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If she’s real, Fate sure has a cruel sense of humour.
There’s no other explanation to why Kenji Sato, a man so deeply intertwined into your past, a man you’d tried so many times to extract from where he was embedded into your soul, stands across the club, his back to you.
You know the smile that softens his angular features before he even turns around. You know those hand gestures, that oozing nonchalance, that false cockiness, and yet, all the same, you don’t know who this man is at all - you know the old Kenji Sato, the one who would wait awkwardly for you after class, the one who gripped your hands nervously while watching the baseball championships, the one who kissed softly you under the bleachers.
The one who got away.
Years have passed since those nostalgia sweetened memories. You have no idea how much of that old Ken is left, or if he’s transformed himself into an invincible stranger, one without those insecurities and weaknesses that made him your Ken.
It had started with wide eyed firsts at seventeen years old: kisses stolen between lessons, hands fumbling over each other’s bodies in the dark of his bedroom. By the time Ken was scouted by a baseball team, it had turned into something more solid: the two of you were star crossed lovers, and you fit together perfectly - until you didn’t any more.
You’re not exactly sure who changed. Maybe it was both of you, but you felt the absence of the awkward, lanky teenage boy more acutely than anything else, for he was not your highschool crush any more, but a man who felt the pressure of his reputation as much as the weight of the baseball bat in his hands. He became cocky to hide his fears from you, as if you could ever see him as weak.
The more the baseball critics talked, the less Ken did.
He hated it when you prodded him, when you tried to get past the walls that had been erected overnight. You loved him, even when half the time he came home drunk and damningly silent, his eyes narrowed and his knee bouncing when you could say nothing in response to the sceptics’ articles. You tried to hold on to him, but in the end it was inevitable.
The love of your life slipped from between your slack fingers like the sands of time, and all you could do was watch - all you could do was become increasingly aware of how the two of you had been acting like stupid, starry eyed kids.
When it ended, he was vicious with the same strength of an animal on the verge of death, and you took it all, bearing the pain and the hurt because maybe it was your fault that you hadn’t seen it coming sooner.
When it ended, the sorrow felt as if you had just passed off the opportunity to have your soul completed.
When it ended, it broke you.
It broke you, and he disappeared. He removed himself from your life with surgical precision, as if to prove to the spectators that he didn’t need you and the warm baths you drew when he came back from a game or the softness of your hands or your loyalty, your never wavering faith in him that no one else even tried to pretend they had.
You didn’t even realise he’d left Los Angeles behind for the greener pastures of Tokyo baseball until you recognised him on your TV screen years later.
And now, you’re in the same room as him.
Had your friends chosen a different club or had you stayed home, had you not taken that job in Tokyo almost two years ago, you might have never seen him again. Or maybe Fate would have twisted your paths together anyways, if just for a laugh; maybe he would have gone back to visit his mum and bumped into you on the street, maybe he would have reached out over text. Maybe, whatever path you took, he’d still be weaving his way towards you through the crowd like he is now.
You can see his face now. He’s taken off his reflective shades - they’re tucked into the neck of his black tee, hanging just above the simple gold necklace that sits at the dip of his collarbones. His build is as lean as it ever was, but you can tell he’s gotten stronger, his shoulders broader; his face has slimmed down, matured, lost the last of the baby fat he still had when he was twenty, yet his eyes are the same bright ones that you used to get lost in.
You wonder if he’s changed from the Ken that you couldn’t keep beside you however hard you tried. You wonder if he’s become the cocky, mean Ken who you saw the makings of, that would be walking towards you now just to get in your pants and one up you out of spite, so he could prove you mean nothing to him now (worse, you wonder if you’d let him, just to hold him one more time).
He stops in front of you, and although his expression is soft and surprisingly open, you can’t help but doubt it, can’t help but hide your heart deeper in your chest so he can’t snatch it for himself as easily as he’d done before.
Ken’s lips tilt upwards, but it’s not a smile yet. “Hey.”
You stare at him. You haven’t seen him in years, and the empty space between the last time you saw him and now is so starkly obvious. He’s gotten taller, somehow, and there’s an ease to his confidence that wasn’t there before; you can smell some sort of fancy cologne on him and although there’s bags under his eyes, of course he looks fucking divine.
Yes, Fate has a cruel sense of humour.
Very cruel, and not funny at all when you’re the butt of the joke and when the man before you makes you want to cry as much as the last time you laid your eyes on him. You’ve never sobbed, wept, the way you did when he turned his back on you as he left, cold and unreachable and never to be seen again - until now.
“Hello, Kenji,” you reply stiffly.
He winces. “Not even Ken, huh?”
Mutely, you nod, not knowing what else to say when all you can think about is whether his embrace still feels as comforting as it did all those years ago. You think it might, with those shoulders as broad as the ocean.
“Back to strangers, then?”
You swallow. “No. I’d - I’d like to think I still know who you are.”
“Me too,” he sighs.
“Not sure it’s possible, but I guess it would do us good to start over,” you admit with a dry smile.
“I don’t think so,” he says, voice soft, words slow. “It hurt - I hurt you, but I wouldn’t want to lose all the good parts.” His eyes meet yours, and there is so much in them - almost too much. “Remember that one camping trip?”
Slowly, you nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“And when we went ice skating?”
You can hear what he’s saying, the meaning beneath those words. He’s asking if you remember the tender nights, when you held each other, swaddled in the soft blanket of youth; he’s asking if you remember feeling that magnetic tug in your soul when you touched. He’s asking if you remember how you loved him - how he loved you.
“Never said I was going to be good at that,” you huff, cracking a smile.
“And how we used to go to the playground near your house after parties?”
This time, you chuckle. “Can you imagine? You look out the window and there are two deranged teenagers trying to squeeze down the slide at three in the morning.”
Ken throws his head back and laughs, really laughs, loud enough that you can hear it over the pumping music of the club, and the sound hurls you right back into the past. You’ve heard that sound so many times, you’ve replayed it in your head as a longing memory, and now he’s here, in the flesh, and all you can do is try to fight the tears welling in your eyes.
Turning your head, you look away, painting a smile on because you don’t want him to see you cry. Of course he notices - he always did, even though there were times where he would pretend he didn’t - but this time, he faces it head on, placing a gentle hand on your arm, light enough for you to shake off if you want to. All it does is make you want to cry harder.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter, yeah?”
With a hand at the small of your back, Ken leads you out of the club and down a few streets until he can sit you down on a park bench; he plops down beside you, not touching you but not far away, either. The night air is gelid compared to the club, nipping at your cheeks, and he waits quietly until you can meet his eyes again, his gaze steady as he searches yours.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, then swallows thickly and steels himself. “I’m sorry I treated you like shit. I never - “ He pauses when you sit up a little straighter. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”
You shake your head. “No, I’m listening. I… I’d like to know how you feel.”
Slowly, Ken nods and swallows again. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, deepening his cheekbones and limning his skin, and you watch him struggle with his words for a moment. You watch as he prepares to tear down walls that are years old for you, while you wonder what has changed him that he is so willing to try to bare his soul to you in a way he never could back then, what shifted while you slowly became strangers.
Gently, you reach out to take his hand to find his already waiting. Stroking a thumb over his knuckles as he works his jaw, finding words, you wait, letting him formulate his sentences; you know it is as hard for him as it is for you to be so close, and yet something in you burns with the hope of new beginnings.
“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t want me if I showed any weakness that I locked myself away, and - and that wasn’t what you deserved,” he chokes out. “I was all wrapped up in myself and too fucking stupid and stubborn to even crawl back. I’m sorry for the things I said to you, called you that night, and I’m sorry I can’t take them back.” He takes a shaky breath. “I took you for granted and hurt you, and I should have never - ”
“No,” you cut in. “The blame isn’t just on you, Ji. I - I should have fought so much harder for us. I saw what the pressure did to you, what the sceptics said, and I did nothing. At that point I may as well have warmed my hands in the fire they used to burn you at the stake with. I fucked up. We fucked up. I’m sorry, too.”
When you look up at him, he’s smiling. A tear slips down his face, and he catches it with the back of his hand; you’re not sure how you’ve held your own back for so long, but now they fall as you fall towards each other, his arms wrapping tight around you as he envelops you. You were right - his embrace is as comforting as it was, and a lump forms in your throat because beneath his cologne you smell his familiar scent, the scent of home.
You stay tucked together, sheltering in each other’s arms for a while. Eventually, he shifts, pulling back a little as his hand brushes over your hair. His eyes are soft, bright like they always were; you think you like this Kenji Sato, who is so similar yet so different to the boy you knew from highschool in LA.
You think you’re falling in love again.
No, not quite; you never stopped loving him.
That revelation almost makes you cry again, but instead you smile at him, and when he returns your expression you feel something mending deep within your heart, knitting itself together after being rent apart for so long. The way he looks at you is tender enough, raw enough, to make old wounds heal.
“Let me help you get back home,” Ken bids you. “I can call a cab?”
“We can walk,” you offer. “It’s not too far.”
──────⊱◈◈◈⊰──────
“What brought you to Tokyo?” Ken asks as the two of you enter the lift up to your apartment.
“I came here almost two years ago,” you reply. “My company had a big office here and when they gave me the choice to move here or London, I chose here. I don’t really know why, exactly. Everyone says it’s always raining in the UK, and, well, at that point I knew you were here. I didn’t think we’d ever meet but at least there wouldn’t be an ocean between us.”
“Oh, so you’ve been waiting for this to happen for two years?” He teases as you turn the key in your door.
Rolling your eyes, you herd him into your flat before becoming serious again. “No, Ji, I didn’t even understand if I wanted to see you again. You were my first love, and deep down, I, I still lo - ”
Abruptly, you cut yourself off. Ken’s eyes have widened almost comically, but you find you can’t laugh at him with the sincerity of your words still hanging in the air; the pound of your heart in your chest is too loud, like it’s trying to break free of your ribcage. Maybe, to him, you’ve changed as much as he has to you, and he hadn’t been expecting you to so freely confess that you still feel that inexplicable pull of your soul towards his.
Biting your lip, you scurry across your kitchen and open the fridge door, if only to give yourself a barrier to hide behind. Did you just ruin everything? You didn’t even ask if he wanted to come in, you just ushered him into the flat, and although he offered to walk with you and come up in the lift with you, maybe he was just being polite.
“Want anything to drink?” Your voice comes out higher than it should as you turn to glance at him over your shoulder. “O - oh.”
He’s right there. You hadn’t expected him to follow you to the fridge, although you know now that this new, mature Kenji is in tune with your emotions, could definitely sense your embarrassment, and isn’t afraid to face it, yet also that he is the same as the old Kenji - just with his sharp edges softened and a bit more wisdom under his belt.
“Sorry, I didn’t…” He trails off.
You’re staring. You can’t help it. He’s so close that your head is spinning and you haven’t fully appreciated how good his hair looks tonight, sleek and half falling into his eyes, nor the flawless way his black t-shirt fits his arms and shoulders, nor the absurdly perfect bridge of his nose and how it complements his cheekbones and -
You realise with a jolt that he’s staring too. That his eyes just darted from yours down to your lips and back up again, that he’s leaning closer and closer to you until you’re sharing air, and that you really, really, really want him to take your clothes off.
Ken Sato takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses you.
His fingers slide to cup your jaw, his other hand finding your waist and pulling your body closer to his, your lips moving against his in a way that is so achingly familiar; he nips and sucks at your lower lip and you don’t think you could ever get bored of kissing him like this. Running your palms up his back, you bunch your fingers in his shirt - like hell you’re going to let him go, now that you’ve found him again, like hell you’re going to let him even think about walking out while he’s got his tongue moving against yours like this.
Gliding down your sides, his big hands settle at your hips and squeeze. You curse against his soft lips and he dips his head to mouth at your throat, right over your jugular, his nose drawing a line down your skin before he travels lower, his tongue laving along your collarbone. Fumbling to close the fridge door behind you, you steady yourself with a palm on the handle. Fuck, your knees haven’t felt this weak in a while.
You realise that all this time, all those years spent without him, this is what you were missing, searching for it even if you didn’t know it. The way he navigates your body is effortless, as if you’ve only been apart for a few days and not a few years. He knows to kiss you at the hollow of your neck, he knows to cup your waist in his hands, he knows how to drown you in him in a way that still leaves you hungry.
Sighing into his mouth, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt, bringing them round to feel the hard planes of his chest under your palms. Unhurriedly, you drag your nails down his abs, hooking your fingers in his waistband and tugging him closer; he groans in response, biting down on your shoulder, and you feel him, hard against you as you lean into each other.
“Fuck, Ji,” you gasp as he rocks his hips into yours.
Cursing, he grits out your name, and you tug at his shirt - he pulls away, just long enough for you to wrestle it off him before he’s crowding against you again, as if he can’t bear to not touch you. A smirk tugs at your mouth as you run your hands appreciatively over his torso, over his sculpted chest and arms.
Maybe it’s the touch of your lips on his skin, right over his heart, or maybe it’s the way your hands coast over him, eager to feel all of him, that sends a jolt through him. Ken grabs your wrists, halting your progress, and you look up at him, quizzical.
“Wait,” he breathes. “We, I… we can’t do this the same way we did this last time.”
You blink, mind still foggy with wanting. “Ji?”
He cups your face. “It’s not that I don’t want you, my love, it’s the opposite. I’m not going to let myself just fuck you and go to sleep. I haven’t seen you in years. I - I need you to know I’m not here just for that. I want to take my time with you.”
It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with what he said. You gaze up at him, drinking up those sparkling eyes, feeling the gentle way he positions his hands on you, one cradling your chin and the other holding your waist, and realise that you’re seeing your Ken Sato - grown, yes, but still yours, eternally yours.
What he’s saying is right. The old you would have jumped straight into his arms, and he would have let you - you would have spoken with your bodies, not your words, leaving the tears and rips in your hearts to fester and rot, never acknowledging them for long enough for them to heal.
But somehow, Fate has gifted you a second try at love, and this time, the two of you will do it the way it should be done; he’s looking at you so tenderly, so hopefully, and it makes your stomach flutter. There’s no rush. Now you’ve got him in your arms again, you won’t be letting him go.
You brush his hair out of his eyes. “Okay, then. Shall we talk instead?”
He smiles. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
──────⊱◈◈◈⊰──────
The lens you see the world through after that night with Kenji makes everything brighter, more beautiful. You find new appreciation for the ads of him plastered all over the city when he tells you funny stories behind the shoots, for the way the littlest things make you think of him, for the regular date nights and the hours you spend staying up late, talking with him.
For a famous baseball player, he sure has a lot of time for you.
He hangs on to your every word, looking at you as if you hung the stars in the sky; he listens to your rants about work and your favourite show and your fucking landlord. You make sure you show up to his baseball matches, cheering whether he’s winning or losing, knowing that he’ll be in your arms the moment he’s off the pitch.
You watch him open up to you like a flower leaning towards the sun, his words muffled as he rests his head on your shoulder late at night and tells you how his mum disappeared, how he used to avoid his dad but how recently they’ve gotten closer after they found some common ground.
And when he tells you what that common ground was - a bright pink, baby kaiju - everything falls into place.
Finally, you understand what changed him on his course, what softened him after the critics forced him to build walls: a baby as cute as her size, and a secret life as Ultraman. You kissed him when he told you, melting the tension right off his wide shoulders as you whispered against his lips that you’d love him even if he confessed to eating your leftovers (he had).
It’s not perfect, because love isn’t, but on the nights when you’re tucked into each other beneath the blankets, fitting together like puzzle pieces as you kiss his scars, you know that this time round, you’re doing love right.