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The nicest thing about taking the last train, Doppo would argue, was that everyone was just as tired as you are and thus no one gave a shit.
The nicest thing about taking the last train, Hifumi would argue, is that they got to do it together so often. It was seeing the positive side of overtime—which was ignoring how they sometimes missed the last train anyway—which Doppo could really not do, but it was fine because Hifumi did for him.
Together or not, the late commutes had recently decreased since winning the Division Battle and Doppo’s boss backing off, only slightly, because even winners don’t get enough paid vacation leave, but then today the new recruit blew the power line and everyone in the office lost their work.
His phone vibrates and Doppo thinks vaguely about drowning himself in a toilet. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on perspective, there were no toilets to be found on this sample of Tokyo’s fine public transport.
He thumbs it clumsily, mumbles, “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” until he misses the reject button and has to shut up himself after Hifumi says, voice slightly tinny, “Doppochin, I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“What the hell,” he says to himself. He’s not exactly sure why.
“Is that directed at me?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Allllll righhhty.” Hifumi says this with much more zeal than it requires. “Are you on the train still? I’ll meet you at the station.”
Another office worker, older than him with boxy glasses, shakes his head at him for taking the call (It was an accident , Doppo’s guilt-ridden mind protests) and Doppo thinks about flipping him the bird. He does not flip him the bird, but thinking about it makes him feel even guiltier.
“Is there anything you want to eat for dinner?” Hifumi asks, a step ahead of Doppo. His hair is sticking up in the back in a way that Doppo wants to flatten. The track pants are probably from high school from the way his ankles are exposed but the atrocious-but-it-works-because-it’s-Hifumi neon yellow leopard-print jacket is unfamiliar.
“No,” Doppo says. “Whatever’s easiest for you.”
Under the spotlight of the streetlight, Hifumi spins on one heel to beam at him. How simple-minded Hifumi is, to be happy for something as simple as whatever’s easiest for you . How simple-minded Doppo is, to be happy to see Hifumi in a way no one—from the girls that see Hifumi at work to Jakurai—else does.
Doppo says, exasperated, “Don’t get so excited for nothing.”
“Don’t be a killjoy,” Hifumi sing-songs, “Doppochin.”
Hifumi has his fingers in Doppo’s hair, carefully untangling the knots, which is a pointless exercise but Doppo lets him.
Doppo occasionally feels like he’s been letting Hifumi do things for too long and now he doesn’t know how to stop it.
For instance, just now, when Hifumi said, Let’s take a bath together! Just like old times, and Doppo couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
For instance, in high school, Hifumi would get him the strawberry cream bun every single day from the canteen. He couldn’t recall a time he had ever told Hifumi he liked it or expressed any strong emotions at all about it, but it happened and kept happening and Doppo had let it.
Because it was easier.
For instance, in middle school, Hifumi started dyeing his hair and made Doppo do it along with him. In case it went bad, we’ll look bad together, Hifumi would say. Doppo didn’t say anything at all back then.
Because it was easier.
For instance, in elementary school, they would hold hands, but it would be Hifumi reaching for Doppo’s hand and Doppo look at him and Hifumi would smile back.
Because it was—one gets the picture.
If Hifumi leans too close or stares too long, then that’s just Hifumi. If Doppo leans too close or stares too long, then, well, just don’t mention it. That’s the way it always has been—don’t think too deeply. Don’t read into it.
Doppo thinks too much about it. Everyday he stares at a computer screen until all the words blur together and then he goes home to eat Hifumi’s home-cooked meals and put on clothes Hifumi washed and walk into a bedroom that Hifumi cleaned and considers, just for a minute, if he’s worth this, if Hifumi wants some nebulous more that everything is a hint for.
What it boils down to in his brain is that there's no real point in pretending there's something more between the two of them, but there's no point either in pretending there's something less. It's just easier to let it be.
Does it need to be defined? Is it a necessity to exist within the trappings of tropes—a popular guy and a loser in life itself, a guy who’s depended on and the one who needs him, childhood friends, roommates, lovers? Does it matter?
Actually, who’s depending on who?
It really doesn’t matter.
Hifumi's hands are warm and it feels nice. Simple as that.
They’re watching a television drama on the couch, hair still damp with towels around their necks. The hairdryer was abandoned on the coffee table once they realized the outlet was too far. It’s one of those late-night shows where it’s too hard to process anything about it beyond the clichés that string along the plot beats.
Hifumi laughs and cries and grips Doppo’s arm with a screech when anything remotely scary happens and Doppo is vaguely envious of his sincere enjoyment.
The lead is running away—whether it’s from the love interest or an antagonist, he can’t remember—and a shadow cuts across her path. Cut! To a commercial break for a beer company that promotes the show!
“Not interested?” Hifumi pokes Doppo’s face.
“So-so.”
“Mmhm. ‘s kinda like every other drama out there but I end up losing my mind anyway.”
Doppo looks at him and Hifumi looks back with a lazy sort of smile—like a cat ready for a nap—and Doppo tells himself: whatever’s easiest .
Doppo takes Hifumi’s hand and changes the channel.