by Mere Rain
They lifted their glasses.
“To being grown up,” Kenji said solemnly.
“Adulthood. May it be more fun than it looks,” Akihito said, and clinked his glass against Kenji’s.
The drink was a little sweeter than he preferred, but not cloying as he had feared. It had a faint floral scent, familiar….
“Cherry blossoms.” Sometimes their families had gone together to see the flowers in bloom. Other years one set of parents took both boys. Last spring he and Kenji had arrived with classmates from their respective colleges, arranging to meet each other there. Kenji had let Akihito put a fallen blossom behind his ear and he had wanted to kiss his friend so badly that he had almost done it, in front of a hundred picnicking families.
“Not bad,” he said. “What’s yours?” It was pale and cloudy.
“Sweet potato shōchū mixed with pear juice.”
“You are such an old man! My granny used to drink that.”
“Mine put it in her tea. She let me taste it once and I thought it was horrible. I figured I’d see if I liked it now that I’m grown up.”
“And?”
“It’s all right. Try it.”
“You’re not really selling it,” Akihito pointed out, but he accepted the water-beaded glass—their fingertips brushed—and handed over his pink martini. Kenji was looking at the flower and not at him, so he turned the glass and drank from the place where Kenji’s lips had smudged the rim.
“How do you like it?”
He started guiltily. “Um, it’s okay.” He hadn’t noticed what it had tasted like. He glanced at the view for distraction. “Hey, let’s take a picture in front of the window. One more before we start the serious drinking and forget. You can hold the pink one, though.”
Kenji laughed and moved around the table, throwing an arm over Akihito’s shoulders. Akihito took his time, making sure he got a good, clear shot, both of them smiling and looking at the camera. No one else would know the flush in his cheeks wasn’t from alcohol.
He swallowed the rest of the drink too quickly, realizing as he set down the empty glass that it had been Kenji’s.
Kenji was suppressing a smirk. “Shōchū growing on you, huh?”
“Sorry. You finish mine.”
“You want any more of it?”
He both did and didn’t want that nostalgic hint of cherry blossom. “We’re supposed to be staying even,” he protested weakly.
Kenji took a sip and held out the glass. “Split it with me, and I’ll have an extra drink at the next place.”
THE NEXT place was a salarymen’s after-work bar, surprisingly populous. Small groups of sweating men in loosened ties clutched beers or loudly took rounds of shots together.
Kenzi ordered bourbon and toasted, “To the Emperor!” The half dozen men next to them joined in with “Banzai!” and threw back what were clearly not the first or even third shots of the afternoon. Since it was a holiday, who knew how early they had started. Probably they had gone to the palace together in the morning and had been drinking since.
An older man, less rumpled but just as drunk, turned to them and pronounced with the careful slowness of someone taking pains not to slur, “How good to see young men having respect for the emperor. Please join us for another drink.” Kenji bowed and Akihito hastily did the same. In any situation involving manners and older people, he took his cues from his friend.
“To His Imperial Majesty!”
While Akihito was wondering if the two of them would be drinking together in suits and ties twenty years from now, Kenji had somehow not only introduced them but mentioned that it was Akihito’s birthday. A plump man his father’s age bought another round, again including the two strangers. Akihito realized his head was starting to swim. He would have thanked the men and withdrawn, but the plump man was asking Kenji about school (“The University of Tokyo! How proud your parents must be. My daughter is preparing for her exams this year….”) and exchanging business cards with him. Somehow another round materialized and they were toasting to the emperor-to-be.
Then they were outside. He assumed Kenji had performed polite farewells without him noticing.
“Getting your future wife lined up?” Akihito asked. It didn’t sound as funny as it had in his head.
“He seemed like nice person,” Kenji said imperturbably. “I hope his daughter does well.” He glanced at Akihito. “TMU is a perfectly good school too.”
Just not good enough for Kenji. Akihito had, in a moment of weakness that still made him cringe, asked Kenji to turn down the more prestigious institutions he had placed into and come to Metropolitan University with him.
“Let’s walk a bit before the next drink,” Akihito said. His stomach was squirming, and it was only half from thinking about Kenji married to some sweet and dutiful girl whose parents would no doubt love Kenji and he’d be over at their house for all the holidays and dinner every weekend and Akihito would maybe see him once a year, probably not on his birthday because it would be just his birthday and not the emperor’s so Kenji would be at work.
Kenji must have said something and he hadn’t heard. Kenji was looking at him, waiting for a response. Kenji’s eyes were brighter and less focused than usual, his cheeks a little flushed. Akihito wondered if Kenji would look like that in bed, if he could touch him, if he could make—
He slapped his face with both hands. “Man, how am I drunker than you?” he complained. “I’m the one who practices.”
Kenji laughed and linked arms with him. “You were probably still a little drunk from last night. Anyway, I’m definitely the drunkest I’ve ever been.”
“You’ve never been drunk—have you?” He didn’t want Kenji to have been drunk without him.
“No, last night and my birthday were the only times I’ve had more than one,” he admitted. “And now. You’re my first and only drunkening person, Tsugu.”
Akihito told his heart to shut up and stop being ridiculous. While he waited for it to obey, he looked around and remarked, “Hey, Ueno Onshi.” He recognized the park from one of his weekend visits to Kenji at his college and, before that, from boyhood trips to the zoo.
“I thought we could walk around the art museum for a bit. It’s still open for another hour.”
They walked north through the park, passing a tree near the water under which their families had once picnicked together. The boys had tried to tightrope-walk on the line strung between the posts meant to keep the pleasure boats away from the shore, and had fallen in.
At the museum, Kenji asked what gallery he wanted to look at, and he picked modern because he knew Kenji liked his western art experimental and his Japanese art traditional, for reasons he had tried to explain but Akihito hadn’t quite understood.
They looked at water lilies and roses, several naked ladies, a man with a funny mustache in a top hat.
Kenji stopped in front of an Impressionist painting of two women seated in a rowboat. One leaned against the edge of the boat, her back to the viewer. They were looking at each other.
“I bet they’re friends like us,” he commented. “They can hang out together and talk or not talk, and not care if the painter is staring at them.”
“We should go rowing sometime.”
“In spring we could rent a boat at Chidorigafuchi and see the cherry blossoms reflecting in the water. My mom said she and my father did that when they were dating. Or we could take a Yakatabune dinner cruise. I’m sure those boats are heated, so we could go tomorrow, if you wanted.”
Christmas Eve was a night for romantic dinners. For couples.
When he didn’t respond, Kenji said abruptly, “Let’s go to the gift shop before it closes.”
In the shop, Kenji buried himself in a large book about something called Informalism while Akihito picked up colorful magnets and paperweights and put them down again.
After five minutes, bored, Akihito announced, “I need the john.”
Kenji closed the book. “It’s that way, on the right
. I’ll meet you there. I want to find a card for my cousin who married the Canadian. They celebrate Christmas now.”
Akihito made his way to the toilets, feeling oddly alone. He was relieved to find Kenji outside the door after he finished, which was silly because Kenji was the last person to ever ditch anyone.
“Find a card?” he asked.
“I realized it was too late to mail it. I’ll email her. Want to go to an izakaya next? I could use some food with my alcohol.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
“There’s one near here that my classmate said has good chicken karaage.” It had been Akihito’s favorite snack when he was ten.
They started with beers and edamame, then ordered tsukemono and skewers of grilled meat. More beer. Chicken karaage. At the third beer, Kenji said they better have yakisoba as well, for sobriety.
“Yeah, these are pretty strong beers.”
“We were already drunk when we got here, Tsugu.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
When the bill came, Akihito tried to take it. Kenji put a hand over his. “Your birthday, I’m paying.”
“You’ve gotten everything so far,” Akihito protested.
“And I’m getting everything after this too.”
Akihito tried to slip the bill toward him and Kenji squeezed. Kenji had a stronger grip because he did kendo, but Akihito struggled over the paper for the guilty pleasure of Kenji’s hand on his. He knew he would pay for the moment with weeks of shamefully lurid dreams, but right now it felt worth it.
“Thanks, Kenji,” he said when they were outside. “Not just for dinner, I mean—for all of it. For spending the day with me.”
Kenji gave him a puzzled look. “I always spend your birthday with you.”
“Yeah, but…. It’ll be different after this, won’t it? It won’t be a holiday and you’ll be in class or at work.”
“I’ll skip.”
It was a drastically out-of-character offer, and Akihito appreciated it, but “Maybe next year, but then you’ll get a serious job, and sooner or later, you’ll get married and have responsible things to do, and we won’t… we won’t….”
“Maybe you’ll be the one who’s married,” Kenji suggested. “You’re the one who has all the girlfriends.”
“That was just for fun. None of them were serious. Can you see me getting married? Why are we even talking about marriage? Anyway,” he finished hastily, “I just meant, the day was special to me, and it wouldn’t have been without you, so thanks.”
Kenji stopped abruptly. “I did get you something.” He took a tiny box from his breast pocket. “At the museum.” He held it out.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to….” He opened the box and trailed off.
The ring was made with Nunome-zogan technique, gold inlayed in a pattern of leaves and flowers onto a darker metal.
“I just wanted—I know it isn’t your style, you don’t have to—”
“No, no, it is my style, I love it!” Akihito fumbled to find a finger that fit, as if Kenji were about to snatch it back.
“Here,” said Kenji. “I think this one.” He removed the ring from Akihito’s grasp and carefully smoothed straight his fingers, sliding the ring gently onto his right ring finger. Akihito could feel the pulse at the base of his finger beating against Kenji’s fingertips.
“Perfect. Thanks,” he whispered, barely able to get the syllables past the constriction in his throat.
“I wasn’t really looking for a card for my cousin,” Kenji apologized seriously. “I lied to you.” He sounded genuinely remorseful.
“As long as it never happens again,” Akihito said mock-sternly.
“It won’t. I’ll always tell you the truth, Tsugu.” He leaned closer. “Ask me anything.”
Just when he had almost gotten that lump out of his throat. For a minute they were left looking at each other in silence.
Finally, Akihito managed to ask, “Have you ever had tequila?”
AN HOUR later. Maybe more than an hour. Akihito had lost track of time and of how many shots they had taken and also of what street they were on.
“Uhh….” After a bit of staggering onward, Kenji found a corner with a street name. “Don’t know where that is,” he admitted. He looked around. “Are we in Nippori?”
“Dunno, man. I think I missed some, sometime. Something.”
“Doesn’t your phone have GPS?”
“Yeah, but I have that, you know, that thing. That app, so when you’re gonna get drunk, you can’t use the phone.”
Kenji stared at him in bleary confusion. “Why would you want your phone to not work?”
“So I don’t call you and”—confess my love—“wake you up.” The first time he had gotten drunk, only fumbling fingers had prevented him from calling Kenji at two in the morning and pouring out his feelings.
“You can wake me up.” Kenji nodded earnestly. “You can always wake me. You should always call me.”
“I don’t need to cuz you’re here.”
“Right! And it doesn’t matter if we’re lost because we’re together.”
“Yeah! That’s right. We’re—we’re—what are we?”
“Lost.”
“No.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Yeah, but s’not what I meant. I meant—cuz we’re best friends! I love you!”
Kenji managed to get his arm around Akihito’s shoulders on the first try. “We’ll walk till we find some train tracks, and then we’ll find the station. I won’t let you fall down,” he promised, looking into Akihito’s face. “I’ll take care of you.”
Akihito threw both arms around his friend and buried his face in his collar. After a minute, he realized he was in danger of passing out and announced, “I need to piss!”
They located a tree, a necessary prop to remaining upright while urinating.
Kenji leaned forward till his forehead almost touched the bark. “Can’t you tell direction by the moss on the trunk, or something?”
“I don’t think there is any moss.”
“Oh. Which way you wanna go?”
“I dunno. Left?”
By the time they came to the tracks, Akihito was still pretty drunk, although not so drunk that he actually needed Kenji’s arm around his shoulders to keep him walking in a passably straight line. He hadn’t said so, or removed his arm from Kenji’s ribs, because it was night and December and Kenji might be cold.
The pair followed the tracks with their gaze, first one way and then the other, as the rails faded into darkness.
“Either way,” Kenji reasoned, “we must come to a station eventually.”
They went in the direction Kenji thought might be west, which might be the right direction for them to head, depending on where they might be now. Once a train zoomed past them, making them jump. A few minutes later, they reached a small stop, just a plastic roof to keep off rain, a light on a pole, and a schedule.
They stood blearily in front of the board, trying to make out the small print.
“I think it says every hour,” Kenji decided finally.
“We just missed one.”
“At least it isn’t that cold.”
“It’s kind of cold.” The straight, open space of the train line didn’t block the cool breeze the way the residential streets had.
“Let’s cross to the other side. That looks like a park. Maybe there are benches.”
It did appear to be a small park, but it was dark, and no bench was visible within the radius of the streetlight.
“Let’s just sit on the grass,” Akihito said. “We don’t want to go too far and miss the train.”
They sat down between rows of bushes, which helped to block the wind.
“We should keep talking. Otherwise we might fall asleep.”
Pass out was more like it. Akihito asked, “Do you remember when we tried to walk out over the water at Ueno Onshi and fell in?”
“Yeah, I think about it every time I walk past the
spot! And just across the path is where the dog growled at me and I cried, and you jumped in front of me and waved your fist at it.”
“I did? I don’t remember that.”
“We were four. You were totally my hero that week, though.”
“Heh. You were my hero when those middle school guys tried to shake me down for my New Year’s money. You head-butted that jerk before he had time to hit me.”
“I’d never hit anyone before.”
“Really? Wait, what about that time we had the fist-fight with Iki and Shiga?”
“That was a little later, like two weeks.”
“Yeah, and the week after they dared us to walk on the railing of the second floor, and we all got sent to the principal’s office. Eight was totally our year for being bad.”
“My parents were pretty upset.”
“I remember.” Akihito definitely remembered. “I had to apologize and promise not to get you into trouble again, or they weren’t going to let you play with me.”
“I would’ve anyway. Like that time when we were ten, and they said I wasn’t allowed to talk to you, and we rode the train together all day.”
“I couldn’t believe you agreed to cut cram school.”
“I couldn’t believe I didn’t get caught.” Kenji shook his head.
“Too bad we can’t say the same for most of the other stuff we did wrong. Remember the time we borrowed that canoe without asking and it was harder than we expected and we overturned and got soaked and lost the canoe?”
“I can never forget! Only my grandfather was there when I came home, and when I confessed, he was the maddest I ever saw him! He beat me so hard I have a scar.”
“You’re kidding!” Akihito laughed, then stopped when Kenji didn’t join in. “You were kidding, right?”
“No, seriously. Look.” Kenji pulled his shirt and coat over his head in a tangle and turned his back to Akihito. “On my right shoulder.”
The scar was two inches long, a straight white line across his shoulder blade.
Akihito wrapped his arms around Kenji and pressed his parted lips to the scar. “I’m so sorry, Kenji,” he said—sobbed, really; he could feel the tears wetting his friend’s skin. “I’m such a bad friend.”
