Sometimes (Moon Child - snippet)


Sometimes

They knew each other: Sho had a series of set-piece reactions. Hit him in a mock-fight and his eyes would go all wide and "Hey, what'd you do that for?" while he rubbed the nonexistent bruise. Piss him off and he'd spew out a filthy stream of gutter Japanese. Offer him food and he'd plant his elbows on the table and eat around a puppy-happy smile that never got shy no matter how many times he made eye contact with you across the table.

These were Sho's eight-year-old reactions; Kei watched him grow up without growing out of any of them.

At first they just coexisted: Sho got into scraps and scrapes with his friends. Kei was the bystander who happened to be there, sitting with one knee drawn up, or leaning with one shoulder against the wall, apathy in the long slow draw from his cigarette, in the exhalation, Luka behind his eyes every time he closed them.

Sometimes, he'd look up to find Sho gazing at him with a quiet curiosity that was never verbalized. Sho worked things out by watching, not by asking questions. He tackled problems with a child-like pragmatism; he dealt with Kei the same way. He'd dragged Kei home under a tarpaulin, after all, taking frequent rests, pulling at the trolley of dead weight with a child's short legs and determined steps.

There wasn't a moment when they became friends, though moments collected. The first time Sho shot someone in front of Kei, he was still too young to handle the gun's kickback without stumbling a little, nevertheless he shot the man in the leg so that he couldn't move and then backed off a few steps. The moment when Kei realized that Sho had stepped back so that he could step forward.

The long moments that stretched out while Sho slept soundly in the same room, as though Kei were no more threatening than a piece of furniture, while Kei pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and endured it.

The moment Kei looked up from killing the man who had shot Sho's brother.

Sho turned ten, fifteen, and then nineteen, and the only thing that changed was the way he used to gaze at Kei with quiet eyes sometimes; this was replaced by a casual familiarity, slinging his arm around Kei's shoulders, sprawling next to him on the couch, bumming his cigarettes in sly and ingenious ways.

They knew each other: Toshi shoved Sho in the chest, Sho made aggrieved sounds in Chinese and Kei didn't have to look up to see Sho's expression. Instead, his eyes caught on the play of muscle under Sho's skin as he rubbed at what he was claiming was a grievous injury; smooth skin, enticing as the smell of a hint of shampoo in clean hair. Luka had been a friend, but not like this. Alive. Kei's eyes lifted to the line of Sho's neck.

The door slammed behind him, and he felt the rush of night air. His nails bit into his palms. He heard Toshi say, "Kei? Where're you--?" and Sho answer, "Just leave him. He does this sometimes."