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J-6 : The park : 11:06
The last week of summer shows up like a dare.
Kusakabe looks like a mess, feels like a live wire. They’re sitting on that awful concrete bench that cuts into his legs and he doesn’t say a thing because he wants this to stretch forever, even the pain.
He's. pushing his legs back and forth because there’s really nothing better to do, until something scuffs against his shoe and he freezes.
He looks down. It's a beetle. Shiny as polished ink, legs moving in frantic gestures, antennae twitching like it’s got somewhere urgent to be. It reminds him of a novel they had to read in class. Kusakabe gives himself some time to mourn every little busy creature before raising his foot to squash it down.
He’s stopped by Sajou leaning over his shoulder, tucking his hand under his arm to pull him back. “That’s a stag beetle, I think.” He knows its name. Of course he does.
Kusakabe turns his head, grinning up at him. “That so ?”
“I had a book when I was little,” Sajou mutters, a bit pink in the ears. Kusakabe’s not even surprised, he seems like the type.
He watches the bug trudge off into the weeds and disappear. Poor little guy scurrying off knowing he’s going to get eaten in a minute or less. There’s nothing interesting about that anymore. It's all meat and an ugly chunk at that. Sajou takes his hand off of him and picks his book back up.
He’s reading something dense again– philosophy or poetry or physics or whatever. He’s underlining things, things he won’t read to him because that’d be too easy. No. Kusakabe has to ask. He has to ask to be told, to be given any part of Sajou at all. That’s part of the game. Sajou is the one who reads and Kusakabe is the one who listens. The one to take, take, take what he has the right to. But he can’t do that right now. Can’t do much besides mope and melt and think stupid thoughts about this stupid boy, waiting to be scrapped off his seat like roadkill. There’s ugly words crawling up his throat and there’s no way he won’t throw them up right there on the ground if he unclenches his teeth.
He groans and leans on his left. The bench is hot and so is Sajou’s shoulder when he turns to lay his head against it.
Sajou doesn’t look up but his fingers twitch once, then settle. Not in his hand. Beside it. The distance between them stretches infinitely inwards. He feels like Sajou’s already gone and yet he doesn't even have to squint his eyes to catch the sparks of pink on his cheek. Always there when he’s with him. Always.
He’s so close it hurts.
A windless kind of hot runs through him, August holding its breath. It’s waiting and it’s growing impatient. He feels like that too.
Then the wind kicks up and he almost says it. Stay.
But he doesn’t. Because that’s Sajou, and he’s Kusakabe and they never say the important things until they’re already leaving. And maybe it’s too late for big things like love anyway.
—
J-5 : The pool : 15:34
The heat breaks.
They go to the pool behind Kusakabe’s apartment. It’s kind of gross. The tiles are cracked, the water smells like forgotten birthday parties, and the vending machine always eats your change. But it’s there, so the only choice they have is to make the best of it.
Kusakabe cannonballs in, as always. Water explodes. Sajou winces like he’s just been hit by a sound wave.
“You gonna get in or just stand there and oggle ?” Kusakabe calls, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like the sun lives in his mouth. It’s a day of teeth and smiles.
Sajou’s quick to take his shirt off at the taunt. Always a little late to the chaos, but there when it matters.
They float. Side by side. The water tries to push them apart. Kusakabe keeps drifting closer anyway.
Above them, the sky is all soft blue and unraveling clouds. Below, the sun wobbles in the water like it’s not sure it wants to reflect them.
Sajou mutters, “My mom says I should start packing.”
Kusakabe turns his head. Doesn’t speak.
Cardboard boxes. Tape. Labels with his name on them. It doesn’t need an explanation.
“Oh,” he says because nothing else feels fitting. My condolences, maybe ? But that feels too provocative and he’s not looking for a fight right now.
Sajou sinks underwater. Doesn’t come up for six seconds. Kusakabe counts them with his heart in his mouth.
When he surfaces, Sajou’s eyes are shot red. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot,” Kusakabe says, too quickly. It slips out and lands loud. He ducks under the water to hide, stays there twice as long as Sajou to prove a point. Which one ? He’s not sure.
They don’t speak after that. Let the pool bleach the silence between them. He lives it in double time, already trying to remember what he's forgetting now.
—
J-4 : Home : 8:05
Kusakabe shows up at Sajou’s house with a busted boombox and a bag of peaches. Sajou’s still in his pajamas, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glasses sliding down his nose. He doesn’t flinch when Kusakabe crashes into the room.
“You look way too depressed for this early in the morning,” Kusakabe declares, immediately flopping down and sprawling on the floor like a crime scene victim.
“You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon,” Sajou replies, dry as dust.
He doesn’t tell him to leave.
The music’s fuzzy. Kusakabe dances anyway. He grabs Sajou by the wrist mid-spin and pulls him down. They land in a heap, laughter catching somewhere between their knees.
They sit like that. A little too close. Fingers intertwined like double tied shoelaces. Always too much to be normal. Sajou’s head ends up near Kusakabe’s neck, resting there.
His hair is in his face. His breath smells like peach juice and something electric. He leans back, palms flat against the floor, just to look at Sajou from below.
“You ever think about writing a song for a moment like this ?”
Sajou hums. “They don’t make songs for this kind of thing.”
“What kind?”
Sajou doesn’t answer. He presses his thumb to Kusakabe’s knuckle, soft, and doesn’t move it.
The boombox clicks. The tape’s done. Static fuzz fills the room.
Kusakabe doesn’t want to get up. Neither does Sajou. In the end he drags himself up to turn it back on.
Maybe it's useless. Maybe it doesn't even matter how loud the music is or how loud he screams. The silence will always win.
—
J-3 : Outside : 18:43
They steal a pair of bikes from the rack behind the station. Not really stealing – that would make poor Sajou’s heart stop dead in its tracks. Rather borrowing. Temporarily liberating. Kusakabe scribbles SORRY, LOVE YOU on a post-it and slaps it on the broken lock.
The sun’s hanging dead low, its fingertips touching the ground. Kusakabe feels it grab his feet and drag him down the hill at breakneck speed, gravity laughing in his face, wind clawing at his shirt. All gray and blues and dull concrete made yellow and pink with the glow of the sun.
Damn pretty for a day like this. What a waste.
Behind him, Sajou’s calling something, someone– probably his name, probably him, probably ‘slow down’– but he’s too far gone, too loud in his own head to hear any of it.
“Where are we going ?” Sajou calls, already breathless.
“Don’t know !” Kusakabe hollers over his shoulder, standing on the pedals. “Forward !”
He cuts through a turn too sharp, laughs like a madman, almost eats pavement. It’s invigorating. Sajou swerves after him, nearly crashes, and curses for the first time all summer.
Kusakabe whoops. “You’re learning !”
They don’t stop until the city’s a smear behind them. Just hills now. Just trees. Power lines like tightropes stitching up the sky.
There’s an abandoned building there and Kusakabe prays that whatever junkie is sleeping in it doesn’t come to get them. He’s too young to die and way too ugly –his roots need retouching. They scale up emergency exit stairs until they reach the top. Kusakabe almost wishes Sajou were scared of heights so he’d have an excuse to hold his hand all the way through.
Kusakabe dangles his legs over the edge of the building’s rooftop, cigarette tucked between his lips like a secret. Sajou sits beside him, knees tight, arms folded, posture impossibly straight.
The sky is sherbet and lightning, the kind of color you’d taste if you licked a thunderstorm. It’s too calm for endings, which means it’s lying.
They’re not supposed to be here.
Which makes it perfect.
“The sky’s so pink,” Sajou says after a moment.
Kusakabe blinks up at it, then back at him. There’s actual wonder in his eyes, like he’s never seen the color before. He needs that kind of look on him, it’s god awful that it’s not. “Think I’d look good with pink hair ?”
Sajou laughs, ungraceful. “You barely look good now.”
“Yeah, but like. All shades. Bubblegum. Cotton candy. Cherry blossom. Something stupid and bright. It’d suit me, wouldn’t it ?” He asks, genuine.
Sajou doesn’t answer, which means no. Kusakabe turns his head. Sajou’s hair is catching the pink, glowing soft at the edges. His eyes are closed. His hand a breath away from his.
He wants to hold him close. Closer than they’re allowed to, really. Wants to dye the world pink and pin it down so it can’t leave. Wants to stay like this, skin warm from sun and motion and everything unsaid.
But the wind shifts. The sky cools and blows on them like a warning. The gold turns silver.
After, when they ride back, Kusakabe lets Sajou lead. He follows the wheels. Follows the silence. Follows the ghost of pink still stuck in his lashes. He’s never wanted anything more than this.
—
J-2 : Home, again : 9:22
This time, Kusakabe shows up with a box of almost expired hair dye and two popsicles melting down his forearm.
“This is a terrible idea,” Sajou warns but he’s already rolling up his sleeves.
“That’s what makes it art.”
Kusakabe kicks off his shoes haphazardly and follows Sajou into the apartment. There’s boxes in every corner, he avoids looking at them. He drops to the floor, cross-legged, giddy.
“Sit still,” Sajou mutters, parting Kusakabe’s hair with the end of a comb. He’s got a terribly persistent cowlick so it’s not an easy task either.
Kusakabe tries. He really does. But the brush against his scalp is weirdly intimate, and the back of Sajou’s hand keeps brushing his cheek, and everything in him is buzzing, sparking, aching to move.
“I can feel you vibrating,” Sajou says, not looking up.
“You’re electrifying, babe. That’s why,” he coos.
Kusakabe can feel Sajou tense behind him. “Don’t call me babe,” he corrects. He can already imagine the grimace that comes with it.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
Sajou presses harder with the brush. Kusakabe yelps.
They do this in the bathroom, feet pressed to tile, knees bumping. Kusakabe’s shirt is streaked with pink, his fingers sticky from the popsicle he forgot about. The room smells like bubblegum and nail polish remover and the ghost of an end they’re pretending isn’t here.
“Why pink?” Sajou asks, rinsing the gloves under the tap.
Kusakabe shrugs. “Felt like a pink week.”
Sajou glances at him, just once. “You’re gonna look ridiculous.”
“I already do.”
He mumbles something then, so soft it might’ve been a mistake: “You’ll look good.”
Kusakabe swallows. Doesn’t move.
Later, they sit side by side in front of the fan, heads tilted toward the blades, not quite touching. Kusakabe’s hair drips pink down his neck. The dye stains his collar. Sajou leans forward once to wipe a spot he missed, knuckle brushing his jaw.
He doesn’t pull away.
Outside, cicadas scream. The fan hums. The night holds them like a secret.
He wants to move so bad his hands itch with it. He doesn’t dare move a thing.
—
J-1 : Him : 13:59
Sajou’s on the floor playing with a pen, his legs twisted in that way that makes Kusakabe feel like he’s caught somewhere between a model and an awkward giraffe. His knee knocks into the table, but he doesn't seem to care. Kusakabe can’t help but watch the way his fingers curl, the way his knuckles flex when he grips too hard. It’s dumb—dumb how something so simple looks so interesting.
All collarbone and jutting elbows. Kusakabe idly thinks Sajou's wrist could fit around his thumb and forefinger and still have room to spare. Kusakabe also thinks he is unbearably pretty.
Kusakabe shifts, trying to keep it cool. “You sure you’re not gonna fall over like that?”
Sajou looks up, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before going back to what he’s doing. “You know, you’re really bad at this whole ‘subtlety’ thing.”
“Right,” Kusakabe says, grinning like he didn’t just stare at Sajou’s long, bony legs for a solid five seconds. “Subtlety’s overrated. You’re just too fun to look at.”
Sajou’s face doesn’t change, but Kusakabe notices the tiniest, almost imperceptible shift—like maybe he’s heard the compliment, even if it was wrapped up in sarcasm.
And damn, those eyes. Kusakabe doesn’t know why he’s still caught in the way Sajou’s pupils catch the light, or how every time he moves, it feels like the space between them pulls a little tighter. When Sajou shifts, his hair falls across his face, messy in that perfect way that makes him feel like he’s looking at a photograph, like a picture of something he’s not sure he should be getting his hands on.
It’s painful. Every inch of him is too aware of the heat radiating off Sajou, even from a few inches away. Kusakabe can’t remember the last time he wasn’t aware of the space between them —how it feels when Sajou moves, shifts, breathes next to him. His muscles are so long, so deceptively lean, like he could be made of smoke and light if Kusakabe weren’t staring at him so intently.
“Can you stop staring ?” Sajou mutters, his voice smooth but there’s this undercurrent. Kusakabe thinks it’s because he knows. He’s burning. Burning. Burning. It’s the most alive he’s felt in weeks.
Kusakabe leans back on his hands, watching the way Sajou’s body stretches as he leans into the table again. His whole frame is this weird, magnetic mess. He hasn’t figured out how to be himself yet, but he’s close.
God, he looks good like this. Kusakabe’s breath hitches a little, but he says nothing. Just smiles, feeling the words stick behind his teeth.
Sajou doesn’t notice.
Instead, he looks up and catches Kusakabe’s gaze.
“Seriously. Quit it,” Sajou says again, but this time there’s a softness to his words. Maybe he doesn’t mind the attention. Just doesn’t want to acknowledge it.
A slow burn begins to spread through him. He doesn’t want to look away. He doesn’t want this to be the last time he’s close enough to feel that heat.
Kusakabe shrugs. “Can’t help it.”
The silence stretches between them, charged with static. He resists the urge to pat down his hair to make sure it hasn’t gone up in frizz.
Kusakabe stays where he is, feet stretched out in front of him, counting from 0 to infinity as if it’d force the minutes to slow down.
They don’t, of course.
But for a moment, Sajou’s long arms are still in the air, reaching across the table, fingers splayed wide like he’s waiting for something. What he wants is right there.
Kusakabe leans in, his lips brushing close to Sajou’s ear, close enough to feel the pulse of his breath.
Sajou’s face flushes just a little, but he doesn’t pull away. Kusakabe doesn’t either. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t even blink. He wants to be here, to stay here, even if it’s just for a moment. Even if he’s not sure what happens next.
Sajou doesn’t wait. He straightens up, pulls Kusakabe closer, his hands firm, the touch almost too hot to be real. Kusakabe’s pulse skips—every inch of him electric, alive, like something inside him is about to snap. The boy's all nerves like electrical wires, ending and starting where they both meet.
His body goes taut. Sajou’s mouth is there, already on his, lips pressing with an intensity that demands— demands Kusakabe give in, demands that everything between them collapse into this one moment.
It’s messy, but that’s the point. Kusakabe doesn’t need finesse right now. He doesn’t need control. He needs this.
Sajou’s fingers slide up his back, the pressure firm and urgent, like he can’t get enough of Kusakabe’s skin. Kusakabe leans into it, mouth crashing against Sajou’s, messy and greedy. He hears it, the little breathy sound Sajou makes when Kusakabe’s lips press too hard, when their teeth nock together in that way that only really happens when you’re too damn close.
His room is too small for them. Each sound they make ricochets, echoes off the walls and slams right into his head. Hard. He feels dizzy with want.
Sajou moans, low and guttural and it sends a jolt through Kusakabe’s whole damn body. He pulls back for a treacherous second, too breathless to keep going. He doesn’t take long to recover –his lungs won’t know air until he’s mapped out the rhythm of Sajou’s each and every breath. Against his skin, in his mouth swallowed whole before the world can know of them. This is how they exchange secrets.
He wants to hear more of that –wants to hear every noise Sajou makes, wants to make him lose it. Sweet sweet Sajou breaking under his hands, pitch perfect. It is as he’s always dreamt it could be.
He leans in and kisses the boy he loves senseless.
—
J-0 : The train station : 16:40
They take the long way there. It’s a desperate attempt at buying time.
Sajou’s hand brushes against his every third step and Kusakabe knows it’s creeping him out to be like this in public. So paranoid. Always stressed out, scared someone, somehow will find out. For him, it doesn’t make much sense but he knows it does for Sajou and Sajou doesn't like it. Doesn't like being looked at. So Kusakabe pulls back.
Now they only touch every third.
If it was up to him, they’d be holding hands and skipping down the street complete with wedding veils and fancy bouquets. But it’s not –it’s not what Sajou wants and he can only have this with Sajou, not alone, not on his own, not ever again if he fucks it up. He won’t waste what’s left of them because he was too damn greedy.
They get there way too early. There's nothing left to talk about.
They don’t say goodbye.
The train sighs and grinds behind them, old bones and patience. The sky’s pulled tight like cello strings, humming low. Everything’s hot and syrupy and too much —Sajou’s face glowing with leftover sun, Kusakabe’s heart kicking like it wants out
He memorizes the bend of Sajou’s mouth, the slant of his shoulders, the pale crescent scar by his elbow. He memorizes the way Sajou’s lashes catch the light like threads of gold. The way his lips part like he’s about to say something—maybe wait or don’t go or I love you—but the train is screaming now and Kusakabe knows:
Time is up.
If he says something, it’ll shatter. So he doesn’t. He just stands there, fists in his pockets, jaw clenched around all the wrong words: Don’t. Stay. Please. Take me with you. I’ll be good. I’ll be yours.
Sajou’s voice is barely there —just a thread. “I’ll call.”
Kusakabe nods, thinks, Liar.
He's still speaking, Kusakabe realises a beat too late. Something about soon. Soon. Soon. Soon enough there will be no more lovely boy to hold between his arms.
He nods even though he didn't hear shit. Frankly, he doesn't want to. It's all the same flat note to him, ringing in his ears like it’s already done and forgotten.
Sajou is standing too close and not close enough. His collar’s crooked, like he dressed in a rush. There’s a faint mark on his neck—Kusakabe’s fault—and the sky’s throwing every shade of gold and peach across his face like some kind of joke.
He says something soft.
Kusakabe nods again, mechanic.
Then Sajou steps in and hugs him.
Hard.
Full-body, bone-deep, nothing-held-back kind of hug. Arms around his back, face pressed against his shoulder, fingers gripping like this is the only thing keeping him anchored.
Kusakabe freezes for a second. Then melts. Wraps himself around Sajou like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him with every nerve ending. His hands find the slope of Sajou’s spine, the warm nape of his neck, the cotton of his shirt gone damp from heat.
And then—quietly, almost shyly—Sajou pulls back just far enough to look at him. Eyes glassy. Lips parted.
And he kisses him.
Soft. Real. No fanfare, no panic. Just mouth to mouth, pure aching, like he’s putting something back where it belongs.
Kusakabe kisses back.
He forgets himself for an instant. It is alright. The world can spin without them for a few seconds. Only a fool could need more time.
And for that time, it feels like everything has paused. Like the train will wait, the sun will hover, and this weird pink and gold moment will never end.
But of course, it does.
When they separate, it's slow. Reluctant. Gravity is still trying to press them together and they're fighting against it. Kusakabe remembers a lesson they had in physics about this. Sajou had explained it to him : it's unnatural for a planet to go out of its star's orbit. It'd go rogue. That's probably what would happen to him too.
It is as unnatural for him to let go of Sajou's hand as it would be for the Earth to run away from the sun.
Sajou taught him this : distance is what kills a star.
He thinks : Don’t forget this. Don’t forget this skin, this smell, this heartbeat. Scratch it inside your eyelids if you have to.
He prays : Don’t let it go.
The loudspeaker calls out something muffled. The doors sigh open.
Sajou’s hand slips down his arm, fingers brushing his wrist, and then—
Gone.
Kusakabe stands there. The air carved out of him. His chest is a blown-out speaker. There’s a gum wrapper in his pocket and he doesn’t remember why he kept it. It's all useless trash to him now.
He walks.
The sky’s painted itself in cheap motel pinks and sickly golds. The sun hangs crooked, almost embarrassed. The heat lifts off the pavement like ghosts.
Kusakabe thinks about dyeing his hair—all pinks and oranges and firework colors. Thinks about Sajou’s fingers in his hair. Thinks about the way Sajou looks when he’s not looking.
His legs keep moving. His hands are still in his pockets. His heart is not.
He hums, certainly off-beat. A song Sajou would pretend not to know, but sing under his breath while brushing his teeth.
Kusakabe doesn’t look back. He can’t. If he does, he’ll find him again and he won’t let him go. He’ll be there.
Not fading. Just distant. Like a star. Too far to touch.
No, Kusakabe doesn’t look back. That’s the end of another story.
Because behind his ribs, Sajou is still burning.