COLD THE FINAL: Chapter 13

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Summer

Maybe it was the driver’s inexperience—he’d gotten the route wrong. He was probably an immigrant, and his English was rough, making it increasingly tedious to explain where they wanted to go. In the end, Kaito Akizawa got out of the taxi. They were only about ten minutes away on foot, and even in midsummer, New York nights were cool. There was none of that sticky, oppressive humidity clinging to the nape of the neck like in a Japanese heatwave.

As the building they were headed for came into view, the feeling of “I’m back” hit him. It just proved how often he’d been coming to this place. His hurried stride came to an abrupt halt the moment he rounded the corner. It was a little past eleven, so of course the first-floor store was closed—but the room above it, the CRUX office that also doubled as Masahiko Kusuda’s residence, was dark too.

He pressed the intercom by the door. No response. Thinking Kusuda might be asleep, he pressed it ten more times in a row—but nothing. The silence was absolute.

“…Why isn’t he here…”

He had told Kusuda he’d be coming to New York tomorrow. But the shoot in Arizona had wrapped up earlier than expected, so he’d jumped on the last flight to New York. He wanted to see the person he loved as soon as possible—even just a few seconds earlier, for a few seconds longer.

“I’ll surprise him. Shock him a little,” he’d said.

His manager, Kuma, had dryly advised, “I really think you should let Kusuda-san know beforehand. He might have plans.”

“If I tell him, it’s not a surprise anymore!”

“Unless it’s for a birthday or anniversary, surprise visits are—frankly—a nuisance.”

Maybe he saw Akizawa’s sour expression, because Kuma had tacked on, “Well… that’s just how I feel about it.” At the time, Akizawa had just thought, what a boring guy, but now, staring up at the dark window, he felt a small flicker of regret. Maybe he should have told Kusuda in advance.

And of all times, he didn’t even have his smartphone. He realized it was missing during the flight, and once he arrived at the airport, the only number he had memorized besides Kusuda’s was his father’s. He called Numata, who got in touch with Kuma. Apparently, he’d left the phone at the hotel where he’d been staying. Kuma, who was coming to New York as originally planned, would deliver it to Kusuda’s apartment the next day.

Should he look for an open hotel? Or wait for Kusuda to come back? He sighed. If only he hadn’t gone for the surprise. Why hadn’t Kuma been more insistent—“Let Kusuda know ahead of time.”

He sat outside the door for a while, but eventually drew the sharp, disapproving glare of a middle-aged man who looked like a tenant of the building. With no other choice, he moved to the far-right side of the storefront on the ground floor. On the left side, a heavily bearded Italian-looking man with a loud face was openly embracing a blonde woman, murmuring in low tones.

The man’s cigarette smoke drifted into the warm, shadowy night. The Italian laughed in a high-pitched voice that grated on Akizawa’s nerves. When he glanced over, he saw the man casually extinguish his cigarette against the store’s windowpane, then toss the butt into a potted plant.

Akizawa moved on reflex.

Striding up to the man with long steps, he glared and barked, “Hey.”

Sensing the hostility, the man responded with a cocky, defiant jerk of his chin. “What?”

“Don’t trash a store that belongs to someone I know!”

This was CRUX’s first overseas branch. Kusuda’s pride and joy. The man gave a careless “Ah, my bad,”—and then, as if mocking him, spat on the window where the ash still lingered.

"That cleaned it up real good, huh?"

Akizawa grabbed the man's collar. The woman let out a shriek and stumbled back. He raised his right hand to punch, but the man caught his arm mid-swing. Reflexively, Akizawa kicked him hard in the shin, making the man howl, "Agh!" as he hunched over. But when he raised his head, his eyes had changed—from stray dog to wolf.

"You son of a bitch!"

The man roared and threw a punch. Akizawa managed to dodge, but the man's fist grazed his right ear. If he got hit in the face, it would be bad—he had work after the break. He tried to hold his ground, kicking back to keep distance, but the man quickly closed in, grabbed his collar, and hurled him. His back slammed into a trash can, which clattered noisily to the ground. The man lunged to drag Akizawa up and keep hitting him, but Akizawa shot a kick upward from the floor.

Somehow, during the scuffle on the sidewalk, a small crowd had gathered to watch. Then, all of a sudden, something cold splashed down on their heads. Akizawa and the Italian guy both looked up in surprise—there, leaning out from a third-floor window above Kusuda’s apartment, was an old lady holding an empty bucket.

"Enough already!" she shouted.

"I’m calling the cops, you goddamn punks!"

The crowd erupted in applause at the lady’s performance. The man clicked his tongue and melted into the onlookers, the blonde woman trailing behind him. The old lady disappeared, the crowd dispersed, and Akizawa, soaked to the bone, was left standing there like the last fool on earth.

All he’d done was call out a guy for being a jerk—and he got thrown around for it. On top of that, he was drenched in water. His T-shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin. He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying droplets everywhere. Today sucked. It was the worst night.

He had no spare clothes. He could try drying them or buying new ones, but it was late, and who knew if any stores were open. Aimless, he dragged his feet toward a brighter street. The bars and clubs were still buzzing, neon signs lighting up the night, but clothing stores? All closed. Except for one place—strangely bright, lit up like a crime scene: a laundromat. It was open twenty-four hours, the interior harshly lit, rows of washers and dryers lining the space. And yet only a few people were inside.

And there—he was there.

At first, Akizawa thought it had to be a hallucination, born of his overwhelming longing. He burst into the shop. The moment he realized it was really him, his body temperature skyrocketed five degrees.

Kusuda was sitting in one of the plastic chairs against the wall. Dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, he was tilted slightly to the side, fast asleep, quietly breathing through his nose. Across the linoleum aisle, one of the massive dryers, big enough for a person to crawl into, was spinning with a low hum. Kusuda had probably dozed off waiting for his laundry to finish.

Akizawa was glad to see him, but the situation was so unfamiliar he didn’t know what to do. He paced back and forth in front of Kusuda, unsure. If he was asleep, he wouldn’t want to be woken—but still, Akizawa wanted to talk to him.

He felt a stare and turned to find a Black woman sitting diagonally across from them, eyeing him with suspicion. Did she think he was scoping the place for someone to rob?

Quietly, Akizawa sat down next to Kusuda. It was hot inside. Maybe they were skimping on air conditioning to save on the electricity bill—it was a laundromat in the middle of the night, after all. That’s when it hit him: he was still soaking wet. But hey, this was a laundromat.

There were open dryers. He peered into one but couldn’t figure out how to use it. So he approached the woman and asked, "Can you show me how to use the dryer?"

Without a word, she walked over, demonstrated once with a few gestures, and quickly returned to her seat with a clear don't involve me any further attitude.

Akizawa pulled off his T-shirt and shoved it into one of the empty dryers. Mimicking the woman’s earlier gestures, he fed coins into the slot. The dryer rumbled to life with a guon guon, spinning steadily. Still shirtless, Akizawa returned to the plastic chair beside Kusuda. He kicked off his sandals, pulled his knees to his chest, and perched his heels on the edge of the seat.

His elbow brushed lightly against Kusuda’s, and he quickly drew it back. This was the third summer since they’d started trying to mend their relationship. In the beginning, Kusuda had told him not to come near. They’d had to walk or sit at least two meters apart. That distance had gradually shrunk, until now, sitting side by side was okay. But physical contact—especially unannounced—was still off-limits.

Kusuda was still afraid of him. It was better now, but if Akizawa accidentally touched any part of him, even slightly, Kusuda’s face would immediately stiffen. It used to be that just approaching would trigger that reaction, so this was progress. Akizawa was waiting—waiting for the day Kusuda’s fear disappeared, waiting until he could touch him without hesitation.

The dryer spun on in the harshly bright room, guon, guon, like it might dizzy him just from watching. A young woman entered and loudly slammed shut the door of a machine after retrieving her laundry. Someone else shouted, “Is the AC busted or what?!”—and still, Kusuda didn’t stir.

His quiet breathing, soft and rhythmic, was close by. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his neck, tilted limply to the right. A faint scent of Kusuda drifted over. The chest of his T-shirt was damp with sweat, darkened with moisture, and faint stubble shadowed his chin. His head suddenly dipped to the side, bringing his face just a few centimeters from Akizawa’s own. It had been a long time since he’d seen Kusuda’s face this close. His heart kicked into a full sprint.

Kusuda slept unguarded, bathed in the dryer’s gentle rumble. Akizawa noticed a little fold beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt and reached out, hesitantly. He didn’t touch Kusuda—only the fabric. But even so, Kusuda let out a small grunt, “Nngh,” and Akizawa jerked his hand back. …God always caught him when he tried to cheat.

He turned his attention to the dryer instead, because looking at Kusuda only made his heart ache. The spinning drum blurred and looped before his eyes, and before he realized it, Akizawa’s consciousness slipped away.

“Hey. Wake up.”

A light thump to his chest. Akizawa jolted upright. Something warm was resting against him—a large bag of laundry. Standing in front of him was Kusuda.

“You said you weren’t coming till tomorrow.”

“Work finished early.”

“Mm.” Kusuda pulled the laundry bag toward himself, hoisting it over his back.

“Why the hell are you shirtless? Man, I woke up and you’re snoring next to me—I freaked out. How the hell did you even know I was here?”

The round window of the dryer showed only stillness now—it had stopped. Akizawa retrieved his T-shirt, gave it a quick shake to cool it off, then tugged it over his head. “I think it was fate,” he said seriously.

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