Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To the waitress standing at their table, the two men sitting across from each other appeared as ordinary as any other pair of men in their early forties meeting for a drink after a long day at work. One wore traditional Japanese clothes, less common in the twenty-first century but certainly not beyond the realm of expectation in Yokohama. The other wore a three piece olive green suit, tailored to fit his tall, athletic body. 

The man in Japanese clothing was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp as he perused the menu on the wall behind his companion. After a long pause, he smiled amicably at the man across the table. “Why don’t you order first?”

“Whiskey and soda,” said the man in the suit without hesitation. “Hibiki and soda, please, if you have it. Light on the ice.” He ran his hand through his silver hair and checked his wristwatch, brow furrowing slightly. 

The waitress noted the drink and then turned back to the first man. “Have you decided, sir?”

“A glass of Syrah,” he replied. Once the waitress left their table, he pursed his lips and gazed thoughtfully at his companion. “At first glance, I thought you were a beer drinker.”

“I thought you’d order sake,” the other man replied. “I suppose you hear that sort of assumption often, Mori-san.”

Mori smiled. “The outfit comes with its share of stereotypes,” he agreed. “In my line of work it’s nice to be able to move around easily; it’s either this or a suit under my lab coat.” He gave an appreciative glance at the man on the other side of the table, clad in a dark green three-piece suit. “Not that there’s anything wrong with suits, Fukuzawa-san.”

Fukuzawa shrugged lightly. “It makes getting dressed in the morning easier,” he admitted, then shook his head at Mori’s amused smirk. Maybe he should have phrased that differently. Fukuzawa wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a blind date or a social call; Natsume was remarkably unspecific about the purpose of this evening, and he wondered if Mori knew something he didn't about why they were there. “Listen, I’m…not great at small talk. I’m here because Natsume told me that I should meet you for a drink.”

“Well, that’s something we have in common, then,” Mori replied, glancing up at their waitress as she set their drinks in front of them as well as a small bowl of peanuts. “He called me last week out of the blue, insisting that I contact you and set up a meeting. It’s curious,” he said, tucking a strand of black hair behind his ear, “I asked him if this was a blind date, and he didn’t have anything to say on the matter. But since you don’t seem to have a specific agenda either, I have reason to believe my attorney is involving himself in affairs beyond his legal specialty.” 

Fukuzawa swirled his glass and brought it to his lips, taking a sip before responding. “You don’t seem upset that your attorney might have set you up on a date with another man.”

“Neither do you,” replied Mori over the rim of his wine glass. “I suppose that settles that important question.”

“The question of whether or not Natsume-san is playing matchmaker?” Fukuzawa’s nose wrinkled from the effervescence of the soda water hitting his nostrils; with new information in his dossier, Mori allowed himself to appreciate how charming this was.

Mori laughed this time, shaking his head. As rigid as Fukuzawa seemed when they introduced themselves, not fifteen minutes later he was revealing an awkward, slightly naive side of himself. “No, although that’s also valid. But if you don’t have an issue with being set up on a blind date with a man, then you’re at the very least curious about your options.”

“Oh,” Fukuzawa suddenly seemed very interested in the ice floating in his drink. “No, I’m pretty much exclusively dating men these days.” It was only recently that Fukuzawa could readily admit this, but sometimes the passage of time worked in his favor. While he took another sip of his drink, he thought about how long it had been since his last unfulfilling online date, and decided that he would see this through until he had to leave to make the last express train home. 

“Then that’s two things we have in common.” Mori set his half-full wine glass on the table. “How do you know Natsume-san, then?”

Fukuzawa reached towards the bowl of peanuts between them while he considered his reply. As he stretched his arm across the table, his sleeve pulled back to reveal the tattoos visible in the narrow gap between his watch band and cuff. Mori hoped Fukuzawa didn’t catch how hard he swallowed at the sight of the black lines emblazoned upon his wrist. He still didn’t know why Natsume-san wanted him to meet with Fukuzawa, however he was quickly discovering his own reasons to order a second round of drinks. 

“He helped me out when I took custody of my kid from his mother,” said Fukuzawa. He took a long drink and waited patiently for the telltale microexpressions that normally accompanied any mention of his child. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that the men he met on dating apps found his family situation less than appealing, to the point that he now used it as a litmus test early on to see if the other man was worth even a second drink. 

However, Mori simply nodded. “Interesting,” he replied, “My circumstances were similar. I was hiring a nurse for my clinic who was a foreign citizen, and he helped me with her paperwork. He’s a strange guy but seems to know someone in every corner of the government.”

“You said that you dress in Japanese clothes for work,” Fukuzawa said, “Do you do acupuncture or herbal medicine or something like that?”

Mori coughed, suppressing his laughter. “No, I can’t say that traditional Chinese medicine is my cup of tea, although I certainly have come across a fair number of adherents in my time. I’m a doctor – a pediatric surgeon by education, although these days I spend more time talking about cutting kids open than actually doing it myself.” Fukuzawa blinked, and as if on cue, the waitress arrived at their table to take away their empty glasses.

“Can I get you another round?” she asked.

“I should go home,” Fukuzawa replied.

“We’ll have another round,” Mori replied.

The waitress looked at Fukuzawa and then at Mori. “What will it be, gentlemen? Another round or shall I close you out?”

Mori’s eyes narrowed at Fukuzawa, who remained in his seat in spite of his professed desire to leave. “Do you have any change?”

Fukuzawa rose from his chair to rummage in his pockets, allowing Mori to get a good idea of the height difference between him and their waitress. He gazed up at his companion, wondering how much of that long, lean body was inked like that tantalizing bit of wrist. He kept a close eye on Fukuzawa’s opposite hand as he withdrew a hundred-yen piece and placed it on the table. From what Mori could see, his right wrist was unmarked; the tattoo was only visible on the left side. Unless Fukuzawa planned to greatly surprise him at the end of the night, there was going to be a second date, and a third – as many as it took for him to see the tattoo in its entirety.

“If you keep staring at that coin, I’m going to assume it’s for my half of the bill.”

“You’d stiff me the first time you met me?” Mori said, his voice taking on a slightly coquettish tone. “I didn’t take you for that sort of man, Fukuzawa-san.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think when I do as you ask and then all you do is stare at me?” Mori was either flirting with him or challenging him, and Fukuzawa was much better at identifying the latter than the former. “Don’t tell me you’re going to decide with a coin toss?”

“Too cliche for you?” Mori slid the coin across the table and held it between his index and forefinger like a Japanese chess piece. “Since the cat’s out of the bag, why don’t you flip the coin?” He flipped the coin towards Fukuzawa, and he and the waitress watched closely as Fukuzawa caught it with ease. 

“Heads, we stay and you pick up the tab. Tails, I go and I pick up the tab.” 

Mori slowly nodded his agreement to these terms. “Only if you promise me that if I lose, you’ll let me pay next time.”

“Deal,” said Fukuzawa without hesitation. “Then you’ll have to promise me that if I win, we stop at two drinks. My kid’s alone at home and sometimes he forgets that you can’t put metal spoons in the microwave.” He tossed the coin in the air, catching it as it fell and slapping it on the table in front of Mori. 

During the coin toss, Mori’s attention was focused on Fukuzawa’s wrist rather than the motion of the coin itself. It didn’t really matter whether he won or lost the coin toss. Fukuzawa had agreed to seeing him again, which was the victory he cared about. 

“Heads it is,” the waitress said as soon as Fukuzawa removed his hand, and he and Mori glanced at her with surprise. They were so focused on each other that she temporarily faded into the background, and her voice had the same effect as switching on the lights in a dim room. “Same drinks as before or do you want to try something new?”

Fukuzawa sat back down in his chair, pushing the coin along the table with his finger. “I’ll stick with whiskey,” he said, “Mixing liquors is bad news even if it’s not a school night.”

“And I’ll have another Syrah…and two glasses of water,” Mori added. “The solution to pollution is dilution. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

After the waitress left, Fukuzawa reached into his pocket and extracted a few more coins. “You don’t actually have to pay for my drinks,” he said, and Mori pushed the coins back at him. 

“I don’t go back on agreements, and hope that doesn’t mean you’re planning to renege on your side of the bargain,” Mori said, pushing his lower lip out slightly. “Don’t worry, we’ll stop at two drinks. I need to get home as well. My kid knows damn well you don’t put spoons in the microwave but that doesn’t always stop him.”

Fukuzawa’s eyes widened slightly. “You also have a son?”

“I do,” said Mori, shaking a few peanuts into his hand. “He can be a handful, but I’m often told by parents that’s how teenagers are.” He chewed on a peanut thoughtfully. “I guess that’s yet another thing we have in common. I’m starting to think Natsume-san had some kind of reason to his rhyme when he told me that we should meet.”

“Does he know about your kid?” 

Mori nodded. “He was instrumental in navigating the legal end of his adoption.” Fukuzawa couldn’t hide his curiosity, tilting his head to the side and humming. “Unfortunately, it’s too long of a story to tell over a single drink.” Mori accepted the glass of wine from the waitress, waiting until she handed Fukuzawa his drink to continue, “Osamu is a complicated kid, even by teenager standards.”

“Huh, I’ve thought that about Ranpo, and that’s coming from someone who works at a high school.” The corners of Fukuzawa’s mouth turned up into a gentle smile; Mori blamed the warmth on the wine and glanced down into his glass.

“You’re a high school teacher?” 

“I was for a brief time, but now I’m an administrator,” Fukuzawa said, “Hence the suit.”

“It suits you,” Mori quipped, and Fukuzawa groaned. “No one at work knows about your personal life, then?”

“About my son, or about my preference for partners? The former, yes. The latter, no. Is the medical field any more forgiving?”

Mori shook his head. “Not in general, but I cater to…an underserved population who tends to be a little more tolerant than the average person. I let the parents that comment on my relationship status think that my nurse is my wife. It works well enough for those who care, and the rest aren’t there to make conversation. I like that about kids, actually. The chatty ones are usually pretty cute, but most of them just want to feel better. It’s their parents that are the difficult ones.”

“Tell me about it,” Fukuzawa shook his head. “I spend most of my days in meetings and half of them are dealing with parent complaints.”

“So what did you teach?” Mori asked, deliberately slowing down the pace at which he was drinking his wine.

“Japanese language, but only for a short time as a student teacher during university,” he replied, “I decided that I liked the policy side of education more than teaching in the classroom.” 

Mori placed his finger against his lips. “I’m a little jealous of the young men that had a chance to be hot for teacher. I can’t say I ever had a teacher or professor that was worthy of a crush.”

Fukuzawa sputtered. “Are you always this flirtatious?”

“Does everyone who flirts with you have to be so forthcoming?” Mori raised an eyebrow.

“People don’t typically flirt with me,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Mori groaned, burying his head in his palms. His shoulder-length black hair fell forward over his hands and he peered at Fukuzawa through his ring and index fingers. “Let me teach you a thing or two then, sensei.” He reached towards Fukuzawa, who immediately crossed his arms over his chest, burying his hands under his armpits. Mori started to pout but quickly realized this pose offered a good view of Fukuzawa’s tattooed wrist. Dark swirls rose from behind his wide watch band, solid black fading into pale gray like smoke from a smoldering blaze. The edge of his sleeve pulled back far enough to reveal red tendrils, only slightly faded with age. It was either fairly new or quite well cared for; either scenario was impressive. 

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.” Fukuzawa unfolded his arms, bringing his near-empty glass to his lips. 

“I was admiring the artwork on your wrist,” said Mori, wondering if Fukuzawa knew how good he looked when he tipped his head backwards to extract the last few drops of whiskey from his glass. For an indulgent moment, Mori allowed himself to imagine Fukuzawa’s pulse beneath his lips, silver hair twined between his fingers. A long swallow of wine brought less relief than he hoped, so he abandoned the wine in favor of ice water.

Fukuzawa glanced down, quickly adjusting his sleeve and watch until his tattoo was completely covered. “It’s a long story,” he said. “I guess I’ve got a few of those.”

“I think most people our age do,” said Mori. He finished the last of his wine as Fukuzawa stood up, hand in his pocket to extract his wallet. “I hope you’re reaching for a pack of cigarettes.”

“I barely smoke anymore,” Fukuzawa was slightly flushed; he blamed it on the second drink, which was absolutely stronger than the first. It had nothing to do with Mori’s appreciative gaze and words, and certainly nothing to do with the fact that if Mori had been more persuasive, he would have considered asking the other man to meet him later that night after Ranpo had gone to bed. 

Mori nodded. “Terrible for your health, really.” He reached into the pouch in his sleeve for his wallet, producing a pack of cigarettes at the same time. “It’s a shame they taste so good after a couple of glasses of wine.” 

“Do you still want to get together again?” Fukuzawa asked, pulling out his phone to check the train departures from the nearest station. 

“I don’t make wagers I’m not willing to see through,” replied Mori, grateful for his loose clothing as he stood from the table. He looked up at Fukuzawa, who was a good ten centimeters taller than him, and extended his hand. Fukuzawa offered his open hand and Mori pressed a cigarette into his palm. “Text me after you’ve smoked that and we’ll figure out our next outing.”

“See you again, Mori-sensei.”

“Have a good night, Fukuzawa-sensei.”

—

Fukuzawa stared at the errant leaves floating at the top of his tea and tried to remember the last time he had to plan a second date. He wanted to blame his romantic drought on the demands of his professional life and responsibilities as a parent of a teenager, although he knew there were factors completely within his control that kept him within the realm of the occasional first date. Hookups were easier to manage, but Fukuzawa used them as a last resort. Casual sex was inherently risky, and his younger years had done a good job of teaching him the life-altering consequences of sex.

“Dad. Hey Dad, whatcha doing?”

He looked up from his cup to find said consequences reaching for the box of Oreos on top of the refrigerator. “Not for breakfast, Ranpo,” he said. “How about tamago-kake gohan?”

“Gross,” Ranpo replied with an air of disgust. “I want cereal.”

Fukuzawa sighed. “You know where we keep it. Hurry up and eat, otherwise we won’t have time to pick up your bento from the train station in time before I drop you off at school.” 

“Okaaaaaay,” Ranpo acquiesced, filling his bowl with frosted corn flakes and dousing them with milk. Fortunately, Fukuzawa’s salary paid enough to indulge his son in the creature comforts he desired from his childhood in the United States. They were still an important part of his routine even after living in Japan for just shy of three years. Before Fukuzawa came into custody of Ranpo, he was paying child support to Ranpo’s mother, so the financial burden of having a child in his home wasn’t much of a surprise. The most significant change was to the structure of his life; for the first time in the decade since he had lived with Ranpo’s mother in San Francisco, Fukuzawa had to make decisions with someone else in mind. 

Mori’s text from the night before sat unread in his inbox. They had been exchanging text messages for the better part of the week, beginning with Fukuzawa thanking Mori for the cigarette as he smoked it on the balcony outside his bedroom after Ranpo went to bed that night. He certainly had no intention of telling Mori how well the nicotine complemented his mood after jerking off in the shower; based on the other man’s flirtatious demeanor, he assumed this was what Mori had in mind when he sent Fukuzawa home with a cigarette. Whatever Mori was thinking, his text messages were only the slightest bit flirtatious, even less so than he was in person. Fukuzawa would have to ask about his change in demeanor when they saw each other next. He opened the message to respond, choosing his words carefully as he typed.

“Work emails?” Ranpo mumbled through a mouthful of cereal, tapping the screen of his own smartphone rapidly. He moved from area to area in the game he was playing with one hand while eating breakfast with the other. 

“A friend,” replied Fukuzawa. Ranpo knew his father was gay, though they never discussed his love life. Their lack of conversation had nothing to do with his dearth of partners, of course.

“You don’t have any friends outside of work,” Ranpo’s blunt reply stung, but he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Finish your breakfast, wrap up your game and go brush your teeth,” Fukuzawa said, hitting the send button and locking his phone in one motion. While he rinsed his teacup and listened to Ranpo slurping the milk from his cereal bowl, he cleared his throat. “Listen, Ranpo.”

The boy swallowed the last of his milk and cereal with a gulp. “Yeah?”

“Do you think Poe-kun’s parents would mind if you spent Sunday at his house?” Fukuzawa picked up the towel from the hook below the sink, drying his cup before taking Ranpo’s bowl and spoon from the table. 

“You have a work thing on Sunday?” Ranpo’s eyes widened slightly. “Being an adult sucks.”

“I have an…appointment,” Fukuzawa replied. Being an adult sometimes meant white lies in the interest of self-preservation, he reminded himself, silently holding his son’s breakfast dishes while Ranpo wandered off to the bathroom. The bathroom door slammed shut, and Fukuzawa realized that Ranpo took advantage of his wandering thoughts to get out of washing dishes.

“Me and Poe were going to hang out on Sunday anyway,” Ranpo yelled from behind the closed door. He heard the water run through the pipes as the toilet flushed. “Can I have some money for snacks?”

“Only if you remember to wash your hands after you use the bathroom,” Fukuzawa sighed. “Brush your teeth and don’t forget your glasses. I’m in meetings all day, I can’t bring them to you if you leave them on the sink and I don’t want you to get a headache.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he set Ranpo’s dishes down to find a reply from Mori flash across his screen. While reading the message, he wondered if Mori’s morning routine with his son was anything like theirs. Imagining Mori fixing breakfast for his son as they chatted about their upcoming days was an unexpectedly pleasant thought.

I’ll see you on Sunday at 11:00. Hope you like baseball.

—

“And he has a tattoo, Elise-chan.” Mori leaned back in his chair, holding his arm up in the air and gently tracing over his raised wrist bone. 

“...I thought you said he was an educator, not a yakuza enforcer.” Elise set a blue folder down on the table, glancing between the chart in the folder and the monitor in front of her as she entered patient data into the computer. “You said you’re seeing him again this weekend?”

“Sunday,” Mori nodded. “We’ve been texting all week.” 

“Sounds like he actually likes you,” replied Elise, twirling her chair towards Mori. “So what’s the over-under on him being desperate, or just having incredibly bad taste?”

Mori pouted. “Come on, Elise-chan. I have a lot of merits as a partner. I’m a physician in private practice in the prime of my life. Who wouldn’t want to date me?”

Elise tapped her chin with her finger. “I never saw you date anyone the whole time you lived with us in Germany. My brother even tried to set you up, although I guess hindsight being twenty-twenty I understand why you didn’t want to go out with any of the girls he knew.” 

“I was focusing on my studies,” Mori countered. “Anyway, I’ll tell you all about our date on Monday if it goes well.”

“I don’t want any gross details,” Elise wrinkled her nose. “Where are you going, anyway?”

Mori made a swinging motion with his hands. “The batting cages,” he replied. Elise looked at him sideways and started laughing. “What?”

“You suck at sports. Remember when you used to play soccer with my brother? And you got hit in the head so much that Mama worried you were going to get a concussion?”

Mori stood up and bopped Elise on the top of her blonde head gently with the heel of his hand. “It’s legal to use your head in soccer.” He glanced in the small mirror hanging above his desk, smoothing down his hair and massaging the circles under his eyes gently. Maybe it was time to get some of those retinols that were in the magazines on the table in the waiting room. “How many patients do we have this afternoon?”

“Just two,” she said, handing the folders to Mori. “One in a half hour, and another later in the day. Your 2:00 appointment was canceled last night.”

Mori opened the folder on top and began to skim the contents. To an outside observer, their banter might have seemed abrasive, but in fact Mori and Elise were quite close. Despite the nearly twenty year age gap, their relationship was that of an older brother and his beloved little sister. 

Elise was the daughter of a locally famous confectioner in a town outside of Berlin; her parents had a keen interest in Japan and hosted several exchange students over the years. While Mori was in medical school and studied abroad at the Free University of Berlin, he lived in their guest house and often spent time with the family’s children, especially their youngest daughter Elise. When Elise came of age, the expectation was that she would work at the candy shop as well; however, she had no interest in confections other than eating them.

Her solution to this problem was simple, as far as she was concerned: Elise started searching for Rintaro Mori online, and after a bit of research she found that he was now addressing himself as Dr. Ougai Mori and was employed at one of Yokohama’s largest prefectural hospitals. She came as a tourist, much to Mori’s surprise, and declared her intent to become a nurse. As it turned out, Mori was in the midst of a professional dispute with the hospital administration and resigned shortly after Elise’s arrival in Japan.

Mori returned the favor this time, allowing Elise to stay with him as long as she promised to complete her nursing studies while he established his private practice. He was pleased to discover that her stubborn nature translated to a fervent commitment to her studies; it also didn’t hurt that Mori let her believe that he would return her to Germany if she failed to secure her certification. In his heart he knew he could do no such thing, as Elise was a treasured girl to him, someone he could dote upon and also as a respite from his solitary life. 

When Elise finished her nursing program, Mori’s practice was only a few months old, and he hired her as his nurse the day after she received her license. In the background, he had been working with his attorney Natsume to arrange for her resident alien credentials. Mori joked about them marrying to secure her permanent residence, and Elise smiled and declared that she’d rather be deported than be married to him. They built the clinic together, their patient base growing as word spread amongst Yokohama’s many foreign residents of the bilingual pediatric clinic on the edge of Suribachi City, and two years ago when Dazai came into Mori’s care, Elise stepped up to manage more of the administrative work while Mori managed his most complex patient to date.

Mori’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket, and he picked it up to see the number for Dazai’s school on the screen. He glanced back at the mirror and pasted a smile on his face. “We may need to contact my late afternoon patient and have them reschedule, Elise-chan.”

"Scheisse", murmured Elise. She wanted to stay and be privy firsthand to the drama that was sure to ensue, but used the opportunity to make herself a cup of coffee instead. She could still hear enough from the break room, anyway.

With a rehearsed customer service voice, Mori answered the phone. “Yes, this is Mori…yes…I see…unfortunately I can’t come at this moment, I’ve got a patient arriving in fifteen minutes…thank you, I’m so grateful that you understand. He won’t be going back to class today, I assume? Fair enough, yes, I do apologize for any trouble he’s caused…All right, I’ll be there in an hour or so. Thank you very much, yes, thank you, I’m sorry again…” Mori apologized two or three more times; Elise could picture him bowing as she stirred sugar and milk into her coffee. 

“I’ll call the Tanakas and see if they can come in tomorrow morning instead,” Elise said as she entered the office again. 

“Thank you, Elise-chan…” Mori sat down, groaned like a dying cow, and then took a deep breath and rose to his feet. “Well! Let’s see how George-kun’s collarbone is healing, and then I’ll be off to find out what young Dazai's trials are this time.”

Ninety minutes later, with his late afternoon appointment rescheduled, Mori was seated next to Dazai in the vice principal’s office. Across from them was not the vice principal as usual; this time, it was a man not much older than Elise with dark auburn hair and a touch of stubble on his chin. Educators were certainly more laid back than he remembered from his own school days, if Fukuzawa and this man, whose name badge identified him as Oda, were any indication.

Oda stood up, extending his arm across the desk to shake Mori’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mori-sensei. I’ve heard a bit about you from Dazai-kun.”

“Nothing positive, I’m sure,” Mori quipped. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Oda-sensei. I do wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.”

Dazai rolled his eyes. “You sound like you’re at someone’s funeral, Mori-san.”

Mori and Oda sat down, and Dazai slouched further into his seat. He was tall for fourteen years old, but at the moment his head was level with Mori’s shoulder. “I assume that whatever you did to rearrange my afternoon doesn’t require a funeral, otherwise the police would be here again.”

Oda cleared his throat. “It seems that Dazai-kun has convinced a handful of his classmates to join him in starting a Communist Party faction,” he said, his deep voice as calm as if this was an everyday occurrence.

“I had no idea you were so interested in politics,” Mori said to Dazai, in his mind’s eye cataloging the books he’d seen Dazai take from his personal library in recent days. 

“Well,” said Oda, “Mori-sensei, you know that our school promotes free thought and exploration, and that includes political and religious topics. However…” he produced a folder with Dazai’s name on the tab, and opened it to read off of a piece of paper within, “earlier today during physical education, he and his fellow classmates asserted their status as Marxists, and that ‘Man's nature is to be his own creator, to form and develop himself by working on and transforming the world outside him in cooperation with his fellow men. Man should be in control of this process but in modern conditions Man has lost control of his own evolution.’ and therefore they were exempt from participating in today’s activities, or future activities that ‘hindered their evolution’.” 

Mori bit his lip quickly to stifle a laugh and a groan at the same time. “What, perchance, was the activity that was impeding my son’s evolution today?”

Oda looked at Dazai, who muttered at the floor, “Running.”

“You started a Communist faction to get out of running in gym class? 

Dazai mumbled something inaudible, his cheeks turning pink under Mori and Oda’s gaze. 

Oda cleared his throat. “Dazai-kun is a good kid, Mori-sensei. Most of the time he does what I ask him to, even if he’s not the most athletically inclined. I know he had a tough childhood and I want to do what I can to help him fit in and succeed, so if you’ve got any ideas…”

Mori blinked, grateful for years of training his poker face as he listened to Oda. Peering at Dazai, he wondered how he’d brought this kind young teacher under his spell. Perhaps Mori had underestimated the boy’s cleverness all this time. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Fukuzawa’s son was anything like this, or if he was the type of angelic child Mori remembered Elise to be.

“Yes, I’ve got some ideas, Oda-sensei. If it’s not troublesome for you, I would like to think about it and discuss said ideas with Dazai-kun this evening. I do apologize again for the disruption to your class; how are the other students? Do I need to contact their parents or guardians as well?”

Dazai pouted. “They don’t even know what Communism is. They just went along with it ‘cause they didn’t want to run either.”

“I see,” Mori said. “What will his punishment be, then? If he’s suspended I will need to make some arrangements–”

“He’s not suspended,” Oda replied, “The vice principal recommended it, but I let him know I’d work with him myself. I know gym class isn’t everyone’s favorite – I didn’t love team sports when I was a kid either, you know? But I liked running and archery, and I had someone in my life who helped me out back then. I was thinking I could return the…cosmic favor.” He smiled a sheepish grin and rubbed the stubble on his chin, a gesture that affected Mori in ways that he unfortunately had to repress. 

Mori stretched his face into a grateful smile. “Your kindness is unrivaled, Oda-sensei. The educational system needs more compassionate teachers such as yourself.”

“Ah, thanks,” said Oda, shrugging a bit. “There was one other thing, though.”

Dazai swallowed hard.

“When we said that we were calling his guardian, he made a comment about taking you away from your child bride…?”

Mori’s smile did not waver, but darkness clouded behind his eyes. “That’s just a joke I have with the nurse at my clinic. She’s a friend that I’ve known since childhood,” he explained. The change in his temperament was invisible to Oda, but Dazai had known Mori for long enough to realize when he was legitimately upset. “Once again, let me apologize for his commentary. Sometimes I don’t think teenagers understand the impact of their words.”

Oda nodded with relief. “I kind of thought it was some kind of inside joke.” His tone softened again. “You know, we do have to take these things seriously, for the well-being of our students.”

“I understand,” said Mori, taking Dazai’s damp palm in his own cold hand. “Do you have the disciplinary acknowledgement paperwork ready for me to sign?” Oda passed the document across the table and Mori produced his personal stamp, pressing it into the inkpad on the vice principal’s desk and marking the paper at the bottom with red ink. 

Oda crossed the room with long strides, opening the door for Mori and Dazai. “Thank you for taking the time, Mori-sensei. See you tomorrow, Dazai-kun.”

“Later, Oda-sensei,” said Dazai.

“I think you owe Oda-sensei a ‘thank you’ at the very least,” Mori said firmly.

“Thank you,” Dazai added. Mori shook Oda’s warm, strong hand again and left the office with Dazai in tow. They walked in silence to Mori’s car, and Dazai dropped his backpack in the backseat before sitting down and buckling his safety belt. 

“I’m going to stop at the convenience store on the way home,” Mori said, breaking the silence. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m fine,” Dazai muttered. Mori navigated the short distance between the prefectural high school where Dazai was a freshman and the condominium they called home. He pulled into the parking lot at the convenience store about halfway between the school and their high-rise building, leaving Dazai in the car while he browsed the aisles for a sweet bread fitting his mood. Dazai didn’t seem upset because he got in trouble at school; it certainly wasn’t the first time he had misbehaved since Mori became his guardian. In fact, he seemed happiest at the end of their parent-teacher conference when he had time to give a personal good-bye to Oda-sensei, and most despondent when he brought up the reason why his classmates followed his lead. Dazai was a complex boy from a difficult background. Mori knew this ever since he took Dazai in after a series of suicide attempts brought him and Mori together by way of his former colleagues at the prefectural hospital.

Mori rang up his purchases, including a package of matcha bread for Dazai, and returned to the car where Dazai was talking animatedly on his phone, which was propped up on the dashboard of the vehicle with the camera pointed at him. Mori paused for a moment outside and saw an open book in the boy’s lap, then opened the car door. 

“Marx claims that human individuals are alienated in four ways–” Dazai’s eyes shot up from his phone, his thumb immediately hitting the lock button.

“From their products, from their productive activity, from other individuals, and from their own nature,” Mori ticked off on his fingers, tossing Dazai the matcha bread. “What were you doing, young man? I thought you had enough Marxism for one week.”

Dazai ripped open the package. “Nothing,” he said. “Do you have to go back to work?”

Mori shook his head. “I rescheduled my last patient of the day for tomorrow morning. I was looking forward to a weekend off, but I suppose as long as I have Sunday off I don’t mind going in for a couple of hours tomorrow.”

“What’s Sunday?” Dazai asked around a mouthful of sweet matcha creme and pillowy green bread.

“Since you asked,” Mori said, “I have a date.”

“Ew,” Dazai said, “Are they trying to get citizenship or something?” Mori turned to him and smiled, and Dazai realized in that moment he’d said too much. The gate opened to the parking garage and once he had maneuvered the car into the parking space, he looked at Dazai with eyes that could pierce armor.

“You’re fortunate that Oda-sensei let you off without an actual punishment,” Mori said coolly. “Before we go into the house, I want you to think back to what it was like living in foster care, and whether or not you actually enjoyed it, because if you threaten my livelihood by spreading rumors about me and I lose my medical license, that is a distinct possibility.”

Dazai stared back at Mori with eyes as dull as Mori’s were sharp. “Are you threatening to send me back to the orphanage?”

Mori shook his head. “I chose to become your legal guardian because I know exactly how abysmal the foster system in this country is. You reminded me of someone I knew and I had the means to care for you. Dazai-kun, you’re incredibly intelligent and perceptive, so I know you’re aware that being gay isn’t acceptable to some people even in today’s society, especially when you work with children. With that said, I would carefully consider how you choose to discuss my lifestyle, especially when you slander me in public with accusations of “child brides”. Do you understand?”

Looking straight ahead at the concrete wall outside the windshield, Dazai nodded curtly. “Understood.”

“Good. Go on inside, I’m going to pick up the mail.” 

When he entered their apartment, Mori picked up Dazai’s backpack from the floor and hung it on the wall, straightened his hastily removed shoes, and collected the matcha bread wrapper off the floor mat. After flipping through the envelopes and postcards, he set them down and started a pot of water to boil. He prepared a simple dinner of pan-fried frozen croquettes, packaged curry served over leftover rice, pickled radish, and instant miso soup on the side. Mori set the dishes out on the table, poured two glasses of cold tea from a plastic bottle, and called Dazai out to eat.

Dazai slurped his soup and glanced at Mori, who seemed to be back to his usual self. This was the second night in a row they had this meal for dinner, and when he opened his mouth to complain, Mori smiled in a way that sent a chill down his spine.

“I had some time to think while I was slaving over a hot stove making our dinner, and I came upon a perfect task for you this weekend,” said Mori, popping a bright yellow pickle into his mouth. While crunching on the vegetable, he got up from the table and walked to his study, returning after a few moments with a book, setting it down in front of Dazai. 

“Pa-ri- Co-myu-n”, Dazai sounded out the title phonetically. “What’s this?”

“This is your homework for the weekend,” Mori said. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to read this book without your phone or computer at your disposal.”

“No way,” Dazai whined, his face contorting with desperation, “I was supposed to livestream this weekend.”

“Well, perhaps you should have considered that before you instigated a political uprising at school,” said Mori, sipping his tea. “Anyhow, since you have such a keen interest in Marxism, I thought you would find the story of the Paris Commune enlightening. I look forward to reading your essay on the topic when I come home on Sunday afternoon.”

“You’re the absolute worst,” Dazai cast him a glare of deep betrayal. “I hope your date sucks.”

“Thank you for the well wishes,” Mori said, setting his spoon down next to his bowl. “I hope your reading is enlightening.”

Dazai stood up, leaving his dirty dishes on the table. “Mori-san,” he said, halfway through the kitchen before he turned around. “You said something earlier that I wanted to ask about.”

“Yes?”

“You said I reminded you of someone you knew. Who was it?”

Mori steepled his fingers in front of him, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile. “Me.”

—

The bat met the baseball with a loud crack, and Fukuzawa dropped the bat on the ground while watching the ball hurtle into the padded wall dozens of meters away. It impacted the wall with a satisfying smack, and Mori began applauding as if he was at a golf tournament rather than the batting cages.

“Excellent stroke, Fukuzawa-sensei.”

“That’s golf, Mori-sensei.”

“Or swimming,” said Mori, unzipping his track jacket halfway. Even though it was only springtime, it was already warm enough for physical activity of any type to make him sweat. That was the excuse he gave himself, choosing not to acknowledge the effect of Fukuzawa’s muscular calves in long athletic shorts. Mori was disappointed that Fukuzawa was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, hiding his tattoo and thwarting Mori’s plan to force him into short sleeves; seeing his legs, on the other hand, was an unexpected win. 

“Don’t tell me you actually play baseball and you didn’t tell me when I suggested the batting cages,” said Mori, pouting ever so slightly. “That’s not exactly fair.”

Fukuzawa picked up the bat again, shaking his head and then pushing his silver hair out of his eyes. “I haven’t really played since university. It was just intramural, but some of the guys I played with insisted on calling me “Ichiro”, so I practiced enough to marginally live up to the name.”

Mori paused. “Ichiro…?”

“Suzuki,” said Fukuzawa, readying his stance and selecting a fastball from the screen to his right. “Played for the Seattle Mariners. One of the first Japanese players to play for an American major league team. So, you’re Japanese, you’re playing baseball, you’re Ichiro in the average American guy's psyche at the time.” The ball shot out of the pitching machine and flew toward Fukuzawa, who bent his knees slightly, angled the bat, and rocked his hips backwards, loading potential energy into his legs. Mori was listening to Fukuzawa’s explanation as intently as he was watching Fukuzawa swing, miss, and curse lightly under his breath.

Fukuzawa lightly shrugged while glancing sideways at Mori. He blamed the strike on being distracted, but he would be lying if he didn’t exaggerate his movements a bit to show Mori how hard he could hit the ball. To this day Fukuzawa fondly recalled his days playing baseball with his peers at Berkeley; the only time he had a chance to play anymore was once a year on sports day at his school, especially because Ranpo was not athletic in the slightest and had zero interest in throwing around a baseball with his father on the weekend.

He offered the bat to Mori. “Your turn.”

“You can go again if you want,” Mori replied, “I’m nowhere near the slugger you are.”

Fukuzawa strode towards Mori and pressed the bat into his hands. Sweat glistened on his brow and he leaned towards Mori, narrowing the distance between them as he reached for the towel dispenser on the wall. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, I’m enjoying myself,” Mori smirked, squeezing the wooden bat tightly in his palms. He stretched his neck from side to side and brushed past Fukuzawa, taking his place at home plate. Pushing up his sleeves, he squared his shoulders and selected his pitch. When the ball shot towards him, he swung the bat as hard as he could, missing the ball by a huge margin.

“I’m no Ichiro,” said Mori, “and I was no Philipp Lahm during my university football days either.”

Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow at Mori, quietly approaching him and placing his warm hands on Mori’s shoulders, applying gentle pressure on either side. “Don’t stand so straight,” he said, and Mori tensed then relaxed his posture, allowing Fukuzawa to reshape his stance.

“Lahm was one of the best German footballers in the aughts,” Mori said, his words trailing off as Fukuzawa moved behind him. “That’s soccer, since you studied in America.”

“It’s football in Japanese too,” Fukuzawa replied, pausing his hands over Mori’s waist. “Is this OK?”

“Of course,” said Mori, his facade nonplussed. His thoughts and heart, however, were not behaving as calmly as his countenance.

Fukuzawa was well aware of the tension between them; he felt it when he reached for the towel and was close enough to Mori to pick up the scent of his sweat and shampoo. The other man was terrible at baseball, but his skill as a conversationalist made up for what he lacked in athleticism. As Fukuzawa placed his hands on Mori’s hips, he realized how slender he was by how much real estate his palms took up on Mori’s lower body. The Japanese clothing Mori wore the other day gave no clues to his stature other than his height. 

“Were you going to correct my posture?” Mori asked, his demeanor almost coquettish.

“Ah, right,” Fukuzawa said, shaking his head slightly. “I was just thinking…the Japanese clothes you had on the other day suited you. I thought you wore them because they’re easy to move in.” He was aware that there were other patrons in the adjacent stalls, and wondered if they could sense the tension between the two middle-aged men in cage number three.

Mori stared straight ahead at the pitching machine. “Western sports call for western sports attire,” his voice dropped half an octave, “But if you prefer Japanese clothes…?”

“Perhaps,” Fukuzawa cleared his throat, “I do.” He stepped back from Mori before that voice had a chance to affect him any more. “Did you actually play soccer while you were in university?” His own physique had changed since he was in his twenties, and he had to work much harder to maintain an athletic build in his forties, but much like Ranpo Mori seemed to lack natural athleticism or even interest in sports beyond factual trivia. 

With a deep, defeated sigh, Mori shook his head. “I was much more interested in indoor sports.” At the sight of Fukuzawa’s raised eyebrow, Mori elaborated. “Speed reading, climbing the ladder to reach the top of the stacks in the library, heavy philosophical discussions.” If he did anything in line with what Fukuzawa seemed to be inferring, that was a conversation for another day. “Carb loading was also a must for indoor activities. Berlin is well known for its beer and its sweets. It would have been a cultural oversight to refuse them.”

Fukuzawa chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I used that same excuse every time we went out for margaritas in California. Speaking of sweets…I told my son I would bring him home some cake from a shop he likes nearby. Does your boy like cake?”

“He says he hates it, but he also hates everything that I like as a matter of principle. Is this an invitation?” Mori wiggled his eyebrows.

“If you hit the next pitch, I’ll pay for yours,” Fukuzawa said, sitting down on the bench and taking a long drink of water. He wasn’t specific about the type of pitch and Mori wasn’t about to lose; he picked the easiest pitch on the menu and earnestly waited for the ball to fly his direction. 

“Spread your legs a little more,” Fukuzawa called to Mori, who grit his teeth and took the advice at face value, taking half a step back and swinging the bat with all the power he could muster. His lower back was going to make him suffer later on, but that was a problem for Future Mori to solve. Present Mori watched the ball as it sailed in an arc away from him, nowhere near as fast or as far as Fukuzawa’s hits, but good enough for him to be able to tell Elise and Dazai that he didn’t strike out that day.

Both men agreed that they had enough baseball for one afternoon, leaving the batting cages with desserts on the brain. About twenty minutes later, the two men sat on a bench in a park outside the cake shop, takeaway boxes wrapped in decorative bags sitting next to them. Fukuzawa had a cup of coffee, and Mori had a slice of cake that he was eating with a tiny plastic fork.

“Your son must really hate to love cake,” said Fukuzawa. He thought his order for Ranpo was outsized, but Mori’s was double his own.

“Well, there’s some for me to eat later, as well as macarons for the nurse at my office,” explained Mori, stabbing the strawberry at the end of his cake slice with his dessert fork. “What is your son up to while you wile away the afternoon playing baseball and eating sweets?”

Fukuzawa sipped his coffee. “He’s at his best friend’s house. They’re probably so full of junk food he won’t want to eat dinner, but he’ll find room for this piece of cake. How about yours?”

“He’s at home, doing an extra credit research project,” said Mori, plucking the strawberry from the cake and biting the tip off delicately. 

Fukuzawa regarded Mori with a raised eyebrow. “Homework on Sunday, huh. He must be pretty dedicated to his studies.”

Mori laughed out loud at the suggestion as he set the strawberry back down into the box and dissected it with surgical precision using the tiny plastic cutlery provided with his dessert. “You’ll appreciate this story, I think,” he said, swiping a strawberry slice neatly through the whipped cream on his cake. “A few days ago – the day that you invited me to the batting cages, actually – I got a call from Dazai’s school.”

“Never a good sign,” Fukuzawa sympathized, having experience on both ends of that phone call over the past few years. “If it makes you feel any better, we hate having to call the parents as much as the kids hate when we do it.”

“The administrative unpleasantries of adulthood,” Mori smiled wryly. “These kids don’t know how good they have it.” 

Fukuzawa nodded, setting his coffee on the bench between them and adjusting his wristwatch. He should have known better than to order hot coffee on a late spring afternoon. Loosening the metal clasp, he let the watch slide down his wrist, catching it in his palm before it came off completely. “I wouldn’t go back to being a teenager, but I wish I hadn’t been in such a hurry to grow up.” He could feel Mori’s gaze on his wrist, watching his fingers as he fidgeted with his sleeve; violet eyes regarded him with equal parts intense curiosity and desire. Were they not in public, Fukuzawa wouldn’t have had to work so hard to maintain decorum between them. It was probably a good thing Mori had a tracksuit on rather than his Japanese clothing as well. “So what did your son’s school want?” he asked, returning the subject to their children before his mind could wander any further. 

Mori tore his eyes away from Fukuzawa’s long fingers and tattooed wrist, flicking his tongue out the side of his mouth to catch a bit of whipped cream. The gesture did not go unnoticed, much to Mori’s delight. “My little activist spearheaded a Communist Party uprising in his physical education class to protest their loss of control over their own evolution.” He sighed dramatically while Fukuzawa choked on his coffee. “Are you okay?” Mori offered Fukuzawa a napkin, and he waved his hand to decline, his cough sputtering to a halt. 

“That’s…different,” Fukuzawa said, pushing his silver hair out of his eyes with his hand. “Is Dazai-kun interested in a career in politics?”

“I don’t think so,” Mori said remorsefully. “Well, probably better that he isn’t, I don’t think either of us need that kind of public attention. It seems that he doesn’t care for distance running, and this was his way of getting out of the assignment.” Mori studied Fukuzawa’s expressions carefully, watching for judgment or scorn, but all he saw was bemusement and understanding. 

“Well,” Fukuzawa stifled a grin, “I’m sorry you had to be on the receiving end of that phone call, but I can’t help giving him points for creativity. I’ve seen a fair amount of disciplinary issues in my years in education, and a Marxist revolt to avoid running is brand new to me.”

Maybe Natsume knew what he was doing when he suggested he and Fukuzawa meet for a drink.

“I know,” Mori sighed, “I was pissed off at the situation, but he’s been borrowing books from my library and actually paying attention to what he reads. It seems like he’s making videos on TikTok about his political leanings as well.”

With a bemused shake of his head, Fukuzawa leaned back on the bench and ran his finger underneath his shirt collar. The afternoon sun was strong and he regretted wearing a black shirt. “I don’t get TikTok. Ranpo tries to explain memes to me and I can’t keep up with him.”

“I’ve decided I’m too old to even try. My nurse is in her early twenties and she shows videos to me from time to time, that’s my only interaction with it.” Mori popped the last bite of cake in his mouth and licked the melting whipped cream off of his plastic fork.

Fukuzawa fidgeted with his wristwatch again and glanced past Mori’s shoulder to a bench under a canopy of trees where a family had just stood up to leave. “You want to move into the shade?”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one getting a little overheated,” Mori flapped his shirt collar dramatically.

Fukuzawa picked up their cake bags, making a beeline for the bench a few meters away. It had the added benefit of being further away from the fountain at the center of the park, which gave them a modicum of additional privacy. He waited at the bench for his companion to collect his half-eaten cake and join him. Ougai Mori was a strange fellow in some ways, but Fukuzawa felt a sense of camaraderie with him that was almost unnervingly comfortable. He had friends at work with kids, of course; he was mentoring a recent college graduate named Doppo Kunikida who had two young children that were his heart and soul. But Kunikida was married to his children’s mother, and for all intents and purposes had a very average family situation. Mori, from what he had learned so far, had a situation far closer to his own – right down to a son that was sometimes a handful.

Mori sat down next to Fukuzawa, making a show of rolling up his track suit sleeves to the elbow. His eyes flicked ever so slightly towards Fukuzawa’s arms crossed over his chest, still fully dressed. The shady spot they sat in was largely removed from the general populace at the park, a perfect place for a parent of an overwhelmed child or a pair of lovers looking for a modicum of privacy amongst the crowd.

“If you want to see my tattoo so badly, you could just ask rather than try a bunch of different ways to be subtle about it,” said Fukuzawa as he glanced up at Mori, who averted his eyes with mock chagrin. “People ask me about it all the time.”

“People?” Mori asked, wondering if this was a common topic of conversation on Fukuzawa’s second dates. This might be easier than he initially anticipated. “I am curious, you’ve caught me red…minded.”

“People at the gym, my tailor, doctors, you know.” Fukuzawa shook his head at Mori’s play on words. “I probably should have thought about the attention I was garnering for Future Me a little more while I was in San Francisco, but sometimes you make a decision in the heat of the moment and have no choice but to see it through.” His mind was on more than his tattoo, and from the look Mori gave him Fukuzawa wondered if this clever man could read between the lines. 

“Doctors do ask a lot of questions,” Mori smiled. “My patients are a bit juvenile for tattoos, but I’ve seen plenty of them on their parents.” He glanced down at Fukuzawa’s wrist, the smoky swirls now clearly visible with his watch removed. “How far up does it go?”

Slowly pushing up his sleeve, Fukuzawa bared his forearm up the crook of his elbow, and Mori admired both the art and the arm that it adorned. His smooth skin bore an intricate pattern that Mori now recognized as a version of seigahamon, their undulation broken by red flowers of a genus Mori couldn’t name. A large, gray shape was barely visible from behind his bunched sleeve. He wanted to run his fingers over it, as if he was reading Braille, learning all that Fukuzawa would share with him and uncovering the things he couldn’t. 

To any bystander Mori’s gaze was simply curious, but Fukuzawa could feel his eyes as they examined his arm. Men and women alike found his tattoo attractive, and men and women alike were offended by it. Fukuzawa specifically chose an American style Japanese tattoo, probably due to watching Yakuza movies as a teenager, but when he ventured outside of the city people had actually crossed the street when they saw a glimpse of his arm beneath his sleeve. Mori’s fingers twitched slightly towards Fukuzawa. His face did not betray him as easily, but Fukuzawa’s gaze was fixated on Mori’s hand.

“Do you want to touch it?”

Silence reigned between the two men for a few moments, and Mori reached towards Fukuzawa’s arm, lightly grazing the outline of the flower, which on closer inspection resembled a chrysanthemum; he was used to seeing the Japanese style tattoo of the flower, so he hadn’t immediately recognized it. When his fingers brushed against Fukuzawa’s skin, it sent a frisson along his spine so intense that he pulled back slightly.

“Did you see something that concerns you, sensei?” His deep voice, barely a murmur, rang loudly in Mori’s ears. His eyes were trained on Mori’s index and middle fingers, their light pressure noticeable throughout his body. 

Mori clucked his tongue regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s a diagnosis I can’t discuss in a public place.”

Sometimes you make a decision in the heat of the moment and have no choice but to see it through.

Fukuzawa glanced over his shoulder. “Have you been to this park before?” He motioned towards a row of flagstones tucked between a grove of trees, away from the paved walking path that led to the pond in the center. 

“I don’t often come to this side of town,” Mori shook his head. “Although this cake shop may bring me back sooner rather than later.” His sly gaze traveled upwards as Fukuzawa stood, gathering his cake box from between them on the bench.

“Follow me,” said Fukuzawa, and Mori watched him as he strode towards the flagstones. After taking a moment to process the geometry involved with following a tattooed man into the forest on their second date, he picked up his bag of treats and jogged to meet Fukuzawa.

“You weren’t kidding about not being athletic,” said Fukuzawa, listening to the other man softly panting. 

Mori groaned. “I’m a pediatrician, Fukuzawa-sensei. Many of my patients can’t even walk. The bar is on the floor. Well, not entirely on the floor, leaving a bar on the floor is just asking for a TBI.”

Fukuzawa took a half step and glanced over his shoulder. “Pardon?”

“Traumatic brain injury. You know how boys are, hitting their heads on everything even if it’s right under their nose.”

“Heh, I certainly do.”

The trees grew more dense as they continued along the path, stepping over fallen branches and ducking between two huge cedar trees. Mori suddenly recalled the time his host family visited the botanical garden at his university, and kindergarten-aged Elise ran off between the trees at the arboretum after she insisted that Rintaro be the one to escort her through the gardens.

After a few hundred meters more, Fukuzawa stopped at a space in the middle of three cedars. “What do you think?”

“I think that if one of us were going to attack the other and leave them for dead, this is the right spot to do it.”

Fukuzawa sighed. “Do I seem like the kind of person who kills the guys he goes on dates with, Mori-sensei?” He set his cake box down on the tree trunk.

Mori shrugged, placing his bag next to Fukuzawa’s. “Everyone has kinks, Fukuzawa-sensei. That just doesn’t happen to be one of mine.” He looked up at Fukuzawa, who was watching him just as carefully. “This, however,” he said, reaching out to Fukuzawa, circling his wrist with his hand and sliding his sleeve up to his elbow, “I think this might be.” 

He barely had to tug on his wrist before Fukuzawa took a step forward, the tendons in his arm flexing as he balled his hand into a fist. “Relax,” Mori said, dropping his hand from Fukuzawa’s forearm to his fist, coaxing his broad hand open, then twining his fingers between them. His cool fingers were a good match for Fukuzawa’s warm ones, and Mori rose up on his toes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the warmth and pressure of kissing Fukuzawa’s lips. He pulled back slightly, still close enough to feel Fukuzawa’s hot breath, and glanced up at his lidded eyes.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” Fukuzawa murmured, his other hand slipping behind Mori’s back and resting at the base of his spine. 

Mori grinned. “Show me more.” He caressed Fukuzawa’s cheek, tracing behind his long forelocks and back along his ear, where an errant bit of stubble told the story of a man shaving in a hurry while his child waited for him to be done. Hopefully Fukuzawa would think something similar when he saw Mori’s stubble, not that he’d simply forgotten to shave that day. “Not just the tattoo.” His hand snaked behind Fukuzawa’s neck, drawing him close and kissing him once more. 

For the second time in so many minutes, Mori was panting in Fukuzawa’s ear, their lips coming together again and again, pausing only for the most necessary breaths. Fukuzawa found Mori’s tales intriguing if not slightly terrifying, but he enjoyed Mori more when he was groaning single syllables against his jaw. Their height difference was perfect for Mori to spend languid moments checking Fukuzawa’s pulse rate with his lips, a clinically imperfect yet sensually impeccable way to take vitals. 

“We’re still technically in public,” Fukuzawa said, using all of his willpower to take a step back. 

“You wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t think we were well concealed,” Mori pressed his bitten lips together. His slight pout was charming, especially on his plush red mouth.

Fukuzawa sighed. “I know, and we are, but…I want more than this, and I’m not doing more than this here.”

Mori blinked, cleared his throat, then offered a sorrowful smile as his phone chimed. “Sometimes I wish I could throw this into Yokohama Bay forever,” he sighed. 

Their amorous haze began to clear, and Fukuzawa lifted his wrist only to remember that taking off his watch was what precipitated this turn of events. “What time is it?” he asked as he fumbled in his pocket for the watch.

“Time for me to head back to my young revolutionary and see if he’s finished his essay yet,” said Mori. 

Fukuzawa nodded, trying to mask his disappointment with noble parental duty. “Mine is supposed to be ready for pickup in forty-five minutes,” he said, picking up his box of cake.

“He doesn’t take the train?” Mori asked, taking his bag and leading the way out of the grove this time. Fukuzawa walked next to him as long as the path allowed two people side by side.

“He’s an incredibly bright kid but sometimes I think he could get lost in a paper bag.” Fukuzawa chuckled. “You want to know how I knew this place was so hard to find?”

Mori stepped closer to Fukuzawa as the path narrowed. “I’d love to.”

“I told you before that Ranpo loves that cake shop, right?”

“You did.”

“When he first came to live with me, I didn’t realize that he got overwhelmed by large crowds. So I brought him here on a weekend…one of my colleagues told me that his kids like the area, they like the baumkuchen at that cake shop.”

“It’s not quite the same as German baumkuchen,” Mori replied, pronouncing the dessert with an authentic German accent.

“So I hear.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the next thing I knew, Ranpo was missing in action, and after ten minutes of searching I was on the verge of calling Natsume-san and telling him that my kid had lived with me for less than six months and now he’s gone.” He hoped Mori would see the humor in this story. 

“Not a great look for a single dad.” Mori agreed with a knowing chuckle. “Don’t tell me you found him with someone at that spot in the woods. I want to believe I’m past the teenage makeout spot period of my life.”

Fukuzawa paled slightly at the thought. “No, but it took me long enough to find him hiding back here that I figured we would have it to ourselves.”

“Fair enough,” said Mori. “I also want to believe I’m past the public restroom rendezvous period of my life.”

“Likewise,” said Fukuzawa, and they paused to exchange glances. “Although, before we leave–” He stepped to the side behind the trunk of a tall tree.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Mori, stretching up to plant a kiss on Fukuzawa’s waiting mouth. After a feather-light second kiss, he sighed plaintively, moving away from Fukuzawa towards the last flagstones leading back to the park. Mori left the grove first, and Fukuzawa followed a moment behind him, the opposite of how they went in. 

“My car is parked in the garage,” said Fukuzawa with a nod to the east, wanting to linger but knowing neither of them had much time to spare.

“I’ll make the next express train if I leave now,” said Mori. He followed Fukuzawa’s gaze to a young man and woman nuzzled together not ten meters away and sighed enviously in their general direction. “Duty calls me now. But you can call me later if you’re up after bedtime.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Fukuzawa. “You want to hear more about Ichiro, I assume?”

“Oh, most certainly!” Mori extended his hand for a very cordial, professional handshake, during which both men suppressed the desire to pull together and kiss again. 

“I had a good time today,” said Fukuzawa. “Talk later?”

“Until later,” said Mori, turning towards the train station and walking away. As soon as he was out of Fukuzawa’s sight, he took out his phone and typed a quick message, humming as he hit send.

A few moments later, Fukuzawa sat down in his car and took out his phone. There was a message from Mori, and he glanced at the passenger seat out of habit before opening the text. 

I care far less about Ichiro’s home run record than I do about getting to third base with you.

—

“Thank you very much for inviting me to dinner, Mr. Fukuzawa,” said Poe, picking up a piece of broccoli with his chopsticks, dipping it in mayonnaise, and popping it in his mouth. “Uh…nihongo de hanashitai desu ka?” 

Fukuzawa shook his head while Ranpo giggled at his best friend’s flustered look. “English is fine, Poe-kun. We usually speak Japanese at home so that Ranpo can improve his fluency, but it’s good practice for me to speak English. I don’t mind if you want to speak Japanese, though. Do you not get a chance to use it at home?”

Poe shook his head. “My mom and dad travel a lot, and the housekeeper that lives with us speaks English.”

“She’s cool,” Ranpo said in Japanese, helping himself to another serving of chicken meatballs. “She makes really delicious macaroni and cheese, and puts this weird seasoning on fries that I didn’t think I’d like but is actually great.”

“I had furikake on french fries last time I was in the United States,” said Fukuzawa. “Does it taste like that?”

“Old Bay,” said Poe, shaking his head. “It’s a Baltimore thing. It’s technically for seafood but we put it on everything. I can bring some over next time if you want to try it,” he added.

“I’d love to try it,” Fukuzawa smiled, and Poe nodded enthusiastically, his long hair flopping up and down over his eyes. “Is that where you’re from?” 

Poe nodded. “Ba-ru-chi-moa-a,” he sounded out with Japanese pronunciation, and Ranpo grinned. “I’m glad I moved to Japan though.”

“Me too,” said Ranpo, and Poe sputtered into his glass of water, his face turning bright red. 

“R…Ranpo,” said a flustered Poe.

Fukuzawa covered his mouth with his napkin to hide his smile. “I’ll go get another bottle of tea.” He stood from the table and moved towards the refrigerator. It was honestly his pleasure to have Poe over for dinner; the first summer Ranpo spent in Japan was a difficult one for both himself and his son, marked by language barriers and lack of companionship other than Fukuzawa, who hadn’t spent any time with his son since a few days after the boy’s birth.

He still remembered that day as though it were just yesterday rather than nearly three years ago; an unexpected phone call from a foreign number, waking him up before dawn on a Sunday morning. His sleep-addled mind thought the caller was Ranpo’s mother until he listened to their voice long enough to realize that it was a child whose voice hadn’t yet changed, not a woman several years his senior. 

It was June 20th that year – Father’s Day, he later realized – and the boy on the phone said he was his son, Ranpo Edogawa. With a bit of chagrin, Fukuzawa remembered that his first uncharitable thought was that Ranpo’s mother hadn’t hyphenated the boy’s last name as she promised, but he decided he only had himself to blame for that. The next words out of Ranpo’s mouth were enough to make him forget any feelings he had about names.

“I’m in Tokyo at the airport. How do I get to Yokohama from here? I’ve come to live in Japan with you.”

“Are you texting that guy?” Ranpo called from the dining table. Fukuzawa quickly opened the refrigerator door, taking out a large bottle of tea and letting it swing closed behind him as he turned back towards the table. He paused, turning back to the refrigerator, removing the cake box from the highest shelf and setting it on the counter before returning to his seat.

“What guy?” Fukuzawa said, opening the bottle of tea and handing it to Poe, who poured himself a glass and then filled Ranpo’s glass as well. 

Ranpo raised his eyebrow. “The guy you went out with last time I was over at Poe’s. The one that texts you so much your phone never stops buzzing. You should put that on silent mode, by the way. So is that guy your boyfriend?”

Poe’s long bangs hid the majority of his eyes, but Fukuzawa caught a glimpse of them widening as Ranpo squeezed sugar syrup into his glass of tea. He hoped the incredulity was at the amount of sweetener that Ranpo used, but he knew it was more likely related to Ranpo’s casual outing of Fukuzawa.

“I told Poe you were gay a long time ago,” Ranpo added, “He’s fine with it.”

“Totally fine! Zenzen daijoubu!” added Poe, and Fukuzawa couldn’t help but smile broadly. 

“Well then,” said Fukuzawa, “I don’t think my personal life is anything that interesting. I’ve just made a new friend recently, and he’s got a lot on his mind and likes to share it with me.”

“Sounds like Ranpo,” said Poe. Ranpo made a face at Poe and Fukuzawa paused, contemplating how similar Ranpo and Mori were when they were telling him about something that intrigued them. Perhaps he should figure out how to change his phone from vibrate to silent.

“Want my broccoli, Poe?”

“Eat your broccoli, Ranpo,” interjected Fukuzawa, willing Mori’s smirking face out of his mind’s eye. “There’s chocolate cake for dessert,” he added, and Ranpo’s face lit up. “If you finish two pieces of broccoli you can have some.”

Ranpo sighed begrudgingly, his expression the epitome of inconvenience. “If I finish two pieces of broccoli can I have cake and sleep over at Poe’s this weekend?”

Normally Fukuzawa would have used the opportunity to barter with Ranpo, attempting to get a third piece of vegetable into the boy, but he immediately recognized an even greater opportunity within Ranpo’s request. “Of course,” said Fukuzawa, “Do you have some fun plans?” he added, realizing how quickly he agreed to the deal. 

“We’re starting a Call of Cthulhu campaign,” said Poe, watching Ranpo pick up a piece of broccoli and squeeze mayonnaise on top until the vegetable resembled a snow-capped tree. 

“Our friend John is really into Lovecraft,” said Ranpo, squeezing his eyes shut and shoving the entire piece of broccoli in his mouth, washing it down with gulps of tea. “You know, Dad, Poe is really into broccoli. I think he wants my last piece.” He picked up his broccoli and aimed his chopsticks towards Poe’s empty plate.

“Eat your broccoli so you can sleep over,” said Poe, covering his plate with his hands. 

“That’s true. We were gonna have cake anyway,” said Ranpo. He glanced at Poe, and then down at the offending green vegetable sitting on his plate amidst a swirl of mayonnaise and meatball sauce. “I’m doing this for you, Poe. You owe me all your fries at lunch tomorrow.”

“What’s Call of Cthulhu?” Fukuzawa asked Poe as Ranpo took a deep breath and submerged the spear of broccoli in sauce. “A video game?”

“Tabletop RPG,” said Poe, “Like Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Ah yes,” said Fukuzawa, grinning. “Some of my friends at university played that game and I joined them a few times. My character was a rogue assassin.”

“Wow,” said Poe, watching Ranpo out of the corner of his eye, wishing he would finish his dinner so they could watch Poirot as planned before he had to leave for the night. “I play a bard. But it would be cool to be a rogue.”

Ranpo bit the broccoli spear in half, swallowing the floret half dramatically and stuffing the green stem half in his mouth, grimacing as he crunched. “Okay, I’m done. Thanks for the food,” he said after he drained his glass of tea, holding his hands up victoriously. “Is that good enough?”

“You kept your end of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine,” Fukuzawa said, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. He wondered if Mori was going to text him this often for as long as they were involved together, or if this was something he only did in the beginning of a relationship. “Clear your dishes and I’ll come get you for cake in a little while.”

The teenagers stood up from the table, carrying their plates and bowls to the sink and dutifully rinsing them clean. Ranpo eyed the cake on the counter the entire time, carefully studying the box. “I won’t forget about it,” promised Fukuzawa. “You won’t let me, anyway.”

“Precisely,” said Ranpo, opening the refrigerator and taking out a bottle of ramune soda, shoving the marble down the neck to pop it open. “Come on, Poe. Don’t act like you know how to wash dishes, anyway.”

“I…I was just trying to help your dad out for being so nice to us,” said Poe, turning towards Fukuzawa. “Thank you very much for dinner! Gochisousama deshita!” he said with a deep bow, dropping the sponge and following Ranpo down the hall to his bedroom.  

Fukuzawa picked up the dish sponge from the floor, noting that it had no soap and was dripping cold water. He turned on the faucet and while he waited for the water to heat up, Fukuzawa took out his phone and perused his unread texts from Mori. The dozen or so lengthy messages detailed his surprise at the essay Dazai wrote, how much his shoulders ached from the batting cages, two links to articles about the history of baumkuchen in Japan, and finished with innuendo-laden musings about Fukuzawa’s ability to give a deep tissue massage.

Setting his phone on the counter, Fukuzawa rolled up his sleeves, squeezed soap onto the sponge and plunged his hands into the water to retrieve a dish from the sink. The scalding hot water did its job distracting him from Mori’s salacious words for a moment, and he fumbled the dish in his hands. With catlike reflexes he caught the dish as it slipped through his fingers, and his mind wandered as he began to scrub. Dating since Ranpo came into his life was disappointing at best; he had been out with an older man who seemed promising until it came to light that he was married with children and simply looking for a man on the side, and then two younger men that stopped returning his messages as soon as they found out he had a child. 

Mori, on the other hand, seemed to be undeterred by his family situation; rather, it was turning out to be one of the main things they had in common. Thanks to a contact from his undergraduate days that worked at the police station, he knew that Ougai Mori was indeed a licensed physician, was the legal guardian of a fourteen-year old boy, and had never been married. Perhaps it was unscrupulous of him to go as far as a minor background check, but Fukuzawa had a strong suspicion that he wasn’t the only one.  After all, they met via Natsume, and nobody who was acquainted with their mutual attorney was without a skeleton or three in their closet.

He considered Mori’s thinly veiled request for a massage, and his body remembered the feeling of the shorter man’s hands on his own shoulders, his grasp firm on Fukuzawa’s body as he lifted himself up on his toes to meet Fukuzawa’s lips in a kiss. He shifted his feet and took a deep breath, realizing that either of the boys could come into the kitchen at any moment and his sweatpants did him no favors as far as concealing an erection was concerned. Perhaps if he started to wear Japanese style clothes like Mori, this wouldn’t be an issue. He wondered if Mori wore Japanese clothes at home as well, or if they were for business only, like his suits.

Fukuzawa could have kicked himself for thinking of Mori in his Japanese dress while he was trying to quiet his libido. His mind’s eye refused to let go of the way the sleeves of his kimono draped gracefully over his arms, his dark hair touching the collar, the flash of bare calf visible as he took off at a stride at the end of their first date. Mori was certainly no Toshiro Mifune, the first man in Japanese dress who gave Fukuzawa a wet dream, but he was whimsical and charming despite being bizarre and somewhat annoyingly pedantic, and his kisses and movements were intoxicating and beguiling. 

He wondered if Mori remembered that Fukuzawa told him that he wanted more than kisses, and shook his head. Of course he did; Fukuzawa would certainly remember someone who said that to him. Perhaps he let his words flow too freely in the heat of the moment, and he recalled with a pang of regret the last time he let his heart and body speak for him nearly two decades ago with Ranpo’s mother. However, without her he wouldn’t have Ranpo, and without Ranpo he probably wouldn’t be thinking about his next date with Ougai Mori. 

Drying his hands off on the kitchen towel, Fukuzawa picked up his phone to find a new message from Mori. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, holding the phone close even though there was no one else in the room to see it. 

My calendar is already filling up with patients for the week, but I can’t stop thinking about booking a physical therapy session with you.

Fukuzawa pursed his lips. Shouldn’t we go on a third date before we think about third base?

Mori sent an animated stamp of a baseball striking the inside of a glove. Where do you wanna go? I regret to inform you that I'm about as good at karaoke as I am at baseball, unless you enjoy the entire back catalog of Hiroshi Tachi. A link to the karaoke version of “Tsumetai Taiyou” popped up immediately after.

Fukuzawa chuckled. You haven’t seen bad karaoke until you’ve seen drunk girls at an American bar trying to sing Bon Jovi without falling off the stage or on each other. Doesn’t stop him from being my favorite artist to sing, though. He sent Mori a link to “Livin’ On A Prayer” and started humming the song to himself while he dried the dishes.

He watched as three dots chased themselves across the speech bubble on his screen while Mori typed his response. The Japanese karaoke box does have its advantages, doesn’t it? Now that I think about it, they are quite private…

I was thinking

“Dad – hey Dad, are you still out there?” Ranpo shouted from his bedroom, and Fukuzawa nearly dropped the phone in the sink. 

“What do you need, Ranpo?” Fukuzawa replied, subconsciously moving in the direction of Ranpo’s voice. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Ranpo answered, sticking his unkempt head out of the bedroom door. “We’re watching 'Peril at End House' and I already solved the mystery but Poe thinks I cheated and looked up spoilers, so he says I can’t leave the room until the episode is over.”

“Did you cheat?” Fukuzawa’s tone was lightly admonishing, but he was familiar with his son’s aptitude for solving mysteries; his gift to Ranpo on their first Christmas as a family was every bilingual version of the winners of the Japanese Mystery Writers’ Awards currently in print. The books were alphabetized on the large shelf in Ranpo’s room, and recently he had started to buy titles from his favorite authors that were not available in English translation as well.

“‘Course not,” said Ranpo. “It was obvious who did it from the beginning. Anyway, since Poe has me trapped in here, can we eat cake in my room rather than in the kitchen?”

Fukuzawa sighed. “I suppose it won’t hurt, but no crumbs on the floor, and I want your dirty dishes washed and put away before you go to sleep tonight.”

“Poe, my dad is bringing us cake,” said Ranpo excitedly. “Hurry up and figure out who killed Maggie, I wanna tell you how I solved the mystery already.”

Fukuzawa walked back to the kitchen, shaking his head lightly. His phone was sitting next to the cake box with a message from Mori – a stamp of a cartoon spirit floating up from a skeleton – and quickly replied, the boy needed something.

They always need things, don’t they?

It is their way… He added a sighing emoji, then continued his previous message. I was thinking about taking you to the planetarium for our next date. 

A field trip!

Are you not interested?

There was a long pause, and Fukuzawa took that time to cut two slices of cake, spear them with forks, and take them back to Ranpo’s bedroom. His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, and after Fukuzawa returned he opened Mori’s message.

No, I’m totally interested. I know I’m supposed to say something cliche like I love long walks on the beach and looking at the stars, but frankly it’s hot on the beach and I always get sand in my shoes. I do like looking at the stars, especially with good company in a climate controlled environment. 

Fukuzawa grinned and congratulated himself on his keen instincts. He opened up the website for the planetarium and selected a particular show that caught his eye, purchasing two tickets for the upcoming Saturday evening show. He set his phone down and cut a large slice of cake for himself, trying not to overanalyze the possibility of sleeping with Mori after only three dates. The sweetness of the cake, however, reminded him of the sweetness of Mori’s lips as they kissed, and the memory pulsed through his body at a feverish tempo. Fukuzawa reminded himself that while Mori was an incorrigible flirt, they hadn’t explicitly discussed having sex. He had no idea if Mori was a top or a bottom or if he was even ready to sleep together at this point in their relationship. After all, he had dated Ranpo’s mother for three months before she made her move on him. Just because he hadn’t had more than a one-night stand in four years didn’t mean that Mori was in the same position. Unfortunately, rationalizing the situation had no effect on his testosterone-fueled imagination, which continued to create scenarios in which Mori was ready, willing, and able to engage in all manner of debauchery. 

That night, long after Poe’s driver had picked him up and both he and Ranpo retired to their respective rooms to sleep, Fukuzawa closed his eyes and let thoughts of Mori’s voice whispering in his ear, Mori’s hands grasping his shoulders, Mori’s hips snapping against his own as he took Fukuzawa from behind, bring him to a shuddering climax against his mattress.

—

The rest of the week proceeded quickly as both Mori and Fukuzawa eagerly anticipated their date on Friday evening. Texts were rapidly exchanged, their contents both safe and unsafe for work, and both men planned their individual contributions to the evening during their more mundane moments. Elise scolded Mori for having a moony look in his eyes while he entered data into patient records, and it took Mori reading the records out loud to the young nurse to convince her that he wasn’t typing out his first name with Fukuzawa’s last name over and over until the page was filled. Of course, when Elise offered to pick up their lunch so that he had time to prepare for a hospital consult, he deliberately put Fukuzawa’s first name along with his last name on the order that he sent to the restaurant. By the time Elise returned Mori was already in his meeting, so she left a note on the outside of the bag informing Mori that the restaurant sent a bowl of vomit for his lunch. 

Fukuzawa, on the other hand, was congratulated by more than one of his peers for looking exceptionally hale recently; nearly all the gossip between the administrative assistants was about who or what was responsible for their stoic superior’s good mood. When the gossip made its way to him via Kunikida-sensei, Fukuzawa could only smile and shrug, neither confirming nor denying his young mentee’s suspicions. Perhaps the most satisfying part of this was knowing no matter how much his colleagues speculated on his relationship status, they would never guess the truth. 

The two men agreed to meet early at Yokohama Station for dinner at a restaurant inside one of the shopping centers attached to the sprawling transit complex. Fukuzawa arrived first, and waited outside of the restaurant for his date to arrive. He checked his appearance in one of the store windows across from the restaurant, straightening his jacket lapels and tugging his sleeves down reflexively. He had chosen to pair a light colored linen jacket with matching trousers, a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his favorite platinum watch. Ranpo teased him for using his phone to check the time even though he always wore a watch, but his son was fairly oblivious to fashion. This was fine with Fukuzawa; teenagers were expensive and it seemed like the overhead costs increased every year. 

He idly wondered what Mori would wear that night. The track suit he had on at the batting cages was certainly situationally appropriate, but Fukuzawa much preferred the Japanese clothing that Mori wore when they first met. He suddenly realized that he had been looking at what all of the passersby had been wearing rather than their faces, scanning the sea of business people in suits and foreign tourists in casual clothes for a man in traditional Japanese garb. Finally, he saw Mori walking towards him, his robes swishing around his ankles as he stepped out of the human traffic flow, crossing to the other side where Fukuzawa waited. His kimono had at least three layers to it, based on the colors showing near his neck; the exterior was charcoal gray, so dark it was nearly black, with a slight sheen that added depth to the solid colored fabric. A red robe underneath drew attention upwards towards Mori’s face, and the obi that held the robes together was royal purple with an inlaid igeta pattern. While the clothing and patterns were as traditionally Japanese as could be, they were uncommon in modern-day Yokohama, and gave Mori an alluring, subtly exotic presence.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” Mori said, greeting Fukuzawa with a smile. “I wanted to come a little earlier myself, but I had to make sure that my son was adequately fed, watered, and aware that I was coming home tonight.”

Fukuzawa shook his head. “Only a few minutes.” It felt like he hadn’t seen Mori for a month, even though it had been less than a week since their last date. “You look great,” he said. 

“And you look dapper as always,” Mori replied with a charming smile. “I like the watch. It’s different from the one you wore last time.” 

“I have a few,” Fukuzawa said, “They’re useful for keeping time and hiding tattoos,” he explained with a chuckle. “Did you have a particular restaurant that you wanted to go to, or is this okay?” He motioned to the restaurant behind them. “I know we’re a little overdressed for noodles, so if you want to go somewhere else that’s fine with me.”

“That sounds perfect, but wearing a white shirt to eat noodles?” Mori gestured at Fukuzawa’s clothing. “That’s brave. The last time I wore a suit to a medical conference, my nurse made fun of me for accidentally dipping my tie in my soup.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Shall we?” 

The restaurant Fukuzawa chose was a Japanese noodle house that was less popular than the major tourist destinations, but in his experience was delicious. Once they were seated, Fukuzawa ordered a bottle of sake to share while Mori looked over the menu. “I can’t remember the last time I went out for soba,” Fukuzawa said, his mouth watering as he browsed all the variations this restaurant had to offer.

Mori glanced up from the menu. “Are you cutting carbs or something?”

“You should know better than that, I eat a lot of dessert for someone on a diet.” He shrugged lightly. “No, Ranpo only wants to eat ramen or spaghetti. I’m not taking him to one restaurant and then eating at another myself.”

Mori hummed. “Do you think it’s due to sensory issues, food allergies, or just a limited palate?” 

Fukuzawa idly flipped the menu pages while thinking about how to respond to Mori’s question. “He grew up in the United States with his mom,” Fukuzawa explained, “She wasn’t much of a cook when we were living together, and when she did cook something it was American food, so I don’t imagine it was much different for him.” When he talked to anyone about his failed relationship with Ranpo’s mother and especially about how their son came to live with him, Fukuzawa always defaulted to limiting the information that he offered as if he was following his attorney’s counsel. In fact, the only people who knew everything that happened between them were his ex-girlfriend and Natsume.

“I see,” Mori pursed his lips. There was suddenly a litany of questions that Mori wanted to ask Fukuzawa, but based on the other man’s furrowed brow decided to postpone the interrogation. Fukuzawa’s answer resolved one outstanding question; that would have to be all until the other man chose to volunteer further information. Yukichi Fukuzawa proved to be a man of many layers, and Ougai Mori was determined to peel back as many of them as he could manage. 

Part of Fukuzawa wanted to capitalize on Mori’s curiosity and elaborate on why Ranpo grew up without him, but a knot of shame lodged in his throat and prevented him from continuing the conversation. He tried to swallow it and speak his mind, reminding himself that Mori was also a single father with an unconventional relationship with his son. He rationalized that one of the most appealing aspects of this eccentric man was how much he and Fukuzawa could relate to each other as parents, as professionals, and if he was reading the other man correctly, as romantic partners. Mori was the first person he felt comfortable thinking of as a partner since the end of his relationship with Ranpo’s mother. However, every time he let himself consider opening up about his years as a deadbeat dad to the other man, his brain chose to remind him of how poorly he read the signals last time he was in a similar situation, and the wall of silence that protected his heart reinforced its strength. 

“Well, lots of kids are picky at his age,” Mori broke the silence between them with a nonchalant wave. “Dazai is sometimes fussy at mealtime, but I’m pretty sure he’s being contrary. There have been a few times, especially when he wanted something different from what we were eating, that he declared a hunger strike while we were at the table and went to bed without dinner. I always put his plate in the refrigerator when this happened, because more often than not the next morning I found his empty dinner dishes in the sink.” His tone was intentionally lighthearted, which pacified the stormy skies in Fukuzawa’s eyes. He wanted Fukuzawa to open up to him and share more of his own story, since only by learning more about the other man would Mori be able to rationalize the feelings he was experiencing. He wasn’t yet willing to give these emotions a name, as they were far more intimate than he was used to for someone that he’d only kissed once. Mori was no stranger to a passionate semi-public make out session, but his questions afterwards typically regarded the other man’s surname or marital status, not whether this man was someone he could see himself in a monogamous relationship with. 

Both men were silent again, temporarily lost in their individual thoughts despite sitting an arm’s length apart, something they had been looking forward to for days. Realizing the time, they quickly motioned for their waiter, and the man hurried to their table. Fukuzawa ordered kake soba, and Mori chose kitsune soba. After their waiter departed, Mori’s lips curved into a grin and he took a sip from his small ceramic sake cup. 

“What’s so funny?” Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow at Mori’s amused expression, a complete departure from the serious countenance he wore when the waiter arrived at the table.

“Oh, nothing,” Mori waved his hand, “Just thinking that I’m glad you didn’t order bukkake soba, because I’m not sure I could keep it together in front of that poor waiter.” Introspection would have to wait for another day; this was a third date with an attractive, thoughtful man who was sending him the sort of amorous signals he was excited to receive, and Mori would be damned if he analyzed this chance to death.

Fukuzawa sputtered, then parried Mori’s juvenile humor with an amused shake of his head. “You sound like one of the students at my school,” he replied, thankful for the shift in conversational tone. 

“Well, Fukuzawa-sensei, if they’re thinking the same things about you that I am, then I suppose I had best keep my edge honed so I don’t lose my chance with you to a high school student,” Mori hid his smile behind his glass of water. He had been so busy that day at his clinic that he hadn’t eaten more than the emergency melon bread from his desk drawer, and the liquor was already going to his head in a pleasantly sociable way. 

“I meant that they make jokes like that to get a rise,” Fukuzawa replied, his ears burning beneath his hair.  “Anyhow, students are strictly off limits. I’m not Great Teacher Onizuka before he saw the light.”

Mori laughed. “I forgot about that show! I remember watching the drama when I was a teenager and having very confused feelings about the suicidal male protagonist.” He watched Fukuzawa smile over the top of his sake cup. “I hope you don’t have students like his…although based on some of the teenagers that come to my clinic, including but not limited to Dazai, they’re out there.”

“Dazai-kun was one of your patients? Is that how you came to have custody of him?” Fukuzawa was eager to find out if the other man’s fatherhood journey was similar to his own.

“In the simplest sense, yes,” Mori replied. “He and I met while he was failing to thrive in foster care. The generalists at the prefectural children's hospital where I used to work couldn’t get through to him, and they called me since I have a lot of experience with troubled teens. We eventually came to a state of mutual trust and adopting him was the most logical solution. Natsume-san and his connections helped seal the deal.”

From Mori’s clipped tone, Fukuzawa inferred that much like his own circumstances, there was more to the story that the other man was not divulging at the moment. Fukuzawa shook his head and grinned. “We owe a lot to that guy, it seems.”

“He collected more than his share of attorney’s fees from both of us.” Mori refilled Fukuzawa’s sake cup and then his own, shaking the bottle until the last drops were gone. “If we tell him that we’re seeing each other, he’ll probably send me a bill.”

Shrugging lightly while lifting the cup to his lips, Fukuzawa couldn’t help but wonder what Mori had asked of Natsume in regards to his nurse and his adopted son to incur such heavy fees. “I found his rates to be quite reasonable,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “But I’m fine with keeping our relationship out of his purview.”

Their noodles arrived along with another bottle of sake. Fukuzawa ate carefully so as not to splash broth onto his shirt; Mori ate with the same reckless abandon as Ranpo digging into a bowl of macaroni and cheese, albeit with much better table manners. It was a childish quality that Fukuzawa initially found strange about Mori, but as they spent more time together the other man’s whimsy grew on him. His irreverent stories and somewhat unorthodox outlook suited Fukuzawa, who was a man that appreciated a set of rules and also someone who was bold enough to break them. It didn’t hurt that he looked great in the kimono he had on tonight, either. 

While Mori told him a story about his nurse teasing him for his K-Pop knowledge deficiency, Fukuzawa alternated between sips of sake and sips of water and considered what Mori would look like as he slowly removed each of the robes that draped his body. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned Mori’s body from memory of their feverish interlude in the grove of trees last weekend. He was slender but sturdy, and the exposed skin at his throat was slightly flushed. Fukuzawa wondered if that was from the alcohol they had both consumed or from an emotional response. 

Mori set down his chopsticks and picked up his bowl, lifting it to his lips to drink the remainder of the broth. His Adam's apple bobbed along his pale throat as he swallowed, and Fukuzawa licked his lips and picked up his drink, placing the blame for his current thoughts squarely on his empty cup. He was looking forward to the program he selected at the planetarium even without a drink, and he had a strong feeling that he would enjoy it even more in his current state. 

“Fukuzawa-sensei,” Mori said, and Fukuzawa noticed that the other man was holding his phone in his hands, typing on the screen. Perhaps he was checking in with his son, Fukuzawa thought, and then his own phone vibrated in his pocket. “I think we should settle the bill soon and be on our way, don’t you?”

Fukuzawa signaled for the waiter and took out his phone along with his wallet, checking the screen to see if Ranpo was messaging him. When he saw that the message was from Mori, he looked across the table quizzically to see Mori taking out his wallet and counting the cash he had on hand. 

I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that in public when there’s nothing I can do about it. It feels like you’re undressing me with your eyes.

Mori had the faintest mischievous smile when Fukuzawa met his eyes again. “I’ll pay for dinner, since you bought the tickets for the planetarium.”

“I could pay for both of us,” replied Fukuzawa. Mori waved his hand as the waiter arrived at their table. “At least let me pick up one of the bottles of sake.”

Mori settled the bill with the waiter and when the man departed, he sighed. “If you feel that strongly about it, you can make it up to me later.” He excused himself to the restroom, and Fukuzawa picked up his phone, sending a quick note to Ranpo to check in before replying to Mori’s text. 

I’ll make sure I settle my debts with you to both of our satisfaction.

As Mori exited the restaurant to meet Fukuzawa, he took out his phone, reading the other man’s message and chuckling to himself. For a man with as many layers as Fukuzawa had, he was surprisingly simple once you took the time to get to know him. So few adults that Mori dealt with on a daily basis made Mori’s life any easier, and being with Fukuzawa was almost effortless on his part. At this point, his greatest frustration came from staying his hand in public when he wanted even basic physical contact. Outside of 2-Chome in Shinjuku, it was unrealistic for them to walk through the streets holding hands, but that did nothing to eliminate Mori’s desire to do so.

He joined Fukuzawa outside and they made their way through the station and towards the Hanamirai Walk. As they crossed the river, they saw other couples together, just like in the park. Mori looked up at Fukuzawa and shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps Japan will follow in the path of the West someday,” he said.

“It was a bit of a rude awakening coming back from San Francisco,” Fukuzawa said, “I mean, not everywhere in the city was like the Castro, but the attitude was much more laid back about same-sex relationships.”

Mori nodded. “The years I spent in Berlin were educational,” he said, “There are gay bars here in Yokohama, of course, but not like the German discotheques.” He looked out over the river beneath them. “I considered staying there after my studies were complete.”

“Why didn’t you?” Fukuzawa asked, thinking again about the circumstances of his own departure from the United States.

“I realized that Japan needed more doctors like me,” Mori replied, “When I came back to renew my visa, my father had just undergone surgery and needed help with his clinic, so I did some work there on a temporary basis. For the first time, I noticed the lack of physician options and mediocre care that was available to people who lacked Japanese fluency. In Germany, the doctors I trained with were all at least bilingual in German and English and some spoke a third language beyond that.”’

“You’re not kidding,” Fukuzawa said with a sympathetic nod, “When Ranpo applied for his permanent resident card, I had to take him to a doctor for a physical examination. He could speak conversationally but medical terminology was far beyond his comprehension, and I didn’t want to risk misinterpreting something he said since it’s been a while since I had to use English in that capacity. The English language teacher at my school recommended a particular physician who spoke English, but it took six weeks to get an appointment. We almost missed the enrollment deadline for his school.”

Mori sighed. “Well, there you have it. That is why I gave up on the libertine life I could have pursued with the fine young men in Berlin and returned to Japan, putting my nose to the medical grindstone and hoping that someday I would meet a man who would make it worth my while to come out to my parents.”

“Do you think you might someday?” Fukuzawa said, surprising both of them with his casual interrogation. Mori blinked a few times, his eyelashes fluttering coquettishly. 

“Who knows? Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you.” 

They turned a corner, passing several tall buildings, and Mori paused to peer through the window at a vintage car on display.

“Do you like cars?” Fukuzawa asked.

“I wouldn’t call myself a car guy. But this model is one that they drive in one of my favorite dramas, this buddy cop show. I’ve seen it at least five times and never seen one of these cars in person.”

“That one from the eighties?” Fukuzawa asked, trying to remember the name. “With Hiroshi–”

Mori’s eyes lit up. “Do you watch AbuDeka too?”

Fukuzawa shook his head. “I was more into historical dramas,” he admitted, thinking of the Warring States and Shinsengumi tales he watched in the privacy of his own bedroom, his mind’s eye picturing Mori in the image of one of the warriors with half of his torso bare, his kimono partially draped around his waist.

“Of course you were,” Mori’s despondent tone cleaved through Fukuzawa’s fantasy like a honed katana blade. “Ah, my parents might have to wait even longer to find out their son’s true nature at this rate.” He sighed dramatically, casting a forlorn glance over his shoulder at the water behind them.

“You’re not serious?” Fukuzawa was slightly incredulous. “It’s just a TV show–”

“I didn’t say the prognosis was fatal,” Mori said, his pathetic frown turning into a teasing smile. “It’s an easily rectified deficiency. I prescribe an afternoon of Netflix and chill in which we finish at least a few episodes before getting distracted.”

Fukuzawa shook his head and smiled. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’m going make you watch Furinkazan after that, and then we’ll both be satisfied.” 

“Sounds like an optimal solution. Get yourself a kimono and we can both dress the part.” 

Mori’s sultry tone and equally suggestive gaze made Fukuzawa instinctively check the area around them to ensure they were alone. Looking up, he realized they had reached the Yokohama Gate Tower where the planetarium was located, and quickly pulled out his phone, swiping the screen to look for their reservation.  “I’ve got the tickets here. There’s some interesting exhibits in the lobby according to the website, but we should probably get to our seats soon. Dinner took a bit longer than expected.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Mori replied, and he followed Fukuzawa into the theater. He showed his smartphone to the attendant to scan their tickets, and the attendant cocked her head at the two men as they passed through the entry point. “Was that my imagination, or did she give us a look?”

“Ah,” Fukuzawa cleared his throat, “Well, there’s a particular show that we’re seeing, and perhaps it’s not the sort of show that two men usually attend together.”

Mori blinked at Fukuzawa. “This is the planetarium,” he said, “Let me see those tickets.” 

Fukuzawa pointed past Mori’s shoulder at a poster on the wall. “It’s this one.”

“Adults-Only Planetarium…A Shameless Night in Ancient Greece…?” Mori read aloud. As he finished his sentence, he quickly covered his mouth with his sleeve, muffling his peals of laughter. “Oh, Fukuzawa-sensei, you’re quite a man.”

“I thought you might like it…because you quoted Socrates…and referenced the Odyssey when we were texting.” He knew he was going out on a limb purchasing tickets to a sexually charged event specifically tailored for couples without discussing it with Mori first, however their conversation during dinner and the walk to the venue reassured Fukuzawa that he made the right choice. There was something unsettling about Mori’s laughter, and Fukuzawa was gripped with the visceral memory of completely misreading the intentions of someone he thought he intimately understood.

Mori noticed Fukuzawa’s sudden stiffness and shook his head rapidly. “I love it,” he said, lowering his voice. “I could kiss you. Well, I can’t kiss you right this second, but consider this a pile of IOUs.”

Fukuzawa let out a sigh of relief, the tension visibly releasing from his body. He decided that despite his anxiety regarding past relationship blunders, the connection between himself and Mori was something he wanted to continue and deepen. Fukuzawa firmly reminded himself that he was not the same man that he was nearly two decades ago; he had taken the time to learn from his mistakes and discover who and what he truly desired in a partner. Tonight, he would trust his intuition and not second guess himself, and if – when – this succeeded, he would have the proof he needed to put his doubts to rest once and for all. “I’m going to go wash my hands before we head inside,” he said, “There’s apparently a cafe with desserts, if you want to take a look.”

The dark desire in Mori’s violet eyes was quickly replaced with a whimsical sparkle. “You’ve said the magic words,” he said, and the two men parted ways for a few moments. When Fukuzawa returned, Mori had a cup in one hand and a small box in the other.

“What in the world–” Fukuzawa looked down at the cup, which held a creamy beverage topped with a heart emblazoned with R-18. He expected Mori to have some semblance of chagrin, but the other man was grinning with delight.

“These are the special desserts for the Adults Planetarium show,” Mori said. “When in Greece, do as the Greeks do, as they say.”

“What’s in the box?” Fukuzawa eyed it suspiciously. “I didn’t look at what they were offering, but maybe I should have.”

“A chocolate covered frozen banana,” Mori said, lowering his eyelashes, and Fukuzawa pursed his lips. 

“They’re really leaning into the theme, aren’t they?” If Mori was enjoying the concept, there was no reason for Fukuzawa to pretend this wasn’t his idea after all. It was time to make the most of the situation. “Well, it’s a good thing we both like sweets, isn’t it?

Mori cocked his head. “Do I look like the kind of man who shares my banana?”

Fukuzawa scratched his chin in faux contemplation. “Perhaps with the right person?”

“I’ll consider it,” Mori gave Fukuzawa a light push towards the entrance to the theater. The touch resonated with both men, far more noticeable than such a casual gesture should have been. On the way to their assigned seating inside the domed theater, Mori looked down at the circular couches closest to the center of the room, clearly set up for couples to enjoy the show. “I wasn’t quite prepared for you to take me to a love hotel on the third date, Fukuzawa-sensei. Especially one with room for an audience.”

Fukuzawa stopped short behind Mori. “That wasn’t my intention,” he said, clearing his throat and reminding himself of his promise to eschew self-doubt. “Those were sold out when I went to buy tickets. I didn’t see them as options.”

Mori hoped that Fukuzawa was teasing him, and that he truly wasn’t so naive. His body language and longing gazes that night certainly indicated otherwise. They took their seats, deliberately situated near a wall rather than an aisle, and once they were seated and their drinks situated, Mori leaned towards Fukuzawa until his lips were centimeters from his ear. “I’m not complaining.”

The lights dimmed until the theater was pitch dark, and the show began. Pink trees and twinkling lights danced above their heads, and a deep voice began to narrate the world of the ancient Greek gods that they were about to explore. Mori relaxed into his chair, taking a sip of the sweet almond beverage he had purchased at the cafe. A woman’s voice chimed in, making jokes at Zeus’s lascivious behaviors, and much of the audience laughed, Fukuzawa included. Mori had to wonder if Fukuzawa was simply laughing along with the group at a salacious joke, or if he was actually familiar with the myth in question. 

Fukuzawa continued to look ahead at the constellations blooming into view as the narrator explained how the beautiful Ganymede was kidnapped by Zeus, the king of the Gods, and taken away to become his cup-bearer for all eternity. In the darkness, Mori felt a hand brush across his hand, and he reached out with his fingers to return its touch. A warm palm curved around his own, large digits twined between his own. but when he felt Mori’s fingers curl around his hands, he tilted his head sideways to see the other man beside him, expression shrouded heavily by darkness but his sly smile clearly visible.

He decided in this case, it didn’t matter if his companion did the required reading.

“If only it were so easy to steal a man away from his humble life as a shepherd to have him for your pleasure for all of eternity,” Mori murmured. As much as he was enjoying the mythology and the science of the presentation they were watching, he desperately wanted to kiss Fukuzawa, and unlike the last time they were presented with this situation, it was not so easy to escape the public situation. He remembered the thrill of kissing another man in the back of a movie theater when he was a student in Germany, the aphrodisiac quality of doing something taboo in a place where they could be seen. Rather than the kiss he desired, Mori stretched his leg to the side as best as he could, slipping his foot out of his sandal and nudging his toes against Fukuzawa’s ankle. It was not an area that he normally found erotic, but in lieu of being able to touch the other man anywhere else, every point they could make contact became potentially erogenous.

“That frozen banana is going to melt at this rate,” Fukuzawa whispered in Mori’s direction.

“It would be a waste of good sweets not to eat it,” Mori picked up the chocolate-dipped banana with its stick, looking pointedly at Fukuzawa as he placed the tip between his lips. A thin layer of condensation formed over the chocolate coating, but it was cold and sweet on his tongue when he took a bite. He was acutely aware of Fukuzawa watching him, and since this was the intended purpose of this snack, there was no reason for either of them to think otherwise. Mori offered the banana to Fukuzawa, holding it in his direction. 
 
“So you’re sharing after all,” Fukuzawa murmured. “It would be impolite of me not to indulge.”

The audience laughed at a joke, and Fukuzawa sincerely doubted anyone in the darkened theater was paying attention to the other patrons if they could see them at all. He bent his head down slightly and took the banana into his mouth, squeezing Mori’s hand as he bit off a mouthful of the dessert. It was delicious and had the right visual effect as the presentation on the screens reduced visibility to silhouettes. Mori took another bite of the banana, his fingers trailing along Fukuzawa’s hand, over his watch band and up the loose sleeve of his light jacket, and offered it to Fukuzawa to finish. “Pity this was so small,” Mori lamented under his breath as he traced the slightly raised tattoo lines on Fukuzawa’s wrist. 

“Shall we think of it as an appetizer?” Fukuzawa asked, his tongue catching a bit of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. It was entirely unfair that Japan’s mores didn’t permit them a single kiss in public, but indirect kisses via a chocolate-covered banana added to the thrill of sharing their dessert. While a musical interlude swelled and bursts of light chased over their heads, both Fukuzawa and Mori were considering the time implications of a third destination that evening. Mori was triangulating the distance via train between the theater, the nearest love hotel that he knew of that turned a blind eye to two men booking a room, and his apartment. Fukuzawa, on the other hand, was trying to decide if it was wise to invite Mori to his house on the third date while wondering if it was irresponsible not to tell his son the next morning that he brought a man home. This was something that he had not considered since Ranpo came to live with him, and he convinced himself that this was a problem for future Yukichi to deal with. He took Mori’s hand again, and Mori leaned towards him as the musical tempo increased. The two discussed their next move in hushed voices.

“Would you be amenable to another stop after the show is over?” asked Mori, leaning his head as close to Fukuzawa as he could get without brushing his lips against the other man’s earlobe.

“Can you get home a couple of hours later tonight?” Fukuzawa’s hand slid past Mori’s, gently fingering the woven cloth on his knee. 

It was going to be a close call, but Mori would not be satisfied if they couldn’t see at least some of their plans through in the time they had that night. If nothing else, he was confident that by the time he got on the train at the end of the evening, all remaining mysteries of Yukichi Fukuzawa’s tattooed right side would be unveiled. “My promise was to be home on the last train. I don’t turn into a pumpkin until half past eleven.” 

Fukuzawa smiled. “Are you going to be terribly upset if we leave as soon as the show is over? I know we didn’t get to look at the exhibits…”

“I’ll bring Dazai to visit the family-friendly presentation one of these days,” Mori replied with a grin. “I hope he pays closer attention to the subject material than you did tonight.”

“I doubt you’re as distracting with him as you are to me,” said Fukuzawa, lightly squeezing Mori’s knee, fully aware of what a hypocrite he was.

“I’m halfway to feigning a medical emergency and leaving through the emergency exit doors,” Mori replied, “so keep your hands to yourself if you don’t want to put me through a sudden cardiac event.” He could feel Fukuzawa’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips, and made a note to assess his resting heart rate at a later date. Mori was less concerned about the other man’s cardiac health as having empirical data on how hot and bothered he was. 

Both men looked up at Zeus and Hera on the screen, floating past Aphrodite and Eros with the constellation Aquila glittering above their heads. The remaining minutes of the show passed with palpable sexual tension and not a word exchanged between them, and when the lights began to come up Fukuzawa and Mori were the first people out of their seats heading towards the doors. 

The sunset visible between Yokohama’s skyscrapers provided a gorgeous backdrop to decide on their next destination. “I know of a hotel we can go to,” Mori said, and when Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow, he added, “They don’t ask questions there. It’s about a half hour north of here.”

“Isn’t that the opposite direction of where you live?” Fukuzawa asked, looking at his phone, then at Mori. “How about we go back to my place instead. It’s in the same direction as your apartment…and my son is sleeping over at his best friend’s house tonight.”

Mori smiled knowingly. “I didn’t forget,” he said, “but I wasn’t about to invite myself over. It sounds like it’s the optimal solution.”

Fukuzawa checked the train timetable on his phone. “If we run we can make the next train.” He glanced at Mori, dressed to the nines in his traditional Japanese clothing. “Can you…even run in that? Especially those shoes?”

“I’m not much of a runner regardless of what I’m wearing,” said Mori, “it’s something my kid and I have in common. But samurai do it all the time, right?” He laughed. “Let’s give it a try, considering my wardrobe handicap, and if we don’t make it I’ll buy you a drink while we wait for the next train.”

Two trains and one sports drink later, Fukuzawa and Mori arrived outside Fukuzawa’s high-rise building, making small talk to distract themselves and each other during their journey. They hoped to have the elevator to themselves but were instead joined by an elderly couple on their way home for the evening. Fukuzawa moved to the rear left hand side of the elevator while Mori stood at the rear right, grateful that their fellow passengers departed a few stories before they reached Fukuzawa’s floor.

Fukuzawa couldn’t unlock the door fast enough. As soon as he and Mori were inside his apartment, he pushed Mori up against the wall in the entryway and kissed him with all of the lustful energy that had accumulated since their last date at the batting cages. Mori responded with equal vigor, crushing his lips against Fukuzawa’s, one hand grasping the back of the taller man’s collar while the other slipped inside his jacket, pulling him closer.

“Been thinking…” Fukuzawa kissed Mori on the forehead. “About this…” Fukuzawa cupped Mori’s cheeks in his hands, his lips a hair’s breadth away from Mori’s. “For days.” Fukuzawa’s left hand carded through Mori’s dark hair, fingertip caressing his ear.

“In this situation, Fukuzawa-sensei, I prefer a man of action over a man of thought,” said Mori. Fukuzawa had him pinned against the wall in a very compromising fashion, and while he was certainly a man of thought himself, at this moment his thoughts were only of action. He used his hold on Fukuzawa’s shirt to pull their bodies flush against each other and capture his lips in a searing kiss. As they kissed, Fukuzawa braced himself against the wall with one arm, and Mori in turn used Fukuzawa’s larger body to steady himself. 

Mori considered himself fairly perceptive, yet one important aspect of Fukuzawa that he hadn’t been able to resolve was whether he preferred to top or bottom. Every time he thought he had it figured out, Fukuzawa would do something to make him doubt his judgment call. He had spent the last week turning scenarios over in his head, preparing himself for either situation. Mori himself was fairly reversible; if he had a strong desire for one or the other he would seek out a partner that complemented that urge. Alternately, if someone he wanted to sleep with was strictly one way or the other, Mori was willing to switch. Since he couldn’t get a good read on Fukuzawa, he simply prepared for both situations, and was thrilled that his pleasurable preparations were not for naught.

They broke apart for a moment to catch their breath. “What are you thinking about?” Fukuzawa asked, wanting desperately to remove the layers of clothing separating them. He reluctantly stepped back from Mori, appreciating how flushed his pale face was.

With a smirk, Mori replied. “You first,” he teased, “I’m testing a theory.” He could feel Fukuzawa’s eyes on him, and he took the opportunity to get a good look at the other man, his jacket rumpled, collar askew, and light-colored trousers doing nothing to hide the beginnings of his arousal. Mori was thankful in that moment for the modesty afforded by his Japanese clothes, as he was already half-hard as well.

“I’m thinking…” Fukuzawa knew very well that Ranpo was at Poe’s, having confirmed his location while they were on the train, but also knew he could never live with himself if his son walked in on him being intimate with Mori in the hallway. “...that we should take this back to my bedroom.”

Mori groaned. “Usually it’s quite easy to read you,” he said, “but sometimes you are simply impenetrable.”

Fukuzawa blinked several times rapidly, and Mori paused for a moment, his kiss-reddened mouth curving into a satisfied grin. “Really? So you’re a bottom?”

“...Is that a problem?” Fukuzawa knit his eyebrows, suppressing the anxious feeling rising into his throat. This was never a problem in the past since nearly every man he had slept with was up front about his preferences; it came with the territory when meeting men in gay bars and online. “I can’t believe we haven’t discussed it yet, to be honest.”

“The detective work has been a welcome distraction from everyday tedium,” Mori said, “I love a good procedural mystery, and this time it was 'The Yokohama Top or Bottom Inquiry'.” To prove his point, Mori placed both hands firmly on Fukuzawa’s chest, walking him backwards a few steps until the taller man was up against the opposite wall in the narrow entryway. “After I’m done kissing you,” he said, moving his hands to Fukuzawa’s shoulders, “I agree that we should take this to your bedroom,” he kissed Fukuzawa roughly, his teeth tugging on his lower lip. Mori opened his eyes for a split second and noticed that Fukuzawa’s creased brow was now smooth. His lips were slightly parted and he was breathing hard, and Mori linked his hands together behind Fukuzawa’s neck and kissed him again, pressing his knee between Fukuzawa’s powerful thighs. “And when we get to your bedroom,” he brought his thumb to Fukuzawa’s mouth, teasing his lower lip gently, “I’m going to fuck you until we both see stars…for the second time tonight.”

Without another word, Fukuzawa kicked off his shoes and took Mori by the hand as he toed his sandals off, leading him down the hallway towards his bedroom. Two sets of footsteps thudded along the wood floor, and as they passed Ranpo’s bedroom, a cursory glance verified that there was indeed no one in the house other than him and Mori. Few words were exchanged during the short walk to the master bedroom, and Fukuzawa didn’t even stop to turn on any of the lights. He opened the bedroom door for Mori and then closed it behind him, turning the latch as he did when they entered the apartment.

“Can’t be too careful, right?” Mori said, surveying Fukuzawa’s tidy, sparsely decorated bedroom. 

“I can’t think of anything worse than my kid walking in on us,” replied Fukuzawa, “Don’t you agree?

Mori appeared deep in thought for a moment. “I think it would be worse if my nurse walked in on me. At least Dazai would never speak of it again. Elise-chan would never let me live it down. She’d probably have a disparaging nickname for whatever face I was making at the time.” 

For a split second Fukuzawa wondered what Mori’s nurse had to do with any of this, but if this was Mori's irreverent way of answering a question that any parent might consider, then whether he was top or bottom was clearly not a deal breaker. Fukuzawa took the lead once again and swept Mori into his arms, leaning in to kiss the words right out of his mouth. He could feel Mori smile against his lips as they kissed and slowly maneuvered themselves back towards Fukuzawa’s bed. Fukuzawa sat on the edge of the bed and Mori reluctantly broke away from him to stand in front of him between his parted knees. 

It was Fukuzawa’s turn to look up at Mori as his hands moved from Fukuzawa’s shoulders to his jacket lapels, taking the linen jacket from Fukuzawa as he slipped it off of his arms. The dark lines of Fukuzawa’s tattoo were faint shadows beneath his white shirt, and Mori suddenly wished he had the physical prowess to rip Fukuzawa’s shirt off in one motion. He settled for his own methodical way, holding Fukuzawa’s gaze for a moment, kissing his lips, and then opening the row of buttons with nimble fingers. Mori paused to observe his lover, his eyes tracing the muscular planes of his chest, the gentle ripple of his abdominal muscles and the line of hair above and below his navel, a silver trail leading the way to even greater pleasure. 

“Like what you see?” 

“You’ve answered another one of my burning questions,” Mori said in a low voice, two fingers tracing the fine hair covering some of Fukuzawa’s pectoral muscles, their light touch sending shivers down his spine. 

Fukuzawa smirked. “You and everyone else,” he replied. “I was told my hair was silver due to a genetic mutation. My parents had to get a doctor’s note because every school I attended tried to deny me admission unless I dyed my hair black. At least now I’m old enough–”

“Back up a minute,” Mori cut in, “Everyone else?”

“Everyone else who sees me with my shirt off,” Fukuzawa shrugged nonchalantly. “I think it’s clear that we’ve both had sex before and it wasn’t always in the dark. But since we’re on the topic, I was clean at my last exam and I always use protection. Good enough?”

“Fair enough,” said Mori, “and likewise. Do you want to see my last test panel results or shall we continue? Because I do like what I see,” his hand strayed to Fukuzawa’s right arm, squeezing his tattooed bicep through his shirt. “Are you in the mood for a little art exhibition?” With both hands, Mori removed Fukuzawa’s shirt, pushing it down to his elbows, at which point Fukuzawa took over, dropping the garment on the floor next to the bed and stretching his long, bare arms up to take Mori by the shoulders and drag him on top of him on the bed. 

Their lips met, mouths opening to each other’s tongues as they arranged themselves on the mattress. Fukuzawa lay on his side facing Mori, and Mori propped himself up on his elbow, gently stroking his fingers over the faint raised lines covering Fukuzawa’s arm.  His tattoo in its entirety was a sight to behold. Thick black lines created larger versions of the patterns that covered his forearm, punctuated by two red flowers, crimson ink faded slightly over the years but still vivid against the black linework and gray shading. Lunging between the flowers was a silver-gray wolf, its narrow eyes the same scarlet as the floral accents. 

“Amazing,” Mori murmured, “I don’t think you should ever wear a shirt. Personal opinion.” He kissed Fukuzawa on the top of his shoulder, brushing his lips along Fukuzawa’s arm, following the path his fingers made a moment ago. 

“I think that would cause a number of problems,” Fukuzawa said, “Work would probably consider it quite distracting.”

“I find it extremely distracting, but in only the best possible way,” Mori’s teeth grazed his arm, followed by the tip of his warm tongue, and Fukuzawa’s bicep tightened in response. “You like that, huh,” he noted, gently nipping the wolf’s pointed ear, eliciting a moan and a shudder from the other man. “Well, I like that. Let me hear it again,” he said, his tongue tracing each of the petals of one of the flowers on the inside of Fukuzawa’s arm. Fukuzawa closed his eyes and allowed Mori free reign, groaning with pleasure as the light touches and bites along his arm resonated through the rest of his body. 

While the majority of Mori’s attention was on Fukuzawa’s tattoo, it was not the sole target of his affections. He gently rolled Fukuzawa from his side onto his back, and then pushed himself up to a seated position, loosening his purple obi and beginning to take off his robes.

Fukuzawa sat up quickly, his stealthy movements and predatory expression befitting the man who bore a silver wolf on his arm. “Let me,” he said with gentle urgency. “I’ve been waiting to do this for too long.”

Mori covered his mouth with his fingertips in mock surprise. “So this is what you were thinking about while we were at dinner tonight? I like it,” he said, “All right, then. I’m all yours. Just be careful with the outfit, Silver Wolf, this is actually one of my bespoke kimonos.”

“I wouldn’t dream of tearing this off of you,” Fukuzawa replied, “Well, I might dream of it, but I know these aren’t inexpensive.” He arranged himself against the headboard, his legs spread out along the length of the mattress. “Come here,” he said to Mori, taking his hand and guiding him to sit between his impossibly long legs, and Mori complied, leaning back against Fukuzawa’s broad chest. Fukuzawa tilted Mori’s head back on his shoulder and kissed his cheek and along the edge of his jaw, following the column of his throat to his collar. His fingers hooked inside Mori’s kimono, opening both sides of his robes and easing the layers of fabric down his shoulders until his upper arms and chest were bare. “What I like about kimono,” Fukuzawa said, kissing the top of Mori’s head and skimming his hands over his shoulders, “is how much they leave to the imagination. I’ve never known anyone who wore them outside of graduation ceremonies,” he said. “On top of that, it’s only the girls and women who wear them.”

Mori smiled knowingly. “I assume you weren’t undressing them with your eyes? That was probably reserved for historical drama hour.”

Fukuzawa chuckled. “In the privacy of my own home,” he added. This time, it was real, and not a figment of his imagination. Mori’s skin was too soft, his body too warm, and the noises he made when Fukuzawa leaned in to kiss his neck were too erotic to be a fantasy. “You feel so good,” he said, curving his hands around Mori’s shoulders, tracing along his collarbones with his long fingers the same way Mori did his tattoo. Mori relaxed into his touch, his hips sliding back on the bed to rest against Fukuzawa’s groin; he was fully hard, and the cut of his pants offered him no relief. “As much as I like these clothes, they have worn out their welcome tonight.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” Mori said, shifting against Fukuzawa, very much aware of the erection pressing into the small of his back. “I really like those pants. They make your ass look hot. Maybe you should wear them for a while longer.” With his obi untied, it was simple for Mori to slide one leg out from the split in his kimono. “Kimono don’t do anything for my ass, but they are so much more convenient at times like this.” He raised his leg in the air, taunting Fukuzawa with his freedom of movement while wiggling his hips more than necessary against Fukuzawa’s groin. 

“If you keep teasing me I’m going to have to retaliate,” said Fukuzawa, using the same tone of voice he would with a troublesome student. 

Mori wriggled out of the top half of his kimono, arching his back suggestively as he stretched his arms back to encircle Fukuzawa’s neck. “Show me your worst, Bottom-sensei.”

The larger man growled playfully, untying Mori’s obi and spreading his robes open until he was fully exposed, save for his underwear, which did nothing to hide his very obvious erection. After this was done, Fukuzawa slid his arms beneath Mori’s to lift him off of his lap, creating enough space to discard the robes draped over his legs. While Fukuzawa tenderly manhandled him, it occurred to Mori that Fukuzawa was the first partner that he allowed himself to be so vulnerable with so early in the relationship. It wasn’t just that Fukuzawa seemed like a decent man; there were plenty of decent men who couldn’t be trusted as far as Mori could throw them. Rather, from their time together so far, Mori determined that Fukuzawa’s strength seemed to be tempered by his own vulnerability.

Fukuzawa reached for his belt buckle, and Mori chose to observe as he jerked the leather strap out of the loops, opening his pants and sliding them down over his thighs and ass. The pale gray boxer briefs were perfectly coordinated with the rest of his outfit, and Mori hummed appreciatively at how well they accentuated the bulge in front as well as the curve of his ass in back. He was a sight to behold, from his silver hair framing his strong jaw to his toned thighs. Mori looked up to meet Fukuzawa’s gaze, and saw that his lover was grinning down at him from above. “What’s so funny?”

“The briefs are a departure from the traditional Japanese ensemble,” said Fukuzawa. “I like them, though.”

Mori snapped the waistband. “Fundoshi aren’t very practical when using modern-day restrooms and to be honest, they look far too much like diapers for my comfort.”

“Oh god,” Fukuzawa said, “You’re going to ruin historical dramas for me.” He abruptly straddled Mori on the bed, pushing him into the mattress and kissing him until they were both gasping for air. 

“Spare my life, Fukuzawa-dono,” said Mori in the best archaic Japanese he could muster, carding his fingers through Fukuzawa’s hair, then kissing his lips, the corner of his mouth, and moving up to tease the shell of his ear with his tongue. “However shall I demonstrate fealty to you, my lord?”

Fukuzawa took Mori’s hand and guided it between his legs. “How about this?” he asked, rocking backwards to a kneeling position, presenting himself to the other man. While he sometimes had misgivings about emotional nuance, Fukuzawa was wholly confident in his physique and sexual performance.

“With pleasure,” Mori replied, his hands moving to Fukuzawa’s waist and skimming over his hips, reaching behind to grab his ass with both hands. Fukuzawa’s muscles tensed and relaxed under his touch, and Mori squeezed one of his cheeks while drawing his finger along his crack through the tight fabric. Fukuzawa sucked in a breath, and Mori smiled lasciviously. He was going to enjoy this even more than he originally expected. His left hand moved to Fukuzawa’s hip and his right hand wandered to the front, drawing his fingers along his hard cock, straining against its confines. Mori palmed Fukuzawa’s erection, feeling the intense heat against his hand, and he looked up to find the other man’s gaze trained on him, watching his every move with wanting eyes. “Let’s see what’s in this package, shall we?” He made short work of the last piece of clothing between him and Fukuzawa, pushing the undergarment to his knees and taking the other man’s stiff prick in his hand. 

Before he could start doing anything, Fukuzawa reached down and stopped his hand. “I want to see you too,” he declared. While straddling Mori’s thighs, he reached down to Mori’s waist, pulling the briefs down to reveal Mori’s cock, standing proud and weeping fluid from the tip. 

“I wonder if this is how Zeus felt looking at Ganymede for the first time,” Fukuzawa said, admiring his lover’s lean, beautiful body from above. Compared to Fukuzawa, Mori had sparse body hair, but it was darker and therefore stood out against his pale skin. 

Mori pursed his lips. “Like an entire lifetime wasn’t enough for everything he wanted to do to him?” He thought of Zeus carrying Ganymede away, and smirked at the thought of Ganymede turning Zeus on his back and riding him like Pegasus. This was turning out to be an evening with a multitude of pleasant surprises. 

“Exactly,” Fukuzawa shifted forward until his cock was practically touching Mori’s while stroking Mori’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Well, immortality was a hell of a drug, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, time certainly was on their side,” replied Mori, taking Fukuzawa’s hand in his own and guiding it to their cocks. As much as he was enjoying the discussion and under different circumstances would continue along this train of thought, the intellectual flirtation only exacerbated his pent-up desire for Fukuzawa’s touch.  “Where do you keep your supplies?”

From his position atop Mori, Fukuzawa wasn’t sure he could reach his nightstand drawer, and Mori temporarily released Fukuzawa to allow him to stretch across his body, giving Mori an ideal view of his physique. After retrieving the necessities, Fukuzawa filled both Mori’s hand and his own with lube, repositioning his lower body so their cocks brushed against each other. Looking into each other’s eyes, the men intertwined their fingers, pressing their erections together and slowly moving their hands in unison over their stiff flesh from base to tip. 

Mori hissed as Fukuzawa stretched his fingers and increased the pressure on their sensitive flesh. The friction and motion of his own hand combined with Fukuzawa’s created pleasure that was almost too much to bear. His instinct was to thrust his hips forward, but the more synchronized their movements, the better it felt. “This is incredible,” he moaned, reaching for the lube. “I wish I had the stamina of a Greek god…but I am a mere human man…who would very much like to come inside of you,” he closed his eyes and reluctantly disentangled his hot, sticky fingers from his lover’s grip.

Fukuzawa continued to stroke his cock slowly, gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath. “I want you inside me,” he said, slowly increasing his pace, “and I want to come like this.” 

Mori lowered his eyelashes and put on his best subservient look. “As you wish, Fukuzawa-dono.” His lover was a sight to behold, eyes screwed shut as he worked his cock rapidly, silver hair swaying as he dropped his head down to concentrate. Mori observed the motions Fukuzawa used to pleasure himself, grateful to be an excellent visual learner. “Come for me,” he said, “show me how much you want me.”

Dropping forward to use the wall for support, Fukuzawa jerked his cock faster, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. His powerful shoulder strokes caused the silver wolf tattoo to move with his bicep, an intensely erotic image that Mori would not soon forget. “Ah…god!” he cried out, gouts of hot fluid splashing onto his lover’s chest. 

Both Fukuzawa and Mori were still for a moment; Fukuzawa was completely spent, and Mori was attempting to be considerate of the bedsheets that the other man had to sleep in that night. “Oh…about that…'' Fukuzawa said after catching his breath, looking down at Mori’s torso. “Here,” he handed Mori a tissue; without missing a beat, Mori wiped away the remnants of Fukuzawa’s orgasm and pushed himself up against the headboard. 

“The more I know about the real you, the more I like you, Yukichi Fukuzawa,” Mori said, reaching for the lube on the nightstand. “You have this boring, professional exterior, with your suits and your watches and your extremely socially acceptable job, and your son who is not on a first name basis with the local police precinct–” 

“Well, he actually is, but that’s a story for another time,” Fukuzawa shook his head and smiled.

Mori tucked that bit of trivia away for later and continued, “--and then there’s the other side of you that comes out as the clothes come off,” he said, his hands on Fukuzawa’s shoulders, easing him back against the mattress. “As soon as I saw that tattoo of yours peeking out from beneath your watch at the bar, I knew I had to get to know you better.”

“And now that you have?” Fukuzawa opened his legs to Mori, allowing him to kneel between his thighs.

Mori dropped a condom on the bed and then coated his fingers in lube. “I am extremely pleased that I took the time to learn that you are a gentleman in the streets and a freak in the sheets,” he replied, pushing Fukuzawa’s right knee towards his shoulder. Fukuzawa tilted his hips upwards until Mori’s slick fingers could reach between his cheeks, clenching his teeth at the feeling of two of those fingers breaching his entrance.

“You don’t waste any time, Mori-sensei,” Fukuzawa groaned, pulling his other knee back as well. He was fully exposed to his lover, who took great pleasure in teasing his puckered hole with his fingertips before pushing them inside. 

Mori drew his fingers out of his lover with an obscene noise, then pushed them back in, repeating this motion several times. “We have no time to waste, Fukuzawa-dono,” he replied, his left hand working his painfully hard cock while his right hand prepared the other man’s body. “If only I didn’t have to be home by the last train. I feel like a modern day Cinderella.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Fukuzawa offered, his hips rocking forward to meet Mori’s fingers each time he pushed them inside. Mori crooked his fingers, searching for a particular spot, and when he found it Fukuzawa groaned and cursed, his hands grasping his knees tightly.

“You assume you’ll be able to sit up when I’m finished with you,” Mori responded in a low voice, “because if you sound like that while I’m fucking you I can’t be responsible for what I’ll do.”

“Then fuck me,” Fukuzawa pleaded – or was that a challenge? Whichever the case, he was more than ready for Mori, who was almost painfully hard at this point. Mori tore open the condom and rolled it onto his cock, applying a fresh coat of lube to both himself and Fukuzawa before easing the head of his prick past Fukuzawa’s tight entrance. Fukuzawa could feel every inch of Mori as he eased himself inside his body, his careful motion a contrast to his sharp words. “You feel incredible,” he breathed, looking up at Mori above him as the other man began to move back and forth. 

The heat and pressure surrounding Mori’s cock was indescribable. He was torn between a leisurely fuck, extending their pleasure as long as he could and pounding Fukuzawa as he had promised, taking advantage of the other man’s larger, stronger body to have his way with him. Mori settled for somewhere in between, slowly drawing his stiff member out and guiding it back in, increasing his pace as his climax became more and more urgent. Mori’s garrulous banter gave way to panting and groaning as they fucked. “I don’t know how much longer…I can last…” he said, his labored speech punctuated by the rhythmic slapping of his hips against Fukuzawa’s ass. As his pleasure built to climax, Mori cried out, a guttural moan of lust and satisfaction that was one of the most erotic noises Fukuzawa had ever heard. He buried his cock deep inside Fukuzawa, collapsing against the expanse of his chest as he came, listening to Fukuzawa moan and sigh along with Mori until he was spent.

Fukuzawa kissed the top of Mori’s head, wrapping his tattooed arm around him and drawing small, lazy circles on his back as Mori caught his breath. When Mori opened his eyes, he saw the silver wolf looking at him from Fukuzawa’s arm. “Don’t judge me,” he said to the wolf, “This is your fault to begin with.”

“What are you…” Fukuzawa peered at Mori, following his gaze to his right bicep. “Are you talking to my tattoo?”

“It was looking at me,” Mori said, listening to Fukuzawa’s pounding heart in his ear more than the words coming out of his own mouth. “I had to say something.” When he had recovered enough to sit up, Fukuzawa reached for the tissues again and handed them to Mori; after pulling out, Fukuzawa quickly headed to the restroom and Mori took the opportunity to dispose of the condom and stretch out in his lover’s bed, releasing any remaining tension from his muscles. It had been some time since he had such an athletic romp. Mori decided that between all of the indoor and outdoor physical activity that he was getting lately, he probably needed to start stretching or taking vitamins.

He had no concept of how much time had passed since Fukuzawa locked the door and backed him up against the wall, and his phone was somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor. Fortunately, Fukuzawa had a wall clock opposite his bed, which he had noticed during his initial survey of the room and quickly forgotten in favor of more pleasurable pursuits. He was getting very good at calculating the time it took to get home from various destinations in Yokohama, all thanks to this exciting new development. 

Fukuzawa came back to the bedroom, a sight to behold in the low light. The shadows accented his muscular form and drew attention to his strong jaw, framed by his tousled silver hair. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and regarded Mori on the bed. “I guess I don’t need to tell you to make yourself comfortable,” he said. He glanced up at the clock and then back at Mori, who had pulled the sheet over his lower half. “When do you need to leave to get home on time?”

“It depends on what horrors I want to inflict on the Saturday night train back home,” Mori replied. “Probably twenty minutes? A half hour if my poor old corpse can handle another run tonight.” He lifted up his leg and rubbed his calf dramatically. 

Fukuzawa sat down on the edge of the bed. “I told you I would drive you home,” he said, “Is Dazai-kun going to be upset if some strange man drops you off?”

Mori shook his head. “He’s probably on his computer and won’t even notice. I told him I would be home at a specific time and I need to stick to it, otherwise he’ll use it against me next time I try to enforce boundaries with him.”

“Fair enough,” said Fukuzawa, “Lead by example, right?” He looked down at Mori, his dark hair feathered over Fukuzawa’s pillow. It had been sixteen years since someone had gazed up at him from this position with a sated look in their eyes; this time, he could look back without any confusion or frustration. 

“Exactly. It’s so hard when what I really want is exactly the opposite of the right thing to do, though.” Mori sighed, reaching up to stroke Fukuzawa’s arm. Fukuzawa turned towards Mori, leaning down and kissing him. He grabbed his boxer briefs off the floor, stepping into them and then returning to bed to stretch out next to Mori. The two men rearranged their positions until Mori’s head was on Fukuzawa’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have a pack of cigarettes.”

“I do, but you can’t smoke them in here,” Fukuzawa said, “Ranpo hates the smell. If you want to smoke on the balcony, though…”

“That means I have to get up and put clothes on,” Mori whined, “I can abstain. The universe had better reward me for being such a good boy.”

Fukuzawa grinned. “You’re such a good boy,” he said, kissing Mori on the forehead. “You shared your treats with me,” he added, kissing Mori on the tip of his nose, “You were considerate of my bedsheets.” He kissed Mori’s smiling mouth.

“You noticed,” Mori said proudly, “I was afraid you were too lost in the sauce to recognize my gesture of goodwill.”

“It was an afterthought,” Fukuzawa admitted, kissing Mori again. “You made it very hard to think about anything else.”

Mori nodded. “I completely lost track of time as soon as we started kissing,” he said, “Which is the only reason I am restraining myself now.”

“Okay,” said Fukuzawa, looking up at the ceiling, “If making out again is off limits, and we have fifteen minutes to kill, what would you like to do?”

“Hmm,” Mori scratched his chin. “Tell me about your tattoo. If the silver wolf and I are going to be better acquainted, I want to hear about how you, a Japanese man with a full awareness of the implications of large tattoos in Japanese society, ended up with it.”

Fukuzawa pressed his lips together. “Well, I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to return to Japan at the time I got it,” he said, thinking back to the early days of his graduate study abroad program. “Tattoos weren’t as widespread in the United States as they are now, but San Francisco has always been a little bit ahead of its time, at least as far as cultural mores go. A couple of my friends were getting tattoos, and I really liked the way they looked.” While some of the peripheral details had faded into history, he remembered the thought process and the pain of receiving the tattoo very clearly. 

“Did your friends get tattoos as large as yours?” Mori couldn’t help touching Fukuzawa’s arm as he spoke; since his patients were all children, he hadn’t been up close and personal with a tattoo since his days at the nightclubs in Berlin. Even then, none of his partners had one quite as large as Fukuzawa’s, and while he had sex with at least one of them, they were never as intimately acquainted as he and Fukuzawa already were. 

“One got a tattoo on his calf,” Fukuzawa replied, “And my, uh, girlfriend…she got one on her lower back.” It was somewhat awkward discussing his ex while curled up in bed with a man, but Mori didn’t move or make a noise. “Mine ended up being bigger than both of theirs, though. At first it was just the red flowers and the wolf on my bicep,” he explained, Mori’s fingertips following along the lines as he described them.

“How does a tattoo just…grow?” Mori pressed a kiss to the top of Fukuzawa’s shoulder as he looked up at the clock. The forward march of time was deeply unfair in situations like these. “I am familiar with a number of dermatological phenomena and this isn’t one of them.”

Fukuzawa laughed, shaking his head. “I would say it’s more of a psychological phenomenon than anything else. It sounds weird, but the pain and endorphins are cathartic. It hurts, but you want more. For the record, a cigarette is also nice after a tattoo session.”

Mori smirked. “So, a little like rough sex,” he said, dragging his fingernail along Fukuzawa’s collarbone. 

“I thought you were being good,” Fukuzawa chided, reaching towards Mori’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Save this for the next time I see you.”

“Duly noted,” Mori acquiesced. “All right, then. Before I drag myself out of bed to wash up and get dressed, is there a reason for the silver wolf?”

Fukuzawa nodded, looking down at his bicep. “I’ve always been a bit of a lone wolf,” he said, “and it kind of stuck as a nickname, both in Japan and in America. The color matches my hair.” He pushed his hand through his hair again. “Even if I lose my hair, the wolf will always be silver,” he added with a laugh.

Mori snorted. “Don’t tell me you were thinking about hair loss when you were in your early twenties.”

“No,” Fukuzawa said, “But as you age you find new ways to think about your youthful transgressions.” There was a period of time after he returned to Japan in which he regretted his decision to get the tattoo and considered having it removed, but after extensive research and a consultation with a specialist, he decided against it. “Especially the ones that are with you for the rest of your life.”

“Last question, then I swear I’ll get up and get dressed. Did your girlfriend like the tattoo?”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Fukuzawa quickly corrected Mori.

“Obviously,” Mori replied. He sensed tension building in Fukuzawa’s shoulders, and added, “If you don’t want to discuss it–”

“She liked it in theory, but…” Fukuzawa sighed, remembering an argument he hadn’t thought of in over a decade. “When I told her I was going to get a tattoo, she wanted us to get something matching. I wouldn’t do it, and she couldn’t understand why I refused. In hindsight, I’m sure she’s glad neither of us did, although…” He glanced at Mori, listening raptly at his side. “Well, a kid lasts just as long as a tattoo, so I guess…” Fukuzawa trailed off, the familiar lump of guilt filling his throat until he could no longer speak.

Mori stretched up and kissed Fukuzawa on the lips. “I understand,” he said, “Thank you for indulging me.” While he had never been in Fukuzawa’s situation, at his pediatric practice he cared for more than one child that was an unexpected product of a relationship that was not meant to be. He started to get up, and Fukuzawa tightened his arm around Mori, pulling him in close for another long kiss before finally releasing him to get ready to leave.

He made a beeline in the same direction Fukuzawa went earlier, picking up his underwear from the floor as he made his way to the small restroom. Mori splashed his face with water and wet the hand towel to clean his body as best as he could without a proper shower. He supposed that if he didn’t want to hear about Fukuzawa’s previous relationship, he shouldn’t have asked about something as personal as his tattoo. Unfortunately, he had a habit of letting curiosity get the better of him. Mori felt no jealousy or ill will towards a woman he would most likely never meet, since it seemed for all intents and purposes that her relationship with Fukuzawa existed only peripherally via whatever contact their son had with his mother. 

In a way, Mori was thankful for Ranpo’s mother, even though she still seemed to cause Fukuzawa a certain amount of emotional stress. Without her, there was a decent chance that he and Fukuzawa would have never made each other’s acquaintance. Time would tell how their past would affect their present, and Mori was no stranger to playing the long game when there was something he wanted. He felt fairly certain that he was in this for the long haul, and hoped that the other man felt the same way. And it was a good thing that Mori appreciated a good mystery, because he still had a lot to learn about Yukichi Fukuzawa. 

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Fukuzawa was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and casual pants, his linen outfit from earlier neatly arranged over the back of the desk chair. “I would offer you a shirt,” Fukuzawa said, “but I don’t think any of my pants would fit you.”

“It’s fine,” Mori said, collecting his kimono from the end of the bed where Fukuzawa left it. “Coming home in clothes I wasn’t wearing when I left would definitely result in a discussion either of us are ready to have yet.” He shook out his robes and dressed quickly, cinching his obi around his waist and patting his pockets for his personal belongings. “All right, let’s head out. It’s probably fifteen minutes to my apartment at this time of night.”

Fukuzawa unlocked his bedroom door and Mori followed him towards the front door. He paused when Fukuzawa veered left into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and removing two bottles of water, offering one to Mori. “I guess it’s a little late to offer you a drink,” he said sheepishly.

“You can impress me with your hospitality next time I come over,” Mori accepted the water while slipping his sandals on.

“I’ll make sure I have a sports drink on hand,” Fukuzawa replied with a warm smile. 

After dropping Mori off outside his apartment building in a neighboring ward, Fukuzawa took the scenic route back home. Alone with his thoughts, he wondered if he should have told Mori about his ex-girlfriend or if the better move would have been to avoid the question as he normally did. In the comfortable afterglow, Mori’s warm body nestled against his, it was easier to answer his question honestly than to fabricate a story. Mori seemed to take it in stride and had graciously accepted his invitation for another date as soon as they had a chance to check their calendars. Based on the vibration of his phone in his pocket, the other man was one step ahead of him already. 

Fukuzawa sighed and shook his head. He really had to stop doubting himself when it came to relationships. When he thought a bit longer about their conversation, he realized that opening up to Mori was a step towards his goal of someday being able to be honest with Ranpo about what happened between his parents.

Thank you, he texted Mori as soon as he parked his car, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes as a cathartic wave of emotion engulfed his tired body. 

Chapter Text

“Oda-sensei?” 

There was a knock at his closed door, and Sakunosuke Oda looked up from the papers on his desk. He was glad for the interruption; one of the reasons he chose physical education as his specialty was that it required minimal grading. 

“Come on in,” he said, and the door swung open to reveal an athletic first-year boy dressed in a soccer uniform. “Oh, Nakahara-kun. Hasn’t practice already started? Does Coach Ishikawa need something?”

“Yeah, uh, no, I came inside to use the bathroom and I found Dazai-san in one of the stalls with blood all over him.” The young redhead made a disgusted face. “I asked him if he was okay, and he told me to come and get you.”

“Chri–ah, thank you for letting me know,” said Oda, opening his desk drawer and removing a first aid kit. “You can head out to practice. I’ll call the nurse if this is serious.” After Chuuya Nakahara was gone, Oda took the bodily fluids cleanup kit off of his office wall and closed the door behind them. He entered the nearest boys’ bathroom to the sound of soft moaning. “Dazai-kun?”

“Oda-sensei,” called a weak voice from the stall closest to the window. The door was slightly ajar, and Oda approached, pushing the door open to find Osamu Dazai crumpled against the wall next to the toilet, blood dripping down his jaw along his neck and soaking the shoulder of his school uniform. 

“How did this happen?” Oda knelt on the bathroom floor next to Dazai, taking latex gloves and a handful of first aid supplies out of the kit. “Did someone hurt you?”

“I’ve been hurt by so many people,” Dazai sighed, leaning his head against the tiled wall. 

Oda tore open an alcohol pad and patted it against Dazai’s neck, attempting to figure out the location of the wound. “This might sting,” he said, “Nakahara-kun didn’t beat you up, did he?”

Dazai shook his head, and Oda looked down at Dazai’s hand, fingers clenched tightly around an object roughly the size and shape of a ballpoint pen. He glanced back up at Dazai and with a gloved hand pushed Dazai’s shaggy brown hair back from his face, revealing his wounded earlobe. Oda had no idea earlobes contained so much blood, but based on the condition of the right side of the young man’s face, he had either done significant damage or he had excellent circulation. “What’s in your hand?”

“Nothing.”

Oda wiped the blood from Dazai’s ear using a fresh alcohol pad. He patted the young man’s  shoulder as he yelped from the sting, then handed Dazai a few squares of gauze before standing up. “Hold those against your ear,” he said, “I’ll be right back.” Dazai watched as Oda strode briskly towards the door, locking it and returning to sit cross-legged next to Dazai on the floor. “Nakahara-kun said you asked for me specifically,” he said, opening a bottle of water and pouring half its contents into a paper cup, handing the bottle to Dazai before taking a sip from the cup. “I feel like if he did this to you, he wouldn’t have come to me to get help.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Dazai muttered, “He couldn’t beat me up anyway. He’s too short.”

Oda chose not to point out how much stronger Chuuya Nakahara was than Osamu Dazai. If he had to bet on one of them winning a fight, it would not be anyone in present company. “Did someone else do this to you?”

“No,” Dazai looked at the floor, pushing the gauze firmly against the side of his head. “I tried to pierce my ear,” he admitted with chagrin. “It hurt way more than I expected and started bleeding everywhere. So I stopped.” 

Oda bit the inside of his lip to suppress a chuckle. “Well, I’m sorry that it didn’t work out the way you wanted,” he said, “But I am glad to hear that nobody else was involved. That’s a lot more paperwork. We might even have to file a police report.”

“Please don’t call the cops,” Dazai said, his blank eyes suddenly clouded with concern. “I don’t want to go back to inpatient.” His fist gradually unclenched and a catheter needle rolled from his fingers to the floor. Oda picked it up gingerly by the plastic end and wrapped the sharp end in gauze; he would take it to the nurse’s office to dispose of later. 

“Is something going on at home?” Oda knew from school records that Dazai’s adoptive father was a doctor, and there was no mention of his biological parents. There were certainly plenty of unscrupulous parents in the world, but from the interactions Oda had with Mori-sensei he did seem to care about his son, and Oda liked to think he was a decent judge of character. Following the recent incident in his class, he checked Dazai’s disciplinary and attendance records out of curiosity. The paperwork on file painted the portrait of a student who understood very well how to get attention, but not through academics, although he seemed to be at or above his grade level in all of his classes other than phys ed – which ironically was his best attended subject. “Did you get that needle from your father?”

“I stole it from his doctor’s bag,” said Dazai. “He doesn’t care about what I do though. He just makes me go to school so he doesn’t have to be bothered by me.”

Oda nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure it’s tough for both of you, not having a mom around either.” He shifted on the floor and decided he’d had enough of the hard tiles, not to mention the germs indubitably present on the ground. He stood, dusting off his legs halfheartedly. “Can you stand up?” 

Dazai nodded, still clutching the bloody gauze to his left ear and holding the paper cup of water in his right hand. He handed Oda the gauze from his ear and pushed himself to a standing position. Oda placed the bloody gauze and the needle in one of the plastic bags from his cleanup kit, tying it shut before stripping off his gloves. “Here,” he handed Dazai another pile of gauze squares as well as an alcohol pad, “Clean yourself up and meet me in my office. I’m going to throw this out in the nurse’s office. If the janitorial staff finds this there will be a lot of questions.” 

He unlocked the washroom and during the short walk to the nurse’s office, he wondered if he was breaking any sort of school rules by not reporting this immediately. Oda knew firsthand how intervention by the right adult could help a young person from going off the rails. From their limited interactions Mori-sensei seemed like he was trying, but Oda remembered his own parents’ voices falling on deaf ears when he was Dazai’s age. If he reported this incident to the school administrators, Dazai would receive another strike on his record, but that was not the only reason Oda wanted to keep this between them for the time being. For some reason Dazai seemed to trust Oda and the young teacher did not want to betray his student’s faith.

When he returned to his office after disposing of the gauze and needles and thoroughly cleaning his hands, Dazai was waiting outside. His hand was still pressed against his ear and he had a blank look on his face. Oda unlocked the door and Dazai followed him into his office, sitting in the same position as he had when his father came to pick him up after the Marxism incident. His expression and posture were identical to the previous meeting, with the exception of the gauze held against the side of his head.

“Do you want some more water?” Oda offered, reaching for another bottle from the stash behind his desk.

“I’m fine,” Dazai replied morosely.

Oda shrugged, opening the bottle and taking a long drink, then setting it on his desk. “Okay, then how about I tell you something about me? Or would that be a boring adult story?”

Dazai’s eyes lit up. “Sure, as long as you’re not going to call Mori-san.”

“I can’t promise I won’t call him, but that’s got a lot to do with how you’re feeling and if you think you can get home on your own after an injury,” said Oda. “Anyway, it might be hard to believe, but I was a kid like you once.”

Dazai grumbled. “I’m almost fifteen.”

“Right. I was a young man like you, weary of the world and tired of school.” Oda corrected himself,  taking a  sip of water and swallowing his smile. “Anyhow, I got involved with some…shady folks, and ended up way over my head. My parents didn’t know what to do with me. I don’t think they ever considered their sweet little boy was going to be running errands for one of the Yokohama yakuza clans instead of playing basketball after school,” he said. 

Dazai’s eyes widened. Adults had told him a variety of stories over the years and he was also a skilled enough liar to sense when someone was fibbing to him. He looked at Oda, clean shaven and strait-laced in a fitted polo shirt, and tried to imagine him as a teenager with a group of tattooed criminals. “No way,” he finally said, his tone equal parts disbelief and awe.

Oda shrugged. “Long story short, I ended up getting in some trouble with the law, and my parents told me that if I didn’t get my act together I was going to military school or jail, which were more or less the same thing as far as I was concerned.”

“For real,” Dazai said, sitting straighter in his chair. “I got threatened with military school too.”

“By Mori-sensei?”

“No, my bio dad,” Dazai said, and then his eyes clouded over again. “I didn’t think you could become a teacher if you were in the yakuza.”

“I was a gofer, not an actual member,” said Oda. “They got kids like me to run errands that their lowest-ranked people didn’t want to do. Who knows what might have happened in another universe where someone hadn’t intervened. Maybe I’d be the boss of the Mafia,” he said with a grin. Dazai’s hand had dropped to his side while still holding the gauze; it looked like the bleeding had finally ceased. “Can I bandage that for you?” The boy nodded, and Oda sat down in the chair next to him, taking out a bandage and tape from his first aid kit. “Hold your hair back,” he said to Dazai, who pushed his unkempt hair away from his face while Oda attached a bandage to his earlobe with medical tape. 

“So I guess you didn’t go to jail,” Dazai said, attempting to crane his head around to look at his teacher. 

Oda placed one hand on top of Dazai’s head to keep him still. “The attorney who took my case was a public defender. He told me that I had to get out of the criminal world before it was too late,” he said, “He asked me what I wanted to do with my life – he was right when he guessed that it wasn’t smuggling stolen goods and sneaking kids from my school into pachinko halls.”

“Did you tell him you wanted to be a teacher?”

Crumpling the bandage wrapper into a ball, Oda shook his head and returned to his desk. “I actually wanted to write novels or manga. I started hanging out with the yakuza to get material, since I didn’t think I could write a cool crime drama without some first hand experience with crime.”

“Huh,” Dazai said. “Mori-san likes one of those cop shows. The one with the guys who wear sunglasses at night. He watches it all the time, it has the worst music ever. I bet the guys who wrote it weren’t yakuza.”

“Oh, Abunai Deka? Yeah, my folks watched it when I was a kid,” Oda nodded, suddenly remembering the hook to one of the theme songs. 

“Yeah, that one,” Dazai rolled his eyes. “Neither cops nor yakuza wrote that show. People write about stuff they don’t know all the time. I mean, I have to write all kinds of papers about stuff that doesn’t matter, so I just read a lot of books, repeat what they say, and everyone thinks I know what I’m talking about. I don’t even have to pay attention in class, it’s so boring and easy.”

“You’re smarter than I was, then,” Oda said, leaning back in his chair. “My attorney gave me the first volume of a manga series and told me that I should read it. That series honestly turned my life in a new direction. I still think I’d like to write someday, but when I went to college I decided that if it was all the same, I’d do something to help kids out, so I became a teacher like the guy in the manga.” He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “I, ah, don’t really like grading papers or assigning homework, though, and I was always athletic, so I decided to be a physical education teacher.”

Dazai hummed and tapped his foot. “Maybe I should be a PE teacher.” His eyes sparkled with excitement.

Oda raised an eyebrow. “You hate sports and running, though. Honestly, I’m surprised you have perfect attendance in my class, of all subjects.”

“That’s because…” Dazai trailed off. The glimmer in his brown eyes faded as fast as it came to life. “You’re nice to me.”

“Well, I appreciate that very much,” said Oda. He was as pleased as he was intimidated by the knowledge that Dazai thought so highly of him. “So, you know, things seem like they’re hard, and your dad probably disciplines you in ways that seem really unfair–”

“Manual labor and forced education.” Dazai grimaced and sighed deeply.

“Chores and homework?” Oda replied with a minuscule smirk.

“Yeah, that.” Dazai nodded, impressed with Oda’s understanding.

Oda thought for a moment and finally offered the best advice he could muster. “It gets better,” he said, “High school isn’t forever. So hang in there. Life has a lot to offer, you just need to find your reason to live it. If I could do it, I think you can too. Okay?”

“Okay...I guess,” Dazai replied with a smile that Oda could have sworn was genuine.

—

“And that is the story of my son and his self-inflicted head wound,” said Mori, plopping down in the second patio chair on Fukuzawa’s balcony. “Thankfully, his teacher did proper first aid so he should be fine. I cleaned him up, changed his dressing, and assigned him an essay on Vincent Van Gogh due by the time I get home tonight. Hopefully it will give him some perspective on the dangers of self-mutilation.”

“His teacher called you and told you about this yesterday?” Fukuzawa said incredulously, accepting the lit cigarette from Mori, quickly pushing the balcony door closed before the smoke had a chance to enter the house. 

“Yes, and then Dazai filled in the blanks.” Mori blew out an exasperated breath around his own cigarette between his teeth as he cinched his obi around his waist. “You see why I was desperate to see you for some stress relief. At least he chose a Friday afternoon to act out this time.” He leaned back in the chair, appreciating the complementary color of the smoke swirling around Fukuzawa’s tousled silver hair. Just like the last time they had sex, Fukuzawa changed into casual clothes afterwards; rather than a shirt and tie, he now wore a soft cotton tee shirt and a pair of gym shorts. If this pattern continued, Mori was going to leave a yukata or at the very least his own shirt and shorts at Fukuzawa’s apartment to wear while they smoked after sex. Dazai didn’t care if he came home smelling like smoke, but he couldn’t wear a smoky kimono to work until it was cleaned. He had a distant memory of his own pediatrician smelling like cigarettes, but the Showa era ended long before Mori got his medical license.

Fukuzawa touched his own earlobe. “Does his school allow ear piercings? At mine, boys are technically not allowed to have piercings but there are a couple of our students that take their piercings out during the school day, so the principal turns a blind eye to it.”

“Of course not. His school is fairly traditional in all aspects of student appearance. I did tell him that once he graduates, if he still wants his ear pierced I’d be happy to do it for him. He looked a little pale – he hates pain but loves attention, you see.”

“Perhaps you successfully dissuaded him,” Fukuzawa blew out a mouthful of smoke. “It sounds to me like school isn’t challenging him enough. You said he was a smart kid and it seems like his teacher agrees.” Fukuzawa rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, if you don’t want unsolicited advice, just say so. You can take the man out of the educational setting but I guess you can’t take the educator out of the man,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t mind a little recommendation on education,” said Mori, “I mean, I’ve certainly given plenty of unsolicited medical advice.”

“People get touchy when you talk about their kids,” said Fukuzawa, grimacing slightly at well over a decade of memories from parent-teacher conferences. 

Mori guffawed loudly enough for Fukuzawa to shush him so as not to awaken his neighbors. “You don’t say.” He offered Fukuzawa a fistbump and a wry smile. “I think you’re more than just another parent. You’re someone I can trust.”

Fukuzawa nodded, returning the fistbump. “The feeling is mutual.” He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the night sky. The days were getting longer with the approach of summer, and there was still a faint orange glow close to the horizon. “How about online correspondence education, if traditional high school isn’t a good fit for him?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t be home to supervise him,” Mori stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray between them and lit another. “He’s on his phone and computer all the time when he’s not at school. That’s literally all he does while I’m out with you, other than his assigned reading. Also, he really needs human interaction – his social IQ is critically deficient.”

“Huh,” Fukuzawa said, the burning end of his cigarette approaching his lips as he considered options for Dazai’s situation. After a moment he snapped his fingers. “Fast track his graduation. We’ve done it before at my high school, although admittedly in our case, the students wanted to enter university at a younger age and the parents supported their decision.”

Mori hummed thoughtfully. “I feel like that might be just the motivation that Dazai-kun requires. Is it as simple as having a meeting with someone at his school? I’m woefully deficient in much of the educational rigamarole, as you might have noticed.”

“Heh,” Fukuzawa smiled, “This is my specialty, and I think you’ve earned a bit of charity work,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray while giving Mori a pointed look. “Once you’ve spoken to Dazai-kun, if he’s still interested, I’d suggest a conference with the administrators at his school to discuss what steps need to be taken. He goes to one of the prefectural public schools, correct? It was somewhat easier to do at my school since it’s a private elevator academy, but I don’t think it’s out of the question. You might have to switch him to a private school from a public school, though.”

“Why would he need to change schools if he just wants to graduate sooner?” Mori rested his chin on his fist, enjoying the sight of Fukuzawa at work while listening to his suggestions with interest.

“Public high school simply requires students to be enrolled for three years and pass their classes in order to graduate. A lot of private schools are credit-based; it'll give him the opportunity to earn credits faster through supplementary courses by taking more credits per term. As for the additional credits…night school or online classes with support school are the most popular choices.”

“Ah yes,” Mori nodded, “That’s right. The nurse at my clinic, Elise-chan, went to one of those support schools to improve her Japanese fluency while she was doing her nursing training during the day. Interesting,” he said, cigarette smoke wafting from his lips. “Night school might be a good opportunity for him to meet some adults that aren’t his parents or teachers. I don’t think he has any idea what he wants to do after high school, and that’s a good way to get some experience with the world.”

Fukuzawa tilted his head at Mori. “You don’t want him to follow in your footsteps as a doctor?”

Mori shook his head. “If he wanted to succeed me, I would support it, but he doesn’t seem to have much interest in the medical profession. He spent a fair amount of time in and out of hospitals when he was younger, and his experiences were not the most positive.” He blew a mouthful of smoke above his head, watching it disappear into the night air. If he was honest with himself, as long as Dazai maintained the will to live, any profession he chose would be acceptable. “My goal has always been to support him until he is ready and able to make a life for himself. Adopting him was the easiest way to do that after his parents gave him up to foster care when he became too much for them to handle.”

“...They gave him up, like an unwanted pet?” Fukuzawa was incredulous. He was aware that almost any comment he made would be hypocritical to some degree, but he couldn’t contain his aggravation at such a blatantly selfish act towards a child clearly already struggling to survive.

Mori nodded. “To be fair, he was quite a handful at the time. When we first met, he was aggravatingly stubborn, virulently misanthropic, and actively suicidal. Now all he does is sow political unrest amongst his classmates, engage his father in tests of wills, and attempt to pierce his own ear, the latter two things I also did when I was his age.”

“It sounds like you’ve made a lot of progress with him,” said Fukuzawa. “Once you get him into an educational situation that suits him better, maybe he will thrive like you want him to.” He thought about the research he did when selecting a school for Ranpo. “When Ranpo came to live with me, I considered enrolling him in a Japanese high school. He and I talked it through and decided he would be more comfortable in an international school.”

“Was it because of his language fluency?”

Fukuzawa shook his head, then shrugged. “Partially,” he admitted. “He was born and raised in California, as was his mother, so he also lacked Japanese social fluency.”

Mori grinned. “Dazai was born and raised to Japanese parents in Japan and he also lacks social fluency.”

“Touche,” said Fukuzawa. “Well, all we can do is support and guide them along the journey to adulthood, right?” He looked at the pack of cigarettes between them and decided it was best not to have another. “I have to admit, it feels really good to be able to talk to someone who just…understands.” He flashed a lopsided smile at Mori, reaching across the table past the cigarettes to take the other man’s hand.

With a soft smile, Mori wrapped his fingers around Fukuzawa’s. “Agreed,” he said, “You know, the longer I spend with you, the more I think Natsume-san knew what he was doing when he set us up. One of these days we ought to tell him that we actually hit it off.”

“You’re the one who’s afraid of getting a bill for his matchmaking services,” replied Fukuzawa, squeezing Mori’s hand lightly. “Anyhow, if you want any more advice for Dazai-kun’s school situation, let me know.”

“I think early graduation is a solid idea,” Mori said, “Dazai-kun might not take too kindly to switching schools, though.” He gave into temptation and lit another cigarette. Elise was right, smoking certainly was a nasty habit.

“I thought he hated his school.” Fukuzawa glanced sideways at Mori.

“He does, at least by his own admission. I’m still going to suggest it to him next time he’s in the mood to listen to me, and I hope he’s amenable to it. I won’t miss the monthly calls to his school for conferences, though I certainly will miss seeing Oda-sensei,” Mori pouted and sighed deeply.

“Oh yeah?” Fukuzawa said, leaning forward in his chair and cocking his head inquisitively. “Who’s Oda-sensei?” His interest was piqued thanks to Mori’s dramatics.

“Mmhmm,” Mori closed his eyes and hummed softly. “Dazai-kun’s favorite teacher and the only one that seems empathetic to his outbursts. He’s about your height, maybe mid-to-late twenties? Nice deep voice and a great body. I wouldn’t mind a little physical education from him.” He peeked out of one eye to see Fukuzawa staring at him, lips tightly pressed into a thin line and gray eyes narrowed. The corner of Mori’s mouth curved into a satisfied smirk. 

“Do I need to make another recommendation?” asked Fukuzawa, rising from his chair to tower over Mori, who gazed up at him with the feigned innocence that he recognized from the frequent fliers at his school’s principal’s office.

Mori’s smirk turned into a wide grin. “For me, or for my kid?” he asked, watching Fukuzawa carefully, the heat from the burning cigarette moving closer to his fingers as Fukuzawa approached him with a smoldering gaze. “For me this time, I see. What do you think is an appropriate course of action, sensei?”

“You’re the medical professional, sensei,” replied Fukuzawa. “In my own professional opinion, it is inadvisable to have untoward thoughts towards your son’s teacher.”

“How about untoward thoughts about an educational administrator wholly unrelated to my son?” Mori discarded his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray while fisting the hem of Fukuzawa’s shirt with his other hand, pulling him down until the taller man was kneeling in front of Mori on the concrete balcony. “I don’t think that’s a conflict of interest.”

“I concur,” Fukuzawa’s long fingers curled around the back of Mori’s neck, drawing them together into a kiss. The nighttime sounds of Yokohama several stories below faded away as their kisses became more intense, Mori’s hand sliding up underneath Fukuzawa’s shirt to rest on the small of his back. Fukuzawa’s hand grasped Mori’s dark, silky hair while he gasped into his lover’s open mouth, “Let’s go back inside.”

Mori let his hand wander down past Fukuzawa’s waistband until his fingertips rested at the base of his lover’s spine. “Are you sure? Imagine this refreshing breeze keeping us nice and cool while I fuck you over the balcony guardrail,” he murmured into Fukuzawa’s ear as his index finger breached the top of his cleft, “I’ll even keep this yukata on so that your neighbors won’t see anything untoward. That’s another of the benefits of Japanese style clothing… I can just open it up and…” Mori’s free hand moved to his obi, wiggling the knot loose as he spoke.

While his sense of decency would never allow Fukuzawa to go through with something so publicly lewd, the suggestion went straight from Fukuzawa’s ears to his dick. He abruptly slipped one arm beneath Mori’s legs and one under his left arm, lifting him out of the chair. The sudden movement elicited a surprised, delighted yelp from Mori. He hadn’t been serious about making a pass at Oda, but if this was how Fukuzawa reacted to a bit of competition, Mori had no complaints. He slung his right arm around his lover’s neck, holding on tightly while Fukuzawa carried him back into the apartment and deposited him on the bed, closing the door behind them. He latched the door and turned around to the sight of Mori on the mattress, robe half open and legs slightly spread. “This is a good look for you,” he said, taking off his shirt and tossing it on the floor before pushing the rumpled sheets aside and crawling atop Mori.

“I take it you never fooled around with another guy on a hot spring trip during your school days?” Mori asked while Fukuzawa untied the loose belt at his waist and pushed the thin cotton garment open with both hands. “Here I was thinking it was a rite of passage.” 

Fukuzawa shook his head, raising his steel gray eyes to meet Mori’s violet gaze. “I didn’t start experimenting with guys until after the breakup with my ex-girlfriend,” he said, and while Mori was intensely curious about the continuation of the story, Fukuzawa’s lips and tongue sweeping a lazy circle around his nipple was far more important at the moment. 

He closed his eyes and let a moan escape as Fukuzawa teased his flesh first with the tip of his tongue and followed it with his teeth. He lifted his hips towards Fukuzawa, his stiffening cock aching to be stroked to full hardness. Despite Mori’s suggestion, Fukuzawa deliberately ignored his lower half and instead moved to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the first. This time, when Mori let out an impassioned cry, he closed his lips around the nub of flesh and suckled gently. 

“You certainly made up for lost time,” Mori sighed, one hand in his own dark hair and the other gripping Fukuzawa’s tattooed shoulder. When he decided Mori’s nipples had enough attention, Fukuzawa glanced up to meet Mori’s gaze as he moved down his torso, stopping at Mori’s abdomen. Two fingers followed the line of dark hair along his belly until they reached his navel. Fukuzawa dropped light kisses on Mori’s smooth skin, pausing when his index finger brushed lightly over a small scar above Mori’s belly button. “Is this…”

“My studies in Germany taught me about many things,” Mori replied, “navel piercings being one of them.”

“I’ve only seen them on women, though…” Fukuzawa recalled weekends on the beach in California, where navel piercings were as common as butterfly tattoos on the women drenching themselves in the sunshine. He peered up at Mori, then back at the small scar atop his navel, raising himself up on his arms to inspect Mori’s nipples again. “How about here?” he said, pinching his left nipple between two fingers and tugging until Mori gasped into his shoulder. “I’ve definitely seen men with their nipples pierced…” Fukuzawa kissed the top of Mori’s head, teasing the sides of his nipple where the ends of a barbell would protrude.

The suggestion brought back memories of a semi-regular lover Mori had in Germany who was pierced on at least a dozen places on his body. He too had suggested that Mori pierce his nipples and the pleasure his lover received from them made a fairly convincing argument. After his body rejected his navel piercing, Mori decided to abstain from his nipples, but perhaps there was something to be said for revisiting old ideas. Fukuzawa nipped Mori’s taut bud between his teeth while reaching down between his thighs. Mori leaned back into the pillow, his hips pushing forward towards Fukuzawa until his cock bumped insistently against the other man’s hand. “While I am of low rank, I must humbly request your undivided attention to this urgent matter,” he said, reminding himself to brush up on his archaisms while his thoughts were focused on fucking Fukuzawa into the mattress for the second time that evening. 

Fukuzawa groaned. “You are bound and determined to destroy any pure thoughts I have remaining about historical dramas, aren’t you?” He descended the length of Mori’s body, leaving a trail of kisses along his flank and across his narrow hip bone. He grasped Mori’s cock, circling the base with two fingers and his thumb, using his other hand to hold his hair out of his face while he lowered his mouth around the head, closing his lips just below the ridge. 

As much as Mori loved the sight of Fukuzawa’s silver hair draped over his eyes and cheeks hollowed as he sucked Mori’s dick, he closed his eyes and let the hot, wet warmth of the other man’s mouth and fingers permeate his senses. Mori let out a groan, his hips thrusting towards his lover. Fukuzawa’s free hand pushed Mori’s hip down into the bed, and he used his larger body to hold Mori’s legs still.

“Allow me to service my most loyal retainer,” Fukuzawa’s speech took on the air of a feudal lord, his left hand holding Mori in place and his right hand sliding down from the base of his cock to gently cup his balls.

“To receive my liege lord’s favor in such a manner,” Mori whined in his best impression of a vassal, pressing his fist against his mouth to stifle a groan as Fukuzawa took his entire length into his mouth, his lips and tongue sending frissons of ecstasy through Mori’s body. Each time he writhed beneath Fukuzawa, he pushed Mori’s hips into the mattress with his strong left hand. Mori grit his teeth, feeling his balls tightening and choked out, “I’m…almost…are you going to swallow or do you want to be fucked again?” 

With a lascivious slurp, Fukuzawa released Mori’s cock from his mouth and pulled himself up to a kneeling position. Mori tore his eyes away from Fukuzawa’s gorgeous upper body to observe the obvious bulge in his gym shorts. “I think you know the answer to that,” he said with a smirk.

“Call me old fashioned, but I didn’t have you pegged as a bottom,” Mori said, appreciating the view as Fukuzawa slipped out of his shorts, dropping them on the floor with his shirt and his clothes from earlier.

“Was that supposed to be a pun?” Fukuzawa stretched out next to Mori, kissing him on the mouth and reaching for the tube of lube from the nightstand. He flipped open the cap while Mori helped himself to another condom. The box was running low, and he made a note of the brand so he could replenish their supply next time he was out running errands.

“Mmmm…perhaps,” Mori smiled against Fukuzawa’s lips, “If wordplay is your thing.”
 
“I wouldn’t be a dad if I couldn’t appreciate a pun,” Fukuzawa replied. His body was still relaxed from their earlier rendezvous, and Fukuzawa’s skilled ministrations had Mori nearly at his breaking point. He applied lube to his fingers and reached back to slick his hole at the same time Mori tore open the condom and rolled it down his length. “God,” he sighed, “You make me feel like I’m in my twenties again.”

“If only I had that much stamina,” Mori groaned, “But I concur. I’d be skipping the gym this weekend, if I actually went to the gym.” He took the lube from Fukuzawa, coating his prick and his right hand for good measure. “On your knees, my lord.”

“Which dramas have you been watching?” Fukuzawa shoved the pillow beneath his chest and propped himself up on all fours. 

“I’m improvising,” Mori replied, leaning forward to grasp Fukuzawa’s cock with his slick right hand while using his other hand to rub his prick up and down the length of his lover’s cleft, pushing gently against his hole. “How am I doing?”

“Amazing,” Fukuzawa groaned. He rocked his lower body forward, rutting his cock along Mori’s fingers, then back against his cock teasing his sensitive entrance. “I want you inside me.”

“Let’s make sure you’re good and ready for me first,” Mori stroked Fukuzawa’s cock, heavy and hot in his hand, rolling the head into his palm while Fukuzawa moaned and thrust into his hand, burying his face in the pillow. While Mori enjoyed seeing Fukuzawa’s face contorted by pleasure, his broad shoulders and muscular back had their own visual merits. He imagined Fukuzawa’s tattoo extending from his arm down his back while Mori stroked Fukuzawa’s cock, milking drops of precum onto his hand. His hand moved faster and he closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the black and gray pattern covering his back splattered with translucent white stripes of semen. He pushed two fingers inside Fukuzawa’s hole, scissoring them open against the beckoning pressure of Fukuzawa’s muscles.

“Need you now,” Fukuzawa pleaded, “All of you.”

“I can’t resist when you beg like that,” Mori replied, easing the head of his cock into Fukuzawa, sinking into his body until they were fully joined. “You feel so good, Fukuzawa-dono…”

“You do too…I can really feel you…like this…” Fukuzawa arched his back, the change in angle and pressure sending frissons of pleasure through Mori’s body. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would last if Fukuzawa continued to submit like this.

“Come for me,” Mori said, rapidly working his fist along Fukuzawa’s cock until his wrist began to ache. “I’m almost there…” Fukuzawa’s cock pulsed in his hand and his muscles tightened rhythmically around Mori’s dick, coaxing Mori closer and closer to orgasm as he cried out into the pillow, moaning and thrusting until he was spent. Mori dropped Fukuzawa’s cock and grasped his hips with both hands, listening to Fukuzawa continue to groan and sigh. When he could take no more Mori grit his teeth, using his lover’s solid posterior to support him as he came, moaning incoherently and collapsing against the other man. 

They lay together for as long as they could, enjoying the closeness of each other’s bodies. Fukuzawa could feel Mori’s hot breath on his shoulder blades while Mori listened to Fukuzawa’s heart pounding against his cheek. Both men had their share of impersonal hookups over the years as well as relationships that hadn’t gone the way they had hoped; while Fukuzawa and Mori had only known each other for a short time, both felt an intimacy that neither expected to find when they shared a drink several weeks ago. 

Fukuzawa spoke first. “You know,” he said, “I have to pick Ranpo up by eleven o’clock, and I know you have to get home to Dazai-kun tonight, but…one of these days, I want you to stay the night.”

“As do I,” Mori replied, sighing remorsefully against Fukuzawa’s shoulder, “Being a responsible parent is such a bummer sometimes. I wouldn’t mind having a morning cup of coffee and a cigarette together after waking up next to you.”

“I’m more of a tea person,” said Fukuzawa, “but that would be nice.”

“I bet you eat a balanced breakfast every morning,” Mori taunted, reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand. He discarded his condom and went to work cleaning Fukuzawa up next. Both men needed a shower before interacting with other humans, but neither were ready to spoil the intimate mood. “Western or Japanese?”

“Western,” Fukuzawa replied. “Surprised?” He relaxed into Mori’s touch, methodical and thorough, as one would expect from a physician.
 
“A little,” Mori admitted, “But I never eat breakfast myself, so I suppose I can’t really judge. Honestly, I’m a morning person by professional necessity, not by choice.”

Fukuzawa rolled over to face Mori, slinging his arm around his lover’s slender body. Mori leaned his head against Fukuzawa’s bicep, looking the silver wolf emblazoned on his skin in the eyes. They had gotten to know each other quite well in recent weeks as well. Fukuzawa swept Mori’s dark hair out of his eyes and leaned down to kiss him on the temple, wishing this moment could last longer. “I look forward to seeing your groggy face when I wake you up early someday.” 

“How would you do that?” Mori said mischievously. 

Thinking for a minute, Fukuzawa hummed, then snapped his fingers. “Radio calisthenics. Then green vegetable juice.” He glanced down at Mori, whose pout looked very similar to Ranpo’s when Fukuzawa denied his request for sugary cereal for breakfast. It was both charming and unnerving, and Fukuzawa hoped the resemblance was merely a coincidence. “Okay, we can skip the green juice.”

“How about you do calisthenics and I’ll watch you stretch and do push-ups and such while I drink coffee? I have evidence to prove that the sight of you sweating is quite energizing.”

“What time do you need to be home?” Fukuzawa glanced at the clock on the wall opposite the bed, making a list of everything he needed to do in the half hour before leaving to pick up Ranpo from Poe’s house. 

“The last train, per usual,” said Mori, “and since Dazai is grounded from his phone I’m sure he’s got the schedule up on his computer counting down each train until I come home. Unfortunately I don’t think he’ll be in the mood to talk to me about his academic future plans tomorrow.”

Fukuzawa chuckled. “How do you ground him from his phone?” He suddenly felt fortunate that Ranpo had never given him a reason to take his phone away.

“It’s in my haori pocket,” Mori replied, “So don’t let me forget that here. I feel like leaving my son’s phone at my boyfriend’s house because my mind was too lust-addled to remember it would be a major father fail.”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Fukuzawa slid backwards a bit to meet Mori’s gaze. Violet eyes twinkled at him, but his tone seemed serious. 

“Well, if you’ll have me,” Mori said, “I’ll accept friends with benefits, but I’ve been getting a different impression from you recently.”

Fukuzawa emphatically shook his head. “Boyfriend is good…I guess it’s a little weird to be in my forties and have a boyfriend…but I did say that you make me feel like I’m in the prime of my youth again.” His brow furrowed and he chuckled self-consciously, looking every bit the handsome middle aged man he was.

Mori stretched up to kiss Fukuzawa lightly on the lips. “I’m younger than you, so I can be your boyfriend. Use that if you need an excuse, or we’ll come up with something else.”

“Barely younger,” Fukuzawa scoffed. He heard the whisper of a voice in his mind, a distant memory of a woman scolding him for failing to recognize what kind of partner she expected him to become. He recalled the confusion in his heart when she accused him of betrayal, the tears in her eyes as she turned her back and walked away from him, and the promise he made to never be in that situation again. 

“I need a shower,” Mori sighed. “Probably best without company, unfortunately.”

Fukuzawa nodded. “Regrettable, but I understand. The body wash in the green bottle is mine. Don’t use Ranpo’s, please.”

“Does it smell like fruit or bubblegum? Honestly, I’m used to smelling like children’s shampoo. It’s what all my patients use.” Mori grinned. 

“Not exactly…” Fukuzawa sighed. “He’s sometimes oddly perceptive about his surroundings, and I’m not really ready to talk to him about my boyfriend, who he’s never met, using his body soap to wash up after we have sex.”

Mori laughed, imagining Fukuzawa’s crimson flush as he stammered through the conversation. “As much as I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that discussion, I’ll abstain.” He winked at Fukuzawa. “Besides, going home smelling like you is much more exciting. Hopefully I’ll have good dreams tonight.”

“Get in the shower,” Fukuzawa gave Mori a gentle shove. “I’ll hang up your haori and make sure two phones are in the pockets.”

“What a thoughtful boyfriend I’ve managed to find,” Mori threw on Fukuzawa’s discarded shirt, scooping up his yukata from the floor as he strolled towards the main bathroom. “I’ll toss this in the laundry for you when I’m done.”

Fukuzawa watched Mori as he left the room, the sight of his shirt hanging past the shorter man’s thighs causing his heart to skip a beat. Maybe this was his second chance at an honest relationship; never in his life would Fukuzawa have expected it to come in the form of Ougai Mori, but Natsume somehow always seemed to know what Fukuzawa needed, even if he didn’t realize it himself at the time. 

—

Flowers weren’t the only thing sprouting in Yokohama as summertime approached; Ranpo was in the middle of another teenage growth spurt, his second since he came to live with Fukuzawa. As they traipsed through one of the department stores attached to Yokohama Station, he noticed that Ranpo looked even more bored than he usually did buying clothes. Usually, he tried something mischievous, like assembling bizarre outfits to see if Fukuzawa would agree to buy them. This time Ranpo simply trudged behind Fukuzawa, making vaguely affirmative noises when his father took something off the rack that appealed to him.

“If you keep getting taller like this you’ll have to start ordering clothes from America,” Fukuzawa said with a smile. “That was one thing I really liked about living there – it was so easy to find things that fit tall people.”

“Mom always said she hoped I wouldn’t be tall,” Ranpo said, examining a pair of shorts. “I didn’t know why, and then I met you.”

Fukuzawa made a sour face. “I’m sorry,” he said, “It wasn’t fair to you to have to hear those things from her.”

Ranpo shrugged. “It didn’t bug me at the time, I just figured she didn’t want to have to spend more money on clothes for me.”

Talking to Ranpo about his mother was akin to walking up a set of broken stairs in the dark, so Fukuzawa tread carefully whenever his son brought up the topic. He and Ranpo’s mother had minimal contact after his return to Japan; during the process of giving full custody to her and making arrangements for international child support payments, the situation between them was businesslike at best and hostile at worst. According to Ranpo his mother did her best to raise him alone, and their relationship only began to deteriorate when she became engaged to an older man who also had children of his own from a prior relationship. 

Ranpo’s word was all that Fukuzawa had in regards to his son’s upbringing. His first phone conversation with his ex-girlfriend in thirteen years was brief and impersonal, mediated by Natsume on his side and her attorney on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. Fukuzawa would never forget the sound of her heartbreak, though, and while she spoke professionally over the phone he could sense sadness in her voice as they negotiated temporary full custody of Ranpo to be ceded to his father. 

“Anyway, Poe has a Louis Vuitton laptop bag,” Ranpo said, and Fukuzawa looked at the moderately priced items on the rack in front of him, wondering if his son was developing a taste for brand-name goods the way that many of the students at his own school did. 

“Do you want one?” Fukuzawa asked, trying to quickly calculate his recent increase in entertainment expenses thanks to his boyfriend. They might have to cut their dates back to Netflix and home-cooked meals, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing since it was much closer to where they usually ended up at the end of the evening.

“No,” Ranpo said quickly, “I don’t care about that stuff. Let’s just buy these clothes and go get ice cream. We can order other stuff online later.”

Fukuzawa nodded, a nebulous pang of guilt squeezing his heart as he watched Ranpo carry his new outfits to the cashier. As they rode the escalator down to the basement level restaurants, Ranpo pulled out his phone and Fukuzawa followed suit, reading a series of messages from Mori telling him a story about his clinic nurse, smiling at the emoji and reading the other man’s lamentations in his voice. 

“So you and that guy are pretty serious, huh,” Ranpo glanced up at Fukuzawa from the step below him. Fukuzawa glanced around out of habit and then shrugged, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Cool, I guess,” his son said. “Don’t worry, I only told Poe the truth about you. He knows how to keep a secret.” 

“I appreciate that,” said Fukuzawa. “Maybe someday things will be different and we won’t have to pretend we’re just friends in public.” 

“Yeah, Japan is kind of behind with that stuff compared to the USA,” Ranpo agreed, and then was silent for the rest of the ride to the basement level; a departure from his typical excitement about the treats they were about to enjoy. As much as Fukuzawa knew that Mori hated his messages being left on read, he tucked his phone back in his pocket and placed his hand on Ranpo’s shoulder as soon as they stepped off the escalator. 

Ranpo stopped so abruptly that Fukuzawa had to cut his stride short. He sat down on a bench near the elevators, away from the flow of pedestrians to the food stalls and cafes in the basement, and motioned for Ranpo to join him. Fukuzawa sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” his son replied, staring down at his phone, tapping away at a message.

“I know you love coming up with mysteries for people to solve,” Fukuzawa continued, “but can you cut me some slack this time and tell me what’s going on? Did something with Poe-kun?”

Still staring at his phone, Ranpo shook his head. “Poe’s good. His parents invited me to go on vacation with them this summer.” 

Fukuzawa’s eyebrow arched. “Oh? Well, if you need vacation clothes, you should have said something while we were upstairs. We can go back if you want, after ice cream, of course.” He smiled at Ranpo, whose shaggy hair obscured his face as he continued to send messages with incredible speed. “You don’t seem too happy about it, though.”

“I…” Ranpo looked away from Fukuzawa. “I thought maybe…you wouldn’t want me to go…but I guess now that you’ve got your friend it’s pretty convenient for me to be gone for a week.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders trembling slightly as he spoke.

The pieces of the puzzle snapped together and Fukuzawa pressed his fist to his lips with deep chagrin. “Ranpo, that’s not how I feel at all.” 

“You’re always texting him and talking about him and whenever I say I’m going to Poe’s, you look excited. It’s just like when Mom got a new boyfriend…it went like this every time she started going out with someone.” Ranpo’s voice was uncharacteristically small. “I don’t care, though. She said this was gonna happen when I insisted on moving here, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going back to California and I’m not going back to her stupid new family. I’d rather be alone than live with that guy and his kids again.”

It took Fukuzawa a full month after Ranpo’s arrival in Japan to extract any information from Ranpo regarding his stepfather and step-siblings. When he called to speak with her, she refused to communicate with Fukuzawa and demanded that Ranpo be put on the phone. She begged Ranpo to come back to her and he refused; when she accused him of not loving her and abandoning her like his father did, Ranpo began to cry. Fukuzawa was initially unsure whether or not the boy should stay with him or return to California, but by the time he finished listening to Ranpo tell his mother through stubborn tears that he was finished being fifth in line for her attention and unwanted by his stepfather and step-siblings, his decision to keep his son in Japan was set in stone. Privately, he questioned the severity of Ranpo’s accusations after that initial phone call, but when he and Natsume met with Ranpo’s mother and stepfather it was obvious that the man was uninterested in any child that was not his own.

Fukuzawa had a dozen responses on the tip of his tongue and swallowed eleven of them in favor of an apology. “I’m sorry that my new relationship is making you feel this way,” he said, staring at the paper bag handles clasped in his hands. He wished he had chosen a less public place for this discussion; in hindsight he should have realized what was bothering his son much sooner. “Listen, Ranpo. I don’t know exactly what your mom told you was going to happen when you moved to Japan to live with me, but I can make a few guesses.” He turned to face his son, who glanced forlornly at him through his long bangs. “I made a commitment to be your father, and I won’t go back on that promise. I haven’t always done the right thing for you or for your mom, but I’ve tried to learn from my mistakes.” He paused, gathering words he’d thought many times but never said aloud. “You gave me a second chance to be your dad, which is a privilege most guys in my position never get.”

Ranpo finally pulled his eyes away from his phone screen to face his father. “I was kinda desperate,” he admitted, slouching in his seat and crumpling his brow as he spoke. “Mom’s husband really sucks. I told her he sucked and all she said was that he was a good man and made me promise to respect him.”

“If it means anything, I wasn’t very impressed with him either,” Fukuzawa offered.Ranpo thought about this for a moment. “Not your type, huh?”

Fukuzawa wheezed. “That has nothing to do with why I didn’t like him.” From the look on his son’s face, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “But since you asked, I’m not into guys with mustaches.”

“I thought that thing looked stupid too. I’m glad he never kissed me or anything,” Ranpo replied. He was quiet for a moment, turning his phone over in his hand and popping the corner in and out of the case a few times. “I hope this new friend of yours doesn’t suck.”

“How about this?” Fukuzawa said, squaring his shoulders. “On a weekend when you don’t have plans with Poe and your friends, I’ll bring you with me to meet Mori-sensei. He has a son a couple of years younger than you. I’ll ask if he wants to come as well.”

“Is this some kind of weird multigenerational double date? ‘Cause I don’t know if I like guys, even if I’m totally cool with you liking them.” Ranpo asked cautiously.

Fukuzawa shook his head. “Not at all. Call it a litmus test. If you think Mori-sensei sucks, I want you to tell me. Preferably not to his face, though.” He hoped Ranpo would keep his impulsive nature in check, since he could all too easily imagine Mori and Ranpo arguing about his suitability as a partner. “He loves sweets, so pick a place you want to go to and we’ll make plans.”

After a few moments of deliberation, Ranpo gave Fukuzawa a small nod. “Okay,” he said, “But I get to order whatever I want on the menu. Even if I have to take some of it home.”

“Deal,” said Fukuzawa. His hand moved to his pocket to take his phone out and then paused, instead standing from the bench and offering his hand to Ranpo to help him to his feet. “Now, how about ice cream? And I want to hear about this vacation.” 

Ranpo’s eyes brightened at the mention of ice cream, though Fukuzawa doubted his son ever forgot about the offer. It was strange how similar Ranpo was to Mori in some ways – or perhaps it was bizarre how youthful Mori behaved, the more Fukuzawa considered it. Almost immediately after the waitress led them to their seats and handed them menus, Ranpo closed his and set it on the table.

“You already know what you want?” The complexity of the menu was astounding, and he remembered that he had a dinner date with Mori at the end of the week at a restaurant known for its elaborate desserts. He decided a cup of black coffee was the most responsible choice. 

“Of course,” Ranpo said, “I don’t have to think about ice cream.”

“Fair enough,” Fukuzawa nodded, pressing the call button for the waitress to return. “Were you worried that I wouldn’t let you go on vacation with Poe? He’s a nice young man and a good friend to you,” said Fukuzawa, “I just don’t want him to think we’re taking advantage of his family’s generosity. We can certainly pay your share.”

“His parents are loaded, Poe already said money’s no big deal.” Ranpo said, gulping ice water through his straw. “But I dunno if I want to go.”

When the waitress arrived, Ranpo ordered a sundae large enough for two boys his age, and Fukuzawa ordered a single scoop of ice cream. As soon as she left, Fukuzawa crossed his arms over his chest. “In that case, why wouldn’t you want to go on vacation with Poe and his family? Is there something going on with his parents?”

Ranpo shook his head. “I’ve only met them once, but they’re nice.” He was quiet for a moment, and then looked up at Fukuzawa. “Can I ask you a question about Mom?”

“Ask away,” Fukuzawa replied.  

“Poe’s parents invited me to Hawaii, but Mom hates Hawaii so much that she didn’t even want pineapple in the house. Do you know why?”

Fukuzawa choked hard enough on his water that an older couple at a nearby table glanced in their direction. When he caught his breath, the waitress was standing at their booth with their ice cream and a handful of napkins for Fukuzawa. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” he said, accepting the napkins and a glass of water. “Water went down the wrong pipe.”

“Enjoy your ice cream,” she said, looking back at Fukuzawa and Ranpo with a concerned expression. While Fukuzawa straightened his collar, Ranpo dug his spoon into the mountain of whipped cream, hot fudge, and sprinkles in front of him, but his green eyes held fast to his father’s gaze. 

With a deep breath, Fukuzawa began. “Your mom and I went to Hawaii for a vacation a couple of months before you were born. It was the last trip we would take together before becoming parents – in America, they call it a ‘babymoon’,” he explained. He considered the scenario and decided he might need to explain a little further. “How much did your mom tell you about the two of us?”

“She said you were afraid of commitment and that you didn’t want kids,” Ranpo replied matter-of-factly. He took out his phone and opened up one of his games, tapping a few buttons while he waited for Fukuzawa to reply.

Fukuzawa rubbed his temples. “Well, that wasn’t entirely untrue.”

“But she was your girlfriend for a long time, right?” Ranpo set his game to run on automatic play and shoveled a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

“We started out as friends,” Fukuzawa replied, his mind’s eye playing back a montage of memories of Jen Edogawa. He recalled the sound of her laugh as she dragged him from bar to bar, the sly grin as she stole his french fries from the paper box between them, and the softness of her lips as she kissed him without warning outside of his graduate student dorm. He pushed his ice cream back and forth in his dish with his spoon while he thought of what to say. “After a while, she wanted us to be more than friends, and…well, your mom is a very persuasive person. I’m pretty sure you got that trait from her.”

Ranpo nodded slowly. “What happened while you guys were in Hawaii, though?”

Fukuzawa looked at his ice cream, then at the beads of condensation on his water glass, and finally up at the pendant light hanging over the table. “She asked me to marry her,” he admitted, “I told her I couldn’t, and that I was going back to Japan when my visa expired.”

“Holy crap,” said Ranpo, his green eyes the size of saucers, “I bet it was really hard for her to even ask, since usually it’s the guy who proposes. And she was pregnant with your kid…and you still said no.” He scratched the back of his head. “No wonder she said all that bad stuff about you.”

“Yes, well…” Fukuzawa acutely recalled the look of betrayal on her face when he closed the small ring box and declined her proposal as gently as he could. “You know who I am now, Ranpo. You know the…type of person I prefer to have as a partner,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “At the time, I was in no position to become her husband, and I definitely wasn’t ready to be a father either.”

Ranpo scraped the hot fudge from the side of his ice cream dish and licked it off his spoon. “How come you went out with her if you’re not into–” Fukuzawa cleared his throat, “people like her?”

He took a bite of his ice cream and let it melt on his tongue. “She was the first person who ever asked me out, and she was my best friend. I thought I might be able to like her the same way she liked me.” Fukuzawa swallowed his ice cream. “Part of growing up is trying new things, like when I make you eat food that you think is weird. Sometimes you like it, sometimes you don’t. People can be the same way.”

“So how come you got her pregnant? Didn’t they have condoms back then?” Ranpo looked at Fukuzawa incredulously. His father’s explanation made sense and he had been privately considering some of the things he confessed even before they had this conversation. “I’m glad I was born, but if you weren’t sure…” 

Fukuzawa could feel his ears starting to burn; this was the third conversation he did not expect to have this afternoon. “No form of birth control is a hundred percent perfect,” he quickly replied. “The pregnancy surprised us both. Your mom always wanted kids, though, so she was really happy when she found out. And I was happy for her. I just…” There was really no way for him to not sound like an asshole, he realized, and the more that he tried to explain the deeper of a hole he dug for himself. “Anyway, like I said before, I’m glad that you gave me a second chance to be your dad after I had time to grow up myself.” 

“So that’s why she hates Hawaii. Dang. I would probably hate Hawaii too if someone did that to me while we were on vacation,” Ranpo concluded, nodding his head and setting down his spoon. “Can I have your ice cream if you’re not gonna finish it?”

He pushed his dish across the table without another word, watching Ranpo dig into the comparatively small dessert. The creases in his son’s forehead from earlier had melted away like the ice cream in front of them, and despite the nature of the conversation Ranpo actually seemed more relaxed than before. “I can’t blame her for being upset,” Fukuzawa said quietly. “A little while after we returned from Hawaii, she moved back in with her family, and shortly after you were born I went back to Japan.” Ranpo had no need to know the specifics of what Fukuzawa did in the weeks between Jen moving out of his apartment and his departure from Japan; even Mori-sensei wasn’t privy to everything he did in the Castro, despite benefitting personally from the experience.

“I kinda get it,” Ranpo said, picking up Fukuzawa’s dish and tipping the melted ice cream into his mouth. Fukuzawa handed Ranpo one of his spare napkins, motioning to wipe off his upper lip. “Adults are complicated. Relationships are complicated. But I’m glad it’s not Hawaii that sucks, it’s just you that sucked.”

Fukuzawa sputtered. “I don’t think it’s polite to tell your dad that he sucks.” He pressed the call button to summon the waitress as Ranpo turned the dessert dish upside down, swallowing the last drops of the melted ice cream like soup broth.

“You said that I can tell you if Mori-sensei sucks, how come I can’t tell you that you sucked when it’s true?” Ranpo folded his arms defiantly, mimicking his father’s posture. After a few moments, he relaxed slightly. “Thanks for being honest with me though.”

“You’re welcome,” said Fukuzawa, accepting the bill from the waitress. “Does this mean you’re going to go to Hawaii with Poe-kun after all? Because I think it would be a great idea for you to form your own opinions rather than just listening to your mom and me.”

“If it’s cool with you,” said Ranpo, “I was kinda worried you wouldn’t let me go. Poe said there’s a haunted hotel near his family’s place. And they have mango ice cream and Dole Whips and chocolate covered macadamia nuts and shaved ice there.”

Fukuzawa smiled, warmth spreading through his chest as Ranpo rambled excitedly about what he hoped to see and eat in Hawaii. This conversation was long overdue, and while none of it happened as Fukuzawa would have chosen, that seemed to be the story of his life recently – and he couldn’t find a reason to complain. 

—

Mori turned Fukuzawa's suggestion for Dazai’s accelerated graduation over in his head for a few days after their discussion. He didn’t second guess his decisions very often, but he needed to be absolutely sure that his recommendation was based on logic rather than limerence. Despite his ability to compartmentalize his feelings, Mori still had a strong suspicion that Dazai would find fault in his reasoning. 

He prepared for this discussion with the same gravitas as he did with Natsume for the court appearance he had to attend to adopt Dazai. Mori hoped that this discussion would proceed similarly: arrive armed with expert representation and a well-researched argument, discover that the foster parents chose to send their attorney as proxy, and by nightfall, have Dazai living under his roof. Of course, that was the only part of becoming Dazai’s adoptive father that was easy; he knew the boy came with baggage much heavier than the duffel bag he brought from his foster home, but he didn’t expect to relive some of the more difficult moments of his own teenage years through Dazai.

According to Mori’s research, Fukuzawa’s assumption that Dazai would need to change schools was correct. When he had enrolled Dazai at the prefectural junior high school near his clinic it was simply a matter of convenience; thanks to his natural intellect Dazai was able to start as a third-year student despite spending the better part of his second year of middle school in and out of the hospital, inpatient mental health care, and foster care. High school was decided in a similar manner; despite Dazai’s aptitude for learning, his disdain for entrance exams placed him in a high school that had lower standards for entry. 

Under normal circumstances Mori would not have been involved with Dazai’s health care, but after his second suicide attempt one of his former colleagues at the prefectural hospital called him to assist with a patient that refused to communicate in Japanese. The boy would only speak German, and half-sentences at that. Imaging ruled out a stroke, however to determine if the cause was schizophrenia a psychiatric consult was necessary. 

While Mori was not a psychiatrist, he couldn’t resist the allure of a bizarre young person with a mystery diagnosis, and he agreed to sit with the boy and talk to him for an hour or two each day. By the end of his seventy-two hour psychiatric hold, Mori and the resident pediatric psychiatrist determined that outside of severe depression and suicidal tendencies, Osamu Dazai was a physically and mentally fit twelve year old boy. 

The last thing that Dazai said before the attending physician signed off on his release papers was Komm, susser Tod, which no one took the time to translate until he was admitted again about a month later after attempting to gas himself with household chemicals. When Mori  received another summons from his former colleagues, he was not surprised to find the same sullen, pale boy as before in the hospital bed. This time their discussion was more personal, and Mori discovered that Dazai had been living at an orphanage since his prior discharge from the hospital. 

Dazai did not want to divulge the particulars of his new living arrangements, but the change to his family registry was a matter of public record. For a nominal fee, Natsume did a bit of research as well and found that Dazai’s parents had a private practice psychiatrist declare their son potentially harmful to his family and requested permanent placement in a government mental institution. Somehow, the admission fell through the cracks and Dazai landed at an orphanage with insufficient supervision, giving him plenty of opportunities to attempt suicide again. 

During Dazai’s second 72-hour psychiatric hold, Mori became intrigued by the boy’s intelligence and wit. He discovered that beneath the sullen, taciturn exterior was a creative mind hungry for stimulation. He recommended that Dazai be placed in foster care rather than at an institution upon discharge, and two weeks passed before Dazai was back in the hospital complaining of a sudden severe headache and numbness on one side of his body. Once again, he was admitted, and once again Mori was called to see him. This time, rather than being summoned because Dazai was speaking German, the hospital reached out to him because Dazai asked for “that German speaking weirdo” to examine him. 

This pattern repeated itself several times over the better part of a year. By the sixth month, Mori had enough patients to fill three out of five days a week; Elise had obtained her nursing license and was handling the front end of the office as well when Mori was either with a patient or at the hospital with Dazai. Finally, Mori came to the conclusion that it would be best for both of them if he became the boy’s legal guardian, and when Dazai did not protest the suggestion Mori began the legal proceedings for adoption.

After he changed out of his work clothes into track pants and a t-shirt, Mori poured himself a glass of wine and started a pot of spaghetti to boil. He took out two seasoning packets from the pantry, a bag of chopped green onions, and a package of salted cured pollock roe from the refrigerator. Once the noodles were cooked, he mixed the seasonings and the roe together in the same pan, served it onto two plates with green onions sprinkled on top, and called Dazai from his room to the dinner table.

Dazai wandered out a few moments later, his phone in front of his face as usual. He barely looked up as he sat down in his chair and picked up his fork. Mori cleared his throat, and Dazai’s eyes flicked upwards from his screen. “What?”

“I know we don’t have dinner together all the time,” Mori said, “but the least you could do is put your phone down and see what you’re eating before you dig in, especially when I take the time to cook for us.”

“It’s mentaiko pasta,” Dazai said, “I can tell by the smell. Which is good. And I’m hungry. Can we eat now?”

“How was school today?” Mori twirled his fork in his pasta while he watched Dazai stuff a bite of food in his mouth. 

Dazai made a noise and then swallowed. “Dumb,” he said, “But I didn’t do anything bad, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“I didn’t think you did anything bad. After all, your school doesn’t hesitate to call me when you misbehave,” Mori noted. “They emailed me your most recent report card, and it seems you are doing quite well in your classes.”

“It’s easy to pass tests,” Dazai said, filling his glass with tea from the plastic bottle on the table between them. “Told you, school is stupid.”

Mori set his fork down and took a drink of water. “I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said, watching Dazai carefully as he spoke. His son’s curious gaze reminded him a bit of his expression when they first met, Mori cautiously approaching Dazai and greeting him in German. He folded his hands and continued with his proposal. “I was talking to Fukuzawa-sensei, you remember, my boyfriend-”

“I remember,” Dazai wrinkled his nose. “You get this weird look every time you talk about him. Aren’t you a little old for a boyfriend?”

“Age is how you feel, Dazai,” Mori said with a smile.

“Well if I tell you I feel twenty-five, can I be finished with school for good?”

“You can stop going to high school when you graduate. And if you hadn’t interrupted me, I was going to tell you that Fukuzawa-sensei informed me about the option of early graduation.” He now had Dazai’s full attention. “You’ll have to study over the summer and possibly on the weekends, but if you make the commitment you can earn enough credits to graduate a year from now.” 

Dazai slurped a mouthful of noodles. “We don’t have credits at my school, though. You just have to pass all your classes and then you move up with your grade.”

“There are other schools in the area that are credit-based. This is close to the end of the school term for you, correct? Stay out of trouble and we’ll arrange for you to attend one of those schools starting next term.” 

Mori expected Dazai to look a little happier, or in lieu of happiness, more viscerally angry. Instead, Dazai showed no emotion other than a look of vague disdain. The only sounds in the room were forks hitting plates and chewing for several moments. Finally, Dazai broke the silence between them. “Oda-sensei didn’t do anything to me,” he blurted out.

Mori inhaled a piece of spaghetti. He coughed and gagged, taking a long drink of water, and finally looked up at Dazai when he regained the ability to speak. “I thought nothing of the sort,” said Mori, “Should I have a reason to suspect that kind young man of misdeeds?”

Dazai shook his head emphatically. “No way, but that’s what people think is up when you’re friends with a teacher,” he said. There was more to unpack from that statement, but Dazai didn’t give Mori a chance to speak. “I already told you he’s the only good thing about that school. Why else would you make me change schools other than hearing something bad about him? He understands me, unlike your boyfriend,” his son sneered.

This was not the exact direction Mori expected Dazai to take this conversation, but he did come prepared with his own rebuttals. “From an educational standpoint, I think he understands you better than I do. This was his recommendation based on his own experience as an administrator and working with other students in a similar situation. Fukuzawa-sensei has a graduate–”

Dazai interrupted Mori with an accusation. “Are you trying to get me to move out because of that guy?”

Mori sighed. “I went out of my way to make you a part of my family, Dazai. It was not a decision made lightly. There were a number of reasons, one of which is that I was also a child made to fend for myself by a family that did not accept me. While my circumstances were nowhere near as unfortunate as yours, my parents let me know at an early age that nothing outside of traditional marriage and children would be accepted by our family. I knew from a young age that I had no romantic or sexual interest in women, so I distanced myself from my family more and more as I got older. I know what it feels like to be alone in the world. If Elise-chan hadn’t forced herself upon me, who knows where I would be now.”

“Gross. Elise-san would never have you anyway.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” It was Mori’s turn to look offended. “I’ve only known Fukuzawa-sensei for a couple of months, and he could decide at any time that we aren’t compatible anymore. On the other hand, I made a commitment to be your adoptive father and support you until you come of age at the very least, and with the money I spent on legal fees I’m not about to give up on you easily.”

“Yeah, whatever.,” Dazai muttered.

“Well, now that we’ve got that settled, are you willing to consider changing schools to start on the path to early graduation? Mori wiped his fingertips on his napkin, setting it next to his empty plate.

Dazai stood up from the table and glared at his father. “No,” he said, “Either you let me quit school or I’m staying where I am. I don’t want to go to another new school where the teachers hate me and the other kids are all stupid.” Realizing that he left his phone on the table, he turned back towards Mori, who snatched the phone off the table with surprisingly quick reflexes. 

“You can have it back in an hour, but I want you to think about this and decide for yourself. I think you can do it, Dazai. You already earn passing test scores at your grade level without showing up for class. It’s a waste of your intellect to spend an extra year in a school system tailored towards the median student.”

With his back facing Mori, Dazai replied, “You’re just saying that ‘cause you have to.”

“You taught yourself enough German without any formal education at age eleven to fool a highly trained hospital staff,” said Mori, “and I’ll remind you of how many Japanese medical terms come from German. Elise-chan was so happy about it when she first started studying for her nursing license.”

“I want my phone back in an hour,” Dazai ignored Mori, turning his back to him. “Like you promised.” He skulked down the hall to his bedroom, once again leaving Mori at the table with the dirty dishes. Rather than immediately clearing them, Mori remained at the kitchen table, pouring a glass of tea and taking his phone out of his pocket. He set a timer for sixty minutes and then opened his messages with Fukuzawa.

How did it go? The sentence ended with crossed fingers. 

I just don’t understand why he thinks everything I do is designed to hurt him, Mori typed into his phone, hitting the send button. Of course he thinks this is some sort of plot to get rid of him in favor of you. He hit send. I guarantee I was this self absorbed and melancholy when I was fourteen, but it sure hits different this time. The dots indicating Fukuzawa’s response had started to march across the screen, but that didn’t stop Mori’s stream of consciousness messaging. Do they have no idea how much we actually give a damn?

The dots paused, and Mori leaned back in his chair and groaned. 

Funny story…Ranpo had the same concerns about us a little while ago. I didn’t bring it up to you because I didn’t want you to worry about it. There was a pause while Fukuzawa typed his next message. Maybe we are a little self absorbed lately, but it’s not every day I find someone like you. Too bad Natsume-san can’t talk our kids into accepting our relationship the way he convinced us.

Mori set his phone down on the table. He supposed that one of these days, he really ought to thank his attorney for the suggestion to meet Fukuzawa for a drink. What did you say to Ranpo-kun that changed his mind?

The dots started and stopped several times, then the screen was dark for a moment. Finally, Fukuzawa began to type again. I told him that he could meet you – and Dazai-kun, if he’s interested – and decide for himself if you suck, and that if he does, I’ll take his opinion under advisement.

Mori blinked owlishly at the message, genuinely surprised by what he read. Fukuzawa’s response was so different from anyone else he had dated when the topic of children came up. Rather than indifferent or indignant, Fukuzawa was thoughtful and supportive, and Mori felt a twinge in his heart that he was too preoccupied to analyze at that particular moment. For a moment, he wondered if this was what it would be like to raise a child with another parent, and he quickly brushed that thought aside by reminding himself of all of the children with two parents who were neglected or abused. Alternately, there were Dazai’s biological parents, whose interest in parenting him seemed to fade as soon as their child became a troublesome tween. 

Well, that might not be for a few days. For all that he has to say on TikTok, my kid is excellent at the silent treatment.

Fukuzawa’s reply came soon after. There’s time. I’m not going anywhere.

Mori wondered if Fukuzawa was aware of how his words sounded, especially to someone who was presently emotionally compromised. You know, that’s the kind of response that gives a man ideas.

…you’re not going to parlay this situation into something horny, are you? The text ended with a disappointed sigh emoji.

With a sigh, Mori set his phone down and leaned back in his chair. “How many people have you unwittingly charmed, Yukichi Fukuzawa?” he murmured to himself. He thought of the pack of cigarettes in his doctor’s bag, realized that even smoking now reminded him of Fukuzawa, and opted for a bottle of wine that he kept in a locked cabinet. Pouring himself a glass, he swirled the blood-red liquid and picked up his phone. 

I’m going to have a glass of wine and ponder my failures as a parent.

He hit the send button and then opened and closed a few apps on his phone. He read a headline or two in the news app, liked a few of Elise’s Instagram photos, and scanned the junk email in his personal inbox. Before he knew it the wine glass was empty and fifteen minutes remained on the timer. Fukuzawa hadn’t responded to his last message, and while Mori truly hated being left on read, he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to come up with a witty text to remind his boyfriend of his delinquent messages.

“Mori-san,” Dazai called from his bedroom.

“Come talk to me in person if you have something to say to me,” replied Mori, scooping up Dazai’s phone from the table when he heard his son’s door open and close. The boy trudged down the hall, his face still impassive as he stood next to his father. 

“Can I have my phone back?”

Mori picked up the phone. “In…three minutes and twenty-eight seconds.”

“Can I have a snack?”

“You can have any of the fresh fruits or vegetables you want from the fridge,” Mori replied, setting Dazai’s phone down next to his empty wine glass.

“Not hungry,” Dazai said, eyeing the bottle of wine on the table. “What about that?”

Mori checked the calendar on his own phone. “In…five years and fifty four days,”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dazai replied, glancing down at the timer counting down on the face of Mori’s lock screen. “Why don’t you ever let me do anything?”

“Because I’m a horrible person who hates you,” said Mori in a saccharine voice.

Dazai rolled his eyes far enough back that the whites showed. “Did you tell your boyfriend that his idea was stupid?”

“No, I told him that you were giving me the silent treatment, and I’ll have to let him know that you let up on that far earlier than I expected,” said Mori. “If you’re willing to talk to me now, I wanted to give you some context for–”

The timer chimed on Mori’s phone, and Dazai swept his confiscated phone off the table with lightning reflexes. “Adults only do stuff to benefit themselves,” he said, “You’re no different.” With a haughty glare, Dazai retreated to his room, slamming the door behind him. 

Mori poured himself another glass of wine and sighed deeply, sending Fukuzawa several random stickers on their text message thread to no response. Must be nice to have a kid who doesn’t think you’re a piece of sh

He deleted the message and pushed himself up from the table, finally clearing the dishes from dinner to the sink, washing them methodically and setting them to dry. His wine glass remained on the table, and against his better judgment Mori refilled it before moving to the sofa for the evening. He read a medical journal with the TV on in the background for two hours, during which time there was no sign of Dazai. Fukuzawa finally replied with an apology, explaining that he was out with Ranpo and wishing Mori a good night. After two glasses of wine, Mori had several replies typed and deleted before settling on a reciprocal “good night” to Fukuzawa.

His glass forgotten on the coffee table, Mori walked back to his room and stopped on the way to knock on Dazai’s door. “Good night, Dazai,” he said.

“Go away,” Dazai replied through the door.

“See you tomorrow morning,” Mori responded, and waited at the door for a moment only to be met with deafening silence.

The next morning, Mori awoke and stretched, mulled over the dreams he’d had once he was finally able to sleep, tucking a couple of the ideas away to explore with Fukuzawa in the future. He pulled on his bathrobe and pushed his hands through his hair, pinning it back in preparation to wash his face. When he left his bedroom to start the water heater for coffee, he knocked on Dazai’s door loudly. “Wake up,” he called, “I have a patient first thing in the morning today. I don’t have time to drive you to school if you miss the train.”

There was no response from Dazai’s room. Mori listened for movement in the hallway while he prepared for a day at his clinic, dressing in everyday robes with a better pair of underwear in case Fukuzawa decided to take pity on him for last night’s suffering and suggest they meet after work. Motivated by hope and dreams, Mori finished his morning routine and made his way back to Dazai’s bedroom door.

“Wake up now, Dazai,” Mori said, raising his voice this time, “I know you didn’t take a bath last night, so you need to get up and shower before going to school. There should be a clean uniform in the laundry.” Dazai was still silent, and Mori opened his door to find his son’s bed empty and a note on the pillow.  

The first thing Mori did with bated breath and vivid memories of Dazai’s past suicide attempts was check the closet. The boy was not there, and Mori sighed with relief. He contemplated a few sips of coffee before reading the note on Dazai’s pillow, and decided the most responsible thing to do was to read the note while he drank his coffee. In his pocket, his phone vibrated, and Mori picked up Dazai’s note while checking his messages.

Good morning, bad dad Mori-sensei.

He smiled at Fukuzawa’s greeting, and took a sip of coffee while opening the note, immediately gagging on the hot beverage when he read the words written on the paper. 

“Chilled by winter winds
I have decided
To journey with the gods.”

The haiku was signed with Dazai’s name in a dramatic flourish. Mori set the note down, then folded his arms across his chest and laughed out loud. Under normal circumstances this would be a strange response for a father whose son was missing the morning after an argument, however Mori was prepared for these sorts of situations with Dazai. 

Morning, Mori texted Fukuzawa. How did you guess you were talking to the parent of the hour? He looked at the timestamp of the text, cursed under his breath, and quickly drank the rest of his coffee. Gathering his doctor’s bag and documents for work, he strode resolutely towards the elevator, backtracking halfway down the hallway to stop in front of his neighbor’s door. 

“Ah, good morning, Mori-sensei,” said the older man who answered his knock, cigarette dangling from his lips. “What do I owe an early visit from you? I’m certainly not old enough for an elderly neighbor wellness check.” His white mustache curved upwards with his small smile.

“I’m a pediatrician, Hirotsu-san,” Mori replied with a bow, “but if I am ever concerned for your well-being, I would certainly check on you myself.” At this rate, he was going to have to call in a favor with Elise to check in his first patient unless traffic was exceptionally good. “I was hoping I could ask a favor of you, though.”

Hirotsu Ryuurou raised an eyebrow. The older man was a retired police officer and therefore home during the days when Mori was not. When Dazai first came to live with Mori, Hirotsu found Dazai in the lobby of the apartment building while Mori was at work, trying to convince one of the young female tenants to join him in a double suicide. Hirotsu calmly diffused the situation, and in exchange for a bottle of high-end liquor every now and again agreed to check in on Dazai when Mori had to work late or over a weekend. 

“Dazai went missing overnight,” Mori explained, “and I can’t cancel my morning patients with this short notice. I don’t suppose you can keep an eye out for him in case he comes home during the day?” He clasped his hands together and bowed again deeply. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

With a sympathetic look, Hirotsu took a drag on his cigarette. “Teenagers are a handful, aren’t they? Do you need me to call one of my former colleagues at the precinct? They could file a missing persons report.”

Mori shook his head. “For all I know he’s gone to school early, but if no one sees him by this evening I’ll let you know.”

“Good luck, Mori-sensei,” Hirotsu said, “I’ll send you a message if he turns up.”

Thanking Hirotsu profusely, Mori jogged the rest of the way to his car and started his drive to his clinic while still catching his breath. At a red light, he quickly texted Elise, begging for forgiveness from the second person that morning, and saw that Fukuzawa sent him a couple of messages as well. He wanted badly to read them but the light changed, and he had no choice but to ignore them. It was mid-morning before Mori had a pause between patients to read his messages from his boyfriend; the most he had been able to do while working was check for any calls from the police or texts from Dazai or Hirotsu. While he stood in line to buy coffee and pastries for himself and Elise, he finally responded.

Dazai seems to have run away from home last night, Mori typed, and Fukuzawa’s response came much quicker than Mori expected.

Are you all right? Have you called the police and his school? Did he leave you any indication of where he was going?

Mori typed his reply. Get a load of this: the note he left me was a haiku from Bakin Takizawa. It’s almost summer, and he quoted a winter verse.

The dots on his screen started and stopped several times, but Mori had come to expect that from texting with Fukuzawa. Finally, his message arrived. That’s all you’re worried about?! An out-of-season haiku? I can call you over my lunch hour if you need to talk.

After placing their orders, Mori replied while he waited for them to be packaged to take back to his clinic. 

I have a patient at 12:30. Thank you for the reminder to call his school, though. I’ll do that right away.

A few wards away, Fukuzawa’s fingertips rapidly flew across his phone screen as he texted Mori. He couldn’t believe how unconcerned his boyfriend’s messages seemed. Mori’s replies were far too nonchalant for a man who woke up to find his son missing, so there had to be more to this situation than Mori was sharing. Internally, he cursed the fact that he was confined to a mandatory administration meeting all morning; if it was Ranpo he could and would have stepped away, but he reminded himself that Mori knew Dazai best and that if he was calm there had to be an explanation. Fukuzawa couldn’t help but put himself in Mori’s shoes, however, and his heart sank when he imagined the situation with his own child. From the way Mori described Dazai, however, he was a much more independent child than Ranpo, despite being two years younger. While he wasn’t sure what to make of Mori’s outrage over Dazai’s poetry choices, he also reminded himself that for all intents and purposes, Mori cared as much for his adopted son as Fukuzawa did for his own flesh and blood.

I’m here if you need me, he typed, after starting and deleting his message multiple times.

I appreciate that. There was a heart at the end of Mori’s reply.

Fukuzawa was thankful for his long hair and high collar as warmth flushed the back of his neck.

— 

Sakunosuke Oda usually arrived at school early enough to get his own workout done before any of the students were at the gym. He considered it one of the perks of the job, since he was too busy with his classes during the school day and coaching the track and field club after school hours to get any exercise of his own. 

The prior afternoon, Oda had a toothache that lasted through the evening and scheduled an emergency dentist appointment for the next morning. If he hadn’t forgotten his wallet in his desk because he was in so much pain, he would have stayed home for the day. When he pulled up to the parking lot mid-morning, his plan was to slip into the school unnoticed, quickly grab his wallet, and take some of the pain medication that the dentist gave him as soon as he got home. If this was anything like the prescription drugs he used to help the Takase Clan smuggle, he was going to be out like a light.

When he slowed down to park his motorcycle in his normal spot, Oda suddenly got the feeling that his visit to school was not going to be as brief or as surreptitious as planned. Sitting in his parking spot was Osamu Dazai, dressed in street clothes rather than his school uniform, his tired eyes sunken into his pale cheeks.

“Good afternoon, Dazai-kun,” Oda greeted his pupil as he normally would, idling his engine and taking off his helmet. “Thank you for saving my parking place for me.”

“Hi, Oda-sensei,” Dazai looked up at his teacher with blank eyes. “No problem,” he said, “You’re late for school.” He stood up and ambled out of the way of Oda’s motorcycle, watching as he cut the engine and swung his legs off the seat, leaning against it and turning towards Dazai.

“I could say the same for you,” replied Oda, quickly looking Dazai over from head to toe. From his rumpled street clothes he deduced that Dazai had been away from home since the night before. He knew that it was against his better judgment to take this boy as his responsibility, but based on what he heard at the teachers’ social outing last Friday, Oda was the only one on the faculty who Dazai seemed to listen to. This was the sort of student that he became a teacher to help, he reminded himself, and made up his mind. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dazai said, and his stomach growled. “Hungry,” he added piteously.

Oda reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of rice balls from the convenience store. “Here,” he said, handing them to Dazai, “They might be a little stale, but they’re still good. I can’t eat them, so take them if you’re hungry.”

Dazai cocked his head at his teacher’s slurred voice. “Are you…drunk…?”

“I wouldn’t be on my bike if I was drunk, especially not at school. I had a couple of cavities filled this morning,” Oda said, rubbing the side of his face and remembering that he hadn’t shaved that day.

“Mori-san says that sweets give you cavities, but he and Elise-san are always eating sweets,” Dazai replied, unwrapping one of the rice balls and biting into it. “What do you expect from Old Hegelians, anyway,” he said around a mouthful of rice and seaweed.

Oda nodded, making a note to look that term up later on. “Did something happen at home?”

Dazai swallowed and tore into the second rice ball, the first one gone in three bites. When he bit down, he grimaced at the sour taste of the pickled plum in the center, but continued to eat until he was finished, shoving the empty plastic wrappers into his pocket. “Oda-sensei, have you ever heard of graduating early from high school?”

“Hm,” Oda scratched his chin. “I haven’t personally, but I wasn’t what you would call a top student. You’re a smart kid, though. Are you thinking about trying to graduate early?”

Dazai frowned. “Mori-san told me that I should do it ‘cause I hate school,” he explained, “Well, I don’t hate you, Oda-sensei. You’re the only thing that doesn’t suck about this place. I would drop out but he won’t let me.”

“He’s a good parent,” said Oda, “It’s important to stay in school, at least until you figure out what you want to do with your life. When I was your age, a lot of the yakuza guys I knew were high school dropouts, and they joined because they didn’t have any other way to make decent money.”

“The yakuza sounds better and better every day,” Dazai sighed, looking up at his teacher. “Would I have to get a tattoo though? I heard they hurt a lot.”

Oda nodded. “It hurts a lot.”

“You have a tattoo?!” 

“Well…in a manner of speaking,” Oda shrugged. “I begged the guys I worked for to give me one, but they said I was too young. One of them finally did it as payment for a job I did for him, but it was tiny – maybe the size of the eraser on the end of a pencil. Which is good, because my mom made me get it removed as soon as she saw it.” He chuckled, and when he looked down at Dazai, the boy’s eyes were filled with wonder. “If you don’t like pain, I wouldn’t suggest tattoos or the yakuza.”

“Where is it?” Dazai eyed Oda, searching him through his clothes for a telltale mark.

“I told you, I don’t have it anymore. My mom found a dermatologist who removed it. That hurt even more than getting it in the first place,” he said, wincing at the memory.

“Parents don’t understand,” Dazai said, “Your mom is just like Mori-san. If you don’t like something then just get rid of it, who cares what difference it makes to the kid? Sometimes I think I’m just human capital to him.”

Oda sighed. “What happened? I want to help you out, but if you don’t tell me then I can’t really do anything other than send you into school, and that’s not what either of us want right now.” What he truly wanted was a glass of water and a nap; as a responsible teacher, he was going to send Dazai to the principal one way or the other, but not before trying to help the boy. 

Dazai stared at his feet. “Mori-san said his…friend…who is supposedly some kind of teacher…told him that I should graduate early, and he agreed it was a good idea. But it means I have to switch schools next year, because Minami High doesn’t have credits, only grades, and to graduate early apparently I have to get lots of extra credits in night school and summer school.”

It was clear from Dazai’s current appearance that this was not where the story ended. “What happened after that?” Oda said, his jaw tingling uncomfortably as the effects of the local anesthetic began to subside.

Looking past his teacher, Dazai said, “After Mori-san went to bed, I left home.”

“Where were you all night?” 

“At an internet cafe,” Dazai said, “They kicked me out in the morning when I ran out of money, though. So I came here looking for you before school, but you didn’t show up.”

Oda pushed a hand through his auburn hair. “You haven’t been sitting here all day, have you?”

Dazai shook his head. “Just since the first bell rang.”

Setting his helmet down on the seat of his motorcycle, Oda paced back and forth a few steps while gathering his thoughts. The easiest thing to do would be to meet with the school nurse and student counselor, but Oda generally chose the road less traveled when it came to Dazai. “Well, if you want my opinion, Dazai-kun, I think your father’s idea is a good one.” 

The dark-haired boy’s eyes were filled with treason. He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling his loose sweatshirt against his slight frame. “How come?” he asked in a low voice.

“I already told you, I can’t endorse dropping out. This is both as a teacher and from my own personal experience.” Dazai eyed him skeptically. Oda scratched his head and thought for a moment. “I know that starting over at a new school is hard, especially when you just changed schools a year ago, but the ends justify the means in this situation.” he explained. “Find a credit-based school you can tolerate, bust your butt for a year, and then you’re free to do whatever you want after that. Sounds like a fair deal to me.”

“I gotta go to day school and night school, though…” Dazai groaned. “I won’t know anyone there, and I bet the gym teacher won’t be cool either.”

“I went to night school for half a year,” Oda confessed. “It wasn’t bad, even though studying all day and night sucked. Night school was way more laid back than regular high school.” His expression softened at the memory. “Some of the people reminded me of characters in the manga that my attorney gave me. Maybe you’ll find other students you can relate to there.”

Dazai was unconvinced. “I would go to night school if I could go to this school at the same time.” 

“You could, but it wouldn’t help you graduate any faster, which would defeat the purpose of all that extra homework.”

The boy suddenly appeared inspired, light returning to his eyes. “Maybe I could go to the same night school you went to.”

“You could do that,” Oda nodded, “I’ll send the school’s information and a recommendation to your father, okay? I think that will help when he talks to them about enrollment.” This was a good enough excuse for him to contact Mori-sensei; from his own experience he knew Dazai could be trustworthy but was also quite shrewd, and Oda wanted to make sure that his adoptive father knew which words came from him. 

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” Dazai replied.

Oda thought quickly. “Because he’ll need the recommendation as an email.”

Dazai sighed, “Fine, if you gotta, I guess that’s okay.” He thought for a moment, “Are there any jobs that don’t have a million emails?” 

‘The Yakuza’ was on the tip of his tongue, and Oda swallowed his words and shook his head. “Nope, not that I know about,” he said, “But I bet you can find one if you put your mind to it.”

“If I promise to tell Mori-san that I’ll think about graduating early, can I just go home now?” Dazai glanced at Oda’s motorcycle, and then at his teacher with a hopeful expression.

Oda shook his head. “I have to take you to the principal,” he said, and Dazai gave him a wounded look. “Listen, if you ran away from home, your father probably called either the school or the police, and I’m sure he wants to know you’re safe. I could also get in trouble for letting a student be truant, and I happen to like my job at this school.” He patted Dazai on the shoulder. “Let’s go. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go home. Tomorrow when you come to school, I want you to tell me tomorrow how things go with your father tonight – good or bad. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dazai agreed reluctantly. “But tell me about the night school you went to. Do you think any of the teachers are still there?” 

As they walked towards the school, Oda told Dazai about one of the teachers he particularly enjoyed, and after dropping Dazai off at the vice principal’s office with an explanation of his and his student’s unexpected appearances, he jogged to his office to retrieve his wallet as originally planned. Sitting down at his computer, he looked up Dazai’s father’s email in the school database, and then opened his personal email on his phone and typed a message.

Good afternoon Mori-sensei,

I apologize for the unexpected correspondence. This is Sakunosuke Oda, Dazai-kun’s physical education teacher. I spoke with him this afternoon and he informed me of the discussion you had regarding his future educational plans. I think it’s a good idea and he asked that I give you a recommendation for a night school he could attend. Below is the name and address of the school. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions. 

Also, I was telling your son about a manga series that was given to me when I was about Dazai’s age by someone who changed the course of my life. If you’re familiar with Great Teacher Onizuka, please trust that while I don’t condone Onizuka-sensei’s methods, his message helped me find my purpose. Dazai-kun has a lot of potential and I want him to find his place, just like I did.

Thank you for your time,

Sakunosuke Oda

Just as Mori sat down at his desk to eat a belated lunch, his phone vibrated with a voicemail. When he picked it up to see who it was from, he saw three missed calls and two voicemails, along with several texts from Fukuzawa. Business first, he decided. 

The first voicemail was from Dazai’s school, informing him that his son was escorted to the principal’s office midway through the school day and that since he did not have his school uniform, he would be sent home for the remainder of the day. 

“Thank goodness,” Mori breathed a sigh of relief. 

The second voicemail was from Dazai, asking Mori to pick him up from outside the train station closest to his school since his fare card was out of money and he didn’t have any more cash.

Mori took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His most recent patient was his last one for the day, but he had a backlog of paperwork to do that he couldn’t ask Elise to take care of. He leaned back in his chair and groaned, transporting himself back to the blissful memory of the last time he and Fukuzawa were together, when his only responsibility was to give as much pleasure as he received. After spending a moment reminiscing, he opened his eyes and sat up. A minute of respite was all he needed to formulate a plan.

“Elise-chan,” he called to his nurse, who came into his office a moment later with two cups of coffee in hand. “Is one of those for me?”

“Depends,” she said, “What are you going to ask me to do?”

Mori clasped his hands together and bowed his head deeply. Elise set one of the cups of coffee on his desk and crossed her arms over her chest. 

“If I give you taxi fare, would you do me a huge favor and meet Dazai at Kaminagaya Station? They sent him home from school when he showed up without his uniform and his subway fare card is out of money. I have to review all of the patient records from the past week and I haven’t had a chance to look at my emails yet today.” He made a pathetic face at her. “Please?”

“Oh, he’s safe and sound? That’s good news,” Elise clapped her hands together, then looked at Mori with a pitying expression. “You need an administrative assistant, Rintarou. It’s amazing that our clinic has so many patients, but I can barely keep up with my own documentation.” She looked up at the clock on his office wall. “Let Dazai-kun know I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ll send you my bill.”

“I could kiss you,” Mori said, “You’re an angel, Elise-chan.”

“You absolutely cannot kiss me, and don’t forget how I went above and beyond the call of duty when it’s time for my merit increase,” Elise replied, leaving Mori’s office to change her clothes. After she swapped her nurse’s uniform for her street clothes, Elise glanced into his office again before heading out to meet Dazai. “Hey,” she said in a more subdued tone, and Mori looked up from his phone at her. “I’m glad Dazai-kun is okay. I know you’re doing the best you can for him, just like you did for me. Maybe someday he’ll understand that too.” 

Before Mori could respond, Elise turned on her heel and left. He watched her long blonde hair flounce away from his door and smiled softly. 

Good news, he typed to Fukuzawa, the prodigal son has returned. I wonder if he had a change of heart?

With that out of the way, Mori decided to start paring down his inbox. There was one in particular that stood out from the others: a message from Oda-sensei addressed directly to him. He opened the email and slowly read the message, his soft smile persisting until the end. “You are one lucky kid, Osamu Dazai,” he said to himself. 

He typed a brief reply to Oda, thanking him for always taking care of his son, then moved to the next email in his inbox. Mori had read and replied to three more messages before his growling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t touched his lunch. Quickly tearing open his sandwich wrapper, he poked one half of the sandwich in his mouth while checking the streaming services on his phone to see which one carried Great Teacher Onizuka.

As her taxi pulled up to the stand outside Kaminagaya Station, Elise could see Osamu Dazai’s mussed brown hair popping up over the top of a bench. She thanked the driver and paid the fare, tucking the change into her purse for a treat later on. Rintarou could consider it a service fee.

“Dazai-kun,” she called to the boy sitting on the bench by the taxi stand, “Your fairy godmother is here to save the day.” 

He looked up from his phone and his eyes widened. “Elise-san,” Dazai said, slightly startled to see her. “Where’s Mori-san?”

“He had time-sensitive work to do so he asked me to fetch you instead,” she said, standing in front of the teenager and crossing her arms just as she had in front of his father. She had an intimidating presence that was at least twice the size of her physical stature. “I understand you ran out of train fare?”

Dazai nodded forlornly. “And I’m hungry,” he said, looking at the beverage vending machines longingly. “It is truly tragic that child hunger still exists in this day and age.”

“Mein Gott,” Elise shook her head, blonde ponytail swinging back and forth. Two years in, she was still incredulous at how similar Dazai and his adoptive father were at times. During the taxi ride she had checked the map of the area to see if there was anywhere nearby that she needed to stop after seeing Dazai on his way, so she already had the lay of the land. “There’s a McDonald’s a block away. Come on,” she said, holding her hand out to her boss’s son. He pushed himself to his feet and started to follow Elise, keeping two steps behind her for the walk to the restaurant. 

“Can I order whatever I want?” he asked.

“Rintarou is paying for it, so it doesn’t matter to me,” Elise replied. “He’ll probably want to eat with you tonight, so I wouldn’t eat so much that you won’t want dinner.”

Dazai huffed. “He doesn’t care about me.”

Elise glared at Dazai, her crystal blue eyes as cold as ice. “If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have spent the amount of money he did to send me to pick you up. I know that you two had a fight last night and he has been an extra big loser ever since he started hanging out with his new friend, but he definitely cares about you.”

“Whatever,” Dazai said, “I want a Big Mac set. Large size.”

“Go wash your hands and find us a table,” Elise shooed Dazai in the direction of the restroom and placed their orders at the counter. He actually needed a shower, but having grown up with older brothers she was sufficiently immune  to teenage boy smells to tolerate it through a meal. After a short time, Dazai returned to the dining room and sat down at a table. “Is your phone dead?” Elise asked, watching Dazai fidget with his ketchup packets as she approached the table with a tray full of food. She set it down and took her drink, sitting down across from him.

“How did you know?” asked Dazai while pulling the tray towards himself. 

“You don’t even have it out,” she replied, “So it’s either missing or dead, and I can’t imagine you would have lost something so important.” Elise rummaged in her purse and pulled out a portable charger, handing it to Dazai. “Here, put some juice in your phone as well as your body.”

“Thanks for the food,” Dazai mumbled around a mouth full of french fries. “I’m starving.”

“Next time you run away from home, bring some snacks,” Elise said, shaking her head. “That’s Runaway 101. You should thank me for my generosity.”

Dazai swallowed a huge bite of his burger and washed it down with soda. “Thank you, Elise-san,” he said. “Did Mori-san tell you to bring me home?”

Elise shook her head. “He didn’t ask me to do anything other than top up the funds on your subway card. But I’m feeling generous,” she said, “I’ll send you home in a taxi so you don’t have to ride the subway. Sound good?”

“Okay,” Dazai nodded.”Did Mori-san tell you to be nice to me?”

Elise took a sip of her chocolate frappe. “I’m always nice to you, aren’t I? We both have to deal with Rintarou’s nonsense on a daily basis. It’s like we’re brothers in arms.” She smiled at Dazai, who was still eating at a breakneck pace. “Slow down and chew your food properly. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

With a deep breath, Dazai slowly chewed the food currently in his mouth and swallowed audibly, looking at Elise for approval. “How come you’re so nice to him if you agree he sucks?”

“Because he’s a good person once you get past his lame jokes and boring books and weird food,” Elise replied without a second thought. “I ran away from home myself, did you know?”

“You did?” Dazai’s eyes widened. 

“Ja,” said Elise, “When I was eighteen years old. I didn’t want to work for my family’s business but they didn’t offer me another choice. In hindsight, I probably could have stayed in Germany, but at the time I felt like I had to get away from my family because they didn’t understand what I really wanted to do with my life.” She chose not to mention that she had no clear plan at the time, only that she knew that she had no desire to ruin her taste for sweets by making them her career. Her mother probably regretted telling young Elise that it was important for a woman to have her secrets, but it was a piece of advice that Elise never forgot.

Dazai nodded emphatically. “That’s why I ran away,” he said, “Mori-san said I have to change schools because he wants to impress his boyfriend, but he doesn’t understand that the only person who actually cares about me is at that school.”

“Don’t be a liar, Göre,” Elise rolled her eyes. “I just told you that we’re brothers in arms and you say that no one cares about you? I’m insulted.”

“Tut mir leid,” Dazai mumbled. “Sorry,” he added for good measure. “What happened when you ran away?” He stuffed another handful of french fries in his mouth and licked salt off his fingers.

“I found Rintarou online and told him I was coming to Japan,” she replied matter-of-factly. “To be honest, I was ready for him to tell me to turn around and go back to Germany, but all he did was send me his address, and when I arrived he gave me a hug and told me that I was just as cute as I was when he lived with us.”

“Gross,” Dazai said, but there was admiration in his voice. 

“Anyhow,” Elise ran her straw around the edge of her cup, picking up cookie bits and licking them off the end, “He took care of me so that I didn’t have to go back home. Your room is my old room, in case you didn’t know” she said, “I actually had to hurry and find a new place to live because he was planning to adopt you and needed the room to pass the Child Protective Services home visit.”

Dazai swallowed. “Huh,” he said, processing this new information. He knew that Elise and his father knew each other from when Mori studied in Germany and that she had always been the only nurse at his private practice. When he first moved in with Mori, Elise occasionally watched Dazai when Mori had to go out of town for work, and he liked the way that she would sass his father whenever he annoyed her. “Well, that’s pretty lame that he kicked you out in favor of me.”

“He didn’t kick me out,” Elise chided Dazai. “He was actually considering finding a larger apartment so that both you and I could live with him, and I told him that I would find a place of my own. It was the motivation I needed to move out, which I had always planned on doing anyway.” She sighed. “He told me I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but I’ll tell you anyway.”  Dazai slurped his drink and listened intently. 

“Even though pediatrics is his clinical specialty, he never thought he wanted to raise a kid until he got to know you,” Elise said, her expression as serious as her voice. “I completely agree that this new friend of his clearly has bad taste, and I bet you don’t hear half the stories I do.” She rolled her eyes and made a gagging noise, and Dazai looked vaguely ill at the prospect.  “But I really don’t think Rintarou would suggest you do something as major as changing schools just so he could impress someone. You and he are both way too stubborn for that.” Dazai licked salt off his fingers, and she shoved a napkin at him. “Boys are the same everywhere,” she muttered to herself. “Are you done eating? I hope you didn’t spoil your dinner.”

He groaned. “I didn’t spoil my dinner, Mutter. I was starving. All I had to eat today was two rice balls.”

“I am nowhere near old enough to be your mother,” she replied. “Go wash your hands again and then I’m going to get you a taxi back home.”

While Dazai was in the restroom, Elise took out her phone and typed out a message to Mori. 

I’ve collected your son. He is fed and watered and will be in a taxi on his way home shortly. Do yourself a favor and try not to bring up Fukuzawa-sensei when you talk to him tonight until after you two come to a decision about his future. I believe in you, Rintarou, so don’t fuck this up.

—

Mori arrived home that night to find Dazai’s shoes and schoolbag in the entryway and his bedroom door closed with the light on. He set down the paper bag filled with dim sum, thankful for Yokohama’s abundance of good Chinese restaurants on his way home from work, and knocked on Dazai’s bedroom door. “So the prodigal son has returned,” he said, not expecting Dazai to find the joke as amusing as Fukuzawa did.

“You can come in,” Dazai said. Mori opened the door and entered his son’s bedroom. 

“It’s been a minute since you let me come in here,” Mori quipped, “Welcome home. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Yeah, whatever. You probably just don’t want your boyfriend to think you’re a bad parent,” Dazai mumbled into his pillow.

Mori thought of his text message exchange with Fukuzawa that morning and of Elise’s warning earlier that afternoon. He assumed the topic of Fukuzawa was acceptable if Dazai was the one who brought it up. “He definitely questioned my merits as a father today,” he said with a wry smile. “I am sure that he was disappointed to know I am the kind of parent who raises a son who leaves an out-of-season haiku to inform his father that he left home.”

“Oh my god,” Dazai groaned, “No way. How did you find another person in this world who sucks as much as you do, Mori-san?”

“I am an extremely lucky man, it seems,” Mori replied with a sly grin. “Actually, he said nothing of the sort. He was shocked that I didn’t immediately call the police and have them put out an APB for you. I let him know that would cause more harm than good, and that I trusted you would come back home before I had to take such drastic measures.”

Dazai turned his head sideways to look at Mori. “You didn’t think I was going to try to kill myself?”

Mori approached Dazai’s bed, stepping over the piles of clothes on the floor and resisting the urge to pick up the empty soda bottles and snack bags littering the area around his computer. “The thought crossed my mind this morning when I realized you were gone,” said Mori, “but once I found your note, I thought about what I would do if my parents tried to give me an ultimatum that I didn’t agree with.”

“Whatever it was, the poem probably would have been seasonally appropriate,” Dazai rolled his eyes and shoved his head back into his pillow.

“No haiku were involved,” Mori shook his head regretfully, “You’re much more poetically inclined than I was at your age. I simply told them that I was leaving the country to study in Germany and I would contact them if I returned to Japan.” 

For a moment, Dazai was quiet, then he rolled over and sat up in bed. “What did they want you to do?”

“I told you before that they were set in their beliefs about marriage and family. I was attending medical school in Tokyo, so my contact with them was already limited, but in spite of that they started arranging marriage meetings when I hadn’t found a suitable partner on their timetable,” Mori explained.  “Rather than argue with them or waste my time entertaining something I had no desire to participate in, I simply made plans to left the country. He didn’t mention to Dazai that while his German student visa was in process, he skipped every meeting with a potential partner to visit a different research library in Tokyo, with a side trip to Shinjuku 2-Chome for extracurricular studies.

Dazai nodded slowly. “So are they dead? Is that why we never see them?”

“They are alive,” Mori replied, “The last time I saw them in person was when I returned to Japan for visa purposes. I suppose I could thank them for helping me realize during those two weeks what I truly wanted to do with my life, although I doubt they would appreciate it since it didn’t perfectly align with their wishes. Going no-contact was certainly not the filial piety they expected of their oldest son; however, I have no need for any present or future support from my parents. My younger siblings have carried on the bloodline and are caring for my parents in their later years, from the last I heard.”

Thinking over what Elise told him while they were eating, Dazai silently wondered if the reason Mori never wanted children was because of his own negative experience with his parents. The question was burning a hole in his brain, but he didn’t want to betray Elise’s trust and simply kept it to himself. Perhaps Mori-san would talk too much, as he always did, and Dazai would get his answer without having to ask. “This is a weird story for you to tell me when I’m supposed to be in trouble for running away from home,” he finally said. "What if I just decide to leave again?"

“Isn’t it? Here I am, ready to scold you for running away from home and not listening to your father when he’s simply trying to look out for your best interests, and I tell you a story about how I not only did it, it actually worked out quite well for me.” Mori shook his head. “I did tell you that you reminded me of myself, though, and now I feel like the resemblance is even more uncanny.”

Dazai scratched his head. “So, uh…am I in trouble for running away from home? Are you going to assign me an essay on Rainer Maria Rilke or something?”

“Why would I do that?” While they were talking, Mori had taken a seat on the edge of Dazai’s mattress, and was picking up the books scattered on the floor next to his bed. Some of them were from his own personal library, but there were others that he didn’t recognize. While Dazai’s attendance at school was subpar, his son was clearly engaged with the subjects that intrigued him.

“Because Rilke had a difficult childhood and lived with a single parent who treated him as an object rather than a person, and eventually was expelled from school, then fell in love with a lady who was probably a lesbian, ended up in a polycule, and supported socialist causes all while writing poetry before he died,” Dazai said, “I figured you’d think it was some kind of cautionary tale, or something boring like that.”

Mori’s eyes widened, and he patted Dazai warmly on the shoulder. “I am impressed,” he said, reaching up to muss his son’s hair and reminding himself to look up “polycule” later on. The boy dodged sideways but Mori was quicker, and the proud smile on his face was impossible to miss. “I had no intention of assigning you any extra homework as I’m sure you have things to make up from the classes you missed today, but now I’m tempted to ask you to write something about Rilke after all. It seems like you’ve been doing some reading and thinking lately.”

Dazai moaned in horror. “Can I just tell you about Rilke while we eat dinner or something? Or wait, I’ll just show you the TikTok I made about The Panther and we can call it even.”

“Elise-chan told me she bought you McDonald’s. You still want to eat dinner?” Mori said. Dazai nodded. “Come on, I have dim sum in the kitchen.” He pushed himself off the corner of Dazai’s bed and made his way to the doorway, gingerly retracing his footsteps over the clutter on the floor to the doorway. Dazai followed his father, shoving things out of his way and then slamming the door shut behind him.

Mori and Dazai ate in silence until their initial hunger was sated. Fukuzawa texted Mori while they were eating, and Mori decided that if Dazai could be on his phone for a little while during dinner, so could he.

How are things going tonight? After you told me Dazai-kun got home, I didn’t hear from you.

You wouldn’t believe it, Fukuzawa-dono! Dazai has been studying Rainer Maria Rilke on his own! I’m so surprised and pleased.

There was a long pause. Mori wondered if Fukuzawa was in the middle of dinner himself, but when he checked the time he realized it was well past the other man’s mealtime. Finally, another text message popped up in his window. 

I assume that means he’s talking to you, at the very least.

Mori glanced at Dazai, who was laughing at something on his phone with a shumai in his mouth. He is, and I should probably keep talking to him now that I’ve got his attention. I’ll call you later, after he goes to bed. He ended the text with a heart emoji, then deleted it at the last second before hitting the send button.

“While you were journeying with the gods, did you give any further thought to early graduation?” Mori set down his chopsticks and crossed his hands on the table. Dazai looked up from his phone and swallowed a soup dumpling with a slurp.

“Oda-sensei told me that he thought it was a good idea,” Dazai finally said after chewing his food for much longer than necessary.

Mori nodded. “He reached out to me and told me the same, along with sending me a couple of recommendations. But Great Teacher Oda has already graduated from high school. I want to know what Osamu Dazai thinks. If you really don’t want to do it, you can stay in your current school as long as you don’t get expelled like your poetic muse.”

Dazai poked at the soup dumpling in his spoon with a chopstick, tearing the dough wrapper open and watching the broth spill out. He thought about what Oda and Elise and Mori told him about taking steps to change your life for the better. While he wasn’t sure if graduating high school early would make his life better or worse, if every adult who claimed to be on his side said that it would help, perhaps it was worth a try.

“I guess…it makes sense,” Dazai finally said. “If this doesn’t work out though, remember it was your boyfriend’s dumb idea, not mine.”

“I believe in you,” Mori said with a warmer and brighter smile than his typical grin. “I’ll call your school tomorrow and see who we need to talk to before the next semester’s enrollment begins.” He paused. “There was one more thing I wanted to ask you.” Mori cleared his throat. “Would you be amenable to meeting Fukuzawa-sensei and his son for lunch sometime?” 

He waited for his son to tell him that he was being selfish, that he was letting his boyfriend dictate their relationship, or that he was leaving home again. Instead, Dazai shrugged.

“I guess you guys are pretty serious, huh,” said Dazai, picking the lump of meat from the inside of his soup dumpling and popping it in his mouth. 

Suppressing a grin, Mori nodded. “If we weren’t, I wouldn’t have asked you to meet him.”

“Elise-san says that your boyfriend has terrible taste in guys,” Dazai said, “I’m going to make sure he knows that.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mori beamed, picking up his phone to text Fukuzawa the good news. It didn’t even occur to him to be upset about Elise’s comments; the fact that she and Dazai were able to discuss him in such terms meant that the two of them had a positive relationship, which was something Dazai desperately needed more of in his life.

Dazai pushed his chair back. “So can I go now?” He stood up from the table and started towards his room.

Mori shook his head. “Not yet. We still haven’t discussed your punishment for running away from home.”

“What? But I agreed to everything you asked me to do,” Dazai said, frantically unlocking his phone. “Wait, look at this. It’s my TikTok about The Panther.”

“While I do want to see what you have to say about Rilke’s poetry, I have other plans for us tonight,” said Mori. “Go wait for me in the living room while I clean up. Or you can help me clean up if you don’t feel like waiting.”

Dazai trudged into the living room, curling himself into a ball in the corner of the sofa while Mori sighed and cleaned up the remains of their dinner. One of these days he was going to make Dazai do this while he lounged on the couch sending memes to Fukuzawa, but tonight was not that night. He cleared the takeout containers off of the table, reminding himself that it was burnable trash day tomorrow, and took the dishes to the sink. As much as Mori did not want to wash dishes, he remembered something about leading by example, and sighed.

Dazai agreed to meeting you and Ranpo-kun. I must warn you that he is going to air all of his perceived grievances with me for you to hear and judge. He sent the text message to Fukuzawa and set his phone back down to scrub the few dishes from that night’s dinner. Before long, his phone screen lit up with his boyfriend’s response.

I look forward to it. Am I allowed to agree with him if he’s right?

Certainly. Just remember anything you say can and will be used against you next time we’re intimate together. Mori didn’t delete the heart emoji this time and hit the send button. Fukuzawa’s reply came almost immediately.

Speaking of, when are you available for our next date? I was watching a rerun of “Dousuru Ieyasu” and I started thinking about you and had to turn it off when Ranpo came into the room.

Mori giggled to himself, glancing over his shoulder at Dazai, who was engrossed in something on his phone. Sorry not sorry, he replied. Tell me which clan is your favorite so I know how to dress to undress next time I see you.

“Mori-san,” Dazai called from the other room, “If you’re not going to torture me can I just go to bed? I didn’t really sleep last night.”

Fukuzawa’s response flashed across the screen, and Mori swallowed hard, cleared his mind of any thoughts of the Silver Wolf, and put his phone in his pocket. “I’ll be there in just a minute,” he replied, quickly finishing the dishes and leaving them in the dish drainer to dry rather than put them away. He joined Dazai on the couch, turning on the television and opening up the streaming application options,

“Are we going to watch some boring historical drama?” Dazai said as Mori scrolled through the available shows to watch, and Mori choked back his laughter.

“Now, now, don’t hate on historical dramas. They’re Fukuzawa-sensei’s favorite shows.”

Dazai yawned. “I hope his son is cooler than he is.” He stretched his legs out, resting his feet on the coffee table in front of them. Mori finally gave up on scrolling and typed the name of the show he wanted to watch into the search bar.

“Great Teacher Onizuka”, Dazai read aloud. “Hey wait, this is Oda-sensei’s show. He told me about this today. How come you knew about that too?” His expression was as much surprise as it was deception.

“I told you that he emailed me today, didn’t I? It was one of his recommendations, along with a particular night school in Minato Ward. I watched the drama when I was in high school but I’ve never seen the anime, so I thought we could watch it together.”

Dazai appeared unconvinced. “This doesn’t sound like punishment.”

Mori pressed the play button on the remote. “Believe it or not, most of the time I am not trying to punish you, Dazai. It just seems that way because you have so few positive interactions with adults to draw from.”

The opening animation started and Mori hummed along with the music, remembering the song from frequent radio play more than two decades ago. In his peripheral vision, Dazai was watching and listening, which was a good sign; it was hard to argue with L’Arc~en~Ciel. However, a few minutes later Onizuka was chuckling lecherously, trying to look up girls’ skirts as they rode up an escalator..

“Uh,” Dazai glanced at Mori, even less convinced than he was before. “Is this what the olden days were like?”

“Well,” Mori thought for a moment, “Onizuka wasn’t supposed to be a model citizen.”

“This show looks old too,” Dazai said.

“That’s because it was made before computer animation existed,” replied Mori. “They actually drew and painted all of those scenes by hand.”

“Huh,” Dazai said, and he picked up his phone and opened TikTok. As soon as Mori heard the telltale chime at the end of one of the videos, he reached over and took Dazai’s phone out of his hand. “Hey! I’m paying attention, I swear.”

“If you don’t want to watch it for me, watch it for Oda-sensei,” Mori said. “One episode and then you can go to bed. Deal?”

“Okay, but only because Oda-sensei likes it,” Dazai pulled his thighs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. They continued to watch the show together, Dazai making color commentary on how dated the outfits were, the lack of cell phones, and how dumb Onizuka was. 

“That girl Mizuki is totally setting him up,” Dazai declared as Onizuka’s student flirted with him in an artificially cute voice. “Man, things really were different back in the day. He would be canceled. Actually, I bet they both would.”

“Onizuka kind of deserved to be canceled,” said Mori, “This show is actually about how he learns from some of his mistakes, and becomes a better person by helping people. You can’t have a redemption arc without being problematic in the beginning. Stick with it for Oda-sensei, like you promised.”

Onizuka beat up the ringleaders of the class gang and tortured them; Dazai laughed while declaring it absurd and implausible. When Mizuki threw her underwear down onto Onizuka’s bike, Dazai buried his head in his hands and declared the show to be peak cringe. Mori simply observed Dazai as the episode continued, explaining context as needed for someone who was oblivious to life before smartphones and the internet. 
 
Dazai groaned. “How dumb is he?” he said as Onizuka followed Mizuki into her house. “I sure hope Oda-sensei wasn’t this dumb when he was working for the yakuza.” Mori opened his mouth and closed it just as quickly. Everyone had skeletons in their closet, and if Oda had been able to pass the state public servant exam and be hired as a teacher, nothing he did could have been worse than any of Mori’s youthful indiscretions. The high school girl onscreen threw away the lavish sushi dinner her absent parents left for her, and Onizuka dug in the trash for the pieces of tuna; Mori waited for Dazai to comment, but he sat quietly during this scene, his eyebrows tightly knit. He remained quiet as Onizuka and Mizuki sped down the street on his motorcycle, and when she attempted to commit suicide by throwing herself off the back while they were still in motion, Dazai swallowed hard and his mouth formed into a silent ‘oh’.

“Do you want to keep watching?” Mori realized too late that he should have previewed the episode before they watched it, and he reached for the remote.

Dazai nodded. “I’m okay,” he replied. “I wouldn’t try to kill myself like that anyway. Looks like it hurts,” he added with a wry smile.

Mori set the remote back on the coffee table and they both turned their attention back to the television. The episode was nearly complete at this point. Mizuki sat on the ground and told the tearful story of her family’s financial gain at the cost of the love and affection her parents once had for each other and their daughter, and Dazai fidgeted with his shirt sleeve. “Being apart and lonely is like rain.” he said quietly to himself, watching the girl on the screen fall to her knees and cry as Onizuka rode away on his motorcycle into the night. 

The episode ended with Onizuka bringing a sledgehammer to Mizuki’s house and literally smashing the wall that stood between her parents. While Dazai cackled at the absurdly literal solution, Mori picked up his phone to search for the verse his son quoted a moment prior. “It’s from a poem by Rilke,” Dazai said, eyeing his father out of the corner of his eye. He picked up his own phone and opened the browser, then began to recite the verses. There was only one point at which he glanced down at his screen, otherwise he was able to read the poem aloud by heart. 

Being apart and lonely is like rain.
It climbs toward evening from the ocean plains;
from flat places, rolling and remote, it climbs
to heaven, which is its old abode.
And only when leaving heaven drops upon the city.

It rains down on us in those twittering
hours when the streets turn their faces to the dawn,
and when two bodies who have found nothing,
disappointed and depressed, roll over;
and when two people who despise each other
have to sleep together in one bed-

that is when loneliness receives the rivers…

Dazai was tight-lipped about his parents’ relationship before they tried to have him committed to a juvenile psychiatric ward. Only in moments like this did Mori have a clearer picture of the events that pushed his adopted son to suicidal behavior, and through these glimpses into his thoughts received hints on how to help him heal. Sometimes Dazai reminded Mori of the rare diseases he studied during medical school, in that their diagnosis and cure were only possible after intense observation and research.

“Are you still thinking about making me write an essay?” Dazai said as the end credits rolled across the screen.

“I’m thinking about lysosomal storage disorders,” Mori replied, his smile purposely enigmatic. 

Dazai sighed. “Is this about my room being a mess or is that a work thing?” 

“You really have been reading a lot of poetry, haven’t you? I’m honestly impressed. If I had known you were so interested in Rilke, I would have given you a book of his plays tonight rather than had you watch anime with me.” Mori stood up and walked to the shelves of books that lined the living room wall, searching for a specific volume as he spoke. “I understand if you don’t want to keep going with the show. If it makes any difference, it felt dated to me too, and I was alive to remember those days.”

His son shook his head emphatically. “GTO was definitely old and super cringey, but…it’s kind of funny. I like how he helped that girl Mizuki even though she was a hot mess who defo could have gotten him arrested.” After a moment of thought, he added, “If I’m not going to get to see Oda-sensei after this year in class, I want to at least be able to talk to him about this show before the school year is over.”

Mori smiled at Dazai. “Then let’s watch it together. Admittedly, explaining some of these things to you makes me feel like I’m going to crumble into dust at any moment, but there are other things in my life nowadays that help keep me young.”

Dazai shot Mori a withering gaze. “You mean Elise-san, right?”

“Of course,” his father replied, “Between my patients, Elise-chan, and you, I’ve got all the youthful exuberance I need.”

Mori and Dazai made a plan to watch Great Teacher Onizuka together on Wednesday evenings, after Dazai finished his homework. Thinking about it, Mori realized these might have been the first plans he and his son had made together purely for enjoyment; most of the time when Mori convinced Dazai to join him for an activity, it was a requirement that needed to be fulfilled. Dazai also only asked Mori to chaperone him on outings that required a parent or guardian for entry. It put him in an unexpectedly good mood, which was a perfect end to an otherwise stressful and imperfect day.

Once Dazai bid Mori good night and left to take a much-needed bath before bed, Mori turned off the lights, locked the doors, and retreated to his own bedroom. He had time to kill while Dazai was bathing, so he laid back in bed and texted Fukuzawa.

You up?

I am. The reply was in his inbox nearly as quickly as Mori sent his message. Still want to talk?

Mori quickly checked his reflection in the front camera of his phone, running his hands through his hair and making sure there was no food stuck between his teeth before calling Fukuzawa. His boyfriend’s face came up on the screen, silver hair framing his smiling face against the familiar headboard.

“I wish I was seeing this live and in person,” Mori said, “Is it bad that I recognize this view by now?”

“Good evening to you too,” Fukuzawa’s tone was as warm as his smile. “Yours is new to me, though.”

“Well, would you like a tour, or would you rather not see spoilers for my inner sanctum?” Mori put on his best villainous expression and pushed his hair back from his face. 

Fukuzawa thought for a moment. “I’ll wait to see your bed until I can lay you down on it myself.” He grinned at Mori. “So all’s well that ends well with Dazai-kun? Sounds like you had a tumultuous twenty-four hours.”

Mori groaned and flopped backwards onto his pillow, holding his phone above his head “Fukuzawa-dono, I swear, sometimes I don’t think I’m cut out for this parent business. I try to be supportive of the parents who bring their sick kids to my clinic, but then I sit here and wonder why it feels like I’m making it up as I go along.”

“I think all parents have those moments. It’s shocking when you realize you’re the adultiest adult in the room,” he said, reaching for the glass of water on his nightstand. All of these motions were familiar to Mori, and he felt a pang of longing as he sat alone in his bed watching Fukuzawa move about in bed without him. “And it’s worse when you’re a father doing it alone, since everyone has their own assumptions about why your kid isn’t with their mom. People have said some crazy shit to me without even thinking about how it affects me as Ranpo’s father.”

Mori nodded and sighed. “I went through some of that when Natsume-san and I were working through Dazai’s adoption. I guess you did as well?”

Fukuzawa nodded. “It started while I was taking custody of Ranpo and continues even today. I was just telling Natsume-sam about it a few months ago,” he said, remembering the conversation shortly after they met to review documents regarding his son’s citizenship. “Did you see him at all recently, or did he just call you out of the blue?”

“There was an incident with Dazai and alcohol at school earlier this year that resulted in the cops getting involved,” Mori winced, “and he helped me get things sorted with the Yokohama Police juvenile branch.” He tapped his finger against his chin. “I think I’m putting the pieces together on how you and I came to make our acquaintance.”

“Do you think using our mutual lamentations of parenthood as a catalyst to set us up is a breach of some sort of attorney-client privilege?” Fukuzawa wondered out loud.

“Well, we’re both his clients, so I think we have the privilege of dating each other, especially if our attorney is the one who set us up,” replied Mori, shaking his head bemusedly. “That scheming old man, I swear. But I’m glad he introduced us. Even if I wasn’t ridiculously attracted to everything about you, I think I would still appreciate your company as a friend.” 

Fukuzawa swallowed and nodded, very pleased and slightly overwhelmed by Mori’s honest confession. “I feel the same way,” he said, “Even if I don’t get every reference you make and I can’t tell what you’re thinking sometimes, it feels good to know you understand me.” He lowered his voice. “And it feels good to lose control with you, too.”

Mori caught his lower lip in his mouth. “You’re no poet, but you are a master of your words,” he replied. His response was far more chaste than his thoughts; Fukuzawa and Dazai were both testing his self control today, albeit in very different ways.

“Speaking of poets,” Fukuzawa abruptly changed the subject, and Mori sighed with tentative relief. “I’ve never heard of Rainer Maria Rilke. You are right when you say I’m not much of a poet. I like to write, but poetry has always been beyond my ken.”

Reaching for one of his tomes that he had rescued from Dazai’s room, Mori thumbed through the book in search of one poem in particular. As he turned the pages, he discovered that his son had placed markers in between some of the pages and folded the corners of others. Mori was surprised that he was not upset at all to find one of his books dog-eared, since these were the blemishes left behind by a devoted reader. Perhaps part of being a parent was the joy of seeing one’s child grow as a human in spite of the trail of destruction in their wake.

The poem he was searching for was on a pristine page. Mori cleared his throat, gazing deeply into Fukuzawa’s eyes through the phone screen, and read aloud.

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

It was Fukuzawa’s turn to exercise self-control. “That’s…suggestive,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes at Mori. “This wasn’t one of the poems Dazai-kun took an interest in, was it?”

“Not at this time, it seems. He might eventually, but that is another conversation for another day,” Mori replied. So much for tentative relief; as he read the verses to Fukuzawa, watching his long eyelashes lower over his smoky gray eyes through the barrier of the phone screen, he could think of nothing other than the image of Fukuzawa’s own softly chiseled torso. Mori could see the lust in the other man's eyes as they gazed at each other, remembering what it felt like to grasp the hips and thighs leading to that dark center, images seared into his memory from so many touches and kisses.

“Are all of his poems so sensual?” Fukuzawa was clearly having the same thoughts as Mori. “Also, I didn’t realize your diction was so skilled.” He pursed his full lips and touched his fingers to them. 

“I think you are well aware of my oratory abilities,” Mori replied, his violet eyes glimmering behind lowered lashes.

"I could kiss the words right out of your mouth," Fukuzawa murmured. As soon as Mori started to respond, Dazai’s fist abruptly banged on his bedroom door. Mori’s heart slammed into his throat, the book of poetry fell out of his hand, and he nearly dropped his phone on the floor.

“Mori-san,” Dazai called through the closed door, “The bath is free. I’m going to bed,” he said. “Tell your boyfriend he has bad taste in guys,” he added before padding barefoot down the hall to his bedroom. “G’night,” Dazai concluded from outside his room.

Down the hall, the door opened and slammed shut. Mori’s head dropped back against his pillow, his phone at his side while he caught his breath. “I assume you heard all that,” he said to Fukuzawa, hoping he hadn’t hung up on the other man by accident.

“I did,” Fukuzawa replied, “I can’t wait to meet Dazai-kun. He seems as charmingly blunt as Ranpo. They’ll either kill each other or be thick as thieves.”

“Well, since my charmingly blunt son completely killed the mood, why don’t we use the rest of this call to make some plans for a joint family outing?” Mori rolled over on his side and propped his phone up against his pillow. “I was keeping Sunday open for you anyway, but if that doesn’t work–”

“Sunday is great,” Fukuzawa scratched his neck, still slightly flushed from their earlier conversation. Mori quietly hoped that the other man was suppressing the urge to touch himself, and as he so often did with thoughts of his lover, tucked it away to explore later on that evening. “Should we go back to the family-friendly show at the planetarium?”

Fukuzawa shook his head. “I don’t think I’m mentally prepared for seeing that banana again, even out of context,” he admitted. “There’s a restaurant Ranpo and I like called the American House. How about we meet for lunch and see where the day takes us?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Mori. “Hopefully there’s still some warm water in the tub, although I probably need to cool off a bit,” he said. “Think of me tonight, my liege lord?”

“It would be my honor,” Fukuzawa said. “Good night, Mori-sensei.”

“Until tomorrow, Fukuzawa-dono.” Mori set his phone on the nightstand to charge and made his way to the bathroom to shower and soak in preparation for the next day. When he returned, there was a single text message from Fukuzawa.

I almost forgot. I’ve always been partial to Shingen Takeda.

—

“Can we go inside to wait for them? I’m hungry and it’s hot out here,” Ranpo complained. He and Fukuzawa were standing outside of the American House Diner, and the aroma of his favorite foods was making his stomach growl. Fukuzawa glanced first at Ranpo and then at his watch. 

“We got here early,” replied Fukuzawa. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ranpo fidget with his phone. He was glad that Ranpo chose one of his more sensible outfits for the day, rather than one of the many shirts with mildly inappropriate English phrases that he had been collecting ever since he moved to Japan. “I didn’t realize you still had that shirt from the Baystars game we went to.”

“It still fits,” Ranpo replied, “And it was clean. You’ve been slacking on the laundry lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” Fukuzawa countered, “And you can learn how to do laundry yourself. You’re plenty old enough,” he said, and he shuddered as an image of Ranpo filling the washing machine with dish soap crossed his mind. “On second thought–”

“Fukuzawa-sensei,” Mori’s voice was a welcome distraction from the thought of Ranpo turning their condo into one of those German soap raves he’d heard about. “And I assume this is Ranpo-kun?”

“Mori-sensei,” said Fukuzawa, realizing how much he missed Mori’s pet suffix for him. He couldn’t remember the last time his boyfriend had referred to him with his formal title. “Right on time.” He could feel Ranpo’s eyes on both of them and glanced past Mori’s shoulder. “Did Dazai-kun decide not to join us?”

Mori pivoted half a turn on his heel and called towards a thin, black-clad boy with a bandage over his right eye standing a few meters behind him. “No, he’s right here. Let’s go have lunch, Dazai.”

“If this is a bad time, we can reschedule,” Fukuzawa offered, giving Dazai a compassionate smile. “I’m sorry, Dazai-kun. Mori-sensei didn’t mention that you were injured.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dazai sighed deeply. “I hit my head on a stack of Mori-san’s boring books as I was getting out of bed this morning. Apparently there was no sign of a traumatic brain injury.”

“I examined him as soon as he called for help and gave him a clean bill of health,” added Mori. When they left home, his son was unbandaged, and Mori suddenly realized the purpose of Dazai’s abrupt detour to the restroom as soon as they reached the shopping center. Nothing positive would come of exposing Dazai’s charade, so he decided to play along. “It’s nice to meet you, Ranpo-kun.”

Fukuzawa nudged Ranpo, who took a good look at Mori and Dazai for the first time. “Nice to meet you,” he said, looking awkwardly at father and son standing across from him. “What school do you go to?”

“Minami High, but I’m going to a different school next year,” replied Dazai. Fukuzawa and Mori shared a relieved glance. “You?”

“Yokohama International School,” Ranpo replied, then looked up again at Fukuzawa. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Mori. “I skipped breakfast so I could enjoy all the food.” He grinned at Ranpo. “Your dad said that you guys like this place a lot. It smells great from out here.”

“They have this milkshake that comes in a glass with candy on the outside and a cookie on top,” Ranpo said as he headed towards the restaurant. Mori and Fukuzawa followed alongside him with Dazai intentionally trailing half a step behind his father. “Do you always dress like that?” he asked Mori.

At this point in his life, Mori was accustomed to this question. “You mean in a kimono?”

“Yeah, like a samurai,” Ranpo replied. “No wonder my dad likes you. You look like those guys in those historical dramas he’s always watching.” Fukuzawa cleared his throat and focused on their destination while Mori suppressed his amusement at Ranpo’s deduction.

“It’s so weird,” Dazai rolled his eyes. “I checked our family register, and he doesn’t even have samurai lineage.” English rock music was playing in the background as they entered the restaurant and every surface was covered with vintage and modern Americana. 

“It’s very comfortable!” Mori pled his defense to the teenage fashion police, both clad in their own version of loose, comfortable clothing. Next to Mori, Fukuzawa as usual found himself grateful for his collared shirt, because his neck was flushed bright red in spite of his face remaining calm. 

Mori gave Fukuzawa a conspiratorial look as they were seated at a booth, Fukuzawa and Ranpo across from Dazai and him. “This summer, we ought to go to a festival, perhaps for Tanabata. We’ll get yukata and you two can see what you’re missing.” It occurred to him that this was an excuse to see Fukuzawa in traditional dress as well. He would have to thank the boys later for the very convenient alibi.

“As long as it’s not while I’m in Hawaii,” said Ranpo, concentrating on looking at something on his phone rather than reading the menu.

Dazai looked up from the glossy pages of the menu. “Are you from Hawaii? I wondered what your accent was.”

“California,” Ranpo said, his eyes flitting reflexively towards Fukuzawa, “But I’ve been living in Japan for almost three years now.”

Dazai’s uncovered eye widened. “You went to school in California? Like South Central LA? Did you have a gun?”

Mori laughed and patted Dazai on the shoulder. “I’m sure his school was very safe. You can’t always believe what you see in the movies,” he said.

“Says the guy who dresses like he’s an actor in a period piece,” replied Dazai, rolling his eyes again.

“I lived in the East Bay...by San Francisco...and I didn’t have a gun,” Ranpo replied, shaking his head. “Not all Americans have them. My mom’s husband did, though.”

This was news to Fukuzawa, who was never able to understand American gun culture no matter how much time he lived there. There were several things he wanted to say and he swallowed them all with a long drink of ice water rather than adding color commentary.

“Whoa,” said Dazai, duly impressed. “Did your dad let you shoot it?”

“Nah, I wasn’t allowed, but he loved going shooting on the weekends,” Ranpo replied offhandedly. “And he’s definitely not my dad.” His attention was on Mori and Dazai, who were looking at him curiously. “Uh…” he paused, looking towards Fukuzawa. “Am I messing up my Japanese?” he finally asked his father in English.

Fukuzawa shook his head emphatically. “No, you’re just fine. I think it’s the situation that’s a little complicated,” he replied, echoing Ranpo’s English. “I haven’t told Mori-sensei much about your mom, just that you live with me and she and I aren’t together anymore.”

“Oh,” said Ranpo, nodding slowly. “Gotcha.” After a moment he looked back at Mori and Dazai, switching back to Japanese. “I was talking about my mom’s husband. That guy isn’t my dad, he is.” He motioned to Fukuzawa. “My mom and dad weren’t married.”

The entire time Ranpo and Fukuzawa were speaking English, Mori was listening to their conversation and cataloging a series of thoughts and questions to dissect later on. He could speak and understand English with reasonable fluency, both from exposure in largely bilingual Germany and from the many English speaking patients at his clinic. It was clear from their sudden code-switch that this was intended as a private conversation to father and son, so Mori let them believe he needed the Japanese interpretation as much as Dazai actually did. “Understood,” he said, “Thank you for the explanation, and for the cultural insight as well.”

“No worries.” Ranpo said with a small smile. Across the table, Dazai was scrolling on his phone, and glanced up for a moment. 

“Mori-san adopted me when I tried to kill myself because my bio parents didn’t want me,” he said. “He’s lame and boring but he’s the only father I have.” When he caught a glimpse of Mori’s surprised, affectionate gaze, he immediately looked back down at his phone. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that. It’s weird.”

Fukuzawa realized how astonished Mori was by Dazai’s abrupt confession when after a minute he had no response. He was no stranger to teenage swagger, and Dazai seemed to be brimming with it until a few moments ago. He was happy for Mori, and grateful to be present for the occasion. It was his new goal to say something to his boyfriend, whose emotions were so carefully calculated, to make him respond with the same awestruck joy.

Ranpo blinked. “That’s kind of messed up,” he replied slowly, popping his phone out of its case and snapping it back in place a few times. “I get it, though. Sucks to feel unwanted.” He knit his eyebrows for a moment and followed Dazai’s example, unlocking his phone and staring down at the screen.

Mori cleared his throat in an attempt to bring the conversation back online before both boys disappeared into their screens. “I was wondering, while you’re explaining things, Ranpo-kun – tell me about this Wild West Onion. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Ranpo looked up from his phone. “Can we get one? Dad doesn’t like them. They’re awesome even though they’re vegetables. They take an onion, slice it up but leave the bottom part whole, then it gets dipped in batter and fried.”

“They’re more breading than vegetables,” Fukuzawa added, “but if Mori-sensei and Dazai-kun would like to share one with you, I don’t see why not.”

“Tempura is a traditional Japanese dish, and I would love to try the American version,” Mori folded his hands beneath his chin, pressing his index fingers against his smiling lips. “What do you have against these onions other than lack of nutritional value?”

“I had a bad experience with onion rings during university after a night out,” Fukuzawa explained, “I can’t eat them or anything onion ring-adjacent without feeling a little queasy.”

Dazai nodded sagely. “That happened to me too. I can’t eat egg salad anymore. I barfed it all over myself while I was in the hospital once. Now it makes me puke whenever I smell it.”

“Well, I hope Mori-sensei doesn’t make you subsist on convenience store sandwiches, then.” Fukuzawa smiled sympathetically. 

“Mori-san cooks. It’s edible,” Dazai replied, then looked back down at his phone.

Before Fukuzawa could attempt conversation with Dazai again, the waitress arrived at their table to take their drink and appetizer orders. Ranpo enthusiastically requested the Wild West Onion with extra dipping sauce and a milkshake. Fukuzawa and Mori both ordered a beer; Dazai asked for one as well and was offered a root beer instead. When it came, he took a sip and promptly gagged, so Ranpo offered to drink it instead. While Fukuzawa was not thrilled at the idea of Ranpo drinking both root beer and a milkshake at once, he decided to write this off as a special occasion and hope he burned the sugar off before they got home. More than anything, it was nice to see him getting along with Dazai, even if it was just for his own personal gain. 

As soon as Dazai’s replacement soda arrived, he raised his glass towards the center of the table, Fukuzawa called for a toast from the group.

“What are we toasting to?” Ranpo asked, trying to decide between his milkshake glass and his newly acquired glass of root beer to raise. He settled on the root beer so he could drink the milkshake while his dad and boyfriend made long speeches, like adults always did at events with toasts.

“The collapse of late-stage capitalism,” Dazai said, lifting his glass of Coke without looking up from his phone on the table.

Mori chuckled and patted his son on his shoulder. “Let’s toast to five minutes of conversation uninterrupted by TikTok,” he said, “and to delicious American-style tempura shared with good company.”

“I like that idea,” Fukuzawa said. “Cheers, everyone.” After they tapped their glasses together and took a drink, Fukuzawa eyed Ranpo’s hand on his phone until he locked it and stuck it in his pocket. 

At Mori’s urging, Dazai groaned and flipped his phone face-down on the table, tucking his hair behind his bandaged ear. “What do you want me to talk about, then?”

“Why don’t you tell Fukuzawa-sensei and Ranpo-kun about something you learned about recently from all those books I left by your bedside?” Mori smiled broadly at Dazai as their appetizer arrived at the table.

Dazai smirked. “I’ve been reading about tropical diseases. There’s one called ligma that is fascinating.”

Ranpo cut off a chunk of the onion and drenched it with dipping sauce. “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that,” he said, crunching loudly on his first bite. He held his hand in front of his face, pretending to cover his mouth as he chewed while stifling a smile behind his fingers.

“Is that Latin?” asked Mori, following Ranpo’s lead and serving himself a portion of fried onion.

Dazai nodded. “Yeah. Ligma nuts,” he said, snorting with delight at his own joke. Ranpo couldn’t hold his amusement back any longer and laughed out loud while watching the adults out of the corner of his eye. Fukuzawa mouthed the words to himself and then shook his head, and Mori closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Well played,” Mori said, “I wasn’t expecting you to bring out low humor to impress Fukuzawa-sensei and Ranpo-kun.”

Fukuzawa smiled. “It’s fine, Mori-sensei. I’ve heard so much worse from the students at my school.” He took a sip of his beer, letting the scent replace the aroma of fried onion in his nose.  He reached out with his foot under the table, gently rubbing it against Mori’s ankle to let him know that his words were sincere. “Did you guys decide what you want to eat?”

“Cheeseburger,” said Dazai, “Can you get them rare here? I like to dip my fries in the blood.”

“Gross,” Ranpo said, wrinkling his nose, “Ketchup is better. But my character in Call of Cthulhu would totally dip ghoul fingers in blood and eat them. Dad, can I text Poe and tell him to add that to my character sheet before I forget it?”

Fukuzawa nodded. “It’s been five minutes.”

Dazai flipped his phone over. “It’s been seven minutes and 31 seconds,” he corrected as he shut off the timer. “What’s Call of Cthulhu?”

Ranpo’s eyes lit up. “It’s this game that me and my friends are playing. All the playable characters are Investigators–” He paused, remembering something Fukuzawa had mentioned to him on their way to the restaurant that day. “You want me to tell you about it?” Dazai shrugged noncommittally, and that was enough confirmation for Ranpo to launch into an extended description of the plot, setting, and gameplay mechanics of the Lovecraftian horror RPG as well as the character he had created. Somewhere in between sentences, their lunch orders were taken, and Fukuzawa and Mori sat back in their seats, sipping their beers while occasionally brushing their feet together. 

Mori kept one eye on his boyfriend and the other on his son. Even after his abrupt heartfelt confession, Mori expected Dazai to be more disconnected from the conversation, but the bizarre, vaguely gruesome subject material seemed to have piqued his interest. It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever seen Dazai interact with someone close to his own age; this was another development in need of monitoring. “Remember when we first met, and I thought you were a beer drinker because you were wearing a suit?” Mori said quietly to Fukuzawa as Ranpo showed Dazai a sketch of his character that one of his friends had done.

“Is that why you thought that? Well, I am a beer drinker,” Fukuzawa replied, “Or more accurately, I’m not a whiskey highball drinker in the middle of the day.” His foot slowly slid up Mori’s calf under the table. 

Mori leaned against his hand and lowered his eyelashes. “I suppose a glass of wine wouldn’t go too well with Texas BBQ Hamburg steak,” he said.

“There’s a time and place for everything,” Fukuzawa agreed, bringing his beer can to his lips.

Ranpo looked up from his phone. “You should take your own advice, Dad” he said, glancing towards the floor. “I thought we were the teenagers, not you guys.”

“Ew, for real, Mori-san?” Dazai chimed in, “What happened to discretion and public opinion and stuff?”

Fukuzawa and Mori snapped to attention, shifting their heels backwards and pressing them against their respective booth benches. Mori’s eyes gleamed vaguely dangerously, and Fukuzawa cleared his throat several times, trying to recover from inhaling his beer. “Right, exactly,” Fukuzawa said, his tone apologetic. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you two.”

“You’re more embarrassed than we are,” Ranpo grinned. “Mom’s husband would slap her on the ass in public. Now THAT was embarrassing.” He rolled his eyes at the memory.

“If you ever do that, Mori-san, I promise it’s going to mess with my psychosexual development.” Dazai groaned into his hands. 

Mori’s smile did not waver. “Now, Dazai, you are aware that modern cultural considerations are skeptical of the normative presumptions of Freudian–”

“Thank you all for waiting!” A large tray of food arrived at their table not a moment too soon. Ranpo and Dazai began to customize their cheeseburgers as soon as they were placed in front of them, and Mori peered at Fukuzawa’s salad, and then his plate full of meat. 

“This looks delicious, although I feel like it isn’t the same as barbecue from Texas.”

“Texas BBQ”, repeated Fukuzawa, his pronunciation much closer to American English than Mori’s Japanese approximation, “is definitely not like what you’re eating. But it looks great nonetheless.”

“You’ll have to help yourself from my plate if you want to try it, I’m afraid. I can’t risk inflicting neurosis on my son to satisfy my own id while giving you a bite.” He looked over at Dazai, expecting a biting response, and instead found him showing Ranpo something on his phone while washing down a bite of his food with soda. 

Fukuzawa followed Mori’s gaze to the two boys and smiled. “Well then, let’s eat. Cold barbecue is the pits.”

Both fathers were defeated by the quantity of food on their plates while their sons still insisted they had room for dessert. Ranpo had been eyeing the hypermarket next to the restaurant since before Mori and Dazai arrived; he had a difficult time in crowds, but the sensory overload that was Don Quijote had no effect on him. Mori suggested that the two boys go to the store together, and provided them each a thousand yen to spend on whatever rare snacks they could find. Meanwhile, Mori and Fukuzawa went to the bakery cafe next door, buying pastries to be eaten later before sitting outside the plaza on a bench to wait for their sons to return.

“How long do we give them before we go in after them?” Fukuzawa crossed one long leg over the other as he relaxed on the bench. That day he wore ankle-length pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt; if he had rolled the sleeves up he would have been the picture of summer fashion.

“I told Dazai that he was not to return without Ranpo-kun, and he seems like a trustworthy young man. Interesting choice of a role-playing game, though.” Mori let his fingers brush ever so slightly against Fukuzawa’s as he adjusted his kimono to expose his ankles to the afternoon sun.

“He calls it ero-guro nonsense,” said Fukuzawa, “He’s got a hell of an imagination. All his friends are like him, though – good kids with crazy ideas. Maybe there’ll be a writer amongst them someday.” He wanted to reach for Mori’s hand, to feel their fingers intertwined as they enjoyed the afternoon together. He longed for a future where that was possible, and wondered exactly when he let himself start thinking about a distant future with Ougai Mori so casually.

“Oh, that’s right!” Mori exclaimed, and Fukuzawa immediately looked towards the entrance to Don Quijote. “Ranpo-kun said something about going to Hawaii this summer. Are you two going together?”

Fukuzawa shook his head. “His best friend’s family invited him to their timeshare,” he said, and Mori raised an eyebrow. 

“Didn’t Dazai-kun have to chaperone him to Donki just now?” He tried to puzzle through the logic of sending a boy who couldn’t figure out the Japanese train station to Hawaii with only his best friend to protect him.

“Poe-kun’s parents and their hired help will be with them,” Fukuzawa explained with a wry smile, “And he’s a bit of a parent friend himself. To be honest, he dotes on Ranpo to a certain degree. I haven’t asked if there’s anything…more than friends between them, but let’s just say I wouldn’t be shocked if there is.”

“You sound pretty calm,” Mori said, “You aren’t worried your son will go through the same things we did when we were young men figuring out where we sat on the Kinsey scale?”

Fukuzawa shrugged. “The last three years have been constant surprises. At least this is one that I’ve been through myself. In some ways, he’s pretty similar to how I was when I was sixteen.”

After a moment of deliberation, Mori nodded his agreement. “You know, I just told Dazai a few weeks ago that he reminded me of my younger self.”

“How’d he take it?” Fukuzawa sipped his matcha latte.

“He seemed somewhat intrigued,” Mori said, “Which is better than the horror I expected.” He set his drink down on the bench and clapped his hands together. “So! You’re going to be empty nesting for a week this summer.  I think this means we both need to take some vacation time.”

“Oh?” Fukuzawa grinned at Mori. “And what are you suggesting we do? No extravagant getaways, I’m already paying for my kid to go to Hawaii.”

“And I’m probably paying for my kid to go to summer school. We’ll know after we meet with his counselor next week. Thank you again for the suggestion, by the way – it was a hard pill to swallow, but I think it’s the optimal solution.”

“From the conversation at lunch, it sounds like Dazai-kun is on board too,” Fukuzawa agreed. “As for our paid time off…we did talk about watching Furinkazan. NHK has all their historical dramas on demand now, you know.”

“AbuDeka is on Netflix,” Mori countered. “It's very bingeable. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to focus on whatever we’re watching a hundred percent of the time, though.”

He made his best attempt at an innocent look, and Fukuzawa laughed out loud at his boyfriend’s ridiculous expression. Shaking his head, Fukuzawa placed his hand over Mori’s for a split second, reluctantly pulling it away before they attracted any attention. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

“I’m going to give you the grand tour of my bedroom,” Mori murmured, his voice barely audible over the din of the city on a Sunday afternoon, “I have some interesting ideas we definitely won’t admit to doing on our summer vacation.”

Fukuzawa bit the inside of his lip and tried not to imagine what those ideas might entail. “I want you to spend the night with me, even if it’s just once.”

His suggestion was much more innocent, but no less enticing. “Only if you promise no radio calisthenics,” Mori replied. “Pinky swear?” They linked their little fingers together, a whimsical gesture filled with promise.

“No radio calisthenics,” Fukuzawa said, “but would you be amenable to a more enjoyable form of morning exercise?”

With a beleaguered sigh, Mori winked at Fukuzawa. “You might make a voluntary morning person out of me yet.”

They continued to discuss plans for their week off, their conversation peppered with innuendo, until Ranpo’s voice called to them from across the plaza. Fukuzawa and Mori waved to their sons walking in their direction, and in the fleeting moments before the boys returned, Mori quickly took out his phone and snapped a photo of himself and Fukuzawa sitting on the bench together.

To most people, the photo was of two fathers sitting outside on a Sunday afternoon, waiting for their sons to join them. However, when Natsume Soseki opened the group text he received later that evening from two of his longtime clients, his face lit up with a wide, knowing grin.

"Only a diamond can polish a diamond," he said aloud as he typed the very same adage as his reply.