Disclaimer: Hot Gimmick is the property of Miki Aihara. I own nothing, and convince myself that that's terribly Zen.
Notes: Inspired by Stolen Love Behavior by the inimitable John Stammers. His work inspired every seedy corner of this story. (PS: be a doll and write a girl a review? )
Chapter 1: A Suitably CD-Sequined Start
The very first time Kazama had met Shinogu, they had been at work. The two had been introduced by a mutual acquaintance, one of those hey-I-sort-of-know-this-guy-that-totally-goes-to-your-school-you-should-meet-him sort of things, until a girl had spilled an entire strawberry-pineapple smoothie all over Kazama's shoes trying to talk to him.
Shinogu, that is.
So, mild jealousy aside, it had been uneventful, to say the least.
So the second time, then. It had been a spring day and they had been at school. Poetic Theory, year two.
Contrary to popular belief, Kazama didn't actually spend all his time on varying permutations of girl hunting and partying (with a minor side of c) work), although the previous night had seen rather ridiculous portions of all three and he was about half a breath away from falling asleep on his weighty textbook. God knew he couldn't afford it. If old lecturer cum Nazi-on-loan Ishida-sensei caught him sleeping again, he'd likely be looking down the business end of an expulsion. Kazama thought fondly back to the winding countdown of the last days of high school and all the horror stories of the faceless wave of above-average students that lurked in the recesses of university hallways and classrooms, and choked back a slightly bitter snort.
One soft tap, tap jerked him out of his reverie and caused him to raise his head up, up—and straight into the gaze of their bespectacled lecturer, angry eyebrows furrowed at him in silent acerbity.
Kazama heaved an internal sigh. Reduced to a number, indeed.
In an attempt to thwart Ishida's wrath, he pointedly turned his attention to the lesson up front, the discussion portion of their current independent study. A brief manifesto on the uses of poetry in modern day society or something else that really wasn't worth the amount of attention they were expending upon it. Kazama himself was almost done, the tail end of his piece consisting of something slightly more dry and heartless than he had intended, but really. Poetry? Was usually not worth the paper it was written on. And so he had asserted, only in a marginally more euphemistic way.
Though he did recognize the presenter (you know, that guy at work he had been introduced to so-and-so many days ago; tall, dark haired, pretty good-looking but weirdly quiet and self-deprecating), he had some serious business with the guy's thesis. Eyebrow-raisingly saccharine (although in a totally unintentional way that grated on Kazama's nerves). About poetry being the voice of the soul and, clearly, here was a flighty dreamer in a hoodie if he had ever seen one.
Until.
"That's basically it," Mr. Presenter had finished with an embarrassed smile, fourteen pages gone through rather professionally and the whole XX chromosome-toting portion of the classroom near swooning for the entire duration.
A voice piped up in the back – feminine, surprise, surprise – and Shinogu turned to her sincerely, too sincerely, and even though Kazama's eyebrow was raised ridiculously high by now, he figured that a guy that sincere couldn't be all bad. In truth, the world had a gaping deficit.
"So, your overall belief is?"
"Poetry is the language of the soul," he answered fondly, warm smile bleeding into his words. "Whatever you feel: anger, happiness—"
"Love?" She interjected, and Kazama swore he heard a touch of hopefulness there.
"Love," agreed Shinogu, giving her a kind smile.
"And love is?" Kazama suddenly felt compelled to interrupt, partially because he was a bastard at heart and this was meandering into the reaches of stupid. And hell, when you're there, why not look around a bit? And partially because he was feeling exceptionally genial after his nap, and decided this little foray would give the Narita Shinogu fanclub a little more drooling fodder (though he had a niggling suspicion that it was only through a rare paradigm-shift in the universe that they hadn't beaten him to the question first).
Truthfully, though, it might've been some morbid curiosity on his part, that even though this world was full of stranglers and crazies and college guys who had a strange penchant for junior-high school girls, maybe someone in all that proverbial rough would end up to be a diamond. Although the analogy did seem a little too multi-faceted from what Kazama had seen so far (no pun intended). Shinogu seemed pretty much one-dimensional through and through.
Well, he thought with an inward smile. Do surprise me.
The class looked at him suddenly and Ishida pretty much haemorrhaged from the sudden boost in tutorial-participation on Kazama's part. Shinogu blinked, honestly considering, then answered: "Love is…" The fanclub held their breaths. "I suppose, it's kind of like a drowsy, wrap-around agreement. Something you make peace with. Something you live with," he gave a sudden, embarrassed smile and glanced at their textbook. "Pretty boring compared to some of the ideas these people had."
Huh. Kind of anti-climactic for such a sensitive soul. But there was something else there, something infinitely sadder about his words. Something that Kazama really believed he hadn't the liberty of understanding, a vague and ineffable longing on Shinogu's part that was incomprehensible at the time. Because Kazama could understand, in the way that all of the young and relatively cynical could understand, that loving didn't necessarily mean having. The happiness of love, the kind induced by mere proximity but stilted by the if only knowledge that the maybe-unachievable 'with them' would result in an exponential increase in all the happy. Well, it was not the kind of thing you knew without the feeling. Posteriori. Sometimes, the in-between emotion was really more than they were entitled to in the first place.
It was all sick and philosophical, and totally up Kazama's alley.
Shinogu slid down the aisle and into the empty spot on the bench desk beside him, neatly arranging his books in his bag and then all-eyes up to the front for the next foray into the wishy-washy.
"Hey," Kazama couldn't help whispering, leaning towards his co-worker slash new neighbour and somehow escaping Ishida's eagle-eye. "You're one hell of a hopeless romantic, y'know that?"
Shinogu turned to him then, surprised for one short-lived moment, then giving him a slightly bitter and inevitably voluble smile.
"Right," he agreed somewhat sadly. "Utterly hopeless."
Hopeless, Kazama had always thought, was a fairly relative state of being.
He had found a book, actually. With a snazzy, over-bombastic colour explosion cover boasting the witty title of "Hopelessly Yours". The book wasn't terribly well-written -- just the sort of fare you could find at your local hip, quirky, mass-consumer store. Coffee table fiction.
But it charted out the topic with some considerable charm and cheek. For starters, hopeless had a pretty far-reaching definition, complete with the expected full-blossom tree of subheadings: the academically-hopeless, for one, could never really figure out exactly how the world in all its three (though Physics now said it was four) dimensions could be crammed, despite its breadth and width and sheer leagues of unfathomable largeness, into pages and pages of cramped, badly worded and inaccessible text. Rendered in equation; squared and simplified into mathematical theory.
Others lacked in common-sense, sometimes totally excelling in Thursday morning chem-related shenanigans, but not comprehending that no, block ice from a convenience store really shouldn't cost a whopping 1000 yen. And yes, you do have to put the lid back on the blender before turning it on.
Then there were the fashionably-hopeless (was red/green colour-blindness really a recessive trait? Because Kazama had seen statistical odds of late the likes of which he'd love to bet upon) and the hopeless-hopeless (whose lives were, according to them and shouted from the rooftops of tall buildings, were cruel and unfair). The hopelessly single. The hopelessly in love. Somewhere in the muddle of myriad possibilities was something that Kazama could find a little purchase with: the bachelor-hopeless (or hopeless bachelors, but this rendition was generally confusing – especially if read by the common-sense hopeless), featuring symptoms including – but not limited to – forgetting to separate out the burnable garbage and/or recyclables, a daily diet limited to convenience store bentos and the convenient habit of forgetting which of the many days in the month was exactly rent day – a habit that truthfully curried no favour with the landlord whatsoever. (Who, let it be known, had absolutely no sense of humour in the slightest. And, evidently, an eviction notice supply that never ran dry).
Kazama, in all honesty, was a chronic case of the final group. Which was why, when Shinogu came into work that one day and sort of let slip that he was looking for a new place to live, Kazama had been his proverbial knight in shining armour, slung one arm lazily around his coworker's (and, with a little luck, roommate-to-be's) shoulder and offered him a place in his humble abode.
"It's an awesome place, believe me," Kazama offered, hopeful grin in place. Because, if anything, he wasn't stupid. This place had been only one of the plethora of fine establishments at which Shinogu was employed, leading Kazama to believe that here was a very prompt and reliable rent payer the likes of which would have his jaded landlord absolutely awed and likely pawing at Kazama's feet in gratitude for finding such an impeccable example among the proverbial rough. Shinogu was clean, quiet, tidy, studious – an overbearing mother's scintillating dream. The other day, Kazama had scraped the remains of a dirty plate into the trash and proceeded to walk away, only to meet Shinogu's displeased and disapproving look before he had gone over himself to pick out the pieces of burnable garbage himself and well, burn them.
Shinogu looked at him in gratitude. "Really? I'd need the place pretty soon, though..."
"Oh, it's no problem, man. I don't have a roommate right now," Kazama heartily nodded, hoping that he could lay it on only fairly thick without channelling the whole Deranged Psychopath thing.
Shinogu considered for a brief moment, then smiled at him. "Thanks," he replied gratefully.
Kazama was in strict disagreement with the author of Hopelessly Yours regarding the following kinds of hopeless really being 'hopeless' at all – a) hopelessly lacking in respect, b) hopeless at decent poker faces, c) hopeless correspondent and c) despair-worthily hopeless at housekeeping – since acknowledging so would render himself one hell of a Hopeless Bastard had he ever seen one. So strictly keeping to personal boundaries, Shinogu's moving-in (AKA: Fortunate Little Deal #21) would eradicate the bulk of Kazama's grudging and sulky nods to the 'Self Checklist' on page 3.
Keeping in mind, however, that all of this had taken place a little before Akane. Then and there, for all intents and purposes, Kazama had been absolved of his not-so-glaring issues and was rendered relatively (relatively) un-hopeless.
But, Shinogu.
It was by his own self-established statement that he was, in fact, utterly and completely mired in the deep, sinister, unfathomable muck that was hopelessness embodied; bound, chained and gagged in diamond coated tether.
You see, though this was before Akane, before Shinogu's move, before the annulment, the Odagiri affair, the general angst, anguish and sundry manners of the heartfuck sort, none of this had contributed to the state of Shinogu's relative hopelessness versus un-hopelessness in the slightest, because, well –
Because none of this had been before Hatsumi.
Contrary to popular belief, there really had been a time before Hatsumi, though it had absolutely nothing to do with daredevil escape plots hatched before impending disastrous blowouts at swanky, high-end affairs, rumour started courtesy of Kazama – "I was six," Shinogu deadpanned at his roommate's ridiculous theories, voice cracking in disbelief. "Yes," Kazama nodded sagely. "But, I don't know. It all seems so perpetual. You know, if there was really a time before y'all, then it had to have been pretty clap bang boom."
It had been an addendum of a question, at best. Even Kazama could appreciate the fact that some things were best made known on a strictly need-to-know basis.
It was near twilight then; dusty light diffusing through the summery streets and Kazama had relished the sudden decrease in material that the female wardrobe seemed to magically undergo. Ah, he sighed internally, as two girls tossed warm smiles in their direction. The many blessings of summer.
Kazama threw Shinogu a sidelong glance. It had been a mutual day off for the both of them and Shinogu, being pathetically unused to the sudden plethora of empty hours ("So… did you not have a childhood or something?" Kazama felt compelled to ask. Because, seriously.) Kazama had wrangled him into the popular waste of time employed by youth everywhere: hanging out.
"Sure," Shinogu answered with a flippant shrug. "So, what are we going to do?"
"That, my friend, is up to the wind. We will follow in its wake wherever it blows." Which, Kazama didn't append for fear of muddying up his pretty summary, involved a healthy dose of a) relaxing and b) appreciating the sheer plethora of pretty girls all around.
To Shinogu, predictably, this didn't quite compute.
"Where are we going, then?"
Kazama sighed at him. "Wherever. Campus. I dunno. Just somewhere that's not here. Nor the restaurant." And at Shinogu's telltale intake of breath, indicating he had something to contribute to their plans for the day — "Nuh-uh. Especially not the Narita household."
Kazama paused to consider. Maybe that didn't come out right.
"Especially not the Narita household without me," he reiterated with a sly smile, and even though Shinogu did know exactly what his no-good-junior-high-school-girl-crushing roommate was up to, he couldn't deny that he wanted to get back there himself.
However, the particular junior-high-school girl in question was still his baby sister. "Kazama," he protested quite firmly. "I don't think Akane—"
"Yeah, yeah," Kazama agreed, shoving him out the door. "Hands off the merchandise. I got it."
So that had brought them back to campus, partially because there were some pretty fine ladies that strolled past these clean and lovely sidewalks, but mostly because Kazama had a strange feeling that Shinogu would spontaneously combust from the lack of familiarity had he brought him anywhere else.
"Shinogu!" A voice called from outside of Kazama's reclining periphery. He tilted up his head, only to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Miss Narita Jr. bounding (quite healthily, he might add) down the slope towards them.
Well, familiar or not, Kazama was definitely not complaining.
"Hey there, little missy," he said, sitting up to greet her.
Akane smiled genially. "Oh, hey! I was wondering if I could talk to my brother for a sec."
Without waiting for a response, she promptly turned her attention to Shinogu, who gave a concerned but confused look at Kazama's sudden expression at being rejected before turning his attention to her. "Shinogu, Mom was wondering whether you could help baby-sit this Saturday. Hikaru's got a bit of a cold, so we don't want to leave him with any old babysitter, and no one's going to be home." She winked conspiratorially. "I've got a date."
Shinogu looked up at her, mildly concerned and about to ask for a name, at least – but then Hatsumi sidled up beside her, bidding them a shy hello, and all brotherly intention went right out the window.
Kazama felt traitorous for thinking it, but this seemed to be the modus operandi for these two.
On any other day, Kazama would have asked Akane exactly who she had this little date planned with, but in the end, the relative trade-off between him merely affirming his current suspicions and then the subsequent 'breaking into grudgy, twelve-year-old pouting' would totally cramp his style. For today, at least, he added, leaning back against the rotted wood. There would be other opportunities for pursuit.
Akane tugged at Hatsumi's arm impatiently. "Home's this way, Hatsumi," jabbing her finger in the direction of the street. "You promised to lend me that skirt. Bye, Shinogu! Bye, Shinogu's roommate!"
Right. Well, maybe Kazama would have to slot a proper and lasting introduction in between there somewhere.
"She really does remember my name, right?" Kazama felt the need to be assuaged, turning towards his roommate, who was currently staring off after the two figures receding into the dusky horizon.
Shinogu feigned a smile, still watching the two leave. "Oh… well, maybe. Akane's always had a terrible memory."
This was getting ridiculous. The feeling of rejection was, Kazama decided, extremely crappy, cold, damp, didn't fit well, likely to shrink in the wash and probably made little girls cry. He had never been one to wear it well.
Hell, for the first twenty years of his life, he hadn't worn it at all.
"This, my friend," Kazama announced to Shinogu, eyes narrowed. "Is a challenge. And yes, Powers That Be, I do fucking accept."
And Shinogu, not knowing how to react to this, smiled pale and wan and still visually followed the line down along the hill the two slender forms were traversing, slight figures silhouetted against the setting sun and engulfed in dusky red twilight.
Sometimes, Kazama thought, he wished Shinogu had been a little more obscure about it; rushed to cover up the obviousness of it all, was dorkier about it, a little more embarrassed at the super-scandal literally dripping from the whole sordid story. Amp up the crassness, and maybe Kazama could finally understand.
Because, this… this stupid martyr act, the acceptance, the understanding, the hands-off attitude, the self-punishment, the sheer fact that Shinogu would rather choose to stoically saw off his own right arm than feel this way…
Sort of led anyone with half a brain to deduce that, irregardless of whatever plane or dimension this equation was looked at in, Shinogu was utterly. Fucking. In. Love. With. Hatsumi.
Love: Shinogu's cease-fire. Kazama's dry and lifeless masquerade. Akane's exciting, technicolour splendour. Shinogu's unfortunately unwanted bedfellow for god knew how far back.
Wait, really: how far back?
So, Kazama asked him.
The sky suddenly dark, sullen without starlight; human prosperity spread about like a speckled sign of plague. The university behind – overhead – lit up, one thousands sun's worth of watt-swallowing brilliance. The field a roiling green sea beneath them, perfection the Astro-Turf aspiration, but colour-bleached, clotted with empty night. And suddenly it wasn't enough to say:
What if the only thing left over were sense-recollections of a time before memory; candid eye-to-keyhole snapshots that weren't meant for his wide gaze. Slick-soft dark tresses brushing against his tiny face in the fullest intent of a motherly embrace, and the sly sheen of a forgotten father's bespectacled eyes, the raised second knuckle on that evil man's fist.
And what if somewhere in there, interjected, intravenously introduced into the ley lines of his lost and liquid memory, was the sudden feeling of tiny hands pressed against his cold face and the creases of a shared and slept-on pillow, all fading into the drowsy lull of night and snow and warmth. And opening eyes to a mother's loving brush against your forehead, a father's stoic, worried silence, like waking up and wandering back to a home you haven't been to for years. And seeing, like a soon-to-be-converted witness, that even in the hyper-bright morning and among the sullen snow and placid calm, oozing warm and sticky like half-melted fallen ice cream cities, you could still fall in love with three people simultaneously (though not equally) in bombastic technicolour. Even if you were only six years old and your only memory of a real-parent sobriquet had been two honing-missile fists.
Why would you go back then? Why would you go back ever?
So Shinogu said nothing, tossing his cell phone back and forth, back and forth between both palms, and suddenly this was Hitotsubashi, Version: Night. A little way off Tokyo flared back into grand colour with neon lights vying for the role of Night's Cue in place of the setting sun, who had always given up too easily.
Kazama didn't press. After all, some things really were best made known with due time.
Instead, he leaned back into the rotted park bench, sky saturated with inauspicious clouds. Instead, rain imminent in the cloud-told prophecy and the trappings of sleep lapping incessantly against his eyelids, said: "Come on, let's get out of here."