Chapter Text
“Let’s get married,” says Akihiko one morning, apropos of nothing.
The words seem to echo in the confines of the apartment, amplified in the stillness of dawn. Outside, the suburbs of Greater Tokyo remain blissfully unaware in their slumber—a concrete patchwork fading into the pink-lit horizon, leaving only the two of them to witness the proposition, save for the whispers of the early autumn wind.
Haruki’s used to these bursts of impulsivity. It’s part of what first attracted him to the man: his brash confidence a counterbalance to his own cautious nature, childlike optimism fearless and free. Over the years he’s learned that it’s easier to play along; that if he asks enough questions, entertains these flights of fancy, things will eventually run their course—as likely to come to nothing as to light the way for new possibilities to unfold.
But it’s also a rare Sunday when both their schedules are clear (and the bed so soft, and the sky so grey). So rather than expend energy interrogating the idea, he burrows deeper beneath the covers in search of Akihiko’s warmth.
“Akihiko… ‘s cold,” he whines against the unyieldingly solid body next to his, when it fails to shift to accommodate him.
Under the comfortable haze of drowsiness he’s only dimly aware of the unspoken question hanging between them. But for a fleeting second he imagines that Akihiko’s about to say more—to upend their careful equilibrium, shake the foundations of the life they’ve carved out for themselves, moment by quiet moment away from the bright lights of the stage.
Then Akihiko lifts an arm to pull him closer, fingers stroking his hair before gently trailing down the line of his cheek. Haruki sighs contentedly as he leans into the touch, the matter all but forgotten.
It’s well into the evening when Haruki finally unfurls from his position on the couch, wincing as every muscle lodges an individual protest. He removes his glasses to rub at his eyes, positive he’s been re-reading the same line for the past twenty minutes, and blinks fiercely at the impenetrable lines of characters becoming a blur against the backlit screen.
“I’d forgotten how much I hated contracts,” he groans, feeling the satisfying pop of his joints settling back into place. “Remind me why I agreed to take this on again?”
Akihiko chuckles without looking up from the stove. “Because you have difficulty saying no to a friend,” he replies matter-of-factly. “And you said you’d always wanted to run a jazz café, and it was a good opportunity to try something new while the band’s taking a break, and you were feeling nostalgic for your student days working in hospitality… should I continue?”
He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less vexing.
“I said I liked chatting to customers, not negotiating with suppliers—or for that matter, interpreting legalese,” Haruki corrects him with a sigh. “Clearly it was a moment of temporary insanity on my part. Next time I get any more bright ideas, you’ve got permission to beat them out of my head.”
Even with Akihiko’s back towards him Haruki can sense his smile, equally confident that Akihiko’s aware of the disgruntled face he’s making. It’s a familiar routine, this gentle back and forth—as instinctive as their music falling into rhythm, as easy and natural as breathing.
Sure enough, Akihiko responds with practised patience. “It’ll be over soon enough,” he says placatingly, with all the reassurance of a parent consoling a small child. “How long is it now? Three weeks until the opening?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.”
With an air of finality, Haruki closes the offending laptop for the evening and stands to clear the table. The stack of papers is placed unceremoniously on the floor next to the pile of trade magazines gathering dust, as if mocking his initial enthusiasm for his current endeavour. Despite its relatively generous size, his old apartment is starting to get short on floor space, and he briefly regrets continually putting off their search for a bigger place.
As he makes a token effort at tidying, a thought idly springs to mind. “Hey, speaking of breaks… have you heard anything from Uecchi lately?”
Akihiko hums as he gives the wok a final toss, a skill he’s refined over the years even if fried rice remains his go-to. “Last I heard he and Mafuyu were planning on staying in London until two days before the wedding—cutting it pretty close if you ask me. But it figures he’d enjoy the UK music scene.”
“Well, he’d better pray their flight doesn’t get delayed. Yayoi-chan will behead him otherwise.” Haruki doesn’t quite manage to suppress an involuntary shudder.
His reaction isn’t lost on Akihiko, who laughs as he brings over their plates and sets them down with an exaggerated flourish. “How’s it going on that front? Yatake still got his head attached?”
“Pft. Barely, but not for the reasons you’d think,” Haruki snorts, gratefully digging in. “Honestly,” he explains between mouthfuls, “if he texts me one more time about changes to the shot list, I think I’m the one who’s going to murder him.”
Akihiko gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Ah, the trials of a long-suffering best man.”
They eat in comfortable silence, accompanied only by the hum of the TV. It’s the usual benign mix of news and documentaries—they’ve imposed a moratorium on variety shows, having too many memories of their own forced participation and the confected responses they necessitated. Despite or perhaps because of it all, it’s this simple time together that Haruki cherishes most: no interviews, no hotels, no stage-managed public appearances; just him and Akihiko in the sanctity of their home.
Partway through watching the journey of migratory birds the monotone narration begins taking its toll, aided by mental exhaustion and a full belly. Haruki makes several valiant efforts to stave off an oncoming yawn, and is on the verge of conceding when he feels Akihiko tense up beside him.
“Is it… something you’d ever consider, someday?” Akihiko asks, voice carefully even. Only when Haruki turns to look at him, having failed to pull together the threads of their earlier conversations, does he clarify,
“Marriage, I mean.”
Haruki thinks of contracts and applications and musty government offices, and bursts out laughing in incredulity. “More paperwork? God no!” He wipes a tear from his eye. “Anyway, it’s impossible, right?”
There’s a split second of silence before Akihiko gives a noncommittal shrug, shaking off the strange restlessness that had possessed him.
“Guess not, huh.”
And that’s the end of it.
But Haruki’s mind wanders, following the trace of the idea down theoretical rabbit holes, through pockets of half-recollection and aborted conversations. He remembers seeing the odd article on another municipality adopting the partnership system; his mother had even sent him a text message about it, in the guise of a less-than-subtle enquiry about when they were next planning to visit, and oh, shouldn’t he be thinking of settling down now that he was fast approaching his thirties?
He’d laughed at her then, just as he’d laughed at the notion of settling down when you and your partner were both members of one of Japan’s pre-eminent rock bands—even setting aside the various legal hurdles. But she’d been insistent, and so he’d promised to look into it when he had the time. Yet in the immediacy of their daily lives, the whirlwind of their nascent careers, it had always been something for later: an academic curiosity to pursue in a quiet moment that never arrives.
For that same reason their current living arrangements are a carryover from their student days, the last semblance of normalcy in their less-than-ordinary lifestyles. Haruki’s secretly proud of having held onto something of their old selves—he’d once joked to Yatake that it kept them grounded—despite their manager’s raised eyebrow at his reluctance to give up the modest apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo. That hadn’t put a stop to the flyers for upmarket condos in Shibuya, Roppongi, Meguro (“for security”, he’d been told), and each time they argued over which was the more conspicuous. But he was hardly home that often, so wasn’t it easier to just keep things the same?
And Akihiko practically lived with him anyway, especially once they’d upgraded to a double bed one year into their relationship. He’d also neglected to trade up to something more respectable, retaining his rooftop apartment—if it could even be called that—as an additional practice space outside of the studio. While Haruki puts part of this down to sheer laziness, he also suspects there’s a fair bit of sentimentality at play: the place marking Akihiko’s first steps towards independence, the first time they’d made love.
The memories are intimate, intensely personal, something for just the two of them alone—and the prospect of trying to label what they have, of inviting government bureaucracy, feels more like an unnecessary intrusion. In their exceptional circumstances, something as ordinary as marriage—or any cheap facsimile thereof—seems abstract and fantastical, and he can’t reconcile his reality with the smiling couples gracing billboards and magazines. Their vague promise of domestic happiness pales in comparison to what he already has in hand, and it feels like the utmost greed to want for anything more.
He’s jolted back to the present by the sound of plates clattering, as Akihiko carries them back to the kitchen and sets them down in the sink.
“Just leave them—I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” Haruki says, stifling another yawn. “I think I’m gonna turn in for the night. Come to bed soon?”
To his surprise, Akihiko shakes his head, walking over to collect his jacket from where he’d draped it over the back of a dining chair.
“Wait, you’re not staying over?”
Akihiko shrugs on the item of clothing without meeting his eyes.
“Sorry, I don’t think I can.”
Despite his outward shows of bravado, Akihiko’s really quite sensitive—or so Haruki’s learned over the years. It’s a trait that expresses itself in the subtlety of his violin playing, though he hears less of it these days, as well as his casual displays of thoughtfulness: from the random gifts he brings home, often trifles that Haruki’s mentioned in passing; to the uncanny way he sends random messages that make Haruki smile during even the most trying of days.
So while it’s not unheard of for Akihiko to be subdued or lost in thought, it’s rare for that moodiness to be directed at him.
The shift is small enough to go unnoticed at first, especially when Haruki’s already-busy schedule ramps up another notch in the last mad rush before opening. There are deliveries to sign for, tradespeople to wrangle and final inspections to be made (including a plumbing emergency that just doesn’t bear thinking about), and when he gets home most days he can barely keep his eyes open long enough to eat and shower, before mercifully collapsing into bed.
For his part, Akihiko is busy too. Ever since Given announced their hiatus he’s received a steady string of invitations to collaborate on various musical projects, and Haruki sometimes jokes that he’s the only one of them actually using their university degree. He’s long since given up on keeping track of the prolific mix of artists and genres Akihiko’s lent his skills to, but he still feels a burst of pride upon reading every article and interview, at seeing his talent shine. It’s second only to the swell of affection he feels upon coming home to find Akihiko engrossed in a new composition, handsome features focused on what he does best.
Except that lately he’s increasingly found himself returning to an empty apartment, only a too-dark and too-quiet room to greet him at the end of another long day.
He tells himself it can’t be helped; they just need to ride out this temporary wave of extracurricular insanity and they’ll soon be back on solid ground. But as the weeks go by and they continue passing like ships in the night—and he finds himself eating yet another convenience store bentō alone in front of the TV—he’s gripped by a rush of uneasiness. Never before has what they had felt so tenuous, so frail, and in his weaker moments he feels ill at the thought that the life they’d so carefully woven together could so easily slip away. And for the first time he catches himself longing for reassurances, for something more solid to cling to amidst the roiling chaos.
When they do cross paths, Akihiko is distant in a way that Haruki had forgotten he could be. They still exchange words—metered out in increasingly curt and utilitarian syllables—but it’s like they’ve been catapulted back to the time they first met, when Akihiko had a far more volatile edge and was far less approachable.
And frankly, Haruki’s not sure he’s got the emotional energy to take much more of it.
Things finally come to a head two weeks into this uncalled-for treatment. Once again Akihiko announces he’ll be heading back to his apartment for the night, and in desperation Haruki reaches out to grab his sleeve as he strides towards the door.
“Will you just tell me what’s wrong?” He hates the tremor in his voice almost as much as he hates the silent wall of Akihiko’s back.
Ever so slowly, after mere seconds that seem to stretch on for an eternity, Akihiko turns to face him. But when Haruki searches his eyes there’s little comfort to be found—gone is the underlying affection, the teasing mischief, replaced by a cold and hopeless emptiness.
“Even if I told you, nothing will change.”
The words stun Haruki into silence.
In the depths of his memory there awakens faint memories of that night, echoes of a fear and helplessness he thought he’d long since buried. Akihiko must feel it too, because he makes a pained face, shrugging off Haruki’s grasp in his haste to escape.
The abrupt movement is enough to startle Haruki out of his reverie. His shock gives way to a barely-contained urgency—he instinctively knows there’s something about this moment that’s too important to surrender, and he can’t let things end like this; he won’t. So, summoning the courage that Akihiko seems to have in reserves, he steadies his voice and reaches for Akihiko’s hand where it rests on the door handle.
“You don’t know that for sure,” he says, cajoling, as he covers Akihiko’s long, calloused fingers with his own. “Akihiko, let’s talk—tell me, how can I help? What can I do?”
But Akihiko refuses to be moved, letting his eyes flutter shut with a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing,” he says with finality. “You said it was impossible.”
The defeat in his voice is unrecognisable—so unlike the man for whom risks and plans and contingencies are never a consideration, who barrels through obstacles as if they were nothing at all. It’s a painful transformation to witness, aching far more than all the hurt Haruki’s accumulated over the past few weeks, and he feels the last of his fledgling resolve crumble.
“What is it?” he pleads, no longer able to suppress his rising panic. “I don’t understand! Just what is it that you want from me?”
At this, Akihiko slowly opens his eyes to meet his. The coldness has receded for now, leaving only a weary disappointment that somehow makes Haruki feel even worse, like he keeps giving the wrong answers to questions he didn’t even know were being asked.
Then Akihiko gives him a sad smile, reaching out to gently cup his cheek while his thumb wipes away the dampness gathering at the corners of his eyes. There’s a tenderness there, and Haruki wants nothing more than to melt into it—but all of a sudden the contact is gone, and Akihiko’s voice is rough with emotion as he says,
“Don’t you get it? All I want is to spend the rest of my life with you.”
He disappears before Haruki can respond, leaving him standing mutely in the hallway, hurt and confused as he thinks, but that’s what I want, too.