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The weather is cooling, Makoto notes as he watches smoke float away with the breeze. It’s getting dark, the sky will be a blend of pinks and oranges for only a little longer. Reminds Makoto of a painting he saw hanging on a wall in an art gallery in New York.
He shivers slightly in his thin shirt as the wind shifts and breezes through him. It’s quiet save from the distant lapping of the waves, water hitting sand with the occasional shout of an excited child having a late night swim with his parents.
Inside Makoto can hear cheering as probably another bottle of champagne is being popped and poured into awaiting glasses. If it’s Cynthia pouring, half of the alcohol will most likely end on the floor.
Behind him, a glass door slides open, the voices momentarily ringing loud and clear before the door thumps back shut.
There’s a brief moment of silence.
“Not enjoying the party?”
Makoto allows a passing smile before inhaling smoke and letting it burn through his lungs, a welcome warmth on a cooling night. “Not trying to wake up with a horrible hangover. I have an early flight tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Laurent responds, neutral. “Japan, then?”
Makoto shakes his head and turns to look over his shoulder. “Nah. Was thinking of trying Europe next. Maybe Italy.”
Laurent exhales a soft laugh. He looks beautiful shrouded in shadows, his hair darker and his eyes gleaming. Mysterious. “You know, I heard France is a very beautiful country. Home to many attractive men. Great cheese, too.”
Makoto raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And who told you that?”
“Just a friend. You wouldn’t know him,” Laurent hums and finally approaches Makoto. He ends up stretched over the railing, taking a deep breath that makes his chest rise. The exhale comes out as mist. “Maybe I can show you one day.”
Makoto hmms and turns to the view again with a drag of his cigarette. “Maybe.”
“I didn’t know you still smoked,” Laurent comments after a moment. Makoto glances at him but he’s still looking forward with an air of casualness to him. It could almost pass as real if Makoto hadn’t known him for a decade.
He shrugs.
“Hard to quit when you’re already addicted. And I don’t know, I don’t really feel like stopping. I like it.”
He risks another glance at Laurent to see his mouth thinning momentarily before the expression is gone and Makoto is instead looking into blue eyes, corners crinkled warmly in a way that has his breath catching in his throat. He could count with one hand the amount of times he’s seen Laurent look at someone that softly.
That necklace he sometimes rubs with his thumb when he thinks no one’s looking. And Makoto.
“Acting a bad boy now, Edamame?” he teases and Makoto hmphs. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Should’ve thought about that before making me into one,” Makoto responds breezily and wraps his lips around his cig to stop the satisfied smirk at seeing Laurent falter.
“Now whatever might you mean?” the man drawls, never one to admit defeat. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to face his guilt. The wind tussles his hair until Makoto can barely see his eyes. “I can assure you–“
“Yeah, save it,” Makoto interrupts with an eyeroll. “Maybe you’re used to being a heartless bastard but I’m not you.”
“I know tha–“
“You ever thought how it might affect me having to kill my dad? Two months I lived with the burden of being the one to pull the trigger and watch him fall to his death. Two months.”
Laurent is silent at that.
“It doesn’t matter that he wasn’t actually dead,” Makoto continues quietly. “I didn’t know that.”
The last of the pretty colors in the sky are gone by now, leaving them in the darkness. The child must have gone home, there’s no laughter echoing around the beach anymore.
“Makoto,” Laurent starts with a low voice. He pauses, like he’s looking for the words. “I never meant for you to… It was the only way–“
Makoto chuckles and he can’t stop the bitterness creeping in his voice. “The only way to avenge your girlfriend was to make my life hell. Maybe it’s just a shitty plan then.”
“I should’ve come up with something else,” Laurent admits with a heavy sigh. His shoulders are slumped and his fingers tightly interlocked where they hang off the railing. “I am sorry, Makoto. For whatever it’s worth.”
“It’s worth something.”
Makoto taps his cigarette on the railing and leaves behind ash. “I wish you would’ve talked to me. For once I just wish you’d… trust me.”
“I do,” Laurent rasps. “I would trust my life in your hands, Makoto.”
“But just… nothing else,” Makoto exhales a humorless laugh. “I’m an easy target to you, Laurent. That’s what you do. You use people. I’m just someone who can’t say no to it.”
Silence, before Laurent turns to look at him. His face is stripped of its defenses for once, eyes somber. “I don’t want you to say no to me. I’m selfish, Makoto. I would rather have you here with me than somewhere without me.”
“I know,” Makoto responds quietly and settles deeper in the plastic chair. “You could just ask me to stay. Not everything needs to be a con.”
Laurent studies his face for a long moment. “Stay.”
“Do you want me to?”
“It’s the only thing I could ever want.”
Makoto stands up, chair creaking painfully under him. Laurent straightens and when Makoto is right in front of him, he has to look up to keep eye contact.
“Are all French people this tall?” he murmurs, stepping into Laurent’s personal space.
Laurent smiles, hands twitching toward Makoto’s hips and after a brief hesitation, closing around them loosely. Makoto could step away any moment he wanted. “Told you. Great country.”
“Maybe I’ll visit one day,” Makoto breathes out and closes the short distance between them. Laurent’s lips are soft against Makoto’s chapped ones and he gently takes the lead, one hand cupping Makoto’s cheek and tilting his head for a better angle.
Makoto drapes his arms over his shoulders, presses himself against his body. He can feel Laurent’s fingers trembling against his skin.
Makoto pulls back after a moment, watches Laurent’s eyes flutter open. He threads his fingers through blonde strands, watches them fall through like silk. He never got to do that before.
“Makoto?”
He steps back, lets his arms fall to his sides and the cold air to surround him again now that he’s not pressed against a human furnace. His cigarette is on its last breath and he stretches past Laurent to stub it on the railing, letting the butt drop to the ground. Laurent tracks his movement carefully.
Makoto brushes back his fringe and watches the ruffle of blonde hair in the wind. Quietly, he says, “I have an early flight tomorrow.”
From his peripheral vision he can see Laurent’s face fall. “Ah.”
“Ask me again in a year,” Makoto murmurs and turns away from him. “Maybe I’ll have a different answer.”
He leaves Laurent there, staring at the crashing waves, and feels for the toy figure in his pocket.
Maybe it’s time to throw it away.