Joey's last working day is 12 February. Nine months on, the empty bottle by the sink finally becomes a vase. His leave runs a fortnight, and by the third day the office is calling. Then a send-off that a client's department head asks to attend, which means it is not a send-off. The pause before the glass is not there. At a crossing, on the kerb, alone, a car stops that does not drive past. What happens after that, Joey does not see.
This is a translation of an original work on Pixiv.
Original Title: 11 乗れ
Original Author: 葉人(@Hathor_yuki)
Personal site: https://prideshipping.sakura.ne.jp
"Just about four years. Thank you for everything."
I gave the greeting at the morning meeting. That was all I said. I'd thought of various other things to say, but once I was standing there they didn't come.
The section chief started clapping, and the office clapped.
One of the admin staff gave me a small bunch of flowers.
"Mr. Wheeler, do put the leave applications in properly."
"I will, I will."
"Really?"
"Really."
I took my things and left at 17:00 that day.
On the way, by way of celebration, I ate ramen near the station.
Got home and stood the flowers in the sink. For a vase I used a plastic bottle, cut down. The one that's been sitting there since last May, with the KC logo on it.
Nine months that empty bottle had stood here. I put water in and put the flowers in.
At last it had a use.
The night I put the flowers in, word came from Isono.
Short notice, but tomorrow, 19:00, the usual place. Would that suit?
The usual place means the test play room.
I went, and lost the Duel. Eleven turns. The eleven-turn wall is high.
It was in the seven o'clock hour that he said, food.
We went into a place nearby, a few minutes by car. Not a private room, a counter. Eight seats, nobody else there, and even so the two of us sat side by side.
While we ate we carried on with the post-mortem. Partway through the fifth turn the food came, and only for that stretch the talking stopped, and then it went on again.
It was going well.
When I set down the soup bowl at the end, he got out his phone and called somewhere.
"Open it."
That was all he said, and he ended the call.
"What's that?"
"You will see when we get there."
We left the shop, and the place was a short walk away.
Round the corner there was a building I recognised.
The corner of 3-chome, the far end of that back lane. The building at the end of the road I ran every day in high school. On top of that, in four years I've passed the front of this place any number of times for work. I've only ever seen the shutter down.
Today the shutter was open.
"What is this place."
"A working space."
That was all.
I went in behind him.
The build of it was like an expensive lounge. A few sofas and a low table. The lighting is turned down.
Towards the back I could see a desk and monitors. Two computers, side by side.
There was nobody there.
The shutter being open must mean there's someone managing the place, but there's no sign of anyone. Opened it and left, I think.
"Sit."
I was shown to a sofa and sat.
Along the end of the wall, bottles of drink were lined up. Whisky or wine or something, I suppose. Labels I've never seen.
He didn't spare the drink a glance.
While I was looking at the bottles, he said it.
"Will you drink?"
"Nah, I won't."
"Do that. There is no need to drink to match the place."
That was all.
Since I passed twenty and started drinking, for two years, a place with drink in it has been a place where somebody always pours. It comes before you can refuse. Refuse and the mood goes bad.
There's drink here, and nobody pours.
Whether I drink, it seems, is mine to decide.
Instead of drink he'd got out a bottle of water. The KC one.
"Wheeler. The fifth turn."
Then he leaned forward slightly and started up again.
The post-mortem went on for an hour from there.
An hour, and nobody came. Nobody needed to sing, and nobody needed to order anything.
It came to me afterwards that I'd chosen the seat nearer the entrance.
Because I've always done that. The seat it's easy to put orders through from, the seat it's easy to move from.
There's nobody here to order from.
I noticed, and I didn't move.
The leave runs from 15 to 28 February.
Of the fourteen days, taking out weekends, ten days' worth.
The first Monday, I slept until ten.
Got up, ate, handled the cards.
From midday I went to the card shop behind the station. Weekday afternoon, nobody there. The owner was on his own at the counter.
"Unusual, this time of day."
"I'm off."
"Huh."
I stayed until evening. Grabbed whoever turned up and challenged them, four in all, three wins one loss.
Got home and cooked, first time in ages. Cooked, meaning I fried an egg. First one in four years. Burnt it.
At night I got to sleep at ten.
A good day. That's what I thought.
Tuesday morning, the phone rang.
The section chief.
"Wheeler, sorry. The Block C material — it says it's in the B folder, but I can't find it."
"B, number three."
"It isn't in three."
"Then maybe four. Sorry, could you have a look?"
"Where are you now."
"Home."
"Sorry, but could you come out for a bit?"
I went quiet for a moment.
"…Today?"
"Doesn't have to be today. Tomorrow'll do."
Tomorrow'll do means come in tomorrow.
"Understood."
Wednesday, I went to the office.
The material was in number four. Found in three minutes.
It should have finished in three minutes.
"Wheeler, since you're here, sorry, can I ask you about this as well?"
"Ah — yes."
"And can you look at this one too? The quantities don't add up."
In the end I was there until midday.
On my way out, the section chief said it.
"Sorry. In the middle of your leave."
"It's fine."
"I'll buy you a meal sometime."
"It's fine."
Thursday it rang too. It was settled on the phone, so I didn't have to go in.
But I stopped counting.
How many days of leave were left, how to use them — I stopped counting that sort of thing.
Because counting didn't mean anything.
The send-off was Friday 19 February.
The end of the first week of my leave.
Word came from the section chief that morning.
"Wheeler, are you free tonight."
"Er."
"Send-off. Mr. Ando's coming as well."
"Mr. Ando is?"
"He offered. Said he'd like to see you off."
I stayed holding the phone, quiet for a while.
Mr. Ando is Omiya. Our client, and the man our quotations go through.
A client's department head coming to a send-off.
I understood that meant it was no longer a send-off.
"I'll come."
It's not that I had no reason to refuse.
The handover's done and I'm on leave. As good as not an employee. From March I'll be at a company in the same industry, and not going would be the more coherent line.
But I thought, if I refuse, it might turn into something.
I don't want to leave a place I worked four years on bad terms at the end.
That was all.
18:00.
A place by the station. The usual tatami room.
Eight of us. From ours, the section chief, the department head, me and two others. From Omiya, Mr. Ando and two of the young ones.
Naturally, I sat in the seat nearest the entrance.
That's where I've always sat.
"Wheeler, you're the guest of honour today, sit further in."
Mr. Ando said.
"No, I'm all right here."
"Never mind that. Come on."
The far seat is a long way from the door. Even going to the toilet, you pass in front of everyone.
The beer came and we drank to it.
"Wheeler, four years, well done."
"Thank you very much."
"Where was it again?"
"Yamato Setsubi, up north."
"Ah, that lot."
Mr. Ando laughed.
"They're a client of ours too, you know."
"Are they."
"So we'll be seeing you again."
It was poured into my glass.
Here I've got to drink. I thought of his working space. A place where you don't have to drink.
I remember him saying there's no need to drink to match the place, too.
But I thought today could be the last of it, so I drank.
From there, every time it was poured, I drank.
After about an hour it switched to sake.
"Wheeler can take it, after all."
Mr. Ando said.
A phrase I've heard any number of times.
"No, not at all."
"He really can. I've seen it plenty. The young ones going under all round him, and he's the one still sitting at the end."
The section chief laughed, and I laughed too.
I took hold of the glass.
Before it, there should have been a moment's pause. There always is. Something like a ritual before drinking. That day, there wasn't.
It had gone.
When it went, I don't know.
I drank.
We moved to the second place at 20:30.
Five minutes' walk.
I drank there as well.
One of the young ones went under. Went to the toilet and didn't come back. The other one went to look, and the two of them came back.
"Sorry, I'll get him home."
"Right, mind how you go."
Two fewer.
I was sitting.
The third place came up at 22:00.
"Wheeler, you've got another one in you."
"Yes."
After I answered I wondered why I'd said that.
But it was too late. That moment's pause isn't there.
We came out of the shop and the outside air was cold.
A February night. The cold hitting my face, and I felt like it sobered me a little.
Ahead of me the section chief and the department head are walking. Mr. Ando beside them.
I meant to be walking behind them.
The road felt like it was tilting.
There's no way it's tilting. It's a paved footway. Four years, I've walked this road any number of times. It isn't tilting.
I stopped and put a hand on a lamp post.
The four ahead walk on without noticing.
At the crossing, I was alone.
I leaned against a utility pole. Couldn't move from there, and crouched down as I was.
At the kerb of the footway.
The ground is cold.
Last May I did the same thing. That time the section chief went to buy water.
Today nobody's noticed.
Before long they'll notice I'm not there. They might come back and they might not.
Either's fine. I put my face down on my knees.
At any rate it was going round.
Open my eyes or close them, it went round.
Why am I here.
Today's meant to be paid leave. That's what it says on the form I submitted.
And here I am sitting on a footway.
What is a form, then?
Some number of cars go past.
One of them didn't go past, and stopped a little ahead of me.
The engine was quiet.
I didn't raise my head. I hadn't the strength.
There was the sound of a door, and footsteps coming closer.
They stopped in front of me.
"You. Again. What are you doing in a place like this."
I raised my head.
Raised it, and it wouldn't focus.
Black. And in the black, white.
A white coat.
"…Kaiba?"
"Stand."
"Can't stand."
"I said stand."
"I said I can't stand."
A hand came out and took my arm. Hauled me up as it was.
Much stronger than I'd have thought. I didn't stand on my own legs. I was hauled up and made to stand.
I stood, and my body fell forwards. And it didn't give.
"Get in."
"…What?"
"I said get in."
I looked ahead.
The black car was stopped and the rear door was open.
The driver had got out and was standing.
"Nah, it's all right. I'll walk—"
"Can you walk."
"I can walk."
I took one step and my knee dropped out from under me.
My arm was taken again.
"Get in."
Third time.
I got in.
Got in — or rather, was pushed in and fell onto the seat. The seat was soft.
The door on the other side opened and he got in.
When the door shut, all the sound outside went.
"…Quiet as hell, this car."
"Naturally."
Something was held out.
A plastic bottle. Cold.
I took it, and the cap wouldn't open. No strength in my fingers.
A hand came out and the bottle was taken. There was the sound of the cap opening.
It was handed back.
"Drink."
I drank as I was told. Cold going down my throat.
"Do not be sick."
"…Huh?"
"Do not be sick in this car."
He says strange things, I thought, and I meant to laugh. Whether a sound came out, I don't know.
"I won't be sick."
"There has been someone who was sick in a car before. …It was scrapped."
"Who was."
"Do you imagine I would say."
The car moved.
Outside the window flows past. Domino City, the town I looked at every day.
While I watched, my eyelids got heavy.
"Kaiba."
"What."
"It was a send-off today."
"And."
"…I'm on paid leave today."
I'd stopped understanding what I was saying.
I don't understand this situation either. Paid leave, a send-off, a client there.
Paid leave.
On the form, it's a day off.
A day off, and I was being made to drink.
"Paid leave."
After that, he said nothing.
I said nothing either. I hadn't the strength to talk.
Outside the window flows past.
When we stopped at a light, my body swayed forwards.
Coming back, it tilted, and hit something.
Hard.
A shoulder.
This is a shoulder, I thought.
As far as thinking it, I remember.
The inside of the car was quiet.
The light turned green, and the car started moving again.
There is weight on his shoulder.
Seto Kaiba did not move.
His gaze stayed on the window; he did not change his posture. Not his arms, not his legs.
The weight stayed where it was.
There was the sound of breathing. Deep, with long intervals between. He is asleep.
"Master Seto."
the driver said.
"Mr. Wheeler's home address — how should we proceed? We have not been informed of it."
He did not answer at once. But.
"Then will you be carrying him in?"
"Sir."
"Carry a man in this state into a building with stairs, find his key, put him in his room. And have me take the long way round while you do it?"
"…No, sir."
"Then do not ask."
"Very good, sir."
"Drive."
"Yes, sir."
The car turned right at the junction.
The turn made the weight on his shoulder increase a little.
Seto Kaiba did not move.
The scenery outside the window changed. Out of the commercial district, the street lights spacing further apart, walls running along both sides of the road.
The speed went up.
The weight on his shoulder stayed as it was.
