Work Text:
It wasn’t meant to be noticed. But it was glaring, and Yoshida had had history of not looking away. So, he didn’t. So, he noticed. It was awful, and unimaginably ugly, and at the barest, worst sense, beautiful. It was also irritating beyond hell.
Denji was built like a playdoh sculpture, made by an especially clumsy kid in desperate need of human anatomy knowledge. His eyes never moved naturally; either half-hidden by his lids, or bulging out in a sudden movement, mechanical, only with hints of organic. His skin stretched tight across his bones and tendons, and everything was placed right. It was just not covered properly—this meant protruding hip bones and wrists, counting ribs even without touching them, collarbones that looked ready to shatter.
Denji’s worst parts were, perhaps, his neck and face. Sometimes his fingers, too, in certain activities. His Adam’s apple looked like a knob, jutting out from his throat as if it’d knock hard into someone leaning close enough. But his nape was sloped gracefully, almost inappropriately, calling for a curled palm closing over it; then curled and curled and curled, until there were imprints, until the skin was pulled taut and the Adam’s apple bulged even more. It was that kind of grace; it was arguably the best kind of grace someone like Denji could afford.
His face, though, was a mesh of sharp cheekbones and misplaced baby fats. It was as if Denji’s body didn’t get the same memo for each part. Grow, stretch, accommodate. Instead, it was stretch, stretch, stuck. Sometimes, in the afternoon lights, Denji’s baby fats seemed like they were hanging on a splintering thread to stay—as if they were remembering a looming threat to come, and so they stayed because what if it wasn’t stretch, stretch, stuck anymore? It’d just be stretch, stretch, stretch. There weren’t enough meat and muscles to be stretched. Denji’s body didn’t get the same memo. It never learned how to gain proper weight to accommodate, after all.
Yoshida had thought of framing that face with both palms. He’d check if the skin was as crusty and rough as it had looked, or if it’d be the same kind of grace like Denji’s nape. He supposed his palms wouldn’t curl. They would press, squish, crack, crack, crack. He never crushed someone’s head with bare hands, but he could try. Surely, it was justified for the curiosity. Surely—
Denji had a body like it was made from a stale playdoh. No longer as pliable, as malleable. His body looked like something Yoshida would shape. Surely, it could be true.
There was a black jacket Denji liked to wear. It creased and crumpled; stained and dirtied. Then, it was clean again; neatly pressed. Despite his atrocious table manner, Denji never rolled the sleeves. So, they flapped and flopped around as he gesticulated—wildly, lazily, a continuous motion that could get stuck in a still moment so suddenly. Denji liked to wear it all the time, and all the time, he always looked pinched as he curled into the large space of the shoulders.
Yoshida brought scissors and pulled at both sleeves, one day. He could afford this. He had enough money to buy a new jacket for Denji. A fitting one that wouldn’t flap, flap, flop; one that wouldn’t cover the hands until the tips of fingers were barely visible. Denji would let him.
Denji didn’t. Instead, he snarled and jumped away and looked at Yoshida with something close to real, sincere emotions since the first time they met. There were many; flitting through his wrongly-shaped face. Shock, anger, indignation, fear. But one shone the brightest: hurt.
“Whatcha doin’,” Denji then asked, after Yoshida stood motionless for some time, just staring at the five-steps-distance between them. “Whatcha gonna do with those.”
Yoshida blinked, then straightened himself. His smile was mild, the scissors now safely pocketed. It had been rendered useless by Denji’s first rejection. He still had enough money to buy a new jacket, but that, too, was useless. This jacket couldn’t be traded with money. Denji probably would ask him to cut the hands directly instead of the sleeves of that oversized, creased, crumpled jacket.
“Don’t think about it,” he said, and waited until Denji nodded slowly. Yoshida had seen cornered wild animals before, sometimes not necessarily by him, but a predator before he came. Denji was like that, too—cornered by a beast before Yoshida could cut his sleeves. It didn’t sit right with him that Denji still came back to nose at his palm, instead of snarling some more and fleeing. So, he said, “It looks ugly, Denji-kun. No woman would ever come near you if you wear something like a grandpa’s hand-me-down. I’ll buy you a new one.”
Denji considered it for a moment, tilting his head slightly, left and right. He stared at Yoshida with skittish eyes, but he was closing the distance again. It was three steps. “Nah,” he shrugged, then another step. “’m fine with this.”
“Suit yourself,” Yoshida grinned, a small thing. It drew in the last step, and Denji gave him a confused grin back. He was allowed to touch the sleeves again, but this time, he pulled enough—so, so easily, just how many miles were the distance between Denji’s arms and the cuffs?—to tie them together.
Now, they wouldn’t flap, flap, flop anymore. For today, at least. Yoshida offered for ramen. Denji waved his tied sleeves and opened his mouth slowly. Rows of sharp teeth that seemed experienced in gnawing meat to the bones. Yoshida nodded, and promised to hand-feed him. There was no need for utensils. It was a hand for a hand, after all.
In the summer, Denji finally shed the jacket, but never left it out of sight. Tied around his waist, the knot loose yet Yoshida could still imagine the span of his palm covering the width entirely. Denji ate his weight through Yoshida’s wallet and he couldn’t even bother to have a waist that’d fit both hands. It was highly irritating, and sort of a futile inevitability.
Like Denji’s playdoh body, it wasn’t supposed to be noticed. Yoshida wasn’t meant to fixate. He just didn’t look away, and every time he looked, the jacket was always there. So, he fixated. So, he stared, at the small circumference of Denji’s waist in the summer, trying to figure out if Denji would finally relent and let him buy a new one if Yoshida pushed him off the roof. The jacket would be torn on impact, surely. That was a good enough reason.
“No way,” Denji snorted. “Dying in this heat? My meat will sizzle instantly!”
“Think about winter, then,” Yoshida amended with a smile, then closed his palm on the curve of the hips. It was slightly wider than the waist, bulged by the jacket yet again. Like the distance to the arms, and the hollow space of the shoulders. Every wrong angle and peculiar shape of Denji’s body was covered by this jacket.
“’m’kay,” the boy nodded, didn’t pull away. He probably felt safe with the barrier of the fabric between them. It irked Yoshida to the point of gnashing teeth behind closed lips. “I’ll think about it, too.”
Then, after the jacket, came the shirt. It was the first thing that Yoshida looked at, but didn’t notice immediately. Because it changed. Sometimes, Denji wore a white shirt that was just as oversized as the jacket. Others, he’d wear one that stretched too tight across his shoulders, and barely covered his belly. A size too large, a size too small. There was none that actually fit.
“I have a lot of shirts already,” Denji mumbled into his candy. Yoshida bought them on impulse, because they were on sale and the bright colors hurt his eyes. He dumped them on Denji’s lap first thing in the morning. The boy would have stomachache came the recess, because he never wanted to learn how to stop before it became too much. “Don’t need yours. Can’t give them to Nayuta either. I don’t know how to sew, so can’t shrink ‘em.”
He was fine with hand-me-downs that came from someone two to three sizes larger than him, but he wasn’t with Yoshida’s. He was fine with clothes that hung two inches above his wrists, but he didn’t want Yoshida’s, and didn’t give them to his charge either. Denji wore clothes to irk, and never for actual function. It was like seeing a walking nest, made from mismatched fabrics and sizes. He only accepted the ones from the predators that had cornered him before, yet despite him nosing at Yoshida’s hand, he didn’t want any more addition.
He couldn’t touch Denji’s clothes.
“Come over tonight,” he said, then closed his fingers around a bony wrist, lifting it until the sleeve fell down. It was limp in his grasp. Flap, flop. He had half a mind to shake it until Denji ached. “You can order anything you like.”
“You won’t cook for me?” Denji asked, sniffing. He eyed Yoshida suspiciously, and there was a tiny speck of disappointment in his voice. He expected something, and there was no telling where that expectation came from.
That gave Yoshida a brief pause, before he let Denji’s hand go. It fell just like that, back to the side, the sleeve covering it once more. There was an itch, to lift it again. Instead, he smiled, eyes crinkling just a tad. “If that’s what you want.”
“’kay,” the boy nodded. “I’ll go home first. Get some clothes.”
“No,” he replied evenly, then drew in a slow breath. He couldn’t touch Denji’s clothes. “You can wear mine instead. No need to go back, Denji-kun.”
Denji shrugged. “Then I need to call home. Someone gotta watch over Nayuta. She doesn’t like being left alone.”
It was more than what Yoshida wanted to know. But he nodded, and let the boy scamper away and make a call, voice hushed and ladened with too many promises to his charge on the other end of the line. We’ll go to the park this Sunday. I’ll buy you ice cream, and that bow you told me about. You can stay up late too, but only for one hour. It’ll be school night, after all. Soon, the call clicked off, and Denji was taking one, two, steps, steps, steps back to Yoshida; back to nosing his hand, yet not accepting addition. He gave a grin, then jostled Yoshida’s side.
“All set. Let’s go.”
Denji kicked off his shoes haphazardly once he entered, then thought better of it, and arranged them accordingly, set Yoshida’s in the same line, too. It was a behavior taught rather than one he initiated. Yoshida watched, then soothed the question on the tip of his tongue by taking off Denji’s jacket. It was finally a justified enough reason. He hung it along with the keys, and it was left near the doorstep, away from Denji for one night. No more distance between the arms and the cuffs.
They still ended up ordering, because Denji flopped to the ratty couch after he showered and refused to move or answer. What do you want me to make? A grunt and a nuzzle to the cushion. Denji-kun, what would you like for dinner? A heave of soft exhale and the towel slipping just slightly from that one-palm-span-waist. Yoshida ordered chicken and fries, then some milkshake after thinking of drizzling the cold, white slush on the dip of Denji’s chest, past his ribcage, and pooling on the hipbones. The towel was white, it wouldn’t make any difference. Then, he thought of cinching the jacket over Denji’s waist, nothing else, so the stain would show.
“I used your toothbrush,” Denji mumbled. “Dunno where you keep the spare.”
Why didn’t you ask. “Okay,” Yoshida nodded. Denji had no sense of basic hygiene and the germ would transfer. That toothbrush would have to be disposed. “Come on. I’ll lend you some clothes.”
He couldn’t touch Denji’s clothes, but he could replace it for one night. The shirt fell to the boy’s thighs, the collar slipped to one shoulder, and Denji’s arms looked thinner without long sleeves covering them. If Yoshida sharpened them, the elbows could be a weapon. He didn’t lend anything else, and Denji wore shorts that looked like they came from women’s section underneath his uniform pants. It was almost indecent.
But the boy was touching the hem of Yoshida’s shirt, and it was alright. It was enough to distract from the small sparks of irritation. Denji wasn’t wearing clothes to irk him, this time. Yoshida left him in the living room with some money for the delivery, then took a shower. He stared at the single toothbrush in the cup, and grabbed it, put it up against the light. Denji’s germ and ignorance. Why didn’t you ask. Has no one ever taught you not to use someone else’s private belonging?
He lowered the brush, and squeezed some paste on it. He brushed his teeth, then gargled with mouthwash, and threw their combined germs into the bin. The trash didn’t have to be taken out until Wednesday. So, it’d stay there for some time; a reminder.
“Hey,” Denji nudged him with a foot as he walked across. The TV was on, an advertisement of some men cologne. Too expensive for a student’s budget, and far too intricate for Denji’s poor taste in practically everything. But he eyed it with great interest. “Hey, hey,” the boy tried again when Yoshida just stood in the middle of the living room, towelling his hair. “Why hasn’t it come? I’m hungry.”
Yoshida gave him a thin smile, and walked over to the fridge. There were cherries he bought, but re-considered bringing for Denji. They were too ripe, now. He took them out, and didn’t wash them before he presented it before the boy. The meat would fall off and the taste of water would dilute the texture, if he ran them under the sink.
Denji gave them a stare for all of two seconds, before he started eating. He said, “They talk about it on TV and magazines, right? Knotting the stem. Can’t figure out how, or why. Just eat it.”
“It’s euphemism for kissing, Denji-kun,” he said, sat down next to Denji; bare thigh clad in women’s shorts, Yoshida’s in sweatpants. It must have bristled the skin, because the expanse looked smooth. The sparse hair was thin, and only grew thicker on the calf. He bent a little to tug one out, and got Denji yelping and flailing. “If you’re able to knot the stem with your tongue, then people will think you’re good at kissing.”
“Jerk, jerk, jerk,” Denji grunted, a sheen of unshed tears as he rubbed the inflamed spot with a hand. The one free was curled around the plastic container, half of the cherries gone. “What’s that got anything to do with kissing? Doesn’t make sense.”
Yoshida said plainly, unremorseful as he glanced at the single, short hair, “That’s because you never kissed someone.”
Denji had that look again on his face. Indignation, anger, hurt. It didn’t make sense. Then, he sulked and plucked at another cherry. “I have. I didn’t need to do tongue acrobat with cherry stem to do it.”
“Oh,” he breathed out, then flicked the hair away. In his mind, there was someone with large shoulders and arms longer than Denji’s, wearing that damned jacket, holding the boy down by the chin, kissing without a cherry stem between the tongues; then, it was someone smaller, with shorts and a shirt that hitched to reveal the belly, kissing Denji until he was gasping and flushed as red as the skin of the fruit. He might have gotten that wrong. It didn’t make the pooling nausea in his stomach any better.
The boy gave him a haughty look, a sneer on his lips, slick with fruit juice. “You jealous?” he waggled an eyebrow. “What, you thought I’m a virgin with kisses too, didn’t you? Ha! You wish.”
“Yeah,” he laughed a little, leaning back against the couch and letting the towel create a damp spot on the cushion. “I wish.”
“That’s weird,” Denji mumbled, and went back to his cherries. He went back to staring at the TV afterwards, and let Yoshida continue pressing their thighs together. At the very least, there were some meats in Denji’s upper legs. He could sink his fingers there and wouldn’t meet bones immediately.
When the delivery came, the same cologne advertisement was playing again. Denji missed a bite and the sauce fell to the shirt, he was too enraptured by glimmering bottle, made dramatic by the lighting. He never wore cologne, or perfume, or even body mist. There was no other scent but sweat and soap on his skin. If Yoshida were to really buy him that cologne, it’d be put safely in the closet and never worn. Perhaps, he’d wear it at home, spritz it on the oversized jacket and too-small shirt, and Denji would go to sleep just like that.
He didn’t ask, but Denji must have had eyes on the back of his head, because he turned around slightly and pointed to the screen. Then, he offered the bite Yoshida couldn’t swallow.
“Aki used that. The only expensive thing in the drawer,” he said, without elaboration, as if Yoshida had been in his life since the beginning and hence knew what he was talking about. “I still have the bottle. It’s empty, ‘course. I don’t really remember how it smells like anymore, honestly.”
It was yet another thing Yoshida didn’t want to know about. Like Nayuta, like Denji’s apparent lack of sewing skill. He nodded, and dispensed another smile, didn’t offer a tissue for the sauce marinating through the fabric. Denji continued eating like he never spoke, like he didn’t just give Yoshida a glimpse of what he hid in the coffin underneath his bed. The long sleeves and large shoulders now had a name.
Yoshida cleaned up after them, waiting for Denji to wake up from his food coma and scurry to the bathroom. When the toilet flushed, he turned off the TV, and waited by the door to his bedroom. Denji seemed dazed, wobbling and clutching his stomach. He ate too fast, put too many condiments, and Yoshida had watched in silence as he guzzled down bites after bites. It was akin to watching the animals kept behind a cage in the zoo, eating everything offered by the visitors in fear of not tasting another meal for days to come. A habit created by the looming threat, like Denji’s misplaced baby fats.
“The chicken was shit, anyway,” Yoshida said, and placed a palm on the small of Denji’s back deliberately. He wasn’t shaken off, so he inched down until he was cupping the base of spine. The door was closed behind, and he led the boy to the mattress. The shirt was still stained in some places, but he didn’t offer a new change. Denji seemed fine with it, he looked ready to collapse and not deal with another trip to the bathroom.
So, Yoshida let him fall face first, and slowly lowered himself onto Denji’s back. The difference was jarring, but expected. Denji had this juxtaposition of looking raggedy, all sharp angles and messy lines of clothes, but no one looked hard enough, long enough to notice his actual size. Right here, cursing weakly from underneath, clenching his fists on the sheets, he was swallowed whole by Yoshida’s body; his shoulder blades dug into the chest, his elbows grazing the sides, the swell of his ass resting just below Yoshida’s crotch. It finally felt like Denji was making up for the irritation he caused with his ill-fitting clothes.
“Asshole,” Denji wheezed. “Move over! You’re heavy! Fuck, what the hell did you eat—”
Yoshida slid to the side easily, then curled his hand on the boy’s waist again. This way, he could pretend it was larger than a palm-span; this way, he’d have to use both hands to cover the entire space of skin and meager flesh. Denji didn’t make a comment about that, and Yoshida wondered if Aki’s hands were just as large, could cover as much. Probably. Probably not. It still made him nauseous anyway.
“Denji-kun,” he whispered into the crown of hair. “Do you really want that cologne?”
Denji stilled a fraction, then curled into himself after an exhale. “No,” he replied, muffled and faint. “I just really want to sleep.”
“Okay,” he closed his eyes, and pulled the boy closer; so he could cage the waist with his arm, so the swell of ass could rest beneath his crotch again, so the scapula would dig into his skin. “Goodnight.”
“…goodnight.”
Yoshida’s bed would smell like barbeque sauce and milkshake by the morning. He slept faster than he did on any other night.
“Nah,” Denji said, a flat refusal uttered with nonchalance. He didn’t even bother to look at Yoshida. “Can’t do that again. Nayuta made too much fuss. Maybe next month. She’s looking forward to the drama play at school, gonna play Prime Minister, with the mustache and all. Gonna be distracted enough, by then.”
That wasn’t good. It meant that Denji would only be willing to give monthly chances. Not the next four days, not the next week, or the week after. Month. It wasn’t enough to replace Denji’s clothes once a month, or to teach him to use Yoshida’s spare toothbrush. The irritation would be mounting, and instead of sparks, it’d be something real to be dealt with.
“Then, I’ll come to your place,” he said, placing a piece of apple before the boy’s lips to dissuade immediate rejection. He’d take time chewing, because he was led to consider. “I’ll still order something. You don’t have to cook for the evening, and Nayuta can get what she wants, too.”
That caught Denji’s attention. He swallowed, and nodded. “She doesn’t like carrots, for some reason,” he started, kicking his legs out and pressing the sole of his shoes against Yoshida’s pants. “I’ve minced it and she still noticed. I shouldn’t have put her in Power’s room. Now she’s becoming more like her. I can’t just magically change the taste of carrot, y’know? Kid’s not picky usually but she hates some veggies and fruits. It’s not good. She needs them to grow right.”
So she wouldn’t be a stale playdoh. Unmalleable. Shaped wrong.
I didn’t ask, Yoshida smiled. “What does she like?”
“Apples and shellfish,” Denji answered easily. “She can cut them like Aki. I thought I’d die the first time she held a knife. It was so much bigger than her hand.”
Denji liked dispensing information about home, now, after the cologne. But never with explanation. Little trails that were meant to carry Yoshida to a waterfall, instead of a stream. Who’s Power, Denji? The name for your small shirts and women’s shorts? What else did you wear from Aki’s closet?
“We can get her apples,” he said. “I’ll cut it for her.”
“Sure, sure,” the boy nodded. “There’s this Chinese takeout place—”
Nayuta stared and stared, then stared some more, and finally said, “It’s so ugly.”
Yoshida gave her a placid smile and cut the rest of the apple. Denji was swallowing his second one. The cut was precise, practiced. It should be palatable and Nayuta glared at the pieces like they were declaring feud with her. It was only Denji’s soft Nayuta that made her finally pick up one and eat the rest without further complaint.
Denji hadn’t changed from his uniform, still with the sleeves of his jacket flapping about. Today, it was the too-small shirt underneath. He didn’t bother getting out of both because he wouldn’t cook. Right now, he was getting lectured by his charge about a history lesson. She was smart, smarter than a kid had the right to be. It should be unsettling, but Yoshida liked her better than most kids, or any other kids, for that matter, considering he didn't like them at all.
“What’s he doing here still,” Nayuta muttered, hiding into Denji’s side like a thorn. “It’s been hours. Why isn’t he leaving yet?”
Denji frowned. “You’re being rude,” he said, though it didn’t sound admonishing. Just mildly surprised. “’s’only been an hour, and he’s staying for dinner. He’ll buy us food, okay? You can ask for desserts.”
It seemed to pacify the girl, like a peace offering. She nodded, and continued with the lecture. Her words were spoken clearly, never stumbling over a complicated term. Her handwriting was neat and her notes organized. She already wrote in kanji, and she scrunched her nose when Denji asked her what was written. Still, she explained; patient, gentle, just like what had been given to her.
Denji was different around her. Slightly. His eyes were still that unnatural half-lidded, sudden explosion. But there was wariness around the edges, just the softest traces. Then, there was unbridled gentleness that almost made Yoshida sick. Nayuta go change your clothes, did you eat the bento, how was school, did someone bother you, did you punch them, if you did tell me so I can clean the wound. Then, it was: Nayuta come here, your favorite show is on, oh that’s the bow, yeah that looks real pretty, gotta wait next month if you want something else but I can get you ice cream on the weekend. But the worst of all was the simple utterance of her name, said with a tremble that implied how exhausted Denji was, and how he’d push through for her, for someone that seemed to be the center of his world right now.
After ordering dinner, Denji went to his room and locked the door behind. Nayuta put down her pencil and stared at Yoshida with eyes too sharp for someone so young.
“You’re a thief,” she declared, certainty in her words. “You’re trying to steal Denji-nii too.”
“How many were there?” he asked.
She ticked off her fingers. “There was that girl, and then another girl, and you. There are so many thieves around him. I’ll drive you away, too. I can’t win against Power and Aki, but I can with you.”
“Why can’t you win all the matches?” Yoshida smiled, sliding down from the couch to the floor.
She allowed the shortening distance, and scooted closer to cup a hand around her mouth. “Don’t you know?” she whispered, all the seriousness and conviction of someone who held Denji’s heart within a small palm. “Denji-nii has ghosts.”
“I didn’t,” he said. Then offered a pinky to her. “Let’s make a deal, shall we, Nayuta-chan? I’ll take the ghosts out, and we can share Denji. I won’t need take him away if we share.”
“I doubt you can do that,” she huffed, and linked their pinkies together.
He went to ruffle her hair, and she brandished her pencil like a knife. The hold was sure, a firm grip. She could stab him clean in the eye given the chance. He went with another smile and backed off. This wasn’t a cornered animal. This was yet another predator who couldn’t compete with Denji’s ghosts. His old masters.
When Denji came out, wearing a worn-out shirt that hung on his frame, yet again women’s shorts barely covering his thighs, Yoshida thought that within this apartment, Denji’s world was divided in two. At the core, there was Nayuta: the center, the molten liquid running through veins. And then, surrounding it, were memories and half-truths, the past scattered around like dirty laundry to be picked up from the floor. Denji’s ghosts didn’t pull him by the leash, but they still dictated the direction he went to; coiling, coiling tight, and he kept coming back to their cradle when Nayuta had fallen asleep.
“You still have to eat the vegetables,” Denji reminded. “If you want desserts.”
“Even if I don’t, I still deserve it,” Nayuta said primly, not a speck of sauce or crumbs around her mouth. She dabbed the napkin every so often, but ate noisily. That one habit hadn’t been finessed yet. It bothered Yoshida that there were still very real traces to show that she was only a child.
“Yeah,” Denji smiled. “You do. But eat your veggies, ‘kay?”
“Okay, Denji-nii.”
Denji washed the dishes, and Nayuta helped drying it. Yoshida waited in the living room with the TV on, and another set of apple pieces on the plate. Fruit was meant to be eaten before meals. It’d help with digestion. After meals, it’d just hinder the process. Yoshida waited for Denji to eat it, nonetheless.
Nayuta slept first, after some grumbling and another fart tally. She was winning this month, and the month before that. Denji wasn’t far behind, however. The promise this time was that she’d get to choose dinner for a whole week, no carrots if needed, but she still had to eat some greens. Denji’s was to put carrot sticks in her bento for five days, and she wasn’t allowed to spit them out or intimidate people to eat them for her.
Denji was a good enough brother, and it was sort of disgusting, how earnest he was.
“C’mere,” Yoshida said, an arm laid on the back of the couch, then wrapped it around Denji’s shoulders when the boy sat. “It’s cold these days, Denji-kun. You should wear longer pants.”
“’s hot in the room,” came the reply. “Less bills if I don’t turn on the air con, y’know? Shorts are fine.”
It was almost ten. The TV was showing yet another advertisement. A resort on a private island, all the glimmering lights for the right price. Denji ogled at it and pointed to a colorful drink. He said, he knew that one, he just didn’t remember the name. Aki didn’t drink that, Aki only drank boring beer and sake, but his friend did that one time. Denji only watched because he wasn’t allowed to have alcohol; he got tea instead.
Did Aki tell you to wear those shorts? Was he fine with you showing your skin like this?
Yoshida said, “It tastes sugary, a hint of soda and mint,” and dumped his uniform jacket over Denji’s sprawling thighs.
Denji looked at him curiously. “Have you tasted one? Are you even allowed to?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I could still buy it. Do you want to try some?”
“No,” Denji echoed. “It’s not good for my health.”
Just like too much junk food and sugar. All those trashes digested by Denji’s indiscriminating mouth, resting deep in his belly and took forever to be processed by the chemicals in the stomach. Yoshida nodded as if he agreed, and tugged the boy closer. They watched the TV without really paying attention to it. A reality show; people laughing too loud and too practiced; comedic timing and mini-games segments; then advertisements, and back to the show.
Once, there was an advertisement of a cologne. A different one than Aki’s. Denji’s eyes flitted over it, unseeing. Yoshida’s hand took hold of the covered thighs, and lifted them to rest on his lap. He leaned close and whispered, “Na, Denji-kun. I’ll stay the night, okay?”
Denji’s eyes roved to his torso. “You’ll have to sleep naked,” he said. “My clothes don’t fit you.”
Your clothes don’t fit you either. “You have big shirts,” he pointed out, just to be cruel. Just to be obnoxious because Nayuta got to hoard that gentleness by being a child. “They’ll fit me.”
“You can’t—” a pause, then a soft exhale. “You can’t have them.”
You can’t touch Aki’s clothes. And he couldn’t replace them either, now. He smiled and nodded. “I’ll sleep naked. It’ll be hot anyway, right?”
“Right,” Denji said mutely, and got up. Soft paddings across the floor, Yoshida’s jacket clutched in one hand, then hung behind the door once they entered the room.
The space was uncomfortably organized. It felt like someone else’s room, and it was. Yoshida had stepped into a space Denji preserved for his ghosts. A neatly made bed, unruffled; books on a small wall shelf, untouched, the spines smooth with no noticeable cracks. A closet, where Denji kept the corpses, then the hangers behind the door, where those too-big jacket and too-small shirt were hanging next to Yoshida’s clothing.
It was hot the longer they lay on the bed. The air was still and changed into stifling mist; the circulation was meager and it’d be too cold if the windows were to be creaked open. Yoshida’s back made a dent on the mattress, sheets damp from sweat accumulating on the surface of his skin. Denji scratched his stomach and bared it open, shirt rucked up to his chest to alleviate the heat. There were the ribs, straining against skin. Where had those fats and meats gone to? Denji’s body was made from playdoh, and it didn’t grow; couldn’t grow right.
Yoshida let his fingers skate lightly over the jut of ribs, and Denji grumbled something thick in sleep. Stripped down to his boxers, bare thighs pressing right against Denji’s, and he was still sweating bullets. The skin was slick, soft, an easy glide. Yoshida threw a leg over his hips and crowded in closer to the boy.
They could choke in the heat tonight.
Yoshida left his jacket suit behind, hanging next to the small shirt. He put on the rest of his clothing and went home just as Nayuta was mumbling about strawberry jam in the morning. He bought Denji food, bought carrots and soft-served ice cream for Nayuta, and thought of breaking into the apartment, burn all of those too-big, too-small clothes.
That jacket was brought a week later. Clean, neatly pressed, smelling of a different detergent he used. Yoshida ordered in for a new one, and kept the one Denji washed in his closet, neat and untouched. The boy said, Nayuta asked about it, and Yoshida thought, ah, so the alliance has started.
He came over two days later, and Denji wore a tank-top with a cartoon doodle on the front. There was an evident gap where a bigger chest should fill it out. Instead, it hung loose and Yoshida tapped a lone finger on Denji’s sternum. It rang hollow.
“Let me join you,” Yoshida said, when Nayuta whined about the park, and then regretted it when Sunday came.
There was that nausea, roiling in his gut, stronger than before. Denji wore the too-small clothes, this time; a pink sweater with wide collar, the hem resting just below his navel. He didn’t wear shorts, but his pants were hanging at awkward level—too long to be shorts, hitching at the start his calf, stretching tight at the legs. The waist fit nicely, and it brought the worst sense of wrongness.
Yoshida took off his jacket, and draped it over Denji’s shoulders. It fell to mid-thighs and the boy told him bluntly that he was acting weird.
“It’s fucking hot outside, dude,” he said, but kept it, and didn’t take it off even as he panted and wheezed from keeping Nayuta in-check.
Yoshida left that jacket, too.
“Put on a shirt,” he said when he came over. He was sitting on the bed, naked but for his briefs. “We can turn on the air con. I’ll help pay the bills.”
Denji blinked at the prospect, then sniffed. “Why.”
“Put on Aki’s shirt, Denji-kun.”
For a moment, Yoshida thought that he’d be refused blatantly, kicked out in the middle of the night, with Nayuta’s disappointed sigh following behind. Denji’s face crumpled for a heartbeat, and smoothened with difficulty; wiped blank of emotions. It didn’t look right, but it wasn’t a lie. Then, he moved with a stiffness that signify a heavy weight on his shoulders.
He took off the tank-top, a single flower on the front, still with a gap where breasts should be. When he turned to rummage through the closet, Yoshida stood up and leaned close behind him. It was a graveyard of clashing colors, inside. Dark and neutral clothing, two sizes too large for Denji’s frame; bright clothing, a size too small for him. Aki and Power, at last before Yoshida’s eyes.
Denji pulled one out, and didn’t say anything when Yoshida took it from him. He closed the closet, and unbuttoned the shirt, slid it over the boy’s arms and straightened the collar, before buttoning it back up. Like a dress, he thought as he took Denji back to the bed.
“Whatcha trying to do,” Denji mumbled into his chest.
Yoshida hummed in response. Two days ago, he had bought a new cologne; the one that Denji paid no attention to in the advertisement. Can’t replace the clothes, then replace the scent. He’d put the smell on every clothing, on every inch of Denji’s skin. So the graveyard would be sullied; so the ghosts had to make space for Yoshida. A sliver of opening.
“Hug me tighter,” he said instead. “It’s going to be cold.”
“There’s blanket.”
He smiled and hitched Denji’s leg to his hips. “Hug me close, Denji-kun.”
Denji did. The air con was a low hum throughout the night, racking up electricity bills. Yoshida’s skin was littered with goosebumps, and neither of them slept until the morning.
The next time, Nayuta asked for him. Yoshida crinkled a smile and Denji looked puzzled. She never liked anyone I brought. He said, there’s a first for everything, Denji-kun.
He knocked, and pushed both Denji and Nayuta inside once he had taken a good look. Then, he locked the door behind and said, “We should order in. The park will be too crowded today because of that new burger place. We can try another time. Didn’t you say you wanted to try those expensive strawberries? They can be delivered.”
Nayuta’s glare was enough to kill a lesser man. Yoshida gave her the phone and told her to order anything, he’d deal with Denji’s nagging. She nodded solemnly and asked for a bracelet in addition, as well as a new set of coloring pencils. Pragmatic and quick. Yoshida’s temple twitched, but he nodded genially and ushered them further into the living room.
His wallet suffered a dent that Sunday. Nayuta ate enough cake and takoyaki to make her sick, and was impatiently waiting for her stuffs—Yoshida guided her on using the online market app—even though she’d just put the order in. It’d take two to three days. Denji kept staring at the strawberries like they were the second coming of Jesus, awestruck and a little bit fearful. How can these cost so much? Shit, it’s more than Nayuta’s lunch money for a month!
Yoshida took the delivered food and didn’t give an inch for the guy to peek inside, slammed the door close at his face after a tip. Then, he locked it again, and put everything down, shed off his jacket, and tuck it around Denji’s thighs. That way, he didn’t have to look at the skirt.
“The hell is wrong with you today?” Denji asked later at night, standing before him. The skirt swished, swished, and Yoshida wanted to rip the little thing apart. “If Nayuta has diarrhea, you pay for the clinic, got it?”
“Got it,” he nodded, and sat up from his sprawl. “Denji-kun, let’s go to bed.”
“Nah, it’s still too early,” the boy said dismissively and dropped down next to Yoshida. The skirt hitched up; Yoshida heaved a deep breath. “Hey, you wanna watch something? Think this one channel plays old movies around this hour.”
“No,” he said, soft and stiff. “Do you want to put on Aki’s shirt again for me, tonight?”
That gave Denji a pause. There was the same blank face, covering the familiar flurry of emotions. Shock, anger, hurt, hurt, hurt. When he stood up, Yoshida followed, a pace slower behind. Then, in the bedroom, Denji whirled around and slammed him against the door, back pressed against the too-big, too-small clothes, another jacket he left a few days ago.
“What the fuck are you trying do?” Denji snarled, and ah, there it is. Will you bite this time, Denji-kun?
“You don’t want to put on his shirt,” Yoshida said blithely.
Denji swallowed, and for a heartbeat, he was that playdoh again. Stale, unmalleable, just a touch away from drying and crumbling down. He let Yoshida go, and stared at the floor. His fringe fell to hide his eyes, but his voice trembled.
“No, I don’t wanna.”
“Okay,” he nodded, then took off his blue button-up, hung it behind him. When he did the same to Denji, the boy let him. “Wear my shirt tonight, ‘s’that alright?”
“Yeah, alright,” Denji replied around a sigh. He waited until Yoshida was done properly buttoning the shirt, then bent a little to shuck off the skirt. He paused when a hand stopped him.
“Keep it,” Yoshida smiled. “Let’s sleep like this.”
“I thought you—” the boy started, then stuttered. “What the hell, didn’t you—I don’t know, but you just—”
“You thought I hate it?” he asked, and Denji nodded hesitantly. “I do,” he said. “But not because of what you might think. It looks good on you. Do you want me to buy you some more? We can order online if you’re too embarrassed to go out.”
“I already have some,” Denji answered.
Yes, but not yours. Yoshida nodded. “Tell me first if you’re wearing them, okay?”
Denji gave him a look, but didn’t comment on it, didn’t give a reply. He just ambled to the bed and fell face first. When Yoshida lay on him again, he was less resistant. You’re fucking heavy, but didn’t grip the sheets anymore; get the fuck off my back, I can’t breathe, but didn’t buck until Yoshida glided over to the side.
The air con was on again, Denji’s leg over his hips. Yoshida placed his palm on the bare thigh and pretended that it was enough to warm the skin; pretended he didn’t feel Denji’s eyes on him, didn’t hear the softly voiced seriously, just what the fuck are you trying to do, you weirdo.
Nayuta knocked on the door early at dawn, sniffling and clutching her stomach. Denji sighed and carried her on his hips, took out pills and heating pads. Yoshida left soon after, zipping his jacket to the collar, shirtless underneath.
Nayuta-chan likes the melon scented shampoo, right?
Yeah.
How about groceries shopping together? I need to buy some things too.
Why, you payin’?
If you promise to buy only the things I allow.
Deal.
Denji still wore that oversized jacket. Flap, flop. He still had the tight shirt underneath, his bellybutton peeking every so often when he stretched and yawn. Some days when Yoshida came over, the skirt swished, swished gently against the breeze, following the movement of Denji’s legs. The tank-tops were loose on the chest, the shirts hid the tips of his fingers, the shorts framed his waist nicely and bared too much skin, too close to crotch.
But Denji’s hair smelled like Yoshida’s preferred shampoo, and they used the same detergent now. That glance-and-over cologne stuck to Aki’s shirts and Power’s sweaters. Nayuta bore through his wallet worse than Denji with her whims, but she didn’t complain about him spending time in the apartment. Yoshida now had a side on Denji’s bed, and the air con was on every night.
Can’t replace the clothes, then replace everything else.
Then, Denji was sick.
Nayuta was picked up by Kishibe, and Yoshida nearly met an early death at the doorstep. He smiled at Kishibe’s even, piercing stare, wondering if it’d be a knife or a gun getting to him first. They didn’t cross paths often, because they worked best alone. But they knew each other’s sins, and Yoshida thought, wonder how many Aki’s body counts were.
Denji sweated and moaned, burning through the skin and retching everything he ate. He curled into the blanket and clutched the jacket close. In his delirious whispers, Aki. Aki, it hurts. Aki, while reaching out for Yoshida, tugging at the piercing on the lowest end of the lobe.
When Denji had passed out from exhaustion and medications, Yoshida dug around. He touched everything in the closet and memorized every clothing article that wasn’t meant for Denji. Sweatpants, sweatshirts, sweaters, shirts, t-shirts, coats, jacket suits, dress pants, pyjamas, shorts, boxers, jackets, scarfs, skirts, tank-tops, high-waisted jeans, a dress, crop tops—he left the traces of cologne on every single one of them.
Then, in the drawer, was Aki’s empty cologne, hair ties, colorful hair clips, and two studs put in a ring box. On the corner, atop the important documents, lay a framed picture. A man taller than Denji, broad shoulders, hair in a knot, studs on each ear, a cigarette between his lips; a girl with long, wild hair, marginally kept back by a red band, sharp teeth shown in a grin, bright eyes crinkled in a boisterous laugh. Then, Denji, caught in the middle, younger and miffed by their arms around him. But he wasn’t pulled taut by the skin, wasn’t angry, indignant, shocked, hurt.
Hayakawa Aki. Power. Hayakawa Denji. Written on the back of the picture once Yoshida removed it, dated back to almost three years ago. So, the wound was still fresh; dripping. So, Denji would wear that jacket around even in the summer, would turn off the air con for the shorts, would look like his heart was fracturing each time Yoshida pushed. Flap, flop. Swish.
Hayakawa Denji.
There was no way a contract killer like Aki would take a lover under legal papers. Denji’s name registered just as was in school. Power didn’t get the last name, neither did Nayuta. Not lovers, not brothers—less, more, more, more. A vow made in the silence was the strongest and bore the sharpest thorn, carried a lasting turmoil.
Oh, so this was fruitless. So, this was futile.
So that’s why you let your ghosts live.
Denji’s body was a stale playdoh. Unmalleable. Drying. Fracturing. Breaking apart. His heart, too, was made of the same thing. Except that no one had been allowed to shape it, save for Hayakawa Aki. Hayakawa Denji. It had dried, died, shattered, for a dead man. Hayakawa Aki/Denji/Aki/Denji/Aki—
“Denji-kun,” he called out, after everything had been put back in place, not a single fabric out of supposed line.
Denji blinked awake slowly, then shivered. “Aki,” he croaked out. Pitiful, pathetic.
Yoshida grasped his hand, knobby fingers and bony wrist, pressed it against his lips. “Denji,” he said.
Then, for the first time since they knew each other, Denji cried. It was the fever, then it was the grief. Come the morning, they’d both remember everything. Come the morning, Yoshida would pick up Nayuta from school, and Denji would smear snot all over that cursed jacket, then talked as if Yoshida had known his ghosts since the beginning.
Yoshida slept on the couch. He thought, he’d make toasts with strawberry jam tomorrow. He should make some soup for Denji, and put some vegetables in Nayuta’s bento. He’d mess it up, but it didn’t matter, because Nayuta was right: you couldn’t win against ghosts.
“I’m moving in,” he told Nayuta. “I already paid half the bills, and buy the groceries, anyway.”
Nayuta swung their hands together. Neither of them said anything about the lack of request, or Denji’s explicit agreement. “You drove away the ghosts?”
“No,” he smiled, and tightened his hold just a fraction, before relaxing. Nayuta ate all the vegetables, it’d be something to appease Denji. “They’re staying.”
“Then you’ve failed,” the girl said. “You can’t stay. We won’t share anymore.”
Yoshida stopped, and knelt before her, straightening her fingers carefully and thinking of buying her new bracelets. Maybe a watch. “Nayuta-chan,” he started. “You won’t have to compete against the ghosts when I’m there. Isn’t that great? Only I have to look at them. And there will be no more thieves. We can still share.”
That’s a good bargain, Nayuta’s eyes said. “Are you like Aki and Kishibe?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t be enough, then,” she muttered. “Denji-nii said that Aki could barely afford taking care of him and Power. Kishibe just drinks and smokes away all his money. Denji-nii wants me to go to college, how are you going to afford that?”
“I have better salary,” he assured. “Kishibe isn’t the only one I work with. You can go to college, and Denji can work after graduating high school. It will be enough. It’s enough so far, isn’t it?”
“That’s true,” she nodded slowly. Then, “You’re going to be his ghost, too.” Because one day, you’ll end up like Aki.
Yoshida thought about it. Working twice as hard to feed three mouths, paying the bills and groceries, putting up with Nayuta’s sharp mind and Denji’s fractured heart, dying alone without any way to call home, his clothes stacked on top of Aki’s and Power’s, worn on summer heat and a room without air con, a name called out in the haze of fever.
He didn’t smile, but he said, “Yes.”
Nayuta wrapped her hand around two of his fingers. “Okay. What’s for dinner?”
“Denji is still thinking.”
“I hope he doesn’t hide carrots in the omelet again.”
“Denji,” he said, when the clock ticked by. The air con hummed, Nayuta had gone to sleep after winning the fart tally this month, and Yoshida finally started smoking around the apartment. He used Aki’s ashtray, and Denji would sit with him on the balcony in Power’s high-waisted shorts and nothing else.
Denji rustled, pressed his cold nose deeper into Yoshida’s bare chest. “Hmm.”
Does Nayuta have legal papers? What’s for breakfast? You used my toothbrush again, didn’t you, yesterday?
"Tomorrow, let’s take Nayuta to the park.”
“You woke me up for that?” the boy grumbled, then looked up when Yoshida caressed his thigh. “What’s this about, spit it out. ‘m sleepy, goddammit.”
“Do you want to wear Power’s dress?” he asked, gauged, watched. “Put over Aki’s coat with it. You can wear them, but you have to put my jacket over your lap when we sit down, okay?”
Playdoh heart. A sliver of space for a new ghost. Hayakawa Denji.
Denji looked at him. Blank face wiping away the shock, indignation, hurt, then, new emotions in his stale playdoh. Relief. Resignation.
Yoshida hitched his leg closer over the hips, and Denji said, “Yeah. Okay.”
Then, finally, he curled his palm over the boy’s nape. The skin was soft, the knob of spine resting just beneath the edge of the palm. Yoshida pulled it back, and cradled Denji’s face; just as soft, the skin, with sharp cheekbones and chapped lips. He framed it with both hands, and in that heartbeat, Denji was delicate, fragile, ready to be crushed.
Yoshida curled his palms there, too.
When he leaned in, Denji parted his mouth. His Adam’s apple didn’t dig into Yoshida’s neck, but his ribs did on the side, his elbow as he reached out to tangle fingers into dark hair. Denji could kiss, good enough, even if he couldn’t knot the cherry stem, still didn’t know why people even bothered. At this point, Yoshida had known that it was Himeno, Makima. Aki. Then, at last, Yoshida.
One of these days, there would be a picture. On the back would be written: Yoshida Hirofumi. Hayakawa Denji. Yoshida Nayuta.
Because Denji was still nosing on his palm, despite keeping his faith for his ghosts. Because even if the body, the heart, the stale playdoh wasn’t shaped by him, Yoshida still had a sliver of space and a fragment from the fracture to shape with his hands.
Surely, it would be true. Surely—