COLD HEART in NEWYORK: Chapter 11

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Jessica lived about a ten-minute walk from where Akizawa had kicked over that garbage can, on a quiet residential street. Her apartment was in an old-looking, five-story building made of white brick.

She opened the iron gate, walked a short five-meter path, and climbed three steps to the front door, which was left ajar by about twenty centimeters.

Muttering something under her breath in English, Jessica pushed the door open. Inside was a small entryway, and directly across from it stood an elevator. The building seemed old, and so did the elevator—it rattled with alarming violence as it ascended.

Jessica led him to unit 305 on the third floor. First, she brought him to the washroom, where he cleaned the blood from his hands. The slow-seeping wounds still oozed faintly, which he dabbed dry with kitchen paper before heading into the living room.

It was around 25 square meters (about 15 tatami mats) in size. The walls were a pale cream yellow, with white-framed sketches of angels decorating them. The curtains were olive green. A brown sofa sat in the middle, lined with shiny, embroidered cushions. The rug was a faded orange. The whole space gave off a warm, comforting vibe.

On either side of the living room were doors—Jessica emerged from the one on the left.

“Have a seat on the couch.”

Having taken off her coat, she now wore a sweater and jeans, her red hair tied back in a simple ponytail. In her hand was a small box.

…When she’d seen his bloodied palms, Jessica had invited him over.

“My place is close. Let me patch you up. If the police saw you like this, they’d think you just murdered someone.”

It wasn’t bad enough for a hospital, but it did need care. The thought of trying to locate a pharmacy and buy supplies in a foreign country felt like a hassle, so he’d gratefully accepted her kindness.

Jessica dabbed ointment onto his palms and began wrapping them in cling film. For a second, it felt like she was turning his hands into packaged meat or something, and he shot her a dubious look. Reading his expression, she explained:

“It’s moist wound treatment. Wounds heal faster when they’re kept from drying out.”

“You’ve got a shoot tomorrow, right? Andrew mentioned it. You’ll probably remove this before then, but try not to show your palms on camera. If the wounds haven’t healed well, just wrap them like this again. I’ll split these between us.”

As she spoke, she used a wooden spatula to portion some of the ointment into a paper cup.

“You’re really kind,” Akizawa said.

Jessica chuckled softly as she closed the lid of the ointment bottle.

“I really love Japan. When I was there, so many people were kind to me. So when I see someone Japanese having a rough time here, I just can’t ignore it.”

She placed the portioned ointment and plastic wrap into a paper bag and handed it to him.

“It’s been a while since I left Japan, but my roommate’s Japanese, so I haven’t forgotten the language. We speak Japanese inside the apartment and English outside—it’s kind of like living in two countries at once. It’s fun.”

Then came the clunk of a door opening.

“Oh? Sounds like he’s home.”

Accompanied by awkward footsteps, something entered the room—no, not something—a mass of toilet paper. So much that the person carrying it was completely hidden. Jessica exclaimed “Oh!” in surprise.

“Why’d you buy so much?!”

“There was a coupon. It was cheap. And I refuse to wait till we’re on the last roll before restocking.”

The voice hit Akizawa like a bullet.

His heart nearly stopped.

“And the digital lock on the front door is still broken, right? It’s been three days. That’s not safe. What’s the landlord even doing?”

There was no way he could mistake that voice.

Akizawa leapt up from the sofa, tearing away the pile of toilet paper with both arms.

“Ah—thanks, Jessica.”

Clearing the obstruction, he saw him.

That face he’d played over in his mind so many times. That voice. That body. Masahiko—exactly the same as three years ago. Not a trace of difference.

The lover he thought dead sucked in a sharp breath when he saw Akizawa. His eyes went wide—wider than Akizawa had ever seen them.

“Masahiko… I’ve wanted to see you so badly.”

Tears welled up the instant joy surged through him.

“I came all this way just to see you.”

But Masahiko shoved him hard. Akizawa’s back slammed against the wall.

Masahiko bolted across the living room and into the room on the right.

Akizawa flung the toilet paper aside and ran to the door.

“Hey—Masahiko.”

He pounded on the door. Again, and again, and again. But no reply. The impact made the wounds flare, and blood began to seep through the plastic wrap on his right hand.

“Please open up. Just talk to me. I’m not mad you lied to me. I’m really not mad at all.”

He knew Masahiko could hear him. But silence.

“…You know Masahiko?” Jessica approached hesitantly.

“He never mentioned you. Not even once.”

Of course he hadn’t. It would’ve been humiliating to admit he’d run away from his lover. Akizawa yanked at the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge.

“If he locked it, it won’t open from this side,” Jessica informed him.

Just one door separated them.

“This door—can I break it? I’ll pay for it later.”

Jessica’s freckled cheeks tensed slightly.

“That would be… a problem. Masahiko’s probably just tired from work. Maybe save the conversation for another day?”

“I’m tired too,” Akizawa snapped. “We’re even, aren’t we?”

“…Kaito.”

Masahiko’s voice.

Akizawa pressed himself against the door.

“What!”

“You’ve got a shoot tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

How did he know that?

“If we start talking now, it could get late. I don’t want it to affect your shoot. Let’s wait. After your work’s done tomorrow… we’ll talk. So go home for now.”

Three years.

Masahiko was right here. So close. Even if he couldn’t see his face—just knowing he was behind that door…

But if he stayed like this, excitement would keep him up all night. If his face was puffy from lack of sleep tomorrow, Takahisa would—

“Then… after the shoot, will you meet with me?”

A long silence. Then finally: “Yeah.”

“I’ll come straight here after work. Don’t run. Wait for me, okay?”

“…I will.”

A promise.

They’d made a proper promise.

So even though every part of him wanted to see Masahiko’s face—wanted to wrap his arms around him and never let go—he clenched his teeth and held it back.

Compared to believing Masahiko was dead, waiting one day was nothing. Back then, he cried thinking they’d never meet again.

This was a million times better than that.

“If you’re heading out, take these with you. No need to return them.”

At the door, Jessica handed him gloves. Plain white work gloves. But better than walking around with cling-wrapped hands.

Back at the hotel, he found a message waiting on his phone—left behind on the desk—from Kuma:

“I was given an IV and I’m feeling much better. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’ll be fine tomorrow. The shoot starts at 11 a.m., and we’ll leave the hotel at 9.”

Just an update and a confirmation. He didn’t need to reply.

But he called anyway.

“Akizawa-san, I’m really sorry about earlier… Is something wrong?”

“…I saw Masahiko.”

After a short pause, Kuma replied, “That’s wonderful to hear.”

Akizawa felt a flush of warmth. He had just wanted to tell someone—anyone. And having someone say, that’s wonderful, made him genuinely happy.

“He’s someone you’ve been wanting to see for so long. Did he seem… any different?”

“No. He hadn’t changed at all. We didn’t get to talk today, but… it looks like we’ll really have time tomorrow.”

“Then let’s do our best to finish work quickly, so you can get to him.”

“Yeah,” Akizawa replied, then ended the call.

Only afterward did he wonder if maybe he should’ve mentioned his scraped-up hands. But it wasn’t his face, and it could wait until tomorrow. He shrugged off his coat and stretched out on the bed.

The tension drained from his body, and slowly, gently, happiness spread through him.

I’m glad I saw him.

Really, truly glad.

From tomorrow until he returned to Japan, they could be together. They could be close again.

But… what came after that?

He hadn’t thought that far.

Would Masahiko stay in New York permanently?

If so, maybe he could move here too. If his film work in the U.S. picked up and stabilized, there’d be no need to stay in Japan.

I’ve got to work hard…

That was the last thought in his mind as Akizawa drifted off into sleep, soft and soundless.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

On the third day of the trip—the day of the LION shoot—the snow clouds had cleared as if in celebration of Akizawa’s reunion with Masahiko. The sky was bright, the temperature had risen, and even the wind had calmed since yesterday.

The studio was located in the basement of Rogue’s headquarters. It was a massive space, roughly the size of a gymnasium, and had been transformed into the set of a basement. Though the paint was chipped, the space was dressed with antique desks and chairs—rich in detail—and rusted lighting fixtures. The theme was “Memories Sleeping in a Basement.”

Akizawa wore a classic 1920s-inspired outfit: a tailored jacket, trousers, and hat. The wounds on his palms had begun to scab and the bleeding had stopped, but just in case, a Black makeup artist with experience in body makeup covered them with foundation.

Tohru had apparently arrived quite early. He stood near the makeup station set in one corner of the studio, speaking with Karen while making last-minute adjustments to the props on set. His English was mostly strung-together vocabulary words, but it seemed to be getting the point across.

Even after Akizawa had finished getting ready, the lighting setup wasn’t done, so he had to wait. In the meantime, more and more people filtered into the studio. Akizawa had done his fair share of modeling gigs despite not being a professional model—but even by comparison, this was a lot. Maybe this was just how things were overseas.

“So many people,” he muttered, not expecting a response.

But standing beside him, Kuma replied, “Apparently it’s more crowded than usual today.”

“Andrew said the extra crew heard Tohru-san would be shooting, and that drew in other photographers and assistants. He’s kind of a global name.”

Akizawa already knew Tohru was highly regarded as a photographer. And the photos Tohru had taken of him were often praised.

Still—he hated him.

He only tolerated it because Tohru was CRUX’s exclusive photographer. But he hated him. He knew Masahiko was alive. Even as Akizawa broke down, completely shattered, Tohru had said nothing. Worse—he had given Akizawa a note, claiming it was Masahiko’s suicide letter. He could forgive Masamitsu for lying to him, but not Tohru. Never. But—for the sake of CRUX—he endured.

Then, through the studio doors, came a woman in a green cut-and-sewn top and a tight grey denim skirt—her red hair as striking as ever.

Jessica, Masahiko’s roommate.

She approached Akizawa with a bright, “Hi!”

“How’s your hand?”

“Like this,” he said, showing the wound now concealed beneath foundation.

Jessica leaned in to peer at his palm and marveled, “Body makeup is amazing.”

“Do you know this woman?” Kuma whispered discreetly.

“She helped me when I scraped my hands. She’s an editor at Rogue’s women’s fashion magazine.”

The moment he said that, Kuma straightened and formally said, “I’m Kuma, Kaito Akizawa’s manager. Thank you for helping him yesterday.” He handed her his business card with a polite bow.

Jessica glanced around the studio. “This set is lovely. It fits your mysterious image perfectly,” she said, planting her hands on her hips like a stage director surveying her kingdom.

“Actually,” she added, “I came here for a reason. Masahiko said he wanted to know if you’d join him for dinner after work.”

Seriously?!

Leaning forward, Akizawa exclaimed, “Really?!”

“But,” Jessica added, “would it be alright if I joined you?”

No, he thought immediately.

After all this time, he’d finally get to be alone with Masahiko—so why was she tagging along?

She’d been kind. A good person, even. But still…

“I haven’t seen Masahiko in forever, so I’d really rather it be just the two of us.”

“But it’s because he hasn’t seen you in forever that he’s nervous,” Jessica said. “He said he might get flustered.”

Seriously? After everything we’ve done together, now he’s nervous? They’d had sex, for god’s sake. But instead of saying that, he stopped himself. Thought it through.

He remembered—yesterday, the moment Masahiko saw him, he had bolted straight into the room. After lying and running away for so long, of course it would be awkward. Maybe he was afraid Akizawa would yell, accuse him. If that’s how he felt… Akizawa could understand. Even he would’ve been embarrassed if their positions were reversed.

He really did want to be alone with Masahiko. But just this once, he could respect Masahiko’s wishes. If they met with Jessica there, and he saw that Akizawa wasn’t angry, maybe he’d relax. Besides, after this job, he’d have days left before going back to Japan—he could see Masahiko as much as he wanted.

“All right. Three’s fine.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jessica said, handing him a slip of paper. “This is the phone number to my office. Call me after the shoot. It connects directly to me, so Japanese is fine. I’ve already picked the restaurant. Let’s go together.”

“See you later,” she added, and left the studio.

As she walked away, Kuma spoke quietly beside him, “It’s great that you’ll be having dinner with Kusuda-san.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d dig in your heels about wanting it to be just the two of you.”

Akizawa pouted. “I did want it to be the two of us. But what can I do? Masahiko’s the one who asked.”

“You’ve matured,” Kuma said with a slight smirk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Andrew called Kuma away, and he stepped out of the studio. Left waiting, Akizawa yawned. One of Andrew’s assistants, a Hispanic man, seemed to notice and kindly brought over a few back issues of LION. Flipping through the pages helped kill the boredom.

…Then he heard laughter.

Near the studio entrance, three tall men stood huddled together, grinning and glancing in his direction. They were effortlessly stylish in simple clothes, faces perfectly chiseled—probably models. Something about their energy felt familiar.

It reminded him of the time when he was just getting back into TV work after being blacklisted. During a shoot, the actor Kou Muneyoshi had iced him out—refused to talk to him, whispered behind his back to other cast members. Those guys felt the same. They reeked of that exact kind of clique energy.

Kuma returned and noticed the magazines on the table.

“Ah, these are back issues.”

He picked one up and flipped through it.

“By the way, there’s talk of launching a Japanese-language edition of LION, apparently.”

Still skimming, he asked, “Akizawa-san, you don’t have any scenes with other models today, right?”

“Nope. Even back in Japan, they said I’d be shooting alone.”

Kuma gestured subtly. “You see those ridiculously good-looking guys over there?”

The same three who had been laughing at him.

“They’re definitely models. The guy on the right’s on the cover of this issue. I guess it’s not just photographers—models are showing up to observe too.”

Akizawa snatched the magazine from Kuma and slapped it down on the desk.

“They were laughing at me.”

“Laughing…?”

“They probably don’t like me. I’m not a real model—I’m an actor. I only do this because I’m CRUX’s exclusive model. And the only reason I even get photographed is because Tohru insists on it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Kuma said firmly. “In this industry, connections are part of your skill set.”

“And besides, you’re tall, lean, and have a small face. Even next to foreign models, you hold your own.”

“I think so too,” Akizawa replied, smoothing the styled fringe of his bangs as he looked at himself in the mirror.

“I’m not a model, so I can’t walk a runway. But when it comes to being photographed—I’m not losing to any of them. I’m an actor. And really, it’s all about how well you can convey a world, right?”

The adjustments seemed to be done—finally, he was called onto the set.

After a final touch-up at the makeup station, Akizawa stepped into the set and took his seat.

This was 1920s America.

He was a lawyer, returning to his childhood home after many years—and in the basement, he found toys from when he was little.

This was nostalgia.

He centered himself, and the sounds around him seemed to vanish.

Akizawa reached for the old diary that lay atop the antique desk.

How nostalgic... When did I start writing in this again? I’ve completely forgotten.

He flipped through the pages.

The camera shutters clicked like rainfall, pouring down in a steady rhythm.

Resting his chin in his hand, Akizawa deliberately tilted his hat back just enough to expose the ring on his finger—letting it catch the light.

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