Every night, Ushijima stepped out to water the planters before he went to bed. He was convinced that the routine was responsible for his little farm being fruitful for the past couple of years. I went out on the veranda too—not to water the plants but to gaze at the stars and look at Ushijima. I loved staring at his face as he focus on his daily ritual, the starlit sky accentuated the hard lines between his brows—definitely formed by his habitual frowning I'm sure. He had a beautiful face, with strong features and short eyelashes.
"What're you thinking about?" He asked as he put down the aluminum can in the now almost empty bucket. I saw him punching holes under a soft drink can with an awl one time. Yes, he also had an amazing mind and consideration for the environment. Yet another thing I find endearing about him.
"Life," I said. I'd meant it as a joke, but Ushijima nodded seriously. I couldn't help but chuckle a little and started humming to Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. These were my happiest moments—out in the veranda with my housemate, a glass of Irish whiskey in my hand, the night air cool against my skin.
But I could never stay out too long before I felt the cold and a tingling sensation on my right knee.
I hurried back into the warm apartment and plugged the mottled black and white cord and waited. After a while, I folded back the covers and ran the hot iron over the sheets from one corner of the bed to the other. I didn't hum as I did when I smoothed out wrinkles from my laundry. I focused on what I was doing. This was serious work; speed was the key. It was one of the few household chores Ushijima demanded of me. I briskly pulled back the covers and unplugged the iron.
"Ready!" I half-shouted as I emerge from Ushijima's room.
We have been rival since middle school. Teammates for eight years, housemate for three years now—but explaining our friendship was no simple matter.
"Thanks," Ushijima said with his usual blank expression, although by now I could tell if his eyes are smiling or not. I could hear his sheets shuffling and felt satisfied to know he's turning in for the day. I went into my room and did the same before getting in between the warm sheets with a smile.
Ever since I busted my knee about four years ago and was forced to retire from professional volleyball, I started doing some translation work from English, as a kind of part-time job. Since it was about time I finished up with a research piece that I'd been nibbling at the whole month, I turned off the bedroom lights, closed the door, and went and sat down at my desk. I poured myself a whiskey, freely. That deep, rich hue of gold—what a way it had to entrance me.
"Alcoholism? I don't think you need to worry about that!" The doctor had dismissed, laughing. "I'm sure it's a passing fancy. And remember, Jesus thought it alright to take a little wine for your health," he said. "I'm giving you some vitamins. Just try not to worry yourself sick."
"Try not to worry yourself sick," I imitated the doctor out loud, swilling my whiskey tumbler.
All of a sudden, I felt that I was being watched. I turned around to look: it was the yucca plant staring over at me menacingly. "Protection"—the potted plant's ironic symbolism in contrast to its appearance, was a housewarming gift from Atsumu. With its dense foliage of large, sharp, straight, blade-like leaves, it seemed eager to pick a fight.
I glared back at Atsumu's tree and downed the rest of my whiskey.
Ushijima was already in the kitchen when I woke up. "Morning, you want me to fry you up some eggs?"
I shook my head.
"An orange maybe?"
"Yes, please."
By the time I was back from my morning shower, Ushijima had done the dishes. On a glass plate he had set out for me was an orange, sliced into comb shapes, dripping with juice. As I sat eating, Ushijima programmed the heater to keep the room temperature stable and picked out the day's background music for me.
I filled a cup and watered the Tree of Protection. Through the wooden blinds, the morning sun drew bright stripes on the carpet. The water sounded delicious as it hissed through the soil.
"Ushiwaka-chan, Tell me about 'Tsumu-chan," I pestered.
"When I get home," replied Ushijima.
Ushijima, who still plays for the national team, drove off every morning at 9:05 on the dot. Apart from training camps, his weekly cycle was a regular salaried man's, with a two-day weekend.
Having seen my housemate off, and having skimmed the day's papers, I decided to finish up the research paper, which I hadn't done the night before. I was still feeling unwell from having translated Stuff They Don't Want You To Know: The Misunderstood History of The Flat Earth Theory, when the phone rang. My mother called me almost every day.
"Feeling fine?"
She sounded so concern that I become a little irritated and snapped at her. "Fine? What do you mean, 'fine'?"
At the top of my bedroom chest, along with my MacBook instruction manual and the unfilled and unsigned lease for my room, were two medical reports. My mother's voice tended to remind me of them. True she only knew about one: the self-contradictory certificate according to which my mental illness was nothing abnormal.
"The term 'mental illness' covers such a wide range of conditions, you see," the dunce of a doctor had explained. "You aren't not suffering from a mental illness. Don't worry, though—it's no more than a case of post-surgery depression and anxiety. Your drinking is probably a manifestation of it. I'm sure you'd start feeling better in no time if you surround yourself with family and friends or if—and I say this just for instance—you got married."
If you got married!
His irresponsible advice was to blame for eight meetings with potential marriage partners and me running away from home a handful of times.
"What's wrong? Sounds like you're in a bad mood," my mother said.
"Not really. It's just that I was in the middle of work." I carried the phone into the kitchen and took a can of yuzu fizz from the fridge. I opened the can with my free hand.
"That's good, but make sure you get housework done, too," my mother said. Ushijima had let me 'crash over' at his place in exchange of me taking care of the household chores. "Don't drink too much. Your father and I will come to see you soon. Say hi to Wakatoshi-kun for me." I hung up the phone and threw the can into the trash bin.
My mother was beyond grateful and overjoyed when she heard from Iwa-chan that I started to talk to him, meeting people, doing household chores, going out for walks, just having a semblance of a normal routine in life again. All that after Ushijima had kindly offered to let me crash at his when I run away from home.
On the flip side, however, I would have random bouts of panic attacks, mostly when the thought of being too over-dependent on Ushijima flashed through my mind. I hate the thought of him leaving me.
When I told Ushijima about that, on one of my mental breakdowns, he earnestly said, "Oikawa, I won't ever leave you alone unless you want me to. If something is bothering you, please share your worries with me."
That's why I dread my mother's phone calls. They make me mull over things I'd rather forget. The thing is, you see, I realised I started seeing Ushijima in a different light—more than a good friend and definitely more so than a housemate. But the fact was that he was in a very committed relationship for many, many years now. So you see how things stand. The perfect guy who had gotten everything he ever wanted and the guy who could never get the one thing he ever wanted, living together under the same roof.
"So, what would you like to hear about?" Ushijima said. "The movies I saw with Atsumu? The time he and I went to the beach?"
It was cold out on the veranda and the blanket I had wrapped around my shoulders dragged like the Little Prince's mantle. I sipped my whiskey with relish.
"Tell me about when you went to the mountains."
"Can't—we never did," Ushijima said matter-of-factly.
"Then tell me how 'Tsumu-chan fought it out with a cat."
"But I just told you that one."
"Encore, encore," I said, giving my glass a shake and rattling the ice by way of applause.
Ushijima took a long draught from his bottle of Evian and begin his tale.
"Atsumu had this shibaken called 'Tooro' ever since it was a puppy. He had a rule in dealing with it: whenever he had to scold Tooro, or just got mad at it for some reason, he always had to get down on all fours first. He didn't think it was fair to yell down at the dog from on high, up on two feet, or to hit it with his free 'front paws', meaning his hands. Atsumu was quite serious about these match-ups. From Tooro's point of view, though, Atsumu was an old buddy, so the dueling never escalated beyond rolling around on the floor. But one day when Atsumu came over to my place—and I had a cat back then, I guess about five years ago, somehow or other Atsumu had gotten down on all fours and was suddenly lunging at my cat. Obviously, I'm very surprised by what's happening. But not as surprised as my cat. His name was Hayashi. And Hayashi, who's excited, has no qualms about using his hands. And unlike dogs, of course, he's pretty good with them. Better than people, even. And what's more, he has claws. By the end, Atsumu's face was covered in blood like some villain's at the end of a samurai drama. It was pretty bad, actually."
He took a big gulp of his Evian and closed his eyes nostalgically. I was very happy with Ushijima, who retold a story without skimping on the details.
Two days after the deadline, I finally handed the manuscript to my editor at a coffee shop by the train station. It was such a wonderful, clear day that I turned my walk home into a little promenade, only to find Ushijima's father waiting by our door when I finally came home. Seeing me, he raised a hand and grinned.
"Good timing! I was just thinking to go if nobody was home." His beaming smile belied the depressing connotation of the term 'middle-aged'. Well, Takashi-san's lived most of his life overseas and that probably shaped his laidback nature, quite uncommon in Japan even for people in my age group. He moved back to Japan two years ago and have gotten into the habit to drop by from time to time after he found out that I'm also living with Ushijima.
I told him I was sorry, I was out for a walk, Ushijima was still at practice and wouldn't be home until evening later—while I unlocked the door, laid out a pair of slippers, and prepared some Hojicha.
"Oh I'm fine, don't bother. Just dropped by to see how things were going."
I tensed up. Like what things? Ushijima's mother was rather indifferent about me living in Ushijima's place, freeloading by looks of it. His dad, on the other hand, had had some reservations, and here he was in our living room. Although, it seemed more so that he had a little inkling on how I see his son.
"You know what, I think I like this place," he said. We had just recently moved into this two-story house that Ushijima had just bought after getting sick of moving around leased homes since he got into university eleven years ago.
"Yes, I'm very grateful." As soon as the words escape my mouth, I thought, 'wow, there's servility in you.'
"So you've gone ahead with it," Takashi-san suddenly cut to the point. "You know, it's when I think of you that I feel terrible."
"Oh, you shouldn't feel that way, really. I'm happy. My parents are grateful too."
"Because they don't know."
Here it comes, I thought, the question of the other medical report: Our tests indicate that you are HIV negative.
Luckily I caught myself in time before blurting out, "True, Ushiwa– Wakatoshi didn't know, my parents didn't know, but for my part…," I couldn't very well tell him that his son was one of the factors putting my 'post-surgery depression and anxiety' in check. Me loving him was a secret.
"Caring for him? Must be like embracing water."
When he said this, I felt a cool, rustling presence at my back. I didn't have to turn around to figure out what it was. I spoke loud and clear so the tree could hear too.
"It's okay. I never really liked sex that much anyway."
Takashi-san seemed taken aback for a second, but soon let out a little laugh.
I seized the chance to clear the air, in a fluster I stood up and asked, "Shall I put on some music?"
I selected a playlist at random from Spotify and reached for the teapot while waiting for the Bluetooth to pair.
"Your tea's cooled off," I said, "let me pour you a fresh hot cup."
Explosions of sound filled the air.
"You like opera?" Takashi-san said when I came back with the tea. "You really are an odd young man. Interesting."
Maybe it was the loud volume that did the trick. At any rate, he left soon afterward without attempting anything more than small talk. But that expression of his, embracing water… The phrase was etched on my mind for good.
It was Sunday—and Christmas Eve no less—but Ushijima was waxing the floor. I tried to help out by cleaning the windows, but Ushijima told me not to bother. "Don't worry about it, I'll do it later," he said. Ushijima always did the housecleaning on Sundays. It's one of his boring little hobbies.
"Oikawa, why don't you go take a nap?" Ushijima was obsessive about cleanliness. He wouldn't rest until everything in the house was clean and sparkling.
"Maybe I'll go polish the shoes then," I said, but Ushijima had already done that too.
"What's the matter?" Ushijima asked, quite puzzled, as I stood there at a loss for something to do. Sometimes he could be amazingly slow to catch on. But this was something that we'd decided on, that although I was supposed to be doing housework in exchange for the stay, whoever was better at it would be the one to do it, whether it was cleaning the house or cooking the meals or whatever.
I was feeling bored, so I got myself a bottle of white wine and went over to sit in front of a framed picture of Iwaizumi and me in high school. "Iwa-chan let's have a drink, shall we?" I said. "Just you and me. Forget boring old Ushiwaka-chan." Iwaizumi looked delighted by the idea.
"Oikawa." It came out sounding like a sigh. "You can't sit there. I'm trying to wax the floor."
I took a sip of the chilled Australian wine. "Grumpy Ushiwaka-chan." I had nowhere else to go. I escaped to the sofa and decided to sing. Wham!'s Last Christmas was one song that I could sing in English. I sat there drinking my wine and singing my song. It was only a cheap wine, but it tasted nice and sweet. Ushijima came over and took the bottle away.
"You're not supposed to drink it from the bottle, you know."
Suddenly I felt extremely unhappy.
"Give it back," I said.
Ushijima disappeared into the kitchen and put the wine in the refrigerator.
In protest, I started singing even louder, until my throat was sore and my eardrums started to hurt. But Ushijima didn't relent a bit.
"Stop acting like a child," he said.
I felt like someone directly behind me was laughing at me, but when I turned around to look it was just Atsumu's tree, again. All of a sudden I lost my temper. I picked up the first things that came to hand—a duster and a bottle of cleaner and hurled them at the tree. I was sick of it always looking at me like that.
"Oikawa!" Ushijima ran over and grabbed hold of me.
I felt unspeakably sad, and I started to cry out loud. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't control myself and when I tried to stop crying I could hardly breathe. Ushijima carried me over to my bed and told me to take it easy, that I'd feel much better if I had some sleep. But his kind words just annoyed me and made me feel even worse and I continued to sob convulsively.
Eventually, I fell asleep crying. By the time I woke up, it was already evening. The apartment was spotless; there wasn't a speck of dust left anywhere.
"Why don't you take a bath?" Ushijima suggested.
"Let's go out for dinner since it's Christmas," I said. Why did it always have to be like this? Ushijima was so kind and patient. It was kind of hard to take at times.
"Ushiwaka-chan?" Next year, I thought, I'll cook us something special.
"What?"
"Let's get a Christmas tree next year."
Ushijima's lips stretched into a small smile.
"Well, it's still this year, and here's your gift," he said, handing me a small package.
I untied the teal ribbon and unwrapped the white paper. Inside was a small silver object shaped like a lily. It was too small and delicate to be an egg beater.
"It's a champagne stirrer," Ushijima explained. It was for stirring up pretty little bubbles in your champagne.
"It's wonderful," I said. "Let's go out and get some really good champagne and drink it tonight!"
But Ushijima shook his head.
"You don't need this for good champagne."
A stirrer for making bubbles in cheap champagne. What a neat idea for a gift! I was impressed.
His first Christmas gift to me when we started sharing a house together had been a telescope. It was Star Wars themed and it came in a huge box with millennium falcon printed wrappers. It's now sitting on the veranda, very well-used. The second gift was those glow in the dark stars after I told him how I loved them growing up even well into my late teen years. And last year he gave me a kaleidoscope. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. I found it one day in a stationery shop where I was shopping for notebooks, and he bought it for me on the spot. He always knew what to get me.
"You like it?"
"Of course I do"
Then I remembered something. Something terrible.
It was Christmas and I didn't have anything for Ushijima. I hadn't even given it a thought.
"So what do you feel like eating?" He asked.
"Um, Ushiwaka-chan? I got you a garden system from Kickstarter that tracks your plant's conditions, but because it's the end of year and everything, they told me it might not get here on time…" I was surprised at how smoothly the lie came out.
"Really?" Ushijima's eyes shone. He really was the sort of man that took people at their word.
How many people would be having dinner out tonight, I wondered.
But that doesn't matter. I felt so contented to just be there sitting beside Ushijima in our living room with Atsumu's tree and framed Iwa-chan. All of us there together.
