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Miss Angelica is so young that Tenma struggles with not slipping into his doctor’s voice—measured and calm.
Talking to her feels like talking to a younger sister, or maybe a niece, a sister or niece who needs some guidance navigating this—
“I call it sometimes a labyrinth without walls.”
He uses this metaphor only in his head; there aren’t many people with whom he could share these not-so-grounded observations.
It’s a respite when Angelica nods.
She finishes her third glass of wine—isn’t she drinking too much? She knows how much it can affect her health, right?—and adjusts her golden watch, clicking her tongue. “So you don’t want to be here as well, do you?”
“Pardon?” Tenma freezes with a piece of goose meat and red cabbage in his mouth.
“I hate this place. Don’t you?”
Tenma looks around; he no longer pays much attention to these restaurants as they all blur into one gold-and-white mass, filled with the scent of fresh herbs and perfume, populated in tuxedos and dresses. It’s easier to navigate them when he doesn’t linger on details. “Well—Hate seems a bit too strong here, but—”
“How do you feel about a walk?”
The change in Angelica—from quietly listening to taking the initiative—prevents him from overthinking the offer.
As they walk through the illuminated streets of Düsseldorf, Angelica unties her hair and loosens the clasp of her collar. The air carries a smell of the Rhine River and roasted chestnuts. Angelica’s step is light, and so becomes her voice as she glances at him through her shoulder and mentions her brother’s wife.
Her brother’s wife sings so beautifully when it’s only her and Angelica in a karaoke bar, a place where neither of them should be. The family would be flabbergasted.
Tenma listens, the sudden revelation of a double life leaving him without any clever conclusion. Instead, it pulls him back to a date from nine years ago, shortly after Eva broke up with him.
Her name was Marie, and a tiny hint suggested she had a secret girlfriend—a hint she dropped right after he adjusted his tie and murmured, more to himself, that these things are so exhausting.
Relief came back then—now it returns with Angelica’s tender words, though stained, like a tumor that refuses to be excised.
Is this why she seems like a sister to him? Is—is she also feeling like a fraud?
The hug they share as their walk ends is the most comfortable he’s received in a long time. A trace of sadness touches Angelica’s smile, but her words are surprisingly mellow. “I’m so happy I don’t have to kiss you or—go to bed with you.”
“Yes. Me too.”
A crumb of an answer appears the next morning; it’s high time to reject further matching attempts made by Dr. Becker.
Firmly.
Tenma can’t rest with a light heart—a vacation is more difficult than even the most complicated decision in the operating room.
As he informs the hospital of his plans, his thoughts turn to Mr. Kapp’s blood test results from his last surgery—a successful procedure, but with lingering doubts about long-term outcomes. Mrs. Detmold’s faint voice also echoes in his mind; she confessed that she hoped to live long enough to see her grandchild.
It’s fine. He’ll be back soon—very soon. His throat is tight and dry as he gets into his car.
Dr. Becker is, of course, thrilled with this decision—a bit too thrilled, his enthusiasm punctuated by a pat on the back. He wouldn’t be so pleased if he knew this time off is for Tenma to explore whether dating men might feel any different—any better—than his past disasters with women.
He tapps his fingers on the steering wheel in an unknown rhythm. There aren’t any other options, are there?
He wants to know what lies beyond the door—a door he’s been staring at more often on his way home from work.
Behind the door is a club for men. It should be a decent first step: something new but with familiar elements.
Tenma hopes he won’t meet anyone from work there.
He takes off his coat and finds a place for himself in a shady corner. Tonight, his only goal is to observe.
His hand wanders to the pocket where his pager usually is and adjusts his invisible tie, his mind clings to his desk and all the documentation, he hushes it away, what’s a good way of—
A beer should be a good choice for starters. There’s nothing unusual about drinking beer.
It’s an Altbier, dark copper with milky foam. Tenma turns the glass in his fingers, takes a deeper breath, and scans the room, the men’s silhouettes blurred by the dark. He appreciates it.
Tenma checks his watch. Only sixteen minutes passed.
He nurses his beer, poking at the wooden table with a toothpick. This is a mistake. Why did he even think he could find his place in—in a club like this.
A club full of middle-aged men. How many of them are married? Some probably don’t even bother hiding their wedding rings. Shuddering.
(Would he have come here if Eva hadn’t broken up with him right after her father’s sudden death? If everything had gone according to his father’s original plan, would he seek out similar places in Japan as the hospital’s director?)
Another watch check. Twenty-eight minutes passed.
This is ridiculous. Tenma grabs his coat and heads toward the exit, where he bumps into someone.
“Excuse me.”
The man takes a slow step back, his face barely visible. “Leaving already? That’s a pity.”
His deep voice marks a sigh; a pleasant change to the headache-inducing chitter-chatter.
“Well—”
“Don’t you think talking to me might be nicer than another lonely night?”
He loosens his scarf neatly; Tenma adjusts the invisible tie again, unsure where to look, torn between the door and his face.
A flash of light reveals a clean-shaven face with a subtle smile, an elegant addition to the stranger’s voice—small things Tenma learned to notice through years of observing patients.
Staying for a moment longer won’t hurt him. After all, isn’t this why he came here?
The man chooses a place by the bar. Tenma glances at his hand: There’s no wedding ring. Still, this doesn’t mean he’s not married.
He rolls his thumbs. It’s none of his business, but—it feels like it is, which results in a mild stomach ache.
“First time here?”
Tenma turns his face away. “Oh—I didn’t know it was that obvious.”
“Because it isn’t. You seem distant, but not necessarily in a newbie way.” He smooths a wrinkle on the sleeve of his purple shirt. “But there are details that give you away.”
Details that give him away? Something in the way he sits, talks, or moves?
Tenma isn’t sure about the answer, so he orders a beer instead.
The man interlaces his fingers on the counter, taps his shining shoe to a jazz rhythm, and shifts his calm gaze from Tenma to the glass of beer. It unfolds like a slow-motion movie frame.
Is it natural or studied? Something in between?
“It’s been ages since I drank a Pilsner,” the man muses. “And the first time I drank it? In the very place it was first brewed.”
“So—you’re traveling a lot?”
“You could say so.”
Two men sitting next start kissing, the sloppy sounds make Tenma frown. Is this really the place for that? His eyes flicker to the man, who smirks as he watches the couple, then looks back at Tenma. Tenma’s face grows even warmer, but maybe it’s the beer. Yes, it’s probably the beer.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s—Tenma.”
“Tenma,” he repeats thoughtfully. “I won’t pretend I’m fluent in Japanese, but isn’t it a pegasus? Or a demon? I hope I didn’t mix it up. I know about it thanks to a certain work of fiction.”
Tenma chuckles. The last time someone mentioned it was back in Japan. “Well—something like that. It can be both.”
“Both.” He nods. “I’d love to see at least one of these sides tonight.”
Tenma’s mouth feels stuffed with antiseptic gauze—he gulps his beer; some of it runs down his chin. Gross.
The man offers him a tissue, much to Tenma’s embarrassment. “How do you feel about a dance?”
Tenma is no dancer. He avoids it like the plague and it comes back to bite him.
His gaze wanders from his shoes to the man’s shoulder, stopping at his face. He has a hooked nose, frown lines with crow’s feet, and silver streaks in his brown hair. His eyes squint as he pulls Tenma closer—but not too close.
He touches his cheek—Tenma can’t tell whether it’s endearing or mocking.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
A pause. “Tonight you can call me Emil.”
He grabs his hand so confidently that Tenma accepts Emil without hesitation.
And then he leads them to the center, followed by many pairs of eyes. His moves quicken, and with a sudden leap, he lets Tenma grab his waist, his foot hovering above the floor.
Tenma holds him tightly, his grip firm against Emil’s back. A damp strand forms on his forehead, and he’s unsure whether it’s the emotions or effort. Emil lifts his head slightly and brushes his collarbone with his lips, his cologne hitting Tenma’s nostrils.
It’s so, so warm; Tenma’s ears and temples are pulsing.
Emil’s breath is steady. Enviable physical condition—his blood pressure certainly matches it.
Emil pulls him gently toward a quieter corner.
He encircles Tenma’s waist as he leans for a kiss; no tongue, only two or three pecks, and Tenma’s arms drop, finally. Kissing here—away from the crowd’s gaze—feels safe.
Closing his eyes, Tenma parts his lips; Emil lets out a satisfied hum.
A wave of pleasure shoots through Tenma’s body, his mind flicking to the neural pathways that connect the spine to the brain.
And then the uncertainty attacks—Tenma breaks the kiss: “Are you married?”
Emil’s laugh follows a moment of silence. “Used to be.” He touches his ear with his lips and Tenma’s spine betrays him again. “And then she found my drawings and didn’t believe me when I told her these were just for practicing male anatomy.”
A part of Tenma is relieved; another part feels bad for Emil’s ex-wife.
Tenma flinches when Emil’s hand lands on his ass.
“Relax.” A low and velvety murmur. “You have a lovely butt, but tonight, the spotlight is on mine.”
Emil’s fingers slide to his shoulder. Tenma is leafing through his long-term memory for an accurate answer in German as Emil’s touch changes something in his neural connection patterns.
“Oh, I can see you disagree? If so, do enlighten me about your vision. I’d hate you to put you in a form you don’t want.”
His mind won’t cooperate yet again, so he goes for another kiss, a deeper kiss, and Emil curls his fingers on his shirt.
“It’s getting too crowded here, don’t you think? How about switching somewhere where we could see and hear only each other?”
A crooked smile creeps onto Tenma’s lips; so much for being an observer tonight.
Emil leads using his dance steps, Tenma keeps up.
The walk to the apartment is short. As they cross the threshold, Tenma looks around the narrow hallway. On the light-green walls hang two pictures; one is the Charles Bridge in Prague, and the other is a detailed mansion drawing.
“Coming to a stranger’s home.” Emil takes Tenma’s coat. “You’re either very brave or very— careless.”
“I have to be very careful in my everyday life. I need some rest from it.”
Emil chuckles. “Opening up, aren’t we? Let me get ready. Make yourself comfortable—in my bedroom.”
Emil’s bedroom is uncannily familiar. The desk by the window, the many notebooks—are among them the marriage-wrecking drawings?—everything looks like Tenma’s bedroom years ago, his bedroom if someone decorated it with plants and art.
He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress firm, and touches the bedclothes and—is he ready to lay down here with—with a man?
Emil comes in, wearing a dark red bathrobe. Tenma tightens his palms on his pants, a gesture that wins him a smirk.
“You look like a schoolboy when you sit like this.”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Emil scratches his neck, looking away. “You’re terribly handsome, that’s all.”
It’s the first time another man calls him handsome and it’s both terrific and terrifying.
Emil slides his leg between Tenma’s, slowly—very slowly—unbuttoning his shirt; he kisses him simultaneously, and Tenma is impressed by the smooth multitasking.
(It would be an interesting brain scan. Ah, not now, not now.)
Emil’s robe slides open, revealing his torso; Tenma glances at it now and then—is the curiosity in his mind or body?
He runs his fingers across his chest and stomach hair; switching from his doctor’s touch to his private touch is tricky. But Emil seems to enjoy it—he purrs and kisses him with more fire.
He throws Tenma’s shirt on the floor; for a split second, Tenma wants to cover himself, but the microscope and pencil hidden in Emil’s blue eyes stop him.
“See the effect you’re having on me?”
Is this something every guest of this bedroom hears?
It doesn’t matter: Emil’s body shows he isn’t lying. Tenma needs to see more, so he puts his hand on Emil’s neck and traces his very alive pulse with his fingertips.
Emil slides beneath Tenma and lets him kiss his chest. “I like the way you explore. Like a fox, so curious and shy.”
Like a fox? Tenma pauses, swallowing the laughter rising in his throat, before removing Emil’s bathrobe. “Is this one of your fixed compliments?”
“Oh my god, no.”
Tenma can swear there’s a blush on Emil’s cheeks.
Emil puts a pillow on the floor; Tenma kneels between his legs, taking it without hurry, his eyes shut.
“It’s your first time, isn’t it?” Emil tousles his hair. “Open your mouth wider, dear. And use your tongue.”
Tenma looks up with a lifted eyebrow, saltiness touching his taste buds. “Dear?”
“Oh, you don’t like that? Any nickname preferences?”
“Just Tenma.”
Emil chuckles. “Alright. Your wish is my command, my dear Tenma.”
What a stubborn man.
Tenma kisses his inner thigh before taking him in his mouth again. Emil goes silent, his only sound a quicker breath, his stomach rising and falling as his fingers massage Tenma’s head.
Tenma continues until his jaw starts aching. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
It’s—interesting, but the appeal—whether as a passive or active participant—remains a mystery. A fascinating one, but still a mystery. His thumping heart and the mounting pressure in his boxer shorts only sharpen the sensation of control slipping away. And yet—he allows it. He doesn’t need it, but giving it to this man—to Emil—feels right, at least for now.
“You’re a fast learner. Now—We should take care of you, don’t you think?”
Emil closes the gap between his lips and Tenma’s neck. It’s a play of breath and touch, Tenma throws his head back, it’s—it’s nice.
It never was as nice as it is now.
“You have beautiful hands.” Emil touches Tenma’s every finger. “Will you show me if they’re as skillful as they look?”
Tenma reciprocates it, Emil’s hands slender, fingernails carefully filed. Is there one thing he doesn’t do carefully?
“What do you want me to do?”
“Prepare my ass for you.”
Tenma blinks. “Yes—but let’s slow down a bit, okay?”
“Oh. Sure.” Emil fiddles with the face of his watch. “Well—usually, men are trying to get into my pants too fast and destroy all anticipation. This is a pleasant change.”
There is something almost too satisfying in seeing this man so easily flustered. “I’m glad I can be a pleasant change, then.”
“A quick fuck is great now and then. But I also enjoy it slow.” He bites his lower lip so lightly that Tenma barely feels it. “You have no idea how much I love to whet my appetite.”
The low voice. The low voice turns Tenma’s body so soft again.
It feels like a trick. He doesn’t mind it.
Tenma puts more lube—it smells of artificial strawberries—on his fingers as Emil lies on his stomach, clenching his fingers on a pillow.
“Oh dear, I bet the ladies had a taste of heaven with you.”
A taste of heaven? The ladies would laugh at this. Sure, he did what they told him, but—
They all somehow knew it was only this—following orders.
Emil is vocal, of course he is. At first, it’s even amusing, his voice so fine. The steady pacing is soothing.
Soothing for Tenma, dulling for Emil, it seems, because he shoots him a piercing stare through his shoulder and tells him to fuck him harder. Tenma’s hand is so sticky, and—pause.
“Emil? I-I think I need a break. Bathroom break.”
Instant silence. “Oh—of course. The bathroom is next to the entrance.” He clears his throat. “Just promise you will be back.” Hesitation slices the syrupy tone.
It evokes guilt, guilt sprinkled with satisfaction.
Tenma sits on the floor, time transforming into an alien concept.
The bathroom smells floral and is bathed in warm light. Truly a safety spot.
There is a garnet pendant on the shelf. Tenma takes it—not doubtless—and examines it. The initials V. Č. are engraved on it.
What part of Emil’s past does it carry?
When he returns, Emil is reading a book, round glasses on the tip of his nose.
“I was getting worried you escaped through the bathroom window.”
“You don’t have a window in the bathroom.”
A chuckle. “Come here.” His voice is warm like before, but this is different, more—more layered?
Words are sometimes so confusing.
Tenma lies down next to him and brushes his cheekbones with his hand. “What would you do if I ran away?”
“I would be disappointed, but not surprised.” He takes off his glasses and inspects his fingernails. “I used to overwhelm my ex-partners with how intense I can be.” He rubs the back of his head. “Well, anyway, I would be very disappointed because a catch like you is rare.”
Before Tenma can process each word, Emil grabs him by the arm, but quickly lightens his touch. He pulls him for a hug and a few pecks, leaving the next step up to Tenma.
He moves Emil’s hand to his boxer shorts. “Are you still interested?”
“Oh, what kind of question is that? I’m hungry for you.”
Emil teases him with his hand. They take their time and exchange lazy kisses.
It feels right.
Tenma struggles a little with putting on the condom—it’s been a while since he wore one.
“Need some assistance with this?”
Tenma gasps when Emil helps himself with his mouth and hand.
Tenma lies atop Emil, who embraces him tightly as he murmurs something in a different language—ah. It’s Czech, isn’t it?
The closeness allows them to kiss, touch foreheads, and interlace their hands, it enhances Emil’s every sound, intensifies every move, and turns time into an unknown. It’s overwhelming, but nothing like in pop songs or novels (bad novels, as Eva reminded him when he tried to impress her with his grasp of the Western canon), it’s not a pleasant high that leaves the mind dull, it’s—too confusing.
Tenma’s hands move from Emil’s waist to his hair, from his hair to his arms—toned but slightly soft—and from his arms to the mattress.
And then, he pulls out.
Emil’s response, a snarly frown, comes a second later—Why did you stop?—and Tenma’s heart skips.
The moment is stretching horribly. His thoughts scatter. Then, Emil exhales through his nose, concern melting his voice. “What happened?”
“Nothing, it’s—”
Words are gone—both in German and Japanese.
“Come on. Tell me what you want, Tenma. Be more selfish.”
“Selfish?”
“Yes, selfish. It’s alluring. You know that, right?”
Alluring? Not a word Tenma would use to describe anything about himself. He moves to the edge of the bed, covering himself with the blanket. “I think I need a hug.”
Quiet. “You want a hug?” Emil raises his eyebrows. “Oh. It’s been a while since I cuddled with someone.” Is this melancholy or amusement in Emil’s voice?
“But—If you don’t want to, that’s fine too.”
Can he stop sounding like a goddamn robot for a second? He had sex with this man minutes ago, he should be able to talk like an actual human being, not this—
Emil tilts his head and comes closer to embrace him. “Like this?”
Tenma’s arms drop again that night—finally a normal reaction. “Like this.”
Emil presses soft kisses on Tenma’s shoulders while spooning him. Tenma closes his eyes, Emil’s breath and the nightly city hum connecting in a mix that works like a sedative.
It’s so freeing.
When Emil pokes him, he turns around to face him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to continue?” The gentleness smoothes the slyness of the question.
“I’m sure.”
“Fair. Well, this is nice too, I can’t complain. It feels like torture, the good kind of torture.”
“Like torture? Then how about this?” He slides his tongue into Emil’s mouth to kiss him.
“Now you’re proving that the demon hidden in your name is, indeed, a real one.”
Tenma chuckles. So, so freeing.
Tenma’s body is less tense; and yet, he can’t remain thoughtless for too long, can he?
As Emil moves his hand through his chest, the circuits in Tenma’s head fire and misfire. The garnet pendant, why is it so—
“Is—is your ex-wife Czech?”
“Hm?” Emil mumbles sleepily. “No, she’s German. Why this question?”
“Just curious.”
“Mhm, the fox is showing again.”
If this wasn’t his ex-wife—
His family? A friend? Someone he loved or—still loves?
Or perhaps his real name?
Emil. Why Emil? Why a different name at all?
What a strange man. But strange or not, his fingers explore in a way that connects precision with fluidity brilliantly.
“My ex and I,” Emil continues his snoozy mutter. “We could be great friends, but—yes, the marriage thing.”
Tenma muffles a sigh. Would he and Eva be great friends if it weren’t for the engagement thing?
The night is lovely, but—Tenma needs to get into his own shower and bedroom.
He buttons his shirt and shakes his head when Emil offers him a glass of wine.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the rest of the night?”
“Well, I prefer sleeping in my bed.”
“I make excellent morning tea, better than any coffee.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Of course, of course.”
Emil swirls the glass as he follows Tenma to the entrance. “I assume you won’t come to the club again”
“Oh, I don't think it’s my place after all. But there are other places where you can find me.”
“A fox in bed and a fox in real life, aren’t you?”
As they exchange a goodbye handshake, Emil slows it down and narrows his eyes.
“You have the hands of a healer. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Perhaps a surgeon?”
Tenma withdraws his hand to hide it in his pocket. Is it a lucky guess? Did he uncover himself too much?
His eyes stop at the mansion drawing as he forces a smile. “Something like that.”
He tells him to take care and leaves.
Was this a foretaste of the intensity that startled his ex-partners?
Tenma sits on a bench, the street lamp bulb buzzing overhead. A small detail, but Tenma can’t dismiss small details, because they saved many lives in the operation room.
Luckily, it’s not the operation room, but the dark and cold streets of Düsseldorf. He can let it go.
The labyrinth without walls is still there. No stop signs, no lines, but it feels less hostile.
At least for now.