Second Serenade: Chapter 36

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Second Serenade: What Came After

When he was made to put on a thick sweater topped with a gaudy windbreaker in a clashing primary color—definitely not what one would call tasteful—and even had a pair of black leather gloves firmly pulled onto his hands, Michiya Hashimoto couldn’t help feeling rather displeased. He hadn’t been keen on coming along in the first place, but when he was told to come, he resigned himself and put on his shoes.

A fleeting glance at the mirror in the entryway caught his reflection. The outfit looked cheap, and that made him feel as if he had become cheap too. The thought dampened his mood.

Though it was already December, the early afternoon sun made the weather relatively mild. It didn’t feel cold enough to warrant such heavy clothing. But completely unaware of these silent grumblings, his lover took Hashimoto’s hand and led him along.

They ended up behind the apartment building, at the bicycle parking area. There, his lover yanked a large vinyl sheet aside with a dramatic flourish.

“…What is this?”

Hashimoto frowned. Beneath the sheet sat a motorcycle. Its deep wine-red body, polished to a gleam, shimmered dully in the light, as if trying to draw out Hashimoto’s apprehension.

“A Zephyr 400. Though I bet that doesn’t mean anything to you,” said Kakegawa Susumu—his impudent lover, twelve years his junior—as he smirked and fit a helmet over Hashimoto’s head.

The unfamiliar pressure of the full-face helmet made Hashimoto flinch and shake his head, but Kakegawa pressed down firmly from above.

“Don’t move.”

The chin strap was snapped into place. Kakegawa put on his own helmet and swung one leg over the motorcycle. Then, with a flick of his finger, he pointed to the seat behind him.

“Get on.”

Hashimoto’s mouth twisted involuntarily. He’d ridden in cars plenty of times, but this was his first time on a motorcycle—whether behind or in front. Honestly, it scared him. While he hesitated and wavered, Kakegawa impatiently slapped the tank.

“Hurry up. Don’t tell me you’re actually scared of riding behind me?”

The tone was mocking, and it made Hashimoto bristle. Saying nothing, he moved with unsteady steps and awkwardly swung his leg over the tank.

“Hands go here.”

Kakegawa guided Hashimoto’s arms around his waist so they crossed at the front.

“Holding onto the back gives more stability, but I figured that’d scare you more. Oh—and when we hit curves, the motorcycle’s gonna lean. Don’t resist it. Just follow my lead and let your body lean with mine.”

The engine started. In alarm, Hashimoto clutched tighter around Kakegawa’s midsection. Something about the movement of his abdomen felt unnatural, and when Hashimoto looked up, he saw Kakegawa’s shoulders shaking with laughter.

He felt mortified at how scared he’d gotten just from the engine revving—and before he even had time to process that embarrassment, the motorcycle pulled away, rumbling onto the narrow one-way road.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The wind was so loud that he couldn’t hear a thing. Trembling from the vibrations that ran straight through his waist, Hashimoto clung desperately to the broad back in front of him. Even during sex, I don’t hold on this tight, he thought absently.

Thanks to the heavy layers he’d been forced into, the rest of his body didn’t really feel the cold—but the strip of exposed skin at the nape of his neck, where the wind struck directly, was freezing.

He rubbed his body against that back. Younger, cocky, mean-spirited. And yet… he was the one Hashimoto had run to.

His engagement had collapsed. At work, he'd been demoted. His sense of self-worth had been shattered at its foundation. Driven into a corner, even breathing had become painful. So he ran—ran from everything.

The place he’d escaped to wasn’t exactly safe or comforting either, but it was still better than where he’d been. Even so… Hashimoto clicked his tongue. Couldn’t he ease up on being so damn petty? he thought, annoyed. When they’d first started dating, the guy had been quiet. But the longer they were together, the more impudent he became.

Just that morning, around ten, Hashimoto had been woken up by Kakegawa and sat down at the table for a late breakfast. One glance at the spread in front of him had made him sigh.

Croissants, salad, coffee. The same exact menu for the past week.

“This is getting old. Maybe you should change things up a little—expand your repertoire or something,” he said.

Kakegawa had raised an eyebrow and grinned smugly. “Don’t be like that. I only make the same thing every morning because you like it.”

The day after Hashimoto had run to Kakegawa’s apartment, he’d been a bit selfish and requested that specific breakfast. Ever since, Kakegawa had made a point of serving it every morning, his tone dripping with sarcasm. When Hashimoto went quiet, Kakegawa had peered gleefully into his face and chuckled.

“Don’t go acting like a kid and leaving it just because you’re sick of it. You should know your place—you’re a freeloader, remember?”

It was a jab directed at Hashimoto: a man in his thirties, now jobless, who’d run away with not a cent to his name to shack up with a college student. The sheer humiliation of it made his stomach churn, but he had no comeback. He ate what was in front of him. Kakegawa, for reasons unknown, had watched him the entire time like it was hilarious.

Suddenly, the motorcycle jerked to a halt with a sharp brake. Hashimoto had thought the wait at the light was a bit long, but then came the order: “Get off.”

They had apparently arrived at their destination. At last, blessed solid ground underfoot.

He pulled off his helmet and looked around. The area was surrounded by low mountains—just a wide, wintry field stretched out in every direction, all faded browns. A desolate place… and yet, people were here. Several were rushing back and forth across the field.

He looked up at Kakegawa, standing beside him.

“This is today’s shooting location.”

His boyfriend grabbed Hashimoto’s wrist, pulling him forward and leading him slowly toward the bustle.

Kakegawa had once starred in a friend’s indie film. That had led to a role in a real one—and this was the set of that production. Which was how Hashimoto had ended up being dragged here.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

A tall man with a gentle face, seemingly a little older than Hashimoto, was someone Kakegawa addressed as Murashita. Then he grabbed Hashimoto’s shoulder and shoved him toward the man.

“You said you were short on help with props, right? I brought you a new temp.”

“I don’t remember hearing anything about this,” the man replied.

Hashimoto turned around in a panic, only to be met with a cold, sharp look from Kakegawa.

“You’re not doing anything anyway. Might as well work a bit—you’ll get paid.”

With that, he left Hashimoto behind and headed off to where the rest of the crew had gathered.

Left standing there all alone, Hashimoto clenched his fists and trembled. He’d been brought here without consent, and now he was being told to work. Temp job, my ass. He couldn’t stand to stay another second.

“Ah, what a relief. We really are shorthanded,” came a leisurely voice from above.

The man called Murashita looked down at Hashimoto with a warm smile.

“I’m Murashita. And you are…?”

“Hashimoto,” he replied, since he’d been asked.

“Nice to meet you, Hashimoto-san. By the way, are you any good at sewing?”

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