Freedom of Self

Chapter 5

Arata's face contorted in misery and he buried his head in his hands as a small whimper left him. Everything ached.

He couldn't think anymore. Whether it was the fever that had been weakening him for the last few days, the relief that filled his heart when he saw Matsushita-san or the embarrassment of troubling the man so much, Arata found it impossible to pin-point why he was struck with the urge to cry. The stress the young man had accumulated in the past weeks came pouring out in this meltdown.

He ground his teeth, the muscles of his jaw flexing visibly under his skin.

"I'm sorry." he choked out as another sob racked through him. "I don't know what's wrong with me today."

Arata shook his head as if to show he couldn't believe himself for crying in front of the other man. As he tried to gulp down the wringing knot in his throat, he felt his chin clenching upwards as his mouth distorted into a quivering line. The young man was sure his eyes were bloodshot and his skin blotchy. How pitiful was it? He didn't have the courage to look Matsushita-san in the eye.

"Forgive me." Arata sniffed, his voice cracking. As he wiped his eyes, two large hands fell on his shoulders, pressing gently. Without giving him the chance to protest, Matsushita-san pulled Arata to him, the boy's forehead resting against his chest.

"It's fine. Cry if it makes you feel better." the older man emphasized with a soft pat on the back.

"I'm sorry." the young man apologized profusely once more, humiliated. "I'm so sorry to trouble you."

"Don't mind me." Matsushita-san tightened his arms around him. As Arata's head pressed harder against the man's body, his skin rubbed against the smooth fabric of his shirt. A faint smell of cologne and sweat wafted from the base of the other man's neck and Arata's heart constricted slowly and painfully. Heat radiated through the young man where Matsushita-san touched him. It felt good.

Giving in, he let the tears he had been struggling to hold back slide down his cheeks.

# # #

After Arata calmed down, Matsushita-san lied him down on the bed and he prepared the porridge. Placing the ingredients in the rice cooker, the man set the timer and put on his shoes to go buy some more medicine.

"I'll be right back, Wakahisa-san." he called out from the door way. For a second, Arata was tempted to throw a sarcastic reply at him or make a self-deprecating joke to ease the tension and embarrassment he felt.

"Okay." the young man replied meekly. He still thought that being overly familiar with Matsushita-san was inappropriate, yet he wished that the man would stop addressing him so politely.

Arata heard the door close and heaved a big sigh.

"What the hell..." the young man muttered to himself. His head ached and the fever seemed to have flared-up again, but his mind felt clearer after crying.

Arata scoffed. He couldn't remember the last time he sobbed in front of someone. It still felt unreal. The young man's friends would have never believed he was capable of displaying such emotion. Imagining Mayama's shocked expression or Hayashida's trademark cackle, the corners of Arata's mouth curled upwards.

Unlike him, his friends had no filter. Mayama was in the same department as him and had introduced his girlfriend Abe, a law student, to their group, while Hayashida studied engineering and stubbornly refused to admit that his Osaka dialect warded off every girl he tried to approach.

Perhaps a bit jealous of Arata's self control, Hayashida often tried to prank or startle him, in hopes of hearing the young man's Akita dialect surfacing. After moving to Tokyo, Arata had made consistent efforts to discard the few peculiar phrases he had grown up using and, unfortunately for his friend, rarely did he let his mouth slip.