Radio Silence

His mother was insufferable. It was his fault. Katsuki had spent the entire daylight a week before this one working up the courage to introduce Amai to his parents. He told himself it was a leap of commitment. It was something tangible to give Amai to show her he was all in. It was still hazy in his mind, like the beginning of a bad thought that you know will only lead to unlogical ‘what-ifs.’ However, they pushed into his mind anyway. The tight embrace his mom wrapped around Amai. The way she sunk into the motherly affection that was as familiar as it was foreign. The way Amai’s eyes turned glassy with what Katsuki could only assume was daughterly reminisces. It went well. His mother made pork cutlets and rice. His father showed Amai Katsuki’s childhood album while Katsuki buried his face in his palms. It was a good night. For once, he felt happy that he confided in his parents.

That was until his mother made nonrefundable reserves at Bara—Tokyo, one of the fanciest restaurants on that side of the country. So here Katsuki was, Saturday morning, all dolled up in a red and white tuxedo well after 10 PM. Jazz music lit the place up. Trumpets, keyboards, drums, saxophones. Amai would love it. Amai. His leg was bouncing. For the fifth time, he waved away the waitress. “I’m waiting for someone.” He said the first time. “She ain’t here yet.” He said the next. “She’ll be here soon.” The next, and the next, and the next. Finally, looking around, he realized how stupid he looked at that table by himself. Families and couples grouped around each other. The restaurant was filled with chatter and laughter, and whatever morsel of excitement he had for the day was completely deflated.

With numb fingers, Katsuki reached up to touch his stiff hair. His mother had gelled it to one side and said it made him look ‘sophisticated.’ Finally, defeated and exhausted, Katsuki gently lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. He checked himself over. Just in case. Just in case she miraculously walked through that door as he walked out. She didn't. He abandoned 15,000 yen on the table and made his way out of the restaurant. The Jazz ensembles detangled their melody as Katsuki's polished loafers clicked and clomped and carried him toward the door.

His palm was around his phone.

Where are you? 9:45

The music is obnoxious, your kinda scene. 9:50

You ight? 10:15

Amai? 10:30

You’re embarrassing me. I’m sitting all by myself 10:59

Alright, I’m leaving.

I hope you’re okay 11:00

The evening air hit his face with a strength Katsuki wasn’t anticipating. Cars fled up and down the street, and lanterns and signs kept Tokyo well-lit and alive. Even in the middle of the night. Despite how much he bitched and moaned about this damn date, he couldn’t help the tightness that gripped his heart and locked his jaw. Their first date and he’d messed it up. He didn’t even know how. Had he said something? Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she didn’t want to be with him at all. Every thought blossomed into something else, something worse, something that made him want to crumple onto the ground.

It was pathetic. The amount of time Katsuki spent that morning fumbling with his tie before sucking up his pride and asking his mother for help. The amount of time he spent in front of his bathroom mirror spitting out his fifth round of toothpaste. How long it took him to gather the courage to step into that taxi. Their first date— his first date and it didn’t even happen. Stupid. He was so goddamn stupid.

Katsuki panned his gaze over the attraction-lit city, his eyes pouring over the place with veins popping from his jaw. In his hand, the phone he’d been cradling like a lifeline, finally buzzed. His eyes snapped down. Surely enough, Amai’s bright and cheerful poster lit his screen and he was starstruck. He scrambled his thumb towards the phone, dropping it, catching it, pushing it up to his ear, and clearing his throat.

“You better have a damn good explanation for—“

The unsteady sound of a whimper cut him off.

“Katsuki?”

His wallet was clean. Katsuki pushed the last of his allowance into the driver's palm before he snatched the child lock and jumped out of the slowing car. Maybe it was the tie, maybe it was the hospital in front of him but he couldn’t breathe. The air felt thin. His mind was spinning in circles. Morning, afternoon, and the dinner they missed. His feet pounded against the earth, he jumped around people not bothering to mutter ‘Excuse me.’ The sad scent of plastic and bleach nearly made him double over when he was through the doors. White made his squint.

He took a deep breath, finally processing everything: the metal detectors, the latex gloves, the paper masks. The room felt like it was tumbling and shaking as he gathered the resolve to move forward. He was dizzy. His palms slammed against the receptionist's desk. The woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow, and her entire demeanor shifted as she laid her eyes on him. Dressed in a tuxedo with neatly styled hair, he noticed her eyes widening behind her large glasses as she pushed them up her nose. "Sir?" she inquired.

“Naoto Tsuyuki, give me his room number.” A sneer twisted Katsuki's lips, though he could only guess how pathetic he appeared. His tie hung loose from all his tugging and pulling. His chest was heaving, and his muscles were tense.

“Visiting hours are over, sir,” the woman said, glancing between his designer tuxedo and the screen of her computer. There was something in her expression that hinted at her judgment. Katsuki didn't care. All he cared about was the raspy, whine that had echoed through his phone while he stood around a city alive with vibrant lights and colors. All he cared about was cradling that woman in his arms. This woman was standing in the way of that. “The ICU is closed to family only.”

“I…” Katsuki bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself forward. “I’m family.”

Her eyebrow cocked again. She sighed. “5-12B. You have thirty minutes.”

The numbers whirred in his mind as his legs propelled him forward with little restraint. That smell—the sharp, antiseptic rubber—invaded his nostrils. The white noise of machines and rolling carts heightened his sense of dread, while the repetitive clicking of the elevator button threatened to overwhelm him. "Breathe, Katsuki," he reminded himself. He could almost feel the chocolate tinge of her breath against his ear and her arms gently pressing against his tense shoulders, calming him. That was his anchor. Katsuki ascended in silence, moving through the endless halls filled with white and sick. It was only when he finally met Amai’s gaze that his heart stopped thumping. Her head was tucked against her uncle’s arm, her eyes swollen and red, and her body trembled. Worst of all, a boy rested underneath the covers of the hospital bed.

Amai straightened when she saw him. Her uncle, the nurses, and the doctors all seemed to slow as she stood and wandered forward into his arms. Katsuki was thrown by the act. The sudden pressure against his chest, the steady beep of the EKG, and the stillness in the room all felt painful. The hospital’s room was dark. Amai smelled like lemon perfume and smudging makeup. She stained his tux with those tears. She stained his heart with her whispers. He held her anyway.