Chapter 2: Chapter I: Part Two
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 collection has grown, he noted the extra piles stacked on the ground next to the bookshelf that weren't 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 the tatami mats as he headed for the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. He despised doing dishes but hated the smell of sitting water more.
"Oh yeah," she walked 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 metal kettle scratching against the rusted metal of the stove hurt Chūshi's molars. He turned the hot water knob all the way to drown out the sound.
"Yeah, she has been doing well these past few days." Her words somehow managed to sound right in his ear, and he felt her 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 to face the right direction toward her bedroom. The mug he was struggling not to drop crashed into the now mostly empty sink, ringing like a death toll. His father gave 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 intensive than abroad, 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 so comforting about equations and schematics that 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 he 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 frustrated silence left behind by his "greeting."
Breathe. Breathe. "I was getting used to the—"
"Tomorrow you'll be a tutor for English. The pay should be more than enough, so I'm cutting your allowance back." 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 softened like soft serve ice cream, and just as sweet. "I know the place's 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. "Go to tutoring at six p.m. I know you're done with classes by four so that should be more than enough time to prepare. 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 amplified inside Chūshi's mind and his father's gruff voice replayed over and over, culminating into a grotesque song. It was a good thing Chūshi hadn't had dinner yet because he felt his stomach trying to leap up his throat.
How… dare that bastard?
But before the thought even completed, his shoulders sank with resignation. At least he'd be getting money, though he didn't want to speak English anymore because it was his father's preferred language. But he also knew that his time in Japan was temporary. The thought bothered him, but he pushed it aside.
His stomach sank along with shoulders when his phone and computer pinged with emails containing his tutoring content and the student information. 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 and his stomach cramped up more.
The porcelain was warm to his forehead and he ended up half on his back, half on his stomach so that 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. 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 hit him. With his stomach growling now, 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 face 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 was not as spicy as when Mrs. Oshiba made it back home. It was still better than anything he could attempt at making.
He wrote a note to his mother thanking her for the food and promising to see her over the weekend but neglected to 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 back on his tennis shoes and locking up.
Chūshi lay in bed that night 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 raced on the other hand. He let himself imagine a scenario where he wasn't a jackass that morning. He'd apologize 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. It became almost painful when his brain conjured up the image of Aoto on his knees in front of him, sucking him for all he was worth.
Ahhh shit.
Almost as if possessed by some spirit, Chūshi's hand creeped into his pajama pants.
You can't be serious…
His own heat and hardness surprised him. But the more the fantasy played out, the harder his hand jerked until his mind melted into numbness…
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Riza_Masuyuma
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