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The restaurant Jack Rabbit Slim’s feels less like a place to eat and more like a time travel portal—one that doesn’t lead to the past exactly, but to a neon-lit, exaggerated memory of it. The moment you enter, you forget all about the modern living world and people in it, and they are replaced by a stylized 1950s dream stitched together from pop culture, nostalgia, and a hint of irony.
The room hums with energy. Neon signs flicker in pinks and blues, casting a soft glow over chrome surfaces and polished floors. In every corner of the restaurant, there’s something just a little too theatrical to be real: booths fashioned out of vintage cars, their glossy paint catching the light as if they’ve just rolled off a showroom floor. You don’t simply sit down, order your food, pay and leave it—you slide into the front seat of a Cadillac or a Chevy, and experience the wild ride of a meal, gripping the edge of history reimagined as décor.
The air carries the smell of grilled burgers, thick milkshakes, and frying potatoes, which seem simple for a unique dining experience like this, but the food is certainly top-notch. Perfect combiantion of comfort and style. The scent makes you feel like you’ve been there before, even if you haven’t. Plates clatter, glasses chime, and somewhere in the background, rock ‘n’ roll pulses steadily, like a heartbeat keeping the entire place alive.
But what truly defines Jack Rabbit Slim’s isn’t just the interior. The workers waltz on the floors as if it's their second nature. If you didn't know any better, you would think that the staff is excited to be a part of the ultimate diner experience. The waitstaff drift between tables dressed as icons: Marilyn Monroe smiles warmly at you as she takes an order, James Dean leans against a counter, trying to impress the customers and Elvis Presley sways past with effortless charisma, trying not to appear chalant. They’re not impersonators so much as living echoes, blurring the line between performance and reality. For a moment, you almost believe these celebrities never left, but rather, they simply found refuge here, frozen in an eternal loop of entertainment and fun.
The dance floor dominates the center of the place. It looks like everything else was built around—as if everyone else were simply specatators in some dance couple's debut night in the shining evening. As if everyone else was simply there to witness a great love story being told in real time; and are enjoying being a small part of it
There’s something quietly surreal about it all. The restaurant is loud, bright, and full of life, yet it carries an undercurrent of artificiality—as if it knows it’s a performance and invites you to be part of it anyway. It’s not trying to be authentic; it’s trying to be better than authentic, a curated fantasy of what the past felt like rather than what it actually was.
And maybe that’s why it lingers in memory. Jack Rabbit Slim’s is a mood, a stage, a carefully constructed illusion where danger, romance, and nostalgia briefly intersect.
When you leave, it’s almost disorienting. The world outside feels quieter, flatter, less vivid.
Or maybe, you don't ever leave. Maybe, you find out something about yourself that you never knew (or were trying desperately not to know) and bring it home with you. Maybe you find out that it was never trying to ruin you, but rather, was trying to be seen. But now, that it's found, it doesn't try to destroy you, but perhaps, changes the shape of you. The essence of you.
*
The evening was not going well.
Nakamura never thought that a day with Hirose would be this awkward. In fact, he never even conceptualized the idea of feeling down when he's around him. Hirose's natural bright personality could shine through the deepest, darkest parts of anyone's soul—especially his own. He even thought that that's what made them compatible. One gloomy, depressed teenager, with a friend whose heart beats in the melody of Nakamura's self-deprivating nature—they were truly a match made in heaven.
However, he could not blame the unfortunate circumstances they were in on Hirose. Hirose was not the one making this day miserable. It was him.
Matsumura Kousei.
That arrogant, son-of-a-bitch Matsumura. What was he doing here? That creepy stalker definitely lied about his 'already planned hang out with Hirose' and just wanted to ruin my outing with him. There is no way that Hirose is that forgetful—making plans with two people on the same day.
Now, because of Matsumura's natural stalker-ish habits and Hirose's kind-hearted nature, the three of them were sitting at the table booth in a 1950s-themed restaurant. The booth resembled a classic Chrysler, with Hirose and Nakamura sitting on one side, and Matsumura on the other.
The conversation was barely flowing. And by conversation, he means he was not talking to Hirose, which also means that he was not getting to know him better. And that was the real tragedy in this situation. Not that he had to look at that prick's face, but because his perfectly structured plan to woo the boy sitting next to him was not working. The plan was not even in the motion.
Instead, Matsumura was telling stories about his school shenanigans, while Hirose was laughing hysterically at the one that happened today (Nakamura couldn't tell you what it was about, because he was barely paying attention).
While the two were talking, he was looking at the waitress bringing two cheeseburgers to a seemingly happy couple across them. He saw her put the plates down, tell them to enjoy their meal, before taking another order from a different car-table. No sooner than she was gone, the man and the woman started feeding each other fries off their plates, and giggling while talking to each other.
Nakamura's stomach twists in something familiar—jealousy, envy or sadness, he doesn't know. What he knows is that the feeling consumes him from inside and out, twisiting every fiber of his being, making his insides churn while he tries to compose himself.
A heavy knot tightened in his chest as he watched them. They were laughing, effortlessly sharing a space that felt entirely out of his reach. The way he brushed a stray hair from her face, and the easy, untroubled smile she gave him in return, felt like a physical blow.
It wasn't just desire curling like poison in his gut; it was a profound, hollow envy. They possessed a light, public freedom that he could never touch. For him, love had always been a shadow game—clandestine, fragmented, and burdened by secrets. Looking at them, the bitter truth settled deeper into his bones: he was condemned to the dark, forever barred from ever having an open, happy relationship like that.
He wishes he were a conventional, ordinary human being who could display afftection like that with their significant other. With no fear of judgement, prejudiced opinions or hatred from closed-minded individuals. Just pure, blissful unawarness of anyone's privy eyes looking and analyzing them. Tho, he supposes he could never be able to live like that, but rather always alert, with eyes on his back trying to avoid potential dangerous encounters.
Even imagining an open relationship felt… dangerous. Not because of jealousy, not because of love stretching too thin, but because it meant being seen more, known more, risking more. And he wasn’t sure he had ever been allowed to feel safe enough for that.
“I didn’t know you were into blondes, Nakamura.”
The voice cut cleanly through his thoughts, too close, too amused.
Nakamura blinked, the image of the couple dissolving as he turned his head. Hirose was leaning back in his seat, one eyebrow raised, a crooked smile already forming like he’d caught something worth keeping. His bangs fell onto his forehead in an unnatural way, and Nakamura had to fight the urge to brush his hair back.
“What?” Nakamura said, too quickly.
Hirose tilted his chin past him, toward the floor. “You’ve been staring for, what, five minutes now?” he said. “Didn’t take you for the type.”
Nakamura followed his gaze.
The waitress.
She stood near the counter, all bright curls and red lipstick, her white dress caught in that iconic updraft from a hidden vent. A practiced laugh, a pose held half a second too long. A careful imitation of someone everyone was meant to recognize. For a moment, Nakamura said nothing.
Then he let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re imagining things.”
Hirose didn't look like he bought the whole thing. Of course he didn’t. He must have known that Nakamura liked him, given that his face must have been flushed by now. I mean, he was staring at the pair across from them and imagining himself in a loving relationship. But he can't say that, so for now he will have to let Hirose believe that he was oogling the waitress dressed as Marilyn Monroe.
Hirose leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, studying him with his usual, easy confidence—the kind that came from never having to think too hard about what was allowed.
“Hey, no judgment,” Hirose said lightly. “Just didn’t think you’d go for that whole… retro fantasy thing.”
Nakamura glanced back toward the couple without meaning to. “Drop it,” he muttered.
Hirose’s smile softened, but only a little. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Besides, it's Marilyn Monroe. I mean, who doesn't think that she is stunning."
"Actually, that's Mamie van Doren", Matsumura added himself into the conversation, uninvited. "You know, 'Teacher's pet', 'Untamed Youth'. Both great movies, but she's not Marilyn."
He turned around and started looking at other tables, his eyes searching, "Aha, there she is—serving coffee to those two guys all the way over there."
Nakamura and Hirose both followed his gaze, and after a second, there she really was. In her famous white dress and short blonde hair.
"Oh, yeah that's her", Hirose said lightly, before laughing to himself. "I don't know how I didn't recognize Mamie, I love 'Teacher's pet'."
Nakamura chose not to answer, and instead sunk deeper into his seat wishing for the evening to end sooner. He could not bear to continue embarrassing himself any longer in front of him.
As soon as he thought that, his prayers must have started working and miraculously fulfilled his wish, because Hirose turned all his attention to Nakamura and asked, "What movies do you like? Have any favorites?"
“Movies?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Hirose said, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t tell me you don’t watch them.”
“I do,” Nakamura said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean—yeah. I watch movies.”
Hirose waited.
Nakamura felt the silence press in, patient and amused, like it knew exactly what he was doing and was willing to watch him fail anyway.
“I like… everything,” he said finally.
Hirose raised an eyebrow. “Everything.”
“Yeah,” Nakamura nodded, relieved to have landed somewhere. “Action, drama, whatever. Depends.”
“That’s not an answer,” Hirose said.
“It is an answer.”
“It’s an awful answer.”
Nakamura opened his mouth, then closed it again. The truth was, he didn’t have a clean answer—not one that wouldn’t feel like giving something away. Because if he said too much, it would matter. And if it mattered, it could be wrong.
So instead he shrugged. “I don’t know. I just like good movies.”
Hirose studied him for a second longer, then smirked. “That’s even worse.”
Nakamura let out a short laugh, but it didn’t land properly. He looked down at the table, tracing a small scratch in the material with his thumb. Unconsciously, he lifted his head to look at Matsumura—his eyes begging, for what, he doesn't know.
Nakamura held his gaze a fraction too long.
Please.
Matsumura blinked once.
Then, with the calm of someone stepping into a conversation already on fire, he leaned forward slightly.
“I really like 'Emma',” he said.
Both Hirose and Nakamura turned toward him.
Matsumura didn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, he looked relieved to be speaking. “The story. Emma Woodhouse. She thinks she understands everyone, but she keeps getting it wrong.”
Hirose raised an eyebrow. “That the matchmaking one?”
Matsumura nodded. “Yeah. It’s kind of funny. She spends the whole time trying to control everyone’s relationships, and then—by the end—she realizes she’s been completely blind about her own.”
Nakamura exhaled quietly. Not quite a sigh of relief, but close. He was glad that his brain could rest for a couple of seconds, instead of thanking which movies would be appropriate for an answer.
Hirose leaned back again, now actually listening. “So what, she ends up with someone?”
Matsumura’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile too much at how simple the question was. “She ends up with the person she least expected. The one who saw through her the whole time.”
As soon as he said it, his gaze averted the attention towards him. He started up and down at Nakamura, before settling into a soft, dreamy look. Nakamura didn’t move, but something in his shoulders eased.
Hirose tapped his fingers on the edge of his glass. “That sounds annoyingly self-aware for a romance movie.”
“It is,” Matsumura said. “That’s why it works.”
Hirose glanced sideways at Nakamura, like he was connecting dots that weren’t fully visible yet.
“And you?” Hirose said suddenly.
Nakamura stiffened. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Hirose said. “Do you like those kinds of movies too? The… people-not-realizing-what’s-in-front-of-them type.”
Nakamura thought about it for a second. “I guess I'm open to everything.”
Matsumura let out a small, almost invisible sigh through his nose, before fumbling with his own glass of water.
"Anyways, should we order something? Or do you guys need another minute until we call the not-Marilyn waitress over there?' Matsumura said, not trying to hide the teasing in his voice.
"You won't let that go, huh." Hirose complained, tho he also smiled. "I think I know what I'll have, what about you Nakamura?"
Nakamura's voice trembled as he answered, "Yeah, let's call the waitress over."
Matsumura managed to get the attention of Mamie van Doren impersonator, and with a pen and a notebook in her hands, she asked for all of their orders.
"A steak and a cola please." Hirose said smiling at her widely, his easygoing nature even making Mamie grin a little bit.
Nakamura waited for Matsumura to order first, but after taking a look at him and concluding that Matsumura was in fact waiting for Nakamura to do it first, he turned to the waitress, "A cheeseburger and... a five dollar milkshake, please."
"Would that be a chocolate or a vanilla?"
"Chocolate, please."
"Wait a second. A five dollar milkshake?" Matsumura stared confused, before turning his head towards the server. "You don't put any alcohol in it, do you?"
"Of course, not. It's just our signature drink."
"All right, just checking. I would also love a cheeseburger right now."
After the waitress left their table with her note scrabbled, Matsumura turned to Nakamura, "You have to let me try that milkshake and see what the deal is. It's just milk and ice cream?"
Nakamura shrugged, annoyed, "Last I heard about it."
"Why didn't you order your own, Matsumura?" Hirose asked.
"Well... some experiences are worth more when you share them with others."
Ugh. This asshole. I bet he just wants to spit in my shake.
But before he could reply, a vibration to his left cut through the silence. It startled all of them, and naturally, their eyes followed the sound. Hirose reached into his pocket and confirmed that the sound was coming from his phone.
"Sorry guys. I have to take this."
Then his eyes flicked back to Nakamura again, and there it was—that same faintly teasing edge returning, like he couldn’t leave without pulling the thread one more time.
“Try to make some small-talk while I’m gone,” he added.
Nakamura blinked. “What?”
Hirose smirked. “You know. Like normal people. Talk about movies. Weather. Existential crises. Whatever you do when I’m not interrogating you.”
Matsumura let out a quiet laugh at that. Nakamura opened his mouth to protest, but nothing useful came out in time. Hirose was already stepping away from the table.
"Don't eat my steak!" He turned back to yell and then stepped out of a restaurant.
Unfortunatelly, the uncomfortable silence started about as soon as he left. Nakamura tried to focus on the smell of the food around them or the chatter of the table next to them, but it wasn't working.
The reason—because Matsumura was staring at him. Dark eyes, steady and unreadable, holding his gaze a second longer than feels casual. Not intense in a dramatic way, just quietly present, like he’s waiting for Nakamura to fill the space with something—anything—that would make this easier.
There’s a kind of patience in it at first. The polite kind. The kind that says I’ll give you time without actually saying anything at all.
Nakamura can almost feel him offering the opening without words: Talk to me.
He decides that his gaze was too overwhelming to try to ignore it. He decides to speak up, because he was starting to feel weird.
"So... do you dance?"
"Really, that's what you came up with?" Matsumura laughed through his words, then stopped to smirk, "Why, did you want to ask me for a dance?"
"Don't be stupid, of course not!" He answered in a panic. "I just saw you earlier looking at the dance floor and I thought you might know how to do it. Besides, I'm just trying to make a conversation, while the only thing you are doing is staring at me weirdly!"
"It was not weird. I was just looking at you."
"Whatever. How about you fill in this uncomfortable silence?"
Matsumura looked to the side, as if he were contemplating a decision. After a second of thinking, he spoke up.
"Don't you hate that?"
"What?"
"Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it's necessary to go on about some nonsense in order to be comfortable?"
"I don't know."
"That's when you know you found somebody special. When you can just shut up for a minute, and comfortably share silence."
Nakamura laughed, amused, tho he would never admit that, "I don't think we're there yet. But don't feel bad, we basically just met and practically hate each other."
The sentence landed between them like something heavier than it should’ve been.
For a moment, Matsumura didn’t move. He started at his hands, carefully put in his lap, probably fidgeting with his thumbs. A scoff escaped his lips, before looking back at Nakamura and speaking again, "I don't hate you."
"Sure, you don't. I bet we won't even start arguing about it right now." He added sarcastically.
Matsumura rolled his eyes, "If it helps you sleep at night, then all right, I guess I could hate you a bit."
"A bit?"
"Yeah, why not."
"You agreed to that too fast for someone who supposedly doesn't hate me."
Matsumura chuckled. "To be honest, that works for me too—a bit of hatred."
"What do you mean?" Nakamura tilted his head, even more confused about this conversation then when it started.
"Well, you need balance for everything in life. If you feel one emotion too deeply, it fills the spaces between thoughts. It interrupts silence. It turns ordinary moments into echoes of itself, repeating in everything you see and hear and remember. It overwhelmes you, so in order to contain it, you gotta let another emotion contain it."
Wait. What?
You feel one emotion too deeply? What the hell is he talking about? Is he mad?
He kept turning it over in his mind like it was something solvable—like if he just looked at it from the right angle, it would finally click into place and behave like everything else in his life was supposed to.
But it didn’t.
Every time he thought he was close, it shifted slightly. A detail he hadn’t accounted for. A word that meant more than it should have. A silence that refused to stay neutral.
He replayed it again. And again. Each version of the moment coming back a little different depending on what he was trying to prove that time—sometimes it meant nothing, sometimes it meant everything, sometimes it felt like it was pointing directly at him without actually saying his name.
He started trying to reduce it. Strip it down. Make it simpler. If he could define what it was, he could contain it. If he could contain it, it wouldn’t have power.
But the more he simplified it, the more artificial it felt. Like cutting away pieces of something alive until only the shape remained—and even that shape refused to stay still.
There was a point where thinking stopped helping and where analysis became noise.
Where every explanation started contradicting the one before it, until nothing held together anymore except the fact that he couldn’t stop trying.
And that was the part that bothered him most—not the confusion itself, but how much he kept returning to it, as if the answer was just one more thought away.
As if thinking harder was the same thing as understanding.
At this point, every word of Matsumura's monologue was mixed up in his head and he genuinely had no answer to give to that question, statement? Whatever it was.
The only sound that managed to escape his lips was, "What?"
They locked eyes and Nakamura stopped breathing for a second. He wanted to say something else but-
"Here's your food. Two cheeseburgers, a steak, a cola and a chocolate milkshake. Let me know if you guys need anything else." After she put all the plates and cups down, she added, "You'll see that the milkshake was worth it. The chef's favorite."
Before either of them could reply, the Mamie was off charming other customers.
"Well, now you have to let me try it."
Nakamura was still too stunned to reply. His heart was beating hard in his chest, for a reason he supposes was that his brain finally caught up to Matsumura's earlier words. He could feel the heat creeping up on the back of his neck, and slowly making it's way towards his ears. To avoid doing something as stupid as Stuttering, he only pushed the milkshake glass to Matsumura's side.
"Nuh-uh. It's yours, you have to be the one to try it first."
Nakamura was about to protest, but he could see the excited look in Matsumura's eyes—expecting and a tad bit impatient. He nodded and Matsumura pushed the glass back towards him, so that he only had to look down for his lips to meet the straw.
He wrapped his hand around the glass and took a sip. His face must have shown content, because Matsumura was now smiling widely at him, "That good, huh? But, would you say that it was five dollars worth it?"
Instead of answering, Nakamura took another sip and grinned at him.
"That seems like a yes."
"Go ahead, try it now."
He reached for the glass and tried it himself, "Okay, yeah, I would pay five bucks for that."
He smiled fondly before letting Nakamura enjoy the rest of the shake. The silence between them was not uncomfortable like it was before. They listened to Elvis on the radio while they sipped slowly—not wanting to start their meals before Hirose showed up.
"So... about that dance you asked me about."
"Oh. My. Gosh. I did not ask you to dance!"
"Didn't seem that way to me. How about we do it? There is a dance competition in a little less than an hour. First place gets a neat trophy."
"No way. You are out of your mind, I don't even know how to dance!"
"Neither do I. But I'm sure our charm could capture the attention of the judges over there."
"Not a chance. The only thing the judges could think would probably be—look at the two guys performing a choreography together, what's wrong with them?"
"Okay, now you're overreacting." Matsumura added fondly, "No one is going to think differently than if it were that man and woman across from us. We are just paying customers trying to win a handsome trophy to bring home."
"You don't actually believe that."
"Oh, but I do. And if anyone dares to comment on it, I would not let it just pass. I would deal with it accordingly."
"And how would that be?"
"I would beat them up."
Nakamura started laughing, "Okay, sure, if you say so."
"You laugh now, but when you see me do it, it won't be funny anymore."
"Okay, even If you would be willing to do that, I am still not open to the idea of dancing."
"Not even for that trophy?"
"It would definetly take a lot more than that to get me a dance floor in front of the whole restaurant."
"How about my guarantee that I would not let you embarass yourself?"
"Not good enough. Also impossible."
Matsumura thought hard for a second, "How about... I tell you a joke?"
"A joke?"
"Yes, a joke. I used to be in this play in school—my character, for every performance, would tell a joke to the crowd. That was kinda his thing."
Nakamura was amused. He did not expect Matsumura to be the acting type. He also did not expect that it would be one of the things they had in common, even though he didn't really act on his own terms, according to his wishes.
"Anyway, in the play there were 4 main guys and my guy was the funny one. We all had special skills. One had a photographic memory, the other was a kung fu master, and the last one was a demolition expert."
"So you were the useless one in the group?" Nakamura added, more amused than ever.
"Hey, don't be like that, or you won't get to hear the joke."
"Weren't you supposed to try to convince me to dance with you?"
"Right. Well then, let me tell you anyway."
The restaurant is louder than it should be—cutlery clinking, chairs scraping, someone laughing too sharply at a table nearby. Music threads through it all, uneven and slightly distorted, like it’s coming from somewhere just out of reach.
But Nakamura isn’t really hearing any of it. Everything outside the booth feels distant, softened, like it belongs to a different layer of reality he isn’t fully part of right now. The only thing he wants to hear is Matsumura. His attention is focused solely on him. Everything else is simply a background noise.
Nakamura feels it in his body before he can think it through properly. His heartbeat is too noticeable, not fast enough to be panic, not slow enough to ignore. Just steady and insistent, like it’s suddenly become something he has to consciously live with.
His hands rest in his lap under the table, but they don’t feel still. He’s aware of them in a way he usually isn’t—fingers slightly tense, like they don’t know what to do with themselves. He curls them once, then lets them go, then wishes he hadn’t moved them at all.
He tells himself it’s nothing.
Just anticipation.
Just waiting for Matsumura to say his stupid joke so he could put this night to rest. But Nakamura comes to a terrible realization at that moment. He has not thought about Hirose the whole time he was gone.
How long has it been since that last happened?
The only thing he could focus on were his hands, his heartbeat and his eyes. Nothing else.
"Okay, here's the joke. Three tomatoes are walking down the street, a poppa tomato, a momma tomato, and a little baby tomato. The baby tomato is lagging behind the poppa and momma tomato. The poppa tomato gets mad, goes over to the baby tomato and stamps on him. He then says: catch up."
A long pause.
"That's incredibly stupid." He replies, tho a small smile appeared on his lips. Neither laughed.
"Yeah, I think that's why the play was cancelled. And the drama club could barely afford the fund to keep going."
"That's unfortunate. I would love to see the look on the crowd's face as you embarass yourself in public."
"Hey, no one ever laughed at me. In fact, there was even a decent cheer for me at the end."
"Not for your jokes, that's for sure."
"Well, for what else? That was the essence of my character."
"Maybe they were cheering because the show was finally over."
"Ha ha. Look, we have two comedians in this restaurant—maybe they have a trophy for that."
Nakamura was about to say something witty, but was unable to find the words. He finds himself watching him too closely now, like if he looks away he might miss the exact moment something changes.
His face. Matsumura’s face. The calm of it. The slight attentiveness in his eyes that doesn’t feel accidental anymore.
His hair catches the light from the interior of flashy lights in restaurant when he shifts slightly. Not dramatically, but just enough that Nakamura notices it anyway.
Then his mouth—
Nakamura becomes aware of that too, in a way that feels intrusive and unnecessary, like his attention has started choosing things without asking him first. The shape of it when he’s not speaking. The way it might move when he does speak.
It makes his throat feel tight for no clear reason. He swallows once, then looks down briefly at the table, like that will help.
It doesn’t.
Suddenly too shy to speak, he chooses his words carefully, "You know, I was in a play once too."
"Really. Was it as interesting as mine?" Matsumura asks with a smile.
"No. Not even close. But it was nice. I swapped in for a friend who was sick."
"Were you in it long enough to realize that maybe you could do it again?"
"Why? You want to be in a play with me?"
"No. Nothing I wanna do with you would be fake or acting. I want the real thing."
It doesn’t land all at once. That’s the strange part.
There’s no single moment where everything clicks into place—no clear line dividing before and after. Instead, it arrives unevenly, like his mind is refusing to process it in one piece.
His thoughts don’t line up properly, but rather, they scatter.
One part of him tries to reject it immediately—that doesn’t make sense, that’s not what this is, that’s not what he thinks—grasping for something stable, something already known.
Another part doesn’t argue. It just… recognizes it.
Their eyes lock and all there is between them is Understanding. Nothing dangerous or scandalous like he thought it would be. Just a simple feeling.
His chest feels tight, not sharply, but constantly—like something is pressing outward from the inside, asking for space he doesn’t know how to give.
He becomes aware of everything at once and nothing clearly. His face must have been tomato-red at this point. His fingers were shaking so much, that if he were to try to lift a fry, he could barely manage it.
And, because the faith is so cruel to him, Matsumura doesn't stop talking.
"I think acting could be good for you. You’re always in your head,” he continued, voice calm but softer now. “You think through everything before you say it, before you do it. Half the time you don’t do anything at all because you’re still trying to figure out the right way.”
Nakamura frowned. “That’s not—”
“It is,” Matsumura said, not unkindly.
There was no edge or criticism to it. Just… clarity.
“And acting,” Matsumura went on, “doesn’t really let you do that.”
Nakamura glanced back at him, hesitant. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t get to overthink every line,” Matsumura said. “You just… say it. You react. You mess it up, and then you keep going anyway.”
He paused for a second, like he was choosing his words more carefully now. “I think that would be good for you.”
Nakamura didn’t answer.
Matsumura’s expression softened just slightly—not enough to make a point of it, but enough that it changed the weight of what he was saying.
“You don’t have to be good at it,” he added. “You don’t even have to like it that much.”
A small pause.
“But it’s one of the only things where being a little unsure doesn’t stop you from moving forward.”
Nakamura is too overwhelmed with his words. He barely processes them, yet somehow, his body is reacting to everything he is saying.
He tries to compose himself as he hears someone's footsteps.
Oh, right.
He lifts his head just as Hirose approaches the table, walking in casually, like he hasn’t been missing for possibly the most important part of Nakamura's life. In fact his absence might have caused all this.
“Miss me?” Hirose says lightly, sliding back into his seat like he never left.
"Hirose, you were gone for so long! Is everything okay?" Matsumura asks him.
"Yeah, yeah, everything's great. Just my older sister annoying me—as usual."
He looked at the table that was full of uneaten food and practically gasped, "I was gone for so long and you guys didn't start eating?! You shouldn't have waited for me, this must be cold by now."
"Doesn't matter. Nakamura and I were just chatting anyway."
"Oh, so you guys were successful at the small-talk thing?"
"If I can say so myself", he made eye contact with Nakamura and smiled knowingly.
"Well, let's eat this now, shall we?"
"No." Nakamura said for the first time, since Hirose rejoined the conversation, "Matsumura and I have to go and win a trophy."