Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You haven’t been feeling good today.

Although, that’s a lie. The truth is, you haven’t felt good in several days. Weeks, is more likely. Sure, there are good spots here and there, but mostly, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that every day off you have, which is every day you don’t have classes, that you’ll be laying on your bed, staring at the little screen to your phone, until five o’clock every day.

You had only gotten up to shower, and even that had seeped out every bit of energy you had. So you resigned to throwing on some new clothes, dumping the pajamas you were wearing into the overfull laundry basket – you’re not doing laundry until you have to – and flopping onto the bed, turning back to your phone and opening up twitter.

A lot of days, you don’t complain. You just joke about “feeling like garbage” to your clubmates and friends, but that’s about the extent of you letting people in your life know how you feel. Most of the time, anyway.

Today was not “most of those times”. Opening up twitter, you type out a message. It’s fine, you can just make a few tweets about how you’re feeling, and then in twenty minutes when you’re thinking straight you can delete them. No one would see them anyhow – after all, your twitter is only followed by a few people, and no one who actually checks twitter on a daily basis. It’s a good way to get your feelings out without actually bothering anyone.

Setting your phone down again, you huff, before you close your eyes. There’s a nagging headache brewing in the back of your head. You haven’t slept a lot, and you haven’t eaten yet, either – you should probably change that. The sun’s going to go down in a few hours, but you don’t have anything you can make easy and thinking about going outside is making you feel sicker than you would be comfortable admitting.

Before you can think about that any farther, though, your phone vibrates once. You blink, confused for a second, before you reach over to grab it and hit the home button.

Huh. You remember that handle– someone who always writes positive posts, which you retweet pretty often – and you blink. You can’t remember when you had started following them – really, you follow an even lesser number of twitters than follow you, that is, less than fifty. Hell, you had forgotten they follow you back. But they were one of those twitters that followed everyone back, so you hadn’t thought much of it.

What the heck was this twitter doing messaging you?

Curiosity peaked now, you open up twitter again. Reflected back on the screen is a full DM. You’d be half impressed with how quickly they typed in such a short time if you weren’t absorbing the words.

Huh.

The name “Karamatsu” sounds familiar – was it someone you were in college with? With all the names to put to faces, you can’t really recall.

That’s oddly sweet. To have someone write something so quickly in response….obviously the character limit would have made that message really long. It’s no wonder they sent a DM. You wonder if it’s okay for you to write something in response, but – ah, to hell with it. You’re feeling sorry for yourself and can indulge a little bit.

Placing your phone back down, you’re hardly surprised that the response comes back in just a few seconds. Raising your phone again, you glance at the reply.

Huh. It definitely has to be someone you’re friendly with in your classes; although the name still doesn’t ring any bells. It wouldn’t hurt to meet up with someone, right? Even if you’re feeling sick just at the thought of being around people, you know that you have to do what you have to do. So you type in a reply, and settle on a place to meet up – the Sutaaba that’s right around the corner from the place you live – and you tug on a well - loved jacket before walking over there.

You walk in and order your usual – you come here often enough that the staff knows you by name now, and you and the barista at the register small talk as your drink is being prepared. You shift in your sneakers as he hands over your drink, and you give him a lopsided smile, with a ”Thanks a latte, have a grande” as your parting words, like usual. The barista laughs back, like usual.

Even if you feel like garbage on the inside, your outside has been prettied up after years of trying to make people not worry about you.

So you sit in one of the comfortable chairs and sip on your drink. Since it’s so late in the afternoon – the sun is steadily slinking in the sky now – the coffee shop is mostly empty, other than you and the people that work here. So when the door opens again, you can’t help but look up.

There’s a man in a leather jacket and shades standing there, and carrying some heavy looking bag. He sure stood out in fashion sense – what with the skull belt buckle, and the tank top with what looked like his face on it– and you can’t help but keep your eyes on him as he scans the room, until his eyes meet yours.

Or, you’re assuming your eyes are meeting, because you can’t see his eyes through those sunglasses.

However, after a few seconds, he makes his way over to you, and places the bags down before taking a seat next to you. You lower your eyes and are content on sipping your drink again.

But then he says your name.

Or, more, he says your twitter handle.

That gives him your full attention. You lower your cup and glance up at him, again, and he’s smiling. It’s gentle and kind, even if he does look a bit smug from his outfit. You pause, not sure what to say – all the words you want to say are stuck in your throat – but then he continues, leaving you to gape.

“Ah! Yes, I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you must have been the one to reach out for my help. It must have been so difficult! But I commend you, my friend, for reaching out and accepting my invitation to take care of you for this evening. I promise that I will not disappoint you,” a pause, as he glances up your expression. He apparently finds whatever he’s looking for there, because he stands up, taking the heavy looking bag in hand, before offering you his other one.

“Come! We must hurry off if we are to bring your happiness back, my Karamatsu Fan.”

Oh.

Oh

You remember this guy.

He was hanging out by the bridge once when you were crossing – he had offered his hand to you, just like this, and said something super cheesy and sappy. It had sparked a conversation, though you can’t remember what it was about, and you had wound up exchanging twitter handles. You had thought he was a pretty funny guy, even if that wasn’t what he was shooting for – but that had been months ago. A few weeks after you had moved into this city and started your classes.

You had almost forgotten.

Almost.

You don’t hesitate, though. You take his hand, because by now the baristas are staring at you both, open mouths reflecting how you’re feeling on the inside. His hands are large and warm and soft, and soon enough he’s walking you out of the coffee shop.

Before you can speak, or thank him, or protest that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to go this far, you just needed someone to talk to, not – this – he lets go of your hand and turns around. His hands then move to his shades, removing them, and the gaze he gives you is concerned.

You blink. His cheeks grows a little redder.

“Are you alright?”

The question throws you off a little, and you open your mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. The words you wanted to say are gone, and suddenly, you feel overwhelmed. The man – Karamatsu – must notice this, because he frets, and reaches out to take your hand again.

“Dinner.”

“Wh – excuse me?”

“I brought you dinner. Ah – I know, during these trying times, my dear, it’s hard to force yourself to eat. That’s why I had this lovely homemade dinner cooked just for you!” He seems pretty pleased with himself, and you can feel your heart catch in your throat.

Why was this guy you hardly know being so nice to you?

The expression on your face must be worrying him, because Karamatsu’s (very nice) eyebrows knit together in concern. He reaches out for your hand again, but stops midway, mouth slightly open.

“—are you quite alright, my beauty?”

You’re not. You really aren’t. Everything is just overwhelming and upsetting and God, you don’t deserve it. You really don’t. You want to tell him as much, but the tears build up in your eyes and start tracking down your face and if he didn’t look worried before, he definitely does now. Karamatsu takes your hand again and leads you over to a bench, and you sit gratefully, covering your eyes with your hands and sniffling. He reaches out to rub your back, and the touch grounds you into this moment.

“I – I’m, uh,” you stutter, scrubbing your face with your palms, “I’m sorry, Karamatsu-san, I, uhm…”

“It’s quite alright,” he reassures you quietly, hand still on your back. “I understand that in these difficult times, standing alone is much harder than it is than standing with someone to support you. Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s just, you hardly know me…”

“I understand. But as a Karamatsu Fan, you are important to me. I want to help you feel better, and I want to do it any way I can.”

“I’m – I don’t…deserve…”

“You do. You are nothing but kind, from what I’ve seen of you. And it’s obvious that you are in a low place in your life right now…do you have any family at home?”

You shake your head. He hums and removes his hand from your back, opting to take your hand again. You look up at him, meet his eyes, and he smiles.

“Then please allow me to accompany you home, and do as I promised and take care of you for the evening,” he says quietly, and you bite your lip. You do very much want to have company, so you nod. His smile grows even wider, if that’s possible, and he stands up again; you follow suit.

“Fantastic! Then we must be off! Please, take us back to your home so I can give you the proper treatment and care for a Karamatsu Fan.”

That makes you giggle. You squeeze his hand back and lead him to your dorm, grabbing your key from your pocket and unlocking the door to your room.

If he notices the mess, Karamatsu doesn’t say anything about it. You live in a single, somehow, and it shows. You have a small microwave and fridge in one corner of the room, along with paper plates and a mug that hasn’t been washed in three months; and your desk and bed are pushed onto the other side of the room. The tile floor is littered with books you had been sorting through yesterday, and your stuffed animal friends are resting on your pillow. A television set rests on the back of your desk.

You play with the sleeve to your jacket. He places the bag down on the small space of desk that isn’t covered in papers and gestures for you to sit down. You do so; and he opens the bag, pulling out wrapped onigiri and placing them on a paper plate. You watch with wide eyes as he then also pulls out a small bottle of juice; obviously meant for you. He hands it over with a smile, and you take it gratefully, uncapping it and taking a sip.

“I assumed you hadn’t eaten today, I’m sorry if you have; however! These are freshly made and can be eaten whenever you so please.”

“Ah, I didn’t – thank you,” you say quietly, reaching to take one of the onigiri. You take a bite and relish it – ah, a proper meal. You take another bite, and another, trying not to pay attention to Karamatsu’s beaming expression. Looking back up, you bob your head in thanks. “This is – this is really delicious! Did you make them yourself?”

“Unfortunately, cooking is not my department of expertise. After my first few disastrous attempts at cooking, my mother decided to come and help me with them – however, do not fret! The failed Onigiri have happily gone to a better place in the stomachs of my brothers. So please eat as much as you’d like!”

You take another bite, nodding, and Karamatsu settles down on the chair to the desk as you eat. He glances around before nibbling on his lip. He looks like he wants to say something. You swallow and ask him as much.

“Ah! That is, my gentle beauty – I am a bit worried. You do not have to tell me anything, of course! – however, if you do need to say something, I am here and ready to listen.”

You could say a lot of things. You could say that you were feeling just a little suffocated, living in a room by yourself; that you missed your family; that you were too nervous to talk to anyone about the constant spikes of anxiety – but you don’t. Instead, you reach towards Karamatsu and grab the clicker that was on the desk, pulling back and flicking on the television.

“Do you want to watch a movie, Karamatsu-san?”

There would be other nights, you’re sure.

But for now, you want to rest.