spiraling

and when you take it a notch further one day, calling him “ed” something just as recognizable as his full name yet carrying none of its weight, it makes his heart swell with affection and something he can’t quite name.

it’s such a tiny thing, really. only one syllable less than his given name. yet somehow, it always evokes the same nameless but familiar feeling.

the first time you call him “ed” it lingers in his mind for the whole day, and he finds himself being unusually attentive to you, quietly hoping you’ll say it once more. with you, he isn’t the celebrated mystery novelist, nor the gifted ability user everyone expects to be brilliant beyond measure.

he is simply... ed.

somehow, that feels smaller in the gentlest way possible. more human. more like he’s an ordinary person no one expects anything of. no matter how much poe prides himself on being the most intellectual individual, striving to become a better detective than ranpo, behind all this charade, the constant pressure from other people—and from himself—to perform at anything less than greatness wears him down more than he’d like to admit.

so having you by his side as someone who doesn’t expect anything from him, who simply supports him in anything he does, is sometimes a soothing balm to his depressed state of mind.

he begins catching himself quietly hoping you’ll say it again, even if he’d rather disappear into his own novel than admit something so painfully sentimental.

there is an intimacy hidden within that nickname, one he never expected himself to grow so attached to. and even though he doesn’t necessarily show it, he appreciates you treating him like a regular person more than he lets on, the nickname only strengthening that feeling and making it all seem a little more real.

“karl, come back here!” you call, trying your best not to laugh as the little raccoon scurries across the living room with a handful of wrapped candies clutched tightly in his tiny paws.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

the culprit chitters triumphantly, seemingly very proud of the crime he has just committed. “those aren’t even yours!” you whine playfully. still, karl pays you no mind. if anything, he only runs faster, making you let out an exasperated sigh before chasing after him. though, of course, he’s way quicker than you.

“ed,” you call over your shoulder while trying not to lose sight of the mischievous animal, “your son won’t listen to me.”

the scratching of a fountain pen against paper comes to an abrupt halt and poe looks up from his manuscript, blinking at you with an unreadable and slightly perplexed expression.

“…my son?” he asks, his cheeks tinted in a faint blush because if karl is his son and he is the father, that would make you... karl’s mother? god, what nonsense! oh, but he kind of likes the idea of that.

you remain entirely focused on karl, who is now attempting to squeeze himself underneath the sofa with his stolen treasures.

“yes, your son,” you huff, crouching down in front of the couch in a futile attempt to reach him. “i think he stole ranpo’s candy. again.”

“…that does sound like something he would do,” poe says, regarding you with a small chuckle. the idea of ranpo being annoyed that his candy got stolen amuses him.

this also gives him the perfect chance to challenge poe to another battle of wits if they confront each other, making his new story's perfection crucial.

“ed,” you whine once more, turning your head just enough to look at him. “help,” you say, your voice carrying the faintest hint of defeat. no matter how hard you try, karl simply won’t listen to you.

poe quietly closes his notebook before finally standing up from his chair. without so much as a hint of urgency, he walks over to where you’re kneeling and looks beneath the couch.

“…karl,” poe mumbles with a hint of warning in his voice, and the raccoon almost instantly freezes. a second later, he slowly waddles back out, still holding the colorful sweets between his paws.

you snatch the candy out of his paws, noticing the small nibbles on the wrappers of some of the sweets.

“honestly, i know raccoons eat practically anything, but plastic? seriously? that’s not good for you, karl,” you mumble as you reach out to pet him.

karl snuggles into your touch before clawing at your hand, silently begging you for a piece of candy. you let out another sigh and unwrap a small piece of chocolate, feeding it to him.

you look through the candy he stole, noticing a pack of strawberry chocolate-covered pocky sticks. a small grin tugs at your lips as you glance at poe. “hey, ed, wanna play a game?” you ask with a hint of teasing in your tone.

poe looks at you, his already dusty rose-colored cheeks deepening in color at the playful tone in your voice. “ah, sure…” he mumbles.

needless to say, agreeing to play that game turns out to be both the best and worst decision he has made all day. after all, kissing you is always pleasant. enduring the aftermath of his own racing heart, however, is another matter entirely.

akutagawa.:

akutagawa has never been particularly fond of familiarity. perhaps it is because most people only ever know him by his surname. “akutagawa” is the name attached to his reputation, his ability, and his position within the port mafia. it is the name that carries fear, respect, and expectation. the name that reminds others of what he is capable of.

and to him, it is easier that way since he dislikes closeness. a surname creates distance. it is formal, impersonal, and allows him to remain the weapon everyone expects him to be. there is no vulnerability attached to it, no reminder that beneath the sharp words and ruthless actions, there is still a person who longs to be acknowledged.

but his given name is different.

“ryūnosuke” feels far too personal. it belongs to a part of himself he rarely allows anyone to see. a part that existed before the port mafia, before his ability, before everything became a desperate attempt to prove his worth.

so the first time you call him “ryuu” he does not know how to react.

it’s not anger that he feels, not exactly. maybe confusion would be a better word. because nobody has ever shortened his name so casually before. nobody has ever spoken it with such warmth, as if it is something precious rather than something to be said only when necessary.

he almost wants to tell you not to call him that ever again. almost. but the words never leave his mouth. because despite how unfamiliar it feels, there is something strangely comforting about hearing it from you.

you don’t say it with pity. you don’t say it because you think he is fragile or because you want to remind him of his past. you simply say it because, to you, that is who he is.

ryuu.

not akutagawa, the port mafia’s black-fanged hellhound. not the man who constantly struggles to prove himself. not the ability user who everyone either fears or underestimates.

just ryuu.

and perhaps that is what unsettles him the most. because akutagawa has spent years trying to make people, especially dazai, recognize his strength, his worth. yet you are the first person who makes him feel seen without having to prove anything at all.

he would never admit it, of course. admitting that a simple nickname has affected him would be far too humiliating. he would rather endure endless torture than confess that he has grown attached to something so insignificant.

over time, “ryuu” has become something he treasures. something reserved only for you.

he would never allow just anyone to call him that. not that anyone would even dare to address him by his first name, that is.

the nickname has become a stark reminder of the one person who sees the man behind the name. who truly sees him. and perhaps, for someone like akutagawa, that is the closest thing to love he has ever known. something he has always wanted.

the kiss is gentle. something that still feels strangely unfamiliar to akutagawa despite how many times it has happened before. affection has never come naturally to him. neither has allowing someone close enough to see the parts of him he keeps hidden.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

but with you, he has slowly learned to stop fighting it. you’re far too stubborn and persistent to keep anything hidden anyway.

your fingers brush lightly against his cheek, and he allows himself to lean into your touch, savoring the warmth of it. until you pull away, leaving him cold again.

it is almost unnoticeable to him at first. the slight change in your breathing and the faint furrow of your brows as the metallic taste of blood lingers on your tongue.

your expression changes immediately, shifting into one of concern. “ryuu?” you say, wanting to grab his attention.

akutagawa suddenly tenses, already knowing what you’re worried about. he sees it in your eyes before you even say anything.

“did you cough up blood again?” you ask softly, the question laced with faint concern as you search his gaze.

for a moment, he says nothing. and to you, that silence is enough of an answer. you let out a quiet sigh as you look at him, gently cupping his face in both of your hands. “ryuu…”

he hates that tone.

not because it annoys him, but because he knows what it means. worry. fear. the kind of emotions he has spent his entire life avoiding from others.

“it is nothing,” he says, almost immediately dismissing your concern.

you stare at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. it is not nothing, but at the same time, you and he both know that his illness is terminal. so really, what could you possibly even say?

instead, you kiss him once more, wanting to soothe some of the tension in him. the kiss makes something in his expression shift only slightly as he regards you carefully.

because he knows.

he knows that the coughing has become worse. he knows that his body has been struggling more lately. he knows that ignoring it will not make it disappear.

but acknowledging it means admitting there is something he cannot simply overcome through sheer determination. and akutagawa has never been good at accepting weakness. especially his own.

“you should not concern yourself with this,” he says quietly, avoiding your gaze for a split second.

“how am i supposed to not concern myself with you?” you murmur, your expression softening a tinge.

he stays silent, not having an answer to your kind words. they tug at his heartstrings because despite everything he has done, despite every cruel thing he has convinced himself he deserves, you still look at him like he is someone worth caring for.

“you are troublesome,” he finally says as he breaks the silence, swallowing audibly in the hope of getting rid of the metallic taste in his mouth before kissing you again.

not a weapon or the port mafia’s black-fanged hellhound. no, you look at him like just that—your lover.

you smile faintly against his lips, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “yeah, i know. so are you.”

ever so slowly, he leans into your touch, wearing a slightly apologetic expression on his face. he knows how afraid you are of losing him.

he’s not saying he isn’t afraid of dying, of losing you too. but akutagawa has had much time to come to terms with the fact that he will ultimately die and does not have much time left.

he can only hope you’ll get over him quickly. until then, though, he’ll try to make the most of it. because you deserve someone who cares just as much as you care about him.

tachihara.:

tachihara didn’t necessarily mind the first time you called him a nickname. well, he at least took it lighter than you thought he would.

while he outwardly seems like such a tough and rough guy, catch him alone with his beloved, you, and one would see just how gentle he really is. or maybe he simply has a soft spot reserved only for you.

either way, nicknames don’t seem to bother him much. to him, they are a sign of affection. he uses nicknames for you too, quite frequently so. there isn’t really a day where he doesn’t call you “babe” or “baby” “doll face” “sweetheart” or simply “darling”.

somehow, you calling him the designated nickname you came up with just for him, “michi”, makes his heart swell with a strange mix of nostalgia, love, and guilt.

it reminds him of the time his older brother, shunzen, and he used to give each other silly nicknames—back when shunzen hadn’t yet gone off to serve in the great war. contrary to belief, he enjoys remembering the time he had with his brother. even if it was too little, even if his death caused him to abandon his family and end up here. at least he found someone in this shit hellhole to make his life more bearable, that person being you.

to him, you are pure sunlight, illuminating the darkness he so often finds himself trapped in. after all, carrying the burden of a double life on his shoulders and constantly having to lie to you does weigh down on him sometimes.

his life is built on deception, so you reminding him of a version of himself that existed before he had to split his life between loyalties, lies, and undercover identities feels almost addictive. being seen so simply by you becomes one of the safest feelings he knows.

hearing you call him by a nickname made specifically for him pulls him out of his gruesome thoughts and replaces them with pleasant memories instead, grounding him.

occasionally, he has to think of the hunting dogs as well. they are like family to him, just like the black lizard and you are. he balances it all so carefully, and you keep making it possible, acting like the glue that holds all of his personalities together while also being the only constant in his life where he can at least be somewhat himself without thinking twice or thrice.

ah, being a secret spy really is not for the weak. he’s s glad he found someone he can let loose with once in a while. someone who soothes the relentless aching tension in his muscles.

“michi?” you mumble as you look up at him, your head resting on his lap while you both—or rather, tachihara—take a small break in the unofficial lounge of the black lizard.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

honestly, it’s just a spacious room they claimed after the port mafia stopped using it. it has a comfortable leather couch—the one both of you are currently resting on—a table with a few chairs, a tv, and a mini bar. you believe the leather couch was actually a piece of furniture hirotsu had smuggled in, but you’re not complaining.

tachihara doesn’t answer at first, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady. if you didn’t feel him shift a moment ago, you might have thought he had fallen asleep.

“michi,” you press again, a small frown tugging at your expression.

truthfully, tachihara heard you the first time. he just loves it far too much whenever you call him that stupidly sweet nickname you came up with. in fact, more often than not, he finds excuses just to hear you say it again.

“mhm?” he hums softly, finally lifting his head from the backrest of the couch to glance down at you. one of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, rough skin grazing your smooth one.

you lean into his touch, pouting a little. you know how much work he has and how little time he has to spare, always disappearing somewhere even though mori hasn’t given him any orders. but spending that time simply watching him doze off feels like a waste, if only slightly. after all, you don’t know when you’re going to see him again.

“i’m bored…” you mutter, hiding your true intentions since you don’t want to seem overly clingy.

“bored? with me here?” he repeats, letting out a small chuckle.

“well, we’re not exactly doing anything, are we? you’re not even talking to me. you’re half-asleep,” you say in an almost whiny tone.

tachihara hums thoughtfully in response to your words, knowing you’d much rather do something with him instead of simply dozing off together. he understands why.

there are times when he wonders how long he can keep balancing everything. the port mafia, the hunting dogs, the lies he tells, and the truths he hides. sometimes, it feels like he is constantly splitting himself into different pieces, never fully belonging anywhere.

he’s scared of letting you down, and he knows he should be more grateful for the time he has with you. who knows how long he’ll stay affiliated with the port mafia, or how much longer the hunting dogs will want him to spy for them.

so what’s a little less sleep if he can spend that time with you? perhaps you’ll be the one asking for a nap afterward once he’s done with you.

“well, i guess you’re right. i’m sure there’s something i can do to cure that boredom, though,” he says as he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

eventually, his other hand glides down your side, his fingertips drumming along your ribcage before moving to grip your thigh.

a faint blush graces your cheeks as you tilt your head, burying it against his abdomen without stopping him. this is what you wanted after all, isn’t it? some long and much-needed quality time with him.

“is that what you had in mind, darlin’?” tachihara asks softly, his lips moving down to graze the outer shell of your ear before nibbling at your earlobe. his hand trails up now, fingers moving between your thighs before he ends up squeezing the plump flesh of your rear through your pants.

“shut up,” you mumble, your voice slightly muffled against his stomach. but really, this is a much better way to waste time in your eyes than simply taking a nap.

fyodor.:

fyodor is a man of strange wonders and cunning ruthlessness, so it is quite surprising he doesn’t punish you on the spot when you first call him “fedya”. he doesn’t even visibly react.

he simply looks at you a little longer than usual, his expression remaining unreadable. however, you notice the quickly vanishing glint of disapproval flash in his eyes, and it makes you wonder if you’ve overstepped.

after all, nobody has ever earned the privilege of shortening his name. well, nobody except nikolai and you, apparently. though, nikolai rarely is on his mind, and he certainly isn’t as close to him as you are.

he is simply a tool to him, someone he deems too useful to get rid of, even when his antics mildly irritate him. especially since he constantly annoys him by disrespecting him so blatantly, no matter what twisted bond he thinks they share—fyodor would rather drink straight-up poison than consider nikolai an ally, a friend, or even something as close as an equal. he isn’t and never will be. so he really doesn’t care what nikolai calls him.

you, on the other hand, are his companion. his lover, perhaps. someone he tolerates unobtrusively and keeps around because the heart-shaped hole in his chest desires so. so, you should know better by now than to test his tolerance. truly, you’re lucky that his patience hasn’t run thin with you yet.

to fyodor, nicknames imply a certain familiarity, a sense of equality, a degree of ownership over someone’s identity, if you will. they’re inherently intimate, but also childish. something that doesn’t come easily with him.

still, he never corrected you whenever you used the nickname, and that seemed like permission enough for you to keep using it.

for someone as calculating and emotionally guarded as fyodor, that’s a remarkably vulnerable and self-endangering thing to allow. it means he sees you as someone he can let his guard down with, if only a little. someone trustworthy, even. undeniably, you are, no matter how dangerous that might be for him.

he doesn’t quite understand why he didn’t reprimand you the first time it slipprd out. though, he’d rather relive every time he’s ever been tortured than tell you this or admit that the nickname rolling off your lips is something he’s grown to crave.

“hey, fedya? did you know the romanovs kept pet elephants?” you ask, looking up from your book with an almost childlike sense of excitement.

over time, “fedya” has become something strangely sacred between the two of you. he’d tolerate countless insults before he’d tolerate someone else using that nickname. not because he dislikes hearing it, but because it belongs entirely to you. and there are very few things fyodor considers to be solely yours, including him, even if he’ll never let you know that.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

considering fyodor’s origin, he already knows that fact. of course he does. you’ve barely finished the next sentence before he’s mentally recalling the entire history behind the exotic animals gifted to the imperial court.

and although he knows, he doesn’t interrupt you, instead letting you keep rambling.

“apparently one of them even had its own stable and everything! can you imagine just... walking outside your palace and there’s an elephant?” you continue, completely oblivious to the fact that he isn’t paying nearly as much attention to the information itself as he is to you.

“mhm,” is all he hums in response. truthfully, he’s only half listening. not because you’re boring him with trivial fun facts or because your voice has become background noise. no, quite the opposite, actually.

he simply finds himself enthralled by the way your hands move whenever you become animated or the slight furrow between your brows as you try to recall another detail you had read earlier. and the way your eyes brighten every time you stumble across something you deem worthy of sharing with him. oh, he loves it.

he sees the reflection of himself in them and somehow finds himself somewhat mesmerized by it. the deceptive play of light, with only him reflected in your gaze, his very being consumed by you to the point that even your eyes seem to radiate him, is truly a very intriguing idea.

“...isn’t that fascinating?” you ask with a small smile.

a brief silence follows before fyodor answers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“yes, quite fascinating indeed,” he says as another pause follows. “although they were not technically the romanovs’ pets,” he adds, your smile slowly fading as a sense of curiosity crosses your face.

“they were diplomatic gifts,” fyodor corrects gently, sounding like he knows far more than he lets on.

you stare at him for a moment, almost wanting to pout since he’s being such a smart-ass right now. “could’ve told me that earlier,” you mutter, shifting slightly on his lap.

“ah, apologies, myshka. you seemed so... enthusiastic,” he says in a playfully mocking tone, though he feels touched that you’ve been reading into russian history for him. after all, who else would you be doing this for?

you roll your eyes at him before leaning closer, the purple hue of his eyes seeming strangely warmer today. it’s rare that the cold sharpness in his gaze is absent, replaced instead with something unusually gentle. but you’re not complaining.

you smile faintly as you press a tender kiss against his lips, the book on russian history now forgotten on the couch beside you as you wrap your arms around his neck.

fyodor returns the kiss, keeping it light but still palpable in its intensity. he adores your kissed-out expression, knowing every mundane thought has faded and your mind is utterly consumed with him.

“i can be very enthusiastic with something else as well~” you whisper against his lips, a clumsy attempt at trying to be flirtatious.

but fyodor is rarely in the mood for something so purely carnal, so he isn’t really entertaining the idea. instead, he only hums in response, studying you with amused curiosity.

note.: i actually don’t know how fast racoons are sooo bear with me on poe’s part please. also this is my first time writing for him, so please tell me how i’d do, guys ('' •᷄ ᴗ •᷅ )

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ — @illchooseanamesoonipromise , @xyliskz , @justyna4a , @idiasplayertwo , @warm-gamer1121 @akutagawascoathanger

ノ thanks for reading! reblogs & comments are much appreciated!

ノ want more? check out my MASTERLIST!

“It’s only been ten minutes.” You didn’t even bother to look up, preoccupied with piercing the needle through a particularly tough patch of fabric. “And this is your coat. I could just not fix it at all.”

“Then I’d be practically naked!”

“That’s what I thought.”

Dazai’s eyes slitted like an ill-tempered cat, the distance between you unable to muffle the amusement in your tone. He was certain you were smiling, a crescent-shape drawn across your lips as you perched in the chair, pleased with yourself.

“Such a cruel woman!” he cried, hobbling like a midday drunkard across the room. “Can’t you have pity on a poor man’s heart?”

He tumbled into the chair, the motion accidentally forcing the needle into the tip of your thumb. Hissing, you snatched your hand, eyeing the bead of blood that blossomed from your fingertip. Your frown only deepened as a drop glided down your finger, claiming a piece of coat fabric for itself.

“Great. Now I’ve got blood on it.”

“It’ll come out.”

Your glare dried out any words that tried to come out of his mouth, flopping your unfinished handiwork down onto your lap.

“I’m the one who’ll have to clean it.”

“We certainly can’t have that, can we?” Your pissed-off face only egged on his shit-eating grin. “How will you be able to manage with such an injury?”

Uncareful hands rustled your shirt like they were attempting to placate a stray animal, the same uncareful man prancing off toward your bathroom.

“This is your fault, you know!”

He either didn’t hear you or completely ignored you—only he would know, but you could guess—the cliff-edge of a tune on his lips as he rummaged through your bathroom cabinet in the dark. Not that he needed to turn on the light to find it, hands meeting the cool plastic of a medical kit before he’d even finished the first verse. He returned, and you were in the same state he left you in, unamused and wilted.

He almost felt bad. Okay—he did feel bad. For you getting hurt, that is.

Not for messing with you. Much. It wasn’t his fault! You were so absolutely darling when enraged.

“Excuse me,” he sang, plopping onto the stool with the kit in his lap, nudging your feet with his hip as he reached for your hand. “Alright. Let me see it.”

It remained firmly held in your other. “You don’t have to go through all this trouble, you know. It’s just a prick.”

“No, no, no.” Despite his teasing, he was careful not to irritate you or your wound further, easing the hand into his lap. “You just sit there and relax. Doctor’s orders.”

That determined look on his face made it clear there was no arguing with him, so you didn’t. Submitting with a huff, you allowed your hand to be examined, now careful fingers tracing up the ridge of your thumb. Still, you couldn’t help your suspicion.

“Why do I feel like this was all just an elaborate scheme to make me pay attention to you?”

“They didn’t call me the demon prodigy for nothing.”

You swallowed the retort in your throat, suddenly exhausted by the idea of an endless back-and-forth. Your firm mask of anger did not take long to crumble to your feet, eyes fluttering as the sun tempted them to close. It had been an overwhelming day, and Dazai was more than happy to provide a momentary respite, nimble fingers massaging the tense muscles of your palm as you unwound.

He popped the kit open, reaching for one of the small bandages, only to halt at the sight of one of his wraps. If he was going to take care of you, why not draw it out for as long as he possibly could? He was sure you wouldn’t mind.

Unwinding a section of the wrap, he slowly spindled it around your thumb, careful not to wind it too tight. Your hand was so warm—unbearably so. Like you’d soaked up the sun itself. It would’ve been no surprise to him if you were its reincarnation, though he’d wonder what he had ever done to deserve sunshine in his hands.

The faint rhythm of a rickety fan guided his fingers, encasing your palm in the protective fabric. His thumb brushed past an old scar from a year he couldn’t name, and he made sure to document it in his mind with the reverence of a scholar.

“Uh, don’t you think this is a bit overboard?”

You were right, he knew, but he refused to answer, pressing his lips to the bandaged tip of your thumb. “Is there a problem with me wanting to take care of my beautiful girlfriend?”

A small noise from your lips—maybe in disbelief, maybe in something far more remarkable—shattered the remains of his soft intentions, his heated mouth drawing a line between the constellation of beauty marks on your hand. Scars, freckles, moles—anything he could see.

The medical kit landed with a thunk as he snatched you by the waist, dragging you onto his lap as he journeyed from wrist to arm. You flushed underneath his touch, taut like a spring pulled back on the verge of release.

“What is going on with you?” Your breath hitched, head craning back as he nipped at the sensitive patch of skin found in the juncture of your neck.

“What?” he asked, unrelenting. “Is something wrong?”

You didn’t know how to reply. Found yourself not wanting to, biting back a noise as he marked delicate, binding kisses up the curve of your neck.

“Truth is—” His breath prickled your skin. “I’d wrap you up entirely if it meant keeping you all to myself. I’m greedy like that.”

He met his destination at the curve of your jaw, darting his heated touch from the crinkle of your eyes to the wrinkle of your brow, ending at the corner of your lips to sit on the tempting edge of an actual kiss.

He pulled back, and despite the smirk on his face, the softness of his eyes had you melting.

“You okay, pretty girl?”

The heat left you dazed, replying with a simple, “Mhm.”

He hummed, caramel eyes flickering from your own to your lips. You were truly the most breathtaking creature to ever exist—you could feign indifference all you liked, but the best part of his day would always be watching you unravel the moment he had you in his arms. How could he not fall in love with such simple beauty?

“You'll have to forgive me, then.” His touch, despite his words, was gentle as he whispered against you. “I’m a weak man.”

You grabbed at his collar as your lips collided, sighs spilling into the kiss as your last drop of restraint dissolved. The coat bunched between you joined the kit on the floor, his hand circling your hip, chest pressed flush against his own. Could you feel his heart beat from this close? He certainly could feel yours.

“God—” he breathed. “Can’t believe you’re all mine. So beautiful.”

You laughed against his lips, eyes shining like he’d brought you back from the dead.

“You know this isn’t gonna get you out of cleaning, right?”

He snorted, knowing nothing could be more perfect than the realization that you had both been positively made for one another.

✦ — 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

It had been a long day for the Port Mafia executive.

Not because of missions or paperwork—he would’ve preferred either to the assortment of mundane duties he’d been forced to attend. Fights were supposed to be fun. Exhilarating, even—at least that’s how he saw it. A clash of power and will, pushed to the brink to see which would win. He’d always admired foes that met him with that understanding.

Which is why he wasn’t too pleased by the string of cowards lined up for him to capture.

The latest had been a group that had attempted to breach one of the mafia’s largest depots. He had been looking forward to it for days, only to be met with disappointment as its members turned tail and ran the second they spotted him.

They were dumb enough to mess with the mafia, but not enough to even try to fight him?

What a serious buzzkill.

His shoulder creaked as he rolled them, like an old metal pipe, the elevator to the mafia’s private garage thankfully opening without delay. He wished for nothing more than to return home. Malaise crept in the shadows of his footsteps, halting with him as he spotted someone in the distance, messing with the top box of his motorcycle. His feet found flight like a second wind, rushing toward them.

“Hey!” His hands itched to tear them a new one—verbally or physically, he hadn’t decided yet—only for the wind to hit back at him as he met the familiar eyes of the woman he was dying to see. “Babe? What the hell are you doing here?”

You smiled, barely bothering to register how suspicious you looked as you closed the lid of the box, inching your way towards him.

“Hey, hun. How was your day?”

His eyes narrowed, flickering between you and whatever you were hiding.

“Fine. What’s going on?”

You were planning something—those eyes couldn’t hide mischief for long. He struggled to maintain a stoic facade as his annoying heart thrummed beneath his chest. You always managed to do that—he loathed it. One look, and he felt like a teenager all over again.

“I actually wanted to ask—can you drive us somewhere?”

His hard stare weathered. “I mean, of course I can. Where do you need to go?”

“It’s a surprise!”

And just like that, the stare returned. Chuuya had rarely experienced a nice surprise. They’d either been terrible on their own or followed by something worse, like the reaper kept a debt he couldn’t estimate. Even the word surprise left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Doll,” he sighed. “You know how I feel about surprises.”

“I know, I know,” you replied, confidence waning. “It’s a nice one, though, I swear. Very laid-back.”

He knew you had good intentions—he really did. His mind feared the pattern outlined in his footsteps, but he knew, truthfully, he couldn’t say no to you. Chuuya Nakahara was a man who’d rather experience a brief moment of happiness over a lifetime of wondering what-if.

He was a whipped man. If anyone else saw him like this, they’d never believe he was a member of the mafia, much less an executive.

With a browbeaten look, he surrendered. “Alright.”

It took some time to reach your destination, the bike a speeding bullet as it weaved through noisy, rush-hour traffic, escaping into the outer stretches of the city. He’d rarely been in the countryside, completely disoriented as the road shifted from concrete to rock, forced to rely on your directions alone as the path took multiple winding turns. You finally stopped, sat within an unremarkable patch of trees.

“Okay, I’m lost,” Chuuya said, removing the helmet you’d insisted he wear. “Where the hell are we?”

“You’ll see,” you sang, hopping off the bike and removing your own gear before snatching his hand as he dismounted. “Follow me.”

The trees were thick and dense, so he hadn’t expected the intense block of light that pierced through the leaves, forcing him to squint as he blocked it with his other hand. His eyes adjusted, he blinked, and the sight before him stole his breath.

“Damn.”

The hills of Yokohama quietly offered the best view he had ever seen, capturing the skyscrapers and the setting sun in a single scene. None of the hustle and bustle of city life could be heard from here, muted by the wind as it mixed with the flustering leaves and grass around it.

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger.” His eyes strayed from the city, breath ceasing entirely as it became restrained in the tranquil image of your face. “I thought you’d like it.”

There was a time, when you first started seeing each other, when he questioned if you could be any more beautiful. He thought it impossible, but it seemed his past self was a fool. Here, you were in your element, face cradled by a warm sun, the sky a frame around the canvas of your figure.

You were fucking ethereal.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” you said, dipping back behind the trees.

He was a weak man; he knew—had to be, if just your absence alone put such a monumental strain on his heart.

You returned, carrying what he assumed to be the items you’d not-so-sneakily placed in the top box.

“We have this—” In one hand, you raised a bottle of one of his favorite Bordeaux wines. “To ourselves for the next few hours. I’ve got a ride scheduled and everything, just in case we indulge ourselves a bit too much.”

He scoffed, too charmed by the proud look on your face.

“How’d ya manage that?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Flopping onto the ground, you set the basket from your other hand down, prying it open to dish out an impressive number of finger foods. You almost forgot he was even there, stomach growling as you snatched a pastry from its container. It was only halfway through a bite that you’d realized he hadn’t joined you in the grass yet, eyes darting between him and the dessert, patting the space next to you since your mouth was occupied.

He tried not to crumble at the sight of sugar smudged across your lips.

“Sweetheart,” he said, settling on the ground at your side. “You’ve got a little something on your face.”

Your hand swiped across your lip, only managing to wipe a small portion of the mess, brow furrowed in the most endearing act of concentration he had ever witnessed. If he fell over now, dead from the sight, he would be okay with that.

You blinked, looking at him expectantly. “Did I get it?”

He allowed himself to drink everything in for a moment longer, a thought rolling around in his head. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, only working to smear the mess further.

“Oh! Thank—”

His restraint snapped, diving in for a bite. Jam mixed with the taste of your lips in an exquisite blend, satiating a vacancy he once thought could never be filled—one that had burned since the day he gained consciousness. He drove you into the soft grass, hands moving with their own goal, stealing the noise from your throat as he took in each tempered breath like it was his last meal.

“What did I possibly do to earn you?” he groaned, fingers varnishing your lashes as watercolor eyes blessed him once more.

He sank back in, shivering at the way you breathed his name.

“I thank the gods you’re mine every morning.” The words escaped his throat like a man in prayer as he parted your lips with his tongue. “Couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else getting to have this.”

Your hands cupped his face, and he knew he was forever changed by the unrivaled fondness of your eyes, looking at him the same way he looked at you.

“You deserve it. Even when you don’t think so. Especially then.”

He let the air circle around you both as passion waned into contemplation. You knew trouble when you saw it, especially when it circled the blues of his eyes, reflecting a trouble not yet justified by the alcohol forgotten at your feet.

“We’ve got a couple hours to kill, right?” One of those traitorous hands toyed with the trim of your shirt. “I think I’d like to taste something else.”

✦ — 𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘

Tears poured from the sky in a symphony of thunder and lightning, crackling against the earth without care for rhythm or melody. Pious men claimed it to be God, maddened at the ill-deeds of a forgotten, immortal son. The son—a demon—knew it was just a reminder. That there will always be two sides to a coin, whether that be sun and rain, good and evil. He was simply there to ensure balance between both.

The damp, underground labyrinth that served as Fyodor’s temporary hideout did little to soothe his stiffened joints. It was not the best place for someone of his fragile constitution, but he’d lived in far worse conditions with far worse company.

Not that his subordinates counted as such.

They nodded or waved as he passed, and whether it was from respect or fear, he didn’t care; many slipped by as their work concluded for the evening. None of them would serve any use if they didn’t receive rest, after all. He didn’t need them sharp. He needed them capable. This brought a thought to his mind, stopping a man before he slinked by.

“Where is she this evening?”

It didn’t matter whether he said a name or not—anyone with a brain could decipher who the Demon referred to.

“She’s in your office, boss,” the man replied, trying to hide his nerves to no avail.

“My office?” Fyodor raised a brow before waving the man off with a nod. “No matter. Thank you.”

The familiar path to his office echoed as people cleared from the halls, his footsteps racketing against an unforgiving metal that announced his presence. A rumble returned the unspoken greeting in kind, the clicking of keys crescendoing from the illuminated figure inside.

He squinted as he crossed the threshold, eyes adjusting to the bright screens in front of him.

“Welcome back.”

The smooth timbre of your voice was a balm to the cold, like a false, warm summer heat; the perfect antithesis to the storm outside.

“Good evening, my dear,” he replied, stripping himself of his hat and coat before settling them onto a nearby rack. You didn’t stop typing, another hand leading the mouse across the screen as it expertly sorted through multiple operations.

He waited, and then struck.

“I’m quite surprised to see you out of your normal hiding spot. Is your office not to your standards anymore? I’m certain I can find a solution to whatever it is you’re lacking.”

The mouse stilled. Caught in the trap.

“You’ve got more screens than I do.”

The statement was weak. At best.

“It’s helped me get more work done.”

He hummed, a smirk etched into the wintery paleness of his cheeks. “Is that right?”

You’d never admit you were here solely because you missed him—you both knew that well. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t relish the thrill, stringing you through a maze of his own design, enthralled at the possibility that he would one day hear the truth from your lips.

“The mission went well, I assume?” you asked, changing the subject. “I know it was supposed to start raining. Hope you didn’t get caught up in it.”

“It was barely a drizzle when I arrived. The mission itself went just according to plan.” He trapsed across the room, equally too stubborn to admit he had longed to see your face after a week’s absence. “All thanks to you, of course.”

Mellow eyes met his against the vibrant light.

Your shoulders rested, a smile perched on your lips. “What a flatterer you are, lyubimyy.”

It took more willpower than he’d ever, ever admit to another living creature to suppress the quiver that ruptured from the vacant cavity in his chest.

But it was the sight of you that almost destroyed him entirely, swaddled up in his spare coat, legs tucked to your chest as you huddled beneath the makeshift blanket. The gap between the coat and your body exposed the indecent slip you wore underneath. He would’ve commented on the lack of proper attire, around your subordinates specifically, if the mere sight hadn’t utterly entranced him.

What a cruel strike to the heart was the sight, seeing you tucked away and content in the small world he’d crafted. Safe from the storm outside. That was his purpose, too, he supposed. To keep balance meant to protect the sacred. And if the divine took mortal form, would it not be you?

But he was still a demon, wickedness in his blood. A tempting thought came to mind.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it,” he mused. “You look quite cold yourself.”

You shifted from content to confused, eyes flickering down to the coat.

“I guess a little bit.”

You yelped as frigid hands hoisted you from the seat. Fyodor planted himself down, taking his rightful place, before spreading you across his lap as if it were yours. He drank in your wide eyes and parted lips, stealing your warmth as his fingers glided across the underside of your jaw.

“Oh, dear,” he said, voice a mockery of concern. “You still look cold.”

Your eyes scrambled, looking anywhere but him. “I-I’m fine.”

But, like a shepherd, he guided you back.

“Don’t lie to me.” You knew you were doomed, ensnared by the squall of his stare. “You never have been able to. It’s alright.”

It released you for a moment, turning downward, but the breath you took was another trap.

“I know just the way to warm you up.”

He pressed his lips to yours—gentle, at first. Like someone knocking at a door, waiting to be let in. But it wasn’t long before the door was barged down, rendering your mind useless in a tremor of curses and sighs, uncaring as he methodically pried you apart. He wanted everything you gave. The warmth of your body burned, and he played your spine like a taut string, trembling beneath an expert touch before calloused fingers smoothed at the nape of your neck.

Still cold, it seemed. That wouldn’t do.

Your arms snaked around his neck like vines of ivy, and part of him—the man that remained despite the years that weathered away at him—wondered what it would feel like if they squeezed tighter.

“Fedya,” you pleaded, and he knew you were both damned.

You didn’t know what you wanted. Only knew that he’d be the only person you ever wanted to give it to you.

“Shh, milaya.” His hand returned, firm against your back, pressing you closer as his other hand plucked at the thin fabric pooled atop your thighs. “I’m not finished yet.”

Your breath surged as his touch sparked earthquakes across your skin, chest heaving, arms shaking. You couldn’t find the strength to look him in the eyes, tucking your face into the exposed skin of his neck as you attempted to calm the pounding drum of your heart.

“Are you warm now?”

If you didn’t love him so unbearably much, you’d have punched him at the first chime of that insufferable, cocky tone. You took another moment, strategically, an eye of the storm, before grabbing his face. You searched for something amongst those deep, ocean-like eyes, widened ever-so-slightly, pushing him down once you found what you were looking for.

“Not yet.”

part one of bungo stray dogs has finally concluded! how was the chapter? this was queued prior to its drop, so i can only imagine (in horror) the events of the current update.

i also had a funny realization while making this piece. it's been over a year since i've written anything for fyodor. feels like i've returned home after a long journey away. hope you enjoyed!

"It's hard not to notice when you're constantly walking around shirtless." Your voice comes out dry, even though you punctuate it with a yawn. 

"The air conditioner is broken." 

"And whose fault is that?" 

Rintaro listens to the quiet hum of the city waking up outside his window. Birds chirp drowsily, as if bracing themselves for the heavy wet swell of summer already making his bed slightly uncomfortable with you in it. 

"You're right," he deadpans, "all my fault. You should've moved in with a mechanic instead of a volleyball player." 

You sniff, your hand splayed flat against his side shifting as if you're tempted to pinch him. "A mechanic wouldn't be tall enough to reach all the good snacks on the top shelves." 

Rintaro considers this for a moment. "I knew you were using me." 

This makes you laugh, a quiet giggle pressed into his skin. As a professional volleyball player, Rintaro is acutely aware of his own body, but somehow the early morning haze is dampening his senses, or maybe — 

(maybe his brain is shutting things out on purpose, because he shouldn't be thinking about your thigh pressed against his, the tickle of your breaths along his collarbone, the sweet scent of your shampoo in his nose) 

— maybe he's just tired, and you're his best friend and roommate, and there can't be anything more than that because he's Suna Rintaro. 

He doesn't take you to fancy restaurants where the plates feature more plate than meal — he takes you to diners that make omurice without using enough eggs, and izakayas where the smell of frying oil and grilled meat lingers in your clothes for days after. 

He brings you snacks from the konbini, pudding cups and jelly fruit sticks and piping hot bags of karaage, not fancy jewelry or custom tailored clothes from brands that would make his little sister seethe with jealousy. 

He gets accused all the time for paying more attention to his phone than to you — he thinks there's a spot on his thigh that's permanently bruised from how many times you've jabbed it with your toe or finger to get him to look at you. 

It doesn't take much — he likes looking at you. That's why he's always on his phone, swiping aimlessly between home screens, moving the icons around so he can see the selfie of you two together more clearly as his background picture. 

But you don't know that, and so — the permanent bruise on his thigh. 

Maybe now he'll have a matching bruise on his ribs, since you've shifted your elbow but haven't made any other move to stop cuddling him in his bed. 

"Are you an octopus?" he asks, keeping his eyes closed. Carefully smoothing a hand down your back, keeping you tucked into his side. 

"Hm?" 

"Is this a murder attempt through heatstroke?" 

"What's so bad about wanting cuddles after the week I've had?" you mumble, and the pathetic little whine in your voice makes Rintaro's hands twitch. He rubs a hand soothingly along your spine instead of doing what he really wants, which features in dreams he shouldn't be having about his roommate if he ever wants to live a peaceful life. 

"Is that what you said last night?" 

"Yeah, so," you say, and now you sound a little sheepish. It's cute, how you smush your face into his neck like that'll help muffle your words. "I might've climbed in without really waiting for an answer, but in my defense, you let me! You were also just… kind of half asleep." 

Rintaro snorts. 

"You're lucky you're cute." 

The birds chirping outside get louder, or maybe everything inside just gets quieter. The summer heat looms threateningly, humid and relentless, but Rintaro feels the back of his neck break out in a cold sweat. 

He opens his eyes and grabs his phone. 

It's a blind grab, but automatic — he ignores your sleepy gaze pinned to his face, the way you've propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him properly. "Sunarin?" 

"I saved these videos to show you," he says, navigating to the screen as if he has all the time in the world. You can't tell he's panicking, right? "Look. The cat is really cute." 

"As cute as me?" 

"Cuter." 

You frown. Rintaro can see the way your lips turn out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't look at you. A moment later, you've plopped back into his side, settling into him like you belong there, with your ear pressed to his chest and your hand splayed across his torso. 

He focuses on his heartbeat, wills it to quit fumbling, and ignores your searing palm on his stomach. 

"So you do think I'm cute." 

Rintaro's nose twitches. "You knew that already." 

"It's always nice to get confirmation," you hum, reaching to tilt the phone screen so you can see it better. "Especially from someone as hot as you. Though I wouldn't say no to compliments from some of your old teammates, either." 

"I'm insulted," Rintaro says flatly. You laugh, the sound bright and sudden, a crack in the dreamy haze. 

"What if I meant Kita-san?" 

"You don't, though." 

You hum, which isn't an answer, and Rintaro stifles another dry comment. The sweat along his back has cooled, and he feels hot and tacky already, not at all helped by your skin sticking against his own as the room slowly warms. 

The two of you watch a few cat videos, and things unspoken float to the wayside. You end up scooting up on the bed, Rintaro's head halfway in your lap, your fingers threading through his hair. 

It's a familiar position, a routine that Rintaro secretly thinks is more comforting for you than for him. He'd never deny you, though, always plopping his head into your lap on the couch when you've come home before him, his shoes haphazardly strewn in the genkan next to yours. 

"Wanna get ice pops later?" you ask, your hand idly stroking his hair. His phone has been abandoned, both of you basking in the early morning light. 

"Only if you pay." 

You snort. Rintaro hardly ever lets you pay. 

"Are there any other ways we can escape the heat? Should we hang out at a mall or something?" 

"Are we teenagers," Rintaro deadpans. 

You crack a smile, a gentle thing in the soft light of the sun creeping into his room through half open blinds. "We… could be… partners." 

"Partners." His voice comes out flat. It's a good thing you're sitting up on the bed, so that there's no way for you to feel his heartbeat kick up several notches. "You want to play volleyball with me?" 

He's being annoying on purpose. It's easier, a deflection he's used to, like bracing his hands to properly block at the net. He wants to hear you say it, if it's what you really mean — 

(if you really want him) 

— and if this is real, and not some heat induced dream, he kind of wants to record it. 

Just so he can play it over again later, when you inevitably get mad at him for eating the last of your leftovers, or for brushing his fingers along your side during a horror movie. 

(He just likes it when you grab him and hide your face in his chest.) 

"Sunarin…" you pause, your hand heavy in his hair. "Have you ever seen me play volleyball?" 

Yes. He's seen kids play better blindfolded. "Nope." 

"Liar," you roll your eyes, laughing quietly. "You're… such a little shit. You know what I mean!" 

"I really don't." 

You pinch his ear and his poker face cracks, his lips twitching upwards before he schools it back. "Never mind." 

Rintaro grabs your hand before you can pull away, blinking slowly up at you in the brightening room. "You mean it?" 

"Mean what?" 

"That you think I'm hot." 

You burst into giggles, slipping down along the bed until you end up curled on your side again, facing him. A mere handsbreadth away. "Sunarin, you already know I think you're hot." 

"Nah," he says, wrapping his fingers loosely through yours, "but it's nice to know." 

"You're telling me you haven't noticed me checking you out whenever you ask me to blow dry your hair?" 

Rintaro hums. "I've been distracted." 

"Yeah, you're always on your phone." You sigh, resignation heavy in your tone. "You're worse than a zombie with that thing." 

That digs a little. "I know your favorite vending machine drink," he says flatly, "and your favorite konbini snack. I even went to multiple shops nearby to find you that limited edition seasonal snack." 

"You did do all that," you hum thoughtfully. Your voice gets a little quieter. "It's almost like you like me, or something." 

"Or something." 

"Suna!" 

Rintaro resists the urge to roll his eyes, but it really is easier to be annoying. Familiar territory, well worn pathways to follow. "It's Sunarin." 

"Sunarin," you parrot back obediently, and then you snort and slip your hand free of his grip to smack his arm, kicking your feet a little as you roll with your feelings. "It's a shame you're so hot." 

"Don't you like having eye candy around the apartment?" 

"If I wanted that, I'd ask your old teammates to come by," you say. Rintaro blinks at you, slowly, processing this betrayal. You seem to read his mind, reaching for him and stopping halfway, your hand stretched awkwardly on the sheets. 

Rintaro takes your hand. 

"Kita-san is busy on his farm," he says evenly. 

You look like you want to hit him again, but you squeeze his fingers instead. "I don't count you as eye candy because… you're more than that. Or something." 

"Yeah, I pay half the rent." 

You groan. "I'm going to kill you. Can't you make this easier for me?" 

He could. You're cute, though, struggling through this — 

(is it a confession? He hopes it is, but what if he's imagining things, picking up signals that aren't there?) 

— early morning chat. Rintaro hums and squeezes your hand. "Careful, baby, I don't make enough money to bail you out of jail for murder." 

The endearment slips out easily, almost embarrassingly so. "You do like me!" 

"Duh," Rintaro says, watching as your mouth parts with shock and a hint of indignation. "I wouldn't move in with someone I didn't like." 

"Sunarin," you whine. "Do you like me?" 

Rintaro tugs you a little closer, ignoring the sweat slowly beading along his temples as the room warms with summer. "Yeah." 

You blink at him. "Like… as my boyfriend?" 

"That's better than being teenagers again." 

You keep staring at him, nearly going cross eyed with the effort as he pulls you closer. "Rintaro," you say, and he wants a photo of this, a tangible memory of your face right now as you slowly start to smile, all shy and cute. "Are you saying we can hang out at the mall like adults until the air conditioner is fixed?" 

"You want our first date to be at the mall?" Rintaro snorts. "Alright, baby, if you want." 

"Can't this count as our first date?" 

"You wanna tell everyone at our wedding that our first date started with you climbing into my bed while I was half asleep? Didn't take you for a pervert." 

Man, he really wishes he had his phone camera. The look on your face is priceless. 

"Never mind, Sunarin, I take it all back." 

Kita is absorbed in his thoughts, passing stalls until he finds something that catches his eye, and reaches for the last taiyaki that he doesn’t realize someone else is reaching for the same one. 

His hand bumps against yours and you both immediately pull away. Kita’s grey eyes take you in quickly. You’re wearing a yukata with a subtle floral design. Your hand clutches a small coin purse. Your lips are glossy, but from chapstick or some kind of lip gloss Kita couldn’t say. Still, he has to pull his eyes away from your mouth when he offers you an apology.

“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Kita gestures toward the taiyaki. “Go ahead.”

“But it’s the last one.”

“That’s alright. There are plenty other stalls around. I can find something else.”

You stare at the fish-shaped cake for a few seconds before hesitantly reaching out to grab it. You hand the vendor a bank note and wait patiently for your change. Kita thinks that will be the end of it, he’s already thinking about the baked potatoes he spotted on the way over, but then you take him by surprise.

“Would you like to…share this with me?”

Kita’s eyes widen. To be honest, he feels it’s a bit forward of you to ask when you two only just met. But looking at you once more and the way you bite your bottom lip, how tightly your fingers hold onto the wrapper of the taiyaki, and the drop of perspiration he’s not entirely sure is solely due to the heat that slides down the side of your face, he finds himself a little endeared by your courage.

“I would like that,” he answers.

You both walk toward an empty picnic table and sit across from each other. You tear the taiyaki in half and offer him the bigger piece, which he politely accepts. You both bring your hands together and give thanks for the food before digging in. 

Kita feels stiff as he eats. He’s not sure if you can tell but it feels like his body has reverted to being a teenager, shy and uncertain in the presence of a stranger. An attractive one at that. 

But you fight through your nerves better than he does. You strike up conversation first and Kita finds that you’re easy to talk to, and he’s glad the conversation doesn’t end when you finish eating. You walk around the festival together while talking about his rice farming and your work at an antique store. 

Over shaved ice you find out that you both played volleyball in high school. You admit you only did it because your best friend was desperate to meet the minimum number of students needed to form the club, but you ended up really enjoying it and playing all throughout school. Kita shares his own experience and he feels something stir in his chest when you keep full focus on him. So much so that you don’t realize your ice has started to melt, dripping down your hand.

“Here.” Kita reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, patting away the moisture away from your hand. “There we go.”

The performances are long done. The singing of cicadas in the background slowly becomes less and less as the sun dips behind the mountain.

“Thank you,” you softly say, ducking your head to hide the way your face betrays your shyness. “Um…do you think you might want to—”

Suddenly, someone calls your name. 

You both turn your heads to see an older man and an elderly woman looking your way. The man is waving you over while the elder discreetly pinches his side in admonishment. Still, you stand and apologize for having to leave in the middle of your conversation. Kita says he doesn’t mind, even though his gut is telling him not to let you go. To say something that will guarantee he can see you again. But what?

All his thoughts come to a halt when you bend down and place a brief kiss to his cheek. It last only a second, but to Kita it feels like the world has slowed down as he watches you turn and make your way to that man and woman. He’s able to come to his senses quick enough to blurt out a goodnight when you’re halfway across the grass. You turn and also wish him a goodnight with a warm smile that makes his heart race.

Kita doesn’t see you for another month. You said you lived in the area, but he’s yet to see any sign of you. He didn’t ask for your phone number either, which he’s kicking himself about now. 

The summer heat is brutal and all he can think about is how cool and wet your lips were against his cheek when you kissed him. He feels slightly bad when he attends the group date arranged by the matchmaker, already comparing any prospects to you.

When he arrives there are already several other men and women. He finds a spot by the window and introduces himself to those who approach him. Most know about his family’s farm, and one or two ask him about his time playing volleyball in school.

It’s nearly time to begin and the organizer directs everyone to take a seat. Kita hears the door to the room open then close, followed by a faintly familiar voice offering apologies for being late.

Kita find a seat near the end of one of the tables. The seat across from him is empty, but just as he’s sitting down that seat is also becoming occupied. He glances up, not expecting for his heart to suddenly start beating double time in his chest, and his lips part in surprise.