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Kyouji seats himself next to Satomi, the same immaculate package of broad shoulders and languid limbs. Three years had given Satomi enough height to catch up to his older brother but Kyouji was, of course, unreachable. He still loomed over him, easily bracketing him with a simple stretch of an arm.
Satomi keeps his eyes away from the way his shirt stretches taut over his chest with the movement.
He smells of the same cologne, with a dash of perpetual smoke and the citrusy smell of his aftershave that had proved elusive to encounter even in the months they had been close.
The same playful smile.
Satomi could be excused for believing that everything had remained the same.
But then. Then Kyouji rolls his sleeve up, creasing perfectly ironed fabric without a second thought. Satomi belatedly wondered whether it helped him at all to keep himself so prim and proper to hide all of the things he had to do.
The thought pauses and chucks itself out headfirst through a window and the breathlessness that follows threatens to leave his chest caved in with the force of it.
Kyouji was casual about it, like the fact that Satomi’s name was etched on him meant nothing. Like it was inevitable. Satomi could not bear to look at him— wanted to strangle him, really.
They fall into the same routine of bickering, Kyouji all indulgent sunniness and Satomi meeting him with his half-nervous, half-frustrated unimpressed bluster. Kyouji’s body still radiates warmth and Satomi still easily goes red from the top of his head to the tip of his toes— full-bodied as a moth in the vicinity of a flame.
Satomi could be excused for believing everything had remained the same.
—
At some point, they stop touching.
Satomi waits for it, subconsciously, the casual lean of him, pressing their sides together. Or a hand over his shoulders. The tactile motions of explaining things— he remembered the little pokes to his arm to emphasise tattoos when they had first met, the way Kyouji had grabbed his chin to make him look at him when Satomi couldn’t stop crying. The persistent way he sat next to him in the karaoke booth when he wanted to be annoying, the ease with which he had picked the bit of rice near his mouth.
But the next time they meet after their… reunion, Kyouji greets him with a smile. Always a smile and none of the buzzy hovering that had likened him to a particularly cheerful Great Dane.
They eat out and Kyouji always chooses the seats across him.
It takes Satomi longer to notice it, with his doubts and weeks of silences between them, than he would have liked but by the time he does, the distance is cemented.
“Is Satomi-kun not hungry today?” Kyouji prods with a teasing smile, his tone a complicated mixture of blasé but concerned, when Satomi doesn’t open the menu.
Satomi blinks at him and sweeps through the hazy months of sleep deprivation and classes and saving up pennies and comes up with an emptiness scorching him inside-out.
“Mhmm, I will have some warm lemon tea.”
“And?”
“That’s all.”
“Satomi-kun,” comes Kyouji’s chiding tone, “elbows off the table. Come on, nothing else? Are you not well? You usually have such a lovely appetite.”
Lovely appetite, what a strange man.
“That’s all, Kyouji-san. Really.”
Kyouji closes the menu. “Hey, I can drop you home if you really don’t feel well or do we need a doct—,”
“No,” Satomi shakes his head, “I would have told you if I wasn’t fine. I wouldn’t waste your time. Just don’t feel too hungry.”
Kyouji frowns in an exaggerated manner. “Ah, the youth and their obsession with time. I hope Satomi-sensei isn’t planning to boss me around to the point where he decides what’s worth my time or not, hmm?”
‘I–,”
“And—,” Kyouji opens up the menu again, glancing at it before waving to a waitress, “Wait, excuse me!”
The waitress arrives, her perfunctory smile and notepad ready. “Yes, sir?”
“Two bowls of takaida-kei ramen, a warm lemon tea and a lemon spritz, skip the prosecco, please.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“That’s all,” Kyouji smiles at her.
“We will have it out in about fifteen minutes,” she says before hurrying off to another table.
“Thanks!”
“You could have just asked for a lemon soda if you were going to order a lemon spritz without the prosecco,” Satomi points out. He had been out to enough swanky restaurants Kyouji insists on flinging money at to know the difference by now.
“Ah! Soda! I had forgotten the word. Ehhh,” Kyouji shrugs, “I got the point across. Anyways, let me know if you want anything else, okay?”
“Remembers prosecco, not soda though,” he mutters with a huff, wiping his glasses with the corner of his shirt.
When he looks up again, Kyouji’s eyes are already on him. In a split second, his expression changes into a banal smile before Satomi can grasp it. “Silly me.”
Satomi shakes his head and says, “Kyouji-san. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” Long fingers snap the menu shut, the smooth pages closing down with a muffled sound. His knuckles are bruised, like a chink in perfectly gleaming armour. Satomi ignores the voice in his head that whispers, that’s the real Kyouji. It wasn't like he didn't know, but the bloody, purplish wounds resembled the space he occupied in Satomi's chest, like a spot he couldn't help but press over and over to confirm whether it still hurt.
“Uh, you once said you’re jealous of the fact that I’m studying. Can I ask what you would study if you had the chance?”
“Huh, where’s this coming from?”
Satomi crosses his arms and leans back into his seat. Beyond the windowpanes, Tokyo glitters against a stark black sky. “Nowhere. I just got curious.”
“Hmm, maybe literature.”
He peels his eyes away from far-away skyscrapers and tilts his head at him. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
Satomi smashes the urge to explain himself and retorts, “Does it feel like one?” He was tired of the non-answers and gingerly tended-to crack between them.
“My, Satomi-kun, something has your feathers all ruffled,” Kyouji says instead of answering. Just as usual.
Satomi doesn’t deem that worthy of a response and goes back to staring out until Kyouji sighs and says, “I guess I just like stories. Everything is so melodramatic. Everyone cares so much about everything happening. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”
A fact: Narita Kyouji’s eyes are always half-lidded, his posture relaxed.
A question: Why?
Why was he here but not? How could he be so unaffected by everything around him?
Did he even hear himself right now?
“‘Everyone cares about everything and that’s exciting’…. In your business, I thought it would be necessary to care about what you do. Didn’t think melodrama would hold much novelty for you.”
Kyouji rests his cheek against his knuckles, breaking his own rule of no elbows on the table and laughs. “Satomi-kun, you can be invested in your studies and be whatever you want. An athlete can put care into their training and win all the prizes. In my business, you get too invested and it will drive you crazy— hey, speaking of crazy, have you managed to cut down on the night shifts? You know sleeplessness and such messes with your appetite!”
It’s a lot to unpack but Satomi accepts the answer for what it is, blindsided by Kyouji’s candidness. Then again, he remembered how vehemently Kyouji had asked him to stay away from the Yakuza, even when it felt like the world was ending. “Yeah, I’ve managed to find timings that work better. Cut down on the shifts in general, actually, I got exams coming up.”
“Hmm, study hard. I’m sure you’ll do well.”
“Thanks.”
They chit-chat through their meal, Kyouji laughing till he snorted at Satomi scathing critique of Tokyo’s lackluster okonomayaki, Satomi in turn listening with rapt attention about their most recent karaoke contest.
“A third-time winner…. You did say only the dead ones aren’t allowed to show up. Maybe it’s time you took some mercy on him.”
Kyouji grins. “You’re such a sweet boy.”
To that, Satomi’s blush does the talking.
It doesn’t take them long to finish the ramen and he has to wave off Kyouji’s subtle attempts at getting him to order more, instead suggesting they head out for a walk.
“Alright, let’s go,” Kyouji sing-songs.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Nah, I’m an old man. My appetite just isn’t what it was before.”
“You aren’t that old.”
Kyouji chuckles as they pass through the restaurant’s threshold. “I think this is the first time I’ve heard you defend my honour.”
Satomi shoves him. Kyouji exaggerates a stumble with a dramatic ‘oooof’.
It’s a dance they know well: indulgence, a facade where they pretend Satomi can at all affect Kyouji in any way.
—
Satomi has grown up pretty.
Kyouji notes it like he notes cloudy skies— something unchangeable that needs to be taken in stride.
He’s taller, the same lean physique. Sure, his shoulders have filled out just a bit and his face has sharpened but he has the same doe eyes, the same smooth hair.
The final effect of it is… sleek almost. Satomi is wound up too tight, his exhausted eyebags dampening the overall look, for it to be the right word but it’s close enough.
[Kyouji stuffs the part of him that says fragile into the trunk of an imaginary car and runs it off an imaginary cliff, then stuffs the whole ordeal into a mental compartment never to be touched again and neatly rewrites the empty space with lanky.]
He walks surprisingly straight for a tired college student, the hunch of his teenage years nowhere to be seen and Kyouji thinks, good, he will be a fine lawyer one day.
He is also surprisingly oblivious, Kyouji observes with a touch of amusement as Satomi completely misses the girl eyeing him up and down very obviously.
They had entered the store at Kyouji’s request. It’s one of those that look small and unassuming at the entrance with numerous little posters around the entrance ensuring ‘never-heard-of-before’ offers and ‘exciting new products’ and somehow actually lives up to it with long lines of shelves going deeper and deeper into the store.
As Kyouji retrieves cigarettes from himself, Satomi lingers at the little metallic stand with keyrings jingling on it. The girl keeps staring.
Kyouji hangs back, wondering if she will approach. She couldn’t be blamed for attempting to bite the eye candy she had been proffered with. If she takes too long, Kyouji will just have to usher Satomi along. You miss hundred percent of the shots you don’t take or whatever.
Not that Kyouji could say a thing about it.
But before Kyouji or the girl can make a move, Satomi turns around and looks around the store. As soon as his eyes land on Kyouji, he jogs up to him and asks, “You done?”
“Yes,” Kyouji smiles, “Do you have anything you would like to buy?”
Satomi brings both his hands up. An ashtray and a demonic looking figure dangling from a keyring. "Nope, this is all."
“What’s that?”
“An ashtray,” Satomi intones, brushing past Kyouji to place his items for checkout.
“I know." No further expkanation is offered so Kyouji tries with, "Does Satomi-kun smoke now?”
“No,” Satomi frowns, “But you do. I don’t want you to trash my apartment with ash, the smell is bad enough as it is.”
Kyouji has never been to Satomi’s apartment but the thought sits nervously inside him. “I would never!”
Before they can really get into it, the cashier interrupts meekly to ask whether they need anything else. Satomi pays for his order and moves aside to let Kyouji buy his cigarettes.
Kyouji can feel the girl’s eyes on them, the confusion in them as they step out. Satomi says, “I don’t know but I felt like she was staring the entire time. Is there anything on my face?”
“No,” Kyouji grins in the most irritating way possible, “I think it’s just your face that she was staring at.”
Satomi stops and blinks. Then continues walking. “I wonder how bored one has to be to do that.”
“Hey now—,”
“Either way,” he reaches into his carry bag and gets the demonic keychain out, “This was an impulsive purchase but does it not look exactly like the tattoo one your colleagues has? The one with a Hello Kitty phobia?”
“Ogata?” He takes a good look at the fuzzy little thing and thinks back to Ogata. Sure enough it has an uncanny resemblance with its gremlin-like smile, small kitty ears and large eyes. “Ohhh, it does look a lot like his tattoo! What is it though? Some character from a manga?”
“It’s a Labubu. Well, an off-brand one. Here,” the demonic thing is pressed to him, “Give it to him.”
“How come he gets a gift from you before I get mine? No fair!”
Satomi still hasn’t told him what his gift is. Kyouji is awful with suspense but Satomi says he has to wait for December so wait he does.
“It’s not a gift, Kyouji-san. Consider it a souvenir from me,” Satomi sighs. “Come here.”
He is led into an alley and Satomi only stops when the streetlight’s blur can barely reach them. “You need a smoke, right? You’ve been fiddling with your lighter the entire way.”
“You really are the sweetest,” Kyouji sighs, wondering how someone so oblivious could be so observant. “Anyways, if only Ogata gets a souvenir the rest will feel neglected by their Sensei.”
Kyouji wanted to let it be known that there were very few things that could be scarier than Oka Satomi’s unimpressed stare. “I haven’t been their ‘sensei’ in what? Almost five years now.”
He breathes out a puff of smoke and gesticulates with a finger pointed up, “But! Once a sensei, always sensei!” Never mind the fact that all of them will start ribbing Kyouji about pretty boys sending gifts to Ogata.
Satomi rolls his eyes but Kyouji can see the mirth in them. “If that’s the case, I know a bakery nearby. How does cookies for everyone sound?”
“Hmm. Only if you let me pay.”
“The souvenirs are supposed to be from me.”
“Listen—,”
“Kyouji-san,” Satomi says, “ Can we not fight about this? It’s annoying and really uncomfortable.”
“No fighting, sure. But, you’re a college student. I don’t expect you to buy things for me. Or anyone.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m just treating everyone equally this time and there won’t be a next time. I’m sure you can keep your gift a secret?”
“Of course,” Kyouji mumbles, trying very hard to not look like he had almost choked on the smoke.
—
‘Are you alive? Can we meet up in December?’ Satomi types after four months of silence.
The wound is as fresh as the day he was fourteen. Of course.
—
November is a mess.
Kyouji hadn’t known how literally Satomi had meant there won’t be a next time but he supposes it had to happen someday.
He goes back to Osaka almost entirely blank, his brain already in the process of wiping damage, till he sits in front of Boss. He tries not to think of neglected dogs curled up alone in alleys— winters are brutal for them.
—
Kyouji’s apartment is neat, luxurious and empty. He doesn’t even like velvet, let alone the sheer amount of it draped on every surface, be it the couch, the pillows scattered on it or the curtains. The only bit of clutter is a pair of glasses. He blinks away the image of a second pair, familiar in shape, that could sit next to it.
Pipe dreams are best left to junkies.
It still doesn’t stop the phantom pressure of Satomi’s arms lingering on him when he lies alone in bed. He remembers the weight of his body pressed to his back more clearly than is merciful.
Kyouji didn’t know he was capable of hurting himself, having left that burden onto others and waiting for impact that didn’t come.
At age forty-four, he is proven wrong in a way that slices him open.
Likes: Crimson, Satomi, Shrimp.
Dislikes: Having shit tattooed on him, Pineapple, Satomi saying goodbye, Having meals alone.
It’s not that he cannot live with that ultimatum. It’s just that he would rather not.
Oh well.
—
Satomi says they should stop meeting each other.
Satomi then asks him for twenty pork buns.
He brings him into his home. The ashtray sits ready. Kyouji asks for tea.
There’s not much he can do except eat and talk and rewind inane conversation.
When Satomi asks what he means to Kyouji, he doesn’t say I don’t have a word for it but you mean a lot to me. He came ready. He asks, “What do you want us to be?”
Satomi says nothing. Kyouji can live with nothing as long as Satomi is fine.
—
Kyouji tries not to laugh when Satomi asks when his boss is going to die. He offers to walk him back to the restaurant he works at.
Their detour into an alley brings with a sense of deja vu that has Kyouji reaching for a cigarette. As soon as they stop, trying to soak into the relief of forever, he lights one up, sucking on it like he’s trying to sip nicotine. He breathes out and ignores Satomi’s eyes on his mouth.
As the wisps clear, he can see the boy staring at his feet. There’s a cat brushing up on his jeans, rubbing its little face all over it. It’s miniscule, barely larger than a kitten, with shiny black fur.
When Satomi squats to gently pet it, the cat shivers in delight, pressing itself more into his palm.
Kyouji squats just behind him, peering over him as the cat noses his palm. “You know, the Boss has a bunch of cats too?”
An answering hum, curling at the end with an inquisitive note.
“There’s one like you,” Kyouji continues, “Looks a lot like this one actually. So grumpy and soft-looking.”
Satomi doesn’t help his case by glaring back at him with all the force of a flickering torchlight.
Kyouji laughs, “Gives me the exact same expression too!”
“Hmph.” Satomi goes back to petting the kitty. Its purrs are loud and consistent, like the world’s smallest well-functioning engine.
“It’s so unfair,” Kyouji says around another drag of smoke. “Cats hate me.”
Satomi tilts his head slightly and it’s all Kyouji can do to not keel over from the sheer wave of cuteness aggression that hits him.
“Really?”
“Yeah! None of them ever come near me. The ones that do, run away soon enough, hissing at me like I cursed their bloodline or something.”
It’s silent for a moment before Satomi says, “It could be your scent.”
“Come again?”
Satomi looks back at him before getting up with the cat in his arms. “Cats don’t like strong smells, they have much more sensitive noses than ours. You always wear cologne and smell like cigarettes.”
“My, Satomi-kun, you have been paying attention,” Kyouji chuckles, barely able to wrap his head around what he was hearing. Has it been that simple the whole time?
“Tough not to,” he grumbles, cheeks pinked and mouth on its way to form a pout.
“Is it that bad?”
“Whether or not it is bad doesn’t matter. It’s a strong smell and can irritate a cat’s nose.” It’s a good evasion, almost too good coming from Satomi given how transparent he usually is.
“Hmm,” he crushes the cigarette butt with the tip of his shoe and pulls his sleeve up. “Most of my cologne has worn off and with my sleeve up, any that ended up on it won’t be as close to its face. Do you think I can pet this one without getting scratched?”
“Worth a try,” Satomi shrugs, presenting the cat to him. “Keep your hand on it slowly— I said slowly!”
“Okay, okay,” Kyouji says, readjusting his hold on the cat and gently pets it.
While Satomi had received loud affection, all Kyouji gets is a perfunctory mrrooow before the cat recoils back and bats at his hand like it physically couldn’t hold its annoyance back. He has to laugh and try again but this time, he aims for the bigger cat.
“Stop messing with my hair— Kyouji.”
Kyouji. Something curls up straight from the pit of his stomach to rise and press into his chest. Kyouji. God.
The last time Satomi had called him by just his name, he had stormed off, crying and distraught with all the weight a fourteen-year-old choir boy could hold, wishing that the Boss would tattoo shit all over him. This time he tries tilting his head away but not before his nose and mouth momentarily nuzzle into his palm.
“Just checking whether all cats hate me.”
“That’s statistically impossible,” Satomi mutters, his eyes fixed on the cat in his arms.
“Is that so?” Kyouji’s hand slides down his head to rest at his nape. Satomi’s hair has gotten longer, the slightest wisps resting along his neck and the curve of his jaw. “You growing your hair out?”
Absentminded fingertips push glasses back into their place. “No. I haven’t had the time for a haircut.”
He can’t help but smooth a clump of it between his fingers. “Hmm. Would you like me to take you to a place I know?”
“Absolutely not.” He vehemently shuts the line of conversation down by taking his phone out to snap a picture of the cat, purring against his chest. “Do you have pictures of your Boss’s cats?”
His hand itches to leave his hair and throw it around his shoulder, to pull him against him and lean against him, relax for a bit with his tired body trusted to someone precious. But he has corrections to make, a distance to keep. His hand finds its way back into his pocket.
“Not really. I think I would have some old ones but I would need to look for them. I was going to take one of the cat that reminded me of you but…”
“But?”
Kyouji shrugs, avoiding his eyes. “You had told me that it would be better if we didn’t meet again. I figured you wouldn’t care much for chit-chat so I just didn’t take it.”
It’s been quiet for a touch too long when Kyouji stops pretending to be fascinated by the smoke curling up after his exhales and looks at Satomi again. In the muggy evening, his eyes hold him, golden and unflinching. Kyouji stills. He should say something, crack a joke, say well, we have that figured out now so I can send you a picture when I get back to Osaka! But loftiness for something like this doesn’t sit right with him.
At last Satomi says, “I don’t recognize you anymore.”
“What?”
“When has me asking you to get lost ever stopped you from gate-crashing my life? I remember telling you one whole summer to leave me alone but did you?”
Kyouji doesn’t speak. The cat escapes from Satomi’s arms, probably feeling neglected.
“Did you?”
“No but that’s different.”
“No, that’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out. How is it? Why is it different? When did it become different?” Satomi clicks his mouth shut, appearing mortified but doesn’t tell him to forget it or ignore what he said. Anything, anything at all to let Kyouji take a graceful exit.
“It was a mistake I’m trying to fix. That’s why it’s different.”
In a movement that’s so human and absurdly endearing, Satomi takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. Kyouji catalogues it under the list of mannerisms he doesn’t often get to see from him.
“Meeting me was a mistake?”
“No,” Kyouji breathes out, baffled, “That’s the wrong conclusion and you know it.”
“Do I? What else am I supposed to think when you act like. Like I’m— radioactive now.”
“"Do I", he says,” Kyouji remarks lightly with a smile, “My, my, I think Satomi-kun will be a greeaaat lawyer one day.”
“That’s not answering my question,” Satomi retorts, looking up again, his face pinked.
“No but you just confirmed what I said. Ah, so strong-willed and unrelenting. You will be great!”
“Whatever,” Satomi sighs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose again.
“Hey, tell you what,” Kyouji says as they make their way out of the alley, “I will get you a picture of the kitty when I reach Osaka.”
“What’s its name?”
“Hmm, I just called it Satomi-chan in my head since Boss has too many and I can hardly remember all their names.” The resulting shove he is subjected to startles five bystanders as they come out of the alley but all Kyouji can do is laugh.