#initialdsecretsanta2021

"Are you absolutely sure he's asleep?" 

"Well, Aniki definitely doesn't look like that when he's awake." 

Silence. Stubble scratched against short nails. An exhale melted into a cloud of cigarette smoke, and weight shifted from one leg to another. 

"Help me out here, Keisuke. Tonight's practice will be a lost cause unless Ryosuke wakes up—at least give it a shot." 

"Give what a shot?" 

Another sigh. "Waking him up." 

"Didn't you already try to?" 

"Well—" 

"Then what's my trying supposed to do? He's asleep. It's that simple." 

Ryosuke, eyes closed and face buried in his elbows, remained blissfully unaware of the debate around him. Keisuke flexed the fingers in his pocket. Fumihiro sighed. A wet breeze tangled through the parking lot, and the flowers growing between splits in the picnic table's wood bowed under its influence. Behind them, loose asphalt crunched, and a third shadow crept along the tarmac.

"What's going on here? Is everyone okay? Fujiwara and I were all set to bed the new brakes, and then I turned around and found that everyone disappeared."

"Matsumoto," Fumihiro acknowledged, stepping aside to give the newcomer a space to stand. "Sorry about leaving you. It's just that we have something of a situation on our hands." 

"A situation, huh?" The senior mechanic brought a gloved hand to his chin, then, remembering that the latex was caked in grime, let his fingers hover in the air. "No kidding: he really is asleep! I thought Kenta was just pulling my leg." 

Fumihiro snorted. "No leg pulls here. The man's gone." 

"What's so special about all of this? Aniki falls asleep all the time. We don't need him to babysit our practice. We can drive without him."

"Well, sure," Matsumoto admitted, "but he's really out this time. Look at him. I don't think I've seen him look that relaxed in months. And anyway, sure you and Fujiwara can practice without him, but Tomiguchi and I'll have no idea what to do with the cars without his simulations."

Miffed, Keisuke crossed his arms. His silence grew heavy and thoughtful, and Matsumoto shot him a low look. 

"You okay?" 

"Huh? Yeah. I'm fine. Just. What are we supposed to do now, then?" 

“Should we try and wake him up?”

Matsumoto’s question was simple, but its answer was not. Keisuke and Fumihiro traded looks, then turned back to Ryosuke. It wasn’t every day that Project D’s mastermind fell asleep on a picnic table, and even less common for him to look as peaceful as he did. Should they try again to wake him up? It felt sacrilegious. Maybe waiting would be better. It was only a few hours into the evening: he was bound to wake up eventually. 

Minutes passed, Ryosuke slept, and the trio continued to stare. 

"Maybe it's the medication," Fumihiro whispered. 

Keisuke's eyes narrowed. "Medication?" 

"He had a cold before practice and said he took something for it—maybe that knocked him out. Along with however many hours of sleep he's been scrimping on over the past few months." 

Instinctively, Keisuke's mouth swung open to argue, but Matsumoto was already nodding his head. "That makes sense. He was looking a little groggy when we got here." 

"Huh." 

"What are we supposed to do now?" Keisuke asked. The arrogance bundled between his eyebrows had softened into something milder, and his shoulders hung forward, concave. Fumihiro analyzed the sky above them, and Matsumoto picked at his gloves. Strips of cold air tore at their backs. Stars twinkled, and behind them, hazard lights flashed. Ryosuke remained undisturbed. 

"How about we just go home?" 

The trio flinched. Takumi's shadow melted into their own, and the smell of stagnant water trailed him as he joined the group.  He blinked slowly, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 

"Huh," Takumi observed. "So he's really sleeping. I thought Kenta was making it up."

Fumihiro and Matsumoto tittered as Keisuke's expression darkened. He cast a glance over his shoulder, searching for his wayward, wolf-crying protege, but found nothing but a scattering of empty soda cans by Van 1's front wheel.  

"Don't be mad at Kenta, Keisuke," Fumihiro urged. "He didn't even do anything." 

"Yeah, he's just a kid." 

"He's the same age as Fujiwara," Keisuke asserted, "that's not much of a kid." 

"Not old enough to drink, though," Matsumoto teased. "I'd argue that makes him not much of an adult either." 

Takumi frowned at the hidden slight, and Matsumoto, remembering his presence, snorted and clapped him on the shoulder. The stubborn look on Keisuke's face refused to mellow. 

"Fujiwara." 

"Yeah?" 

"What was that you were saying about going home?" 

"Oh. Well, I was thinking that since Ryosuke was asleep, we should just go home." 

"Go home?" Matsumoto challenged. "But why? We're all already here: at least you and Keisuke can do some runs down the mountain." 

"Seems like a waste of time to just go home," Keisuke added. 

Undaunted by the opposition, Takumi rolled his fingers into the fabric of his scarf and continued. "Well, Ryosuke's probably overworked, and we don't even know what his goal for today's practice is. And, well. Maybe it'd be good for us to sleep too. It's pretty late, anyway." 

Fumihiro and Matsumoto said nothing. Keisuke, on the other hand, remained staunchly unconvinced. 

"Not to be rude, but it sort of sounds like you're trying to get out of practice." 

"No, that's not it, I—" 

"All we need to do is open up Ryosuke's computer. I'm pretty sure he keeps some sort of schedule for practice in there. Does anyone here know the password?" 

Matsumoto and Takumi shook their heads. Fumihiro had taken a sudden fascination in the misaligned hour hand of his watch, and Keisuke, already sensing the others’ disinclination to help, sighed and turned his chin over his shoulder. 

"Fine, then. I'll figure it out myself. Where's Kenta? Kenta!" 

Another soda can fell onto the asphalt, and Kenta hopped out of Van 1's passenger seat. He hurried to Keisuke's side, then, after trading a few quick words and a sharp curse, followed him to the computer. Keisuke typed something into the keypad, and, when an error message popped up, gave Kenta a hard stare. 

"It was a guess!" Kenta insisted, taking a step back and pressing the back of his hands to his shoulders. "I don't actually know what his password is. Uh, maybe try his maiden name?" 

"His maiden name?" Keisuke echoed, mystified. Matsumoto swallowed a snort, and Tomiguchi, who had joined the group after realizing there was no one to help him jack up the FD, ran a hand down his face. After a brief but passionate debate over whether or not maiden names and middle names were the same things, the pair moved onto a laundry list of other possible passwords. Beside them, Ryosuke snored politely.

"Did you try anything with the FC? Maybe a pun or reference to it?" Kenta asked, somewhat desperate to be useful. 

"Yeah. A bunch of times. And Aniki doesn't like puns." Keisuke took a step back, gave his snoring brother an exasperated look, then shifted his nameless disappointment to Kenta. "This isn't going anywhere." 

"Maybe we should go home then," Fumihiro suggested. 

Keisuke began to nod, then stopped and turned around. His eyes thinned into slits. "Wait, Fumihiro. I've seen you use this computer before. Do you know the password?" 

All eyes turned to the project's right hand. Caught, he sighed, but his posture didn't fold. 

"I do, but I'm not sure if I should tell you two." 

"What?" Kenta cried. "Why?"

"Forgive me for this, but I have to say that I agree with Takumi. About going home, that is. All of us are tired, and I don't think anyone's in the shape to practice right now. We really might benefit more from heading home instead of forcing ourselves to stay awake." 

For the first time that night, going home early became a tangible, ponderable possibility. Keisuke grew quiet. Matsumoto and Tomiguchi murmured, then, spurred on by the clicking together of thoughts, peeled away from the group and began packing up the project vans. Kenta followed, and the space by the picnic table seemed to triple. Takumi shifted his weight from foot to foot. Keisuke stared at the sky. Fumihiro checked his watch, then began to clean up the papers scattered around Ryosuke's slumbering form. 

"Shiko?" Keisuke asked. 

Both startled and soothed by the use of his nickname, Fumihiro smiled. "Yeah? If you're worried about the FC, don't be. Matsumoto can drive it just fine. He's done it before." 

"No,” Keisuke insisted, “it's not that. It's just, well, you know, we don't have a place to go." 

Fumihiro tilted his head. Beside him, Takumi blinked slowly and began to rock on his feet—a perfect picture of disinterest, even if neither Keisuke nor Fumihiro were buying it. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Dad has some sort of dinner tonight. With colleagues." Spurred on by Takumi and Fumihiro's nonplussed expressions, Keisuke elaborated. "It's at home. Aniki and I were supposed to make an appearance, but we left early so we didn't have to. If we go home now..." 

Keisuke stared at the textured darkness feathering the sides of the mountain. The moon doused treetops in a thin veneer of silver, and the air was cold enough to burn. 

"Is that why you didn't want to go home?" Takumi questioned. His expression was mellow and his posture sloppy, but an eerie sharpness lingered behind his words. Keisuke managed to stop himself from flinching, but a trace of the gesture echoed out as a shiver. 

"I don't know." 

Takumi nodded slowly. His bangs hung over his eyes as he stared leisurely at his shoes. 

"Not to be rude," he mumbled, lips flashing upwards into a smile, "but it sort of sounds like you're trying to get out of practice." 

Keisuke's expression electrified as the words' familiarity registered. "Why, you—" 

Fumihiro stepped between the two of them, his expression schooled into neutrality but the back of his eyes shining with mirth. "Calm down, you two. Especially you, Keisuke. I have a place we can go." 

"We?" the aces echoed. The words faded and they stared at each other, somewhat taken aback by their synchronization. 

"We," Fumihiro affirmed. "Get in your cars and tell everyone to follow Van 3. And don't forget to bring Ryosuke." 

++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was a good thing that Fumihiro had reminded the others about Ryosuke, or the latter wouldn't have had the current pleasure of sleeping in Van 1's trunk. 

"You really left him like that?" Tomiguchi gaped, resting a hand on Van 1's overhead trunk lid and leaning forward. 

Ryosuke laid in the open space of the trunk, bangs knotted around his face and long legs tangled together. A few empty soda cans rolled around by his feet, and a plastic tarp had been tossed over his spindly form. 

Somehow, the man was still asleep. 

"Well," Kenta sputtered, scratching the back of his neck and staring at his shoelaces, "Fumihiro said we had to hurry, and I didn't have anywhere else to put him..." 

Tomiguchi sighed and shook his head. The sight in front of him resembled a kidnapping more than an attempt to comfortably relocate a sleeping man, but, well. This is what they got for leaving delicate matters up to Kenta. 

"Where are we, anyway?" Kenta asked. He glanced at the tiny parking lot around him, then the small building it sat beside. Nothing was familiar except for the cars rolling into the lot. 

"I'm not sure," Tomiguchi said, voice distracted. He seemed more focused on finding a way to safely extricate Ryosuke from the back of the car than answering Kenta's question. "I haven't been here before." 

"Hmmm.." Kenta replied, voice low and thoughtful. Behind him, headlights cut through the knobby darkness. The 86's wheels crunched against the asphalt, followed by Van 2 and the FD. Doors opened, then closed, and the air spiced with the echo of footsteps. 

"What's taking you all so long?" 

Keisuke walked over to Van 1 as the other cars parked, peered at the scene in the trunk, then cast Kenta a flat look. 

"Did you do this?" 

"All by myself," Kenta blurted. He followed his impudent response with a dazzling smile, then relaxed when Keisuke huffed back a snort. 

"Okay everyone," Fumihiro called, closing the door to Van 3 and stepping into the center of the lot. "The complex doesn't have any elevators, so we'll need someone to carry Ryosuke up the stairs." 

"Complex?" Kenta asked. 

"Carry up the stairs?" Tomiguchi echoed. 

Aside from Tomiguchi and Kenta's intelligent narration, the team was silent. Keisuke picked up one of the soda cans nestled in the trunk and popped it open, then sipped on the colored froth. 

"I can," a disembodied voice offered. Another car door closed, and Takumi stepped out onto the asphalt. 

Slighted, Keisuke wiped away the soda scrimming the top of his lip. "Actually, I should carry him. Since he's my brother and everything." 

Keisuke's unspoken invitation to debate went unopened, and Takumi shrugged. "Sure." 

Cars were locked and backpacks slipped on, and with a grunt, Keisuke hoisted his brother onto his back. His vertebrae popped from the pressure. 

"You sure you don't want any help?" Fumihiro asked. 

"I'm fine. Let's go." 

Together the group filed out of the parking lot and into the apartment complex. Fumihiro gestured to the staircase and, shyly, the group followed. Vague sounds of living seeped from the doors they passed: a radio playing, a child crying, a metal wok hissing with oil. Fumihiro and Matsumoto conversed in low tones and Kenta coughed, eyes watering from the powdery air. Tomiguchi gave him a half-hearted clap on the back as the others continued ahead: Takumi, with his multitude of scarves and running nose, and Keisuke with his snoring burden. 

Takumi wiped his nose on his sleeve, then turned back to Keisuke. "Where are we?" 

"You'll find out in a minute," Keisuke grunted. 

"Okay. You want help? I can carry him by the legs if you want. He's really asleep, huh?" 

Keisuke swallowed back the tempestuous urge to throw Takumi's offer back in his face; they had a couple of flights left to scale, and his back was beginning to ache. For a man so thin, Ryosuke was deceptively heavy. 

"Sure. Fine. Gentle, though."

Ryosuke let out a massive snore as his weight was evened between two pairs of hands: Takumi lifted him by the ankles, and Keisuke slid either arm under his armpits. Their charge rocked uneasily between them, and if the group hadn't looked suspicious before, they now looked downright criminal. 

"I hope nobody sees us," Kenta whispered. Keisuke and Takumi grunted in tacit agreement, but any further words were cut off by the opening of an adjacent door. 

"Oh, good evening, Ms. Kojiro," Fumihiro chirped. 

The Ms. Kojiro in question waved at Fumihiro, withered lips working together to form a salutation. Whatever words she had been stringing together fell apart at the sight of Fumihiro's motley entourage, and the morbid sight of Ryosuke dangling between Keisuke and Takumi was enough for her confusion to implode into horror. 

Keisuke and the others smiled timidly, then flinched when the door slammed closed. 

"Well, that could have gone better," Takumi concluded, looking at the spot where the old woman had stood moments before. 

"Thanks for the insight, Fujiwara." 

"Come on, you two," Fumihiro urged, feeling somewhat out of his depth for chastising the team's aces. "We only have one more flat to go. And I'll sure I'll be able to explain everything to Ms. Kojiro tomorrow."

Accepting Fumihiro's pleas more out of necessity than genuine agreement, the group continued. The staircase began to tighten, and just as Keisuke's breathing grew loud enough to echo down the stairway, Fumihiro stopped. 

"Here we are!" he cheered, inserting a key into the door's lock and jangling it until it gave way. The smell of synthetic spring and window cleaner jumped out, and Kenta's coughing magnified. "Our humble apartment. Come on in." 

"Ours?" Takumi asked. 

"Fumihiro and Ryosuke's," Keisuke explained, a twinge of disillusionment in his voice. Kenta and Tomiguchi's faces contorted with surprise, and Matsumoto let out a subdued exhale. Behind them, Keisuke handed Ryosuke off to Takumi.

"Hold him for a minute, okay? I gotta use the bathroom."

Indifferent, Takumi nodded. He pulled Ryosuke onto his back, stepped inside, toed off his shoes, and took stock of the room in front of him. 

To say he was grateful for his unwavering poker face was an understatement: if Takumi's quiet horrification had shown, he wasn't sure how he would be able to look his hosts in the eye. 

From an objective standpoint, the apartment was neat, neat being the most polite way Takumi could think to describe its grotesque emptiness. The walls were austere, beige, and naked. The living room consisted of a single couch, a plastic folding chair, and an analog TV propped up on an overturned box, and the kitchen counters were empty. No pictures hung from the wall, and no rugs warmed the floor. The tile under Takumi’s socked feet was a hair away from freezing, and his short search for guest slippers turned up fruitless. An unpleasant discovery, but not a surprise: this place seemed to be a stranger to guests. 

“Why don’t you guys get something to eat?” Fumihiro suggested, closing and locking the door as the last of them stepped through. “I’ll order something in just a minute: for now, feel free to eat whatever you find.” 

Upon Fumihiro’s invitation, the others clustered around the kitchenette and began to rifle through the wooden cabinets. Kenta retrieved a tin can of matcha wafers, which he soon found to be expired, and the mechanics eventually settled for a midnight snack of stale seaweed and shredded mozzarella. 

"You guys really live here?" Takumi asked. The question came out sharper than intended, but Fumihiro made no sign of having been offended. 

"For the most part, yes. We were roomies during undergrad—I mean, we still are now, but Ryosuke's been spending more time at home since he started his residency. I still live here, though: more or less." 

Judging from the apartment's aesthetic poverty, Takumi assumed Fumihiro's residence was more on the less side. Swallowing his observations, he shifted Ryosuke's weight on his back and took a few steps forward. 

"Do you think you could take me to Ryosuke's room? I'd like to set him down." 

Fumihiro's eyes brightened with embarrassment. "Of course! So sorry to keep you waiting. Come with me: the walk isn't long. And sorry about not having slippers to spare. We don't have guests over that often, and I wasn't expecting to have you guys over..." he walked down the hallway, checking occasionally to ensure Taumi was still behind him, then stopped in front of a plywood door. It squeaked open on lonely hinges, and Takumi suppressed a grimace as he peered inside. 

The room seemed to be composed entirely of walls: the ceiling, stretching forever, was marred only by a divot where a ceiling fan must have once spun. Nothing decorated the walls to minimize their intensity. A twin bed sagged in the corner of the room. A cheap green blanket laid atop it, the threads stretched with use and flower patterning more befitting a preteen girl than a medical student. Beside it stood a particle board nightstand: a box of tissues, along with a cheap plastic lamp, were its only decorations. The lamp's wire swung precariously over the ground, barely long enough to reach the socket on the other end of the room, and Takumi thanked himself for noticing it before it had the chance to trip him up. 

"So, is it mostly you here?" Takumi asked. He carefully lowered Ryosuke on the bed then, marveling at the fact that the man was still asleep, draped the blankets over his shoulder. The fabric was cheap, and it itched at his fingers. "It must be weird to spend so much time alone." 

"Oh, it's not so bad," Fumihiro insisted. "Ryosuke visits all the time, and he usually stays over during finals week. And he always pays the rent, even during months where he isn't here." 

"That's good," Takumi stated. He watched Ryosuke's chest rise and fall, then turned back to Fumihiro. "I guess we should leave him now. How long do you think he'll sleep?"

"Maybe a few minutes. Maybe until tomorrow. Sometimes it's hard to tell with that guy," Fumihiro confessed. Understanding, Takumi nodded, and the two of them made a quiet exit. "Meanwhile, make yourself at home. I don't have much to offer in terms of entertainment, but hopefully, you won't be too bored."  

Their footsteps, sobered by the memory of Ryosuke’s sleeping form, remained muted as they walked back through the hallway. Takumi’s eyes widened as he stepped back inside the living room: even though the others had probably not heard Fumihiro's call to make themselves at home, they had clearly taken it to heart. Kenta sat on the couch as Keisuke crouched on the armrest—looking something like a sweatpantsed gargoyle—and stared intently at a documentary on TV. Takumi cast a glance at the screen as he passed by: both the subtitles and narration were in Chinese, but the fact did little to disturb the pair's tranquil disinterest.

Beside them, Tomiguchi and Matsumoto surveyed the contents of a wall-mounted bookshelf. The shelf was considerably more shelf than book—it consisted of little more than a solitary plank nailed to the wall and a trio of malnourished tomes. Slightly deflated but still undaunted, the mechanics pulled the thickest books off the shelves, then realized that all of them were water damaged beyond recognition. Now daunted as they were deflated, they replaced the books, sighed, and joined the others on the couch. 

"Does anyone here want refreshments? Tea? Maybe coffee?" 

Fumihiro's question was met with scattered thank-yous and maybe-laters, then an uncomfortable silence. Not one to be outdone by the documentary's liminal allure, Fumihiro rephrased his offer. 

"How about hot sake?" 

This time, the response was as warm as the sake everyone evidently wanted. Keisuke's face split into a grin, and both Tomiguchi and Matsumoto raised their hands like schoolboys. 

"Some for me, please!" 

"I can't drink too much, but I don't mind something warm right now." 

"I'll take some if you have any extra." 

"Don't forget me!" Kenta urged. 

"You're not old enough to drink alcohol," Keisuke scolded. 

Visibly displeased with the reminder, Kenta crossed his arms and raised the volume of the documentary. "And you're not old enough to act like my dad." 

"Takumi?" A gentle voice inquired. "Would you like any?"

Fumihiro's question took a moment to register, but when it did, Takumi shook his head. "Oh, I'm good. Thanks. I won't be able to drive home if I take any, anyway."

Kenta, having somehow overheard Fumihiro and Takumi's exchange over the now-deafening documentary, gave the latter a sour look. "Going home? In this weather? Have you taken a look at the window?" 

Rather than admit he hadn't, Takumi glanced at the plastic square embedded in the kitchen wall. No curtains were needed to soften the sight outside: the falling snow was hazy enough, and the thrum of wind against the thin-skinned apartment complex was a testament to the swelling snowstorm outside. 

"Sake for five, then," Fumihiro said, retrieving a thick-chested bottle from the cabinet and placing it on the counter. 

"For six!" came the expected complaint. Fumihiro, unable to argue with Kenta's unflinching stubbornness, relented. 

"Alright, alright. Sake for six." 

Unable to find a place in the living room to insert himself, Takumi found himself drifting back into the hallway. He shivered. Whatever it was that attracted him to the morbidly empty space was beyond him: sure, he was curious as to why Ryosuke and Fumihiro had done so little to warm their apartment, but rarely did his curiosity push him to action. Strange. Not as strange as the building around him, but still. 

The walls yawned at his sides, thin and grey as plastic pulled over a bottle top, and the overhead lights felt industrial. Cold. Sharp. Too bright for a hallway between rooms, too dim to illuminate the space around him. Squinting, Takumi opened the first door he found—a storage closet with nothing in it. He sighed, then moved onto the next room: a bathroom with no towels on the racks. Only one toothbrush sat by the sink, and the mirror was spotless. Disappointed, Takumi closed the door and tightened the scarf around his neck. 

This place was a house, sure, but it was a far cry from a home. 

Starved by his disappointment, Takumi opened the next door with an empty head. His eyebrows climbed upwards. Had he been a different person, he might have had the good sense to blush and close the door; instead, heartened, he invited himself inside Fumihiro's bedroom. 

Posters framed the walls. Modest blue linens covered the Western-style bed, along with a small army of pillows, and secondhand curtains fluttered around the windows. A desk with a cheap folding chair and plastic placemat sat in the corner of the room, creaking under the weight of stacked textbooks and uncapped pens. Books that had no home on the desk had been relocated to the nightstand, where they fought for legroom with framed pictures and plastic good-luck trinkets. The wall just above the nightstand was plastered with a cloud of sticky notes: upon closer inspection, some of the notes revealed themselves to be reminders, others to-do lists, and yet others, fragmented haikus. 

The haikus weren't the only specimen of unexpected culture: a cotton kimono lay folded on the edge of the bed, weighed down by the thick obi and book of proverbs placed atop it. 

Takumi reached out to rub the kimono cloth between his fingers, then shivered at its stubborn thickness. It was the real thing, then—heavy and constricting and comfortingly traditional. 

He took a step back. The feeling of the cloth between his fingers swelled until it seemed to fill the palm of his hand, a cool warmth, undefinable, a tangling of time, passing, and culture, contradicting. The walls around him softened, warmed, and shrunk, and finally, he blushed. Not out of embarrassment, or delayed shame at having entered so private a place, but the sudden understanding of the domestic humanity around him.

This was...

His mind had no opportunity to solidify the sensation into a sentence. Face warm, but pleasantly so, he dismissed himself and closed the door behind him. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

His chest still felt warm. In his absence, the hallway had grown smaller. Gentler. Details he had glazed over before were obvious now: broom bristles on the floor, a candy wrapper in the corner, a hamper filled with polos and sweatshirts. Curiosity renewed, he peered back inside the bathroom: a stack of car magazines sat by the toilet, and the second toothbrush laid hidden behind the sink faucet. 

Satisfied, he closed the door. His socked feet slipped peacefully against the hardwood, and the sudden, mild divot in the floor nearly threw him off balance. Huffing, he righted himself, then stepped back and stared at the wood under his socks. The hardwood lacquer had been scrubbed off from years of rubbing, and the patch underfoot was a lighter brown than the rest of the hallway. 

Why? 

The thermostat watched patiently as Takumi glanced up, then exhaled in understanding. Its buttons were glossy with use, and all the settings seemed present to a handful of degrees below comfortable. Unwillingly reminded of the cool air leaking from the vents, he shivered. 

"Where's Takumi?" 

The question came from the living room, and Takumi was quick to follow it. A flush of warmth greeted him as he stepped inside, both internal and external: the others had all taken a seat on the floor, their shadows climbing up the back wall and cutting through the liminality. Mahjong tiles littered the carpet, and gritty Italian disco played from the Discman on the couch. 

"There you are!" Matsumoto cheered, waving a plastic playing piece in the air. "Why don't you join us? We're about to start a new game." 

"Come on, join us!" 

"It's not as hard as it looks." 

"Where were you, anyway?"

"There's a spot right next to me, if you're looking for one..." 

"Thanks," Takumi began, the contentment in his chest expanding, "but I think I'll watch for now. Maybe I'll join the next match."

Obsensibly satisfied with his answer, the others returned to their game. The couch creaked as Takumi took a seat, his focus oscillating between the spirited game in front of him and the fogginess hazing across the window. 

"Do you want any?" 

Shaken from his mental complacency, Takumi glanced to his side. Fumihiro smiled, repeated his question, and extended a cup of sake towards him. 

"Uh, sure," Takumi said, taking the small cup from Fumihiro's hands. "Thanks. What's up with the jacket?" 

"The jacket?" Fumihiro echoed, moving to take a seat next to Takumi. "Oh, you mean this? I was just chilly, that's all." 

"Mm. That makes sense. Your thermostat settings are pretty low." 

"Oh, so you noticed that?" Fumihiro sipped his drink, then let out a sake-tinted exhale. "I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, with you disappearing into the rooms and everything. You're a character, you know that? Anyway, Ryosuke sleeps better when it's cold. Thought I'd make it a little easier on him. But if it's too cold for you I'll raise it right now." 

"Oh, no, no. I'm fine." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah. I'm quite warm, actually." 

"If it's too hot then I can--" 

"I'm fine. Seriously. Thanks, though." 

Soothed, Fumihiro turned back to his drink. The two of them observed the mahjong game in content silence, listening in on the occasional squabbles and gentle conversation. Thoughts and opinions on manga and movies and American football were tossed back and forth, quiet arguments were had over the next song that should be played, and the condensation on the windows began to fray. 

Slowly, Takumi's chest tightened. It was a deep, sleepy constriction, like a hand held firm or a blanket wrapped tight. A desire to live forever in this silent space came and went and, despite its absurdity, lingered. Takumi's heart softened, and something along its top crusted and cracked like lip skin on a cold morning. 

"I'll be back in a second," he insisted, passing Fumihiro his untouched sake cup and standing up. His footsteps were reverent and silent, and the door to Ryosuke's room creaked open as he slipped inside. 

A hypnagogic warmth hung over the room: there was something nostalgic, now, about the strange shapefulness of the room—the angles and edges, the cool white, the icy greys, the latticework of impersonal arithmetic somehow made into a home. The bed, the swinging lamp wire, the figure on the bed, no longer snoring and no longer sleeping. 

"Takumi?" 

Ryosuke's voice prodded the air for a second presence, but his eyes remained closed. Takumi took a seat on the edge of the bed. To his surprise, it was deliciously soft. 

"Yeah?" 

"Where are we?" 

Takumi took a moment to ponder the question. The naked window, the empty walls, the gaudy colors of Ryosuke's paint. Industrial, impartial, and yet, decidedly not. 

"Your apartment," Takumi finally answered. 

"Apartment?"

"Home," he clarified. Something in Ryosuke's face changed, and his eyes edged open.