Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"And then he looks up at me while he's lying in the water and says, 'What are you planning?'"
I start giggling. "And the word 'plan' just makes me want to laugh. And then I remember: they don't know what's coming. They can't see it. It's just another windy day to them."
Giggling more, I ramble on. 
"I had 'plans' that day. Everyone had 'plans'! I planned on finishing my latte. I planned on picking up groceries. I was wearing a goddamn dress! And part of me wishes there was time to explain," I'm shaking my head, grinning, "part of me wishes the Gun Devil was close enough for him and Hayakawa to see—"
I'm out of breath. My mouth is dry. I take a sip of my drink. Whip doesn't interrupt me.
"—I wish they could see, so they can know just how it's all — I don't know what, but..."
My hands sign vague gestures in the air, trying to find a novel word to use.
I've already gone through absurd, unfathomable, fucked, and even Kafkaesque. This is my fifth time recounting the Gun Devil attack to Whip.
She never interrupts. The woman just sits there, staring into the sky behind her crescent sunglasses. Her chin is raised to highlight the contour of her jaw.
In the past, she would say this sort of manner was 'unbecoming' of me. 
The two of us are sitting alone on a rooftop, finishing our late lunch, and I can't help but admire her profile. She could sell fast food like it was a brand of perfume.
People say love is a mysterious, unwieldy force. But so is friendship. Maybe they are two shades of the same color.
"Anyway," I sigh, cutting the story short for her sake, "you know the rest."
Lately, I've appreciated Whip. She's a good listener, even when she's not actually listening. Whip is not my lover. Yet when we aren't together, I occasionally miss her.
Thank god she wasn't with us that day.
Her head tilts down, following her drink as she sets the cup down on the rubber coating. We're leaning against a rooftop unit, sheltering us from the hot sun.
Her slender fingers come to her glasses, removing, collapsing, and tucking them away in one smooth motion. She looks at me with her sharp eyes, her captivating gaze amplified with a tasteful hint of mascara. And I'm already rolling my eyes, bracing myself for more of her scripture.
"Are you okay, Makima?"
Taken aback, I stay quiet.
"It's a beautiful day, and you're about to cry."
I swallow, feeling the lump in my throat for the first time. Her smile widens in the silence. The lower lids of her eyes rise.
Whip will always unsettle me. It takes me a few seconds to realize her expression is sympathetic.
"I'm sorry," she finally says, "tell me the rest of the story."
I shut my eyes and rest my head against the metal frame. "No. It's alright."
Then, "thanks for putting up with me."
"I'm just here for the food."
I snicker and slide the rest of my box to her. "Here. I can't finish it."
Whip complies without a word, digging in to my leftovers.
"After this is done," I say, tracing the few cirrus clouds floating in the heavens, "we're still going to be friends, right?"
Whip lets out a soft "ha!" through a mouth-full of rice. "You think we're friends!?"
That's whip: always knows how to make it sting. But I've gotten callous to her ways. I don't answer, holding my smile.
"Sure," she grins, looking down at the food, "but if you fail, I intend to keep my promise. And I won't hold back, because we won't be friends anymore."
"That's fair," I shrug.
Once she's done, she sets the box down beside the cup, and turns to face me again.
"As the clock of fate ticks down..."
My eyes shut and my head softly smacks against the sheet metal. I knew there was gonna be gospel.
"Makima. Please listen to me."
Fine.
"Time is running out. Gun Devil is but a shape of things to come. You know this."
I listen, but only because I feel obligated to return Whip's courtesy.
"Believe me, if any of us were able to act in your place, we would. But we cannot. Barem cannot do what you can. Nor can Princi. Beam is no more."
Beam. Did I actually forget about him!?
Whip has paused, looking into the distance as she thinks.
"I could. If I had just two years, I could make short work of things," she mutters. She levels her gaze back at me.
"But we don't have two years. Thankfully, though, we have you. And—"
"Whip, please. These motivational sermons are tiresome."
"You will let me finish," she barks, rising, standing over me.
"Do not raise your voice to me."
"I am trying to help you! You will let me help you!"
There's a heavy pause.
"Humanity is your greatest weapon," she continues, her voice somber. Whip has my attention — this is new material.
"You are human in the ways those like Princi, Power, and Angel can never truly be. Your duality is more intricate than the monstrosity of myself and the other hybrids. Only one such as you can carry the better halves of humanity and devils alike through the deluge."
I've zoned out. This is the same old slop.
"My point, Makima," she sighs, resolved to meet me half-way with a summary, "is you're running out of time to be human."
She has my attention once more. Whip's charisma never ceases to amaze me. Why must she be so stupid, though?
Accepting my silence, she elaborates.
"You need to nurture your human half. Who knows how long before you can rest and be human once more? If you do not tend to your soul, it will wither and die. It's already dying. I can see it."
The lump in my throat is back. It's despicable how easily this vapid bimbo is able to move me.
"I am not telling you to make amends," she goes on, "as in finding closure you, would resign yourself to death. Failure cannot be palatable to you. No, the closure will have to wait until after our work is done. However..."
Whip kneels down to grab my hand. I shrink away from her, moving onto the hot sun-baked rubber out of the shade. She just kneels beside me.
"... you should indulge in your humanity. Do something to soothe your soul and nourish your heart."
A jet roars up high, far away from us. It gives me white noise for my thoughts to sink into.
"But I can't—."
"It's okay to be selfish. You need to be. The stoic act isn't working. You aren't being true to yourself."
The wise bimbo is right. God damn her.
"What do you propose?"
"You're asking me!? Wow. You're doing worse than I thought."
With a grin, she puts her sunglasses back on and makes for the door.
"Thanks for lunch. Whatever you do," she adds before descending, "remember to savor it. Live in it, and make it a memory you can find shelter in."

It doesn't take long for me to come up with an idea. My heart practically vomits it out.

Kishibe comes around the corner just as I'm headed to his office. He doesn't see me coming, stops, and is shocked at the abrupt sight of me. He tempers his surprise immediately. We face each other for a moment. No greeting.
"Kishibe, I would like to have a word with you."
"I was just heading out, actually."
"That's fortunate," I smile, "because I don't intend to discuss business."
Kishibe hesitates, sighs, then nods. We go into a nearby break room.
"What do you want?"
He sounds so cold and impatient.
"I want to collect on a favor," I tell him.
His eyes narrow. I can see his mind racing, dissecting my words, demeanor, and mannerisms like an autopsy. It's so tiresome.
"I don't owe you any favors."
"It's an old favor."
Kishibe is unamused. Over the years, this visage of aloofness he puts on has become very disagreeable to me.
"It's got to do with Quanxi," I say, deciding to come in hard.
There's a flash of realization in his eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
If it were anyone else, they'd get the silent treatment. But this is Kishibe.
"You're lying. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
He clicks his tongue and looks out the nearby window, shaking his head, a bitter smile on his face. "Unbelievable."
"Didn't I hold up my end? Quanxi is 'taken care of' and you played a minimal part."
"Like hell! I got thrown out a goddamn window!"
"And I went to hell," I shoot back, matching his tone, feeling my mouth smile on its own accord, "who had it worse?"
His eyes close and his head bobs in a silent, split-second chuckle. In that instant, it's like decades flood the space around us, beckoning us to settle into familiar ways. I want to give in, but Kishibe resists.
"That 'favor' was from a very different time, from a very different man," he says firmly.
"Favors have expiration dates?"
"I don't know," he shrugs, "for my own sake, I'll say they do."
"Can't you at least hear me out? It's nothing difficult or unsavory. I promise."
The 50-something year old man crosses his arms, looking at me with the same old look of impatience.
"I want to go out on a date with you."
"A date?"
"Yes," I nod, grinning, "I want you to take me out somewhere. We'll both dress up. And it'll be a date."
His arms are still crossed. He's incredulously shaking his head. "Are you cracked or something? Has this shit finally made you snap?"
"Please stop being mean to me," I implore. "I'm serious."
His arms unfold and rest on the table. He leans in to me, gesturing with his palms. "Didn't we just have tea recently?"
It's my turn to be bitter. "Are you serious? That was nothing like a date."
"What're you talking about!? We went out to a nice spot, didn't we?"
"Kishibe," I say, aghast, "you met with me to talk about work!"
"Yeah, but it was out of the office, wasn't it?"
Yanking at my tie, I exclaim, "we were in uniform!" Livid, I add, "you threatened me about doing my job!"
Only Kishibe is capable doing this to me. He takes on a more somber tone.
"Alright, calm down. I don't wanna get into that again, ok?"
I nod. I wait for him to continue.
"I'll hear you out," he says, leaning back, "and I'll decide if I wanna go through with it."
Giddily, I repeat myself: "I want to go out on a date with you."
"Yeah, you said that."
"A date, Kishibe. And on this date," I excitedly explain, pointing at him, "you're gonna be my boyfriend. And I'm gonna be your girlfriend."
"Yeah, you've snapped."
"Just for a date. Eight hours," I assure him.
"Eight hours is a long-ass date, Makima."
"From the time our shift ends," I elaborate, "until just after midnight: we will be boyfriend and girlfriend in that time frame. And within that eight hour time frame, we will meet, go out on one date, and spend time together."
His gaze shifts between my eyes. Kishibe is sizing me up, ready to brawl.
"There are three major problems with your plan, Makima."
I remain silent, wearing my practiced smile. Come at me, then.
"One: a relationship between you and I would never fly at the Bureau."
A quick thrust. He's probing my defenses.
"No one would dare say anything," I answer, my smile unmarred, "you are too respected. And anyone else wouldn't have the authority to do anything about it."
There is a pause, where I wait for him to retort, so that I may interrupt him. But he knows me too well to take the bait.
"The few that do have authority," I add, my smile widening, "would merely believe you are doing your job, and feel secure in knowing you have things under control."
He takes the barrage unphased.
"Two: you look young enough to be my daughter." The old man still has that signature momentum. But he's pulling his punches.
"Most escorts you hire are young enough to be your daughters. Yet you frequently take them out to nice restaurants and have a good time."
"You always go for the low blows," he lectures, "you're too predictable."
There's no time for me to get a word in. He's already wound up his next hook.
"I know better than to go steady with an escort. And besides: you're not an escort, Makima. You'd be a terrible escort; I would never hire you."
My smile is broken. I'm smirking. The old bastard still has the touch.
"Okay. May I hear your third point?"
With a shrug, he simply states, "that's not what you and I are. We weren't back then. And we never will be."
"What are we, then?"
Silence. He doesn't know what's coming.
"We were friends back then," I counter, and follow through without reprise, "a favor between friends means nothing to you?"
He's simmering. I'm leaning in. I can't help but tease him.
"That is a low blow, Kishibe."
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. He's shaking his head, his body draped upon the chair. Kishibe has been beaten.
"It's just one evening," I gently tell him, my words kneeling over his cornered form, "eight hours where we'll just make it work. We'll set aside all the problems and impossibilities. And after that, we don't have to ever mention it again."
"Alright," he says, his tone formal, "end of the work day puts us at 1700 hours. So the arrangment would end at exactly 1 in the morning. Where are we meeting? Where are we going? What—."
"Stop," I insist, raising my hand, "stop, stop, stop. This isn't a contract. This is a favor. This is a date."
He's quiet. He's being patient with me.
"Come by my apartment at six tomorrow. That'll give you enough time to get ready, right?"
He nods.
"You choose where we go. Somewhere we can both have a good time. Normally, boyfriends pay for their girlfriends on dates. But I make more than you, so we'll split the bill."
Kishibe has this manner of rolling his eyes: it's like he's always got a phantom cigarette in his mouth.
"Alright, that's it." I feel my grin straining my face. "Dismissed."
Kishibe grumbles curses and insults under his breath as leaves, knowing I can hear him. I remain at the table, keeping track of his footsteps until I hear him enter the elevator.
There's a phone in a vacant office across the hall. My finger traces the number in my pocketbook as I dial, even though I've got it memorized.
It barely rings.
"This is Whip."
"Hey. Come to my apartment?"
"Did something happen? Do I need to bring the others?"
"No, no, no. It's not work-related."
"What is it, then?"
"I need help picking out an outfit."
There's a pause. I swear I can hear her smile.
"Another mom date?"
My nostrils flare. "No. A date date."
"I'm heading there now. Hurry up, or I'll let myself in."

My heart keeps vomiting, hurling, heaving, wretching...

Chapter Text

"That should be enough," Whip mutters as she finishes the eye shadow.
"That's it, really?"
"Yeah," Whip says, leaning into my face, surveying her work, "this, with the foundation, is as much as I want to do."
She begins putting away her makeup kit, leaving behind a couple of containers on my nightstand. "Apply it exactly how I showed you."
When she's done she admires her handiwork again. "I think we've successfully manifested the 'pretty hag' in you."
"Whip," I groan, "I told you: this isn't another mom date!"
She's grinning. "You think I don't know who you're going out with?"
I grumble. I smile. Whip puts her hand on my thigh, leaning back in. "You don't wanna look like his daughter, do you?"
I shove her away. With a fighter's grace, she rides the momentum, dancing over to my closet.
"Alright, Miss Makima," she sings, rummaging through my clothes, "let's see what we've got to work with..."
Before long, she's laid my costume out on my bed. A dark olive cardigan. A knee-length, dark blue pleated dress. Black leggings. Ankle length dark brown suede boots. Black hairband. Rose gold necklace.
I turn in my full-length mirror. Again and again. "Nice job," I tell Whip. She's nodding, pacing around me, rubbing her chin, appraising her work.
"Yes, yes. This should match his look. But not too much."
I blink. "You know what he's going to wear?"
Whip points a manicured nail at me, throwing her hip. "I'm sure you will too! You'll probably have a bird perched at his window, won't you?"
"He keeps his curtains closed," I wryly tell her, "and he takes pest control very seriously."
I kick my feet out in place, letting the skirt of my dress dance around my legs.
"Besides," I add, opening and closing my cardigan as I study my profile, "I want his outfit to be a surprise."
"Well, don't hold your breath. I've seen what he wears outside of work. His palette is limited."
Whip's sharp eyes move between me and my reflection. "Magnificent," she mutters.
"It is quite nice," I agree, "you have a keen eye for fashion."
"I may have just invented a new style. An unprecedented blend of sexual allure and modesty."
My personal designer gets on one knee, gesturing to my lower half. "The length of the skirt naturally brings attention to your legs. The heels of your boots contour your calves and hint at the curves of your buttocks. Yet the leggings tastefully assert that you are not a slut."
My hands rest on my hips, giving her a derisive pout. I don't stop her.
"The outer layer is a subliminal hint of the warmth of your soft bosom, yearning to be freed by the ripping action of a pair of masculine hands. But the hairband and necklace accentuate your captivating gaze, which will render the lustful victim paralyzed."
"Yes," I nod, "it looks good, Whip."
"Note the colors," she adds, "meticulously chosen to to divert attention away from your sickly, pale, sun-deprived flesh."
"Rude. Speaking of: lipstick?"
She dramatically shakes her head. "Absolutely not! That would take away twenty years. At least."
"If you say so. I appreciate you coming over."
"There is one catch," she mentions.
"What?"
"It's going to be hard to dance in those boots."
Looking down, I hum in agreement.
"But chances are," she continues, "you two will just go drinking anyway."
"Yeah. Hmm, you seem to know him pretty well. He's got a thing for hybrids — you two ever date?"
We laugh. I thank her one more time.
Whip bows, like an actor at the end of a play. "Of course, Lady Conquest. I am honored to have helped you don your battle garb."
"Oh-kay," I sigh, rubbing my temple. Lately, Whip has been having too much fun pushing my buttons.
"Fitting of your title," she drones on, her head thrown back as she bellows at my ceiling, "you shall conquer this mortal's heart and soul!"
"Get out of my apartment."
She's still on a tirade as I'm shoving her towards my vestibule.
"No man is safe! All will kneel to your hag-ly beauty!"
"I'll buy you lunch," I promise, slamming the door. Outside, I see her grinning. It stays plastered on her face for blocks.
Returning to my bedroom, I carefully hang the outfit at the front of my closet and pull it shut. Tiramisu enters, hops onto my bed, and watches me with curiosity.
"You stay out of there," I warn, "you and your brothers."

The work day crawls along and flies at the same time. I can't remember the last time I felt this way. 
Whip visits my office. "Remember what I told you." And leaves.
Soon enough, I'm home.

I'm dressed. It's five after six. Kishibe is coming. I've got my eye on him.
Fashionably late.
My buzzer soon rings. He's at the building entrance. Waiting a few seconds, I rise and head to my door.
"Yes? Who is it?"
"It's me."
"I'm sorry. Who?"
I can't see his face. But I get a low-angle view of him shaking his head. "It's Kishibe."
"Oh! Hello! Come in!"
Before I hang up, I make sure to add, "you're late."
The doorbell rings. I open the door.
He's dressed in a brown turtleneck sweater with a black and white zig-zag pattern across the chest. Khaki pants. The same shoes he wears to work.
"Ooh! What a handsome man!"
My arms quickly wrap around him, and I bring my face towards his. Kishibe frees his arm from my hug and grabs me by the chin.
"Girlfriends," I firmly tell him, "kiss their handsome boyfriends when they see them!"
"You're not kissing my lips."
I growl. As soon as he lets his guard down, I peck his cheek.

We're outside.
"We aren't driving?"
"Nope. The place I'm taking you is nearby."
As we walk side by side, he eventually makes small talk.
"So. How's Denji doing?"
Looking across the street, I curtly answer, "we're not talking about work."
I feel him watching me. He puts his hands in his pockets.
"He's not doing good. You know that, right?"
I don't answer. As we walk, we pass a group of girls. High school students. Probably about to graduate. Two of them are wearing hoodies with stylized graphics of Chainsaw Man on them.
They have to be hand-pressed. Hand-drawn designs. Clothing brands haven't hopped onto the Chainsaw Man goldmine yet. But it's amazing how quickly people are—.
"Look at that," Kishibe smirks, nodding towards the girls, "Denji ought to see that. It'll cheer him up for sure."
I walk ahead of him and stop. He stops. I'm staring. I'm glaring.
"This is your last warning," I say, "we are not talking about work."
He's thinking. This is another piece of the puzzle to him. I hate it.
"Sorry," he says. I've noticed, lately, that Kishibe can sound convincingly sympathetic when he wants to. It's disarming. We truly are birds of a feather.
"So my new elliptical came in," he says, seamlessly melting the tension. We're walking ahead.
"Oh yeah? What was wrong with your old one?"
"The bearing went."
"You're too rough with stuff! Let me guess: you didn't get a warranty."
"I'm not a sucker. Warranty policies are scams."
I laugh.
"Besides, I love the new one," he goes on, "it's all digital, so it took me a while to figure out, but..."

As we walk I watch us from the sky, from gutters, from branches, and in reflections of storefront windows. We're just like everybody else. An older man and an older woman, walking together. Not retired, but entering the gilded ages of our careers. Talking, heading into the evening after another work day.
Signs of the recent carnage still litter the streets in stray bullet holes and collapsed buildings. Most of the rubble has cleared, but caution tape remains. The more damaged shops have made due with corrugated steel, plywood, and tarps. And it's enough — commerce flows unabated. I'm enthralled by the cold tenacity of Tokyo. Was it like this when I was young? I had incarnated during a time of violence. Grimly, I realize an entire generation has been born in an era of daily devil attacks.
No. I remember Whip's advice. I have to stop.
I'm tuning back in to my date just as we're arriving at the spot.
"...and that's why I don't like the pulley weight machines. Free weights are best. No contest."
"My boyfriend knows so much about strength training," I say.
"I've told you all this before. But you don't listen half the time — always zoning out."
"Yes. I do."
We pass through a wooden door. I think it's a dive bar at first, but it's not.
"A coffee shop!?"
"Yup. One of the few that's open this late."
I've known about this place for ages. Kishibe takes breaks here when he's spying on me. I've stayed away for that reason.
"You surprise me."
He looks to me.
"I thought you would want to go drinking," I say, looking at the dimly-lit space. The lighting makes it seem more spacious than it really is. I can tell why he likes it here.
"I don't go out to bars anymore," he explains.
"No?"
"Nope. Noawadays I only drink when somebody dies."
He turns to me, smirking. "Why'd you think I'd wanna get drinks? Did somebody die?"
I'm looking at him. His smile falters, and he closes his eyes.
"Shit. I didn't even—."
"It's okay."
"I honestly didn't —."
"Kishibe."
"They don't go that young," he insists on saying, "and I expected him to make it. Of all people."
I'm still looking at him. He pinches his brow and looks at his feet. "I'm sorry, Makima. I know you were looking forward to this."
Did he? I tug at the sleeve of his sweater.
"Hey."
"What?"
"Girlfriends forgive their boyfriends when they say stupid things."
Kishibe yanks his hand away and smiles.
"This place is pretty bohemian," I mention, looking around, "it looks a bit young for you, no? More of a place for college students."
"That's why I love it," he explains, shaking a finger at me, "there is absolutely no chance I'll see anyone I know."
He walks to the counter, gesturing for me to follow. "The food's good too. So's the coffee. And they have all that herbal tea crap you like. 'Cmon. There's aleady a line."
We stand side by side. I grab his hand, forcing my fingers between his, and grip tightly. "Boyfriends and girlfriends hold hands when they're waiting to get tea."
At the counter, the apron-clad teen looks at me, then at Kishibe. "Uh oh," he grins.
"Evening, Ren," Kishibe greets with a smile. The kid is sizing me up and down.
"Don't worry," the brat snickers, "I won't tell Emi. It'll break her heart."
I must look confused, because the kid, Ren, asks me, "you are his girlfriend, right?"
And before I can answer, Kishibe snidely tell him, "yeah, but I think we're breaking up later."
Ren takes my order. Kishibe just tells him "the usual."
"Emi?" I ask.
We sit at a pair of chairs in the corner. 
"One of the baristas. Obviously. Older girl. I think she's part-owner or something."
He takes a bite of his scone and adds, "she's beautiful. I can't stop coming back to her."
"Oh dear," I tease, "I don't want to get between you two."
"Nah, she's too good for me. I'm sticking to women in my league."
Crossing my legs, sinking into the cushioned chair, I hide my grin with the rim of my mug. He sneaks glances at my calves and ankles.
There's a small stage on the other side. A young guy is strumming at a guitar, to no audience, in a pointless sort of jam session with himself. Kishibe points over to a collection of displays.
"They got a little locals' art gallery here too."
We walk over and study the works. One of them elicits a laugh form me: a wooden carving of a figure on its back, his legs in the air, masturbating at himself.
"I bet that one speaks to you," I whisper, elbowing him.
"I actually like that one," he chuckles, "I'd buy it, if I could think of a place to put it."
"You're kidding."
"It's poignant," he asserts, "and there's a sophistication to it. It looks crude, but you can tell the kid who did it put in effort. The wooden man is proportionate. Look at his face: he's got eyes, a nose, and a mouth carved in. And it's even got an expression. You see the shape of his ribs? The belly button?"
I'm looking at the wooden figure, holding Kishibe's hand as I intently listen to him. His words guide my eyes over the profane carving.
"It looks simple, but you know it's not. I couldn't do something like this; I certainly couldn't make it look this good. I bet it took the guy a while to do this," he concludes, "and that's an artwork in itself — being so good you make it look easy."
I'm nodding. I almost want to buy the thing now.
"But why," I think aloud, "is he masturbating at himself? Why does it have to be so distasteful?"
"A-ha! That's the thing," he smiles, like he's about to win an argument, "it's not a 'he.' It's just wood. And even if it were a 'he' — what business of yours is it, how he spends his time? Why are you watching him masturbate at himself?"
My stare is wide-eyed and long. The unexpected has become a thrill for me, and this is a delectable moment.
"This is what you think of when you come here? When you hang out here, alone?"
"Nah. I didn't come up with the last bit," he admits, grinning at the carving, "I'm just quoting Emi."
We don't buy the mannequin. Kishibe checks his wristwatch.
"Oh god," he grumbles, "it's not even half-past eight yet."
And that reminds me. "Hey, we should head back to my place," I suggest, "I have to take my dogs out."

One the way back, we walk in silence. We're giving one another space. It's okay — I know we'll drift together again, like the tide. I've been on plenty of bad dates. This isn't one of them.
A convenience store catches his eye. "I gotta grab a beer," he curtly says. It surprises me. I follow him inside.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, "are you bored with me?" In the harsh light of the coolers, I see how different he looks. It's such a sudden, strange transition.
"I gotta have a drink," he repeats, "I haven't had one yet." He gives me a somber look. "You know why."
My arms cross. I lean against the door of the cooler, keeping it closed.
"I said no work stuff!"
"Don't you understand that this is more than work to me!?"
I flinch away. He's angry, in a way I didn't anticipate, and scowls as he reaches for a can of cheap lager.
"I'll just be fifteen minutes. Go ahead and walk your dogs."
"Get me one too," I say.

Now we're at the entrance to my building. The sun has set. There's fewer people walking past us. Not a word had left his lips since the convenience store. This, I realize, is something he has to do. It's not a choice.
He holds his can out to me. "To you-know-who."
I force myself to say his name. "To Aki."
Our cans strike one another.
When he opens his can, I open mine. When he sips, I sip. It's a ceremony I'm doing my best to keep pace with, but I give him room, standing to the side.
Kishibe looks listlessly out into the street. At the sky, with its last shades of violet. He starts pacing.
And I'm trying very, very hard to understand.
Did he even know Aki? They rarely talked. I knew Aki far better. I saw Aki's last moments. But I feel nothing.
He must not know: Aki's been dead for years. Aki died before either of us met him. But, then again, Kishibe could've seen that.
No, I'm sure he knew. Every time he saw Aki, it was the same as how I saw him. Standing at attention. Patient, listening. Even when we went out drinking.
Like one of Santa Claus's dolls. A golem. The wooden figure in the pub had more spirit than Aki.
Just another disgusting reminder: the world is spiraling into garbage.
Should I tell Kishibe he died happy? He died fighting the Gun. He died protecting the rabid mutts he fell in love with. And he was put down by one of them.
It was the best possible way for him to get killed.
Kishibe is gone. Around the corner, away from the street, out of sight. I can hear him crying. He's probably leaning against the wall, his face in his sweater, his mouth a painful grimace. I've seen it before. And I hear the stifled sobs. The sniffling. It usually isn't this intense.
That's right — he's sober.
Whatever, I shrug, I give up. I'm not mourning the death of a corpse. My beer's gone in a matter of seconds.
But I listen to the notes ringing from Kishibe's throat. His short breaths. He remembers to sip.
It's a melody that my heart drinks up. It's inebriating. What a beautiful soul. Every man should be like my boyfriend.
Kishibe is back. His eyes are still red, but his tone is the same as before. "Alright, your dogs are waiting."

Not thirty seconds after letting him through the door, I hear him say in a tired groan, "are you kidding me with this shit?"
And I turn, and remember the drawing, and laugh. The framed print has been there for so long, I've forgotten it was there.
"Oh. 'The Fall of Lucifer.' Yeah. It's way too much, right?"
"Where do I even begin?" Kishibe asks, shaking his head.
"It was a gift," I sigh, unable to stop myself from smiling, "from Whip."
Kishibe's concern melts away into a salty chuckle. We stand before the work, admiring it.
"This is impressive," he mutters, "how the hell did she get a hold of something like this?"
"No clue," I shrug, shaking my head. "You want hear something funny?"
"Hm?"
"When she brought it, I asked Whip, 'Oh. Do you like Milton?'"
We laugh together.
The dogs are swarming us.
"Alright, alright," I greet them, "sorry, I know, I forgot. Let me get you all on a leash."
Kishibe stands to the side. Judging, but amused.
As I'm getting my dogs ready, I see a carton of cigarettes in his hand. The leashes clatter on the floor.
"Are you stupid or something!?"
My hand snatches the cigarette from his lips just as he's readying his lighter. His surprised eyes follow my rigid arm, hand, and finger, pointing to the balcony.
"You know better! You do that outside!"

The dogs yank me along our usual route. They were antsy; I feel guilty for making them wait. A gross smell taints my nose.
Looking up, I see him looking down at me. We wave to one another. My dogs drag me along. All I can see is his silhouette, but I can tell he's smiling. I recognize the posture. He's smiling just like he used to. We're so different, but now I know, for sure, that we're still the same.
The sense of closure. I feel it. Whip is right; I feel the seductive warmth of being "at peace." It's difficult, but I purge it out of me.

Back inside, I find him looking around my apartment. He reeks.
"You're gonna have to take that off," I order, already pulling his sweater off of him. He rolls his eyes, but doesn't resist. Then, I pause.
"Your work clothes!?" He was wearing his white dress shirt and black tie underneath the sweater.
"You didn't give me enough time to get ready," he complains.
"Whatever. That comes off too. It all stinks."
He's down to his white undershirt when I take everything that smells out to the balcony. I let him leave his khakis on. When I return, he's still looking over my living room.
"I don't even recognize this place," he tells me.
"It's still the same apartment. I've just redecorated and remodeled over the years."
"It's like the, uh," he snaps his fingers, trying to remember, "the ship of Aristotle."
My eyes squint. "No," rubbing my chin, I think, "isn't it the ship of Eratosthenes?"
He just shrugs. "It's your apartment."
The dogs keep stepping over one another, shifting about. They're excited to have a guest over.
"I have to tend to these guys," I sigh, getting the basket of brushes, combs, and rollers off a shelf.
Kishibe is looking over my tapes. "How about a movie?"
"Good idea!"
Soon enough, he settles on his pick: Murder on the Orient Express.

We're all on the couch. Kishibe is on the end cushion. I'm in the middle, resting against Kishibe. And the last cushion is where the dogs each take their turn getting groomed. As I brush and comb out knots and keep the fur off myself and the couch, my date — my boyfriend — idly toys with my braid, smoothing it over my shoulder, his other arm wrapped around my waist.
The ship thing is bugging me. I can't think of the actual name — it's all greek to me. Was it Zeno's ship?
Resting in my home, cradled by my eight-hour boyfriend, I'm thinking about time. Supposedly, you can subdivide a line an infinite number of times. I try to cut the moments into halves, and those halves into halves, and those halves into halves...
But I can't. The moments pass in an endless stream.
Cream Puff is the last one. Kishibe says into my ear, "see, this is why you've never held down a boyfriend."
My lips curl into a smile, my eyes and hands still working at the knots in his beautiful fur. "What do you mean?"
"No man would put up with this many dogs."
There's a stubborn knot. I might need to get scissors. Suddenly, I can't help it. My head rolls back, smacking his jaw on accident. I'm laughing. Cream puff scampers off, scared.
"Is that why?" I finally manage to sigh.
The roller gets the fur off my couch, my leggings, my dress, and my cardigan. His eyes are on me, the movie in the background. I look down at him, watching him resting in his undershirt.
"I'm gonna get out of this," I say, smoothing my outfit. Then, excusing myself to my room, I get an idea. I sneak onto the balcony.
Moments later, I announce my entrance: "ta-dah!"
Kishibe turns, and looks, and I can tell he's entertained.
"The sleeves are a little long," he jeers, "but you fill out the shoulders pretty well for a woman."
My arms swing side to side as I saunter around the living room, swaying my hips in a rhythm-less dance. "Girlfriends," I sing, "wear their boyfriends' stinky work shirts at the end of a good date!"
"I see you left the leggings on."
"Whip said they keep me from looking like a whore."
"Your apartment is cold," he grunts, "get back on the couch."
"One minute. I want some wine. You?"
"Just a soda."

The movie's over. My glass is empty. The bottle is barely a quarter done. I can't remember who killed Ratchett or what the kidnapping had to do with any of it. We talked through the whole thing. As the credits roll, I poke his cheek.
"Hey. Wanna do it?"
He gives me a look. And before I can say a line, he beats me to it with his own:
"Boyfriends and girlfriends don't have sex every night."
And that's fair. But, "you're gonna sleep in my bed, right?"
It's such a sad look. Kishibe must have practiced it, I think. But then I hear the tone of his voice.
"Makima. I can't sleep with you."
And I know there's no chance. I stand up, my hands on my hips.
"Well," I sternly say, "you can't sleep on the couch."
"Why not!?"
"That's Cream Puff's spot! You'll have to sleep on the floor."
He gets up to, crossing his arms.
"Absolutely not. Your floors are probably covered in dog hair."
"I keep a tidy home!"
"Every dog lady says that."
He makes his way towards my bathroom and nods towards my bathtub. "That'll do."
Oh god — the flood of memories. Our days in the thick of it, abroad. Single bed motel rooms. One of us in the bed, the other in the tub. Except for those rare time where we'd need to indulge...
"I can't remember," I mutter through a sad smile, "who's turn is it?"
"Doesn't matter — this ain't a motel room. It's your home, and I'm your guest."
"No," I poke his cheek again, grinning, "you're my boyfriend. And girlfriends make their boyfriends sleep in the tub when they talk about work stuff on a date!"
Kishibe grabs my hand. He presses my palm against his face, kissing my wrist. He doesn't say anything. I can't say anything. Wordlessly, he gets a couch cushion and tosses it into the tub.
He turns around.
"Goodnight, Makima."
"You can leave now if you want," I softly tell him, "it's close enough."
"A favor's a favor. You got me 'till 1 in the morning. I'll be in the tub."

At dawn, a scratching at my door wakes me up. It's Cream Puff. He leads me into the living room.
Kishibe is on the couch. He's got one of my mugs in his hand. Tiramisu is curled up by his thighs.
"Cream Puff," I tenderly coo down at my dog, "did this mean old man team up with Tiramisu to take your spot?"
Kishibe raises the mug to me. "I made coffee. Took me a while to figure out your coffee maker. Oh, and I used your toothbrush."
No complaints leave my lips. I'm taking what I'm given. Soon enough, I'm dressed, with a warm thermos in my hand, ready to leave. He's still on the couch.
I take a sip of the coffee. My eyes widen in shock.
"This is very strong!"
"It's how you've always had it," he shrugs. And I realize he's right, I used to love it strong. But,
"I'm gonna be going to the bathroom all morning."
Kishibe rises from the couch. I give him a coy smile.
"Let me guess," I say, "you've been on the clock this whole time."
He nods. "I'll be sending this in as overtime." Then, looking around the living room explains, "I'm not done yet. I gotta do a thorough search of this whole premises."
I'm drinking the bitter coffee, hiding my grin.
"I was expecting a safe full of nefarious plans to be hidden behind that big, framed Lucifer piece of yours, but I guess I've underestimated you."
My mouth dribbles coffee in a fit of giggling. I barely manage to keep it off my white dress shirt.
"Whatever," I tell him, "just don't smoke in here. Lock the door on your way out. The dog walker gets here around ten."
We stare at each other for a moment. We set down our drinks. We come together, sinking into one another.
My scalp is just inside of his shoulder. The shape of my skull fits perfectly into the cradle of his collar bone. It's the same old bones.
I feel his lips on my hair. It's not a kiss, but he does stroke my hair. I grip him, pressing his bones into me. It hurts. It all hurts.
"Hey," I mutter from beneath him, "since you're working, this is an order: retire. Leave Tokyo. Find someone to dote on you and make you happy."
I feel his mouth smile. "You first."
The hug is over. The date is over. As I head out the door, he bids me goodbye with a chipper "do your best today."

Heading to the bureau, I feel it. My heart is alive. My heart has wings. I have the moment. Every minute is there, ready to draw on.
I know I'll use it at some point. My mind rewinds the date over and over. I almost don't notice the make-shift pop-up shop, just set up, selling hand-pressed Chainsaw Man shirts.
I'll have to use it soon. And I know it will carry me through.

When I finally make that sniveling little wretch rip his heart out for me.