Lamination
My half of an art trade with @twilighthomunculus where Ryousuke and Kyoichi of Initial D fame get divorced. Absolute blast to write, I love this pairing, especially when it's broken.
They've caught the Family's diner in the twixt hours of graveyard and Sunday rush. There's a few too many staff milling the restaurant for a floor that is devoid of all but three customers and the occasional rattle can be heard from the kitchen, a warning for the traffic to come. Still, they're given a wide berth at their lonely corner booth, shielded from the rising sun by a support column painted soft yellow and stained with the shadows of rotating posters and signage.
Whether the distance is because of the hour or the sheer state of their table, Ryousuke doesn't know nor care, so long as their waiter has the peace of mind to keep his coffee cup full. Occasionally, he eyes the perpetually empty glass on Kyoichi's side of the table, remnants of orange juice pooling at the bottom. A desire for sugar wavers in and out of his consciousness, the hindbrain baying for something other than acid on an empty stomach, but he ignores it. The sheaf of papers in his hand is far more important.
"I do not understand how your name got attached to so many of my belongings," Ryousuke grouses. "And I know I did some of this sober."
Kyoichi snorts. "I know you did, I was there. Thank God I barely had anything for you to take."
"As if I'd want it."
Kyoichi doesn't reply, so Ryousuke returns his focus to their documentation. They'd been married for just over a year, a surprising length of time given their shared proclivities, which was just enough time to muddle their lives legally as well as socially. And they hadn't even made it to the court yet-- this was all preliminary.
At the very least, their shared apartment was in Gunma, for as much as either of them used it. Ryousuke remembered the tedious process of acquiring the space vividly-- the fight that followed. He grimaces and reaches for his coffee, only to wrinkle his nose when he realizes the cup is empty.
"I got you some water instead," Kyoichi says, breaking his silence. "So you don't shrivel and die before you hit your residency."
His smile is bared teeth. Kyoichi's never gotten the hang of smiling, but neither has Ryousuke, so they grimace at each other, honest as anything. Their expressions fall at the exact same time until the waitress comes by to hedge about maybe ordering some food, you know, the kitchen's getting fired up for the rush... And I'll get you some more coffee, sir, as you please...
There's a light in Kyoichi's eyes that often precedes a lost battle on Ryousuke's part, so the latter wordlessly gathers their papers together and pulls out the discarded diner menus from earlier.
---
Their vehicles stick out like sore thumbs in the rather neglected parking lot of the court house. The Evo III is a stocky, stealthy little thing, but the bulging fascia and lowered suspension betrays its intentions. A parking space away from it, the gleaming white FC RX-7 glares balefully at its owner, as if irritated by the rain sliding down its sleek roof lines.
Ryousuke passes the cigarette to Kyoichi, watching him take a long drag, tension easing out of his shoulders the more deeply he breathes in. Then he keeps it in his possession, smoke pouring out of his mouth in one swirling cloud as he speaks.
"When did Seiji and Fumihiro become friends?" He asks, slightly hoarse. "Are we being stood up at our own divorce meeting? What the hell?"
Ryousuke can't help it-- he laughs.
"Well, it's not like we're in a hurry. It's amicable, remember?"
Kyoichi ashes, then hands it back over to Ryousuke. "You're dodging the question."
"I don't keep tabs on Fumihiro, you know."
Fumihiro, despite his earnestness and intrinsic need to please, was slippery. And crafty. And frustratingly immune to whatever Ryousuke threw at him, which was a lot more than most people got. Seiji, on the other hand-- Ryousuke had no idea what Kyoichi got out of him and it wasn't his business to know.
(He'd tried, once, after a fight).
A high-pitched growl snaps Ryousuke's attention to the road. It's a familiar bubbling sound, the blitz of a roadster coasting down the road with unremitting joy.
The car is Fumihiro's and the way the little car glides to a stop next to the FC-- it's him driving, too. But Seiji climbs out first, stiff and awkward and tail on fire. Ryousuke watches him cross the parking lot straight to Kyoichi's side with disdain.
Once Fumihiro is at his side, he drops the cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with his heel. The ash will stick to his just-cleaned shoes, but he doesn't care.
"Let's get going," Ryousuke says shortly.
Kyoichi raises an eyebrow, cool and judgmental, but shoves Seiji into following after everyone inside the court house.
After all, they need witnesses, just as they needed them for when they got married.
---
The bedroom in the apartment is kept in darkness through blackout curtains on the windows which keep out the signage in the parking lot and the morning sun. The curtains are grimy to the touch as Kyoichi pulls them back, letting the outside world in an inch at a time, making up for the burnt out lightbulb. A fine layer of dust covers everything, including the discarded clothes littering the floor.
Most of them are his, of course. There'd been a time where he seriously considered moving out here, but, well.
He'd meant to start picking up the place. Instead, Kyoichi settles down on the bed, running a hand through his hair. It's longer than he likes and the roots are starting to show, dark flashes in bleach blond waves. His throat and chest are tight with an unnamed, amorphous restriction, too hot to be grief, not cold enough for anger. By the time he can swallow it back down, he's trembling and his eyes are stinging.
Still, he creeps across the room, scooping up the forgotten clothes and tucking them under his arm. They're cool to the touch. Some of them still smell of expensive cologne, of Ryousuke, the only part of him that ever manages to stay behind. Kyoichi breathes through it long enough to toss everything in a bag he hung on the door knob.
Then he shuts the door with a resounding click.
"This sucks," Kyoichi groans. "I think I actually love him, for it to be this hard."
The apartment thumps in response, a neighbor slamming their door shut.
"Seiji was right, callin' me some bleedin' heart. Whatever."
Kyoichi throws the bag over his shoulder and meanders the limited square footage of the apartment. It's just enough to be more than a studio, but not enough to be noticeable on a Takahashi ledger, especially with how sparingly they use their utilities. The place is mostly spare tools and old car parts. Jugs of old oil and coolant both of them have been too lazy to dispose of. He resists the urge to kick a bottle over as he ducks back out of the apartment and into the hot summer air.
Later, he'll come back. For his tools and everything in between.
Just a little bit later.
---
"Thanks for meeting me out here," Fumihiro says, catching Keisuke's eye over the rim of his coffee mug. "This is still your favorite place, right?"
Foam sloshes over his cup as he sets it back down onto the table with too much force. Keisuke hovers by the curb, squinting against the daylight, motorcycle helmet gripped tightly in gloved hands.
"With you, yeah," Keisuke says finally. "What's up?"
Fumihiro kicks a chair out for him so by the time he saunters over, he has a place to sit. The metal creaks and scuffs against the cobblestone patio-- a slice of French design on the fringes of the big city.
Why a French-styled cafe was Keisuke's favorite, neither of them dwell on. Instead, Fumihiro delays responding, as if the bearer of too great a burden. He smiles tightly.
"Your brother is getting a divorce."
Keisuke tilts his head to the side, alarmed.
"When did he even get married? How long has he...?"
"Oh, not very long. It was a very impulsive thing in Kanagawa. But I'm telling you so you know, because he won't tell you himself."
The chair creaks louder. Keisuke pushes back on it so that he balances precariously, preciously, on the back two legs. Then he drops back on all fours with a tremendous clang.
It's one of those things. Loud secrets. He hasn't seen his own brother in what, six months? He finished school, sure, but as soon as he could, he fled home. The squirrely little man sipping a latte in front of him is the only reason either of them are alive, most likely.
"Who'd he even get hooked up with?" Keisuke asks finally.
Fumihiro smirks, even showing teeth. "Kyoichi Sudo. I forget, have you met him?"
Keisuke's jaw drops. "He got with a guy? THAT guy?"
Fumihiro hides a smile behind his hand.
---
It's raining again when they gather outside the court building. Lightning flashes in the distance. Water sluices freely from Kyoichi's umbrella now that it's folded, just narrowly missing his feet. He shakes it out delicately while Ryousuke waits, holding the door open.
"Delaying the inevitable, Sudo?" Ryousuke asks tartly.
"Fuck off."
Satisfied he won't be trailing water everywhere, Kyoichi ducks into the building, nerves alight. The interior smells like citrus, smoke, and dust. A clock on the wall stares down at them and counts the seconds left until their appointment.
Until their dissolution.
Ryousuke flits past him, shoulders squared and back straight, wrapped in the same haughtiness he bore when they first met. Even in their last moments, he won't afford either of them the decency of vulnerability, of defeat. His shoes click definitively against the gray tile.
The entire process has left Kyoichi feeling dull and hollow. Driving hasn't been able to penetrate it, nor has drinking. Neither of them had meant to get married necessarily -- so why did the separation take so long?
The door to their consult is already open. Kyoichi only steps past the threshold when Ryousuke does. A candle is burning in the corner, adding to the assault on the senses.
"Good to see you both, gentleman. Let's go over the conditions one more time."
They sit. Kyoichi ignores the side-eye from the comet and tries not to wish they'd brought Seiji and Fumihiro along again. He realizes he's barely listened to their consult when he's suddenly being given a pen.
"You'll need to sign the notice before I can submit it. It's a bit of a busy time federally, so it may be a while longer before the papers are processed..."
Kyoichi puts ink down, jotting his name on the form with short, choppy strokes. It looks huge next to Ryousuke's finer script.
"Will we be notified when it's through?" Ryousuke asks.
"You'll get a letter in the mail, of course," he says gravely. "Thank you both for your cooperation."
All three of them stand with the faint scuff of chair against hard flooring and bow.
Somehow, Ryousuke keeps pace with him on their way out. Kyoichi feels lightheaded. Months of fuckery culminating in what, just a signature and some processing time? It didn't make any sense.
He didn't know why he felt so torn.
"You gonna think of me when I'm gone, Ryousuke?" Kyoichi coughs out once they're outside.
The rain's let up some. A bit of blue sky peeks out of the clouds.
Ryousuke digs his car keys out from his pocket and watches the metal glint off the low light.
"I'm going to try not to, really," he replies. "You know I'm not the sentimental type."
Kyoichi coughs again.
Yeah. Clearly.
