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Hira’s a dull, solitary person, that lives life like a zombie, plodding aimlessly around and avoided like the plague. He’s invisible in school, or hopes to be, because when he’s not, he’s picked on, and he secretly seethes over his bullies but never says a word to their faces. He forgets them when he gets home. His parents are nice to him, perfectly lovely people, that buy him a nice camera and try to make him smile. They want him to be interested in things. But there’s nothing interesting to Hira anywhere on Earth, so he just takes bland photographs of cityscapes and edits out the people.
He only comes alive at night when he’s fast asleep and sees a handsome stranger in his dreams.
The stranger’s name is Kiyoi. Kiyoi Sou. Sometimes Hira wakes up with that name still on his tongue, cradled in his mind with flowers and sunshine, all those tingling good feelings that are supposed to come with friends and crushes and true, fulfilling hobbies. Hira’s never had any of those. He must have a crush on Kiyoi, because his heart’s always racing in the dreams, colour in his cheeks, love coursing through his whole body, but he can’t say that aloud because Kiyoi’s not real. So neither is Hira’s happiness. It’s an ephemeral, incorporeal thing that slips through his fingers faster the tighter he tries to hold on. He pours through text online about lucid dreaming with the hopes of more control, the will to make it last, to summon Kiyoi every night and keep him there until morning. It doesn’t work. Kiyoi’s a cavalier, cool king that only appears when he wants to, far on the horizon, bathed in glowing sunlight, so pretty it hurts. He’s the most beautiful thing Hira’s ever seen or could imagine. He drifts there, dazzling, eyeing Hira with disinterest or disdain, always just out of reach. Then he’ll flicker out and leave Hira devastated.
It starts around high school, the day they teach constellations, and Hira finds Captain Duck on the lesser-known list the teacher doesn’t go through. Legend says that Captain Duck floats down a dirty river, swept along the tide, courageous through life’s trials. Hira prays to Captain Duck for a reason to go on, and Captain Duck gives him Kiyoi. That first dream is so magical that Hira wakes up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, dizzy and desperate for more, but it eludes him. Naps don’t work. He can’t spend his whole life sleeping—trying makes it worse. Kiyoi waits a week to visit him again. Then a month. A day. Random incriminates that keep Hira alive. His dream-man lingers after he graduates, keeps him company through college, is there for him when his parents move out and leave him his grandpa’s house—an old, traditional place with wide patio doors off the living room and a small plot of grass in the backyard. There’s a step there he can sit on and stare up at the stars. He always thanks Captain Duck profusely. He soaks in that twinkling, fervent river of light, brilliant enough to pierce the darkness of space and cross thousands of light-years. He admires that tenacity, that radiance. It reminds him of Kiyoi’s handsome profile—Kiyoi always shines like starlight, iridescent and magnificent and too glorious for Hira’s unworthy head. It must be Captain Duck beaming the dreams into him; Hira could never come up with such beauty on his own.
Small snatches of Kiyoi, far-off glimpses and the rare stilted conversation, are what get Hira through that depressive period of utter loneliness. The house is hardly grand, but it’s too big for one person. When he finishes college, he has nothing left to do. Nowhere to go. No people to see. He doesn’t want to do anything and hates everything, and when he sees Kiyoi, he’s too ashamed to say that, even though Kiyoi asks, “What’s wrong?” The question sounds genuine, reverberating in his mind, but it must be the hazy lens of the dream—someone like Kiyoi could never care for Hira’s lowly problems. Hira can’t burden him. Hira mutters it’s fine and says Kiyoi’s beautiful. Kiyoi rolls his eyes and says, “Gross,” which makes Hira smile. Kiyoi’s pretty when he’s irritated. He’s always pretty. He tells Hira to suck it up and fix whatever’s wrong already. So Hira does.
He applies for various photography jobs because he has a camera, and even though he has no hopes, every rejection stings. It makes him bitter. He lucks into a position with a professional photographer that takes a liking to his ‘grotesque darkness,’ because it reminds the photographer of a young him. Hira doesn’t understand people. But that night, Kiyoi says he did well, so he holds his head a little higher instead of always eyeing the ground.
The dreams only become more intense as he ages. Kiyoi’s no longer a wavering mirage, but a staple in his dream-house, a domestic instillation that treats his grandfather’s beat-up old armchair like a grand throne. It all feels so real, the way Kiyoi glances sideways at him, barks small orders at him, comes to sit beside him. Hira could swear he can smell Kiyoi’s cologne. He’s memorized the timber of Kiyoi’s voice. Kiyoi’s warm beside him. Hira wakes up every morning with the desperate wish that he could keep Kiyoi’s image in a little box on his desk. He’s dying to take Kiyoi’s picture. He thinks about it every day. No one in real life compares.
He often sits on the patio step before he sleeps, watching the stars twinkle so far out of reach, and asks Captain Duck to get him through another day. Or show him Kiyoi that night. Or make Kiyoi real.
Eventually, Hira gets greedy. He walks home from work along the river and thinks of the one in the sky. When he gets home, he prays that someday he’ll meet Kiyoi in person, knowing full well it’s wrong; Kiyoi shouldn’t be burdened with the real world, much less the world’s worst person. If Hira were a good person, he’d pray for Kiyoi to find a more worthy person’s head and forever stay in heaven.
But Hira’s a gross person, so he prays to put his grubby paws on the man he loves.
One night, he settles down on the threshold, barefoot and down to pajamas, with an aged grey hoodie to keep him warm. He clasps his hands together, thinks of that gorgeous man, and lifts his head to see shooting stars streak across the sky.
Hira’s heart flutters—those are supposed to be lucky. He lowers his forehead to his shaking, steepled fingers and wishes on those stars for the only one thing he wants most. Kiyoi. Then he lifts his head to thank Captain Duck for listening and notices one of the stars heading for him.
Really heading for him. The others are small, quick comets that spurt in and out of the distance. One grows larger with each second, tail jetting out behind it, on a collision course for Earth. Hira blinks, then rubs his eyes and blinks again, thinking he might’ve already passed out. It feels like a movie. It doesn’t seem fair. A single lightening bolt or falling flower pot or stray bullet could pierce him and wipe him out of existence—he deserves an imminent death for his blasphemous wishes. But a comet could kill everyone around him, and though he knows there are lots of other gross men in Japan, it seems unfair to wipe out the whole country for only his sin. A big enough comet could wipe out all of Earth. Except the closer it gets, the more he thinks it’s small, that the perspective’s funny, and maybe Captain Duck is really just smiting his one house. Hira sits there, numb and cold, mourning his last vision of Kiyoi. Losing the rest of his life doesn’t really matter.
The shooting star slams into his backyard, a meter from where Hira’s sitting, and the ground shakes so hard that he nearly slams into the door frame. The light’s blinding. Dust and dirt splatter his legs. He throws an arm over his eyes on sheer instinct but is fairly confident he’s already dead.
When he lowers his arm and blinks past the fading light, Kiyoi’s sitting there, in a small pit hollowed out of Hira’s lawn.
Kiyou. Kiyoi Sou.
Naked.
He’s hunched over in a ball of creamy sun-kissed skin and chestnut-brown hair and a faint glow all around him. When he straightens out, it’s with grace, an inherent sensuality that Hira finds arresting. Hira can hardly breathe. He stares at the sight before him, stupid in his surprise, and Kiyoi glances over with a flicker of recognition.
Then Kiyoi glances down at his own figure, taut muscles and soft curves, all smooth skin exposed to the cool night air, and his cheeks colour a vivid pink to match his rosy lips and nipples. Except his nipples have more brown in them. Hira realizes he’s ogling Kiyoi’s chest, and Kiyoi abruptly snaps an arm over it, his thighs pinching together, and Hira feels like the disgusting pervert he is.
He chokes out, “K... Ki... Kiyoi!” and then he jerks forward, stumbling off the step, trying to tug his hoodie over his head, toppling to the ground and thrusting the fabric forward. It’s old and worn and probably smells but it’s all Hira has on hand. He holds it out like a sacrificial lamb, his arms trembling and ready to be sliced open; he’ll sacrifice his whole self to Kiyoi in penance for his sin.
Kiyoi, blushing to the tips of his ears, snatches up the hoodie and hurriedly tugs it on. It rumples his hair. He has to finger-comb the sleek locks out after. He tugs the fraying hem over his thighs. Hira’s only seen him dressed like an idol, styled to perfection, but he’s so cute in Hira’s hoodie that Hira nearly collapses in agony. It’s too cute. He can’t handle it. He feels like a fish on land, flailing wildly. Kiyoi fiddles with the hoodie, his hair, squirms in his patch of dirt where all the grass has blown away, and Hira just... stares. Kiyoi has to huff, “Well?” for Hira to startle to life. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Hira chokes and nods so hard that it’s more of a bow. He does that three times. His whole house is Kiyoi’s. His whole being too. He scrambles back to his feet, makes it halfway to the house, then pauses, because Kiyoi’s much slower in standing. He’s all elegance until he’s upright, and then his knees knock together—he stumbles like a newborn fawn. Hira squawks and traitorously dives to catch him. Kiyoi clutches onto Hira’s side, braced there, blushes hotter and hisses, “I know how to do it! I just... give me a minute...” He speaks perfect Japanese, just like in the dreams. But he moves like he’s never inhabited a human body, and Hira realizes he probably never has. The dreams, after all, aren’t real, but projections.
In real life, Kiyoi’s a star.
Still holding Kiyoi up, Hira inclines his head back—he swears he can see a hole in the sky where one star’s missing. The dirty river’s missing a bend. Kiyoi seems to be bathed in starlight from all angles. He’s a fallen star that Hira’s greedy wish snatched straight out of space.
He orders, “Move,” and Hira snaps back to life, helping him inside.
It changes everything. Kiyoi casts a pool of pale light across the floorboards—the living room’s dark otherwise, because Hira was going to sleep, but for the first time since he started high school, he doesn’t want to. He actually has a reason to stay awake. Kiyoi glances about like seeing everything for the first time, but he doesn’t ask any questions, and he quickly adapts. He finds the armchair he lounges in inside the dreamscape and pushes off of Hira, collapsing into the cushions. He folds his bare legs under himself and straightens his back, regal, wondrous: just like that, the armchair’s his. Hira’s immobilized in awe.
It starts there, unsure, clumsy, with Kiyoi looking up at him like he should do something, but he’s only a low-level disciple requiring instructions. In the silence, he fetches ginger ale; Kiyoi often drinks those in his dreams. Hira always has it in his fridge. He’s not partial to the taste but loves anything that reminds him of Kiyoi. Kiyoi takes the cold bottle with furrowed brows, fumbles with the cap, manages to pop it, takes a tentative sip, and licks a glossy drop off the corner of his lips.
Hira wants to dive for his camera, and it blows his mind that he can—that he can actually take a picture of Kiyoi and keep it. That’s how real life works. It can’t be real life. It’s too perfect. Kiyoi sips the ginger ale while Hira sits on the floor and stares, and then the bottle’s empty, and Hira doesn’t know what to do. Kiyoi yawns.
Hira offers his bed, Kiyoi turns cherry red, Hira splutters apologies through Kiyoi’s scolding and explains that of course they won’t share it; Hira would never overstep like that. It’s why he doesn’t grab his camera. He won’t cross those lines. He doesn’t know if stars even sleep, but Kiyoi snatches a pile of blankets off Hira’s bed and builds a nest on the living room floor like an extra plush tatami mat. It’s so cute that Hira nearly has a heart attack just watching—his pulse races and fills his ears and his fists clench in the want for that traitorous camera. Somehow, he resists. Eventually, it’s done, and Kiyoi snaps at him for staring, so Hira dazedly plods back to his bedroom and collapses on the stripped mattress. His humble ceiling feels like a galaxy oasis he’s slowly drifting through. All he can think of is Kiyoi.
Somehow, he falls asleep, even though his life’s become a dream. He dreams of rabbits and cauliflower and doesn’t see Kiyoi.
He wakes up sure the falling star part was a dream too, except Kiyoi’s in the living room, curled up in Hira’s blankets, swathed in Hira’s hoodie, drooling out one side of his mouth. Hira almost swoons down to the floor.
He makes Kiyoi breakfast. Kiyoi wakes up, pokes at the food, and eats. He has trouble holding chopsticks, but he doesn’t need instructions, just practice. He eats slowly, curiously, then quick, and demands more ginger ale. He pokes around the cupboards, the fridge, not taking anything but just looking, surveying the property, and steals Hira’s clothes. Everything is new to him, but familiar, seen from high above and in Hira’s head but from afar and unclear. He knows things, more than Hira, and speaks better but is, in his own way, more patient with Hira’s dysphemia and complete lack of social skills than Hira’s peers have ever been. When Hira hits a brick wall, Kiyoi waits him out. When Hira stalks him around the house or ogles him too much, he snaps, but doesn’t push Hira away. Hira’s awe is constant and colossal. In the sober light of day, Kiyoi’s light-years above Hira. Yet he’s there, in Hira’s house. And says nothing about leaving. Hira silently vows to take excellent care of him.
Overnight, Hira grows up. He takes better care of the house than he ever did, because Kiyoi deserves only clean surfaces. He cooks all Kiyoi’s meals, not just fast and easy but nutritious and tasty—Kiyoi contentedly eats everything and seems put out when Hira’s work forces takeout or ready-made meals. Hira swiftly learns Kiyoi’s favourites and focuses on those. He always listens to Kiyoi. Kiyoi doesn’t talk much, though he does more than Hira. It’s just like in the dreams; they somehow co-exist in peace without logic or explanation. Except Kiyoi doesn’t appear in Hira’s dreams anymore, probably because he’s busy being real.
His glow fades when he gets tired but flares up at night, brighter when Hira makes crab cakes or blow dries his hair. Hira runs his bath. Hira does his laundry. Hira donates his whole wardrobe to Kiyoi, but it’s not good enough, so they go shopping together.
Kiyoi doesn’t glow in public—he’s a normal person there, or at least wears the skin of one, while only Hira knows all the magic deep inside. He’s beautiful even without the glow, but it feels all the more special since it’s private, only for Hira’s eyes. Hira’s been blessed beyond reason. He thanks Captain Duck every night. He tries on the clothes Kiyoi picks even though he hates shopping and buys whatever Kiyoi says. Kiyoi adapts so swiftly to those small trips, to coffee shops and bakeries, the grocery store and clothing outlet and a gift shop with cheap interior decor. He humans better than Hira does. Hira feels like a burden and drags his feet, knowing he’ll die sooner than later for his hubris and never get to see Kiyoi in the afterlife. When Kiyoi gets on his case for falling behind, he explains the problem, and Kiyoi complains that he’s crazy. He apologizes. Kiyoi says not to be so morbid and takes Hira’s hand, tugging him to a park bench where they can sip their ice coffees side by side and watch all the regular people walk by.
It’s all huge steps, leaps and bounds, but happens gradually and naturally. One night, Hira’s staring wide-eyed at the star awkwardly trying to dance around his living room, choreographed to perfection but grumbling over unfamiliar limbs, and the next morning they buy fruit at the market like two regular roommates. Kiyoi picks the stand, prods the fruit. He tells Hira to pick ripe ones. Hira does what he’s told and cuts them up at home so Kiyoi can easily eat them, dribbling colourful juices down his fingers. Watching him lick them off is a scintillating wet dream that leaves Hira shaking, avoiding Kiyoi all evening, only to be dragged back by dinner. He can’t handle what’s become of his life. He can’t believe it. Kiyoi adapts and consumes everything around him.
The first time Hira tentatively snaps a picture of Kiyoi, Kiyoi scowls, and Hira swears he’ll never do it again. He only did because Kiyoi asked why he never uses it anymore, when he so often had it dreams. Hira apologizes profusely, Kiyoi snorts, “Whatever, I don’t care,” and Hira, reading that as begrudging permission, dares to do it again. It’s a fuzzy close-up of Kiyoi holding a sparkler. The next one’s Kiyoi drinking ginger ale. Kiyoi in his armchair. Kiyoi napping in his nest in only Hira’s hoodie, which he wears the most out of everything, and looks so adorable in it that Hira’s heart won’t stop racing. It’s hard to function when Kiyoi spikes his adrenaline so high. Even Hira’s parents notice and seem happier in phone calls—they say he sounds passionate about his photography work and must be doing well. He can’t say he’s living with a star so just says, “Y-yeah. Mm... photography’s nice.” It’s okay. Kiyoi’s nice.
Kiyoi’s mercurial and difficult and nonchalant and all-encompassing. He’s Hira’s biggest inspiration and fills up several camera rolls. When Hira’s at work, helping set up models at photoshoots, he thinks of posing Kiyoi. When he showers, he thinks of when he’ll run Kiyoi’s next bath. When he cooks, he thinks of Kiyoi enjoying the food. When he’s lying in bed at night, he thinks of the gorgeous man in his living room, and what a kind constellation Captain Duck is. Either the heavens made a grave mistake or inexplicably granted Hira a glimpse of paradise. He often wonders when they’ll either right that wrong or make Hira play for his pleasure with new pain. He knows it’ll be worth it. He’d spend eternity in hell for one night with Kiyoi.
Going to work is painful—he hates leaving the house by himself. He used to do everything by himself. Kiyoi seems fine with it; he’s self-sufficient, probably thrives outside of Hira’s company and goes out shopping or dancing or whatever stars do. Hira never goes out alone for leisure. But he suffers it for work so he can pay the bills and buy Kiyoi nice things. Kiyoi even understands money and won’t let Hira buy too much. Hira would buy him the moon. Eat up all their savings. Nothing’s as valuable as Kiyoi. Once, Kiyoi pushes his dinner around his plate and grumbles that he should find a job. He should pay for things too. Hira chokes on his noodles and vehemently insists it’s fine. He can handle it. He can take care of Kiyoi. Kiyoi is a deity designed for a life of luxury that Hira can’t provide, but Hira will die trying. Kiyoi wrinkles his nose and says Hira’s being obtuse, but Hira’s used to the justified insults and stays firm.
He comes home from work one day and finds Kiyoi sprawled out on the couch watching the TV—an idol competition with young men nowhere near as talented as Kiyoi. Without looking up at Hira, Kiyoi wonders allowed, “Could I do that...? What they do...?” And Hira doesn’t know if he means singing or dancing or acting or modeling, but yes, Kiyoi could do that.
He nods and says with complete confidence, a rarity in Hira, “Absolutely. Kiyoi’s amazing.” No stutter to be found. Kiyoi looks at him in palpable surprise, then preens, turning to hide a little smirk that Hira catches and treasures—cute, cute. He needs his camera.
Kiyoi makes a show of yawning and lounges back into the cushions, idly throwing out, “Maybe I will at some point.” Hira freezes, and Kiyoi quickly adds, “Not yet, though. I need some time to... adjust, I guess. Y’know, to the idea of dealing with the human rat race. It’s so much more stressful than just glittering in the sky.” Which must be true. Poor Kiyoi. Hira’s heart aches with that thought, that Kiyoi’s stuck with him, with any mortal, on a troublesome planet like Earth. Maybe a small part of Hira’s also frantic not to share—he wants to hoard Kiyoi all to himself for forever and a day.
More than that, he wants Kiyoi happy, healthy, successful in whatever way he wants. Hira knows it’s not far to stifle Kiyoi’s light, to keep that gorgeous glow all to himself, and it wasn’t fair to wish him out of the sky in the first place.
Hira swallows. There’s a lump in his throat. Guilt creeps in from all angles. It crawls under his skin. Sometimes he stares up at the little patch of pitch black that wouldn’t even be noticeable to anyone that wasn’t looking, but he’s so sure Kiyoi belongs there, and the guilt eats him alive. It’s not fair that Hira robbed the heavens of Kiyoi, and, more importantly, that he stole the heavens from Kiyoi. It’s not fair that Kiyoi suddenly has to live with a gross loser and adapt to mortal life.
Usually, Hira tries not to think about it. It paralyzes him on the spot, and Kiyoi gets upset when Hira curls up in a little ball in the dark shadows of the room to mutter morbid things. He tries to focus on what matters: taking care of Kiyoi. Buying Kiyoi ginger ale. Massaging Kiyoi’s scalp when Kiyoi lies in his lap and drifts off like a languid cat enjoying the sunshine.
One day they’re on the couch, cuddled up side by side, not quite touching each other but only two millimeters between them. Hira’s hyper conscious of that closeness, of the ghost of Kiyoi’s touch, and how much better Kiyoi would be than the male lead on TV. It’s a romantic drama, and the couple’s holding hands, standing under a scenic canopy of cherry blossoms that most people would probably find pretty. Kiyoi, with his bed-head and lowered lashes and rumpled stolen hoodie, is infinitely more beautiful. Hira watches Kiyoi while Kiyoi watches the couple. Then they kiss.
Kiyoi’s hand lifts to his mouth. His fingertips hesitantly brush his bottom lip. It’s like watching an alien learn to love in a cheesy scifi movie. But Kiyoi’s not an alien. He’s a star. He catches Hira’s eye and quickly drops his hand, muttering through a blush, “It’s weird to have to think about that kind of stuff.” He sounds disgruntled, tight. And he keeps stealing little looks back at Hira.
Hira realizes how it must look and hurriedly assures him, “N-n-no! I’d never—w-would never dream of doing that kind of thing with Kiyoi!”
It’s true. He never dreamed it. Though sometimes Kiyoi used to perch on the edge of his bed or even steal his pillow or look so incredibly beautiful that Hira would want him, like that, knowing how blasphemous it was, nothing ever happened. He misses dreaming of Kiyoi. But it’s so worth the exchange to have Kiyoi there when he wakes up. Kiyoi looks at him like he’s pond scum and snaps, “Whatever, it’s not like I was asking you to kiss me!”
He grabs the nearest cushion and wacks Hira so hard that whatever brain cells Hira has left go flying out his earlobe. By the time he recovers, Kiyoi’s storming off down the hall, probably to take over Hira’s bedroom again like he sometimes does when Hira’s particularly awful and Kiyoi needs his space. But he’ll always vacate the room by nightfall, and they’ll sleep apart. It hits Hira anew what a burden it must be, being around Hira’s animal instincts, when Kiyoi’s so far above such petty things like kissing and Hira’s burning lust.
He digs his fingers into his palms and buries that lust deep, trudging over to offer his room again—that Kiyoi can sleep there, in his bed, even though that’s bad too, except for once, Kiyoi huffs, “Fine,” and from then on, it’s his.
And he looks frustrated when Hira sleeps on the couch. His parents’ old bedroom is full of their old things, still used by the family at large for storage, without even a bed, but it occurs to him too late that he should’ve burned all those belongings and bought a giant four-poster for Kiyoi. Hira does love his family. But they’d have to understand. Kiyoi’s a star. And he deserves everything Hira has to give and then some. But Hira wouldn’t throw out his family’s stuff for his own comfort and stays on the couch.
Kiyoi makes a comment over breakfast about how sizable the bed is, how there’s room for two, and Hira wonders if Kiyoi has a star family that might visit someday and have to cram in with him. Hira promises he’ll make room. Kiyoi looks like he’s going to overturn his cereal on Hira’s head but instead angrily shovels down the rest and says Hira must love that couch. It sounds stinging. Hira doesn’t understand. Anything. But he loves Kiyoi so nods.
He wallows in that. Adoring Kiyoi. Smothering Kiyoi. Cursing Kiyoi to a bland mortal existence that’s a domestic paradise for Hira but must be agony for a star. He drags himself to the patio doors, sits down on the step, and stares up at Captain Duck. The night sky is beautiful, but nowhere near as much as Kiyoi. Sometimes they walk along the river by his house together, and he wonders if Kiyoi misses the one far above.
He knows what he has to do. It kills him to do it. He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, clasps his hands over his knees, and tortures himself with one last wish—send Kiyoi back where he belongs, with his own kind. When Hira opens his eyes again, he’s startled by shooting stars.
The floorboards quake behind him. Kiyoi’s footsteps, normally light as a dancer’s, thunder through the house. He rushes out of the darkness, panting with exertion, and Hira chokes to see him, to soak in one last view, all those well-sculpted features and the fury in piercing eyes. Kiyoi practically roars, “What did you do?” He must feel it already, maybe his skin’s tingling, prickling before it winks out and warps back into cosmic light. Hira swallows and bows his head.
“S-sorry, um... only want what’s best for Kiyoi, to go where he belongs, with his peers, so...”
“Wh—did you wish me back?” The sky’s falling again, light racing towards them, flooding Hira’s peripherals and forcing his head back up. Kiyoi sounds furious. It’s like the sky’s reaching out with one long, dazzling arm, and Hira’s sure he’ll be burned up in the process but can die happy knowing he once had Kiyoi in his home. Kiyoi seethes, “You—!”
It crashes into the backyard. The same pit Kiyoi made blows wider, deeper, blasting a cloud of dirt and dust over Hira’s front—his arms fly up to stop it. Then he remembers Kiyoi’s behind him and spreads those arms back out, trying to shield Kiyoi. It’s searing, all white, warm and radiant, and, to Hira’s utter shock, seeps down afterwards into the normal muted nighttime.
Hira’s still sitting there, and Kiyoi’s beside him, grabbing onto his shoulder. There’s another boy in the backyard, a young Japanese man with dark brown brushed over his brows and a mole under his right eye. Naked, he blinks at them. Hira blinks back.
Hira recognizes him. It’s Koyama, a fictitious boy he occasionally dreamed about in college, who was always kind to him. Koyama smiles like Kiyoi never does.
Kiyoi shakes Hira violently and orders, “Wish him back now!”
Hira splutters. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He thinks he’s looking at another star. One of Kiyoi’s peers. He wished for Kiyoi to go home and be with his own kind. Kiyoi’s in Hira’s house, a second star in the backyard.
Koyama dazedly pushes to his feet, stumbles, and teeters back down—Hira moves forward, because his instinct is to help, but Kiyoi jerks him back, all the way around, and the next thing Hira knows, they’re kissing. Him and Kiyoi.
Kiyoi pulls Hira right against him. Into his mouth. Their noses bump. It hurts. Kiyoi’s eyes are scrunched shut; his eyelashes are long and pretty and tickle Hira’s cheeks. He blinks, then closes his eyes too. Kiyoi’s lips are petal soft, a little wet, sweet and inexplicably divine. Hira’s head is spinning. His heart’s hammering against his chest. His whole body sings with joy because Kiyoi is kissing him. When Kiyoi comes to his senses and tries to pull back, Hira won’t let go—he latches onto Kiyoi’s trim waist and pulls Kiyoi’s whole body into his. For a few glorious seconds, the kiss deepens, Hira’s tongue sliding into Kiyoi’s mouth, his lips parting in surprise, a little oh sound and then a low, riveting moan that sets Hira on fire. They kiss like making up for lost time, like they should’ve done every day they’ve been together, like they’re two star-crossed lovers destined to fumble into bed and share the same mattress until morning.
Then Kiyoi shoves him off and hisses, cheeks pink and eyes glinting, “Listen, you idiot, you’re my human, and I prayed too hard for this to give it up now! Now either wish that interloper back into the sky, or I swear you’ll never see me again!”
Hira wants to keep Kiyoi forever and ever so slams his hands together so hard it stings—he chants that exact order in his head and also that he made a terrible mistake and needs Kiyoi in his life because his love is all-consuming and eternal and no one will take care of Kiyoi as fiercely as Hira, will love him as desperately, will fight the very heavens for him and pursue all his dreams. They stare at each other, Hira rife with adoration and Kiyoi hunching back, suddenly sheepish, glancing away and rubbing the back of his head. Hira’s head screams, cute! and longs for his camera.
A sharp gasp draws his gaze to the backyard. Koyama’s light flares out again, swallowing him up into a bright ball that hovers off the ground, up into the air, streaks away like a home-run baseball. It’s a crazy, surreal sight, and it twists Hira’s insides. He feels a pang of guilt for the other star he just toyed with, but he mostly aches at the thought of watching Kiyoi get sucked away like that. Hira wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He would’ve withered away on the spot—remained right there for days, dazedly staring at where his true love once was, neglecting food and sleep until his spirit left his body. But he doesn’t have to do all that, because Kiyoi’s right beside him.
Kiyoi lets out a sigh that sounds strangely like relief, like he’s been blessed instead of cursed. He shoots Hira one last look of frustration, and Hira knows he’s supposed to do something, but can’t figure out what. Surely Kiyoi doesn’t want to kiss again. Surely that was a fluke. Hira’s lips itch with ecstasy, the memory forever engraved on his heart. Kiyoi fidgets, then picks at his sleeve, looks down at it and grumbles, “So... should we... do that other physical stuff that humans do...?”
Hira combusts. “W-w-w-w—”
All red, Kiyoi huffs, “Well, if I’m going to stay with you, I might as well do it right, so just... ugh!” He pushes up to his feet, standing tall above, an unpredictable but beloved god that Hira newly knows the taste of. He mumbles, “Hurry up before I change my mind.” Then he turns on his heel and marches off into the recesses of the house.
Probably to the bedroom.
His bedroom.
Hira’s bedroom.
Their bedroom?
Hira scrambles after to obey his favourite star.