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There’s a bouquet of flowers and a small envelope on his desk.
For a moment, Jakurai stands in his office doorway, wondering if he’d stepped into the wrong room. But the brass name-plate fixed to the office door reads Jinguji Jakurai, in familiar elegant strokes. When he walks in and picks up the envelope from where it lies against the plastic wrapping of the bouquet, a card falls out.
The light scent of white florals and sweet vanilla drift up to his nose from the sturdy, textured paper, embossed with gold writing.
“A young man came to drop them off this morning,” a nurse says, as she pauses in the corridor outside. She holds two clipboards to her chest and nods at the card in his hand. “He came in very early, and insisted you wouldn't mind. I hope it's not too much trouble, Sensei.”
Jakurai shakes his head. He sets the card down neatly, and it springs open again on his desk. “No trouble at all. Thank you, Minami-san.”
“Your first appointment was rescheduled,” she tells him. “So there won't be anyone for your 9AM.” Her tone turns curious. “Sensei, is it your birthday today?”
The question startles him, and Jakurai blinks at her. “My birthday?” He sets down his bag, reaching into it to pull out his phone. When he taps the screen awake, the date glares back out at him above an unusual number of notifications.
2019, January 9
“It is,” Jakurai says a moment later, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. He shakes his head. “How terrible. To think I didn’t remember my own birthday. I must be getting old.”
“Not at all,” Minami scolds. “One of the junior nurses mentioned it the other day. I only wish we'd known for certain. We'll do something nice for morning tea then.”
“I wouldn't want to trouble you,” Jakurai begins, but it's too late; Minami has already caught the sleeve of a passing nurse, and he overhears a brief murmur regarding cake from the nearby bakery. “You’re too kind, Minami-san,” he says, smiling when she turns back to him.
Minami steps away into the corridor, hand lingering on the doorframe. “It's the very least we could do, for all the miracles you work around here,” she says. “Happy birthday, Sensei.”
“Thank you.” Jakurai inclines his head, and she smiles at him once more before bustling off.
When she's gone, he sits down, chair creaking under his weight. Another birthday. How old is he now? Thirty-six? He stifles a yawn. These days, the years pass by too quickly, too fleeting for his birthday to be any sort of meaningful milestone. It’s odd how the thought seems to weigh on him more now that it’s been brought to his attention.
At times, he feels too old for the years he’s lived.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the card again, lying on its side at the end of his desk. After a pause, he reaches out to open it.
Leaving the hospital becomes a juggling act, as Jakurai tries to balance the bouquet of flowers and the leftover cake between both arms. He hurries through the main foyer of the complex, busy with patients and newcomers, and the receptionist nods at him as he leaves. The gesture he manages to return is less of a wave and more of an awkward, half-raised hand.
Outside the sliding doors, Jakurai heaves a sigh. Minami had been kind enough to pack the rest of the cake into a large takeaway container—the pink icing and neatly cut strawberry pieces sit a little twisted now, squashed by the lid—but it really was too much. He'd wanted to leave the cake, perhaps for tomorrow's morning tea, but Minami had insisted.
Now, carrying both the bouquet and the cake out onto the main street, with his satchel starting to slip down one shoulder, he wonders if he should hail a taxi for his own safety.
He winds up walking in the end. It's still early enough in the day to avoid peak hour, given he'd only had a short shift today. Maneuvering through the usual crowd at Shinjuku station takes a few hasty side steps, one or two apologies, but to his relief, he passes through relatively unscathed.
At least, until he bumps into a familiar face. Quite literally.
“Shit, oi, fucker, watch where you're—Sensei?”
“Ah, Samatoki-kun?” Jakurai doesn't hide his surprise; of all the people to find in Shinjuku station, he hadn’t been expecting Samatoki. “Hello. My apologies for bumping into you.”
“‘s fine. Wasn't looking where I was going.” Samatoki runs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes as people shuffle through the cramped concourse to give them a wide berth. His gaze flicks to the bouquet cradled in Jakurai's arms. “Those flowers? You goin’ to a funeral or something?”
Jakurai shuffles his grip, dismay growing as he feels the satchel strap begin to slip again. “No, these were left in my office this morning.”
“Weird thing to leave for someone.” Samatoki raises an eyebrow as Jakurai gives up, crouching down to set the cake on the ground so he can adjust the strap over his chest instead. “Don't you live nearby? Why the hell are you carrying this shit through the station?”
“I made prior arrangements to meet with Doppo-kun and Hifumi-kun,” Jakurai starts, but to the blank expression on Samatoki's face, he amends, “My crewmates.”
Samatoki snorts. “Yeah, don't remember their names.”
“No matter.” Jakurai waves off the issue. Surprising that Samatoki would forget the names of those who'd beaten his crew so soundly last month, but he supposed Samatoki couldn't keep track of every opponent he met. Such was the life of a yakuza. “They've asked me to visit, so I’m heading to Asagaya.”
Samatoki shrugs, already turning away. “Won't keep you then. Good luck, Sensei.”
“Thank you,” Jakurai replies wryly. With his satchel more securely attached, he bends down to pick up the cake.
“Happy birthday, yeah?”
—and Jakurai glances up with a sharp jerk of his head. But the crowd of people has shuffled back in Samatoki’s absence, muffled footsteps against the concrete filling the abrupt vacuum of noise.
The intercom crackles to life with a fuzziness not unexpected, for an apartment block this old. Jakurai catches distant noises through the speaker, a loud clatter that’s too muffled to identify, but then Hifumi’s voice comes through loud and clear:
“Sensei! You’re early—come up, come up, the door’s open—”
True to Hifumi’s word, when Jakurai arrives upstairs the apartment latch is unfastened. “Sorry for intruding,” Jakurai calls, as he removes his shoes and walks through the short hallway.
Then halts, right before reaching the kitchen. Or at least, he thinks it’s the kitchen; disaster zone may be a more apt description. There's flour dusted across the tiled floor, smears of cream and icing across the kitchen counter. In the sink sits a veritable mountain of baking utensils—two large bowls with cake mix still stuck to the edges, a bright yellow spatula, and a half-full piping sleeve lie amongst the disarray.
And right at the end of the countertop, two trays of miniature cupcakes sit on the kitchen countertop, decorated with coloured flowers and pale frosting.
“Happy birthday, Sensei!” Hifumi plants another delicate bloom made of spun sugar onto the frosting with the dexterity and finesse of an experienced baker. He turns and beams at Jakurai. “Surprise! We made cupcakes!”
“Happy birthday,” Doppo echoes. Crouched in front of the oven, he offers a tenuous smile as he wipes the back of his hand across his brow. A streak of icing chases the gesture. “S-sorry we’re not quite done, Sensei. Our third tray overflowed.”
“Thank you.” Jakurai inclines his head; it’s no small effort hiding the smile that threatens take over his expression. “This must’ve taken some time to prepare. I’m touched.”
“Don't mention it!!” Hifumi chirps. He gestures at Jakurai. “Don’t just stand there, Sensei, come in, I can clean up in a little bit.”
So Jakurai steps over the worst of the flour spills, inching along the countertop. He sets the bouquet on the high chair and places the plastic bag of cake in the small clearing near the trays, right beside a few champagne bottles. It’s a small relief to his shoulders, and he lets out a sigh as Doppo straightens.
“How was your day, Sensei?”
Jakurai takes a moment to think back, tapping his chin. The hospital had been relatively peaceful during the morning, beyond the birthday well wishes from his colleagues stopping by the office. “It was quiet,” he admits. “Though my colleagues did make it a point to celebrate my birthday over morning tea.”
Hifumi stretches over the countertop, peering into the plastic bag. “Did you get cake from work?”
“We had leftovers, and the nurses insisted I take them home with me,” Jakurai explains. He’s really not sure what he’s going to do with the rest of the cake; part of him had hoped that he might be able to share it with Hifumi and Doppo.
“That’s very kind of them,” Doppo says, as he comes over to them. But his gaze lands on the bouquet instead. Some of the flowers have started to dry at the edges, petals thinned and curling open. “And a bouquet too?”
“The bouquet wasn’t from the hospital staff.”
“Someone else? A secret admirer?” Hifumi leans over Doppo, reaching into the bouquet. When he withdraws, the card is clasped between his fingers. “Who’s it from?”
Doppo lets out an inelegant noise, lunging for the offending hand. “Hifumi, don’t just look at Sensei’s letters—put it back—”
“But what if Sensei has a secret admirer? Maybe I know them! A lot of my clients talk about Jakurai-san.”
The smile on Jakurai’s face feels stiff. It isn’t as though Hifumi is entirely incorrect. Over the years, he’s had a number of bouquets and cards come through the hospital reception desk, addressed to him from both admirers and thankful patients. Admittedly, he’s never had an incident quite as severe as Hifumi’s stalker case. Even so—
“That’s none of your business!”
“Ouch, Doppo, stop yanking, just let me see who it’s from—” Hifumi has one hand pushing Doppo’s face away, holding him at bay, when he pauses and furrows his brow. “No one?”
Jakurai watches Hifumi’s expression falter, as though he’s lost in thought. Then Hifumi tucks the card into the envelope and places it back into the bouquet.
“Oh well,” he says. “Must be super secret then! We should’ve sent you flowers at work though, what a great idea. Not those ones though, something bright and happy—tulips, maybe! Anyway, you should try a cupcake, Sensei. Here, Doppo decorated this one, he even came home early to do it.”
“Tulips? But why—” Doppo begins, perplexed, before he catches Hifumi’s last sentence and stumbles into his next words. “Wait, are you sure—”
The cupcake Hifumi offers to him is still warm when Jakurai takes it in hand, and he holds it up to admire the attention to detail. That same feeling of fondness bubbles up in him again. “Thank you,” he says, as he pulls away the casing and prepares to take a bite. It's not his preference to eat sweets before dinner, but the desire to be polite and the eagerness on Hifumi's face outweigh his misgivings. “What sort of cupcakes are they—”
Smack.
A light sting across the back of his hand, then Jakurai is blinking down at the cupcake on the tiled floor. To his left, Doppo is frozen, arm outstretched. There’s a smear of icing across his fingers. The entire series of events registers a split second later, as Doppo slaps his hand over his mouth, looking aghast. Hifumi stares with enormous eyes, darting between them.
“Was I not supposed to eat that?” Jakurai tries, when the silence stretches out too long.
“Alcohol.” Doppo’s voice is faint, wavering. “C-champagne cupcakes. I’m—I’m so sorry, Sensei—” he stutters, just as Hifumi bursts out into laughter, clutching at the countertop and folding in half, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Doppo, Doppo, I can’t believe you slapped it out of Sensei’s hands—”
“I'm so sorry, that was so rude, so rude, I'm sorry Sensei.” Doppo buries his face in his hands as he bows low. “I'm so sorry, so sorry—”
Jakurai touches Doppo’s arm and feels him flinch, full-bodied, beneath his hand. “There’s no need to apologise,” he says, wincing. “I appreciate that you wanted to look out for me.”
When Doppo looks up, there’s a pink flush across his cheeks. Meanwhile, Hifumi wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes and shakes his head instead. His expression is caught somewhere between amused and indignant. “I made two batches of cupcakes, you know,” he says. “Champagne ones and plain old vanilla! Just in case we got his birthday wrong and I had to take them to work or something. I told you this! I can’t believe you thought I’d give the champagne ones to Sensei.”
“That’s because taking Sensei out for drinks last time was your idea—”
“But we didn’t know back then! That’s not my fault—”
Jakurai bends down to pick up the fallen cupcake. There’s a piece of lint stuck to the frosting, and he sets it on the countertop. No matter, there are plenty more. From the same tray, he picks up another cupcake, casting a scrutinising eye over it. Sugar flowers nestled in thick pale frosting—the champagne was in the frosting, was it? Or perhaps just vanilla cream, with the champagne baked into the sponge cake itself. “These cupcakes look lovely, Hifumi-kun, Doppo-kun,” he interjects, as Doppo pauses to take a breath in the middle of the argument. “I appreciate the effort you put into them.”
But Hifumi whips his head around, and the look of horror on his face as Jakurai raises the cupcake to his lips is enough to halt him in his tracks. “Wrong one?” he asks, ruefully, and Hifumi scratches the back of his head.
“Sorry, Sensei! Um, this one, this one is fine—ouch, Doppo! I didn’t let him eat it, did I—as if I would do that to Sensei on his birthday—”
Jakurai holds out his hand to let Hifumi set another cupcake on his palm. “They do look very alike, don’t they? I wonder if they taste similar,” he muses. A new thought strikes him. “But I’m curious. How did you know it was my birthday today? Even I’d forgotten.”
Doppo sends a sideways glance to Hifumi, who just shrugs in response. “Well,” Doppo begins, as a slight shadow of guilt passes over his face. “We called—”
Jakurai fumbles his phone, hitting the green icon on the third buzz just as he manages to swing open the door to his apartment. “Hello? Who is this?” he asks, as he tucks his security tag back into his pocket.
The voice on the line makes a noncommittal noise, and for a moment Jakurai wonders if it might be Samatoki calling. Then:
“Jakurai-san. Hi. It’s Ichirou.”
“Ichirou-kun.” Jakurai presses the phone between his ear and one shoulder as he pads inside. Beyond the electrical hum of the refrigerator, the apartment is silent, cast in faint blue light and long shadows from the city lights outside. “Hello. It's been some time. How can I help you?”
“Oh, nothing—” Ichirou’s voice breaks off. If he were there in person, Jakurai imagines he would be biting his lip, struggling to think of the right words to say. “Didn’t call for that. Um. How are you?”
Jakurai pauses, halfway through setting the bouquet and cake down on the stonetop of his kitchen. “I’m well, thank you,” he replies. “And yourself? How are your brothers doing?”
“They’re good. Hey, thanks for the advice last month, when Jirou was sick.”
“I’m happy to help,” Jakurai says, warmly. If he remembers correctly, last month had been when Jirou had caught a fever. He still remembers the way Ichirou had waited outside his office, slouched against the wall and flicking through what looked like a manga reader on his phone as he’d waited for Jirou’s appointment to finish. Switching his phone to the other ear, Jakurai turns and opens the refrigerator. He frowns; it’s nearly empty. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you need my assistance, Ichirou-kun.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Jakurai-san.” Another pause, then Ichirou lets out a noisy exhale. It rattles through the connection, distorted with electricity, and his next words come out in a rush. “I know we don't talk much anymore, but just wanted to say happy birthday, I guess? From Jirou and Saburou too. I was gonna text, but it’s already late…”
A smile comes to Jakurai’s lips before he remembers he’s on a call. He holds the phone a little closer. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Hifumi-kun and Doppo-kun used the information well, by the way.”
Another small noise, perhaps a snort of laughter, before Ichirou finally says, “Hope you had a good day, Jakurai-san. Call if you need any info again, yeah?” and the line goes quiet.
Jakurai places his phone down on the stone countertop with a faint clatter. That feeling of fondness is back, and for a moment, he stands in the kitchen, enjoying the gentle warmth. Then his gaze catches, focuses on the items he’d carried home.
A fresh set of cupcakes, courtesy of Hifumi and Doppo. Non-alcoholic, he’d been assured. And underneath that container, the cake from the hospital.
“This is really too much,” Jakurai murmurs to himself. He leans forward on the stone countertop, cold and smooth against his palms. His head feels heavy, weariness setting in for the evening. Part of him wishes he’d insisted on leaving more of the cupcakes with Hifumi and Doppo, or perhaps even some of the cake from the hospital, but they had been persistent. His colleagues at the hospital had been the same.
Of both sweets, he’d only managed a few bites before politely declining and deflecting. It was little comment on the cakes themselves and more a reflection of his appetite, really. These days, he didn’t tend to eat much confectionary.
The seconds tick into minutes, as Jakurai stands there, lost in thought. Eventually, he slides open the bin beneath the sink, and tips both desserts into it.
For a moment, he regards the bouquet. The trip from Hifumi and Doppo’s place had crushed the outer flowers, and the drying petals are already drooping from their stems. They’d been beautiful in the morning, for the first few hours he’d had them in his office. White lilies, elegant and stiff, not altogether out of place within a hospital. And the accompanying card.
Jakurai pulls it out from between the thick stems and slides it out of its envelope. He opens it, for the second time today, and stares at the textured paper in the dim blue light of his apartment.
The card is blank.
No greetings inside, no strokes of hastily written kanji. Not beyond the small, faint mark embossed into the bottom edge of the paper that reads—
“Ramuda.”
For the third time today, Jakurai stumbled. He reached out automatically, hands outstretched, searching for some kind of stable object. Then a hand grabbed his lower arm, and he felt someone yank him upright and steady.
“Geez, Jakurai,” came Ramuda's voice, muffled. “Can't you even walk in a straight line?”
“Not with this blindfold,” Jakurai replied shortly. This felt rather dangerous, if he were to be honest. His hand landed on Ramuda's thin shoulder, sinking into the fabric of his oversized sweater. “I’d prefer to hold on to you if you’re going to continue to insist on leading me around.”
Barely a moment later, his hand was plucked off with a tsk tsk noise. A protest formed on his lips as he came to a jerky halt—really, did he need to be blindfolded for whatever Ramuda was planning? Walking around blindfolded was treacherous and, at his height, something of a hazard to others.
Warm fingers brushed down his wrist, threading between his own. “How about like this?” He heard Ramuda chirp, from somewhere to his left. The palm resting against his was small. “Better?”
Jakurai exhaled. “Better,” he admitted. Did he trust Ramuda to lead him safely to wherever it was they were going? He supposed he did—it took conscious effort not to grip Ramuda's hand too hard.
They walked slowly, Jakurai too unwilling to take large steps when he could see little more than the dark interior of the blindfold. Ramuda at least, was patient.
“Look out, there's a step,” he heard, as their joined hands lifted.
Jakurai felt the change of flooring under his shoe at the same time he heard a bell tinkling overhead. Cool air blew past him as a door closed, and he reached up to pull off the blindfold. A sharp elbow dug into his stomach.
“Not yet, geez,” came the admonishment, and Jakurai lowered his hand. He didn't need to see to know that Ramuda was scowling at him. “Just be patient. I thought you'd be all meek and quiet if you couldn’t see, but actually you're just really rude! Is this a side effect of getting old—”
“I do enjoy having full use of my eyesight,” Jakurai murmured, only for Ramuda to jab harder.
“—and so mouthy too! Imagine if Ichirou and Samatoki could hear you now. Just follow me, okay? Come on, come on.”
It wasn’t until they were seated that Ramuda urged Jakurai to tip his head forward and unhooked the blindfold for him. His vision returned in small increments, colour bleeding back into his line of sight. It took another moment for his gaze to focus onto the shape of Ramuda peering at him, bright eyes blinking in expectation. The black blindfold sat crumpled in his hands, resting palm-up on the table, just behind a—
Jakurai stared. “It's not pink,” he observed.
“Of course it's not pink,” Ramuda huffed. He scrunched the fabric in his hand, then flattened it onto the table as though smoothing out the wrinkles. “I know you don't like strawberry or chocolate or mango or anything interesting, so I got you an old man flavour.”
A sundae sat on the table in front of him, huge scoops piled into a small mountain of ice cream in a glass cup. There were crushed peanuts sprinkled over the ice cream, layers of sponge cake at the base, and a single maraschino cherry perched on top.
“So it's vanilla, by the way,” Ramuda added. “Just for you.”
He wore nonchalance on his face like he’d practiced for it. The corners of his lips downturned into a pout and his gaze averted to the side as though entirely engrossed in the cutlery, neat and upstanding in the miniature bucket to the side. But his eyes darted to Jakurai not once, but twice, and on the third time, Jakurai tilted his head to catch and hold that flinty gaze.
“And?” he asked. “What is this for?”
“What, what? Don’t you like it?” Ramuda scrunched up the blindfold again. “Wrong flavour? You shouldn’t be so fussy when someone is treating you—” He was already leaning away, chin turning up, so Jakurai reached across the table and clasped his hand. Squeezed, lightly, and smiled at the twitch that ran across Ramuda’s face.
“I like it,” Jakurai said. “Thank you, Ramuda.”
The next words Ramuda muttered were something under his breath, too quiet to be discernible. Jakurai frowned. When Ramuda made his little side comments, he usually did so with every intention of being heard. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
Ramuda fixed a glare on him. “Unfair,” he said again, as he yanked his hand out of Jakurai’s loose grip. A rough push had the sundae glass sliding across the table with a dangerous wobble. “Just eat it, old man. Happy birthday.”
“...birthday?”
“What? Don’t tell me you got so old you don’t remember your own birthday,” Ramuda complained. Then he faltered, presumably taking in Jakurai’s expression. “Eh? Wait, really? You actually forgot?”
“Well,” Jakurai mused. He picked up his spoon, dipping it into the melting ice cream. For all that Ramuda had complained, vanilla was a perfectly lovely flavour. Soft, rounded out and mellow. He licked the spoon as he mulled over the thought. Now that Ramuda mentioned it, he recalled seeing his birthdate on his phone—with little recognition, it seemed. “I was wondering why you were acting so well-behaved this morning.”
“Jakurai’s so rude! I’m never well-behaved.”
“Yes, I’m quite aware.” Jakurai hid his smile. Already, he could feel gentle affection suffusing through him as sweetly as the flavour on his tongue.
Ramuda leveled a pointed glare at him, from under his lopsided cap. “That’s rude, Sensei.” He reached for his own drink, a vivid shade of pink and purple with glitter dusted around the rim, and twirled his straw. Its red and white stripes blurred like a barber's pole. “Are you going to forget my birthday too? How cruel. Maybe you really are going senile already.”
Jakurai hummed, a noncommittal noise low in his throat as he dug his spoon into another mound of ice cream.
Ramuda propped up his chin onto his hands, hair curling over the tips of his fingers. His gaze was intense.
“Don't you dare forget me, okay, Jakurai?”