Second Serenade: Chapter 22
They let several buses go by. She
got on a bus again and again, rode to the next stop, then came back. Because
Hayashida kept rejecting every take. Even though they had neither the time nor
the money, he refused to compromise. This was one of those oddly particular
things he wouldn’t bend on.
Leaning against the concrete wall,
sweat beaded slowly on his back and forehead. His T-shirt clung to his body and
wouldn’t peel away. His shadow was small beneath him, and there wasn’t a single
spot of shade to take refuge from the harsh sunlight.
He waited for his movie-only
lover. Spotted her and followed her with his eyes. Told himself she was Sunahara.
Told himself he was so madly in love with her he couldn’t stand it. It was
about an hour into this when it happened—he caught a glimpse, by sheer chance,
of a familiar profile on one of the buses. It startled him.
Seen through the bus window: a white
shirt, a dull blue tie. A slender profile with long, narrow eyes. Hashimoto had
said he spent his days buried in documents and his computer at work. There was
no way he would be riding a bus that passed through a place like this.
Narrowing his eyes, he tried to be sure. But before he could decide whether it
was or wasn’t him, the bus had already started moving.
The bus shimmered and vanished into
the wavering heat haze. He ran after it in a panic, but once he realized he
would never catch up, his legs stopped on their own. He remembered—he was
supposed to walk. So he started moving again.
He walked, stepping on the shadow of
himself curled small on the pavement. The sound of cars drowned out Hayashida’s
voice, so it took a long time for his “OK” to reach Kakegawa’s ears.
◇:-:◆:-:◇
Beside the bed, a small
constellation globe gave off a faint glow. Just a bit larger than a spread-out
hand, the round sphere also functioned as an alarm clock, letting out soft
electronic beeps to signal the time.
He used to have an antique silver
alarm clock with twin bells, but not long ago, he’d kicked it by accident while
getting out of bed and broke it. Feeling guilty, Kakegawa offered to replace
it, but was gently turned down—“I’ve got particular taste.”
Still, fearing that he might come
back with another obnoxiously loud one, Kakegawa gifted him this the very next
day.
“I appreciate it, but… it’s a little
childish, don’t you think…”
Hashimoto hadn’t exactly loved it,
but he hadn’t thrown it away either. He placed it in the bedroom. For Kakegawa,
who had wanted to add even a touch of warmth to the sterile room, it was, in a
way, a success.
He sat up and peered at the glowing
globe. It was a little past 2 a.m. In the dim light, he traced a hand slowly
along the bare curve of his neck and down to his chest. Hashimoto’s body
shifted like a cat’s, eyes fluttering slowly in drowsy contentment, letting out
a small yawn as if about to fall asleep at any moment.
“Hashimoto-san.”
No reply. His well-shaped profile
stayed still. When Kakegawa softly rubbed the now-limp member with his
fingertips, Hashimoto’s back twitched.
“I bought O'Donnell’s CD,” Kakegawa
said.
Hashimoto quickly grabbed Kakegawa’s
wrist, stopping his hand.
“Okay, okay, I get it… Just—stop
touching…”
“I want to touch a little more.”
He stroked, rubbed, and pressed the
now-fully hardened base, whispering in his ear,
“I wanted some background knowledge
before going to the concert.”
“Don’t… hngh, tease me like that…”
When he obediently pulled back and
cupped the tip with his right hand, a breathy sigh escaped. He felt liquid pool
in his palm. Wiping his soiled hand, he gathered Hashimoto into his arms.
“The violin… it’s such a beautiful
sound. I think I might actually enjoy classical music now and then.”
When he leaned in to see his face,
Hashimoto averted his gaze. Then he pulled away from Kakegawa’s arms and
scooted toward the wall. But the bed was too narrow for that—when Kakegawa
shifted closer, Hashimoto ended up pinned between the wall and Kakegawa’s body.
“I’m really looking forward to the
concert,” he said.
Hashimoto still wouldn’t meet his
eyes. He had probably already noticed the tickets were missing.
Feigning gratitude for being taken
along, Kakegawa kissed his cheek. Resting his ear against that thin back, he
wondered what this man was thinking right now—and how interesting it would be
if he could hear it.
“…About that.”
The voice echoed from deep within
his body.
“My boss’s wife is apparently a big
fan of O’Donnell, and when I mentioned I had tickets, she begged me to give
them to her. O’Donnell’s really popular, you know, and the show’s sold out.
It’s impossible to get tickets now.”
He placed his right hand over
Hashimoto’s heart. He could feel the steady thump against his palm.
“Your boss’s wife?”
“Yeah, my boss. So when she asked me
so insistently, I couldn’t really say no. I had to give them up. Which means I
can’t go anymore.”
It was a lie. There were no tickets
to give—he’d already thrown them away. Hashimoto had made up the story on the
spot, not even considering the possibility that it might be obvious.
“I was really looking forward to
it…”
Kakegawa muttered with a
disappointed expression, and Hashimoto’s face twisted visibly with irritation.
“I paid for those tickets myself,
remember? I don’t see why I should have to put up with your complaints just
because I can’t go.”
He had a point. When Kakegawa looked
up at him, Hashimoto frowned.
“What are you smiling about? You’re
creepy.”
“It’s nothing.”
If the tickets were really gone, why
not just admit, “I lost them”? Why lie? Was it that he didn’t want to own up to
a careless mistake?
There was a certain relief in that.
It made Kakegawa hate himself for testing people like this—but then again,
there were people even worse. Seeing someone like Hashimoto—arrogant, selfish,
always lying, and never the least bit kind—made Kakegawa feel like maybe he
wasn’t so bad after all. And that gave him a small sense of comfort.
As he stroked the soft hair of the
man drifting off to sleep, he wondered when he had become this kind of person.
Had he always been this way, even as a child? Or had it developed over time?
Either way… if he was still like this in his thirties, then unless he chose to
change, unless someone said something to make him change, he’d probably stay
this way.
That thought struck Kakegawa as a
little bit sad.
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