Disclaimer: I don't own Samurai Flamenco.
x
"I knew it." She says, as if he has suddenly become the same trash she beats in dusty alleyways. One heel thuds against the roof of the car while her magical wand rests at her side in a firm, tight grip. "Your heart's decided on Samumenco."
No, that's not how it is, he thinks. He says. Legs wrapped around Hazama's own, arms at his neck. Bent into him, to lightly push him into admitting more than just defeat. It's a standard suppression routine, a standard outlet of frustration. It's not just him, or them.
Goto lets go.
x
"You've got it wrong." He tries. The uniform he borrowed from her is cleaned, pressed and returned, sitting in a paper bag on her coffee-table amidst crumpled notes and cheesy, painful lyrics. A photo of Moe is hidden in the debris, the blue of her hair peeping out between unfinished rhymes about days gone by. His hands are still in his lap.
"How so?" Mari sounds like she already knows what he's going to say. Sipping a drink, laying in an awkward position on the couch, drumming her fingers against the lid. Chewing at the straw, in tune to some half-way composed song. He ignores it. When life isn't about fighting, laws and lawbreakers, the scream of a man in the night - she isn't interested. Just as he thought.
"I just like him in a friendly way. A normal way." He tries again.
"How many friends do you even have?" She asks callously, pulling her knees to her chest. Her skirt reveals a hint of panties as she slumps backwards, and the cup is empty. She sucks air through it anyway, as noisily as she can, grinding her teeth into the plastic.
Sighing, he readies to leave.
x
In the convenience store he buys instant curry, canned coffee, snacks and beer. Mostly beer. Glances over the magazines, and dallies on a pack of cigarettes.
The bag is heavy, and he stops on his way to Masayoshi's place, checking the time on his phone. Almost sends a message, then flips it shut. He's going to have a talk, he thinks, and a long night. A longer morning. His girlfriend hasn't sent him anything in a while - still sulking. He'll wait.
The thick, white plastic rustles at his side. But there's nothing to hesitate about.
He rings for his friend on the intercom outside the building, and after a moment the door unlocks. Goto taps his fingers against one arm in the lift, bag of supplies hanging by the grasp of his right hand, and meets him with a not-quite-grimace at his door. Masayoshi looks like he hasn't slept. Or rather, like he has just awoken.
"What's this?" He asks, trying to peer into the bag - Goto brings out the packaging, the tins, the receipt. Take one of these, he says, tossing him a lukewarm coffee; the drink patters into Masayoshi's open hands.
They sit together on the couch, Goto beginning to down the alcohol as fast as he can. He isn't trying to be subtle - he stopped that a while ago, when he realized it was no use.
"Did something happen? You shouldn't drink so much." Masayoshi is tentative, concerned. Staring straight into him.
"It's my night off." He snorts. "And yeah, something happened. That girl. You know, she still won't believe me."
Masayoshi slowly turns the can of coffee around in his hands, looking at the label. He isn't good at people, Goto knows. He doesn't understand the problem, and Goto knows that too. They've tried before. They'll try again. "She really causes a lot of trouble... Didn't you tell her you have a girlfriend?"
"That's the first thing I said." I'm taken. I've a girlfriend. She's the best woman I could ask for. Never does he say I'm not gay.
"Um... Goto-san, does it bother you, that she thinks that?" Masayoshi's quiet, and serious, and the draw of his mouth suggests something. He'd talk to her about it, if it were a problem. He'd say too much.
"It's just annoying." Goto laughs, awkwardly. Dismissively. Reaches forward to pat Masayoshi on the shoulder, accidentally tipping over one of the empty cans in front of him with his knee. It clatters against the polished wood, and then to the floor, and the sound is too loud. His hand is still stretched forward.
"You know, in hero shows -" and here he rolls his eyes, finding himself reaching for his lighter, "love is the most powerful emotion. When you love someone, you have something to protect. You grow stronger."
"Yeah?" he replies, not watching the way he's followed to the balcony. Steadfastly, laboriously, not watching Masayoshi's face as it leans into his view. The scent of curry. Oncoming rain, mixed with tugs at the cigarette. He breathes out, and smoke is disappearing into the rooftops; and he feels himself loosen. His thoughts linger, at the place on the metal railing where faint, sweaty prints remain even after he has drawn away. He isn't thinking about being remembered.
Masayoshi is looking at him, and he isn't looking back.
"So what do you have to protect?" he says, finally.
He rids the world of evil when he snaps the cold, metallic handcuffs against a perpetrator's wrists. Protects the innocents of citizens, when he patrols - slowly, monotonously, panning back and forth with a dying flashlight into each crook and alleyway. But to Samurai Flamenco...
"The whole world."
Later, when he lets himself think about it, staring at the crosswalk next to the police box - he pinpoints his feelings in a nice, understandable way. Men and women are too separate. And Masayoshi is separate even from the rest of men.
xxxx
There should be something in-between these existing chapters, but I haven't managed to write anything that fits yet.