Dread Apocrypha

The Earth That Burns Slow

Yumena Hanazaki is intimately familiar with the apocalypse. The destruction of society and man is like his family member—an irksome parasitic relative that wormed their way into his home uninvited. Whose life's purpose is to tear open stitches and dig grimy fingers into old wounds.

Considering the collective luck of humanity, the end will arrive without warning. God plays dice with the universe and shall initiate the destruction sequence on a whim. The apocalypse doesn't pay Yumena's rent, but its malignant distemper dwells in his living room, in his body, and in his brain. Yumena knows not of dates or deadlines, only of vague and impending doom. No higher being is stupid enough to gift Yumena with prophetical imagery. What Yumena owns in spades are decaying thoughts and rotting dreams.

Yumena manages to wrangle in his matted brown hair into something presentable on a Friday morning. He scrambles to find an unwrinkled shirt, and sprints to exit his apartment. Yumena doesn't have time to pry at the broken lock of his front door. Fortunately, he locks it with enough key jiggling and a little brute force. Yumena wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as he hustles to the train station. The wet summer air is sticky and warm. Sweat gathers in fat droplets beneath Yumena's bangs.

He arrives with fifteen minutes to spare (which is late, mind you.) No one appears to notice as Yumena shuffles to his desk with his head cast downwards. Yumena settles in the cramped cubicle, forty flights of stairs above the city streets. Yumena sits alone, his glazed eyes boring through his computer monitor. Work usually distracts from his awful dreams. Today, however, he sinks into his subconscious. Last evening's terrors brought a new standard of dread, beyond any fear it served him before. Coworkers strut past his cubicle in a rush to complete their assignments, while Yumena's typing fingers slow their momentum.

Yumena drifts away.

Tokyo; the towering metropolis, unassailable with its reinforced steel and fanatical construction, crumbled with the quaking world and kneeled to lashing winds. None escaped the infinite leer of billions of yellow eyes scattered in the firmament. Blood—fresh and old—splattered in back alleys. Layers caked on layers, with no signs of the textured blacktop or cement below it. Sirens blared over the wails of humans and beasts alike. The heavens, too, moaned in agony.

Through the cacophony of anguish, Yumena spotted something new to his nightmare saga. A turquoise antique radio, untainted by the gore of its surroundings, sat alone in the middle of the street; peculiar and enticing. A sliver of crimson shone through the raging clouds above, spotlighting the radio. Peripheral noise (visual, auditory, or otherwise) faded into the scenery. Yumena tiptoed out of the darkness. Cautious footsteps lead him to the light, like a mosquito to a deadly pest zapper. The radio sang to Yumena, its speakers crackling and warbling an incomprehensible mantra. Those ghastly hymns were more than gibberish, they held meaning, and Yumena might have been able to understand if he listened closer—

A hand taps thrice on Yumena's cubicle wall. Yumena startles, leaping back in his chair in the world of the mundane. His boss' nostrils flare, grimacing with a pinch in his brow. "Hanazaki-san. Look alive, please."

"Y—yes, sir. I'm very sorry." Yumena blinks the brutal images away. Never had his dreams spoken to him before, let alone sung. Yumena can't help but fixate on these new details. The discordant melody bounces off the walls in his head and croons in his ears for hours on end. He survives the rest of his shift with the apocalypse looming in his peripheries.

Hours later, Yumena's boss gives him a folded slip. He bows his head, thanks Yumena for his hard work, and dismisses him for good. Yumena has few items to pack—his paperweight, a chipped mug, and a spare change of clothes he kept in a desk. This was never his desk, yet, he loathes to part with it. His stomach knots as he leaves the imposing skyscraper, knowing he'll never step foot in it again.

Temps are a vexing thorn in every business that recruits them. Yumena (and every fool like him) is an inconvenient but necessary evil. Yumena isn't wanted—only tolerated. There's a reason doctors, lawyers, and other college graduates make more than him. Money goes to the deserving, and Yumena is lesser.

Standing on trains is far from pleasant, but others need to rest more than Yumena does. He gives up his seat without being asked to. A crowd of salary-men and women cluster in the tight space. Stray shoulders rub past Yumena, and one too many limbs knock the air out of his lungs. With nothing to focus on but the rumble and sway of the train car, Yumena's masochistic mind wanders.

Now, Yumena is stuck with one measly revenue stream. His subcontract work with food delivery services will barely keep him and his partner afloat. Yumena is his own coordinator, but is at the behest of stingy tourists and meager pay of corporate conglomerates. His only hope is relying on that secondary income until his temp agency grants him a new assignment. If they ever decide to, that is. When Yumena outstays his welcome, they will toss him like rubbish.

The train jolts to a stop. Yumena shuffles off and diverts from his usual route. The back alleys are less crowded during rush-hour, so he ducks behind an udon shop and walks home.

Yumena stands motionless in front of his apartment door. He squints as the tilted hallway light flickers in his eyes. The night is far from complete. Work is more than 8-to-5 shifts. At home, there's laundry to fold, meals to prep, and countless other burdens. Yumena wants more time for himself, but suspects he would loathe that as well. Hobbies are exhausting messes, adding another task to his unending to-do list. There is no leisure—only gaps between labor.

Yumena pontificated and navel-gazed enough for an entire week in a single day. He snaps out of his existential tangent, lest he dive deeper and drown in the depths. He shoves his key into the door. That's strange; the knob gives easily as he twists the key. Yumena swore he locked it this morning. He's exhausted, not careless. Someone broke in. A crook stole a spare key or picked the lock. The criminal could still be lurking inside, collecting cheap appliances and preparing to flee. Inexpensive junk or not, Yumena needs them, and can't afford to replace them.

Yumena must catch the thief before they escape. Clutching key in fist, he swings open the door, and bolts inside— only to be greeted by a confused familiar face. His partner, Kouta Ishiki, is holding a secondhand paperback novel with his elbows resting upon their worn kotatsu's tabletop. A cup of iced matcha sits next to Kouta's arm. He gazes up to Yumena and furrows an eyebrow at the makeshift weapon wrapped in Kouta's hand.

"Welcome home," Kouta says. He pushes his glasses back into place with his pointer finger. "Have you finally snapped?"

"Kouta," Yumena puffs out. What a relief. The taut muscles in his shoulders relax. He hunches over and hangs his head. His adrenaline dwindles as he sits across the table from Kouta on a floor pillow. He steals Kouta's tea, and Kouta allows it. No danger is present in their apartment, only an awful handsome man with some explaining to do. Yumena gulps half the matcha down before he speaks up again. "It's not Saturday, right?" he asks.

Kouta's schedule is as immutable as the rules of gravity. Saturdays and Wednesdays are his only days off. All other days are ten-hour shifts. Kouta isn't in the business of lying to Yumena.

Kouta straightens his back and shifts on his cushion. Yumena settles next to the tattered blanket (another to-do; remove the kotatsu blanket, it's summer.) He reaches out and tucks a stray lock of Kouta's hair behind his ear.

"It's not," Kouta says. "I'm just home early."

"That never happens." Yumena hid his concern as best he could. Did the company let Kouta go?

"No, it doesn't. Not unless there's a fire—"

A fire? Yumena skitters over to Kouta's side. He grabs Kouta's wrist and checks his arm for damage. "Are you okay?" Kouta doesn't seem burnt to a crisp, but Yumena's eyes love playing tricks on him. His heartbeat pounds in his throat. The mere prospect of Kouta getting severely hurt or injured terrorizes Yumena beyond any nightmare. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I was fine." Kouta smiles, as if Yumena's worries amuse him. How can Kouta speak of his own safety with such disregard? Yumena's grip on Kouta tightens.  "I didn't see the fire—only the smoke from a lower floor."

Yumena scans Kouta for signs of disarray. His black reading glasses; smooth, brown skin; and pointed gaze; all seem to be in perfect condition. Yumena lets go of a sigh that burns his lungs' interior on it's way out. Kouta laughs under his breath as Yumena completes his in-depth visual analysis. "I'm fine," Kouta says.

"You made it out okay," Yumena says, more to himself than to Kouta. He deflates with a beleaguered groan.

"I'm here, aren't I? You worry so much, it's a shame you don't get paid for it."

"Sorry that I care. I'll try to neglect you more next time," Yumena says.

"I'll look forward to that." The corner of Kouta's lips tug upwards. The most obnoxious smirk befits the most irritating man Yumena has met. Kouta cups Yumena's left cheek. The smooth pad of his thumb traces gentle circles on Yumena's skin. Yumena pouts and leans forward to kiss Kouta. "You're such a pain," Kouta whispers against Yumena's lips. What a hypocrite. Yumena slips his arms around Kouta's waist. Work is terrible, maintaining a house as well, but Kouta turns all displeasures into smoke. If Kouta is fine, then Yumena is fine too.

He wants to stay put and melt into Kouta, but there are piles of chores to complete. Yumena's rumbling stomach growls at Yumena for not eating a solid meal today.

"Dinner—I need to make dinner." Yumena departs from Kouta and busies himself in the kitchen. If Kouta wasn't here, Yumena could climb up the counters like an animal. He saves himself the embarrassment and fumbles for a wok in the back of the cupboard. He falls more than a few centimeters short of his target. Yumena would give anything for a growth spurt right now.

"Do you need help?"

"No. How can you help? You're barely taller than me."

Yumena struggles until arms wrap around his torso and hoist him up. It's enough of a boost for Yumena to grab what needs. The wok is hefty and solid, so he grabs with both hands. Yumena's shirt wrinkles and rides up his chest as gravity pulls to the floor. Kouta drops Yumena without a smidge of grace.

"Sorry, you were starting to slip." Kouta pulls Yumena's shirt down, then pats his side apologetically—like that would iron the wrinkles out of his dress shirt

"I could have dropped this, you know." Yumena straightens his clip-on tie and holds the wok next to his face for emphasis.

Kouta pitches up his voice and mocks Yumena. "Thank you so much, Kouta-kun, I could have never gotten the wok without your help."

Yumena huffs with theatrical offense. "I would never say that." He grins, despite himself, and playfully elbows Kouta in the ribs.  "Go finish reading."

Kouta doesn't give Yumena the satisfaction of faking a flinch. What a bastard. "No. I have more important things to do, since I've stood up."

The wok balances on the wok-ring upon the creaky stove.

Yumena turns the front burner on and dumps leftover white rice into the wok. "More important to you than reading? I didn't know that was possible."

"I was reading as a break from cleaning. Our closet is a disaster." Kouta pivots away. Yumena scratches the back of his neck. He is to blame for the aforementioned disaster. Tossing out old personal belongings troubles Yumena. Sentimentality always overrides his practical reasoning. A pencil box from 11 years ago holds no traditional value, but it's a gift from a friend, so it matters. Yumena is thankful Kouta took it into his own hands, lest Yumena perpetually hoards a small dragon's stash of useless childhood ephemera.

Yumena adds vegetables and egg to the rice. With a large flat ladle in one hand and wok in his other, he tosses the mixture in the air. Yumena honed this skill to a sharp point since decent takeout is beyond his expenses. Not a single grain of rice falls into the cracks of the burner, nor on the chipped stove top.

"Yumena," Kouta calls from beyond the kitchen.

"Yes?"

"I can't tell who this belongs too."

"Eh? Show me."

Kouta's worn slippers thump on the hard floor as he returns to the kitchen. "Here. Is this yours?"

Whatever the memento, it likely originates from Yumena's not-so-secret junk pile. Yumena's eyes flick from the stove to Kouta. His gaze lands on a turquoise antique radio, held gingerly against Kouta's chest.

Yumena's ladle clatters onto the floor.