Chapter Text
In just a few words, Ichimatsu was very unhappy with his life.
No, he wouldn’t just tell you that if you asked, instead he’d dodge the question, steer the conversation in a different direction that didn’t involve his personal life. That way he didn’t have to lie to them, complain even, how shitty it was to live like this. Employed in the ruthless manga industry, doing the lowest, most annoying work while his dreams slowly drift away. No one would want that, not to mention be happy with it.
Once, long ago when he was back in middle school, he wanted to become a mangaka, to share his cheesy but sweet love stories with the world, to bring joy to people’s heart. For years, he worked hard on his art, wanted to perfect it before he got out of high school so he could make his dream come true as soon as possible. He paid little effort to school, just barely passing, spending all of his free time drawing, doodling, learning the processes of creating real manga. Ichimatsu never made friends in high school, always ate lunch by himself and his sketchbook, drawing the view from the school rooftop dozens of times from each angle.
It was a bit lonely, yes, but he was willing to sacrifice everything for his dream.
There were a few idiots, bullies with problems they loved to take on others, that bothered him every now and then. When he wasn’t careful enough, his sketchbook would end up in their hands as they flipped through the pages. They’d always point out how funny it was for him to only draw romantic crap, called him a pussy and a fag as they drew dicks all over his art. He never stood up for himself, suffered through whatever they threw at him. It was easier than getting into a fight, they always ran out of insults and left him alone after a short bit anyway. He was tired of this, of school, of people not understanding him, of his parents telling him to at least try to apply to a university.
His eyes and heart were set on his dream and he wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way.
Confident, only a few days after graduation, he brought his lovingly crafted drafts to the publishers of his favorite magazine. They rejected him, coldly without even trying to sweeten up the truth, telling him such garbage would never get published here. With his heart broken, Ichimatsu decided to try his luck at another one and another one, only to get rejected every time. Only at the last place, the last one before his heart would get crushed for good, did he receive something besides the harsh critique which he almost grew numb to by then.
They still didn’t let him publish any of his works, but offered him a job anyway. Short on staff, they were in dire need of assistants and they could use someone with even mediocre skills like him. It still hurt, being told just how much he sucked at the only thing he always thought he was good at. But in hopes of being able to climb the ladder slowly but steadily and getting his chance eventually, he accepted the offer.
The beginnings were hard, Ichimatsu was the newest and youngest one on the team, helping some lady with her romance manga about five girls crushing after a handsome jerk who in real world wouldn’t be worth shit. Originality apparently wasn’t as valued as he expected it to be.
The first day in, everyone immediately stepped on him, sending him to take care of errands, giving him the worst works, reducing him to their personal slave. Ichimatsu pushed through, his personality slowly drifting from the introverted but still at least somewhat cheerful art kid at heart to a bitter, permanently exhausted mess who grew to hate the world.
Years passed and all that has changed was that they moved Ichimatsu to a new mangaka because the previous one accused him of being “unreasonable and rude”. With new experiences and a better grasp at art itself, the new one saw more potential in him and promoted him to backgrounds right away. Not nearly what he was hoping for, but he took it, glad he was finally done with the repetitive, bullshit parts he used to do. The new team was at least a little better and definitely much nicer to him than the previous one and he slipped into the routine easily. If nothing else, it was a nice change of pace.
And that’s where he is at life right now. Unhappy, lacking the abilities to make his dream come true, burying himself in work so he wouldn’t have time to think about how miserable he is. He lives in a crappy apartment, only a small room, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom.
His only joy is an orange cat he managed to save one rainy day, taking him to the vet when he found out his leg was broken. Despite cats not allowed in the building, he brought him in anyway. So far he was lucky and never got discovered, but he fears the day.
Besides work, there really isn’t anything Ichimatsu has going on in his life. With no friends or loved ones besides his family around, it’s not like he ever has anyone to spend time with in the first place. Instead, he passes the little free time work allows him drawing with the television quietly playing in the background, his cat cuddled in his lap and purring softly, while he polishes his art long into the night. He hates most of what he makes in the morning and throws it away immediately.
Not good, never good enough.
The perks of being alone like this, Ichimatsu never has to bother trying to impress anyone. No one ever cares if he’s dressed in an oversized sweater and ugly sweatpants, hat hiding his messy nest of hair. That he wears the same clothes for days, but never long enough for them to stink or get dirty. Or rather, they shouldn’t care, but people were always too nosy and rude for his tastes when it came to personal life.
“Doesn’t your soulmate mind you dressing like this?” someone on the team, an annoying girl younger than him, asks one day. She only joined in recently and Ichimatsu disliked her from the first day.
“Oh, Matsuno-kun doesn’t have a soulmate,” the head assistant replies before Ichimatsu gets to defend himself (send the girl to hell), “not yet, anyway, I mean,” he adds. It doesn’t make his statement any less rude to his person.
Ichimatsu glares at the both of them, hating the fact they talk about him while he’s in the room like this. There’s a million things he wants to spit in their face, how finding a soulmate won’t make one magically happy, how it won’t fix his problems, he doesn’t even need to see colors for his job, just monochrome is perfectly fine, his soulmate wouldn’t even like him anyway…
Instead, he goes back to his work. Arguing with them, spending any amount of energy on those insensitive idiots, is just not worth it. They leave him alone for the day.
Nonetheless, his thoughts are filled with anger and frustration as he reminds himself just how much he hates the concept of soulmates and how stupid it is it’s running their lives, the whole society. Eternal happiness, a whole new world, finding your missing half. Ichimatsu scoffs at the naivety of it, at the way all young people look up to and glorify that moment of their lives which may just never come. After all, it’s not like you can just talk to every person out there just to find them.
Still, a little voice in the back of his mind speaks up, most people find them anyway. Don’t pretend you don’t know the statistics very well. Of course he does. Unless dead or mute or deaf, 99% of people find their soulmates. Before they get over 20. You’ve always been such an unlucky guy. It’s the truth, he never managed to achieve anything, get anywhere, meet anyone who’d even like him. Worthless, useless garbage.
Ichimatsu feels sick to his stomach and, trying his best to not others let know, he excuses himself to the toilet. The inner voice keeps nagging at him, reminds him of all his faults as he retreats to the restroom where he breaks down. He slides down the wall, palms over his ears as if that could stop his inner demons, as if they’d ever leave him alone.
It takes him too long to calm down, to wipe away all the tears, but he’s still shaking a little when he goes back the office. Fortunately, no one comments on his long absence as he slips back into his seat and takes the pen in hand to continue where he left off. At least the trees he’s been working on are turning out nice…
“Matsuno-kun,” the head assistent calls out to him and Ichimatsu looks up, finding himself under an intense stare, “you don’t look too good. Maybe you should head home early.” His tone tells him Ichimatsu he shouldn’t argue and just accept it, but he feels put on display like this, everyone’s eyes at him, too many.
“I-I feel fine, there’s no need…” Ichimatsu hates being singled out like this, please, just let him do his work. “I need to finish this--”
“It can wait until tomorrow, I’m sending you home whether you like it or not.” He can’t say anything to that, so he just nods, thanks for the day and good work. Ichimatsu leaves with his bag over a shoulder, putting the face mask on as he walks through the door.
“Oh, and Matsuno-kun!” he gets called after one more time as he’s almost out of the room, “it’s Higuchi-sensei’s birthday tomorrow, don’t forget.”
Ichimatsu hums in acknowledgement and then he’s out, walking down the corridor and a few flights of stairs, soon standing outside on the sidewalk. The air is fresh but not cold and since it’s pretty early into the afternoon, the streets are much emptier than what he’s used to. He takes a deep breath and closes eyes for just a second before relaxing his shoulders, willing the stiffness of his body away.
A free evening is something he didn’t get to enjoy too often, so Ichimatsu decides to seize it the best he can. Maybe treating himself to a nice dinner or spending the evening with his cat. That’d be nice…
First though, he has to get something for his boss’ birthday. Ichimatsu might not like miss Higuchi (and her cliche love triangles), but she’s a nice person and it would be unthankful of him to not give her something. The only problem is he has no idea what to give to a lonely middle-aged woman he only knows through her art. But he can always use all the accumulated shoujo knowledge to get something passable enough.
Not really feeling like dealing with more people than necessary today but determined to buy something sooner than later, Ichimatsu walks down the street, checking the displays of various small shops, looking for something cute that wouldn’t offend his sensei. He passes a few promising places, but all of them look too expensive for what he can afford or are filled with old ladies chatting. Neither worth his time and efforts.
He’s almost at the train station when something bright catches his attention from across the street, a flower shop? Maybe a bouquet or a potted plant would be nice, everybody loves flowers. Everyone who can appreciate the beautiful colors, that is.
Ichimatsu crosses the street, thinking about what kind of flowers he should get. He vaguely remembers there are meanings and symbolisms to them and hopes he chooses some neutral ones. He checks out the buckets full of bloomed roses and lilies outside but walks in instead, knowing those are mostly for romantic interests. He decides to, depending on who’s running the shop, ask the person inside for an advice.
Despite the welcoming atmosphere, the place is empty, not even the owner anywhere to be found. With the amount of shelves and surfaces filled to the brim with flowers of all kinds, most of Ichimatsu doesn’t even know names of, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d just be hidden somewhere out of sight, taking care of them. Ichimatsu keeps browsing through the shop, stopping by at particularly beautiful ones, he thinks their names are irises? Then, finally, someone else appears from behind a corner.
“Ah, hello! Welcome to Flower Akatsuka! How can I help you?” Ichimatsu hears his voice before he sees him and as he turns around to face the shopkeeper, his whole world changes. The walls of flowers surrounding them explode in color, the sight overwhelming and so much more incredible than what Ichimatsu ever imagined colors would look, feel like. He can’t even name any of them, has already forgotten what it was like not seeing them just a few seconds ago. And when he focuses through the flood the colors are for his senses, there he stands, a young man dressed in simple clothes, an apron with the shop’s name wrapped around his middle, sunglasses stuck in his hair and a small cactus in hands.
For anyone else, he’d just look like a guy, one everyone has probably passed on the street dozens of times, but for Ichimatsu he’s more beautiful than all the colors surrounding them, all the people he’s previously met in his life combined. He doesn’t know words to describe what his heart feels like, both pain and happiness mixing in almost an agonizing way as he takes in every small detail of this person, of his soulmate.
And he’s looking at Ichimatsu as well, from under a perfect pair of eyebrows, smiling at him warmly as he readjusts the sunglasses in his hair and places the cactus down. He waits patiently, doesn’t rush Ichimatsu to buy whatever he came for and get out. Only when a sudden idea pops up in his head, does he ask again. “Can it be, because of the mask?” he asks as he points to his mouth, referring to Ichimatsu’s mask vaguely so as not to offend him if he was mistaken.
No! Ichimatsu wants to tell him, just that one word would be enough to make him understand, to make him see what Ichimatsu sees. But he hesitates since it would also bind them together, forever. This kind, sweet and amazing person to… just Ichimatsu. Plain, ugly and bitter to the bone, a walking trash can from head to toe.
It physically hurts him to nod to the shopkeepers question, to lie to his soulmate like this, but he can’t deal with the truth right now, isn’t ready for the disappointment it’d bring. Instead, he takes out a small sketchbook from his bag and opens it on an empty page. Ichimatsu writes down what he came here for and silently turns it around to show it to him. The florist leans in closer, too close.
“I've got just the perfect thing for you,” he smiles, nodding to himself as he moves to a different part of the shop, the potted plants section. Ichimatsu is still in awe as he walks around the store, everything so much… more than it was before. Flowers he always thought were just one shade of grey are actually two or three completely different colors, all the patterns so beautifully pronounced now.
He wonders just how is it possible for a colorblind person to work with flowers.
“I would recommend this one,” he says when he finally shows him what he’s got for Ichimatsu. “It’s name is combriana and it is said to have medical properties. A secret fun fact, it’s also edible.” He chuckles a little at it, a low and soft laughter that makes Ichimatsu’s knees weak.
At this point, he couldn’t care less about what he gets for his boss and the tall red flowers look pretty enough, already sitting in a matching red ceramic pot, so he nods as he reaches out to take it. His hand collides with the florist’s, an electric jolt running up his hand as he flinches back, eyes wide.
“Sorry, but I want to wrap it nicely for you. It’s a present after all, right?” he smiles apologetically at Ichimatsu, then passes by him and back to the counter. Ichimatsu follows him, still holding onto his hand, the feeling tingling in his bones. Behind the desk, there’s an assortment of wrapping papers and the shopkeeper gently and carefully wraps the plant in a see-through foil, then adds a ribbon at the top of it.
“There, all done!” he turns around and presents the finished gift to Ichimatsu. “I hope it’s what you had in mind but if not, just say-- just write so.”
Ichimatsu just nods again, feeling a little dumb by now, but it’s not like he can do anything else without taking out the sketchbook again. He pays for the flower and throws in some extra cash, refusing to take any change back. The florist thanks him, brighter than sun, Ichimatsu blinded by his beautiful smile yet again.
He nods politely, the plant in his hands, giving the owner one last longing look before turning around to leave the shop, when he calls after him. “Hey, pick whichever cut flower you want! It’s on the shop, for the tip.” Ichimatsu gives him a look, unsure whether the man is serious, receiving a wink in confirmation. He looks around in search of the one he found so pretty when he first walked in. Somehow drawn to it, he picks one of the irises from the bucket, shaking off the droplets of water before he gently puts the stem in the corner of his bag, the flower sticking out. He bows to the florist again, then leaves for real.
On his way out, he notices the shop information, opening hours and the name of the owner. Karamatsu, it says. Ichimatsu remembers the name, which characters are used, before walking down the street, going home. Once far enough to be sure his voice won’t be heard, he looks down at the purchased and given flowers and smiles to himself under the mask.
“Karamatsu,” he says to himself, very quietly. He could wait until he gets home, but Ichimatsu is too curious, wanting to know how the name would roll off of his tongue. He blushes as he says it, loving the feeling, just as much as he loves the man the name belongs to.
In all of his life, he never believed in soulmates, that finding one would change anything, that one could fall so fast and deeply in love with a person. And now here he is, blushing after just saying his name out loud. He fell in love with that sweet, wonderful man after just five minutes spent in his company. Fell in love with Karamatsu, his destined soulmate. It’s so ridiculous, but so real at the same time, it almost hurts.
He makes it home soon, welcomed by his cat’s meowing and raised tail. Ichimatsu pets him, scratches him behind the ears, just now seeing how beautiful his fur is, gentle orange with a white tummy, his big green eyes half-closed at the pleasant petting. Ichimatsu leaves all of his things in the entryway, then picks up the cat and makes it to his bed. He sits in the corner, cat pressed against his chest as he keeps on petting him.
He hides his face in the soft fur, taking in the calming smell only cats have, the soft hair tickling his face as he breathes into it. “I met my soulmate today,” Ichimatsu tells him, feeling like a small kid sharing a secret with his best friend in the middle of a night. His heart beats quickly against his chest as he remembers how perfect he looked, how nice he was to a total stranger like him. He remembers how he looked at him, the perfect eyebrows, the pleasant smile. There were other details he’s noticed as well. Karamatsu had beautiful hands, long but slim fingers with dirt stuck behind fingernails from all the hard work he did to make sure his flowers were healthy and growing right. How the clothes beneath the apron were normal but fit him so well, the dumb sunglasses in his hair somehow complimenting the whole outfit.
Ichimatsu’s hand twitches, a need rising in him as he thinks of the man and he gets up and goes to his bag. He digs out a new set of pencils, the first that isn’t just different types of black he’s ever got himself, and moves to his table with the sketchbook. He has all of the little details right in front of his eyes and with great care, he puts them down on the paper, drawing one portrait of Karamatsu after another, all different angles but always, always smiling. So full of life.
Tears fall onto the paper as Ichimatsu grips onto the paper with his fingers, watching the realistic portraits of his soulmate he just created. His heart aches, pain seeping into his bones from his chest as the voice from before returns, his smug voice echoing in Ichimatsu’s head.
You don’t deserve a good and honest man like him, the voice tells him and Ichimatsu knows it’s true, doesn’t even try to run away from it this time. After all, they’re his own thoughts and fears. You’re just a piece of worthless garbage, not good enough for anyone out there, especially him. What did you ever achieve in your life, what do you have to offer to him in return?
“Nothing,” Ichimatsu replies, the single word echoing in the empty room. Tears drip down his face, melting the images of Karamatsu, changing them into twisted mess. He shouldn’t ever see the man again, that way he’ll never get disappointed with his own soulmate being nothing but a talentless, lonely man running after a goal he’ll never achieve.
Does that mean you’ll just keep him trapped in the colorless void for the rest of his life? How cruel…
What else is he supposed to do then?! Walk up to Karamatsu, explain the situation to him and then leave? As if he could ever do that…
The voice stays quiet then, leaving Ichimatsu empty and at loss with his options, feeling like standing in a dead end, the only way out the wrong one. He wishes he could just forget he ever met the man, but whenever he sees that color he gets reminded of him. Blue as he just now learned after examining the pencils, blue like his apron, blue like the iris he got from him, now lying on the table in front of Ichimatsu. Blue. Karamatsu is everywhere, unable to escape from, especially when it’s the exact opposite of what Ichimatsu wants.
Ichimatsu’s heart, his mind, his soul screams at him, wants to see Karamatsu again, wants to tell him the truth, but he’s afraid. Of rejection, of seeing disappointment in those warm brown eyes, seeing disgust.
He falls asleep with tears running down his face that night, the pillow under him wet and cold, his cat trying his best to lift his spirits as he purrs by his side. It doesn’t help as it usually would and it makes Ichimatsu feel that much worse.
His dreams are filled with fleeting touches, meaningful glances and happy smiles as he calls Ichimatsu’s name, hugs him to his chest, presses a kiss against his lips. Only to be thrown aside, all the love disappearing from Karamatsu’s face, replaced with darkness as he loomes above. Gross, he tells him, the previously soft voice now empty but harsh, echoing in the void of his nightmare.
When morning comes, he finds himself covered in sweat, the bright colors brought out by the sun shining through his curtains only reminding him of his pain and despair.
He wishes for an answer, a solution, but is left alone with himself as he always was. Hopeless.