Chapter Text
Straightening your skirt, you close your car door, readjust the bulky bag on your shoulder and make your way up the short walk to the front door of the olive green townhouse. As you traverse the path, you notice that the lawn could use some care, dark yellow patches intermingled with overgrown greenery. The bushes decorating the front of the residence have also seen better days, some of the evergreens tinged brown, others appearing dried up completely.
Pieces of screen hang in the frame of the front door, as if someone plunged through the barrier leaving jagged scraps behind. There is no doorbell, but thankfully the outer door is unlocked, allowing you to pull it open to rap your knuckles against the peeling white painted wooden surface.
Unconsciously tapping your heeled shoe against the cement walk, you listen for movement from within. Nervous excitement courses through you, considering the first important assignment you have been given as a newly hired assistant editor at Survey Publishing. You have been charged with visiting the home of one of the most prolific mangakas in your industry to inquire about pages that are two weeks overdue.
“Why are they sending you?” your new friend Hange had asked, rolling their chair down the aisle from their cubicle to your small space. “We just started a month ago. If they are sending you, it must be a shit task.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hange,” you returned with a roll of your eyes. “I’m excited to meet him. Let me have this, even if it is a joke.”
Now, standing on the doorstep of his home, which is desperately in need of some tender love and care, anxiety is getting the better of you. Hange was probably right. The longer you loiter outside the door, repeatedly knocking, the more it appears you were given this task because the mangaka is difficult.
“What?” a single light blue eye, sliver of pale skin and tuft of dark hair appear in the slightest crack of the door, deep voice growling across the space like a caged animal.
“Mr. Ackerman?” you ask, hearing your voice rise to an unnatural octave. “I’m from Survey Publishing, and I was sent to check on you and retrieve the panels that are past the deadline.” You force a friendly smile across your face, wondering if you sound too overbearing.
“You’re who?” the eye squints at you in annoyance but the door does not open further. Rattling off your name, you repeat your spiel about the task you have been given.
“May I come in, Mr. Ackerman?” you ask, pushing the corners of your lips upward again. “If there is a problem with the pages, I would be happy to talk to you about that and relay the information to my superiors so that we can secure an extension.”
“We?” the word is a dark sneer, the eye squinting further, glaring at you. “I don’t know you,” he snaps. “There is no we.” Taken aback, you start to counter his words, but hesitate, swallowing down your own to consider what he has said. You have overstepped and need to tone down your enthusiasm. This man is guarded, defensive and angry and you feel intrigued to know why.
“Mr. Ackerman,” you speak his name more slowly, dropping the volume of your voice. “Levi,” you muster the courage to say his first name, offering an air of informality. “I’m only here to help you,” the words are extended in a kind voice. “My services are available to you in order to make sure your latest manga is on track to reach its publication date.”
You stop short of gushing out your true feelings. You have been a fan of this man’s work for nearly a decade. He’s written four successful mangas, two of which have popular anime versions, and all completed before he reached the age of thirty five. He’s also known as a recluse, never taking part in manga or anime conventions, and you have dreamed of meeting him for years.
“How are you,” the icy blue eye drags over your form before returning to your face, “going to help me?”
“Uhm,” you stammer, kicking yourself for being unprepared for the question you should have expected. “Well, I have a dual degree in art and creative writing, Mr. Ackerman,” you offer up your credentials. “If you are struggling with the story, maybe I could offer some ideas. If it’s the art itself, I have studied your style, so…” you trail off, unsure of the words you have spoken.
“You want to finish my pages for me?” he asks, and if you aren’t mistaken there is a thinly veiled chuckle hidden within his tone.
“I’ll promise anything to get inside your home,” you utter the words without thought, eyes widening when you realize they were spoken aloud.
“Wow,” he returns, and you are almost positive that blue-gray eye is smiling, finding humor in your embarrassment. “You are the most forward editor I’ve ever dealt with,” he disappears from the opening, the space where he formerly lingered dark and empty, but the door has been left ajar.
Raising a hand, you push it backward, listening to the squeak of oil starved hinges. The door opens to a short foyer, small table standing beneath a framed oval mirror on the right, shadowed opening to another room on the left. There is an additional arched doorway to the right further down the short space, which ends at a steep set of white wooden stairs.
Stepping inside, you feel blood chilled by anxiety flood outward to your fingers and toes. What was Mr. Smith thinking when he sent a young woman to visit a man’s home alone? The entire situation suddenly seems very inappropriate, even without the added knowledge that the mangaka went through a messy divorce two years ago.
“Mr. Ackerman?” you call out softly as you take another step into his home, reaching behind you to push the front door close. “Sir?” you try again, craning your neck to glance through the doorway on the left to find a sparsely decorated living room, most of the space taken up by a long tan leather couch.
“Back here,” his deep voice ghosts down the hall from the doorway on the right. Traversing the space, you stand at the opening, taking in the small kitchen, cabinets painted bright white, square light gray dining room table with four matching chairs positioned around. A short island dissects the space and he’s standing on the opposite side with his back to you. “Do you take anything in your tea?” he asks without turning around.
“Tea?” you repeat the word as a question. “Oh, you don’t have to make me tea, Mr. Ackerman.” Even as you say the words, you are giddy with the prospect of drinking from one of the mangaka’s personal cups.
“I know I don’t have to make it for you,” he grumbles, lifting a kettle from a burner on the stove and pouring hot water into two cups. “Answer my question, editor.”
“I take it plain, Mr. Ackerman,” you return, biting back the smile threatening to crack your face, “black or whatever you call it,” you rush to add more stupid words in your effort to look less stupid.
“Have a seat,” he commands, and you only hesitate a second before clamoring across the space to fall into one of the empty chairs. He lifts each cup by the brim, carrying them across the space. Something akin to annoyance passes through his gray eyes as he places a cup in front of you before taking the seat across the table. “So, you’re an artist and a writer,” he comments, lifting his cup to sip the hot liquid between index finger and thumb.
“Well,” you laugh, toying with the handle of your own cup. “I studied art and writing in college. I won’t pretend to be an artist myself,” you add before taking a sip of the tea, which is rich and earthy with citrus undertones.
“Do you write?” he asks, holding your gaze when you glance in his direction. Eye contact between you is too long, but you can't force yourself to look away from his heart-shaped face. You never expected him to appear so young, full cheeks, dark hair, without a trace of gray, falling haphazardly across his forehead, a plump bottom lip that... Dropping your gaze to your cup, your nod spurs him to ask a second question. “Do you draw or paint?”
“I do both actually,” you respond with a smile. “I know where you are going with this,” you comment, taking in the yellowing papers adhered to the front of his refrigerator by an assortment of magnets. “If you write, you are a writer. If you draw, you are an artist,” you rattle the words off, containing your urge to roll your eyes. “I don’t agree when the person only does those things as a hobby.”
“Hmm…” a murmured sound escapes his lips as he brings his cup to his mouth again. “How are we going to work together when we have such different opinions on such an important subject?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“In that case, my opinion just changed,” you correct, smiling brightly across the table. “I am an artist as well as a writer.” The corner of his lip inches upward before he forces it down again.
“Which one of those butchers sent you here to gather pages from the hermit?” he asks, lifting his cup to sip at his tea, watching you over the brim. Those icy eyes once again hold contact a moment longer than is comfortable.
“Uhm,” you stammer, turning your face to the side, stopping yourself from twisting your neck back and forth to shake away the haze, mentally chastising your addle brain. “My boss is Mr. Smith,” you mutter, glancing around the neat kitchen, taking in the few polished appliances gracing the white tiled surfaces of the counters. Unconsciously you move the heavy bag from your shoulder to the floor near your chair.
“That’s what I figured,” he releases a sigh, and when you dare to turn back, his eyes are trained in the direction you had found yourself staring. “Too chicken shit to come himself,” he adds darkly with a huff. “You’re probably a new hire.”
“How did you,” the words tumble from your lips before you put a stop to them. You have no responsibility to share your lack of experience with this man. Mr. Smith thought you were capable of this job or he wouldn’t have sent you, right?
“Are you done with that?” he asks, tilting his head to the cup cradled against your palm. Turning your eyes on the tea, you grasp the thin handle and lift it to your lips, taking another long sip. He releases an annoyed breath as you sit in silence, leisurely finishing the drink. You are unsure of your behavior, but you need a reprieve before you push forward. If you are going to strong-arm the man into completing his work, you need a moment to steady your nerves and fortify your resolve.
“Thank you,” is uttered across the table before you rise and cross the space to rinse the cup at the sink. He appears beside you, throwing you puzzled looks when you extend your hand accepting his cup to run it under the water and set it face down in the bottom of the basin beside your own. You can't blame his confusion considering your nonsensical actions.
“I suppose you want to see what I have finished,” he turns away, trailing out of the room. A soft sound echoes through the home when he traverses the bottom step of the staircase before you have made your way out of the kitchen. He pauses on the landing halfway, waiting for you to clamor upward.
At the top of the stairs, he turns left into a small room, flipping a switch as he crosses the space to a tilted desk. Wadded pieces of paper line the space between the top of the surface and the pale green painted wall. Other balls of paper are strewn across the floor where they have landed near an overflowing trash can.
Examining the space, you find the walls plastered with posters displaying both this man’s work and the work of other mangakas. There are also two small bookshelves packed with volumes along with figurines and other merchandise. This room is in disarray compared to the organization displayed in the other spaces of the home.
“Behold, completed work,” he dramatically motions toward a small stack of paper on the left side of the desk. Crossing the space, you wait for him to take a step back before gingerly reaching for the panels he has indicated. Each of the sheets display beautiful artwork and interesting words written in tiny neat handwriting, but there are only a total of five complete, half of what you were asked to retrieve.
“They’re beautiful,” you compliment as you pour over the pages, mesmerized by the fact that you are seeing them before anyone else in the world. “So, we need five more,” you remark, turning your eyes on him, watching this brow nit into a deep scowl. “We,” you emphasize the word, needling him, “have our work cut out for us.”
The pages he has finished tell the story of a battle between his latest manga’s protagonist, a woman with telekinetic abilities, and antagonist, a sorcerer. The panels bounce back and forth between action taking place in the physical and mental realms.
“Who is going to win?” you ask, without taking your eyes off the panels, which you shift through numerous times.
“If I knew that, it would be finished,” he grumbles, and when you tear your eyes away from his work, you find him glaring at you angrily.
“That’s what we need to solve then,” you retort, forcing a bright smile in hopes of quelling his annoyance. His blue-gray eyes dance over your face skeptically.
“And how do you suppose we,” he spits the word at you, “are going to solve the issue I haven’t been able to solve in four weeks?”
“In college, we used free writing or cluster writing to come up with ideas or brainstorm when we were stuck,” you offer the ideas, enthusiastically. “Maybe we could try that to break through the block you have going on.”
“Did I say I have writer’s block?” his voice flares dangerously. “I’m just not sure what direction I want to go with this story.” You want to tell him that his words sound like the definition of writer’s block, but you refrain yourself. “If I have Nenriki win then does Manjutsu die or just crawl off into a cave somewhere to reappear later?” he asks as if you have read every page of the manga so far. Taking a breath, you plan to explain that you have had limited access to the edited panels but he continues talking.
“On the other hand, if Manjutsu wins, how badly will Nenriki be injured, and how does that impact the direction of the story?” he questions, holding your gaze, waiting for a response that you are unable to give.
“I…” you start, consider your words. “I mean, it sounds like you have two conflicting ideas that you have to choose between,” you offer the diplomatic words, hoping to appease his spiraling thoughts. His blue-gray eyes flick around your face before his brow lowers, gaze narrows.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about,” he mutters, turning away to run a hand over the top of a bookcase before studying his fingertips. “Since you don’t know anything about my story, you can help me clean this room,” he says, disappearing through the doorway to the hall.
“Clean the room?” you whisper to yourself, nose wrinkling in disgust. “I didn’t come here to be your fucking maid,” you hiss to the empty room. He clears his throat as he crosses the threshold again, holding a can of spray and a rag out in your direction, a smile vanishing from his lips.
Snatching the items from his hand, you step to the bookcase on the opposite wall, misting the spray over a shelf before wiping the surface down. You can hear a rustling sound behind you as he works to gather all of those balled pieces of paper. Wait until Hange hears about your idol putting you to work cleaning his office. They will never let you live it down.
The next thirty minutes are spent cleaning before he seems satisfied and falls into the chair at the desk, pulling a blank page in front of him. Retrieving a pencil from a holder, he makes marks across the paper, dividing the space before he begins to fill the panels. Taking a step forward, his voice halts your progress. “Just give me a minute, editor,” he says, voice dark and low.
Moving away to the doorway, you lean against the frame, pulling your arms tight across your chest. It isn’t unheard of for an artist to resist having someone gaze over their shoulder while working, but you hate feeling useless. “Cleaning gave you that much of a breakthrough?” you ask, too bored to remain silent.
“Not the breakthrough you are looking for,” he mumbles in return, then the sound of the pencil scraping across the paper fills the void again. Thinking of your phone, you remember you left it downstairs and consider descending to the first floor to retrieve it. “Almost done,” he says, as if reading your thoughts. Your shoe taps twice against the carpet before you stop its movement, fighting the need to fidget further. “Done,” he says, dropping the pencil back into the holder and extending the page over his shoulder.
Crossing the small room, you accept it from his outstretched fingers, bringing it to your face. Expecting to see a new panel for the manga, a muffled gasp escapes your lips when you examine the page, which shows an anime version of yourself standing outside an ugly house, followed by you seated at a small table drinking from a teacup. The entire page is filled with your interactions with the mangaka today.
“Why did you waste time doing this?” you ask, knowing the words are rude and ungrateful, but also annoyed that he isn’t taking the task at hand seriously.
“Tch,” he scoffs, yanking the page from your hand, the edge of the paper leaving a minute cut in the pad of a finger. Why you hadn’t asked to retain the panel, which was created by your manga hero, you have no idea. Before you can retract your words, the page is compacted within his palm and deposited in the now empty trash can. He inhales a long breath, releasing it slowly, reaches for the pencil again and begins a new page.
“I think I’ll allow Nenriki to triumph,” he says, throwing words and art on the paper. He completes one and moves onto a second, handing them over his shoulder as they are finished. An hour a half later, you are exiting his home with the ten pages in hand. You have accomplished the assigned task, but somehow you feel defeated as your heels tap a quick pace down the sidewalk back to your car.