Randou had been going out far more often lately.
When Asou Akiya returned home, the first thing he noticed was the hat and coat hanging on the rack. His gaze then shifted to Randou himself, dressed comfortably in loungewear, clearly already settled in for the evening.
The most famous black hat in the entire Bungou Stray Dogs world was, at this very moment, sitting right there in their home.
"Where did you go today, Randou?" Akiya asked as he came back empty-handed, having deliberately left his briefcase behind. Tonight, he had no intention of bringing work home with him. He stepped up to the coat rack, took down Randou's hat, and, grinning, placed it on his own head. Turning toward the full-length mirror beside him, he adjusted the brim and admired the reflection. As long as his workload didn't force him into overtime, he firmly believed that work matters should stay outside the door.
Randou was curled up on the sofa, holding a thermos in both hands. He took a small sip of the oddly flavored goji berry and danggui herbal soup. After so many days, he had long since grown used to the taste.
And truth be told, it really did seem to be working.
Seeing Akiya wearing the hat, Randou spoke without thinking. "I went to an art exhibition held by a Frenchman."
Akiya adjusted the angle of the hat. The black suited his tailored suit perfectly. After carefully arranging his expression, he even reached beneath his coat to pull out his gun, nudging the brim of the hat with it as he struck a cold, stylish assassin's pose.
Unfortunately, he lacked the curled sideburns, the distinctly Italian features, and the tall, agile build of Reborn.
At best, it was a fifty-percent resemblance.
The act immediately fell apart. Akiya broke into a laugh and teased, "Lando, am I handsome?"
Randou replied lazily, "You don't have any killing intent, Akiya. At a glance, you look like a rookie assassin who just entered the profession."
Akiya: "..."
You really said something completely out of character without even realizing it.
Randou covered his mouth a beat too late, his eyes hazy as he blinked slowly, playing dumb with practiced ease. "Akiya, I've been watching a lot of assassin movies lately," he said innocently. "All the killers in them seem so big and broad-shouldered."
Asou Akiya pulled out a ruler and measured his height, announcing with quiet tragedy, "After drinking milk for two whole years, I've grown exactly one centimeter."
The final window for nutritional gains between the ages of twenty and twenty-two had yielded only limited results.
He was one meter eighty-three.
Still two centimeters short of matching Randou's height—the height that came with his unmistakably French build.
Randou laughed until he couldn't stop, when suddenly his stomach growled loudly. He hugged a cushion and curled up on the sofa. "Akiya… I'm hungry."
Akiya took off his hat, shrugged out of his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and headed into the kitchen, not forgetting to remind the slender Randou as he went, "Don't live on coffee and pastries when you're out. Afternoon tea won't fill you up—real meals are what keep hunger away."
Their kitchen was open-plan, separated only by sliding doors, so they could still talk while moving about.
"I'll pan-fry steak for you today," Akiya said. "I bought it yesterday. I'll take it out to thaw first, and we'll have broccoli on the side."
"Akiya~," Randou sang softly, "I also want pasta."
"Alright."
"Then tomorrow I'll cook something new for you—proper French cuisine," Randou added proudly. "I've learned quite a lot from watching cooking shows."
Buoyed by his lover's indulgence, Randou basked in the moment. They took turns cooking, though Randou was far more likely to slack off; to keep their meals regular and on time, Akiya often took the initiative and went into the kitchen himself.
As the aroma of food spread through the apartment, Randou went into the study and brought out a bottle of red wine to serve as their drink.
It was a bottle Randou had bought with the royalties from his poetry collection.
Asou Akiya arranged the dishes on the table, and when he noticed the glasses of wine Randou had already poured for both of them, he had every reason to suspect that many of Nakahara Chūya's habits had been inherited from Randou. Otherwise, how could a poor boy from Suribachi Street, raised with perfectly upright values, undergo such a dramatic change in temperament the moment he joined the Port Mafia, suddenly becoming indulgent and fond of luxury?
"Cheers." Randou slipped off his gloves as he lifted his wineglass, revealing a hand that was strikingly beautiful. His elegance was not the cold, aristocratic sort one might associate with a vampire; even his melancholy carried a glimmer of light, the vivid warmth of someone who earnestly sought life itself.
Akiya smiled and asked in return, "What are we toasting to?"
Randou thought for a moment, then offered a reason with cheerful conviction. "To Akiya, whom cats adore." A spark of intelligence flickered in his gray-green eyes. "They must be little kittens like the children from Suribachi Street—adorable, aren't they?"
Akiya cleared his throat a few times, chanting silently to himself: I'm not obsessed with babies. I'm just a simple cat person.
"Cheers." Akiya didn't dare tease him further. He drank with Randou and let his worries dissolve.
Good food, fine wine, and a beautiful companion.
On the modestly sized round Japanese table, there was no need for candlelight—only a single flower placed in a vase was enough.
That small accent mirrored what lay in their hearts: ambiguous yet tender, softly fragrant, more luxurious than any excess the world could offer.
Over the past two years, Akiya's temperament had grown steadier and more composed, while Randou had gradually become more outgoing, often venturing out during the day and returning home before dusk to wait for his lover.
That night, after Randou finished bathing, Akiya gathered up his damp, long curls and carefully worked hair mask through them.
This was the daily upkeep of an exquisitely beautiful Frenchman.
Randou hadn't liked the idea at first—it seemed far too troublesome. But after caring for it this way, his hair became smoother, softer, and lightly fragrant, the curves of the curls more graceful. He examined himself from every angle in the mirror and decided to overlook how unflattering the process looked.
The mirror reflected the man standing behind him. Akiya, focused and meticulous as he completed each step. His features, like a night-blooming epiphyllum, were not as sharply defined as those of a European, but gentler instead—and it was precisely this softness that allowed Randou to catch glimpses of a beauty all its own.
"Akira, if I were a French girl, I'd already be hopelessly dazzled by you," Randou praised his lover without restraint.
"And aren't you dazzled already?" Asou Akiya teased in return.
Enjoying the comfort of fingers massaging his scalp, Randou closed his eyes. He leaned back, wanting nothing more than to drift into the warmth of the other man's chest. His voice, sweetened as if sugar had been mixed into it, turned slightly hoarse, laced with tenderness and intimacy, fully exploiting the natural advantage of flirtation that his heritage afforded him.
"I wish to remain passionately in love at every moment, to hold you and kiss you until the very last second of my life."
"You've already completely bewitched my heart."
"My dear."
Really—French people were practically a cheating race when it came to romance.
When the time was up, Asou Akiya washed the hair mask from Randou's hair and wrapped the long strands in a towel. He replied in French, his tone gentle and sincere.
"How could I feel any differently?"
Back then, the sixteen-year-old boy who had once regarded Arthur Rimbaud as nothing more than a convenient external cheat had calmly and ruthlessly analyzed every possible opportunity the coming four years might offer. He had found the single, lethal point of emotional entry. Fully prepared, he had thrown himself into a fevered love for a person who was, in many ways, an illusion, combining that image with the weaknesses of the three-dimensional Rimbaud to strike directly at the heart of a Transcendent.
He had succeeded—and he had failed.
He could not bring himself to destroy this beautiful, ordinary stretch of time. He was unwilling to use Randou as mere capital for survival.
Love is something shared. He postponed the related Port Mafia plans in exchange for Randou's happiness—so how, then, was he any different from Edogawa Ranpo's parents? Between one person and another, between romantic love and familial affection, once a certain depth is reached, the boundaries quietly dissolve and no longer distinguish themselves.
[The you I liked was an illusion.]
[The you I fell in love with—are real, and I want to protect your smile.]
When they slept side by side, Asou Akiya would hold Randou close whenever he was troubled by nightmares, murmuring broken phrases of French in his sleep.
There was something Akiya had never told the amnesiac Randou.
When you mistook me for Verlaine, I saw it clearly, without missing a thing. Yet after we fell in love, you never again made a single mistaken judgment while awake.
In your dreams, the one who betrayed you was Paul Verlaine, and the one who burned you to ashes was Arahabaki.
Outside of dreams, the one who protects you is me.
...
"The Growth Record of a French Literary Giant":
Mr. Poet, the most rebellious of this era—your muse once kissed your hand and granted you boundless talent, and I have kissed your face, preparing to give you a gift unlike any other. You sneer and ask whether I am usurping the authority of God. I will answer shamelessly: yes. I will become the soul within your poetry, the muse beneath your pen. Don't rush to deny it—you will write poems for me one day. Sooner or later. Sooner or later. Sooner or later…!
—Reader (Asou Akiya)