Chapter Text
When Kiyoomi was young, he read somewhere that all things are made of stardust. He didn’t understand how someone as mundane and unimportant as he could be made of something so wondrous. How something so finite could originate from something so infinite.
He used to catch fleeting glimpses of the cosmos between Tokyo’s high rises as he trudged home after school, forced to stay behind far later than the rest of his peers for one extracurricular or another. He would imagine floating through space. Weightless. Aching feet and budding migraine obsolete. Discovering things still left unseen. Immersing himself in a place he had never been and could never possibly go. How exciting would that have been? A timeline in which he became an astronaut, a chemist, or an artist, instead of a paper pusher at his father’s agency. The timeline in which he pursued the life he always dreamed of, or quite literally anything else.
None of that matters now of course. Nothing does.
The day the world ended, Kiyoomi showers and gets dressed in his usual office attire. He avoids listening to NPR. He choses a gray tie. He makes a chalky protein shake and checks his emails. Most mornings Kiyoomi wakes up to an inbox full of requests and emergencies from incompetent colleagues, but today his mailbox is a digital wasteland.
As of late, Kiyoomi has gone out of his way to avoid the news as he feels no need for hysterics. For his whole life, headlines claimed that the world was going to end, yet it never did. The big earthquake, Yellowstone’s eruption, climate change, stock market crashes. Or worst of all: losing important clients unexpectedly. It’s all the same. Life persists in one way or another, no matter how devastating the circ*mstances may be. Humanity is a romanticized blip that will one day fade. It’s a simple truth that everyone knows but never confronts. Kiyoomi found peace long ago with the fact that humanity’s end will open the evolutionary door for other fascinating, less destructive life forms to fill.
Kiyoomi startles when his neighbor screams muffled obscenities. The sound reverberates through the wall they begrudgingly share, causing the picture frames full of staged family gatherings and soulless abstract art to rattle. He rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his shake. Since that first fateful night they shared a wall, his neighbor had an endless rotation of new lovers, explosive arguments, shattered plates, and heartbreaks. All of which seems like far too much hassle. For Kiyoomi isn’t one to willingly commit to that specific brand of misery.
The shouting continues as is typical. The startling intensity however, is not. As is the early hour in which it begins.
For whatever obnoxious reason, his neighbor relishes making Kiyoomi’s life just a little bit worse. When all else fails, he resorts to making as much noise as physically possible right as Kiyoomi lays down for bed. After three years of living next door to each other, a reasonable person would let go of a senseless grudge. But then again, not everyone was as “famous” and “influential” as the Miya Atsumu.
Perhaps a cigarette would take the edge off.
Black coffee spills over the side of his mug when a sound similar to a wall being punched through forces a decision. Desperate times call for earthly pleasures.
Cigarette held loosely between his lips, Kiyoomi slides open the small living room window and climbs through it.
According to the building manager, fire escapes are not to be used as a patio, or a recreation space, or for escaping fires. Kiyoomi might attribute it to the quiet rebellious spirit locked inside him, pushed down by years of doing what he is told. He could point to the fact that his life is rigid and structured in every way that somewhat matters. Perhaps he does it based purely on principle. Either way, settling in and dangling his legs over a rusted metal fire escape is an allotted luxury as long as he doesn’t get caught. And what a feeling that is, that tiny rush of adrenaline he gets from defying a single, simple, unimportant rule that has no impact on anything whatsoever.
He lights up and takes a deep drag. Smoke tinges his throat and lingers in his lungs like a sip of hot tea on a winter morning, even in the summer heat. It’s funny how perspectives change while living somewhere so gray and inexpressive like Seattle. This is nothing in comparison to the thick, humid summer air back home.
From here, he can almost drown out the fight that continues to rage on next door.
The streets below are quiet, not yet bustling with commuters and blaring horns. Supportive metal beams are still damp with morning dew. Kiyoomi checks his watch and considers putting the cigarette out before finishing. The air is heavy with uncertainty and foreboding, and the longer Kiyoomi sits with it, the more hostile it becomes. However, if he leaves now, he could cut his commute in half.
Embers sizzle against cool metal where he stubs the cigarette out.
Before he opens up his window and leaves for another stress inducing yet uneventful day, he pauses, and considers listening to the pertinent gut feeling telling him that something is undeniably wrong. A nauseating sense of dread follows the warm burn down his esophagus, into his stomach, and makes a home there.
Monitoring his breaths, he goes through the steps a therapist taught him long ago. Anxiety is a vicious companion.
First, identify the emotion. Panic, obviously.
Second, prevent the spiral before it begins. He examines his surroundings, identifying landmarks that remind him where he is. A street sign. The green edge of a local park. A wisp of smoke far in the distance. Flakes of aging paint under his fingernails and the clicking of his jaw. A dog barks somewhere. The sweet stench of tobacco. Sharp copper pooling on his tongue from where he absentmindedly chews on his lip.
Third, remember to breathe. Eyes closed, he inhales and exhales slowly, breaths still shaky, but gradually improving.
Against his better judgment, Kiyoomi improvises a fourth step. He sits back and lights another cigarette.
When Kiyoomi is ready to leave, he pauses at the front door. Something incessantly picks at the curious part of his brain that overrides cogent thought.
Palms sweaty, his bag drops to the ground with a solid thud. Shaky hands turn on the tv.
A woman sobs on the first news channel he flicks to. Her foundation is carved up with tear tracks, under eyes black and smudged from where she rubbed her makeup away with the back of her hand. The man beside her reads robotically off the teleprompter. Expression distant and vacant eyes tinged with red. Papers are scattered across the desk unceremoniously.
“The last mission to redirect the 70 mile wide asteroid known as ‘Matilda’ has failed. On Tuesday night, NASA lost contact with the humanity’s last hope. All astronauts and scientists aboard are presumed dead. The asteroid is set to collide with earth in exactly three weeks time. Scientists have determined that the collision will be catastrophic, resulting in the complete destruction of all life on Earth…”
The woman sobs louder.
Anticipation is often worse than the event itself. The lead up to a big exam. The moment before a roller coaster drops. The afternoon before the breakup dinner. Oftentimes, it feels better once it’s done with; when the mystery finally dies. Kiyoomi always had the unfortunate habit of accepting the reality of things. Fortunately, this seems to be no different. Dread leaves his body; the only evidence of any stress at all is the bitter taste on his tongue and the smoke lingering in the seams of his clothes.
His hands stop trembling. The world stops turning. Kiyoomi feels nothing at all.
He paces back to the front door. He picks up his bag. The lock clicks decidedly behind him while distraught newscasters bicker in an empty room.
Kiyoomi makes it to work in exactly 13 minutes.
Empty spaces surround him when he pulls into his assigned spot. His footsteps echo through the marble office foyer. Absent are the sounds of clicking heels, bluetooth headset conversations, and scornful managers.
f*cking quitters. Kiyoomi already dedicated his entire adult life to this damn company, so what’s the harm in holding out for a little while longer? It’s not like he has anything else to occupy his time.
Elevator doors ding then clunk open, the right side stuttering slightly. Maintenance promised to fix it for the last several months but never got around to it. There isn’t a point to fixing it now since it will be nothing but rubble soon. Perhaps if you put something off for long enough, it’ll go away on its own.
Kiyoomi steps out of the elevator and heads to his office. The procession of empty room after empty room reminds Kiyoomi of unfilled aquarium tanks; each one belonging to a person deemed more important than the last.
Squeaky office chair wheels shift as Kiyoomi takes a seat behind his desk. He unlocks his computer. He stands up and makes his way to the kitchen to make himself another cup of coffee. He clicks the pod into place, the bittersweet aroma floating through the usually bustling space.
Automatically, he opens and closes the refrigerator door, unsure why he expects it to be different than it was the day before. With one last accusatory glance around the break room, he heads back to his office and closes the door behind him.
Excel sheets, reports, and client decks are laid out before him. He pulls data, runs a surface level analysis of performance, enters the data into the client reports, then repeats the process until his fingers cramp and forearms ache. Copy, paste. Copy, paste. Copy, paste.
Wrists clicking uncomfortably, he stretches them in the way that used to freak his siblings out. When his mother caught him bending his fingers solidly back against his forearm, she playfully smacked him on the back of the head. She often told him that stretching his ligaments like that would cause early arthritis. But Kiyoomi is 26 now, and if the arthritis still hasn’t taken hold, it probably won't present itself in the next three weeks.
Once the client reports are sent out, Kiyoomi leans back in his chair. He rechecks his emails, half expecting to see a request, or an early dismissal from work, but his empty mailbox taunts him instead.
Habitually, he peaks between his computer monitors before changing the song in his iPod. Glass walls are as much about seeing out as they are about his managers peering in. They became merciless after they learned who Kiyoomi’s father was. More often than not, Kiyoomi pretended that he didn’t mind being a human punching bag and made a point to rise to the occasion, desperate to prove them all wrong.To prove that he is more than just the youngest son of the CEO.
The unofficial office rules are as follows: Personal calls are not prohibited. Bathroom breaks must be five minutes or less. Never let your Slack icon turn yellow. Purposefully use vague language to fuel distrust and complicate already unequal power dynamics. Double-edged partnerships are highly encouraged. Rest easy knowing that your mental health is waning due to the Pavlovian result of working in a replica of Foucault’s prison, toped with a fresh coat of eggshell paint and a gaudy collection of artificial house plants caked in dust.
On Kiyoomi’s first day, he scrubbed those damn plastic plants until his back ached. His new coworkers mocked him for over a week until they became bored with Kiyoomi’s...unconventional disposition.
Before long, an hour passes. Another follows without contact from anyone at all.
When Kiyoomi decides that he is ready for another cup of coffee, he pauses the podcast playing in his earbuds. Muffled voices continue on.
Kiyoomi hesitantly peaks through the blinds. A man stumbles on a street corner, throwing things and smashing anything within a 15-foot radius, crying out to a universe which has unquestionably abandoned him.
After one last look around the office, Kiyoomi decides to leave early for the first time in his entire life. Self preservation winning over his stupid pride. If he has to sit any longer with only his thoughts to keep him company, might start smashing things too.
Because what are they going to do? Fire him?
Coat pulled on and bag in hand, Kiyoomi takes another look out the window. It is better to know where the man is now, to minimize the chance of bumping into him on his journey from the front door to his car.
Several more people joined in the destruction since Kiyoomi last checked. A woman beats down the window of a makeup store with a baseball bat to take whatever she can while consequences no longer keep the peace. Another leaves a clothing boutique with arms full of expensive-looking things. As fascinating as it is to watch the decline of societal order in real time, Kiyoomi decides that he doesn’t want to find out what happens next. Working from home is always a possibility.
Glass crunches under polished shoes as quietly he makes his way to the office door. The last thing he needs is to draw attention from a crowd growing rowdier by the second. Crashing sounds and whoops and screams echo through the building as the commotion outside builds momentum.
Creeping down the hall, Kiyoomi looks from side to side on high alert. He decides to take the stairs, as the elevator might draw unwanted attention.
They’re just people, not zombies, Kiyoomi thinks. It’s not like they’re monsters waiting for you in the dark. Despite his logical inner dialog, Kiyoomi stops abruptly when he hears a loud thump followed by the screech of table legs skirting across the floor. From Kiyoomi's lived experience, there is nothing more terrifying than a person with nothing left to lose.
Kiyoomi has three options. One, he can slink back up to his office, cower beneath his desk, and wait for it all to go away. Two, he can keep moving forward and make a run for it to his car. Or option three, fight like hell. Of course, Kiyoomi had never physically fought anyone before, but he figures that now is as good of a time as any to start.
One thing is for certain: he sure as hell isn’t going to live and die in this office. So he keeps moving forward, willing his oxfords not to squeak across the shining floor.
Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the front door enters his line of sight. Maybe 20 feet away at most. His heart pounds in his ears. His hands shake. Waves of shattered glass and distress from around the corner grow in intensity.
While not exactly as built as he used to be before he settled for office work, Kiyoomi still goes to the gym three times a week and carries a decent amount of lean muscle mass. Still, his large frame is no match for a knife or gun in the hands of an unhinged stranger.
He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, continuously shuffling his feet. Before long, he is only a few feet away from the door. He’s done it. He’s survived.
Ten feet. Five feet. The revolving door is almost within arms reach when he hears a noise to his right. His blood runs cold. Someone had seen him, entered his building, and laid in wait until his back was turned in order to kill him, or possibly worse. Kiyoomi takes one deep breath, then two, then whips around as fast as possible. While ignorant in the art of hand to hand combat besides the two weeks of karate classes he took as a child, perhaps the element of surprise would give him the upper hand.
“For f*cks sake!” he exclaims, dropping his raised fists and releasing the tension in his shoulders.
The secretary is bent over the copy machine, skirt pulled up. One of Kiyoomi’s coworkers has pants around his knees, hand covering her mouth. What were their names again?
The man jumps in surprise at Kiyoomi’s outburst. Kiyoomi half expects him to pull his pants up and stammer an apology, but he barely misses a beat.
“Sakusa,” he says far too normally, nodding politely. The woman underneath him blushes and waves. Soon enough, they jump back into their blissful exhibitionist fantasy, impartial to the world on fire around them.
Kiyoomi considers finding a decently sized rock and incurring a bout of self induced amnesia. Maybe then he could forget the obscene display of affection between his co-workers and all the evenings he offered to stay late, convincing himself that the extra hours and dark circles would all be worth it one day.
He wipes off the bottom of his shoes and sprays his hands with entirely too much hand sanitizer before getting into his car. He lets his head fall forward into the steering wheel, causing the horn to blare in one continuous note, followed up by several short bursts as he bumps his forehead into the wheel several more times. Yes, amnesia would definitely do the trick.
Familiar shouting reverberates down the hallway. Shortly after turning the corner, Kiyoomi ducks, narrowly avoiding what used to be a coffee mug shattering against the wall where his head had been seconds before.
Miya is shirtless, standing menacingly in the doorway of his unit, brandishing another item ready to launch toward anything that even so much as breathes in his direction. Jeans hand dangerously low on his hips, showing off a body that belongs on magazine covers.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.
Miya’s newest boy toy is fully dressed, backpack thrown over his shoulder, demeanor calm even in the face of Miya’s wrath. “I wish you the best, Atsumu.” he says, posture straight, but clearly distraught. He dodges instinctively when he turns his back to leave, anticipating the clink of ceramic that follows him down the hall.
“Get back here!” Miya shouts down the hallway. When ‘boy toy’ doesn’t turn back, he continues his tirade, spitting a myriad of other obscenities after him. “Asshole,” he utters under his breath when he turns the corner out of sight for good.
‘Boy toy’ gives Kiyoomi a sympathetic look when he brushes past with a muttered “good luck.”
Kiyoomi nudges a piece of ceramic with his foot and approaches his front door.
He’s known Miya for long enough to know when he’s looking for a fight. The meathead athlete in him encourages physicality instead of regulating his emotions like a normal human being.But somehow, after all this time, Kiyoomi still doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. “Charming as ever I see,” he says, reaching around in his bag for his keys.
Miya raises an eyebrow. “No way,” he laughs. “You went to work? Seriously?” He grabs the top of the doorframe, flexing his impressive biceps. Not that Kiyoomi was looking. “Poor Omi-Omi has nothing better to do? How unfortunate,” Miya continues, voice sickly sweet and condescending in no way indicating that he thinks Kiyoomi’s situation is unfortunate at all. In fact, Miya seems to be more than happy to be the thing that shoves Kiyoomi over the edge.
Growing up, Kiyoomi was taught to always be the bigger person. However, due to recent events, he can’t find it in him to give a sh*t.
“Classy,” Kiyoomi says as he fits the key into the lock. Jerking his chin down the hall to where ‘boy toy’ made his escape, he says, “How long did that one last. A couple days. A week?”
Miya’s demeanor switches in an instant. Clenching jaws and trembling fists replace that sh*t eating smirk that makes Kiyoomi’s stomach ache.
“I mean, they tend to figure it out eventually, but this has to be a new record. You have a gift. Truly.”
Fidgeting nervously, Kiyoomi prepares to throw the door of his condo open in case the scenario in which Miya beats the absolute sh*t out of him becomes reality.
At the end of it all, Kiyoomi wishes that Miya would have just punched him. On some barbaric, animalistic level, people inflict pain onto others because it feels good. The physical release of energy. The satisfying thwack of a well-placed punch or kick. Unsatisfying and carnivorous, words can hardly result in such satisfaction. On top of that, ideally, Miya would know when to stop literally kicking him while he is down. This fact proves to be untrue when an onslaught of some of the most vile, unrelenting things escapes his lips.
But Kiyoomi gives back just as good as he gets. Words follow in suit behind his human punching bag, seeking the cruelest things imaginable.
Kiyoomi had never thought of himself as cruel. Blunt, sure. Brutally honest, absolutely. An asshole when push comes to shove? A no truer observation. But Kiyoomi wants Miya to hurt. He wants his stomach to ache and heart to wrench just as much as Kiyoomi’s does, even if it’s not entirely in a bad way.
A multitude of things lead to this moment. Years of bickering and passive aggressive comments and general distain for the other. Breaking points occur at the end of the world.
On that first night, his new neighbor brought a girl over and f*cked her hard enough to make the television mounted on the wall shake. She moaned so loudly that Kiyoomi assumed she must be faking it. It’s impossible for anyone to make that much…noise. In a vain attempt to establish diplomacy as well as sensible boundaries, Kiyoomi put on his slippers and gently knocked, still in his pajamas.
The man who would prove to be the future bane of Kiyoomi’s existence opened the door shirtless. Forehead shimmering with sweat, erection obvious in his sweatpants. Neck and torso littered with purple bruises. He looked Kiyoomi up and down with the look of a man with inflated self importance.
“Yes?” he asked with a lazy smile as fake as his hair color.
“I have work tomorrow and I would appreciate it if you kept the noise down,” Kiyoomi said, voice steady. Firm. “I live next door.”
Right then and there, as his bright smile shifted from lazy to calculated, Kiyoomi knew he was in trouble.
Now they stand. Two hurt people dead set on inflicting damage on each other as a distraction from how much they hurt themselves.
It’s not Miya’s fault that Kiyoomi spent his life dedicated to a job that never gave a sh*t about him. To a father who saw him as an asset rather than a son. As is it’s not Kiyoomi’s fault that Miya’s partner walked out on him at exactly the worst time possible. Or the best time, depending on how you look at it. Just like it’s nobody’s fault that they are all going to die whether they like it or not.
“AT LEAST I HAVE PEOPLE WHO LOVE ME!” Miya screams.
“Sure, they love you,” Kiyoomi retorts, oozing sarcasm. “But nobody likes you. How could they? You’re insufferable.”
Miya glares. Got you.
“It’s who you are, Miya. Lonely and shallow and vain and so, so sad.” Kiyoomi digs the knife in well past the point of no return. “I almost feel bad for you.”
Because nothing in this world is worse than being pitied.
It may just be the longest few minutes of his life, but like all things, it passes. Sore throats and steaming red faces. Welling tears threatening to form.
Before Miya has the opportunity to respond, Kiyoomi slams the door behind him. Back to the door, he heaves like he finished a marathon instead of arguing with the most annoying man alive. He breathes in slowly, then exhales until his lungs are completely empty, repeating until the heartbeat in his ears quiets down and the room stops spinning. It’s embarrassing, the way that Miya can get under his skin. Miya has a special gift of pointing out exactly what Kiyoomi is self conscious about andusing that as his ultimate weapon. It’s no wonder why he always has a lover, but he can never make them stay.
He starts the daily tidying process with the oven already preheating and the meal prepped vegetables he makes on the weekendsalready sitting on the counter.
Yellow rubber gloves feel dry and ashy against his long fingers as he scrubs the sink, the countertops, and wipes down the fridge. When the oven beeps, he transfers his dinner to a sheet tray and sticks it in robotically. Habits implemented since he was a child. He can relax when everything he needs to do is done. The only issue with this particular line of thinking is that the work is never truly done.
A glob of bubbly soap drips down one of his gloves and encases his fingers in an uncomfortable film, but 20 minutes later, the kitchen is clean and dinner is ready.
At the table, he looks upon the meal he technically prepared almost five days ago. It’s a basic mix of overcooked chicken, vegetables, and rice, but it will do as Kiyoomi doesn’t cook. An essential skill put off in the name of productivity. Because who has the time to cook something new every single day when there are pivot tables to analyze.
After dinner, he snaps the gloves back on and tidies the living room. Then the bedroom. His fingers are wrinkled and his hands are red and dry from all the scrubbing when he is finished with the bathroom. Bleach drafts through the living room.
Sweat drips from his brow by the time he is done vacuuming. Guessing by the amount of dirt in the cartridge, the floors are due to be mopped soon. He considers sucking it up and bringing the mop out of the storage closet when he yawns.
Scalding water cascades down his back during his evening shower, failing to relax his bunched up muscles. Living at that desk incrementally destroys his posture.
He steps out and wraps a towel around his waist. He washes his face for a full minute. He brushes his teeth for a full two. He applies the expensive moisturizer that some girl at the beauty store recommended to him several years ago. He changes into his sleep clothes, puts on a new pillowcase, and tries to rest.
Crickets chirp. If he listens closely and lets his sleepy imagination go rogue, they could be mistaken for cicadas. In the corner, a fan squeaks on its hinges. Kiyoomi feels far too normal.
Like every natural disaster or international tragedy, time moves forward, whether Kiyoomi decides to come along for the ride or not. Kiyoomi doesn’t sleep well, but damn is he good at dwelling.
Evenings frequently end with loud make up sex after one of Miya’s spats, but last night was silent. Perhaps the end of the world subsequently knocked sense into anyone willing to share a bed with him.
Kiyoomi gets out of bed. He washes his face for a full minute and brushes his teeth for two. He gets dressed. He adds too much protein to his shake, making it even chalkier than the day before.
Ceramic shards clink under his feet when he leaves, briefcase in hand.
A considerable amount of garbage litter the empty streets. Waste disposal has already stopped functioning.
On the way to work, Kiyoomi stops to fill up his car. His card still works and the station has power. Before returning to the car, he heads to the convenience store for a new pack of cigarettes. With a gloved hand, he pulls on the door handle. A “Help Wanted” sign clinks against the glass.
A ding plays throughout the cramped store as he enters. When nobody comes to greet him, he taps the bell on the counter. Still nothing.
Looking down, Kiyoomi spots a piece of paper taped to the counter. In hurried scrawl, it reads:
WE QUIT. Take whatever. Death awaits.
Without thinking twice, Kiyoomi slides over the counter. He grabs as many packs of cigarettes as he can carry. Does it count as shoplifting if he was technically given permission?
Instead of getting out of his parked car when he arrives, Kiyoomi sits and stares at the concrete wall of the garage. A crack formed that ran four feet across. The indent is deep, like a paper cut caused by a butter knife. Tiny specks of jagged rock peaks through. Moss and what looks like a sprout of ivy grows from it. Perhaps it wasn’t so new after all, considering life started to form in the most unlikely of places.
15 minutes pass, then 20. His fascination with the parking lot crack quickly fades and is replaced with an overwhelming sense of impassivity. Kiyoomi doesn’t believe in the supernatural, or the afterlife, or astral projection. Still, Kiyoomi’s ghost looks down upon his body and wonders aloud, “What am I doing?”
In his trance, a montage plays of all the times he told Motoya that he was busy. Too busy to go camping. To go to that music festival. To see a rerun of his favorite film in theaters. To go hiking in Hokkaido even though he loathes anything to do with the outdoors.
Times he missed graduations, dance recitals, and brunch dates just to drag his feet back to his condo exhausted; carrying purple bags under his eyes after barely surviving 70 hour work weeks. Because of course he said yes to the things that would make life difficult now, but easier once he made enough money.
It was always about money wasn’t it?
His inbox is still empty. The convenience store was closed. Streets are littered with trash. Kiyoomi will die in two weeks and six days.
Pulling the shifter into reverse harder than necessary, Kiyoomi whips around the corner and exits the parking garage.
Windows rolled down, he rips his tie loose. Music blasts at a deafening volume while the breeze messes up his curls. Meandering, he explores the streets of Seattle, traversing steep hills and weaving through pothole laced neighborhoods.
Many stores are boarded up and most restaurants are closed. The once bustling city is a ghost town with the occasional pedestrian.
Among the ruins of classic local businesses and chain stores alike, a single open sign illuminates the tiny window of what looks to be a restaurant. He parks up the street.
Smells of frying food and simmering noodles waft through the front door held open by a cinder block. Kiyoomi pushes a red curtain aside and enters the small restaurant.
To his surprise, the place is packed with locals. A middle-aged man and a younger fellow who Kiyoomi assumes to be his son, cooks while a plump woman busses tables and takes orders. It’s one of those hole-in-the-wall type of places that is family-owned and well-loved.
“Seat yourself!” The man hollers over chattering customers. So Kiyoomi does, settling in at the counter facing the humble kitchen. At his height, he watches them cook with careful hands.
The son hand-folds gyoza with quick precision while his father sprinkles chopped green onions over a bowl of ramen that looks like something out of a Studio Ghibli movie.
“What would you like?” The woman asks as she approaches. Her apron is dirty and her smile is warm.
“What do you recommend?” Kiyoomi replies.
“Everything,” she says. “Except for the takoyaki. Don’t tell my husband, he already knows but doesn’t want to hear it.” She winks playfully.
“I would like your favorites,” Kiyoomi says.
She gives him a look but nods nonetheless. Kiyoomi can’t hear what she shouts to her husband over the laughter that erupts from the table behind him.
When his order is ready, the woman turns the corner with a tray full of dishes. Fried gyoza, tonkatsu on rice, ramen in miso broth loaded with bean sprouts and thick slabs of pork overflows his section.
Shrugging, she gives him a knowing look, as if to say you asked.
Rich umami and salt bursts on Kiyoomi’s tongue, the flavors perfectly balanced, broken up by the sharp tang of green onion. The vegetables are cold and crunchy and the gyoza are far too hot. Kiyoomi savors each bite.
Stomach full and arms loaded with take out boxes, Kiyoomi attempts to hand the woman cash. She just shakes her head and laughs. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” Kiyoomi doesn’t have an answer.
On the way home, he passes a small park that overlooks the sea. It’s crowded with people, who throw frisbees and walk dogs and stroll hand in hand with loved ones.
Kiyoomi strolls along the path, taking in the stark outlines of distant mountains, and watches seaplanes skip across the water. A child falls off a paddle board. A group of kayakers wave towards shore as they pass. Hesitantly, Kiyoomi waves back.
Polished shoes slip on loose pebbles as Kiyoomi descends the rocky slope to the shoreline. The sky begins to darken. Waves push and pull. A soft breeze tickles the hair at the back of his neck. He sits down on a large rock to watch where lit-up ferries used to coast through the water, uncaring that rough sand could scuff his slacks.
Children laugh. Parents scold. Babies cry.
Kiyoomi closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He can’t help but wonder if the sea looks the same back home.
Every Thursday, Kiyoomi has dinner at Wakatoshi’s.
It’s been a tradition since university. Wakatoshi was a great roommate. Quiet, clean, and thoughtful. Straight forward but kind. A perfect counterbalance to Kiyoomi’s inconsiderate bluntness. They would hold up in their room to study, sipping cheap wine until they went to bed at a reasonable hour, sleepy and buzzed.
After university, Wakatoshi took a tech job in Seattle. Pressured by his father to transfer to an office in the States, Kiyoomi chose Seattle without hesitation. At least here, thousands of miles away from the only home he ever knew, he had at least one friend. Gratefully, the tradition carried on. Despite the stress from work, Kiyoomi has something to consistently look forward to.
Some things never change. Even now, Kiyoomi limits himself to one glass, maybe two if things are especially unpleasant at the office. Wakatoshi’s husband Tendou shows off what he learned in culinary school, and the three of them eat dinner in peace.
Kiyoomi pulls up to the familiar house at the usual time. On the way, Kiyoomi thought his end might come early from the way people drove. Traffic are suggestions. Stop signs might as well be invisible. One way roads are now a dangerous game of chicken.
Frowning, he scans the street for a place to park. Cars are parked on the sidewalk, on the median, blocking a fire hydrant. Tire tracks etched into the sheet of what used to be the uniform green of Wakatoshi’s lawn.
Wine bottle in hand, Kiyoomi knocks on the front door, expecting pleasantries and polite small talk before delving into conversations about books they’ve read, documentaries they watched, work, or politics.
Instead, Tendou throws the door open so hard that the knob indents the hallway wall.
“Kiyoooomi,” Tendou slurs, resting his lanky body against the door frame. “Good to see you buddy! Come in, come in!” He broadly gestures to the budding chaos taking place in their home.
Tentatively, Kiyoomi steps inside.
The living room is full of strangers, full glasses in hand, standing in cliches, and chatting about everything and anything but the things Kiyoomi are familiar with.
Kiyoomi’s heart rate increases as he navigates to the kitchen in search of Wakatoshi as Tendou quickly abandoned him for more exciting ventures, hopping from group to group. For better or for worse, Kiyoomi is a creature of habit. Right now, it’s definitely for worse.
He takes a wine glass out of the cabinet and pours himself a glass of the merlot he brought with him. Bottles litter the kitchen island, some with the cork still in place, some open to air out. After seeing a bottle with a clear ring of pink lipstick around the rim, he shudders and decides to stick with the one he brought.
Dry but not too dry, the wine is bitter with notes of cherry after it aerates. Once the first glass is gone, he pours another.
A well dressed man talks with Wakatoshi in the corner of the living room. Already halfway through his third with cheeks tinged pink, Kiyoomi approaches.
“Kiyoomi.” Wakatoshi nods. “I apologize, this get-together was rather impromptu.”
“Yes. It’s quite…unexpected.”
Wakatoshi gestures to about the tenth stranger Kiyoomi encountered that evening. “This is Daishou, one of my colleagues.”
It’s not worth the effort to get to know another person. Not here, especially not now. Out of politeness, Kiyoomi nods in acknowledgement.
Daishou examines him, serpentine, like the looks he received when a blind date convinced him to go to his first and only gay club. He despised the loud music, undulating sweetly bodies, and the objectifying attention that comes with it. Kiyoomi doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll.
He isn’t blind to the looks strangers occasionally give him. Girls at home walking in packs would giggle and not so subtly nudge each other when he passed. There is no shortage of men on dating apps that want to “get to know him better.” However, there is a shortage of people who are willing to handle Kiyoomi once they do.
Dating men in the States is much easier than in Japan. Similarly to home, people in Seattle are generally reserved and extremely passive aggressive at times. And for someone like Kiyoomi who means every word he says, this fact makes people difficult to read. Combine that with cultural differences and the blatant lack of hospitality made Kiyoomi swear off dating altogether.
So Kiyoomi doesn’t see the point of anything other than the occasional hookup now and again.
This man however, refuses to participate in the anticipated song and dance.
Daishou holds out his hand, “It’s nice to meet you, Kiyoomi.”
Kiyoomi stares at it. Going to Wakatoshi’s house and expecting to spend time with only Wakatoshi, he didn’t bother with gloves. “Sakusa,” he responds coldly.
Ignoring his body language, Daishou refuses to leave Kiyoomi’s personal space. “Sakusa?”he asks, feigning confusion.
“Yes. That is what you may call me. I’m also fine with nothing.”
He chuckles, putting up his hands defensively. “Whatever you say ‘nothing’,’” he says, like his joke was funny or original.
Refusing to entertain further conversation, Kiyoomi scowls and goes back to the kitchen to refill his glass. Daishou’s hungry gaze tracks him until he is out of range.
After an uncomfortable amount of time passes, Kiyoomi finds himself at the dinner table situated between Wakatoshi and Daishou, who somehow convinced the woman sitting next to him to switch places.
“What are we going to do with the rest of our lives? Well, first we’re visiting my sister in the Tri-Cities. Then we’re going to Boise to visit Dave’s parents and rest of his family. There’s nothing quite like dying in Boise.” She laughs humorlessly. Her inattentive husband doesn’t catch on or purposefully ignores her. “And we’re going camping!” he adds, excitedly.
“Yes, and camping,” she repeats between clenched teeth.
Listening to the each person at the table makes Kiyoomi wish for the comet to come early. Throat warm and eyelids made of lead, he sways in his seat. He can’t help the inadvertent snort that follows the next person’s pledge to volunteer at their local animal shelter and go to church three times a week after a lifetime of only going on Easter and Christmas.
Daishou snickers next to him and Kiyoomi tries to scoot his chair slightly closer toward Wakatoshi. But the wine running through his system disconnects his brain from his body and he momentarily loses his balance, nearly falling out of his chair. Unfortunately for him, his tall frame prevents any sort of subtlety in his lapse of coordination.
A hand is placed on his lower back as he steadies himself. “Careful, Sakusa,” Daishou mutters in his ear, breath smelling of gin. “Good thing I was here to catch you.”
Kiyoomi flinches away from the touch, searing hot through his button down. “I think I prefer ‘nothing’,” he spits.
“What would it take for us to be on a first name basis?” Daishou asks, brushing a foot up Kiyoomi’s calf, slowly running up to the crevice at the back of his knee.
Kiyoomi feels sick.
Conversation continues on while Kiyoomi is plunged into cold water. It fills his ears, his lungs.
The unwanted hand rests on his knee. Sickly breath tickles closer. “I could get on my knees for you. I bet you’d like that. I’m sure that you’re a little freak.” He slides his hand up his thigh. “Or maybe you’d like to do that for me?” he hums.
“Get your f*cking hands off me,” Kiyoomi hisses, pushing him away; gut twisting.
“Daishou?” Wakatoshi prompts.
Sitting up straight and dabbing his face with a napkin like nothing happened, Daishou says, “I’m going to take my nephew on a sailing trip for his birthday. I’m visiting my mother, of course. And I’m going to finally go skiing. I’ve somehow lived here my whole life and I’ve never been.” For some reason the table laughs. “Maybe I’ll spend time with someone special. Who knows?” he continues, glancing at Kiyoomi. “What about you Kiyoomi? Any special plans?”
“Just the regularly scheduled orgies,” Kiyoomi deadpans. “But who knows?”
The longest dinner of his life finally ends and the late night festivities begin. Kiyoomi once again finds himself standing in a corner, witnessing the collective outburst of uncivilized human behavior. People dance on the beautiful antique carpet that Kiyoomi helped Wakatoshi pick out, which now adorns a red stain that he hopes is wine. A petite woman cuts lines of white powder with a credit card while some take turns inhaling it with a rolled up dollar bill. The bickering couple convinces another pair to take shots with them. They throw them back and if Kiyoomi isn’t mistaken, the man puts a hand in the other woman’s back pocket.
Kiyoomi is over it. He scans the room for his friends to thank them for the meal and say goodbye for what might possibly be for the last time.
Wandering, Kiyoomi looks at art pieces from around the Pacific Northwest, knickknacks, trinkets, and souvenirs from their honeymoon. Wakatoshi and Tendou’s wedding photos in which Kiyoomi was his best man. The pair with an older couple who are the spitting image of Tendou. None containing Wakatoshi’s parents.
In a frame holding a collage of photos, he finds one of them in university. They’re standing in front of their old dorm, a red brick building that smelled of mildew. Kiyoomi beams at the camera, arm around his friend’s neck.
Carefully, he takes the frame off the wall, pops the photo out, and puts the frame back. He gingerly places the photo in his pocket. Alcohol makes his brain feel funny feelings and do funny things.
He continues to stroll through the museum of his friend’s lives until he finally locates the friends in question.
The goodbye on Kiyoomi’s lips falls when he finds them, the door to their bedroom open. Tendou straddles Wakatoshi’s lap, kissing him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Waskatoshi’s hands are firmly on his sides and he kisses back with just as much enthusiasm. It’s a car wreck Kiyoomi can’t stop watching. Reminiscent of seeing a teacher outside of school. He never thought of his friends as sexual beings, yet here they are for anyone to walk in as they increasingly get hotter and heavier.
Realizing that he’s staring, he locks himself in the closest bathroom.
Sterile, calm, quiet. Music blares faintly downstairs but he can no longer hear mouths clicking or sharp intakes of breath. Despite barely being able to fit, Kiyoomi climbs into the bathtub. If he could trust anyone to keep their space clean, it would be Wakatoshi.
His head hits the cool tiles and he breathes in. It smells like sandalwood.
The truth of the matter is that Kiyoomi can’t get the image of them out of his head. He burns hot. Not out of the tourism of it all, but in response to an uncomfortable pang of jealousy. The understanding that on the last day, they will wake up and brush their teeth. Tendou will make breakfast, something simple but wonderful. They will do the dishes together before going on a hike or kayaking or one of the other outdoorsy activities that Wakatoshi enjoys. They will come home to rest before cooking dinner together. Tendou will beg Wakatoshi to sit through one of those trashy reality shows he likes and Wakatoshi will say yes because he can’t ever say no to his husband, despite the often whimsical nature of his requests. When the end finally comes for them all, they will brush their teeth for the last time, climb into bed in the home that they own, within the life they built together, and hold each other knowing that they couldn’t have loved each other any better.
If only Kiyoomi hasn’t spent his whole life running.
“Kiyoomi?” Someone gently knocks on the door.
Kiyoomi ignores it, hoping the problem would solve itself on its own.
Another knock. This time a little more urgent. “Kiyoomi? Are you in there?”
“No,” he says.
“Open the door.” Kiyoomi does.
Wakatoshi enters and locks the door behind him. “What are you doing?” he asks, taking in the absurd sight of a grown man curled in his bathtub.Non-judgmental.
“I don’t know.”
Watatoshi slides down the wall and takes a seat next to him. He doesn’t anything more. He doesn’t need to, simply sharing in Kiyoomi’s reckoning with quiet certainty.
“I hoped that it would be a regular Thursday night,” Kiyoomi admits. It’s not in his nature to impose or complain.
Wakatoshi hums in understanding.
Comfortable silence ensues. Despite it all, they are still the same people as they were before everything changed.
“What books have you read lately?” Wakatoshi eventually asks.
“Sapiens. It’s a good read if you’re interested in human evolution and history.”
“I recently finished Slaughterhouse 5. It was moving,” Wakatoshi says flatly. It was their shared goal to read the American classics.
“You dislike science fiction,” Kiyoomi states.
Wakatoshi shrugs. “I’m discovering that I like a great many things that I didn’t think I liked. However, I recently tried mushrooms again. I still dislike them.”
Kiyoomi smiles softly, shoulders relaxing. “I haven’t tried anything new in a while.”
“Last night, Tendou tried an original recipe. Unfortunately the grocery store had been picked through, so he was forced to improvise. He called it the “four horsem*n hash.”
“That sounds horrendous.”
“I supposed it was.” Wakatoshi breaks where his gaze was fixed on the painting above the toilet, and locks onto Kiyoomi. “Daishou likes you.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He found you physically attractive.”
“And I found him to be revolting.”
“You deserve to have some fun,” Wakatoshi says after a long pause.
Kiyoomi wants to say: It seems like a switch flipped, causing everyone to discard what they used to find important and start the search for the things that they think they want. I don’t know why, but for some reason I feel the same as I did last week. And the week before that.
Instead he says, “I don’t see the point in getting to know somebody new. It feels unnecessary.”
“Who says you have to get to know them? There’s more than one way to know someone.”
Kiyoomi scrunches his nose like he smelled something foul.
Noticing Kiyoomi’s discomfort, Wakatoshi moves the conversation along. “We will host a normal dinner next week.”
That’s not the point. Kiyoomi was seeking a sense of normalcy in a world that is actively falling apart around him. In some way, he might have thought that having a normal night would somehow disguise the fact that life will never return to normal. Yet, he snorts at the practical response that is representative of Wakatoshi in every way imaginable.
“Alright,” Kiyoomi says. “Next week is good.”
Kiyoomi fishes himself out of the bathtub. He stumbles a little as he steps out. Before he opens the bathroom door, he turns to face his friend, hand outstretched. Wakatoshi takes it firmly, clapping his arm fondly. Kiyoomi is grateful that Wakatoshi is a man of few words.
He attempts to rejoin the party, considering Wakatoshi’s words and his recommendation to have more fun. No matter how much he wants to socialize, his skin feels hot and all he wants to do is step outside. So he watches from the sidelines as people further descend into madness.
Not for the first time, he wishes that he could be like other people.
In university, he went to a party and got far too drunk. Somehow, through his connections, his father found out and threatened to cut him off if he disgraced the Sakusa family name ever again. While that was many years ago, Kiyoomi is still mindful of how he acts around strangers. No matter the population boom in recent years, Seattle’s corporate circle is much smaller than Tokyo’s and word travels fast.
After around 30 minutes or so of trying, he grabs an unopened bottle out of the wine cabinet, uncorks it, and sips straight from it. At this point he couldn’t care less about the flavor and the notes that may or may not be cherry. He just craves the light headed dizziness that clouds his thoughts.
Without a word to the others, he walks out the door and leaves his car behind. Besides, the sky is clear and the streets are empty. It’s a beautiful time for a walk.
The journey home is torturous and much longer than Kiyoomi anticipated. Either very late or very early, he stumbles home. In the doorway, he gives up on taking off his shoes when he realizes that he actually has to crouch down to untie them. He reaches for an unopened pack of cigarettes and places the half empty bottle of wine on the mahogany coffee table. He unlocks and slides the window open. Uncoordinated, he crawls through it.
Smoking while drunk introduced cigarettes into his life in the first place. Each tiny speck of the city lights below him represents a life that will no longer be. Although he will inevitably die alone, he wouldn’t go through it alone. Do others feel as just as normal about the whole ordeal as Kiyoomi does?
“Really shouldn’t smoke those. They’re gonna kill ya someday.”
Miya lurks in his periphery, resting his head in his hands out of his own window, back to wearing the self assured smirk Kiyoomi is so used to, speaking to him like their earlier altercation never occurred. Like they hadn’t screamed at each other less than 24 hours ago. His features are backlit by the soft light in his apartment. It makes his hair look a little better than piss yellow. Then again, it hadn’t really been that bad in a while.
He chokes back laughter despite himself, reluctant to admit that Miya actually had the wit to make him laugh. “You speak Japanese?”
“I hear ya on the phone sometimes. Yer a posh boy huh?”
“I’m from Tokyo.” Kiyoomi isn’t necessarily sure how the way he speaks is posh, but it’s clear that Miya is making an effort. His mother tongue feels foreign in his mouth. Somehow unpracticed after a lifetime of speaking it.
Miya takes that as encouragement to climb through his own window and join Kiyoomi on his makeshift balcony. “Can I?”
Kiyoomi finds himself nodding, and gestures to the spot beside him.
In Japanese, Miya’s accent had that classic Hyogo small town drawl, so different from the quick paced, Seattle-like way he speaks English. Kiyoomi hates that he finds it endearing.
As Miya settles in, he holds out the pack with a single cigarette poking out. An olive branch Miya refuses to take.
“Nah, not really my style.” He takes out the joint tucked away behind his ear.
“That’s not better,” Kiyoomi says.
“It’s nonaddictive.”
“So they say. Don’t they drug test athletes?”
“Aw, Omi remembers.”
“No,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “I saw your unfortunate face on the cover of The Times. They need to raise their standards.”
“Only you would tell someone that their face is ‘unfortunate,’” Miya smirks. “Lucky for you m’ plenty newsworthy. Nike certainly thinks so.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. Of course he had a Nike sponsorship. Why wouldn’t he? “That younger kid landed Adidas. What was his name?”
“Sweet Little Tobio couldn’t land Calvin Klein.”
“I didn’t see that one,” Kiyoomi lies.
“So you’ve seen the others? M’ flattered.”
Pretending that he didn’t hear him, Kiyoomi takes another drag.“Look Miya, I—”
“So, Omi-kun, what are you going to do with the rest of your life?” Miya interrupts, lighting the joint. A sharp stench twists through the air, clearly uninterested in any apology Kiyoomi plans on stumbling through. Perhaps it’s for the best.
Isn’t that the damn question.
“A little this, a little that,” Kiyoomi responds. “I’m going to open that bottle of brandy I was saving for a special occasion. Find G-d. Might even go camping.”
“You, camping?” Miya says, unconvinced. “I heard ya shriek when ya found fruit flies in yer trash. Ya once wiped off your shoes with Clorox wipes in the hallway. Who the hell actually does that?”
Kiyoomi sometimes forgets that the thin wall goes both ways.
“I’ve never seen fruit flies on the trail.”
“I betcha never set foot on a trail.”
“You don’t know that,” Kiyoomi says wryly. “What about you?”
“I just broke up with someone.”
“Right—”
Kiyoomi could point out that ‘boy toy,’ walked out on him, not the other way around. However, things were going fine and Kiyoomi could use a bit of fine right now.
“What do ya think that the—” Miya points to the sky and whistles, “will feel like? Cause I saw something like that in a movie once, with a meteor I mean. There was this flash of light and that was it.”
“A movie with people or dinosaurs?”
“Dinosaurs, duh. Much more interestin’.”
Kiyoomi lets out a muffled laugh.
“What?” Miya asks indignantly. “Life finds a way, that’s all m’ sayin’.”
Unable to hold it in, Kiyoomi doubles over to the side, clutching his stomach. Actual tears form at the corners of his eyes. Eventually he collects himself, sitting back upright and wiping the tears from his cheeks.
“Ya f*cker, I was tryin’ to be thoughtful!”
“You’re high,” Kiyoomi says, voice quivering. “And there’s no meteor in Jurassic Park.”
“Wanna try it?” Miya asks, teasing. Embers leave a trail of light and smoke as he waggles the joint in Kiyoomi’s face.
“No.”
“Come on, will there ever be a better time? Ya might even be able to stand my company for a while longer.”
On one hand, Miya is begrudgingly right. There will never be a better time. Hell, there won’t be another time. However, Kiyoomi had stuck to his moral code for 26 years. What better test of that than the end of the world. What’s another three weeks of existing the way he invariably has.
“Yer gonna die. You do know that right?”
“I’m aware.”
“Imagine bein’ committed to dying a loser. It’s like yer allergic to fun.”
“I don’t find mind altering substances fun,” Kiyoomi says, flicking the finished cigarette off the ledge and reaching for another.
“Yer f*ckin’ drunk.”
“You’re an indignant asshole.”
“That word is a little advanced for me. Can ya use it in a sentence?”
“Fine. I’ll do it if you shut up,” Kiyoomi sighs.
"No promises." That sh*t eating grin of Miya’s that comes out whenever he gets his way spreads across his face. He hands Kiyoomi the joint. “I’d warn ya, but m’ sure yer lungs are already full of tar.”
After the first inhale, Kiyoomi waits for something to happen. In movies, people smoke then immediately burst into giggles. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Hit it again,” Miya encourages. “It’ll make it work faster.”
Ten minutes later, Kiyoomi learns to never trust Miya again.
Weed adds an extra floaty element to the alcohol floating through his system. He feels drunker, but without the heavy feeling that drinking more brings. Although he is pissed at Miya for giving the worst advice on the planet, he still giggles when he says dumb things, which, to be frank, is all the time. A grown man, giggling. But he feels so light and he can’t find it in himself to care.
“When my eyes are closed, I can’t see.”
“That’s generally how it works.” Kiyoomi deadpans.
Miya shoves him. “Shut up dickhe*d. Y’know what I mean.”
For the first time in a very long time, Kiyoomi doesn’t flinch at the contact. In fact, he has to fight off every urge not to lean into it. Miya’s hands are large and his palms are calloused from years of practice. It must be the toxic concoction flowing through his body but he wonders what those fingers would feel like threading through his curls.
That settles it, he is never smoking weed again.
“My hands are tingling,” Kiyoomi observes. For a second, he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. “What time is it?”
“Don’t tell me yer going to work again,” Miya says incredulously.
“No,” Kiyoomi protests. No. Of course not. Maybe? The building would probably be in ruins right now. “I feel guilty.”
“For what?”
“Everything, I think.”
Miya chuckles. “Y’know, yer a real sh*tty high.”
Kiyoomi yawns, stretching. They sat on that cramped fire escape for hours, talking about everything and nothing. As the evening progressed his native language became a part of him again. An evening of quips and playful insults.
Kiyoomi feels closer to home than he had in a long, long time.
Right as he is about to suggest calling it a night, he notices Miya’s shoulders shaking silently
“Miya?”
Quiet sniffles turn into gut wrenching sobs. Miya is an ugly crier. His face gets blotchy and his eyes are bloodshot from wiping at them with his sleeve as his nose runs. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do when other people cry around him. Oftentimes he doesn’t know how to comfort himself let alone someone else. Additionally, his current state of sobriety really doesn’t help the matter either.
Kiyoomi clears his throat. “A-are you alright?” Acknowledging his condition causes Miya to sob harder. What a dumb f*cking thing to say.
“N-n-ooo,” he sobs. The next thing he knows, Miya throws his arms around Kiyoomi’s neck, holding him captive. “I’m never going to see my family again! ‘Samu, Ma, everyone. The p-planes. I m-missed m’ all. Every last one. I f*cked around and-and gave my time to the wrong people and did all the wrong things…” Miya does everything but wipe his nose on Kiyoomi’s shirt. “I had one job y’know? One f*ckin’ job and that was to wake up on time to get on a plane this mornin’, and surprise, I didn’t f*ckin’ do it. I can hear my sh*tass brother say it now. ‘Flaky and irresponsible,’ and he’s right. How could I do this? I put my energy in the wrong places, I give my time to the wrong people.”
Kiyoomi’s arms are pinned to his sides and his body is stiff. Miya needs to stop crying so he could get some damn sleep. He awkwardly pats Miya’s back and rubs in slow circles. That seems to help a little, as he goes from speaking through shuttering sobs to quietly hiccuping.
“I never went to visit. Always the wrong time.” Voice rising in a mocking tone, Miya continues, “Maybe next year ‘Samu. Sorry Ma, can’t. Maybe next weekend.” He slumps forward, leaning all of the weight of a six foot two athlete into Kiyoomi. “I was always doin’ dumb ass sh*t,” he flourishes his hands dramatically, “and here is still am, doing dumb sh*t.” Miya hiccups.
Kiyoomi continues to awkwardly rub Miya’s back. On one hand, he has definitely had enough for today. On the other, he can’t possibly leave Miya alone on this fire escape in this condition. While their relationship is tumultuous at best, he shouldn’t let Miya die.
“Would you like to come in?”
Miya nods into his tear-stained shirt. “Yeah.”
After unsteadily climbing back through the living room window, Miya goes straight for the couch. Before Kiyoomi can demand that he at least washes his hands, he plops down on the cushions. Miya looks absolutely exhausted. In his years of knowing him, he had never looked this awful.
“Thanks, Omi,” Miya murmurs as he slowly leans over. It’s impressive how quickly he drifts off.
Miya Atsumu is an ugly crier, but he is not an ugly sleeper. Forehead relaxed, he snores softly, lips slightly parted. He has bags under his still red eyes, sure, but he looks peaceful. Tranquil. His eyelashes are full and dark against his cheekbones above day-old stubble. Under the light of Kiyoomi’s reading lamp, he spots a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheekbones. Kiyoomi hadn’t noticed before, but he assumes that they aren’t noticeable during the winter months, when the city is constantly gray and stifled by overcast skies and rain. There is only so much to see when you live next door to a person.
Kiyoomi forces himself to his feet and locks himself in the bathroom before he lets his mind wander to where else Miya might have freckles.
Miya is correct about one thing: Kiyoomi is a sh*t high.
Surrounded by dark water under a sky full of bright stars, Kiyoomi is caught in a kaleidoscope much like the Infinity Mirrors at the Seattle Art Museum. Floating and without direction, he determines the best he can do is to wait for the sun to rise. So he waits and waits, and eventually, the sun finally rises. As the bright light peaks over the horizon, a blaring, consistent wailing joins in. A siren perhaps?
Jolting awake, he bangs his head on the corner of his bed frame. Muttering a creative string of curses, he checks his alarm clock and realizes that he only got a couple hours of sleep at best. He groans at the car alarm blaring too close to his apartment, pulling the comforter over his head as a street light decides to turn on at the most inopportune of times.
The horrible sound doesn’t stop. Somehow everything seems louder. Honestly, it serves Kiyoomi right for drinking too much. As much as he loves a good red, he regrets it in the morning without fail.
With a disgruntled groan, Kiyoomi manages to pull himself out of bed. While he can’t silence the car alarm, he can close the blinds. Perhaps that would help. He deserves a good night of sleep after a night of charity work.
His brain clears of sleep in an instant when he reaches the window. Flickering orange and red light creeps through the blinds.
“MIYA!” Kiyoomi shouts, throwing the bedroom door open. “Miya wake up!”
Dismissively, Miya grunts and mumbles incoherently, turning around to bury his face in the back of the couch.
“Miya, you have to get up,” Kiyoomi says, gently touching his shoulder. When Miya doesn’t respond, Kiyoomi properly shakes him. “Wake up!”
“f*ck off,” Miya mumbles.
Frustrated, Kiyoomi runs back into his room. He grabs the largest backpack he owns and gathers bottles of water, toothpaste, toothbrush, keys, wallet. Once he throws on clothes that are easy to layer, he jogs back toward the couch, grabs Miya by the shirt and drags him off.
“There’s a riot going on you idiot. Maybe you heard, I don’t know, the screaming? Smelled the burning?”
“Seriously Omi, go f*ck yerself.”
Shouting voices get louder. Then menacing glow lighting up the night grows brighter.
A brick smashes through the living room window.
Jagged chunks of glass fall from the windowpane, interspersed with pieces as delicate as snowflakes. On instinct, Kiyoomi drops to the ground and covers his face. Wincing, he painstakingly pulls a sliver out of his palm, crimson pooling at the cut.
Miya scrambles to his feet and runs to the window to look upon the scene below. “Oh G-d.”
The streets are crowded with people, armed with baseball bats and crowbars, and the hopeless attitudes of desperate people. They watch in horrified awe as they systematically move from building to building, throwing bricks and smashing mailboxes. Those crazy enough to enter homes do so with no regard to the safety of their neighbors. Looters crawl through windows with arms full of worthless things. Kiyoomi’s mouth runs dry.
“What should we do?” Miya asks in disbelief.
“Leave.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we won’t get burned alive.”
“Real specific. Super f*ckin’ helpful.”
At the front door, Kiyoomi puts on his shoes. “You should take some things. We’ll come back when it’s safe,” he says, hoping the conviction in his voice distracts from his trembling hands.
“Fine,” Miya says, reluctant, following Kiyoomi’s lead into the hall.
Panicked, Atsumu runs around his house indecisively picking up things and putting them back down. The riot grows closer. Miya mutters to himself as he darts from room to room, his arms full, like he forgot the option to grab a bag.
“Hurry up!”
Miya holds up two framed pictures, anguishing over which one to take.
“MIYA!”
“FINE!” Duffle bag finally slung over his arm, Miya dashes out the door, clutching a volleyball close to his chest. “I’m sorry!” he says to his empty apartment. Kiyoomi considers firing a jab at him. It’s bulky and completely unnecessary, but there’s no time to second guess, as something flies through Miya’s window and erupts into flames, consuming the apartment in seconds.
They race down the stairs. Kiyoomi keeps up, but doesn’t have the stamina of a professional athlete. When Miya bolts around a corner and out of sight, Kiyoomi anxiously wonders if he would be left behind. But as they continue to descend the stairs to the parking garage, Miya glances back periodically. Checking in. Modifying his pace.
Kiyoomi clicks his car key. Silence. The spot is empty.
“f*ck. f*ck, f*ck, f*ck!” Kiyoomi runs his fingers through his messy curls, fingers tearing through the knots he hasn’t gotten the chance to brush out, catching painfully as he pulls. Of course he forgot his car at Wakatoshi’s. How could he possibly be so irresponsible? Of all the times to slip up, why did it have to be now?
Miya grabs by the arm. “Come on, we’ll take mine.”
Miya’s car is covered by a protective sheet. Carelessly, he pulls the cover off, leaving it on the ground. It’s a ridiculous red convertible, largely unusable for most of the year. It’s spotless without a single ding or scratch. He throws his things in the back seat before jumping behind the wheel. “Get in!”
Kiyoomi stares at the door handle. He doesn’t have his driving gloves. Who knows how many people have touched it, or how long it had been since it had been washed.
Exasperated, Miya yells, “It’s clean ya idiot! I’m more than ready to leave ya behind.”
Either he touches a dirty door handle or face potential death. Using the bottom of his shirt as a barrier, he gets in.
Wasting no time, Miya whips his car out of the spot and speeds up the turnpike. Tires screech, leaving behind dark tracks and the smell of burning rubber.
“You’re going to kill us!” Kiyoomi screams as he clicks his seatbelt into place with difficulty. Miya doesn’t bother to put on his own.
“Don’t be dramatic. M’ a great driver.”
Miya is not a great driver.
Approaching the barrier where residents have to show their pass to get by, Miya calls, “Hold on!”
With no time to comprehend what that is supposed to mean, the car flies over the median and right through the barrier, wood splintering. Miya cackles. He is going to get them killed far before the damn meteor does.
They speed down the street, ignoring stop lights, and crosswalks, and yield signs until they reach a blockade of abandoned cars of those who most likely tried and failed to escape the most populated areas. For the millionth time today, Kiyoomi swears. Miya slams hard on the breaks. Rioters tail behind them.
“Miya…”
“f*ck. I know! I know!”
The closest person is about 50 feet behind, quickly closing the gap.
“GO GO GO!”
“I’M GOIN’!”
Brows furrowed in concentration, Miya takes a deep breath, hands clenched tightly on the wheel. He slams the car into reverse. He swerves, approaching the upcoming mob rapidly. Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut on the chance they commit vehicular manslaughter. Once backed up, Miya veers full speed into the closest alley. In the commotion, a man throws a rock through the back windshield. “Enough with the f*ckin’ throwin’!”
They race through the side street. The car grazing obstacles. Miya properly screams when one of the rearview mirrors flies off with a crunch.
Miya continues until they approach the entrance to I-5.
“Head south,” Kiyoomi directs.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Why?” Miya repeats.
“I know someone with a plane. I can get you to your family.”
For once, Miya follows instructions without a fight, looking ahead.
Thankfully, the highway is clear, omitting the occasional abandoned vehicle. They drive in silence until they are a safe distance from the most congested part of the city. Kiyoomi watch the city lights of Seattle disappear in his rearview mirror for quite possibly the last time.
Miya finally breaks the uneasy silence. “Can ya really get me home?” he asks tentatively.
“I know someone with a plane.”
“But ya can get me to it?”
With the understanding and acceptance that neither of them have a home to return to, he says “yes.” Because what else is he going to do with the rest of his life?
