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It's not often that you get to bed as early as you did tonight. By 9:30, you were already tucked into bed, and by 10:30, you were already asleep.
You’re a little more than upset, then, when your sleep is disturbed by knocking on your front door.
The knocking isn’t particularly loud, but at the hour you suspect it to be, you'd hear a pin drop on your old shag carpet. Your bedroom isn’t very far away from your front door, in any case, so it isn't hard to hear. Still, it left you wondering – who the hell was knocking at this hour? You're tempted to just roll over and go back to bed, but you're too much of a people-pleaser to just leave whoever it is standing out there. So, with a groan, you pull the sheets from your body and swing your legs over the edge of your bed.
You pull your hair back and turn on your bedside lamp, glancing at your alarm clock. You already know it's late, but seeing it in bright, red numbers – 2:43 – makes you all the more frustrated at the disturbance in your sleep schedule. So much for an early night. You stretch your arms above your head as you stand, sliding on your slippers clumsily. A quick glance in the mirror tells you that you look just presentable enough, for almost three in the morning. Whoever this person is, they shouldn't care about your appearance, anyway; they disturbed your sleep, so they'll have to deal with your unbrushed hair and wrinkled shirt.
You shuffle out of your bedroom and towards the front door. The person on the other side only knocked once, and not very forcefully, so you figure it's not the police. You wonder if they're still there. Part of you hopes they're not. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you unlock your front door and slowly pull it open.
“Hey, (Y/N),” the person in front of you says, and it takes you a second to process who exactly you're looking at.
“Ichimatsu?” you groan, “What are you doing here?” He looks almost as tired as you, but definitely more awake. He won't meet your eyes with his, and his arms are crossed in a position that makes him seem almost defensive.
“...I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to see you,” he replies. You can't find it in yourself to be annoyed with him, but part of you still misses your warm bed, just a few paces away.
“Yeah, but…” You run a hand down your face. “At three in the morning?”
“Well, I don't know,” Ichimatsu says with a sigh. “You're always working, and… you're usually awake right now. So I thought maybe we could take a walk.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded for a moment. It's honestly not the most insane idea you've ever heard, and he's right: you don't see each other much during the week, because of your job. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with your mouth, and by the time it does, Ichimatsu already looks disappointed.
“Sorry. This was a stupid idea. I didn't mean to wake you, I just—”
“No, no!” you interrupt, “I'd love to. Just… give me a minute to grab my coat and maybe… brush my hair or something.” You step aside and motion for Ichimatsu to sit down on your couch. He follows your lead, still looking a little guilty for waking you up. You know that he gets in his own head about this kind of thing sometimes, so you give him a little time to think while you drag yourself back to your bedroom to grab your coat.
Once you're in, the bed looks so inviting. You know, the second your back hit the soft surface, you'd fall right asleep. Maybe you'd even wake up in time for your shift tomorrow morning. But, Ichimatsu is waiting in the living room for you, so you grab your thick jean jacket from the hook on the back of your door and make your way back to the living room, walking as you put the jacket on.
“I was thinking,” Ichimatsu says, when you enter the room, eyes cast to the rug under the coffee table, “I have a little bit of pocket change, so maybe we could, um… walk to the convenience store?” Something in Ichimatsu’s expression tells you that it's taking all of his strength just to ask you that.
“Sounds great,” you smile, taking his hands in yours and pulling him up from the couch, “I need to get some snacks anyway. Just, you know, to have around the house.”
Ichimatsu gives you a warm grin, allowing himself to be led as you guide him by the hand out of your apartment. You turn off the light before you leave, and lock the door once it's closed. Ichimatsu holds your hand in his own, soft until you notice the scratches and scars dug into the skin. From all the cats, no doubt. The two of you practically tiptoe down the stairs, afraid of waking any of your neighbors. You've never really liked them anyway, but you don't want to get in any trouble with your landlord, who's even worse than the rest of your neighbors. Ichimatsu follows your lead, walking as quietly as he can manage while keeping a hold on your hand.
You give a polite wave to the janitor on your way through the lobby, and then the two of you are outside, wandering the city streets. You have a destination, but you're not in any hurry, shuffling along the sidewalk and enjoying each other's company. For a while, you don't say anything, and neither does Ichimatsu, but it's a comfortable silence. Ichimatsu is good at comfortable silence. “Cats don't talk,” you remember him saying once, “you learn to understand them in other ways.” In some way, Ichimatsu reminds you of a cat; he's quiet, reserved in a way you're not sure you've ever seen anyone be before, but at his core, he's a social creature. You're okay with that.
Halfway to the convenience store, when the two of you are turning a corner under a streetlamp, a black cat scampers across the sidewalk in front of you, and darts into an alleyway, where you lose sight of it among the trash bags and cardboard boxes. Ichimatsu stares at the alley for a moment, stopping in his tracks.
“We can come back,” you offer, “if she's still here.”
Ichimatsu’s eyes widen at this proposition. “You've already done a lot for me, I don't want to just drag you around the city looking at cats. I mean – I do, but not… not right now. I just feel, I don't know… guilty?”
“Guilty?” you ask, as Ichimatsu begins walking again.
“I woke you up at a weird hour to take a walk with me,” he clarifies with a scoff, looking to the ground.
“Don't feel guilty,” you sigh, “I've missed you too. And honestly, I… haven't done much other than work and go home. I needed this too. This is nice.”
He squeezes your hand, but doesn't respond. You take this as a good sign, and the rest of the walk slips back into that comfortable silence you've grown so accustomed to. Between you being too tired to carry on a real conversation and Ichimatsu not being one for idle chatter, the silence is mutually appreciated. Besides, it gives you time to watch Ichimatsu's face under the warm lighting of the streetlamps, making his already soft, tired expression seem even softer. Being outside at this late of an hour always reminded you of a dream: something that shouldn't be happening, but makes perfect sense all at the same time.
After a few more minutes of walking, you're able to see the sign that reads “UOCYU-Mart”, with its red and green stripes. During the day, the sign blends in with its surroundings; you're not sure you even knew what it said before now. But, at night, the weak lights of the sign are enough to make it stand out against the washed-out brick building. Ichimatsu walks in first, the bell on the door ringing as he pushes it open slowly. Only two people are working; a young woman with curly hair tucked under a baseball cap is sweeping one end of the store, while a lanky teenage boy stands behind the counter on the other end. There's no one else in the store, but it's not like you expected there to be.
You wander around the store, hand in hand. Even though this was Ichimatsu’s idea, he follows you as you pluck a few shelf-stable snacks – cup ramen, chips, that kind of thing – off the harshly lit store shelves. They don't have baskets, so you end up holding all of your snacks in your arms while Ichimatsu watches. It feels oddly intimate, him watching you as you choose snacks only for yourself. Did he know, before tonight, the kinds of snacks you like? Did he ever even consider it? Ichimatsu hasn't always been easy to read, for you. Maybe he feels the same way about you.
You pick your final bag of chips, tucking it in your arms like the rest of the snack foods you've selected. “What did you want to get again?” you ask, walking towards the refrigerated section of the store. You end up stopping in front of the puddings, and Ichimatsu stares at his options for a few moments, his eyes never sticking in one spot for too long. He steps closer to the puddings, but still seems unable to make his decision.
“Could you…” Ichimatsu starts, and then clears his throat. “Could you choose for me?”
The way he says it, it sounds like he's asking you to pet sit for a week, or go to his brother's wedding with him as a plus one. You understand that there's a level of trust he's affording you that he's terrified of, but then you look back at your choices, and you're reminded of the fact that it's just pudding. It's not like you haven't known him for years; Ichimatsu has always liked things that are complex, with a nice amount of depth to their flavor, but familiar to him. Considering this, you choose a small container of almond pudding for him, and a strawberry sando for yourself.
Ichimatsu takes the refrigerated snacks from your hands, since yours are full anyway. You both make your way to the cash register, you with your armful of snacks and him with just the pudding and the strawberry sando. You set your snacks down first, and, when he stands back with his two items, you gesture to the counter. “I'll pay for it,” you say.
“Are you sure?” he asks, “I have money.”
“Yeah, don't worry about it. I don't work just to have other people spend money on me,” you chuckle as you pull out your card. The teenage boy behind the counter scans the items you've set down, and then scans the pudding and sando, once Ichimatsu sets those down as well. As you pay for your food with your card, the store employee bags up your snacks, leaving the refrigerated goods on the counter for Ichimatsu to pick up.
You thank the cashier as he hands you your bag, and then walk over with Ichimatsu to the seats by the window. On most days, the people passing on foot or in their cars as if they're the only person in the world with somewhere to be would provide a nice background to a refreshing snack. At this hour, though, the emptiness of a once busy street strengthens the feeling that you and Ichimatsu are the only two people in the world.
The two of you take your seats next to each other, one seat away from the right end of the countertop. “For you,” he says as he slides over your strawberry sando.
“Why thank you,” you smile, and he chuckles as he opens his pudding. Seeing Ichimatsu smile always feels important, fragile in a way you wouldn't expect and always so fleeting. There are a few things that are always guaranteed to make him smile: a cat he's never seen before, a cat doing something unexpected, his brother Jyushimatsu (given enough time), and food prepared just for him. Growing up with five brothers, as you understand it, meant he always had to fight for his food, and the other joys in life were hard to come by as well. You have to know all of this, of course, because you've made it your mission to make him smile as much as you can, basically since the day you met him.
“What?” Ichimatsu mumbles, mouth half-full of pudding, spoon covering his lips in an attempt to appear polite.
“What what?” you respond.
“You're staring,” he informs you, “is something wrong?”
You shake your head. Honestly, you didn't even know you were staring. “I'm just thinking about your smile,” you tell him.
“Shut up.” He takes another bite of his pudding, blushing.
“It's true,” you continue, unwrapping your pastry, “I was thinking about the things that I know make you smile. The cats, cooking…”
“You,” Ichimatsu adds to your list, and then it's your turn to blush, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. Satisfied with himself, Ichimatsu takes another bite of his pudding.
You take a bite of your strawberry sando, wiping the filling from your lips. Ichimatsu stares intently at the window, and, when you follow his gaze, you see an orange cat digging through a tipped-over garbage can. Part of you feels as though the universe is, for once, working in tandem with itself, just to make your night a little nicer. You've never been particularly superstitious, but seeing the way Ichimatsu hides his grin when he spots the cat across the street, perfectly placed for the two of you to observe – it's hard not to feel a little bit of something.
The cat eventually finds something – you think it's a half-eaten sandwich, but you can't be sure – and trots off triumphantly, having escaped from the jaws of the nefarious trash bag. Once the cat is gone, though, the silence feels stronger, more palpable. That's when Ichimatsu clears his throat, and says, “So… how was your day?”
It's such a simple question. You consider brushing it off and asking him the same thing, but something stops you. Instead, you sigh, your shoulders falling like someone has taken the weight off of your shoulders for the first time in years. “Not great,” you admit, “Work was exhausting and boring at the same time, and I might be getting sick, but I couldnt take the day off because we're so short-staffed.”
Ichimatsu listens intently as you speak. Once you finish, he takes a bite of his pudding, and then clears his throat to speak. “Maybe tomorrow you should take it easy,” Ichimatsu offered, “I like spending time with you, I don't want you to be tired all the time.”
“I’ll try,” you smile, leaning forward to kiss Ichimatsu on the cheek, strawberry lingering on your breath. “Did you do anything fun today?”
“I saw a few new cats on my walk today,” Ichimatsu says. He then proceeds to tell you exactly where he found each cat, what stuck out to him about the cats, and what he chose to name them. He tells you about a tortie named Pastina, because he found her in a box of pasta, who didn't run away from him even after he freed her from her cardboard prison. He tells you about a black and white cat named Mr. Mime, for the white dots under his eyes. There's a third cat, you know that, but you can't seem to pay attention to what Ichimatsu is saying, instead focusing on the way his hands move while he talks. Ichimatsu, as far as you've been able to tell, isn't passionate about many things, so watching him talk at length about something he cares about is rewarding in its own right.
“Other than that, though,” Ichimatsu sighs, which is what pulls you back into reality, “Nothing much. Unless you find pears exciting.”
You chuckle and shake your head. The rest of your time in the convenience store is spent speaking very little, enjoying each other’s company in the dead of the night. What either of you decided to say stops mattering after a point; between his sleep deprivation and your disorientation from being awoken at such a strange hour, none of it makes much sense anyway. Ichimatsu tells you about his brothers and the cats and the weird rock he saw by the lake, and you tell him about work and the call you got from your brother a week ago and the broken sink in your apartment. It's hard not to feel the fragility of the moment. Once the sun rises, you know this will all be over, and you can already see it threaten to creep over the horizon, the sky beginning to show her first orange hues, telling you to hurry on home.
“Hey, you guys gotta get out of here,” a voice calls from behind you. You turn around and find the curly-haired woman, crossing her arms and tapping her foot. “You're way over the time limit.” You know that the time limit doesn't matter at this hour; no one else will enter this store for another three hours, at least. But you also know that the woman is only hurrying you along because she would rather do nothing than have to watch the two of you do nothing, so you nod at her and begin to stand up. You've already finished your sando anyway, and Ichimatsu has long since finished his cup of pudding, so you don't mind the interruption. The two of you hop down from your bar stools and collect your trash.
“Sorry,” Ichimatsu mumbles as you throw out your trash and exit the store. He follows you closely through the store, and then, once you're out, he returns to your side, holding your hand again.
On the walk home, you realize you've run out of things to say. You also realize that that's not necessarily a bad thing. You focus on Ichimatsu's heartbeat against your hand, on the way his eyes shift when you look over to him, on his footsteps against the pavement. Before Ichimatsu, you've always had an issue with the idea of comfortable silence, always worried that you had to fill the air somehow. But with him, silence comes naturally, and you're more than happy to follow his lead on that regard.
The rhythmic tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap of your shoes against the concrete occasionally synchronizes with Ichimatsu's as the two of you walk back the way you came. Therefore, when Ichimatsu stops, you don't notice until you're gently tugged back to him. He's staring into the alleyway, hoping to see the cat he saw on your way there. You'd so much rather be home, in your bed, comfy under the covers with a nice cup of tea or maybe even just a half-empty water bottle, than look for some street cat, but it’s something Ichimatsu wants, and you hardly ever say no to Ichimatsu. That's what got you out here in the first place. But, by the time you get back, the cat is gone.
“We can come back and look another day,” you suggest, “if you want.”
“...Yeah. Okay,” he replies, and then you continue walking, hand in hand. You look forward to the next time, and the next, and the next, walking with each other until the end of time.