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It is under the flickering white fluorescents of a laundromat that Keiji finds himself. Blurry neon shines in from outdoors, though he can't see where it comes from. All is dark, all is light. And he supposes, as he pours the detergent he does not remember selecting into the machine, that he is the middle ground.
He supposes, as the hazy multitude of colour beats into the fuzzy part of his periphery where his glasses don't cover, that he is the in between.
He supposes, as the white light pours over him from above like something holy, something divine and glorious, that he is the halfway.
He's jamming the coins into the slots of the laundry machine, fingers sliding them into place like little puzzle pieces. They don't quite fit. There's something about them that's a little off. They slip and they slide but they don't slot in right.
He's fiddling with them, endlessly. In turn he's fiddling with his own hands, in that way he has done for years and for years. The coins spill over to tumble and clink on the deserted tile, but they never do fit.
He really just needs them to fit. He has somewhere to be, doesn't he? He always has somewhere to be, he thinks as his fingers meet and trace across each other in a way that brings a sickening sense of nostalgia. Hands that are not his ghost across the blushing pink of his knuckles and dance to an unheard rhythm, then disappear on a gentle breeze from the rattling AC tucked in the corner. He always has somewhere to be, he thinks.
But then, he thinks, the middle ground, the in between, the halfway. Maybe he can stay for a little longer. Maybe he can try for a while longer. Maybe he can push and pull until he can finally slot those coins into their parallel terminals, if only for a bit longer.
But a bit longer comes and goes and no progress is made.
They don't fit , he wants to huff, to curse aloud and to kick at the machine until the coins drop into place with the satisfying sounds of metal on metal.
Bony elbows show to the right of him. Slim forearms and biceps with concealed strength. He leans back on the machine next to Keiji's, head tipped smugly to the side. He grins and the light hits his glasses in a way that seems threateningly coy. When he opens his mouth to speak, something sly stretches at the corners of his pale lips.
They don't fit , interrupts someone to the left. Black hair tumbling in his face and cunning eyes prepared to bait, he smirks. It is something dangerous, but something docile. Nostalgic, again. Sickening, again.
No, they do not , Keiji says in response. His hands have dropped in front of him. His coins have scattered across the floor. These men stand so near with their stripping eyes and their twin smirks.
A third man hums from atop a machine further to the left. His hair is spikier, his frame fuller. And his eyes, his eyes are more playful, ravenous with untapped energy and bright with unrealized depth. He’s playing with his hands as they rest in his lap. Lingering traces of Keiji’s rosy knuckles stain the tips of his fingers like chokecherry juice.
Nostalgic.
All three of them stare at Keiji, six golden eyes seeping stickily across his skin.
The first man speaks, interrupting the silence with his sweet and taunting voice. It is something Keiji thinks he has heard before, though only in his most visceral of dreams. It is something he feels deep in the marrow of his bones, something that resonates within him rather than through the air.
Not all things fit, that first man says simply.
The ghost of a touch, the pliant eyes, the voice of sugar and spice. Keiji is sure they aren’t really here, none of them are standing before him in the way he thinks they are. Maybe if they were he wouldn’t be overcome with nauseating nostalgia, and would instead learn the moment as it is.
The middle ground, the in between, the halfway. Those are simply different ways of saying stuck.
Not all things fit, The man with the glasses had said.
Don’t look all down like that, the second man coos. He pushes dark bangs out of his face, and they tumble right back.
Not all things fit, repeats the first man, but they don’t have to stay that way.
As if on command, the third man ruffles around in his pockets for something, pink tongue flicking at his lips in concentration. He pulls out a drawstring bag no larger than his palm and passes it to the second man, who in turn passes it to Keiji.
Not all things fit, says the third man. His voice is something commanding, something that speaks only truth in the rawest of senses. Keiji finds himself pulled in, believing wholly and completely in every word uttered.
But that can be changed, He says.
Keiji pulls open the bag, coins tumble into his palm. He slots them into the machine and they click into place without resistance. He presses the compartment shut and the machine rumbles to life, water flowing steadily inside.
They’re unstuck, Keiji mumbles aloud.
That’s one way to put it, says the first man. He faces forwards, still leaning back on his elbows. Keiji sees him best from the corner of his eye, golden hair and golden eyes all keen and blindingly intelligent.
They’re unstuck, the second man echoes. Keiji hardly sees him at all, he is only a shadow of a figure hidden in that blurry periphery of Keiji’s. His form is muddled, arms crossed on another laundry machine and all too foggy around the edges.
They’re unstuck, the last man agrees. Keiji turns his head to look at him, for surely with a voice such as that he must be something glorious to behold. Keiji braces himself, one hand holding firmly at the shivering machine doing its job of cleaning his clothes, and he is faced with blurred lines and incomprehensible imagery. He stares through the man, where he should be, stares at the wall behind him. The lights flicker and maybe it’s a trick. Maybe.
There is the haze of three apparitions, there is the honey glow of six golden eyes, there is the sick nostalgia that tells Keiji more than words ever could.
It is under the flickering white fluorescents of a laundromat that Keiji finds himself. Staring at the wall-mounted digital clock, flashing crimson numbers bleeding down the screen.
The time it displays 00:00.