“Who cares what tomorrow is,” he explodes. “Why the hell are you insisting on going back to your job?”
I close my eyes. The pain of this conversation is almost too much to bear. “I have to go back.”
“No, you don’t! You don’t!” he yells, seeming not to care if the driver overhears. “You told me yourself a year ago on this very day. You don’t have to go back. Not unless you want to. So if you’re insisting on going back….”
His face falls a little bit as if he’s only now realizing, “If you’re insisting on going back, it’s because you’re a coward, even worse than me.”
I shake my head. “Hayato…”
“I get that you’re scared. I’m scared too. I almost went home to Japan to escape what we had. But I came back. I told Norio everything. I risked it all to be with you.”
His words stab at me like a knife, but I force out a whispered, “Thank you for doing that. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he answers with a harsh look. “Be with me. Stay with me. That’s all I’m asking.”
He’s breaking my heart. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing, but he’s shattering it to pieces. “I can’t. I can’t stay with you.”
“Why not?” he demands, his voice course and guttural.
And this time, I’m the one who explodes. “Because I promised Santa another year of service in exchange for him making sure Jae-Hyun held on until you could meet him or next Christmas—whichever one came first!”
Silence.
My words hang in the air, falling slowly like ashes from a bomb.
Then Hayato whispers, “What?”
Oh no! Say it isn’t true?
Now that Hayato has put himself out there,
is he going to lose Kristal anyway?
Find out in the final episode of
TWELVE MONTHS OF KRISTAL
LOVELY DAY
Episode 12
45
Lovely Day
KRISTAL
THE FINAL DAY OF CHRISTMAS
I wake up the next morning to the sound of Bill Withers lying to me over the workshop's speakers. He's claiming that it's going to be a lovely day. But I already know that's not true.
Hayato stirs and rolls over to face me on his pillow of moss. "What time is it?"
He's always beautiful, but this morning he's painfully so. His high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and inky black hair, along with his long, lean body, make him look like a powerful Fae who somehow found himself in my lowly elf bed.
I'm going to miss him. I'm going to miss him so much.
"6 AM," I answer. My tone is apologetic for reasons that have nothing to do with the time. "Elves wake up really early. And today is the final twelve happy endings panoply closing ceremony, so they're playing Krista's favorite song. She loves Bill Withers. Always has, always will…"
I don't realize I'm rambling until I run out of words. I desperately search for more—anything to keep the awkwardness from last night's announcement from descending.
But Hayato speaks before I can find the words I'm looking for. "Introduce me to Santa. I'll convince him to let you go."
I start shaking my head before he's even done making the offer. "Breaking a deal with Santa is never a good idea for any reason. Deals with him are legally and morally binding in literally every multiverse. And even if you got him to say yes, there's no telling how the universe would respond. The Fates could curse you and all your Christmases in this life and all the ones thereafter. You see, there’s this prevailing idea that Santa only makes deals that are in your best interest. Like, he doesn’t agree to anything that won’t ultimately benefit you. Truthfully, I cannot find the benefit here. But if you want, I can take you to the library and show you all the passages in the Book of Elves about what happened to humans, elves, and pretty much every creature who tried to break their promise to Santa. It never ends well. I hate to put it like this, but it's just really, really not in the Christmas spirit—"
This time, Hayato cuts off my ramble, pressing a long finger to my lips. He sighs, then asks, "Seriously, you have a Book of Elves?"
Despite my keen depression, I find myself giggling at his question. "Dude, supernatural creatures are the worst. We all have bibles. You should see the one the pixies keep in Ireland. They have to store it on another plane of existence; it's so big."
Hayato laughs along with me, and for a moment, it lights up his face. But when the laughter is done, a deep sadness returns to his dark brown gaze. "There's truly nothing we can do?"
I sober too. "We can wait. I know that's unfair to ask. I mean, you're you, and I'm, well.… me. And it's only been twelve days. But that's our only option if you want to give a relationship with me a try."
He's quiet for a long time, his sharp jaw setting and resetting.
I stay still and force myself to patiently wait for his answer.
But in the end, he says nothing. He just kisses me and rolls me onto my back as Bill Withers croons above us.
This time is different. Not sweet like on New Year's Eve when we discovered our perfect harmony.
It's slow but rough. Lingering and desperate. And when the orgasm begins to bloom, it becomes angry and fast.
Like we’re racing. Racing against time.
46
Just the Two of Us
HAYATO
Throughout history, Nakamuras have excelled at figuring out what to do.
For centuries there hasn't been a problem we haven't adapted to or overcome. When the samurai castes fell toward the late 1800s, we pivoted into yakuza. When the global industry boom found its way to Japan, we made ourselves over into respectable automotive titans. Keeping our samurai history but hiding our yakuza ties underneath suits where no one but us could see them. We have been praised in business classes worldwide for our ability to transform whatever problems are thrown at us into a thriving business.
Yet, I cannot figure out how to solve this problem.
I spend the entire morning in bed with Kristal and half of the afternoon. I can't stop making love to her. She is still here, but she feels like sand slipping through my fingers.
All I can do is wait until the next twelve days of Christmas.
She is worth the wait, I believe, and I should be up for the challenge. There was a year before these twelve days. And I got through it, even without knowing that I would find her again at the end of it.
I am a Nakamura.
I should be able to wait a year.
353 days.
As the son of a centuries-old samurai, I shouldn't mind the wait.
But I do.
And we don't make it out of Kristal's bed until she tells me we have to stop.
"The twelve happy endings panoply presentation is in a couple of hours," she points out, her voice soft and apologetic. "And we should eat something beforehand."
Kristal's apartment looks like a room in a forest. Her bed frame is made out of a combination of branches vined with flowers, and all the bedding is covered in moss. The floor is grass, the walls are stone, and there's a hearth where the kitchen should be.