Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the small apartment. Ryūnosuke Akutagawa lay on his back, staring at the ceiling as the dull ache in his chest throbbed in time with his slow, steady breaths. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, like it was pressing down on him. His throat burned from the dry coughing fit he had struggled through the night before, but he ignored it. It would pass. It always did.
He turned onto his side and coughed, his body curling inward as his lungs fought against the scratchy, dry sensation that had plagued him for as long as he could remember. He pressed his fist to his mouth, willing the fit to pass quickly. When it did, he lay there for a moment, listening to the soft ticking of the old clock on his nightstand. The red numbers read 6:30 AM. He had to get moving.
With a sigh, he forced himself to sit up. His dark hair was a mess, strands falling over his eyes as he ran a hand through it, pushing back the tangles. He blinked against the dim light, his body feeling heavier than usual, like an invisible force was pressing him down. But that was nothing new.
A few more moments passed before he finally pulled himself out of bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet as he padded toward the bathroom, where the mirror above the sink reflected tired eyes and pale skin. His sharp features looked even sharper in the morning light, shadows clinging to the hollows of his cheeks. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face, letting the chill wake him up fully. The water dripped from his chin as he braced his hands against the sink, staring at his own reflection for a moment longer before sighing and straightening up.
A quiet knock came from outside the bathroom door. “Ry, are you awake?”
It was Gin.
Akutagawa cleared his throat before answering. “Yeah. I’ll be out in a second.”
He grabbed a towel, quickly drying his face before stepping out into the hallway. Gin stood there, already dressed in her school uniform, her long dark hair neatly tied back into a low ponytail. She tilted her head slightly as she looked up at him, her expression unreadable.
“You were coughing again,” she said simply.
Akutagawa exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he walked past her toward the kitchen. “It’s fine.”
She followed him, her footsteps light. “You say that every time.”
He didn’t answer, instead reaching for the kettle on the stovetop. The kitchen was small, but it was enough for the two of them. A single table with two chairs sat near the window, where Gin’s half-finished breakfast—rice, miso soup, and a small plate of grilled fish—waited for her return. He turned on the stove and set the kettle down, waiting for the water to heat as he grabbed a cup from the cupboard.
Gin sat back down, poking at her rice with her chopsticks. “You should take medicine or something. Maybe go to the doctor.”
“I don’t need to.”
Gin sighed but didn’t push further. She had tried countless times before, but Akutagawa never budged. To him, it was nothing more than a lingering cold or his so-called asthma acting up. Nothing worth wasting time or money over.
The kettle whistled, cutting through the silence. He poured hot water into his cup, the scent of green tea filling the air as he wrapped his hands around the warmth of the ceramic. The heat helped, at least a little.
Gin continued eating while he sipped his tea, the two of them settling into their usual quiet routine. The morning light outside grew brighter, casting long shadows against the walls. The city outside their apartment was already alive with movement—distant voices, the sound of car engines, and the occasional bark of a stray dog wandering the streets.
When Gin finished eating, she stood up, carrying her dishes to the sink. “Are you working late today?” she asked, rinsing off her bowl.
Akutagawa nodded. "Yeah."
Gin frowned slightly but didn’t say anything else. Instead, she grabbed her school bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
Akutagawa downed the rest of his tea before setting the cup in the sink. He grabbed his keys from the counter, then reached for his coat hanging near the door. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in a way. He glanced at Gin, making sure she had everything before opening the door.
The cool morning air greeted them as they stepped outside. Their apartment building was quiet at this hour, only a few other residents moving about. The sky above was a muted blue, tinged with soft shades of pink and orange as the sun slowly climbed higher. The streets of Yokohama were still waking up, but soon, they would be filled with people hurrying to work, students heading to school, and vendors setting up their stalls.
Akutagawa unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat, waiting for Gin to buckle her seatbelt before starting the engine. The low hum of the car filled the silence between them as they pulled onto the road, weaving through the narrow streets toward Ikego Elementary School.
Gin was quiet for most of the drive, her gaze focused on the scenery outside. Akutagawa didn’t mind. He wasn’t one for small talk, and Gin never forced it. But as they neared the school, she finally spoke again.
“You’ll be home after closing, right?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded, gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter. “Okay.”
When they arrived, she hesitated for a second before opening the door. “See you later,” she said, her voice softer than before.
Akutagawa gave a small nod. “See you.”
Gin stepped out and disappeared through the school gates. He watched her for a moment, making sure she got inside before shifting the car into gear and driving away.
Tomorrow would be the same. Wake up, take Gin to school, go to work, come home.
And that was fine.
It had to be.
The drive home was quiet. Akutagawa’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel in a slow, steady rhythm, matching the soft hum of the car’s engine. The streets of Yokohama had started to fill with the mid-morning bustle—office workers hurrying to their jobs, students lingering outside convenience stores before heading to class, an old man walking his dog along the sidewalk. None of it concerned him. His mind was already focused on the few hours he had to himself before his shift at Anpontan.
Pulling into the small parking lot beside his apartment building, he shut off the engine and climbed out. The air was warmer now, but a faint breeze still lingered. He took the stairs up to his floor, his boots thudding against the worn-out concrete steps, and unlocked the door to the apartment.
The place was quiet. It always was when Gin was at school. Akutagawa dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter and made his way toward his bedroom, barely sparing a glance at the small stack of mail resting near the sink. He flopped onto his bed with a heavy sigh, pulling out his phone to take care of the one thing he’d been putting off—bills.
Rent, electricity, water, gas.
One by one, he tapped through each payment, his face impassive despite the way his bank account steadily dwindled. It wasn’t like he spent money on much else. Food, Gin’s school expenses, the occasional necessity. Anything extra—clothes, better furniture, things that might make their lives easier—was pushed aside. He didn’t need it.
Once he was done, he tossed his phone onto the mattress beside him, exhaling slowly. An hour had passed, just like that. He let his arm drape over his eyes, soaking in the silence for a moment longer before finally forcing himself to move.
Sliding off the bed, he crossed the room and pulled open the drawer of his nightstand. Inside, among a few stray receipts and random knickknacks, was his eyeliner. He picked it up, turning it over in his fingers before heading to the bathroom.
Perching himself on the bathroom counter, he leaned toward the mirror, twisting the eyeliner cap off with a quiet pop . He wasn’t an expert, but over time, he’d gotten better. He started with the basics—thin lines along the upper lash, smudging out the edges with his fingertip. Then he experimented, thickening the lines, dragging them outward, trying different styles he’d seen in magazines or on people walking past him in the city.
His focus sharpened as he attempted to draw a wing at the corner of his eye, his grip steady, the tip gliding against his skin—
And then he coughed.
The sharp jolt of his body ruined the precise line, leaving behind a jagged, squiggly mess. His expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the eyeliner pencil as frustration flared in his chest.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
Slamming the cap back onto the eyeliner, he twisted the sink’s handle, letting cold water rush over his fingers before scrubbing at his eye. The black smudged and bled against his skin before finally washing away. He glared at his reflection for a moment before shutting off the tap and tossing the eyeliner onto the counter.
Whatever. He’d try again some other day.
Leaving the bathroom, he returned to his bedroom, shoving the eyeliner back into his drawer before reaching for something else—his electric guitar.
The instrument was worn, the black paint slightly chipped at the edges, but he took care of it. It was one of the few things he actually gave a damn about. Carrying it over to his desk, he settled into the chair, reaching out to push open the window beside him. The early afternoon breeze drifted in, ruffling the loose strands of his hair. The distant sounds of the city filtered through—honking cars, chattering pedestrians, the faint melody of a street performer’s saxophone somewhere far below.
He placed the guitar on his lap, fingers naturally finding the strings. Before he played, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
Half-finished lyrics. A song he’d tried to write months ago but never completed.
His eyes skimmed over the faded ink, his own messy handwriting scrawled across the page. Some lines were crossed out, others rewritten over and over again. He tapped his fingers against the guitar’s body, debating whether or not he even wanted to try again.
But then, almost instinctively, he started playing.
The chords came first, deep and steady. His fingers moved with practiced ease, finding the familiar notes that matched the rhythm in his head. He let them settle before murmuring the lyrics under his breath, testing how they fit with the melody.
He stopped. Adjusted the chords. Tried again.
The words didn’t come easily. He hated that. It was like there was something just out of reach, something he wanted to say but couldn’t quite form into sentences. His frustration built as he strummed harder, pushing the sound out into the air, letting it fill the room.
For a while, he lost himself in it, in the repetition of notes, in the way the music drowned out the noise in his head.
Akutagawa tried again. And again.
The words wouldn’t come.
His fingers moved mechanically over the strings, the melody repeating itself like a broken record. He stared at the half-finished lyrics in front of him, reading the same lines over and over, hoping something—anything—would spark in his mind. But it didn’t. The song was going nowhere.
“Dumb,” he muttered under his breath.
Another shitty song that nobody would ever hear. Just like the others.
Frustration boiled inside him as he snatched up the crumpled paper, his grip tightening around it until the ink-smeared lines were crushed into nothing. He didn’t even think twice before chucking it out the window. The wind carried it away, spiraling downward into the streets below. Gone. Just like all the other songs he’d tried to write.
Then came the cough.
It tore through his chest suddenly, sharp and dry. He pressed a hand against his ribs, gritting his teeth as the burning sensation flared up, then dulled into an ache. It never lasted long—just a few seconds—but those few seconds were enough to piss him off. Enough to remind him of how much he hated this.
He never went to a doctor. Never once got it checked out. The orphanage never gave a damn when he was a kid, and now he didn’t either. What was the point?
Still, he’d done his own research. Late at night, staring at the dim glow of his phone screen, searching up what it meant to be coughing all the time. The most common answer? Asthma.
And it made sense.
Maybe his mother had it. Or his father. Maybe it was something passed down to him like a shitty heirloom. Not that he’d ever know.
His mother died at birth. His father committed suicide when he was just a few months old. That’s what he’d been told, anyway. There was no way to confirm it, no way to know if it was the truth or just another lie fed to him by caretakers who never actually cared. He never met them. Never had the chance.
Instead, he grew up in that damn orphanage.
God, he hated that place.
He was twelve when he figured out how easy it was to sneak out. It wasn’t like anyone was keeping a close watch. If he disappeared, would they even care? Would they notice? Probably not.
But that was before Gin.
She had been a newborn when she arrived, a small, fragile thing with big, curious eyes. A new addition to the orphanage’s long list of abandoned children. She had been placed in the same room as him, and somehow, she became his responsibility.
He didn’t ask for it. Didn’t ask to be the one to rock her to sleep at night when she cried, didn’t ask to be the one sneaking into the kitchen to make her baby food. But it just happened.
And he didn’t mind.
Gin was different. She wasn’t like the others. She needed someone. And, for some reason, he was the one who stayed. He stayed for her. Because if he left, who would take care of her?
No one.
So he stayed.
And when he was finally old enough to leave that miserable place, the first thing he did was make sure he took Gin with him. He became her guardian, her only real family. He’d done everything he could to protect her back then.
And he still would now.
Always.
After tossing away his failed lyrics, Akutagawa settled into something easier—playing random songs he already knew. His fingers plucked at the strings, cycling through melodies without much thought. It was muscle memory, something he didn’t have to think too hard about.
He played song after song, letting the sound fill the room, letting it drown out the thoughts in his head. He didn’t bother trying to write anything new. What was the point? No one would hear it anyway.
Time passed quicker than he expected.
Glancing at the clock, he realized it was getting close to when he had to leave for work. With a sigh, he set his guitar aside and got up, dragging himself to the closet to pull out his ridiculous work uniform. The thing was hideous—an ugly shade that didn’t suit him, stiff fabric that never felt comfortable no matter how many times he wore it. It made him look like an idiot.
Not that he cared.
He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned up his uniform. Dark bags clung under his eyes. He looked dead. And? So what? He didn’t give a shit. If people thought he looked terrible, that was their problem, not his.
He grabbed his eyeliner, fixing up his makeup with practiced ease. His hand was steady this time—no annoying coughing fits to ruin his work. Once satisfied, he stepped into the kitchen, throwing together a small bowl of ramen. He wasn’t really hungry, but he knew he should eat something before his shift.
The weather outside was a reminder that summer had ended. It was mid-September, the kind of day where the chill started creeping in. He pulled on his oversized coat before stepping out.
One thing he hated? The cold.
It may have only been 12 degrees Celsius, but that was cold enough for him. He hated that biting air, the way it settled into his bones. Pulling his coat tighter around himself, he started his short walk to work. The restaurant was only three minutes away—three minutes too short for him to come up with an excuse not to go.
As soon as he stepped inside, the warmth of the restaurant surrounded him, cutting through the autumn air. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the rack before heading to the back to clock in.
He always dreaded this part of his day.
Bussing tables was fine. Waiting tables? A nightmare. He hated talking to people. He wasn’t a people person. Never was, never would be. If it were up to him, he’d stay in the kitchen and wash dishes for hours before willingly taking an order.
So when his boss walked up to him, handing him a notepad, he already knew what was coming.
“You’re waiting today.”
Kill him now.
Akutagawa gave a small nod, swallowing back a groan. Instead, he took a deep breath, steeling himself before stepping out of the break room.
The restaurant was full of people.
Too many people.
And now, he had to deal with them.
Akutagawa had been waiting on tables for two fucking hours. Two long, excruciating hours, and he wasn’t even halfway done with his shift. He could feel the weight of time pressing down on him, every minute stretching into an eternity as he moved from one table to another, scribbling down orders with an expression that barely qualified as polite.
He had already dealt with two bitchy customers, the kind who acted like the world revolved around them and took pleasure in making service workers’ lives miserable. One woman had sent back her ramen twice because it was ‘too hot,’ as if she expected the chef to personally blow on it before serving. Another man had stiffed him entirely on a tip after demanding endless refills and extra sauce that he never even touched. Aku wanted to scream. He hated this job. Hated it more than anything. But at the end of the day, it kept a roof over his and Gin’s heads, and that was all that mattered.
Taking a deep breath, Akutagawa shoved his frustration down and approached the next table, plastering on the practiced fake smile he always used at work. "Welcome. My name is Akutagawa, and I’ll be your server today. Are you ready to order?"
Sitting before him was an older couple, a man and a woman who had clearly been together for decades. Akutagawa could tell just by the way they sat close to each other, their hands almost brushing on the table. The husband, a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, smiled warmly. "Yes, I believe we are," he said, his voice rich with a sense of calm assurance.
"Oh, but dear, you should go first," the husband insisted, his voice gentle. The wife, a delicate woman with kind eyes and silver-streaked hair, returned her husband’s smile before glancing up at Aku.
Akutagawa had to admit—just slightly—that was kind of cute. Old married couples had a way of tugging at people's heartstrings, even his.
The woman chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You always say that," she teased before looking back at Akutagawa. "I’ll have a bowl of miso soup with a glass of lemon water, please."
Akutagawa nodded, scribbling it down quickly before shifting his attention to the husband. "And for you, sir?"
"I’d like the tempura with a cup of matcha, please," the man said, handing his menu back with a smile.
Akutagawa barely had time to finish writing it down before the wife let out a sigh and shook her head. "Dear, you know the matcha always upsets your stomach."
The husband frowned slightly but kept his smile intact. "But I really wanted the matcha tonight."
His wife gave him a knowing look, then turned back to Akutagawa. "He’ll have a green tea instead."
Akutagawa glanced between them, amused. He let out a soft chuckle, the smallest, briefest crack in his usual stony demeanor. "Green tea it is."
The husband sighed but didn’t argue further. "Ah, what can I say? She always knows best."
His wife patted his hand affectionately. "That’s because I do."
Akutagawa wrote down the change before nodding. "Alright, I’ll get those out for you shortly."
He walked away, shaking his head slightly. That was the kind of love people spent their lives searching for, wasn’t it? Someone who knew them inside and out, someone who cared enough to stop them from making stupid little mistakes—even if it was just ordering a tea that would make their stomach hurt.
Not that Akutagawa thought about things like that. Love, relationships, they weren’t for him. He had too much on his plate, too much baggage, and frankly, he didn’t give a shit.
He moved through the restaurant, dropping off orders, picking up plates, and dealing with the never-ending flow of customers. The minutes dragged on, blending into each other in a haze of movement and noise. He refilled drinks, ignored customers’ condescending tones, and forced a pleasant smile onto his face like it was stitched there.
By the time he returned to the old couple’s table with their food, the two were chatting quietly, their fingers intertwined on the table. Akutagawa set down the miso soup and lemon water in front of the wife, then placed the tempura and green tea in front of the husband.
"Here you go," Akutagawa said. "Enjoy your meal."
The husband smiled up at him. "Thank you, young man."
The wife nodded approvingly. "Yes, thank you so much. And don’t work too hard, alright?"
Akutagawa blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Customers didn’t usually say things like that. Most just treated him like he was invisible or barked orders at him like he was a machine.
He hesitated before nodding. "Yeah… sure."
He turned and walked away before they could say anything else, pushing down whatever strange feeling had just stirred in his chest. It wasn’t important. Nothing was important except getting through this shift.
He glanced up at the clock. 5:05 PM.
Four more hours to go.
Akutagawa sighed as he rounded the restaurant once more, scanning the tables for any new customers that needed service. The familiar weight of the notepad in his hand felt heavier than usual. His shift was dragging, and he was already running on thin patience.
Then, he spotted them—a new table. A booth, occupied by three people. Just great. He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it with his thumb and forefinger before forcing himself to move. It wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter.
As he approached the booth, he took a moment to take in the people sitting there. They were all still looking down at their menus, seemingly unaware of his presence. The first person that caught his eye was a brunette man, probably in his late twenties. He had bandages wrapped around his wrists and neck, which immediately struck Akutagawa as odd. Something about the way he slouched made it clear he was tall—even when seated, he took up a significant amount of space. His clothing choice wasn’t too bad, though; he wore a Neighborhood band T-shirt. Decent taste.
Next to him sat a redhead. His hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, a stark contrast to the brunette’s more disheveled look. He was noticeably shorter than the brunette, and while the taller man had a soft, easygoing expression, the ginger looked tense, his expression set in a slight scowl. They were polar opposites in demeanor, yet the brunette had his arm casually draped around the ginger’s shoulder. Boyfriends? Fiancés? Married, maybe?
Akutagawa really didn’t care.
His gaze then drifted to the third person sitting across from them. A guy, probably around Akutagawa’s age, with striking white hair. He wore a soft blue and white striped sweater, the kind that looked comfortable enough to fall asleep in. This guy was slightly taller than the ginger but still shorter than the brunette.
But what really caught Akutagawa’s attention were his eyes.
A deep purple, shaded with hints of lighter green, swirling in a way that almost made them seem unreal. They were... fascinating. He didn’t even realize he was staring until the sound of someone clearing their throat snapped him out of his thoughts.
His eyes flicked to the ginger, who was now sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, looking straight at Akutagawa with an impatient expression. "We’re ready to order now," he said, his tone clipped.
Akutagawa blinked, quickly straightening his posture. He cleared his own throat and nodded, lifting his notepad. "Alright, start whenever."
The ginger was just about to speak when the brunette cut in, his voice louder than necessary but not quite disruptive to the rest of the restaurant. "Oh, hell yeah! Okay, so I’ll start with—let’s see—one order of takoyaki, two bowls of ramen, extra pork, one plate of karaage, a large serving of sushi—oh, and can’t forget some tempura—oh! And—"
Akutagawa's hand cramped from writing so quickly. Was this guy serious? His wrist was already starting to ache. He could barely keep up with how fast the guy was rattling off food items. And the way he was speaking—he wasn’t even pausing for breath!
Then, suddenly, a sharp smack echoed through the booth as the ginger landed a solid hit on the brunette’s head. "Stop fucking around and order what you're actually going to eat!"
The brunette chuckled, rubbing the side of his head before turning his gaze up to Akutagawa. "Heh, I was just kidding."
Akutagawa stared at him blankly. His grip on the pen tightened, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. "Right," he muttered, dragging the tip of his pen aggressively across the notepad to erase the ridiculous order he’d just scribbled down.
"Fine, fine," the brunette finally said, waving a hand dismissively before leaning back against the booth. "I’ll take a bowl of miso ramen, extra spicy. And a cola."
Akutagawa jotted it down, ignoring the irritation bubbling in his chest.
The ginger rolled his eyes before smoothly giving his order. "I’ll take a small beef donburi with miso soup on the side. And just a glass of water."
Akutagawa nodded, writing it down swiftly before turning to the last person—the white-haired guy. He hadn’t said anything the whole time, and even now, he hesitated. His fingers lightly tapped against the menu as his eyes flickered across the options. "Um... I’ll just have some onigiri and a hot green tea."
Simple enough. Akutagawa wrote it down before flipping his notepad closed. "Alright. I’ll get your orders to the kitchen."
As he turned to leave, he could still hear the brunette talking—mostly complaining about how the ginger hit him too hard.
"I swear, Chuuya, you don’t have to go full force every damn time!"
"Maybe if you stopped being an idiot, I wouldn’t have to."
Akutagawa rolled his eyes as he walked away. He really didn’t get paid enough for this.
After the order was taken, Akutagawa hurried back to the kitchen with the notepad clutched tightly in his hand. The clamor of the busy restaurant was a constant background hum, punctuated by the occasional shout of a cook or the clink of dishes. He slid into the narrow space behind the counter, handing over the order details to a chef who barely spared him a nod before returning to his sizzling work at the stove. Akutagawa’s mind wandered as he waited for the food to be prepared—a welcome distraction from the monotony of his shift and the endless parade of customers he had come to despise.
Minutes later, the order was ready. Akutagawa pulled two circular trays from beneath a stack on the counter, each carefully layered with plates of steaming food. As he carried the trays out of the kitchen, a tickle in his throat led him to cough into his arm—a brief, almost apologetic gesture as he turned his face away from the piping-hot dishes. He paused for a moment, rubbing his chest lightly as the burning sensation subsided, and then resumed his task with a practiced sigh.
Crossing the restaurant floor, Akutagawa finally reached the booth occupied by the three new customers. He could see them more clearly now: the trio were huddled together in a slightly worn booth near the window, a quiet corner away from the general hustle. Setting the trays down gently, he ensured the plates were aligned neatly on the table before addressing them.
“Here you go,” he said, his voice low and even. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”
Before he could step away, a voice from the redheaded man at the booth halted him. The redhead cleared his throat sharply, and Akutagawa stopped mid-step, turning to face him. The redhead’s posture was firm, and his eyes held a mix of apology and irritation.
“Wait,” the redhead said, his tone softening as he reached out to grip the brunette’s shoulder. The gesture was unexpectedly tight, causing the brunette to wince slightly and let out a small complaint. “I’m sorry for my fiancée’s idiotic behavior earlier,” the redhead continued, his voice sincere as he squeezed the brunette’s shoulder as if to emphasize his regret.
The brunette, clearly still amused yet in slight discomfort, managed a reluctant chuckle. “I was only joking, really,” he said, though the pain in his voice betrayed that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the roughness of the moment.
Before Akutagawa could process the situation further, the redhead’s hand darted out, playfully pinching the brunette’s thigh. The brunette jerked in response, a clear “ow” escaping his lips. The interplay of their actions was absurdly childish—a behavior Akutagawa had not expected from grown men. Yet, it was all too familiar in the microcosm of personalities that frequented this restaurant.
Sighing, the brunette leaned forward, his face softening into an apologetic expression. The brunette glanced at his nametag. “I’m really sorry about that, Akutagawa,” he said, extending a hand in a gesture that mixed sincerity with a hint of exasperation. His voice carried an earnestness that belied the awkwardness of the previous moments. Akutagawa hesitated for a split second, his gaze locked on the offered hand. He wasn’t one for overly effusive politeness, but there was something in the man’s demeanor that compelled him to accept the apology.
“It’s fine,” Akutagawa replied, his tone neutral, even as his mind cataloged the incident as just another absurd encounter of the day.
The man then smiled broadly, and with a casual motion, he introduced himself. “I’m Osamu Dazai,” he said, his voice warm and resonant despite the earlier roughness. He gestured to his left, where the redhead sat with his arms still folded. “And this is my fiancée, Chuuya Nakahara.”
Dazai’s hand moved in a graceful arc as he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to the redhead’s cheek. Chuuya’s reaction was immediate—a roll of his eyes so exaggerated that it almost drew a smirk from the surrounding diners. Yet, beneath the playful banter was an unmistakable bond, the kind that came from years of shared moments and silent understandings.
Before Akutagawa could fully absorb the introductions, Dazai’s gaze shifted across the table. He pointed toward the white-haired man, who had been quiet until now. The white-haired guy was still sitting with a piece of paper in front of him, seemingly engrossed in its contents as if it held the secrets of the universe. The paper looked oddly pristine, as though someone had taken the time to smooth out its wrinkles and restore its original form—an effort that hinted at care or perhaps obsession.
With a sudden, almost mischievous glint in his eye, Dazai reached into his pocket and produced a small packet of crackers. In one swift motion, he hurled it across the table, the packet sailing through the air before it lightly thudded against the white-haired man’s head.
The impact was enough to startle him; his eyes widened, and he jerked slightly as if he had been snapped from a trance. For a moment, he sat frozen, as if he had just come back from some distant, dreamlike space. Then, blinking rapidly, he looked around the booth, clearly disoriented. “What—what’s going on?” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine surprise.
Akutagawa couldn’t help but feel a surge of amusement at the spectacle, though he held back any sarcastic remark that might have come to mind. It was just another layer of chaos in an otherwise mundane shift—another odd moment in a day filled with countless odd moments.
Dazai’s smile widened as he addressed the white-haired man. “Please, introduce yourself,” he said, his tone both commanding and playful. It was as if Dazai was not only apologizing for the earlier antics but also trying to break the lingering tension with some unexpected levity.
The white-haired man hesitated for a beat before carefully setting aside the paper he had been reading. His eyes, still a deep and captivating shade of purple with hints of lighter green, flicked up at Dazai. He seemed to gather his thoughts, his gaze shifting from Dazai to the redhead and then to the brunette before finally resting on Akutagawa. There was a moment of silent recognition in his eyes—a quiet acknowledgment of the oddities of life, or perhaps of the restaurant’s eccentric clientele.
“Um…” he began, his voice soft and almost uncertain, “I’m…” He paused, then cleared his throat and offered a small, tentative smile. “I’m Atsushi Nakajima.” His tone carried a mix of hesitance and warmth that suggested he was not accustomed to being drawn into such spontaneous social exchanges.