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Nishiki was warm. His face was flushed, burning like the sun, and it grew even more so when he took another drink, when he let out a laugh, when he looked at the man beside him.
Kiryu was less so, sturdy and upright as ever, not as quick to let loose or as lightweight as Nishiki. At Nishiki’s request, the woman on the working side of the bar poured his kyoudai another drink.
Reina was observant. Years of bartending had made her so. She knew when to cut someone off or when a girl’s date had poor intentions. Nishiki and Kiryu she knew especially well. They were regulars, of course, but they were also her friends. Late nights spent together- just the three of them, long after Reina had locked the doors and shut the rest of the bustling city out- often followed a pattern.
The men would enter from the back, Nishiki with his arm resting around Kiryu’s shoulder and a jovial greeting for Reina. They would do a round or two of karaoke if Nishiki could convince his kyoudai to join him. It wouldn’t be long before Nishiki was slamming down drinks, telling stories of the funny things happening in his life or of his and Kiryu’s wild youth, admiration blooming to life in his eyes when Kiryu would interject. He wouldn’t do so often- not that he didn’t want to be part of the conversation, that was just his way. Some time would pass. He would say that he had to leave for one reason or another, usually work-related, and Reina would be left with a very warm, very talkative Nishiki.
Not this time, though. By the time Kiryu was ready to go, Nishiki had long gone quiet, Reina carrying the weight of conversation while Nishiki took slow drags of his cigarette, unsubtly glancing at Kiryu every so often. When Kiryu got up to leave, the other man didn’t try to convince him to stay, to have another round, to sing some more karaoke. Nishiki just said a simple goodbye as Kiryu stepped out into the cold, calm night. Reina surveyed the situation with care, the way Kiryu seemed oblivious to the sudden breaking of routine, the way Nishiki drew his shoulders and arms closer to his person once he was sure his kyoudai was gone. He took one final swig of his drink before slumping over on the bar, resting his head in his hands, a defeated look about him.
Reina had her back turned, rinsing out a glass when she broke the silence between them. “Are you ever going to tell him?” She said, only a hint of hesitation in her voice. There was no response, the quiet leaving a sick feeling in her stomach. Just as she began to worry that she had said the wrong thing, pushed Nishiki’s boundaries just a bit too much, a muffled sob sounded out from behind her. As she turned, Reina set the glass down beneath the rag, carefully, so as not to startle.
Nishiki was still there, just as hunched over and tired as before, but now a pool of tears had accumulated on the counter beneath. The heavy, sick feeling washed over Reina again. She leaned over the bar, scooping the shaken man up in her arms, pulling his head close to her chest, patting his hair. It was a feeble attempt to comfort him, to shield Nishiki from the reality of the feelings he had for his kyoudai.
“I’m sorry,” She said. “I know.” Nishiki let out another sob, his body shaking like a tree caught in a violent thunderstorm. “I know.”