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It’s far too cold to be standing on the balcony, but neither you nor Aki make a move to go inside his oddly quiet apartment (perhaps the two other inhabitants inside fell asleep already). Bitter air nips at your reddened nose and cheeks as you rub your arms in a futile attempt to warm yourself. The cold reminds you that you're alive, that you're real—proven by the misty clouds of breath escaping your lips with every exhale.
“Have you ever thought about going elsewhere?” with me, Aki asks, but he doesn’t let the rest on the tip of his tongue fall. His voice pulls you back to the present. “You deserve more than this.”
He doesn’t say this shitty life, though maybe he would have once. But somewhere deep down, Aki no longer believes it’s all that bad. After all, there’s Denji and Power—even if their favorite pastime seems to be pissing him off—and there’s you. Thankfully, you’re at least a little kinder. A little more tolerable. Life was beginning to almost feel as if it did not need to revolve around the Gun Devil anymore. He was starting to get cold feet, maybe.
Aki fishes a cigarette from his pocket and places it between his lips, tilting his head toward you—a silent signal to light it with a spare lighter that you always carried in your pocket for him, even though you didn’t smoke. You do, of course, as if it had been practiced, even though you complain about the smell under your breath without fail every time. He wouldn’t have it any other way, he thinks.
His eyes meet yours for a moment, and he thinks he might be standing too close. He should move, take a step to the left. He doesn’t.
“We could…” he murmurs, perhaps by mistake, the rest of his words swallowed by the spark of his cigarette flaring to life. There’s so much he wants to say, needs to say, but the right words always die on his tongue.
You hum softly, choosing not to make a sarcastic comment about how close he is like you usually would. Sometimes you’re a little too harsh. You know this. You also know that it is for the best.
Maybe you should step away if he won’t, but you don’t. Instead, your eyes drift away from his—dark blue like the ocean—and settle on the occasional car that buzzes down the road below.
“That’d be nice,” you say, surprising him. He doesn’t show it, not exactly, but the slight lift of his brow is enough to give him away. You caught it in your peripheral. Your voice, barely louder than a whisper, even surprises you. It’s a foolish dream. Aki tends to dream a little too big. Sometimes, he dares to make you dream, too. Just this once, you decide to indulge it.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of Aki’s lips before he takes another drag, exhaling smoke into the cold night. “Maybe someday,” he says, almost wistfully. Another fantasy. Another moment to hold onto—one that helps you both stay sane. The idea that there could be more than this. More than what you have now.
“We’d have to get far away from here though,” he adds. “Japan isn’t safe.” He brings the cigarette to his lips again.
Maybe someday has already lost its meaning. You’ve said it to yourselves too many times. Maybe someday. But it always really meant never.
Your lips press into a thin line. “I don’t think any where’s safe,” you say bluntly, but truthfully.
Aki glances at you, watching how you stare down at the passing cars. For one awful moment—one of many that night—he lets himself imagine how different things could be. Maybe you both could be normal people.
“You’re right,” he admits, and the thought makes him feel sick. “But some places are worse than others. Away from…” He hesitates. He almost says away from Makima, for some reason, would be best. Why would he think that? Since when did he start thinking that way about her? He would never dare to, right? He liked Makima…even if he didn’t exactly know why he liked her so much.
He clears his throat and tries again. “Maybe somewhere in Europe would be nice?”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye and hold his gaze for a moment longer than usual before reminding yourself not to stare. “Europe sounds nice,” you reply.
Aki hums in agreement. “It does.” He exhales smoke. “Ever been?”
You think about Europe. You’ve never left Japan. Some people say Europe is beautiful. Critics say parts of it, depending on where you went, are dirty, crowded, overrated. It depends on who you ask, or what threads you’ve read online. “No,” you answer with a shrug. Then, “You?”
It doesn’t surprise him. You’re like him that way—stuck in a life of routine and purpose. “No. All I’ve ever known is here.”
“Same.” A pause. “What part of Europe would you go to?”
Surprisingly, he answers without hesitation. “France. Paris, specifically.” He says it like he’s thought about it before—which he probably has, during long nights like this one when he was alone. Paris isn’t special for any particular reason; it just sounds...peaceful. But the way you wrinkle your nose at his answer makes him raise an eyebrow. “What about you?”
You shrug again. “Never really thought about it.” Then, in a half-lie: “Paris sounds...nice.”
You’ve heard the mixed reviews: that it smells, the people rude, the whole city overrated. You don’t tell him that, though. You can’t bring yourself to do so.
Some call it romantic.
The idea of running away to Paris with Aki feels too absurd to even voice. Maybe even a little romantic in itself. It makes you feel strangely hopeless.
Aki chuckles—a soft, rare sound. “Yeah. People say it’s the city of love.” He looks at you, catching the way the light from inside the apartment reflects off of your face. It’s kind of mesmerizing. “You deserve to see it.”
“So I’ve heard,” you reply with the faintest trace of amusement. You didn’t address his final line. “The Louvre’s in Paris.”
“The Louvre?” Some of the usual tension in Aki’s shoulders begins to ease. “You like art?”
“Yeah,” you respond confidently. “I like art.”
You pause, then continue, “The Louvre has the Mona Lisa. Liberty Leading the People. The Coronation of Napoleon. The Raft of the Medusa...” You list a few more before you even realize.
Aki smiles faintly, listening. Each mention draws his curiosity. He didn’t know you knew all that—at least, not by heart. Not with such passion he swears he hadn’t heard from you before. It’s a little impressive. Or maybe he’s just easily impressed. “You’re like an encyclopedia,” he teases, though he means it in a sincere way based on the admiration in his voice. “How do you know all that?”
You shrug, again. “I’ve always been into art history. Probably would’ve majored in it, but I couldn’t afford to go to college. I have my reasons for doing what I do now anyway, though.”
You couldn’t say you liked it, though. Not like how you would have liked going to college.
Maybe you would finally feel satiated one day. Or maybe you would never sink your teeth into revenge and revel in the high that it would give you. In the meantime, no one particularly enjoyed blood and guts and watching comrades die and get replaced by the next.
You rarely talk about yourself. Not voluntarily, anyway. The admission surprises Aki. He pictures you in a college dorm, studying under a desk lamp, maybe working in a café part-time (because that was what some college students did, right?). It’s a stark contrast to the life you live now.
“You would’ve made a good historian,” he says softly, kindly.
“You think so?” For just a moment, there’s a flicker of hope in your voice.
Aki nods, without hesitation. Yeah, he really thought so.
He doesn’t miss that hope in your voice either—the quiet yearning. He knows what it’s like to dream about a different life. A life that hadn’t been plagued by trauma inflicted by devils. A better one.
“You’d be good at it. Museums, libraries, teaching people about the past,” he says, flicking ash from his cigarette. “History deserves to be remembered. Art deserves to be seen.”
“Yeah,” you murmur in agreement. “Maybe in another life.” It sounds a little too hopeful. A little too far-fetched. Still, a small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips.
Aki hums in agreement. Another life. For just a moment, he lets himself pretend.
He imagines walking through the Louvre beside you, talking about paintings, listening to you explain every detail. He would hang onto every word that left your mouth.
He imagines a life without devils or death. A quiet apartment. Bad coffee. A warm bed. A shared grocery list.
Maybe the apartment you shared in another life was a little shitty, but it would be yours–and his–so it wouldn’t matter how shitty it was, right?
He’d go to that awful café every Sunday and pretend not to mind the bitter coffee, just because you liked it. He’d sit across from you at the kitchen table and talk about groceries. He’d help fold the laundry fresh out of the dryer, warm and lavender-scented on hands that, in that life, weren’t calloused. He’d spend the weekends doing nothing–because doing nothing with you would still make him happy.
A life with you.
A simple, domestic life.
God, when did he start thinking about you like this? Maybe he’d fallen in love long ago and just hadn’t realized it until now.
He didn’t say anything.
But if the world had been kinder, maybe it could’ve been real.
Maybe in another life, he could’ve made you happy.
But in this one, he only murmured a quiet, “Yeah,” drunk on that dream–his head full of thoughts. Full of imagined lives where he had a normal job, a home, a family. A life like the ones in those cheesy romantic movies.
“I’m glad I met you,” he said suddenly, without really thinking. He didn’t regret saying it, but it had slipped out, unfiltered. He paused. “That I got to know you.”
Even if it won’t last forever.
“I’m glad I met you too, Aki,” you replied truthfully. Your voice felt oddly small, but your words were sincere. Maybe there was even a trace of fondness buried in them. Aki wasn’t sure, and neither were you. You probably wouldn’t admit it, even if you had been.
A little part of his heart, buried deep inside, longed for it to be so. Just a few seconds of you–your presence, your voice, your affection. That was all he ever needed. A few seconds to be selfish.
Aki caught your eye, and for a second, he almost forgot how to breathe. He’d caught your glances throughout the night–the way you sometimes subtly stared at him–and every time, it stirred something uneasy in his gut. Don’t look at me like that, he wanted to say. Don’t give me that look.
Sometimes he loved it. Sometimes he hated it. He could never decide which.
You deserve more than this.
“I don’t want to forget your face,” you suddenly said, unprompted. “I check a lot to make sure I don’t.”
He blinks. Did you really have a bad memory? Were you simply afraid? Or was it something more? The sincerity in your voice makes him think it’s the latter. He didn’t recall you ever really having trouble remembering things, anyway. Maybe it was just an excuse. Still, he didn’t ask. He never did.
We could…
“How many times this week?” he asks, feigning a teasing tone to hide how much his chest ached.
That’d be nice.
“Too many to count,” you replied plainly, that serious look on your face. Honest to a fault, shameless at times. Aki had always appreciated that about you.
In another life.
He wanted to say something, anything in response, but the words caught in his throat.
Right?
“It’s too late to be out here,” he finally muttered, his voice tight. “Let’s go back inside.”
Right.
It began to snow.
That’s right. Aki hadn’t worn his gloves.
You must have forgotten, for a moment, just how cold it was, too. Aki watched you shiver when a gust of wind had bit at the tip of your nose. “Yeah…probably should.” A snowflake melted the instant it landed on your nose. “My hands’re cold,” you murmured, glancing down at your cold, red fingers.
Neither had you.
Aki looked over at you, watching the snow melt on your skin. Something about your expression made his mind go quiet–then cloudy. Your eyes were soft. There was a small smile on your lips. Sweet, but strained. Like you were hurting. It was a gentle expression. Why were you looking at him like that?
If you grab our gloves inside, our hands won’t be cold anymore.
The sound of the balcony door sliding open echoed in his mind. You had already gone inside, but when he looked up, you weren’t anywhere to be seen.
He looked back down at his own hands, flipping them over to examine them. The backs were pale. His fingers were red and numb. He furrowed his brows, lips turning downwards into a small frown.
Why hadn’t he noticed it sooner?
His hands were freezing.
Cold, like metal.