Chapter Text
Red hair flattened in sheer relief, elbows grazing the cold gum on the sidewalk while the pitter-patter of the chilly February drizzle applauded him. Salarymen eyed him, wary, crossing the asphalt as a horde of umbrellas blocked the sun — trundling right over the grate where his keys and knuckles were dangling — as the nightmare of the last five seconds left him. Reki Kyan rolled off the blacktop.
“Playing in traffic again?” Shokichi chided.
Freckled fists slipped the phone back under the rungs — learning nothing — chestnut leering at him from sewer-jail. Reki was lucky. Shokichi Oka, new regional manager, was only mostly a hardass: generous enough to trust him with their old haunt, if not generous enough to cut him a break.
Except once , he beamed. Reki’s tongue poked as he shook the keyring at the facetime, girded screen craning towards DopeSketch’s new glass door.
“Sorry,” the frontman piped, “couldn’t hear you over the sound of me running shit.”
“Into the ground?”
Reki scoffed. Bandaged fingers flew to his ribs (which, secretly, stung.) The mechanic’s thumbpad wiggled over the power button, golden eyes rolling, until Shokichi’s grin dipped.
“You’re doing fine, Reki,” his mentor pierced. Nickel rustling froze. “Your worst critic is you.”
Vibrato echoed through the daylight. The mechanic’s jaw leadened, teeth sticking. Plip, plip. Beats passed, as full and fragile as the morning rain.
“And Sketchy,” Reki swallowed.
He heard a grainy snuffle as the fox stared into the camera, knocking his boss’ phone stand over. Shokichi’s bent nose bridge hovered back into frame, smile crooking. “And Sketchy.”
Ease sunk though the mechanic’s shoulders, brain defused. A gale of morning wind plumed, chilling Reki to the bone as his hood rumpled at his neck. FLICK. A sting at his earshell. Blunt nails pulled free a scrap of bright paper. Confetti flitted into the air, snapping at his damp clothes, millions of neon butterflies dancing around the potted palm trees.
Reki sat up, camera inhaling the fluttering colors. “What’s the party for?”
Stiffly, his employer shrugged. Brass crinkled; the fox and his confidant disappeared in the crook of Reki’s shoulder, fluorescents thrumming to life as he disarmed the security. Outside, the squall sharpened, the breeze defied by two rebellious silhouettes. Ollies erupted as they skidded around the bend, the teens bouncing off of their skateboards, snatching their trucks in midair to barrel in helmet-first. Little rainbow cards surfed in their tailwind as the hooting part-timers crashed into the displays, shouting emphatically about Tony Hawk, misshapen IDs splotching across their hot-pink polos. (No matter how long, or how loudly they worked, Reki’s recall was horrible.) The redhead leaned on the storefront as the brothers blazed by, still puzzling at the vibrant cardstock.
“Guess we’ve got skate royalty,” Reki loafed.
In the corner of his eye, Shokichi’s massive grimace disappeared under his rapidly-descending thumb, headband twisting to join the opening crew.
Water raced itself down the windowsills as chirps warred between the cicadas and toads. Stars peeked from between the palm leaves to bounce soft whites off of muddy potholes, mother Earth abuzz on a Saturday night. The street was barren, deserted in the last hour of their shift; that was, of course, when all things in customer service went wrong.
For ninety minutes, Reki had manned the counter in peace. Grease fiddled and spilled across his fingertips, shop empty and toothpick twitching, knuckle-deep in a newly buffed axle. Ding. The chimes.
“Welcome to DopeSketch,” Reki piped, squinting at some beat-up bearings, “how can I help you?“
It didn’t occur to him that the customer didn’t respond. Only when the spent hardware tinked to the countertop, sticky saltwater smudging across fibercloth, did he realize how silent the store had become. Quiet took him out of the groove; filled his itching brain and scorching hands with sparks that festered until they paralyzed him whole. The mechanic slipped his hair out of his headband, spine popping subtly as he stretched, the tan columns of his neck and shoulders exposed. Yoga. Zen.
“Hey, man,” He softened. “I can’t fix your problem if you don’t tell me what—“
As the redhead’s shoulder crested his eye level, pinewood slipped from his lips. Frost-tousled hair swooped past a long face. Pale cheekbones, backlit by the moon, stood as tall and bright as he remembered them, wide eyes sparkling like snowfall. No; not like snow — Reki’s throat snapped, in dread — it was Snow. Trimmed nails peeled at the Canadian’s varsity coat, hovering at the cuffs of his wet dress shirt; and for the first time in ten years, the phantom breathed.
“Reki?”
The ginger locked up. Oil slicked across his fingers, stomach lurching like wheels on grass. Static clung, teeth mulch, fire ants coursing covetously to freedom through each muscle and pore. Peach fuzz stood, Icarus scorched by the sun.
Langa Hasegawa sighed, warm and full-chested. Linen clung, smile like fresh peppermint. “It is you.”
Reki’s voice squirmed in his frog-jammed throat.
This can’t be real. He thought he left this life behind a decade ago, when fresh spring rays beat on him, pollen dusting his hakama, commencement ceremony passing in a daydream as his ears fluttered at the gossip on the wind. ‘Langa abroad.’ Sugar had swelled on his teeth, words like freedom. He wanted that taste back , wanted time itself to bend bitterly, because this could not be real.
Converse scuffed, wintergreen approaching. Gooseflesh needled. Would Langa run, jump, crash atop him, laughing as he crushed him like soda cans on a bench? Would he tug at him, seep into his bones, drug him with hope, whisper him sweet promises while ripping out his heart?
CRACK. Streets lit up under the storm. A wave of thunder snapped uglier memories to their tongues, thick and drowning. He watched Langa’s grin shrivel and fall.
Remember? We aren’t a good fit anymore.
Leagues underwater, Reki spied the anxious swipe of Langa’s tongue. Freckled jaws parted without a sound. Drenched bluesteel dissected him, tension dripping, creasing teal brows. Clock hands ticked. The specter swallowed.
“You own DopeSketch?”
Stale wind stirred his throat. Suddenly, clinking brass pierced the disquiet. The chatter in the back stopped. Two curious heads poked around the corner, paper nametags crinkling against the storeroom door. Prickling skin snapped back to life, frustration simmering like coals. Callused fingers curled around the counter edge. “Kids,” Reki hissed.
Langa paled. Confused snorts seeped from his charges, who were still eavesdropping, and for whom Reki was glad he was practicing restraint. The redhead mimed a swift cut across his jugular. Dark eyes rolled in unison, the twins retreating, door sealing with the urgency of drying paint. Meanwhile, the expat bored into him, oceans hanging on the edges of their seats. Band-aids gripped woodgrain. Black plastic scratched. Something ignited in Langa’s uncomfortable shift, and Reki realized he’d been waiting for an answer. Smoldering lips twitched, delighted to deny him the satisfaction.
The Canadian swallowed, rubbing a bare ring finger. He peeked over the register. Reki subtly shifted his work gloves further down his knuckles, puddles pooling at the counter aggravatingly while icy numpad rubber slicked under the mechanic’s fingertips. “What do you want?”
Sapphires snapped to him, watery. Langa’s throat bobbed, sweat-sheen flickering as pink darted across chapped skin. “To talk.”
Reki locked the tray. The exact moment Langa saw — key snapping sideways, pulse spiking — was priceless. Capped shoulders collided as Reki skirted for the front door, drawing up a slab of driftwood; DopeSketch’s custom placard, lovingly graffitied ‘closed’, was halfway to the door hook before his forearm was wrenched hard. Old fractures twinged, the repairman jolting.
Langa’s gaze glassed, as stark and blind as snow. “Reki,” he begged.
Balmy fists tightened. Tendons twisted, thrashed; magma shot through Reki’s eardrums, lungs aflame, rugburnt radius screaming.
“GET — OFF — !”
CRACK. Thunder burst. Sliding screeched as Langa stumbled, backpack clinging to his ribs, hand nursing his clavicle and eyes huge. Clinks of woodchips-on-concrete reached Reki’s brain, and swelling adrenaline froze, ice in a gutter. Blood pooled at the splinters in Reki’s palms, placard snapped, its teeth bared like fucked up caltrops while his heartbeat pounded in his chest, throat sandy. Springs creaked. Silhouettes stared at them from the back, shock clear in two small pairs of eyes. Oh fuck, Reki retreated, frost trickling through his whole body, dropping the scrapped two-by-four.
Ceruleans reddened raw, thin lips quivering. In the humorless silence, Langa shifted off his backpack, pulling out shattered maplewood.
“Repairs,” Langa scraped, “for our board?”
The hothead stiffened as the chipped corpse was offered. Custom wheels, asphalt-bitten and colorless, spun listlessly. Yeti fur, too, had faded with age, marred by a ripe new split down the middle. Their baby. Summer soda spiraled to his taste buds, pressing his tear ducts. Hazels wavered, burning holes in porcelain cheeks, butterflies and bile racing. Pleas of innocence — of innocent sickness — vyed in his head until their fattened sparks consumed it whole. Of course this was it. He had something he wanted. Okinawa was a skaters’ paradise: Langa could have gone to anyone, anyone, and still singled him out. Uninvited. To make Reki his pit crew.
Dew swallowed back into silent screams, infernos birthing and snuffing the supernovas on Reki’s tongue. In one sizzling breath, all of the fight wrung out of him, like a long-suffering party balloon.
“It’s cool,” traitorous lips nursed.
Langa stiffened. Cuticles wrapped in his sleeves. “Really?”
If you’ll get out of my life? Anything.
“Rush jobs are double,” the ginger’s teeth sank. Disappointment dimmed a bony face while the mechanic bit his tongue.
Hesitation. Langa fished for his wallet. The tall stranger carded through some yen before handing Reki half in a neat fold. The repairman blinked, goodwill shallowing, and motioned for more. A crushed pout. I’m not responsible for your shitty math, Reki wriggled.
Change plinked into a scarred palm. “Does that cover it?”
Reki swiped an order ticket, inking it up. It tore from the pad, handed to the expat face-down as Reki flicked numbly through the stack of bills. Paper crinkled. Sneakers stuck, fingers slipping into his overcoat. Shaking.
“I’ll be going,” Langa mumbled, eyes pooling at the confetti on the floor.
Their shadows veiled the storefront. Monsoons pelted the sidewalks, warping the air-beaten streetlights, tall shoulders blocking the moonlight as converse stalled on the precipice. Stout calves shuffled, itching to be home free. Finally, Reki ushered him out, hemp string knotted awkwardly around the sign’s unbroken half. POP. Wood dropped. Hinges creaked as teal bangs lashed, pale hand jamming open the last sliver of the door.
“I’m — I’m sorry," Langa choked.
Chimes stopped their descent, dangling from the string above the lever. Langa’s neat nailbeds curled, trembling on the wall. Half-lidded, Reki slid his own palm from the handle to the doorframe, so close he could lace their fingers — the Canadian gasping — before he slapped Langa’s knuckles away.
“See you Monday,” the mechanic iced, flipping the deadbolt.
Rosy scleras shone through the plexiglass. The redhead slicked his sweaty headband back, busied with the pop-art on the sill; his nose wrinkled when Langa’s silhouette finally vanished from behind the posters. Through torn stickers, Reki watched the drenched sports coat recede. Fuck. DopeSketch would be lucky if all it got was one star. Litigation? Yeah, Shokichi was going to kill him. Thunder rumbled; when he looked up, Langa was gone. As his foot turned, crumpling roused. Reki bit down. Carefully, the mechanic fished Langa’s receipt out of the entryway.
Bleeding cursive scrawled out a number. 'Talk to me'.
Soda coursed across his tonsils, skull spinning. White noise drowned out all sound as the grainy Yeti baseboard circled in grooves around his thumb. Fingerprints sanded. It’s funny; if not for the band-aids, he wouldn’t know these hands belonged to him. He couldn’t feel a thing.
Vaguely, the stereo faded on, something by Nirvana. A pinch at his bicep. One of the part-timers turned, the older one, industrial-chunk headphones lounging across beachy brown waves. Careless grunge poured from around his skull, undercutting hawkish mahogany. The blonde idled behind, dark irises gigantic, as low, stringy shoulders pretended to sweep, clinging to the broomstick like a liferaft. The brunette lowered a stony arm.
“Sir?”
The kids’ stinking-loud fear mollywhopped him.
“Hey, guys,” Reki coddled. The eldest’s nostrils flared, supervisor flinching at his own sickly-sweet inflection — like waving candy at children, not leveling with teenagers. Course-correct, the repairman coughed. “What’s on your mind?”
New scratches blemished the Green Day sticker on his ear cup. “Never seen you snap.”
Oh, Reki sucked in a breath. A future resignation.
Incisors chewed his lip, minding the vessels under his skin, the cloudy half-memories he’s shared during clock-out. “He’s an exception.”
Brown lashes feathered in recognition. Numbers crunched in his head — then muscles unwound, headphones lowering to share a blank look with his brother, who shot an anxious glimpse from where he was guiltily dusting aged streamers. He cleared his throat. “Is he coming back?”
Like clockwork, Reki saw the blonde catastrophize. Sirens. Cuffs. Cops at the door.
“It’s not like that,” Reki hitched, missing the jump of his teens’ eyebrows. “We’re — old friends.”
Furtive glances passed through the part-timers, quicker than before. The short one adjusted his beanie, mop of dyed blonde disappearing under his crown. “For real?”
His twin's lip twitched.
“Let’s close early.”
He thanked his lucky stars that his kids — both of them, even the brighter one — eased up for the remainder of their shift. It was just after seven by the time Reki re-emerged from the dumpster lobby, the gristle of hard labor flecked away by the rain. Reki propped his heel for the door as he fussed with his security code post-it, hearing the kids snap on their helmets. Twenty beats later, there was a distinct lack of wheels. When he looked up, they were loitering a couple feet in front of him, trucks dangling in baby-smooth hands, name tag fuzz ripped from their polos. A jolt, heartbreak, washed over Reki.
“Guys—”
Plop. Cotton enveloped him, a flood of Axe deodorant making his eyes water. Mortified chuckles broke from the ginger as he patted the brothers’ backs, in total resignation.
“Alright,” he warmed. “That’s enough.”
The part-timers pulled back, gazes frighteningly kind, as the tallest noogied the shit out of Reki’s mussed locks. “Take care, man,” he saluted, jaunting after platinum hair rapidly disappearing into the night.
Rolling plastic ricocheted across the empty street, and the space filled with a warning rumble. Clouds’ keyholes flickered. Doorchimes jangled testily as Reki idled, drawing his eye to the shattered board.
He dragged himself back to the counter, hands fishing through his pockets to shove the bills and reciept in the register. Drawers snapped back with a sickly-sweet ka-ching as Reki grimaced at the woodchips flecking off of the Yeti. If it could talk, it’d groan in pain — no, that wind through his enamel was definitely him. But he’d already taken his money. Langa paid upfront, like everyone else. Needed help, like everyone else. Would his kids say ‘no?’
Reki stripped his gloves, staring at his pale ring finger, tapping. He was thinking resin — and a healthy dose of grip tape.