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“You’re hurting me,” Tooru whines.
He squirms his shoulders again, doing everything within his fairly restricted movement range to dislodge Takahiro from his lap, and Takahiro seriously considers stabbing the eyeliner directly into his eye.
“You literally asked me to do your makeup. How is this my fault?”
“I didn’t know you were going to be so violent about it!”
“Light’s green,” Issei says idly from the seat behind Tooru.
Takahiro lifts the pencil off Tooru’s eyelid as the bus jolts into motion. They tap the end of the pencil on their bottom lip and assess their progress. Tooru has one perfect, metallic purple wing, his other eye only half complete.
“If you’re going to be such a pain,” they say, “I’ll just leave it like this. Hajime likes it, right?”
“Yeah, looks great.”
Hajime doesn’t even look up from the seat next to them. He’d turned sideways into the aisle after the fourth time Takahiro had accidentally-on-purpose elbowed him in the ribs and he’s bent over the Google Maps on his phone, following their bus along the highway in miniature.
The driver pulls up at the next set of lights and, despite their threat, Takahiro leans in again, dragging the pencil along the edge of Tooru’s lashes. Tooru sits patiently through the rest of it, the thought of having to climb off the bus with his makeup half done motivation enough to fold his hands in his lap and keep still.
Takahiro passes the eyeliner over Tooru’s shoulder and Issei offers them a glitter eyeshadow palette in return. They forego the brush and use their middle finger to dab the eyeshadow along the curve of Tooru’s cheekbone. Takahiro leans back to admire their work and Tooru grabs their hips reflexively to keep them from slipping out of his lap.
“It’s good. Here, where’s your phone? I’ll show you.”
“Back pocket,” Tooru says, so Issei hands his own over the back of the seat and Takahiro snaps a picture.
“Ours is the next stop,” Hajime says, finally turning back around. He does an actual double take when he catches sight of Tooru’s eyes, and Takahiro silently pats themself on the back.
“Please, please keep it in your pants until I’m not on top of him anymore,” they say, when Hajime hooks his index finger around Tooru’s chin and leans in.
It earns them a slap on the arm, but at least Hajime knocks it off until the bus stutters to a halt at their stop. Takahiro lets Hajime and Tooru step off in front of them, so that they can catch Issei’s hand behind them. Once they’re on the street, Takahiro slides Issei’s phone into the pocket of his jeans and Issei squeezes their hand in thanks, lowering his sunglasses.
California in June is sweltering, the sun a heavy thing in the sky. Takahiro doesn’t get the appeal. The three nights they’ve spent in their Irvine hotel have been the least comfortable of Takahiro’s life; each morning they wake with sweat drying in creases all over their body and Issei doesn’t even want to hook their ankles together in bed anymore because the heat pools in the places where their skin makes contact.
But out on the street, Takahiro thinks maybe they understand. Anaheim is dressed in vivid colour: garlands between the lampposts, flags unfurling along the building fronts, and chalk all along the cracked pavement, guiding them onwards. The crowd is already swelling, from bus stops and car parks and the train station; people converge onto the street, following the chalk arrowheads, and the four of them let themselves get swept up in the tide.
By the time they make it to Center Street Promenade, people are already pressed shoulder to shoulder against the barrier, so Takahiro tugs Issei’s hand until they find an empty shop doorway where the crowds are thinner and the air is easier to breathe. Issei stands on his toes, trying to make out the figures in the parade, and Takahiro takes the opportunity to watch the strip of skin that appears when his shirt moves, unbuttoned all the way to let the breeze filter through it.
He’s got two strips of tape across his chest to keep his scars out of the sun and he still can’t lift his arms higher than nipple height, so any kind of physical exertion is out of the question. Takahiro is already on high alert in case they catch Issei trying to join in the dancing.
In the meantime, they slide themself up against Issei’s side, underneath his arm, and slip a hand through the open bottom of his shirt to tickle across his stomach.
“You should wear shirts like this more,” they say. Their fingers dance along the soft lines of Issei’s abdomen. There’s a thin trail of hair under his navel that has been growing in recently and Takahiro loves it.
Issei tilts his chin, giving Takahiro an amused smile. It makes his mouth all wonky, quirked up on one side and twisted inwards on the other, so Takahiro kisses the corner of his lips.
“Maybe,” Issei says. He hooks his elbow around the back of Takahiro’s neck and lets his dangling fingers brush their collarbone. “I’ll see how I feel about the scars.”
Takahiro hums and nestles their head into the crook between Issei’s shoulder and neck. They know how worried Issei has been that, if the scars don’t heal well enough, they will make him just as dysphoric as he was pre-op; they’d spent thirty minutes that morning blending foundation over the tape until no one would be able to tell it from skin without leaning in close.
“Getting comfortable there?” Issei asks.
When he speaks, Takahiro can hear the vibrations all the way up his chest. Issei’s voice is so deep these days and Takahiro loves relearning the rough vowels and curved endings of his words. Issei bends forwards so he’s speaking directly into the top of Takahiro’s head.
“You know the point of this thing is to walk? You’re not making it very easy.”
“Sorry,” Takahiro says, even though they’re not. They turn and press their open mouth to the hollow between Issei’s clavicles. Issei shivers and his arm tightens a fraction against Takahiro’s nape.
“Hey, there you are.”
Tooru comes tumbling out of the crowd in front of them, looking giddy and sun kissed. Behind him, Hajime has a streak of glitter running from his top lip up his cheek. Takahiro mouths their smile into Issei’s skin.
“You good, Issei?” Hajime asks.
He’s shameless today, from the glitter around his mouth to the way he presses his entire body against Tooru’s back, one hand splayed across his stomach and the other creeping up his chest, as soon as they come to a standstill. Takahiro can’t blame him. They split their time between Tokyo and Issei’s Sendai apartment and it still almost kills them every time they leave. They can’t fathom how Hajime lets Tooru get on the plane back to Argentina.
Issei lifts his hand from around Takahiro’s neck, hovering in front of their chin, and makes an okay sign at Hajime.
“Hiro’s decided the most effective way to keep me out of the crowds is just to turn themself into a limpet.” (Takahiro tries to nod but their face is still mostly hidden in Issei’s chest.) “But if you guys want to get closer, it’s fine. We can meet up after.”
“I’m sure Hajime needs to get closer otherwise one of us is going to have to carry him on our shoulders so he can see,” Takahiro adds.
“Fuck you so much,” Hajime says, but he has his lips against the underside of Tooru’s jaw so it comes out far less threatening than usual.
They do eventually disappear back into the crowd when Tooru realises some of the floats are tossing freebies into the sidelines and he wants to snag a pair of rainbow sunnies he saw go flying overhead.
Despite ribbing Hajime for it, Takahiro can’t actually make out much of the parade themself over the cluster of heads and shoulders in front of them; most of what falls in their eyeline is waving flags or the occasional double-decker float. But Issei is warm skin for miles and miles under Takahiro’s hands and they are content to lean into him and let Anaheim glow loud and proud around them.
Once the organised parade peters to a close and the audience follows along towards the stage at the end of the street, Tooru and Hajime find their clumsy way back to Takahiro and Issei’s doorway. They wait for the knot of the crowd to flow past before joining in, so that Issei is free to breathe and move at his own pace.
The Californian summer presses in on all sides and, for the first time all trip, Takahiro doesn’t inwardly curse it. All around them, people are laughing and singing and holding one another, hands around elbows around shoulders, and everything is glitter and colour and light. Takahiro’s best friends are in front of them, joined at the hip as they always have been, and Tooru is wearing fishnets under his tiny denim shorts and Hajime’s singlet is showing off the swirls of his new tattoos and his pink-white-blue binder and they are both smiling like their mouths don’t know any other shape.
And Issei is pressed close to Takahiro, and he is just bare skin and glistening sweat and all long and lean and Takahiro wants to put their hands everywhere.
On the street, Takahiro gets it. California in June swells like a living thing in their chest.
The small square in front of the stage is defined by a series of bright and loud stalls, selling everything from rainbow-striped badges to corn on the cob. People gather in pockets between the stalls, and the band on the stage beats like a pulse right through the ground. Tooru pulls up short when he spots a sign declaring SLUSHIES in red and blue letters. Takahiro stumbles over their feet trying to stop fast enough not to slam into his back, and Issei squeezes them against his side.
“Hajime,” Tooru starts to say, but Hajime is already sliding his hand into his back pocket.
“Yeah, I’ll get you a raspberry one. You two want anything?”
Takahiro and Issei shake their heads and Hajime wriggles his way between two overlapping groups of people to join the end of the slushie queue. They hover on an empty patch of the pavement to watch the band while they wait. The members are all in varying degrees of undress, right down to the bassist who is wearing a pair of tie-dye boxers, chunky heeled boots, and nothing else. Takahiro watches their mouth pressed against the microphone.
Issei tightens his arm around their shoulders again.
“Stop looking at the bass player,” he says, leaning into Takahiro’s temple so they can hear him over the music. “I could take my shirt off too if it helps.”
Takahiro laughs and pulls Issei’s hand even tighter around them so they can kiss the back of it.
“It wouldn’t help.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
He twists his fingers around Takahiro’s, folding them over one another. Takahiro keeps eyeing the bassist.
“I’m serious, stop it,” Issei says, but his laughter is tickling through Takahiro’s hair, so Takahiro tilts their head back against his shoulder and grins up at him.
Issei leans forwards, takes hold of their chin between his thumb and forefinger, presses in close so his hot breath is all over Takahiro’s mouth. When he kisses them, Takahiro thinks oh and this would help and I bet the bassist’s mouth can’t do this. He pulls back and Takahiro stupidly, embarrassingly wants to chase him, to reel him back in, to follow him maybe to the end of the world.
“Don’t look now,” Issei says, his gaze flickering to the side and back to Takahiro’s face centimetres from his own, “but I think Oikawa’s getting hit on.”
Takahiro twists away from Issei to stare at Tooru who is beaming up at an impossibly tall man in a tight t-shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way up his shoulders. As they watch, the man leans in to say something quiet and, when it makes Tooru laugh, he rests a hand comfortably on his bicep.
Takahiro can’t resist.
They slip out of Issei’s hold to step forward, lean their elbow on one of Tooru’s shoulders, and say in English, “Like what you see? You know he’s going to be Argentina’s first trans athlete to make it to the Olympics.”
“Yeah,” Issei says, leaning on his other shoulder, “and he speaks three languages so, you know, good with his tongue.”
“And,” Hajime appears, red slushie in hand, and shoves Takahiro so they stumble backwards and he can take their place at Tooru’s side, “he also has a boyfriend. Hi.”
The poor man looks positively rooted in his confusion and Hajime, glitter-covered and shameless, slides one arm around Tooru’s waist, shoves the slushie into Tooru’s open fist, and cups his other hand against the side of his neck. He leans in against Tooru but keeps staring at the stranger and Takahiro supposes it’s a lucky thing they’re not having to break up a fight.
The man skitters off when Hajime finally breaks eye contact to press his lips against Tooru’s cheek. Takahiro mourns the hard work they put into his makeup that has been thoroughly smudged to shit by Hajime’s mouth.
“I’d appreciate if you stopped trying to auction off my boyfriend,” Hajime says, hooking his chin over Tooru’s shoulder to look behind him at Takahiro. Tooru has one hand on Hajime’s hip and is using the other to press the cold slushie against Issei’s bare skin, trying to ward him off.
“Can’t help it.” Takahiro shrugs. “I just think he could do better.”
It’s fortunate, really, that Hajime is already wrapped around Tooru, because all he can be bothered to do is raise a finger at Takahiro. Takahiro grins back, then reaches out for Issei which is approximately ten times more effective in getting him off Tooru’s shoulder than any attempts at pushing him away had been.
He drapes himself across Takahiro instead and says, directly into their ear, “Can we get food now?”
Takahiro grabs hold of his fingers where they’re resting against their chest, interlocks their hands, and takes a step forwards, dragging Issei along against their back.
“Come on,” they make a shooing motion at the Hajime-Tooru amalgamation in front of them, “let’s go eat. Hajime, where’s that place you wanted to take us?”
Hajime makes a vague, incoherent noise, but he takes out his phone and wraps both arms around Tooru’s waist, chin still over his shoulder, so that he can tap at the screen behind his back.
It takes a few coaxing, careful hands on his skin, but eventually Issei rights himself enough to walk alongside Takahiro, their hands still entwined over Takahiro’s shoulder. Hajime leads them away from the heart of the parade, but the colour and the music has spilled out into the surrounding streets in patches of stragglers, covered in rainbow face paint and vivid flags.
There is love, so palpable in the air Takahiro can taste it everywhere they turn. Today Anaheim is an open mouth, pouring hot breath and smiles all over everything. Takahiro lets it settle on their skin, slowly sink warmth through to their bones.
The truth is, California in June is glorious. Takahiro has never seen anything like it. They can’t stop trying to look everywhere all at once, trying to take in all the laughing faces, the intertwined hands, and the constant, unwavering bravery of people letting their love spill all over the pavement.
They love California in June because it is brimming with crowds not caring about the heavy heat and the lack of sun shelter on Center Street Promenade, not caring that Issei is walking around with his shirt undone, that Hajime and Tooru are wrapped around one another without checking to see who’s looking, that Takahiro is wearing a crop top that says sounds gay i’m in in bright letters.
Takahiro leans their chin into the back of Issei’s hand on their shoulder and grins, grins, grins back at the people they pass.
The place Hajime wants to take them, it turns out, is a hole in the wall a few streets over. Takahiro isn’t surprised in the least, because Hajime has settled into Californian life and it is exactly the sort of quietly cool restaurant that this new version of him talks about in their group text. It is softly illuminated by a series of wall lamps and string lights hung from the low ceiling. The walls are plastered with all sorts of newspaper clippings—the far wall is taken up entirely by strange and colourful clocks—and all the seating has been replaced with mismatched lounge furniture.
They snag a booth made out of two sofas facing one another, a crocheted blanket dangling behind one of them to separate it from the table behind. Issei leans into Takahiro’s space as soon as they sit down, peering over their shoulder at the menu even though there’s another one on the table right in front of him. His hand had finally slipped from around Takahiro’s shoulder once they entered the restaurant, but he slides it onto their thigh now and tucks his fingers against the bare skin at the back of their knee. Takahiro angles the menu so they can both see it, but, once they glance at Issei to make sure he can read it, they forget to look away again.
This close they can see the residual glitter caught in his eyelashes from helping Takahiro with their makeup. His hair is damp with sweat at the roots, curling around his forehead and behind his ears, and the bisexual flag painted on his cheek has a streaky smudge through the middle. Takahiro wants to press their thumb to it, watch the blood bloom underneath, graze their teeth over the swell of flesh. The Californian summer looks good on him.
They’re distracted by the waiter showing up at their table. Her hair is buzzed short and she’s wearing a pair of rainbow braces over their black shirt and a badge that says she/they. Takahiro settles into the back of the sofa, smiling because of course this is Hajime’s favourite restaurant, and tunes out the waiter asking for their drink orders. They trace their fingers along the back of Issei’s hand on their thigh, following the outline of the bones until they disappear into his wrist. Vaguely, they register Issei ordering for them and Hajime making friendly chatter and the radio switching stations in the background.
The low-lit restaurant is cosy, despite the fan turning in the corner to keep the summer air at bay. Takahiro doesn’t mind the heat so much today, not when they’ve spent the afternoon watching people embrace it out on the street, not when it has left Issei looking warm and messy and beautiful like that.
Across the table, Hajime and Tooru are bent over Hajime’s phone, peering at pictures of the parade. They are talking in low, liquid voices and Takahiro can make out the words if they strain, but they don’t bother. Instead, they slide their palm over the top of Issei’s hand, slotting their fingers between his, and shift towards him when he slumps over to lean on their shoulder.
“You look happy today,” Issei says, and Takahiro can feel the words dusting along the underside of their jaw.
They don’t say anything, just turn to press their face against the top of Issei’s head and breathe in the scent of pride that lingers there.
Later, they will go back to their hotel room in Irvine; and they will help Issei wash his back because he still can’t bend his arms all the way round; and Issei will shove their legs away when they try to wrap themself around him in bed; and Tooru will spam the group text from Hajime’s dorm room with all one hundred and seven photos he took today; and their pride will be a quiet thing, kept under their tongue and cracked open in the privacy of a room filled with the people they love most.
But here, in the heat and the colour and the light of Anaheim, Takahiro cups their hand around Issei’s and presses a kiss into his hair without glancing over their shoulder first.
California in June, eight thousand miles from their childhood home and their messy Tokyo flat and Issei’s one-bedroom in Sendai, is the first place Takahiro has ever really felt at home.