Chapter Text
“What are you doing?”
“Wah!”
The boy falls straight onto the grass, and Chuuya reached out before he can even think about it, offering his hand to the smaller boy who looks as though the ground itself has betrayed him. For a moment, the boy only stares at the offered hand with wide, uncertain eyes, so Chuuya gives his fingers a little impatient wiggle.
“Come on. Get up.”
The boy hesitates, but eventually places his hand on Chuuya’s, allowing himself to be pulled back onto his feet. There's a little grass caught on the front of his shirt, and Chuuya brushes it away with the same matter-of-factness his grandmother used whenever she fixes his clothes before they go outside.
Chuuya knows this boy.
Not properly, because they have never talked before, but he knows who the boy is. He lives in one of the big houses across the street, and whenever Chuuya goes outside to play with the other children, he notices him somewhere nearby. The boy never joins them. He never even asks. He would simply watch from a safe distance, usually with his hands tucked close to himself, as if he is waiting for somebody to notice that he is there.
Chuuya thinks that is probably the problem.
“Wanna play with us?”
But the boy immediately shakes his head.
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he points toward the slide, where several bigger children are running around and shouting over one another. Chuuya knows some of them. They are older, which means they are also taller, but Chuuya does not think being tall automatically makes somebody frightening.
“They’re mean to me,” the boy admits quietly. "They say I'm too small."
That changes things.
Chuuya looks toward the group again, remembering something his dad told him about bullies. Bullies are bad. You are not supposed to be mean to people simply because they are smaller than you, and if somebody is being picked on, you should help them instead of standing around pretending you do not see it.
It makes perfect sense to Chuuya.
“What if I beat them up for you?”
The boy's eyes become so wide that Chuuya almost laughs, but before he can explain that he is only asking, his feet are already carrying him toward the slide.
He is nine years old, which is plenty old enough to deal with a few bullies, especially when he knows judo. He's been practicing since he was five, and his teacher always reminded him that knowing how to fight is not about hurting people because you feel like it. It is about protecting yourself and protecting people who cannot protect themselves.
Besides, these kids are bullies. Chuuya knows exactly what he is supposed to do.
“Hey, bigheads!”
The children turn toward him, and Chuuya plants his hands firmly on his hips so they can understand that he is serious. For several seconds, nobody says anything. Then the group erupts into laughter.
Chuuya cannot figure out what is so funny. “What?”
One of the boys wipes at his eyes. “Look who's talking. Little foreigner.”
Another snickers. “Listen to him. He talks funny.”
The words land harder than Chuuya expects.
His Japanese is not funny.
All right, maybe it sounds a little different sometimes. He has only been in Japan for a few weeks, and there are still words that make him pause because his tongue is more used to French. His dads speak Japanese with him at home, but France is the place he knows best, so sometimes people notice the difference before he can stop it.
But that does not make him a foreigner. And it definitely does not make him weak.
“Listen, outsider,” the tallest boy says as he comes closer. “You're new here, so don't act so tough.”
The boy raises one finger and points it directly at Chuuya's face.
Chuuya looks at the finger. Then at the boy attached to it. He really does not like being pointed at.
Before the other boy can do anything else, Chuuya catches his arm, shifts his weight the way his teacher taught him, and sends him tumbling onto the grass. The whole thing happens so quickly that even Chuuya needs a second to realize the boy is already sitting on the ground.
That was easier than he expected.
The laughter disappears.
One of the other children charges at him, but Chuuya ducks underneath his arms and slips away before he can be grabbed. Another reached for the back of his shirt, only for Chuuya to twist around and catch his arm, and suddenly the playground becomes a mess of shouting children, flying feet, and startled faces as everyone seems to forget what they were doing before Chuuya arrived.
There are more of them than there are of him, but that does not matter nearly as much as it should.
His judo teacher always says that panic makes you clumsy, so Chuuya refuses to panic. His dad also says that bullies only look big until someone finally stands up to them, and Chuuya is beginning to think his dad might be right because the children who seemed frightening a few minutes ago mostly look surprised now.
Chuuya feels rather proud of himself.
By the time his grandmother comes hurrying across the playground, three boys are already on the ground, another is crying loudly enough for everyone in the neighborhood to hear, and Chuuya is still trying to get around her so he can reach the tallest boy again.
“Chuuya!”
“Grandma, he started it!”
“I don't care who started it!”
“But he was being mean!”
His grandmother catches him firmly by the back of his shirt before he can launch himself forward again, leaving Chuuya dangling just enough to make his feet scrape uselessly against the ground. He points toward the quiet boy at the edge of the playground, who is still standing exactly where Chuuya left him.
“He was bullying him!”
His grandmother follows the direction of his finger, takes in the group of children scattered across the grass, and finally looks back at her grandson. Chuuya knows that expression. She is trying very hard not to laugh.
She had only looked away for a few minutes to speak with her friend, and somehow, during those few minutes, her nine-year-old grandson managed to start a fight with nearly every child at the playground. Chuuya thinks that sounds less like something he should be punished for and more like evidence that he had done a very good job protecting somebody.
Unfortunately, his grandmother does not agree as she makes him apologize. Chuuya does it because he knows he is supposed to, although he thinks the other children should probably apologize too.
By the time they return to the house, Chuuya receives only a light scolding, which he considers proof that his grandparents are not very good at staying angry with him. His grandfather even gave him a popsicle afterward, so Chuuya decided the entire matter is probably settled.
The quiet boy follows them home.
Chuuya noticed him standing near the gate while the grandfather hands over the popsicle, and the boy is looking at him with such bright, sparkling eyes that Chuuya briefly wonders whether he somehow gotten something on his face during the fight.
“You want one?”
The boy nods.
Grandpa gives him a popsicle too and tells the two of them to stay in the backyard while Grandma deals with the angry parents of the children Chuuya fought. Chuuya sits down on the wooden steps and immediately starts licking the red syrup from his popsicle before it can drip onto his shirt, while the other boy settles beside him and carefully holds his own treat with both hands.
For a little while, they simply sit there.
Chuuya studies him from the corner of his eye, trying to understand how someone can be so quiet when there are so many interesting things happening around him.
“What’s your name?”
The boy lowers his gaze to the popsicle in his hands. “My father said not to tell my name to anyone.”
Chuuya pauses halfway through another lick. “Why?”
“I don't know. He just said not to.”
That seems like a very strange rule. Chuuya considers it for a moment before deciding that if the boy is going to keep his name secret, then Chuuya can keep his secret too.
“Fine! I won't tell you mine either.”
The boy finally looks at him, and something about Chuuya's extremely serious declaration seems to amuse him because a little laugh escapes before he can stop it. Chuuya tries to maintain his offended expression, but the sound is contagious, and soon he is laughing too without even remembering what was funny in the first place.
Later, they end up sitting together on the floor with one of Grandpa's picture books spread open between them. Chuuya turns the pages while the boy points out the animals, and before long they decide that since neither of them is allowed to know the other's real name, they should simply give each other new ones.
The boy suddenly points at one of the pictures. “You look like this!”
Chuuya leans closer until his nose is almost touching the page. The creature is red, long, and strange-looking, with two tiny feelers sticking out of its head. It reminds him of a snail, except it does not have a shell.
“Why?”
“Because it's the same color as your hair.”
Chuuya studies the picture more carefully, then looks underneath it to find the name.
“Slug?”
“Slug!” The boy's face immediately brightens with triumph.
“I don't like it.”
“But I do.”
“That isn't fair.”
The boy laughs again, clearly pleased with himself, and Chuuya decides that if this is the sort of game they are playing, then he is going to win it. He flips through the book with great concentration, searching through pictures of birds, dogs, frogs, and other animals while the boy waits beside him, looking increasingly curious about what Chuuya is going to choose. None of them seem quite right. Then, halfway through another page, Chuuya finds a fish.
He points at it with the satisfaction of someone who had just discovered the perfect answer.
“Well, you look like this!”
The boy leans over to inspect the picture, and Chuuya compares the pale fish to the boy's equally pale face before checking the name written underneath.
“You're as pale as this fish.” He sounds out the word carefully.
“Mackerel.”
—
“Here’s the key.”
The old couple who has been looking after his grandparents’ house since they passed hands Chuuya the keys, the metal ring giving a small jingle between their fingers. The old woman points toward the larger key among the others.
“The big one’s for the storage room at the back.”
Chuuya turns the keys over in his palm, recognizing the familiar weight of them even though it has been years since he last held anything that belonged to this house. He looks toward the front door, taking in the faded paint, the little brass ornament beside the frame, and the garden that is not quite as wild as he expected it to be.
“Are you alone?” the old woman asks.
“My dads will come two weeks from now,” Chuuya says, rubbing the back of his head as he remember how difficult it had been to convince them that he absolutely needed to come ahead of them. “I just went ahead because I really wanted to see the house and start my job early this week.”
The old woman smiles knowingly, as though she understands the impatience of someone returning to a place that has been sitting in their memories for too long.
“That’s good. At least now someone gets to look after the house properly.” She glances toward the windows and gives a thoughtful hum. “There’s lots of dust and cobwebs, but the furniture is covered. We’ve been cleaning the place once a month, but an empty house still manages to collect everything.”
“I can handle it.”
“I thought you might say that.”
The old couple says their goodbyes not long afterward, leaving Chuuya standing alone in front of the house with a ring of keys in one hand and twenty years of distance sitting somewhere behind his ribs.
He unlocks the door.
The first thing he does is open every window. Warm air rolls through the rooms, carrying the faint scent of old wood and dust toward the open garden, and Chuuya immediately gets to work. The cobwebs come first, because there are enough of them tucked into corners and stretched across ceiling beams to make the house look as though it has been quietly claimed by an ambitious population of spiders. He clears them away with a long-handled duster before sweeping the floors, moving from one room to another with the efficiency that comes from years of being taught that if something needs doing, there is very little point in standing around looking at it.
It's not actually difficult to clean.
The house is old, but it has been cared for. The furniture sits beneath clean protective covers, the wooden floors are still in good condition, and there's no thick layer of neglect waiting for him beneath the dust. The cobwebs and scattered dirt are mostly the stubborn remains of a house that spends far too much time empty.
Once the basic cleaning is finished, Chuuya starts wiping down the decorations and little trinkets that occupy the shelves and cabinets, taking each one down carefully before returning it to its place.
Some of them feel familiar.
He cannot remember where he saw them before, but his hands seem to recognize them anyway.
There is the ceramic cat his grandmother used to keep beside the television. There is the little wooden boat his grandfather bought during one of their trips. There are framed photographs everywhere, some of them faded around the edges, their glass cloudy with years of dust.
Chuuya pauses in front of one of them.
It has been twenty years since he last stood inside this house, and even then he only spent one summer here. Most of what he remembers exists in pieces rather than anything resembling a proper story. A garden full of sunlight. His grandmother calling him inside for lunch. His grandfather teaching him how to skip stones. The sound of cicadas so loud that he could barely hear himself think.
And a little boy.
Chuuya lifts the photograph from the shelf and wipes the glass with the corner of his cloth.
The face looking back at him is his own, except much smaller. Nine-year-old Chuuya stands in front of the camera with his hair messier than he remembers ever allowing it to be now, a bright bandage sitting crookedly across his nose. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, the kind of smile only a child can wear after getting into trouble and somehow deciding that the entire thing turned out wonderfully.
Beside him stands another child. A small boy with brown, curly hair that falls over his eyes, smiling at the camera with an almost painfully polite and careful expression.
Chuuya studies the boy for a moment.
There is something familiar about him, but the memory refused to come together properly. He turns the photograph over, remembering how his grandparents always wrote the date and a little note on the backs of their pictures.
Sure enough, there is handwriting there.
“Slug and Mackerel, July XXXX.”
Chuuya reads the words once. Then again, and suddenly, the years between then and now seem to disappear.
He remembers laughter. He remembers running through the garden until his grandmother yelled at him for getting dirt on his clothes. He remembers the beach, the hot sand beneath his feet, the smell of sunscreen and saltwater, and sunflowers growing bright and tall somewhere beyond the fence. He remembers a small hand clutching the back of his shirt whenever they walked too far from the house.
Most of all, he remembers a pair of enormous brown eyes following him everywhere.
“Mackerel,” Chuuya murmurs.
The name brings the boy back almost perfectly. Shy, timid, quiet, and obedient. So unbelievably obedient that Chuuya could probably have told him to sit under a tree all afternoon and the kid would have actually considered it. He followed Chuuya everywhere that summer, trailing behind him with the sort of complete admiration that made Chuuya feel like he was some kind of superhero instead of a nine-year-old who spent most of his afternoons climbing things he was explicitly told not to climb.
Chuuya remembers teaching him games, dragging him down to the beach, sharing snacks with him, and getting into trouble whenever they wandered somewhere they were not supposed to be. He remembers Mackerel laughing more as the days passed, until that quiet little boy barely seemed like the same child who had been afraid to approach him at the playground.
And then the summer ended.
Chuuya went back to France, and life moved on.
He grew up, learned ballet, trained until his body knew movements before his mind could name them, moved through schools and performances and cities, and somehow the little boy from across the street slipped farther and farther into the part of his memory reserved for things that happened a very long time ago.
Now he is holding a photograph of them again.
Chuuya smiles faintly at the picture. He wonders where Mackerel is now. He hopes he grew up all right. More than anything, he hopes the boy never had to deal with bullies again just because he was smaller than everyone else.
“He’s probably around twenty-five or twenty-six now,” Chuuya mutters, doing the mental arithmetic before deciding he really does not want to think about how old that makes him.
He places the photograph carefully back on the shelf and picks up his cloth again.
There is still plenty of cleaning left to do.
Later that night, Chuuya settles onto the couch with his tablet propped against a cushion, the video call with his fathers filling the quiet living room with familiar voices. Behind him, the house looks completely different from when he first stepped through the door that morning. After an entire day of cleaning, Chuuya feels tired in the satisfying way that comes from knowing he actually accomplished something.
Arthur looks past him through the screen, taking in the room with an expression that immediately gives Chuuya the feeling he is about to receive a lecture.
“You didn't have to clean up immediately, Chuuya,” he says, worry evident in his voice. “You should have rested after the long flight and just asked for a cleaning service.”
“Come on, Dad. I'm perfectly fine.” Chuuya shifts the tablet slightly so he can show them the other side of the living room. “Besides, I prefer doing it myself. I wanted to get familiar with the house, and I'm going to be living here from now on anyway.”
Arthur sighs in the particular way he always does when he knows arguing will not change anything. “Just be careful. We’ll be there the week after next week.”
“Dad, I'm twenty-nine. I'm almost thirty!” Chuuya laughs, leaning back against the couch as though that should settle the matter once and for all.
Paul, sitting beside Arthur on the other side of the call, gives him an affectionate smile.
“You’ll always be our bébé.”
Chuuya groans and drops his head against the back of the couch. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Because it is true,” Arthur says, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You two are impossible.”
Their conversation drifts from the house to Chuuya's new job, from his travel plans to the things his fathers still want him to pick up before they arrive. They talk about whether the guest room needs anything, whether Chuuya remembered to eat properly after spending most of the afternoon cleaning, and whether he figured out where the nearest grocery store is yet. It feels comfortable in the way only conversations with family can be, filling the unfamiliar house with voices that make it feel a little less empty.
Then Chuuya remembers the photograph.
“By the way.” He sits up and reaches toward the side table before stopping halfway. “Wait here.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Where are you going?”
“I'll be right back.”
Chuuya disappears from the camera's view and returns a moment later with the framed photograph he found earlier. He settles back onto the couch and holds it up toward the screen, angling it until both his fathers can see the two children standing together.
“Do you know where this kid might be now?”
Arthur and Paul both lean closer to the screen. For several seconds, neither says anything. Arthur squints at the photograph while Paul tilts his head, clearly trying to drag the memory out of somewhere buried beneath years of family photographs and old stories.
Eventually, they exchange a glance.
“No,” they answer together.
Chuuya lowers the photograph slightly, disappointed despite himself. “You don't remember him at all?”
Arthur shakes his head. “I'm sorry, bébé. You were only there for one summer.”
“I know.” Chuuya looks down at the picture again, tracing the edge of the frame with his thumb. Seeing the boy again has made the memory feel much closer than it did when he first walked into the house, and now that he remembers him, he cannot help wondering what happened to him.
Paul seems to notice the thought lingering on his face. “Try asking Yumiko-san tomorrow,” he suggests. “She knows everyone in the neighborhood.”
Chuuya looks back at the screen. “The old lady who looked after the house?”
“Yes,” Paul says. “She lived there for years. If anyone knows anything about that boy, it would probably be her.”
Chuuya glances down at the photograph once more. The little boy beside him looks exactly as he remembers him now, all brown curls and shy eyes, even though the picture itself is more than twenty years old.
Maybe finding Mackerel will not be as difficult as he thought. And maybe a little reunion and a restored friendship will help him settle down in his new life here.
—
“He works in Tokyo now.”
Yumiko-san says it as casually as if she is telling Chuuya what she had for breakfast, all while plucking stubborn weeds from the flower bed in front of the house. She's been there since five in the morning, which Chuuya considers completely unreasonable for someone who is already well into her eighties. She even knocked on his bedroom window to wake him up and brought a warm cup of coffee made by her husband, followed by a rooster that apparently serves as her preferred alarm clock.
Chuuya still don't understand how someone her age can possess this much energy.
“Oh.”
He pulls another weed from the soil and tosses it into the growing pile beside them. Tokyo doesn't really surprise him. People grow up, leave their hometowns, find work, build lives of their own, and sometimes end up somewhere completely different from where they started. Mackerel must have done the same. It makes Chuuya wonder what kind of person he became.
Maybe they'll run into each other again someday when he comes home here. Yokohama is not exactly the sort of place someone can disappear from forever, especially if their family still lives here.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Yumiko-san says, giving his back a reassuring pat. “You can ask his father more about him.”
Chuuya looks up. “His father?”
“They live across the street. The big house over there.” She points toward the other side of the road, where a large house sits behind a neatly maintained fence. Chuuya follows her gaze, narrowing his eyes slightly as he tries to match the place with the fragments of memory still sitting in his head.
He remembers that house. Not all of it, but enough. Mackerel used to live there, and Chuuya remembers visiting once after the boy's father invited him over one morning. Everything had seemed enormous to nine-year-old Chuuya, from the tall ceilings to the polished floors, and he remembers being particularly impressed by how many rooms there were.
Mackerel had seemed completely unsurprised by any of it. Chuuya suspects he was already used to having a house that big.
“Would it be all right if I visit?”
“Of course,” Yumiko-san answers immediately. “I’m sure Mori-san will be delighted to talk about his son. He’s a bit lonely there, you know.”
Something about that makes Chuuya pause. He glances across the street again, wondering what Mackerel's father must be like now and whether he remembers the little boy his son used to follow around all those years ago.
Yumiko-san returns to pulling weeds as though she didn't not just give Chuuya another reason to be curious.
“It’s good for you to get used to the neighborhood,” she adds. “Young people these days hardly come out of their houses anymore.”
Chuuya laughs, brushing the dirt from his palms. “I don't think there's anything wrong with staying home sometimes.”
“No?”
“No. People are busy, but I do like being outside.” He looks around the street, taking in the neighboring houses, the quiet road, and the familiar feeling of a community where people seem to know one another. It is one of the things he missed without realizing he missed it. France is home, and it always will be, but Yokohama feels different in a way he cannot quite explain yet.
Maybe it's because he lived here once. Maybe it is because, after twenty years, the neighborhood still feels strangely capable of remembering him.
“I like knowing what's around me,” Chuuya continues. “And it's always good to know your neighbors and be on good terms with people.”
Yumiko-san gives him an approving nod. “That’s a good way to think.”
Chuuya smiles as he looks back toward the house across the street. He is going to be living here from now on, after all. There's no point in keeping himself shut away when he's got an entire neighborhood waiting to be familiarized. Besides, if Mackerel's father really does live right across the street, then finding his childhood friend suddenly feels much easier than it did yesterday.
Chuuya reached for another weed, completely unaware that the person he is trying to find is much closer than he thinks.
—
“What now?”
Dazai looks up from the papers spread across his desk, mildly surprised to find Kunikida standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in one hand and the sort of expression that usually means he's about to say something Dazai does not want to hear.
He spent most of the morning sorting through documents that accumulated over the past few months, separating the important ones from the useless paperworks that somehow keeps multiplying whenever he's not looking. Several discarded folders already sit in a growing pile beside the wastebasket, while the papers he actually needs remain scattered across his desk in an arrangement that makes perfect sense to him and absolutely no one else.
“I said,” Kunikida adjusts his glasses before setting the coffee down in front of him, “your father called this morning. I think he wants you to come home.”
Dazai looks at the coffee, then at Kunikida, then back at the coffee as though it might contain some hidden explanation for why Mori is suddenly interested in summoning him home. The paperwork is abandoned without another thought as Dazai leans back in his chair, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“Come on, Dazai. Mori-san probably misses you. You didn't even visit during his birthday.” Kunikida gives him an accusing look, the sort that has become increasingly difficult for Dazai to take seriously after working with him for so long.
“First of all,” Dazai says, reaching for the coffee, “he's the one who assigned that problematic client to me last month, which was precisely why I couldn't take a break.”
Kunikida sighs as though he already regrets attempting the conversation. “Just give him a call later.”
“I'll think about it.”
“You always say that.”
“And sometimes I even do.”
Kunikida gives him one final look before turning toward the door, apparently deciding that there is no productive way to continue. His hand is already on the handle when he pauses, as though something has just returned to his memory.
“Oh, by the way.”
Dazai glances over as Kunikida looks back at him.
“He mentioned someone named Slug came to visit.” The movement is small, but Dazai's attention shifts completely. Kunikida continues without noticing the change. “He said the person was an old friend looking for you.”
“Slug?” The name leaves Dazai's mouth before he can stop it.
Kunikida studies him with a faint crease between his eyebrows. “Yeah. You know him?”
A smile slowly finds its way onto Dazai's lips.
It's not the lazy, amused smile he usually wears when someone walks into his office with a problem, nor is it the irritating little grin that appears whenever he thinks he found an opportunity to annoy Kunikida.
This one is softer. Older. Like a memory that has been waiting patiently for twenty years.
“I do.”
His fingers rest loosely against the coffee cup as his gaze drifts somewhere beyond the office walls, back toward a summer that has never really left him.
“I know exactly who he is.”
—
“I was just thinking of something that might finally get Osamu to come home.”
Mori says it with an almost delighted air as he gestures for the maid to bring them another pot of tea. Chuuya watched him settle comfortably into his chair, still trying to get used to the fact that the little boy from his memories actually has a name that belongs to the adult sitting somewhere in Tokyo.
Osamu.
The name feels strange in his head. Not bad strange, just unfamiliar enough that Chuuya has to resist the urge to smile at the thought of calling him Mackerel again if they ever meet. Twenty years is a long time to carry around a childhood nickname, especially when the person who owns it is probably a completely different man now.
“What does he do?”
“He's a lawyer now.” Mori pours himself a cup of tea, and the faint smile on his face makes him look exactly like what he is, a proud parent being given an opportunity to talk about his child. He blows gently over the steam before taking a sip. “The best one in Tokyo.”
Chuuya raises his eyebrows. Damn. Mackerel really became a big shot. He can't say he's completely surprised, though. Even as a child, the boy always seemed like the nerdy type, quiet and observant in a way Chuuya never quite understood before. He remembers finding him sitting with books while everyone else was outside, although Chuuya usually dragged him away from them eventually because there was no way he was going to let Mackerel spend an entire summer hiding indoors.
“A lawyer? That's amazing.” Chuuya repeats, accepting the tea from the maid. He glances down at the cup before looking back at Mori. “I remember him being extremely shy, and he was only about this big.”
Chuuya holds one hand at about waist height, then lowers it slightly when he realizes even that might be giving the boy too much credit. The memory makes him laugh, because he can still picture Mackerel following him around with his head lowered, brown curls falling over his eyes while he obediently went wherever Chuuya decided they were going.
Mori laughs along with him. “Yes, he was always rather quiet.”
“He barely talked to me when we first met.”
“I can imagine.”
“But once he got comfortable, he wouldn't leave me alone.” Chuuya smiles into his tea. “He followed me everywhere with his tiny feet.”
Something in Mori's expression changes at that, although it is gone quickly enough that Chuuya cannot quite decide whether he imagined it.
“I’m sure you'll be delighted to see him.”
There is something strange beneath Mori's voice. Not anything bad. If anything, he sounds almost too pleased by the idea.
Chuuya studies him for a moment before deciding that perhaps it is simply the natural excitement of a father whose son is about to reconnect with an old friend. If someone suddenly told Chuuya that one of his childhood friends had come looking for him after twenty years, he would probably be curious too.
“I just hope his friend informed him. He doesn’t really answer my calls that much, so I always have to get through his friend.” Mori sighs.
Chuuya gives a small laugh, finding it strangely amusing that the quiet little boy he remembers apparently grew into someone who is difficult to reach even for his own father.
“He must be busy,” he says, taking another sip of tea.
“He is,” Mori replies, though there is more fondness than annoyance in his voice. “But he should come home more often.”
Chuuya nods, glancing down at the photograph resting beside him.
It's still strange to think of Mackerel as Osamu now. The little boy in the picture is only six, with messy brown curls falling over his eyes and a smile that looks almost too gentle for the world around him. Somewhere along the way, that boy grew up, moved to Tokyo, became a lawyer, and apparently turned into someone important enough for his father to proudly call him the best in the city.
Chuuya wonders what he is like now.
For some reason, he finds himself hoping that at least a little bit of Mackerel is still there.
What Chuuya didn't expect is to meet the boy so soon.
He's currently sweeping the dried leaves gathered along the front of the house one afternoon when he hears footsteps approaching from behind. Before he can turn around, a familiar voice comes from over his shoulder.
“I see. You hardly grew a few inches.”
Chuuya jumps at the unexpected voice and instinctively swings the rake in his hands. The stranger catches his wrist before the rake can reach him, twisting Chuuya around with surprising ease until his face nearly collides with a hard chest. Chuuya immediately pulls away and takes a few steps back, glaring at the man in front of him. Only then does he realize just how irritatingly obvious their height difference is, forcing him to tilt his head all the way up just to meet the stranger's eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” Chuuya demands, raising the rake between them like a weapon as he take another cautious step backward.
The man is tall, really tall, with messy brown hair falling around his face and bandages peeking out from beneath his office clothes. There's also a large, unbearably smug smile spread across his face, the kind that makes Chuuya dislike him before they've even properly introduce themselves.
“You wound me, best friend~” the man says dramatically, pressing a hand against his chest as though Chuuya genuinely stabbed him there. His expression shifts into an exaggerated pout as he adds, “And here I thought you'd recognize me.”
“I don't know who you are, but I won't hesitate to hit you with the rake if you don't stop right now.”
That only makes the man laugh harder, his deep voice carrying an ease that feels far too familiar for someone Chuuya has never met before. He takes another step forward, but Chuuya immediately matches it by stepping back, keeping the rake firmly pointed between them.
The stranger's smile grows.
“Does Mackerel sound familiar to you?”