COLD THE FINAL: Chapter 15

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COLD HEART – New Year Bed Time

Just five minutes on foot from the station. The nationwide chain coffee shop located just before the shopping street was packed to the brim. There wasn’t a single seat open.

Masahiko Kusuda made a round in the interior, scanning for openings, and managed to swiftly claim a table seat right after a pair of customers stood up. He marked it with his scarf and then headed to the register to buy coffee.

He had used this place a few times in the past for meetups, but never had he seen it this crowded. He’d thought of it as a hidden gem, but clearly, the New Year period was not to be underestimated.

Most of the patrons were in their early twenties. At nearly forty himself, Kusuda stuck out like a sore thumb, an obvious middle-aged man in the wrong place. He found himself quietly relieved whenever he spotted a rare fellow customer of similar age—or someone clearly older.

His companion, Kaito Akizawa, had originally been scheduled to finish filming by the end of the year. But due to delays, his first job of the new year had been moved up by a day—from January 4th to today, the 3rd. He was expected to be on set until 2 p.m. The delay had been caused by equipment trouble. “It’s not my fault, and I absolutely will not work on the 3rd,” Akizawa had reportedly insisted, unyielding.

Usually, if there were no prior commitments, Akizawa wouldn’t complain no matter how long filming dragged on—even if it went overnight. The production crew had taken that for granted and were now in a panic. They’d pleaded with his manager, Kuma, who in turn had pleaded with Kusuda. Since Akizawa was refusing to work on the 3rd because of plans with Kusuda, could he maybe… just possibly… be persuaded to reschedule?

Kusuda had casually broached the subject with Akizawa, suggesting they meet in the afternoon instead of the morning. He lied, saying he had promised to take his nephew Manabu shopping for a video game, so he’d need the morning free. Akizawa had grumbled, “But my plans were made first,” though perhaps because he was worried about the shoot, he gave in more easily than usual.

Thanks to that, the staff had secured Akizawa until 2 p.m. on the 3rd. Kuma called Kusuda to say, “Thank you so much. I’m really, really sorry,” and apologized profusely.

“We see each other often. Really, don’t worry about it,” Kusuda replied, then let out a quiet breath of relief after hanging up.

He wanted to see Akizawa—of course he did—but just this once, he had hoped to delay their meeting for as long as possible.

On the night of the 2nd, Kusuda had returned to Tokyo from New York. He’d originally planned to be back before the end of the year, but work complications had kept him overseas through New Year’s.

Back in the fall, a car had crashed into the CRUX street-front store in New York, leaving it half-destroyed. Repairing the building would cost a fortune and take a great deal of time. Negotiations between the building’s landlord and the culprit—an ex-stylist—were not going well. There was no sign of the store being repaired anytime soon.

With no other option, Kusuda decided to open a temporary shop. With help from Jessica, he leased a tall, narrow property in the Bronx. It had previously been a shop dealing mostly in old records and CDs. Psychedelic murals painted by the former owner still adorned the walls—and Kusuda decided to leave them as they were.

Since it was only a temporary space, he figured he could do whatever he wanted. The shop was far too big for a jewelry store anyway, so he installed a small café in the back. They started selling three types of bagel sandwiches and drinks, all crafted by Rob, a former CRUX salesperson who had since moved on to work at a specialty ham shop.

“You probably thought, ‘If there’s a café inside, people can have lunch here too,’ right?”

Jessica, as always, saw right through him. The café space had been well received by another staff member, Debbie, and Kusuda himself found he was spending more and more time there with his laptop, working while sipping coffee.

The clientele at the temporary shop in the Bronx was completely different—perhaps due to the neighborhood—and the best-selling items quickly shifted toward lines catering to younger customers. Even the modest café, which had been more of an afterthought, started attracting attention in local free papers and Japanese magazines as a hidden spot where one could enjoy the popular bagel sandwiches from the busy shop without having to queue. Many customers came for that purpose alone, and it got busy enough that they eventually hired dedicated café staff.

The temporary store was a surprise success. After discussing it with his older brother Masamitsu, they decided to keep it running as a second location even after the original street-front store was repaired. That was all well and good—but it meant Kusuda’s workload had suddenly doubled.

Caught up in the chaos, he hadn’t been able to wrap up work in time, and ended up canceling his flight originally booked for the 28th. He finally managed to finish everything on the afternoon of the 31st. After celebrating the New Year with Jessica, he boarded a flight on the 1st and returned to Tokyo.

The coffee shop was lively the whole time, with fragments of conversation echoing off his eardrums from every direction. That morning at his parents’ house, his nephew Manabu had asked, “Uncle, what’s trending in New York right now?” Still half-asleep, Kusuda had answered in English despite the question being in Japanese, earning him a blank stare. His brother Masamitsu, who saw the exchange, smacked him on the back and sneered, “Look at you, acting all American now. Think you’re hot shit?”

In Japan, human relationships felt denser. In New York, there was a warmth in how strangers would casually strike up conversation—but at the same time, a certain cool detachment, like a dry breeze brushing past. Kindness and indifference, hand in hand. Once you got used to it, it was surprisingly easy to live that way.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the café grew noisy. A small crowd had gathered near the entrance. A boy who looked like a high schooler, wearing a black knit beanie, sat at the neighboring table and gushed excitedly to his friend across from him, cheeks flushed.

“Kaito Akizawa is by the register. He’s got insane presence. Like, seriously.”

“No way! Akizawa just goes to places like this?”

Kusuda jumped to his feet, still holding his half-finished coffee. At the front of the shop, Akizawa was surrounded by more than ten people, his face stiff as he said, “Can I get through, please?”

“Akizawa!”

When Kusuda called his name, Akizawa looked around. Through the light-colored sunglasses, their eyes met.

“Let’s go outside.”

Kusuda stepped out of the shop first, and Akizawa followed, trailing a ring of fans in his wake.

“It’s my private time,” he said.

“Autographs and photos aren’t allowed by the agency.”

As they walked and kept politely turning people down, the crowd gradually thinned. By the time they’d turned a corner about fifty meters from the café, no one was following them anymore. Akizawa fell into step beside him and murmured, “That freaked me out.”

“I was in a rush and forgot to disguise myself. Once someone recognized me, I put on sunglasses, but it was already too late.”

His tall frame and small face stood out. Even though he was only wearing a plain black coat, he exuded presence. The beanie kid had put it well—his aura really was something else.

“In other countries, I can walk around without hiding my face, so I let my guard down. Sorry.”

He apologized with a look like a scolded puppy.

“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I should’ve picked a quieter place to meet. It used to be a lot more peaceful there, but maybe because of the holidays, it was ridiculously crowded today…”

Akizawa’s eyes drifted toward the paper coffee cup in Kusuda’s hand.

“Want some?”

“Yeah. Just a sip.”

“It’s black. You okay with that?”

The man who poured sugar into his coffee like a waterfall hesitated for just a second, then reached out his hand and said, “Gimme.” Kusuda handed it over, and Akizawa took three big gulps before scrunching up his face and returning the cup.

“Yeah, guess bitterness still doesn’t work for you.”

“I just think bitterness has no place in human survival,” he said with utter seriousness.

It was such a ridiculous claim that Kusuda couldn’t help but laugh.

They had agreed to meet at 2:30 p.m., and Kusuda had told him he might be a little late. He’d padded in the extra time on purpose, so that if filming ran over, Akizawa wouldn’t feel pressured. But in the end, Akizawa had shown up exactly at 2:30.

“Did the shoot wrap up?”

“Yeah. They gave the official ‘That’s a wrap, good job, everyone,’ and then I bolted out of there. I wanted to see you, Masahiko—even a second sooner.”

Being wanted that badly made him feel bashful, and yet, this large man’s earnestness stirred something tender in him, made him want to reach out and ruffle his hair. There had been a time when even looking at this man had terrified him. To be able to stand at his side, to touch him now—it felt like incredible progress. Kusuda himself hadn’t imagined he could ever come this far.

A girl in a white coat and a guy in a souvenir-style satin jacket were walking toward them, holding hands tightly. Kusuda figured they were a couple. As they passed, the girl kept glancing over, and a moment later, her voice floated back: “Hey, wasn’t that guy in Skeleton Park?”

His heart skipped a beat. Would Akizawa get recognized again, like at the coffee shop? But the guy just shrugged, “Dunno,” and the girl didn’t press it. They kept walking.

“You really can’t help standing out.”

Even in New York, there had been moments when people realized Akizawa was an actor—but no one ever mobbed him, and he was rarely approached.

“I was thinking we could go for hatsumode,” Kusuda said, “but the shrine’s probably still packed, so maybe we skip it.”

Today’s date had been Kusuda’s idea. He’d even planned the whole schedule. But he hadn’t told Akizawa what they’d be doing.

“Hatsumode! I want to go. I want to go with you, Masahiko!”

Akizawa’s voice jumped an octave in excitement.

…Damn. He should’ve kept that plan quiet and changed it secretly.

“You don’t want to get mobbed again, right?”

“I’ll go in disguise!”

“Now? You didn’t bring anything, did you?”

Akizawa darted into a nearby convenience store, ignoring the unnerved look the girl at the register gave him as he quickly picked out several cosmetic items. After paying, he turned to Kusuda with the bag in hand and said, “Wait here a sec,” before disappearing into the bathroom.

Kusuda flipped through a magazine while he waited. Ten minutes later, when Akizawa emerged, Kusuda was taken aback. He already knew Akizawa could transform himself through acting, but with makeup on, he looked like a completely different person. His eyes seemed a different size, his facial structure altogether altered. What truly sealed the illusion, though, were the countless tiny moles drawn across his face. Even Kusuda—who spent so much time with him—thought, That’s not him. No one else would possibly recognize this man as Kaito Akizawa. His hair was just pulled back in a ponytail with a rubber band, but since Kusuda had never seen him with that hairstyle before, even that felt fresh.

“There was a guy on the morning shoot who played a sports photographer named Honda,” Akizawa explained. “I tried to mimic him. The role’s kind of like—”

“…All right, let’s go.”

Kusuda cut him off abruptly. If he let him keep going, Akizawa might slip into character. And Kusuda had no desire to visit a shrine with some guy possessed by “Honda.”

To make up for the time Akizawa had spent in the restroom, Kusuda bought him a latte. He added sugar and handed it over, earning an overjoyed grin in return. It was cold outside, and with every sip, a puff of white breath escaped Akizawa’s lips. He cradled the cup in both hands like it was precious, and though he was such a large man, something about the way he did it made Kusuda think of a small animal. It was… oddly endearing.

With no more fear of being recognized as an actor, they walked openly toward the shrine. The crowd gradually thickened along the way, and once they passed under the torii gate and entered the path leading up to the main grounds, rows of food stalls lined both sides and the crowd suddenly swelled.

With his latte in one hand, Akizawa looked from side to side, his eyes darting toward the stalls, his nose sniffing at the air. Watching him, Kusuda thought, He’s like a police dog. Then a thought struck him.

“You haven’t eaten lunch, have you?”

“I’m drinking a latte.”

Not an answer. And it pretty much confirmed he hadn’t had anything but the latte. He probably skipped lunch just to make it to their meeting on time. That explanation seemed the most plausible.

“Let’s turn back for a bit and grab a quick bite.”

When Kusuda suggested that, Akizawa stopped in his tracks.

“You already ate, right? And we’ve come all this way—let’s pray first.”

“But you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine.”

He said that, but his eyes couldn’t leave the food stalls. Kusuda wasn’t convinced. So, as a quick fix to the problem, he asked, “If you had to pick one—grilled squid, corn dog, or Imagawayaki—which would you want?”

“Grilled squid!” came the immediate reply.

So Kusuda bought one from a nearby stall. He got Akizawa a whole one, and for himself, just a small squid leg to accompany him.

There stood a world-famous actor beside a komainu statue, gnawing on grilled squid like a literal dog. If Kuma ever heard about it, he’d probably despair: “Akizawa, standing and eating squid from a food stall… that’s perfect SNS bait.” But thanks to the makeup and hairstyle, no one had recognized him, so… it was fine. Probably.

It had been a while since Kusuda had eaten ika-yaki. The smell was savory and the sauce was a thick, sweet-and-salty punch.

“Squid’s tough, but like… stupidly bitter and stupidly good,” Akizawa muttered between bites.

Maybe it was the hunger, but he devoured the whole thing in just a few minutes. His right cheek was smeared red-brown with sauce.

“You’ve got sauce on your face.”

“Where?”

“Right cheek.”

Akizawa wiped at his face like a cat cleaning itself, but didn’t even touch the spot in question. Instead, one of his little fake moles flaked off.

Kusuda reached out and wiped the sauce away with his thumb.

“You’re just like a kid,” he said, laughing.

But then Akizawa grabbed his hand—and licked the sauce-stained thumb. A warm, wet sensation slid across his skin, and Kusuda’s whole body gave a shiver. Akizawa pulled away suddenly, peered into Kusuda’s face, and asked, “Did you hate that?”

“No… just surprised.”

To shake off the strange tension now hanging between them, Kusuda said, “If you’re done eating, let’s go pray,” and gently nudged him forward.

They went to the main shrine, tossed coins into the offering box, and clapped their hands together in prayer. Because the line was building up behind him, Kusuda stepped aside first, but Akizawa stood there with his hands together for a long time.

When he finally rejoined him, Kusuda asked, “What’d you wish for?”

“Lots of stuff.”

“What about you, Masahiko?”

“Mine’s a secret.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“If it comes true, I’ll tell you.”

Akizawa clearly couldn’t stop thinking about it and kept repeating, “Tell me,” but Kusuda distracted him with, “Wanna draw a fortune?”

The diversion worked, and Akizawa stopped pressing.

Akizawa got daikichi—great luck. Kusuda got chūkichi—middle luck. Glancing at Akizawa’s paper, Kusuda spotted a line like “Your future will continue to flourish,” and found himself strangely impressed, thinking, Maybe this guy really does have luck on his side.

“For romance, it says, ‘Go forward as your heart desires,’” Akizawa said, clearly more thrilled about that than the general fortune.

Kusuda’s own love fortune read: “Difficulties lie ahead. Don’t be hasty.”

Maybe he’d peeked at it, because Akizawa frowned and muttered, “Difficulties, huh…”

“It’s just fortune-telling,” Kusuda said, and tied his slip of paper to the rope near a large tree.

The sky was clear, but the wind was harsh, and it made the air feel much colder than it looked. Between standing around eating and praying, his whole body had gone cold. Chilled to the bone, he bought a cup of amazake from one of the exit path’s food stalls.

He sipped the sweet, cloudy amazake slowly, letting the warmth spread through his body until even his fingertips were glowing with heat. Gently buoyed by a faint, sweet intoxication, Kusuda took Akizawa to the movie theater. A Japanese film starring Akizawa had been released at the end of the year, and Kusuda had made up his mind to see it as soon as he returned to Japan.

The theater was moderately full, and they managed to get two seats together toward the back.

“If you’d told me in advance, I could’ve gotten you into a press screening,” Akizawa had said. But there was no way Kusuda could’ve returned to Japan just to catch the test screening—and more than that, he had wanted to experience it the proper way, among regular moviegoers.

The film opened with the protagonist—played by Akizawa—receiving news of his father’s death. Raised by his mother, who had never spoken a word about the man, the protagonist lost her too when he was twenty. He goes to attend his father’s funeral and gradually begins to explore who this man was, searching for his roots.

During filming, Akizawa had said, “It’s kind of understated, but the script is great and the director’s really interesting.” It was a surprisingly quiet role for someone who usually got offered eccentric, highly stylized characters. The cinematography was stunning. Akizawa’s delivery was so deft that it drew Kusuda into the story without effort. There he was—truly alive—on the other side of the screen. The film swallowed Kusuda whole, making him forget the man beside him, and the two-hour runtime vanished in a blink.

Still caught in the lingering spell of the movie, he didn’t realize it was already over until the announcement for the next screening came on. The theater, once filled with people, had emptied out completely—it was just him and Akizawa left. Embarrassed, they hurried into the lobby.

“Sorry for dragging you along,” Kusuda said.

If he really felt that bad, he could’ve gone alone—but the truth was, Kusuda had wanted to see it with him.

“It’s fine. I had fun,” Akizawa replied, his smile backing up the words.

“Fun?”

“Yeah. It felt like a date. Watching you get totally lost in the movie version of me—that was fun. Though I gotta say, even after the credits rolled, you didn’t look back at the real me for a while, and that kinda bugged me.”

It wasn’t just him—Akizawa had enjoyed it too. That fact made Kusuda happy. Being together like this was genuinely fun.

They had a sushi dinner reservation later, but there was still time to kill, so they sat side by side on a long bench and flipped through the film’s pamphlet. Every photo of Akizawa in it looked amazing. So handsome it made Kusuda sigh—then he glanced sideways, and there was the real thing, sitting right beside him. It felt like he was being spoiled with the height of luxury.

By the time they left the theater, it was past six-thirty and already pitch dark outside. Winter evenings fell fast. The sushi restaurant was only about a ten-minute walk, and since no one had recognized the disguised Akizawa, there was no need for a taxi. They strolled along leisurely, shoulder to shoulder. Even from the side, his profile was distinctly Akizawa—and yet somehow looked like someone else entirely. He blended into the crowd like a chameleon. But beneath that fluid, ever-shifting surface, his core remained steady and unchanged.

…No, maybe it had changed. His way of thinking, at least. It had matured.

The restaurant was on the third floor of a hotel. Since they had a reservation, they were guided to a table by the window.

Back in the day, many sushi places in New York were owned by Chinese restaurateurs, and Jessica would growl “It’s a fake!” every time, as the appearance and taste of the food were wildly different from what you’d find in Japan. Lately, more and more spots run by Japanese chefs had popped up, and it was finally possible to eat something close to the real thing—but the toppings still differed ever so slightly.

Kusuda ordered things he rarely saw abroad, like mantis shrimp and ark shell, and had them with sake. Akizawa stuck to his favorites—sweet shrimp, fatty tuna, sea urchin… Creamy and sweet, all of them.

“Sake tonight, huh, Masahiko?”

Usually, he drank beer at home. This place served beer too, but he’d chosen sake on purpose.

“Since I’m back, I figured I’d stick with Japanese while I’m here.”

Beer wore off too quickly. Tonight, he wanted to stay drunk for a while. Akizawa, perhaps matching Kusuda’s pace, ordered a syrupy plum wine with soda.

He had planned to savor the sushi toppings unique to Japan, but after the fifth or sixth piece, tension began to mount and his appetite vanished. He washed it down with more sake to cover it up.

Akizawa was talking about the drama he’d been filming from the end of the year right up to today. Kusuda enjoyed listening to him talk about his work. Later, when he watched the finished drama or film, he could recall those little behind-the-scenes stories—it made it more fun. When he once told Masamitsu about that, his brother had said, “Don’t those details make it harder to focus on the actual story?” to which Kusuda replied, “I end up watching two or three times anyway.” Masamitsu had just stared at him, exasperated. “You really do love Akizawa-san as an actor.”

They spent about an hour and a half at the restaurant before leaving. As they descended to the first floor of the hotel, Kusuda checked his watch—nearly 9 p.m.

“So, what now? I’m off tomorrow and the next day, so we can hang out as long as you want.”

Akizawa probably had no idea what Kusuda was about to suggest. Then again, that wasn’t surprising. It might catch him off guard—but it wasn’t strange. It wasn’t wrong…

He was still tipsy—he’d drunk for this very reason—but somehow the words wouldn’t come out.

“Masahiko, what’s wrong?”

Maybe it hadn’t been enough. Maybe he should’ve had one more drink. He wanted to bring it up casually, but now he was hesitating, awkward.

“Did you drink too much? Not feeling well? Want to sit down?”

At Akizawa’s prompting, they sat on a bench in the hotel lobby. The longer he waited, the more awkward it would get. He forced himself to raise his head.

“A room…”

Before he could finish, Akizawa clapped his hands.

“This is a hotel. Should we get a room and rest for a bit? If you're tired, you can sleep. I’ll be quiet next to you.”

As the man half-rose, about to dash to the front desk, Kusuda grabbed his arm.

“N-no. I already booked a room.”

Akizawa tilted his head, puzzled, but then nodded. “Oh, I see.”

“You’re not staying at your parents’, then?”

“…No. Just for tonight.”

Kusuda forced himself to meet Akizawa’s gaze. Saying it would mean there was no going back. The fear of crossing that line trembled through his body.

“I… wanted to spend the night with you.”

And unless Kusuda made his intentions clear, this man would never take the initiative.

“I think I’m okay now… even if you touch me like that.”

Akizawa suddenly clapped both hands over his mouth. It was like he was trying to suppress a scream. After several deep breaths, he finally lowered his hands and asked in a small voice, “Really?”

Kusuda handed him the card key.

“Seventeenth floor.”

Back when he’d stepped out “just to use the restroom” after dinner, Kusuda had checked in—just in case he lost his nerve later.

Akizawa took the card and gripped Kusuda’s hand tightly as they headed for the elevator. The hand wrapped around his felt like it was burning.

The elevator doors opened. A middle-aged man in a suit stepped out, glancing at them briefly, but Kusuda ignored it. Akizawa probably didn’t even think about how two men holding hands might look to someone else. And honestly, Kusuda didn’t care either. It was only for a moment.

They stepped into the elevator. Kusuda couldn’t bring himself to look at Akizawa’s face. The air in the small space felt so dense it was like the oxygen had been cut in half.

“What’s the room number?”

“1710.”

That was the only thing they said in the elevator. The car stopped, the doors opened. The moss green carpet laid out along the hallway made his feet instinctively freeze. He forced himself to take larger, deliberate steps so it wouldn’t show.

As soon as they entered the room—before the door had even finished closing—he was pulled into an embrace. His whole body tensed from a vague, formless fear. I’m not scared. I’m not scared, he repeated firmly in his mind. He lifted his face to confirm who it was that was holding him.

That simple motion ended up resembling a silent request for a kiss—and before he realized it, he was being kissed. Everything was moving too fast. At this rate, he wouldn’t be able to keep up. He’d be left behind.

He shoved the eager body away. Akizawa stumbled back three steps, and then, failing to catch his balance, landed hard on his rear. With his mouth half open, he looked up at Kusuda in stunned silence.

“S-sorry.”

Before he realized it, Kusuda was already kneeling down in front of him.

“It was just… so sudden, it startled me.”

He had to make it clear—quickly—that it wasn’t rejection.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s just been a long time, and if we go too fast, my body and heart won’t be able to keep up. I’d rather… take things slow.”

Akizawa scratched his head sheepishly. “Yeah, you’re right. I get it. When you said it was okay, my brain just went haywire with excitement.”

“I’m sorry too.”

They exchanged apologies and things settled down, but maybe because the moment of peak emotion had been broken by a sudden brake, the mood had turned a little awkward. It was hard to just say let’s pick up where we left off.

They couldn’t just sit there on the floor forever, so Kusuda got up and boiled some water in the electric kettle to make coffee. The room was a spacious 20-tatami-sized twin—about 33 square meters. To the right of the entrance were the bathroom, shower booth, and powder room. Further in on the right side were the beds, with a sofa and TV on the left. At the far end was a large wall-to-wall window.

They sat side by side on the sofa. Neither of them knew what to say. They were here for sex, and yet drinking coffee to cover the silence felt transparently evasive. The whole thing left him frustrated. He couldn’t relax or enjoy the space. Maybe he should’ve just let the moment carry them. But honestly, there was no way he could’ve gone through with it as it was.

The awkwardness didn’t go away. And because he’d been the one to break the flow, the discomfort weighed even heavier. Kusuda stood with his cup in hand and walked over to the south-facing window. A light curtain hung over it. When he lifted it, a carpet of twinkling lights unfurled below—car headlights stretching far into the distance. The beautiful night view pulled his gaze in, and the fog that had been clouding his mind suddenly lifted. He let out a quiet sigh. Night lights really were beautiful. He’d seen the view in New York, too, but this had a slightly different quality.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

The words he’d been thinking echoed aloud—from the side, in Akizawa’s voice. He stood close to the window, holding a mug of coffee that had turned a muddy yellow from too much milk. As he brought his face close to the glass, his breath fogged it up, and he traced a circle with his finger in the condensation.

“I used to hate New Year’s when I was a kid.”

Akizawa spoke in a small voice.

“Everyone seemed so happy. With osechi meals and family shrine visits… I always thought that stuff only existed on TV. We never did anything like that.”

But then he continued.

“This year was really fun, though. I got to go to the shrine with you, pull a fortune. The ika-yaki and amazake were delicious. I want to do hatsumode with you again next year.”

“Sure,” Kusuda said.

Akizawa set his cup on the window sill, then took Kusuda’s left hand in his own and laughed quietly. The playful tugging jostled Kusuda’s body and made his coffee threaten to spill, so he put his cup down too. Still holding his hand, Akizawa tugged him along and said, “Let’s talk on the bed.”

The twin beds were wide enough to be considered semi-doubles. Akizawa climbed onto the closer one and sprawled out. Kusuda sat beside him with his legs crossed. The white sheets, the bed beneath him… the tension he’d forgotten while admiring the night view slowly returned, creeping back in.

“Watching the night view while lying down—it’s kind of nice.”

Akizawa tugged lightly at the hem of his jacket. Taking that as an invitation, Kusuda awkwardly lay down beside him. The view didn’t change much, but somehow the sprawling lights looked like stars. So maybe this was space, then. That reminded him—two years ago, Masamitsu had gotten obsessed with astronomy and launched a jewelry line called planet. It had done surprisingly well...

“Masahiko.”

Akizawa lay on his stomach, gazing at him.

“Touch me.”

Kusuda reached for the closest part—his hair. He stroked it, and Akizawa’s lips curled into a soft shape, his eyes narrowing like a cat’s in pleasure.

“Other places too.”

Since he couldn’t reach easily, he scooted closer and touched his shoulder. Akizawa seemed to enjoy any touch, so Kusuda let his fingers drift to his back, his waist.

“Can I touch you too?”

Kusuda braced himself and nodded. Akizawa’s hand reached out, touching his hair, stroking gently, then moving to his cheek. When his fingers slid along the side of his neck, it felt more like a caress than a touch, and Kusuda involuntarily held his breath. The spots where he was touched tingled down his back—not unpleasantly. Their lips met, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They kissed over and over, lightly brushing lips, then exploring, sucking gently on each other’s tongues. Akizawa’s breathing grew slightly ragged.

Kusuda saw fingers slip beneath the hem of his sweater. When Akizawa’s hand met bare skin, it wasn’t pleasure he felt—it was a prickling jolt that startled him. He looked up at Akizawa’s face. It was fine. The one touching him was Akizawa.

Akizawa pushed up Kusuda’s sweater and kissed his chest. At first it was just a light touch, but then his tongue flicked across the skin, teasing, before he sealed his lips to it and sucked hard. Kusuda’s knees trembled. It wasn’t pleasure. Or rather—it didn’t feel bad, but it didn’t feel good either. It was a strange sensation, hard to explain. Part of him wanted it to be over. He tried to think of something else, glanced away—and saw the night view.

“…Could you close the curtain?”

The sensation of lips against his chest disappeared. Akizawa got off the bed and pulled the curtains shut, sealing them off from the outside world. But even after he came back, he didn’t climb back onto the bed. Instead, he took Kusuda’s hand and said:

“Let’s shower together.”

The request came in a soft, coaxing voice. Kusuda got off the bed. In the powder room, they undressed each other. He had thought he was ready. But when he saw Akizawa naked—saw that part of him up close—his back teeth began to chatter. Something about it scared him. Even though he had the same body, seeing Akizawa’s groin was frightening.

He wanted to run. To bolt from the room. But he had already shoved him once—at the door—and ruined the mood. They’d just managed to get things back on track. He didn’t want to mess it up again. And besides, this was what he had said he wanted. If he didn’t push through this, there would be no moving forward.

They stepped into the shower booth together, holding each other, kissing under the stream of water. Maybe because he had asked Akizawa to take it slow, his touch was incredibly cautious, gentle. The fear gradually receded. And as long as they stayed locked in an embrace, kissing like this, he didn’t have to look at that.

Some fear was inevitable. But the fact that he could still touch Akizawa, even while afraid, was a kind of progress. He was moving forward—slowly, but surely. Under the steady pulse of hot water, the feel of Akizawa’s skin against his own began to stir the first, delicate hints of comfort. Just as he was starting to think he might grow used to it, Akizawa’s fingers slipped down to his waist.

They traced down between his buttocks, touching that vulnerable place. Kusuda felt the blood drain from his body in one sudden wave.

“Can I put my finger in?”

His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might explode. He couldn’t close his eyes. If he did, he’d remember. He’d remember being blindfolded, his body used and violated at will. Maybe thinking Kusuda hadn’t heard, Akizawa asked again, “Can I…?”

He looked up, ready to refuse—

But the man before him wasn’t a stranger. It was Akizawa. The makeup moles had smeared into black smudges, making him look like a kid who’d been playing in the dirt. That disconnect—the lust in his eyes, the childish mess of his face—cut through the wall of terror, just for a moment.

It wasn’t anyone else. It was Akizawa—the man he’d decided to try again with.

With the running water pouring down, Kusuda reached up and gently, slowly washed the dark smudges from his face. Akizawa stayed still the whole time, letting it happen.

“You can do whatever you want,” Kusuda said quietly. “Just… go slow. I’m still a little scared.”

“Okay.”

As he kissed him with a dreamy expression, Akizawa gently pressed his finger against that place. Instinctively, Kusuda clung tightly to the body in front of him. Slowly… with a gradual, spreading pressure, it began to open. He almost cried out. It feels disgusting. Disgusting. I hate this. Tears welled up before he could stop them. He clenched his back teeth, desperately resisting the urge to flee.

The finger pressed in, little by little, slowly working its way deeper. His breathing turned shallow. It was hard to breathe, like someone had told him to inhale through a straw. If he couldn’t handle a finger, there was no way he could take that. He should have prepared himself ahead of time. But touching himself—even just for the sake of preparation—had been terrifying. He had pushed that responsibility onto Akizawa, and now he was paying for it.

The finger that had entered began to move, forward and back, side to side. He had thought that once it was inside, he’d be able to bear it somehow—but the movement made his stomach twist in tight knots. It hurt. He wanted to tell him to stop. But he was still managing to endure it, and to throw that time away now felt unbearable. He had braced himself for this. He had come prepared, in his own way.

Before coming to Japan, torn up over what to do about Akizawa, Kusuda had—knowing full well he’d be met with disapproval—gone to Jessica for advice. “I’m thinking of taking the next step with Akizawa.” Jessica, quick as always to read between the lines, had fallen silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she said simply, “It’s your life. Do what you want with it.” He had caused her no end of trouble over Akizawa. And now, after all that, he’d gone back to him—and was asking for advice about sex. She had every reason to be fed up. Expecting kind, supportive words had been foolish. It was only then that he finally realized it.

“Sorry,” he’d said—apologizing for even bringing it up. But Jessica had tilted her head.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. But the fact that you’re even asking me… doesn’t that mean you still have doubts inside you?”

The pointed truth hit him hard, and he had no rebuttal. Jessica had placed both hands over her own chest.

“Emotional wounds are invisible. No one can know how deep they go. Not even me. Maybe not even you, Masahiko. Please take care of yourself. I don’t know what you’re rushing toward, but there’s no need to force yourself or try so hard.”

Finally, the finger that had been tormenting him slid out. The relief hit all at once, and the tension in his jaw released. His knees gave out and he collapsed, unable to stand. Akizawa picked him up and carried him out of the bathroom.

He was laid gently on the dry sheets. Akizawa climbed into the bed as well and, without hesitation, took hold of Kusuda’s legs—now naturally drawn together—and slowly spread them apart.

“Didn’t feel that good, huh?”

His body, honest to a fault, hung limp and unresponsive.

“That’s not it…”

He lied, feeling guilty for not reacting.

“It’s just been a long time. I think I just haven’t remembered how it’s supposed to feel yet.”

“Yeah,” Akizawa murmured. Between his legs, where the sensation had gone dull and numb, something cool was applied.

“You’re relaxed now, so I’ll go in.”

He had thought it would be okay—as long as his feelings were truly with Akizawa. That even if it was scary, he could overcome it with love—something intangible but powerful. But what he had imagined… was nothing more than an ideal. Reality was right here in front of him.

There was no arousal. No joy. Only fear, spreading like black ink across the canvas of his heart.

“I’ll be gentle,” Akizawa said.

Akizawa’s erection entered his field of vision. The instant he imagined that going inside him, Kusuda’s entire body locked up. The past—the horrific, unbearable memories—flashed back all at once. The loss of control over his arms and legs. His sight taken from him. The voice of an unknown man echoing in the dark. Mocking laughter. Fingers, fingers, fingers crawling all over him like maggots. The feeling of tearing pain down there.

His knees began to tremble. The weight of another body settled over him, and something hot and hard pressed against that place. Scary, scary, scary, no, no, no. Something snapped in his head with a sharp crack.

“Wa—waaaaah!”

He screamed, shoving at the man on top of him with trembling hands.

“I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t do this. Please, stop. Please…”

The pressure over his body suddenly vanished. He lay there, legs still spread, staring up at the ceiling. Gone. The person who would hurt him, violate him—gone. But… who had left? Who was it?

He turned his head. Beside him, Akizawa sat formally on his knees, lips pressed into a thin line, looking down at him with a face full of pain.

I couldn’t do it. …I still couldn’t.

A wave of despair and self-loathing came crashing down like a tsunami, and tears burst from his eyes all at once.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I really thought I could do it. But I’m scared. Even knowing it’s you—I’m still scared.”

It was the worst. He had been the one who invited him, full of false confidence, pretending to be fine—and this was how it ended.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I love you, I do… but my body, my head—they won’t follow.”

He flinched as he sensed a hand reaching toward him. The hand paused, then withdrew slowly. Even that small movement—so tender, so cautious—struck him with fresh despair.

“I-it’s not that I didn’t want that just now,” he blurted, crying. Trying to explain, justify himself. Seeing the sadness on Akizawa’s face only made him feel more wretched.

“I really didn’t. It just happened too fast… I wasn’t mentally ready…”

Jessica had been right. Everything she’d said was true. He had been unsure. He’d been in a rush, trying to move forward with Akizawa. He hadn’t wanted to make him wait any longer. But that act—the one that forced him to relive those terrifying memories that nearly broke his mind—wasn’t something he could overcome so easily.

Even so, he had fallen in love with him all over again. He didn’t want to believe that it was impossible. He couldn’t bear to admit defeat. That’s why, even though he knew it was a burden, he’d gone to Jessica for advice—because some part of him had wanted her to push him forward. And Jessica, honest and clear-eyed as always, had known him better than he knew himself.

A sob burst from his throat. He hated himself for crying over something like this. It’s just sex. He used to be able to do it. He used to feel pleasure. It used to feel good.

“…What should I do?” Akizawa asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Kusuda said.

“Would it be better… if I wasn’t here?”

Before he could think it through, his mouth moved on its own.

“Stay.”

After a brief pause, Akizawa nodded. “Then I will.”

“Is here okay? Should I sit a little farther away?”

“Here’s fine.”

Akizawa sat by his side, looking as though he were balancing on a needlepoint, his face twisted in silent pain. That grief pierced Kusuda’s whole body. He knew he was hurting him by asking him to stay—and yet, he didn’t want him to go. The guilt was so overwhelming it felt like he was killing himself from the inside out.

“I feel like I wanna die,” Akizawa murmured. “I want to kill whoever made you cry like this. But that’s me.”

Kusuda hiccuped through another sob.

“It’s the past me, and the me right now.”

“No, it’s not… it’s just that I’m weak. I’m not strong enough…”

“Don’t apologize,” Akizawa said, clutching the sheets at his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“If I could go back in time, I’d kill the old me. But I can’t, so… should I just kill the me now? If I died, would you be even sadder, Masahiko?”

Just moments ago, they had been smiling together, enjoying each other’s company. And now, because of his own thoughtless push forward, he’d driven Akizawa to talk about killing, about dying—utter nonsense. Kusuda should have thought things through more carefully. Should have acted with more clarity.

He reached out and touched Akizawa’s kneecap. Akizawa had told him not to apologize, but his hand moved in soft, repetitive strokes, as if in apology anyway. Akizawa placed his hand over Kusuda’s, lifted it slightly, and pressed the back of it against his forehead.

“I’m sorry I made you cry so much. When you said you couldn’t have sex, I guess I didn’t really get it. I’m stupid, so I didn’t understand. But now I do. I really do. I’m sorry—so, so sorry for making you go through that.”

A rush of emotion—too big to contain—surged up inside him, and Kusuda sobbed aloud. He remembered being raped by a stranger. Being assaulted by Akizawa, back when he’d lost control. Feeling like trash, like he wanted to die. One by one, these memories floated to the surface like bubbles—and popped.

All those buried feelings, long sedimented inside his heart, were drawn out and washed away in his tears. They kept flowing, wave after wave, refusing to stop. By the time the storm began to settle, his eyes ached from crying so much.

Akizawa was still there, crouched by the bed, holding Kusuda’s hand against his forehead. When he acted, he was so poised—yet now, with his back hunched small, he looked so tiny.

Kusuda slowly sat up.

“Look at me.”

Akizawa lifted his head sluggishly. His face was pale, as if all the life had been drained from it. Kusuda inched forward and pressed his cheek against Akizawa’s. For a moment, Akizawa stayed still. Then, little by little, he nuzzled back, and their lips found each other naturally.

“…I’m exhausted from crying,” Kusuda said with a weak laugh.

Akizawa responded, “Hearing you cry like that—it hurt so bad, I thought my heart might actually die.”

The way he spoke, as if confessing something small and helpless, made Kusuda love him all over again. And realizing that love had returned to him—that he could feel this way again—brought him comfort.

He lay back down, pulled the sheet up from the foot of the bed, and wrapped it around them. Naked, they clung to each other beneath it. Just earlier, that contact had been unbearable—but now, the warmth of Akizawa’s body soaked gently into his own.

“It feels nice, being close like this.”

Akizawa nestled his face against Kusuda’s neck.

“I don’t need to have sex with you, Masahiko. Just staying like this is enough. I never want to hear you cry like that again. It felt like someone was stabbing me in the heart over and over. I couldn’t take it.”

Their eyes met, and they kissed. A slow, tender kiss, like a bedtime lullaby—soft and unhurried. Akizawa stared at him, brushing a hand along his cheek, and murmured in a dreamy voice, “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful, Masahiko.”

It made Kusuda’s skin crawl a little. Akizawa worked with beautiful people—men and women both—on a daily basis. And by most standards, Kusuda was just some plain-faced man in his thirties.

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not. You’re beautiful.”

“Seriously, stop it.”

The embarrassment made a cold sweat break out on his back.

“You’re beautiful because I say you are,” Akizawa said. “I’m an actor, right? I’ve said ‘I love you’ in a bunch of different roles, but I never really understood what love was. But I think… I think loving you, Masahiko —that’s what love is. I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone more than I love you.”

Kusuda could see his own reflection in Akizawa’s earnest eyes.

“Stay with me until I’m an old man. Keep looking at me—always.”

He was speaking of a future Kusuda had never dared to imagine.

“And I’ll watch you grow old too, Masahiko. Even when we’re both old men, let’s still sleep side by side like this, cuddled up.”

“You’re so energetic,” Kusuda muttered.

“No. I’m just really, really happy.”

Something slipped quietly into place within his heart. Ever since getting back together with this man and finally being able to touch him again, Kusuda had assumed that going further was only natural. Of course they would, and of course Akizawa would want that too. He had always known Akizawa had a strong sex drive. But… had that really been true? Sex mattered, sure. But apart from that, Kusuda was wanted by this man. Wasn’t it possible he hadn’t seen the most important part at all? What Akizawa truly sought from him were just two things: to love him, and to be beside him.

Ashamed of himself, Kusuda shifted slightly. Something hard brushed against his leg. What was that? He squirmed around, trying to figure it out, and Akizawa asked, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something down by my foot…”

Akizawa sat up and reached toward the foot of the bed. What he grabbed was a tube of lubricant. Without a word, he hurled it at the wall. It struck a glass sitting on the table by the wall and shattered it with a loud crash.

“Whoa—hey!”

The culprit sat hugging a pillow, flustered and helpless. Kusuda got out of bed and approached the scene. The glass had shattered in spectacular fashion. Fortunately, the broken pieces were contained on top of the table. After confirming the extent of the damage, he returned to the bed.

“We’ll have to pay for it when we check out tomorrow.”

“Sorry… Are you mad?”

Are you mad? Really? What are you, a grade-schooler?

“You didn’t have to throw it like that.”

Still clutching the pillow, Akizawa mumbled, “I thought maybe you didn’t want to see it…”

“Don’t pin it on me.”

“I really did think that, though.”

Pouting, Akizawa flopped onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head. Whatever the reason, it was always the extremes with him—that’s what caused problems. And yet… wasn’t it true what they say? That the more foolish the child, the more lovable.

Kusuda reached down and tickled the side of the man with his head buried under the pillow. Akizawa squirmed like an eel. Finding it amusing, Kusuda kept going until Akizawa finally flung the pillow aside and retaliated. He grabbed Kusuda’s calf and tickled the soles of his feet.

“Stop it—cut it out!”

They tumbled across the mattress, wrestling playfully. Akizawa’s foot knocked over the box of condoms, scattering its contents all over the floor. It was pure chaos. From the outside, anyone looking in would be dumbfounded by what on earth they were doing—but it was fun. After roughhousing to their hearts’ content, they finally called a truce, exhausted. While Kusuda lay face-down, catching his breath, Akizawa slid up next to him, chuckling softly with his shoulder shaking.

“What?”

Even when asked, he only laughed. Then he gave Kusuda’s cheek a quick kiss.

“I’m a little tired now.”

When Kusuda murmured that, Akizawa nodded. “Me too.”

“Let’s go to sleep.”

Kusuda reached for the rumpled sheets and pulled them up over both of them. He turned off the lights using the side-table switch.

Akizawa squirmed closer and pressed his chest against Kusuda’s back. There was nothing to fear. They weren’t going any further. Akizawa wouldn’t push. Kusuda believed that now. He drew the warm arm wrapped around his belly up to his chest and held it with both hands. Then he closed his eyes.

He slept so deeply he didn’t even dream, and when he woke, it was early morning. The room was still dim.

The man beside him was still lost in deep sleep. Kusuda got out of bed and walked over to the window. He lifted the curtain. What greeted him was a vast, uninterrupted stretch of white—a world blanketed in snow. It was like he had stumbled into another realm entirely. While he stood gazing at the scene, a shiver ran through his whole body, and he sneezed. Only then did he realize he was standing naked by the window, and stepped back slightly. Since they’d left the heater on all night, he hadn’t noticed the cold until just now.

He returned to the bed, sat cross-legged, and stared in silence at the still-sleeping Akizawa.

Akizawa kept shifting in his sleep, and now the sheet only covered him up to the waist. His pale-colored nipples and taut abdomen were fully exposed. Compared to the past, even with his slim frame, he’d developed noticeable muscle. Kusuda had heard that since Akizawa began appearing in Hollywood films, his action roles had increased, and he’d been training regularly. An urge to see the rest of what was hidden stirred in him, and he quietly pulled the sheet down from Akizawa’s chest.

His pubic hair was light, and the penis that peeked out from beneath was a decent size. Just yesterday, Kusuda had been so frightened he’d cried—but now, seeing it lying there completely flaccid, there was something almost comical about it. He reached out and gently touched it. It was warm, soft, utterly lacking in tension, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, startled out of his skin. Akizawa had opened one eye just slightly and was watching him. Playing with your boyfriend’s dick while he’s asleep—there was no sugarcoating it. It was just plain awful.

“Sorry…”

“It’s yours, Masahiko. Do whatever you want with it,” Akizawa said with a sleepy murmur.

Flustered, Kusuda pulled his mischievous hand away. Akizawa yawned softly, then slowly inched toward him, wrapping himself around Kusuda’s waist like a snake.

“It’s still early. Let’s stay in bed a bit longer.”

He was pulled back under the sheets. When Akizawa embraced him, that familiar scent wrapped around him, and something deep in Kusuda’s brain throbbed faintly, warmly. One day, I want to sleep with him. Not now, not yet—but someday. When he’s the one who wants it. When Kusuda himself wants it. He hoped his body would be able to accept that desire, that feeling, naturally when the time came.

He remembered the love fortune from the shrine: “There will be hardship. Do not rush.”

There was no need to rush. Even if that day of tender physical closeness never arrived—even if they never shared that depth of intimacy—the two of them were already whole. Nothing would change that. A tear slipped down his cheek. The simple act of realizing that, the fact that he could now believe it—that alone moved him to tears.

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