Chapter Text
April 10th, 1912 — Day
Kiyoomi had grown up around ships. His parents, the esteemed Sakusas of Tokyo, had formed one of Japan’s first great shipping empires more than thirty years ago, a decade before Kiyoomi’s birth. He’d seen hundreds of ships, and traveled across the world on a number of impressive vessels. The RMS Titanic eclipsed them all.
The ship was massive—the most luxurious and decadent creature Kiyoomi had ever seen on the water. He had to tilt his head back to take in the ship in all her glory, squinting in the blinding morning light.
“What do you think?” Ushijima Wakatoshi asked, offering a hand to Kiyoomi as he stepped from the car. “Does it suit you?”
“The ship?” Kiyoomi asked, releasing Ushijima’s hand and adjusting his gloves carefully. “It’s certainly… something.”
“Oh Kiyoomi,” chided Akane, Kiyoomi’s sister. She reached across Ushijima to grab at Kiyoomi’s hand. “Does nothing please you?”
“It is overwhelming,” he said in a flat voice. “I can find no words to say.”
“I spared no expense,” Ushijima said. He looked at Kiyoomi. “Only the best for my dear fiancée. And her cherished brother, of course. There isn’t a finer ship in the world that could bring you to America.”
Kiyoomi’s stomach dropped. Ushijima was right, of course. No greater ship than Titanic had ever been built. They were modern royals, boarding their very own floating palace. But Kiyoomi hardly felt like a king. A large and luxurious cage was still a cage. It didn’t matter how big the ship was; Kiyoomi had nowhere left to run.
“Shall we?” Akane asked.
“Yes, let’s not linger too long,” Ushijima agreed. “Tendou,” he glanced over his shoulder at Tendou Satori, his loyal valet and unofficial bodyguard. “See to it that our luggage makes it onto the ship, will you? We’re going ahead.”
“Of course, sir,” Tendou said.
Ushijima refocused his attention on Kiyoomi, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. He’d been like this for days, smug to the point of giddiness—as giddy as Ushijima got about anything, at least. The energy had infected Akane as well. She had long been daydreaming about a charmed, extravagant life in America. A rich man’s wife. It was their parents’ dream for her—even if neither of them had imagined the dream playing out in quite this way. Now, Akane was getting what she wanted, and Ushijima was getting what he wanted, and nearly everyone was quite satisfied with this arrangement. Nearly.
Kiyoomi regarded the crowd of people who had already gathered to send Titanic off on its maiden voyage. He wished he could be standing among them, even if the thought of being pressed into a crowd of strangers was enough to make bile rise in his throat. At least then, he could be ill in England. He could stay with his aunt and uncle and have a life that was more or less his own. He could only imagine what America would hold for him—and none of it was good. Kiyoomi had heard talk of the “American Dream.” He had heard his own cousin, Motoya, talk about it at great length, stars in his eyes the night he had told Kiyoomi he was leaving London for New York. American Dream. It was detestable. For Kiyoomi, the American Dream would be to not have to go to America at all.
Ushijima offered Kiyoomi his left arm and Akane his right, and perhaps this did not look so unusual to outside eyes. Ushijima Wakatoshi, the famous gentlemen, as rich in compassion as he was in money. Kiyoomi was glad he had skipped breakfast.
He took one last look over his shoulder as they boarded the ship, saying goodbye to seven years of memories. London did not hold the same place in Kiyoomi’s heart as Tokyo, but it was familiar to him now after so many years. Familiar was comfortable. Reliable.
As he stepped foot on the ship, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.
“Hurry, Atsumu!” Shouyou yelled, ducking under waving arms and weaving through pressed bodies as both men raced to the boarding door. “Hurry, hurry!”
“I’m hurryin’!” Atsumu snapped. “Not all of us are child-sized competitive runners, ya know.”
The RMS Titanic loomed before them, ready to depart from the dock at any moment and leave Atsumu and Shouyou stranded. Even before he’d started running, Atsumu’s morning had felt like a nonstop sprint. Winning the tickets in a high stakes game of poker, using the money he’d won in the game to send a telegram to his twin brother, and now running like his life depended on it to reach the ship before the clock struck noon. Just this morning, he had woken up with no idea how he would ever scrape together enough money to secure passage to America. Now, he would be traveling across the Atlantic to his brother on the ocean liner people had nicknamed the “Ship of Dreams.” Atsumu felt like the luckiest son of a bitch alive. Or at least, he would be the luckiest son of a bitch if he didn’t get left behind at the dock.
Heaving a great breath, he picked up his pace, not quite matching Shouyou, but getting within arm’s reach of him. They nearly crashed into the crew as they arrived at the boarding door.
“We’re passengers, let us on!” Atsumu demanded, thrusting the tickets forward for the man at the door to see.
“Have you been through the inspection queue?” the man asked, eyeing Atsumu and Shouyou up and down.
“Of course,” Atsumu lied. They answered a few more questions—told a few more quickly crafted lies—and then the man stepped aside and let them on. Atsumu didn’t let out his sigh of relief until the door slid shut behind them. They were the last two men to board the ship before departure. Yes, luck had to be on Atsumu’s side today.
I’m coming, Osamu, he thought. Just a little bit longer.
Kiyoomi stood in the middle of the sitting room as servants and stewards swirled around him, carting in trunks of luggage and asking Ushijima questions about which items belonged in each room. Their traveling party occupied one of the largest and most expensive accommodations on the ship—a parlor suite with two bedrooms, an attached sitting room, and a private promenade deck which ran the entire length of the suite. Ushijima had also purchased an adjoining stateroom, since there were not enough beds in the parlor suite for Ushijima, Kiyoomi, and Akane to sleep without sharing. Perhaps foolishly, Kiyoomi had assumed the adjoining room would be for him. After all, to outside eyes, he was merely the younger brother of Ushijima’s fiancée. Kiyoomi was an odd young man, quiet to the point that he made others around him uncomfortable, and with compulsions and attractions that a majority of people could not understand—although the Sakusa family had done everything in their power to keep both of these perceived “oddities” secret. Surely such a quiet, odd man would be best kept in his own room, while the highly regarded son of the Ushijima steel empire and his new fiancée would take the parlor suite.
He was absolutely secure in this conviction, until Ushijima pointed at one of Kiyoomi’s trunks as it was carried in and said: “Place that one in B56, thank you.” A fist closed around Kiyoomi’s heart. He whipped toward Ushijima with a panicked “what on earth do you think you’re doing?” face, but Ushijima paid him no mind. Akane, seated at the breakfast table in the sitting room, had no reaction at all. Had she already known of Ushijima’s planned rooming arrangement? That she would get her own room, while Kiyoomi…
Not yet, he thought, Not yet. I’m supposed to have more time.
Kiyoomi needed to remain calm. There were too many eyes here, and while Tendou knew the truth of this arrangement, the men carting in their luggage did not.
So many people. There were so many people in this room. Touching the furniture, tracking dirt across the floor with their feet, spreading an unknowable amount of germs through the rooms that Kiyoomi was supposed to live in for the next week. The rooms that he was supposed to share with Ushijima.
He skirted past a servant and exited onto the private promenade deck, where at least he could breathe some fresh air and be free of the suffocating dark walls of the suite. He’d hoped that the cleanliness issue might not be so troublesome here. The knowledge of sheets that had never been slept in and dishes that had never been eaten off of had appealed to Kiyoomi when he’d first learned they’d be making the voyage to America on the Titanic, but even that small comfort had been stripped from him.
As he sat on one of the private promenade’s chairs, he considered if it would be seen as too “odd” to ask for cleaning staff to come tidy the room after all of the luggage had been brought in, and to stand over the staff and watch as they cleaned to make sure no surface was left unwiped. Back in London, his aunt and uncle’s maid had known to clean Kiyoomi’s room with extra care—no one had ever ordered her to do so, but she was a kind old woman who had taken a liking to Kiyoomi over the years. His heart ached. In all likelihood, he would never see her again. He wished he had tried to hire her out from under his aunt and uncle and bring her with him to America. Maybe then he could have a friend aboard this ship.
“Everything all right, darling?” said a gentle voice at Kiyoomi’s ear. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Kiyoomi jolted in surprise, recoiling from Ushijima’s touch.
“Sorry,” Kiyoomi said. “I was lost in thought.” He became aware of silence where previously there had been voices and the shuffling of feet. “Is everyone gone?”
“Just about,” Ushijima said. “Tendou just has some items to store in the safe. Would you like to come inside? You haven’t even seen your room yet.”
“Why am I in the main suite?” Kiyoomi asked. “Shouldn’t my sister have the room? She is the one you are promised to… officially.”
“Officially,” Ushijima smirked, “no one is coming up to our door and asking me my thought process behind the room arrangements. And I think we both know who my real promise is to, Kiyoomi.” Then he walked off to check on Tendou.
Nine months ago, shortly after Kiyoomi’s graduation from university, he’d met Ushijima at a gathering in London. Kiyoomi had been happy to have the opportunity to finish university, and was dreading the possibility of what was to come. The Sakusa shipping empire of Japan was on the brink of collapse; debts were piling up, Kiyoomi’s older brother was dead, and Kiyoomi himself was seen as an unfit heir to his family’s legacy. The Sakusas were left with only one hope of keeping their empire afloat: marrying off their only daughter to the richest and most powerful man they could find.
And Ushijima Wakatoshi was certainly a rich and powerful man, even in a room full of the richest and most powerful men of the western world. Like the Sakusas, he was of Japanese origin, but unlike the Sakusas, his entire family had immigrated to America the year Japan opened its borders to the world. Now, they were one of the nation’s most successful and influential families.
An overseas business deal had brought Ushijima to England for the summer, and it was the intention of Kiyoomi’s aunt and uncle to put Akane directly in Ushijima’s path. They had been parading Akane around every high society party for the past year, often forcing Kiyoomi to accompany her as her escort.
At this particular gathering, Ushijima’s name was on everyone’s lips. He was handsome, wealthy, and charming in a reserved, stoic way. He didn’t need a big personality to command a room. Eyes followed his every move simply by virtue of his name. Every person at the party hoped to catch the eye of such a man. But Ushijima had only taken notice of one person that entire night—Kiyoomi.
Such attention should have pleased Kiyoomi. Being a man who was exclusively attracted to other men, he did not often experience the feeling of having a person of his preferred gender take such an interest in him—and never one as wealthy as Ushijima. But Ushijima’s heavy stare did not make Kiyoomi feel desired, it made him feel cornered. Ushijima did not look at Kiyoomi as a person he wanted to get to know, but rather as a possession he wanted to own. A beautiful trinket to be displayed in a glass case. Kiyoomi felt pinned under such a stare.
Ushijima approached him in the back garden, where Kiyoomi had escaped in hopes of getting air, and formally introduced himself.
“I know who you are,” Kiyoomi had said.
“That’s hardly fair,” Ushijima had responded, “since I do not have the pleasure of knowing who you are. Tell me your name.”
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Kiyoomi had told him. “I’m here with my sister. I could introduce you. She is far more beautiful than I am and twice the conversationalist.”
“Hmm,” Ushijima had hummed, looking Kiyoomi up and down with a hunger that had made Kiyoomi’s skin crawl. “I highly doubt anyone could be more beautiful than you, Mr. Sakusa. Will you walk with me?”
It took only a week for Ushijima to decide that he was madly in love with Kiyoomi, and barely two months for Ushijima to propose. To Akane.
“I will marry your niece,” he’d told Kiyoomi’s aunt and uncle. “I will make sure the Sakusa family is taken care of in every way, and partner with the Sakusa shipping empire to pay off any debts. You will all get exactly what you want. And in return, I will get exactly what I want. Do we have an agreement?”
Ushijima only wanted one thing. Kiyoomi.
In two months, Ushijima and Akane would be married in front of five hundred witnesses. But it would be a marriage in name only, and every member of the Sakusa family knew it. Akane would get an easy, glamorous life as the wife of a millionaire who wanted nothing to do with her. Kiyoomi would be bound forever to a man who saw him as one of the countless things money could buy.
On the other end of the suite, the door clicked shut, leaving Ushijima and Kiyoomi alone.
Not yet. Not yet.
Kiyoomi had gone to great lengths to never be alone with Ushijima in the time they’d known each other, withholding from Ushijima the one thing he most coveted—Kiyoomi’s body.
It wasn’t that Kiyoomi didn’t want to have a physical relationship… with someone… someday. He’d just always imagined such a relationship being on his own terms, with a man he felt comfortable enough with to be so vulnerable. Certainly that man was not Ushijima, who Kiyoomi had never relaxed around even once in his life.
“Are you going to stay out here all afternoon, darling?” Ushijima said, reappearing on the deck.
Maybe, thought Kiyoomi. Maybe I’ll stay out here all week. He offered a noncommittal shrug.
“Come inside.” Ushijima said it like it was a suggestion, which Kiyoomi knew it was not. He took a deep, steadying breath before stepping back into the sitting room. Ushijima waited for him there, and no sooner had Kiyoomi stepped foot in the room than Ushijima pulled Kiyoomi into his greedy arms. “Are you avoiding me?” he asked, pressing his lips against Kiyoomi’s jaw. Kiyoomi swallowed hard.
“No,” he lied. “Why would I avoid you?”
“You don’t do a very good job of pretending to want me, Kiyoomi,” he said into Kiyoomi’s skin. “I wish I knew why. Have I not given you the world?”
“You have,” Kiyoomi agreed. “I am very grateful to you.”
“You do not act grateful,” Ushijima said, laying kisses in a line from Kiyoomi’s jaw to the corner of his lips. “Tell me what more I can do for you and I will do it. All I want in return is for you to love me.”
Maybe Ushijima thought this was true, but Kiyoomi knew better. It wasn’t just love Ushijima wanted. It was everything. He wanted to own Kiyoomi entirely. To possess him. To consume him.
“I need a little time,” Kiyoomi managed, pushing Ushijima away as gently as he could.
Ushijima’s expression darkened. “We have known each other for close to a year. How much time could you possibly need? We’re not getting married for real, you know. We don’t have to wait until my wedding night. You are not a woman, nor are you my fiancé.” He stepped once more into Kiyoomi’s personal space and curled his fingers around the back of Kiyoomi’s neck. Kiyoomi’s skin crawled. “I know you’re nervous, but you’ll like it. All men like it. You’ll like me, too, if you let yourself. Stop running from me.”
“I do like you,” Kiyoomi lied, his heart racing. The feel of Ushijima’s hands on him was disgusting. It took everything he had not to flinch away. “I do. Really. It’s just… the ship.”
“The ship?” Ushijima quirked an eyebrow.
“Yes. I cannot relax here. Everything is too… unfamiliar. I don’t think I could enjoy myself… like that… in a room that doesn’t belong to me. I have a… you know. A thing. About germs.”
“The rooms get cleaned, Kiyoomi,” Ushijima promised, grazing the his knuckles across Kiyoomi’s cheek. “It’s perfectly sanitary.”
“I know that. Logically. But mentally, I cannot relax. Don’t you want me to be able to relax for…” he swallowed around a lump in his throat, “for my first time?”
Ushijima sighed, but let his hand drop. “Fine. For your sake, we will wait. Because I want you to feel comfortable here, and comfortable when you’re with me.”
Good luck with that.
“Thank you,” Kiyoomi said. “You’re always so good to me.” Internally, he was screaming. He wondered if anyone would come to check on him if he really did scream. If anyone would even notice.
“I know I am,” Ushijima said, and kissed Kiyoomi on the mouth. It was a brief kiss, no more than a simple brush of lips. Then he left Kiyoomi alone in the sitting room.
Kiyoomi gripped a chair for support, not even able to care about the possible hands that had touched it already. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a shaky breath. This was only a temporary stay of execution, he knew. He was running out of excuses almost as quickly as he was running out of places to hide. He would not be able to avoid Ushijima’s advances much longer.
Up above, Titanic’s whistle blew, announcing the ship’s departure. No turning back, now. No running. When Kiyoomi left the ship next, he would be stepping into a new life.
Atsumu and Shouyou waved down at the crowd of strangers as the ship pulled away from the dock. “I’ll never forget you!” Shouyou yelled, jumping up and down to see over the heads of people in front of him. Atsumu hoped he didn’t accidentally land on someone’s foot. Shouyou’s short stature made him an easy target, and although he was more than capable of handling himself, Atsumu was sick of getting dragged into fights by association.
Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. Atsumu loved a good fight.
But he wasn’t trying to start a fight now. The last thing he needed was to be thrown overboard before he even got close to America. “You don’t even know anyone,” Atsumu yelled in Shouyou’s ear.
Shouyou grinned and shrugged. “It’s fun. I feel like a king or something.”
“Oh yeah? Well ya look like a weasel.” They both knew Atsumu didn’t mean it. Shouyou was small, but strong, and he had a smile that could charm the skin off a snake and charm any person—regardless of gender—out of their undergarments. Not that Shouyou seemed to care. “Let’s go find our room, huh? We’ve got so much stuff to drop off, after all.” He held up his lone bag as evidence. Shouyou snorted.
“Sure, but I’m calling dibs on the top bunk.”
“Maybe, if you can manage to reach it,” Atsumu teased, flicking the brim of Shouyou’s cap and knocking loose some of his fiery orange hair. Shouyou bumped into Atsumu as he passed by and stuck his tongue out. Atsumu fired back with the same.
He took one last look at the land and the waving crowd and the bright blue sky, and sucked in a deep breath of salty, ocean air. It still hardly felt real. Then Atsumu turned to follow Shouyou to the lower decks.
-
The room was nicer than any third class accommodations Atsumu had ever slept in before, with four bunks and a washbasin in a private room instead of a large, open room of many bunks. Shouyou scrambled up to the top bunk before Atsumu even cleared the door. “Mine!” he boasted.
“You brat,” Atsumu sniped, dropping his bag on the lower bunk. On the other side of the narrow room, two men watched them. They were white, possibly Eastern European, and they spoke to each other in a language Atsumu didn’t know.
“Miya Atsumu,” he said, offering his hand to the man on the lower bunk. “Pleased to meet you.” His English was better than Shouyou’s after his years of traveling across India and Great Britain. Shouyou, on the other hand, was strongest in Portuguese, followed by French, with English as his fourth language. While in London, Atsumu had done the talking for the both of them in most cases, which frustrated Shouyou because Shouyou loved to talk.
“Hinata Shouyou,” Shouyou said.
The European men looked at each other, exchanged a few words and curious glances, and then offered a terse greeting in heavily accented English.
That was no matter. Atsumu already had a friend in Shouyou, and that was more friends than he was used to, anyway. For years and years, Osamu had been his only companion, and that had been fine enough—even though Osamu was a bit of a pain in the ass. But then Suna Rintarou had strolled along and stolen Atsumu’s twin right out from under him. Not that Atsumu was bitter about it… except when he was.
Sunarin was all right though. He lacked passion about most things, but he also acted like Osamu was the reason the sun rose every morning. And even though that did inflate Osamu’s ego an annoying amount, it was also nice that Osamu had found someone who wanted to make him so happy. Even if that happiness came on the other side of the Atlantic.
It would have been a lot lonelier if he hadn’t met Shouyou. Paris was a big city, but that made it an even sadder place to be all alone. Shouyou’s friendship had made the past two years bearable. It was weird to think that at the end of this voyage, they would be going down different paths. Would he ever see his friend again after next week? He didn’t want to think about that yet.
-
At dinner that evening, Atsumu and Shouyou made an exciting discovery. “I think that guy’s Japanese,” Shouyou remarked, angling his chin in the direction of a man with bushy eyebrows and bright golden eyes.
“Well, look at that,” Atsumu said, heading toward the empty seats near the man. It wasn’t uncommon to see other Japanese on this side of the world, but it wasn’t so common either that Atsumu could pass another Japanese without pausing to take notice.
“You Japanese?” Shouyou asked in English, dropping into one of the available chairs.
“Sure am!” the man said, a huge grin breaking onto his face. “The name’s Bokuto Koutarou. Nice to meet you!”
Atsumu took a seat as Shouyou introduced them both. They each shook hands with Bokuto.
“Have you been to America before, Bokuto-san?” Shouyou asked in Japanese, looking downright giddy to be speaking his native language with someone other than Atsumu.
“I live there!” Bokuto said around a mouthful of food. “It’s a huge country. I’ve been living in New York on and off for work for the past eight years, and there’s people there from all over the world.”
“What do you do for work, then?” Atsumu asked. Osamu and Rin had worked on a ranch for their first few years in California, but recently Osamu had gotten a job at a restaurant in Los Angeles. It was Osamu’s ambition to one day open a restaurant of his own. Atsumu didn’t know what Sunarin’s ambition was, other than to follow Osamu around.
“Work on fishing boats, mostly. Work contract just ended in England and now I’m going home for a few months to see… someone.”
“Someone,” Atsumu said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You got a girl, Bokuto-san?”
“Ah,” Bokuto scratched the back of his neck. “Something like that. Got a special someone who operates a boarding house in Morningside Heights.”
Atsumu didn’t know what Morningside Heights was, but he nodded. “Sounds real nice. My brother lives in Los Angeles. I’m going to America to live with him, now that he’s all settled in.”
“Oh, so you’ll take the train? That’ll be real pretty. I’ve never been further west than the Mississippi River. What about you, Shouyou? What brings you to America?”
A fond, dreamy expression overtook Shouyou’s face, the way it always did when his favorite topic of conversation came up. “I’ve got someone expecting to see me,” he said, “in Boston. We made a promise to each other years ago.”
“Sounds romantic,” Bokuto teased. He was not wrong.
“We’re gonna race each other,” Shouyou elaborated.
“Sounds extra romantic,” Bokuto said.
Shouyou’s dreamy smile grew. “Mmm, yeah. It is.”
Oh great, thought Atsumu, now he’s gonna be talking my ear off about this all night. Kageyama this and Kageyama that. It was almost enough to make Atsumu want to detour to Boston, just so he could see the famous Kageyama Tobio in the flesh.
“Looks like we’ve all got someone waiting for us across the ocean, then,” Bokuto declared. He held up his drink. “To being reunited with our loved ones.”
“To being reunited with our loved ones!” Atsumu and Shouyou replied, and the three men clinked their cups together.
April 10th, 1912 — Night
Kiyoomi retired to his room immediately after dinner, relieved when Ushijima went up to the smoke room with some of the other first class gentlemen. He’d called in Akane’s new personal maid, Yachi Hitoka, and stumbled through his embarrassment as he asked her to help him sanitize his bedroom. Hitoka was not as competent as Kiyoomi’s maid back in London, but she was a hardworking girl, very discreet, and the only person hired by Ushijima who had any sweetness in her. Kiyoomi hoped Akane wasn’t too stern with the girl. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Her English was poor, but Kiyoomi did not mind. Although Akane and Ushijima liked how Western and modern it was to speak to each other in English, Kiyoomi had always preferred speaking in his native tongue. It hurt to remember the country he had been sent away from, but it also helped keep Japan close to his heart. He wondered if he’d ever see his homeland again.
Hitoka borrowed some cleaning supplies from one of the stewards and together she and Kiyoomi cleaned side-by-side, despite Hitoka’s repeated insistence that “You don’t need to help, Sakusa-san. You are a gentleman.”
“I don’t mind helping,” Kiyoomi assured her. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m sure you would do a great job all by yourself. I just do not want to be a burden to you. You’re my sister’s maid, not mine.”
“You are my lady’s brother,” Hitoka said. “It is no trouble, really.”
After an hour of wiping down every surface strangers might have touched, Kiyoomi thanked Hitoka and sent her back to her room. He changed into his pajamas—traditional sleepwear all the way from his parents in Tokyo—and took what felt like his first real breath in ten hours.
Kiyoomi dug through one of his trunks, looking for a book. He’d left most of his belongings behind in London, but his books were something he’d refused to relinquish. If he couldn’t find comfort in his physical surroundings, he’d cultivate it between the pages of a well-loved book. He rifled through two trunks before his fingers felt the familiar hard corner of a book. His heart lifted for only as long as it took him to withdraw the book from the trunk. Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Kiyoomi didn’t know why he’d kept this book. In real life, Mr. Darcy didn’t yearn in private, noble misery. In real life, Mr. Darcy paid off your relatives and stole you away to a new continent. In real life, Elizabeth married Darcy for his money, not for love.
He dropped the book harshly and kept digging. At the same time, his bedroom door clicked open. Kiyoomi stiffened.
“Ah, good, you’re still awake,” Ushijima said.
“I didn’t realize you were back,” Kiyoomi said, glancing at him over his shoulder.
“Oh, I’ve just returned.” He held an unfamiliar box between his hands. Ushijima did not have a rich man’s hands. He had a worker’s hands, rough and large. Ushijima’s most powerful weapons would always be his deep pockets and political influence, but his imposing size was its own threat. Kiyoomi could never best Ushijima in a battle of strength, and they both knew it.
“Welcome back,” Kiyoomi said, rising to his feet. He didn’t like to be low to the ground in Ushijima’s presence. Did not like to appear weak or small. Kiyoomi was a tall man as well, and though he was lean, he was decently strong. To other men, he might be intimidating. He couldn’t win against Ushijima, but he wouldn’t let himself get pushed around so easily, either.
“Can I come in?” asked Ushijima, who was very clearly already in Kiyoomi’s room.
“Of course,” Kiyoomi allowed.
“I wanted to apologize for earlier today, if I was too forward,” Ushijima said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You do not frighten me,” Kiyoomi said. Almost none of the things Kiyoomi said to Ushijima were a reflection of his true feelings. Ushijima didn’t want Kiyoomi’s true feelings. He wanted a pretty, agreeable doll to dress up and fuck. And if that was what Kiyoomi needed to be to save his family, then he would do it. It was his duty as the only surviving son.
“Good, I’m glad.” Ushijima seemed to remember the box in his hands. “Come here, I’ve got something for you. Come sit.” He set the box aside and pulled out the chair before the mounted vanity mirror. Kiyoomi went.
“I’d originally planned to wait until we arrived in America, but tonight seems like a fitting night, so…” he leaned over Kiyoomi to open the box, revealing a massive dark blue gem cut into the shape of a heart, attached to a chain of smaller stones. Kiyoomi froze.
“Is it a diamond?”
“Yes, a very rare one. Originally worn by Louis XVI. And now it’s yours.”
Words caught in Kiyoomi’s throat, leaving him with no more than a quiet “o-oh.”
“Kiyoomi,” Ushijima said, meeting Kiyoomi’s eyes in the mirror, “I know that I can’t give you a ring to wear around your finger. The world can’t know you’re mine. But we can know. I want you to wear this for me. Consider it a token of my love for you.”
“It’s very subtle,” Kiyoomi said without thinking. Sarcasm was a bad habit he’d acquired in London years ago, and no one around him seemed to appreciate it.
“It doesn’t have to be subtle. No one but us needs to see you wear it.”
Kiyoomi was sure he did not want to wear this necklace. “It’s a very expensive necklace to only be worn for two people. You are too generous, Ushijima. You should give this to my sister.”
“I wish you would stop calling me by my last name, Kiyoomi. It’s so cold.” He picked up the necklace and examined it. “And I don’t want your sister to wear it. I bought it for you, because it is beautiful, and so are you. I want you to wear this.” Carefully, Ushijima placed the necklace around Kiyoomi’s neck. The jewels felt cold around Kiyoomi’s exposed skin. The weight of the diamond itself was nothing compared to the weight behind the gift. Two pretty things that Ushijima had bought with his seemingly endless stream of money. A diamond collar around Kiyoomi’s throat.
Ushijima leaned in close, his lips brushing against Kiyoomi’s ear and his eyes locked on Kiyoomi’s reflected eyes as he whispered: “I want this around your neck the first time I fuck you.”
Kiyoomi yanked back, startled. Ushijima’s words felt like filth on his skin. Kiyoomi felt dirty—he was dirty. He was a cheap whore wrapped in another man’s riches. He felt sick.
“Relax, sweetheart. I didn’t mean tonight. I told you, you don’t need to be frightened of me. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
Not for the first time, Kiyoomi wished he were dead. “Th-thank you.”
April 11th, 1912 — Day
On the morning of the second day, after stops in Cherbourg, France and Queenstown, Ireland, the Titanic set off for open ocean. There was nothing between the ship and New York now but the deep Atlantic. Atsumu and Shouyou stood at the bow of the ship, pointing out passing dolphins and breathing in the ocean air.
“I can see the Statue of Liberty already!” Shouyou proclaimed.
“Sure ya can, Shou,” Atsumu said, clapping his shoulder.
“I can! It’s very small, of course.”
They laughed.
“What do you think yer gonna say to Kageyama, when you see him again?”
“I don’t know,” Shouyou said with a shrug. “I hope he’ll notice how much taller I’ve grown!”
If this was Shouyou taller, Atsumu didn’t want to think of how short Shouyou must have been as a sixteen year old—the last time he and Kageyama Tobio had seen each other.
“Sure he’ll notice everything about you. He’s crazy about ya, right?”
Shouyou’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, I mean. I dunno. We never really… I mean we didn’t talk like that, you know?”
“Yeah yeah,” Atsumu said, waving his hand dismissively. “Because it’s totally not romantic to promise yourself to another guy forever.”
“We never said that! We just promised to race each other again on the same playing field someday…”
“Even if it takes forever, you said. Isn’t that what Kageyama told ya?”
“You make it sound so embarrassing,” Shouyou said, hitting his arm. Atsumu chuckled.
“Come here,” he said in peace-offering, “I’ll boost you up higher, so you’ll feel like yer flying all the way to Tobio-kun.”
They climbed up several rungs of the guardrail, letting the ocean breeze billow through their hair and clothes. Atsumu loved the feel of the wind on his face. Shouyou screamed into the wind. Atsumu screamed with him. “I’m the king of the world!”
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this was temporary. If Shouyou was flying, then he was flying away from Atsumu, just like Osamu had. And even though Atsumu loved them both and was glad for his two favorite people making lives with the ones they loved most, he couldn’t help but notice that he was the one always left as the second choice. Nobody had ever fought this hard to be with Atsumu, and he had to learn to be okay with that.
He shook his head. There was no use dwelling on such things under a beautiful blue sky.
Since the Titanic had departed from France the previous evening, the talk of the ship had been two of the intriguing first class passengers who had boarded. Kozume Kenma, the famously private millionaire who had a stake in nearly every one of Japan’s most profitable industries despite rarely attending any business deals in person, and Kuroo Tetsurou, his companion. It was this word, companion, that was the origin of many of the whispers.
The story was that Kuroo accompanied Kozume all over the world, always staying in close quarters with him. On board Titanic, they occupied one of the smaller C Deck parlor suites—which lacked a private promenade deck and, more controversially, a second bedroom. Why a man as rich as Kozume Kenma would need to share a room with his traveling companion was beyond the comprehension of most of the first class passengers on board the ship, and led to rumors that perhaps the accommodation was not made out of need, but want. Kozume chose to share his sleeping quarters with another man, and he did not go to any lengths to disguise this fact. What scandal.
Kiyoomi supposed this worked in his and Ushijima’s favor. If everyone was gossiping about a mysterious millionaire sharing his room with another man, there was no one left to wonder why Ushijima Wakatoshi had elected to share his own two-bedroom parlor suite with his future brother-in-law instead of his future wife.
Kuroo and Kozume had not come to dinner on the first night, and so the first chance anyone on board had to observe the controversial men was in the afternoon on the second day, when a handsome Japanese man walked into the Verandah Café and Palm Court for tea.
Kiyoomi had met Kenma once, when they were both teenagers coming up in Tokyo high society, and although it had been some years since they had last seen each other, Kiyoomi knew that this newcomer was not him. Kuroo Tetsurou was tall and handsomely built, with a smug smirk on his face and a knowing glint in his eye. He was as scandalous as the whispers suggested, too, strolling into the café with his hair looking as if he had just rolled out of bed and the tie around his neck messily knotted. While Kenma had been born into a moderate amount of privilege, it was clear that Kuroo Tetsurou had not, and he wore the new wealth nearly as poorly as he wore his tie. But still, there was something captivating about him. The way he moved through the café, not as if he didn’t notice all of the eyes on him, but as if he liked the attention. There was a certain cockiness to him. His every gesture and expression seemed to say “Gossip all you want, I’m untouchable.” He lit a fire in Kiyoomi’s stomach—not born from desire, but jealousy. What would it be like to be so confident in your position in the world? To so unapologetically be yourself?
And then Kuroo came to a stop in front of Kiyoomi’s table. Well, it wasn’t just Kiyoomi’s table. He, Akane, and Ushijima had taken tea with Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line company, and Thomas Andrews, Titanic’s architect.
“My lady,” he nodded at Akane, “gentlemen, is there room for one more?”
Everyone at the table exchanged eyebrow-raised looks. Kiyoomi looked up at Kuroo, and with that fire still burning in his stomach, said, “Certainly.” Ushijima’s dark eyes flashed to Kiyoomi. He pretended not to notice.
“Mr. Kuroo, I suppose?” said Ismay, a proud, arrogant man who Kiyoomi had immediately decided he did not like.
“Yes, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Kuroo took the open seat directly across from Kiyoomi.
“Will your boss be joining us as well? We can have the stewards bring over a chair—”
“No,” Kuroo interrupted. “Kenma is feeling a little seasick this afternoon, so he’s staying in the suite. I represent his interests, however.” He grinned. “And he’s not my boss.”
“Your patron, then?” Akane said politely.
“Something of that nature, although ‘friend’ is perhaps a more fitting word.”
“He doesn’t keep many friends, does he?” Akane challenged.
“Do you know him personally, Miss—”
“Sakusa. Sakusa Akane. My brother and I have met Mr. Kozume, some years ago.”
Kuroo looked between Kiyoomi and Ushijima. “And which of you is the other Sakusa?”
“I am,” Kiyoomi said. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
Kuroo reached across the table, offering Kiyoomi his hand. Kiyoomi stared at it for as few moments before lifting a gloved hand for Kuroo to shake. Beside him, Ushijima stilled. Kiyoomi could feel the displeasure radiating off of Ushijima, and it was nearly enough to make Kiyoomi yank his hand back. Across the table, Kuroo’s eyes moved from Kiyoomi to Ushijima, and his smile shifted into something a little sharper.
“And you are?” Kuroo asked. Kiyoomi couldn’t tell if Kuroo actually didn’t know of Ushijima, or if it was just entertaining to him to pretend not to recognize one of the richest men on the ship.
“Ushijima,” Ushijima said, offering no more.
“Ah yes,” Kuroo said. “I’ve heard of you. Pleasure.”
“Mr. Kuroo, how do you like the ship so far?” Thomas Andrews inquired, trying to alleviate some of the tension that had settled over the table since Kuroo’s arrival. Kiyoomi liked Mr. Andrews. He was a kind and clever man—the sort of man who used his genius to improve the world, instead of just improve his own circumstance. Most men used their money and influence as a weapon, but Mr. Andrews regarded these things as a gift that he ought to share with every person he met. He was the only person on this ship thus far who had regarded Kiyoomi as more than just a third wheel to Ushijima and Akane.
“Oh, it’s a magnificent ship, Mr. Andrews. You’ll have to take us on a tour, when Kenma is feeling well again.”
“I’m glad you think so. Actually—” The conversation faded out as Kiyoomi’s eyes caught on a stray fingerprint on the table’s surface.
Kiyoomi pinched at his gloves, feeling unsettled in his own skin. The café wasn’t too crowded, and it seemed clean enough, but Kiyoomi wondered how often the tables were cleaned. Was that finger print from Mr. Andrews, or did it belong to someone previously seated there?
A steward came around to their table to take Kuroo’s drink order and offer up a selection of pastries and finger sandwiches.
“Don’t take too many, Sakusa,” Ushijima said. It was always ‘Sakusa’ in public. Ushijima tried to maintain an illusion of distance between them. “Dinner is less than two hours away.”
“Of course,” Kiyoomi said, taking only one light sandwich. He removed one of his gloves carefully, not letting his bare hand touch the table.
“Do you decide everything he eats, Ushijima?” Kuroo teased, but that sharpness from earlier lingered. He helped himself to several pastries off the cart.
“My brother tends toward absentmindedness. He lives in his own world, sometimes,” Akane explained. “It’s up to us to keep an eye on him.”
“Naturally,” Kuroo nodded, cutting his eyes to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi didn’t meet his studying gaze. Kuroo had eyes like a cat, mischievous and too observant for comfort.
Kiyoomi zoned out again as conversation at the table continued. He picked disinterestedly at his sandwich. He wasn’t absentminded, but it was an easy enough lie. Better to make him come across as eccentric, rather than disturbed.
All his life, Kiyoomi had feared that one day his oddities and compulsions would become too much for those around him. Even now, he privately wondered what it would take. Would Ushijima have him committed, if Kiyoomi did not soften to him? It was a terrible thought. Kiyoomi wasn’t crazy. He just had a very particular way of doing things, and no one around him seemed to understand.
“Isn’t that right, Kiy—Sakusa?” Ushijima asked, tearing Kiyoomi from his thoughts.
“P-pardon?”
Akane laughed. “Can’t you ever pay attention, Kiyoomi? We were discussing our parents’ business.”
“Oh, yes. My apologies, I think I’m developing a migraine.”
“Kenma gets those all the time,” Kuroo offered. “Sometimes they become so bad, he doesn’t want to move for hours, and I have to bring him tea in bed. You’re a tough man, Sakusa.”
Kiyoomi nodded, blinking a few times in an attempt to regain his focus. He’d been dissociating more frequently lately, as an increasing number of things in his life seemed to extend beyond his control. He’d become so used to being an accessory to Akane and Ushijima, he scarcely knew how to talk to other people anymore.
“It’s been so many years since I’ve seen Kenma,” Akane interjected. “Don’t you remember him, Kiyoomi? The dinner party hosted by the Nekomatas? Mother and father brought us that one year.”
“Yes, I remember. I didn’t think we would cross paths again, after we left for England.” After I was sent away, he added silently.
“Well, I insist you let us meet with him one day this week, Kuroo,” Ushijima said, “out of consideration for my fiancée.”
Kuroo tilted his head, contributing to his catlike appearance. “Right, of course. And which one was your fiancé again, Ushijima?”
Ismay and Mr. Andrews shared in a good-natured laugh. Kiyoomi’s stomach dropped. Ushijima laughed too, a moment too late and with no hint of warmth. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Kuroo challenged, glancing pointedly at Kiyoomi. This time, Kiyoomi did not have the chance to avert his eyes. In that moment, Kiyoomi became certain of two things. First, that all of the rumors about the nature of Kuroo and Kenma’s relationship were true. And second, that Kuroo had perfectly read the situation between Ushijima and Kiyoomi in only fifteen minutes.
Kuroo’s predatory smile melted into something friendlier. “Well, all the same. Always a treat to meet other Japanese abroad. I’m sure Kenma would love to catch up. I’ll give him your best, Sakusa… Miss Sakusa,” he nodded at each sibling in turn.
“Excuse me,” Kiyoomi said, rising to his feet suddenly. “I need to get some air.”
Atsumu looked down at his sketchbook, tracing the shape of Bokuto’s broad shoulders. He’d been drawing since he was old enough to hold a pencil, and even though he’d never been able to make enough money to live off of his art, it was a passion he could not set aside. Atsumu had seen so many people and places in his life, and without the money to afford a camera, the drawings in his sketchbook were the only keepsakes he had of all those memories. Paper was the only belonging a tramp such as himself could carry from place to place.
“I hope you’re making me look good. Do I look like me? Let me see!”
“When I’m finished,” Atsumu said, glancing up from the page.
“Atsumu gets really focused on his drawings,” Shouyou said. The smaller man sat beside Atsumu with his legs crossed, soaking up the late afternoon sun as it shone down on the third class deck. “It’s the only time you’ll ever see him get all quiet and serious.”
“You hush,” Atsumu said.
“Atsumu’s drawn me loads of times before! It’s because I’m so handsome. And he’s drawn a portrait of my friend for me. Although that was a real challenge because he’s never seen my friend before, so I had to describe him real good.”
“Was it a good likeness? I’d like to gift this to someone, so… they don’t forget what I look like whenever I’m away.”
“Your boarding house sweetheart?” Atsumu guessed. Bokuto blushed.
“Yeah. Akaashi,” he sighed.
One deck above Bokuto’s head, something caught Atsumu’s attention. A young man walked to the edge of the first class promenade, resting his arms on the railing. The golden, late afternoon light kissed his regal face and caught in the inky curls of his hair. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his eyebrows appeared furrowed. Atsumu wondered what he could be thinking about and feeling to cause such an expression on his face.
He was, possibly, the most beautiful man Atsumu had ever seen.
“Shit,” he breathed. Atsumu itched to draw him. He wondered how long the man would stand there. Would it be enough time for Atsumu to immortalize this moment of raw, almost painful beauty?
Shouyou looked to his friend, then followed his gaze up to the dark-haired man. “Oh, he’s handsome.”
At this, Bokuto turned to look, too. “Him?” he asked, trying and failing to contain a laugh. “Forget it, Atsumu. Pretty rich boys like that always got a long line of admirers trying to get with them, for one reason or another.”
At that moment, the man looked down toward the passengers on the lower deck, his eyes sliding disinterestedly across the crowd. Atsumu’s heart raced. The man looked right at Atsumu, and through him, as if he weren’t there at all.
Atsumu didn’t know what else he’d expected.
On the deck above, a woman almost as gorgeous as the man came up behind him and grabbed his arm. The man flinched, turned to her, and then appeared to relax slightly. Atsumu watched helplessly as the woman led the man away from the edge.
Well, that was that, then.
“Like I said,” Bokuto concluded. “Sorry, my friend. But hey, if pretty men are what you’re interested in, come visit me in New York. I’m sure Akaashi knows plenty.”
Shouyou leaned in to Atsumu’s ear and whispered: “I’m pretty sure Akaashi is a man.”
“Nothing gets past you, Shouyou,” Atsumu said.
He looked back up to the first class deck, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the dark-haired beauty, but he was gone. Atsumu’s shoulders slumped.
“I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Kiyoomi said, walking arm-in-arm with his sister around the promenade deck.
“Oh, you didn’t cause a scene. I covered for you… as always.”
Kiyoomi wilted. “Sorry. I was feeling overwhelmed.”
“What else is new?” Akane said. “Kiyoomi, I worry about you.”
“You do?” he asked. Despite their years of living together, despite the fact that Akane had been the most constant presence in his life for the past twenty-three years, Akane was rarely soft with him. She acted like a stern parent most days, even though she was only two years older than Kiyoomi in reality.
“Of course I do. A lot of people are watching us, you know. If you keep behaving in this way, people will begin to suspect something is wrong.” She lowered her voice on the last word.
So, she didn’t actually care about how Kiyoomi felt, after all. She only cared about his outward performance. Kiyoomi wasn’t surprised, but it still stung. “It’s like you and Ushijima say. I’m just your strange brother. I don’t mind being strange, if it means people will leave me alone.”
Akane sighed. “Really Kiyoomi, it’s like you don’t care about our status at all. You wear your melancholy on your sleeve. It makes me look bad by association, you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been moping through this whole process so far. I don’t pretend to understand why. Ushijima will provide for you generously.” Akane lowered her voice further, even though many passengers had already returned to their rooms to dress for dinner. “You should be more grateful to him. He’s saving our whole family, and all for you. And you thank him by treating him with such coldness.”
“I’m… I’m trying,” Kiyoomi muttered. He’d known for months that he did not have a real ally in Akane. That was the most maddening part. That no one in the world who knew the truth of this arrangement thought Kiyoomi might have anything to be sad about. They’d all slapped chains around his wrists and told him to say thank you for being shackled.
“You shouldn’t be so cold to me, either. I have done nothing to wrong you, Kiyoomi. If anyone deserves to mope around and behave coldly, it should be me.”
“You?”
“I’m the one marrying a man who does not want me,” she said, switching to Japanese. “Shouldn’t I be bitter, that my fiancé only has eyes for my brother? How do you think that makes me feel? I’m a part of this bargain, too. I’ll never get to have a real husband.”
Kiyoomi took his arm back. “I would give him to you if I could,” he said. “You will get all the rewards of a marriage with none of the obligation. You can still take a lover in America, if you wish. You’ll be rich and well cared for.”
“My point still stands,” Akane said. “You need to pull yourself together. This is not the place to be on your worst behavior… you understand, right?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi replied, feeling the misery inside him fill his lungs and rise up his throat like bile. “Understood.”
April 11th, 1912 — Night
Ushijima insisted that Kiyoomi join him in the smoke room that evening. They sat around a table with a few gentlemen whose names Kiyoomi could not recall. He didn’t like tobacco—the smell, or the effects. The thought of choking his lungs with smoke made Kiyoomi want to panic, not take a drag.
Ushijima had indulged in a little more alcohol than usual that night, a fact that became clear as Ushijima grew increasingly touchy with Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi only hoped the other men were drunk or self-involved enough that they did not notice. They were all engaged in some frivolous conversation about politics, which Kiyoomi had tuned out as soon as it became clear the men all held the same political beliefs and only wanted to congratulate each other for how smart their opinions were.
“What do you think of the election, Sakusa?” one of the men asked in an attempt to draw Kiyoomi into the conversation.
“Um,” Kiyoomi said, “the United States Presidential election?”
“Naturally,” the man said. “You’re moving to America. Don’t you know anything of American politics?”
“Oh, I—” Kiyoomi didn’t know what his opinion was supposed to be.
“You’ll have to excuse him, Astor. Sakusa’s not much for politics.” Ushijima clapped Kiyoomi on the shoulder. “He studied the humanities in university. Poetry, literature, philosophy, soft subjects like that. He’s a smart man, though, if you ask him the right questions.” Ushijima let his hand slide down Kiyoomi’s side until it came to rest on his thigh. No one seemed to pay the movement any attention. They returned to their conversation, forgetting Kiyoomi entirely.
“No offense, Kiyoomi,” Ushijima whispered, letting his knee press against Kiyoomi’s. Kiyoomi could feel the heat of Ushijima’s body in two different places. He wanted to be anywhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere else.
As he drank more, Ushijima became more curious with his touches, stroking Kiyoomi’s leg, pressing fingers under Kiyoomi’s dinner jacket, brushing Kiyoomi’s hip. Kiyoomi had never felt less like a real, living person in his life. Why would no one look his way? Why would no one notice, forcing Ushijima to pull his hand back? Kiyoomi felt entirely invisible. Nonexistent.
This would be the rest of his fucking life.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d rather be dead.
Kiyoomi leapt to his feet. “I’m feeling sick,” he said, before turning on his heel and running. Only Ushijima noticed him leave.
Atsumu lay on one of the benches at the stern of the ship, staring up at the uninterrupted sky of stars. Not since his childhood did he remember a sky this dark. The sight of familiar constellations from his youth made him homesick for Japan in a way he usually wasn’t. Atsumu always looked forward to his next journey, rarely looking back on the places he’d left behind. But then he’d look up at the night sky, and remember the last summer he’d spent with his mother before she’d died. Atsumu missed the innocence he’d had then. The roof he’d always known would be over his head. He missed dinners with his mother and Osamu. But Atsumu could never recreate those experiences from his adolescence. Only when he looked up at a sky full of stars did he think of the boy who had once had a place to call home.
Pounding footsteps raced past Atsumu, startling him out of his reverie. He sat up and saw the figure of a man in a dark suit practically sprinting toward the back of the ship. Perhaps a man feeling seasick? He considered lying back down and returning to the stars. If some expensively-dressed man was going to throw up off the back of the ship, Atsumu didn’t need to see it.
Then the man started to climb the railing.
-
Kiyoomi climbed to the other side of the guardrail, so nothing stood between him and the deep water of the North Atlantic but open air. He took a deep, shaky breath.
Come on, Kiyoomi. Let go. It can all be over right now.
Unable to help himself, he thought of his family. Would he be dooming them right alongside him if he jumped? Or would Ushijima go through with the marriage to Akane, bound by obligation and social convention?
Maybe if his death looked like an accident, Ushijima would take pity on his family. People falling overboard wasn’t so uncommon, was it?
He just had to let go.
Let go. Let go. Let go.
The cold of the railing seeped through his gloves, chilling Kiyoomi’s hands and his entire body. He leaned forward. Come on. Let go already. Just let go.
“Don’t do it,” said a voice from behind him. A stranger’s voice.
Kiyoomi looked over his shoulder at the stranger as his heart rate quickened. A man stood six feet back, arms stretched out in front of him. As Kiyoomi looked at him, the man looked back at Kiyoomi. The man’s concern momentarily morphed into something like surprise. Kiyoomi supposed one didn’t see many first class men hanging off the back of a ship. “Don’t come any closer!” he ordered.
“Would it bother you if I did?” the man asked, taking one step closer.
“What?” Kiyoomi asked. “Stay back! I mean it. I’ll… I’ll let go.”
The man leaned forward. “No you won’t.”
“Excuse me?” Kiyoomi exclaimed, feeling anger well up inside of him. “Don’t speak of what I will and will not do. You do not know me.”
“You coulda jumped already. Ten times or more. You could jump right now instead of talking to me.” He had a style of speaking that alerted Kiyoomi that English must not be this man’s strongest language.
“Well, you’re distracting me,” Kiyoomi argued.
The man took another step, barely more than an arm’s length away from Kiyoomi now. Kiyoomi got his first good look at his unwanted intruder. The man was cheaply dressed, clearly a third class passenger, with handsome East Asian features that reminded Kiyoomi of home, and a head of horrendously yellow hair that couldn’t have been natural. Kiyoomi frowned. Who was this man?
“Oh, so you can’t jump with me here distracting you? What if I stand here all night, then?”
“This doesn’t concern you. Just leave me alone. Pretend you never saw me.” Already his shaky resolve had begun to waiver. Damn this man. Damn him. Kiyoomi needed to focus. He needed to remember why he’d come here.
Who cares if he’s here, Kiyoomi? Let go already. You don’t have to say anything more to him.
Kiyoomi’s hands did not loosen on the railing.
“Hey, where are you from?”
“What?”
“You’re a foreigner, like me, right? Are you Japanese, by chance?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi said, not sure why he was entertaining the questions of a bizarre stranger. The longer he lingered here, the higher the chances became that Ushijima or Tendou would find him. Were they looking now?
“Thank the fuckin’ gods” the man said, switching to Japanese. “My English is good enough, but I can be much more persuasive in Japanese. Pleased to meet ya, by the way. The name’s Miya Atsumu. What’s yours?”
“You won’t persuade me,” Kiyoomi replied in Japanese. “And despite what you say, you have no obligation to help me. I don’t need to be helped, or saved. I just need to be left alone. Please.”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m involved now. If you jump, I’m just gonna have to dive in there after ya.” Miya shed his jacket.
Kiyoomi stared in wide-eyed shock. “You can’t. You’d die.”
“Maybe,” Miya agreed. “Water’s freezin’ and the fall would hurt like hell. But I’m a pretty tough guy. I think I could make it. Then I’ll be dragging yer ass back on board so fast, ya won’t even have the chance to freeze to death first.”
“And how long would that take?” Kiyoomi asked, unable to help himself. “Freezing to death in that water.”
Miya stepped closer, propping his boot up on the railing to untie it. “Do I look like a scientist, sir? It’d happen fast, that’s how long. Hypothermia would probably set in after fifteen or twenty minutes, I suppose, but it would take twice as long for you to die. And all that time, the water would feel like a thousand knives stabbin’ into ya.”
“You’re not scaring me,” Kiyoomi said, even as a shiver ran down his entire body.
“Well personally, I’m a little scared,” Miya said. He placed both hands on the railing. “Yer puttin’ me in a tough position here. I didn’t think I was gonna have to risk my life tonight.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Possibly,” Miya allowed. “But with all due respect, sir, I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship right now.”
Kiyoomi closed his eyes.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you right now. I’m sure it must be pretty awful, for you to think this is your only way out. But I know there’s gotta be another way. This is one decision you can never take back, ya know?”
“I—” Kiyoomi didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He was not the sort of person to make erratic, hasty decisions. He was also not the sort of person to lay burdens down in front of a stranger and embarrass himself.
“Who was that woman who came and got you?”
“What?” Maybe whatever chemical had made Miya’s hair that color had also seeped through to his brain.
“Up on the deck this afternoon. I saw you.”
Kiyoomi contemplated this. On the one hand, the idea that a total stranger had been watching him closely enough to still recognize and remember him hours later made Kiyoomi feel almost violated. On the other hand, someone had noticed him. On a ship full of people who saw Kiyoomi as a background character, a non-factor, an accessory to tuck into a pocket, Miya Atsumu had noticed him. He’d looked at Kiyoomi and he’d remembered him. And he was here right now, trying to convince Kiyoomi that his life meant something.
“The woman was my sister,” Kiyoomi explained.
“Yer sister, huh? Makes sense. She’s real pretty, too.”
Kiyoomi didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t know what to make of Miya Atsumu, full stop.
“Yer sister is gonna wonder where you are. If you jump, how do you think that’ll make her feel?”
“Don’t use my sister against me. You don’t… you don’t understand anything.”
“I’ve got a brother, ya know. He’s in California. I’m gonna go see him. I think he’d be pretty mad at me if I died before I got there. But, well, I already promised to go after you if ya jumped, and I don’t break promises lightly. I guess I’m hoping you’ll climb back over here and let me off the hook, so neither of us have to make our siblings sad.”
It was this that sapped the last of Kiyoomi’s resolve. The fact that he didn’t know Miya Atsumu enough to trust that this madman might not get himself killed in the process of trying to help Kiyoomi. The fact that Kiyoomi’s death might create a ripple effect he couldn’t fully comprehend. Kiyoomi was many things, but he’d never quite learned to be selfish. And apparently desperation and misery weren’t enough to change that.
Kiyoomi turned around, carefully, gripping the railing tightly and meeting Miya properly eye to eye.
“What’s yer name?” Miya asked again.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Kiyoomi whispered.
“Wha? I missed the first part. Omi?”
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Kiyoomi said, a little louder.
“Pretty name you’ve got there, Omi. Come on, take my hand.”
Kiyoomi closed a gloved hand around Miya’s naked one, and squeezed.
“There ya go, Omi. Let me help you.”
“Kiyoomi,” Kiyoomi repeated. “Or rather, Sakusa to you.”
“Sure sure,” Miya said, and smiled. He had an interesting smile, boyish and smug and clever and warm all at once. Kiyoomi could feel that smile under his skin, behind his ribs. “Come on now, up and over.”
Kiyoomi stepped up one railing, then the next. And then his foot slipped, and suddenly there was nothing beneath his feet at all. His stomach flew up as his body swung down. A scream tore its way out of Kiyoomi’s throat.
“Shit! Shit!” Miya cursed. Only the tight grip of his hand stood between Kiyoomi and certain death. “Hold on!” Miya reached down for Kiyoomi with his free arm. He and Miya were roughly similar in size. Miya stumbled. Kiyoomi screamed again. For a moment, Kiyoomi thought they might both go into the Atlantic after all, dying hand-in-hand in the unforgiving ocean. Then Miya braced his legs better and tightened his hold on Kiyoomi.
“Don’t let go!” Kiyoomi cried, realizing with belated but crystal-clear certainty that he was not ready to die, after all. Buried deep, there was a part of Kiyoomi that still wanted very much to live.
“I’ve got you, Omi! I won’t let go!” Kiyoomi felt a tug as Miya struggled to pull him up with redoubled effort. Kiyoomi tried not to move, tried not to do anything that would offset this fragile balance. Then he felt himself being hauled up, up, and over the railing once again, landing hard on the wooden deck and smacking the back of his head against the boards. Miya fell half on top of him, panting from effort and disoriented.
“Yer… heavy,” he gasped, sagging against Kiyoomi.
“Look who’s talking,” Kiyoomi panted, unable to wiggle out from under the other man.
Within moments, Kiyoomi became aware of the sound of many footsteps pounding across the deck toward them.
“What the hell is going on here?” a crew member demanded.
“Shit,” Miya whispered. “I am so fucked.”
-
Atsumu knew how this stuff went. Crew heard a scream, came running, and of course found the troublesome, even dangerous third class passenger overpowering the perfect, innocent first class passenger. What else were they going to think? Who would ever assume that Atsumu—brave as he was handsome, mind you—had actually stepped in as the unlikely hero of the night? Clearly, none of the crew was rushing to give him any reward, or even so much as a “thank you.”
As Atsumu was dragged away from Kiyoomi by several aggressive pairs of hands, three other White Star Line employees swarmed Kiyoomi. “Are you all right, sir?” “Did he hurt you?” “Did he steal anything off you?” One man turned to look at one of the men detaining Atsumu. “Check his pockets, will you?”
“Hey!” Atsumu protested as unwelcome hands shoved down into his trouser pockets. “Don’t you know you have to buy someone dinner first before you try to get this handsy?”
“He’s got nothing in here,” the man confirmed.
“What did you try to do to the poor boy?” One of the crewmen demanded, getting up in Atsumu’s face. “Poor thing is shaking like a leaf.”
“Omi, are you okay?” Atsumu asked in Japanese. There was no response.
Atsumu tried to get a look at Kiyoomi, who had not risen or even said a word since the crew had found them. Kiyoomi. The image of his wide-eyed terror as his foot slipped off the guardrail was now seared into Atsumu’s mind. Kiyoomi, who had cried as he’d begged Atsumu to not let go of his hand.
“I wasn’t doing nothin’ to him! He was—” He was what? Atsumu couldn’t tell these men that Kiyoomi had been planning to jump. No one cared if a nobody like Atsumu tried to kill himself, but Kiyoomi was a somebody. He couldn’t expose Kiyoomi like that.
“I’ll help you up, sir,” one of the crewmen said, reaching for Kiyoomi suddenly.
“Don’t touch me!” Kiyoomi sputtered, scrambling back suddenly.
“I won’t hurt you. You’re all right now, sir,” the crewman who had tried to touch him said in a soothing voice. He turned to one of the others. “Hey, wasn’t Mr. Ushijima looking for that missing member of his party? Someone go fetch him.”
The other man who had been close to Kiyoomi ran off, giving Atsumu a better view of Kiyoomi on the ground. He looked disoriented, like his mind and his body had separated since landing on the deck of the ship. His ragged breathing hadn’t slowed—but then again, neither had Atsumu’s. He seemed to be almost cowering, occupying far less space than a man of his size required. Although Atsumu barely knew the man before him, he felt a surge of protectiveness toward him. He didn’t want the prying eyes of these random crewmen to see Kiyoomi looking so vulnerable. Atsumu wanted to yell at them all to get lost. To give Kiyoomi some space. But who would listen to Atsumu? Certainly not these men, who thought Atsumu had tried to rob Kiyoomi, or attack him, or do something… even more distasteful. He slouched forward.
Yes, Atsumu knew how this stuff went.
-
Kiyoomi curled into himself, shaking and panting as strange voices swirled around him. His vision was blurred, and the ocean roared in his ears. Everything sounded like Kiyoomi was underwater. He’d come out here with the intent to take his own life, and then nearly dying had sent his body into an absolute panic. Look at you, he thought, you’re pathetic.
“Sakusa? Sakusa? Kiyoomi!” Kiyoomi looked up, blinking several times as if walking out of a very dark room into bright sunlight.
Ushijima loomed over him, eyebrows drawn together. Reality hit Kiyoomi like a bucket of frigid Atlantic water. “Oh!” he gasped.
Ushijima turned on his heel and stomped several paces away. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Putting hands on my—my fiancée’s brother like that! I want this man placed under arrest immediately.”
“I already said! I wasn’t doing nothing to him! Your guy here’s got quite a grip, huh? Let go of me already!”
That voice. Everything came rushing back at once. Bright hair and strong hands and the name Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi was alive because of Miya Atsumu.
He stumbled to his feet with the help of one of the crew members, taking in the severity of the situation for the first time. One man from the crew and Tendou had Miya restrained, while Ushijima yelled in his face. Putting hands on my fiancée’s brother, Ushijima had said. Did Miya not tell anyone what had really happened? Was he covering for Kiyoomi? Why would he do that? Why would he implicate himself for a stranger that had already proven to be more trouble than he was worth?
Kiyoomi didn’t know Miya, but he couldn’t stand by and see him punished for Kiyoomi’s foolish actions. “Stop!” he said, finding proper words once again. “You’ve misunderstood.” He stumbled forward, going to place himself between Ushijima and Miya. “He didn’t hurt me, Ushijima. He saved me.”
Ushijima’s expression shifted from rage to suspicion. “He what?”
Kiyoomi gathered enough coherent thoughts to pull together a convincing—or so he hoped—story of running to the back of the boat due to seasickness, and a fear that he would throw up on himself or the deck if he did not get to the guardrail quickly. Miya, a concerned bystander, had come to check on Kiyoomi as he leaned far over the guardrail and retched. Feeling so unwell, Kiyoomi lost his balance and slipped.
“It was lucky that Miya was there. If not for his quick reflexes, I would have gone overboard.”
One of the crew members detaining Miya turned to examine him. “Is that how it happened, lad?”
Kiyoomi looked to Miya, shivering as their eyes locked. He hadn’t realized Miya had already been watching him. Had he been watching Kiyoomi the whole time? “Yes,” Miya said. “That’s how it happened. I was trying to tell you that.”
Hands loosened, setting Miya free. “Quick thinking! Good work, lad.” A few of the men clapped Miya on the shoulder, praising him for his heroism. Miya said nothing.
Ushijima stepped back between Kiyoomi and Miya, making his presence known once again. “Thank you,” he told Miya in a terse voice. “You were of service to my family this evening.” He did not apologize for flinging accusations, of course. Ushijima never acknowledged wrongdoing when speaking to people he deemed beneath him. It was one of his many pretentious traits that left a bad taste in Kiyoomi’s mouth.
“No problem,” Miya said, stealing another glance at Kiyoomi. “I wouldn’t just stand by and watch someone fall.”
“All the same, your assistance this evening should be rewarded. Tendou, I think a twenty will do?”
“You’re not serious,” Kiyoomi said, falling into his native Japanese without meaning to. He and Ushijima rarely spoke to each other in Japanese, and almost never in public. Switching back to English, he said: “Twenty dollars? I thought the life of your fiancée’s… brother might mean more to you than a few dollars.”
Ushijima turned back to Kiyoomi, something unidentifiable burning behind his eyes. Ushijima did not like to be challenged. He especially did not like to be challenged publicly. And most of all, he did not like to be challenged in what he considered to be ‘mixed company.’
“You’re right,” he said in a flat voice. “What was I thinking? Miya Atsumu, was it?” This question was directed at Miya.
“One and only, if you don’t count my identical twin.”
Ushijima’s jaw tightened. It was a small tick, but spending as much time as Kiyoomi had trying to gauge Ushijima’s moods had taught him all of the man’s tells. Ushijima did not like Miya Atsumu, and he did not trust him. But appearances had to be kept up and promised lovers had to be appeased, so Ushijima swallowed his pride enough to say: “You should join us for dinner tomorrow evening in the first class dining room to… regale us with your heroic tale. Will you?”
Miya’s eyebrows shot up. “I—yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Good. Tomorrow, then.”
The crew walked off to return to their prior duties, leaving only Kiyoomi, Ushijima, Tendou, and Miya at the stern of the ship. Miya’s eyes moved between Ushijima and Kiyoomi, lingering on Kiyoomi a little longer. They had not spoken to each other directly since Miya had pulled him back over the guardrail, but what could be said with Ushijima between them?
“Well,” Ushijima said, intervening before Kiyoomi had the chance to speak, “Sakusa, you must be freezing. We should get you inside. Your sister will be wanting to see you as well, of course.”
“Right,” Kiyoomi said. “Right.” A familiar and unwanted hand pressed into his back, pushing until Kiyoomi’s feet started to move.
As they left the deck, Kiyoomi’s shoulder brushed Miya’s. He felt cold—his jacket still discarded on the deck by the guardrail, Kiyoomi realized. Even more trouble he had caused Miya. Yet, Miya did not appear angry. Instead, there was an almost wistful expression on his face as he whispered, “Take care, Sakusa.”
Something swelled in Kiyoomi’s chest, a balloon which did not deflate until long after Kiyoomi had made it back to his room.
-
“It’s funny,” the wiry, red-haired man—Tendou, Atsumu had heard him called—said, creeping up on Atsumu as he re-laced his boots. “Mr. Sakusa stumbled so suddenly, but you still had time to remove your jacket and boots.”
Atsumu tensed. “Those were already off,” he said. “I guess I’m just a free spirit.”
“You’re trouble is what you are,” Tendou said, squinting his reptilian eyes at Atsumu. “And you’ll stay away from Mr. Sakusa, if you know what’s good for you.” Tendou left in the same direction that his employer and Kiyoomi had gone minutes before.
Atsumu let out a deep sigh.
Sakusa Kiyoomi. Omi.
Tendou was probably right. Everything Atsumu had learned about Kiyoomi pointed toward an obvious conclusion: Kiyoomi was complicated, off-limits, and so far above Atsumu that it was laughable even to reach. If Atsumu knew what was good for him, he’d forget that Sakusa Kiyoomi existed and never see him again.
But Atsumu had never claimed to know what was good for him.