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The Guild’s headquarters were almost unrecognizable when night fell.
During the day, the grand rooms buzzed with movement: the shuffle of papers, the sharp click of polished shoes against marble floors, voices rising and falling like the tide. At night, though, all of that faded into stillness. The hallways seemed wider somehow, lined with portraits and banners that watched in silence as the few remaining members trickled out for the evening.
Nathaniel Hawthorne preferred it this way.
The quiet gave him space to think, to put the day’s chaos into order. It allowed him to focus fully on his work — tonight, that meant carefully reviewing mission reports stacked neatly on his desk. Each page was read with meticulous attention, his neat handwriting adding notes in the margins when necessary. The soft glow of a desk lamp pooled around him, leaving the rest of the office in shadow.
Some would call it lonely. Hawthorne considered it peaceful.
At least, he did until the door creaked open behind him.
“Y’know,” drawled a familiar voice, smooth and easy, “most folks tend to go home when the sun goes down.”
Hawthorne didn’t look up immediately. He finished writing a final note in the margin, capped his pen, and then glanced over his shoulder.
“Twain,” he greeted evenly, his deep voice calm but faintly questioning. “I did not expect to see you here at this hour.”
Leaning casually against the doorframe was Mark Twain, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his expression somewhere between amused and tired.
“Didn’t expect to be here myself,” Twain admitted, stepping inside. His boots made soft sounds against the polished floor, deliberate and unhurried. “But when I saw a certain someone’s light still on, I figured I oughta check in. Make sure you hadn’t keeled over from sheer boredom.”
Hawthorne’s lips twitched, the closest thing he ever came to a smirk. “Your concern is noted. Though I assure you, I am quite capable of enduring the demands of my work.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second,” Twain said, dropping into the chair across from Hawthorne’s desk without waiting to be invited. “But it’s a little tragic, don’t you think? Here you are, the most righteous man in the Guild, burning the midnight oil over paperwork while everyone else is out enjoyin’ themselves.”
Hawthorne returned his gaze to the papers. “The success of our operations relies on diligence and order. If that requires me to work late, then so be it.”
Twain leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Sure, sure. Very noble. But even noble folks need to sleep once in a while.”
There was no reply for a moment, just the quiet scratching of Hawthorne’s pen as he moved to the next report. Twain watched him with a small, private smile. The man was infuriatingly disciplined — even his posture was perfect, shoulders squared, every motion precise and efficient.
It wasn’t that Twain didn’t respect it. Quite the opposite. There was something strangely… endearing about Hawthorne’s unwavering sense of purpose. Still, Twain couldn’t help but imagine how stiff and miserable the guy must feel, alone in this cavernous office long past midnight.
“Tell me somethin’,” Twain said after a beat, resting his chin on one hand. “What’s so important that it can’t wait ‘til morning?”
Hawthorne paused, pen hovering midair. “The reports detail a recent operation overseen by our colleagues. It is my duty to ensure that all records are accurate and thorough.”
“That so?” Twain tilted his head. “Seems to me like that stack of papers is just an excuse to keep yourself chained to this desk.”
Hawthorne’s brows drew together slightly, though his voice remained calm. “If you have a point, Twain, I suggest you make it plainly.”
Twain grinned. “My point is that you’re workin’ yourself into the ground, and no one’s gonna give you a medal for it. Least of all Fitzgerald. Man’s got enough trophies on his shelf already.”
Hawthorne blinked, caught off guard by the mention of their leader. “I do not seek recognition,” he said after a moment, steady as ever. “I act because it is right, and because it furthers the Guild’s cause.”
“Mm. And what about what’s right for you?” Twain asked softly.
The question hung in the air, heavier than either of them expected. Hawthorne stared at him, lips parting slightly but no words coming out.
Twain, sensing he’d struck a nerve, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His tone softened. “Look, Nathaniel… I know you take this job seriously. More seriously than anyone, maybe. But you’re not just some cog in the machine. You’re a person. You deserve a little peace, same as the rest of us.”
Hawthorne swallowed, gaze flickering downward. For a brief moment, his carefully constructed composure wavered. “…Peace is a luxury,” he murmured. “One I cannot always afford.”
“Maybe so,” Twain said, his drawl unusually gentle. “But that don’t mean you shouldn’t grab it when you can.”
The room went quiet again, filled only by the faint hum of the desk lamp.
Finally, Hawthorne set down his pen and folded his hands on the desk. “Why are you truly here, Twain?” he asked, his voice lower now, more personal. “If you came only to chastise me, you could have done so tomorrow.”
Twain hesitated. For a man known for his quick tongue, he seemed almost… sheepish. “Truth be told,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, “I was headin’ out. Had my coat on and everything. But then I passed by your door, saw that light still burnin’…”
He trailed off, shrugging lightly. “Guess I didn’t much like the idea of you sittin’ here all alone. So I figured I’d stick around. Keep you company. Maybe even drag you home if I had to.”
Hawthorne blinked, clearly taken aback. “That was… unnecessary,” he said slowly.
“Probably,” Twain agreed with a crooked grin. “But here I am anyway.”
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. Something unspoken passed between them — a warmth that had nothing to do with duty or obligation.
Then Twain stood, stretching lazily. “C’mon,” he said, holding out a hand. “It’s past midnight. Let the papers wait ‘til morning. I’ll walk you home.”
Hawthorne hesitated. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a task unfinished. Yet, as he looked at Twain’s outstretched hand, something inside him softened.
“…Very well,” he said at last, rising to his feet.
Twain’s grin widened. “Knew you’d see sense eventually.”
As they stepped out into the quiet hallways, Hawthorne found himself walking just a little closer to Twain than necessary. The Guild’s grand corridors were empty, their footsteps echoing softly, but for once, the silence felt companionable rather than lonely.
When they reached the exit, Twain glanced at him sidelong. “You know,” he said casually, “I didn’t just stick around for your sake. Those reports of yours make for mighty dull company. I prefer someone who can hold a conversation.”
Hawthorne arched an eyebrow. “And you consider yourself a worthy conversationalist?”
“Darlin’, I’m the best conversationalist.” Twain smirked, then added, softer, “Least when it comes to you.”
Hawthorne’s breath caught, but he said nothing. Instead, he allowed a small, genuine smile to curve his lips — a rare sight indeed.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, Twain reached out and, without making a show of it, took Hawthorne’s hand. Hawthorne stiffened instinctively… then relaxed, letting their fingers intertwine.
They walked on like that, side by side, no words needed.
And for the first time in a long while, Hawthorne felt at peace.
The streets of Yokohama were nearly empty at this hour, the usual bustle of the port city replaced by a softer rhythm. Street lamps cast long pools of warm light across the pavement, illuminating drifting petals from a nearby cherry tree.
It wasn’t home. Not truly — not for either of them.
But as Twain and Hawthorne walked side by side, their hands still loosely joined, it felt a little less foreign.
“Place sure quiets down at night,” Twain remarked, his voice low so as not to disturb the stillness. His thumb brushed idly over the back of Hawthorne’s hand, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “Almost feels like we’re the only two folks left in the whole city.”
“A rare moment of tranquility,” Hawthorne agreed, his deep voice carrying easily through the night air. His tone was calm, but Twain noticed the subtle way his shoulders relaxed now that they were outside the Guild’s watchful halls.
Twain glanced at him with a soft smile. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to deliver a sermon.” Twain chuckled when Hawthorne gave him a mildly exasperated look. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s part of your charm. Just… maybe tonight, you can let the preacher take a break.”
For a heartbeat, Hawthorne didn’t answer. Then, very quietly, he said, “…I shall try.”
Twain’s grin widened, but he didn’t tease further. Instead, they walked in companionable silence, the soft sounds of the city wrapping around them like a blanket.
Hawthorne’s apartment wasn’t far — a modest space in a quiet neighborhood near the edge of the city. The building was old but well-kept, with narrow hallways and a faint smell of tatami mats.
As they climbed the stairs, Hawthorne finally broke the silence. “You need not have escorted me, Twain. I am more than capable of navigating the streets alone.”
“Sure you are,” Twain said easily, his drawl as warm as ever. “But humor me, will ya? It’s late, and I’d hate for anything to happen to you on my watch. Makes me look like a terrible partner.”
The word partner lingered in the air. Hawthorne’s ears turned faintly red, though he didn’t comment.
When they reached his door, Hawthorne hesitated, then turned to face Twain fully. “This is… where we part ways, I presume.”
Twain tipped his hat back, studying him. “Well, I was thinkin’…” He rubbed the back of his neck, uncharacteristically sheepish. “Maybe I’ll come in for a minute. Just to make sure you actually sit down instead of goin’ right back to scribblin’ notes like a man possessed.”
Hawthorne raised an eyebrow, though there was no true protest in his tone. “You doubt my self-control?”
“Not doubtin’ it,” Twain said with a grin. “Just knowin’ you too well.”
Hawthorne sighed but unlocked the door. “…Very well. But only for a moment.”
Inside, the apartment was exactly what Twain had expected: neat, simple, and utterly devoid of personal clutter. Everything had its place, from the precisely arranged bookshelves to the immaculate tea set on the low table.
It was… very Hawthorne.
Twain wandered in, hands in his pockets, and gave an appreciative whistle. “Clean enough to eat off the floor. If you weren’t such a devout fella, I’d accuse you of hidin’ a secret life as a housekeeper.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Hawthorne replied dryly, setting his coat neatly on a hook.
“Mm, I reckon that makes me a sinner through and through.” Twain chuckled, kicking off his boots before following Hawthorne further inside.
Hawthorne moved toward the small kitchen area. “Tea?”
“Wouldn’t say no,” Twain said, flopping down onto a floor cushion like he owned the place. He stretched out with lazy elegance, watching as Hawthorne methodically prepared the tea with practiced motions.
It was quiet, almost domestic, in a way that tugged at something in Twain’s chest.
“Y’know,” he said after a moment, “you work so hard for the Guild, you barely spend any time here. Seems a shame, really. It’s a nice place.”
Hawthorne didn’t look up from the teapot. “…The Guild’s mission is my priority. This space exists only to provide rest between duties.”
Twain frowned slightly. “But you deserve more than that, Nathaniel.”
Hawthorne set the teapot down with a soft click and finally met Twain’s gaze. There was no anger there, only quiet resolve. “My service to the Guild is voluntary. Fitzgerald’s vision gives me purpose. That is… enough.”
Twain studied him for a long moment. Then, softer than before, he said, “And what about your vision? What do you want, outside of all that?”
The question seemed to catch Hawthorne off guard. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then looked away. “…I… have not given it much thought,” he admitted, the faintest crack in his stoic facade.
Twain’s expression softened. “Then maybe you oughta start.”
He stood, crossing the small room until he was standing just a breath away. Hawthorne looked up, startled by the sudden proximity. Twain reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently brushing his knuckles against Hawthorne’s cheek.
“You’ve got a good heart, Nathaniel,” Twain said quietly. “But even the righteous need someone lookin’ out for them.”
Hawthorne’s breath caught. “…And you have taken it upon yourself to do so?”
“Reckon I have.” Twain’s lips quirked into a tender smile. “Whether you like it or not.”
Hawthorne’s composure wavered, and for the first time that night, a genuine warmth filled his eyes. “…I do not dislike it,” he admitted softly.
That was all the encouragement Twain needed. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Hawthorne’s temple — nothing rushed, nothing demanding. Just a quiet promise.
Hawthorne closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean into the touch. It felt… safe. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
When Twain pulled back, he grinned. “There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Hawthorne’s cheeks were faintly pink, though his tone remained steady. “No. It was… agreeable.”
Twain laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the small apartment. “You’ve got a funny way of sayin’ ‘I liked it,’ partner.”
Hawthorne gave him a look that was more fond than stern. “I imagine you shall grow accustomed to it.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Twain winked, then added, “Now, how about we sit and enjoy that tea before it gets cold? You’ve had a long day. You deserve a little peace.”
Hawthorne hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Very well.”
They sat together at the low table, sipping tea in comfortable silence. Outside, the city of Yokohama slumbered, the distant sound of the harbor mingling with the whisper of wind through the trees.
For Hawthorne, this moment — this quiet evening with Twain — felt like something sacred.
And for Twain, watching Hawthorne relax by degrees, it felt like coming home.
Later, when Twain finally rose to leave, Hawthorne walked him to the door.
“Thank you,” Hawthorne said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
Twain tilted his head. “For?”
“For… staying,” Hawthorne clarified, meeting his gaze with steady sincerity.
Twain’s heart gave a little kick. He reached out, took Hawthorne’s hand, and squeezed gently. “Always, Nathaniel.”
And this time, Hawthorne didn’t let go until Twain was halfway down the hall.