#csm x reader

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i. between your hands, your only life; in your heart, a plan

Four years after Aki becomes a dependent of the state, he is asked—not for the final time—what he wants to become. 

The question is common, and it always has been. The first time was on a sheet of paper, decorated by various illustrations of jobs regularly chosen by his classmates. A smiling man with a Y-shaped tube. Another in a puffed hat, holding a spatula and frying pan. Underneath, labels: doctor, chef, police officer, pilot, scientist, teacher, musician… The prompt was written in both intricate kanji and simpler, guiding hiragana (“when I grow up I want to be…”), followed by three spaces numbered first to last. Ino-sensei told them the two bolded characters were pronounced “shokugyo”, meaning what they could see themselves doing as grown-ups. 

It was the first time Aki had been asked to rank his dreams. It was also the first time that, as the scratch of pencils began to fill the classroom, he realized none came to mind. 

He’s not sure what he ended up writing down back then. Probably whatever three careers he first laid eyes on. It doesn’t matter anymore, because by fifteen, he knows that all of it is more a formality than anything. A way to gauge a student’s level of aspiration, whether they intended to remain in local employment or become an educated, contributing member of society—and if they chose the latter, whether their grades were good enough for it. By fifteen, he also knows how to answer formalities: with a willingness to live, work hard, and bring something to the table despite the circumstances that had befallen him. A Gun survivor, but not just surviving. 

So when the memory surfaces of his parents’ surprise at the paper he had filled out, pinned up for visitors on class observation day; his father’s passing remark at dinner that Aki, we didn't expect that you wanted to become an explorer; then the understanding and amazement and pure joy on Taiyo’s face—

He buries it.  

Placed on the desk in front of him: another survey. The words are stark this time, without reading aids or images for the imagination. At the very top, penned in unambiguous strokes:

1. Lawyer

The ambient chatter of the teachers’ office is punctuated by Tanaka-sensei rummaging through his drawer. From a manila folder labeled “Hayakawa Aki”, he pulls out a document dated two years prior. After comparing the questionnaire on the table to its near-identical predecessor, he remarks on how rare it is for a student to be so sure of what they want to pursue; the only thing that seems to have changed is Aki’s handwriting. A good first choice, too—God knows they need more people in the legal system, especially with the rise of devil contracts nowadays. 

Tapping his cigarette on an ashtray surrounded by half-graded tests, he gives Aki the brief rundown. His marks would justify taking the entrance exam to any one of those Tokyo high schools with strong humanities tracks, but since he also had above-average results in the sciences, there was always the option to just go to a highly-ranked regular one. He could even try submitting to that American foreign exchange program open to a limited number of students in the prefecture. It was his choice, really.

He remembers the look in Tanaka-sensei’s eyes—fillef with pride and conviction that Hayakawa Aki had won against all odds.

“Anywhere in Sapporo is fine,” Aki said.

In the spring of 1991, he graduates from Moiwa Junior High. The gymnasium crowd is a sea of navies, blacks, and charcoal greys; between rows of crying mothers, he finds the familiar smile of a part-time counselor at Kita-No-Hoshi. Afterwards, she tells him and the five other orphanage kids there to line up for a photo with their diplomas. The picture is printed on a brochure with a statistic detailing the ratio of children that go on to finish secondary education to those who don’t. That same year, he enters a decent high school in Hokkaido. He knows nobody there. 

Then, after completing twelve years of formal education at age eighteen, he becomes a devil hunter. 

ii. 29/10/1995

You walk through the streets of Manaus, Amazonas—Brazil. 

The Zona Franca is a crucible of humidity, diesel fuel, and the sweet, heavy rot of the rainforest pressing at its edges. Indigenous river-dwellers, wealthy foreign executives, Brazilian merchants, working-class factory hands—you melt into the crowd easily, another cell in the living, breathing organism. 

Corrugated tin roofs give way to assembly plants. Familiar logos flash amidst everything foreign—Sony, Honda—like pieces of rural Saitama dropped into the selva. Here, outsourcing is lifeblood: some men drag American televisions across pavement, others bargain over videocassette players still boxed in Japanese. Soon, these purchases will travel thousands of miles before appearing in storefront windows with impossible markups. 

And there it is, at the center of it all. 

Concrete brutalism blends strangely with the forest creeping over the factory’s shoulders. Still, more is familiar than not: sunlight glinting off orange chainsaws, metallic shrieks splitting sawdust haze, hammering punctuated by the occasional clatter of timber. Razor wire tops the perimeter; your eyes trace it once before falling to the sweat-stained uniform before you. 

“Documento.”

You stare, blankly. Two seconds linger in silence. Then, a nervous laugh. In Japanese: “Of course” —stop, correct in earnest— “claro!”

You fumble with the card before handing it over; it’s taken without another glance in your direction. Soon after, a single thumb jerks over: you’re in. The entrance answers with a tinny screech as it drives open. 

Your responding grin wavers, all crooked front teeth and crinkled eyes. 

As you pass, a guard swats at a fly and asks in Portuguese if you’re really a devil hunter. The one that checked your credentials just snorts, adjusts his shirt, and tells him to not stick his nose where it doesn’t belong if he wants to get paid. Still, he can’t seem to help commenting that a jittery guy like you won’t last two hours in the forest. How the hell do you even plan to communicate with the contractors?

You suppose, as the doors close behind you, that the point is a good one.

After all, you can barely understand the language.

iii. 2/1/1996

When you are twenty years old, you stand alone before the Cabinet Secretariat for the second time in your life. 

The meeting is called into session two days after Makima leaves for Fukushima. You’ve lost count of how many there have been over the past six years, but somewhere along the way, her presence beside you became a constant. 

Special Conference Room No. 1 has always been strangely cold. Despite your poor memory, you still remember the first conference leaving your arms and legs numb in a way that subzero weather never had. When you reluctantly told Makima this, she simply smiled, lowered herself to your eye level, and asked if you knew that animals slept beside each other during the winter to stay warm. She would come with you next time; perhaps sharing the body heat of another person would put you more at ease. You weren’t sure she was talking about the same thing, but the chill gave way to warmth all the same.  

The cabinet members choose not to comment on your hair. Still, the moment you enter, the leftmost man’s mouth takes the shape of a familiar name. It’s understandable. You’ve even styled it the way she would: a single plait down the back, an eyebrow-skimming fringe, two locks left loose to frame the face. At Public Safety headquarters, you wear it loose; ever since Christmas, the color alone has made half the people you met confuse you for Makima. 

Here, beneath the gazes of five figures shadowed by ceiling-length windows, you let the mistake stand.

You can tell it unnerves them. It doesn’t show in their expressions—it never has—yet you feel it in the momentary, scalding touch of unease that suffuses your fingertips. A seemingly unexpected visit from Makima, or the fact that you looked like her… 

You wonder which one bothers them more.

-

Humans dislike losing control. 

You mull over this as winter greets you at the Tokaido Shinkansen gates. Across the sidewalk, a blacked-out vehicle waits.

Had things gone as they had preferred, you doubt you would have ever been assigned so close to Makima. Then again, in that world, they wouldn’t have received the intelligence they just did—or, in all likelihood, not long enough before everyone else for it to be useful. 

You wonder if they would have made the trade. 

The car door clicks behind you, and the outside stills into a landscape framed by plastic trim. You notice the backseat is already heated, which is strange because you rarely ever ask for it to be; nowadays, you barely even notice the numbness in your fingers. Curious, you look up to see—

—cobalt-blue irises. 

Your gazes meet through the rearview mirror. There, you catch his eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

“Hayakawa-san,” you greet, after a moment of pause. 

Based on what you’ve heard from Himeno, he rarely shows such visible surprise. You think she’ll be disappointed to have missed it.

“Hello,” he says finally. Then: “Is Makima-san not here?” 

Ah. 

You offer a pleasant tilt of your lips as you peel off your trench coat and begin to fold it in practiced motions. “I’m afraid she’s on a personal mission,” you reply, placing the cotton gabardine beside you. There’s no telling how long this one will go.

He waits for a few more seconds, then seems to realize that this is all you can give him. 

“I see,” he says, fingers tightening subtly on the steering wheel. You suppress a smile. Coming from Hayakawa Aki, the disappointment is near theatrical. Himeno told you it was “bad”—“ridiculous”, even—but apparently, you had not understood the extent of it. 

You decide ignorance is kindest.

“Tokyo headquarters, please,” you request. 

iv. 29/10/1995

Evening, now. Well, maybe. The canopy makes it difficult to tell time—green twilight is all you have been seeing for hours now. Beneath you, the dirt road is rough and rutted and makes the car jolt in a way that would make anyone sick enough to throw up over the side. 

Or just you, perhaps.

The window ledge presses into your arm as you collapse back into the passenger seat. You can almost smell the distasteful look your contractor shoots at the (wetted) hand slapped onto the center console. Sour, a little fermented, near sulfuric in the sweltering air… 

That might just be your vomit, actually. You’re not sure you can differentiate between the two currently. 

Thirty-two minutes later, they throw you out onto rugged ground. Your eardrums are ripped off like bandaids and replaced with new, alien ones exposed to high-frequency buzzing, clicking calls, and wails far too plaintive to be human. Flashlights replace headlights; engines tick to a cool as boots sink into soil. Joined by the men from the timber truck, they tell the five of you to scout the area. More accurately, three of you will; the rest will stand guard around the vehicles. Twenty percent bonus for patrollers. 

Of course, it’s common courtesy to omit that the incentive comes with an eighty percent higher chance of never returning. 

Radios and torchlights are distributed. The volunteers’ faces blur into pale ovals, but the shoulder that brushes past yours suggests that one of them is the burly man who arrived half an hour late. A phlegmy sound carries away into the forest—another hunter, gone. You press yourself against the car, shrinking in anticipation for rough, arbitrary hands dragging out the last enlistee—

—but the sound of doors slamming shut indicates the quota has been filled. It makes you think the smallish girl in the backseat may have gone, too. Even at first glance, she’d seemed quite stealthy. 

That leaves you and the stone-faced veteran with one arm. Not a word is spared for you as he briskly walks away—to take point on the other side, probably. 

And then you’re alone. Well, not really, because your contractor sits several feet away behind a hunk of metal frame, but alone enough. Alone enough for it to suddenly hit you just how large this place is. It’s nighttime, but is it really? There are no stars—only a constellation of nothingness. You’re told that scientists predict life in the distant universe; it doesn’t seem so distant now, and there’s a trail of sweat on your neck making you acutely aware that those lifeforms might not be as abstract as they’re made up to be. 

It’s also a little ironic how the train of thought makes you ignorant to the organism in your immediate vicinity. 

“You’ve got guts, coming out here for your first time,” a voice says. You jump, nearly striking the source through the lowered window—before abruptly freezing. Mainly because you get the sudden impression that breaking your contractor’s nose with his own flashlight would get you killed quicker than any devil in these woods.  

“How…” you struggle, Portuguese broken at best and unintelligible at worst. “How could you tell?”

He gives a derisive kind of snort. “Your fuckin’ face.”

To that, you find it difficult to reply. 

“I’m not completely new,” you insist at last, perhaps a little too forcefully. 

A moment of stillness. The urge to raise the light to his expression is all-encompassing. 

“Guess so,” he says finally, and it creeps with a lilt of amusement that’s bluntly honed and all too knowing. The dialect makes you think he must be from down south. “Weren’t tempted by the extra pay, were you?”

Three more minutes, then the screams start ringing out.

v. 8/1/1996

Over the next week and a half after the cabinet meeting, you learn that everything Makima defaults to you in her absence. 

You’d expected the increased workload: Makima completed an extraordinary amount of paperwork daily, and her nonattendance meant additional meetings with higher-ups and occasionally drawn-out mission reports. You had no issues with any of it. Adjusting back to office work took time, but it was undoubtedly less taxing than the last year and a half spent out in the field. 

What you hadn't expected, however, was for Makima’s driver to become yours. 

Actually, “driver” might be inaccurate. “Persistent volunteer”, perhaps. Chauffeuring you to headquarters certainly isn’t in his job title, yet seven out of ten times a Public Safety vehicle waits outside of any conference you leave a conference, Hayakawa Aki is waiting outside in a Public Safety vehicle. The odds of him repeatedly being deployed on missions nearby—and repeatedly happening to still be in the vicinity when you finish—realistically seem much lower.

Admittedly, you aren’t completely surprised. You’d been made aware about his devotion to Makima many times by a lamentful, drunken Himeno, and quickly conclude that he’s hoping to see your superior.

In any case, the two of you settle into a pseudo-routine. First, you get in the car. Second, he silently checks that you are not Makima. Third, you greet each other. Fourth, you both sit in mutual, uncomplicated silence until you reach headquarters. Finally, you exchange requisite thanks and nods, part ways—only to meet again ten minutes later in Makima’s office for his mission report. 

It’s not a very elaborate nor friendly ritual, but you suppose it’s something.

The quiet is something you are grateful for. Twelve meetings in the past seven days have left each headache progressively worse than the last. Target, erasure, yakuza seem to be all that fill your mind. Safe to say, you welcome the five out of seven days during which the usual small talk isn’t necessary. When you tell Himeno you’re starting to see (and appreciate) what she meant by calling her partner a man of strictly necessary words, she just sighs and says she wishes that he talked more. 

Maybe that is why, on the seventh day of—whatever this is—you surprise both of you by saying something that isn’t a greeting, thanks, or cue for him to begin his case review. 

“Hayakawa-san,” you say, when the car is at a crossing. It’s not yet evening, though the stoplight distorts as if it is. “Would you mind taking a detour?”

You think he glances back at you through the rearview mirror, but your eyes close for a moment too long to tell.

“No,” he replies. “Where to?”

The high-pitched chirping from the pedestrian signal makes rounds in your skull. Blindly opening your coat, you search for the pocket with the engraved tin—mints, and… the plastic container of antacids. Your fingers close over the rest: a bottle of iron supplements, a pack of Vitamin C gummies. 

Not ideal, but they’ll do for now. 

“There’s a group of apartment blocks five streets down,” you gather enough saliva to swallow the tablet dry, then chew a gummy to clear the taste. “You’ll have to take a left on the last.”

Blood deficiency isn’t uncommon later in life. You’d always assumed that it was something people were born with, but this wasn’t the case. Gazing out the window, you find it eases the lightheadedness to watch Tokyo passersby—to wonder whether they’re leaving work early or only now clocking in, if their families are waiting at home, what they’d like for dinner, and whether any of them are anemic. Possibly the elderly chestnut seller. Probably not the schoolboy with the black randoseru. At that age, girls are more susceptible: blood loss, diet, the ordinary inconveniences of becoming a woman. 

Your eyes travel farther down the street and land on a familiar couple from your apartment building. The wife is pregnant; you’d once helped her carry groceries upstairs. I'm always low on iron nowadays, she'd explained, laughing as she leaned to support her back. I love our little Takeru, but he does make me a bit dizzy sometimes. 

The hand is now replaced by her husband’s—unspoken, steadying—against her waist.

“Here is fine,” you tell Aki. 

He pulls over beside the complex. Parallel parking takes him a few tries—he only recently got his license, according to Himeno—but the slowing of pace is welcome for your vertigo.

Golden light spills over your hands as you undo your seatbelt. Tugging your coat on, you savor the warmth of the vehicle’s interior. The walk from the side road to your apartment lobby isn’t long—in fact, probably less than thirty-two steps—but the sun is beginning to set, and the cold always feels a little more encompassing when you’re like this. 

Your hand is on the door handle when he speaks. 

“Do you need help?” he asks, and you can tell the question has been weighing on his mind from the way he regards you directly—eye-to-eye, not through the looking-glass. The line of his eyebrows is drawn imperceptibly. 

“No,” you reply. The word is a little more barren than your usual response, especially to a well-intentioned query, so you add: “You can return to headquarters first. Please don’t wait for me.”

He pauses. The shadow of a passing motorcycle crosses his face. 

“How will you get back?” he questions.

Hayakawa Aki has a way of noticing things. That does not exclude you, his temporary superior. 

You smile and tell him you’ll take the train. By the time he can respond, the door is clicking shut, and you are already gone. 

vi. 29/10/1995

You jerk when the first shriek pierces the air. Faraway, indistinct—you can’t tell if it’s child or adult, male or female. The only recognizable thing is the reek of it: pungent, fast-spreading, unmistakable fear. 

The jungle shudders around you, almost animate.

Your contractor pulls you into the passenger’s seat. You’re sweating and shaking and near pissing your pants, but you ask if you don’t need to wait for the others, there was only one scream, what about the others—

Too late already. The logging operation is canceled tonight. The area: contaminated.

There’s more exasperation in his voice than anything when he starts the engine. Distantly, you hear the click of the other truck’s door closing. He seals the windows and wrenches the gearshift backwards like he’s done it thousands of times before. Mutters all the while, though the blood thudding in your ears renders most of it indistinct. Something about those bichos do mato and their fucking contracts.

You think your blood ought to be running cold, but the AC is turned up too high to tell.

vii. 1/12/1989

When you are fourteen years old, Makima gives you a journal for remembering. 

Two-hundred twenty-eight pages, softbound, with a black pen tucked against the spine. 

She wanted you to grow the habit of recording each day’s events. Not just what happened (like completing your first patrol, watching the sunset on the rooftop, meeting a new higher-up) but also how it made you feel. For example: were you proud of yourself for successfully preventing that devil attack on five civilians? Did the dusk calm you, or instill unease for the end of daytime? What was indirectly communicated in that conference room? That look—was it approval or disapproval? Perhaps interest? Calculation? 

Things like these were important to document; they gave insight into people’s truest values, what they were really thinking and who they really were. Who you were.

Memories shape who we are, she told you. Losing them takes away a piece of our identity. 

You looked down at the notebook in your hands, then back up at her. You understood it all—why she was giving it to you, how it was meant to help. Still, you couldn't help but quietly protest: 

But I remember things, Makima-san. 

She’d just smiled and drawn you closer into her embrace. You’d let your eyes close as you felt the gentle drag of her fingers through your hair. The movement made the leatherbound cover press against your chest, and you wondered if you weren’t holding it, you would feel the beat of her heart against yours.  

Just in case, she murmured.

Looking back now, it makes you wonder how long she knew.

viii. 29/10/1995 

“I don’t want to die,” the girl tells you. 

She speaks with an accent. At the end of her words is a distinct “sh” sound; you would have noticed if she had spoken at all, back in the car. Portuguese isn't her first language, either.

“I know,” you say, unmoving from where her head lies in your lap. The weight of it presses your knees against damp forest floor. You’ve long abandoned the foreign intonation to your own words to make them easily comprehensible.

“I want my mother.” 

“I know,” you say again, applying pressure to the patch of darkness seeping through her lower abdomen. She barely flinches; illuminated by the fire, her eyes are glassy. “Tell me about her. What does she look like?”

Head lolling slightly, she asks, “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” you reply. “Tell me about her.”

The light lines her features in sharp, jaunted angles, but you can tell from her voice that she cannot be older than a young teen. “Dark hair,” she begins, a pained look flitting across her face, “like yours. A little browner—this long. Her skin is warm. Her shoulders are slanted from carrying my brothers. And when she smiles, there are wrinkles—here. Right here.”

Calloused fingertips brush over the tops of your cheeks, just below the lower lashline.  

“Her voice,” you urge quietly.

The sound of her arm falling to the ground is consumed by the crackle of burning wood and metal. Her next breath is shuddering, raspy. “She is very good at singing. Always the low parts, and it sounds so beautiful,” she closes her eyes, as if kindling an invisible memory. “Like harmonizing above water in a cave. She used to sing and dance a lot before she had us, and she wants to teach me how. I promised…” 

“You promised?” you murmur. 

“I promised—to learn. I always dreamed of dancing as well as she does…”

You cradle her gently. “Then dream, now.”

“But,” she struggles, “I haven't learned…” 

“You will,” you say. 

Your palm finds the softness of her cheek, and her fingers rise to grip it. Again, you are reminded of her youth. In your arms is a child.

“Promise?” she breathes, this time in her native tongue. “Promise to teach me when I wake up?”

The inferno mirrored in her eyes gives back a face assembled from borrowed things. Lit by melting vehicles and crumbling industry: a familiar mouth, crooked eyes. Half-remembered cheeks and rounded shoulders, made for another body to fold into. You brush the matted hair from her forehead. Smile, with all the warmth there is left. The way you imagine her mother might have—the way Makima did, on that winter day she found you. 

When you speak, your voice is dulcet, melodic. 

“Promise.”

ix. 14/2/1991

“So you’d always know if a devil was tricking you?”

Himeno doesn't respond. Instead, she flicks open her lighter and watches the flame set her smoke aglow. Light dances in her eye as she inhales, breathes out. Grey mist escapes her. Your gaze follows her fingers, enraptured, as she balances the stick between the tips of them. 

Her pupil—the one uncovered by an eyepatch—ticks to you in a single movement. 

“Do this one more time,” she says, “and I’ll kill you.”

Look down, aside, then away. 

Not too slow, because then it’ll seem like you are. Not too quick, so it doesn’t betray the fear once perpetually lodged in you (underneath your fingernails, in the marrow of your bones, between the folds of your brain). A careful thing, a procedure created over years and years of trial and error. It seems like the habit’s never left your body, even after all that’s happened. Even when the anatomy isn’t really yours, not anymore. 

You hate to think that the reflex is now the only thing you really own. 

Focus on an object in the environment. The sky has gone slightly dark—that mild purplish-blue right before the skyline lights up in miniature stars, like a bruise two days old. It makes things at a distance too hazy to see. You could use the floor beneath your hands, but all it would do is act as a reminder of your proximity to the woman beside you. In the past few weeks, you’ve been learning her face by heart: darkish eyes that are blue up close, a subtly tapered chin, a mouth that used to grin a little more easily. Maybe because of the injuries she’s recently gotten—

You settle on counting squares in the rooftop’s crisscrossed railing, but the thought still surfaces:

It must hurt.

Inadvertently, your gaze drifts to her once more. Maybe you should ask if it hurts. It seems like a better choice than to just remain silent—like something her partner would have asked.

But by the time your lips part to speak, Himeno already is. 

“You didn't ask for a cigarette,” she states. 

You pause, then look over. Slowly. 

The stare she has on right now—the one fixed on some point somewhere far away into the distance—is lacking. Surprise, betrayal, fury: none of the things supposed to be staining the shape of her voice are. It makes it feel like you're stumbling around in a dark room, unable to see or hear or make a sound.

You think it would have sent a chill down your spine if your body still allowed it. 

The next words out of her are slow, deliberate:

“Sasaki-chan,” she says, “always asked for a cigarette.” She doesn’t scare you, you think, though your body insists otherwise—another bad habit. “You never did.”

In any case, you suppose there’s no point to playing pretend anymore. 

“Oh,” you say. 

The skin melts off first. It's a viscous, gluey thing that dissolves back into the pores, a few tones darker than your usual. Always leaves you feeling a little colder than before, as if you’ve shed all your clothes. Your hair straightens, and the line of your nose and jaw thaws into something a little softer, younger. There’s the sound of flesh sliding against fabric as the uniform you’re wearing expands around you—or rather, you shrink in it. 

By the time you’re fully reverted, Himeno and you no longer sit shoulder-to-shoulder, and you have to look up at her when you ask:

“What else gave it away?”

Her expression is unreadable as she meets your gaze, but not as unreadable as before. 

“Sasaki-chan is dead,” she says finally. You focus intently this time on the color of her words (cool, winter-blue), the way evening shadows move on her features (barely), the (not complete, but relative) stillness of them. To your relief, you finally begin to hear the beginnings of something recognizable. “I’ve got a new buddy now.”

Disgust, maybe. 

And… something ugly. Something tired. You think you know what that is, too.

You’d been suspecting it might have been the curls, which had been far more difficult to replicate accurately than expected, but apparently not. You should have checked the imitation’s status before usage, but you didn’t. So you’d failed. 

Again.

“Sorry,” you tell her.

Leaning backwards, she lets out another opaque exhale. The evening breeze drives the smoke directly into your eyes, and you hold back a cough.

“No,” she replies, “you're not.”

“I'm… not,” you agree. 

Another day, another face. You thought it would get better over time, but it’s the opposite of how it was supposed to be. 

You are fifteen when you realize that Himeno understands you far better than you ever could her.

x. 29/10/1995

Eat or be eaten. Survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed, law of the jungle, every man for himself, and, in true canine fashion, dog eat dog. 

You think the last idiom should be changed if meant for practical, real-world use—which to be fair, it isn’t. A hound may turn to cannibalism under extreme hunger, stress, isolation, the like. But so will most animals. Even humans—the cultural, social animal most repulsed by the idea—have done so when starvation outlasted taboo. Shipwrecks. Frozen expeditions. A plane crash stranding a rugby team high in the Andes. It takes hold agonizingly each time—after weeks of isolation, exhaustion, and the acute torment of being eaten alive by one’s own stomach—but in the end, it always does. And it’s rooted in the same biological frenzy and fear that dogs know.

Fear of starving. Fear of dying. Fear of disappearing. 

On an Earth populated with successful lifeforms that fight to live and breathe and eat, it’s inevitable that devils came to be. First came the primal fears—the original companions of life, simply because life wished to continue. Death, possibly first. Darkness, maybe. Falling, Aging. Afterwards, the cultivated fears. Born from mankind were those like Curse, Gun, Eternity, and the rest—smaller, weaker devils that innately feared Death. That, just like every other organism, instinctually sought to live. Except—unlike any other species—sustenance for them was the blood of people and each other.

Perhaps dogs eat dogs, and humans one another, but you have never seen an instinct so primal as the one that drives devils to devour other devils. 

Perhaps that is why you search the corpse for something conceptually absurd. 

Around you: carcasses. Limbs outstretched, all face-down. Above the nape, sunken depressions deform the previously spherical domes of their heads. The blunt-force impact of wood has left scalps ruptured, bones caving into pools of bruising beneath flesh. Barely recognizable, they look no different from the dented pieces of vehicle littering the ground. In the dawn light, liquid glistens on cheeks; the cerebrospinal fluid leaking from their noses and ears has long begun to enrich the Amazon soil. 

You’re on your knees before rotting carrion—a form that is vaguely humanoid, yet colossal in a way that is not. Most substantial, the head: a wide, flattened shaft stained in oxidized red. Fine etchings are carved into dark, petrified ironwood. 

Peel down the skin in long, fibrous strings, down to the ribcage woven with roots from the mangrove tree. There are splinters in your fingertips, gore beneath your nails. In the chest, toxic sap wells in a cavity of wood-grained beef. The heart and lungs have already been excavated; your skeleton vibrates with each pulse of the burl node you’d carefully buried deep in the earth with its human contractor. Next, you reach for the log pit smelling of acidic miasma, easing through the parasitic vines attempting to strangle the wound shut. 

There, in the stomach, you find it. 

xi. 15/2/1990

“Makima-san,” you say, fingers brushing through soft fur, “I think I made someone mad.”

From the corner of your gaze, you watch her lower her cup of tea, revealing calm eyes and the curves of her face. 

Tiramisu pants happily beneath your touch.

The dogs at home are not fussy things. Time, money, space—these are all things needed in extensive amounts to raise eight Siberian Huskies. And because you never had such resources in abundance, when Makima introduced you to them for the first time, you were fairly alarmed. It wasn’t just the overwhelming effect of countless canine bodies and lolling tongues crowding you all at once (although that did play a role); rather, it was the awareness that eight lives were depending on one, and then of how much it might all cost—the food bill, checkups, vaccines, what about emergency care—

—until Makima placed a warm hand on your shoulder, tapped the other against her leg to signal the dogs into an obedient circle, and you realized with a start that there would be no need to worry.

“It’s the devil hunter I’m working on right now,” you continue. You let Cocoa nudge under your arm as you pat Tiramisu’s underbelly. “I didn't expect her to figure me out and get angry.” Your hand pauses on the light coat. “Well, I knew it would make her angry, but…”

Makima sets down the glass, steam curling. “You were following my orders,” she finishes gently.

You hesitate, searching for any traces of disappointment in her tone. Finding none, you nod slowly. “...Yes.” A moment passes before you add: “It was good practice, like you said it would be. I’ve gotten better at visualizing the hard parts.”

Makima hums—a quiet tone of consideration. “Then what’s bothering you?”

Cream Puff pads over to settle on your lap. 

For some reason, you find yourself unable to reply. Staring down at the woolly limbs sprawled across your own, you consider why. 

What is bothering you?

People have always been more difficult than animals. At least, that’s what you imagine you would’ve concluded had you ever been able to afford raising one. Still, you’d never envisioned any pet—definitely not yours, seeing as you were far more likely to take in a stray than any socialized companion—could be as perfectly behaved as Makima’s. Even now, gathered around the low table in the living room, not one dog lunges for the biscuits laid between you. 

No matter what shape you take, they seem perfectly content to lie beside you, wanting nothing but your attention. Probably because, unlike the friends and family of the many bodies and faces you'd stolen, they tell you apart by scent.

You don’t think anybody will be looking at you with such unconditional fondness for a long time.

All you can do is stare at the smooth expanse of the floor as the words leave your mouth. “Do you think they could have known that I was tricking them?” you ask quietly. “All of them?”

When you finally gather the courage to look up at Makima, you find her smiling. She rests her chin in her palm. 

“What do you think?”  

You follow her fifth digit as it brushes against the border of her lip.

Again, your gaze falls. You try to ignore that you've now failed to maintain eye contact with her for the third time in a row. 

The sudden, aimless trickle of thoughts is an old instinct, born from childhood. Whenever someone would ask a question you didn’t know how to answer (are you waiting for your father? Why are you eating so little? No way, are the rumors true? How does it feel to—you know—be one of them?), your mind would scatter elsewhere instead. It seems you haven’t outgrown the habit, because all you can currently think of is escape. Into a memory, maybe, where a secure ending is already set and all conditions are known. 

Like the first time Makima bought you Shiroi Koibito cookies, identical to the ones in front of you now.

Until she’d taken you in, you’d never tasted Hokkaido’s most iconic souvenir. Ironic, considering you grew up there, but perhaps not unusual for a product designed to be carried home by tourists. When Makima asked how you could tell, you said it was the individually wrapped biscuits, the European winter landscapes on the box, and the name. As a local, there were only so many winters you could endure before the white landscape became more daily inconvenience than wonderland—transit delays, freezing temperatures, massive fall hazards. There were good parts, of course. Just not enough, you told her, to earn a name like shiroi koibito.

White lovers. 

Hearing that, she asked about you.

The question drew you out of your spiraling thoughts (whether you had spoken too much, too little, sounded overly childish or excessively resigned). Thankfully, your voice stayed level when asking what she meant.

Makima had only smiled—gently, as if she could read it all. The ‘good parts’, she said, repeating your own words back to you. Tell me about yours.

Involuntarily, you thought of cold days spent inside, curled against a steady shoulder. Images from a TV screen, flashing vibrant on your father’s glasses: Saturn’s pixelated rings, the towering Library of Alexandria, an endless scroll mapping the 13.8 billion-year history of the universe onto a single calendar year. Laughter spilling from your lips as a familiar weight tackled you into the snow; two shoulders sidled close for warmth. Looking into a boy’s eyes on a windy rooftop, and thinking that yes, maybe life was shitty, but this part might be okay. Better than okay.

Looking into a boy’s eyes as you wiped away the wetness on his cheeks, his grip tight around your wrist like he never wanted to let go.

Looking into a boy’s eyes for the last time as they dimmed, and he fell into a deep, unknowing sleep. 

You’d built many lies over your fifteen years of life, but only ever told one to Makima. You did so when she asked if you possess any special memories about the winters in Hokkaido, and you replied that none were so memorable. 

In a way, you guess it isn’t so different from her present question. 

What do you think? 

Do you think they could have noticed you weren’t the real version?

Finally, you lift your gaze to hers. 

“No,” you say. 

Or, rather: did they ever truly know the person you were imitating?

The more you speak, the more certain you become. “It wouldn’t be realistic,” you continue, testing the remark on your tongue. It tastes of nothing. “Most people don’t know each other so well.”

It tastes of nothing until Makima’s lips curve in understanding, and you hear the implication of your own words.

Most people don’t know each other so well. 

Except for Himeno and Sasaki. 

Makima takes a biscuit between her fingers, plate clinking softly. 

Except for me and—

When she speaks, you discover that you were waiting for the sound of her voice: for the quiet serenity of it, for the part that makes it all make sense again. Her words have never led you wrong.

“Why don't you try a little longer?” she asks.

You remember her lips closing around pale beige, and thinking the hue looked beautifully understated beside the coral of her hair. Like something straight out of those old films your father used to watch, entirely ordinary except for that occasional scene where it felt like all the colors in the cosmos were coming to life. 

“Try a little longer?” you echoed.

“Get to know Himeno,” she said calmly. “Make yourself indispensable. Then you’ll determine whether there’s truly something between two people that can’t be imitated.”

In the childhood you remembered, there had been no such thing as white lovers. Maybe you remembered wrong. Then again:

Distance, you supposed, had a way of whitening everything.

xii. 6/11/1995

INCIDENT REPORT: PS-DIV0-1995-0111

Date of Incident: October 29 1995

Date Filed: November 1 1995

Reporting Officer: REDACTED

Location: REDACTED

Subject Entity: REDACTED, Borduna Devil 

Threat level: Class-B Intermediate, elevated following ingestion of REDACTED

Operational Summary: 

At 02:59 hours, Borduna Devil summoned by unregistered unidentified minor in central-north REDACTED amid ongoing covert operation in commercial expedition by Special Division 0 asset (status REDACTED). Target neutralized by REDACTED asset. REDACTED recovered. No evacuation completed prior to engagement. 

Chronology of Events: 

03:02: Borduna Devil eliminates 2 civilian devil hunters contracted for expedition. 

03:09: Borduna Devil attacks expedition vehicles, resulting in catastrophic thermal event. 

03:10: Three expedition supervisors and 1 contracted civilian devil hunter eliminated by Borduna Devil. Asset engages Borduna Devil. 

03:20: Target neutralized by asset. 

04:05: REDACTED recovered via manual on-field autopsy.

Casualties & Damages:

Civilian Casualties: 8 confirmed dead; 0 injured.

Personnel Status: Minimal physical injuries recorded.

Property Damage: Moderate. Limited fire caused by detonation of automobile engines. 

Officer Remarks:

Limited ingestion of REDACTED resulted in significant enhancement of target strength. Additionally, summoning and subsequent feeding of REDACTED to Borduna Devil may have been associated with ongoing conflict between REDACTED indigenous communities and commercial expeditions operating in the region.

Signature: REDACTED

Approved by: Makima

xiii. 5/11/1995

The air smells of damp shoes as you feed the first deutsche mark into the payphone. Outside the booth, suitcase wheels whir against mopped floors. You wait for the coin to register with a heavy, metallic clink before inserting the next. 

Two zeroes for an international outbound call from Germany; an eighty-one to route it directly to Japan. Drop the leading null when entering the area code for Tokyo. There’s a worn note in your pocket should you ever forget the remaining digits, but this time, you still remember. Most of the time, you remember. You’ve only been unable to recall her number once or twice in the last five years. But even if it did slip your mind, you think that your body would automatically take care of the rest—your fingers have mapped this pattern too many times not to. Across countless colorful receivers, the only things that have really changed are the country, the date, and occasionally, your age.

The dial tone stops, replaced by a high-pitched, double-ring signal. You’re vaguely aware of the receiver coating your hand in a layer of grease—moisture, sweat, possibly even fryer oil drifting over from the fast-food joint down in the main concourse. Still marginally better compared to the one in Canada. 

Then, a familiar voice. 

“Yeah, hello? Division two. If this isn’t a devil, call back later.”

“Himeno-san,” you say, watching the credit on the screen begin to drop rapidly. Ten point zero zero, nine point seven zero, nine point four zero deutsche marks. You would greet her, but assume from experience she’d probably like to spend the time discussing other things. “I have two minutes.”

A moment of silence—

—followed by a long, drawn-out crackle from her side of the line. A sigh, probably. “Jeez,” she gripes, and you imagine her eyebrows knitting together the way they do whenever voicing a petty grievance or complaint. “It’s been a year and eight months, you know.”

You feel the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. “I know. I’ll apologize properly when I arrive in Japan.”

“You know that you’re not really sorry if you keep doing it again, right?”

“I’ll apologize for that, too.”

“Forget it,” she says. “You can pay me with dinner when you get back. Preferably with booze and a side of cigs.”

A lenient compromise. “Do you still smoke Wild Raven?”

She hums in agreement. “When are you landing? And where?”

You calculate automatically. Frankfurt to Tokyo takes roughly thirteen hours, though the weather reports in the terminal have been increasingly unpromising. The layover might extend for another few hours at best, more at worst. “Narita, maybe within the next day or so.”

“Uh huh,” she responds. You get the distinct impression she is frowning. “I meant a specific hour.”

Six point nine zero, six point six zero deutsche marks left. You consider how to explain your reply in the least amount of words possible—before settling on a modest four. “The layover weather’s shitty.”

At this, she lets out a rare laugh—real, tinged with surprise. “Wow,” she remarks. “Bad enough for you to swear? Delay must be terrible.” Then, a pause. “Hey, shouldn’t you be waiting inside for them to call for boarding? How’d you even get the money for this call?”

The first answer comes easily. “The payphone’s next to my gate,” you tell her. “And—”

The second is less straightforward. Reminded of the suited figure in your periphery, you tilt your head backwards to give him a full view of the coy grin on your face. The band on his ring finger (not ideal, but you were in a rush) glints under fluorescent light as he gestures towards some nightclub down the concourse. Famous. Techno and trance. Enormous speakers. Nothing of interest, really, except for the pair of five-mark coins he’d offered in exchange for your time. 

“—I had some money left over from the last time I was at this airport.” 

It’s a good thing she can’t see your face, you think. She has a strange ability to pinpoint when you’re lying—maybe because she’d known you back when you were clumsy at it. If she can nevertheless hear the fabrication in your voice, you know Public Safety’s blackout policy for overseas assignments makes for a good excuse. 

“I’ll contact you when I land,” you say. 

She pauses. For a second, you think she’ll call you out on the flimsy restitution, but she doesn’t. “Fine,” she relents, and you can almost see her casual expression as she leans backwards. You think you hear Konoha in the background, the rookie she’d been training back when you were at headquarters, but recently you’ve been filling in silence too often for it to be convincing. “I’ll drive you home, then.”

One point eight zero. One point five zero. “You can drive?”

“Only because Aki hasn’t gotten his—”

You interrupt her at zero point nine zero. “Himeno-san, the line’s about to cut.”

She lets out an exhale quick enough to fast-track exasperation, then begins to talk at twice the speed. “Right, right. Don’t go dying while I’m offline, got it? I’ll—”

A sharp, heavy thunk inside the machine as the final denomination unit clears. The decapitation of Japanese mid-vowel is immediate, absolute, and leaves no trail. 

—kill you if you do.

The receiver drops back onto its hook with a plastic clack. You’re not in the habit of checking for leftover change; still, you let your fingernails scrape the bottom of the coin exchange to buy yourself some time while you think. 

For cigarettes and alcohol, the duty-free shops in the Narita Central Building. You’ll see if they still have the Wild Ravens with seasonal packaging. There’s two bottles of apfelwein  in your suitcase for Himeno and Makima. Other than that… 

Aki. It’s the first time she’s mentioned her newest partner. You haven’t heard the name since last year, when Makima informed you of Public Safety’s newest addition right before you left for Korea. 

You begin to turn just as a slice of damp air hits your neck; the sound of polyglot chatter and the airport PA system cut through quiet. Smiling bright, you meet the blonde man’s gaze head-on. 

“Ready?” he asks, adjusting his trench coat with a kind of urgent excitement that seems to universally infect clubgoers. In contrast, the question is slow, each consonant pronounced as though he expects you to miss it.

Your eyes don’t stray to his hand. Not when you brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Not when you make a show of deliberating, nor when you slot your fingers between his like depositing coins into a meter. Not even when you wonder if his wife knows her husband picks up girls he thinks can’t speak German at Frankfurt Airport between his business trips. 

Hayakawa Aki, you muse. 

When you speak, your accent is light. Slightly uncertain. Softening the Deutsch to give it a less guttural, more foreign texture, you tell him:

“Ready.”

xiv. 5/11/1995

Nestled in the crevices of your heart: a multitude of secrets uncleared to anyone beneath a certain level of security authorization. One of them is the location of the soundproofed room you stand in now. Another—likely even more confidential—is the contents of the container in your hands. 

They ask how many grams are needed for the mass to begin gravitating towards the main body. You reply that the specific thresholds are undefined, but based on precedents set by Gun Devil flesh, it could take anywhere between ten to fifty grams of pure, uncontaminated tissue. The next question is how much has already been recovered. Again, this is difficult to determine. The fragments are scattered across the world; the Amazon Rainforest may have seemed an intuitive choice due to the timber harvesting there, but scraps have been found at stranger sites. Brazil, Canada, Korea, Mexico, Nigeria, China, the United States and USSR: there’s no saying whether the amount you’ve gathered over the last year and a half makes a majority of the total, or whether those pieces merely scratch the surface. 

And of course, most critically: is any other country aware of this information? The Soviet Hawks? The Americans or Chinese Internationalists? You tell them it’s possible, but unlikely. Firstly, you’ve already covered the regions with the highest logging rates—areas others would check first if they thought to at all. Secondly, government officials and devil hunters known to possess explicit knowledge have either been eliminated or bribed into silence. Thirdly, with every major power preoccupied by Gun Devil flesh, abnormal fluctuations in devil activity are likely to be attributed to said entity. 

Regardless, the assumption that these facts will stay hidden for more than another year and a half is far-fetched. It would be preferable to find the target within said timeframe.

This begs the final question—where is it now? 

Until now, all queries have had answers suggested or inferrable from mission reports. This one, however, does not. When you were younger, it always seemed counterintuitive that the most secret things were never recorded (wasn't that kind of stuff the most important thing to remember?), but now, you understand why. There is some information for which even an infinitesimal risk of exposure—whether that be created by a throwaway note, official document, or unbreakable cipher—cannot be condoned.

You step forward, and open the box.

Before you sit five suited men and women, surveying the contents in various states of deliberation. On your leftmost end, a sparsely haired man leaning on his wrist; the woman beside him has adopted a similar position. Both of their children attend a prestigious preparatory academy in Tokyo. In the center, a hooked nose and half-lidded eyes, connected to the rightmost figure through a distant niece. The cabinet member between them has no familial relations to the rest of the table, but has possibly been embezzling government funds since 1992. 

They’ve watched you grow up in this room. Observed while you learned to stand with your hands behind your back like Makima did. Here, you’ve shrunk under their gazes, shivered when you thought they weren’t looking, and signed countless unequal contracts. Now, illuminated by afternoon light, you make no attempt to hide—not the unfamiliar pale auburn of your locks, nor the calmness in your eyes. The place at your side is empty, and you have long developed a resistance to the cold. 

In your hands, meat: burnt-orange, charcoal-black. Metallic fibers embed the tissue, resembling tiny saw-blade teeth. The air fills with a mechanical hum—then, the scent of old motor oil and rusted blood. The sample isn’t yet large enough to pinpoint its owner exactly, but crucially had stopped moving as soon as you landed at Narita Airport.

“We believe,” you say, “that Chainsaw is in Japan.”

xv. 19/9/1996

Over the years, you think Himeno has grown an irrational hatred for the words “overseas”, “classified”, and—most of all—“I’ll call you”. You take full responsibility for the last one because it’s pretty undeniable the source of her dislike is you. Specifically: the many, many occasions where you’ve told her you would contact her (when you got off the plane, when you arrived home, when you—as per her casual request—were bored enough to sit next to her while she downed five bottles of booze) and in fact did not. Well, you did, but always far past what she considered the due date. You’re admittedly surprised she still picks up every time. 

As for the other two terms, you choose not to shoulder the blame. Smiling, you tell her this is because you would never explicitly inform someone that you were on an “overseas” assignment or involved in anything “classified”. That would defeat the whole purpose of my job, don’t you think? She replies that you are full of shit.

At least now, you are twenty and can properly keep her company over a nice, long smoke. 

Himeno makes good on your compensation. Occasionally, she insists the experience requires “proper conditions”; this time, the two of you are lying in undershirts and underwear beneath the autumn sky. The table usually beside the terrace railing has been pushed aside for an unobstructed view. Apparently, cigarettes always taste better when you’re naked and out in the open—or in this case, as close as you can get to it without getting arrested for public indecency. You told her you weren't sure you would relate to the sentiment, but didn’t mind trying anything once.

You’ve never had any particular attachment to smoking, but now you think there might’ve been a silver lining to beginning early. At eighteen, you’d started for practical reasons. Nicotine loosened tongues; carrying a pack made strangers friendlier, and gathering information over a cigarette was safer than direct infiltration (you were of legal age in many of the countries you operated in). By the time you finally shared one with Himeno, you’d grown used enough to the fumes that you had to fake a cough for appearances. She called you a natural, and you smiled.

It’s strange, you think. You’ve only recently begun to understand why smoking addicts exist. 

Dawn breeze filters through the space where cotton parts with your sternum. Soon, the clouds will turn fully orange and you’ll have to get ready for work. Right now, however, it’s simpler: just the two of you, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in and out at five-thirty AM on a Tuesday morning.

Against the ashtray sitting between the two of you, a crisp tap. “So,” Himeno says, mumbling slightly as she sets the stick back between her lips, “you’re really leaving?”

You let out a faint hum of agreement, following the indistinct curl of exhaust. 

“So soon?”

Without a sideways glance, you ask calmly, “What do you mean?”

You can almost feel her stare on the curve of your cheek—that rare combination of sober and unyielding. “I mean,” she says easily, “that you’re usually here for longer after each assignment.”

“Something important came up this time,” you tell her. 

She responds without missing a beat. “There's always something important coming up at Public Safety.” 

The corners of your mouth draw upwards as you shift to face her; to meet that single, turquoise eye, tinged pinkish beige under daybreak. You take care to exhale in a way that doesn't engulf her face. “Are you worried, Himeno-san?”

Her expression would be unreadable to anyone else, but not to you.

Between the space of your ribs, something aches—dully, the way it does when already anticipated. You don’t need to look downwards to recognize her smoke is already discarded. You know what her next words will be. 

She searches your gaze, brow drawn low enough to deepen the crease of her eyelid. “Is this because of Aki? Because he saw your episode?” she asks quietly. “Because if it is, that’s a stupid reason to leave.”

As a devil hunter, Himeno has survived longer than almost anyone expected. You think it helps that she expects to die young. By the time you met her a year later, she’d already lost her first buddy. The following one died three months after. Then, the next. Next. And next. Your memories don't survive in vivid detail, but this does: the hollowness in her eye after each loss, as if the solid, living tissue had been replaced by blank space.  

It used to be more obvious that she was afraid. Not on her face, but in her sweat, and under her sleeves, along the ridges of her throat. Recently, she mostly just smells of nicotine and stale Asahi Super Dry.

Is this because of Aki?

You let out a breath, light and tinted with mirth. Your elbow knocks slightly against hers, vacating the warm imprint where you’d been occupying. “I wouldn’t go for a reason like that,” you tell her. “People will find out sooner or later—I’ve always known that. I have more important things to worry about.”

“Then?”

The look you give her is curious. 

“Then,” she repeats slowly, “why are you leaving?”

That's what you’d thought: that Himeno now carried less dread in her scent. That at twenty-four, she might truly have become the kind of devil hunter into which Kishibe strove to mold the innumerable “dogs” he’d trained. 

Until you returned to Japan, and there it was again.

Fear, unadulterated. Not for herself—you knew she’d long given up on self-preservation—but for someone else. 

Truly, you don’t know how you didn't see it earlier.

“Devils don’t rest,” you say, smiling. “So how can I?”

xvi. 9/12/1995

Chainsaw is a dog. 

You ruminate on the fact as you lead the Division 3 devil hunter out into the cold. The concept is hard to believe, but true: the Hero of Hell, transformed into a round little puppy. The image would be comical if you could conjure it. 

Your first thought was that it might be a stray, isolated in the woods of Fukushima and occasionally committing violence on anyone unlucky enough to come across its ribbed snout. You wonder what it must be like to live as a solitary, scavenging mutt after aeons of being feared and revered in all capacities. Lonely, maybe. What you know for sure is that you’ve had enough canopies for a lifetime.

But Makima tells you that he is not, in fact, alone. 

Chainsaw is a dog, and that dog has an owner named Denji. Male, fifteen years old, no last name. Inherited from his late father: a multi-million debt, owed to the local yakuza. His main source of income is hunting low-level devils using his loyal companion’s nose-blade, but he also sells organs to scrape by (a kidney, right eye, testicle). He sleeps and eats in a rotting shack in the Aizu region when not out on commissions—which is to say, not very often. None of this information is reported.

Safe to say, this was not expected. That’s alright. Public Safety always makes do with less-than-fortunate circumstances, and so do you.

Heels scrape against asphalt. 

The devil hunter’s scent is anticipatory. It holds a tinge of intimidation—customary, you’d say, when faced with the woman you’re wearing. Still, besides the lavender notes of her perfume, expectation makes up the most of it. According to her file, she’s been a longtime candidate for the role of Division 3 Vice Captain. Now that the position’s no longer occupied, you assume the preparatory look on her face is for that well-awaited promotion.

You let her begin. 

Almost like clockwork, she asks, “What brings you here, Makima-san?”

You smile that smile you know so well: lips curving up, eyes uncrinkled yet imbued with gentle, approachable warmth. Reaching into your coat, you uncap a pack of smokes in a smooth, practiced motion. “It’s nice to watch my favorite people enjoy a good meal together,” you tell her, offering her a stick.

Her eyebrows crease slightly. “Oh,” she says, slightly less certain as she takes it. Then, seemingly aware of her own hesitation, she counters smoothly—almost as if to gauge your own response— “Of course. It’s just quite rare to see you at these gatherings.”

“That’s true,” you agree, retrieving a lighter from your pocket. Light blue, inconspicuous—a gift from Himeno, who you mentally thank for refraining from some fancy, personalized engraving that would’ve given you away. “I’d like to attend more of them, when I have the time.”

Her eyes flick to the flame once, twice. You realize why half a second too late: a kouhai is always obligated to kindle their senpai’s cigarette, and Makima is undoubtedly the senior of the two. It’s a misstep on your part—too much time abroad, perhaps. You decide on shaping the mistake into familiarity, adopting an inviting look as you shield the glow for her to lean in. 

And she does, in the end. 

“I didn’t know you smoked, Makima-san,” she says, when both of you are breathing gray into frigid air. 

Your features tinge with amusement in that familiar, all-too-knowing way. “I try to abstain,” you concede. “It makes it a little too difficult to not get addicted otherwise.”

Again, she seems subtly taken aback at the personal detail. She’s good, you think. Makes hiding the sentiment look natural. Still, her surprise visibly intensifies when you tilt your head sideways, knowingly survey her face, and finally, laugh at the barely perceptible purse of her mouth. “I recently went on a business trip to Fukushima,” you explain tenderly. “I believe it’s taken a toll on me because I’ve been craving these ever since.”

“Fukushima?” she manages. 

“Yes. Recently, the civilian devil hunters there have been causing quite a stir.”

Realization washes across her face as expected. “The black market,” she murmurs. At your curious look, she supplies: “One of my close acquaintances works for Public Safety in Fukushima.” A slight pause—potentially deliberate—before she adds without a hitch, “It’s concerning, how rural areas have become a hotspot for the illegal trade of devil corpses by the Yakuza.” 

Frankly, the information she’s alerted you of carrying should not be by a devil hunter of her standing. Still, the notice is appreciated; you believe the saying is something like “dress for the job you want, not the job you have”, although in her case you assume “dress” would be replaced with “speak”. You just hum, showing no sign of surprise.

The two of you trade a few more pleasantries: if you’re visiting anywhere over the holidays (Sendai for her, to take care of her mother), what brand you smoke (whatever catches your eye; in an odd stroke of luck, the pack you’ve bought this time is her regular), how you liked the food inside (she preferred the yakiudon, you the motsuni). It takes two rounds of distant, drunken singing drifting from indoors for the conversation to turn back to work. 

“I have heard of similar incidents…” she seems to consider her own words before offering, “Actually, the acquaintance I mentioned is a cousin of mine. He might be able to help coordinate some of the bureaucracy with Tokyo.” The tip of her cigarette has long been extinguished of its glow, any lingering smell blended with the izakaya’s old tatami. “If you’d like to connect, I wouldn’t mind giving you his contact details.”

There it is. 

You give her a calm smile. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like to take a look. Off the record, if you wouldn’t mind—I would be happy to put in a good word for you in return, Kana-san.”

-

Winter nights in Tokyo carry a sharp, metallic kind of moisture that stings the nose—although, looking down at the smoke balanced between your fingers, you suppose the source might actually be closer than expected. 

As the Division 3 hunter recedes into the noren curtain separating alleyway and izakaya, you consider joining her. Lying has always been easier when injected with a little truth, and truthfully, you weren't lying when the motsuni was quite good. It's strange how being overseas has given you this peculiar urge to try all the dishes you used to with a side of cheap sake. Then again, it’s equally odd that your first drink came from a bottle of fortified wine in some Soviet apartment entryway, where nobody would’ve once looked twice if you’d worn your real age. 

If you go back in, it shouldn't be with this face. Although nobody here should know that Makima’s not currently in Tokyo, it’s obviously not a good idea to draw attention as her in a place so crowded. Yes, entering alone and as yourself might invite interest (your extended absences from headquarters haven’t made you a common presence at dinner parties), but it’ll have to do. To minimise the risks, you’d normally just copy the body of a stranger you’d memorized, but this would be unwise considering the vertigo from how many times you’ve used your contract today.

You visualize a reflection peering back at you. The square exhaust fan next to the frosted window: a pair of blinking eyes, an open mouth. For the eyebrows, a cluster of tangled power lines against the wall. Cast by a paper lantern, the planes of a face—

“Makima-san,” a voice says.

You still.

-

Ah, shit. 

That is your first reaction to being interrupted halfway through melting off your face. Well, not witnessed exactly—your back is turned to the entrance—but exposed abilities reduce their usefulness, and especially for yours. Your only saving grace is that the transformation moves outward: torso first, extremities next, hair and other appendages last. 

That is to say, the whole of your head is now the colour of Makima’s, but your face is your own. The situation makes it impossible to fully revert into either identity without risking discovery by some random Public Safety officer who probably thinks you’re their boss. Frankly, it's the kind of mistake you believed you’d grown out of approximately five years ago. 

Well, you guess you can always say you got a dye job. Easy, simple; the decision happens in a split second. A bit of a hassle, considering you'll probably have to keep your hair this way for a while, but you've experienced worse. 

But when you turn to greet the random officer in question—

You’re met with blue eyes. 

Your second, most defining thought of the moment is that you are deeply, deeply fucked. 

xvii. 19/9/1996

Himeno has been silent for an atypical amount of time. Long enough that you burn through the cigarette you’re smoking; long enough that the sun is nearly up by the time you next speak. 

They’re almost audible, the words repeating in her mind all the while. 

Devils don’t rest, so how can I?

Knowing this, you decide to start with something simple. Uncomplicated, like asking what’s for breakfast. After a short moment of pause, she tells you the ham and cheese sandwiches stocked in her fridge from the local convenience store. Upon looking at the expiry date, it becomes apparent that the products are decently unsafe to eat, so instead the two of you shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed. You’re mildly surprised by the spare dress shirt you find in her closet—your size, smelling of fresh detergent even though you’re pretty sure you left it over at her house over two years ago. The first meal of the day is eaten at the Thai restaurant around the corner: Tom Yum Kun, papaya salad, Massaman Curry. All of it is delicious, and you consider it wouldn’t be so bad to live in this moment for the rest of your conceivable existence. You don’t voice this idea, of course. Then, for old times’ sake, you both ride the open-window tram to work side by side. 

You remember thinking throughout the entire morning that Himeno would ask you to quit, if you could. You hate that even if she did—even if you could go back and answer her knowing everything you do now—you wouldn’t say yes. 

Even when she’s dead, and the eye patch in your closet is the only piece you have left of her. 

xviii. 16/7/1997

Sometimes, you wonder how Aki would answer if you asked him which part of that night stayed with him, if any at all. Maybe the illicit smoking as a minor? The assumption wouldn’t be without evidence, since that was the first thing he reminded you of upon coming to stand beside you in that alleyway. Still, considering his devotion to Makima, you'd always found this strange; every strand of your hair looked identical to hers, and Aki had never been one to turn a blind eye—least of all to a resemblance so odd. Yet he did. And there was that unusual look on his face, too: something unblinking, involuntary, and shaded enough by evening to render the rest indecipherable. 

To your relief, however, the exchange never moved beyond the shredded plant matter neatly packaged in your hand before drifting into nothing.

You think, though, that if he asked you the question—which portion lingered for you—you’d reply with the part where the two of you were forced to sit side by side. 

xix. 9/12/1995

Back in the restaurant, now. The clock above the hanging paper menus reads 9:45 PM, but the long hand’s been chipped off and your eyesight’s egregious enough for twenty that it might actually be ten-something. Utensils clattering on wood, sizzling cuts of every kind, occasional bouts of laughter filling the dimly lit atmosphere. Kobayashi, one of those rare devil hunters who’s become a veteran with just a Fox Devil contract, has just asked the table about their childhood dreams. They'd spotted the two of you returning from your smoke break and waved you toward the only empty seats at the table. The rookies occupying them had gone outside to clear their heads. No, no, don't worry. Just sit.

It would’ve been rude to turn them down.

You’re taking stock of the plastic menu with Konoha; she’s suggested an oolong-hai to pace yourselves, seeing as the night’s not ending anytime soon. Dishes have mostly been cleared, so you’re considering a couple plates of edamame to fill in the wait for the next round. 

“A lawyer,” Aki says.

Your attention shifts absentmindedly to the voice beside you. 

Around you, a few people are nodding, while others seem mildly taken aback. The rest are lost in indistinct discussions of their own. Next to you, Konoha lets out a surprised hum. 

Farther down the table, Kobayashi furrows his brows in a way that indicates revelation. “Really? You know, I was gonna mention that you’re the kind of guy that’d seem to suit a standard office job, but” —a look of contemplation, thumb and forefinger lifting to his chin— “actually, I can’t imagine you doing anything else. Other than what you’re doing now, I mean. A lawyer, huh…” 

Aki seems unperturbed. “It’s just something I used to write down on future career surveys,” he says. 

Minutes pass. You flag down a server, which admittedly takes more than one try—apparently, your ability to yell “sumimasen” across a room is a skill that regresses with time. Four edamames, five oolong-hais, a hot sake. As the waitress disappears towards the kitchen counter, you hear your name.

Lifting your head, you feel several gazes shift to you. “Yes?”

“Childhood dreams? Careers? Anything?”

You reply with a small smile. “I’m afraid not.”

“Damn,” someone says incredulously, pointing to you and Aki, “both of you always planned to become this? Devil hunters?”

You keep being reminded that Aki’s eyes are blue; it's a bit of a jarring experience, even though you know what to expect each time. “Yes,” he replies, and there's no lack of conviction in it. “I did.”

There’s a vague curve to your lips as you offer the table a concurring nod. 

Coincidentally, the one job people had occasionally told you you'd be good at (albeit just your father, an old neighbor, your childhood best friend) was an attorney. Maybe because the work required lots of conceding, reworking, settling for less than what was wanted, and you'd always had a talent for those things.

For a while, you might have wanted it yourself. There were people like you that you wanted to protect, mostly because nobody else would: poor not only in money, but under the law. If you'd ever become an attorney, you imagined it would be in public defense.

And unfortunately, this was never possible.

The conversation’s already drifted by the time your draft beer disconnects from its coaster with a quiet click. When you tilt your head back for the last of it, Aki doesn't ask again whether you're a minor—maybe because he’s realized the year is coming to a close, and you'll be legal within twenty-two days at most.

Can it be called a dream if you’re aware it’s unattainable? In the case that it can't, you arguably never dreamed of becoming a lawyer. In the end, you don’t think it really matters. What does is that you no longer think of the boy who told you the impossible was possible—just for the sake of convincing you otherwise. 

If Aki asked why you remembered this part, you’d tell him it was because you wondered, for the first time in years, what your best friend would think of you now. 

----------------------------------------------------------

“POWER, STOP TOUCHING ME!” denji is shouting at the top of his lungs. this has clearly been going on for a while. you’re surprised it didn’t wake you up sooner.

you sit up and rub your eyes, trying to make out the frantically moving figures seemingly so far from you. as your eyes focus, you see this: power and denji sitting by the door.

denji is attempting to put his shoes on, and power is practically on top of him. she’s just close enough to aggravate him, but technically isn't touching him at all.

“i am not doing anything, denji.” she has a devilish grin as the words tumble from her mouth. it seems like the fiend side of her is hyperactive today. well more than usual, anyways.

aki is in the kitchen, presumably finishing up some dishes from the recently prepared meal. “will the two of you cut it out? i’m tired of your incessant arguing.” you catch him shake his head in annoyance as he continues his task at hand.

the two goons start shouting again, but this time at aki. “WE AREN’T EVEN ARGUING. STOP NAGGING, AKI.”

“YEAH, WHAT THE CHAINSAW BOY SAID. STOP NAGGING, AKI.”

both power and denji give aki a death glare. he just rolls his eyes. “aren’t you two gonna be late?”

power looks down at her wrist. there’s no watch. “YES, WE ARE. DENJI, WE MUST LEAVE.”

denji is quick to believe her regardless. “ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, I’M COMING, POWY, GIMME A SEC.” he finally slips on his sneakers and he and power exit the apartment, practically sprinting out the door.

if you’re being honest, those two are really entertaining. you haven’t lived together long enough to be put off by the arguing just yet.

a smile you don’t realize is there has planted itself firmly on your face as a result of denji and power’s antics.

“are you just gonna keep grinning like an idiot or are you gonna come have breakfast?” aki asks from the kitchen. his tone is irritated, but you’re unsure if it’s because of you or the demon twins.

you yawn, eyes still puffy from sleep. “aren’t we gonna be late? you just sent denji and power out for patrol as if we don’t have to do the same thing today.”

“most of the time i send them out early so i don’t have to deal with them for as long. they always end up getting side tracked or lost and end up late if i dont, so it’s for the best. plus, patrol isn’t at a specific time. we just respond to reports as they come in.”

you didn’t know that. “oh. okay. well in that case, yes, i’d like some breakfast. thank you.” you stand up and head towards the kitchen to find out for yourself what’s waiting for you.

“i made-“ aki begins, but you cut him off without thinking.

“ooh, yum, rice and eggs! OOH, TOAST TOO?” everything is already neatly plated and arranged for you. “aki, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

he continues washing the dishes, not bothering to look at you as he speaks. “i just wanted to clean everything i could. don’t go feeling too special.”

you smirk. “or…you’re actually secretly a nice guy.”

he scoffs. “i don’t have time for this.” he quickly dries his hands off and leaves the kitchen.

“aren’t you gonna eat?”

“already did,” he calls, now halfway to his room. “clean up when you’re done.”

“…okay.” he’s such an odd guy.

***

“so…remind me again of the objective here.” a sheepish grin is plastered on your face. you weren’t paying attention the first time he explained.

he sighs. “how many times are you gonna forget? you know what, nevermind. it’s simple. we find the devil and we kill it.”

you look at up him, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. “simple?”

he raises an eyebrow back, mirroring your expression. “the plan is simple. i never said anything about the act itself. let’s worry about that when we find the damn thing.”

the call came in around lunch time. a civilian reported a ‘cute-looking’ devil lurking in the alley near their apartment. “why would a flower devil be in the city, anyways? seems like kind of a rural thing, no?”

aki doesn’t hesitate responding. “don’t ask me. all i know is it needs to die.”

you don’t respond. you’re sort of taken aback by his urge to kill all devils. it’s unfortunate, given your own circumstances, but it’s not like he can kill you.

not without consequence.

you’re entirely curious as to what his issue with devils really is. almost more so how he ended up living with three of them.

but you don’t, because you know what it feels like to be asked a question that has an answer you don’t want to give.

the two of you walk in silence for a little while, both on the lookout for this so-called flower devil.

your neck is sore from being constantly turned into every alley you walk past. “where is this thing?” you complain.

“if i knew the answer to that, don’t you think we’d be done by now?” his irritated voice carries through the sparsely populated streets. you’re on a less busy side of town, but there are still a few people walking around.

you look at him in slight disbelief and exasperation. is he serious? “it was a rhetorical question.”

he’s still not looking at you, too ‘busy’ with the search. he mutter something under his breath, just loud enough to make out. but you want to hear him say it.

“what was that?” your tone becomes more exasperated as the interaction continues. this one on top of all the others.

“i said, “yeah, sure.” do we have a problem?” his neck is turned in the opposite direction of yours, the backs of your heads facing each other.

this time, you do turn to face him. “yeah, actually, i think you’re the one with the problem. i tried to be civil, but your bad attitude is pissing me off. what could i have possibly done to you?”

he, like you, turns to see your face. his words are sarcastic, but laced with frustration. “oh, yeah, what could you have possibly done?”

you’re both stopped, standing near the edge of an apartment complex. “what the fuck, are you saying i actually did something?”

he scoffs. “what do you think?”

“stop with the stupid questions and tell me what you mean. i’m done trying to solve your riddles.” you cross your arms, awaiting a response.

“well let’s go down the list, shall we?” he keeps a tally on his hand as he speaks. “first, you barge into my home. then, you say you’re living with me. now, you’re a permanent fixture, eating my food and sleeping in my living room. to top it all off, you’re my new partner. a devil. are those enough reasons for you, or should i keep going?”

rage boils inside you. “everything you just said is completely unfair. none of the circumstances were my fault or my choice. do you actually, whole heartedly believe i want to sleep in your living room? or that i want to live in a home i’m clearly not welcome in? i can’t afford anything else. and also, it’s not like i asked to live with you. you’re blaming me for decisions that makima made. instead of being an asshole, why don’t you use your head and blame someone who’s actually guilty of making your life a living hell. it wasn’t me.”

before he says anything, you hear something coming from the alley to your right.

you look down to see vines crawl across the pavement, nearing yours and aki’s feet. they’re moving slowly, but you have a feeling they’re not coming to help you.

you quickly step back, but aki isn’t fortunate enough to notice what you did. he’s still reeling from what you said just moments ago.

his eyes widen as he feels the vines slowly wrap around his ankles, anchoring him to the ground.

you don’t know what to do. your mind is running a mile a minute as you try to find a solution. “aki, uh. don’t move. i think. or maybe do. i don’t know. this is a lot. i’ve never done this before.”

he calms his demeanor as the vines tighten their grip. he can see your stress. “hey, look, it’s alright. if i try to move, the devil is only gonna grab tighter. you’re gonna have to deal with this one, okay?”

this is your first mission. you can’t handle this alone. you need him there. “aki, i don’t know if i can do this. i’ve never done this before.”

“it doesn’t matter whether you think you can or not because you’re gonna have to. you can, though. makima put you on this division for a reason. you’re more than capable.” he’s…reassuring you? why’s it working?

you take a deep breath, trying to steady your excessively beating heart. “okay, yeah, no, you’re right. i can. i will. i got this. right? yeah, i do. right?” you don’t wait for a response. instead, you follow the vines into the alley, transforming as you do.

turning the corner, all you see is a white flower planted in the middle with the vines connected to it. it’s a small thing, one that could easily be crushed.

in theory.

this may be your first mission, but it’s not your first encounter with a devil.

though in the past you would just run away, so you guess it might as well be.

your first thought is to break aki free. with your axe in your dominant hand, you raise it behind your head to prepare a throw at the vines. if you can break those, hopefully aki can get loose and help you out.

your back is turned to the small flower as you aim, trying to find the best angle to cut through the thick trailing stems.

behind you is a sound that can only be described as a plant growing at a rapid speed. the sound gets higher and higher above you, causing you to whip around, forgetting your original objective.

the small flower you could’ve easily taken out moments ago has now turned into the devil you originally imagined.

it’s a few feet taller than you, and oddly cute. the person who called this in was right. it’s a flower, the same as before, but much taller. its eyes are a little lopsided, but in an endearing way. its pupils are dilated to the point that it looks like a cute puppy.

the only threatening thing about it is its height.

and maybe the fact that its strong enough to hold aki down.

you’re still stressed, but not about it killing you. about you killing it. it’s so cute and looks harmless. what’s the point of taking its life?

the answer to that question hit you in the head. literally.

the vines lifted aki by his feet and held him upside down. they pulled him closer to the devil, hitting you in the head as they did so.

your hands immediately reach for the back of your head, trying to suppress the pain. “fuck, ow. god, that really hurt.”

aki is struggling, trying to get away from his impending doom. his voice is strained as he calls out to you, trying to regain your attention. “can you do something about this? i’m really not trying to be killed by something that looks this benign.”

“YES, SORRY.” you yell back to him. the vines are holding aki right above the flower devil’s head. “OKAY, THIS MIGHT HURT.” you grab hold of another axe from your spine, both hands behind your head.

“WHAT?” aki shouts in concern.

“NOTHING, JUST BRACE YOURSELF.” with that, you throw the axe with full force. it hits the just near his ankles, breaking him free.

he falls straight to the ground. “OW. DAMN IT.”

“I TOLD YOU TO BRACE YOURSELF.”

he gets up quickly, using the axe you just threw to catch the devil from behind.

it works, and the flower devil is completely taken care of.

the adrenaline wears off, and so does your transformation. “thanks for that, aki.”

“uh huh, sure. maybe next time warn me if you’re gonna have me drop 10 feet to the ground though.” you notice the green devil goop that sprayed on his face after dealing with the flower devil.

the paperwork on your desk had long since been abandoned, scattered across the surface and forgotten on the floor. it’s late, half the public safety employees had gone home for the day, angel pressed up against you, clothed hips rolling against yours in frantic desperation.

neither of you can quite remember how this started, something about angel wanting you to stop working on the paperwork, to pay attention to him instead. his gloved fingers are curled into your waist, slipped underneath the fabric of your shirt with the protection of the gloves. “wanna touch you s’bad,” he pants, his lips nearly ghosting over yours, forcing your hips to roll into his, his own grinding down into yours.

“if you’d, ah, make a contract with me, we could,” you reply, voice breathless and warm. your fingers lightly thread through his hair, careful to avoid his scalp, the other settled on the fabric covering his shoulders.

he didn’t answer, at first, instead choosing to chase after the bubbling heat in his abdomen, the friction of your cloth covered hips against his clouding his judgment. he’s almost tempted to relent to you. in that moment, to form a contract with you so you could touch him. “s’not that easy, you know that,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his face into your shoulder, inhaling the scent of you through your clothes. “don’t wanna risk hurting you.”

“shit,” he breathes, exhaling shakily when you buck your hips against his, back arching to meet his chest, and he rolls his hips faster against yours. “i wish i could touch you,” he pants, breathing ragged and broken.

“g’nna cum,” you whine, and the sound is enough to make him groan into the fabric of your shirt, his wings flaring out behind him in anticipation. they twitch once, twice, and finally a third time as he digs his fingers harder into your hips, pulling you further off the edge of the desk and into him.

“wish i could taste it, taste you,” he says, voice low and longing, reaching one hand up to rub your breasts through your shirt. with the extra sensation, and the desperate roll of his hips against yours, you let out a breathless moan as you come, head dropping to his shoulder.

“angel,” you pant, looking up at him with such a needy desperation that it makes his stomach coil. the haze in your eyes, the flush of your cheeks painting them a rosy red, the way your fingers are clutching at his shirt-it’s enough to have him falling into his own release, shuddering as he does.

his wings twitch as he does, his head falling back slightly as he comes down, still tucked snugly against you.

“one more,” he murmurs, a gloved hand reaching up to run his thumb over your lip, tilting your head slightly up so he can get a glimpse of your pulse point beating against your skin. the scent of your blood, aroused and sweet, makes his lower stomach pool with a fresh wave of heat.

“angel,” you whine, feeling him already starting to rut his hips into yours, “angel, please, wanna touch you so bad.”

“let me feel you again, and we’ll talk about it,” he lazily murmurs, pulling you flush against him.

acts of service and quality time !! his job takes him away from you so often that whenever he has chores to do or free time he'll ask if you want to join.

cooking with aki :( he doesn't mind cooking for you and usually goes out of his way to do it any way, especially if he knows he'll be gone for a while. but he can't deny that he loves the domesticity of working together in the kitchen to make breakfast.

naturally does your chores just because ? he wants to help you ? and he's already here ? so why wouldn't he

lets out a deep sigh when he takes his hair out and you run your hands through it. it's one of his favourite ways to relax, and it's become part of your routine to let him rest his head in your lap when he gets home

will sit there as you play with his hair and do little ponytails/braids with little to no resistance.

^ you tilt his head to look at him and he waits for your thoughts. "you look pretty," you say matter-of-factually. he hums and reaches to feel what you've done before thanking you and reaching for his phone camera

aki leaving little notes or texting you when he leaves while you're asleep. "I cooked your favourite and put it in the fridge. Love you. Be back soon :)" (say what you want about him adding a smiley face but I imagine him hesitating before ultimately choosing to do it even if he feels awkard. he's always thinking of how to show you he really does appreciate you and that includes going out of his comfort zone)

^ good morning and goodnight texts when he's not there. texts you when he knows you're going to be eating to make sure you're doing okay (and to tell you he misses you)

^ sometimes you can get a little "Denji and Power say hi" or a photo taken of him by them

one thing he always does his best to do is ask you to talk about your day !! what did you, what did you eat and watch, did anything interesting happen? he'll tell you about his day minus the devil hunting details if you don't have familiarity with the job. doesn't think he should make you have to hear about it

(absentminded) temple, knuckle, and shoulder kisses. it's a kiss to your temple when he spots you in a room, bringing your hand up to his lips to kiss it while it's still intertwined with his, and a kiss to your shoulder goodnight while he hugs you from behind

^ srs about the knuckle kisses whenever you're holding hands. like, you're holding his hand while talking to him at your desk and he's bending down to listen and look at your screen? he brings your hand up and rests his lips against it so you can feel him hum in response and tiny pecks to your knuckles as you speak

^ general small gestures. tucking your feet into the blanket when you're sleeping and it's cold. refilling your water when he sees your glass is empty. standing in front of you when it's sunny so you can see. tidying your desk to help you stay organized. automatically getting your favourite snacks while shopping. remembering your drink order. letting you take the last seat on the bus or holding you so you don't fall. gently pulling your head to rest on his shoulder when he sees you falling asleep etc etc etc

aki knows when you take his clothes. not that he minds Obviously but he just wants you to know there's no point in trying to keep it a secret. he thinks you look really nice by the way. you can tell by the way he pauses when he looks up at you or his gaze lingers

he isn't really a hoodie guy, but if you ever asked for one of his to wear he makes a mental note to buy a couple.

matching earrings ♡____♡ trusts your taste and will try what you get him,, though he strays away from dangly ones if he's going on a mission

^ seriously the boyfriend who'll do objectively silly things for you like wearing fruit earrings you very evidently got from claire's. not out of the house but he'd put them on

i need you all to imagine aki clasping your necklace for you.

definitely had a drawer for your things before you officially moved in. as it got more and more clothes and you stayed over more often, he finally asked for your thoughts on living together

yes aki walks on the side closer to the road

yes he'll hold your hand in big crowds so he doesn't lose you

yes he holds your bags while shopping or in general. doesn't care if it's pastel pink or a cat or whatever else

no he isn't afraid to get into a physical fight if someone is bothering you. honest to god would knock someone out if you asked

imagine the sharing a cigarette thing but if you don't smoke and it's a lollipop. Ok. Think.

taking baths together!! him offering massages because he knows when you're stressed. doing skincare with him etc etc

i just think in the pining phase before you date think if you mentioned something you wish could happen e.g. a romance trope, gesture, dream date, etc. he'd take mental notes for later

I Just Think when he's had a hard day and he remembers again just how dangerous his job is, how he could lose you at moment,, he's especially clingy and tries to do more for you (if that's possible)

^ the first conversation you have when he opens up about his past and his feelings about his family is definitely important and also a bit heartbreaking.

writes "happy birthday" with icing himself on the cake he gets you :) unless you don't like cake—he'll write it on a card anyways

^ gets you very thoughtful gifts. it's something you've been wanting for ages that he started to save up for, or something he saw that reminded him of you, or something that the two of you could do together. you get it

usually goes for the big spoon when you sleep, but his grip tightens when you try to get up no matter what position you're in

he gets a little flustered if he notices you saved his contact as anything other than "Aki" even if it's just like, a heart next to it