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Rohan wasn’t sure when he picked up on it, but he knew he was being watched.
It wasn’t necessarily in the bad sort of way. Just that, occasionally, when he went to the window of his studio to look outside while sipping coffee or contemplating something, he felt eyes on him. Sometimes, he stood a long time, waiting to see if the gaze would peter out. It scarcely did. As long as Rohan stood at the window — at a certain time of day, he had begun to notice, mostly around three P.M. — someone out there was watching him.
The person must have concealed themselves well, because he could never tell from where they were looking. Just that they were there, indisputably. Rohan would have done something about it sooner, but his gut told him that there was no malice in the gaze— and the seasoned mangaka had long ago learned to trust his gut. He was famous, after all; maybe some fan was out there, but too nervous to ring the doorbell. Maybe they waited after school hoping to catch a glimpse of the wonderful Kishibe-sensei.
He liked this ego-stroker of a theory.
Finally, however, after about the fifth or sixth time of this occurring every now and again — never every day, only sometimes — Rohan’s curiosity began to eat away at him. He was nothing if not an insanely curious person. He wasn’t particularly interested in the perpetrator, themself, but their motive for watching. Why didn’t they just come up to the door, if they were so interested in him? And if it was an enemy, then why were they taking so goddamn long to attack?
He’d had enough today; this curiosity was beginning to interrupt his work.
He’d sent out Heaven's Door to do a bit of reconnaissance for him. Sure, Heaven's Door was petite and not very strong, but using its childlike eyes came in handy. To make sure the stand didn’t go too far a distance from him, Rohan went out to the porch, sitting on a rocking chair while he searched with his stand’s gaze. Absentmindedly, Rohan rocked on the ball of his foot, looking contemplative and focused while controlling his stand.
Aha. There you are. He smiled victoriously to himself for a moment.
“What is it you’re doing over there, Hayato-kun?” Rohan called with some authority, loud enough to be heard across the street. Heaven's Door fizzled away, and Rohan stood up, hands tucking into the pockets of his designer pants.
Bullseye. For a moment, it was quiet, but then his parallel neighbor’s bush quivered with movement. Out emerged the guilty party, Hayato Kawajiri, eleven years old, still dressed for elementary school and donning a pair of binoculars around his neck. A single stray leaf from the shrub stuck to his hair.
“Kishibe-sensei...” Hayato called back, “how— how did you see me?”
“You’ve been spying on me for some days now,” Rohan replied, and gestured for the boy to come nearer. He avoided the question he was asked with ease. “Does your mother know about these detours you’ve been taking? She must be worried sick.”
Looking left and right, Hayato darted across the street, but stopped before the stairs to Rohan’s porch. Rohan’s brow quirked at the look on the boy’s face, a guilty one — he was unable to quite meet his elder’s eye. Interesting.
“She doesn’t know,” Hayato confessed, scuffing his Velcro-strap sneakers on Rohan’s cement pathway. “She thinks I’m at a friend’s house. I’m sorry for spying on you, sensei.”
“I don’t particularly care,” Rohan remarked, and it was the truth. “But I’d be quite interested to know why. We know each other, at least somewhat. I don’t care if you knock on my door.”
“I know. Um…” Hayato hmmed and hawed, tucked a strand of ginger-brown hair behind his ear, avoided eye contact. “I guess… I wanted… an autograph.”
“I’ll give you one later if you tell me the real reason.” Rohan scoffed at the cheap appeal to his ego, meant to misdirect. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Hayato-kun.”
“Sensei,” Hayato looked up at him, eyes all the more guilty, his hands wringing the front of his shirt. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know how to explain it to you. It— it wouldn’t make sense to you. I won’t spy on you, or bother you, anymore, I promise.”
Right as the boy turned on his heel to dart off, stammering excuses, Heavens Door appeared right in his path, opening him up like a book. It was a split-second Rohan had been prepared for.
“Easy, there,” Rohan moved quick, catching Hayato before he could fall and skin his knees on the sidewalk. He brought the boy up to his porch and sat him on the same rocking chair he’d been in before. God, he weighed next to nothing.
Falling to one knee, Rohan flipped open Hayato’s pages on his face, humming thoughtfully. This felt familiar, somehow, but he paid the feeling no mind.
He read over bits and pieces of the story he had already somewhat deduced. An imposter father. A lonely mother. A distant household. It was interesting, sure. Then, he paused, reading carefully.
For a little while, I was stuck in a time loop that Kira put me in. Anyone who figured out Kira’s identity exploded immediately.
I witnessed the mangaka Kishibe Rohan die multiple times, all because of me. I couldn’t believe what I saw. He was reduced to nothing but his earrings on the sidewalk.
Everyone who tried to help me died at least once. Things looked completely hopeless, until Josuke came to save me.
Ah. So that was where the familiar feeling had come from.
In some other universe, lost to time and only scripted within this young boys pages, Rohan Kishibe had died trying to solve that impossible mystery. A shiver trickled down his spine as he imagined that fateful day again, this time ending in the result of flames bursting beneath his skin, pulling him apart by the seams, burning and burning until not even ash was left. Had some version of Reimi out there watched his spirit depart, having failed his mission?
His manicured fingers brushed against his fountain pen earring. He was reduced to nothing but his earrings on the sidewalk. Jesus.
Clearing his throat, Rohan read on. Things seemed somewhat normal after the recounting of the bloody squelch of Kira’s skull beneath an ambulance tire. Hayato’s memories now told a story of an absent-eyed, tearful mother. A mother who hung up missing posters from noon till evening, who hugged Hayato tighter and for longer when she saw him off to school in the mornings. A mother whose love, and promise of a new future, had suddenly been ripped away from her. When would she heal? At what time would she move on? Rohan scientifically wondered things such as this. Would anyone ever tell her the truth?
Finally, he came to the present.
Some days, I come to spy on Kishibe Rohan after school with my binoculars. I learned from Josuke that he doesn't live very far away from me, so I asked him for the address. I tell my mom that I’m going to a friend's house. I want to know that Kishibe Rohan is okay. Sometimes, I remember him dying, and I like to have confirmation that Kira never hurt him.
Rohan heaved a heavy sigh, and closed the book.
Kira hadn’t left Rohan completely unscathed.
He’d seen enough pink and yellow sunsets to think of everything and ache a little inside, but it didn’t compare to everything else.
Rohan was still alive. Others were not so lucky.
“Wake up, Hayato,” Rohan gave the younger a small shake by the shoulder, face devoid of any sternness.
“Huh…?” Slowly, auburn eyes blinked open, and Hayato gasped suddenly, turning to the mangaka. “Did— did I just faint?”
“You took a small spill. Don’t worry, you don’t seem injured. You're probably just exhausted.” Rohan replied, something like kindness in his voice as he fibbed. He righted himself to his full height, offering a hand to the boy. “You’d better eat something here, I don’t want you fainting again. I will drive you home as well-- the sun is going to set soon. “
The younger was clearly caught off guard by this generosity, looking down at Rohan's hand with a question on his face. However, it faded, and the guilty look returned. That expression was too serious for an eleven-year-old child. "…I'm sorry for bothering you like this, sensei. I promise I won't visit you again."
"You will tell your mother when you're coming to visit me from now on," Rohan said, a sharp, firm edge in his voice. Hayato's head whipped up to look at the elder, blinking in surprise at this authoritative tone. Rohan continued: "Do not disrespect her by lying to her. She cares about you."
Something like tears glazed in Hayato's eyes. Rohan was surprised by the way the boy's expression steeled, willing the emotions in. That was a kind of strength only someone who had gone through hell could possess at such an age.
Hayato knew his mother loved him. He knew Rohan was right. And he didn’t want to stop visiting – not when he still had vicious nightmares of turning that street corner and seeing Rohan leaning against his car, waiting for an inevitable fate mere moments away, should Hayato come any closer. Sometimes, he could still feel the heavy weight of Kira's hand on his head, mimicking an affectionate, fatherly gesture with such inhuman cruelty. Deep down, he was intensely grateful for the mangaka’s words; at the offering of a hand instead of being pushed away.
"Okay," Hayato managed, and slipped his palm into Rohan's.
"And don't be sorry." Rohan said, gentler this time as he led the boy to his doorway. "I always need hands in the studio. Come by whenever you like, for tea or to draw-- but leave the binoculars."
(That time, it was a base lie. God forbid he'd ever need any hands in the studio beside his own. But even the great Kishibe Rohan could be merciful towards a child's feelings once or twice in his life. Especially a child who, at some point in time, had wept when he died.)
"Okay," Hayato said again, sniffling before letting out a small laugh. “Do you… um… do you have a lot of manga here, sensei?”
Rohan paused at the door, offering Hayato a faux-offended look. “Do I have a lot—do you know who you’re talking to? I have issues of Jump piled up to my ceiling.” His eyebrow quirked playfully. “I take it you’d like to borrow some?”
Hayato earnestly nodded, a bashful smile coming to his face.
“Then that’s what we shall do.”
In this town of Morioh – a quietly hurting town, a town which had had so much taken from it under the surface – allies came in strange shapes and sizes. Rohan had long since come to understand that. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let his guard down and protect this boy, this boy who had hidden himself away, watching Rohan from the shadows to make sure he stayed unharmed.
A long time ago, a young girl had shown him kindness and saved his life.
He looked down at the smiling boy and smiled a little, himself. Rohan wondered if, back then, he had looked so small, so fragile, so full of life and potential to his babysitter, the pink-haired girl-next-door.
Who knows? Maybe paying it forward was something he could work towards.