Chapter Text
It was nearing the end of Summer.
You had recently helped the Stand users of Morioh take down Yoshikage Kira. With what little time remained to enjoy the warmth of the sun, you decided to finally unwind.
Since moving to Morioh, you’d struck up an unlikely friendship with the Mangaka who had recently relocated to town—Kishibe Rohan. The two of you bonded over tracking the killer together through photography, and spent restless afternoons people-watching, eyes sharp for any suspicious behavior.
Sometimes, Rohan would invite you over to his house, where the two of you would spend hours combing through phone books, mailing lists, and address directories—all while sipping tea—in hopes of finding the clue that would bring Kira’s spree to an end.
You had to admit, beneath his self-absorbed attitude and uptight demeanor, you’d come to really enjoy his presence. Eventually, you started inviting yourself over just to finish your summer coursework—preparing for your next semester at university—while Rohan locked himself away in his study, hammering out drafts of one-shots and the next volume of Pink Dark Boy.
A quiet sort of disappointment hung in the air now, knowing Summer was ending. Soon you’d return to Tokyo and your studies, far from the quiet, odd charm of Morioh and the friends you’d made here.
Koichi, Josuke, Okuyasu, Yukako, Mikitaka… and Rohan. I’ll definitely come visit whenever I can, you promised yourself. Making a mental note to give your new friends your apartment address—so they could drop by during the fall semester—you stood up from your comfortable spot on Rohan’s antique couch.
You were pretty sure he’d mentioned once that it was from Pretty Woman.
Brushing off the cushion where you’d sat, you carefully fluffed and arranged the pillows, making sure everything looked just as it had before. Then, you headed upstairs, weaving through the dim, Edwardian-styled interior of Rohan’s home, toward his study.
——————
You opened the door slowly, careful not to disturb The Great Kishibe Rohan—as he liked to call himself. You rolled your eyes just thinking about that nickname.
“Rohan…?” you called out gently.
There was a pause. No rustling of papers, no signature sound of a fountain pen scratching against bristol board.
You stepped in farther, the scent of ink and aged books thicker here.
Familiar now, oddly comforting.
He was seated at his drafting table, one elbow propped up, chin resting in his palm. His pen was held loosely in his other hand, though the nib hovered inches above the paper, untouched. His eyes weren’t on his work; they were fixed toward the window, slightly narrowed, deep in thought.
“You’re staring into space again,” you said, your smirked as you leaned against the doorframe.
He didn’t look at you right away, but you could see the faintest twitch of acknowledgment at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not staring at nothing,” he replied coolly. “I’m visualizing a new character. One with a tragic backstory and a really unfortunate haircut.”
You chuckled, your mind drifting toward your pompadour-styled-hair friend. “Is it based on anyone we know?”
He finally turned toward you, eyes sharp, amused. “I’ll let you guess when the volume drops.”
You crossed the room slowly, careful not to bump the stacks of reference books and sketchpads littering the floor. “I just came to say I’m heading out for the day. I’ll leave the spare keys on the counter before I go.”
He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable expression of his—the one that always made you feel like he was seeing something you weren’t saying.
“You’re really leaving soon,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
You nodded. “Yeah. University starts in a week. I’ve got to unpack and rejoin the world of essays and ramen cups.”
Rohan’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, then returned to the blank page. “Tch. What a waste of talent. That city doesn’t deserve your insight.”
You blinked, momentarily thrown by the rare compliment, especially coming from him.
“…I’ll always visit,” you said after a moment. “Y’know.”
He didn’t look up this time, but you heard the faintest reply, nearly lost beneath the sound of his pen finally meeting paper:
“You better.”
——————
8 PM. Downstairs of Rohan’s House.
You had just slipped your shoes back on when you heard his voice echo down the stairs.
“Wait.”
You turned halfway, your hand still resting on the doorknob.
Rohan stood at the far end of the hallway, arms crossed, an unreadable look on his face. “Cancel your train.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I said, cancel your train. Or delay it. A week. Maybe two.” He stepped closer, brows raised in that way he got when he was trying very hard to make something sound casual—and failing.
You gave him a cautious look. “Why?”
He pulled something from the inside pocket and tossed it your way. You fumbled to catch it, surprised by the sudden motion, your fingers closed around a travel brochure. You stared at the image of whitewashed buildings and cobalt rooftops under a bright Aegean sky.
“Santorini?”
“It’s research,” he said simply, already walking past you into the living room like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Architecture, scenery, fashion. The ocean does wonders for clearing creative blocks.”
You followed, stunned. “You’re going to Greece? Now?”
“Yes. We leave tomorrow.”
“I'm sorry,” You sputter.
“We-!?”
He turned, finally facing you with an expression that was almost earnest. “You’ve been helpful. And you haven’t annoyed me…that much. Consider it a reward. Or an extension of your summer. Your studies can wait a week. Can’t they?”
Your heart leapt, but you tried to play it cool, arms folded now. “Are you always this spontaneous?”
“No,” Rohan said, shrugging. “But if I’m going to waste my time with someone, it might as well be with someone who’s not completely unbearable to be around.”
“Gee. Thanks.” You spat.
Your eyes drifted up to stare at him.
He stared back, perfectly unfazed.
Then, finally, you grinned. “You’re insane.”
“I’m a genius,” he corrected.
You stopped the action of tying your shoes for a second, flipping the brochure over in your hands.
“…What’s the catch?” you asked, still not quite believing it.
Rohan turned back toward his study. “No catch. Just don’t touch my luggage. And pack light. If you hold us up at the airport, I won’t hesitate to leave without you.”
“What a gentleman you are.”
“I try.”
——————
The next day. 5:08 AM. Narita Airport.
You had taken the train from Morioh’s station to meet up with Rohan at the airport.
Narita Airport was already buzzing when you arrived, even though the sun hadn’t fully risen yet. You adjusted the strap of your canvas duffel bag and looked around the crowded departure hall, scanning for a familiar figure in the sea of early travelers.
It didn’t take long to spot him.
Rohan stood near the check-in counter, slightly apart from the crowd like he couldn’t bear the idea of being lumped in with regular people. He was dressed far too sharply for a flight, and beside him sat a sleek hard-shell suitcase and what looked like a sketchbook portfolio. He tapped his foot impatiently as the airline clerk printed something out on their slow, dot-matrix printer.
You jogged over. “You’re here early.”
“I said five o’clock. You’re eight minutes late,” he replied flatly, still not looking at you. “In that time, a person could have sketched an entire character concept.”
“I was packing,” you said, catching your breath. “Not all of us have assistants who iron their clothes and fold their socks.”
“I don’t have assistants. You know this,” Rohan deadpans, finally turning to glance at you. “Did you bring any drawing supplies?”
“Nope just, y’know- some clothes, my swimsuit and toothbrush.”
He gave a small, disapproving sound and took his boarding pass from the clerk, tucking it neatly into the front pocket of his shirt. “You’ll regret it when you see the light in the Aegean. It’s beautiful. Perfect for panel sketching.”
You gave him a look. “Still not sure if this is a vacation or forced labor.”
Rohan’s lips twitched. “Call it what you want. You said you wanted to learn something this summer, didn’t you?”
——————
The two of you moved through the terminal easily, without the long lines and fussy security checks that had started becoming common elsewhere. You didn’t even have to take off your shoes. A uniformed officer gave your passports a glance before waving you through toward the boarding gates.
Rohan moved like he’d done this a hundred times—confident, controlled. You, meanwhile, were still adjusting the strap of your duffel bag and trying not to feel too underdressed next to him.
“Relax,” he said dryly. “No one’s going to arrest you for carrying a Walkman.”
By the time you reached the gate, the sun was peeking over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the tarmac. You sat side by side in the hard plastic chairs, watching baggage carts roll past the window.
“You ever been to Greece before?” you asked, your voice quieter now.
“No,” Rohan replied. “But I’ve read enough about it. The ruins. The color of the ocean. The shadows between the stones. It’s supposedly beautiful, but I’ll decide for myself.”
You looked at him, rolling your eyes at his tone.
After a moment, he added, “Places like that are sure to stick with you. Just like good stories.”
You nodded. “I guess I’m still wrapping my head around the fact you invited me.”
He gave you a sideways glance. “You’re the only person in Morioh I can talk to without wanting to slam my head against a wall. That has to count for something.”
You let out a small laugh. “Is that your way of saying you’ll miss me when I go back to Tokyo?”
Rohan didn’t answer right away. Then the boarding call rang over the loudspeaker.
“Japan Airlines Flight 743 to Athens now boarding. Rows 20 through 30.”
He stood, grabbing his case and stretching his shoulders. “Let’s just go. I’m not going to miss a window seat because of your emotional speculation.”
You rolled your eyes and followed him into the line.
“Just admit it,” you said. “You’d be bored without me.”
Rohan gave a noncommittal hum. “We’ll see.”
——————
Somewhere over Eurasia. 10,688 meters in the sky.
The plane hummed with quiet white noise as it cruised somewhere above the clouds. You had a window seat, just behind the wing, with Rohan seated beside you, though he hadn’t looked up once since takeoff.
He was already working.
A thin stack of sketch paper rested on the fold-down tray in front of him, and he had his favorite mechanical pencil in hand, the kind with the perfectly worn grip. Every few minutes, he’d glance at the in-flight magazine he’d hijacked from your seat pocket, flipping to a photo of ancient ruins or sunlit villas before going back to his sketch.
You glanced out the window, watching the sky shift from pale gray to a soft blue. Japan was long behind you now. You weren’t sure when exactly it had hit—that you were actually doing this. Not just a short trip to Tokyo or a weekend at a beach town. You were flying across the world with Kishibe Rohan.
You turned your head toward him. “Are you seriously going to draw for the whole flight?”
“Yes,” he said, not looking up.
“I thought maybe we’d at least talk or something.”
Rohan let out a small breath, then paused his pencil. “You’re free to talk. Just don’t expect a response.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned back into your seat, arms crossed. “You know, you invited me. Don’t act like I’m forcing you into human interaction.”
That got a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Touché.”
The silence stretched again, but this time, not so stiff.
A few minutes passed before he spoke again, still focused on his page. “Why did you agree to come?”
You glanced at him, surprised he was the one to ask.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Maybe I just wanted something… different. Something to remember this summer by. After Kira, after everything that happened in Morioh—it felt like the right time to get away. And I guess…” You hesitated, then added, “I didn’t want to regret turning you down.”
Rohan didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turned a page, starting on a new sketch. This one looked like a crumbling temple caught in a storm, wind sweeping through the stone columns. His pencil moved a little slower this time.
“Regret is useless,” he said quietly. “People who dwell on it waste their time. But people who never risk it…” He trailed off, frowning at the curve of a line before correcting it.
You tilted your head. “That sounded almost personal.”
He gave a small shrug. “You’re imagining things.”
You smiled and reached into your bag, pulling out a small cassette player. With a soft click, you loaded one of your favorite tapes—something calm, something summer-like—and offered him one earbud.
Rohan glanced at it, visibly skeptical.
“I don’t listen to music while I work,” he said.
“It’s not for work. It’s for not being a cold, isolated statue for ten hours.”
A beat passed.
Then, surprisingly, he took it.
You both sat in silence again, this time with the soft sound of vocals and strings playing between you. Outside the window, the sky continued to brighten, casting gold across the clouds.
And for the first time that day, Rohan leaned back in his seat.
Not working, not talking, just… there.
Beside you.
——————
Athens, Greece. 2:20 PM.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt, and the cabin lights flickered back on.
Outside the window, early afternoon sunlight bathed the Athens International Airport in warm, yellow tones. Palm trees swayed gently near the runway, and the sky stretched endlessly above the terminal.
You blinked the sleep from your eyes. At some point, you must have dozed off, with your head tilted slightly toward Rohan’s shoulder.
He hadn’t moved.
Now, as passengers rustled to life and reached for overhead bags, he shifted slightly and glanced at you.
“You drooled,” he said flatly.
You wiped your mouth quickly, flustered. “Did not.”
“You’re lucky I was in a generous mood,” he added, standing and retrieving his bag.
“Normally I’d use that kind of scene as artistic reference.”
You stood too, stretching your arms. “Would’ve been the least flattering panel in Pink Dark Boy.”
“No such thing exists,” he said with a smirk.
The two of you made your way through the narrow aisle, stepping into the dry warmth of the arrivals corridor. The scent of jet fuel gave way to something saltier, earthier. You moved through customs without trouble, passports stamped with the faded thump of official ink, and suddenly you were there: standing in the middle of an unfamiliar country.
——————
The airport was a little chaotic. The overhead announcements were in Greek and English, echoing slightly against the tiled walls. Tourists in floppy hats and film cameras clustered near information boards, while flight attendants darted past with sharp heels and rolling carts.
You glanced around. “So what now?”
Rohan pulled a small leather notebook from his bag, flipping through a page. “We have a connecting flight in an hour. Santorini.”
He looked up at you. “You’ve got that spaced-out look again.”
“I’m just… taking it in.”
He didn’t reply at first, but you noticed the way his expression softened, just slightly. “Good. That’s the first step to actually seeing something.”
You made your way to the next terminal. It was smaller, less polished than the one you’d just passed through. The signs were older, some slightly peeling, but there was a strange charm to it. You bought a pastry and a cold bottle of orange soda from a vending stand while Rohan stood near the windows, sketching lazily in his book.
A little later, while waiting to board, you wandered over.
“What are you drawing now?”
He tilted the page toward you. A rough outline of the airport. But more exaggerated—the ceiling higher, the windows wider, shadows longer than they were in real life.
“It’s what it feels like, not what it is,” he said.
You looked at the sketch a little longer. “It’s nice.”
“Just nice?” he replied instantly, “Not even ‘beautiful’ or ‘magnificant’?”
“Nope, just nice.”
You grinned. Then the boarding call rang out again—this time with a different kind of excitement buzzing in your chest.
Your first island. Your first glimpse of those white-washed villages you’d only ever seen in magazines.
You both moved toward the gate, side by side.
And as you stepped onto the small regional plane, Rohan glanced back at you just once.
“Try not to trip on the stairs,” he said.
You grinned. “You’d catch me if I fell though, right?”
“You know my answer to that.”
But you saw the smallest flicker of a smile.
——————
Santorini. Later Afternoon.
The flight from Athens to Santorini was short—less than an hour—but it felt like entering another world.
From the small cabin window, you watched as the Aegean Sea glittered below like hammered glass. The islands looked almost too perfect, scattered like jewels across the blue. As the plane dipped lower, Santorini revealed itself: white buildings clinging to cliffs, blue domes catching the late sun, winding roads carved into the rock like ancient brushstrokes.
Beside you, Rohan said nothing, but you could feel the stillness in him. He hadn’t pulled out his sketchbook this time. Just watched.
When the plane touched down on the narrow airstrip, the wheels chirped against the ground and the cabin jolted. The terminal was small—just one building with whitewashed walls, sun-bleached from years of heat and salt air.
You disembarked down a short stairway, stepping directly into the golden haze of early evening.
The air was warm, dry, and scented faintly with dust, citrus, and distant seawater.
A driver was waiting for you at the curb, holding a simple sign that said “K. Rohan.” The man didn’t speak much Japanese, but gestured for your bags and led you both to a small white car.
As the vehicle climbed up the winding roads, the view unfurled around you. The sun was beginning to lower, painting the cliffs in warm tones—rose gold, peach, and the deepest bronze. The buildings along the ridges glowed like lanterns. From this high, the sea seemed impossibly still.
Rohan leaned against the window, watching silently.
“Hard to sketch a place like this,” you said softly. “It already feels like someone painted it.”
He didn’t respond right away. Then: “That’s why it works. It already looks like fiction.”
You smiled and sat back, letting the hum of the road and the scenery blur together.
——————
Your villa was perched just outside the heart of Oia. It was carved into the cliffside.
White stucco walls, rounded door frames, and a narrow terrace that overlooked the caldera. Inside, it was minimal but elegant. Arched ceilings. Tile floors cool against your feet. Two twin beds separated by a small nightstand and a simple iron lamp. Through a pair of open wooden doors, the balcony stretched into open sky.
After winding down, you’d both showered and changed into something light for the warm night air, you stepped out onto that balcony. The stars had come out as sharp and bright in the deep blue sky. And the town below glowed with tiny lights that flickered like candles.
Behind you, you heard the door open.
Rohan stepped out beside you, a book in hand—though it hung loosely at his side, forgotten. His shirt was rumpled now, collar undone, and his hair a little softer than usual, like the island air had worn him down.
You leaned your elbow on the ledge, turning toward him slightly. The breeze had picked up, carrying the scent of the sea and jasmine through the open air.
“You’re quiet,” you softly mumbled.
“It’s hard not to be here,” he answered. “Too much noise ruins it.”
You didn’t look at him. Just watched the reflection of moonlight flicker on the sea below.
“I still can’t believe you invited me,” you said, “You don’t exactly strike me as the travel companion type.”
Rohan gave a soft, amused sound, like he’d heard a joke he wasn’t ready to admit was true. “I’m not.”
He was silent for a beat. Then, “I thought you might back out at the last minute.”
You gave a soft laugh. “Hah! …So did I.”
You then questioned. “So why this trip? Why bring me?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the horizon, fixed somewhere far beyond the sea, as if looking for the right words before they slipped away.
Then finally: “Places like this are… distracting. Almost too much. The kind of beauty that overwhelms the senses.”
You waited, sensing there was more.
“When I travel for work, I keep things controlled. Studio hotels. Tight schedules. That makes it easier. Predictable.”
He turned toward you slightly then, his voice low. “But this wasn’t meant to be like that. Not here.”
You looked at him, studying the way the light from the villa brushed against the angles of his face.
“So you didn’t want to come alone,” you said, not as a question.
His expression didn’t shift, but his silence confirmed it.
“I could’ve asked someone else,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”
You felt the weight of that. Quiet and real.
“…I’m glad you didn’t,” you replied.
Rohan didn’t smile, not fully, but the line of his shoulders softened. He glanced down at the terrace tiles, then back out toward the sea.
“It’s easier to notice things when you’re not trying so hard to keep everything out,” he said. “You help with that.”
Your chest tightened a little at the honesty in his tone.
You didn’t say anything. Just stepped a bit closer, your arm brushing against his on the ledge.
For the first time in a while, Rohan didn’t pull away.
And in that moment, on a cliffside in Santorini, with the stars overhead and the sea stretching out below, you let yourself believe that something might be changing.
——————
Later In the Evening.
Later, after the stars had deepened in the sky and the breeze cooled, you slipped back inside the villa, leaving the balcony doors ajar. The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a single bedside lamp. Cicadas buzzed faintly from somewhere in the cliffs below.
Your suitcase sat unopened by the far wall, kicked up against the corner where sunlight had once poured in. You knelt beside it, fingers brushing over the zipper, and began to unpack slowly—folded tops, a light sweater you probably wouldn’t need, the half-finished paperback you’d meant to read on the flight but never touched.
You moved with quiet hands, placing everything into the drawers built directly into the curved walls, cool and smooth under your palms. A small part of you wondered if Rohan was still out there on the balcony, sketchbook finally open, translating stars into ink.
When you reached the bottom of your bag, you pulled out the small pouch of toiletries, the familiar softness of your sleep shirt—creased from travel—and a folded note you hadn’t realized had slipped between the fabric: Koichi’s handwriting, scribbled in a rush.
“Tell Rohan to eat real food. And don’t let him glare at waiters too hard.”
You chuckled to yourself.
In the mirror above the vanity, your reflection looked worn, but content. Hair a little windblown from the long day. You peeled off your travel clothes and changed into the soft shirt, brushing out your hair slowly, the wooden brush calming against your scalp.
From behind, you heard the gentle creak of the balcony door. Then footsteps across tile.
“I see you’re unpacking,” Rohan’s voice said, low and even.
You glanced at him through the mirror. “If I don’t do it now, I’ll be living out of my suitcase all week.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. His sleeves were pushed up now, hair slightly damp—he must have washed his face, or maybe taken a quick shower. For someone always so composed, he looked unusually relaxed.
Glancing towards the empty beds, both were identical in size—white linen sheets, hand-carved headboards, fluffed pillows—but one had a slightly better view of the sea. And you could already see where this was going.
“I’m taking that one,” Rohan said immediately from behind you, stepping past you without hesitation. He gestured toward the bed nearest the open window, where the golden sunset spilled in and touched the sheets.
You raised a brow. “And what if I wanted that one?”
He blinked at you, like the question physically stunned him. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I was literally about to.”
“You hesitated,” he said smugly, dropping his bag onto the mattress like a claim of conquest. “And in this house, hesitation is weakness.”
“This isn’t a shōnen battle manga, Rohan.”
“No, but it is real life, and in real life, people who hesitate lose the good bed with the sea breeze.”
You crossed your arms. “You always get your way?”
“Only when I’m right,” he replied.
You scowled. “Fine. I hope a seagull flies directly into that breeze and shits on your face.”
“That would be a dramatic turn of events,” he said, utterly unfazed, “but not entirely unexpected given how things go when I travel with others.”
You huffed and dropped your bag onto the other bed with unnecessary force, the mattress squeaking in protest. “Whatever. Your bed’s probably closer to the mosquitos anyway.”
“I don’t get bitten.”
“Of course you don’t.”
You rolled your eyes, but a small, reluctant grin tugged at your mouth.
——————
The room had quieted with nightfall.
Outside, the sea hummed beneath the cliffs of Santorini, gentle waves brushing the rock like a lullaby. The laughter of distant tourists had faded, and only the wind remained, whispering through the open shutters.
You laid curled beneath the light blanket, facing the wall.
Your side of the room already cooled from the breeze. The bed wasn’t as close to the window as Rohan’s, but it was comfortable. Clean. The kind of stillness that only comes from exhaustion and salt air.
You could hear Rohan flipping pages softly from across the room. Not his usual Pink Dark Boy script or manuscript, but something smaller. A travel journal maybe. Or sketching in the dim light. You didn’t know. You didn’t ask.
Your body was tired, heavy in that gentle way, limbs sunk into the mattress like it was cradling you. The day had been long—full of airports, turbulence, and the surrealness of waking up in Japan only to fall asleep on a volcanic island halfway across the world.
Somewhere in your half-sleep haze, Rohan murmured something.
You stirred slightly. “Hmm?”
“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than usual. “I didn’t realize you were already asleep.”
“M’not,” you mumbled, though the words felt thick on your tongue. “Just… almost.”
He didn’t reply right away. Then, quietly:
“You breathe differently when you’re about to fall asleep.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t even know if he meant it in a strange, observational Rohan way—or if he meant something softer. Like maybe he’d been watching you longer than you thought.
”You’re such a weirdo, y’know?” You muttered.
But your mind was slipping too fast now, warm and lulled by the distant waves and the weight of the day. You let your eyes fall shut.
And this time, you didn’t hear the pages turning. Just the sound of a pen being set gently down on a nightstand. Then silence.
And sleep came, slowly and safely, with the soft certainty that Rohan was still awake. Still nearby.