rayne

His phone buzzed inside his pocket. It was his blog. Otherwise, the thing stayed dead silent. Another buzz, then another as he was handing change to a woman. Mahiro smiled, but not to send off the customer. Once his shift had ended, he helped his uncle close the restaurant, only being allowed to flip the «Open» sign and turn the lights off, finally heading upstairs.

Mahiro's room was yet to be cleaned, the doctor recommended avoiding heavier chores, and dealing with the mess would take days of hard work. Beelining straight to his chair, kicking some of the fallen clutter to make way, not bothering for the light switch or the curtains, he turned on his laptop in the dark. This time, he didn't huff about how long it took to boot up.

His last post surpassed all the other ones, despite the formatting errors of being typed from his phone. During his stay in the hospital, the bigger screen was dearly missed. Replies were harder to read. Glad to hear his thoughts mattered to someone.

Mahiro had been running the blog for a full year, the account was even older than that, created during his brief period of high school years. Too lazy for another email verification, the account collected all his frustrations. Although he enjoyed talking trash about poser Toya Shinzaki, Mahiro discovered the hobby thanks to him.

No one questioned Mahiro why he took the train that day, he didn't even have to lie about getting a job interview. He would've begun working with his uncle sooner, if his things went differently and the attempt, much like the one to later put his wrist in a cast, failed.

But the plan didn't go through, even if he hopped off the train station at the heart of Fukuoka, walked all the way up to a bridge’s sidewalk and didn't alarmed any passerby as he leaned against the railing. Something caught the corner of his eye before he could topple over.

A flash of red, followed by atrocious sound that clawed at his ears, pulled him off the inevitable fall he had been promising himself of. A man urged him to move from behind, so he had no other choice but to step one foot after the other, until he had crossed the other half of the bridge. Not over the stridency battering his head, Mahiro looked up to the billboards playing the awful music.

Four guys sitting and standing next to each other in pairs. The closer Mahiro got to the sign, the more obvious someone had edited their individual photos to pass as a group. Black clothes and hair, eyeliner, and no smile on their faces. Ended up looking funny, their discontent. They did not want to be in the same room together, yet they were supposed to be a unit.

He googled the band on his way home: Toya Shinzaki’s newest project after his big fallout with Ichidai Records. The guy's name was in every title, any amount of success must be because of Shinzaki as their vocalist. That opinion circled through his head, even after reaching his parents house. Mahiro excused himself to his bedroom to write and, ignoring the piles of dirty laundry, crafted a thorough review of the album. The article was amateur at best, but the passing comments of postponing a suicide to say how dogshit their music was, the type of humor to layer be found was Mahiro's charm, earned him a little of recognition. Which amassed into this niche presence he gained over the months.

Shinzaki Toya abandoned the group a month after Mahiro's first breakthrough. Mahiro could not, for the love of God, get away from Shinzaki's business. A curse he embraced sixteen articles in, knee-deep into concert surfing and documenting the underground scene, where Shinzaki spread his roots like weed, Mahiro always tried to pull out, but always kept coming back.

Mahiro thanked the couple of comments wishing for a fast recovery as he waited for the apartment to fall silent. Carrying his backpack on one shoulder, and with a digital camera around his neck, he opened the window and got hit by the night’s cold air. Jumping the fire escape to land gracefully on the floor, the sirens of a speeding ambulance drowned out the wobbling metal that should've woken his uncle up.

It would have taken ages to reach the entrance, that is, if Mahiro was a normal groupie. Pulling his badge card to the bouncer guarding the backdoor, niche music journalist Maki was let inside the club. Mahiro quickly hid the credential under his jean jacket.

Still early for the nightlife to begin, few people danced to pass the time. The rest either blocked Mahiro's path by standing idle, or bumped against him with drinks in their hands. The steady beat of industrial techno helped him go on with the crowd almost crushing his bad wrist. Orange lights flickered above everyone's heads.

Buying alcohol crossed his mind when he saw the empty bar, but he was low on cash. He couldn't risk another salary advance, or else his uncle would grow suspicious. He could, though, ask one of the interviewed to buy him a drink, he knew who to ask.

His wrist was struck by a sharp wave of pain, he heard plastic shatter in front of him as he collided with someone’s shoulder. Mahiro's arm curled inwards and held his cast over his chest. Wincing, focusing all his attention not to cry, it took him a second to understand what the man was yelling.

“–fuck ‘s wrong with you?!” the voice hollered at him.

His sleeve felt wet. Vodka.

“Was… looking after my arm,” Mahiro breathed in and out to ease the aftershock. His eyes were prickly with tears, but could see the blurry head staring down.

“Shit– Clean that up,” the blurred man pulled him by the dry fabric and dragged Mahiro across the dancefloor, “Move! You–! Outta way!”

For a guy this aggressive, it was nice he knew where to pour out his anger issues. They stopped at a quiet corner, Mahiro had time to fix his eyesight, and immediately regretted doing so.

Handing him a bunch of paper napkins: Toya Shinzaki.

He shouldn't have showered after tossing the jacket in the laundry. He overslept. Again. A whole shift was spent snoring. Untangling his legs off the blankets, Mahiro rushed down the stairs. At least the tables needed a wipe, cleaned dishes to be sorted out. Anything.

“Ah, Mahiro,” greeted his uncle, “Big news! Someone picked the ad,”

Mahiro was busy searching for chores to be done. The place was weirdly put together.

“Uh, great… Which one?” tying the apron over his pajamas, he surveyed the clients, their orders were already taken, “Did you clean all by yourself?”

“Both.“ he answered, “the part-time and the rental,” he emphasized,, “he’s in the kitchen,”

Mahiro's stomach grumbled. Having a partner meant he could eat while the other worked, right? The hopes of calling that person a «partner» died as soon as he recognized their back. Did he hit his head too hard when crawling through the window? Was he still asleep and having a nightmare?

“How’s your arm?” Toya looked exactly as the night before.

Mahiro glanced over his shoulder to check his uncle was out of earshot.

“Your uncle,” Toya clarified, “told me you hurt your arm, aren't you on meds?”

Mahiro scooted closer to see what Toya was doing, washing burnt oil off a frypan.

“Don’t wet your cast,” he mocked him, “your skin will fall off,”

Toya stared at his face much like he did the bar. Up and down. Now, Mahiro could see how Toya’s forehead wrinkled when raising his eyebrows.

“If you showered, check if your arm smells off,”

Bold thing to say while wearing yesterday's clothes.

“My uncle doesn't know I go out,” he yanked the frypan from the sink, spilling water onto Shinzaki, “don’t say a word, he’ll kick you to the street,”

Mahiro struggled to keep it in place, the pan spinned with the towel.

“I assumed,” Toya gripped the handle for him, “your secret’s safe with me,”

Mahiro grumbled under his breath. Fine, he could use a little help.