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Yamamoto slung a heavy, muscled arm around him as they walked back from dinner. Then Iwata sidled up to his other side, patting a misshapen lump under his green prison shirt.
Takeda smacked him hard from behind. "Oi, birthday boy—let's celebrate!"
Kyouji grit his teeth. So they'd found out. Fucking kumicho.
No escaping now. They herded him into his cell. Three of them, yakuza old-timers. They pressed Kyouji to take a seat in the center of the tatami while the party got set up.
Iwata chuckled as he pulled out a squished single-serve cheesecake from his shirt. Takeda produced a match, sticking it into the center like a candle. A row of wild, expectant grins turned toward him.
Kyouji sighed. Who's this party for, exactly?
Yamamoto tugged a plastic bag from his pants. The sour, biting scent of pruno stung Kyouji's nose. He suppressed a grimace as they passed it around.
His cellie, Sawada, peeked in from the door, eyes flicking rapidly between Kyouji and his visitors. Kyouji waved him inside. The kid slunk in, melting into a far corner of the room.
The match hissed, and his birthday candle was lit.
"Make a wish, Narita!"
Hah. He blew out the match.
"How old are you anyway?"
A wave of boos rolled over him at his answer.
"Fucking bastard. Still got all your hair at forty-two, give me some! Goddamn pretty boy genes."
Kyouji laughed. "All the hair in the world wouldn't fix that ugly mug, Iwata."
More booing and friendly jeers, as Yamamoto vigorously rubbed Iwata's bald head like a good-luck charm.
Kyouji pulled the burned-out match from the cake and set it aside. "Dad was half-bald when he died, so genes aren't everything."
The room quieted. Takeda passed him a cigarette.
"Died at forty-one. Worked himself to the bone, then drank himself to death. Goes to show, it doesn't pay to live honestly, haha."
The room filled with laughter. Kyouji put the cigarette in his mouth.
Forty-two. Full head of hair. In prison.
Guess I passed you, dad.
No cake for his dad's forty-first. Definitely no alcohol.
Old man had tried, though.
He'd slipped Kyouji some cash after they all filed into the hospital room for visiting hours. Fingers ruffled his hair.
"Have you run your first errand yet?" His dad grinned down at him from the bed.
Kyouji nodded.
"Smart kid. Why don't you go get some snacks for your old man's birthday?"
Something else was folded inside, stiffer than the bills. Kyouko leaned over to examine the money in his hand, so Kyouji stuffed them in his pocket and scrambled for the door.
He read the folded note before handing it to the convenience store clerk. A list of items and a short explanation for why a six-year-old was buying them. Roll cakes. Chips. Shochu.
She took the cash and pointed him to the right shelves. His chest thudded as she rang up the bottles, but she didn't say a word.
He hugged the bag close as he re-entered the hospital. His mother snatched it from his hands the moment he stepped into the room.
She sighed, a sharp hiss. Kyouko was yelling.
"Ah, give me a break! I'm dying either way, what's the point of abstaining now?"
"Dad!" Kyouko hissed, giving Kyouji a pointed look.
"What? Think he doesn't know I'm dying? Boy isn't stupid. Got three kids all smarter than I ever was, and we got to see the Tigers win the series. I can die happy, eh?" His dad's hand landed on Kyouji's head, solid and grounding.
His mom moved away, silent, to rearrange the flowers and draw the curtains. Soft snores rasped from the armchair, where grandpa had fallen asleep.
His dad grinned and patted the bed. Kyouji climbed up to settle in his lap. At six, he was too old for this sort of thing. But dying people got a pass.
His dad's belly protruded from his body, heavy with fluid. Kyouji gave it a poke—his dad snorted, play-smacking his head. The arms around him had a strange yellow hue and smelled of the hospital soap the nurses used on him, the kind that dissolved into your skin without rinsing.
His dad rarely smelled like himself anymore. His usual scents—sweat, alcohol, powdery jasmine soap—were replaced with the stagnant odor of illness under harsh hospital cleaners.
"Kyouko, Kyouji—time to go home for lunch." His mother picked up her purse and the convenience store bag.
"Leaving so soon?"
His mother turned to meet his father's eyes. "It's lunchtime. No point wasting leftovers." She stepped to the edge of the bed, voice softening. "We'll be back when Kyouichi's off work. Happy birthday."
His parents' hands clasped, briefly.
Kyouji slumped, boneless, onto the firm swell of his dad's belly. Gurgling sounded against his ear—his dad's insides always working because of the medicine they gave him to poop.
"I'm not hungry," he told his mom. "Gonna stay with dad."
A warm palm braced against the back of his neck, and Kyouji rubbed an eye, trying to hold back a yawn. It was a non-AC room—cheapest option. His mom had been excited when the bed by the window opened up, but the sun turned it into a sauna by the afternoon.
Kyouko shook grandpa awake while his mom gathered up the laundry to wash at home.
"We'll be back in a couple hours. Kyouji, sure you won't get hungry?"
Kyouji met her gaze and nodded. He slumped back onto his dad and gave in to the building yawn.
Fingers stroked through his hair, slow and rhythmic. Kyouji blinked sleepily into the sun's glare.
"Guess you're the only one who still has time for me, huh?"
Kyouji rubbed his eyes and sat back. His dad's leathery face smiled at him, creases deepening as he grinned.
Then the smile slid from his face. "Kyouji."
"Yeah?" Kyouji sat up straighter.
"Remember the eel—after the Tigers won the series?"
November 2, 1985. A Saturday.
They all crowded around the TV and erupted into cheers as the Hanshin Tigers won the championship series. Kyouichi hefted Kyouji by the armpits, spinning him around the room. Grandpa's victory shouts were laced with bad words, but no one bothered scolding him. In the corner of his eye, his mom kissed his dad full on the mouth.
Later that night, his dad brought in containers of eel on rice. A stack of lacquered boxes with patterned lids, the kind they gave out at fancy restaurants they'd never dream of eating at.
Kyouko's older boyfriend everyone hated came over, and even that didn't dim the celebratory atmosphere. Hitoshi pulled out beers from a canvas bag, lining them up on the table. His mom pulled the bottle out of Kyouko's hands. She let Kyouichi take one.
"To the Tigers! We're gonna kick everyone's asses every year from now on!" His dad raised his drink. Bottles clinked together across the table.
Kyouji pressed against his dad's side, soaking in his warmth, the loud chatter of voices, the familiar scent of beer in the air.
Hitoshi met his gaze from his other side. He passed Kyouji his bottle with a grin. Kyouji sniffed, nose wrinkling. He took a sip and nearly choked. He reached for his own glass with both hands. The water slid down in cool, fast gulps as he tried to drown the bitter taste.
The room swelled with laughter. A hand smacked down, heavy between his shoulder blades.
"Let that teach you never to touch the stuff!" His dad chuckled. He circled an arm around Kyouji's shoulders as he brought his own beer to his lips. Kyouji buried his head into his dad's Hanshin Tigers jersey, smelling the clean jasmine soap underneath the beer.
His mom didn't scold his dad for drinking that day—she didn't even scowl. She lifted the bento lids one by one, carefully shaking off the condensation. Her face relaxed into a gentle smile as she served everyone their portion.
It was the best day Kyouji could remember.
His dad grimaced. "The boxes—it wasn't eel. It was catfish. I just wanted everyone to feel special. You know, happy."
The hand in his hair slid to his cheek, thumb stroking lightly. "I'm sorry, Kyouji. Your dad's a fuckup, huh?"
Kyouji had never tasted eel in his life. He was pretty sure Kyouko and Kyouichi hadn't either. If his dad had never told him, none of them would have known.
But here he was, confessing. Apologizing for one of Kyouji's favorite memories.
Kyouji wanted to throw his arms around his dad's neck. Kiss his cheek and tell him he loved him.
Maybe he was too old for that now.
"It was really tasty," he said instead. "I liked it a lot."
His dad grinned. Kyouji let his head fall and smiled into the rounded plane of his stomach.
Everyone always yelled at his dad. His mom, Kyouko, Kyouichi. Even the doctors talked down to him, the way they spoke about his illness like it was all his fault.
Kyouji gripped his dad's hospital shirt, face smooshed into the scratchy fabric. Heavy arms encircled him in return, pressing him close.
I love you. I know you're not bad. You're good. I know.
Kyouji woke to warm wetness pooled beneath him.
Ugh, did dad wet the bed again?
Liquid slid down his ear, onto his neck. He swiped it away, then squinted an eye open.
Red.
Kyouji blinked both eyes open. His dad's hospital pants were stained a dark, sticky black. The smell invaded his nostrils—putrid, burnt, yet gut-roilingly sweet. Kyouji was sitting in it.
He tried not to gag. Gross, dad. Now you're pooping your pants, too?
Tick by tick, his mind started to turn. There was blood on his hands. On his face and neck. He looked up.
His dad's head lolled back. Blood dripped from his mouth, smeared over his front. Some clumped into big globs on his shirt and neck.
Oh.
Kyouji reached for his face. No response.
He pinched a cheek. Nothing.
Pulse racing, Kyouji shook his dad. Gently. Careful not to make a sound. Miura-san was sleeping in the other bed, the portable screen doing nothing to block his loud snores.
He braced a hand onto his dad's abdomen and reached up to push harder on his shoulder. The pressure of his weight shifted something in his dad's insides. A wet splurt—then a nauseating, sweet-tar stench bloomed in the air.
Kyouji wanted to leap off the bed in disgust. But leaving his dad felt like a betrayal. He froze, torn between sitting with the shit and blood or running away—to where?
Tears threatened at the edge of his eyes. His throat closed in, painful and tight.
Then nurse Miyu walked in with a lunch tray. Her quick, efficient steps slowed to a stop. Taking in the scene—and Kyouji sitting in the mess of it—she gasped.
"Narita-san! What happened?"
Miyu rushed forward and slapped a button on the wall. Hands grabbed Kyouji's underarms, pulling him backward.
"Get off! How long has he been like this?"
I didn't do anything, Kyouji wanted to say. But he slid down and stood quietly along the wall. The seat of his pants was wet, fabric sticking to the backs of his legs. He grimaced.
More people flooded the room, yelling orders and dragging in beeping machines.
How was he going to explain this to his mom? Kyouko would yell at him for sure. Kyouji closed his eyes.
He floated away from himself. Far from the chaotic noise, the awful smells, the sticky itch of blood and shit-soiled pants.
In his prison cell, Kyouji stared down at his smushed birthday cake, tiny hole in the center where the match had been.
The cigarette had gone damp between his lips. He should have saved the match.
A pair of knees shuffled into the edge of his vision. The tatami creaked as Sawada inched closer, still in seiza. He pulled out a Bic lighter from god-knows-where. Through the clear plastic, Kyouji made out a thin line of fluid clinging to the bottom.
Click, click. It didn't spark.
Sawada tried so hard. And Kyouji got it. A clean-cut kid like that—who knows how many hands he had passed through before him. Landing with an older yakuza enforcer for a cellie—one who wasn't looking to do more than sleep at night—the kid had hit the jackpot.
But the endless fawning turned grating real quick.
"Hah, this kid can't even light a cigarette. Give it here!" Yamamoto reached out a furred, beefy forearm. His hand thumped onto Sawada's head, shoving him to the side. Sawada flinched but stayed put, flicking the flint wheel again and again. Finally, a flame caught.
The end of Kyouji's cigarette glowed orange. Beyond the smoke, Sawada watched him, eyes locked onto his. Kyouji puffed out irritably.
I'm not your boyfriend, kid. Six months left on his sentence, he wasn't trying to get into anything. Just get through, and get out.
Takeda and Iwata pinched Sawada's sides, praising him for being such a sweet girlfriend. Sawada shrank into himself as they edged closer, teasing turning sharper. Finally, he shook them off and retreated to his corner, unfolding the futon. He pulled the blanket over his body and curled his knees in, back to the wall.
A long drag pulled the smoke down to the bases of Kyouji's lungs. The burn was good going down and then out again, through his nose. Only the cheap, harsh stuff in here, but beggars being choosers, and all that. With any luck, the guards would let him finish his smoke before coming over and deciding they wanted to do their jobs.
The presents were good, too. A pack of cigarettes: mismatched, some hand-rolled. Matches. Extra blankets and a pillow, probably pulled off some poor nobodies who were now shivering uncovered in their cells—oh well. An honest-to-god switchblade, not some half-assed prison shank. Nice mother-of-pearl handle, fancy shit. Miraculously smuggled in by Takeda, who'd been an old acquaintance of kumicho. Kyouji made a note to put in a good word when he was out.
Smushed cheesecake he could do without, though. Maybe save it for later. Give it to Sawada after the party broke up—kids liked this stuff, right? Metabolism still running high, so they didn't feel like crap later. A little apology for the loud voices and gropey hands Sawada had winced through for Kyouji's party.
Cute enough kid, but sometimes he made Kyouji cringe. Too soft, too quiet. Reminded him of Satomi—same nervous, flinching movements that created no real distance, just whet the appetite.
The guys were singing Happy Birthday in three different keys, Takeda's deep rumble a beat behind the others. Kyouji smiled wryly at his lumpy prison birthday cake.
Forty-two. Damn. Who would have thought.
Come to think of it, Satomi-kun's birthday wasn't too far before his. Third-year in high school. He'd be seventeen already.
What a kid, still.
His own seventeenth birthday—god, who could remember? He would have celebrated it with Rie.
Last year of high school. He was skipping more school days than going, by then. Spending more nights at Rie's place than his own. Kyouko and Kyouichi out of the house, dad and grandpa both long gone. Staying out of the way so his mom didn't feel compelled to yell at him was doing her a favor.
Rie had been twenty-two when they met, so twenty-four by his seventeenth birthday—or twenty-five?
Now he'd forgotten. Too many years and women with birthdays in between.
He remembered their meeting, though.
First year of high school. Still putting in a halfhearted effort to attend.
On the way home, it started pouring down in sheets. Kyouji ducked into the closest store, shaking droplets from his hair.
"In the market for women's clothes?"
He blushed. The wind howled outside. But the pretty shop attendant just laughed and brought out a towel from the back. She handed him an umbrella that a customer left behind.
Armed with his new umbrella and Rie's number, Kyouji stepped into the downpour a few minutes later. Made it safely home. Found himself in her bed that night.
The smell of her that first night was what did him in. She used the same brand of soap they did at home—soft, powdery jasmine.
The scent of his mom carrying him home after he fell off the slide. Clean and sweet on her nape, under the salty tears Kyouji had smeared there.
Kyouko, huffing but making space in her futon after a nightmare. They were both sweaty in the summer heat, but she didn't push him away when he clung to her.
Dad after work, fresh from the bath, nodding off to the TV. The soft, powder smell of home on the arm that pulled him close, the hand that ruffled his hair.
After they had sex, Rie got up to use the bathroom and came back with two glasses of water. Kyouji gulped his down, but she made no moves to push him out.
So he'd stayed. And come back the next night.
And there he found himself, a year and a half later. Following her soft, powder scent through aisles of women's shoes.
Rie shopped at the same train station hypermarket his mom did—overhead speakers blaring the pre-recorded jingle Kyouji could recite by heart—but they'd never run into each other. Different hours maybe, or Kyouji's bad luck giving him a break for once.
He walked a step behind. She didn't like it when he was affectionate outside. Not that he looked sixteen (seventeen today). Still, she was so stiff about it.
But she always let him lean his weight into her when they got home, burying his face in her neck, reconfirming his place in her arms.
Rie pulled out two styles of fake leather pumps. Her eyebrows crinkled together as she flipped them over, examining the prices. She went with the ones on sale.
Once she slipped off her new discount heels in the entryway, Kyouji lifted her towards the futon they had forgotten to put away. She squirmed and squealed about her weight—he held her tighter.
Her fingers framed his face, pulling him to her breasts as he worked himself inside. Baby powder and jasmine. Kyouji pulled her closer by the love handles and thought, home. Pushed deep into her enveloping warmth and thought: I love you, I love you, I love you, just let me stay.
That winter, he moved out of his mom's and into Rie's one-room place. She showed him the door less than a year later—just a few months past eighteen.
The next woman was thirty-six, with a high-powered corporate job and a proper one-bedroom condo. She smelled of brand-name perfume and bought her clothes at high-end department stores.
And it hadn't been love.
Nakamoto finally stomped over, yelling about contraband and inappropriate gatherings. He didn't make a move to enter the cell. His hand stayed tensed on his baton as the guys filed out, bowing at him good-naturedly.
Kyouji put the cheesecake on the floor by Sawada's futon.
"Thanks," Sawada mumbled. The cake was gone in two bites.
Was someone stealing his lunch trays? Or was it a youth thing?
Satomi had been like that. Kyouji would turn to sing one verse and on the next glance back: a whole plate of fried rice, gone.
They both cried real quiet, too. But not quiet enough. Sawada's half-muffled sniffles carried clearly in the stillness of their cell at night.
Staring at his bundled form through the haze, Kyouji felt endlessly weary.
Sawada-kun, really. Not to say you're asking for it, but when you sob like that, it makes a guy wanna give you something to cry about, you know?
Kyouji hadn't been that stupid his first time around, mid-twenties and fresh meat. The ink in outlines across his back had helped, sure. But coming to a place like this still able to cry—that was really too unfortunate.
Do you still cry and tremble like you used to, Satomi-kun? Big onii-san like you—you've probably learned not to, right? It just makes the sharks circle closer.
A few months later, they switched him to another block. Sawada had cried for real when they'd gone their separate ways—small, hitching sobs, streaming tears and everything. Kyouji had looked away, shifting his weight. He focused on the dust floating in the air until the sobs slowed to shuddering, unsteady breaths. Finally, he slipped Sawada the mother-of-pearl switchblade. Couldn't think of anything good to say, so he patted him on the shoulder, grabbed his stuff, and left.
His new cellie Maeda was mid-fifties, a hardened old head who snored like a dying buffalo. Staring at the ceiling through the foghorn of Maeda's exhales, Kyouji almost missed the nighttime whimpers.
The jangle of keys and stomping boots competed with Maeda's snores. Kyouji pulled the extra blanket over his head as Nakamoto flashed a light into their cell for headcount.
Someone was banging in the cell next door, and Nakamoto started yelling—Kyouji didn't want to know. He put the second pillow over his head and floated.
Kyouji joked about Satomi's apartment being as small as a prison cell, but there was no comparison. The sunlight for one thing, streaming in bright and unobstructed.
The peace, for another.
He fiddled with his phone while he waited for Satomi to get back from his errand. Traffic whooshed by on the road below. A couple of kids were laughing, voices climbing higher as they joked back and forth.
The electric kettle beeped. A sweet, grassy aroma floated up as Kyouji poured two cups of tea.
The steam thinned, then settled while he swiped through emails. The door creaked open minutes later. A few soft steps on the tatami, and Satomi settled next to him, dropping a takeout bag onto the small table.
"Happy birthday."
Kyouji blinked and set his phone on the table. A sweet, smoky aroma wafted out from the bag.
"I never told you my birthday."
Satomi met his gaze, unamused. "I have my ways."
The plastic crinkled as Satomi untied the bag and pulled out two black bowls with clear lids. A row of small containers of sauce and garnishes. Two disposable chopsticks in paper sleeves. He arranged everything on the table.
Kyouji resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.
"Never been one to celebrate my birthday."
Satomi paused, hands stilling midway through opening one of the plastic lids. "Never?"
Kyouji shrugged. "Not past elementary school, anyway. None of the milestones meant much, growing up. And then you get older, and it's just depressing."
Satomi pulled off both plastic lids. His hand slipped into Kyouji's, pressing firm. Kyouji squeezed back, chest tight and too warm.
"I'm turning twenty next year."
Just a kid. Kyouji tucked a stray hair behind Satomi's ear.
"I know."
"Will you celebrate with me?"
"Of course, Satomi-kun."
Satomi bit his lip, not fully preventing the smile. Kyouji pushed the mug of tea towards Satomi before he did something stupid. It had gone cold. He could make another.
Satomi ignored it and kept holding his hand.
"It'll be the first. The first birthday of mine we spend together."
"Mmm." It couldn't be good for his heart to clench this hard all the time. "I'm looking forward to it, Satomi-kun."
"And this is my first of yours."
Ah. Kyouji grinned, defeated. "Okay. Let's celebrate." He slid a chopstick from its sleeve, parting the wooden sticks.
"It's catfish."
Kyouji set the chopsticks back down. He examined his birthday meal. The sauce-glazed fish was a lighter color. He could tell now. Not eel.
Satomi shifted in place, twisting his fingers in his lap. "I figured, you probably had a lot of fancy eel as an adult, right? With—with your work. But maybe you hadn't tried catfish again."
I just wanted everyone to feel special. You know, happy.
Something dropped hard in his stomach. Heat seared up his chest.
"Umm, but I have leftovers in the fridge, if you don't want—"
Kyouji dragged Satomi in, wrapped him in his arms—probably too tight to breathe. He dropped backwards onto the tatami, with Satomi on top of him.
Satomi wriggled. "It'll get cold. It's not good reheated."
Kyouji pulled the blanket from the futon and draped it over them.
"Mmm, okay, in a minute," he mumbled. "Thanks, Satomi-kun."
The thing is, he'd taken the early train straight off a late night at work, to spend the birthday he hadn't even mentioned with Satomi. Running on fumes and pathetic longing, Kyouji was about to fall asleep.
He buried his nose into Satomi's neck. Satomi sighed and settled.
Honey soap and mint shampoo—Satomi hadn't changed his brands since middle school. Years ago, when Kyouji passed by the familiar line of blue soap bars at the store to reach for a golden beehive pump bottle, he should have known he was doomed.
If not then, then a few years later, first day out of prison. Stepping out after a long shower, he'd caught the scent of mint in his own hair and felt a long-forgotten pang that meant home.
But he hadn't acknowledged it. Not until he slung his arm around a kid he'd never expected to see again at Kansai airport. Satomi had turned away, exposing his nape as Kyouji leaned in. Honey skin, clean-mint hair.
Kyouji had closed his eyes, then. Leaned back, breaths shallow. One hand clenching the leather seat—trying to remember where he was.
Under the warm blanket with Satomi's weight holding him down, Kyouji closed his eyes and inhaled deep.
Life made funny circles sometimes. The Hanshin Tigers had won the championship again, curse lifted. When they woke up, the cold catfish would be delicious.
And it would be the best day Kyouji could remember.
He yawned into Satomi's shoulder, the shared body heat making him drowsy. Pulled him a little closer.
I love you. I'm sorry, Satomi-kun. You're too damn lovable.
Satomi's arms slipped under his back, circling him. Their bellies pressed together with each breath.
For the first time in a very long time, Kyouji rested in the arms of a man he adored—and let go.