Chapter Text
Ennoshita’s staring out at the dark sleeping city resting below him when the sound of the balcony door sliding open cleaves the silence in two, spilling a noisy EDM beat into the gaping air. The music is cranked up loud enough for Ennoshita to wonder if the sound system’s speakers will survive the entire night. He wonders at how they’ve yet to receive a noise violation either. But then, when one resides in a spacious penthouse tall enough to scrape against the Tokyo sky the risk of irritating the neighbors became a virtual non-issue. No one ever beats against the ceiling with a broomstick, demanding silence. No one has ever filed a complaint. The walls are thick. Even the balcony’s glass had muffled the thumping party down to a tolerable level—interrupted now as whoever had joined him fails to completely close the door. Ennoshita should have locked it after coming outside. The frenetic song that seeps to his ears instantly shatters whatever peace he had been able to steal, and he’s suddenly as stifled as if he were in among that crowd of tipsy, thriving young people. His already lukewarm mood drops like a stone to the bottom of a lake, disturbing its silt to allow a single thought to bubble up to the surface:
He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He really doesn’t.
It's about time for him to leave anyway. Determined to check out his uninvited guest, Ennoshita glances over a shoulder to see a dragon instead.
The twisted body of a blue dragon emblazoned on a man’s back. Even beneath the muted lighting its scales are intricate and bright enough to stand out against the crisp leather jacket it decorates. The dragon’s elegant shape lends it a sense of motion, like it could writhe into the air at any moment. The elegance ends once his eyes reach the creature’s head. Its mouth curls wide open to reveal rows of sharp white teeth and vicious looking canines matched by equally viscous claws. Scaled brows furl over a pair of wild red eyes and great tufts of flame blows out from its mouth, landing close to the man’s right shoulder. It’s so questionably gaudy that Ennoshita looks at it for a long time, not sure what impression he’s receiving other than an impression, but then the person reaches one hand to a back jean pocket and the pack of cigarettes tucked there, squaring his shoulders in the process, and in the brief moment when the leather shifts Ennoshita can almost see the dragon move.
The illusion breaks when the guy swivels around.
“Oh holy shit, I didn’t see you at all.”
Ennoshita turns around too, resting his back against balcony railing. It’s high and glass too, and he likes the illusion of leaning against nothing at all. “That happens a lot.”
“Seriously?” The guy says. It sounds rhetorical so Ennoshita answers with the shrug of a shoulder. He doesn’t have a loud presence, he knows, and he doesn’t demand much attention when he steps into a room.
The person before him looks like he would comfortably bask in a spotlight.
He has a shaved head and a sharpness to him that’s not all caused by the heavily punk-inspired clothes he wore, although the style did accentuate it. Beneath the leather jacket was a black tank shirt branded with a jagged American rock band that Ennoshita has never actually listened to before. His jeans are held to his hips by a studded belt paired with a similar bracelet strapped to one wrist, its spikes gleaming metallic. Silver chains drip from one of his belt loops and disappear into a back pocket, probably secured to a wallet. Scuffed up black chucks completes the look. The only accessories at odds with the outfit are the three colorful buttons pinned to lapel of his jacket, too small and distant to make out the details.
Maybe it’s the slant of his eyes that gives Ennoshita that impression of sharpness, or perhaps the quick, wild smile that the man aims in his direction as he taps out a cigarette with practiced ease and places it between his lips, speaking around it. “Anyway, mind if I join ya?”
Ennoshita blinks, quick and thoughtful. A part of him wants to refuse. Making polite small talk feels like too much tonight, yet searching out another private spot is even less appealing. “…If you can close the door first?”
He complies. The door slides shut with a neat click, muffling the sounds of the party once more. Just a little, Ennoshita feels like he can breathe again. Then he’s joined by the other and they both turn to face outside, standing a few respectable feet apart. Ennoshita folds his arms over the railing and hears two clicks of a lighter, a lull as he takes a long drag, and then a blown out sigh that releases a curl of smoke into the air. It’s chased by a low, impressed whistle. “It looks awesome all the way up here.”
“The view is nice,” Ennoshita agrees, closing his eyes against a light breeze. It tickles the scent of smoke toward his nose, acerbic but tolerable. Tolerable company so far.
“But damn, it’s high! I never know if I’m allowed out on these things. It figures these rich city boys are hiding the best view from us, but at least they know how to throw a good party.”
The comment hangs between them for a beat before Ennoshita blinks his eyes open, looking over the winking city lights. “That’s good,” he says, “Because this is my apartment.”
The guy chokes and pinches his cigarette between two fingers, flicking ash onto the balcony deck. He seems abashed at that brazen act of littering, at least, and swivels his eyes around. “You’re shittin’ me!” He exclaims. Ennoshita inclines his head. “You’re… You’re not shittin’ me. Whoa, wait, you’re Ennoshita Chikara? The real one? The son of the Ennoshita family that owns most of the—“
“Yes,” he interrupts a little too quickly to be polite, but the words scratched too close to a topic he doesn’t want to think about tonight. “That’s me.”
Balancing one wrist over the railing, the man gives him a once over that nearly has Ennoshita saying It’s dark but I can still see you, you know. “Oi, you’re like a legend and ghost story around here! Everyone says you don’t bother staying at your own parties half the time and ditch way before midnight rolls ‘round. Thought you’d look different though…”
“Oh,” Ennoshita says, wetting his lips. What was he supposed to say to that? That aloof, constructed image others had made for him is so fictitious it’s like hearing stories about a complete stranger. He stays quiet, letting a half-awkward silence cool between them. He thinks they must be done until the man pipes up a long moment later, breaking the quiet before it grew stifling.
“I’m just thinking— Why would you ditch your own party, man?” He tsks, as if willingly leaving a party early is unbelievable. And yeah, it might be a strange to abandon one’s own party and home for a few hours, Ennoshita supposes, but so far he hasn’t dealt with any serious property damage or theft. “They’re not bad! You throw them at random, right, so it’s kind of a big deal if you can get in here, like you’re rolling with the cool kids. It blows up on social media every time.”
Ennoshita shifts beneath the weight of the praise, feeling distanced from all the hype once more. These things he throws aren’t well-planned events deserving of some lofty social stigma. Cool kids, rich kids, spoiled kids, in crowds and out crowds - as a mostly absentee host it all strikes him as somewhat ridiculous, something that could be pulled straight from a teenaged sitcom. All he does is open his doors, really, like one would open the windows in the middle of a storm. His guests swept in, churned up waves of commotion, and ebbed away during the ghostly hours of the morning, leaving a carnage of empty bottles and paper plates in their wake.
There was something eerie about standing in the middle of his living room after chasing out the last few stragglers, assessing his home for damage and seeing the marks of so many people littered around. It felt something like the electric calm one feels upon spilling out of a movie theater after spending hours watching a fast-paced action movie, or the sensation of coming to a sudden stop on a rollercoaster and feeling the rest of yourself catch up. That same sensation would float down on him as he cleaned up: A jacket thrown across the couch, a smudge of lipstick on his good set of glasses, a forgotten cell phone with a lock screen he can’t figure out even after minutes of fiddling around with it. Something about it all satisfies the roiling discontent he feels while standing on the edges of the party itself. It settles right besides the yawning feeling that the world will keep spinning with or without his active participation.
His classmates who know his socioeconomic standing tell him the same thing though. That there’s not much point in being wealthy if he doesn’t have fun and use it. And it’s true that he has his privileges. A good school, a good apartment, two parents who provide him with a generous allowance that he deposits into a checking account without a second thought, keeping only what he needs to purchase food and transportation fare throughout the week. His taste in fashion is nice but not extravagant. He's more than content to buy things from a shopping mall as he is getting clothing from designer brand boutiques or the online categories his mother occasionally linked him via text or e-mail.
A lot of people might think such modest spending is a waste when he has plentiful resources at his disposal, but the greater truth is that Ennoshita doesn’t feel a need to use any of the money he owns because he doesn’t want much of anything. Nothing too materialistic, none of the fancy trappings and baubles and shiny cars, and definitely nothing excessive like these parties that began as private get-togethers and slowly snowballed into big affairs filled with strangers rather than familiar faces.
“To be honest I don’t know a lot of people in there.” Ennoshita pauses, then allows the honesty to continue flowing. “And it stops being fun like that.”
“Then why d’you..?” He sweeps a hand around, gesturing to everything and nothing in particular, then takes another drag. The cigarette’s tip glows a violent red before he angles his head away and blows a stream of white. “I mean, it’s your party so you should make it fun for yourself.”
“I think it’s become a habit. When I’m bored I just set things up. I don’t hate helping everyone have a good time, so…”
“Okay but – and it’s cool if you don’t, I’m not here to judge you or anything – but don’t you have any friends to hang out with for this?”
“Of course I do,” Ennoshita's smile is small and amused. His two best friends are as averse to hard partying as he is. “This isn’t a tragedy.”
“From where I’m standing it looks like you’re having a sucky time.” The guy mutters, looking abashed again, color resting high on his cheeks while he fumblingly snubs his cigarette out on the surface of the carton, cursing when another sprinkle of ash floats to the ground. Ennoshita wonders why this stranger seems to care at all. He takes pity on him though and picks up an abandoned ash tray sitting on a nearby chair, offering it up. It’s accepted with muttered thanks. The other quickly lights up a second smoke while attempting to balance the tray on the rail but it’s rounded and it doesn’t work, so he stoops to place it by their feet instead. “—You’re all alone on a balcony. You’ve got, like, really old wine from France in there that you’re not even drinking.”
“Then maybe you should bring it out here,” he hears himself suggest. They both pause to look each at each other. The man looks as surprised as Ennoshita feels, but a moment later his face melts into the kind of grin that suggests he might be a bit of an enabler if given half the chance.
“No joke?” He asks, tentatively hopeful.
Ennoshita shrugs, letting the impulsive offer lie. It’s permission enough to rouse the guy into action. He can barely slot his cigarette into the ash tray fast enough. “Dude, I’ll grab the whole fucking bottle.”
He seals the promise with a startling cheer and leaves as abruptly as he came. Ennoshita doesn’t miss the way he takes a step and doubles back to slide the balcony door closed with a little too much force.
Without the steady conversation to distract him Ennoshita’s thoughts come barring down on him again, accompanied by the type of silence that always seems heavier in the wake of departed company. But it’s gentle, bearable, a trickle of a stream rather than tug of an ocean’s currents trying to pull him under. He lets each thought swirl by as he slides to the ground, back pressed against the railing’s glass, one leg crooked at the knee. The recessed floor lights that skirt along the edges of the balcony offer a clean, comforting glow. For a moment the wispy curl of smoke coming from the dying cigarette reminds him of gray incense sticks poking out from his family shrine at home, but he forcefully blinks the image away and stares ahead, grounding himself in the present. Facing the interior of his apartment, he can see people moving about, flashes of smiling teeth, and bodies moving to the heavy bass line thumping away. It’s like watching a lively scene from a flashy Hollywood movie and Ennoshita smiles, toying with the idea of slipping in unnoticed and recording a piece of it on his cell phone.
Slowly, anticipation enters him as he waits; a niggling hope that maybe even with his self-imposed isolation tonight will turn out okay.
A few minutes later the cigarette sputters a final chunk of ash and dies. The night air starts growing chilly against his bare arms, and the man with the dragon on his back has yet to return.
Fair enough, Ennoshita thinks, tilting his head back to look at the washed out sky, hardly a star in sight. The city’s light pollution is a constant, smothering thing. He’s spoiled with memories of how breathtaking the stars look in the countryside where they could shine freely and freckle across their dark canvas. He used to seek out familiar constellations and play connect-the-dot with them, trying to imagine the creatures and objects they were supposed to represent, but they all hide themselves from him now. He's forgotten half the spring constellations anyway.
A dull clang makes him flinch, eyes leaping back down to see the man returned and struggling to open the door around the haul piled in his hands. An unopened wine bottle with shot glasses turned over its top is clutched in one hand, two wine glasses balanced in the other, a bottle of something golden tucked under the left arm, and a corkscrew poking out from between two fingers.
“I got it,” he announces when Ennoshita stands up to help, and Ennoshita pauses to watch him ram a hip against the door handle in an attempt at shoving it further open. He only succeeds in performing an awkward gyration.
Ennoshita ignores the plea for self-sufficiency and walks over, taking the wine and glasses before something goes crashing to the ground. He lets the man pass the threshold and slides the door behind them, turning the wine to peek at it's label.
“2004 Pétrus?” He reads in soft astonishment. It had been a gift from a family friend two years ago when he finally hit the legal drinking age; expensive and untouched. “Did you raid my locked wine cabinet?”
“I ain’t a thief,” the other retorts with enough hardness that it takes him aback. But his guest’s head is angled down, hands busy setting the tequila and shot glasses down with a clank. Ennoshita can’t tell if he’s done any serious insult but the possibility that he has dries any lingering humor left in his mind.
“Nevermind that,” the guy says, tone half awkward like he’s just said something wrong. He takes a seat, back against the railing, and clears his throat. “Get down here. We’re doing shots.”
So Ennoshita swallows the apology languishing on the tip of his tongue re-takes the spot he had earlier. The ash tray is cleared away and replaced by their drinks. He watches the nearly empty bottle of tequila get twisted open and poured, golden liquid spilling neatly into each shot glass. One gets scooted in his direction. He puts his fingers over the rim, eyes flicking up to catch the other already looking his way.
“What’s your name?” Ennoshita asks.
“Tanaka.” A gleam of a piercing Ennoshita hadn’t noticed before peeks out from his tongue as it works around the vowels. “Tanaka Ryuunosuke.”
“That matches your jacket.” The words are hesitant but Tanaka accepts the offering with ease, giving it momentum.
“It’s flashy right? The people who got it for me are both really damn flashy,” Tanaka chides, grinning like he honestly doesn’t mind those flashy people. Relieved at the dissipating tension, Ennoshita smiles and looks down, picking his glass up and bringing it to his lips.
“Hold on,” Tanaka cuts in, stopping the drink’s course halfway to his mouth. “No half-assing this, we gotta do a proper toast. Raise your glass!”
“There’s nothing to toast about.” Ennoshita raises his glass anyway, feeling ridiculous when Tanaka lifts his drink even higher and keeps it there until he matches its height so that they’re both sitting there, arms raised into the air. Tanaka’s liveliness has a weird infectiousness to it though, the kind of charisma that can pick you up and make you forget your own embarrassment.
“We’re doing it anyway ’cause you need to have some fun. Make your own celebration! The night’s still young and so are we! Cheers!” he shouts in English, crashing their glasses together with enough force to send their contents sloshing around. Ennoshita grimaces and switches hands, flicking amber drops off his fingers while Tanaka knocks back his drink with enthusiasm. His face scrunches up, a satisfied exhale rushes from his mouth, and then he’s watching Ennoshita expectantly.
Tequila is far from his favorite liquor and shooting good tequila reposado feels like a waste compared to the cheaper stuff he knows he laid out inside, but he brings the glass to his mouth and drains it in one go, feeling the warm burn of alcohol slide all the way down his throat. Heat settles low in his stomach, tingling through his core.
Tanaka’s still looking at him when he taps the shot glass down, his eyes blown wider. “Did I fill that with water?”
“What?” Ennoshita breathes a laugh, reaching for the corkscrew. “No.”
“You just look so innocent I was expecting some sputtering or something.”
“It’s not my first time,” Ennoshita says, and the smirk that flickers across Tanaka’s face is almost enough to embarrass him. He’s not imbibed nearly enough to begin entertaining accidental innuendos, so he lets it roll away into the night. “It was just a shot,” he continues, looking away from the interested gleam in those eyes.
Tanaka reaches for the neck of the tequila. “Up for another?”
“I’ll stick to the wine.”
With a mumble of ‘more for me’ Tanaka pours himself another shot. Ennoshita busies himself with cutting the foil from around the bottle’s neck. Discarding it, he flips the corkscrew over and pushes the worm into the cork, steadies the bottle, and twists until the cork wiggles out with a pop. Gathering the two glasses side by side, he cradles the bottle in one hand and pours a general amount into the first bowl. Deep red liquid falls past the bottle’s opening in soft gurgles. A silky stream swirls and settles to a stop after he gives a smooth twist of his wrist to ensure that not a drop spills over the lip. He learned this etiquette years ago for the fancy events he occasionally had to attend, when he would inevitably grow bored enough to turn to people watching. The attentive poise of the servers always captured his attention the most, but when he began to learn it for himself all of the intricate steps felt completely unnecessary – almost as tedious as tedious as practicing proper tea pouring as a kid. But now he enjoys the simple ritual for its own sake, finds the motions strangely satisfying whether he’s pouring wine or water. He moves to fill the second glass with the same care. It’s a little messier this time, the practiced flick resulting in a bead of red trickling down the side of the bottle. Without napkins to wipe it away with Ennoshita simply swipes a thumb over the mess and brings the digit to his lips, licking the taste of fruit laced with the smoky remnants of tequila into his mouth.
He slides the first glass over and glances back up in time to see Tanaka’s eyes skate to the side like one would divert one’s gaze after catching a stranger’s glance across the opposite end of a train. Ennoshita’s not sure what the fleeting connection means, so he assumes it’s nothing of consequence. At best a reaction to slightly poor table manners that could be considered distasteful.
So he rubs thumb and forefinger together, skin already growing sticky, and opts for bringing his drink up, swirling it gently to watch the liquid lap against the glass. The wine looks even darker without the proper lighting. It's deep, maroon, but there are pretty glimmers of brighter ruby illuminated by the soft glow that does reach the glass. A second later he pauses, closes his eyes on impulse, and takes a sniff, feeling too aware of his own motions in the company of someone he doesn't know, but the wine had been a gift. The least he can do is properly appreciate it. He's greeted by an inviting aroma rich with the scent of grapes, sweet, strong but not as assaulting as the tequila; a good Merlot. He tips the glass against his lips and takes a slow sip, allowing the full-bodied flavor of the liquid to coat his tongue, and then he swallows. A tang of blackberries blooms and grows sharper when he inhales a breath of cool night air, letting that coat his tongue too. The sensation which tickles his palette is reminiscent of the freshness of drinking water right after tasting mint – but softer, cloying, smoother. He hums, and this time when a silence does descend on them it’s not totally uncomfortable. He's half-aware of Tanaka glancing his way every once in a while but there’s no pressure to strike up a conversation even when they stay silent for a long time, unhurriedly draining their glasses.
Tanaka releases an abrupt grunt and turns his body around so he’s sitting cross-legged, facing the city instead of the interior, his own drink couched a little clumsily in his hand. He looks like an imagine Ennoshita would want to take a picture of: thin tan fingers wrapped around a gleaming wine glass, tapering off into a wrist decorated with a chunky spiked bracelet.
“This view is seriously awesome,” Tanaka offers.
“Yeah,” Ennoshita agrees, slow and relaxed, feeling the thin vibrations of music beneath his palm as he leans it onto the cool ground. He feels that bottom-of-the-lake feeling surge somewhere inside of him again, but this time it's nice, like he's stuck inside a vast dome constructed of the Tokyo sky and there's nothing he has to do but sit and watch it. “It’s my favorite one.”