This time, Hayato cuts off my ramble, pressing a long finger to my lips. He sighs, then asks, "Seriously, you have a Book of Elves?"
Despite my keen depression, I find myself giggling at his question. "Dude, supernatural creatures are the worst. We all have bibles. You should see the one the pixies keep in Ireland. They have to store it on another plane of existence; it's so big."
Hayato laughs along with me, and for a moment, it lights up his face. But when the laughter is done, a deep sadness returns to his dark brown gaze. "There's truly nothing we can do?"
I sober too. "We can wait. I know that's unfair to ask. I mean, you're you, and I'm, well.… me. And it's only been twelve days. But that's our only option if you want to give a relationship with me a try."
He's quiet for a long time, his sharp jaw setting and resetting.
I stay still and force myself to patiently wait for his answer.
But in the end, he says nothing. He just kisses me and rolls me onto my back as Bill Withers croons above us.
This time is different. Not sweet like on New Year's Eve when we discovered our perfect harmony.
It's slow but rough. Lingering and desperate. And when the orgasm begins to bloom, it becomes angry and fast.
Like we’re racing. Racing against time.
46
Just the Two of Us
HAYATO
Throughout history, Nakamuras have excelled at figuring out what to do.
For centuries there hasn't been a problem we haven't adapted to or overcome. When the samurai castes fell toward the late 1800s, we pivoted into yakuza. When the global industry boom found its way to Japan, we made ourselves over into respectable automotive titans. Keeping our samurai history but hiding our yakuza ties underneath suits where no one but us could see them. We have been praised in business classes worldwide for our ability to transform whatever problems are thrown at us into a thriving business.
Yet, I cannot figure out how to solve this problem.
I spend the entire morning in bed with Kristal and half of the afternoon. I can't stop making love to her. She is still here, but she feels like sand slipping through my fingers.
All I can do is wait until the next twelve days of Christmas.
She is worth the wait, I believe, and I should be up for the challenge. There was a year before these twelve days. And I got through it, even without knowing that I would find her again at the end of it.
I am a Nakamura.
I should be able to wait a year.
353 days.
As the son of a centuries-old samurai, I shouldn't mind the wait.
But I do.
And we don't make it out of Kristal's bed until she tells me we have to stop.
"The twelve happy endings panoply presentation is in a couple of hours," she points out, her voice soft and apologetic. "And we should eat something beforehand."
Kristal's apartment looks like a room in a forest. Her bed frame is made out of a combination of branches vined with flowers, and all the bedding is covered in moss. The floor is grass, the walls are stone, and there's a hearth where the kitchen should be.
When I ask her about a toilet, she answers, "You can shower before lunch if you want to, but you don't have to use the toilet in the workshop."
And I realize it's true. The familiar urge to relieve myself in the morning is nowhere to be found. No wonder I was able to linger with her so long in bed.
It is all rather strange but somehow unsurprising.
Knowing what I do of Kristal and her kind, of course, she lives somewhere with plants growing from the walls and a forest floor underneath her feet instead of wood or tile. No doubt, she would house her extensive collection of comic books and graphic novels in a thicket of branches covering the entirety of one wall. And certainly, there should be what looks like a fairy rain shower embedded inside a tree in one corner with a large mushroom for a showerhead instead of the usual slab of metal with holes. I would expect nothing less.
After I'm done with my shower, she somehow presents me with a beautiful stew for lunch. And cookies. Both are technically delicious. But the food tastes like dust in my mouth.
"Sorry," she says when I set my utensils down after a few minutes, the bowl of stew barely touched, and one cookie only nibbled.
We both know she is not talking about the food.
Above us, Krista's chipper voice comes on the workshop's loudspeaker. "Just one more hour until the twelve happy ending ceremony. Also known as the absolute best day of the year—no offense Santa. Be there...or be so, so square!"
After that announcement, "just the two of us" starts playing at maximum volume.