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With one hand, Orlando poked a cooking fork listlessly into two thin Kobe steaks while carelessly juggling a lit cigarette and half-drunk can of Asahi with the other. The smoke from the tiny hibachi curled up and over the fence surrounding the minuscule Japanese garden. In the corner, a listing bag of empty beer cans spilled its contents over un-raked, weedy gravel. He took another drag and thought of a thousand Sunday nights just like this, the memories scattered in fits and starts across suburban Tokyo.
Was this house number six or seven? He’d lost count years ago and stopped arguing with his wife – ex-wife, he corrected – about every move when they’d finally bribed their way out of apartment number four and moved into ‘real’ house number one. Star British Reporter Breaks Story on Yakuza Ties to Big Banks, the headline read that year. This year he was translating shonen ai sports manga and selling black-market scoops to the lowest bidder, waiting anxiously for every check and looking over his shoulder around most corners. He sighed and scratched the ragged salt-and-pepper hair at his temples, not caring that the cigarette shed a gray snowfall of ashes on his rumpled collar.
The shoji screen behind him slid open and Orlando looked over his shoulder, the single naked bulb on the porch highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. “Hey,” he said, his voice gravely from fifteen years of Mild Seven’s and the unfiltered air of industrialized Japan.
Elijah pulled another six pack of beer out of a grocery sack along with a plastic wrapped carton of pre-sliced veggies. The sale sticker glowed orange in the darkness. “I picked up a side. At least it’ll be Beef Sukiyaki instead of half-assed ‘grilled by Orli’,” he said, stepping down off the tatami and into a pair of outdoor slippers.
Orlando nodded and turned back to the steaks, tipping the can against his mouth and guzzling the rest of his beer. He crushed the can and tossed it in the general direction of the empties, then held out his hand for another.
“You know you look like shit,” said Elijah, sighing as he popped two cans open and handed one of them over. “You should quit smoking. Or drinking. Or both.”
“Yeah,” said Orlando, hitching a shoulder to get the mangled soft-pack out of his shirt pocket. He shook out two cigarettes and held the pack out to Elijah.
Elijah sighed and took one, digging a Bic out of his pocket to light it before he leaned over and lit Orlando’s. He looked at the single lawn-chair with the straps worn out of the middle and lowered himself to the edge of the porch instead. “How long until we eat?”
“Ten minutes or so,” said Orlando, contemplating the fork that was still in his hand before he set it down on a two-legged stool that was propped against the fence. “How are things at the paper?”
Elijah shrugged and took another drag. “The same since the last time you asked."
Orlando shuffled over to the edge of the porch and sat down next to Elijah. He swirled the beer slowly in his hand. “I picked up another hooker on Friday.” An even ten Asahi’s made his tongue loose and his verbal censor nonexistent.
“How’d that treat ya’?” asked Elijah, scooting over to make room.
Orlando rubbed a hand over his face. “I think I’m getting too old for that shit.”
Elijah flicked ash into the garden and rubbed his thumb around the lukewarm ridge of the beer can he was holding. “Couldn’t do it, could you?”
Orlando just tipped back his beer and swallowed over and over. He lowered it and wiped his mouth.
Elijah snorted. “Too bad you just realized it now.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Orlando, more drunken snarl than real anger.
“Hey, I’m not the one that left you – she did.”
Orlando got right in his face and called him the one thing that was guaranteed to elicit a violent reaction.
“Fuck you, asshole,” Elijah snapped and hauled back to punch him.
Orlando caught his fist before it struck, strong despite inebriation. They remained frozen in tableau for what felt like minutes before Orlando abruptly released him, only to wind an arm around Elijah’s waist and haul him roughly against his side. Their faces were separated by mere inches, Orlando’s eyes dazed and drifting inside a wash of too much alcohol. “Do you still want me, Elijah?” he husked, the words drifting hot and unsteady over Elijah’s face. “Like you did back then, when I told you no, I wasn’t and never would, even for someone like you?”
“Jesus Christ, Orli, don’t do thi—“ Elijah froze when Orlando’s mouth pressed awkward and too rough against his, tongue pushing between his lips. Orlando tasted like beer and cigarettes and worse – and it was making Elijah hard. And he hated him for it. He hit Orlando’s shoulder with the heel of his hand, breaking the kiss and kicking out with both feet as he scrambled back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Orlando,” he said, hating even more the way the name came out breathless and riddled with hurt. “What the fuck.”
Orlando just looked at him, blinking dazedly in the yellow light. He pointed his cigarette at Elijah with a hand that wavered. “She knew,” he said, with a little nod and put the cigarette to his lips to take a drag. “She always knew.” The words almost a whisper.
Heat and hope warred incessantly with anger and Elijah pressed a hand to the center of his chest, fingers bruising as he stared at Orlando. He didn’t want to know. And was helpless to stop himself from asking. “Knew what?” he whispered, each word crackling with emotion.
Orlando threw back his head and laughed and the sound made Elijah feel sick.
“Lij, Lijah, E-lijah,” said Orlando, spinning the variations out on his tongue. He twisted his head to an awkward angle to look at Elijah, body swaying. He lifted a hand as if to touch Elijah’s hair, but when Elijah flinched away, he hesitated – and dropped it. For a moment, Orlando’s brown eyes were clear and golden, his face dropping a decade of wear, his smile crooked as he leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve always wanted you.”
Elijah climbed slowly to his feet and when Orlando blinked and looked up at him, Elijah hauled back and slapped him with enough force to knock him off the porch.
+
Orlando clawed his way up through a fog he was hoping would actually kill him. “Fuck,” he said and groaned at the knives that sliced through his temples. He winced and dragged a hand up to touch his cheek, hissing as he poked at what felt like one hell of a bruise. His body felt like it had been run over. Twice.
“Get up,” Elijah snapped, directly above him.
“Oh, fuck,” said Orlando, plucking uselessly at the blanket to try to drag it over his head, but the motion only made the knives sharper.
Elijah yanked the blanket out of his hands and threw it off. “Get your fucked-up, pathetic, shit-for-brains ass off the floor and get in the bath, now.”
Orlando winced at every angry thump of Elijah’s bare feet on the tatami. Shit. I’ve really fucked it up this time.
“And brush your god damned teeth while you’re at it, your breath smells like an open sewer.” A shoji screen thumped emphatically into its frame and Elijah’s footsteps echoed on the hollow tile in the kitchen, two rooms away.
It took every ounce of willpower for Orlando to sit up, wincing as his body retained the flat shape of the floor in some places. He bit back a whimper as he climbed to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, not even bothering to shut the door.
+
Twenty minutes later, Orlando hovered in the doorway to the kitchen. He still felt like shit and looked even worse, but at least he smelled a bit better.
Elijah barely glanced up from the stove. “Sit down,” he snapped.
Orlando ducked his head and slid into a chair at the table.
Elijah slammed a bowl of rice and a plate of plain eggs and toast down in front of him. “You are a fucking asshole,” he said, setting a cup of water down so hard it sloshed over the rim.
“I know,” said Orlando, without protest, his gaze fixed on the dishes in front of him. He winced when Elijah slapped two aspirin on the table.
“You’ll be lucky if I forgive you before your ninety,” said Elijah, none of the heat going out of his voice as he slammed his own breakfast down beside Orlando.
“I know,” Orlando whispered, the words choked and unsteady. Horrified at the way his eyes suddenly felt hot and achy, he lifted a hand to swipe at them, only to have it captured in a firm grip.
Elijah grabbed his chin, fingers pressing cruelly into Orlando’s skin as he lifted it, forcing him to meet his gaze. “If you ever cheat on me – hooker or otherwise – I will fucking cut off your balls and grill them on the hibachi. Are we clear?”
The tears pooled and spilled down Orlando’s cheeks, and he swallowed hard – then nodded.
“Good,” said Elijah, releasing him and sitting down in the other chair.
Orlando scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve before reaching for the cup of water with fingers that shook. He took a sip and risked a glance at Elijah. He flinched and set it down before he dropped it. Elijah was still glaring daggers.
“If,” said Elijah, “and only if, you can manage not to be a complete fuckstick for at least a week, I will think about letting you try and make up for that pathetic excuse of a kiss.” He stabbed at his eggs with vicious intent, not bothering to look at Orlando. “Now eat.”
Something cracked, shattered and poured like hot caramel through the center of Orlando’s chest, and despite wanting to put his head down on the table and bawl like a baby, he took a deep, unsteady breath – blinked fast and hard for a few seconds – and nodded. Then picked up his fork.
“Okay.”
END