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And I am freaking out in the middle of the street
With the complete conviction of someone who has never had anything actually really bad happen to them
But I am committed, now, to the feeling
…
The two linger for a bit, both of their faces to Ramuda’s preemptively shut door. Dice is the first to react, raising a fist to the frosted glass before lowering it of his own accord. He takes a deep breath as he looks at Gentaro.
Gentaro offers that they wait a bit; tells him that there’s still a chance Ramuda will change his mind. Dice tells him it’s counterintuitive for them to wait around for him all night. He silently disagrees but nods anyways.
Minutes crawl and the sky is quick to darken. The door stays shut and Gentaro is seething.
Gentaro doesn’t understand why he feels so betrayed. It’s characteristic; expected even, for Ramuda to close them off like this, yet the emotions make his head swirl. He doesn’t know quite what to think, what to feel.
Dice laces his hands behind his head before turning around. “Tough isn’t it? Guess no dinner tonight” he sighs.
There’s an over-looming sense of dread taking root in the pit of his stomach. He shakes his head, “Really, Dice? After everything, you’re butthurt you couldn’t pawn a free meal off him?” He’s surprised by his own bitterness. He doesn’t mean to sound harsh but is frustrated all the same.
Meandering into the murky night, Dice doesn’t stick around long enough to take it personally, “I wanna help him. Trust me.” Lamplit sidewalks line his tracks and he motions for Gentaro to follow. “Being hungry ain’t fixing anything.”
Gentaro can’t move.
Dice continues down the twisted path, half-shouting in the distance, “He ain’t opening that door.”
And Gentaro doesn’t expect him to. In this cruel night, the wind creeps its way past the thick layers of his clothing, tickling against his skin, rubbing him raw.
Dice makes a face. Seriously?
As does Gentaro. Seriously.
He digs his heels deeper into the rough concrete.
Dice might have yelled something back to him, but any words, sarcastic or genuine, get cut to pieces by the wind. The distorted howling whips around him. There’s mist in the air, wet against his face. The water pooling in his eyes begins running down his cheeks. How frustrating. Gentaro swallows gravely. It’s silent.
He turns just a glance to see just how far Dice has made it down the street but feels a brush of fur across his neck instead.
“You’ll get cold standing in one spot,” Dice says, laying his coat atop Gentaro’s shoulders. The thick fabric is heavy. A strong musky scent clings to the fur-lined hood and the pockets stuffed with god-only-knows-what prod into him. Dice takes Gentaro’s hands into his own. “C’mon. Let’s walk around for a bit.” Gentaro doesn’t want to leave but finds himself being pulled along with little resistance. At Least Dice’s touch is warm.
As Dice leads the two they weave between flower beds and lampposts. They wander in a strangely aimless path. Dice is careful not to step on any discolored brick or crack that runs between them and Gentaro is careful not to bump into him as he does so.
At night, the city is even more congested. Luminescent signs poke out between the sharp edges of skyscrapers like foliage on a tree. With a small jab in the arm, Dice points to a small fast food joint nestled into the city’s heart. It’s elegant in a way that’s terribly off-putting. Broad black beams cross to support clear glass walls as blue-light radiates from the inside. It’s tasteful, but a far cry from the bright saturated plastics Gentaro associated with most fast food establishments. Dice points to the giant yellow arcs as if he too wasn’t a remnant left by the corporations that turned nostalgia into sans-serif logo design.
Gentaro doesn’t really want to eat but doesn’t really want to be outside either. Before he’s given a chance to voice an opinion, Dice turns heel and makes the decision for the both of them. Moving opposite of the crowd, he bumps into people left and right.
“Really?” Gentaro says, narrowly making his way behind.
“I said I was hungry, and all the panic and people are making it worse. C’mon.” Looking behind his shoulder he grabs Gentaro by the wrist, pulling him along with him.
Dice taps his order into the touch screen kiosk, oblivious to the fact it’s as crowded inside as it was on the streets. Gentaro would be lying if he said it didn’t make him a bit skittish. There are bodies everywhere, lounging about in booths and atop stools. A group of sports fans clap and chant around a tiny phone screen propped against a table. At the kiosk across Dice’s, some teenagers, skateboards in hand, take an occasional glance at him while whispering amongst themselves. At the counter a businessman chats idly into a Bluetooth earpiece, glancing down at his watch every so often.
When Dice is finished with his order he moves to the side, eyeing Gentaro sheepishly. “Go ahead. We’ll just put ours on one tab, ya know, for convenience’s sake.” Gentaro squints at him “You’d be doing me a huge favor, man.” Pointing to himself he cries, “I’ve had a tough day too.” As Dice recalls his earlier misfortunes he motions frantically about. “I know I ask all the time, but it’d mean to world to me, man. Please. You want me to beg for it?”
That stops Gentaro in his tracks. The incessant quips usually firing about in his head come to a standstill. Dice clasps his hands together loudly like he’s praying. The teenagers across from them start giggling, but Dice keeps pleading. Gentaro doesn’t know whether to scream or indulge him further. It’s more than just everyone’s glances making him sweat.
Clearing his throat, he puts a hand up for Dice to stop. “That won’t be necessary,” He says, shedding Dice’s coat and handing it back to him.
Dice smiles with a shark-like grin. “Thanks, man.” After handing him some pocket change, Dice gives Gentaro a firm pat on the back causing him to fumble while pulling out his wallet.
Afterward, Dice leads the two over to a smooth mahogany booth situated near the restaurant's front entrance. Large glass windows allow the people passing outside to peer inside, taking away what little intimacy public dining had in the first place. Gentaro himself can’t remember the last time he’d sat down in such a place. Truthfully, it wasn’t his scene. Growing up, his family never went to places like these. It was too impersonal, too removed. Now as a grown man, he expects to feel misplaced and is saddened when he doesn’t.
“Yo, dude,” Dice says between mouthfuls of fries.
Gentaro doesn’t look up from his own tray as he carefully peels back the wrapper on his food, “Don’t talk while you’re chewing. It's rude.”
“Sheesh!” Dice cries, “I just wanted to tell you I have an idea for helping Ramuda.”
“Go ahead.”
Dice peers behind his shoulder before beckoning Gentaro closer. With one hand he covers the lower half of his face and says with hushed excitement, “Let’s kill him.”
Gentaro sighs, “Genius, Dice. May I ask, with what weapon?”
Dice groans, “I don’t know. I didn’t really think that far.” Leaning back in the booth, Dice almost puts his feet on the table but stops when Gentaro raises an eyebrow. “Ramuda’s kinda scrappy, and we really don’t have anything to kill him with. Our mics maybe, but is it even possible to kill someone with a mic?” He melts further and further down his seat while talking. Gentaro nods absently until Dice squirms back up to point an accusatory finger, “Hey! You weren’t supposed to agree to such a shit idea.”
The whole restaurant goes quiet. Eventually, the rumble of voices picks up, but if they weren’t garnering unwanted attention before, it’s beyond a doubt that this foolish bit was.
“Volume, Dice,” Gentaro chides.
“Man, I was just joshing. You’re always yanking my chain and shit; I thought for sure I’d get you this time.” Leaning into his hand he adds in a low voice, “But for real, you’re being so serious. It’s scaring me.”
Gentaro crosses his arms, “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for jesting.”
Dice scoffs, peeling the pickles off of his sandwich and setting them on Gentaro’s tray he says, “Honestly, I think this plan could work.”
“I don’t believe euthanasia to be a viable solution for our situation.”
Dice groans, “Let me finish. We can kill the clones. We’ll find a clone, kill him or at least disarm him, and then loot him for candy.” Dice bites at the skin peeling off his bottom lip, tapping rapidly against the table. “You don’t have to join me, but, dude, I’m so tense right now.” Dice takes a shaky breath.
It’s not the worst idea, albeit uncomfortable and desperate, but in the end Dice is right about one thing. It beats out the feeling of helplessness. They have to do something.
Gentaro shakes his head, “I’ll join you, Dice, but on one condition.”
Taking a bite from his food, Dice’s eyebrows wrinkle, “What?” he asks.
“Reimburse me.”
“Huh? But didn’t I give you enough back at the counter?”
Gentaro takes from his pockets the coins and pushes them back towards him. “That’s not nearly enough.”
“Whaddya mean? I gave you the same amount the machine said.” Dice props a knee against the window and shifts closer to the table.
Gentaro shakes his head, “You said you’d pay me for bothering the sweet lady behind the counter for more ketchup. If I remember right, you said you couldn’t bear to ask her yourself.”
Dice scoffs, “Pfft, seriously, man? You’re being an ass,”
“I’m being honest,” he says, “Treasure it while it lasts.”
…
When they leave Dice suggests they scout for clones at the park a couple of blocks from Ramuda’s place. Gentaro sits on a bench and lets the crisp night air bite at his ears. When he looks over, Dice is pulling a mint tin out of his pocket.
“Let’s just sit and lay watch for now,” Dice says, opening the case. He holds the blunt between his lips and asks for a lighter by making a pressing motion with his thumb and fist. Gentaro retrieves one from the folds of his kosode and attempts to light the tip for him. The warm little light flicker back and forth and in the wind, he shakes.
Dice holds gently onto his wrist to steady him as his other hand cups around the flame. The grip on his wrist is hot. So hot, Gentaro almost wonders if he didn’t get burned by the flame himself. It dances erratically in the frigid cityscape, but the more Gentaro shakes, the tighter Dice holds him.
Dice shakes his head laughing, “Funny how you never smoke, but you always got a light.” He inhales before cracking a smile. His teeth glow white in the darkness. When Dice exhales the smoke whispers past him, teasing Gentaro like a bad habit he didn’t want to quit.
“I suppose I like to be reliable in that way.” Gentaro’s own smile is more of a frown, but it pulls a chuckle from Dice. The smell of weed drifts away in the cold wind. Gentaro recalls it as the same smell on Dice’s coat. In a way it’s pleasant, making his own clothes, which don't smell like anything, that much more homely.
“You’re definitely the reliable type.” He says smacking Gentaro across the back. Out of Dice’s mouth, even a sincere compliment reminds Gentaro of his own shortcomings.
As the night creeps by, Gentaro finds it hard to stay awake. Dice sits next to Gentaro, but only for a short while. Dice never stays in one place for too long. It’s as if he’s innately unable to. He paces back and forth in front of Gentaro, smokes another blunt, and kicks rocks until they’re nowhere to be found. Gentaro watches from the bench.
Eventually, Dice rejoins him, clanging his knee against Gentaro’s as he sits. Leaning back Dice covers his face in despair, “This is useless.”
“This was your idea,” Gentaro reminds him.
“God, I know, but I just— I can’t sit and wait.”
“Astounding coming from the guy who suggested a plan that includes both sitting and waiting.”
Dice rolls his eyes. He looks around to see if anyone is nearby and of course, there isn’t. Apart from a car or motorcycle whipping up fallen leaves in their wake, there hadn't been a soul in the past hour or so. Dice brushes off his lap before walking out to the street. Hands-on his hips he turns and asks, “You ever dance?”
Gentaro is surprised, “You think I dance?”
“You seem like you could get down.”
“Get down,” he echoes. It’s a silly thought, almost flattering, but Gentaro shakes his head. “As a rule, no. I don’t dance.”
Dice laughs, “C’mon, I’m serious. I know you don’t look like a dancer, but you don’t look like a rapper either, and you’re pretty good at that.” Gentaro wonders if Dice knows how infectious he is.
“The art of rapping and writing are two sides of the same coin. Dancing, on the other hand, takes an entirely different skill set. It’s apples to oranges.”
“Nah, it’s not that different.” Dice reaches out a hand. “Here, I can show you,” he says.
The air around him is heavy. It should be obvious what to do. In an isolated park, there’s room for imagination; for mistakes. The vapors floating around Dice’s head invite Gentaro closer and he’s so drunk with want. Right now, he doesn’t want to think too hard about anything, and it seems Dice doesn’t either.
Gentaro takes his hand. Intertwining their fingers, Dice pulls him closer. “You’re so cold,” he says. Gentaro wants to take a small step back, but Dice wraps an arm around his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Gentaro says.
Dice starts them off with a slow back and forth sway, “Don’t be. It’s cold. I’m probably cold too,” but that’s a lie.
It’s true he hasn’t danced in a long time. Nor has he been this close to another in ages. It seems a bit silly to Gentaro, but he can’t help but stare at their feet the whole time. When he takes a brief glance up, Dice is gazing at him intently.
Dice is gentle with Gentaro. He’s slow and calculated in ways Gentaro never thought Dice was capable of. The warmth inside him grows; especially when Dice puts his hand around the small of Gentaro’s waste.
When he looks back to his feet, the swaying stops. Gentaro misses a step, and Dice laughs to himself. A small apology is exchanged by both, but it doesn’t help. Between his racing heart and the fluttering of Dice’s breath near his neck, Gentaro can’t get back on beat.
Their shoes scuff awkwardly across the concrete streets. Step by step the pace gradually picks back up thanks to Dice. Quietly he hums a little tune, mouthing, “One, two, three. One, two, three.”
It’s not dancing in the way Gentaro thought it would be. It’s not dancing Gentaro thought Dice was even capable of.
“Hey, you’re getting it,” Dice says. Gentaro frowns.
These movements and steps were like a rusty knife found in the dirt of Dice’s past. Gentaro knows nothing about ballroom dancing but knows better than to ask Dice why he does.
Dice begins to lead him around with larger, more confident strides. Gentaro follows in slightly smaller strides because he isn’t sure what spacing is appropriate. He’s pressed awkwardly into Dice’s torso and at times he can feel the rise and fall of Dice’s chest, steady and strong.
He wonders if Dice can feel the acceleration of his own heartbeat breaking through his ribs.
He tries to appreciate the moment for what it is, a sweet and seemingly romantic gesture, but all he can think about is Dice’s sweaty hand grasping onto his calloused cold one and an awkward hug that's too tight. The fabric of Dice’s jacket rubs against his wrist. Even in his own clothing Gentaro feels exposed. He feels caught as if he were guilty of a crime, and between Ramuda’s life and Dice’s feelings, he can’t help but feel responsible for it all. He thinks about what this could all mean; rewrites the scene in his head, each action, and choice, studied like a carefully arranged concerto.
Eyebrows knit, Dice looks at him softly. He’s asking what’s wrong without a word and Gentaro just smiles. His soft gaze is absolutely crushing, but Gentaro tells himself it’s nothing.
In the end, he wishes things were smoother between the two of them. He wishes that Dice were more romantic and that he himself didn’t have two left feet. He can’t bare being any closer to Dice. He can’t stand the roughness of his hands or the warmth of his skin. But worst of all, he can’t bare to part from him. Gentaro dreads this coming to an end but doesn’t even know what this is.
When Dice turns Gentaro, he places a hand on his back and leans him into a dip. Gentaro tenses, flinching as he’s slowly lowered. Gentaro holds his breath, but as soon as Gentaro even notices he’s falling, Dice picks him back up.
“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” Dice laughs, unsure but nonchalant.
Gentaro is falling through a fever dream before proper preparation. The world is intoxicated without him. He always preferred his perennial despair to fleeting distractions, however, Dice is so more than that. Gentaro realizes he can’t be without Dice and it’s a scary thought.
The pulse in his wrists, his fingertips shake and sweat, cold and clammy, are all capable of betraying him to Dice. In the silence, they sway together as before, chest to chest. Dice is sweating a bit but smiling more so. Gentaro feels his fur collar sticking to his own neck and the bones of Dice’s knuckles against his own. When Dice's head drops onto his shoulder, Gentaro holds him even tighter.
Nuzzling into him, Dice says softly, “Don’t be mad, Gentaro, but back at Ramuda’s place, I think that was the first time I’ve ever seen you cry.” He buries his face deeper. Gentaro feels guilt. He isn’t too sure what his own expression betrays but the air is dreadfully solemn. “I was relieved,” Dice says.
Gentaro frowns. He smells like weed and his eyes sting whenever they close. The cold air has an aroma of smoke and citrus. He bites at his own cracked lips, his cheeks rosy from the nighttime chill.
Dice looks up, his own face red and ruined, “You good?”
Sometimes when Gentaro wants to scold Dice he forgets he’s hardly an adult. He forgets how much older Dice already pretends to be. It’s rare seeing Dice look so young, so sedated.
Gentaro remembers as a child plucking golden dandelions with his brother. Together they’d count the puffs, blowing each out into the warm summer breeze, making wishes neither dared to speak aloud. Gentaro would hold his brother’s hand; the same gentle hand that pinned back beetle wings without breaking their delicate legs. After dinner, Gentaro and his brother would tell their mother about their day. They would tell her about the bugs they caught and how they saw the most beautiful fruits at the market that their father couldn’t afford.
“I am,” Gentaro says. “I’m good.”
In the chill of dawn, his breath joins Dice's in a smoky exhale. Dice is warm because Dice is always warm.
It’s nearly dawn when the sun peaks its weary head above the horizon and Gentaro thinks to himself, this isn’t the kind of moment you’d dream of. It’s not the kind of moment Dice would go home to tell his mother about, and the notion of that alone hurts since the poor boy had neither.
But for now, Gentaro will melt into the arms of another and think, for just a second, he was capable of being held.