Who the fuck are you?

“Ever thought about how you’re going to die?”

I slide Daisuke a world-weary gaze and he meets it with a wry smirk. It pisses me off, how much of a conversationalist he is– how he’ll break a perfect silence with esoteric questions, and yet manage to not make them sound tacky or unnatural in the slightest. Not even bothering to look left or right, I cross the road at a red light.

“I didn’t ask for a demonstration, you know?” he adds, trailing behind me with an imperceptible skip in his step. “You’re lucky Funabashi is a ghost town on the weekends.”

Much as I hate to admit it, he’s not wrong. Bougie storefronts and gentrified homes sleep abandoned in the cold silence of a spring’s night. There’s no cicadas singing, no cats yowling and, apart from the two of us, there’s not a shadow in sight.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, shivering against the empty wind.

“God only knows,” Daisuke dreamily says. “Camping next to onsen, golfing by waterfalls. You can’t even imagine what a tourist trap Boso can be. And when you’ve got enough money in the bank, travelling is only a problem of finding time.”

Bitterness filters through his lackadaisical tone, a softly suppressed displeasure. I watch as the moon’s silver gleam plays across his features, lending them wit and melancholy. Seeing him pensive like that has an odd quaintness to it, a mesmerising peace.

“I’m still waiting for an answer,” he croons.

“I’m still thinking.”

“How long does it take you to think?”

“Dunno. A lifetime’s my best guess,” I mutter.

“C’mon, now. I’m not asking for an essay. All I need is one word.”

“You go first then, if it’s so easy.”

“Fine,” Daisuke groans, slicking back his hair. His eyes lose colour, but gain depth, a salience that becomes him, despite his cocksure signature. And when he speaks again, his voice gains a pathetic charm. “I’ll die alone.”

“Get out of here!” I counter, annoyed. “A wealthy stud like you could smooth talk the vows out of a nun.”

Daisuke stammers, his smile growing flustered as it blooms. “Wow,” he says after a concerningly long second. “And here I thought you could never be forward.”

I shove my hands in my trousers, “I just don’t like it when people put themselves down, that’s all.”

“Must be nice hanging around Tachibana, then,” he chuckles dryly. “That girl is allergic to –”

“Can you not?” I snap. Don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice at him – never felt like I had to. And with how stunned he looks, he never expected it either. “Look, I get it. I like her and you like teasing me about it. But can we not go one fucking night without bringing up her name?”

I look away, catching Daisuke’s reflection in dull and dirty windows. Serenity hovers tenuously around him as he shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath to settle himself. Only to deflate into nothing as he lets it all out.

“Sorry,” he sighs with a rueful grin. “Didn’t think you’d care this much.”

“It’s – fine,” I mumble. With how diminutive he sounds, I can’t even stay mad at him. God damnit. “But there’s gotta be something else we can talk about besides girls – and death.”

Daisuke raises his gaze, casts it far into the distance. But as quickly as it flies away, it comes back, returning his impish energy.

“Here’s a question for you then,” he says, slowing to a complete stop. “What do you think of my house?”

I turn left, finding myself in front of a two-story fridge with paint peeling off its off-white walls and a mildewy roof one storm from caving in. The gate wails as Daisuke opens it and he leads me through a lawn consumed by weeds and dirt. When we reached the door, a piece of wood filled with cracks, the porch light flickers on by itself.

“Is this a joke?” I ask as Daisuke shoves a key in the lock. It turns with surprising ease.

“If you think this is funny, wait until you see the inside.”

I’m not sure if I should expect better or worse, but I’m too intrigued to back down now. I wipe my feet on the scratchy mat, toe off my shoes in the entryway, then follow closely behind him – only to flinch after one step.

A sour stench wafts from the kitchen, the counters awash with a month’s worth of stained plates, cups and bowls. We push through empty bottles, crushed cans and trash bags on our way to the staircase, where each step is sticky or slippery, with no clean in-between. The first floor is a long corridor, a minefield of crusty clothes, and at the end of it all lies a thick curtain – hiding his spotless room.

The floor is an immaculate carpet, a daily vacuumed white, and fresh air blows through the open window, diluting the scent of cologne and furniture spray. There’s no dust on the desk, nor on the shelves above it, the covers are flat on the bed and posters efficiently line the wall, leaving no space uncovered. Gliding past Cruyff, Messi and Maradona, Daisuke vanishes in the en suite bathroom, leaving the door wide open and me alone to wonder.

“How can you live like this?” I ask, just as Daisuke flings his trousers into a waiting hamper. The lid closes with a wicker swish.

“It’s not hard, really. All I care about is in this room, really.”

“How do you do laundry then? Or watch TV? Or eat?”

“The washer and dryer are in here, I stream everything on my PC, and we’ve literally just returned from a restaurant.”

“You’ve got an excuse for everything.”

“I like to think I’m coping,” he says, closing his medicine cabinet. Crazy how well-oiled those doors are – I didn’t even hear them open. Turning on the faucet, he starts brushing his teeth and tired, confused, overwhelmed, I collapse on his chair. The cushions not only look, but feel expensive too.

“This isn’t a small glimpse,” I say, lazily spinning, left-right, left-right. “It’s a bona fide backstage pass.”

“Take advantage of it,” Daisuke spits. “It’s the only one you’ll ever get.”

“Oh, and here I hoped I’d visit you more often. Maybe help clear out that nest downstairs.”

“If I wanted someone to do that, I wouldn’t have fired my maid.”

“Is everyone rich also clinically insane? Or are you and Ichika just the craziest outliers?”

“As much as it pains me to say it – Sasaki and I are more similar than not. But I didn’t bring you here to talk about that goat.”

“Then what do you wanna talk about?”

Turning off the light, Daisuke emerges from the bathroom. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a baggy tee, he looks like a new man, homely and vulnerable. Hesitant, he slinks towards me, his eyes brimming with cunning – and shyness.

“Me,” he whispers, fists loosely balled. And hearing the shiver in his voice, there’s only one thing I can think of asking.

“Who the fuck are you?”

To that, he hides a snicker in the back of his hand; the same hand he stretches out to me.