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After being released from prison, he didn't like leaving the house. When Dojima told him he was practically rehabilitated and could afford to enjoy life's small pleasures, he would deny it. He was considered a monster by everyone, as proven by the sidelong glances he received on the street.
However, that day his partner was so excited to share a special moment with him outside the house that he finally agreed.
He had escaped the death penalty and a life sentence, but not house arrest. The limit was Okina, so they had to settle for a cheap local restaurant. To cheer Adachi up, Dojima turned on a catchy song on the radio that he knew he would like, without questioning how bad it was. He hummed along a bit while looking out the window, noticing it was a pleasant Sunday with a bright sun.
“Ryo.” He smiled before finishing the sentence. “I can’t believe you wore a suit for this…”
“It’s a special day. Like a date.”
“I just hope I don’t ruin it.”
There was a silence before Dojima roughly patted his head, reassuring him as if he were a cat. An embarrassing blush burned his cheeks. “So negative, Tohru.”
In the past, that response would have earned him a blow, but he knew his partner’s heart had softened over the years. Just like his own, which, although he still enjoyed being annoying sometimes, had lost the energy it used to have. Mostly because of prison: how many beatings had he taken for being arrogant. Over time, he discovered it wasn’t worth it and that it would only prolong the sentence he had to serve. He promised to follow the rules of this world.
“Concentrate on driving.”
He saw Dojima’s reflection in the window, and, as always, he looked handsome. The orange sun rays complemented his face, making him look more tanned. Then he looked at his own reflection—pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and a bad haircut. He believed his face was deformed because of how crooked his smile looked.
His hand froze halfway to the car door handle. His fingers were trembling; he was sweating, and he was breathing so fast he felt suffocated, his lungs unable to fill.
“Hey, Tohru.”
He closed his eyes. Inhale, exhale, and count to three—a habit he had acquired over time. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” The nervousness was evident in his voice; the trick hadn't worked.
He gripped the small handle, but before he could turn it, a larger hand covered his and made him stop. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
The contact was comforting, so comforting that almost immediately every muscle in his body untensed. He nodded slowly in understanding and whispered, “I want to do it.”
“Alright."
They got out of the car together and walked straight toward the restaurant, not knowing what kind of food was served there. He had never seen this place before; in fact, he hadn't seen most of the things that were now in Okina. The world he knew had changed and moved on, and he was forced to deal with it. Dojima chose the most hidden table, near a corner, which had small candles. He recognized the effort of the establishment, which, despite lacking class, wanted to appear to have it by looking as pleasant as possible.
His boyfriend was the one who ordered the food, so the dishes would be a surprise. Different topics of conversation crossed his mind, but he ended up staying silent; it felt a bit strange. It surely showed.
“You look great today.”
The compliment was unexpected. “You think so?” He averted his gaze, playing with the small napkin on the table. “I don’t know.”
“Cheer up,” Dojima observed him, resting his cheek on his knuckles, trying to let his feelings show through, as if his feelings held any kind of value. He forced a smile to calm that worry.
“You look great too.”
They fell into a calmer silence than before, waiting, until footsteps were heard from behind. He shrugged his shoulders by instinct, hiding his face from the waitress, praying he wouldn't be recognized, and luckily the dishes were served without much trouble. He even considered that he was being paranoid, ruining things on his own again. “Thank you,” he muttered, roughly twisting the napkin he was playing with between his fingers.
“Enjoy.”
He swallowed hard, letting go of the already crumpled napkin and picking up the silverware with a persistent tremble. Dojima was already eating across from him, normally, pretending not to notice his nerves.
“This is delicious,” he said, visibly cheerful. “Try some.”
Adachi looked down at his plate. The warm steam hit his face, and for a second, he believed himself capable of being normal. He cut a small piece and brought it to his mouth, chewing the juicy morsel. They were waiting for his verdict with a patience he didn't deserve.
“What do you think?” Dojima asked.
Adachi nodded. “It’s… fine.”
But his hand wouldn't stop shaking. The utensil clinked against the plate with a sharp sound that caused an even greater shudder through his body. His throat burned, closing up.
“I’m sorry.” Seeing the man in front of him furrow his brow in confusion made shame bloom across the skin of his cheeks.
“Why?”
He brought his hand to his eyes, hiding his eyelids and the moisture that was gradually welling up from them. “I’m ruining this. I’m ruining it again.”
“Tohru…”
“I–I told you this would happen!” Stains were accumulating on the tablecloth. “I shouldn’t be here, eating with you, as if nothing had happened.”
He closed his eyes tightly as he heard the screech of the chair, expecting a scolding, or worse, for Dojima to stand up and take him out of there out of pity. Until a warm hand wrapped around his wrist, forcing him to lower the hand covering his face. “Look at me, Tohru,” he said with that strange tone between firm and soft, the one he used when talking to witnesses during his days on the force.
He struggled weakly from side to side, even as his heart leaped with emotion at the contact. “I’m a horrible person,” he lowered his voice until it became a faint vibration in the air. “It disgusts me when people look at me. Especially when you do.”
“I know you’ve changed.”
“You’re lying,” he ignored the hand that moved from his wrists to wipe the salty trail on his cheeks. “You’re only saying that because… you’re too good.”
Dojima’s jaw tightened with a pang of pain. “Too good?”
“I wish I had been good,” the fingers continued to hold the contours of his face, trying to hide a trembling so similar to his own. “Sometimes I think if I had just invited you over for dinner one more night. If I had asked how you were, really... maybe none of this would have happened.”
Suddenly, he saw himself years ago in Inaba, with his suit poorly fitted and that cynical smile stuck to his face like a plastic mask. He remembered the nights he was invited to eat whatever was in the fridge while Nanako laughed in a corner. He remembered the warmth of that living room and the sound of the TV turned on with that catchy commercial song playing in the background. Back then, every gesture of kindness from Dojima felt like an insult, a weakness he despised because he didn't possess the capacity to feel it.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he babbled, the knot in his throat unraveling into sobs. “See? You’re too good."
Such gestures of kindness still turned his stomach with nausea. He leaned forward, invading Dojima’s personal space, searching for that spark of anger or disappointment that would confirm his own view of himself. “Do you remember Mayumi Yamano? Saki Konishi?” He mentioned them on purpose, knowing the weight of those names. “Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still feel the adrenaline.”
That had to be enough to reveal the great monster, to make Dojima get up from his chair and abandon him. But surprisingly, it wasn't. He had closed his eyes tightly, fearing the response, and in the midst of the darkness, lips pressed against his.
“Quiet down already.” Opening his eyelids to look at him, he received soft pats on the cheek, releasing the last sob from his mouth. “I know what you did. I investigated the case for nearly a year, did you forget?”
“And you dropped it when you found out I was the culprit.”
The comment hung in the air of the restaurant until it was interrupted by his own bitter laugh.
“Look at yourself,” he insisted, pointing vaguely at his blurry reflection in the glass cup. “Look at me. Look at you, a respectable man, and look at the disaster next to you. I’m pale, I have a bad haircut, the dark circles reach my jaw, and... I’m a bad person, Ryotaro. I’m ugly. I’m a monster!”
Dojima didn't pull away, nor did he remove his hand from his face; contrary to what he expected, his thumbs gently caressed over the dark circles that made him so self-conscious. The warmth conveyed a sense of truth better than any words. “A monster? No, you’re an idiot,” he was looked down upon just like a scolded child, without being truly severe. “I’m a cop, I’ve seen real ugly monsters. You’re recovering.”
“I’m not recovering. I’d do it again.”
“You feel guilt,” the air involuntarily escaped his mouth in a sigh, withdrawing his hands to finally pick up the chopsticks again. “You wouldn’t do it again,” he said slowly with his mouth full.
Adachi opened his mouth with clenched teeth, hundreds of words crowding the tip of his tongue, desperate to spit out another provocation that would show the true self he believed he still had inside. However, he could barely manage a plaintive groan; his voice caught right at the back of his dry throat. Frustrated by his own weakness, he jerked his face toward the wall, wiping away the remaining traces of tears with his fingers. Taking a deep breath, forcing his lungs to stabilize using the infallible method.
The chopsticks settled perfectly into his hand, and soon he was eating alongside his partner again, even if a few whispers could be heard behind him. He devoured the dish mechanically, driven by the urgent need to keep himself busy and keep his mind empty, until eyes began to burn into his skin. “You know, Adachi? I think you’re attractive.”
That small smile on his face as he finished speaking was contagious. With his lips falling lower on the right than the left and his cheeks flushed red, he smiled back. “I–Idiot…”
Beneath the table, his legs brushed against the fabric of Dojima’s, who was right there. He knew who he was; the shadow of what he had been would haunt him for the rest of his life, and objectively, neither the hot food, nor the clean suit, nor the unconditional love were deserved. He didn't deserve to be happy.
So he could choose the honesty of his own misery. He could stand up, confess his crimes out loud again, remember the foggy nights in Inaba, and force Dojima to see reality.
Or he could be selfish.
For once in his life, he decided that being the villain meant precisely that: taking what didn't belong to him. If the world already considered him scum, what did it matter to add one more sin to the list? The sin of allowing himself to be loved.