COLD THE FINAL: Chapter 14

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Fall of ending

Towering high above, the skyscrapers loomed like they were about to engulf the night sky. Their windows scattered small squares of light, casting a gem-like glow over the city of New York.

Masahiko Kusuda sat on a knee-high brick border enclosing a planter, champagne flute in hand, and gazed absently at the glittering party around him. The pocket square on his chest fluttered in the breeze—strong, as rooftop winds in the city often were.

In the early days after the opening of CRUX’s New York branch—CRUX being the jewelry brand founded by his older brother Masamitsu—Kusuda had frequently attended fashion industry parties adorned in the company’s accessories. It was all for promoting the brand name and their products.

The fashion world, whether in Japan or abroad, thrived on connections and self-promotion. The more often a designer or stylist used your pieces, the more exposure they received in magazines or runway shows—and that meant a dramatic difference in sales.

CRUX had caught the attention of Andrew, the head stylist at LION, a men’s fashion magazine and flagship publication of Rogue Publishing. Thanks to that connection, the brand had been featured repeatedly. It still couldn’t compete with the high-end luxury brands, but in the past few years, CRUX’s reputation as an accessories label had steadily risen in the U.S.

Now that sales had stabilized and they’d established a respectable network, Kusuda no longer made a point of attending every industry party. Even though he could converse in English without difficulty, he still hadn’t gotten used to the exuberant energy unique to foreigners.

The party he was attending tonight was for the release of LOVE, a commemorative crossover issue blending Rogue’s women’s and men’s magazines in celebration of the company’s 80th anniversary.

The venue was Rogue’s rooftop. Recently renovated, the space had been transformed into a soothing oasis featuring a quaint English-style garden and a small pool. But tonight, it had been dressed up as a glamorous party setting.

The garden lighting was tastefully subdued—not too bright—casting a sophisticated interplay of light and shadow. It was the perfect season for an outdoor gathering; not too hot, not too cold. The crisp air of early autumn felt pleasant on the skin.

Just last week, Jessica had said to him, “There’s going to be a launch party for a book I helped plan—I’d really love for you to come, Masahiko.” There was a dress code, sure, but since it was being held at the company, he’d assumed it would be a low-key, friendly get-together. Instead, he found the rooftop professionally decorated, the tables piled high with top-tier champagne, wine, caviar, foie gras—nothing about it was casual.

He had entered with Jessica, but she was quickly pulled aside by someone she knew—judging from their conversation, probably an editor. Kusuda didn’t know much about the book world, and he didn’t want Jessica to feel pressured about leaving him hanging, so he simply said, “I’m going to take a look around,” and slipped away. But with no acquaintances present, and the thought of making polite small talk too exhausting, he ended up alone, sipping his champagne in a quiet corner near the hedges like he was hiding.

A blond man passed in front of him. Small head, strikingly symmetrical features—probably in his twenties. He wore a powder-blue jacket, a notoriously difficult color to pull off, yet it looked completely natural on him. A Black woman in a backless red gown followed behind him, her long legs and sleek gait reminiscent of a black cat. This party was filled with people who looked like movie stars—and enough stunning men and women to trip over.

Even those whose looks didn’t match such perfection still exuded sharp fashion sense, refined style, and a magnetic, high-energy presence. Just being in their midst was overwhelming.

Even from his small corner of the fashion world, Masahiko Kusuda couldn't shake the feeling that he didn’t belong here. Someone as plainly average as he was felt like an anomaly in this glamorous sphere. If it were someone like Akizawa, he thought, he’d probably blend in without flinching.

Akizawa modeled twice a year for LION, the men’s fashion magazine under Rogue Publishing. He was contracted to wear CRUX’s new releases, but even with such limitations, the fact that they still liked him enough to book him was something Kusuda was genuinely grateful for.

Come to think of it, Akizawa had called the other day sounding excited, saying he’d managed to get two days off during a shoot in Hollywood and was coming to New York.

“You can come, but I’ve got plans that day, so I won’t be home that night,” Kusuda had told him. To that, Akizawa replied with a disappointed tone, “If you're working during the day and going out at night, you’ll be exhausted. You should skip it and stay in with me instead,”—a mix of concern and selfishness tangled in the way only he could say it.

Even if they weren’t technically lovers, it was clear Akizawa had every intention of coming over regardless. But last night, he’d sent a message saying the shoot might run late, shortening his break to just one day. Since then, there had been no contact. Most likely, he’d decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of coming for just a day. It wouldn’t be the first time.

It had been over three years since Akizawa started meeting Kusuda in New York. At first, just being in the same room together had made Kusuda tense. But as they spent more time together, the physical distance between them had gradually closed. Now he could sleep in the same room without discomfort. That they’d gotten this far was largely due to how carefully Akizawa had respected Kusuda’s boundaries.

Akizawa had started getting more work in America, spending two-thirds of the year in Los Angeles. Whenever he had time off, he came straight to New York to see Kusuda. During those stays, he’d curl up like a cat on the cramped couch in Kusuda’s apartment to sleep. Kusuda had once suggested he rent a place here if he was going to be in New York so often—he certainly had the money—but Akizawa had simply said, “I want to be near you.”

At least once a month, sometimes three or four times, he would show up on no fixed schedule. Once, Kusuda hadn’t seen him in a while and wondered what was going on, only to get a call from Akizawa saying he’d been stuck working in Japan and didn’t have enough time off to travel back and forth to New York. Even from Los Angeles, the flight to New York took six to seven hours one way, but it was still closer than Japan.

As his appearances in American films and TV increased, Akizawa’s face was becoming more widely recognized—even when he wasn’t in leading roles. At first, it was mostly Japanese tourists who approached him on the street, but now more and more of the attention came from locals.

Despite his growing fame, Akizawa himself hadn’t changed. He still curled up like a kitten on the secondhand couch and would eagerly ask, “How was my new role? Was I good?” practically begging to be praised.

Just last month, in the heat of summer, Akizawa had come to New York. Unfortunately, Kusuda’s apartment air conditioning had broken three days prior and still hadn’t been repaired.

They took cold showers and slept with a fan. As expected, Kusuda woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, throat parched. He drained half a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, feeling it seep into his body. On the way back to bed, he bumped his hip on the corner of the desk, causing a pile of books to crash to the floor. In the still of the night, the sound seemed especially loud. But Akizawa, asleep on the nearby couch, didn’t even stir. He just kept breathing softly in his sleep.

Kusuda crouched down and peered at the face of the man who seemed like he could sleep through an earthquake. Lit dimly by the footlight, Akizawa’s features floated into view—his face so delicately sculpted, it looked like something crafted by a meticulous god. And it was smiling faintly. That gentle expression stirred something in Kusuda. The urge to reach out and touch that happy cheek washed over him. His hand lifted halfway... then stopped. Akizawa probably wouldn’t even wake if he touched him. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, he told himself.

Like a lullaby, Kusuda repeated It’s okay to himself over and over, whispering the words into the space between his thoughts as if they could soothe the nerves. With fingers still trembling, he reached out and touched him. Akizawa’s skin was soft and radiated a gentle warmth. Kusuda knew just how selfish and willful this man could be—but he also knew how deeply Akizawa loved him. Knew how much he regretted, from the bottom of his heart, the mistakes of the past.

As his hand lingered against that sleeping cheek, Kusuda thought—he wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss this man. There had been other moments before, sudden impulses that flared up inside him, but his body never moved. He had wanted to, yet couldn’t. Why? What was he afraid of? It wasn’t like Akizawa would even notice. The man never woke up even when there was noise, even when touched.

“Mmnn…”

The man in front of him stirred, shifting his shoulder with a soft murmur. Kusuda jumped back as if burned and all but leapt onto the bed. He sat there watching for a while, but nothing followed—it had just been a turn in his sleep.

A bead of sweat slid down Kusuda’s cheek. That instinctive fear of Akizawa had dulled considerably over time. Even so, the act of reaching out and touching him still took a concentrated effort. It was a high hurdle. The fear buried deep in his mind—branded there—hadn’t disappeared completely.

He could never be entirely at ease around Akizawa. He was always aware of the man’s presence. It made him tense—but it also felt… enjoyable. That tension, he realized, was part of love. The way Akizawa curled up obediently on the sofa, keeping his hands and feet to himself just as he’d been told—it was adorable. Watching him act, seeing his performances, stirred something warm in him. Yes, Akizawa could be selfish and impulsive, but he’d learned how to yield, too. Kusuda had thought more times than he could count, If only that rape hadn’t happened… But the past couldn’t be changed. And maybe—if that hadn’t happened—Akizawa would have never learned to consider other people’s feelings at all.

A sharp whistle of wind funneled through the buildings and pulled him out of his thoughts. As he handed off his emptied champagne glass to a passing waiter and accepted a beer in return, a voice called out: “Well, well, if it isn’t Kusuda.”

It was Andrew, a stylist Kusuda knew well. He wore a marble-patterned shirt tucked under a silver jacket, looking effortlessly chic. The colors suited his dark skin perfectly.

“Ah, long time no see.”

Kusuda sensed the hug coming before it happened. In this situation, there was no escaping it, so he braced himself inwardly. The moment of contact made his nerves jolt, but thankfully Andrew let go quickly.

“Thanks for sending over CRUX’s new catalog. This lineup is cool as hell again.”

Andrew was around the same age as Kusuda’s brother, and maybe that proximity in age had something to do with how well they got along.

“If anything catches your eye, I’ll have it sent to you right away.”

Andrew grinned, clearly in a good mood. Normally a friendly, lively man, tonight his smile was a bit looser than usual. Probably tipsy already.

“Hey, is it true? There’s a rumor going around that the guy who models for CRUX—you know, him—might be signing a yearlong contract with LION?”

He must’ve meant Akizawa. Kusuda hadn’t heard anything about that. If true, it would mean Akizawa would be the magazine’s cover model for a full year—in other words, the face of LION.

“Doesn’t sound likely. He’s an actor first and foremost, and right now he’s bouncing between Japan and L.A. He’s already stretched pretty thin.”

“Huh, I see,” Andrew said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Paul—the guy who’s been LION’s cover model three years in a row—is retiring after this year. So now there’s this huge frenzy, all the male models are desperately trying to cozy up to Ivan, the editor-in-chief. If you land that contract, the pay is huge, and the exposure? Off the charts. It’s gotten so nasty that during shoots, popular models have had their costumes and props stolen. The whole atmosphere’s gone toxic. And now that people are whispering that an Asian guy is the front-runner, they’re getting seriously riled up. If Ivan would just name his pick already, it’d probably calm things down.”

Kusuda had already heard from Jessica about the harassment between female models, but apparently it was just as bad among the men. What they were doing was no better than middle school-level bullying—but this was the reality of the industry.

“Sorry, I’m probably killing the mood,” Andrew said with an awkward laugh, then smoothly shifted the subject. “But the food at this party is amazing, isn’t it?”

“I had some oysters earlier—they were to die for. You tried them yet, Masahiko?”

“Not yet.”

“Trust me, you have to. They’re incredible.”

While they chatted casually, Andrew was called over by a male model Kusuda recognized from magazines and began talking with him. Still thinking about the oysters Andrew had praised so highly, Kusuda wandered aimlessly between tables. He eventually found the oysters at a table near the pool—fresh, creamy, and undeniably delicious, just as promised.

He ended up eating three in a row and was grabbing another beer when the entrance to the venue suddenly grew noisy. A tall man in jeans, a T-shirt, and a Yankees cap pulled low over his face was being stopped by security. In the sea of gowns and tuxedos, he stuck out like someone on their way to a baseball game.

“Geez, this is such a pain!”

The outburst in Japanese made Kusuda flinch. He had a bad feeling. Could it be…? Wading through the crowd, he approached the man in the Yankees cap.

“I didn’t know there was a dress code, okay? Just let me in for a minute—I’ll say hi to Ivan and be out in no time,” the man insisted.

“This is an invitation-only event. Go home,” the guard replied, physically blocking his path.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kusuda’s voice rang out before he realized it. That sulky, irritated face lit up the moment it saw him.

“Masahiko! What are you doing here?!”

Akizawa shoved past the guard and marched into the party.

“I was invited by Jessica. You’re the one who needs to explain yourself.”

“Ivan told me to come if I had free time! You weren’t gonna be home tonight anyway, and Kuma said it’d be good to stop by and show some appreciation. But hey, lucky me—I got to see you. Totally worth it.”

While he rambled on, Akizawa was grabbed from both sides by the guards, who gripped his arms tight.

“Get out!” one shouted.

“He’s an actor and model!” Kusuda explained quickly.

“In this town, we’ve got a million of those,” the Black guard replied dismissively, clearly still holding a grudge from earlier.

“This is Kaito Akizawa,” Kusuda pressed on. “He played Chris Chen in Drop Head. He’s modeled for LION magazine more than once.”

The blond guard holding Akizawa’s right arm squinted and said, “Drop Head… I saw that one,” peering closer at Akizawa’s face.

“Now that you mention it… he does look kind of familiar…”

“What’s all this fuss?”

A voice cut through the commotion. Dressed in a dark red shirt and a pinstripe jacket, Ivan Howell—the editor-in-chief of LION—approached. Kusuda had never met him before, but the man was such a fixture in the industry, he’d seen his photo many times.

A devout lover of Italian brands, Ivan was a man in his mid-fifties, a classic uomo d’Italia. Jessica once told him Ivan had been a model in his youth and worked his way up through the ranks—editor, creative director, then editor-in-chief.

Spotting Akizawa, Ivan smiled warmly and said to the guards, “He’s my honored guest.” Instantly, they released him and stepped back without a word.

“Akizawa, welcome to the party. I’m glad you could make it,” Ivan said, giving him a light hug.

“I didn’t know there was a dress code,” Akizawa said. “One of the guards told me, ‘This isn’t a baseball stadium.’”

He spoke casually, even to an older man, and just listening made Kusuda anxious. But Ivan didn’t seem offended at all—he let out a booming laugh and said, “Well, my apologies.”

“As an apology, let me gift you something to wear… Poirier.”

The curly-haired man standing beside Ivan, likely in his early thirties, responded with a crisp, “Yes, boss.”

“Find something in the wardrobe that suits Akizawa, will you?”

Poirier hesitated with a doubtful look. “But—”

“If he likes it, I’ll buy it myself. Even if it’s on loan.”

Clearly not thrilled, Poirier still turned toward Akizawa. “Akizawa-san, would you come with me, please?”

“I’m fine like this,” Akizawa replied. He was well aware that his outfit didn’t suit the event, but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest. “I can move easier dressed like this.”

“You look great casual,” Ivan said smoothly, “but I’d really love to see you all dressed up too.”

Naturally, as editor-in-chief, he didn’t just bluntly say Akizawa was underdressed.

“Those fancy clothes are so stiff and uncomfortable,” Akizawa grumbled, clearly uninterested in playing along. While he didn’t care, Kusuda knew it would only draw more unnecessary attention.

“You should change,” Kusuda found himself saying, even knowing he wasn’t really part of this world.

“I mean… I’d like to see you looking cool too.”

Akizawa turned to him and grinned. “Okay, I’ll go change!”

Just like that—decided in an instant. Kusuda could only sigh at how easily swayed the man was, as Akizawa followed Poirier out of the venue. As he watched them leave, Ivan turned to Kusuda and greeted him.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Ivan Howell, editor-in-chief of LION. Are you a friend of Akizawa’s?”

Kusuda had seen Ivan’s face in countless photos but never met him in person. Even though CRUX’s products were used in the magazine, interactions were typically handled by editors and stylists; Kusuda, who handled sales and operations, had never crossed paths with the editor-in-chief himself.

“I’m Masahiko Kusuda,” he replied, “head of CRUX’s New York branch. Akizawa has served as our image model.”

Sensing that this alone might not be enough to explain their familiarity, he added, “We’ve known each other for several years now.”

“CRUX has been featured quite often in LION,” Ivan said with a nod. “I love your designs—there’s a real sense of conviction behind them.”

Kusuda thanked him, and Ivan went on, “Come to think of it, Akizawa is CRUX’s image model. I’m jealous, actually. I offered him an exclusive contract with LION, but he turned it down, said he was too busy with his acting work.”

So Andrew’s offhand comment had been true.

“Until now, LION has only ever had white models as its exclusive faces,” Ivan continued. “But I’ve long thought models from Africa, Hispanic backgrounds, and Asia had just as much to offer. I wanted someone who could break the mold of what LION had always represented. Still, it’s been difficult finding someone with enough presence to convince the editorial team. Akizawa has the looks and the build, but also the added appeal of being a serious actor. I thought he was the perfect choice… but it’s not so easy.”

He gave a rueful smile and shrugged. Perhaps it was Ivan’s own vision—the very thing that made it so hard to choose the next face of LION—that Andrew had been talking about.

“My brother’s a designer,” Kusuda said, “and he always tells me: it’s only natural that people, and the times, change.”

Perhaps the modest words of encouragement had reached him, because Ivan narrowed his eyes and gave a gentle smile. “Thank you,” he said. Just as their conversation seemed to be winding down, a tall blond youth sidled up to Ivan with an overly familiar tone, calling his name. Kusuda, watching the fine-boned face with its perfectly balanced features, couldn't help but admire its beauty—until their eyes suddenly met. The youth was glaring at him.

What...? All he’d done was talk to Ivan, and yet he was being met with blatant hostility? Wanting to avoid any unpleasantness, Kusuda gave a quick, “Well then, please excuse me,” and took his leave of the legendary editor-in-chief who steered the helm of American men’s fashion.

He was halfway through a bite of caviar canapé and nursing his beer when murmurs began to ripple through the crowd. Down the crimson carpet laid out in the center of the venue, something blindingly bright was making its way forward. With a feathered headdress large enough to rival a peacock’s, golden curls, heavy blue eyeshadow that completely obscured the natural shape of the eyes, and lipstick smeared well beyond the lips, the figure’s rainbow-sequined, tight-fitting dress had a thigh-high slit. Tall to begin with, plus high heels—it was like a giant striding through the room.

A drag queen hired for the party entertainment? Kusuda guessed, until he realized, with horror, that the figure was walking directly toward him.

“Hey, you think this is funny?”

The voice—Akizawa’s—made Kusuda jolt in disbelief. Looking closer, it really was him. Up close, the makeup was so sloppily done it looked like a child’s scribbles. Kusuda had expected him to show up in some cutting-edge fashion ensemble, but instead he appeared in this—leaving Kusuda speechless, mouth agape.

“Poirier—he said this would get a laugh, that you’d like it too. But this makeup’s kind of a mess, huh? Or maybe this kind of casual look’s better for a party?”

Soft laughter echoed around them. Whispery, pointed, and unmistakably mocking, the laughter encircled Akizawa, stabbing at the cheap, ill-fitting drag queen costume he’d been dressed in—utterly out of place at this party. This wasn’t entertainment. It was an overt act of humiliation. Kusuda couldn’t understand how Akizawa had been dragged into such ridicule.

“Masahiko, are you having a good time?”

Jessica appeared, wine glass in hand, and peeked curiously at the made-up face beside Kusuda. She gasped. “Wha—what are you wearing!?”

Akizawa stood frozen, like a statue. Jessica glared at him, face tight with anger.

“Costumes like this are something to enjoy among friends. Wearing something like that to an industry party? That’s just tasteless. What were you thinking—”

Before Kusuda could stop her, Jessica broke off mid-sentence, squinting more closely at Akizawa.

“That’s the costume we used for the in-house charity party, isn’t it? Where the hell did you even find that thing?”

More laughter burst forth, loud and brazen. Poirier, with his signature curls, and the beautiful blond model—who had glared at Kusuda earlier—were pointing at Akizawa and howling, clutching their sides. That image confirmed it. Kusuda knew. He knew exactly what had been done to Akizawa, and why.

Storming over to them, Kusuda snapped, “What is the meaning of this?!”

“Why did you dress him like that?!”

“Now, now, don’t misunderstand,” Poirier said, puffing out his chest and flipping his brown curls dramatically. “He asked to wear it. Ivan personally invited him—you think I could refuse someone like that?”

The blond model leaned his head lazily on Poirier’s shoulder, narrowing his icy blue eyes like a fox. “That guy’s weird. He’s gotta be on something, right?”

“You dressed him like that on purpose to humiliate Ivan—the one who invited him—and get him taken off the shortlist for LION’s exclusive model spot, didn’t you?!”

For a second, the handsome blond model’s face froze. Poirier snapped, losing his temper instead of denying it. “Don’t be ridiculous, you damn monkey.”

He sneered. “There’s no way a yellow ape could pull off LION’s image. That outfit suits him just fine.”

Kusuda hurled the rest of his beer into their smug faces. Leaving the dumbfounded curls and the shrieking blond behind, he stormed back to the man who had been made into a fool.

“They set you up. Change out of that. We’re leaving. Now.”

“I knew it,” Akizawa muttered, hands on his hips. “They were really pushing for this outfit, so I thought something was off.”

“They’re the worst. And you don’t have to keep wearing that ridiculous thing.”

“I don’t really mind, though. I mean, if I just think of it as a costume…”

The more Kusuda seethed, the more Akizawa appeared unfazed.

“I’ve worn stuff like this on stage before. Anyway—before we leave, can I grab something to eat? I’m starving.”

“You—”

“Just for a bit, okay?”

And without waiting for a reply, Akizawa headed over to the poolside table and began devouring the roast beef like nothing had happened. He didn’t care. But the rest of the room did. With that gaudy, misplaced drag queen outfit, Akizawa stood out like a sore thumb. No one came near the table he sat at.

“Was that outfit some kind of prank?” Jessica whispered. Kusuda nodded and briefly recounted the exchange between Ivan, Poirier, and the blond model.

Jessica pressed her palm to her forehead. “Unbelievable. I knew Akizawa was in the running to be LION’s exclusive model, and that Ivan was backing him, but to think there are people low enough to pull a stunt like that… I’d heard about the sabotage that happens during shoots—guys stealing props or ruining each other’s chances—but this is just petty.”

Akizawa continued eating, unfazed. Kusuda gently took Jessica by the arm.

“He should go before Ivan sees him. Could you take him out? I would, but… I still can’t… touch him.”

Jessica gave a wink and said, “Got it.” Then she grabbed Akizawa, who still had a mouthful of meat, and practically dragged him toward the exit. Kusuda followed from behind.

They were just about to reach the doors when someone walked in—of all people, Ivan.

“Oh? Leaving already?” Ivan asked, spotting Jessica.

“One of our friends isn’t feeling well. I’m just walking him down,” she replied smoothly.

Kusuda prayed Ivan would just let it go. But the man was nothing if not kind. He stepped forward and peered at Akizawa’s face. “Is everything alright?”

Please don’t notice. Please don’t notice…

Of course he noticed.

“Kaito?!”

Ivan’s eyes went wide, staring hard at the drag queen in front of him.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

Akizawa reached up and lightly pinched one of the feathers on his headdress.

“Some curly-haired guy told me this would get laughs. Guess it was a prank.”

Ivan’s face hardened. He glanced around sharply, clearly trying to identify the culprits—but Poirier and the blond model were already gone.

“There seems to have been a misunderstanding, Kaito. I’m sorry.”

Ivan apologized. Akizawa, for some reason, gave a little wiggle of his hips. The sequins sewn into the dress caught the light and sparkled.

“It’s fine. I saw a movie once with someone dressed like this.”

Ivan stroked his beard. “Priscilla, perhaps?” he offered.

“That’s it. The protagonist sang it all the time in the movie, didn’t he?”

When Akizawa hummed a phrase from the song, Ivan asked, “You can sing it?”

“I can,” he replied.

Akizawa closed his eyes as if in deep meditation, and when he raised his head again, it was with the weary expression of a woman who’d seen too much. Then, with a voice full of strength, he began to sing. Whether it was technically good or not didn’t matter—his voice carried a certain presence, a mood that was oddly pleasant to listen to. People began to turn and look.

And then Akizawa started to dance. He took a few steps, leapt up onto a table near the pool, and turned it into his stage. He sang the rest of the song there, dancing as if he were born to perform.

Kusuda didn’t know the movie Priscilla, but even so, he found himself pulled into the world Akizawa created. Scenes from a film he’d never seen came vividly to life before his eyes. Akizawa carried the number through to the final note, complete with choreography, and the crowd erupted in applause. The misfit drag queen, once avoided by everyone, was now the star performer. If only he had exited then, with flair and dignity...

But Akizawa remained on the table and began speaking in Japanese. Kusuda recognized it as a line from the film, but to the others watching, he had suddenly become an unintelligible drag queen babbling in a foreign language. Guests tilted their heads in confusion.

“Akizawa, let’s go home,” Kusuda called to him.

Akizawa looked down at him with dazed eyes but continued delivering what sounded like more lines. No good—he was completely lost in the role.

“Get down from there. This isn’t your stage,” Kusuda said.

Still ignoring both him and the audience, Akizawa continued his one-man show. Kusuda reached for the hem of his dress, careful not to touch his body, but Akizawa darted away with uncanny agility.

“Listen to me!”

Kusuda chased him around the table, and the crowd, thinking it was part of the act, erupted in laughter each time Akizawa dodged his grasp. Desperate to end the scene, Kusuda finally grabbed at the hem more forcefully—and that was when it happened. As he shook himself free, Akizawa lost his footing.

With a splash, he fell backward into the pool. A sopping-wet drag queen and a floating blonde wig—if this were a comedy, it would be the perfect finale. The guests roared with delight. And in the sudden interruption, Akizawa’s expression shifted—just a little. A sign he might be returning from the world he’d disappeared into.

He didn’t resist, but neither did he move. With help from Jessica and Andrew, who happened to be nearby, Kusuda managed to haul the waterlogged Akizawa out of the party and into the model waiting room next to the studio. They stripped him out of the wet dress and laid him on the sofa. He needed rest—time to reset—or he’d start reciting movie lines again.

“Kaito’s a born actor and entertainer,” Andrew said, arms crossed as he looked down at him. “Whatever the role, whatever the place, he performs it with confidence. You can really sense the professionalism in his spirit.”

Jessica scowled at Andrew. “What are you talking about?”

“This guy was deliberately humiliated—forced into that outfit by Poirier and that model. They made a clown out of him.”

Realization dawned across Andrew’s face. “Wait, what?! That wasn’t just part of the show?”

He raised both hands and placed them on top of his head in disbelief.

“I didn’t realize… It looked like he was doing it of his own accord, like he genuinely wanted to entertain the crowd…”

Akizawa began to nod off. Jessica and Andrew returned to the party, leaving Kusuda behind in the dressing room. Andrew had praised Akizawa’s performance, but there was no way the man himself had been thinking about the context around him. The costume and song must have triggered something, and with his monstrous memory, he simply recreated what he knew. He didn’t seem bothered, but Kusuda felt a deep, seething anger toward the ones who had carried out such a childish prank.

He checked the time. He’d let him sleep for ten more minutes, then wake him and take him home. Looking down at Akizawa’s face, he noticed smudges of lipstick lingering at the corners of his mouth. He reached for a tissue to wipe it away… and his hand froze. He wasn’t even touching the man directly, but still, he hesitated. Pretending not to notice his own hesitation, he wiped the smudge away. His hand didn’t tremble, but sweat poured from him in a rush, and even after the act was done, his heart continued to pound in his chest.

Akizawa’s lips moved in his sleep, mumbling. Like a child—it was oddly endearing. Kusuda loved this man.

There was love, certainly. But also a towering, invisible wall. A wall he might never be able to climb. Sometimes it felt like he was just circling around its base, glancing up in quiet despair. He pressed both hands over his face, overwhelmed by that hopeless sense.

◇:-:◆:-:◇  

CRUX’s New York branch opened each day at 11 a.m. Kusuda, however, was always in by 8:30, working in the second-floor office. He left storefront duties to the sales staff and buried himself in back-end operations—ledger management, coordination with retailers, all the office grunt work.

That morning, at 7:00 a.m., Kusuda was outside cleaning. Someone had dumped a pile of rotting trash right in front of the shop entrance overnight. With the stench hanging thick in the air, it was impossible to open the store, and even passersby would be affected. Kusuda gritted his teeth and set to work, scooping up the waste, wiping down the door, and rinsing the area with water when the smell wouldn’t lift.

The harassment had started about two weeks ago. At first it had been minor, but the incidents were escalating. He was torn between going to the police or installing surveillance cameras. Just when he thought things had quieted down, they’d strike again. The fact that it didn’t coincide with a particular employee’s shift made it unlikely to be a personal vendetta—it seemed increasingly likely that the harassment was aimed at the brand itself.

Jessica had speculated, “Maybe it’s another brand that doesn’t like how often CRUX gets featured in LION. That could ruffle some feathers.” But she’d also confirmed that no complaints about CRUX had been filed directly with LION.

“What I’m really curious about,” Jessica had said, “is that Poirier got fired.”

Kusuda hadn’t immediately recognized the name, but when she reminded him—Poirier was the stylist with the chestnut curls, the one who’d dressed Akizawa in the drag outfit for that humiliating stunt—he remembered.

“He harassed Akizawa, right? Ivan was furious and terminated his contract. The Akizawa incident was the trigger, but not the only reason. His styling had gotten repetitive and sloppy, and his reputation was slipping. Ivan probably sensed that, too.”

Then Jessica had added, “And you know what else? Poirier is gay, and his boyfriend was that regular LION model—you know, the pretty blonde one. The same guy who was also in the running for the annual contract. Poirier pulled that stunt on Akizawa because the boyfriend asked him to. I heard they broke up afterward, though.”

“Serves them right,” Jessica said, her tone as cold as steel.

"A lot of people were actually relieved when Poirier got fired. He had a nasty personality and wasn’t well-liked. One of the new models was in tears once, saying she couldn't get any work unless she slept with him. Apparently, that even reached Ivan’s ears. He confronted him, but Poirier managed to weasel his way out of it, saying 'I didn’t do anything.' So yeah, even as a person, he wasn’t trusted. One of the editors at LION—a good friend of mine—said they were glad he was gone because he used to harass them, too."

According to Jessica, Poirier had leveraged his former title as a LION stylist to land a job at a rival men’s fashion magazine. But LION was dominating the industry, and the competitor’s circulation was only about a fifth of LION's.

As Kusuda rinsed down the storefront with water, careful not to splash passing pedestrians, he recalled the moment he’d thrown beer in Poirier’s and the blonde model’s faces. He didn’t regret it one bit. But if Poirier really was behind the harassment—there was no proof, but the timing lined up—it had all started right after that party.

If Poirier was the culprit, then he was venting his anger not at those directly involved but at some distant, barely connected target. The first person to come to Kusuda’s mind when he realized this was Akizawa. He’d asked him recently if anything strange had been happening around him, but the man had casually replied, "Nope," without a hint of concern. Kusuda suspected Akizawa might just be unaware, so he reached out to Kuma, Akizawa’s manager, and explained the situation. He also asked him, until they knew who was behind it, to keep an eye on Akizawa’s surroundings—without letting Akizawa know about the harassment. He didn’t want him worrying unnecessarily.

Kuma had replied casually, "Understood. We haven’t seen any strange emails or letters, and I don’t think Akizawa’s been affected. Besides, he’s all the way in L.A., and the next LION shoot isn’t for another two months. The stylist who caused the trouble has already been let go, right?"

"If anything, it’s you who should be careful, Kusuda. The harassment is still going on, right?"

In the end, it was Kusuda who ended up being worried about, and he felt guilty for having brought it up. He finished cleaning, returned upstairs to shower, and didn’t sit down to start work until after 9 a.m.

Guinness, the office administrator who knew about the harassment, greeted him with a soft “Good morning. Thanks for your hard work.”

"It’s a good workout, since I’ve been lacking exercise," Kusuda replied with a forced laugh, brushing off the seriousness of the situation.

"Karma’ll catch up to whoever’s doing that kind of thing," Guinness said, fingers clacking away at her keyboard. "By the way, Debbie’s requested time off in October."

Debbie was one of the shop’s sales clerks. Cool and not particularly chatty, but meticulous with her work.

"Vacation time?"

"She’s getting married."

The gloomy weight of the ongoing harassment lifted a bit at that bright news. It was something to celebrate—but Kusuda’s first thought was, What if she quits? Debbie was reliable and trustworthy—someone he could leave the floor and register to without worry. Hiring someone new would mean training them all over again.

"She’s marrying the boyfriend she’s been living with. But she said she’s staying on."

That was a relief. As Kusuda sat at his desk and powered up his computer, he looked up and met Guinness’s gaze.

Guinness preempted his own question with a disclaimer: “I know it’s none of my business, but… are you ever going to get married?”

Masahiko hadn’t even opened his mouth to say “Well, that’s still—” before Guinness shot out, “To Kaito Akizawa.”

He was speechless.

"I heard that in Japan, once people have a partner, they usually get married. Is it difficult because he’s an actor? Is it because of his agency?"

Guinness’s line of questioning pressed closer and closer, and even though he’d just showered, a cold sweat broke out on Kusuda’s back.

“Kaito and I are, well… not exactly that kind of relationship…”

“You’re not partners?!” Guinness looked genuinely shocked.

“W-Well… it’s close to that, I suppose… but…” he trailed off, evasive. Guinness sighed. “Japanese people are always so vague, I just don’t get it.”

In New York, there was no open prejudice against gay people. Men held hands in public parks, kissed in the streets. Same-sex marriage was, of course, legally recognized.

Kusuda found himself thinking back to the early days of his relationship with Akizawa. Back then, it had all been physical—sex, and more sex—with no thought for the future. Now several years had passed. He was in his late thirties. Akizawa, though he still looked young, had also passed thirty.

…Akizawa had once said he’d never sleep with anyone again. Not unless it was Kusuda. If Kusuda couldn’t accept him, then this limbo might go on forever. Would that really be good for Akizawa? Maybe he’d be better off finding someone else. Falling in love with someone who could actually be with him—maybe even marry him—might be what true happiness looked like.

But then again, Kusuda couldn’t imagine Akizawa giving up that easily. Nor could he picture him moving on, or falling for someone else. Even if Akizawa did get married, Kusuda couldn’t imagine that man with a family. Couldn’t picture him in that world.

If he took a step forward—just one step—would he start to see a different future? Or would nothing change, no matter how far he walked? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

Around one o'clock, Kusuda swapped shifts with Guinness for a lunch break. He picked up a bagel from Rob’s place and ate it in the park. It wasn’t too hot or too cold, and the weather was pleasant. Plenty of people were having their lunch outdoors. The more he thought about Akizawa, the more his spirits sank. He didn’t have any urgent work in the afternoon, so he ducked into a bar and ordered a single beer to lift his mood.

It didn’t get him drunk, but it lifted the fog just enough. Worrying endlessly wouldn’t get him anywhere. The future of his relationship with Akizawa might be unknowable, but at least he could do something about the harassment. That, he could address. He decided it was time to install security cameras—not just inside the store, but outside too. If he could gather solid evidence, the police would be able to step in, maybe even take it to court.

Back from lunch, he peeked into the shop on the first floor. There were no customers. Debbie was flipping through CRUX’s new novelty catalog. When he opened the door and stepped in, she looked up.

“I heard you’re getting married, Debbie. Congratulations.”

Normally standoffish, Debbie offered a small, bashful smile. “Thank you.”

“I heard about the time off from Guinness. I hope—”

The sound of squealing brakes cut him off. The street wasn’t particularly wide, and it sounded like someone had been speeding. He turned instinctively—and before he could process what he saw, the shop shuddered with a tremendous crash of metal and glass.

Before his brain could catch up, his body was already moving. He lunged forward, arms wrapping around Debbie, shielding her. He couldn’t think. The word “death” flashed through his mind. And alongside it, one overwhelming thought: I don’t want to die.

A blunt impact slammed into his back, and the momentum hurled him forward. His head struck something hard. Dust filled the air, and as he inhaled, he doubled over coughing. In his arms, Debbie was pale and trembling.

Once the shaking stopped, Kusuda slowly sat up and turned around.

A hulking black mass loomed behind him. He staggered to his feet and pieced it together—someone had crashed a black car through the front window of the store.

It had hit him. He’d been hit by a car.

Had it not lost some speed before impact, he would’ve been dead. That much he was sure of. And now, standing in the aftermath, his legs began to tremble violently.

There was a man in the driver’s seat of the car. Chestnut curls, a scruffy, unshaven beard. When their eyes met, the man crawled out of the driver’s side and fled through the gaping hole his car had made in the wall. Kusuda couldn’t move to chase him. He just stood there in a daze, staring blankly. Something warm trickled down his forehead. He wiped it with his hand and saw his fingertips stained bright red. Blood… His vision dimmed, and he sank down to the floor with a sluggish thud. He was about to lose consciousness when Debbie’s sobbing snapped him back. He had to stay focused—he was the one responsible for this place.

“You okay?” he asked gently. Debbie nodded with small, trembling jerks as she cried. She had a bruised arm; Kusuda had hit his forehead hard enough to draw blood. Even pressing a towel to it didn’t stop the bleeding. He called up to Guinness, who had been safely on the second floor, and left her in charge while he took Debbie by taxi to the hospital.

Debbie had no fractures, and her boyfriend arrived soon after, so Kusuda let her go home. His own wound, though, was deep, and they closed it with what looked like metal staples. X-rays showed no fractures, thankfully.

He returned to the office about three hours later, just past 8 p.m. Outside the store, yellow keep out tape like the kind seen in crime dramas had been strung up, casting an ominous mood as if a murder had taken place. The car was still embedded in the storefront, and curious pedestrians peeked in as they passed by.

When Kusuda told the police officers conducting their inspection that he was the victim, they took him to the station. While he was explaining the situation, news came in that Poirier had been arrested. The car’s license plate had quickly led to its owner, and when confronted, Poirier readily confessed to ramming into the store. He even began admitting that he’d been behind the repeated harassment of the shop.

It was after 8 PM when Kusuda finally returned to the office. Guinness had stayed behind to watch the place, and when he told her the culprit had been caught, she clutched her chest and let out a relieved sigh. She said the impact had shaken the second floor as well, and her eyes shimmered with lingering fear.

Since the storefront was utterly wrecked, they would have to close until repairs could be completed. Kusuda decided to give Debbie some time off, and told Guinness she could take the next day off too.

Alone, Kusuda stood dazed inside what remained of the ruined store. The police had told him he could begin cleaning up the scene, but with the car still in place, it felt pointless. Its front end was crushed beyond recognition; it wouldn’t budge. And since it hadn’t fully entered the store, its rear trunk still jutted out into the street. There was no moving it without a tow truck, and at this hour, that wasn’t an option.

He stacked a few of the broken display shelves to block the hole torn through the wall. While doing so, he spotted something under the car—his missing smartphone. It had likely been run over, its screen shattered and warped, exposing the circuit board beneath. It didn’t power on, of course.

Once the hole was patched up, he gathered all the merchandise and scattered accessories, along with the cash and important documents, and brought them upstairs to the office. He locked the door to the second floor, but decided to leave the shop lights on overnight, just for security.

When he’d finished the bare minimum of cleaning, he stood a fallen stool back up and slumped into it. His clothes and hands were filthy with dust. Tomorrow morning, he’d have to call for a tow truck and consult the landlord about repairs. If the work couldn’t start right away, he’d have to board up the wall in the meantime. He also needed to contact Masamitsu. But with everything else going on, that had fallen to the wayside. He couldn’t even muster the energy to figure out the time difference with Japan. It was all too much.

The culprit had been caught. That was enough. He could call in the morning. Right now, he just wanted to lie down.

"Hey, is anyone there?"

Jessica’s voice called from outside the store. Kusuda moved one of the stacked-up shelves aside and saw her peering in through the gap. “This barricade is intense. Since when did this place turn into a war zone?”

“Since this afternoon,” he replied with a bitter smile and stepped outside.

“You’re covered in dust. What happened to your forehead?” she asked, pointing at the bandage wrapped around his head.

“I was passing by on my way home from work and saw the place looking like a wreck, so I jumped out of the cab in a panic. What happened? Was it an accident?”

When Kusuda told her that Poirier had crashed a car into the shop, Jessica shouted, “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Are you okay?!”

“I just hit my head. He’s been arrested. Sounds like he’s already started confessing to the harassment against the shop.”

Jessica gasped, pressing her hand to her forehead. “Poirier was fired from the rival magazine the day before yesterday,” she murmured. “He was constantly late or ditching work altogether. I think he might’ve been doing drugs too.”

If he’d done this as a tantrum over losing his job, it was beyond infuriating. The thought that either he or Debbie could’ve been seriously injured chilled Kusuda to the bone.

When he told her the car had belonged to Poirier, Jessica kicked the bumper with the heel of her shoe. Kusuda climbed onto the crumpled trunk and stomped it in. It helped, just a little.

“You better wring every penny you can out of him—for damages, repairs, emotional distress, all of it. I’ll introduce you to a great lawyer.”

They stood outside talking for a while. Alone, Kusuda had just felt overwhelmed, but Jessica’s advice helped him clear his head. The path forward became a little more concrete, and he could finally start to calm down.

“You sure you’ll be okay tonight? With that injury, and everything... aren’t you scared to be alone? Want me to stay over?” she offered.

He declined. He was grateful for the thought, but Jessica had a shoot in Mexico tomorrow and an early flight. He didn’t want to bother her any more than he already had.

After she left, he resealed the makeshift barricade and returned upstairs to the office. It was already past midnight. Tomorrow he’d have to contact their suppliers and explain they couldn’t deliver stock. Well… some items were still intact, but with Guinness taking the day off, he wouldn’t have time to handle the logistics. First, he had to check which items had been destroyed and tally the damages. Then, get in touch with the lawyer Jessica recommended…

There was so much to do. Just thinking about it made his head throb. He touched his forehead and winced. Right—the injury.

Suddenly, someone banged on the office door—thud, thud!—fast and hard. Who could it be this late? Maybe the landlord? He hadn’t had time to call him yet. The man lived in New Jersey. His number had been in Kusuda’s now-smashed smartphone, and with everything else going on, he’d forgotten.

Maybe someone from the neighborhood told him what had happened, and he’d rushed over. Kusuda would have to explain everything from the beginning and figure out what came next. The thought made him more exhausted, but it couldn’t be helped. Bracing himself, he opened the door.

“Masahiko!”

He blinked in disbelief.

Standing just outside the door, panting heavily, was Kaito Akizawa.

“You’re… alive? Are you okay? I texted to say I’d come tomorrow, but you didn’t reply, and your phone’s dead, and I tried calling the office but only got the machine—then Kuma said he saw photos on social media of CRUX’s store in ruins, and Masamitsu couldn’t get through to you either, and no one knew what was going on and…”

As Akizawa rattled on in a panic, something warm slid down Kusuda’s cheek. Huh? He touched the corner of his eye, and suddenly tears began spilling over, pattering down his face like water.

“Ah, your head’s bandaged… does it hurt?” Akizawa asked, eyes wide with concern.

His strength gave out, and Kusuda sank down right there on the floor. Only now did he realize—he’d been holding himself together all this time. He’d been terrified when that car came crashing through the storefront. So scared he’d trembled. He was injured, sure, but it had been minor. He’d spoken to the police, taken charge as the manager… there had been so much he had to do.

“Masahiko, should we go to the hospital? What should I do? Should I call an ambulance?” Akizawa’s voice was panicked.

“Just… come inside,” he said, sobbing. “You don’t have to do anything. Just stand there. Don’t say a word.”

Still crouched, Kusuda sat there crying, staring at the tips of his filthy shoes, feeling Akizawa’s presence nearby. The tears just kept coming—terror, relief, everything spilling over—but they weren’t unpleasant tears. After about fifteen minutes, he felt refreshed and stood up. He blew his nose loudly into a tissue.

In contrast to him, Akizawa looked ghostly pale, like he’d seen an actual spirit.

“Are you… really okay?” Akizawa asked, his hands awkwardly half-raised and shaking.

“Seeing your face just let everything go slack. I’m fine now. Did you see the store? It’s a mess, right?”

“…I thought it was a B-movie set.”

The honest remark made him laugh out loud.

“A car plowed in this afternoon and left it like that. I got hurt, had to go to the cops, clean up… I’m worn out. And there’s a mountain of things to do tomorrow.”

“I-I’ll help! I took three days off just for this.”

“You’re on vacation. You should rest.”

“I’ll do anything you need.”

Kusuda looked down and let out a small chuckle.

“I’m covered in dust, so I’m going to shower. My phone got totaled in the crash, so… if you have time, can you text Masamitsu? Just tell him the store’s a wreck but the staff only got minor injuries. I’ll give him a proper update tomorrow.”

“I’ll message him right now.”

Akizawa immediately pulled out his phone as he stood. Kusuda glanced sideways at him as he grabbed a change of clothes and headed to the bathroom. He wanted to wash his hair too, but there was a wound on his head, so he settled for wiping it with a hot towel.

As the scent of dirt and dust faded away, he closed his eyes for a moment. Even that man’s presence brought him comfort. A kind of solace no close friend had ever managed to offer him. He was leaning on him emotionally, maybe even without realizing it.

When he came out of the bathroom, Akizawa was still standing in the same spot.

“I texted Masamitsu,” Akizawa reported. “He was super worried and tried calling. I told him you’d been crying, but you were in the shower now, so you were okay.”

Kusuda’s face burned red. “Don’t tell Masamitsu I was crying!”

“But you were crying. I thought my heart was going to stop. Oh—and Kuma was worried too, so I texted him as well. He said he doesn’t want to get in your way right now, but if there’s anything you’re worried about or need, you should always feel free to talk to him.”

That sounded just like the thoughtful Kuma.

“…Thanks. I’m beat, so I’m going to bed.”

Right as he said that, growwwl—his stomach betrayed him. Come to think of it, he hadn’t eaten since midday. Just remembering made him realize how hungry he was.

“Are you hungry?” Akizawa leaned in and asked, peering at him.

“There’s nothing in the fridge, and going out to buy something sounds like too much work. I’ll just sleep.”

“I’ll go get something! I’m hungry too. What do you want?”

Making a famous actor run a late-night errand after flying six hours to New York… it felt a little wrong. But if he declined, they’d go through the usual back-and-forth: I’ll go get it / No, it’s fine, and honestly, Kusuda was too tired to bother with that tonight.

So he answered plainly, “Anything’s fine.”

About fifteen minutes after leaving, Akizawa returned with hot dogs and cola. They sat across from each other on the guest sofa by the office window to eat. Loud clanging sounds echoed from outside, and when Kusuda opened the window to look, he saw a group of guys jumping on and kicking the rear end of the car that was still jutting out into the sidewalk. He didn’t care about the car, but the noise was bothering the neighbors, so he leaned out from the second floor and yelled, “I’ll call the cops!” The men scattered like roaches under a flashlight.

Once things quieted down, all that remained was the sound of chewing and the crisp crinkling of the hot dog wrappers, which somehow felt overly loud in the silence. The relief of the moment, paired with genuine hunger, made him finish the hot dog in just a few minutes. Maybe thinking Kusuda was still hungry, Akizawa offered his own. Even after Kusuda refused, Akizawa kept insisting until Kusuda feigned annoyance and said, “Seriously, I’m good,” and only then did he finally stop.

Now full, and with Akizawa also finished eating, Kusuda moved to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. It was past two in the morning. He was exhausted and sleepy, but his nerves were still too raw from everything that had happened, and he couldn’t sleep. Akizawa, without even taking a shower, had curled up on the usual sofa bed. Just looking at that familiar little mound, he felt a strange sense of peace.

Akizawa had said he caught the next flight because he was worried when he couldn’t reach him. He had rushed to be here, cared for him, been gentle. That alone brought Kusuda comfort. It should’ve been enough… and yet he felt lonely. Despite the fact that they were barely two meters apart, the distance felt vast. Why did he feel like this? He wanted to be closer. He wanted to feel Akizawa’s presence. Maybe… if he wanted it now, maybe it would be okay.

“…Are you asleep?” he asked, ready to pass it off as a mumble if there was no answer. But then came a reply.

“I can’t sleep. I keep remembering your crying face.”

Kusuda sat up in bed and turned on the light. Akizawa rolled over to face him. Drawing in a quiet breath, Kusuda murmured, “…Come here.”

Akizawa stared at him for a moment, then slowly stood up and approached until he was standing at Kusuda’s feet.

Kusuda had called him over because he wanted him close, yet his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break. It wasn’t just excitement—there was definite fear in the mix, too. A chill crept down his spine. The only reason he wasn’t panicking was because Akizawa always did exactly as he was told.

“…Sit at the end of the bed.”

Watching Kusuda’s face carefully, Akizawa sat down at the foot of the bed. The springs creaked beneath his weight.

“Can you come a little closer?”

Akizawa inched forward, little by little. With every bit of distance closed, the chill on Kusuda’s back intensified. Normally he could handle being closer than this, but the night, the bed, the intimacy of the setting—it all magnified his tension. He forced a lid over the memories threatening to resurface. Don’t come out. You’re not allowed to show up now. When there were about fifty centimeters between them, Akizawa stopped.

“Masahiko … what do you want to do?” he asked quietly. “Should I go back to the couch?” He started to pull away.

“W-wait. …Could you stay just a little closer?”

Akizawa stopped, but looked down.

“I love you, Masahiko. You’re the person I love most in the world. And it’s night, and we’re on a bed, and… you smell really good, so of course I want to touch you.”

Before Kusuda could say I love you too. I want to touch you too, Akizawa let out a heavy sigh.

“I promised you, and I’m going to keep that promise. I don’t want you to hate me. So please, don’t make me sit here like this, trapped in some slow-motion torture. It’s pitiful, isn’t it?”

It was like scalding water had been poured directly into his skull—Kusuda’s vision flashed white-hot, and before he even realized it, his clenched fist came swinging down. Akizawa clutched the side of his head where he’d been hit, eyes wide with shock. Sensing the second strike coming, he stood up from the bed.

“Don’t run!”

Kusuda shouted, and Akizawa froze in place.

“Whose fault do you think it is that I’m like this?!”

His voice exploded, spitting fury as he screamed.

“I want to touch you, but I can’t! And it’s your fault!”

The tears came with the rage. Kusuda was shouting, trembling.

“I was raped by people whose faces I never even saw, and I was terrified. So fucking terrified. I told you no—over and over—but you never listened!”

The anger surged like magma erupting from his chest. Kusuda, still sitting, couldn’t reach him, so he grabbed a pillow and hurled it at the man standing in front of him.

“I was scared—I am scared—and I just want to forget, but I can’t. I see it over and over again in my dreams, and I wake up in the middle of the night screaming. And then I cry, relieved it was only a dream. Even though I know you're not like them, just the feel of skin makes me sick, and just having a man nearby makes me want to vomit...!”

No matter how many times Kusuda beat him with the pillow, Akizawa stood like a lamppost, unmoving.

“I love you, I want to touch you, and I can’t because of you, you goddamn idiot!”

With one final, full-force swing, the pillow tore with a harsh rip, feathers bursting into the air like snow, scattering across the room and fluttering gently to the ground. Beyond the veil of white, Akizawa stood dazed, covered in fine feathers, his face blank. And just like that, tears came spilling out. Kusuda sobbed aloud, unable to control the emotions exploding inside him.

"I'm sorry, Masahiko."

The words reached his ears.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Akizawa lay facedown on the bed, curled into a tight ball, sobbing into the mattress. Near his ear, the same "I'm sorry" echoed again.

“I’m sorry I scared you. I really am.”

Akizawa’s voice trembled. When Kusuda looked up, that beautiful face was twisted in tears.

“…Why the hell are you crying?”

“I don’t know… I just… can’t stop.”

He wanted to wipe those tears. Kusuda stood up from the bed and reached out. His fingers trembled as they drew near the warmth of another human body, but somehow, he managed to gently wipe away the tears from Akizawa’s cheek.

"Don’t move."

He whispered softly, then leaned in. Akizawa kept his gaze fixed on him, so Masahiko murmured, "Close your eyes," gently cutting off that stare.

Their lips touched—just barely. So faint it was almost impossible to tell they had. A kiss so light it left no trace. He was still afraid, terrified, but kissed him again. And again. As their lips met over and over in these simple touches, the dense fog of fear began to dissipate.

And then, Masahiko caught Akizawa’s scent. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against Akizawa’s shoulder.

“I’m just… so tired… so tonight, I want to sleep beside you.”

“…Okay,” Akizawa murmured.

“And don’t do anything, please,” Kusuda added. To that too, Akizawa gave another small “Okay.”

Kusuda wrapped his arms around Akizawa’s back, ignored the trembling in his own body, and pulled him close. The warmth against him scared him, and he instinctively pulled back to look. But what he saw was the face of the man he wanted to be close to.

He dragged the man into his bed. Around them, feathers filled the air—breathing stirred them into flight. The room was a chaotic mess, but Kusuda didn’t want to let go of the body he had finally, finally pulled into his arms.

“…Masahiko, are you asleep?”

“Not yet,” he replied.

And then came a song. Akizawa had started singing quietly, probably a lullaby. When Kusuda exhaled, one of the feathers clinging to Akizawa’s chest floated into the air, swaying gently as it drifted down.

Watching its movement, Kusuda felt his eyelids grow heavy. He pulled Akizawa in tighter, and cautiously, fearfully, closed his eyes.

He dreamed. It was a soft, pleasant dream—so comfortable it spread through him, glowing brighter and brighter, until it was almost light itself. And then he woke.

He could tell it was morning, but part of him still felt like he was dreaming. That’s how comfortable it was. He pressed his face into the warmth beside him. It didn’t smell sweet, but it smelled good.

“…Nn…”

A low groan rumbled as something warm shifted beside him… wait. What was this he was clinging to? Kusuda slowly lifted himself up. Akizawa lay beside him, flat on his back, letting out soft, whimper-like snores, like a puppy in a dream.

Panic briefly surged—why is he so close?—but the memory returned immediately: I was the one who pulled him into bed. Kusuda slipped his hand inside his pajamas, pushing up the waistband of his boxers. There was no sign anything had been done to him—no lingering sensation, no soreness in his hips. Akizawa had listened. Kusuda had said he wanted to sleep beside him, nothing more—and the man had honored it.

He watched that sleeping face for a while, then, feeling chilled, peeled back the sheets and crawled back in beside him. Akizawa’s body was comfortably warm. Soft, gentle warmth.

…The shop was in ruins after that car came crashing in, and it wouldn’t reopen until the repairs were finished. But there was still inventory. He could rent out a gallery space or a select boutique and keep selling. Hell, maybe even a mobile showroom in a camper van—take it on the road and reach places they’d never reached before.

Yesterday he’d been running on adrenaline. Now, the tension had drained from him just enough to let his mind wander. Just imagining what might come next made him feel better. So that’s all I needed to feel less afraid—something warm, right here next to me.

No point trying to sleep anymore. Kusuda lay on his stomach, propping up his chin with one hand, and caught himself staring at the profile of the man sleeping beside him, gently breathing. Just having Akizawa near had terrified him before. Meeting his eyes had made his chest seize. And now, that same man was sharing his bed. Why? He knew the reason.

Because I let him. Because I wanted to.

That face—flawless, almost overly sculpted in its perfection. Delicate and childish when relaxed. Kusuda reached out and touched a finger to his cheek. Just yesterday, even that would’ve scared him. Now it was nothing. Like a spell had been lifted.

He traced the contours of his sleeping face: the eyelids, the nose, the lips… until the serene features twitched. Startled, Kusuda pulled his hand back. Akizawa opened his mouth wide—comically so—and let out a violent, “BUH-WAHHCHOO!”

Kusuda froze in shock as Akizawa sniffled, wrinkled his nose, and rubbed it with the back of his hand. Still on his back, his head lolled slightly to the right—and their eyes met. Akizawa’s gaze was hazy, dazed, and then his mouth curved into a gentle smile, like a child given a treat.

“Morning,” he murmured.

Kusuda nodded. “Mm.”

“Did you sleep okay?”

Another nod. Akizawa yawned, wide and long.

“…I was dying to do something, but I held back. I seriously restrained myself. It was like, painfully good in a weird way. Might be turning into a masochist.”

Kusuda laughed.

“Hey, praise me,” Akizawa said in a teasing tone, leaning in, his nose brushing playfully against Kusuda’s. Kusuda responded by nuzzling back, and the two of them giggled softly as they repeated the gesture over and over, exchanging quiet, breathy laughter.

“…So this is what it is,” Akizawa murmured as he looked at Kusuda.

“When you love someone, just being beside them makes you unbelievably happy.”

Kusuda’s chest clenched tight, and a heat swelled behind his eyes. Took you long enough to figure that out, you dumbass. He shut his eyes, forced back the tears, and flicked Akizawa’s forehead with his index finger.

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