I wanted
the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,
whoever I was, I was
alive
for a little while.
━━━━━━
So, naturally, you don't expect him to come back.
Not at all.
And that's okay! He did way more than he needed to.
But you find those expectations smashed to pieces the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Each of those times, he says he is simply 'checking in.'
Guilt and obligation are his main motivators, you're certain of it. But you don't say anything. You like talking to him. You've made certain everyone knows they don't need to hang around while you're at the hospital and you don't regret it, knowing they all have other things to do, but you also don't mind talking to someone. You never do. You love your fellow humans very much and you are always willing to chat with the people around you, provided they are willing, too.
Sure, he may be coming here out of a sense of duty but he is still engaging with you. You appreciate that.
Alongside that, you are slowly but surely recovering. The worst symptoms of your concussion subside, like your spatial misperception and the blurriness in your vision when you try to focus. On your fourth day, you venture outside. You have to wear sunglasses initially but bit by bit, it becomes bearable. You'll still experience sensitivity for the next several weeks, headaches, too, but it won't last forever.
Hopefully.
Your good old friend, brain contusion, is getting better, too. Not completely healed yet but not getting worse. They think it'll be healed by your follow-up appointment. Your bruise still looks bad. It will for the next week, probably, then it'll start to heal.
Miyuki keeps coming around, even on Saturday, after the parade celebrating the Padres' win, where they have a massive turnout on Seventh Avenue; something like a million people came out for it.
Your discharge creeps on you. Soon, it's Tuesday, the first of November, the day before you're to be released.
You're in a chair by your window, the blinds pulled all the way up, giving you a view of the greenery around the hospital; immaculately cut grass, neatly trimmed bushes, rows of planted trees. The table in front of you has a half-completed puzzle, a vintage map of New York City. You've done this one before but it's been a while. You don't mind, anyhow. They often help to pass the time on slow nights during the show.
You don't lift your head when someone knocks on your door.
"Come in!"
The door opens. Miyuki shuffles inside, dressed in his usual nondescript manner (joggers, a t-shirt, and a ballcap tucked over windswept hair). That's the nice thing about living in San Diego. Even if November is today, you can often get away with a shirt and shorts most of the year. A shirt and leggings if you want to bundle up a little more.
Except this time, it is not just himself but...
"Is that for me?"
He smirks, shutting the door with his shoulder as his hands are preoccupied with a to-go bag from In-N-Out that you can smell all the way from here, and a cup of something in his other hand, sounding full by the way it sloshes around.
"No, I just came here with your favorite fast food to eat it in front of you."
You let out a loud laugh. "Wait until the press hears about this!"
"Don't make me sue you for defamation."
You keep grinning as he hands you the bag and drink, then pulls the other chair over to where you are.
"What's the occasion, then?" you ask, sipping your drink tentatively and then immediately finding yourself pleased to taste Coke.
"Discharge is tomorrow," he says simply.
You open the bag. Your light-well fries sit next to your decently-sized wrapped burger, which is...
"A Double-Double with no onions and no pickles, right?"
You beam. "You remembered!"
"Hard to forget someone who starts a conversation accusing me of forgetting to bring them In-N-Out."
"But, like, in a good way, right?"
He rolls his eyes. He's doing that more often. You're pleased. It shows he's getting comfortable.
You aren't under any pretenses about what's going on here. You two will likely go your separate ways after tomorrow, but you've still greatly enjoyed your time together and you want to strive toward making him comfortable around you. Even if your time will soon be cut short.
You hum, superbly pleased, and unwrap the burger. "So, you tried my trick today, then? How was it?"
"Better but they're still not the greatest fries ever."
"Fair enough! Anyway, you didn't have to get me something, too. We're having lunch tomorrow, aren't we?" Then you'd go down to BestBuy and get you a new camera.
He waves you off. "I was already there for lunch. I figured I might as well. Besides, tomorrow might turn into a much more public affair if people recognize me."
"True, true..."
They'd release the statement about your discharge, your current status, and your meeting with Miyuki after the fact. But the chances of him being recognized when the two of you got lunch — his treat — were very, very high. That might strain some things.
While you happily tuck into your meal, he leans forward, peering at the table.
"Puzzles again."
"Of course."
"You and your puzzles."
"They help pass the time!"
"Hmm." Despite the mock doubtful tone, he slots in a few more pieces while you eat.
Halfway through, Hector makes an appearance. He isn't your doctor — he is an ER doctor, so that is where he is most of the time; your case was handed over to someone else but he's been hovering over Dr. Maxwell's shoulder and micromanaging everything.
"Hey, Tee, I'm heading out —" he stops, head poked into the room. Upon seeing Miyuki, his eyes narrow and he wiggles the rest of his body inside.
Somehow, you've managed to avoid having him seen by Hector, your sister, Hector's family when they came to visit you, and Jerry. Sheer luck, you think, but mostly, you get visited by those guys in either the early morning or later in the evening. Miyuki times his visits in between.
You pop another fry into your mouth, unconcerned. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes," he says distractedly to you, frowning at Miyuki. "I wasn't aware you were visiting today."
"I was in the area."
"You were in the area?" His tone leaves much to be desired.
"Hector, don't be a dick."
Miyuki coughs. Hector frowns at you now, looking mildly betrayed.
"He's just being nice," you explain in a slightly exasperated tone, then holding out your fries. "Now come get some fries and leave us alone."
He purses his lips, then after a few seconds, strides briskly over to you to take some of your fries, popping them into his mouth and giving a sidelong glance to Miyuki as he turns and walks back to the door.
"Love you," you call.
"Yeah, yeah, love you, too, kid."
The door shuts behind him. You sip at your Coke, grinning a little.
"Sorry about him. He's still kind of mad about the home-run thing."
"It's fine. I get it. It was my fault."
"Not really," you say lightly, popping the lid on your drink and tossing it into the takeout bag.
Miyuki takes a second to scrutinize the puzzle, pick out a piece, then slot into place.
Then, he asks, "What makes you think that?"
"Occupational hazard of sitting where I was. I heard something on the news while they were talking about me — said I was in a home-run hot zone. That means a lot of the home-runs land in that section of that stands, right?"
A nod.
You shrug. "See? Now, I didn't know that and admittedly, there weren't any signs about it, either... but I should've been paying more attention to what was going on. The lack of signs, we can blame that on the park, maybe even the team management if it makes you feel better. But that ball going bonk on my head? Can't blame you for it."
He purses his lips, still studying the puzzle. You can sense his doubt.
"Seriously! Now if I was sitting, say, somewhere along the foul line..." you pause; he lifts his eyes. Finally, you grin and nudge his leg. "Even then, I wouldn't have blamed you. I'd blame that one on the park. They should keep those areas netted or something."
"You Americans do like to play it fast and loose with those parts of the stands."
You straighten your shoulders, puff out your chest, and put on your most righteous expression, shaking your fist at him as you speak. "It is my god-given constitutional right as an American citizen to be whacked in the face by a foul ball and you can't do anything about it!"
He laughs. You relax, laughing, too.
"So, then, they do it differently in Japan?"
"There's always been netting alongside the foul line," he says, nodding. "And there are always attendants standing near to make sure no one gets hurt by balls that do make it over. They do everything they can to make sure no one gets hurt."
You whistle. "Very nice! Yeah, no, someone has to, like, sustain extreme brain damage before fans agree to putting up netting."
You chuckle at your own words but he just nods and clears his throat, slotting in another few pieces to the puzzle.
"Anyway," he says after a moment, "I just realized I haven't asked."
"Ask what?" you ask, tipping your head back as you bring the cup to your mouth; most of the Coke is gone, leaving behind the ice chips. You let a few pieces slide into your mouth, happily crunching down on it.
You make an inquisitive sound at the amused look he shoots you but he just shakes his head and continues his previous statement. "Why do they call you Tee?"
Ahhh. He's heard the nickname a few times. Hector has sworn you off from any and all types of electronics but thank god for the modern advancements of technology, because you have been able to use your phone sparingly when it comes to texts and calls, usually just by Hey, Siri-ing the hell out of it.
Jerry'd called you a few days ago with a question about a song in the queue and he'd dropped the nickname. Your sister called you yesterday asking if you wanted her to bring you a shake from Señor Mangoes when she came in the evening and she'd used it, too. Then Hector just now as well.
"Oh! You know about Jerry, right? My friend slash sound engineer at the studio? Well... you know Tom and Jerry? That's kind of where it's from."
He snorts. "So, that's why you called him —?"
"Mouser," you finish, grinning.
"And you are..."
"Tee. But I don't mind Tom, either. Or some variation of, like, cat. Or just Cat."
Miyuki looks faintly amused. "You're so..."
"What?"
"Weird."
"Nicknames aren't weird! Nicknames are fun! And great branding!"
He laughs for a long time at that one.
-
You are promptly discharged the next day at eleven. Your CT and X-ray scan come out fine; no issues on that front, with everything healing slowly. You're doing well, all things considered. Really well. Dr. Maxwell is surprised at it but you think your general attitude towards everything helps significantly.
Details about your current well-being still won't be released until the later part of the day, however, after you have your little outing of Miyuki.
Speaking of...
"Dude. Is it just me or are these letters a little bit blurry?"
"I think that's the brain trauma."
"Oh, true!"
Hector said it would be like that for a little while. Most of the major symptoms have subsided but you'll still feel some measure of them for a while. Occasional misperception, occasional blurriness, occasional headaches, occasional sensitivity to light. You know. The usual.
The harder you try to focus, the worse it gets, so you just shake your head and put the menu down.
The two of you are tucked away in a corner of a local brunch place. Miyuki is as inconspicuous as usual, with the addition of the large menu firmly planted in front of his face, his back to the wall and yours to the rest of the restaurant.
You're more than a little amused as, when the server comes by, he keeps the menu up, muttering an order for coffee.
"And you?" she asks, smile warming considerably as she looks at you. Her tag reads Naomi. She's pretty.
"I'll have a Coke. Thanks."
"Of course." She flashes you another sweet smile then walks off.
"You know, I would say you're being dramatic but I think if she'd gotten a look at your face, she definitely wouldn't have looked twice at me, so, thanks for that."
He doesn't remove the menu from his face. "Are you saying you think I'm handsome, tomcat?"
"Come on, dude, you're super hot, we all know that. Don't fish for compliments."
He snickers.
"Anyway, what looks good on there? Everything looks incomprehensible to me right now."
"I don't know. What are you in the mood for?"
"Hmm. Do they have chicken?"
"Chicken and waffles?"
"Oh, solid. Yeah, I'll do that."
Naomi returns with your drinks and another warm smile toward you, then takes your order. Miyuki has to relinquish the menu to her after but you're pleased to find she doesn't even glance at him.
"You're far too happy with yourself," he says.
You wave a dismissive hand at him, head turned to watch her talk to a family; a one-year-old sits in a high-chair at the end of the table and you watch, taken, as she beams at the baby, cooing at him.
"What if she thinks we're on a date and she's making moves on you? What does that say about her?"
Eugh. He's such a devil's advocate.
"She's probably thinking that my date is so rude by keeping his face shoved in his menu and neglecting me, so she's shooting her shot."
"Oh, please."
You grin and shrug, sipping your Coke. "Gotta give people benefit of the doubt, man."
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Sure. Anyway, what kind of camera are you going to get?"
"That's a good question..."
You discuss that until your food arrives. Chicken and waffles for you and an American breakfast for him — over easy eggs, hash-browns, sausage and bacon with a side of fluffy pancakes.
Everything is in order. Perfectly cooked, plates still hot and food equally fresh. A quick surveillance of your surroundings assures you, for the moment, that no one has yet noticed Miyuki. Or they have and the paparazzi are on their way. Either way, in the present moment, everything is fine.
Then you take a bite of your fried chicken.
That's perfect, too. Crispy on the outside, seasoned well, the chicken itself tender and juicy.
Then your mouth starts tingling.
You set your fork down calmly and reach around for your tote bag hanging off the back of your chair.
"Hey, Miyuki?"
"Hm?"
"Did you see any seafood on the menu?"
"Yeah." He spears a piece of sausage on his fork, glancing around. "They had salmon and then some fried shrimp bites, I think."
"I thought so." Your voice comes out strained, throat tightening as you dig through your bag. You have it, you know you do, you never go anywhere without it. Your mouth is growing itchy and so is the rest of your body.
"Why?"
"I'm, uh, kind of allergic to shellfish and I'm pretty sure they fry their chicken and shrimp in the same fryer."
His head snaps towards you. At the same time, you free your Epipen from the bag and pop the blue cap.
You meet his eyes.
"Whoops," is the last thing you say before jabbing the pen into the side of your thigh.
-
"She's only been out of the hospital two hours tops and you put her back here again? Are you kidding me?"
You'd normally defend Miyuki but you're far too itchy to hold onto the thought long enough to say something. You shudder as Hector smooths anti-itch cream over the rash on your neck, arms, and legs with a wooden stick.
There's also the matter of the stupid oxygen mask on your face. They'd given you albuterol to ease your breathing symptoms and you still have an IV line in your arm giving you antihistamine and cortisone for the inflammation of your airways. You still need the oxygen mask, though. For a few more hours.
Thankfully, however, you don't need to speak up.
"Hector," your sister hisses, giving him a look. "It's not his fault. He didn't know."
You grunt in agreement then make a flimsy gesture to yourself.
You should've known better. But to be completely honest, you'd forgotten to even ask. You're usually incredibly vigilant about your shellfish allergy but this time... you don't know. You can probably blame it on your still-lingering concussion for your lapse in memory.
Hector sighs heavily. "You forgot?"
Another sound of agreement.
"Yes... yes... it's likely the concussion." He shoots another glare to Miyuki, who looks quite guilty, sitting at your bedside. "Which is your fault."
"Hector."
You jab your foot at him half-heartedly as he smooths cream over your thigh. Don't make me kick you.
"None of this is your fault, Miyuki," your sister says soothingly to him. "Really, we have you to thank for getting her back here in a nick of time."
In yet another ambulance. How dramatic.
He clears his throat. "I'll, uh, cover the bills for this one as well."
"Yes, you will," Hector mutters.
"Oh, for the love of —"
Hector finishes spreading the anti-itch cream over your rashes, then steps outside the curtain with your sister, probably to get a dressing down over his behavior to Miyuki. See, you knew he wasn't fond of him because of the whole ball-meet-face thing and this, well, it doesn't look great, either, but logically speaking, it is no one's fault but your own. Why his dislike persists? You don't know. You'd have to corner him about it one of these days.
You're in the emergency room at the medical center, your bed cordoned off with just a thick curtain; your EKG monitor beeps a little unsteadily, the epinephrine still in your system after they'd given you another dose on the ride here, and the oxygen tanks behind the bed hiss quietly with each pull of air delivered to you. Similar sounds from the other areas reach your eyes. Quiet murmurs between doctor and patient, a baby crying somewhere.
Miyuki sighs, pulling off his cap and running his fingers through his hair.
Just like the day you were concussed, your memories of getting here are fuzzy. Mostly after you'd administered your Epipen to yourself. You know the major stuff, of course, like 911 being called, the ambulance, the pretty EMT telling you he was going to give you another dose of epinephrine and you trying to give him a thumbs up but the realization that he was really nice to look at ended up hitting you in that moment, making you slur out something about getting his number. You remember that one a little vividly, probably because he'd hit you with that dose of epinephrine immediately after, and also, it's really embarrassing in hindsight. (Even more so because Miyuki was there with you. Christ.)
Either way, you definitely made a scene at that restaurant and well...
You feel a little bit bad.
But also...
"Hngh... hey..."
His head lifts. "What? Should I get —?"
"No. I just wanted to say sorry."
He stares at you. "Sorry about what?"
"All... of this. Not great for laying low."
"Not great for — Jesus. That's not —" he shakes his head sharply. "Don't... worry about that. It's fine."
"Did people —?"
"Yeah. Couple pictures." He rolls his eyes there, not at you but the inconsiderate jerks who think it's okay to sneak pictures of him during an emergency. "But it's fine. Wendy's dealing with everything. They're releasing the previous stuff about you being discharged and then us getting lunch to celebrate it. And then lunch being derailed because you had an allergic reaction."
"They're not blaming you for it, right?"
"Couple jokes. Nothing I can't handle. Seriously, worry about yourself, tomcat. And if anyone should be apologizing..." he grimaces, mouth tightening at the corners, uncomfortable and something else you can't quite pinpoint. "I'm sorry. That... wasn't supposed to go like that."
You finally smile. "Hell of a story, right?"
If you two stay friends, you think you'll have a great story to tell your kids one day.
He exhales a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Hell of a story."
Quiet for a moment other than the beep of the machine and the hiss of the oxygen. You take a deep breath. Easier to do now. Still some lingering tightness, though.
"There's a great taco truck in front of the radio station," you eventually say. "We can go there for lunch or dinner or whatever when I'm out of here, and have a redo, 'kay?"
"You..." he pauses and clears his throat. "You sure?"
"You still owe me a camera, buddy." But hopefully the warmth in your smile tells you that regardless of that, you are very much sure.
He chuckles quietly, something like a smile curving his lips. It sends a shock through your system. This is your first time seeing it, something something real, genuine. Honest. Mostly, you get amused grins, the occasional sardonic smirk.
Though it's small, it is still a brilliant thing, radiant in your eyes. His eyes crinkle with it.
Your heart skips a beat and you cough to cover up the monitor mimicking it.
His eyebrows furrow a little but you plow ahead.
"You know what I just realized?"
He humors you. "What?"
You beam at him. "I can finally show you pictures of my pets!"
That smile doesn't appear again but the set of his mouth is still soft as he says, "You're right. Show me."
Miyuki grabs your phone from your tote bag but you don't want to disrupt yourself.
You're kind of splayed out on the bed, legs stretched out, arms down at your sides, and you don't want to move for fear of setting off your rashes.
"Just do it for me," you urge him, telling him your passcode. You don't have anything to hide. Your home screen is cluttered with apps that should be organized and your wallpaper is a picture of the sunset on Black's Beach. You ask him if he's been and he says no. A travesty, you think. If your friendship survives after he fulfills his duties to buy you a meal and a new camera, you'll have to take him.
"Go to my gallery."
He does but he seems...
"What?"
"I'm just trying not to see something I shouldn't."
It takes a second for you to understand. Your face heats up.
"Hey! I would never!"
"You asked the EMT for his phone number when he told you he was giving you another dose of epinephrine."
"He was very attractive! If I'd died there, I'd at least want him to know that."
His face pinches.
You chuckle nervously. "Too soon?"
"A bit."
"Right... anyway! I would never keep nudes on my phone... They'd be kept in an external hard drive. That way, if someone steals my phone they can't get to them and I'm also not relying on some app to store them for me."
"Oh, of course."
You laugh, the sound a little scratchy. "Don't be a jerk. Anyway, chillax. I have a folder for them."
He turns your phone back to his face. "Which is?"
"It should be obvious — Batman and Robin!"
"How should that be obvious."
You blink. "Did I not tell you their names?"
"No. You just said you had a Betta fish and a snail. Then you started talking about the cat you see around your apartment complex and how it scared you when it sprinted up the stairs next to you a few weeks ago."
"He really did scare me, you know. He's never gone that far out! He usually just hangs around by the laundry room... and I think that's where the person who takes care of him lives, too..."
"Focus, tomcat."
"Right! There's a folder for them."
"Ah." He clicks on something, then drags his chair closer to you, angling your phone so you both can see it.
"Ooh, pick that video. It was really cool. Betta fish can recognize their owners, did you know that? He gets all excited whenever he sees me come in. Snails don't do much but that's okay. He's supposed to keep the balance by being chill."
"Wait, so who is who?"
"Batman is my snail and Robin is the Betta. Yeah, had a hard time deciding, just 'cause Bettas can be a little aggressive, especially other Betta males, and I'm like, well, Batman is aggressive. Y'know, he's the dark, Robin is the light. But then, snails are so slow and generally chill. Not that Batman is chill at all but he is old. So, I figured the snail is better for an older figure and the Betta for a younger one. Also, feel free to tell me to stop whenever. I get kind of carried away talking about them."
He shrugs. "I've got nowhere to be."
"Great! Prepare to unwillingly learn about DC Comics. So, we all know Batman and Robin, right? Batman is Bruce Wayne, of course, but then when you get to Robin, you have to specify who is who, because he's had, like, six Robins..."
You assault Miyuki with all kinds of information about Bruce Wayne and his hoard of orphans for the next few hours. To his credit, he humors you. For the most part. He also makes fun of you for being a comicbook geek but this is coming from the same guy who, a few days ago, talked about baseball for four straight hours with you. Granted, you asked since you don't know shit about baseball, other than the obvious stuff like... Hit the ball far. Get back to home plate. Score. That kind of thing. He was happy to drill you on the finer points of the game, though. It was the most he'd ever talked to you but it's clear to you that that is because he really truly loves baseball.
So, if you're a comicbook geek, he's still a baseball nerd.
As the time passes, your rashes go away and most of your breathing issues abate. You still have to stay there until the evening, however, to make sure it doesn't come back. Miyuki doesn't leave other than to step out for a phone call — to Wendy, you presume — and to grab In-N-Out at your wish. Hector tries to protest (not for any real reason, just because of his apparent dislike of Miyuki, you think) but your sister overrules him, especially when Miyuki offers to grab stuff for them, too.
She gives him some extra cash to cover the order, even though you insist you have money to pay for your own, at the very least, but you both end up losing as he politely refuses to take the money.
With that also comes something else.
"I know I've endangered your life two separate times but if I give you my number, do you promise not to leak it?"
"As long as you make sure the fries are light-well, absolutely."
He presses a hand to his chest, a mock solemn expression on his face. "I will do my best."
You grin and exchange numbers so you can text him the orders, then he steps out, the curtain fluttering behind him.
"I like him," your sister says.
"I don't," Hector mutters, glancing over your vitals.
"We know," you say. "What's with that, anyway?"
"I don't think he's as nice as he's portraying himself to be."
"Well, sure."
Not nice, exactly. Snarky. Snide. Certainly a capacity to be callous. It is too easy for you to envision, with how he's teased you sometimes, but you just let it roll off your back. If he wanted it to hurt, it would. He's not rude, though. Not rude to people who don't deserve that kind of behavior, like strangers. He keeps a lid on it. Likely because he has a public reputation to protect but still. As an adult, a grown ass man, you can't just be outright cruel to people. It's not right. You can tell he understands that. Oh, he has his own thoughts, sure, but he holds off. You appreciate that.
Not to say you don't want him to be real with you but restraint is a hard thing to come by these days.
"But you also have to realize he came and visited me, like, everyday while I was here," you point out. "He didn't have to."
"He feels guilty."
"Doesn't cancel out the fact that it was a nice thing to do. Look, I know what you think, Hector. You think I'm naive —"
"I don't —"
"Yes, you do. It's okay, though. I've said it before and I'll continue to say it. Being like this is strategic. Necessary. I have to believe in the possibility of goodness. It may not look the same to anyone, but he is good and until he gives me a reason to think we shouldn't be friends anymore — if we even manage to stay in contact after all of this is over — then I'll give him the benefit of doubt."
It might get you hurt. Sure. You know that. But you'd rather try than just cut your losses now. That is no way to live your life.
You're only on this earth for a short period of time in the grand scale of the universe.
And even life itself only exists for a fraction of that time. The universe is barely an adolescent right now. Barely lived its life, which, for the rest of it, after all lifeforms cease to exist and stars die out, turning the universe into a cosmic boneyard strewn with the remnants of cold stars and black holes, will be cold, dark, and empty.
Even the black holes will die out eventually, some quadrillion years into the future. And the universe will keep expanding, endless. Empty.
But you are here now. And you will take advantage of that.
"We know," your sister says softly, shooting Hector a displeased look. "We know, Tee. We trust you to take care of yourself."
"Appreciate that. Now, where is the restroom? I think that single bite of chicken I had is finally exiting the stage."
"Christ," Hector mutters. Your sister giggles. You grin.
Miyuki returns fifteen minutes later, with Wendy in tow.
She breaks the news to all of you.
With the recent turn of events (that is, your dramatic moment at the restaurant), she and the rest of the Padres PR team see fit to hold a press conference rather than try and release a statement explaining everything. They have released a preliminary one assuring that you are fine and not actively dying but there are still a lot of rumors and talk swirling in the press and it's just easier to gather the media in a room and answer the questions they have. Because if not, they'd certainly help themselves to any kind of plausible explanation.
The only thing is... they want you there, too.
-
"Wen, I know you said to dress normally but is this fine?"
She spares a glance at you. You are in a pair of dark wash mom jeans, the ends rolled up, with a black ribbed high-neck tank, and your usual Docs. Your makeup is done, finished with your sangria red liquid lipstick. Your nails are freshly painted oxblood red since you'd let yourself pick at the black polish you had on previously. You actually have that shade of liquid lipstick but you figured you'd go with something a scant few shades lighter.
She shakes her head. "You look amazing. Don't worry."
You relax at that. "Thanks. You, too."
She flashes you a warm smile in response. In the room adjacent to the hotel ballroom they're hosting the press conference in, people bustle around. The Padres' general manager, Leon Boyd, and another manager, Trevor Brown, a handful of the Padres public relations staff, including their bilingual liaison, Miranda Sato, who coordinates between the club and Japanese media. Wendy, of course, as Miyuki's manager, and you...
"They didn't send anyone over for you, then?"
"I called my supervisor about it yesterday. He was fairly unconcerned, didn't think it was necessary."
It's not like you were going to go out there and speak on the behalf of Night Owl or the broadcasting company, KCSD. In fact, you were going to make that point specifically. But it would be best to cover your bases anyway (pun totally intended). That meant calling up your supervisor, Dennis, and asking him about it.
But you see, Dennis, a classically white Californian dude who wears board shorts and flip-flops to important meetings with investors and other higher-ups and has a bad habit of taking hits from his wax pen inside the studio and making it stink of weed, well, he doesn't worry about much at all. He hardly does his job on top of that.
If you run into any problems with equipment or advertisers, you can hardly rely on him to help get anything done. You anticipated that he would be careless about the fact that you're doing this press conference.
Sooo... you recorded the conversation.
Just for some assurances.
Maybe he is right and the company won't care. But on the off chance that he is wrong, you don't want him changing his tune and saying you never talked to him about it.
You're not usually this suspicious of people — as mentioned before, you do like to give people the benefit of doubt and just generally believe in the goodness of humankind — but this is work. You aren't about to be double-crossed. No way.
They should be grateful, if anything. Since they aren't willing to promote the show, you will. This press conference is to clear the air and settle the facts but you being here and your return to the show imminent (like the next day imminent), it'll work in your favor. There will be some questions strictly for you, like about returning to Night Owl. You cannot miss out on an opportunity to promote it. Even if it is because you got severely concussed then upon being discharged landed back in the ER with a severe allergic reaction.
That's just how the cards fall and you are going to take every advantage you can.
It's a little scary, since it won't just be American media but Japanese media, too. Every word you say will be translated and transcribed to appear in the news afterward, to be viewed by most of the country. But they know that and Wendy promised you wouldn't just be thrown to the wolves out there, that she and the other PR staff will help you out.
"No matter," Wendy says, straightening the pink satiny blazer she has on. It's a matching set. You like it a lot. "You won't be speaking on their behalf."
"Definitely not."
"But I do have to ask... is there anything that might be brought up in there that could derail things?"
"About me or about the show?"
"Both."
"Me, well, I've got a pretty clean record. The occasional drama with listeners if I say something they don't like but nothing explosive."
"That's fine. Anything else?"
"Weeell... the company is thinking about shutting us down."
She jolts, surprised. "Oh. Oh. Really?"
"It's not, like, set in stone. But there's been talk. Plus, they tried to lower my sound engineer's pay, too."
Jerry couldn't afford that, though, not with taking care of his grandma — affectionately referred to as Nana by the both of you — and the prescriptions she had. So, you split some of your check into his. He doesn't know and he won't. That's why you're trying to promote the show so hard. To get things back on top.
"I see," she says, frowning. "You think you can handle it if they ask or should I have someone step in?"
You tilt your head thoughtfully. "No. I got it."
You didn't care much to talk about any previous drama if they brought it up. Let them take the reins there. But if it came to the company potentially shutting you down... why not?
Wendy nods, a glint of respect in her brown eyes, then she tells you how everything else is going to go. A nearby makeup artist comes over to you to fix a few things, but they're fairly approving of your appearance.
"We aren't covering the bruise?" they reaffirm, eyes on your temple.
"Let them see it," you say easily. Yeah, you hadn't cared to conceal it. It's still tender to the touch and probably would've taken several layers of concealer to hide but also, yeah, let them see it.
They nod and step away to join the others.
You're a few minutes from stepping out to begin the conference when Miyuki finally makes his appearance.
"Where have you been?" you chuckle, watching a team of makeup artists attack him. Fixing his hair, blotting out the sweat at his temples, concealing the circles under his eyes. Another set of his hands straightens his t-shirt and someone else takes a lint roller to it. He lets it all happen with the ease of someone incredibly used to it.
"Slept in too late," he says. "But in general, I make it a rule not to be too early for these sorts of things."
"Sure. Makes sense." You eye the rest of his appearance. You haven't seen him in anything other than joggers and dri-fit workout shirts. Today he's in a dark blue t-shirt that stretches nicely over his shoulders and medium wash jeans. Nothing fancy and yet, he looks gorgeous as usual.
"One minute!" someone calls out in warning. The makeup team disperses as quickly as they appeared. Everyone lines up by the door, with you on Miyuki's left and Wendy on your right.
He frowns at you. "Why do you look taller?"
You beam, lifting your foot. "Docs."
It's not anything crazy. The platform is only about an inch and a half thick. A minuscule amount, really. You're surprised he noticed.
He squints. "Of course you wear Doc Martens and dark clothes."
"Ha!"
The door opens. Your heart climbs to your throat. You're used to broadcasting your voice to thousands of people but this is different. This is you and your face, not just your voice. The reporters will be getting everything and if you don't calm yourself, there will be nothing left for you.
"Don't trip over yourself," he tells you unhelpfully.
"Don't make me push you off that stage."
He snickers. You take a deep breath. From the moment you follow him out, everything blurs. Cameras flash, blinding you. You somehow manage to take your seat at the table. A heavy black cloth is draped over it, so you can squeeze your hands between your thighs underneath and try to anchor yourself. The chair you're sitting in is plush beneath you, made of a velvety kind of material. The cloth on the table is more scratchy but still heavy over your legs. You plant your feet firmly on the stage. A mounted microphone sits in front of you.
Rows of reporters sit in chairs in front of you. Photographers and videographers stand behind them. It seems perfectly split down the middle, with American reporters on the left and Japanese reporters on the right.
For the sake of the conference and the reporters, you get formally introduced. Then Boyd takes over, explaining the situation to them. He talks about your status on the day of the discharge, that you were cleared to be released but there was still some healing to go as far as the fracture and confusion went. Then he sets the context of your lunch with Miyuki, that he wanted to see how you were and talk to you.
(There is no mention of his prior visits to you in the hospital.)
They talk about the allergic reaction and your impromptu trip back to the medical center. You were discharged again last night with a clean bill of health and by today, you're mostly fine. Some scratchiness lingering in your throat but nothing to worry about.
As he speaks, Miranda, the bilingual liaison, translates. It makes for a lot of noise at once but you have to get used to it because she'll be doing the same for you.
Once finished, he asks, "Any questions?"
Every hand in the room shoots up. Some questions are already spilling out of mouths, reporters clambering over each other.
"One at a time, one at a time," he cautions.
They settle, mostly, and he picks out a raised hand in the left section.
You suppress a full-body jolt as you hear your name. Your name. The first question — and they want to talk to you?
Christ.
Your eyes find a face in the first row. "Hi. Jessica Ramos with the Washington Post. Can I ask what this past week and a half has been like for you? I mean, you've kind of been thrown unceremoniously into the spotlight here."
Every eye in the room is turned on you now. But you focus on Jessica Ramos. In her hands is a notepad. Her nails are painted sage green and the bag at her feet has a felt-print green ostrich embroidered on it.
"To be honest," you start, relieved to hear your voice is light. "I'm a little convinced that I'm actually in a coma at the hospital and this is a fever dream. Or a concussion dream, to be technically correct."
Everyone laughs. You relax, smiling faintly.
"No, it's been very... strange. But I wasn't allowed to be on anything electronic for the entire week I was in the hospital, which helped mitigate most of those effects. I'm sure if I'd been watching everything unfold in real time — that would've been overwhelming."
Another hand from the right section pops into the air. Boyd nods.
Your name first, in accented English, then a question in Japanese reaches your ears. Miranda is translating in the next second.
"Will you be returning to Night Owl anytime soon?"
"Tomorrow, actually. I'll be back. Unless another concussion takes me out. Or an allergic reaction."
"Don't worry," Brown says. "We'll keep you safe."
More laughter.
A hand from the right side again. Another question translated.
"Are you a fan of the Padres? Is that why you were there?"
You grin. "Not at all. That was the first time I'd set foot in Petco Park and that was the first game I'd ever seen. Of the Padres and honestly, of baseball, too. I've never been much of a fan."
A quick follow-up question in everyone's mind. Why were you there?
You'd gone to the game to buff up your portfolio and to see if anything you shot could be sold off. To them or to Getty Images. The ticket was from your sister, as she and her flight crew received them from one of the kinder pilots she had but it was only a single ticket and she wasn't too interested in baseball, either. You saw the opportunity to make a little money on the side and you took it.
You give them the cliff notes version of that. Mostly about getting some pictures for your portfolio. You leave out the money part.
A few people make some jokes about your poor luck — your first ever baseball game and you get severely concussed? — then they continue with the questions.
For you and for Miyuki and then even some for the managers, like about whether they'll make any changes to the stands. Which they won't. It's too far out. You get that. You don't even think they net those areas in Japan.
Then you and Miyuki get a question together.
"Hi. Haley Martin with the San Diego Union-Tribute. I wanted to ask you guys — will you keep in touch after this?"
Every reporter in the room holds in a breath, leaning forward, pens poised and recorders ready.
Jeez. These guys are desperate.
You can't help but make your jokes.
"You know," you start thoughtfully, "I think in the interest of living a very long life... no."
They laugh, including Miyuki.
"Seriously, guys," Haley says, smiling faintly, too. "Will you be friends?"
"I'll only be friends with her if she promises to start supporting the Padres."
You laugh. Miyuki gives you a grin.
"Only if you pay for my tickets."
"We'll give you a lifetime season pass, if you want," Brown puts in. "Just don't sue us."
You snort. The others laugh.
"Well?"
You beam. "We'll be best friends forever."
"Now, I didn't say that —"
"No take-backsies."
That gets everyone going. He laughs, too, which is really all you care about.
"A few more question, folks, then we'll wrap this up," Boyd says.
A familiar hand. Haley again.
She directs this to you.
"Is it true that KCSD plans to shut down Night Owl?"
Murmurs erupt in the room, bodies shuffling. Miranda briefly falters in her translation before completing it.
She's been holding onto that one. You can tell. There is no malice in it, though.
They're reporters, journalists, this is their job. To report. To chase every lead. To keep people honest. There are lines, of course, between responsibility and irresponsibility. This question is very much responsible. No one can dispute that. And you are just one person. If the company had sent someone down, they could've handled it.
As it is...
"I don't speak for the KCSD. I'd just like to say that. I'm only speaking for myself, someone who does coincidentally happen to be Night Owl's host. To set the context of your question, before all of this happened, Night Owl had experienced a drop in traffic. We weren't getting much interaction but there were still people listening. We knew that. I'm happy to be there regardless. I know some people are listening, most often college kids staying up late and well, some night owls, to be sure.
"But in the world we live in, that's not enough. So, there was some talk about maybe downsizing the show. But that was a while ago, before this happened. I know we've gotten many more hits since and I'm glad for it. But right now at this moment, I don't know. Things have changed and I couldn't tell you."
Haley nods. "Thank you."
"Sure."
Feels nice to let it all out, you think, as they start to wrap things up. Though you do feel a headache starting to form. Great.
The rest of the questions are for Miyuki. Something about his contract. You don't pay too much attention.
You'd been fair to them, you think. More than fair. But it's not really about that. You need to make them act, to make a decision. Either they shut you down or they don't. Will the popularity hold? Who knows? But you can hope that it will, that people will realize you're there, and they'll hang around. At the very least, you can keep going for a little while longer.
The press conference ends. You all shuffle back into that adjacent room. You end up getting pulled into a conversation with Boyd and Brown about that season pass but you politely decline.
"Well," he says, "the offer stands. And speaking of offers, if you'd like it, we would love to have you join our photographers."
Most of the PR team has dispersed, going to handle the outpouring of news that will hit in a few hours. The makeup team is gone, too. It's just a few security guards, some of the managerial staff, then you guys. Wendy, Miyuki, and Miranda stand a couple feet away, conversing quietly.
You blink. "Is this to make sure I don't sue you?"
Brown snorts. "You wouldn't be able to."
"True." But he doesn't need to be so smug about it.
"No," Boyd says. "We've seen your stuff. We think you'd be great with us. We're always looking for more cameras and we're willing to raise your pay, too, to beat out whatever you're making at the station, too."
"I... appreciate that."
"You don't have to give us an answer now. But preferably sometime next year in January, before we start spring training in February."
"Right. Thanks."
You don't know how to react. You've never gotten this kind of offer before. Not for photography, anyhow. You do mostly freelance work. Take pictures of weddings, religious events, et cetera.
"Think about it," he says, smiling, then he and Brown turn to join the others.
What just happened.
A quiet chuckle behind you. You turn, finding Miyuki. His arms are crossed, an amused expression on his face.
"You look disturbed."
"I feel disturbed. Uh. Anyway. We're on for dinner tomorrow, right? Five o'clock?"
He nods. "What are you doing today?"
"Spending some quality time with Batman and Robin and turning off my phone for the rest of the day."
"Probably a good idea. Well... you didn't choke out there. You were actually very..."
"What?"
"Calculating. With the stuff about them shutting you down. It all worked in your favor, didn't it?" His tone is knowing.
You smile and shrug. "I'll do what it takes to keep the show running."
"It means that much to you?"
"You'd do the same for baseball, wouldn't you?"
"Touché." He almost looks impressed.
You try not to relish it too much.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah. See you."
━━━━━━ author's note
not much to say other than if you'd like to listen to the playlist for this fic — which i would recommend since music is a core part of this — then it'll be on the carrd linked on my profile! along with links to my tumblr if you'd like to come say hi there ^_^