Chapter Text
[Thursday night, Day 1]
The buzzer blares through the door of the apartment, high pitched and grating in the thick, sticky silence of the night. Takahiro waits a moment, listening for movement from within. He waits, and when he hears nothing he presses the doorbell again, once, then twice. He glances over his shoulder when a dog barks in another apartment, maybe on another floor, before someone shushes it angrily. He turns back to the door and presses an ear to the cool, smooth surface, but still he hears nothing. Straightening up with a huff, he rolls his shoulders, presses his lips together, and jabs at the doorbell, holding it down. The buzzer blares at him through the door.
After around 17 seconds—Takahiro started counting at some point—he hears the thumping sound of feet and steps to the side just as the door flies open, releasing a wave of cool air and the sound of the buzzer unimpeded into the night along with a raised voice, straining to be heard over the noise.
"Excuse me, can I h—huh?"
Takahiro lifts his finger off the doorbell, the buzzer finally falling quiet. The sudden silence is like a clap over his ears as he throws up a peace sign. "Yo."
Matsukawa stares at him, words sitting unfinished in his open mouth, eyes unusually large and framed by slight bags.
"Did you just get back?" Takahiro asks, eyeing up his rumpled black shirt, untucked, the sleeves messily rolled up to his elbows. He checks his phone. "Oh, I guess it is barely seven."
Matsukawa blinks slowly, his hand tightening on the door handle. He works his jaw and raises his eyebrows. "Excuse me?" he repeats, his voice edging on incredulous.
"Sorry for the lack of warning. Can I come in?" He moves forwards without waiting for a reply and Matsukawa leans back to make space for him. Takahiro immediately toes off his shoes and steps through to the wonderfully air-conditioned kitchen while Matsukawa locks the front door with a weary sigh. He takes a moment to breathe in the familiar smell—fresh and green, like a forest, mixed with the woody undertones of sandalwood incense—before slinging his duffel bag onto the floor by the table and heading straight for the fridge to start poking through the containers of food and ingredients. He notices a chopping board on the side piled high with vegetables just as Matsukawa joins him at the counter.
"Oh, were you already in the middle of cooking?"
Matsukawa’s already schooled his voice and face back into their usual laidbackness as he picks up the board and starts separating the vegetables. "I was. And you’re not sorry, but by all means, go on and make yourself at home," he says. Takahiro shuts the fridge, leaning on the door and letting his gaze follow the path of Matsukawa’s hands, watching as his fingers cage in the vegetables and sweep them into small bowls.
"Have you eaten?"
"Hmm?" Takahiro tears his eyes away with a jolt. Matsukawa doesn’t look at him, instead motioning for him to open the fridge. "Nope, not yet."
"Guess you better run to the shop, then."
Takahiro watches Matsukawa take out a packet of mince meat before the words register. "What, you’re not gonna cook for me?" he whines.
Matsukawa pauses while rummaging through the fridge. "Well, unfortunately, I only take reservations from people that call in beforehand." He takes out a container of cooked rice and then reaches for a large frying pan, placing it on the hob. He looks over his shoulder at Takahiro, who’s still leaning on the open fridge door, and raises his eyebrows. He nods towards the front door. Takahiro frowns.
"Wait, you’re serious?"
Matsukawa shrugs, and Takahiro glances at the fridge full of containers, at the ingredients on the counter, then back to Matsukawa. Matsukawa holds his gaze a moment longer before his lips twitch and he hurriedly turns away with a small cough. Takahiro shuts the fridge with a huff and a barely concealed smile as Matsukawa chuckles lowly.
"Dickhead."
"So why exactly are you here this time?"
Takahiro brings the can to his lips and tips the rest of the beer into his mouth, feeling the liquid swirl over his tongue. He leans back on one hand, eyes following the line of the baggy, borrowed sweatpants to his bare feet under the coffee table. If he tilts his head to the side, he knows he’ll see Matsukawa’s own feet just beyond his.
"Well, there’s this thing called a bus, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, there will be one that goes a~ll the way to Sendai, conveniently waiting for you right when—"
"Hanamaki," Matsukawa cuts him off, his eyes boring into him over the top of his own beer.
Sighing, Takahiro places his empty can on the table and leans back to lie down. His foot nudges Matsukawa’s out of the way.
"I quit my job," he says, like by the way.
"Again?" It’s bordering on unsurprised. "You only started a few months ago."
"Mm."
"When did you quit?"
Takahiro stares at the ceiling light. "This morning."
"Wait, what? When did you decide to quit?"
"This morning," he repeats. "Keep up."
"Wait—wait wait wait"—he turns to look at Matsukawa, but his face is obscured by the afterimage of the light, just a greenish circle on a wide body clad in a grey t-shirt that would suit Takahiro better than it suits him—"you decided to quit this morning?"
Takahiro nods.
"And then, what, you just—quit? This morning?"
"Yeah."
Even behind the afterimage he can tell that Matsukawa is struggling to maintain his composure, and it almost makes Takahiro want to laugh. He throws an arm over his face and inhales; his skin smells like Matsukawa’s herbal body wash. He exhales loudly. "Look, they were all bells and fucking whistles, and as soon as my probation ended they revealed their shitty true selves. And the plebeians didn’t even like cream puffs. Not a single, miserable one of them!" He lets his arm drop heavily to the ground and stares over at the far wall as he pushes out a long-suffering sigh before putting on his most melodramatic, self-pitying voice. "Maybe I should just give up and become a NEET. I don’t think adult life is for me."
Matsukawa doesn’t dignify him with a response for long enough that Takahiro sneaks a peak out of the corner of his eye and sees him frowning down at his beer.
"Did something happen?"
"What d’you mean?"
"I mean was there a reason why you woke up and suddenly decided to walk out on your job today?"
Takahiro sits back up with a groan. "Nah, not really," he mutters. He reaches for his beer before remembering the can is empty. "I just…realised I was wasting my time. And decided I was done."
And it's true. It had been a normal day; he had woken up late that morning as usual, begrudgingly gone to work as usual, sat down at his computer in his claustrophobic cubbyhole as usual, and watched his supervisor come over and drop a pile of paperwork that wasn’t his to fill out on his desk—as usual. It was, by all measures, a day exactly like any other. That is, until he had a minor epiphany, stood up and declared said minor epiphany—I’m done with this shit—grabbed his bag and suit jacket that he hated wearing, and walked out not minutes later to the part-stunned, part-spluttering silence of his supervisor and colleagues.
"So nothing happened, and you had time to go home and pack a bag and grab some clothes, but you didn’t think to grab any clothes to actually wear?"
Takahiro glances over at the pale blue shirt and beige slacks he had put on that morning, crumpled on top of a bag that held only his computer, a pair of jeans he belatedly realised had a coffee stain on them, more uncomfortable shirts, and his last few pairs of clean underwear.
He looks down at the borrowed tracksuits and t-shirt he’s wearing now—large and soft and enveloping him in the clean and comforting smell of Matsukawa—then looks back to Matsukawa and coos, "Why, don’t you like seeing a normal size person borrow your titan sweats?"
"It’s not borrowing if you take them without permission. And you’re just as much of a giant as me."
"Well, you could just say no like the tyrannical overlord you are and make me live in my underwear for your viewing pleasure. Also"—Takahiro hooks his thumb in the waistband of the tracksuits, pulls it away from his hip, then lets it flop back like a sad rubber band—"I beg to differ."
Matsukawa reaches behind him to snatch a cushion off the couch and hurls it at Takahiro.
"Gross. You’re officially banned from the premises." But there’s warmth in his voice, and Takahiro snickers over the top of the cushion.
Matsukawa glances at his watch. "It’s getting late, I should go to bed. Do you want the spare futon?"
Takahiro meets his eyes for just a second before he looks to the cushion in his lap. "Nah, couch is good." As usual.
Matsukawa is silent, perhaps gauging whether it’s worth debating. Then he tilts his head back and downs the rest of his beer.
Takahiro’s stomach twists at the sight. Suddenly, it’s too early for the night to end just yet.
"Don’t you want just one more, though?" Takahiro drawls.
Matsukawa’s mouth twists into a half-grimace as he looks at him. Takahiro bats his eyelashes at him exaggeratedly, twirling his own empty can on the table.
"For old time’s sake?"
He watches Matsukawa consider it, and then watches him sigh resignedly.
"You’re a menace."
Takahiro cackles as Matsukawa goes to the kitchen and grabs two more beers.
[Friday, Day 2]
Takahiro wakes to his alarm screeching at him from somewhere in the room.
He sits up with a start and practically falls off the couch as he tries to kick off the thin blanket tangled around his legs, tripping across the floor towards the source of the sound. Falling to his knees in front of his bag, he rifles through the mess of clothes until he finds his phone and stops the alarm.
Surrounded by the grey filtered light of morning, he sits there for another moment while waiting for his heart to slow and his brain to finish booting up. He runs a hand down his face as the memories from the previous day come rushing back to him, and he exhales slowly, eyes closed. He thinks of his boss, probably expecting him to turn up today. Probably thinking that yesterday was just a childish blip. There’s the tiniest, 0.0002% twinge of worry in his chest, but it’s far outweighed by the relief he feels at knowing that he doesn’t have to go back to that office today. Or next week. Or any day, ever again.
Takahiro pushes to his feet with a yawn, stretching as he walks over to the bathroom.
"Ah."
Matsukawa meets his eyes in the mirror, surrounded by clouds of steam. The whole room smells of herbs and an underlying musk that Takahiro couldn’t describe accurately as anything other than Matsukawa. Placing his razor on the back of the sink, he runs a hand through the damp hair hanging over his forehead as he turns to face Takahiro with only a towel wrapped around his waist—a towel which probably wouldn’t look so comically short on a normal person. A thin spread of shaving cream covers half his jaw and beads of water still cling to his skin like checkpoints for Takahiro’s gaze as it wanders over the wide expanse of his chest.
"Morning."
His eyes snap up to Matsukawa’s face. Takahiro scrunches his nose at him. "Ugh, how do you still look like that?"
Matsukawa snorts, crossing his arms and running his own gaze up and down Takahiro’s body. Takahiro keeps his eyes on his almost smirking face still covered in shaving cream. "Maybe you should try working out and eating some real food once in a while. Then you could wear my titan sweats without looking like the main girl in a terrible Hollywood rom-com."
Takahiro looks down at the way Matsukawa’s clothes hang off his frame—the loose waistband of the tracksuits almost threatening to slip on his hips—but he knows that it’s just because Matsukawa Issei is a veritable giant that went though a third growth spurt after high school and somehow still finds the time to go to the gym and actually cook for himself every day. It has nothing to do with the fact that Takahiro had been subsisting off whatever convenience store food he could scrounge up for the better part of this year.
He glances up to see Matsukawa watching him, his expression unreadable, and grimaces. "I don’t need real food as long as I can still beat you at arm wrestling."
"I beg to differ. On both accounts."
"Bet?"
Matsukawa chuckles and the low vibrations seem to resonate in Takahiro’s chest. "Ask me again when you’ve actually eaten something, you twig." He turns back to the mirror to finish shaving. "Definitely couldn’t beat Iwaizumi, though."
"No one could beat Iwaizumi. Now or ever."
Takahiro goes back to the living room to flop onto the couch with his phone, scrolling blindly through his social media while Matsukawa gets ready. He doesn’t look up when Matsukawa pushes his feet out of the way to sit on the end of the couch, the sharp scent of aftershave washing over him.
"You going to do anything today?"
Takahiro purses his lips. "Mmm…Dunno. Sleep. Gorge myself on your real food. Look into NEET lifestyles, maybe." He lowers his phone to look at Matsukawa, dressed in a white shirt and black slacks. "Enjoy my freedom."
"You could go see your family. Aya-chan keeps complaining that you never visit."
"Aya’s such a—why is she complaining to you in the first place?"
"She was complaining to Keiko."
Takahiro sucks on his teeth, pointedly ignoring the quirk of Matsukawa’s lips.
"Whatever, no. If I tell them I’m here they’re just going to spend hours nagging me about my job and then nag me to come home and then nag me to stop bothering you," he says, waving his phone. "Why would I do that when I could just stay here and enjoy some peaceful, uninterrupted sleep?"
Matsukawa holds his gaze. After a moment, he stands and picks up the blanket that Takahiro had left in a heap on the floor, folding it. He drops it on Takahiro’s face.
"Oi—!"
"Make yourself some breakfast. You know where the spare key is. I should be home early today."
Takahiro flips the blanket down and looks up at Matsukawa’s calm expression. "Okay. I’ll just be here, relaxing. Enjoying my freedom."
Matsukawa snorts and flips the blanket back over Takahiro’s face. "Alright, you parasite. See you later."
When he hears the front door shut, Takahiro slides the blanket off his face, inhales deeply, and sighs.
Takahiro’s first experience of real, personal injustice came two years after he had graduated from university. He had experienced injustice before—being a middle child—but there was something distinctly cold and unforgiving and unbearably physical in the injustice that came with having his very first promotion at his very first job stolen from right under his nose by an old guy with close to zero actual knowledge; a guy that had joined the company approximately 1 year and 11 months after Takahiro; a guy that ended up making Takahiro do all the hard work anyway, just for none of the recognition or pay.
Half a year later had finally seen the start of Takahiro’s new title: Serial Job-Quitter.
It’s not that he likes quitting jobs; it’s just that every job that was actually interesting or let him do what he was qualified for and wanted to do also seemed to be morally and legally questionable. Or insisted on paying him crumbs.
However, as he’s lounging on Matsukawa’s comfortable, familiar couch in his comfortable, familiar tracksuits, laptop balanced on his chest and once again scrolling through hundreds of listings on another godforsaken job website, he’s beginning to wonder if it really was such a great idea to walk out on his third job this year. Besides the fact that the temptation to just hole up in Matsukawa’s living room for the rest of his days is through the roof, his chances of getting a reference from his old company are also completely and utterly shot now. Plus, in hindsight, they were objectively not the worst company he's ever worked for; he probably could have stuck it out long enough to hand in a proper notice and it wouldn’t have made a significant difference to his currently poor quality of life. And they had promised he could be promoted to a better position after six months, which hadn’t been that far off; maybe a promotion would have made it somewhat bearable. Even if they were all stuck-up bottom feeders with no apparent desire to do anything except breathe through the fax machine.
He shakes his head. Promises mean fuck all to people at the top of the ladder. He knows that. He's learnt it the hard way, and he has to stop expecting things to change.
He creates a box—as tall and wide as the pathetic excuse for a cubicle he had had to work in—and shoves all the unwelcome thoughts flying around his head into it. A voice somewhere at the back of his mind tells him that this is only going to delay the inevitable, but he stuffs that in the box, too. Then he tapes it up with industrial-grade brain-tape and pushes it all the way to the back of his mind, where it can stay with its other boxed-up friends until he has the time and energy to deal with it. Which would ideally be never, but will probably have to be at his next interview.
His phone screen lights up again for the dozenth time that morning with another call from Better-Position-in-Six-Months.
With an irritated grunt, he rejects the call and keeps scrolling. Then, as he’s clicking onto the 19th page, he sees an advert for the Olympics.
A lightbulb goes off in his head.
Takahiro reaches for his phone on the table. He puts it on loudspeaker and balances the phone on his shoulder as he continues clicking through the long list of jobs wrapped up in a pretty pink bow of yearly bonuses and guaranteed days off while the line rings.
"Yello, Kuroo speaking. Is this Hana-kun or his kidnapper?"
"Do you have any vacancies for programmers? Or maybe someone to fix your website? Or literally just anything that requires a computer?"
"…Did you quit your job again?" Kuroo’s voice is bored. Like a parent that knew they should have seen this coming.
Takahiro opens up a new tab with the JVA’s website.
"Hanamaki?"
He pushes the laptop down his body and shuffles back to sit upright. "I just thought maybe you could benefit from having someone that isn’t illiterate taking care of all your IT needs, what with the Olympics coming up next month…" Although looking at the website, it’s actually smooth and not designed to give its visitors instant eye strain—which, by Japanese standards, is practically a gold medal.
There’s a laugh on the other end, and Takahiro’s lips twitch. "I thought you worked with machinery?"
"You do realise I also know how basic IT works, right? I even did that company’s security last year."
"Doesn’t mean you were any good; I also know you got fired from there."
"Fuck off, only because I called them wankers for not paying me what they agreed to pay me! I’m good at everything I do."
Another laugh. "Well, unfortunately, I can only offer you a position in HR at this time either way."
Takahiro’s lip curls back. "I can’t believe you’re seriously offering me paperwork. Clearly, calling you was a mistake."
Kuroo snickers. "So you finally quit Hell Job?"
Takahiro sighs. "Yep."
"Wanna grab a beer to celebrate?"
"Can’t, I’m in Sendai."
A beat. "Well that explains it."
Takahiro frowns. "What?"
"Your sister—the hot one—called me today to ask if I knew where you were. Apparently your work has been trying to get through to you."
Takahiro is torn between complaining about his sister calling Kuroo and Kuroo calling his sister hot.
"Firstly, tell Shiho to mind her own fucking business. Secondly, yeah, I know. I’ve been rejecting their calls."
Kuroo snorts. "Okay, well, when you wouldn’t pick up they called her, and then she sent me to your place to see if you were alive, but you weren’t there so I figured you were either dead or kidnapped. But to be honest, I should have known you’d skip town and head straight to Sendai within a picosecond."
"Stop making up words. And you went to my place?"
"Mm…more like I’m there now."
"Fuck off?"
His phone beeps and he looks at the request for a video call. He accepts and an image of Kuroo appears, his mouth stretched into his signature lazy smirk as he waves.
"Yo." Kuroo moves the phone to show off Takahiro’s own kitchen. "Nice place you got here."
Takahiro can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face. "Get the fuck out of my apartment, Kuroo."
"Maybe you shouldn’t hide your spare key inside your letterbox if you don’t want people just waltzing in."
"Most people don’t have freakishly thin wrists and long fingers like you."
"Hey, these are God’s fingers." Kuroo winks at him, propping his chin in his hand with a shit-eating grin.
Takahiro makes a retching sound.
"So what are you doing? Are you staying there?"
Takahiro stares at Kuroo for a moment, chewing at the inside of his lip as he slides down the couch; the thought of moving back to Sendai flashes through his mind before he can stop it.
He scowls. "Absolutely not, there is fuck all to do here. I’m just…takin’ a break. Like, deciding what overlord I wanna sign my name over to next." He shrugs. "I dunno. We’ll see."
Kuroo doesn’t say anything immediately, but then nods, clicking his tongue. "Yeah, alright. Well, let me know if you need anything."
"I literally just asked you for a job and you told me no. Or are you offering to be my sugar daddy?" He grins as Kuroo holds up a middle finger. "Nah, cheers mate. Appreciate it."
"No problem."
"…Now get out of my apartment and go to work, you slacker."
"Piss off."
Takahiro wakes up with a start for the second time that day. The door to the kitchen has been shut, only a tiny sliver of light shining through the gap underneath it, but the sounds and smells of cooking fill the dark room. And if Matsukawa, a responsible adult, is back and clearly making food, it can’t possibly be the middle of the night, despite the fact that that’s what it feels like inside Takahiro’s addled brain.
He sits up and stretches, groaning at the stiffness in his neck and shoulders before letting his hands drop with a whooshing exhale. He feels the edge of his phone in his lap and fumbles for it automatically, squinting at the brightness of his screen. Below the bold 19:23 is an obscene number of notifications from Aya, Shiho, and his mum, as well as a single [My bad] from Kuroo.
Well, that can be one more problem for future Takahiro. Yawning, he drops the phone on the couch and makes his way to the kitchen, wincing as he opens the door and is assaulted once more by bright lights.
"Good morning, princess," Matsukawa calls out without turning away from the hob.
Takahiro groans as he stumbles over to the table and drops into a chair. He buries his face in his hands.
"It’s not morning and it’s not good."
"Did you talk to Aya-chan?"
"No. But fucking Kuroo told Shiho, so now—" He lifts his head and narrows his eyes at Matsukawa’s back. "Wait, did you talk to Aya?"
Matsukawa chuckles. "She called me. I told her you finally hit your quarter-life crisis and set out on a journey to find yourself." He glances at Takahiro out of the corner of his eye. "Call her in a few days."
Tension he hadn’t realised was there seeps out of his shoulders. "Thanks," he mumbles. Matsukawa shrugs in response.
Takahiro sits back with a sigh, staring at the large pot Matsukawa is stirring, sniffing to try and place the familiar smell. His stomach growls and he realises then just how hungry he is.
Matsukawa raises an eyebrow at him. "I’m making bolognese. It’ll be done soon."
Takahiro hums and sinks down into the chair, closing his eyes. After a moment, he opens them to watch the muscles in Matsukawa’s back move under his thin work shirt, the fabric clinging to his shoulders.
"What’s up with 'princess' anyway?" he asks then. His eyes travel up to Matsukawa’s face as he glances over his shoulder at him. "You finally get a girlfriend or something? Got confused about the hottie seductively draped over your couch?" Takahiro waggles his eyebrows as Matsukawa frowns at him before turning back to hob.
"If only you were as seductive as you think you are. And no, it’s just because, you know, you literally turned up with zero warning demanding food and clothing and a place to stay and then proceeded to sleep all day while I made excuses for you to your family. Thought it was pretty princess-like, don’t you think?" He turns around again and crosses his arms to stare down his nose at Takahiro. "'Parasite' is good too, though."
It's become something of a habit for Takahiro to come and stay with Matsukawa when he's between jobs. And to be entirely fair, he usually gave more warning, if only in the form of a vague message—such as the infamous [lol called bossman a wanker so he told me 2 go home c u sn]—that gave Matsukawa a vague idea to expect him. But this particular visit had kind of sprung itself on Takahiro as well, and he’d barely had time to process his return to unemployment before his autopilot had already packed him a bag and put him on the midday bus to Sendai within hours of quitting.
Takahiro snorts. "You’re the one cooking me food."
"Yeah, so I don’t have you starving to death on my conscience." He turns back to the hob and gives the sauce a stir. "I noticed that even making food is apparently too much work for someone with no responsibilities."
Takahiro grins.
"Oh, by the way"—Matsukawa turns back and Takahiro bites his cheeks to hide his smile—"Iwaizumi is in town with his girlfriend, the one from America. We’re going to the usual izakaya tomorrow evening with Yahaba and Kyotani."
A lightbulb suddenly illuminates the dusty corner of Takahiro’s brain where Monday mornings reside. "Oh shit!"
Matsukawa raises an eyebrow at him. "What? Did you forget you have a date?"
Takahiro presses his hands into his eyes. "No, I just—shit, I forgot Iwaizumi told me. We were gonna go for dinner when they come to Tokyo."
Matsukawa laughs. "So you did forget about a date."
Takahiro groans. "No—I mean—urgh!" He lifts his face to grimace at Matsukawa. "I had a whole photo album prepped of Iwaizumi looking like an absolute mug. Like, shots of him drunk and sleeping and in his underwear and shit."
"I assume you mean embarrassing shots, not sexy ones."
"Fuck!" Takahiro slumps forward and buries his face in his hands, groaning. "It took so fucking long to put together! All that time: wasted!"
Matsukawa doesn’t say anything for a moment. There’s a rustling, followed by the sound of a window sliding open, and then the distinct click of a lighter. The smell of tobacco hits Takahiro’s nose seconds later.
"Does that mean you aren’t going back to Tokyo?"
Takahiro lifts his head to look at Matsukawa, but his face is turned towards the small window above the kitchen sink, a cigarette held to his lips. Dressed in his usual slim-fit shirt and slacks, leaning against the counter with his long legs crossed in front of him and body twisted, Takahiro can’t help but think about the borrowed tracksuits still hanging off his own frame not looking anywhere near as baggy on Matsukawa’s shoulders.
"Of course I’m going back to Tokyo." He pushes down the reminder that he had made zero headway on even noting what jobs were currently available.
"But not before she goes back to America?"
He hadn’t thought that far ahead. When he was packing his bag, he hadn’t thought much beyond Crap, I forgot to do washing last weekend, let alone where he would be whenever it was that Iwaizumi’s girlfriend was going back to the US.
Takahiro shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe." He watches Matsukawa take another drag of the cigarette between his fingers and blow the smoke out the window. "Also, I thought you were gonna quit?"
Matsukawa eye’s slide over to Takahiro, dark and hooded. He looks away as he takes a long, slow drag. "Me too."
"You know, I don’t think it’s gonna look that great when the funeral home director dies at the age of thirty."
Matsukawa laughs then. He turns and stubs the cigarette out in the sink, only half-finished.
"At least I won’t have to pay for the funeral."
[Saturday, Day 3]
The next day, despite being a Saturday, has Matsukawa going to work again—because death doesn’t care about work-life balance—and leaves Takahiro free to sleep after a few hours spent staring at his computer screen while ignoring his messages. That is, until Matsukawa gets home in the late afternoon and all but drags him from the couch into the car, shoving him towards the shower with some of his own clean clothes en route.
"Come on, we have one olympic trainer and his American dream waiting for us. You can at least try not to look like a NEET."
Exhausted, Takahiro can’t remember the last time he was so reluctant to socialise, and having to sit a foot away from Matsukawa’s tense silence at the fact that Takahiro had failed to eat again wasn’t helping. He can feel the worry emanating from Matsukawa, and it does nothing but put him in an even worse mood the whole way into town.
By the time they all come stumbling out into the street at the end of the night, Takahiro is practically skipping, his liquor-laden voice echoing through the quiet streets of Sendai.
"I cannot believe that Iwaizumi has been with that chick this whole time. I mean, seriously, did you see her?" Takahiro asks when the others have left. He’s feeling significantly better after having consumed copious amounts of food and alcohol, the pleasant fog in his brain erasing everything except the last few hours of conversation—and the sight of Matsukawa, chuckling, eyes bright and hands pushed deep into his pockets as he watches Takahiro walk backwards.
"Yeah, I saw her."
"Then why aren’t you more shocked?! Like, why did it take him this long to introduce her? Was there something wrong with her?"
"This is Iwaizumi we’re talking about; it’s not the first time he's kept something to himself for an unreasonable amount of time."
Takahiro rolls his eyes and waves a hand dismissively. "Okay, sure, but no. Firstly, Iwaizumi and Oikawa are both idiots that spent God knows how many years toeing a fucking line in the sand that probably got washed away as soon as one of them hit puber—no, shut up, you didn’t see them at the entrance ceremony—and secondly, Jenny is a normal girl. Not his—childhood-friend-turned-not-so-secret-lover-turned-estranged-ex or whatever bullshit they’ve got going on. He had no reason to hide her!" he shouts, his voice straining.
Matsukawa shushes him with a barely concealed smile as he pulls his cigarettes from his pocket.
"I think Iwaizumi’s still trying to figure some shit out, though," Matsukawa mumbles around a cigarette, and it’s so quiet Takahiro’s not sure it was even directed at him.
He rolls his eyes again. "Sure, the national volleyball team athletic trainer is trying to figure shit out. Where does that leave the rest of us mere mortals, then?" He reaches out and snatches the lighter from Matsukawa’s hand. He can’t help but grin at the way Matsukawa looks up at him in mild surprise, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips as Takahiro spins the lighter between his fingers. "What if my only goal in life is to look after my best friend so he doesn’t smoke himself into an early grave?"
Matsukawa clenches his teeth and takes an unnecessarily huge step forwards. Takahiro jumps back and puts a hand against Matsukawa’s collarbone, holding the lighter out of reach. "Did the drunk freeloader sleeping on my couch, wearing my clothes and eating my food just say he’s the one looking after me?" Matsukawa growls. The vibrations travel along Takahiro’s arm straight into his chest.
He laughs as Matsukawa pushes against his hand, stretching to grab at the lighter. Takahiro twists out of the way and skips back clumsily, cheeks aching as he watches Matsukawa stumble forwards.
"I’m trying to help you, Matsukawa-kun. You have to live a long and prosperous life so you can watch Iwaizumi figure shit out."
"Every time you turn up at my place you shave ten years off my life—if I die an early death it’s on you." He lunges forward again, fisting one hand in Takahiro’s collar and grabbing the arm holding the lighter with the other, trying to wrestle him closer. Takahiro cackles as Matsukawa grits out, "Come on, don’t be a little shit, Hanamaki."
Takahiro can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, face and body aching from the strain of keeping the lighter from Matsukawa. "When the fuck did you get so strong," he gasps, stretching to try and stop Matsukawa from reaching. Matsukawa’s hand slides along his arm and firm fingers wrap around his wrist. "Fuck off, you bastard—"
He tries to twist out of his grip and back away, and then his foot catches.
The world tilts. Everything moves as if in slow motion as he pitches sideways, watching the ground come rushing up towards him—
Until Matsukawa is suddenly yanking him back up with a violence that knocks the breath from his lungs.
The cigarette comes tumbling out from between Matsukawa’s lips along with guffawing laughter.
Takahiro can’t help but stare as his brain catches up with the sensations in his body—heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears, he’s struggling to catch his breath—because even as he registers Matsukawa’s arm wrapped around his waist, fingers pressed firm between his ribs, it feels like he’s still falling.
A smirk. "Payback."
He can smell the alcohol on Matsukawa’s breath as it ghosts over his lips, can almost taste the residual sweat and incense on his skin which had long ago become a part of his unique smell. Takahiro’s own alcohol-thick breath catches in his throat when Matsukawa releases his hold on his collar and leans forward.
He swipes the lighter that Takahiro had completely forgotten about from his hand. Still smirking, he dangles it in front of his face just as Takahiro had done to him.
"Thank you."
Takahiro takes a shuddering breath and blinks at him dumbly. Matsukawa is so close that Takahiro could count the strands in the loose curl of hair that persists in hanging between his eyebrows, or the number of city lights reflected in his eyes that are surrounded by a half dozen smile lines. He’s so close that Takahiro thinks he may pass out, because Matsukawa has used up all the oxygen in the air and replaced it with green and musk and Issei—
And then Matsukawa blinks. The hand on his waist slips away and Matsukawa steps back, righting him and releasing him all at once as his gaze falls to the ground.
Takahiro sways, watching Matsukawa pick up his fallen cigarette and slip it between his lips to light it. He doesn’t say anything this time, his eyes simply following Matsukawa’s movements as he takes a long drag of the cigarette. He slowly blows out the smoke, creating a cloud that fills the air between them and Takahiro’s nose with the bitter scent of tobacco.
Matsukawa looks at Takahiro as if from behind a curtain. He jerks his chin. "Come on, it’s late." He turns and starts walking without waiting for Takahiro to follow.
It was warm. Dark. The air thick and heady with music and lights that pulsed and vibrated through his body, through his chest, through his head. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back and his jeans to his thighs, and some part of him wished he had picked different clothes. Bodies bumped into him, damp and heavy and unbalanced. All he could smell was sweat, smoke, and the sticky sweetness of overpriced mixers and beer.
He felt distant and fuzzy—drunk. Someone wrapped an arm around his waist and he felt the weight of their hand through the cool sweat on his shirt. He let them pull on his body, pull him against them as he continued to move, focusing only on the rhythmic fog filling his brain. At some point, his arms wrapped around them and he realised vaguely—so vaguely that the thought was gone before he was even sure he’d had it—that they were tall. Taller than him. He realised this, because when he threaded his hands through smooth hair to pull them to him, he had to brace himself against their soft body and reach up.
[Day 4]
The dream clings to Takahiro as he comes to the next day, and it takes him a moment to realise that it was a memory. But the unwelcome nostalgia is quickly buried by the headache that spikes at the front of his mind, sharp and white-hot. He groans.
"Oh, good, you’re up." It’s Matsukawa, dressed and showered, his damp hair curling over his forehead, stood in the doorway to the kitchen with two steaming mugs.
Takahiro grimaces at him. He opens his mouth and finds that it tastes like sour ash.
"What time is it?" he croaks. He sits up and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"Just after 9." The couch dips as Matsukawa takes a seat, bringing his freshly-showered scent with him. His hip presses against Takahiro’s knee. "Here, have some coffee. I’ll make breakfast while you shower, then we need to do some shopping before we go to Keiko’s."
Takahiro lifts his head to squint at Matsukawa. "What?"
Weighed down with several bags of food, Takahiro is still feeling a little worse for wear when they get to Matsukawa’s sister’s house a couple of hours later. Keiko opens the door looking simultaneously exhausted and high on adrenaline, and Takahiro watches as her eyes dart from Matsukawa to the bags, back to Matsukawa, and then, finally, land on Takahiro.
"Hiro-kun!" she exclaims far too loudly, stepping out and throwing her arms around him, her black curls tickling under his nose.
"Hi, Keiko." He pats her shoulder affectionately around the bag hanging from his elbow. "Been a while. You’re looking smaller."
She releases him and stands back, beaming. "Aya-chan told me you were taking a break. Are you on holiday?"
Aya and Shiho both need to learn to mind their own business.
"He’s tired of being an adult," shouts Matsukawa from inside the house as he hauls half the bags into the kitchen.
Takahiro opens his mouth to say something but Keiko only laughs delightedly. "Come in, come in! You can finally meet Reina-chan!"
Last time Takahiro was in Miyagi, Keiko had been well into her third trimester and more than done with being pregnant; although Kazuma had been a Duracell battery born into an abnormally large baby’s body, his nine months had been virtually painless, to the point that Keiko had felt almost betrayed when Reina had brought with her a whole army of complications that kept Keiko bedridden for more than half of it. But despite the difficult pregnancy, Takahiro had heard that the birth itself had been even easier than Kazuma’s, perhaps because Reina had been born early and almost half his size.
Matsukawa is already holding Reina when Keiko steers Takahiro into the living room. Sure enough, she looks like a doll in his arms, and is staring at Matsukawa with a single hand reaching up and grasping at his shirt. She’s already got a full head of familiar black curls. Matsukawa looks up when they enter and grins.
"Whoa, she’s still so tiny." Takahiro comes to stand next to Matsukawa so he can look down at Reina. She blinks and focuses on him, making tiny gurgling sounds, and he thinks how the photos he had seen until now did not do her justice. "She’s adorable."
"You want to hold her?" Matsukawa asks.
"Can I?"
A chuckle. "Of course."
And then Takahiro is holding Reina, and even though there’s a minor burst of panic in his chest at how fragile she looks, he’s surprised by how not-tiny she actually is.
They both stare at each other for a moment, Reina's small mouth pinched shut between huge cheeks under big, dark eyes—until she squeals happily and reaches a little hand up towards Takahiro’s face. His heart instantly fills with warmth.
"Oh my God, she’s adorable," he repeats, softer. He offers her a finger. She grabs it with her whole miniature hand and he thinks his heart might burst.
"She’s 9 weeks old," Keiko tells him, and he doesn’t have to look up to see the pride and pure joy written across her face.
"No kidding…" He smiles down at Reina and she kicks her legs. "Hi, Rei-chan…"
"Come and sit in the dining room," Keiko tells him, and he realises that Matsukawa has already disappeared again. "We can talk while Issei cooks."
"Oh, sure." He hesitates, glancing between Reina and Keiko. "Uh, what shall I…?"
"Oh, bring Reina-chan too, if you don’t mind keeping her," she says with a giggle as they make their way to the table. Reina is still holding Takahiro’s finger, closing both hands around it and making bubbly little half-squeal half-gurgle sounds. "She seems to like you."
As Takahiro takes a seat, he’s greeted by piles and piles of Pokémon drawings and crayons spread all over the table. Keiko follows his gaze, laughs a little too loudly again, and immediately starts scooping them up into a haphazard pile in the corner.
"Kazuma is going through a phase. He’s actually out with a friend right now, catching Pokémon, but he should be back soon."
"I was wondering why it was so quiet," calls Matsukawa from the kitchen as he leans into the doorway. He smirks at Takahiro. "You know, you’re lucky you’ve got a bigger princess to look after so you don’t have to help."
Keiko interjects with a scolding laugh, "You can’t make a guest help, what is wrong with you!"
"Am I not a guest?"
"No, you’re my brother!"
Matsukawa snorts at that and vanishes back into the kitchen. The whirr of the extractor fan starts up a moment later, followed by the first sounds of sizzling.
"So why are you here?" Keiko asks brightly, producing a basket of laundry from under the table and beginning to fold tiny baby clothes. "What was Issei saying, you’re tired of being an adult?" She says it in the same slightly mocking but genuinely caring tone that Matsukawa himself always uses.
"Oh, uh…" Reina pulls at his shirt and Takahiro looks down to meet her gummy smile. She is cute. "I quit my job the other day. Haven’t quite figured out what I’m doing next," he mumbles. He shrugs and forces a wry chuckle. "I…didn’t exactly plan it this time."
"I see," Keiko says with a hum. "This is the job you started a few months ago?"
He nods.
"I see," she says again, quieter and understanding.
The ensuing silence is filled only with the sounds of cooking and Reina gurgling as she grasps at Takahiro’s fingers clumsily, and it’s comfortable. It’s comfortable, safe, and familiar, and Takahiro’s chest aches just a little bit with how much he's missed it.
"You know," Keiko begins, slotting the clothes into the basket neatly as she folds, "everyone moves at their own pace. I mean, I wasn’t planning to have kids until way, way later when I first started university."
Takahiro’s lips quirk up but he doesn’t say anything, because he does know. They've talked about it before—before Kazuma was born, when Keiko was still writing her thesis and let her fears leak out in the form of quiet tears on one occasion; and then again after Kazuma was born, when she repurposed those tears to carry all her love and affection for the best choice she ever made. On multiple occasions.
She pauses with the last one-piece in her lap, her lips curving up as she stares at the folded fabric in her hands.
"I had my whole life planned out: graduate, find an awesome paper to write for, travel, start my own company…and then, after I did all the things I wanted to do, then I would find someone and settle down and have kids. But then I met Yusuke and got pregnant with Kazuma, and—" Her eyes shift to land on Reina.
With a small shock, Takahiro realises that Reina has fallen asleep with her tiny hands wrapped around his fingers.
Keiko shakes her head, pressing her lips together as love blooms in her eyes. She takes a deep breath in and lets it out in an ever so shaky whoosh. "I would give anything to do it all again, exactly the same. I wouldn’t change a thing."
Takahiro tries to imagine having his whole life uprooted by such a small creature; tries to imagine choosing what amounted to a bundle of cells. He tries to imagine giving up on his plans and instead committing to staying home and caring for another human that may or may not turn out to be a tiny terror, which Kazuma had not been far from once he learnt to walk.
He tries to imagine the weight of that responsibility; he tries to imagine not feeling any regret or bitterness after the fact, when hindsight would forever provide the greenest grass to gaze upon from the other side.
"But you know, I was lucky: I got to graduate and have Kazuma, and I got to work for a really great company. Eventually." Keiko glances at the wall and Takahiro follows her gaze to a framed article—her first piece as a regular columnist. "My plans changed, but it's not like I had to give them up; having a kid with the love of my life became one of the things I wanted to do, and then I still got to do a whole load of other things too, because I was lucky enough to have Yusuke and my parents and Issei and Yuuji there to support me. In fact," she says, her voice dropping slightly, mouth still gently curved, "if Issei hadn’t changed his plans, I wonder if I would have given up on writing."
Takahiro’s eyebrows twitch then, because that isn’t something they’ve talked about before. "What do you mean? What plans did he have?"
Keiko looks at him, a strange expression flitting across her face. "I mean before he decided to work at the funeral home."
"But I thought—" He glances over his shoulder towards the door of the kitchen, towards the sounds of cooking and the extractor fan. "I thought he had already decided to take over the business before we graduated."
Keiko hums. "Well, he was planning to work for a bit after high school, but that was originally so he could save up for university. But then—"
"Wait," Takahiro interrupts her. This really isn’t something they’ve talked about before. "Since when was he planning to go to uni?"
Keiko almost frowns at him. "He didn’t—" She shifts and leans back in her seat. "He never really talked about it, but he was going to save up for a year or two while he decided what he wanted to do. I think he wanted to go to a technical college, actually."
"To do what?"
Keiko shakes her head, looking back to the one-piece in her hands. "I, uh…I don’t know. It was a long time ago now. And I’m not sure he ever decided, to be honest, because it got put on the back-burner pretty fast when we found out I was pregnant; he was the one that got super excited and said he’d stay and help."
"Yeah, I—I remember that," Takahiro mumbles. He can still recall the day in third year when Matsukawa had come to school and announced with an uncharacteristically giddy face that he was going to be an uncle. "But I still didn’t think he ever wanted to go to uni or college; he only ever mentioned the business."
Keiko shrugs. "I don’t know. I mean—" She looks to Takahiro almost apologetically. "I’m a bit surprised he never said anything to you, but…I guess that just goes to show that he really wasn’t considering it that seriously. Or maybe he just really liked working with dead people." She raises one eyebrow then and laughs, sitting back and running a hand through her hair. "Actually, I still remember when he came home after his first service and we all thought he was going to quit right there and then—he was distraught. He was trying to keep it together, but I genuinely think he was more upset than some of the guests."
Takahiro smiles weakly and snorts despite the way his brain suddenly feels like an old computer desperately trying to run 5 different programs at once. "Yeah, I’m not surprised. The man’s the biggest closet softie I’ve ever met."
Keiko throws her head back laughing.
"What are you cackling about over there?" comes Matsukawa’s voice from the kitchen. Takahiro turns to see him smiling easily from the doorway and he’s reminded again of Matsukawa’s expression all those years ago.
"I’m gonna be an uncle."
His stomach twists.
Keiko drops the one-piece on the other clothes and picks up the basket, her voice teasing as she makes her way over. "We were just talking about what a sap you are."
"Firstly, I’d appreciate it if my sister and best friend didn’t gossip about me behind my back. Secondly, I resent that being used as a personal attack," he says, voice light despite his drooping lips. Keiko joins him and they both disappear round the corner, voices muffled.
In the relative quiet, Takahiro looks down at Reina, her tiny face at ease and peaceful, tiny fingers resting on his. He swallows, thinking about the sheer number of hours Takahiro has spent listening to Matsukawa gush over the phone about Kazuma throughout the years—thinking about how he’s probably going to gush even more now.
And even knowing how much Matsukawa likes his job and loves his family—how much he loves being an uncle—there’s still an uneasiness in the depths of Takahiro’s stomach that he can’t quite place.
It’s not the fact that Matsukawa changed his college plans to stay and support his family, because Matsukawa has always been someone that willingly goes out of his way for those he loves. Plus, there’s no reason he should have to go to college, even though both Keiko and their brother Yuuji had gone to university.
Maybe it’s simply the fact that Takahiro hasn’t heard a single whisper of any of this from Matsukawa himself; at no point did he think Matsukawa was even entertaining another plan. And what did he even want to do? Matsukawa isn’t the kind of person to do something just for the sake of it, so there must have been something that interested him enough that he was considering going to college to study. So why doesn’t Takahiro know about it? Why didn’t Matsukawa ever mention it?
Takahiro’s train of thought is broken by Reina letting out a single, small whimper. He glances down at her to find that she’s awake again, eyes wide and shiny. She’s got one hand barely wrapped around his pinky finger now, her round mouth cracked open and just starting to wobble.
Takahiro feels panic spring to life in his chest at the sight.
"Aw, hey, Rei-chan," he starts to mumble, gently bouncing Reina in his arms. Her tiny button nose scrunches and her mouth morphs into a full on grimace as another unhappy sound escapes. "Hey, shh shh shh, what’s wrong, it’s okay…"
But that only seems to make things worse, and Takahiro can do nothing but watch as Reina’s mouth stretches and opens wide in horrific slow-motion before she lets out a huge, soul-piercing wail. Takahiro stands, still bouncing her gently, still whispering calming words.
It makes no difference, and Reina weeps.
"Ohh no, I’m here, I’m here!" Keiko comes rushing in, immediately dropping the laundry basket by the table and taking Reina from Takahiro, whisking her into the other room with a sing-song voice. "It’s okay Reina-chan, we got this…"
With Reina's cries now echoing from the other room, Takahiro realises that he can feel an uncomfortable pressure building in his chest as his belly twists unpleasantly. Is he supposed to keep this to himself now? Is it even a secret anymore? If he asks Matsukawa, would he tell him? He’s pretty sure he would, but…
What if he doesn’t?
The front door opens and Kazuma’s voice reverberates through the house.
"I’m home!"
Something like relief floods Takahiro’s chest. Swiftly padding over to the doorway, Takahiro sticks his head into the hall. "Yo, Kazu-kun!"
Kazuma is in the middle of unlacing his shoes when he looks up and sees Takahiro. His face lights up as he scrambles to kick his shoes off. "Hana-ji! Your hair is still pink!"
Takahiro laughs, and instantly pushes all thoughts of Matsukawa and secrets to the very back of his mind—somewhere behind Monday and in front of his own mounting life crisis.
Takahiro is trying to focus on Kazuma’s explanations as they look through his Pokémon card collection together when Keiko starts needling Matsukawa about the fact that he should settle down soon. Matsukawa tells her it’s none of her business and she attempts to drag Takahiro into it.
"Hiro-kun, you tell him!"
"Hanamaki, don’t engage her!"
"He can’t stay single forever!"
"Why do you even care?!"
"I’m your big sister, obviously I care about your life!"
"I’m an adult, back off already!"
Takahiro keeps out of it, because he knows that nothing good ever comes of getting involved in a fight between siblings, and because getting involved would mean taking Keiko’s side; opposing an older sister in matters of the heart was not a risk he felt like taking today. Instead, he motions for Kazuma to grab his iPad, and they go out onto the street and catch Pokémon while the adults bicker.
His chest aches for the rest of the day, heavy under a mixture of nostalgia and secrets.
It isn’t until they get back to Matsukawa’s that night—when he’s lying on the couch in the dark, alone, staring at the ceiling—that Takahiro finally lets himself go over his conversation with Keiko.
Did Matsukawa seriously have something he wanted to do so much that he had considered going to college for it? Or was it really just a passing comment that Keiko happened to hear; an idea wishing to delay the end of student life, rather than an actual plan? Is that why he never mentioned it? Not because it was a secret, but rather because he had never meant to say it?
But somehow that doesn’t sit right with him.
Matsukawa has never been the most forthcoming with his feelings, Takahiro knows that—it would probably be easier to torture intel out of an undercover spy than it would be to get Matsukawa Issei to talk about his feelings—but even with all the shit they said and did on a daily basis from the very first day they met, there had always been a quiet responsibility about Matsukawa that pervaded his actions. And that was exactly what made it strange for Matsukawa to have so completely avoided the subject of going to college after graduation around Takahiro and the others: if he really hadn’t been serious about it, it would have been thrown into conversation akin to one of Iwaizumi’s nicknames for Oikawa.
But it wasn’t. Which meant that on some level, no matter how small, Matsukawa had been serious about the idea of going to college.
So then why would he mention it to his family and not them? Was he embarrassed because he wasn’t sure? Was it because Oikawa and Iwaizumi were setting the bar way too high with their life plans and he felt like he couldn’t say anything? But it’s not as if Takahiro had some great plan or even had a specific dream for the future. Although, look where that had landed him.
Takahiro adjusts himself on the couch with a huff. Then he realises with a sombre clarity that none of that really matters; it doesn’t matter what Matsukawa had been thinking of maybe doing after high school, and it doesn’t matter why he changed his mind; all that matters is that Matsukawa is happy with where he is now. And Takahiro knows he is.
What bothers him is the reason why Matsukawa had felt he couldn’t tell them about his plans. Especially Takahiro.
What could have been so terrible that he felt the need to hide it? Because there must have been times when Matsukawa had had the option to say, "Hey, I’m thinking of going to college after graduation," and had instead gone with "Nah, I’m just gonna go work at the funeral home." Even if he hadn’t been seriously entertaining the idea, he had still told his family and made the choice to hide it from his friends. Sure, Matsukawa wasn’t obliged to tell them—him—everything, but it still kind of…stings? To know that Matsukawa felt he couldn’t trust him.
It’s like a thorn in his side. He doesn’t even really care that much, but he wants to know. Why?
It's one thing to have not wanted to tell Oikawa and Iwaizumi, especially when he first joined the group, but Takahiro? Takahiro, his best friend? Takahiro, the one person he told everything to? Takahiro, who kept no secrets from him?
The thorn in his side shifts and reminds him of another, much deeper thorn. A thorn that Takahiro has been ignoring for years, which has been there for far too long to ever come out now.
Because Takahiro does have secrets too. Even if he doesn’t want to look at them.
He turns to groan into the cushion. There’s absolutely zero sense in digging up old misgivings and agonising over the past now; Matsukawa has made his choices and he clearly isn’t unhappy—if anything, he's having a better time than Takahiro, who's starting to doubt all the choices that he had thought out and planned over the years. Successfully, he had once thought.
Why did Keiko have to bring everything up in the first place? It’s not like he has the love of his life and a baby on the way to forcefully derail his life plans; he just isn’t happy with where his steps have taken him. It's his own fault if he doesn’t know what he's doing.
Was she just telling him to take his time? But he can’t take that much time, because he still has to earn money to pay his bills and eat and generally not die on the streets. And he refuses to just come crawling back to his family like the eternally-mediocre middle child he's otherwise doomed to be.
He has to figure his shit out.
Takahiro remembers Matsukawa’s words from the other night, but they don’t make him laugh like they might usually have done. Instead, he only feels frustration kindling in his belly.
For a moment, he pictures himself and Matsukawa both making their way down the never-ending path of life: Matsukawa is slowly, easily, walking down a brightly-lit road surrounded by his family; Takahiro, on the other hand, is stumbling about in the dark, unsure where he's even supposed to be going because every single route he tries to take is just another dead-end or a drop off a cliff and—
A thought hits him then like a serve to the back of the head.
Is Takahiro on the wrong path?
He pulls himself up.
He already knows that he now has two options going forward: he could either keep being an engineer and work for peanuts or he could get a "better" job and drown in paperwork. Neither really sounds that great. But there is no chance in hell that he's going to waste any more years of his life training in a company just to have some senior citizen with a bloated networking account take the job he actually wanted from right under his nose without so much as a clue on how to climb a stupid ladder. And yet…
He can’t guarantee that that won’t happen either way. As long as he follows this poor excuse for a path, that will forever be a risk.
He got into engineering because he liked machines and computers, not because he wanted to work in a box with fluorescent lighting, but he's starting to wonder if those things aren’t mutually exclusive. But if he is on the wrong path, what path is he supposed to be on? And then what was the point of the last two, five, eight years? If he doesn’t use his experience at this point, he would literally have to start from the bottom; would have to start climbing a new ladder. Is he seriously supposed to just find something else he wants to do and start over? Is there anything else he wants to do?
He thinks about Matsukawa, giving up whatever fleeting, secret plans he had so he could support his family. Matsukawa, who had never even been to college, and who now owns his own business. Matsukawa, who—
This time it’s a spike that hits him square in the face.
Ah.
It’s like a dam bursting, disintegrating under the bitter waterfall of reality.
His stomach twists hotly.
So this is what it feels like to burst your bubble.
Anger and something close to panic start writhing in his chest, digging their claws into the walls of his throat and climbing up into his mouth.
Matsukawa skipped the ladder too. Here's Takahiro, desperately clinging on with torn and bleeding fingertips as he climbs up rung after rung just so he can reach an end he can’t even see, while Matsukawa and Keiko and everyone else apparently took the fucking elevator and ended up exactly where they wanted to be. Without even breaking a sweat.
Because they had been lucky.
Because that's what it comes down to: not hard work, or a good degree, or a pretty CV. No, it comes down to luck.
What was the point of even going to university? What was the point of working hard if it didn’t lead anywhere? What was the point in struggling through job after job after job, living pay check to pay check, only to grow old and decrepit and die alone?
Because at the end of the day, fortune does not favour the strong or the brave; fortune favours the lucky.
[Day 5]
"Have you moved today? Like, at all?"
Takahiro jumps at the sound. His laptop threatens to slide off his chest and he scrambles to hit pause on the movie playing, his ears ringing in the silence. He cranes his head back to look at the upside-down outline of Matsukawa as he drops his bag on a chair and makes his way into the dark living room, shrugging out of a suit jacket.
"Hey." Takahiro follows his movements with his eyes. When Matsukawa pulls the light switch and floods the room with white light, he cries out and throws an arm over his face, his shoulder popping with the sudden motion.
"Argh, stop! I was relaxing, why are you doing this?!"
"You’re going to go blind if you stare at your screen in the dark like that," Matsukawa replies. He pushes Takahiro’s feet aside to sit on the other end of the couch. "Seriously, did you even get up today?"
"I’ve been doing research…"
"Oh yeah? On what?"
Takahiro lifts his arm to squint at Matsukawa. "My job."
"You don’t have a job."
"My future job."
Matsukawa raises his eyebrows at him, unimpressed and unconvinced.
Takahiro spins the laptop on his chest and hits play. He hears the music and dialogue and waits, watching as Matsukawa leans forward to see the screen with one hand braced on the back of the couch, his brow creasing in vague recognition.
After barely ten seconds, he leans back and shuts the laptop.
"Oi!"
"I hate to break it to you," he starts, one eyebrow quirked, "but watching The Matrix isn’t going to help you with your future job."
"You don’t know that! I could find some mysterious buff dude who offers me a pill and opens my eyes to the realities of our delusional existence!"
"That does not sound like something you should do."
Takahiro turns the computer back around and scoffs, "Says you who has literally had life handed to you on a silver platter."
He almost regrets it as soon as he says it. Almost.
He slides his computer high on his chest and opens it again so he can’t see Matsukawa on the other side of the screen.
He knows it’s just the residual anger from the previous night; the frustration, the jealousy. He spent the day stewing, opening up what felt like thousands of job search sites only to close them with more violence than his ageing computer deserves. Because what's the point in even looking if he's only wasting his time? Is it so wrong of him to want a brief respite from life—to just sit and switch off his brain for a little bit?
It’s not as if Matsukawa, who by all accounts has zero actual problems to deal with, would be grievously inconvenienced by Takahiro’s mere presence. It’s not as if he has to always cook for him and look after him if he doesn’t want to. It’s not as if he isn't used to Takahiro crashing at his place every time he has to reboot his employment status, anyway.
And if Matsukawa does have a problem but still insists on keeping his complaints to himself, then that’s on him.
Takahiro knows he should calm down, because it’s not exactly Matsukawa’s fault that the world is twisted and unjust and people lie, but for once in his life he wants a break. For once in his damn life, he’d like for things to be easy; for every single choice he makes to not be a gamble that could backfire or haunt him years down the line. He’d like for his best friend to actually be honest and straightforward with him, rather than keep passive-aggressively judging him.
"Do you really want to do this for the rest of your life?" The words are out before he can stop them. Shit, shit, shit. He clenches his jaw, inwardly cursing himself. Cursing Matsukawa. Cursing Keiko just a tiny bit.
Trying to settle himself, he clicks blindly through his tabs, closing and opening them at random.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you really want to spend your life working with dead people?" He grits out the words, sharp and accusing, and he knows: he knows he’s being unfair. He knows. But it feels like all the words on his tongue are pulling taut against their restraints, and he only has so many hands.
"You seriously won’t have regrets like this? Letting your job—your life—just fall into your lap? Are you going to just let some woman and kids fall into your lap, too? Is that why you won’t even try to settle down, because you think it’ll just happen when the time is right?"
There’s a pause. A tense silence. For a delirious second, Takahiro thinks maybe he’s finally crossed a line, because—
"Why? Scared you’ll end up with no one to look after you?"
His restraints snap.
Takahiro slams his laptop shut and hooks his heels against Matsukawa’s thigh roughly, pulling himself up to glare into his eyes.
"I don’t need you to look after me," he spits, seething. "I didn’t even fucking ask you to do this."
Matsukawa just watches him calmly. "Maybe not. But you’re here, aren’t you?"
It’s scalding. Takahiro doesn’t think he’s seen Matsukawa look or sound this infuriatingly cool and controlled in a long time, but his eyes are burning into Takahiro. It sends a shiver up his back as fury crackles in his mouth.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means you’re here, letting me look after you—"
"I’m not letting you do anything!"
"Well no one’s forcing you, are they?"
Takahiro can feel his eyebrow twitching and he watches as a nerve jumps in Matsukawa’s neck. Feels his own mirror it.
His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, "Tell me to leave if you don’t want me here."
"You know that’s not it."
"Do I?"
They stare at each other, the air suffocatingly heavy. All Takahiro can see is Matsukawa, all he can hear is his pulse thrumming in his ears while his heart hammers in his chest, like a rabbit trying to escape. Faintly, he smells sweat and tobacco and incense.
And then Matsukawa exhales through pursed lips. He leans back and lifts Takahiro’s feet out of his lap, gently placing them on the couch as he stands.
He suddenly sounds resigned when he speaks.
"I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to; you’re a grown man. If you want to stay, then stay. If you want to go, go. But you know you’re always welcome here. For as long as you like, whether you need it or not."
And the words might be kind, but they slice right through Takahiro’s chest.
Matsukawa makes his way towards the kitchen. In the doorway, he pauses without turning back. "Do what you want, but I do all this because I care about you, Hiro, whether you ask me to or not. Because you’re my friend."
With that he shuts the door behind him, leaving Takahiro alone on the couch.
And Takahiro hates the way his stomach is roiling with bitter rage right now, because the fact is that he does know; he knows that Matsukawa doesn’t have to let him stay when he turns up uninvited; he knows that Matsukawa doesn’t have to cook food for the both of them; he knows that Matsukawa doesn’t have to cover for him with his family. He knows that Matsukawa doesn’t have to do a lot of things, but he does them simply because that’s what Matsukawa does for those he cares about: he gives.
And maybe that’s why Takahiro never asks—because he knows that if he asked for a hand, Matsukawa would give him an arm. If Takahiro called, Matsukawa would answer, quietly, and without expecting anything in return. He knows, because he’s known Matsukawa for years, and he’s watched him give and give and give for those he cares about.
Because that’s what Matsukawa does. And he knows that Matsukawa saying yes would only make it that much harder for Takahiro to tell himself no.
Even now, years down the line, when they both have their own lives, Matsukawa is still the first one that Takahiro turns to; he’s still the person Takahiro trusts most in this world full of people that can’t be trusted. And neither of them has to say it, because they both know.
And maybe that’s why it pisses him off so much—because what is Takahiro supposed to do if the one person he trusts most in the world doesn’t trust him back?