Kyobara and Itsujo were already well drunk by the time Takashi showed up. The two of them were slouched onto each other, one man’s left arm over the other man’s right, and they were wobbling down the street from the bar. From the sounds they were making they were probably heading to a cabaret that Itsujo had told Kyobara and Takashi about earlier in the month. If he recalled, it was the only place they knew about that was close by. Takashi followed them a ways before making himself known. Kabuki-cho was busy that time of night, with people filtering through the pachinkos and arcades, and he blended with the crowd well enough to keep it clear that he was not exactly with those two idiots. 

The two men fell to the side of the street and rested on a bench. Kyobara slouched forward with his elbows on his knees while Itsujo puked over the back of the bench into an alley. Takashi moved up and pulled out his cigarettes, preparing one in his lips and tapping out another for his friend. 

“Yo.” 

Kyobara slowly lifted his head. 

“Eh? Takashi? Oh, it’s Takashi! Hey, Jo-kun! Takashi’s here!” 

The baby faced Kyobara grinned from ear to ear as if his stomach was not overturned like his ally’s had been. The other quickly looked back at them and made a loud gasping sound before his eyes turned dark and he coughed up more bile into the alley. Takashi held the cigarette to Kyobara and produced a lighter, the small flame warmed the drunkard’s face. Kyobara sobered up a bit on the draw of that delicate pillar. 

“How’s it, Takashi?” 

Takashi sat on the bench opposite Itsujo, who could barely tell he was there. 

“The same, nothing’s going with me these days. You know how it is.” 

“Ah, but you were talking to that girl, weren’t you?” 

Takashi felt his leg twitch on the mention. Kyobara was plastered, a guy like that was supposed to ask stupid questions or make jokes. Itsujo would have been all over him about being late if only the fool could keep his dinner down. Then Takashi could avoid the subject. Kyobara glared at him from the corner of his eye and pointed his nose at a closed maid cafe across the street. A man in a brown coat walked by while covering his face from the rude stare of that damned drunk. 

“We weren’t really talking, we were just talking. Normal-like. It’s not a big deal.” 

“But she didn’t talk to your coworker.” 

“He has a wife, and besides, they didn’t really get on anyways.” 

Takashi looked away from his friend and tried to find a way out of the conversation. Itsujo had stopped puking, but he was slumped against the back of the bench with his head hanging limply. He had passed out and was snoring. Takashi tried to reach around the back of Kyobara’s neck to shake Itsujo but Kyobara raised his left arm and shoved Takashi away. 

“Leave him, idiot drank whiskey. He’ll be sleeping until the next full moon. I want to know man, I thought you and her were a thing already.” 

They were not. Kyobara already knew that, and if he was sober he would know better than to bring it up, even if he really thought it. The two of them had invited Takashi to a night out since they had not seen each other in person for almost a month. Every day presented a new problem and every day off meant someone else was out sick and Takashi had to fill in. She was there, but through the processing and laboring neither of them had any time to talk about all the things they had been prior to that month. 

It was not a feeling Takashi wanted to tell a drunk friend. It was hardly a thing he could stand to tell himself under the watchful eyes of God. It was too forward, asking such a thing of her. Was it cowardice or consideration? Then, consideration was just an excuse to be a coward. Yet truth dictated that bothering her over-much was petulant. She was not interested, and his vile feelings were overwrought with thoughts of her. Kyobara puffed away at his cigarette, waiting for a reply that Takashi despised. 

“She’s got her own life, man.” 

Kyobara laughed and punched Takashi’s shoulder. 

“Then you want to go with us? Jo-kun was telling me there’s this girl at the cabaret—you know, the one he told us about—and she has these huge ti–” 

Kyobara’s rant was cut off by his own hand reaching up to cover his mouth. The cigarette crumbled under his fingers and he screamed when it burned him. Then, as his voice came, so too did his stomach. He made a nasty gargling sound before keeling over and splattering the pavement with bile so rancid Takashi had to quickly jump onto the bench to avoid it. Takashi jumped a meter away, out of the splash zone, and pretended like he was just another bystander. To his surprise nobody walking by seemed to care more than necessary to keep their shoes clean. A police officer in a bright yellow vest meandered by with his hands in his pockets, but he merely looked down at Kyobara with a disgusted expression before disappearing behind a group of buskers. 

Itsujo woke up when he felt something wet on his shoe. 

“Eh? Eh?! Kyobara you asshole!” 

Itsujo punched Kyobara in the side of the head and the ill man fell over onto the bench. He coughed on his side, half-laughing and half-whimpering. He spewed some more liquid from his mouth that was a touch more clear. Probably he had gone through what food he ate and was ejecting the liquor that had certainly poisoned him so greatly. Itsujo leapt away in a fashion not dissimilar to Takashi. Then, as he was standing at a safe distance, he looked across and noticed his friend. 

“Takashi? What the hell? You’re late, asshole!” 

He walked around, keeping a wide berth of Kyobara, and pushed Takashi firmly in the chest. Takashi let it sway him back a step or two and laughed, trying to defuse the man's anger in joviality. Itsujo was not eased. He smacked Takashi on the side of the head before wrapping an arm around his shoulder and taking on a more brotherly tone. 

“You know, when a friend tells you the exact time and place to be somewhere then it’s common-goddamned-sense to be there! Where the hell were you? We waited for two hours man!” 

“I had to stay late at work. The floor manager dropped a bunch of assignments on Satoko’s desk and I couldn’t leave her like that, you get me?” 

Itsujo cast a glance at the darkened sky and sighed loudly, but a smile crept across his lips. He tapped the back of Takashi’s head and pushed him off. Itsujo went to Kyobara, who had finished vomiting on the sidewalk, and grabbed his arm. They were locked together again, one man’s left arm over the other’s right. He carried Kyobara to Takashi and kicked his shin. Takashi winced at the strike and quickly grabbed Kyobara’s other arm. They carried the man down the street in the opposite direction of the cabaret. 

“I know a pretty good spot. Late-night yakisoba, greasy and cheap.” 

“Sounds great,” Takashi laughed. “I haven’t eaten all day.” 

Takashi felt a vibration in his pocket. He checked to make sure Itsujo was not watching and reached to grab his phone. It lit up under his finger and the notification lingered on his lock screen. A text message from Satoko. Blinding his eyes in the dark night of Kabukicho, Takashi smiled. He felt a tap on his head and saw Kyobara glaring from under his eyelashes, half-awake. 

“So…what are ya goin’ to say…idiot…” 

Takashi laughed and started tapping away at the screen. Suddenly he was very excited for yakisoba, and for the drinking they would certainly do as well. It would not draw from his chest any of those vile emotions he detested. None of that self-hate and not an ounce of regret for having done what he had done or taken the steps he had taken. 

“Hey, Kyo, I think I’m going to ask her out when I see her.” 

The sickly man stumbled on his feet and the three of them continued walking while interlocked. Itsujo had started to sing an old song he had probably heard in a drama he was watching while they walked. Kyobara bobbed his head to the tune, but did not sing. Takashi looked ahead, gazing through the crowded district as though nobody was there at all. He was chasing a rejection. That fact remained true, no matter what plans they made together. A single likeness between them did not create romance. He still felt like he wanted to know her better, and all he would ask for was the chance to find out who she was. 

“Alright! Let’s get shit-faced boys!” 

The shout came from the trio of men, but with nobody watching, not a soul could have known for certain who had really said it. They blended with the crowds of Kabukicho, merging into the faceless mass of leather and cotton until it bled away under the dark night of mid-summer. For the world turned beyond such small victories and miseries. The bile would be washed away by the rainy season and the digital confessions would be buried by the barrage of information in an ever-expanding age. Nobody looked at them, nobody hated them, and for all they cared, nobody ever loved them either. Those men were no more than vomit-stained cigarettes, but they still wanted to burn.