Title:The Other Wall
Author: Radishface
Pairing: Hiro/Arashi, Hiro/Yukari, Arashi/Miwako
Rating:R to NC-17
Category: Angst/romance
Summary: It was too late and they were confused, but they tried nonetheless. Set during the Christmas season: a tale without a moral.
Disclaimers: Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa & Tokyopop.
Feedback:I'd love it. D
A/N:This was written after I read the fifth book. oO The final volume of Parakiss really blew me away... Anyway, this is my (slashy) take on the matter… there's always some UST to be had between our two favorite boys... now men. 3
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
"And you think—"
"Yeah?"
"You think we could have figured this out sooner. That I could have figured this out sooner."
"Well, you've identified the problem, at least."
"The problem is that I have a fuckin' problem. That there is a problem. What the fuck is the problem? I thought everything was great. Just so great. What the hell happened?"
"It's a stage. In Erikson, we call it—the age of progressing adulthood, intimacy versus isolation. No matter how well your work is going—"
"It's not going."
"Well, no matter how well or how badly your work is going, you tend to place priority on personal relationships, especially love. You aren't developmentally complete until you are capable of intimacy—"
"We're intimate, there's no question."
"Will you just listen for one moment—"
"I've heard it all before. Somebody who hasn't been able to develop their sense of identity in this stage will continue to fear committed relationships and might retreat into psychological isolation. Blah blah blah."
"Very good."
"I've only been hearing about it for the last four weeks."
"It's a stage."
"Yeah?"
"It'll pass."
"I figure. It just feels like it's been too long. And you're not helping."
"What?"
"Well. You think you're helping. It's the thought that counts. Never mind."
"No, really. Tell me about it."
"It's okay."
"Arashi."
"Get this, Hiro. You spew psychobabble whenever I ask you for help. I need a referral, something like that. I need substantial advice. This isn't about just me, it's about us. Miwako and me. Our kids. Our fuckin' future. 'Finding myself' isn't going to solve a fucking thing."
"Well—"
"And who are you to tell me this shit, anyway? Sure you've got a Ph.D or two, you're a resident doctor now and you're cruising on through, you think you're such hot shit. Who the fuck do you think you are? I don't want to talk to you about these things. I want you to get off your ass and pull some strings for me."
"Arashi."
"You've got the fucking connections, you've got the fucking hookups. Why the hell am I feeling this way? Damn it. Damn. What the fuck are we doing here?"
"It's not that easy, Arashi."
"You listen to me bitch about my life. What the hell have I ever done for you?"
"Arashi, let's go. You're tired. You're drunk."
"And you've managed to hold your liquor, obviously."
"Only one beer."
"Fuckin' man of moderation."
"One of us has to stay in control."
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Arashi's skin was coarse and rough on his hands and feet, Hiro couldn't think of a reason why, except that maybe it was from working with needles or sewing kits or whatever the hell they worked with back at that damn arts school. But the parts of his body that his clothes covered—chest, back, thighs, ass—were fine-skinned and smooth and slightly oily, and it made Hiro want to touch him with his whole hands, hold tight and stop Arashi from slipping away. Hiro molded his hands to flesh, squeezed and scraped soft skin with a harsh touch. Arashi moaned and breathed deeper. Those were the only sounds he made—wordless noises, gasps, moans, and murmurs. They did not talk.
Hiro wasn't even sure what they were doing. It seemed like it was important to agree on a term, on a something, but with his eyes lidded like this and a growing haze in his mind, all senses focusing on Arashi, he couldn't think of a term, and it didn't matter.
It didn't matter when Arashi's breath was fast, hot and hitchy in Hiro's ear and his teeth pressed into the flesh of Arashi's shoulder, because all that mattered was making Arashi come. There was nothing more important than making Arashi's dick pulse in his hand and making him come all over the sheets and all over Hiro, eyes shut tightly and his mouth open and panting hard.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Arashi murmured, shuddering, his arms coming around Hiro's back. "Just get it out of your fucking system, just fuck it away…"
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
The Other Wall
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
"A vacation?" Hiro replied.
"It'll be good for you." Yukari said over the phone. "A week in Hong Kong. What do you think?"
"You know I'm busy with work." Hiro said.
"When you're free, then." Yukari said. "Christmas in Hong Kong?"
Christmas wasn't for two weeks. Hiro was sure he could figure something out by then, even if it was an excuse.
"We'll see." He didn't make promises.
"Are you coming back tomorrow?" Yukari said.
Hiro checked his watch. The demonstration was about to begin, and his fellow doctors were anxiously looking at him and his cell phone. "I have to go."
"I hope you're having fun out there."
"The time of my life." Hiro managed a smile for her, even if she couldn't see it.
"I miss you."
"I miss you too."
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
When the wind blows my breath away
Some things you can't help but regret
Like sunsets on a cloudy day
The day you two ever met
And Lola is eloping
While you're the one coping
A younger man twice her age
Oh get her out of this cage
Regret, abstain
From killing like Cain
No matter how much you care
Regret will always be there
"That's pretty, Arashi." Miwako said, turning from the stove. "What's it called?"
Arashi looked up from his bass, his fingers absently plucking the D, D D D D D D D D D.
"What?" He said. D D D D D D D D D.
"Your song." Miwako said, smiling at him, and he could somehow see her through the fumes of curry and half-hearted depression. "What's it called?"
"Oh." D D D D D D D D D D. "I don't know." He shrugged. "The Eighth Sin."
"Lolikon?" Miwako wrinked her nose. "Isn't that hypocritical, Arashi?"
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
The airport was crowded with young businessmen, tourists, and desperate salespeople hanging precariously out shop doorways.
"How are you, sir?" One chipper doorman greeted Hiro, and Hiro nodded his head in return.
He had just passed another ubiquitous Starbucks when his cell phone rang, the annoying default ringtone that he hadn't bothered to change, and Hiro fished it out of his pocket.
"Hello?"
"It's me."
"I can't hear you." Hiro said, raising his voice, and a few people around him turned to stare. "The connection-- there's static."
"You're not on the plane, are you?"
"Can I call you back? I'll call you back." He said, and flipped it shut.
He pushed through the group of loitering teenagers standing in the front of the record shop. Techno music pounded through the shop and the cashier popped her bubblegum and the various shiny covers gleamed back at him.
He grabbed a CD off the display rack, his hand never leaving the comfort of the unyielding plastic wrap, the sharp corners of the CD case.
There had been no need for him to buy anything, but he felt as though he owed an apology.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Memories--
Saturday night: the rain had made changing patterns on the window, and although it was cold outside, inside it was warm, and they had been huddled under the covers, turned opposite ways on the bed so that if Arashi turned his head to the right, he could smell Hiro's (albeit odorless) feet.
"They smell." Arashi said, and he poked at Hiro's toes, watching them curl.
"Yours do too." Hiro's voice had floated over to him, awake and bright. Neither of them was tired after the soda they had stolen from the refrigerator minutes ago, the empty cans resting under their fingertips, the edges sticky with dried sugar.
"I hope it'll always be like this." Arashi had said.
"Like what?" Hiro had said, propping himself up on his elbows.
Arashi lapsed into incoherency, the mental kind, and he shrugged, to cover it. He didn't know how to put it, but it was warm, and it was sunny inside his head, and he was Hiro's best friend, and Hiro and Miwako would always be there. He was a little drunk, from his best friend being there, from the sugar in the soda, from the hot summer night and the cicadas rasping outside. He was drunk on that, and he said those things that he otherwise would not have said. He said, "always."
"Always." Hiro said. Arashi had thought it was a confirmation; it wasn't.
Hiro tried the word, and when he said it again, whispered it to the ceiling, Arashi had sensed the distaste.
Hiroyuki Tokumori was always one step ahead of academic expectations.
At eleven years old, Hiro had figured out that word, always. Hiro had dissected the word in fifteen seconds, and he had realized then that nothing lasted forever, leaving Arashi with the bitter memory of it, four years later.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
The huge neon advertisement outside his hotel window glared an attractive red color. It would have been easier to fall asleep without the red light in his face, but his curtains had been ripped down and he didn't want to call the front desk and arrange a different room. That would require an explanation.
"Mr. Tokumori," she had said, lingering in the doorway. "Mr. Kawasaki sent me."
His eyes had widened imperceptibly, and he'd wondered what kind of a man Mr. Kawasaki took him for.
The ensuing struggle had been between him and the mail-order prostitute and the bedroom curtains as she somehow managed to tangle herself in them while Hiro had been desperately trying to get her out of the room, annoying giggles, Cranach stockings, painted face and all.
He'd managed to get rid of the whore, but now he couldn't draw the curtains across the window and the red light glared at him.
He turned away from the window but his eyes were still wide open, the threat of insomnia looming over his sleep. Damn Mr. Kawasaki and his damned overseas board meetings. His feet itched and he wished that Yukari were next to him, thin arms wrapped around his torso, so that he could kiss her fingers while she slept, so he could reassure himself that nothing was wrong.
Hiro pulled the covers up over his eyes and kept his promise to keep from analyzing his own pickled brain-- he, a graduate of Tokyo U, two PhD's, one in psychology and the other in cognitive science. He'd tear himself apart.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
He and a couple of others that were also Yazawa graduates had decided to go out that night for a couple of beers and maybe go rent a karaoke room later.
It was supposed to be a guy's night, so he was surprised to find Toki waiting outside his apartment after he had kissed Miwako and the kids goodbye.
"How's my favorite irresponsible father doing?" She smirked, and her eyes widened. "You got rid of the pin?"
Arashi shifted from one foot to the other. "Yeah." He winced. "Kids think it's a tit. I almost got my mouth ripped open a week ago."
Toki wrinkled her nose sympathetically. "I knew you weren't meant to be a father."
Arashi shrugged and fingered a worn slip of paper in his pocket as Toki slipped her arm through his. "How've you been?" He said, because it was the thing to say.
Toki laughed. "I'm all right. The guys miss you. We really should form that band again."
"Actually," Arashi said, a lightness rising in him. "I've been working on a song."
Toki raised her eyebrows. "Really?" She mock-grimaced, holding her hands to her ears. "Let's hear it."
"Well--" Arashi said, and then there was a pattering of footsteps behind him, and Miwako's voice calling his name.
"Arashi!" She panted, clutching at his forearm, a smile on her face. "You forgot your scarf."
He stared blankly at her, her hand numb as he reached for the tattered beige thing she was offering in her hands. Toki shook her head and gave a knowing grin.
"Same old irresponsible Arashi."
Miwako laughed with the other girl, and they were both laughing at him. Somehow, Arashi thought, as he wrapped the scarf around his neck, the laughing was strangely justified.
"He told Miwako it was an all-boy's night." Miwako pouted, glancing from Toki to Arashi. "Are you having an affair behind Miwako's back, Arashi?"
Arashi quelled the feeling of panic, unfounded, insubstantial, and swallowed. "Actually--" he said, but Toki interrupted him.
"Yes, he is." The short-haired girl said, leering jokingly at Miwako. "And you'll never see him again!"
Miwako laughed, high-pitched and girlish, and let go of Arashi's arm. "Have fun." She said affectionately, and kissed his cheek. Arashi's arm wouldn't respond to what his brain was telling him to do-- by the time he had managed to bring his arm around where Miwako had been, he was left embracing cold air and the first few flakes of December snow.
Arashi swallowed the lump that had been in his throat, and Toki had latched onto his arm again, unabashed and still cheerful.
"Let's hear those lyrics, lover." She said.
Arashi took a breath and hummed it for her, a little off-key.
Regret, abstain
From killing like Cain
No matter how much you care
Regret will always be there
So use your tactics, use your fear
To overcome the regret that's there
Hurry before you lose it all
You've got to scale that other wall
Toki's grip around his arm wound a little tighter, and Arashi assumed it was because of the cold.
"That's a little mature for our band." She said lightly. "You may be a father now, but the rest of them are still kids."
Arashi bit his lip, keenly feeling the abscence of the pin. He wished he'd put it on before he went out tonight. "I think we've all grown up a little in the past few years."
They walked down to the station like that, quiet and companionable. Miwako had nothing to be scared of, Arashi thought. Everyone knew that Toki was a lesbian.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Upon exiting the airport, Hiro took a taxi to the subway station, ignoring the city lights in favor of the blinking price ticker of the taxi. The car pulled up along the curb and Hiro paid the fare, seven thousand unreasonable yen.
He descended the stairs to the metro, carrying his suitcase in one hand, holding his coat in the other. The air was brisk and hazy, and it felt thick in his throat.
The station was deserted at this hour, and the only other person waiting for a ride was a young man, around twenty-five, around Hiro's age, a cigarette hanging from the edge of his lips, his hair spiked and dyed blue, leather pants tight around his hips, boots worn through, the buckles jingling as he tapped his foot on the pavement.
"Have a light?"
Hiro turned around and the man was standing beside him, holding out his unlit cigarette. Hiro had a strange feeling that he'd just extinguished it.
"No." He said, having some difficulty mustering his voice. "I don't smoke."
The man ran a hand through his blue hair, shrugging affably. "You sure?"
Hiro realized he was being propositioned, and ducked his head as he felt his face heat. He heard a chuckle next to him and the man pulled out his cell phone and started on a text message.
Maybe it was a flaw in his character, Hiro reasoned. Maybe it was something he hadn't figured out about himself, something that everybody else saw so apparently, like it was written on his forehead.
Wind blew through the tunnel and he stepped back as the empty train rushed by, brakes hitting the metal with a high-pitched scream. He got on the train, the other man close behind him, and the doors shut behind them.
When the train lurched forward, he dropped his cell phone by Hiro's feet, and he stooped to pick it up, his fingers gliding down Hiro's thigh. Hiro heard his own sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry." He said, his green eyes glancing up into Hiro's brown ones, not apologetic at all.
"It's fine." Hiro said hoarsely, wondering if he'd get home in time—if there was a set time for him to return home.
Yukari wasn't expecting him home for another three hours. He had called her back after buying his CD and had told her his flight was being delayed for a few hours. They had managed to get the problem on the plane fixed sooner than the expected time, and he hadn't called Yukari back to tell her. And Yukari would probably be out with friends at this time, she usually was. So.
So.
Hiro swallowed. "I can't." He said, not knowing exactly what he was denying.
The man grinned and nodded, his blue hair falling into his eyes. "Your loss."
Hiro got off at the next station, even though it wasn't his stop.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love no glory
No hero in her sky
I can't take my eyes off of you
Toki finished the song and the rest of the band members clapped obediently-- this was why Toki was on the keyboards and not lead singer.
"My virgin ears." Nakamura, their drummer, clapped his hands over his ears and Toki took it upon herself to knock him over into the couch and stick her tongue in his ear.
"Then I've deflowered you." She said, sticking her tongue out again, while he protested vehemently, beer all over his face.
Arashi watched the antics from his chair, feeling somewhat isolated. At that moment Takashi burst in, kicking the door open with great flair and a morose expression.
"Rejected again?" Nakamura cackled and set a beer down in front of him. "Love hurts, doesn't it?"
"Ah, god." Takashi groaned, flopping down on the couch between Nakamura and Toki, effectively separating Toki's pierced tongue from Nakamura's virgin ears.
"We were wondering where you were." Ayame, their band manager, pursed her lips. Arashi laughed-- she was always taking attendance, wasn't she?
"Tall, dark, handsome, great ass-- one of those closet-case salarymen." Takashi described, a wild grin on his face. "I told him it was his loss, the fucking coward."
Arashi raised an eyebrow from his corner and Nakamura nearly spit out his beer. Toki squealed.
A vein in Nakamura's head was twitching fiercely. "His loss? I thought you said that after your affair with that other married salaryman you'd give it up for sure."
Takashi shook his head. "Do you think I like breaking up families?"
The band stared at their guitarist, and Takashi had the sense to look remorseful. Nakamura looked like he was about to kill somebody.
Toki shook her head, and Arashi interrupted. "Give it a rest, Nakamura. Now Toki'll get the girls Takashi doesn't want. It's a win-win situation."
Takashi nodded solemnly, taking a swig of beer, and Ayame turned around to face Arashi, a faint light of surprise in her eyes. "Aren't you going to tell Takashi that he's a fucking idiot of a fag?"
Arashi stared levelly back at her and slowly shook his head.
"Where's your usual rant? Or maybe you're just--" Ayame smiled. "--mellow?"
Arashi shook his head and smiled distantly. "If that's what you want to call it."
"Ah, the wonders of fatherhood."
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Hiro tried to make as little noise as possible as he set his suitcase down and shut the door behind him. He peered up the stairs and noticed, to his relief, the lights were out. Yukari wouldn't be up so late, after all. Or-- Hiro rubbed at his eyes and looked at his watch-- so early.
Yukari was in bed, her back to the door. Apparently Hiro hadn't been quiet enough, because the moment he slipped his shirt off, she turned around and faced him with sleepy eyes.
"Back so soon?" She yawned. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"I didn't think I'd get home so late." Hiro said.
Yukari shrugged, arranging the covers around her head. "I have something to tell you in the morning, by the way-- about the trip."
"I'll remind you." Hiro said, and prayed that Yukari didn't hear the lie in his voice.
"G'night, dear." Yukari yawned again, and closed her eyes.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Forty feet below my feet
My brain tries to catch up with me
I'm hurting and you won't believe
Not everything is as it seems
Regret, abstain
From killing like Cain
No matter how much you care
Regret will always be there
So use your tactics, use your fear
To overcome the regret that's there
Hurry before you lose it all
You've got to scale that other wall
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Two weeks later, Hiro still didn't have an excuse, and he and Yukari and Miwako and Arashi were on their way to Hong Kong.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
It had been days before that Miwako had mentioned their Christmas plans to him. She had been very excited-- it would just be the two of them, and Mikako would watch the children, and since they were young anyway, it would be all right for them to just miss one Christmas with their parents, right?
Arashi had agreed whole-heartedly. A wonderful, wonderful week without the children, without responsibility, without them tugging at his mouth and trying to rip his nose off! But he loved them, of course he loved them. Of course he loved them. It would just be a week with Miwako, and he'd pound her into the mattress every night. To show her-- to show her how much he loved her.
"We'll be staying at the Four Seasons." Miwako said brightly. "Caroline and Hiro are going to be staying in the Four Seasons too, you know. We're leaving on the same day, on the same flight and everything! Caroline's got extra first-class tickets, so--"
Arashi's first thought was that he didn't want to be Yukari's fucking charity case.
The second thought was that they were going on a trip with the Tokumori family. And Hiro-- he hadn't seen in months. He wondered at the hot-cold in his heart, his sudden dizziness.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Yukari had batted her eyelashes, and Hiro had reluctantly moved up one row so he could change seats with Miwako. While Arashi dozed in his seat, Hiro flipped through a catalogue, determinedly ignoring the chatter of feminine voices behind him, focusing on the delights of duty-free Toblerone chocolates, Chanel No. 5 parfum, and Armani sunglasses.
An hour later, Miwako and Yukari had stopped talking, and Hiro ventured a glance back. They were asleep-- Miwako's head was propped against Yukari's shoulder, Yukari was leaning back against the headrest. Hiro smiled, and tucked the catalogue into the seat pocket in front of him. Arashi was still sleeping as well, his chest rising and falling with each breath he took. Hiro stared at the pin in Arashi's mouth, wondered what it would feel like if he had the same piercing, if the cold metal of the pin were pressed against his own mouth, bitter and bright.
Hiro stood up and hurried to the lavatories. He locked the door behind him and looked at himself in the mirror, looked at the Hiro in the bad lighting and the stale air. He turned on the faucet and splashed some water onto his face, staring down at the sink, hands gripping the edge of the counter.
You were the one who told him to get marriage counseling, he reminded himself.
A phone call one night, and what had started out as a complaint about his wife and their children and how fucking domesticated he felt turned into something else, and every week it was that bar, a shared drink, Arashi telling Hiro he didn't know what to do, and wasn't this all supposed to work out, they had known each other since they were kids, they were fucking childhood sweethearts?
It had taken Hiro a minute to realize that Arashi had been talking about Miwako. And when he had realized this obvious thing, he had smiled and had diagnosed the situation, the good psychologist that he was, and he had given Arashi a little bit of advice, spend some more time together, maybe you need to go out without the children, bullshit like that.
Three months like this; the first month, there had been a call, tentative, hesitant, arrogant, and it had been a loud and noisy bar at seven in the evening. Hiro had told Yukari he was meeting a doctor friend, because if she had known it was Arashi, she would have phoned Miwako and all four of them would have done something together. He had arrived, jacket in one hand, his fear in the other, and he had waited fifteen minutes before the other man had shown up, hair windblown, tie askew, a bad imitation of an office worker. They had sat down at the bar, and Arashi had ordered a Sapporo beer. Hiro asked how work at the publishing firm was. They met every two weeks, and Hiro had always told Yukari it was a friend from work.
The second month, it was every week, and then twice every week. Arashi had told him about Miwako, about Miwako's incessant chatter and about her need to be loved, Arashi had told Hiro about how inadequate he had felt, how this should have come so easily to him, so easily, because they were fucking childhood sweethearts. Hiro had remembered the intonation of the voice, so spiteful, so bitter, filled with tangible desperation and longing.
And then they had met later, when all the people had gone home, when it was just the bartender and them, just sake and words flung sky-high. The last week of the third month, they had seen each other every day, and Hiro didn't even tell Yukari where he went or who he was meeting, because there was no need to. That week, Yukari was in Europe to run the catwalk for Chanel's spring collection.
It had been snowing outside, quiet snow, gentle snow. The bartender had their backs turned to them, and the lights were dim. Hiro had felt lightheaded, and he wanted a cigarette-- he had never smoked before. There was an empty ashtray in front of them, obscenely clean, and Hiro wanted a cigarette.
"Arashi." He had said. "Maybe you should see a counselor. For Miwako. And you."
The man, wearing a suit jacket, a tie, his yellow hair slicked back, wasn't Arashi, not really. He was murmuring now, talking to himself mostly, about Miwako, and their kids, and work at the office, and other things, so many other things, so frustrated about these things. Hiro didn't want to listen. Hiro had Yukari back at home, except she was in Europe, and Hiro wanted, craved a cigarette. He couldn't listen to Arashi talk about his goddamned wife, his fucking life-- hire a fucking counselor, hire somebody else and pay them, because, Arashi, I'm not your goddamned whore. I'm not being paid to listen to you. I'm a goddamned psychologist, a professional one. Don't use me like this, Arashi.
It was cold outside, and Hiro hadn't said any of the things he was thinking, before he left, numbly walking to the doors. He spent his whole life talking to people about their problems, and he couldn't even smoke, couldn't smoke because he knew-- he'd become an addict.
Arashi had followed him outside, of course. Arashi always would.
"Sorry." Arashi had said, stopping behind Hiro, his words slurred but clear. "It's been like this. I shouldn't do this to you. You have your own life, and it's late, and your have your own wife to--" Arashi laughed, metallic-sounding and Hiro shivered, not because of the cold. "--your own wife to fuck."
Don't say that. Hiro had thought, his throat tight. I thought that when I got married, this would be over. Childhood sweethearts, Arashi? You bastard.
"Come on." He'd said, and maybe something had shown on his face that night, and it was a tacit agreement between the two of them to remain silent as they boarded the subway and rode back to the Tokumori residence.
Hiro had woken up that night, the sheets sticky around his legs, Arashi's arm wrapped around his torso, fingers splayed possessively over his shoulder. He had surveyed the room with a detached eye, their clothes strewn over the dresser, the mirror, Yukari's vanity, over the floor. The moonlight painted the room in shades of blue and grey, in shades of forbidden reality. Something had washed over him, a feeling, different feelings—contentment, tranquility, and guilt.
Hiro had woken up that morning, a comforter pulled up to his neck, the sun streaming through the blinds, the bed made in the space next to him, his clothes folded and placed at the foot of the bed. He'd lain awake and stared at the ceiling for hours, days, it could have been anything, and then he had got out of bed and ripped the sheets off the bed, had done the laundry himself, had hung the sheets out to dry, had gone to work late. The sheets were still there, white flags flapping from a clothesline, when Hiro came back that late afternoon. Hiro hadn't spared a second glance.
Yukari had returned that evening, and she had phoned Miwako and the two of them had gone out, while Hiro processed the paperwork for his division of the hospital, glasses set on the tip of his nose, a cup of cold coffee in his left hand.
Yukari had returned late in the evening, had found him still working, and had told him that Arashi had quit his job at the office and was thinking of becoming a music agent, and how could he do that to Miwako and the kids? Of course, Yukari had said, they would be fine. Arashi and Miwako, they'd find a way. They were childhood sweethearts.
It had been the last day of that month, almost a year ago, and Arashi had been drunk to heaven and Hiro had been sober, elbows on the table, one hand gliding over the rim of the sake cup, watching Arashi out of the corner of his eyes, feeling so empty, so bereft.
But, Hiro thought, smiling bitterly, you were the one who told him to get marriage counseling.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
They disembarked the plane, walking through the lit hallways in silence. A boy in a suit, their chauffeur, probably no older than eighteen, waited for them at the exit of the arrivals lobby, a sign in his hand that read Tokumori. Miwako was bright-eyed, light of step, innocence and enthusiasm radiating from her that labeled her as a newlywed. Yukari was more composed, or maybe she was just tired, her thin, bony fingers grasping the edge of Hiro's lapel as she turned to give him a quick kiss on the lips.
Hiro smiled, and kissed her back. Arashi's heart twisted with jealousy of Hiro and Yukari and their relationship, how easy it seemed for them. He watched as their chauffeur turned to look at Hiro, exclusively at Hiro, how the boy's eyes glimmered with something secret, how the eyelashes lowered, a curtain for his voyeurism.
Arashi felt Miwako's hand pull him along to the baggage claim, and Hiro and Yukari's kiss seemed to last forever. All the space in the world couldn't help him now, Arashi thought, and the mile-high ceiling of the airport seemed to close around him, the frenzied commotion of the terminal compressed to a dim murmur behind his ears.
The boy in the suit, their chauffeur, probably no older than eighteen, politely asked Arashi how his flight had been. Miwako enthused. Arashi's lips thinned, his brow furrowed, and he answered curtly, it had been fine.
The boy registered the tone of voice, the underlying antagonism in Arashi's words. He looked back at Hiro, then at Miwako, then at Arashi again, Arashi's carefully blank expression and empty eyes, and understood.
Arashi wondered if he had always been that transparent.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
"Ah, Caroline! So wonderful to see you!"
Caroline, spoken in halting English, the Cantonese girl had gushed and enthused, her hair glossy and bleached, her lashes long and synthetic.
"Likewise, Maggie."
"And you must be Hiro!" Maggie's black eyes gleamed as she faced Hiro. "I've heard so much about you."
Maggie Leung was one of Yukari's protégés—when Yukari had filmed her soap opera last summer, Maggie had been on set at her beck and call. Eventually Maggie had gotten a small side role once the season finished, and they were scheduled to begin filming again in six months.
Six months, Hiro thought, and smiled at Maggie, stumbled back when she gave him an enthusiastic hug. Six months, he thought, his mind elsewhere. Six more months.
Maggie disengaged herself, and Hiro suddenly was suddenly frustrated. He had told himself he wouldn't think about that anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miwako smiling patiently, he saw Arashi's hands twisting behind his back.
"Maggie, I want you to meet two of my friends." Yukari said. "Miwako, Arashi. This is Maggie. I worked with her when we were filming last summer."
"It's a pleasure to meet you." Miwako enthused, and Maggie beamed right back at her. Between the two of them, Hong Kong's smoggy skies fizzled and disappeared.
They chose that moment to look at each other, for no particular reason. Hiro's eyes locked with Arashi's, and for that moment, they seemed to be thinking the same thing, look at them, Maggie's exactly like Miwako, if there had been two Miwakos, wouldn't this be so much easier?
Of course that wasn't possible, Hiro thought dryly, as Arashi looked away first. The auburn-haired man standing behind the petite Maggie Leung was a rather handsome, if imposing, Caucasian man; probably her boyfriend.
"I shouldn't be rude." Maggie chirped. "This is Nickolai ; he's Italian, I met him when I was visiting my aunt and he's just-- my significant other, really."
The man gave a slight bow and told everyone to just call him Nick, he wasn't exactly Italian, he was actually Greek, but of course, it didn't matter to Maggie, whose geography was just terrible, right?
And the happy couple had given each other exasperated looks, eyes brimming with affection, and Yukari and Miwako and Hiro and Arashi had just watched.
Yukari, cool and collected, always, had no room in her nature for unnecessary frivolities. And Hiro couldn't provide that comfortable triviality for her, even if he had wanted to.
But sometimes, he thought, as they all walked to the restaurant, sometimes you deliberately caused yourself all that unnecessary pain. You did that because it made you feel worthy.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
After dinner, they'd all gone back to the Four Seasons suite, and they'd talked for a while, about Maggie's work, about what Nick did. Nick was a consultant for a burgeoning business here in Hong Kong—Maggie had met him through a mutual friend. They were both so happy—Maggie exuberantly so, while Nick kept his emotions under an amused façade.
We could have been like that. Arashi looked at Miwako, at their joined hands. And somewhere along the way, we lost it.
"More wine?" Yukari asked him, gestured at the near-empty glass in his hand. Arashi blinked and nodded mutely.
It had happened like this last time, a wan voice whispered in his head. He had been drunk, and Hiro's walls had broken down. Even as they'd tumbled into Hiro's bed, they had not kissed—Hiro had made sure of that. It had been the remaining vestige of fidelity, something that had kept them from crossing the ultimate borders into adultery.
Arashi's hand trembled as he lifted the glass up to his lips, the conversation around him a blur to his ears. It was adultery, fucking adultery, no matter which way you looked at it, even if they hadn't kissed.
He laughed, aware that all eyes in the room were on him now.
"It's nothing." He said, composing himself, a twisted smile still hovering on his lips. "I just thought of something funny."
Maggie blinked, Nick shrugged good-humoredly, Yukari raised an eyebrow, and Miwako pouted.
"You won't share, Arashi?" She tugged at his sleeve, and he turned and hugged her fiercely, taking her by surprise.
"No." He said, closing his eyes. "It's for me to know." He sat back and tapped her lightly on the nose. "It's for you to find out."
Miwako pouted again, her eyes wide and her bottom lip quivering, before she shook her head, giggling.
Arashi knew he should have felt something. He should have felt remorse, he should have felt guilt. His hands should have been trembling, his throat should have been quivering, straining with the effort to take those gasping breaths, ones that would tell the truth.
He looked up, and met Hiro's eyes, indecipherable and cautious, apprehensive anticipation. Arashi held the gaze as long as he could, and felt a certain bitter satisfaction when Hiro looked away first.
It's easy for you to hide. Arashi thought, staring into his wine, swirling the red liquid around the sides of the glass. So fuckin' easy.
Arashi had woken up before dawn, the sheets sticky around his legs, his arm thrown over Hiro's torso, fingers grasping at Hiro's shoulder. He'd blinked sleepily, he'd yawned, stretched, he'd swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had picked his clothes up, one by one, had put them on slowly. The sun's pink was rising over the horizon, peeking through the vast blue of the night, a thin fog stretched into the city depths. Something had washed over him, a feeling, different feelings— shame, peace, and regret.
Hiro had been asleep when he'd left, just like Hiro had been asleep when Arashi had kissed him. A light brush of lips, that's all that it had been, but the moment his mouth had touched Hiro's, something made his heart race faster than when they had first arrived on Hiro's doorstep, faster than when he'd pushed Hiro over the edge, as he watched Hiro's eyes close and exhale and gasp as Hiro came, as Arashi thought, I was the one who did that to him. I was the one who could have done that, all this time.
Regret, that's what it had been moments before he'd kissed Hiro. And then it had gone out of his chest as his breath did, and he was left with nothing but an empty shell of a heart.
He had tucked Hiro under the comforter and made sure he'd gathered everything before he left. The sound of the door closing as he stepped outside had never seemed more final.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
They spent Christmas together, then apart.
Dinner was a dressed-up affair. Yukari reserved a VIP room meant for twenty people at a five-star restaurant known for its Peking duck. It might have been a little strange to have Peking duck in Hong Kong, but Yukari wasn't a big fan of seafood in the first place (cooked seafood, she emphasized-- sashimi was an entirely different story).
And so they had duck on Christmas Eve, with five waiters standing by, towels held accordingly. Their glasses remained filled with Sauvignon Blanc. That hadn't been the original choice, though.
"How about the Dom Perignon?" Hiro had suggested, to which Yukari had frowned and murmured an icy no. Arashi and Miwako had looked uncomfortable.
Dom Perignon was associated with Paradise Kiss, then.
The duck was a heaven of oily goodness, the lettuce cups following the duck skins delightful. The duck soup that accompanied was savory, slow-cooked to perfection, brothy and a little bit sweet. The duck eggs were a tad on the salty side and Hiro didn't have much liking for them but the cold dishes of duck liver (a Sinified sort of foie gras) and duck feet were divine to the taste. They finished off their meal with watermelon and tapioca, and went their separate ways.
He didn't know where Arashi and Miwako went. They were all bound to see each other again sometime later-- they'd gotten rooms right next to each other, after all. Hiro just hoped that Arashi and Miwako would be keeping it up until the light hours of morning. Hiro's own libido was feeling sort of in the Christmas spirit, but it could just be the duck he'd had for dinner.
Yukari's arm in his, they'd gone off to the streets in search of Christmas bargains from those peddlers who were still up and about in their capitalistic, nihilistic ways, feeding off the spirit of Christmas charity.
"I'll give it to you for four-hundred."
Yukari pretended not to speak Cantonese.
"Three-hundred. Three-hundred, madame!"
Yukari murmured something to Hiro that sounded like, "let's go," and she did it in full sight of the peddler.
"Two-hundred-fifty, madame! It's real Vuitton!"
"It is most certainly not." Yukari said, turning the full weight of her icy model's stare at the sweaty peddler. She took the purse from him and unzipped it. "Look, it has a lapel inside. A real Vuitton does not have a lapel inside, and--" she zipped and unzipped the bag.
Zipppzipppzippppp Hiro heard. He felt a smile on his face... he was amused. Well. He was amused. That was something.
"--the zipper, look." Yukari railed on in fierce Cantonese. "Look at that action. You call this real LV? You have the nerve to call this piece of shit real? Who do you think I am? Just because I look foreign, you try to shove this shit in my face? Just look at the coloring!" Yukari held the bag up to the street light. "You're trying to sell this piece of shit--"
"Eighty." Deadpanned the peddler, completely unfazed.
"Sixty."
"Seventy-five, lady." He'd given up on the honorifics. Yukari was among their crowd now, a crowd of voracious bargainers and street hustlers. "I'm going to be out of business."
"There are a million more of you." Yukari stared at the short man down her nose. Her height didn't seem to intimidate him.
"Seventy, lady, and it's a deal."
"Sixty."
"Seventy."
"Sixty."
"Sixty-five."
"Sixty."
"Sixty-TWO."
Yukari drew the amount from her (real) Gucci purse and handed it to him.
They walked away from the street just as a lookout ran down the aisles, hollering police at the top of his lungs. Amidst a flurry of packing suitcases and rolling boxes, the scene behind them disappeared until only a few goldfish merchants were left, the rest of them rolling their merchandise ahead of them in hordes, looking to all the world like migrant workers who had left the countryside, spare belongings packed hastily away in shoddy ramen noodle boxes.
"You didn't really need that." Hiro said, taking the "Louis Vuitton" from her. "Look, it's falling apart."
"It's the idea of it." Yukari smiled. "That I got a fake LV for sixty-two renminbi, eight hundred yen, or seven dollars and fifty cents, whatever way you want to look at it." Yukari took the Louis Vuitton bag from him and inspected it with a grave air. "Oh, look at the poor thing. I feel like I just rescued a stray dog."
Hiro didn't know what else to do, but he was feeling something, and maybe it was amusement or love or something like love, but he felt it as he passed under a streetlamp, and he bent down and dipped her, Hollywood-style, and kissed her right in the full view of every passer-by.
I have something to declare, he thought. Look at this. You see this? She's my wife. I love her, because I said I would. Nothing's going to change the fact that I did love her. That I could still love her. Nothing's going to take away what we had, once. What we could have now. But look. I've declared it...
He let her up. Her lips were a little bit red. She was slightly flushed. It was a good look on her, good, to take away some of that icy, aloof composure. This way she looked more like a high school girl who had just been kissed in the snow at night under a streetlamp. She looked young.
"Where did that come from?" She laughed, a honest-to-goodness laugh, not a social laugh or a condescending giggle but a real laugh. Her black eyes glittered, and Hiro fell in love with her again.
"Somewhere." Hiro said, and hugged her, inhaling the smell of her hair-- warm and clean and orangey. "Merry Christmas."
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Miwako was long asleep, complaining of a stomachache brought on by the greasy duck. And so Arashi had gone outside onto the balcony, jacket draped around his shoulders as he stared out into the cold Christmas night, lights twinkling across the Hong Kong cityscape.
He turned around and went back inside, where Miwako slept a little uneasily, brows furrowed slightly, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Arashi wiped her face with a damp towel and kissed her cheek. She stirred slightly. He hoped that she hadn't come down food poisoning.
Arashi eyed the ice bucket critically. Some service they had-- all the ice had melted. Four Seasons was supposed to keep everything in stock, right? Sighing, he slipped his hotel key card into his pocket and headed outside with the bucket for more ice.
The hotel corridor was quiet, clean, and well-lit. Arashi felt a little scared, as if something would climb out of the air duct and attack him, or jump out from behind a door-- it was a little too quiet, too clean, too well-lit. It was Christmas Eve, and people had their own affairs to idle over.
Well, well, well. If it wasn't Hiroyuki Tokumori with his own ice bucket.
"Hiro." Arashi drawled, desperately shoving his anxiety into a far, far corner of his mind. "What brings you here?"
"Yukari wanted ice." Hiro shrugged. There was a suspicious flush to his cheeks. Well, what they needed that ice for... Arashi didn't need to know.
"As does Miwako." He said, still drawling, he wondered how the hell he was controlling himself so well. Let Hiro figure things out. About the ice. About Miwako. About Arashi's tone of voice.
Hiro's middle-aged crisis seemed to be resolved, and fuck, Hiro wasn't even middle-aged. And usually middle-aged men sought out Ferraris or models to console them, and well, what did you know, Hiro was already married to a model. And what the fuck did he need a Ferrari for when he had two Mercedes and a BMW in his three-car garage? Of course everything was bound to work out. For Hiro.
"You know, you owe it to me." Arashi blurted, and immediately regretted it. Oh, he could have said something, something teasing, Hiro, what are you and Yukari planning to do with that ice or something that like, and Hiro would have flushed, and flushed quite nicely, and he'd have been on his way, thinking everything was right with the world, Hiro in his own bed and Arashi in his and neither of them in each others'. But no, Arashi, hot-headed and impulsive, had said, you know, you owe it to me.
Hiro exhaled sharply. If he'd been truly confused about the meaning behind Arashi's words he would have blinked, he would have looked confused. But no, Arashi knew that Hiro knew that they both knew. But Hiro was going to pretend. Oh, that was all right, Arashi thought. He was used to pushing and pushing and pushing until he got what he wanted. It was that way with Miwako's virginity, and so it would be with Hiro's denial.
"What, exactly, do I owe you?" Hiro said, his voice low. It sounded valid enough-- there was enough confusion, disbelief, and good humor in the voice to almost convince Arashi of Hiro's innocence.
"Everything," Arashi wanted to say. It took him a second to realize that he had actually said it.
"Everything." Hiro repeated, blankly.
"You have a certain responsibility to your friends." Arashi said. "You can't just abandon them."
"I'd never do that." Hiro's voice was measured, careful. He had taken a step back, so Arashi took a step forward.
"You say you wouldn't." Arashi shot back. He didn't really know what he was saying, and he didn't care. He just knew-- he wanted to hurt Hiro, mess with his head a little, because hadn't Hiro done the same thing to him, and then had left him to deal with the collateral damage?
"You're thinking too much, too hard." Hiro said. "Maybe you've had too much to drink tonight--"
He was taking the easy way out, blaming Arashi's ferocity on alcohol.
"--and you're tired. Go to sleep."
And sleep-deprivation.
Arashi closed his eyes and sighed, feeling all the fight leave him. This couldn't be the right time. It was Christmas Eve, it was cold outside, warm inside, and Arashi had to go take care of Miwako and Hiro had to go fuck Yukari into the mattress.
Yeah, I'll be generous to you, fucker. I'll leave you a way out.
"Just don't abandon Miwako, if you're going to abandon your friends." Arashi forced an amused smile onto his face. "She's dying of a stomachache because of the dinner tonight."
It was pathetic, how quickly Hiro jumped to the bait. "Just because I'm a doctor of psychology doesn't mean I can handle physiological diagnosis. It's probably just a reaction to the food... that duck was pretty greasy."
"Sure." Arashi turned around and pushed the button for ice. The clattering of the ice dispensing into the bucket echoed in the small room.
"Keep a trash can around the bed just in case... you know."
"Gotcha." Arashi said. The empty, scared, feeling had settled back again. He could hear Hiro backing off.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning." Hiro said.
"Yeah."
"We'll go to breakfast." Hiro said.
"Sure thing." Arashi said, trying to pump a little vigor into his voice.
"All of us."
As if Hiro had to specify.
"Okay." Arashi said.
He stayed there long after Hiro had gone, gauging the time it would have taken for Hiro to go back to the room. His ice bucket was filled to the brim.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Yukari chose to wear her fake Louis Vuitton to breakfast that morning.
Hiro looked at it with some consternation, because look at that thing, it's so poorly made. They were all having breakfast on the top floor, and Yukari was telling the story of the bag, and how it had dropped from four-hundred RMB to sixty-two RMB. Miwako, still looking a little queasy, had still managed to be cheerful and had laughed at all the appropriate moments. Arashi was a little more stoic, as if he hadn't slept much-- that was a given, though, look at him doting on Miwako now, keeping her teacup filled and cutting up her waffle for her because Miwako was too distracted by Yukari's story to do it herself--
no no no
Hiro knew what it was. Of course he knew. The exchange at the ice machine, Arashi's concern for Miwako--
but he wouldn't give it a name, wouldn't give a name for the
affair
because that would be validating it all the more. But it was only a one-time thing, a one-night stand of sorts, so it couldn't mean too much. But people always said that their
affairs
didn't mean anything. But then why would people have
affairs
if they didn't mean something? oh, an
affair
didn't have to mean that it was a mutual thing, but it could be something else entirely, a manifestation of something otherwise sublimated, a symbolic gesture of freedom, repression, prohibition, inhibition, this
affair
could have been an outpouring of frustrated sexual desires, an experiment with homosexuality, a biologically encouraged interplay of pheromones, a psychologically driven encounter, this
affair
the idea of an
affair
and that he'd committed an
affair
was driving him insane ---
"Well, it'd be just like Hiro to intellectualize things too much." Yukari was saying. Oh, Hiro thought, they were talking about something on television, some meaningless television program. "Once you've earned two doctorates it's hard to stop thinking about things so much and just accept things for what they are."
"You don't say," Arashi said distantly, the same time Miwako said, "oh, but Yusako didn't really mean to abort the baby without her husband's consent--"
Girls loved their soap operas. Hiro thought, and looked up from his espresso, only to find Arashi staring right at him. They held the gaze for a minute, heated and desperate and bitter, before they both looked away.
Yes, Hiro thought, you saw me, bags under my eyes and an inability to sleep and an inability to make love to my wife without thinking of you, not because I love you but because you've stained me, irreparably and irreversibly. I want to hate you for it, but you're so broken and unhappy I can't find it in my heart to do so.
But maybe that's love.
"So!" Miwako clapped her hands together, eyeing Hiro and Arashi with a faintly bemused expression. "The boys don't look too interested in our conversation, Yukari."
"They wouldn't." Yukari laughed. "A soap opera is a girl thing."
"But we have presents!" Miwako bent down and, after some rummaging, brought up two small wrapped packets. "Merry Christmas, Yukari and Hiro!"
"We have presents for you, too." Yukari smiled graciously, accepting her blue box. Hiro took the little black box that Miwako proffered, avoiding any semblance of eye contact with Arashi. He didn't need to know who bought the gift, who made it--
"It's beautiful." He heard Yukari gasp beside him.
Inside her box lay a blue silk rose. Tiny crystal beads were stitched on to look like dewdrops-- one cluster resembled a ladybug. White feathers fanned out from the back, the leaves of the rose.
"That's beautiful." Hiro agreed. Yukari's smile was warm.
"We know that George made you the dress." Miwako said, a little embarrassed, but happy that the gift was being received so well. "But it's not like you can wear it all the time, and plus, all the roses died afterwards, because they were real."
"We all worked on the dress, but--" Arashi smiled, patting the box. "This is just from Miwako and me."
"And if you want to--" Miwako turned the rose over in Yukari's hand, showing her the hair clip behind the rose, "--you can put it in your hair, or something. We know that you don't like big flamboyant things, so that's why we made it small."
"Thank you." Yukari looked back up, and Hiro was surprised to see that her eyes were a little glassy. Miwako and Arashi looked sufficiently flustered, embarrassed, and happy.
It was a moment from which he'd forever be excluded. Those tumultuous teenaged years, those trying times-- Yukari had told him about them, about Paradise Kiss and George and all the drama, but Hiro would never really be a part of that. He was always watching from the outside, even then.
"Well," Hiro chimed in, making his voice light, "it was about time you got one of those. It seemed like it would be the most obvious present to give you, right?"
He didn't mean for it to sound caustic, or sarcastic. Miwako looked a little stricken, Arashi, eyes wide in disbelief, and the gleam in Yukari's eyes disappeared. Then they all laughed uneasily, the joke registered a little too late.
"Here, I'll help you put it on." Hiro took the rose and made an attempt to fasten it in Yukari's hair, Yukari protesting all the while, you don't know how it works, silly, and he, valiantly trying, making a fool out of himself, which was good-- it was penance, for interrupting their moment, for disturbing the memory of Paradise Kiss, something that some people once had, now reserved for the annals of reminiscence.
The rose was fastened, lopsidedly, above Yukari's ear, and she bore it with a long-suffering expression. Miwako giggled, and Hiro's task even earned a smirk from Arashi.
"Now you open yours." She told him, and so he undid the white ribbon and took the lid off the box, and inside was a silk tie, the same blue color as Yukari's rose.
"So you match." Miwako and Arashi said, simultaneously.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Subtle sounds of traffic, one particularly persistent crow, the sink water running, and Arashi was awake.
He cracked open one eye, then two, closed the both of them, blinked three times, and then, throwing the covers off with a flourish, jumped out of bed, unstable on his feet as all the blood rushed out of his head. Miwako had pulled away all the curtains and a dusty, muggy Hong Kong winter stared back at him, skyscrapers and haze and snow clumping on the edges of the windows. He looked at the clock. It read 11:12 in the morning.
"Arashi," he heard Miwako say, accompanied by the scrubbing of a toothbrush. The water was still running. "Where did you go last night?"
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
It was about midnight. Hiro had come down for a cup of coffee and had brought his laptop. He didn't want to disturb Yukari with his typing and he had to reply to a number of important e-mails before tomorrow morning.
He'd sat down, ordered an espresso and a cheesecake, and had just started up his laptop when a hand appeared on the edge of a screen.
"Hey, you."
Hiro didn't want to look up, but he did, out of common courtesy. "Arashi."
The acknowledged man sat down across from Hiro and signaled to the waitress. "A mango smoothie, please. Extra boba." The waitress nodded, and moved away. Hiro chuckled, despite himself. How very Arashi to get something so unconventional at this time of night.
"So." Arashi leaned back in his seat and looked somewhere past Hiro's head. "What brings you here at this time of night?"
Hiro pointed at his laptop, fixed his eyes on the welcome screen, and made some movement with the mouse, as if already engaged. "E-mails."
"Busy guy." Arashi raised an eyebrow. Hiro only shrugged.
The waitress brought Hiro's espresso and cheesecake. Without preamble, Arashi snatched the fork out of Hiro's hand and took the first bite. The waitress smiled. "Just hold on a minute, sir. We're making your smoothie."
"Take your time, take your time." Arashi said, still looking at some point by Hiro's head. Or maybe he was looking at Hiro's forehead. Hiro didn't think it was a terribly interesting place to look.
"I could ask you the same thing," he said.
"What?" Arashi said.
"What you're doing here." Hiro frowned. "At this time of night."
Arashi leaned further back in his chair. "I wanted to talk. You know, catch up with you."
"Mmm-hmm." Hiro nodded absently. "How's Miwako?"
"Fucked her six ways into the mattress. Now she's asleep."
"So I take it she's feeling better. No more stomachache." Hiro refused to be perturbed.
"She's feeling an ache, all right." Arashi's voice was snide.
"I hope you used protection." Hiro said. "You can't afford another kid."
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing at all. Just stating a fact."
"Fuck you." Arashi had twisted his napkin into a little ball and he threw it at Hiro. Hiro moved his head out of the way, and the napkin breezed past harmlessly.
It hit the waitress who had come with Arashi' mango smoothie. "Excuse me, sir."
"Sorry." Arashi smiled, a huge, fake smile. "Just playing around."
The waitress set down Arashi's drink and picked up the napkin, and continued on her way.
"There's no need to be vulgar." Hiro said, once she was out of earshot.
"You know who I am." Arashi said blankly. "You know I'm vulgar."
"We're grown men." Hiro said, and clicked around some more on his computer, except he wasn't opening any applications. The mouse cursor swirled on the desktop aimlessly. "We're grown men and we can speak rationally. Like adults."
"We're grown, married men."
Hiro suppressed his grimace. "We are."
"And that's the problem."
"What's the problem?"
"You never wanted it to happen, fine." Arashi gulped down his smoothie and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. Brain freeze. "But it happened."
"Your point?" Hiro knew his voice sounded colder than it ought to be. Here was a friend in need, a friend in distress. Whoever knew Hiro knew that Hiro was a compassionate person. Hiro would never turn down the chance to help out.
Except that he had already helped. He'd already fucked things up, literally. He'd let things run too far.
"My point." Arashi huffed. "My point."
"You don't have a point, then." Hiro said, and peered over at Arashi. "Why are you here?"
"I don't have two fucking Ph.Ds. I graduated from fuckin' art school but that doesn't mean that you get the upper hand, Tokumori."
"Go on." Hiro said tiredly.
"You owe it to me." Arashi spat. "You never took an interest, didn't you? You never even referred me to a real marriage counselor. Just kept saying, 'Arashi, you and Miwako should see a marriage counselor.' I was waiting for you to help. I knew you would, but it was all words to you, wasn't it? Fuck you."
"You wouldn't see one." Hiro sighed.
"Who the hell said that?" Arashi exhaled sharply. "I expected your expertise. I expected advice. I expected a referral when you didn't know what you were doing, if it ever got that far."
"You used me, Arashi. Anybody else I would have charged--"
"My situation didn't change, did it?"
"Did you want it to change?"
Arashi looked thoughtful, afraid for a moment. Hiro knew that he hit a sore spot. "Of course I wanted it to change." He said softly. "I wanted it to go back to normal."
"Normal." Hiro closed his eyes. "It's all relative. And by normal, you mean... what? Happy with Miwako? Straight?"
"I'm fucking straight, bastard."
"Apparently fucking it straight six ways into the mattress."
"You--"
"Bow-legged."
"Fuck you."
"And if I recall correctly," Hiro hissed, with a cattiness he hadn't know he'd possessed, "you wanted to. Badly."
Arashi's eyes widened and another curse hung on the edge of his lips but apparently he thought the better of it. "No, I didn't."
"Oh." Hiro laughed, not quietly. He wasn't in complete control of himself right now and he couldn't laugh quietly, keep this incident to their isolated table. The waitress glanced over in mild curiosity. "Oh, that's rich."
Arashi glowered. "That's not the point."
"So tell me what is."
"Tell me why you listened to me."
And suddenly all the fight left Hiro. He switched off the power to his laptop. The e-mails would have to wait. He couldn't possibly get any work done now.
"I listened to you," Hiro said, "because you were going through a rough period in your life."
Tell me why you listened to me for that long." Arashi breathed. "Tell me why you never referred me directly. It wouldn't have been that hard, would it? A phone call here, another phone call there. You could have done that, if you were tired of listening to me. Three months passed by, Hiro. So tell me why you listened to me. Yourself."
"I--" Hiro's voice stuck, for some reason. He lifted up the espresso to his lips, surprised that his hands weren't shaking. "You were my friend."
"Your pride, Hiro." Arashi's eyes glimmered with something. "You thought you could take of me yourself."
"You were a wreck--"
"So that's why you took me home."
"Arashi--"
"You took me home and you pressed me up against your fucking coatrack--"
"Arashi--"
"--and humped my leg like a goddamned teenager, dragged me into your bedroom--"
"I--"
"--what was that to you? A pity fuck?"
Hiro couldn't find his breath. The blood rushed past his ears in a deafening roar. Perhaps it wasn't Arashi speaking at all. Perhaps it was just his mouth moving and no sound was coming out.
Oh, but look. Arashi wasn't saying anything now. He was taking a bill out of his pocket and he was throwing it on to the table. His drink was almost untouched. He was leaving.
He was leaving.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
It was a cold day outside for sight-seeing, but Miwako had insisted. And so Yukari had taken them all out for the afternoon and had showed them around the many locations at which she had shot her soap opera. A beach here, an apartment there, a business complex here, a park there. Then Yukari had complained that her feet were aching and so they settled for a department store where Yukari could sit in Dior and sip Evian water while the store clerk brought her various items to browse through.
Arashi thought it hypocritical, that Yukari would switch from indie to mainstream, but everyone succumbed eventually. And Yukari was never a part of that independent fashion world to begin with. She was just a model.
"I love it." Yukari's gaze was fixated on a Dior Rasta saddlebag. Miwako was equally transfixed. "We'll take two."
"Oh, Caroline, no." Miwako protested.
"Yes." Yukari smiled blithely. "Two for me."
"Oh." Miwako flushed. "I thought--"
"And then I'll give you one."
Miwako flushed even harder. "No, Caroline!"
"Yes."
Arashi hid a yawn. Suffice to say, he hadn't slept well last night. He had returned to the hotel room, stripped to his boxers, and fallen into bed. And had laid there, awake, his eyes fixed on the headboard. He had been angry. And that anger was safe-- it was better than sorrow, and guilt, and anguish. It was all melodramatic, to feel that way. It was like Yukari's goddamned soap opera.
He snuck a glance at Hiro and noted with some satisfaction that the other man had dark circles under his eyes.
Yukari had maneuvered them somehow so that Hiro and Arashi were sitting together on one bench while she and Miwako were on another, gasping over the latest charm bracelets.
He could feel Hiro tense, ready to run at the first shot, the first dirty look that Arashi gave him.
And so he said,
"I want an uncomplicated life."
Hiro's expression was confused, and then resigned, as if he didn't want to contemplate it. "Don't we all?"
"You have one." Arashi said.
"No," Hiro laughed, a little hysterically, but quietly, all the same. "No, I don't."
"I thought--" Arashi said, and reconsidered, because now was not the time, but he was always brimming to say something, to broach that topic-- "I thought a tie was too generic."
Hiro was caught totally off-guard. "What?"
"The tie." Arashi said, and stood up, heading for the door. "It was too generic."
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Hiro told himself a story.
A long time ago,
Hiro had been in third grade. Arashi had been in third grade. Arashi had wanted to get a few piercings, in his lip, in his eyebrow, and in his ears. He'd settled for one.
They had gone to the parlor and little Arashi, precocious Arashi, had a pocket filled with cash and Hiro was there, sort of as a lookout. Hiro was there in case Arashi's parents were going to burst in and take Arashi away and not let him get his piercing. Hiro thought Arashi was a little bit young to do something as permanent as this, but Arashi didn't.
Miwako had been there too. They had all been about the same height. It would be the only time.
And so they had taken their spots next to Arashi. Arashi had sweated, the stuff gathering on his forehead and his upper lip but he had thrust his chin out and had pretended to be brave, so brave. And when the time had come, Miwako had taken Arashi's hand and Arashi had taken Hiro's hand.
He'd squeezed, oh, how he had squeezed. Hiro's hand was all red at the end of it. Miwako's hand was red, too.
The next day, when Arashi came to school, his eyes were red and it looked like there were tear tracks down his face. He'd went directly to Hiro during their recess and had complained and whined and complained about his parents and how unfair they were and somewhere along the way he'd let a tear or two drop but Hiro had never said a word.
After that, whenever Arashi went to get a new hole poked somewhere on his body, either Hiro or Miwako would accompany him. Over time, he became accustomed to the needles and the pain and didn't need to have his hand held anymore. Over time, Hiro became used to the fact that Arashi wouldn't need to have his hand held anymore, that he wouldn't need that support. Over time, Hiro became used to the fact that Arashi didn't need to complain anymore, either about the pain or his parents' disapproval. Over time, Hiro became used to the fact that Arashi didn't need him anymore, not really. It wasn't like he really ever did.
No, Arashi didn't need to have his hand held anymore. Eventually Arashi's maturity had reached Hiro's maturity, or somewhere near it. For a while, for a long while, Hiro had always been more mature than Arashi, so he was certified to hold and protect and console, up to a certain point.
But when he was an adult, a grown, married man, and Arashi whined and complained and let a tear or two drop by this time Hiro had not said anything, but he'd forgotten how to hold his hand that way and had held his hand in an entirely different way.
Hiro followed Arashi outside the Dior store, past the boutiques and down the escalators, keeping his scarf wrapped around his neck even though it was warm inside the mall. He was sweating under his collar.
Arashi turned the corner into the men's restroom. Hiro stopped. Considered. Followed him inside.
"Why'd you become a doctor?" Arashi asked. He was leaning against the wall next to the urinals. In his black coat and his dark jeans and his loafers, he made a striking image against the white tile of the restroom.
"So I could help people." Was Hiro's automatic reply. "Because I love that. I love helping people."
"You sure you don't just love the people?" Arashi smirked. "You can sell yourself out as a whore. There's a lot of loving that way too."
"Arashi." Hiro was tired. So tired. "You're-- I can't even hate you."
"I didn't do anything." Arashi said. "You don't have any reason to hate me. No justifiable reason."
"You're provoking me deliberately."
"I am."
"What the hell do you want from me?"
"To stop being so damned altruistic." Arashi ran a hand through his hair. He glared at the tiles. "You fucking love everybody. You want to help everybody. That's your way of escaping. You fucking escape through being so generous."
"Escape what?" But Hiro had a clue.
"Me."
"Arashi, be reasonable." Hiro said. He wanted nothing more than to just shake the other man. Maybe throttle him. "You have a wife. I have a wife. We have responsibilities, vows, to them. What the hell is one night compared to everything else that we've shared with them?"
"It wasn't just one night." Arashi threw his hands in the air, in frustration. "Well, it was. But it meant--"
"It meant nothing." Hiro steeled his voice. "You were drunk. I took advantage of the fact. My wife was out of town. You're the victim, I'm the aggressor. If anything, I'm the one who raped you. I took you home without your consent. You couldn't make a credible decision in an inebriated state, and you didn't."
"It wasn't that." Arashi pushed himself against the wall. "Don't deliberately misunderstand it like that."
"It was." Hiro told himself, told Arashi. "And now-- and now I'm the aggressor. I'm the guilty party. I'm guilty, I feel guilt, and guilt, and regret, and guilt. Fuck you."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Arashi snarled. "You piece of fuck. Escaping through your sick escapist fantasy. You're not a fucking martyr. You're not a saint. Get over your guilt and confront the issue."
"There's no fucking issue." Hiro's voice was rising. This was ridiculous. They were in a public restroom. Someone could come in. "It's your fucking issue."
"It's my fucking issue, that's right." Arashi pushed himself off the wall, hit the tile with the flat of his hand. "It's my fucking issue that you were there for me, like a good friend. It's my fucking issue that I trusted you too much. It's my fucking issue that you love everybody too much and you thought you could spread that fucking love--"
"What the hell--" Hiro didn't want to hear it. It sounded like something true.
"-- that love to me, save me from being a wreck, because look, Hiroyuki Tokumori has a fucking perfect life, right? He's a doctor with a model wife and a big house in the suburbs and look at me, a fucking wreck, trying to support the kids and a wife without a reliable job, trying to make it in the music industry, look at me, I'm not even half as good as Hiroyuki Tokumori and he still wants to be my friend, to have that over me--"
"Damn it, Arashi--"
"--is it my fault, is it my fucking issue, that you think you're so fucking perfect and you just have to lord that over me? Fuck you."
"This is completely unrelated to the point--"
"There's no point." Arashi shook his head. "God, I wish there was a point, but there's no point."
"There's a point." Hiro said, he forced his voice into a low murmur. "The point is that you're my friend."
"One-time lover." Arashi pointed out, in a sing-song voice. "One-time affair."
Hiro closed his eyes. Affair. He disliked that word. But there was no other word for it.
"I love you." He said, because that might solve something.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Arashi hissed. "Don't say that. You love the fucking world. You love everybody. That doesn't mean a fucking thing to me."
"I want you to be happy." Hiro tried again. "I want to help."
"Look at you, helping." Arashi laughed. "You want me to be happy. You want to help the world, that's why you're a doctor. You want everybody to be happy. You want everybody to live. I don't mean a fucking thing to you. I'm just another mark on your list of charity cases."
He pushed Hiro back against the wall, placed his hands on either side of Hiro's head, forced his leg between Hiro's. Arashi's breath came harsh against Hiro's neck, and Hiro gazed fixedly on the ceiling, the lights. "It's not like that." He whispered.
"Sure it is." Arashi said, pressing closer to Hiro, grinding into his hipbone. Hiro shuddered as Arashi snaked a hand down to the front of his pants, deftly undoing the zipper.
"Don't." He said, but leaned his head back against the wall. His scarf scratched uncomfortably against his neck even though it was cashmere. His hips arched of his own violation. Arashi's hand hovered, Arashi's breath ghosted against the side of neck, hard, lean body pressed into Hiro's through layers of thick winter clothes. Hiro wanted his hand.
Arashi worked his hand into Hiro's briefs and grasped his dick, pumping languidly, as if they had all the time in the world. Hiro turned his head away, breath coming in pants, and felt Arashi smile into the side of his neck. Arashi pulled his hand away, pushing up Hiro's shirt, palm pressing against Hiro's stomach, moving to pinch his nipples, then back down to his groin, where he teased the coarse hair, tangling his fingers a bit. Hiro's hands clenched and unclenched uselessly at his sides.
"Stall." He managed. Arashi nodded, and they stumbled to the back, locking the door behind them, Arashi's hand still in Hiro's pants. Hiro leaned up, licking Arashi's neck, sucking. He paused every few moments to gasp. Arashi picked up his pace.
Hiro pushed up into each stroke. He panted, whimpered, biting his lip to stifle the sounds. Arashi was breathing just as hard next to him. He sucked harder on Arashi's neck and knew there would be marks. The thought of that-- of Miwako seeing that, of Yukari seeing that-- made him harder. Arashi pumped faster. Slow and squeezing tightly. Arashi pulled on Hiro's skin, giving him the rough treatment that he needed. Then slow again, this time gentle, exactly what Hiro didn't want at the moment. All the way up and down in a fraction of a second. Another fast one, and Hiro moaned like a slut. Slow, but gentle, and Hiro thrust a few times.
"Friction," he grunted. "Give me--"
Arashi thrust his tongue into Hiro's mouth, tongue-fucking him, their teeth clicking together, Hiro's nose pressed into Arashi's cheek, and Arashi's tongue reached in quick and deep.
Fast strokes, all hard and in rapid succession. Hiro's head lolled to one side and he broke the kiss. Arashi sought his lips again and sucked on Hiro's lower lip, slow, slow, so very fucking slow, his hand matching his mouth's movements. Hiro wanted Arashi to give this to him. Hiro wanted to understand.
Hiro grabbed the sides of Arashi's face and pulled him up for a kiss. He snaked his tongue along Arashi's lower lip and then kissed and licked from his jaw up to his ear. Hiro sucked on the earlobe, nibbling and biting.
Then Arashi dropped to his knees and sucked Hiro's dick in his mouth all the way. Arashi gripped the base of his shaft, pumping, swirling his tongue around the head. Hiro moved his hand to Arashi's neck, encouraging him, making sounds deep in his chest. "God, I want--"
Arashi released Hiro's cock with a wet kiss, staring lazily, hungrily, at it. "You want me to fuck you?"
Hiro's cock twitched violently. "God--"
"Yes?" Arashi took Hiro's cock back into his mouth, swallowing it to the root, reaching behind to cup Hiro's ass. Hiro breathed in sharply, tossing his head side to side against the wall.
"--ah--"
Arashi let Hiro fuck his mouth and his hands groped and stroked Hiro's ass, fingers running up and down the crease, doing a glissando from the balls back up to the spine, and when Arashi's finger touched him there--
"Aah--"
Hiro came.
An orgasm always took his knees out from under him, and Arashi was the only thing keeping him up right now. Hiro wanted nothing more than to curl up and bask in his post-coital bliss, but given their current situation and location, that was impossible.
Arashi was still pumping, milking out the last drops. Hiro winced. "That's a little sensitive, you know."
He pulled his hand away. Hiro wiped himself off the best he could with toilet paper before he tucked himself back in and straightened his coat around him. A sheen of sweat on his forehead and Arashi's forehead, and their necks-- their lips--
Hiro didn't know what to think.
Arashi had taken his cock out and was jerking off, his eyes closed, his back to Hiro. Hiro's words were all a jumble in his head, and he couldn't say anything anyways, because the next thing he knew Arashi was flushing the toilet and all the evidence away.
"I could have--" Hiro gestured, and realized how absurd his offer was, after what he had said, what they had both said.
"No." Arashi zipped himself up as well, ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it. The side of his neck was red, and he flipped up his collar as if it was nothing. "That was your Christmas gift."
Hiro didn't know whether to laugh or to hit him. "What the fuck?"
"I told you." Arashi said, unlocking the stall door, "a tie was too generic."
o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Hiro had come back into Dior ten minutes after Arashi. Miwako and Yukari were still glassy-eyed over perfume and glass beads, so their absence had gone relatively unnoticed. Arashi was sitting on one of the plump leather couches, languid, liquid, alert. He glanced over at Hiro, gaze deliberate undressing him with a look.
Arashi smirked to himself when Hiro looked away.
Regret, abstain
From killing like Cain
No matter how much you care
Regret will always be there
Man's getting snowed under
The rain outside, you hear thunder,
You want to save him and you can't
You want to kiss him and you can't
Just let him go
Let it snow
No matter how much you care
Regret will always be there.
He sang that in his head. He put the lyrics to the melody and mentally scribbled down a bass chord progression. He fantasized about the music video. Maybe Yukari could refer him to somebody in the industry. All he had to do to the song was change the pronouns, make them gender-appropriate.
Hiro was a little flushed, his cheeks tinged pink, the tips of his ears red as he adamantly refused to look at Arashi. And it was fine. It was over. Tit for tat. This for that. An eye for an eye, a dick for a dick, a passion for a passion. Arashi had given in once, now Hiro had given in. It was even, it was equal. It was over.
It was clear now; there could have been something for them, a long time ago. But they were too late; they'd already made their decisions, the moment they they walked down the aisle, the moment they exchanged vows at the alter.
Whatever.
No matter how much you care—
Regret will always be there—
Just let him go—
Arashi kept looking at Hiro, and finally, the man came over and sat down. A little stiffly, a little awkwardly, but trying to act like nothing was wrong, that nothing was unnatural.
"Hey." Arashi said.
Hiro exhaled sharply, as if caught off-guard. "Yeah?"
Arashi leaned back on the leather, stretching. "I love you too."
Hiro looked at him out of the corner of his eye. They kept that gaze unbroken for a while, cautious, assessing, clandestine. They kept the words unspoken between them.
Hiro nodded, a tacit understanding.
It was over.
o o o o o o o o o o o o o