Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Katsuya,” his mother’s voice is soft, muffled by the door between them. “I’ve sorted the mail from the post box. It’s on the table.”

Katsuya surfaces from his computer screen, fighting the magnetic pull of its white screen and black words. Pulling away is always like this: the worlds he writes do everything in their power to keep him inside them, and inside the heads of his characters. He blinks a moment, finding that the sunlight which had bathed his room had begun draining away into muted orange – evening. 

“Alright,” Katsuya calls back. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Have a good night, Katsuya.”

“You too, mom.”

He listens as she retreats, her footsteps fading into the soft carpet of the living room. He stretches big, and hears more joints than he can name popping and cracking before they settle. Only then does he double-click save, close his laptop, and pad out of his room.

The house is chilly as the sunlight retreats, so he pauses to turn the heater on and pick up his mom’s favorite throw blanket from the back of the living room couch where she’s left it. Then, he investigate the letters piled neatly on the table. She’s already separated out the housing bills; an envelope from the electricity company sits apart from the rest, covering another envelope which Katsuya doesn’t bother to look at. Instead, he focuses on the two far more intimidating piles: correspondences from his editor, agent, and publisher on the left, usually a much larger pile. At the bottom he can see a thick package, which he already knows contains his last manuscript, returned to him with red handwritten edits, strikethroughs, and questions. On the right sits the small but consistent stream of fan mail that gets forwarded on from the publishing agency’s office.

He goes for the fanmail. While intimidating, it’s far less scary than the first round of edits on a novel, which are always the most harsh, and usually make Serizawa doubt that he has any talent at all.

In the fanmail pile, he moves aside a standard white letter-sized envelope; beneath it is a pink one with a cute sticker of a bunny (which he smiles at; he can already tell this one’s going to be pinned up). At the bottom of the fanmail, there are two small cream-colored envelopes, addressed from the same person – a regular writer and fan of his. 

Katsuya’s chest squeezes. There must have been some sort of forwarding delay.

“No, no,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “The hard stuff first. The hard stuff...” 

He bites his lip then, looking askance at the official letters, then back to the fanmail. After another long moment, he snatches up everything addressed to him – both his real name and his pen name – and carries them in an armful, a flurry, back to his bedroom. The throw blanket flutters behind, flowing from his shoulders like an ironic cape.

The edited manuscript sits unopened on his desk for two full days before his mother taps at his bedroom door again. Katsuya calls for her to come in, turning around in his writing chair, and she opens the door, leaning on the frame. 

“Tsuchiya-san called,” she says without preamble, and Katsuya’s blood runs cold in an instant. “She wants to know if you’ve received her edits.” 

Katsuya’s eyes dart guiltily to the untouched package that’s been pushed further and further into the corner of his desk the longer it sits there. His mom looks at it too. 

Katsuya clears his throat nervously. “You can tell her I’ve started working on the second draft.”

His mom raises an eyebrow, but her expression is soft, faintly amused. Katsuya guiltily draws the manuscript towards himself. She continues to watch. He breaks the seal with two thumbs and carefully slides out the thick stack of papers, held together with a large black binder clip.

“I’ll let her know,” his mom declares, turning to go. “Lunch will be ready in an hour.”

“Thank you…” Katsuya’s reply is faint. The door clicks shut softly, and with nothing else to distract him he looks down at the manuscript he’s now holding.

Tsuchiya has not spared him. The very first page – blank but for the new novel’s title and Katsuya’s pen name – is already marked in red.

This title is too obvious, Tsuchiya’s handwriting tells him harshly. It also does not match your previous novels’ naming convention. Suggest a new title for 2nd draft . 

He exhales a sigh he wasn’t aware of holding in. If nothing else, Tsuchiya’s handwriting – her voice in his head – is familiar. 

“Just take it one chapter at a time,” he tells himself, attempting to project a confidence in his voice that he doesn’t feel – that, in fact, he has never felt before. “You can do it.”

The fanmail that Katsuya receives is treated with utmost care. He breaks each one’s seal with a sharp letter opener, ordered specifically for this purpose; he takes care to preserve the return address on each one, should he one day decide to write his first response to a fan. The letter’s contents are then removed, unfolded and smoothed out carefully on the surface of his desk. Then, he reads.

(Some letters bring him to tears, so he always has a tissue box on hand. He would feel terrible beyond his numerous words if he ever got a letter wet.)

He reads each letter at least twice, from the shortest ones that are only a few sentences, to the longest ones that span several pages. Sometimes letters even warrant a third reading. When he’s done, he folds them back along the original creases, slides them into their envelope, and places them in his file system, where letters are organized in hanging folders according to the month.

The careful, respectful process of reading fanmail is a tradition that Katsuya began when he published his first novel. That first letter had been from a young man named Reigen Arataka.

Dear Serizawa Kouki-sensei, it began in plain, handwritten characters. It was the first time Katsuya had ever been addressed as ‘sensei’.

You do not know me, and I do not know you; but I felt I must write to you and express something to you, which is the fact that reading your novel has irrevocably changed my life . 

The first time Katsuya went to the library, he was a full-grown adult, and absolutely petrified. 

His mother had filled out the paperwork for his library card while he stood beside her, trying to will his breathing into something smooth and calm, although it wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe the librarian hadn’t cared, but he’d felt like she was watching him with suspicion, wondering why this scruffy-faced twenty-something couldn’t fill out basic paperwork on his own. Ultimately, the only thing he’d had to do was provide his signature, which his mom had gently coaxed him to do, working the pen into his hand and holding the clipboard steady. When Katsuya had snapped into action, he’d signed with jittery chicken scratch. They had left immediately afterwards. 

Months ago, he’d brought up the idea of leaving the house with his mother. The idea had been born from introspection, about the reclusive life he led - and from the letters of Reigen Arataka. If Katsuya could change the life of another… what if he could change his own?

It was much easier said than done.

His mother had waited until he felt capable of going out, but despite his own agreement and his mother’s soothing words of, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”, Katsuya still felt he had done no less than dodge a lethal bullet. 

The first attempt triggered something in Katsuya, though; having tested the waters once, he knew he couldn’t surrender back to the self-imposed confines of his home so easily. At the very least, the taste of the outside world and what it had to offer - blue summer skies, dotted with puffy clouds, bordered by green leaves, cut by grey and white buildings with their reflective dark blue window glass - beckoned him back as a writer. 

Hadn’t his editor said it to him, once, long ago, too? A throwaway comment, sure, but a poignant one nonetheless, a dark omen which he knew he had to heed if he wanted to continue as an author whose each publication sold more copies than the last. To put it in his editor’s blunt words: he couldn’t write the same story over and over, and what’s more, he couldn’t continue to draw on an outdated world, seen through the eyes of his childhood. 

To improve his writing, he had to improve his life. He had to change it. And having tried it, Katsuya found that despite the numerous anxieties that plagued him every step outside familiar territory - well, he was exhilarated, too.

It took almost a month for him to work up the nerve to go back, and even then, all he did was sit silently for ten minutes at a table, clutching his mother’s sleeve and doing his best not to focus on the number of people moving quietly throughout the building. Neither Katsuya nor his mom even touched a book. Then they left. Katsuya had felt buoyant when it was over.

The third time was better, and the fourth even more so; he knew by then what to expect. Slowly, he was being relieved of the anxiety that people would try to talk to him unexpectedly. Especially with his mother as a buffer, the librarian’s smile and greeting became just as familiar as the stacks and rows of books. His mother’s praise and encouragement after each visit became more and more believable to Katsuya’s ears; and by the time he lost count of the number of trips, he’d already begun to find wonder and calm in the Seasoning City Library. Getting out of the house was becoming less of a stressful ordeal, and more something to tentatively look forward to - a change of scenery, a change of pace.

That slow process was on his mind as he slid his laptop into a satchel and padded into the living in his sock-feet. His mom is curled on the couch under the throw blanket, waking up with a mug of steaming tea and the newspaper. 

“Good morning, Katsuya,” she says, flipping the page of the newspaper. “Have you come to write with me before work?”

“No, actually…” He hesitates. “I wondered if you might… maybe you could… drive me to the library?”

She looks at him, surprised, then remorseful. “I can’t go today,” she says. “I’ve got two meetings. I’m sorry.”

“What if you just… drove me there? And dropped me off?”

His mother is quiet, and she sips her tea. When she lowers the mug, she’s smiling. “You want to go alone?”

“...yes?” Katsuya tries.

“That’s wonderful. Why don’t you have some tea and toast, and I’ll get my shoes? I can pick you up on my lunch break.”

Katsuya nods, and before they can maneuver around each other – she to her bedroom, and him to the kitchen – his mom catches him up in a hug. Katsuya laughs with surprise, and hugs her back, albeit tentative. 

She does more than drop him off at the library. They arrive not long after opening, so very few others are inside; the librarian is the most awake of the handful of patrons, waving at them as they walk through the entrance. Katsuya’s mom helps him set up his laptop at a small table next to a wall where it can be plugged in, and after double-checking that he’s got a full water bottle and knows how to reach her on the office line, she hugs him goodbye.

And then Katsuya finds himself alone. 

Not as alone as he normally is, sitting in his bedroom at home while his mother comes and goes from her desk job, but alone nonetheless. 

He sits, studying the black back of his laptop a while before opening it and extracting Tsuchiya’s red-marked manuscript from his bag. He opens it to the tabbed page as his laptop warms to life.

He’s on chapter three, which Tsuchiya had all but crossed out entirely in red. RESEARCH THIS AND REWRITE IT ENTIRELY , she had written in bold letters at the end of the chapter. AND I DON’T MEAN SOME BRIEF INTERNET SEARCH! RESEARCH IT AND INCLUDE MORE DETAIL & ACCURACY IN THE 2ND DRAFT! 

Following this note is another, seemingly written at a later time – less bold, less angry. He imagines Tsuchiya sighing, and maybe pressing two fingers to her temple as she exits her rage. You’ve begun going to the library in the last few months, haven’t you? Start there. The SC library has a large section of historical books.

This, he supposes, is what he gets from trying to step out of his comfort zone in his latest novel, not to mention in his daily habits. At the smallest indication that he’s interested in trying, he is, instead, being pushed directly, fully, bodily, into something new. Of course his editor wasn’t going to accept baby steps.

He shudders a breath out, then back in. “I’ll do my best, Tsuchiya-san,” he mumbles to the manuscript.

I have felt supremely dissatisfied in my life after exiting university. Though I may be a salesman at heart, the actual job is quite draining and disheartening. Working as I have, I have become a nobody. I am a faceless man in a suit.

But I picked up your novel on a whim while passing a bookstore. It was cold and I was drenched. I merely wanted to stand someplace warm for a few minutes, so I entered the bookstore and dripped water on the mat at the front until an employee told me I was in the way of other customers. So I dodged to the left and found myself in front of a tiny bookshelf labeled “New Releases”. As you may have already guessed, this is where I found your novel. I picked it up and bought it because of the bright cover. I may also have gotten the copy wet, and felt bad about replacing it on the shelf with water damage, but that is neither here nor there.

I began reading when I reached the train station. Serizawa-sensei, I must say, I was so absorbed in your writing that I missed my train and had to wait for the next one. But it was as if no time had passed at all. I read your novel all night, and the next day, and finished it within two days. I had not read a novel so quickly nor enthusiastically since childhood.

It reminded what life can be – that is to say, new and exciting. I resolved to leave my salesman job and find a new one where I may work with people, and experience new things every day. I have already lined up several interviews to attend in this vein. I felt I must tell you the impact you have had on me, because already, each new day feels less dreary.

I graciously thank you for the time you have spent with my letter, and I look forward to the next time I may read your work. Perhaps it goes without saying, but I expect I will write to you again when the time comes.

Best regards,

Reigen Arataka

Chapter Text

Katsuya’s first work day at the library was disastrously unproductive. 

It began, of course, with promise. He was feeling good, or at least as good as he could, about being out in public. He was even feeling a little bit okay about Tsuchiya’s harsh edits, because he acknowledged the necessity of most of them. (A few he felt were a bit unfair, but sometimes he could get away with leaving bits and pieces alone when he sent in the second draft of any particular chapter, and they’d slip past Tsuchiya’s sharp eye. More often than not, she would spot that he’d neglected to edit something, and then berate him. But it was always worth a shot.)

However, it turned out that his historical research was no walk in the park. He had pulled a few books and taken them to his table, and within minutes of cracking one open, he’d felt despair welling up in the pit of his stomach. Immediately, he knew he was going to be here for a long, long time.

(Why had he thought he could make a sharp left-turn into historical fiction? He’s been kicking himself repeatedly for that, ever since sending the completed draft out to Tsuchiya. It’s partially why he’d fully submersed himself into a subsequent new novel – not the magical realism he normally writes, nor the historical fiction he’d attempted last, but instead a fantasy world of his own creation.)

The anxiety at the mountain emerging ahead of him had greatly stunted his rewriting process. By the time his mother arrived to pick him up on her lunch break, he had written one sentence for the third chapter, and had filled several notebook pages with frantic notes and corrections of historical fact. 

Feeling defeated, he slunk out of the library with several books tucked under his arm. These books he stoutly ignored for a few days while working on his fantasy worldbuilding, until his mom gently reminded him that they’d need to be returned before long.

After that, he threw himself head-first into his library books, determined that the sooner he finished reading them and taking notes, the sooner he could revise chapter three and move on with his life. After all, Tsuchiya’s edits on his first chapter’s revision were due to arrive at the post box any day now, and if he didn’t turn in the third chapter by the time she was done with the second, he was in for a world of hurt.

So he finds himself back at the library the very next week, once again without his mother.

Skittishly, he hovers near the librarian’s desk while she assists another person, clutching his completed books with their plastic covers pressed against his chest. When he finally notices the book return cart, he deposites his books like hot coals, and speeds away to set his computer up at the same table he’d worked at before.

“It’s just writing,” he mutters to himself as he plugs his laptop in and perches apprehensively in front of it. “You’re good at writing. You can totally… definitely…”

He sighs.

His second visit is only mildly more productive than the first. Within a few hours, and after a few false starts, he manages to find a rhythm between writing, referencing his notes, and cross-referencing with new books when necessary. By his third library visit the following week, he feels secure enough to start putting his headphones on, even though they cut off one of his primary senses, and dull his awareness of the environment and any unexpected things that might happen. By the end of the third week, Katsuya has several angry notes from Tsuchiya (telling him to move his ass faster, of course) but also a fresh draft of the chapter, written nearly from scratch. 

Proudly, he sits back, checking the number of pages in the chapter. He even goes so far as to print it at the library rather than at home, and seals it in a manila envelope. As he goes to meet his mom outside, he slides it into the outgoing mail stop’s slot.

When he climbs into the car, his mother is grinning. “Got your chapter done?” She asks, although she knows.

Katsuya just grins. 

“Let’s order in tonight,” his mom offers. “A celebration.”

“That sounds nice,” he agrees. It’s rather big, he knows. It’s the first manuscript – of any length – that he’s mailed himself.

This success is why Katsuya finds himself at the library again, even when the fine-tuning has been finished on his research, all historical errors corrected and accounted for. Leaving his bedroom, and his home – even if it’s only a few hours a couple times a week, and a place just as quiet and peaceful as his home – feels better each time he does it, like a weight that had been restricting his breathing and posture for years is slowly being lifted; it’s hard work to turn the crank, to pull that heaviness from his body in such a physical way, but it’s worth it to be able to smile back at the librarian, worth it to be among the countless books and words of others that he admires so much, worth it to see the sunlight at new angles. 

Slowly, writing at the library becomes his new normal.

“You been comin’ round here a lot, huh?”

The unfamiliar voice comes from behind Katsuya, and he startles so badly that the sentence he had been so focused on becomes an incomprehensible string of key-smashed characters. He struggles desperately to remove his bulky headphones – getting tangled in their long cord, of course, damn it – in order to turn around, only to hear a soft laugh. Immediately, he goes red, deep and hot across his cheekbones, and up the bridge of his forehead, which quickly feels quite sweaty.

“Huh?” He says elegantly, managing to twist around in his chair at last.

Behind him, he finds a blonde man in a gray suit, who stands with one hip out and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got an official-looking badge pinned to the left breast of his suit jacket, and a soft smile on his face.

“I’ve seen you a lot recently,” the man explains while Katsuya takes him in. “Here, at the library. At this exact table, actually.”

“O - oh?” Katsuya says. He winces at how it sounds like a question.

“I was curious,” the man continues. “What are you always writing?”

“Um. It’s, uh,” Katsuya says, at a loss for words – not unusual, not when he’s required to use his mouth to form them. “Historical fiction. A novel.”

“Oh, wow!” The man looks genuinely impressed, from what Katsuya can tell. “That’s very cool. I’ve always wanted to write a novel.”

“Yeah?” Katsuya says.

“Mmm-hmm. But what about? That’s always been my issue.” 

“Well, what do you like to read?”

“Science fiction, fantasy, magical realism… anything that’s not boring,” the man chuckles, waving his hand around as if to encompass not just anything, but everything.

Katsuya’s heart squeezes. “So write something exciting,” he says. 

The man snaps his fingers, and then levels one in Katsuya’s direction. “Now there’s an idea!” He exclaims, grinning. “But a bit easier said than done.”

Katsuya shrugs at the truth of it, a sheepish grin on his face. “Yeah.”

A child calls, and the man turns his head halfway towards them, flapping his hand. “Duty calls,” he apologizes to Katsuya. “But let me know when your novel’s done, hey? I’d love to read it.”

“Sure,” Katsuya says, and watches him go. 

When he pulls his headphones back on, he finds he can’t focus on the document in front of him any more. With a fidgety click or two, he saves his progress and re-opens the worldbuilding and design document for his fantasy project. He finds he can’t focus on that, either. After scanning what he’d written last time, he takes a peek around the library, but can’t spot the blonde man anyway, or the child that called him – he hadn’t seen the kid. Was it the man’s son? Daughter? Were they blonde like him? Just as outgoing, friendly? Would they grow up just as handsome?

Bolder now, Katsuya opens a blank document. The flush hasn’t left his face, even as the minutes stretch longer and longer. 

Tsuchiya calls the house phone. Katsuya almost doesn’t answer – phone calls make him unbelievably anxious, to the point of stomach pain – but at the last moment he snaps it up and holds it to his ear, shuffling at his left slipper with the toe of his right.

“Serizawa-san?”

“H-hello,” Katsuya says.

If Tsuchiya is surprised to hear him instead of his mother, she doesn’t show it. There’s no hesitation before she says, “I received your revision of chapter three. It’s much better than before. The level of detail you’ve included is much more convincing this time around.”

“...thank you…”

All business, she continues, “I’ll have it in the mail for you tomorrow. Can I expect chapter four soon?”

“Ah, um, yes?”

“Is that a question or an answer, Serizawa-san?”

“A-an answer. Yes.”

“Perfect.”

He can hear her shuffling pages on the other end of the line. Closing his eyes, he pictures her in a tiny cubby-hole of an office, her desk nearly too big for the space she’s been given, its surface a disaster zone of red-marked manuscripts. Or maybe it would be neat and tidy, with an ingoing and outgoing box, manuscripts ferried neatly between the two, one at a time. He isn’t quite sure which, but it’s likely one of the two polar opposites.

“-san?”

“Yes!” Katsuya snaps to attention.

“Did you hear what I just said?” Tsuchiya asks, sounding faintly irritated. 

Katsuya hesitates before admitting, “No.”

“I asked about your next project. If you’ve got an abstract prepared, you can begin coordinating with your agent to get it reviewed by the fantasy division’s head, because you know how long the approval process can – ”

“No,” Katsuya cuts her off, and immediately regrets it when her voice falls sharply silent. He clears his throat once – twice – before he goes on. “I… I might have changed my mind about my next project.”

“Is that so?”

“I – I don’t know yet. But in a few weeks…” He trails off.

“Well, no matter,” Tsuchiya decides. “I suppose a few weeks won’t delay you too badly. Just get me chapter four before the end of the week.”

“Yes ma’am,” Katsuya replies, faintly.

“Good.” She hangs up.

Shakily, Katsuya replaces the phone back on its receiver, and decides he’s earned a lie-down.

Katsuya heads into the library on Thursday. The explicit intent is to go over chapter four one last time before printing it out and sending it off for Tsuchiya to tear apart – viciously, so he can rebuild it even better, yet again. But the unstated reason is just as powerful for Katsuya: he really, really wants to see that blonde man in a gray suit again.

Were you to ask him to articulate why, Katsuya would struggle to explain himself. What could he say? They had spoken for less than two minutes, and yet Katsuya found that man on his mind – his grin, the way his laugh had been so light, and not at all at Katsuya’s expense. Finally, forced to give an answer, Katsuya would probably land on this fact: the blonde man is the first person he’s talked to directly, outside his mother and his editor, in no small number of years. 

But in his heart, deep down, Katsuya does wonder if there was more to it. After all, the man is handsome; there’s no denying that, not from himself, not in the least. Katsuya is no stranger to attraction. He’d made it through highschool as a teenage boy, after all, years ago, and had navigated his crushes with the grace of a giraffe attempting to untangle itself from a trip wire, never with any results to write home about. Unfortunately, his social skills have not improved any significant amount since then. 

It’s only logical that years of self-imposed isolation have rendered him (somewhat) a fool in front of the first attractive man he makes contact with, and moreso a fool afterwards, because that’s just the way of Katsuya’s life. His only consolation is that the blonde man’s conversational skills had carried him through their first (and hopefully not only) conversation. Despite himself, Katsuya finds himself thinking not only of the man’s smile and easy conversation, but hoping for a do-over, a chance to do a bit better.

Today, concentrating on his work is hard; he keeps his music low, and his eyes keep skittering off the screen to sneak a look around the library. 

It’s a big, open space, cut by extensive rows of bookshelves in two directions. Near the front, before the librarian’s desk, is a corridor; beyond, he knows, lies an event space, which he’s never set foot in, as well as a small cafe that sells hot chocolate and snacks. His table, flush against a wall, is set across from a big window, which sometimes has its blinds pulled all the way up, but sometimes they’re left halfway down. (Katsuya has yet to figure out the pattern of what days and times have what heights; he’s begun to think it may be completely random). Further in the back lies the children’s section, and the kids’ reading room, which Katsuya has only ever glanced at. He’s not certain, but there may also be another set of restrooms in the back, and potentially some office space as well.

Today, however, he takes it all in more carefully than before. How does the blonde man fit in here, so official? Does he bring his child here on the weekends and after school to pick up new books, or to entertain them for a few hours? Perhaps the library is a meeting point for the man an his estranged partner, where they exchange custody…

Katsuya sighs and attempts to refocus on his work, tapping his pen against his notebook in time with the music playing softly through his headphones. 

“Just a few more pages,” he reminds himself, “then you can send it off, then write… whatever.”

Minutes later, Katsuya catches a flash of gray from the corner of his vision. His traitorous heart leaps to his throat, and he gulps in an attempt to keep it down. Cooly, he glances just long enough to confirm, yes , it’s him, walking nonchalantly towards the front desk from somewhere in the back. The gray he wears today is not a suit, but a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Somehow, he still looks very official. Is it the way he’s walking? It must be.

He snaps his eyes back to his computer, but knows by the beating of his heart that it’s useless. He will never concentrate now.

But what can he do? 

Frozen to his chair, he risks another glance. The man is speaking animatedly to the librarian. Katsuya turns his music down even lower, to the point where it’s almost off, but they’re too far away for him to ascertain the contents of the conversation. The librarian laughs. Katsuya turns his music up louder than before and tries to bury himself in his laptop and his notebook.

He had walked out from the back – from the offices? Does he work here? Oh god, what if he owns the library? Can people own a library? Can people own a library and then turn up in sweatpants? No, no, it’s the Seasoning City Library. That must mean it’s owned by the city. Unless he’s from the city? But then why the sweatpants? How ?

Katsuya clicks his music louder. This was a terrible idea. He can’t focus at all. He’ll never get anything done.

Against his better judgement, he glances towards the front again. To his shock, the man is gone. A further glance proves it; he’s truly gone, or at least concealed elsewhere, beyond Katsuya’s immediate line of sight. 

Katsuya hadn’t spoken to him today, no. But he also hadn’t made a complete fool of himself either, which wouldn’t have been avoidable, had he attempted to strike up a new conversation with the man. So that had to be counted as a win. Heart rate finally slowing, Katsuya exhales. Perhaps now he can focus. 

He manages it for a while. He’s soon distracted by the sunlight, and how it’s become later in the afternoon. The sun is dipping below the window blinds and crawling over the surface of his table. Blinking at the warm light that’s bathing his hands, his keyboard, his notebook, he looks up at the window. There finds a small boy with dark hair, cut straight above his dark eyes, looking through at him curiously. He’s just tall enough to peek through. He might be standing on his toes.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Katsuya nervously checks around himself, but he’s the only one sitting at the wall near the window. The boy has to be looking at him. Uncertainly, Katsuya waves, and even tries a smile.

The boy startles, flushes, and scampers away.

“Huh,” Katsuya murmurs. Now he’s getting weird looks from children?

Perhaps that’s a sign that it’s time to go home.

Chapter Text

A huge part of writing, Katsuya has learned to accept, is actually not writing. Much of it is, in fact, learning how to do things that aren’t writing.

It’s been his project, this year; getting out of the house, and not writing. His main segue out of the house – and into the library – has been focused on writing, but alongside that, he’s been taking walks through the neighborhood. Walking with his mom is how he started out, earlier in the year, back before the library was even an idea – getting down the driveway, then around the block, were the first things he conquered. Once, he and his mom stopped in a tiny cafe, not far from the house - as they’d eaten sugary pastries, Katsuya had been shocked that he’d never known about there was a cafe so close - only five minutes on foot, the furthest he strays from home without the car as an intermediary.

But the library was still his go-to for getting out of the house; walks were nice, but little could be accomplished on a walk when it came to getting his revisions done. Constant work can become too much – an overwhelming deluge, a tidal wave he can quickly come unmoored in. The thing that’s anchored him in this new phase of his life, forced him to relax, is a long-overdue hobby.

The hobby Katsuya finds himself drawn to is not actually a new one. As a teen, he’d been interested in making models, specifically the robots and mechs that required careful attention and a steady hand. Months ago, he’d recalled the intensity he had once harbored for building – the way he’d spent entire weekends with parts spread across his desk in neat rows with his fingers calloused. He remembered the glue that would flake off the back of his hands and crack around his knuckles, and the way he’d only rouse from the trance of building when his mother called him for lunch or dinner. 

The memory had inspired him to order a new model and try his hand at it again; needless to say, he’d been surprised and overjoyed to find that small delicate metal pieces still delight him, and so does the process of puzzling them together just so.

It’s like writing, too , he muses as he turns his desk lamp on with a click. He’s been building models again for several months now, on and off, and the latest is nearly done – completing it tonight is something he’s looked forward to all week. Just like with writing, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts . What begins as disparate pieces becomes something entirely new as everything clicks together – something in that is inherently satisfying for Katsuya. Maybe it’s just the completion of it that really does it for him – oh, the thrill of setting attainable goals.

He leans across his desk to turn on the radio, cracks the window open to get a bit of the waning light and a cross breeze. The last of the warm air has been hard to get rid of in recent weeks. He turns to his model - the skeleton is complete, as is most of the outer shell. Tonight’s task: getting all the large pieces together, and then adding the small decorative bits.

He hums along to the radio as he works, sometimes continuing the tune of a song he likes even when it’s over and the station personalities are talking. Each piece clicks together one at a time. It’s satisfying that the pieces are made to go together, meant to be exactly where he’s putting them. So it’s not just the attainability of completion, but the rightness of the completion, too. Like it would be worse to leave the mech disassembled in its box. A disservice.

He used to order his kits online, when he was a teen. Though he’s been ordering them recently, he’s decided that this year, he’ll venture out to the store. Maybe with his mother; maybe alone, if he can manage it. The thought comes to him as he uses the pad of his thumb to carefully push on the mech’s helmet, until he hears it click solidly into place. The model is done.

He leans back for a moment to admire it. The last beams of sunlight have gone from the open window, so he bends the neck of his desk lamp towards the radio and settles the model on top.

If he wants a new model, and if he’s determined to buy it in a store, well. That time will come pretty soon, now that he’s finished this one. That’s… unnerving.

He huffs. They have more options online, anyways.

He sets to cleaning up, and his desk is just about functional again when his mother knocks. He calls her in and she opens the door in her slippers and nightgown, mid-yawn.

“I just want to say good night,” she says sleepily. “See you tomorrow.”

“You too, mom. Sweet dreams.”

“Thanks, honey.” She spies his newest model in its place of honor and nods to it. “That looks really nice.”

“Thanks.” Katsuya dumps some scraps of paper and metal into the trash can, and rubs at the back of his neck. “I was actually just thinking I might like to… go out to buy my next one. Instead of ordering it. What, uh… what do you think?”

When he glances to her, he finds she doesn’t look as sleepy as she did a minute ago. “I think that sounds wonderful,” she says. “I’m sure there’s a good store nearby. Let’s look into it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Katsuya says, feeling an odd mix of emotions – relieved that she’ll be at his side, but apprehensive about bringing the idea up all the same.

They say their goodnights once more, and his mom closes the door softly. The next morning, before breakfast has been served, Katsuya finds himself crowded next to his mother in front of her desktop as she locates Seasoning City’s premier model and hobby shops.

“This one might be too popular,” she tuts at the first one, clicking away. “Let’s see if there’s anything smaller. If the smaller places don’t have the model you want, we can always put in a special order. Little places like that are always happy to special order, you know. They want to retain customer loyalty!”

“Of course….” Katsuya says.

“Oooh, look at this one! Not too far, even. Locally run. This could be the one.” She clicks on their listing, and the website opens to an image of the shop. It’s crowded with shelves, packed with boxes of models from animes, video games, and more. Another shelf is lined with board games and puzzles. Beyond, there’s a row of plushies below figurines displayed in a glass case. The entire store doesn’t look like it could be any wider than two hallways squished together. A few people are in the picture, but one is behind the tiny check-out counter, so Katsuya isn’t sure she counts.

His heart begins racing, just looking at the space. “It’s great,” he agrees, a bit strangled, and clears his throat. “Maybe, ah… well, maybe not quite yet. I just finished a model, I don’t need a new one today .”

“Of course, sweetie.” His mom bookmarks the page, before standing. “Whenever you’re ready. For now – how about breakfast?”

“Katsuya, let’s go for a walk,” his mom says, a few days after they began planning their hobby store trip. “It’ll be getting chilly soon. We ought to enjoy the warm weather while we can.”

He nods as he places their mugs in the sink. “Sure. Maybe to the park today?”

They leave the house and head to Seasoning City Park. Katsuya marvels at the world around them as they go: the sun perched high in the sky, still so lofty, even after their mid-afternoon tea. It’s the weekend, and warm, as his mother had said, so many people are milling about – walking to the stores, with grocery bags hanging off their arms, or teens headed home from cram school, kidding around with each other as they go. The people still make Katsuya nervous, especially when one brushes too close, but it’s not debilitatingly - at least, it isn’t when they don’t try to talk to him.

His mom talks to him instead; she comments on the flowers growing in the window-boxes of well-kept homes; reminds herself to buy bread next time she goes to the corner store; tells Katsuya a few work stories, complaining only minimally. When they reach the park, and began slowly tracing the walking path around it, she lingers by the playground, linking her arm in his.

On the playground are three dark-haired kids. One hangs from the monkeybars while another is perched on top – Katsuya isn’t certain how he climbed up there. The last one sits apart on the swings, moving slowly back and forth, pushing himself with his toes. Though he sits apart from the others, he’s clearly still part of the group, as the girl hanging from the monkeybars seems to be yelling something to him, and he replies.

“That little boy reminds me of you,” Katsuya’s mom says, laughing slightly. “You loved the swings. Everyone would be running around playing tag and you would just swing back and forth. You never got tired of it.”

He nods, looking at the little boy. With a start, he recognizes him. “Oh. That boy was staring at me last week.”

“Staring at you?”

“Through the window at the library. While I was writing.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! Well… I waved at him, and he ran away.”

His mother laughs again. “Sometimes little kids just stare, because they’re curious about the world, and all the people in it,” she says. “You certainly were like that.”

“I think that’s because I was too anxious to talk,” Katsuya replies, face going a bit warm. “It wasn’t weird.”

“No, no, it was endearing.”

“You don’t make it sound that way…”

“Yes, I do.” She shakes his arm in protest, grinning. “Of course I do. You were the sweetest child.”

“Mom…”

“Oh, they’re coming over here.” She stops shaking his arm, and watches the three children approach, smiling at them. Katsuya wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Talking to children is no easier than talking to adults. But his mother greets them kindly. “Hello there.”

The small boy with spiky dark hair, who’d been sitting atop the monkeybars, is leading the charge. The girl is close behind him, dragging along the shy boy. They come to a halt, and immediately, the boy leading the way says, eyes locked on Katsuya, “My niisan says you’re a writer.”

“O-oh,” splutters Katsuya. “Yes. I am…?”

“Do you write about aliens?” The girl jumps in, swinging the shy boy’s hand around vigorously. His arm is like a limp noodle, flung around by her whims. “Other planets? Outer space? Telepaths? Psychics?”

“N-not really, no…sort of, sometimes, uh, but...” He fails to find the words to explain magical realism to a ten year old.

“Oh.” She instantly begins to pout. “Then what do you write?”

“...magic?”

“Niisan wants to be a writer,” the spiky-haired boy says.

Katsuya tries to look at the shy boy, who’s trying to look anywhere but the ongoing conversation. “What do you want to write about…?”

“...friends,” the boy answers quietly. 

Katsuya nods seriously – the only possible response to such a serious answer. Then, something else occurs to him. “How did you know I’m a writer?”

The boy hesitates, before looking at him. “You’re always writing at the library when there’s after-school activities, and sometimes on the weekends,” he says. “Also, shishou said so.”

“Is that so…?” Instantly, Katsuya’s mind goes to the blonde man (who hasn’t managed to get far from his mind, granted, but regardless, that’s the only person he’s told at the library – well, anything). “I see. Well… I guess it’s true.”

“If you want to be a writer,” his mother leans down a bit, a conspiratorial grin growing, “I’ll tell you what I told my Katsuya when he was your age. You get yourself a notebook, you get yourself a pen, and whenever you’re bored, or anxious, or feeling extra happy, you write about it. Think you can do that?”

The boy nods, expression earnest and serious. “Yes!”

The girl tugs on the shy boy’s hand again. “C’mon, Mob-kun, Ritsu-kun, let’s go back to aliens and werewolves.” When he doesn’t budge, she huffs, and runs off back towards the playground herself. Ritsu – the one with spiky hair – takes off after her, but hesitates and turns back, bowing to thank Katsuya and his mother. Mob stays longer, looking at Katsuya, who simply looks back. Then he says, “Thank you,” and scurries after his brother and their friend.

Katsuya exhales a nervous breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. His mother squeezes his arm.

“No wonder he reminded me of you,” she says, and Katsuya can hear the wideness of her smile without looking at her.

At home, facing his new project’s document, Katsuya sits to write once more. 

It’s the first time he’s written in the first person, in a serious way. He finds it’s easiest not to be himself, most of the time – projecting himself into the mind of another or placing himself as the impassive narrator is usually how he writes. It’s an escape, a reprieve from the anxieties that hound him, that keep him from living his life the way most people seem to. But not this time. In this project, loose and unformed as it is in these beginning stages, Katsuya finds that he is not writing some loosely defined character who just so happens to share his traits (Japanese, male, late twenties, living with his mother, an author, a bit soft in the stomach) – but a character who is him.

Or rather, a character who is him, almost. A character who is him, but who is in love with the blonde man from the library.

It’s still hard to leave the house , he had written , but it’s getting easier. I know, without a doubt, with his encouragement, it’s something I could even come to enjoy – no, love.  

It’s his smile that tells me this; that utterly confident smile. ‘Here is a man who has never known doubt,’ I think to myself when I see that smile. When it’s directed at me, I think, ‘Here is a man who has never doubted me. ’ And what an amazing feeling that is, to be undoubted, when I have doubted myself for so long, when I have never known a time absent of that doubt.

“Katsuya,” he will say on the phone, and just my name in his mouth with fill me with joy, love, and tenderness. “Come out to dinner with me.”

“Where?” I’ll ask, not even hesitating or asking why. “I can meet you in an hour.”

He’ll laugh. “When did you become so eager?” He’ll tease. “I was going to suggest tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I’ll fake a groan. “You’re torturing me. You want me to wait that long to see you again?”

“I suppose I could concede to meet a little sooner…” He’ll continue teasing me. “If I can fit it into my schedule…”

“I know you’re so busy,” I’ll finally tease back, playing with the phone’s curly cord like one of those American teenage girls in the dramas mom sometimes plays in English on the TV. “Maybe you could fit me in.”

“Katsuya,” he becomes serious now, unexpectedly. “You know I’ll always make time for you.”

Feeling warm, I reply, “I know.”

I’ve never been in love before. I had read the books, watched the movies, but I had never realized just how… exhilarating it would be. When he calls me, when he teases me, when I’m able to tease him right back, that’s when I’ll understand. I’ll look at my fingers, that cord curled around and around them, and that’s when I’ll know: I’m in love with this man.

Reading it over is embarrassing, beyond embarrassing. He shoves the palm of his hand over his eye, pressing hard. He’s embarrassed, but he can’t bring himself to delete a single word.

“Nobody has to read this,” Katsuya reminds himself, a mumble as he scrubs his hand over his face. “This can just be… for me.”

When Katsuya feels he is not a writer of any caliber at all, he revisits the many letters he has received from one Reigen Arataka. Amid the harshest edits, the cruelest publication rejections, and the despairing thoughts that he will never reach anyone – not physically, not aloud, and now not even with his carefully chosen and penned words – that’s when he pulls out that little box stacked full with letters. He likes to pick one at random and dip his toes into Reigen Arataka’s life and mind.

Over the years, Reigen’s letters have come like clockwork. That first one – the first fanmail Katsuya had ever received – was only the start. Though the first letter said little of Katsuya’s story in any concrete terms, the one that followed it did.

In my haste to write and send you my first letter , the second one read, I completely forgot to discuss one point of interest with you. The main character, Yoko, says she cannot comprehend the unconditional love of flowers for the sun. Yet when the magic of her world confronts her, she says she becomes like those very flowers that turn their face to the sun as it passes from one end of the sky to the other….

On the letter went. The third contained the barest update of what Reigen’s life-changing revelation had taken the form of, and the more letters that came (commenting on Katsuya’s short stories released in a serialized form, and then later on his second novel, and then congratulating him on awards won, and so on) the more Katsuya built a picture of the man behind them.

The man behind the letters was, at his core, an optimist. 

As Katsuya set the letterbox on his desk, he found himself thinking about that. Dozens of letters, representing hundreds of hours of reading and writing – from both of them – and Reigen’s optimism has never seemed to falter; even the dramatic retelling of various life events never fully broke down his overall positivity. So, an optimist, and one unafraid of change and risks. That is what Katsuya has gathered about him, reading his letters all these years. 

Or perhaps, Katsuya thought as he plucked an envelope from the line up and opened it just enough to spot its date, that was what Reigen wanted to be. Didn’t everyone put their best foot forward? Even in letters – and especially to one’s favorite author. (The thought of being someone’s favorite author still floors Katsuya in no small way.)

Wouldn’t he like to know the real Reigen Arataka?

Looking at the old letter, nestled in its cream-colored envelope, Katsuya wonders if it’s finally time for him to respond to a fan letter. He doesn’t take this one out of its envelope; instead, he slides it carefully back into its spot, and rides out the impulse as far as it takes him, even without knowing where it will go. Pushing the letterbox aside, he lays out a fresh paper in front of him, pulls out a pen.

7 October, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san, he starts. 

Thank you for your letters, all these many years. They have kept me 

He stops. He crosses out half the words, then all of them, and replaces the page, and wonders if he really has anything to say to this man, whose anonymity is far less than Katsuya’s own.

He stares down at the blank page.

“Writing a letter won’t hurt you,” he mumbles. “And maybe Reigen-san will appreciate it. You can just say thank you.”

Reigen-san , he begins again, and writes much more slowly in his second attempt. 

Thank you for writing to me over the years. I have enjoyed receiving your letters, even though I have never written back. I haven’t replied to any fans before, and it’s poetic that you are the first I attempt to respond to – you were the first fan to write to me. Fitting, isn’t it?

As I’m sure you know, besides never writing back, I’ve also never appeared for any awards or honors or events of any kind. I may be somewhat of a hermit, as they’re called. A shut-in.

Or, I have been, for a number of years – perhaps ten, perhaps more. I could likely pin things down more exactly if it weren’t so depressing and lost to a memory fog. But in the past year or so, things have been quite different. I have been working to change my life. In tiny increments, of course. But as I work to change my life, I often recall your letters. You wrote to me and told me that I had changed your life, years ago. Or rather, you wrote that my story had changed your life. But it feels much the same.

Needless to say, my stories and I are often one in the same, or nearly so. They hold some element of me; sometimes more, sometimes less. Writing has always been my means of communication with the world, and the people in it, and my way of connection.

So why haven’t I made this connection that you have offered to me for so long? I will tell you, Reigen-san. I was afraid. 

I’m still afraid. 

In fact, that fear is probably the only reason I’m writing this letter.

But, regardless of that; the point of this letter – I think I should reach it. I would like to thank you for reading my work, and especially for writing to me so many times, and with such passion each time, as if every letter you write to me is your first. Your words have often inspired me to keep going.

If it is not too much trouble, Reigen-san, I would like to try writing to you again after this.

Now I must seal and send this letter before I decide it is better deposited in the trash can.

Much thanks, and may many good days be in your future,

Serizawa Kouki

With the letter complete, Katsuya doesn’t give himself the time to read it over. He folds and creases it in quick motions, before scurrying out of his bedroom to locate an envelope and a stamp. The longer he thinks about this, the less likely he will be to send it. 

The first letter can be the last , he promises himself as he addresses the envelope with blocky print. Not that he thinks it will be, what with Reigen’s track record. He double checks the letter’s destination - a post box not all that far away - before putting down his own as the return address, and then seals the letter inside with a decisive swipe of his thumb.

Chapter Text

In the weeks that elapse after Katsuya mails his first letter to the one and only Reigen Arataka, Katsuya is a nervous wreck. As he taps his fingers on the wooden surface of the kitchen table, he thinks that he has never anticipated any letter more than Reigen’s reply; he can’t even focus on the reason he’d come out to the kitchen, which he’s long since forgotten and given up on. Sitting there and fidgeting, he remembers the first manuscript he sent out, and decides, somewhat grimly, that that certainly wins out in terms of anticipation levels. But waiting for Reigen’s reply is a close second.

His first publication submission had been a short story, as it is for most authors. He’d been around eighteen, and he’d sent it at his mother’s urging, vying with God-knows-how-many-others for a five-page spot in a niche young adult fiction mag. 

He’d given his story to his mother the night before the postmark deadline, which had sent her into a flurry to ensure it went out on time, something Katsuya hadn’t been aware of at the time - he’d been locked in his room. The week between sending the story out and hearing back was now, in Katsuya’s memory, a week lost to the darkness of his closed bedroom, monotony broken only by the sound of his heartbeat until –

His mother had tapped on the door. “Katsuya?”

He hadn’t replied.

“Can I come in?”

Again, he kept quiet, tamping down on his breathing. She waited. Eventually, she slid a white letter beneath his door. Katsuya saw it in the dimness, and turned over in bed, his heartbeat a jackhammer against his sternum. 

When his mother came to his door and attempted to coax him out for dinner, she asked, “Did you read the letter?”

To which Katsuya could only say, “....no.”

“Why don’t you open it? I’ll stay right here.”

“...no.”

“If you’d rather, I can read it and tell you what it says.”

He mumbled into his blankets, too quiet for his mother to hear him. Eventually, she called his name, and he replied, louder now, “Okay.”

She pushed her fingertips beneath the door to drag the envelope back to her side. Katsuya tried not to hear her ripping open the letter and unfolding the paper within, which he was all too certain was a rejection letter: a cold, hard, robotic rejection. How else would he have heard back so quickly?

Her silent reading was pure agony.

“Katsuya!” His mother exclaimed.

He sat up in his bed, blankets around and atop him. His curly hair felt greasy on his forehead, and his heart was still rattling wildly around.

“What?” He asked, anxious. “What is it, mom?”

“Katsuya,” she began again, and finally, the joy in her voice filtered through his ears. “You got in!”

“Oh,” he breathed out. “Really…?”

“Really!”

“Wow,” he said. “They… liked my writing?”

“They loved it,” his mother said, warmly. “Just like I knew they would.”

“Are you going to say you told me so?”

“If you let me.”

“Okay…”

“I told you so, Katsuya!”

He cracked a smile, one that he’d wear for several days after this news. “Yeah. You told me so.”

The memory gets a thin smile out of him now, but not for long; instead, he winds up hunched over at the kitchen table to bite his nails. The memory is a rollercoaster, but so is his current state: sitting at the kitchen table with a soggy bowl of cereal in front of him, waiting for his mother to come home with the mail yet again.

Reigen has written regularly for years. Waiting for Reigen’s letter, this time, shouldn’t be any different. (But it is, irreversibly so. Oh god, what has Katsuya done? He’s ruined a small, beautiful feature of his life, that’s what he’s done, and now there’s only hoping that Reigen has moved and changed his post office box address.)

He startles when he hears his mother’s key rattle in the lock, and jumps up to get the door for her. She smiles through at him, laden with grocery bags. “I’m back,” she says.

“Welcome home,” Katsuya rushes out, grabbing one of the grocery bags and carting it back to the kitchen. The front door has only barely shut behind them when he blurts out, “Any mail?”

“A few things,” she replies, nonchalant, with an absent gesture to her bag, set now on one of the kitchen chairs. “They’re in my purse.”

Abandoning the groceries, Katsuya goes for his mother’s brown bag, and extracts three envelopes. On top: a formal looking one from a well-known literary institution called the Takoyaki Literary Council , contents unknown. The middle one: addressed to his mother, regarding a credit card. And, the third: a clean, crisp, cream-colored envelope with a return address that lists one Reigen Arataka.

Katsuya’s breath rushes out of him with so much force that his mother glances over.

“Katsuya?”

He clutches Reigen’s letter close and drops the credit card bill on the table. “This one’s for you,” he says.

“Oh, thank you.” She continues to watch him as he stares down at Reigen’s letter, held in close. “Is everything okay?” She steps over to glance at the letter. “Oh, a new one from Reigen-san. How nice.”

“...huh?” Katsuya says.

“What a nice young man, to write you all these years,” she says. “That’s all I mean.”

“Oh. Yes, right, yes. That’s true.” 

“Help me with the groceries?”

“Sure.”

He forces himself to mechanically place Reigen’s letter neatly on top of the other one addressed to him. He takes a carton of milk out of a grocery bag. Was Reigen’s letter heavier or lighter than a normal letter? Did his handwriting look more shaky than normal? Or bolder, harsher? What if Reigen disliked finally hearing from Katsuya? What if he’d broken some unspoken, unwritten rule? He should have consulted an etiquette book first, shouldn’t he? He places the milk in the fridge. He pulls out a box of cereal. He places it in a cupboard. He returns to the grocery bag. It’s empty. Everything is on the counter now. When did that happen? Oh god, what does Reigen’s newest letter say?

He forces himself through the groceries, eyes drawn back to the letters every few moments. This into the fridge. This into the pantry. Oh my god, the letters are still right here on the table. His mother laughs fondly at him, and hits him with an empty bag to get him moving, and when an eternity has passed, the groceries are stowed away. Katsuya snatches up his letters and retreats in a flurry to the safety of his room.

He carefully opens Reigen’s envelope with his letter opener, and then puts it down. He can’t do it. He can’t. He’ll open the other one first. An artificial delay. He reads it and absorbs not a single word, has to read it again, eyes jumping side to side. Ah, he’s won a new award, there’s to be a ceremony. It will be at a library – libraries, that’s right, the new feature of his life. But not just any library. The Seasoning City Library. The event will be held four months from now, in February. Won’t he please attend?

“Huh,” Katsuya says. That’s a problem for later. He returns to Reigen’s letter. Oh god, oh god. Anything could be in there.

Dear Serizawa-sensei, it starts. The normal greeting. Katsuya squeezes his eyes shut. What if this was written before he sent his own letter? He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.

He realizes that his legs are shaking, and he sits down on his bed. Its familiarity and warmth do not stop the shaking in his legs.

Through a squint, he reads on.

12 October, 19XX

Dear Serizawa-sensei,

I must admit, when I began writing to you, I had for a long time hoped for a response, though I knew you must be a very busy man with little time for this kind of letter-writing frivolity, whoever you were. But that hope faded; I wished instead for some sign that my letters had been received, but the most I could do was believe in the fact that none had been returned to me. And recently, writing has felt more like a habit, or even a journal. A bit like shouting into the void.

So imagine my surprise!!!! Imagine my delight!!! I was so startled and gleeful that as I closed my mailbox, I slipped in a puddle and fell backwards onto my ass (excuse my language) which is now currently sporting the largest and most sore bruise you could ever imagine. Concrete is not friendly to asses.

Serizawa-sensei, your letter is the best birthday present I’ve ever received. 

Okay, maybe second to the drawing one of my students did of us last year. But I digress, because the two can hardly be compared, and I’m not writing to gush and fall at your feet, especially since you’ve expressed that you might like to correspond with me further. Idolizing you would only be awkward.

Instead, I want to humanize you. I mean, you’ve humanized yourself, and what I wish to express here is an understanding – an understanding of the fear you wrote so honestly about.

Katsuya puts the letter down a moment to breath. The shaking has subsided, now coming in tremors that roll through his body every few moments. So far so good. Reigen is still… himself, as far as Katsuya can tell, aside from the last statement, the most perplexing one so far.

When he’s taken his moment, he reads on.

I too know fear . Not in the same spheres as you, nor to the same extent, I imagine, but those days before I found your writing – and even the days, weeks, and months following, for some time – were not only a boring drudgery, but an ocean of fear, too.

Frankly, I was a nobody. I was a man in a grey suit amid a million other men in suits of various shades of grey. I sold things that didn’t need to be sold, to people who didn’t need to buy them. I wasn’t just a nobody - I was a perfect nobody. And that was terrifying to me. What if I left no mark on the world? What if I just faded into the background? What if I disappeared one day, and nobody even noticed, not even my mother? What if I never became anyone ?

They were dark days. I’m sure you can understand why your writing had such an impact back then. Your stories are always of agency, of change, of growth, of acceptance… and I won’t continue to wax poetic, because that would defeat the purpose of not idolizing you, but. You get what I mean, yeah?

I have lived with those fears, but I’ve found my footing somewhat. I’ve also found new things to fear, fortunately. And it seems that you have as well, for which I am eternally grateful. Please do tell me what new fears you uncover in your life!

I look forward to your next letter, Serizawa-sensei. I trust I will hear from you soon.

Ever yours,

Reigen Arataka

P.S. May I address you as Serizawa-san now? LOL.

The happy rush Katsuya gets from Reigen’s letter lasts several days. Even sitting at the library, pouring over reference texts and editing his manuscript as an interwoven multitasking extravaganza, he finds himself grinning at absolutely nothing. (Boy does he hope nobody is giving him suspicious looks for that; he’s riding his good mood too high to even risk ruining it by checking.)

Though his hindbrain finds it fit to notice the blonde man, as always; today, when Katsuya looks up from his work to take a drink of water from his bottle, he nearly instantly locks eyes with the blonde man – dressed up in his suit and tie and a bright smile as he walks with purpose through the library. Katsuya inhales his water and chokes.

The man comes over as Katsuya is coughing recklessly into his elbow.

“I’d offer you a cup of water, but I don’t think that would be useful,” the man quips. 

Katsuya shakes his head, his face red. “Sorry,” he croaks.

“Happens to the best of us,” the man replies cheerfully. “I hope that near death experience didn’t ruin your good mood.”

“My – what?”

“Yanno, your good mood. What’s got you grinning like that, huh? Usually you look so serious as you work.”

“Oh, oh,” Katsuya flusters, “I, uh, I heard from… an old friend… earlier this week. It was… nice.”

The man nods like that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, smiling. Katsuya hopes, over the heartbeat in his ears, that he doesn’t sound like the liar that he technically is.

“Well, don’t let that dastardly water keep you from talking to your friend again, eh?” The man says. “I oughta get back to work, but I thought I’d check in.”

“Thanks,” Katsuya all but whispers. The man offers a raised hand, and before Katsuya can think about his two verbal left feet, he blurts out, “Wait.”

The man does.

“What’s… what’s your job? Here?”

The man grins, rolls his shoulders with a grin, like he’s about to launch into some kind of elaborate monologue, but all he says is, “I think the official title would bore you, but I coordinate the kids’ program. After-school activities, learning resources, that kind of thing.”

“Wow,” Katsuya replies, genuine. “That’s really cool. I didn’t know Seasoning City Library had something like that.”

“It didn’t,” the man admits. He leans in, lowering his voice and raising a hand to cup his mouth, conspiratorial. Katsuya finds himself leaning in to find out what that could possibly mean; then, the man says, “I made it up.”

Katsuya sits back a little. “W- what?”

“I walked in here, and I told them, you have no resources for kids besides a few piddly picture books, but luckily for you, I’m just the guy you need to fix that .”

“And it… worked?”

The man breaks his secretive posture to shrug again, that smug and confident air back with gusto. “Of course.”

“That’s amazing,” Katsuya tells him, genuine. “I could never do something like that.”

“You ever tried?”

“Well… no.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “ There’s your problem,” he says. “But duty calls, my good sir. ‘Til we meet again.”

“Yeah. Next time,” Katsuya says, and watches him go. When he disappears into an office, Katsuya rubs at the back of his neck, which is prickling with heat, and then works his jaw open and closed. He’s not used to smiling so much – certainly, he’s never smiled to the point of soreness before.

It’s regrettable, it really is, but instead of taking a break from writing when he arrives home in the evening, Katsuya crawls into bed, pulls the blanket over his legs, and then flips open his notebook and chews on the end of a pen.

His so-called personal project has been the focus of a large majority of his free time, and tonight is no exception; he’d even wager to say he’s more focused on it tonight than any other. As he continues to work on what started as a self-indulgent yet playful fantasy that he was embarrassed to look at, let alone admit he was writing, it grows into itself, and takes on a life of his own.

This partly because the Serizawa Katsuya of fiction, while not completely different from the Serizawa Katsuya of reality, was taking leaps and bounds away from his stuttering beginnings. The Katsuya on paper still had anxieties, doubts, fears - he held himself back. But there was an important difference: that Katsuya was becoming an independent agent in his own world, so tangibly, alongside the man he loved, who invited him to share his life. 

Really, it felt that the story was writing itself, and Katsuya was merely its conduit. As he chews his pen, he thinks of his letter from Reigen, thinks of speaking to the Blonde Library Man, and recalls the kids at the park. The little boy who wanted to write about friendship, specifically.

He feels that all these pieces of his life, though disparate and distinct, have a magnetic pull towards one another which Katsuya needs to scratch like an itch. Finally, he wipes the cap of his pen on his sleeve and sets to his notebook, picking up not far from where he’d left off: a last-minute dinner meeting, and something on the mind of the Fictional Katsuya’s partner.

Over dinner, I begin to worry. My handsome, confident man is nervous.

I don’t understand why as we eat our appetiser – potstickers fried to a perfect crisp gold on the bottom, soft on the sides, all of it hot, steam billowing up from the inside when he bites into the first one and nearly burns his mouth. His eyes water and I smile as I push his drink towards him, but I’m nervous. His anxiety is so rare that it reminds me of my own, still there as a constant hum just below the surface of my skin.

He’s unable to hold it down for long, for which I find myself grateful.

“Katsuya.”

He begins with my name. I will never get sick of his voice, of his lips and tongue forming the syllables of my name so carefully.

“I have something important to tell you.”

I nod, and try to look casual as I pick up a new potsticker with my chopsticks. I carefully dip it in the sauce. “Yes?”

“A while ago – a few years ago….”

A wait while he hesitates, an eternity. I bite into my potsticker, just a nibble, just something to do.

“I put forth some paperwork. Rather, I began the process of – I began the paperwork to… of… to adopt. To adopt two boys.”

It’s the very last thing I could have expected. The rest of my potsticker falls from chopsticks and hits my tiny plate – the perfect metaphor for my stomach, which has dropped out from under me. “You’re – a parent?”

His face glows with some mix of pride and anxiety. “Soon,” is all he says.

“That’s amazing,” is all I can say, truly blown away. “That’s – that’s wonderful!”

Slowly, he begins to smile.

“Tell me about them,” I say, eager; my nerves fall away as I lean forward, my chopsticks away as he clears his throat – about to launch into story mode, one of my favorite modes. 

I often think that, between the two of us, he is the one who should be the novelist. But whenever I bring that up, and suggest he write, he waves me off; his skills, according to him, are purely verbal. 

“The second you put a pen in my hand,” he’ll say, grand as always, “or set me down in front of a computer, my words just dry right up. But in front of an audience? A set of eager, listening ears? That’s the only time I shine. You and me, Katsuya, are opposites.”

But tonight, he has no such reason to put himself down, or to elevate me. To my surprise, though, he doesn’t launch immediately into his narrative, though the news has me aching to know how he got to here; instead, his throat clearing leads to a small, meek question.

“You don’t mind?”

“What? Why would I mind?”

“Because, when it all goes through, you won’t be dating a single man,” he says, slowly. His true fears are showing, now. “You’ll be dating a single father. And we haven’t been dating long; it’s not what you signed up for.”

I turn that over for a moment; he’s right. It will be different. I’ve only just begun to love this man and be loved by him. And to introduce more into that - I can only imagine the changes it will make to his life, let alone our unfolding relationship, and my own newfound entrance onto the stage that is the world.

“But if you love these boys,” I say, softly, “and they love you – well. That’s – that’s a lot, that’s true, for me, you know, to become involved in. But I’m already involved in you.” I don’t tell him I love him; that’s between me and myself, still, but I’m certain he knows it. “I would be honored if you still want me around.”

“Of course I still want you around.” His eyes are intense, burning. “I can’t imagine my world without you now.”

“I – I’m the same,” the admission is a little halting, but no less honest than his own, and I have to believe he sees that. “And this – these boys – that doesn’t change that.”

Finally, I see his shoulders relax. 

“Please, tell me about them,” I say, smiling. I hold out a hand to him across the table, a gesture to say, I mean it . “Then, I’d love to meet them.”

He places his hand in mind – slimmer, thinner, but so capable.

“Okay,” he says softly, and when our eyes meet, I know that I’m jumping feet-first into a world I’m unprepared for; but isn’t that what I’ve been doing, all these months, anyway?

In hindsight, Katsuya supposes he lost most of his rights to personal, private writing when he committed himself to this career. At the very least, there is nothing he can hide from Tsuchiya’s sharp eye - especially when a full four days of writing “for himself ” causes him to miss his next revision deadline (the chapter, edited halfway before his intense distraction, would not cut it for Tsuchiya). She’d used his tardiness as a clever bargaining chip, and with it, had coerced several of said personal chapters out of Katsuya - coerced being the kind and generous word for it, anyways.

She calls him that weekend, not when work calls are normally made. Katsuya and his mother are sitting in the living room watching one of the foreign dramas his mother is so fond of, which they pause as she stands to answer the phone.

“Serizawa residence,” she answers pleasantly. The person on the other end speaks; the way his mother’s eyes immediately slide to Katsuya and lock with his tells him two things: first, that the call is for him, and two, that it’s probably nothing good. Sure enough, his mother mouths, “ Tsuchiya.”

Katsuya winces. He gets off the couch and begins to slink towards his bedroom, but gives up when he’s speared by a particularly sharp glare, moving over with his head down. He receives the handset from his mother and holds it up tentatively.

Tsuchiya makes a demand before he can even manage the greeting. “ Why does the main character share your name? Your full name ?”

“That’s, uh,” he says, weak.

“You need to change it. Even if it’s fiction, you can’t put your name out there. What if people start putting two and two together, or wondering?”

“It’s… it’s just a personal project,” he protests without much bite – his mom is only a few feet away. “It’s not supposed to amount to much…”

“Serizawa-san, that’s not what this is about,” Tsuchiya says dryly, “It’s about the fact that your personal project is fantastic.”

“It’s – what?”

“It’s gripping, it’s real, and it’s romantic. And it’s right out of left field, coming from you.”

“I… know?” He replies, confused now. “Wait, you like it?”

“ Yes , if you can get that through your thick skull. It’s fucking amazing .”

He almost laughs at her cussing, but chokes it down, feeling a bit like a child. “I can’t believe you like it. I – I’m writing it for fun…”

“I’ll make it a bestseller if you let me.”

“I… it’s… personal…”

“That’s what’s going to make a bestseller,” Tsuchiya presses. “People love to be let in on another’s life and mind. Just change the main character’s name. Katsuya-kun .”

“I’ll… think about it,” he relents after a long moment. “I still don’t know about actually submitting it, but… I’ll think about it.” He feels that, were this conversation being had in person, that silence would have been filled by a staring match. (With Tsuchiya, he can’t even win that over the phone.)

“Good.” She’s grinning. 

He inhales, building up the courage. “But as it is, the name is… part of it.”

“How’s that?”

“Because it’s not a character, it’s … me.”

Tsuchiya pauses. Slowly, she asks, “Serizawa-san, is this nonfiction?”

“No, no. It’s fiction.”

“Then I don’t understand how it’s you .”

“It’s just that it’s not a character.” He struggles to find any other words to explain it. “It’s… it’s my thoughts and feelings, but… the situation is fiction.”

“Hmmm.” Tsuchiya turns that over. “Well, that’s interesting. Anyway, get me your next revised chapter by Tuesday.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“ And keep sending me your personal project.”

“...I’ll think about it.”

She laughs. “You’re a little pain in my ass, you know that?”

This time, Katsuya snorts. “Yeah, but you’re one in mine, too.”

“That means I’m doing my job,” she tells him. “Alright. I’ll let you go. Enjoy the weekend.”

“You too, Tsuchiya-san.”

He hands the phone back to his mom, who places it on its base. She’s grinning, but shakes her head at Katsuya. “You’re always onto the next thing,” she says.

“I guess it makes life exciting,” Katsuya says, rubbing at the back of his neck, still feeling bashful. As they move back to the television, Katsuya’s thoughts remain on his personal project.

Though he had struggled to explain the line it straddles between reality and fiction, he’s bitten into his library time to do some reading on that very line. He’d found the niche collection of books that fell under the umbrella of autofiction. As it turned out, it was a genre filled with other authors exploring the same gray area that he is, with fascinating results - crafting stories that have further life because they’re drawn from life. Not that he fully meant to join their ranks, but – what was one more step outside his comfort zone at this point, anyway? Because if the point was simply to exit that sphere of safety, he’s already been doing that (near-daily) for a long while now.

Chapter Text

18 October, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

Yes, you may call me Serizawa-san. I suppose you might not know my age! I assure you, I am not an old man! I hope you haven’t been picturing me as one. I know I do act and speak that way sometimes…

I think I get what you mean about fears, and overcoming them. That has been the procession of my life, though at a snail’s pace. When I began leaving my house some time ago, things began to change for me. I remember standing beneath some trees in the summer and marveling at how the temperature changed, just with that small amount of shade. Experiencing the world is good, I remembered. And I became a little bit less afraid. (People still often terrify me, but I have been making a new friend, and writing to you; it certainly helps.)

I feel that you know much less of me than I do of you, which may be unfair. So I thought I might tell you a little more about myself to help this correspondence along.

I am going into my late twenties, extremely young for an author, I’m aware, but that doesn’t make me special; it means I’ve had little else to do with myself for the last decade. I live with my mother, who is also my closest friend. I speak on the phone with my editor at times. I am revising my next publication, which is a historical piece – that’s the most I can say at the current time. I’m also writing a personal project, which is quite romantic, but will likely never see the light of day, and before that, I was building a fantasy world, but that is on hold for now. As you can see, I’m even taking leaps in my writing. Beyond writing, I enjoy dramas on the television, building models, and going for walks when it’s sunny. I would like to have a cat once I can handle the responsibility. I think that sums me up. I apologize for being rather boring.

Sincerely,

Serizawa Kouki

25 October, 19XX

Dear Serizawa-san, (<-- that’s new!!)

Don’t put yourself down! I don’t find you boring in the least. In fact, I think it’s fascinating to learn who is behind the writing I’ve loved for all these years.

Let me tell you something of myself in return, as my letters over the years may not encapsulate everything, or have been more scattershot. I think it is important that you know that I am not a hugely popular man. That is to say, I too primarily live in solitude. Not so extreme, mind you; but I must admit I have few adult friends. One or two, yes, but not friends I see often, and coworkers who I consider myself friendly with. The largest aspect of my life is the children I work with. They are my true friends, and to go even further – my true family. I care for them like they could be my own children, and some of them look to me as a mentor, seeking advice on love and friendships and school. Or space travel and telekinesis. But maybe that’s just the one. On the other hand, I have no real hobbies to speak of, besides reading.

I mean to say, I find myself lonely sometimes, but never when I am at work. I think work is the happiest part of my day, my week. Do you think that’s sad?

(If I don’t think you’re boring, you have to deny that my life is sad, LOL!)

Yours,

Reigen Arataka

1 November, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

How could that possibly be a sad life? I think it’s wonderful and amazing that you have something to look forward to daily, something that brings you joy and makes your life meaningful. I may still be searching for that thing, because writing can only give you so much, in isolation. That is partially why I have read and coveted each of your letters over the years; they were a sign that my world wasn’t just me and my mother after all. Somehow, somewhere out there, another person was reading each and every word I chose to place down, and responding to them – responding to me . It was – and still is – amazing.

I meant to ask in my last letter, but I forgot. Do you have any pets?

(Forgive the childishness of this inquiry, but I’m curious.)

Sincerely,

Serizawa Kouki

7 November, 19XX

Dear Serizawa-san,

The only pet I can afford to keep is myself! LOL. If I had one, I might like a dog. But my apartment complex doesn’t allow dogs unless they’re service animals. I did once think about getting a dog and a fake certificate and doing the whole bit, but it seemed like a cruel thing to do to a dog, because what would happen to it if I were found out? Perhaps if I move I’ll consider getting a dog more seriously.

Here’s a proposal, albeit a silly one. Why don’t we both get goldfish? I’ve read that they’re easy to care for, and we can name them after each other. Then we can proofread our letters aloud to them. For me, you should have a golden fish. For you, I could get a dark brown one, or a black one, the kind with huge eyes!! Have you ever seen a picture of those? If not, you should look it up.

I am serious about this fish idea. Let me know!!!

Yours,

Reigen Arataka

It’s with a false confidence that Katsuya sets out for the hobby store.

“Borrowed,” he murmurs into his scarf. “ Borrowed confidence. Which is a lot better than false confidence.”

His confidence is a sad mimicry of that which he witnesses weekly on the shoulders of The Blonde Man Who Works With Kids at the Library (god, next time they talk, Katsuya really needs to learn his name – TBMWWWKatL is ten times worse than ‘the blonde man’, too). He knows it’s a sad mimicry because he has never felt that much confidence even once in his life – not that he can recall. Which makes his confidence both mimicry and sad to boot.

He drags his feet, considering going home. But the website had promised that the newest model he wanted was On Our Shelves Now! so if nothing else, he has a clear goal in mind: get in, buy the model, get out. Anyway, he’s closer to the store now than home, isn’t he? The wind is biting, and warming up in a heated shop before heading home might save him a few fingers. Fingers that he needs for writing. Right?

When he looks up and finds the shop half a block down the sidewalk from him, Katsuya feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. His breath leaves him, and he scuttles to the wall of a building to let other pedestrians pass while he heaves large breathes in and out, his scarf tugged away from his mouth and chin by one gloved hand. In, out, in, out. 

“Just go in and buy it,” he tells himself. “It’s easy. People do it every day.”

Before he can point out flaws of his own statement, he turns and walks briskly towards the store and ducks inside. Acting before he can stop himself has been effectively lately,  but the heat that blasts him as he crosses the threshold is just as effective - it reminds him that actually, this might be a good idea, loosening his tense joints just enough. He doesn’t want to stay long – and certainly doesn’t plan to – but the heat does wonders in an instant.

The cashier greets him and he gives her a jerky nod before hiding behind a shelf. Models, models – the kind you build yourself – there, in the back. He makes a beeline for them, the mechs, the robots, the buildings, the vehicles – just look over the shelf once, he tells himself. You can leave if you don’t find what you want, but if you do, you can buy it, and then you can leave. 

A bright coat fills his vision for just an instant before Katsuya collides with another person. 

He stumbles backwards, all senses suddenly on high alert; his shoulder hits a shelf, and it seems that every single item on it rattles for an entire year before a couple already-precarious boxes topple to the floor.

The person in the bright coat goes “Woah!” and fumbles to catch a box, failing.

Katsuya’s eyes lock on the floor. He scoops up two fallen figurine boxes and shoves them onto a shelf without regard for which one they belong on, giving the stranger a few hasty words – “I’m sorry, my fault, I’m sorry” – before he turns sharply to abandon his quest. He should have known better.

“Hey – ” the stranger calls to him, and with a twitch, Katsuya pauses, just enough to glance back. The man in a colorful coat – who, as Katsuya’s luck might dictate, actually is the Blonde Library Man (god, the epithets are getting worse) – who’s grinning at him with an armful of fallen merchandise. 

Katsuya freezes.

“I know you!” The man says.

“....I’m sorry,” Katsuya croaks. “I, ah, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“A simple mistake,” the man reassures him, shoving boxes onto a shelf as an employee arrives to take over the cleanup operation. “But fancy seeing you here!”

“...yeah,” Katsuya manages, knowing just how rude it would be to turn tail and sprint home mid-conversation, and also not entirely wanting to abandon ship, despite the hammering in his chest.

“And here I thought you must only ever be at home or at the library,” the man comments with a light laugh, stepping aside for the cleaning process. 

Katsura forces out a small chuckle just to acknowledge that the man had made a joke, even though it had been far too accurate to be funny. “Yeah,” he manages again.

“So whatcha in here for, eh? Anything fun?”

“Just, uh, a new model. To build.”

“Ooh, you build models! What kind? Ships or planes? Ship in a bottle?”

“...mostly mechs.”

“Oh geez, those ones are hard. All those tiny pieces!”

Katsuya settles into a smile, not quite as alarmed as a few moments ago. “No kidding. Easily lost, those parts.”

“Oh, I’d get so frustrated,” the man groans.

“I guess it’s not for everyone.” There’s a pause, and then Katsuya asks, stilted, “Uh, what about, uh, you?”

“I’m looking for some cool puzzles,” the man says. They both squeeze beside the shelf to let the employee pass them, and Katsuya wonders if they should take the conversation outside, but quickly discards the idea on account of the cold.

“What kind of puzzles?”

“Anything that’ll entertain the kids. I’ve proposed a board game night at the library, and all the little ones are excited to play Uno and Scrabble and all those other western games, but you know what Mob wants to do? He wants to build a puzzle ,” the man sighs, but Katsuya thinks he’s amused. “A puzzle isn’t a board game!”

“Why not?” Katsuya asks. “You can… yanno… put it on a board…”

“Then building a mech is a board game too,” the man sniffs. “You can’t just break down all these definitions like that.” He pretends to be offended, one hand to his forehead and the other to his heart. “What lawlessness! The gall!”

Katsuya laughs – thin and nervous, yes, but genuine. He glances back to the shelf of models. Maybe he can buy that kit after all…

When he looks back to the blonde man, he’s looking at Katsuya with a thoughtful expression. When Katsuya hesitates, unsure of why he’s earned this look, the man says, “Would you like to come?”

“Uh…?”

“You could volunteer for the game night! Help keep the place clean and play some games with the kids. Help me and Mob with that puzzle.”

Katsuya remembers the eager kids from the park – Mob among them. “Uh… when is it?”

“Next Friday. It starts at four for setup, and goes ‘til nine with the cleanup.”

“Well, I don’t have any plans…” Katsuya chews his lip. It sounds like a very social situation. But maybe he could do what the man is suggesting – stay over at the puzzle table. It would probably be much more quiet, much more manageable. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great!” The man grins widely. “I’ll see you before then at the library, yeah? Just let me know your decision beforehand.”

“Will do,” Katsuya agrees. “Good to, um, see you. I’m gonna…” He gestures vaguely back towards his goal.

“Of course,” the man says. “I’ll see you around!”

“You too,” Katsuya replies. When they part ways he feels both vastly relieved, and oddly successful. He hadn’t prepared for this, but it had gone well. Extremely well.

He pays for his new model with fumbling fingers, and sees the blonde man still examining puzzles. He gives Katsuya a jaunty wave, who lifts a hand in response before he heads out with his model in its shopping back. Only when he goes to bury his face back in his soft, warm scarf does he realizes he’s still smiling.

The board game night is going smoothly, which is extremely relieving for Katsuya. He’d shown up to help move chairs and tables an hour before the event as the blonde man had told him to. It had been himself, the blonde man, and a couple other volunteers moving tables and chairs out of storage and into the event space that Katsuya had never been in before. Then they’d set out different games on each table. Katsuya himself got to open up the brand new puzzle boxes that the blonde man had chosen for the night. (God, he really needs to ask his name; or would that be rude at this point, considering how many times they’ve spoken? He really should have asked when they spoke earlier in the week to confirm the details of tonight, but he’d felt too awkward then, and oh, the irony, because the awkwardness could only increase.)

When the children began to arrive, Katsuya had sequestered himself against a wall, nervous. But the kids paid him no mind; they ran around, found tables and bean-bag chairs, and began playing their games. It’s growing noisy, because children have less of a concept of the level of their voice, but it’s not overwhelming. That allows Katsuya to untense as he leans against the wall, and more so when the blonde man briefly checks in on him and presses a cup of water into his hand (“Moving tables is hard work! Hydrate!”) before he flits off again.

Katsuya finds himself drawn to the puzzle table where the little boy – Mob – sits. As he thought he would be. Mob is sorting puzzle pieces, searching for edges and corners, while a little boy with blonde hair that sticks up like a static shock chatters to him and snaps pieces together. Both look up when Katsuya hovers nervously nearby with his cup of water.

“Uh… may I help?” Katsuya asks, nervous. Mob nods, and the other boy lights up, so Katsuya sits. He pulls a handful of pieces towards himself.

“I’m Hanazawa Teruki, but you can call me Teru,” Mob’s friend introduces himself brightly. “And this is Kageyama Shigeo!” 

“You can call me Mob,” Mob tells Katsuya softly. Then he tells Teru, “This is Serizawa-san. He’s an author.”

“Ooooh,” Teru’s mouth forms a perfect circular little oh . “Wow! What do you write about?”

“Magic,” Mob answers softly for Katsuya. Then, he glances over. “Right?”

“Right,” Katsuya nods. “Mostly magic. Recently I’ve been writing about history.”

“What kinda history?”

“It’s a story that takes place here in Japan, a few hundred years ago,” Katsuya says. “The characters are fictional, but the town they live in was real.”

“Are there ghosts?”

“...no ghosts,” Katsuya says, with a somewhat apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

“Awww,” Teru pouts. He’s quickly distracted by the puzzle. “Gimme that pink piece! I know where it goes!”

Katsuya slides it over, and Teru fits it to some of his existing pieces with satisfaction. Katsuya tilts the puzzle box towards himself and finds an image of a toy shelf. A door is open beside it, leading to a bright field. The toys on the shelf seem to be coming alive and playing in the field. 

Teru begins chattering to Mob as Katsuya continues to sort the puzzle pieces. There’s a lot, but they’re not too small; they should be able to finish it before the end of the night. A few kids come and go from the puzzle at the next table, but the three of them stay focused on their enchanted toy shelf. Before the puzzle is halfway finished, Katsuya finds that Mob is chatting right back to his friend, not as quiet as Katsuya had first assumed of him - but certainly still quiet by comparison to his friend.

Mob’s brother arrives – Ritsu, Katsuya remembers – accompanied by a red-haired boy whose face is splattered with freckles. They greet Katsuya and attempt to convince Mob and Teru to come join them for a four-player game; once Katsuya tells them he’ll watch over the puzzle until they return, Mob and Teru agree and go running off.

He’s barely able to take two breaths of calming air before the blonde man fills Mob’s vacated seat. 

“How’re you holding up?” He’s got a grin on, and his t-shirt sleeves are uneven – Katsuya’s eyes follow up his arm and find the cause to be that the neck of his shirt has been pulled to one side. There’s a dip of a collarbone, settled where a neck muscle smooths down. Katsuya’s heart begins to race. Why was his shirt pulled aside? Is it warm in here? It is, it really is, isn’t it? When did it get this warm?

Realizing he’s looking, and so obviously at that, Katsuya startles and meets the man’s eyes.

“Good!” he tells him. “Very good. I was just helping Mob-kun and Teru-kun with this puzzle.”

“I saw,” the man laughs. “The three of you are very dedicated. Will they be upset if I put a few pieces together?”

Almost simultaneously, they both sneak a look to where Mob and his little group are playing giant Jenga. 

“They might not notice,” Katsuya admits. 

“Wonderful!” The man slides two pieces together, and then shakes his head when they don’t match up.

The two of them are quiet for a minute, and Katsuya finds himself just watching the man. With his head ducked, he’s got his tongue sticking out, concentrating: the flash of pink is stark against his thin lips. Hanging around his neck is a badge. Is it a name tag? Katsuya tries to subtly tilt his head to find out, but the table is blocking his view.

Finally, Katsuya speaks up. “It’s amazing that you put this event together by yourself,” he says. “All the kids are having a blast.”

The man flaps a hand around. “Oh, it wasn’t that hard to do,” he says. “We have most of the games here already. It was much harder when there's never been an event like this before. We had to start from ground zero. But all I had to do this time around was buy a few puzzles – out of pocket, which I don’t mind doing.”

“Still,” Katsuya says, “it’s wonderful.”

“Well, thank you.”

He finds himself thinking of one of Reigen’s recent letters. He works with kids too – he considered the kids his family, and they bring him joy every day. Watching this man fit puzzle pieces together, and then glance to the giant Jenga set – almost as if making sure nobody was getting blocks toppled on their head – Katsuya wondered if he was the same. He certainly seemed at home here, and full of passion, and love for these children. He was like a beacon of calm amid a storm of children and preteens wreaking havoc on the library’s event space. It was amazing to see.

The man catches Katsuya staring, and grins, all shiny teeth. Katsuya flushes.

“You know,” Katsuya says, blurting the first thing that comes to mind, “I don’t think I ever caught your name. I’m Serizawa Katsuya.” He sticks his hand out to shake, too straight, too clammy, above the puzzle.

“Oh! You’re right,” the man laughs. “I assumed maybe you’d read my nametag at some point, so I didn’t want to be redundant.” He shakes Katsuya’s hand – firm, warm. “My name is Reigen Arataka.”

Katsuya’s stomach drops through the floor. “...what?”

“Reigen Arataka,” the man repeats, now looking bashful. “I know, I know – it’s somewhat silly. Too bad I don’t actually have any miracle powers, right?”

“You might,” Katsuya says, hoarsely. He pulls his sweaty hand away from the man’s – Reigen’s. What? “You just might.”

The man laughs brightly. The sound of the wooden Jenga blocks toppling draws both of their attention, and Reigen stands. “I’d better move on before Mob catches me meddling over here,” he says. “I’ll see you afterwards, right Serizawa-san?”

“...yeah.”

“Wonderful.” He wiggles his fingers in a little wave. “Have fun! Show me the puzzle when it’s done!”

Katsuya nods absently and watches him wander off to another table, another game, that social butterfly. He spends fifteen minutes trying to re-engage himself in the puzzle with Mob and Teru, but he keeps casting his gaze around for Reigen – because surely he imagined that, or heard him wrong. He must have said something else. Surely, Katsuya misheard him. Or maybe it was a coincidence. There could definitely be two men out there, named Reigen Arataka, who work with kids, love books, and ooze utter confidence at all times. Stranger things have happened.

Right?

But, deep down, Katsuya knew it couldn’t be. The longer he turns it over, the more pieces fall into place – it was like watching Mob and Teru build up the puzzle in his mental space as well. The uncommon pun of a name, the job with kids, the confident, brazen attitude. But, the final piece, slamming to the forefront of Katsuya’s mind: the post box address not all that far from his own. 

It’s most definitely the same Reigen Arataka, and Katsuya would be a fool to convince himself otherwise.

When Mob and Teru run off to find Reigen and show him the completed puzzle, Katsuya takes his chance to flee.

Once he exits the hubbub of the large event room where kids and volunteers were playing games, he finds himself in a realm of familiarity. The library is still open in the evenings, but not that busy. The daytime lights are still glowing, illuminating the shelves, tables, the same paintings that always hang on the wall. 

In the main library room, the children’s voices are dimmed by distance and the darkness outside turns the windows into mirrors, juxtaposed with the golden lights burning inside. Katsuya turns his gaze quickly away from his reflection when he catches it and finds an empty table in a corner. At the isolated table, he pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them.

He feels surprisingly distant, after the initial shock. So the Blonde Library Man is Reigen Arataka. The way he spoke and the way he wrote – Katsuya hadn’t picked up on it before, because the two contexts were so separate, as were the modes of communication – but the connection was there. 

Now that he knows, it seems incredibly simple. It seems obvious. It seems… right. Ironic, yes, but right. He scrubs his hands down his face. It makes so much sense that the two people who had any sort of passing interest in him were… well, one in the same. 

The details are blindingly obvious in hindsight. The post office box on the outskirts of Seasoning City; the details of Reigen’s life, the job he loves, the children that form his family, the books he loves – all of it penned carefully for years, Reigen laying himself down on paper not for Katsuya, but for someone else entirely, for someone unreachable, unattainable.

That Katsuya knows so much of him – that Katsuya now knows Reigen’s face – and that none of it is reciprocated feels like a violation. He feels dirty, guilty. With his face in his hands, he wishes he were home, so that he could lock the door and sort out this gnarly tangle of emotions, because – it’s not just the guilt. It’s not just the inherent wrongness, knowing so much more than Reigen does, always. Among it all, there’s… 

Excitement?

Yes, that’s it. There are possibilities here; on paper and in person, he and Reigen have worked so far. They’ve talked easily, they have a few things in common. They’ve joked . And best, Reigen is interested in him . Yes, in Serizawa Kouki, the author, but also in Serizawa Katsuya, the quiet, scruffy man who writes at the library. Reigen invited him , the man who can barely buy a mech without his mother, to a board game night with the kids he’s essentially claimed as his family. 

It’s the truth: Reigen is interested in him even when he’s not an award-winning novelist. And that… that’s never happened before.

But it’s … new. It’s so new. They’ve only just learned each other’s names. And when things are new, they’re unsteady, like a boat balanced precariously. If Katsuya makes one wrong move, he could capsize. And not that the metaphor particularly cares, but Katsuya is not a strong swimmer.

“Serizawa-san,” Reigen’s voice breaks through, enough to startle Katsuya out of his curled position. “Are you okay?”

Katsuya winces and rubs his shin, which he’d hit against the table before him in his surprise. “Yes, yes,” he rushes to reassure him. “I - I just needed some air.”

Reigen leans towards him. Katsuya avoids his eyes, feeling studied, like an animal behind glass.

“Funny place to get some air,” Reigen comments. “Why not go outside?”

Katsuya shrugs.

“Well, the children are starting to head home,” Reigen says. “We’re going to start cleaning up.”

“I’ll – I’ll come – I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the time,” Katsuya pushes his chair back and goes to stand, but finds Reigen’s hands placating him, palms forward.

“It’s okay,” Reigen says. “I was just letting you know. Take as long as you need. We probably have it covered, anyways. The children have picked up most of the game pieces and put them back in their boxes already, so it’s not a big job. We just need to move the tables, which the kids are too small to do, but I think they’ll help us stack the boxes in the cupboards too.”

Katsuya smiles thinly, looking anywhere but Reigen’s eyes. “That’s good, uh, that’s good of them, but it’s okay – I’m fine, I can come help with the tables.” He braces himself and meets Reigen’s eyes – his sweet, concerned eyes. 

Reigen lifts an eyebrow, not quite convinced. 

“I’m fine,” Katsuya repeats.

Reigen’s face brightens. “Great,” he says. “But feel free to go if you need to. When are you heading out?”

“Oh, uh… my… ride should be here right around nine.” 

“Great – plenty of time to work! But I mean it, you can take a break if you need to.”

Katsuya trails after Reigen, back to the even space. It’s been tidied up for the most part, like Reigen said; a few kids are still working with the volunteers, putting bean bag chairs where they belong. Katsuya spots Mob and Ritsu among them; when Mob waves, he lifts his hand back. Katsuya lets himself be consumed by manual labor, dragging tables around and stacking chairs. They roll up a few rugs that were laid out for the floor games, put those away as well. While Reigen remains stubbornly on his mind – and in his field of vision, at all times, it seems, Katsuya manages to push aside the stress for the tasks at hand. Moving is calming, somehow; it’s an excellent distraction, nevertheless. He remembers something his mother had told him a while ago, about lowering stress with exercise. He didn’t feel ready to start jogging, but maybe the idea had some merit in other ways. Maybe he’d begin taking more walks.

When the work is done, Reigen approaches him again, which this time Katsuya is aware of from the moment it begins happening. He wills his muscles to unclench; it’s fine, you’ve spoken to him before, nothing has changed, right? Everything is the same as it was when you didn’t know his name. Except now you know he’s going to get a goldfish and name it after you and wants to have a dog one day and – oh, god .

“Accompany me to the cafe?” Reigen asks.

“Wh- huh?”

“I’ll treat you to a pastry. A thank you for coming tonight’s event!”

“Oh – uh, but…” He checks the time. There’s still fifteen minutes before his mom is scheduled to arrive. He has no excuse. “A – Alright.”

Once again, Reigen leads the way. Katsuya falls in step behind him as he says a jaunty goodbye to the volunteers and even ruffles Mob’s hair on the way out. (Katsuya doesn’t miss the venomous glare Reigen receives from Mob’s little brother, but says nothing.) 

They arrive quickly at the cafe attached to the library, which seems to have started closing procedures – a few chairs are stacked on tables, and one employee is sweeping. Katsuya watches in awe as Reigen procures them one of the last standing tables and argues a discount on their pastries, seeing as they’ll be thrown out otherwise. The show nearly makes Katsuya forget his worries, but they come rushing back the instant Reigen presents him with a chocolate croissant.

“Thank you,” Katsuya mumbles, taking it. 

“My pleasure,” Reigen responds, all but falling into the chair across from Katsuya. He takes a large bite out of his muffin. Katsuya nibbles his croissant. 

He should tell him. It’s only fair. Right? He has to.

Katsuya starts, “Reigen-san, I – ” at the same time Reigen says, “Do you like theater?”

“I – uh, th- theater?”

“Yeah, like live performances of things. Plays, musicals, comedy acts,” Reigen says. He seems like he could go on.

“Um – I haven’t been to a play since I was in school,” Katsuya admits, so thrown off by the topic that the truth of this matter comes out without much hesitation. “So… maybe?”

“Well! I have to take you to a show, down at Seasoning City’s community center. They have an amazing cast. I acted there a few times, you know! Until this job started taking more of my time.” He flaps a hand around. Katsuya looks at the muffin crumbs on his shirt, rather than his face. “Right now they’re doing some original play – the tickets are inexpensive, especially if we go to the matinee – that’s on Sunday. Are you interested?” 

“I… I’d have to see,” Katsuya tells Reigen’s crumbs.

Reigen takes another large bite of his muffin and says, “Why don’t I give you my number? You can give me a call sometime tomorrow and let me know.”

“Oh – are… are you sure?”

Reigen looks at him like he might have grown two heads. Katsuya is almost tempted to double-check. “Sure I’m sure.”

“Okay then…” He nibbles at his croissant again. He still hasn’t reached the chocolate at the center.

Reigen nods, satisfied with that. Then, he gives Katsuya a curious look. “Were you going to say something, earlier? Sorry. I think I cut you off.”

“Oh.” Katsuya can feel his own face flushing, the rate of his heart increasing, and he says, “No. Don’t worry about it.”

Chapter Text

The first phone call Katsuya makes on Saturday is not to Reigen, but to Tsuchiya. When she picks up, he says, “I think a met a fan?”

“Oh? Where? How did it go?”

“It was... by chance. It went well, but I don’t think… uh, he doesn’t know who I am.”

Tsuchiya hums. “Perks of anonymity,” she says. “You have that choice. I take it you didn’t tell him?”

“Well…. no.”

“Fair enough. It’s a small city. Think you’ll see him again?”

“Yeah, actually, I know I will.” He twists the phone cord around his finger, unravels it, twists it back up.

“Hmm. Interesting. Good luck with that.”

Katsuya waits anxiously, pinching the cord between his forefinger and thumb, but Tsuchiya offers no other advice.

“Is that why you called?” she asks.

“No, actually, uh.” He switches to fiddling with the literary society envelope on the kitchen counter in front of him, where it’s been for weeks, a reminder to respond. “Did you hear from the Takoyaki Literary Council?”

“No? Should I have?”

“They sent me a letter.”

There’s a short pause, and then Tsuchiya asks, “What about?”

“They, uh, want to give me an award? For, uh...” He wrestles with the papers, phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder, to locate the appropriate information. “Emerging Voices in Japanese Magicalism,” he reads. “I guess specifically for… my second novel?”

“That’s wonderful, Serizawa-san,” she says. Katsuya smiles, hearing the genuine warmth in her voice. “I’ll get a quarter of the plaque, right?”

Katsuya laughs. “Do you want the part that says Seri or the part that says ki ?” 

“Hmmm, I think I’ll take ki , and you can have Serizawa Kou .”

They both laugh again, but Katsuya’s chuckles trail off after a moment. Tsuchiya gives him space, and though Katsuya is grateful as his nerves make him clutch the phone a little bit tighter before he speaks again. “They’re, uh… they’re holding an event at the Seasoning City Library in February, and they want me to come accept the award.”

“Think you’ll go?” Tsuchiya asks him, and he can hear the careful note in his tone, one that makes his stomach curl with something like disappointment. “You know the library, after all.”

“That’s the thing. It’s almost too convenient.” 

Tsuchiya snorts. “You can say that again. But why’s that a reason to not go?”

“But, uh… I don’t know. I have to think about it. There’ll be a lot of people… they’ll expect me to get on stage...”

“Well, you don’t have to know right away,” she reasons with him. “Why don’t you fax me the letter on Monday when I’m back at the office? I can always send in a formal response for you, one way or the other.”

“Okay, that would be great,” Katsuya agrees. “Uh… I’ll try to let you know soon, about what I want to do.”

“Great,” she says. “And Serizawa-san?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations. I mean it.”

“Thank you, Tsuchiya-san.”

He hangs up, and takes the official letter to his mother’s study, so he’ll remember to send it in a few days. Then he returns to the kitchen and idles in front of the counter again, this time playing with the edge of the napkin Reigen had scrawled his landline number on before they’d parted ways the night before. 

Katsuya had realized something, as he’d lain in bed last night, thinking about this very man. Telling Reigen his pen name would irrevocably change their relationship – though it wasn’t much, Katsuya cherished the conversations he’s had with Reigen. They’ve been warm, inviting; he’s always left smiling, at ease. Only once they’re over does he realize how intensely he’d been involved in, and how much Reigen’s grand attitude and interest in Katsuya had made him smile. And whatever dynamic they’ve built will change when Katsuya becomes Kouki, award-winning author and letter correspondent.

He doesn’t want to taint that. He wants to know Reigen further, as a real flesh-and-blood person - the man behind the fanmail. And he wants to do it as himself, flaws and all. 

It’s selfish. It may be one of the most selfish things Katsuya has ever wanted, more selfish than the models he begged his mom to buy with the grocery money, much more selfish than the years he spent behind his door, completely alone. Katsuya has little by way of friends - hell, for advice he’d called his editor, who he hadn’t even told the full story.

He just doesn’t want to lose whatever is building slowly, here with Reigen.

But the Takoyaki Literary Awards present a challenge. If he attends, Reigen will certainly know about it. He would recognize him, especially after all this time – no disguise would change Serizawa’s curls, his posture, his voice. In fact, Reigen may already know about the event itself; he’s involved in the library so deeply that it might actually be more surprising if he didn’t know in advance. Who’s to say he won’t receive a list of attendees?

It would be easier to stay home that night; have the award mailed in, and have some spokesperson from the publisher accept it on his behalf. He’s done it before, a handful of times. It’s the easiest option. It’s - it’s the easy way out.

Katsuya scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. He doesn’t want to be the person who takes the easy way out, not anymore.

So maybe it’s a good thing that there’s a time limit – a goal. Get to know Reigen over the next few months, and then, when the time is right, come clean. If they went their separate ways after that – well. Maybe Katsuya will worry about that when – if – the time comes.

He takes a fortifying breath, picks up the phone, and makes his second phone call of the day.

The Seasoning City Community Theater is an modern-looking building, boxy but with large glass windows looking into a small lobby. It’s set behind a few trees which are losing their leaves as the weather continues to turn colder and colder. Only the concrete cracking around the tree roots betrays that the building might be a bit older than it appears. Katsuya steps carefully on the cracked sidewalk, looking down to double check the address he’d scribbled down as Reigen rattled it off on the phone.

“Here goes nothing,” he mumbles to himself, squares his shoulders, and heads into the lobby.

He’s greeted by a blast of warm air when he pushes the door open. A woman in a black coat and skirt smiles at him as he shuffles on the mat just inside, offering him a playbill.

“Do you already have tickets for the show?” she asks him, pleasant. Katsuya nods, and she greets the next guest as he wanders away.

He finds a few seats along a wall and sits. He’s early, having beat Reigen here by at least fifteen minutes. But he hadn’t wanted to be late; if he’d arrived after Reigen, and then the show started, either they’d both have gone in during the first part of the play, or Katsuya wouldn’t have been able to get in at all, what with Reigen having reserved both their tickets under his name.

He concentrates on warming his hands while he waits, and familiarizing himself with the little theater. There seem to be two entrances for the audience, propped up with ticket-takers perched at both. People are already milling in and out, eating snacks from the concession stand, and talking to each other. Katsuya is somewhat surprised to find that the place is filled with people of all ages. 

Eventually, he stands and peeks into the theater. The floor slopes downwards, creating an auditorium-like environment which reminds Katsuya of his highschool’s event stage, a place he hasn’t thought about in years. This theater could easily seat twice as many people as his highschool stage, and the stage itself seems enormous, cloaked in dark red curtains. 

God, had Reigen really gotten up on that stage, and performed for huge audiences? Katsuya could never dream of doing that, not in a million years – but he could imagine Reigen up there, easily.

He wanders back to his seat, and before long Reigen arrives, bustling through the door as he brushes leaves from his coat. His face is flushed, despite having come in from the cold, and he spots Katsuya almost instantly. 

Katsuya lifts his hand in a shy greeting. Reigen breaks out into a brilliant grin.

“Hello! How long’ve you been waiting?”

“Oh, uh, not long,” Katsuya reassures him, standing. “So, um. Do we have assigned seats, or…?”

“We do indeed. They should be on our tickets.” Reigen gestures to the ticket booth, where Katsuya spies a small Will Call sign. “Shall we?”

Katsuya nods, and they make their way over. They position themselves in line, and Katsuya  clears his throat slightly, enough to ask, “So, uh, you said… you said you used to act here?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Reigen replies. “I got big into theater a few years back. I did a little back when I was a kid and I always thought, hey , I’d love to do that again, so I looked into it and it turned out that pretty much anybody can get up on a stage and make a fool of themselves.” He laughs heartily.

“I’m sure you didn’t make a fool of yourself,” Katsuya says. “I’m sure you were great.”

“Oh, because I have such an amazing stage presence, don’t I?” Reigen strikes a dramatic pose, one leg out, one hand over his face, head tilted back. Katsuya can’t help but laugh and Reigen breaks character to grin. “I’m a natural, aren’t I, Serizawa-san?”

“You are,” Katsuya agrees. “I’d love to see you perform one day.”

“Ehhh, I think my theater days are behind me,” Reigen says, flapping a hand to dismiss the idea. “But maybe, just for you, I’ll make a comeback one day.” He winks.

Katsuya flushes, not sure what to make of that. “Really?”

“Yeah, I can give you a private performance. Pull out the good ole’ monologue skills. Maybe Shakespeare, or one of those famous ancient Chinese poets. I think I’ve still got something memorized from my school days. What do you say?”

Katsuya is, thankfully, saved from answering, as the people in front of them shuffle away from the ticket counter, and they’re next. Reigen’s attention shifts to the man behind the counter. When he’s asked for payment, Reigen pulls out a card with a flourish.

“Oh, uh – you don’t have to get my ticket,” Katsuya attempts to interrupt the transaction. “Really – you already went through the trouble of reserving two for us, so I can get my own…”

Reigen shrugs, already sliding his card across the counter. “It’s easier this way. You can buy us lunch instead – is that fair?”

“Fair and square,” Katsuya agrees at a mumble, attempting to chase away the smile on his face. Reigen hands him his ticket, and once Reigen’s got the receipt, they step away.

“Seats E14 and E15,” Reigen reads off their ticket. “Wonderful! Let’s go in.”

As they find their seats, Katsuya silently thanks whatever deity is out there looking over him for the fact that they won’t be required to talk during the play. He isn’t sure how much of Reigen’s playfulness he can endure without becoming a tomato - bright red and rooted to the ground.

When the show concludes an hour and a half later, Katsuya feels as though he’s been pulled out of an all-encompassing trance. As he blinks in the room lights, applause all around him, he feels Reigen nudging his arm with his elbow, and he looks to him.

“Did I hear a sniffle from you?” Reigen asks, sounding jovial as always, and not at all like he’s adjusting back to reality the way Katsuya is. “I think I heard a sniffle.”

Katsuya self-consciously wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes are wet, that’s true; he feels embarrassed for a moment, until he realizes just how soft the expression on Reigen’s face is - his eyes are shining, too. Finally, after a long pause, Katsuya snorts.

“I think you were just as affected,” he mumbles. “It was – it was very good.”

“They know how to put on a show, that’s true,” Reigen agrees, standing. He stretches and Katsuya averts his eyes from the strip of exposed stomach that Reigen reveals from under his t-shirt, before Reigen grabs his jacket off the back of his chair with a sigh. “It’s always a bummer to come back to the real world.”

Katsuya nods, getting up stiffly. The show hadn’t had an intermission, and he’d been too absorbed to even fix his posture during the show, so one foot was asleep. He tried to shake it out subtly before they joined the flow of people emptying into the lobby.

In the lobby, Katsuya was surprised to find it was still the middle of the afternoon; it had been a matinee show, yes, but somehow he’d expected to emerge into the darkness of a cold night. Instead, it was the brightness of the afternoon, crisp and sunny. He found himself blinking again, and shielding his eyes against the reflective windows.

“Interested in lunch?” Reigen asks him, as casual as commenting on the weather.

Somehow, the invitation – which just hours ago would have inspired anxiety – feels rather natural to Katsuya. “Oh, but it’s my treat, isn’t it?” he asks lightly. 

When Reigen looks both delighted and guilty, Katsuya knows he’s hit home, and laughs. 

“I see how it is. Well, lunch sounds nice. Where can we walk to? I don’t really know the area…”

“Oh, there’s a great ramen place a few blocks into town,” Reigen enthuses immediately, all traces of guilt vanishing at the prospect of food. “It’s fast, hot, and not too expensive.”

Katsuya’s stomach rumbles faintly and he smiles. “That sounds good! Let’s go there.”

As they turn down the road, Reigen chatting up the restaurant they’re headed to, Katsuya turns over the fact that he can’t even remember the last time he’d been to a restaurant. He and his mother take turns cooking, and sometimes they order in. Restaurants tend to be… overwhelming. But he feels optimistic, buoyed by Reigen’s confidence and social ease; and surely, if he fails to order with all the proper social niceties, Reigen will save the day with all the grace of a fish swimming in water – talking to people, Katsuya thinks as he watches Reigen’s animated form – is the element that Reigen was born into. Nothing could be more natural or right on him.

In a rare conversation lull, Katsuya surprises himself somewhat by admitting, “You know, Reigen-san, I don’t think I’ve been to a restaurant since I was a kid.”

“Really?” Reigen looks intrigued, but Katsuya sees no judgment on his face. “Was your family not a fan? Restaurants can be quite pricey, so that’s understandable.”

“No, no, just…” He frowns, slightly. “I guess we’ve always been more the kind to do take-out, my mother and I. And I’ve never liked places that are noisy and crowded.”

“When it comes to writing, I see why you chose the library over a cafe,” Reigen laughs. “You’re no stereotypical western writer, as far as I can tell.” 

Katsuya chuckles back. “I don’t think I would ever get a word written at a cafe.”

“Plus, you’re there for hours, they’re bound to start giving you the stink eye for ordering nothing more than a small hot chocolate,” Reigen goes on. “Can you imagine?”

“Oh god, what would I do if they came over to me?” Katsuya groans. “That’s one of my worst nightmares. If they asked me to leave? Even though I haven’t technically done anything wrong?”

“I suppose you could always pay for time at an internet cafe or something,” Reigen muses. “But that’s not quite the same, is it.”

“Maybe if it were a cat cafe…”

Reigen all but lights up. “Do we have one here?”

“Wh – what, a cat cafe? In Seasoning?”

“Yeah, do you know?”

“I have no idea…”

“Hmmm…” Reigen puts his chin in his hand, thoughtful. “I wonder how far it is to a cat cafe. Surely, not too far on the train. I think I’ll look into it. You could do your writing, and I can work on my gaming skills.” He raises an eyebrow to Katsuya. “I’m quite skilled with computer games, you know.”

“Oh?” Katsuya grins a little. “You’ll have to prove it, because I’m not sure I believe you, with that expression.”

Reigen attempts to school his face into neutral, but still manages to look amused and smirky nonetheless. “What expression?”

“Nevermind, maybe you aren’t capable of looking honest,” Katsuya laughs.

“ Looking honest? Tell me, Serizawa-san, how does one look honest? Isn’t being honest enough?” Reigen gestures grandly, sighing. “I’ll never make a career out of honesty at this rate.”

“You could try a career of lying, then,” Katsuya comments with a grin that’s starting to cause his cheeks to ache. 

“What, like being a spy?”

“Sure, with your acting skills. You could go undercover.”

“I get the feeling you weren’t thinking spy for me.” Reigen studies him for a moment, and then levels a finger at him. “You were thinking I should be a conman, weren’t you?”

“What?” Katsuya laughs. “No, I wasn’t. Why? Were you thinking of being a conman?”

“In the spirit of honesty, I must tell you, it’s a career I considered at one point,” Reigen says gravely.

“ When ?”

“Is it embarrassing to say it was only a few years ago?”

“At least you were keeping your options open…” Katsuya grins at Reigen, before a sign catches his attention. “Is this the restaurant?”

Reigen glances to it as if shocked they’ve come so far in so little time. “Oh! It is.”

“Let’s go in and warm up,” Katsuya suggests. “Then maybe we can talk more about your career in lying.”

“I prefer the phrase ‘dressing up the truth’, actually,” Reigen retorts as they duck into the small noodle shop. “Softens the blow a little.”

“Can’t fault you for that.”

The shop is small and narrow, with several two-person tables squeezed along one wall, and bar seating taking up the rest of the remaining space. Behind the bar is a cook, calling back and forth to others in the full kitchen, hidden behind a half-curtain. The whole place smells like a hearty mixture of broth and meat.

Reigen gestures Katsuya to an empty table. As they sit, Katsuya is relieved at the size of the restaurant and the low number of people. Reigen barely spares a glance over the laminated menu before he announces that he knows what he wants.

“What do you recommend?”

“Definitely the chashu pork,” Reigen tells him, “with three extra pieces of meat. Especially if you’re hungry.”

“Is that what you’re getting?” Katsuya asks; Reigen nods. “Maybe I’ll get that too.” Anything to escape decision paralysis; his eyes were glazing over, attempting to read the numerous variations of noodles being offered. 

“Excellent decision,” Reigen declares, and flags down the attention of the man behind the counter. He calls their orders out to him, and the man nods his understanding. 

“Don’t they usually…. come over and write your order down?” Katsuya asks Reigen, uncertain once again. 

“Eh, they know me here,” Reigen shrugs, and drapes one arm artfully over the back of his chair. “Besides, it’s more of a ramen bar than a restaurant, so etiquette’s a bit different.”

“I see,” Katsuya says. “I’d never have known… I mean, beyond reading about it...”

Reigen props his hand on his chin, studying Katsuya for a moment. He speaks up before Katsuya can wonder what he’s turning over so intently. “We need to start a list,” he says. “Places you wanna go and things you wanna do. We’ve got theater and the ramen bar down, the cat cafe up next… anything else?”

“Oh,” Katsuya says. He thinks for a moment, rubbing a thumb over his scruffy cheek. He’s touched that Reigen is extending this kind of offer to him, to be his partner in exploring the world. “Well… we’ve already done board game night… I can’t think of anything else right now…”

“Let me know when you think of something,” Reigen says, grinning brightly. “I like going out and doing fun stuff.”

Katsuya grins back, warmth curling in his chest. “I will.” 

Their food arrives in what seems to be record time to Katsuya. Reigen breaks apart his chopsticks as the barman sets a large brown bowl in front of him, and then in front of Katsuya. Immediately the ramen’s fragrance hits him - similar to what he’d smelled when they walked in, but ten times stronger and richer. Katsuya inhales instinctually.

“Wow,” he says. 

Reigen, who already has a mouthful of slurped noodles, says, “Yah, whow!” He swallows. “This place has some of the best ramen I’ve eaten. I’m something of a ramen connoisseur.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe a ramen hobbyist.”

Katsuya breaks his chopsticks as well, and takes a few noodles, holding them up for a moment to allow them to cool, before slurping them down as well. He exclaims, “Wow!” for a second time once he’s able. The noodles and broth are delicious – rich, salty, fatty. He lifts the bowl to have some broth, and it coats his tongue in a blissful way – and he hasn’t even tried the pork yet. When he glances up, he finds Reigen watching him, grinning.

“This is delicious,” he tells Reigen, eager and honest.

“I’m glad you like it,” Reigen says, “because you’re still paying.”

Katsuya laughs, loud and clear. “Oh, yeah! I nearly forgot.”

19 November, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

I apologize for the great delay before this letter is sent. Work became quite busy, as I am nearing the end of the second draft of my next manuscript, which I hope will be scheduled for release before too long. I hope this letter finds you well, regardless.

Have you followed up on the goldfish idea? I think it’s quite a good one. A companion to read aloud to would be nice. Though I’m unsure of naming it after you; I like to speak to you as you. Not as… a fish or otherwise. If that makes sense. I am open to other fish names, though! Please suggest any you think of. If you are open to other fish names, I might suggest Yoko, after the character in my first novel. I’m sure I need not jog your memory. Even I recall the spectacular adventure you had when you read my first novel (and no, I don’t mean the contents of the novel…)

Also, if you think a black telescope goldfish (yes, I looked it up!) fits a fish inspired by me/my writing, who am I to say otherwise? Maybe I should get a bubble eye goldfish to be its companion!

Sincerely,

Serizawa Kouki

24 November, 19XX

Dear Serizawa-san,

It is quite alright! My life has been busy as of late as well, what with work, friends, and so on.

Do you have an idea of when your newest book will be released, or at the very least announced? I always eagerly await your writing!! Very excited to get my hands on your next novel. You said it was historical fiction, right? A new genre for you!

I understand why you would hesitate to name a fish after a real person, LOL! I don’t think that’s stopped people from naming pets after various celebrities, though. Maybe it would be weirder for you to name a fish after a fan than for a fan to name a fish after their favorite author. Anyway, I think Yoko is a wonderful fish name. As for your fish, I will have to keep thinking about it. Hopefully that gives us both time to acquire the proper aquariums and whatnot. 

You don’t need to remind me of the rainy way I discovered your novels. It’s a clear memory for me! But I’m surprised you remember it so easily. It must have been the very first thing I wrote to you about.

Also - that bubble eye fish you mentioned is WILD ! How is that a real fish??

Yours,

Arataka

28 November, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about the novel until it’s announced - though yes, I did let slip that it’s historical fiction. I hope it won’t disappoint, being so far from what I normally write ...! I have a suspicion it will be formally announcement will be around the new year, perhaps by March, so hopefully you are able to wait just a while longer without any issue. Needless to say, I’m looking forward to your thoughts once the book is out!

I will steadfastly await the naming of my goldfish, and until then, I shall be without a fish, no matter how fictional or fantastical it may look. I have to think about where the tank might fit, anyway. I rather like to spread things  across my desk. Maybe I’ll repurpose the nightstand.

How could I not remember what you wrote in your first letter? I’ve reread it a lot over the years. Oh dear, I hope you don’t think that’s strange.

Regardless... may I ask how you usually celebrate the holidays and the New Year? I’ve been thinking about that as the weather gets colder. My mother and I do not celebrate in any particularly grand way, though we used to stay up until midnight on New Years’ and play cards and eat toshikoshi soba. When I was younger, I believe we visited shrines on a few years to hear the bells. Now, we both get too tired by eleven so we don’t stay up very late any more.

(I promise you, I’m not an old man!!)

Sincerely,

Kouki

30 November, 19XX

Dear Serizawa-san,

I understand. I’ll await the news in the upcoming year! I’ll keep my ear to the grindstone, and my eye to the pavement. Or however those sayings go.

Here is a fish name – what do you think of Hoshi? Written to mean “star”. I think that would be fitting if you get a golden fish.

I don’t think it’s strange that you’ve reread my letters! I’m flattered, actually. It’s still sinking in for me that the things I’ve written to you have meant as much to you as the novels you’ve written have meant to me. Forgive me if I slip into fan-mode, but it’s really crazy to me. How is this my life?

I’ve done many things for the holidays over the years. During and after university, I would visit my sister and her family, but she moved further away a few years ago. Last year I spent the holidays with the kids from work, and believe I will again next month; maybe I’ll still visit my sister, I don’t know. Either way, the options are much better than visiting my parents. (My sister is wonderful, but I’m not on such good terms with our parents).

For New Years’, I sometimes go out drinking with a few friends, but I went much harder with that in my university days. When I was younger, my family also usually visited a nearby shrine, a tradition I stopped participating in during university. 

All in all, no consistent tradition for me - these days, I just stay up late at home.

(Now who’s the old man?)

Yours,

Arataka

Katsuya puts aside the newest letter from Reigen, smiling. After he’d gotten over the hurdle of his secret knowledge and begun their correspondence again, after a gap of a few weeks, the letters had become a source of happiness for him once again. He pulls out the ever-expanding collection of letters from Reigen, housed neatly in their little box, and slides the newest one in. He knows he’ll pull it back out in a day or two when he pens his response, but for now, he feels inspired to work on his personal project.

The autofiction project, just like the letters, had fallen shamefully to the wayside after he’d been forced to connect Reigen Arataka’s name with his face. (Some part at the back of his mind still marveled at the coincidence of Reigen being who he was, and rebelled at the idea that sometimes life could be so painfully serendipitous - he was amused to note that Reigen had expressed similar feelings about his own life.) 

He had cautiously been rereading his personal work over the past week, and though the beginning needed some serious rewriting, the story had begun to take on a life of its own, and even Katsuya wanted to know what happened next. 

Although the narrator was him, and although the boyfriend in the novel was based on Reigen-before-he-was-Reigen – and both were recognizably so – they also… weren’t quite themselves. He reclined in his chair and studied his computer screen where his was document open, patiently awaiting his words. No matter the similarities of the characters, it was still fiction. Reigen didn’t have two adopted kids, that was for sure; hell, he and Reigen weren’t even dating. They were only friends, friends who hung out. If Reigen even agreed with that assessment, that is. 

Though his computer sits before him, Katsuya reaches for a pen, and twirls it around his fingers for a few moments, thinking. Rereading his manuscript so far has driven home to him his mindset these last few months – craving human attention (yes, even love), but confused, uncertain of what to do with it when he receives what he’s asked for. When Reigen began speaking to him, he had been so electrified by those interactions that he had craved more of them. That is where this novel had begun, and it was clear.

As Katsuya’s confidence out in the world grew steadily, so did his fictional mirror image. There, the story swerved away from Katsuya’s embarrassing fantasy of having a social life (which Tsuchiya would surely want him to edit out, even if she hadn’t brought that up after reading it. He can only be thankful she’s left him alone about reading more of it for the time being) and became a whirlwind adventure, verging into magical realism, as Katsuya was wont to write. As Fictional Katsuya began to navigate the dating world, he also began to navigate the parenting world, alongside his partner, with two little terrors for kids.

Katsuya had based them loosely on Mob and his younger brother, Ritsu – the older one reserved and shy, the younger one bold and unafraid of speaking his mind. But in Katsuya’s fiction, both were scarred in different ways by the foster system they had endured thus far. And – where the writing left of – the two boys were hiding a secret – which Fictional Katsuya had just begun to suspect.

He tosses his pen in the air and catches it before discarding it and pulling his keyboard close.

It had always been clear to me that the older boy held something deep inside him, something which he could not share. Unfamiliar with children, and even less familiar with the Japanese foster care system, I had assumed that his secret was some emotional trauma, something my partner would slowly coax out of him over time, maybe with the help of some play therapy, a form of guidance neither my partner nor I were equipped to give.

I had no reason to suspect that the boy would bring his secret to me first, nor that his secret was something beyond my comprehension at first pass.

He looks at me with dark, unreadable eyes. He is surrounded by the softest baby blue light, which reminds me of delicate flowers dotting a field, swaying in the breeze, an image which I cling to – a sense of normalcy as the situation around me turns anything but. With one simple lift of the boy’s finger, his large picture books lift effortless off the bedside table; when his hand raises, so does the bed, with its colorful quilted bedspread, the desk with its orange lamp, the bookshelf lined with stuffed animals – and me.

I flail my legs, undignified as I search for solid ground; my toes scrape the carpet, soft and textured through my thin socks. I’m sure my face shows my distress.

“Oh,” the boy says softly. “You don’t like that?”

“I… I don’t,” I admit, ashamed that my voice is unsteady. I clear my throat. “Not – I mean. I just don’t like being in the air. What you can do - this… this is amazing .”

A look of relief crosses the boys face. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I lower as his hand does. He releases his tiny fist, and the blue glow dissipates. 

Looking around, I could swear that the aura had never been there, but that would have been a lie. 

“So that’s your secret,” I say, soundly on the ground.

The boy nods, suddenly close to tears – or maybe he had been all along, without my knowledge. I hurry to drop to my knees, invite him into a hug, which after a long moment of hesitation, he steps into. Relief crosses me, and the two of us are there for a long moment, my hands covering nearly his entire back, and his tiny arms like steel cables around my neck. 

“It’s amazing, it really is,” I whisper to him. “Why were you so scared of anyone knowing?”

“Little brother knows,” the boy replies quietly. 

“Of course, you’re not scared of him knowing,” I agree quickly. “But what about me? What about your dad?”

“I’m afraid of… hurting anyone.”

His voice is so quiet I almost ask him to repeat himself. But I don’t; instead, I pull away, and I hold his face, gently. He looks at me openly, fear still present, but not overwhelming him.

“You’ve never hurt anyone before,” I tell him. “I don’t see why you would start.”

He looks away from me – it takes me a long moment to read the emotion he’s feeling know, but finally I manage to place a name to that terrible expression, his teeth worrying his bottom lip: shame. And I can’t help myself; my stomach drops, terribly.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh.”

He won’t look at me, so I don’t make him. I pull him into another hug, but this time he doesn’t hug me back so tightly; his arms, once an unbreakable chain around me, are limp, easily removed, but I don’t touch them. 

“You won’t hurt anyone again, not when you regret it so much,” I tell him, looking at the wall behind his head. There’s a photo there, of both boys and their new father, sitting on a set of concrete steps somewhere. All three of them are smiling, to various degrees; father with a grin like a hundred-watt lightbulb, and both boys smiling with caution, but smiling nonetheless. 

“Really?”

“Really. When you regret it, it means you’ve learned,” I tell him. “It means you know what you did wrong, and now you can start taking steps to not do it again.”

“But what if it was…” He breathes shallowly, and I wait. Finally, he says, “an accident?”

“Then you apologize, and you don’t make that mistake again.”

“What if… there’s nobody left to apologize to?”

I swallow. That’s a question to unpack, it certainly is. I make a mental note to bring this up with my partner – to learn more about the circumstances of both boys’ past. It might shed some light on this secret – where it came from, but more importantly: where the shame came from, and what accident occured, and to who.

“Then you make peace with yourself,” I tell him, after too long of a pause. “And like before – you work on not making that mistake again.”

He nods, his dark hair scratching my cheek, and despite it all, I allow myself to smile, just a little. He’s entrusted me with his darkest secret, with something that impacts his whole world; no matter how entirely unprepared I am, I must live up to he expects from me. And somehow, that’s encouraging – like if this little boy sees a responsible adult when he looks at me, maybe he’s seeing something that I’m not.

Chapter Text

Katsuya has never been to Tsuchiya’s office before. The last thing he expects it to be decorated with are signed posters of famous martial artists, but inexplicably, that’s exactly what adorns the walls, framed up and everything. He finds he can’t quite look away from one in particular - an extremely muscular woman who’s staring him down with crossed arms from behind Tsuchiya’s desk. Her dark eyes are like spears, pinning Katsuya to his sweaty seat in his ill-fitting suit. As Tsuchiya settles into her chair behind the desk, it hits him: she and the poster and staring him down in the exact same way, like they could both kick him in the chin with absolute precision and he wouldn’t even see stars before blacking out. 

“Um, that’s a nice… poster of yourself?” Katsuya says nervously, gesturing to it.

Tsuchiya doesn’t even glance behind herself. “Thank you. That was taken during the peak of my competitive career.”

“Ah,” Katsuya says faintly. “Yes, I can kind of tell.”

“Is there a problem with it?” She asks, her voice lighter than before, a hint of humor there. “Or is it just my face in general? I’ve been told I can be rather intimidating when I want to be.”

“It’s, ah… not what I expected. The poster I mean, the poster – not your face. Not you ! You’re fine. You’re great. Obviously.” He quickly waves his hands in front of himself, trying to dispel the awkward energy, then forces them back into his lap. 

They’ve spoken on the phone many times over the years, and this year more than any other as Katsuya has steadily worked his way out of his shell; he’d even say they’ve become friends over the last year, a step further than their professional relationship that preceded. Yet somehow, meeting her for the first time – speaking to her face to face – Katsuya finds himself right back and square one. “I – I’m sorry. I’m not great with… people…”

“It’s alright,” she replies, and she’s smiling, though Katsuya relaxes as he finds no malice in it. “I understand.”

“Thanks...”

“Want a drink? I think I’ll get myself some green tea.”

Katsuya nods mutely, and Tsuchiya gets back up, pacing steadily out of the office, leaving him alone to stare at the larger-than-life poster once again. He quickly averts his gaze to the bookshelves, of which there are many, lined with books. Katsuya quickly spots copies of his own publications, having seen them hundreds of times, and wonders if those shelves are copies of all the books Tsuchiya has ever edited – if so, it’s an astounding number. But she’s been at this longer than Katsuya has, so it’s possible. That’s not even accounting for the fact that she’s a bit of a speed demon.

Before Katsuya can get far in attempting to count the spines, Tsuchiya returns with two mugs, steaming. She hands one to Katsuya with a smile, and a “Careful, it’s hot,” before she settles once more, across from him.

Katsuya inhales the hot steam, the familiar scent filling his nostrils and lungs and calming him before he blows away some of the heat and takes his first few sips. 

Tsuchiya opens the conversation. “So, not that it isn’t wonderful to finally meet you in person, Serizawa-san, but why are you in town? You don’t exactly live around here.”

Katsuya shakes his head, “No, I live closer to Seasoning City – but, ah, you know, just… I took the train out here to… um, meet with a friend, and uh, do. Something.”

Tsuchiya is grinning like she wants to push this line of questioning, but thankfully lets it lie, mostly. “Is that so? Well, next time a bit more of a heads-up might be useful. Rather than a call at…” She checks her watch. “Seven, was it? I just managed to squeeze you in. I’m a busy woman.”

“I know,” Katsuya says, meek. “I just… I thought I’d lose the nerve otherwise…”

Tsuchiya takes a hearty sip from her mug. “Well, you didn’t,” she says, and sets her drink down with a solid thunk . “So let’s make use of this time, how about it?”

She doesn’t wait for Katsuya’s confirmation, instead diving down behind her desk and extracting a thick stack of papers from a folder. Katsuya doesn’t have to lean forward to read the cover page, but he does, just a bit, to peer tentatively at them. He recognizes them, of course; it’s his nearly-complete revision of the historical fiction novel.

Tsuchiya flips through the thick stack, nearly to the end, and Katsuya’s anxiety mounts, wondering if she’s about to begin criticizing his work – he’s not prepared for that – but instead she just taps on the second to last chapter heading with a fingernail – shiny and well-cut, and it takes Katsuya a moment to realize she’s wearing nailpolish only a shade darker than most nails would normally be.

“This,” she says, “is a wonderful second draft. Once you’re done with the final chapter, it should be ready to move on to the next stage - beta readers. We’ll be announcing it as an upcoming publication near the end of February, as the test audience feedback should be in by then, so you’ll be dealing with marketing department soon enough.”

“Great.” 

“ So ,” she says, stressing the word hard enough to make Katsuya gulp, “Are you ready to get serious about your next project?”

“I… I don’t know, Tsuchiya-san,” Katsuya skitters away from the question like a startled animal. “Can’t I take a break between big projects?”

“Of course you could ,” she barrels on, “But there’s no need to completely stop thinking about what you want to work on next. Personally, I think you have something really strong with your… what did you call it? – The autofiction thing.”

Katsuya puts down his mug, but regrets it; feeling too awkward to immediately pick it back up, he instead fiddles with the cuffs of his dark suit. He’d been afraid she would bring this up – whether he had waited for a call or come by the office, it had always been a possibility. “I…. I don’t know… It’s still very personal…”

“Why? It’s fiction, isn’t it? Can’t the personal things be edited out?”

“Well, I’ve already excluded all character names except for my own, so…”

“So we can take care of the rest with some careful editing.”

“It’s not just the details . It’s the personalities. I don’t think…. I don’t think those can be edited.”

“It’s called taking artistic liberty,” Tsuchiya replies, dry.

“It’s… it’s just a personal project,” Katsuya insists, a bit more strongly now. “And… and that’s final . I let you read the first part, but... but for now – unless I bring it up again – ” He swallows hard, eyes still down, until he squeezes them shut. “Please don’t talk about publishing it.” He opens his eyes then and takes a cautious peek at her.

Her cheeks are tinged pink, but her expression holds unreadably for a long moment, before softening, sadly. “I’m sorry, Serizawa-san. I won’t keep pushing.”

His heart hammers. “Thanks.”

“Anything else you’d like to discuss as a potential new project?”

“Ah…” Katsuya has to think back, through months of splitting his focus on the historical fiction and the autofiction. “I had a fantasy story a while back, but I haven’t looked at it in a while…”

“Fantasy is popular,” Tsuchiya nods. “How different is it from your magical realism work?”

“Pretty different, I mean… it takes place in a different world. It’s a bit more… high fantasy?”

“Hmm. Send a few chapters to me, or whatever you’ve got. We’ll need to see if it’ll hold up against the competition. Anything else?”

“I… I’m sure I can come up with a few more things…”

“Have you thought of serializing something? You did that early on, didn’t you?”

“Yeah - that was before my first novel…”

“Serialized stories are still popular, especially serialized comics.”

“I can’t draw at all, Tsuchiya-san…”

She snorts. “You could work with someone who does.”

“That’s true…”

“Well, keep thinking about it. If you come across anything, pitch it to me before anybody else,” she says, laying it down as if that wasn’t the unspoken rule that Katsuya already follows. After all, he trusts Tsuchiya’s professional opinion far more than anyone else’s. She goes on, “But, we can come back to that, if it’s a break that you want. Shall we just focus on this manuscript?” 

Katsuya nods.

“So, as I said, we’re set to announce in February, which is lucky, since it’s not that long after the Takoyaki Literary awards in February. I think they could help generate interest for one another, and it’ll give the press something new to include when they write about you and your award.”

Katsuya tugs at his shirt collar. Tsuchiya is always twelve steps ahead, advising the rest of the publishing crew even when it’s technically outside her job description – like now. More than that, the reminder of press releases to newspapers about him – and not just his work – makes him uncomfortable. In the past, there’s been precious little for reporters to write about, beyond his reclusive nature; with any luck, Katsuya will keep it that way. He values his privacy.

“Makes sense,” Katsuya replies. 

“Any further thoughts about attending the ceremony? It’s practically next door to you.”

“That’s true. I… I thought I might go, but maybe I wouldn’t receive the award…”

Tsuchiya raises an eyebrow. “What’s the point in attending, then?”

“I don’t know. I… I just don’t want to be photographed.” He doesn’t tell her about Reigen, and his involvement with the venue. “I don’t want to get up on stage….”

Tsuchiya’s expression softens again. “Well, we can find a representative to accept the award on your behalf, either way,” she says. “We need to let them know soon, though.”

Katsuya grimaces. “I’ll keep thinking about it.”

“Alright.” She glances to her watch again, and downs half her mug of tea. Katsuya remembers his own, perched on the edge of her desk, and picks it back up for another sip. “I’ve got to run off,” Tsuchiya tells him. “This was a productive first meeting, Serizawa-san.”

There’s a hint of irony in her voice, and Katsuya allows himself to laugh a bit at his own expense, his own indecisive state. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. Thanks for coming by – really. It’s good to see you here.”

Katsuya takes the office in – Tsuchiya and her poster, imposing; the other posters, signed, glossy. The wide desk, with his manuscript in a neat pile. The shelves, lined with books, some familiar, some new. And behind him, through the door, the contained hubbub of production.

The publishing office is full to bursting with life. He’d walked in and felt the excitement in the air, the passion rolling off of each person. And now, being here, Katsuya was part of it - technically, he already had been for a long time. But seeing it was different. It felt different. 

The excitement must be contagious.

“It’s good to be here,” he tells her honestly. “I’ll try to come again soon.”

Katsuya walks to the train station on jittery legs. Reigen finds him astoundingly fast, calling his name and pushing through the crowd to greet him. 

Katsuya feels immensely overdressed the moment he sees Reigen in jeans and jacket, with his own  ill-fitting dark suit and his warm coat bundled over it all. But Reigen looks him over with a grin, and says, “Well, don’t you look nice! What’s the occasion? Surely you aren’t this dressed up just for me.”

“I had a, uh, work meeting, before this,” Katsuya stutters out from behind hot cheeks. “Usually I just call in, but I figured, we were headed here anyway, so I called this morning and she fit me in for this morning, and…. That’s. That’s why I’m dressed up.”

“Well, I’m sure you made a wonderful impression,” Reigen says. He nods thoughtfully with his hand finding his chin. “You’re even all clean-shaven!”

Katsuya rubs his gloved hand over his cheek self-consciously. “Is it… weird?”

“No, no, you look nice.” Reigen is earnest in his words, and Katsuya ducks his head, still flushing warm in the cold air.

“Thanks. I was worried I looked… silly.” It’s a burden off his shoulders to admit it – the suit that’s too big in some places and too tight in others, and he’s bundled up in a coat that’s gotten more attention this winter than any other in the many years he’s owned it. To top it off, the scruffy face he usually did the bare minimum to make presentable is now shaved smooth.

“You look younger, actually,” Reigen tells him, stepping closer, as if it’ll help him examine Katsuya more carefully. “Not hiding behind the five o’clock shadow anymore. Though, that was nice too.”

Katsuya smiles thinly, avoiding Reigen’s intense gaze. “Yeah…?”

“Yeah.” Reigen steps back; when Katsuya glances to him, he seems self conscious. But before Katsuya can delve into that further, Reigen clears his throat. “Let’s move on, shall we? The sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll be out of the cold.”

Katsuya nods eagerly, and allows Reigen to lead the way.

The city they’ve come to isn’t extremely far from Seasoning, but it wasn’t a short trip. There was a good thirty minutes on the train, and before that, another twenty in the car with his mother, which had mostly been for morale. 

His mother had nearly cried when they’d hugged goodbye for the day, only a few hours ago now. She’d cupped Katsuya’s face – even though he was more than a head taller than her – and told him how proud she was of him, something she’d always said, but never more teary-eyed than today. Katsuya had just hugged her tightly in return, then fled onto the train before he could regret deciding to make this leg of the journey alone.

There, he’d managed to calm down. Trains were quiet, and the other passengers didn’t tend to bother one another. He had just watched the scenery fly by, even if he’d jolted at every stop announcement. 

And now, he and Reigen walked through the cold, windy streets of an unfamiliar city, together. The warm glow of Reigen’s earlier words was sticking deep in Katsuya’s chest and high on his cheeks, intensifying the closer Katsuya leaned to him to hear him babbling on about the city and the jerks within.

“I worked around here before I moved to Seasoning City,” Reigen is saying as Katsuya moves closer, bold enough to walk flush with him today. “I commuted around here every day. I had this awful job as a salesman. Can you picture it?” He laughs brightly.

“Somewhat,” Katsuya mumbles with a smile - he remembers this from Reigen’s first letters. He glances up, taking in the buildings - taller here than in Seasoning - and finds that it’s not a bad fit for what he’d already imagined. “Actually, I don’t think you’d make a bad salesman.”

“Sure, but it was draining ,” Reigen groans. “That job that made me hate my life.”

Katsuya’s smile thins into a line. This is information he remembers, too – in fact, it’s a reminder that he knows more than Reigen thinks he does. “I’m sorry to hear that…”

“Eh, but it didn’t last forever,” Reigen brushes it away with a slight shrug. “I moved on to bigger and better things.”

“That’s true. It seems like you enjoy your job now.” He considers not asking, but he wants to hear it from Reigen’s mouth.  “What…. How’d it change?”

Reigen grins cheekily. “It would sound silly to most people, but maybe not to you. I read a book.”

Katsuya bites the inside of his cheek as he smiles. He’s never heard Reigen tell it – not tell it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It made me realize, hey, maybe I don’t have to hate my job and my life and myself. Maybe I can change things if I try! So I did.”

“It’s wasn’t really that easy,” Katsuya says, and the immediately swallows down any other words he could possibly follow that up with, because, shit .

Reigen gives him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“It’s – uh, it’s never… I mean, it’s never that easy,” Katsuya stutters. “To change things, anything. It’s a lot of work. I mean – in. In my experience, I was just… Well, it’s amazing that you… took such decisive action right away!”

Reigen tosses a hand around and launches into his next words as if Katsuya isn’t acting the least bit suspicious, for which Katsuya is both immensely grateful and a little bit confused. “Oh, you are right , it was nowhere near as easy as I make it sound! But I persevered, as you must know. And let me tell you, Serizawa-san – nothing was more satisfying than walking into my boss’s office and telling him that I was quitting. He spluttered! He complained! He moan! He threatened to fire me! But I just packed up my desk and left. I never looked back, after that. Not to the job, at least.”

The story makes Katsuya laugh, and distracts him from his own blundering. “That’s really amazing, Reigen-san,” he tells him genuinely, and is pleased to see Reigen’s grin. Katsuya knows where the tale goes but the colorful strokes Reigen is painting lend it a new dimension entirely. If Katsuya weren’t called upon to participate in the conversation, he could sit back and listen to Reigen all day.

“Well, I had to figure out a way to pay the bills somehow . I did a bit of community service here and there, you know, cleaning up parks and whatnot, and I applied for jobs at non-profits and things, but nothing was hiring. Nothing! So that’s when I started thinking, hey , I could make my own job. Be my own boss, you know? Go at it solo!”

As Reigen goes on, they arrive at the small cafe that is their destination, the point of their entire trip. Its logo makes it impossible to miss, with its paw print shaped logo hanging high over the street.

“Ah!” Reigen cuts himself off. “Here we are! You know the rest of the story, anyway.”

They open the door to a lobby, and ride the elevator up a few flights. When they step out, they find what can only be described as a cat paradise; beyond the entryway, where customers check in and remove their shoes, Katsuya can already see tables, couches and rugs, filled with human customers and their cat hosts. Beyond them stand cat towers. The walls are decorated with various climbing devices - some even hang from the ceiling. Near the windows in the back, he can already glimpse two cats sleeping in a hammock. The windows beyond overlook a green garden, which seems even more vibrant compared to the cold city street they’d come in from.

“Wow,” Katsuya murmurs, despite himself. Reigen turns a blinding grin on him.

“What’d I tell you?” Reigen says, unzipping his hoodie and shrugging out of it. “No better place to relieve your stress than a cat cafe.”

“Maybe second to just staying home,” Katsuya replies, following Reigen’s lead and beginning to undo his thick coat. 

“Eh, for me, I think this is better.”. 

They hang their jackets and place their shoes in small cubbies. Katsuya hesitates, but then removes his suit jacket as well, and rolls up the sleeves on his dress shirt to account for the warmth inside. He expects Reigen to have already begun to check them in with the host, but finds Reigen watching him, waiting. Katsuya begins to feel himself flushing anew at being watched, but Reigen smoothes the moment over with an inviting grin.

They’re seated at a table near the garden window, and order two cups of tea (Katsuya isn’t sure how much tea he can drink today without bursting, but what else do you do at a cafe, even a cat cafe, besides drink tea? He’ll have to bite the bullet). Reigen is leaned way out of the side of his chair, beckoning to a tabby cat who is regarding him with an indifferent gaze. When she snubs him, turning around completely with her tail in the air, Reigen’s face falls and Katsuya can’t help but laugh.

“Try it yourself, it’s harder than it looks,” Reigen defends himself as he sits up.

“I think I’ll just be patient,” Katsuya says. “Maybe one will just take a liking to me and come sit in my lap.”

Reigen eyes him in a way he can’t make sense of in the short span of time it lasts. “Maybe,” Reigen says. “I guess you do have that air cats would like.”

“What air?”

“Cats don’t like it when you’re too needy, right? That’s why they won’t come when you call.” Reigen shrugs grandly, the way he does everything. “At least, that’s my reasoning.”

“I think they just don’t care about being called like dogs do,” Katsuya replies, watching a cat behind Reigen, walking with careful steps on a thin bar high up on the wall. “They just come over when they want.”

“Ooookay,” Reigen sighs dramatically. “I guess we’ll wait, then. If you’re wrong about this, I’ll be making you pay reparations.”

“For what?” Katsuya laughs.

“For mental distress . I came here to relax with cats, you know. If I don’t get to do that…!”

“Why make me pay for it, and not the cafe?”

“They probably have good lawyers. Otherwise they’d be out of business by now. What about all the people with cat allergies?”

“Well, they probably shouldn’t come here.”

“Tell that to her! ” Regen leans over and jerks his thumb out. When Katsuya follows the gesture, he does indeed see a red-eyed, red-nosed woman blowing her nose repeatedly with one hand while petting a cat with the other. 

“I don’t know, she looks pretty determined,” Katsuya laughs slightly. 

Reigen laughs too, and stays leaned over the table towards him, arms pressed on the wood from elbow to wrist. Katsuya notices how small Reigen’s wrists are – he could probably wrap his fingers all the way around them with room to spare. Would he be able to feel Reigen’s pulse, below his pale skin?

As soon as these thoughts cross Katsuya’s mind, Reigen changes the topic. “Anyway, Serizawa-san, I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked, outright anyway – what’s your job?”

“Huh?” Katsuya replies, eloquent, as the question comes from the ether. Instantly, he’s reminded once again of their unequal footing. “Uhhh…. I write?”

“What do you write?” Reigen asks, not missing a bit.

“Umm, a little bit of everything….”

“So, what, articles? Nonfiction, fiction? You were working on a novel, right?”

“Right. Mostly fiction….” Katsuya gulps, pressed back against the back of his chair to put a little distance between them again. He isn’t lying, he reminds himself – not technically. Just… by omission. Shit .

The answer still makes Reigen brighten. “What kind of fiction?”

“Short stories, uh… I’ve written a few novels...”

“And you’re published?” Reigen asks, excitedly.

Katsuya nods stiffly.

“That’s so cool,” Reigen says. “I’d love to read your work. Can I?”

“Uhh – n – noooo.” When Katsuya stutters this out, Reigen’s face falls, instantly, and with it, Katsuya’s stomach twists and drops, burning like acid all the way down. He hurries to add, “Just not yet . Next year. I’ve got… I’ve got something. Something I’d like you to read. Next year.”

“Hmm, I think I can live with that,” Reigen says. “As long as you don’t mean the end of next year.”

“No, uh, maybe, like… maybe in…. February?” He throws the month out, haphazard.

Reigen ponders this, tapping one finger against his chin for several painfully long seconds; each time he does, the acid in Katsuya’s stomach twists even more sourly. 

Finally, Reigen grins. “I can live with February.”

Their tea arrives, and Reigen leans back. Katsuya gnaws on his lower lip as the waiter places down small plates, and then small cups, and then a teapot. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to show you,” Katsuya blurts out once the waiter’s gone, as Reigen is mid-reach for the tea. “It’s that I have a contract, and I can’t really share what I’ve written right now, and the older stuff, it’s all really old, and you know, it’s not – it doesn’t represent – what I’m doing now . I mean, you can read it, but just… not yet.” He swerves towards the truth, as close as he dares to get without giving away too much. “I really want to show you my work. And I will as soon as I’m able. I – I’d really value your feedback.” This much, at least, is completely honest; the last words rush out of him all at once.

Reigen looks at him over the teapot. He’s smiling, but softly, tenderly. “I was just teasing you, Serizawa-san,” he says. “But I think I’ll hold you to your words now. I definitely want to see your work.”

“Oh,” Katsuya flushes for what feels like the hundredth time today – or had the flush ever really subsided? “I’ll… I’ll hold myself to them, too, then. I’ll show you. Soon.”

“Alright,” Reigen pours himself some tea, and then some for Katsuya, with a flourish, of course. “I think I can trust your word without making you promise.”

“I promise,” Katsuya says, regardless, reaching for his tea and Reigen reaches for his. He hesitates, hand outstretched, and then looks up to meet Reigen’s eyes. Reigen holds his gaze.

“Thank you,” Reigen says softly.

Before Katsuya can question why a promise warrants thanks, a light grey cat leaps from a wall fixture and lands on Reigen’s shoulder with enough force to knock some of Reigen’s tea out of its cup. As Reigen cautiously glances to the cat, delight in his eyes, she moves gracefully to his lap and drapes herself on him, utterly relaxed.

Katsuya grins. “See, what’d I tell you about patience?”

They’re barely outside the cafe when Reigen turns to Katsuya with clasped hands. “Will you humor me? There’s one more place I want to go before we go back to Seasoning City.”

Katsuya grimaces - he can’t help it. The day has been long . He’d taken the train alone to a new city, met with Tsuchiya - for the first time, face to face - and then met Reigen for the cat cafe. He was ready to head home.

“It’s on the way,” Reigen goes on. “Plus, I think you’ll like it too! We’ll make it a quick stop. Please?”

Whatever this place is, Reigen clearly wants to go. “Alright,” Katsuya relents, because he can’t imagine denying Reigen this, not when his reasons feel so superficial and Reigen’s excitement is palpable. “We’ll go to - whatever this place is. As long as it’s not, like… some creepy dungeon or something…”

Reigen laughs, “No, nothing like that!” But he says nothing more about where they’re going. The way Reigen grins makes Katsuya wonder if it’s supposed to be a surprise, but he can’t imagine what kind of surprise Reigen might have in store for him, not in the least. 

As they begin walking - Katsuya is grateful to notice that they’re still headed in the direction of the train station, as Reigen had promised. 

It’s a surprisingly short walk before Reigen tosses out his arms to present their location. “Ta-dah!”

Katsuya peers around Reigen. “What’s the - oh!”

They’re in front of a large, pristine building. In the glass windows, Katsuya has spotted a mech model on display, but not just any model; this one is about six feet tall, and fully detailed. He makes a beeline for it. Up close, he can see it’s made out of real metal - in some places there’s plastic, but the shiny black curve of the helmet can be nothing but real glass, and the sharp angles of the mech’s chestplate must have been made from a mould of some sort.

Behind him, Reigen laughs a little bit. “I thought you’d like it,” he says. “It’s the official company store for Umami Mechs. Do you want to go in?”

Katsuya nods, eager. “I didn’t even think they had a place like this,” he says, peering past the amazing model that stands taller than him in the display window. “Oh my god, is that the limited edition Kitsune Raider on display? I’ve never seen it before!”

He pulls open the front door and leads the way in. Inside, the store is mostly white - floors and walls all the same, with bright lights illuminating various displays, boxes lined up beside them on tall shelves. He makes a beeline for the Kitsune Raider, and Reigen follows him.

The model is beautiful; it’s a mech inspired by Japanese folklore around foxes, managing to strike the right balance between mechanics with sharp edges and animalistic features. The model is painted with primarily neutral tones, with several red and yellow hues making bold highlights. It’s graceful, striking, and insanely complicated. Katsuya has never built one like it before.

Beside him, Reigen whistles, reminding Katsuya of his presence. “Wow, that thing’s detailed.”

Katsuya whirls around. “How did you know about this place?”

“I told you, I used to walk around here. They always have cool stuff in the display window.” Reigen hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s fun to look at.”

“How’d you know I’d like this place?”

“Lucky guess. I saw you bought a model when we ran into each other at the hobby shop, so it’s not like it was a hard thing to guess.”

Katsuya turns back to the display, leaning down to study it closer. 

“You should buy it,” Reigen says.

“I… I did get a paycheck recently, so… maybe...” Katsuya mumbles, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know if I could build this, though. I usually stick to stuff that’s a bit simpler… besides, this is a limited edition, so if I mess it up…”

“So? All the more reason to get it while it’s in stock, right? You won’t exactly have many other chances.” Reigen picks up one of the boxes. He studies the front for a moment before turning it over and blanching at the price. He puts it back on the shelf. “Or maybe not…”

Katsuya huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah, they get pretty pricey.”

They wander the shop for a while longer, Katsuya marveling over each display and Reigen trailing after him with some interest in everything Katsuya has to say about the models. Finally, as they decide it’s time to head to the train, Katsuya is drawn back to the Kitsune Raider once more, and decides he’s going to get it. After all, Reigen was right - when’s the next time he’ll have the chance?

Chapter Text

9 December, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

The name Hoshi is perfect for a goldfish. I hope this time next week I will have my fish. Have you made any progress on your end?

Honestly, Reigen-san, I ask, “How is this my life?” every day. At least recently, I’ve found that my life can - and does! - contain so many more wonderful things than I thought over the last few years. I was dedicated so solely to my work, and my work was my only connection to the outside; now that I’ve begun to come out on the other side, it feels as though it were half a life. I’m grateful, every day. Especially for the people in my life.

I believe your New Years and holiday plans sound wonderful. As those draw nearer, I wish you the best! 

Would it be too much to ask why you don’t get along with your parents? Feel free to not tell me; but please forgive me. It’s practically my occupation to be curious.

In return - or preemptively, I suppose - I can tell you more about my family. I’ve mentioned before that I live with my mother. Well, that’s the extent of my family, and it has been for a long time. My father has never been in the picture, so my mother raised me alone, with some help from her parents. She has no siblings, and thus I have no aunts or uncles. My grandfather passed away when I was rather young; I don’t remember him very well. My grandmother passed away a few years ago. So recently, to say it’s only my mother and myself is more true than it ever was.

I love my mother, dearly; she’s stood beside me and helped me for a very long time. But it hasn’t always been smooth sailing between us. She’s at times been impatient, and not understood the severity of my anxieties, and in return, I was not always the kindest nor most communicative with her. But with time, we both learned to understand one another, and if she had not accepted me and helped me along the way, I know my life would be extremely different - and worse. But, regardless, no family is perfect. I’d say my own is far from it.

Sincerely,

Kouki

14 December, 19XX

Dear Serizawa-san,

Indeed, I have made much fishy progress - Yoko has arrived, and loves her new home!! I didn’t expect to enjoy coming home to a fish so much, but I have, even though it’s only been a few days. I say, “I’m home!” and everything, LOL. I’ve included a photo!!! Please send me a picture of Hoshi when you can - I’ll put it up by Yoko’s tank so she won’t feel lonely while I’m at work all day.

Would it be presumptuous of me to make a book recommendation? I’m sure you read plenty already, but there’s a novel I finished recently that reminded me somewhat of our initial conversation about fear. It’s called, The Ocean that Stares Back . If you’re open to it, let me know! I could even drop my copy in the mail for you. It wouldn’t be any trouble, and you could even consider it a gift for the holidays.

As for the topic of parents, and families - well, I suppose I’m the one who put this out there, aren’t I? Not to say I don’t want to talk about it, of course - just that it’s not the most fun topic.

It sounds like you and your mother have worked through times where you haven’t seen eye-to-eye, and that’s wonderful! But my parents aren’t much the same. We still don’t see eye-to-eye, but especially my mother and I - she never seems satisfied by what I’m doing with my life. Forging my own career? Forget it! Better to be a highly paid salaryman! … ugh. She approves more of my sister’s job, and that she’s started a family. That’s another big complaint from her. “Aren’t you ever going to get a girlfriend?” The answer to that, mom… is no.

My father is similar. He follows my mother’s footsteps and opinions quite closely. It might be that he doesn’t want her to turn all that judgement and disapproval on him.

To give her the benefit of the doubt, I think she just wants my sister and I to live securely, you know? Have money to spare, have people to look out for us. I just don’t think she executes on those things very well, if she does actually feel that. It causes a lot of tension between us kids and her.

Sorry to end this letter on such a dour note.

Yours,

Arataka

The letters continue to come and go. Katsuya no longer counts the days between sending and receiving them and in that way, the weeks march onward.

When he reads Reigen’s latest letter, detailing some of the family dynamics that have thus far been an utterly unknown part of his life - Katsuya thinks about how the letters have become a regular fixture in his life - not in the way they used to be, as dependable insights into the life and mind of a fan, but as correspondence with a friend. 

It’s - good. The trust that Reigen places in him, by handing him his thoughts, his life - thinking of him even when they aren’t writing to one another - it makes Katsuya’s stomach bubble with a happy warmth.

He doesn’t try to hide the smile on his face - there’s nobody around to see it, unless you counted the mechs displayed on a shelf, and the one still perched atop his radio.

He reaches for that one now, his goofy grin still in place. It’s been a few weeks since he and Reigen went to the company store of Umami Mechs, and the box of the Kitsune Raider sits pristine, not even the lightest coating of dust.

“What do you think?” he asks the old model. “Ready to move to the shelf?”

It doesn’t answer him. He wipes a speck of dirt off its helmet with the pad of his thumb and finds it a new spot to be displayed. Then, he turns on the radio, twists the dial until he finds a good song. He starts to hum, a little bit off, and opens the Kitsune Raider box.

The pieces are laid out inside, the large one seated in plastic grooves moulded specifically for their shape; Katsuya knows the smaller ones are in bags below, but first, he admires how even the interior of the box is displayed professionally. It’s almost too perfect to ruin.

“But maybe it’s meant to be ruined,” Katsuya says. “I mean, obviously the designers know people are going to tear into this. Right?”

Right.

Carefully, Katsuya begins popping pieces out of their storage locations, one at a time.

The day that Reigen’s book recommendation lands on the Serizawa kitchen table, Katsuya’s mother drives him to a petshop.

It’s in the area where suburbia transitions into the thick city, in a center with a parking garage. The park on the roof, where the sun’s heat almost makes it feel like it isn’t a bitingly cold winter thus far. Inside the shop, Katsuya finds himself in front of a wall of blue water behind thick glass. Or, the illusion of blue water; as he leans in to see the small fish circling their tanks, he notices the false backs.

His mother wanders away to look at the birds, and Katsuya takes his time, there at the tanks. Any fish he chooses and names in Reigen’s honor must be worthy of the position. (‘ Star’ , really, it couldn’t be more fitting, could it? Surely, Reigen knew that when he offered the name.) 

The right fish is round and bright orange. It goes home with them in a bag, which Katsuya holds carefully in two hands. The tank and supplies rattle in the backseat.

Once Hoshi is set up, Katsuya uses his mother’s polaroid camera to snap Hoshi’s portrait. Once it develops, he holds up to the tank between his index and middle fingers.

“That’s your good side, isn’t it, Hoshi?” he asks conversationally, slipping it into his next letter and sealing it. When he glances up to the tank, Hoshi is looking at him, or at least, he seems to be. Katsuya wonders if he can actually see that far.

Routine cannot last - especially not a comfortable routine. 

After he and his mother celebrate a peaceful, quiet Christmas. The scent of the fresh garlic cloves Katsuya had chopped for their holiday dinner clung to his fingers for days before fading - a reminder that their peaceful lazing and lounging would fade, too. Soon, his mother would return to work; soon, the year would tick over; soon…

He stands in front of his mother’s calendar, pinned up on the wall near her desk. Only several days remain before December is over; then January will pass like a shot, and then: there, right there, the first week of February. The Takoyaki Literary Awards. 

The words are printed innocently in his mother’s handwriting. They hide the nebulous something that event entails.

What is he going to do? 

He lets the calendar fall shut, the old pages covering the new one hung behind it, now showing only December once again. 

“Contemplating the new year?” his mother asks lightly from the doorway, smiling at him. 

Katsuya winces. “Somewhat,” he admits.

She comes over and looks at the calendar with him, nibbling on a biscuit.

“Want to go out for New Year’s this year?” She asks. “We could go for the ringing of the bell at the Seasoning City Shrine on the thirty-first, and maybe on the first as well for the festivities.”

Katsuya smiles slightly at the idea. “Didn’t we do that when I was little? Go listen to the bells?”

His mother grins. “Every year, when you were little. When you were especially small, you’d always fall asleep and I’d have to carry you home, and you were heavy !”

Katsuya has to reach back, far back, to surface those memories, but his smile grows softer when he finds them, then falters. “I don’t know if I have anything to wear, now…”

His mother pushes herself up onto her toes and presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll find something.”

They do, indeed, find something - an old kimono tucked away in storage, the excavation of which Katsuya’s mother declares to be only the start of their New Year’s cleaning, late as it may be in the last few weeks of the month. They spend a couple days on the house, clearing dust from every corner and between each nicknack and book lining shelves.

Amid all the bustle, Hoshi watches the activity. Katsuya stops in the doorway to his room, holding a hand-vac. He’s forgotten something.

Abandoning the idea of vacuuming under his desk, he pulls on a coat and hat. 

He finds his mother has begun tackling the kitchen as he heads out. She’s opening and closing cupboards. “I think that some of these old pans can be donated,” she’s saying as he enters. “What do you think?”

“If we don’t use them, sure,” he says. “I’m actually going to run into town. Do you need anything from the grocery store?”

She considers a moment. “Why don’t you get us some fresh veggies for dinner?”

“I will!” 

He shoves his feet into his boots, and with a wave to his mother, leaves the house behind. His breath puffs out in small clouds as he makes his way to the shopping district, walking quickly to keep warm with his hands in his pockets.

The grocery store is closer and more familiar to Katsuya than his next stop, so he goes there first and quickly finds what he needs. When he arrives at his next destination, he has a plastic bag hooked over one arm, weighed down with fresh vegetables. 

The stationary store is large and intimidating - not to mention full to bursting with last-minute shoppers like himself. With a steadying breath, he picks his way carefully past teens with backpacks crowding against counters, past the laughing older folks by humor cards. There - postcards.

He finds one for Tsuchiya rather quickly - it has a painting of a martial artist on the front, and the back has a pre-printed message that says, simply, Happy New Year . The card for his mother follows soon after, depicting a happy mother and soon with a message of love and hope for wellness on the back. Holding these two, looking up at the endless row of cards, Katsuya wonders if he’ll ever find one that encapsulates his many and confused feelings for Reigen.

What should a New Year’s card to Reigen even say? All the standard greetings are well and good, but none of them could even hope to encompass the entirety of his relationship with Reigen - not even Reigen understands that . 

Katsuya wanders slowly down the aisle, flipping cards over here and there, reading their backs. Maybe Happiness to you on the dawn of the New Year , although it still feels a little generic. If he puts these in the mail today, will they even reach his friends by the first? Shit, he shouldn’t have forgotten...

Near the end of the aisle come the cards decorated with animals. A large majority are focused on the Chinese zodiacs, but something else catches Katsuya’s eye amid the colorful masses; stepping around another shopper, he snaked his arm out and snags it.

It’s a thick cardstock with a koi fish on the front, curled elegantly as it swims. He runs his thumb over the fish; it’s indented into the cardstock and glows with golden foil, juxtaposed on a watery blue background, where ringlets spread from falling water drops. Several cherry blossoms float on the water, made with a pink reflective foil which makes the koi’s gold appear even warmer. The back is blank.

Katsuya grins.

Gantan

Reigen-san,

Happy New Year! Thank you for your friendship in the past months. Our conversations have brought me no small depths of happiness, which I appreciate every single day. I hope to continue our friendship in the New Year.

Sincerely, 

Serizawa Kouki

Gantan

Serizawa-san,

Happy New Year! All the best to you and your family in this coming year!

I trust this year has amazing things in store for both of us.

Yours,

Reigen Arataka

The last evening of the year is cold, even with long sleeves layered under his kimono and a loose coat over top. Walking warms Katsuya and his mother, and though the trek to the shrine is long, it’s a beautiful one. Many other families are out in the clear, cold night, and no small amount are heading the same way as Katsuya and his mother - towards the shrine, for the food, the people, and bells that will sound as the year changes over. Others peel off to walk along the riverbank that runs up against the shrine, flowing down from the mountains with cold, clear water. As they go by, Katsuya even sees families set up with picnic blankets, huddling for warmth as they wait to hear the New Year’s bell from downstream.

The shrine and its grounds are lit up when they arrive, with lanterns and street lamps lining the paths and dotting the open courtyards. Many people are writing and hanging plaques of best wishes and prayers; the sound of conversation, laughter, and wood knocking gently against wood as the plaques sway gently in the wind all flood Katsuya with long-ago memories, bringing a soft smile to his face. 

His mother tugs him onwards to pray. They hang their own plaques among the many that already hang. In the final hours of the year, Katsuya is surrounded by people, all but his mother a stranger, and yet - he is smiling.

Gazing upwards at the shrine as they draw close, Katsuya reflects on the fact that he wasn’t here a year ago - or the year before that, or the year before that; yet he has finally made it back to this place, a spiritual location where maybe - just maybe - someone will hear him and help grant him the happiness he’s been searching for as he has slowly reintegrated into society.

A tug distracts Katsuya from his retrospective thoughts, and he pauses to glance around as his mother follows the flow of the crowd inside. Finally looking down, Katsuya is startled to find Mob with a hand on his kimono. The boy is dressed in a bright, patterned kimono, and accompanied by his younger brother, who’s also dressed brightly.

“Hi, Serizawa-san!” Mob says, releasing Katsuya’s kimono. “Happy new year!”

“Happy New Year!” Ritsu chimes in.

Katsuya breaks into a wide grin, not having expected to see the two young brothers here. “You too, Mob-kun, Ritsu-kun! Ready for the bells?”

Both boys nod. Ritsu throws his arms out to exclaim, “I can’t wait! It’s gonna be real big, and probably loud!”

“Have you been before?” 

Now, both brothers shake their heads. “We usually get too tired to stay up,” Mob admits. “But we come every year.”

“Have you seen them ringing it?” Ritsu asks.

“When I was little,” Katsuya tells them, “But mostly, I get tired, too, even now. This year, I’m doing my best to stay up late.”

“We’re doing our best, too!” Mob assures Katsuya.

“Good luck!” Katsuya says, then adds, “to all of us.”

It’s then that a woman pushes her way through the crowd that they’re stopped amidst, where the flow of people is breaking around them. “There you two are!” she complains. “Shigeo, what were you thinking, dragging your little brother off like that? It’s dark out! What if you got lost?”

As the boys turn towards their mother, looking properly scolded. Even though Katsuya wasn’t involved in her complaint, he feels just as sheepish. 

“Sorry, mom. We wanted to say happy new year to Serizawa-san,” Mob says, pointing.

“Don’t point, it’s rude,” she tells her son, before looking at Katsuya.

Katsuya keeps his smile on as best he can. He waves slightly.

“He goes to the library a lot,” Ritsu explains. 

“He’s Reigen-shishou’s friend,” Mob adds.

“Ah, uh, yes, that’s right?” Katsuya stumbles to say.  

“I see,” their mother says. “It’s very nice to meet you, Serizawa-san. But Shigeo, Ritsu, next time you want to go off, tell me or your father.”

“Yes, mom,” both boys reply. Their mother takes their hands, and with a final wave to Katsuya, the family disappears. Katsuya releases a nervous breath, shakes off the lingering shot of anxiety that came along with the encounter, and moves into the shrine, to find his own mother.

He finds her with her head bowed, praying, and joins her quietly.

Instead of praying, he finds himself thinking - the year that they are saying goodbye to has been one of his best, in recent memory. Is it bad that he doesn’t want it to end?

He’s not sure how the coming year could compete. In fact, the coming year holds anxiety, uncertainty, and more - for one thing, he’ll have to come clean to Reigen about his pen name. 

But tonight is no time for those worries. Katsuya inhales deeply, exhales with only a small shake, and refocuses on turning his jumbled thoughts into something appropriate for the night.

Whoever is out there, he begins, squeezing his eyes tightly enough that the backs of his eyelids spark with white, Whoever is listening… if it isn’t too selfish of me, and if it isn’t too much to ask… I would like next year to be just as good as this year, or possibly better. I’d like to be happy, or happier, or at the very least content. And, like a cherry on top, he adds, And lastly, I’d like to have Reigen-san stay in my life.

With just about an hour to spare before the monks begin the ringing, Katsuya and his mother take a walk away from the grounds, toward river. It serves as a chance to break away from the crowd and to admire the nature by the glow of the many lanterns. The relaxing break doesn’t last for very long, however - within a few minutes of walking peacefully with his mother, listening to the sound of water rushing past them and navigating the path carefully in the dark, Katsuya spots a familiar blonde ahead on the path ahead of him.

Though Reigen has his back to Katsuya and his mother, Katsuya still recognizes him the moment they come within visual range; even more evidence is that Katsuya realizes Reigen is walking along with the woman he met earlier - Mob and Ritsu’s mother - a man who Katsuya assumes to be their father. The two brothers themselves are running ahead of the adults and back, presenting them with ladybugs and flowers, and occasionally being scolded when they get too close to the edge of the freezing water.

Katsuya’s steps falter, which doesn’t escape his mother’s notice. She glances to him.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“No, no,” Katsuya waves a hand and swallows hard, before running that hand into his hair. It’s tidier than usual, but still just as long and curly as ever, even with his clean-shaven face, which he’s kept that way ever since Reigen had commented on it. “I just - saw some people I know, up there. That’s all.”

“Ah, where? Do you want to say hello?” His mother peers around at the other people wandering the path. Beyond Reigen strolling with Mob and his family, there are some couples and other loose groups of friends out walking by the river. Further beyond the path, on the other side than the river, are clusters of people seated on blankets or in the grass, as they’d seen earlier. 

“Ahh…. I don’t know. Maybe,” Katsuya says, guiding his mother’s gaze to the group with a gesture. “I know them all from the library. The kids, anyway, and the blonde man. He’s, uh, he’s friend I’ve been going out to meet once in a while.”

“I see .” She purses her lips like she’s thinking, before deciding, “We should definitely say hello then.” She scoops up Katsuya’s arm in her own and picks up their pace, despite Katsuya’s blubbered protests and sneakers scraping frantically on the sandy path. 

In the end, Katsuya’s apprehension and indecisiveness doesn’t matter, as Ritsu spots them coming, and when he waves, it causes a domino effect; Mob spots them next, and when he calls out to Katsuya by name, Reigen whirls around.

Closer now, Katsuya gets a better look at Reigen in the low lighting of the river path. His kimono, which had been nothing more than a pink-tinted gray in the distance, was now clearly pink, and tied with a red sash around his waist, matching the coat he wears overtop. There’s a subtle pattern to the kimono which Katsuya can’t quite decipher without staring. His face feels hot, even when he pulls his eyes away from Reigen to greet Mob and Ritsu with a small smile and wave.

“Serizawa-san!” Reigen exclaims, excitedly. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight. We could have all come together!”

“I, ah,” Katsuya manages to clear his throat before he’s able to continue. “We… we decided last minute. Mom, this is my friend.” He hesitates, knowing that the name will be damning - his mother, after all, has been the sole link in Katsuya’s mail chain since he began writing - and thus, since he began receiving fanmail. But he can’t avoid it. “Reigen Arataka.”

“Hello ma’am,” Reigen greets her with an outstretched hand, which she takes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, without missing a beat. When Reigen withdraws his hand, Katsuya’s mom throws a glance with an eyebrow raised.

It’s a look that needs no explanation. In this moment, she can see right through Katsuya. Katsuya knows she knows - probably knows just about everything - and he can’t do anything about it except for giving them both a wincing smile.

Reigen introduces them to the Kageyama parents, and Katsuya misses both of their names, so distracted with attempting to not look like a man carrying a load of guilt squarely across his shoulders. He shakes their hands on instinct, doing his best to respond to the Kageyama mother’s kind smile.

As they resume their walk, the parents pull ahead of Katsuya and Reigen, talking and smiling with one another, a ploy no doubt by Katsuya’s mother, judging by the second glance she’d given him only moments before. The kids run ahead again, playing a game of their own creation. 

Katsuya doesn’t know where they’ve found the energy for running this late, but they’ve certainly found it somewhere.

Now walking alongside Reigen, he splutters around for words. Eventually he lands on, “Uh, h- how is your night going?”

Reigen, mercifully, disregards Katsuya’s flubbering. “It’s been really nice,” he says. “I only came out at the last minute too, actually - Mob invited me a while back, and I wasn’t certain I should go. It’s a family outing for the Kageyamas, you know? But then his parents said they wouldn’t mind, and I thought hey, sure beats staying home.” He shrugs languidly, arms out long, graceful. In the kimono, they’re like the elegant wings of a large water bird. 

“Yeah,” Katsuya agrees. “It’s a big day, after all…” He trails off, looking out of the river, generating its white noise. 

“Isn’t it?” Reigen says. “What are your hopes for the new year?”

Katsuya chews his lip a moment, thinking. “I just want it to be as good as this year,” he admits. “This year has been… wonderful, for me.” Finally, he glances back to Reigen, and meets his eyes, finding Reigen looking at him with such softness that Katsuya feels his heart jolt suddenly against his ribs. “What?”

“Nothing,” Reigen shakes his head, but his face is still soft. “I was just thinking, I’m glad you’ve had a good year. Mine was good, too, actually. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

Katsuya isn’t sure how to tell him that his mind has been in the same place recently, so all he does is scrub a hand through his hair while his face warms, searching for what to say. “Same, Reigen-san. I’ve… I’ve really appreciated your friendship.”

They walk in silence for a bit. Katsuya feels awkward, but when he steals a glance at Reigen, he doesn’t look uncomfortable. In fact, in the dim light, Katsuya can’t be sure, but he thinks that Reigen’s face is pink, just like his kimono. 

“Serizawa-san, I actually have a question for you,” Reigen says, voice soft. “It might sound silly, but will you hear me out?”

“Oh - oh, uh? Yes, sure, ask away, go ahead, Reigen-san,” Katsuya splutters, an unexpected response to the unexpected question. 

Reigen tilts his head sideways, glancing at Katsuya from the corner of his eyes. Mob and Ritsu tear towards the two of them, tripping them up and splitting them apart momentarily as they run between them, laughing and shrieking. 

Katsuya and Reigen pause to turn and look after them, so engaged in what seems to be a form of tag.

As they watch them, Reigen says, “It’s something I’ve been wondering for a little while now. And again, it might come across as silly. But, I have to ask… I wondered, are you - ”

It’s then that an accidental shove and a badly placed rock send Ritsu tumbling down the short incline and into the icy river with a frightening splash. 

Mob stands frozen on the path above. He’s barely sent a glance their way, eyes uncharacteristically round and frightened, when Reigen takes off - not towards Mob and the spot Ritsu fell, but directly past Katsuya and down into the river, his coat flung off behind him, fluttering to the ground nearly in slow-motion by comparison.

It’s then that the momentary silence breaks, with Mob’s cry of, “Ritsu!” and the further splashing of Ritsu fighting the current with frozen limbs. Reigen is in the water. It comes up nearly to his chest. If Katsuya had blinked he would have missed it: Reigen diving further towards the center of the river where Ritsu is, and grabbing him in a tangle of flailing limbs, not even blinking when Ritsu hits him square in the chin. 

Within the next minute, Reigen is pulling Ritsu to the bank, Mob is skidding down the incline to meet them, and the parents are scrambling back down the path towards them. Around, a small crowd of onlookers gawk; as Ritsu begins to cough, Reigen hits his back soundly. A few people start to clap. Mob, crying, grabs Ritsu in a shaky hug, and Reigen hovers to make sure Ritsu can breath. 

Katsuya unlocks his frozen fingers from where they’ve found themselves clutched in the fabric of his kimono, over his frantically beating heart. He picks up Reigen’s coat from the ground.

Reigen wrings water from the bottom of his kimono before glancing back to Katsuya, who, not knowing what else to do, holds up Reigen’s coat like some kind of trophy. Reigen gives Katsuya two exuberant thumbs up and a wide grin. 

Katsuya offers a shaky smile in return.

Reigen ushers the brothers back up the incline to the path - only a few steep steps, but Reigen hovers by them as if he could prevent them from slipping again merely with his presence. As they surface, Katsuya doesn’t miss Ritsu’s mumbled, “ I can swim, you know ,” and Reigen’s placating, “I know.”  

Katsuya draws back to give the boys room to greet their parents - one hugging each child - and he’s surprised when Reigen joins him on the sidelines, sweeping wet hair off his forehead. Wet and in the dim light, his blonde hair has turned brown - a shiny, golden-tinted brown, much darker than normal. His face shines, and this time around, Katsuya is certain that his face is going pink - especially his nose and ears - though likely from the cold.

“Uh, wow,” Katsuya says, breathless. He holds out Reigen’s coat to him, who wraps it around himself without bothering to put his arms into the sleeves. 

“Thanks,” Reigen says, shivering. “I only get to be cool for this if I don’t get pneumonia.” 

“I think you’re cool either way,” Katsuya tells him honestly. Reigen shivers again, and winks. 

Katsuya flushes and pulls off his own coat, offering that to Reigen now as well, which he welcomes.

“I think my chin is going to bruise,” Reigen admits. “That kid’s got a swing.”

In the distance, the low reverberating gong of the first bell’s ring sounds out. The cheering of the crowd comes after, a far away sound, muted, reaching them as if through water.

“It must be midnight already,” Katsuya’s mother says, beside them. “It’s later than I thought.”

“Happy new year,” Katsuya says, eyes trained on Reigen.

Reigen shivers and clutches both coats close. “I don’t think this is the first time I’ve started the new year sopping wet,” he jokes, teeth chattering. His eyes are fixed solidly on the boys and their parents as they calm down in the aftermath, and Katsuya’s heart squeezes tight for Reigen.

Chapter Text

Life just about resumes its usual pattern once the first few days of January pass. 

Katsuya pins the New Years’ card Reigen sent him above Hoshi’s tank, by the photo of Yoko. He thinks that the card Reigen chose - depicting a stack of books conquered by a tiny mountain climber - is very fitting. He smiles at it every time he feeds Hoshi.

The calendar reminds Katsuya that he has only a month left before the Takoyaki Literary Awards; on the phone, Tsuchiya reminds him that he has one week to give a final answer to the coordinators about whether or not he will be there to accept his award. He has to figure out his plan, and fast . Instead, he heads to the library to work for the first time in the new year.

He works distractedly for a few hours, picking away at the final chapter revisions for his historical fiction project and resisting the urge to open up his autofiction instead, knowing that tangent would take him so far off course that the course would be impossible to find. As it is, he’s got one eye on the clock, waiting for the time when he thinks Reigen will arrive for work, and that’s enough of a distraction already.

The time for Reigen to clock in comes and goes, and Katsuya’s stomach rumbles for the lunch he’s neglected to bring with. Reluctantly, he slinks away from waiting and buys a packaged sandwich from the cafe, eating it quickly so he can return to his post. Ironically, it’s then that he spots Reigen, wandering in over an hour late in sweatpants, sneakers, and a large sweater. He’s headed to the cafe.

Katsuya quickly wraps the rest of his sandwich in its plastic and jumps up to talk to him. Reigen smiles a little as he approaches, and Katsuya finds that Reigen - normally very handsome and put-together -  looks rather under the weather; his nose and eyes are red. But he’s still handsome, for some absurd reason.

“Are you alright, Reigen-san?” Katsuya blurts.

Reigen laughs and rubs at an eye. “I’m okay - just getting over a bit of a cold, I’m afraid. And in no shape to run any programs - I’m not here for that!” He holds up his hands to show he’s innocent. “Just paperwork for me today! No kids getting sick on my watch!”

“I believe you,” Katsuya tries to pacify him, “but you should be home, too!”

Reigen waves him off. “Paperwork won’t do itself. I just need some tea. I’ll power through for a few hours. Then I’ll go right back to bed.”

“If you say so…”

“I do say so! Now, tea .”

Katsuya hangs nearby, while Reigen gets his drink in a to-go mug. Once it’s capped, they head back into the library’s main room, where Reigen waves to the librarian.

“How’s Ritsu-kun?” Katsuya asks as Reigen walks him back to his normal table. “Have you heard from the Kageyamas?”

“Oh, yes. Ritsu’s come down with a cold as well, and he certainly isn’t happy about it, but otherwise he’s doing fine. Mob’s still pretty shaken up, though.” Reigen frowns, the a line creasing between his eyebrows as well. His normal enthusiasm is curbed significantly. “Hopefully I can talk to him soon. It really was an accident, he needs to understand that.”

“I know,” Katsuya agrees, remembering the scene, the fright in Mob’s round eyes. His stomach twists at the memory, and he draws up to his table and stands still.

“Well, no matter! Life is moving on,” Reigen says brightly, even through a sniffle. Katsuya doesn’t quite believe that Reigen believes his own dismissive words. “I’m glad I caught you, though. I wanted to tell you about an event we’re hosting here in a few weeks.”

“Oh? Wh - what is it?”

“It’s a literary awards ceremony. There’ll be lots of snacks and cool people to talk to, including some of the authors.”

Katsuya’s heart begins to race, far too fast for comfort. He’s unable to lie completely. “Oh - uh, yes, actually, I heard about that. The - the Takoyaki Literary Awards, right?”

Reigen brightens considerably, and Katsuya grins a shaky grin. 

“That’s right!” Reigen says. “Do you plan on going?”

“I… I hadn’t decided yet…”

“Well, let me know,” Reigen says. “I’ll be there. My favorite author is receiving an award. He’s never been to an event like this before, but here’s to hoping.” He lifts his tea as if to make a toast.

“Oh?” Katsuya’s voice cracks in a way that he isn’t able to conceal in the least. “Why - why’s that?”

Reigen shrugs, but his grin is sly. “He lives in the region, so that’s got to help, right? Besides, I think I might invite him personally.”

“Is that so…” Katsuya says slowly.

“Yes! So, will you go?” Reigen looks at him carefully. 

A cold chill runs down Katsuya’s spine and he stays mute. He gets the distinct feeling Reigen knows , but it passes when Reigen sneezes.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t just go home?” Katsuya asks, weak.

“Nah. I should probably go clock in, though. The sooner I can do my paperwork, the sooner I can go home.” He begins to turn.

“Ah - wait, actually,” Katsuya’s hand jolts upwards with a mind of its own, reaching. His fingers curl, traitorous. “If - ah, if I do go - after all, to the. Takoyaki Awards. Would you go with me? We could go - together?”

“Ohh, together, I’d love to,” Reigen says, honestly, brightly. 

Katsuya wonders if Reigen knows he’s orchestrated something more, here - a second ago, he would have sworn by it, but… now, again, he’s not sure. 

Reigen adds, “We could even get a nice dinner afterwards and everything!”

“That sounds nice,” Katsuya says, feeling somewhat faint. “I, uh, I’d need a haircut before then, I think… and maybe a new suit...”

Reigen flicks a glance to Katsuya’s curls. “I could help you out with the haircut,” he says. “I have a razor and some scissors, so you wouldn’t have to pay a barber.”

Relief and anticipation fill Katsuya’s throat at the same time, swelling up like a high tide. The idea of sitting down in a salon and allowing a stranger into his personal space is one very unappealing thing, but the idea of Reigen doing it - it’s intimidating in a wholly different way. “Really? That’d… I’d really appreciate that…”

Reigen flourishes a hand. “Of course! I’ll have you know, I could have gone into being a hairdresser. I even cut my own! Say, how long are you staying today? When I’m done with my paperwork, you could come over and I could fix you up. That way, if you don’t like it, there’s time for it to grow back before the awards.”

“That - ah, yeah, that sounds. Great. Are you sure? I know you’re under the weather ...”

“Who’s what? Nobody’s anything. I’ll swing by on my way out in a couple hours!”

Katsuya nods and waves Reigen off. When he’s gone, Katsuya sits heavily.

He places the wrapped half of his sandwich on the table. He’d been famished not long ago, but now the thought of eating turns his stomach - on the one hand, the decision has finally been made, a weight off his chest, one less thing to loom over his shoulder. But on the other… well, wheels have been set in motion, now. And once they’ve started spinning, they can’t be stopped.

Or, have they already been spinning away below Katsuya’s feet, without his knowledge?

Oh, god. This is going to be a trainwreck. Katsuya drops his forehead to the table and does not move for twenty minutes.

Reigen sniffles most of the way back to his apartment, but each time Katsuya insists that the haircut can wait, Reigen waves him off and tells him it’s not a big deal, because the haircut will be quick, and Reigen can wait an extra hour before napping. So Katsuya just hikes his messenger bag higher on his shoulder and continues on after him.

Reigen has guided the conversation away from himself by the time they arrive, and had in fact gotten Katsuya talking enthusiastically about his progress building the Kitsune Raider, distracting enough for Katsuya to find himself walking into Reigen’s apartment in apparently no time at all.

The place is small - two rooms and a bathroom, as far as he can tell, the main room being a kitchenette combined with a living room. Through a doorway he glimpses a bedroom, where the bed is an unmade rumple of sheets and covers. It’s small, yes, but tidy (aside from the messy bed) and homey, lived-in; and very warm, too, because the heater has been running while Reigen was out. Though Reigen tuts at himself for forgetting to turn it off on his way out, the heat is welcome, and they both shed their jackets after removing their shoes.

Reigen flourishes a kitchen chair out into the middle of the room and pats the seat. “Sit!”

He does as Reigen vanishes into the bathroom. Katsuya barely has time to blink before Reigen returns with an electric razor, a pair of scissors, a hand mirror tucked under his arm, and a small towel, the last of which he drapes around Katsuya’s neck from behind with deft fingers.

“So, what are you looking for?” Reigen asks, pushing his hand against the curls on top of Katsuya’s head and then pulling away to see them bounce back. 

It’s brief, but Katsuya flushes. He’s glad his back is to Reigen and he ducks his head, tucking his chin. He stares at his hands, clenched into fists on his thighs. “Uhhh… I don’t know. I was just thinking… shorter. Something more professional.”

“I can do that,” Reigen says, then pauses to consider something. “Do you trust me?”

Katsuya doesn’t hesitate before exhaling, “Yes.”

He imagines Reigen is grinning, but he doesn’t know for sure. “Good. Hold this and sit still.”

He passes Katsuya the hand mirror, but instead of using it to watch the progress, he holds the mirror in his lap and squeezes his eyes shut, just feeling Reigen’s fingers on the back of his neck as the electric razor’s motor starts up and the cover glides  over his skin and into his hairline, moving steadily from one side to the other. He’s putty in Reigen’s hands as he works. He allows Reigen to tilt his head side to side as he maneuvers the razor from the nape of Katsuya’s neck to up around his ears. Then, upwards over his temples to the top of his head. Finally, Reigen moves in front of him, moving the razor through the front of his hair. Falling pieces of hair tickle Katsuya’s nose and he wrinkles it, but keeps his eyes shut tightly.

He’s not sure he wants to actually see what he can imagine so clearly: Reigen leaned over him, eyes intense on him. His hand positioning Katsuya’s head is enough. His breath brushing warm on Katsuya’s forehead is enough. It’s more than enough.

Seeing it, too, would be far too much.

“Care to take a look?” Reigen asks, softly.

Katsuya peeks. Reigen is close to him, but not as close as a moment ago. Even with his eyes and nose red from his cold, he’s beautiful with that cocky half-grin on his face.

A long moment passes. “Not at me,” Reigen says with a small laugh. “At your haircut.”

Oh . Right. Katsuya lifts the hand mirror mechanically and peers at himself instead. What he sees is himself, of course, but a little more tamed - a little more sleek, a little more put together. He can’t help but grin, and reaches a hand up to brush his bangs. 

“They haven’t been this short since I was a boy,” he comments. His hand runs over the back of his head. When it comes away covered in a million tiny dark hairs, and he laughs.

“My mother is going to be absolutely shocked ,” he says, before looking to Reigen again. “I love it, Reigen-san. Thank you. I mean it.”

“Any time,” Reigen says. The room goes silent as he turns the electric razor off. “Let me just even out the back.”

Katsuya ducks his head forward and Reigen moves behind him once more. The cool metal of the scissors touching his skin makes him shiver, just slightly. He’s glad that, like this, Reigen can’t see how the flush of his face is progressing, nor feel the intensity with which his heart is singing at the contact. He knows it would be too much to ask the universe for Reigen to be the one who cuts his hair for the rest of all time, but as something between his heart and stomach flutters, he wishes for it anyways. 

Katsuya is still shedding short, dark hairs when he gets back.

“I’m home,” he calls as he pulls off his shoes by the door.

“Welcome back,” his mother calls from another room.

Katsuya bites back a smile, anticipating her stunned, happy reaction to the haircut. He drops his laptop off on the couch and then knocks on her study door; when she calls back to him again, he steps inside.

She’s at her computer, doing some finances - as far as Katsuya can tell from a glance. “How was your day?” she asks, still looking at the screen.

“It was good,” Katsuya tells her, waiting for her to turn around. His patience pays off; she saves her document and turns around in her desk chair.

Her gasp makes Katsuya grin wider. “Your hair! When - what - when did you do that?” She stands and reaches for him, and Katsuya obliges her by ducking his head to her; she touches the short hair by his temple.

“Just an hour ago,” he tells her.

“What made you - why?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I dunno, I just thought… for the awards…”

Katsuya feels his mother hesitate, and she pulls back from him. “You’re going?”

“Yeah…. I think so.” He sucks in a breath, his good mood fading into anxiety. “With… Reigen-san.”

“With Reigen-san ,” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

She laughs, a slight sound. “Oh, Katsuya, when were you ever going to tell me about him?”

Katsuya blushes hot. “I… I hadn’t been thinking about that,” he mumbles. “I dunno…”

“I guess a son has got to have some secrets from his mom, even if I wish it wasn’t so,” she sighs, a hand cupping her own cheek. “Especially when it comes to romance.”

“Mom , there’s no romance,” Katsuya nearly whines, feeling far younger than he should.

She lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Mom .”

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” she says, clearly just saying it to appease him. He sighs.

“A new suit?”

Reigen’s voice seems distant, down the line of the telephone. Katsuya nods anxiously, despite the fact that he’s alone with the phone in the living room of his home.

“Yeah, for the awards.”

“Oh, you did mention that. But why?” 

“The only suit I have is the one I wore when we went to the cat cafe…”

“That was a nice suit.”

“It’s an old suit. It doesn’t fit very well. And, ah, I was hoping… do you know anywhere in Seasoning I could get a suit? One that won’t break the bank, preferably.”

Reigen hums down the line. “I just go down to the department store on Taiyaki Lane,” he says. “They have some inexpensive suits. But I don’t need to look that fancy for work. I mean, it’s no awards ceremony.”

“Hah, yeah,” Katsuya huffs. “Um. I’ll try there. Thank you.”

“No problem!” 

“Should I wear a tie…? I mean, do you think it’s that fancy?”

“No harm in it. You can always take a tie off and shove it in your pocket, but it’s much harder to do the other way around.” Reigen laughs. “Can you imagine? Oh, excuse me, I’ve just realized I’m underdressed. I must step aside and figure out how to knot this tie. Ah, I’ve screwed up. I can’t get my fingers out! ”

Katsuya laughs too, and Reigen’s mimicry falls apart as he’s tickled by his own skit. “You’re right, you’re right,” Katsuya says eventually. “I’ll have to look for something that goes with the tie I already have.”

“A black suit goes with everything,” Reigen suggests. 

“That’s almost… too formal. What about gray? Don’t you, uh, don’t you have a gray suit?”

“That I do , Serizawa-san, thank you for noticing. But I don’t think gray is for you. Hmmm, how about a navy blue?”

“Ah, blue would be nice…”

“And if you ask me, a navy blue suit will go with almost any tie, too.”

“Okay - I’ll look for navy blue. Wish me luck out there, Reigen-san.”

“You can do it, Serizawa. I know you can.”

Katsuya glows as he mumbles into the phone, unsure of what to do with that kind of encouragement; at least he isn’t facing it head-on, he knows; that would be an unmitigated disaster. But a question of a question that’s been nagging him for over a week halts his stuttered goodbye, and he says, “Reigen-san, remember New Years’?”

“New Years?” Reigen sounds somewhere between amused and exasperated. “How could I forget?”

“Hah, yeah… it was eventful. But - ah, before Ritsu-kun fell in the river, weren’t you trying to ask me something?”

“Huh?”

“You’d said you had a silly question, but you never got to ask it…”

“It must have been too silly,” Reigen says. “I don’t even remember.”

“Ah see. Well, forget I asked. Unless you remember your question. Because you can still ask it. I don’t care how silly it is.”

Reigen is so quiet that for a moment Katsuya wonders if they’ve been disconnected.

“That’s good to hear,” Reigen says brightly, before Katsuya can speak back up. “Any silly thing, huh?“

“Any,” Katsuya say.

“I’ll have to come up with something beyond silly, then.”

Katsuya’s first attempt at buying a new suit had been, frankly, overwhelming. 

He’d braved the department store long enough to look at a few very poised and well-put-together mannequins (which, of course they had perfectly coordinating handkerchiefs and socks, they were made to be that way), and he’d had a very stilted conversation with a very patient store attendant. Ultimately, the incredible number of choices - cut, color, pattern, did he need a vest under the suit jacket or was that not necessary? - was simply too much, and he’d retreated with a little booklet from the patient attendant. 

He studies it when he should have been working, wearing the corners soft with how many times he’s dog-eared them. He’s aware that it doesn’t need to be such a big deal, but there are ways in which he can’t shake the feeling that it is that big of a deal. He’s never accepted award on his own behalf before; even just telling Tsuchiya he was going to had seen him blushing under her Tsuchiya-brand praise.Not to mention his plus-one was going to be Reigen, and there was a nice dinner tentatively planned for afterwards, and at some point in the night, he was going to come clean about his pen name, in an as-of-yet undetermined method. All those things combined - well, it would be one hell of a night, and whatever suit he chose, he’d be wearing it the entire time.

So maybe the suit is just a convenient object to channel these anxieties into, but still. The suit feels very important. 

His second attempt goes far better. With time to peruse the catalogue and to discuss it with his mom - and even get a second opinion from Reigen, sitting close at the library cafe - he knows what he wants as he walks back into the store. There, he takes two suits into the fitting room. While the first one’s jacket is too large, the second one fits him well. Adjusting it to lay flat over his shoulders and chest, he peeks at himself in the full length mirror, and startles, his mouth falling open involuntarily.

With his face shaven, his hair cut too short to curl anywhere but at the ends, and only just slightly, and in a blue suit that fits him, over a new white button-down - well, Katsuya looks like a completely different man. Even without the tie, he feels… good. Confident. So much so that he changes back into the suit after paying, throws his coat and scarf over top, and walks out with his old jeans and shirt in the bag, his head high.

“You like it?” The cashier had asked as he walked out.

“A lot,” he confirmed.

As his makes his way towards home, he spots pink and red signs hanging from a store. Curious - hadn’t other places been done up in red, pink, and white as well? The next store he comes upon, he slows his steps to investigate, coming to a standstill as he realizes - he’d been so focused on awards this coming week that he hadn’t spared even a thought to what lay a week beyond them: Valentine’s Day.

The window display he’s stopped in front of belongs to some kind of kitchen supply store, if the Valentine’s and chocolate themed cookbooks and supplies on display are anything to go by. He’s aware of the people swerving around him where he’s halted on the sidewalk, but for a long moment, he’s powerless to do anything about it.

In another world, in another life… he’d likely already be planning to make a special Valentine’s chocolate.

But here, now, today - there’s no telling where he’ll stand with Reigen in two more weeks. 

His heart constricts painfully at the reminder, but with a deep breath, he shuffles into the store. Looking at a cookbook wouldn’t hurt; he can always come back in a week, or forget that this visit ever happened, depending on the awards.

The door chimes as he goes in, and an employee calls out to welcome him. Katsuya bobs his head a little in acknowledgement, and makes a beeline for the obvious display not far from the entrance, boasting “Everything You Need to Win His Heart!”  

He flips through a small cookbook, and the sheer number of ways to make one simple sweet quickly astounds him. From a whole spectrum from milk chocolate to bitter chocolate, and a million filling options…. Really, it was too much, and far too complicated for Katsuya to even entertain the idea of, with only mediocre kitchen skills to his name. The second book he picks up is no better, detailing what seems to be endless ways to incorporate chocolate into pastries, pies, cookies, and cakes. He puts this one down with a discouraged sigh.

“That one no good?”

Katsya glances up to find an employee smiling at him.

“Ah, the recipes all look too complex for me….” Katsuya admits. “I guess I’ll stick with buying something pre-made, if anything at all…” 

The woman blinks at him, and for a moment Katsuya is sure something is wrong, but she speaks up again. “I’m sure you could do it if you bought cocoa powder, instead of cocoa beans,” she says. “The trickiest part is processing the beans, so if that’s already done for you, you’re halfway there!”

“Ah, really?” Katsuya says, feeling himself perk back up. “Maybe there’s hope after all…”

“We have some more straight-forward recipes you can follow,” she offers. “I can even help you pick out all the tools you need, if you don’t have anything for making chocolate!”

Katsuya thinks quickly of the kitchen he and his mother share, then admits to the employee that he doesn’t even know where to start with tools for chocolate, perhaps beyond a mixing bowl. “Anyways, this was just a silly impulse,” he tells her. “It’s okay.”

“Why not play out the silly impulse a little further?” she asks. “I’m sure it would make your special someone very happy.”

Katsuya blushes, thinking of Reigen grinning, eating chocolate. He’d likely get it on his chin and not even notice, too busy enjoying it - that is, if it turned out any good. Even if it didn’t, Reigen would likely still encourage him. “Not bad for a first attempt!”

He finds himself trailing after the employee despite himself, further into the store. She leads him to an aisle filled with silicone chocolate molds in a hundred different shapes - hearts, animals, and stars, just to name a few - hung alongside any array of utensils for tempering chocolate, plastic and wooden spatulas, special grinding tools, electric kitchen scales for measurement, and more. 

While Katsuya hangs back, the employee plucks a few things and offers them to him - a tempering tool, a plastic spatula, and a mortar and pestle set. 

“These are the bare essentials,” she says, “plus a mold of your choice, some cocoa powder and sugar, and that’s most of it! I’ll go grab that recipe, if you want to choose a mold!”

Katsuya juggles with his clothing bag and the utensils and nods to her. He faces down the tall shelf, the silicon trays which could create anything from a large set of small chocolates to a single big chocolate per sheet. The more he looks, the more overwhelmed he feels; what would Reigen like? Hearts were too generic; stars were getting closer, starting to convey what Reigen was in Katsuya’s life, even referencing Hoshi. Then, as in the stationary store, Katsuya’s eyes are drawn to the animals.

A tentative smile tugs at his mouth. With this, he knows that he can’t resist the impulse any longer; he’ll do his best to make some home-made chocolates, and with any luck on his side, he’ll be able to give them to Reigen - not simply as something sweet to eat, but perhaps as a token of his feelings as well. 

Katsuya and Reigen had continued to exchange letters of the last few weeks, but as the awards drew nearer, Katsuya hadn’t been able to write a single word to Reigen. The guilt had been too heavy a burden, alongside the creeping feeling that Katsuya was already giving himself away - one more letter could be the last straw to break the camel’s back.

It was, as at the beginning, fear that held him back. Though the first real conversation Katsuya’d had with Reigen had been about the benefits of fear in ones’ life, he couldn’t find the silver lining here.

Maybe it just means I’m human, he sighs to himself, seated at his desk, flicking through radio stations. Perhaps, if nothing else, it indicates that I’m not heartless. He winces. Or, more likely, it just shows me to be a coward.

He leans sideways and pulls a blank sheet of paper from a drawer. He stares at the wall for a long while, resisting the urge to sigh again like a dramatic teenager succumbing to the drama that comes with being lovestruck, and in the wrong.

Slowly, he picks up his pen, and slowly, he dates the page. Then he writes, slow deliberate strokes.

Tomorrow, he will put this letter in the mailbox on his way to the Seasoning City Library for the Takoyaki Literary Awards.

7 February, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

I do not know where your opinion of me will stand when this letter reaches you, a fact which has caused me no small amount of grief, and fear. 

This fear, I’m afraid, has not been a good fear. It is not a fear which motivated positive action and correction; for a very long time, I have not been able to overcome this fear in order to move onto the next one. 

This fear has held me back, and made me into a liar.

It was a fear of losing you, in many capacities, but especially as a friend - a loss of which I am sure to be the sole cause, if it occurs tomorrow night. If it does not, I will count my lucky stars. But, I can’t get ahead of myself - no counting eggs, no placing a cart. No.  

I would like to apologize to you, formally, here on paper. I have lied to you by concealing many details of myself, and for no reason other than to protect myself from fear, and to hold onto the friendship you so generously offered me. It wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.

Though I don’t pretend to know anything of how the Takoyaki Literary Awards will pan out, we will have both been there, and to my utmost ability, I will have synthesized my two identities into one. For the sake of that, and full honesty with you, I would like to sign this letter with my full, real name, and not my pen name.

Yours always,

Serizawa Katsuya

Chapter Text

“What?”

“I said what I said,” my partner claims. We’re seated at a cafe. He’s just come to meet me from dropping off the boys at school, a peaceful neighborhood walk.

What he’s brought up this morning is making me sweat. It’s profuse.

“That… that your house is haunted,” I repeat, slowly.

He nods with the utmost slowness. He’s completely serious. Unfortunately, I already know it’s true; he doesn’t actually have to convince me. But of course he doesn’t realize that, which I’m sure I’ll feel relieved about later, but right now, all it does is make my lower ribs try to close in on each other. 

“It’s haunted,” he says the word for the third time in less than a minute. “I know it.”

I swallow. So far, I’ve ignored the scone in front of me, and I spend time looking at it now, instead of eating it. “How do you know…?”

“Things move by themselves, float through the air.” He wiggles a hand slowly from right to left to demonstrate how it happens. “I’ve seen it! That’s a classic sign of a haunting.”

“Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

“No way. It’s really happening. We have to investigate, Katsuya.”

I feel the sweat on me start to trickle uncomfortable down my back, like an itch that needs scratching. “What do you suggest...?”

He outlines his plan for me, grand voice and grand gestures - he’s in his essence. “And,” he finishes, “we should record it with a hand-cam.”

“If you say so,” is all I manage.

When we arrive back at his house, the phone’s light is flashing - a message. My partner looks at it curiously, as do I; he gives me a look with an eyebrow raised as if to say, ‘ well, that’s weird ’. Agreeing, all I can do is nod.

He picks up the receiver and hits a few buttons. I watch as he listens, his eyebrows furrowing downwards the longer he listens. When he finally moves, it’s only to replay the message. Sharp alarm mounts in my stomach and throat until he finally points the phone down.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“They need me to pick up my eldest son,” he says, a bit blanky.

“Why?” The alarm inside me won’t quite rising, high-pitched and acidic. “Is he sick?”

“No,” is all he says to that. Then he shakes his head, sharply. “Alright, I’m going back out. You’re welcome to stay if you want. I suppose ghost hunting will have to wait.”

I take a few steps towards him, but he’s distracted; he doesn’t seem to notice, staring off down the hall.

“Can’t I come with?” I ask.

The question snaps him back to attention. He grimaces. “Afraid not, as much as I wish you could. But there’s to be a family-only meeting, apparently.”

“Oh,” I say, the word all but a wheeze. “Okay. Well, I’ll be here. You can call if you need me.”

“I will,” my partner says, and just like that, he’s gone, leaving me to mind the house.

The door locks behind him, loud in the empty house. And with nothing better to do, and no information nor news, be it good or bad, I set to cleaning.

The house has an eerie stillness when it’s empty. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown so used to this place being full and busy - with my partner’s larger-than-life presence, with the boy’s video games and conversations. All of it weaves into a tapestry of sound that feels like home, a strong comfort, even if I don’t live here. My own home, occupied only by myself and my mother, has never been permeated by the kind of unsettling nothing that my partner’s house currently holds. But then again, my own home has never known my partner nor his sons. Likely for the best, for that house. The three together are a sight to behold. On second thought, they’re more likely to make my heart give out than my mother’s.

I find myself peering into the boy’s room. It’s small, like most things in this house, and cluttered with the detritus of boyhood. There’s handheld game consoles, notebooks, sweaters - all of it thrown around. I imagine the boys are relishing in having a space that’s their own for the first time in their lives.

I step in and fold up a green hoodie, then a yellow one. All their clothing is so bright. Folded and stacked, they form a towering rainbow leaning up beside the closet. Feeling that I shouldn’t stay in their space any longer, I head back out, but my hands itch to keep busy. If I don’t, I’m sure to keep worrying about what’s going on back at the elementary school; has the eldest been bullied? I can’t think of anything else.

I turn on the radio. I wash up dishes in the kitchen and wipe down the stovetop, then the counters, then the table. I glance towards the front door more than a few times.

An anxious eternity passes before my partner’s keys jiggle the lock. I do my best to put on a neutral expression, a smile like I haven’t been cleaning out of anxiety for the past hour.

“Seems like our little house-ghost followed him to school,” my partner announces, spotting me when he and his eldest walk in. “Spooked him something good, didn’t it!”

He claps his son on the shoulder. His son does not respond. His eyes are locked on the ground.

I feel a crack in my ribs, something deep down.

“Why don’t you help me with your and your brothers’ laundry?” My mouth moves on its own. “I don’t know what’s clean and what’s dirty.”

The boy gives me a miniscule nod and we head toward his room. When I glance back at my partner, he’s looking after us with a scrunched expression, worried, or curious, maybe. I mouth, ‘ one minute ’, and close the bedroom door.

“Are you okay?” I ask the eldest, but he’s already been magnetized by the clothing I folded earlier. He pulls a shirt off the top, looks at it, puts it in the laundry hamper. 

He shrugs.

“Please,” I say, “Talk to me. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can try to help.”

He looks at another shirt and deems it clean enough to make a new pile of clothing. I hold my tounge and swallow back my worry, kneel on the floor next to him. I pick up a sweater and show it to him.

“Dirty,” he says softly. 

I put it in the hamper.

We work quietly like that until the stack of clothing is done. He stands and picks up the basket. We relocate to the laundry room - it’s not so much a room, but a closet down the hall, next to my partner’s room, where the washer is stacked below the dryer and hidden behind a sliding door.

He talks while we load the machine.

“I lost control of my powers today,” he says. “An older boy shoved my brother to the ground.”

I bite my tongue and give him the space to continue.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says. “I just wanted him to get away from my brother.”

I place my hand on his shoulder blades. He’s a small kid - not smaller than average, but I guess I don’t have a large frame of reference, either. It feels like my hand spans almost the entire width of his shoulder blades.

“It was an accident,” I say.

“He hit his head on a tree,” he continues. “He bled.”

“You didn’t mean to,” I say.

“He was scared of me.”

I’m not equipped for this. I wish my partner was here. I remember, suddenly, he is here, somewhere in the house. And yet, we’re talking candidly in the hall. 

“Next time,” I say, slowly, “something happens that upsets you, you have to take a big, deep breath, before you do anything at all.”

He looks at me, finally, clutching a pair of pajama pants. I gesture for him to copy me, and together we fill our lungs deep, taking in the laundry soap that’s faint from the top shelf, the smell of water that always lingers in the washer. Then we exhale. Then a second time. When he seems less tense, I give him my best smile, to show him that this doesn’t make me love him any less.

“If you work hard, it’ll get easier,” I promise. “I know you can do it.”

He surprises me by throwing his arms around me and hugging me tightly, so tight I lose the air I’d just worked into my chest. I hug him back.

We finish the laundry, and he goes to his room to work on his make-up assignments for the rest of the day. When I turn around, my partner is waiting for me with his arms crossed.

Suddenly, I am the small child.

“I wish you’d told me,” he says. “But I know it wasn’t your secret to tell.” He sighs, and pinches the space between his eyes with two fingers. “I wish he’d told me. But at the same time, I’m glad he told you. Didn’t just keep it all bottled up inside.”

His eyes slide off me to the boys’ bedroom door. I hold myself stiffly and wait.

“I don’t know how to feel,” he says, and vanishes into his own bedroom. I’m left stranded in the hall.

The car comes to a stop, the small jolt of force bringing Katsuya to full awareness. He climbs out of the passenger seat, mindful of his nice shoes that make his feet feel awkward and too long, as well as his new suit, which he had tried not to crease. He’d sat stiffly the whole way to ensure nothing went wrong with it. His mom locks the car.

Seasoning City Library at night isn’t a new sight for Katsuya - it brings back memories of the board game night, which seem so far away. The thought reminds him that he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the Kageyama brothers since New Years, a worrying thought that he has no time to dwell on.

Most things are normal; the building is set back from the parking lot, fronted by grass and trees - though not fancy, he knows that the fancier flowers and groomed bushes are not far away; around the side of the building are the gardens he usually looks out at through the window, where the kids sometimes play, and where people will sometimes read books or socialize. 

What’s new is that the library’s front windows and glass door are illuminated from within - glowing with an inviting golden warmth, beckoning them in from the chill. Above the front entrance is a banner. Takoyaki Literary Awards . Decorative golden lights gleam all in a row above the banner, draped from the roof as it were still the holidays. 

Katsuya takes a deep breath, adjusting his tie to make it easier.

His mother touches his shoulder. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Katsuya replies.

“We don’t have to go in, you know - if it’s too much…”

Katsuya, despite the nerves he’s been fighting all day, shakes his head. “No, it’s too late to turn back.” He squares up his shoulders. “It’ll be fine.”

His mother squeezes his shoulder, and he takes her in - dressed up in a knee-length dress and shawl, her hair curling artfully around her face. She looks younger than Katsuya remembers; the lines on her face seem less pronounced, her eyes bright and energetic. He softens, looking at her, the woman who raised him and stood by him through years of hardship, who recognized her own wrongs, who grew so that he could take his time.

“I’m proud of you, Katsuya,” she says, quiet. 

He has no other response than to wrap her up in a hug, leaning down to do so. She laughs and hugs him back. For a long moment, they stand there, holding each other tightly. Then his mother says, with that laugh still in her voice, “Not worried about your suit anymore?”

“Shit!” Katsuya  startles back and looks down to check himself, smoothing the front of his jacket frantically. His mother shakes her head, but she’s still smiling as she adjusts his tie to make sure it’s straight. Katsuya sighs. “ Mom , don’t tease me like that.”

“You’re just too easy to tease,” she says, not bothering to scold him for swearing as she used to. After checking that the car is locked, she stows the keys in her purse and heads inside. Katsuya trails after her, noting the people lingering outside - people in suits and dresses, everyone looking far more relaxed than Katsuya believed possible, given the setting.

In the library’s entryway, a man behind a small table checks them off a list and tells them to find their nametag on the table. They’re organized alphabetically, and Katsuya locates their tags. His mom pins hers to her shawl; it has her full name on it, and below that, says ‘ guest’ . Katsuya holds onto his for a moment, looking down at the square white badge.

Serizawa Kouki / Author

Recipient of the award for Emerging Voices in Japanese Magicalism

He slips it into his breast pocket and follows his mom once more, into the library proper.

The library has been transformed into something new for night: shelves have been moved away from the center of the space, making for an open area bigger than the event room Katsuya had been to for the kids’ board game night. Some shelves are still on display around the edges and some people are browsing the spines, but most of the library’s wares have been squirreled away, hidden someplace that isn’t obvious to Katsuya. 

At the far end of the room, a low, portable stage has been set up with a podium and microphone in an adjustable stand. Katsuya notices three steps leading up on one side, and another three down the other. Behind the stage is a second banner announcing that they’re attending the Takoyaki Literary Awards ,  and below it, a white projector screen, which is currently displaying the cover a book. 

As Katsuya watches, the slideshow changes, and he’s only a little startled to find the cover of his second book now being displayed - the one he’s being awarded for tonight. Eyes darting around, he also notices a table near the stage displaying his book, among others - they must be the other award-winners. Shit, he should have done some research. He’s not sure who else is here tonight. But the fact his book sits among them - and that he’s here to see it on full display - sets the anxiety in his chest clenching. He reminds himself that this level of attention is normal for this type of event, and forces himself to unlock his jaw.

Around the room are numerous small tables and chairs where people are already mingling. There are several tables boasting snacks, deserts, and drinks.

No sign of Reigen.

(And really, Katsuya has become quite adept at locating him from across a room. If he hasn’t found him now, Katsuya is sure he isn’t here yet. His stomach sinks, an odd sibling to the tightening in his chest.)

“Ah, look, it’s Tsuchiya-san!” his mother says, startling him out of his careful observation of the environment. “Let’s go say hello.”

They wave at her as they approach where she’s sitting at a small table with several others, and she stands to greet them, shaking hands with Katsuya’s mother. When Katsuya sticks his hand out automatically to pre-empt the interaction, she laughs and strong-arms him into a hug instead. His face burns from the strangers watching them, but he wraps his arms around her. Shit, even her back is incredibly muscled.

“Good evening, Tsuchiya,” he says in a low mumble as she releases him.

“What’s with that soft voice? That won’t do!” She slaps him heartily on the back. “You’ve got a few words to say when you get your little plaque, yanno!”

He coughs, trying to recover from the strength of her affection. “Ah, they have a microphone…”

“Doesn’t mean you can whisper everything! Chin up, you’ll do great.” She grins at him, and he grins back as best he can.

Tsuchiya introduces Katsuya and his mother to the people she’s been speaking to - a bespeckled literary agent from her company, and another award-winning novelist and her girlfriend, whose light hair color tells Katsuya she may not be Japanese. Katsuya bobs a small polite bow to them, face still burning - especially as Tsuchiya announces him as “ the magical Serizawa Kouki ” with a wink.

“Ah, you wrote The Movement of our Galaxy !” The fair-haired girlfriend exclaims with a slight accent. “I followed it when it was serialized!”

“Yes, thank you,” Katsuya mumbles as they all settle into their seats. His eyes jump skittishly towards the entrance, hoping to catch Reigen walking in sooner rather than later.

“Aren’t you receiving an award tonight?” Asks the other author at the table. When Katsuya nods, she says, “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure! I thought it was so strange that you’d be here tonight! I know you’ve been awarded a few other things but you never showed your face!”

Katsuya nods, swallowing down a lump of - shame? Fear? - before clearing his throat. “Yes, uh, this event is close to home, so I thought it was worth going.”

“Well, don’t let us scare you off,” the author replies, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes as she leans forward. “We might look like a vicious bunch, but these kinda things usually end with booze and an afterparty.”

“I… I haven’t heard of any afterparty…”

“It’s not official or anything. Just off the books. Bunch of authors livin’ it up in a new town, yanno?” She finally sits back, and Katsuya feels relieved, even though she hadn’t gotten all that close in the first place. “Well, just let me know if you want to join! We’ll probably go barhopping. Know any good places?”

“Thank you, but that’s not really my… type of thing, so… not really...”

“Geeze, stop trying to make everyone you meet into an alcoholic,” complains her girlfriend, and the two laugh at some joke that goes by Katsuya completely. He glances over to his mom and Tsuchiya, but finds they’re already engaged in a conversation with the literary agent, and he feels too awkward to try joining in.

He glances towards the entrance again. No Reigen. Then, his watch. The event officially started half an hour ago, and the awards presentation should be another thirty minutes. No good, no good - he needs to talk to Reigen before then. He has to.

The conversation moves around Katsuya for a while, and he offers a nod or a smile when it seems necessary, but otherwise continues to watch the door. Fifteen minutes pass in an agonizing crawl, when a flash of gray catches his eye and he turns quickly to find Reigen exiting a staff-only door with a box in his arms.

He seems busy , Katsuya tells himself, but he moves automatically to stand despite that. With the eyes of company on him, he stutters an excuse about getting some air, and with an apologetic bow to his mother and Tsuchiya, he scurries off in the direction he saw Reigen heading.

He finds Reigen giving the box to the man at the check-in table. He has barely a moment to think about what he’s going to say when Reigen turns around and spots him. Reigen seems wrong-footed, almost sheepish for a moment, but he recovers, and his face splits into a beaming smile, and Katsuya does his best to return it.

“Serizawa-san!” Reigen’s eyes take him in. “Don’t you look handsome tonight!”

“Ah, it’s all thanks to you,” he deflects. “The haircut, the suit…”

“Well, it would all be for nothing if you couldn’t pull it together,” Reigen says decisively.

Before the topic can veer any further away from where Katsuya needs to steer it, he says, “Um, would you care to walk with me?”

“The presentations are going to start pretty soon, aren’t they?” Reigen blinks.

“Just… just a short walk through the gardens,” Katsuya pleads. “Fresh air. Please?”

Reigen glances to the check-in person, who waves him off. Dismissed from duty, Reigen turns back. “Alright, let’s take a walk,” he says.

They go through the side door, and Katsuya is stunned to find that the gardens have been decorated for the event as well. More golden string lights illuminate the space, shining on the flowers that have survived winter, and those blooming early despite the chill that hasn’t lifted.

“Like the lights?” Reigen asks, noticing Katsuya looking. When Katsuya nods, Reigen sighs. “They’re pretty, but they were a pain in the ass to put up, I’ll tell you what.”

“You put them up?”

“Some of them, yeah.”

As they wander closer to a set of lights, Katsuya notices that while they’re strung up, they’re not christmas lights - the bulbs are far too large, and the golden light they emit isn’t thematic to the holiday, either. He reaches out and touches one of the lights, gently - it’s warm with electricity, a contrast to the lingering chill of the night. He lets go.

“Did you have to do a lot tonight…?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s what I get for being on the events committee.”

“I thought you just coordinated  the kids’ program?”

 “Sure, I do that, and that involves events, so there’s a committee. I’m on it.” He shrugs.

“I see,” Katsuya says, nervous. 

How much, exactly, does Reigen know about tonight’s event? About him ? Lately, it’s felt like he knows a lot, a lot more than he’s let on.

“And don’t even get me started on that huge sign out front. The literary council sent it to us, but they didn’t think about how to hang it, did they? No! Me and two other people had to climb on the roof. The roof ! At the end winter! Haven’t they heard of frost ?”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“ Yeah . I mean, probably . That’s my point!”

Katsuya chuckles, but he can’t keep the nerves at bay. He shuffles his feet and puts his hands into his pockets. As Reigen watches him, Katsuya notices that even though he’s in his standard gray suit and pink tie, in the golden light, his suit might as well be gold - not as bright as his hair, but gold nonetheless.

When he catches Reigen’s eyes, Reigen smiles at him. It’s softer than earlier - small and real.

“Reigen-san, I have to tell you something,” Katsuya pushes the words out in a rush, and closes his eyes. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

He doesn’t see Reigen’s expression fall; he doesn’t want to. 

“I see.”

“It’s - it’s about. Well, tonight, this was - the furthest I could take it without telling you.” Gold dances on the back of his eyelids, echoes of the lights he’d been looking at moments before. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was afraid you’d be angry with me, or hate me.” He finally opens his eyes, but all he can see are his fancy shoes, facing Reigen’s. “Or hate that I didn’t tell you as soon as I figured out what was going on - I mean, when we introduced ourselves - your name. It’s not a common name at all, so I knew - that it had to be you.”

Reigen says nothing. 

Katsuya flushes, aware that he’s not making a lot of sense, especially if he’s over-estimated what Reigen knows, so he shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut again. “I never really told you what my job is, did I? No, I did. But I didn’t tell you what I’ve published.”

There’s a pause. Then Reigen says, in even, measured tones, “No, you didn’t.”

“I’m a full-time novelist, you know that? And, I… my pen name - ”

From the side door, a voice calls, “Katsuya!”

It’s his mother. He freezes, head bent. 

“Katsuya,” she calls again. “They’re starting.”

Katsuya lifts his head. Reigen is looking at him, his expression held carefully blank. Katsuya bites his lip. Then, he pulls his name badge from his breast pocket and holds it out to Reigen, who looks down at it without taking it for a very long moment, before he opens his palm and lets Katsuya press the badge into it.

“I have to go,” Katsuya whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Reigen’s eyes scan the badge. 

“Katsuya!” his mom calls.

Reigen says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Katsuya whispers again, and hurries inside.

The ceremony passes in a blur. First is anxiety gnawing on Katsuya’s intestines as the other recipients move on and off the stage. His name is announced.

“Serizawa Kouki, a young author who began publishing a few years ago, has floored literary critics and readers of all kinds, especially in the genre of magical realism. His novels take the mundane and turn them just so, displaying a world of wonder within, if you just search for it…”

Then, his feet like concrete blocks, up the stairs. A handshake, his own palm clammy. A plaque pressed into his hands. He manages a smile, for the picture. The moment stretches on and on; another picture is taken. What are they going to do with those pictures? Will they be put in the paper? He should have asked Tsuchiya. She would know. Maybe he should have requested they not do the pictures for him. Shit. Shit . That’s what he should have done. The host steps away. It’s just Katsuya at the podium.

The crowd watches him - people standing around the edge of the room, seated at tables, holding drinks, holding novels. Where’s Reigen?

“Thank you,” he says, “for this honor tonight…” His eyes scan the crowd, frantic. He sees his mother, smiling, and next to her, Tsuchiya. His mother nods at him. He manages a breath before going on. 

The card in his hand. “I’m humbled to be chosen as the face of emerging Japanese magicalism…” He still hasn’t seen Reigen. Where is he? The next sentence. “In my works, I wish to portray what the world can be, if only we let it.” The card, the card. “If only we make it.” 

His eyes jump up again, and this time he sees him - standing near the side door, the garden just beyond, grey suit, pink tie. Katsuya’s pulse quickens. The pause drags on and he forces his eyes to the card. “But I couldn’t write the worlds I do without help. I’d like to thank my editor, Tsuchiya-san, and my mother, for their endless support.”

 The card - the card is worthless, it’s nothing. The card doesn’t matter. 

He lifts his eyes again and finds Reigen, easier this time, now that he knows where to look. Maybe it’s the distance between them, but to Katsuya, Reigen’s expression is unreadable. 

“And especially, my friend Reigen-san, who has opened up my world more than I could ever imagine.” He’s desperate to get off the stage, so he rushes to bow. “Thank you.”

Concrete feet take him off to the ringing applause that echoes in his ears. His mother is there, pulling him down into a hug, kissing his forehead and ears, like she did when he was a child. Tsuchiya slaps him on the back again. Strangers are trying to speak to him. He mumbles “thank you” until he’s lost count of the words, and is too polite to reject the numerous handshakes which come to him; his hand only gets sweatier. When people bow to him, he bows back, grateful that they haven’t tried to shake his hand, because it might as well be like shaking hands with a wet towel. After a few minutes which seem like an eternity, the host begins to announce the next award, and the noise and chaos around Katsuya subsides. He’s back in his seat.

Where is Reigen?

If it was difficult to spot him from the elevation of the stage, spotting him from within the crowd is near impossible. Unable to stay seated with his mother, he stands, making his way quietly towards the wall, ignoring his mother and Tsuchiya’s questioning glances. From the wall, he begins to make his way around the perimeter, towards the side he’d seen Reigen on earlier. With any luck, he’d still be where Katsuya saw him.

The next person is giving their speech. Applause breaks out again, but Katsuya doesn’t stop. He needs to find Reigen; they didn’t get to finish their conversation. 

His spot near the wall is empty. 

Fuck .

Katsuya pushes against the side door, finding himself in the garden once again. It’s deserted - of course, everyone is inside watching the main event of the night. Katsuya retraces his steps through the garden, back and forth, head on a swivel, until he’s sure it’s as empty as his first impression said. 

He finds himself seated with his mom again, not listening to the last two awards, his leg bouncing. He jumps up as soon as the ceremony has closed, the perfect portrait of someone who’s been electrocuted. He makes a quick circuit around the event, through the gardens, into the entryway, and out the front. Reigen is nowhere to be found. He must be in the back, in the employees-only area, where Katsuya can’t find him, isn’t allowed to find him.

Finally giving in to the anxious, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, standing out front as the wind nips at him through his new suit, Katsuya admits the other option to himself: Reigen might have left. Reigen might not want to talk to him.

The door opens behind him and he startles, but it’s only his mother. She’s holding her shawl tightly around herself. “Do you want to go home?” she asks him, gently.

Katsuya looks down to the plaque he’s been clutching tightly ever since his time on the stage, and nods.

Chapter Text

The weekend washes over Katsuya in slow waves. He takes it, wrapped in his blanket. He stays in his room, moving between his bed and his desk, and for some time, even sits on the floor. Sunlight leaks in and then leaks back out. When the room gets too cold, he piles on a second blanket, and listens to the soft ticking of his clock. He pointedly doesn’t turn on the radio.

He feels guilty and lost. Though he attempts to promise himself that these feelings - as many other things in his life so far - will run its course, well. It sure doesn’t feel like it, not right now. Having let Reigen down so monumentally is so much more than he can digest in a weekend. He keeps recalling Reigen’s expression as he’d watched Katsuya make his stilted way through his acceptance speech - so carefully blank, as though Reigen were building a new distance between them while Katsuya flailed through his commitment. And by the time he’d run to cross that distance, the chasm yawned too wide.

He and Reigen, there was something there that Katsuya isn’t certain can be replicated - not just the ease of conversation that only became easier as time went by, but that Reigen knew him. Really knew him, starting with the messages Katsuya spent years combing through in his novels and ending with the disappointment his fears molded him into - he knew Katsuya’s strengths, and by now, god, he knew his weaknesses too.

If Reigen truly knew him, and left him when he was forced to face Katsuya’s faults - what did that mean for Katsuya? Was he doomed? Should he never have left his room? It’s amazing what had happened to him in the past six or so months, experiences of the world far beyond what he thought his adult life could hold. By his side the whole time, unwittingly or not, had been Reigen. Remembering the cafes, the walks, the conversations, the train rides, each and every letter - Katsuya wouldn’t trade them for anything. Even if this weekend of misery at the end was the price, he couldn’t regret it.

Yet at the same time, the fact he couldn’t have those things for longer - those greedy needs and desires… he can’t shove them down.

Listless, Katsuya’s mind works in circles and he rolls over in his bed, burrowing further into his blankets.

A soft knock comes from his door - his mother.

“Katsuya, won’t you come for dinner?”

She waits, a long, long moment, and Katsuya forces himself to sit up. “Coming,” he croaks, but doesn’t move for several minutes. He’s worrying his mother - even if he couldn’t hear it in her voice, he’d know it was true. This was the kind of behaviour that had spiraled into his locked-in days, the soupy weeks where he wouldn’t exit his room.

He stands with legs like lead. The door opens silently when he pulls on it, which feels wrong; it should creak, long and low, the way his head is pounding. He drags his blankets with him to the kitchen. The soft lights are on, as if his mother hadn’t wanted to scare him away with the full force of the light. The table is set, with steaming bowls of miso soup already portioned out in front of both their chairs. Katsuya sits.

His mother puts a black ceramic spoon in his hand and pushes the soy sauce from the middle of the table towards him. He pours a little into his soup and stirs it before lifting a spoonful. The steam spirals off it and in the bowl, seaweed and tofu swirl in slow circles. He blows on his soup and sips it.

He knows he’s hungry; he knows that eating will help. His mother has even made soup, a notoriously easy way to get nutrition into a reluctant person. She’ll be pleased if he finishes this bowl. He sips it again.

They eat in silence for a while, before his mother starts up on the topic of her work and coworkers, a safe and easy topic. Katsuya nods along with her stories and makes small noises when necessary, focusing on his soup (stir, blow, sip, repeat). She doesn’t ask him what’s gotten into him or prod him to speak about what’s wrong, which Katsuya is intensely grateful about - though she’d known who Reigen was since meeting him on New Year’s, Katsuya hadn’t told her the depth of his emotions about the man and their friendship. Rehashing it over dinner tonight would do Katsuya no good.

As they clean up the bowls and pots, the phone rings. His mother excuses herself to answer it, and within only a few moments Katsuya finds her glancing at him. She holds the receiver to her chest and says, “It’s Tsuchiya-san.”

Katsuya shakes his head quickly - too quickly, he can feel it sharply in the back of his skull - and scurries away from the kitchen to solidify his rejection of her call. As he slides the door to his room shut, he hears his mother muttering an apology to Tsuchiya.

He wraps himself up in bed again. The soup has warmed him up and he feels better, at least in a physical way, enough that he thinks about writing - maybe it’ll get his mind off Reigen. He quickly squashes that thought when it only reminds him of his autofiction manuscript, a squirm of shame working its way through his belly.

He dozes until his mother knocks on the door again, sometime later in the evening.

“Yes?”

“There’s another call,” his mother says. “It’s from - ”

“Tell her I can’t talk right now,” Katsuya says. “Not now.”

There’s a long pause, and then his mother says, “Alright, Katsuya. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Her footsteps retreat softly, and Katsuya lays awake again, his mind spinning in circles.

Katsuya only knows when it’s Monday because he finally opens his laptop. There are several messages from Tsuchiya, and he closes them without reading them. He has to work on something or he’s never going to get Reigen off his mind.

The autofiction tab stares at him from the bottom corner of his screen. He squints hard at it, before quickly opening it. He spam-clicks the save button before closing the window with a relieved sigh. Instead, he opens the historical fiction project, and scrolls up and down the few hundred pages he’s already written.

The project has been fully revised as per Tsuchiya’s requests, a project that’s spanned the last few months. It’s off to a test audience in the coming weeks, and following that will be another round or two of edits based on the feedback. There’s not much to do on it now. It’s already lined up to be announced to the public. He closes it, and instead opens a blank document, which - after an indeterminate amount of time - he also closes. He’s always generated ideas better on paper, anyways - at least when he’s in the planning stages. But he feels too listless for that. The Kitsune Raider model is almost done, but it reminds him of Reigen, so he avoids that too. Maybe a video game will do the trick.

He whittles away several hours fighting various types of demons before his attention drifts. He switches to a rhythm game, but he can’t hit any of the notes, and it quickly becomes more frustrating than fun. With a sigh he turns that off too, and flops onto his back on the floor.

The day’s barely half gone, judging on the sunlight. Maybe he should go out. But where? Obviously not the library. The thought of the Seasoning City Library sends a sharp pang of anxiety into his stomach and twists his throat into a hot lump, and sets his nose itching - is he going to cry? He hasn’t cried about Reigen. Maybe that would work. No, he doesn’t want to be that pathetic. So, maybe a cafe. There’s one in the neighborhood he’s been to with his mom before, and as far as Katsuya knows, Reigen doesn’t even know the place exists. Why would he? He lives clear on the opposite side of town.

It somehow takes an hour for Katsuya to brush his teeth and get dressed enough to go out. His mom left him a breakfast bar on the kitchen counter with a note about leftovers in the tupperware in the fridge. He checks it out, just to stall - some curry from the night before last, which he hadn’t eaten. Should be a good treat when he gets back from his walk, or from the cafe, if he manages to get there. He puts the cereal bar in his coat pocket, pulls on some shoes, and locks the front door behind him.

The neighborhood is peaceful. There’s a small amount of snow dusting various ledges and fences, but none sticking to the ground; it must have fallen last night and melted during the morning, which is interesting, because though it gets pretty cold around here, it doesn’t usually snow, and not past January if it does. Not impossible, he supposes as he trudges along with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The sidewalk is wet, maybe from snowmelt. He’ll have to walk carefully so as not to slip. There could still be ice around. After all, there’s some frost on the bushes that hasn’t melted yet. Reigen would have something interesting to say about snow in February. Shit. No.

The cafe is the downstairs of a two-storey building on a few streets away from Katsuya’s home, a place he’s been to with his mother before. He shuffles inside, where it’s warm and smells like coffee and bread. The barista smiles at him from behind a counter, mixing a drink. Katsuya admires the ability to multitask.

“What can I getcha?”

“Uh… hmm…” Katsuya hesitates; he hadn’t planned this far ahead, too busy thinking about the weather and pointedly trying not to think about Reigen, moving on autopilot for the sake of something to do. “I don’t know…”

“You like surprises?”

The question itself is a surprise to Katsuya. Stalling, he rubs his hands together, warming his fingers. “... maybe? It depends.”

“How about you tell me what size drink you want, and what type of milk you take, and I’ll whip up something for you. You pay if you like it, and it’s on the house if you hate it.”

Katsuya stares at the barista. They cap the drink they’ve been mixing and slide it across the counter to a waiting customer with a few brief words. When their attention is back on Katsuya, he says, “That’s not really a sound business model, is it?”

“Eh,” the barista shrugs. “I’m bored, and maybe it’ll cheer you up.”

Katsuya feels his mouth drag into a frown, not having realized his mood had shown so clearly on his face. “Oh, okay then… Just, just something small, and whole milk is fine.”

“Great,” the cashier says. “Sit tight!”

Katsuya stands awkwardly near the counter for a moment, but he’s clearly been dismissed, so he does what he’s been told and finds a little table by the window, where he can watch the pedestrians. He hasn’t brought his laptop, or even a notebook, so any work is out of the question. He starts to think that was a bad idea when he realizes that sitting in a cafe and staring out the window can distract him little more than sitting at home and staring out the window.

The barista sets a cup on his table. The moment they do so, a delicious smell hits Katsuya, and when he glances up, he finds the barista grinning widely.

“Peppermint hot chocolate with whipped cream and a cookie stick, sprinkled with a dash of cocoa powder on top,” the barista tells him brightly. “Let me know if you like it!”

“Ah, thank you.” Katsuya wraps his hands around the mug as the barista goes back to the counter, and finds himself staring at the drink without sipping it. Chocolate, huh. That’s right, Valentine’s day is soon. It’s coming ever closer. Katsuya isn’t looking forward to it anymore.

He sips his hot chocolate. It’s a little too hot, but it’s thick and rich, on the bitter side with a tang of mint, balanced out by the pure sweetness of the whipped cream. He looks, round-eyed, at the barista.

“Good?” They ask. 

They already know it is. Katsuya can only nod.

Katsuya knows part of what’s eating away at him - it’s not just that he didn’t quite get to finish that last conversation with Reigen and the not-knowing of what Reigen thinks - and only being able to guess at what he feels. It’s also that there’s more that Katsuya hasn’t told him.

You can’t rip off a bandaid halfway, Katsuya tells himself when he gets up the day after the cafe. You have to rip it off all the way. That way, you’ll get some real closure. And the metaphor kinda falls apart here because I think bandaids work the opposite way on wounds but…

His mother has already gone to work. There’s a note by the phone. Katsuya reads “Katsuya, you missed a call from” and then throws it away. He commandeers the kitchen table for the first stage of his plan, while the second stage prints page after page in the next room, his mom’s study. When he hears the printer stop, he refills the paper tray between frantic mixing. It’s done long before he pours his mix into the molds, which he slides into the freezer to set before he grabs the thick ream of pages off the printer. He snaps a large binder clip on them and puts them into one of the large manilla envelopes he keeps to send his work to Tsuchiya.

He ferries it back to his room and writes out the letter he’s been working on in his mind all day, his hand not as steady and careful as it used to be in his letters to Reigen. He folds it, puts it into the envelope, finishes the package off with the wrapped chocolates, and walks the whole bundle to the post office.

He doesn’t feel good, but he does feel… relieved. With this, he’s given Reigen everything. He just hopes the chocolates don’t melt too much.

11 February, 19XX

Dear Reigen-san,

Unless you wish it otherwise, I will push no further to maintain a friendship with you. But I could not leave things where they are, for two reasons - first, I told you that I would show you my writing this month, and I like to think that I’m someone who follows through; and second, what this writing contains is the last secret that I’ve held onto. I began this as a self-indulgent bit of hobby writing, in the summer - when I first began solidifying my habit of leaving the house to write and research at the Seasoning City Library. It’s untitled, and incomplete. I don’t plan to write any more of it, so you will be its sole reader, beyond the first few chapters, which my editor has read.

I won’t make any more excuses about fear, or anything like that; god knows I’ve made enough to last me a lifetime. If I learn nothing else from my mistakes, it will be that fear is a rotten excuse for bad behaviour. 

I hope you enjoy the chocolates, no matter where your opinions of me stand. I would have liked to be able to give them to you in person, and express my feelings to your face, but I accept the responsibility for why I cannot.

Lastly, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies one last time. I have wronged you by keeping secrets, barring you from important information about who I am - and also by concealing my knowledge of who you are. No matter the reasons, it was underhanded. I wish I hadn’t been so deceitful, but I was. I’m sorry.

Yours always,

Serizawa Katsuya

We lay in bed together. The room is transitioning into warm hues as the sun raises itself from its nightly slumber - the color that glows over us, a brilliant pink, belongs to my partner. Infallibly, it reminds me of him, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. 

Our skin is sticky. Our limbs are intertwined.

The house is still sleeping. The boys are quiet. The world outside is hushed. My partner is asleep. If I close my eyes, I’m the only one in a vast sea of warmth and prickly skin.

It’s going to be a hot day.

My partner’s breathing is slow and deep. I can feel it as strongly as I can hear it, the only sound in our newly shared space aside from my own soft inhale, exhale, inhale. I’m not alone in a vast space after all - of course I knew this all along, but his breathing cements it. I look at him, glowing pink, and roll over to press my nose and lips to the back of his neck, where his hair is fine, so fine it’s near-invisible. I kiss his salty skin.

“I love you,” I exhale. “I love you, I love you.”

His arm twitches, caught up with mine. I think nothing of it and press a new kiss into his neck. He sighs.

I pull back as if I’ve been electrocuted. The blankets keep me from going to far. 

He rolls over, turns to face me with a sleepy gaze.

“Good morning,” I squeak.

“That’s the first time you’ve said that,” he murmurs.

“What, ‘good morning’?” 

“No, no. The other thing.”

“What other thing?” I’m being intentionally obtuse, and I know it. My heart bounds high in my chest, the space where my throat becomes a soft dip. I hadn’t planned it like this.

“‘I love you’,” he says.

I swallow. “Yes… but shouldn’t it have been clear by now?”

“It’s different to hear you say it.” He reaches out and puts his hand on my face. The romantic gesture is ruined by our sweat, made damp and less appealing than usual. But I want him to touch me forever. “Thank you for saying it.”

I nod, just a little.

“And, for the record? I love you, too.”

On Thursday, February thirteenth, Katsuya and his mom are watching television in the evening when the phone rings.

“I’ll get it,” his mother says, getting up and wrapping her robe more tightly around herself.

“Okay, thanks, mom.” Katsuya stays at the couch, but keeps a suspicious ear out for the phone call. He has a strong feeling it’s Tsuchiya, calling again after getting fed up with being ignored all week while Katsuya attempts to get himself back into a state where he’s able to get any work down.

“Hello, Serizawa residence,” he hears his mother greet faintly. Then, she says, “Oh, I’m glad you’ve called again! He might be able to come to the phone this time. Let me see.”

Katsuya sinks lower on the couch, hearing that - is it not Tsuchiya? It doesn’t sound like the way she might normally speak to Tsuchiya; they were more familiar than that. He hears his mom put the phone down and her footsteps draw near. Knowing he can’t avoid it if it is Tsuchiya, and not knowing who else it could be, Katsuya jumps to his feet before his mom can say anything.

“The call - ”

“It’s okay mom, I’ll pick it up,” Katsuya tells her quickly, and moves past her into the kitchen. With a fortifying breath, he picks up the receiver, and says, “Hello?”

He’s met with dead air for a long moment.

“Sorry I’ve been avoiding your calls,” he says with a wince, the words quick. “I know you want to talk about the press release for the historical fiction project, and… probably some other stuff… but I just...”

There’s a soft huff of a laugh - achingly familiar. Not Tsuchiya. Katsuya locks up.

“Hey,” Reigen says.

“....hi?” Katsuya squeaks, rooted to the spot with sudden happiness warring with his anxiety.

“Who’d you think it was going to be?”

“Not you …”

“I got your letter,” Reigen says. “Well, both letters.”

“Oh? Ah, uh, good. I’m glad that they didn’t get lost in the post or anything… not that I thought that would happen, but… you never know...”

“You never know,” Reigen agrees, pretending to sound sage. 

Katsuya laughs, but it’s a bit strangled; are they joking like normal? Are they really talking like nothing happened? That can’t be. “Yanno, anything can happen, right?”

“Right. Like maybe, just maybe, your favorite author turns out to be the guy you’ve been hanging out with for months. And, you know, maybe flirting with, a bit.”

Ah, yes. There, the acknowledgement. And more. Katsuya swallows. “...weird, right?” He says, weakly.

“ Very . That’s like the plot of a cheesy romance novel, right there. The kind you buy at a drugstore and read as a guilty pleasure. Not speaking for experience or anything..” On his end of the phone, Reigen shuffles with something, and Katsuya leans forward, into the kitchen counter, as if that could help him hear better, or at the very least, keep him on his feet. “If you were going to write romance, why not go for that plot, anyway? When life hands you lemons, don’t you make lemonade?”

“I… didn’t know I had any lemons, for a while,” Katsuya says, carefully. Speaking in metaphors makes him feel cautious, but he supposes plain words might be worse right about now. “Yanno?”

“Hmm. Yeah. Say, why don’t we meet up tomorrow and talk in person, instead of on the phone? At Shiba Park?”

“Yes!” Katsuya bursts, then tries to reel his eagerness back in to a more appropriate level by clearing his throat. “Y- yes. If you’re alright with seeing me.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Reigen says mildly. “How’s three?”

“Three is good! Three is great! I won’t - I won’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Great. Shiba Park, tomorrow at three. The main entrance. Don’t forget.”

“I - I won’t.”

“Alright, see you then.” 

Reigen hangs up as Katsuya tries to splutter a response of the same. As he puts the receiver back on the wall, his mother comes to lean in the doorway.

“Everything alright with you two?”

Katsuya shakes his head slightly, feeling helpless. “I don’t really know.”

Chapter Text

The air is cold but the sun is out when Katsuya reaches the park, meaning that he sweats into his coat. He finds a bench where he can keep a lookout, and peels the coat off, which gives him something to hold, at least.

He’d fretted over what to wear, down to the shoes. After changing twice, he’d wound up in the same type of pants and shirt he wore to the library for work, because maybe just acting normal would be best - just being who he has this whole time. The same person. All… two of him, just being himself. Right. If Reigen will even believe that. 

He hopes his face won’t betray how little sleep he got the night before.

He peers around the park. He knows he’s early and shouldn’t expect to see Reigen yet, but he can’t help but look. Shiba Park isn’t too big, but it’s dense with trees. The road beyond is relatively quiet. A couple is kissing by the water fountain. Katsuya averts his eyes, embarrassed for looking, despite watching for barely two seconds. Sitting quickly becomes too little activity, and anxiety gets him back to his feet.

He walks a loop; there’s a dirt path that circles the park. None of the people he sees are Reigen, but there are a number of couples holding hands and making doe-eyes at one another, as if specifically to taunt Katsuya. No, it’s still before three. Eventually he paces back to the park’s main entrance and stands awkwardly near the sign that bears the park’s name, looking out at the nearby houses and business; there’s a few houses sandwiched together in tall, thin lines. A few of the shops are set below apartments. Katsuya notices one is painted bright yellow, and tries to preoccupy himself with a few sentences that could describe that building, but he keeps glancing down the street; he can’t complete his description. Finally, he puts his jacket back on so he can put his hands in the pockets, to prevent them from shaking or fiddling - he’s not sure which he’s more inclined to do, right now.

Waiting for Reigen is hard, but at least Katsuya trusts he’s coming. It takes him back to last week, to the Takoyaki Awards. He’d trusted Reigen would be there, too, and he was - he was.

Fuck . He doesn’t want to think about that.

But he has to, doesn’t he? If he ever wants to understand Reigen’s perspective, he has to understand what went on that night. Why Reigen held his face so carefully blank for so long. Why he vanished. But what could he think of now, five minutes to three, that he hadn’t been able to come up with all week?

It’s then that he spots Reigen, walking towards the park with a bag thrown over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets, forearms bare despite the still-present chill.

Katsuya waves at him, his hand jerking up quickly. Reigen waves back slowly, almost lazy and too-casual; he’s approaching at what feels like a snails’ pace. Katsuya doesn’t know where to look, and settles for Reigen’s face, trying to understand what’s there, under the surface, but just like the last time he’d seen him a week ago, Reigen is keeping his expression intentionally neutral. Like he doesn’t want to give anything away too soon.

“Yo,” Reigen says when he’s near.

Katsuya gives a secondary, smaller, and more awkward wave. “Hi.” His stomach might as well be full of rocks - sinking, yes, and jostling against one another. “Uh. How are you, Reigen-san?”

Reigen shrugs and avoids answering. “Why don’t we find a bench?”

Those stomach-sinking rocks double in size, instantly heavier. Katsuya swallows on saliva that’s dried up. “Sure.”

The silence as they walk the path is a burning one, its presence so loud that it drowns out everything else further from Katsuya than the pounding of his own heart. God, he could be running ten kilometers with how his heart is racing. Maybe he should get into running. Maybe he’d be good at it. He’s certainly practiced this kind of cardio enough.

An empty bench presents itself, not that far from where Katsuya originally sat. Reigen sprawls onto it like a king to his throne. 

Katsuya perches stiffly beside him, trying to maintain an appropriate personal bubble for Reigen. He speaks up when Reigen doesn’t, who instead opts to rifle through his bag without looking at Katsuya.

“Thanks for meeting me today,” Katsya says, eyes locked on his hands, fisted tightly on his thighs. “I wasn’t sure you would want to see me again…”

Reigen glances at him, sidelong. Any other words Katsuya could have given to Reigen as a peace offering die in his mouth, and he swallows roughly.

“Here.”

Reigen has pulled something out of his bag, and is offering it to Katsuya, who is confused upon looking at what Reigen’s holding. He takes it.

“...chocolate?”

“Happy Valentines’ Day, Serizawa-san.”

“What?” Katsuya stares down at the small plastic pouch of heart-shaped chocolates that’s sitting in the palm of his hand, trying to read its meaning. Surely it doesn’t mean what Katsuya’s heart, straining against his ribs, wants it to mean. “Is this…”

“Yeah, it’s chocolate,” Reigen says. When Katsuya looks at him with round eyes, Reigen looks like he’s trying not to laugh, reclined on the bench, cheek propped up on one hand, elbow slung over the bench’s back.

Katsuya draws it in, puts it in his lap, laces the fingers of both hands tightly together so they won’t shake. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Why…?”

“Because it’s February fourteenth, Serizawa-san,” Reigen says slowly. Katsuya thinks he’s trying to sound bored.

“ Yes , I know that, but why are you giving me Valentines’ chocolate?”

“Well, you gave some to me. And I think we’ve established the flirting already. Isn’t it convention?”

“This isn’t - nothing here is convention. I think we’ve thoroughly thrown convention out the window by now,” Katsuya does his best to keep his rising confusion out of his voice, and is proud to note he sounds rather reasonable.

“Maybe not,” Reigen says. “But there’s no standard Valentines’ and White Day rules when it comes to two men. So why not both give Valentines’ chocolate? Unless you don’t like chocolate.” Reigen raises an eyebrow. “I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.” He’s already reaching to the chocolate in Katsuya’s lap.

“No, I want it,” Katsuya says, childishly protecting it with his hands.

“Then take it, and stop debating me about it,” Reigen rolls his eyes.

Katsuya opens his hands and looks at the chocolate once again. The reasonable tone he’d managed before suddenly seems impossible to conjure; his voice is small when he asks, “Aren’t you… aren’t you mad at me?”

Reigen holds up a hand to stop Katsuya. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he says. “I’ve got a story to tell you.”

Katsuya waits, his jaw wound tight. Reigen blows air out of his mouth.

“Geeze, you don’t have to look so stiff - fine, fine. I was angry, but I’m not still angry, not really. Well, maybe a little. But I’ve come around.”

Katsuya practically wilts with relief, but he still doesn’t fully understand. “Okay,” he breathes. “I - I didn’t expect that.”

Reigen gives Katsuya a funny look. He doesn’t have to say anything about expectations; Katsuya gets the idea. 

Katsuya pulls a hand roughly down his face, trying to recenter himself. “Um… so, what’s the story you want to tell?”

Reigen reclines again, makes it look casual and comfortable, but Katsuya knows every move is calculated. “It’s about me,” he says, “and a guy I met at work. He was kinda anxious and unkempt, but in a cute way, definitely intriguing. I’m a people person, after all, and I like to know people’s stories. See who they are, what they’re about. Something about this guy really wanted to be known. Hard to explain, but that was the feeling I got. After seeing him typing away for weeks where I work, I decided I’d talk to him. Turned out to be a good decision. So, I started getting to know this guy. He was fun to talk to. And fun to tease.” 

Reigen leans in, and Katsuya holds his breath. “You shoulda seen how red he’d get.”

Katsuya laughs nervously, pinpricks tickling the skin of his cheeks and forehead. Reigen doesn’t lean back, stays right there in Katsuya’s space, breathing the same air as him. Katsuya tries very hard to focus on Reigen’s words rather than that fact.

“So I think you know that part,” Reigen goes on. “Well, you might also know this next part, which actually happened simultaneously, but separately. I got a letter.”

“...yeah,” Katsuya ventures.

“Mmmhmm. It was from an author I’d been writing to for years. He finally wrote me back. So, of course, I responded.” 

Reigen finally leans out of Katsuya’s space, but Katsuya isn’t sure that’s a good thing. As he waits for Reigen to continue, he tries to shove down any anxious conclusion-jumping he’s tempted to do, but it’s easier said than done. He focuses on the sound of traffic, the crunch of pedestrian’s feet on the dirt path, the sunlight dappling the ground.

“So,” Reigen finally says, “I’m writing this author, I’m getting to know this guy from work, and call me crazy, but I start to notice a few things these two people have in common.” He lifts a finger and begins counting off the aspects. “They’re both located around Seasoning City, published authors, apparently working on some historical fiction piece, not particularly social…. They way they speak and write was so similar, they’ve both been shut-ins for some time…. They even share a family name.” He catches Katsuya’s eye.

“You knew?” Katsuya blurts. His forearms are beginning to ache with the force he’s putting on them, the strength he’s clenching his hands with. “This whole time, you - ”

“Hey, you’re not allowed to skip anything, it’s my story,” Reigen wags a finger at Katsuya, the way he might with an impatient child. “Do you read like this, always looking ahead? Bad habit, don’t do that. I would know. Anyway, no, I didn’t know. There were a few other things I noticed, but it seemed silly. Ridiculous. The world isn’t that small, now is it? So I tried to put that dumb idea out of my head. Logical, eh?”

He waits like he’s expecting a response, so Katsuya shrugs helplessly. Satisfied with that, Reigen continues.

“Right,” he says with confidence. “So I disregarded the whole idea. But really, at some point, it just seemed like too much. I stayed up at night wondering about it, and if it was true, why it all had to be behind closed doors. So, just to put my overactive imagination to rest, I conducted a few tests.”

This is news to Katsuya. He becomes aware of the awful feeling in his stomach once again and the pinpricks on his skin, migrating now to his throat.

“Don’t make that face,” Reigen mutters. He has the decency to look a bit guilty himself. “It wasn’t that bad. I asked a few questions, here and there - in person, and in my letters, listened to what the answers were. And I took my friend to a store I thought he might like, based more on the letters than the friend himself, which wasn’t very conclusive, because having similar hobbies isn’t a big deal when it’s a common hobby, and… anyway,” he waves a hand. “Mostly, there was the Takoyaki Awards.”

Slowly, Katsuya nods.

“I thought, if Serizawa-san and Serizawa-san are really the same person,” he chuckles, “That’s where I’ll find out for sure.”

Katsuya opens his mouth. But Reigen’s not looking at him - he’s looking out at the trees, at the yellow building beyond, and he’s rubbing the back of his head. 

Katsuya just takes him in for a moment; in the sun, his hair is a burning gold, and all of him - he’s full of life, that bright burning kind of light that comes from within, that’s always drawn Katsuya to him, inevitably, against all odds. 

But Reigen looks tired. There are circles under his eyes and his t-shirt is wrinkled. This has been clawing at Reigen for just as long, if not longer, than Katsuya even suspected.

Ducking his head, Katsuya finds the chocolate in his lap, and holds it again, like it has the power to make everything better. Would opening it now do anything, serve as a gesture, an olive branch, some common ground? But what if the chocolate is bitter? Just an object of convention, given out of politeness, simply to acknowledge the homemade chocolate Katsuya had sent, with their shape so carefully chosen? 

Thinking back on how earnestly he’d made that chocolate, Katsuya’s ears burn. What had he been thinking? That this really all could turn out like a cute holiday romcom? Life wasn’t that simple.

Reigen speaks back up, pulling Katsuya from his burning thoughts. “But,” he says, voice low, “I didn’t account for the fact that I’m a fucking coward.”

Katsuya’s head jerks up. “What? You’re not - that’s not true,” he splutters. “Reigen-san, if anybody’s a coward between the two of us, it’s me - I knew , but I was too afraid to tell you, I never said anything , I - ”

He falls silent when the line of Reigen’s mouth twists downwards. 

“No,” Reigen says. “I knew, really deep down, somewhere, even if I told myself it was stupid. That’s why I avoided you until the last moment, before they started the awards. Because I know you couldn’t be anybody else.”

“That was intentional?” Katsuya’s voice drops low, mirroring Reigen’s previous volume. “I was looking for you from the moment I got there.”

Reigen sighs. “I know. I saw you and I hid in the back room and pretended to be busy with set-up just to delay the inevitable.”

“...why?”

“Didn’t I just say?” Reigen’s smile is stiff. “I’m a coward.”

Katsuya just shakes his head. “You’re not,” he says, softly. “This is my fault - I put you in that position - I just thought… I could get to know you, without any of who I am getting in the way, changing things between us…” He trails off; the explanation feels hollow and tired. He supposes he might have worn it out, telling himself the same thing over and over to justify it to himself.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Reigen says, but he’s not looking at Katsuya, still off into the trees. Maybe it’s a calculated gaze, just to avoid Katsuya’s. “It still hasn’t, really. I mean, I was angry, though. You said you trusted me, right? But… not with your whole self? It felt… it felt like you’d been lying to me, and like you didn’t really trust me. That you wanted to keep me out of that part of your life.”

Katsuya’s stomach and throat burn with shame.

Reigen sounds a little detached. “It seemed like I didn’t deserve to really know you. All of you.”

“You do,” Katsuya whispers. “I can’t think of anyone else I want to know me like that.” He shakes his head slightly. “Or anyone who could know me like that.”

Reigen laughs, the sound coming harsh on the end of an exhale. “Well, let me ask you one thing,” he says. “Why’d you dodge my calls?”

No, no, this isn’t right. Katsuya can feel the sweat on his palms, his heart racing. “Before that, I tried to find you after I got off that damn stage,” he says. “I looked all over the library, and I thought - I thought you didn’t want to be found.” He swallows hard. “I looked everywhere except for the staff areas, which I couldn’t access.” He wipes his wet palms on his thighs, and then again, even though his hands are relatively dry now. “I had no reason to think you’d call,” he goes on, “So I just assumed you didn’t.”

“I’d changed my mind,” Reigen says abruptly.

“About…?”

“At the awards. When you gave me your nametag.” 

Though Reigen didn’t exactly answer Katsuya’s question, he waits, and Reigen rewards his patience with a slew of words, that once started, he can’t seem to stop. 

“Before that, when I saw you, I thought, hey, I’m Reigen Arataka, and I can handle anything. Because you know, what? I’ve handled my fair share of bullshit, assholes, and dangerous situations. And I don’t think you’re any of those things, so when I saw you looking so - so…” He waves a hand around, his mouth still going, unfolding the story word by word. “Just so you , handsome and nervous and genuine , and I thought, maybe you didn’t tell me a few things, but I do know you, and I do know the author version of you, and you weren’t so different really, except on paper you chose your words ahead of time, but then again, so did I.”

He barely takes a breath to fortify himself before barrelling onwards, a river rushing towards the drop-off. 

“All these years, part of the mystery around you was that you were such a hermit. I mean, excuse me for being a bit crass here, but people talked about you in those online forums where we were just meant to be people discussing your stories. A lot of people thought there had to be something wrong with you, or that you were some kind of literary genius that didn’t have shit for social skills. And there were others who just thought you value your privacy a lot, and that maybe what little we did know about you could be a lie, even your age and gender. I mean, nobody doubted you had a pen-name, because what kind of hermit would use his real name? I thought about all that a lot when I wrote to you. I didn’t know who the hell I was sending those letters off to except that you were a shut-in and a brilliant author. And when we met and I started to connect you to that author version of you, I thought about all those forum discussions, and you know what? I think all of them got a little bit of it right, but nobody got the full picture. Nobody could . Nobody had the means.”

He pauses again, and Katsuya sees the muscles in his jaw twitch as he grinds his molars together.

“When I saw you at the Takoyaki Awards, I thought, maybe I had the means to know you, maybe I had all the puzzle pieces and I’d slotted them together, and if I could just pick up the rest of the pieces I could finally get the whole picture. But we went outside, and you gave me your nametag. Up until then, I thought I could do it. I could solve you and I could win. I could know Serizawa the author, and Serizawa the man. But I realized then, there’s no winning here. And why did I have to work so hard, anyway, right up to the very last second?”

Reigen finally stops telling his story to the trees, and looks at Katsuya. Katsuya, nothing more than his heartbeat in his own throat, his sweaty palms, and his twisting stomach, looks back.

“I thought, why did I have to work so hard to pull this out of you? Why weren’t you working towards meeting me halfway? Why wasn’t it reciprocal?”

Katsuya finally works his mouth open, but any words he could have found die in his throat. Reigen’s eyes hold no anger - only pain. His questions cut deep, draw blood, and his open, sad face pries the wound open further.

Reigen drops his gaze. “I listened to your speech,” he says. “You made it sound like I meant a lot to you. You always did, in your letters, too. But I didn’t know if I could believe you, not this time, because this whole half of your life - more than half of your life, this huge portion of your life - you hadn’t trusted me with it. You had a hundred opportunities. I made it easy for you. And you couldn’t meet me halfway. And, fuck, Serizawa - I wanted you to. I really, really fucking wanted you to. And when you finally did, it was because you’d been backed into a corner. You had no choice.”

Katsuya works uselessly around the painful lump in his throat. “You’re right,” he manages. “You’re - ”

Reigen stops him, a hand up. “I’m still telling my story,” he says, “Or did you forget?”

“Sorry…”

Reigen waves him off, hand moving in the air with an elegant twist. “So, yeah, I avoided you at the end. I watched you go. And then I went home and I got shitfaced. For the entire weekend.”

“That’s a long time…” Katsuya mumbles.

“Eh, I think I did worse back in my university days,” Reigen says, his expression turning thoughtful for a moment. “Anyway, while I’m shitfaced, I get the letter you put in the mail before the awards, and it was everything I wanted from you but a little too late, so I decide, you know who I should tell exactly what I think of him, right to his shitty, beautiful face? Serizawa. So I called you up to do just that.” 

Katsuya doesn’t ask the obvious question, but his head rings with it. He called? He called? “What?”

Reigen flushes a bit pink, wincing. “It was not my best moment,” he admits.

“Wait, what happened?”

“I called your house and when your mother picked up, I demanded to talk to you,” Reigen lays out like it’s painful for him to recount this part. “She went to get you, but when you wouldn’t come, she didn’t make you. Also, it was pretty fucking obvious how drunk I was, not to mention angry, so, uh…. She talked to me instead. Or, I guess she just listened to me ranting about things. For a really long time. And then she told me some stories about you, which - I’m gonna have to get her to tell me again one day, ‘cause I don’t really remember them, if that’s any solace for you. But she calmed me down, and I remember thinking, maybe I do know you like I thought I did, and there’d been some misunderstanding here. Then I went to bed feeling pretty bad.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Katsuya says in a rush, “My mom didn’t say - ”

“Well, I asked her not to,” Reigen cuts him off. “I woke up hungover and pretty fuckin regretful, ‘cause I knew I wasn’t handling any of this like an adult. Even if you weren’t meeting me halfway anywhere like I hoped you would, it was just plain bullshit for me to get drunk and try to yell at you, so, yeah. I called back and asked her to not tell you any of that and just let me talk to you. But, yanno, sober. And she agreed. So I took a day to sleep it off and gather myself up, and I called again, but you weren’t around. I didn’t think it’d be so hard for me to get ahold of you.”

Reigen shoots Katsuya a harsh look, and Katsuya feels appropriately scolded. “Sorry….”

“ Anyway ,” Reigen says, “I keep on getting nowhere, and somewhere in this I had to go back to work after calling out sick, and that was pretty shitty because obviously you weren’t there all week, so I couldn’t talk to you about this shit then, either. And then I get this huge fuckin’ manuscript in the mail.” 

He sends a strongly accusatory finger towards his bag, and Katsuya knows what lies within even before Reigen pulls it out.

The thick ream of white paper is kept together with a black binder clip, the whole stack held squarely between his Reigen’s hands. The front page is blank beside the words, ‘untitled autofiction project - serizawa kouki’ alongside the date he began writing, all printed starkly in black ink. 

“I read it in pretty much one night,” Reigen says to the manuscript. “It’s pretty elaborate for a confession, you know.”

Katsuya flushes violently, a color beyond red. This is it for him. He’s going to live the rest of his life as a tomato now, he’s sure of it. Any second now, his roots are going to sprout and begin his brand new tomato plant life. He waves his hand frantically in front of his face as if he could dispel the tomato curse that’s been cast on his face. “It’s, it’s - ! That’s not, it’s, it’s not - ”

“Why’d you include chocolate when you sent it, then?” Reigen asks, point-blank. “ Homemade chocolate? Shaped like cute little fishies?”

To this, Katsuya has no response. He drops his burning face into his hands, where the immediate crinkle of plastic draws him back - oh . The packet of chocolates from Reigen… that’s right. No matter the story, this meeting had begun with chocolate, and today was Valentine’s.

“Hey, it was good chocolate,” Reigen says, his tone mild, but Katsuya can hear the smile that’s only just being kept at bay. “I’ve already eaten it all. Kudos for the shape, but I think Yoko found it a bit morbid to watch me eat them.”

“It’s a step better than eating salmon in front of her, or anything like that…” Katsuya mumbles into his hands.

“Yes, but can a goldfish really differentiate between something fish-shaped that’s not fish, and something fish-shaped that is ?”

“ If that manuscript is a confession,” Katsuya mumbles, yanking the conversation back on course like he’s making a ninety-degree turn in a racing game, “ if - then - is this chocolate your response?”

Reigen’s face slides back into the pink range, a familiar color. Maybe it had never paled. His lips are pressed in a tight line, and he’s looking past Katsuya’s shoulder. “Take a wild guess,” he says. “The story isn’t quite finished, but I guess it’s close enough to fill in the gaps, so.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to not get my hopes up too high,” Katsuya says, small.

Reigen sighs. “Do I really have to say it?”

“..well, .y-you don’t…”

“ Yes, ” Reigen says, like the word is a weight he’s hefting off his chest. “I return your feelings, Serizawa-san. Those are heart-shaped chocolates, aren’t they? I thought it was pretty clear.”

Katsuya grins, then tries to push it off his face - it’s a serious conversation, damn it - but grins again. Reigen looks at him sidelong and pouts again, his lips pushing out petulantly. 

“This isn’t fair,” Reigen declares. “You didn’t have to say anything out loud. You just wrote a fucking book, which is something you do all the damn time.”

“Reigen-san,” Katsuya nearly trips over his own words to speak, “You make me happy in a way nobody else has, for so long , you make me excited for life , to push myself, to explore, I really - ” 

He tumbles to a stop.

The silence stretches between them, and the sudden block that has landed between him and the words he wants to say looming overhead like a mountain, casting its chilling shadow over Katsuya. 

But he’s overcome mountains before, hasn’t he?

He lowers his voice, and tries again, looking at Reigen through his eyelashes instead of head-on, still needing just one small layer of protection for his battered heart. “I’m really grateful for you, Reigen-san, and I really - I really love you.”

Reigen’s eyes skitter away after he says it. His face is even more pink than it had been earlier, and Katsuya marvels all over again that Reigen flushes pink , not the intense, vivid, undeniable red that Katsuya does. It’s adorable, and somehow unfailingly attractive. God, does Katsuya love him, does Katsuya want him.

“There,” Reigen says, sounding flustered. He points at Katsuya, bridging the space between them that isn’t all that wide after all. Reigen’s finger is nearly brushing Katsuya’s sternum. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Being honest with me?”

No, he supposes it wasn’t, not what it could have been. But it getting here was an adventure. “I think it’ll get easier with time,” he says, honestly. “And that manuscript was the last secret. I’ve given them all to you, and I don’t plan to keep any more.”

Reigen coughs into a closed fist. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

The smile that wants to burst across Katsuya’s face finally wins, and he hides it by ducking his head to tear open the pack of chocolates. He pulls out a heart and bites into it, his mouth flooding with sweetness. His eyes fill with water, a saltiness to counteract the sugar.

“Hey,” Reigen says with alarm, “Are you crying? Idiot, don’t do that. We’re making up and confessing. It’s supposed to make us happy.”

Katsuya sniffles and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, but the tears spill over, run their salty course down his face. “I’m happy,” he says roughly, swallowing hard around chocolate and saliva. “I’m really, really happy.”

“Then act like it,” Reigen mutters, elbowing him. 

Katsuya sniffles, and laughs, and does his best not to choke on the chocolate.

“Idiot,” Reigen says again, voice clogged, “If you keep that up, I’m gonna have to cry too.”

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” Katsuya says. He puts the second half of the chocolate heart in his mouth, wipes his eyes one final time, and blinks at Reigen until they’re clear as he finishes the sweet. “Thank you, Reigen-san. For… for everything. I don’t know if I deserve any of this, after everything I’ve put you through.”

Reigen shrugs one shoulder. “You’re a good person, Serizawa,” he says, softly. “Even if I didn’t know anything else about you, I’d know that.”

Katsuya’s heart swells. “You’re gonna make me cry again,” he mumbles, a smile contrasting his words.

“I didn’t know you were such a crybaby,” Reigen says, rolling his eyes, but there’s no heat or venom there.

“I think you’re the better person here,” Katsuya admits, “even if you claim yourself as a coward. I think you’re the kindest and most giving person I’ve ever met.”

“Hey, don’t discount your mother. She’s pretty kind and giving.”

“This is a different scale of measurement.”

“Sure, sure.” Reigen waves him off.

Katsuya finds himself just looking at Reigen again. As the sun sinks lower and a chill mounts in the air, Reigen remains illuminated in gold. And maybe Katsuya’s looking too hard into things, but he thinks Reigen looks less tired than he did when they began this conversation; he’s certainly less reserved, having gotten through his story. He casual sprawl seems more genuine, now. 

And of course there’s more to it - there’s always more to, something that Katsuya has learned as a writer; the story is never actually over. And while at times that can be overwhelming and daunting, tonight - well, tonight it’s exactly the sentiment Katsuya needs.

“There’s time, isn’t there?” Katsuya blurts.

“Well, it certainly won’t stop, will it? Nothing can stop the forward march of the clock’s hands. So, yes, obviously, there’s time . As long as the universe exists, there’ll be time.”

“Don’t take me so literally,” Katsuya huffs a complaint, but he’s still smiling. “There’s time for us , isn’t there? We can sort this out, and we can be… something.”

Reigen looks like he’s just licked a lemon, but not necessarily in a bad way. Finally he says, “There’s an us now, is there?”

“I… I want there to be an us now, I mean, considering….” He gesticulates, encompassing the chocolate hearts, the manuscript, the two of them on this bench.

“I want that, too,” Reigen says. “I think we’re talking in circles. Are we talking in circles? ”

“We probably are,” Katsuya agrees, feeling a little giddy. “I know there’s more to talk about, a lot more, but, can I…” 

When did his heartbeat get so loud? Certainly, Reigen can hear it too, growing louder as the distance between them closes unconsciously. Katsuya’s voice is lost beneath it as he whispers, “Then, can I kiss you?”

Reigen’s nod is miniscule, but it’s all Katsuya needs. 

Kissing Reigen Arataka is a perfectly imperfect experience. Somehow, it’s everything and nothing that Katsuya had so guiltily imagined over the last months.

Their noses bump before their lips touch, and he giggles as Reigen breathes in shakily. The first brush has a bit of teeth involved. At second brush, he’s aware of his own heartbeat, breath, and sweaty skin, and that Reigen’s lips are chapped - a little scratchy - but warm. He can feel Reigen’s exhale on his skin, and the heat of it sends cold chills shivering through Katsuya’s entire body, right to his fingertips, where his hands are held carefully between their bodies. When the kiss deepens, he tastes the sweetness of Reigen’s mouth - like mint and something else that Katsuya can’t name, not yet, but god, does he want to learn it by heart and find the words that describe it without missing a single detail.

He wants more, so much more. He wants this. He wants everything. He wants Reigen.

He just wants .

Then, the kiss is over, and they’re just breathing in each other’s space. The moment is broken when Reigen laughs, a high, giddy thing.

“There’s another one for the list,” Katsuya whispers, his eyes still closed, feeling breathless, system awash with adrenaline.

“What’s that?”

“The list of new things I want to do with you.”

When Katsuya opens his eyes, Reigen is looking at him - pink-face, smiling, soft.

“And I can think of a few more things,” Katsuya adds, feeling cheeky.

“I really do keep asking myself, what the fuck is my life?” Reigen says, and he bursts into laughter, his shoulders and chest shaking with the depths of it.

Katsuya can only tilt his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together, sweat and laughter be damned. “Me too,” he says, finally feeling free, feeling hopeful, feeling like the whole world has opened up for him. “Me too.”

The park feels a bit too exposed for further soul-bearing, and with the sun going down, the end of the season chill is mounting, so Katsuya and Reigen stand, stretch, and head towards Reigen’s apartment. As they make their way to the train station, Katsuya is hyper-aware of the back of Reigen’s hand brushing against his own, a product of walking close as much as it is of the newfound intimacy of kissing. The casual contact feels tender, in a way that makes Katsuya’s heart full to bursting. Katsuya wants, he wants with depths that blindside him.

The wanting isn’t new - shit, he’s written nearly an entire novel about that wanting - but the way he experiences it is new, what with the floodgates opened. For the first time, he’s wanting freely, deeply; knowing that it’s reciprocated has only intensified its outpouring.

Reigen’s hand brushes Katsuya’s again. Before his nerve can break, he slides his hand into Reigen’s and squeezes. Reigen squeezes back, and a peek at his face reveals a smug grin that Katsuya can only return a bashful one to.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but Katsuya’s brain is running a mile-a-minute about Reigen’s hands: noting their size (smaller than his own, but not as much as he’d guessed), the length of his fingers (long, elegant, capable), alongside the fact that Reigen’s palm is just as sweaty as his own (a relief). 

The train ride is inexplicably filled with inane chatter, and as the words go by, they leave Katsuya’s mind like water. They don’t matter, really; what matters is that Reigen doesn’t pull his hand out of Katsuya’s, not until he’s digging out his keys in front of his apartment.

Inside, the apartment is dim - blinds drawn to maintain the temperature, no doubt. The subtle scent of the place - something lemony mixed in with a hint of laundry soap - hits Katsuya with the memory of his haircut, so vividly that for a moment, he’s convinced that they’ve stepped backwards in time, that Reigen’s apartment has stayed frozen in the space it occupied a few weeks ago. 

They take off their shoes, and as Reigen turns the lights on and opens a window, Katsuya brushes his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. His hair has always grown fast, and it’s starting to curl just a little now.

“Need a trim?”

“Soon, probably.”

“You plan to keep it that short?”

“Yeah. I like it like this.”

“Me too. Want some food? I don’t think there’s anything fancy, but we could put something together.”

“That sounds great.”

They move into the kitchen, delaying a return to serious conversation by rooting through Reigen’s cupboards and refrigerator. They turn up a motley combination of snacks, leftovers, and frozen vegetables, all of which come together into an eclectic meal rather quickly. Katsuya can’t say he minds; cooking with Reigen is a new and stomach-warmingly domestic activity, even if the extent to which he participates amounts to putting some rice in the microwave and stirring it.

They sit on the couch with their meal. Reigen pulls his legs up and crosses them, and Katsuya can easily picture him here, flipping through a book or eating a bowl of ramen. With Reigen so close, holding close his plate and chopsticks, the image is almost as tangible as he is.

“Sooo,” Reigen drawls out, an eyebrow up. “I have some questions about that project of yours.”

“Ask away.” Katsuya takes a bite of his food, chews while Reigen formulates his question.

“Why didn’t you ever use my name? Or any name at all? In, yanno.” He gestures vaguely towards his bag, leaning against the wall, where the manuscript is concealed within. “I mean, I got used to it as a reader, but if it’s supposed to be you and me, and if you don’t plan to publish it, why don’t I have a name?”

Katsuya doesn’t have to think on that for long. “It didn’t feel right.”

“Why?”

“Well - well, first, it started when I didn’t know you were you . Then, when I realized, I stopped writing it for a while - it felt… it felt a little too weird, to think about you as attractive, or, or... Reciprocal, when nothing between us was all that reciprocal. But I did go back to it, and the characters and the plot all took on a life of their own. Like this life, but a little to the left. Just… life, but a bit sideways.” 

The longer Katsuya talks about his writing, the easier it gets, word by word, an echo of the writing process itself. Something in his chest feels a little looser than before, and Reigen is listening, watching, the whole time. If Katsuya had to describe him, he looks - well, fascinated. And he’s got rice on his cheek, so he’s also completely adorable, but that’s neither here nor there.

 “So it’s like… the partner isn’t exactly you, but inspired by you. By the time I came around to giving him a name, I couldn’t give him yours, but I couldn’t give him something new, either. But on the other hand, the narrator isn’t exactly me, but is almost me, so my name had to stay, because that’s me. Does that make sense?”

Reigen nods. “What about Mob and Ritsu?”

“I couldn’t use their names, either. It would have been like borrowing too much from them.”

“Where do you draw the lines? To people who know us, it’s clear who we’re supposed to be. Especially if we’re the only two readers of this thing - it’s clear.”

“....there’s no easy answer for that. Every decision is a debate.” He winces a little. “I mean, in this first draft, not everything is as carefully considered as I’d like, but…”

Reigen latches onto something Katsuya doesn’t anticipate. “First draft, huh? Do you plan to write a second?”

Katsuya can only shrug. “I don’t even know if I’ll finish this version.”

Reigen drums his fingers on his chin for a long moment. Katsuya watches with amazement as the rice stuck there stays stubbornly in its place, not budging one bit. 

“You should,” he says, finally.

“Really, you think so?”

“It’s nearly done, so why not?”

“Ah, well… it’s kind of run its course by now.”

Reigen looks at Katsuya like he doesn’t believe he’s heard what Katsuya’s said. “Why not just finish it because it’s good ?”

Katsuya shakes his head. “Not everything needs to be put out there.”

“Maybe not out there out there, but I’d like to read the rest,” Reigen pouts. “You promised I could read it when it’s done, but it’s not done. Asshole.”

“Hey, I…” Katsuya has no defense, no matter the exact contents of his months-passed promise. He deflates into the couch, sagging down. “I guess I’m an asshole.”

“Don’t take me that seriously,” Reigen unfolds his legs and kicks Katsuya in the knee as he does. It’s not clear if it was intentional or not. “This is me giving you feedback. Like I’ve always done.”

Katsuya chews on that for a few moments. It’s true that this isn’t all too different from the years of letters Reigen’s posted to him; well - aside from the fact they’re in Reigen’s apartment, on his couch, only inches between them, some kind of sexual tension burning away below the surface of this necessary conversation, having made dinner together not more than five minutes ago. That’s new. It’s all new. 

“This is nothing like that,” Katsuya mutters. 

“How? I’m just asking questions about your writing process.”

Katsuya gestures helplessly between them, encompassing the space between them, or the lack thereof. Reigen raises an eyebrow.

“This could have been utterly normal by now,” Reigen declares, going haughty.

“I didn’t know!” Katsuya protests. “I was worried I’d lose everything we did have.”

Guilt flashes over Reigen’s features but it’s quickly plastered over with something more neutral. Katsuya marvels everytime Reigen conceals his feelings like that, even now, even if it sets his anxiety far too close to the edge. “I know,” he says. “Sorry.”

Katsuya swallows, looking down at his food, his chopsticks hovering just above, and studies them. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ve said that aloud, or only written it down, but I’m sorry, Reigen-san. I was wrong to keep things from you, no matter what.”

Reigen’s knee knocks against Katsuya’s - definitely intentional, this time. When Katsuya looks up and their eyes connect, Reigen says, “Thanks, Serizawa-san.”

“You can call me Katsuya,” he blurts, then clenches his molars together so he can’t mar the offer with anything else, rattling nerves or not.

Reigen’s grin is a little shy, but pleased. “Then I oughta be Arataka to you,” he says.

“Arataka,” Katsuya says, trying the name out.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“I don’t think I could if I tried,” Katsuya says.

Arataka almost looks like he wants to protest but doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Weren’t we talking about your novel?”

“If you’ve got more questions.”

Arataka’s eyes burn into Katsuya’s. “I have a million more questions.”

“Do you want me to answer them all now ?”

Arataka pretends to think hard on this, cupping his chin. “I guess there’s no rush.” His eyes slide sideways to Katsuya’s. “I can probably think of a better use for this time.”

The way Arataka is looking at him sideways like that makes Katsuya’s heart quicken with want , that deep-down, magnet-pulling want , seated somewhere deep in his gut. He swallows dryly. “Me too.”

“But I guess I do have to ask one thing first. It’s important.”

Katsuya’s heart stutters, uncertain which direction he’s going. “Yeah?”

“If I’m like someone’s dad, am I at least a hot dad?”

Katsuya chokes on air. He coughs hard and Arataka abandons his plate to the coffee table before leaning over to whack him on the back, probably more rough than was necessary.

“Y - yes?” Katsuya wheezes, knowing he’s going bright red - not just from the heat in his face, but from Arataka’s merciless smirk, too. “But, but, it’s not - that’s not - you’re not really like a dad, it was just, the idea was because you - you care about people, so you -  he’s - ”

Arataka takes pity on him and cuts off his frantic words. “Katsuya,” he says, sliding his hand from Katsuya’s back to his jaw, skin on skin contact that immediately draws all of Katsuya’s attention. “Don’t take me so seriously.” And then he kisses him, one hand on either side of Katsuya’s face.

For a few moments, this kiss is not all too different from the first; it’s brief, it’s warm, it’s sweet, and tastes just a little bit of rice. The one that follows is longer, as is the next, until Arataka’s tongue brushes Katsuya’s lip and he jumps.

“Sorry,” Arataka says, pulling away. His face is flushed. “Too much?”

“No,” Katsuya says, then hurries to add, “no, no, I just wasn’t expecting it. I’d like to keep going.”

Deep in Arataka’s eyes, Katsuya can see a want that mirrors his own.

They meet in the middle, mouths hungry. Katsuya is still chasing a name for the taste of Arataka’s mouth, that taste he still can’t define, even as their tongue slide against each other and send a bolt of electricity straight through him.

He becomes aware of the fact he’s doing painfully little with his hands, something that must be fixed immediately. When the kiss breaks again he abandons his plate much the way Arataka had - both plates nearly full, side by side, are quite a sight. They kiss again, and as Arataka sighs into his mouth, he reaches out blindly to wrap his hands into Arataka’s t-shirt, to pull him in close, wrap his arms around him.

Their kiss breaks messily next; Katsuya accidentally kisses wetly against Arataka’s upper lip, just at the corner of his nostril, and Arataka retaliates with his tongue flattening against Katsuya’s lower lip and a bit of his chin. When they find a new rhythm, Arataka lopes an arm around Katsuya’s neck, and they press against one another, all the water from their dams of want moving through them like rushing streams. 

Arataka is real, solid against Katsuya as they kiss deeper, losing any coordination they’d built in the short span of this kiss. With his arms tight around Arataka, not only is the other man real, but he’s ribs pressed up against Katsuya’s ribs; he’s a hummingbird heartbeat drumming through two sternums to Katsuya’s own frantic heart; he’s a thin wire-cable arm locked behind Katsuya’s sweaty neck. He’s heat and sweetness, he’s humid breaths against Katsuya’s saliva-wet skin and lips, he’s the nose pressed against Katsuya’s, he’s here with Katsuya, and his want is just as deep as Katsuya’s.

Arataka moans, a sound in the back of his throat, and Katsuya’s fingers pressed hard through his shirt, into his skin. 

That , he thinks, should be illegal.

He loses time as they kiss, learning each other’s mouths and the best ways to please them. When they finally part, panting, the light has leaked away from Arataka’s living room almost completely, the remaining sunlight watery and thin. Katsuya presses his forehead to Arataka’s, the way they’d done at the park. If this becomes a habit, it will be one Katsuya relishes each time.

“I could do that forever,” he says, and is surprised to find that his voice rasps lowly.

Arataka shivers and Katsuya feels it all along his core.

“Me too,” Arataka says, and moves his mouth to Katsuya’s ear with a hum, low in his throat. Katsuya wonders if the sound originates from the same spot as that earlier moan, that borderline illegal sound. When Arataka’s hot mouth kisses his earlobe, Katsuya all but squeaks, making Arataka laugh - but shit , speaking of things that spark that deep wanting in Katsuya’s belly, that is definitely one of them.

They’re quiet, just breathing, sharing space. Arataka kisses Katsuya’s earlobe again, more chaste this time, and Katsuya shuts his eyes and just experiences this moment. He counts his lucky stars that he’s here to experience this.

“Stay the night,” Arataka says, low. There are no promises in his voice, but there is a note that seems near desperate, that says to Katsuya, don’t strand me again.

“...I’ll have to call my mom,” Katsuya laughs after a moment, and when Arataka joins him, it’s a little too loud. But laughing with him feels good. It feels like being accepted. It feels like being forgiven.

Chapter Text

28 June, 19XX, 1:32 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Reigen Arataka

From: Serizawa Katsuya

Moving in the summer is awful. Who’s idea was this?

28 June, 19XX, 1:57 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Serizawa Katsuya

From: Reigen Arataka

I thought it was your idea LOL.

28 June, 19XX, 1:58 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Reigen Arataka

From: Serizawa Katsuya

...true.

Let my suffering be a warning to you. Do not repeat my mistakes. Don’t let my downfall be for naught.

28 June, 19XX, 2:13 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Serizawa Katsuya

From: Reigen Arataka

Do you want me to come help?

28 June, 19XX, 2:15 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Reigen Arataka

From: Serizawa Katsuya

Please? There will be cookies.

28 June, 19XX, 2:20 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Serizawa Katsuya

From: Reigen Arataka

LOL. get off the computer, I’ll be there in 15.

28 June, 19XX, 2:22 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Reigen Arataka

From: Serizawa Katsuya

Have I mentioned recently that I love you?

28 June, 19XX, 2:23 PM

Subject: RE: RE: New Apartment!!!!!!!????

To: Serizawa Katsuya

From: Reigen Arataka

Never hurts to tell me again ;-)

“Where do you want this?”

Katsuya looks up from where he’s kneeling over the half-assembled coffee table in his new living room. His boyfriend is standing near the door, a large box held against his chest, arms taut around it. He’s sweaty from trekking up and down the stairs, and he’s wearing sneakers, sweatpants, and a t-shirt. One pant leg is hiked up higher than the other. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to reveal his upper arms, and Katsuya isn’t sure that serves any purpose beyond showing off, but he’s totally fine with that.

Katsuya has to remind himself that this isn’t a dream, nor is it fiction.

“Well?” Arataka prompts impatiently. “C’mon, this is heavy. You can get your eyeful when I’ve put it down.”

Katsuya squints at the box, and deciphers his mother’s handwriting on the side. “Oh! My mechs and radio are in there, so probably my room.”

Arataka grunts his acknowledgement and turns down the hall. Katsuya grins down at his hands, at the screwdriver and table leg he's holding.

In the past five months, not a day has gone by without Katsuya reminding himself that this is his life. All of it - the electrifying kisses, the playful teasing, the short, snippy arguments. All of it. Especially the happiness .

He wants to memorize it all, from the messy and treacherous days when he and Arataka had been finding where they stood with each other and how they worked as a couple, to the days where his boyfriend’s impatient glare is half-playful and half-real, like today. No, not just his boyfriend, or even Reigen-san - Arataka.

“Arataka,” he mumbles to himself. The name is a treasure. 

He feels like a lovesick fool. Then again, that’s exactly what he is.

“Yes?” the voice comes from behind him. 

Katsuya flushes red, even though Arataka can’t see him. “Nothing, nothing,” he hurries to mutter. He can’t concentrate on the coffee table at all. It’s just a pile of wood and screws. It’ll never be anything more at this rate.

“Well, I think that was the last box for the day,” Arataka says, plopping down cross-legged next to him on the floor. He picks up the instruction manual and begins flipping through it. “We can probably relax until we have to head out.” He looks up at Katsuya with an eyebrow up. “And maybe take showers. I’m drenched already, and not in a good way.”

Katsuya bobs his head in a nod. He does his very best not to vividly imagine Arataka in the shower, something he’d had the pleasure of seeing earlier in the week, the first time they’d come to visit Katsuya’s new apartment together. It had been wholly unfurnished then, and with nothing better to do, Arataka had slyly suggested they take a cool shower, since they day was so hot.

(Katsuya may not have fully recovered from that whole incident.)

He’s jolted out of his thoughts as Arataka leans near him to grab a wrench. “You’re in a daydreaming mood today,” he observes, a hint of a laugh in his tone.

“It’s an exciting day,” Katsuya defends himself. “I’m entitled to a little daydreaming.”

“I’m not sure you’ve got the luxury of time. We’re on a time limit - only a couple hours before we have to be at the library.”

“That’s true…” Katsuya mumbles. With a glance around the room, he observes, “I don’t think anything’s going to be set up until tomorrow.”

“You can always spend the night with me.”

Katsuya can’t help but flush again, despite the amount of practice they having with spending the night together. “I still have a bed at my mom’s house.”

“That’s infinitely less exciting,” Arataka complains.

“But it’s more proper.”

“Who cares about proper?” Arataka huffs.

Katsuya giggles. “You’re right, I don’t think I do.”

They tinker with the coffee table for a while longer, trading soft barbs and laughing at themselves, before Arataka makes an executive decision for the two of them to hit the showers. 

Katsuya trails after him to the bedroom, still marveling around the apartment - though it’s mostly undecorated and largely unfurnished - being mostly a maze of boxes at this point - it’s his. The huge cardboard box leaning on the wall, containing a disassembled bookshelf for the living room? His. The wobbly round kitchen table Arataka found him at a second-hand shop? His. The boxes of books, the boxes of manuscripts, the pile of slippers and sneakers disorganized by the front door? His, his, and his, though the shoes and slippers have some of Arataka’s mixed in. Then again, the whole place had his fingerprints all over it just as much as Katsuya’s, even if Katsuya is the only one on the lease in an official capacity. Arataka had been invaluable in locating the place, in haggling the price to something a little more reasonable and had gotten a quote for renting a moving truck - hell, he’d driven the moving truck back and forth, because Katsuya is still learning what to do behind the wheel of a car, something his mom had insisted she start teaching him if he was going to be living away from her, nevermind the fact that he had no access to a car on his own.

Really, he couldn’t have done any of this without either of them. He’d had their amazing support, and god, he was thankful for it, and he was overjoyed to be here, embarking on this new journey of solitary living. A foray into the adult world, truly; a foray into society, undoubtedly.

His feelings about the idea have morphed over time. As a kid, he’d assumed it was something he’d do one day, because that was what society had told him was in store for him, and he hadn’t questioned it. When he’d shut himself away, he stopped being able to imagine it was possible; he’d depended on his mother for everything from the food on the table to the comforting, tight hugs she gave. Even now the idea of living completely alone, save for his goldfish, was still intimidating. 

But over the last few months, it had felt so in reach, so tangible ; and with a little pushing, a little elbow grease, and some help, he was here. Somehow, it’s managing to be exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. (He knows he’ll be calling his mom the second something breaks - he’s fixed a sink before, true, but never at his own apartment . Anything could go wrong. Anything.)

He’s distracted by his marvelling, so Arataka is already in the shower by the time he makes it into the bedroom, where there’s only  his desk and chair, a bookshelf, a disassembled set of drawers, and a whole new slew of boxes, taped up and labeled neatly with his mother’s handwriting. He busies himself with opening those in search of something to wear to the library after he’s showered. He finds a fresh set of pants and a shirt for Arataka too, mixed in with his own things, folded neatly. He has no idea when so much of Arataka’s things found their way into his. He has a suspicion that much of it had been done intentionally, but he’s not complaining. After enough rummaging, he unearths something decent for himself as well, even if the pants are a bit creased from being folded all  week. 

The door knob squeaks, and he glances up as Arataka walks in. His hair is dark gold and damp - Katsuya sees a drop of water fall from near his ear onto his bare shoulder. It’s then that he processes the fact that Arataka is dressed only in a towel, held up around his waist by one casual hand.

His mouth runs a bit dry and he doesn’t hide the fact he’s looking. Arataka preens like a tropical bird under his attention. 

“Too bad you didn’t wait for me in the shower,” Katsuya says, still taking Arataka in - his jutting hip bones, his ridiculously small waist, his lean torso. He’s still damp all over, which should be a crime, the same as all the other things Arataka does.

“I tried waiting, but you took too long,” Arataka complains, dropping the preening and instead lifting one hand to fluff out his hair, an attempt to dry it faster. Katsuya’s eyes follow the graceful line of his arm up, then the sharp angle back down. 

“My loss,” Katsuya says, “but this view is nice, too.”

“Hey, don’t make me hit you with this towel.”

“And what if I do?”

“Maybe I’ll make you wait ‘til we have more time to enjoy it.” Arataka rolls his eyes, but his hip is jutted in a playful way, his grin wide. “Go take your own shower. You stink.”

Katsuya isn’t sure he can refute that, so he stands, knees cracking. “There’s some of your clothes on the desk if you want.” He takes the opportunity to stretch his back too, which also pops. “I mean, I won’t complain if you want to go out like that , but I think it’d be considered indecent exposure.”

“Eh, I could talk circles around any policeman that stops me,” Arataka dismisses him.

“I think there’s a few things you can’t talk your way around.”

“And this isn’t one of them.”

“You wanna test that theory?”

“Well... maybe not when we’re on a time limit.”

Katsuya takes the cue and heads to the shower, making sure to grab his change of clothes. He washes in record time. He towels his hair vigorously, still used to the days when his thick curls would hold so much water that getting them dry quickly was nothing more than a flight of fancy. But with his hair short, it’s only damp instead of sopping wet by the time he makes his way back to the bedroom. 

The unmounted clock in the hall tells him they’re got some time before his mom should arrive to drive them over to the library. The library isn’t far, but if a ride is offered after a day of lugging boxes, it’s hard to turn down. Katsuya’s apartment forms a satisfying triangle with Arataka’s and the library; the distance between the apartment buildings is easily walkable, with the library a little further. The bus might be necessary on a rainy day, though, if he didn’t want to arrive soaked to the bone.

Back in his room, he finds Arataka dressed and digging through the last box he’d brought up. Katsuya sees that his radio has been unloaded onto the desk and crowned with a completed model.

 “This box was only heavy ‘cause of your radio,” Arataka tells him conversationally. “The mechs don’t weigh a lot. And - is this…?” He pulls out a five-pound dumbell from the bottom of the box. “Oh shit, there’s two of them. No wonder it was heavy… Hey, I didn’t know you lifted weights.”

“Gotta keep up my forearm strength for all the writing.” 

“Oh, yeah, obviously.”

Katsuya wanders over as he unloads the bottom of the box and picks up the Kitsune Raider he’d built after going to Umami Mechs with Arataka. The models had been packed in soft things to protect them during the move - which are revealed to be random t-shirts and kitchen towels, based on the discard pile near the desk that Arataka has created in unpacking. With a grin, Katsuya places the Kitsune Raider on a high shelf.

“Where will you put Hoshi?” Arataka asks, unwrapping the last mech. He places it in a row with the others along the back of the desk, like a breadcrumb trail leading up to the one atop the radio, a prize.

“Maybe on the dresser. His tank used to be on my nightstand, but then I didn’t have anywhere for a water cup, so.”

“You could also put him in the living room somewhere. Then I could bring Yoko over for playdates. Yanno, put their bowls next to each other.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s much of a playdate. They can’t play, let alone date.”

“They could totally play. Maybe charades or something. Use your imagination.” Arataka scoffs and moves to another box. Katsuya is occupied by adjusting the angle that the Kitsune Raider is being displayed from. There’s the sound of tape being ripped from cardboard, and then Arataka makes a noise of surprise and says, “What’s this?”

Katsuya turns around. “Oh - wow. Those are my file boxes for letters.”

Arataka hefts a box up. A while back, Katsuya had transferred his system from an eclectic array of random shoeboxes to ones he’d bought at the craft store - they’re thickly made, and the perfect width for a standard letter, making organizing them chronologically a bit easier. The system is complete with tabs separating letters by month, and years each having seperate boxes; last year was the first year that had two boxes, having become full of his correspondence with Arataka, alongside the normal trickle of letters forwarded to him from the publishing company.

Arataka’s fingers hover eagerly over the years of letters, aching for the secrets within, Katsuya is sure.

“Can I open one?”

“Sure.”

Katsuya comes over and kneels on the floor beside Arataka has he pries the box open. The label on the front declares the box holds letters from a few years ago. 

Arataka plucks a yellow envelope from within and flips it over, but he doesn’t read its contents before sliding it back in and checking out another letter, this time mailed in plain white and then slides it back as well. He runs his fingers over the rows of letters, tucked in tightly together, and then hesitates over a cream-colored envelope they both recognize.

Katsuya wonders if he’s going to take it out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You’ve got a lot of letters.”

Katsuya nods, shyly. “At least from recent years, yeah. I wonder if writing to authors became a fad or something.”

“You still get them?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Not as many now that you don’t write me anymore.” He elbows Arataka, playful.

“Hey, I write!”

“Letters and email aren’t exactly the same.”

“Do you ever get emails from fans?”

“No, it’s not a public address. But anyone can mail the publisher with my pen name on it.” Katsuya leans over and picks up an older box, having been revealed in the spot where Arataka pulled out the first. Katsuya pops the lid off with both thumbs. “Really, it’s shocking the number of people who go through that just to say they liked my book or the new chapter of my serial, or whatever.”

“That’s just what your writing does to people,” Arataka declares in that tone that Katsuya knows means there’s no arguing with him. “It’s motivating. It makes people want to write.”

“So you say,” Katsuya says, “But you still haven’t written a single paragraph.”

“Hey, I’ve been editing so much of your work over these last few months, and helping you plot it out, and - ”

“That only kind of counts. Editing is still distinctly different from writing.”

“It’s all creative work, isn’t it? I don’t see why there’s such a big difference.”

“I want you to write your story.” Katsuya holds Arataka’s eyes. “I know you’ve got one.”

Arataka pouts, looking a bit more dejected than Katsuya expected.

“Arataka?”

Arataka shakes it off. “It’s inspiring, working with you, seeing all the writing you do, but it’s also intimidating. I can’t compare to an author like you.”

“Hey, what? It’s not about comparing. Also, you’ve read my first drafts. They’re usually a mess. It’s like... sifting through garbage for one little gem.”

“But you know that gem is in there.” Arataka’s eyes bore into the letters in his lap. “You’ve got the proof right here. All the people that love your work.”

Katsuya huffs. “Not always. I write a lot of things that go nowhere.” 

“But you also write a lot of things that go somewhere .”

“That’s just because I write a lot of things. ”

Arataka slump into Katsuya’s side, and they adjust slightly, finding a comfortable spot as Arataka presses his nose into Katsuya’s upper arm, where he sighs, “Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

Katsuya finds himself looking down at the boxes they’re holding - the letters within represent a lot, but to Katsuya, one of their strongest aspects is that for such a long time, they were his main link to the outside world. All that came after came with such unexpected speed and force, but for years, he had his mom, he had Tsuchiya, and he had these letters.

Now, he has so much more.

Unexpectedly, Arataka says, “Actually, I have been trying to write something.”

“What? Really? That’s great!”

Arataka shrugs against Katsuya’s side. “It’s not much, but it felt lousy trying to give Mob all this grand writing advice when it was all just hot air. So I’ve been trying, but it’s not really going anywhere.”

Katsuya nods. “There’s always that stage of a project,” he says. “When I get to that part, I like to take a walk and think. I think more clearly when I’m active.”

“What did you do before?”

“Huh? Oh. I just paced circles in my room. It was still productive, and eventually around the house, but walking outside is a lot better.”

“Hmmm.”

“Just don’t give up, Arataka. It won’t get any better if you don’t work on it at all.”

“That’s the fundamental advice, isn’t it?”

“It really is.”

Arataka fits the lid back onto the letterbox and stands. Katsuya tilts his head back to look at him, up, up, up, and Arataka takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss him softly on the mouth, sweetly.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll keep trying.”

Katsuya grins. “I can’t wait to read it.”

“You’ll have to be patient.”

“That’s only fair.”

“An eye for an eye,” Arataka mutters, turning away and sliding the letterbox on a lower shelf. 

Katsuya hands him the next one, and they’re quiet until the whole box of boxes is empty. Afterwards, Katsuya breaks down the cardboard moving box and Arataka peers at his reflection in the window to fix his hair, which has dried in odd cowlicks.

“It’s hard to believe how far we’ve come,” Katsuya says softly. “I still can’t believe you were just an anonymous pen on paper a few years ago.”

“I know,” Arataka agrees. “I don’t want to forget those roots, though.” He glances over his shoulder, and their eyes connect, burning, their gazes holding steady. “I don’t think we could if we tried.”

“Yeah,” Katsuya says on an exhale. “Probably not.”

He knows they’re short on time; he knows they’ve just cleaned up and fixed their hair; but there’s little else Katsuya can do about the want he has, the need to show Arataka what this means to him. He stands and joins Arataka by the dark window, pulling him in by his hips, and is rewarded with a giggle. Katsuya still marvels at the thinness of Arataka’s body, which has remained that way all these months, even though Katsuya’s mother has been sending him to the library with bentos for Arataka ever since the week after Valentines’ Day. He pushes him against the wall and slots their hips together, his bare foot nudging Arataka’s out further to improve his balance.

“Katsuya,” Arataka mumbles, voice low.

“We’ve got some time,” Katsuya promises.

They kiss against the wall until they’re breathless, catch their breath, kiss again. Katsuya can smell soap, and more faintly below that, Reigen’s skin, a subtle scent that never washes away, like the otherwise unidentifiable taste of his kiss. He will never get enough of this - his senses awash in Arataka, the heat and solidity of Arataka’s body against his, his responsiveness, those soft huffs he lets out, the angle he cants his hips at and how wiggles his ass into Katsuya’s wide hands at the smallest provocation. It gets him responding just about the same ways, his heart racing a fast pulse that he can feel in his fingertips, and low in his stomach.

When their kiss breaks again, Arataka tilts his head and goes for Katsuya’s neck, a sure-fire method to get a moan out of him. He keeps his kisses light but wet, their warmth sending sparks of heat through Katsuya’s stomach and up his spine. When he moves back up to Katsuya’s earlobe and kisses that instead, Katsuya’s legs are all but jelly.

“Think there’s time to - ”

His rough question is strangled into nothing by another kiss on the tender area below his earlobe and before his jaw. 

He takes that as a resounding yes.

They troop downstairs and hide in the shade of the building until Katsuya’s mom drives up, only a few minutes later. She waves at them and they pile in, Katsuya in the passenger seat and Arataka in the back. Even if Arataka is in the back, he doesn’t sit out of the conversation; he’s already leaning between the driver’s and passenger’s seats as they pull onto the road, telling Katsuya’s mom all about the days’ moving.

“So all the boxes are here now,” he’s saying, “and all the furniture that’s his, since his old bed is staying at your place to be the guest bed. Katsuya, have you decided if you want a futon or a western bed? Honestly, a futon will be way easier to move in than a mattress and bedframe, but since it’s your apartment, it’s really up to you, but either way, you should probably decide this weekend while we still have the moving truck rented out.” He points with his thumb over his shoulder; though they’re leaving the apartment building, he can still see the large moving truck parked in the lot when he glances in the mirror.

“I think I’ll get a futon,” Katsuya says. “I mean, I had one at home - I mean, at mom’s house? - for a long time. I only got a western bed a few years ago.”

“It’s too bad we didn’t keep it in storage,” his mom comments. “It would have been a good housewarming gift.”

“What, an old futon?”

“Good for apartment-warming and people-warming,” Arataka quips.

“It’s hot enough already,” Katsuya grumbles. “There’s no air con. And it’s summer.”

Arataka leans forward enough to place his chin on Katsuya’s shoulder. (Where he gets his extreme mobility and flexibility from, Katsuya will never know. It’s simply one of life’s little mysteries, and one of life’s little gifts.) “I thought it was just you,” he says lowly, “because you heat up every room I’m in.”

“Stop that,” Katsuya mumbles, face flushing with embarrassment. Lately, Arataka’s taken to teasing him like this, all the time; it doesn’t matter whether they’re in private, in public, or simply in front of his mom, and while Katsuya acts like he hates it more than he does, the embarrassment is real when his mom is right there, grinning at the road. “Did that line even make sense? Arataka .”

His mom laughs. 

“You two,” she says when she’s done. For all that Katsuya’s embarrassed, his mom is genuinely smiling, and looks happy. “You know, Katsuya, when you said you wanted to move out all those months ago, I thought you wanted to move in with Arataka-kun.”

“It’s way too soon for that,” Katsuya crosses his arms defensively. “We’re trying to take it at a reasonable place.”

“What? You boys have known each other for years . This isn’t a reasonable pace, it’s a snail’s pace.”

“That’s what I said!” Arataka exclaims, directly in Katsuya’s ear, making him wince. 

“We didn’t really know each other all that time.”

“ You said Arataka is your oldest friend, just last week,” his mom pulls out like a trump card, her grin smug. She thinks she’s won. Maybe she has. She’s certainly made her point.

Arataka raises an eyebrow and looks sideways at Katsuya. Katsuya knows he’s pleased, but he doesn’t give him the pleasure of looking at him - eye contact will only make Arataka smirk, and while that smirk usually makes Katsuya feel that hot, squirming want deep in his gut, well. It’s not exactly the time, and besides, they’d just had a romp before coming downstairs.

“....that’s true,” he admits, “but it wasn’t very… reciprocal. Not for a long time. I mean, I never wrote back...”

“Eh, I always had your books,” Arataka says, now sounding very casual. “Those always felt like a friendly conversation. More of a deep dive than anything casual, but you know. It wasn’t entirely one-sided.”

Katsuya is hit by a sense of deja-vu. This is a conversation they’ve had a number of times, and in a number of ways; especially at the start of their romantic endeavors. Every time, Katsuya has deferred to Arataka’s claims, because those years in Arataka’s life are still mostly a mystery to him. He knows only what Arataka has chosen to tell him - and while he’s learned more in recent months, he feels that the depths of mystery that Arataka crawled through before they met may have been similar to his own life’s trajectory.

“A book,” he murmurs, “is different from a friend.”

The car is quiet for a moment, only the sound of the engine, the muted traffic around them.

“I just mean… it’s not as personal,” Katsuya concludes, still at a murmur. “I think I’d know.”

“A book is a great friend when you don’t have any others,” Arataka says, still right next to Katsuya’s ear. “I think you’d know that too. How else should you forget all your troubles?”

“Maybe by making a change in your life…”

Arataka snakes a hand up and pinches Katsuya’s cheek, tugs on it. “Where’s this lack of confidence coming from? These things can all be connected. Do I have to tell you my life story all over again?”

“No…” Katsuya says, the word coming out stretched from the way Arataka’s got ahold of his face.

“Then don’t talk like that about my favorite authors’ books.” Arataka removes his hands and finally sits properly to obey traffic laws. 

As Katsuya rubs his face and sees his mom smiling softly at the road ahead of them, and he smiles too. The laugh lines around her eyes are visible.

“Sorry, Arataka,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

“Hmm. I guess I can forgive you.”

“You’d better forgive him,” Katsuya’s mom pipes up. “Otherwise, he’ll be a mess all night.” At Katsuya’s desperate look, she laughs, “Oh come on, you know it’s true, how much he can sway your mood.”

Katsuya huffs, “Doesn’t mean you should point it out.”

Arataka and his mother continue to chatter, moving quickly from the topic of his writing, back to moving, then to the topic of Arataka’s job. Katsuya carefully tunes out, watching the buildings rush by in the fading light, instead going over all of his mental notes for the evening: when and how to smile, when and where to breathe deeply, but most of all, what to say, when, with what inflection....

All too soon, the short ride is over, and Arataka and Katsuya head inside after his mother waves them off. Inside, they follow the familiar sign: Kids’ Writing Workshop with Serizawa-sensei . 

“I still can’t believe they printed it like that,” Katsuya mutters with a nod to the sign as they pass. “Now all the kids call me Serizawa-sensei.”

“Why’s it weird? Lots of people do that. Even I used to address my letters that way.”

“Well, it’s not as weird on paper . When people do it to my face it’s… awkward.”

“You want me to stop, sensei?” Arataka asks, cheeky as ever. Katsuya elbows him for his trouble.

The side room is already set up when they open the door, chairs arranged in a circle. Katsuya is no longer surprised to find a small group of kids who’ve arrived early, who’d at first shocked him so badly he’d hidden in the bathroom to mentally prepare for the workshop instead. Among them, Katsuya easily spots Mob and his brother, and waves.

“Good evening, Serizawa-sensei,” Mob says quietly, walking over with his brother as Katsuya settles his bag by against a chair. Katsuya just barely manages to keep the wince off his face at the use of sensei , but he can see Arataka grinning from the corner of his eye.

“Good evening,” he replies. “Ready to show off what you’ve written over the last few weeks?”

It’s hard to miss how Mob is handling the papers in his hands with great care, making sure not to bend or crease them. He nods.

“And how about you, Ritsu-kun?” Katsuya asks. 

The boy shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m not as good at writing as my brother, though.”

“It’s not a competition,” Arataka pipes up. “Just write and have fun with it, eh? Tell the story you want to tell.”

Ritsu rolls his eyes and tugs his brother back towards their friends. “Whatever, Reigen-san. ”

Katsuya can’t help but laugh at Ritsu’s never-ending attitude towards Arataka, but swiftly covers it up with a cough. He knows Arataka couldn’t have missed his fumble though, and after Arataka has shooed the boys back to their seats he turns an unimpressed look at Katsuya.

“I don’t know why you find it so funny,” he complains. “I’ve never gotten Ritsu to like me, no matter what I do.”

“I think that says more about Ritsu-kun than it does about you,” Katsuya reassures him with a hand on his arm. “He might come around one day, though.”

“Yeah, the day that pigs fly.”

The door opens, drawing their attention. Through the gap, a small girl peers in - around Mob’s age, if Katsuya had to guess - with light brown hair brushing her shoulders. She’s clutching the straps of a backpack close to her shoulders and her expression is guarded, tentative, which changes when Mob calls her name, a smile on his face.

“Emi-san, you made it!”

“Hi, Mob-kun,” she says, shuffling her feet. “This is… the story writing workshop?”

Mob nods enthusiastically, and Katsuya steadies himself to approach. Kids still make him nervous, even after a few months of weekly volunteering and a few workshops he’s hosted, especially new ones; with Mob and Ritsu he knows what to expect, but the rest tend to take him off-guard at every turn.

“Emi-san?” 

When he has her attention, he kneels to eye-level. “Nice to meet you. I’m Serizawa-sensei. I hope you’ll enjoy writing with us.” He gives her his best award-winning smile. Not that his smile has ever won any awards. This would be a very different workshop if it had. Still, he does his best.

“My mom likes your books,” she says, still looking wary. 

“I bet she’ll like your book even more,” Katsuya tells her.

“Mob-kun told me at school that you make our writing better.”

“Not really,” Katsuya says. When her face falls, he waves his hands, scrambling to fix the mistake he’s just made. “ I don’t make your work better! I help you make it better. What we do here is try to find what each author’s goal is and help further it.” When that only soothes her expression a little bit, Katsuya thinks: what would Arataka do? The answer is: pivot. “What do you like to write, Emi-san?”

“I’m working on a novel,” she says. “I want… I want it to make people feel less lonely.”

“Wow! That’s an admirable goal,” Katsuya says. He feels warm; kids make him nervous with their directness and inability to predict, but he’s consistently impressed with the earnestness of their goals, the depths of their thinking. He doesn’t remember being that observational as a kid, nor that introspective. He just remembers being anxious. All the time. Things haven’t changed all that much. “Well, you’re definitely going to reach it, Emi-san, and I’d be honored to help.”

She looks at him a little longer. “Thanks.” She turns then and walks over to Mob, now ignoring Katsuya.

He stands as Arataka comes back to his side. He watches as Emi smiles at Mob and his brother, joining their conversation. She pulls a notebook from her backpack and holds it like a precious thing.

“Did I do something wrong?” Katsuya wonders softly to Arataka. “I don’t really know how that went…”

Arataka winds an arm around Katsuya’s waist, snug and reassuring. He kisses Katsuya’s shoulder. “You’re doing great,” he says. “And even if you hadn’t, kids always bounce back. They’re impressive like that.”

“....you’re right.”

In the last few minutes before the workshop starts, Katsuya just leans into Arataka’s arms and relaxes, one inch at a time. 

The train is packed with people, something that Katsuya would be uncomfortable with on a normal day, but is especially uncomfortable with today, as the temperatures out on the streets skyrocket beyond the past summer’s record high.

“Just when I thought it couldn’t get any hotter, it does,” Arataka complains, smushed against Katsuya’s chest as they stand in the moving train, crushed by the numerous people around them. He’s complaining, but there’s no real sting in it, and Katsuya settles his arm more securely around him. Arataka makes a noise that might be another complaint about the additional warmth, but doesn’t move - not that there’s much room to.

The train begins slowing, and people sway into them on all sides. Katsuya frowns, anxious unhappiness rising in his throat like bile. Arataka rises to his toes and kisses him on the jaw, which helps a bit.

“At least our stop is soon,” Katsuya finally replies at a mumble. 

As the train glides to stillness and the doors open, people around them move, and Katsuya shifts his hand away from the handle he was bracing himself with. As the crowd from outside moves into the carriage, Katsuya is relieved to notice that it’s not quite as crowded as before, though Arataka stays close - also a relief.

They exit at their station a few minutes later, tumbling into the sweltering day - though just as hot as the train, Katsuya is relieved to be back in the open air. He tugs at the collar of his shirt to cool down while Arataka stretches like a cat, all long, lean lines. Katsuya thinks about making some quip about heat and the strip of skin Arataka’s showing off below his shirt, but he’s too drained from the close-pressing crowd to make the idea any more coherent than that, so he attempts to convey it with his gaze. From the look Arataka gives him back when they catch eyes, he’s pretty sure he’s communicated himself effectively.

“Let’s get some ice cream,” Arataka suggests, as the setting is far too public for him to reciprocate anything else about Katsuya’s suggestive look. “My treat.”

“Is it your treat, or is it a treat for you?” Katsuya asks as they walk towards a nearby creamery, Arataka tangling his fingers in Katsuya’s. Their arms swing in a wide arc at Arataka’s doing. It makes Katsuya feel jaunty.

“Is there a difference?” Arataka replies, flippant.

“I guess they’re one in the same, today.”

They buy two cones in different flavors and eat them as they head toward the publishing office, occasionally trading bites -  strawberry for caramel - until Arataka moans that he’s frozen his front teeth, which Katsuya tells him is his fault for biting directly into the ice cream. 

They reach the office and finish their cones in the front lobby, rushing and giggling. The receptionist (who knows them by now) lets them be with only a raised eyebrow. Once the ice cream is gone and they’ve cleaned themselves up a bit, she waves them through with an amused roll of her eyes for Katsuya’s sheepish, embarrassed grin.

The ride the elevator several floors open, and by the time they step out on Tsuchiya’s floor, they’ve come back to a baseline temperature, the icecream and air conditioning working on them to the point that Katsuya’s just about shivering from the sweat evaporating off the back of his neck. The office always makes him wish he’d brought a jacket, even in the midst of sweltering temperatures like today.

Tsuchiya’s office door is propped open for them, so they weave their way past numerous people at computers and printers, through the office chatter, to knock on her door frame. She’s leaned back in her chair, sitting casually at her desk, and barely glances up when she says, “Come in.” 

She looks completely at home, here, amid her packed bookshelves and shiny framed poster. It’s an office that could dwarf anybody - Katsuya included - but not Tsuchiya. Even after semi-regular visits, Katsuya is still getting used to the scale of this room.

“Good afternoon, Tsuchiya-san,” Arataka nearly sing-songs. “I’ll go bring some tea, shall I?”

“Yes, thank you, Reigen-san.”

Arataka swans off to the break room, more comfortable in this building than even Katsuya is. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Arataka to be one of those busy people who worked here, fiddling with book layouts and slashing manuscripts with red ink. With Arataka’s boundless energy, it’s easy to imagine.

He sits across from Tsuchiya, the same chair he’d sat in for the first time all those months ago, alone in this cavernous office. While these meetings still make him somewhat anxious, it’s nothing compared to the paralyzing emotions that had overtaken him before; this anxiety can be quelled by a few deep breaths, Tsuchiya’s patience, and - always - Arataka’s easy presence.

“How have your workshops been going?” Tsuchiya asks.

“They’ve been good,” Katsuya replies honestly. “Some of the kids come and go, but a lot keep coming back, and they’re all improving a lot, and writing such good stories! This week, a new girl came, one of Mob-kun’s friends from school. It’s really great to see kids with so much passion.”

Tsuchiya is smiling. “I know what you mean,” she says. 

“You do?”

“I know an enthusiastic kid or two,” she says. Her smile is genuine, but there’s something secretive behind it that Katsuya can’t quite decipher, so he just nods, deciding not to pry. She goes on before Katsuya can change his mind about not asking further. “Anyway, while Reigen-san has so kindly given us a moment of privacy, I’d like to go through some logistical things.”

“Alright.”

Tsuchiya presents him with a few papers and they talk about the second print of his historical fiction novel, which is due to be released in softcover a few months down the road. There’s also been talk about a new edition of his second novel with a revamped cover, and he should be receiving a proof copy to approve before too long, and when he does, he should be speedy about it, alright? 

There’s a quick discussion of paychecks and forwarding addresses following that reminder, as Katsuya had forewarned her that he’d been thinking of closing the post office box and having his mail redirected to his new apartment. It’s during this leg of the conversation that Arataka returns, balancing three cups of iced tea - one in each hand and one precariously between his forearm and chest. He looks smug with himself for having come upon the idea of icing their drinks on such a hot day, but Katsuya has no complaints; even in the air conditioning of the building, cold tea is a welcome refresher, so he thanks Arataka as he takes his cup, before drinking deeply.

“I’m surprised you didn’t spill anything,” Tsuchiya says wryly, accepting her own cup from him.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Arataka replies, lazing into the second chair that had recently been pulled into Tsuchiya’s office from somewhere else on the floor, just for these three-person meetings. 

“Tsuchiya-san,” Katsuya speaks up before the two can get very far off topic - he’s seen it before; once they fall down the rabbit hole, they’re irretrievable. “Actually, if it’s okay, I wanted to pitch my next project to you. Or talk about it, anyways. Pitch sounds a little formal...”

He can tell that this takes her off-guard; her eyes round out a bit with surprise before she settles into an intrigued grin and leans forward, paperwork and money talk all but forgotten. “Oh? Somehow, I wasn’t expecting you to have a new project quite yet. I thought you were taking some time off just to teach.”

“I mean, essentially, I was, yeah,” Katsuya says. He resists the near overpowering urge to glance restlessly at Arataka, where he’s leaned in his chair and sipping his iced tea and watching the conversation. “But actually, recently, I - we - have been revising that autofiction project from a few months back.” 

He swallows down some anxiety; he’s never pitched a project in person before. But with Tsuchiya, this shouldn’t be a hard sell; not only does she know him and his work, but she’d approved of the early chapters when she’d first read them, despite their sorry, rough state.

Sure enough, Tsuchiya’s eyes shine with excitement, like this is exactly the outcome she’d been hoping for - Katsuya realizes that’s possible, even though she’d respected his wishes and not brought it back up before him. 

Her next question approaches the project from an angle that Katsuya had somewhat anticipated. “ We ?” She asks, her glance moving slyly  to Arataka, who seems to be hiding a smile behind his glass. “How so?”

“Arataka has been helping me rework the first draft and write an ending,” Katsuya says. He can’t keep himself from grinning. Working with Arataka has been a whirlwind of inspiration, of night-time back-and-forths. It’s the most fun he’s had with writing since he was a kid, he thinks; not that the joy had ever abandoned him, but this partnership was another level entirely.

“I’m a glorified brainstorm buddy,” Arataka flaps a hand, as if he wants to wave off the attention (which Katsuya is sure he doesn’t). “Ehh, maybe I edit a little too, but don’t worry about your job, Tsuchiya-san, I’m not aiming to replace you.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Tsuchiya dismisses, knowing full well that she’s irreplaceable - not even the multi-talented Reigen Arataka could do her job. She leans back in her chair, placing her chin between her thumb and pointer finger, a pose that shows off the strength of her arms. With this summer heat, her suit jacket is resting on the back of her chair. If Katsuya didn’t know by now that her strength was nearly an unconscious aspect of her, he’d think this was an intimidation tactic. “I’m assuming you have a draft for me to review?”

Katsuya nods and extracts the thick manuscript from his shoulder bag. It’s not quite the same as it was when Arataka held it in February, but the front page is much the same. Tsuchiya’s eyes scan it as Katsuya hands it over.

“Still untitled?” she asks.

“We’re searching for the perfect one,” Katsuya replies.

“I keep suggesting ‘ The Personal Project’ , but Katsuya says that’s boring,” Arataka chimes in.

“Hmmm. I think that’s intriguing,” Tsuchiya says, flipping open the manuscript.

Katsuya feels his face prickling with a slight blush. “It is a personal project, but calling it that just feels a bit… on the nose.”

“Well, we can workshop it,” Tsuchiya says absently. Her eyes are already scanning the first page of text, back and forth, snap, back and forth.

Katsuya clears his throat. “Well, whatever the title’s going to be, do you think the company will go for it? It’s kind of a niche genre.”

Tsuchiya lets the manuscript fall shut. “Definitely,” she says, no trace of doubt in her voice. Even her back is straight, her posture confident - everything about her is, traits that Katsuya has learned over the last year that maybe he, too, can hold. “You’ve got star power, Serizawa-san. The higher-ups don’t want you to take your work elsewhere, no matter what it is.”

“Oh, great, they just want my name recognition,”  Katsuya says. Arataka laughs.

“Don’t take it that way - it’s a good thing. That means you’ve got creative freedom. You can take risks.” Tsuchiya lays a hand on the manuscript, palm flat. “Risks like this.”

“Right,” Katsuya says. Arataka nudges his foot with his own to get Katsuya’s attention. When he has it, he gives Katsuya a reassuring smile, traces of his laugher lingering at the corners of his eyes.

Holding his gaze, Katsuya turns over what he wants to say next. It’s not something he’s mentioned to Arataka yet, but something that’s been stewing at the back of his mind for a long time as the two of them have practically danced through this writing and revising process together.

He glances down into his cup. He can’t not do this. “How’s one more risk, then?”

“What’s that?” Tsuchiya asks.

Katsuya draws his breath in. He looks between the two of them, who are both waiting expectantly: what wall will he kick down next? Maybe Arataka will reject the idea, but… Katsuya can’t imagine it any other way. “I want Arataka as my co-author.” He points to the manuscript. “There, on the cover and everything.”

Tsuchiya hums thoughtfully, but the suggestion gets a splutter from Arataka. 

“W - what? Co-author? You really think that’s accurate, Katsuya? I have some doubts there. I haven’t exactly authored anything, you know. That’s a bit grandiose a word for what I’ve been doing. This project is all you. ” Arataka is pink-faced, wide-eyed - he likes the idea, Katsuya can tell from his energetic response, even if he’s waving his hands around as much as is physically possible with a glass of tea in one of them - which is to say, for Arataka, a lot. 

Katsuya reaches over to catch his flailing hand. “It’s not all me, though,” he says, his voice a bit too soft for the office setting they’re in, a bit too tender, but he couldn’t change it if he tried. “That’s kind of the whole point. It always has been.”

From the expression Arataka makes, he’s not going to argue further - something between pride and satisfaction, with some third thing in the mix, something soft. Katsuya couldn’t say for sure what Arataka actually wants to do with his face.

“I think we can make that happen,” Tsuchiya breaks their moment. “Any other demands, before this moves up the chain of command?”

Katsuya shakes his head, feeling more flushed than before, but grounded by Arataka’s hand in his. 

“ ‘Written by Serizawa Kouki and Reigen Arataka,’ ” Arataka muses thoughtfully, grinning now. Katsuya is starting to think his startled rebuff was all for show, because he’s warmed up to the idea like it was one of his own, as quickly as possible. “Huh. You think I should pick a pen name too? Maybe Mob could help me out there.”

“Your call,” Katsuya tells him, feeling the warmth that’s been building in his chest expanding, pressing outwards on his ribs - happiness, pure happiness. The kind that makes him want to laugh, to move, to do something with everything it’s giving him, with everything Arataka has given him.

“So the recluse has a co-author,” Tsuchiya says, tapping a finger on her cheek as she considers the two men before her. “How the fuck did you ever get to here?”

Katsuya and Arataka share a glance. Arataka raises one eyebrow, which disappears up into his messy golden hair. Katsuya laughs, at his life, at his own private joke.

“That,” he says, “is a long story.”