The Beer Trap
Nam Sybillam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum pueri illi dicerent:
Στβμλλ τί Θέλεις; respondebat illa: άπσΘνειν Θελω.
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I. Yamamoto was a strong drinker; he had been ever since he had stopped playing baseball. But it would have been too simple—too naïve—to assume Yamamoto had become a strong drinker because of baseball. Yamamoto did not drink because of baseball; he drank because he liked the act of drinking; he drank for the same reason he did everything else. Yamamoto would sometimes—maybe to spite Gokudera, maybe to be truthful—say, “A cold beer at the right time is better than an orgasm.” So Gokudera never kept cold beer unless there was apologizing to do.
Gokudera was staring down the beer aisle of the rusty convenience store across the street from his apartment. Asahi, Kirin, Sapporo, Suntory, Orion, and Otaru stared back at him. Gokudera frowned. He turned to the man behind the counter; the man—middle-aged, graying, and obese—was playing a game of Sudoku recently printed in the Nanimori Times.
“Hey, where’s the Modelo?” said Gokudera.
“What?” said the man. He looked up. The newspaper rustled; a pen rolled from the centerfold crease. Gokudera noticed the man had written a six in the fourth row of the fifth column. The gears in Gokudera’s head churned; he could not stop them from churning; he had to find the solution; he had to know everything. The gears churned until Gokudera knew the man should have placed a two there instead.
“Where’s the Modelo?”
“No, I heard your question, but what’s Modelo?”
“It’s a brand of beer.”
“Is it foreign?”
“Yeah, Mexican.”
“Sorry, but we don’t carry any foreign beer,” said the man. “We’re a simple mom-and-pop business; there’s nothing fancy like Mexico here. You might want to try the store down the street—Watanabe’s—his son just took over; he’s nice and young and hip. He might carry something fancy like Modelo.”
The man said ‘Modero’ instead of ‘Modelo.’ Gokudera felt the urge to wipe that smudge of pronunciation from history; he couldn't help feeling the urge; something unconscious made him feel it; and the feeling was suffocating. Gokudera suddenly felt he could not help many things.
Gokudera nodded at the man; the man returned to his Sudoku game.
Gokudera left the store and went to Watanabe’s. They only carried Coronas, and those were mainly for the housewives—housewives loved drinking Coronas. Watanabe directed Gokudera two blocks east to Suzuki’s. Suzuki’s only carried Blue Moons and Guinness’s. Gokudera would have purchased Blue Moons for Yamamoto; but the weather made Gokudera hate the taste of oranges and Gokudera always drank when Yamamoto did.
“Modelo, huh?” said the young man working behind the counter. He turned to the storage room. “Isn’t Modelo the stuff your brother drinks, Galera-san?”
The young man said ‘Garera’ instead of ‘Galera;’ A Filipino woman entered the store from the back; she looked like a splendid shadow. Her skin reminded Gokudera of Italy and Yamamoto and— Stop. Don't think so much.
“Yeah,” said the woman, “My brother drinks Modelo. He shouldn’t though; it’s expensive and he doesn’t work. Money is tight, but he thinks we have plenty. He’s always saying, ‘Why do I have to worry about money? You’re paid every hour now…remember when you had to work the entire night…from ten o’clock…when the businessmen came home…to five o’clock…when the businessmen went to work?…and you would never know how much you would get paid…but you do now. I drink because I am happy. You should let me be happy. You should be happy.’”
“Ah…” said the young man. He had pretended he hadn’t been reading the newspaper while she had been talking. “Do you know where he buys it? This guy is looking for some Modelo.”
“It’s three blocks north and two blocks west; it’s a Lawson. You can’t miss it,” said the woman. Gokudera nodded—he felt he was always nodding—and left.
There were four other customers when Gokudera arrived: a housewife, her son, a teenage girl, and her boyfriend. The housewife looked tired—no, not tired, empty—as she pulled six Coronas from the refrigerator. Her son pulled on her skirt; he wanted juice. The housewife ignored him. She walked to the counter and paid with five silver coins. The coins were as flawless and crafted as she was—
—And the couple too.
Their hands were clasped in fear and convenience. They looked like they had been welded together, like a watering can and its spout. Gokudera knew understanding how close they could stand was only a matter of mathematics—mass, gravity, and force—assuming they could not break the laws of physics. Yet, Gokudera knew they would not break the laws of physics even if they could. They too were utterly—dismally—flawless and crafted.
“E dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta,” said Gokudera.
The couple agonized over which box of cookies to purchase as a house gift. The girl was meeting the boy’s mother; she was pregnant. Gokudera didn’t know how he could tell. He didn’t know if he was making up an excuse for the couple’s togetherness. Being together is simple—mechanical—when you have something to be together for. Or maybe—
The store sold Modelo in packs of six. Each pack was two thousand yen; fast math: twelve point four seven euros. Gokudera couldn’t help it; he began to feel like he was also one of those flawless and crafted people who held together for reasons that weren’t quite good enough. Gokudera grabbed a six pack.
Gokudera looked at the girl again. She wasn’t pregnant—or at least not obviously—she was just a girl. It had been double vision again. Gokudera sometimes saw things that weren’t really there.
Gokudera paid for the beer with crumpled bills. A light rain had started falling outside. It was always raining in June. Gokudera left the store and lit a cigarette—inhale; exhale—smoke hovered over his head. Smoke was always hovering in Japan; it was always too humid, too stifling to dissipate. Gokudera thought the smoke looked like a ghost. And ghosts were always following Gokudera around.
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One has to read it a long time. You too will finally understand it clearly. Of course, it has to be a script that isn’t simple. You see, it’s not supposed to kill right away, but on average over a period of twelve hours. The turning point is set for the sixth hour. There must also be many, many embellishments surrounding the basic script. The essential script moves around the body only in a narrow belt. The rest of the body is reserved for decoration.
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II. Gokudera had done a very un-Catholic thing after his induction: he had read John Milton’s Paradise Lost. And, like all un-Catholic things he did in his life, Gokudera had become completely absorbed, obsessed, with the motions of the work. Gokudera had spent five days pacing his bedroom and pondering the technicalities of rewriting Divine Truth so that it could make sense for someone—anyone. Gokudera had hoped he would understand it; but then he had found himself falling into the pit of the first book and then the second and then hoping, wishing, someone would give him the right to choose his own downfall, to give birth to himself as Satan had done; and Gokudera had known he would be damned for it.
Gokudera hadn’t thought of any easy ways to tell his priest, so he had expected to go to Hell ever since he had been eighteen. And like all things Gokudera expected, his expectation had simply been that—expectation. The prospect of damnation had been surprisingly easy to bear; easy enough that Gokudera had viewed it as a mere asterisk occurring at what would be the end of his sentence-like life.
In the Sicilian orchard: Gokudera had been smoking over Orlando Furioso and pulling at his collar where three bruises had ripened. He had thought, wondered—and Gokudera was always wondering, like he was never present when something was happening—when things had become how they were, with Yamamoto burrowing his head into his ribs two hours before sunrise, and him yielding and sweet for no particular reason. Gokudera hadn't remembered when it had happened; he couldn't remember when it had started. It had almost been as if they had fallen into how they were out of sheer gravity.
—Like Orlando and Angelica, perhaps; Gokudera had thought; except Orlando had only believed Angelica to be his. But, in the end, Angelica couldn't have been his; she had inevitably been out of his reach.
Gokudera had smoked his cigarettes, the ones he could still smoke when he had the lungs for them, and wondered about the dichotomy of the evitable and inevitable; and how, if, he could see the difference between them. He had said to no one in particular, 'What is fate anyway?'
A voice from somewhere past the peach trees had answered, 'Death: and the ability for man to both know and be trapped by it.'
'Who's there?' Gokudera had said. He had waited for a couple of minutes by the cherry tree. His muscles had knotted themselves in the silence. 'Who's there?' Gokudera had said again. Silence again; except for the cackle of his cigarette. Gokudera had snubbed his cigarette and stuffed his book into his pocket before grabbing a branch of the cherry tree and looping his leg over a limb. He had righted himself on that branch and grabbed another, climbing until he could see past the peach trees, which had stood behind a row of ivy-faced fences. He had seen a shadow among the peach trees, ambling and flickering like it had been unsure if it had existed. 'Who's there?' Gokudera had said again.
'The bird who eats the bookworm,' the shadow had said. The shadow had lifted its head to reveal a sliver of paleness; and eyes—its eyes had been black and brutal, so black and brutal that it had almost been comforting.
'Hibari,' Gokudera had said. 'It's fucking rude to eavesdrop.'
'It's rude to assume I had wanted to listen to your petty philosophical concerns.' Hibari had said.
'Fuck you,' Gokudera had said. He had chucked the book at Hibari. Hibari had caught it in his left hand. His fingers had crushed the pages until the book seemed to collapse. The wind had swept through the orchard; it had made everything quiver except for Hibari, who had stood still. He had stood as still as strength itself.
'You have no respect for books,' Gokudera had said.
'Books,' Hibari had said, 'are useless. He had smoothed the pages with his palm. His eyes had taken in the Italian, the soft rhymes and gentle verses. 'And books like Orlando Furioso are especially useless.' Hibari had smiled a terrible, gash-like smile. 'If you want to learn something, read a manual.' Hibari had closed the book and slipped it into the pocket over his heart.
'You wouldn't know the meaning of books,' Gokudera had said. 'You probably don't even read them.' Hibari had turned away; he had become a flicker in the sunlight again—a splendid shadow.
'What had Arisoto written about Rodomonte, again?' Hibari had said. He had began walking toward the apple trees. "Hadn't it been, And smiting twice or thrice his horrid front, raising as high as he could raise in air his dagger, buried it in Rodomont; and freed himself withal from further care. Loosed from the more than icy corse, to font of fetid Acheron, and hell's foul repair, the indignant spirit fled, blaspheming loud; erewhile on earth so haughty and so proud.?" Hibari had paused to hear the hum of insects in the grass. "I think," Hibari had said, "that's exactly what should happen to you."
He had disappeared past the apple trees then—ambling and flickering like he had been unsure if he had wanted to exist.
'Fuck you,' Gokudera had said again, to the emptiness.
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Here may we reign secure, and in my choice to reign is worth ambition, though in Hell. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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III. Gokudera hadn't been able to kill his first man without turning it into something other than murder. The edges of his vision had been blurring from the scotch he had drank with Tsuna half an hour before.
They had drank three glases in Tsuna's office. The blinds had been down; office hours had been over. Tsuna had spun the glass with his finger. The ice had clammered like a woman's bangles. Tsuna had said, 'You're the last person I want to do this to.' Gokudera had watched the ash stack on the tip of his cigarette. Tsuna had said, 'Make sure it's quick; make sure it's quiet; make sure he's dead.' Gokudera had stared at Tsuna; he had felt the image of Tsuna at fourteen collide and reject Tsuna at twenty-four. Tsuna had laughed a nervous laugh—was this the first?—and lifted his glass and said, 'Here's to courage and necessity.' Gokudera had drank the scotch; he had chased the liquor with smoke. Tsuna had opened a drawer and brought out a medium-sized wooden box with gold clasps and hinges. He had placed the box on the table—clasps toward Gokudera, hinges toward himself—and opened it. There had been a pistol, a Browning Buck Mark .22, and suppressor inside. 'Use this,' Tsuna had said. 'It'll be faster.' Gokudera had nodded—he had felt he had always been nodding—and assembled the pistol; he had placed the pistol between the waistband of his pants and the small of his back. He had turned to leave. 'Have another drink,' Tsuna had said. 'For courage.'
Gokudera had watched the blood dry under his nails; he hadn't thought of it as murder. He couldn't have thought of it as murder.
'They deserved it,' Reborn had said. When had he said that? 'It was how things were meant to be. It was for the good of the family.'
—When had he said that; had it been Gokudera's imagination? ...But Reborn's words had baffled him, even if it had been his imagination...Divine justice, families, fireplaces, meanings, holding hands and doing fucking spins, goodness, Yamamoto, Fate, Tsuna, middle school... Fucking middle school. Gokudera's thoughts had been shuffled; it had been the scotch. Gokudera had gone back to Tsuna's office. He had taken the rest of the scotch after giving a report. It had been an unremarkable job; it had been like taking candy from the armless and crippled. 'They would have deserved that too,' Reborn had said. Had he? 'And there's no competing against Fate. Fate is inevitable. Fate is easy.'
'Don't like being told what to do,' Gokudera had said, his words bleeding together. 'I don't like things being easy.'
'You don't have to fight for everything,' Reborn had said. 'You don't have to be responsible for everything.'
'Don't want to be given anything,' Gokudera had said. 'Don't want any cosmic pity.'
'You'll get it whether you want it or not,' Reborn had said. Had he?
'I'll fight it; I'll compete against it. I'll tell the entire world to fuck off,' Gokudera had said, his head had lolled like a pinwheel blade. He had risen to his feet and staggered to the window. 'I'll beat it up. I'll fuck it up.' It had been storming; everything had looked crooked. He had opened the window and leaned so far out that he had seemed to hang in mid-air. 'Do you hear that? I'll fuck you up.' His words had gotten lost in the roar of the storm.
Gokudera had only been able to kill his first man by turning it into a competition, an ambition.
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Now, his voice whispered this: "He alone is equal to another who proves it, and he alone is worthy of liberty who knows how to conquer it."
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IV. Addressing the inconvenient but inevitable question of why: The small of Gokudera's back had been pressed against the edge of the sink fifteen minutes after everyone had gone to Saturday mass. The summer had bronzed him dark enough to scorch. The sweat on his brow had seemed to evaporate from the heat of his skin. A black smudge had pinned itself among the wallpaper flowers; it had been where Gokudera had snubbed his cigarette. A figure of the Virgin Mary had hung over the toilet. Gokudera had felt her eyes burn in silent condemnation. He had wondered how he, or anyone, could have sex with that gaze on their skin; but his lust...no, greed; or maybe, pride...had overcome his fear.
He—not Yamamoto; because Yamamoto wouldn't do things like this—had been gripping the buttons between his knuckles and ripping them off with a twist. The sound of buttons hitting the floor had filled the bathroom. Gokudera had felt teeth tearing his neck; the sharpness of the bite had angered Gokudera. Gokudera had raked his hands through his—not Yamamoto's; never Yamamoto's—hair and pulled his head away.
'Don't leave marks,' Gokudera had said.
'Does it really matter now?' he had said as he had torn the shirt from Gokudera's shoulders.
'Why?' Gokudera had said.
'Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself?' he had said with a smile. Gokudera had grabbed him by the shoulders and thrown him against the wall, laying his body over the cigarette burn, and kissed him just to bury that smile.
'I mean for you. I know why I'm doing this,'—maybe; maybe he had been bluffing—'but why are you doing this? What do you get out of it?' Gokudera had said before he bad been pushed against the sink. Gokudera had felt him—'Answer the goddamn question, Hibari.'—pry his legs apart; he had felt Hibari's heat against his body.
'Why?' Hibari had said, a snarl in his voice and a fistful of Gokudera's hair in his hand. A tug had sent Gokudera's head snapping. Glass had cracked as Gokudera's head had slammed against the mirror. 'You're something else to break. That's why.'
Hibari had dragged Gokudera's pants and underwear to his knees, dropping to his own knees in the act. Gokudera had tilted his head to follow Hibari's mouth as it had travel down his hips. Hibari had licked the tip of Gokudera's cock; Gokudera had gripped the sink until his knuckles had turned white. 'Fuck,' Gokudera had said. 'Fuck yo—' But Hibari had taken Gokudera into his mouth, without warning or mercy; and, for once, Gokudera had bitten his lip in more passion than pride. Gokudera had leaned back; had clung to the medicine cabinet; had bruised his lip with his teeth. Hibari had paused to hoist Gokudera's legs over his shoulders; he had touched the space between Gokudera's thigh and hip, testing the tension, before letting Gokudera feel the warmth of his mouth again. Gokudera had watched Hibari's head bob; he had watched with a scream in the back of his throat.
—How had it gotten like this anyway?
A book—Orlando Furioso—and a champagne reception. Being without Yamamoto, or anyone, for four weeks and resenting everyone and Yamamoto for it. Talking to Hibari; saying: I want my book. Him saying: take it if you can. Walking down a hideously wallpapered hallway. Looking at portraits of the important dead. Going a million revolutions a second. Having a Sartrean existential crisis. Making or breaking. Finding Hibari and—
'Fuck,' Gokudera had screamed, so close to orgasm that everything had felt wonderful and anxious. His palm had splayed over the mirror; his flesh had cracked against the glass. But he hadn't cared; he hadn't cared about anything but the hotness on his skin. The heat had unraveled him slowlypainfullybrutally. 'Please,' Gokudera had said, more like an insult than a plead.
—Grappling like small children. Trying to reach the pocket over Hibari's heart—are you sure it had been just for the book?—and getting punched in the face for it. Breaking a small lamp in the fall. Grabbing Hibari by the lapels and running him against a portrait of the Eighth. Saying: give it. Maybe even: give up. Pressing so close to Hibari that he couldn't be punched. Hearing Hibari's laughing breath. Feeling like the biggest joke in the world, and being angry, not embarrassed for it; even though he's winning this time. Hibari calling him weak. Headbutting him to the floor. Kicking him while he's there. And feeling anger, rage, running through his body; just that and not even any pain at all—
Hibari had flipped Gokudera over and pressed Gokudera's hipbones against the sink. Hibari had bitten the back of Gokudera's neck; he had made him shudder with anticipation and dread.
—Grabbing Hibari's legs. Hearing a satisfying thump. Getting on top of him. Making sure he won't get away. Punching him across the jaw and hurting his fist in the process. Being pushed down. Ribcages touching; feeling like there wasn't enough room for both of them to be breathing. Rolling to avoid palms on his neck. Struggling to breathe. Not caring so long as he won—him and not Hibari. Getting aroused for no particular reason. Knowing Hibari knew because he was on top, because Hibari had the final word. Hibari saying: what would Yamamoto say? Watching Hibari leave, like nothing had happened, like he, Gokudera, had been nothing—
Gokudera had arched his spine groaning. 'Would you like to go faster?' Hibari had said. Gokudera had smashed a soap dish in frustration. And still Hibari had asked, in his smooth, slow way, 'Would you like to go faster?'
—Being followed into the bathroom two days later. Being told to be quiet. Being touched. Being challenged. Grabbing Hibari by his shirt and kissing him so hard that he was breathless. Kissing Hibari as a challenge and not a compliment and— This:
Gokudera had said, 'I can't—not with her watching.' He had been eye to eye with the Virgin Mary and hip to nail with Hibari's hands. He had felt Hibari under him waiting on the toilet seat; he had felt Hibari's fingers dig into bone. Hibari had smiled; he had reached up, grabbed the statue, weighed it in one hand, then with the carelessness of a devil, hurled it onto the floor, grinning as she had broken into a million repentant pieces. Then Hibari had gripped Gokudera—bruises everywhere, so many that Gokudera couldn't think of when he had been so bruised last—and forced him onto his cock, so quickly and surprisingly that Gokudera had barely time to mutter, 'Wait; wait—' Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment '—wait.'
'Show me how much you want this,' Hibari had said with a greed so lush that it had sounded green.
Gokudera had refused; sworn at Hibari; fought him—scratching, biting, punching—until Hibari had placed his teeth on Gokudera's pulse so Gokudera could feel the thrill of real danger. Hibari had hummed against Gokudera's pulse, 'There's nothing more satisfying that making someone want what they appall.'
'What appalls you?' Gokudera had said.
'You,' Hibari had said.
'Then I'll make you want me,' Gokudera had said. 'I'll make you need me.' They had been pressed pelvis-to-pelvis. They had almost fit together. Gokudera had began to rock against Hibari; he had rocked slowly at first but soon found himself in a half-mewling, half-urging frenzy against Hibari's teasingtaunting fingers. Gokudera's face had been a collage of emotions—all raw; all undeniable—but Gokudera's eyes had never left Hibari's face; they had never stopped searching for a change in color (a flush of the cheeks) or expression (a wrinkle of the brow). He had stared until he had tossed his head back in a pleasure that had resembled madness. A howl had escaped his lips. It had been a cry so desperate that Gokudera had thought, hoped, it hadn't been his.
He had shuddered, clutched at the skin of Hibari's shoulders, and slackened, still trembling, against Hibari.
And Hibari had given Gokudera the courtesy of a handful of seconds, before pushing him onto the floor and finishing what Gokudera had been unable to. He had taken Gokudera's legs over his shoulders and thrust into Gokudera until he had had to bury his face into Gokudera's neck.
Hibari had stilled for a moment—for such a mere moment, it had seemed to Gokudera—before he had lifted his face, still regal in its malice, and said, 'I only need myself.'
Then Hibari had ran his teeth across Gokudera's neck. ''Don't leave a mark.' Gokudera had said. But Hibari had anyway. He had left one so scarlet, so dark that it had matched Gokudera's shame.
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No, sir, not ours! Look here! That is the very difference! Our reality doesn't change: it can't change! It can't be other than what it is, because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an immutable reality which should make you shudder when you approach us if you are really conscious of the fact that your reality is a mere transitory and fleeting illusion, taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the conditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn are controlled by an intellect that shows them to you today in one manner and tomorrow...who knows how?... Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow it were to end... Then why, all would be finished.
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V. Gokudera opened a bottle of Modelo. The rain had gotten louder; it was making frying pan sounds on the pavement. It was five o’clock—too early to start dinner.
Gokudera sat next to the phone. He knew Yamamoto would call; he called every night regardless of reason, and Yamamoto rarely had reasons. Yamamoto sometimes called Gokudera over dinner, before bed, between meetings…and sometimes from nothing about nothing and for nothing. The sincerity of nothingness surprised Gokudera. He loved those conversations best; he always waited for them.
He had fallen into the habit of waiting for calls. Gokudera didn’t care who called; he felt he couldn’t receive enough calls. He always felt he was waiting next to the telephone—always on the sofa with a book; always alone. Gokudera felt he was alone a lot.
Gokudera opened a book. Yamamoto had once told him he was too rebellious, fiery; ‘You should read books written by women; they will teach you acceptance.’ Gokudera devoured books…not for Yamamoto, no, never for Yamamoto, but for himself…for himself…if only he could convince himself with those words… He devoured books with savage ignorance. Gokudera could not understand the books no matter how often he read them; he couldn’t understand them because he was too rebellious—self-contained and stubborn—to go outside of himself, and he knew he had to go outside of himself to understand writing. But he couldn’t help keeping himself to himself; and everyone, even he, wondered what he had to hide, and why he was so distrusting. And so Gokudera, the way he was and not the way he might have been, found writing so wild and racked that not even devils could burn meaning out of it.
Gokudera was not meant for acceptance—
—No… He had gotten confused; Yamamoto hadn’t said, ‘…They will teach you acceptance;’ he had said, ‘…They will teach you softness.’ Yamamoto had noticed Gokudera’s library two weeks ago—all women writers: Takahashi, Hayashi, Yoshimoto, Enchi, Ohba, Murata, Miyamoto…—and said, ‘Are you softer now?’
Gokudera hadn’t known what to say. He had felt softer—soft enough to be gelatin; soft enough to quiver.
‘Whatever,’ he had said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that has nothing to do with anything else.’
‘I don’t think so—’
‘Well you can fuck off.’
‘—I think you have everything to do with everything else. It matters if you change. It matters to me.’
Yamamoto’s words had been shadowed by the perfect arch of his lip. The stillness of that perfection had maddened Gokudera. There was nothing soft about Yamamoto. Gokudera knew Yamamoto wouldn’t change, but he didn’t know if Yamamoto couldn’t change. Gokudera was always waiting for a shadow to appear in the curve of Yamamoto’s mouth; always hoping…no, maybe needing…(why else would he always feel so breathless?)…for evidence of…of… Gokudera didn’t know what.
‘You’re wrinkling my shirt.’ Yamamoto had been sitting on his shirt.
‘Sorry.’ Yamamoto stood up.
‘You should be.’
‘I am.’
‘Well, you’re not sorry enough.' (You’re not as sorry as I am.)
‘Why are you always so difficult?’ Yamamoto had still been smiling.
‘Hit me.’
‘What?’ Yamamoto had still been smiling.
‘Hit me if I’m so difficult.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can?’
‘Didn’t I say you could?’
‘Okay then; close your eyes.’
‘I don’t need to close my—’
‘Close your eyes.’
Gokudera had closed his eyes and heard the rustle of fabric. He had known Yamamoto's fingers would have been cinched to cut; knuckles, bared to bruise; and arm, raised to strike. Anticipation, fear, hope, and devastation had sprinkled over his spine. Suddenly, what he should have felt and what he had felt became inexplicably confused, and he could not help but think the imprint of Yamamoto’s hands would somehow sink past his skin and into his heart; but it had been impossible for Gokudera to predict whether that would have been because of love or convention.
“One,” Yamamoto had said.
A silence.
“Two,” Yamamoto had said.
A silence.
“Three.”
Yamamoto had struck Gokudera with a kiss that had left Gokudera soft and sedated, like a patient etherized.
Yamamoto had laughed. "I got you, didn't I?"
Gokudera had wanted to punch Yamamoto, to strangle him. He had wanted to put his face against Yamamoto's and howl—not even words, just howl—then force Yamamoto to beat him until he couldn't walk. He hadn't been able to explain why he had wanted what he wanted; he had simply known that he had needed it. He had needed... What? What had it mattered?
Yamamoto had left to use the bathroom. Gokudera had picked up a book, had picked up inevitability itself, and thrown it so hard against a window that the window had broken into a thousand, irreparable pieces.
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There we were—demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance—and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened.
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VI. Gokudera sees moonlight bend through the window and over his naked chest; he imagines the rays twisting like claws, slicing his flesh, tearing until gashes form like smiles. He rolls over in his sheets; tangles himself in them; but he can't escape the moonlight. He looks at the moon; scowls at her pocked face; feels an itch somewhere deeper than his flesh, somewhere he thinks he can't scratch but tries anyway—he drags his nails over his arms—...no, can't reach. He digs deeper; he feels his skin curl under his nails; but it doesn't feel better. He breaks a small lamp—that sounds familiar, a small lamp—by swinging his arm over his dresser. He pulls the drawers from the chest and flings them against the wall; he watches his clothes fly across the room with them. He scratches at his face. He doesn't know why he feels this way but he knows he's always feeling this way; he knows it is a feeling that transcends time, transcends space; it is a feeling that is always happening in present tense. He screams. It makes nothing better. And all the while he is out of breath, and he suddenly believes he is bordering on an enlightenment that will occur when his lungs are completely empty. He feels light-headed. He screams again—to let the air out. He claws at the door until his knuckles bleed, but not because he wants to leave the room—no, leaving the room would not be leaving enough behind. He throws himself against the door just to hear the thump of his bones and flesh against wood; he hears the thumping five times before he crumbles onto the floor and trembles—just trembles.
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Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
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VII. “I bought you beer,” said Gokudera as he grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator. Yamamoto was still prying the shoes form his feet over the welcome mat. He looked up at Gokudera—his tie whimpering from his neck—and smiled a very normal, very domestic, very perfect smile. “It’s your favorite kind; it’s Modelo.” Gokudera forced the gold foil to curl and flurry onto the carpet by rubbing the bottleneck with his palm. Gokudera then pried the cap open with a bottle opener, just as Yamamoto had pried off his shoes before entering the apartment and starting—starting—
“Do you want one?” said Gokudera.
“Yeah,” said Yamamoto.
Gokudera handed Yamamoto the beer. He watched as Yamamoto gulped the beer down and emerge with a deep breath and a smile. Then, he took the beer from Yamamoto’s hand and kissed Yamamoto long and hard, tasting the coldness on Yamamoto’s mouth and being reminded of how Yamamoto had tasted in winter after stumbling through the door with a smile as large and dumb as a man who had just found something worth keeping. Yamamoto moved his mouth against Gokudera’s. The movements were slick and sleek; they made Gokudera shiver and dig his nails into the back of Yamamoto’s neck.
And then he pulled back—just a centimeter—so Yamamoto could feel the coldness in his breath too. “You drank the beer.”
“Yeah,” said Yamamoto. “Was I not supposed to?”
“You drank the beer,” said Gokudera. “That means you have to forgive what I’m going to do next.”
“That’s a dirty trick.”
“I know. But it’s a trick that works.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“First, I’m going to kiss you,” said Gokudera. He pressed his mouth against Yamamoto’s—lips parted and tongue withdrawn so he could taste the emptiness against his teeth; Yamamoto leaned in, aching for more flesh and silence.
“And then I’m going to take off your clothes.” Gokudera untangled the knot of Yamamoto’s tie. He let the silk slip through his fingers. He unbuttoned Yamamoto’s shirt with his right hand, thumb and forefinger disengaging the clasps without thought—mechanically and perfectly, like they had done a million times before and expected to do a million times later.
“And I’m going to worship you.” Gokudera’s mouth caught at the pulse of Yamamoto’s neck. He let his teeth drag over that spot before his lips could; then he let his tongue lick the incision.
“—Love you.” Gokudera’s fingers crept up Yamamoto’s torso nail-first. His mouth traveled to Yamamoto’s ear and hovered so close that Yamamoto could hear his every word, every breath, and every silence.
“And then I am going to leave you.”
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To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all."
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VIII. 'Why do you taunt Fate, Hayato?' Bianchi had said in the white room; the one with the crossed windows barring the orchard outside. She had sat at the other end of the table—which had also been white—and looked at him with her hands folded. 'Why can't you just accept the things you have been given? What is the harm in docility?'
'Everything,' Gokudera had said. He had hung, not quite sat, in his seat and stared across Bianchi's hairline. He had avoided her eyes. 'Why should I accept Fate? Why should I accept that my life has been decided for me, that it already has a meaning I can't change?'
'Because there will never be anything better than what Fate has planned for you,' Bianchi had said. She had unfolded and refolded her hands; she had had nothing to do with her hands because they hadn't allowed her to bring a purse. 'Isn't it good enough that Fate has given you someone to love?'
'No,' Gokudera had said. 'Because it's not love, it's be Fate.' He had turned to look at the orchard—a cherry orchard—and wondered how things had changed so much, how things could have breezed by him without him feeling so much as responsible for them. He had felt nauseous.
'And what had he been?' Bianchi had said.
—What had he been?
'A challenge,' Gokudera had said. 'A chance to win or lose.' Gokudera had paused; he had strained to hear the birds outside. 'A chance to defy everything.'
—Really? Is that what he had been? And not the sensation of being pressed against a parking brake at three in the morning?...Or knees against a headrest, fingers tugging at clasps, mouths pressing to create a vacuum...Or having his ribs counted with nails and spine marked with teeth...Or feeling the cold of six o'clock on his neck from where he had kissed?...Or fighting in the stairwell and tumbling down two flights before being pulled to his feet so he—Hibari; can't say that word, can't even think it; Hi-ba-ri: don't run, just accept what had happened—could reset his dislocated arm...thinking it's an apology; thinking he's winning; thinking he—Hibari—might be falling? That's what it had been—
'But you failed,' Bianchi had said. 'Doesn't that mean anything to you?'
—No. None of it had meant anything. Right? Right. Right?
'I don't...' Gokudera had wrinkled his brow; his thoughts had gotten too frantic, crazy. 'I don't think anything has meaning anymore.'
'He left you,' Bianchi had said. 'You were just something to break for him—and you let him.'
—No. He hadn't let himself be broken by him—Hibari; think the word, don't let him destroy you—because he had been fine on Easter Sunday, even after he had seen th— He had been fine for five months after Easter Sunday. He had gone to work, cooked his meals, made love to Yamamoto, and fallen asleep unremarkably. He had sometimes gone to Italy, but usually: He had woken up every morning and shaved to the hum of the radio and eaten over the newspaper. He had eaten almost every lunch with Yamamoto at twelve o'clock sharp. He had eaten almost every dinner alone at six-thirty; never even a second off. Groceries had been bought on Fridays. Mass had been attended on Saturdays. Trash had been taken out on Tuesdays. Groceries on Fridays; mass on Saturdays; trash on—
He had been fine even after Easter Sunday when he had seen them—think the words, Hibari and Ryohei; now that wasn't so hard—caressing in the corridor; a trail of clothing had lead to their naked bodies which had melded without gaps or misunderstandings. They had seemed perfect; they had seemed—and Hibari had lifted his head and smiled a terrible gash-like smile—Fated. But he had been fine for five months after that.
'No,' Gokudera had said. 'I hadn't. I had known—'
'Just because you can understand Fate doesn't mean you can rise above it,' Bianchi had said. 'You can't rise above death; that's something you should have learned in our line of work.'
Gokudera had kept his gaze away from her eyes; it had been a trick he had learned over the years. 'And that's something...' What? 'Unacceptable.'
A long silence.
'He's still waiting for you,' Bianchi had said. 'For God's sake, you should let yourself be happy.'
A long silence.
'I think I have to stop talking now,' Gokudera had said. He had risen from his seat and walked away with two men clad in white.
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HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
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IX. Yamamoto pinned Gokudera, writhing, between the wall and his ribs; he crushed his body against Gokudera's until the folds of Gokudera’s shirt had wrinkled his torso. Gokudera tried to speak and breathe but was left speechless and breathless with Yamamoto's fingers clawing through his hair and teeth digging into his lips. The sound of seams fraying filled the room. Sleeves were ripped; buttons were torn. Knuckles pressed against Gokudera's chest—bruising, stilling—until they collapsed into nails that sheered gashes over skin.
"Is it because of him?" said Yamamoto. "Do you love him?"
"It's not because of him," said Gokudera. "It's because—"
"Of what? Of meaning; Existentialism; Fate?"
"Yes," said Gokudera, slowly.
"Is it because this is easy, effortless? Is it because you don't have to fight for it? Because it insults your pride?" Yamamoto laughed; a tight, short, stern laugh.
"I'm not sick," Gokudera said. "This isn't a relapse."
"I know," said Yamamoto.
"I'm sorry," said Gokudera.
"No you’re not." (You're not as sorry as I am.)
Yamamoto struck Gokudera with a kiss; his arms slid from Gokudera’s hair to his arms, which he smoothed then creased against the wall. Palms pressed against palms until both turned a cold and trembling purple. There was a wrinkle between Yamamoto’s eyes that wavered as Yamamoto wavered between a cry and a smile; his mouth had opened to show crimson for a second but clamped to reveal nothing but ivory the next. Yamamoto seemed annoyed by his own indecision, by Fate's sudden ability to assign choice. He squatted and wrapped his arms around Gokudera's legs and lifted Gokudera over his shoulder. Gokudera protested; pulled Yamamoto's hair. But Yamamoto didn't care; he felt anger, rage, running through his body—just that and not even any pain at all—or at least not yet. Yamamoto carried Gokudera to the bedroom. He dropped Gokudera onto the bed, then flung himself ontop of him.
He felt the bed springs against his elbows as he bit and kissed—kiss-nipped; encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment—Gokudera deliriously. Gokudera thought he had tasted salt on his tongue, he hoped he had, but Yamamoto still wore the same grotesque smile when he lifted his face. The smile was hideous to Gokudera; the smile was terrible and constant, like time, like death.
"I want to cry," said Yamamoto.
"Then stop smiling," said Gokudera.
But Yamamoto only smiled broader, so broad, it almost looked like a scream.
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“Forgive me everything,” whispered the hunger artist. Only the supervisor, who was pressing his ear up against the cage, understood him. “Certainly,” said the supervisor, tapping his forehead with his finger in order to indicate to the spectators the state the hunger artist was in, “we forgive you.” “I always wanted you to admire my fasting,” said the hunger artist. “But we do admire it,” said the supervisor obligingly. “But you shouldn’t admire it,” said the hunger artist. “Well then, we don’t admire it,” said the supervisor, “but why shouldn’t we admire it?” “Because I had to fast. I can’t do anything else,” said the hunger artist. “Just look at you,” said the supervisor, “why can’t you do anything else?” “Because,” said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and, with his lips pursed as if for a kiss, speaking right into the supervisor’s ear so that he wouldn’t miss anything, “because I couldn’t find a food which I enjoyed. If had found that, believe me, I would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart’s content, like you and everyone else.” Those were his last words, but in his failing eyes there was the firm, if no longer proud, conviction that he was continuing to fast.
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X. —What do you feel?
Gokudera closed his apartment door. He leaned against it. He felt its coldness against his neck. He thought he heard scratching against the other side of it—like a cat trying to escape—but it had been the birds fluttering through the trees, stirring to the paleness of the horizon. He heard a laugh. It had been dry, like there had been no lungs behind it. Gokudera knew it had been Yamamoto's because he knew Yamamoto laughed at everything, even at blood drying under his nails.
Gokudera lit a cigarette and felt the progression of history burn down his throat. The immensity of the word Yamamoto struck him. Fast math: eight years equals ninety-six months...equals two thousand nine hundred twenty days...equals seventy thousand eighty hours...equals four million two hundred four thousand eight hundred minutes—the average man breathes about thirteen times a minute—...equals fifty-four million six hundred sixty-two thousand four hundred breaths. He exhaled and all of those breaths seemed to hover over him like a ghost before disintegrating into the crisp morning air. He breathed in—
—Is this one?
He breathed out. He breathed in again.
—Is this two?
He heard footsteps from inside the apartment. He felt a weight against the door, a soft weight, and heard the hinges creak. Gokudera closed his eyes. He could hear Yamamoto's breaths, deep and trembling, on the other side. Gokudera suddenly felt this was not how things were meant to be, even if there was no such thing as meaning; he suddenly felt a tension in his chest. It kept him paralyzed against the door. It kept him tied and drawn and heavy and—
—Is this three?...Is it reall—
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum pueri illi dicerent:
Στβμλλ τί Θέλεις; respondebat illa: άπσΘνειν Θελω.
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I. Yamamoto was a strong drinker; he had been ever since he had stopped playing baseball. But it would have been too simple—too naïve—to assume Yamamoto had become a strong drinker because of baseball. Yamamoto did not drink because of baseball; he drank because he liked the act of drinking; he drank for the same reason he did everything else. Yamamoto would sometimes—maybe to spite Gokudera, maybe to be truthful—say, “A cold beer at the right time is better than an orgasm.” So Gokudera never kept cold beer unless there was apologizing to do.
Gokudera was staring down the beer aisle of the rusty convenience store across the street from his apartment. Asahi, Kirin, Sapporo, Suntory, Orion, and Otaru stared back at him. Gokudera frowned. He turned to the man behind the counter; the man—middle-aged, graying, and obese—was playing a game of Sudoku recently printed in the Nanimori Times.
“Hey, where’s the Modelo?” said Gokudera.
“What?” said the man. He looked up. The newspaper rustled; a pen rolled from the centerfold crease. Gokudera noticed the man had written a six in the fourth row of the fifth column. The gears in Gokudera’s head churned; he could not stop them from churning; he had to find the solution; he had to know everything. The gears churned until Gokudera knew the man should have placed a two there instead.
“Where’s the Modelo?”
“No, I heard your question, but what’s Modelo?”
“It’s a brand of beer.”
“Is it foreign?”
“Yeah, Mexican.”
“Sorry, but we don’t carry any foreign beer,” said the man. “We’re a simple mom-and-pop business; there’s nothing fancy like Mexico here. You might want to try the store down the street—Watanabe’s—his son just took over; he’s nice and young and hip. He might carry something fancy like Modelo.”
The man said ‘Modero’ instead of ‘Modelo.’ Gokudera felt the urge to wipe that smudge of pronunciation from history; he couldn't help feeling the urge; something unconscious made him feel it; and the feeling was suffocating. Gokudera suddenly felt he could not help many things.
Gokudera nodded at the man; the man returned to his Sudoku game.
Gokudera left the store and went to Watanabe’s. They only carried Coronas, and those were mainly for the housewives—housewives loved drinking Coronas. Watanabe directed Gokudera two blocks east to Suzuki’s. Suzuki’s only carried Blue Moons and Guinness’s. Gokudera would have purchased Blue Moons for Yamamoto; but the weather made Gokudera hate the taste of oranges and Gokudera always drank when Yamamoto did.
“Modelo, huh?” said the young man working behind the counter. He turned to the storage room. “Isn’t Modelo the stuff your brother drinks, Galera-san?”
The young man said ‘Garera’ instead of ‘Galera;’ A Filipino woman entered the store from the back; she looked like a splendid shadow. Her skin reminded Gokudera of Italy and Yamamoto and— Stop. Don't think so much.
“Yeah,” said the woman, “My brother drinks Modelo. He shouldn’t though; it’s expensive and he doesn’t work. Money is tight, but he thinks we have plenty. He’s always saying, ‘Why do I have to worry about money? You’re paid every hour now…remember when you had to work the entire night…from ten o’clock…when the businessmen came home…to five o’clock…when the businessmen went to work?…and you would never know how much you would get paid…but you do now. I drink because I am happy. You should let me be happy. You should be happy.’”
“Ah…” said the young man. He had pretended he hadn’t been reading the newspaper while she had been talking. “Do you know where he buys it? This guy is looking for some Modelo.”
“It’s three blocks north and two blocks west; it’s a Lawson. You can’t miss it,” said the woman. Gokudera nodded—he felt he was always nodding—and left.
There were four other customers when Gokudera arrived: a housewife, her son, a teenage girl, and her boyfriend. The housewife looked tired—no, not tired, empty—as she pulled six Coronas from the refrigerator. Her son pulled on her skirt; he wanted juice. The housewife ignored him. She walked to the counter and paid with five silver coins. The coins were as flawless and crafted as she was—
—And the couple too.
Their hands were clasped in fear and convenience. They looked like they had been welded together, like a watering can and its spout. Gokudera knew understanding how close they could stand was only a matter of mathematics—mass, gravity, and force—assuming they could not break the laws of physics. Yet, Gokudera knew they would not break the laws of physics even if they could. They too were utterly—dismally—flawless and crafted.
“E dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta,” said Gokudera.
The couple agonized over which box of cookies to purchase as a house gift. The girl was meeting the boy’s mother; she was pregnant. Gokudera didn’t know how he could tell. He didn’t know if he was making up an excuse for the couple’s togetherness. Being together is simple—mechanical—when you have something to be together for. Or maybe—
The store sold Modelo in packs of six. Each pack was two thousand yen; fast math: twelve point four seven euros. Gokudera couldn’t help it; he began to feel like he was also one of those flawless and crafted people who held together for reasons that weren’t quite good enough. Gokudera grabbed a six pack.
Gokudera looked at the girl again. She wasn’t pregnant—or at least not obviously—she was just a girl. It had been double vision again. Gokudera sometimes saw things that weren’t really there.
Gokudera paid for the beer with crumpled bills. A light rain had started falling outside. It was always raining in June. Gokudera left the store and lit a cigarette—inhale; exhale—smoke hovered over his head. Smoke was always hovering in Japan; it was always too humid, too stifling to dissipate. Gokudera thought the smoke looked like a ghost. And ghosts were always following Gokudera around.
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One has to read it a long time. You too will finally understand it clearly. Of course, it has to be a script that isn’t simple. You see, it’s not supposed to kill right away, but on average over a period of twelve hours. The turning point is set for the sixth hour. There must also be many, many embellishments surrounding the basic script. The essential script moves around the body only in a narrow belt. The rest of the body is reserved for decoration.
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II. Gokudera had done a very un-Catholic thing after his induction: he had read John Milton’s Paradise Lost. And, like all un-Catholic things he did in his life, Gokudera had become completely absorbed, obsessed, with the motions of the work. Gokudera had spent five days pacing his bedroom and pondering the technicalities of rewriting Divine Truth so that it could make sense for someone—anyone. Gokudera had hoped he would understand it; but then he had found himself falling into the pit of the first book and then the second and then hoping, wishing, someone would give him the right to choose his own downfall, to give birth to himself as Satan had done; and Gokudera had known he would be damned for it.
Gokudera hadn’t thought of any easy ways to tell his priest, so he had expected to go to Hell ever since he had been eighteen. And like all things Gokudera expected, his expectation had simply been that—expectation. The prospect of damnation had been surprisingly easy to bear; easy enough that Gokudera had viewed it as a mere asterisk occurring at what would be the end of his sentence-like life.
In the Sicilian orchard: Gokudera had been smoking over Orlando Furioso and pulling at his collar where three bruises had ripened. He had thought, wondered—and Gokudera was always wondering, like he was never present when something was happening—when things had become how they were, with Yamamoto burrowing his head into his ribs two hours before sunrise, and him yielding and sweet for no particular reason. Gokudera hadn't remembered when it had happened; he couldn't remember when it had started. It had almost been as if they had fallen into how they were out of sheer gravity.
—Like Orlando and Angelica, perhaps; Gokudera had thought; except Orlando had only believed Angelica to be his. But, in the end, Angelica couldn't have been his; she had inevitably been out of his reach.
Gokudera had smoked his cigarettes, the ones he could still smoke when he had the lungs for them, and wondered about the dichotomy of the evitable and inevitable; and how, if, he could see the difference between them. He had said to no one in particular, 'What is fate anyway?'
A voice from somewhere past the peach trees had answered, 'Death: and the ability for man to both know and be trapped by it.'
'Who's there?' Gokudera had said. He had waited for a couple of minutes by the cherry tree. His muscles had knotted themselves in the silence. 'Who's there?' Gokudera had said again. Silence again; except for the cackle of his cigarette. Gokudera had snubbed his cigarette and stuffed his book into his pocket before grabbing a branch of the cherry tree and looping his leg over a limb. He had righted himself on that branch and grabbed another, climbing until he could see past the peach trees, which had stood behind a row of ivy-faced fences. He had seen a shadow among the peach trees, ambling and flickering like it had been unsure if it had existed. 'Who's there?' Gokudera had said again.
'The bird who eats the bookworm,' the shadow had said. The shadow had lifted its head to reveal a sliver of paleness; and eyes—its eyes had been black and brutal, so black and brutal that it had almost been comforting.
'Hibari,' Gokudera had said. 'It's fucking rude to eavesdrop.'
'It's rude to assume I had wanted to listen to your petty philosophical concerns.' Hibari had said.
'Fuck you,' Gokudera had said. He had chucked the book at Hibari. Hibari had caught it in his left hand. His fingers had crushed the pages until the book seemed to collapse. The wind had swept through the orchard; it had made everything quiver except for Hibari, who had stood still. He had stood as still as strength itself.
'You have no respect for books,' Gokudera had said.
'Books,' Hibari had said, 'are useless. He had smoothed the pages with his palm. His eyes had taken in the Italian, the soft rhymes and gentle verses. 'And books like Orlando Furioso are especially useless.' Hibari had smiled a terrible, gash-like smile. 'If you want to learn something, read a manual.' Hibari had closed the book and slipped it into the pocket over his heart.
'You wouldn't know the meaning of books,' Gokudera had said. 'You probably don't even read them.' Hibari had turned away; he had become a flicker in the sunlight again—a splendid shadow.
'What had Arisoto written about Rodomonte, again?' Hibari had said. He had began walking toward the apple trees. "Hadn't it been, And smiting twice or thrice his horrid front, raising as high as he could raise in air his dagger, buried it in Rodomont; and freed himself withal from further care. Loosed from the more than icy corse, to font of fetid Acheron, and hell's foul repair, the indignant spirit fled, blaspheming loud; erewhile on earth so haughty and so proud.?" Hibari had paused to hear the hum of insects in the grass. "I think," Hibari had said, "that's exactly what should happen to you."
He had disappeared past the apple trees then—ambling and flickering like he had been unsure if he had wanted to exist.
'Fuck you,' Gokudera had said again, to the emptiness.
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Here may we reign secure, and in my choice to reign is worth ambition, though in Hell. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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III. Gokudera hadn't been able to kill his first man without turning it into something other than murder. The edges of his vision had been blurring from the scotch he had drank with Tsuna half an hour before.
They had drank three glases in Tsuna's office. The blinds had been down; office hours had been over. Tsuna had spun the glass with his finger. The ice had clammered like a woman's bangles. Tsuna had said, 'You're the last person I want to do this to.' Gokudera had watched the ash stack on the tip of his cigarette. Tsuna had said, 'Make sure it's quick; make sure it's quiet; make sure he's dead.' Gokudera had stared at Tsuna; he had felt the image of Tsuna at fourteen collide and reject Tsuna at twenty-four. Tsuna had laughed a nervous laugh—was this the first?—and lifted his glass and said, 'Here's to courage and necessity.' Gokudera had drank the scotch; he had chased the liquor with smoke. Tsuna had opened a drawer and brought out a medium-sized wooden box with gold clasps and hinges. He had placed the box on the table—clasps toward Gokudera, hinges toward himself—and opened it. There had been a pistol, a Browning Buck Mark .22, and suppressor inside. 'Use this,' Tsuna had said. 'It'll be faster.' Gokudera had nodded—he had felt he had always been nodding—and assembled the pistol; he had placed the pistol between the waistband of his pants and the small of his back. He had turned to leave. 'Have another drink,' Tsuna had said. 'For courage.'
Gokudera had watched the blood dry under his nails; he hadn't thought of it as murder. He couldn't have thought of it as murder.
'They deserved it,' Reborn had said. When had he said that? 'It was how things were meant to be. It was for the good of the family.'
—When had he said that; had it been Gokudera's imagination? ...But Reborn's words had baffled him, even if it had been his imagination...Divine justice, families, fireplaces, meanings, holding hands and doing fucking spins, goodness, Yamamoto, Fate, Tsuna, middle school... Fucking middle school. Gokudera's thoughts had been shuffled; it had been the scotch. Gokudera had gone back to Tsuna's office. He had taken the rest of the scotch after giving a report. It had been an unremarkable job; it had been like taking candy from the armless and crippled. 'They would have deserved that too,' Reborn had said. Had he? 'And there's no competing against Fate. Fate is inevitable. Fate is easy.'
'Don't like being told what to do,' Gokudera had said, his words bleeding together. 'I don't like things being easy.'
'You don't have to fight for everything,' Reborn had said. 'You don't have to be responsible for everything.'
'Don't want to be given anything,' Gokudera had said. 'Don't want any cosmic pity.'
'You'll get it whether you want it or not,' Reborn had said. Had he?
'I'll fight it; I'll compete against it. I'll tell the entire world to fuck off,' Gokudera had said, his head had lolled like a pinwheel blade. He had risen to his feet and staggered to the window. 'I'll beat it up. I'll fuck it up.' It had been storming; everything had looked crooked. He had opened the window and leaned so far out that he had seemed to hang in mid-air. 'Do you hear that? I'll fuck you up.' His words had gotten lost in the roar of the storm.
Gokudera had only been able to kill his first man by turning it into a competition, an ambition.
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Now, his voice whispered this: "He alone is equal to another who proves it, and he alone is worthy of liberty who knows how to conquer it."
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IV. Addressing the inconvenient but inevitable question of why: The small of Gokudera's back had been pressed against the edge of the sink fifteen minutes after everyone had gone to Saturday mass. The summer had bronzed him dark enough to scorch. The sweat on his brow had seemed to evaporate from the heat of his skin. A black smudge had pinned itself among the wallpaper flowers; it had been where Gokudera had snubbed his cigarette. A figure of the Virgin Mary had hung over the toilet. Gokudera had felt her eyes burn in silent condemnation. He had wondered how he, or anyone, could have sex with that gaze on their skin; but his lust...no, greed; or maybe, pride...had overcome his fear.
He—not Yamamoto; because Yamamoto wouldn't do things like this—had been gripping the buttons between his knuckles and ripping them off with a twist. The sound of buttons hitting the floor had filled the bathroom. Gokudera had felt teeth tearing his neck; the sharpness of the bite had angered Gokudera. Gokudera had raked his hands through his—not Yamamoto's; never Yamamoto's—hair and pulled his head away.
'Don't leave marks,' Gokudera had said.
'Does it really matter now?' he had said as he had torn the shirt from Gokudera's shoulders.
'Why?' Gokudera had said.
'Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself?' he had said with a smile. Gokudera had grabbed him by the shoulders and thrown him against the wall, laying his body over the cigarette burn, and kissed him just to bury that smile.
'I mean for you. I know why I'm doing this,'—maybe; maybe he had been bluffing—'but why are you doing this? What do you get out of it?' Gokudera had said before he bad been pushed against the sink. Gokudera had felt him—'Answer the goddamn question, Hibari.'—pry his legs apart; he had felt Hibari's heat against his body.
'Why?' Hibari had said, a snarl in his voice and a fistful of Gokudera's hair in his hand. A tug had sent Gokudera's head snapping. Glass had cracked as Gokudera's head had slammed against the mirror. 'You're something else to break. That's why.'
Hibari had dragged Gokudera's pants and underwear to his knees, dropping to his own knees in the act. Gokudera had tilted his head to follow Hibari's mouth as it had travel down his hips. Hibari had licked the tip of Gokudera's cock; Gokudera had gripped the sink until his knuckles had turned white. 'Fuck,' Gokudera had said. 'Fuck yo—' But Hibari had taken Gokudera into his mouth, without warning or mercy; and, for once, Gokudera had bitten his lip in more passion than pride. Gokudera had leaned back; had clung to the medicine cabinet; had bruised his lip with his teeth. Hibari had paused to hoist Gokudera's legs over his shoulders; he had touched the space between Gokudera's thigh and hip, testing the tension, before letting Gokudera feel the warmth of his mouth again. Gokudera had watched Hibari's head bob; he had watched with a scream in the back of his throat.
—How had it gotten like this anyway?
A book—Orlando Furioso—and a champagne reception. Being without Yamamoto, or anyone, for four weeks and resenting everyone and Yamamoto for it. Talking to Hibari; saying: I want my book. Him saying: take it if you can. Walking down a hideously wallpapered hallway. Looking at portraits of the important dead. Going a million revolutions a second. Having a Sartrean existential crisis. Making or breaking. Finding Hibari and—
'Fuck,' Gokudera had screamed, so close to orgasm that everything had felt wonderful and anxious. His palm had splayed over the mirror; his flesh had cracked against the glass. But he hadn't cared; he hadn't cared about anything but the hotness on his skin. The heat had unraveled him slowlypainfullybrutally. 'Please,' Gokudera had said, more like an insult than a plead.
—Grappling like small children. Trying to reach the pocket over Hibari's heart—are you sure it had been just for the book?—and getting punched in the face for it. Breaking a small lamp in the fall. Grabbing Hibari by the lapels and running him against a portrait of the Eighth. Saying: give it. Maybe even: give up. Pressing so close to Hibari that he couldn't be punched. Hearing Hibari's laughing breath. Feeling like the biggest joke in the world, and being angry, not embarrassed for it; even though he's winning this time. Hibari calling him weak. Headbutting him to the floor. Kicking him while he's there. And feeling anger, rage, running through his body; just that and not even any pain at all—
Hibari had flipped Gokudera over and pressed Gokudera's hipbones against the sink. Hibari had bitten the back of Gokudera's neck; he had made him shudder with anticipation and dread.
—Grabbing Hibari's legs. Hearing a satisfying thump. Getting on top of him. Making sure he won't get away. Punching him across the jaw and hurting his fist in the process. Being pushed down. Ribcages touching; feeling like there wasn't enough room for both of them to be breathing. Rolling to avoid palms on his neck. Struggling to breathe. Not caring so long as he won—him and not Hibari. Getting aroused for no particular reason. Knowing Hibari knew because he was on top, because Hibari had the final word. Hibari saying: what would Yamamoto say? Watching Hibari leave, like nothing had happened, like he, Gokudera, had been nothing—
Gokudera had arched his spine groaning. 'Would you like to go faster?' Hibari had said. Gokudera had smashed a soap dish in frustration. And still Hibari had asked, in his smooth, slow way, 'Would you like to go faster?'
—Being followed into the bathroom two days later. Being told to be quiet. Being touched. Being challenged. Grabbing Hibari by his shirt and kissing him so hard that he was breathless. Kissing Hibari as a challenge and not a compliment and— This:
Gokudera had said, 'I can't—not with her watching.' He had been eye to eye with the Virgin Mary and hip to nail with Hibari's hands. He had felt Hibari under him waiting on the toilet seat; he had felt Hibari's fingers dig into bone. Hibari had smiled; he had reached up, grabbed the statue, weighed it in one hand, then with the carelessness of a devil, hurled it onto the floor, grinning as she had broken into a million repentant pieces. Then Hibari had gripped Gokudera—bruises everywhere, so many that Gokudera couldn't think of when he had been so bruised last—and forced him onto his cock, so quickly and surprisingly that Gokudera had barely time to mutter, 'Wait; wait—' Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment '—wait.'
'Show me how much you want this,' Hibari had said with a greed so lush that it had sounded green.
Gokudera had refused; sworn at Hibari; fought him—scratching, biting, punching—until Hibari had placed his teeth on Gokudera's pulse so Gokudera could feel the thrill of real danger. Hibari had hummed against Gokudera's pulse, 'There's nothing more satisfying that making someone want what they appall.'
'What appalls you?' Gokudera had said.
'You,' Hibari had said.
'Then I'll make you want me,' Gokudera had said. 'I'll make you need me.' They had been pressed pelvis-to-pelvis. They had almost fit together. Gokudera had began to rock against Hibari; he had rocked slowly at first but soon found himself in a half-mewling, half-urging frenzy against Hibari's teasingtaunting fingers. Gokudera's face had been a collage of emotions—all raw; all undeniable—but Gokudera's eyes had never left Hibari's face; they had never stopped searching for a change in color (a flush of the cheeks) or expression (a wrinkle of the brow). He had stared until he had tossed his head back in a pleasure that had resembled madness. A howl had escaped his lips. It had been a cry so desperate that Gokudera had thought, hoped, it hadn't been his.
He had shuddered, clutched at the skin of Hibari's shoulders, and slackened, still trembling, against Hibari.
And Hibari had given Gokudera the courtesy of a handful of seconds, before pushing him onto the floor and finishing what Gokudera had been unable to. He had taken Gokudera's legs over his shoulders and thrust into Gokudera until he had had to bury his face into Gokudera's neck.
Hibari had stilled for a moment—for such a mere moment, it had seemed to Gokudera—before he had lifted his face, still regal in its malice, and said, 'I only need myself.'
Then Hibari had ran his teeth across Gokudera's neck. ''Don't leave a mark.' Gokudera had said. But Hibari had anyway. He had left one so scarlet, so dark that it had matched Gokudera's shame.
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No, sir, not ours! Look here! That is the very difference! Our reality doesn't change: it can't change! It can't be other than what it is, because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an immutable reality which should make you shudder when you approach us if you are really conscious of the fact that your reality is a mere transitory and fleeting illusion, taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the conditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn are controlled by an intellect that shows them to you today in one manner and tomorrow...who knows how?... Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow it were to end... Then why, all would be finished.
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V. Gokudera opened a bottle of Modelo. The rain had gotten louder; it was making frying pan sounds on the pavement. It was five o’clock—too early to start dinner.
Gokudera sat next to the phone. He knew Yamamoto would call; he called every night regardless of reason, and Yamamoto rarely had reasons. Yamamoto sometimes called Gokudera over dinner, before bed, between meetings…and sometimes from nothing about nothing and for nothing. The sincerity of nothingness surprised Gokudera. He loved those conversations best; he always waited for them.
He had fallen into the habit of waiting for calls. Gokudera didn’t care who called; he felt he couldn’t receive enough calls. He always felt he was waiting next to the telephone—always on the sofa with a book; always alone. Gokudera felt he was alone a lot.
Gokudera opened a book. Yamamoto had once told him he was too rebellious, fiery; ‘You should read books written by women; they will teach you acceptance.’ Gokudera devoured books…not for Yamamoto, no, never for Yamamoto, but for himself…for himself…if only he could convince himself with those words… He devoured books with savage ignorance. Gokudera could not understand the books no matter how often he read them; he couldn’t understand them because he was too rebellious—self-contained and stubborn—to go outside of himself, and he knew he had to go outside of himself to understand writing. But he couldn’t help keeping himself to himself; and everyone, even he, wondered what he had to hide, and why he was so distrusting. And so Gokudera, the way he was and not the way he might have been, found writing so wild and racked that not even devils could burn meaning out of it.
Gokudera was not meant for acceptance—
—No… He had gotten confused; Yamamoto hadn’t said, ‘…They will teach you acceptance;’ he had said, ‘…They will teach you softness.’ Yamamoto had noticed Gokudera’s library two weeks ago—all women writers: Takahashi, Hayashi, Yoshimoto, Enchi, Ohba, Murata, Miyamoto…—and said, ‘Are you softer now?’
Gokudera hadn’t known what to say. He had felt softer—soft enough to be gelatin; soft enough to quiver.
‘Whatever,’ he had said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that has nothing to do with anything else.’
‘I don’t think so—’
‘Well you can fuck off.’
‘—I think you have everything to do with everything else. It matters if you change. It matters to me.’
Yamamoto’s words had been shadowed by the perfect arch of his lip. The stillness of that perfection had maddened Gokudera. There was nothing soft about Yamamoto. Gokudera knew Yamamoto wouldn’t change, but he didn’t know if Yamamoto couldn’t change. Gokudera was always waiting for a shadow to appear in the curve of Yamamoto’s mouth; always hoping…no, maybe needing…(why else would he always feel so breathless?)…for evidence of…of… Gokudera didn’t know what.
‘You’re wrinkling my shirt.’ Yamamoto had been sitting on his shirt.
‘Sorry.’ Yamamoto stood up.
‘You should be.’
‘I am.’
‘Well, you’re not sorry enough.' (You’re not as sorry as I am.)
‘Why are you always so difficult?’ Yamamoto had still been smiling.
‘Hit me.’
‘What?’ Yamamoto had still been smiling.
‘Hit me if I’m so difficult.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can?’
‘Didn’t I say you could?’
‘Okay then; close your eyes.’
‘I don’t need to close my—’
‘Close your eyes.’
Gokudera had closed his eyes and heard the rustle of fabric. He had known Yamamoto's fingers would have been cinched to cut; knuckles, bared to bruise; and arm, raised to strike. Anticipation, fear, hope, and devastation had sprinkled over his spine. Suddenly, what he should have felt and what he had felt became inexplicably confused, and he could not help but think the imprint of Yamamoto’s hands would somehow sink past his skin and into his heart; but it had been impossible for Gokudera to predict whether that would have been because of love or convention.
“One,” Yamamoto had said.
A silence.
“Two,” Yamamoto had said.
A silence.
“Three.”
Yamamoto had struck Gokudera with a kiss that had left Gokudera soft and sedated, like a patient etherized.
Yamamoto had laughed. "I got you, didn't I?"
Gokudera had wanted to punch Yamamoto, to strangle him. He had wanted to put his face against Yamamoto's and howl—not even words, just howl—then force Yamamoto to beat him until he couldn't walk. He hadn't been able to explain why he had wanted what he wanted; he had simply known that he had needed it. He had needed... What? What had it mattered?
Yamamoto had left to use the bathroom. Gokudera had picked up a book, had picked up inevitability itself, and thrown it so hard against a window that the window had broken into a thousand, irreparable pieces.
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There we were—demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance—and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened.
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VI. Gokudera sees moonlight bend through the window and over his naked chest; he imagines the rays twisting like claws, slicing his flesh, tearing until gashes form like smiles. He rolls over in his sheets; tangles himself in them; but he can't escape the moonlight. He looks at the moon; scowls at her pocked face; feels an itch somewhere deeper than his flesh, somewhere he thinks he can't scratch but tries anyway—he drags his nails over his arms—...no, can't reach. He digs deeper; he feels his skin curl under his nails; but it doesn't feel better. He breaks a small lamp—that sounds familiar, a small lamp—by swinging his arm over his dresser. He pulls the drawers from the chest and flings them against the wall; he watches his clothes fly across the room with them. He scratches at his face. He doesn't know why he feels this way but he knows he's always feeling this way; he knows it is a feeling that transcends time, transcends space; it is a feeling that is always happening in present tense. He screams. It makes nothing better. And all the while he is out of breath, and he suddenly believes he is bordering on an enlightenment that will occur when his lungs are completely empty. He feels light-headed. He screams again—to let the air out. He claws at the door until his knuckles bleed, but not because he wants to leave the room—no, leaving the room would not be leaving enough behind. He throws himself against the door just to hear the thump of his bones and flesh against wood; he hears the thumping five times before he crumbles onto the floor and trembles—just trembles.
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Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
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VII. “I bought you beer,” said Gokudera as he grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator. Yamamoto was still prying the shoes form his feet over the welcome mat. He looked up at Gokudera—his tie whimpering from his neck—and smiled a very normal, very domestic, very perfect smile. “It’s your favorite kind; it’s Modelo.” Gokudera forced the gold foil to curl and flurry onto the carpet by rubbing the bottleneck with his palm. Gokudera then pried the cap open with a bottle opener, just as Yamamoto had pried off his shoes before entering the apartment and starting—starting—
“Do you want one?” said Gokudera.
“Yeah,” said Yamamoto.
Gokudera handed Yamamoto the beer. He watched as Yamamoto gulped the beer down and emerge with a deep breath and a smile. Then, he took the beer from Yamamoto’s hand and kissed Yamamoto long and hard, tasting the coldness on Yamamoto’s mouth and being reminded of how Yamamoto had tasted in winter after stumbling through the door with a smile as large and dumb as a man who had just found something worth keeping. Yamamoto moved his mouth against Gokudera’s. The movements were slick and sleek; they made Gokudera shiver and dig his nails into the back of Yamamoto’s neck.
And then he pulled back—just a centimeter—so Yamamoto could feel the coldness in his breath too. “You drank the beer.”
“Yeah,” said Yamamoto. “Was I not supposed to?”
“You drank the beer,” said Gokudera. “That means you have to forgive what I’m going to do next.”
“That’s a dirty trick.”
“I know. But it’s a trick that works.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“First, I’m going to kiss you,” said Gokudera. He pressed his mouth against Yamamoto’s—lips parted and tongue withdrawn so he could taste the emptiness against his teeth; Yamamoto leaned in, aching for more flesh and silence.
“And then I’m going to take off your clothes.” Gokudera untangled the knot of Yamamoto’s tie. He let the silk slip through his fingers. He unbuttoned Yamamoto’s shirt with his right hand, thumb and forefinger disengaging the clasps without thought—mechanically and perfectly, like they had done a million times before and expected to do a million times later.
“And I’m going to worship you.” Gokudera’s mouth caught at the pulse of Yamamoto’s neck. He let his teeth drag over that spot before his lips could; then he let his tongue lick the incision.
“—Love you.” Gokudera’s fingers crept up Yamamoto’s torso nail-first. His mouth traveled to Yamamoto’s ear and hovered so close that Yamamoto could hear his every word, every breath, and every silence.
“And then I am going to leave you.”
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To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all."
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VIII. 'Why do you taunt Fate, Hayato?' Bianchi had said in the white room; the one with the crossed windows barring the orchard outside. She had sat at the other end of the table—which had also been white—and looked at him with her hands folded. 'Why can't you just accept the things you have been given? What is the harm in docility?'
'Everything,' Gokudera had said. He had hung, not quite sat, in his seat and stared across Bianchi's hairline. He had avoided her eyes. 'Why should I accept Fate? Why should I accept that my life has been decided for me, that it already has a meaning I can't change?'
'Because there will never be anything better than what Fate has planned for you,' Bianchi had said. She had unfolded and refolded her hands; she had had nothing to do with her hands because they hadn't allowed her to bring a purse. 'Isn't it good enough that Fate has given you someone to love?'
'No,' Gokudera had said. 'Because it's not love, it's be Fate.' He had turned to look at the orchard—a cherry orchard—and wondered how things had changed so much, how things could have breezed by him without him feeling so much as responsible for them. He had felt nauseous.
'And what had he been?' Bianchi had said.
—What had he been?
'A challenge,' Gokudera had said. 'A chance to win or lose.' Gokudera had paused; he had strained to hear the birds outside. 'A chance to defy everything.'
—Really? Is that what he had been? And not the sensation of being pressed against a parking brake at three in the morning?...Or knees against a headrest, fingers tugging at clasps, mouths pressing to create a vacuum...Or having his ribs counted with nails and spine marked with teeth...Or feeling the cold of six o'clock on his neck from where he had kissed?...Or fighting in the stairwell and tumbling down two flights before being pulled to his feet so he—Hibari; can't say that word, can't even think it; Hi-ba-ri: don't run, just accept what had happened—could reset his dislocated arm...thinking it's an apology; thinking he's winning; thinking he—Hibari—might be falling? That's what it had been—
'But you failed,' Bianchi had said. 'Doesn't that mean anything to you?'
—No. None of it had meant anything. Right? Right. Right?
'I don't...' Gokudera had wrinkled his brow; his thoughts had gotten too frantic, crazy. 'I don't think anything has meaning anymore.'
'He left you,' Bianchi had said. 'You were just something to break for him—and you let him.'
—No. He hadn't let himself be broken by him—Hibari; think the word, don't let him destroy you—because he had been fine on Easter Sunday, even after he had seen th— He had been fine for five months after Easter Sunday. He had gone to work, cooked his meals, made love to Yamamoto, and fallen asleep unremarkably. He had sometimes gone to Italy, but usually: He had woken up every morning and shaved to the hum of the radio and eaten over the newspaper. He had eaten almost every lunch with Yamamoto at twelve o'clock sharp. He had eaten almost every dinner alone at six-thirty; never even a second off. Groceries had been bought on Fridays. Mass had been attended on Saturdays. Trash had been taken out on Tuesdays. Groceries on Fridays; mass on Saturdays; trash on—
He had been fine even after Easter Sunday when he had seen them—think the words, Hibari and Ryohei; now that wasn't so hard—caressing in the corridor; a trail of clothing had lead to their naked bodies which had melded without gaps or misunderstandings. They had seemed perfect; they had seemed—and Hibari had lifted his head and smiled a terrible gash-like smile—Fated. But he had been fine for five months after that.
'No,' Gokudera had said. 'I hadn't. I had known—'
'Just because you can understand Fate doesn't mean you can rise above it,' Bianchi had said. 'You can't rise above death; that's something you should have learned in our line of work.'
Gokudera had kept his gaze away from her eyes; it had been a trick he had learned over the years. 'And that's something...' What? 'Unacceptable.'
A long silence.
'He's still waiting for you,' Bianchi had said. 'For God's sake, you should let yourself be happy.'
A long silence.
'I think I have to stop talking now,' Gokudera had said. He had risen from his seat and walked away with two men clad in white.
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HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
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IX. Yamamoto pinned Gokudera, writhing, between the wall and his ribs; he crushed his body against Gokudera's until the folds of Gokudera’s shirt had wrinkled his torso. Gokudera tried to speak and breathe but was left speechless and breathless with Yamamoto's fingers clawing through his hair and teeth digging into his lips. The sound of seams fraying filled the room. Sleeves were ripped; buttons were torn. Knuckles pressed against Gokudera's chest—bruising, stilling—until they collapsed into nails that sheered gashes over skin.
"Is it because of him?" said Yamamoto. "Do you love him?"
"It's not because of him," said Gokudera. "It's because—"
"Of what? Of meaning; Existentialism; Fate?"
"Yes," said Gokudera, slowly.
"Is it because this is easy, effortless? Is it because you don't have to fight for it? Because it insults your pride?" Yamamoto laughed; a tight, short, stern laugh.
"I'm not sick," Gokudera said. "This isn't a relapse."
"I know," said Yamamoto.
"I'm sorry," said Gokudera.
"No you’re not." (You're not as sorry as I am.)
Yamamoto struck Gokudera with a kiss; his arms slid from Gokudera’s hair to his arms, which he smoothed then creased against the wall. Palms pressed against palms until both turned a cold and trembling purple. There was a wrinkle between Yamamoto’s eyes that wavered as Yamamoto wavered between a cry and a smile; his mouth had opened to show crimson for a second but clamped to reveal nothing but ivory the next. Yamamoto seemed annoyed by his own indecision, by Fate's sudden ability to assign choice. He squatted and wrapped his arms around Gokudera's legs and lifted Gokudera over his shoulder. Gokudera protested; pulled Yamamoto's hair. But Yamamoto didn't care; he felt anger, rage, running through his body—just that and not even any pain at all—or at least not yet. Yamamoto carried Gokudera to the bedroom. He dropped Gokudera onto the bed, then flung himself ontop of him.
He felt the bed springs against his elbows as he bit and kissed—kiss-nipped; encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment—Gokudera deliriously. Gokudera thought he had tasted salt on his tongue, he hoped he had, but Yamamoto still wore the same grotesque smile when he lifted his face. The smile was hideous to Gokudera; the smile was terrible and constant, like time, like death.
"I want to cry," said Yamamoto.
"Then stop smiling," said Gokudera.
But Yamamoto only smiled broader, so broad, it almost looked like a scream.
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“Forgive me everything,” whispered the hunger artist. Only the supervisor, who was pressing his ear up against the cage, understood him. “Certainly,” said the supervisor, tapping his forehead with his finger in order to indicate to the spectators the state the hunger artist was in, “we forgive you.” “I always wanted you to admire my fasting,” said the hunger artist. “But we do admire it,” said the supervisor obligingly. “But you shouldn’t admire it,” said the hunger artist. “Well then, we don’t admire it,” said the supervisor, “but why shouldn’t we admire it?” “Because I had to fast. I can’t do anything else,” said the hunger artist. “Just look at you,” said the supervisor, “why can’t you do anything else?” “Because,” said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and, with his lips pursed as if for a kiss, speaking right into the supervisor’s ear so that he wouldn’t miss anything, “because I couldn’t find a food which I enjoyed. If had found that, believe me, I would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart’s content, like you and everyone else.” Those were his last words, but in his failing eyes there was the firm, if no longer proud, conviction that he was continuing to fast.
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X. —What do you feel?
Gokudera closed his apartment door. He leaned against it. He felt its coldness against his neck. He thought he heard scratching against the other side of it—like a cat trying to escape—but it had been the birds fluttering through the trees, stirring to the paleness of the horizon. He heard a laugh. It had been dry, like there had been no lungs behind it. Gokudera knew it had been Yamamoto's because he knew Yamamoto laughed at everything, even at blood drying under his nails.
Gokudera lit a cigarette and felt the progression of history burn down his throat. The immensity of the word Yamamoto struck him. Fast math: eight years equals ninety-six months...equals two thousand nine hundred twenty days...equals seventy thousand eighty hours...equals four million two hundred four thousand eight hundred minutes—the average man breathes about thirteen times a minute—...equals fifty-four million six hundred sixty-two thousand four hundred breaths. He exhaled and all of those breaths seemed to hover over him like a ghost before disintegrating into the crisp morning air. He breathed in—
—Is this one?
He breathed out. He breathed in again.
—Is this two?
He heard footsteps from inside the apartment. He felt a weight against the door, a soft weight, and heard the hinges creak. Gokudera closed his eyes. He could hear Yamamoto's breaths, deep and trembling, on the other side. Gokudera suddenly felt this was not how things were meant to be, even if there was no such thing as meaning; he suddenly felt a tension in his chest. It kept him paralyzed against the door. It kept him tied and drawn and heavy and—
—Is this three?...Is it reall—
