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“Dojima-san, welcome home,” his nephew said, eyes brimming with gentleness. Yu always waited one beat after everyone else’s rowdy greetings, drawing an invisible line between himself and his peers. Those, were school kids saying hi to the man of the house. This, was the master of the kitchen, carer of his daughter, owner of that new mug that Dojima had carefully written a name on the bottom. There was a hole in his life, and Yu just slipped in effortlessly, embodying the role in all but name.
“Why didn’t you introduce us?” his neighbor chided him one morning. “He’s such a nice boy, you should take better care of him!”
That brief conversation followed him all the way to the station. He felt hunted and irritated, inexplicably, like some family secret had been exposed.
***
Words spread quickly in a small town of this size.
“My Yoshie,” said the old man patrolling the streets, “was just like that when she first came here. Talked to everyone, ran everywhere. Took me a while to realize she was lonely, I was never home, y’see? Argh, I want to beat my younger self.”
“Dojima-san, come here a second!” A housewife waved at him from Junes’ entrance. “Could you give this to your boy? He asked me for these recipes, he said you liked nikujaga?”
He achieved a new level of famous, by virtue of Yu making his presence known all over. He didn’t need to ask, people would just tell him what Yu was doing, with whom. A beautiful nurse. A young mother. An old widow. Scattered, broken pieces of glass that if assembled would form a mirror, a gateway into his nephew’s heart.
***
Around the fifth bottle, he was mostly propped up by the sofa and Yu right next to him. “Lemme lookat cha,” he tugged at Yu’s wrist, not completely drunk but pretty damn close. Yu smelled like his own soap, his own shampoo, he knew his old shirt had been taken out then sneaked back a few times. This made it hard. Yu was right here, caring and warm, smelling like comfort, like home. When he looked up, Yu was worrying his lips, starting and stopping a few times without making a sound.
“Whatrr ya tryin’ t’ say?” Dojima slurred, then corrected himself, sitting up to stare into pale, shimmering eyes. “What are you trying to hide?”
To his surprise, Yu fell forward, slender arms tightening around his waist.
“You wouldn’t believe me…”
It was barely a sigh, somehow quietly resigned, yet sweet. Dojima’s heart made an audible thump. With clumsy hand, he reached up to pat Yu’s soft hair.
“Fine, don’t tell…” he relented, angry at himself and heartsick. “But only for now.” There was so much left to do. As long he kept Yu and Nanako safe, he could live with this one mystery.
Yu rubbed his cheek against his chest.
“Yes. For now.”
***
He watched Yu swallow his coffee, along with their secret.
He chased Yu’s laughter through fluttering sheets that they were hanging up to dry.
Their eyes met over Nanako’s cheers and healthy rows of red tomatoes.
He threw an arm over Nanako sleeping soundly, pulling Yu in too, feeling Yu’s little finger curling against his night shirt.
He savored the shape of his name held in Yu’s mouth.
Dojima-san.
Welcome home.
Like flexing the new skin of a scar that’s only just healed. Like blowing dust off a guitar long stored in the attic. Like standing right next to a speaker, whenever Yu’s voice box vibrated, his chest cavity thrummed along. Nothing was going on, nothing was wrong. This could continue, would continue, as long as the three of them were together. Yu was his family, the details never mattered.
***
Some nights, Dojima dreamed he would find Yu and Nanako on some telephone pole. Their bodies tangled together in black cables, their eyes clouded over like market fishes. Other nights, he saw Chisato, thrown on the side of the road, her limbs bent at unnatural angles. Then he had to tiptoe out the hallway, middle of the night, spend some time listening to the breathing of two people dearest to him.
He would solve this murder.
Yu would open up to him.
As long as he had Nanako, it wasn’t like Yu was going anywhere.
End.