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In January, Yoko and Ohkura go to San Francisco together. They stay at a fairly nice hotel that overlooks the Bay, but instead of going down to the water or the city, they laze around watching American movies they don’t understand and have room service sent up to their room. Once or twice Yoko makes noises about how they’ve wasted money traveling so far when all they’ve done is watch movies on the hotel TV and wander around the gift shop, but Ohkura doesn’t seem especially bothered by the idea, so Yoko usually falls asleep before he’s finished complaining. On their last night, Ohkura spills soup on his bed, so he stretches out on Yoko’s, and when Yoko wakes up in the morning, he’s got Ohkura’s drool on his neck. When their plane lands in Tokyo, Yoko realizes neither of them took any photos.
Three weeks later, they go to Thailand. This time Yoko demands that they spend at least one day exploring the city, and Ohkura agrees to it because they’ve got separate rooms this time and he says he feels bored when he’s alone in his. They stumble around the shops, feeling sleepy and hungry. Yoko picks out souvenirs for the other members while Ohkura buys fruit and snacks from an open-air market nearby. They eat a late lunch, order several rounds of beer for dessert, then walk around aimlessly until it’s time for dinner. Whatever’s in the noodles is so spicy it seems to scald the protective layer off the insides of their throats, which the wait staff seems to find hilarious, and—since making people laugh is a healing balm of sorts for Yoko—Yoko gets his flailing under control so he can laugh at Ohkura along with them. Ohkura gives him sour looks for the rest of the night until, as they’re walking back to their hotel, Yoko flings an arm around his neck and drags him off to buy him ice cream.
At the end of February, they spend four days at an inn in Hokkaido. The temperature plunges lower and lower by the day and Yoko hates being somewhere that’s even colder than home, but the food is worth the torment. For four days he and Ohkura gorge themselves on ramen and sushi and yakiniku, and every day they visit a different hot spring. They fall asleep early and wake up late. On their last day, they visit an old toy museum, have soba for lunch, and then kill a few hours in the arcade next door. Ohkura suggests doing print club as a joke, but Yoko smirks and pushes Ohkura into the booth to do it on his own, then decorates the photos with sparkles and boggled eyes and a few gorillas because he misses Hina. On the flight home, the plane shudders like it’s breaking apart, so Yoko pets Ohkura’s hair and tells him bad jokes until Ohkura’s fingers relax their grip on the armrest and Yoko’s knee.
Yoko goes straight from the airport to the Recomen studio, where he shows Hina the print club photos and cackles at Hina’s mystified expression.
“How many trips have you and Ohkura taken this year?” Hina asks.
Yoko swivels in his chair. “Uh, three.”
Hina laughs. “Three? It’s February! How have you gone on that many in two months?”
Yoko says, “Huh,” and nods, because hell, Hina’s got a point. “I didn’t think it was strange until now. But yeah, we’ve traveled a lot together.”
“To foreign countries, right?”
“Yeah.”
“America…?”
“Yeah. America, Thailand, and Hokkaido.”
“Hokkaido’s not a foreign country!”
“It feels like one! It’s freezing up there! My body’s still blue!”
And so on.
In March, Yoko goes to Venice with Ryo. They take photos of everything from the gondolas to the buildings stacked right alongside one another to the restaurants and shops in Piazza San Marco. Yoko takes photos of every meal and uses Ryo’s laptop to email them to Ohkura every night with various messages attached (“I ate this,” “I’ll save this piece for you if you can make it here in the next twenty minutes. … No? All right, I’ll eat it, then. Thanks!” “I don’t know what this is—should I eat it? … I shouldn’t have eaten it, Tacchon”). Every night, they visit a raucous bar near the Grand Canal and try to recreate the garbled Italian they overhear from the men at the bar. When they return to Japan, Yoko finds out he gained two kilos and spends three hours on the phone complaining to Ohkura.
“Didn’t you gain weight on any of the trips we went on?” Ohkura asks at one point.
Yoko tries to pry open a container of soba noodles with his teeth. “I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t check. I felt the same, though.”
“Did Ryo-chan gain anything?”
“No. The mutant. He probably went out running along the canal in the mornings or some shit.”
Ohkura chuckles.
“We should go to the gym,” Yoko says. “I shouldn’t be eating soba now, either.” He dumps it in the trash.
“When do you want to go?”
“I don’t want to. I have to, or I’ll get yelled at.”
“Again.”
“Yeah.” Then, scowling, “Shut up!”
On Recomen three nights later, Yoko continues his whining for a less sympathetic audience.
“Look,” he tells Hina morosely, grabbing a fold in his stomach. “How nasty is that?”
Hina nods, looking neutral. “You went to Italy, right?”
“Yeah. I shouldn’t have eaten anything. Next time I’m bringing Japanese food with me.”
“But food’s the whole point of traveling!”
“It’s not the whole point!”
“It is if you go to Italy!”
“You,” he says, laughing, “you have a pasta kink.”
“I don’t! I like it a normal amount!”
“It excites you,” Yoko says, holding a straight face.
“What the hell? No, it doesn’t!”
In April, Yoko’s offered a role in a drama, and Ohkura volunteers to participate in some interunit TV special with Kamenashi and Massu, so they don’t see much of each other outside work. Yoko keeps in touch through whining.
“There’s seriously no one here for me to talk to. They’re all babies, Tacchon. One of them was born after Mitsuru. Can I quit? I want to quit. I’m too old to be old in a drama. I’m hungry.”
Ohkura sends him messages throughout the day, peppered with photos of him and Massu eating.
“I hate you, Tacchon.”
It’s July before they have enough time off to travel together again. This time, they decide on Jeju Island in Korea. They stay at an inn near the ocean and on their first day they miss breakfast because they sleep in until noon.
“Whatever,” Yoko mutters into his pillow. “I’ll pick up some seaweed when we go scuba diving later.”
Across the room, Ohkura chuckles into his own pillow.
While they’re getting dressed, Yoko looks out the window at the group gathering for scuba diving. They’re mostly Korean—early twenties, probably university students, slim and tall and—”Fuck scuba diving,” Yoko grouses.
Ohkura grins. “Okay.”
They go to the beach instead and spend an hour hunting down a spot that isn’t occupied. When they find one, Ohkura strips off his shirt and goes straight into the water. Yoko spreads out a towel and falls asleep with his clothes still on.
He wakes up to cold beads of water slipping down his throat. Ohkura, soaking wet and grinning, offers him a hand.
“What?” Yoko asks, frowning. His face feels stretched and sore—fuck. Sunblock. Forgot it in the room.
Ohkura doesn’t answer, just stretches his hand out patiently.
Groaning, Yoko stands up and bats Ohkura’s hand aside. “What?”
Ohkura lifts one shoulder and glances at the water.
“I’m fine here,” Yoko says, sullen.
“You just…don’t seem like you’re having fun,” Ohkura says.
Yoko could lie, but—“I’m not,” he admits.
“Why?”
Yoko squints against the sun and says, “I don’t know. Just…” feels like I shouldn’t be here with you “…nothing.” It’s not fun anymore. It’s weird now. Why is it weird now?
Ohkura hesitates for another thirty seconds, then heads back to the water. Yoko watches him dive into a shallow wave and surface with a cough.
…Whatever. The salt water’ll be good for his sunburn. Or something. Probably.
Yoko pulls off his shirt and walks down to the water. Ohkura’s floating on his back, eyes closed, and Yoko smirks because seriously this kid never learns.
He drags his arm through the water, lifting a wave and sending it crashing into Ohkura’s face.
Ohkura jolts up, chokes, and goes under to avoid the next wave Yoko’s throwing at him.
Yoko giggles manically, some kind of adrenaline ripping through his veins, and doesn’t stop until Ohkura grabs him around the waist and drags him under the water.
They take turns shoving each other under and shouting insults in every language they’ve ever tried to pick up.
As the sun starts to set, they sprawl on the towel to dry off.
Yoko drifts into a haze, not quite asleep, and when he opens his eyes, he catches Ohkura pressing his thumb into his own stomach. Yoko grabs his wrist and pins it to the towel between them. Ohkura doesn’t look at him, but he says, “Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” Yoko tells him quietly.
Ohkura smiles. “You, too.” He picks at the threads in the towel, eyes ostensibly on his own fingers, but maybe not.