#yoshida sueko

[kisskunimi]

𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢

kunimi akira wordc; 8k+ cw; 1970s!au, post-war!au, soldier!au, mention of unrelated violence, mature and degrading language, suggestive moments, reader is a sex worker, !shinjū - love deaths!

if you are not familiar with the story, please take the warnings seriously. based on the short story Kamāra shinjū by Sueko Yoshida.

Ⅰ

In the dead of night, from somewhere across the river, a clarinet. It fills the silence that is left behind the steps of men in uniform, lately outings solidly cemented in it’s rhythm. With your hands wrung tight in your jacket, vice like, you soak in the cold. The cobbled paths of Osaka are covered in a light layer of powdered white, crackling softly under the feet of a passerby. Your fingers are red, numb, with only your hard bones to peek through the hardened skin, and with these clumsy touches you drop open your jacket to fall around your elbows.

This way your shoulders and chest are almost entirely bare, and though you should be used to it by now, there’s a part of you, small and evergreen, that probably will never. Another set of soldiers passes under the lowly light of the theater building, trampling the last remains of cherry blossom with little care. The men are warm as they pass you by, stern in the face but with the playful smell of tobacco and whiskey to carry behind them.

You smile, as you look up at one of them, taking his slowed steps as a certain involvement. “Good evening, Sirs. Can I help you tonight?” The blond with a mustache, broadly built and towering above you, looks you up and down once, then twice, his eyes shaped with a hardness that most men have. The jazzy music seems to blend into the distance until is merged with the silence. You try to get rid of the shivers of your body, and give your most charming smile. “One night is only 20$ for soldiers.” Lies. One night is a fifty for any other girl here, soldier or not. But you don’t get to be picky, working so far outside the professional district.

“You speak English quite well for a foreign whore,” the other smiles, teeth bared with a viciousness resembling a rabid animal, “but not tonight, little mouse.” His dark brown hair is shiny with pomade, slacks held up by tan suspenders. His words don’t sting anymore.

You just pout and blink from under your lashes, hiding your shaky hands between your thighs in hope for a little bit of warmth. The blond soldier stares for a little longer, blatant eyes gliding over your chest and legs, before he slides his hand into his pocket. From out of the black uniform appears an old, red box.

“Would you like a smoke?” he asks, placing a cigarette between his own lips smoothly. His voice is heavy, thick with some kind of European accent, you’re not sure which one. In the last years, many a countries have deployed their soldiers here, though most of them American. They carry stories of cities bigger than life, buildings higher than the sky itself and though you know you won’t, you wish to see them some day. His rough fingers reach over to you, taking your hand in his.

“No, Sir,” you reply quickly though, tracing the cobbles of the road with the tip of your foot. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, calling for attention. The skin rough on your own.

“You should head farther up the street, girl. That’s where all the lovely ladies hang out. And that’s where all the soldiers get out of the bars.” He drops your hand to squeeze your shoulder instead, and puffs a cloud of white smoke into the dark night sky. With some more gazes at your thinly veiled body, he takes a step back. You know this, of course, it’s hardly your first time out here. But lately, the men have been getting both more scarce and pickier, forcing you to drop your prices lower and lower.

“Come on, François. We’re going to be late if we don’t keep going. I won’t have Nakayama show us up on yet another thing,” a swift grimace your way, “definitely not for the cheap price of a twenty.” He smacks the blond’s shoulder, and laughs then. “Move out, Sergeant.” The taller man gives a short nod at his friend in reply, waves you a slight goodbye, and turns on his heel.

The two saunter down the street with obnoxious story telling of the brunet ringing behind them. The lights twinkle in the darkness, bright to dim over and over. You huff and roll your eyes when they disappear behind the corner, watching the warm air from your lungs warp into clouds. Your jacket is pulled closed again, shaking like a reed as you look around. The streets are too lonely here, tonight.

It’s not your night, you feel it already. You glance behind you to peek at the clock in the facade of the building, and take a breath. A quarter past three already. Shit. Deciding swiftly, you wrap your jacket tightly around your body, and start walking the opposite way. Your heels tap on the street, mixing up the music in the background. You run the back of your hand under your eyes swiftly, before crossing the street, as a car speeds by on the next lane.

You pass some civilians and another set of soldiers, drunk and jovial, and come to a halt at the tram stop. The old faces of the houses here have their charm, you think, wishing just a second that you could see them from the eyes of just a visitor. Someday, maybe.

The tram makes a blaring, rattling noise at it comes to a stop. You get on quickly, ignoring the blatant looks of men and women alike. You could probably try in Naha today, hoping there’s more people there on a cold day like this. You take a seat, settling as the vehicle starts moving again, metal cold against your thigh. You only have a couple thousand yen left. Hopefully you’ll make it through tonight, and make at least a little bit of money. Otherwise, it’ll seem like a very cold, long winter.

You pass by men in business suits at a swift pace, almost blowing the top hats off their heads, which makes you smile. It might be a sad, lowly night, but at least the blurred streaks of lights in the distance are pretty.

You arrive in the next district quicker than you expected, and jump out to cross the street with a giggle, ignoring the honking of an angry driver. The smell of hot dogs fills the street here, a few people lining up on the sidewalk. 

 group of a dozen soldiers mingle under the roof of the bar. But your eyes instead glide to the man standing a little bit outside the group instead, taking him in as he chugs the last of his beer, and leaves his bottle on the windowsill of a neighboring house. His black hair is slightly wet from the snow, and his uniform hangs open to reveal a white undershirt.

You’ve always found it easier to approach men when they are alone. The cold wind sends you on your way, heels tapping on the smooth stone, under the gazes from the few other strangers. At least you’re still being noticed. That’s a good sign. As you take a deep breath, a memory wraps around your mind like a warm scarf.

It was a night like this one indeed, when you met him. When you get close enough, the stranger’s eyes flick up to you, eyebrows rising slightly. Though you wish to drift away into thought, you’ve got more important things to do. So you push any memories to the back of your head, and drop your jacket open as you come to stand next to him. “Evenin’,” the black-haired, young man mumbles, turning his head to look at you better. You smile, and nod at him, before leaning into the wall.

“Good evening indeed.” His mouth twitches with a smile, as you purse your lips. “Want to go somewhere with me, soldier?” He waits for a second, until another late car passes and after he’s glanced at the men further up the street. You wonder if he’s sober enough to understand why you came up to him in particular. It’s not like he’s that handsome. His hand is stuffed into the pocket of his creased slacks.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks, dark eyes gliding down your neck to your chest.

You giggle, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “To make love.” A few years ago, these words would have made you a blushing, stuttering mess. But sadly, you’re not a few years ago now, and life isn’t as easy as you prayed it would be. When you look over your shoulder at him, you can see his slight clumsiness of movements, the slight slowness that alcohol delivers you after three o’clock.

“I’m broke,” the soldier admits, and for one, you believe. It seems everyone is, these days.

You sigh, but lean into him a little, grabbing his arm softly. This is the tricky part, you know this from experience. If you’re too eager, you’ll scare him away. But if you’re too slow, he might just slip through your fingers. His muscles are hard, proof of a hard day of work. “Twenty dollars,” you bring out, hoping with every fiber this man realizes what that number even means. It’s less than half of what most girls on the street are used to asking. A steal, in his eyes. And for you, well, what choice do you have? You’re broke.

And indeed, the man’s eyes glide up to yours at that, his eyes shining with sudden interest. “Twenty?” he repeats, slightly disbelieving.

With another look at the men to your left, catching the eyes of one of them, who gives you a sleazy grin, you nod. “Yes. Let’s go get warm, come on. Wherever you want to go, we’ll go.” You pull on his arm a little, feeling relief fill you as he moves from the wall without any more asking. You were already fearing this night would be totally wasted. And you really didn’t have the money to waste. “What’s your name, soldier?” you prompt, ignoring his cold hand as it travels into your shirt and up your back.

“Peter,” he mumbles, “Peter O’Sullivan.” You hum softly, and cross the littered street with him, under the soft music of the bar.

Ⅱ

You’re awoken by a soft thump next to the bed. When you open your eyes, the soft light of the sun peeks through the curtains onto your face, ceiling covered with the slight swirling of the incense smoke that burns on the bedside table. You glance to your side, at the slowly moving shape that takes up the rest of your bed. Kunimi is already looking at you, probably has been for a little while judging by his expression.

With a quick swallow, you turn on your other side, and pull the blankets up to your neck. In the light of morning, he can see your every flaw, and you’re not ready to lay that openly in front of him. You probably never will be.

His soft breath fills the silence, as you shut your eyes tightly. Kunimi wants to leave. You know this. You see it in his eyebrows, laced together with frustration that fills him top to bottom, in the fearful look he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking. The sadness in his motions, every second of every day. His eyes, though deep as the night sky, are those of someone with doubt in their heart and soul. You wish you didn’t care to pay enough attention to see it.

He wants back to his unit. He has the darkness of a person who’s suffering under the weight of the world, a man who’s fading with the time and the pathetically boring reality that is the life of a deserter. And it comes out in his brisk walk, and the sharpness of glass when it’s late. He’s started to loathe being near you, since you have become the only face of his life. Day in and day out, and you can watch it seep out of his seams when he’s around you. He’s tired of running, you know this.

The Military Police isn’t even looking for him. The patrol and police cars have been sent out in mass numbers just as little, leaving him with the blank reality that people don’t care. There’s no excitement left in being a fugitive, and so there’s no excitement left in being with you, either. And pretty soon after this, he came to the conclusion that being a deserter is painfully, sadly unmemorable.

The boredom is twisting up his insides. It is easy to read it on his face, easy to imagine that any day now, he’ll get up and he won’t come back to you by the time evening comes. Any second now, he’ll get up and walk all the way to Camp Courtney, with the ugly, chipped, green gate that separates it from the street. ‘It’s me’, he will admit, ‘I’m the fugitive.’ And the MP will arrest him and throw him in a cold, lonely jail.

But no matter what— you’re sure he’ll go. It could be tomorrow, or today, or in a week, that much you can’t predict just yet. But one day he will get up and walk all the way to that ugly, green gate with the aluminum roof and there’s nothing you can do to stop him.

You hear him climb out of the bed, feel the slight movement of the mattress at the lack of his weight, and listen as he opens the windows. With one smooth move, he slides open the curtain further, dousing the room in a light too bright for a cold morning like this. You pull the blanket over your head entirely, turning the other way again so you can look at him through a thin sliver of unobstructed view.

He takes a deep breath, and sits down on the rickety chair on your balcony. The breeze plays with his fluffy hair this way, tossing and turning it in all kinds of fun shapes. You let your eyes travel from his dark hair down, his ears peeking out cutely, following the thin lines of his neck to a broad, muscular back that flexes slightly as he leans forward to watch the cars drive past.

And though the light annoys you, this is Akira at his finest. After getting up, he travels to the kitchen to get a glass of water, stretches out, walks over to the window and watches the world awaken. Always. If you’re lucky, he crawls back into bed with you for a little longer after that, because he can.

Lately he’s been avoiding it, avoiding you and though you want to be mad for it, you don’t think you are. The man is tired. Of this apartment. Of you. Of life. You understand that feeling better than most. When a bird chirps from the rain gutter of the house across the street, he takes a deep breath, and turns to look at you. You, a lump under the thick blankets.

You lower the blankets a little to expose your eyes to him, and yawn. “Nimi?” Your voice is quite thick, most likely an oncoming cold from any of the nights you’ve spent outside lately.

He nods, and brings his eyes to connect with yours, attentive and kind, though the lazy lilt of his head says enough. “Hm?”

“Please close the window and the curtain if you’re done, the light is too bright.” Without saying anything, he does. The windows are shut, the curtains closed, making your home feel dim, and you almost immediately feel bad calling him back. Kunimi puts the old chair back in it’s place, and comes to sit at the edge of the bed, his side.

“Come here,” you breathe, opening the warm blankets for him in the hope that it’s enough to keep him settled for just this little while. He runs his slender, soft fingers through his hair, brushes it out of his way a bit, and slides into the blankets like you ask, his warm hands finding your sides almost immediately.

“You were out last night,” you note, melting into the bed more as you tilt your head back a bit to look at his visage. It’s not much of a question, at this point. The young man hums in response, and lets his hand travel to the small of your back, his lips opening and closing over and over as he thinks.

It makes the image of a fish out of water flash in front of your eyes, darting around desperately. You can’t help but think it fits the situation perfectly, fits him perfectly. “What time did you come back?”

“Uhm,” Kunimi frowns a little and looks up to the ceiling as if thinking about an answer, before letting out a sharp breath through his nose. “One, maybe? It could have been two, I’m not sure.” You know he came in at five last night, you don’t mention it. Instead you bring up your hand, and brush your thumb from his chin to his cheekbone, resting it there with tiny circles.

He’s young still, for a soldier, you think. And knowing that he already served for a while, means that he was much too young when he started. He’s also too pretty to be a soldier. Now, you know that the army doesn’t make exceptions like that, but he could have been anything he wanted to be, back home.

You never asked, but every reason escapes you when you think of why he could have possibly joined. A gorgeous thing like him, who hates the army more than anything. It seems backwards in many ways, but then again, that too— is Akira at his finest.

You decide not to think of it, since it won’t make a difference in the long run. He takes a few breaths with closed eyes, pulling his nose into an adorable little scrunch every few seconds. “You went to sleep with your pants on?” you ask, feeling the rough fabric on your skin when your legs tangle together.

“Yeah,” the brunet sighs, scooting a bit closer so he can lay his head above yours on the pillow, “too much work to take it off.” His warmth so close, smell so unmistakably Kunimi that it almost makes you homesick, in a way. Because even when he’s right here, under your fingertips and holding onto you, you know he’s so far away from you and your dull, boring apartment that any tenderness serves no use.

So you don’t respond, and press your body as close to his as it can get, nodding your head with the smallest movements you can make. Your lips press to the base of his throat a couple of times, letting your forehead rest against his skin.

“Where did you go?” you breathe.

With the soft words again, he pulls back a little and gives you a look, staring so openly at your face that you feel yourself getting red. “To Iwa’s. Iwaizumi Hajime, you know? I told you about him, that friend from the same division I left from. He lives nearby. I went to visit for a while.”

You now hum, listening to the little bird from earlier as it sings through the silence. You drop your hand from his face, and roll to your back, watching the last wisps of smoke floating by the eggshell ceiling, and at the tea pot that stands steaming on the counter. You hate the emptiness you feel when his hands travel over your thighs, brushing over your underwear.

“As long as you stay in a friend’s house, okay. But if you walk around too much during the day, the MP will find you and lock you up. You should be careful.” You don’t understand the army, honestly. It’s been six months since Kunimi left his unit in a hurry and ran off into the city, yet nothing— no one seems to be so much as looking for him in the slightest. He doesn’t behave like a deserter, and basically runs around day and night without a care in the world.

If you hadn’t read it in the paper yourself, you’d never even believed that he was on the run. Kunimi doesn’t respond to this, so you look back at him, sitting up on the plush. “Take off your pants,” you mumble, ignoring the coldness when it travels over every inch of your skin. Your entire top half breaks out in goosebumps. With a slight pause, the brunet follows your request, and tosses the piece of fabric on the floor.

He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth when you settle over his body, leaning down to his tummy. Your hands travel down his ribs and waist, squeezing with gentle touches in his soft skin. You press kisses down his navel towards his crotch, as you pull his last layer of clothing down his legs. Kunimi shakes a little when your nails dig into his muscular thighs.

His beautiful hands settle on both sides of your face as you go to work, breath heavier than normal. He cocks his head back in pleasure. You can’t drag your eyes away from him for a second. He’s so pretty, he really is.

His skin warm, like running honey, in stark contrast with his dark head of hair. Dark, calculating eyes that would put the blade of a sword to shame, and the kisses of sun that are littered across his cheeks and nose with a gentleness only heaven can give. God must have worked hard on this one, you think, as you watch the fluttering of his lashes.

Ⅲ

As you walk down Gate street, small snowflakes start coming down from the clouds, landing on the tip of your nose and the length of your lashes. You pull your woolen hat down further, and hold your hand up to protect your eyes a bit more. Can’t have your make-up running. You pull your empty shopping bag closer to your thigh, and speed up your steps a tad.

It wasn’t a day like this, but it was right here, you recall. You were waiting for some soldiers to finish their drink, walking over to them with a little smile. However, they were both far past drunk, so you quickly steered away. It was only midnight, and a figure came out of another bar, clothed in dark clothes but with slightly too long hair peeking from under an ocean blue newsy cap.

“Hey,” you call as he passes you by on the sidewalk, trying to catch his eyes in the process. You are just about to give up on him too, when he stops walking. He takes two steps backwards to send you an intrigued look without flinching for a second. You noticed he still looked younger, then too. Unmarked by the crows feet and stubble your other clients are so easily recognized by.

You clear your voice and lift one of your brows at his expression. “Twenty dollars,” you say.

The young man responds without hesitating, dropping his narrowed gaze for a slight twitch of his lips. “Ten dollars.” This makes you scoff, shaking your head at the ground in disbelief. Does he really think that he can get a woman for a pathetic two thousand yen? No one in their right mind would sell that body for that price.

Your first instinct is to get mad, at the ridiculous offer that dares cross his lips. But when you look up, possibly to cuss him out, you catch his eyes again. His face still has the certain go-lucky calmness most people have lost through the years, and surprisingly, it calms the fire in your chest almost instantly.

You notice truly how handsome he is as you try to form a response, bright in the night light. Unbelievably so. And you— you’ve always had the bad habit of leaving a soft spot open for good-looking men. He looks lost, you have to admit, like he dropped a piece of himself earlier and is desperately looking for it.

Though his handsome face isn’t what eventually makes you agree. You’ve been out in the shadow for almost three hours already, and you’re exhausted. At this point, you just wanted to sit down. Preferably with a warm body pressed to your own on a soft bed, free of charge if you must. Kunimi appears in a moment of emotional weakness of your heart, and stays there for the days to come. He’s alone, soldiers are hardly ever alone at this hour.

You walk straight past the hotels of B.C. Street and take him to your apartment in Kamara. When you enter the living room, where your bed also stands, you put out your hand and wet your lips. “Ten dollars.” He takes a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and smooths it out in your palm, giving you a small, crooked smile. “Do you really have nothing more?” you ask, fighting the frown on your forehead.

“I swear,” he nods, pursing his lips cutely, as he rocks on his feet, back and forth over and over. “It’s all I have left.”

You close the door with a sigh, and loosen your ponytail to let your hair spill out over your shoulders, sitting down on the bed. “If that’s true, how are you going to pay a taxi to get back to the base?” you ask, cocking your head sideways a little. What an interesting person, you think, the blush on his cheeks from the cold painting him in contrast with your dim home.

His black jacket is missing one of it’s gold painted buttons. So it’s true. You raise your arms to take off your sweater, and toss it onto some of your other clothes, as Kunimi averts his eyes to the floor. “Well?”

“I’m not going back,” he admits.

Now, your curiosity is definitely peaked. “What do you mean, you’re not going back?”

The brunet takes off his cap, and lifts his shoulders with a lost expression. “I ran away.” You just respond a quiet ‘oh’, and swing your feet close over the floor for a moment, thinking it over. Though you know that many soldiers leave before their time is done, you’ve never actually met one.

After a few seconds, you look up to study the face of the boy—man, really now. His face is clear, with well-sized features and wild hair that rests over his eyebrows and is pulled behind his ears without much care. He frowns, slightly unsure, as he leans against your counter.

“Whereabouts were you?”

He taps his fingers on the wood as he answers, warming up slowly but surely in the confinements of your small home. “Camp Courtney.”

“So you were a marine?” you fire back. Kunimi nods, looking out the window for a second, until you talk again. “What are you going to do next, now you’ve run away?” This seems to puzzle him for a second, like he didn’t expect your interest in his story. Honestly, neither did you. But you’ve never seen a soldier quite like him. He doesn’t seem to have the same self-importance most of them have when they walk your streets.

“I hope to find a way to get enough money to cross to Honshu. From there I wanna get to Korea or the Soviet Union if I have to.”

“Christ!” you respond in surprise, lifting your brows in doubt. You’ve never deserted. Is that really what a person must do to escape the army? Kunimi just shrugs again, nonchalant with the words. The slightly wet paper you twirl between your fingers stills for a moment. But well, same here. You don’t hand him back the money.

The young soldier, thick blankets pulled up to his chin, stares at you when you walk out the shower and towards the bed. Your gazes cross, and he quickly looks away, which amuses you more than you expect it to. But the longer you look, the colder you feel. You feel a devouring sadness for him, and you don’t know why. It drives you without your own will, wanting to wrap him up in your arms and to press a kiss to his forehead, to make him believe it’s going to be okay.

Maybe it’s the warm light of the lamp in the corner of the room, but his face is filled with a certain loveliness. Despite the calmness he seems to spread, his dark eyes are fearful. You don’t bother putting on your lace panties before you crawl into bed. You lean forward gently, and press a kiss to his cold lips, before taking his hand and placing it on your body.

Kunimi has nowhere else to go that night, and you let him stay over in your apartment. In the morning he leaves, without knowing where to. The next morning, there’s a little something in the paper about him. You read it when going to the top apartment to get your hair done, letting your eyes travel the grayed paper.

‘Marine from Camp Courtney stabs multiple people and runs.’ it says. It’s a short, little article, but you immediately understand it’s about him.

‘On the 7th, a marine of first class (20), stationed in Camp Courtney, got into an altercation over a trinket with his superior sergeant John W. Anderson, on the exercise field of Camp Hansen. He stabbed the sergeant in the gut with the bayonet he had on hand and ran away from the camp. Sergeant Anderson is heavily wounded, and will need a month of recovery. With the aid from the Japanese police the marine is doing everything in their power to track down the young man.’

That you’d slept with someone who stabbed a person, doesn’t scare you. You guess he must have been pretty ruthlessly bullied like all those men in the army are by their superiors. He must have lost his self control at a point. In the last couple of years, you’d seen enough bloody fights between soldiers. Once, you’d even seen a person shot in front of you. A simple stabbing doesn’t scare you in this regard.

When you travel back all the way down, back home, Kunimi sits patiently waiting on the stairs to your flat. When he spots you, he sends you a tiny nod, face carrying the distinct marks of exhaustion. “Hi,” he breathes. You respond with the same, and come to sit next to him on the stairs, putting down your groceries at your feet. His uniform has the distinct smell of sweat, most likely because he’d have to put the same clothes on when he left.

“Where’d you go?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him, and the way his skin glows in the light of the sun. Even in a moment like this, he looks bright. Huh.

“Isabama,” the brunet responds carefully, lacing his hands together between his knees. “That’s where a friend of mine lives, he’s from the same place I’m from. I was at his place, but he tossed me out.” You nod, understanding. Harboring a deserter probably isn’t appreciated in the marine corps.

“You were in the paper,” you admit, figuring he hasn’t had the chance to check. Akira’s lips pull into a tight line, so you guess you’re right. “They say you stabbed a sergeant in the gut.”

“Stabbed lightly,” Kunimi immediately claps back, glancing at you with wide eyes, “just a little, he’s not going to die.”

“He’s going to need a month of recovery,” you point out, picking at the remnants of your nail polish mindlessly. Baekhyun’s dark eyes catch yours again, as he lets out a breath through his nose, and ruffles his hair to calm his nerves.

“He deserves it. I—” You interrupt him though, taking his hand in yours, feeling the cold digits shake in your hold.

“Don’t bother, you don’t need to give me a reason for your actions. But if you stay out here like this, they’ll catch you in the next hour, though.”

Kunimi nods, and looks at the speckled cement under his feet again, clearing his throat. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He flushes a bit pinker, and gives you a look of uncertainty. “Could I please stay in your flat for a little while? Even if it’s just two, three days?” He takes a deep breath, before continuing a little more.

“Just until the money from my mother arrives at my friend’s house.” To your surprise, an image of the night before crosses your mind. His gentle touches, the honest adoration with which he held onto your skin like you’re the only woman he’s ever had. And you hate to admit how much it warms your heart. Maybe you’re really getting emotionally weak here.

You’ve never been so happy to accept so little money. That’s the only reason he sits here, on your staircase now. And if you could do your life over three times again, you know for a fact that you’d never get the chance to breathe the same air as a man like Kunimi again. So you sigh, and stand up from the cold stone to look at him, picking up your groceries in the process. “All right. You can’t stay here forever, but for now you can come in.”

The next morning you awake late, which Kunimi by your side. You get up, brush your teeth and walk back to the bed to pick up a darling dress that you put on over your white lace, when an impatient knock comes to your door. When you look through the peephole, there’s a policeman in front of your apartment.

There it is, already. You rush to his side and shake him awake, helping him leave through the window. You open the door.

“Oh, hello,” the officer says, taking off his uniform cap to give you a slight bow. You return it.

“Can I help you, Sir?” With your toothbrush still in hand, you look the young officer up and down.

The officer nods, and takes out a little notebook from his pocket. “Probably, Miss. Do you mind answering a few questions?” he asks, and you hum in response. The man starts his speech immediately at that.

“Well, we are looking for a deserted marine. Do you have any idea where he could be? An employee at Pinocchio Hamburger told us he saw a soldier who matches the descriptions. As you know, many soldiers collect there. This employee says he saw you and the soldier leave in the direction of Kamara. Does this sound familiar, Miss?”

You pout though, and lift your shoulders. “When was this, exactly?”

“Three nights ago, Miss.”

You put your hands on your hips, and look at the floor in thought, before giving the officer a lost look. “And what did the soldier look like?”

“A young man, quite tall. His hair is dark and longer than is in style. A marine first class…” The man gives you a short description, along with the note that he’s committed a terrible crime, something you’d never expect from someone that age. You nod, feigning understanding.

“Well, I did meet a soldier near Pinocchio that night, but the description is off. The man I met was a foreign soldier, and he was about twenty nine or thirty. Maybe you can ask the man at Pinocchio again— the employee?” you prompt.

The officer waves his hand in dismissal, and puts his notebook away swiftly. “Ah, this will suffice, miss. I know enough. He’ll show up around B.C. Street eventually. Those guys don’t have anywhere to run, you see. We’ll definitely catch him.”

With that, he excuses himself again, and leaves the building swiftly after. You watch the officer through the window until he gets into his car and drives off down the narrow street of your home, lights disappearing in the distance. Kunimi comes back when night falls.

After that day, the police don’t show themselves again, and for all you know, the MP couldn’t care less about him or where he could be hiding. Though he has hope for a few days, the money of his mother never comes, and instead of getting the rest of your pay, you’re the one feeding him and clothing him for the next six months.

After about two months you had fought up the courage to ask him for your money, but Kunimi simply didn’t have any to give, and he could hardly look for a job being a fugitive. The situation changed ever so slowly. Because more and more, you started feeling grateful that you even had him in your life.

He was a quiet, soft-handed man, who did enough to help whenever you needed it. You weren’t as lonely anymore. And you started to realize that you were sleeping with a man that seemed carved from marble, and the price you paid seemed little for it in comparison. In what world would you be allowed to hold an angel in your arms for only a twenty thousand yen a month? You started feeling heavy of heart, because you really, really didn’t want him to leave.

Ⅳ

When you round the corner at the paint store, you can see the light burning in your apartment. You speed up your walk, stuffing the fifty dollars you made into your jacket pocket and hurrying up the stairs of the apartment. White light beams through the small window next to the door. You turn the doorknob and sigh, kicking off your shoes easily as you enter the heated room.

“Nimi,” you call, lifting the bag of French wine in your hand higher in case he looks over at you. There’s no answer. “Hey,” you call again, looking around the small room with a frown. In the living room, there’s no Kunimi to be found. His jacket, his shoes are all gone, leaving you nailed to your spot in the middle of the room with a heavy feeling creeping into your belly.

The silence feels thick, surprising you with the weight of it. You put the plastic bag on your counters, and look around once more to be sure, before frowning. Had he really gone back to his unit? Had he given up on trying to cross to Honshu or Kyushu so suddenly, without a word to you? Where could he possibly have gone?

You grab your bag and rush back to the door, jamming your feet into your shoes painfully tight, already slamming the door behind you again. You run the opposite way you came from, looking left and right every few seconds in hope for the familiar face, adrenaline rushing through your exhausted body with a feverish pace.

You rush back towards B.C. Street, past the bar the Caravan, towards the house of Mr. Irihata, a man Kunimi has befriended not too long ago. Maybe he’d gone there. You start walking even faster when you arrive at the beginning of the crowded street, wrapping your scarf around your neck and covering your nose.

You suddenly feel the urge to sob, overwhelmed with the idea of it that you preemptively brush your hands under your eyes. When you get at the house, you walk around the side, and call out towards the window there. “Corporal Irihata?” The window opens almost instantly, revealing the face of the older man with his thick, bushy eyebrows and a stern face.

“Oh, it’s you,” he sighs.

“Is Kunimi not here?” Your voice is slightly shaky, eyes wide as you watch his expression change, but just barely.

“Oh, that deserter?” he asks, slightly surprised.

“He came here quite often, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” the older man sighs, “but not today. Is everything okay?” You nod his worries away, too shaky to give into your sadness for now.

“Yes, I’m fine. He’s probably in a bar here somewhere.” You rush out of the street and past the bars along the street, peering inside quickly. No Kunimi to be found anywhere. You arrive on Goya Boulevard, and rush past that too. One by one, you check the windows for his familiar shape, without success. Where would he possibly have gone? Did he really go back to his unit, after all?

Your legs are shaky, knees weak. You’ve heard that deserters are arrested and brought to Kawasaki right away, and  brought back home to be sent out again. Did he give himself in knowing that he’d be sent back all the way home, even as a criminal? You can’t even grasp the idea of that. No, that can’t be right. He probably went back to the flat already, he just went out for a walk.

Before you know it, your legs are carrying you back towards Kamara, up the windy, asphalt road to your building. Eyes stinging from the cold breeze and the heaviness in your stomach. When you look up, you notice through the window that the light is on. You’re pretty sure you turned the lights off when you left, so you rush up even more quickly than before, hands shaky. Your heart feels like it’s dancing, but you’re not sure if it’s a happy or unhappy one.

The door opens without any effort, the room bathing in the bright, white light. Kunimi is not here.

With a deep sigh, you shut the door behind you, and drop backwards onto the bed. You must have ran out with the lights still on then. For a long while, you don’t even move. You’re barely breathing, you think, staring at the imperfections on the ceiling like they are the reason for all your misery. If Kunimi went back to his unit, you wouldn’t see him ever again. You stand back up and walk over to the window, pressing your hands against it with a thick, heavy swallow.

He couldn’t have just left like that, he wouldn’t. But where could he possibly be at a time like this, with no money to his name? Suddenly, as with a hard gust of wind, the door blows open and Akira walks in. His dark hair is messy, tucked under a finely woven hat you bought him. And everything that was suspended so delicately in mid air in your mind crashes to the floor.

Your shoulders drop in relief, tears welling up in your eyes where you can’t stop them. “Where did you go?” you bring out. Your voice is shaky, bottom lip pulled harshly between your lips.

“I went out to Gate street for a while,” Kunimi mumbles, eyes slightly concerned at your tone.

He walks over to you as he unbuttons his jacket, and lays his hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer than you’ve been used to the last few weeks. “If you walk around too much outside, the MP will find you,” you whisper, catching his eyes in the process. The young man presses a kiss on your forehead, and walks past you to drape his jacket across the second chair in the room. He drops back in the bed like you had done not too long ago, and lays there, unmoving.

“Don’t think about it anymore,” he calls, closing his eyes against the bright light, “it’s all over anyway.” He doesn’t speak after that, and so neither do you. The silence lasts for a while, as you stare at the man you’ve grown hopelessly attached to over the past months.

Kunimi sounds so sad, so defeated. Like every bit of energy has been sucked out of him, and you hate that you’re left in limbo trying to help him. When he suddenly speaks again his voice is grated, pretty lips forming a slight pout. “Is there any beer?”

You move from the counter to sit on the rickety, wooden chair. “No,” you truthfully admit. “Would you like me to go get some? I got paid.” He takes a deep breath before shaking his head, and spreading his limbs out like a starfish. ‘Never mind’ he mouths. The silence that follows is even longer than the first, and by the time either of you move the sun has lowered behind the horizon so far the sky colors red.

The next time he speaks, you already know what will follow. It’s a cold feeling, piercing through bones and keeping you in place, though you’d rather run away yourself right now. “You know I called, right?” he breathes, and you hum in response. Your fingers are still ice cold, your legs still tingly from the back and forth earlier. “I decided to turn myself in tomorrow, at ten o’clock.”

It feels as if someone has hit you over the head with a pipe of lead, echoing around your mind like the bells of a church. And you try to smile, for him, but your face feels so tense that you’re not sure if it comes across. You lay down next to him and sigh deeply, closing your eyes against an onslaught of tears. Kunimi’s cold fingers brush over your thigh, but you feel like slapping them away. Your body seems to sink through the springs of the bed, so ridiculously heavy.

You swallow, and turn into his arms, fisting your hands into his shirt and your nose into the crook of his neck. “Run away with me, Akira. We can go to my hometown, where I was born. No one will look for you there. And there’s a bunch of abandoned houses,” you say, trying your best to keep yourself from begging, but at this point you know you’re not above it anyway.

“It’s almost fully uninhabited. The houses are old, but they have a garden and a lot of ground. I’ll plant grass in our yard, and cook us something better than eggs for breakfast. And you can fix the floor tiles.” It stays quiet again, you can feel his slow heartbeat against your cheek. But then he shakes his head, and you want to scream until your voice breaks. “If they arrest you, you’ll get sent back home. And you don’t want that, right? That’s what you told me.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he responds just as quick, swallowing. “I’m tired.” And for one, you believe him. It seems everyone is tired these days.

After your shower, you walk around the room on tiptoes. Kunimi lays in bed, his face peaceful in his sleep, twitching slightly as he dreams. You smile at him for a few seconds, before putting on your favorite lace underwear, and your favorite summer dress. You drink a cup of tea, and a second one, and stare out the window mindlessly for what feels like an hour, but you’ve always been bad at keeping track of time.

Your lover’s dark hair stands up straight, in crazy spikes on his head, making him look ever so small. You move to sit in front of your mirror for a while too, putting on your favorite chap-stick. It’s sweet, like cherry. He once told you he loved the taste of it, and so you loved to kiss him with it in return.

And then you lock the door, and shut the window tight, squeezing the lock until it’s almost impossible to open. You walk to the kitchen, bending to turn open the propane gas. You turn all three gas taps open fully, leaving open the door from the kitchen to the living room and bedroom.

You lie down, and the bed creaks softly under you as well. Like the cry of a child, or the weeping of a loved one missing a lover. You know it well.

Kunimi turns on his other side in his sleep, facing you now. He’s beautiful, every inch of him, head to to. Eternal, in a way. It’s easy to believe in someone like that, isn’t it?

You close your eyes, and decide to count to a thousand.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five...

You take the lighter that always lays on your bedside table, the one to light the incense, and turn to lay on your belly. Face down in the pillows.

The clock ticks easily in the quiet of the room. Heavy breaths.

And you reach a thousand.

And you, with full determination, push your thumb against the spark wheel.

♡ fin.

[ucsc-omi]

Okinawa; On the Fringes of Japanese Society by Theodor Jaich

This week's readings collectively deal with the place of Okinawans in a more modern Japanese society and state. Most Notably, the song "Treasures of the Islanders" very clearly summarizes the feelings brought forth in the numerous pieces we read. The song notes the significance of retaining the Okinawan culture, however, the band who made the song recognize themselves that they had to conform to mainland Japanese society and ways so as to pursue greater music careers. John Potter's piece from The Power of Okinawan Roots Music actually notes that the Okinawan music scene had gone from being courtly to becoming a symbol of the Okinawan commoners' culture to later being a pop-trend in mainland Japan. The band Begin who wrote "Treasures of the Islanders" are a prime example of this trend and really show the way that Okinawan culture has become more assimilated into Japan as entertainment. The conformity to Japanese-ness in this way is a means of exiting the fringes of society for many Okinawans.

As depicted in "Backbone" by Toma Hiroko, Okinawa had been the site of widespread bloodshed before being entirely deserted by the Japanese and then left to the Americans to use as a military base. This desertion by Japan, as well as the relationship with an occupying American force, directly pushed the Okinawans into a sort of constant second-class status to the more dominant forces ruling them through state and society. "Inner Words" by Kiyota Masanobu directly asserts that the Okinawans are the people on the "fringes," further illuminating their social standing following World War Two. 

This degrading status is then glanced at thoroughly in the remaining readings. "Bones" by Shima Tsuyoshi describes ways in which the Okinawans and mainland Japanese interacted as very distinct groups with totally different social standing. "Bones" notes this through the story of a Japanese construction site on an Okinawan burial site. Meanwhile, "Droplets" by Medoruma Shun tells the tale of an Okinawan farmer who struggles to deal with the trauma of the war, noting the problematic nature of dealing with post-war memories when the ruling state, Japan, never felt the war as Okinawa did. "Memoirs of a Declining Ryukyuan Woman" and the piece which follows it by Kishi Fusako depict the struggle of many Okinawans during the post-war period and how some dealt with economic hardships by deserting the Okinawan islands to assimilate and take part in mainland Japanese business and society. That being said, the character who deserts the islands seemingly never forgets their home and continues to support his family with money. "Love Suicide at Kamaara" by Yoshida Sueko depicts a different relationship between the Okinawans and the American forces, providing a symbolic piece of the relationship between the abusive American forces and the forgotten/economically depraved native Okinawans. 

Again, the pieces from this week all deal with how the Okinawans were crafted into a sort of fringe culture within Japanese state and society, and the all provide examples into how the Okinawans were entirely deserted following the Second World War.

[bahu-vrihi]

Yoshida Sueko, 「嘉間良心中」