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You’re twenty-nine and about to win the lottery. At least, that’s what Doppo thinks with half a glass of champagne in his hand and another two in his stomach. You’re twenty-nine and about to strike it big on life’s biggest lotto machine, three fat sevens across the board in livid red. But it feels like he’s gambled wrong, like he’s taken all the wrong steps to get to the right answer. A cheater. A manipulator. Because it’s the end of the year and it feels like being alive is worse than being atmospheric noise, which is to say, being just another random number in the series of indivisible primes. But that doesn’t matter; may all other thoughts be damned—that’s what the fucking alcohol’s for. You’re twenty-nine and in your best friend’s room downing champagne with collars half off their purchases on shoulders and an unfiltered haze like cigarette smoke in casinos. What Doppo does next is nothing more than a failed new year’s resolution.
So Doppo drinks and laughs and drinks again, and this time Hifumi’s got an arm swung over his shoulder. Inebriated fools are what they are, skyrocketing high their hopes for next year before it all topples over like mahjong tiles. But what of it? What of being tipsy and dumb and stupid and mentally twenty again? It feels like they’ve lived their whole life without experiencing it. So, cheers, Doppo toasts Hifumi clumsily with flushed cheeks and a lopsided grin. Here’s to Hifumi’s happiness; here’s to Doppo having the best friend in the world. Here’s to Hifumi laughing so hard over Doppo’s slurred words he falls over; here’s to Doppo toppling onto the ground from Hifumi’s weight. Here’s to the ceiling obscured by Hifumi’s blushing face, his warm hands on Doppo’s shoulders, the hiked hem of Hifumi’s shirt.
And—this is it; this is where all the high stakes are: between flushed chests and that goddamn champagne Doppo bought with three thousand yen and low expectations. This is it; this is where Doppo thinks he fumbles the lottery by one digit. But it isn’t, because the ice cubes in the cooler are 1-3 dice on the table and so Hifumi moves forward to press his knees against the side of Doppo’s legs in a deadlock. Oh, God, Doppo thinks then with half a leg still under the kotatsu. Oh, God, it’s happening, and it’s not supposed to happen, but there’s a deviation in this world in light of the new year and, oh god, how long it’s been since he’s yearned to be kissed. Hifumi’s lips crash against his own in a meteorite shower, and Doppo kisses back and remembers another reason he’d decided to stay alive for nearly twenty-five years.
Hifumi tastes of alcohol and fulfilled promises when he eases Doppo’s mouth open, and Doppo isn’t sure why they’re doing this except that he’s wanted this for ages that he doesn’t think anything of it. He loses himself in Hifumi’s touch traveling over his arms, onto his sides, onto his waist, going slack-jawed as Hifumi melds their tongues together. He’s kissing Doppo so hard that Doppo cups Hifumi’s face with both hands to embody gravity tethering this heavenly body before him, fingers grabbing at stray strands of starlight. They’re reaching for anything, everything, trying to make the most of each other as if any negative space between them will spin them out of each other’s orbit. Doppo tugs weakly at the back of Hifumi’s hair, wanting more, more, more because nothing is ever enough for a depraved individual like him. Hifumi must think the same for someone who’s lost a generation of his life to fear because he clings to Doppo in the equivalent of a promise that Doppo can only wish to be real.
Maybe it could be, with how Hifumi sinks into him after they part, a dumb grin plastered over his face as if he’s the one who’s landed a perfect twenty-one—two kings and one minute left until New Years—on his Blackjack hand.
What a dumbass he’s found, Doppo thinks unprompted before he kisses Hifumi again and takes home his first win of the year.