DOGFISH, miyuki kazuya

mostly, i want to be kind

And plus, there aren't as many people around. Kind of a bonus. A Tuesday at noon. The second week of December. Empty. Or, well, mostly empty.

Inside, the air is cool, smelling faintly fishy. It is dark, with the light coming from the tanks, shining blue on your faces. You've come prepared with your camera, taking pictures of whatever catches your eye. You two walk through the Hall of Fishes, showcasing the diverse marine life of the pacific. The Giant Kelp Forest, with kelp swaying in cool blue water, Leopard Sharks, Moray Eels, and Giant Black Sea Bass gliding through them. Then the Sea-dragons and Seahorses display, with the aforementioned marine life as well as pipefish and other unique species.

"Seahorses mate for life, you know."

"Don't the males also get pregnant?"

"They've got it all figured out," you sigh wistfully; half of you wants to climb in that tank. "I mean, seriously, that's some soulmate shit."

"Isn't it kind of... not?"

"For me, soulmates are created, not found."

"What's the criteria?"

The question shocks you. You look at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your chest warms and you look back at the tank, where a light green seahorse speckled with black dots swims through the water.

"Why are you asking?" you ask, a little teasing, though your heart is suddenly beating out of your chest.

Quiet for a moment. Then... "I'm curious."

The thing is, he doesn't sound like he's joking or even teasing you. No, he sounds... well. Curious.

"I don't know," you say, deciding screw it and looking at him. Your hands grow clammy around your camera. You let it fall, hanging from your neck.

You tug distractedly at your shirt. It's a comfortable day, so you're in an outfit similar to the day you and he had Rico's, with your Docs, your over-the-knee black socks, denim shorts and black cherry lip lacquer. Except it's not your Wonder Woman shirt, but the Padres jersey you'd been generously gifted by the team. A rusty brown kind of color, with golden trims and San Diego written across the front. Nothing else on the back. You wear it unbuttoned, though, with a black lace trim cami underneath; the jersey is a tad oversized at your request, so the ends fall down a little bit past your hips. Your nails are painted black again.

When Miyuki saw you after picking you up from your apartment, he said if you were going to be friends, you had to have his jersey, too, so he was getting you one immediately. You said that wouldn't help your dating rumors at all. He said Do you really care what they think, tomcat?

"I don't know," you say again. Unsure if it's to his question about criteria or your own thoughts.

(But you know — your answer to whether you care what others think, you mean. Not the press, not the media, not the fans who think you're trying to steal his money — and they can die mad about it, too, because nine out of ten times, he's insisting on paying and since you only make enough to pay rent, feed yourself and your pets, and sustain a Spotify subscription, well, why the hell are you going to say no? You don't care about them, not really. You just care about him. About this. Whatever this is. Real friendship or just his guilt.

But god, you really hope it isn't that.)

"I don't think there's a specific criteria for what classifies a soulmate. That's the beauty of it. I think Jerry is my soulmate but I think Batman and Robin are my soulmates, too. My pets, I mean, not the actual characters."