Being with you—even if it means walking along the edge of a sheer cliff—my heart still surges like a tide, and I would spare nothing for it.
That blood swallowed back in the moment of being shattered to pieces…
must surely be sweet.
Human beings are, by nature, enamored of beauty. The love of beautiful things is a common affliction. Masao Akiya was no different from anyone else in his ordinary days. If nothing unexpected had occurred, he would have followed the prescribed path step by step, never seeking thrills, never chasing those wild, fanciful "cheat codes." After crossing over, however, a second life granted him the chance to reveal himself—one that, in a certain sense, made him even luckier than the common folk who happened to pick up a certain[Book].
He was an ordinary man holding a miracle in his hands. Cowardice would grind down his edges; bowing his head would make it impossible for him ever to lift it again. Excessive caution would drown him in the crowd, leaving him afraid to cross even the faintest line of danger.
History has proven, through hard fact, that those who kneel before society's rules find it difficult to ever stand again.
So why not resist, just once?
Why not throw fate into chaos?
If a person's life is twice over and both times pass without ripples, then it is like an uncolored sketch—bare, pale, and lacking the mad, vivid hues one secretly longs for.
Asou Akiya kissed Rando's cheek, dampening his hairline, then licked and nipped at his earlobe. The tip of his tongue traced the outline of a face willing to defy morality alongside him, a face ready to laugh aloud in the vast ocean of desire.
Did Randou like men, or women?
Did Asou Akiya like men, or women?
Ha—what meaning did such questions have? At the moment when one most yearns to fall in love, or to be loved, if there is someone truly suitable before you, what does it matter whether that person is a man or a woman? The sensation of bodies entwined is at once endlessly different—and no different at all.
After shedding his clothes, Randou murmured in lingering, melodious French, his voice wrapped in tenderness:
"Akiya… do you like my body?"
After Randou slipped out of his clothes, he spoke in lingering, mellifluous French, his words coiling with tenderness as he asked, "Akiya… do you like my body?"
Asou Akiya gazed upon that body—unmarred by scars, carrying the flowing bloodline of the Gauls. Randou's temperament was noble and detached, ill-suited to heavy, oil-slicked colors. He was better rendered with ancient minerals drawn from deep beneath the earth, ground patiently after being washed in clear water and purified of all impurities—a pigment made only after stilling the heart and working with care.
His fresh black hair curled softly, a single lock falling from his forehead and gliding along the bridge of his nose, dividing that elegant face. Having passed last October, Randou was now twenty years old. The Randou before him was far more lively than the lonely, restrained Port Mafia quasi-executive of the animated world—his eyes brimming with an eager readiness for love.
It was Asou Akiya's sincerity, and the poetry of Ophelia, that had illuminated his muddled, drifting soul.
[The poet says: in the starlight of night, come and seek the flower you once plucked. He also says he saw pale Ophelia, floating within her long veil, like a great white lily.]
Only by fixing the sight in his eyes could Asou Akiya preserve the dreamlike quality that clung to Randou.
This was a French beauty, romantic to the extreme.
Do not indulge him without limit, or he will grow weary; nor cast him aside with cruelty. To love him is to keep one's promises. Love is the act of lifting his arms and never allowing his feet to fall upon ice and mire. Should a beautiful soul be stained by filth, it may take a lifetime—perhaps longer—to ever be wiped clean again.
"I wish I could have you every single day."
He breathed out warmth, dampening Randou's ear as he declared, with fervor, the ambition of a hero who longed to claim the princess.
The hero lacks the strength to slay the dragon.
But a princess who is loved can smile and kiss you, because defeating the dragon is not the only path. So long as she is given confidence, the princess alone can beat the dragon senseless.
They lay intimately entwined upon the bedsheets they had once chosen with such care. The delicate sheen of silk brushed against Randou's back, and those daily necessities that had been bought long ago yet never once used finally found their purpose.
Randou's body was inexperienced; his movements, stirred by desire, carried a mixture of nervousness and heat—like a mischievous youth watching a certain kind of forbidden film for the first time, awkwardly imitating what he saw on screen. Asou Akiya did not know whether Randou had ever been with Verlaine in the past, but—
A flicker of sly amusement passed through his eyes.
When you are in love, there is no need to bring up former lovers.
Bungo Stray Dogs never explicitly stated that Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine were lovers; it merely wrote them as partners. Yet in the novel, Paul Verlaine addressed Randou again and again as a "close friend," and after Randou's death even went so far as to steal his belongings—there was clearly more to it than met the eye. Whether what Verlaine said was true or false no longer mattered. Asou Akiya had already unilaterally kicked Verlaine out of the picture and plopped a bright green hat squarely onto his head.
How vivid that green was depended entirely on the intensity of Verlaine's emotional turbulence once he learned the truth.
Schrödinger's green.
Asou Akiya liked Randou's appearance, liked Randou's gentleness, liked his outstanding talent and the power hidden beneath it, as well as that faint, unconscious pride of someone who stood at the very apex of humanity's pyramid.
He liked everything about Randou after his loss of memory.
Of course, he was also thrilled by the notion of NTR; the wicked little thoughts of a man hardly needed to be spelled out.
From this day onward, Asou Akiya was Randou's only lover.
"Rimbaud…"
"Is Akiya calling me Rimbaud?"
"You heard wrong. It's Randou—Randou, Rimbaud, Randou~."
"Pfft—call me whatever you like, Akiya."
Randou was amused into laughter, his cheeks flushed. The slight arch of his brows and the depth of his eyes revealed a captivating brilliance.
The long-haired young man reached out with fingers that were cool yet soft, gently caressing his cheek.
"I am Rimbaud, and I am also Randou."
Inside the hat was embroidered a French surname.
From his lover's lips came his Japanese name—so close in sound that, in essence, there was no real difference at all.
Yet Asou Akiya understood that difference only too well. With a tender sense of pity and affection, he lightly touched his tongue to Randou's fingertips, a gentle lick—like a snake coiling around a flowering branch, intimate and lingering, yet utterly devoid of any cold, harmful intent.
He cherished Randou to the very marrow of his bones. Having chosen him, he would never regret it.
The pure, crystalline gaze of the "medium" linked directly to his soul.
At this moment, heaven and hell were no different.
…
Remember quickly—do not feel lost any longer.
Remember slowly—I long to spend eight years with you, sharing every day and night side by side.
Please believe me—
Loving me will not be an act of despair.
…
At eight in the morning, the phone screen lit up automatically.
Before the alarm that would have shattered a sweet dream could ring, a hand reached out from beneath the covers and turned it off.
The morning sun had already illuminated Yokohama. Beyond the bedroom curtains seeped a hazy glow; a breeze slipped through the gap that had never quite been closed, stirring the white gauze curtains like the lifted hem of a lily maiden's skirt.
Someone was smiling at him.
It was the shy yet radiant smile that blooms only after the flower of love has opened within the heart.
Asou Akiya pressed a kiss to the cheek of the still-sleepy Randou in his arms, tucked the blanket neatly around him, then slipped quietly out of bed and left with the lightest of steps.
The black-haired young man, his hair in disarray, went to the sink. Facing the mirror, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved, and completed the preparations for work. He ran a comb through his hair a few times at random, yawning like the lazy university student he had once been—then, upon catching sight of the kiss marks on his body, spent a little extra time tidying himself up.
How long does it take to shed one's skin and become a mature, steady man?
Fall in love; do one adult thing.
Asou Akiya fastened his tie and straightened his suit, treating his work in the Mafia as a legitimate profession. He did not bully the weak, nor did he fawn over his superiors. In his heart, he said to himself, This is my second life.
He composed his expression, drew in his jaw, and tempered his gaze so it no longer appeared so frivolous.
"I'm a man with a family now."
A moment later, Asou Akiya broke into laughter at his own inexplicable solemnity, coughing lightly into his fist.
He reset his attitude.
"I love him."
In the mirror, the black-haired young man was strikingly handsome, the corners of his mouth lifted, warmth pooled in his eyes, as though he were showing off to the world the love he had obtained. The matching ring on his finger was enough to break women's hearts.
Setting aside the calculations imposed by reason, Asou Akiya returned to being himself—no longer suppressed.
"Hello, Asou Akiya."
"You have to take good care of Randou. You cannot let him be hurt. Protect him—he is at his most fragile right now."
"Love and time will prove everything."
With his washing and grooming finished, Asou Akiya stepped outside. Before heading to work, he took the bedsheets from the washing machine and hung them out to dry, then picked up a bag of dirty clothes to be taken to the dry cleaner.
The sunlight was lovely today, the temperature just right—and even Randou, sleeping in and refusing to get up, was unbearably adorable.
From beneath the covers emerged the head of a French beauty.
Randou opened his hazy eyes, his lips rose-colored like blooming roses. A slender length of his neck—so delicate it seemed it might snap at a single pinch—was revealed, his cream-toned skin irresistibly captivating. Just the small portion of beauty he exposed was enough to leave one dazzled. Wrapped tightly in the blanket, curled into a small bundle, he spoke upon hearing the sounds of Akiya preparing to leave.
"Akiya, will you come back for lunch?"
"I will!"
Asou Akiya's reply was firm and decisive.
No matter how plentiful or economical the Port Mafia's cafeteria might be, it could never compete with a lover who had already rounded third base!
Randou seemed to understand at once and said cheerfully, "Then I want dessert."
"I'll pass by the pastry shop after work and bring some back for you," Asou Akiya said, flashing an OK sign. Suppressing the feeling that made him never want to part, he slipped on his leather shoes and headed out the door.
Randou sat up in bed and watched the figure outside the window opening the car door.
The man seemed to blow him a kiss.
After Akiya left for work, the loneliness that briefly followed quickly faded away. Randou hugged his knees, his body sore and weak, and felt a hazy yet very real sense of happiness settle over him.
Japan's chill no longer seemed quite so cold…
All around him was the warmth and texture of everyday life.
In the first month of the year, on the tenth day, Asou Akiya celebrated his twenty-first birthday.
At home, they had installed an imported fireplace.
Afraid of the cold, Randou leaned against him, the two of them reading each other's literary works side by side. Now and then, Randou would laugh aloud at some utterly nonsensical turn in a novel; at other times, he would lift his head to watch Akiya's face as he softly recited poetry.
After breaking through that final boundary between them, the two had been inseparable these past days, their feelings surging and heating rapidly, leaving traces of intimacy behind on the bed, on the sofa, and in the bathroom.
Everything lovers would do, they had done it.
Asou Akiya perfectly matched Randou's vision of love. The sensation of falling deeply in love was dizzying, as though tiny spirits were dancing across the fields of his heart. Lost in thought, Randou suddenly realized that Akiya had set the poetry aside and was leaning close to his ear, whispering, "Randou, you have four complete poems, plus several short essays—how about I publish them for you?"
"Huh? Publish them?!"
Randou, whose thoughts had been drifting far away, was instantly pulled back to reality, startled by the idea. Publication meant letting other people read them.
"The poems I wrote casually are really quite ordinary, not as good as my earlier work. Maybe we should wait a little longer—wait until I've completed all of them…" Randou's temperament was unlike that of real-world poets who thirsted for fame; he was sensitive and reserved, instinctively resistant to promoting things that were, to him, direct reflections of the soul.
This was probably why the literary giants of the Bungo Stray Dogs world were so reluctant to write and publish.
After all, look at a certain Mr. Oda: determined to write novels, he retired from public life for years, aging from a youth into a weary adult face, and still failed to produce a single novel. If people like that weren't pushed a little, it was practically watching them squander their youth.
Asou Akiya had no intention of waiting that long.
"I think they're incredibly good!" Asou Akiya said, setting the drafts down and praising Randou's work. "Compared to yours, the novels I write are just fast food—hardly fit for refined tastes."
Randou laughed and countered, "What you write is far more interesting than mine."
Asou Akiya spread his hands. "But they lack depth."
"That's only because you choose not to write that way," Randou replied. "You know, the worlds you build on the page have tremendous depth. If you really think them through, you've accounted for culture, economics, social development—every aspect imaginable. It's just a pity you don't want to dig deeper, choosing instead to focus your attention on emotional portrayal."
Faced with that gaze full of admiration, Asou Akiya smoothly changed the subject. "Why not give it a try, Randou?"
Randou hesitated, the poet's cells lurking deep within his soul beginning to stir restlessly.
Asou Akiya added another weight to tip the scales of his decision. "Once you become famous, if someone who knows you happens to see your poems, they'll know for certain that you're still alive."
Randou said softly, "I don't really want to publish under my real name…"
Asou Akiya came up with a solution that satisfied both sides. "That's easy—use the name Randou."
Randou nodded. "Akiya, give me one more month. I want to revise them a bit more. When the time comes, I'll publish under my Japanese name."
Since he had been an amateur poet in the past, surely the people familiar with him had already read his work… right?
Arthur Rimbaud's acquaintances: "..."
The French ability-user community: "..."
In this world, there simply did not exist anyone who knew that Arthur Rimbaud wrote poetry—and wrote it that well.
In April, a French-language poetry collection titled Letters of a Medium was self-published through a Japanese publishing house. The volume contained ten poems in the original French alongside their Japanese translations. The opening of the collection set forth Randou's own philosophy: what he pursued were fantasies that transcended reality and fleeting sparks of inspiration, and thus his poems often featured illogical line breaks, using a free verse style to endow poetry with a new definition.
From that moment on, the budding sprout of French Surrealist poetry was given a chance to be born.
With Asou Akiya's encouragement and help, Randou completed a pivotal turning point in his life.
He became a poet.
…
France.
Arthur Rimbaud had been missing for a full year. Coupled with France's investigation and the account given after Paul Verlaine's return, the French authorities formally classified him as "deceased."
The French government was steeped in regret. Who could have imagined that a single intelligence mission to Japan would cost them a Transcendent? Across the entire world, the number of Transcendents was vanishingly small—only a few dozen in total. Losing one inevitably weakened France's international influence by a noticeable degree.
Arthur Rimbaud entered the French ability-user world at fourteen, rose to fame at fifteen, stood on his own at sixteen, and by seventeen had reached the level of a "Transcendent," joining the venerable European ability organization known as the "Paris Commune." His youth and immense potential made him one of France's trump cards. That his name was not widely known was due only to the French government's strict blockade of information about him.
In order to ensure his smooth growth, his partner was Paul Verlaine, several years his senior and also a Transcendent. Sending the two of them out as intelligence agents was, in a sense, like letting two nuclear weapons take a casual stroll.
A Transcendent alone could rival thousands of troops, fear no conventional heavy weaponry, and had always been regarded as a nation's strategic resource. Only countries capable of cultivating Transcendents could truly be called ability-user powers, and a nation's own Transcendents were the pillars that deterred those of other countries.
As everyone knew, Japan was, on the surface, a "backwater" with not a single Transcendent.
Arthur Rimbaud's accident had been completely beyond anyone's expectations. Everyone had underestimated what Japan concealed beneath the surface; its lack of top-tier ability users did not mean it was truly without the means to strike back.
As for the actual truth of what had happened, France no longer had the capacity to pursue it. They were forced to erase the traces left behind by their intelligence operatives.
For the time being, Japan became a country that France forbade its Transcendents from entering.
Inside a bar in Paris.
Once awash in neon lights and hushed conversations, it had been a place a certain pair of partners liked to frequent.
Now, a slender young man in a suit sat alone in a corner. Two glasses of absinthe rested on the bar before him. His lowered eyes, like twin sapphires beneath a night sky, were steeped in the icy depths of the sea.
Beside him, the seat was empty.
He seemed lost in quiet sorrow.
From every strand of his hair to the fingers draped over the edge of the bar counter, he exuded a mysterious aura of the "abnormal."
Each patron who caught sight of him experienced something like a fleeting, startled glimpse; their hearts trembled beyond their control, as though a mortal had crossed a boundary and glimpsed a Norse god stepping into the human world, treading upon pure white waves.
The bartender mixing his drinks was long accustomed to such scenes. He cast a brief glance at the absinthe and then withdrew his gaze.
The other guest hasn't been here for a long time, the bartender thought.
Compared to this seemingly good-tempered Mr. Verlaine, the bartender actually preferred the other one—the melancholy, noble Mr. Rimbaud, who was always afraid of the cold. At times like this, he would usually mix a glass of warming liquor for that guest, then politely retreat, stealing glances from the corner of his eye at the two of them chatting together, and occasionally catching sight of Mr. Verlaine relaxing into a genuine smile in front of Mr. Rimbaud.
What a perfectly matched pair.
In any case, the bartender had never seen men with better looks or more outstanding presence than theirs—oh no, Mr. Rimbaud was still quite young; it would be more fitting to describe him as a beautiful youth.
Though the bartender found it a little odd, his attention was soon drawn instead to a young woman approaching.
She was clearly a city woman with a fair amount of confidence.
She had been captivated by the man seated in the corner.
The bartender felt a subtle sense of irony. Whenever Mr. Rimbaud was absent, there were always mortals who dared to try to please a god—without ever stopping to consider what they possessed that could possibly catch a god's eye.
"Sir," she asked, "are you waiting for someone?"
"Sir, are you waiting for someone?"
The urban woman chose her opening with practiced precision. Pointing to the untouched glasses of absinthe on the table, she took the empty seat without invitation, believing she had selected an excellent topic of conversation. An alluring expression curved her lips.
The young man in the suit lifted his eyes, and the face that had been hidden in shadow stunned her once more.
"I'm waiting for my closest companion," he said softly. "My dearest friend."
"He won't come."
His voice was steeped in sorrow. It seemed as though tears might fall from his eyes at any moment, yet a faint smile still hung on his lips.
The strange dissonance of it all made one deeply uneasy.
"Could you…" he continued, "…carry this glass of absinthe to the blazing fires of hell for me?"
The woman froze, utterly dumbfounded.
…
Partner—
That I did not kill you with my own hands, that I allowed you to die in agony, is my sin.
Sleep in peace.
This will be the last time I think of you.
…
"Tears Fall in My Heart"
Tears fall in my heart,
Like rain upon the town;
From where comes this desolate ache
That soaks me in such grief?
Ah, the song of rain!
It falls for no reason at all,
Falling till my heart turns sour.
Why—does it never cease?
This sorrow, too, without cause!
Is there any deeper pain,
For which no comfort can be found?
With neither love nor hate,
Why does my heart ache so?
— Paul Verlaine
—
Author's note:
Special thanks for this chapter go to our guest appearance—Verlaine.