Mild language and sexual situations

*Remember to read all of the Author's Note at the end of the chapter, andlike in Chapter I: Part One there's music♡*

Mrs. Oshiba lived much messier than her only son; at least three days’ worth of dishes festered in the sink. The couch had a variety of items strewn across it, most of them being clothes and shoes. The only part of the mess that didn’t make Chūshi’s skin crawl was the mess of books. There were never enough bookshelves for his mother’s extensive collection. 

The Oshiba library grows again. He couldn’t miss the extra piles stacked on the ground next to the bookshelves. None were there the last time he visited. From the spine labels, he knew his mom had been online manga shopping again.

“Darling, is that you?” A short, wide woman appeared from down the hall. “You’re not skipping again, are you?”

“Remember? Wednesdays I finish early?” His slippers scuffed tatami as he headed for the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. He hated doing dishes, but the smell of sitting water was worse. And he couldn’t let his mom feed into her negative habits. Though cleaning up behind her every time probably doesn’t help.

“Oh yeah,” she moved in behind him, wrapping her stubby arms around him briefly before walking to the stove that butted up against the wall. “If you’re staying over tonight there’s dinner; I cooked earlier this week. Just warm it up in the oven.”

“Are you going to visit grandmother?” 

The cleaning gloves slid on with some resistance, stiff from disuse. The sound of the kettle scratching against the rusted metal of the stove hurt Chūshi’s molars and he turned the hot water knob all the way to drown out the sound.

“Yeah, she’s been doing well these past few days.” Her words somehow managed to sound right in his ear, and he felt sad eyes sink into his back. “You could always come with me?”

He tensed against her request.“I have an exam next week so…” 

The clanging of plates filled the air, underscored by the growing sound of boiling water. “…but uh, maybe after?” He would regret refusing that olive branch later, but he couldn’t swallow the words back up.

“She’ll love to see you again, so just let me know. Call your father before you leave.” 

Just as the kettle began to wail she removed it from the heat and filled her travel mug to the point steam rose in light clouds. She kept facing him and carefully backed out of the kitchen. “He said he has lined something up for you.” 

With her message delivered, Mrs. Oshiba turned toward her bedroom. The mug Chūshi had struggled not to drop crashed into the now mostly empty sink, ringing like a death knell. 

His father had given him a month to find a job, and he was well past due. He knew this conversation would come, but whatever his father lined up would be torture for him. Fuck.

Clean dishes meant he could comfortably start on his lab report, and further put off calling his father. The standards in Japan were a lot more intense than in America, meaning Chūshi had to dedicate his entire attention to them, so he welcomed the distraction. 

Even though his becoming a doctor was decided well before he was born, it was the one choice in his life he would make himself if he were ever asked. He became so immersed that he missed the kiss his mother left on his head before heading to the hospital. 

There was something comforting about equations and schematics. Chūshi could spend the rest of his life doing only this with no complaints.

The clock read 19:49 when he clicked “Submit” several hours later. Should I call him or eat first? He couldn’t decide which would be worse, but settled on ripping the band aid off. Plus, his father wasn’t one for calling people back, so if Chūshi missed him this time, he could leave a pleading voicemail and skip class tomorrow to find a job. 

He used the house phone, refusing to use his new cell phone to make the call. It was hard outrunning the extensive reach of Mr. Oshiba and he wouldn’t let his carelessness lead to his father having easy access to him again.

“You are even more incompetent than I thought for you to need my help in securing something so simple.” The sound of clicking and shuffling papers filled the silence left behind by his father’s “greeting.”

Breathe. Breathe. “I was getting used to the—”

“Starting tomorrow you’ll be a tutor for English. The pay should be more than enough, so I’m cutting back on your allowance.” He stopped talking and Chūshi heard the sound of leather seating give under his father’s weight. “And make sure to see your mother more often.” His voice relaxed, became soft like ice cream and just as sweet. 

If Chūshi hadn’t heard the change a thousand times over the years whenever his father talked about his mother, it would have creeped him out. “I know the place is a mess, so do what you can. I’ve also bought her another bookshelf so be around this weekend to set up.”

Mr. Oshiba cleared his throat. “Tutoring starts at six p.m. I know you’re done with classes by four so that should be more than enough time to prepare. I’ll send an email shortly with the other details, and from what I’ve heard, you have your work cut out for you. You know what happens if your grades fall.” 

Click.

The high-pitched dial tone left unpleasant reverb inside Chūshi’s skull, and his father’s gruff voice replayed over and over, becoming a grotesque song. It was a good thing Chūshi had called first after all, because he felt his stomach trying to leap up his throat. 

How… dare that bastard? 

But before the thought went any farther, his shoulders sank with resignation. At least he’d be getting money, though he didn’t want to speak English on his father’s orders. After all, he’d been pulled away from his home and friends against his will, and to make him talk their shared language to some stranger added salt to the wound. 

However, he also knew that his time in Japan was temporary. Being in Japan wasn’t the problem however, (in fact, he rather liked the change in scenery), it was his father’s ordering him to move along with this new “job,” that induced a throbbing headache, so he pushed the thoughts aside for the time being.

His stomach sank too along with shoulders when his phone and computer pinged with emails containing his tutoring content and the student information, preventing him from escaping his spiraling thoughts. He debated whether to look at it but his stomach finally couldn’t take anymore, and he ran to the bathroom just in time to spit up acid. 

It hurt enough to make his eyes water as his stomach cramped around nothing. He felt so wretched that even the porcelain that normally would offer a sense of relief through its cool surface did little to cool him off. 

He ended up curled up on his side like a wounded animal just so his cheek could touch the lukewarm floor. Time passed and his eyes closed, letting him slip into a type of dream state where he found himself in front of his father towering over him. Yelling. Veins in his trunk-like neck straining against his skin.

Although his father never actually hit him, Chūshi often dreamed that he did. This time he snapped out of it before his dream dad could land a blow. With his fully emptied stomach growling, he pushed himself up slowly, feeling his head lighten. He crept toward the kitchen and switched the oven on to preheat. 

Chūshi’s mother often chided him for being such a picky eater but for once he didn’t care what might lie in the food container he pulled from the refrigerator. He smiled when he saw his guilty pleasure: jambalaya. He preferred Japanese cuisine usually but there were a few dishes from abroad that he liked. A flash of guilt wiped the small smile from his face as his mother’s tired appearance flashed in his mind.

“I should go with her next time…” He tried not to let the thought overwhelm him as he ate, the pasta dish not as spicy as when his mother made it back home. It was still better than anything he could attempt at making. 

He wrote a note thanking her for the food and promising to come over the weekend, but did not mention the bookshelf. His father’s one weak point was his mother and indulging her. He made sure to clean the family room up as well before putting his tennis shoes back on and locking up. 

That night, Chūshi lay in bed with his eyes wide open and ears going numb from absolute silence. It left room for his thoughts to circle endlessly and he considered grabbing his laptop to put on some anime for background noise. He couldn’t bring himself to get up though, and instead unbidden thoughts of Aoto popped in his head.

Even the memory of those eyes froze him in bed. Chūshi’s heart, on the other hand, raced in his chest. He let himself imagine a scenario where he wasn’t a jackass that morning. He’d apologize instead, and then introduce himself, and then they’d walk to campus together getting to know one another. 

Maybe Aoto would even smile, and what a smile it would be. His imagination took the liberty of fast forwarding their relationship and suddenly…

… They were kissing.

The kind of kissing that leads to touching.

Chūshi felt his pants get tighter around his crotch and his heart sprinted. He tried to think of something else, but the images kept playing like a never-ending movie reel. 

Ahhh shit. You can’t be serious…