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Spreading sunrise’s pinkish, orange, and red haloing glow, colors spread across the sky announcing the new painted across the clouds. Another beautiful morning. The grating, metallic shriek heralds the arrival of the overpopulated locomotive at the station. Amai’s mouth gapes once more as an indicative response to his early morning weariness. The large sliding doors reluctantly ease open to take on more into the densely crowded moving machine’s amalgam of frail elderly awoken earliest at dawn for ideal seats, their own self-entitled thrones for a life long lived; posh businessmen in high-class three-piece suits and expensive designer brand shoes; and the lowest on the morning train hierarchy- drowsy, noisy, gossipy high school teens wearing faces as expressionless as corpses burdened en route for their prisons of chairs and desks.
The train takes a plunge, and accelerates on its bound course of rusting steel. It rocks back and forth with its relentless whining and groaning as if it too does not appreciate the tedium of waking up early. Amai sighs with irritation toward boy come to hold on to the strap in front of his hard end seat, riding against the ebb and flow of the train’s movements. “Why do I have to see your face every morning?”
Yukio as well unhinges his stiff jaws and rubs his tired amber eyes feeling heavy in their sockets. “Good morning to you, too.” As the corners of his lips broaden into a smile, his large dimples appear conspicuously in his cheeks. A deep curve on his lips makes the world stop around him. “Always cranky in the morning as usual. Eat foods with more iron in them, they’ll improve your mood.”
He gets as comfortable as one can get in a train packed with more or less a hundred people, “Shut up. Wake me up when we reach my school.” He imposes his leather brown school bag on the 5’11” student in the prescribed uniform of a teal vest over white shirt and black pants clashing against the print of his own white jacket and gray plaid school colors.
After school, morning’s Amai is unrecognizable from afternoon’s Amai. Where in the morning he was listless, in the afternoon the 6’ 16-year old roars to life. He and Yukio are eating ice creams, or in his opinion the ice cream is figuratively eating Yukio as it drip and splashes relentlessly all over his clothes. He doesn’t know how to take care of himself like Take-han. Amai throws bunched up napkins his way, “Super sexy. All of Sora-han’s sex appeal must have funneled right into you.” The tone couldn’t have possibly been any more sarcastic.
“My dad does have sex appeal. He’s got explosive tons of it.” You only think that because you’re a daddy’s boy. “Who cares what anyone else thinks. He only has to be sexy for one man.”
“Ew. Are you coming over today?” The smile came so quickly that it seemed the dimples arrived first. “Akari-neesan is going out drinking with her old high school friends and my parents are going over to your house. We can have the place all to ourselves.”
His eyes twinkle with indecency and those cute craters of flesh lend character to the smooth features teasing his cheeks, “To do what, Amai?” his lips form a smooth geometric curve, a perfect parabola.
“Hmm. What, you ask? Well, first I’m going to take your clothes off then push you down on my bed and after that I’m going to shove my-”
“I got the picture already, pervert, no need for the graphic details. Seriously. All of Sen-han’s pervertedness must have funneled right into you.”
“And my dad’s possessiveness, be careful with that smile in public.” He lets his barely suppressed poisonously sweet smile widen into a brilliant grin to tease Amai. There was something about the way he smiled. The way it made butterflies flash and flitter from the pit of Amai’s stomach and the way it had toppled the sun from its immortal perch. Yukio has the kind of smile that makes you feel happy to be alive, that makes you wish you knew him. “On second thought I’m leaving you here to grin away and seduce whoever you want.”
Yukio could feel his heart squeeze inside his chest. His skin felt like it was roasting. He settles to stumbling along behind him as fast as he could, “Seduce? I’m not seducing anyone. Are you jealous?” Amai quickens his pace to an all out sprint, each one of his mighty strides worth at least two of the Omega’s, which wore the shorter boy out quickly. Hardly breaking a sweat and not panting in the least, he leans against the concrete lemon yellow wall of the underground station waiting for him to catch up, grinning. Yukio sweeps the large drops of sweat from his forehead. “Amai, if you’re jealous just say so.”
He feels hot breath on his neck, then the tender brush of lips burning as they make contact with his neck. A hand runs through his chestnut brown hair, another hand slides around his waist, and pulls him close to the cherry red haired body scented with an undertone of alluring cologne, his kisses now on the Omega’s shoulders and hair. His mouth twitches, and Yukio is pretty sure he was fighting back a bashful smile. Their fingers lock together similar to jigsaw puzzle pieces.
Me and Amai have known each other since before we were born. Our parents are best friends, so we see each other almost everyday, our families are extremely close. Over time our relationship went from just friends to boyfriends. But we haven’t told anyone about our relationship yet.
Amai takes his eyes off the rented movie, resting his head into Yukio as if the effort of watching is too much. He cuddles in, feeling his lover's chest rise and fall, the rhythmic pattern slowing his own breathing. Then he brushes Yukio’s sleek hair back from his shoulder and moves in so close the Omega can feel his lithe body press up against him. The Alpha caresses his neck, slow and gentle, making him wait until he can hardly bare it. Amai knows that just having the warm breath in his ear and imprinting the shape of his full lips on his neck will crumble Yukio’s halfhearted resistance to fine powder. A wave of pure pleasure runs through his entire body as Amai kisses his earlobe first, softly, then works his way down his neck and collarbone before coming right back up for the anticipating lips that taste of cherry ice cream.
Yukio is amazed at how one touch of Amai’s lips and intoxicating cologne getting in his hair could hitch his breath and make all previous thoughts stop cold in their tracks til there is only one carnal desire, one wish, and they both know it's just a matter of time before it comes true..
Long hours in his father’s dojo in his younger days have given him the ability to move almost without sound and to be more deadly in close combat than many men double his size. One more disciple downed in the mountain of slayed corpses made by the intense mixed martial arts master and instructor moving as keen and agile as if he were still in his 20s. “Next person, step up.” Azuma’s eyes burn with fire as he searches for someone courageous and daring among his cowering students to challenge him outright. None come forward.
Fiery red hair and slender bodied, his daughter, braver than any man, slams her fist before her kneeled feet and hops up to accept the summons, Azuma’s soft lips stretch into a proud smile. Akari fixes the black belt wrapped tightly around the bright white of her gii and dips her head forward in a polite bow before boldly lunging herself at him with unbridled ferocity as she was taught to do from a very tender age.
Azuma has her in his guard in seconds. He lays his left leg on the ground next to her right knee and brings his right knee across her stomach. In one flowing movement he straightens his right knee and scissors her legs, sweeping his opponent, also pulling his shoulders back and dragging her right arm towards him. He takes up the mounted position, having a tight lock on her right arm. A perfectly executed scissor sweep. At the very least, he has pride that the only girl, his own flesh and blood, withstood the longest record time among his primarily male disciples- a conglomeration of conceited Alphas, overconfident Betas, and timid Omegas. He pats her blazing flames, “Get changed, loser. We’re done for today.”
“I’m not done yet!” She grabs her opponent’s right wrist with her right hand, taking her left foot over the top of his right ankle to secure it. Next she grabs his elbow with her left hand to restrain his right arm.Raising her hips straight up then rolling onto her left shoulder, she succeeds in putting Azuma in her submission. A long-practiced Upward Lift Escape demonstrated flawlessly.
She has underestimated the skill required to take him down. Azuma pulls her head down towards his chest, disrupting her posture, he brings his leg on the same side of her targeted arm, and moves his foot to neck level, pushing the opponent downwards simultaneously. He uses his free leg to sit up with his back facing the same direction as hers and pushes the targeted arm downwards to assure that it remains in place before sending an arm underneath her torso and the other over her shoulder, and clasping them together. Akari’s palms on the rich wood floor of the dojo couldn’t beat fast enough against the torque of the rare and extremely painful Omoplata. “Are we done now, Akari?”
“We are! We’re done! You’re shredding my shoulder off!” She looks for help in the form of Tsuyoshi but the man is preoccupied dealing with his own fresh physical and emotional injuries dealt from being used as a technique demonstration mannequin. If I help you, that’ll leave me open. Sorry, but just this once, let him break your arm. “I admit honorable defeat!!”
Azuma unclenches his aggressive grappling technique and drops a purely sadistic smile on her while she rubs her arm and shoulder to make sure he didn’t take them with him as he left to get his bag of spare clothes. The tomboyish Akari is warmly received after her close brush with limb amputation at Azuma’s hands by the boys who respect her but are as always too terrified of her spitfire personality and too intimidated of her graceful 6’2” statuesque goddess to approach her, just how overprotective father Tsuyoshi wants it. “Shit, next time I’ll win.”
Tsuyoshi tosses her pink bag to her, the boys disperse like water molecules once put to heat, “You’ll never win against him, Firegirl. Let’s go home.” Amai celebrates for one reason: compared to everyone else he fortunately suffered less bruises and ligament soreness. But he’ll have to play up his battle wounds if he doesn’t want Azuma saying he got off too easy and dragging him to the dojo in their home til he has to fight tooth and nail to not get killed by his own dad.
He realistically limps in front of his father taking strolling speed alongside his unapologetically ruthless mate, still massaging the livid bruises on his arms. “You still bruise too easily, Akazukin-chan.” No, I don’t! This happened because you hit me too much! Akari is running toward them, he knows it's her by the silhouette of her shadow and by the way she, like him, makes no sound at all of her footfalls kissing the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he sees something sharp and long flying towards him. He pulls Tsuyoshi with him out of danger’s way.
Amai incidentally takes the violent dropkick not meant for him, now given an actual reason to limp home, “Stop doing dumb shit, girl-boy!”
“Don’t call me that, Pomegranate! It’s your fault for just standing there like a wilted willow.”
Azuma strangles both in a standing side headlock, one arm for each, however they still persist in angrily throwing whatever insults their minds can churn out on the spot. “Stop.” Their heads are banged together and they come to heel immediately and begin blowing compliments instead as part of habitual reflex adopted in childhood for when Azuma’s annoyance with their sibling disputes had him too irritated to cook dinner for weeks on end. “Get along.” They follow his commands to a tee.
Akari lets Amai use her shoulder as his crutches so he doesn’t have to pathetically drag his sprained leg behind him. They send back a choreographed “testing what unpredictable mood he’s in” smile to Azuma and he reciprocates an “I’ll see you both in the dojo at home” smile. Amai grumbles out of earshot. It’s all her fault. I don’t wanna get beat up for this. The same thoughts pass through the Alpha woman’s head, It’s all his fault. Whining like a damn baby over a little kick. He didn’t have to make a big fucking deal out of it.
A car’s tires skid and screech its marks in the paved street, having avoided a traffic accident by a small margin, yet not avoiding drawing in an audience of concerned eyes and civil curiosity. Azuma links his fingers into Tsuyoshi’s hand and shoots him a look that is all love to extinguish his inner storms. “Gross” and “Get a room” float to their ears from frowning mouths walking ahead of them. Azuma’s foot finds itself between Akari’s lolloping gait with the deduced calculation that with her fall, the limping boy would fall as well. He masks his happy sneer.
They dig into the rich food with ravenous hunger. Akari and Amai eat rapidly, taking massive bites and stuffing their mouths too full, miraculously not choking to death, inhaling a meal that had taken two hours to cook in minutes. They wipe their mouths on their sleeves and belch, showing no signs of embarrassment. However, Tsuyoshi eats dinner like he fears it’s been poisoned, taking tiny forkfuls and nibbling on it before pausing for more.
Insults are thrown again like grenades from warring nations over a battle for the TV remote. Azuma has had enough and lets them duke it out; winner takes all. Out on the moonlit back porch is Tsuyoshi whose breathing has become rapid, shallow, and tension growing in his face. He doubles over with hands on his knees, struggling to regulate his breathing; feeling as if a deluge of ice water is creeping higher until it suffocates his nose. The world spins and he squats on the floor, trying to make everything slow down for his rocking body.
Then as abruptly as the attack had come it passes. His uneven breathing was still considerably raspy and the tremor not left his body, but he had made it without any help.With the slightest of smiles, he rose to greet the celestial body, reflecting the curve of her elegant crescent on his lips. He prays that next time and all the times after that follow will be easier, until it eternally dies away. For the first time in forever he felt the sweet revivifying crisp water of disenthrallment from his self-imposed shackles of penitence.
Leaning on the doorway frame, Azuma’s dark brown eyes momentarily seal the ash gray orbs of the moon in their sights. He releases the celestial maiden from the cage of admiring mortal eyes to set them on his Alpha reborn by the light of the moon into a man slowly but surely being liberated from his internalized demons’ hold on his ankles. “You could have called me if you needed me. I thought they’d stopped happening altogether. The last time was before Akari’s birth almost 21 years ago.”
Azuma wraps his arms around the taller man in a warm swaddle of his chest and arms and pulls him close, his shields of love squeeze a fraction tighter and Tsuyoshi breathes more naturally, his body melting into his mate’s as every last muscle loses its tension. The warmth of being with another human being and being happy made him want for forgiveness even more in the face of Azuma’s pure, unconditional, unselfish love.
Sora, the college professor, is concentrating on grading his assignments very strictly on one side of the couch with his feet nestled on his 16 year old son’s lap. Yukio is trying not to be lulled into hypnotic sleep watching the uninteresting, informative to a fault wildlife documentary; Nakano, second son and 14 years old, is lying on the floor with his stylish royal blue headphones hugging around his neck perfecting his artistry in the craft of drawing which he passionately took up after hearing Hajime’s story countless times before bed until he grew too old for bedtime stories; Third son, 12 year old Mirai, is lying on the flat surface of Nakano’s back playing a game on his PSP.
Takeo steps from the steamy hot shower refreshed, the now middle aged man with little shakes of salt and pepper touching the sides of his hair immaturely dripping wet drops of water from his front bangs. His sons crowd around their father on the floor in front of Yukio. “Whatcha watching? Is it good?” He coughs a bit.
Yukio takes the blow dryer he left ready on the side table before his irresponsible father went in the shower, knowing that he would return with hair improperly dried. Nakano opens his bottle of water for him. Mirai towel dries the parts of his body not covered by his white cotton tee and boxers. Yukio puts away the hair dryer once it has served its use. “Some doc about cheetahs. It’s boring.” Sora lets his hands do their work while his ears take leave to listen in to Takeo affectionately conversing clearly and unhesitantly with his children.
“Looks pretty good to me, maybe I’ll watch it. How’s school?” Three of the same answers in different voices rush to speak. The oldest says ‘school is school,’ the second oldest says in a most sarcastic monotone ‘I love that place. Just keep sending me back there every day,’ his youngest says ‘I’m never going back there.’ Takeo asks this question every night for reason none other than after they finish sharing their sentiments about mutual hatred for school all three break out in contagious smiles at the same time and flaunt deep dime-sized indentations that present themselves in their left and right cheeks.
They used to question him as to where they inherited the uncommon features from seeing that neither he nor Sora or anyone in Sora’s family for that matter boast darling little dents of delight to speak of, thus Takeo assured them that it was most likely a lost gene passed from his side of the family. The side of himself, his bloodline, that he knows naught about. He adds an open dimpleless smile to their mix of beautiful smiles that have always managed to make him feel as if he is at once regaining and discovering a minuscule part of his fractured ancestry.
Sora knows that he’s most comfortable in their warm presence because he, fortunately, has only sons. He’s improved his essential human communication skills to more easily vocalize his honest opinions and feelings with most except the entire female sex population. Sora puts off his stressful red marked stacks of graded and ungraded assignments and switches his feet on Yukio’s lap for his head. “Got room for one more?” Family time comes before work.
Takeo has just finished fixing the rain gutter as per Sora’s request, sporting a handy toolbelt around his waist, and wiping his dirtied hands with a rag as he climbs back down the ladder. The perspiring pitcher of iced lemonade Sora left on the counter invitingly glitters in the fingers of sunlight that reach it, he grabs an upturned cup and pours a glass. The glass drops out of his hand. Takeo collapses.
…
One hour later, all three of his sons are standing in front of an obstinate Amai with their luggage explaining it to him as calmly as they can for the hundredth time. “You want in? Fork over some cash. You are three separate bodies, so that means three separate charge fees.”
Mirai shoves his hands in his pocket and huffs under breath, “We’re cousins. You can’t take our money like this. You’re committing a sin.” He still crumples his money in the money-monger Alpha’s hand.
Nakano stomps his foot but nonetheless forks over the extorted amount as well, “You’re not very amai, Amai!” Yukio grimaces at him, asking him with his eyes if he would seriously extort money from his own boyfriend. Amai’s hand stays extended toward him for pay, so he already has his unfavorable -and costly- answer to that question.
Azuma is in the kitchen starting work on dinner and Tsuyoshi is being used as Akari’s punching bag against his will. Yukio speaks as the oldest once they’ve all gathered. Their house is under quarantine. Takeo’s cough has developed into pneumonia for the most stupidest reason, he forgot to towel his hair dry and there was no one else to do it for him so he left it like that then fell asleep in front of the air conditioner. Sora is staying home to take care of him, which is a peril in and of itself since he also can barely take care of himself. The kids still have to go to school, so they both decided it would be best if they lived with Azuma and Tsuyoshi in the meantime until their idiotic father got better. He exhales a deep breath after saying all of that in one go.
Tsuyoshi takes off his blue headgear, “Well, that’s not really a problem. You didn’t even need to ask to live with us. We have enough space.” I’m not the least bit surprised that idiot got sick. It’s all because everyone spoils him and they’ll probably still spoil him after this despite how many times I tell them not to. No one learns their lesson.
Azuma takes up his spatula, “The real problem is Sora cooking for him. I should make something digestible for a weak stomach that will last a while and take it over there for them to reheat and refrigerate.” Poison cooking would only make him sicker. For the last 20 years Sora’s kids have been living off take-out food and Azuma’s delicious home cooking taken over to them three out of five days of the week.
Akari versus Nakano and Mirai glare at each other; Amai and Yukio believably have to pretend they are not wishing they were alone so they could make out if they are going to be living under the same roof for an indeterminate amount of time.
Night has fallen, play is over, and baths have been taken. Mirai is filming his own documentary on his smartphone since his father said he likes them. He holds the recording device steady in hand as he opens the pink door, “And here… we see the beast in her natural habitat.” The camera pans to Akari taking off her makeup. “This is the red furred female gorilla doing her night time skincare routine…"
Her hair brush nearly hits his phone, “Get out of my room, twerp!” Mirai giggles and runs before she leaps out of the chair in front of her vanity. But right after one son of Takeo and Sora leaves another comes in with a white towel strapped around his waist and showing off slightly notable upper body muscles to into Akari’s room.
“Hey, Akai, can you lend me some boxers?” Akari flings all her make up products at him.
Akari’s hair color matches her face, “Why would I wear boxers?! Don’t come in my room!” They must have not heard the don’t come in my room because fifteen minutes later both come back in and cozily spread themselves on her bed without asking. Nakano is reading a book aloud about women and they start a discussion on what makes a woman and what does not in Akari’s case.
Akari has her back turned to them facing the vanity mirror finishing her skincare routine for healthy glowing skin, “I am a woman.”
“My book says women don’t eat like vacuum cleaners, don’t swear like sailors, and don’t beat the stuffing out of just anyone who makes them mad.” To hell with your book. That’s an old school woman, I’m new school. What does a 14 year old boy know about a woman’s true heart.
Mirai continues beeping away on his PSP while participating in the conversation, “Correction: I am half of a woman. I think that’s what you meant to say, Akai.”
Nakano cosigns on that, “Correction: I am ⅓ of a woman. That’s what she wanted to say.”
Grr. These kids are getting on my last nerves. Akari turns around, “I am all woman, cuz!” They scream ‘What the hell is that?!’ and point at her pink lips extenuated and her honey brown eyes peeking creepily from behind the green seaweed face mask. Akari uses a bare arm choke hold on the older of the flailing two. This is what I do to rude little shits.
“Mirai! She’s using her 10-pack abs to put me out!” I don’t have a fucking 10-pack. Akari chokes him harder until he runs out of enough oxygen to make jokes about her. The Game Over on Mirai’s game screen can also be applied to Nakano.
Sounds like they’re having a lot of fun over there. Amai finishes preparing his bed with Yukio’s pillow and covers and slides in but the Omega stands on the far side of the wall. Amai looks at him quizzically, “You’re not coming in?” In the same bed as you? I don’t trust you. “I already said I won’t do anything.” Yukio meekly keeps to his side of the bed, blindly trusting in the Alpha’s untrue promises never intended to be kept from the beginning.
You’re too gullible, Yukio. Amai’s arms wrap around the small of his back and in one gentle pull their bodies touch. Then his hand moves down from Yukio’s cheekbones to his lips. The exhilarated Omega tries to ward off the shortly coming heady trance of eager bodies fitted for each other dancing to their singularly unified natural rhythms, however Amai’s electric fingertips leave tingles of frenzied static wherever they touch on his skin. He can feel his back arch in anticipation of where his electric fingers will soon reach, his head rocks back against the pillow as they make their transition inside his body, the first quieted moan escapes his lips.
And so two weeks pass like this. On the fifteenth day, Takeo is unabashedly sitting in Tsuyoshi’s house looking like the healthiest man alive and lopsidedly jabbering on about miscellanies as casually as if they are discussing the weather. Tsuyoshi, in his mind, is rebuking him with every curse word known to man for his moronic tendencies and for taking foolish jeopardizing liberties with his health. “I can’t even get mad at you because I know you’re going to do it again,” he manages to get in edgewise after Takeo has finished his uncalled for obsessive spiel on reputable brands of handymen tools.
Azuma has his hands full trying to convince Sora that he doesn’t need his help in the kitchen in his polite way, which if accurately translated into Azuma-speak means get the fucking hell out of my kitchen right now before you destroy something, friend. But hard-headed Sora must have not clearly gotten the message because he assists in making dinner for nine anyway by contributing his fresh homemade purple citrus salad, much to Azuma’s exasperation in light of the fact that there was nothing whatsoever purple added to it, and green rice, Azuma can’t even begin to comprehend the unholy explanation for why white rice became green rice when all he did was move the washed rice from the sink to the timed rice cooker.
It really comes as no surprise to anyone that Sora’s secondary colored dishes are ignored until they, again, unscientifically chill to a freeze then effuse and bubble like molten lava and finally ooze gaseous vapors all by themselves right there in plain sight on the long rectangular dining table. The kids call it an interesting science sample the most learned of scientists have have trouble analyzing, Azuma calls it and the one who made it a menace to society, Takeo calls it something he’d eat if he took a fry pan to the head. Everyone except Sora laughs. Sora calls it hurting his feelings and crushing his resolve for doing his level best at another failed try in cooking. But he himself is too terrified to eat his own cooking, so his unconvincing words don’t count for much, which makes them laugh so hard til he has no choice other than to join in.
Nakano zips Takeo’s jacket for him and helps his younger brother put on his shoes before heading home. Azuma generously gives Sora the palatable leftovers. Yukio and Amai secretly get in as many kisses as they can in their room before he leaves, though they’ll probably see each other very soon. You are 43 years old. Why does your son have to get you ready? So lazy. Before, you were perfectly capable of something like zipping your jacket yourself. Takeo, do you even know how to use your hands anymore? This is so worrying, he’s going to regress into a baby.
Takeo ruffles the late blooming teen’s hair as a thanks, if he keeps growing inch by inch at this steady rate eventually he’ll shoot up to be as tall as him before he realizes it, just as he did when he was his age. Everyone’s ready to go, watching all three of his healthy sons standing naturally side by side fussing about their father, Tsuyoshi blesses his brother’s thriving happiness from the bottom of his heart and wishes that this happiness, in exchange for the one Hajime could have achieved but was cruelly ripped away from him at the tragic hands of man and fate, will finally pardon him from the bleeding cross he has been carrying for the last 25 years.