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The day that he turns thirty is a rollercoaster ride. It starts off the same as any other day—which is to say nothing of note. He gets up, showers, dresses, eats, casts a longing glance at the photograph on his desk of a guy he loved in high school, and goes out to work. The only difference is an event in the evening that he’s actually looking forward to: a small spark of excitement that has Hira in a wistful daze.
At work, he’s crammed into a too-packed elevator, wedged up between peers, and realizes oh. The fairy tales are true. He’s spent twenty-nine years with his virginity, and it’s come with a consequence.
He can hear everyone’s thoughts—the cloying, annoying, mundane, useless, drivel filling everyone’s heads, which is all burden and no benefit. Hira’s not friends with any of his coworkers. He doesn’t care what they’re thinking. He has a single friend that he sees sometimes on weekends, but he doesn’t want to know what Koyama’s thinking either. In the old myths, when people got this power, sometimes it would help them find true love. It won’t help Hira. The elevator ride is torture, and after that, he’s fine, because he swiftly realizes that oh, right, usually, no one touches him anyway. He can only read the minds of someone touching him. So he spends the rest of his shift in relative peace—in wonderment over his predicament and anticipation for the night.
He gets off work and bolts for the train, because he has tickets to a play, a big, expensive play that he was first in line for, because it features Kiyoi Sou.
Hira grips the ticket tight to his chest, quivering in exhilaration. He goes through most of life as a zombie. The odd commercial or drama or even music video that Kiyoi’s featured in are all Hira has to live for. A play is new, a return to Kiyoi’s roots, and a chance to see Kiyoi in person. Hira’s on clouds. Then he’s crowded in the busy theatre, bumping into people left and right, and life is terrifying again—one woman’s thinking of quitting her job, another leaving her husband, a man loathing his boss and someone bumps past him pondering, Who’s playing the detective? Ki-something? I’ve never heard of him. Hira almost chases that person down to punch them.
Instead, he slinks into the theatre, into his seat, five rows in so still close enough to see the stage in detail. He folds his hands in his lap and is careful not to bump the people on either side of him with his elbows. He keeps his feet to himself and stares forward, wide-eyed. He barely blinks through the entire play. His eyes are watering by the end of it. He forgets all about his power, because Kiyoi’s power is all consuming.
Kiyoi’s beautiful. He was always beautiful. He was a pretty teenager and a handsome young man, but he’s blossomed into a drop-dead gorgeous thirty year old that makes everyone else on stage look as plain as Hira. Kiyoi’s absolutely dazzling, and not just for his looks—he plays the role with an air of grace and poise that has Hira captivated. But Kiyoi’s always captivated him. He’s been under Kiyoi’s spell since the first time Kiyoi walked into Hira’s classroom and saved him from his own bumbling self. Every little nuance, every choice inflection, is utter perfect. Every so often, Kiyoi’s eyes sweep over the audience, and Hira’s spell bound. When the play’s over, his own applause are thunderous.
He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay in that seat, close his eyes, and replay it again and again. He hopes it comes out on film, which he’ll buy several copies of and hoard with all Kiyoi’s other work. He’ll salivate over the screen like the sick fanboy he is. Or man. Someone squeezes by him, and the ensuing string of thought reminds him that he’s undoubtedly a man.
A man that’ll probably die a virgin. Which is fine. Hira doesn’t want anyone else anyway. He’s only ever wanted one person, and that’s never going to happen. The theatre empties out, people milling all around him, and Hira lets himself get swept up in the tide, trying to follow it out as soon as possible—the cacophonous reviews are overwhelming. Most of the people that touch Hira liked the play, but they don’t have anything special to say about Kiyoi, so they’re dead to him.
As soon as he’s outside, he swerves off behind the theatre, clustering against a concrete wall in the narrow alley. He needs the streets to thin out before he tries to head home. He can’t have other people in his head when he’s trying to memorize Kiyoi. His own thoughts are only that, and that’s all he wants in there: Kiyoi, Kiyoi, Kiyoi.
He leans back. His breath is a cold, visible puff in front of him. It’s dark, but enough of the streetlights spill into the mouth of the alley that Hira can see his own hands stuffing his pockets. He wonders vaguely if Kiyoi’s cold, out front being ushered into a limo, or if he’s got his own dressing room back stage with a doting attendant to bundle him up. Hopefully someone’s taking care of him.
“Hey.”
The voice seizes Hira. His head swivels around to where a man’s standing, then strolling towards him—the man of his dreams. It doesn’t feel real. Hira briefly wonders if he fell asleep in the theatre and has slipped into the usual fantasies.
When Kiyoi gets close enough, stopping directly in front of Hira, Hira can smell rich cologne and feel the warmth of another body. Hira falters, and he actually tries to step back, stumbling against the wall. Kiyoi looks at him like he’s nuts, but Kiyoi doesn’t know what Hira’s going through—the curse only hits virgins, and Kiyoi must get laid all the time.
Hira can’t read his thoughts. Not King Kiyoi’s. It’d be unconscionable. He could never violate Kiyoi like that. He didn’t think he could ever see Kiyoi again, breathe Kiyoi in, look directly into those beautiful eyes—
Hira can’t answer because he’s on the verge of fainting, and Kiyoi rolls his eyes like he expected that—like he actually remembers who the hell Hira is and how messed up Hira used to be. He hasn’t changed much. Kiyoi mutters, “I thought I saw you in the audience.”
Of course. Hira follows all of Kiyoi’s socials and watches everything Kiyoi’s in multiple times. The show’s only playing for three nights, and Hira has tickets to all three. It cost an arm and a leg, but Hira has plenty of savings—all he ever buys is Kiyoi memorabilia. He’s the worst fan.
He’s a fan that used to know Kiyoi personally, used to even have Kiyoi over at his house, and he was delusional enough to think that maybe he could always have Kiyoi in his life.
Not be with Kiyoi. He never thought they’d date. He’s not good enough. He wants better for Kiyoi. He still gets jealous whenever the headlines suggest that Kiyoi’s seeing someone. But he’d settle for being the assistant of Kiyoi’s assistant or the guy that cleans up Kiyoi’s trash.
Kiyoi seems to be waiting for Hira to say something, and normally, Hira might actually manage—he’d stutter out that Kiyoi did amazing and the play will surely do well. But the chaos of the day has ruined Hira’s brain, and he’s even more incoherent than usual. When he pulls himself together enough to stop openly gawking, all he manages is a sudden bow, jerking forward so fast that his head almost hits Kiyoi’s chest. He practically shouts, “S-s-sorry!” And then he turns to sprint.
He doesn’t make it a single step, because Kiyoi grabs his wrist.
Kiyoi grabs him.
Kiyoi’s touching him.
And he hears that lovely voice think, So annoying!
Hira knows he’s annoying. He still turns around, slow and terrified, wide-eyed at Kiyoi. Their eyes connect, Kiyoi’s boring into his, with that fierce, intense expression he used to get back in high school when the two of them were alone and sparks were flying.
He’s looking at me the same way he did in school, Kiyoi thinks, along with a flood of memories—lying on his stomach in Hira’s living room, looking up at Hira’s face, Hira donning a small, adoring smile and fetching him ginger ale. He wants me. I know he does. I was so sure back then, but he never did anything—but now—why is he looking at me like that if he doesn’t want me?
Hira does. He wants Kiyoi so badly he can hardly stand it. He always did. He didn’t realize that Kiyoi saw right through him. Aloud, they’re still silent—they were never good at talking.
Why can’t he just throw me against the wall and rail me already?
Hira’s mouth falls open. Kiyoi’s breathing hard. His grip is firm, iron-tight—there’s no hope of escape.
No one else... no one’s come even close to that kiss we shared— The one in high school, but it’s different through Kiyoi’s eyes: Kiyoi remembers grabbing Hira and smashing their mouths together, not out of pity but desperation, willing Hira to kiss him back, expecting Hira to bite his lip and suck his tongue and grab his ass—It’s been so long, and when I saw him in the audience... he still looked at me like I was the only one...
“You are the only one,” Hira murmurs, whisper-quiet, without thinking. Kiyoi’s brows knit together, and Hira remembers that he doesn’t know of Hira’s powers. He doesn’t realize what Hira’s responding to.
He’s still thinking, If I’m the only one, why won’t you take me already? If you’d just answered your stupid phone back then, it would’ve been different—I would’ve been with you—we’d still be together now and I wouldn’t have to spend so many nights wondering what you’re doing and who you’re with...
Hira’s head is shaking. No—he’s not with anyone—hasn’t been with anyone—and that isolation is what’s given him the power to realize how stupid he’s been. He can barely believe it. He wouldn’t believe it if he didn’t see it in Kiyoi’s mind—a flood of memories and feelings, longing, Kiyoi just the other week trying to look him up online, except Hira’s not online, and Kiyoi threw his phone against the wall and screamed into his pillow because he doesn’t have any pictures and is tired of not being able to picture the man he’s touching himself to.
Hira’s broken and staggers forward.
He reaches up, tangles his fingers in Kiyoi’s soft hair, and slams that pretty face into his. There are no thoughts anymore. He just needs Kiyoi more than air.
Kiyoi shudders for a moment, then grabs onto his coat and kisses him back, all tongue and teeth and needy, desperate moans—the kiss flows back and forth, sloppy and wild, passionate, built up over a decade of pining; it’s like they never lost any time at all, like they’re still two teenagers in over their heads—
When they part, Kiyoi looks dazed. He’s blushing bright across his cheeks, eyes hazy, and he looks so fuckable that it’s all Hira can do not to ravish him right there. Kiyoi mumbles a weak, “Gross.”
But he’s still got his hands on Hira’s chest, and he’s practically crying inside, emotionally ravaged, whimpering, Yes, thank you, thank you, please, Hira, MORE—
Hira never could resist Kiyoi’s orders. He pulls Kiyoi in again and sinks his teeth into that plush bottom lip, loving the way Kiyoi groans and whines, Yes! Kiyoi’s pleasure floods into him—delight and lust for Hira all over him. He wants to get Hira back to his car. He thinks, I can’t believe I’m finally getting the kid I had a crush on in high school...
Hira’s world is spinning. He drowns in Kiyoi’s. He stumbles back to Kiyoi’s car, goes to Kiyoi’s hotel, and loses his powers as fast as they came, but in the morning Kiyoi bluntly tells him, “Stay,” so Hira never leaves again.