Chapter Text
Asahi and the rising sun were old friends, and bitter enemies.
Sometimes, Asahi suspected that the fortune teller who’d chosen his name had cursed him. In the two years since he’d taken over his uncle’s butcher shop, he’d witnessed a truly inhumane number of sunrises. Every morning for the past two years, he’d woken up to a dark, quiet world and scurried to work down empty streets, dodging the sharp pre-dawn shadows lunging around every corner. He was an intruder, a night owl in hostile territory, and the shadows knew it.
The village dictated Asahi’s wake-up time. The old ladies of Ishino took great pleasure in rising with the sun, and even greater pleasure in their morning stroll—and woe betide any straggling shop owner caught in their path. Asahi could not afford to be murdered by the Old Ladies’ Club’s polite disappointment, because he relied on them to assure newcomers that he didn’t want to A) beat them up, or B) meet their granddaughter/daughter/niece.
Though the shop faced east, Asahi couldn’t see the ocean through his glass storefront. Rather, in about thirty minutes, the day’s first light would slip into the alley between the daycare and the hair salon. The sun would creep up through the stout trees crowding over the low walls along the street, finally bursting over the rooftops just as the rest of the town began to stir. At six-thirty, Asahi would flip his wooden sign to Open, and his morning regulars would trickle in.
He had an hour before then—enough time to arrange last night’s leftover meat in the display cases and cut more to fill the empty shelves. Customers had bought a lot of beef last week, so they’d all want pork soon, and Asahi was pretty sure he was running out of pork shoulder. More often than not, keeping the shop afloat was like trying to hold a rowboat in place: always paddling yet never moving; no end destination, no X marking the treasure… not that anyone would choose a rowboat for a treasure hunt…
It was too early for metaphors. Rubbing his eyes, Asahi headed towards the cold room to check on the pork shoulder.
The little windchime above the door tinkled. “Welcome to the store,” Asahi said on reflex, turning around on his way to the cold room.
Except. The sun was below the horizon. Whoever had walked in, they were not welcome in the store.
In the doorway, a short figure stood outlined by the streetlight. The stranger stepped before the counter of the poorly lit shop, and what Asahi had mistaken for a spiky headdress revealed itself to be hair.
“Good morning!” a voice deeper than Asahi had expected boomed across the room, ringing with the enthusiasm of one who sincerely believed in the goodness of 5:20 a.m.
“Um, morning,” Asahi said, switching on an additional light on his way to the front counter. “Though, ah, it’s not really morning yet…” he added under his breath.
Now that the customer’s face was illuminated, Asahi was sure he’d never seen the guy before. Which made him either a tourist or a hermit, but he couldn’t be a hermit, because both of Ishino village’s recluses were old widowers, and this guy looked younger than Asahi. The butcher shop wasn’t exactly a tourist trap. But the eyes peeking above the stranger’s scarf were bright and attentive, like this was precisely the sight he’d traveled to see.
As Asahi opened his mouth to point out the store’s opening time, the stranger asked, “Do you have blood?”
Startled, Asahi glanced down at the veins on his arms before remembering what sort of business he ran. “Ah. Yes. We do, but we’re not—” Actually, there was no reason to make the tourist respect the opening time, seeing as he’d likely never be back again. “Is chicken or pig’s blood okay? How much would you like?”
“Pig’s, please, two kilos.”
Asahi balked. “Sorry to be nosy, but are you sure it isn’t two hundred grams? A kilo is, um, a lot.”
“Not one kilo; two.” The stranger put up two fingers and grinned from ear to ear, teeth flashing stark white in the dim light. “Trust me! I know what I’m doing.”
Asahi wanted to protest that really, he couldn’t think of a single dish that required more than a tenth of that amount, but that would be rude. In any case, if living in a small seaside village his whole life had taught Asahi anything, it was that tourists would be tourists no matter how hard you tried to talk them out of it. He went to the cold room and brought out five containers, setting them on the scale atop one of the display cases.
“Sorry, this is all I’ve got.” Asahi pointed to where the scale indicated 1.1 kg. He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was still dreaming, and not actually apologizing to a tourist for not carrying enough pig’s blood, of all things.
The stranger scratched his head, ruffling his hair spikes. “Can I get some chicken blood, then?”
Asahi went to fetch the chicken blood. He returned to find the stranger wandering in a circle, examining the shop from floor to ceiling: the low, rickety bench along the right wall; the front window crowded with hand-drawn flyers; the faded prints framed on the opposite wall; the disorganized odds and ends on the front counter.
“Y’know, I lucked out with this place.” He tiptoed to peer over the display cases. “You’ve got no idea how hard it is to find blood in this country.”
Curiosity got the better of Asahi. “Do you… buy blood frequently?”
This made the stranger grin again—the only indication so far that he appreciated the eccentricity of his purchase. “Yup! Not always hard to get, either. In Nepal, they’ll sell you the stuff in tubs.” He held out his arms in an indication of size. “Same with their cheese, but they say it takes hours to chew a small piece, so I dunno why you’d want that much. Hey, have you ever had churpi?”
“I can’t say I have,” Asahi said, working the register on autopilot. Tubs of blood? Does he make herbal medicines? Do practical effects for movies? Run haunted houses?
“Well, try it sometime! If you buy a few packs, they’d fit right in with those.” The stranger pointed at a jar of candy and a basket of suet blocks next to the register.
“Um, I’ll keep that in mind,” Asahi said. Before the stranger could suggest more foreign cheeses for him to sell, he gestured at the containers on the scale and asked, “Would you like this in one bag or two?”
“One, ‘cause I gotta hold this map in the other.” He held up a black-and-white photocopied drawing. “It’s neat how none of your stores have signs, for local flavor or whatever, but man do I get lost a lot. Like last night, I was trying to go see my friend’s store and went into this convenience store by accident—then the alarm goes off, and apparently the owner lives above the store so that wakes him up, right? Then he comes down and starts yelling and waving a broom and stuff. It was like two in the morning, so I might’ve pissed him off.” He shrugged. “He gave me this map, though. Nice of him.”
“Oh… that sounds frightening, I’m sorry. I hope our village hasn’t made you feel unwelcome.” Asahi had only been on the brandishing end of Ukai’s broom once before, and the experience had almost scared him out of town.
The stranger waved his arms, map in hand. “It’s fine! I get kicked out of places a lot; I’m used to it.”
“Is that so,” Asahi said intelligently. It was way too early for this. Try as he might, he couldn’t marshall the brainpower to make heads or tails of the improbable creature before him.
“Here are your items,” Asahi said, handing him the bag. Its contents sloshed unpleasantly. “Thank you for your purchase.”
“Thanks,” the stranger said, with another million-watt smile. “See you tomorrow!”
Tomorrow?
+
“This is all?” Murata-san asked for the third time, later that morning.
Asahi slid the sole remaining container of chicken blood into the plastic bag with her other purchases. “I’m afraid so.”
“Ah, Hirano will be disappointed,” she said, accepting the bag with thin, work-worn fingers. “Perhaps I should save it for her.”
Asahi smiled. “Don’t tell her I said this, but I think she’ll be grateful for the excuse.”
Hirano-san and Murata-san, the de facto ringleaders of the Old Ladies’ Club, were the reason Asahi stocked blood at all. Hirano-san hated the taste but insisted that it improved her energy; Murata-san loved it in soup but restricted herself because her doctor son didn’t like her eating rich foods.
Murata-san’s sigh was doleful enough for a funeral. “I suppose it can’t be helped, then. But I meant to visit her tonight, and I do hate to arrive empty-handed.”
Recognizing one of the Club’s many maneuvers, Asahi bit his lip to hold a laugh in. “Yacchan!” he called into the back.
Yachi hurtled into view. “What is it? Did something spill? Did I do some—”
“Can you ring up Murata-san while I grab her some beef scraps?” Asahi asked, before Yachi could work herself into a panic.
“Oh. Sure!” Yachi wiped her hands on her apron. “Your son’s visiting, right, Murata-san? How’s his family?”
Murata-san was just finishing a blow-by-blow of her five-year-old grandson’s first fishing trip when Asahi returned with two packages of beef trimmings. “One for you, one for Hirano-san, as an apology for the inconvenience,” he said, adding them to her bag.
“Oh, this isn’t necessary.” Murata-san accepted the bag with a triumphant gleam in her eye.
“Take it, it’s nothing. Please tell Hirano-san I’ll restock”—See you tomorrow! the stranger had said—“with extra, tomorrow morning.”
Once she had left, Asahi turned to Yachi and asked, “Do you happen to know what someone might need two kilos of blood for?”
“Huh? Kilos? Are they trying to revive a pig?”
“I don’t think that would turn out well.” They shared a glance, both familiar enough with pig slaughtering to conjure the same unpleasant image. Asahi shook his head, clearing the speculations out of his head. “Never mind. Is now a good time for me to make deliveries?”
“Yup, I can handle the store. You go ahead.”
Morning deliveries were Asahi’s favorite part of the day. The walk gave him a chance to clear the sluggishness out of his body, especially now that the October chill lent the sea breeze a refreshing zing. He hurried into Sunshine Cafe, and the aroma of broth instantly engulfed him.
“Asahi-san, you’re early today!” Hinata called.
Asahi waved, glad to see his old classmate. In two months, when Brazilian summer started, Hinata was escaping to Brazil to try his hand at beach volleyball. Like most people they’d grown up with, his ambitions would take him far beyond Ishino.
“Yachi had a free moment, so I slipped out,” Asahi said, reaching into his insulated pouch and handing Hinata a bag of beef chuck. “This one’s a few days old, sorry. I’ll make a trip to the producer’s tomorrow.”
“That’s alright, it’s for curry,” Hinata said. “It’s gonna be so good! Mom’s using these new potatoes that pack a flavor like, bam! I’ll drop some off for you and Hitoka-chan later.”
“Thank you, that’s very nice of you.” Asahi knew by now that it was pointless to refuse. Hinata headed for the kitchen, and Asahi trailed after. “Er, this is an odd question, but do you know what someone might make with a large amount of pig’s blood?”
Hinata poked his head behind the curtain blocking the kitchen and waved at someone before ducking back out. “Uhh. We don’t use that stuff, so I dunno. Korean blood sausage, maybe? Why d’you ask?”
Asahi was saved from explaining by Hinata’s mother drawing aside the curtain from inside the kitchen. “Ah, Asahi-kun! Thank you for the meat, as always.”
“It’s no problem,” Asahi said, ducking his head.
“Shouyou will bring some curry over later, won’t you?”
“Right! See you then, Asahi-san!”
The sunlight grew stronger as Asahi stopped by a few more of the restaurants along the main street of the village.
“You really don’t need to come so early,” Tsukishima said, glancing up from his seat at one of Tsukiya’s low tables. “Most people aren’t coming in to get drunk until after five.”
Asahi set a bag of flank steak next to Tsukishima’s pile of receipts and notebooks. “Well, perhaps you’ll get some tourists with weird habits.”
“All tourists have weird habits.”
Such as making Korean blood sausage in Japan coast towns, apparently. Asahi laughed. “They keep things lively, I guess.” He swung his insulated bag over his shoulder. “Let me know how your new marinade recipe works out.”
“I doubt it’ll be much different from the old one.” Tsukishima turned back to his calculator. “Thank you for the delivery.”
It was Sunday, so Asahi didn’t need to stop by the village’s elementary school and daycare. The robins were still welcoming the morning when he stepped back into the shop. He found Yachi by the sink, washing dishes.
“Yacchan, Yacchan, I said I’d do that,” he said, carefully prying a knife out of her hand.
“But I’m—”
“My junior, I know, but that doesn’t put you on permanent dishwashing duty. You said you wanted to learn more skills, right?”
Yachi nodded, hands still hovering over the sink.
“Would you want to try slicing the pork belly?”
“Are… are you sure? What if I do it wrong and ruin the whole cut? Oh no, what if I break the machine? I don’t know anything about machines. Aren’t they very expensive? I can’t afford the repairs— not to say that you don’t pay me enough! I’m very happy with my wage!”
A few months ago, Asahi would’ve succumbed to Yachi’s catastrophizing and sucked both of them down a doom spiral, but he was used to her by now. He secretly rather enjoyed being the calm one in the room, for once. “I trust you. You do a great job whenever I supervise. Just call me over if you need help, okay?”
Yachi nodded, absently drying between her fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot—Kiyoko-san came over while you were out. She says hi.”
“Kiyoko came today?”
“Mmhm, apparently Tanaka-san’s busy helping an old friend move into town. Kiyoko-san didn’t say if he’s staying long, but hopefully we’ll meet him. Should we prepare a gift? What do you think he likes? What if we give him something and he hates it and goes home to the big city and tells all his cool city friends about how uncultured we are—”
“He might like pork belly,” Asahi prompted gently.
“Right! Sorry! I’ll take care of that right away!” Yachi threw him a frazzled salute and dashed to the freezer room, nearly tripping over a box.
As he rinsed a long boning knife, Asahi glanced out the front window at the familiar faces bustling by. Meeting someone new might be nice, provided they didn’t take one look at Asahi and run for the mountains. He wondered if Tanaka’s friend was as boisterous as him. He’d met a few of Tanaka’s other friends from out of town before, and they were all rather… odd, in one way or another. Not that Asahi had anything against oddballs.
He thought back to the blood-buying stranger from that morning, with his easy grin and his outlandish hair. Yes, oddballs certainly kept things interesting.
+
“Morning!” a voice shouted right below Asahi’s ear.
Asahi jumped a meter into the air, nearly knocking his tub of ground pork off the counter. He glanced at the clock—5:40 a.m.—then at his surprise visitor—the stranger from yesterday. The noise from Asahi’s sausage maker must’ve drowned out the noise of his entering and coming into the back.
“Welcome to the store,” Asahi said weakly. He peeled a pork-covered glove off his right hand. “What can I help you with? Same as yesterday?” he asked, casual-like, as if doling out entire animals’ worth of blood was all in a day’s work.
“Three kilos today, please! Pig’s blood, if you’ve got it.”
“Three. Yes, we have three kilos of pig’s blood.”
Not a sentence he’d ever imagined uttering. When he’d submitted his order to the meat producer’s earlier that morning, Ouchi, the manager, had glared at him like he’d pulled up in a clown costume.
“You trying to take a bath in the stuff? Is this some new-fangled beauty trend?” Ouchi had asked, adjusting the hairnet on his balding head. When Asahi attempted to explain the situation, he demanded, “Well, is your tourist guy trying to take a blood bath?”
Maybe it was a beauty routine thing. Said tourist guy had very nice skin.
At the realization that he’d been gaping at his customer for a deeply socially unacceptable length of time, Asahi turned and hurried into the cold room.
When he returned, the stranger was still in the prep area, squinting at a rack of ribs on one of the butcher block countertops. He perked up when he saw Asahi, and followed him to the front register.
“Any chance you’ll want four kilos tomorrow?” Asahi joked as he weighed the tower of containers.
“Not sure yet. I don’t think that far ahead.” The stranger poked the paw of the lucky cat next to the register, then looked up at Asahi, who quickly bit off a yawn. “You’re not much of a morning person, eh?”
Asahi rubbed the back of his neck. “Not really, no.”
“Must suck to be you. I feel great, in case you were wondering.”
“No, please, rub it in,” Asahi mumbled around another yawn, and felt a little thrill of something when his companion laughed.
“Say, we’ll be seeing each other lots, so we should be friends! I’m Nishinoya Yuu.”
“Azumane Asahi,” Asahi said. “This is my, um. My uncle’s shop.”
“Wait!” Nishinoya shouted, and Asahi startled. Nishinoya pointed a finger at him. “You’re Ryuu’s senior from high school!”
“Huh?”
“Tanaka Ryuunosuke! You’re the Asahi-san he played volleyball with, right?”
“I guess I am.” Asahi rubbed his neck again. “You must be his old friend who’s visiting?”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s me! Hey, did he tell you I play volleyball too?”
Asahi checked Nishinoya’s face to see if he was joking—and had to tilt his chin quite far down to do so. “Is that so?”
Nishinoya puffed out his chest. “Ryuu can tell you about all the times I’ve thrashed him! But don’t believe anything he says about beach volleyball; that’s all lies.”
“I’ll make sure to ask him about it, then, so I know what not to believe.”
Nishinoya twisted his mouth into a frown, but a smile snuck out at the corners. “Are you this considerate to all your customers?”
Asahi laughed. “Only the ones who come in before we open. 2300 yen, please. Would you like a complimentary milk candy?” He pointed at the jar of candies, which had not, until today, ever been complimentary.
“Nah, I’m good.” Nishinoya took his purchase, but instead of leaving, he made his way to the sausage maker and set his bag next to Asahi’s abandoned tub of ground pork. “What were you up to over here?”
“Um. Stuffing sausages?” If Daichi were here, he’d demand, Is that a question? Why are you asking me? Asahi cleared his throat and repeated more firmly, “I was sausage stuffing.”
“Yeah? That what you do in your downtime?”
Asahi blinked at him. “Sorry, come again?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Nishinoya looked like he was trying not to laugh at some unknown joke, but before Asahi could voice his confusion, he asked, “Can I watch?”
“I don’t see why not,” Asahi said. He put on a fresh glove and kneaded the pork a few times, checking that it was still cold. “I’ve already put the casing on here”—he indicated the tube protruding from the bottom of the sausage maker—“so now I just need to pack in the meat and crank the handle.”
“Can I try?”
Asahi faltered. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. The sausages erupt really easily, so…”
“You don’t like when they erupt easily?”
“Er. No?” Asahi still got the feeling he was missing something in this conversation. “I always try to be careful. The trick is to cradle your hand along the length, like so, and gently squeeze it as it’s coming out— Are you okay?”
Nishinoya was coughing into his elbow, his whole body heaving with the effort. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he sputtered. He flapped a hand at the half-formed sausage link. “You’re an expert at this, yeah? Handling wieners?”
“I mean, I guess I’ve had a lot of practice…” Realization finally dawned. “Wait. This has been one long penis joke, hasn’t it.”
“Long,” Nishinoya choked out, then broke into the loudest fit of cackles Asahi had heard in his entire life.
“Glad I could entertain.”
This made Nishinoya laugh even harder. He doubled over as he dissolved into coughs once more, hacking like a dog stuck in a vending machine. Asahi patted Nishinoya’s back awkwardly with his clean hand, torn between exasperation and amusement. “Should I get you some water?”
“I’m good, gimme a sec.” Nishinoya held up a hand and turned his head away. His laugh abruptly died. He jerked upright, gaze fixed out the window at the lightening sky. “Shit, I gotta go. We on for four kilos tomorrow?”
“Um, sure.” Asahi handed him his bag. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need all that blood for?”
“Uhh.” Nishinoya pushed through the half-door marked STAFF ONLY and into the front of the shop. “Art project. It’s gonna be great, lots of… red.” He backed towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Asahi-san!”
He threw up a peace sign, then retreated into the shadowy street, leaving Asahi and his lucky cat waving at an empty storefront.
+
A little past eight, Asahi found himself in Suga’s classroom, as was typical on school days when he dropped off the school kitchen’s delivery. He sat atop one of the tiny desks, his knees sticking up at chest-level. Before him, Suga finished off a flow chart spanning half the blackboard.
“Now that we’ve reviewed the data, let’s think of some hypotheses,” Suga said. He drew a line of pink chalk down the board. HYPOTHESES, he wrote on top of the right column.
“Alright, can we get some ideas from the class?” Suga said to his audience of Asahi and the class gecko, Bean.
“Maybe he—”
“I don’t see any hands up,” Suga sang.
Asahi sighed. He raised his hand.
Suga pointed at him. “Asahi-kun! Shout it out!”
“Thanks for that. As I tried to say, maybe he’s doing a project for university.”
Project for university, Suga jotted in his impeccable handwriting. “Definitely possible. But boring.”
“Hey!”
Suga struck out the words with a violent slash and began drawing blob shapes underneath it. “I say he’s a radical animal rights protestor! He travels from country to country setting up shocking anti-meat installations!” Next to the blob labeled cow, he drew an upright blob holding a picket sign.
“What? Where do you even come up with these things?”
“Can you prove it’s not true?”
“No, but how is that where your mind went? I’d sooner believe he’s an Occultist— Hmm.”
Suga’s chalk stilled. “Hmmm.”
“Summoning circles are art, right? People work hard on them.”
Suga added Occultist to his list. “You could try asking him.”
“I can’t just do that.”
“Yes you can.”
“No, I really, really can’t.”
“Fine, scaredy-cat, I will. I’ll show up at six or five or whatever cursed hour he arrives and say, ‘Hey, Tanaka’s friend, have you heard the good news about Satan?’ and see how he reacts.”
“You absolutely will not. I’ll— I’ll kick you out!”
Suga brandished the chalk at him. “You can’t stop me! It’s for the safety of the village!”
Asahi groaned and buried his face in his hands. Served him right for telling Suga anything about his life, ever.
“Is he the creepy type?” Suga asked, doodling a devil on the board. “Rate his aura on a scale of blinding white to black hole.”
“Uh. Strong sunlight, maybe? He’s one of those enthusiastic types who pulls you in and makes boring things fun… if you know what I mean.”
Suga squinted at Asahi for a fleeting moment, then pulled on an impish grin. “So, like me?”
“You make me want to find somewhere to hide.”
Asahi barely dodged the chalk Suga hurled at him.
“I will not tolerate this impertinence in my classroom.” Suga grabbed Asahi by the arm and yanked him upright. “Anyway, I can hear morning assembly starting. Shoo, shoo; your scruffy face will frighten the poor kids.”
“It didn’t scare Nishinoya-san,” Asahi said, as Suga pushed him out. “Maybe my image is improving.”
“Or Nishinoya-san is desensitized by his demonic encounters. Good luck with that!” Suga said, and shut the door in his face.
+
Asahi bumbled into the dark shop at 5 a.m. the next morning. He swore as he knocked his elbow on the door frame, and again as he missed the STAFF ONLY half-door and walked into a display case.
This is all Suga’s fault, he thought, because it was. Suga’s threat of showing up to ambush Nishinoya, while probably empty, had scared Asahi into rolling out of bed half an hour early and stumbling to work with all the coordination of a newborn calf in a rice paddy.
And—what do you know!—no sign of Suga. Which left Asahi with an hour to kill. Which meant he had no more excuse to put off cleaning the bandsaw. Heaving a sigh that mutated into a yawn, he swapped his coat for an apron and flicked on an ancient radio. The fuzzy music was soon drowned out by the clank of metal as he disassembled the bandsaw and tossed the parts into the sink. He dribbled detergent into the sink, plugged it, and let the water run.
He pulled up a rickety stool and sat down, his elbow propped on the counter and his head propped on his hand. The radio was playing an ad for investment managing services, the bass of the voiceover barely audible over the running water. Asahi closed his eyes. His arms were cold; he should turn on the radiator. He’d do that in a moment, once his eyelids stopped feeling so heavy…
“Asahi-san!”
Asahi’s eyes flew open. The stool belched out a creak as he sat up. Nishinoya squatted on top of the counter opposite, pointing towards the sink.
A blanket of white foam covered the pit where the sink had been. It bobbed steadily, parting at intervals to make way for the stream of water flowing over the surrounding steel countertops and onto the floor.
Snapping to his senses, Asahi leapt to his feet and wrenched the faucet off. Water began to soak into his shoes. On the radio, a strangled insurance jingle fought its way out, more crackle than music.
“Oh no.” Asahi picked up the radio. He stared at the rapidly expanding waterfront on the counters, the floor, everywhere. “Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no. I broke everything. I have to call my uncle and tell him I broke everything—”
“Relax, dude, it’s just water,” Nishinoya said. He jumped off the counter, sending a splash onto Asahi’s pants. “Sure, the radio’s probably done for, but that thing looks a bajillion years old anyway. Nothing else important got soaked, right?”
He gestured around the room. A handful of knives and metal machine parts sat in a centimeter of water on the counter. The tile floor was mostly bare, save for a pile of empty cardboard boxes that the water was eating through.
“No. Yes. No, nothing important got soaked,” Asahi said. The fuzz of panic began to clear from his head. “It’ll be fine. Everything’s fine. Wet, but fine.”
“That’s the spirit!” Nishinoya clapped Asahi on the shoulder with startling force for such a small person. “So, where do you keep the mops?”
Asahi gingerly checked his shoulder for bruising. “Huh?”
“Mops? The swishy clean-y things? I’m great at mopping; my grandpa taught me this wicked fast technique!”
“Wait, you’re the customer, you can’t—”
Nishinoya had already splashed to the nearest door. “Not this one,” he said, facing the half-pig hanging inside. He yanked open the next door. “Whoa! Is that a chainsaw? Can I try—”
“Pleasedon’ttouchthechainsaw.” Asahi hurried over and coaxed Nishinoya away from the door. He went to the supply closet and fetched a mop and a bin of rags. “Why don’t you sit down at the front? I’ll take care of this real quick. Sorry to make you wait.”
“On your own? You kidding? That’ll take forever.” Nishinoya swiped the mop and plunged it into the puddle. “Trust me, I’m the best at this. Just watch!”
It turned out that Nishinoya’s “technique” consisted of pushing the mop in straight lines at unsafe running speeds. But he was efficient, which sort of made up for the near heart attack Asahi suffered every time he squeaked to a stop milliseconds before hitting a wall. He was hanging up the mop just as Asahi finished wiping off the counters and draining the sink.
When Asahi looked over, Nishinoya was picking up the largest boning knife. “Wow, this one’s really pointy. It’s like, longer than my shin.” He lifted one foot up and held the knife next to his calf, hopping for balance. “Y’know, once when I was in Germany—”
Rubber squeaked against wet tile. Asahi and Nishinoya had time to lock eyes with matching expressions of terror before Nishinoya’s leg slid out from under him. The gleaming point of the knife sliced through his jeans and drove into muscle. Asahi’s arms shot out, grabbing thin air as Nishinoya fell to the floor.
Ohhh nononono. He’s dead. He’s dead and the police will think I did it and I’ll be arrested for homicide and—
“Oof,” Nishinoya said. Not an I’m bleeding out and in screaming pain sort of noise, but more an I haven’t noticed the knife in my leg yet but once I do I will begin screaming noise.
Asahi squeezed his eyes shut, steeled his stomach, and forced himself to look down.
No puddle of blood. No gored flesh. The knife dangled harmlessly in Nishinoya’s hand, sparkling clean, unmarred by blood or guts or anything to suggest it had been inside a human.
“Your leg,” Asahi said.
“Nothing happened to it. I’m fine, see?” Nishinoya scrambled to his feet and gestured at his unharmed body.
“But th-the knife… I saw…”
“This guy?” he said, holding the knife out at arm’s length. “Yeah, it’s sharp. Could’ve hurt me real bad. Lucky that it missed me, right?”
“Lucky, yes…” Asahi looked from the sharp tip to Nishinoya’s calf, then back again. “Can you please… p-put that down?”
As soon as the knife clattered onto the counter, Asahi let out a deep sigh of relief. He grabbed the stool for balance. If he died young from heart failure, at least one person would know why.
Nishinoya delivered another robust whack to Asahi’s arm. “Cheer up, you look like a demon sucked your breath out! I’m fiiine. And everything’s dry now!”
The sink had overflowed; right. Asahi had been so busy watching his life flash before his eyes that he’d forgotten about that whole debacle.
“Thank you for helping me clean, and sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, hoping against all hope that he sounded brisk and customer-friendly and not at all like he wanted to rock back and forth in fetal position on the floor. “What would you like to purchase today? Still four kilos?”
“Oh, I just came in to say hi on my way back from work. But I’ll take a kilo, since I’m here.”
“Work?” Asahi asked, heading to the cold room. “Kiyoko didn’t mention you were staying so long.”
Nishinoya followed him. “Just a month, then I’ve got a gig in Nagano teaching little kids volleyball. I’m here to sub for Kinoshita Hisashi while he visits his mother.”
“At the Sea Foam Inn?”
“Yup, eleven to five shift. Dunno why they even need a security guard. Nothing ever happens, ‘cept the same old man coming in to mooch off the lobby Wi-Fi.”
Asahi laughed. It was true; the closest Ishino had to dangerous persons were haggling housewives.
“This should do it,” he said, grabbing four containers of pigs’ blood. He glanced over his shoulder, where a hind quarter of beef hung. “Do you, um. Are you interested in animal rights, by any chance?”
Nishinoya was already bounding towards the checkout counter. “Whazzat?”
“Never mind.” This was all Suga’s fault for planting crackpot theories in Asahi’s head. He weighed the containers. “One kilo exact. Take it for free, as thanks for the help today.”
“It was no biggie, honest.”
“I’d be underwater right now if it weren’t for you, so really, just take it.”
“Well, if you insist, then thanks!” Nishinoya said, and wow, maybe that smile was the reason why Asahi had been feeling so cheerful the past two days. One couldn’t string together a mopey thought in its presence.
As Asahi bagged the containers, Nishinoya shifted from foot to foot, shooting glances out the window. “Man, time sure passed quickly.”
Asahi looked into the street, but nothing was there except his own reflection against the glass. “You must be in a hurry to get to bed.” He placed the items on the counter.
“Uh, yeah. Got a tiring job, y’know.” Nishinoya grabbed the bag and turned towards the door. “See you soon, Asahi-san!”
Asahi matched his grin. “Looking forward to it.”
Right as the door closed, Asahi spotted a flash of something on Nishinoya’s jeans, right above the calf.
A clean rip, the width of a boning knife.
+
“I saw it go in, Daichi.” Asahi glanced around to check that none of Tsukiya’s other customers were eavesdropping, then leaned forward and stage-whispered, “The blade was in his leg!”
Daichi sighed and set his beer down. “Alright, fine, it was in his leg. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Arrest him!” Suga cried from beside Asahi. He banged his sake on the wooden plank propped up on milk crates that served as their table. “Neutralize him and destroy his Philosopher’s Stone!”
“What—”
“Wait wait wait,” Asahi cut in, “he’s really nice, don’t do that!”
“Don’t do what?”
“Shut down his evil life force! It is your sworn duty to protect Ishino village, Daichi!”
Daichi sighed again. He put a hand on his forehead and dragged it down his face. Suga surreptitiously added a tally to their order ticket—eight sighs so far, and they hadn’t even finished the first side dish yet.
“Let me get this straight,” Daichi said. “Tanaka’s newcomer friend bought blood from Asahi, and Asahi thought he stabbed himself but it turns out he didn’t.”
“A lot of blood,” Suga supplied.
“He definitely stabbed himself,” Asahi added. “There was a rip in his jeans right where the knife went.”
“Okay, and his jeans are ripped. On these grounds, you want the town police to perform an amateur exorcism.”
“Aw, believe in yourself more, Daichi.” Suga patted his arm. “I’m sure there’s a master exorcist in you just waiting to come out.”
Daichi took a swig of his beer. “Why am I forever surrounded by children— Oh, hello, Yamaguchi. Nice to see another rational being. Did we order that?”
Squeezing past the neighboring tables, Yamaguchi approached their table and set down a plate of the trio’s favorite beef skewers. He bit his lip, an excited smile peeking through.
“Our tastes are just predictable, huh?” Asahi said with a laugh.
“I wanted you guys to try it first.” Yamaguchi flapped an impatient hand. “Go on, go on.”
They each grabbed a skewer. Suga tore into his first, his expression of contemplation morphing into delight as he chewed. “Whoaa.”
Asahi nodded and spoke through his mouthful. “It’s a small change, but a world of difference.”
“Right? Right?” Yamaguchi looked ready to burst. “Tsukki keeps saying he only tweaked the recipe, but I know he worked super hard on it!” He tiptoed and called across the noisy room, “Hear that, Tsukki? Everyone says it’s amazing!”
“Shut up, Yamaguchi,” came the response from the reception desk.
“He’s also fiddling with the sushi vinegar recipe! It should be done in time for next week.”
“Next week?” Asahi asked. “What’s next week?”
Daichi cut him a glance. “Butcher-san. Tell me you’re joking.”
“Why would I—”
“It’s October!” Suga said. “Your favorite time of year!”
“My… favorite…” Memories of the last two Octobers slowly surfaced. “Wait, the tuna catch is in a week?”
A few times per bluefin tuna season, the village’s hobby fishers collectively rented out a boat. For a week, they set off on expeditions at all hours of the day, pulling fish after enormous fish out of the frigid Pacific waters. Once the precious tuna reached land, they became Asahi’s problem.
Yamaguchi shot him the apologetic grimace of one who regretted bearing bad news. “Please remember to give us a good price!” he said, then ducked away to serve a different table.
Suga elbowed Asahi. “Guess we won’t be seeing much of you for a while.”
Asahi groaned and dropped his head onto the table. The tuna catches accounted for a good chunk of the shop’s business, and he enjoyed the top-quality fish as much as the next person. But he was staring down at least two weeks of nonstop work. That, and he’d smell like fish for the next month.
“It’s okay, we’ll visit you lots.” Suga ruffled Asahi’s already frizzy bun. “You can throw us scraps, and we’ll catch them with our mouths like street dogs.”
“We will do no such thing,” Daichi said. He gripped Asahi’s shoulder. “Cheer up, big guy. You’ve got a few more nights of freedom left.”
“Yeah, let’s pack in all the fun while we can! How about karaoke at my place?”
Asahi checked the time on his phone. “Actually, I should head home and go to bed soon.”
“Hah? It’s only nine! What are you, an old man?”
“You don’t have to get up at five.” Asahi banged his head on the table again. But he didn’t mind his pre-dawn routine so much, now that Nishinoya was a part of it. Maybe because the mystery of him made the morning more exciting, or because his high energy made Asahi feel less like a walking corpse. Probably both.