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Reki’s finger hovers over the heart icon. He looks at the photo again. Scrolls down, scrolls back up. Begrudgingly, he likes the picture, then he sighs and puts his phone facedown on the table.
Langa looks at him from across the table with his eyebrows raised. “Were you checking Koyomi’s Instagram again? You said you weren’t going to do that anymore.”
Reki stabs at his cereal. “How did you know?”
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“It’s the same one you make when you sniff the milk to see if it’s sour, and it is, but for some reason you always sniff it again.”
Reki sticks his tongue out.
Langa smiles at him fondly. “What did she post this time?”
Reki picks his phone up and opens the app again. He turns it around to show Langa. “Same as usual. Picture of some fancy meal, cryptic caption about a mystery date.”
Langa reaches out to pull the phone slightly closer, his fingers curling around the back of Reki’s hand. Reki rolls his eyes. Langa can see the picture just fine. He just wants an excuse to touch him. “Have you figured out who it could be?”
Reki pulls his hand back and scrolls through the other pictures. “I think it’s somebody different every time.”
“You sound jealous.”
“Why would I be jealous?”
“Because you’re stuck with me and Koyomi is going on exciting dates with interesting people?”
“Hey! I like being stuck with you. And we don’t know that they’re interesting. Maybe they’re so ugly she doesn’t want to take pictures of their faces.”
“I…thanks?”
“I’m not jealous,” Reki says, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “It’s just—I dunno, don’t you think we should go on a date?”
“We went on a date yesterday.”
“We ate ramen on the floor and then you fell asleep using my skateboard as a pillow.”
Langa looks at him blankly. “So?”
“So, that’s not a real date!” Reki sweeps his hand through the air in an arc, like he’s painting a picture. “I’m talking fancy restaurant, nice clothes—”
“You hate nice clothes. And we can’t afford a fancy restaurant.” Langa gestures meaningfully around their apartment, the cardboard box end tables, the mismatched chairs, the tattered couch. “We already live together. We don’t need to go on a fancy date.”
He has a point, but when Reki gets an idea in his head, it’s hard for him to let it go. He runs a hand through his hair, still tangled from sleep. “Yeah, I know, I know. You—you’re right. It’s just, ugh, I still—”
“Okay,” Langa says.
“Okay what?”
“Let’s go on a real date.”
“You sure?”
“You really want to, don’t you?”
“Kinda.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Reki scrambles up from the table. “Sweet! Langa and Reki, going on a fancy date! Um, Langa?”
“Yes?”
“How do I plan a fancy date? Without any money? Asking for a friend.”
***
Some quick research reveals that Joe owns a new restaurant, one with a name that sounds perfect for a fancy date. Reki calls him and acts like it hasn’t been three years since he last checked in. Joe begrudgingly grants them a reservation when Reki explains why he needs it. He makes the same call to Cherry, begging to borrow two suits. Cherry is adamant that he doesn’t want to know why, but Reki knows Joe will tell him.
After picking the suits up from Cherry, Reki gives the grey one to Langa and takes the black one for himself. Reki doesn’t remember the last time he wore a suit, probably when he was a kid, but he’s sure he hated it, because he hates it now, too. And he has no idea how to tie a tie. He ties it into a sloppy bow—that’s definitely not right—then tears it off in frustration. Why did he want to do this, again? He should tell Langa that he’s calling it off. It’s a dumb idea. He and Langa aren’t fancy, and they shouldn’t pretend to be. But they’re also not kids anymore, and adults do things like tie ties and go on fancy dates. They have to at least try, right? How can they know it’s not for them if they don’t even try?
Draping the tie over his shoulders, Reki wanders over and leans against the doorway to the bathroom, watching Langa smooth his hair in front of the mirror. His tie is knotted perfectly, because of course it is. This was Reki’s idea, but of course Langa is the one who can pull it off.
Reki knocks on the wall and Langa turns abruptly. Reki holds up the ends of his tie. “Help?”
Langa smiles and beckons him forward. Reki has to avert his eyes while Langa’s fingers hover near his neck. They live together, yeah, but somehow this is too intimate. He can’t explain it. He clears his throat. “So, uh, how do you—how’d you learn to do this?”
Langa pats the knot and Reki looks back up at him. His expression is dark. “When my mom got remarried,” he says. “Remember?”
Reki bites his lip. He does remember Langa’s mom’s wedding, but he knows for a fact that Langa didn’t wear a suit and tie. It was casual, outdoors. Reki wore a hoodie. He knows better than to call Langa out. The real answer is easy enough to puzzle out. His dad’s funeral. “Yeah, ‘course I remember,” Reki says, forcing a light tone. “Just making sure you haven’t been sneaking out on fancy dates with other guys.”
“I think you would have noticed.”
Reki allows himself to look down, scanning Langa’s body in the suit. He looks back up. He coughs. “Yeah. I would have,” he says.
When they’re ready to go, Reki double checks that he didn’t leave anything boiling on the stove and leaves a light on while Langa ties his shoes. “These don’t fit,” he says.
Reki crosses to him, crouches down, and taps the toe of the shoe. He’s not sure why—it doesn’t do anything. “Sorry. They’re Cherry’s, too. Too big?”
Langa stamps his foot. “Too small.”
Reki cringes. At this point, he really ought to know what size shoe Langa wears. But they’ve both been wearing the same sneakers for…forever, basically, so he hasn’t had a reason to. He slips his borrowed pair of shoes on—they’re slightly too big—and offers Langa his arm. “Sir,” he says.
“Please don’t,” Langa replies, but he slips his arm through Reki’s.
***
“Wow, Joe really went all out, huh?” Reki says as they step inside the new restaurant. The lights are dim, and soft classical music plays from speakers in the ceiling. Tables with elegant cloths are spaced out around the main dining room; Reki notes that none seat more than two people. They’re really doing this, going on a date in a restaurant made for dates, where there probably aren’t even prices on the menu.
A woman greets them and asks if they have a reservation. Reki forgets his own name for a moment, but Langa says it for him, voice smooth and professional. Not the voice of a guy wearing a borrowed suit and too-small shoes. Reki tugs at his collar. He should have known Langa would know how to be fancy. They must teach that back in Canada. Probably, if it weren’t for Reki, Langa would be off on a yacht right now on an international company cruise, mingling with fascinating people who know the difference between a tie and a cravat.
Reki has these moments, sometimes, when he mourns for the person Langa could have been if Reki hadn’t dragged him into skateboarding. A polished, professional guy, with lots of friends and a rich boyfriend, living it up in an apartment with actual furniture. He knows it doesn’t make any sense, but nonsensical thoughts are always the ones that take up the most real estate in his mind.
And then they’re following the hostess to a table, and even though he already saw the tablecloths, it hits Reki that they’re white, so easy to stain, and he just knows he’s going to destroy this restaurant. He pulls one of the chairs out for Langa and it scrapes the floor.
I know the owner, I know the owner, he repeats in his head. If he wrecks anything, that’s all he has to say. Joe won’t be mad. Joe will get it. Joe’s chill. Reki spots a chandelier. Okay, maybe Joe isn’t so chill anymore. How did he afford this place, anyway?
Nope, no, he can’t think about money. He was too embarrassed to ask Joe if they could eat for free. He’ll just have to hope his card isn’t declined. Unless Langa wants to pay? No, this was Reki’s idea. He should pay…but they share everything anyway so does it really matter?
He hears himself agree to a bottle of wine—oh shit—and then the hostess leaves and it’s just the two of them, alone with the tablecloth and so, so many fragile things. Suddenly nervous, Reki looks up at Langa through his eyelashes. Langa is prim and proper and handsome in his suit, with his hair slicked back from his forehead, every inch the perfect date, but somehow, Reki prefers him in his pajamas at their flimsy table, kicking at his shins under the table in his socks. But that’s stupid, isn’t it? He glances around the restaurant while Langa sips water and considers the menu. Look at all these other people, he thinks. They’re all on real dates and look how happy they are. This was your idea, remember?
Langa sets the menu down and says, “What are you going to get?”
Pretending that he wasn’t staring at the other customers, Reki picks up his menu and points to the first thing he sees. “This one,” he says, turning the menu to Langa.
Langa squints in the dim light and gives Reki a puzzled look. “Whole haddock?”
“Yep. That’s the one. Whole haddock, my favorite.”
Why is he acting weird around Langa? He hasn’t been like this since they were teenagers, since the first time they held hands on purpose, not just to help each other up after bailing from their boards. Langa knows him. He knows he has no clue what whole haddock is. But something about the dim lights, and the orchestral music, and the other confident, well-dressed patrons, makes him feel like a confused teenager again, desperately trying to fit into someone else’s skin.
“What about you?” he asks, but then he’s distracted again, by a waiter delivering an exquisite looking dish to another table. He doesn’t recognize any of the food. The hostess returns with their wine, two glasses, and takes their orders. She tucks the menus under her arm and leaves, but Reki has an odd urge to ask her to stay, not to leave him alone with Langa. It’s ridiculous. He lives with Langa, they’ve been together for almost four years, they’re adults, and suddenly Reki feels like they’ve just met. Langa smiles at him and Reki struggles to find a conversation topic. What do people talk about on dates? Themselves? Langa knows everything about him. And this doesn’t feel like the appropriate place to discuss the denim jacket he found in a trash can earlier today, though he’s been dying to tell Langa about it all day. It has a hole in the sleeve, but Reki plans to patch it up. He can totally rock an elbow patch. And if he can’t, Langa can. He fixates on Langa’s tie again. Langa can rock anything.
“So,” Reki says, clearing his throat. “The…weather. Has been. Hot.”
Langa raises an eyebrow. “You hate this, don’t you?”
Reki sits up straighter, pressing his feet to the ground. “No, I’m having a great time. And I’m very curious to hear your thoughts on the weather.” He takes a swig of wine and dabs his mouth with the napkin in his lap, a second before realizing he never put a napkin in his lap. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I just wiped my mouth with the tablecloth, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn—I mean, how unfortunate.”
“Reki, you don’t have to pretend you’re having a good time. We can leave.”
Reki shakes his head. “No, I said we were going on a fancy date and we’re going to finish our fancy date.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Even if it kills me.” He takes another sip of wine. He doesn’t even like wine. He’d much rather drink grape juice.
“Should I take a picture?” Langa asks. “So you can have one like Koyomi?”
“I told you, this has nothing to do with Koyomi.” Oh no, are they arguing? Reki hates arguing with Langa. It happens infrequently enough that he can remember every argument they’ve ever had, all the way back to when they fought about Langa racing Adam. That still stands out as the worst time, but if anything could top it, it would be an argument in a fancy restaurant, Joe’s restaurant, with shattered wineglasses and thrown food. How easy is it to break a chandelier, anyway?
“Okay,” Langa sighs, in the resigned tone he only uses when Reki is being especially stubborn, and Reki bristles.
“I just…I want to like this,” Reki says, staring at the wine stain on the corner of the tablecloth. “I want to be good at the things other people are good at. You fit in here. Your shoes don’t even fit, and that’s not your suit, but you fit in.”
“What do you mean, Reki?”
“Maybe you would fit better with someone else who fits…here.”
“You really think I fit in here?”
“Of course you do. Look how handsome you are in your suit! Er, I mean, no, that’s what I meant. I look awkward, don’t I?”
“You look…uncomfortable,” Langa says. “But not because of the suit. The suit is, uh, the suit is good.” He blushes slightly, and that does make Reki feel a little better.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Reki asks.
Langa nods.
“You don’t look it. You must be better at hiding it.” And then Reki thinks, is it really better to be able to hide your discomfort? To pretend like things are fine when they aren’t at all?
“The tie is too tight,” Langa says.
Reki is about to make a comment about loosening the tie for him when their food arrives. The waiter sets a plate down in front of Reki, and he nearly topples his chair. An entire fish, fins and eyes and all, stares up at him openmouthed. Horrified, Reki looks up at Langa. Langa covers his mouth with his hand and his shoulders shake slightly—he’s laughing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Reki whispers.
Langa drops his hand and takes a deep, shaky breath. “You sounded so confident.”
“Langa, it’s staring at me.”
“Don’t look at me. You’re the one who asked for a whole haddock.”
“I can’t eat this!” He pokes at a scale. “Is it even dead?”
Langa digs into his meal, which is notably lacking in facial features. Mouth full of food, he says, “Probably.”
“Probably?!”
Still chewing, Langa pulls Reki’s dish across the table, and heaps some of his food next to the fish. “Here.”
“Thanks,” Reki says. He eats Langa’s food, trying to avoid the fish’s dead gaze. “Sorry I made you do this.”
Langa shrugs. “I don’t mind. I just like being with you. You should know that by now.”
“Stop,” Reki whines, kicking him under the table. Langa nudges his foot and grins.
“So should we stay for dessert?”
“Uh—”
Langa shushes him. “I’m asking the fish, not you.”
“Oh, are you leaving me for the fish?”
“Yes.”
“Bummer.”
“I heard he can tie a tie.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Langa looks side to side, then reaches over and picks up the fish by its tail. He turns it so it stares directly at Reki, and says in a strange, high-pitched voice, “Reki, do you hate Langa?”
“Stop,” Reki says again, but now he’s laughing. “Why would the fish’s voice sound like that, oh my god—”
Langa wiggles the fish again. In his regular voice, he says, “You didn’t answer his question.” He switches back to the fish voice. “Why did you kill me, Reki?”
“People are staring, Langa,” Reki chokes out, batting at his hands, trying to dodge the floppy fish.
“Can I get you anything?” someone asks, and they both look up to see the waiter, one eyebrow quirked up, a pitcher of water in his hand.
Langa sets the fish down, wipes his hand on a napkin, and says, as if nothing happened, “No, thank you. We’ll take the check.”
The waiter looks pained when he says, “The owner asked me to let you know it’s on the house.”
“That’s very kind,” Langa says smoothly. “Thank you.”
“Actually, can I get this wrapped up?” Reki asks, pointing to the fish.
“Of course,” the waiter says, picking up the plate. “I’ll be right back with that.”
Langa presses a fist to his mouth. His shoulders shake. “You’re taking it home?” he manages.
“Just wait,” Reki replies, suppressing his own laughter.
After the waiter returns the wrapped fish, they walk solemnly to the door and tumble outside, bursting into laughter as soon as the door closes behind them. Reki knows it’s not really that funny, it’s childish, and Joe is definitely going to call him about it tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. He looks at Langa, bright eyed and gasping for air, and he feels stupid for thinking that Langa would ever want someone who could sit through a fancy dinner and talk about the weather.
He reaches out and tugs at the knot on Langa’s tie, loosening it. Langa looks at the wrapped fish in his other hand. “What are we doing with it?”
“Burying it at sea, obviously,” Reki says.
“But we’re nowhere near the water.”
“You want me to nail it to our wall? We could use some decorations.”
“No,” Langa says. “We’ll bury it.”
“I have a better idea,” Reki says.
Which is how they find themselves outside of the house that Joe and Cherry share, ties loosened and jackets slung over their arms. Langa kicks his shoes off and sets them by the door. “Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” Reki says. He drops the wrapped fish in front of the door as Langa rings the doorbell. “Run!” They tear off into the night. Reki’s side cramps from laughing and running, and eventually he collapses onto a bench to catch his breath, clutching at his side.
Langa sits beside him and hooks his ankle over Reki’s. In the voice he used to speak to the waiter, he says, “So, this was fun. Want to do it again sometime?”
Reki wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Can we go home? I don’t have any shoes now.”
“Yeah,” Reki says, standing and reaching a hand down for Langa. “Let’s go home.”