Chapter Text
Isagi Yoichi clumsily stumbled from his dreams to wakefulness. Ocean eyes blinked open wearily from behind a sleep-mussed curtain of dark bangs.
He’d done it again.
He’d dozed off at the office working overtime to meet another fast approaching deadline.
The fluorescent lights over his desk shone harshly in stark contrast to the darkness outside revealing the hour was late.
Whether waking up at 2 AM or 4 PM, it didn’t matter. Isagi was exhausted just the same. He glanced at his computer screen opened to Word and saw the type print of his unfinished article staring back at him.
A text alert sounded from his phone sitting nearby.
Hiori: I guess you’re not coming, then.
Isagi: Shit, sorry. Is it too late to swing by?
Hiori: The arcade is closing in 20 minutes. My nephew ate his birthday cake 2 hours ago. Let me guess, still at the office?
Isagi: Yeah. Late night.
Hiori: Just go home Isagi. You do know you have one, right?
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The subway ride back to his apartment was an uneventful one.
When Isagi finally arrived after switching train lines thrice he barely managed to open his door, take off his shoes, and brush his teeth, before collapsing into a soft bed dragging him back to sweet oblivion.
He’d worry about a missed deadline later.
Later came painfully quick. The next morning, in fact, when Ego summoned Isagi into his office.
Ego Jinpachi was, by all accounts, a brilliant but mercurial man. If his namesake didn’t give that away, his cold demeanor did. He had single-handedly created a publication that rivaled The New Yorker for its forays into culture, arts, social commentary, and current news of interest.
As the Editor-in-chief of the magazine his opinions held much weight, and their delivery could be no less life altering than a lifelong sentence from a judge. You could be there one day as an aspiring writer and gone forever the next. Ego had the final say on the print, staffing, and all things Borderline.
Isagi had been hired by the editor-in-chief himself, but he felt that only amplified Ego’s high expectations for him as a young journalist.
So naturally, Isagi was shaking in his suede shoes as he entered his boss’ office. A little bit. OK, a lot a bit, but he hid it well.
Inside, Ego sat behind a large wooden desk that appeared to be very polished and very expensive. Dressed in all black, with a slight hunch he seemed a kind of shadowy spectre even though it was still mid-morning. His face was impassive and rounded glasses sat proudly upon a thin, pale, nose. The only mundane thing about the scene was a cup of noodles that looked like it was purchased from a corner store. Secretly, Isagi could imagine he was a ramen-fueled vampire.
“Come, sit, my diamond in the rough.”
Isagi sighed softly at the nickname as he took a seat, hoping it was an indication he wasn’t about to be reamed like he thought.
“I didn’t see your article submitted to my desk. You’re past due. That’s quite unlike you,” Ego spoke, getting straight to the point.
Isagi wasn’t sure whether he should say something apologetic or stand his ground. Instead, Ego continued:
“If you want to be a great journalist, you have to push yourself.”
”Yes, sir.”
”Right now, you’re falling behind. Your last piece was uninspired and now this. I cannot abide this subpar performance at my magazine. Especially from you.”
“Yes, sir.” Isagi winced.
Ego sat back in his chair and peered at him with his dark eyes. A beat.
“I’ll run Kira’s story instead since you failed to produce your piece.”
”Sir, if I could just have a 12 hour extension, it’ll be done,” Isagi reasoned.
”No. You knew the deadline was 8 AM this morning. You took the risk of missing it and in so doing squandered your opportunity. You’re off the issue this month.”
Well, so far so good, Isagi thought bitterly, wringing his hands together.
Ego’s gaze went straight through him.
“Isagi. You know I hired you because I believed you would become a great journalist under my tutelage. Don’t let me down. Produce. You may go, now.”
Isagi rose and left in a daze, heart pounding.
“Maybe you should quit,” Bachira Meguru suggested airily, but not without concern. His brown hair laced with blond highlights blew slightly in the spring breeze.
It was a warm day in May and Isagi had met with his best friend on a shop patio for lunch.
“Your boss has always been an asshole.” Bachira bit into a fry with conviction.
Meanwhile, Isagi was still reeling and replaying the conversation in his head. The one night he had the sleep he needed and it had backfired. His steak sandwich sat on his plate, barely eaten.
Isagi caught eyes with his free-spirited friend he had known ever since they attended university together. Bachira was never one to shy away from speaking his mind — this was same friend who tried to start a campaign to install nudist portraiture art in every building on their campus, after-all.
“Quitting is the last thing I want to do, honestly.”
“So… do you want to egg his car instead?” Bachira joked.
“Bachira, you and your stupid ideas,” Isagi groaned.
Bachira sent him a mischievous grin, which made Isagi chuckle.
“And yes, I absolutely do, but I won’t.”
“Ah, Isagi, you’ve become so much less fun since our college days,” Bachira pouted.
“Says the man locked up in his studio for weeks at a time.”
“Hey! You know my exhibition season is coming up! Besides, being in the art studio is fun.”
Fun. Isagi heard the word but he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had any with writing. Bachira, on the other hand, was always sharing to others how much he loved painting with a smile on his face. His mother had been a professional painter before him and he picked up after her as easily as he picked up paint brushes as a toddler.
Art connected him to his Mom and was his passion, Isagi knew. Isagi used to love writing, too, but recently things had changed. Maybe it really was just the consequence of his high pressure work environment.
“Yes, and I’m sure Emiko loves spending those nights in the studio with you, too,” Isagi smiled.
“Sometimes I think she’s more interested in my paintings than me. She’ll want to see my whole process in one night and I have to be the one to suggest we leave!”
“Hm,” Isagi hummed, thoughtful. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement and something else: the beginnings of a new idea. “She loves what you do and she loves you.”
“Isagi. I thought we were talking about you.”
“Are you still considering proposing?” Isagi plowed on. He wanted to see his friend happy.
Bachira sighed and leaned back, dusting his hands off and putting them behind his head pensively.
“I am, but I’m waiting for the right moment.” He paused. “And for Chigiri to give his blessing.”
“You might be waiting forever.” Isagi deadpanned.
They both stared at each other knowingly before bursting out laughing.
A few rounds of jabs and cokes later, Bachira tried again.
“So what are you going to do?”
Isagi sighed. His eyes flitted briefly to the bill the waiter had left on the table, then back to his friend. ”I came here to the city and took this job knowing it wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t think it’d be so hard. I guess I’ll have to adapt and pitch something new.”