[setouchi] Valentine's Day
a love story
#72 ASP
Setouchi, PG
Before reading: My first relationship was long-distance and lasted for two and a half years. A lot of things have happened since then. A few days ago, I re-discovered this song, which, back then, made me cry a lot. When I listen to it now, my body still remembers all the feelings even though I don't love him anymore. So I decided to write this.
This story takes place in tongari's AU, which you can (and should!) read. To summarize, Motochika is a marine biologist and Motonari's a management consultant ... but I just use "businessman" instead. Magoichi is Motonari's coworker (or boss?). This story takes place before Hwei's comic.
prol.
"But no more than three months. You can't be out for longer than three months at a time."
"Why, Motonari? What happens after three months?"
One.
These days, he can stand the quiet. The television does not turn on automatically, and only a white rectangle against the sea of dust suggests evidence for a laptop in the kitchen. Mouri Motonari takes black coffee and plain wheat toast while leaning against the white frame overlooking the apartment's balcony. Back then, a thin screen door usually separated the flat from sparrows squabbling over the, then, filled feeder. Now, Mouri keeps the door shut. The crisp crunch of toast echoes through the spotless white apartment as birds descend around the empty feeder. Beaks flap on the other side, Mouri notes, but he cannot hear a thing.
Somewhere behind, perhaps from one of those two smooth white oak stools straddling the small kitchen table, a voice asks, "Why don't you ever sit down when eating?"
The black coffee runs strong, because some one never bothers to measure out the right amount of beans. Something burning and bitter slides down his throat. Mouri drains the last of his mug and dumps the dishes in the sink.
Well.
At least he does not need the television anymore.
Two.
Do you know, when you talk, it's sort of like an angry monotonous ramble?
Would you prefer it if I didn't talk?
Don't be like that.
Cell phones always prove more puzzling than troubling. You can tell a lot about a person from what kind of phone he or she carries, his unfortunate coworker (as if there were any other kind) once says while pointing to her sleek white iPhone and her boyfriend's HTC. She then points to Mouri's old battered Nokia with a raised eyebrow.
"I have a work phone as well," Mouri scowls, but caves into the sudden inexplicable urge to slide his Nokia into his suit's pocket.
"How can you even text with that?"
"I don't text. I hate texting. Why do you need to text?"
"It's sometimes easier than just talking."
"Why do you need to talk?"
Magoichi throws her hands up in the air. "I give up."
But Chousokabe Motochika does not admit defeat as easily. When Mouri first reveals evidence of his Stone Age Nokia, Chousokabe gapes as if witnessing a rare species of grasshopper or a profane sexual act or possibly both at the same time. Mouri rolls his eyes, but then jolts back against the seat when a giant suddenly lunges across the restaurant's table. Unfortunately, he has chosen to date some one who lives on the larger extreme of the human size spectrum, and no amount of leaning back has allowed him to escape Chousokabe's reach.
"I don't understand what's so wrong with it," Mouri scowls as the biologist grins with victory.
Chousokabe gingerly turns the Nokia over. "How do you even text with this?"
"I don't text!" Mouri hisses. "Give me back my phone! For fuck's sake, what's wrong with you people and your texting?"
The marine biologist glances up and into the infuriated abyss of the scorpion pit. He laughs in the face of danger. "You don't have anyone to text, do you?"
"We are not having dinner next week."
"That's fine. I'll be in the field."
A pin drops. Mouri snaps his mouth shut and then, with a shudder of defeat, wonders if he can trade in the Nokia before then.
Zero.
Motonari hides it well.
On the last night before he leaves for the airport, Motochika does not bother to shave. After all, he's going to be spending the next three months on a boat with biologists right? Why bother? Marine biologists are such slobs on deck, Motochika laughs while gathering his toiletries. Toothpaste, two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, mouth wash, and toothpaste fall into a plastic bag, and Motonari pretends to watch the perfectly ordinary spectacle while leaning over his lover's shoulders. He pretends to watch, pretends to see something else other than how the biologist's platinum hairline ends so abruptly against the nape of his neck.
Motonari hides it well when the days fly by and he wakes one morning with only three more days marked on the calender. The dull pain blossoming under his clavicles and manifesting like a storm above his sternum aches at night when Motochika falls asleep and Motonari forgets how to breathe. A lump gathers at the base of his throat. The businessman leans in and rubs his chin against his lover's stubble.
He hides well for he distracts the biologist well. ... not that distracting Motochika is the most difficult thing in the world. In fact, if it gets any easier, Motonari will call bullshit and turn himself over to the police for seducing a child. The biologist finds fascination with every goddamn thing, from the pictures missing from his lover's apartment to his habit of standing for breakfast to the thin skin stretching over his wrist. Mouri hides well, and the biologist never does seem to notice how the businessman buries his face into his shock of platinum hair as his lips brush down a slender leg. Motochika never does seem to notice when Mouri spends just a little too long breathing against his jacket, running fingers against his stubble, or combing through his hair. And so, as Motochika engrosses his senses with discovery, Motonari builds his defenses with memory.
Motonari hides so well that he does not utter a sound when, at the crack of dawn, they climb into Mouri's company car and Motochika turns the ignition on. A few hours later, Mouri drives back alone and sits for a while in the parking lot. The roar of low flying planes still echoes in his head, and his finger tips ache for the stubble lining that shark-bite smile.
Three.
A shadow falls over Mouri's office desk. "Motochika says that you're not returning his calls."
Mouri pauses, and then glances up at a rather perplexed Magoichi, who stands with hands placed firmly on her hips. "He called you?"
"Why aren't you returning his calls?"
A frown. "He called you?" Mouri repeats.
"Despite your opinions, people can still be friends after they've stopped dating."
"I never asked," Mouri snaps. "What's it to you anyway?"
Magoichi throws her hands into the air again and turns a heel. But this time, she persists and drags her irate business partner to a parking lot during their lunch hour.
"You have an awful sense of location," Mouri grouches as simmering asphalt boasting of Audis and Mercedes sit as far as their eyes can see.
"Motochika told me that you two met over a car."
Mouri practically snorts with disbelief. "Yes. Sure."
"You didn't?"
"No, we did," Mouri answers while rolling his eyes. "He didn't tell you the full story, then?"
Magoichi folds her arms. "He said that he was riding on his motorcycle one day, and saw some idiot on the side of the road with a smoking Audi. He stopped by to help fix the car, and you were so grateful that-- .... you don't look so thrilled."
Mouri grits his teeth. "Did he really tell you that?"
"Yes, why--"
"He broke my car."
"What?"
"Are you stupid? Which part of that even sounds believable? Yes, the company Audi did break. I was stranded. No cell reception. So he stopped by and offered to help fix the car. Unsure of where the fuck he got his tools from but he got everything fixed--and then said that if I didn't give him my number, he'd break my car."
"What?"
"I told him to fuck off. So he broke the Audi. I nearly killed him right then and there, but a police car drove by and some how, in that mess, he got my-- look, this is stupid."
"Yeah, that is a pretty stupid story."
"Fuck off."
But it is Mouri who storms off, although not in the direction of the office complex. Right foot, left foot, inhale, exhale, unclench fists. Scenery blurs. The businessman blinks and wakes up by the duck pond nested in the park behind the office. Ducklings scramble and roll along the dirt banks. Mouri squats down by the water, and buries his face into his palms.
"But no more than three months. You can't be out for longer than three months at a time."
"Why, Motonari? What happens after three months?"
Because I forget. After three months, I forget what you feel like. I forget what you smell like. I forget what you sound like when distance and this stupid cell phone doesn't distort your voice. I forget how messy your hair is and how you pick your nose when you think no one's watching you and how you eat too much garlic and then complain of the stomach cramps later. I forget how loud your laugh is when it's not over the screen, and the low growl underlining your promises just before the lights go off. I forget, I forget, I forget, and what, what did I do to deserve this. Why, why, why can't I have it like the others, why can't I have you and work, why can they have their others and their lives, but I have to choose why do I have to choose
you
Mouri inhales deeply. A duckling quacks with disapproval. He eyes the tiny bird, and shakes his head.
epil.
Motochika sets the volume of his ringer louder than the waves crashing against the hull, but it's the sudden violent vibration against his skull that jolts him out of bed. His head crashes into the low ceiling. Wincing, the biologist takes out his phone and waits.
Motonari always takes a few seconds, but Motochika smiles at the glaring screen anyway.
"It's ... in the middle of the night, isn't it?"
"As if you didn't know, Motonari."
Motochika can practically hear his lover chewing his bottom lip. He leans against his elbows, and stares into the bright bold characters of Motonari's name. "What's up, Motonari?"
The receiver makes some strange noise, like a duckling clearing its throat. Finally, Motonari gargles out, "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"It's too difficult to find anyone else."
"I'm flattered."
"I'm relieved."
Motochika flips to his side and sighs. "Hey, Motonari?"
"Yes?" the phone asks.
"I cried. The first night. I always do."
A pause, and Motochika swallows hard. He keeps that lonely baby blue carefully trained on the rocking ceiling, and listens to the slow scratchy breaths drawing on the other side the sea. Finally, he gathers the courage to hope, "Motonari?"
"I'm still here," answers a tiny voice.
And, for now, that's enough. With his phone's screen still shining bright, Motochika closes his eyes and smiles.
fin
#72 ASP
Setouchi, PG
Before reading: My first relationship was long-distance and lasted for two and a half years. A lot of things have happened since then. A few days ago, I re-discovered this song, which, back then, made me cry a lot. When I listen to it now, my body still remembers all the feelings even though I don't love him anymore. So I decided to write this.
This story takes place in tongari's AU, which you can (and should!) read. To summarize, Motochika is a marine biologist and Motonari's a management consultant ... but I just use "businessman" instead. Magoichi is Motonari's coworker (or boss?). This story takes place before Hwei's comic.
prol.
"But no more than three months. You can't be out for longer than three months at a time."
"Why, Motonari? What happens after three months?"
One.
These days, he can stand the quiet. The television does not turn on automatically, and only a white rectangle against the sea of dust suggests evidence for a laptop in the kitchen. Mouri Motonari takes black coffee and plain wheat toast while leaning against the white frame overlooking the apartment's balcony. Back then, a thin screen door usually separated the flat from sparrows squabbling over the, then, filled feeder. Now, Mouri keeps the door shut. The crisp crunch of toast echoes through the spotless white apartment as birds descend around the empty feeder. Beaks flap on the other side, Mouri notes, but he cannot hear a thing.
Somewhere behind, perhaps from one of those two smooth white oak stools straddling the small kitchen table, a voice asks, "Why don't you ever sit down when eating?"
The black coffee runs strong, because some one never bothers to measure out the right amount of beans. Something burning and bitter slides down his throat. Mouri drains the last of his mug and dumps the dishes in the sink.
Well.
At least he does not need the television anymore.
Two.
Do you know, when you talk, it's sort of like an angry monotonous ramble?
Would you prefer it if I didn't talk?
Don't be like that.
Cell phones always prove more puzzling than troubling. You can tell a lot about a person from what kind of phone he or she carries, his unfortunate coworker (as if there were any other kind) once says while pointing to her sleek white iPhone and her boyfriend's HTC. She then points to Mouri's old battered Nokia with a raised eyebrow.
"I have a work phone as well," Mouri scowls, but caves into the sudden inexplicable urge to slide his Nokia into his suit's pocket.
"How can you even text with that?"
"I don't text. I hate texting. Why do you need to text?"
"It's sometimes easier than just talking."
"Why do you need to talk?"
Magoichi throws her hands up in the air. "I give up."
But Chousokabe Motochika does not admit defeat as easily. When Mouri first reveals evidence of his Stone Age Nokia, Chousokabe gapes as if witnessing a rare species of grasshopper or a profane sexual act or possibly both at the same time. Mouri rolls his eyes, but then jolts back against the seat when a giant suddenly lunges across the restaurant's table. Unfortunately, he has chosen to date some one who lives on the larger extreme of the human size spectrum, and no amount of leaning back has allowed him to escape Chousokabe's reach.
"I don't understand what's so wrong with it," Mouri scowls as the biologist grins with victory.
Chousokabe gingerly turns the Nokia over. "How do you even text with this?"
"I don't text!" Mouri hisses. "Give me back my phone! For fuck's sake, what's wrong with you people and your texting?"
The marine biologist glances up and into the infuriated abyss of the scorpion pit. He laughs in the face of danger. "You don't have anyone to text, do you?"
"We are not having dinner next week."
"That's fine. I'll be in the field."
A pin drops. Mouri snaps his mouth shut and then, with a shudder of defeat, wonders if he can trade in the Nokia before then.
Zero.
Motonari hides it well.
On the last night before he leaves for the airport, Motochika does not bother to shave. After all, he's going to be spending the next three months on a boat with biologists right? Why bother? Marine biologists are such slobs on deck, Motochika laughs while gathering his toiletries. Toothpaste, two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, mouth wash, and toothpaste fall into a plastic bag, and Motonari pretends to watch the perfectly ordinary spectacle while leaning over his lover's shoulders. He pretends to watch, pretends to see something else other than how the biologist's platinum hairline ends so abruptly against the nape of his neck.
Motonari hides it well when the days fly by and he wakes one morning with only three more days marked on the calender. The dull pain blossoming under his clavicles and manifesting like a storm above his sternum aches at night when Motochika falls asleep and Motonari forgets how to breathe. A lump gathers at the base of his throat. The businessman leans in and rubs his chin against his lover's stubble.
He hides well for he distracts the biologist well. ... not that distracting Motochika is the most difficult thing in the world. In fact, if it gets any easier, Motonari will call bullshit and turn himself over to the police for seducing a child. The biologist finds fascination with every goddamn thing, from the pictures missing from his lover's apartment to his habit of standing for breakfast to the thin skin stretching over his wrist. Mouri hides well, and the biologist never does seem to notice how the businessman buries his face into his shock of platinum hair as his lips brush down a slender leg. Motochika never does seem to notice when Mouri spends just a little too long breathing against his jacket, running fingers against his stubble, or combing through his hair. And so, as Motochika engrosses his senses with discovery, Motonari builds his defenses with memory.
Motonari hides so well that he does not utter a sound when, at the crack of dawn, they climb into Mouri's company car and Motochika turns the ignition on. A few hours later, Mouri drives back alone and sits for a while in the parking lot. The roar of low flying planes still echoes in his head, and his finger tips ache for the stubble lining that shark-bite smile.
Three.
A shadow falls over Mouri's office desk. "Motochika says that you're not returning his calls."
Mouri pauses, and then glances up at a rather perplexed Magoichi, who stands with hands placed firmly on her hips. "He called you?"
"Why aren't you returning his calls?"
A frown. "He called you?" Mouri repeats.
"Despite your opinions, people can still be friends after they've stopped dating."
"I never asked," Mouri snaps. "What's it to you anyway?"
Magoichi throws her hands into the air again and turns a heel. But this time, she persists and drags her irate business partner to a parking lot during their lunch hour.
"You have an awful sense of location," Mouri grouches as simmering asphalt boasting of Audis and Mercedes sit as far as their eyes can see.
"Motochika told me that you two met over a car."
Mouri practically snorts with disbelief. "Yes. Sure."
"You didn't?"
"No, we did," Mouri answers while rolling his eyes. "He didn't tell you the full story, then?"
Magoichi folds her arms. "He said that he was riding on his motorcycle one day, and saw some idiot on the side of the road with a smoking Audi. He stopped by to help fix the car, and you were so grateful that-- .... you don't look so thrilled."
Mouri grits his teeth. "Did he really tell you that?"
"Yes, why--"
"He broke my car."
"What?"
"Are you stupid? Which part of that even sounds believable? Yes, the company Audi did break. I was stranded. No cell reception. So he stopped by and offered to help fix the car. Unsure of where the fuck he got his tools from but he got everything fixed--and then said that if I didn't give him my number, he'd break my car."
"What?"
"I told him to fuck off. So he broke the Audi. I nearly killed him right then and there, but a police car drove by and some how, in that mess, he got my-- look, this is stupid."
"Yeah, that is a pretty stupid story."
"Fuck off."
But it is Mouri who storms off, although not in the direction of the office complex. Right foot, left foot, inhale, exhale, unclench fists. Scenery blurs. The businessman blinks and wakes up by the duck pond nested in the park behind the office. Ducklings scramble and roll along the dirt banks. Mouri squats down by the water, and buries his face into his palms.
"But no more than three months. You can't be out for longer than three months at a time."
"Why, Motonari? What happens after three months?"
Because I forget. After three months, I forget what you feel like. I forget what you smell like. I forget what you sound like when distance and this stupid cell phone doesn't distort your voice. I forget how messy your hair is and how you pick your nose when you think no one's watching you and how you eat too much garlic and then complain of the stomach cramps later. I forget how loud your laugh is when it's not over the screen, and the low growl underlining your promises just before the lights go off. I forget, I forget, I forget, and what, what did I do to deserve this. Why, why, why can't I have it like the others, why can't I have you and work, why can they have their others and their lives, but I have to choose why do I have to choose
you
Mouri inhales deeply. A duckling quacks with disapproval. He eyes the tiny bird, and shakes his head.
epil.
Motochika sets the volume of his ringer louder than the waves crashing against the hull, but it's the sudden violent vibration against his skull that jolts him out of bed. His head crashes into the low ceiling. Wincing, the biologist takes out his phone and waits.
Motonari always takes a few seconds, but Motochika smiles at the glaring screen anyway.
"It's ... in the middle of the night, isn't it?"
"As if you didn't know, Motonari."
Motochika can practically hear his lover chewing his bottom lip. He leans against his elbows, and stares into the bright bold characters of Motonari's name. "What's up, Motonari?"
The receiver makes some strange noise, like a duckling clearing its throat. Finally, Motonari gargles out, "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"It's too difficult to find anyone else."
"I'm flattered."
"I'm relieved."
Motochika flips to his side and sighs. "Hey, Motonari?"
"Yes?" the phone asks.
"I cried. The first night. I always do."
A pause, and Motochika swallows hard. He keeps that lonely baby blue carefully trained on the rocking ceiling, and listens to the slow scratchy breaths drawing on the other side the sea. Finally, he gathers the courage to hope, "Motonari?"
"I'm still here," answers a tiny voice.
And, for now, that's enough. With his phone's screen still shining bright, Motochika closes his eyes and smiles.
fin