Author's Notes: Since the semester is over, I shouldn't be so tardy on posting new chapters. Of course, I don't have an actual posting schedule devised for this—so it doesn't matter anyway! This chapter is shorter in comparison to some of the others.
Nightmares in adulthood are often associated with outside stressors or exist concurrently with another mental disorder. Ken just wishes they would stop.
Oneirophobia
2.
Ken opens his eyes. He is driving on a highway at a speed close to eighty kilometers per hour, and Daisuke is sitting in the passenger seat. While focused on the road ahead, Ken can peripherally see Daisuke fiddling with the tailor's pins that are to secure some temporary alterations. It figured that Daisuke didn't own a suit and the only suit they could find on such short notice barely fit. The tailor looked devastated when they had to leave—like, right now—and the best he could do for them was hand over a box of pins with the hope they might create something presentable en route to the wedding.
Ken doesn't know he is asleep. This is how his dreams usually are.
Daisuke grunts at the pins, accidentally stabs the pad of his thumb, and yelps. Before Ken can ask and admonish, a reflexive arm smacks him in the face and dislodges the glasses he needs to see well. The world blurs into a dreamlike haze of astigmatism, the car starts shimmying, and both driver and passenger can't repress the frightening conception of their vehicle spinning out of control and slamming into a concrete divider. Shaken and angry, but in control, Ken steadies the car and takes the next exit. He pulls over into the first car breakdown area he finds, a half-circle of concrete for auto emergencies that is situated within walking distance of a neon-bright gas station.
"Ichijouji?" Daisuke mumbles when Ken takes away the box of tailor's pins. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should drive?"
Ken rubs his eyes with one fist, squints at the first pin he withdraws, rubs his eyes again, and finally wets the pin's sharp metal tip. "No, I've got it," he says and begins securing the other man's loose shirtsleeves.
Several pins pass in and out of his mouth as he tightens up the shoulders and wrists, but on the last he pricks his tongue and tastes blood.
"Ichijouji?"
"You should have told me that you didn't own a suit," Ken says, moving on to the other problematic regions—the loose inseam, floppy collar, billowy waist. He works diligently around the occasional tremor of his hands. "Now they will think we can't afford to buy our own."
"I don't care what they think of us," Daisuke says tersely.
"They didn't invite us."
"Jun told us to come."
"We weren't invited," Ken stresses. "We can't walk in there and—"
"Look, do you want me to drive?"
No reply. Ken returns to the alterations.
The radio is quiet and soft, tuned to a station of exclusively classical music. The car belongs to both of them, leased in joint, even though Daisuke footed the bill and Ken drives it most of the time. Ken doesn't like having the radio turned on when he drives—he is never prone to distraction except when driving—but if it must be audible, he insists on listening to music that has no lyrics. Otherwise a catchy song will start playing on a contemporary station, he will spontaneously begin to memorize the lyrics, force of habit and all that, and then suddenly someone in front of him will slam on their brakes. By dropping a lead foot onto his own brake pedal, he has experienced too many narrow misses to not learn something. Now he leaves the tuner on 101.3 where he can identify the composer and the song with little difficulty. Sometimes he gets confused between Rebikov's Shepherd Playing on his Pipe and Evening in the Meadow, but his thoughts don't wander so much when that mix-up happens and the disc jockeys have a courteous way of saying which song is which anyway.
Ken and Daisuke share a long look once the last pin has been slid into place along the right knee.
A new song unwinds from the crappy car speakers.
Ken, tentatively: "This song has three sharps."
"It's pretty," Daisuke replies absently.
"Do you hear that? The melody is simple—semplice would be the technical term. If someone had a good ear, they'd probably be able to reproduce this without ever seeing the sheet music. It starts off quietly—and—"
Daisuke blinks and tilts his head. "What was that?" he asks. "That—it went really fast."
"Those were grace notes. They're little ornamentations to remind you that the music has depth even when it seems so shallow." Ken thinks about that. "The composer once said music is 'a language of emotions,' and he wrote music 'to express moments in life for which words are no longer sufficient.'"
"Oh. Cool."
They both look away at the same time, synchronized even in their uneasiness, and Ken studies what he can see in the side-mirror while Daisuke folds his hands together and stares pointedly at the radio.
Rebikov sizzles into white noise before the next song picks up. This one might be Chopin, Ken decides—dolce con expressivo, a little upbeat. It reminds him of the man sitting an arm's reach away: sweet, but with expression.
Daisuke looks inquisitive and Ken remembers the song title. "Cantabile in B-Flat Major," he says. "I have this on a CD at home."
"I'd like to hear it again."
"When we get back, I'll find it for you."
"Thanks."
It isn't raining. The sky is clear, but with evening approaching they will end up driving in the dark unless they hurry back onto the highway. Ken just wants to turn off the engine, lean back in his seat, and sit here until Daisuke agrees to let them go back home. He wants to go back home and take a long shower, slip into some informal clothes, and go to bed. In the morning he has lectures to do for classes and Daisuke has work. But here they are, driving into the city, and Ken just wants to go back home.
"Jun will look beautiful," Daisuke says. "She asked me to be the ring-bearer."
"Aren't you too old for that?" Ken asks, looking sideways.
"She said that I would always be her little brother." Now pianissimo: "No matter what."
Ken fidgets and his key chains chatter brightly when he brushes two fingers against them. "I don't have to go inside with you. I can wait in the parking lot."
"I want you to come."
"They don't like me."
"Jun likes you."
"Only because I gave her that free autograph when we were kids."
Daisuke deliberately shakes his head. "She likes you. She specifically wanted you to come, too."
"Won't it cause . . . I don't know. Tension?"
"I'm not going in there without you."
"Am I simply your moral support?"
A hand sneaks over to Ken; touches his elbow. "No," Daisuke says.
Eyes closed, as if in pain: "They really don't like me."
"They really don't like me either."
White noise rolls throughout the car like thunder. It lasts longer this time and overwhelms most other noises aside from the merry dinging of a distant gasp pump and Daisuke's world-weary sighs. The highway entry ramp they need to be on like, right now in order to reach the chapel by sundown snakes up and up nearby. Through the hissing crackle, Ken listens to a line of cars accelerating in order to merge.
The next song. Not too fast, starting softly, growing in volume. Four sharps. 4/4 time. Andantino con moto. This might be Arabesque No. 1, a solo for the piano.
"Debussy. I think this is Debussy."
". . . I think I should drive."
Ken looks at him and frowns. "You said that you long for me—that you love me." He takes the other man's hand into his own and inspects the knuckles. They are tan, rough, and scraped, the complete antithesis to the slim and unblemished fingers caressing them. Daisuke spends most of his time in the kitchen and the scars of his battles with sharp, slippery utensils are distinct. "Do you ever regret us after what's happened?"
"Never."
A kiss brands the palm. "Would you have done things differently?"
Daisuke's grin is slower than usual, but it still appears. "Jun promised that her first kid would be named after me. It will piss off our parents so much."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner about attending the wedding? I thought they had been planning this for months."
"They had, but Jun and I wanted to keep it quiet to everyone until . . . well, until. I wasn't sure what the verdict would be until this morning. And I thought you had an extra suit that I could borrow."
"You're too short for my clothing," Ken says, snickering.
"I am not!"
Their banter, the way it is smooth and warm, makes Ken feel like things are going to be all right. Maybe he wants to sit in the car in the parking lot while Daisuke attends the ceremony; maybe he wants to turn around and go back home so he can dig out that Chopin CD for Daisuke; maybe he wants to die, but only so long as Daisuke is there with him for all eternity. There are a thousand maybes, a million maybes on a bad day, but he chooses not to worry about them when they talk like this. Ken teases Daisuke about his height, Daisuke calls him a child, and then in typical Daisuke fashion his tongue pokes out to mock and debase. The opportunity jumps out and Ken tackles it: he kisses Daisuke, and it feels wet, hot, sticky, suggestive, and even better than all right. He can taste the chocolate chip pancakes Daisuke made this morning. They had four apiece and Ken was about to ask for more maple syrup when Daisuke sprung the news on him about attending Jun's wedding.
It has been years since their first kiss—years since their first sexual encounter. Here they pull away slightly, not quite leaving one another, and they're blushing as if it is their first time. Somehow, it might be. Ken listens and hears a song on the radio that he cannot identify, but he doesn't care.
"We'll stay for the reception," Daisuke whispers. "If my family is feeling sympathetic, we might be able to get some slices of cake."
"You would never forsake the cake," Ken whispers back. "And I'll be with you."
Their first time had been a gradual, exploratory experience that led to a messy bunk bed for Ken and one satisfied smile for Daisuke come morning. They move closer and try to capture that special newness again, although the bothersome hand brake jabs Ken's hip when he leans over. Seatbelts whine as they come undone, retracting back into the cabin, their silver buckles gleaming in the last of precious sunlight. Ken cuts the engine and manually rolls down the windows. The breeze feels pleasant while traffic creates its own sort of background music. Daisuke smiles and Ken slips two fingers into a vulnerable space along his pin-secured dress shirt's hem . . .
But then the focus shifts—there is no more stopped car on the side of the road with the windows down and sex working inside like magic. It's morning now, early, and Jun is sitting in front of her dressing room mirror looking the part of an exuberant woman about to be wed. She is stenciling her lips, defining the boundaries of her lipstick, while her mother smiles blissfully and braids her hair. Long and red, shiny and heavy—this hair is not at all like the rough, spiky mess she sported during her rebellious teenage years of jeans and ties and blonde rockers. Her wedding dress is Western and white, a complement to her fair skin, and she is beautiful like Daisuke said she would be. For some reason it is hazy in the dressing room, as if a fog has settled or a smeared pane of glass is standing in front of everything.
A door opens and her mother looks up at the intruder, visibly annoyed. "What is it?"
"Jun, did you invite your brother?"
The bride purses her lips together, checking the makeup's dark outlines for evenness. "Yes, I did," she says casually. She sets down the stencil once things look okay.
A ring-bearer's pillow is sitting on the counter beside her makeup kit. Daisuke will carry it during the ceremony because that is what Jun has asked him to do. The cover is made of brocaded white silk, interwoven with shiny silver threads that shine beneath the light. The two gold rings are modest, but they represent too much emotion for the price tags to have any intrinsic importance.
"What?" her mother squawks. Those old, wrinkled hands clench and unclench in Jun's healthy hair. "You did what?"
"I invited my brother. And his boyfriend. I don't need your permission to arrange my own guest list."
Jun picks up a pair of hoop earrings and slips them on. They smell strongly of rubbing alcohol, recent sanitization. She had to get her ears pierced again for the wedding—the original holes from childhood had closed after years of not wearing earrings at all—and she had cried a little during the procedure. Daisuke had pestered her on the phone for an hour after he found out.
"I can't believe you—"
"Please, ladies!" intrudes the intruder. "There has been a terrible accident."
Jun's blood runs cold and the temperature in the room seems to drop. Her hand unconsciously tugs on one of the hoops; she winces because the earring holes are new and sore, and they will become infected if she isn't careful. "An accident?"
"A car accident not too far from here. The police just got to us and they're waiting in the parlor. The identification on the occupants said . . . oh, Jun, I'm so sorry . . ."
Her hands fall limply into her lap. The fingertips look too pink against her fair dress because the earring holes are bleeding now, slightly torn, but that is okay since it only takes some disinfecting medication to soothe and stopper the soreness and blood.
"They didn't make it?" Jun asks.
Her mother looks like she has just swallowed several freshly cut lemons in quick succession.
"They'll explain in more detail, but they said that the car allegedly came off of the road sometime last night and crashed. Daisuke and Ken lived far away, didn't they?"
"More than a few hours, to be away from everyone," Jun answers automatically. She takes off her bracelet—a gold tennis bracelet that Daisuke gave her on a birthday that seems far removed now—and places it next to the stencil and ring-bearer's pillow. "Because they weren't accepted here."
When she stands, her dress flares out behind her and diffuses into the air, gathering with and winding through the thickly accumulated fog. Eventually her body becomes blocked from view, lost in a milky unreality of haze and silk, until only the shimmer of her tears can be seen if you're willing to search long enough.
