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The ice cubes inside the glass are melting, glinting with the light from Tokyo down below. What little bourbon left inside has been long watered down into faint imitation of a mild booze. Wakatoshi couldn't care less about wasted alcohol though; he has poured himself enough glasses—always on the rocks—for the liquid courage he thought was necessary. It did not help much.
The whole office is deserted, leaving Wakatoshi a lone soul on his desk. The fluorescent lights have long been turned off; only the blue light from his desktop screen illuminates his pale features. The Japan Airlines website is left open. He cannot recall how many times the number on his digital clock has changed hours since his last employee punched out. He thinks he has run out of nails to bite, but the buzz from the bourbon prevents him from confirming so.
His phone vibrates, catching his attention. The new message reads:
Shirabu
Good evening Manager,
the Chairman has sent me the details for the
upcoming meeting with your prospective fiance.
Enclosed in this message …
Wakatoshi slowly massages his eyelids. His whole life, he feels like he has been walking a straight and narrow alleyway. Prestigious schools, expensive academies, a distinguished position in the family company; everything was but mere bricks put in place by his grandfather, shaping the walls that make the passage. His grandfather might as well put a leash on Wakatoshi’s neck. It bears no difference to him.
Wakatoshi’s parents are not the warmest family around; his dad isn’t even with him anymore. Before Wakatoshi could even be aware of his surroundings, his dad fled to another country for “overseas posting”. Wakatoshi doesn’t fault him though. His parents met at grandfather’s 55th birthday party, and Wakatoshi remembers how he used to feel a deep sting whenever the story came up: how could they know fate brought them together when it could have been grandfather playing the strings from the background, setting mom up with a man of a known, respectable family?
And there lies Wakatoshi’s praxis in life: if his grandfather’s fist is as inevitable as fate itself, then he should take any small victories he can get.
His grandfather chose the schools he enrolled into, but Wakatoshi got to choose his after-school club. His grandfather picked out his formalwear for the annual family concourse, but Wakatoshi would be allowed to pick out the color of his tie. His mom and his grandfather always say with pride in every chance they get: not a single bone of defiance in this kid’s body, and it disgusts Wakatoshi how it always, always, washes him first and foremost with delight, unsolicited, before contempt takes over.
His life has always consisted of big defeats with small wins against his grandfather, but this time—a life partner —Wakatoshi feels like it’ll be a loss he can never recover from. He shivers thinking about coming home from a long day at work to the cold, sharp angles of his minimalistic apartment—designed by the number one interior designer in the country, a daughter of grandfather’s best friend— and a disinterested partner he is barely familiar with.
That mental image sends his hand flying to grab the mouse and direct the cursor to the nearest clickable rectangle on the screen. The site already has his credit card information, and the edges of his vision blur from booze, he is not sure where or even what he clicked to arrive on the payment page. Not that the price matters. He finishes the transaction without thinking twice—not that his brain currently has any capacity to do so—and prints the flight ticket.
He turns his phone in his hand back and forth, contemplating. Mentally sending a quick apology to Shirabu—God bless his soul—and plucks the battery out of its case. Both parts end up in the trash bin next to his desk. His passport always resides inside his briefcase—the consequence of being a general manager in an international company—so he does not need to go home to procure anything else. He gets up and ambles down the office hall, his limbs flailing slightly. He hopes the night air will sober him up enough before he reaches the airport.
As he walks out of the building he can feel his steps getting a little bit lighter, his head buoyant, this time not with liquor, but with triumph.
* * *
Triumph doesn’t feel so good anymore when a burly man slams into him, knocking over a dozen of pitifully stubby tickets out of his hand, raining all over the cobble-stoned pavement. The man slings down the street with a quick ' scusi!’ ; running away like a scared turkey being chased down by a machete.
Wakatoshi stares at his newly bought bus tickets, dotting the ground with white curls of paper. Some tourists, unbothered by the scene, callously step over them. He blinks.
This is not his first time in Florence. It is definitely his first time navigating the city unassisted. The three times he had set foot in Europe, he was always a little prince sitting shotgun in the minivan his family rented.
Apparently, Florence only has buses, and you need to punch in this small piece of paper when you board the bus. And then you need to remember that each paper only lasts you 90 minutes. And sometimes the buses are late. Other times they don’t come at all. The sun is at its highest point, Wakatoshi is stranded, hungry—somehow there is not a single restaurant open nearby—and he desperately misses the Tokyo subway system.
He’s so tempted to just turn back and spend the days inside his airconned hotel room, but he’d be too restless vegetating when he doesn't even have a plan for anything—not even a ticket home. He doesn't wish to leave any credit card trail. For all he knows, he is now a treason-committing defector in his grandfather's book. Relenting to his fate, he staggers along after a random group of tourists passing by, silently praying they won’t notice a haggard Asian man stalking them before they can bring him to the hubbub of the city.
He lucks out; after a few minutes of walking he can see the enormous red dome filling the skyline in the near distance: Il duomo. Florence Cathedral. The city's most prided landmark—also the home to the never-ending bustling crowd and tourist traps. Which also means food.
Wakatoshi can feel the remnants of his hangover receding while gulping his soggy falafel down with watery coffee. He eats sitting on the bench at the piazza facing the cathedral, marvelling at the ornate green-white marble works. There's an astounding number of people milling around, most facing back to the Duomo to take selfies and family pictures, while the rest of the crowd forming a long, meandering queue to enter the churches. On the other side of the building there’s a line of stalls selling paintings; street artists trying their luck for money.
He is not really one for art, but he can’t be bothered lining up to enter the church when he’s done exactly that twice before (because he got lucky in life, without queue), so he walks along the art stalls. He is absentmindedly looking at a rather impressive watercolor painting of Chianti’s sunflower field when he hears a soft clatter by his feet. There, under him, a paintbrush rolls until it stops at the crease between the stones. Its handle varnished and lavish, with a neat engraving on its body:
日向
It reads Hinata. Sun.
"Ah. Sorry, that is mine," someone said with an accented English.
Wakatoshi turns his head, and there, before him, sits a man so beautiful Wakatoshi can feel his eyes widen a little. Just a little.
Wakatoshi used to secretly marvel at every dramatic first meeting in romantic cliches: the world slowing down, rotating like a carousel around the two lovebirds in their own rose-tinted reality. But he has always thought of it in a detached way; his stoic-corporate life is the furthest from any fateful encounter by the virtue of Wakatoshi being himself. But—But that is exactly how Wakatoshi feels while he stares at this man, capturing every detail of him: Soft and bright orange hair, curling thickly to the end of his nape; the round eyes gazing at him, piercing and slightly slanted, shaping up into two crescent moons as a smile blooms; the healthy gold of his skin, as if he had just absorbed the sun. There’s an easy air around him, with his rumpled white shirt and short jeans.
“Sorry? That paintbrush is mine,” he repeats, snapping Wakatoshi back into reality.
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry.” Wakatoshi carefully switches to Japanese and approaches the man—Hinata, if the engraving is correct—to hand him the brush.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, so endearing Wakatoshi wants to tuck him into his pocket. “Thank you.”
Wakatoshi stands there while Hinata goes back to the painting he was working on. He—Wakatoshi just realises because he was too dumbfounded over the man himself—is sitting next to an art stall, a clipboard with watercolor paper on his lap. Is he selling? He doesn’t seem too inclined to spare Wakatoshi any care and that turns the gears in Wakatoshi’s mind, permuting all possibilities on how to attract his attention again.
“May I buy?”
Hinata takes his eyes off his work and blinks at Wakatoshi. For a moment Wakatoshi loses his nerve; maybe he is not actually Japanese and Wakatoshi just impolitely assumed? Or, worse, perhaps Wakatoshi said something rude without his knowing again?
“It won’t take long, I want to have this one, it’s really pretty, the yellow really pops out,” Wakatoshi mumbles in English and randomly points to a random piece that, he belatedly realizes with a wince, is very red. He can feel blood rushes to his cheeks and he busies himself by reaching out for the wallet in his back pocket. But he reaches nothing.
Wakatoshi freezes. He pats both of his pockets, back and front—still nada.
“I don’t have my wallet?” he says in a half daze. He shoves into his pockets only to brush against what coins and a few leaves of cash he just withdrew earlier this morning. He digs some of them up, but the damned tickets fall out instead.
“I’m sorry, I—” Wakatoshi crouches to gather the fallen tickets, his mind is still partially reeling from the shock.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” The man bends down from his seat and offers a hand towards Wakatoshi (oh, he’s speaking Japanese, Wakatoshi’s mind unhelpfully supplies). “I’m Hinata.”
Wakatoshi blinks. That was an unexpected development. “Um.” He shakes Hinata’s hand, a little bit dazed still. He’s about to say his family name, but manages to catch himself. Not his family name. “Wakatoshi.”
“Okay. Wakatoshi, I think a pickpocket got you.” Bam, matter-of-fact, no rodeos.
Wakatoshi sighs. “Right.”
“I can see you are definitely new here.” Hinata stares at the tickets Wakatoshi is still collecting off the floor with amusement. "As far as I know, you just have to give it up now. Just call your bank to cut the credit card and hope the wallet will turn up somewhere. I hope it wasn’t an expensive one.”
It was a Bottega Veneta gifted by his grandfather for his 26th birthday. He cannot care less about the wallet, but the prospect of having to survive for an indeterminate amount of time with little wad of cash he possesses is putting him a bit off-kilter. He tries to think of anything but that.
“How do you know I’m new?” he asks, trying to drive the conversation off his current problems.
Hinata nods towards the tickets. “Those tickets. Florence is a small city. Walking is better, except if you wanna go further to, say, piazzale Michelangelo.”
He darts his eyes between Hinata and his tickets. His mind is still muddled, trying its best to wind down from the initial confusion. He has no idea what piazzale Michelangelo is.
“Tell you what.” Hinata seems to take pity on him and abruptly stands. “I can just be your guide while you’re here!”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve been here for a couple of weeks already, so I know my way around. Kinda.”
Wakatoshi stares at him like he just grew a head. The cogs between his ears whirring; there’s too much happening at once: Should he tell him he doesn't know how long he will ‘be here’? Which bank should he call to disable his cards first? How to make the call when he doesn’t even have a phone? Did his grandfather cut his access already anyway? Did he just ask him on a date ? But what comes out of Wakatoshi's mouth is: “Is it okay if you leave the stall alone?”
“Oh, this,” Hinata waves his hand in the direction of the stall, like it’s a messy bedroom he promises he will ‘tidy up later’, "This isn’t mine.”
Wakatoshi pauses. “Pardon?” He hopes he doesn’t make too stupid of a first impression on Hinata.
“It’s not mine. I think the artist went to find a toilet? Do you know it’s hard to find a public toilet in Italy? it’s really stupid. But anyway, the seat was empty and it’s a nice spot to draw the dome.”
“Right,” Wakatoshi nods. He can feel his headache coming back with a vengeance.
“Come, I’ll take you someplace nice.”
* * *
Wakatoshi squints at the store sign above him. It’s cheery lit neon over black.
“This is an ice cream shop.”
Hinata tsks and wags his finger, puffing his chest. “It's not an ice cream shop. It's gelateria!"
"Okay," Wakatoshi doubtfully acquiesces. "You said you were taking me to a nice place."
With the look Hinata is sending him, people would’ve thought Wakatoshi just told him to murder a dog.
“It’s Italy. Florence is literally where they made gelato for the first time ever. Tell me, have you ever tried the gelato here?”
Wakatoshi had never tried gelato in Italy because ‘it would hurt your throat and make you sick and we do not need that when you still have exams once we’re home’. He doesn’t get the chance to say that—not that he intends to at all, fearing he would sound like a grievous loser—because Hinata saunters forward to enter the shop, beckoning Wakatoshi to follow him. He wonders if Hinata always has the energy of a racing horse.
Wakatoshi walks towards the gelato display (“This looks… really modest compared to the gelato mountains I see on some sidewalk shops.” “Oh, that, those are fancy frauds for tourists, I tell you.”), but then Hinata grabs his sleeve and drags him to the cashier counter first.
“What flavor do you want?”
“Um.” Wakatoshi’s diet consists of balanced food prescribed by a nutritionist, expensive liquors, energy drinks, and packaged on-the-go liquid meals. “Vanilla.”
Hinata looks at him funny but wordlessly proceeds to order in halted Italian. Wakatoshi looks down at his feet—what’s wrong with vanilla?—but his heart does a little backflip because Hinata’s unceasing smile was directed at him.
They retrieve their gelato and find a spot under the shadow of an awning in front of the store. Wakatoshi tries his best to not ogle at the way Hinata licks melted gelato off his wrist—why must he do that while fixing his gaze on Wakatoshi?
“So,” Hinata says.
Wakatoshi levels his gaze on Hinata, waiting for the continuation. He has to look down; Hinata is at least a head shorter than him.
“Is this really your first time eating gelato or what?”
Wakatoshi frowns. “Why?”
“You picked vanilla.”
“I do not see what’s wrong with vanilla." Wakatoshi takes another lick of his ice cream. It tastes really nice. He looks at the cone Hinata has in his hand and adds, “Plus, isn’t what you’re having also vanilla?”
Hinata dramatically gasps and clutches his chest, mock-offended. “How dare you. This is stracciatella!”
That sounds like a bacteria strain. “Pardon?”
“Stracciatella. Milk ice cream with chocolate shavings.”
Wakatoshi stares at him. Hinata is dead serious.
“Isn’t that just vanilla with toppings?”
“No. stra-cci-a-te-lla.”
He’s fifty percent sure Hinata is messing with him.
“You don’t believe me!” Hinata laughs. “Here, taste it yourself.”
Hinata steps closer and shoves the gelato cone to the front of Wakatoshi’s face. It startles Wakatoshi quite a bit; he almost drops his own cone. They’re standing so close to each other; he can feel the warmth emanating from Hinata, mingling with the early summer heat, dizzying. Hinata smells like wood and paint.
Hinata waggles the cone and raises his eyebrows. Oh well, Wakatoshi thinks, before he licks Hinata’s gelato. Their eyes never leave each other’s; Wakatoshi just can’t seem to divert his gaze from the way Hinata’s eyes bore into his. He also catches Hinata’s gaze flicking downward as Wakatoshi’s tongue swipes on his gelato.
Wakatoshi rolls the taste around his mouth for a moment and frowns. “This is vanilla.”
"It's not! They're different!" Hinata bursts into a laugh. His cheeks redden and the tips of his ears boil. Wakatoshi is insanely tempted to rub the burn off. "Stracciatella is my favorite gelato flavor," he tacks on.
Wakatoshi hums. It isn’t really a hill he wants to die on, but he’d challenge Hinata about gelato flavors any time if it can evoke the same expression on his face again.
“You know, Wakatoshi,” Hinata grins. “You’re quite funny.”
Wakatoshi blinks. He has received a string of occasional praises in his life—handsome, tall, smart, bright future —but never funny. Wakatoshi stares at Hinata, hoping he would elaborate further, but Hinata just chuckles and reaches up to pat his cheek.
Wakatoshi has an inkling that Hinata is younger than himself, but he hasn’t made any courtesy to use polite language or calling him with a suffix. But then Wakatoshi takes in his surroundings: the narrow street with dusky cobblestones, the foreign architectures rising and walling everything like a Renaissance hillside. He and Hinata are the anachronism in this city. Tokyo seems like a faint hum of a distant past. So he lets the matter slide and chooses to finish his vanilla gelato instead.
Hinata finishes his cone first and he dutifully waits while he’s—Wakatoshi just realized after he got confused for a few seconds—scrutinizing the bell tower in front of them.
He stands with so much stillness, his eyes glint in the sunlight, so beautiful Wakatoshi would easily think he’s from a different reality. But then he glances at Wakatoshi and breaks into a smile, breaking the illusion with it. He’s real and tangible, with all his beauty, and he—he has a smudge of ice cream on the corner of his lips.
“Ready to move? Have somewhere in mind already?” Hinata skips over to him with so much energy in every spring—no one would suspect he’s the same guy who embodied tranquillity just a moment earlier.
“I am not sure. You can lead me wherever.” Wakatoshi’s eyes never leave the smear—or it’s just his lips. They look really pink and wet.
Hinata notices him staring. “What?”
Wakatoshi reaches out and carefully rubs the ice cream off the corner of his lips. “There was a— Nothing. Let’s go.”
If a stroke of his thumb went astray to have a taste of Hinata's lips instead, neither of them mentions it. Hinata’s lips are as soft as they look.
* * *
If Wakatoshi were to describe Hinata in one word, it would be that he’s ‘capricious’.
They take their time wandering the city aimlessly, through the ancient streets and the more upscale, modern part of it. Hinata—living up to his self-proclaimed title as a guide—is full of random architectural and sculptural trivias. They would take a turn to see a little church by the corner and he would start telling a story about the old Saints and the artists they commissioned, gesticulating wildly while he gets lost in his own story. But then they would take another turn and he’d stop in his tracks, halting Wakatoshi with a hand to his chest. Perhaps he sees a sculpture of a boar above a resident’s door that he has never seen before, or sometimes he becomes enamored by the way the doorknobs were carved.
“You really love this city, don’t you?” Wakatoshi asks. Hinata is busy inspecting a heavy red double-sided door.
Hinata beams. “Do you know the Florence syndrome?”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it.”
“Supposedly it’s an illness where you get dizzy because you’re too overwhelmed by the amount of beautiful things around you.” He chuckles and stands up, continuing to walk down the quiet avenue they’re on, his pace slow so Wakatoshi can easily keep up. “That’s how I felt when I came here for the first time. I’ve been here multiple times since and it never feels enough. The whole place is like a storybook that never ends.”
He speaks of the city so dearly, Wakatoshi feels an ache zipping through his marrow. Wakatoshi has never had any place he’s particularly fond of. Not even his own ‘home’.
Hinata leads them down a narrow passage and lightly asks, “And you? What brought you here?”
Wakatoshi thinks about Tokyo, his grandfather, his indifferent mother, the flurries of papers and contracts waiting for his signature, the prospective fiance he supposes is still waiting for him. Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe. “This and that. Vacation, I suppose,” he replies.
Hinata hums and leaves it at that. The lull in their conversation isolates Wakatoshi in his own mind: Hinata paints. He obviously loves art. Life overflows through him, in every step and bounce. He’s larger than life but at the same time so very human and anchored. In contrast, Wakatoshi feels like an empty husk; a sad imitation of a human being.
He’s so lost in his own thoughts he does not realize that Hinata has stopped and turned around towards him. They are standing in the middle of a walled garden—flower beds enclosed by ancient cantaloupe walls; polished marble statues and potted citrus trees lining the pathway. “This is Palazzo Medici’s garden!” he cheerfully announces.
“I like volleyball,” Wakatoshi blurts out.
Hinata blinks, caught off guard. Wakatoshi himself is not sure why he made such a confession out of the blue. Maybe he just wants an affirmation from Hinata that he has something that he holds dear too? Maybe he just wants to prove that he isn’t just his grandfather’s doll?
“I used to really like volleyball,” he weakly continues. “But I stopped. Because I had to go to an academy after school. To be able to enter the college-prep high school that I eventually went to.”
He wouldn’t have stopped if he had any say at all, but one day he woke up to his shoes, jersey, and ball in the dumpster by the neighborhood’s gate. He does not mention this to Hinata because it still feels like a raw scab that hasn’t healed. It’s been fifteen years.
Hinata levels his gaze on him. “But you like whatever you’re doing now?”
“Well.” Wakatoshi considers any contract he can successfully land as a victory. “I’m good at it.”
Hinata huffs. “Then why are you sad?” He reaches up with his hand, placing it on Wakatoshi’s cheek, gentle. “You look so sad.”
Unable to answer, Wakatoshi bends his neck, leaning on the hand on his cheek like it’s a pillow that can keep his nightmares at bay. Closes eyes, breathes in the woody scent of Hinata. The sun sets, casting the garden with red shadows—the golden hour. The lines around them dimming and vanishing, their existence feeling almost dreamlike.
Hinata caresses the place below his eye with his thumb, drying the non-existent tears. “Do you want some more gelato?” he asks softly. “I like to eat gelato when I’m sad. Or any time, really. I just love gelato.”
That draws a thin smile on Wakatoshi’s face. And even though he still has his eyes closed, he can feel the answering grin on Hinata’s face.
* * *
They promised to meet at the Ponte Vecchio the following day. Wakatoshi had to turn in earlier because he wanted to buy cheap shirts and underthings, and didn’t feel like it’d be right to string Hinata along for it. Not only that, he also felt exposed—he became vulnerable in front of Hinata too quick, too fast. The air around Hinata is just really open and accepting—he feels dangerous.
And yet, when Hinata offered to give him another guided tour today—There are so many things about Florence I haven't shown you! —Wakatoshi didn't have the strength to refuse.
And so here he is, waiting in his white shirt and cheap khakis. He hasn't been standing long when he sees Hinata skipping down the street from the other side of the bridge, his waves larger than what his built should’ve allowed.
"Good morning!" he chirps. "Had any breakfast yet?"
"No, I can't say I have." After taking care of his stolen cards via the hotel’s phone yesterday, Wakatoshi immediately checked out and moved his belongings to a cheaper Bed & Breakfast—without breakfast. He would not pay 10 euros for toast and cereal. He might be stupidly rich, but six years in international food sales taught him not to be that stupid.
"Great! I know a great place. Just follow me."
They trailed back towards the direction Hinata came from. Ponte Vecchio is a colorful medieval arch bridge that connects the two sides of Florence; the two of them leisurely stroll across while Hinata tells him about the ghosts of merchants and butchers that used to occupy the bridge before jewelers and goldsmiths took over. More than the tale, Wakatoshi can feel the taut tangle in his chest gradually soothe with the sway of Hinata’s voice.
Hinata walks him through a quiet side street, straight to the front of a nondescript storefront with a simple board above it: ‘PANIFICIO’. The smell of fresh bread swarms the air.
“I stay down the street,” Hinata points to one end of the street, “and this bakery is a local’s favorite!” points to the dubious storefront. The dirty wall and the torn posters around the double-sided door don’t make a strong case for it—this is outside of Wakatoshi’s experience of hotel dinings and rooftop restaurants.
Hinata seems to sense Wakatoshi’s doubt. He squints with an impish grin, “you're a rich young prince, aren’t you?”
Wakatoshi glances at him. He doesn’t understand why, but he really doesn’t want to answer that. In an effort to divert the attention away from himself, he walks into the store first.
The sight that welcomes him is a surprise: the bakery is larger than what the front suggests as it extends deep into the building. Lamps hang from long thin wires out of the painted ceiling; modest wood shelves line the walls with breads, jams, juices, and sauces. More loaves of bread sit in the wooden baskets by the counter, and there are multiple cake trays inside the glass case. There are also small tables and chairs smattering on the side, but most of the shop’s offerings already heap the majority of the space. Around five people already formed a queue in front of the busy cashier.
Wordlessly, Hinata takes Wakatoshi’s hand—he definitely did not jolt in a pleasant surprise—and pulls him to the queue. They have to release their hands when Hinata has to take out his wallet to pay for their order. Wakatoshi tries to feel not too disappointed.
Hinata orders them pizza—a square pizza?—and some slices of bread with butter and jam. After they sit, he pushes one of the plates towards Wakatoshi, an expectant smile on his face. “Come on, try it, it’ll blow all of your doubts out of the water,” he cajoles.
Wakatoshi hesitates for a second before he takes a bite. Once he does, though, the taste overwhelms his tongue, the cheese melts and the crisp of the warm bread complete the whole thing. He can feel his eyes widen; his mouth can’t stop chewing. In front of him, Hinata is nodding so fast he kinda blurs, eyes glittering in excitement.
“Right?” he gushes, out of breath.
More than the lush breakfast on the table, more than the nice weather outside, Hinata’s display of enthusiasm is something that Wakatoshi has scarcely come across his whole life—so pure and precious. The unbridled joy surges inside Wakatoshi so abruptly he huffs a laugh.
“What? What? Why are you laughing?” Hinata says with an uncertain giggle.
His face only fans Wakatoshi’s fondness. He smiles at Hinata and reaches out to ruffle Hinata’s hair, which appears to only turn Hinata into a blushing mess.
“You’re too much,” he says, exasperated, when Wakatoshi finally pulls his hand back.
“I am… sorry?” Wakatoshi freezes. Was it too much?
“It’s okay. I’d rather see that smile on your face,” he pinches Wakatoshi’s cheek, so fleeting Wakatoshi would almost think it didn’t really happen, “than how you were yesterday.”
Wakatoshi finds out that pretty much everything in the bakery is delicious. He also finds out that another of Hinata’s quirk is that he likes to cut his pizza into small, bite-sized squares before eating. Wakatoshi eventually does the cutting for him so that they can catch the earliest hour to enter Hinata’s favorite gallery.
* * *
“I… would not call this beautiful.”
“That’s medieval baby Jesus.”
“Yes, I would not call medieval baby Jesus beautiful.”
“They’re not my favorite either. Come on. let’s just go to Botticelli’s room.” Hinata catches Wakatoshi’s sleeve and drags him to another room. In a moment of brilliance that Wakatoshi likes to call ’Wakatoshi, you’re not too bad', he jostles his wrist and slides his hand to catch Hinata’s instead. Hinata spares him a glance and looks away like nothing happened—but there’s a small smile on his face and Wakatoshi considers that a win.
They are currently in Uffizi Gallery—apparently Hinata’s favorite museum in Florence, even though the city has dozens of other museums scattered throughout (which, Hinata sheepishly admits, he has visited everything at least twice).
“Don’t mistake me,” he says. “There are other galleries prettier than this, and the never-ending statues can be very boring for me too,” he waves towards the rows of Roman sculptures stapling the both sides of the hallway they’re skidding through, “but the reason this is my favorite is… this.”
They arrive in what seems to be a simple white square room with huge paintings hung on all sides of the walls. The black-and-white chess floor tiles are the only thing that prevents this room from appearing sterile and clinical. This is also one of the few rooms that garner the most spectators—though there are not too many now because of the early hour.
On one side of the room, there’s a large congregation of Chinese tourists with phones high above their heads capturing the painting in front of them. It looks really familiar to Wakatoshi until he realizes what it is: naked blonde woman standing on a shell in the middle, winged figure on the side, cloaks blown into the wind; ‘The Birth of Venus’.
Wakatoshi makes a step to approach the painting, but Hinata tugs their hand in another direction. He shakes his head, “Not that one. The other one.”
On the other side of the room, hangs a painting even larger than ‘The Birth of Venus ’; seven figures in flowy attires and a cupid against a dark background. The large leaves-shaped negative space in the middle reminds Wakatoshi of decalcomania they used to make in art class during elementary school. Upon a closer look he just realizes the scene takes place in a forest; myriad kinds of flowers at their feet and fruits above their head.
“It’s ‘Primavera’”, Hinata whispers, awe in his breath. “I could spend hours just staring at it.”
Hinata doesn’t seem to realize that he’s practically clenching Wakatoshi’s hand, but Wakatoshi doesn’t mind. He stands there clinging to Wakatoshi, his mouth a small-o, flummoxed and blown away by a painting he has seen probably a hundred times before.
Again, Wakatoshi is bowled over by an ugly feeling—envy. He’s envious of Hinata’s childlike wonder. When was the last time his eyes glimmered like Hinata’s now? Hinata is so bright, bright with a life that Wakatoshi has never tasted, and he’s only casting Wakatoshi’s shadow even darker.
"Am I boring you?” Hinata touches his arm, snapping Wakatoshi out of his gradual downward spiral. He looks confused more than worried—creases between his eyebrows.
Wakatoshi shakes his head, mustering a thin smile, a little wan but still as honest as he can. “I won’t mind being your company if you want to stay here longer.”
Hinata frowns. “No, I guess I did promise I'd show you lots of other things in Florence. I can come back here any other time.”
But they still end up spending all afternoon and more in the gallery. Not that Wakatoshi is against it. He enjoys the timelessness a museum brings, with its endless corridors and rows upon rows of prized pieces. But more than anything: he loves all the commentaries Hinata mutters in stage whispers, the way happiness is carved out on his face. Wakatoshi is but a moth that helplessly gravitates towards the light seeping through Hinata’s entire being.
When they get out, the sun has drifted closer to the horizon. “You know what,” Hinata declares, “I know the best place to catch the sunset.”
And so they go, this time by bus. After fifteen minutes of stone columns and archaic town passing by, slowly transforming into trees and bricks, Wakatoshi realizes they are going uphill. A lot of people seem to be heading in the same direction; almost everyone unboard the bus on the last stop with them. It’s a large terrace that overlooks the city from up the hill—not that Wakatoshi can see much as it teems with people. Hinata scrunches his nose at the crowd, already on his way to pout.
“It’s very touristy, but what can we do. Are you hungry?”
He brings them to a trailer shop that sells cheap microwaved pasta and overpriced bottled water for dinner. (“It’s this trailer, or we go to that expensive restaurant by the hill,” Hinata ultimatums. Wakatoshi looks at the thinning cash he has budgeted for the day—the gallery ticket had apparently been quite expensive. He reluctantly yields.) After that, he pulls Wakatoshi towards the precipice of the terrace, past the parking spaces and the hordes of tourists busy with their cameras, hand in hand.
“Oh,” Wakatoshi inhales.
“Right?” Next to him, Hinata grins. So wide with satisfaction his eyes taper into crescent shapes. “This is Piazzale Michelangelo.”
Florence seen from above is a stirring sight. The sinking sun floods the sky with pink and golden, sweeping through the tapestry of red roofs and countless windows; the sharp colors fading into a dream. The red dome of Il Duomo and the tall bricks of Arnolfo tower stand proud in the middle of everything. In the distance, mountains surround the city, their tops kissing the purple clouds looming near the horizon. Wakatoshi blinks. His problems seem to wash away for a second.
And then he sees Hinata. He doesn’t heed Wakatoshi any attention as he’s transfixed by the scene before him—but Wakatoshi loves what he’s seeing all the same. The colors of the sunset, a lively conversation on his face: yellow on the tip of his lashes, red on his cheekbones, lights in his eyes. Wakatoshi is a lost cause.
Somewhere behind them, a group of street musicians start bowing their strings. They’re playing a slow, calming song, right at the same time the old cathedral bell chimes six times.
They are in that faint space between day and night, where the flow of time is inconsequential. Everything feels magical, and right, and there’s a lock of hair falling to Hinata’s face so Wakatoshi tucks it behind his ear and when Hinata finally, finally turns his head, Wakatoshi softly presses his lips on Hinata’s.
There is a brief moment of hesitation. For a split second the magic vanishes and there’s only doubt: has he been taking this the wrong way? But then Hinata loops his arms around Wakatoshi’s neck and kisses him back. Wakatoshi’s heart leaps and swishes, his hand deep in Hinata’s hair. The movement of their lips slow and tender, the world around them blurs into insignificance.
When they eventually part, Hinata looks at him with a glint that is usually reserved for paintings and sculptures. “Well,” he says, breathless.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your permission,” Wakatoshi croaks.
Hinata laughs, and there is no other sight that Wakatoshi wants to see more than what’s in his arms now—Hinata, happy, his cheeks pink and his lips wet.
* * *
It feels like a natural progression of things for them to end the night together. Hinata’s place is closer to their bus stop, so he offers Wakatoshi to come home with him. When they stop by a tabacchi shop and Hinata casually puts lube and condom on the cashier’s desk, Wakatoshi makes a valiant attempt to appear neutral. His palms start to sweat and if Hinata notices, he’s kind enough not to mention it.
That night, Hinata consumes him whole. When he bounces on top of Wakatoshi, the sinew of his thighs framing Wakatoshi’s hips, and the moonlight as their stage light; for the first time in a very long time, Wakatoshi lets go. He sinks into pleasure and does not feel the need to resurface — the buoy feels too freeing. Wakatoshi also does not remember ever moaning that loud, when Hinata whispers dirty words right into his ears; promises of things Hinata would do if Wakatoshi let him.
And Wakatoshi does. For the next couple of weeks, Hinata pulls all of Wakatoshi's facades ajar, letting all of his previously hidden desires out in the open. It isn't that Hinata dragged Wakatoshi into an unwholesome path, it’s just that the mere sight of Hinata blinds Wakatoshi with lust and something more. Hinata is a daylight thief, sneaking into Wakatoshi’s line of sight just to steal his full attention with teases—a wink here, a surreptitious caress there—and Wakatoshi is a weak soul. They end up doing things Wakatoshi had only dared to imagine during fevered teenage wet dreams.
Once: they fucked under the shadow of the dying dusk, in a narrow alleyway tourists would think twice to enter. Their jeans pulled down just so, their breath quick, drunk with steak, wine, and Hinata’s laugh.
Once: they fucked for one whole day when the city was swept by a heatwave. They made it their mission to christen every flat surface in the room: on the bed, by the window, on top of the table, up against the wardrobe, and the shower tiles. It came to a point where the reality stretched out only as far as where the white bed sheet began and ended. Their bodies—friction against each other, slick with sweat, spit, and come—started to lose their edges, blurring and melting into one. They only stopped when the sun truly set, giving way to street lights and milder, bearable temperature to go out and fetch some dinner. They started more rounds after they got back, until they had nothing else but bliss burning their insides dry. Wakatoshi made sure to tip the cleaner thrice as much the following day.
More than once: they kissed. At the piazza, above the cathedral, between the statue of David and Neptune, over the Siena wine field, and by the Cinque Terre sea. Hinata's kisses are soft, unhurried, as if he was being prudent on breathing his soul into Wakatoshi’s lips. After each kiss he would silently look at Wakatoshi with eyes that for a moment reached deep into his soul, stripping him bare, and then the moment passed and his eyes would turn soft around the edges, dripping with sugar and cotton. As if he loves what he finds there. It steals Wakatoshi’s breath every time.
Somewhere along the way: they started to fall into the same rhythm, marching to the beat of the halcyon days from fairy tales. They always wake in each other’s arms when the summer sun rises, walk to the bakery at the end of the street for breakfast. Sometimes they float through the morning pleasuring each other in bed. Afternoon is when Hinata decides which part of the town he will savor for his painting practice. There, he sits still, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, trying to figure out angles and perspectives and shadows, while Wakatoshi does anything or everything, in the nearby cafe or next to him: reads a book, picks his Italian back up, makes a dismal attempt at drawing, watches Hinata. Hinata always has tunnel vision whenever he engages with his art; never one for a conversation when he’s in that state. But Wakatoshi is not a man of many words to begin with. He is content to just sit there and savor the privilege to see Hinata blazing so brightly in his element.
Lunch is pizza or sandwiches for stipends—the ones locals would scowl at with disgust—followed by a cup of gelato, different places every time. Wakatoshi always orders the stracciatella so Hinata can try whatever adventurous flavor the gelateria offers (figs, pine nuts, rice, goat cheese, and any flavor of the month). Hinata often talks a mile a minute about all the culinary places he’s tried, and Wakatoshi finds himself getting lost in the lilt of Hinata’s voice.
In the evening, sometimes they eat out, but lately they like to take turns to cook dinner. They are saving money and Wakatoshi tries to divert his eyes from the fact that their time is as limited as how much money they have left—though they never really talk about this per se.
At the end of the day, they fuck.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being solely about heat and passion; sometimes it’s slow, languid, lavishing each other with quiet intimacy and a shared emotion—of what, Wakatoshi is too afraid to give it a name. (the alarm inside his head blares: too quick, too fast, he’s pulling me and I have nowhere to fall.)
Today is one of such nights. They are lying naked on the bed, chest to chest, making out postcoital just for the sake of it. The windows are open to let some breeze in. Wakatoshi’s fingers lazily stroking circles around Hinata’s hole. There is no heat in his movement; he’s doing it just because.
Hinata pulls back and exhales, softly smiles—the smile that reveals twinkles in his eyes. Wakatoshi can feel something inside him squeeze.
Hinata then rubs the tip of his nose against Wakatoshi’s with a tender chuckle. It is such an innocent gesture considering, but something about it—the intimacy, the way his body laxes and trusting on top of Wakatoshi, the way the air charges with so much comfort—flares such bliss inside Wakatoshi. It is also the last push that plunges him into the deep-end, where all his emotions swell and pour, getting swept away by the undertow up into his throat and through his lips, he blurts out:
“Do you want to come home to Japan with me?”
Silence.
Hinata sits up and stares at him. Not quizzical—more like he’s contemplating something. A small smirk appears on his face, almost condoling. “You're a child.”
Wakatoshi blinks. Did he mishear it? “I have an older sister.” Unsure, neither a question nor a statement.
A breathy laugh in reply, Hinata says, “Not an only child. I meant you’re a child.”
For a moment Wakatoshi thinks he just blanked out for a few minutes and missed some links from this chain of conversation entirely. He doesn’t know where the conversation started and where it is going, but he can feel his insides plunge; down, down, like he missed a step while climbing down the stairs.
“I’m a general manager.” He immediately regrets saying it, but it’s already out in the air between them. He sounds defensive and positively pathetic.
This time Hinata just outright snorts, but Wakatoshi can’t hear any derision in it. “You don’t even truly know me,” he says, not unkindly.
That is the most erroneous thing Wakatoshi has heard in a long time: he knows how Hinata’s eyes blink not at the same time, but always the right closely followed by the left; he knows how he likes his coffee bitter but his croissant sweet with extra sugar; the exact moment his dimples flourish with each smile; the way his croonings can cradle Wakatoshi to sleep when counting sheep isn’t helpful. He knows the sensitive parts that make Hinata yell with lust or giggle from tickles, the way his breaths fill the air during the stillest hour, and the way his touch carries calm and vigor. He knows how beautiful Hinata is, inside and out. But: he doesn’t even know his full name.
They have shared so many, so many, moments with the city as their witness. The lives they led in Japan seemed trivial: their families, their jobs. The reason they came ashore in Florence. The things they have silently agreed to glaze over as it might threaten the calm water they’re paddling in. But they all come rushing to the forefront of Wakatoshi’s mind now.
“Or we can start over here.” Wakatoshi mentally scrambles to cram the heavy silence. "You can start selling your paintings. I can find menial jobs in the tourist area. We can move to a cheaper place and start saving money. And—” he’s losing his thread of thought; he knows he’s rambling, something that so seldom happens to him, but he also knows he won’t be able to bear what will happen once he stops.
Throughout all this Hinata stays silent; his eyes gentle but his face stoic. Wakatoshi witnesses how the soft edges of his expression harden before his own eyes. He is muttering nonsense about the lack of good Japanese restaurants in Florence when Hinata lifts up and kisses his forehead. Soft and wet and warm.
Wakatoshi stills, more hogwash about the life he knows he is not entirely prepared for at the tip of his tongue, but instead he chokes out: “I love you.”
Hinata inhales sharply, as if he’s surprised. Why is he surprised? Whenever they touch, Wakatoshi always feels like all his being is a translucent foil that spells: I love Hinata.
Instead of a reply, Hinata buries his face in the crook of Wakatoshi’s neck. Their legs tangled and their bodies glued together with no space for anything else but their outpouring silence. Wakatoshi hugs him back, as tight as he can. Hinata breathes into Wakatoshi’s skin, and then he gives light, fluttering kisses: from his collarbone all the way up to his temple—slow and careful, preparing him for something.
Wakatoshi can almost hear his heart crack open. He wants to close his ears with his hands, shutting off any unwelcome words, but he’s hugging Hinata with them. There is nothing he wants less than releasing Hinata from his embrace right now.
“I can’t leave my Mom alone,” whispers Hinata into his ear.
This is the first time he—any of them—brings up anything of the people they left behind. It feels like a seal has been broken. Hinata tightens his hold but Wakatoshi has his mind reeling.
Their life in Florence is a bubble of blank slate, made out of nothing but the fabric of their memories alone. Wakatoshi can’t imagine Hinata in any other backdrop but the amber stones of the alleyways, or the pink sky over the sound of cathedral bells, or the broken white of their shared motel’s cheap bed sheet. He tries to imagine Hinata with the harsh colors and loud noises of Tokyo—and suddenly the man he’s clinging to feels alien.
* * *
In the morning, Hinata doesn’t wake even after the sun rises. He’s asleep with his back facing Wakatoshi. Wakatoshi tries to ignore the sting and emerges from the messy tangle of their blanket; kicked down to the foot of the bed because of the heat. He washes up in haste, puts on his sandals, and walks down the cobbled street to get their breakfast.
When he comes back, the bedroom is empty.
The bed has been tidied, the sheet tucked neatly into hospital corners. The room is half of how he left it earlier: one toothbrush, one shaver, and one suitcase. Half of the clothes inside the wardrobe are gone. No tubes of paints and dirty brushes on the table.
The bedroom key is placed on top of the bed. Below it, a piece of paper with scrawly handwriting:
Let’s meet again properly,
sometime in the future, when you’re ready.
- See you when I see you! HS
PS: my number is on the back
There is a tiny hand pointing to the right at the end of his message. When he turns the paper, a series of numbers is written with care. It has a Tokyo area code.
More than anything—the inevitable numbness, the deep-seated weariness in his bones, the overwhelming grief—what Wakatoshi feels first is betrayal. An irrational anger stirs inside him. The casual see you written in the letter, the way the phone number winks at Wakatoshi mocking; everything suddenly seems like a cosmic joke: a lie and a mere play to Hinata.
That thought throws Wakatoshi’s mind into a deep pit, swirling down, all the little things he did not realize or chose not to notice: the way Wakatoshi refused to talk about himself, the way Hinata responded to the wall he’s built with another wall of his own. Hinata always avoided answering anything about his private life by distracting Wakatoshi with light kisses, and Wakatoshi was no different. These memories race to fill in the blanks in his train of thought. Wakatoshi is getting engulfed by his own shadow and he feels utterly foolish. The sob that threatens to bubble out of his throat is making him sick.
In an attempt to gather himself, Wakatoshi packs his stuff and checks himself out of the motel—the paper clutched in his fist. He has no intention of going back to Tokyo, but there are too many things they have touched in that motel bedroom.
The next couple of days prove to be difficult. Wakatoshi walks aimlessly for the better part of the day, and he can’t find any alley or alcove that doesn't remind him of Hinata. He would turn a corner and the tales about the churches or the archways that Hinata told him would start in his head unprompted. The city also seems to have lost its shine; its golden stripped away, and its lights dimming along with the waning summer.
When Wakatoshi sits in front of the Il Duomo on the third day after Hinata left, he realizes he doesn’t have anything else he particularly wants to do in Florence. Whether it’s the narrow alleyway of this city or the narrow passage of his grandfather’s making; he won’t find the updraft that sends him into the air like Hinata’s smile did.
For the last couple of weeks, Hinata gave him a taste of a life he has never had. He broke through the bricks in Wakatoshi’s pre-made passage and showed him a large clearing where they could run and laze about. Showed him what life could be if he ever had a choice in it. Only for Hinata to now leave him in that clearing alone. In every waking moment, doubt invades Wakatoshi’s mind. It was planted there the moment he found that paper in their empty bedroom, and it has furiously grown ever since.
His doubt: Had he ever meant anything to Hinata?
That night, when Wakatoshi couldn’t respond to Hinata and his limbs felt numb, Hinata cupped Wakatoshi’s jaw, gentle. “You understand right? I’m sorry,” he softly says. Wakatoshi wanted to bellow no I don’t, but he stayed mum. Hinata then started stroking Wakatoshi’s cheek, an understanding smile stretching his lips, before he whispered, “I really enjoyed my time here, because of you. Thank you.”
Hinata ended whatever plea Wakatoshi had on the tip of his tongue with a long press of his lips, sealing Wakatoshi’s mouth. He then snuggled into Wakatoshi’s arms and made an excuse that he wanted to go to sleep. When Wakatoshi came back into that empty bedroom the next day, the first thing that came into his mind was "I knew it”.
Wakatoshi has had a few relationships before — all orchestrated with people his mom or grandfather chose for him. He always got dumped, all for similar reasons: too serious, too quiet, too boring. But never like this. Hinata left like he pitied Wakatoshi. He left without a hint of annoyance. It’s like—it’s like Hinata was trying to escape and let Wakatoshi down easy.
When the realization hits, Wakatoshi almost trips over his own feet. He stares up at the blue sky above him, stone columns in his periphery, and he thinks: Had he become the brick walls in Hinata’s life instead? Wakatoshi finds the nearest bench to sit down and tries to fold his embarrassment into a manageable size.
Right. How presumptuous of him, to think Hinata would want to leave his life in Japan behind only for Wakatoshi. Their meeting was a theatric, with Florence as its only stage, and Wakatoshi realizes that maybe it has always only been him who genuinely acted his part. He fled from his grandfather’s clutches for once in his life; becoming a free agent and embracing the role of a lovebird that he found in a romantic, foreign country. Hinata just played along.
It might have always been a play to Hinata. But then Wakatoshi started to believe that he had the full command over the stage—over other actors, over Hinata—and everything went sideways. Wakatoshi had just selfishly assumed that whatever Hinata had with him here, for a moment in time, was better than whatever life Hinata led before meeting Wakatoshi.
Wakatoshi reckons perhaps he is actually way more spoiled than he wants to admit.
That night—fueled by the embarrassment that came with his realization, and haunted by the afterimage of Hinata’s ghosts throughout the city—Wakatoshi finally books a flight back to Tokyo.
* * *
By the time he lands in Tokyo International Airport, the placard sitting on his old desk at the office has been replaced with a new one since he’s been gone. A new name is engraved neatly on it.
Wakatoshi doesn’t complain; it’s only a just punishment. He gets demoted a few ranks and relegated into a small cubicle at the corner of the office that does not get enough sunlight. Neither his grandfather nor his mother talks to him, but he makes sure to send a long apology text to Shirabu for all the troubles Wakatoshi has had made him suffer because of his choices.
It’s not like he didn’t face his grandfather head-on. He did, right after his arrival, visiting his grandfather’s estate. His grandfather was having dinner with Wakatoshi’s mom when Wakatoshi burst through the dining-room door. They didn’t pay him any heed. But the deep creases on their foreheads, the pressure that came from the suffocating silence, and the look of disappointment his grandfather directed at the meat on his plate as if it was Wakatoshi himself; Wakatoshi has had a lot of experience with this scene. Just never this strongly, and for so long.
But this time, Wakatoshi didn’t relent. He announced his arrival and, after a few minutes passed and he was still met with silence, he turned back and took his exit. He did not want to apologize for his attempt to reclaim a taste of freedom in his life. For choosing to fight back and ultimately being given the chance to meet Hinata.
Wakatoshi thinks about quitting and starting anew somewhere else, but then it would just mean running away again. And this time, there wouldn’t be any Hinata to meet him on the other side. He sees no point in that, so he chooses to stay.
He moves out of the apartment his grandfather gave him into a smaller one, closer to a residential area. He doesn’t tell anyone in his family about his move. He doesn’t have many belongings to speak of, so he sees no need to hire a moving agency, but a friend helps him instead—a new friend, that is.
Tendou sits at the cubicle next to his, and he is quite literally the only one in the company who doesn’t treat Wakatoshi like he’s a ticking time bomb. Tendou often invites him to eat lunch together, and it strikes Wakatoshi that this is the first time he’s ever made friends with someone unrelated to his grandfather. He finds he can actually be more open about himself, if he lets himself be, and if it’s not at his grandfather’s command. He appreciates his new life; if he knew pushing the restart button would be this rewarding, he’d do it far faster before he could even begin to fear his grandfather’s wrath.
Throughout all this, his thought often circles back to the piece of paper he tucks inside his wallet.
It’s not like he could forget.
In crowds, without even realizing he’s doing it, Wakatoshi finds himself constantly seeking a glimpse of bright, orange head among the sea of dark hair. During his days off, Wakatoshi wanders into museums and art galleries, quietly hoping for a miracle to happen, but fearing what he would do if he actually got his wish. Wakatoshi always ends up going home before he finishes exploring the whole place. At one point, he buys a set of paints without a canvas—the same brand that he often saw on Hinata’s painting case. He just wants to remind himself of the smell.
That small piece of paper burns hot, keeping him at night with guilt and a string of what ifs. During these sleepless nights, Wakatoshi recounts all the things he knows about Hinata — and all the things he doesn’t. He wishes he does, but he has missed his chance, hasn’t he? He was brooding in his privilege of running away to a fancy foreign country, and he clung to Hinata like he’d be the one to show Wakatoshi all the mysteries and thrills of life. Wakatoshi didn’t even try to know Hinata better. Hinata told him a thousand tales of things he’s passionate about, and Wakatoshi closed himself off in return. On that small piece of paper, Hinata wrote they should meet again, properly, when Wakatoshi is ready.
Wakatoshi doesn’t know if he deserves to accept this olive branch Hinata has given him.
It is as he has this thought swirling inside his head, as he’s longingly staring at a picture of Florence on his desktop wallpaper, that Shirabu knocks on his cubicle.
“Manager,” he calls.
Wakatoshi turns to him and blinks. “I am not your manager anymore, Shirabu.”
“Um, Waka—Uh—Ushijima-san.” He clears his throat, his cheeks pinking. “The Chairman sent me to tell you that you still have to meet your fiance tonight.”
He can almost feel his blood freezing over. Of course; he is not completely free. Wakatoshi sighs. “Could you send me the details of the appointment, Shirabu?”
Shirabu nods and promises to send him an email with the schedule. When Wakatoshi peeps at the location of the meeting, he almost laughs; it’s an Italian restaurant. The one thing that he’s been trying to avoid since his homecoming.
Perhaps it’s only a just punishment, Wakatoshi thinks. This arrangement is the last thing that his grandfather prepared for him — before Wakatoshi did what he had never done before and irresponsibly let go of everything his grandfather had built. Wakatoshi doesn’t know if the silent treatment he’s receiving now is a sign of his grandfather giving up on Wakatoshi or if it’s just a low-tide before a new wave strikes. Wakatoshi suspects it’s the latter.
Then it’s only right that Wakatoshi properly attends this meeting that his grandfather arranged, he supposes. To turn his fiance down himself. Without telling his grandfather. A last act of defiance to leave his past life behind and put it to rest; his last small victory before he can start to fully disentangle himself from his family. And then, after he’s absolved of the responsibilities that had been thrusted upon him, after he’s taken full accountability of the person he’s turning down tonight, perhaps he can send Hinata a text. Or call him. But perhaps a text. A text is better.
Wakatoshi wants to apologize.
Rather than feeling nervous about having to turn down this fiance, Wakatoshi is much more preoccupied with mentally writing and rewriting the apology text that he’s going to send to Hinata. This is why he doesn’t notice when his supposed fiance walks through the restaurant door and plops down on the seat in front of him.
Wakatoshi then looks up.
The soft and bright orange hair, curling thickly to the end of his nape; The round eyes gazing at him, piercing and slightly slanted, this time not a hint of smile on his face, but a frown and a pout; the healthy gold of his skin, this time Wakatoshi knows the fact that he did absorb the sun into his being. Hinata catches his eyes and his scowl deepens.
“You didn’t call me,” he accuses.
“Pardon?” Wakatoshi doesn’t quite understand what’s happening.
That seems to soften Hinata’s expression, but his pout is still deeply etched onto his lips. “In my defense, I only learned about this yesterday.”
“Is this a dream?”
Hinata slumps in his seat, blushes in a way that Wakatoshi is intimately familiar with. He mutters, “I didn’t know it was you, okay. I was planning to turn the offer down, anyway, regardless of whom.”
“Turn who down?” Wakatoshi is a bit worried that being in Hinata’s proximity seems to be bringing down his conversational skill even lower than usual.
Hinata sighs. He reaches out for the menu card and opens it in fervor. “I ran away to Florence because of this, okay. This,” he motions between the two of them and the restaurant around them, “is a coincidence. It would’ve been a funny one if you had the balls to call me.”
“I—” Wakatoshi feels a familiar shiver go down his spine, grabs him by the marrow, and pumps his heart in delight. It’s Hinata. “I’m Ushijima Wakatoshi.”
Hinata raises his eyebrows. Wakatoshi can see those glints in his eyes; muted, but it’s there. He lets himself hope. “Nice to meet you,” he says, while he offers his hand for Hinata to shake.
“You’ve always been so funny,” Hinata grouches. But he takes the hand, and Wakatoshi can feel the skin that Hinata touches sings. “I’m Shouyou.”
“Shouyou,” Wakatoshi echoes, the name sweet on his lips. He smiles, and Hinata’s eyebrows go even higher. Wakatoshi wonders how wide his smile is for Hinata to be so surprised, but he’s not really in the state to keep track on how his facial muscles are working right now.
“Shouyou, I'm actually planning to turn you down too,” Wakatoshi starts. “I am sorry for my impoliteness. I—I'm sorry. In general."
“Well. It all works out then,” Hinata says. He props his chin on his hand and continues leafing through the menu. Wakatoshi can see splatters of paints on his palm and fingers, different colors from how they were just a couple of months ago. “I am sorry too,” Hinata softly adds, barely above a whisper.
Wakatoshi won’t get his last small victory, but perhaps—perhaps some things matter more than his winning tallies. Like the chance to map the ever-changing colors on Hinata’s palm.
“But I would like to take you on a date. A proper one. If you’d be willing to?”
Hinata blinks and straightens in his seat. He grins, sharp on the edges and cutting daggers that should’ve sounded the alarm in Wakatoshi’s head. But Wakatoshi is too drunk with joy to even mind it. “Only if you can hold the conversation with me all the way until dessert,” Hinata dares.
And so Wakatoshi tries his best.
The restaurant does not have home-made stracciatella in their menu, so they have to resort to cookies and cream ice cream for their dessert. Their conversation that night lasts until the ice cream melts, and after.