Oni - 1. Oni

His feet flew off the footstool and landed on the floor loudly. He pitched his body forward and mashed two buttons on the controller in his hands, eyes wide and glued to the screen.

“Come on!” He spurred his on-screen character on.

I could just let him win…

Despite only half-focusing on the game, I had not had much trouble beating Charlie consistently. It wasn’t his fault, I’d just had the game for longer. But even with a handicap I was still able to dominate. Frankly, I wondered why he was still trying. As it were, despite being distracted by his every movement (in the physical world), despite overanalyzing his every word, despite my heart fluttering every time he accidentally brushed his knee against mine, he was no match for me.

It’d been almost a whole month since I’d seen him last, and as silly as it was, I didn’t talk to him at all during that time. Playing it coy, like there was even a game at all. There wasn’t, because he was emphatically off limits, being straight with a girlfriend of 4 years. Yet still, platonically or romantically, I hadn’t wanted to come off as eager.

Not seeing him got easier after the first couple of weeks, and I might have been content to let our friendship cool off as a month’s absence approached, but a status update on his part had me pining all over again. It was a picture of him at a bar on the East Side, surrounded by what I assumed were his university friends, and seemingly having the time of his life. Each of his arms were draped across two of his male friends’ backs, and he was grinning, the light hitting his face in such a way that cast soft shadows over his perfect features. I always thought he’d had film-star good looks. He had an undeniably beautiful face, comparable to those of the most sought-after Siberian runway models, and was naturally blessed with deep, slate-blue eyes and short, coiffured straw-blonde hair that held its style through rain and sweat. And despite this, he was one of the most grounded, humble and genuine people I knew.

“Damn it!”

He’d lost again. I turned to look at him. He tossed his controller onto the sofa dejectedly, dropped his head and groaned. The screen flashed ‘K.O’. My character performed a win pose I’d seen a thousand times before, and I celebrated with a sip of beer from the bottle perched on the windowsill to my right. I waited a while for the result to sink in before I piped up.

“Wanna lose again?”

He smiled on one side of his mouth, head still laying slanted in defeat on the sofa cushion.

“Shut up.” It came out almost in a whisper. His head was so close.

He reached down to where he’d set his beer can and took a gulp. It was his third, but that wasn't a valid excuse for his poor performance, as I was on my fourth bottle of more potent, Belgian brew.

“Lemme just go to the bathroom first.”

A quick mental calculation combined with a scan of the kitchen counters and recycling bin after he'd walked out of the room confirmed how many drinks he’d had. It was never my intention to get him to a state of clouded judgment, and perhaps, by extension, any action or incident he may deem regrettable. At least not actively. I had just offered him the cans, the bottles, the entire liquor cabinet, and allowed him consume at the rate and quantity he felt comfortable with, which tonight, happened to be quick, and a lot.

It was our third gaming session, each time alone. How could he, Charlie, not only agree to be in the private company of someone he knew to be attracted to the same sex, but also feel comfortable enough to allow himself to become inebriated in such a situation? We were not the closest of friends, having known each other less than a year and seeing each other once a week or so at the local bar where we’d met, yet when I suggested he come round to my downtown 1-bed for a casual beer, pizza and gaming session, he had agreed without hesitation. Maybe I was out of touch with the new generation, with the way they thought, the way they judged and prejudged. Or maybe it was the specter of self-doubt I thought I’d put to rest.

Growing up, one of the most trying aspects of my sexuality was attempting to determine whether people judged me for it or for my personality as a whole.

Did we fall out because he’s grossed out by me? Does he not want to hang out because he’s homophobic?

Disentangling the two was a struggle, and while I mostly grew out of it, or at least had convinced myself that I’d done so, even now, at the age of 26, I wasn’t sure if I was completely out of the woods.

Charlie stumbled back into the room and approached the sofa with his awkward gait. It’s funny - I barely paid attention to how he walked, where with anyone else I’d have been quick to judge. To me, it was just an endearing quirk

“OK, I’m ready.” He fell loudly onto the sofa, this time landing a few inches closer to me – a fact to which he’d be completely indifferent, but that was instantly noticeable to me, and was justified with an increase in my heart rate. By this point I’d been conscious about my rate of alcohol intake, and, not wanting to unintentionally do something I may regret, or let my impulses triumph over cool-headedness and rationale, had put the bottle away from the sofa and out of play for the near future.

“I think I know what’s going wrong,” asserted Charlie. His face was redder than usual and he sported a mischievous half-smile, probably induced by all the beers. “You keep picking the stages!”

I chuckled. He’s adorable.

“Well Charlie,” I started, in mock condescension, “there’s barely any difference in the stages. It’s pretty much aesthetic.”

“That’s not true,” he retorted, “the ones you pick have walls!”

“Yes. But your characters benefit more from walls than mine do.”

He turned his head towards the TV and stared silently for five seconds. The alcohol threatened to destroy any logic or strategic thinking ability, and thus any game advantage Charlie might’ve held. I was certainly more practiced at the game, but I acknowledged that Charlie, under normal circumstances, was the sharper and more cerebral player of the both of us, and I loved that about him.

“Look, I’m not even gonna pretend to know if that’s true or not,” he said, and we both burst out laughing - deep, guttural laughter; lingering laughter that turned our faces red, like we’d never laughed before.

Our howls diminuendoed into strange, animal sighs as we caught our breath. As I lay my head back on the sofa cushion, I thought of how, in any other situation, what Charlie had said wouldn’t nearly have provoked such a response. But as it were, the alcohol coupled with the pause before Charlie spoke and his expression when he said it was a perfect recipe for an eruption of laughter. We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, not saying anything, breathing heavily. There was nothing more to it than a platonic, wholehearted appreciation of a shared experience.

“Let’s switch game,” he said.

“OK. What do you wanna play?”

It didn’t take much deliberation to decide what would come next, and soon I was kneeling over the TV stand looking for our pick among the towering heap of videogames, which shared the space with a variety of books and an assortment of sports accessories. Charlie’s voice sang out over my shoulder.

“Hey, is that a GPS watch?” I turned around, looking at Charlie - who was now gripping a beer bottle with his left hand - turned back to the TV stand, and fingered the watch in question.

“What, this? Yeah.”

“Wow, what do you use it for?” I held it in my hand and continued to load the disc into the games console as I spoke.

“Cycling! I cycle a lot,” I replied.

“Oh! Nice! Can I see how it works?” The console’s intro music sang out of the speaker system as the game booted up, and I got up off my knees and carried the watch over to the sofa. We sat side by side now. Charlie’s leg hair tickled the side of my knee, his head craned over to the side where I was holding the watch. I had to keep it together.

“So it picks up GPS signal – I’m not sure if it’s gonna work indoors.” Some of the words came out stammered. His breath came to a halt at my arm, and I was ultra-sensitive to it. My uncertainty regarding the watch was proven right, as the bars indicating signal strength, under our close scrutiny, struggled to grow. I chuckled nervously. His face was only inches from mine. I turned to look at him. The summit of his cheeks were blushed beautifully, a peach tint that faded softly into the white skin of his neck. He looked expectantly at me - big, slate-blue bug eyes. Or were they azure? Otherworldly, that’s what they were.

He must’ve thought it strange how I took a break in speech and gawked, brief though the interlude was. Or perhaps he was too drunk to care. I pinned my hopes on the latter.

“Yeah, it’s not gonna work here,” I diverted. “You get the idea though. It picks up satellites and automatically measures your distance when you start moving,’ I explained. Imagined or real, crisis was averted. I had kept cool.

“Awesome. Do you cycle a lot?”

“Yeah, I love it. As far as sports go, it’s not my favorite, but it’s probably the most fun way to get a workout.”

“Wow, I’d really like to get into it.” Charlie seemed genuinely enthusiastic.

“Well, I can help you get started. I know where you can get a decent second hand road bike, some cheap bike gear too…and I know a lot of routes and could point you to some beginner ones.” Charlie reacted positively.

Something stirred inside me. It wasn’t just excitement at the prospect of spending more time with him. Nor was it about the chance to see him in a pair of tight bicycle shorts. It was the novelty and fulfillment of getting to share a passion intimately with someone I cared about, not only for my own benefit, but for his as well.

Charlie turned his attention to the TV. “Press start!” A splash screen loudly displaying the title of the game over stylized images of anime characters mid-battle was splayed out across the TV screen, and it flashed brightly and triggered aggressive arcade music when I fulfilled Charlie’s request. He hadn’t moved away from me, and I was elated, as I was sure he would want to shift down the sofa as soon as we’d get set to play. As it was, we remained close, legs tantalizingly threatening to touch at any moment.

“So you think you can get a game off me in this?” I asked cheekily. Charlie laughed.

“I’m pretty good at Mirai. There’s no way you’re gonna steamroll me.”

The game, Mirai Legacy, was a cel-shaded player-versus-player arena fighting game featuring bombastic, cartoon-like visuals and over-the-top character moves and abilities. I hadn’t put nearly as much practice into this game as I had the others, and, at last check, Charlie’s skill level had been comparable to mine.

The fighter he picked was clad in what I assumed to be ninjitsu training garb, with armor padding atop his forearms and a criss-cross of kunai bandoliers adorning his torso. A black tenugui covered the lower half of his face and a symbol-bearing bandana around his forehead held up a fantastically styled crop of hair that was only slightly fairer than Charlie’s own. Indeed, the character bore quite a resemblance to him, and it only just occurred to me how closely Charlie resembled Japanese artists’ portrayal of the ideal, fair-headed Westerner so prevalent in their television and literature. It seemed to make perfect sense.

Soon, we were in full swing, exchanging blows left and right. Charlie was holding his own, casting spells like a seasoned pro and hitting the majority of his combos. The timing on his kimononi calls – where a character summons a spirit animal to assist him – was impeccable.

“How the hell are you not dropping these combos?” I squeaked, incredulously, and, on cue, Charlie launched my character sky-high with his kimononi and continued to keep me afloat with a masterful chain of well-timed attacks. To my surprise, he was also wary of his power gauge, and optimized the combo to make maximum use of it. I looked to my left, unable to do anything as my character was being juggled mercilessly. He was grinning.

“You hustled me!”

I survived the combo with a sliver of life, but took block damage from a wildly over-the-top projectile attack, animation included, which may even have killed me had I had 4 times the amount of vitality I possessed at that point. It was pure style over substance; humiliating overkill, and Charlie knew it would work. The round was over.

I looked over at him, dumbfounded, and dropped the controller from my hands. It tumbled into my lap. “What the fuck?”

He was laughing. “OK, OK. So I’ve been practicing.” My attraction to him was stymied, as I was taking the loss badly – a fact I couldn’t deny. As condescending and prideful as it may sound, there was the sense that I was Charlie’s mentor; his guide. Our relationship, in my eyes, was one of me taking him under my wing and holding on; protecting him. I wanted him to need me. And when he displayed superiority at any level, the spirit of that relationship, real or imagined, was splintered. It was silly. It was childish. It was wrong. I knew this, but I could not restrain it.

“How?” I breathed desperately. It was all I could muster.

“My cousin has it. I was at my uncle’s place for a weekend and saw it laying around. I had to practice,” he said, a smile of pride and mischief painted across his face.

I didn’t really know what to think. Should I have been honored that he had felt the need to practice for a ritual that we shared and enjoyed together? Or should I perhaps have been jealous that he would share it with someone else?

“So your cousin must be pretty good then?” I offered.

“I have no idea,” he replied, “he’s only 10”. Relief swelled inside me and I was glowing again, though I felt immediately shameful of it. Charlie went on to inform me that he had only practiced solo - playing the single-player campaign, and that he had been grinding almost the entire weekend, determined to beat me. I was flattered.

“I need to shake the salt off,” I said, getting up and marching towards the kitchen. Laughter followed me. I looked back with a huge smile on my face to see him grinningly put the bottle to his mouth again. He was angelic. And he found me funny. Or at least, I thought he did. I’d been around him in social situations and he seemed attuned to my sense of humor, never failing to at least chuckle at my wisecracks, even when others rolled their eyes. Of course, I’d overthought the whole thing, and, where I, in my own fantasy world, thought myself a charming attractive flirt, all he must have seen was a witty pal, and probably not the wittiest he knew.

“You want a sandwich?” I arched my head behind the refrigerator door to ask across the kitchen.

“Errr, yeah ok. Watchu got?”

My heart pounded. As the night had progressed, every interaction had grown considerably more intense, as had my emotions. Every interaction was an opportunity to impress him, to teach him, to care for him. To make him love me. I wondered, in that moment, standing in front of my fridge, whether we could ever maintain a healthy relationship, or if I’d continue down a one way street of unrequited love. The thought was quick, fleeting, but echoed for a few seconds, as though blared through a canyon with a megaphone.

Cheese. Tell him we have cheese.

“Umm, I’m gonna have cheese and pickle, should I make two?”

He replied positively, and asked if I was going to grill the cheese, to which I replied that I was.

“Can we just have ‘em cold? I’m gonna play my last game then go home.” My heart sank. I looked up at the clock in semi-panic. So soon? In fact, we had been playing for over 3 hours, but it barely felt like it.

“No! Stick around!” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible and hope I didn’t come off as desperate, but there was a palpable tone of urgency in my voice. He insisted that it was getting late, and that he had to be up early. Even my protestations that he had not yet finished his drink were futile – his mind was made up, and I couldn’t help but take it personally, and, in my paranoia, began to question whether he valued the time we spent together. Such was the poison in my thinking, that I could not see how clearly Charlie did enjoy our time together; that he had suggested coming around in the first place, and that he was obviously a close friend.

I finished making the sandwiches with a lot less pep then when I started, and took them over to Charlie, who was sipping his beer in front of a pause screen. Of course, I had gone above and beyond, making the best sandwich I possibly could with the ingredients I had. He smiled and thanked me when I handed him the plate, and I thought him almost intolerably cute. I cherished being able to take care of him, and wanted to do it all the time.

We picked up the controllers, fought again, and took small breaks between rounds to eat.

“This is amazing,” said Charlie, savoring the sandwich. “ I mean, I know it’s just a sandwich, but…” He chuckled tipsily, then allowed himself to chew. I was glowing. Modestly, I responded that it was nothing, that it was my pleasure, and that he was always welcome to come over for cheese sandwiches or any other food, and I was especially careful about the enthusiasm with which I said the last part.

In truth, I wanted to cook for him all the time, to serve him treats and watch his face light up when he enjoyed them. I suppose, in a way, he could take advantage of my attraction to him, if indeed he knew it existed. That was another thing: could he have been astute and precocious enough to identify it? Had he done so already? I highly doubted it. Charlie was book-smart, that was certain. But in matters of romance and flirting, I did not rate him highly, and deemed his ability to detect tacit admiration minimal at best, though if I didn’t tone it down soon, I’d quickly be in danger of giving myself away. This was not the first time I found myself in such a situation, but I was older and wiser now, and knew that nothing good can come of declaring my love to someone emotionally incapable of reciprocating it, as I had done in the past.

The moment I’d been dreading arrived when a K.O. by Charlie coincided with him finishing his sandwich. He got up as if to go, and I was doubly hurt by his imminent departure and yet another loss at his hands. Picking up a pair of empty bottles, he made his way to the recycling bin, and proceeded to exclaim in surprise about the amount he had drank, to which I responded that I’d almost matched him.

Well. This is it. You got him drunk, now what?

No, you didn’t get him drunk, he chose to drink as much as he did.

My thoughts dueled with each other in rapid-fire succession as they were apt to do at that level of inebriation. Indeed, what good had I thought would come of our drinking? To him, it was just something that was done on a weekend night with friends, and normally, that would have been the case for me too, but there were other motivations at play. What they were, exactly, I couldn’t really elucidate, and I tried to downplay to myself the notion that the entire motivation was the desire to loosen him up enough to a state where he’d be inclined towards same-sex experimentation. No, it was wrong. It was obscene.

It was what I hoped for.

He was in the bathroom now. One last trip, before hitting the road. He didn’t live far away, only walking distance. The recycling bin’s lid clattered shut as I put the last of the bottles away, and Charlie emerged from the bathroom and waited by the door.

“Well, see you later!” He raised a single hand. “Thanks for everything!” I’d wondered how he’d want to see me off, as we hadn’t been consistent with our farewells, but, luckily, he opened his arms awaiting an embrace, and I quickly delivered. Maybe this was the result I was looking for, after serving him all that drink. In the tiny blur of time in which we hugged, in that one second, I wanted to hold on to every sensation, to feel it jumpstart my being, to kick my heart’s butt…but it was too brief, I was too drunk, and I could extract nothing more than a brief, physical feeling of warmth and pressure, and retain a forced, lukewarm memory of some firework that never exploded.

He left. My footsteps echoed deafeningly loudly as I traversed the parquet-floored hallway, and made my way to the bedroom, where I opened the window and proceeded to fall clumsily onto my double bed. The only light came from the moon, and everything was silent. My last thought, before I passed out, was whether I’d returned the cheese to the fridge or not.

**

I had a dream last night.

Milk spilled out of my spoon and back into the bowl of cereal I was staring emptily into, chewing absentmindedly, preoccupied, lost in thought. It was so intense.

It felt completely unnatural; it all did. The post-Charlie blues were inevitable, but the dream hangover was another weight on my chest, this one unforeseen. Barely yet awake, part of me still felt present in it.

I find myself in a village. It’s night. A thick fog works in unison with the fog of Morpheus to obscure my view and perception. I can make out through the haze the shape and style of the buildings – Japanese, Edo period. The tiered, slanted tiled roofs curl up to a point and penetrate the fog like a ship’s bow. I hear the clinking of teacups, somewhere nearby in the unseeable surroundings. A kimono-clad woman, perhaps a geisha, is barely visible in the distance under the halo of a Tōrō flame atop a shrine a few paces away from her. She moves eerily across the terrain, as though gliding.

Suddenly, I’m summoned into one of the townhouses in a language unknown to me but that I understand, and I comply, for I understand and accept that I must.

The voice instructs me to open the sliding screen doors, but I interject and insist on passing straight through them, as they are made only of water. Coming out of the other side into a dimly lit front room furnished with tatami mats and calligraphed wall scrolls, only my hair is wet.

The once disembodied voice belongs to a spirit in the shape of a young man. Its eyes glow red, yet it look neither evil nor benign, and a white aura surrounds the body, so much so that it threatens to swallow it whole. Its hair is electric white and curls and bends like flame.

No words are exchanged, and, inexplicably, the ceiling disappears and the room is illuminated by a storm of fireworks above that ignite and transform into giant animal forms made of light that dance and weave between the countless stars.

The mysterious figure is now on a tenshu rooftop in the distance, his aura burning a hole in the mist and swirling and blending with the colorful, pulsating glow of the fireworks. He is in battle with a creature - and because of distance I can’t identify exactly what – but it, too, glows white and leaves a trail of red light as it jostles and brawls. It matters not whether I know what is happening, for I understand and accept it.

A vicious blow is dealt; one that rattles the earth and punctures a hole in the fog. The creature howls the unmistakable howl of a wolf, and falls over on its side in apparent defeat. The last firework explodes, and all that is left is a trail of smoke in the sky and an echoing silence. I feel a deep, visceral, unrelenting sadness; a mix of grief, loneliness and nostalgia. The ghoul turns to face me. He lifts a single arm and points a finger at me, and then, out of nowhere, 6 men dressed in black from head to toe spring into action, traversing the tiled roof and leaping up into the air, suspended for several seconds like acrobats. They’re coming for me.

I’m struck with a sense of fear and panic so strong that it will permeate into my waking life. I’m running now. Where to, I don’t know. I appear to be in a garden. It’s the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen, but I cannot admire it for long. I can feel them biting at my ankles. The enemy.

I’m joined by a woman. She’s dressed in traditional garb, a kimono and sandals, but she is not of Japanese descent. I don’t know where she came from, but I feel the imperative to protect her. She may be someone I’ve met at some point in my life; in fact, I’m sure she is.

We’re running together now, around the lily-specked pond, an ominous rustling of grass behind us, though when I look back, I see no-one, I only hear voices. Away we dart, running for our survival. We come up to a house and a I turn the corner and enter through the back door. I run through the living room and she follows me.

She’s by my side as we huddle in a room in the back, and though I hear nothing, I feel their pursuit as though I’m still running. There’s a small window a short climb’s reach up, and I fumble towards it. The gap is just wide enough for me to squeeze out of. The girl doesn’t follow, and I don’t know what will become of her, but I must leave her behind; I can’t hesitate. Guilt threatens to paralyze me, but I keep running.

I now find myself in an L-shaped garden adorned with bonsai trees and dotted with fireflies, swirling and gliding, carefree, undisturbed by my presence. I cut a path through them and turn the corner, and from here my memory fades, because although I thought I’d distanced myself from the masked men, I have in fact been caught. I’m no longer in the village, though. There’s no trace of the townhouses, of the trees puncturing the fog, of the shrines. Instead, I am on rocky, barren land, and in the distance, a red, pulsating glow emanates from an immense shrouded structure I cannot entirely make out. Looking back through a thin layer of smoke that permeates the air, I see an edge that drops off into the unknown. This must be a platform, or a cliff.

The enemy is in front of me, though no longer in its previous form, or any physical form whatsoever: it exists only as a feeling, and continues to fuel my fear and panic. I turn to run, knowing I’d soon run out of solid ground, but anything would be better than facing whatever it was that chased me. Belting my way over the igneous rock, I turn around, and see the white wolf sitting in the spot where I, moments ago, had been standing petrified. I turn back, and the wolf is now a few paces ahead of me, just in front of the edge. It sits calmly, unperturbed by the situation, panting slightly with its mouth ajar. It is both ethereal and yet very real, and it stops me in my tracks.

I don’t turn around, for I don’t feel the need to anymore. From behind me comes a bright white light where there was only darkness before. The creature sits contented, eying me disinterestedly. He appears neither friendly nor hostile, and no trace of injury or affliction remains from his melee with the spirit being. My feelings of fear have not subsided. I feel pursued, vulnerable, captive. The wolf gets up and walks towards me non-threateningly, almost lethargically, and my fear increases with each step.

There’s no end to this story. I’ll never know where the wolf came from, or what its motivations were. Nor will I know who or what the spirit being was. I lay awake in bed, breathing heavily. Alert, full of fear.

I tried to play it off, reminding myself it was just a dream, but a strange nostalgia creeps up on me and gets stronger the longer I stay awake.

I rested the spoon inside the bowl of cereal and stared vacantly at the wall in front of me. Silence echoed around the room and it was as though no voice had ever been uttered in it and none ever would. I picked up my phone and scrolled through last night’s texts with Charlie. I tapped the empty dialog box at the bottom of the screen and the keyboard came up. My thumb hovered over it for a few seconds, almost willing itself to work. I abruptly turned the screen off, set the phone back down, and continued eating.