Chapter Text
The living room floor felt like the most reasonable place to die.
Not dramatically or in any way that would inconvenience others, just quietly and efficiently, as if the body had finally checked its balance, registered the crushing reality of insufficient funds, and decided to shut down.
“I’m broke,” came the announcement, muffled into the rug. “Aki, I’m so broke an actual fly flew out of my wallet when I opened it this morning.”
At the dining table, Aki didn’t even look up from his laptop. “You say that every month.”
“No, but this time it’s serious. My bank app told me ‘insufficient funds’ three times. Three! Like it was personally disappointed in me.”
“Your parents send you allowance every month,” Aki said, sliding his glasses off and pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You are not broke.”
“I might as well be broke in every possible sense of the word.”
“You spent the money.”
“On necessities,” Denji insisted, lifting his head just enough to look wounded. Aki raised a single eyebrow — his legendary ‘I dare you to keep lying’ eyebrow — and Denji began counting on his fingers. “Food, more food, slightly fancier food, shampoo, deodorant. And, okay, the koi fish pool float was maybe not absolutely essential, but it was half off!”
Aki stared. “Have you ever been to a pool?”
“I am planning!” Denji said, as if this should have explained everything. “Summer break is just around the corner!”
Aki shut his laptop with a decisive click, the sound of a man whose patience meter had fallen into the red. “You need a job.”
Denji sucked in a breath like he’d been electrocuted. “A what?”
“A job,” Aki repeated, already standing. “Like most people have.” He walked to the counter and returned with a stack of papers Denji had not noticed before. “And lucky for you, I printed job postings.”
“You had those prepared?” Denji asked, genuinely alarmed.
“Yes. Because every week, you swear you’ll ‘budget better,’ and every week, your money mysteriously disappears within forty-eight hours.”
“That’s uncalled for,” Denji muttered, “but not inaccurate.”
Aki handed him the first sheet: CONVENIENCE STORE — GRAVEYARD SHIFT. Denji recoiled. “Night shift? Like… night-night? When night things are out? Like ghosts?”
“There are no ghosts.”
“You can’t prove that. The freezer door whispered at me last week.”
“That was your reflection.”
“I stand by my trauma.”
Aki pushed another posting into his hands: DOG WALKER.
“Oh, dogs! Dogs are cool,” Denji said brightly, right up until Aki added, “You have to pick up their poop.” Denji recoiled again, even harder. “Absolutely not, I have limits. I’m not picking up warm poop in a plastic bag. That’s a human rights violation.”
“I don’t think it is.”
Aki handed over the third sheet: DISHWASHER — FAMILY RESTAURANT.
Denji dropped the paper immediately. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
“It’s just a restaurant.”
“Yeah, and restaurants have customers who complain. What if some middle-aged woman looks at me like I personally ruined her day?”
“You are weak.”
Denji gasped. “Wow, so rude! I’m a sensitive young man.”
“Apply to four jobs,” Aki said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Four. I don’t care which ones, just do it.”
Denji puffed up like an offended pigeon, but he trudged to his room anyway. “Fine.”
“And don’t lie on the applications.”
“Less fine!”
“And please don’t put your availability as ‘sometime maybe IDK lol.’”
Denji shot him an accusatory look before slamming his door and flopping face-first onto his bed. He opened his phone and began filling out applications with the melodramatic suffering of a man drafting his own will. “Name… Denji… okay. Experience… none. Whatever. Availability… if they schedule me before eleven, that’s illegal somehow…”
He applied to three jobs he barely remembered reading. Then he saw one more, almost an afterthought, a posting with a dim, cosy photo of a bookstore interior. Shelves reaching toward the ceiling. A brass bell on the door. Warm light that made him think of naps he hadn’t earned. The listing read: HIRING SUMMER HELP — NO EXPERIENCE NEEDED.
That was it. That was the magic phrase. Denji had no experience, but he had enthusiasm in industrial quantities. He hit submit with a grunt of satisfaction.
From the other room, Aki called, “Stop being dramatic!”
Denji shouted back, “I’m literally trying my best!”
The apartment fell quiet again. Aki knocked softly on his door a moment later. “Make your summer vacation count,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah.”
When Aki left, Denji rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as if waiting for divine guidance. “I’ll make it count,” he muttered, “…when I finally get a girlfriend.”
The ceiling did nothing to discourage him, which he took as a sign.
Kazama Bookstore looked smaller in person. Denji stood outside the sliding glass door, one whole hour before opening time, staring through the window at neat rows of books and soft amber lighting. The air drifting out carried the scent of paper, incense, and the kind of quiet that made his thoughts clatter too loudly in his skull. He looked down at his shirt one more time. He had ironed it. Actually ironed it. Aki had hovered behind him during the process like a parent watching a tween hold a knife: horrified, but proud.
He stepped inside. A bell chimed overhead, a gentle, almost apologetic sound that somehow tightened the knot in his stomach. Behind the counter, a woman in her late thirties looked up. Crisp blouse, tidy hair, an expression that was polite in a way he couldn’t quite read. Her gaze swept over him, not unkind, but sure as hell calculating.
“You must be Denji,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied too fast, then panicked. “Ma’am. Manager ma’am. Miz Manager. Hi.”
She blinked once, taking this in with saintly patience. “Please, have a seat.”
He sat, or something close to it, dropping into the chair with the grace of a felled tree and immediately pretending it was intentional. The manager folded her hands neatly on the counter.
“So, tell me why you’re interested in working here.”
He had rehearsed for hours. Every line memorized, every answer polished. But the moment he opened his mouth, the entire script dissolved like a sugar cube dropped in hot water.
“I… uh… like books.”
“Oh?” she said, pleasantly surprised.
“Yes,” Denji said, with far more confidence than the situation deserved. “Because they have… knowledge. And… pages.”
She didn’t laugh, for which he was grateful.
“And,” he added, grasping for anything that resembled honesty, “I really need a job. I mean—I want a job. Both. Preferably in that order.”
A faint, reluctant smile tugged at her face.
“This job requires patience, attention to detail, and helping customers. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I can.” His voice cracked. “I will. I’m good at… doing what people need done.”
Her expression softened just slightly, a change so subtle only someone desperate for approval would catch it.
“And I won’t steal anything,” he blurted.
She paused, lips parting in a quiet moment of re-evaluation. “…That’s good to hear.”
The interview rolled on. He didn’t knock anything over, didn’t curse even once, and only bowed too deeply at the end, nearly colliding forehead-first with the counter. She looked more amused than irritated, which he counted as an undeniable win. When he stepped back outside, the sunlight felt too bright. He was dizzy with pride and dread in equal measure, convinced he’d embarrassed himself into oblivion but proud he hadn’t fled midway through.
The next afternoon, just as he was slurping instant noodles, his phone buzzed.
Manager Kazama [02:26 PM]:
Thank you for coming yesterday. We would like to offer you the position.
You can start in three days.
A staff member named Yoshida will be present to help you with training.
Denji stared at the message like it was encrypted. Then he shot upright so hard he slammed his knee into the table, sending half the noodles splattering onto the floor.
“Akiiiiiii!” he howled. “Aki, I got a job! A real one! With a name tag and everything, probably!”
Aki appeared in the hallway, unimpressed but undeniably relieved. “Good. Try not to get fired on the first day.”
“I won’t,” Denji declared, chest rising with heroic conviction. “I’m gonna be the best book guy ever. Me and this… Yoshi… Yo-shi… the guy.”
He mispronounced the guy’s name three different ways before surrendering. His heart, however, had already launched itself into orbit.
Three days until he became Denji, Part-Time Bookstore Employee. Three days until summer officially began.
The bookstore felt different this time. Denji had seen it twice already, but stepping in with an honest-to-god lunch Aki had made for him and an actual shift to clock into felt like crossing some shimmering barrier into adulthood. A tiny, humble adulthood that smelled like paper dust and lemon cleaner.
The bell chimed overhead, brushing over him like a polite breeze. He tried not to freeze. He’d done his hair. He’d ironed his t-shirt. He had even checked his teeth in the reflection of the bus window.
He was trying. Really, actually trying.
“Good morning, Denji,” Manager Kazama called lightly. “Yoshida’s in the back. He’ll show you around.”
“Morning,” he replied, and it came out steady. That alone felt like a minor miracle.
He swallowed and headed toward the staff door, palms a little damp. He paused once in front of it, because everything beyond that door felt like another version of him he wasn’t sure he knew how to play yet.
Then he pushed it open. And reality rewrote itself a little.
The ‘Yoshida’ guy stood inside, back turned, tying his apron with the kind of ease that came from routine. His shoulders relaxed, but his stance sharp in a way that suggested attention was something he didn’t have to switch on. It was simply there.
Then the guy turned. Denji didn’t mean to look, but he did anyway. And then he couldn’t look away.
Denji’s brain stalled. He forgot what he was doing. Forgot why he was here. Forgot the speech he’d spent twenty minutes rehearsing in the mirror like an idiot.
The guy’s expression shifted. Just a little. Like he’d noticed Denji standing there. A small, sudden shift moved through Denji’s chest, nothing dramatic, but enough to throw him off balance.
Oh, shit.
Denji’s lungs forgot their job. He stood there like an idiot, halfway in the doorway, staring like he’d never seen a person before in his life.
This is bad, his brain supplied, extremely unhelpfully.
Because this wasn’t like when he thought someone was hot and moved on. This felt… different. Annoyingly different. Like his brain had already made a decision without asking him first.
Denji swallowed.
“Hey,” the guy said. Voice low, easy. “You’re the new part-timer?”
Denji nodded, or did something like nodding. His chin moved, but the rest of him might’ve stopped existing for a moment. The guy gave a small smile, and Denji’s insides did a full flip like they were trying to escape his body.
“I’m Yoshida. I’ll be training you today.”
The warm flicker in Denji’s chest became a full-blown overheating problem.
“Oh,” he said automatically. “Cool. Yeah, I—”
His brain disconnected from his mouth.
“—you’re pretty.”
A brief silence followed, barely even a full second, but it was enough for Denji to feel his entire nervous system fold in on itself.
Oh my god.
He stared at Yoshida in horror, already trying to rewind time through sheer force of will. Maybe if he died right now the moment wouldn’t count. Maybe the floor would split open and mercifully swallow him whole.
Yoshida blinked once. Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, something soft and amused flickering across his face.
“…Pretty?” he repeated.
Denji’s soul left his body.
“Oh, shit— no, I didn’t mean—” His hands came up uselessly, like he could somehow catch the words and shove them back into his mouth. “I mean, I did mean it, just not, like— not in a weird way. Not that it’d be weird if you were pretty, because you are, obviously, I just—” He felt himself actively combusting. “I don’t know why I said it out loud.”
Wonderful. Incredible recovery.
He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Yoshida looked at him for another second, expression unreadable in a way that made Denji want to lie down on the floor permanently. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
“You always say the first thing that comes into your head?” he asked.
“No,” Denji said immediately. Then, “…Yeah.”
That got another smile out of Yoshida. Smaller this time. It looked unfair on him. Like he’d practiced it in a mirror specifically to ruin people’s lives.
Denji’s pulse kicked harder.
“Don’t worry,” Yoshida said easily, turning back toward the shelf he’d been fixing before Denji walked in. “I get that one a lot.”
Which, honestly, made sense. Of course he did. That somehow did not make Denji feel better at all.
Yoshida handed him an apron.
“Here. Your name tag’s inside the pocket.”
Denji reached out automatically, determined to redeem himself. But the universe had other plans, because their fingers brushed for the briefest, most microscopic moment.
A tap, a spark, a glitch in Denji’s matrix. Inside his head, something short-circuited. Denji’s brain said: this is how people die. Denji’s hands said: drop apron immediately. Denji’s soul said: exit body and ascend like steam.
The apron slid out of his grip and hit the floor. He wanted to lie down next to it.
“Sorry, uh, sweaty hands,” he muttered. “Totally normal. This, uh, happens, it just does that, my hands. Sometimes.”
Yoshida crouched to pick it up, unbothered. “It’s fine,” he said, as if Denji hadn’t just fumbled basic motor skills. “Happens.”
It did not “happen.” Not like this, not at this Olympic level of failure. Denji swallowed hard.
But Yoshida didn’t tease him. No raised eyebrow, no silent judgement. Just that same steady neutrality with a hint of something gentler layered under it. He was patient and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world for Denji to pull himself together.
He tied the apron around Denji’s waist, handed over the name tag, then motioned toward the shelves. Denji remained completely still, like he’d been instructed not to explode under any circumstances.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
Denji nodded, trying to look normal, like his pulse wasn’t trying to beat its way out of his body.
They walked the aisles. Yoshida explained everything with this calm clarity that made even boring stuff sound… manageable. How the catalogue system worked. How to check returns. The difference between restock carts. Even how to angle the book covers so the display looked inviting.
Denji listened. Really listened. He didn’t zone out once.
He asked questions he didn’t know he could even form. And Yoshida answered each one without a hint of irritation, just this steady, quiet attentiveness that made Denji want to stand a little straighter.
“Good,” Yoshida said once, after Denji repeated the system back correctly. Just that one word, accompanied by the smallest approving nod. That nod went straight into Denji’s chest like a bookmark he’d save forever.
And then it happened again, when Denji remembered a detail about the register. Another nod. Subtle but precise. Like pressure on a bruise he didn’t mind.
He tried not to grin like an idiot. He tried. And failed.
But Yoshida didn’t seem to mind. He just continued walking, explaining the next thing, his tone quiet and even. Denji followed, heart doing its own loud choreography behind his ribs, trying not to get in the way. If this was what working feels like, he thought—being useful, being taught by someone like this—then maybe I could actually be good at it.
The break room was barely a room at all—more like a storage closet that someone had negotiated into hosting a small table, two stools, a cupboard with exactly two lockers, and a dented mini-fridge.
Denji sat stiffly on one of the stools, trying very hard to seem normal and not like his internal organs were ricocheting around his body. Across from him, Yoshida opened the mini-fridge and crouched down to peer inside.
Denji immediately looked. Not intentionally. Okay, maybe a little intentionally.
The guy was unfairly put together even while digging through a fridge. Sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, dark hair falling into his eyes, posture loose and easy like he had never once been aware of his own body in his life. Meanwhile, Denji had been aware of every limb he possessed since age twelve.
“Here,” Yoshida said, pulling out a canned coffee and sliding it across the table. “Welcome gift.”
Denji stared at it, then at him. “You’re giving this to me?”
Yoshida looked faintly amused already. “Yeah.”
Something bright and embarrassing bloomed directly in the center of Denji’s chest. Nobody had ever given him a welcome gift at anything before. Hell, nobody really gave him gifts casually at all outside birthdays and relatives, who forgot his age every year, slipping him money in envelopes every New Year.
“It’s my favorite brand,” Yoshida added. “Hope you like it.”
Denji would have consumed industrial cleaning products if Yoshida handed them over with that expression.
“Oh, yeah,” he said quickly, grabbing the can. “Totally. I love coffee.”
This was technically true, assuming enough sugar was involved to legally classify the drink as dessert.
He cracked the can open and took a sip. He was hit with instant suffering. The bitterness hit him so hard he almost recoiled physically. What the hell was this? It tasted like somebody had liquified tree bark and mixed it with battery acid.
Every muscle in his face threatened mutiny. Somehow, through immense spiritual discipline, he managed not to spit it directly onto the table.
Yoshida was watching him over the rim of his own can now, eyes quiet and observant. Waiting.
Denji swallowed with the determination of a man trying to survive poison. “It’s good,” he croaked.
Yoshida’s mouth twitched immediately. Oh, he knew. That asshole absolutely knew.
“Yeah?” Yoshida asked lightly. “You look like you’re fighting for your life a little.”
“No I’m not,” Denji lied. “It’s just strong.”
“It is strong.”
“Mm-hm.” Denji took another sip out of sheer commitment to the performance and briefly saw God. “Real good, though.”
Yoshida leaned back slightly, looking deeply pleased with himself now. “Told you. Best brand.”
Denji stared at the can in disbelief. Why was this guy voluntarily drinking concentrated suffering every single day? Was this what cool people did? Did being attractive chemically alter your tastebuds?
Still, he nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Real sophisticated.”
That earned him a real laugh. Small, but genuine.
Oh lord, this is dangerous.
Yoshida rested one elbow against the table, coffee loose in his hand. “So,” he said, “you’re a college student, right?”
Denji nodded, still emotionally recovering from the coffee. “Yeah. How could you tell?”
“You look tired.”
Denji snorted. “You too.”
“Fair.”
Huge mistake looking at him again after that.
Because now Yoshida was relaxed, and relaxed Yoshida was somehow worse. His apron hung loose around his waist, sleeves rolled unevenly up his forearms. There was a silver ring on one of his fingers Denji hadn’t noticed earlier, dull against the aluminium of the coffee can. His left ear was lined with black piercings, and there was a small mole just beneath his lower lip. His hair kept slipping into his eyes every few seconds, and every time he pushed it back, Denji’s brain quietly powered off.
This was becoming an actual problem.
Denji dragged his gaze downward in a desperate attempt to regain composure and immediately made things worse for himself. Long legs. Great. Awesome. Fantastic development. He snapped his gaze upward so fast he almost gave himself neck damage.
Yoshida noticed. Of course he noticed.
A tiny pause entered the room before one corner of Yoshida’s mouth lifted slightly. “Are you nervous or something?”
“Nope,” Denji answered instantly.
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“You look nervous.”
Denji nearly choked on another sip of coffee. “I’m not.”
“Hm.”
“I’m not!”
Yoshida took another slow drink, clearly enjoying this now. The thing was, Denji genuinely could not tell whether Yoshida understood the effect he had on people or not. Sometimes he seemed oblivious. Other times he looked directly at Denji with those dark, steady eyes like he could hear every terrible thought crossing his mind in real time.
Right now definitely felt like the second kind.
Denji looked away first, weak, cowardly, and fallen in battle.
“You don’t have to worry so much, you know,” Yoshida said casually.
Denji felt his soul attempt evacuation procedures.
“…That sounds bad.”
“It’s not.” Yoshida’s voice softened slightly around the edges. “You’ll do great here. You’re kinda honest.”
That somehow felt even worse, because Denji didn’t know what to do with someone saying things like that so naturally, like it was normal to notice people gently. Like it was normal to make room for them.
The break room suddenly felt too warm.
Yoshida glanced at the clock on the wall and stood, stretching one arm over his head. Denji looked completely by accident. Entirely against his will. His shirt lifted slightly at the waist.
Denji immediately looked down at his coffee can like it contained the secrets to lifetime success.
Behind him, Yoshida made a quiet sound suspiciously close to another laugh.
By the end of the shift, the register was closed, the lights dimmed, and Denji’s brain felt pleasantly overworked in a way that almost resembled competence. Yoshida clocked them both out, then stretched his arms over his head. His shirt lifted slightly, exposing the briefest sliver of skin, again, giving Denji a repeat telecast of his waist.
Denji’s gaze snapped toward the glowing EXIT sign so fast he nearly gave himself neck damage.
Yoshida noticed. Of course he did. Yoshida noticed everything. Bastard!
“You did well today,” he said.
Denji looked over, startled. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Yoshida lowered his arms, expression relaxed. “You catch on fast. Makes my job easier.”
The compliment settled warm and heavy somewhere beneath Denji’s ribs. Then Yoshida added, almost casually, “We’re working a lot of shifts together this month.” That warmth immediately developed wings.
“Oh,” Denji said intelligently. “Cool. Nice. Coolcoolcool. Yeah. Bro.”
Goddammit.
Yoshida looked at him with the same quiet amusement he’d been wearing all day, like Denji was strange in a way he didn’t entirely dislike.
“…See you tomorrow, bro.”
The “bro” was gentle this time. Lightly teasing, like Yoshida knew exactly what it did to him already. Denji’s knees nearly gave out on impact. He managed a noise vaguely resembling goodbye before escaping out the front door and into the warm evening air, heart pounding hard enough to feel in his throat.
The second he reached the sidewalk, he yanked out his phone and typed with the urgency of a medical emergency.
Denji:
HELP. HE’S CUTE. I’M DYING.
Power replied almost immediately.
Power:
It’s your first day. Do NOT get fired dumbass
Denji:
I WILL GET MARRIED BEFORE I GET FIRED
Power left him on read.
Denji shoved his phone back into his pocket and exhaled slowly, dazed, already replaying every tiny smile Yoshida had given him throughout the day like his brain had decided this was critical survival information now.
He wasn’t in love, probably, but he was definitely in trouble. And tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.