fic: Pale Blue Lights
The freezing cold on Christmas Eve was always to be expected, you remind yourself. Too bad that in the already-cold port city such as Yokohama a sharply biting wind was everything but a nice addition.
You tug your thick cream-white scarf tighter around your neck and sniff, one hand holding onto a worker’s briefcase. And yes, you are married with your job - for today, on one of the most romantic days of the year, the holy Christmas Eve supposed to spend with a loved one, you are wrapped up in way too many projects more than one.
You check the time from your mobile phone with numb fingers and sigh. The bus is late and your boss won’t be pleased with you running late on the errands. One would think a secretary’s work would be a downright boring office-job - not for you it is. But you are the personal secretary of an international accessory chain. There’s more to do than simply papers to be put in orders and signed.
And you really, really need that bus. The cold is out to get you.
You try to keep your eyes open even though your eyelashes threaten to freeze together. You sniff and try to calm yourself down. Find relief from the stress that follows you everywhere. That uses your footsteps.
The Christmas lights are beautiful. Gold, red and for some reason pale blue shining. And you are happy you live in a city as the lights dance around you. Cars pass you by and the movement is like gentle waves. And you really, really love the city-lights.
Your eyes stop to take in a mysterious man on the other side of the road, leaning his back to the banister lining the fall to the dark, deadly cold and tempting waves. He smokes a cigarette, one hand stuck in his pocket, and oddly enough wears sunglasses.
No one should wear sunglasses when it was dark like that anyway. There was only so far it was fashionable to take accessories. And you would be one to know.
A smile tucks the man’s lips as you notice him and he exhales a long and spiralling trail of smoke. And you really, really wonder why the sunglasses. Maybe he’s some sort of star afraid of being exposed.
You still think sunglasses aren’t the right kind of disguise. Not even with the ever-so-bright city-lights.
You shiver in the cold and watch the blur of lights all around you. Watch how the man stands in them, beautiful in his spotlights. Beautiful in the scenery he has been misplaced in.
The bus arrives. You stumble in, still violently shivering, pay for your ticket and occupy a window-seat alone, companionless. Briefcase on your lap, you look out of the window.
The man raises his pinky, eyes glued at your direction. Your heart skips a beat in befuddlement. Maybe you’re just mistaken.
He smiles and raises the cigarette back on his lips, the small light flaring slightly as he inhales. And it burns just a bit more lightly, a light hiding itself among the darkness and much, much bigger and more enticing lights.
The bus starts. The engine makes your seat vibrate and there’s a gentle tug as you start moving.
It’s a pity you won’t see each other again. Or maybe it isn’t.
At least you don’t get the time to be disappointed in one other.
If there even was ever anything to begin with.
--
You were granted the day off. And you just can’t believe it. You can’t believe how they granted you a day off on Christmas Eve. It’s almost like a slap in the face. Maybe you shouldn’t have dropped empty hints of having a girlfriend when they started worrying about your social life.
Now it almost feels as if you’d been stood up. Stood up by your work. And if anything can suck more than that, you haven’t come across it yet. It’s really unimaginable.
So, on Christmas Eve, you’re stuck inside a cosy downtown café, sitting alone in your table and glancing out of the window in boredom as you stir your espresso. You wonder if buying one was actually very thoughtful of you. Maybe you should’ve gone for something decaffeinated. Sleep would’ve been preferable.
You sigh, done with your evening paper. You start ripping squares from the paper and folding it into cranes, one after another. It’s a very lonely Christmas Eve.
You hear the bell ringing as someone steps in but don’t bother raising your gaze as you neatly fold the wings of the third one, finishing its ugly little form. Almost like Ugly Ducklings with their evening paper bodies. Sad little creatures with too much information.
The seat before you is pulled and you raise your gaze. It isn’t as if you wouldn’t have already taken over the small table.
Your mystery man from a year ago smiles at you and sets neatly a bright-red crane before you. For a while you wonder if he remembers. You don’t think so.
He does look at you with familiarity in his eyes, though.
And you wonder how fucking pathetic you both must be to remember something so extremely pointless.
The man takes a long sip from his macchiato and sets a little plate with a chocolate muffin on your newspaper. You blink. Apparently he isn’t going anywhere for a while.
He takes his sunglasses off, dark, curly hair and a cap covering his face somewhat and bites down on his muffin, crumbles falling back to the table and the newspaper. You stare.
“It’s a present, by the way,” he says, motioning towards the red crane. “To your collection. Aiming for a thousand?”
Not really. You were just killing time after all. And if you were, you sure as hell wouldn’t have made such ugly ones.
In the end you just shrug and grimace, taking a sip from your own espresso. He tangles your feet under the table with a flirtatious look. You don’t bother withdrawing. It’s not often someone tries to hit on you when you actually have time to even think about a possible one night stand. And spending the Christmas Eve alone is a little too pathetic even for you.
You chat at the café. Chat pointlessly about the fucking weather, about your favourite kinds of coffees and your addiction to them. You talk about how ridiculously ugly your cranes are and how such pretty things shouldn’t be disgraced with such things as newspaper paper.
After some hours he gets up on his feet, walks to you and leans down to press a gentle kiss on your lips. You comply, not caring about people’s eyes on you. On two gay people kissing. Fucking fags.
“Ciao,” he raises his ring-filled hand and bows down a bit. And then he leaves and you wonder what the hell went wrong this time. It wasn’t as if he would’ve seemed aggravated or bored either.
Maybe it just hadn’t been a match. Fuck the kiss at the end.
You get on your feet and leave the ugly cranes behind. You still pick up the little red one, though. The pretty one.
It’s a memory.
--
Six month later you unfold the crane.
You + me = Christmas 2009
You in?
You stare. The date is a year off from when it was received.
Your heart starts beating and breathing hitches. And it’s so very surrealistic.
--
That day you actually use your sick leave. Well, you insist on carrying your work home. You do want to do it after all.
So, midday, you spend your day stuck in the café, having no idea where else he could find you. You didn’t leave each other any numbers or addresses so assuming another place would be ridiculous. His number wasn’t in the directory assistance either. You did try.
You work on your paper, anxiously sipping down coffee and tea as you wait. When it’s already dark and he arrives you are ten cups down and hands violently shaking. And it’s so fucking ridiculously pathetic.
He greets you with an enthusiastically wide smile and a brief kiss on the lips. And you wonder since when he’s assumed it’s alright to do so. You could be dating, for heaven’s sake. Not that you really would.
He helps you pack your papers back in the suitcase as you keep dropping them and have difficulties placing them in the folder with your shaky hands. Your face flushes as he laughs and you swear you’ll never drink coffee ever again. Rehab it’ll be.
He takes you out for a walk on the road by the seaside, arm wrapped around your shoulders. You rest your own on his hip, circling his lower back. And it feels oddly as if you were a couple. He speaks with awkward murmurs and you strain your ears to hear him.
Funny how someone can be so cocky and straight yet so unsure and awkward.
After some time you stop. Stop and press against each other, his arms around you and yours around him. You breathe in the faint scent from his bomber jacket and his face is close to your ear. The snow has wet your hair and you probably look like shit, yet it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter when he runs his fingers through it, your foreheads pressed together. And you start remembering the times you actually had the time for romantic relationships.
He smooches your cold lips slowly for a few times and gulps as he withdraws one hand from around you, keeping one pressed to your back. You bury your face in his neck and take in the feeling of closeness with your pressed-together bodies and the quiet sounds of inhales and exhales.
He takes your hand and presses something on it. You blink and withdraw, looking at the little red case. Your eyes quickly shoot up at his and heart beats furiously. Because it feels way too goddamn ridiculous.
You break into laughter in your nervousness and shake in the cold.
“What is this?” you manage to stutter amidst your laughter and wave the case before his face. He refuses to be taken aback and only stares back at your eyes, pressing your other hand on the case too. You feel pressure on your chest. It just can’t be happening.
Your hands still shake violently as you open the case. And there is a ring. A simple, golden ring. You stare at him with widened eyes. No way in hell.
“The fuck,” you stutter and extend your arm to give it back to him. “The fuck. No. No.”
“It’s not for the ring finger,” Jin snorts and shakes his head. “Look. It’s for the pinky. Stop overacting. You’re making me feel rejected.”
You blink. And yes, it does look a little small. But how would you have known?
“A Christmas present,” Jin continues, taking the ring and your hand, ripping your glove off and forcing it on your pinky. “Ah. Fits. Good.”
He hooks your pinkies and you see that from that hand he has removed all his rings except for a silver one around his own pinky. And it feels so ridiculously intimate that you feel silenced.
“We’re bound by the red thread now,” he murmurs as he pulls you closer again, burying his face in your wet hair. “You and me. No matter where. We’re bound together.”
And it’s so utterly and sickly romantic it makes you sick to your gut. Regrettably in a good way.
You capture his lips and wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him in the cold Christmas Eve under the falling snow. He slips the case in your pocket presses you against the barrier. And, as the waves hit the wall, you kiss. Kiss with your bodies pressed together.
You wonder when it came to it. When he forced his way so deeply under your skin.
He might be gone the next day again, but for the moment he’s there. And the affection can’t be a mere act. You refuse to deceive yourself.
You can feel the red thread around your pinkies.
--
You wait for him near the harbour. You wait for him and watch the sea, snowflakes dancing around you. City-lights are flaring up the scenery with their beauty, drowning everything in warm shades of gold and red and still, mysteriously, that pale light-blue.
And he arrives. More excitedly, more surely. Like he’s missed you for a million years he runs at you and you laugh as he bounces you, lifts you up and kisses you. And you know it’s a good relationship for you.
You’re both too busy for normal. You’re both too busy for everyday talk, several dates a week and intimate relationships, you’re both too taken-away by everything, by life and work. But Christmas Eve is just for the two of you. And it really is the eve for lovers.
You know you’d chase him away if you were to obtain a regular over-the-year relationship. You know. And you can’t help but love him for showing up in Yokohama only once a year. No matter how much you love him and miss him.
He sets you down and buries his fingers in your hair, gazing at your eyes with a stupid smile on his face. You hear the beating of his heart over the traffic, you feel his warm breaths tingling your face. And it’s all so very real.
You never expected to have such a thing in your life. Not since you turned twenty and left naivety behind. But here he is.
And you talk again. You talk, talk and talk and cling to each other, you grab takeaway coffees and walk around the city, coated by lights, loved by them. And you don’t give a shit about work. Not when you have him with you.
“Come over,” Jin croaks when the clock has long-ago struck four and you look at him, look and want. And you know you will. You take his hand, unable to talk with something stuck in your throat. He grins stupidly and kisses you, starting to tug you with him. And you run. You run and laugh and bump into each other, you hug and kiss and go so stupid around each other. And it’s so very perfectly odd how love can strike your feet from under you like it does.
Jin takes you to the harbour and you stare in awe and confusion as he helps you onboard a big, wooden ship. He rests his hand on your shoulder and kisses you on the quiet and abandoned deck. You remind yourself to ask about it the next morning. And for once you actually feel like you’ll wake up in the morning to have him with you for just a small while longer.
You giggle quietly and Jin tries to hush both of you as you stumble your way inside, under the deck, stumbling in the empty corridors, listening to occasional snores. He opens one of the doors and pushes you in, closing the door behind him mischievously and unzipping his jacket, throwing it to the floor.
It’s cold onboard and you guess you shouldn’t really have been expecting much else. Excitement rushes over you and you start stripping yourself too, hissing at the cold. Maybe you should’ve hit your place instead. Fuck dammit.
Jin pushes you to the bed and finishes stripping you, abandoning all the clothing messily to the room as he makes his way over you, pulling the sheet up to cover you and keep you warmer. You breathe heavily under him and wrap your arms behind his neck, keeping him close. And you do it.
You do it and drowsily cuddle each other under the blanket and he never asks you to leave. He slips one of his rings playfully in your ring finger and you shove him, receiving a quiet fit of giggles from him. And he’s so very adorable in his post-sex state. So very affectionate when he hugs you close and insists on kissing you even when his eyes start drooping.
He falls asleep before you. The room becomes quiet.
Maybe, in a way, you really love the darkness too.
--
When you wake up, faint morning sunlight creeps inside the cabin and covers the floorings with its golden light. You sit up, hair ruffled up, and realise you’re alone. You sniff at the cold and rub your eyes, trying to wake up.
You wonder where he is. If he’s been all stupidly romantic and gone to get you coffee. You take the ring from your ring finger off and place it on the pillow as you fish for your socks, boxers and shirt from the floor.
You smile at the window and wander towards it to look out. To enjoy the view. To see the morning sunlight and engrave it to your memory. It’s a beautiful morning.
You frown as you look out in confusion. All you can see is the sea. And it bloody hell looks as if you were moving.
Oh fuck dammit.
You quickly run to your jeans and struggle to get them on, throwing your coat on without bothering to close it. You grab your scarf in your hands and stuff your gloves in your pockets as you run your way up to the deck, heart beating rapidly. This could not be happening. There had to be a mix-up. Jin hadn’t probably mentioned about you. But you needed to get back. Now.
You make your way to the deck and get almost run over by a few crewmen looking dangerously much as if they were having a fight over some golden chain. You back against the closed door as they almost fall off the deck before some other crew runs in to separate them.
People look at you. Your heart beats painfully and you feel claustrophobic.
Jin pulls you away from the others and you stare at him in shock. He’s full of a bright sunshine smile as he wraps his arms around your lower back and kisses you on the lips. You punch him angrily in the face and look around. Yokohama is only a spot in the horizon anymore.
“What the fuck, Jin?!” you roar and point at the disappearing city. “WHAT THE FUCK!?”
People start quickly disappearing from behind you and sneaking back to their work on the cabin or if not that, then as far away as possible. Jin didn’t even budge.
“Welcome aboard,” he greeted excitedly and laughed, not minding the forming bruise on his face. “I’m going to show you the world now!”
You punch him again.
Love never quite stopped stealing your feet from under you, you guess.
A year later you’re a happy co-captain aboard the ship. And every Christmas Jin takes you back to Yokohama.
It’s the only city you’re in good terms with after all.
Which might have something to do with all the stolen video games the crew delivers every time they make their stop.