#even dogfish ended up being 42k over the span of two weeks

[mangoisms]

be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking ━ miyuki kazuya The unspoken rule, for cases like yours, is to encourage your living partner to move on with the one dream that you’re allowed to appear in. And you did that. You did the teary goodbye that you were so ruthlessly exempt from when you died in that car accident. But what do you do when they actually move on and eventually join the afterlife with their partner? or, with the help of Miyuki Kazuya, you learn that just because you're dead, you're not exempt from moving on and learning to be happy again.

━ completed

━ wc: 8k

━ warnings: mentions of death but it's an afterlife au, so

━ you can also read this on ao3

Find someone else. Isn’t that the punchline?

It’s the same joke (and unofficial rule) you find yourself skulking about in this bar — the same bar you’ve been coming to for the last month and a half. It’s empty, thank god, because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you’re not in the mood for some boring conversation with a stranger about why you look so mopey.

You should be happy that your partner found someone else.

Because, to you, it had been a given.

Of course you didn’t want your partner, still living, barely twenty-six, to live the rest of their life mourning you. You wanted them to find someone else.

It’s the morally correct thing to do and hey, that’s why you were here, right?

A life of morally correct decisions landed you in this pleasant afterlife rather than the not-so-pleasant one.

So, you should be happy that, after about two years in the living world (only two months for you, because time passes differently here), your partner has finally moved on and found someone else.

But what now?

What happens when your ex and their new partner finally pass on here?

What are you supposed to do?

The unspoken rule, for cases like yours, is to encourage your living partner to move on, making use of the one dream of theirs that you’re allowed to appear in. And you did that. You did the teary goodbye that you were so ruthlessly exempt from when you died in that car accident.

But what do you do when they actually move on and eventually join the afterlife with their partner?

Seriously, is there a handbook or manual on this? Can you wikipedia it? What to do when I die and leave my partner behind and they actually move on like I told them to?

You’re obviously not going to get back together. So, where does that leave you?

You rub your forehead.

The bartender wordlessly pours you another glass and you nod your thanks, mechanically taking a sip.

You have to suppress a deep sigh when someone slides into the stool beside yours.

The entire bar is open. You are seated at a lone corner, near the hall to the bathrooms, so honestly, this guy could’ve picked any other seat.

Ugh.

You can feel your mood souring further.

The bartender drifts back to you.

“What can I get you?” He asks the stranger.

The stranger gives his order and you look away from his direction pointedly, watching the condensation sliding down the glass, creating a wet ring on the small napkin underneath it.

You feel strangely uncomfortable.

The message is clear. This guy is interested in you — hello, the rows of available stools on the bar and he sat next to you — but wow, the thought of flirting with someone else makes your skin crawl.

Because to you, it’d only been two months ago that you were alive, living with your partner, savoring the domesticity of your life. And while they may have moved on already because of this plane of dimension’s horrible passage of time, you haven’t.

Not yet.

No use in beating around the bush, you think, sighing and finally lifting your eyes.

“So, I was —”

“Do you mind —“

You both halt. He laughs nervously as red forms on his cheeks.

“Go ahead,” he says.

You smile politely. “Right. No offense, seriously, but do . . . you mind moving somewhere else? I kind of want to be alone right now.”

The guy blanks, obviously not expecting that. “Oh. Um. Uh. S-Sure. Er, could I give you my number —”

You smile stiffly. “I’d rather not, honestly.”

He deflates. “But —”

“Hey.”

The bartender sets down the stranger’s order in front of him, the thump of the glass on the counter strangely loud in this empty bar, even with the low jazz playing overhead.

He’s frowning. “They obviously don’t want to be bothered. Move along. We’re not looking for trouble.”

“Neither am I,” the guy mutters mulishly.

“It seems like you are. They’re visibly uncomfortable, clearly not in the mood to flirt, and they’ve asked you to move and you’re still trying to get their number. Back off, man. Seriously.”

You stare at the bartender. He’s a tall, handsome man with messy brown hair, tawny brown skin, and golden eyes, hidden behind a pair of nondescript black frames.

He’d also been working the bar for the past month and a half, at the times you came by and sulked for a few hours. You didn’t know his name, just that he was, objectively speaking, handsome and rather popular with the patrons for his biting humor and excellent mixing skills.

He had never asked about your name or your problem or anything like that.

But you think, in those times when the bar emptied out except for you two and the bouncers by the entrance, when he’d lean against the counter and crack open a book on baseball strategy, that his silence was more fortitudinous than awkward.

That could always be wishful thinking of your part, though.

And now — now he has no obligation to help you. So, you assume he’s doing this to avoid trouble rather than genuine kindness.

The guy mutters a couple things scornfully under his breath and clambers off the seat, knocking over the glass and throwing down the money before stalking off.

That was kind of dramatic, you think with a grimace, watching as the bartender calmly picks up the money and stows it away in a cash register.

He comes back to the counter and picks up the glass, setting it in a sink, then starts wiping up the mess.

You bite your lip. I have to say something, you think. It’d be rude not to.

“Thanks for that,” you end up saying. It sounds half-hearted but you mean it.

The bartender shrugs. “No problem. Gotta keep this bar drama-free.”

You still feel bad. “I . . . Still. I don’t want to inadvertently be the cause of you losing some customers.”

It’s not like bankruptcy is a thing here. All service workers like the bartender are given extra bonuses for doing their jobs — on top of the monthly checks that each person gets. These institutions don’t belong to one particular person or company. No, they belong to the higher ups, the primordial beings in charge of the afterlife, and they have bigger worries than making money.

He laughs. “This is the only bar in the quad. He’ll be back.”

That’s true, but . . .

“I don’t want to cause you trouble,” you mumble under your breath.

He tosses aside the wet towel and picks up another, drying off the counter before throwing it over his shoulder and grinning at you.

“Relax. It’s fine. Honestly, I didn’t mind. And if he wants to cause trouble with some of his friends later, he can take it up with those guys.” He nods behind you and you look over your shoulder, seeing the two, hulking bouncers stationed by the entrance, talking amongst themselves.

“Besides,” the bartender continues. “It seems like you don’t need a distraction right now.” He takes out another glass and fills it with water. “Wallowing in self-pity usually demands some privacy.”

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “I really appreciate it.”

He winks. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff quietly, pushing away the alcoholic drink in favor of the cool water. Your chest feels warm and fuzzy, only mildly buzzed, but it’ll be a long walk back to your house and you don’t want to be inebriated and vulnerable.

Something like curiosity burrows underneath your skin as you watch the bartender from the corner of your eye. He talks to the other patrons at the bar as he serves them.

You slum it there for another few hours, sobering up, but soon, it starts to get busy and that’s when you take your leave, sliding off the stool and picking up your coat. You pretend not to notice the way the bartender disappears into the back and two women come to replace him.

You step outside. The air is nippy, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

Nighttime has fallen and the sky is starless and dark.

There’s a lot of similarities between here and the living world, but there’s more differences.

Because there are no countries or real affiliations, quads stand as centers of living, dependent on the person. Some quads are like cities, with hundreds of thousands of other people, and even more bars, restaurants, stores, and businesses. Others are like towns, homey and local. This quad is like that.

You like the quiet of it; it’s small enough that you can travel everywhere by foot. It’s also designed so that you never have to leave. No reason to go into other quads.

You can, of course, if you want. There are no rules or restrictions here on what you can and can’t do. The only rule is to be civil and keep peace.

You start your trek to your home — your own slice of heaven, a place that is perfect for you (for some, it’s a ranch, for others, it’s an ultra-modern apartment).

Your eyes stay on the sky more than anything, scanning the empty oblivion.

“You’ll trip if you keep walking like that,” a voice calls from behind you.

You stop and turn. The bartender is a few paces behind you, changed from the formal shoes, slacks, and button-up into a pair of ratty Converse, jeans, a t-shirt, and a light jacket.

It fits him.

You frown. “Are you following me?”

“All the housing for this quad is in this direction,” he says and you flush, because that’s true, you’d forgotten yourself.

“Right, well,” you clear your throat noisily. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because I’m a good person,” he replies easily, closing the distance and coming to stand beside you. “But seriously, what is it you see that’s so interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, you don’t see it?”

“Like practically everything else here, it’s tailored to you specifically,” he says, lips quirked, and you flush again.

What’s with me today? You think. I’ve been here for two months, I know all this stuff by now.

“Well, what do you see?” You turn the question back on him.

He lifts his eyes to the sky. It’s dark and starless to you but whatever he sees makes his face soften. Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a strange, but familiar, feeling that has guilt immediately curling in your stomach. You try to shut it down.

“I see the Milky Way,” he says. “Millions of stars.”

You wonder what that must be like. “Sounds nice.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. Never saw it much when I was alive since I lived in a big city. Only saw it once on a trip out to the country.”

“Oh,” you say intelligently.

“And you?” He asks.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I see . . . nothing. It’s. . . a starless sky to me.” You lift your eyes again. “It’s not really home . . .” you shrug awkwardly. “I dunno. That’s just what I see.”

“Different for everyone. No harm in that,” he says, strangely wise.

You're blurting out your name before you can think of what you’re doing.

He snickers. “Miyuki.” He gives you an appraising look. “Seems like you’re in a better mood.”

You shrug a shoulder. “I guess. I’m just . . . It’s nothing much.”

“You should talk to someone,” he says and it sounds like he means it.

“What, like you?” You try not to sound so incredulous but he catches it and laughs anyway.

“I can’t promise I’d care, to be honest. But if you’re facing some kind of dilemma that has to do with living loved ones, you’re probably not alone.”

You bite your lip. You’re getting kind of cold now, just standing there in the middle of the street, gentle winds tickling your cheeks.

He’s strangely honest.

Probably too honest than socially acceptable.

His name is Japanese and you’d wager that he’s speaking Japanese, too, but to you, his mouth is shaping the words in your native language and it sounds the same in your ears (another thing about the afterlife; no language barriers).

Doesn’t Japan have really stringent social hierarchies?

But if he’s so honest . . . Could he help?

You just don’t know what to do.

You feel bad that your partner moved on. You shouldn’t.

Right?

“If you keep thinking so hard, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

You focus on Miyuki. “Could I ask you for advice?”

He blinks. “Eh?”

“I know you said you wouldn’t necessarily care,” you sigh, taking a few steps to the side and sitting down on the curb. You stare at the street. The concrete is cool underneath you, seeping through the thin material of your jeans. “But I think you’d be honest. And I need that more than I need comfort.”

“Weren’t you the one also a little bit dubious about that?” He asks, but sits down beside you on the curb anyway.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “And I know we know nothing about each other but maybe that’s for the best.”

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Go ahead, I guess.”

He sounds awkward, suddenly, and you’re a little amused. He can certainly run his mouth but he gets choked up here. Of course.

You tell him, then, about how you did your duty, took the opportunity to visit your partner’s dream and made them promise to find someone else, something that makes them happy, and they finally did that, and you feel — mean and resentful and sad and you know you shouldn’t, you should be happy, because they did what you wanted, hadn’t they?

And maybe, you add to yourself, you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be enjoying the pleasures of the afterlife, because you’re being selfish and it’s not right. Is it?

You halt in your words and close your eyes, pressing your forehead to your knees.

“I feel like such a bad person for feeling like that,” you whisper. “Is it bad that I secretly wanted for them to just . . . not settle down? So we could be together when they finally died and came here?”

Miyuki remains silent for a couple minutes and you finally turn to look at him.

He’s gazing at the sky, thoughtful. You hold your tongue.

Two women pass you, talking and laughing amongst themselves as they head home for the night.

“That’s the thing they don’t tell you about,” he eventually says quietly and you look at him instinctively. “The ‘right thing’ to do is tell the loved ones you leave behind to move on and find happiness again. Like it’s an obligation for us to be selfless. Maybe it is. My moral compass has never exactly worked well. But they never tell you how to get over them when they do move on.

“Or what to do when your partner finally crosses over and they’re still in love with someone else.” He finally looks at you, solemn. “Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we don’t feel. We feel what we feel. We’re still human.”

He talks about this like he’s experienced it. You wonder if he has, but you bury that curiosity. There’s no need for it.

You sigh. “Yeah, that’s really poetic and all, but you didn’t exactly answer my question. Am I a bad person for wishing those things?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sheesh. What’s gonna satisfy you? No, you’re not. Shit happens. And like I just said —“he sends you a look and you have to suppress a smile “— we feel what we feel. Nothing wrong with that. My best piece of advice?” He stands and you have to almost crane your neck to look up at him. “Start preparing yourself for the worst possible outcome. They settle down. Get married. And pass into the afterlife still in love with that person, not you.”

It hurts to hear. But a part of you knows he’s right.

You set your chin on your knees and close your eyes, throat feeling thick suddenly.

You’ve had flashes of your partner and their new life in your dreams. They’re happy.

And . . . and you hope it continues.

Your feelings will shrink with time. You know that.

You just have to grin and bear it now.

You hear the shifting of gravel and rocks underfoot and tense as a hand tentatively touches your head. It’s warm and gentle and —

Comforting.

Your heart does a strange jump.

You open your eyes and look up at Miyuki.

“There’s nothing wrong with you moving on, too,” he says quietly and the air in your lungs rattles, squeezing your throat.

He takes his hand away and turns. “See you around.”

You watch him leave.

You stop going to the bar, because you have no business there anymore.

You’re going to learn to live with this fate.

The unfortunate side effect of that, though, is that you no longer see Miyuki.

And strangely enough, you find yourself missing his presence.

You try not to think about it too hard.

Moving on is . . . both hard and easy.

Some days, you think that this will be the day you leap that final hurdle, get over your ex and move on with your life here, but others, you don’t think the effort is worth anything.

It doesn’t help that your dreams are dominated by your ex and their new life.

Some nights, you just stay up and go to your backyard and lay down on the grass, staring up at the empty night sky.

Those times, you seriously consider reincarnation.

Your memories are wiped and you’re sent back to the living world to be reborn as someone else for another try at life.

But it’s a risky gamble, because you could end up at any point in history, as any person.

So, it’s nothing more than wishful thinking.

For now.

You do spend your time at the library in the central square, browsing the massive selection. You try to avoid glancing at the bar a few doors down as you make your walk there.

The library helps take your mind off things. For a little while.

In the living world, there are limitations to knowledge. Things that they don’t know for certain. Here, you’re given the privilege of knowing. You can unlock the secrets of the universe with little difficulty, only a short browse through the nonfiction section on cosmology and astronomy.

You almost feel pity for those in the living world, running around in circles trying to figure out this and that, when the answers to all life’s questions lay in your hands here.

You spend enough time at the library for the librarian to give you a part-time job. It’s hardly arduous. You just put returned books back into their original places.

You’re in the middle of returning some books in the how-to section when you run into Miyuki.

Literally.

He manages to step away before you can ram the cart into his ankles and you grimace.

“Sorry.”

“Wow,” he says. “Our first time seeing each other in almost two weeks and you almost run me over.”

You don’t take the bait, instead latching onto another piece of information he’d, probably, accidentally revealed.

“You’ve been counting?”

He plays dumb. “No. Of course not. What makes you say that?”

You find yourself smiling. “Was there something you were looking for, Miyuki?”

He clears his throat and straightens. “Cookbooks. Trying to spice it up at home. I think I’m using too many brain cells coming up with drinks for the bar.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

But you park the cart to the side and help him out, locating the cookbooks. It’s a wide assortment, different books on different cultures, and he spends an impressive amount of time flipping through them, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as he takes in the information.

You putter around for a minute before going back to the cart, setting your hands on the bar and preparing to push it.

Miyuki quickly and quietly calls out your name.

You turn.

He has a book in his hands and he runs his fingers absently over the front.

You frown. Is he nervous?

“Yeah?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I was wondering . . . I have an extra ticket to a timeshow on the history of the universe this Saturday. My friend was supposed to go with me but he couldn’t go. Had to do something for his husband. Would you, ah, want to go? To the show? It’d just be a waste of money if I didn’t have someone else use it.”

He’s making excuses. Saving face.

But rather than finding it silly and annoying, you’re. . . endeared.

You smile. “Sure. That sounds like fun. What time?”

“Six. We can meet in front of the theater at five-forty-five?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. See you, then.” You flash him one last smile and turn around, pushing the cart to the next section.

Your heart is drumming away in your chest.

You’re. . . excited.

Settling into the afterlife had been hard. Because you’d been ripped away from the only life you’d known in the living world.

You had no one here, your parents still kicking, and there weren’t any grandparents or previously dead relatives waiting for you on the other side.

No, just a courier patiently telling you that you were dead and you were now in the afterlife.

It’s not like making friends is easy, either.

Most people keep to themselves. Routine is comfort here.

So, you tell yourself that the fluttering in your stomach and the rapid pace of your pulse is because, for better or for worse, Miyuki is your friend.

(And you ignore the disappointment that wells up within you at that title.)

The theater functions like it does in the living world, except they also have time shows.

Shows that document the passage of time. Topics vary, from the history of the universe, like the Big Bang and the formation of the Milky Way and the solar system, to life on earth, from prehistoric time, to the present.

Today’s show is the history of the universe, starting, naturally, with the Big Bang.

You’re a little tired, after another sleepless night, but seeing Miyuki standing at the entrance makes your heart race. You push down the feeling.

You and Miyuki take your seats, in the middle of the rows of the theater. It’s not very busy, but there’s still people there. You steal some of the popcorn from the bucket sitting on his lap.

“So, who’s your friend?” You ask, taking a drink of your water bottle.

He raises an eyebrow. “Hallucinating? Not a good look on you.”

You roll your eyes. “I mean the friend who canceled on you last minute. I was under the pretense you didn’t have any friends.”

He snickers. “I’m not a lonely, poor soul like you, you know. Anyway. My friend, Yoichi. We live on the same street.”

“That’s nice,” you say, earnest.

“He’s. . . alright.” Miyuki’s words are halting and jagged and it makes you curious as to why that is.

But the lights are dimming rapidly, signaling the start of the show, and you wipe your fingers on a napkin, turning your attention to the screen. You tense as the theater is plunged into darkness and feel Miyuki shift, settling his arm on the armrest separating your seats.

You have half a mind to elbow him out of your space before there’s a booming explosion, deafening and sudden enough to make you jump. Your fingers clamp onto Miyuki’s wrist instinctively, feeling the soft, warm skin underneath your fingertips.

The screen bursts to life, a brilliant, bright ball of light.

You jump again as rough fingers touch the back of your hand. And you realize you still haven’t let him go.

An apology is already on your lips when he applies a firmer pressure and murmurs, “It’s fine. These guys just like their theatrics.”

You falter, looking at him and seeing the bright colors of the screen reflecting off his glasses, but his eyes are on you, comforting gold.

A peculiar kind of heat spreads underneath the surface of your skin and you nod, embarrassed.

“Sorry.”

He taps a finger on the knuckle of your index finger. “Nothing to apologize for, dummy.”

You suppress the urge to apologize again and reluctantly remove your fingers from his wrist.

You fold your hands in your lap and ignore the way the skin on the back of your skin tingles pleasantly.

He’s right about the show. They do like their theatrics.

It’s all dramatic explosions and flashes of lights, running through the last 14 billion years of the universe’s existence in an easy hour, keeping it interesting enough for those who don’t know a thing about these concepts.

Miyuki passes the bucket of popcorn to you midway through and by the end of the show, your face is hot from the amount of times your hand has brushed his while reaching for popcorn.

It’s a little silly.

You’re not some kind of middle schooler interacting with their crush.

There’s no logical reason to be acting like that.

Yet you find yourself relieved as he tosses the bucket in the trash outside the theater, the air cooler here. You two converse as you leave the theater. Nighttime has settled in once again and the yellow light of the streetlamps illuminate the square.

Before you can get too distracted, Miyuki tugs on your shirt and you glance at him.

He tilts his head to the ice cream parlor next door. “Dessert? You’ll have to pay, though. I think that’s only fair.”

You marvel at his ability to make generous suggestions and still sound remarkably rude. It would irritate you, usually, but he manages to make it just sound like that’s how he is.

No malicious intent. Just a fact of nature.

“Sure,” you agree. “Sounds fine to me.”

The parlor is cold upon entering, a quiet humming in the background, bright lights illuminating the inside. The employee smiles politely.

You peer at the flavors, giving your order to the employee who starts working on it immediately. Miyuki follows suit after you’ve been handed a small cup with the ice cream.

“I almost would’ve thought you don’t like sweet things,” you comment offhandedly as you hand over the proper amount of money to the employee when Miyuki’s also been given his own cup.

“Green tea isn’t that sweet,” he says. “But sweet stuff has grown on me in the past years.”

“Really?” You both step back out of the ice cream parlor and cross the street to the park in the center of the square. He takes a seat on a bench and you sit beside him, careful to leave a reasonable amount of space between you two.

He nods. “Sure. Couldn’t stand it initially but,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind as much now.”

You want to ask for more information — that curiosity that had burrowed its way underneath your skin has spread, tugging at your chest impatiently — but you get the feeling that he’s a private person, so, you keep your mouth shut and eat your ice cream.

“How’s moving on working out for you?” He asks after a couple minutes of comfortable silence.

You remove your eyes from the sky and take the spoon out of your mouth.

You wouldn’t have taken him for a smalltalk kind of person and your intuition tells you that’s not it. It’s hard to get a proper look at him because he’s chosen a shaded area away from the lamps but his head’s tilted and somehow, someway, you can tell that he’s genuinely curious.

You feel pleased with your conclusion.

He’s a hard person to get a read on, almost impossible, really, but he’s either loosening his guard willingly or forgetting himself for the moment.

You get the feeling he’s doing it willfully.

It makes your heart race, for a reason unbeknownst to you.

“It’s a . . . process,” you say quietly. “Some days are easier than others. I think it’s hard, sometimes, because I’m so alone, you know? And the dreams don’t help at all. Some nights, I don’t sleep at all because of it.”

You glumly scoop some ice cream into your mouth. It’s melting from the heat from your palm, condensation forming on the sides of the cup, sliding down onto your hand.

“But it’s fine,” you continue when he remains silent. “I’m getting there. It’s almost been three months. My . . . ex is happy. Knowing that both hurts and helps. Does that make sense?”

He finally nods. “It does.”

You slip into another comfortable silence, finishing off the ice cream. You both toss your cups away then step back onto the street, heading to housing once again.

“This was fun,” you say softly. “Thanks for inviting me, Miyuki.”

He shrugs. “Told you. Would’ve been a waste not to use the other ticket.”

Certainly.

But he didn’t have to suggest ice cream, prolonging your time together.

He didn’t have to do that.

And that, you think, speaks volumes.

You stick your hands in the pockets of your jacket. “I have a question.”

“Alright,” he says, sounding both wary and curious.

“It’s kind of stupid,” you admit.

“I’ll be the judge of that. What is it?”

You bite at the inside of your cheek and move your eyes ahead of you, buildings fading into rolling hills of green. You’ll be entering the housing of this quad soon enough and you almost don’t want to say goodbye.

You’ve missed this. Companionship. Someone to talk to.

But there’s something on your mind, too.

“Why . . . I don’t know. It seems like you could be friends with anyone. And you didn’t have to help me out all those weeks ago, with my problem. So . . . why?”

You stare at the ground, almost afraid of his answer.

He hums quietly, though, and that’s better than a tense silence as he mulls over his answer. He’s not thrown off.

You risk a glance at him and he’s staring at the sky.

And not for the first time, certainly not the last, either, you wish you could see what he sees.

“Well,” he says eventually. “You came in for a solid, what, almost two months? Every other day, in the middle of the afternoon. Which would be incredibly worrying in any other situation, but you only actually ever drank on occasion. When things got bad, I assume —” he sends you a long look there and you look away “— but beside from that, it was a little impossible not to notice. You notice the regulars at the library, right?”

You nod and for some reason, you find his answer a little disappointing.

He shrugs. “See? Impossible to not notice. Honestly, you kind of reminded me of an old person.”

“What?”

He laughs loudly at your affronted tone. “Old people usually come to bars in the middle of the day, don’t they? Because it’s chill. More lowkey. The party scene isn’t their thing. That’s you.” He pokes your cheek and you swat his hand away.

“Stop that. That’s so embarrassing.”

He laughs again. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Old people are sensible, aren’t they? Most of ’em. Don’t get all worked up. I was just giving you my honest answer, anyway.”

You sigh. “Right. But at any point, you never pitied me? That sounds hard to believe.”

He waves you off lazily. “I didn’t care that much.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He grins at you and you feel something warm and fuzzy cocoon behind your breastbone, radiating a familiar heat that has you suppressing a smile of your own, refusing to give him that satisfaction.

“Come on, I kind of care now! That has to be worth something.”

“Kind of,” you repeat dryly.

“You’re a difficult person to please,” he says, sighing melodramatically.

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” you reply, laughing quietly, looking away. You’re well into the housing units now, passing street after street.

“Oh, wait.” You hear the gravel crunch underneath his shoes as he comes to a stop. You look at him and he’s gazing at the street signs with a pensive expression. “Oops. Passed my street.”

Disappointment curls in your stomach but you try to smother it.

“Well, I’ll see you around —”

“I’ll walk you home,” he says and you blink.

“You don’t have to.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know. But we’ve already passed my street. Might as well.”

Again. Excuses.

You smile softly. “I’d appreciate that.”

He looks away. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on, let’s go. I’m getting cold.”

He walks you all the way home.

Don’t be a stranger, he tells you when you arrive at your house, and he gives you his number. You try not to act so surprised and he adds, If you’re ever up and you can’t sleep, call me. I’m usually up, too.

And you know it’s not wishful thinking to spot the red on his cheeks.

Time passes. Months melt together until the quad is easing into something like summer, the days warm and mild and the nights cool and temperate.

You do as Miyuki says.

You drop into the bar on occasion and he’ll give you a drink on the house — “Because I’m a nice person” — and he’ll regale you with tales that he gets from his coworkers about the nighttime crowd and the shenanigans they get up to. You tell him about the odd people that come in and out of the library.

He’ll visit the library, too, to return the books he’s checked out. Usually, he’ll hunt you down and demand your help in finding him adequate books on cooking, and baseball strategy.

You find out two things from it.

He likes to cook and he’s incredibly proud of his abilities — it’s not a pompous kind of pride, an over-the-top one that’s usually befitting for him, but a genuine pride, carved into the way he smiles and tells you about how he took charge of the kitchen at only eleven-years-old in the living world and singlehandedly took care of his father with it.

And he was a professional baseball player in the living world, in Japan. You ask him why he never tried to move into a bigger quad and join a baseball team — because they certainly have them.

He simply says he’s run out of energy to play, but he could never tire of the logistics of the game.

On those visits, he’ll shadow you, once he’s found his books, as you put books away, and asks you questions about your old life.

It’s a comforting routine that you two have settled into.

And you think about your ex less and less.

You still see them in your dreams, aging as the years — months, for you — go by. And they get married, they settle down, they find peace.

You think you’re close to doing that, too.

Miyuki calls you one night.

You never ended up taking his offer to call him when you couldn’t sleep, mostly because, with the more time you spent with him, the easier it was to sleep and live with the dreams of your ex and their new life.

That doesn’t mean that he couldn’t use the opportunity with you, though.

You’re up, anyway, your mind not quite ready to go to bed yet, outside in your backyard, gazing at the black sky, listening to the cicadas buzzing in the night.

You answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he says and he sounds unsure. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” you reply. “What’s up?”

“You know how I gave you that advice a couple months ago? About your ex?”

You sit up and stare at the brown fence that lines the end of your property. “Yeah,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“Maybe you’d already guessed it but . . . I was in a similar situation. I died in some stupid plane crash and I left him there. His — it’s. . . that Yoichi I was telling you about.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Go on.”

“So, I did the thing. You know. Told him to move on and shit. He did, eventually. Found another guy. Someone we used to go to high school with. Sucked, but it was fine. Then,” he sighs. “Then, they died. Stupid bus accident. They were on the same pro team. And they came here.”

Oh, no.

“Miyuki,” you say softly. “How long ago —?”

“I died nine months ago. Took Yoichi two years to move on — but that was only two months here. Then they died a year after that. A month here.”

You draw your knees to your chest, feeling the cool grass underneath your bare feet.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know why he called you, not really, maybe he had a bad dream, maybe he’s too stuck in his head and he needs to talk, but you do know you feel bad.

Because Miyuki had been in the same situation as you a couple months ago.

But what was worse was that he had to see his ex and their new partner soon.

You — you would hopefully not see your ex and their partner for many years.

But Miyuki . . .

“What are you apologizing for, dummy?” He asks wearily. “Nothing to say sorry for. Not your fault, is it?”

“It . . . just sucks.”

He snorts. “No kidding. Look, that wasn’t. . .” he trails off awkwardly, then clears his throat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean for this to get all heavy and stuff. I’m pretty much over it — over him. He and I are friends or whatever. Anyways. I was just trying to give you some background.”

You’re a little more confused now.

“Alright . . . For what, exactly?”

“My parents — my mom, really — have been hounding me to start seeing other people. And I’m having them over for dinner next week Friday. I’m not — asking you to pretend to be anything. But if they see you — if she sees you, it’ll be enough to get her off my back for a little while. I know it’s a lot but I can make it up to you. Free drinks for life at the bar?”

You wrinkle your nose. “No, thanks. But I’ll help you out. I’m kinda interested to see what your parents will be like, anyway.”

“Why?”

You sprawl over the grass once again, staring up at the sky.

“I dunno. You’re a mysterious guy, Miyuki. Getting a look at your parents might lessen some of that mystery.”

Your mistake, you belatedly realize, is that you’re getting tired now. And by natural consequence, your filter is loose.

It makes you unbearably honest.

Heat rises to your face. He’s quiet for a minute, then he laughs, and it sounds painfully fond.

Those warm undertones make your chest tight.

“Is that so? I don’t mean to be. Not to you, anyhow.”

Not to you, you mouth to yourself.

You think that means something.

But your brain is too tired to decipher its meaning.

You yawn.

“I should let you go. Have you been getting sleep? You know, I told you that you could call me if you’re staying up.”

You push yourself off the ground, patting the grass clippings off your clothes as you amble to the glass doors, stepping into the warmth of your home.

“That wasn’t it. I just wasn’t ready for bed yet,” you tell him as you go to your bedroom, collapsing unceremoniously onto the bed. “What about you?”

He makes a noncommittal noise. “Eh, you know. Just thinking. Anyways. I’ll let you go. Get some rest.”

“Mmm, you, too, Miyuki.”

He doesn’t hang up and a sleepy frown forms on your lips.

“I think . . . if you’ll be coming by on Friday, you’ll have to call me Kazuya.”

Oh.

You’re suddenly awake, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. “Oh. Uh. Are you sure?”

“You know me. Wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t want you to.”

Is this something you’re doing to keep a part or because you want me to? What’s the truth here, Miyuki?

You bite your tongue. “If you’re sure.”

“Say it,” he says in a sing-song voice. Once again taking too much pleasure in throwing your world off its axis.

Conniving jerk, you think, not without affection.

You sigh deeply, face warm. “Goodnight, Kazuya. Get some sleep.”

“You, too,” he responds cheerfully, maybe too loud since it’s three in the morning, and the call ends with a click.

You stare at the ceiling.

He’s so confusing.

You meet Kazuya’s ex the same day you’re supposed to have dinner with his parents.

His ex and another man are standing outside of Kazuya’s house, conversing with him.

You falter on the sidewalk, unsure if you should interrupt them, but his ex spots you and switches the attention to you.

Kazuya waves you over. “Come on. I want you to meet Yoichi and Eijun.”

Looks like he really is over it, you think to yourself, only a little bit envious.

You’re getting there. Really.

That warm, fuzzy feeling that’s been building a nest behind your breastbone has gotten out of hand, seizing your lungs and heart, giving those functions over to Kazuya for him to control.

You don’t know if he feels anything.

You think he does. Maybe. But he’s so difficult to get a read on, despite whatever he likes to say about letting you know what he’s thinking.

Regardless, it’s really not something for you to ruminate on when you’re about to meet his ex and his husband.

You walk up the path to the front door, where they’re all standing, and Kazuya touches your back as he introduces you to the two.

His ex is Kuramochi Yoichi, a scary-looking guy with dark brown hair, tan skin, and brown eyes, and his ex’s husband is Kuramochi Eijun, a friendlier guy with light brown skin, messy black hair, and light brown eyes that almost border on amber.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Eijun beams. “You’ve made Miyuki Kazuya just a little more bearable!”

Yoichi laughs loudly as Kazuya reaches out to cuff the back of his head, making him squawk indignantly.

“What? It’s true!”

“Shut up, dummy. Anyways, we should get inside, so you two can —“he makes a shooing motion and you muffle your laugh.

Yoichi scoffs and punches his shoulder. “Hey, you’re just trying to get out of us embarrassing you, but this won’t be the end of it, you should come over for dinner one of these days. I make a mean steak.”

Kazuya puts his hands on his hips, looking motherly, suddenly, as he squints at Yoichi. “Now, that’s not necessary —“

“I’m sure Miyuki Kazuya embarrasses himself enough on his own!”

“Exactly — wait, no —“

You smile. “Actually, if it’s alright with you —“you look at Kazuya and he falls silent, meeting your eyes “— I think that’d be great.”

“Yeah, fine, alright,” he relents and you know he doesn’t really mind. “Seriously, you two, go, before my parents get here and invite you two over. I only made enough for four people.”

“Excuses!” Eijun blusters but lets Yoichi tug him away, anyway. They bid you goodbye and you watch as they disappear into the house across from Kazuya’s.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” you say, more to yourself than him.

But he scoffs and shakes his head. “Honestly. No idea what I saw in Yoichi, I tell you . . .”

Before you can reply, a car turns down the street, and you know it’s likely his parents because there’s very little people in this quad that own cars. That means they came from another quad, probably one with a city.

The car pulls up to the curb and you hear its engine shut off.

Your heart jumps to your throat and you swallow nervously.

“Ready for this?”

You look at Kazuya, meeting his eyes, gold like the setting sun, and feel his hand slip into yours.

Pretense, you remind yourself, though you dimly recall that he said you wouldn’t have to necessarily put on a show, so he’s taking your hand on his own accord.

You don’t think too hard about it, enjoying the roughness of his calloused palm against yours, and watching as a man and woman step out of the car.

He squeezes your hand questioningly.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Ready.”

By the end of the night, his parents love you.

They’re easy to get along with; his father is quiet, though Kazuya takes after him most in terms of appearance. Still, his quiet, calm temperament goes well with the brighter personality of his mother, who reminds you distinctly of Eijun, except with the ability to control the volume of her voice and carrying a sharper perception that makes you only a little nervous.

You figure that’s where Kazuya gets his from, too.

You learn that his mother had been in the afterlife the longest, passing from cancer when Kazuya was younger, and then his father had passed a couple years before he did.

You think that despite it all, despite Kazuya dying at such a young age and having to handle Yoichi and Eijun again before he got over them, it’s nice that he had his parents for him.

They leave at nine-thirty after helping clean up and you and Kazuya walk them back to their car, where goodbyes are exchanged.

“You better walk them home,” his mother says to Kazuya, giving him a long look.

He holds up his hands in a placating motion. “Of course, of course. I’m a gentleman, Mom. You know that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, sure.” She gives you a warm smile, then. “It was wonderful meeting you. I hope to see you more often.”

“I hope so, too,” you reply and it’s not a lie.

She ducks into the car and you two take a few steps back, watching as the headlights flash on, illuminating the street.

They wave at you before making a u-turn and disappearing around the corner, likely heading to one of the tunnels that leads off to other quads to go back home.

It’s silent for a minute.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you say.

“I want to,” he replies and that’s the end of it.

He locks the front door and you two set off.

The night is warmer than usual, but that could just be you, the remnants of wine still in your system. The cicadas are buzzing, too, as loud as ever, and with Kazuya next to you, you feel — light. Warm.

You raise your head to the sky, paying more attention to it than where your feet walk.

“I wish I could see it,” you murmur, pace slowing. Kazuya follows you instinctively.

“See what?” He asks, but you think he knows.

You say it anyway. “See what you see. Not this . . . black nothingness. Stars. Light.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, thinking, and you see him hesitantly reach out to you in the corner of your eye.

And you know what he’s going to try to do.

And you wonder what it’ll mean.

Afterlife is something that’s dependent on each person. No world is ever the same for one person.

But there’s certain cases, for those with bonds that go deeper than words can describe — a married couple, twins, best friends — where touch lets you see what they see.

The key is to letting down the mental guard in your mind, pushing away your own perception and giving into theirs.

You look at Kazuya.

Your heart is racing in your chest, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of your neck, though your face feels so warm.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, his hand hovering near yours.

“There’s nothing wrong with you moving on, too.”

It’s okay.

You reach for his hand.

Your white flag is raised. You’ve surrendered.

And the sky bursts into light.

The Milky Way stretches across the sky, bands of light glowing brilliantly in the night, stars twinkling.

Kazuya tugs on your hand and you look at him.

You see the brilliance of billions of stars reflecting in his eyes. His eyes — that are warm gold, full of tenderness and affection and a hundred other unspoken things.

It’s the last thing you see before his lips meet yours.

Five years pass before a courier comes knocking on your door.

You rise from the couch, sharing a confused look with Kazuya, who’s in the kitchen, in the middle of making breakfast.

You open the door, wincing at the bright sunlight that filters in from outside.

It’s a young boy — a courier, clad in the standard white uniform. You don’t let his appearance deceive you, though. Couriers appear at the age that’s most comforting for people — children, epitome of innocence and youth, a universal stage that everyone here has gone through.

He smiles at you, saying your name in a questioning tone.

“That’s me,” you say slowly.

“It looks like your ex-partner has just arrived here,” he tells you and the sound of the knife on the chopping block halts, before you feel Kazuya come stand behind you, slipping an arm around you, comforting, stabilizing.

But the news doesn’t shake you.

Instead, you smile. “How are they?”

“Doing well,” he replies. “Their spouse should be arriving soon, too. Within a couple days, I’d estimate. I’m simply notifying you that they’ll be in the next quad over,” he hands you a card with the information. “Just in case you’d like to visit. Or I can deliver a message for you, if you’d like.”

You don’t think you’ll visit them. It’s been so long, both for you and them, and you figure they have immediate family and friends they’d like to reunite with — those who actually managed to live their lives with them before passing here.

“Tell them I’m here, in this quad, at this home,” you say. “That . . . I’ve settled down. If they’d like to find me, they can. But it’s okay if not. We’ll bump into each other eventually. And I’ll be here for some time. Long enough to get those privileges on the reincarnation list.”

Kazuya squeezes your hip at that.

You’ve been talking about it; you’ve been together for the past five years and there’s more years, you know, left for you both. You haven’t aged, of course, frozen at twenty-five permanently and it’s not like you’ll ever get tired of each other.

No, you could never.

But certain couples who remain together here for a set amount of time become eligible for reincarnating into a world together, destined to find each other.

There are risks, of course.

There is no guarantee that says you’ll meet each other as adults, as teens, or even as kids.

But eternity is a long time.

And you and Kazuya can wait many more years, of course, but should there come a day when you both want a change of pace, a change of scenery, reincarnation — together — is what you’ll do.

The courier tips his hat at you. “Of course. Have a good day.”

“You, too,” you reply and you watch as he turns and, quite literally, disappears.

(Couriers aren’t mortal nor are they human, merely extensions of the higher beings that look over this realm, doing their business for them.)

He kisses your head. “You okay?”

You turn in his arms, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin. His arms tighten around your hips, pulling you closer.

His eyes shine like darkened citrine, molten under the beams of light. You can pick out the worry in his brow easily now.

“I’m fine,” you say and he looks a little dubious. “Honestly. It was bound to happen, wasn’t it?”

“Sure,” he agrees warily. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel a little sad.”

You smile. “I’m not sad.”

“You sure? You are here with me. Not like that’s an easy life to live. I understand if you’re getting tired of me,” he says, jokingly, gently pulling you back into the cool shade of your shared home.

He shuts the door and you wind your arms around his neck.

You kiss him. “I could never get tired of you,” you mumble against his mouth.

You feel him smile.

And you know you have found your peace.

It’s this home you share, in the same quad you met all those years ago. It’s the bed you sleep in together, the bathroom you share, the food you make together. It’s the routine, Kazuya working afternoons at the bar, you overseeing the library; having his parents over for dinner every two weeks and going out for breakfast with Yoichi and Eijun on Sundays.

It’s this life you’ve made for yourself here.

It’s him.