Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"1997 will be my year, dude, mark my words --agh!"

A cry built of half annoyance and half pain escapes Denji when Aki pushes the hand that’s holding the icepack more firmly against Denji’s face.

“Ow, that  stings!”

“That’s the point,” Aki replies, and turns back to meddling with his pots and pans. Whatever it is that he is making is causing Denji's mouth to water. “If you’re gonna apply ice to a bruise, at least apply it correctly, don’t just feather-touch it like a toddler. Also; it's July and you got robbed. I'd say it's a little late for wistful thinking.”

“I didn't  get  robbed, I was just in the store where a robber was robbing. And fuck off, I’m not applying the ice like a bitch—“ Denji flattens his hand over the pack with full force, just out of spite, and has to bite his tongue to not groan in pain. 

Aki meets the display with a quirk of his eyebrow but otherwise chooses not to react, much to Denji's relief. He never  truly  reacts, now that Denji thinks of it. He just adopts one of his many disapproving expressions and stares at the object of his disapproval up and down, letting it know he disapproves.

With his hand that's not handling the pan, he turns to the next page of his legal handbook that's splayed open on the counter. Denji has known Aki for about 6 months now, and he can't remember a single instance where he hasn't caught him working, or studying for work. Only when he is asleep. Which is never.

"You were saying?"

"Oh yeah," Denji blinks back to talking mode. "So he is kinda pointing a gun at us and all, and starts shouting, telling us to empty our pockets and get on the ground, right? And I tell him hey, listen; This is a new pair of cargo shorts, I just washed them yesterday. I'm not kneeling on this shitty convenient store's ground-- no offense to the cashier, I'm sure her mopping game is A+. But it's still a convenient store, you know? And I'm not kneeling because a dude asked. The fuck?"

Denji takes a pause to switch out the ice with a napkin, and clean up some of that dried blood he feels on the aching spot on his cheek.

"Plus, I told him I have nothing in my pockets aside from some half-eaten gum, so can I go now? Mr. Robber didn't like that much, I guess, because he yelled at me again, so I told him to stop fucking yelling, and he hit me in the face with the back of the glock."

"1997 is your year for sure."

"Then the cops arrived," Denji adds, unbothered. "The cashier called them while I was talking-- ever the bravest one in the room, you know me--but if they hadn't, I would have  totally  beat the robber's ass. Trust."

"Totally," Aki says, but Denji gets this icky feeling that he is being mocked instead of agreed with. 

"I would have!" he insists, and the stretch of his expression grows painful on his busted cheek. "He had noodle arms, it was pathetic."

"I'm surprised he managed to hit you."

"Right!"

"- I would have just shot you. His spiritual restrain was impressive."

Denji has trouble differentiating Aki's insults from Aki's jokes. Everyone kinda does. They're so alike, after all, and he delivers them all in the same tone that reminds Denji of a bored professor. Not that he knows what a professor would sound like firsthand, but if he had to guess, it would be close to Aki. 

Denji doesn't particularly like him. Granted, Denji doesn't like all that many people, but he  especially  doesn't like Aki. On top of every other reason he has to dislike Hayakawa (like his blatant attitude problem, his entitlement, and his insistent correcting of Denji's grammatical mistakes mid-speech), Denji has also permanently linked Aki's existence to  this  place. A glorified prison, with a glorified set of nannies (Aki and the Public Safety watchdogs down at the lobby). Yes, he is in witness protection, as everyone keeps reminding him, and  yes , this is "more for his own good than anyone else's", but it still fucking  stinks.  Not literally. The apartment building is actually impeccably clean. Certainly leagues cleaner than any dump Denji has lived in thus far. But metaphorically, it  stinks. 

It stinks that he can't go out on his own for long periods of time, or go further than a robbery-prone convenience store. It stinks that his entire own apartment is smaller than Aki's kitchen. It stinks that Aki is Denji's only option for company and also the only person in this building who has ice packs for Denji to put on his face. 

"You're a dick," Denji mutters and means it, but he knows it won't phase Aki at all. This might be the one likable thing about him. He is a dick, but at least he is fully aware of the fact and completely unapologetic about it. "No wonder you're here on a Friday night, cooking for yourself."

Aki pulls the pan off the stove and shuts it off. Stir fry noodles. Divine-smelling stir fry noodles. Denji's stomach audibly complains at the sight of Aki straight-up digging a pair of chopsticks into the pan, not bothering to get a plate. 

"Does that mean you don't want any?" he asks, looking at Denji very pointedly.

"Whoa, hey, hey, I didn't say-"

"No, no, I get it. I wouldn't want to eat dinner cooked by a dick either. Sounds unhygienic."

"Come on," Denji whines. "At least don't do it in front of me if you're not going to give me any."

Aki slurps and Denji could kill him. 

"Say sorry."

"Fuck off."

"That wasn't even close. Try again."

Denji stares at the noodles hanging from the sticks, perfectly taut. He could wait for Aki to get bored of bullying him and dig into the pan later, but the noodles would get cold. Not that Denji wouldn't eat them freezing, but why wait when he could have them now? 

He bites the inner corner of his mouth.

"...sorry."

"For?" 

Has Denji mentioned how he doesn't particularly like Aki? It's still true, by the way. 

"Calling you a dick," he says, but Aki still holds that awaiting tilt of his head. "In your house." Tilt. "After giving me an ice pack." More tilting. "Now can I have a bowl of that?"

Aki gives no visible sign of being satisfied with the apology, but he reaches beyond his textbooks for a plate off the dish rack and hands it to Denji. Nevermind. Denji likes Aki. He likes him when he shuts up and hands out little treats like a plate of dinner or an ice pack or-

"Also, before I forget."

Aki leaves the pan on the cold stove and walks out of the kitchen. Denji wastes no time serving himself more than half of the portion in swift scoops. He deserves it more than Aki. He got a whole glock in the face. And he is seventeen, he's supposedly still growing. 

When Aki walks back into the kitchen, he hands Denji a small black box-thingy and a pair of flimsy headphones.

"I meant to give this to you."

Denji sets down his bowl, to get his hands on the thing. The metallic exterior is cold. A device of some sort. He presses the little square button at the side and it cracks open. Oh. Tape wheels. It's a cassette player. 

"I got a new one recently so," Aki shrugs. "It's yours."

Immediately, apperhension settles in Denji's insides, squeezing them. 

"What for?" he asks, a bit abruptly.

How much do these cost? It's old and used, but it looks to be in great condition. Are the headphones included in the price? What kind of tapes does it take? How much do the tapes cost? 

"You can listen to music with it. I mostly use it to listen to court recordings, but I have a bunch of old tapes from when I was in college if that interests you," Aki points back in the vague direction of his living room. "It's kind of expensive to get new ones now."

He's not mentioning a price. Meaning he's either waiting for Denji to let his guard down and accept it, only to  then  spit the price, or he wants something else in return. But what could Aki-- Hayakawa Aki, Public Safety's pride and joy legal associate, with the nice apartment and nice suits and enough money to make a whole pan stir fry on a whim-- want from Denji? Denji No-Last-Name, Public Safety's current shelter dog, with a burrowed apartment and not a penny to his name.

It's only when his fingers start to hurt a bit that Denji realizes he has been gripping the Walkman like he wants to crash it. Aki fixes him with a slightly confused look.

"If you don't want it-"

"No, I want it," Denji blurts out and pulls the Walkman away from Aki's reach. "It's mine now. Hands off."

He will keep it until Aki either mentions a price or asks for something. The tapes too. Then he will hide it somewhere in his apartment and gaslight Aki into thinking he never gave it to Denji, and that he just lost it. 

"Cool," Aki says. Cool, yeah it's cool. Denji can relax now. Maybe. Aki seems relaxed. He takes Denji's bowl and sets it on the table, along with the pan. "Sit."

So Denji sits.

The only music Denji has consistently listened to in his life is the stuff that used to play non-stop on the radio, and he only got to hear it when he would enter a store (to shoplift from), or a public restroom (to take out the shoplifting goods from under his hoodie).

To his understanding, that was majorly pop, and it has nothing to do with what college-era Aki used to listen to. The tapes are all slightly different-sounding, and so far Denji has only listened to three of them back to back, but they're all...fucking sad. He can't imagine how someone would willingly get up to go to class in the morning listening to depressive garage rock shit with vaguely suicidal lyrics. Forget class. How does someone bring a girl to his dorm to play  this?  Though it's Aki. Denji doubts that depressive garage rock is his main woman-repeller. That spot goes to his death glare, and Denji is sure Aki has worn that ever since he bolted out of his mother's womb.

Does that mean he will give the tapes back? Fuck no. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade and kick anyone who tries to get that lemonade away from you straight in the balls. Denji is going to learn to like depressive garage rock, even if he has to do it through sheer exposure therapy (going literally everywhere with headphones on).

His outing privileges got revoked for a week straight after the robbery incident, even though that was absolutely  not  Denji's fault. Regardless of how fair it is to get punished for his shitty (or completely non-existent) luck, he jumped at the opportunity to go out when Aki mentioned he ran out of cigarettes. Denji all but snatched that crumpled bill out of Aki's hand and made a beeline for the lobby, where he was handed more bills by Kurose and Tendou, asking Denji to grab them  "a bagel or something- we're starving out here"  on his way back.

He has to be careful not to make this errand-boy gig a habit, but for today, Denji lets the orders slide and makes the most of them. He picks a coffee shop that is verging on "illegally far" from his apartment building based on his privileges and marvels at how colorful their treat selection looks, displayed near the cashier. Little candies and extra sugar envelopes and mints. Denji wants some, just for the hell of it. He's not all that into mint, and he hasn't tried enough candy to know that he will like these ones, but he wants to. He tentatively lifts his hand, after glancing around to make sure no one is looking and tries to quickly pinch one out of the bowl.

"There's a security cam on your left," comes a voice from behind the counter, and Denji flinches as though electrocuted. "Might want to switch sides."

He drops the candy and slaps his headphones down, even though they aren't playing any music at the moment. There's indeed a camera at the left corner of the store. When he turns around again, a waitress is setting his bag of bagels on the counter with a smile. Denji would be blind if he didn't take note of how pretty she is, even on an objective scale (Denji has been told he's not objective when it comes to women's looks, but this time he swears it's objective). Dark hair, too short to be neatly tied into a bun, and a pair of spectacularly bright eyes, looking at Denji in a way that makes him audibly gulp. 

"I was just uhm," he coughs into his fist. "I wanted to inspect the type of candy from up close. Make sure it's...to my liking."

The formal string of words comes out of nowhere, and Denji clamps his mouth shut. 

"Take it," the waitress shrugs. "They don't pay me enough to be a rat."

Denji didn't notice it the first time she spoke, but she has an accent to her. A foreign and unfairly pretty one, that slices at his knees immediately. He looks at the bag of bagels but makes no move to grab it. The store is empty, save for them, another worker behind her, seemingly manning the coffee machine, and a loner guy sitting in the back with a newspaper. She's waiting on Denji, smile not faltering in the slightest.

"Can I have some coffee with that?" he says at last, in an embarrassingly eager tone. 

"Sure," she says and half turns her back to Denji. "To go?"

"No, it's okay. I have time."

He literally doesn't. Both Aki and the security detail are going to be in a shitty mood if Denji is late with their stuff, but if he puts their annoyance on a scale against hanging around a pretty woman in an empty coffee shop, the gains far outweigh the losses.

"Coming right up then."

Denji's palms are disgustingly sweaty. He thinks to wipe them against his pants but that would make him twice as disgusting, so he steals a few napkins off the counter and uses those instead. Only now he doesn't have anywhere to put the napkins, so he puts them into his pants' pockets. They bulge all awkwardly, making him look like he is preparing for a long trip in the bathroom. Fucking amazing. At least the counter is tall enough to hide his bottom half. Wait. Does that make him look short? He fixes his stance and his back immediately screams in protest. He needs to stop slouching all the time. And forgetting to put deodorant. He  did  put deodorant this morning, didn't he-?

"There you go," the girl slides Denji a mug against the counter. It's scorching hot to the touch, but the coffee inside doesn't look particularly appetizing. Pitch black and a bit too watery.

"Thanks," he says regardless.

She gives out her hand, leaning over the counter.

"Reze, by the way."

"Denji."

Her skin is a bit rough, perhaps due to washing her hands all the time while working, or maybe because of the cold, but her palm fits perfectly in Denji's, even for that brief second he's allowed to hold it. When it slips away, she tucks it under her chin, using it to support her head. 

"This might come off as perverted, but shouldn't you be at school, Denji?"

"I'm eighteen," he fires back a bit too fast. "Or I will be. In two months. Okay, in three. So in a universe where I went to school, I would have graduated by now."

He only realizes what he said when Reze's eyebrows rise in awe, disappearing into her bangs.

"Didn't go to school, huh?"

Shit. Okay, this is fine, this is still salvageable. They look to be the same age, so that shouldn't be a problem. Loads of people don't go to high school, it doesn't mean they were all implicated with the yakuza and are now hiding out in a Public Safety building with a security detail. Denji can still get out of this. Right. If all else fails, Denji can just hang himself by his headphones.

"Yeah, it wasn't...my  thing,  exactly."

Great!

Reze tilts her head, and her eyes scan Denji's form.

"What  is  your thing, Denji?"

"Having my name casually dropped into the middle of a conversation for no reason."

"Smooth."

Denji grins.

"Really?"

"Well, now you're spoiling it."

The grin evaporates.

"Fuck."

That causes Reze to laugh. It's not loud or anything too flashy, more of a restrained chuckle, really, but the sound seems to grab Denji's ego by the base and stroke it. He probably should leave it at that, he has done so well already. He shouldn't allow himself to ruin it. But his mouth disobeys him and he keeps talking.

“So um, what are you doing in a dump like this?" his hand wraps around the coffee mug and he lifts it to inspect it. "You could at least work for a place with some not-trashy coffee.”

Reze's customer service smile stretches into something a bit more real.

“I made your coffee myself.”

“Trashy I said? I meant fucking fantastic—“ Denji beings the mug to his lips and gulps down a mouthful of the sugarless sewer water. Good idea, bad execution. He shouldn’t have swallowed. Oh god, this tastes more like ground chalk rather than coffee. The fact that he can make that comparison with full confidence should be a testament to his bravery right now.

All the while, Reze looks at him expectantly, with mirth in her eyes. For that alone, Denji endures it. He keeps the mug lifted trying to hide his gagging expression, hand slightly shaking. If not chivalrous, she will at least think he is funny.

“Yep,” he coughs out, as soon as he feels confident that the coffee won’t exit the same way it entered. “Great. Amazing. I know a guy who would love this, actually.”

“Does the guy love himself?”

“You got me there.”

Denji truly thinks the way Aki takes his coffee is a crime against humanity as a whole, but he doesn't feel like debating this right now in front of Reze. The neglected bag of bagels serves as a sore reminder that he should get back to the apartment which he is not allowed to leave on his own without permission and that what's about to leave his mouth is a terrible,  terrible  idea, but Denji has never been one to dwell too long on why his ideas are terrible. So he swallows hard, takes a sharp breath, and goes;

"Fuck it. When is your day off?"

"Don't touch the foil."

"My skin is literally on fire-"

Power slaps Denji's hand away from the tin foil wrapped around his hair.

"I said don't touch it yet."

Bleach baths were always much less trouble when Denji lived on his own. All he needed was a few yen, some water, and an audacious dream, then boom. He's a blonde and no longer looks like his father's spawn. The wonders of blasting your skin with chemicals. 

Now that Power insists on him doing it correctly and in her company so that Denji won't be bald by twenty, the process is a lot more irritating. He tries to lift the foil ever the slightest, to see how well his strands are cooking in the reflection of his salt-stained mirror, but Power still catches him and slaps his hand again. 

"Dude, it  burns."

"Don't be a fucking baby," she tsks and takes a graceless seat on his washing machine, her own foils crunching with every move. 

She and Aki have their dismissal of Denji's misery in common, along with some other things. Like the fact that they all live on the same floor, and Power also works for Public Safety. But as an intern, until she graduates from whatever fancy college she's studying at that Denji can't recall the name of. 

He thinks that Power, with an IQ of 200 (or so she claims) and a hatred for everything that breathes aside from cats, is probably the last person on earth who should be studying political sciences. Or the first. Denji doesn’t know much about politics (after all, his rights were revoked before he even acquired them) but if he was allowed to vote and Power was an available option, he would  not  vote for her. The possibility of living in eternal damnation and the whole of Tokyo burning is not worth the perks of having a woman president. 

“So what, she asked you out or something?” she turns to him, face twisted in mild disgust. "The waitress." 

Denji is not sure what the disgust is aimed at but he doesn’t like it, so he frowns.

“Well no,  I  asked  her  out,” he claims, and after a quirked brow from Power, he mutters; “After she kept dropping lines and hints with the weight of a grand piano.”

Power taps a finger against her chin, deep in thought. She looks so unserious like this. Basketball shorts and foils in her hair to turn it pink, sitting in frog-stance on top of a washing machine.

“That seems too easy. How do you know she’s not a murderer?”

Denji opens his mouth and realizes he has no concrete defense to offer here. 

“Reze doesn't  look  like a murderer.”

"Murderers don't have a look," Power sneers, as though this is a basic piece of knowledge Denji is missing. Along with many others. "Also what kind of name is  Reze?  Sounds like a fake."

"And  Power  doesn't?"

"It  does  because it  is,  so you're just proving my point; People with fake names can't be trusted."

"Okay so maybe she's a murderer!" Denji throws his hands. "I like women with hobbies. What's it to you?"

Power makes a face as though she licked a dirty floor and starts playing with the cords of her shorts. Much like Aki, she is also a dick, but in a very different sense. While Aki is curt and dismissive, Power's dick abilities rely on her being as loudly disapproving and as crass as possible. Denji can never figure out if she actually likes him and Aki-- no scratch that. He can't even tell if she  tolerates  them, or purely dislikes them, but makes the best of them being all stuck in this floor together. It's hard to say. For one, Denji tolerates her. Sometimes.

"You getting murdered by a barista would embarrass me by sheer association," she mutters.

"Would embarrass me by sheer association, " Denji mocks in a childish tone, shaking his head.  "Look everyone, I'm Power and I use fancy words against illiterate people because I'm a prissy fucking asshole-  Ow!"

She snatches a foil out of Denji's hair and nearly takes the whole head with her. "You can rinse now."

Denji starts outdoing the foils one by one, after making sure to kick Power at the shin. When he ducks under the sink's faucet to wash the bleach off, he feels something furry circle around his legs.

"Hi there buddy."

He squats down and lifts Pochita to the drying sink, promising himself he will clear off the hairs later. Water drips onto Denji's face, and he lazily slaps a towel over his head. Pochita manages a lick across Denji's injured cheek regardless. 

"Don't give me that shit, you ate just an hour ago," Denji giggles, scratching him behind the ears. 

Power reaches over and picks Pochita up to set him down on the floor again so that she can rinse her hair too. Pochita rests too easily around Power, for someone who's covered in cat hair 24/7. It's convenient now, but a few months ago, when Denji first came into the apartment, it freaked him out. Pochita is known to bite at strangers (although Denji likes to tell people it's the first time this has happened. It makes them self-conscious and it's funny). 

Even Aki, whom Pochita sees more often than Power, he sometimes growls at (much to Denji's entertainment). Power just gets away with it, and doesn't even give Pochita so much as a pat. It's unfair. 

"Are you even allowed to have a long unsupervised outing? With a stranger no less?" she asks over the sound of running water.

"Fuck no. Which is why I planned to go in the morning when Aki is at work."

"And the Public Safety workers in the lobby?"

"Bathroom window," Denji grins. 

"Unusually clever for your standards."

"Thank- hey!" Denji dunks Power's head under the water as punishment, and she steps on his foot. "Piss off. No need to get cranky because I have a date and you don't."

She slaps the faucet closed and steals Denji's towel from his head, staining it pink. 

"I'd rather get waterboarded in a tank full of electric eels than spend three hours doing small talk with a stranger."

"Bit extreme."

"It's called honesty."

Denji follows her out of the bathroom and crashes onto his single-sized bed, where Pochita comes and tucks himself under his arm. 

"Good thing no one ever asks you out."

"They ask, I just say no."

That draws a splutter out of Denji and he sits up on the bed again.

"You  what?"

It's not that he can't fathom Power having people be interested in her. Well, actually, it's exactly that. She's insufferable, and not at all in a cute or witty way. She's the exact opposite of poise, from how little attention she puts into her appearance to her caveman-ish mannerisms. Not to speak of her personality and superiority complex which she insists on shoving down people's throats. But Denji is sure there are people out there who wouldn't care about any of that-- or better yet; find it hot. 

So really, he shouldn't be that surprised Power gets dates. And yet he is. It just seems like something she would brag endlessly about, or rub into Denji's face, even. Apparently, it's not. If anything, she seems frustrated it even happens.

"It's usually people who don't even know me-- haven't had even a full conversation with me," she explains while dragging a comb through her hair like she's trying not to have any tomorrow. "It's pathetic. They're not worth my time."

"Who is?"

"Nyako."

Of course.

Denji suddenly feels bad for all the hypothetical people who have asked Power out. She casts a wicked glance over her shoulder at him.

"You have fun on your electric eel tank, though! Just pray the waitress' hobby is latte art and not taxidermy."

“Denji-kun?”

Denji takes a sharp breath and blinks himself back to the present. Makima tilts her head and looks at him with that razor-sharp stare of hers that makes the hair on Denji's arms stand straight. 

He swallows and it hurts slightly. He hasn't spoken in a while.

“Yes?”

“Our relationship will be rather counterproductive if you continue to spend half of our sessions simply staring at me.”

She says it so softly. So sweetly. Her voice is honey-coated, thick and smooth, and self-assured but not brass. Denji would pay good money he doesn't have for a copy of their sessions' recordings, just so that he could hear Miss Makima talk endlessly. He feels a giggle bubble up his throat, involuntarily.

“So this counts as a relationship?”

“A strictly professional one, between a profiler and a subject of study.”

“Oh yeah absolutely. I'm  totally  not fantasizing about anything else at all.”

For whatever reason, Makima writes that down on her little notepad. She doesn't take a lot of notes as far as Denji notices. It's not like she is his actual shrink. If anything, she feels more like a scientist, prodding at him under a microscope.  

“I forget how cutting your honesty is, at times.”

A wave of embarrassment makes Denji sink into his chair. 

“Sorry.”

“You have not made me uncomfortable," Makima states earnestly. It has the sound of an objective fact, and not an attempt to appease Denji. Oh good. "But you  do  realize why you’re here, yes?”

"Public Safety wants information," he says. Then, reluctantly; "...and you're keeping tabs on me."

"You were implicated in a high-risk operation of the yakuza," Makima states what Denji already knows. He likes her voice too much to cut her off. "You're lucky to have made it out alive, and that's because of us. But now that you're in the witness protection program, you  do  need to cooperate."

"I'm trying. Really, I am. It's just all a bit-"

"Foggy," she supplies and Denji nods. "So you've said."

Denji has gaps. Memory gaps. They've gone over the events of the day Makima found him plenty of times, but the gaps don't seem to refill themselves. He's not doing it on purpose, to be difficult. He wants out of this program more than anyone here, and getting Makima the information she wants is the easier way to do it. But the gaps remain, and people's patience is running thin with him. 

"As for the keeping tabs part;" Makima looks for his eyes. "Public safety needs to ensure that you won't pose any danger to society when you'll be a free citizen again in a couple of months."

“I won't hurt anyone again if that's what you mean," Denji says. It almost sounds like an oath. "That was a kind of, sort of one-time thing. I don't generally...do that. Violence is not really my mambo jumbo.”

"Except for when you're threatened, right?" Makima asks, but it's not truly a question. It's a statement. A confusing one at that. Like a trap that's waiting for Denji to breathe the wrong way and spear him to death. "What's the saying? Survival of the fittest?"

Denji feels himself go rather numb in his seat.

"Don't they say that about animals?"

Makima gives him one of her usual tiny smiles. Any other day, Denji's stomach would flip at the sight of those, even though they never met her eyes. Today, he feels a little chill run down his spine. Not a good chill. 

"I think our time is up for today," she says and bends toward the table to stop the recorder from running further. 

Denji nods wordlessly and starts digging through his backpack for his Walkman and headphones, as Makima rearranges her notes. When her eyes fall on the device, they seem to light up in curiosity.

"Is that Hayakawa-kun's?"

Denji looks down at the walkman and a rancid feeling settles in him. Not jealousy, necessarily. Something close enough, though. Something petty and childish.

"You recognized it, huh?"

"I've known Hayakawa since he was nineteen and about..." Her hand comes up to her nose as a visual indicator. "This tall."

"Ha! So I'm taller than he was."

"Quite," Makima hums. "But he had other attributes. You don't get Public Safety's attention just by being tall, unfortunately. Are you two getting along, I wonder?"

This feels too important to be small talk. Denji gets the sense that his answer will hold weight. That saying 'no' would displease Makima. Not sadden her, but displease her. There's a difference in Denji's mind, and it's grave. She was the one who arranged for Denji to be placed under Aki's supervision, after all. He is her experiment. 

"Most of the time, yes," he manages, half-honest. "But he's difficult."

A breath that rings like a silent laugh. It has the sound of recognition. It wouldn't be a laugh if Makima didn't know Aki well enough, long enough to be amused by this. Denji hates this laugh. Hates it, hates it, hates it. 

"I'm not allowed to form personal opinions on the character of my subordinates," she says and gets up from her armchair, stepping closer to Denji. "But off the record, I think Hayakawa-kun is an excellent brain exercise for you.”

"My brain exercises just fine on the daily," Denji grumbles.

“You can never think too much.”

“Can’t you?”

“Not if you ask me." She gets a bit closer then. Close enough so that Denji is towering over her and she has to look up at him. She points at his face with a delicate finger. "What happened here?”

Her eyes land on what Denji guesses is a blueish splotch on his cheekbone and stay there, oddly fixated and unblinking. As if she wasn’t aware Denji was capable of bruising. Which makes no sense, since she has been him bruised before. Bruised and battered and bloody. It was the first version of him she ever saw. 

Her fingers hover over the skin of his cheek, feather-like. A touch without touch. It somehow manages to make Denji shiver. His tongue twists upon itself, forgetting how to speak.

“I fo-“ he almost admits he fought someone (yes, fought, it sounds better than just saying he ate a glock in the face) but immediately realizes that confessing any sort of violent outburst will open a can of worms for him. Public Safety won’t like that, will they? He scrambles for the right word. “I fell.”

Nice!

Makima seems slightly entertained by the response, eyes lighting up with mirth. 

“You specifically fell down on your right cheekbone?”

Oh, to be mocked like this. Denji gets the ludicrous idea that he would wear a harlequin costume and do cartwheels around the office if Makima so much as smiled at the idea. And yet he has a date tomorrow, which he specifically hid from her. Strange world.

“You know me, I’m such a clutz,” he finds himself laughing awkwardly and then stops abruptly. “But in a totally adorable and not at all in a loser type of way.”

Makima’s hand drops and she takes a graceful step back. If Denji was a lesser man, he would whine at the loss of contact. She approaches the door.

“See you in two weeks again?”

“Sure—"  No, that sounds too unbothered.  "I mean of course."  Too formal.  "Yeah. I'll um-"  Just abord. Leave. Get out.  "Yeah.”

Denji swings the door open and meets one of the many busy halls of Public Safety, back first. He gives Makima one last tight-lipped smile and waits till she starts walking first so that he can go in the other direction and shiver in peace. 

He is vaguely aware of the building's layout by now, so he starts lazily strolling his way toward the legal team offices but stops right at the entrance when he spots Aki and his senior associate seemingly arguing. If not arguing, then about to do so.

Denji is too far away to hear any piece of their actual conversation, but he can read body language just well enough. Himeno tilts her head, trying to find Aki's eyes behind his bangs, but he ignores her efforts, opting to place his hands in her tie to fix it. There's nothing wrong with it if you ask Denji, but Aki always seems to find mistakes where there are none. If he doesn't find them, he creates some. 

Himeno apparently agrees with Denji, because she catches Aki's wrist and tugs it away from her tie. She speaks more firmly now, causing Aki to snatch his hand back and match the heat of her mannerisms. They're fighting, as discreetly as they can. Which is to say; not at all. It's pretty brief all things considered. It takes less than a minute for Aki to walk away with a shake of his head and for Himeno's shoulders to slump in disappointment. 

Denji takes a step forward, not yet having torn his eyes from their direction, and he knocks straight onto a cleaning crew cart.

The clatter of plastic bottles and the bucket of water rings so loudly into the hall it's impossible to ignore, even as Denji scrambles to contain it, by holding the cart still. 

The display catches the eyes of a few suits, including Himeno. She sort of smiles at Denji, for some reason, holding back laughter. 

"Eavesdropping going alright?"

What little Denji knows about Himeno comes from Aki and the brief moments he has caught up with her in the headquarters, while he is waiting for Aki to finish up and drive them home. Still. Denji knows she's the teasing type. Not one to care if he was legitimately eavesdropping.

"No, you were being too quiet, actually."

That does draw a laugh out of her. It's gentle, characteristically girly. The kind of laugh you would expect to be accompanied by a graceful hand, trying to hide it. Himeno doesn't bother hiding much of anything, Denji has come to realize. He kinda likes that about her. She's simple, like that. Brutally honest, to the point of embarrassment. But it's useful. Denji likes not having to think behind people's words or actions. He likes turning off his brain around people sometimes. Himeno makes it easy.

"I do hope you're not riding home with Aki today," she remarks.

"I was considering asking but I'll pass."

"Good choice."

Getting himself in a car with Aki is too much on days when he's in a good mood. Denji would rather not sit in a hotbox of tobacco smoke for twenty minutes today.

"What got his pants in a twist?" he asks.

Himeno's eyes linger on the exit where Aki stomped out from for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Hey," she suddenly turns to Denji, mood shifting violently to a more cheerful one. "Have you had any dinner? I'm starving and I could use the company."

They end up in a decent restaurant around the corner of the Public Safety building, because who is Denji to pass up free food? He decides to be nice and not order the most expensive shit on the menu (mainly because he would give his act away, not out of niceness), but Himeno only gets herself an appetizer to play with and a beer. 

She's a worse smoking addict than Aki, funnily enough. There's a pattern to Aki's smoking habit; one or two during his morning coffee, one on the drive  from  work, but never  to  work, and as many as it gets him to finish the paperwork he carries home, but never during proper meal hours. Himeno is just all over the place. Denji doesn't have the heart to tell her the brand she and Aki smoke makes him want to vomit. He hates shitting on people's parades. Especially when he is sure he's going to outlive them.

“It started the way it always starts with Aki," Himeno turns her head to exhale a puff of smoke away from Denji and his food. Sweet. "You see him in the hall, looking worse for wear. You approach, careful not to let concern leak into your face or voice. You ask if he has eaten today. He often says he hasn’t but that he will eat after work. That’s a lie," she points with her cigarette, squinting playfully. Denji is not sure why since it's clear this bothers her. 

"Then you ask if he has slept. He says he will sleep when he’s dead. That’s true. That’s also the point when he starts getting a bit irritated. It’s best if you disengage there. Change subjects, change tone..." She has loosened her tie and taken off her jacket. It makes her look defeated. 

"I didn’t, today. My bad, honestly. I asked about the promotion thing.”

"What promotion?" Denji asks with his mouth full.

"Aki has been offered a promotion to the private sector. Meaning more freedom in case handling, but more hours, more responsibilities, and sleeping only when he passes out from exhaustion," Himeno squashes out her cigarette without properly finishing it. "Naturally, I told him to turn it down. He's twenty-four, and he has his entire life ahead of him to hole up in some cubicle and abandon all sense of social life. He said he would  think  about it. I told him he is insane and stupid."

"Sounds ass but exactly the kind of thing Aki would get off on," Denji shrugs. "Why is this a big deal?"

"The sector is in Kyoto. If he accepts the position, he will move away."

Half a bite of onigiri falls out of Denji's mouth and sadly flops onto his plate. His jaw feels kinda paralyzed, forgetting that it should be chewing or swallowing or at least staying firmly shut.

Aki moving away.

The thought has a funny effect on Denji's stomach. A reaction of some sort that he can't put a name to because it's not...it's not a real thing he is reacting to. It's a prospect. A vague hypothetical scenario. Something intangible, inconceivable. Kyoto is not even on the other side of the world, and the Public Safety Headquarters are based in Tokyo, so it's not like he would have zero chances of seeing Aki ever again but. 

Why would that be a problem? 

Aki moving away. 

Wasn't Denji planning on leaving after his supervision ended anyway? That's only a few months from now when he turns eighteen. Why is that any different?

Aki. Aki who makes Denji dinner sometimes, and gives him icepacks and blows smoke at his face when Denji gets annoying. Moving away. 

Suddenly the onigiri tastes rancid. Denji swallows anyway.

He makes note of Himeno's expression. Her eyes are fixated on her ashtray, finger tracing the outline but not reaching for another cigarette. She doesn't like to smoke without company, Denji realizes. That's the pattern. 

"You like him, don't you?" he says without thinking. "Like..  like  like."

Himeno stares back, rather bored, where most people would feel caught. Embarrassed, even.

"I guess so."

"Why?"

A shrug.

"Doesn't matter. The result is the same."

She takes a long swing from her beer and shakes the glass around, watching the foam swirl a little. 

"You know, Denji, I am of the belief that you can properly love only  once  in your life. And I mean  love,  right? To care with your entire fucking chest, and feel like you can give it all, and take nothing back. I think you can do that only once; The first time. After that, you learn to also take. And depending on how the first time goes, you might be smart enough to not love properly again."

The words feel irrelevant at first, making Denji's nose scrunch. He is not sure he agrees. It feels like a very cynical way to look at...everything. Life. People. Love itself. Sometimes he wonders if he is the only person in the world who hasn't given up on  wanting  things, even if he doesn't objectively deserve them. 

"So," he tilts his head. "Who's Aki's first love?"

Himeno gives a snort then, but it's devoid of any humor. 

"His job."

There are a million excuses for why Denji keeps finding himself in Aki's kitchen if there has to be an excuse. Like now, there's the excuse of Aki organizing Denji's meds in compartmentalized little boxes, because he "couldn't stand" how messy Denji kept them on his nightstand. Truth is, Denji just likes Aki's kitchen an unnatural amount. His apartment has a kitchenette of its own, but Aki's is just bigger and better, in every way.

It's not so much the decor, or the smell, or anything superficial about the room. It's more so a feeling. Time doesn’t exist in Aki's kitchen. 

It’s just a sunny wooden table filled with more books than edible things, and the faint sound of the radio he has on the window sill. Every morning that Denji spends there is the same. Every morning it's a different case file or book slapped on the counter along with a highlighter, a very noisy coffee machine, and an indoor cigarette. Denji doesn’t grow up. Or he does—of course, he does. But he doesn’t  feel  it. He doesn’t feel much of anything. 

"There," Aki hands him the containers, and Denji has to admit there's something incredibly satisfying about how neat the pills look now. "You start on the right first thing in the morning, and on the left is the one you take right before bed."

"I'll knock myself out."

Aki glares at that and Denji has to specify it's a joke, although that was clear. To him, at least. Denji didn't escape the yakuza just so that he can overdose on heart medication like a nursery home resident. 

"While we're at it," Aki calls, just as Denji is about to exit the kitchen. "Why did it take you an hour to get me my cigarettes yesterday?"

Denji freezes up. Granted, that whole gesture might have been an admission of guilt on its own, and now with every passing second of silence, most excuses lose validity. He could have just mentioned the bagels if he was quick enough from the start but now that's out the window. Or say there was a robbery, but that's statistically impossible, given last week's events. Fuck mr robber, by the way. Thanks to him Denji has lost a perfectly good lie from his arsenal. He needs something grander, something that will completely throw Aki off course by how absurd it is. 

"How come you don't love Himeno?"

Fucking bingo.

Aki's guard dog facade completely crumbles and his expression twitches with varying degrees of confusion.

"There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don't even know where to start," he says. Denji makes sure to keep his stare completely blank and not celebratory.

"I...okay," Aki stammers and digs a hand into his sweatpants' pocket to fish out his pack of cigarettes. Denji hates it when he smokes indoors, the smell becoming too strong, and sipping into the various fabrics of the apartment, but he doesn't say anything. "First of all; Who said I don't?"

Denji makes note of how he avoided saying the exact word, and squints.

"If you do, why aren't you together?"

There's a vague hand gesture on Aki's part like he is juggling invisible balls, while the cigarette is dangling between his fingers, lit and waiting. It's almost funny.

"Two people can have love for each other and  not  be a romantic couple. Shocker! Welcome to adult friendships. Population: fucking zero, apparently."

It might have started as a ruse to get Aki off his dick, but now Denji finds himself genuinely invested in Aki's irritation.  Why  is he so irritated?

"Well, Himeno seems to want you to be together," he shrugs. "A hot woman around your age whom you also like as a friend wants to date you...and you  don't."

"She doesn't want to date me."

"Uhhhh yeah, she does," Denji sort of laughs, because honestly. What kind of rebuttal is that? 

Aki, however, seems determined to gaslight everyone in the room, including himself. He takes a long drag.

"It's more complicated than that-"

"Seems simple enough to me-"

"Himeno does  not  want me," Aki's tone suddenly spikes upwards, making Denji jump in surprise. He seems to realize how out of pocket that was, and immediately quiets down, avoiding Denji's eyes. "She likes the  idea  of me, she likes the  sound  of us together, but she doesn't  actually  want that. Trust me. I've known her for years, I would know best."

He says it like it's a skill he has trained and sharpened. The fact that he knows Himeno. Like it was hard, honest work, and he takes pride in it. Like his knowledge of Himeno is an object and he would bite anyone who would try and pry it away.

"You still haven't said why you don't want it," Denji points out. "Is it one of those  'oh I don't want to risk ruining our friendship!'  deals? 'Cause that always seemed kinda stupid to me."

Aki instantly grimaces. Denji might have blamed it on the smoke, but that's clearly not why. "You have been watching too many movies. The trashy kind."

Denji doesn't refute that. It's not like he has a bundle of other, more interesting things to do other than continuously consume things. Be it movies, or music, or food, or time, all Denji has been doing is eating them up. For months. It has gotten tiring, but now is not the time to mention it. That would mean Aki getting what he wants and changing the subject.

"Okay, it's not some friendship-purity shit. What is it?"

The amount of struggle in Aki's face would be funny if it weren't also sad. Denji doesn't get what's so difficult about this, but maybe that's just him. He thinks of Power, suddenly. He thinks that if he actually  liked  Power and didn't think she was an utter piece of shit, he wouldn't be opposed to dating her. Or would he? The thought kind of icks him out now that it's planted in his head. But he  did  think of her as attractive the first time they met. Then she opened her mouth and any visual appreciation Denji had for her went out the window. Okay, maybe it  is  complicated.

"I...care for Himeno," Aki speaks up, breaking Denji out of his trance. "Deeply. But not like  that." 

There it is again. The avoidance of the L word. Denji bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from calling it out.  

"She is...my friend. Just my friend," Aki continues. "Not every person in your life is a possible romantic prospect just because you get along with them, or because you think they're objectively pretty. There are people who you just  can't  see that way, for whatever reason. And that's alright."

He says it's alright, but there's this characteristic crease of frustration resting between his eyebrows. So maybe it's not quite alright. Maybe he wishes it was, or maybe he hasn't yet figured out why it isn't. 

"I don't get you, man," Denji says honestly, and it earns him a defeated sigh from Aki.

"Clearly. It's none of your business anyway, I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this."

"Because I asked?"

"I shouldn't satisfy your curiosity."

"Because you secretly wanted to talk about it, then?"

Aki's hand freezes halfway to the ashtray. His gaze sets itself on Denji, scrutinizing. It makes Denji feel like he said the wrong thing. The kind of thing that forces people to open up, if only to defend themselves. The idea of Aki opening up sounds hilarious. So Denji decides to add to the pile.

"Because you're lonely."

Aki doesn't initially dignify that with a proper reply. He just ticks off the excess ash from his cigarette and points it first at Denji, then at himself. 

"Pot and kettle."

Chapter Text

"Ah, shit."

Denji arrives at the meeting spot what he hoped to be ten minutes earlier, and yet he finds Reze already waiting for him, hands in the back pockets of her shorts. It's a silly thought, and most definitely not true, but Denji might have forgotten how pretty she was in the span of the 4 days that he didn't see her. He didn't forget how she looks, but rather the effect that appearance has on him. How her gaze almost makes him feel see-through, or the way the velvet necklace wrapped around her throat makes Denji's pulse physically hammer against his own neck.

She begins to form a greeting smile, hand half-lifted into a tiny wave. But then her eyes glance down and she's suddenly not smiling.

"Are you alright?"

Denji looks down on himself. His first thought is that there's some unidentifiable stain on his clothes but he finds that they're as clean as they can get. Then his gaze falls further down, on his exposed knees, and sees that one of them is sporting a nasty gash that's bleeding straight down his shin and into his white socks.

"Oh shit," he lifts his leg and hugs it to inspect it. "Didn't even feel that one.

He feels a hand touch the top of his head and glances back up to see Reze pull a tree leaf out of the bleach-fried strands of hair. She smiles at it, and then back at Denji. 

"How did you get here, exactly?"

Maybe Denji should get into accidents more often if it gets women touching his hair and face with that much endearment laced into their expressions.

"Bathroom window escape didn't go as planned," he says. "Fall was a little steep."

It wouldn't be if the city maintenance hadn't passed by their street that week to give the trees a good summer trim. Instead of safely climbing out of the window and onto the tree, Denji had to jump and grab a branch, which broke immediately upon contact and sent him flying onto the grass below. Lucky for him, he lives on the second floor and not the sixth. 

"We should clean it up, it could get infected," Reze says.

Denji opens his mouth, ready to protest and say that he's fine, but then he registers the precise words.  We  should clean it. Collectively. Suddenly the pain of this tiny scratch is excruciating.

"Oh my God, it stings so much you have  no  idea," Denji shakes his head rapidly and unblinking. "And I landed on fresh soil too, there could be  anything  shimmering in there, starting with fertilizer. We should definitely clean it,  very  slowly." 

It seems to work. Either that or Reze hopefully finds him unbearably cute and settles for cleaning up his leg anyway, just to please him. They get a handful of napkins from an ice cream vendor and sit down on a bench, where Reze cleans up Denji's gash in meticulous movements. It doesn't hurt in the slightest, but Denji doubts that's because of Reze's light hand. 

It occurs to him, then, that he has never paid much mind to his body. He has never taken proper care of it, always treating it like an expendable thing in comparison to his head— where Denji  truly  resides. Seems a bit late to notice such a thing after almost eighteen years of life, but the realisation comes to slap him upside the head. He has let his body fall, and bruise and scratch and break, as though he was certain he would get a new one at the end of the day. He didn’t. He won’t ever. That’s not how it goes. Denji can’t bring himself to care all that much. 

Reze crumples the napkin in her hands and throws it in a nearby trashcan as soon as she's done.

"See? Good as new."

The lack of disgust at touching Denji's blood makes his stomach do funny things. It makes him want to fall down again, maybe scratch his head this time. His mouth. See what happens. 

"I have-- well I  had  something for you," Denji slightly cringes as he grabs ahold of his backpack, unzipping it on his lap. "I know this excuse is as old as time but you have to believe me when I say my dog ate your flowers."

He pulls a fistful of crumpled daisies out of the bag and gives an awkward, slightly pained smile. The flowers look like they've been run through a meat shredder. Lacking a stalk and pedals bent at unnatural angles.

"Wow..." Reze muses, taking one chewed-up blossom out of Denji's hands. "Should I take that as a threat?"

"Sorry," Denji winces. "Pochita's nice, I swear. He just goes a bit wack when I'm about to leave the house, so he, um. Chews things to get my attention. But not people...anymore."

"Don't be sorry." She inspects the flower from up close. "Could be a metaphor."

"A metaphor?"

"Like an artistic way of saying something without  actually  saying it."

That has always seemed a bit useless to Denji, if not annoying. He thinks that if humans spent half the time they spend on figuring out parallel ways to say shit, into  actually  saying them, they'd be a lot happier. They would also make better movies. Ones that Denji can understand without Aki having to pause the DVD player every ten minutes and explain colors to him. 

He doesn't have half the heart to tell this to Reze, though. Not when the canopy of leaves above them lights up her hair in small blotches, and the ciccadas are buzzing overhead.

"So what's it a metaphor for?"

Reze twists the flower in between her fingers, smiling.

"I'll tell you when I know. But daisies usually symbolize purity and innocence."

"Oh fuck, I didn't- that's weird as hell. I did  not  mean it like that, I swear," Denji snatches the daisy out of Reze's hand and throws it behind his head, cursing yesterday-Denji's flower choices. 

Youth and innocence?  Seriously?  Maybe there is a flower called 'Are you a virgin?', out there and Denji should be on the lookout to avoid that. 

God.

Reze bursts out laughing regardless. It's much more uncontained than the laugh she gifted Denji at the cafe. Louder and brighter. 

God.

"You're funny, Denji."

"I am?" he uselessly asks, just so that he can hear the confirmation again.

"Uh-huh."

"That was one hundred percent my goal, by the way. Absolutely. Did not fuck up in any step of the way, only to result in accidental comedy. Yup."

Reze opens her mouth to reply, but something catches her eye inside Denji's bag. She then leans in, and for one glorious, absolutely phenomenal second, Denji thinks she does so to kiss him. Instead, she just gets her hand in the bag and pulls out one of Aki's music tapes.

"Hey, you listen to The Stalin?" she asks smiling, holding the tape curiously. 

It's one of the rougher sounds that Denji has discovered so far in Aki's collection. Lots of angry screaming about the environment in there. Denji almost had a seizure the first time he played that tape on the bus, barely awake.

"Depends. Do  you  like them?"

"They're the first Japanese band I got into before I even moved here. It was mostly as a joke, because ha.  The Stalin.  Not exactly subtle," she says, and Denji notices how her accent wraps around the name. "But I ended up liking them."

"Oh, then they're my favorite band."

Reze gives him a bit of a flat look. Then, as something of a test, she takes the Walkman in her hands and puts the tape in without connecting the headphones. When she presses play, a jumble of instruments ensues, so loud that the speaker can't even properly support it.

"Okay, fine," Denji caves in. "It was a gift of sorts. I haven't listened to it all yet."

"Well," Reze pauses the tape and stops bopping her head. "Tell whoever gifted it to you that I think they're cool."

Denji snatches back the tape with a frown.

"Don't compliment that dickhead, you were doing so well."

A small laugh.

"Well, do  you  like them? So that I can compliment you as well."

"They're alright, I guess," Denji sort of shrugs. "I can't tell you why I don't love them, or anything that I've listened to thus far. If I'm honest, I don't think I  get  music."

Reze leans back into the park bench, stretching her legs out on the grass at front.

"Give it time. You'll get it."

"How are you so sure?"

"Everyone 'gets' music, even if they don't understand it," she says, but Denji isn't sure he even gets  that.  "There will come along a certain song that rips your heart out and you'll get it. Just wait."

"...that doesn't sound like much fun."

She gives him a sidelong look then. Something lightly mischievous and almost mean, if it weren't also incredibly attractive. 

"Depends on your definition of fun."

Denji returns from his date positively  not  murdered, very much unkissed, and quiet as a ghost, but happy all the same. Skipping, almost. Pathetic, oh he is so pathetic. Ain't that wonderful?

When he cuts the corner of his hallway, he meets with the sight of a stranger standing right outside Aki's door. His first reaction is to jump back, thinking it's Miss Makima because of the red hair, but then he realizes this person is much shorter and much...messier-looking.

Denji approaches them inevitably, the hall being too narrow and Aki's door being right next to his. The person completely ignores his presence, opting to knock on Aki's apartment for seemingly the umpteenth time, with a sigh. And a gloved hand. In late summer.

"Um, hello?"

She (?- mark for later review) turns to Denji and casts him an unapologetic once-over. Her uninterested gaze bears an uncanny resemblance to Aki's. Maybe they're both members of the "The Art of Looking like a Dick" club, and Aki is late to the meeting. But at least she's pretty, so being rude might be justified. Bizarrely pretty, now that Denji thinks of it. Her features have a foreign hue to them. Eyes too round, nose too button-like. It serves as a sharp contrast to her loosened-up tie and unkempt hair. She's holding a big yellow folder against her chest.

"You're case file number #6509."

"Holy fuck-" The distinctly masculine voice makes Denji flinch, like a cat who's been sprayed with water. 

"Hi."

"Gah, you people are getting good at this."

"I'm sorry?" he (review completed, that is a man. Probably.) asks, tilting his head in mild confusion.

"Nothing, nothing, never mind," Denji flips his hand. "Are you looking for Aki? Because he should be at work."

"It's his day off, but I was tasked with giving him this," he shows Denji the file.

"Day  off?"  Denji borderline squeaks. 

If Aki didn't go to work today, then he was at home all morning. If he was at home, then he must have heard Denji escape (tumble, actually) out of the bathroom window. If he heard, then Denji is dead meat.

He runs a frantic hand through his hair.

"I didn't even know he got off days."

"That makes two of us," Aki's coworker says, though Denji doesn't really grasp the clipped tone. "Do you know where he might be? I have to deliver this directly to his hand. Protocol."

Denji's eyes dart down the hall. Statistically, there is almost zero chance that Aki is spending his day off outside. But even if he was sleeping, he would have heard the continuous knocking, given that he sleeps as though in a war zone. Light as shit, and flinches every time a breeze so much as glides over him. So if he is not in the apartment, and he isn't out, he's at Power's.

"If I help you out, will you cover for me?" Denji asks.

"Cover for what?" 

Denji opens his mouth to explain, but the man stops him with a raised hand. "On second thought. I don't care. I just want to go home."

Amazing. Denji can work with that.

"Follow me," he motions with his hand and begins marching down the opposite side of the hall again. "And I'm Denji, by the way."

"I'm aware."

Denji casts a glance over his shoulder.

"I'm just saying because you kinda gave me a serial number before. I have a name."

"Good for you."

Denji stops in front of Power's door at the end of the hall and bangs his fist on it, trying to rid himself of the chill that Aki's coworker has planted on his spine. Everyone at Public Safety is either a prick or a nutcase, as far as Denji knows, but some try to hide it and some absolutely look the part, through and through. There is not an ounce of effort in anything this guy here does. Not in hiding his boredom, not in walking, not even in breathing, it seems.

After a few knocks, Power swings the door open without asking who it is, and peaks her head through the opening.

"What do you want?" 

Polite as ever. She has a bag of chips in her hands and munches pointedly at them, crumbs all over her oversized t-shirt. Denji pushes the door a little wider, enough to see Aki in Power's kitchen, half-shoved under the sink, with a toolbox set near his legs.

"Him," Denji points, and then yells. "Aki, come out of your cave, I have something for you."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," comes the immediate grumble, slightly muffled by the barrier of cabinets and clanging of pipes.

Power leans into Denji, as though to tell him a secret, but speaks at perfect volumes. 

"He lost at mahjong and has to fix my trash eater."

"It wouldn't need fixing if you didn't throw literally  everything  in this poor machinery."

"Yeah well," Denji's voice overpowers him. "This looks like it's important-"

"Denji. Five. Minutes."

Aki's coworker gives the most scathing eye-roll Denji has witnessed.

"I don't  have  five minutes for you, Hayakawa."

"Ang-?"

Before the word has even fully escaped his mouth, Aki involuntarily jerks forward, as if to get up, and accidentally slams his head on the sink's metal pipes. Hard.

The bang, followed by a lengthy groan has Power and Denji wincing in second-hand pain, musing 'ooohh's and 'aaahhh's respectively. Aki scoots out from under the sink, hand pressed to his eyebrow bone, very clearly trying to hold back a string of curses. 

"Keeping people waiting outside your apartment isn't a good look on you," the redhead comments, unfazed.

"Good evening to you too, Angel."

Power turns to the newcomer, thinking of wiping some of the crumbs off her chest, finally.

"Wait, your name's literally-"

"Yes," Angel deadpans. "'Parents got a bit too excited about my arrival and no one stopped them, unfortunately." 

He then turns back to Aki and squints. The confusion on his face is the closest thing to an emotion that has colored his features so far. "Is that metal on your face?"

He idly points at the blood that's trickling past Aki's fingers where they're pressed over his now split eyebrow piercing.

"Got a better one for you; What are you doing in my house?"

"Not your house," Power clips back.

Angel's gaze drops to his hands as if he now only remembers he's holding a file.

"I was told to drop off this on my way home."

He tosses the file inside the apartment, near Aki's lap, and some of the papers fly out. 

"Kyoto department tryout case. You're after a promotion there, are you not?

"This could have been an email," Aki unhelpfully points out.

"Thought you should be informed about your solicitor companion while we're at it."

Angel vaguely points at himself, and Aki's eyes widen in mild horror.

"No."

He picks the file off the floor and starts looking through it, occasionally shooting Angel a glare. It would have been scary, perhaps, if he wasn't dressed in his old college's athletic wear, with his hair flying everywhere and his eyebrow bleeding freely.

"No," he repeats. "We are not. No. Just no."

"Feeling's mutual."

"You seem to be getting along splendidly," Denji points at the open door behind him, ready to tiptoe out of there. "So I'm just going to go-"

"Hold it," Aki points at him, and Denji has no option but to freeze at the entrance. "Why were you outside?"

"Taking Pochita for his walk," he lies easily.

"So where is Pochita?"

Fuck. Denji knew he was forgetting something. Good thing his plan B is standing idly next to him, still oddly fixated on Aki's bleeding face.

"I put him back inside...after running into this guy in the hall," Denji points his thumb at Angel. "He saw me put Pochita inside.  Didn't you?"

Denji hopes that the dizziness and the blood running past Aki's eye are enough to conceal the pointed glare he is shooting at Angel, begging for help. 

Angel gives a slow blink, as if snapping out of a trance.

"That I did see. Yes."

"Oh yeah?" Aki almost sneers. "What breed is Pochita?"

Power hides a snorty laugh into her bag of chips and Angel risks a glance toward Denji but quickly realizes he's on his own. He gives a vague shrug.

"A bastard...?"

Aki tsks.

"That's on me. I set the bar in hell."

"Great, that's settled. Can we get back to you fixing my sink now?"

"Power, I'm  bleeding."

"Well I'm done here," Angel turns his back to the apartment and gives a half-assed wave. "Prepare to be sick of me, starting tomorrow."

"Can't wait..." Aki glares at the door until Angel is completely out of sight. "Absolute fuckwad."

"What an asshole," Power nods, tossing another chip in her mouth. "I respect that so much."

"Of course you do."

"But he's a solicitor, so it's part of the job description."

"He is a good one too," Aki mutters, as though it pains him greatly to admit that. 

"So he's  despicable  then," Power snickers, and then turns to Denji who must be looking at them rather cluelessly. "Angel's job is to trap people and companies in contracts until they either go bankrupt or die," she explains, with unnecessary enthusiasm.

"Oh, so like the mafia. But legal. Ish."

Aki sets the file down and gets up to finally splash some water on his face. 

"That is an unfairly cynical view of Public Safety's policies."

"Well, actually-"

He and Power proceed to tangle themselves in a moral argument regarding Public Satefy (yet again), but this time Denji doesn't attempt to split them up. Instead, he slips past the doorway without either of them noticing, and sprints back to his apartment, before Aki can remember he has questions to ask, whose answers will not do anything to rid his possible headache.

“I hate it when they do this." Aki tosses his pen on top of the files on the kitchen counter, defeated. "How hard is it to convert currencies before handing me a damn document?"

Power is predictably late for movie night once again, so Aki has found himself an excuse to do extra work while Denji is loitering in the kitchen, getting a headstart on the takeout before it gets cold (which would be a crime). 

He gets out a calculator and starts pressing the keys with all his pent-up aggression.

"23 yuan—“ he mutters under his breath, and something clicks in Denji's brain at the sound, almost like a knee-jerk reaction.

“460 yen.”

Aki's eyes snap to Denji, his hand pausing over the calculator.

“I was talking about thousands but that is…" He looks at the tiny screen in suspicion. "Correct.”

“Yay.”

Aki either doesn't hear or purposefully ignores Denji's self-targeted celebration, choosing to bring the calculator closer to his face. Just to make sure.

“How did…" His eyes hop between the calculator and Denji. "Did you just do that in your head?”

Denji's expression sowers.

“Wipe the disbelief off your face, dude," he says with his mouth full. "It’s rude.”

“You told me you didn’t finish elementary.”

“Yeah, because I spent every day from ages ten to sixteen counting money for old people." The roll of Denji's eyes is meant to state the obvious, but Aki keeps looking at him as though he pulled a dove out of a hat. "I know how to do basic math.”

“That is not  basic  math—" Aki shakes his head and starts typing on the calculator again. "Okay, Yuan to Yen. 47."

Denji sets his chopsticks down and looks at the ceiling as though the answer is written there. Funnily enough, it does help. If a yuan is still around 20 yen then--

“940. Give or take," he says, then smiles as he sees Aki hunched over the device. "You need a calculator for that?”

“Shut up. Can you do percentages? Like a 20% out of 45–“

“9.”

Aki actually does set the calculator down for this one and instead stares at Denji, mouth slightly agape.

“You know that’s a talent, right?”

Denji snorts and resumes eating.

“No, being able to lick your elbow is a talent. Calculus is just basic life skills.”

“I will ignore the first part of that sentence and focus on how you recognize the value of math," Aki takes a deep breath and closes up his files. "Regardless. Licking your elbow won’t help you find a job.  This  will. Even in Public Safety. Hell, you're faster than half the people in the accounting department that I know.”

A job.

Denji knows that his probation period ends in October. A little less than two months from now. He has been counting the days, has it circled in his calendar, and everything. But he hasn’t yet thought about how to utilize his newfound freedom aside from basic daydreams. He wants to have a queen-sized bed and start collecting tea because it sounds classy, or buy some new video games that he has not finished a hundred times over. It only now occurs to him that he will need a steady job to do all that.

He feels himself smile behind the rim of his mug.

“Do I get to work alongside Miss Makima?”

Aki’s eyes snap upward, all wonder and praise gone from his face. 

“What was that?”

Denji feels like an insect, pinned to a corkboard.

“What was what?”

“You  giggled.”

“Did I?” Denji does it again, now with full awareness of it. “Oops.”

“You can’t be serious right now…”

Aki's expression is indecipherable. A mix of disbelief and...anger? Disgust? Whatever it is that downturns his mouth, it has Denji feeling self-conscious,

“What? I kinda like her. Sue me.”

“She’s your handler," Aki says with too much force. "Your government-assigned profiler. Your glorified pet owner, one would say.”

Denji would  not  say that. Mainly because the notion makes him feel like throwing up his food. Secondly, because he would lose the argument.

“She’s also very pretty and I have eyes, Aki! God forbid I kinda-sort of-maybe fall for someone who treats me kindly every two weeks for an hour.”

“Denji," Aki sets his hands on the table, adopting that very distinct lawyer-ish look he usually reserves for work. Like he is going to give the closing argument of a lifetime. "I cannot stress enough how little Makima cares about you, personally. You liking her and opening up to her is her  job.”

The words sting, each one in its own wicked way, but Denji tries to not show that on his face. 

“I know that," he claims, stubbornly, although he is not sure to what degree he is being honest. "I'm not stupid, jeez. But...she also asks me about my day, and offers to buy me breakfast sometimes and—“

Aki is holding his head in his hands before Denji can even finish his sentence,

“Oh my God, do you know who you sound like? Those men that go to the strip club one time and think that 'Candy' is head over 7-inch heels in love with them because she smiled during a lap dance.”

Denji gawks, struggling to pull his jaw from the floor where Aki just dragged him. He sets his bowl on the counter, just so that he can cross his arms over his chest, all defensively.

“Candy?  Really?"  he snarks. "Where do you get your stripper names? American TV shows from the 80s?”

“Sorry for not spending my life savings on strip clubs to get experience for our arguments, Denji.”

“Maybe if you did, those nice ladies would help you locate that fucking  stick  you have up your ass.”

They're in each other's faces now with only an island counter separating them, each gripping his end like he is about to chew it off. 

“Oh,  I  have a stick?”

“You  bet  you do.”

Before Denji can think twice and regret it, he scoops up some of his noodles and throws them against Aki's rigid face, just for the hell of it. They make a ridiculous slapping sound and stain his white work shirt with sauce.

Aki looks down, dangerously calm.

"Did you just throw food at me?"

It's either all in or nothing. Denji made his bed now he has to lie in it. He takes a precautionary step away from his end of the counter and braces himself.

"What are you going to do about it? ...bitch."

Precautionary distances fly out the window in a matter of seconds.

 Denji blinks and suddenly he is rolling over the kitchen counter and dropping on the living room floor with a fistful of Aki's hair in his grasp and teriyaki sauce all over his pants, screaming and groaning in and out of grips. It's quite possible that Aki spent his math periods at school fighting people in the courtyard because he is unnaturally slippery, and manages to pin Denji down with his arms twisted behind his back. Denji is in the middle of thrashing and trying to knock his head back right into Aki's split eyebrow when Power walks in with her spare keys.

Both Denji and Aki freeze in place, not sure who is looking more guilty at this moment. 

Power, however, looks remarkably unsurprised.

“Hi?"

"Hey."

"Hello."

She sets down her plastic bag from the video club, only to realize the table is covered in food remains. This would be a good point to untangle themselves and get up, so they do. For what's worth, Aki is looking more embarrassing than Denji. It must be the pretentious work clothes and how much the sauce doesn't complement them.

"So. Why are you brawling?"

Aki and Denji immediately point fingers at each other.

“Because he’s a dickhead."

“Because Denji is crushing on a grown-ass woman.”

“Whoa there," Power's face scrunches in disdain. "I thought Reze was our age.”

“Who the fuck is  Reze?”

“Power, you’re so dead right now.”

“No hold on," Power holds her hands out. "Who are  you  talking about?”

“Makima, obviously.”

If it were possible, Power's expression distorts even further.

“Oh ew! Dude, she’s like...a scary manipulative cunt.”

“Watch your tone—!“

“—How you speak about her!”

Denji turns to glare at Aki for stealing his line, but he has already beaten him to it. 

“There is no way she doesn’t give you the hibbie jibbies," Power continues unbothered. "Were you guys dropped a lot as babies or what?”

Denji grabs the hem of his shirt and uses it to wipe his face clean, hoping to take the pout along with it. “Hey, how did you know?”

“Don’t change topics," Aki demands, then points his index threateningly close to Denji's face. "The point is you have  no  idea what being in love means and you need to sort through your shit. Immediately.”

Denji turns to Power, helplessly.

“Are you hearing this?”

“Yeah, and I fully agree.”

“Fucking finally," Aki sighs as though it's the first proper breath he took today. "I'm going to shower. Call for me when he's back to normal.”

Denji vaguely registers Aki leaving the room, suddenly feeling very stupid in his sauce-stained clothes. Or maybe it's not the clothes, but the way Power is looking at him. It's not condescending like her looks usually are, nor mean. It's almost pitiful. 

“Have you ever had a conversation with Makima outside of the office?" she asks, and Denji suddenly wants to crawl out of his skin. "Have you ever seen her out of uniform? Do you know anything about her, like she does about you?”

“I…”

“Cool. Glad that we sorted this out. "

With that, Power grabs the video club bag and digs out the DVD she rented, not bothering at all with the absolute mess on the floor or the one in Denji's head. 

Aki's words get stuck in Denji's mind like a piece of chewed-up gum under a public park table for a week to come. He plays them in cycles that always start with an overwhelming heaviness in Denji's chest at the thought they might be true. Then he physically shakes his head and dismisses them. 

'Fuck does Aki know about emotions? Or Power, for that matter? The strongest feeling they have ever expressed in Denji's presence is brain-clogging irritation. So what gives them the right to judge Denji's feeling-name-giving skills? If he feels that something is love, doesn't that automatically make it so?

Whatever. He's using precious brain fuel for nothing. Aki and Power were being their usual asshole selves, and it's all solved now anyway. Denji took Aki's clothes to the cleaners and Power helped him clean the kitchen. So putting more unwarranted weight to the argument is just stupid. 

Stupid, and ruining his mood while laying on a girl's bed. Blasphemy.

Denji supposes it’s no surprise he ends up in Reze’s bed. Really, he would end up in anyone’s bed if they talked to him the right way. Looked at him the right way. Looked at him at all, some days.

Makima says that’s unfortunate. She says Denji has yet to discover that physicality has a certain intimacy attached to it and that until Denji learns to share that with people that matter to him— people he knows and that know him back— he isn’t doing it “correctly”.

She might be right. Might not be. Denji is apparently not the best judge of whatever comes out of Makima's mouth. But he finds that with each step away from Makima's office, the looser the chokehold of her words gets. There are even days when he thinks that Aki is completely right. That whatever affection he has for Makima is purely a construct of her own making, that dims by the day. Then Denji is back in the office, and all that forward-thinking goes out the window.

"Where's this from?" Reze asks from beside him, pointer finger gliding over the badly stitched skin marking Denji's collarbone.

"Barbed wire."

He was ten, he thinks. Maybe eleven? He was running away from a furious store owner after stealing a six-pack of beers to bring home. He remembers pushing the pack under a wire fence in some alley, but his shirt got caught on the barbs when he tried to slide under too. 

"Hm." Reze's hand travels down Denji's arm where it rests against his stomach. "And this?"

His head is lulled to the side, eyes closed and half-asleep, but he can feel the ghost of a touch on his forearm. Pretending not to exist becomes impossible when being touched like this.

"Pochita," he snorts.

"Another one?"

"Told you he needs training," Denji stretches into a yawn. "That's what people tell me, anyway. I don't feel like training him, to be honest. He will lose his spark if he stops sending people to the hospital."

He more so feels Reze snicker rather than hear her, due to the proximity. It's nice. So nice. Touch and touch and touch. The bed dips by a change of weight, and Denji cracks an eye open to see Reze standing up, and picking up clothes from the floor.

"I have to get to work."

The first rays of orange sunlight have broken into the room, through the window's blinds. It's 6 am. Denji has to get back home. Aki must be getting ready for work and Power will soon be awake and will want to go to class, so there will be no one to look after Pochita. 

It's easier now that they all know about Reze. Aki  did  almost have a stroke at the potential consequences of unsupervised outings, but he and Denji called it a truce, so now his leash is longer. Less tight. That still leaves him Makima to deal with.

"Oh. Yeah right."

Denji rolls off the bed without being told and starts going through the motions of finding all his layers again. His shirt, his jacket, his shoes. His ability to exist without constantly being touched.

He sits at the foot of the bed, content with watching as Reze fixes her hair in front of the vanity mirror. Unlike Power, or himself, Reze treats her hair tenderly, as though it's someone else's. She brushes it in soft motions, and ties it very loosely, with half the strands falling out of the bun. It's kind of mesmerizing. Denji has yet to grow tired of watching the process.

They know quite a bit of each other by now. Reze knows and has memorized most of Denji's scars and anticlimactic tales behind them, and Denji has memorized half of her favorite bands and flower symbolisms. She outgrew a punk phase and has learned to like city pop. She's raising money to get a degree in chemistry and "make things go kaboom". She loves red spider lilies but has asked Denji never to get them for her. 

It seems like too much and yet not enough at all.

"What are you up to tomorrow?"

Denji blinks awake at the question, the way he always does when Reze asks this. Because it's always her that asks.  What are you up to tomorrow? Are you free on the weekend? I have Wednesday off, do you want to do anything? 

Denji never has anything to do, so it seems fair that he lets her be the one to ask first. That's what he tells himself, at least. The other option is dissecting why he never feels the urge to ask too, and that seems so tiring right now. 

"There's a fair happening downtown, and I was thinking of having a look around," she adds and looks at Denji through the mirror. "Ferris wheel and corndogs and all that shit. Could be fun."

A supremely disturbing realization settles in Denji's stomach. He realizes that tomorrow will be the one-month mark of them...seeing each other. That's important, right? It should be important. Denji should be nervous, maybe, or excited to the point of passing out. He has been seeing someone for a month straight. 

Why doesn't it feel important? Why does almost everything with Reze feel so...calm? Uneventful. Easy. Good things aren't easy, as far as Denji is concerned. Good things are earned with blood. Always with blood. Good things ache. Good things only taste good when you've gutted yourself to get them. 

Denji hasn't gutted himself for this, but he would argue that it still feels good. It feels safe, in the way that a walked path feels safe, even though he has absolutely  not  walked that path before. Does safe equal good? And does good mean he actually wants it?  Really  wants it. Wants it so much that his body feels tiny next to the size of his desire. 

'The point is you have no idea what being in love means.'

Does Denji even know what he wants? 

After noticing the lack of response, Reze turns around.

"It's cool if you have plans or something."

Denji's stomach seemingly plunges at his feet. 

"No I don't," he blurts, shaking his head to rid it off of any other useless thought. "I don't have plans."

'You need to sort through your shit.'

Reze squints at him, smiling a little.

"You sure?" Doubt. That's doubt in her face. It feels horrendous. Denji would have rather she spit on him. "Because you got very quiet for a moment there-"

"I don't have plans," he repeats himself. 

When Reze doesn't immediately react, he gets off the bed and takes her by the forearms. Touch, and touch, and touch.

"Tomorrow's good, tomorrow's fantastic," he nods in quick succession, although that seems to unnerve Reze rather than convince her. "We'll go to the fair and we'll get the corndogs and shoot darts or whatever you want. Whatever you want."

I'm sorry for biting, I know I'm a terrible dog. 

Don't leave.

Reze gives an uneasy smile and pries her hands off Denji's grip. No, no, no-

"Cool. Pick me up at 7?"

Oh. 

Denji shoves his hands deep in his shorts' pockets to prevent them from grabbing something and squeezing until it breaks. Touch, and touch, and touch.

He nods, not trusting his voice enough to not ramble uncontrollably again, and Reze nods back. There's an unspoken sort of something there. Something not so lovely, that further cements Denji's concern over his whiplash.

You don’t miss that whose absence you don’t perceive as a lack. Apparently, Denji cannot bring himself to deeply care for things unless they threaten to slip out of his reach. Unless they're dangled in front of him like a dog's treat and snatched away at the last possible second. 

"I think I figured out the crushed daisy metaphor," Reze tells him as she locks her apartment up behind them.

"Yeah?" Denji asks, equal parts uneasy and hopeful for a change of topic.

Reze nods. "Fragility."

She says it smiling, then tosses her keys in her bag, and skips down the front steps of her building, leaving a speechless Denji hanging at her door.

"You're hiding something from me."

Denji stops moving, with a glass of water halfway to his mouth. Makima looks at him expectantly.

"How on earth did you pin that?"

She smiles a little. Self-satisfying. 

"Call it something between a hunch and a talent. But you're not all that hard to read either."

Denji makes note of how Makima doesn't ask him to tell her what he's hiding. She only points out that he is, in fact, hiding something. Perhaps she doesn't care about what it is and just cares that he keeps secrets. Perhaps she trusts that he will spill the beans regardless. 

"I'm sort of seeing someone," Denji admits, and with it comes an awful wave of shame. As though his stomach is telling him that Makima shouldn't know about this.

Her eyebrows raise.

"How interesting. You have a girlfriend."

"I'm not sure she's my...girlfriend," Denji chews his way around the word. "She's uh..." He sets his glass down. "We are a bit like...Yeah."

"So are you seeing other people?"

"Um, no."

"Is she?"

"She better n-" Denji's breath catches when he sees Makima's eyes widen. "I mean. I  hope  she isn't. That would be...unpleasant."

"Do you like her?" comes the next question. It's partly cheery, like all of Makima's questions. Like a survey performed by a robot. "I'm trying to understand what is stopping you from calling her your girlfriend."

"I don't know."

Simple as that. Denji doesn't know why the word 'girlfriend' feels like sand in his mouth, but then every inkling of non-commitment or Reze downright disappearing also makes him want to vomit. It makes zero sense, and the more that Denji tries to work it around in his head, the bigger the bile in his throat gets.

"Denji." Makima sets her notebook down, seemingly trying a different approach. "Is there anyone in your life that you could confidently say you love?"

Blank.

Denji's first reaction is to open his mouth and argue. 'Of course I do' he would say. But for once he thinks it through further and realizes he wouldn't be able to name anyone after that. 'Love'. Not like, not get along with, not are in love with. Simply love. 

He thinks of asking what Makima means by 'love', exactly. To have an idea of what to think of. What to feel. Instructions would be great right about now. But he gathers that asking further questions would mean losing at an imaginary game they have set up here, and would, in itself, be an admission that he loves no one. It sounds a bit too miserable to be true. Surely, someone who is completely loveless wouldn't be as content with life as Denji is. And yet no names come to mind. 

Denji fiddles with his fingers, deep in thought. At this point, even a person from the past would count, despite them not being in Denji's life anymore. Still, he comes up empty-handed.

"Pochita!" he suddenly exclaims, breaking a smile at the epiphany. "My dog, Pochita. 'Love that fucker. Absolutely. Unconditionally."

Makima only hums in response, swiftly crushing Denji's enthusiasm. That must be a talent too. To be able to shift people's moods without even saying a word. Either that, or Denji is just gone over her, and Aki gets a run for his money.

"When planning your living arrangement, I was hoping that being surrounded by people would help you form meaningful connections with them," she says softly. "I'm getting that you lived a bit remotely up until we met, so you're not used to this kind of network. It's important, you know? Forming connections. Roots."

“I think I…" Denji thinks of stopping there, but the words are already too high up his throat to snuff them out. "I expect people to just turn out evil sometimes."

Makima grabs her notebook again.

"I expect them to deceive me and hurt me in whatever way they see fit. I feel like it’s always there in the back of my mind, except it’s not. It disappears every time someone kind of…smiles at me?" Denji winces a bit, without meaning to. "Or maybe they give me something or they…look at me. In that nice, thorough way. The thought is still there, but now it’s more quiet. It gets outshined by that  other  thought. The one that screams about someone noticing me, truly seeing me. Sometimes it feels like I would do anything for someone to just  see  me— like I don’t know. Decapitate myself in a town square. Isn't that weird?”

You see me,  he thinks.  Right? 

I'm here because you see me.

You want something from me. But you want it from  me.

You see me. 

“Depends on your definition of weird," Makima simply replies. The wording rings identical to that of Reze's from their first date, and Denji's shoulders go a bit rigid. "Are you proven right in the end? Do people hurt you? “

He thinks of Aki pushing Tupperware of udon against Denji’s chest despite his grumbling. He thinks of Power and how she lets Pochita sit on her lap during movie marathons despite claiming she’s not fond of dogs. He thinks of Reze, with her soft voice and even softer touches. 

“Not always,” he says, and immediately regrets it, because what if he just jinxed it? What if he has a certain amount of imaginary slots for appreciation and he just wasted one for nothing? He has only known these people for less than a year. They could rip their kindness away from him whenever they please, and he doubts it would be a hard choice to make. What does Denji give back to them anyway?

“Or not yet, anyway," he corrects himself. "But there’s always a bit of smugness when it finally happens. Like an  aha! I told you so Denji! People are awful!  It doesn’t last long though. Then I'm just. Sad about it.”

Makima reaches over and closes the recorder. Denji had forgotten it was even functioning this time around. Now knowing there's a copy of what he just said makes him feel weirdly naked.

"Our time is up, but I would like to pick up where we left off next week if that's alright with you."

She smiles. Denji smiles back.

"That's fine."

They each make their bags, Denji slower than usual. He tries to notice what Makima puts in hers if there's anything identifiable. Something other than her stationery. 

'Have you ever had a conversation with Makima outside of the office?'

“Miss Makima?" Denji clears his throat. She looks up, curiously. "What do you do after you leave here?”

An odd smile crosses her face. One patronizing one.

“Denji—“

“No, no, I'm not—“ he cringes at his own clumsy wording. “I'm not asking you out, or anything I’m being legit right now. Literally.  What  do you do? Do you have like, an apartment? A house?" He gestures around with his hands, trying to illustrate what he means. "Do you drop your keys in a designated bowl with a tired sigh? Do you open the fridge repeatedly only to be met with the same disappointing sight over and over until you settle for takeout? Do you eat alone? Sleep alone, drink alone, stare at the ceiling alone? I can’t imagine you exist outside of this space, is what I mean, so...I guess what I'm asking is; Are you real Miss Makima?"

The rant is met with devastating silence. Makima stands perfectly still, not a hair out of place, nor a hint of emotional reaction on her face. 

Denji quickly shakes his head.

"Stupid question, of course, you are," he laughs, a bit forcefully. "That was. Weird of me. To ask and…think. In general.”

Denji starts making his way to the door, ready to evaporate out of this place and go splash some water on his face, or something. But then;

“I feed my dogs.”

He turns around and looks at Makima. She's still wearing that placid expression. That empty one. 

“Huh?”

“When I get home after work," she explains. "I feed my dogs.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“I have six.”

“Wow, that’s," Denji swallows. Awkwardly. "That’s a big responsibility.”

“It is. I like it." Makima slings her bag over her shoulder and walks to the exit with Denji. "I like taking care of things. It's what I do.”

She locks up the office and puts the keys deep into the pockets of her pants. She then turns to Denji, as though they've wrapped up discussing the weather. 

"Goodnight, Denji."

Denji lifts a hand to wave, throat too dry to form the proper words. Makima doesn't see, already walking down the dark hall. Denji still waves.

He twists his key into the apartment's lock with a bit more force than usual. Shit needs to be oiled, probably. He walks in and ditches his shoes, as Pochita emerges from the bathroom, greeting Denji with the exact amount of enthusiasm he always does. Sometimes Denji likes to think that Pochita doesn't know that he will come back when he leaves the apartment. That each time he does, it's a pleasant surprise. A cause for celebration, and that's why Pochita barks so much.

You're back,

You're back,

You didn't leave me.

"Hello, you." He pets Pochita's sides, hands burying themselves into ginger fur as Pochita climbs up to lick at Denji's face. It's ticklish. "Missed me?"

Yes,

Yes,

Don't leave me.

"I'm not going anywhere."

As if he understands, Pochita sits down and gets Denji's palm between his teeth. He doesn't bite down. Only teasing. Reminding.

Don't leave me.

Keep coming back.

Please.

"Hey, Pochita," Denji muses, now really testing his limits, and waving his hand around Pochita's reach like a chew toy. "What do you think love is?"

Pochita grabs at the hand again, properly biting this time and not letting go. Growling, sinking teeth, nails scratching the floorboards for resistance. 

Mine,

Mine,

Mine,

I’m a bad dog, but I'm yours.

I’m sorry for biting. 

But please don't leave.

Denji doesn't really feel anything. 

"I see."

Chapter Text

If he is to start from anywhere, Aki supposes he should start at the beginning. 

“—then in 1976, this granny, Judith Thomson takes Filipa Foot's moral dilemma and turns it into a series of elaborate thought experiments, somehow relating it to abortion? So we started with being trolley conductors and getting to either do nothing and run over 5 people, or pull a lever and run over one, but now!" Aki paused to catch his breath. 

"Ohoh, now the five people might be  children,  and the one might be your  mom!  Or, or! You might get money to run over the five ones, or —oh, my favorite; there’s this variation where you are  off  the train and get to push an innocent fat man to stop it from running over anyone else. I'm assuming the dilemma is that you don't see him as a person because he is fat, or that his body mass would stop the fucking train? How is that a university-approved study? Anyway. The point is!—” 

"Aki."

Aki was heaving by the end of it, his hand aching from all the abrupt pointing he had been doing at the whiteboard. His marker had run out of ink a dozen obsessive circles ago, and so had Himeno’s attention span, apparently.

“I have my answer. I would push him,” she had said, lifting her beer can in a toast.

It was a Tuesday night around late January, and somehow 1997 had already proved itself  not  to be Aki's year. This isn't a 'beginning' in the literal sense of the word but in a broader, metaphorical sense. Aki is not particularly fond of broad and metaphorical things, but true beginnings-- the ones with nothing else existing before them-- are not a thing. So he will start here. Tuesday night. January of 1997.

Outside, the winter downpour was whipping against the windows as if wishing to break them, but inside Aki's apartment, there was just sleep-inducing warmth and the poignant aroma of tobacco. And Himeno. A very groggy and semi-drunk Himeno.

Aki looked at the whiteboard where he had badly drawn a trolley and a bunch of sad stickman figures strapped at the rails, waiting to get run over. Or not.  

“You’d push the man on the tracks? Why?”

“So that you can stop talking about this and focus on the case.”

Right. 

They were there because of a case. Something, something, a guy named Eien tries to blow up a hotel. Something, something, guilty by reason of insanity. Aki was building up his closing argument and wanted to use the Trolley Problem. It had now been thoroughly proven that he couldn’t do that while staying calm. This left him with approximately 6 hours to find a better opening in defense of the Principle of Double Effect, write his argument, finish his beer, get a wink of sleep, shower, change, and get himself in the courthouse. 

Right.

“Fine,” he sighed, grabbed a napkin off the coffee table, and started wiping the board clean. “No more trolleys or dying kids.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Himeno set her beer down, and out of curiosity, Aki started counting all the cans they had emptied together these past few hours. 2, 4, 6– yeah, no, this is not particularly awe-inspiring. He didn't even attempt to count the cigarette butts in the ashtray, he already felt horrendous. He just slumped down on the couch beside Himeno with a tired groan that seemed to carry years of bone ache in it.

She freely slid off her sitting position and set her head on Aki's lap, looking upward at him.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“We have this case in the bag, you know that, right?”

Aki cracked an eye open and shot her a questionable look.

“Do  I know that?”

“Well, everyone  saw  him set the bomb off, first of all. He wasn't exactly subtle with it. But more than that-" She reached up and flicked at Aki's forehead, rather annoyingly.

"Ow."

"We have every case in the bag because it’s us. And  I  think we make a pretty good team.”

Aki spared another glance at the array of cigarettes and empty beer cans and thrown case files on his coffee table.

"Objection; circumstantial."

This time Himeno fully did hit him, smack in the back of the head, and although she was laughing, and calling him a grouch Aki didn't find it in himself to do more than just smile. He doesn't remember the last time something sent him into heaving laughter while sober. Shame.

He was about to counter with something hopefully witty when his doorbell rang, echoing across the walls of his living room. Himeno immediately sat up.

"It's 2 am," she said and stared at the door like it offended her somehow. 

Aki stood up from the couch, marker held in his hand like a stabbing knife, and walked to the door as silently as he could. When he looked through the peephole, he saw a distorted view of a smiling Miss Makima, and someone standing behind her, half-hidden. He swung the door open, perplexed more than anything, and with the full view of Makima also came a nauseating feeling, like a hammer coming down over Aki to turn his insides into mush.

Beside Makima stood a teenage boy, holding a trembling dog in his arms. He was drenched in rainwater, more so than Makima, who had an umbrella, but he wasn't shivering. The ends of his hair were bleached off-white, though his roots came off matt black. His clothes were rags, but it wouldn't have mattered even if he wore the finest suit, since the whole upper part of his body was splattered with dried-up blood, including his dog's snout. It looked like it had just eaten out of a decaying corpse. Or bitten someone to death.

The nature of his job has allowed Aki to witness a load of disturbing sights, which he usually takes in with a deep breath and a rapid sequence of blinks at most. To allow anything more than that would be an admission of inadequacy. Of being unfit to work for Public Satefy. Sometimes he worries there will come a day when he will open a case file filled with pictures of dismantled human bodies, and he will feel nothing. Other times, he awaits that day with vigor.

The point is; that Aki has witnessed loads of disturbing sights. 

Yet this particular sight had his knees almost buckling and vomit rising in his throat.

But to understand  why  that was, perhaps January of 1997 is not the ideal place to start. Not the right type of broad, metaphorical beginning. Perhaps Aki should backtrack a little further; the beginning of beginnings. Or the beginning of the end. Depends on how you see it.

September 11th, 1987. Hokkaido.

“- And you have these magic rings that decrease the damage you take, right?” Taiyo explained, caught up in his enthusiasm and waving his Nintendo around, dangerously close to his bowl of cereal. “And at one point, you go into this cave as Link- you’re always playing as Link- and there’s this old man that gives you a sword…and…”

Taiyo’s voice started trailing off. Unfocusing. His eyelids grew kinda heavy.

“And he says…’  it’s dangerous to…go alone...”

Fainting spell. Again. 

Aki had learned to recognize them immediately at that age. He had reached a hand across the table just as Taiyo slumped forward, unconscious, and the Nintendo slipped out of his hand and onto the carpeted floor. It had been happening more frequently that past month. Or six. The details are blurry now.

Taiyo's head had only missed the table by a bit, and Aki remembers wondering what would happen if he just…didn’t catch him. For once. If he had let Taiyo drop against the wooden surface and wake up on his own time. Now, Aki can spot the threads of cruelty woven in that intrusive thought, but twelve years ago it was just that. An intrusive thought.

He let out a tired sigh, hand still squashed under his brother’s forehead, when their mom walked into the kitchen. Her eyes immediately fell on Taiyo, and she sped to his side of the table.

“Again?” she had asked, and took Taiyo by the underarms, lifting him to take his place, and making him lean on her. She cradled him, smoothening his hair as if that would help him wake up sooner.

Aki dug his spoon into his cereal.

“Well, it’s the first time  today.”

That earned him a justifiable glare. “It wouldn’t kill you to catch him properly, you know.”

Aki glared back. “I’m  eating.”

“So? Your little brother is sick. The least you could do is pause your breakfast to help him recover from a fainting spell. Is that really so much to ask?”

Aki had opened his mouth to retaliate. He wanted to say that his brother had  been  sick for as long as he could remember and that he  would be  sick, probably for the rest of his days. He wanted to say that it  is  too much to ask for, or that at least it feels that way some days. The constant vigilance, the lack of a proper heater inside the house, or hot water, or the fact that Aki couldn't join any sports because then Taiyo would want to join, and that’s not fair, is it?— or that Taiyo is the most important person in this house, the literal sun, and Aki was just. 

Aki.

But even then, he knew better than to say all that.

Taiyo’s eyes fluttered open slowly, and he whined against the crook of their mom’s neck.

“Morning sunshine,” she smiled at him. Like it was the very first time she saw him. If Aki hadn't been thirteen and so focused on brooding, he would have thought it was sweet. 

He pushed his chair back, the legs grating against the wooden floor, and stood up without finishing his bowl.

“I have to go.”

“Wait,” Taiyo blinked fast and tried to go after Aki, but their mother held him from moving too fast. “I wasn’t done telling you about Zelda.”

Suddenly all of Aki’s previous thoughts felt grossly molten against his tongue. Like tar. Like oil, coating his brain. Disgusting. He is a disgusting person.

“You can tell me in the evening. I have to get to school.” 

Taiyo tried to smile back and wave goodbye, but it was clear he was disappointed. With what, Aki couldn't tell. Not finishing his story? Aki not risking being late to listen? Not being able to join Aki at school too? All of the above?

Aki busied himself with his boots when their father emerged from the bedroom.

“Want a ride to school?”

The snow was coming down so thick that Aki could barely see ten feet away from the windows. He was sure that with the first step outside, his foot would sink in, up to the knees.

“I can walk," he said curtly.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t," his father sat down on the edge of the couch beside him and gave Aki a knowing look. "I asked if you  want  a ride.”

Aki's father always had a way with him that his mother never had. He had a way of reading his moods, and subtly peaking over the walls Aki built around himself, to ask if he was okay.

"Fine."

They ended up in the car, with Aki fully turned to the window, his headphones on, and the music loud enough to illustrate his annoyance better than his words ever could. After a solid ten minutes of deafening silence, his father resorted to taking off Aki's headphones with a tug.

"Want to talk about it, or are you going to keep pretending the endless expanse of white is interesting to stare at?" he had asked. 

It was kind of him. Aki didn't take well to kindness back then. Or maybe kindness didn't take well to him.

"Nothing to talk about."

"No? Because correct me if I'm wrong, but you sound angry to me."

"I'm not."

The funny thing is he meant it. He wasn't angry. Anger would be so much easier to express.

The car cut the corner of the school district, and his father started cutting speed, looking for somewhere to park.

"Aki." When he turned off the ignition, Aki knew there was no escaping being late to school. "You are the older brother. There's a responsibility that comes with that fact. I know you didn't ask for it, and I know it can be hard-"

"Do you?" was the first thing he thought to ask. The first attack. 

"Yes. I  do  know."

Even without exchanging any typical harsh words, his father looked hurt. Aki thought that might have brought him some sense of satisfaction. Righteousness. To have his feelings be sharp enough to cut others. He felt nothing but shame.

"I will be late," he sighed and tried to open the door, only to realize it was locked. "Dad. Come on."

"What have we said about leaving the house while angry?"

To not do it. Ever. Aki had always found that rule to be stupid, but his parents didn't play when it came to honoring it. Case in point. 

"I'm not angry. Really," he said.  I'm upset. And hurt and spiteful and alone.  "I apologize for the attitude." 

His father nodded and gave Aki a little smile.

"Want to help Taiyo level up in his game when you get back?"

Aki couldn't help the snort.

"Sure. Whatever."

The car door unlocked with a decisive click and Aki walked to school, as he would any other day, but with a steadily increasing feeling of dread, inhabiting his insides. He sat in class as normal, played around with his pen as normal, and then forced himself to take notes to feel like he was doing something important. As normal.

Then, around 11 am (if he is to trust his memory of what the clock on the wall said that day) the classroom door burst open, and the Principal walked in. 

He spared a quick glance toward Aki and made a beeline for the teacher, who was writing on the board. They started talking in hushed murmurs.

The kid sitting next to Aki-- what was his name? Isei?-- he kicked at Aki's leg to get his attention.

"Hey, what did you do?" he asked with a smile.

"Nothing," Aki said. He never does anything worthy of the principal's attention. Or anyone's, for that matter.

Isei nodded at the board.

"They are  totally  speaking about you, look at how they are staring."

Dread. Pure dread. It coiled around Aki's stomach like a snake that had been awoken from its dormant state. 

An audible, half-broken gasp escaped from his teacher's mouth, that she tried to cover up with her palm. The chalk drops from her hand. She and the Principal look at Aki with a mirroring expression that has burned itself into the back of his head to this day. Pity.

"Hayakawa-kun, will you please follow me to my office?"

Approximately twenty pairs of eyes turned around to stare at Aki. Some with curiosity, some hungry for gossip, and some as though they had just seen him for the first time in their lives.

"Told you," Isei snorted. "Good luck."

Aki stood up and spent the entire walk to the principal's office thinking back to every single action he had taken on school grounds those past six months and if it could have possibly been misinterpreted to the point of putting him in trouble. What would trouble even entail for him? So long as it doesn't have anything to do with drugs or battery, would his parents even blink?

"Could you sit down, Aki-kun?"

That's where the clarity ends, unfortunately. At the mention of his given name, and the tenderness with which it was spoken, by a man who Aki had never spared a single thought on, until that morning. The rest of it is just faint ringing and the sound of Aki's very heartbeat drumming inside the veins of his numb limbs. 

Your little brother- Taiyo? He fell inside the house. They said he needed stitches.

The snake coiled.

Your parents were going to drive him to the hospital. You know with snow-- it can be so dangerous to drive in, sometimes-

And slithered.

-A drunk driver, staying up till dawn-

And hissed. 

I am very sorry for your loss.

Aki sat in that chair for a very long time, horrifically still. He had the ridiculous idea that if he sat as still as possible and waited patiently, his scrambled thoughts would sort themselves out. If he just froze in place, then maybe he would cease to exist, and he would not have to deal with this situation or these feelings. They would just. Go away. 

There was nothing wrong with how the principal delivered the words. Nothing wrong with his tone of voice or face, either. If anything, it was pleasantly warm and soothing, in a way that Aki never knew a stranger's tone could be. 

Still. There was no undoing the fact, that from the moment he sat down in that office, life as Aki knew it, would end. At some point, he would have to move.

Which brings us back to January of 1997, and how the sight of a raven-haired boy covered in blood outside Aki's door, nearly sends Aki to his fucking knees. Beginning of the end, 2.0

"I apologize for the disturbance, Hayakawa-kun, I know it's late," Makima spoke and stepped aside to gesture at the boy. "This is Denji. He is a valuable witness regarding case #6509, and as of today, he is part of our witness protection program. He will be occupying the studio next door until October."

#6509. 

Mafia affiliates.

Organ harvesting ring.

Still at a loss and oddly fixated on the boy's insistent starring, Aki just stammered.

"O...kay?"

"I need you to keep an eye on him."

Denji grimaced.

"I don't need a sitter."

Aki wondered if Denji had any idea of who he was speaking to with that tone, but Makima, on the other hand, seemed to find it endearingly pathetic, if her expression was anything to go by.

"Think of Aki as more of a helping hand. In case you need anything," she said, and then she noticed a missed speck of blood on Denji's jawline. "Oh, you still have..."

She gestured to her own jawline, but Denji made no move to clean himself. It was very deliberate.

"Where?"

His eyes flicked to Aki as Makima reached over and wiped the spot herself, using the sleeve of her coat. He looked at Aki as though he...won something. An imaginary race, Aki didn't even know they were competing in. Uncanny. 

"There you go."

"Ma'am," Aki interrupted the questionable display. "A word? Privately."

Having heard the commotion, Himeno showed up behind Aki at the door.

"Hey, kiddo, are you hungry?"

Denji cast her an assessing look. Taking her in.

"Starved."

"We have some leftover udon," She nodded inside. "It's a bit soggy, but I can warm it up for you. Wanna come in for a moment?"

Denji looked over to Makima, asking for permission with his eyes, and when she granted it, he scurried off inside Aki's apartment, blood and all. Himeno gave a clueless shrug in response to Aki's panicky glare.  The floor, goddamnit, he is bringing rainwater and guts all over the floor.

The door shut behind Aki, leaving him in the hall with Makima. Instead of backing away to reestablish the space between them, Makima stayed perfectly put, looking up at Aki as though she hadn't just wrecked his sense of normalcy.

"I'm sure you have questions."

"Starting with whose blood is that on his shirt," Aki found his voice.

"Not his. That's all you need to know."

He gestured with his hands as if he could physically hold the questions, to prevent them from slipping away. 

"How old is he? Where are his parents? Where did you find him?"

"Seventeen, his father is dead, and his mother is presumably also dead, but her identity is yet unknown. And Shinjuku."

She delivered each answer calmly, with perfect pronunciation, as always. So much so that she made the red-light district sound like some infinitely cleaner and fancier place, not something that Aki should worry about.

"I trust that you can make sure Denji stays alive until I drag out what I need to from him?" she added before Aki had the chance to speak.

"Yes, ma'am." It came out immediately. A habit. "But, if I may...why  me?"

Makima tilted her head as though the question was silly in nature, and the answer something more than obvious.

"Because out of half the office, I trust you the most."

It was embarrassing, really, how much this response floored Aki. How much it rendered him speechless and compliant. A good dog. Even more embarrassing was the fact that Makima seemed to know this. Her tight-lipped smile widened.

"Tendo and Kurose will be posted at the entrance as a precaution," she said and turned to walk away. "Call my office if Denji needs anything."

An unfortunate beginning, as far as beginnings go. One that left Aki with an undesirable neighbor, no leftover udon, and the stinking realization that he had just agreed to work  off  the office too. And for what?

Sometimes Aki thinks he can’t stop.

 He can’t stop working, can’t stop reading, or cooking, or doing laundry, or cleaning the apartment, and reorganizing everything that can be reorganized. He can’t stop moving around or thinking at a hundred miles per hour, because if he does, he is not sure he will start again. Ever. 

It happens regardless, sometimes. He postpones the laundry for a day. Then he blinks and the day has turned into a week, and he has no clothes for work. He tells himself he will get takeout just this once, and then he wakes up three days later with his thrash bin overflowing with empty noodle boxes. 

Those are somewhat manageable. He can take his clothes to the cleaners on speedrun and throw the carton boxes on his way to work, all in one go, when he decides it’s time to move again. The real damage is when he thinks:  I can skip today’s meds. I feel fine.

That’s the devil talking. “Today’s” meds are never just “today’s” and “fine” quickly turns to “rancid” and suddenly Aki has not showered, or even left his bed at all in numerous days, and now even if he wanted to take the meds, he has none left and needs to get them refilled. 

He has tried to fix this. Or he thinks he has. He can sometimes feel when the whim to stop is about to strike, and he prepares himself. He stacks his nightstand with water bottles and deodorant and makes sure there’s nothing in the fridge that will spoil without daily attention. He prepares for it, but can never battle the whim itself. As much as he keeps telling himself that “just today” never means “just today”, he can’t resist stopping. 

He has yet to accept it’s not that easy and switch tactics. Maybe a part of Aki expects to wake up on a random Tuesday and just be better. Like the loss of his family is a cut, an open gash that will just heal on its own, so long as Aki doesn’t pick at the scabs. 

Yet it doesn’t. It’s not a cut. It is an empty space. And Aki has yet to figure out what he needs to fill it with.

So he has learned to just never stop. Ever. If he doesn’t stop, then he won’t have to endure the torture of starting again.

It doesn’t always work. Sometimes the halt isn’t gradual. He can’t feel it. One moment he is sprinting, and the next he is eating rocks. Septembers are a bit like that. The tumble always rests around the corner, waiting to catch Aki unprompted. It hides in the form of a bad day at work. A straight week of bad weather. An old picture he finds while cleaning. 

Februaries are especially bad. Aki doesn’t know why, there’s nothing special about Februaries as far as he’s concerned. Maybe it’s the cold and the snow, or the post-holiday annihilation period in the office, when everyone is running around like headless chickens. 

He hears it’s a common period for depressive episodes, if that’s how this is called. Apparently, he doesn’t  truly  want to kill himself. It’s just February. You know?

Or maybe it’s both. Maybe he really wants to kill himself, but it’s February so he can’t exactly trust that thought. Hence he puts it off and promises he will dissect it in April, or something. Aprils are nice.

He never dissects it. 

Last February was... 

It was really bad.

The fall was gradual. Sneaky, almost. An attack against himself. It started off simple; a missed breakfast or two, a pair of socks on the floor of his room that he should have taken to the laundry basket instead. Then came the neglecting emails from work, and neglecting his hygiene, and neglecting his sleep, and neglect, neglect neglectneglect—

Aki spent almost five consecutive days in bed that February without moving an inch except to maybe use the toilet, or shove a useless protein bar in his mouth to keep him from starving to death entirely. Then back to the blanket cocoon he went. 

He used all his sick leave and had Himeno cover for him at work. She offered to come over, cook something for him, bring him meds maybe? He said no.  I think it's the flu. Too contagious. 

There’s nothing contagious about being a useless and unwashed lump of meat, but Aki would rather slide off the balcony than let anyone—much less Himeno— see him in this state.

Because. Well. He is Hayakawa Aki. Legal associate, Hayakawa Aki. Top graduate and youngest member of his department, Hayakawa Aki. He doesn’t get to be a useless lump of meat. 

I trust you the most.

You are the older brother. There's a responsibility that comes with that fact.

One would think that the continuous reminders of such aggressively inspirational quotes would give him the strength to get the fuck out of bed. Maybe. Hopefully. 

They didn't. Nothing does, Aki has learned. Not forceful pep talks, not his disgust with his own sweat sticking between his clothes and skin, not hitting his own head like an old TV remote hoping it will just magically start functioning again. 

He still tries. 

What else is he to do other than try and try and try some more? Lie down and take it? Wait for it to pass on its own, along with the snow and the cold and the post-holiday crunch?

Aki doesn’t like that. So he tries. He tried to convince himself to get up and go take a shower.

You don’t even have to use soap at this point, just water would be a feat. 

Don’t wanna

Brush your teeth? No toothbrush just your finger even.

Don’t wanna

Mouthwash.

Don’t wanna

Man, I’m begging here. Just do something. 

Can’t 

Yes you fucking can, it’s literally just a decision. Just up and go.

Would you say that to a physically disabled person, you fuck?

Wait hold on—

It’s just a decision! Just get up and walk! This is what you sound like. Piece of shit.

“M’not disabled.” Aki found himself mumbling into the blanket, more so for himself to hear and get that useless thought out of his head.

Are you like this by choice? Are you able to get out of bed right now? Do you feel able?

I’m kinda confused. Are the miserable thoughts left or right?

Wake up, all thoughts are miserable.

Oh wow, you’re so profound and misunderstood. I bet no one has ever had that stream of consciousness ever before.

It does feel like it sometimes.

Here, have a cookie.

He lifted a hand and smacked his head. Or rather he lifted it and let it drop like dead weight on his skull.

“Shut up.”

It caused a dull ache to appear, seemingly behind his eyeballs. It also brought silence for a bit. Good. 

"Okay."

Aki began by sliding his legs off the bed. A terrible cold grabbed ahold of them the second they escaped the blanket. It was uncomfortable. It was all so uncomfortable. Aki wanted to just tuck them back in and go back to sleep. Make that 14 hours 16. 

"Okay."

But no. He would persevere, he had decided. 

He threw the blanket completely off him and sat up. His brain fell to the back of his skull, heavier than usual. The room spun for a couple of seconds. His ears rang. 

"Okay."

The rest was easier, in a fucked up sense. Divorcing his body from the heat of his bed was the first insurmountable task. Starting to walk was the other. It kept getting easier, and Aki hated that it did. If it gets easier it means that the insensitive part of his brain is correct and that it really is  just  a decision. You make the first step and your body takes over the rest. If it gets easier, it means that all he had to do these days was get one foot out of the blanket and the rest would follow. It means that he couldn't even do that. And while he knows that's not necessarily true, and that he was oversimplifying everything, adding fuel to the self-loathing, he still  hates  that it gets easier.

Makes him feel like a fraud.

"Okay."

Aki got up and started mentally checking off tiny tasks. 

Blanket in the laundry basket. 

Sweater too. 

Bathroom. 

Lights. 

Cold water, splashed on his face. 

He turned on the shower faucet at burning hot. It wouldn't help with the grogginess but cold water would make him sick. 

Window to get the steam out. 

Then shave.

Then clean piercings.

Then-

He caught the sound of fierce coughing, coming from the dormer. Fierce, as in someone trying to cough their lungs out. The only other apartment on this floor that has a bathroom window on the same side of the building as his, is Denji's. 

Aki neared the window, and the coughing only intensified in volume, accompanied by some wet sounds and a weak "holy shit", definitely uttered in Denji's voice.

It was a split-second decision before Aki could further contemplate the notion and decide he didn't care. He shut off his shower, grabbed the spare keys from where he had abandoned them in the kitchen, and barged into Denji's apartment, unannounced, uninvited, and more concerned than he will ever admit to himself that he was.

He found Denji in the bathroom, kneeling near the toilet, hunched over the bowl. 

"Are you okay?"

Stupid question. More of an opening, than anything. Something to get Denji to turn around with a jump, and reveal the blood trailing out of his mouth and down his chin. 

"Uh, I would say yeah, because I don't feel  bad,  so to speak. But this is not a good sign, is it?" he nodded to the toilet, where there was blood sprinkled all over the porcelain, more solid in some places than others.

It had only been a month then, but if it were physically possible for Aki to have a stroke or a heart attack at the ripe age of 23, he would have had numerous since meeting Denji. But that's not the point, is it? It isn't about what Denji does, it's about what  Aki  does. It doesn't matter why there are 6 people strapped on the rails of a moving trolley, or why you're the conductor. It only matters whether you're going to pull that fucking lever or not. 

I trust you the most. 

You are the older brother. There's a responsibility that comes with that fact.

"Get up."

"What? Whoa- hey! Hey, let me down!" Denji started protesting as Aki lifted him off the tiled floor by the arm, and started dragging him towards the front door. "Where are we going?"

"Where you should have gone the day you got here; The hospital."

"Don't be so dramatic-" his sentence got cut halfway through by another wave of wet coughing, further proving Aki's point. His feet faltered on even ground. "Hey, man, I...I feel dizzy."

Something of an old instinct, some clogged-up gear kicked inside Aki at that moment with a revolting sense of familiarity. He swooped down and caught Denji, linking their arms around each other's shoulders and carrying him with better efficiency. Not a fainting spell. Denji was very much awake. Aki wasn't sure if he preferred it that way or not. 

Just as Aki was ready to shut the door behind them, Denji's menace of a dog ran to the entrance and started barking at Aki and pulling at the edge of his sweatpants.

"This is literally  not  the time!"

Pochita wouldn't budge. He kept pulling at Aki as if he had the strength to carry both him and Denji back inside the apartment. Growling and barking, and scratching.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

In hindsight, Aki should have asked for a raise after that day. Demanded one, rather. But he, unfortunately, couldn't link his ability to carry a seventeen-year-old boy and his dog across the length of a hallway as proof he would be a great government lawyer. So legal associate it is. 

Still. He dragged them all the way to Power's apartment and started repeatedly kicking the door instead of knocking. That got her to open up purely out of fury.

"God, what?  What do you-" Her eyes fell on Denji and the way he was limply hanging off Aki, mumbling against his shirt and staining it red. "What's wrong with him?"

Power is what someone would objectively call a genius in everything except for people. She can read in five languages and yet struggles to read a room. She can break down complex subjects with the dexterity of someone a decade older than her but can’t tell when she has hurt someone’s feelings. She can be witty, and sharp and one of the (scarily) best liars Aki has had the misfortune of encountering, but shouts the word “ew!” whenever there’s anything remotely green and healthy in her food. Even in public places. 

Aki has given up on understanding her and has opted for memorizing her nonsensical patterns of behavior instead. Things are more peaceful between them when he just thinks of her as a five-year-old standing on the shoulders of a stingy old man in a trenchcoat. With pink hair. 

“I need you to do something about  this,”  Aki wiggled his leg where Pochita was still gnawing at his pants, then nodded at Denji. “While I take  this  to the hospital.”

“Hell no, I’m not staying here with the hellhound,” Power immediately protested.

“Power—“

“He will tear through my whole apartment!” Then, with a snappy motion, she darted inside, grabbed her keys, and fully stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind her. “I'm coming with you.”

Aki took a calculated breath.

“Dogs are not allowed inside the hospital.”

“Don’t care," Power snapped. "I’ll sit outside. But I  am  coming.”

There was a nearly admirable amount of determination in the way she spoke. The way she was glaring at Aki with slanted eyes, standing in the hallway with no shoes or a jacket. 

Unstoppable force meets immovable object.

Aki decided he would have to be less immovable.

“Ugh, fine! Fine! Come with just—" he wiggled his leg to gesture at Pochita. "Get him off before he chews through my bones.”

Power ducked down and picked up Pochita in her arms with almost no resistance.  Is it a woman thing?  Aki wonders still.  Does this dog share the same depraved tastes as his owner? Is that it?  Pochita kept on being noisy regardless— something between growling and whimpering— but he made no move to hurt Power as they headed to Aki’s car. 

He forced all three of them into the backseat and gave Denji an old zip-up sweater to cough onto (which he complained smelled like the chemicals you put in dead people's clothes to prevent bugs from eating them). Aki's borderline frantic driving couldn't have helped with his dizziness, but that was the least of their problems.

“I’m gonna need you to tell me everything you know about this cough so that I can speak to the doctors when we get there," Aki says, looking at a disoriented Denji through the review mirror. "Power?"

"If he's coughing blood, it means that it can't flow from his lungs properly," she said. "But that's not a lung problem. It's a  heart  problem."

Denji's head lulls to the side, where Pochita manages to lick some blood off his face. Gross. "My mom had a heart disease, and she passed it down to me.”

Aki tried to focus on the road, and not on the fact that he hadn't eaten in days and might fall asleep at the wheel. 

“Do you know what the disease is called?”

“Stop interrogating me," Denji groaned. "The lady passed away before I even grew teeth. It’s not like we had time to have a productive talk about it.”

Aki made a mental of that fact as he pulled into the hospital's parking lot. 

The process was somewhat of a blur from that point on. Another imaginary list of tiny tasks that Aki has to complete, to prove to himself that he is functioning.

Get to the front desk.

Have Denji sent to the ER.

Shut the receptionist up by showing her the Public Safety ID, and keep repeating the words "classified information."

Go vomit in the hospital's waiting room bathroom. 

Wait.

And wait.

And wait.

It was around 8 pm when they let Denji go. Power had gotten herself a sandwich from the cantine and "graciously" offered to let Aki have a bite. There. He ate too. He is functioning. Functioning enough to call Makima's office from the hospital payphone;

“Hello?”  she said, as soon as she picked up, not questioning the caller.

“Request for the names of women around the age of 25 that died in Tokyo from mitral stenosis between 1980 and 1981,” Aki said into the speaker, a bit begrudgingly. “Denji’s mother might be among them.”

“Good work, Hayakawa-kun.”

The words were spoken with praise but they almost stung. Bitter.

“It wasn’t intentional. I caught him nearly coughing his heart out and took him to the hospital. ”

“Still good work. I will assume by your calm demeanor that Denji is alright?”

“Well, he has been living with it for seventeen years, completely unmonitored. That caused more problems than the condition itself from what I’m getting," Aki adjusted the phone on his shoulder. "He could get surgery if he wants, but not in this sorry state. For now just meds.”

“Will you see to it that he gets them and follows medical instructions to a tee?”

“Yes ma’am.”

A beat of silence. Makima imposed upon it.

"Will that be all?"

Aki bit on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to make it bleed a little.

"Can I ask a favor of you?"

"Of course. Whether I will fulfill it is another issue, however."

The quippy line might have deserved an equally quippy reply, but Aki was just too tired to keep up with Makima. It was days like this when he thought she wouldn't even spit water in his direction if Aki was on literal fire.

"Don't mess him up too much," he finally said. "Denji, I mean. Do what you have to for the case, but don't mess him up."

Aki thought he heard Makima let out a small chuckle then, but his fatigue prevented him from knowing what was so amusing.

"Your concern is appreciated. Good night Hayakawa-kun."

The line went dead. Aki held onto the receiver for a solid minute before finding the energy to hang it back in place.

Denji emerged from the Emergency Room with a clean face, a printed list of meds, and the textbook example of an emotionally constipated expression. 

He wanted to say "thank you", Aki gathered. He tried for a bit and got stuck around the "th" part, stuttering around the actual word. Digging for less vulnerable ways to express gratitude. 

Aki did not help him out at all. He just stared at Denji, pretending to be clueless. Some part of him enjoyed seeing him struggle. He wanted to hear it. To keep it. 

In the end, Denji settled for bumping his fist against Aki's bare arm and giving him a firm nod. 

And that was that. 

February, 1997. Aki's last "stopping" period (since he still refuses to call them anything else). Good competitor on all accounts, it could get to the top 10 of Aki's most traumatic weeks. It had good pacing too; started gradually, sank low, and then Aki was pulled out of it by the force of an external parameter, some kind of Deus Ex Macina in the form of a kid that coughs blood.

This September's fall is just  nasty.

“I don’t understand.”

Kishibe barely raises his eyes from the papers he is arranging in his office, while Aki is standing rigid at the foot.

“Your two-day leave was not approved for this weekend. You can take it later.”

This is the part where Aki says 'ok thank you' and leaves the office, but he can't exactly feel his legs.

“I need it for  this  weekend.”

“Yeah, we got that, by the way you applied for  this  weekend.”

Aki takes the snark from Kishibe as he would a slap. Unflinching. 

“So?”

“So I'm telling you it was not approved." More file slapping. More noise. "The Kyoto case needs all hands on deck, including yours.  Especially  yours. I'm sorry.”

He doesn't think he has ever heard Kishibe say the words 'I'm sorry' before, and frankly, he wasn't sure if they were included within the man's purchased vocabulary. But Aki sort of appreciates them. In a weird way. He knows that Kishibe  knows.  And he appreciates that he is trying to not make a big deal out of it, or make exceptions for Aki, knowing he would hate it. 

Aki still wanted that fucking leave though. He still needs to be in Hokkaido this weekend, not Kyoto.

“Understood,” he lies and turns on his heel to leave.

The walk back to the associate’s floor is a blur. He barely manages to brush past a couple of coworkers instead of straight-up knocking into them. 3 years. For more than 3 years he has been working for this hole like a dog, and he only asks for  one  thing. To get the 11th of September off every year. 

He stops at a hallway cooler and fills a cup with icy water.

Himeno was right. Doing a good job in Public Safety means nothing but an even larger pile of shit.  What? You proved you could swim in it, what’s the issue?

He considers dumping the cup all over his head in the hopes that the cold will snap him out of it but doesn’t do it. 

There’s no one to keep the grave clean,  his brain unhelpfully supplies.  You’re responsible for it. You only go once a year, and now you can’t even do that because you’re too much of a dog to tell your boss to go fuck herself for once.

He just chugs the water down and reassumes his seat in his cubicle.

The sound of off-beat keyboards and running printers is usually kind of relaxing. Now it just makes Aki want to rip his ears off.

How do you cope? 

This isn’t coping, it’s rotting. 

It’s not living, it’s getting by.

He drops his head on the keyboard in front of him, and the keys bang in complaint.

Where do you put the pain? 

You have to put it somewhere, or else it’ll swallow you. 

It’s a hungry thing, pain. You can’t keep it too close. 

Leave it somewhere when you sleep.

He lifts his head and bangs it again. 

“Shut up.”

Do you sleep? 

You must. Everything is worse when you don’t. 

Too much. 

Consider taking a step back.

“Shut up,” this time begging.

Wait, have you looked at your choices lately? 

Are you proud of them?

What even classifies as a choice?

Do you miss it?

Can you feel it?

Are you still you?

“Shut.”  Bang.  “Up.”  Bang.

His computer dings and the screen lights up. At first, Aki thinks it finally kicked the bucket after enduring all those keyboard slams, but it’s actually incoming mail. He considers not opening it. It’s not like he can do any actual work in this pitiful state. But then he sees the sender's address and he clicks out of sheer curiosity.

From: (Angel) [email protected]

To: (Aki) [email protected]

Good afternoon Aki, 

I hope this email finds you before I do.

If you’re going to bust your head open in front of me, please consider doing it on beat. Your musical inadequacy is messing with my focus.

Judgementally,

Angel.

Aki blinks at the screen a couple of times, not exactly in disbelief, but in the way you sometimes stop and blink during a nightmare because you realize it’s a nightmare and it loses the appeal. 

When he lifts his head over the cubicle’s walls, he sees a block of red hair, on the other end of the room. Angel is staring  judgementally  at him.

Alright.

Aki cracks his fingers.

From: (Aki) [email protected]

To: (Angel) [email protected]

Hello Angel.

Thank you for your suggestion, I truly appreciate your dedication to this team’s efficiency. Unfortunately, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what helps you focus, and was quite frankly hoping you had clocked out, since you seem to always do so before mid-day. 

Sincerely, go eat some dirt.

Aki.

He clicks send and waits for the answering ding to echo from Angel’s computer, with his arms crossed and his foot tapping. God, he has been reduced to a fucking toddler. Emails are cataloged at the end of the month, the company can literally see these. For fuck’s—

Ding.

There’s a snort from the other end of the room. 

The clicking of a keyboard.

Aki’s foot-tapping increases in speed. 

Ding.

From: (Angel) [email protected]

To: (Aki) [email protected]

Your enthusiasm is inspiring.

Inspiring me to kill myself.

Please go outside and get yourself some air.

With immeasurable disdain,

Angel.

Aki feels an involuntary smile twitch in the corner of his mouth. He sinks lower into the office chair to make sure his mirth is hidden behind the computer screen.  Please  go get some air. He said  please .  Please, pleaseplease-

Out of the corner of his eye, Aki notices Himeno approaching his cubicle, and he sits up properly again.

“Bullet train tickets for Kyoto," she says and leaves a marked envelope on top of his desk. "Keep them somewhere safe.”

“Thanks.”

She lingers for a bit, taking a careful seat at the edge of Aki's desk.

"How are you?" There comes an immediate grimace of regret. "No, don't answer that. It was a stupid question."

Aki shrugs, sympathetically. 

"You had to start somewhere."

“I should have just said that I'm sorry about your leave.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I'm still sorry.“

Aki is familiar with that feeling if nothing else. Being sorry. For no reason other than to just be sorry.

“It’s fine," he lies.

Himeno shakes her head, defiant.

“No, it’s not.”

There is no universe where 'fine' slides with Himeno, but Aki thought to try anyway. He fails, of course. He looks at the tickets, lying on the surface of his desk. Mocking him, almost.

“No, it’s not.”

She tucks her glasses further up her nose. Nervous tick. Although Aki rarely sees it, since Himeno is rarely nervous. She makes a move to stand up and leave, to take the warmth and familiarity of her presence away, and Aki catches her by the wrist.

“Hey, um."

Himeno freezes and looks at him expectantly. Aki is not sure what to say, or which thought to pick and voice.

Thank you. Again.

Can you go to Hokkaido for me? It's not the same, I know but-

Would you actually do that for me?

Of course, you would. That and a lot more. 

I shouldn't take advantage of that. 

I'm sorry if I ever have.

I'm sorry that Denji is right and that you want me.

I'm sorry I make wanting me so horrible and difficult.

I'm sorry I don't want anything or anyone back.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry 

He notices his hand has slid down and is now holding Himeno's by the fingers. She hasn't moved, still. Aki turns her palm around and places his car keys on it.

"I shouldn't drive today," he says.

For a moment, she just looks at the keys, dumbfounded, and then pockets them quickly. Probably afraid that Aki will change his mind. 

“Do you need anything else?”

Yes-

“No," he shakes his head. "I will call you if I do, though.”

He won't.

Bathroom.

Lights.

Brush teeth, brush face, brush hair.

Meds...or not.  Meds.

Clothes.

Tuck the shirt in properly. No creases.

Files. The correct ones, not whatever is left in the bag. Check again.

Keys. 

Wallet? Wallet, wallet, where's the - ah. Wallet.

Aki exits his apartment and almost crashes into a passing figure in the hall. 

"Oh sorry," the girl stumbles back, hands lifting in an apology. Accent. Raven black hair. Coming from Denji's end of the hall. "Hello!"

"Good morning, Reze of Minamiaoyama, 3 Chome-8, third floor."

There's a stutter in her walk, followed by an increasingly nervous smile at the sound of her home address being casually thrown her way.

"Wow. I've never been threatened so  politely  before."

She's exactly the type of girl Denji would like, now that Aki sees her up close and not in the form of ID photographs pressed inside a legal file. Not too short, not too tall, not too meek, but not ungraceful, and a terrifyingly observant pair of eyes. 

Aki adjusts his letterman bag over his shoulder. He didn't intend to threaten her, in such raw terms. But keeping whoever Denji associates with on their toes is part of his job as...Denji's legally assigned neighbor. Knowing where the associations live is just the tip of the iceberg.

"There's a first time for everything."

He tries to walk past Reze and he catches her glancing down at the floor.

"Bold outfit choice."

Aki follows her gaze. Shoes. He forgot to wear shoes.

"Shit."

He tries to ignore the laugh bubbling at the teenager's throat as he walks back to his door, pathetically silent (seriously how did he not notice the lack of clicking sound?), and opens his front door again.

"Hey, quick question," Reze calls before he disappears back inside. "Did you ever listen to The Stalin, maybe?"

Aki grits his teeth.  "Maybe."

The answer only seems to brighten Reze's mood for whatever reason. 

"Everything makes sense now." She snaps her fingers in recognition and starts walking merrily down the hall again. "Good morning to you too, Hayakawa Aki of 4 Chome-8, Jingumae, 2nd floor."

Aki never quite understood why people referred to certain lawyers as sharks until he met Angel.

He is the last person he would ever want to have in an opposing counsel in a trial, and it has nothing to do with his skill set, per se. He's good, but not enough to make Aki worry. It has to do with Angel's face. Aki can deal with arrogance when it comes to the opposition, or rudeness, or even stupidity. What he cannot deal with is  apathy.  This complete placidity that seems permanently carved into Angel's features. Blank. Void.

He has the face of someone who wouldn't take cover in an earthquake. Aki didn't even know that was a face someone could physically have. But Angel has it. And it's infuriating.

An attorney earns the ridiculous title of "shark" when their negotiation techniques are overly aggressive or unreasonable. The whole notion is silly, if you ask Aki since most sharks couldn't give less of a fuck about anything that is outside of their diet. Quite a humble apex predator. Bit of a loser if anything. More curious than aggressive.

When they do attack, though, they're sneaky about it. Never from the front, never where you can see. They never make a sound or play with their food. It's kill and swallow. That's that.

So Angel, basically.

He spends his day at the office either clicking at his keyboard with the speed of a drugged sloth, munching on Mentos pointedly, or taking impromptu naps, not caring if anyone sees. 

Then he shows up at meetings with drafted contracts that could make grown men cry. 

No one knows how the fuck he keeps doing it, but they know it's reason enough not to ever fire him, even if the whole of Public Safety burns down. It's incideous. The only reason Aki isn't actively scared of him is because they're (supposedly) on the same team. That doesn't mean he has to like him, on top of everything, though.

"Sir?"

Aki snaps back to reality with a start, and removes his hands from the table's surface, to let the server set his food in front of him. He would much rather be in a boat to Hokkaido right about now, but at least the bullet train to Kyoto serves decent food (that Public Service is also paying for). 

He lifts his gaze to Angel, sitting on the other side of the table, who closes his eyes and intertwines his hands on top of it, as soon as his food is served. 

For a moment, Aki stares at him a little stunned, until it clicks in his brain that Angel is praying. Then Aki continues to stare, at a loss for what to do in response. Can he eat before Angel is done, or is that disrespectful? Should he pray too? Or pretend to? Who is Angel praying at, even?

By the time Aki is done contemplating, Angel is done praying and has started digging into his food, without so much as a word. At least at first. 

“What happened to your eyebrow? Fell somewhere?”

Aki becomes aware of the itching pain on his eyebrow where the stitch tape is holding the wound closed. 

“Is this your version of a joke?”

It very much is, Aki knows that, but Angel doesn’t smile in the slightest.

“Think of it this way; At least now you won’t have to take the ring in and out for work.”

“That just leaves us five more.”

Angel’s chewing slows down.

“You have more?”

Aki twists his head from left to right, knowing that some of the empty holes in his ears are slightly visible from this close. 

“And you take them out every day?” Angel asks, as though the mere idea exhausts him. “Too much work for nothing.”

“Could say the same about your hair.”

His face may not betray any effect, but Angel’s hand lifts to tuck a rogue strand behind his ear. He has to tie it up for work, much like Aki. He puts it into this twirl that resembles a ballet dancer or a flight attendant. It’s what Aki is most used to seeing him in, from where he glares on the other side of the office, but now that he knows what Angel looks like with his hair down, he thinks he might prefer it. When it’s down, the hair hides the sharpness of his features. Makes him look less like a shark, waiting for his prey to twitch the wrong way. Softer. 

“That marks the first thing we have ever agreed on,” Angel says and daps the edge of his mouth with a napkin. “We both make inconvenient choices that go against the office dress code."

Aki looks at the solicitor's gloved hands with a quirked brow.

"Some more than others."

Angel notices and lifts a hand to take off the glove. The act is sort of mystifying, in some bizarre Victorian way. Angel's skin is already ghostly pale, but it becomes alarming when looking at his hands, where the blue of his veins is so vivid.

He gives Aki his hand to shake over the table.

"Touch it."

Aki suddenly regrets pointing the oddity out. Angel is looking a bit too satisfied with this turn of events, eyes glinting. 

"Will I die, or something?"

"Mess around and find out."

Tentatively, Aki reaches for the small hand. There's something quite Victorian about this too, but it's best not to linger on it. Immediately upon the briefest contact, Aki snatches his hand back with a flinch.

"Holy fuck?"

"Freezing, right?" Angel smiles to himself and puts his glove back on.

"Corpses might be warmer."

"Poor circulation. Empoverished, even," He makes a very lethargic attempt at jazz hands. "Hurray.”

Aki doesn’t think he has ever heard a ‘hurray’ sound more lifeless.

“Well, my  'stylistic choices'  don't have a utility but I don’t go against the dress code on purpose.”

“I do," Angel counters. "It’s about the little things in life; Pissing off your boss, making people feel uncomfortable or confused. You should try it. It might brighten up your day.”

"I don't think anything can brighten up a day I'll spend talking to merchants of human organs."

Angel makes a face as though the reminder of their business ruined his salad.

"Their lawyers. Not the actual merchants."

"Even worse."

"Even more  boring,"  Angel corrects him, and that's when Aki decides he will quietly stare out of the window for the remaining two hours of the trip, wishing he could open it and whirl himself out on the grass fields. 

Then again, he might live here in a couple of months. So he will have plenty more chances to fling himself off the bullet train and onto the picturesque scenery of Kyoto.

Who would have thought? Lawyers who work for organ harvesters are unpleasant to deal with.

An hour into the negotiation set with the hope of avoiding a high-profile trial, Aki's patience has thoroughly been crushed to smithereens. When they announced the ten-minute break, Aki didn't know whether to stand up and leave or use it to beat one of them (the middle one, with the beard) bloody. 

Stand up and leave it was. At least that way he can sit outside the building's steps and have a cigarette. Or two. Or three. Angel joins him between two and three.

"Glad to see you're taking this well," he says and takes a seat next to Aki on the steps, but at a considerable distance. He took his gloves off to greet these people (though if Aki had the chance, he would have liked not to touch them) and has not put them back on since.

"Be honest," Aki lights his third cigarette against the afternoon breeze. "What's your problem with me?"

"Who says I have one?"

"Your attitude. I know why  I  don't like you. But why are  you  an asshole?"

Angel waves a puff of smoke away from his face. He doesn't seem surprised or even remotely guilty about Aki's accusation. If anything, he looks like he has been waiting to address this.

“Do you know what I love most about Public Safety?" 

Aki gives him a puzzled look, and Angel nods. 

"The cubicles. Yeah, those little suffocating, enclosed spaces. I love them. I love my cubicle so much. It’s my little box, my containment. I sit there and no one bothers me for 8 hours straight. No human contact, just keyboarding. Even if they want something from me, they can’t breach the cube. Do you know what  you  do, Hayakawa, when you want something from me?" he asks, pointing with his index finger and drawing an imaginary square. "You go  around  the cube and enter it. You just— you just walk the 10 extra steps in order to speak to me instead of just  leaning over  the cubicle like a normal person."

Angel's voice does a funny thing then as if he is about to scream or grit his teeth, but he calms down and returns to deadpan as soon as he realizes.

"It drives me insane. Makes me want to throw you through the drywall, honestly.”

Aki has never been more speechless than when he is in that man's company. 

“Really? Like.  Actually?  You dislike me because I prefer talking to people in their faces instead of looming over their cube like a bored asshole?”

“Yes," Angel deadpans. "Yes, that is exactly why I don't like you. Oh, and your  insistent  need for eye contact. How could I forget that? You just refuse to have someone slip out of your scrutinizing… Akiness.”

“Akiness?”

“Uhuh.”

“And what’s that?”

“You don’t know what makes you yourself, Hayakawa?”

Aki fights the need to roll his eyes. 

“I know. I don’t know what  you  think makes me me.”

Angel visibly struggles for a moment. His expression sort of cracks into childlike annoyance.

“It’s this… bizarre and disarming form of kindness," he says. "These small, quiet acts that never serve a purpose other than to be kind. I don’t think you realize how much this fucks with people’s heads.”

“Kindness that has ulterior motives isn’t kindness," Aki replies like it's second nature. 

“See most people don’t  get  that. Or they think they do, yet continue to be kind just so that they can feel good about themselves. Worthy of kindness too. You don’t even do  that.  You walk around with this—this  frown  of absolute misery, and you just… remember people's coffee orders, and ask how their kids are doing, and you make sure to explain stuff in detail without making anyone feel stupid, or you fucking fix their sinks on your day off. And it's not even like you're cheery! You do it all with this monotonous fucking voice like it's your job or something. It’s beyond frustrating.”

I trust you the most. 

You are the older brother. There's a responsibility that comes with that fact.

Aki takes a generous drag of smoke, looking away.

“…sorry, I guess? Fuck you? I’m at a loss for what to respond here.”

“Why are you so quiet about it? What, are you afraid that people will find out you have a heart?”

It's a joke, Aki reminds himself. Just a joke.

“People know that already.”

“Do  you?”

The question is left to linger in the stale air, carried along by the bustling of traffic from the street in front of them. Oh, Aki knows. He would have liked to  not  have one, but he knows he does.

Angel knocks his foot onto Aki's, regaining his attention.

"Your turn. Why do you dislike me?”

“Oof, where do I start? You’re always late, your filing system is dogshit, you yawn in people's faces when they’re briefing you, you would do anything to avoid going to trial for a case, and— since we are at it— you are super fucking  weird  about your cubicle."

Angel looks severely unimpressed.

"Is any of the reasons you dislike me  not  related to work?”

“I'm not finished,” Aki lifts his index. “I know why you do those things. You’re always late because you get the work done in half the time others do. Your filing system is dogshit because you memorize information unlike anyone I’ve met. If you  did  go to trial, you would wipe the floor with the opposition. You’re talented. Beyond talented. I know that, and I’m sure you do too, and the thought that you don’t wish to utilize that talent better makes me want to murder you in your sleep.”

Angel grows really quiet. His permanent state of being is quiet, but not in this way. Now he almost looks meek. Aki considers taking back what he said.

“Not all of us like being lawyers, Hayakawa.”

Quite a simple statement. It shouldn't anger Aki as much as it does.

“Then why  are  you one? Since you clearly loathe it. You could put that brain of yours to better use.”

“Do you always go about your life doing whatever you want?" he asks. "I’m a lawyer because it’s better than being a lot of other things. I get good pay, I get a set working schedule, and I get respect. Plus I'm good at it. Why  not  be a lawyer? Wanting to make the world a better place wasn’t in the job description.”

“Maybe it should be," Aki argues. "Maybe the world would be a better place if people cared about anything else other than their fucking selves.”

Angel turns to him, surprised for the first time since they started speaking with such callous honesty.

“You think humans are inherently selfish?”

“Aren’t they?”

"No." Angel shakes his head. Like it's obvious. Like he is disappointed in Aki for daring to think that.  "Tabula Rasa;  The notion that people are born as blank slates and are purely shaped by the experiences and knowledge they gain as they grow. Even the fact that you believe humans have ' inherent'  traits- albeit stupid and incorrect- is something you learned in your life, based on experience."

Aki thinks Angel would benefit greatly by using his mouth to blabber about Latin philosophies instead of spitting scathing insults. At least if it means he sounds like  that  while doing so. Soft and fascinated with his own voice.

“So this is the part where you confess your tragic backstory that led you to hate the world and want to fix it," he tilts his head like a curious cat.

Aki gives him a flat look, holding the smoke for a bit too long and burning himself. “Is that in the job description too?”

“Oh, come on you must have one,” Angel insists but it lacks enthusiasm. 

“What is it? Deadbeat father? That would explain the acts of service and emotional constipation issue.”

“Jesus Christ," Aki chokes on his cigarette. 

“Or is it a mom thing? Can’t decide. You fit both stereotypes with impressive accuracy.”

"In what world is that an okay thing to ask?"

"I may not like it, but I'm still a lawyer; I need proof of concept."

Aki scoffs. The audacity and lack of sentiment should be offensive, the way it always is with Angel, but there's something about this particular moment, this particular set of stairs, and this particular look on Angel's street lamp-lit face that makes Aki want to speak. 

“Vehicular manslaughter," he says with an impressively vacant tone.

A beat of silence passes. 

Angel blinks.

“They  died?”

“Yes, that’s usually the slaughter part of the word manslaughter.”

“Like…both of them?”

“And my little brother.“

Something between a laugh and a hiccup rips past Angel, and he quickly slaps a hand over his mouth to trap it, but it’s too late. His eyes widen in mortification as do Aki’s in shock.

“Did you just—“

“I'm  so  sorry.”

“Was that a  laugh?”

“This is absolutely horrific—“

“Yes, it's fucking horrific, we’re talking about my  deceased family."

“—but it’s also so tragic it comes back full circle and becomes absurdly comedic.”

Aki gawks and Angel's shoulders stutter helplessly.

“Comedic?”

“I'm so sorry, truly, but— your  entire  family? In one day? When you were a kid? I did not… it’s just so much worse than I could have ever expected."

"Just to reiterate," Aki points with his cigarette. "We are talking about real people that  died."

"That is some K-drama protagonist backstory, you have to be joking."

“I can’t believe these words are actually coming out of your mouth right now.”

Despite his best efforts, Aki finds his voice melting into a self-deprecating laugh. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to bury his face in his hands, hoping it will drown out the wheezing. This is horrible. He is a horrible person for entertaining this. He tries to remind himself of this, in case the laugh stops feeling so relieving.

“You’re foul, you know that?” He tells Angel, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent another wave of laughter. “Absolutely fucking foul.”

“That makes two of us, then. Since you’re laughing.”

Aki turns away and takes another drag of his cigarette, for Angel is smiling rather dangerously, and he already feels ripped open and prodded at enough for one evening. 

“What are we going to do with the geezers back there?” he nods back to the building, slapping the smoke away from Angel’s eyes on his own this time. “I don’t see them budging and settling any time soon.”

“Don’t you dare sway their way, my contract is flawless,” Angel sort of frowns, as if Aki’s self-doubt is a reflection of them both. “We have the upper hand here, and they know it, that’s why they’re being prissy. They’re banking on tiring you out because you’re young and inexperienced.”

Aki squints. 

“You  really  want me out of your cubicle, huh?”

If they manage to close this, then Aki is certain he will have won the spot in the Kyoto department. Meaning he will kick the Tokyo headquarters and his crampy apartment goodbye. And Himeno. And Denji...and Power, and-

Angel's frown sets itself in stone.

“If you want to go to Kyoto, then I’ll help you go to Kyoto. If you don’t, then we can just go back there and throw hot coffee in their face or something.”

That would feel terrific, but the aftermath? Not so much. Aki settles for enjoying the imagery of Angel throwing a cup of coffee in a criminal lawyer's face, with as nonchalant an expression as always.

“If they're banking on my inexperience, what are they expecting  you  to get wrong?”

Angel is young, but he definitely doesn't reek of inexperience. He is missing that noble streak Aki has been told he brandishes around like an ID card. Most lawyers abandon that nobility three years into the job.

“They’re playing on my social ineptness, and are waiting for me to lose my patience and make an impulsive decision," Angel says.

“They will be thoroughly disappointed, then. ‘Impulsive’ would be the last word I would attach next to your name.”

Angel squints, offended.

“I can be impulsive. In the right context.”

Aki snorts, causing him to inhale more smoke than he intended to.

“Sure you can.”

It’s happening before Aki can properly register the movement from his peripheral. Angel reaches over the space between them and takes Aki’s cigarette away. The pads of his fingers brush ever so slightly against the corner of Aki's mouth, cold as ice and feather-like. Aki stills himself, becoming a statue as Angel plants the cigarette between his own lips and takes a drag that would knock a first-timer into a coughing spree. The graceful exhale is a tell-tale sign that Angel is not. A first-timer that is.

“You and Himeno are such middle schoolers about this,” he mutters, blowing smoke. “You act like the shared pack between you is the last one in the world, even though there’s a store right around the corner of the office building. Addicts.”

Aki has yet to move from his position. Or perhaps blink. Or think. Angel pays no mind to his vegetative state and simply stands up, flicks the butt of the cigarette to the ground, and squashes it with his pristine loafer. 

He looks down at Aki, with an expression that would be dubbed as blank by most, but Aki recognizes the underlying hints of smugness in it. 

“I believe we have some old people to humiliate. Stand up, will you?”

"I could sue you for littering," is the first stupid thing Aki thinks to say.

"Lack of evidence."

Aki points at himself. "I saw you do it."

"Unreliable witness."

"How so?"

Angel sort of smiles. "You were looking at my face, not the littering."

Chapter Text

The first time Himeno meets Hayakawa Aki, he is standing on top of a table at a college bar, participating in what seems to be a party version of a mock trial, where every countered argument has to be followed with a shot of soju. 

If you ask her now what the mock trial was about, she wouldn’t be able to remember, but the sight of Aki balancing on polished wood and trying to hide the fact that the shots were catching up to him is ingrained in Himeno’s memory. She also remembers that he won the imaginary case, which led to an onslaught of yelling inside the cramped bar and the fake judge having to bang an empty Sprite bottle on the counter, calling for order (even though he was in drunk hysterics himself).

Needless to say; quite a memorable day.

Himeno had walked into that bar looking for a distraction in the form of bitter liquid and found one in the form of a lightweight undergraduate, with bangs too long to seek his eyes. 

Someone had gently goaded him down from the table after much protesting, and as soon as they did, they pointed at the nearest stranger, seeking a helping hand. 

"You! Glasses."

Himeno had pointed an index at herself, smiling a little.

"Yes, you. Can you watch this guy for a moment? I need to go to the bathroom."

Positively humored, Himeno started approaching the table, and "this guy" was drunkenly swatting away his friend's hands. 

"I don't need a sitter," he murmured, as his friend walked away, leaving Himeno in his stead, sat on the empty bar stool across from the winner. 

Lanky. Legs for days. Looked at home in a suit, even though it was wrinkled all over. When his head lulled to the side, Himeno caught a glimpse of his surprisingly vacant eyes. 

"One of two things has happened here;" she beamed, trying to get the guy to stay awake. "Either you had a very rough start to this trial and were out-argued a lot, so you were forced to compensate in shots...or you were winning all the way through, but you're just a lightweight. Moment of truth. Which one is it?"

"I call the fifth."

He said it without missing a beat or taking the time to feel embarrassed about the lightweight accusations. Second nature. Like he had spent a lifetime bantering with Himeno, even though this was the first time they had spoken. 

Himeno laughed and gave him her hand to shake. He'd earned it. 

"Himeno, by the way. Your involuntary babysitter."

He grasped her hand, oddly warm, but not clammy.

"Aki." And then, as if he had just remembered he had a last name, he added; "Hayakawa. But just Aki is fine."

Himeno doesn’t and has never believed in love at first sight, neither platonic nor romantic. But infatuation? That’s a whole other deal entirely, and she can confidently say, hand over a flame, that she was infatuated with Hayakawa Aki from the moment she saw him on that bar stool. Aki has that effect on people still. He makes them infatuated. And the most intriguing part of the process is that he neither tries nor is aware of the fact that it happens. He just exists, in this very particular and disgustingly honest way, and people flock to him like seagulls towards a fallen piece of bread.

It was obvious, from that very first day, and the number of pats on the back, arms over the shoulder, and ruffles of hair he received, just for winning that silly game of pretend. But more so by how unfazed he seemed by it all, as though the touches went straight through him and left no mark. A ghost.

“Public Safety?” he asked suddenly, catching a glimpse of the employee card handing from the pocket of Himeno's suit jacket.

“Eh. Something to keep me busy I’m spiraling over my masters.”

The admission that she was older seemed to sober Aki up. He sat more properly on his stool and tried to fix his hair a little.

“I had an interview for an internship there last week." He lifted one of the leftover beer glasses to see if there was anything left inside other than foam. There wasn't. "Didn’t go so well.”

“Really?” Himeno couldn’t imagine why. If Aki argued as he did earlier while shitfaced, he more than fit Public Safety standards. 

“Apparently, I failed an oral test I was woefully unprepared for.”

“Ah," Himeno mused in recognition. "You talked to Kishibe.”

“So this is a thing? It wasn’t just to toy with me?”

“It’s  his  thing." Himeno waved her hand, trying to catch the attention of the bartender. She signaled him to get her a beer. She had been freeloading for too long. "What did you answer to the questions?”

"The first one, I think it was;  How do you react to losing a case?  I told him I don't lose cases. Then it was the thing about revenge, to which I delayed my answer, and I guess that was answer enough for him because he made this sound, like an incorrect buzzer. And then..." he paused, settling his elbow on the table to scratch at his eyebrow. He'd do good with a piercing there. Would have something to fiddle with. "He asked me what  side  I was on. Painfully vague. That's when I stopped trying to figure out what the correct answer was, and I just said;  on the side of good."

The waiter set Himeno's beer in front of her, but she was too busy holding back a laugh to thank him.

“Oh wow. You failed  spectacularly.”

Aki stared, flatly. There was a grumble of disappointment there, but more so pointed at himself, rather than Kishibe (which Himeno found quite ridiculous. He didn't know the man yet, and therefore had no reason to respect his lunatic character assessments). That grumble alone spoke more about who Aki was than whatever words he said.

“I gathered that when he told me to lose the Robin Hood act and the starry eyes, then come back again next semester.”

Himeno wouldn't call what Aki had 'starry' eyes. She squinted a little, even as a joke, trying to see what Kishibe thought and called out as a weakness. 

Ah. 

Honesty.

“You’re one of the good ones, that’s all," she assured him, not quite sure if she was joking or not. 

Aki indulged her. 

“Why do you say that like it’s an insult?”

“For them, it might as well be. But  I  happen to like the good ones. So here;" She dug into her pocket and drew out her pack of cigarettes, turning it to him. "Gift.”

He had looked into the pack, upper lip twisting in disapproval.

“I don’t smoke. 'Rots your insides.”

Himeno cast a playful glance at the assortment of empty soju glasses.

“And booze doesn’t?”

“Booze is not an everyday thing.”

“Smoking doesn’t have to be either." She pulled a single cigarette out of the pack and held it as one would a wedding ring. "I'm offering you  one.  For the company.”

Aki stared down at it, then back at Himeno. Yep, definitely not stars. A bit of a childish competitive streak, a bit of boredom, but mostly honesty.

“Fine." He planted it between his lips, like an amateur would. "Just one.”

Shame that he was a liar. He didn't look like one.

Himeno's expression might have betrayed her disbelief, then, because Aki squinted.

“Seriously," he defended. "This is the first and last cigarette you will ever see me smoke.”

Himeno couldn't help but snicker, as she got her lighter out of her jacket, and leaned over the table.

“No great friendships ever started with lies Aki Hayakawa." The flame licked the edge of the stick. "So watch what you promise.”

They fit well together, Himeno realized. She and Aki. They made a good team. Still do.

Himeno used to lend him her past class notes and spent hours watching Aki pace across the room, narrating his essays, while he provided Himeno with the pleasure of his company, and the occasional pack of cigarettes, that he most definitely started sharing with her. 

It was a fair transaction, all things considered. Aki did well in his degree and Himeno didn’t think of laying down on the highway all that often. One would even call it a friendship. Himeno would call it that, actually, but she had a sneaking suspicion the word would scare Aki away like most heavy words do. 

She supposes there is something to be said about two broken people and how they try to fit against one another to make a whole. But the thing is; Himeno is (and has always been) entirely comfortable with the fact that she’s damaged goods, and Aki was (and kind of still is) everything but. 

It was almost painful to see him deny it. Like watching a tapestry getting ripped by day and sewn by night, over and over again. The stitched-up patches deceive no one, save for the tapestry itself. Why question how it was sewn when it feels whole regardless?

Almost  painful, but not quite at that point. A point where Himeno didn’t particularly care about how much or how violently Aki would rip himself, so long as he stuck around for a bit longer. Then it became unclear how  willing  he was to stick around. Himeno had made the mistake of taking this for granted; so long as there were “crooked” things in the world that Aki felt he could correct, he would stick around. 

She realized, brutally, that this wasn't the case. It was more about Aki compensating than it was ever about the crooked things themselves. But the damage had already been done when this realization dawned. 

She had already brought Aki into Public Safety.

“How many weeks before he develops a childish crush on her, you think?" Mirai turned to Himeno, voice laced with a nauseating amount of enjoyment. "I have a hundred yen that says two.”

Himeno squinted at the silhouettes of Aki and Makima wrapped up in muted conversation.

Half of Division 4 had perched themselves outside of Makima's office to "discreetly" watch Aki's final interview through the blinds. There was nothing discreet about the way they hung in the middle of the hallway, ducking just enough to lazily conceal themselves, but oh well. Public Safety loves its gossip. Mirai, the self-proclaimed King of the File Room and the most annoyingly talkative person Himeno had met, loved making money on gossip too.

From the other side of Himeno, Arai peeled his gaze off the window and dug into his suit's pockets.

“I'll take that bet.”

“Alright, the pool’s open!" Mirai snatched the bills away immediately. Naturally, Arai would not be seeing a penny of those. 

Himeno had been at the office for two years by then and had never seen that prick lose a bet. She would maybe have more respect for him if he rigged the game, somehow, but no. He was just lucky. Either that, or he made really unethical uses of that file room and just knew everything there was to know about everyone in the office, down to what types of pencils they liked to use in elementary. Whatever it was, it was annoying.

"Kobeni, your turn," he slapped the girl's shoulder, which only made her flinch. "Step up.”

Kobeni gulped, audibly, her eyes jumping between the window and Mirai's far too wide smile.

“I don’t think betting on our boss’ seduction abilities is within office regulation.”

“I mean it’s Makima," Arai shrugged. "It happened to the best of us.”

“By best, do you mean  all?” 

“I wanna hear what Miss Glasses has to say," Mirai jabbed at Himeno with his elbow. "Come on, he’s your hire. You know him best, I presume. Place your bet.”

What Himeno would like to say was that Aki would grow to be an exception to this office's stupid curse and that he had his shit far too collected to develop a fixation on anyone, much less his new boss.

But looking at him through the window then, she wasn't so sure. 

Makima sat as she always did; Rigid and graceful, never taking too much space, but never insecure about what she  did  take. She was speaking calmly, barely moving her head, and Aki was nodding vigorously, brows furrowed with an all too boyish type of determination. His stance was straight to a fault, serious beyond what his age justified. There was unshakeable resolve in his eyes, the way there is still unshakeable resolve in his every breath. 

Use me,  it all spoke to a woman the likes of Makima.  Let me in your arsenal and I’ll become your sharpest knife. Use me until I break.

Makima wouldn’t be Makima if she refused.

Crush- no. Not really. Infatuation, maybe. That was worse.

“Have you people learned nothing?" Himeno plastered a lazy smile on her face, that tugged too sharply at the edges. "Stop entertaining Mirai’s antics.”

Mirai stomped his foot on the tile floor, no better than a toddler.

“Stop interfering with Mirai’s entertaining antics!”

“This is why you’re stationed at the basement offices.”

“And this is why Angel doesn’t talk to any of you," he pointed around the lot of them as if the insult should sting. "Because you’re  lame.”

"Really?" Kobeni voiced from behind Himeno, sounding very sad. Though if someone had asked her, Himeno bets Kobeni wouldn't know to explain why.

“Oh, he talks," Himeno shook her head. "Just not when  you  are around.”

It was a lie, of course. She would bet Angel didn't even talk to himself in the mirror, but Mirai had been proud enough to jump at the insult straight away. He'd gasped, scandalized.

“How dare you plant this insecurity in my head.”

“Sucks to suck.”

“Watch for gum under your desk, you piece of—" His eyes flickered to the door, panicking. "Shit they're coming- everyone; act normal!"

They jumped ship and almost crashed into each other like poorly mechanized toys. Kobeni squealed and tried to set herself beside the cooler with Arai, but she aimed wrong and water spilled all over her sleeve instead of her cup. Himeno cut the corner of the hall as if she was just passing by, and Mirai started  whistling.

The door opened, and Aki nearly crashed on him, which was the intended effect.

"Well, hello there!” He grabbed Aki's hand and started shaking it with excessive energy. "Welcome to Public Safety! Have fun with overtime and an array of undetectable psychophysical problems!"

"Mirai."

"What? Honesty is key in a work environment."

And what a good knife Aki made. 

First as an intern, then as a trainee, and now as an associate.  Himeno’s  associate.

It’s important to her, that distinction. It means that she is in the very unique position to purse her lips, tap her index rhythmically against her chin, and refuse whoever asks to borrow Aki, even for a day’s work.

Because here is what most people don’t get; Aki Hayakawa is a precious thing, but most of all he is  Himeno’s  precious thing, and it’s her job to make sure the grimy hands of Public Safety stay off him, as much as it is his job to win cases.

Unfortunately for her, Aki himself didn't seem too eager to keep those grimy hands off. He didn't want to sit in the arsenal and look pretty. He wanted to cut. To be pointed at the enemy and be allowed to annihilate. 

Himeno had no choice but to watch and bite her fingernails bloody.

“And then you go to a cave and meet this wizard who says  'It’s dangerous to go alone. Take this!'  And he whips out— hey." Aki snapped his fingers in front of Himeno's face, and she got startled, spilling some of her beer on the table. "You still with me?"

Partially. What Himeno definitely was, was five beers and half a pack in at 10 pm on a weekday. In public! But Aki was there, so it did not matter. Aki was there, and ranting about his silly little video game that Himeno had never actually seen him play anywhere. Maybe he just liked it in theory. 

“Yes, Aki," she beamed, propping her elbows on the table to support her chin. "Tell me, what does the wizard  whip  out?”

“A sword," Aki said, trying to dodge the innuendo, but Himeno barked out a laugh.

“The jokes write themselves.”

“Not that kind of sword.”

“Children's games are so puritanical these days.”

He smiled, then. It’s so rare on him, a kind of drunk after-effect. Other people get confident or dizzy, and Aki gets a meek smile on his face. A small one, as though that’s only what he is allowed, but pretty all the same. So pretty that sometimes Himeno wonders if it’s why she loved inviting him for drinks so much. Because she got to see The Smile. 

“Vile woman," he said, hiding The Smile behind a blow of smoke.

“Shut up, you love me.”

And he didn't refute the statement. Perhaps that's where problems began.

Himeno doesn’t like to go home drunk. 

Her house already has a residential alcoholic, she’d never want to strip her dad of such an honor or put her sister in a position to hand out more certificates for it. There’s always the option of not getting embarrassingly drunk in the first place, but who fucks with that when Aki’s couch exists?

The first time, he insisted. All  ‘you can’t walk in a straight line’  and  ‘I’ll just drop you off in the morning’  and whatnot. Ripped straight out of the playbook of poor excuses. So forgive Himeno for misinterpreting him, and thinking he was aiming for something else. 

She didn’t care either way. She took off her jacket and slumped on Aki’s couch, trusting that whatever he wanted, he would find a way to take. 

The next time she opened her eyes, it had been an hour, according to the analog clock on the wall, and not ten minutes as she had intended. Not long enough for the headache to kick in yet, but not short enough to still be completely wasted. Puzzlement settled in the crease of her brow when she realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses, even though she clearly remembered having them when she lay down, because of how the metal hurt her temples. 

The glasses were left neatly on the surface of the coffee table beside the couch, along with a tall glass of water and what was probably an aspirin. Himeno sat up. A blanket fell off her back. A proper one, meant for a bed, not those movie night ones reserved for the living room. Most surprising of all; she was fully clothed. Shirt tucked in her trousers still, belt and socks and all.

It was then, between patting down her body and finding nothing amiss that Himeno realized Aki was a man of principle, if they even existed anymore. If they didn’t, then he was the last of his kind. A gentleman, if you will. 

How silly. To look at someone like Himeno and deem her worthy of gentlemanism. To treat her with delicate respect, as though she has any sort of dignity left in her to guard. 

She started snickering. It was all so silly.

There were socked footsteps on the hardwood floor. Aki crouched at the foot of the couch, to level with Himeno.

"Something funny?" 

Void gaze, void tone, void eyes. 

"Yeah," Himeno slumped back down on the couch, still giggling. "You just can't help it huh? The Robbin Hood act."

She hears Aki's tongue click in annoyance but doesn't open her eyes to see.

"You're a terrible drunk."

Almost void. Some fondness makes itself at home in his mouth, most likely against his will. 

Oh, he was precious. And horribly temporary, like all precious things. Himeno wanted so badly to be able to keep him, however. Selfish little prick, she always has been.

"I can't help it either."

Aki is a crier. 

Supposedly, every human who wants to be called so should have  somewhat  of a reaction when working on "disturbing" cases. Maybe a gasp, a gag, some cursing, or the need for a drink (Himeno falls into that latter category). 

Aki cries.

Himeno will admit that caught her off guard. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Public Safety's file room, going through some ancient records for reasons Himeno can't remember now. Her mind went a bit blank when she asked to see the file in Aki's hand and found tear stains on it. He was sitting right there. Right across from her. And Himeno hadn't heard a thing. Not a shuddering breath, nor a sniff, nothing. 

She wonders what her expression had looked like when she had realized. She wishes there was a mirror behind Aki, to know what her face had morphed into when she looked at him and asked if he was crying (although that much was obvious). 

On his part, he looked as he always did. Placid. Bare. He quietly wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm and dodged the question, opting to jump straight into his findings. More work.

Maybe it's a bad day,  Himeno remembers thinking.  Maybe it's not a thing, maybe he is not even crying about the case itself, but something completely irrelevant that I'm not privy to. Hell, maybe something got in his eye.

Those theories quickly got debunked about a month later when the same thing happened, and Himeno was forced to swallow the fact that Aki is just a crier. 

It was astonishing, really. The fact that he still had it in him to cry. Himeno would be envious of that emotional capacity if she didn't find it so incredibly endearing and worthy of safekeeping. 

Most people in their line of work have certain soft spots, they're not affected by everything. Those who are, don't have the stomach for this job. So maybe you're unflinching in the face of terrorism, but one mention of an environmental disaster and you're mush. Maybe the soft spot is kids, or women named Yuki, or whatever other hyperspecific thing that makes you turn up the waterworks.

After a while, Himeno arrived at the infuriating conclusion that Aki had no specific soft spot. The reasons were never adding up, there was never an overarching theme that could attribute the crying to his own past experiences. Even crying, Aki refused to be selfish about. 

But it took a trip to Public Safety's file room and a lot of unnecessary fraternizing with Mirai for Himeno to figure that out. It's not illegal to request a colleague's personal file, but it is...well. Shitty. And uncalled for, probably. And severely unethical, as Mirai continuously reminded Himeno with an eccentric smile.

That didn't stop him from looming over her shoulder the entire time she spent reading the file, claiming that he hadn't looked at it either. Maybe it was for the best. Mirai's presence implemented a certain shame in Himeno that prevented her from throwing up during the process.

There were pictures. 

She tried to slap the file closed when he felt her blood slowly drain from her head down to her legs.

"I think that's enough-"

"Hold on."

Mirai snatched the file out of her grasp, drawn on a detail. He squinted his eyes. Then he snorted. It was quiet, but there, all the same. Amusement. Sick man, that one.

"He's out."

"Who is?"

He turned the file toward Himeno and pointed at the most recent entries.

"The driver. He was let out after five years, on good behavior. He is a free man."

"But," Himeno approached, making sure she was reading correctly. "He killed three people. He was  intoxicated."

There was an unsettling hint of understanding in the way Mirai looked at Himeno then. Like he had jumped to a conclusion she was still debating on leaping toward. 

"It could be that Mr Driver had some very  important  friends."

'Then it was the thing about revenge, to which I delayed my answer.'

After a brief second of devastating eye contact, they made a beeline toward the convicted criminal section of the file room and started looking for the driver's name in alphabetical order. There was a missing folder. A gap between other files. And Mirai, annoying and invasive as he may be, treats the file room better than he would an infant. He doesn't  misplace  things.

He looked at the metal drawer- the cause for his potential firing- with a hand over his mouth, muffling his snickering.

"That stone-faced bastard just got  much  more interesting."

The sight of her father's grave awakens a surprising amount of nothing in Himeno. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. She has heard stories of grief, of pain so strong it feels like there's a cavity in your chest, that your heart is physically damaged. She's pretty sure that if you carved her heart out of her chest right then it would look fine. It felt fine. 

Maybe it was her lack of spirituality, maybe it was all the funeral guests distracting her, or even the uninspiring weather. Maybe that was what was stopping her from grieving properly. Although "properly" was quite a weird word in that context. What does proper,  clean  grief look like?

Better yet; did her father deserve it?

Footsteps on wet soil came up to her side. Aki placed an umbrella over both of their heads. Drizzling on fabric.

"Your sister is waiting in the car."

Tomori. She was an example of proper grief. Cried for two hours straight during the funeral, and did it prettily too. Not too loud to disrupt the other guests from their grief, not too snotty. At least there was someone who knew how to behave at a funeral, unlike Himeno, who couldn't even recall half the ceremony by the time it finished. 

"We can go whenever you're ready."

Himeno kept looking at the tombstone, unblinking. Something about the word 'beloved' carved on there sat wrong with her. She wanted to turn to Aki and ask about it. If it felt wrong on his parents' graves too, or if she's just a deplorable piece of shit like that. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about your family?”

Her voice came out hoarse, from not having spoken in hours. She didn't dare look in Aki's direction to see how her question landed. 

“Today is not about me.”

“Aki.”

“The conversation just never veered that way." He spoke calmly. Too calmly. "It’s not some big secret that I put effort into hiding. People die all the time.”

A sigh. The realization that this was not the best thing to say on the day of a funeral. While still in the graveyard. Over a grave. He didn't apologize.

Himeno finally turned to him. It was absurd how much taller he'd grown in three years. She had to crane her head.

“How would a conversation  'veer'  toward your family’s murderer being let out of prison through dubious avenues?”

“Himeno—“

“Or the fact that his Public Safety record is not in the file room, because it’s probably at your house, and you’re trying to find a way to retrial the case.  Alone.”

A beat of silence soaked in the space between them. Himeno realized she was speaking too loud. The inappropriate behavior continues.

"You have no idea what you are getting yourself into," she added, just for the hell of it. Just to make sure he knew. Just to have the final word, for certain.

He wouldn't let her.

“If you’re planning on reporting me, I’d suggest you build your claims on something more than instinctive assumptions.”

Himeno could only roll her eyes at the colorless tone. The formality of it all.

“You’re so full of shit."

She began walking away, and hopefully toward wherever her sister's car was parked, but there was this insistent sound of muddy footprints following her, and the lack of rain above her head, and-

"Stop that," she halted to yap at Aki and his umbrella.

“You’re going to ruin your suit.”

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes."

It was a split-second decision or rather an unreasonable impulse. Himeno snatched the umbrella out of Aki's hand and started beating it against the grassy ground of the graveyard, over and over and over, with nothing more than her grunts of effort to compensate for the awkward silence. Then she decided that was too slow a process, so she just gripped both ends of the umbrella and smashed its spine against her knee. 

It was probably cheap, given how easy it gave away. By the end of it, she was heaving but felt no better than before. Her knee hurt, and her suit was indeed in the process of getting ruined, victim to the city's rainwater.

She found some balls to look at Aki, who stood very still and completely undisturbed by the display. 

“It was time I invested in a new one." He nodded at the umbrella, now lying in pieces. "The closing clip was starting to lag. Super annoying.”

Himeno's glasses were stained to the point of not seeing properly. Her bangs stuck to her forehead. Water dripped down her nose, to her lips, to her chin. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Still undisturbed. Every bit of his emotions, packed away, into neat little boxes that Himeno is not allowed to glimpse at. No one is, but it hurt Himeno the most.

“If that’s how you want to grieve that’s fine. We can go buy some more stuff for you to break if you think that will help." A shrug. Heavy, but not due to the rain. "Whatever you want.”

She wonders if that's how he grieved too. If he broke umbrellas or dishes or video game consoles. Or maybe he wasn't allowed to do that, and that's why he let her.

“Could you just—“ She breathed out, unsteady. "Come here?"

He didn't get it at first. Himeno had to step closer first and open her arms in that awkward but welcoming way before Aki took the hint. She stepped into his personal space and buried herself right above his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the wet cotton of his suit. 

She didn't have the slightest clue of what she was doing, or why she felt like doing it. But when the weight of Aki's hand settled on the top of her damp hair, Himeno's shattered breathing crossed the threshold into a proper sob that seemed to split her voice cords in half. 

It's a language of its own, that kind of crying. One that Aki seemed to be well versed in, better than Himeno was ever allowed to be. It comes with feeling certifiably breakable, and she loathes it. She loathes the idea that she is yet another breakable thing for Aki to fix. An unchecked item in his mental to-do list of tasks only he is responsible for.

What a shame that hating something never made it any less true. 

"Hey."

"Hi."

"Question."

"Shoot."

Himeno pushed a finger beneath her glasses to scratch her eye and then realized maybe she shouldn't, given that her hand touched the floor. Maybe she shouldn't be laying on the floor when there was a perfectly useable living room, filled with furniture right next to her. But the floor has a certain charm that couches and armchairs simply don't. It's a thinking spot, one that suits her and Aki well after an unknown amount of sleepless hours.

"Do you ever think that we're...um" Aki let his words trail off. "...unwell?"

Himeno looked at him, where he lay parallel to her, the edges of her gray carpet tickling his cheek. 

"Pft, yeah. Hundred percent."

"More than the average scale of unwellness."

 "Obviously."

"Should we maybe- I don't know," he shrugged. "Try not to be?"

"By...?"

For a moment, it seemed as though Aki hadn't planned what to say further, and just wanted to thoroughly establish their shared fucked-up-ery. 

Then;

"There's a whole department of psychotherapists on the third floor of the office, I could just ask-"

Always in poor taste, and poor timing, Himeno had started laughing. Then she realized just how poor her taste and timing were when Aki didn't join her or looked amused. She stopped.

"Oh. You're serious."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

It's not that Himeno had never considered the prospect before. But for  Aki  to consider it, was different. The notion crossed a very specific line in her mind, something that should not be messed with, lest it becomes too real and therefore  terrifying.

"Well, what if they..." Himeno swallowed, trying to gather the correct words, but failed. "What if they find something."

Aki shrugged against the carpet, unfazed. "Isn't that the point?"

"What if they  give  you something?"

"Again, isn't that the point?"

No, no, nononon- No.

No, that is not the point. 

The point is that there is no point, the point is to accept your fucked-up-ness and learn to live with it, not try and fix it with swallowable things. 

Isn't alcohol a swallowable thing? Hypocrite.

"So long as it helps, in some way," Aki added when the silence settled too well.

"What does  'help'  even mean in this case?"

What does help ever mean for people like us?

We're knives, right? It's our job to be sharp. To cut. Help would make our edges dull.

We are dogs, see? They point and we run. Help would make us docile. Help would euthanize us.

"You're frustrated. Let's change subjects," Aki sat up from the floor and looked down at Himeno without a trace of their talk's weight on his face. "You said to remind you of something when we left the office. You had to give me 'this thing'? And told me not to ask what the thing is."

"Oh," Himeno sat up abruptly, her mood swinging along with her head. "Yeah, give me a second."

She walked (swayed) to her bedroom, and when she came back she had The Thing in her hands. The object of this week's paralyzing wave of anxiety. The reason she had to first down three beers before speaking to Aki at all. A small, rectangular package, wrapped in offputting winter holiday paper, even though it was July. 

She extended her arms proudly and gave it to Aki, who could only look at the package with increasing confusion. Like it would bite him.

"It's not my birthday," he said.

"True."

"And it's not new years. Or any other holiday."

"Also true."

He pinched the edge of the wrapping paper, examining the clumsy attempt at folding the corners. "So what is this?"

"It's called a gift, Aki," Himeno took a sloppy seat on the floor once more. "You know, something of varying size that you buy or make for people as a show of your appreciation for them-"

"Okay, asshole, you just felt like buying me something. Got it," Aki started ripping the paper, having given up on untucking it. "But you should have said something so that I could also buy you a..."

His words trailed off when the remainder of the paper was torn off and fell on the floor, leaving only the Nintendo tape of the Legend of Zelda in Aki's hands.

His eyes were slow as they trailed over it. Scrutinizing and unblinking. His breath caught in his throat.

Himeno shifted, one leg crossing over the other.

"They don't sell these anymore, did you know?" she started, feigning nonchalance. "They're considered a collector's item, or something. I wish I had known that before I walked into a store asking for a game that was made ten years ago, like a clown-"

"I know," Aki's voice came out slightly cracky. Fond. "Where did you find this?"

Himeno's hand reached for the back of her neck as if to scratch the nervousness out.

"Had to talk to a guy who knew a guy, who knew this other guy. Doesn't matter, really. I'm making it sound like the Odyssey but it wasn't that hard. Not that I didn't put effort into it! Or that you're not worth the trouble- that's not what I...You know what? I'll just shut up."

Aki kept looking at the tape, with the full scope of his emotions laid bare in his eyes instead of his face, and in the way his hands were gripping the plastic like it could disappear. He didn't speak again for a beat or two, and it caused Himeno to start chewing at the inside of her cheek.

"If you don't like it, you can tell me, I swear-"

"Fuck you, it's perfect."

The curse felt completely alien in his voice, something Himeno didn't have the pleasure of hearing often. She gave Aki a tight smile, which he returned with less than half the intensity.

"Where'd you get your manners from?"

"Seriously, fuck you. You can't just...You're-" he turned the tape in his hands and clamped his mouth shut, momentarily. He opened it a couple more times, but no sound came out. Then; "It's perfect. Thank you."

Simple. Sincere.

Himeno realized a few things that night, starting with how watching someone grow, or growing with them, and loving them throughout is— for lack of a prettier word— strange. 

It’s strange, knowing all their ins and outs, their pet peeves, their particular expressions and gestures that are unique to them; like the way Aki always scratches his brow when he is reading something, or how he has been using the same hair tie for years and never seems to lose it, and that awful habit of his to tie the laces of his converse around his ankles. 

It’s strange knowing all this and yet being unable to pinpoint when that indifference turned to like and like turned to love. 

It’s stranger trying to put that love into words too, hence why Himeno never tries. It has to do with the object of that love too. You wouldn’t tell your favorite movie that you love it, because it wouldn’t understand you. Himeno doesn’t tell Aki that she loves him because he wouldn’t understand either. He would want to quantify it. Have the logistics of it planned out as if there exists such a thing as calculating love. Besides not wanting to, Himeno doesn’t think she  could,  either. She can’t physically stretch the love and see how far it goes, cannot promise that it’s unconditional or unchanging or entirely separate from lust. So she never voices it. 

She’s quite certain that Aki can feel it, though. At least she hopes so. It would be a shame if the purest thing she has ever mastered couldn’t be felt in the way she intended to. 

That night, in her living room, Himeno was almost certain that he felt it. That he knew. He must have, right? Right. But he never addressed it. Never decided to be vicious and pretend it was honesty, and never said sorry either. Why would he? There was no point in apologizing for something that you can neither control nor think is a bad choice. 

Because it wasn’t. Himeno could see it then. Amid the nervous shake of Aki’s hands, the wonder in his eyes, and the nervous, juvenile anxiety buzzing in Himeno’s lungs, she realized that more than anything, they needed to be friends. Because they had no others. They had companions, and work acquaintances to exchange pleasantries and a drink with, but neither of them had someone to know them inside out, quirks and pet peeves and all. 

So it was a great choice if anything. For Aki and Himeno to never be anything more than what they were. Even if it thinking about the prospect of that ‘more’, sometimes hurt with the intensity of a torn limb. Sometimes. 

To be loved is to be known. Aki knows Himeno better than she knows herself, and she has known him ever since before he became Aki. 

That’s how it used to be, at least.

“I applied for the Private Sector position.”

He had said it between a mouthful of dinner at their favorite place, so nonchalantly that Himeno could think he was talking about the weather if she wasn’t paying attention.

“Kyoto?” She asked, making sure to keep her voice steady.

“Uh-huh.” The sound of chopsticks against porcelain. The quiet chatter of nearby tables. Himeno’s shaking leg under the table. “It’s a good opportunity. It will untie my hands. I'm lucky to be considered at all, given my age.”

“And you'll be going to Kyoto.”

The department known for retrying the most closed cases.

Aki's eyes were careful as they rose from his plate to meet Himeno's.

“If I get it.”

“Yes,  if. If  you get the position, you will be moving to Kyoto.” 

Himeno tried to keep the sharpness of her tone at bay, she really did. But there is not much she can keep from Aki these days. 

“It’s a two-hour train ride," he said.

“Two and a half. Two hours and thirty-five minutes, to be exact.”

“Point still stands; it’s not the end of the world.”

To you,  Himeno almost seethed but managed to hold back, somehow. Of all the things he could be selfish about, he chooses this. The one that will get him away. Out of sight, but unfortunately not out of mind. 

“Is there anything I can say or do that will get you to turn down the offer?" she thought to ask, because there's not much he can hide from her either, and she knows he won't be happy with her meddling. So she asks.

“No,” he said, but still didn’t look at Himeno, so she knew it was a lie. What he meant was ‘Don’t try to.’ 

She took a careful breath and unclenched her fists from where they sat on her lap.

“Well, then.”

If Aki was surprised by the lack of further resistance, he didn’t say so. He was probably glad for the truce, even if he felt this was far from the end of it. They carried on with their dinner. 

But Himeno had to be cautious with how she would proceed. Aki has made a lot of reckless and self-destructive choices in the time she has known him, but this one has to take the cake. At least before, he was within safe distance. Arm's reach. Himeno could grab him by the back of his collar and stop him. She can’t do that if Aki goes to Kyoto.

Most importantly, there will be no one to do the same to her.

Plainly asking him to stay would be cruel, and it would result in nothing more than hurting her own pride since Aki would refuse. Manipulating him into refusing the promotion himself wouldn’t work either. Not because Aki would see through it, but because Himeno is unfortunately too much of a pussy to push the buttons that would really matter to him. What’s the point in Aki staying in Tokyo if he ends up hating Himeno?

She tested the waters by telling Denji, and unfortunately, the panicked look in his eyes pleased Himeno. It meant he cared. It meant that even if Aki ended up hating her, there would be someone else in Tokyo to grab his collar if need be. 

Yet that hadn’t led anywhere so far. Maybe Denji wasn’t as audacious as Himeno thought, or maybe the news of the promotion hadn’t affected him as much as she had bet on. 

But aside from being stubborn as a rock, Himeno is also quite resourceful when she needs to be. 

If she couldn't make Aki drop the promotion, she would make the promotion itself disappear. Or the entirety of Public Safety. It's never too late to learn how to make a hydrogen bomb. 

She thought she'd have more time, however. 

But then the Kyoto tryout case news came to punch her in the gut, and the nausea from that has not dulled one bit. It's been there all morning, all of ten excruciating hours of work. Between every signed paper, every photocopy or stamp, and reading one paragraph 4 times until she focuses on what it says.

It never truly goes away until late into the night, when she's one of the last people remaining in the office, and she catches a glimpse of Aki's silhouette walking toward the double glass doors of the main area.

Most days, the sight of him is akin to a wave of warm water. An orange, atmospheric lamp of sorts. The liminal space between autumn and winter. Desaturation. Static.

Today's different. Today there's a lightness to his step, despite the fact that it's well into night hours and that his eyebags are visible even from such a distance. Today, his presence comes with an unexpected shock, a crunch of imaginary electricity snapping underneath Himeno's skin.

He's laughing. Sort of. There's the Aki element of it, of course, the smallness, the dullness. But he's smiling. Angel is walking next to him with half the speed and less than half the energy, muttering something and barely moving his mouth, as Aki's back makes calculated contact with the glass door, and he walks into the common area backward.

"Oh, look. You made it out without killing each other."

Aki turns around, spotting Himeno as she gets up from her spot beside the printer. He points at the file clutched within Angel's arms.

"And with a settlement."

Fuck. 

They didn't make a mess of it then. 

Back to the hydrogen bomb plan C.

"Well, that's cause for celebration if I've heard any!" Himeno forces out and goes to grab her coat off the back of her chair. "Dinner. Drinks.  Something. " She turns to point to Angel, with half an arm into her sleeve. "You too, let's go."

It takes a beat or two for Angel to realize she's talking to him. Then he turns behind him and only finds Aki, who's also looking at Himeno with a furrowed brow.

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you. Unless someone else just returned from a successful case in Kyoto?"

Angel opens his mouth, then closes it again. Seeing him baffled has a satisfying hue to it. It always does with these types of people. The far too collected ones. The ones with the heavy-lidded eyes.

"I don't drink," he says at last, making Himeno chuckle.

"Sure you don't."

Aki starts pantomiming something from behind Angel. Hands pressed together...finger around forehead...halo? Hand drops to stomach, then left shoulder, then right- cross!

"Oh, you...oh. Oh!" Himeno beams. He's religious. Like. A lot. "Okay, that's fine, totally fine. Just dinner it is."

He might have sensed that Aki was gesturing because he turns and gives him a glare which Aki expertly avoids. When his eyes are back on Himeno they hold none of that heat. 

"I'm really tired, actually," he says, and it comes off surprisingly genuine. Almost regretful. Or maybe Himeno is hearing shit. "But thank you for the um. Invite."

"Raincheck, then."

"Sure." That one he might not mean. He gestures to the file. "I'll just drop these off to Makima, and then I'll head home."

"Do you have a ride?" Aki asks, and Himeno immediately recognizes that tone. That borderline tenderness which, when it was directed at her, made her lie and say she didn't have a ride.

Angel meets the tenderness with a flat stare.

"Yes, Hayakawa, it's called The Bus."

Himeno observes. The thing about Aki is that he is a series of tiny epiphanies, unevenly spaced out, and each one more valuable than the one before. No matter how many years or decades she spends studying him, or growing with him, he will continue to provide Himeno with tiny epiphanies, like the one he's giving her now. 

A secret smile, a knowing gaze, hands twitching at his sides as though longing to touch something that is not there.

Uncanny, in a sense. Like watching her first meeting with Aki from a third-person perspective. 

"Suit yourself," Aki tsks, exactly as he would at nineteen, and turns to the door.

Angel tightens the hold on his files.

"Goodnight."

Chapter Text

The world never made much sense to Power.

This universe, this life, this intricate web of rules and laws, half of which are unspoken, if you will. Power never quite figured it out. That’s something she had pinpointed from a fairly young age. Her lack of understanding. From simple things like;  why is the water clear if the sea looks blue?  Or  Why can’t we just print more money?  To more complex, difficult things;  Mom, why is that man staring at my skirt? Mom, why doesn’t our family specifically have more money? 

After a certain age and thereafter, Power realized she wasn’t interested in answering these questions of varying difficulty or learning any of society’s unspoken rules. She was interested in rewriting them. It was at that age, the one where the suffix  -teen  starts aching a bit when Power’s peers decided they would break their backs trying to tailor themselves to the world’s standards and not the other way around. Tailoring yourself is a lot less work than tailoring the world, but well. It’s not a job for weaklings, so—

Power gathers that’s the reason she didn’t have many friends growing up. Either that or the fact that she called herself Power. Take your pick.

She didn’t mind it all that much. Power knew she was great regardless. She didn’t need any teenager’s meek approval to be certain of that fact. At the end of the day, friends were a distraction from what really mattered. Tailoring. Tailoring a world where Power understands everything and feels left out by no one. 

It’s slow work. For now, she’s stuck at Public Safety, tired of having to explain her genius to half-witted nobodies parading around in ties. 

Alright, that was kind of harsh. Possibly. They are not  all  half-witted. Or maybe they are, but Power still tolerates a selected handful. 

Like Aki. 

Power has never been one to see the value in neighbor relations, but it just so happens that she finds Aki…agreeable. He keeps to himself, is not a complete dimwit, and hands out favors like candy if you speak to him the right way. That about covers all the bases needed for Power to not hate someone. It’s not that Aki has no flaws, he has, and they’re not only many in number but also  glaringly  obvious. But none of his flaws (except maybe his sharp tongue) are things that vex Power in any way. Like his “too much heart” issue. His urge to let people step all over him like a rug. His capacity to give and give and give and give-

That is entirely Aki’s concern and vice, and Power chooses to not interfere with it, nor draw too much attention to the fact that it is a vice. At least to her. 

Denji, on the other hand. He is a chapter of his own.

While Power gets along with Aki because he finds him agreeable, she doesn’t understand what makes her get along with Denji. He is, by all accounts, disagreeable. He is loud and unmannered. Unrefined. Vurglar. "Crass" one would say, like Power herself, but when she does it, it’s a righteous display of superiority. When Denji does it, he’s just crass. He is also painfully, visibly insecure— he folds into himself like a child when he’s embarrassed. He is gullible to a fault, and if he could physically rip his heart out of his chest and give it to a girl who opened a door for him, he would do it. No questions asked.

Power could go on for days naming things about Denji that make him disagreeable. That doesn’t change the fact that she likes him. 

That undeniable truth has been an endless source of frustration for the past nine months that she has known him. A chip on her shoulder, a mosquito buzzing above her head as she sleeps. Denji’s existence in Power’s space has made her sympathize with Aki’s “too much heart” terminal condition, and it’s horrendous. It’s been horrendous ever since the day they first talked to each other.

Makima had informed her of the kid in the witness protection program who would be staying next door to her, but Power had never guessed she meant it so literally. 

As in. 

Sleeping on the hallway floor next to the door.

“What is this?”

It was late January, cold and unwelcoming as always in their building, and these three words were the only ones that Power could muster at the sight of Denji curled up in a ball and sleeping on his own doormat, with his dog wrapped in his arms.

She approached him, tentatively. Leaned over him. Inspected him. He wore this ratty old olive green jacket he had on when he first arrived, littered with tiny specks of blood along the collar. It was kinda depressing, but no more than it was iffy. Power had scrunched her nose at him. 

When she ducked down to ensure he was still breathing and wasn’t killed in a perfect sleeping position, he suddenly spoke;

“Quit staring.”

The rumble of his hoarse voice seemed to wake up his pet, and it started making low growling sounds at Power. A warning.

“Why are you sleeping outside?”

“Forgot my keys inside,” Denji mumbled, still refusing to open his eyes. “I’m not used to having keys.”

“That has to be the stupidest thing I heard today. And I work with some very stupid people, dude.”

Power doesn’t switch to casual speech very often but she finds that when you adjust your talking habits to match the person you’re talking to, they like you more. Not that she cared if Denji liked her. Obviously. But ‘dude’ is a fun word. 

“Yeah, fuck you too. Now can you move? You’re blocking the warmth from the light bulb.”

Denji had a unique way of making peace with his misery, she had discovered. He didn’t wallow in it, or complain, but he wasn’t happy with it either. He was fully aware that yes— his life is shit. But he thought that was okay because it could  always  be shittier. Somehow.

“Did you knock at Aki’s? He’s got spare keys for your dump.”

“And give the dickhead an excuse to roll his eyes at me and call me a fancy word for stupid? No thanks.”

He stuffs himself further in his covers and Power can’t help but roll her eyes. Yeah, Aki is a dickhead, but sometimes he isn’t. He is also not very fond of the word "stupid" or any synonyms (which Power thinks is stupid in itself) but he would say something about Denji’s irresponsibility. Most importantly, he would open the door.

“You'd really rather sleep on your doormat than ask Aki for help?”

Denji doesn’t dignify that with a reply. Fair enough, it was a rhetorical question. But he huffs and puts some more force into his shoulders as if that will make Power go away.

It clicks, then.

“You knocked and he didn’t answer, didn’t you?”

“….yeah.”

“Well, if you’re gonna sleep on the floor, you can at least do it inside my apartment, where people don’t step with shoes on.”

Denji cracked an eye open, weighing on whether Power was being serious. He squinted, his nose wrinkling all childishly, and after a moment of silent contemplation, she stood up and dusted his pants off.

“Cool. Thanks.”

He didn’t ask her if she was for real. Or what was the catch. He didn’t ask her anything at all. He just took her word for it, everything at face value. Fascinating, almost. How gullible he could be. How he willfully turned himself into clay for other people to mold as they please. Fascinating and slightly terrifying. 

“You are so lucky that I’m not a murderer.”

He stired. “What?”

“Nothing. Come in.”

It was his first time entering her apartment but he gave no wandering glances, didn’t pick anything up, or made any comment. Honestly, Power was slightly offended. Her apartment was wonderful, it’s worth commenting on. Denji offered nothing.

Both he and Pochita slept on the floor that night without any fuss, despite Power’s bed being visibly spacious enough for them all. The display was quite sad, so Power made sure to throw a pillow against Denji’s head, out of the goodness of her heart. He slept a bit funnily. Curled up like an embryo, but it definitely wasn’t due to the cold. The heater was working just fine inside the apartment. Power didn’t think to ask. Loads of weirdos have peculiar sleeping habits. 

She half expected to wake up that morning with Denji already out, or up and ready, making her something to eat as a sign of gratefulness. But no. He just kept sleeping. All throughout Power making herself breakfast (defrozen eggos, bitten straight out of the pack), making Nyako breakfast, dressing up, and putting the barest effort into combing her hair.

"Tell me when you want me out," the ball of misery on the floor suddenly spoke. 

Power nearly jumped. She leaned over Denji trying to detect any difference between his supposed sleeping form and his closed-eye awake one. There was none.

"How long have you been awake, you weirdo?"

He opened his eyes only to cast an annoyed glare at her.

"I'm a light sleeper, alright?"

"Well, it's weird!"

"Shut up, you're weird! You didn't shower last night or this morning."

That was confirmation that he really was awake and kicking. It was also quite an enraging statement.

"I shower whenever the fuck I want, there's no deadline!"

"There absolutely is one!"

"NU-uh."

"Yuh-huh! You are digusting-!"

That is usually how most of Denji and Power's conversations unraveled after the 10-word limit, sometimes with a larger number of "fuck you"s shoved in. One would expect that this childish animosity would get tiring and that they would try to interact as little as possible, after that initial experience.

Yet it didn't. They don't try that. 

Power can't recall the precise date this occurred, or when she was even made aware of it, but she realizes now, about nine months later, that she and Denji are bizarrely conjoined at the hip. They argue, and sometimes they even fight physically (Denji seems to have that effect on people. He has a punchable face) but they still silently choose to be conjoined at the hip. 

Aki had called their continuous bickering and simultaneous refusal to stay away from each other, "sibling-like".

He didn't seem to mean it as an insult, so Power didn't retaliate. 

It's not like she would know how, anyway. She doesn't understand sibling bonds. But for once, she was not aggravated by that which she does not comprehend. 

Aki is one of the only people who still agrees to play any sort of board game with Power, despite her always winning because she cheats. 

If you ask her out loud, she will never call it cheating, however. And it shouldn't be called that at all. She's simply finding more  creative  ways to win, and it's not her fault that other people didn't take precautions to prevent that.

Not everyone seems to see it that way. The participants willing to be Power's opponent in anything have been statistically lessening over the years, but Aki is a constant. Power is certain he knows she's cheating creatively winning, but in an almost depressing manner, he doesn't seem to mind that fact. 

She destroys him in tichu. Again.

"Aha! Three wins in a row, you're paying for dinner!" Power points an index at Aki's bored face, triumphant.

"Sure," he simply says and starts collecting the deck back in the box. "Pick a cuisine."

Power opens her mouth to answer when the faint sound of distant laughter reaches her ears. She and Aki both peek over the railing, like nosy old people. On the street below, they spot a laughing Denji, followed by Reze, sprinting in zig-zag motions. They seem to be chasing each other, but it only becomes clear what they're actually doing when Reze makes a throwing movement, and a gutted mandarin splashes all over Denji's white shirt.

"Unfair! How is your aim this good?"

"It's not. Yours is just waaaay shittier."

Their laughter has a strange quality. Musical, almost. Like something worth trapping. Denji rarely laughs this loud without it being at someone's expense.

Reze shrugs, still smiling, and walks up to him. Their voices drop into hushed murmurs and then completely disappear as soon as they cross the threshold of the building's lobby, wiping their dirty hands on each other's clothes. 

Power raises her eyes to Aki, expecting to see him grimacing at the prospect of the lobby's floor getting stained in mandarin remnants. But he kind of smiles, instead. The result more so resembles suppressed annoyance or patronizing amusement. But it's a smile, and it's Aki, and it doesn't make sense.

"Why the long face?" he says suddenly.

Power hadn't realized she was frowning at him.

“I am experiencing unrighteous nervousness," she admits.

Aki doesn't look surprised by the answer. Or intrigued, even.

“He’s fine,” is all he says. Like he knows things Power doesn't. Things that have to do with Power herself.

I don't understand.

It takes her a moment to realize Aki is talking about Denji. 

"I know he is fine, I just saw him."

That elicits a snort.

"You were looking at them like they shat on your kitchen. You don't have to like Reze, but there's no reason to be suspicious of her."

Power thinks of saying she doesn't know Reze, and therefore doesn't care about her at all, but that would be a miscalculation. She freely dislikes people she doesn't know too. However, something about the way Aki phrases it piques Power's interest. Again, like he knows something Power is oblivious to. And she hates it.

"I've known about her for longer than you have. Why are  you  not suspicious of her?"

A pause of silence ensues. Aki tries to make it read as casual but fails miserably, and it becomes all the more apparent when he takes a very noisy slurp of coffee from his mug.

Power squints.

“Aki…”

“Power.”

“Did you perhaps abuse your authority as a government lawyer in any way these past few weeks?”

Aki performs a haphazard roll of his eyes and points inside the apartment, at the living room's coffee table, where a yellow Public Safety file rests on the finger-stained glass.  

Power immediately gets up and rushes inside, on her tiptoes. Even when he's not smoking, Aki's apartment has a lingering scent of tobacco. Power doesn't mind. She doesn't mind most smells after she has connected them to something particular. After they make sense.

One look at the file's cover, and her face breaks into a grin.

“You freak, you background-checked her.”

“Have we met?”

Power begins flipping through the pages. The fact that this was lying in plain sight is almost vicious, but there are record files in every corner of Aki's apartment, so Power has learned to overlook them. If Denji stumbled upon this one, he wouldn't know how to read the kanji inside. She'd call Aki cruel if she didn't think this was hilarious.

“Did Makima ask you to do this?”

It's not the most well-kept secret that Power doesn't like their boss very much. It's not a secret at all. In fact, she makes it very clear, every chance she gets. Half of her dislike is somewhat based. Makima is- simply put- a fake. Fake smile, fake pleasantries, fake words and promises, probably fake hair, but realistically not. Power is not fond of artificial things that have no good reason for being artificial.

The other half is out of sheer stubbornness since everyone else seems to  really  like Makima. An unnatural, and unnerving amount. The only person that Power has found shares her distaste for the woman, is Himeno. And Power doesn't like the idea of agreeing with Himeno.

“She didn’t get to," Aki speaks from the balcony, over the rim of his cup. "Denji told you and me before he told her.”

Power couldn't help the scoff of pride, although maybe she should have tried more to hide it. 

“Aki Hayakawa, you are sick in the head.”

“Thank you.”

“Best believe I mean this as a compliment.”

“Don’t get too excited. The file is squeaky clean.”

Power drops the folder back on the coffee table, not bothering to read further after Aki shat on her party.

“Damnit."

It's not that she wanted Reze to be a convicted criminal. Or awful in any shape and form. If anything she should be celebrating Denji's accidental find. But if nothing is objectively wrong with Reze, then this means Power's gut feeling is false. That she's being paranoid, and conquered by irrational fears, whose source she hasn't yet found.

That she is wrong. 

Power is never wrong. 

Power is never conquered by irrational fears.

Power is not stupid.

All her enthusiasm dies, and she plops back on the couch. Aki observes her, still sitting on the balcony chairs that would better fit a lawn yard and a view devoid of concrete.

“She has a bit of a sob story if that interests you. And a half-assed education. I could swear Denji is a social reject magnet.”

"Speak for yourself," Power bites back.

"I am."

A tiny smile. Power turns her head the other way, hands crossed over her chest, to avoid returning it. Her gut has already betrayed her, she would rather not have her face do the same. 

“This is weird," she says. "It’s weird that I'm anxious about Denji's...whateverfriend being a not-murderer, and that I willingly spend time with him, and that his dog doesn’t annoy me and Nyako. It’s weird that he has somehow found a perfect vacant spot in my life and has holed up in it like it’s his job. It’s weird that I’ve let him.”

It’s weird that I care about him. 

I don't understand.

“I understand.”

Power turns to see Aki looking at her, almost sympathetically. 

“But it’s different for me," she insists. "I  never  care. About anything, much less people. You care all of the time about everything, especially people. To think that I have stooped to  your  level..." Her face scrunches in disgust. "Here in the mud of…empathy.”

“You'll get used to it." Aki tips back the last bit of his coffee and stands up to get himself a new one. He doesn't even blink at Power's assessment of his character. Rude. "Mud’s comfy.”

“Why are these in red?”

The sudden flutter of paper makes Kobeni almost shake in place. She always stands as though she's trying to take up as little space as possible. As though she can physically shrink into oblivion. Power detests that.

“These are the words that need to be changed.”

Power feels her hand crunch the paper.

“Changed?”

“So. It’s um," Kobeni swallows and collects herself before Power can tell her to speak clearly. "It’s a remarkable speech. But-“

“I don’t like the word 'but'," Power grins. "Maybe you should change that too.”

Kobeni tries to smile, to pretend that they are in on the joke together, and not at her expense. It comes off wobbly.

“I meant to say it comes off a bit strong. Like here," she takes the paper and points at the first paragraph with a surprisingly steady hand. "The word ‘ostentatious’. Lovely word but you can’t have the minister refer to his opponent’s speeches in that way.”

“Why?" Power drawls. "Too difficult to pronounce?”

Kobeni grimaces. 

Fine. Power can cut her some slack, she supposes. It's not fun playing with your meal if it keeps screaming throughout the process.

“Technically, I’m not referring to a politician’s speech, but the person who writes his speeches, so  my  opponent. And I happen to think their writing is ostentatious.”

“Well, you can’t say it.”

Power leans over her tiny desk and snatches the paper back, even though she doesn't need it anymore.

“Fine.”

“For what’s worth..." Kobeni clears her throat. "I agree with you.”

“That’s not worth much.” 

Kobeni's expression falls a little, but Power doesn't get why. She was being honest. People are supposed to value honesty, no?

“Okay...”

Kobeni lingers for a moment. Shifting her weight from one foot to the next, while Power stares down at her, hoping she will get the memo and make herself scarce. She does, eventually. 

Power reworks the speech. 

She toys with the idea of making it more offensive, but she doesn’t have the time and she refuses to work for even a minute over 7 pm. 

Makima can shove it.

She dumps the reprinted speech on Kobeni’s desk (who  always  works after 7 pm) on her way out of the building and bids no one goodbye. No one tries saying it to her either. 

Already by the start of October, the weather has started getting annoyingly cold. That exact temperature between a light jacket and a heavy coat which either leaves you shivering or sweating. Power hates fall. She hates the subway too, particularly the smell inside the wagons, that combination of perfumes and deodorants, of smoke lingering on coats, or other unidentifiable odors. Hates it. But she hates waiting for Aki to wrap up his extra workload even more, so subway it is. 

She stands alarmingly near to the yellow line marking the end of the platform for the idiots who stand too close to the steep fall to the tracks. Her hand is deep into her tote bag, searching for a pack of bubble gums she knows is somewhere in there.

A victorious  Ha!  escapes her when she finally grabs ahold of it. On the way out of the bag, she realizes her house keys have tangled themselves on the pack, from the edge of her sharp keychain. 

Too little too late. 

The keys fall out of the bag and onto the train rails.

Power stares at them for a moment. 

No, this is

No that’s not a real thing that happened just now.

That’s stupid.

Power doesn’t  do  stupid things.

This is

No

This is fixable.

She stomps her way to the information desk and explains the situation to a very unhelpful man behind the glass. 

“The keys don’t pose any difficulty for the train, you needn’t inform us.”

“I don’t care about that!" Power's hands adopt a mind of her own and begin waving around. "I care about  my  keys. How do I get my keys?”

“You...cannot," The worker seems confused for some reason. As though Power's demand is nonsensical. Which it shouldn't be. She just wants her keys back. How will she get home without her keys? 

"What would you like me to do, ma'am? Stop the train?”

Power calms down for the briefest moment.

“Can you do that?”

“Not for  this.”

“Why  not?”

“Because it’s not a life or death situation?”

This is stupid.

I don't understand.

Power doesn’t  do  stupid things.

I don't understand.

How is she supposed to get home without her keys?

I don't understand.

Why does no one but her care about her keys?

“So. You’re useless to me," she more so tells the worker, rather than ask. A natural conclusion.

“I-“

“Goodnight.”

Stupid.

This is stupid.

Absolutely stupid.

                      stupid

                         stupid

                            stupid

                              stupid

                                 stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid 

                                     stupid.

I don't understand.

Am I stupid?

Power spends the entire train ride and the remainder of her walk home huffing and puffing. 

Disappointingly enough, that didn’t bring her keys back, nor did it offer her any other alternative entrances to her apartment. 

She knocked at Denji’s. No answer. Then at Aki’s. There she knocked twice, just for good measure, even though she knew he was still at the office. 

She tried breaking into her own apartment using a pen. 

She ended up chewing the pen out of frustration until the cap was looking like a twisted gut and her gums smelled of plastic.

Finally, she sat down on her doormat, defeated. 

How does one even call a locksmith? What are their phone numbers? Where will she get a phone outside of her apartment? She doesn’t have any quarters for a paid one. This feels like something she should have been taught, in that non-existent manual of "How To Be an Adult" that Aki was given. Along with a bunch of other things, like how to make people understand you’re smarter than them, and how to make them wanna be friends with you anyway. Or how to be...Nice. Nice-er.

It's hours before she hears whistling coming from the building staircase and Denji appears at the end of the hall. They lock stares, and the whistling stops.

"Alright, who are we beating up?" he beams.

Power doesn't make the connection at first. Not until she realizes her eyes are sore and the corners of her mouth ache from frowning with so much force. Plus, she's sat on the floor, hugging her knees. No one ever hugs their knees when they're feeling good. It must be a strange sight. Seeing Power laying down and taking punches.

"Would you really beat someone up if they upset me?"

Denji seems to legitimately contemplate it.

"Nah, it was just an expression. You'd hate it if I stole your spotlight."

Power wipes her nose against her knee.

"Super good point."

"Your keys?"

"Train rails."

A snort. "And Aki?"

"Out."

"That’s fine," Denji gets out his own keys from his jacket's pocket and unlocks his apartment. "You can sleep at mine, and we’ll call a locksmith tomorrow."

Power doesn't debate him. She gets up and her tailbone immediately screams.

"You mean Aki will call a locksmith."

"Same shit."

"Oh my God, he's gonna do The Thing when I tell him."

"The pinching his nose bridge? And the-"

"-talking to himself about what life choices led him here, yeah."

"Fun."

Other than that, it's a silent affair. 

Pochita greets them, as enthusiastically as ever, and Denji feeds him while Power rummages through his singular drawer for some more comfortable clothes. Everything in Denji's tiny apartment smells like too much product. Too much air freshener, too much deodorant, too much softener in his clothes, and dish soap in his sink. It's endearing bizarre. Like he was never taught how to clean things and is worried he is under-doing it.

There's no question on where Power will sleep. She doesn't allow for there to be one, as she drops on the bed, stealing a generous portion of the blanket and spending a good five minutes pushing against Denji's back for more space. As much space as there can be in a single-sized bed.

The hinge of Denji's window shutters broke on his first week here, and he has yet to fix it, so there is now a harsh line of light, cast against the bed and reflected on the nearest wall. It's colored a pale yellow, a mix of the city lights and the moon. Power waves her hand on the gap, and watches how the shadow of it swallows the light.

“Denji?”

“Mhm?” comes the muffled response.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

There's no sound in the room for a moment, other than their breathing. The covers don't shift. Denji doesn't turn around. 

“I don’t think anyone is entirely stupid. Everyone must be smart in at least one thing.”

Power can't pick apart his tone, so she can't decipher if he genuinely believes that, or if he's just saying it because it's what he thinks Power wants to hear.

“Do you think I’m mean, maybe?”

“Oh yeah.”

That one was immediate. Power kicks her leg backward and elicits a satisfying  Ow!  from Denji.

“Screw you, I’m a ray of fucking sunshine! You are blessed by my presence-”

“You didn’t let me finish!”

Power stops kicking.

“Ah. Carry on.”

“I was going to say,  yeah,  you’re a dick" he barks back. "But I don’t mind it. And I don’t mean I like you  despite  it. I just...like you. You're my friend.”

This is the thing Power likes most about Denji, if she’s being honest with herself. You can be weak with him. You can gut yourself and lay there unstitched in his presence, and he won't devour you. Not because he is nice. But because he isn't hungry for it. He doesn't care if you're weak, or strong, or mean and not mean. He doesn't care about a lot of things, the way Power doesn't. It's comforting. To know that what she doesn't understand, he also doesn't. 

Denji is not all that nice-- Power doesn't think. But she doesn't care either. 

She flips herself under the blanket and throws an arm and a leg over Denji, clinging to him like a backpack. He is always feverishly warm. Easy to lean into.

“I like being your friend."

Around 3 am, Power detangles herself from Denji and sets out on a quest to get a glass of water. Short quest, all things considered, seeing as Denji's apartment is nothing but a bedroom with a kitchen in the corner. Still, she encounters foes.

"If you don't feel like being honest with me, at least be honest with yourself."

"I am being perfectly honest."

Power abandons her glass and itches toward the door to identify the source of noise, although one of the voices she can recognize in her sleep by now. She ducks in front of the peephole and catches a distorted view of Aki walking down the hallway, followed by that pleasantly-asshole-ish solicitor from a few weeks ago. 

There are a few questions to be had here, starting with why Angel is in their apartment building at 3 am, followed by why are Aki's hair and tie loose, but neither of these lures Power in, as much as the reason they're arguing. 

"If you were honest you would admit you're only chasing the Kyoto position to retry your family's case,"  Angel conveniently catches Aki's sleeve to stop him, right where Power's viewpoint is still clear.

Aki is slow in stopping, a bit dazed. Power figures the office was out for drinks. She hopes he didn't drive them here- that would be stupid of him- but that thought gets silenced the moment Power gets a clear view of Aki's face. 

He's smiling. A bit lazily. Drunkenly maybe, or condescendingly. 

"Is it a religious thing? Your persistence? It's getting annoying."

He says 'annoying' as though it's a synonym for 'lovely'. 

Power starts feeling like she's invading on something truly intimate, and not a source of gossip over coffee and tichu. 

They're still several feet apart, but the air somehow shifts. Angel is trying his very best to look indifferent but that stubborn crease on the bridge of his nose says otherwise. 

"That man has already stolen half of your life,"  he says.  "Why do you willfully give him more?"

Power doesn't know where he got the balls. There is a select and tiny number of people who can get away with talking to Aki so openly, and he blows up regardless. Now he's just smiling. Tiny. Faint. Unbothered. 

"Didn't take you for the savior complex type."

"I'm not."

He leans in.

   And leans.

      And leans.

"So?"

Their height difference is no longer a good excuse for Angel to avoid Aki's eyes. Power doesn't quite understand the witchery of eye contact, but she knows it speaks of plenty when one runs from it.

"You're pathetic."

"You must be really fond of 'pathetic'."

         And leans

             And leans

The extinguishment of distance. 

Power instantly backs away from the door, as though burned, with a surprised yelp barely trapped between her teeth. She all but jumps to the bed and lays her hands on Denji's sides.

"Denji, Denji! Wake up-"

Somewhere between the first and second shake of excitement, Denji jolts awake. 

It all happens rather fast.

He comes alive with a short-breathed gasp, his hand jerks under his nightstand, and he turns to face Power within that same short breath.

A butterknife lays between them, gripped in Denji's violently shaking hand.

They freeze. Both of them.

I don't understand.

Yeah, Power has never understood the witchery of eye contact, but fear is a universal language. Especially when it looks so similar to that of an animal's. True, primal fear, knocking on your door and hoping to awaken your survival instinct. 

Denji's was awake alright. A thing of nightmares. The glint in his eye matched the moonlight's reflection on the butterknife.

It truly happened rather fast.

The panic on Denji's face melts as quickly as it appeared. He drops the knife on the blankets and rolls off the bed, falling on the floor where he takes his first proper breath. It shudders in his chest as he curls into himself and against the nightstand.

"What the  fuck  dude?"

Power kicks into gear like a car battery. She wasn't breathing either.

"Me  what the fuck?  You  what the fuck!"

"You scared the living crap out of me-!"

"And you, me!"

The commotion wakes Pochita up, who predictably jumps straight into barking, until Denji traps him on his lap, petting him furiously.

"Shh, it's fine. It's fine, nothing happened, it's just us."

Power isn't sure who is convincing who and of what. Whatever is left there that is untapped, she has decided she will stay clear of it.

She takes the butterknife in her hand, examining it.

"You keep a knife tapped under your nightstand? And not even a proper knife- what was  this  gonna do, huh? It barely cuts through water."

"I wasn't gonna waste a good kitchen knife on this, just--" he snatches the knife out of Power's grasp and tries to retape it in its place. "Don't fucking do that again, okay?"

I don't understand.

Power is not sure what 'that' is referring to. Waking him up? Springing on him from behind? Touching him at all? Something tells her this is not an appropriate time to ask for clarification. 

Denji is still shaking. So much so that he can't even stick the knife back on his first try. Power watches, limbs hanging uselessly at her sides, until Pochita takes advantage of the newly empty bed, and sinks there.

"Why did you wake me up?"

Power spares a glance at the door. The lack of murmurs bleeding through the walls tells her nothing is going on in the hallway anymore. Even if there was, she doubts Denji would like to hear about it now. Fear doesn't look at home in his face at all. Denji isn't supposed to be scared of anything. Especially not Power.

"Thought I saw a bug," she lies.

Denji's face crumples into a familiar expression of annoyance. Oh good.

"Seriously?"

"I hate bugs." 

"I can't believe..." His words trail off. His mouth twists. He settles a hand over his stomach. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

No faster than when he announced it, Denji got to his feet and ran to the bathroom, bursting through the door using his shoulder. He dropped by the toilet bowl and a series of gagging sounds started echoing against the tile walls, but with no result. 

Wordlessly, Power joins Denji on the cold floor, trailing fingers through his spiky hair. He gives no sign that he likes the gesture, but doesn't tell her to stop either. Aki and Himeno do this a lot. Power never got why, and it seemed rather absentminded, but now she sees the appeal. Sensory-wise. Or maybe it's only satisfying because Denji's hair is dead.

"M'giving up," Denji suddenly speaks into the bowl. "Don't call me a bitchboy."

"I wasn't gonna."

Power absolutely would have. But now that he asked, she won't.

Denji slowly drags himself out and sets his back against the wall opposite of Power. Their legs tangle in the middle, knees knocking against each other. Here, it smells like chlorine and mint-flavored toothpaste. Tears stain Denji's cheeks, from all that gagging. Probably. 

He looks miserable, and Power is overcome with the urge to physically rearrange his face into his usual pout instead of this...wet resignation.

“I think I…I got it." he licks his chapped lips. "The thing that’s been eluding me and turning my thoughts into crap. I got it, sort of. If I start talking about it, it will come back to me whole, I think. But I’m not sure I want to.”

I don't understand.

But for you, I'll try.

“Make a pros and cons list," she suggests. "I'll start. Pro; You’ll know what happened.”

Denji's eyes are adrift.

“Con; I will know what happened.”

They don't list any more items after that. Waking up at 3 am and realizing that you have grown attached to someone someone whose entire presence in your life was built upon the fact that he would ultimately leave, is an odd experience. Odd but not unpleasant. To know that our brains are capable of disregarding all logic, sense, and calculated plans if only to self-destruct. To drown themselves in a pond of avoidable sadness. 

Sometimes, lack of understanding has a fun hue to it.

“I’m scared,” Denji admits in the confines of his tiny bathroom, around 4 am when the sky is still pitch dark.

Power gives him her best smile.

“Do it scared.”

Chapter Text

In five days, Denji will be eighteen.

There is a lot to unpack in that fact— loads of feelings and plans and tasks he must sort out within these five days, but every time he so much as thinks about that assortment, he catches a headache. 'Ever had so much shit to do that you end up paralyzed and decide to do nothing at all? Except for think about all the shit you must do? Starring at the void? 

Denji is experiencing this right now, but instead of the void, he has resorted to starring at Reze, while she makes her way through a giant stick of cotton candy. A feast of sounds and smells coming from the funfair behind them drags Denji’s almost-corpse through a sensory overload. Children laughing, ping pong machines ringing, overtly cheery music with too many cymbals, and the overt smell of sugar.

And lights. So many lights. Colorful ones, too. They blink in succession, casting pretty glows where he and Reze sit on a faraway bench. Her hair is so dark it reflects none of it. Pretty.

“Had fun?” She asks, turning to him.

Denji’s stuck observing the corners of her smile and how they always settle at the exact same spot, shy of creating a dimple, but not quite. How she always looks Denji in the eyes when he speaks, and how he’s kind of going to miss that when he leaves. 

Because he  will  leave, right?

He will soon no longer be tied to Public Safety. They’re not evicting him from the apartment immediately, but he can either start paying normal rent or leave. 

And why wouldn’t he leave? 

He hates that place. Kind of. Sort of. Nine months ago he did.

And how does he leave?

What does he say?

Saying nothing is a good option, but it feels cruel. Denji  can  be cruel. 

Does he want to be? 

“Wooo, earth to Denji!” Reze waves a hand in front of his face, until Denji blinks out of his trance. 

“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, this was fun.”

So much fun.

I want to have this much fun every day for the rest of my life.

Is that selfish? 

Probably. And it feels great. 

Do I get to be selfish with you too?

Probably. It won’t feel so great.

Reze plants her feet on the bench and hugs her knees close to her chest.

“What has you so preoccupied?”

Just say it, you know, it's fine, it's cool, you can just say it, it's fine, it's just a few words, you can just say it, just say it just say it just sayitsayitsayit-

“What would you say if I told you I killed someone?”

The sentence leaves Denji with the force of a bullet, as if by saying it fast he will make the words weigh less. For a second, he thinks of getting up and bolting out of there, but the urge disappears and is instead replaced with confusion once he sees that Reze hasn’t even blinked.

She takes the last bite out of her cotton candy cloud, casually avoiding Denji’s eyes. 

“I’d say I know.”

She might have not heard, he thinks. Or misheard.

“You what.”

“Well, first of all,” Reze chews carefully behind her hand, as if pleasantries are their biggest concern right now. "Your neighbor gave me the shovel talk the other day."

"He what."

"Have you seen in movies sometimes when a young girl brings home a dude for the first time and the father is all like  'Watch how you handle my little girl'  or whatever-"

"I know what a shovel talk is," Denji all but tweaks. "But what the fuck do you mean Aki gave you a shovel talk, and what does it have to do with me killing a guy?"

It would perhaps be a good idea for this conversation to take place somewhere privately. Or somewhere with fewer children. Or for Denji to lower his voice.

"Relax, he just made a point of letting me know he has my address memorized," Reze flicks her hand. "But he was so nice about it! Unlike the other guys that paid me a visit two days after we met." 

She reaches behind her and throws her cotton candy stick at the trash can with perfect aim. 

"They were sort of sitting in my living room without me being home which was super uncool, and they proceeded to give me the whole  'Denji'  spiel."

Denji's eye positively twitches.

“So you know that—“

“You killed your Dad?" she says, and even though her voice is light, the words seem to press against Denji's chest like a boot. "Yeah, I know.”

"And you still...went out with me."

"Clearly."

"Alone."

Reze makes a point of looking behind them as if scouting the park.

"I sure hope so. Do these guys follow you around too?"

"Is this what a stroke feels like?" Denji asks, helplessly.

"Nah, you wouldn't be able to talk."

He takes a deep breath. Opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He takes another one, this time clasping his hands together. His thoughts are a mangled-up shoelace that he can't seem to find the end of.

“So you don’t...care?”

Reze looks surprised.

“Of course, I care. This is a huge deal. Life-changing shit."

Okay good. This Denji can understand. Except it doesn't in any way correlate to the rest of her reaction, so he's back to being confused.

“It didn’t...I don't know. Change the way you see me?”

“Of course it did.”

Denji just slumps back against the bench.

“What  is happening right now?”

For whatever inconceivable reason, Reze just scooches a bit closer.

“You are assuming that my calmness is equivalent to indifference and my lack of fear is equivalent to a lack of care.”

“It’s not?”

It should be. 

Maybe.

You should be scared, if only so that I can convince you not to be.

She rotates her body to face him, not giving him the option to look away.

“You wanted to live, right? You want to start over.”

She says it and Denji is overcome with the desire to knit their bones together. If such a thing were possible. 

A wonderful, sickening self-awareness comes with it. It washes over him in waves. 

Sometimes Denji forgets how he got where he is. 

How much he wanted to live, or why. 

How he's not just a network of tendons and veins filled with blood, not just a body, but something whole.

Something full of fear and longing, something capable of devastating want. Of need.

Something maybe worth caring about.

“So  much.”

Reze smiles.

"Well, that's it, then." She rests her head on Denji's rigid shoulder. "You'll figure out the rest later."

In four days, Denji will be eighteen. 

He catches Aki in the hallway, as he returns from work. He looks like shit. Dragging his feet. Holding his bag by the tips of his fingers. Eyes barely open. He doesn't notice Denji at first, but when he does, he forcibly straightens his stance and blinks himself half-awake. 

It's infuriating.

"I have leftovers in the fridge if you want--"

“Don’t go to Kyoto," Denji interrupts.

That completely wakes Aki up. His expression grows stony.

“Who even told you about that?"

“Himeno.”

A click of the tongue. 

“Manipulative little shit.”

He goes to unlock his door and disappear into his apartment- avoidant piece of crap that he is- but Denji doesn't let him. He grabs the knob and closes the door again.

“Don’t go to Kyoto.”

Aki glares at him, at first. Once he realizes raw intimidation won't get Denji to let go of the knob, he rolls his eyes.

“Relax. I’m sure you and Power will find a new slave to do your laundry in no time.”

“Shut up," Denji spits back. It comes off way more heated than he intended. "It’s not about that. Just. Don't fucking go there.”

There's a twitch in Aki's expression. As though it suddenly becomes a struggle to keep it so cold. 

“You’ll survive," he insists.

“You won’t."

The words have the effect of a physical rift. Aki steps back, eyes widening. It makes his eye bags more pronounced. 

Denji hates him, hates him, hates him.

"You think you are oh-so-good at adulting because you can make a stir fry and know what all these fucking buttons on the washing machine do, but you’re actually real  shit  at it!" Denji shouts, and it feels good. "You’re shit at it because you can’t tell the difference between being alone and being lonely.”

It feels good to see Aki not fight against it, not roll his eyes, or glare, or ignore Denji. It feels good to see him stunned into silence, looking visibly trapped, even if Denji is several feet away.

“I had a life before you and Power, you know,” he says. It lacks conviction.

Yeah, Denji bets he did. He must have. 

What he doesn't get is why Aki wants to go back to that. 

Why he feels the need to constantly rip out whatever roots he plants.

Sew and tear, sew and tear.

Like it's easy. 

Why is it easy for him and not Denji?

In four days, Denji will be eighteen. 

Why is the thought of leaving creating pits in Denji's stomach, when Aki is looking fine?

Why can Denji feel the tear and he doesn't?

“I withdrew my application to the Kyoto department two weeks ago.”

Denji's gaze snaps away from the floor and settles back on Aki.

“What?"

“I’m not taking the position," he shrugs. "It’s been decided.”

First comes a surprising, and all-consuming sense of relief. Denji's shoulders shag, he lets out a breath like he had been holding it for ages. 

Then comes sheer, blinding irritation. Because--

“And you just let me spew all this dramatic shit  for effect?”

Aki has the audacity to smile then.

“Absolutely. You’re the third person that has fallen for it this week.”

Denji's mouth opens and closes with only vague gawking sounds coming off, and no string of curse words capable of conveying both immeasurable bitterness and overwhelming joy.

“Go shit yourself," is what he settles for, and almost turns to leave.

“Hey.”

Aki makes an unexpected movement towards him, arms slightly raised, and Denji is caught off guard. It happens rather fast. 

He kind of. 

Well. 

He hits Aki in the side of the head.

“What the hell!"

Aki reacts immediately with a hiss of pain and stumbles back. Denji got him lightly in the ear, but with all that decorative metal, it must sting annoyingly.

"What are you doing!” Denji demands.

“I was trying to give you  a hug,  you fuckwad!”

Oh. Denji briefly relaxes. Then he thoroughly digests the concept of a hug from  Aki  and tenses up again.

“Ew! Why would you do that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, I must hate myself.”

He watches Aki as he presses a hand to his ear, face scrunched in childlike irritation. Denji would rather his deathbed be the only time he would have to hug Aki, but now he feels bad. He hesitantly opens his arms.

“Fine. You get three seconds, or else it’s gay.”

“No, fuck you, now the offer’s expired," Aki grumbles and checks his hand to see if there's blood on it. "Next time you directly or indirectly ruin one of my piercings I'll grab a pair of your underwear and use it as a cleaning cloth for my bathroom so that you get chemical burns on your balls.”

Denji physically recoils, turning half his body away from Aki, as though he felt the impact just from imagining it.

“What the  fuck?  Did you just come up with that on the fly? Or do you like— do you have these written somewhere? That is pure Evil.”

Aki smiles but his eyes don’t.

"Guess."

“What is wrong with you?”

“I would invest my Kyoto bonus in a head clinic but- oh well."

His tone is deadpan, but there is a lightness to him as he reaches for the door again. An almost-there smile despite his fatigue. 

“What changed your mind?" Denji asks, partly offended. "You said you withdrew weeks ago. So what changed your mind? Or who. Did someone make a better speech than me?"

Aki pauses, halfway through the door already. Still light, still almost smiling.

“A good fuck can go a long way."

"What?" The door shuts in Denji's gawking face. "Hey, is this a joke? Cause it’s not funny." He is met with silence, even when pressing his ear to Aki's door. "Oh my god, are you serious? Hey!  Aki! That's disgusting!”

In three days, Denji will be eighteen. 

He has to fill out a form.

He is not exactly sure what the form is for. It could be anything from getting him a proper ID card to completing missing information from his birth certificate. Or something more nefarious. Like cloning him...

Whatever. He doubts it's that serious (and if it were, it would be kinda cool). 

He had to come down to Public Safety to do it since neither Aki nor Power had a computer at home. The whole ordeal is just shy of humiliating if he's being honest. Why the fuck are the letters on the keyboard not in alphabetical order? And why does it take the fine motor skills of a brain surgeon to center a cursor? 

Also, what the fuck does he put for a last name?

There were no records of either him or his father in the house when Public Safety found Denji, so they realistically have no idea what his actual name is. Even Denji hardly remembers how to spell it. Not that he needs it now. There's no way he is taking his father's surname in new official documents, he'd rather lick his own shoes. 

After a few minutes of contemplation and looking at nearby object names for inspiration, Denji gave up and picked the phone off the desk, dialing in the Special Divison line.

"Public Safety Special Division, this is Hayakawa speaking, how may I help you?"

"When will you get a hot secretary? I'm sick of hearing your voice."

He hears Aki sighing in recognition and imagines him pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want, Denji?"

"What do I put as a surname in the survey they gave me?"

"Try your surname."

"Very funny!" Denji sees himself scowling on the computer screen's reflection. "I don't have one, dipshit."

This is not exactly true, and he suspects Aki knows that, but he doesn't question Denji, and that's all that matters. There's a momentary pause and Denji almost thinks Aki hung up on him out of pettiness. He starts spinning around himself on the wheelie chair. When he gets his own house all chairs will have wheels, he thinks. 

"Put mine."

Denji stops spinning. Almost falls backward, but catches himself by the edge of the desk.

"Wha'd you say?"

"Put my surname in the survey."

Simple. Effortless. Cold, almost, in the way he delivers it. Like it's the easiest solution he could muster, like it doesn't unravel Denji's guts to just think about.

"I have to get back to work. Secretaries are expensive."

The line goes dead before Denji can answer anything of value. His hands sit on the keyboard, reluctantly, and he starts typing Aki's name in Hiragana, praying that he is spelling it correctly. 

Click to the next page!

That shit is permanent, he thinks as he continues to slowly type in more information using his index fingers.

Click to the next page!

He's stuck with that name forever now. 

Click to the next page!

People will call him that when they first meet him.

Click to the next page!

There's something tying Aki's presence in his life forever.

Click to the next page!

Click to apologize!

Click to forget!

Click to be saved!

“I know it was really late, but I don’t remember the time, exactly. I guess you could tell from the uhm. The body. Shit, I’m getting ahead of myself— okay, backtrack. It was really late. I was in my futon in the living room when Dad entered through the front door. He was really loud, you know? Always banging the door and throwing his jacket…but I pretended to be asleep with my back turned to him anyway so that I didn’t have to talk to him. He talked to me, though. Or— he talked to himself. Out loud, thinking I’m not listening. I was. 

He started with grumbling about the debt. He had a thing for gambling, although I suppose you already know that. Well. The Collector was on his case about it. Kenjiro Hirota. Short, bearded fuck that smoked all the time. I knew Dad owed him a fuckton, and sometimes he had me count the bills and hide them so that he wouldn’t be tempted to gamble them away. That’s when he was sober. He wasn’t all that bad when he was sober, you know? Not winning  Dad of the Year  award, but not horrible…That night he wasn’t sober.

He was huffing and puffing about how close he was to winning this time, and then switched his tune, suddenly. He said it’s better that he didn’t win because Hirota and his goons would take it all away. He said Hirota was a monster. It surprised me to hear him say that. Dad was never so…corny. I don’t think he could tell the difference between a good man and a bad one if I’m honest. But he called the Collector a monster. A sick one. He said…”

Denji lifts his glass and takes a huge gulp of water. It drips down the side of his mouth and he wipes it with his sleeve.

“Sorry. He said Kenjiro Hirota had no use for our money because he was making bank selling organs. I didn’t understand, at first. I didn’t know you could…do that. I was running the mechanics of it in my head like a stupid fuck, while Dad kept talking. I should have been paying attention. I heard him sort of laugh then. Or wheeze. It was an ugly sound. He said that if it would get the gang off his back, he would cut out his own kidney and give it to him, but that Hirota wouldn’t want it because it was probably useless from all the booze. He then…I heard him step closer to my futon. Near my head. And. And he just goes 

You’ve never drunk booze, have you Denji?

Your kidneys must be worth a fuckload of cash, huh?"

Denji tries his best not to laugh. That would be inappropriate, perhaps.

"You know, he should have been cleaning the house more often. There were beer bottles everywhere, even on the floor. So easy to reach. His yapping woke Pochita up too. That really pissed me off. So I just—“

He makes a swinging motion with his hand, followed by a ‘woosh’ sound effect he had no option but to recreate with just his mouth.

“He went out like a light. Real’ pathetic, actually. I could have stopped hitting. But then I sort of…looked around me, at this fucking dump we lived in. This dirty, musty, bug-infested hole with no clean water…and I realized I kinda hated him, you know? I hated him. So I kept hitting. And hitting, and hitting…That’s around where you come in, right?”

Makima idly looks up from her notepad. 

Her expression is as tranquil as ever. If someone were to walk in right now they would not know if Denji just confessed to murder or if they were exchanging fun facts about seals.

“That is correct,” she says and clicks her pen against the page. “Do you happen to recollect the names of any associates Kenjiro Hirota had?”

“Tadashi something...There was an Izumi maybe. But I never met them.”

She smiles then, thin and pretty. Denji imagines it’s somewhat self-targeted. Other people pat themselves on the back after giving a good presentation of sales percentages at work, and Makima smiles when she frays her study subjects.

‘I can’t stress how little Makima cares for you, personally.’

Yeah, Denji sort of sees that. Not that it matters, really. He sees that he doesn’t care all that much either. Pats on the head are nice and all, but they’ve grown kind of tiring. He has begun to hate this office, how vacant and picture-perfect it is. He briefly imagines upturning the crystal coffee table or throwing one of the Mondrian replicas (Aki is very prissy about Denji calling the paintings “red square shits”) off the wall. For the hell of it. 

But that’s too much work and it would amount to nothing. He feels as though he has just vomited, but also, nothing like that. The sensation that something has left his insides is there, the dirtiness too, but the sweat and the characteristic aftertaste aren’t.

The tape recorder gets turned off.

Makima stands from her chair, and Denji mirrors her. Despite everything, he still thinks her presence is rather breathtaking. Funny. Maybe a bit awful too.

“See you in two weeks?” he asks, leisurely.

“Denji, this is our last session.”

The sentence, albeit spoken very calmly, makes Denji freeze in place. Makima looks at him, curiously, as if he’s missing something.

“Tomorrow is your birthday,” she explains, and Denji’s brain catches up to speed once more. “You are no longer required to see me, or be under Public Safety’s care in any way.”

Denji’s mouth has gone a bit dry, and it hurts to swallow.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” 

Seeing her tidy up her files and putting them in her bag for what seems like the millionth time in 9 months feels odd right now. Like there should be some grander final act to this. A dramatic farewell of sorts, maybe. Denji decides to open his mouth again;

“Miss Makima, do you think I’m a horrible person?”

Makima’s movements come to a pause, and she looks up at Denji, not seeming remotely surprised by the question.

“I don’t believe in good and bad people.”

Denji blinks. The answer doesn’t ring satisfyingly still. “What do you believe in?”

“Just people.”

Fidgeting. Shifting weight between feet. Twitchy, sweaty hands. The white noise of the carpeted room. The muffled bird chirping from outside the closed window. The smell of air freshener. Artificial pine trees.

“And do people deserve second chances at life?”

Makima slings her bag over her shoulder. Her lips purse as if she’s giving this a good amount of thought. “Why not?”

Denji averts her piercing gaze. “Well, if you fucked up the first one…”

He doesn’t let himself finish. 'Believes it self-explanatory.

“If you didn’t mess up the first one, why would you need a second one?”

She takes something small out of her pocket and hands it to his numb hand. His new ID card. His  first  ID card.

"Happy early Birthday, Denji." A smile. Almost genuine. Almost. "Good luck."

Night has properly fallen like an opaque blanket over the city and Denji foregoes the train ride home. The thought of stuffing himself into a train full of people right now is unbearable. He decides to walk instead. 

The process is somewhat miserable. But only somewhat.

It aches, in a way. 

Knowing he won't have to visit the office again. Seeing people walk past him with a clear purpose on where to go. It plants a nameless, sort of numbing ache in the crevices of his ribs. 

Rarely do things make Denji ache. 

Hell must have frozen over. He is surprisingly okay with that.

It's just another night, just another walk, just another bathroom he threw up in, just another reminder that he exists and that he must continue to do so, despite everything.

He lacks direction, is what he realizes, halfway home. He lacks someone telling him what to do, what to eat, where to sleep, and how. For the first time in his life, he lacks specific instructions.

It's glorious, but also terrifying. It makes him feel untethered like a gust of wind could blow him off his feet. 

Like he isn't even there to begin with. 

A figment of someone's twisted imagination. 

Maybe his own. 

If that's so which of his feelings are real?

Is this untethered-ness real?

This sudden disgust with the notion that he has a body that exists?

What would make them not real? 

Being temporary?

Are temporary things not real? 

So this chapter of his life-- was this not real either?

Real doesn't feel like an actual word anymore by the time Denji mounts the stairs to his apartment. 

There's a yellow post-it note stuck to his door, the kind that Aki sticks all over his house, writing instructions to himself. 

Come get your laundry

Denji didn't even know he'd given Aki laundry again, but he is too tired to dig around that memory (or lack thereof). He simply pulls out his keychain, finds the key to Aki's apartment, and pushes through the door. 

He entered a bit too fast, admittedly. He didn't have time to notice the muffled chatter from the other side. Gave no warning sound or anticipatory jiggling of keys. And for that, he is left-facing the array of people standing in Aki's foyer, holding out a very sloppy-looking cake with only one of the two numerical candles lit.  

They're fighting among themselves. Power is making a clear attempt to tear the cake away from everyone and hold it on her own and Aki is berating her. Himeno is furiously shaking a lighter, trying to light the remaining candle and Reze has lifted the other one, trying to lend flame. Angel sneaks a finger's worth of glazing off the cake's side. 

Denji drops his keys. Accidentally but loudly. 

That seems to get their attention. 

"Happy Birthday!"

It was said out of unison, a cacophony of different tones and varying levels of enthusiasm.

It's followed by a series of broad smiles, ill-practiced, made to compensate for the death of the surprise factor. 

"You're late."

   "And thank fuck for that, because the first cake blew up."

      "-Which was your fault, by the way."

         "Shut up, will you?"

            "Point is! We have cake!"

               "Happy eighteen!"

                  "Oh my God, you can smoke and drink now!"

                     "Hey! Don't you dare."

                        "I'm just stating a legal fact-!"

They look lovely. So lovely. All of them. Denji hates them a little.

                           "Denji, aren't you gonna say anything?"

                              "Uhhh, Denji?"

                                 "Shit, dude, is that-?"

                                    "Is he having an aneurism...?"

                                       "No, I think he's-"

                                          "Denji, are you

                                                                   cr

                                                                       y

                                                                          in

                                                                         g

                                                                                ?"

Denji immediately lifts his hand to his face, to wipe the tears with his hoodie. "What?" The fabric is rough. It hurts his cheeks. "'Course not." His voice cracks. "Don't be ridiculous."

That part comes out fully wet and before Denji can register anything, there's a handful of cake being smeared across his cheek. Tenderly.

"Taste it! We did a great job, didn't we?"

   "Jesus, Power give him a napkin."

      "That's gotta taste salty now."

         "Aww look at him. Someone take a picture!"

            "I'm never letting you live this down, I hope you know."

               "Are you okay? Seriously."

                  "You can't still be sad with cake in your mouth."

                     "Yeah, that's almost offensive."

                        "Maybe give him room to breathe?"

                           "Fuck that-- how'd you like the cake?"

Denji wipes the final remains of chocolate with his finger. It comes off easier with the help of tears. Gosh. This is pathetic. It feels so good.

"It's awful," he sniffs, trying to chew properly. "It has more frosting than actual cake, it's overcooked, and I hate you all."

The insult doesn't seem to waver any of their smiles at all. If anything it makes them a tad bit brighter. Power pushes the plate against his chest until he holds it.

"Make a wish!"

Don't leave,  is the first thing Denji thinks.  Please, please, don't leave. 

I'm a bad dog, I know, but I love you. 

I'll do whatever you want, I'll muzzle myself, I'll file down my teeth. 

Just don't leave. 

You're so familiar to me now.

I'm not getting to know you, I'm getting to know myself, so please don't leave. 

We never go back, we only go forward, but please don't let me walk alone. 

We'll go wherever you want, do whatever you want.

Just please do it with me.

Don't leave.

Denji leans forward and blows out the singular candle. The sound of his sharp breath is followed by ear-piercing whistles and cheers and clapping and hands ruffling his hair, spine-rattling pats on his back, and bone-crushing kisses on his cheek.  

He has an answer, he thinks. He finds it between more mouthfuls of that godawful cake and his absolute determination to devour it whole regardless.

Love is. It’s a thing. It exists. It’s in everything if you look for it. 

Love is the feel of a fuzzy carpet under your bare feet, it’s the smell of tobacco and freshly cooked dinner, it’s wiggling your body to trashy pop songs in a room too cramped to allow dancing. It’s eating pizza while laying on your stomach and having classic movie marathons, and maybe you don’t understand shit, but that’s alright. Love is wooden floors and window sills you can sit on, it’s laughing until you cry and crying until you laugh, it’s the realization that you don’t know everything but you want to. 

You want to live.

For the first time—oh, how you want to. 

*