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“It’s a shame, isn’t it? How we barely lift our fatigued gazes towards the stars any longer.”
“What?” Very eloquent, great job Michinaga. He could have opted for ‘why the fuck are you addressing me right now?’ or perhaps ‘I couldn’t care less about your stupid games’. Such options are taxing though, and all he has left after hours of fighting is exhaustion.
Aglow with city lights, the night doesn’t need anything else. It’s bright enough, Michinaga decides, wondering if, by lifting his eyes, he would catch sight of a billboard showing off Ace’s unbearable face. Urg, he’d rather not try that. His luck has ran out months ago by that point; at least he’s alive, which is more than many have achieved tonight.
“Civilization has hidden them behind pollution and buildings reaching higher with each passing decade. It’s a pity, as I was saying, I miss them.”
“Then make a stupid wish of yours so we can see them again? Instead of pestering me for no fucking reason.” His sluggish mind wants nothing more than tucking itself in a quiet corner, licking superficial wounds until they cease to ache. Players died, terror painted over their faces, some crying out for a second chance—he’s still holding the zombie buckle in his hand, grip so strong the metal has left imprints against his fingers.
Why the fuck are you telling me about stars when the world is failing apart?
He blinks away something unpleasant, a scene playing in the corner of his eyes, awaiting for Geats to claim something nonsensical once more. Isn’t it how things are meant to be—Geats breezing through one game after another, barely getting wounded when everyone else has to pay a tribute so heavy they can’t always keep on living?
Where did the others go? Oh, yeah, he vaguely remembers today’s game ending, players scattering to return home rather than hanging in the lounge like they usually do. Technically, Michinaga knows he got changed, tugging on his work clothes with tired hands. Perhaps he took a shower too—in reality, he doesn’t recall any of that. As if he kept on finding himself sleepwalking.
Where’s the breaking point, he wonders, the day where he’s going to fuck up at work and get fired.
As long as it doesn’t happen too soon, who cares?
He should, perhaps.
“Great idea, I’ll write it down for next time.”
Oh yeah, Geats.
What did that man say already? Something about being headed in the same direction as him, thus why not walk together for a while. Michinaga would call that stalking, with a hint of disbelief as why Ace seems so obsessed with his existence. They absolutely do not live in the same neighborhood.
“Seriously?”
“Why not? I can’t afford running out of ideas, or else Tsumuri will get even madder at me.”
Wasting his wealth and wishes for—whatever, it shouldn’t be his problem. One day, he intends on beating Ace (and everyone else including himself, a mere detail) erasing his stupidity out of existence. The buckle is still in his hand, and he considers tossing it at Geats’ head to make a point. That asshole would be capable of keeping it as a joke, or something as hideous. He shoves it in a large pocket of his work pants instead.
“What’s the point of still participating if you got everything you’ve ever wanted?”
“Oh, I am missing a key component to my ideal world. Until I find it, I have no choice but to participate in the Desire Grand Prix.”
Does it show on his face, the absolute disdain he has for that man?
He hopes so.
“Like what? Decency? Some fucking morals?”
“Rude. Are you still mad regarding the shirt I signed for you?”
“I burned it!”
“Oh, really?”
Obviously not, that would have been a waste of a perfectly good shirt. He soaked it for hours with detergent and various products in hope to lessen the damage, sadly the outline of the letters are still visible even weeks later. Michinaga tossed it at the bottom of his closet, only wearing at home, scoffing at the reflection in the bathroom mirror every time.
“What did you expect me to do? Frame it in my home?”
“Why not? You could have sold it for profit also.”
“I’m not that desperate for money, something beyond your understanding since you wished for wealth instead of working like everyone else.”
The rare people they encounter on their walk are blurry faces, tired strangers who don’t bother lifting their head, exiting stores with plastic bags and cheap dinners. He doesn’t mind the lonesome car passing them by from time to time, it’s almost peaceful. A reprieve from endless fights and unavoidable defeats.
One minute, he was in the lounge, Neon cheerfully telling him to take care, that annoying new guy drumming against his instrument in the background, the next he’s there. There are gaps stretched in his mind, getting wider with each passing Grand Prix; he should mind before they turn into a persistent emptiness.
“What’s so interesting about the stars anyway?” Michinaga asks to fill the silence, walking next to Ace as if they weren’t mortal enemies, “it’s just a couple of distant orbs we can’t see properly.”
He can’t stand the way Ace’ shoulders shake with laughter at the question.
Why was even the point of opening his mouth if it’s only to be ridiculed once again?
“Forget it.”
“No—I’m not mocking you, it’s a valid question. I’m simply surprised you asked so abruptly. Have you ever been to Okinawa?”
“Never.”
“If you ever wish to stargaze, it has excellent spots. And, it is nostalgia that I seek, the memory of a different yet almost identical sky. When I look up, I recall glorious constellations, the milky way and everything else covered in concrete. Humanity has gotten a bit rotten since, I suppose it can’t be helped. Stars are still a stunning sight nonetheless.”
Michinaga keeps on noticing details about Geats, without meaning to; how he sticks to rider names for as long as possible when addressing fellow participants, smiles which rarely feel sincere, more sly than bright, that curious gleam in his gaze when he’s in a playful mood. And Michinaga loathes these details, the humanity they carry. It’d be more convenient to treat Geats as a creature, a foreign life form existing only to mess with others. Geats does feel older also, at times, brief moments during which Michinaga is much younger than he should be, unable to grasp exactly what’s wrong.
How long has Geats been ruining the Desire Grand Prix, he wouldn’t know.
Some days, it feels like an eternity stands between them, and he can’t catch up.
“You didn’t answer my question at all.”
“Oh? I’m fairly sure I did.”
Michinaga comes to a halt, neon lights from a convenience store nearby illuminating a side of his body as he his head snaps in Geats’ direction.
“Why are they beautiful? You talked about these useless feelings of yours I’m not even sure you have, and said nothing about the—stars themselves.”
Upon exciting the lounge, his mind betrayed him without a warning, and he wasn’t sure of where he was any longer. That’s when Ace held the door open for him, starting a conversation which is still going on, bits of unrelated topics glued together awkwardly. It’s never permanent, and since his head stays in place during the games themselves, Michinaga has little care for his frayed mental stability. They walked together on familiar streets, almost akin to an old pair of friends, Ace filling the gaps in his head with not so meaningless chatter.
Isn’t it wrong, to get close—to have that permanent rivalry going on alongside the rest—to seek Ace’s presence at the start of each new Grand Prix, only to taunt him further? An anchor made out of everything he can’t stand, someone he berates more than he has ever talked to anybody else. Is it so nonsensical to wish for them to be equals?
Geats and his stupid leather jacket too light for the evening sky, throat bare and inviting. He could sink his teeth straight into soft skin, hands tugging him down at the same time. He won’t—his jacket isn’t much better anyway, and they should wear scarves or something so they don’t freeze.
I hate you, still, Michinaga wants to repeat, just in case.
I hate everything you represent, your lies and insufferable personality, yet you’re the only person who seems to see me these days.
That sounds shitty.
“Close your eyes, and I’ll describe it to you, my burning love for the stars.”
“Why would I? Could be a trick of yours.”
“Harming another player is forbidden, isn’t it? So, what’s the risk?”
Doesn’t that exasperating jerk tire of toying with him?
“You’d figure out a way to climb up the rankings even after losing all your points, maybe it’d be amusing to you.”
“You’re always so harsh, Buffa. Ramming your way forward with brute force like a common bull. It won’t take long, I promise. Will you listen?”
“Don’t call me a bull! You—you sly fox,” he pauses, already fed up with Geats’ delighted smile, “Fine, let’s do it. You’ll never leave me alone until I accept anyway.”
Behind them, the door of the convenience store slides open, and he catch a glimpse of a man passing them by, tie undone and a vacant look in his gaze. Michinaga steps aside, so they’re not in the way, back soon resting against glass as he closes his eyes, humoring Geats’ latest fantasy.
“The sun is long gone, a bright moon has risen in its place. And, for the night is cold, wind brushing against the tip of your nose and biting your cheeks, that glow above you bring comfort. Amidst the usual streets, you find nothing interesting, and the sky seems bleak at first, as you raise your gaze. It takes a while for your vision to adjust, but then the magic happens. It starts with a one dot a bit brighter than the rest, then another, and soon the monotony of a long day is replaced by fascination. You notice how the dots connect into shapes you can’t quite name, and you have them on the tip of your tongue from childhood games. It’s not quite a memory as much as it is an emotion, a longing for what could be out there.”
Palms spread against the glass behind him, Michinaga frowns, lines forming around closed eyes.
He tries to paint a picture similar to what Ace is saying, struggling more than he’d like to admit. He prefers things he can touch, reality over nightmares or dreams. The stars seem so distant, and no matter how hard he tries, he won’t ever be able to reach out that high, so why bother?
Why would one endure such ache? His feet are stuck on the ground, heavy with the added weight of the past months, what can be fixed and mostly what will never get that opportunity. Unaware of the turmoil inside his heart, Geats goes on.
“Perhaps the city has outgrown its time, you tell yourself, starstruck by what could be the future, distancing your exhausted body from the past for once. Hey let’s burn it all down, you shout at the stars above you, eyes darting from one constellation to another. And now they’re so clear that you wonder how you could have missed them for so long. Suddenly you’re that child playing near the riverbank again, cold replaced by the heavy air of Summer days, and your voice is as loud as the fireworks exploding above. You want to dance for hours, to fight and tear that unwelcoming city apart, to map that starry heaven on your skin forever, as if you were meeting with a lover centuries after losing them.”
He’s never heard such softness from the other—it’s as if he was singing rather than talking, the flow of his words unrelenting as he keeps on adding sentences. In Michinaga’s mind, the darkest night is slowly growing into something else, a what-if, an almost-something, and he inhales sharply, wondering when metaphors have been drawn over stars, telling a completely different story.
“You start fearing the dawn glow, how the orange flames will lick at your wounds, causing them to burn once again. Couldn’t the night go on forever, dancing in the middle of ruins, you ask the stars. It’s how it is, they remind you, no matter how many shooting stars run above your head, one after another, you can’t have everything. You have to let go, they add mockingly, you cannot fight the upcoming morning, it’s not an enemy, or at least not one you can beat. Run towards the dusk sky once the day ends, bask in purples and pinks until they cover the blush on your cheeks and the bruises on your skin. The cycle will repeat—it’s how it is, you cry out to the amused stars, I hate it though, I want the nights for myself and none of the days, can’t you keep those? Let’s create a paradise only half of the time, give me that one chance.”
Fingers find their way under his chin, and they’re warm from having been stuck in pockets for a while. They don’t stop there, running across his cheek, starting to trace invisible patterns—and he should move away. What are you doing, and why?
Michinaga wants to hear the ending of that familiar story, although he already knows what it’s meant to be.
“You start running from one constellation to another, hoping one will listen to your plea. Their names come out now, one after another, and you fear that knowledge. Why get attached to them, their disappearance is unavoidable, yet you cannot stop any longer. You ask for them to stay, to keep you company, you feel them underneath your fingertips—you were so busy lamenting over what you couldn’t have, you didn’t realize you were standing amidst them all this time.”
Which story is Ace narrating, is it his own, or Michinaga’s?
It feels like both, a mix of what they could be, and a warning of what is to come at the same time.
He realizes, a bit late, that the fingers across his skin are tracing the moles on his face, linking them as if Ace was holding a pen. If he opens his eyes, will the moment be ruined? Probably. Therefore, his fist finds Ace’s leather jacket, clenching the fabric as hard as possible.
“So what, there’s no good outcome?” For the stars. For us.
Is there a point in confessing, if it’s only—oh, that was a confession, wasn’t it?
It hits him a bit late, as the fingers against his cheeks are burning with something indescribable.
Why say that? Is it merely due to his resilience, or Ace’s loneliness? Which kind of love would this be, in that case? He has no idea, stars burning behind his eyelids until he can’t quite see the beautiful scenery the other painted inside his head.
Perhaps Ace tried to depict a world he’s a part of without feeling like he belongs in the slightest, a curse weighting against his shoulders. Or, also a possibility, he means Michinaga is bound to lose himself in the Desire Grand Prix, unable to lead a normal existence any longer. Neither of these things are about love—yet, it did sound like a confession.
They could drive for hours in Ace’s expensive car—escaping the town, the DGP and everything else. No more bleary lights outside of lonesome vending machines down the road. He would lower the window on the passenger seat, arms crossed against the opening, feeling the wind brush against his face—Ace would go faster than he should, trying to rile him up—he can picture an argument, laughter from the other, the car not slowing down. They’d go beyond the edge of the world, chasing the night across the country, forgetting about everything.
“That’s how it is, what a shitty thing to say, Ukiyo Ace.”
They should do that, run away, never to be seen again. He’d forget Tohru after a while—as if. The idea of simply existing, rather than barely surviving, it’s so enticing though.
He doesn’t know why he calls him Ukiyo Ace rather than Geats; picturing such intimacy wouldn’t make sense with a so-called enemy, would it?
His eyes fly open, hand tugging the jacket and its owner down without hesitation—and his hands keep on trembling these days, he can’t stand it—Ace almost losing his balance, free hand slammed next to Michinaga’s head.
“What else could I offer? I gave all I could, describing your face and how it makes me feel, painting the night sky by following a map on your skin—” He’s only seen that solemn expression on Ace a handful of times, mostly when he thought no one was watching him, “I’d create a world for you, alas you’d never ask me to do such thing.”
“You better not! I’d kill you for such offense.”
“Of course, that’s how you are,” is it sadness, or perhaps a weariness worn for centuries, draping itself in Ace’s eyes as he speaks, palm burning against Michinaga’s cheek? “would you prefer an apology?”
“Even worse!”
“That’s what I thought, Michinaga.”
“You can’t fucking do that—don’t call my first name suddenly, as if you had that right!” As the fingers relent, slowly sliding off his face, he squeezes the fleeing hand in his, “don’t call me Buffa either, or that bull, or anything!”
“Oh? So, what should I do? You ought to say it properly, since I told the whole story, awaiting for the listener to draw the right conclusion.”
“Bullshit, you gave no ending, how could our story be already over when it has not even started?!”
What is he doing? Michinaga doesn’t want to know—in the same fashion he isn’t sure of why they started walking together while being headed in opposite directions. It’s simpler to give another sharp tug on Ace’s jacket, so their lips can brush against each other.
Fuck it, he decides, crashing them together in what’s probably the worst kiss ever.
Sure, there are questions to ponder about regarding love and what it means—can it simply be a dying star, burning brighter than ever right before combusting into nothingness? What of a future his wish aims to destroy anyway?
Michinaga doesn’t care—not right now, as Ace cradles his face between his hands, returning the kiss with equal passion. He’s sick of regrets, of waking up in tears, of begging the next day not to come—sick or Ace or Geats or Whatever he should be called. Let’s forget about all this shit, he indeed wants to shout, as the story predicted, we can burn this world down, you and I. I won’t have to forgive you if there is no past or future. Let’s take your fancy car and ride somewhere, I don’t care where—just stay with me.
What he says instead, breaking the kiss, is: “Falling in love with you is terrible, an awful outcome I didn’t ask for!” And, right after, anticipating that fake smile already finding its way onto Ace’s face: “I couldn’t care less about destiny or that shit. Let’s be together tonight.”
“That’s a bit blunt coming from you, not that I mind.”
“Fuck off!” He scowls, slamming his forehead against Ace’s, “I don’t mean it like that—I could, that’s not the point though!”
Michinaga wants real smiles, so bright they’ll hurt Ace’s jaw, that’s what the jerk deserves anyway—he wants less lies and more heartbreaking, yet awfully stupid, stories about stars and lovers who weren’t meant to make it. He wants him, every bit of Ukiyo Ace, and perhaps there is something wrong in that, in a burning desire engulfing everything on its path, surely not an appropriate therapy for grief.
He doesn’t give a shit.
“Okay,” Ace whispers, and he’s so young out of all a sudden, so hopeful as he laughs, “I can do that much. One night together.”
And what to ask? Michinaga isn’t sure. Somehow, the words are enough—not long ago, Ace created a storybook behind his eyelids with them, thus he’s willing to believe. They’ll await the upcoming morning together, he decides, rather than fearing it.
“Ace.”
“Yes?”
“Call me Michinaga again.”
“Michinaga.”
It’s not Tohru’s voice, not the light tone of a cherished friend.
Good thing it doesn’t have to be, he tells himself, burying his head against Ace’ shoulder.
“If I had known saying your name would get such reaction—”
“Don’t tease me!”
“I promise I won’t.”
What a liar.
Michinaga’s lips break into a grin.
It’s fine not to be softer than necessary, it wouldn’t fit them to be completely honest with their feelings anyway.
He steps back, already regretting how well his head fit against Ace’s body, slipping away from the convenience store and its large windows.
Where’s the limit? Is it okay to slip his hand into Ace’s? To drag him to one place and another until their feet get sore? Where would they even go? It shouldn’t matter, as long as they are together.
A shiver runs down his spine while he’s pondering about these things, and before he can suggest they go some place warmer, he feels an added weight on his shoulders. The leather jacket he scoffed about now draped around them, Ace wearing an appreciative smile on his lips at the sight.
“You looked cold, that’s all.”
“So what, you’re the one who is gonna catch a cold? I’m not nursing you back to health if that happens!”
“Oh, should I take my jacket back then?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I wouldn’t,” he allows Ace to wrap an arm around his shoulders, holding the jacket in place, “is there anything specific you’d like to do? We have a couple of hours ahead of us.”
“What about you?”
“I already got my wish—perhaps not an acute phrasing.”
The elbow he shoves into Ace’s ribs does emphasize that point.
“I ain’t a plaything. I’m—”
A mistake.
Someone who shouldn’t still be alive with the way he plays, going all out with no care for his safety. A regret he holds by himself, survivor’s guilt gnawing at his mind more regularly than not. Perhaps a name on an endless list of one night encounters for Ace—and what of it? Why should it matter if Michinaga is neither important, nor strong enough—he’s not alone right now.
“You’re a constellation, a myriad of stars linked together by that fiery will of yours.
You’re everything.”
Oh.
His cheeks are burning, accentuating the stars on his skin—usually people see them as a flaw rather than a sign of beauty. He never cared much, honestly. He wraps an arm around Ace’s waist, keeping him closer than necessary. Aren’t they almost an average couple right now? Until the dawn breaks the illusion, at least.
“Since you’re the guy who named himself the Star of the Stars of the Stars, does it mean I’m yours?”
Of course, Ace has to pause right there, brows furrowed in what’s either contemplation or whatever, it doesn’t matter. Michinaga is busy regaining his balance, since that dumbass didn’t advise him he would stop walking and he almost crashed on the ground.
“Hm, what do you think?”
“I think you could have warned me, asshole,” Why is walking glued to someone so complicated? Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he leans against his lover for the night, “you’re a star of my constellation, I’ve decided. So, we’re both—parts of each other. I guess. Fuck it, it works.”
“It sure does. Thank you.”
“What for? Flattering your ego? Watching you almost freeze to death because you gave me your jacket and now I can feel you shivering?”
“For treating me like a person.”
Shit.
The words cause his throat to tighten with something unpleasant, a scream disguised as a persistent ache; even when I insult you and call you a monster, an inhuman creature in a terrible corner of my wrecked brain, and as my anger turns into rage, you’re still a human being. He’s never been quite the best with words, unable to create a whole world out of promises. Hence the hand he grabs in is, squeezing roughly, possibly bruising the fingers he’s holding.
He has to hold the jacket over his shoulders so it doesn’t fall off in the meantime, which is harder than anticipated. Call Michinaga selfish, but he’d like to keep it for the night.
And perhaps after too.
“Let’s go somewhere warm, the cold is starting to make you say stupid things.”
“Sure, sure, Michi.”
“Stick with Michinaga.”
“It’s so long though—”
He gives a sharp tug, keeping that asshole closer as they walk.
“Do I look like I care? Anyway, earlier I thought about something, for tonight I mean—don’t give me that weird look, idiot!”
“What look?” Ukiyo ‘I love teasing you’ Ace dares to say, blossoming laughter in his voice.
“I can’t stand you. I mean it, stop laughing! Tch. We could ride somewhere, not with your chauffeur though, just us.”
“In my sports car?”
“The fancy one, yes.”
“Oh, so you noticed it. You have great taste, Michi.”
“It’s Michinaga to you!”
“Of course. Let me call my chauffeur, only so he can drive the car to us. I admit I am indeed starting to feel chiller than anticipated.”
“Tough luck, the jacket is now mine.”
Should he hand his own in return—no, he needs it for work, it’s sturdy and practical and he doesn’t fancy explaining to his boss he decided to lend it to his boyfriend or whatever Ace is meant to be.
“I’ll find another so we can get matching ones, what do you think?”
“It’s only one night, not a lifetime,” he groans, rubbing the hand he’s holding against his shirt in an attempt to warm Ace up, “that’d be embarrassing anyway. Don’t buy me anything! Ever.”
“Oh, here goes my dream of being a sugar daddy…”
“Your what?” Rather than keeping Ace from freezing, perhaps he should indulge in breaking his fingers instead, “you’re kidding, right? Ace?”
“Obviously.”
Somehow, Michinaga isn’t certain it was a joke.
● ● ●
The ride isn’t quite what he pictured in an idealized corner of his mind—the lights from the city still burn brighter than any star as they go through familiar streets, bursts of neon lights leaving him dizzy. He’s still leaning against the open window nonetheless, his jacket having long been tossed on the backseat in favor of Ace’s—he wonders if there is a time where the world truly stops, no soul to be seen wandering aimlessly, drunk people having eventually found for their way home, workers safely tucked in bed. He aches for a universe with only Ace and him, no teammates turned into past tense nor selfish games where he’s stuck in second place; dreaming while awake, lights turning into shooting stars as Ace drives with ease, a well-known pop song playing on the radio, Michinaga too tired to truly understand the lyrics any longer.
He leans a bit further, head half outside as wind blows against his face, keeping him awake. They stopped to get food at some point—and he pictured fancy food, something eaten only out of a porcelain plate. Instead they got stuff from another convenience store, Ace insisting they eat outside the car to protect his baby from harm, and mostly, greasy stains.
(Exhausted, Michinaga mumbled “Isn’t that supposed to be me? Why is the car your favorite, you fucking rich asshole?!” or perhaps it did not happen. Who knows, that night feels akin to a fever dream already.)
They found a bench, in a tiny park he had never noticed before, tucked between two buildings. And, armed with wooden chopsticks, they ate, Ace picking everything he disliked off his bento box and putting it on Michinaga’s plastic tray. Claiming it’d help with his job to be well-fed. Brows furrowed at the comment, Michinaga shoved his chopsticks, and the piece of meat they were holding, straight for Ace’s mouth.
How odd it was, to share a meal as if they were long lost friends meeting during a fateful night before losing sight of each other once again.
They ate, and then they talked—about what he isn’t sure anymore. It simply felt right, to drive around, listening to the radio with the heat on. Cars can have heated seats, a grand discovery which almost gave Michinaga a headache. Now though, he basks in the warmth, and from time to time, Ace’s hand grabs the back of his jacket, tugging him back for safety or some shit.
Should Ace be driving when they’ve been awake for so long? He doesn’t want to know. The sun isn’t up yet, they might have one more hour ahead of them. They left the town, circling around it for a while, only to return, aware they couldn’t go too far in case of a DGP game in the morning.
“Next time, I’ll let you drive.”
“Hm,” there isn’t supposed to be a next time, promises or anything, he should remind Ace. He finds himself not wanting to though, “don’t have my license yet.”
“I’ll teach you, it’s not that difficult.”
“’Kay. Hey Ace?” He fumbles with his brain a bit, body starting to beg for him to at least close his eyes, “love you.”
“Me too, Michi. Me too.”
“Cool.”
And later, as the sun races them across the awakening streets, Michinaga will pray for a couple more seconds—gaze fixed towards the sky, watching stars slowly disappear one after another, as if swallowed by reality. He won’t get them, although it doesn’t matter, in the end. What counts is these hours with Ace, the leather jacket he’ll wear upon his arrival for the next round of DGP, a couple of hushed whispers about who the jacket belonged to in the first place to which he’ll reply with a shrug. A simple “I wouldn’t wear anything from that guy, fuck off”, a smirk in Ace’s direction, and nothing more.
Perhaps they’ll be more nights of aimless love and made up stories about star-crossed lovers and the dark sky, who knows.
He wouldn’t mind.