"Randou, speaking of which, I saw our organization's boss up close for the first time!"
"Does that person have anything special about him?"
"He wasn't wearing a red scarf!"
Asou Akiya went completely off the rails for once.
At that, Randou lowered his head to look at his own red scarf, lifted it slightly to sniff it, catching the lingering aroma of hot pot; the color itself didn't seem to have anything particularly special about it.
Seeing this, Asou Akiya pressed a hand to his forehead. "Randou, take your scarf off when we're eating hot pot!"
Randou replied slowly and mildly, "You didn't turn on the air conditioning."
Asou Akiya: "..."
In Japan's May weather, may one ask—should the private room be using the heater or the air conditioner?
Tch. Fine, just keep wearing the scarf.
Inside the hot pot restaurant's private room, steam billowed thickly in the air. Asou Akiya loosened his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, wearing only a white dress shirt and a loosened tie on top. Using the communal chopsticks, he picked up a piece of freshly blanched tripe, sweeping away the heavy mood he'd carried from the Port Mafia, and cheerfully fed it toward Randou. "Randou, open up!"
Randou opened his mouth instinctively, but the moment the scent of tripe reached him, he snapped it shut.
"!!!"
He was not eating that!
"This is really delicious!" Asou Akiya recommended enthusiastically.
Randou turned his face away and pushed Akiya's chopsticks farther off, revealing the unmistakable side of a delicate French beauty. "I don't eat organ meat…"
Asou Akiya put the tripe into his own mouth instead, chewed it, enjoying the crisp texture. "I looked it up. French people like foie gras and chicken or duck gizzards, and they also eat tripe and honeycomb tripe."
Randou's emotions were thrown off balance by him, before settling back into the rhythm of ordinary life.
"That's disgusting…"
"Randou, you've eaten baked snails before."
"Snails are different."
"Alright then. Want some milk to cool the spice?"
"Yes."
Randou was always driven to sweat by spicy food, breathing a little harder, his eyes misted with moisture. Under the warm light above his head, the color of his pupils shifted subtly, changing from a gloomy gray-green to a rippling pale gold.
The scene was vivid and intoxicatingly alive.
It really was hard on a Frenchman who loved sweets.
After they finished the Sichuan-style hot pot together, Randou was completely defeated, constantly wiping his lips with tissues and even pressing ice cubes against them to soothe the burning pain. Asou Akiya refilled his empty cup with milk, and after Randou gulped down several glasses in a row, Akiya curled his fingers and lightly flicked Randou on the forehead. "Go to the restroom."
Randou felt a little embarrassed, the tips of his ears and his cheeks flushed red from the heat. "I'll be right back."
Asou Akiya teased him, "What are you being shy with me for?"
Randou answered the question with complete seriousness.
"Because one must be elegant."
Such pedantic diction and aristocratic mannerisms fully revealed his former temperament, and for some inexplicable reason Asou Akiya was reminded of the mercilessly gleeful expression Randou wore toward Chuuya in the anime, which led him to think—so… you're really that excited when beating up your own son?
Setting that thought aside, Randou was still an elegant and beautiful man.
Randou returned.
After settling the bill, Asou Akiya picked up his coat and left with Randou. On the way, they passed a shop, and he took Randou inside and bought him a brand-new wool-knit scarf, personally draping it around that slender, pale neck.
The old scarf he had bought last month was casually tossed into the trash by Randou.
As for its price tag…
Asou Akiya smiled in silence, the smile carrying a faint trace of bitterness and poverty.
What? Working for the Port Mafia is too dangerous? Nonsense. For the sake of his wife's quality of life and their private happiness, choosing the path of promotion and a raise was absolutely the right decision.
"Randou, this way." Asou Akiya held Randou's hand, turned a corner, and detoured toward a bookstore.
In the quiet, neglected section of the bookstore sat the shelves of poetry collections.
Randou bent down and took from the shelf a volume of poetry he himself had written: Letters of the Medium.
A look of joy appeared on Randou's face.
A sense of accomplishment rose within him.
Asou Akiya watched him and, almost absentmindedly, pulled a book from the shelf as well, thinking of replenishing the household's supply of spiritual nourishment. Yet when he focused his eyes, he froze. "Eh? Natsume Soseki's Light and Darkness, the first volume?"
He glanced around, then confirmed he hadn't mistaken it—it really had been pulled from a dusty corner.
Teacher Natsume!
So even your sales aren't all that great!
Randou, still immersed in the satisfaction of seeing his work printed and published, suddenly noticed the person beside him pacing back and forth, sweeping the bookstore shelves with a searchlight-like gaze, clearly not looking for any bestseller of his own.
"What are you looking for, Akiya?" Randou asked.
Asou Akiya raised the book in his hand. "I'm looking for the second volume!" Turning his head, he went to ask the shop owner sitting by the entrance. "Boss, do you sell the latter volume of this book? I'd like to complete the set."
The elderly shop owner, his eyes failing him, put on the glasses resting on the counter and squinted at the title.
"Oh, this one. I don't have the second volume here."
"Do other places have it?"
"Probably not."
The owner was an honest man and didn't play tricks with customers. "I quite like this novel myself, but I've never seen the continuation either. Maybe the second volume had a very small print run."
Asou Akiya sighed with regret. "Then I'll just buy the first volume."
On the way home, Asou Akiya carried a bag of newly purchased books in his left hand and held Randou's hand with his right, guiding him—someone who lived perpetually in a personal winter—beneath a night sky scattered with stars. Randou had already torn open the wrapping of one book and begun flipping through Light and Darkness, clearly realizing that this obscure novel was Akiya's greatest find of the day.
"Is this book good?" Randou asked.
"I don't know," Asou Akiya replied, lowering his voice with an air of secrecy, "I've only heard that it has the power to change a chapter of someone's life."
Hearing such miraculous effects, Randou immediately decided it must be a legendary magic book. He hurriedly closed it, his expression tense as he said, "I just saw a few words—will reading it change me? I don't want to forget you, Akiya…"
Asou Akiya held back a laugh. "It won't."
He swung their joined hands high into the air, playing around without restraint, then turned back and smiled brightly.
"The only thing that can change you," he said lightly, "is me."
Behind them, there were no disputes, no faiths, far removed from the battlefield, their souls free and soaring.
The black-haired young man's brows and eyes brimmed with affection for his lover, a sudden confidence shining through—confidence born of the high-dimensional knowledge he carried within him. Casting aside the weariness of constant caution, he revealed a striking and almost unbelievable contrast.
A false cast of fate.
A real transmigrator.
Randou and Akiya together set down the burdens in their hearts, their light footsteps falling like the rhythm of piano keys.
"What kind of books are the others?" Randou asked.
"We'll look when we get back," Asou Akiya replied with a smile. "They're some truly wonderful novels."
Inside the rather heavy bag, another bestselling mystery novel—The Night Baron*—was tucked among the poetry collection and several other novels. It appeared inconspicuous, yet it carried within it the talent of another story's protagonist's father, quietly condensed between its pages.
*{Note: The Night Baron is a murder mystery book written by Kudo Yusaku, also known as the father of Kudo Shinichi."
And so, the lives of Asou Akiya and Randou, guided by that volume of poetry, became bound together by an ever-deepening connection.
It was a resonance that reached straight into the soul.
…
An understanding of the great literary masters—
that was Asou Akiya's greatest cheat, his most powerful advantage.
…
In a bookstore in Yokohama, a young red-haired boy stepped inside just as the shop was about to close.
His gaze was faintly hollow, as though nothing truly resided there, yet when his eyes swept across the shelves, a trace of attentiveness emerged. After walking past several bookcases, he purchased a handful of newly published novels, among them works by Natsume Sōseki and Asou Akiya. Only, Asou Akiya had not published under his real name; his pen name concealed a subtle intention, one that lingered in the mind after a single glance.
—Reader.
The author had named himself Reader.
[A strange pen name.]
That was the red-haired boy's most straightforward thought upon first encountering Asou Akiya's novel.
Because he had no interest, for the time being, in more literary works, the boy did not buy any poetry. While ringing up his purchase, the shop owner noticed the copy of Light and Darkness and could not help but smile.
"To think I sold two copies today."
Watching the customer—who had merely passed through Yokohama, bought his novels, and then left at once—disappear from sight, the owner closed the shop for the night.
The rolling shutter of the bookstore slowly descended.
The end of a day.
The next day, Asou Akiya left work early and delivered several boxes of books to the orphans of Suribachi Street.
This time, he went there in person. In dealing with the displaced children, he adopted the gentlest possible manner, without deliberately showing special favoritism toward the lambs of the Sheep organization who were still bleating with hunger.
The books he brought were primarily popular science titles, meant to spread basic literacy and knowledge—enough to serve them for many years to come.
Here, no one knew that he was a member of the Mafia.
Using the book donation as an opportunity, Asou Akiya successfully made contact with the "youngest" child among the Sheep. The Arahabaki, barely one year old since his birth, hugged a book to his chest as Akiya gently patted his orange hair. His cheeks were flushed red, unused to being treated this way by an adult, and his bright blue eyes gazed at him with curiosity, strikingly similar to Rimbaud after he had lost his memories.
In Nakahara Chuuya's eyes, Asou Akiya was nothing more than a kindhearted man filled with goodwill.
He had come several times before.
But this was the only time he stepped into the place where the orphans actually lived, asking careful questions and speaking words of encouragement—only the gaze of the black-haired young man… seemed especially gentle when it rested on him.
"Is your name Chuuya?" the black-haired young man asked softly, worried that he might be frightened.
Nakahara Chuuya, unlike his usual lively self, nodded obediently.
For some reason, Chuuya did not dare to act out. First, he did not want to offend anyone; second, this person had left him with an excellent impression—there was not a trace of malice. Even his companions were signaling him with their eyes: be sure to get on his good side!
"What a coincidence, my name is Asou Akiya," Asou Akiya said, teaching him how to write his name on the ground, his fingertip stained with dust. "Although our names don't look alike in Japanese or in Chinese characters, the Chinese pronunciation of 'Chuuya' sounds unexpectedly similar to the 'Akiya' in my name."
Nakahara Chuuya listened to his patient instruction and quickly memorized how to write it, without giving it any extra thought.
"I've learned it."
His voice was clear and strong, carrying a lively spark of spirit.
Asou Akiya clapped his hands together to dust them off. "I've actually seen you twice before. For some reason, I felt an immediate affinity with you—" Seeing Nakahara Chuuya suddenly grow tense for no apparent reason, Asou Akiya laughed softly. "Don't worry. I did once think about adopting you, but I suppose the timing wasn't right. My lover… he doesn't really like children at the moment."
After hearing this, Nakahara Chuuya felt no emotional stir at all; he had never believed he would belong to anyone else's family anyway.
Still not well-versed in common sense, the boy completely overlooked the significance of the word "he" in Japanese.
"Chuuya, do you like reading?"
"I do."
"Then this book is for you."
Asou Akiya took out a thin poetry collection from inside his coat. Even though it was printed in both Japanese and French and accompanied by several illustrations that matched its mood, Letters from a Medium was still too slim to be called a thick book.
Nakahara Chuuya opened it and froze; for an eight-year-old, reading poetry was indeed a bit too early.
Asou Akiya teased him gently. "Save it for when you're a little older. I hope you'll come to like the world of poetry."
There was no helping it—poets had to be cultivated early.
They have to start with a solid education in their childhood.
After saying that, and after receiving Chuuya's consent, Asou Akiya took out his phone and snapped a few photos—click, click—taking a commemorative set with Nakahara Chuuya. He was already planning to compile a photo book someday, tentatively titled: On How a Cute Child Turns into the Port Mafia's Gravity Manipulator Who Drinks, Street-Races, and Has a Temper Like Thunder.
When it came time to take the final photo of eight-year-old Nakahara Chuuya, Asou Akiya handed the phone to an older orphan to help with the shot, while he himself pulled the soft, small Chuuya into his arms. He rested his chin against that fluffy orange hair, making no effort to hide his fondness for the child.
The black-haired young man's eyes were long and narrow, the corners lifting upward as he smiled brightly, flashing a cool V-sign at the camera.
The orange-haired boy held a book in his arms and looked straight ahead.
One big, one small, as though they had grown familiar with each other through a brief exchange of words.
"Click."
The image froze in time—captured in the first year of Suribachi Street's existence, during the turbulent days before Japan's defeat.
…
Closing the photo album, Asou Akiya carefully hid the precious album away behind Lantou's back, doing it in secret.
He was even more cautious than a man hiding his private stash of money.
This was his kid, after all.
—
Author's Notes:
[Mini Theater]
Asou Akiya: Happy birthday!—my one-year-old kid.
Nakahara Chuuya: I'm eight years old!
Asou Akiya: Take that line and go fool someone else.
Nakahara Chuuya: Are you a shotacon?
Asou Akiya: No. The fact that I've never even considered a father–son romance proves that I'm a mature adult.
Nakahara Chuuya:?
Asou Akiya: The one I like is Randou.
Randou:I like you too, Akiya.
Asou Akiya: So when are we bringing our kid back? Leaving him outside like that makes me uneasy.
Randou: ...
Asou Akiya: Fine, I know—you also have psychological trauma when it comes to Chuuya's face.
Randou: His eyes… look like my… ex-boyfriend's…
Asou Akiya's mouth twitched.