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The first time he sees the Prime Minister’s son on TV, Kazumi thinks, He’s made his father proud.
He’s not sure where the thought comes from, or if it’s even accurate – he knows little about the Himuro family, prefers to keep his nose out of politics and his attention on the crops and the soil, things he can mold and shape with his own hands, things he can nurture and grow. His care keeps the farm thriving, the workers employed, the families fed. He can’t say he’s ever felt considered by the Prime Minister and his son, and extends them the same courtesy, a fair trade.
Still, something about the younger Himuro piques his interest. He starts tuning in for the Prime Minister’s speeches – or rather, for after the speeches, when the aide steps up to the podium to field questions from the press. Though soft-spoken, he’s quick and captivating, and Kazumi finds himself learning Himuro’s tells – the clench of his jaw when he’s annoyed by a question, the way he leans into the microphone when he’s truly passionate about an answer, the slight twitch of his mouth when he’s trying not to be snide.
Kazumi does a little digging and learns that, though the expected accusations of nepotism pop up now and again, by all accounts both the elder and younger Himuro are decent, hard-working men who, although imperfect, sincerely want what’s best for the people of Japan.
The son’s name, Kazumi also learns, is Gentoku. He has to swallow around a lump in his throat when he first reads it, for no reason he can justify.
“I think someone has a cruuuuuush,” Shokichi sings at him. Kazumi should be supervising the start of the new harvest; instead, he’s leaning up against the wall across from the television, wondering at how, though Gentoku Himuro’s expression is often serious, his eyes are always gentler than Kazumi expects.
“Shut up,” Kazumi mutters, glaring over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“So are you, boss,” Masaru chimes in; behind him, Shuuya’s grin is positively devious. “Unless you’re too busy watching that handsome politician on TV.”
“He’s not handsome,” Kazumi lies, and immediately feels stupid; anyone with eyes can see that Gentoku is handsome. There’s no use protesting that. “And I am working. I’m making sure you three aren’t screwing around.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Shuuya calls as he heads back out into the field. “Whatever you say.”
Sometimes his boys are too damn observant for their own good.
He doesn’t think it’s a crush, his interest in Himuro, though it might skirt too close to an obsession for comfort. He gets anxious and irritable when he misses a speech he’d wanted to watch. He makes up excuses to detour by the government building when he’s running errands in the city. If anyone were to ask, he couldn’t explain it, this compulsion to keep tabs on a man he’s never met, except to say that there’s this knot in his chest, this unfounded belief that if he takes his eyes off Gentoku Himuro, the man might…
He might be gone. Kazumi doesn’t know exactly what that means, but judging by the dread that pools in his gut when he considers it, it can’t be anything good.
*
There’s a bench in the park across from the government building, facing the entrance, and one day, Kazumi decides to sit there.
He thinks he must look like a real creep in his dirty jacket and work boots, watching people come and go through the building’s front doors. He knows that even if he were to see Himuro, it would only be as part of the Prime Minister’s entourage, sweeping off to their next appointment, never noticing the weird potato farmer lurking across the way.
Still, if he sees Himuro, he can confirm that he’s real, not just a face in the soft glow of the television, not just the same somber man from the nightmares he’s been having—the man facing down an ancient, alien deity, and the destruction of the planet. Or maybe Kauzmi is just grasping at straws, trying to make sense of the strangled, sweat-soaked terror he feels when he wakes from these dreams, threads of coherency slipping between his fingers as he tries to raise a sinking memory from the dead.
He expects to catch a glimpse of the man coming or going. He doesn’t expect Gentoku Himuro to come up behind him, clear his throat, and ask, “Is that seat taken?”
Kazumi’s caught speechless. He nods, and Himuro takes a seat. He’s even more handsome in person, his long hair swept back, styled but still roguishly mussed, his beard impeccably trimmed. Beneath his loosened tie and shirt collar, Kazumi sees the edges of a bright purple t-shirt. He snorts, wondering what stupid pun or idiotic catchphrase Gentoku chose to wear today, what ill-timed situation he expects to tear open his dress shirt and jacket and reveal—
Wait. Kazumi’s thoughts skid to a halt. What?
“Good afternoon,” Gentoku says with a polite smile, and Kazumi reels back like he’s been punched in the chest.
“Oh my god,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, it’s you.”
Gentoku flushes and ducks his head. “I assure you, my presence is nothing to be—”
“What happened, what happened, how are you—” Kazumi stumbles off the bench, away from Gentoku’s worried, questioning gaze, and runs home as fast as he can.
He spends the rest of the night hunched over the toilet, puking and sobbing, memories—of Sento and Banjou and Misora and Sawa and Evolt and the war and Hokuto and his boys and death and destruction and chaos and famine and despair and experimentation and Grease and Gentoku—rolling over him in nauseous waves.
When he’s finally done being sick, he crawls into bed and burrows underneath the covers.
His sleep is dreamless and peaceful.
He returns to the government building the next day, and waits.
Gentoku wanders out around noon, and Kazumi stares him down, direct and unabashed, until their eyes meet. Kazumi nods, and Gentoku hesitates for a moment, loosening his tie, before hurrying across the street to meet him.
“Hey, beardo,” Kazumi says, leaning back with his arm slung along the bench, looking casual and feeling shaky and lightheaded, his heart sputtering erratically in his chest. “Long time, no see.”
Gentoku’s eyes narrow. “Do we know each other?” He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, and affection swells up so suddenly in Kazumi, he’s afraid he might start giggling. “Yesterday, you were…are you alright?”
“Let’s take a walk,” Kazumi says, standing and shoving his hands in his pockets. Gentoku follows him into the park, visibly perplexed.
“I apologize if we have met,” he continues. “I meet so many people in my line of work, and though I wish I could keep them all in my memory, I am, unfortunately, not the best with faces.”
“Not great for a politician,” Kazumi teases. “Maybe that’s something you should work on.”
Gentoku frowns. “Perhaps.”
“Ah, don’t sweat it, beardo. It’ll come to you.”
His brow furrows. “Why do you call me that?”
“Why?” Kazumi pushes. “You not like it?”
“That’s not…” Gentoku pinches the bridge of his nose. “Who—”
“You know, I think you’ve made your father proud,” Kazumi interrupts. “That's what you always wanted, right?”
“Excuse me?” Gentoku stops, an edge of frustration to his question. “How would you know what—”
“Someday maybe you’ll lead this country.” Kazumi smiles openly at Gentoku now, urging him closer to the truth, waiting, waiting, come on, come on, remember me. Remember the war we fought together. Remember the rooftop, when we almost, we could’ve, we should’ve. “And I think you’d do a fine job of it, too.”
“Thank you, but—”
Kazumi watches it happen, the lightning-quick flash of recognition, the way Gentoku’s voice catches in his throat and his eyes widen, his mouth going slack as he gapes at Kazumi.
“The potato farmer,” he says.
Kazumi throws his head back and laughs. “There you are, man.”
“You.” Gentoku drops his briefcase, and his eyes flash, unexpectedly, with fury. He reaches out and grabs Kazumi by the collar of his jacket, yanks him close and growls, “You got yourself killed.”
“Yeah,” Kazumi winces. “I guess I did.”
“For what?”
“For the world, idiot,” he says. Then, quieter, “And for them.” He knows he doesn’t have to explain.
“They were dead,” Gentoku snarls. “They weren’t real, they were a hallucination Evolt made to play with your mind.”
“You don’t think I know that? C’mon, dude, give me a little credit.”
“You died for nothing.”
“Hey, we’re here aren’t we?” Kazumi shrugs. “And even if we weren’t…maybe I would’ve died anyway. So that they could find peace. So I could too. And maybe,” he closes his eyes for a moment, “maybe I died for you, too. You and Sento and Banjou. So you could make a world your father would be proud of. I wasn’t ever going to make it out of there, but you.” Kazumi reaches up and wraps his hands around Gentoku’s wrists. “You had a shot.”
"I didn't. I died, too. You're a fool,” Gentoku spits, but tilts closer, their foreheads nearly touching.
“Yeah.” Kazumi laughs into the space between them. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You expect me to just forgive you?”
“It’s only fair,” Kazumi says. “I forgave you.”
And when Gentoku kisses him, forceful and desperate, Kazumi knows it’s not, as Shokichi insinuated, just a crush. Maybe it was on the rooftop, after the fireworks and the drinks and the quiet confessions between the sizzling coals and the dying fire. Maybe it was, once, like it was with Mii-tan, all starry-eyes and butterflies. But now, as he bunches the sides of Gentoku’s suit coat in his fists, he knows it’s more. An awakening. A second chance. A new beginning in a world they were never meant to see, maybe never deserved to see, but get to anyway, together.