had two sons. The oldest is Paul, you know him, the blond guy that comes here on Christmas, and Chuuya.”
“Why doesn’t Chuuya come here?” asks Yuuki. She’s seven, the youngest. When he and her mother met, she was five months pregnant. He married her a few months later.
“Hah Yuuki! You’re no fun! Let me tell the story first!”
It’s been fifteen years since Chuuya died. Soon, he’ll have spent more time missing him than with him. When he thinks about it, shivers run down his spine.
Chuuya’s parents passed away a few years back. They died just a few weeks apart from each other. At Miss Nakahara’s funeral, Paul left him two things. Baki’s collar and an old picture album, the one he’s now showing the kids. Baki is old, and she’s staring at them from the couch with her mouth hanging open as she breathes. Mewtwo is curled up next to her.
“Well, I wouldn’t stop crying but when they put me down next to Chuuya, I fell asleep right away! That’s because Chuuya was already sooo boring, he’d already bore me to death!”
The time he’s spent dwelling on the events of that faraway winter. Whether to blame himself as people who reassured him with a commiserating “It’s not your fault.” thought he did or to blame Paul for not going with Chuuya. Or maybe blame Chuuya himself. He should’ve known driving on snowy streets was dangerous. At the end of the day, there’s nothing that can be done. Chuuya is gone, and he’s moved on.
He has a family, an old dog to take care of, and a wife. He has a book in the process of being published and he’s writing another one. He makes sure to add at least one annoying redhead in each of them, whether it’s the barista who serves coffee to his main character on a Friday morning or the cashier. That will do, he tells himself every time, then leaves it at that.
He leafs through the old crumpled pages, pointing out the scribbles he and Chuuya made back then, recounting every memory laid to rest between the paper sheets.
“See, this is our first day of kindergarten. You can see I wasn’t very happy about having to be with him.”
“But you guys were holding hands!”
“Hush, not true! Look at this one, we were playing Super Mario on the Nintendo 64.”
“What’s that?”
“All this technology and you don’t know know... kids these days”
He stopped at the page their parents always did, Christmas of 2002.
Osamu had discovered only later in life, as he flipped through the album on his own, sitting in the backseat of his car after Miss Nakahara's funeral, that there was a reason behind his parent’s sudden willingness to let them flee when they got to that picture.
It was after his thirteenth birthday that he’d attempted his own life for the first time. He couldn’t remember much, nor could he remember any pics of that period, so he had just assumed there hadn’t been any. He was wrong.
The following picture, which Osamu had the first sight of years after it had been taken, was pristine, like it had been printed, put in the photo album, and never touched. Striking contrast with the others, all ruined edges and folds. A white hospital room and his own, frail self lying unconscious under the spotless bedsheets. He could see the machines surrounding him and the multiple bandages wrapped around his arms.
And then, there was red. Punching the white hues of the room, a tiny head covered in copper hair lay asleep on the right side of the bed. His hand, not yet calloused but already freckled and sporting numerous friendship bracelets, clutched his bandaged, flaky one.
He can’t show his kids that. So he closes the album on that old picture and wishes time worked a little more like a book, stopping when closed, forever stuck at the moments one doesn’t wish to cross.
“What happened to him, Dad?” Ichiro asks, tilting his head. Osamu gets up and puts the album away on the highest shelf of their living room's library.
The ring on his right finger is heavy. On the left, he keeps his newest wedding band. On the right, Chuuya’s.
“He got into a car accident many years ago. You know, Baki was his puppy. We adopted her for his seventeenth birthday.”
The kids lower their heads, shy, and mumble something along the lines of “Oh,” and “I’m sorry Dad.” Their voices are small, light, and filled with sorrow. He smiles, ruffles their hair, then picks up a box of LEGOs from the couch. “Well, storytime is over! Chuuya wasn’t a fan of mushy stuff, so he’d hate to see you two sad. What about building a spaceship?”
As he begins to scatter the pieces on the carpet and read the instructions, he glances up. His wife is sitting at the kitchen table across the room, a cozy open space in the suburbs of Yokohama. She smiles at him, warm, cinnamon and vanilla. Her wool gray cardigan veils her figure delicately. He smiles back.
He’s happy. He doesn’t think of Chuuya every day, not anymore. He's learnt how to cope with grief. It comes even easier with someone who understands its complexity by his side.
But, in the back of his mind, there’s a sealed daydream for when he can’t quite fall asleep. A universe where a truck driver checked their brakes, or stayed home sick, and Chuuya parked awfully next to their childhood park, provoking a passing police officer to almost give him a ticket.
A universe where Chuuya rushed inside the park and found Osamu on the swing, grabbed him by the shoulder and kissed him, harshly banging their foreheads together. Where he asked him, hurriedly and out of breath, shoving the velvet box in his hands, “Marry me. When we’re done with uni, I mean. Let’s get married.”
Where Osamu looked at him with wide eyes, his heart skipping a beat, “What?”
“You heard me, mackerel.”
“I did, and I’m beginning to think you’ve gone insane.”
“So, is it a yes or a no?”
“...Of course, it’s a yes, slug. Couldn’t miss out on the opportunity of bothering you for a lifetime for anything in the world.”
A universe where they arrived two hours late at Osamu's graduating party, tossing on the table a marriage certificate like they used to toss on the kitchen table the receipts to their shenanigans and mischiefs- a failed test, a broken toy.
Paul jumped up, appalled. “What?! It’s illegal here, how did you-”
“Osamu graduated two days ago, not today. We flew to France and got married there. See, my French citizenship came into handy.” Said Chuuya, a grin so wide it looked like it hurt.
“You flew where?! You told us you were staying at Osamu’s place!”
Somewhere out there, Osamu thinks as he tosses and turns, there’s a place where he wakes up every morning spitting out red locks and cursing at Chuuya for not keeping his hair tied up. Where he knows how every inch of his skin feels under his hands, his lips. He watches Chuuya’s hair turn gray and as another autumn marches through the big windows of their big Tokyo apartment, he counts every new freckle on his skin, the remnants of yet another summer spent together.
Where he doesn’t feel so lonely, on Christmas nights and late, warm April days.
He hopes that he’ll wake up there when all of this finally comes to an end.