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HAVANA1959, the bar Santiago had entrusted to Mateo, had become a gathering place for Latin people living around Tokyo. With more than two hundred kinds of rum always on hand, the crowd swayed to live music, each body moving to its own rhythm.
When the bell on the door rang to announce a new arrival, the bartender, Yordani—Jor—polishing a glass, turned a friendly smile toward the entrance.
“Shinya, mi amigo! Yo, champion!”
The man who stepped in with the cold winter air was a regular patron. He ran a hand through his bleached, unruly hair and headed straight for the bar counter, lit the cigarette already resting between his lips.
“Buenas, Jor.”
The smoke in his voice, the languid ease of his movements—everything about him blended easily into the air of the place.
After delivering a plate of snacks to a table, Mateo returned to the bar. He poured Havana Club into a glass over ice and set it on the counter. There was no need to ask his order. He topped up his own glass with Havana Club as well and raised it.
“Salud. Congrats on your win.”
“Gracias, Mateo.”
Shinya took a sip of the rum, sliding it into the pause between drags of his cigarette, then let out a heavy sigh.
“What’s with that face? You should be happier. You defended your national title, didn’t you?”
His line of work was quite an unusual one. He was a professional ballroom dancer and had just claimed yet another national championship in Japan only days before.
“I am.”
Even as he said it, he frowned, idly smoking.
“…Yeah, well. Things got a little complicated. I ended up agreeing to do the ten-dance.”
“What’s the ten-dance?”
Mateo knew, at least vaguely, that ballroom dancing came in several different forms—he’d picked that up just by being friends with Shinya—but he’d never heard of the term ten-dance.
“Well, ballroom dancing is basically split into two categories,” Shinya said.
“What I do is Latin, right? And then there’s ballroom. Each of them has five different dances, and if you dance all ten—put them together—that’s the ten-dance.”
Shinya’s explanation was simple enough, but Yordani tilted his head.
“Ten kinds? What, like ballet or something?”
“No, not that. Waltz, tango—stuff that’s more proper and structured than the cha-cha or rumba I usually dance.”
“I know Argentine tango.”
“No, that’s different too. But anyway—there’s this ballroom champion guy—Sugiki…”
Mateo had never heard of the ten-dance before, but the name Shinya spat out through his cigarette was one he recognized.
“Oh—him. The British guy with the same name as you, right?”
“How do you know that?”
“You told us yourself, when you were drunk.”
“I don’t remember that. Anyway, he asked me to do it—kept pushing—and I kind of got roped into it. Said I’d do it.”
Shinya stubbed out his cigarette, muttering to himself about having to dance ten styles, forty songs a day.
“Sounds good to me. Must be some real hotshot, right? That Sugee-ko or whatever.”
Yordani said it while shaking a cocktail, mixing up the name along with the drink.
“Sugiki,” Shinya corrected him. “He’s basically a world champion. They call him the emperor of ballroom, you know? Bastard.”
The reason Mateo and Yordani both had a vague memory of that so-called emperor—despite his awkward, hard-to-pronounce name—was simple enough. About two years earlier, Shinya himself had spoken of him with nothing but praise.
That night, Shinya had shown up at this bar with a girl he’d picked up at some nightclub. And he made Mateo pull up a video on his tablet and went on—half in Japanese, half in Spanish—excitedly explaining just how incredible the dancer on the screen was.
“Look at this turn—perfecto! It looks easy, right? But it’s insanely hard. You see that?”
No matter how passionately Shinya ranted, neither Mateo nor Yordani—outsiders to the world of dance—could see anything beyond how effortlessly it all seemed to be done. And the girl Shinya had brought along even less so.
To be honest, Mateo found his eyes drifting not to the well-groomed man in the immaculate tailcoat, but to the lady in a graceful dress dancing with him.
As for the girl Shinya had picked up, she quickly lost patience with a guy who kept rambling on about something she had no interest in, in a language she only half understood. Unusually for Shinya, the night ended with her slipping away.
-
“Hola, Mateo.”
It was HAVANA1959’s day off. Mateo was at home with his girlfriend, Kozue, half-watching a reality show they’d picked at random on Netflix after having sex, when his phone rang. It was Shinya.
“Hey. Hola hola scam.”
These days, even Mateo’s grandparents could handle messaging apps. Actual phone calls usually meant sales pitches, scams—or Shinya, who stubbornly kept using a flip phone.
“Come by the garage. Now. Bring Jor with you.”
The garage next to Shinya’s place was a regular hangout for the Latin folks in the neighborhood, about a fifteen-minute walk from Mateo’s apartment. And Yordani lived on the ground floor of the same building as Mateo.
“Shinya says to come by the garage.”
Mateo ran his fingers through Kozue’s hair as if asking, What do you think? Her body is still half-bare.
“Mm, sure. I’m hungry anyway.”
They’d just been talking about ordering pizza. At the garage, Santiago—the owner of HAVANA1959—was always cooking something to share.
“Alright. We’ll go.”
“And hey,” Shinya added, “Santiago should be making ropa vieja today. Grab me a plate.”
“What, you haven’t eaten?”
“Not for me. I’m feeding it to the emperor of ballroom.”
They picked up Yordani, who’d been home alone playing video games, and the three of them headed for the garage together.
The rumble of trains passing overhead mixed with the sound of someone singing, drifting through the neighborhood as it always did.
Mateo remembered the first time he had come here.
Even then—when anxiety had been gnawing at him—it was the sound of music, the same music as back home, that had greeted him first.
Mateo had come to Japan with his mother when he was eight, after his parents’ divorce. She had spent years drifting around the world before marrying a Cuban man, against her family’s wishes. For that, her parents in Japan had cut ties with her entirely. With no relatives to rely on, it was Santiago—grilling meat here just as he still did now—who had taken care of everything back then: a place for them to stay, work for his mother, the paperwork to get Mateo into school.
No one really knew how long Santiago had been in Japan, how old he was, or whether he had a family of his own. But with a few properties and enough passive income to live on, he always looked after people from the same part of the world who found themselves struggling to get by in an unfamiliar land.
“Santiago!”
“Mateo, mijo!”
Santiago—who always called Mateo my son, though he wasn’t his by blood—pulled him into a rough, solid hug, still holding the spatula he’d been using to stir the pot.
“Jor, you keeping the bar’s numbers up?”
“You check the books yourself, old man.”
“Santiago, save a plate of ropa vieja, yeah? Shinya wants to feed it to a friend.”
“Again? Damn womanizer.”
“It’s a guy. A fellow dancer.”
“A dancer? This place is too small if he’s planning to dance here. You’re sober, right? Go move his car.”
Grumbling, Mateo managed to relocate Shinya’s classic car—stalling it more than once—out of the garage and over in front of Shinya’s place.
It was here, too, that Mateo had met Shinya for the first time.
He was twelve back then, newly in middle school. He’d been separated from the elementary school friends he’d been close to, and he’d grown sick of the spiteful classmates from other schools who mocked him—“You’re a foreigner and you don’t even know English?”
So Mateo often skipped school and spent his days holed up at this house, where Santiago was living at the time.
“Hey, Mateo. Skipping school?”
But it was Uncle Suzuki who greeted him at the door that day.
“This is my kid, Shinya. He’s visiting from Cuba. Same age as you—keep him company.”
Uncle Suzuki was a mysterious Japanese man who would sometimes teach dance here, sometimes just drink with Santiago. He didn’t look like a family man at all, so Mateo had been genuinely taken aback to learn that he had a child.
A boy his own age—another japonés cubano—smiled at him and called out, “Hola!” at a time when he couldn’t find a place for himself at his new school. He still remembered clearly that the invisible loneliness he’d been carrying quietly melted away.
Shinya, now fully grown into a man with an undeniable allure, had been much more boyish back then—deeply tanned, his wavy hair lightened by the sun rather than chemical bleach, his voice newly broken and still rough at the edges. He’d been unmistakably young then—still innocent.
Shinya, like Mateo, came from divorced parents. He lived in Cuba with his mother, he said, but every now and then he came to Japan to visit his father.
“Your dad’s in Cuba, right?”
Shinya asked this while driving spectacularly the wrong way in his first-ever game of Mario Kart.
“No idea where he is. Last I heard, he’s supposedly living somewhere in Mexico with a younger woman—at least that’s what my mom said when she was drunk. But I talk to my abuela and abuelo in Cuba on the phone sometimes.”
Globally, Skype had already become commonplace by then. But in Cuba at the time, the internet was still not something ordinary people could easily access. Which meant that once Shinya went back home, staying in touch wouldn’t be easy.
Mateo remembered wishing earnestly that Shinya wouldn’t leave. That he’d stay in Japan. With someone just like him by his side, even being mocked as gaijin—foreigner—would feel bearable.
“Do you have any siblings?”
Shinya asked him.
“No.”
“Seriously? I’ve got six sisters.”
“That’s… yabe.”
“Yabe? Yabai? Like… dangerous? Why?”
Shinya’s Japanese was fluent, casual in the same way his father’s was—but slang that people of his dad’s generation never used was, unsurprisingly, still unfamiliar to him.
“Uh… well. Yabai is, like… amazing, or unbelievable. It works for good stuff and bad stuff. Anything extraordinario, you know? Super useful.”
“Huh. Then that’s… a pretty yabai word, isn’t it?”
“Yeah! Exactly—you’ve got it!”
Even though they couldn’t stay connected through social media, Shinya continued to come to Japan once every year or two, and each time, he and Mateo would meet here and spend their time together.
Then, in the year he turned twenty, Shinya chose Japanese nationality. He would make a living through dance, earn foreign currency, and invest it in the future choices of his sisters—who had, by then, grown to nine. And so, he officially moved to Japan.
“Is your last name Honda, Mateo?”
Having become Japanese in name overnight, Shinya had no idea where to begin. It was while Mateo helped him through the maze of paperwork—resident registration, national health insurance, pension plans, and everything else—that he learned Mateo’s full name for the first time.
“Well, you’re a Suzuki,” Mateo said. “Last names are easy for people to remember—both of ours are. Car brands help.”
Japanese names could be tricky for Spanish speakers to pronounce, but when they happened to match famous car manufacturers, everyone seemed to recognize them.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s my first name that’s the problem,” Shinya said. “My abuela just can’t say Si-uh-ya. It always turns into Shiña.”
He had always been a grandma’s boy.
“Hey, Mateo. You got a friend named Toyota?”
“No, but my ex was Mazda. Ditched me for a guy named Subaru.”
At that bitter memory from Mateo’s high school days, Shinya burst out laughing—bright and unguarded, like the Havana sun from an old memory.
As the night wore on and more people drifted in, the garage slowly filled with warmth. That was when Shinya showed up.
“Santiaaago! You still got ropa vieja left?”
He shoved the man who’d come with him—overdressed and painfully out of place—into a chair, plunked down a heaping plate in front of him, and said, “Eat. It’s good, trust me!”
Then he danced his way over toward Mateo and the others, cigarette between his lips.
“What’s with the getup?” Mateo said. “You’re all dressed up.”
The guy with him looked uncomfortably formal, but Shinya himself was also wearing a guayabera—Cuban formal wear.
“Date with Mr. Sugiki sensei, you know,” Shinya said. “Dress code’s a nightmare.”
Nodding his chin toward the man delicately picking at his ropa vieja with the table manners of some minor royal, Shinya blew smoke up toward the ceiling.
“He took me to a fancy restaurant where some old white guy in a three-piece suit like a damn butler pours you wine.”
“So that’s the emperor of ballroom,” Mateo said.
“Yeah. He can waltz just fine, but when it comes to Latin rhythm, he’s got nothing. So—give him a few lessons for me.”
“That’s your job.”
“Haha—hold on a sec.”
Shinya slipped between dancing bodies, hips rolling easily, and made his way over toward Sugiki.
“He looks awfully pleased,” Yordani said, slinging an arm around Mateo’s shoulder, already well into his drinks.
“Flick! Flick!”
Shinya raised his voice, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Aburrido! He’s boring!”
Apparently, he was trying to get our polished guest to drink some rum. Amused, Yordani drifted closer to see how it would play out.
“So this is the emperor, huh? Fantastic!”
Swept up by the energy of the room, the emperor of ballroom crossed arms with Shinya and downed the rum in one go.
“Come on. Get up!”
And with that same momentum, Shinya dragged him into the center of the garage.
“Smile. Just smile. Fake it if you have to. Smile!”
The man’s bewilderment was just too funny, so Mateo joined Shinya at his side, piling on the encouragement.
“Don’t think. Don’t count. Feel the groove! With Latin dance, your body plays the music.”
As if carried along by Shinya’s words, the man’s expression gradually loosened. Taking Shinya’s hand, he spun just a little too cleanly, and Shinya laughed, eyes narrowing with delight.
Worn out from dancing, Mateo dropped into the chair beside Kozue at the table.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, gesturing toward Shinya—grinning with pure joy—with her vape.
“Is he… high on something?”
Mateo could see why she’d think that. Shinya was always heading out to nightclubs and parties, making a scene—but those nights were usually reckless affairs, his way of dulling the heat churning inside him, even though he knew he’d never really find the sensation or passion he craved. There was always a faint loneliness clinging to him.
But tonight, that shadow was gone. He looked almost dizzy.
“Maybe he is. But…”
Whatever it was, it was probably more effective for him than any drug—something legal and shapeless.
Watching Shinya dance with Sugiki, his face lit up with happiness, Mateo suddenly felt an ache of affection for Kozue beside him, sitting there with a slight scowl. He leaned over and kissed her.
Santiago, finished cooking for the day, lowered himself into a chair at the same table, rubbing his lower back. He looked from Mateo and Kozue, teasing each other, to Shinya dancing with Sugiki, and let out a small chuckle.
“So young,” he said.
-
“Sere!”
Mateo took an order and turned back to the bar. Shinya was already there, leaning against the partition wall, slowly sipping his rum.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. I just can’t dance right.”
Shinya climbed onto a barstool as Mateo stepped behind the counter.
“In the end, he’s the one in control. I thought I was the one using him, but I am the one being used. He throws me off, keeps me on edge. Makes me wonder what I am to him.”
It hadn’t been that long since Mateo last saw him, yet there was something different now—an unfamiliar weight, a shadow that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re in love.”
Shinya stared at him, clearly caught off guard. Then he broke into laughter.
“What are you talking about?”
Mateo was quite sure Shinya was the one who had no idea what he was actually talking about.
“Does he turn you on?”
When Mateo pressed the question a step further, Shinya frowned outright this time—then burst out laughing. He was completely oblivious.
“Come on, be honest. Men can be turned on by other men too.”
Right? Mateo glanced toward Yordani, looking for backup, but Shinya just brushed it off.
“No way.”
“Well… If you’re so sure, forget about him. Just don’t regret it.”
Still convinced it was all a joke, Shinya grinned and stuck out his hand for a playful handshake, as if to say nice one. Mateo humored him and took it.
Nadie Sabe—Nobody Knows—sung by Marcelo, drifted comfortably through the bar. Shinya seemed to get caught by the lyrics for a moment. Then he gave a small shake of his head, as if to brush away a thought that had surfaced unbidden, and smiled faintly.
Shinya stubbornly refused to acknowledge his own feelings, but Mateo knew from experience that being turned on by someone of the same gender wasn’t all that unusual.
Whenever it was someone’s birthday, they would usually gather in the garage to celebrate. On average, they sang Cumpleaños Feliz two or three times a month.
What Mateo was thinking of now, though, was his own birthday two years ago. As always, Santiago was at the grill, Yordani—already drunk—was singing in high spirits, Shinya had opened a bottle of aged rum, and Kozue, whom Mateo had only just started dating, was there too.
And that year, Felix was still around too—a man who would leave Japan the following year. He was a professional singer with a decent name to his credit.
When he said he’d sing a song for Mateo’s birthday and leaned over to whisper something to Catalina, a professional guitarist who just happened to be visiting him that day, she began to pluck out the opening notes of Despacito.
Cheers erupted, and someone shouted at Shinya, “Baila!”
He was always dancing with everyone in the garage, a cigarette between his lips—but that was usually just casual, moving along with the music. He never really danced for real.
But with Catalina’s playing, Felix’s singing, and a call for Shinya, a professional dancer to dance, what it really meant was this: Give the birthday boy a show worth charging money for. And of course, Shinya was more than happy to take them up on it.
He stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged off his shirt. Then, with exaggerated courtesy, he took Mateo’s hand, winked, and pressed an over-the-top kiss to his fingertips. Everyone burst out laughing.
What followed was harder to pin down in clear words. Mateo wasn’t Aki—Shinya’s dancing partner—and he’d never even dabbled in ballroom dance. He knew nothing of steps or choreography. And yet his body was spun effortlessly, or perhaps it was Shinya circling around him. All Mateo knew was the strange certainty that he was dancing better than he ever had before, and the incredibly good feeling it left behind.
In fleeting moments, Shinya coiled around him with movements lush enough to make Mateo’s breath hitch. Each time, the garage would erupt in cheers and laughter.
Looking back now, Mateo understood what it had been. Shinya had deliberately slipped feminine steps into the dance—playing to the lyrics, hyping the crowd—exaggerating them on purpose, turning the whole thing knowingly sensual.
Something twisted low in his stomach.
Ah—shit. Before the thought could settle, Mateo instinctively bent forward slightly.
When the song ended, the garage was wrapped in warm applause. Mateo thanked the three of them for the special show they’d put on for his birthday, pulling each into a brief, shoulder-only hug before dropping onto a worn sofa in the corner and wiping the cold sweat from his brow.
Kozue approached with a knowing grin, sat down beside him, slipped an arm around his shoulders, and leaned in to peer at his face.
“You were kind of hard there, weren’t you?”
He’d never thought he could fool her—but even so, it was mortifying.
“…It’s not cheating.”
“Of course not,” she said easily. “People can get turned on by someone of their own gender.”
Bisexual herself, Kozue said it without a hint of judgment. Then, as if soothing Mateo through his very first brush with a sexuality crisis, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
-
“Hey.”
A few days into the new year, Shinya showed up at the bar again.
“Feliz Año Nuevo!”
Yordani poured Havana Club into a glass and set it on the counter.
“Hey, Shinya—how’s your love life with the emperor going?”
Mateo tossed it out half-jokingly. Shinya’s reaction came a beat too late.
“…What are you talking about?”
He fumbled as he lit a cigarette. Mateo leaned in, studying his face. Uncharacteristically, Shinya looked away. When he finally exhaled, his chest lifted as if bracing himself. Only then did he meet Mateo’s eyes.
“We kissed.”
The corner of Shinya’s mouth twitched, like he might add just kidding. But under Mateo’s steady gaze, Shinya seemed to realize there was no taking it back now. His shoulders loosened, and he let out a small, dry laugh.
“…You’re not surprised.”
“I’m the one who said you were in love.” Mateo said. “You were the one who denied it.”
Shinya tilted his head, brow creasing as he struggled for words.
“It’s not… like that. It’s more like this—heat, you know? Something that wells up within…”
“Is it really that complicated?” Yordani cut in. “How would you feel if Sujige kissed some other girl—or hell, a guy?”
“Of course I’d be pissed.” Shinya said easily. “And it’s Sugiki.”
“Alright then,” Yordani went on. “What if Mateo and I kissed?”
“That’d be epic!”
The moment the words left his mouth, Shinya realized how it must have sounded. He bit his tongue slightly and let out a bitter, crooked smile.
“Let me ask you something—have you ever actually been in a real relationship?”
Mateo leaned forward, both hands braced on the bar, pressing Shinya.
“Who was the last one? Go on. Say it.”
“That girl, right?” Yordani cut in for some reason. “What was her name again? Mika?”
“It was Mina,” Shinya shot back.
“Mana,” Mateo corrected.
“Hah! Jesus, you’re awful!”
Yordani, the first one to get the name wrong, burst out laughing the loudest.
“I told you, she wasn’t my girlfriend,” Shinya said. “We only met, like, two or three times.”
“No,” Mateo said flatly. “You met her at least ten times.”
And it had been Mateo who’d stepped in to smooth things over when she’d ended up taking Shinya seriously.
“So what even counts?” Shinya muttered. “My last relationship…”
He frowned, thinking.
“…Aki, maybe?”
-
“Nah—we were just young and stupid.” Aki snorted.
She would show up at the bar alone whenever Shinya wasn’t around, and once she started, she drank like a fish, empty glasses piling up in front of her.
“I mean, sure—back then we probably thought we were doing the whole romance thing,” she went on.
“But looking back? No, it wasn’t. Honestly, it was more like something we just needed to fuck out of our system while we were young.”
She shrugged.
“There’s still this weird expectation, you know? That dance partners are supposed to be involved offstage too. Like that’s just how it goes. It’s such a pain in the ass.”
She glanced down the counter. “Hey, Jor—another mojito.”
Yordani moved quickly, setting a fresh mojito in front of her.
“But honestly? The reason we’ve stayed this solid for so long, even with Shinya being the way he is, is probably because we fucked each other out properly—until we were both completely done.”
She took a drink, and the mojito dropped to half its level in one go.
“When you’re dancing, you’re supposed to look like lovers madly in love. And if it’s someone you’ve already fucked every last inch of—no awkwardness left. No holding back. You can really go all in, clingy and over the top.”
She lifted the glass again, then set it down with just a sip left, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to finish it. Yordani was already reaching for the next glass.
“You know, it’s been years since we broke up, and I’m still getting flashed with his dick all the time. Ugh.”
Whenever Shinya got horny, his routine was always the same: raise hell at a nightclub, drag some girl home, pass out naked—only to get yanked awake by Aki and hustled straight into that day’s lesson.
“…Though, now that I think about it, I haven’t seen it lately.”
These days, he even showed up at this bar alone—and sober.
“Oh, right. I’m guessing Shinya told you already, but we’re heading to the UK next week.”
Mateo glanced at Yordani. Neither of them had heard a word.
“World Championship debut. Jesus, I’m nervous. Another mojito.”
-
Just after midnight at the bar, the bell over the door rang.
“We’re closed!” Mateo snapped the words out. The lights out front were off, the Closed sign already up—he and Kozue were in the middle of a quiet drink together, and the interruption grated on him.
But the uninvited guest didn’t seem to hear him at all, stumbling deeper into the bar, bumping into a table along the way.
“…Oh. It’s you, Shinya.”
He tried to lower himself onto his usual stool, and stumbled—went straight down onto the floor.
“Hey, hey—are you alright?”
It had been quite a long time since Mateo had seen him this drunk.
“…hic—dame ’n trago.”
Shinya slurred the Spanish, hiccupping as he begged for a drink.
“I said we’re closed. And you’ve had too much already. Knock it off.”
“Just one.”
“I’m serious.”
“Just one!”
Mateo let out a long sigh. Once Shinya got like this, there was no moving him. Reluctantly, he reached behind the counter for one of the clean glasses Yordani had left drying. The Havana Club was lined up on the back shelf, but going all the way back there for this unwanted nuisance felt like too much trouble—so he poured barely half a measure from the bottle he’d been sharing with Kozue and set both the glass and the bottle down in front of Shinya.
“It won’t kill you to try something different for once, Kill Devil.”
Shinya squinted at the unfamiliar bottle, eyes unfocused with drink, studying it like it might start talking back.
Mateo reached behind the counter again, grabbed the largest beer mug, then turned the tap from behind, filling it to the brim with water.
“Drink some water too.”
“Hey, is he alright?”
Kozue said, exhaled a cloud of vape smoke as she frowned.
Mateo gave a small nod. It was quite rare for Shinya to get this wasted these days—but taking care of him when he drank himself senseless wasn’t anything new.
“…Grim Reaper.”
Shinya murmured under his breath, tracing the devil on the bottle with his finger.
“It’s a devil.”
“…Calls himself that. Grim Reaper.”
“Who calls who what?”
“’Cause… ’cause he dances like it hurts.”
His voice trembled.
“…Sugiki?”
It wasn’t just the alcohol. Something was clearly off. Mateo leaned in, trying to catch Shinya’s downturned face.
“I thought… I thought maybe I could be his angel. But—”
A single tear slipped free from his alcohol-hazed eyes and ran down his cheek.
“Hey—What the hell is he even saying?”
Kozue shot him a wary look—she didn’t understand a word of Spanish. Mateo turned to her and murmured, “Heartbreak.”
“No way. Seriously?”
“Sorry. Just—give me a minute.”
It was supposed to be their date night, and he felt bad for cutting it short—but this was his best friend, and it was an emergency. Kozue didn’t seem offended. She simply nodded and swapped out the cartridge in her vape.
“…I’m not the one he can become one with.”
Mateo couldn’t tell whether it was just sex, or something deeper—but either way, it was rejection.
“…He told you that?”
Mateo rested a hand on Shinya’s hunched back.
“But… that shouldn’t be true.”
The tears he’d been holding back finally spilled, sliding down his cheeks. Mateo rubbed his back in broad, steady strokes.
A long sigh sounded behind them. Kozue slipped off her stool, circled around, and sat down beside Shinya. Vape still in one hand, she reached out with the other and gently kneaded his shoulder.
“…Didn’t think you were the type to get your heart broken.”
She scoffed softly. “Guess you finally get even just a little of how Mana felt back then.”
Mana—the girl Shinya had messed around with —had been Kozue’s best friend. Mana herself hadn’t made much of a fuss about it—she’d swallowed it back. Instead, Kozue came storming into this bar, snapping, “I’ve got a few words for a douche named Shinya. You got him here?”
That was how Mateo had met her.
“She’s doing fine now. Living up in Hokkaido with her husband and kid.”
She paused, then added,
“Not that you’d care.”
Shinya had never been serious with Mana from the start, and Mana had seen that for what it was—so she signed up for dating apps, got married, and moved on.
But the one who couldn’t move on was Kozue.
After that, she started coming to the bar on her own, until one night she got drunk and finally broke—crying as she muttered, “Mana’s… moving to Hokkaido.”
That was when Mateo understood—Kozue had been carrying a one-sided love for her best friend all along.
Mateo had planned to stay over at Kozue’s place—it was close to the bar, after all—but Shinya ended up completely wasted. They called a taxi, took him back to his place, and together hauled him onto his bed.
They left a glass of water and some painkillers by his pillow, then stepped out of the place that, as always, had never once been locked.
Walking back toward Mateo’s apartment together, he hesitated for a moment—then pulled out his phone and sent a text to Aki.
— Shinya got completely wasted at the bar. I just took him home.
It was already past two in the morning, but Aki replied almost immediately.
— You know I’m not his girlfriend. Or his mom.
— I know. But… something happened in the UK, right?
The three dots blinked on and off for a while before a short reply came through.
— I’ll check on him in the morning. That ok?
— Yeah. Thanks, Aki.
— Anytime. Thanks for looking out for him.
-
Shinya didn’t show up at the bar for a while after that.
By the time the bite of winter had softened and spring was just starting to creep in, Aki came by alone—looking a little worn.
“I don’t really know what happened either,” she said. “He won’t say a word.”
She stirred her mojito absently and let out a sigh.
“Our ballroom practices haven’t resumed at all, and I do need to ask him what he’s planning to do about the ten-dance. But if I push too hard and corner him, that could just make things worse.”
For once, even her mojito was disappearing more slowly than usual.
“I think… this might be the first time something like this has ever happened to him.”
The way she put it—careful not to label what Shinya himself hadn’t named out loud—said a lot about her thoughtfulness.
“Mateo, when you’ve got time, go check on him for me…there are things he probably can’t bring himself to say to someone he dances with.”
With that, Aki finally drained her mojito.
-
The unpaved road around the garage sprouted weeds as soon as spring set in.
Spotting Santiago hacking away with a brush cutter slung over his shoulder, Mateo lifted a hand and waved.
“Mateo, mijo!”
Santiago shut off the machine and pulled off his earmuffs, his voice as bright as ever.
“You never stop, do you, Santiago? Is Shinya around?”
“Shinya? He’s up on the roof, dancing.”
Climbing the stairs beside the garage, the sky opened wide above him.
Shinya was dancing alone with the sun at his back, something quietly magnetic about him. When he noticed Mateo and was about to stop, Mateo lifted a hand, motioning for him to keep going.
The movements were slow, ritualistic, as if part of some ceremony. Gradually, the air itself seemed to fall under his control, the space growing still. Mateo had meant only to watch until it was over, but before he was fully aware of it, he had been drawn into that quiet, sacred beauty.
When the dance finally reached its end, Shinya’s movements slowed, then stilled, and he wiped the sweat from his bare chest with the shirt draped over the railing.
Mateo approached him slowly.
“You haven’t been around the bar lately.”
He kept his tone light. Shinya took a moment to steady his breathing, then looked up at him.
“…Thanks for the other night. Sorry about that. I don’t remember a thing. Aki told me you got me home.”
That was hardly surprising. Shinya had already been pretty far gone by the time he’d made it to the bar that night.
“…You okay?”
Mateo leaned in just a little, concern softening his voice.
“Why?”
Shinya’s eyes flicked away.
“…Did I say something that night?”
He hadn’t even told Aki. Which meant he still couldn’t bring himself to say anything to anyone without the help of alcohol.
“Do you want me to pretend I didn’t hear anything?”
Mateo met Shinya’s eyes as he asked. If that was what Shinya wanted, he had no intention of forcing anything out of him—not now.
For a while, Shinya said nothing, just held Mateo’s gaze. Then he let out a small breath, managed a shaky smile that looked close to tears, and said quietly,
“…He dumped me.”
The smile that had always shone like the Havana sun now carried a shadow—one cast by cold British skies, leaving sadness pooled in his eyes.
Mateo lifted the corners of his mouth just a fraction, then said nothing. He simply opened his arms.
Still wearing that fragile, almost-smile, Shinya leaned forward, draping his broad body over Mateo’s chest. Mateo wrapped his arms around him in return, holding him firmly—embracing the strength he knew so well.
“Come by the bar again,” he said quietly. “Jor misses you too.”
“…Gracias, Mateo. Mi amigo.”
-
As the seasons turned, the oppressive Japanese summer finally began to ease. The door of HAVANA1959 rang its bell, announcing a guest.
A familiar patron crossed paths with Yordani in the hall as he was clearing tables, and they bumped fists in passing.
He pushed back his sweat-damp hair and headed straight for the counter.
“Hey.”
He dropped onto his usual stool and lit a cigarette. Mateo set a glass of Havana Club down in front of him.
“This one’s on the house,” he said. “Congrats, Shinya.”
Shinya tilted his head, a faint smile on his lips even as he frowned slightly.
“I only placed third at the Asia Cup.”
“Is there some rule that says third place doesn’t deserve a drink?”
Still holding Mateo’s gaze, Shinya traced a slow circle along the rim of his glass with one finger.
“…Did Aki say something?”
Mateo burst out laughing.
“Man. Figures you wouldn’t know—you’ve been living like you’re stuck in another era. Ever heard of the internet?”
Shinya pressed his lips together to keep from grinning, then dropped his head, cheeks flushing as if to hide it.
“It’s everywhere,” Mateo went on. “That video of you dancing with Sugiki. You looked beautiful.”
It was Yordani who’d found the video from the competition two days earlier and shown it to Mateo.
On the screen, Shinya was held in Sugiki’s arms, dancing with a joy that kept spilling out of him—so radiant that even the most elaborately dressed woman couldn’t have matched his beauty.
“…Feels kinda weird, being told I’m beautiful by anyone other than him.”
By saying that much, Shinya was admitting that Sugiki had called him beautiful before. Still flushed, he half-hid his mouth, rubbing just under his nose with the hand holding his cigarette.
“Alright then,” Mateo said. “Let’s say you were handsome.”
Shinya blew out a stream of smoke, bit down on his lower lip to keep his smile from showing, and shook his head as if to hide how flustered he was.
“Next time, bring Sugiki by here.”
Mateo lifted his glass. Shinya raised his in return, giving a small, quick nod.
“Salud!”