Chapter 25

"Meanwhile, Yoshi, with his characteristic single-mindedness when it came to food, led Ryo deeper into a labyrinth of back alleys, away from the glittering, mainstream vibrancy of Shibuya. They passed by vending machines humming quietly, bicycle-filled alcoves, and the muted sounds of local life. Finally, they arrived at Sumi restaurant. It was a restaurant that defied the modern sleekness of Tokyo. Small, yes, almost cramped, but radiating a comforting warmth. Its wooden facade was weathered, its noren curtain faded with countless seasons, but the aroma wafting from within was pure, unpretentious comfort.

As they slid open the door, a chorus of "Irasshaimase!" greeted them, a collective welcome from the few patrons already nestled at the counter or at the handful of small tables. An old woman, her face a roadmap of kindly wrinkles, her hair a wispy silver halo, emerged from behind the steaming kitchen counter. She was the heart and soul of Sumi, its owner, its chef, its gentle matriarch.

"Yoshi-kun! Long time no see!" she exclaimed, her voice surprisingly robust, her eyes sparkling with genuine affection. Then her gaze fell on Ryo, and her smile softened. "And your friend, Ryo-kun! You finally dragged him out of his cave, Yoshi-kun?" She teased, her eyes twinkling. She remembered Ryo from a few infrequent visits with Yoshi, a quiet, often melancholic young man. But today, there was a flicker of something new in his eyes, something resembling… happiness? It was a subtle shift, but to her seasoned gaze, it was unmistakable.

"Oba-san!" Yoshi boomed, bowing slightly. "You know it! My stomach demanded your amazing yakitori! And my friend here," he nudged Ryo with his elbow, "he needed some proper sustenance. He's been looking a bit… underfed lately."

Ryo managed a weak laugh, feeling slightly exposed under Oba-san's perceptive gaze. "It's good to see you, Oba-san."

"Sit, sit! The usual, Yoshi-kun? And for you, Ryo-kun?" she asked, already gesturing towards their customary spot at one of the small, worn wooden tables tucked into a cozy corner near the back.

"The usual, Oba-san, of course!" Yoshi declared, already settling into his seat with a sigh of profound satisfaction. "And two large draft beers to start! It's been a long, hot day."

Ryo nodded, grateful for the cold beer that was soon to come. He still felt a lingering warmth in his cheeks from Yoshi's teasing and the earlier encounter. He took a seat opposite Yoshi, the low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the sizzle of food from the open kitchen creating a comforting, immersive backdrop. The air, though still warm, felt significantly cooler and dryer than outside, thanks to a diligently working air conditioner vent that hummed softly above their heads.

Before the food arrived, Yoshi, ever the persistent one, leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowing playfully. "So, Ryo," he began, his voice dropping conspiratorially, though still loud enough to carry through the small room, "Spill it. You had that goofy grin on your face, like a lovesick boy. Don't tell me 'nothing.' My 'nothing detector' is going off the charts."

Ryo squirmed. He took a sip of the cold water Oba-san had placed before them, buying himself a moment. "It's… it's really nothing, Yoshi. Just… enjoying the cool air. And the thought of your treat, I guess." He tried to deflect, to sound nonchalant.

Yoshi snorted, unconvinced. "Oh, come on. Your face was brighter than a freshly polished yen coin. You looked like you'd just won the lottery, or discovered the secret to eternal youth. Or… like you'd seen someone." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Is there someone? Anyone? Come on, tell me!"

Ryo felt a flicker of panic. He didn't want to tell Yoshi. Not about Minji. Not about the rent. Not about any of it. It was too private, too delicate, too raw. And knowing Yoshi, he'd turn it into a grand comedic spectacle, an endless source of teasing and unsolicited advice. He liked Yoshi, he truly did, but his friend was notorious for his boisterous enthusiasm and his inability to keep a secret when he thought it was for a 'friend's own good'. If he told Yoshi about the "stranger girl" who had paid his rent, it would become a 'thing', a 'mess', something he wasn't ready to face, let alone have paraded around. He preferred to keep this fragile, nascent hope, this quiet gratitude for Minji, safely tucked away within himself.

"It's nothing like that," Ryo maintained, his voice firm, though his gaze shifted nervously around the restaurant. He focused on the faded posters on the wall advertising ancient sumo matches, anything but Yoshi's scrutinizing eyes.

Just then, Oba-san arrived, a tray laden with steaming plates and two frothing mugs of beer. The aroma of grilled chicken, savory sauces, and fresh rice filled the air, instantly drawing their attention.

"Here you go, boys! Eat up!" she announced cheerfully, setting down skewers of perfectly grilled yakitori, a bowl of piping hot miso soup, and crisp, delicate tempura. The clink of the beer mugs as she placed them on the table was a symphony of promise.

"Ah, Oba-san, you're a lifesaver!" Yoshi exclaimed, his earlier interrogation momentarily forgotten as he reached for a beer. He took a long, satisfying gulp, a deep "Ahh!" escaping his lips as the cold liquid hit his throat. Ryo followed suit, the bitter chill of the beer a welcome shock against the lingering heat of the day and the internal heat of his embarrassment.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by the sounds of happy eating and a few more contented sighs from Yoshi. The food was just as good as he remembered: the perfectly charred chicken with its sweet, tangy glaze; the light, crispy batter of the tempura; the comforting warmth of the miso. For a brief period, all the world's problems, including unemployment and mysterious benefactors, seemed to recede in the face of delicious sustenance.

As their plates began to empty, and the first beer mugs were drained, Yoshi leaned back, a satisfied look on his face. "Man, that hits the spot. You know, Ryo," he said, turning to him again, a glimmer of his earlier inquisitiveness returning, "you really do look different today. Even after that, uh, 'nothing' you were looking at." He winked.

Ryo nearly choked on his last piece of chicken. "What are you talking about?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Just… different. Brighter. Like a cloud lifted, or something. Come on, is there someone? Anyone? You can tell me, you know. I won't tell anyone. Promise!" Yoshi extended his hand, palm up, as if to swear a solemn oath.

Ryo hesitated, then shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "It's nothing like that, Yoshi. You're imagining things. Maybe it's just the heat making you delusional." He still couldn't bring himself to confess, to reveal the raw, tender hope that Minji's image had ignited. He didn't want to explain the shame of accepting charity, the confusion of her kindness, the delicate balance of wanting to thank her without obligation. It was too much for a casual, drunken conversation with Yoshi.

"Hmmph. Stubborn as ever," Yoshi grumbled good-naturedly, then the topic shifted, just as Ryo hoped it would. "So, about the rent, though. You mentioned you had some trouble with it last week. Did you manage it?"

Ryo felt a fresh jolt, a faint echo of the panic that had consumed him a week ago. But then, an odd feeling of confidence, almost defiance, settled over him. "Yes," he said, perhaps with a little too much emphasis, "I managed it."

"Oh," Yoshi said, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Good. Good. I was worried, you know. Was thinking of lending you a hand if things got really bad. But glad you sorted it out." He took another gulp of beer, then signaled Oba-san for two more.

Ryo just nodded, a silent 'thank you' for the unspoken offer, and a silent 'thank God' that Yoshi didn't press for details. The weight of Minji's kindness, the quiet secret of it, was still heavy on his mind, but at least it remained his alone.

As the second round of beers arrived, and the small restaurant grew comfortably fuller, though never overcrowded, the conversations around them became a soft, murmuring background. Old men, their faces flushed from sake and beer, chuckled loudly at a shared joke. A young couple, huddled intimately in a corner booth, whispered secrets, their hands clasped. The air was thick with the scent of grilled food, the faint tang of beer, and the pervasive, comforting aroma of human connection.

Yoshi, now warmed by the alcohol, launched into a familiar monologue. "So, about work, Ryo," he began, already gesturing emphatically with a chopstick. "You know, my boss, Fukashi-san, he's just… a nightmare. Always complaining. Never satisfied. It's 'Yoshi, where's that report?' and 'Yoshi, can't you do anything right?'" He mimicked his boss's voice, a high-pitched, whiny caricature that made Ryo smirk despite himself.

"And then the deadlines! Oh, the deadlines! It's like he thinks we have a direct line to the universe, that we can conjure data out of thin air! And the meetings! Don't even get me started on the meetings. Four hours, Ryo! Four hours of listening to Fukashi-san drone on about synergy and KPIs and… what was it yesterday? Oh, 'disruptive innovation'! As if he knows anything about 'disruptive innovation'! The man still uses a flip phone, for crying out loud!"

Yoshi leaned back and roared with laughter, a booming, infectious sound that drew a few indulgent smiles from the older patrons. Ryo, already feeling the pleasant buzz of the beer, chuckled along, nodding in mock sympathy. "He sounds like a real piece of work, Yoshi."

"A piece of work? He's a masterpiece of incompetence, that's what he is!" Yoshi declared, slamming his hand lightly on the table, making the glasses jump. "And then, the worst part? The office parties! You know the ones. Mandatory fun. Forced karaoke. And Fukashi-san, oh, he loves to sing. And he's got the singing voice of a dying cat. A dying, tone-deaf cat!" He dissolved into another fit of laughter, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.

"Sounds like hell," Ryo agreed, taking another long sip of his beer. He felt a strange mix of relief and amusement. Relief that Yoshi wasn't probing about Minji, and amusement at his friend's increasingly exaggerated tales of work misery. Yoshi had always been a good storyteller, and alcohol only seemed to amplify his talent.

Yoshi, now fully in his element, continued, "And then there's the weekend. My wife, bless her heart, she's wonderful, but she's got this… list. A never-ending list. 'Honey, can you fix the leaky faucet?' 'Honey, can you repaint the fence?' 'Honey, can you take out the trash before it becomes a sentient being?'" He threw his hands up in mock despair, then leaned in conspiratorially. "I swear, Ryo, I think she just makes up chores to keep me busy so I don't go out and, you know, live my best life." He winked, then took a long, noisy gulp of his beer.

The two friends settled into a rhythm, Yoshi complaining about his boss, his wife's chores, the general drudgery of adult life, and Ryo, surprisingly lighthearted, offering occasional interjections, laughs, and commiserations. The topics veered wildly, from the best convenience store foods to the absurdity of modern dating, from childhood memories of playing baseball in the park to the latest baffling news headlines. Each topic was punctuated by the clinking of glasses, the slurping of noodles from a nearby table, and the occasional booming laugh from one of the old men at the counter, who seemed to be staging their own private comedy show.

"You know, Ryo," Yoshi suddenly slurred, his voice a little thicker, his words beginning to trip over each other, "my boss, Fukashi-san… he always complains… always… he says I don't have enough 'initiative'." He jabbed a finger at Ryo's chest. "Initiative! Hah! I have plenty of initiative! I initiated this meal, didn't I? I initiated this beer! That's initiative!" He giggled, a high-pitched, slightly unhinged sound.

"Absolutely, Yoshi, you're a man of great initiative," Ryo agreed, his own words starting to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. The beer was doing its work, dulling the sharp edges of his anxiety and, surprisingly, even making him forget, for a few blissful moments, his unemployment. He felt warm, pleasantly heavy, and the world seemed to tilt just slightly.

"See! Ryo gets it! But Fukashi-san… he just… he just doesn't understand… the soul of an artist! That's what I am, Ryo. An artist! Trapped in a cubicle!" Yoshi suddenly stood up, swaying precariously, and in a surprisingly clear baritone, began to sing a fragment of a melancholy enka song. His performance lasted only a few seconds before he stumbled back into his seat, narrowly avoiding knocking over their empty beer mugs.

"Yoshi, sit down, you're going to cause a scene," Ryo chuckled, though he was having trouble keeping a straight face. The comedy was reaching its peak.

"A scene? This is life, Ryo! Life! And life is a scene! Hahaha!" Yoshi roared, then slapped the table again. "Oba-san! More beer! We're not finished extracting the essence of human suffering and turning it into liquid gold!"

Oba-san, who had been watching their antics with an indulgent smile, simply chuckled and brought over two more large bottles of beer, placing them gently on their table. "Don't drink too much, boys. You have work tomorrow," she warned good-naturedly, though she knew neither of them would heed her advice.

Both Yoshi and Ryo were now well into the realm of being completely, gloriously drunk. Their conversation became a looping, slightly nonsensical stream of consciousness. Yoshi's complaints about Fukashi-san twisted into bizarre scenarios where his boss was a secret alien overlord, or a giant, sentient stapler. Ryo, in turn, found himself reminiscing about ridiculous childhood escapades, his laughter growing louder, his gestures more expansive.

"You know, my boss, Ryo…" Yoshi slurred, his head lolling to the side, "he's like… a cockroach. You can spray him, you can stomp on him, but he just… keeps coming back! Hahaha!" He dissolved into a fit of uncontrolled giggles, nearly falling off his chair.

"Hahaha! A cockroach boss! That's a good one, Yoshi!" Ryo gasped, tears of laughter streaming down his face. His vision was a bit blurry, and the colors of the restaurant seemed to swirl around him. The comforting warmth had now escalated into a full-blown internal furnace.

They continued like this, talking, laughing, reminiscing, complaining, ordering just one more beer, then another. The few other patrons, mostly older, already accustomed to boisterous drinking, paid them no mind, absorbed in their own conversations. The air grew thicker with the scent of sake and grilled fish.

Time, which had initially stopped for Ryo, now seemed to accelerate, blurring into a rapid, exhilarating rush. One moment, it was 6 PM, the next, the clock on the wall, dimly visible through the haze of alcohol, showed exactly 9:00 PM. The small restaurant, once a bustling hub, had quieted considerably. Only a handful of people remained, their voices now hushed, their laughter subdued.

Oba-san, her movements a little slower but still graceful, approached their table. "Boys," she said gently, her voice soft but firm, "I'm afraid we're almost closing. Last call for orders."

Yoshi, startled, blinked owlishly at her, then at the clock. "Nine already? Impossible! Time flies when you're… when you're drinking the sorrows away, right Ryo?" He elbowed Ryo, who barely registered the nudge.

"Mmmph," Ryo mumbled, his head resting heavily on his arm, his eyes half-closed.

"Alright, Oba-san, no more orders, we've had enough for tonight!" Yoshi said heartily, pulling out his wallet with a flourish. He fumbled with the bills, his fingers clumsy, but eventually managed to count out enough yen. Oba-san accepted the money with a soft smile, already beginning to clear the tables around them.

Yoshi and Ryo sat for a few more minutes, the sudden quiet of the near-empty restaurant feeling like a stark contrast to their earlier revelry. Yoshi was slumped, his head occasionally nodding, a blissful, drunken smile on his face. Ryo, though equally drunk, felt a strange, detached clarity. He was aware of the throbbing in his temples, the warmth in his stomach, and the distant, almost unbearable, urge to sleep.

"Alright, Ryo," Yoshi finally managed, pushing himself up with a groan, his movements slow and deliberate. "Time to go. I think… I think I need a taxi. My legs… they've gone on strike." He swayed dangerously.

Ryo, despite his own precarious state, felt a surge of fraternal duty. "Come on, Yoshi," he slurred, pushing off the table, feeling the floor tilt beneath him. He grabbed Yoshi's arm, steadying him. Yoshi leaned heavily against him, a dead weight, but Ryo somehow managed to shuffle them both towards the door. They stumbled out into the cool, slightly less humid night air, the streetlights casting long, distorted shadows.

"Taxi! Taxi!" Yoshi bellowed, his voice surprisingly loud, wavering slightly. Ryo, holding him upright, squinted down the street. Miraculously, a taxi, its green light shining, glided to a stop a few meters away. Ryo half-dragged, half-carried Yoshi towards it, fumbling with the door handle.

"Alright, Yoshi, in you go," he grunted, pushing his friend into the back seat. Yoshi collapsed onto the seat, instantly looking more comfortable.

"Goodnight, Ryo," Yoshi mumbled, his eyes already closing, a final, happy sigh escaping his lips. "Thanks for… everything."

"Goodnight, Yoshi," Ryo replied, leaning against the taxi door for a moment, watching as the cab pulled away, its red taillights disappearing around the corner.

The old lady, Oba-san, emerged from Sumi, and with a soft click and a whir of mechanisms, locked the small restaurant's door, plunging its entrance into shadow. The street was quiet now, the sounds of Shibuya a distant memory, replaced by the soft hum of the city's sleeping machinery.

And then Ryo was alone. The alcohol, no longer fueled by Yoshi's boisterous energy, settled heavily in his stomach, a dull ache beginning to form behind his eyes. He fumbled in his pocket, his fingers finding the familiar rectangular packet. He pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and with a shaky hand, lit it.

He walked to a nearby corner, sheltered by the shadow of a tall building, and leaned against the cool concrete wall. The ember of the cigarette glowed in the darkness, a tiny, defiant beacon. He inhaled, the harsh smoke scraping against his throat, a familiar comfort. He watched the smoke curl into the still night air, dissolving into nothingness.

The laughter, the crude jokes, Yoshi's complaints ...