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"Babe," your boyfriend says, with a tremble in his voice and a face flecked with blood. The 3 O'Clock news is blaring, violence in the streets, so unattached from you. You can hardly put it together.
The groceries are on the floor, spilled from the bag, gone from your arms. You had bought ingredients to make homemade milk tea, prepared to spend your evening chatting in the kitchen, before falling asleep with the television on, much too early on a Friday night. The can of condensed milk rolls along the floor, only stopping as it hits the body of Chihiro Fujisaki.
"Baby," he says again. "Don't scream."
You've never screamed louder.
*************
You weren't suspicious when Chihiro started coming around. Of course you weren't suspicious. Except, that was just the thing -- Mondo didn't make friends with women. All the women in his life were quickly forgotten, as valuable as convenience store candy, quickly devoured then tossed away, as though he took time to savor nothing. He was spontaneous, and you liked that about him, you bitched about it, but it excited you. You were so orderly, so scheduled, so punctual, but Mondo allowed some disorder in your life. He allowed sloppiness. In fact, he encouraged it. He wouldn't wipe his feet at the door and he never wiped his mouth when he kissed you, all dirt, all drool. He made you feel dirty and used and you thanked him for it, on an exhale you thanked him, as he kissed you stupid. Stupid enough to regard nothing, not the tossed wrapper, the speckless doormat, or little Chihiro.
The weekends were once reserved for studying in solitude. You can't recall the transition if there ever was one. Mondo became your boyfriend overnight. You had barely grappled the truth of your sexuality before he was on top of you, much less when he was inside. It bothered you, it did, because there was hardly a discussion. He had leaned into you without warning, hand on your hip, breath in your ear and said, "I can't wait to make you mine."
The weekends were reserved for him after that. Studying became harder, even your concrete mind failed to concentrate in his presence. He told you to relax, take it easy, take a break, as if habits could be unlearned in an instant. Mondo was a distraction like reality television was a distraction, sugar for the brain, rot for the mind. You craved it. You could hardly review the evidence, because you never left the scene of the crime. The two of you walked to school together, you were in the same class together, you ate lunch together, you walked home together, you exercised together, you showered together, you slept together.
You slept together.
There was an innocence to it. You had never slept with anyone else, so there was no room to compare. He made you feel good, though. You were often too meek to verbalize, but you swayed. On the brink of orgasm, there was a phrase you repeated, but only in your head, and it was so loud. Loud as thunder, but Mondo never seemed to hear it. I love you -- that's all it was. Simple, cliche, sophomoric. It was so high school, but with every ounce of your being, you believed that if he felt it too, he would hear you.
There was no transition. When Chihiro entered the picture, it was like snapping between two slides on a projector -- there, then not. There, then gone. Again, you were not suspicious. Chihiro was different from the girls that Mondo typically attracted, thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies, playing hard to get, then ghosting him once satisfied. Mondo wasn't a player, but he was clearly an opportunist. If a cute girl wanted to hop on his bike, then it was only a short detour from them hopping on his --
You digress.
Chihiro was a cute girl, but she was a geek, too. Incredibly smart. To call her talented almost seemed like an insult, because her skill was hard earned, not God given. She was too good to be hanging around the leader of a biker gang, which begged the question, were you too good, as well? Wouldn't perfect scores and flawless attendance qualify you for that? Wouldn't labeling Chihiro as good imply that Mondo was quite the opposite? Mondo was troubled, but he wasn't bad.
You shouldn't be so judgmental. This was the truth of it, though. Mondo did have a temper, Mondo did have a foul mouth, and Mondo, apparently, did have a thing for Chihiro.
In the beginning, Chihiro crashed on your couch because it was late and she was too scared to walk home, Mondo was too drunk to drive, and you were too--
No excuses.
Frankly, the walk was too long and you didn't want to risk sleeping in. You dozed until morning and overheard Mondo from the living room. The two of them were just chatting, nothing remarkable, but the fact Mondo had woken before you was unlike him. Chihiro slept over more after that. Then more and more, you awoke without Mondo by your side. You said nothing.
"I'm glad you guys are such good friends!" you might have said that.
You were jealous. You liked Chihiro, because why shouldn't you -- she was likable. You liked her even more because Mondo was so fond of her. He rustled her hair and clapped her shoulder, with an affection you thought was only reserved for you. It made your neck burn, your ears tingle, your face redden. That night, when you crawled into bed, you didn't give him a chance to leave. You scraped and sucked a bruise into his neck until it was unmistakable; he belonged to you. As he rattled your bed frame, uncaring of your living room guest, you belonged to him as well. Your red eyes bore into him and he could only growl in pleasure. You rode him like all those wannabe biker girls once did. You made him your bitch.
"Baby," he praised, entirely fucked, "you're something else."
But you weren't Chihiro. You hardly stood a chance. You knew Mondo liked women, perhaps not romantically, but there was a sexual craving you, as a man, could never itch for him. You could never compete with the enticing fragility that girls like Chihiro offered. It was effortless, she was adorable without trying, and small enough to overpower in just about any situation. No matter how he dominated you, it wasn't enough and you couldn't be transformed. With no amount of spit or lube or sperm.
Then you finally saw it. The disciplinary committee meeting had adjourned about 12 minutes early, which meant you were home 12 minutes earlier than you should have been. Which meant you weren't supposed to find your boyfriend with a girl on the couch, mouth on her neck, hand on her thigh. Chihiro saw you first and the tears came instantly. Actually, she may have beat you to it.
You couldn't speak for days. The betrayal was like a burn on your tongue. You chewed without taste, you swallowed without substance, you should have starved. You withdrew from reality and drew shapes on your desk. Mondo finally came to you, face full of shame and mouth full of apologies, and you sobbed, like the crybaby you were. You hugged him, kissed him like you never had before, and finally, you forgave him. Chihiro acknowledged from a distance. You couldn't hate her.
*************
"Mondo," you squeak his name. You can barely comprehend the situation and that's making your face numb. You want him to comfort you as much as you want him to stay far, far away. You're reminded of the first day of kindergarten, when you cried for attention and felt ugly for it. "Mondo, I don't understand, I don't--"
"Shut it, Taka!"
"She isn't moving, why- why is this happening, I can't- I don't--" you sputter between chattering teeth. Your vision is blurry with tears, making the kitchen a shapeless array of blobs and mild suggestions. Mondo is touching you now, his hands hovering, ghosting over your skin. Your mouth is moving a mile a minute until your boyfriend presses his palm against it. You freeze.
"Shhh," he coos, as if you have woken from a bad dream. You stare at him with wet, vulnerable eyes. "You really gotta calm down. Please, babe."
Your breath is hot against his hand. The warmth is uncomfortable, and sticky, and damp. He cautiously pulls away, and the moment he does, you suck in a gasp, only to choke on it. Your knees wobble and Mondo catches your body as it crumbles.
"Breathe," he instructs. He inhales deeply, and you quickly follow by example, exhaling as he does. Without meaning to, you sob, hideously.
"I don't understand!" you wail. Mondo is mesmerizing, but not enough to distract from the bloodbath in the kitchen. His hand slaps over your mouth in an instant.
"You're too loud, you're always so fucking loud," he hisses in a flare of anger. Fresh tears prick your eyes and fall without permission. Ultimately, you prove him right by crying louder.
He pins you to the floor and your first instinct is to resist. You wrestle against him and in your fight for freedom, punch the side of his face. Mondo reels back, in more shock than pain, and you take this opportunity to escape to the bathroom.
"Taka--"
"What happened to her!" It's not a question, you are demanding an answer. The longer you go without one, the more frightened you become.
"Him," Mondo corrects. Before you can question it, he says, "Chihiro's a dude."
"I don't get it," you blurt out. Your attention is divided. The bathroom lock was broken a long time ago and you're placing all your weight against it. You hear Mondo shuffle from behind the door.
"Chihiro lied to us, he--" your boyfriend struggles for the words, fumbling for an accurate version of the story that doesn't damn himself, "he tricked me. You were never supposed to see this. You shoulda never been involved. Please go home, I'll take you home."
You don't recognize his voice how it is now, so desperate and unsure. It's like listening to a stranger speak, the pattern is all wrong, the tone unfamiliar, it's your brain doing its best to distance Mondo from this ugly moment. You can't just go home.
"I want to be here," you decide in a voice thick from use, "with you."
There is silence for a long time. The drip of the sink is much louder than you recall.
"Don't come out until I tell you to," Mondo says. "Please."
As his footsteps fade back into the living room, you slide down the door until your knees buckle from the strain, landing flat on your ass. You try to ignore the echoes throughout the house, the rustling of fabric, the clomp of Mondo's heavy step, and the scrubbing, the scrubbing, the scrubbing. Staring at your wrist watch is all you can do to pass the time, but the time refuses to pass. The seconds tick by in slow motion and you begin to suspect the hands have stopped. You tap at the glass, frustrated. Your grandfather gave you this watch and it's as though, even in death, he continues to punish you.
Your grandfather was a difficult person to love. You remember his grey eyes, cold and impossible to decipher. He was an intimidating man. At a young age, you discovered you liked boys, it was a secret you had buried deep within yourself, but you were convinced your grandfather knew. What else could explain his distance, his demeanor? You craved his affection as a child, but as you grew older, your expectations became more realistic. You grew to expect nothing and he nearly delivered. At his funeral, you cried all the same.
"Kiyotaka cries so much," your grandfather had said to your dad, on more than one occasion, in that harsh tone of his.
You slide the watch off of your wrist.
You spend the next hour dozing in and out of consciousness. It's surprising you can doze at all, given the circumstances, but your body is exhausted from overpowering Mondo. Now that it's quiet, you feel guilty for hitting him. You have never put your hands on him like that, not even in bed where he encouraged it. You, ever the saint, couldn't stomach the thought of it. You couldn't satisfy him, maybe that's why he cheated.
With a slow twist of the doorknob, you decide to take a peek. The floor is clean now, not a speck of blood, but Chihiro is looking colder by the minute. Mondo kneels beside her and gently strokes her hair, as though in apology. As he lifts Chihiro, her head rolls back, like a doll with a glass face and boneless body. The marks on her neck are too familiar; they match your own. You could try to pretend someone else put them there, give Mondo the benefit of the doubt, but they're too fresh, too purple, too real. Maybe they will vanish if you keep staring. Mondo turns and you almost crush your fingers as you quickly shut the door.
With only the dripping faucet to keep you company, you imagine how it happened. The scenario your brain has really taken a foul liking to is this: Mondo and Chihiro were fooling around, until Mondo got too handsy and discovered Chihiro's secret, then killed her for it -- him. Killed him for it. Mondo liked boys though, so where was the sense in that? What made Chihiro so different from other boys when the only difference was the dress? There exists a subtlety you aren't understanding.
Mondo didn't want to like boys, the same way you didn't want to like boys, the same way the world didn't want boys to like boys. It is your responsibility as a man, to your family, to grow into a capable leader and produce capable children. Homosexuality has no room to exist in that narrative. It's about appearances, it's about Mondo being a leader in his own right, it's about maintaining respect. There is a reason why Mondo has not held your hand in public, why he hasn't introduced you to his friends. The same reason why you haven't invited Mondo to your own house, to eat dinner with your family. It is a burden that courses through your veins, an unpredictable flaw in your biology. Now if only Mondo's actions were as justifiable as his anger.
The door creaks open and you scramble to your feet with rekindled apprehension. Mondo passes you like a ghost, wordlessly discarding his top, caked with blood, then his pants and everything else. Before you can think to speak, he undresses you, too. His bloody clothes, now a heap on the floor, and yours, tainted by association. He steps into the shower and pulls you in by the wrist. You shudder when the water hits your skin, it's like a slap to the face. Apparently, your punch had landed at the corner of Mondo's mouth, you can see the bruise now, blooming into a terrible reminder. He scrubs you down with a bar of soap and his fingernails, hard, too hard, you flinch through it, you clench your teeth, you don't complain. You scrub him down with the same ferocity, washing the dried blood from his hair, not stopping until the water runs crystal clear.
He tears both of your clothes into pieces, until it looks like colorful confetti. He wraps it all into a plastic bag then disappears for the second time. When he returns, he says he dumped it in the river. You don't care where he put the clothes, you want to know about Chihiro.
"Where is he?" He is nowhere and everywhere -- that, you know. What you're asking really is where's the body?
"It was an accident," he finally says.
You are a witness. You are an accessory to murder. This is the final bullet in the bleeding head of your family's legacy.
"It was an accident," you agree.
Your life is over.
Outside, the birds begin to sing their usual song. There will be no intermission. They have no involvement in your personal tragedy. On the couch, your boyfriend curls against your lap like a wounded dog seeking comfort. You smooth your hand over the back of his head, rake your fingers through his scalp, undoing the damp knots, releasing the tangles.
You kiss him slow and easy, capturing his sobs in your mouth, swallowing them for later, for when you're completely alone, for when you can scream without making it about yourself. You're not angry at him, but you want to cry for him, forever, and ever.
The 6 O'Clock news starts.