Chapter Text
Kenzaki’s footsteps echoed faintly against the narrow, dimly lit streets of Tokyo. The night air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of rain from earlier. He walked without purpose, letting his thoughts carry him farther from the apartment he shared with Hajime. Every street corner, every familiar signpost reminded him that his life was shifting in ways he could not fully control.
He had to leave Japan soon. Both he and Hajime were no longer entirely human they ,were both now undead, cursed, and dangerous. Staying put could bring scrutiny, accidents, even disaster. And yet, leaving was nearly unbearable. Hajime was his anchor, his constant, the one person whose existence made the world feel whole. And Kenzaki… he was terrified of leaving him and everyone else.
He exhaled heavily, his breath misting in the night air. “What am I supposed to do?” he muttered under his breath, though he knew no one would answer. Everyone in Kenzaki’s life eventually left him, whether by choice or circumstance. It was a pattern he had learned to expect, to brace for. But the thought of losing Hajime, truly losing him, was different. Painful in a way that made his chest tighten with every heartbeat.
The first time Takumi met kiba he was in his horse orphenoch form and they clashed. Over time without knowing the truth about each other’s identities they grew closer. One day it came crashing down, the truth . Eventually after that ordeal they shared they wanted to trust each other . But not all peaceful things could last, eventually Kiba lost his faith in humanity and turned on Takumi. Takumi was heartbroken. Eventually Kiba came back but he also sacrificed himself in the process. Takumi was distraught over this. Takumi sighed and picked himself up from the bench.
As he walked, the hum of the city at night surrounded him, distant traffic, occasional laughter spilling from a nearby restaurant, the low murmur of conversations carried on the breeze. It was comforting in its own way, but it did nothing to ease the restless ache inside him.
Ahead, something caught his attention. A figure sat alone on a bench under a flickering streetlight, shoulders slumped, hands clasped between his knees. His posture was heavy with exhaustion, not just physical, but the kind of emotional weight that seemed to seep into every movement.
Kenzaki paused. There was something familiar in that posture, a quiet despair that mirrored his own more than he cared to admit. Without thinking, he stepped closer.
“Hey… are you okay?” His voice was soft, tentative, though layered with a blunt curiosity that came naturally to him.
The man lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing with caution. Confusion flickered across his features, mingling with a hint of annoyance. Kenzaki noticed the tension in his jaw, the faint crease in his forehead—a silent signal that intrusion was unwelcome.
Kenzaki swallowed, forcing a small smile.
“Kenzaki Kazuma,” he said, extending a hand in the universal gesture of introduction. “Nice to meet you.”
He immediately felt a twinge of absurdity. Why was he even bothering with pleasantries? He would be leaving soon anyway, and making friends felt pointless under the circumstances. And yet… there was an urge he could not ignore, a need to reach across the void, even if only briefly.
The stranger didn’t respond. He merely stared, expression unreadable, before standing and walking away with measured steps.
Kenzaki’s irritation flared. “Hey! Wait! What’s your name?” His voice carried after the man, firm but not harsh.
The man froze mid-step. A flicker of frustration passed over his features, and after a long pause, he finally replied, voice clipped but controlled, “Inui… Takumi.”
Kenzaki felt something stir at the sound of the name—something magnetic and grounding all at once. There was an unexpected weight, a subtle authority in the way Takumi spoke it, calm yet deliberate, almost as if every syllable had been carefully measured.
Against his better judgment, Kenzaki found himself blurting out, “Want to get dinner? It’s on me.”
The words felt reckless even as they left his mouth. He had no money, no stable job, and no reason to intrude on a stranger’s evening. And yet, when Takumi’s gaze met his, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of the man’s lips. He nodded.
“You pick the place,” Kenzaki said simply, his voice steady and cool.
Kenzaki hesitated, expecting something casual. But Takumi’s stride was confident, purposeful, and it led them to a small, elegant restaurant tucked away in a side street. Its windows gleamed in the night, warm light spilling onto the wet pavement. Kenzaki’s stomach sank with equal parts awe and nervousness.
Inside, the ambiance was serene, muted music, soft lighting, and the gentle clink of silverware on fine china. Waiters moved gracefully, attending to patrons with practiced ease. Kenzaki felt conspicuously out of place, his casual attire and unkempt hair standing in stark contrast to the restaurant’s polished sophistication.
Takumi also felt out of place. But yet he still did elegant gestures,He held the door open for Kenzaki, offering a slight, understated smile. There was a quiet dignity in him, a self-possession that spoke of experience, resilience, and a careful, deliberate approach to life.
Seated across from each other, Kenzaki couldn’t help but study him. Takumi’s posture remained composed, but there was an unmistakable tension in the set of his shoulders. His eyes were watchful, yet something deeper shimmered beneath—a vulnerability that Kenzaki found quietly compelling.
“Nice place,” Kenzaki said finally, breaking the initial silence. His voice carried both awe and mild self-consciousness. “You… do this often?”
Takumi’s gaze met his. “Not really,” he said. “But I like good food. It’s rare—something that feels… right. Even if only for a moment.”
Kenzaki nodded, understanding more than he wanted to admit. He, too, sought those small moments of solace, brief respites from the chaos of life and the burden of immortality.
Conversation began slowly, tentatively, like two people feeling their way across a fragile bridge. Kenzaki shared snippets of his life, the responsibilities he carried, the fear of leaving Hajime, and the loneliness that had become an unwelcome companion. He chose his words carefully, revealing enough to invite trust without exposing every vulnerability.
Takumi listened intently, his expression calm and thoughtful. When he spoke, it was with measured precision, revealing just enough of himself to create connection. He told Kenzaki about a man he once trusted implicitly, someone he had cared for deeply. Trust had been broken, leaving scars that had made him cautious, wary, and slow to open himself to anyone again.
Kenzaki didn’t press. He merely listened, understanding the weight of past pain without judgment. He recognized the careful balance Takumi maintained between vulnerability and guardedness, and he respected it.
As the evening unfolded, the atmosphere between them shifted. Subtle gestures, a lingering glance, a half-smile, a small tilt of the head, conveyed more than words ever could. Kenzaki noticed the quiet strength in Takumi’s demeanor, while Takumi seemed to sense Kenzaki’s warmth beneath his reserved exterior. They were two people navigating the edges of solitude, finding solace in the silent understanding of another soul.
When the meal ended, they stepped out into the cool night. The streets glistened faintly from the earlier drizzle, reflecting city lights in a mosaic of gold and silver. Kenzaki felt lighter than he had in months, the tension in his chest softened by the rare comfort of genuine connection.
They walked together in silence for a while, letting the rhythm of their steps fill the spaces between words. Kenzaki wanted to say more, to prolong the night, but Hajime was never far from his thoughts—the inevitable departure looming over him like a storm cloud.
Near the subway entrance where they would part ways, Kenzaki finally spoke, his voice low and earnest. “Thanks for tonight. I… I hope we see each other again.”
Takumi’s lips curved into a faint smile, almost imperceptible, but enough to convey acknowledgment, perhaps even hope. “Maybe we will,” he replied. And with that, he descended into the underground, leaving Kenzaki standing alone on the street.
Kenzaki exhaled, letting the night air fill his lungs. He should have felt emptier, more hollow. Instead, there was a fragile warmth in his chest—a sense of possibility, delicate but persistent. He knew the future was uncertain. Hajime, the undead, and his impending departure all loomed over him. And yet, for the first time in a long while, he felt a quiet spark of connection.
He walked on, each step carrying him farther into the night, into uncertainty, into the possibility of something new. And somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered softly, almost shyly, that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.