B.L.T: Chapter 07

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Omiya had gotten his driver’s license fifteen years ago. He’d taken it in the summer of his first year at university and bought a used car almost immediately. Since then, he had all but forgotten what a beginner’s driving could be like.

Sure, the gear shift in this car was beside the steering wheel, different from the cars at driving school, but it was still an automatic. There was no need for complicated gear changes while driving. So, he hadn’t been particularly worried about the younger man’s driving… at least, not until they actually got in the car.

For a beginner, clumsy braking was inevitable, and Omiya could accept that much. But once they pulled out onto the national highway, he found himself clutching the assist handle above the window in the passenger seat, and unable to let go.

“K–Kitazawa.”

“Mm? What?”

Having gotten behind the wheel of the car he’d wanted for so long, his mood was buoyant.

“I’ve been wondering for a while now… do you ever look at the rearview mirror?”

“Rearview mirror?”

Omiya frowned. He had suspected as much, that Kitazawa wasn’t checking it.

“They taught you in driving school, didn’t they? Check behind you every few hundred meters. And another thing, stop slowing down by easing off the accelerator. When you reduce speed, use the brake so the car behind you can see it.”

“Huh.”

Kitazawa turned to glance at him, just as the car ahead flicked on its left turn signal and began to slow.

“F–Front! Look ahead!”

At Omiya’s shout, Kitazawa jerked his gaze forward and hit the brake. They hadn’t gotten close enough to actually collide, but without a warning it might have been dangerous. A trickle of cold sweat slid down Omiya’s cheek. His own heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears.

“What the hell, that car? Turning all of a sudden like that.”

Yes, the car in front had moved abruptly, but Kitazawa hadn’t been watching properly, and his following distance had been far too short.

“Turn right at the next corner.”

Kitazawa cast him a sidelong glance, then switched on the right signal.

“That way we can get to the coast road. There’s less traffic than the highway, it’ll be good for practice.”

The entrance to the quiet coastal road was lined with hotel signs, oddly conspicuous in the night. Omiya hadn’t chosen the bay road for that reason, but it still felt awkward. Only when the glowing signs faded into the distance, leaving nothing but the dark view of the sea, did he feel an unaccountable sense of relief.

“Pull over by that seawall. Let’s take a break.”

Kitazawa signaled left and stopped the car. Once the engine fell silent, Omiya finally released his grip on the handle. His left palm was stiff and damp with sweat. He’d thought to eat the snack during the drive, but hadn’t had the presence of mind. Never before had simply riding in the passenger seat left him so drained. Slumping back into the seat, he let out a long sigh.

“I did graduate driving school straight through, you know. Never failed the provisional license test or the final.”

Omiya clasped his hands over his eyes.

“Driving school isn’t the same as public roads. You have to pay more attention to your surroundings. Otherwise, you’ll cause an accident, and it’ll be a disaster.”

The door latch clunked, and when he turned, Kitazawa was getting out of the car. He said nothing as he walked away, which could only mean he was angry. Maybe Omiya had been too harsh, saying so much right from the start to someone who’d hardly driven since graduation.

He got out as well and walked toward the figure sitting on the seawall, shoulders rounded in a sulky curve.

“Sorry.”

From a short distance away, Omiya apologized to the rounded back before him.

“For what?”

Kitazawa’s reply was brusque.

“For nitpicking so much. I must have annoyed you.”

“Well, yeah, it ticked me off… but I guess I’m a crappy driver.”

He didn’t sound angry enough to be unreachable. Sitting on the seawall with one knee drawn up, he stared out at the dark sea. Past one in the morning, there were few cars on the bay road. Only the sound of waves echoed loud in the night. Even with his eyes closed, the same sound filled his ears, carrying with it the salty smell of the ocean.

“I got so caught up in driving, I forgot we were running along the coast.”

Kitazawa murmured it quietly. Omiya remembered something from five years ago, taking him along and driving endlessly by the seaside. But that memory was filled with the scorching sunlight of midday, not the night.

“When I was in junior high, you took me to Miyazaki, right? After that, I lived there until I started university.”

Omiya stepped closer, careful to keep a subtle distance between them, close enough to approach, far enough not to touch.

“That summer, while I was on vacation, my parents got divorced. My mom said, ‘It’s better this way while you’re off school.’ I thought, what a joke. She sold the house right away, shipped my stuff over, and I couldn’t even tell my friends I was moving. Not that it mattered, there wasn’t anyone I was close enough to care about leaving.”

Back then, as a junior high student, Kitazawa had been deeply unstable, demanding things, and if they didn’t happen, crying and raging. Omiya had thought it was just childish selfishness. Only now did he realize how deep-rooted it had been.

“…That must have been rough.”

Kitazawa tilted his head.

“Was it? These days, tons of kids have divorced parents. Besides, Miyazaki was way more fun than here. I figured my parents splitting up was actually a win. I made friends, learned scuba diving from my cousin and his younger brother, and spent every summer underwater. When I graduated high school, I thought I might become a diving instructor…”

He said he’d been in Miyazaki because of his parents’ divorce. A possibility flickered through Omiya’s chest. He’d thought the lack of contact meant he’d been rejected. But what if, back then, the only thing that had separated them was distance? He pushed away the convenient thought. If Kitazawa had wanted to stay in touch, if he’d wanted him nearby, he would have reached out. Omiya would have flown to Miyazaki in a heartbeat. Back then, even his work, once a shackle, had fallen away.

“If you loved diving so much, why go to university?”

Kitazawa let out a small sigh.

“My dad told me I should at least graduate. We don’t live together, but custody’s technically his. At first I refused, said it was a pain, but he kept pestering me about it. I didn’t want to be stubborn and make our already awkward relationship even worse. And besides, you can still become an instructor after graduating.”

A father who cared about keeping up appearances. A son without enough stubborn pride to rebel outright. Going to university hadn’t been about learning, it had just been the current he was swept along with.

“When I’d just moved to Miyazaki, I half expected you to show up.”

He pointed at Omiya and grinned.

“Because you were head over heels for me. All that ‘I love you’ stuff… even now, thinking about it makes my back itch.”

It was a good thing it was night. In the dark, even if his face flushed with that fierce mix of anger and embarrassment, Kitazawa wouldn’t notice. No matter how many years passed, Omiya still turned into a fool in front of this cheeky man. Overly conscious, the way he had been when Kitazawa once said he wanted to ride in the car, washing it first thing in the morning just to please him. And now, even with work tomorrow, here he was, going along with a midnight drive.

The sound of the waves mingled with silence, and a sudden impulse struck, to leave him here and drive away. Maybe then the miserable part of himself would feel a little vindicated.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m glad we met again.”

Push him down, then pull him back up. With that one sentence, Kitazawa made his emotions swing like a pendulum.

“I’ve been wondering about you all this time. You asked me to be your boyfriend, kissed me over and over, almost had your way with me… well, no wonder I can’t forget it.”

He had never been what anyone would call a good-natured person. Even back in junior high, he’d been the kind of kid who’d use an accusation of groping to threaten someone and extort money.

“You know bringing up the past puts me at a disadvantage,” Omiya said, his voice shaking.

“That’s why I’m saying it. If I just go home like this, I’ll be too frustrated to sleep.”

“Frustrated…?”

Kitazawa pouted, lips pushing forward in irritation.

“You were clinging to the handrail all obvious, like while I was driving, pretty rude, you know? I admit my driving’s not great, but you don’t have to make it so blatant. And then telling me not to control speed with the gas pedal, stuff like that, with that ‘tone.’”

So he had been more bothered by Omiya’s behavior than Omiya realized. With a sigh, Omiya conceded to the accuracy of his barbed complaints.

“Let’s head back. Get in the car… I’ll drive on the way home.”

Kitazawa looked up at him, eyes faintly hinting, I still want to drive, watching him intently.

“Don’t give me that face. It’s late, and you’re tired. I’ll let you drive in the daytime next time.”

The resentful look vanished in an instant. “Really?” Kitazawa asked, his face lighting up with such delight that it threw Omiya off balance.

By the time they reached the apartment, it was past three in the morning. The hallway was dark, so it seemed Chihiro was asleep. In the living room, Omiya ate the sandwich Kitazawa had given him. One by one, he recalled Kitazawa’s words and actions, each one that had made him happy or angry. Was the sandwich because he’d once said, at a food stall, that he was good at making them? Expecting that much from Kitazawa seemed like overreach, so he stopped himself.

Soft footsteps approached. Turning, he saw Chihiro in sweatpants standing at the living room entrance. Their eyes met, and Chihiro walked over.

“What are you doing?”

It was obvious, yet he asked. His expression wasn’t pleasant.

“I was hungry.”

Without hesitation, Chihiro’s hand plucked one of the sandwiches Kitazawa had given him. After a single bite, he grimaced and tossed it into the trash. Omiya almost let out an “Ah—” but swallowed it back.

“How can you eat something that tastes this bad? Yours are still better.”

Ignoring the condescending gaze, Omiya silently chewed the rest of the sandwich.

“You were back pretty late.”

The hand holding the coffee can paused for a moment. He’d only let Kitazawa drive, nothing to feel guilty about, but still, it was better not to mention him. Chihiro’s pride was high; if he found out Omiya had met with an old flame, his mood would only sour further.

Considering Chihiro’s own arrogance in bringing men into the apartment, Omiya felt he deserved the small freedom of chatting idly with someone from his past. So he kept his composure, and lied.

“I was working late,” Omiya said.

Chihiro kicked the sofa hard enough to startle him.

“It’s just a bookstore. How does overtime turn into this time of night?”

“There was a lot going on.”

Arms crossed, his lover let out a short, sharp laugh through his nose.

“If you slept with someone, just say so. I’ll still forgive you if you admit it now.”

“It really was work—”

A dull pain spread across his right cheek. It took a moment for him to register it as a slap.

“Then why’d you suddenly go out for a drive? Don’t think I’ll believe some convenient excuse about being ‘busy today of all days.’”

The sharpness of his intuition caught Omiya off guard. Chihiro had no problem cheating as much as he wanted, yet would never tolerate it from the other side. It was unfair to be on the receiving end of that anger. Meeting Kitazawa didn’t even count as cheating. Even if there was a trace of something like an ember left inside him, he knew it would never catch fire again.

“Once in a while, I think it’s nice to just go out for a drive. That’s all.”

With a movement that looked ready to turn into a punch, Chihiro grabbed Omiya by the front of his shirt and yanked it open. The fabric tore, buttons scattering. His boyfriend’s gaze fixed on his neck and chest, fingers stripping away his clothes in search of proof, marks left by someone else. More than any thrill at the jealousy, what Omiya felt was emptiness.

“I haven’t slept with anyone since I started seeing you.”

Chihiro dismissed the sincerity with a curt, “How would I know that?” Then, without warning, took him into his mouth.

Omiya realized instantly, it wasn’t out of love, but to check if there was “another man’s taste.” The thought cooled him, leaving his body slow to react. That hesitation only seemed to deepen Chihiro’s suspicion that he “must’ve done something somewhere,” and the irritation showed in his scowl and rough tongue.

Watching the soft hair sway between his thighs, Omiya wondered why he couldn’t be believed. After a while, it all began to feel tiresome, and he stopped thinking. When Chihiro finally hit the right spot to bring him to full arousal, he swung a leg over and straddled him. It was a position Omiya liked, but even with Chihiro’s practiced, precise movements, the kind of feverish excitement that gripped the whole body never came.

Pleasure, yes. Excitement, no. The only surprise was how cold Chihiro’s lips felt when he kissed him.

◇:, :◆:, :◇

That Thursday, Omiya had the day off, but Chihiro, as usual, didn’t say he wanted to go anywhere. Since accusing him of cheating four days ago, his attitude had grown even colder, to the point where if Omiya spoke to him, he might not bother to answer.

In the morning, Chihiro got dressed quickly and shut himself away in the private room he used as a study, not coming out again. Whether it was because he truly had work or simply didn’t want to deal with Omiya, he couldn’t say, but inwardly, Omiya felt relieved not to have to entertain him.

Taking advantage of the quiet, he slept late into the afternoon, then got up and watched TV in the living room. A door slammed open; he turned to see Chihiro walking down the hall, visible through the entranceway. Their eyes met, and without bothering to hide his bad mood, Chihiro said, dripping with sarcasm,

“Must be nice to have so much free time.”

It was his day off, how he spent it should be his own business. But when Chihiro was busy, even the sight of Omiya relaxing seemed to grate on him.

After Chihiro returned to his room, Omiya changed into a shirt and jeans, took his car keys and wallet, and stepped outside. The weather was beautiful, the blue of the sky almost hurt his eyes. He hadn’t been particularly eager to go anywhere, but being outside felt easier than staying cooped up at home.

He drove aimlessly through the city, and it was just after two in the afternoon when he pulled into the parking lot of a café tucked away on a back street.

The brick café hadn’t even been open two years, yet its floor and pillars were made from sturdy wood salvaged from a decades-old abandoned house, giving it a weighty, lived-in atmosphere from the start. Antique chairs and tables imported from France, chosen with the owner’s particular care, blended in naturally. Despite the abundance of antiques, the place didn’t feel stuffy, thanks to a south-facing glass wall and a skylight that poured in light.

The café was packed at lunch and dinner, but in the lull of a weekday afternoon, empty tables stood out more than the occupied ones. When Omiya settled on a stool at the counter, the owner, Takano, called out to him.

“Long time no see. Here alone today?”

Takano, dressed in a white shirt and black apron in a style reminiscent of a French garçon, wore it well. A bit older than Omiya, he looked slightly beyond his years because of the beard on his square jaw, but the beard suited his well-proportioned, long face, giving him a classical air like an actor from another era. Takano was also gay, a man Omiya had met through Chihiro.

“Chihiro’s busy,” Omiya replied.

This stylish café, with its refined atmosphere, was one of Chihiro’s favorites; whenever they went out together, they almost always stopped by.

“How’ve things been between you two lately?” Takano asked.

Omiya gave a wry smile. “Why do you ask that?”

Takano smiled vaguely, letting the question slide. The fact that he was probing at all meant some sort of story had reached his ears. Before Omiya, Chihiro had been involved with Takano. Early in their relationship, Omiya had felt pangs of jealousy toward the man Chihiro trusted so deeply and leaned on so freely. Now, he understood that Takano’s feelings toward Chihiro were closer to a guardian’s than a lover’s. Without Omiya having to order, an American coffee appeared at his hand. He took a sip, the aroma rich and pleasant.

“Has Chihiro’s fooling around gotten bad enough to catch even your attention?” Omiya asked.

Setting down the cloth he’d been polishing a wineglass with, Takano let out a quiet breath.

“Fooling around… I don’t know. It’s more like he seems irritable lately.”

“He’s bringing home men left and right and doing whatever he wants, what could he possibly be dissatisfied with?”

Takano didn’t answer, though he must have heard him.

“Do you think I’m getting what I deserve?”

Two years ago, it had been Omiya who took Chihiro from Takano. He’d wanted Chihiro badly enough to pursue him despite knowing he had a lover. Takano had let him go with surprising ease, but he’d kept hold of Chihiro’s trust as firmly as if it were clasped in his right hand.

“It’s not good to talk like that. I want you two to make it work, for Chihiro’s sake more than anything.”

Chided gently, Omiya lowered his gaze. He was disgusted with his own spiteful words, and the quiet, open way Takano absorbed them only deepened his sense of discomfort.

Noise rose near the entrance as a group of customers came in. Takano went to serve them, leaving Omiya alone.

Left with his cooling coffee, Omiya wondered how he was supposed to repair a relationship that had gone cold. He wanted to stay with Chihiro, even if Chihiro called him boring, but he couldn’t give him more time than he already did. The only option would be to switch to a job with more free hours, but somehow, that felt like the wrong answer.

From the table by the window behind him, a burst of loud laughter rang out. The sudden liveliness shattered the calm atmosphere of the café. Omiya considered leaving, but he’d only just ordered a sandwich because he was hungry. Deciding instead to distract himself with a magazine, he rose from his stool and walked toward the bookshelf, when a familiar voice reached his ears.

No way, he thought, turning around.

In the center of the boisterous group, Kitazawa was there.

The girl sitting next to him noticed Omiya’s gaze, tapped him on the shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. Kitazawa turned to look, their eyes meeting. After excusing himself from the table, he got up and came straight toward Omiya.

“Got the day off today?”

Jeans and a T-shirt, he fit right in with the group behind him. His grin was dazzling, and not just because of the backlight.

“Yeah,” Omiya replied.

“I saw your car in the parking lot and figured it was yours, so I looked around inside the place.”

“I was at the counter.”

Omiya’s eyes flicked toward the group of roughly ten people he’d been with. Two or three were watching them, their looks asking, Who’s that?

“The university’s nearby. First time I’ve been here, do you come often?”

“Sometimes.”

Kitazawa peered at Omiya’s face from below, as if trying to see through him.

“What’s with that startled look?”

Kitazawa laughed, clapped Omiya on the shoulder, and returned to the noisy circle of friends.

Hearing their lively conversation behind him, Omiya went back to the counter. He could feel, just beyond his reach, a world he didn’t know and couldn’t enter. On the table in front of him sat the sandwich he’d ordered. A simple BLT, just bacon, lettuce, and tomato, it was Chihiro’s favorite. Because Chihiro liked it, Omiya often made it at home… or rather, it was the only thing he could make.

As he was eating, Takano returned to the counter. “That kid you were talking to just now, someone you know?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

Takano’s gaze drifted toward him across the room.

“Bright kid. Cute, too.”

The sticky tone in his voice made Omiya quickly put up a wall.

“Even if you say that, I’m not introducing you. He’s just a normal kid.”

Omiya had barely finished speaking when a “Hey, hey,” came from behind him, making him jump.

The boy hopped onto the stool beside him, leaning both elbows on the counter and peering into Omiya’s face.

“You here alone? Got plans after this?”

Aware of Takano’s eyes on them, Omiya answered awkwardly, “Not really.”

“Let me drive your car. You said you’d let me next time during the day, remember? I’ve got my license and everything.”

“What about your friends?”

Kitazawa shrugged. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, waving his right hand. “We’re just sitting around talking. Now they’re saying something about going to karaoke, but I hate singing.”

Then he noticed the plate in front of Omiya.

“That a sandwich?”

Kitazawa stared at it without blinking, so Omiya asked, “Want some?”

“Really?” he replied instantly, eyes bright. It was so earnest that Omiya laughed, pushing the plate toward him. The boy took an unapologetically large bite.

“What is this? It’s insanely good.”

At his straightforward praise, Takano, standing behind the counter, smiled warmly.

“Thank you. I’m the one who made it.”

“Oh, really? It’s amazing.”

The boy flashed him a friendly smile. Takano’s eyes, pretending to be gentle yet actually sweeping over him like a caress, made Omiya feel an unpleasant twist inside.

“Are you a friend of Omiya’s?”

Takano’s tone carried a subtle probing edge.

“I work part-time at his bookstore,” Kitazawa replied honestly.

“Hmm,” Takano murmured.

“You two seem pretty close.”

“Do we?”

Kitazawa sidestepped the faintly loaded question with ease, then tugged at the sleeve of Omiya’s shirt.

“I found a used Doira the other day. Way older than yours, and it was going for eight hundred thousand yen. What do you think?”

“For a used one, that sounds about right.”

Omiya had no real hobbies, which left him with more disposable income than most. And the thought crept in, if Kitazawa wanted it that much, maybe he could just buy it for him. The idea scared him. Buying the car would be fine enough, pure self-indulgence. But wouldn’t he expect some kind of return from the boy in exchange?

“Do you like cars?” Takano cut in.

“Yeah,” Kitazawa answered, tilting his head slightly, his expression faintly puzzled as if wondering why Takano was joining in.

“The Doira, that’s Omiya’s car, right?”

“That’s right. I love that car, so I’ve been looking at all kinds of used ones, but it’s hard to find a good one. And four-wheel drives are expensive.”

“I know a used car dealer,” Takano said. “Want me to ask around for you?”

“Really?”

Takano smiled warmly. “If I find a good one, I’ll let you know. Can you give me your number?”

Before Omiya could interject, Takano had already gotten Kitazawa’s mobile number. Of course, Omiya knew it too, it was written on the résumé Kitazawa had submitted when applying for the job. During casual conversation, Takano also managed to draw out Kitazawa’s age and university. Omiya grew uneasy. Even if Takano took an interest and made a move, it wasn’t his place to interfere. Takano was single as far as he knew, and Kitazawa was free to date whomever he pleased. Feeling otherwise was just selfishness.

Kitazawa chatted with Takano as if enjoying himself, but once his university friends left the café, he turned to Omiya. “Let’s go.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said. “Got to drive my friend’s car a little since then.”

Leaving Takano with a casual “See you,” he ushered Omiya toward the exit, as though eager to get moving. It was plain enough where his priorities lay. More than talking, more than anything else, he wanted to drive. If Omiya was part of the equation at all, it was as an accessory, and the thought left him feeling hollow.

Seeing him slip naturally into the driver’s seat, Omiya remembered something. Ever since letting him drive the Doira that first time, he’d stopped taking the car to work. If he didn’t drive it, there’d be no chance for Kitazawa to plead with him again. He had remembered their promise, but he’d never intended to let him behind the wheel again. Even if nothing happened between them, just spending time together would be enough to make Chihiro sulk. No matter how much he told himself it wasn’t cheating, if his feelings for Kitazawa remained, maybe it was.

Buckle clicking in place, Omiya let out a breath. At the wheel, Kitazawa looked almost childishly happy. Watching that profile, Omiya wondered what he thought of him. Maybe he couldn’t be a boyfriend, but was a friend good enough?

“Anywhere you want to go?” Kitazawa asked lightly.

Instead of the question, Omiya found himself more distracted by how late the turn signal came on.

“Anywhere’s fine,” he said. “Wherever you want to go.”

After a moment of thoughtful silence, he muttered, “Guess the sea, after all,” flicked on the left turn signal, and eased the car into the far-left lane. The signal might have been on, but the lane change itself was abrupt; in the rearview mirror, Omiya saw the car behind them hesitate and slow down. He fought the urge to grab the door handle, all the while wondering if suggesting a beginner’s mark might hurt the boy’s pride.

“The other day, I got to drive a friend’s car,” Kitazawa said. “But not ten minutes in, he yelled at me to switch because he was scared. Am I really that bad?”

If Omiya answered honestly, he’d sulk, he’d done it before, and even retaliated for it. This time, he chose his words carefully.

“You’ll get better once you’re used to it.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Kitazawa said, frowning.

“When I drove my friend’s car, the other guys riding with us kept calling me ‘terrible’ and ‘distracted.’ It really got me down. Made me think you’re a lot more patient than they were.”

His steering was erratic enough to make Omiya uneasy, yet his speed stayed stubbornly high. The national highway was oddly empty, and just as he was wondering why, Omiya remembered, it was a weekday.

“Don’t you have classes today?”

“Yeah.” The answer came without the slightest hint of guilt.

“And it’s fine to skip?”

“I don’t go that much anyway. I’ve never liked studying, it’s boring.”

Omiya didn’t feel like criticizing him. If anyone had asked whether he’d been a diligent student in college, he wouldn’t have known how to answer. Kitazawa shot him a sidelong glance.

“Don’t tell me to go to school now.”

“I won’t.”

The fact that he even mentioned it suggested he did care, and that amused Omiya.

“But if you repeat a year, I’ll say it’s your own fault.”

“Wow. Harsh.”

Kitazawa exaggerated a shrug, and the car lurched, tightening the smile on Omiya’s face.

“Every day’s just… weirdly empty,” Kitazawa went on. “Sure, I could study, but I don’t really want to. I don’t have anything else I’m into. I joined a club, but that’s not great either.”

“What kind of club?”

Kitazawa tilted his head lazily. “Marine sports. Anything in the water goes. I wish there’d been a club just for scuba diving, but there wasn’t. We’ve got people doing jet skis, bodyboarding, it’s all over the place. Only about three of us even have diving licenses. I go with them sometimes, but it’s expensive. I’ve been diving practically for free through my cousin’s connections, so paying for it now feels stupid. I’m going back to Miyazaki for summer break, so I can dive as much as I want then. But for now, it’s cars.”

Right now, cars came first for him, and Omiya happened to own the one he liked. Five years ago, what he’d wanted was a place to belong, and Omiya had been able to give him a room. Now, it seemed, the only one who was constantly aware of the other’s presence was Omiya himself. The boy hadn’t changed; he used Omiya when it suited him, in the ways he wanted, and only when he wanted. Shaking off the self-destructive thought, Omiya told himself it didn’t matter. Being used didn’t hurt him. If you don’t expect anything, you can’t be disappointed. And today, he had the day off, and nothing else ahead of him.

“Don’t you feel kind of hungry?”

The question came out of nowhere. Omiya had just eaten a sandwich earlier and felt no hunger at all.

“I want some takoyaki. Know any place around here that sells it?”

“I haven’t really been to this area much, so…”

Kitazawa began chanting, “Takoyaki, takoyaki~,” making up a nonsense melody like some grade-schooler walking home from class. Out on the coastal road, traffic was even lighter than on the national highway, and his speed crept steadily upward. By the time Omiya spoke up, the speedometer had already climbed past eighty-five on a road with a sixty-kilometer limit.

He kept repeating “takoyaki” so many times that Omiya found himself scanning the roadside without thinking. At last, he spotted a takoyaki sign and turned toward the driver’s seat, but Kitazawa seemed not to have noticed, making no move to stop.

“There’s takoyaki back there.”

“What? No way.”

The car lurched as he slowed abruptly, and Omiya’s eyes flew to the rearview mirror. The next car was far behind, and he let out a quiet breath of relief.

“You weren’t watching the rear again. Hard braking or sudden slowing, unless it’s an emergency, you can’t do that.”

“I know,” he muttered, sulky.

“The place was on the right. We already passed it.”

He turned the car around at a beachside park a short way ahead and headed back toward the stand. Pulling into what looked like an empty lot just big enough for one car, they entered a shabby little shop that seemed to have been converted from a farmhouse shed.

At first, no one was inside, and Omiya wondered if the “open” sign had simply been left out by mistake. But after Kitazawa shouted “Hello!” three times, a white-haired old woman, one foot already in the grave by the look of her, tottered out from the back.

They sat facing each other at one of the only two tables. While waiting for the takoyaki, Omiya expected him to just sit there, but instead, Kitazawa studied the faded menu on the wall and ordered “Pork okonomiyaki, please.” After all that “takoyaki” chanting, he’d apparently changed his mind at the last minute.

“What about you?” the old woman asked. And maybe because of that silly song still ringing in his ears, Omiya heard himself say “Takoyaki.”

The old woman returned with water and began swapping out the central griddle so that only Omiya’s half had the half-moon hollows. Self-serve okonomiyaki was common enough, but self-serve takoyaki? He barely had time to think, Surely not… before she set an aluminum tray in front of him, filled with cabbage, watery batter and diced octopus.

While Omiya sat there, still thrown off, Kitazawa was already oiling his side of the griddle and laying out pork. Then, noticing Omiya frozen like a doll, he asked, “Aren’t you going to cook?”

So it was up to him to make the takoyaki after all. Without a word, Omiya oiled the hollows one by one and began dropping in pieces of octopus.

“What are you doing?” The boy leaned over his griddle.

“Cooking the octopus.”

“Why would you cook that first? You can eat it raw. You start with the batter for takoyaki.”

Flustered, Omiya hurriedly fished the octopus pieces back out.

“You don’t have to take them out, just pour the batter right in.”

Still rattled, he tried to pour the watery batter into the hollows, but his aim faltered, sending it flooding everywhere.

“Ugh, come on,” Kitazawa clicked his tongue.

“Here, stand up.”

Prompted by the irritation in his voice, Omiya rose from his seat without argument.

“Switch places. You can manage okonomiyaki, right?”

Swapping spots made Omiya the sudden okonomiyaki cook. Kitazawa, armed with a single pick, handled the takoyaki with easy skill, cleaning up even the spill Omiya had caused, twirling the balls deftly until they were perfectly round.

“That’s amazing. You’re like a pro.”

When Omiya praised him with genuine admiration, he flashed a quick grin.

“I’ve worked a few part-time shifts at the food stalls during local festivals. At first, it’s fun, sneaking bites here and there, but after a whole day of grilling nothing but octopus, you start getting tired of it. By the end, you feel like you don’t need to eat it again for a year.”

“I see.”

“But then, before long, you want it again.”

After skewering a few of the takoyaki balls to check them, he murmured, “Alright,” and transferred them all to a plate. He drowned them in sauce and mayonnaise, then scattered bonito flakes and green laver over the top.

“Come on, hurry up and make mine,” he urged.

Flustered, Omiya hurried to flip the okonomiyaki. He topped the finished pancake with only a modest amount of sauce and mayonnaise, but that didn’t seem to please him. When Omiya handed over the plate, he poured on so much mayonnaise that just watching it made Omiya’s stomach turn. Then he took a big, satisfied bite.

“This is really good. You should try it,” Kitazawa said, pushing the plate toward him.

It wasn’t the kind of situation where Omiya could politely refuse, so he took a small portion of the mayonnaise-soaked okonomiyaki. The flavor of mayonnaise was overpowering, but it was, in fact, delicious.

“Give me some of yours, too,” Kitazawa said, and before Omiya could even respond, he reached out unreservedly and grabbed a takoyaki.

“Oh, this is good, too.”

Kitazawa did whatever he liked, without hesitation. Somehow, maybe because of the sheer innocence in it, Omiya didn’t feel irritated. He found himself watching Kitazawa’s face as he ate with such single-minded focus. When the tip of his tongue brushed over the corner of his mouth to catch a bit of sauce, the small movement sent a shiver of something dangerously close to desire down Omiya’s spine.

“What are you looking at?”

The question caught him off guard. He’d never thought Kitazawa was even aware of being watched. Unable to answer, Omiya dropped his gaze to the grease, stained griddle. The matter wasn’t pursued any further, but from that moment on, Omiya couldn’t bring himself to watch him eat again.

After polishing off both the okonomiyaki and the remaining takoyaki Omiya had left, Kitazawa bought a bottle of ramune from the shop. He seemed taken with the bottle’s peculiar bulging shape, turning it from hand to hand again and again. Leaving the okonomiyaki shop, they drove for about thirty minutes before he pulled over along the coastline. Still holding the ramune happily, he popped it open atop the seawall. Soda foamed over, running down his hands, but he didn’t seem to care and took a swig straight from the bottle.

“Want some?”

The drink Kitazawa offered was both overly sweet and sharply fizzy, tickling Omiya’s nose. When he’d finished, he set the bottle on the seawall and began rubbing his hands together over and over with a grimace.

“My hands are all sticky…”

“There are wet wipes in the car. Want me to get them for you?”

“Yeah.”

Chihiro’s near-obsessive neatness meant there were always wet wipes and disinfecting cloths stocked in the car. When Omiya handed Kitazawa a wipe, he carefully cleaned each fingertip.

“Now this is good service,” he remarked, as though acknowledging some great favor. Omiya couldn’t think of anything to say back.

With clean fingers, Kitazawa pulled a crumpled cigarette from his jeans. Sitting right there on the seawall, he lit it with practiced ease. Then he glanced over at Omiya, a sidelong warning in his tone. “Don’t start with that ‘you’re underage’ stuff.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Omiya replied.

That earned him a narrow-eyed, almost smiling look. The wind was strong, whipping the smoke away in an instant.

“When did you start?”

From his small mouth, Kitazawa let out a faint puff of smoke.

“Back in high school, I guess. Everyone around me smoked, so… I just did it, too. You don’t smoke, do you? Why not?”

“No real reason. I just don’t think it tastes good.”

Kitazawa didn’t even smoke half before crushing the rest against the seawall’s concrete to put it out.

“So… where to next?”

Kitazawa leaned forward, peering into Omiya’s face. Omiya didn’t say, Let’s go home.

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