Scott saw him waving across the izakaya. He shunned his sandals next to what he thought Meira’s were, leathery black, slightly beat up. “I never saw you as an alcoholic,” Meira was mid-sip of some cocktail. The sting at the back of the throat never appealed to him, and honestly, out of all places in Japan, why would Meira invite him to a pub? At least he’s been told that it’s like a pub. Maybe that’s where all the actual adults belong, after glass doors spat them out for the birds. It’s not his place to comment yet, but it’s what he’s seen. “I used to be,” He took a small swig. “I was a raging alcoholic back then,” It was definitely the same person, same glory and callous hands and all. He just… felt different. “Really? You don’t look like one, like at all.” Maybe it was the shirt, it’s too casual for him. Also, a Sabrina Carpenter shirt? Huh. “3 years sober, with occasional drinks here and there.” He skimmed the menu, with quick glances up the laminated, crinkled paper, Meira’s eyes always caught in-between. If his glances had a sound, it would have been nothing.

“Are you okay? You look a little afraid,” Meira can see things other people can’t. “It’s just, when you said casual, I didn’t think you meant actually casual.” He shrugged it off, with so much fluidity. Even his collarbone was free from suffocating cloth, bathed in the sepia rhetoric of the light bulb. “We’re friends aren’t we? Get to know you?” Meira’s smile sort of hid behind his hair, but he offered it anyway. Scott’s exoskeletal nerves started to detangle and crack. “Soooo, damn, ‘raging alcoholic’?” He tried to get on his level, but his smile wasn’t as bright. “Yeah, it started when I was getting my first degree at this university.” Scott’s eyes sharpened into his. “‘First’?!” The empty booths started to fade into unclear shapes, his friend was the focus, with all eyes and ears needed.

“Yeah, first. This one is my second.” Scott let his body sink into the hard cushion, but leaned toward the table. “Just like that? A second degree?” Scott’s fries were delivered, the steam grazing their vision. “I thought I had to do something important after I got kicked out of my parents’ house.” Scott tried to finish his sentence as a handful of fries were stuffed into his mouth. “For being trans?” Meira’s lips became thin with a wearier gaze. There was no yes, but his face remembered that day very well. However, his posture remained resilient. Scott grimaced at the sore spot he touched. He swallowed, and placed a soft but hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Sorry I brought it up. I did-” Meira interrupted, “No, it’s ok, it’s just uncomfortable to think about.” Scott remembered when he initially saw his scars. A spread of lines on his chest when he worked at the auto mechanics. “Those are my surgery scars, relax,” Meira assured him as he asked about a bear attack or a shark fight, alarmed by the old wounds. “I knew my parents weren’t going to be happy about having a third son, but it still hurt when they rejected me.” Scott handed over some fries as a peace offering, and hoped to get his spirit back to baseline, leaving his past behind. He smiled, and scooped a handful, as ravenous as his friend across from him. Offended by the amount of fries taken, Scott grumbled. Meira smirked, picking one by one to chew and savour the golden goodness. “We can order more later, right now I need this.” Scott reluctantly let go of the blatant greed on display.

Scott clinked his glass against Meira’s. An abundance of fries and beef, sizzling with grease and protein. Scott drank as Meira’s face started to soften with every bite of the tender meat. His voice gradually rising, and puffing up with baritone, dog-adjacent excitement, a mirror. They were almost getting annoying in the bar, Meira’s voice getting a grasp of command with a light funny bone easy to tickle. Scott wanted to keep that bone tickled as much as he could tonight. Scott laid back to take it all in, savour it, being fed and the night falling. A phone started buzzing. “Shit, that’s mine. I have to go back to the lab.” Like that, Meira shoved two 10-dollar bills from his wallet. “Thanks for dinner, see you at the hotel.” Scott raised an eyebrow. His mouth creased open but Meira left his money in his hands as the only option. He rushed out the corridor. He was left alone, with empty plates and glasses. The moon had already taken its position, and he should too. Curfew was hours before, but schedules are rigid. Meira asked for a rest at the only time he could. He found his sandals next to those leathery shoes untouched.