So Happy Together

by Stendec_CS_59

Summary:

The end of the world fucking blows. Honestly, it couldn’t possibly get any worse.

And then it does when Chuuya’s stupid upstairs neighbor crashes through the ceiling of his shitty apartment with a noose around his neck, the other end tethered to a cheap chandelier and a hunk of drywall.

“Who the fuck are you?” Chuuya gasped, kicking at the gangly heap of a man atop the wreckage of his coffee table ghostly with plaster dust.

“Osamu Dazai.” The man offered his hand amiably, ignoring the horrified expression on the redhead’s face.

Chuuya shrank away from the hand as if it was roadkill. “Well… get the FUCK out of my apartment, Osamu Dazai,” he spat, recoiling onto his couch.

Turns out the end of the world is a slow burn, accompanied by a soundtrack of oldies and Frank Sinatra.

And of course there is only one bed.

Chapter 1: Something Stupid

 

 

Chuuya Nakahara never really dreamed.  Well, he did, but he was pretty sure he didn’t experience it the same way other people did. 

He used to listen to his friends the Flags, and the Sheep before them, describe the crazy dreams they’d had the night before and Chuuya would shrink into himself, feeling somehow deficient because all he ever got were vague sensations and emotions that coated his consciousness like a thin layer of iridescent paint that rinsed off upon waking.

The morning of the day he met Dazai… Well, he wasn’t quite sure what he dreamed about or if it even counted as a dream but it seemed to be acceptance.  More than that:  of being loved.  Completely, for once and for real.  There was nothing else in the dream.  Not a face, nor a person.  Only the expanse of a crimson void, himself suspended in it and the feeling of being… not alone.  A soothing peace that surrounded him in blue tendrils as the angry red loneliness receded.

The peace was as comfortable as a bed with his own body shape worn into the mattress, as welcoming as a soft blanket that weighs nearly nothing but gives the perfect amount of warmth.  No pressure points whatsoever.  Like floating just beneath the surface of azure waters.

“That was a rather violent way to wake up Snow White,” a voice drawled, distorted and dreamy, like, well… a dream.

Blue eyes fluttered, looking up into hazel.  Then flew wide.

His clock radio confirmed it was the crack of eleven a.m. and the light streaming in through his sliding balcony door scattered his dream like startled mourning doves.

“Shit!”  Chuuya leapt from his bed and tossed his wadded sheets and blankets aside, clad only in his boxer-briefs.  He stumbled to the bathroom for a hasty leak, nearly knocking over his waist-high pyramid of toilet paper in the process, whistling impatiently as his stream hit the back of the porcelain.  He coaxed out the last few first-of-the-morning drops and shook.

“Shit shit shit,” he chanted, tucking himself back in.  He stumbled through his cramped and shoddy one-room apartment heaped with boxes and storage crates to the closet and searched for the outfit he’d planned the night before:  black and dayglow-pink biker shorts, a white crop top that drooped off one shoulder, matching pink neon terry sweatband and wrist cuffs… He hopped, first on one leg then the other as he tugged on shrieking green legwarmers and finally stopped to appraise himself in the mirror.

He pulled his tumbled red bed-head locks into a banana-clip, swiped harsh streaks of pink and blue eyeshadow over yesterday’s smeared eyeliner and nodded in satisfaction.

Perfect.

That accomplished he snatched up his boombox (a vintage combo CD/radio/tape player) and whipped the balcony door open, sailing out onto the warm sunny balcony with the air of an opera diva taking the stage.  He set the boombox down, hit play, and reveled in the sound that filled the concrete triangle of courtyard separating the three apartment blocs, each latticed with narrow balconies and sliding doors identical to his own. 

First, a bit of jangly guitar.  An upright bass quickly joined and then, twining through it all, the dulcet duet of Frank and Nancy Sinatra:

I know I stand in line
Until you think you have the time
To spend an evening with me…

Chuuya began his warm-up, eyes scanning the other balconies.  He lifted his arms straight above his head, palms flat together in a reed-pose, tilting this way and that as the Sinatras pined. 

And if we go someplace to dance
I know that there's a chance
You won't be leaving with me…

Next came leg swings.  Chuuya rose on his bare toes en pointe, barre, lifting first one leg and then the other in time to the music, watching expectantly. 

But no other balcony doors slid open.  Nobody else appeared.

He grimaced, the sound of his boombox echoing through the empty courtyard.  He was slowly becoming aware of his ridiculous get-up but it had been the old lady’s fault -- the one that was a floor above him kitty-corner to the left.  She was the first one, a few months ago, to show up for morning stretches in a blue spangled cocktail dress and feathered tiara. 

After that other neighbors had shown up at eleven a.m. sharp in increasingly ridiculous get-ups.  This was back when commercial delivery services were still around and anything a person desired could be ordered online.  The guy across the way had appeared in a banana-yellow full-on Bruce Lee “Game of Death” jumpsuit.  After that the family a few floors below and to the right had presented themselves, children clapping and giggling, in inflatable Godzilla costumes.  Mom, dad and two little kids… a kaiju family doing their stretches and getting their daily fresh air on their balcony.

And there were others:  Tennis guy who whacked balls against the wall atop the roof, Tai-Chi lady, a man with a yappy little dog under one arm who wore a navy blue suit and cravat like a cruise ship director and waved at everybody with tiny twists of his wrist like a beauty pageant winner.

One by one they all disappeared.  The kaiju family was the first to go.  Chuuya wasn’t even sure when he stopped hearing tennis guy.  And the others.  The man with his dog… Well, Chuuya hoped he’d left the door open, although maybe he’d had enough time to take care of his dog before…

Chuuya and the old lady were the last two left.  He really wanted her to enjoy his outfit this morning, culled from the shattered shop windows of thrift stores.

The stars get red, and, oh, the night's so blue
And then I go and spoil it all
By saying somethin' stupid like, "I love you"

She didn’t show.  The old lady didn’t show.

Chuuya slapped the off button on his boombox to save the batteries.  Frank and Nancy shot into startled silence in the abandoned courtyard as the spinning CD inside hissed to a stop.

“Fucking whatever,” Chuuya snarled, hiking up one legwarmer.  He picked his spandex bike shorts out of his ass-crack and turned, stalking back into his shitty one-room apartment. 

He slid the balcony door shut behind him with a bang, then dealt a crate of Ichiban ramen cups a vicious kick.

After an indeterminate amount of time passed and his breathing slowed he straightened and headed to his lighted makeup mirror, swiping off his eyeshadow with Vaseline and a square of toilet paper.

It was Wednesday.  He had somebody to meet.

*

*

“Hey,” Chuuya said real casual, his voice slightly muffled by his medical mask.  He tilted his chin downwards, brushing a red curl from his forehead and settling his porkpie hat at a better angle against the autumn sun.

“Hey yourself,” Albatross retorted, careful not to turn his head. 

The two of them were seated at opposite benches in the empty Yamashita Park, two meters apart, backs to each other and looking out at different views of the harbor. 

Chuuya wished he’d chosen a bench that didn’t face the shattered Yokohama Bay Bridge, the largest central span snapped and angling precipitously into Tokyo Bay, dangling cables visible even at this distance. 

The night of the bridge bombing had been hard.  The chaos, the panic… the rumors spreading that Yokohama itself would be nuked imminently.  And then the military cordon, the quarantine…

Chuuya shuddered and hunkered down in his leather bomber jacket despite the warm autumn sun, banishing the fragmented memories to the deepest corners of his mind.  But still… better to be looking at the bridge than towards the Cosmo Clock ferris wheel, stilled and draped with the giant banner proclaiming “We’re All in This Together.”

“So… you been doing okay?” Chuuya adjusted his facemask and squinted out at the intensely blue pollution-free sky.  Not that Yokohama had ever been terribly polluted.  He’d heard that Beijing and Mumbai were perfectly clear but that was back when radio stations were still broadcasting, cell phones and the internet still worked and the television aired more than old reruns, competition game-shows and bland government propaganda urging cleanliness and social distancing.

“Yeah.  Same old.”  Albatross’s shrug was sensed in his tone of voice rather than seen.

“You talk to the others?  They okay?”

“Piano Man and Lippman are still hanging in there.  I met up with them.”

Chuuya nodded, although he was sure Albatross couldn’t see him.  Piano Man and Lippman had been roommates before the outbreak and were sheltering together.  They had each other, although Chuuya was sometimes glad he had his own place, lonely as it was.  Being isolated with somebody for months, in such close quarters, made him think of that old movie The Shining.

“But… promise me you won’t freak out, Chuuya.”

“Huh?”  Chuuya snapped out of his reverie.  “Why?  What is it?”

There was a long silence.  Finally Albatross spoke.

“Iceman didn’t meet me at our last rendezvous.  But I’m sure it’s nothing.  Maybe he forgot, or was held up by something.  Maybe he even made a run for it.  He’d been talking about how the cordon was weakening.  Nobody left to enforce it and no reason to keep people in anymore.” 

Chuuya crossed and re-crossed his legs in his black skinny jeans to ease the heat of the sun beating down on his thighs.  The greenery of the park was turning sylvan with lack of care, the weeds growing up at his feet almost reaching the seat of the bench he sat upon.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Albatross added, although his voice lacked the conviction Chuuya desperately needed to hear.  “I mean… maybe he even ran into Doc.”

They hadn’t seen Doc since the first week of the cordon.  Like most anybody with medical experience he’d probably been pressed into service.  No way he would’ve disappeared willingly.  Doc wouldn’t have done that to them…  wouldn’t have left them like that.

And like most people taken in the first wave they hadn’t heard from him since.

“Sure,” Chuuya agreed.  “I’m sure he’s fine.  Nothing could take Iceman down.  Not that easy.”

“Oh.”  Albatross fumbled for something in his jacket pocket.  “Piano Man’s taken up crochet.  He wanted me to give this to you.  When I’m gone, come to this bench and get it.”

“Piano Man?  Crochet?”  Chuuya scoffed, lowering his mask to reveal a twisted grin.  He turned slightly, hoping Albatross could catch his expression.

“Yeah.  Says it relaxes him.  Don’t laugh when you see it.  He seemed real proud of it even though Lippman’s been giving him shit over it so… I told him it was great.  He made one of each of us.”

Both men stiffened as a public health worker cruised up on a bicycle wearing a yellow plastic-y coverall, white N-95 mask and goggles.  He slowed to a halt between the two benches and put down one leg, stabilizing himself against the backdrop of the water and overgrown shrubs.

“No congregating,” he warned stiffly, voice muffled by his mask.  “Maintain a safe social distance.”

“We’re moving along,” Chuuya scowled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. 

“You should,” the worker retorted officiously.  “Only essential activities are allowed.”

“Yeah yeah,” Chuuya grumbled as he rose.  Albatross did likewise, surreptitiously stuffing a tiny parcel into the slats of the park bench.

Satisfied, the bicycle officer took off down the deserted sidewalk.

“Same time next week,” Chuuya called at Albatross’s retreating back.  The man responded with a wave over his shoulder, not looking back at Chuuya who sauntered towards the bench and casually bent as he passed, snatching up the soft packet the other man had left.

He waited until he was a good distance from the park, pausing alone in the shade of a neglected bus shelter in front of a chained and shuttered 7-11 to unseal the plastic baggie and scrutinize its contents:

A tiny crochet doll of himself, complete with a black line of string as a choker and a lopsided brown porkpie hat.

Chuuya smothered a grin as he took in his own clumsy visage stitched in beige, pink and blue yarn.  Then he stuffed the doll back in the baggie, stuck it in his pocket and sighed, first looking up and down the empty street and then at the weathered sign curling with humidity behind the plexiglass of the shelter:

WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER
Report all signs of illness immediately:
-  Fever
-  Delusions
-  Confusion and disorientation
-  Aversion to bright light

Beneath all that was a picture of a cartoon family holding hands, faces obscured by medical masks, then a phone number and the website of a government health organization for “further information.”

Chuuya frowned, his own mask damp with his exhalations against his chin and downturned lips.  Suddenly he buckled, one hand on the plexiglass and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  He would not think about Iceman, would not think about Doc or the kaiju family or the old lady in the cocktail dress.  He wouldn’t worry about the Sheep.  All of them.  They were fine.  Just fine.

After a while the feeling eased.  Chuuya straightened and collected himself, shaking off the dread as he directed himself back to his apartment with trembling steps.  It would be dinnertime soon, and he was tired of instant noodles.  He had a few stops to make before home.

“Shit,” he muttered, sidestepping into an alleyway as a tank-like street cleaner rumbled past spewing a cloud of disinfectant mist. 

*

“Hey, kid.  The usual?”

“Yep.  One udon to go, plenty of narutomaki if you’ve got it.”

Chuuya set down his reusable shopping bags and slid his butt onto the beat-up wooden stool of the noodle stall.  He was aware he probably looked worn and tired under the fluorescent bars lighting the tiny open-air shop beneath the sloping tin roof and fluttering noren.

But if the noodle guy noticed he said nothing.  Burly and amiable with thick, strong forearms, the man was perpetually cheerful. 

Normally Chuuya found cheerful people annoying but not this guy.  He watched as the man bustled behind the counter rubbed smooth by countless elbows, his black cotton apron and the red scarf he wore tied around his bald head obscured by steam rising from the bubbling stock pot in front of him.

“Plenty of narutomaki,” the man assured him, ladling the soup base into a white Styrofoam container; noodles and fixings into another.  “Had lots of it in the freezer when… well, when it all went down.  Fresh vegetables are hard to come by but…” He shook his head.  “Business hasn’t exactly been booming so if you don’t mind pickled vegetables, canned crab and frozen fish cake then we’re good.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Chuuya agreed.

“Ah!”  The noodle man straightened, turning to the back counter and reaching for a warming tray under a heat lamp.  He slid something round and brown into a paper sleeve and began packaging it all into a plastic bag, tying the loops in that way where you can carry it and doesn’t fall apart, but you only have to pull one loop to open it.  Chuuya’s never figured out how it’s done.

“I found some frozen curry pan in the back and fried it up.  Take one… on the house.”

“Thanks.” Chuuya dug in his pocket, producing a few bills and setting them on the counter.  The noodle man counted out his change and slid it over on a little tray.  A formality really.  Money didn’t count for shit any more.  But it felt nice and normal to pocket the coins as he hefted the bag carefully so as not to tilt the containers.

“Find anything good today?”  The noodle man leaned over the counter, eyeing the shopping bags Chuuya hefted onto his shoulder. 

“Mmmm… most things are picked over pretty good.  But I got some batteries and a few more CDs for the collection.  Let me know if you ever want me to look for something for you.”

“Oh no.  I’m set.  Got everything I need right here.”  The man grinned broadly, gesturing at his stall. 

“Yeah.”  Chuuya hesitated for a moment, glancing up and down the darkening side street and the shuttered shops.  The place used to be packed with shoppers on their way home from work, weaving through the stalls for something quick and cheap for dinner.  Now this stall was the only one still lit.

He looked back at the man and startled for a moment, realizing that there was something different about him today… something he hadn’t put his finger on until this moment:  He wasn’t wearing a mask.  Instead, he was smiling contentedly at Chuuya.  It had been a long time since he’d seen a smile in real life and it was jarring.

He debated whether to say anything or not, then instead asked, “How come you don’t close up?  You know, get out of here.  I heard from a friend that the cordon’s going down.”

The man shrugged.  “Where would I go?  I told you:  Got everything I need right here.  No family.  The shop’s been all I’ve had for years.  The customers keep me going, give me a purpose, you know?  And as long as I’ve got a few customers well… I’m here for them.”

“Thank you,” Chuuya stood for a moment, uncertain if this was a good point to end the social interaction.  He resettled his bags.  “I appreciate it.  Eating instant ramen gets real old, real fast so, uh… have a good night.”

“G’night, kid.  See you again soon.”  The noodle man produced a white rag from the apron strings wrapping his thick waist and began rubbing it across the counter.

The walk back to his apartment wasn’t long through the twilight, and Chuuya had long since stopped getting creeped out by the lack of other people on the streets.  He came across a few here and there, all solitary souls like himself.  Each time they moved to opposite sides of the street, wordlessly avoiding each other’s personal space and sharing not so much as a glance above their medical masks.  Anonymous ghosts, slipping past each other in their haste to make it to their respective safe spaces before full darkness hit. 

When he was nearly home the floodlights popped on above the main street, harsh white overpowering the romantic yellow sodium lamps that lined the thoroughfare. 

On the side streets the comparative darkness was more ominous.

The brightly-lit shabbiness of his apartment complex lobby was welcoming, as was the short ride up in the clunky elevator.  At least for now there was still running water and electricity. 

When he locked the door behind him and set his bags down on his kitchen table he finally exhaled the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

He was safe.  He was home.

 

 

Chapter 2: Strangers in the Night

 

 

Setting out dinner was a grand affair to be savored. 

Chuuya carefully unwrapped his udon, tipping the noodles and garnish into a chipped porcelain bowl (his favorite – just the right size and depth), then poured the broth over it.  He put it all in the microwave for a couple of minutes to bring it to a proper temperature, unsnapping the wooden chopsticks and rubbing them together to smooth any splinters as he waited, watching the rotating bowl. 

When the microwave beeped he brought the bowl to his coffee table, positioned a glass of water at two o’clock on a coaster next to a thick pad of carryout napkins, then set the curry pan at ten.

Then he settled in for the evening on his worn but comfortable green velvet loveseat sofa, flipping on the television and selecting one of the only two remaining stations. 

It was time for “Friends.”

Chuuya scowled at the screen as he hunkered over his bowl. 

Back when it was still possible to text and chat online he’d asked Lippman why all the shows on air suddenly seemed to be oldies and foreign sitcoms poorly translated into Japanese.  Of course, there’d been the problem of productions shutting down.  But Lippman had also explained that if the government showed news programs or modern shows set in Japan it might upset or depress people too much.  It was better to show something completely foreign and unrelatable, yet still enjoyable.  Shows that didn’t remind people too much of what was missing.

Lippman was good at understanding that type of thing.

Chuuya’s frown deepened as he watched the woman with the hair (Rachel) rush to the gate at an obviously-soundstage airport, the board showing an international arrival.  She was cradling a tacky plastic-wrapped bouquet of flowers in her arms; she was scanning anxiously for the nerdy guy (Ross). 

Chuuya sniffed.  How unbelievable: that people would simply be able to walk right up to a gate to meet people as they deplaned.  Chuuya truly hoped Rachel and Ross would end up together -- not because he liked them but because they were both so awful.  That sort of disgusting insipidness ought to be isolated to the smallest group possible – preferably each other.

That Joey though… Chuuya hated to admit it but the affable himbo had claimed a card in his fantasy rolodex, even showing up occasionally in his frequent masturbation sessions…

He slurped his noodles, one udon half-in and half-out of his pursed lips as Ross appeared from the doorway of the jetbridge with… another woman.

“Hah!”  Chuuya nearly choked on his noodle as Ross bent to kiss the interloper, the canned studio audience gasping in shock. 

“Fuck you, Rachel,” Chuuya sneered, dipping his chopsticks in for a bit of pink and white narutomaki.  “Serves you right.”

The television clicked to one of those public service ads that had taken the place of paid commercials, with soothing generic music (upbeat without being cheerful) playing over footage of an equally generic and bland mountain stream.  The words “We’re All in This Together” steadfastly hovered on the screen.

He set his chopsticks aside, still chewing and shaking his head in grim delight at Rachel’s imminent heartbreak as he reached for his curry pan.

Blue eyes that had been slitted in schadenfreude satisfaction flew wide as the curry pan disappeared, the bowl of udon disappeared, and in fact his goddamn coffee table disappeared under a cascade of drywall chunks, white dust, lighting fixtures and lanky limbs. 

Chuuya coughed in the haze of his suddenly-darkened apartment lit only by the TV screen and the light in the kitchenette, waving his hands in front of him in astonishment, trapped in that infinite moment when the dumbfounded brain races to catch up with reality. 

When both his mind and the dust cleared he found himself staring at a hunk of his ceiling atop the crushed remains of his evening, and atop that a sprawling heap with dark hair dusted with plaster powder.  It was a man.  A young man with a noose around his neck, the other end tethered to the dangling remnants of a cheap chandelier – an exact copy of the shitty light fixture that had, until a moment ago, hung above Chuuya’s coffee table.

Chuuya drew his legs up sharply, jumping up on his loveseat like a hissing cat, simultaneously shocked and relieved that the disaster had so narrowly missed him.

“Who… who the fuck are you?”  he spat at the man who was lying face-up on the pile of rubble like a starfish marooned on a jagged rock.

“Ugh…” the man groaned, reaching up with one bandaged hand.  He felt about carefully, making sure everything was more or less in the proper place on his powdery face.  Satisfied with that, he sat up slowly, wincing as each vertebrae popped into place.  Then he stretched his hand towards Chuuya, offering it for a handshake.

“Osamu Dazai,” he said, by way of introduction.  He said it casually, as if a noose tied to a light fixture wasn’t looped about his neck.

“Well…” Chuuya stared at the hand, then looked up at the hole in his ceiling.  A tiny cascade of plaster came loose, showering down on the dark-haired man’s head.  Chuuya watched, trembling with the confusing and contradictory emotions roiling him.  Then, settling on anger, he narrowed his eyes in outraged annoyance. 

“Get the fuck out of my apartment, Osamu Dazai!”

Chuuya leapt for the stack of medical masks on the counter next to his door and pulled one on hurriedly as the stranger rose, unfolding slowly as a ghost from a crypt, loosening the noose and lifting it over his head, shaking debris from his tousled dark hair. 

“Get out!” Chuuya repeated emphatically, flinging his door open and gesturing at the opening.

“Oh, I, um…” Dazai patted himself down, finding no pockets in his gray sweatpants or dingy white undershirt.  “I seem to have left my apartment without my keys.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Chuuya hissed.

“That’s not exactly neighborly.”  The corners of Dazai’s mouth turned down ruefully. 

“Neighborly?  I didn’t even know I had an upstairs neighbor and… and you fucking wrecked my coffee table!  What were you doing?  How does a normal person just… fall through the ceiling?”  Chuuya glanced up at the gaping hole in his ceiling and the dim light filtering down from above, the last of the plaster dust swirling and settling over his possessions. 

“I moved in recently,” Dazai responded simply, avoiding the larger question. 

“Who the hell moves in the middle of a plague?”  Chuuya let the door swing shut and crossed his arms, fingers drumming on his forearms impatiently. 

Dazai shrugged.  “I was assigned to this place when the Ministry of Health cleared the dump.”

“The dump?!”  Chuuya’s spine straightened like a bendy-straw pulled tight.  His mouth hung open in disgust beneath his mask.  “Why were you living in a fucking dump?”

“Actually I was living in a shipping container in the dump.” Dazai smiled, approaching Chuuya carefully as if the redhead were a dog he wasn’t sure was friendly or not.  “Which I felt was just fine, but I guess they considered that to be unhoused and unsanitary so they assigned me to live here.  Or,” he pointed, “up there.  So now I’m properly registered with the Ministry of Health so they can keep tabs on me, make sure I’m social distancing, no longer a menace to public safety, et-cetera.  Say, you’re sort of short, aren’t you?”

Chuuya looked up at Dazai who was close enough to him that they were nearly face-to-chest.  Dazai was frowning down at him as if Chuuya’s height was a deliberate and questionable personal choice.

Chuuya responded by grasping a mask and mashing it into Dazai’s smug face. 

“Owww… so violent, Chibi!”

“Don’t call me that!” 

“Then what should I call you?” Dazai pulled out the accordion folds of the mask and bent the wire across the nose into an obtuse angle, then pulled the loops over his ears.  He settled one elbow against the door next to Chuuya’s shoulder, resting his fist on his chin and the other on his hip and awaiting the other man’s answer.

“Chuuya Nakahara,” he finally responded, his patience frazzling once again into annoyance.

“Chuuya-kun.”

“No, just Chuuya.”

“Fine, Chibi.”

Chuuya made a choking noise, his eye twitching. 

Dazai ignored him, sliding away from the door to approach the pile of debris.  He looked up at the hole in the ceiling, estimating the distance, then at the table and two chairs in the kitchenette.

“Maybe I can just go back up the way I came,” Dazai mused.  “Stack a chair on the table and…”

“Oh no!  Oh no you don’t!”  Chuuya rushed forward, fists clenched at his sides.  “You’re going to help me clean this up!” 

“I am?”  Dazai sounded disappointed.

“Yes!”  Chuuya stormed to a pile of cardboard boxes set against the wall of his apartment.  He looked through several, angrily perusing the contents before setting them aside. 

“Wow, you’ve sure got a lot of shit in here,” Dazai mused as Chuuya handed him boxes to re-stack.  “Instant noodles, toilet paper, hand sanitizer…”

“Government trucks drop them off in the neighborhood by the police kiosk,” Chuuya muttered.  “Don’t you know that?  Dumbass.  Here:  this one,” Chuuya dragged a large box out and over towards his sleeping area, dumping out the thrift-shop finds: colored glass votive candles, a thick blue feather boa intended for one of the group workouts on the balcony and a clatter of plastic CD cases.

“What do you need this for?”  Dazai lifted the feather boa on one finger. 

“It’s a long story.”  Chuuya snatched it from him, then slung it over the top of his mirrored vanity.

“I’ve got time.”    

Chuuya scowled over at Dazai who was shuffling through the CDs, reading the titles.  He sighed in exasperation.

“Sometimes when people say it’s a long story it’s not really a long story.  It’s just that they don’t want to tell you.”

“So do you want to tell me?”

“No.”  Chuuya scooped up the candles and banged them down on his desk.

“Then you could’ve just said that.  Hmm.  Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Meiko Kaji, Grace Chang, Big Band Hits of the 30’s and 40’s, The Turtles Greatest Hits… mmm I didn’t know they had more than one…”

“Give me those,” Chuuya snarled, grabbing the stack from Dazai’s hands and crouching to settle them on his shelf next to his boom box and portable DVD player.

“What’s with all the oldies?”  Dazai followed him, nearly bumping him as he rose.

“I happen to like them.  And also…”

And also everything that I think of, I think of too late.  It’s the story of my life.  By the time the radio stations shut down and I realized I owned no music of my own, only listened on streaming services and those were next, everybody else in Yokohama had already thought the same thing and the few music stores still open were cleaned out.  Which left me the thrift shops.  Which don’t exactly carry top 40 hits.  And the thrift shops… everything in there is something somebody no longer wanted.  Which made me feel better about taking them.

“It’s another long story,” Chuuya sniffed, heading towards the loveseat with the empty box.  He set it down, then returned to the kitchenette for a broom and dust pan.  He shoved them at Dazai’s chest.  

Dazai looked down at them dumbly as if they were alien artifacts, eyes flat and empty and mouth slightly agape like a fish in a market on a bed of ice.

“Well, get to it.”  Chuuya released the items and Dazai grabbed for them before they could fall, fumbling to catch them.

Chuuya pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and began scooping the larger chunks into the box, grumbling as he worked, glancing up now and again resentfully at Dazai who hovered about uselessly.

“What the hell were you even doing?”  Chuuya repeated as he held up the noose, eyeing it in annoyance. 

“Nothing.  Just testing out the weight-bearing capacity of the ceiling fixture.  Which isn’t much, I guess.”  Dazai shrugged, taking the noose from Chuuya and tossing it into the box.  He stooped, grabbing a particularly large piece of sheetrock and tossing it on top, the dangling light fixture still attached.

Chuuya watched him suspiciously from his spot near the floor, tugging at a piece of what he guessed used to be his coffee table.  His eyes narrowed as they landed on Dazai’s forearms. 

“What’s with the bandages?  You some sort of cutter?”

“It’s a long story,” Dazai replied breezily.

“Ah.  Heh.  I see what you did there, Dazai.”  Chuuya shook his head.  “Well, don’t go trying any more of that shit.  I don’t want to be stuck hauling your dead stinky body down to the corner for collection.”

“You’d do that for me?”  Dazai beamed.   

“I’d have no choice.  Shit!”  Chuuya’s face twisted in anguish as he lifted another chunk of drywall to reveal his destroyed dinner.  “That was my favorite bowl!  And I was really looking forward to that curry pan!”

“Oh, well, uh… I’m sure it’s still okay…”  Dazai took the round brown fried bread from Chuuya’s astonished fingers and plucked out slivers of wood and flooring nails, tossing them into the box.  He lowered his mask and took a bite, grinning.  “See?  It’s good.”  He winced as he bit into something hard.  “Want some?”

“Absolutely not!  And… Put that damn mask back on, you freak!”

“Why?”  Dazai looked confused.  “If we’ve been living above each other we’ve been sharing the same air, anyway.”

“Just do it for me,” Chuuya muttered, continuing to fill the box. 

Two boxes and six trips to the hallway later the mess was more or less cleared, leaving Chuuya staring at the empty space between his loveseat and television that his coffee table used to occupy.

“So…”  Dazai dragged the kitchen table beneath the hole in the ceiling and set a chair on top, then climbed up on it.  “Sorry about your dinner.  And thanks for the curry pan.”

“Just fucking leave.”

“No, really.”  Dazai grunted as he heaved himself through the ragged opening, pulling himself up on his arms and then slinging one lanky leg up and through.  He disappeared for a moment, only for his shaggy dark head to pop back into view.  “It’s exciting to have a roommate, isn’t it?”

“You’re not my roommate,” Chuuya gritted out, his jaw muscles flexing in annoyance as he removed the chair from atop the table and returned it to the kitchen area.  “I’m getting this hole fixed tomorrow.”

“Sure you will.  Good night, roomie!”  Dazai waved cheerfully and disappeared before Chuuya could find anything to throw.

 

 

Chapter 3: I've Got You Under My Skin

 

 

“Fuck!”

Chuuya slammed his apartment door shut and leaned against it, shoulders trembling with rage, his neck reddening beneath his thin leather choker.  He snatched his face mask off and tossed it aside, not even caring that he missed the little basket on the table next to his door.

“So?  How’d it go?”

Chuuya's rage refocused with laser-sharpness on the hole in his ceiling.  Dazai was seated precariously close to the edge in his grubby sweats and tee, crossed-legged with a book in his lap.

“How do you think it went, dumbass?” Chuuya snarled, whipping off his hat and setting it on the entryway table with a bit more care than the mask.  He centered himself in the living room and crossed his arms, looking up at Dazai who responded with an innocent grin.

“I’m guessing it went… well?”  He clapped the book shut and set it aside, shrugging.

“It did not go well, idiot.  The apartment manager says he won’t make any repairs unless it’s an emergency, and apparently a huge fucking hole in my ceiling with a weirdo staring down at me through it is not an emergency.”

“Weirdo?  What weirdo?”  Dazai lifted one bandaged arm, scratching curiously at his shaggy hair.  “Oh!”  Me? he mouthed, gesturing at his own chest, eyes widening in mock horror.  “So mean!”

“Yeah so anyway, it seems we’re on our own,” Chuuya grimaced.  “Don’t you have anything up there you can pull over the opening?  A rug?” 

Dazai gasped.  “That would be dangerous, Chibi.  What if I forgot the hole was there and stepped on it in the middle of the night and fell through again?  I could get hurt.”

“Fine then.  What about a couch, or a bookshelf, or maybe a coffee table?”  Chuuya spit out the last suggestion with particular venom.

“Nope, nothing.”

“Nothing at all.”  Chuuya’s lips twisted wryly.

“Nothing.  Come see for yourself.”

“You know what?  I am coming up there.”  Chuuya shook his head, muttering curses to himself as he dragged the kitchen table over and balanced a chair on top.  He climbed up carefully, grasping Dazai’s bandaged wrist to be pulled through the opening.

Once in Dazai’s apartment Chuuya’s mouth dropped open in mute shock.  There really was nothing.  Hard to believe this apartment was an exact copy of his own.  It was like a bizarro backrooms version of his place.  Where Chuuya’s apartment was packed full, brimming with color and life, Dazai’s was morbidly depressing and empty.

The cheap laminate flooring was bare from wall-to-wall, save for a few dust bunnies in the corners.  No pictures hung on the wall, and the sole furnishing was a single futon lying on the floor in the sleeping alcove.  Even this was covered by nothing more than a scratchy blanket and a couple of lumpy pillows with no cases.  There were no shelves, no dresser… only a few items of clothing, including a worn tan trench coat, spilling from a half-open closet.

Chuuya looked up.  The chandelier was torn out, of course, leaving a splintered hole that Dazai hadn’t even tried to mitigate or clean up.  A few shards of plaster and bare electrical wires still dangled down.

“What the…”

“Welcome to chez Dazai!” 

“Unbelievable,” Chuuya breathed.

“Right!?  I’m not sure it beats a shipping container, but it’s okay.”  Dazai bent down, scooping up the book he’d been reading and rushing to a corner by his futon, setting it atop a small stack of beat-up paperbacks. 

Chuuya followed him, dazed.  The Complete Guide to Suicide, he read from the book’s cover.  His face scrunched in disbelief.

“I… don’t know what to say.”  Chuuya felt himself drawn, like the last girl standing in a slasher film, towards the bathroom.  He knew he should not open the door but did anyway, eyes widening as the door creaked open.  A single, oft-used towel hung on the bar by the bathtub that sported a suspicious gray ring.  There were no bottles of shampoo or conditioner, no washcloth; nothing more than a green bar of soap graced the edge of the tub.  A single, crusty razor and a fuzzy-looking toothbrush sat on the sink next to a tube of toothpaste squeezed from the middle.

“What the fuck,” Chuuya gasped, shutting the door hurriedly and heading into the kitchen.  A carton of instant ramen cups sat on the counter next to a microwave and a large pile of empty instant ramen cups spilling into the sink.  There was no garbage can in sight.

“What have you been eating?” Chuuya scowled, his head starting to pound.  “Is this it?!”  Who the hell lives like this?

“Oh.  When the Health Department dropped me off here they left these supplies and said they’d check back in a week.  But I guess they never did.”

“How long have you been here?”  Chuuya whirled, incredulous.

“Hmmm… lost track of time, but…”  Dazai tapped his chin thoughtfully.  “I guess three weeks?  I don’t know…”

Chuuya rubbed his throbbing temples.  “Come downstairs with me.  Have some breakfast.”

“Really?!”  Dazai’s face lit up.  “You’d do that for me?”

“Not for you, moron,” Chuuya spat, his hands balling into fists at his side.  “I just can’t stand to see anybody live like this is all.”

“Wow, thanks!” 

 

“How do you want your eggs,” Chuuya asked, retrieving four precious brown eggs from his cupboard.

“Eggs?  How’d you get eggs?”  Dazai looked up from his mug of tea.

“A friend of mine is very good at… procuring things,” Chuuya replied.  “He trades throughout the city.  I guess when this whole thing hit, a few people were smart enough to get chickens and raise them on their balconies or on the roof.”

“Now that’s some foresight,” Dazai hummed in agreement.  “Can’t say I’ve been thinking that far ahead.”

“No kidding,” Chuuya deadpanned, thinking of that book he’d seen in Dazai’s apartment.  He slid a couple of chocolate chip pancakes onto Dazai’s plate.  “Sorry, I don’t have any syrup or butter or anything for the pancakes.  They’re from a mix, just add water.  Eggs I’ve got, but butter...  A cow would be hard to keep on a roof.”

“True, true.”  Dazai picked up a pancake and bit into it like a cookie.  “Not bad.  And… over easy, I guess.  But fried really hard, so the yolk isn’t too runny.”

“Sure.”  Chuuya turned back to the stove and a few minutes later returned with a plate of eggs:  two over easy, two sunny-side up.

“No bacon?”  Dazai looked up, his hand wavering over the salt and pepper shakers, disappointed.

“Don’t push it.”  Chuyya sat down across from Dazai, slicing into his own eggs.  He pushed the pancake away scrupulously so the runny yolk wouldn’t touch it.

“Right.”  Dazai finished his eggs in four bites, then got up, his second pancake still in his hand.  He wandered around Chuuya’s apartment admiringly.  “Nice set-up you got here.  I didn’t get a good look last night.  Plenty of toilet paper.  And… oh hey, you’ve got a ton of movies!”  He fell to his knees on the bookshelf next to Chuuya’s bed, running his fingers curiously along the row of DVDs.  “You’ve got terrible taste, though.  La Dolce Vita, Top Hat, White Christmas, The Sound of Music…”     

“Hey, get your slimy hands off my stuff!”  Chuuya leapt up, fork clattering to his plate.  He was too late.

“Oh!”  Dazai’s eyes got very wide as he pulled one DVD from the far end of the shelf.  “Mule Hung?”  He turned the DVD to look at the back cover and his eyes got wider.  “Gay porn?  Chuuya is…”  His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.  “…gay?”

“I’m living downstairs from Edogawa Ranpo,” Chuuya snarled, snatching at the DVD.

“Hey!”  Dazai stood, lifting the DVD high above his head where Chuuya couldn’t reach it.  He smirked.  “It’s okay, I’m cool with it.  In fact, I think I might be bisexual.”  He smirked down at Chuuya who had given up jumping up and down to grab the DVD.

“Congratulations,” Chuuya snorted.  “Want me to bake you a cake or something?  Or maybe I’ll show you the secret gay handshake?”

“You guys have one?”  Dazai looked down in amazement at the furious redhead.  The DVD drooped in his hand.

“No, shithead.”  Chuuya succeeded in snatching the movie from Dazai’s limp grasp and slammed it back into its place on the shelf.  “We don’t.”

“But seriously.”  Dazai followed Chuuya back to the kitchen, scratching his chin idly.  “I really could be.  Not ruling it out.  I’ve never actually fucked a guy but I’ve gotten some looks.  Some dudes find me attractive, you know.”

“No accounting for some men’s tastes,” Chuuya muttered, plopping down into his chair and scooping the rest of his eggs into his mouth.

“And I’ve seen some guys that I definitely wouldn’t kick out of bed.  Like you, for example.”  Dazai leaned forward across the table, analyzing Chuuya’s midsection.  “You’ve got a real slutty waist, and nice hips.  I was checking your ass out just now when you were bending over to put that DVD back.  Not bad.”

“You’re a toad,” Chuuya muttered.  “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“I’m just saying:  play your cards right and you could convince me.”  Dazai leaned back and took a smug bite of his pancake.

Chuuya paused, his face contorted into a grimace of disgust.  “Have you ever heard the expression not if you were the last man on Earth?”

“Might get a chance to find out.”  Dazai grinned.

“Oh gross.”  Chuuya stood and took both plates, rinsing them in the sink.

“Not gross.”  Dazai got up and began inspecting the rest of the apartment.  “I could do it.  I mean… hole’s a hole, right?”

“It’s not just the hole!”  Chuuya slammed the plates down a little too roughly.  “It’s what’s attached to it.  Somebody could be gay and never have physical sex with another man.  It’s got to do with love, and affection, and… and… what you feel right with.  Who you connect with.”

“Yeah it really looked like those Mule Hung guys were whispering sweet nothings to each other and talking about their feelings,” Dazai hummed.  “They were definitely connected, though.”

“Know what?  Please just leave.”

“Aww but Chuuya, you like me.”  Dazai turned from the balcony door, beaming.

“Shut up.  And give me a hand.”  Chuuya dragged the now-cleared table back over to the living room.  “Get that chair, and back up through the hole you go.  I have stuff to do today.  Including finding a new coffee table, apparently.  And just to make it absolutely, crystal clear:  I do not like you.”

“You do.  Chibi fed me.  That’s a love language.”

“It’s a little bit sad you’d mistake basic human decency for attraction.  I’d feed anything,” Chuuya retorted.  “I’d feed a stray dog if I came across one.”

“Sure but would you feed it chocolate chip pancakes?”  Dazai grinned, leaning into Chuuya’s personal space.  “Hmm?”

“Just go,” Chuuya snapped, placing one hand against Dazai’s chest and pushing him away firmly.

“If you’re going to go out, get a ladder or something, and then we can go up and down between our apartments more easily.”

“I’m not doing that!” Chuuya shouted at Dazai’s wriggling backside as the man pulled himself back up through the hole.

“Oh!”  Dazai called back down.  “And see if that contact of yours can get some more eggs next time you meet up.  I noticed we’re running low.” 

“There’s no we, Dazai!” Chuuya took the chair down, dragging it back to the kitchen along with the table, huffing in annoyance as he labored.  The leg of the chair hit his ankle and he swore.  “I’m closing that hole back up tonight and after that you’re out of my life!”

 

Dusk was just starting to fall over Yokohama as Chuuya rolled his shopping cart into the cramped elevator and hit the “up” button, swearing as it jolted to life.  He removed his hat and wiped his brow, a steady string of profanities preceding him to the doorway of his apartment. 

He left the cart stacked with boards in the hallway and lugged in his new prize possession:  a dark imitation-wood kotatsu table with folding legs.  He hummed as he locked the legs into place and set it in the center of his living room, adjusting it this way and that in front of the loveseat. 

It was not quite the right size or shape, a little on the small side but it would be very comforting when the weather got cold and he could throw a quilt over it to warm himself while watching Friends.

“What’d you find?” 

Dazai leaned over the edge of the hole, squinting down at Chuuya.

“New coffee table.  What’s it look like, dummy?”

“Not bad!  I’m coming down!”

“Oh no you don’t!”  Chuuya set his fists on his hips, glaring up at Dazai.  “You’re staying put.  I’ll be right up.”

“Okay,” Dazai nodded enthusiastically.  “I’ll be waiting <3!”

“Dumbass,” Chuuya muttered under his breath as he headed back to the hallway.  A minute later he was standing in front of Dazai’s apartment. 

“Hello!”  Dazai yanked the door open with a broad smile before Chuuya’s gloved fist could knock.  His expression fell as his eyes landed on the contents of the cart, then the hammer and box of nails in Chuuya’s other fist.  “What’s that for?”

“What do you think?  Wouldn’t want you to fall again and break your stupid neck now, would we?”

“Oh.”  Dazai moved aside to allow Chuuya to enter.  “Where’d you get the boards?”

“Took them from a shelving unit in a second-hand shop.  Could you give me a hand?”  Chuuya took off his mask and stuffed it in his pocket as he crouched down, fitting the first of the boards over the hole.  He nodded in satisfaction.

“Um, sure.”  Dazai ran to the cart in the hallway and grabbed the rest of the boards, setting them down next to Chuuya who had begun to pound nails into the ends to secure them to the floor.  “You think that’ll do?”

“Of course.”  Chuuya finished with the last board and stood, removing his gloves.  He admired his handiwork for a moment, hammer dangling from one curled fist on his hip.  “Go ahead.  Give it a try.”

“Okay.”  Dazai took a ginger pass across the boards, then another.  “Hey, not bad.” 

On the next pass he did a little dance step, then another, than a tap-dance turn.

“Great idea, Chibi!” Dazai bounced up and down happily.  “I think that did the tri-”

With a crash and a shout, followed by a second, larger crash, Dazai disappeared.

“Dazai!”  Chuuya yelled, throwing himself on his hands and knees next to the hole.

“I’m… okay.  I think.”  Dazai looked up dazedly at Chuuya’s pained expression peering down at him.  “Coffee table’s a goner, though.”

“Dammit!”  Chuuya stood and kicked at the hammer and box of nails lying forgotten by his foot.  They clattered down through the hole.

“Ouch!  Chibi stop it!”  Dazai whined from below, throwing up his bandaged arms to protect his face.  “It wasn’t my fault!”

“You wanted the boards to break, you bandaged freak!  So you can keep making my life hell!”

“Maybe,” Dazai responded slowly.  “You think my brain manifested that?”

“Ugh!”  Chuuya looked around Dazai’s empty apartment for something to throw down at the man.  He settled for his own gloves, which earned a yelp from Dazai, then gave up.  He sighed in defeat.  “I’m coming back downstairs.  Just sit still and I’ll make dinner.”

“Yeah I’m not moving,” Dazai assured him, giving a thumbs-up from atop the pile of boards and the wrecked coffee table.  “At least not until I’m sure nothing’s broken.”

Chuuya stomped back to the hallway and down the stairs, ignoring the shopping cart and elevator, a steady stream of expletives following him the whole way. 

It was nearly time for Friends, and nothing more would be accomplished that night.

 

Chapter 4: I'll Be Seeing You

Notes:

I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
- “I’ll Be Seeing You,” Sammy Fain / Irving Kahal

CW: Mentioned animal suffering (off camera)

 

“He’s so annoying!”  Chuuya wailed, his voice dripping with animosity reflected in his hands that grasped at the empty harbor, picturing a neck between them rather than blue water and sky.  “And he acts like it’s completely normal!  Like he’s totally unaware what a freak he is!”

“Mmm,” Albatross commiserated from the other bench.

“I mean…”  Chuuya shoved at the reusable shopping bags with his feet, squinting at the harbor.  “How could he not know it?  Is he that oblivious?”  He promptly answered his own question.  “No, no he can’t be.  Nobody could be that irritating on accident.  So I don’t know what he is.  I’ve been thinking he’s some sort of deeply-committed performance artist.  Or maybe he’s conducting a bizarre social experiment and I’m the test subject.  Because there’s just no way anybody could be like that.”

“For real,” Albatross sympathized.

“Did you know he was homeless before they moved him in upstairs?  Homeless?!”  Chuuya’s blue eyes reflected the cloudless sky, widening in shock as if the revelation was hitting him anew for the first time.  “Wait, not even!  He said he was living in a shipping container!”

“Yeah you mentioned that…”

Chuuya continued on as though Albatross had said nothing.  “How could the government… They can’t do that!  Not without notice!  Like… like a registered sex offender thing.  I should’ve gotten a letter!  Formal notice!  He should’ve been made to go around knocking on doors and introducing himself.  Hi, my name is Dazai Osamu and I’m a certified weirdo.  I’m required by law to inform you that I’ll be living within a thousand feet of you.”

“Absolutely,” Albatross agreed, leaning back on the bench and letting his head loll, rimless sunglasses slipping down on his nose.

“It’s been a week,” Chuuya groused.  “I don’t know how he does it but he’s made it feel like a hundred years.  I haven’t even had a decent jerk session since he fell through the ceiling.  Fell through the ceiling!  I get in the mood, I think about it, and suddenly all I can picture is his stupid face peering down at me through that hole, leering at me!  Him and his stupid shit-eating grin.”

“So go do it in the bathroom,” Albatross sighed. 

“I can’t!  He follows me there, too!  I was in the shower this morning and he started knocking on the door, asking me if I had any toilet paper.  There’s toilet paper all over the apartment!  All he had to do was grab a roll and fuck off!”

“You do seem a little tense.” Albatross raised an eyebrow, glancing over the rim of his sunglasses at the furious redhead.

“You would be, too!  The other day I woke up in the middle of the night and he was just standing there staring at me.  Like a toddler or… or an ax murderer.  With this weird look on his face.  I asked him what the fuck his deal was and he said he just wanted to see what I was doing.  I was sleeping!  That’s what I was doing.  Then he climbed back up through his hole and went back to sleep.  I was up all night after that.  I’m telling you, he’s doing it on purpose.  Like he sits around thinking of ways to drive me crazy.”

“Weird.” 

“And you know what else?”  Chuuya grabbed at some weeds near his knee, yanking them furiously.  “He says he might be bi.  Like I’m supposed to be happy about that or something.  It’s just so… so awkward.  Ugh!”  Chuuya grimaced beneath his mask, his lips twisting at the sour taste of the thought. 

“So he knows you’re gay?”

“Yeah he fucking knows!”  Chuuya threw down a handful of weeds and grabbed for another.  “He’s in my apartment like he owns the place.  And he thinks he’s cool about it but he isn’t.  The other night we were watching Friends-”

“You watch Friends together?”

“Yeah we watch Friends together,” Chuuya snapped back.  “So what?”

Albatross shrugged.

“Anyway we were watching Friends and he was like which one of the guys would you want to bang, and I told him he’s a freak, and he leaned in all close and said I bet it’s Joey.”

“Well, it is Joey, isn’t it?” 

“It is!  But that’s not the point!”  Chuuya gave up on the weeds and stuffed his fists into the pockets of his jacket, scowling.  “Joey is my comfort character.  Was my comfort character.”

“Oh right, your sexual fantasy rolodex guy.”

“That’s right.  And now I can’t even fantasize about him.  Because every time I do I see Dazai instead.  He’s like… he’s like a worm in my brain.  I close my eyes, I try to get into it, and instead of Joey all I can think about is Dazai’s stupid smug face smirking at me and saying,” Chuuya scrunched his eyes up in a caricature of Dazai’s cheery smile and dropped his voice to a sultry whisper, “I bet it’s Joey.”

Albatross chuckled, shaking his head.

“Eh?  What’s so funny?”  Chuuya demanded, looking over at Albatross who was struggling to contain himself.

“I think next time you’re getting into a jerk session you should invite him down to join you.  Solve a lot of problems.”

Chuuya sat stunned and open-mouthed beneath his mask.  Then he lunged forward and ripped up another handful of weeds, launching them at his laughing friend.  The blades of grass fluttered away harmlessly, landing far short of the man on the other bench.

“Oh gross!”  Chuuya exclaimed.  “Do you know how gross you are?  Do you?!”

Albatross laughed.  “Well? Is he hot?”

“Like that’s all that matters.”

“Interesting,” Albatross’s teasing smirk could be heard in his voice.  “You didn’t say no.”

“Shut up.  So he’s not bad to look at.  So what?”

“All I know is, you’ve been talking about him nonstop since we sat down.  I can’t even get a word in edgewise.”

“Yeah well if I had a giant rat infestation that’s all I’d be talking about, too.”  Chuuya crossed his arms stubbornly.  “I wouldn’t… blech.  No way.  Not if he was the last man on earth.”

“Why not? Piano Man and Lippman are hooking up.”  Albatross shrugged.

“They what?!”  Chuuya’s brain short-circuited momentarily at the sudden revelation.  “No way.  They’re both… I mean… They’re not…”

“Guess they are,” Albatross leaned back and crossed his legs in front of him.  “Or actually, who knows?  Who cares?  It works for them.  Seem pretty happy together, too.”

“Oh my god.”  Chuuya sank back into his bench, brow furrowed in thought as he rummaged through every interaction he recalled witnessing between the two Flags, searching for any hints of clandestine romance or occult attraction and coming up empty.  “Since when?  They told you?”

“Couple of runs ago,” Albatross squinted, thinking.  “Maybe three…”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I dunno.  They seemed really shy about it.  And no, they didn’t tell me exactly, but Lippman asked me if on my next run I could pick up a bottle of lube for them.  I told them sure, no judgement.  And since then they haven’t exactly been hiding it.”

“Wow,” Chuuya breathed, struggling with this new revelation.

“Oh, speaking of things picked up on runs,” Albatross changed the subject.  He pointed out the backpack on the bench next to Chuuya.  “I found you something good.  Check it out.”

“Hmm?  Oh.  Oh thanks.”  Chuuya grabbed a strap and pulled the backpack towards him, unzipping it to reveal two bottles of wine jostling against the usual carton of eggs, a bottle of bootleg hand sanitizer and a few other odds and ends.  “Hey, where did you get this wine?  This is really nice.  Not grocery store stuff.”  He rotated the bottle, peering at the label.

“Oh… I came across it.  Keep looking.  There’s more.  Front zipper pocket.”

Chuuya fumbled through the multitude of small pockets, finally revealing a rumpled plastic baggie filled with green buds.  He withdrew it, holding it up to the daylight, eyes widening above his mask.

“Albatross, you’re not going into houses, are you?  You shouldn’t.  It’s dangerous.”

“Why?  You think the roaches are going to get me?”

Chuuya hurriedly stuffed the bag of weed into his jacket pocket and frowned into the backpack, examining the eggs in their clear plastic carton.  “Don’t call them that,” he snapped.  “They’re people.  Or… used to be people.  And it’s not just them… nobody cares about looters anymore in the city, but if you come across a homeowner in the suburbs with a gun who hasn’t turned yet…”

“Nah, don’t worry,” Albatross soothed.  “I’m careful.  And that weed is from one of my chicken guys.  He’s got a greenhouse up on the roof of his apartment building.  Grows it there.  Not bad for an amateur.  It’s pretty sticky.”

Chuuya noticed Albatross had said nothing about the provenance of the wine.  “Still.  Be careful.  All the moving around you do… aren’t you worried you’ll get infected?”

“Not really.”  Albatross looked over his shoulder at the empty park behind him.  “Say, where’s our friend the bicycle cop?”

“Huh?”  Chuuya looked up from the eggs.  “Oh yeah.  Right.  The social distancing guy.  Now that you mention…”

“Not the same without him.  Maybe he found another park to patrol.  Anyway, no I’m not worried I’ll get infected.  Professor K says-”

“Oh please.  You’re not listening to that nutjob on the radio, are you?”  Chuuya rolled his eyes.  “Pssht.  You think you know a guy.  You’re not turning into one of those conspiracy theorists are you, hmm?  The ones who say this was all some government experiment gone wrong?  Got let out of a lab in Suribachi City?”

“I don’t know…” Albatross said slowly.  “I mean… it makes sense.  I think the guy’s an actual scientist.  He seems to know a lot that he shouldn’t.  And the signal… I’ve been all over town, and it does get stronger towards Suribachi City.  I think he’s broadcasting from there.  And it’s where the outbreak started, isn’t it?”

“Do not go into Suribachi.”  Chuuya shuddered, thinking of the posts that had been circulating on social media in the early days, before they’d been taken down.  Strange things.  Really scary things.  How the government round-ups of infected there hadn’t been for quarantine purposes, but extermination.  How the oily plumes of smoke rising from the slums hadn’t been tire fires set by protesters but mass cremations.  How anybody trying to enter or leave had been shot on sight.  And then other posts declaring the previous posts were Ai-generated, spread by the government itself to keep people out of Suribachi for reasons nobody could quite explain.  “Please Albatross, tell me you won’t go there.”

“No, I’m not dumb enough to go into Suribachi.  Nothing there to take, anyway.  But that Professor K guy… I mean think about it:  how come they never found any cure for this thing?”

“It just all happened so fast,” Chuuya parried. 

“It’s because there is no virus.  No virus means no vaccine.  No way to stop it.”

“Albatross, stop.”

“And how come people who were never in contact with anybody else got it?  Did you know that island in Korea, with like one guy on it?  He got it, too.  Way in the early days.  I saw a post about it.”

“Oh sure, and everything you read on the internet has got to be true.”  Chuuya sniffed.  “C’mon.  Next you’ll be swallowing bleach and taking horse de-wormer.”

“Maybe you’re the one thinking everything you read is true.  Don’t you question?  Maybe all these masks and stuff, all this hand-sanitizer and social distancing… maybe it’s all just a big performance.  To keep all of us quiet, think we’ve got some control of the situation.  Keep us from freaking out.  You know, like those buttons on streetlights you can press for a walk signal?  I heard those don’t do shit.  They just make people think they’ve done something, so they’re happier standing there and waiting for the light to turn.”

“Now you’re just being stupid,” Chuuya grumbled.  “Those buttons totally work.  Anyway.  Do you think on your next run you could pick up some more eggs?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Albatross smiled beneath his mask.  “You’ve got another mouth to feed.”

Chuuya grimaced.

“Sure, no problem.”  Albatross got up to go, shouldering a heavy, lumpy duffle bag.  He thought a moment, then opened the bag and pulled out another carton of eggs and set it on the bench he’d just vacated.  “Here you go.  Got plenty of them.  More than I can handle, in fact.  I’ve been so busy… some of the owners have turned, so I’ve been stuck taking care of a few rooftop coops.  If it gets any worse I’m going to have to let some of the chickens go free.  You know, they’re smart creatures.  Sort of like cats or dogs.  They’ve got little personalities and everything.  I hate to think of them left alone up there, suffering.”  He trailed off and silence fell heavy.  “So yeah,” he concluded.  “If you come across anything I can use for chicken feed, pick it up for me, okay?  And hang on to that carton.  They’re getting harder to come across than the eggs themselves.”

“What do chickens eat?”  Chuuya asked, shouldering his own backpack and collecting his shopping bags.

“Anything, really.  Bird seed, dried crickets and bugs, dog kibble…”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Chuuya nodded.  “And thanks.  It… it was good to see you, Albatross.  Good to get out of the apartment and talk to somebody other than the Mackerel.”

“Mackerel?”  Albatross paused. 

“Yeah.  That’s what I’ve been calling him.  You know:  like house guests and fish both start to stink after a couple of days.  And he’s the stinkiest fish there is.”

“Huh.  I see.”  Albatross shifted his duffle and kicked at the stand of the electric scooter he’d hotwired.  “Cute.  You’ve given him a pet name.”

“Hey it’s not like that,” Chuuya protested.  “Not a pet.  The guy’s a pest.”

“Mm-hm.”  Albatross nodded, wheeling the scooter around and lining up with the sidewalk, his duffle balanced on his back.  Then he twisted and pulled his mask down to his chin, grinning at Chuuya.  He winked.  “I still say invite him down to join you.”

“Fuck you, Albatross,” Chuuya replied, watching his friend take off across the empty park. 

“Not me.  Him,” Albatross called back.

Chuuya waited, cheeks flaming and fists clenched at his sides, until the other man was out of sight.   

*

*

Chuuya carefully replaced the bolt cutters into one of his many shopping bags and tossed the padlock aside, analyzing the heavy aluminum shutter for the best and quietest way to open it.  It was the roll-up type.  Meaning it would be noisy, no way around it. 

Decided, he gripped the lower handle in his gloved hand and lifted.

It gave easier than he expected, quieter, and at the halfway point momentum took over.  He released the handle and the whole thing slid neatly into the housing above the doorway to reveal a darkened pet shop.  The front windows displayed clear-sided pens filled with fluffy recycled-paper bedding and Chuuya hesitated, spying a dark lump huddled in one corner.

Here in Japan, when the outbreak started, people had rushed to pet stores and animal charities for companion animals to keep them company during quarantine.  Plus, walking a dog, albeit for a short period, was one of the few allowable outdoor activities.  In China, though…

Chuuya’s heart became noticeable in his chest, audible in his ears and his vision tunneled. 

In China rumors had spread that animals were disease vectors.  He’d heard the news reports of districts locked down where pet stores were common, the storekeepers forbidden from tending to the pets trapped inside.  The whines and cries emanating from those shops had grown weaker and weaker…

Dizziness overtook him.  He hesitated.  He owed Albatross, sure, but maybe he could look elsewhere for chicken feed.  He said they’d eat anything, right?

Against his will he found his eyes drawn to the small dark form in the corner of the pen, half-buried in the bedding.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, he pleaded with himself, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his guts and rising up through the base of his skull to become clammy fingers stroking his scalp.  Don’t look.

With numb hands he pushed the door open, drawn trancelike to the pen and peering in.  If it was dead, at least he’d know for sure its suffering was over… and that was better than not knowing and worrying, right?

He brushed the bedding aside to reveal a well-chewed dog toy in the shape of a squirrel, stuffing protruding from its torn seams.  He sighed in relief but it was several minutes before the sick feeling subsided and his blood pressure receded from his ringing ears.

Then he directed himself to the half-empty shelves. 

Everything was fairly-well picked over, but in the very back he spied bags of wild bird seed next to a rack of colorful feeders.  He paused, listening.  He didn’t know where the light switch was, and that far in the back the afternoon sun shining through the front windows didn’t quite reach.

He crouched, picking up a rubber squeaky-toy from a bin in the center aisle and tossing it into the gloom.  Nothing moved.  No rustling or scurrying noises emanated from behind the few rows of shelving. 

“Hello?” he called, softly.  “Anybody in here?  I’m just taking a few things.  I hope you don’t mind.”

No response.

Satisfied that he was the sole occupant of the shop he strode forward.  He didn’t hurry, but also he moved with purpose.  He grabbed a few bags of seeds, hoping they were the right type, then turned and paused.  There, on a lower shelf, were several bags of puppy chow.  He hefted one, considering the already-heavy bags waiting for him outside the shop, and frowned as he tucked it under his arm.  Feeding chickens was heavy work.  Maybe next time he met up with Albatross he’d ask him to hook him up with one of those hotwired electric scooters. 

He wondered, as he returned to the front of the store and rolled the shutter back down, if Albatross felt emasculated riding that dorky scooter.  The guy had a kick-ass motorcycle – his pride and joy – parked beneath his apartment.  And here he was, tooling around on a scooter.  Which was admittedly quieter and much more practical, but still…

Chuuya rubbed his gloves together, slung his backpack over his shoulders and picked up his bags, trying to figure out the best way to balance them as he made his way back towards home.  He’d swing past the noodle shop and pick up dinner on the way.  Dinner for two, in fact.

Albatross wasn’t anywhere near the only one being forced into doing things he might never have done in the past.

*

“Hey,” the noodle man greeted him, smiling as Chuuya heaved his shopping bags onto the empty counter with a thud.  He eyed the bag of bird seed that slid out.  “You taking up bird-watching?”

“Chickens,” Chuuya responded, rubbing at his aching shoulders.  “Got a friend who collects eggs.”

“Gotcha,” the man nodded.  “So… the usual?”

Chuuya looked up, noticing that, like last time, the man wasn’t wearing a mask.  Instead he was beaming down at Chuuya with his full face exposed.  It was off-putting.  Behind him a portable radio was sitting out on a shelf above the steaming pots of boiling water and broth.  Chuuya could hear a man’s voice, crackly and flat, droning on.

“…artificial intelligence creates the pictures we look at, the music we listen to.  And we do not know the difference.  Billions and billions of data points about the human soul gathered and analyzed in the time it takes me to tell you this, producing songs engineered to appeal, producing pictures that move us and yet we can’t put a finger on why.  We’ve walked through the shadow of the uncanny valley and come out the other side, but are we better for it?  Algorithms select what we read, selecting, in turn, what we think, selecting, in turn, what we feel and what we fear…”

“The usual?”  the noodle man repeated.

“Huh?”  Chuuya realized he’d been staring at the radio.  “Is that… Professor K?”

“Hmm?  Oh, yeah.”  The noodle man turned, reaching for the radio and dialing down the volume.  “I like to listen to him.  Not much else on, you know?  Can’t say I understand what the guy is talking about but it keeps me company.”

“Huh.”  Chuuya fidgeted.  He wished the man would put his mask back on.  He wished he wouldn’t stand so close, leaning over the counter expectantly with the cleaning rag in his fist.  Chuuya was glad when the man turned around to pick up a to-go container.  “I’ll take the usual.  But two of them, please.”

“Oh?”  The man paused from ladling soup.  He set the Styrofoam container down, then picked another one off the stack.  “You got company?  That’s good.”

“Not really.”  Chuuya frowned, although the man couldn’t see.  “It’s an unwilling arrangement.  My upstairs neighbor, he…” 

Chuuya paused.  The whole situation was too bizarre to explain to the noodle man.  My upstairs neighbor fell through a hole in my ceiling and now we watch Friends together and I can’t get rid of him.

“He’s sort of moved in with me,” Chuuya concluded. 

“I still say that’s good.” The noodle man began packaging Chuuya’s order, back still turned.  “A man shouldn’t be alone.”

“Oh I don’t know.”  Chuuya tilted his head, watching a moth fluttering against the hanging light above him in the twilight.  “Being alone might be better.  He gets on my nerves.”

The man grunted, tying off the white plastic bag expertly.  “That was me and my wife.  Twenty-eight years of marriage.  I’m surprised we didn’t kill each other.  I’m sure I got under her skin, too, but… that woman was something else.  No common sense, you know?  The dishes were the worst.  Drove me nuts.  I like to have things neat.  I have to, working this noodle stall and all.  But her… she’d put the dishes away with plates stacked on top of bowls, everything teetering there about ready to fall out of the cupboard.”  He laughed, shaking his head.  “I tried to show her, but she’d get mad at me.  And the utensil drawer!  She’d toss chopsticks in with spoons, everything jumbled together.  We fought about it.  Probably once a month.  For twenty-eight years.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”  Chuuya pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

“Was married, yeah,” the man replied, setting the twice-as-heavy-as-usual carryout bag on the counter.  “She passed away.”

“Oh.  I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Nah, it’s okay.  Happened a few years ago.  Pancreatic cancer.”

“I hear that’s one of the bad ones,” Chuuya said, wincing at the lameness of his reply.  As if any cancer was good…

“Well, she went quick, at least,” the man said, accepting Chuuya’s bills and going through the ritual of counting out change.  “From the time we found out ‘til the time she was gone, maybe two months.  Poof.  Just like that.  Maybe it’s a good thing she went when she did.  So she didn’t have to see all this.  Wonder what she would’ve thought.”

Chuuya had no idea how to respond.  Instead, he took his change from the tray with his head bowed.

“Yep,” the man continued, “it was so fast that for a long time I kept thinking I was seeing her places.  In the kitchen.  Sitting on her side of the couch.  I’d reach out for her in the middle of the night, then remember…”

Chuuya’s hand hovered over his shopping bags, wondering if it would be rude to interrupt the man and say his goodbyes. 

The man chuckled.  “Sometimes I still go into the utensil drawer and mess it up myself.  Don’t know why.”

“That seems… understandable,” Chuuya managed to say.

“Yeah.  Yeah.  As much as she drove me crazy, once she was gone… in a weird way it was those petty annoyances I missed most.  But you know…” The man looked up at a point in the distance behind Chuuya’s head, across the street, his eyes focusing on something.  The expression on his face softened; his eyes lit up in recognition.  “I been seeing her around a lot more, lately.  A lot more clearly, too.  It’s nice.”  The man lifted his hand, dreamily, and half-waved.

Chuuya reached for the carryout bag.  He dragged it towards himself cautiously, shifting his backpack.  He slid everything from the counter, the weight of all of it falling heavy onto his shoulders. 

The man’s eyes didn’t move from whatever he was gazing at so longingly.  A single bead of sweat that Chuuya hoped was from the steaming pots rolled down the man’s temple, unnoticed.

Chuuya turned slowly, seeing an empty alleyway and a streetlight flickering to life.  There was silence, except for the muted mumbling of the radio on the shelf and the bubbling of pots.

“See you around, then,” Chuuya said.

“Sure,” the man replied absently.  “I’ll be seeing you.”

Chuuya rounded the corner out of the alleyway, past the bus stop with the cheerful public health poster peering out from behind the cloudy plexiglass.

 

Report all signs of illness immediately:
-  Fever
-  Delusions
-  Confusion and disorientation
-  Aversion to bright light

 

As soon as Chuuya was safely out of sight of the man he dropped the carryout bag into a trash bin, peeled off his gloves and tossed them in after.

 

*

 

“Hey, roomie,” Dazai greeted him from the couch.  He hopped up, rushing to help Chuuya with the avalanche of bags that he dropped to the floor in the entryway.  “No udon?”  He hustled the bags to the kitchen counter and rifled through them, his enthusiastic smile turning into a moue of exaggerated disappointment.  “And… bird seed?”

“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered, storming past him to the bathroom.

 

 

Chapter 5: Je t'aime (moi non plus)

Notes:

"Je t'aime (moi non plus)" is a song by the great French singer Serge Gainsbourg. It translates to "I love you (me, neither)."

 

By the time Chuuya emerged from the shower, scrubbed pink and changed into a fresh set of comfortable clothes with his old ones sealed into a plastic bag, he had calmed down.

Activity made him feel better.  Easier said than done, given the current state of the world.  But sometimes even the most basic activity can do the trick.  Sometimes all it takes to lift a depression is a good teeth-brushing.  Instant, measurable, positive results.

He glanced over at the man strewn on his loveseat and shuddered.  Dazai was laughing open-mouthed at something on the television as he wiped the salty fingers of one hand on the front of his grubby tee shirt.  The fingers of his other hand were buried in a precious bag of Calbee potato chips Chuuya had managed to find in the break room of a nail salon the looters (or, rather, the other looters) had overlooked. 

It would have driven Chuuya mad doing nothing all day.  From the very first day, lock-down infuriated him.  He flipped and squirmed in his little apartment like a fish in a bucket.  But Dazai seemed utterly content to be sitting on another man’s couch, eating another man’s chips after doing fuck-all for the entire day.

Sighing, he headed into the kitchen pursued by the laugh track of the sitcom Dazai was so avidly enjoying and began pulling out pots and pans and emptying his numerous reusable shopping bags.

Just invite him down, Albatross’s teasing voice rose in his head, unbidden.  Chuuya glanced over at the couch where Dazai was tilted back, upending the empty chip bag into his mouth, and grimaced at the cascade of crumbs he imagined showering down onto his couch cushions.

As the credits rolled Dazai stretched, got up and wandered over to the little kitchen table, eyeing the meal Chuuya was setting out.  

“What’s this?”  He poked at the steaming, tomato sauce-covered blob on his plate curiously.

“Spaghetti omelet,” Chuuya replied, setting out two wineglasses and plopping one of the precious bottles Albatross had given him in the center.  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Not knocking anything,” Dazai smiled knowingly at the wine bottle.  “Speaking of, what’s this? Hoping to get me drunk and take advantage of me?”

Chuuya made an exhausted noise, ignoring him as he rummaged in the utensil drawer for a corkscrew.

“No need for wine.  Just gotta ask.”  Dazai chuckled at the resolute set of Chuuya’s shoulders.  He reached for the wine bottle, pivoting it in his hand to read the lable.  He clicked his tongue appreciatively and let out a breathy whistle.  “Wow, good stuff.  And French.  You do like French things.”

“Hah?”  Chuuya grabbed the bottle away.  He frowned as he pulled the cork and poured two glasses.  “How would you know that?”

“Mm?”  Dazai looked up from the bit of omelet wavering at the end of his fork, one long spaghetti noodle dangling.  “I mean… you’ve got a Serge Gainsbourg CD in one of those boxes.  And that picture of the Eiffel Tower in the bathroom.  So I just figured…”  He shrugged and stuffed the omelet in his mouth, eyes widening.  “Hey, this is really good.”

“Told you so.”  Chuuya looked down at his own plate, sawing into his own omelet until a sudden thought caused him to set his cutlery down with a clatter.  He looked up, frowning.  “Hey have you been going through my things while I’m out?”

Dazai’s chewing slowed. He swallowed.  “Well… just a little.  I’m almost out of bandages.  I was wondering if you had any.  Looks like you don’t, but I did find your box of vibrators under the bed.  Sorry about that.  So if you could pick us up some more…”  He popped another forkful of omelet into his mouth, chewing happily, talking with his mouth full.  “More bandages, I mean.  Not vibrators.  You’ve got plenty of those.”

Chuuya’s right eye began to twitch.  His hand shot out for his wineglass, suddenly desperately in need of a sip, which turned out emptying nearly the entire glass.  He set the glass down and reached for the bottle.

“Dazai, we need to talk about boundaries.  You’re not supposed to be down here while I’m not around.”  Chuuya hacked at his omelet, imaging it was Dazai’s stupid face.

“And maybe pick up some canned crab, too.  That’d be great.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to get canned crab?”

“Oh, well,” Dazai waved his fork.  “You seem so good at finding stuff.  Must be some at a grocery store somewhere?”  

“Sure.  A grocery store.  I’ll just wander in and ask if they can point me to the aisle with the canned crab. By the way: Have you been outside at all since this thing started?!”

“Not really, no,” Dazai mumbled around a mouthful of eggs, noodles and sauce, shoveling still more into his half-full mouth.  He scraped his fork across the plate, collecting up the last bits.  The shrill screech of metal on ceramic made Chuuya’s teeth ache and his fist clench the stem of his wineglass tighter.  “Wow, thanks for dinner,” Dazai smacked his lips appreciatively, pushing his plate forward and picking up his own wineglass, which he raised with a slight bow of the head.  “Compliments to the chef.”

“How are you so… so…”

“So what?”  Dazai took a sip of his own wine and looked up curiously.  Chuuya winced at the marinara mouth-ring left on the glass.  

“So oblivious.”

“Oblivious?  Ouch.”  Dazai got up, wineglass in hand, and headed for the loveseat where Friends was about to start.  “I mean… what do you mean?”

Chuuya refilled his own glass and brought it over, setting it carefully on the storage bin he’d been forced to substitute for a proper coffee table.  Thanks to a certain somebody.  

“You don’t know what I mean,”  Chuuya repeated slowly, seating himself on the couch.  He wished he’d managed to spring for a full-size instead of a loveseat.  “Sort of the definition of oblivious.  This has been a massive, world-wide disaster.  It’s changed everything.  Doesn’t that register on at least-”

“Oh!”  Dazai cut him off with a laugh, pointing at the screen.  “It’s this one!  The one where Rachel gets the turkey stuck on her head!”

“Monica, Dazai,” Chuuya gritted out.  “Monica gets the turkey stuck on her head, not Rachel.”

“Right, right.”  Dazai scooted closer, slipping his arm around the back of the couch perilously close to Chuuya’s shoulders.  Chuuya responded by leaning forward to retrieve his wineglass and settling in the far corner of the couch, away from Dazai’s dangling arm.

“I’m just saying,” Chuuya concluded.  “This whole thing is really a mess.  You don’t seem to care at all.”

Dazai glanced over at him, then turned to face him fully, a broad smile lifting the corners of his lips.  

“What,” Chuuya asked suspiciously.

“You’re all pink.  It’s cute.”

“I’m…?”  Chuuya watched in horror as Dazai leaned in, smirking, reaching up a slow finger towards his face.  Then booped his nose.

“Alcohol hits you fast, huh?  You look really sexy with your cheeks all flushed.  I think you are trying to take advantage of me!”

“Dammit, Dazai!”  Chuuya squirmed away from him and leapt from the couch.  “Don’t you ever give up?!”

“Okay!  Sorry!  Sorry!  Please, sit back down.”  Dazai caught him by the wrist, a pleading pout on his face, and tugged at him.  “Here, see?”  He brushed potato chip crumbs from the cushion, clearing a space.  “Let’s just watch Friends.”

Chuuya allowed himself to be soothed back onto the couch, sighing as Dazai comfortably man-spread until their knees touched.  

“I do care, by the way,” Dazai added as the opening credits came on screen and the characters splashed through the fountain.  

“Like how?”  

“Like… um…”  Dazai squinted at the screen.  “I don’t know.  You start.  I’d rather hear about you.”

“I think about Paris,” Chuuya blurted out, cursing the wine for loosening his tongue into spilling something so private to the doofus on the couch next to him.  Dazai was right.  Alcohol did get to him fast.  “I wonder if I’ll ever get to see it now.”

“Definitely be a lot less crowded,” Dazai mused.

“And Thanksgiving,” Chuuya forged ahead, ignoring Dazai’s crass comment.  “This is the Thanksgiving episode.  Will there be another one?  What would it look like?”

“That’s an American holiday.  We don’t even celebrate it in Japan.”

“Seeing friends.”

“We’re watching Friends right now.”

Chuuya’s right eye once again began to twitch.  He desperately needed a refill on his wine.  “No.  Real-life friends.  My friends.  Don’t you even have any?  Do you not think about any of this at all?”

“Not really.”  Dazai twisted on the couch, eyes following Chuuya as he stormed to the kitchen, straight as an arrow to the bottle still sitting out on the table next to Dazai’s dirty plate.  

Chuuya looked up from his careful pour, disbelief plastered on his expression as he beheld Dazai’s shaggy head peering over the back of the loveseat.

“Unbelievable.”  He shook his head in defeat, returning to the loveseat.

“Come on.  Show’s on.”  Dazai patted the couch cushion next to himself, dark eyes glowing up at him affectionately.  

Maybe it was the wine, but Chuuya suddenly felt limp.  He allowed himself to but pulled back onto the loveseat.  Friends flashed to a commercial break, with the usual blandly perky music playing over a soothing waterfall and the usual admonitions to maintain social distancing and practice social hygiene, concluding with the words “We’re All in This Together” remaining on the screen.

“You’re so clueless,” Chuuya eventually muttered into his wineglass.  “It’s actually impressive.”

“Thanks.  So…” Dazai hesitated.  “What was it like for you?  In the beginning?”

“Hm?”  Chuuya looked over at him tipsily.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean… how did this start for you?”

“Same as anybody, I guess.  You were there, too, weren’t you?  Or did you fall out of my ceiling after all this happened?”

“Sure.  I’m a visitor from the ceiling dimension who just crash landed here a few weeks ago.  Humor me.  Talk to me.  I want to hear your experience.”

“Huh.”  Chuuya took another sip, wondering if he was approaching the tipping point from buzzed to trashed.  Dazai’s sudden, intense interest was… disorienting.  But nobody had ever asked him this and suddenly it felt good to spill it all.  Like finally popping a painful pimple that’s ripened.

“I suppose… I mean… it all started with a few reports of people getting sick.  The way zombie movies all start, except in real life.  Just vague things in the news.  Nothing to worry about.  Some sort of new flu, right here in Yokohama.  But it was nothing serious.  And that’s how it started.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at work.  They told all of us to wear masks, use hand sanitizer.  Then thy put strips of tape on the floor in checkout lines to remind us not to stand too close to each other.”  Chuuya paused, a feeling of dull dread creeping over him at the memory of improvised strips on the floor being replaced by professionally-printed decals every two meters.  How quickly; how easily everybody had adapted.  

“It didn’t work,” he continued.  “Things spread fast and… it got weird.  There was all sorts of stuff on social media that wasn’t in the news.  And Yokohama was ground zero.  Hospitals filled up.  Suribachi was quarantined.  Anybody who could got out of town to the countryside.  I kept going to work, me and my friends, but here and there a person would call off sick and there were rumors that it got them.  Finally, when Yokohama was quarantined, we were all told to go home.  And that’s when it got really bad.”

Chuuya closed his eyes.  The couch beneath him was spinning ever so slightly, like a boat with no paddle being turned in a current.  The familiar whine in his ears that he sometimes felt out of nowhere grew.  The laugh track on Friends faded in the background.

“People ran to buy things.  Stores at first, then online.  Then online orders stopped being allowed through the cordon.  The government said they’d take care of our supplies for us, but as word spread that the sickness was now outside of Yokohama everything stopped making sense.  I-”

Chuuya realized his palms were sweating.  He set his wineglass down, trying to collect himself as he rubbed his palms over the knees of his sweatpants to dry them.  

“They started to say it came from a lab.  Then they said it hadn’t started in Yokohama at all, but was sent through radio signals from the mainland.  All sorts of crazy things.  That it wasn’t even a virus.  People started getting upset.  Morgues filled up, hospitals had to turn people away.  There were riots against the cordon, the military was called in…”

Chuuya reached up, massaging at his temples as the whining sound grew louder.  Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to talk about this.  But Dazai was listening in silence and Chuuya couldn’t help but fill that void.  Anything to fill it.

“They took Doc first.  Anybody with medical experience was sent to the hospitals.  And we never heard from him again.  I hadn’t seen the Sheep – my friends in Suribachi – since it was locked down but after the slums caught fire and the internet was cut I never heard from them, either.  The night they bombed the bridge me and the rest of the remaining Flags stood on the roof of my building and watched.  And then we all went home.”

“Huh.”  Dazai nodded solemnly.  “Who are the Flags?”

“My friend Albatross who I get the eggs from.  Doc, and Iceman and Lippman.  Piano Man.  We all worked together.”

“Oh yeah?  Where?”

“At the Mori Corp buildings.  Doc worked in research, Lippman was in media.  Albatross was in engineering, Iceman was custodial and me and Piano Man worked the mail room.  I was applying for a promotion to a desk job when this thing hit.”   

“No kidding!”  Dazai suddenly brightened, sitting upright and slapping Chuuya’s knee.  Chuuya jumped.  “I could’ve been your reference for that promotion!  That’s my dad’s company!”

“What?”  Chuuya narrowed his eyes, perplexed.  “You mean he worked there, too?”

“No!”  Dazai beamed.  “It’s his company.  My dad is Mori Ougai!”

On the forgotten television screen a giant turkey was doing a shimmy wearing a huge pair of giant novelty sunglasses.  The studio audience burst into uproarious laughter.

“Are… are you fucking kidding me?”  The pink flush on Chuuya’s face bloomed into red.  His ears prickled.

“Nope!”  Dazai looked ecstatic at the connection.  “My dad’s really Mori Ougai!”

“And… and you were living in a shipping container?”  Chuuya’s voice was low, almost menacing.

“Yeah.”  Dazai nodded happily.  “Why?”

“Fuck you.”  

“Huh?”

“Seriously.”  Chuuya stood, wobbling as the wine rushed to his head and left his fingers tingling with the sudden, urgent need to slap Dazai’s perplexed face.  “Fuck you, Dazai.”

“Wh-... why?”

“Because… Because…”  Chuuya whirled towards the kitchen, storming over to the table and upending the wine bottle into his glass, only to find a few drops left.  He stomped to the recycling bin and slammed the empty bottle in.  “...Because people were dying.  My friend Doc is missing, probably dead.  Iceman is missing.  The old lady is gone.  The kaiju family is gone.  Tennis ball guy is gone.  They’re all probably dead, too.  The noodle guy is sick and he’ll be next and they blew up the fucking bridge and made us stand on strips of tape and make our own hand sanitizer and this whole time you were Mori Ougai’s fucking kid!”

“I’m not following.”  Dazai got up from the couch and rushed to the kitchen, following Chuuya who paced back and forth, fists balled at his side.  

“You!”  Chuuya spun, angling an accusatory finger at Dazai’s stunned face.  “You are the worst person I’ve ever met!”

“I am?  Why?  It’s not like I caused any of that…”  Dazai backed away slowly from the enraged redhead until his backside hit the counter.  

“You could have gotten on a helicopter!”  Chuuya leaned into him, tears in his eyes, trying his hardest and failing to loom over the taller man.  “You could’ve fucked off to a private island with your dad, or ridden this thing out on a luxury yacht.”

“I didn’t want to,” Dazai cringed away sadly, Chuuya’s wine soaked words hitting him square in the face.  “I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Why the fuck is that!?”

“Because,” Dazai placed a gentle finger beneath Chuuya’s chin, slowly lifting it until their eyes met.  “I’d rather be here, with you.”

For a moment the only sound in the apartment was the forgotten sitcom.

Chuuya felt his lips peel back from his teeth as the whining noise in his ears hit a fever pitch and his vision began to swim.  The tingling in his right fingers was unbearable and he curled them into a fist, an uncontrollable impulse building in them.

The punch wiped Dazai’s smile clean off his face.

“Owww!  What the hell, Chibi!”  Dazai’s own hand flew to his reddened cheek.  “It’s true!  If none of this had happened we wouldn’t be together now, drinking wine and watching Friends!  But, uh, I think you’ve had too much.”  He rubbed his cheek appreciatively, scooching his butt up to sit on the counter.  “You’ve got a really great right hook, by the way.  Got any ice in that fridge?”

“No.  No no no no.”  Chuuya grabbed Dazai by the shoulders and yanked him down off the counter.  “No you don’t.  You get the fuck out of here.”  

“What?  Are you serious?  Hey!”  Dazai’s arms flailed as he found himself propelled roughly back towards the living room.

“I mean it.”  Chuuya caught the kitchen table with one hand as he passed.  Dirty plates and cutlery clattered to the floor as chairs screeched and toppled on the tile.  “You slither right back up that hole!”

“You don’t mean it!”  

“I do.”  Chuuya set the table beneath the hole and returned for one of the fallen kitchen chairs.  He hefted it on top of the table and grabbed Dazai by the scruff of the neck, shoving him towards the precarious tower of furniture.  

“Well…”  Dazai eyed the chair and the hole above it morosely.  “I can tell where I’m not wanted.”

“That’s right.”  Chuuya crossed his arms and tossed his head, puffing his bangs out of his eyes.  “I don’t ever want to see you again.  And I don’t care what the landlord says.  Tomorrow I’m finding another apartment, even if I have to live with one of the cockroaches as a roommate.  It’d still be preferable to you.”

“Fine.  I get it.”  Dazai swung one knee up on the table, then righted himself, wobbling for balance.  Next he stepped onto the chair and reached up, grabbing for the edge of the hole in the ceiling.  “Last chance.”  He looked back down, hopefully.  “After Friends, Cheers is on…”

Chuuya responded by kicking one of the table legs.  Too late, he realized he was wearing only socks and slippers.  He hissed in impotent fury as he felt his toe crack against the hard wood.  

“Just fucking go, Dazai,” he spat.

He watched until Dazai’s skinny backside disappeared into the darkness above, then took down the chair and limped with it back to the kitchen.  Next was the table, screeching across the floor.  He didn’t even bother picking up the plates. 

With his head spinning and his thoughts jumbled he turned off the television and all the lights and fell into bed, tossing and turning as it spun beneath him.  He cursed out loud and thrashed in his sheets, holding back a whimper as impotent tears again threatened to spill over.

“Chuuya?  You okay?” Dazai’s concerned voice wafted through the hole in the ceiling.  “Want me to come down?”

“Shut the fuck up, stupid Mackerel,” Chuuya shouted back, pulling his pillow down tight around his ears so he wouldn’t hear any further sounds from the man above him.  “Do whatever you want.  Die, for all I care.  Just as long as you stay up there.”

It was a while before sleep claimed him.