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amazing art by amazing 千寒
“You stare too much.”
“Oh, do I? Sorry about that.” Kyouji chuckled, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair.
God help him.
They were 40 floors above Tokyo, their table positioned right against the glass panel that curved around the restaurant. It felt like they were floating in the air, suspended above the city. The lights below them looked like a night sky flipped upside-down. Between them, the candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across Satomi’s face.
The boy shifted uncomfortably under Kyouji’s gaze, shooting him a displeased look. Kyouji couldn’t help but notice that Satomi had dressed in his best suit - the same one he’d worn to his graduation ceremony. It was a cheap, off-the-rack piece that did not suit the fancy restaurant they were at. It should not have looked even half as good as it did on him, Kyouji thought bitterly, unable to tear his eyes away. Although he should probably get a proper suit before he starts job-hunting.
“Relax, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji added, reaching for his water. “We’re here to celebrate.”
“Yeah,” Satomi sighed, flipping the menu open.
“Besides,” Kyouji continued, a hint of mischief curling at the edges of his lips, “I just can’t help but look.”
A beat.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ah, you just look very handsome, Satomi-kun.”
Kyouji knew he was pushing it– the glare Satomi shot him could have leveled a building.
“Don’t say stuff like that in public,” he muttered, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
“I can’t help it.” Kyouji took a sip of his water.
That much was true. Kyouji almost pitied himself, a little. The thick, bitter weight of guilt trailed him like a shadow, lurking in every stolen glance, in every unsavory thought. I’m sorry, Satomi-kun, he pleaded silently each time it happened. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
It ate away at him like flames devouring paper.
Satomi clicked his tongue, snapping the menu shut with a little more force than necessary.
"You're impossible," he muttered, shooting Kyouji another sharp glare.
Yakuza laughed then, tilting his head back and savoring Satomi from beneath half-closed eyes. You have no idea, Satomi-kun.
“And yet, here you are, having dinner with me."
"Yeah, must be something very wrong with me too,” Satomi agreed, his expression blank. "Anyway, what’s the fanciest thing on here? Since you’re paying, I might as well make it worth your while," he said flatly, tapping a finger against the menu.
Kyouji reeled his thoughts in with the skill of someone who had long since learned better. All that they were-all that they could be-were these strange friends, meeting every couple of weeks for a meal.
"Go ahead, order whatever you want," he said, smiling fondly.
Satomi finally placed the menu down, avoiding Kyouji's gaze as he settled back in his seat. Perhaps Satomi knew-or at least suspected-just how much power he held over Kyouji.
The silence stretched as Kyouji watched Satomi’s hands fidget. His eyes greedily devoured the sight: slender, long fingers, every bit as beautiful as the rest of Satomi. Kyouji had to fight to keep his thoughts from slipping into darker territory. Visions of taking those hands in his, pressing his lips to each delicate finger, sucking them into his mouth.
He took another slow sip of water to wash those thoughts down, but they lingered in his head, clinging to him like cigarette smoke.
"I’ll have the wagyu beef steak, medium-rare, and some green tea,” Satomi said, and then he looked up, his expression almost accusing. "Seriously, stop staring. What’s wrong with you today?”
Kyouji couldn’t help but laugh.
***
"Narita-san, you can't be serious." Kimura looked positively appalled, his thick glasses perched precariously on his nose. Kyouji, with a distracted glance, wondered absently if he only liked Kimura because the legal advisor, albeit very faintly, reminded him of Satomi.
Is it the glasses?
"I am like, dead serious," Kyouji said, reaching for his cigarettes.
They were on the fourth floor of their headquarters in Osaka, in one of the many cramped meeting rooms stuffed to the brim with papers. The bleak setting seemed far removed from the fleeting thoughts of Satomi that drifted in and out of Kyouji's mind.
Kimura looked at him with quiet disapproval, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the words he had just heard.
"I'm honestly not sure how to handle this, so it doesn’t become an issue for Oka-san," he finally sighed, flicking through a stack of papers.
"But you can figure something out, right?" Kyouji mumbled, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he fumbled for a lighter.
"I can probably figure something out, yes," Kimura muttered, rubbing his temples, "But I do not support this decision." He sulked. "Why not leave it to one of your relatives, or the family?”
Kyouji puffed out the smoke and twirled in his office chair, the leather creaking under the weight. His gaze drifted toward the window, the view of Osaka's skyline nothing more than a blur of neon lights. He took a long drag from the cigarette, enjoying the burn in his lungs before exhaling slowly, letting it curl upward toward the yellowed ceiling.
"Because," Kyouji said slowly, “I want him to have it.”
Kimura stayed silent, a deep crease forming on his forehead. Kyouji shifted his gaze to him and smiled lightly at the confusion, the corners of his lips lifting in a way that almost seemed mocking.
“I- I wouldn't like to pry, but-“ Kimura began, but Kyouji interrupted him curtly.
"Then don't."
Kimura looked conflicted. His eyes pinned Kyouji down with a quiet sense of reprehension. Kyouji fainly remembered that Kimura had a son. Wasn't he Satomi's age? He met Kimura's gaze without flinching, unfazed by the judgment lurking there. With a practiced nonchalance, Kyouji took another drag of his cigarette.
"Look," Kyouji began, voice edged with impatience, "It’s not as bad as it seems, I swear. I just want the kid to have an easier start in life. And if I can find a way to make him inherit some of the money or property, then that's not a big deal, right?"
Kimura pressed his mouth so tightly that all the color seemed to drain from it.
"It’s not about that, Narita-san," Kimura said, his voice low and controlled. "This-“ he paused, his eyes narrowing, "I am sorry, but this whole situation looks very disturbing. Even for me."
Kyouji’s gaze hardened, and the smile faded slightly. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, and then, after a beat, "I don’t know what you’re imagining, but I did not lay a finger on him,“ he said in a low voice. Those words hung heavily in the air.
Kimura visibly paled, his posture stiffening. Kyouji held the cigarette between his fingers, smoke trailing around his hand as he rolled the sleeve of his shirt just a little further. The tattoo, marking his arm like a twisted declaration of sovereignty, seemed to almost glow under the cold, neon light.
Satomi.
"I would never dare to suggest-“ Kimura began, looking at the tattoo with something between shock and disgust, but Kyouji cut him off with a sharp, dismissive gesture.
"You just did. And you're right."
Kyouji pulled his sleeve down slowly, the fabric sliding back into place. His unyielding gaze met Kimura's, and he smiled faintly.
"Let me make it clear," Kyouji added casually. "After I die, I would like Oka Satomi to get everything I owe, but of course, not in a way where that would cause him any legal trouble.”
Kimura fixed his sour look and sighed loudly, rubbing his temples as though the very thought of what Kyouji had just proposed was a headache in itself.
"You’re making this a legal nightmare, Narita-san," he muttered, eyes narrowing at the stack of papers on his desk as if they were mocking him. "Do you understand what you’re asking? There’s no official connection between you and Oka-san in the eyes of the law. Any attempt to transfer assets or property to him- whether it's money, business interests, or shares- would be seen as an irregularity. It could raise all sorts of suspicions, not just with your family but with tax authorities and financial institutions."
Kimura paused for a moment, clearly struggling to remain calm. "And even if we somehow bypass all that, the inheritance taxes alone will be a nightmare.”
He sighed deeply, face falling into his hands. "This isn’t just paperwork, it’s a minefield."
“Well?”
Kimura fell heavily into his chair, raising his eyes as if searching for the answer. He paused for a long moment, eyes scanning the ceiling as he considered the tangled mess before him. After a few deep breaths, he looked at Kyouji, his face more resigned than angry.
"It’s going to be a headache, but there may be a way." He leaned forward, rubbing his temples as he explained. "The main issue is making sure Oka-san is legally recognized as your beneficiary. Some same-sex couples bypass that by adult adoption, but I am afraid that is out of the question here, correct? Well…” Kimura scratched his head. “Maybe we could bypass it with a trust fund. But I am not sure, I’ll have to think about it some more.”
Kyouji nodded slowly, tapping the ash away into an overflowing ashtray.
"Then make it happen," he said, voice firm. "Just make sure Satomi is taken care of."
Kimura sighed, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the task ahead, but nodded.
For a moment, silence swelled in the room. Kimura looked at Kyouji with an unreadable expression, his eyes thoughtful, lingering a little too long. Kyouji raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze, but Kimura didn’t immediately speak.
“What is it?” Kyouji asked, stubbing his cigarette out with a sharp motion. “Spit it out.”
Kimura hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but carrying a certain weight.
“You know, to do so much for a random kid… someone who's not even family…”
Kyouji leaned back in his chair, the corners of his lips curling into a wry smile.
“He is my family.”
Kimura looked a little bit nauseous. His gaze flickered down to the papers in front of him as if avoiding Kyouji's words. A faint, unspoken sympathy for Oka Satomi seemed to flicker in his eyes - a boy who had somehow caught the attention of Narita Kyouji and found himself tangled in this mess. A boy who, despite being nothing more than a recent university graduate, sometime in the future was about to inherit everything Kyouji had, for better or worse.
“I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing you should be saying, Narita-san,” Kimura looked up slowly, his voice laced with concern.
Kyouji let out a quiet laugh, though there was no real humor in it. He pulled on his jacket, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders.
“Yeah. Probably not,” he murmured. “Not that it matters. Nothing ever comes out of things like this anyway.”
He moved toward the door, his broad silhouette swallowing the light. For a moment, he lingered, fingers tightening around the edge of the door.
“Don’t worry, Kimura,” he said finally. His voice was quieter now, almost as if he was trying to convince himself as much as the legal advisor. “I’d rather die than hurt him.”
***
"How about settling down?"
Kyouji resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His mother was still convinced that the best way out of the yakuza was to marry some nice girl and start over. As if it were that simple.
“I’ll think about it,” he said flatly, knowing full well he wouldn’t.
They didn’t speak often - his family had made their stance on the whole gangster thing painfully clear- but his mother still called him for his birthday. She was the only one. Maybe it was out of duty. Maybe she still wanted to believe he could come back from this.
Kyouji wasn’t sure what was worse: that she still held on to hope, or that he was the one making her life harder just by existing.
"Michiko-san - do you remember her? Her daughter just got divorced. If you’d quit this nonsense and come back-“
Kyouji fought the urge to laugh. Satomi's face appeared in Kyouji’s mind as he imagined how he might react if he ever shared this absurd conversation with him. He would probably make a disapproving face and tell him to make it right with his mother.
"Right," Kyouji said, his voice still free of any inflection, "I’ll be sure to send my regards."
"Kyouji," his mother pressed, her voice tinged with something he couldn’t quite place - maybe frustration. After a moment of hesitation, "I'm just worried. I know you've made your choices, but at some point, you need to think about your future. You can't be running from this forever."
Kyouji felt a familiar tightness in his chest, a mix of guilt and anger, but he kept his face impassive. He imagined Satomi again, with a frown, telling him to stop being an ass.
"I’ve thought about it," Kyouji replied, his voice steady. "I know exactly what I’m doing."
"Please, Kyouji. Just think about it some more. There are other ways out."
Kyouji felt exhausted, the familiar weight of guilt settling over him. But the words came anyway, spilling out before he could stop them, as he was desperate for an escape from this topic.
"Actually, I've met someone," he said, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. "It’s not what you think,” he added quickly, realising how it came out, “But they’ve been a good influence on me. Different from the rest."
He kicked his polished leather shoe against the railing with a soft thud. The sound disappeared into the brisk air, and together with it, so did Kyouji’s resolve. He already regretted saying anything.
Talking about Satomi felt too intimate, too raw to be laid bare in front of someone like his mother. The moment the words left his lips, he wanted to take them back. But he got the effect he wanted - for a long moment, his mother stayed silent. Eventually, she probed cautiously.
“A good influence? That’s... Are they someone you see a future with?”
Kyouji paused. The last thing he wanted was to give his mother false hope for something that could never come true. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to settle the uneasy feeling inside his stomach.
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, “Just... someone who makes me think, is all.”
There was another brief pause, and then her voice, quieter now, “But do they make you happy?”
Kyouji flinched, the rawness of the question catching him off guard. He opened his mouth, unsure how to answer without revealing too much. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything, not in the way she might think.
“I... yeah,” he muttered, feeling a dull ache settle in his chest. “I guess so.”
"Where is she from?" His mother's question broke through Kyouji's moment of hesitation, pulling him back to reality.
"Ahh," he sighed, dragging a hand through his face. Jesus. How old is he exactly to be behaving like a lovesick teenager? "Mom, I gotta go," he said abruptly, trying to shake off the awkwardness. "Say hi to Kyouichi and Kyoko from me."
There was a pause on the other end, but his mother didn’t press further. “All right, Kyouji,” she replied cautiously. “Take care of yourself.”
He hung up quickly, the weight of the conversation still hanging in the air.
"Jesus," he muttered to himself, shoving the phone into his pocket and shaking his head. He stared out in the distance for a moment, the city sprawling below him.
What the hell am I doing?
***
Kyouji-san, when are you next in Tokyo?
Kyouji stared at the phone screen, mouthing the words. It had been five months since that celebratory dinner for Satomi's graduation. If Kyouji was completely honest with himself, he hadn’t expected to see Satomi again after that night. But then again, if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t expected to see Satomi after the karaoke contest either.
Kyouji rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar throb of a headache building up.
"Is everything okay, aniki?" One of the younger lads, Koizumi, shot Kyouji a concerned look in the rearview mirror. They were on their way to make a deal. Behind them trailed Kobayashi and Oogata in separate cars.
"Focus on driving," Kyouji replied, sending him a comforting smile.
He could pinpoint the exact moment when he knew he fucked up. When it all went wrong.
It happened by the end of that fateful night, all those years ago - the karaoke contest over and Kyouji already driving Satomi home.
Satomi, as always, sat in the passenger seat, his school uniform crinkled, dozing despite his best efforts, forehead pressed against the cool window. Kyouji glanced to the side, and his chest tightened with a swell of affection so intense it almost felt suffocating.
He pulled into the usual spot and killed the engine, the car’s low hum silencing as the world outside remained still, a quiet neighborhood devoid of any sign of life. It was late.
Kyouji’s gaze lingered on Satomi’s features - his eyes closed in peaceful sleep, his mouth slightly ajar with a faint trail of drool at the corner, his hands resting in his lap, the fabric of his uniform clinging to his thighs.
And it happened right then, in that exact moment: Kyouji’s body ignited with something ugly, his heart hammering in his chest, blood leaving the brain. Satomi was so close, so impossibly close, and all Kyouji needed to do was reach out - just a gentle touch, the boy wouldn’t even wake up after such eventful day - all he had to do was to place a hand on the side of Satomi’s leg, and then trail it upward…
The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, and immediately, Kyouji recoiled as if stung. Without a second thought, he threw open the car door, stepped outside, and lit a cigarette, his hands trembling as he tried to steady his nerves.
He suddenly wished he was drunk, or stoned, or out of his fucking mind on dope-anything, really-anything that he could blame it on. But no, he was terrifyingly sober, alone in his head with his unsavoury thoughts, alone with Satomi in a quiet alley in the middle of the night, feeling like one of the predators he warned him about.
He couldn’t even look at the boy. On that night, after waking Satomi up and sending him home, Kyouji returned to Katsuko’s with a heavy heart, feeling like he’d swallowed a rock. He then drank, and then drank some more until his head spun, and he couldn’t tell up from down, and he was on his knees and elbows on the cold bathroom door, thoughts hazy and disconnected. But the feeling still clung to him, unshakable.
That’s when he knew he had to stay the fuck away.
"We’re almost there," Koizumi's voice snapped Kyouji back to the present.
He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, thank you captain obvious , instead settling for a gruff grunt in response.
With a sigh, Kyouji closed the chat with Satomi. He hated leaving him on read, but there was no time for a proper conversation. Satomi would have to wait.
As they entered the hotel lobby, the sterile, polished environment made Kyouji's skin crawl. They were immediately directed to one of the conference rooms upstairs, and the weight of his phone pressed against him was a constant reminder of Satomi’s message. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease. It wasn't the meeting that unsettled him, but the thought of where his head was - the tangled mess of feelings that had no business being there.
He instinctively checked for his gun, hidden beneath his tailored suit, just to make sure it was still there.
"Are you okay?" Oogata asked, glancing at him from the side.
"Yeah, yeah," Kyouji waved his hand dismissively, masking his discomfort with an easy smile. "Just peachy."
When the elevator doors opened, they were greeted by the unmistakable presence of Aoyama-san, the PA of the CEO, Takeda-san. Aoyama's crisp suit and the air of practiced politeness that surrounded him were all too familiar. Kyouji had met him a few times before, in preparation for this meeting.
“Takeda-san is expecting you,” Aoyama-san said smoothly, leading them down the corridor.
Kyouji nodded, his mind still half on the conversation he'd left hanging with Satomi.
In the conference room, Takeda sat at the long side of the table. Kyouji had seen his photos before, but meeting him in person was different. He was fat and almost completely bald, exuding nervous energy. He tried to maintain a composed front, but it was clear he was already over his head, twitchy and anxious. Beside him sat Chairman Maki, a man Kyouji had met a few times before-calm, calculating, and far more collected. The two middle-aged men next to him looked more like bureaucrats than anything else.
Behind them, next to the wall, stood three shady-looking figures-one of them sweating profusely, his eyes darting back and forth with pupils so dilated it would have been almost comical if it weren't such a glaring sign that he was on something.
Kyouji mentally sighed, gathering himself. This wasn’t the kind of business he liked, but it was business nonetheless. He put on his best people persona, flashing a smile and exchanging polite greetings before getting to the heart of it.
After the introductions and the pleasantries, everyone finally settled into their seats, and tea was served. The delicate clink of porcelain cups filled the air as Kyouji slid a stack of meticulously arranged documents from his briefcase.
He handed the documents over to Takeda and Maki, watching their reactions closely. Takeda’s trembling fingers fumbled with the papers, but Kyouji didn’t react, his gaze steady.
“As we’ve previously discussed,” Kyouji began smoothly, his tone polite but firm, “this is how the arrangement would look on paper. Essentially, we’re looking to funnel certain funds through your company. One of our companies..." Kyouji tapped his finger on the document, punctuating his words. "Will purchase some of your shares. Revenue will increase, and margins will soar through the roof. So will the bonuses." He paused for a moment, letting the weight of the potential benefits settle before continuing. "You’ll be compensated handsomely for providing us with such an opportunity, but, of course, there are certain obligations you'll need to meet in return."
Kyouji allowed the silence to stretch, the room heavy with anticipation. His gaze flickered between Maki and Takeda, carefully studying their faces. He was looking for any sign of hesitation, any hint that they might reconsider.
Maki's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but there was no sign of doubt.
"Of course, we’ll have a more formal meeting to discuss the logistics and paperwork," Kyouji added smoothly, but his voice remained firm, the warning in his tone clear. "But once we begin, there’s no turning back. I count on your cooperation.”
Takeda cleared his throat, his voice shaky as he tried to regain some composure. Maki, on the other hand, gave a slow nod, acknowledging the offer with an air of practiced professionalism.
"Just a couple of questions, Narita-san," Maki interjected smoothly, flipping through the documents with a practiced air, though his fingers lingered over certain sections as if trying to digest them. "How will you ensure the flow of funds remains undetected? Any concerns with auditors?"
"We will handle the oversight, and we’ve anticipated scrutiny. Auditors may raise some questions, but we’ll ensure that all documents and reports are aligned with standard procedure."
He allowed the silence to hang for a moment, ensuring Maki absorbed the gravity of his words before continuing. "As long as the proper channels are followed, the risk will be minimal. But the payoff, as mentioned, is significant."
Maki’s eyes narrowed as he flipped through the pages, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. The others started to murmur among themselves, a low hum of conversation that Kyouji could easily read. Takeda was looking for a way to get more, trying to figure out where he could push for better terms.
But Kyouji could already see it - the glint of greed in Takeda’s eyes. It was unmistakable, a hunger that would make him easy to manipulate. What a fool.
After a few more rounds of back-and-forth, the tension seemed to ease, and the mood shifted slightly. Takeda laughed a little too loudly, and Maki followed suit, relaxing into the conversation. They’d made their decision, for better or worse.
"You know, Narita-san," Maki began, leaning back in his chair, a smile creeping onto his face. "My wife always dreamt of a yacht. And my youngest wants to follow in my footsteps and study in America. Maybe we could even get her into one of those fancy schools in the States,”
Kyouji made a point to sound appropriately impressed.
“Sounds like a dream, Maki-san."
Takeda chimed in, clearly eager to join the conversation.
"Ah, my wife just wants a vacation. Honestly, I can't wait to send her somewhere. Somewhere far away, where she can just... relax."
Both men laughed, and Kyouji followed suit, a smile falling into place like a well-rehearsed mask.
"Speaking of which, Narita-san," Maki added, his voice smooth with a calculated edge, "Doesn’t your group operate one of those gentlemen’s clubs? Perhaps there’s an opportunity for us to visit as a celebration of our deal?"
Kyouji’s gaze narrowed slightly, though he kept his composure. Ah, so this is how it goes.
"Of course, Maki-san," Kyouji replied easily. "After all, we are business partners, aren’t we?"
The tension in the air lightened as everyone laughed, the atmosphere now shifting to one of mutual satisfaction. They started gathering their things, clearly excited about the deal and the celebration that would follow.
Kyouji leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Go ahead, let Mama know," he said to Oogata, who nodded sharply in response. Without a word, Oogata promptly left the room.
After arriving at the club, Maki and Takeda dove straight into drinking, with Kobayashi and the younger men keeping them company, their laughter loud and annoying. Kyouji, ever the lightweight, hung back, his eyes scanning the room, ensuring that everything was flowing smoothly. The scene was familiar enough, yet there was something off tonight.
That one guy-the one who was clearly as high as a kite-was getting too comfortable with Yumi-chan. Sweat dripped down his face as he felt her around. Kyouji shot her a questioning glance. She shrugged.
"Whatever," Kyouji muttered under his breath, turning his attention back to the others.
Time passed in an odd haze, the noise and laughter rising in the background as Takeda and Maki disappeared upstairs, presumably to "celebrate" their new deal with some of the girls. One of the other men-the accountant, maybe?-had passed out drunk, slumped over the table, while the last one mumbled something about tomorrow’s appointment and left without another word.
That’s when things started to take a dark turn.
A slapping sound echoed sharply through the club beneath the thumping music, followed by a soft, breathy sob. Kyouji's eyes immediately snapped to the source-Yumi-chan had her hand pressed to her reddening cheek, clearly in pain.
"Buddy," Kyouji's voice cut through the noise, low and threatening as he rose from his seat at the bar. His hand instinctively reached for his belt, where he felt the reassuring presence of his gun. "That was an extremely bad idea."
Kobayashi, who had been slowly sinking into a drunken stupor, seemed to sense the shift in the air. He stirred and stood, unsteady but alert, his hand finding his pocket where he kept a knife-just in case.
The young man, his face twisted in a manic expression, looked at them both, eyes wide and unhinged. He threw back his head and burst out laughing, a shrill sound that made Kyouji wince.
"I don’t think you have the right to lecture me, grandpa," the man said, his words slurring slightly but still dripping with malice. "I know who you are. My older brother ended up in the hospital because of you." His laughter turned louder, more manic. "You think you can talk to me like that?" He wiped his eyes, still giggling as if the whole situation were some sort of sick joke.
"I literally have no idea who you are," Kyouji said flatly, his hand still hanging near his belt. "And frankly, I don't care. If you hit one of the girls again, I’m going to hit you back. And trust me, you’re not going to like it."
The young man giggled again, that same unsettling, high-pitched laugh that made Kyouji grit his teeth. What an annoying little fucker.
"Narita Kyouji. Kyou-ji. Crazy Child," he choked out between wheezing fits of laughter. "Hahaha, you know why this is so funny?" The man took a shaky step forward, his breath coming in short bursts, as though he’d been running. "Because it’s true. You’re crazy about a child, aren’t you?"
Kyouji's heart stopped, the room seeming to freeze around him. His grip on the table tightened until his knuckles turned white. He stared at this guy–this piece of shit–in front of him as his mind raced, trying to process the words, the meaning.
His thoughts swirled in a haze of disbelief. No... no, he couldn’t have known. How could he possibly know?
But the way the man’s eyes gleamed? There was no doubt in Kyouji’s mind. He knew.
Kyouji’s jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might snap.
“Oh, you think I didn’t know? My brother told me everything about it! About how you trailed around a middle-schooler like a lovesick dog! What, did you fuck him too? Are you into underage dick, Narita?” the guy swayed back and forth as if he was struggling to keep upright.
Kyouji saw red. With a quick movement, he grabbed the man by the collar, his grip iron-tight, lifting him off the floor just slightly.
"You’re going to apologize. Right now. If I hear one more word about him... I will end you."
The man’s eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, he seemed to realize the gravity of what he’d just provoked. His laughter died in his throat, replaced by something far more primal, like a flicker of fear.
“No, I just- ”
Kyouji didn’t hear the man’s plea. His hand tightened around his collar, and with a swift movement, he swung him toward the table. The satisfying thud of a skull meeting wood echoed in the room, a sound that seemed to reverberate deep in Kyouji’s bones.
The man let out a grunt, his body crumpling against the table with a weak wheeze, but Kyouji didn’t care. His heart was still pounding, the rush of adrenaline keeping him sharp and focused.
Kyouji’s actions were driven by a rush of fury, his mind barely able to catch up with his instincts. His hand shot out again, grabbing the man’s head, and with a sickening force, slammed it into the table corner. The man’s body jerked, but Kyouji didn’t stop. A second, then a third impact, each time the sound of bone hitting the wood reverberating in the room.
In the midst of his rage, Kyouji barely registered the faint sound of crying. It took a moment before his eyes flicked over to Yumi-chan, standing off to the side, her face pale as tears streaked down her cheeks.
His attention snapped back to the man beneath him, who was now barely conscious. Blood poured from a deep gash in his temple, thick and dark, staining Kyouji’s hands as he raised them. He smashed his fist down onto the man’s nose, hearing a sickening crack as more blood poured out, drenching the floor.
A hand gripped Kyouji’s wrist, stopping his next strike mid-air.
"Enough," Kobayashi aniki’s voice was low, but firm. The older man’s grip on Kyouji’s hand was like iron, strong and unwavering. "He’s worth more alive."
Kyouji’s breath came in heavy, ragged gasps as he slowly registered Kobayashi’s words. His gaze dropped to the bloody mess before him-the man had now a broken nose, his face a grotesque mask of blood and pain.
Kyouji’s fist tightened again-this time not out of anger, but out of a desperate attempt to hold onto whatever shred of control he had left. The burning rage had been replaced by something else, thick and suffocating, crawling over him like a heavy, sticky film, just like the blood, still fresh and warm on his skin.
Kobayashi sighed, a low sound of resignation, and motioned towards the stairs.
"C’mon, let’s get him into one of the rooms before those two idiots come back down." His voice was calm, almost too calm, as if he had seen this kind of thing a hundred times. "Mama, apologies about the mess. Please, if you could try to clean up quickly."
Mama, a woman in her fifties with a face hardened by years in the business, gave a curt nod, visibly displeased.
Kyouji felt detached, like an observer from above, watching this twisted scene unfold below. The edges of his vision blurred, and for a moment, he felt like he was outside his own body, disconnected from the mess he’d created.
The moments after felt like a haze. He vaguely remembered cleaning up the evidence of the fight, along with Kobayashi aniki. The dull ache in his hand, the effort to make everything seem normal again before Maki and Takeda came back downstairs. There were voices in the background, Kobayashi on the phone, arranging for someone to take the man away. Kyouji wasn’t sure what they would do with him. He didn’t care.
After loading everyone into the taxi and sending them off, Kobayashi firmly guided Kyouji into his own car, the weight of the silence settling between them. Kyouji didn’t speak. All he could do was stare out the window, watching the city blur by in a series of lights and shadows, a throbbing pain in his knuckles a reminder of what he had just done.
The drive felt like it took forever, but when they finally arrived, Kobayashi killed the engine and turned to him with a pained expression.
"Listen," he began, his voice steady, but Kyouji immediately braced himself for what was coming. "You and Sensei..."
Kyouji groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He didn’t want to hear it.
Kobayashi, however, continued, undeterred.
"You know, I was pretty skeptical. I still am. But... the more I thought about it, isn’t it kind of like he was made for you?"
Those words sliced through the air like a whip crack. Kyouji froze, his hands still on his face, but his body completely still. Slowly, as if the words were too heavy to bear, he took his palms away.
“No. No, you got it backward. I think it was me who was made for him,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he swallowed hard. “But I never... I would never, and I mean, never-”
"I know," said Kobayashi, sending him a sympathetic glance. "But like, how old is he now?"
"Twenty-two," Kyouji croaked. "He just finished his undergrad."
"Oh," Kobayashi said, his expression softening. "You know, I am not saying it’s okay, because it is still pretty fucked up,” he laughed, coarsely. "But you can stop looking as if you are burning at the stake at the very mention of him, at least. Get a grip."
Kyouji thought bitterly that it was easy for aniki to say, when he didn’t have to face this worry that never fully left him when it came to Satomi and what they meant, or didn't mean, for each other.
"Easy for you to say," Kyouji muttered under his breath, still staring out the window, avoiding Kobayashi's gaze.
Kobayashi was quiet for a moment.
"You're a mess, Kyouji," he said bluntly. "And I'm not going to pretend you're not. But you're also not stupid. If you can't outrun it, maybe it is time to stop running."
Kyouji's phone buzzed. A message from Satomi.
Are you alive?
***
Kyouji felt a knot of nervous energy in his stomach, though from the outside, no one would have ever guessed. He'd perfected the art of keeping his composure, even when his mind was a storm of uncertainty.
Satomi had asked him to come to Tokyo, and Kyouji had come. He'd (strangely) requested souvenirs, and Kyouji had brought them. When Satomi suggested going out for a meal later on, Kyouji made the reservation at a nearby restaurant. They were getting Vietnamese.
Satomi called all the shots, and Kyouji, like a well-trained dog, was unable to stop following the orders.
And most probably, Satomi just needed a friend-or something like that-but deep down, Kyouji silently hoped that his old heart could somehow survive this.
Because this was the way it always would be: Kyouji was never to ask for more. He would never ask, so Satomi would never say no. He held on, and somehow, somehow, he continued holding onto it, containing it, never letting it slip away or become something it shouldn’t be. He was stuck in this... whatever it was, ready to drop it at any moment. And still, here they were, meeting yet again.
Fine.
Kyouji would take it.
He stood at the entrance to Kamata Station, the soft breeze carrying delicate sakura petals through the air, their pink hues floating gently around him.
"Kyouji-san."
The familiar voice cut through the quiet hum of the station, and Kyouji turned, surprised. Satomi was coming from a direction he hadn't expected.
He instantly noticed the weariness in Satomi’s expression. If he kept this up, he’d end up with permanent dark circles under his eyes, just like Kyouji. But despite the signs of exhaustion, Satomi still looked healthy. Beathtaking.
"Satomi-kun," Kyouji said with a smile, his voice warmer than he intended. "Long time no see." Satomi nodded, his demeanor all serious and composed, every inch the young adult he had become.
"Thank you for coming," Satomi started, his voice steady at first, but then he seemed to falter, searching for the right words. He tried again. "Would you like to take a walk?" Satomi asked as his gaze drifted somewhere just beyond Kyouji's shoulder, his words almost hesitant.
"Sure, why not?" Kyouji replied easily.
They fell into step, and Satomi led the way into a nearby park. With the sakura in full bloom, the park was alive with the soft rustling of petals and the chatter of people, despite it being a weekday. But Satomi shuffled slowly through the crowd, quiet and purposeful, as if he had a clear destination in mind. Kyouji, curious, followed without question.
After a short walk, Satomi came to a stop beneath a blooming cherry tree. Without ceremony, he flung his bag onto a cheap plastic blanket that was already spread out on the grass, the kind you’d find at a family picnic. Kyouji’s eyebrow shot up in surprise, his gaze flickering between Satomi and the blanket, the unexpectedness of the scene catching him off guard.
"Kyouji-san, you brought some snacks, right?" Satomi asked casually, slipping off his shoes and stepping onto the mat.
Kyouji blinked. He had the distinct feeling that his face was doing that thing again-the ‘burning at the stake’ expression Kobayashi had mentioned so many times.
"Yeah," Kyouji muttered, handing over the bags with a sense of awkwardness that he couldn't quite shake. "There you go."
"Thank you," Satomi said, already sitting down.
Kyouji hesitated for just a moment longer, his mind racing, before he finally followed suit, sitting down beside him. He couldn't shake the feeling that everything, right now, was a bit more fragile than he'd been prepared for. Unsure of his place, he sat stiffly, his hands resting on his knees as he watched Satomi with a mixture of fondness and tension.
"How’s everything?" Kyouji asked, his low, warm voice melting with the background noise. Satomi paused, glancing up from the snacks.
"You sound like my mother.”
Kyouji couldn’t help but laugh, his nervousness bubbling out in a chuckle and disappearing completely. He missed Satomi more than he realized.
"Well, entertain me then," Kyouji quipped, pushing past the awkwardness that clung to the air between them. Satomi sighed and reached into one of the bags, taking out some snacks.
"Grad school’s been a lot lately," he started slowly, adjusting his glasses as they slid slightly down his nose. It’s been getting warmer by the day. “It’s like I’m buried in books half the time, and when I’m not, I’m working at the restaurant."
"Sounds like it’s a lot," Kyouji agreed, but Satomi shook his head.
"It’s okay.” Satomi shrugged. “Anyway, what about you, Kyouji-san?"
"Me?"
"Well, weren't you horribly busy? Haven’t heard from you in a while," Satomi remarked, his voice flat.
Aah, Kyouji thought faintly, he’s not happy with me. Before he could think of something to say, Satomi's gaze pinned him in place.
"I started to think you were dead."
Kyouji winced imperceptibly, the words landing heavier than he expected.
"I am sorry about that, Satomi-kun," he said softly.
Satomi studied him for a while longer, his gaze steady and unwavering, until Kyouji couldn’t help but squirm.
Even though it was like looking straight into the sun, Kyouji couldn’t help but admire him. The amber glow of his fierce eyes peered at Kyouji from behind the glasses.
"Don’t do that again," Satomi said at last, his voice quieter but firm.
"I won’t," Kyouji replied solemnly, his gaze not leaving Satomi's.
Satomi seemed momentarily taken aback by Kyouji’s earnest response, his gaze flicking over Kyouji’s face before a faint blush crept onto his cheeks.
God, Kyouji thought, the realization hitting him like a punch to the chest. He has no idea what he’s doing to me.
"Also, Kyouji-san," Satomi said suddenly, as if something just occurred to him. "Uh, actually, I was wondering- do you have any plans for Golden Week?"
"No plans," Kyouji answered, his voice even, his gaze resting on Satomi. He was sure that if he actually bothered to check his calendar, something would be written there. But it didn’t matter-whatever it was, he could rearrange it. Let Kobayashi handle things if he is so insistent on meddling.
"Then in that case," Satomi shifted, his expression serious, "can I visit you in Osaka?"
The words hit Kyouji like a wrong note in the song he knew by heart.
What?
He blinked, stealing another glance at Satomi. But despite the flush now creeping up to his ears, Satomi’s eyes were steady, as if to say 'you heard me'.
Kyouji swallowed. Nodded.
"Okay," he managed after a beat.
"Good," Satomi said simply.
The word sent a strange thrill through Kyouji, a warmth curling deep in his chest. He wasn’t sure how good this situation actually was-but if it meant hearing Satomi say good again, he’d take his chances. As the cherry blossoms drifted through the air, one pale petal, caught in the lazy dance of the wind, settled onto Satomi’s dark hair.
Kyouji noticed it instantly. His fingers twitched, hesitating- was this allowed? But before he could talk himself out of it, he reached forward, untangling the petal free with the barest touch.
Satomi blinked up at him, surprised, his lips parting as if to say something. But Kyouji had already pulled back, looking away as if nothing had happened.
He resisted the urge to put the blossom against his mouth.
It would probably taste bitter.
***
"As I said, no can do," Kyouji shook his head, crossing his arms like a fortress. "I’m booked solid for Golden Week. You’ll have to handle it without me."
Kobayashi didn’t even blink. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as if summoning patience from somewhere far away. "Booked, huh?"
"Yep."
"Completely?"
"Down to the minute," Kyouji confirmed, sipping his coffee.
Kobayashi hummed thoughtfully. "And by ‘booked,’ you mean…?"
Kyouji narrowed his eyes. "I mean, I have plans."
Kobayashi tilted his head, unimpressed. "And those plans wouldn’t happen to involve a certain law student in Tokyo, would they?"
Kyouji choked on his coffee.
"Gotcha," Kobayashi said, laughing in that rough, knowing way of his. "You really are painfully simple, Narita. And to think you somehow managed to string along all those women… Frankly, it baffles me." Shaking his head, he stood up, sauntering over to the coffee pot.
Kyouji rolled his eyes, leaning back against his chair with a sigh. "You make it sound way more dramatic than it was," he muttered, watching as Kobayashi poured himself a cup, the rich smell of coffee intensifying.
Kobayashi shot him a sideways glance, smirking as he took a slow sip. "Oh, I don't think I am. But right now, you are pathetic.”
Kyouji narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Kobayashi just chuckled, shaking his head as he made his way back to the table.
Kyouji frowned, but before he could start an argument, his phone buzzed on the table. He stared at the screen for a moment before picking it up.
Kobayashi sat back down, watching him with something between amusement and curiosity.
"Ah, there it is," he murmured. "That face. You're so pitiful, it's almost tragic."
"Aniki," Kyouji began sweetly, tearing his gaze away from the screen. Satomi had just informed him that he'd purchased his Shinkansen tickets. A strange, quiet thrill settled in Kyouji’s chest. "If you have something to say, just say it outright," he continued, leveling Kobayashi with a pointed look. "No need to dance around it."
Kobayashi chuckled, reaching for a smoke. "Oh? Are you sure you want to hear it?" Kobayashi lit the cigarette, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before smirking. "All right then. How about this-you act like a lovesick schoolgirl when it comes to Sensei. You don’t think straight. Or rather, you think exclusively with your dick.”
Kyouji let out a sharp laugh– a little like a dog barking, more out of surprise than amusement. He leaned back against the chair, crossing his arms.
"I think I’ve made a point of not thinking with my dick here.”
Kobayashi exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching him with that same infuriating glint in his eyes. "I’m just calling it as I see it." He tapped his cigarette against the tray, smirking. "And what I see is that you’re completely gone.”
Kyouji clicked his tongue, turning back to his phone as if Satomi’s message required deep analysis. "Shut up."
But maybe he knew what this feeling was. And maybe he knew exactly what it meant- just as much as he knew he had to ignore it. He would be anything Satomi wanted him to be. But this- crossing that line? It wasn’t an option.
He had made a fragile sort of peace with his longing, a quiet truce that let him keep it buried beneath smirks and half-hearted deflections. But indulging in it? Letting it spill over? That was a different matter entirely.
Because if- if he hurt Satomi, if he threw his life off track; if he corrupted him in any way, Kyouji didn’t think he could live with that.
Kobayashi let out another amused chuckle.
"Fine, take your honeymoon. I’ll deal with Takeda and Maki," he said, pushing himself up from his seat, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. "But-" he paused, leveling Kyouji with a pointed look, "you should inform Kumichou. The sooner, the better."
Kyouji shot him a withering glare. "There is no way in hell-” he started, but was then swiftly cut off.
"There is yes way," Kobayashi countered breezily. "Either you do it, or I do it. And trust me, you really don’t want me to do it."
And this-this-this threat!- was the reason why, albeit reluctantly, Kyouji found himself sitting on the couch, surrounded by a swarm of hissing cats.
"How was Tokyo?" asked Kumichou instead of a greeting.
"Tokyo? Ah, it was fine. I did Kamata again," Kyouji answered, trying to figure out how to bring up the real reason he was here. "Everything’s fine. There were a few minor discrepancies in the books at one of the bars-turns out one of the girls had been pocketing cash from the register. It's all sorted now."
"Hm," Kumichou acknowledged, still trying to coax a cat into his lap.
"Actually," Kyouji began, "I’m here because Kobayashi-aniki threatened me."
"Did he now?"
"Yes, he did."
There was a brief, pregnant silence. Finally, Kumichou shifted his gaze from the cat to Kyouji.
"Could that have anything to do with the incident at Mama’s?"
Kyouji sighed, the sound heavy with reluctance. As much as he hated to admit it, this direct approach always seemed to get under his skin.
"Incident?" Kyouji echoed, forcing a casual tone. "What incident?"
Kumichou’s eyes flicked back to the cat, his voice sounding suspiciously like he was trying not to snort with laughter.
"The one where you made a scene over Sensei," he said, scratching the cat under its chin. It purred loudly. "The boy you’ve been all twisted up about."
Kyouji swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his hands as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. "I’m not twisted up about anything," he muttered, though it did not sound very convincing. "And I didn’t make a scene."
Kumichou looked back up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Kyouji with quiet intensity. "Really?" he said, the single word hanging in the air like a challenge.
"Okay, fine," Kyouji conceded bitterly, his tone sharp. "Maybe a little scene. Anyway,” he hurried to change the topic. “I’ll be out for Golden Week. Aniki agreed to cover for me."
He was pierced with a gaze like an X-ray, staring right through him.
"You know what, Kyouji," Kumichou said finally, "I must say, I didn’t expect that from you. With how much of a womanizer you were, you get it, it came as a surprise."
He finally managed to grab an orange tabby, placing it gently on his lap.
”You know, I'm not one to judge," he added with a humorless chuckle. "Not in this profession. Anyway, I was sure you'd go for it, back then. But you didn’t."
Kyouji felt something like a thick nausea crash over him, a weight so heavy and suffocating that it nearly choked him. It coiled around his chest, sharp and toxic. His mind flashed back to that karaoke contest, to the cold bathroom floor, his forehead pressed against a toilet seat as he struggled to breathe through his nose, emptying his stomach into the toilet bowl.
Kumichou stroked the cat lazily, leaning back against the couch.
"Now, we’re eight years into the future. He’s grown up. You, on the other hand..." Kumichou paused, as though choosing his words carefully. "You’re just as much of a kid as you always were." His gaze softened, inspecting Kyouji with a critical eye. "Actually, maybe even more." Kyouji remained frozen, but felt like he would really much like this conversation to end.
“I never took you for a romantic," Kumichou continued, chuckling quietly. "But I guess it figures. So listen carefully, because I’ll only say this once." He added, his voice dropping lower, more serious.
"Don’t cause trouble. And take your damn Golden Week off. Just don’t get used to it."
***
Kyouji sat in one of the many cafes at Shin-Osaka Station, checking his messages again. He had been there for a while, waiting for Satomi, who was supposed to arrive ten minutes ago. The minor earthquake and some fuck up further up at Umeda had caused minor delays, but Kyouji didn’t mind. More time meant he had a moment to mentally prepare himself for whatever was to come.
He glanced around the station, the usual clamor of people passing him by, but it felt distant, like a hum beneath the weight of his thoughts. Satomi's message had been simple:
I will arrive at Shin-Osaka at 18:48 tomorrow.
Kyouji, of course, offered to pick him up and did exactly that, arriving right on time, settling into the cafe, and waiting. But now that he was here, a sense of unease settled into his chest. Satomi was on his way, but what happened after that? Kyouji couldn’t help but wonder if he was about to step into something that could break him in half.
His phone buzzed, cutting through his spiral of thoughts.
I am here.
Kyouji stood, his hands moving automatically to pay for the coffee he hadn’t even finished, then headed for the gates.
As his gaze slid off the faceless crowd, disjointed and failing to hold onto anything, he finally noticed Satomi, right next to the Shinkansen gates.
His duffel bag hung casually by his side, his hair a bit disheveled, as if he had dozed off during the train ride. His eyes met Kyouji’s, and in that fleeting moment, time seemed to slow. Kyouji’s breath hitched, his heart skipping a beat. He raised his hand instinctively, but before he could make a gesture, Satomi was already making his way towards him.
“Sorry I’m late,” Satomi mumbled, the words more like an apology than a greeting.
“It’s okay,” Kyouji said. He gestured to the bag. “Hey, do you need a hand with that?
Satomi shook his head. “No, it’s not heavy at all.”
Kyouji nodded, leading them towards the exit. Satomi trailed half a step behind him.
"Was the journey okay?"
"Ah, yes. It was fine," Satomi replied, his voice casual. Then, just like that, a silence settled between them.
When they reached the car, Kyouji’s fingers brushed over the sleek black exterior of his '99 LS400. It had been his prized possession, though it could never quite replace the Century after it had been totaled. He couldn’t help but miss Century-and all the memories it held–but with time, the LS400 had grown on him. He opened the door, and Satomi slid inside without a word. Kyouji took the wheel, trying to calm the tightness in his chest as he glanced over at Satomi. It had been a while since he’d had him in the passenger seat, and the familiar sight stirred something inside of him.
His gaze lingered on Satomi, watching him out of the corner of his eye. It slowly trailed down and rested on Satomi's thigh. Kyouji felt a sharp tug in his chest. He knew-he knew-it wasn’t okay to reach out back then, and it wasn’t okay now.
Swallowing his feelings down, Kyouji smiled.
“Where to now?”
Satomi blinked slowly, raising his gaze.
“Kyouji-san,” he began, his voice thick with hesitation, “Is that... is that the same one?”
Kyouji followed Satomi’s stare, his stomach dropping slightly when he realized what Satomi was referring to. The small protection charm, hanging from the rearview mirror, was the one Satomi had given him that summer.
“Yeah. That’s the one,” Kyouji murmured sheepishly, his heart tightening as he spoke. It felt like an unspoken connection, a bridge between the present and that summer, which seemed as if it had happened only yesterday-or perhaps a lifetime ago.
He waited for Satomi to say something more, but nothing came.
"Satomi-kun?" Kyouji tried again, resisting the urge to poke Satomi’s cheek.
"Kyouji-san," Satomi suddenly said, his gaze shifting away, "Please shut up. I can’t look at you right now."
Kyouji’s lips curled into a small grin before he could stop it. There was something in Satomi's tone that was almost familiar, and for some reason, it made his heart lighten. He isn't sure how exactly he could tell the difference, but he understood: this wasn’t Satomi being annoyed. This was something else. Something that made him feel very young and very stupid.
He started the car, maneuvering into the traffic with ease.
"Alright, alright," Kyouji said, his voice bright. "Let me know when you figure out where we’re going. In the meantime, enjoy the Osaka sightseeing tour-the parking costs the same as gas in this city. Better get movin’"
Kyouji glanced at Satomi, sitting quietly beside him, looking out of the window. Something was different today.
The hum of the engine filled the silence.
“So, uh, did you hear about that crazy news last night?” Kyouji started, “You know, the one about the train accident in Umeda? It's all over the TV this morning. Crazy stuff. You'd think with all the trains running on time, something like that wouldn’t happen, right, Satomi-kun?”
Satomi didn’t respond, just gave a little sigh, clearly not in the mood for idle chatter.
“Speaking of trains, did you notice that all the stations now have all these fancy signs in English? Makes you wonder when they decided to start appealing to tourists. I think it was around when the Expo was announced. It’s gonna be huge.” Kyouji tapped his hand on the steering wheel. “Oh! And speaking of the Expo, I read that there’s going to be some kind of cool VR experience that’s supposed to be out of this world. Osaka is really changing, huh?”
Satomi finally turned his head, looking at him with a deadpan expression.
“Oh my god, you are so old,” he muttered, exasperated.
Kyouji opened his mouth to protest, but then he saw the way Satomi’s lips were twitching at the corners, and his heart melted a little.
"Ah, Satomi-kun, I think you got it backward. It’s rather you who is very young."
Satomi let out a short, amused huff, the tension in his posture easing out. He crossed his arms, leaning back in the seat.
“Kyouji-san, you talk like someone who still gets excited about phones that don’t have touch screens.”
"Well, touch screens are overrated," Kyouji replied with a mock-serious expression. "You know, back in my day, we had buttons. And we liked it that way."
“You can keep your old-man stories,” Satomi raised an eyebrow. “Just don’t expect me to get excited about VR and touch screens anytime soon.”
Kyouji let out a soft laugh. He couldn’t help it. Fondness, much stronger than he thought himself capable of feeling, flooded his heart to the brim.
He could feel Satomi’s soft gaze on him. In all honesty, he felt like he was going a little insane.
The minutes stretched on, each one blending into the next as the hum of the engine filled the space between them. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy, like air before a storm. Just when Kyouji thought Satomi might stay quiet for the rest of the ride and was ready to propose they go to a restaurant, he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual, almost tentative.
“Kyouji-san…” Satomi started, his eyes flicking over to him before quickly darting away. “Would it be alright if we... went to your place?”
Kyouji blinked, thrown off guard. His heart skipped a beat as the question hung in the air. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he sensed the danger in those words.
“My place?” Kyouji repeated, as if to confirm he’d heard him right.
Satomi nodded, his gaze lingering on his lap.
“Yeah. I... I don’t really want to go home right now. If that’s okay with you,” he added, the hesitation in his voice evident.
Kyouji’s chest tightened. For some reason, the thought of saying no never even crossed his mind.
“Sure,” he said, the word slipping out before he could even think it through. “Let’s go.”
He was already going to hell. Might as well enjoy the ride down.
***
Kyouji fiddled with his key as the elevator carried them up. To Satomi, the motion probably looked lazy, almost playful. Kyouji could feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips.
The building was owned by Matsuribayashi. Most of the tenants were just regular people, but enough of them weren’t. Bringing Satomi here wasn’t exactly dangerous. It was fine. Safe, probably. Don’t shit where you live-or however that saying went. But still, it felt… wrong.
And yet, here they were.
Not that he had to bring Satomi here. He could’ve gone to a burner flat. Could’ve lied and said he wasn’t living alone. Could’ve claimed it wasn’t safe. Could’ve just said no.
In theory.
In practice, Narita Kyouji had just as little control over this as he had over his own damn heart.
“We’re here, Satomi-kun,” he said, turning the key and pushing the door open.
Satomi hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping inside.
Kyouji nodded toward the shoe rack.
“I rarely have guests, but there should be some slippers on the bottom shelf.”
“Ah, yes,” Satomi mumbled, crouching to search for them.
Kyouji stepped further inside, glancing. He scanned the room quickly, making sure nothing outrageous was lying around.
"Sorry to intrude," Satomi said as he stepped into the living room.
Kyouji's chest tightened.
Satomi looked out of place here. His soft sweater, his round face, his hair - it all felt too warm, too gentle against the cold mahogany, steel, and dark leather of the interior. The penthouse was large and put together, but not lived in. For the first time, Kyouji wished he'd bought some cushions. Or a blanket. Something to soften the space.
Unaware of the thoughts running through Kyouji's head, Satomi slowly looked around, with a little frown forming between his eyebrows.
"Is this really where you live?" he asked, letting his bag drop to the floor before stepping further in.
Kyouji huffed a quiet laugh. He was suddenly itching for a cigarette.
"Not what you expected, Satomi-kun?"
Satomi shook his head. "No, I think this is pretty much what I imagined."
Such a weird kid, Kyouji thought, feeling affection swell inside of him, surging like a tide, pulling him in. He ran his hand through his hair.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. Satomi nodded.
“Actually,” Satomi started, and then hesitated, turning his gaze away, “I am kind of hungry.”
“Right,” Kyouji said after a beat, “Should we then go out and grab some food?”
Satomi looked to the side and sighed loudly.
“Can’t we get takeout?”
“Sure,” Kyouji answered before he even knew what was spilling from his mouth. He pulled out his phone and opened the app, dropping onto the couch, “What do you feel like?”
Satomi took a few steps forward. Kyouji could feel his gaze settling on him, and it took everything in him not to raise his eyes from the phone. He felt that if he did that, he could do or say something that he would later regret.
“Chinese,” Satomi answered, eventually stepping to the side and plopping next to Kyouji. Their tights touched.
“Chinese. You got this,” mumbled Kyouji, quickly placing an order, hyper aware of every inch of contact between them.
“Kyouji-san.” Satomi said quietly, “Can you show me around?”
“Sure,” Kyouji agreed easily, shrugging and sweeping off invisible dust from his slacks, although he felt anything but ease. He suddenly thought it was very stupid to bring Satomi here.
Satomi got up and followed close behind Kyouji.
“This is the guest room. As you can see, there isn’t anything here.” Kyouji opened the door to show the sorry sight. The only thing there was an old mattress thrown on the floor from that one time when Ogata needed to stay the night after his girlfriend caught him cheating and threw him out of his apartment. He did not tell Satomi that.
“Here is the bathroom,” Kyouji said, opening another door. “Over there, that’s my office. It’s perhaps best if you don’t go there; there isn’t anything there worth seeing anyway. And here, “Kyouji pushed the last door open “is my bedroom.”
Satomi, up until this point following him and only politely peeking over Kyouji’s shoulder, now slowly walked past Kyouji’s extended arm. He looked inside, lingering at the entrance for a moment before he looked back at Kyouji.
“Is it okay if I go in?”
Kyouji felt his mouth go dry, but he nodded before thinking better of it.
“Suit yourself.”
Satomi took a few steps in.
Kyouji’s bedroom was a bit less void of any sign of life compared to the rest of the apartment. There was a shirt hanging on the closet door, a tie thrown carelessly on the unmade bed, and a half-full coffee cup forgotten at the bedside table.
Kyouji suddenly remembered Satomi’s Kamata apartment.
Satomi looked around carefully and came up to the closet, his fingers brushing the wrinkled fabric of the forgotten shirt.
Kyouji felt his feet move him closer before his brain had the chance to think it through.
“And? What do you think, Satomi-kun? Do I get a pass?” he ran some nonsense through his mouth.
Satomi turned around with a frown on his forehead.
“This isn’t an inspection.”
“Isn’t it? Hahaha. That’s a relief,” Kyouji blabbered, feeling his heartbeat pick up.
Having Satomi here, in his very bedroom, did things to him that he couldn’t even begin to unravel. He tried to get a grip, but it was as if Satomi had a gravitational pull of his own, and before Kyouji noticed, he was standing right next to him. Startled by this realisation, he took half a step back.
“Well, Satomi-kun, I hope you enjoyed the tour then. Shall we go back to the kitchen? I’ll make you some tea.”
Satomi looked at him with his big, hazel eyes, and Kyouji thought for what felt like a thousand times in the last couple of months, how unfair this situation is. His heart tightened, and he vaguely thought that if it continues like this, he is likely to develop some heart condition.
“Kyouji-san,” Satomi started, taking a step forward. He got so close that Kyouji thought for a second that he was going for a hug, but instead of that, Satomi looked up, his face dead serious.
All the alarms started going off in Kyouji’s head. His heart raced as he tried to locate his brain inside his skull, while it felt as if it had dropped to the floor.
A faint impression of Satomi’s breath hit Kyouji’s face, and that’s when he realised that he was leaning in. The want he was suppressing suddenly burned with the brightness of thousands of suns, and it felt as if his heart would melt out of his chest at any moment. God. What the fuck was he doing? His resolve hung on a thread, and now Kyouji could feel it straining, seconds away from snapping. A moment longer and he will fall, plummeting to his death.
Horrific visions emerged in Kyouji’s mind.
A loud sound of the doorbell broke the silence, and in an instant Kyouji snapped his back straight, as startled from a dream. He laughed, but it sounded strained even to his own ears.
“Must be the food. Cmon, let’s get eating. You must be starving.”
Whatever it was, the moment passed, leaving Kyouji feeling drunk. As he headed back to the kitchen, he could hear Satomi’s soft steps following him behind.
God. What was he thinking, agreeing to this visit? Aniki was right, he wasn’t in his right mind, and this, this could not end well.
He rubbed his eyes, groaning. The doorbell rang again.
Kyouji marched over and opened the front door with a bit more force than necessary, making the delivery guy jump.
“Na-Narita-san?” the guy held up the bag. Kyouji flashed him an easy smile, trying to mask his inner turmoil, as he reached for the food.
“That’s right. Sorry about that!”
“No, no problem. There you go.”
“Thanks”
Through the whole exchange, Kyouji tried to shake the feeling of Satomi’s gaze piercing him at the back of his neck.
Sure enough, when he turned around, their eyes instantly locked.
“Let’s eat,” said Kyouji, studying Satomi carefully. He really hoped he didn’t do anything to make Satomi uncomfortable. He felt a sheepish kind of embarrassment creeping in. He was behaving as if he were a teenager and Satomi the adult he was supposed to be.
He grew up, Kyouji thought fondly.
They moved to the kitchen, where Satomi sat down at the table and began unwrapping the takeout, and Kyouji finally began making tea.
“It smells good,” he commented offhandedly, pouring the boiling water over the tea packed.
“It looks good too,” said Satomi, breaking up the chopsticks. “Thank you for the food.”
Kyouji placed the tea in front of him, smiling gently and finally sitting down.
“So, Satomi-kun. Any plans for Golden Week?”
Satomi had his mouth full, so he just shook his head before chewing and swallowing.
“No. I mean, I am seeing my family tomorrow. My brother is visiting too. Other than that, I don’t really have any plans.”
Kyouji smiled and took a bite of his own dish. It was alright.
“Sounds nice. Last year, you spent the Golden Week in Tokyo, right?”
“Yeah. It is expensive as hell to go anywhere during this time,” said Satomi, taking another bite.
Kyouji fought the urge to offer money. God. As if everything he had wasn’t already Satomi’s.
“That’s true. Saved up enough this time?”
“Yeah,” said Satomi, putting his elbows on the table, “What about you, Kyouji-san?”
“Ah. I don’t have any plans, no,” answered Kyouji.
Satomi nodded. He put his chopsticks down and took a careful sip of the tea. The steam blurred his glasses, so he took them off and began wiping them.
“Kyouji-san. Can I spend the night?”
Kyouji inhaled so sharply that he was millimetres away from choking. He looked straight at Satomi just to make sure he heard it correctly, and that’s where he went wrong. Satomi’s eyes, unobstructed by the glasses, started right back at him.
“Sure,” he answered automatically, as his brain short-circuited at the sight. “But why?”
Satomi blinked at him slowly. Kyouji wasn’t sure if it was from the hot tea or spicy food, but Satomi’s cheeks were tinted red. Kyouji felt a desire crawl into his fingertips, urging him to reach out and brush his finger against reddened skin.
“Uhm,” Satomi shifted in his seat, “Actually, my parents think I am coming home tomorrow. But today’s tickets were more affordable,” he eventually said.
Kyouji was pretty sure that this was a lie.
“No problem,” he answered easily, feeling his guts twist up. He felt as if the gods tested him. This was positively a terrible idea and very much a problem.
He didn’t even try to imagine why Satomi had asked. He couldn’t trust his own mind; his own judgment was surely skewed by those unfortunate feelings lodged in his old, tired heart.
Satomi nodded.
“Great,” he started, folding the takeout container. As always, Satomi snorted the portion before Kyouji got even halfway
“I’ll… I will go take a shower then” Satomi half stated, half asked.
“Sure,” said Kyouji, swallowing loudly. “There are fresh towels in the cabinet on the left.”
Satomi nodded again and went to the bathroom.
For all thirty-something minutes that Satomi took in the bathroom, Kyouji endured some kind of sweet torture. He tried very hard not to think about Satomi in his bathroom, undressing, stepping into the shower, or submerging into a bathtub; Satomi running his fingers through his dark hair; Satomi drying himself off with those ridiculously expensive towels that Kyouji was gifted by one of his trysts in the past. He was convinced that if he had, in fact, thought about it for longer than a split second, he might combust on the spot. He felt giddy and stupid and at the same time shocked and appalled at his own inability to control a surging feeling that was pooling at the base of his stomach.
Stupid.
To keep himself busy, he first cleaned the kitchen, then marched to the bedroom and changed the bedsheets - it was obvious that Satomi should sleep here, on an actual bed rather than the mangy and probably smelly old mattress in the spare room. He tried not to linger on the thought of Satomi lying down here and occupying the same space where Kyouji’s own body would sometimes lie-sometimes do more than just that-but it left him feeling restless. He threw his old bedsheets into the guest room and, unable to stop himself, opened the window and lit up a smoke.
He was just finishing up when he heard a soft “Kyouji-san?” from the living room.
He stubbed the cigarette on the windowsill and threw it outside, closing the window quickly. The night had just settled into the sky.
Satomi stood in the middle of the living room. His hair was still wet, making it look darker and shinier. At this sight, Kyouji felt immeasurable fondness rise in his heart, sneak out and stretch his lips into a soft, soft smile.
“Was the shower nice?” he asked dumbly.
Satomi gave him one of his particular pointed looks, shrugging vaguely.
“Well,” Kyouji continued, pointing to the bedroom, “If you’re tired, I made the bed for you.”
For a moment, there was silence. Satomi was still looking at Kyouji with this weird intensity that made Kyouji feel like he was about to jump out of his skin.
Only after a moment, Satomi sighed and sat heavily on a couch, his eyebrows drawing near.
“I don’t feel sleepy yet. Can we watch something?”
“Yeah. What do you feel like?” Kyouji found himself turning the TV on and flipping channels, happy to give his hands something to hold. They were feeling restless.
“Kyouji-san, don’t you have prime or something like that?”
“Ah, sure. One second,” Kyouji turned on the smart TV and handed Satomi the pilot.
“Pick whatever you feel like, Satomi-kun.”
Then he sat next to Satomi, careful not to be too close. Kyouji was sure that if at that moment they touched, it would end badly, so he carefully positioned himself in such a way that there was space between them.
Satomi put on some action blockbuster (since when is he interested in that, Kyouji mused) and leaned back into the couch. For a long while, they watched in silence.
Every now and then, Kyouji would make a remark about the movie, Satomi would scoff, and that would make Kyouji chuckle, resetting the cycle.
With each time it happened, Satomi would shift slightly, and eventually Kyouji could feel their legs pressing together. He took his eyes off the screen and looked and Satomi carefully, but Satomi was looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable.
Kyouji was trying his best to calm down his heart and reel in his thoughts, which, despite his best efforts, could slip into rather dirty territory at any moment. He could feel every move Satomi made, hyperaware to the very millimeter. Either this closeness made it more apparent, or Satomi was unusually twitchy today.
Someone could ask Kyouji at gunpoint what the movie was about, and all he would be able to say was that there were some spies and shooting. He really did not care. He was using every ounce of his strained self-control not to do something he was sure to regret.
Satomi was so close, soft and warm, unknowingly inviting, quietly seducing. Making Kyouji mad. Making him crazy.
It was the same, worn-out, familiar urge to reach out, to place his hand on Satomi’s leg and trail it up.
And maybe… maybe if he asked. Maybe Satomi… The thoughts, hopeful and shameful and warm, so long kept at bay, started slithering in Kyouji’s mind.
Maybe… Why did Satomi come here? Why stay around an old, broken, dangerous man like himself? There could be a hundred reasons for that, and Kyouji would likely never find out unless he was willing to risk it all. Which he wasn’t.
But that does not mean he could stop himself from wondering.
“Satomi-kun,” he started carefully, “Is everything okay at home?”
“Huh?”
For the first time since he sat down on the couch, Satomi looked at Kyouji, with a puzzled expression painted across his face.
“You mentioned that your family does not know you came to Osaka early.”
Bewilderment slowly dropped from Satomi’s face, replaced by quiet irritation. Okay, so not that, Kyouji thought to himself.
Satomi gave him the familiar, beloved, slightly murderous look. Finally, after a long moment, he sighed deeply, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, he looked unsure. He bit his lower lip so hard that Kyouji feared he would draw blood.
“Kyouji-san,” he started, clenching and unclenching his fist nervously. “I- “
But before he could finish his sentence, Kyouji’s phone rang.
***
To say that Kyouji was angry would be a gross understatement. He was called by Ogata-by Ogata, not even Kobayashi or wakagashira!-about some fuck up at one of the clubs, who insisted that he had to, he absolutely had to come over and settle the conflict. When he arrived on the scene, there was a problem-a dead body lying in the pile of blood and a member of one of the smaller Osaka gangs-but it only made Kyouji more irritated.
“Why couldn’t you handle it yourselves?” Kyouji complained, knowing exactly why. He really was needed at the scene, which didn’t mean he wasn’t pissed about it. Whatever. For all it was worth, Ogata looked pretty apologetic.
“I didn’t want to disturb, Narita,” he said, clapping Kyouji on the back. “But you see what a big clusterfuck it is, and everyone else is busy.”
“Whatever,” whined Kyouji, running a hand through his hair, and thinking of Satomi-whom he had to leave in his apartment, alone, confused-and got to business.
After all was said and done, and Kyouji looked at his watch, it was a quarter to two in the morning. Fuck.
“I am going,” he announced to Ogata, heading to his car.
“Sure. Tell sensei I said hi.”
“Fuck you.”
Only when he was back in the car, looking at the charm from Satomi dangling from the rearview mirror, Kyouji realised that there were blood stains on his suit. He groaned loudly and considered going to one of the burner flats first to clean up and change, but decided against it. Satomi was surely asleep by now, and Kyouji did not like the thought of leaving him alone in the yakuza apartment for longer than necessary. He distantly thought that Kobayashi’s old idea of installing a camera at the entrance might not be so bad after all. Just in case, to monitor all the suspicious people who lived in the complex.
But when he stepped back into the flat, the light was still on.
“Kyouji-san?”
Following quiet footsteps, Satomi appeared, and Kyouji let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. But the profound relief at the fact that Satomi was here, safe and sound, was short-lived.
Satomi looked like he had seen a ghost, pale, his eyes wide open.
“What’s wrong?” Kyouji asked immediately. Before he could think it through, he was dropping his briefcase and stepping inside, the shoes be damned. He immediately scanned the whole apartment, looking for anything out of place. When he didn’t find it, he grabbed Satomi by the shoulders, taking a good look. He seemed to be in one piece. Nothing broken, no bleeding, clothes looking slightly rumpled, but that was probably from dozing off on the couch.
“Satomi-kun, are you okay? Are you feeling okay?” Kyouji asked, his hands running along Satomi’s sides, as if checking if he was whole.
Satomi stood there, frozen. Kyouji’s mind began conjuring all kinds of scenarios, each worse than the previous one.
He opened his mouth to ask again when Satomi shoved him away with more force than Kyouji expected.
Kyouji’s back hit the wall.
“Am I okay?” asked Satomi angrily, closing the distance he just created, stepping forward. “Am I okay?” Satomi gestured vaguely to Kyouji, who suddenly remembered that he was a rather sorry sight. Something clicked, a memory of that summer surfacing in his mind-car accident, bloody shirt, karaoke contest.
Ah. No wonder Satomi was upset.
Kyouji shook his head lightly and kicked off his shoes in the general direction of the genkan.
“I’m sorry, Satomi-kun. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Idiot,” Satomi hissed through gritted teeth. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I am sorry,” Kyouji repeated solemnly. Stomi sniffed, sounding suspiciously like the beginning of a sob. He turned around, taking a couple of steps back, and, after a moment, he turned again to Kyouji and spoke, sounding more composed.
“Is this your blood?”
“No,” Kyouji answered immediately.
Satomi breathed heavily, pushing his glasses up his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Okay”
“Okay,” Kyouji parroted back, “I will go and wash up, okay?”
He really did not want Satomi seeing him doused in blood.
“Yeah,” Satomi croaked, his eyes still closed. Kyouji took a step to walk past Satomi and get rid of his grimey clothes, but as he was walking past, Satomi grabbed his sleeve, stopping him in place.
“Satomi-kun?” Kyouji asked, unsure. But before he could do anything, Satomi stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Kyouji. He hugged as he always did-with so much force that their bodies were pressed together tightly, not a millimeter of space between.
Kyouji hesitated-was this okay?-but after a moment, he slowly hugged Satomi back, resting his palms between Satomi’s shoulder blades.
He could feel Satomi take a deep breath, his face hidden in Kyouji’s chest, warm exhale catching on the bloodied shirt.
“You’ll get dirty, Satomi-kun,” said Kyouji gently, after a moment had passed. God help him. This kid.
“Yeah,” came a muffled reply. “Then you should stop getting blood all over yourself,” Satomi scoffed angrily, moving away. Kyouji tried very hard not to feel a twinge of disappointment that he lost the warm sensation.
***
When Kyouji emerged from the bathroom, showered and in a clean set of clothes, Satomi still sat on the couch, twiddling with his phone.
“Aren’t you tired?” Kyouji asked, plopping down next to him. Satomi raised an eyebrow at him without uttering a word.
Eventually, he shrugged.
“Yeah, maybe a little”
Kyouji nodded and slapped his tights, getting up.
“Let’s go to sleep then.”
They made it as far as the guest room door. For the whole time, Kyouji tried not to think too hard about what was happening. Being tired helped a little.
“Alright Satomi-kun, sleep well and-” he said, turning around to say goodnight and check if Satomi is okay.
“Kyouji-san,” Satomi interrupted him, “you should sleep in your own bed.”
Kyouji blinked. What?
“I mean,” Satomi stuttered, looking down, “You really shouldn’t sleep on the matters on my account. Can your old back even handle it?”
“I’ve already changed the bedsheets,” Kyouji said, raising an eyebrow. “Plus, you don’t want to sleep on that mattress. Trust me on that one, I got it from kitty aniki, and I’m pretty sure he got it from one of the-“
“Yeah,” said Satomi quickly. Were Kyouji’s eyes playing a trick on him, or was he slowly flushing red? Kyouji blinked slowly, his heart picking up faster than his brain, hammering in his chest, shaking him awake.
“Yeah, I believe you,” repeated Satomi, “I would sleep on the bed too,” he said, finally raising his gaze and daringly staring at Kyouji-chin raised, cheeks flushed red, eyes glistening in the darkness.
Something twinged in Kyouji’s tired brain. He knew-god, he knew-he should say a definitive no. Or maybe he should conjure up some excuse. It wouldn’t be difficult. Satomi would back off. This, whatever this was, was an epitome of a bad idea. Kyouji would know. He was familiar with those.
“Sure,” his mouth answered, feeling very dry. It felt like he was standing beside himself. He tried to swallow some saliva down his throat. Just to get Satomi’s eyes off of him, he gestured to the bedroom door.
Satomi slowly turned around and walked in. Kyouji followed.
His mind raced, but his body moved on instinct, trailing after Satomi.
The room was dark, fresh sheets arranged on the bed, and a dirty coffee cup was now missing from the nightstand, all cleaned up. Kyouji’s mind went back to the moment a couple of hours earlier, when he and Satomi were standing here, and Kyouji was milimeters away from doing something very stupid.
Get a grip, he thought to himself. He’s just staying the night. Nothing’s going to happen. Stop being a goddamn idiot.
Satomi stood by the edge of the bed, his fingers fidgeting slightly against the fabric of his t-shirt. Kyouji tried to focus on anything else-the blackout curtains, the faint city lights outside the window seeping through the crack-but his gaze kept snapping back to Satomi.
“I… I guess I’ll just… take this side?” Satomi mumbled, awkwardly, his confidence from a moment ago seeming to fade.
“Yeah, sure,” Kyouji said, voice rougher than he meant. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile.
“Satomi-kun,” he said softly, trying for a light tone, “I hope you don’t snore.”
“I don’t!” scoffed Satomi, looking slightly appalled. While Kyouji loved to see him flustered and unsure-mostly because of how different it was from the usual, stoic Satomi-above all else, he wanted him to feel comfortable.
Satomi sat on the edge of the bed, taking off his glasses. He folded them neatly and put them on the nightstand.
Kyouji felt such an overwhelming surge of emotion at this sight that he quickly walked to his side of the bed and sat down.
He wondered, sometimes. How did he fall for this boy.
He always liked women. They were easy-easy to handle, and easy on the eyes. He knew the dance, knew the rules. And while Satomi was certainly beautiful, he had a bad temper and was unpredictable, alternating between childish tantrums and adult-like maturity that in many ways exceeded Kyouji’s own.
And Kyouji was sure that whatever Satomi put his mind to, he would surely succeed. This is just how this boy was like. The opposite of Kyouji himself, in that regard. He always lacked drive.
But the truth was, Kyouji had never even thought about his own sexuality. His crooked desire for the boy who wasn’t even of age unsettled him enough to completely overshadow the other part of the equation. He never thought about it. But since that fateful summer, during long, dull years without Satomi, he did seek out pretty boys in the pleasure district. Boys with glasses and big, doe-like eyes.
He was sure that he came into Satomi’s life like a tornado, wreaking havoc and altering his life at least a little, but Satomi had done the same to him. Unknowingly, of course.
Kyouji slipped under the sheets, careful to maintain a polite distance. Satomi now also crawled under the duvet and lay stiffly on his back, staring at the ceiling. Then he reached out and turned off the light.
They did not touch.
And yet Kyouji was on fire.
Every nerve in his body was urging him to reach out and make use of the bed they were lying on. How could he help it? The abstract, vague vision of himself and Satomi in the same bed somehow, by some cosmic miracle, suddenly materialised.
He bet he could make Satomi feel good. Was Satomi even getting any at the university? Was there anyone to take him into their hands or mouths and please him? To let Satomi fuck them into the mattress until he was satisfied? Or perhaps to press Satomi down, making him feel small and taken care of?
Kyouji would be up to everything. Anything. Anything at all. If only it didn’t mean Satomi would never speak to him again. He could feel himself slowly stiffen in the pajama pants he was wearing. Usually he slept in his undearwear, but he figured it wouldn't be a best idea to parade his yakuza ink in front of Satomi.
“Kyouji-san,” Satomi whispered in the dark, unaware of the turmoil blazing in Kyouji’s chest. His voice was so soft, it was almost swallowed by the quiet darkness.
“Yeah?” Kyouji managed, careful not to betray his struggle.
A long pause stretched between them. Satomi shifted slightly, scooting closer, his shoulder brushing against Kyouji’s. That faint touch was enough to make Kyouji’s pulse thunder in his ears.
“Can I… hold onto you?”
For a split second, Kyouji was sure he must have misheard. His heart stuttered, caught between disbelief and wild, runaway thoughts.
“Of course,” he breathed, trying and failing to sound calm.
He was sure it must be some divine test.
Satomi’s hand reached out, fumbling in the dark until his fingers found Kyouji’s sleeve. Then, cautiously, he slid closer, pressing his forehead against Kyouji’s shoulder. His hand settled on Kyouji’s arm, his grip light but trembling.
Kyouji felt his entire world narrow down to the warmth of Satomi’s touch, the steady, shaky breath against his shoulder. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too loudly, afraid of breaking whatever miracle or curse had brought them here.
They both froze like that, Satomi curled against him, and Kyouji lying stiffly and perfectly still, trying to contain the overwhelming rush of emotion flooding his chest. He wanted to say something, but the words were tangled in his throat, his thoughts a chaotic mess.
Kyouji closed his eyes, his heart pounding, and wondered how something so simple could feel like this.
He wasn’t so sure anymore if he could handle it. It felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Undone.
Maybe it wasn’t a test. Maybe it was a miracle-a reward. Maybe he used up all his good karma on this one moment with Satomi. Or maybe he was being punished. Teased with something that would threaten this indescribable bond that held them together.
After some time-what is minutes? hours? - Kyouji couldn’t take it.
“Satomi-kun…” he whispered, unsure of what he even wanted to say. Ask for an explanation? Reassure him? Confess everything that was clawing at his chest?
But Satomi didn’t answer. His breathing was calm and steady. Kyouji realized with a strange mix of relief and heartbreak that Satomi had fallen asleep.
A quiet, almost bitter laugh tried to bubble up, but Kyouji swallowed it down. Of course. Satomi probably just wanted to check if he was okay. It was about comfort. Nothing more.
But Kyouji couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Even if it was torture to lie there like this, so, so close and yet unable to do anything about it.
Carefully, he shifted just enough to pull the duvet higher, making sure Satomi was properly covered.
Then, almost like a last-minute decision and feeling as if he was committing a crime, he let his hand rise, hesitantly resting it on Satomi’s back.
For a long time, he lay in silence, motionless, counting Satomi’s breaths and feeling his emotions swell to an almost unbearable level. But eventually, the ceiling above blurred, his own exhaustion finally catching up to him. The storm in his chest dulled to a painful, steady ache.
He would stay like this. As long as Satomi needed.
Even if it killed him.
***
Kyouji woke up to a strange sensation - something shifting, pulling away from him. Half asleep, he instinctively tightened his arms, trying to keep the source of warmth and softness close.
There was a soft, surprised gasp.
His fingers brushed against something. Hair? His chest was pressed against a smaller, warm body. His sleep-fogged mind took a few heartbeats to catch up, and when it did, Kyouji’s eyes snapped open.
“Satomi…?” Kyouji’s voice was hoarse, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He loosened his grip immediately, but Satomi didn’t move away. He was facing the other way, looking at the wall. Alarm bells started going off in Kyouji’s head. They were practically spooning. Did he do something he was not supposed to? Or maybe this position was too much? Crap, it probably was. Cuddling was definitely off the damn charts. All the pleasure he felt from it was instantly dimmed.
“Everything okay?” he tried again, desperate for Satomi to say something to him.
“Mhm,” mumbled Satomi. Kyouji felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Fuck. Something was definitely off. Panic clawed at his chest. He tried to shift back a little before realising that his arm was lodged underneath Satomi’s head.
“Kyouji-san,” started Satomi, rolling over onto his back. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his face was the brightest shade of red Kyouji has ever seen. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, confusing Kyouji to no end. What was he talking about? “But you surely must know. You must know.”
Kyouji had no idea. His heart skipped a beat, then pounded harder, thundering in his ears. He stared at Satomi’s flushed face, at the way his eyelashes trembled against his cheeks, the way his fingers twisted nervously in the sheets.
“Satomi-kun, I…” Kyouji’s mouth was dry. Know? Know what?
Satomi’s fingers twisted harder in the sheets. “I thought I could just… just stay away. Pretend it’s fine. That it’s just… that we’re just…” He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “But I’m not fine, Kyouji-san. Not even a little.”
Kyouji felt his chest tighten, panic rising like a nauseating wave. Had he crossed a line? Had he finally completely fucking lost it?
“Please don’t play dumb,” Satomi said, finally opening his eyes and looking straight at Kyouji. “I don’t think I can take it anymore.”
“I’m not…” Kyouji swallowed, panicked, “I’m not playing dumb. I swear. I just… I don’t want to assume. I don’t want to… push you.”
Kyouji immediately mentally slapped himself. The way it came out was all fucking wrong.
Satomi stared at him for a long, agonizing moment, his chest rising and falling with shaky breaths. His fingers were still gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale.
“Kyouji-san,” Satomi said, looking at him carefully, as if searching for something in Kyouji’s face. Kyouji had no idea what he saw there, but whatever it was, it made Satomi reach out and grab Kyouji’s hand. He twisted it in his palm, gently threading his fingers through Kyouji’s, giving a soft, steady squeeze. “Is this okay?”
Kyouji felt like he was transported to an alternate dimension. Satomi asking made zero sense. Satomi could probably drive a knife through his chest, and Kyouji would be okay with that, too.
Unable to understand what was happening, Kyouji just nodded, completely dazed.
Satomi’s eyes were glued to Kyouji’s face. Kyouji had never seen him like that, so disheveled. His hair was messy, his skin flushed, and his glasses were missing. Kyouji was drunk on his smell and warmth, confused and unable to grasp what was happening.
Satomi guided their joined hands to his stomach, rolling to the side and pulling Kyouji close behind him, back into the position they woke up in.
He slowly untangled their fingers, taking Kyouji’s palm in his own, and then pushed it further down.
All thoughts instantly evaporated from Kyouji’s mind. The frantic thumping of his heartbeat that was deafening just a second ago was now replaced by white noise. Satomi moved Kyouji’s palm right on top of his bulging pajama pants. Satomi was hard. Rock hard, dick straining against the thin material, Kyouji’s hand on top of it, Satomi’s hand on top of that.
Kyouji moved his hand on pure instinct, bending his fingers around the shape. Satomi gasped.
“Tell me to stop,” Kyouji whispered, trying to believe himself. “And I will.”
But instead, Satomi’s hand tightened on his, and he shook his head.
“Don’t,” Satomi breathed.
That was it.
Kyouji groaned, the last of his inhibitions dispersing into the air. How could he resist? He was only human, after all, weak and selfish to the core. His resolve has run out, overtaken by hunger, by desire, by love, by desperation that has been building over the years. And beneath the heat, beneath the hunger, there was a tenderness - some type of aching sweetness that made Kyouji’s chest feel tight.
He worked his hand under Satomi’s waistband, plastering himself to his back. His own dick, now also painfully hard, made contact with Satomi’s ass, letting him know just how much this affected Kyouji. What it did to him.
Satomi made a muffled sound that resembled a moan.
Kyouji moved the arm lodged beneath Satomi and pulled him impossibly closer, taking his erect penis into his hand and moving it up and down.
“Ah, Kyouji-san,” gasped Satomi, arching back, grinding against Kyouji, making him go insane. He started thrusting his hips to meet him halfway, feeling like a teenager who is about to cream his pants. They began moving in tandem, Satomi fucking into his fist and Kyouji grinding against his ass.
He jerked Satomi quickly, too delirious to maybe try and savour this miraculous moment, hiding his face into the crook of Satomi’s neck and breathing in his beloved scent with heavy gulps of air.
He couldn’t formulate a single thought. All he could focus on was Satomi. Satomi in his arms, gasping and desperate, while Kyouji wanted to give, give, and give. Why was it not allowed? Why was it wrong?
Kyouji relished in the feeling of Satomi’s dick in his palm, hard, heavy, and slightly wet, and resisted the urge to bite into Satomi’s shoulder. He was made for it. He was made to please Satomi, to make him feel good. This is what he was meant to do.
Satomi didn’t say anything, didn’t give any warning. He just inhaled sharply, trembled, and spilled into Kyouji’s palm. It only took a moment.
Kyouji held him through his orgasm, unwilling to let go, unable to steady his hips.
“You did so well, Satomi, so well,” he mumbled into Satomi’s shoulder, his mouth running before he could think better of it.
Then Satomi moved, forcing Kyouji to let go (no! he wasn’t ready to let go yet!) and flipping him on his back. Kyouji was sure that this was it - Satomi is now going to walk out of the room and never speak to him again - but instead, he sprawled on top of him, placing his knee between Kyouji’s legs, running his hand down his stomach, and cupping him through his pants. Jesus.
They locked eyes. Satomi was all fire.
Kyouji was sure that in that moment, he could’ve come just by looking at Satomi for a bit longer. He was flushed, his hair a mess, his lips wet, his pajamas in disarray. The shirt was barely hanging off of one shoulder (did he push it down? when?), and the pants were sitting so low on his hips that Kyouji could see the dark hair trailing down.
But he couldn’t admire the view for too long, because Satomi moved closer, latching onto him, pulling his pajama pants down, and taking him into his hand properly.
The angle was weird, but Kyouji could not care less. Satomi moved his hand awkwardly, red in the face from the embarrassment and effort. He had that focused look, where his eyebrows creased gently, and he poked the tip of his tongue out. Kyouji felt like he was melting.
Overall, it took embarrassingly short. Maybe thirty seconds. Maybe less.
“Satomi,” was all that Kyouji managed in lieu of a warning, his hips jerking upwards, his arms pulling Satomi closer.
He came all over Satomi’s hand. Some of it also got on his pajamas. It was a fucking mess.
Kyouji did not know how long he lay there, holding Satomi so tight that he could feel their heartbeats melt together. His breath tickled Kyouji’s neck. They should probably clean up. Kyouji also had to take a piss - his bladder was on the verge of bursting. He just couldn’t bring himself to move, afraid that this moment would either pass without a trace or morph into something else. Something terrifying.
Eventually, there came a small petulant huff, and Satomi raised his head up.
“Can I kiss you?”
What?
This question was so unexpected-so different from anything that Kyouji dared to imagine-that a breathless laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He buried his face against Satomi’s hair, his shoulders shaking.
“Why are you laughing?” Satomi sulked, frowning at Kyouji angrily.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Kyouji managed, trying to stifle his laughter. He felt light, almost dizzy. “It’s just… Can you kiss me? Satomi-kun, we just—”
“Shut up,” Satomi mumbled, trying to bury his face again against Kyouji’s shoulder. His ears were red. “Forget I asked. You’re impossible.”
“Oh no, absolutely not,” Kyouji managed, grinning like an idiot. “I’m not forgetting that.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Probably.” Kyouji tilted his head, catching a glimpse of Satomi’s flushed cheeks. He felt a rush of affection so strong it left him breathless.
“I am laughing because I am happy.” He confessed quietly. His hand found Satomi’s cheek, brushing his thumb gently against the warm skin. “I’m really, really happy.”
Satomi raised his head, his expression softening, embarrassment giving way to something tender.
“Then shut up and kiss me already,” he whispered.
Kyouji didn’t need to be told twice.
***
“Narita’s going to be late,” Kobayashi grumbled, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his shoe. “Sensei got held up at work. He’s only just picked him up.”
Ogata grunted in response. Minami sighed. They stood outside one of their Osaka snack bars, illuminated by neon. It was time for the karaoke contest again.
“I’ve been practicing for three months,” Minami muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I just hope he doesn’t tell me I sound like a dying cat again.”
Kobayashi snorted. “Last time, he told me I should invest in a hearing aid.”
The group burst into laughter. Even Yoshida, who was still new, and not officially a member yet, couldn’t help but chuckle, though his nerves were steadily building.
Yoshida had never actually seen this legendary Sensei everyone talked about. The most he knew was that the man had once made Kumichou cry with his singing-not because it was so bad, but because it was so good-which was an achievement that earned him the right to distribute bonus points during the contest.
Sometimes Sensei showed up; sometimes, he didn’t. They said he was based in Tokyo but sometimes would travel to Osaka for work, and Narita would often visit him in Tokyo for 'business.'
But it was more than just business. Yoshida had heard that Narita wasn’t just running errands-he was actually driving Sensei around in his prized, sacred, holy LS400. With Sensei sitting in the front seat. As if Narita was some sort of chauffeur. Or a bodyguard.
And the rumors only got crazier.
“I’ve heard that one time Sensei ate McDonald’s takeout in the car, with his feet on the dash.”
“One time, I saw Narita aniki march out in the middle of a deal because Sensei called him. Just got up and left. Everyone had to pretend it was normal.”
“Wakagashira buys omiyage every single time Sensei visits. Every. Time. And he never forgets his favorite snacks.”
“Apparently, Kumichou himself invites him for tea whenever he’s in town. Just the two of them. No one else allowed.”
Yoshida couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Who was this, really? A singer who made Kumichou cry, a guy who could summon Narita with a phone call, who had even the scariest men in Matsuribayashi buying him souvenirs?
All the newer guys were a bit skeptical, although they wondered if the man was some retired yakuza legend.
“Yoshida, what are you singing?”
Yoshida straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, I was thinking of 'Kawaranai Mono.' It’s a classic, right?”
“Bold choice for a rookie,” Kobayashi mused. “Hope you can actually hit those notes.”
“Or at least avoid making Sensei’s ears bleed,” Ogata added, earning a round of laughter.
“I’ve been practicing!” Yoshida protested, feeling his cheeks warm up. “And I’m not that bad.”
“Sure, sure.” Minami grinned, leaning against the wall. “But even if you’re great, it won’t matter if Sensei doesn’t like you. Remember what happened to Tanaka?”
“Don’t remind me.” Kobayashi shuddered. “He sang his heart out. It was actually painful to watch.”
Yoshida’s nerves doubled. “Is he really that harsh?”
“He’s… honest,” Minami corrected, a touch more serious now. “If you suck, he’ll tell you. But if you’re good? Well, then you’ll know you’re good.”
“Plus, it’s not just about singing,” Ogata murmured, looking out toward the street. “It’s about putting your heart in it. That’s what he cares about.”
Kobayashi snickered.
“Last year, he called Narita’s performance ‘a heartfelt tribute to tone-deafness.’”
“At this rate, he’s getting Sensei’s face tattooed on his buttcheeks.” Minami shook his head, a grin spreading on his face.
“I don’t think he’d mind that,” Kobayashi shot back, his grin turning sly. “He’d probably show it off like a badge of honor.”
Laughter rippled through the group, but Yoshida wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t sure if they were joking or if this was just the kind of madness that was normal here.
“Wait, seriously?” he whispered, leaning toward Minami.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Minami said, clapping a hand on Yoshida’s shoulder. “Sensei can roast Narita alive, and the guy just keeps coming back for more. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Narita’s got a death wish.”
“Or a crush,” Ogata muttered, lighting another cigarette.
Kobayashi snorted. “Same thing with those two.”
They soon moved inside. The small, dimly lit snack bar was already buzzing with chatter and laughter. Almost everyone else was already there.
The new guys, those who’d joined around the same time as Yoshida, were clustered together, whispering and glancing toward the door. Everyone had heard the news: Sensei was coming.
“I heard he got delayed because he had to negotiate someone’s release,” whispered one of the guys, leaning in. “Narita-aniki had to pick them up from the police station.”
“Yeah, I’ve also heard that he knows the right people. The prosecutor owed him a favour for sorting out a gang dispute. I’ve heard that one time Sensei walked right in, scolded everyone, and walked out without a scratch.”
“Maybe they are sorting out another dispute?”
“But who got arrested?”
Yoshida felt a shiver. He really felt sorry for Narita, for having to handle such this high-and-mighty Sensei. He looked toward the door, wondering how many of those stories were true and how many were someone's overactive imagination.
“Where are they?” Kumichou’s loud voice broke above the crowd. “It’s almost the time to start.”
“Narita just called, they got held up,” explained Kobayashi from the bar.
Yoshida half-expected some remark from Kumichou about making him wait-he was the boss, after all-but instead he just snickered.
“Ha! Held up! Good one. Is that what they call it these days?”
The room erupted in a mix of laughter and knowing chuckles. Yoshida's confusion only deepened.
“What… what do they call what?” he whispered to Sato, who had an equally stupid expression on his face.
“I don’t know. Maybe they are getting rid of a body?”
But before they could discuss that, Kumichou waved his beer, spilling some on the floor, and pointed at Minami.
“Get your ass on the stage, we don’t have the whole night.”
Once the singing started, Yoshida eased up a little bit. Whatever held up Narita and Sensei must’ve been quite a handful, because 20 minutes into the contest, they were still nowhere to be found. Yoshida quietly hoped that his turn would come before their arrival.
They were in between the songs when the door to the bar finally opened, and Yoshida heard the familiar, easygoing voice of his aniki.
“Haha, sorry we’re late! What did we miss?”
All heads turned. Narita Kyouji stood at the entrance, casually waving, a disarming grin on his face. His suit was slightly rumpled, his tie a little loose, like he’d just sprinted half a block but was trying to play it cool. Beside him, hanging maybe half a step back, stood Sensei. Or maybe not?
It was… not who Yoshida expected. He could hear Sato gasp next to him, and he shared this sentiment.
Instead of an old, mean, battle-hardened yakuza that he expected, there stood a very average-looking guy-looking younger than Yoshida himself!-in glasses, a regular suit and tie, and a boring haircut. He looked so painfully plain that Yoshida initially looked around for where the real Sensei must be, because there was no way that this little goody-two-shoes was it.
The young man had a calm, unreadable expression. His glasses caught the light, and his gaze swept over the room with quiet intensity. Yoshida thought vaguely that he must be a son of someone high-ranking in Matsuribayashi; there was literally no other explanation. He looked like someone Yoshida could deck with both legs tied and one arm missing. Just a slightly overgrown child.
“Sensei! You made it!” Kumichou called, waving his glass. “Come here and sit next to me. I want to see if you’ve gotten any meaner this year.”
There was another ripple of laughter, but the newcomer’s face barely changed. He gave a polite smile, and just the slightest hint of a bow, before following Kyouji into the room.
Yoshida blinked. No fucking way.
Sensei sat down right next to Kumichou, in the place of honor. Narita took their jackets and then immediately got up again to get them something to drink.
“He must be his son,” mumbled Sato, shaking his head in disbelief, and Yoshida was inclined to agree. There was no other way. He was to believe that this was Sensei? This was the guy who made himself a makeshift judge at the contest, the man who supposedly bullied the most dangerous yakuza in Osaka?
Good one.
But then they saw Narita return, placing the glass of orange juice in front of Sensei with a gentle, almost careful gesture. Sensei didn’t even look up, just gave a tiny nod, and Narita smiled, genuinely, almost stupidly fond.
“Sit on your ass, Narita. Ishida, up on the stage,” ordered Kumichou.
Ishida’s gaze flickered nervously toward Sensei, who now leaned back, swirling his straw in the orange juice with an unreadable expression.
“Right!” Ishida straightened, clearing his throat and grabbing a mic.
Sensei leaned back, crossing his legs, and Narita settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.
Ishida started signing. In Yoshida’s opinion, he was doing a pretty good job-but then his gaze wandered to Sensei, and he noticed that his lips twitched, just barely. The rumors suddenly felt a lot less ridiculous.
“Well?” After the song ended, Kumichou immediately turned to Sensei. He put down his orange juice.
There was a brief, almost suffocating silence. The whole room seemed to hold its breath, even Kumichou leaning forward slightly, a grin already teasing his lips.
Sensei sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose with a delicate touch. “Ishida-san,” he began, his voice calm, almost gentle, but it carried through the room like a blade. “I didn’t realize we were hosting a funeral. If I had known, I would have worn black.”
A roar of laughter erupted around the room. Ishida’s face turned a deep shade of red. He gave a panicked bow, muttering something that sounded like an apology.
But Sensei wasn’t done. “Your vibrato-commendable if you were a washing machine,” he continued, “But perhaps next time, try singing instead of... trembling in fear.”
Another wave of laughter crashed over the room. Yoshida felt a cold sweat run down his back.
But then Sensei leaned back, taking another slow sip of his juice. “Still, better than last year’s performance. Improvement is always worth something.”
There was a stunned pause, and then the laughter softened into something almost warm. Even Ishida managed a weak smile, breathing out like he’d been dragged back from the gallows.
Narita chuckled, leaning closer to Sensei. “Being nice now, huh?”
“Only a little,” Sensei replied, but the faintest hint of a smile softened his expression. “And not to you”
“Aww, you wound me, Satomi-kun.”
And then it clicked.
Yoshida had seen the tattoo a couple of times-bold, messy kanji etched on Narita’s forearm.
Satomi.
It stood out against his skin, positioned too weirdly to be just a regular piece of yakuza ink. He’d even asked Kobayashi aniki about it once.
“It’s his sweetheart, of course,” Kobayashi had laughed, slapping Yoshida on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “He lost a karaoke contest, so he got marked. Haha! Just think of it as a dog tag with his owner’s name,” Kobayashi added, laughing himself silly.
At the time, Yoshida had assumed it must be one of Narita’s mistresses. After all, the older man was handsome and easygoing, with a natural charm and pleasant demeanor. It was obvious that he’d have some girl on the side who’d gotten under his skin.
But now, watching the way Narita leaned just slightly toward Sensei-Satomi-how he smiled a little softer and listened a little closer whenever the other spoke, Yoshida felt a bit nauseous.
What the actual fuck.
He looked around, but no one else seemed to catch on. The new guys must’ve missed it, and the superiors… they, they must know!
Yoshida looked helplessly at Minami aniki. The older yakuza noticed his silent plea for help and leaned in.
“What’s wrong, Yoshida?”
“Narita aniki and Sensei…” he started, unsure how to continue.
Minami’s gaze flicked to the pair-Narita leaning in, Sensei sipping his orange juice with that calm, unreadable expression. A soft chuckle escaped Minami’s lips.
“Ah. So you noticed.”
“What the fuck?” Yoshida’s voice rose a little, and Minami’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder in a firm, almost painful squeeze.
“Quiet.” Minami’s voice was low but sharp. “Don’t make a scene.”
“But - ” Yoshida’s eyes darted nervously around. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, focused on the next singer stumbling through a ballad. “Aniki, this is-this is messed up! He’s-he’s just some kid! And Narita-”
“He is of age,” Minami said carefully. “Just like all the girls in our cabaret club. Of age. And I didn’t see you had any problem with that.”
“But-”Yoshida couldn’t help but feel a wave of disgust overwhelm him.
“Look, you’re new, so let me give you some advice.” Minami’s grip on his shoulder softened. “Let it go. Because I promise you, Yoshida, you don’t want to pick a fight with Narita over this. Or Sensei, for that matter.”
Yoshida’s face felt hot, his mind racing. Was he the crazy one? Or were they? Was everyone here just pretending this was normal? No, not pretending. They were… accepting it. Playing along.
“Why?” Yoshida argued, feeling out of depth. “How can you all just-”
“Because it works,” Minami said simply. “And I know it sounds insane. Maybe that’s what those two are, I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t care. But it works.”
Yoshida’s throat tightened. “But what does Kumichou think? Does he even know?”
“Kumichou?” Minami grinned. “He’s the one who gives Sensei the best seats, makes sure Narita can always take off whenever Sensei’s in town. Hell, he probably thinks it’s romantic.”
“Romantic?!”
Minami’s grin widened. “I know. Disgusting, right?” He leaned back, letting go of Yoshida’s shoulder. “Listen, kid. If you can’t stomach it, just keep your mouth shut and look the other way.”
Yoshida’s eyes darted to Sensei again, who was now listening to the singer with a serene, almost indifferent expression. But when Narita leaned in to say something, that tiny smile appeared on his lips again.
Fine.
He looked away.
***
Kyouji balanced his phone between his shoulder and ear as he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up into the night air.
"How about settling down?" His mother’s voice crackled through the line, sounding just as tired as he remembered. Always the same question. As if she thought she could wear him down eventually.
Kyouji’s gaze drifted to the warm glow of the kitchen behind him. Satomi was there, humming softly to himself, sleeves rolled up, stirring something on the stove. A sight that Kyouji didn’t think he would ever get used to it. To how it makes him feel.
"I’m not exactly the settling down type, mum,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light. "You know that." He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate.
"You’re just stubborn. You think you have to live like this forever."
Kyouji sighed. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just stayed silent.
“I said Michiko-san’s daughter is getting married again. To a doctor this time. Maybe if you hadn’t run off to play gangster—”
Kyouji tuned out the rest, humming faintly in acknowledgment. He could hear Satomi moving around, cursing softly at a stubborn jar. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“You still with me?” his mother asked, clearly frustrated.
“I’m here,” he replied, rubbing a hand over his face. “Glad for her. Really. Good for Michiko-san’s daughter.”
“It’s not too late for you either. You could come back. Start over. You’re not too old.”
He closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Mum…”
“I know,” she sighed. “You’re not going to listen. But I worry. I don’t want to hear one day that-”
He couldn’t help it- his laugh broke out before he could stop it. “I’m not gonna get shot! You’d hear about it long before I would.”
“That’s not funny,” she snapped.
Kyouji softened his tone. “Sorry. Really. I’m taking care of myself.”
A long silence stretched between them. Kyouji could hear the faint sounds in the background. Were Kyoichi and Kyoko visiting?
“How’s that friend of yours?” she asked suddenly. “The one who cooks.”
Kyouji glanced back toward the kitchen, where Satomi had finally managed to open the jar, a look of triumph on his face.
“He’s good,” Kyouji said quietly. “Makes sure I get enough sleep. Keeps me in line.”
His mother made a small noise of approval. “Maybe he should give you a good smack for worrying me so much.”
Kyouji smiled. “Yeah. Maybe.”
When they finally hung up, he stayed there a moment longer, phone still in hand, staring out into the city.
A clatter from the kitchen made him turn, and Satomi poked his head through the balcony door, raising an eyebrow. “You’re gonna smoke the whole pack out there?”
Kyouji snorted, stubbing out the cigarette on the railing. “Actually, I think I’m gonna quit,” he said, voice softer than he intended.
Satomi looked at him with quiet suspicion.
God, I love him, Kyouji thought, unable to stop the surging feelings.
“Finally,” Satomi said with quiet approval. “Get inside, let’s have some food.”
Kyouji slipped his phone into his pocket and made his way inside, feeling oddly lighter. Maybe someday he’d tell his mother the truth - that he’d already found someone to keep him grounded.
Someone to make him feel human.
For now, though, this was enough.