Work Text:
“I need you,” Gentaro says, “to prod me in the stomach, as hard as you can.”
Dice makes a face like he’s swallowed something bad. “Uh, you’re gonna have to run that past me again.”
To set the scene – having exchanged pleasantries and talked about nothing for a while, they’re in the main room of Gentaro’s home, sitting across from each other at a low table. It’s a little after noon; much earlier than Dice likes to be awake, considering he’s usually up well past midnight, but that hadn’t stopped him from hurrying over at Gentaro’s message. He’s so pleasantly straightforward.
“Really, Dice? I thought my instructions were quite simple.”
“No, I mean. Why?”
“It’s research for my next novel. One of the characters gets beaten up by a group of thugs, and I’d like to be able to accurately describe the pain.”
“Oh.” Dice frowns, but he ends up buying it like always. “I dunno if that’s gonna feel the same, though. Like, this one time, I got in way over my head cause I owed a yakuza money, so he sent his guys to teach me a lesson, and –”
“Dice.”
“Right! Right, I’ll do it. Like, now?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Dice moves first, shuffling across the wood, and Gentaro turns to face him. “This is kind of a weird thing to call me for,” he says once they’re facing each other, mouth splitting in that familiar lopsided smile. “You know that, right?”
He can’t help the soft puff of air which, from him, passes for a laugh. “I’m aware.”
“And I’m only here cause it’s you. You know that too, yeah?”
“If there are any other authors in your life,” he says, “who invite you around to their homes for research purposes, I should like to have words with them.”
“Nah, nothing like that. Anyway, where’d you want me to poke you?”
“Around my stomach. But lower, and further to the right.”
Dice hovers his hand somewhere around Gentaro’s kidney. “Here?”
To be honest, he’s not quite certain where his appendix is, but a few cursory searches of the internet had provided a rough ballpark. “Yes.”
“Right. Okay, so on three –”
“Don’t give me time to prepare for it. And please, pay no mind to my reaction.”
Dice reaches out and pokes him very, very gently. Granted, it’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s far from what he’d actually requested. He manages a frown, but nothing else.
“Like that?”
“I’m not made of glass, you know. Be a little more forceful.”
“You sure? Cause I don’t wanna, like, accidentally hurt you.”
“I’m aware of my own limits, and that was nowhere close.”
“Uh, okay. Again?”
“Please.”
Before Gentaro had wanted to be an author, he’d thought about a career in rakugo. As an art form, it had long since fallen out of vogue; what did rakugo, and a single actor sitting onstage performing an entire play, have on the spectacle of team rap battles? But the man who had taken him in had loved the art form, had grown up with it, and it was one of the few things they shared as father and son. So Gentaro had drank it in greedily, at every possible chance. He knows, now, that’d never have made it as an apprentice himself, for altogether too many reasons, but he’d briefly harboured fantasies of a life on the stage; theatre was just another kind of artifice, after all. And he’d only really given it up when he discovered that writing was an even more beautiful lie.
But some of it had stuck with him. The voices, for one thing, and the absurd comedy, for another, but also the awareness of his own physical form. The way that, by shifting his body, he could become someone else, some thing else – or, in this particular case, the way he can use his body to telegraph pain.
So, as soon as Dice makes contact again, he leans into the jab. Imagines how the impact would blossom outwards, reverberate through his organs, rattle his very bones, and he doubles over with a wheeze.
Unfortunately, it’s still too light. Not at all close to the kind of pain he needs to be able to fake, and his performance suffers for it. He glances up, meets his companion’s quizzical face, and gives a minute shake of the head.
“No good either?” Dice asks, verging on worried.
The problem here is that he’s holding back because he’s perceiving Gentaro as Gentaro, when really, he should be looking at him as nothing more than a blank canvas. So Gentaro cocks his eyebrows, raises his lips in a sneer, drops his voice. Drawls, like a yakuza from an old film: “Huh? That the best ya got, punk?”
Dice chokes. It’s always satisfying to surprise him, because he puts his whole body into his every reaction, and he absolutely can’t be aware he’s doing it. “Hey, uh, Gentaro –”
“I said,” Gentaro says, looming into his space, “that the best ya got?”
Maybe it’s an unfair play, to move to threaten him like that, but he ends up getting what he wants: Dice’s hand comes rocketing out in self-defense and Gentaro crumples. And he doesn’t even have to work hard to pretend he’s in pain, because Dice is strong even if he doesn’t realise it.
Ah. So it’d feel something like that.
Dice scoots back, noticeably trying to play it cool. It’s definitely for the best that he still seems to think Gentaro is acting. “So, any good? Can you use it for your book?”
Gentaro straightens, takes stock, finds himself pleasantly free of permanent damage. Then he rolls the truth around behind his teeth, decides to spit it out. He won’t get very far without some concession to the truth, even if that might jeopardise him – a gamble for a gambler. “Actually, that was a lie. This has nothing to do with my next project.”
“Okay,” he says, surprisingly calm, “uh. Then what the hell’d you need me for?”
“I’ve made an appointment with a doctor for later today, but there’s nothing wrong with me. So I need to be able to convincingly fake an illness.”
Dice’s expression is still conflicted, and it only tangles up more as the silence drags out. “Wait. That isn’t a lie?”
“Well, I’m not just visiting any doctor,” Gentaro says. “I’ve booked to see Jinguji Jakurai himself.”
That makes him shoot forward like a bullet. It’d be comical if there wasn’t raw shock in his eyes: shock, and something almost like terror. “You what?”
“I’m going to see Jinguji Jakurai.”
“And if you aren’t sick –”
“There are a few things I’d like to ask him.”
About Ramuda. The words go unsaid, because Dice knows enough about him – about both of them – to understand. He might not be on the level of their elaborate mind games, but it would be doing him a disservice to think otherwise.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Dice rakes a hand through his fringe, the way he always does when he’s particularly exasperated. “Okay, but why?”
How can Gentaro even begin to sum up the nature of his relationship with Amemura Ramuda? How he’s never wanted to understand anyone more, even though he knows, at this point, it’s probably going to hurt him. But he’s read enough books, observed enough people, to surmise that Ramuda has to be pushing him away because he’s starting to get somewhere –
Or because someone, before him, had gotten somewhere, and Ramuda had never recovered.
“Why not? Looking at it from my perspective, it seems nearly inevitable.”
A heavy, uncomfortable silence settles in. Dice isn’t built for quiet: he fills every space he occupies, dyes it in his colours, and seems completely unaware of his own volume. So it’s unnerving to see him this genuinely thoughtful.
“Hey, Gentaro,” he says at last. “I know I keep asking, but – tell me you’re lying.”
There’s something pleading in his voice, but Gentaro finds it hard to take satisfaction in that. Because Dice might actually understand Ramuda better than Gentaro does, sometimes, and it’s a bad sign if he’s panicking.
“This isn’t a lie.”
“And you aren’t lying about lying?”
“No. I intend to speak to Jinguji Jakurai, and I intend to do it today.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll believe that. But why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“We fought Matenrou weeks ago. Why’re you only talking to Jinguji now?” Gentaro opens his mouth to answer, but Dice isn’t finished. “Did something happen with you and Ramuda?”
Well: something had, except that it hadn’t. From the outside, nothing has changed between them since Gentaro had visited and, seemingly, upset everything. Ramuda’s still determined that Fling Posse should be the best crew in Tokyo, and organises regular practice sessions. Ramuda still spends time with Gentaro and Dice as a normal trio of friends, always suggesting some scheme or another, always in service of making life more interesting. Ramuda still texts Gentaro incessantly, filling his inbox with stars and hearts and kaomoji. But Ramuda won’t let them be alone together, and Gentaro knows exactly why, except that he doesn’t.
When they’d first met, Ramuda had called his lies a kindness. Gentaro had never thought of it like that, before, but maybe he had been right. Because Dice doesn’t really need to know about the way Ramuda had looked at him and said, I know you’re lonely.
It would’ve been better if his eyes had been empty. Neater; more thematically satisfying, more meaningful. Gentaro’s written scenes like that before, big emotional turns, and there’s always some kind of giveaway in the characters’ body language. He’s seen for himself how Ramuda can trade one voice and persona for another, and had expected a similar kind of shift. But that day Ramuda had looked the same as always, wide smile and innocent face, as he’d gone for the throat.
“Yes,” he says, tongue dry in his mouth.
“What kind of thing?”
It spills out, but it spills out all wrong. “That’s a lie, Dice. We’re the same as we always are, and I’ve booked to see Doctor Jinguji on a whim.”
Call me out, some part of him thinks hysterically. See right through me and make me be honest. Because it isn’t even a good lie, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s subconscious.
“Goddammit.” Dice slumps onto the table, defeated, and Gentaro’s stomach twists in on itself. “I really needa stop falling for that.”
“Probably,” he agrees, and tries not to be disappointed.
“So. I can’t talk you out of going to Shinjuku?”
“I’ve already booked, and they charge a cancellation fee.”
“Like you care!”
He shifts his posture, expression, and when he opens his mouth to speak, he’s been transformed into an old man. “But my finances are stretched so thin lately… Honestly, I don’t know how anyone survives in this economy. I should’ve retired years ago. I don’t envy young people, these days, I’ll tell you that.”
“Yeah, yeah. Really, though.”
“Really? My mind has been made up for days.”
Dice squares his shoulders, looks him dead in the eye. “Then I’m going with.”
That’s a surprise, but he refuses to let it show. “Even though you don’t approve?”
“I think it’s a mistake,” he says. “But we’re friends, and I’m not gonna let you make a mistake alone.”
Gentaro tamps down the warmth that unfurls in him at those words. Dice may be gullible, and prone to making terrible life choices, and not somebody he could’ve seen himself hanging around before Fling Posse, but sometimes he can be a force to be reckoned with. “Then I would appreciate the company.”
“Is that a lie too?”
“Well, what do you think?”
Like Ramuda, Gentaro doesn’t particularly want to be understood, unsettled by the concept of being seen properly. But unlike Ramuda, he does want to be getting somewhere with Dice. Even if he has to throw him countless bones, feed him lies to send him two steps back for every one forward, keeping him just at a distance while luring him in, he wants to be making progress. Because if Dice were, at last, to come to understand him – Gentaro has no doubt he would do it passionately.
( The other difference between you and Ramuda, the nastiest part of him volunteers, is that Ramuda can admit to himself that he’s lonely. Although the knowledge hardly seems to be doing his leader any good.)
“Huh.” Dice chews his lip as he stares, thinking it over. “Actually, I think you meant that one. Jinguji’s kinda scary.”
“But he’s a good man.”
“Yeah, we know what Ramuda thinks.”
“And what do you think?”
“Like I said, he’s terrifying. I think even if he wasn’t famous, or the guy who handed us our asses last round, or Ramuda’s enemy, he’d scare the shit out of me.” He snorts. “And you?”
“I think he would be a terrible man to cross.”
“And we’re crossing him.”
“Not strictly. I’m banking on his conscience as a doctor overpowering his other feelings.”
“Like, ‘first, do no harm’ or whatever? I dunno if that counts here.”
“I trust Ramuda’s opinion on him – well, the opinion he bothered to share with us.”
“Yeah, well.” Dice gestures between them. “Ramuda’s judgment about people sure is something. Uh, no offence.”
“None taken.”
“When’s the appointment?”
“This evening.”
“And you were just… planning to sit around til then?”
“I had been planning to write,” he says. “Which I obviously can’t now, because I hadn’t expected you to agree to come along. How disappointing.”
“Dumbass,” Dice says, and it’s strange and fond and so much better than an apology. “That’s gotta be a lie.”
“Then, let me buy you lunch,” Gentaro says, on impulse. And the way that makes Dice’s face light up is almost enough to distract him from the prospect of this afternoon.
*
Shinjuku Central Hospital, once they arrive, looks exactly as Gentaro had expected. It’s a little sharper than the one he’s used to, a little cleaner, but he still tenses up as they approach. Because he can see what it’s like inside, and all hospitals are the same, white walls and strange forced silence and the masquerade that people don’t go there to die –
“Hey,” Dice murmurs, fingers ghosting against his arm. They feel like a brand, like they’re going clean through him, even through all three layers of Gentaro’s clothes. “All good?”
In all honesty, he’s not certain that he is. Hospitals always make him feel sick – paradoxical, of course, but he’s only ever visited them for one reason. Maybe he can try and estrange himself from the situation, pretend it’s happening to someone else. That’s always worked for him before.
Once, a man and his closest companion went to visit a renowned doctor. The man was known throughout Japan for both his skills as a physician, and his prowess in other arenas. Unbeknownst to the doctor, however, neither of the fellows were suffering from any illness; rather, they had come in order to pursue an ulterior motive.
There. Now it sounds like a farce and not a tragedy. Even the hospital is just a prop, a note in the background rather than the focal point of his attention.
“I think so,” Gentaro says. “Thank you, though.”
“Y’know, we don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but the cancellation fee –”
“To hell with the cancellation fee. Now we’re actually here, tell me: do you still want to go talk to Jinguji?”
“I think we have to.”
“I wasn’t asking if you had to.” Dice moves his hand away, and Gentaro has the most absurd urge to tell him to put it back. “I’m asking if you wanna go through with it.”
There’s very little on this earth Gentaro hates, but he hates this. He understands where Dice is coming from, but this feels all the more terrible for being drawn out, for the slow deliberation of it, as if they aren’t already on the doctor’s doorstep. If he’s going to make the cut, better to do it quickly.
He hunches his shoulders, rolls them back, shifts his weight to something broader. Becomes Arisugawa Dice, to borrow a little of his courage. “Let’s go,” he says – and it’s a struggle to keep his voice like normal, not to get absorbed by the character – and swaggers inside.
They find Jinguji’s name on the directory, make their way up to the floor where his office is. The air in here tastes sterile, stale. Yumeno Gentaro would care; Arisugawa Dice wouldn’t let himself, even though it clogs his throat.
They check in at the desk, and a nurse leads them to his office; the doctor is running perfectly on time, as he always does. Then the nurse knocks and shows them in, and Dice’s hand is gentle on Gentaro’s elbow, and there’s no time left to think about it.
It looks exactly as he’d expected in here: clean, professional, not a single personal effect in sight. Jinguji’s at his desk, and he glances up as they step inside. There’s genuine surprise on his features, but he buries it quickly and stands up to greet them.
“You’re Yumeno Gentaro, of Fling Posse.” Jinguji’s eyes skim over him, land on his companion lingering a half-step behind. “And… Arisugawa Dice, was it?”
“Yeah.” Dice coughs awkwardly. “Nice to meet you. Or meet you again, I guess.”
“You aren’t going to turn us away?” Gentaro asks.
“I am a doctor first,” Jinguji says, “and your enemy second. If you’re seeking treatment, I’ll do everything in my power to help.”
He truly is like some kind of saint. Gentaro can’t say for sure that he’d be so magnanimous, if their positions were reversed. Ramuda certainly wouldn’t, and his words ring in Gentaro’s head: he’s a good person.
(Dice, though; Dice probably would.)
“But,” he continues, “if I may be so rude as to ask – Amemura doesn’t know that you’re here, does he.”
It isn’t really a question; it’s a statement of fact. Dice’s eyes flick frantically to Gentaro, because he’s never managed to lie in his life, and Jinguji sighs.
“I suppose that it doesn’t matter. Please, take a seat.”
They move to take their seats in front of the large desk, and Jinguji sits back down opposite. He looks like a portrait-perfect doctor – stately and dignified, in his white coat, the plaque with his name on it polished to a perfect shine – except that Gentaro has faced off against him, knows for a fact that serene face is hiding something. And today, he intends to find out what.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Gentaro’s sick,” Dice says, opening the game. He’s a little too blustery for it to convince someone who knows him, but he’s always a little too blustery, so it almost reads as natural. “And he asked me to come with.”
“What sort of illness?”
“Ah – stomach pains,” Gentaro answers.
“I don’t mean to overstep,” Jinguji says, “or to imply anything unsavoury, but most of my patients visit unaccompanied, unless their ailment calls for it.”
“I don’t like hospitals,” he says, and then, into the silence: “But that’s a lie. I don’t have any feelings on them, either way.”
“I see. Shall we begin the examination?”
Shoulders up, mouth relaxed, tone a touch swaggery, and he becomes a man who doesn’t hate hospitals. “There’s no need to go into too much depth, doctor. I’ve done my research, and I believe it’s appendicitis.”
“While I take my patients self-reporting seriously, I’ll nevertheless still have to see for myself. Would you mind moving to the examination table and removing your shirt?”
Gentaro pulls himself up short. For all the research he’s done on appendicitis, for all his practice with Dice this morning, for all his planning on how to approach Jinguji, this might still sink him. Somehow, for some reason, he hadn’t considered that this would come up. And he doesn’t want to expose himself like that in front of anyone, for any reason, even if it necessitates breaking the masquerade. Least of all Jinguji Jakurai, a doctor and his enemy – and worse, Dice.
(Actually, the reason for this slip-up is obvious. It’s because he avoids doctors whenever he can, and doesn’t know the procedure for these things – but he can lie to himself, too. Pretend it’s an oversight rather than a conscious blind spot.)
(Would Dice stare, if he complied and stripped? Would Dice avert his eyes, to try and preserve his modesty? Or would the removal of that armour mean nothing to him, even though it would mean everything to Gentaro?)
“I don’t think I feel comfortable with that,” he manages. “Is it possible to examine me through my clothes?”
Jinguji looks at him, seemingly without emotion, but there’s something at work behind those dark eyes. “Yumeno,” he says finally, “I would never question a patient’s judgment without due cause, but you’ve given me more than enough reason to suspect there’s nothing wrong with you. If you were truly as ill as you claim, you wouldn’t have been able to walk calmly into my office.”
Gentaro tries not to look too duplicitous, but he’s always been bad at sincerity. “So this is the medical prowess of the famous Jinguji Jakurai. Able to cure my appendicitis without even inspecting me.”
The doctor’s mouth thins into a line. “Are you playing some sort of joke? If so, I wouldn’t expect any less from Amemura Ramuda’s teammates. He never did possess a good sense of humour.”
“It isn’t that,” Dice interrupts, smart enough not to comment on the name. “Honest.”
“Then, why don’t you tell me your true purpose in coming here? Although, if pressed, I’m certain I could furnish a number of other theories.”
He’s all icy hostility: not outright rude yet, but verging on it, and definitely pushing condescending. Gentaro weighs up his options. If Jinguji hates Ramuda and everything he stands for, he has no choice but to be honest.
“There were a few things I wanted to ask you,” he says. “For instance, what happened between you and Ramuda?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Evasion won’t work on me. Besides, doctors aren’t supposed to lie to their patients.”
“Generally speaking,” Jinguji says drily, “patients aren’t supposed to lie to their doctors, either.”
“Something happened,” Gentaro continues. “Something that broke up your old team. And you and Ramuda were at the core of it.”
“Aohitsugi Samatoki would tell you something very different. As would Yamada Ichiro, I suspect.”
“I’m not asking for their opinions, Doctor. I’m asking for yours. Then let’s change the subject somewhat, and leave you out of it – what exactly is Ramuda trying to hide?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t my place to speak of that either, Yumeno.”
“I had expected resistance, but not out of sentiment.”
“This isn’t sentiment. Although if you truly are so desperate to know, I suppose it’s my duty to warn you away from him. Speaking both as a former friend, and as a doctor, about a man who is most definitely sick.”
And that’s interesting, the way Jinguji affects professionalism while being anything but professional. Interesting, because Gentaro, too –
“Ramuda’s not sick,” Dice cuts in fiercely, and something in Gentaro’s heart swells. “Yeah, he’s got issues, but not illnesses. You’re just saying that cause you don’t like him.”
“My feelings on Amemura have nothing to do with the truth,” Jinguji says. It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it’s certainly not entirely honest, even if the doctor isn’t aware of it himself. “I may specialise in diseases of the body, not the mind, but his problems are apparent. Does the word ‘narcissist’ mean anything to you? There’s no other explanation for his selfishness and lack of regard for others.”
Gentaro, as accomplished an armchair psychologist as he is, is familiar with the term. He’d considered it himself, early into his relationship with Ramuda, but had dismissed it almost as quickly. Because Ramuda only comes off like a narcissist if you aren’t truly looking at him. It’s just too obvious a theory.
“I believe you’re incorrect, doctor.”
“On what grounds?”
Dice is watching them like a particularly engaging tennis match – no, like two cars speeding headfirst towards each other, completely incapable of looking away. And Gentaro has no plans to swerve away first.
“Ramuda has never treated us with anything other than respect. He constantly shows interest and engagement in us in a way that a textbook narcissist simply wouldn’t.”
“And yet, you had to come to me for answers about the most basic details of his past. If you’ll pardon the intrusion, that hardly seems like a reciprocal relationship.”
It’s impressive how rude Jinguji can be, while pretending to actually be polite. Gentaro sort of admires it.
“He’s entitled to his past,” he says. “And he selected us for his team – doesn’t that count as a form of reciprocation?”
“On the contrary, I believe his choice of teammates only confirms my theory. Narcissists often choose to surround themselves with people they perceive as similarly unique; so, what better members than a young, prolific, prize-winning novelist, and an Arisugawa with a reputation on the gambling circuit?”
“You believe he’s collecting us.”
“Speaking as one of his former collectables, it’s safe to say that I know he is.”
“Oh yeah?” Dice blurts out. “Then why’s he letting me live in his house?”
“Because he’s manipulative. If he can make you indebted to him, he can control you more easily. To someone like Amemura, a puppet is all the more impressive if it could dance on its own, but is bound to him regardless.”
That’s quite enough. So Gentaro tips his head, pushes his cheeks back into a smile. Becomes, for an instant, Amemura Ramuda. “Oh yeah? And what did he have over you, Ja-ku-rai?”
The look in Jinguji’s eyes is cold enough to freeze hell. Dice nudges Gentaro sharply in the shin, as if to say, told you he was scary, or maybe hurry up and fix this, you dumbass. “Excuse me?”
“How rude of me,” Gentaro says demurely, returning to his usual demeanour. “I didn’t intend to be presumptuous.” Next to him, Dice barely manages to turn his snort into a cough.
“However, my point stands. If you believe he doesn’t lack empathy, prove it.” Jinguji’s hands are clasped tightly together, but there’s a tension to them, a telling whiteness to his knuckles. “Prove to me that Amemura Ramuda possesses a shred of consideration for others.”
The sticking point here is that Gentaro’s in no position to judge. If Ramuda had possessed any consideration for him, if Ramuda hadn’t moved to attack for the crime of approaching the truth, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. Or – no, maybe he’s been looking at it backwards. Maybe it’s not because Ramuda lacks consideration, but because he thinks about others too much. Maybe it’s because he’s so completely aware of others, of getting them tangled up with him, that he’s compelled to push them away. And that may be a twisted empathy, but it’s there. It matters.
“No offence, doc.” Dice’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “But I think that all says way more about you than Ramuda.”
Or there’s that. Really, what would he ever do without Dice.
“Think of me what you will. But I have a question myself, Yumeno.” The doctor rubs at his temples. “You could have brought your hypnosis microphone and used it to force the truth out of me. Why didn’t you?”
Jinguji’s presence truly is overwhelming, the force of his gaze like a blowtorch. “Because I wouldn’t have been able to lie my way into an appointment, of course.”
“And after the initial consultation?”
“It wouldn’t have been right. I have to satisfy my curiosity about this under my own power, or not at all.”
“If I may offer some advice,” Jinguji says, “be careful of Amemura. He’s certain to eat someone as kind as you alive.”
“Yeah, well,” says Dice, “we didn’t ask.”
“I’m merely speaking as your physician.”
“Strangely enough,” Gentaro says, “I don’t think we’ll be back for a second appointment.”
“Yes, I think it would be best if we conclude here.” The doctor primly brushes his hair back. “I’m expecting Doppo in a little while, and you should be gone before he arrives. I won’t speak a word of this to him, because our business is between us, but I won’t be able to do anything if he encounters you.”
(Gentaro wonders: if he can’t confide in his teammates, then who can he confide in? Because he’s switched back and forth between doctor and man, Jinguji Jakurai and MC ill-DOC, so many times in this consultation it’s a wonder he hasn’t gotten dizzy.)
“Let’s go,” Dice mutters, bringing him back into the moment. “C’mon, Gentaro.”
He decides to take their advice, stands. “Thank you for your time, doctor.”
“Have a good evening,” Jinguji says. Bizarrely enough, even after everything, he still somehow sounds like he means it. “Take care on your way home.”
Their journey out of the hospital is much the same as their journey in, except that Dice feels much more distant: no hand on his arm, and he’s giving off a strange and sullen aura. Gentaro decides to stop a nurse on the way and gets directions to a side exit, mindful of trying to avoid Kannonzaka. Her instructions lead them to a door which opens onto a side street, and then they’re free.
It might just be psychological, but even in a dubious back alley, the air out here tastes much cleaner than in the hospital. Gentaro tries not to make it too obvious that he’s drinking it in, but his companion doesn’t seem to be paying attention anyway.
Dice must be in a foul mood, judging by the way he’s already hunting for his cigarettes, and the sharp, annoyed movement of his hands. Gentaro, who can’t really blame him, speaks first. “Jinguji Jakurai really is a good man.”
There isn’t any getting around it. They (well, mostly Gentaro) had invaded his clinic and interrogated him about his past, and the worst Jinguji had done in return was be justifiably rude. It’s easy to imagine how he wouldn’t have gotten along with Ramuda – and only a little harder to imagine how he would’ve.
(Had Ramuda visited him at this same hospital: not as a client, but as a friend? Had Jinguji, after the Dirty Dawg had broken up, cleaned out his entire office and stripped out his every trace? More to the point, had he succeeded?)
“We shouldn’t have done that,” Dice says instead, lighting up. As tactfully as he can, Gentaro moves upwind. “Ramuda’s gonna kill us.”
(Because Ramuda, of course, can’t be gotten rid of so easily. Even now that Gentaro’s probably betrayed him, now that he’s definitively taken actions which are going to have brutal consequences – Ramuda’s already sunk roots through his entire being.)
“Ramuda doesn’t have to know.”
“Shit, Gentaro. Don’t make me choose between betraying him or betraying you.”
“It isn’t a betrayal,” Gentaro says, and, when his companion makes a face, “all right. I suppose that’s a lie.”
“We could lose Fling Posse over this. You know that, right? If he finds out –”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? You don’t think I’m enjoying myself too much to let it go?”
“I don’t know. It’s just… nah. It’s nothing.”
He isn’t sure what to say to that – what he’s expected to say to that. In the silence, Dice takes another long drag of his cigarette, blows out a ring of smoke. It dissipates slowly, aimlessly. Gentaro, put on the spot and unable to play anyone but himself, tries again.
“You weren’t even a little intrigued by what Ramuda might be hiding?”
“No,” Dice says flatly. “Not at all.”
“You’re very loyal.”
“It’s not that – well, I mean, maybe a bit. But I just think… I dunno. I just think that whoever he is now’s more important than whoever he used to be.”
“But we don’t know anything about who he is, either.”
Dice flicks ash off the end of his cigarette. “Poking around in his business isn’t gonna solve that.”
“I’m sorry, Dice,” Gentaro says, and he means it. He doesn’t want his teammate – his friend – seriously angry with him, if he can help it. He’s admittedly a little concerned about managing Ramuda, too, but Ramuda isn’t a metre away from him, in some Shinjuku back alley, glowering at the graffiti’d wall. “I shouldn’t have asked you to be complicit in this.”
“No, I mean. I feel like shit about it, but I’m glad you trusted me to come along.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do, but. I guess we can work that out together.”
“Oh,” Gentaro says again, because Dice is looking at him like he really means it. He’s never sure how to deal with that sincerity, when it gets turned on him full blast, even after this long. He probably doesn’t know it himself, but Dice is dangerous.
(Ramuda knows. He has to, because deep down, he hates the truth almost as much as Gentaro. Or even more, judging by the way he wriggles out of any attempt to pin him down. By the way Gentaro had been made to excavate for anything real in him, until he’d looked up and realised he was trapped in the pit he’d dug for himself.)
“But,” Dice says, “I’m gonna. I’m gonna need some time, Gentaro. I live with Ramuda, and I have to go home and look him in the eye and pretend I wasn’t here.”
“I…” He stops himself. “Yes. I had expected as much.”
“And I dunno when I’m gonna be able to talk about this. I’ll message you about it first.”
“You always message me first, though.”
Dice drops the last of his cigarette, grinds it under the heel of his shoe. He looks like he’s about to laugh, except that his eyes say he’s about to cry. “Not today I didn’t.”
There’s something terrible in his tone, something that should never have been brought out of him. Because he shouldn’t sound like this, shouldn’t sound this sarcastic and defeated and… not himself.
“Anyway,” Dice says, “see you.”
Gentaro’s suddenly seized by remorse: his games with Ramuda are his own, and he should’ve left Dice out of it. Should never even have given him the choice. There’s still time for him to say something, but his lips feel like stone and his tongue like treacle. Because, truth or lie, there’s no way for him to express the magnitude of this mistake, and he wouldn’t even know how to begin. So every word he’s ever learned eludes him, except for one.
“Goodbye.”
And rakugo stories always have some kind of punchline, but this one doesn’t. This whole setup is absurd, and has been from the start, but there’s no kicker. Only the grip of nausea on his stomach, and the numb guilt seeping into his bones, and the dull taste of secondhand smoke, and Dice walking away from him.
No, wait, here’s the twist. Here’s the bitter irony he’s been on the edge of his seat for: now, having left the doctor’s office, he does feel sick.
(Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much.)