The record shop is never open during the day. Juto can’t remember the first time he noticed it, on his regular beat down San-Chome; later, when he asks Samatoki about it, Samatoki shrugs and says, like he knows anything about music, the hell?
Pink in the night, and not the sweet kind. Juto only goes in because it smells like expensive cigarettes. He only picks up that one vinyl record because the deep blue sleeve is electric against all the grey and sepia, and when the woman with the tattoo asks if he wants to listen to it, he only says yes because he doesn’t even have a record player at home.
If the man with the red gloves on the cover of this record looks just like him, she says nothing about it. Nothing, either, when he comes back, and comes back again. If this is a mirror, it’s a dirty one, and Juto doesn’t care to clean it; if his lips could be that shade of blood cherry gloss, if his mouth could curve smooth as a whip, if he could turn his hands upward, just like that, and cup that chin and leave no prints behind—
One time, he asks the woman with the tattoo who this 45 Rabbit is, and she laughs and laughs and says, you deserve each other. As she walks away muttering to herself, all Juto can catch is something about men being imbeciles in every world.
It was only a matter of time. Alone in his apartment, Juto takes off one glove, then the other, and hangs them next to his bed. Presses his naked fingers to the hollow of his neck, tilts his head back. There is a voice in his throat and it is his and not his. There is a voice in his throat and it is sinew and smoke and sirens at 2 AM. The man on the vinyl sleeve smiles at him. Juto swallows, and opens his mouth.
for kukkii // juto, in another universe
The record shop is never open during the day. Juto can’t remember the first time he noticed it, on his regular beat down San-Chome; later, when he asks Samatoki about it, Samatoki shrugs and says, like he knows anything about music, the hell?
Pink in the night, and not the sweet kind. Juto only goes in because it smells like expensive cigarettes. He only picks up that one vinyl record because the deep blue sleeve is electric against all the grey and sepia, and when the woman with the tattoo asks if he wants to listen to it, he only says yes because he doesn’t even have a record player at home.
If the man with the red gloves on the cover of this record looks just like him, she says nothing about it. Nothing, either, when he comes back, and comes back again. If this is a mirror, it’s a dirty one, and Juto doesn’t care to clean it; if his lips could be that shade of blood cherry gloss, if his mouth could curve smooth as a whip, if he could turn his hands upward, just like that, and cup that chin and leave no prints behind—
One time, he asks the woman with the tattoo who this 45 Rabbit is, and she laughs and laughs and says, you deserve each other. As she walks away muttering to herself, all Juto can catch is something about men being imbeciles in every world.
It was only a matter of time. Alone in his apartment, Juto takes off one glove, then the other, and hangs them next to his bed. Presses his naked fingers to the hollow of his neck, tilts his head back. There is a voice in his throat and it is his and not his. There is a voice in his throat and it is sinew and smoke and sirens at 2 AM. The man on the vinyl sleeve smiles at him. Juto swallows, and opens his mouth.