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Entry tags:
never wanted anything as much;
Summary: Shinobu had kept his promise and left, and Miyagi deals with the guilt left behind.
“Do you think of me differently, Hiroki?”
In the corner, the lazy smoke drifted until it surrounded the both of them. Hiroki ignored him, concentrating on his paperwork for another moment, but his concentration broke when a particularly strong puff rolled across his face. It smelled like him—his brand, his smell, everything. He looked down at his own hands, lying flat on the keyboard.
“No,” he said.
“Liar.”
“Don’t ask me these things if you think I’m going to lie,” he growled.
“I might get fired, you know.” Lounging on the couch, Miyagi inhaled another strong puff of smoke before blowing it out. He was smoking more packs than normal, even for him, until the ashtrays were overflowing, and he was stubbing at the corners with more ashes spilling out than in. His eyes were tired, as well, with deep bags underneath them. Vaguely, he was unhappy.
“Don’t tell me things that I already know.”
“I don’t know where to go anymore. I shouldn’t even be here. It’s just that I have nowhere else to go.” Miyagi pushed his cigarette stub down. “No, rather, I should say all the places I go are bad now.” He paused again. “Do they talk about me?”
Hiroki hesitated, and then flushed. “No.”
“Liar.”
--
They did talk, and talked loudly until Miyagi swung his books at them recklessly, his hands smashing against the walls and the delicate objects littering the floors. He breathed heavily, and then stormed away, and the whispers only continued, occasionally including him, but he was uninteresting because he was himself.
He did, however, accidentally see Shinobu once.
No, he corrected himself, more than once. He had previously seen him when he had opened a staff door, only to see Shinobu pinned down, but his face had been obscured and it wasn’t the problem, that Hiroki saw it. No, it wasn’t the problem at all.
Shinobu lingered around the street, glancing furtively at the university before storming back down the street, and then returning to again furtively glance. Hiroki sat on a bench, watching the action loop itself for several moments. He observed, because he was hot-headed, but reluctant, and he saw that Shinobu was young.
That was a shame, he thought.
Cute, though.
He wore a high school uniform that looked good on him, and a perpetually unhappy expression that Hiroki wondered had always been plastered on his face. His long coat swished around, and he did not walk, but stormed from here and there, eyes darkened, lightening, darkening, always in the midst of some sorts of despair. But he had large eyes, and a trapped, wounded look, and when he finally left, Hiroki released a sigh of relief that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.
--
What was love? Maybe that could be found at home, where Nowaki helped him out of his jacket and prepared a good meal for him to share, or they would walk to the family restaurant and eat a small dinner before returning back to the apartment. It was love, he thought. That was love. Age didn’t matter—but sometimes it did—but he still loved Nowaki—
“Did I love him?” Miyagi pondered the question, tie loose and shirt unbuttoned. He had not left the office for a while, and the hearing was circled in red on the calendar. There was something wrong with it—no, something wrong with everything—especially considering it had once been a private matter behind locked doors.
“I’m not sure,” Miyagi said, smoking again. His voice was hoarse, and he had not slept or showered for days. “He says it’s fate. Destiny.”
Hiroki trembled. “Don’t say that during the hearing,” he said, but his voice cracked. “It would be bad.” Bad would not even begin to cover it; no, nothing would seem to cover it. He suddenly banged his cup against the table, and he didn’t care if it shattered. “Miyagi! Stop—“
Miyagi opened his mouth partially. “Stop . . . ?”
“Just—“ Hiroki put his hand on his forehead, a deep headache beginning to throb in his skull. “Why would you do this? Stop—you—“
“. . . You don’t have to stay with me.” Miyagi put his head down on the couch. “It might ruin your reputation.” The cool-guy shtick always made him angry, so he stormed out and left, slamming the door behind him.
--
When he swallowed the witch’s potion, it felt slick and burning in his throat. It ran down freely and lit a fire within his lungs, and he coughed a few times, into his sleeve, before wiping his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. He sat down at the small hut, squinting vaguely out into the hot day, where the waves wavered in the light.
“Would you like another, mate?”
“N-no,” he said. “No speak. Australian.” That he didn’t. He tried to wave off the pesky barkeeper, who had a permanently hopeful look fixated to his face, who also hovered around as if awaiting for a mosquito bite on him to sell him another strange potion. The other customers downed the same drink as if it was water. The strange liquid was not for Miyagi, though. He tilted his sombrero downwards, and adjusted his clothes accordingly, though they were sticking onto his skin by now. He puffed a little bit, squinting into the distance, where the cars were moving slowly through molasses and air.
“Oh,” he said. He glanced upwards at the lines, where the fat birds were already squatting, weighing it down. “Budgies.” He referred to his tourist’s book immediately, only to have it fly out of his hands. He got up to retrieve it, but another kind customer had already deposited it into the trashcan. With a grimace, he sat back down again, and took another swig of the thick, smooth drink that he ahd trouble swallowing.
“Budgies.”
--
Nobody really knew about the school he was talking about, but he knew it was in the city. So he left the land of the dingos and entered the land of the dingos disguised as humans, and they bit at him sharply, ushering him from place to place as he wandered around. The buildings were tall, and the people taller, and he finally found a hotel that served a drink that wasn’t like that strange potion. He double-checked his baggage, first, and double-checked the presence of his plane ticket. Though he was there for a reason, he would need to leave for a reason.
The motel lights from the other room flickered. They were neon, and cast an appending shadow onto his ground at night. The hotel room was threadbare. The bathroom was only a small, disjointed location where a toilet was located, and a small sink that was broken anyway. When he tried to switch it on, the water spewed out onto his face, and he coughed weakly before he directed the spray at some other place. Wiping his face with his own towel, he wandered into the dirty floor and glanced at the bed. In the light, it was hard to tell that he had tried his best to cover the mysterious stains.
He placed his watch on his dresser, sitting there for a moment. As he expected, no television had been afforded to him, so he only lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. His eyes flew open again when he realized there were sounds coming from the next room. With a grunt, he tried to snuggle out the sounds with his ears. But the flickering light was distracting, only accentuating the deep grunts. Finally, he got up to shut the window blinds, only to catch a eyeful of what the couple next-door were doing. He slammed down the blinds and sat on his luggage, the only safe place to sit. Finally, at his wit’s ends, he fumbled with a cigarette and lighted it unhappily. He puffed on it a few times before giving up, or resigning, and returning to his bed. The bed was uncomfortable, with the springs sharply jutting out. But then he groaned and rolled over, and thought of Shinobu, and fell asleep.
--
Still, nobody had heard of the school or the crest. He found it himself, luckily, a few streets off a bar. To summon up his courage, he visited the bar and downed a few of the fire drinks, which tasted disgusting and made his stomach churn. He barely made it to the bathroom, and received a few dirty looks because it was too early in the morning for things like that. Finally, he ordered some chips and fish and whatever other concotion the store had, and he stared into the street where the high school students had been released, milling between cars, chatting about things that he wished he knew about.
When they all left, he left as well, not following them, but returning to his hotel room and finding his cell phone and wondering who he sould call. He was doing stupid then, and he knew it. No, more than stupid, it was ridiculous. He dialed another number, only to receive a flat tone, and listened to it for a while as he listened to the weather as well, from the television next door. The person was staying in for the day, apparently. But what else? He was just a Japanese tourist in Australia, who hadn’t he come here to see the sights, but instead to merely search for a high school boy.
Disgusting. How disgusting.
--
The next day, he bought some weak flowers that felt limpid in his hands, and he waited by the gates. Slowly, he watched ast the sutdnets trickled by, one by one. Maybe it was the wrong school, he thought, as he began to grow nervous. Or Shinobu had some after-school activitiy—yes, that’s it, after-school activity, it all made sense now. So he began to turn and leave, and the feeling in his stomach slowly ebbed away, despite the fire he had tried to instill, and his legs did not shake so much.
“Miyagi?”
He froze.
“Who’s that, Shinobu?”
“He’s my—“ Now Shinobu hesitated. “My sister’s husband,” he finally said. “Hold on.” He ran up to Miyagi, and grabbed him by the sleeve, like a little boy. He was wearing the high school uniform, and had an open expression on his face, of confusion and hope. He didn’t want to see that! That, that stupid hope! So instead, Miyagi turned away.
“Oh,” Miyagi said, with a slight chuckle and averted eyes, “It’s you. How’s it going?”
“What are you doing here?” Shinobu asked, sounding confused. “I thought.”
“Well, things happen,” Miyagi said, “And that’s the way it goes from here on out, you know. I was just in the neighborhood, and thought I’d like to see you a few times.”
“Wait, Miyagi! There’s no way—“ Shinobu stopped himself. “In Australia?” His eyes were slightly wide with disbelief. He was only a kid and didn’t understand yet, but Miyagi understood it like no other. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he shrugged and turned away.
“You don’t get it.”
That was not what he had meant to say, and he felt surprised that the words even left his mouth. Shinobu looked surprised at the words, as well, and gripped Miyagi’s sleeve even tighter, afraid that Miyagi might suddenly run away. He leaned forward, eyes wide.
“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“I mean—Shinobu—I came here for you.” Miyagi turned away even further. “Budgies.”
“what?”
“I said budgies. I said I came here for the budgies.”
“Miyagi, don’t play games.” And Shinobu’s voice broke, and Miyagi turned around, surprised. Shinobu stood there, trembling, with his hand still on his sleeve. There were tears running down his face now, and Miyagi felt terrible, horrible, disasterous, for even doing such a thing. Shinobu wiped at his tears.
“Don’t play games! You said that you didn’t want to see me again!” Shinobu began to cry even harder now. “Why are you here?”
“H-hey, don’t cry!” Miyagi tried to find a way to confort him without actually touching him, but another teacher was standing by. His face was solemn, and harsh, with lines that stated that he had been in the profession for quite a long time now. He awaited for the response with his arms crossed.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice deep and rumbling. Miyagi was startled, and glanced down at Shinobu, who was crying. It must have looked horrible, even to the general populace. So he grabbed Shinobu and laughed crazily and said, “Nothing’s wrong! Just a family greeting! You know! Reuionoin! Yes, that’s what I meant, Australians—I’ve got to go now!”
“Wait!”
But he didn’t heed the other teacher’s words and brought Shinobu back to his hotel hastily, almost running the entire way, half-tripping with anxiety. Finally, he breathed easily behind closed doors, and held Shinobu against his arms. Shinobu was still crying, as he had been throughout their short run, and the hotel lights were still flickering, because it was already drawing close to dusk, evening, and Miyagi breathed into Shinobu’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done all those things to you, and I can only hope that you forgive me, for all this, and—‘
“Miyagi?” Shinobu’s choked voice sounded more confused than ever. Miyagi hesitated, and then wrapped his arms firmly around Shinobu.
“I’ll protect you, all right?” Miyagi said, his voice hushed. “Just, please, take me back. I’m sorry.” He was sad, all of a sudden. “I know that I’m older than you, and this is forbidden, and that this will reck your psyche, but—“
“Miyagi!” And Shinobu’s arms were already around Miyagi’s neck, and he ahd to wonder if he actually listened to anything he said or not, but then again, it didn’t really matter, because his eyes were already clenching Shinobu’s back, as well, desperate, weak, loving, needy. And that was all there was to it—the budgies, after all.
Mytho, with his mouth half-open, eyes mostly-glazed, stared outward into the morning light. He had no heart, and played like a doll, performing kindly to all, occasionally starting up with a core of himself to rescue small children and small animals, before relaxing again into a state. His eyes flicker with some sign of life, warming his brown eyes into amber flames, before rescinding again. But re-possessing his heart hurts him so, like bruises on his chest.
Because then he remembered, and that hurt most of all, the remembering. It hurt to see the imagery appear in his mind, and the story tale coming alive again, and he had no choice in it, but the heart shards entered his heart through flesh and bone and meat, adjusting its place within him until he screamed and writhed in pain.
It had not been so bad, to lose his heart.
For there was Fakir, and he was younger than Mytho, but always took care of him, holding him by the hand with hope in his eyes. It didn’t hurt so much when he did not have his heart, because then he did not have to remember that Fakir had been so young and hopeful, and then watch him slowly flower into someone who hid his true self, instead only growling
He’d been a sweet kid.
Just that, and nothing more.
--
“Ohhh, Hiroki,” he sang, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Seventeen cigarettes were already stuffed into his ashtray, his Black Star pack sticking from his pocket. Ashes fell onto his desk when he talked. “Your skin is particularly shiny today!”
“I don’t want to hear this from you!” Hiroki slammed his books down on his desk. For Literature professors, they were reckless and drunk with emotions, taking out their helplessness on the paper and books.
Miyagi’s smile faded. Humans took their anger out on many things, except sometimes they weren’t really things at all.
“Oi! Are you listening?” Hiroki, the cute little assistant professor, glared pointedly at him. Miyagi gave a lazy wave and smile, and returned to the mound of papers on his desk, idly picking out one or two before sorting them back in. “I said that the book store owner called. They have what you wanted in stock.”
“Oh? Which book?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“It was a long time ago,” Miyagi said, “Come now, come now, you can’t expect me to remember everything, do you, No-wa-ki-?” Each syllable made Hiroki tremble more in rage, and Miyagi smiled. He liked their relationship because it had boundaries and he was always in control.
“I don’t remember! Go ask her for yourself!” And Hiroki stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A stack of books trembled and then collapsed, and Miyagi watched it. It fell like a pile of cards, one after the other, in no particular order. The smoke in the room fogged his eyes, and for a second, he thought he was seeing his life fall to the ground instead.
--
When he got home, there was nobody there.
He wasn’t sure what he expecting. That uncute kid, maybe, standing there with his uncute eyes. And in his high school uniform, no less, making it way too obvious why they shouldn’t be in love. What was he thinking? It was a good riddance he was gone.
He tossed his coat on the empty sofa, and lingered for a moment.
Yeah.
A good thing he was gone.
He opened the refridgerator to a mound of cabbages in their green delight, one after another. With a soft sigh, he removed his cigarette and grinded it against his ashtray. He turned to the cabbage menace again, and began to remove one so he could toss them away.
But then again, he thought, before he even touched the cold leaf, it would be a waste.
Since he couldn’t eat the cabbages, he ended up calling in for take-out. The food was cold, and there was something sour-tasting about it. He only ate half of it, before storing the rest in the freezer. With an elaborately loud yawn, he returned to his bedroom and began to undress.
But it seemed like there were eyes staring at him from the bed, needy and unsure.
He slept on the sofa that night.
--
The next morning, when he walked inside the university, he was surprised to see a flash of a high school uniform. He did a double-take, but the vest was from another high school, and the kid was definitely cuter than Shin—than that other kid.
“Probably somebody’s sibling,” Hiroki said, once Miyagi mentioned it to him in the office. “Why? Are you annoyed by them?”
There was something honest in his eyes, so Miyagi couldn’t tease him. “I thought you’d be the more annoyed,” he laughed, sitting behind his cold desk. “All the kids call you a demon.”
“Brats,” Hiroki mumbled, returning to his computer. The click-clack of the keyboard filled the room. “But they’re not bad. Or else I wouldn’t be a teacher.”
That was true. No matter how much Hiroki yelled, the students still came to him for help, and he would sit at his desk and explain to them in a grumpy, unhappy tone.
“Besides, that other high school student that came here wasn’t so bad.”
Miyagi had been lighting his cigarette, but now his lighter froze mere centimeters away from his cigarette. He slowly flicked it off, and stared at Hiroki’s back. “What high schooler?”
“Don’t know. Thought he was looking for you at first, but he said he wasn’t.” Hiroki had a scowl on his face when he turned to retrieve a book, before he turned back to the computer. “Didn’t feel good about kicking him out of the office. I let him stay here for the night. Had to call somebody and tell them I was staying the entire night.”
“What did he look like?” Miyagi wondered how his voice sounded. To him, it sounded pinched and strange, and so far away.
“Ehh?” Now Hiroki turned, unhappiness scrawled on his face. “Blond hair, big eyes. Kinda cute, I guess.” He turned back again, bent over his books.
“Did he say anything?”
“Did you know that kid or something?”
“No,” Miyagi said. He tried to calm down his trembling hands. “No, I was just curious.” Anybody could see through that lie, but Hiroki must have been drawn into his work.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, no, he just sat there and cried a lot.”
“Cried?”
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. I gave him my coat and everything.”
“Your coat—“ Miyagi suddenly stood up. The scraping noise of the chair must have startled Hiroki because he turned around, only to be gripped by the collar. Miyagi’s eyes burned into his confused ones.
“Did you do anything else to him?”
“What?”
“Did you take advantage of him?”
“N-No!” Hiroki struggled. “What sort of pervert do you take me as--?”
Miyagi’s grip loosened, and he turned around, trying to control the raging feelings within him. It felt like a sea had broken loose, and he put a hand to his forehead, breathing shallowly.
Hiroki must have been confused, but the click-clacking began again after a while. “I don’t know what type of person you take me as,” he said gruffly, but it was clear there was another emotion mixed inside. “Who’d be cruel enough to take advantage of a crying high schooler?”
Miyagi flinched.
--
At first he hadn’t noticed anything, because he just wanted to get it over with. It was a simple task, one two three, and then he would be in peace. So what if the other person was small—so what if the other person whimpered—just concentrate, just focus on the pleasure and the control, because he was in control of this situation.
Thrusting in, breathing out, thrusting out, breathing in, or was it the other way around, except it had been so tight, so incredibly tight and felt good to just thrust and push and breath and be in control, that was the thing, be in control, hot, sweaty, sticky, skin.
“It hu-hurts—“
In beween his legs, warm, warm pleasure shot up, coiled in his belly, sweat dripped off his nose, it had become slick, still so tight, he wasn’t relaxing what was the other person doing
“It—It really hurts--!”
He was in control. He was in control. He was in control.
Until he looked up, just briefly, to see that it was a high schooler’s clothes scattered on the floor.
--
He drove by the bookstore to pick up the book. The saleslady handed it to him with a knowing smile, and he had to smile back, even if it was just nervously.
On his way home, there was a traffic jam. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel before his eyes fell on the brown-paper package sitting on the passenger’s seat. He took it with his hands. It felt like a good, sturdy book, fairly new.
When he tore off the wrapper, the cigarette fell from his mouth.
One Hundred and Fifty Ways to Cook Cabbage.
Huh.
--
Back at his house, he sat on his sofa, staring at the television. It was playing a special celebrity program, but he didn’t care about any of them. In his mind, he could still hear Shinobu’s strong, clear voice.
“Just sleep with me once! And I’ll never bother you again!”
Stupid kid.
It didn’t work that way. And what was with the tears in his eyes? And the way he gripped on his shirt? Didn’t he realize that it just showed how needy he was? Stupid.
The book sat on his coffee table, and he flipped it open. Nothing looked particularly appetizing—no, it was beyond that. He hated cabbage. He hated cabbage absolutely. But his refrigerator was filled to the brim with the green vegetable, and now he had 150 ways to cook it. With a sigh, he let the book fall from his fingers, and he leaned back on the sofa.
He didn’t want that kid to be on his mind.
It wasn’t—it wasn’t love.
But maybe it was shame and regret.
--
They breathed heavily for a while, before Miyagi dragged himself out of bed. He clumsily found his pants, and pulled them on. After another minute of silent searching in the hazy room, he found his shirt, and he pulled it on.
He told himself not to look back. The situation was in control. The situation was in control. The situation was in control.
“Hey,” he said, and glanced at Shinobu. “Lock the door when you lea—“ Shinobu’s face was red. It was blotchy red, and he was trembling, clutching at the blanket needily, and he was breathing erratically, and he was crying.
“When you leave.” Miyagi ducked his head and closed the door behind him.
Because he was in control of the situation.
--
Shame and regret and sorrow, and he was fed up, and he was angry. Always, always, there was Shinobu! Always. And he hated it. And he hated that the sight was always of his blotchy face, crying. Always crying.
Why was he crying? He looked better when he—when he smiled, damnit.
And he wasn’t calling because he was in love.
He was calling because there was cabbage in his refrigerator, and there was a book that he didn’t want, and he wanted to sleep in his own bedroom again, and he didn’t want to look at Hiroki suspiciously because he might have embraced a crying high school student, and he didn’t want his ashtray to be always full.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Shinobu?” Miyagi swallowed and put out his cigarette. “It’s me. Miyagi.”
--
He had bought the love doll with no expectations. Though, of course, it was only later that he realized he did indeed have expectatations—and that was, the love doll should have been a girl. Except now on his doorstop, there was a boy with cat ears and a cat tail, and a blank expression on his face, in a slightly jawed look.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong house,” Tamaki said kindly, because he was a kind person overall. He was a little shy about these things, loose with his change, always trying to find his keys, but other than that, he was otherwise kind. He smiled down at the catboy. “Are you looking for someone else?”
“NEGATIVE.”
“Eh-“
“This is the location of owner R338dslash3. Correct.” The catboy moved across the room robotically. Cringing, Tamaki found himself following, though he closed the door behind him as an absent-minded note, and a note of assurance. He trailed behind the catboy, who sat down on the sofa. Suddenly, he glanced around the room, a close to a one eighty as he could get, and then reverted his attention back to the television.
“Ah-you are-“
“The Cat Love Doll, Tamaki, owner.” The catboy looked at him. Despite his mechanized way of saying those types of things, he was really quite adorable, with large eyes, and black hair that strung to his neck, and black clothes, as well. He brought a small suitcase with him, which now sat on the desk and was making itself at home. And by saying making itself, it truly was “making itself.” It had built out the little robots and everything, and drilled its way through the glass coffee table, burying deeply until it could no longer get unattached. Taken aback, Tamaki thought better than saying anything.
“Would you like to procreate now, yes no.”
“Wh-what? No! No, of course not!” Tamaki threw up his arms, flailing a bit, unhappy with the new development. “I didn’t order a boy!”
“Gender was unspecificed.”
He must have forgotten to click the button. He sighed, sitting down on the sofa, and leapt up again only to realize that he had left the remote control at that location. The television turned on, a romantic drama came on. Love Love On the Spring Night, or smoething like that. Tamaki never truly watched those tuypes of shows, but only glanced at it briefly now. At least it paved the way to a short silence before everything came back together again. He sighed, leaning aginst the wall, and deciding ultimately to not say anything about such things.
When he aimed to shut it off, and discuss the ramficiations of such actions, the catboy swiftly grabbed the remote control from Tamaki’s hand, and held it hostage.
“What?” Tamaki asked, aghast. Now the cat boy was even taking over his television!
“This is a good show, yes, yes.” The cat boy stared at it.
“Ah.” Tamaki rubbed his head.
“If you do not feel that I am of your desire, then you are free to send me back with no charge.” The cat boy did not turn away from the television, where the romantic passion was still ensuing, as a girl was forced to choose between her loves dramatically. He never had quite a taste for such dramatics, in any case.
“No, I can’t just send you back—“
“Do not be mistaken, owner R333. I am merely a doll. I have no feelings.” He took the remote control and put it down on the table, far from TAmaki’s reach. He resumed the hsape of an attentive television viewer.
Though Tamaki knew this—and how he knew it--! He still felt terrible about sending him back. He surely must have come a long way. Uneasily, he looked at the kitchen. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Negative. I am watching a television program. Please leave.”
Tamaki knew that it was only a doll, but he wondered why it got him so riled. With a slight hmph, he left to go to his bedroom and began to fumble his way through his pajamas. It wasn’t until the program was over did he see the doll again, as he went to see if the doll needed a place to sleep for the night.
“Negative.” The cat boy was paying more attention to him now, since the romance had ended. It was, however, flipping through the television program listings in hopes for the next episode. “I merely go into Sleep mode. I am capable of sleeping anywhere, positive.”
“Well,” Tamaki said unsurely, “Nights get cold, and you can always sleep in my bed.”
“If you wish to copulate, then please state it as an order, positive.” The catboy was now studying him intently. Tamaki blushed. It was certainly a bad idea to buy him! Even if it was from a catalog. He shook his head furiously.
“Go to sleep!” He stormed away, and closed the door firmly behind him, still trembling with some sort of rage and shame and sleepiness.
--
He worked as an average salaryman,
“Do you think of me differently, Hiroki?”
In the corner, the lazy smoke drifted until it surrounded the both of them. Hiroki ignored him, concentrating on his paperwork for another moment, but his concentration broke when a particularly strong puff rolled across his face. It smelled like him—his brand, his smell, everything. He looked down at his own hands, lying flat on the keyboard.
“No,” he said.
“Liar.”
“Don’t ask me these things if you think I’m going to lie,” he growled.
“I might get fired, you know.” Lounging on the couch, Miyagi inhaled another strong puff of smoke before blowing it out. He was smoking more packs than normal, even for him, until the ashtrays were overflowing, and he was stubbing at the corners with more ashes spilling out than in. His eyes were tired, as well, with deep bags underneath them. Vaguely, he was unhappy.
“Don’t tell me things that I already know.”
“I don’t know where to go anymore. I shouldn’t even be here. It’s just that I have nowhere else to go.” Miyagi pushed his cigarette stub down. “No, rather, I should say all the places I go are bad now.” He paused again. “Do they talk about me?”
Hiroki hesitated, and then flushed. “No.”
“Liar.”
--
They did talk, and talked loudly until Miyagi swung his books at them recklessly, his hands smashing against the walls and the delicate objects littering the floors. He breathed heavily, and then stormed away, and the whispers only continued, occasionally including him, but he was uninteresting because he was himself.
He did, however, accidentally see Shinobu once.
No, he corrected himself, more than once. He had previously seen him when he had opened a staff door, only to see Shinobu pinned down, but his face had been obscured and it wasn’t the problem, that Hiroki saw it. No, it wasn’t the problem at all.
Shinobu lingered around the street, glancing furtively at the university before storming back down the street, and then returning to again furtively glance. Hiroki sat on a bench, watching the action loop itself for several moments. He observed, because he was hot-headed, but reluctant, and he saw that Shinobu was young.
That was a shame, he thought.
Cute, though.
He wore a high school uniform that looked good on him, and a perpetually unhappy expression that Hiroki wondered had always been plastered on his face. His long coat swished around, and he did not walk, but stormed from here and there, eyes darkened, lightening, darkening, always in the midst of some sorts of despair. But he had large eyes, and a trapped, wounded look, and when he finally left, Hiroki released a sigh of relief that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.
--
What was love? Maybe that could be found at home, where Nowaki helped him out of his jacket and prepared a good meal for him to share, or they would walk to the family restaurant and eat a small dinner before returning back to the apartment. It was love, he thought. That was love. Age didn’t matter—but sometimes it did—but he still loved Nowaki—
“Did I love him?” Miyagi pondered the question, tie loose and shirt unbuttoned. He had not left the office for a while, and the hearing was circled in red on the calendar. There was something wrong with it—no, something wrong with everything—especially considering it had once been a private matter behind locked doors.
“I’m not sure,” Miyagi said, smoking again. His voice was hoarse, and he had not slept or showered for days. “He says it’s fate. Destiny.”
Hiroki trembled. “Don’t say that during the hearing,” he said, but his voice cracked. “It would be bad.” Bad would not even begin to cover it; no, nothing would seem to cover it. He suddenly banged his cup against the table, and he didn’t care if it shattered. “Miyagi! Stop—“
Miyagi opened his mouth partially. “Stop . . . ?”
“Just—“ Hiroki put his hand on his forehead, a deep headache beginning to throb in his skull. “Why would you do this? Stop—you—“
“. . . You don’t have to stay with me.” Miyagi put his head down on the couch. “It might ruin your reputation.” The cool-guy shtick always made him angry, so he stormed out and left, slamming the door behind him.
--
When he swallowed the witch’s potion, it felt slick and burning in his throat. It ran down freely and lit a fire within his lungs, and he coughed a few times, into his sleeve, before wiping his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. He sat down at the small hut, squinting vaguely out into the hot day, where the waves wavered in the light.
“Would you like another, mate?”
“N-no,” he said. “No speak. Australian.” That he didn’t. He tried to wave off the pesky barkeeper, who had a permanently hopeful look fixated to his face, who also hovered around as if awaiting for a mosquito bite on him to sell him another strange potion. The other customers downed the same drink as if it was water. The strange liquid was not for Miyagi, though. He tilted his sombrero downwards, and adjusted his clothes accordingly, though they were sticking onto his skin by now. He puffed a little bit, squinting into the distance, where the cars were moving slowly through molasses and air.
“Oh,” he said. He glanced upwards at the lines, where the fat birds were already squatting, weighing it down. “Budgies.” He referred to his tourist’s book immediately, only to have it fly out of his hands. He got up to retrieve it, but another kind customer had already deposited it into the trashcan. With a grimace, he sat back down again, and took another swig of the thick, smooth drink that he ahd trouble swallowing.
“Budgies.”
--
Nobody really knew about the school he was talking about, but he knew it was in the city. So he left the land of the dingos and entered the land of the dingos disguised as humans, and they bit at him sharply, ushering him from place to place as he wandered around. The buildings were tall, and the people taller, and he finally found a hotel that served a drink that wasn’t like that strange potion. He double-checked his baggage, first, and double-checked the presence of his plane ticket. Though he was there for a reason, he would need to leave for a reason.
The motel lights from the other room flickered. They were neon, and cast an appending shadow onto his ground at night. The hotel room was threadbare. The bathroom was only a small, disjointed location where a toilet was located, and a small sink that was broken anyway. When he tried to switch it on, the water spewed out onto his face, and he coughed weakly before he directed the spray at some other place. Wiping his face with his own towel, he wandered into the dirty floor and glanced at the bed. In the light, it was hard to tell that he had tried his best to cover the mysterious stains.
He placed his watch on his dresser, sitting there for a moment. As he expected, no television had been afforded to him, so he only lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. His eyes flew open again when he realized there were sounds coming from the next room. With a grunt, he tried to snuggle out the sounds with his ears. But the flickering light was distracting, only accentuating the deep grunts. Finally, he got up to shut the window blinds, only to catch a eyeful of what the couple next-door were doing. He slammed down the blinds and sat on his luggage, the only safe place to sit. Finally, at his wit’s ends, he fumbled with a cigarette and lighted it unhappily. He puffed on it a few times before giving up, or resigning, and returning to his bed. The bed was uncomfortable, with the springs sharply jutting out. But then he groaned and rolled over, and thought of Shinobu, and fell asleep.
--
Still, nobody had heard of the school or the crest. He found it himself, luckily, a few streets off a bar. To summon up his courage, he visited the bar and downed a few of the fire drinks, which tasted disgusting and made his stomach churn. He barely made it to the bathroom, and received a few dirty looks because it was too early in the morning for things like that. Finally, he ordered some chips and fish and whatever other concotion the store had, and he stared into the street where the high school students had been released, milling between cars, chatting about things that he wished he knew about.
When they all left, he left as well, not following them, but returning to his hotel room and finding his cell phone and wondering who he sould call. He was doing stupid then, and he knew it. No, more than stupid, it was ridiculous. He dialed another number, only to receive a flat tone, and listened to it for a while as he listened to the weather as well, from the television next door. The person was staying in for the day, apparently. But what else? He was just a Japanese tourist in Australia, who hadn’t he come here to see the sights, but instead to merely search for a high school boy.
Disgusting. How disgusting.
--
The next day, he bought some weak flowers that felt limpid in his hands, and he waited by the gates. Slowly, he watched ast the sutdnets trickled by, one by one. Maybe it was the wrong school, he thought, as he began to grow nervous. Or Shinobu had some after-school activitiy—yes, that’s it, after-school activity, it all made sense now. So he began to turn and leave, and the feeling in his stomach slowly ebbed away, despite the fire he had tried to instill, and his legs did not shake so much.
“Miyagi?”
He froze.
“Who’s that, Shinobu?”
“He’s my—“ Now Shinobu hesitated. “My sister’s husband,” he finally said. “Hold on.” He ran up to Miyagi, and grabbed him by the sleeve, like a little boy. He was wearing the high school uniform, and had an open expression on his face, of confusion and hope. He didn’t want to see that! That, that stupid hope! So instead, Miyagi turned away.
“Oh,” Miyagi said, with a slight chuckle and averted eyes, “It’s you. How’s it going?”
“What are you doing here?” Shinobu asked, sounding confused. “I thought.”
“Well, things happen,” Miyagi said, “And that’s the way it goes from here on out, you know. I was just in the neighborhood, and thought I’d like to see you a few times.”
“Wait, Miyagi! There’s no way—“ Shinobu stopped himself. “In Australia?” His eyes were slightly wide with disbelief. He was only a kid and didn’t understand yet, but Miyagi understood it like no other. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he shrugged and turned away.
“You don’t get it.”
That was not what he had meant to say, and he felt surprised that the words even left his mouth. Shinobu looked surprised at the words, as well, and gripped Miyagi’s sleeve even tighter, afraid that Miyagi might suddenly run away. He leaned forward, eyes wide.
“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“I mean—Shinobu—I came here for you.” Miyagi turned away even further. “Budgies.”
“what?”
“I said budgies. I said I came here for the budgies.”
“Miyagi, don’t play games.” And Shinobu’s voice broke, and Miyagi turned around, surprised. Shinobu stood there, trembling, with his hand still on his sleeve. There were tears running down his face now, and Miyagi felt terrible, horrible, disasterous, for even doing such a thing. Shinobu wiped at his tears.
“Don’t play games! You said that you didn’t want to see me again!” Shinobu began to cry even harder now. “Why are you here?”
“H-hey, don’t cry!” Miyagi tried to find a way to confort him without actually touching him, but another teacher was standing by. His face was solemn, and harsh, with lines that stated that he had been in the profession for quite a long time now. He awaited for the response with his arms crossed.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice deep and rumbling. Miyagi was startled, and glanced down at Shinobu, who was crying. It must have looked horrible, even to the general populace. So he grabbed Shinobu and laughed crazily and said, “Nothing’s wrong! Just a family greeting! You know! Reuionoin! Yes, that’s what I meant, Australians—I’ve got to go now!”
“Wait!”
But he didn’t heed the other teacher’s words and brought Shinobu back to his hotel hastily, almost running the entire way, half-tripping with anxiety. Finally, he breathed easily behind closed doors, and held Shinobu against his arms. Shinobu was still crying, as he had been throughout their short run, and the hotel lights were still flickering, because it was already drawing close to dusk, evening, and Miyagi breathed into Shinobu’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done all those things to you, and I can only hope that you forgive me, for all this, and—‘
“Miyagi?” Shinobu’s choked voice sounded more confused than ever. Miyagi hesitated, and then wrapped his arms firmly around Shinobu.
“I’ll protect you, all right?” Miyagi said, his voice hushed. “Just, please, take me back. I’m sorry.” He was sad, all of a sudden. “I know that I’m older than you, and this is forbidden, and that this will reck your psyche, but—“
“Miyagi!” And Shinobu’s arms were already around Miyagi’s neck, and he ahd to wonder if he actually listened to anything he said or not, but then again, it didn’t really matter, because his eyes were already clenching Shinobu’s back, as well, desperate, weak, loving, needy. And that was all there was to it—the budgies, after all.
Mytho, with his mouth half-open, eyes mostly-glazed, stared outward into the morning light. He had no heart, and played like a doll, performing kindly to all, occasionally starting up with a core of himself to rescue small children and small animals, before relaxing again into a state. His eyes flicker with some sign of life, warming his brown eyes into amber flames, before rescinding again. But re-possessing his heart hurts him so, like bruises on his chest.
Because then he remembered, and that hurt most of all, the remembering. It hurt to see the imagery appear in his mind, and the story tale coming alive again, and he had no choice in it, but the heart shards entered his heart through flesh and bone and meat, adjusting its place within him until he screamed and writhed in pain.
It had not been so bad, to lose his heart.
For there was Fakir, and he was younger than Mytho, but always took care of him, holding him by the hand with hope in his eyes. It didn’t hurt so much when he did not have his heart, because then he did not have to remember that Fakir had been so young and hopeful, and then watch him slowly flower into someone who hid his true self, instead only growling
He’d been a sweet kid.
Just that, and nothing more.
--
“Ohhh, Hiroki,” he sang, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Seventeen cigarettes were already stuffed into his ashtray, his Black Star pack sticking from his pocket. Ashes fell onto his desk when he talked. “Your skin is particularly shiny today!”
“I don’t want to hear this from you!” Hiroki slammed his books down on his desk. For Literature professors, they were reckless and drunk with emotions, taking out their helplessness on the paper and books.
Miyagi’s smile faded. Humans took their anger out on many things, except sometimes they weren’t really things at all.
“Oi! Are you listening?” Hiroki, the cute little assistant professor, glared pointedly at him. Miyagi gave a lazy wave and smile, and returned to the mound of papers on his desk, idly picking out one or two before sorting them back in. “I said that the book store owner called. They have what you wanted in stock.”
“Oh? Which book?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“It was a long time ago,” Miyagi said, “Come now, come now, you can’t expect me to remember everything, do you, No-wa-ki-?” Each syllable made Hiroki tremble more in rage, and Miyagi smiled. He liked their relationship because it had boundaries and he was always in control.
“I don’t remember! Go ask her for yourself!” And Hiroki stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A stack of books trembled and then collapsed, and Miyagi watched it. It fell like a pile of cards, one after the other, in no particular order. The smoke in the room fogged his eyes, and for a second, he thought he was seeing his life fall to the ground instead.
--
When he got home, there was nobody there.
He wasn’t sure what he expecting. That uncute kid, maybe, standing there with his uncute eyes. And in his high school uniform, no less, making it way too obvious why they shouldn’t be in love. What was he thinking? It was a good riddance he was gone.
He tossed his coat on the empty sofa, and lingered for a moment.
Yeah.
A good thing he was gone.
He opened the refridgerator to a mound of cabbages in their green delight, one after another. With a soft sigh, he removed his cigarette and grinded it against his ashtray. He turned to the cabbage menace again, and began to remove one so he could toss them away.
But then again, he thought, before he even touched the cold leaf, it would be a waste.
Since he couldn’t eat the cabbages, he ended up calling in for take-out. The food was cold, and there was something sour-tasting about it. He only ate half of it, before storing the rest in the freezer. With an elaborately loud yawn, he returned to his bedroom and began to undress.
But it seemed like there were eyes staring at him from the bed, needy and unsure.
He slept on the sofa that night.
--
The next morning, when he walked inside the university, he was surprised to see a flash of a high school uniform. He did a double-take, but the vest was from another high school, and the kid was definitely cuter than Shin—than that other kid.
“Probably somebody’s sibling,” Hiroki said, once Miyagi mentioned it to him in the office. “Why? Are you annoyed by them?”
There was something honest in his eyes, so Miyagi couldn’t tease him. “I thought you’d be the more annoyed,” he laughed, sitting behind his cold desk. “All the kids call you a demon.”
“Brats,” Hiroki mumbled, returning to his computer. The click-clack of the keyboard filled the room. “But they’re not bad. Or else I wouldn’t be a teacher.”
That was true. No matter how much Hiroki yelled, the students still came to him for help, and he would sit at his desk and explain to them in a grumpy, unhappy tone.
“Besides, that other high school student that came here wasn’t so bad.”
Miyagi had been lighting his cigarette, but now his lighter froze mere centimeters away from his cigarette. He slowly flicked it off, and stared at Hiroki’s back. “What high schooler?”
“Don’t know. Thought he was looking for you at first, but he said he wasn’t.” Hiroki had a scowl on his face when he turned to retrieve a book, before he turned back to the computer. “Didn’t feel good about kicking him out of the office. I let him stay here for the night. Had to call somebody and tell them I was staying the entire night.”
“What did he look like?” Miyagi wondered how his voice sounded. To him, it sounded pinched and strange, and so far away.
“Ehh?” Now Hiroki turned, unhappiness scrawled on his face. “Blond hair, big eyes. Kinda cute, I guess.” He turned back again, bent over his books.
“Did he say anything?”
“Did you know that kid or something?”
“No,” Miyagi said. He tried to calm down his trembling hands. “No, I was just curious.” Anybody could see through that lie, but Hiroki must have been drawn into his work.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, no, he just sat there and cried a lot.”
“Cried?”
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. I gave him my coat and everything.”
“Your coat—“ Miyagi suddenly stood up. The scraping noise of the chair must have startled Hiroki because he turned around, only to be gripped by the collar. Miyagi’s eyes burned into his confused ones.
“Did you do anything else to him?”
“What?”
“Did you take advantage of him?”
“N-No!” Hiroki struggled. “What sort of pervert do you take me as--?”
Miyagi’s grip loosened, and he turned around, trying to control the raging feelings within him. It felt like a sea had broken loose, and he put a hand to his forehead, breathing shallowly.
Hiroki must have been confused, but the click-clacking began again after a while. “I don’t know what type of person you take me as,” he said gruffly, but it was clear there was another emotion mixed inside. “Who’d be cruel enough to take advantage of a crying high schooler?”
Miyagi flinched.
--
At first he hadn’t noticed anything, because he just wanted to get it over with. It was a simple task, one two three, and then he would be in peace. So what if the other person was small—so what if the other person whimpered—just concentrate, just focus on the pleasure and the control, because he was in control of this situation.
Thrusting in, breathing out, thrusting out, breathing in, or was it the other way around, except it had been so tight, so incredibly tight and felt good to just thrust and push and breath and be in control, that was the thing, be in control, hot, sweaty, sticky, skin.
“It hu-hurts—“
In beween his legs, warm, warm pleasure shot up, coiled in his belly, sweat dripped off his nose, it had become slick, still so tight, he wasn’t relaxing what was the other person doing
“It—It really hurts--!”
He was in control. He was in control. He was in control.
Until he looked up, just briefly, to see that it was a high schooler’s clothes scattered on the floor.
--
He drove by the bookstore to pick up the book. The saleslady handed it to him with a knowing smile, and he had to smile back, even if it was just nervously.
On his way home, there was a traffic jam. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel before his eyes fell on the brown-paper package sitting on the passenger’s seat. He took it with his hands. It felt like a good, sturdy book, fairly new.
When he tore off the wrapper, the cigarette fell from his mouth.
One Hundred and Fifty Ways to Cook Cabbage.
Huh.
--
Back at his house, he sat on his sofa, staring at the television. It was playing a special celebrity program, but he didn’t care about any of them. In his mind, he could still hear Shinobu’s strong, clear voice.
“Just sleep with me once! And I’ll never bother you again!”
Stupid kid.
It didn’t work that way. And what was with the tears in his eyes? And the way he gripped on his shirt? Didn’t he realize that it just showed how needy he was? Stupid.
The book sat on his coffee table, and he flipped it open. Nothing looked particularly appetizing—no, it was beyond that. He hated cabbage. He hated cabbage absolutely. But his refrigerator was filled to the brim with the green vegetable, and now he had 150 ways to cook it. With a sigh, he let the book fall from his fingers, and he leaned back on the sofa.
He didn’t want that kid to be on his mind.
It wasn’t—it wasn’t love.
But maybe it was shame and regret.
--
They breathed heavily for a while, before Miyagi dragged himself out of bed. He clumsily found his pants, and pulled them on. After another minute of silent searching in the hazy room, he found his shirt, and he pulled it on.
He told himself not to look back. The situation was in control. The situation was in control. The situation was in control.
“Hey,” he said, and glanced at Shinobu. “Lock the door when you lea—“ Shinobu’s face was red. It was blotchy red, and he was trembling, clutching at the blanket needily, and he was breathing erratically, and he was crying.
“When you leave.” Miyagi ducked his head and closed the door behind him.
Because he was in control of the situation.
--
Shame and regret and sorrow, and he was fed up, and he was angry. Always, always, there was Shinobu! Always. And he hated it. And he hated that the sight was always of his blotchy face, crying. Always crying.
Why was he crying? He looked better when he—when he smiled, damnit.
And he wasn’t calling because he was in love.
He was calling because there was cabbage in his refrigerator, and there was a book that he didn’t want, and he wanted to sleep in his own bedroom again, and he didn’t want to look at Hiroki suspiciously because he might have embraced a crying high school student, and he didn’t want his ashtray to be always full.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Shinobu?” Miyagi swallowed and put out his cigarette. “It’s me. Miyagi.”
--
He had bought the love doll with no expectations. Though, of course, it was only later that he realized he did indeed have expectatations—and that was, the love doll should have been a girl. Except now on his doorstop, there was a boy with cat ears and a cat tail, and a blank expression on his face, in a slightly jawed look.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong house,” Tamaki said kindly, because he was a kind person overall. He was a little shy about these things, loose with his change, always trying to find his keys, but other than that, he was otherwise kind. He smiled down at the catboy. “Are you looking for someone else?”
“NEGATIVE.”
“Eh-“
“This is the location of owner R338dslash3. Correct.” The catboy moved across the room robotically. Cringing, Tamaki found himself following, though he closed the door behind him as an absent-minded note, and a note of assurance. He trailed behind the catboy, who sat down on the sofa. Suddenly, he glanced around the room, a close to a one eighty as he could get, and then reverted his attention back to the television.
“Ah-you are-“
“The Cat Love Doll, Tamaki, owner.” The catboy looked at him. Despite his mechanized way of saying those types of things, he was really quite adorable, with large eyes, and black hair that strung to his neck, and black clothes, as well. He brought a small suitcase with him, which now sat on the desk and was making itself at home. And by saying making itself, it truly was “making itself.” It had built out the little robots and everything, and drilled its way through the glass coffee table, burying deeply until it could no longer get unattached. Taken aback, Tamaki thought better than saying anything.
“Would you like to procreate now, yes no.”
“Wh-what? No! No, of course not!” Tamaki threw up his arms, flailing a bit, unhappy with the new development. “I didn’t order a boy!”
“Gender was unspecificed.”
He must have forgotten to click the button. He sighed, sitting down on the sofa, and leapt up again only to realize that he had left the remote control at that location. The television turned on, a romantic drama came on. Love Love On the Spring Night, or smoething like that. Tamaki never truly watched those tuypes of shows, but only glanced at it briefly now. At least it paved the way to a short silence before everything came back together again. He sighed, leaning aginst the wall, and deciding ultimately to not say anything about such things.
When he aimed to shut it off, and discuss the ramficiations of such actions, the catboy swiftly grabbed the remote control from Tamaki’s hand, and held it hostage.
“What?” Tamaki asked, aghast. Now the cat boy was even taking over his television!
“This is a good show, yes, yes.” The cat boy stared at it.
“Ah.” Tamaki rubbed his head.
“If you do not feel that I am of your desire, then you are free to send me back with no charge.” The cat boy did not turn away from the television, where the romantic passion was still ensuing, as a girl was forced to choose between her loves dramatically. He never had quite a taste for such dramatics, in any case.
“No, I can’t just send you back—“
“Do not be mistaken, owner R333. I am merely a doll. I have no feelings.” He took the remote control and put it down on the table, far from TAmaki’s reach. He resumed the hsape of an attentive television viewer.
Though Tamaki knew this—and how he knew it--! He still felt terrible about sending him back. He surely must have come a long way. Uneasily, he looked at the kitchen. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Negative. I am watching a television program. Please leave.”
Tamaki knew that it was only a doll, but he wondered why it got him so riled. With a slight hmph, he left to go to his bedroom and began to fumble his way through his pajamas. It wasn’t until the program was over did he see the doll again, as he went to see if the doll needed a place to sleep for the night.
“Negative.” The cat boy was paying more attention to him now, since the romance had ended. It was, however, flipping through the television program listings in hopes for the next episode. “I merely go into Sleep mode. I am capable of sleeping anywhere, positive.”
“Well,” Tamaki said unsurely, “Nights get cold, and you can always sleep in my bed.”
“If you wish to copulate, then please state it as an order, positive.” The catboy was now studying him intently. Tamaki blushed. It was certainly a bad idea to buy him! Even if it was from a catalog. He shook his head furiously.
“Go to sleep!” He stormed away, and closed the door firmly behind him, still trembling with some sort of rage and shame and sleepiness.
--
He worked as an average salaryman,