B.L.T: Chapter 11

Previous TOC Next

A phone rang at dawn. Omiya stirred awake at the sound, different from his own ringtone, and shut his eyes again. But then Kitazawa shook him, rousing him fully, and Omiya rubbed at his drowsy eyes.

“It’s for you. From Mr. Takano, the café owner.”

Startled, Omiya hurried to answer Kitazawa’s phone.

“Omiya?”

Takano’s voice was tense. A bad feeling seized him.

“I couldn’t get through to your place or your cell, so I thought I’d try this one. Chihiro’s in the hospital right now.”

A coldness swept through Omiya’s fingertips.

“I spoke to him yesterday. I said you wanted to break up. He seemed to accept it, said something like, ‘Guess it’s over.’ Normally he’s so volatile, but he was calm, and it bothered me. I tried calling again later, but he didn’t answer. I got a bad feeling and went to his place, and found him after he’d taken a massive dose of sleeping pills. They found him quickly, so his life isn’t in danger. But… can you come?”

“Where is he?”

Takano gave him the hospital’s name, and Omiya hastily threw on his clothes. But his hands trembled so badly he couldn’t even grasp the buttons of his shirt, let alone the zipper on his slacks. Somehow managing to make himself decent enough to leave, he turned back. Kitazawa was sitting on the bed, staring straight at him.

“S, someone I know… they were admitted to the hospital…”

His voice shook, words catching in his throat. Kitazawa rose and pulled him into a tight embrace. The reality of lips pressing against him steadied the tremor in his body.

“Breathe. Slowly.”

Doing as he was told, Omiya let out his breath against the boy’s shoulder.

“I know you’re worried, but calm down. If you rush, you’ll get yourself hurt.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Just… when you’ve calmed down, let me know, okay?”

Running his fingers through the boy’s hair, Omiya pressed a rough kiss to his lips before rushing out the door. His nerves urged his foot heavier on the accelerator, but he forced himself to recall Kitazawa’s words and restrained the impulse.

At the hospital Takano had named, Omiya was asking for Chihiro’s room number at the night reception when Takano appeared from a dim corridor.

“How is he?”

The words came out as if clinging for hope. Takano calm voice answered quietly: “Sleeping.”

“The stomach pump’s done, and his consciousness is clearing. He’s stable now. But the problem may be his heart. He seemed really anxious. Until he fell asleep, he kept calling your name.”

Omiya felt a sharp tightening in his chest.

“Were you… with that boy?”

He couldn’t bring himself to say yes. But Takano knew.

“I found Chihiro just before midnight, not long after he’d swallowed the pills.”

On a weekday, Omiya would normally have been home at eleven. If he hadn’t stayed at Kitazawa’s apartment, maybe Chihiro wouldn’t have taken them.

“On a day like that, you should’ve come straight home and talked it out with him, don’t you think?”

Takano’s words struck like arrows to the chest.

“Anyway, come to his room.”

With his head lowered, Omiya followed. Chihiro’s room was a single at the far end of the psychiatric ward on the third floor. On the white sheets, Chihiro lay on his side. His face was so pale it looked corpse-like, and even just watching the IV drip made tears threaten to spill.

As he stood there, speechless, dawn broke and the room slowly grew brighter. He realized nearly an hour had passed before he pulled a chair close and sat. The sound was barely audible, yet Chihiro’s thin eyelids quivered, and he opened his eyes.

The moment he saw Omiya, his gaze twisted, and he clenched his teeth. Slowly raising himself halfway up, he snatched the pillow from beneath his head and hurled it at him.

“Get out!”

Even when the pillow struck him squarely, Omiya didn’t flinch, didn’t rise. Chihiro staggered toward him instead, lashing out with fists. He hit, he slapped, and still Omiya said nothing, only took the blows. By the third, fourth strike, Chihiro’s strength weakened, his hands dropping until he braced himself on the bed and began to sob into stifled breaths.

“My life is mine,” Chihiro groaned low.

“It wasn’t because you dumped me that I wanted to die. I just couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep, so I took the pills. I messed up the amount. Lately it’s been nothing but frustration, one thing after another, and then you on top of it all, and I just… I just—”

His words faltered, contradicting themselves.

“But you didn’t come home. You never came home…”

As he spoke, Chihiro tilted his head, suddenly suspicious.

“Where the hell were you? By eleven-thirty you still weren’t back…”

His bloodshot eyes glared at Omiya.

“With that younger guy, wasn’t it? While I was here, suffering, ready to die, you were in bed with him, weren’t you? You were sucking him off, letting him inside you, having a grand old time, weren’t you! You’re a bastard. Your boyfriend, me, I was, I was about to die, and you—!”

Chihiro’s voice rose so loud that Omiya panicked.

“Keep it down, you’ll be heard outside…”

“I’m not ashamed! Not at all! You, you pathetic little man. I only dated you out of pity. There are a hundred men better than you, a hundred—!”

His throat caught with a shrill sound. His breathing turned fast and shallow, his face draining pale in an instant.

“I, I can’t breathe…”

Seeing this was no mere tantrum, Omiya frantically pressed the nurse call button. A nurse rushed in, but Chihiro refused to let her touch him. Even when the doctor came, he thrashed and fought, shouting “Yusuke, Yusuke” until Omiya held him tight. Only then did he calm down enough to accept treatment.

The doctor said Chihiro had a mild asthma condition, and the attack had likely been triggered by his agitation.

Once the medicine eased his breathing, Chihiro began to drift off to sleep in Omiya’s arms. Laid back on the bed, he didn’t speak, only stared, and that alone held Omiya there, unable to move. Only when he was sure Chihiro was in a deeper sleep did he slip out quietly, heading to the washroom. As long as Chihiro had been awake, he hadn’t even been able to excuse himself to step away.

Near the smoking area, he spotted a familiar figure, Takano. Standing alone, absently drawing on a cigarette. Omiya had thought he’d gone home long ago. It had been nearly two hours since Takano had shown him to the room. When he noticed Omiya, he gave a weary half-smile.

“Quite a racket coming out of there. How is Chihiro?”

“He’s asleep again.”

“I see.” Takano’s face looked drained, the fatigue etched deep.

“Earlier I told you, ‘Why didn’t you come home,’ but maybe it was me who spoke poorly to Chihiro. I’m sorry. I never realized how far gone he was.”

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“I’m the one who asked you to talk to him. I’m sorry.”

The man shrugged, exhaling a thin breath.

“To be honest, I never imagined Chihiro was that fixated on you. And forgive me for saying it, but the men he dated before were all more flamboyant. Someone like you, solid, dependable, you were unusual for him. At first I thought maybe the princess was just tired of cake.”

He gave a dry laugh.

“But the guy who never kept a partner more than a year stayed with you for two. Guess that means there was more to it than I thought.”

“…I’m sorry, for asking you to play the bad guy.”

“I’ll admit, I had my own agenda. I thought maybe I could use this chance to get back with Chihiro. I made the most earnest appeal I could… and he very politely turned me down.”

Takano gave another strained smile, then dropped his head into his hands.

“All he does is call your name. Whether he’s cursing that he can’t breathe or begging for help, it’s always you. I’m the one who brought him to the hospital, and still… it makes me angry.”

Omiya didn’t know how to answer. Before long, Takano excused himself, saying he had preparations to make for the café, and left. He didn’t even stop in to see Chihiro’s face. That café with its whimsical “Closed” sign hanging, the talk of preparations felt like nothing more than a pretext.

Omiya went back to the room once and gazed absently at Chihiro’s pallid, sleeping face. He called the bookstore and arranged for one of the part-timers on a day off to cover his shift. Once the adjustments were made, he picked up the phone and called Kitazawa. Told him that the friend who’d been hurt was all right. On the other end, the boy let out a relieved breath and said, “I’m glad.” Just the sound of his voice loosened the knot in Omiya’s chest, left him on the verge of tears.

Sunlight streamed bright outside, cars rushed past on the road. The scent of rain had lifted, the air warming by degrees. And here in the white hospital room, with its soft rustle of background noise, Omiya sat staring at the sleeping Chihiro and asked himself, endlessly, what he should do from here.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Chihiro was hospitalized only for a single night, discharged the next day, but he complained of feeling unwell and stayed in bed for two more days. When asked, “Should we go to the hospital?” he stubbornly refused, insisting he’d get better if he just slept it off.

Omiya had forced himself to take leave the day Chihiro was admitted, and the next as well, but he couldn’t keep leaving the shop in others’ hands. On the third day he prepared to go in. At that, Chihiro cursed him, called him “heartless.” No matter how often Omiya explained there were things only he could do at work, Chihiro wouldn’t accept it. Leaving him agitated and alone wasn’t an option, so in the end Omiya stayed home that day as well.

When it was clear Omiya wasn’t leaving, Chihiro quieted and dozed off on the sofa. Faintly, the sound of the fax machine came from his room. Messages had been piling up, dozens in the last three days, almost all of them urgent reminders about work. Chihiro, showing no sign of dealing with them, grew more irritable each time he glanced at the growing stack.

While he slept, Hagiwara called three times. Each case was work Omiya usually handled himself, matters Hagiwara had never taken on. As Omiya walked her through instructions over the phone, he could hear the bustle of the shop in the background, and guilt pressed heavier with every noise. When he hung up and went back to the living room, Chihiro was still sleeping soundly, as unconcerned as ever. Omiya, with nothing to do, only paced the room. He couldn’t go to work because of Chihiro’s tantrums, was causing trouble for everyone else. The unfairness of it gnawed at him.

On the fourth day, after a breakfast of nothing more than coffee, Chihiro shut himself away in his private room. This time, when Omiya made a show of heading to work, he didn’t say “heartless.” At last, Omiya was able to leave for the bookstore. But a new problem soon plagued him: Chihiro began calling every thirty minutes.

The calls were rarely for anything in particular. If asked, “Is something wrong?” he’d just say, “Not really,” and hang up.

Even so, if Omiya didn’t pick up, the calls would keep coming, over and over. Once, while he was tied up on another call, he switched off his phone. As soon as he finished, he called back, only to be subjected to a half-hour of Chihiro’s sulking complaints.

After ten o’clock, when the bookstore closed, the interval shortened, calls came every ten minutes. It was obsessive, oppressive. And yet Omiya did his best, always, to respond in whatever way he could to Chihiro’s neediness.

It began with the phone calls, and from there Chihiro’s demands on Omiya escalated day by day.

The moment he returned to the apartment, his clothes were stripped away. Right at the entryway he was made to stand naked while Chihiro inhaled the scent of his entire body. He was especially fixated on Omiya’s penis, at times even taking it into his mouth. Only after confirming there was no trace of condoms, no scent of another man, would Chihiro finally permit him to step into the bathroom. The shower was the only time Omiya was allowed to be alone, and once that ended, aside from trips to the toilet, he could not leave Chihiro’s sight.

Omiya erased Kitazawa’s number from his phone. Every time he came home, Chihiro checked the device without fail. At this point, even a single call was no longer within Omiya’s freedom. He never talked back, gave Chihiro what he wanted, and still, Chihiro was dissatisfied, whenever he had time to spare, he found something to accuse Omiya of.

The rare occasion when Omiya cooked, Chihiro tasted a single bite before declaring it “disgusting,” ordered the entire meal thrown away, and then sent him out to buy something pre-made. If he came home late from work, even by just five minutes, Chihiro raged, “You always do the same routine things every day, so why are you late? You should be making an effort to come home on time.” It was absurd. Even during sex, refusal wasn’t an option; Chihiro’s sulking and tantrums were too predictable. So he gave in, only to be told, “You’re not hard enough,” or sneered at: “Your cock’s gone dull from all the lousy sex you’ve been having.” At that point, all Omiya could do was laugh.

Life felt as if he were bound by a hundred fine threads spun by Chihiro, and a month had already passed. Immersed in work he could sometimes forget, but reality pressed itself into his ears every thirty minutes with the ring of the phone. Patience wasn’t infinite, and the pride that was steadily eroded could not replenish itself. How long would this go on? He had thought if he just let Chihiro have his way for a while, then once he settled down, they could talk again. But nothing worked; Chihiro’s dissatisfaction never abated, and the end was nowhere in sight. When, when would he finally be free of this man?

“Hey.”

A hand tapped his shoulder, dragging him back. He blinked to find Kitazawa standing there in the bookstore’s apron, while he himself sat at the desk, staring blankly at a stack of receipts.

“You sleeping with your eyes open or something?”

“No, just… spacing out a little.”

Omiya glanced at the clock. Chihiro’s calls always came on the half-hour and the hour. It was 9:10 now, safe. Their stolen fifteen-minute break together wouldn’t be interrupted.

He reached for the boy’s hand, and was rewarded with his weight settling across his lap. The touch of that slender back, the sweet scent of his skin, eased something inside him. A peck of a kiss quickly deepened, tugging at something sensual. His hands slid lightly along Kitazawa’s waist, but he only laughed, saying, “We don’t have time for that.”

“Tired, aren’t you?” Kitazawa asked, rubbing his cheek against Omiya’s like a cat.

“You look pale, drained. Taking care of that injured friend, has it really been that hard?”

Days off, after work, there was no time for him. Chihiro’s threads were woven thick and wide across every corner of Omiya’s life. Only during breaks could they be alone together. Even on days he wasn’t scheduled to work, Kitazawa came to the shop anyway, timing his visits to match Omiya’s rest period. He slipped into the back office just for those few moments, careful not to be seen.

The excuse for why they couldn’t see each other, once a “clingy younger sister”, had changed to “a friend with no family who was injured and needs looking after.” Surely it sounded suspicious by now, but Kitazawa had never doubted him, never questioned it. He simply endured their brief encounters with uncomplaining patience.

“The injury itself isn’t that bad, but… I guess he’s feeling really down about it, so maybe that’s what’s weighing on me,” Omiya said.

Kitazawa only murmured, “Hmm.”

“I hope your friend gets better soon,” he added, pulling Omiya into his arms and holding his head close.

“I don’t like seeing that look on your face. I keep thinking if there’s something I can do, but you never tell me anything… and I know it’s not really the kind of problem I could fix anyway.”

The soothing touch of his fingers tracing over Omiya’s ear made him close his eyes.

“When that friend of yours gets better and you’ve got a little more time, let’s go somewhere,” Kitazawa whispered into his ear, his breath warm against his skin.

“Anywhere’s fine. We don’t have to stay overnight, your sister would just worry. Maybe a day trip to Okitsu. Some guys from my circle tried bodyboarding there and said it was great. They’ll even lend us the gear. I tried it once, it was pretty fun. Not as hard as surfing.”

It wasn’t that Omiya wasn’t listening; he just kept his eyes closed.

“Am I being thoughtless, talking about stuff like this when things are so heavy for you?” Kitazawa asked quietly.

“I don’t think it’s thoughtless.”

“But you’re not exactly excited about it either.”

“I can’t really think about much right now… but listening to you talk is nice,” Omiya answered.

Kitazawa whispered, “Sorry,” and pressed a soft kiss to Omiya’s ear. They held each other in silence. Even without words, the warmth of his arms, the tenderness he gave off, reached Omiya and soothed him.

“If only your day could be like thirty hours long,” Kitazawa said suddenly.

“And the extra six hours would be just for me.”

The childlike way he put it made Omiya smile. He was sure that if it were him, not Chihiro but Kitazawa, even being bound, he wouldn’t feel it as pain. For a moment, Omiya wondered if things would be easier if Chihiro were gone. Not suicide, just an accident. An accident no one could be blamed for. The thought scared him.

Trying not to think about it any further, Omiya buried his hand more deeply in Kitazawa’s hair, unconsciously tugging, knowing that in five minutes his break would be over.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

After work, Omiya was still at the office computer, searching for a book. A customer had placed an order earlier in the day, but no matter how he looked, he couldn’t find it. He vaguely remembered taking the same order before, so he had written it down on the slip just as the customer had said. But when he went to place the order, the publisher replied, “We don’t handle any book by that title.”

The customer had seemed desperate, anxious to know exactly when the book would arrive. That only made Omiya all the more flustered. A single mistaken character in a title was common enough, so he tried altering the words, running search after search. After half an hour, he finally discovered the problem. What the customer had asked for was The Color Dictionary from Kawabata Press, but what actually existed was The Dictionary of Colors: Paradise of Hues from Kawaminami Press.

It was already late. He decided he’d call the customer in the morning, then began gathering his things to go home. That was when his phone started ringing. Already ten minutes had passed? The sound alone filled him with weary disgust, lately just hearing the ringtone was enough to sour his mood.

“What the hell are you doing!”

That grating voice stabbed at his ears.

“I told you earlier. I was looking up a book a customer ordered.”

“You’ve got a computer at home too, don’t you?”

“If I find the book, I can fax the order right away. It’s easier to handle from the office.”

The same exchange again and again. His fatigue only grew heavier.

“I’m on my way home now.”

“Don’t give me that, don’t tell me you’ve got someone with you!”

The calls came every ten minutes. As if that were even possible.

“I’ll listen when I get home.”

“Don’t say ‘when I get home.’ You never listen to me anyway. All you ever do is smile vaguely, like you don’t care at all about me!”

“That’s not true.”

He smiled only because pretending to smile was the only choice left. If he looked angry, if he looked displeased, Chihiro’s mood would sour even further.

“If that’s really how you feel, then satisfy me. Don’t make me keep calling you every day with these sickening phone calls. I hate it too, but, Yusuke…”

The line suddenly went dead. At first he thought Chihiro had hung up, but no, it was his own finger, pressing the button too hard, cutting it off. And with that, silence arrived, unexpected and almost comforting.

On impulse, Omiya powered the phone off completely. Until now he had always been too afraid of Chihiro’s anger to even consider it, yet his fingers had moved without hesitation. The word accidental drifted through his mind and disappeared.

At least now he wouldn’t have to hear that shrill ringtone, or that voice. Of course, when he returned to the apartment, Chihiro would no doubt unleash his fury on him for switching off his phone. Omiya could already picture the scene. But even so, for now he wanted nothing more than silence, no grating sound, no grating voice.

By the time he pulled into the rented lot near the apartment, it was already 11:30 p.m., just minutes left before the day ended. He sat for a while in the car, staring at the digital clock. He couldn’t bring himself to go in. Only after midnight struck did he finally turn the key and get out.

Sleeping in the car would have been easier on his nerves, but he knew he couldn’t stay away forever.

The entryway was dim. When he turned on the light, he noticed Chihiro’s favorite pair of black leather shoes, always by the door, were gone. He had been imagining him waiting there in the hallway, rigid and menacing, so to find him out was an unexpected relief.

Sinking down on the living room sofa, Omiya let out a long breath. And then, without warning, he found himself longing to hear Kitazawa’s voice. Chihiro wasn’t home. If it was just a call log, he could erase it later. He couldn’t resist. Omiya turned his phone back on.

Kitazawa answered, surprised by Omiya’s sudden call. Then he asked, “So, what are you doing right now?”

“I just got home,” Omiya said.

“Huh,” Kitazawa murmured. “Pretty late, isn’t it. Whenever you stop by your friend’s place, it always ends up this late?”

Kitazawa still believed that Omiya was stopping by to visit an injured friend on his way back from work every day.

“Today I stayed late at the office, so it made me even later.”

“You should have told me. I would’ve come to see you,” Kitazawa sulked. Omiya answered only in his mind: I wanted to see you too. But he could never call him after work. He never had a good excuse for those ten-minute calls.

“Still, I’m glad I got to hear your voice before bed. Ah, but now I’m too wound up to sleep.”

“What were you doing just now?” Omiya asked, laughing lightly.

Kitazawa laughed too… but then, all at once, the laughter broke off. After a short silence he whispered, almost to himself: “I really do want to see you.”

“I want to look at you while we talk. Take our time, without worrying about the hour. Then kiss, and make love. All night, until morning.”

Omiya couldn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to trouble you, but sometimes I get frustrated with how gentle you are. I understand you’re worried about your friend, and I get that you can’t leave it alone, that’s just who you are. But… pay more attention to me, too. Even something small, like a phone call before bed.”

Before they hung up, Kitazawa kissed Omiya through the receiver. It felt real, so real that for a moment the cell phone itself seemed alive, and Omiya marveled at the strangeness of it.

Afterward, Omiya noticed the missed-call display. He already knew who it was, but checked anyway, and found the same name repeating again and again. The voicemail icon was flashing. He had left his phone off for two hours, what if there had been some urgent message from someone other than Chihiro? Reluctantly, he listened.

The latest message was nothing but a brief silence, then a single phrase. A familiar voice, stripped of inflection, murmured: “I’m going to die.”

No shouting, no rage. That only made it more chilling. A shiver raced down his spine. He called Chihiro’s number in a panic. No answer. He tried again and again, on the tenth attempt, the line finally picked up.

“Chihiro?”

Relief came first. He was still alive.

“Where are you right now?”

“Dead.”

Chihiro’s voice was the same as the voicemail: flat, drained of tone.

“I’ve already died ten times.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tell me where you are. I’ll come to get you.”

Even as he spoke, Omiya’s feet were already carrying him toward the door.

“While I was waiting for you, I died ten times.”

That emotionless voice frightened him.

“I’ll hear you out later. But first, tell me where you are.”

“When I die, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, ignoring my call that time.”

“Chihiro!” Omiya barked his name, voice sharp.

“Tell me where you are.”

In the silence that followed, a roaring sound came faintly through, like wind.

“It was easy to die. I crossed the railing more than once. But then I thought, if I really die, you’ll… maybe think about me for a little while, but eventually you’ll forget me and go to someone else. That thought kept me from jumping. But now this isn’t just a threat. I will die. …Serves you right.”

The line went dead with a snap. Power off entirely, no way through.

Panic closed in on Omiya. Chihiro was going to die. He really was. He had to stop him. For Chihiro’s sake, and more than anything, for his own.

There were countless high places in the city, he could fall from any of them and be killed. And then Omiya remembered. Once, he had gone up to the roof of this very building with Chihiro. The lock on the door to the roof had been broken, and a quick twist to the right was enough to open it. A fence about a meter and a half high encircled the rooftop, through whose lattice they could look out over the city.

In those first weeks after moving in, he and Chihiro had made love there. A bright rooftop in broad daylight, behind an unlocked door. The thrill of maybe being seen by someone had made Chihiro wild with excitement.

With his phone still clutched in hand, Omiya leapt into the elevator. He got off at the top floor, the thirteenth, and from there dashed up the unlit stairway leading to the roof. He kicked at the gray door as if to break it down and burst outside.

The moon was more than half gone. The darkness swallowed everything; he could see nothing. So he shouted the name aloud.

“Chihiro!”

He thought he saw something white shift in the distance. Running closer, the shape sharpened into the outline of a person.

“Chihiro!”

The white figure bolted. But there was no real escape, rooftops were only so wide, and there was nothing out here to hide behind. Before long Omiya caught him. The moonlight lit a white shirt and black pants, Chihiro, who wrenched violently against Omiya’s grip on his arm. Shoved back, Omiya seized him again, holding tight to his right wrist. Slowly, Chihiro dropped his head.

“Don’t think about doing something stupid. Let’s go back to the apartment and talk this through, alright?”

No reply. When Chihiro lifted his face, there was a faint smile there, hollow.

“Talk? That won’t change anything. You want to leave me.”

The blow was so sharp, Omiya thought his breath had stopped. It took him a moment to realize why he had folded over, clutching his stomach. Chihiro had kicked him hard in the gut. Then Chihiro bounded away, putting distance between them, and in the next instant he turned his back and darted off like a hare.

Omiya straightened, still clutching his stomach, but the pain slowed his steps. Ahead of him, Chihiro scrambled up the fence. His white clothes flapped in the wind, trembling.

“Stop, don’t—!”

The white shirt lifted, floated, and vanished beyond the railing.

“No—!”

Omiya’s scream dissolved into the dark.

“Chihiro! Chihiro!”

There was no way he could have survived. Not from this height. Chihiro was dead. He was gone. Tears burst hot from Omiya’s eyes. Beautiful, selfish Chihiro. Pitiful Chihiro. Why did he have to leap from here? He sank to his knees on the concrete, buried his head in his hands, and sobbed. If Chihiro was dead, if he really had died, then the phone would never ring again. That absurdly practical thought intruded suddenly. Even in such a moment, it wouldn’t leave him.

He wouldn’t have to indulge Chihiro’s whims anymore. He could see Kitazawa openly now, no need for secrecy. No more wounded pride. He was free. Released.

Omiya thought himself a devil.

“Chihiro…”

Unsteadily, he pushed himself to his feet, approached the fence, and peered over. What he saw made him doubt his own eyes.

Two meters below was a broad stretch of flat concrete, maybe five meters in size, and on it Chihiro sat, crumpled. The apartment building where Omiya lived had upper floors shaped like steps. At first he’d thought it was just a whimsical design; Chihiro had told him it was probably for sunlighting.

Omiya vaulted the fence and dropped down onto the ledge.

“Chihiro.”

Even as he approached, Chihiro didn’t move from where he sat. He had been tested, this was the worst kind of farce, with his very life as the stake. Omiya’s gaze chilled along with his feelings.

“What is it you’re trying to get by going this far?”

Chihiro stayed silent.

“Answer me!”

Omiya grabbed his arm and pulled him up, and then a stench hit his nose. He looked down. The concrete beneath Chihiro was stained dark. For an instant he doubted, but there was no mistaking it. Chihiro had wet himself, like a child who couldn’t hold it in.

It was unthinkable. The man who was so proud, who never allowed himself to look foolish in front of others, reduced to this.

Omiya realized then: Chihiro hadn’t known the ledge was there when he jumped. He hadn’t planned it.

“I don’t want this,” Chihiro whispered.

“Don’t look. Don’t you dare look!”

He thrashed wildly in blind desperation, then finally broke down, blubbering.

“Die, just die already!”

Pressing his wet crotch against him, Chihiro screamed. Then, with trembling fingers, he clutched at the front of Omiya’s shirt and wailed until his voice gave out.

Previous TOC Next