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one.
If looks could kill, Hoshiumi Kourai would be dead ten times over, and then some. He’d be as dead as a nail, dead as the seafloor as the bottom of the ocean, made of nothing but bones and sand. It’s rather unfortunate, because Hoshiumi Kourai did nothing wrong—this time, anyway. He simply kept the elevator open for him, the other hand holding a bag of groceries. The crinkling is insufferable.
Sachirou massages his temples and sucks in a breath, pretends he’s not underwater. He’s not in the ocean anymore, he’s heading up to his apartment 20 minutes away from university, packing to go home for a little while. Just a little. Shouko insisted they all come home at the same time and spend a few days together: go to the beach and get a lifelong partner. Stuff like that.
He’s got a migraine going on three days, but he fixes his hair and stares at the wall of the elevator. It reflects light, has a sheen at eye level. It’s not quite white, he muses, but rather a hair shade lower, still bright and annoying. When he shifts, it moves with him, absorbing the colors around him. It feels monochrome, and isn’t that nice? Like a reminder of his current life. It’s just routines: wake up, brush your teeth, get dressed, go to classes that occasionally change depending on the day, finish homework, study for a test in two weeks, eat dinner, go to bed. Rinse and repeat.
(Hoshiumi shifts. Closer to his chest, the color becomes closer to blue than grey. The elevator music changes just as the doors open on their floor.
When they enter their apartments, one next to the other, neither of them say a word.)
***
three.
Sachirou thinks this is what the essence of fascination is: the simplicity of an idea, the ability to act on an idea, just capturing someone else’s attention with nothing but words, or maybe a sound. He hears a classical piece through the paper-thin walls and strains to recognize it. Liebestraum No. 3 by Franz Liszt. “Love Dream”.
(He knows it’s played through a speaker because it sounds fuzzy, distorted, like no one’s breathing anymore. He’s alone on a boat out in the middle of the sea, the waves lapping at the bottom and spraying him, no one there to find him anymore. He pretends it’s something nice and not disturbing.
For a second, he imagines Hoshiumi’s hands playing the piano. Ghosting across the keys, or floating. He imagines them being calloused from years of playing, the outer layers of skin slowly coming undone. His hands jump and drift between black and white keys, like driftwood traveling across waves.)
The music changes. Sachirou does not move.
***
There comes a time when every little boy grows up. When every child grows up and looks for a dream to latch on to. The dreams differ when you’re a child: maybe one wants to be an astronaut, only to look at a chef on a competition and say “I want to be a chef now, mama!” Maybe they’ll watch a documentary about the mantis shrimp on an old channel, corners of the screen distorted and blackened, and they’ll say, “I want to look at the ocean forever, dad!”
(Truthfully, he only chose marine biology because he wanted to stay adrift at sea forever and ever, watching the kelp in shallow waters wave back and forth while sea urchins and starfish rest. He wants to watch the dolphins swim and fly. He’d like to live quickly and quietly this time around.
It’s difficult.)
***
four.
Overtime, Hoshiumi starts talking to him more.
“You know,” Hoshiumi says over dinner one night, “you can always just quit. Do something different with your life.” He takes a large bite of grilled mackerel and looks at Sachirou expectantly. Hungarian Rhapsody, No. 2 is playing through his phone, and it’s a strange piece to be played over dinner out of all things, but that’s one of his quirks, Sachirou supposes.
He sighs and cards his fingers through his hair. “I...I still really like it. Y’know?” He waves his hand around and takes a bite of rice. It feels sticky in his mouth and tastes like ash.
“You’re probably just tired from it. You put a lot of effort, y’know. Sometimes you stay up too late.”
“But...it’s what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.”
“You’re, like, 20. You have time to figure out what you want to do,” he says as he gets up from the table to put his plate away. “It’s probably some childhood dream, am I right?”
He stutters and drops his chopsticks.
“Well?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess. Childhood dream, or something like that.”
“Well, childhood dreams aren’t adult dreams. Just because you have a childhood dream doesn’t mean you have to fulfill it. You’re stupid if you think otherwise.”
Sachirou exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “Oh,” he says after a long pause.
Oh.
The only sounds in the apartment are the rush of water from the tap, the scrubbing, and their breaths, even and slow.
Oh. I see now.
***
This is what Hoshiumi Kourai does.
He simply is. He exists without overthinking, never contemplating more than necessary. He plants his feet into the ground, digs his heels into the sand while the ocean covers his toes. Again and again and again, ongoing forever.
This is what he will always do.
***
(Somewhere along the way, Sachirou thinks he would also like to simply exist for the rest of life. Without inner conflict plaguing him.
It’s nice, Kourai would say.)
***
two.
Out of all things to come knocking on his apartment door at three in the morning while he’s studying for a test in two days, Sachirou would never have expected it to be his next door neighbor asking for a cup of water.
“My tap is being weird and I’m so thirsty so please help me out,” Hoshiumi says rapidly. Because I know for a damn fact that you are the only person in this entire floor to actually be awake at this godforsaken time, he does not say out loud.
Hoshiumi wears screaming pastels that are far too bright in this dingy apartment complex. A simple blue shirt with “The Way of the Ace” printed on the front. Yellow sweatpants. His slippers are still on his feet; Sachirou has to laugh at that, because he’s outside his apartment wearing house slippers and it just feels so silly and pointless.
His hair is ruffled and looks a little like feathers—kind of like a seagull or a swan. (Based on his need for water right this second instead of just suffering through his thirst like most people, Sachirou thinks seagull.)
“You should get those pipes fixed soon,” he says with a sigh before opening the door wider.
Hoshiumi walks in without a word and lets Sachirou guide him.
***
six.
Kourai prefers spending his time ruffling Sachirou’s hair. In between episodes 8 and 9 of their Cowboy Bebop marathon, Sachirou thinks that Kourai only cares about four things: anime marathons, school, volleyball, and him.
“You know, Sachirou.”
“Hm?” He says sleepily. His eyes close slowly; he thinks he could fall asleep just like this, resting on Kourai’s lap while his laptop emits light. It’s blue light, not the kind of blue he prefers—bright, neon, blinding.
“I really like you. A lot.” There is no hesitation in his voice, no stutters or stops. He says it all in one go.
Sachirou holds Kourai’s other hand by the fingers. His fingers are rough and dry, like the very sand he digs his heels into, over and over again. It’s a comfort now, to know that this will remain a constant.
I like you a lot too, he wants to say. I think of you during my classes and any time we don’t have dinner together, it feels lonely in my apartment. I like the way your tongue peeks out when you concentrate and the way you play with my hair. I like you.
“That’s nice,” he says instead before falling asleep.
***
five.
Kourai remembers vague things about the ocean when he traveled.
(Once, in spring, before graduation, something bloomed.
I picked a flower and went to the beach.)
“How was it?” Sachirou leans on his hands and moves in closer, questioning, waiting, wondering.
Kourai looks at him directly, gaze never wavering.
“It was nice. Like the ocean should be. Beautiful.”
Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 comes on.
***
seven.
“You know, I’ve never really understood your love of the ocean.”
Sachirou looks down and smiles. “Thanks,” he says dryly.
“Hey, I didn’t get to finish! What I mean is that I don’t understand but you like it so it can’t be that bad!”
“Sure, sure. And the sand we’re standing on is wet.”
Kourai runs across to the wet sand. “HA! Stupid prick!” he yells across, digging his toes into the sand again.
“That doesn’t count and you know it!”
“WHO CARES? It’s all sand, anyway!”
(Sand is sand, always. Dry or wet, Kourai will always find a way to plant himself in it.)
He laughs, bright and sweet, like the tides spread out from them.
***
And yes, I adore you.