[ÃÇÇËẞẞ ÄÇ1ŪÏ4ÉD // SUBJECT: TAKESHI & EMI // TIME: 9:17 PM // Death time: 59259107592749]
Ahhahaha! I'm just kidding~ There's obviously aren't any sloppy shitty systems here, my dear... Rèàdë4ß, anyway…
Hey, hey, hey. Ñàrràtòr here~ Been a while huh? You've probably forgotten me, but I wasn't forgotten myself. I am NOT a ẞ6ẞ53M.
Also~ just a heads-up to all readers that Takeshi and Emi are now living together…
…ẞhàll 23 gò bàçk¿
The light in the apartment corridor hummed a low, buzzing note. Takeshi stood in front of his door for a full two minutes, his keys gripped tightly in his palm. He breathed out slowly against the back of his hand, checking for the bitter sting of "Oolong tea" before slotting the key into the deadbolt. The click was sharp, loud enough to wake the building. He pushed the door open, slipping inside and closing it behind him with a practiced, feather-light touch.
Please be asleep.
Please be asleep.
BE ASLEEP EMI!
The apartment was dark. Even before he saw her, the room already felt cold.
"Where did you go?"
The voice came from the dark corner of the sofa.
Dammit all. She's… SHE'S AWAKEE!
Takeshi flinched, his hand freezing near the coat rack. A wave of exhaustion hit him, mixed with a sudden defensive spike of guilt. He stayed out later than he should have, but he didn't want to deal with a lecture. He tried to force a bright tone, but it came out too fast. "I went out with Kaoru. That's all… Hic."
The tiny, involuntary hiccup betrayed him, hanging in the silence. Emi didn't turn her head to look at him, her chin remained resting on her hand, her face silhouetted against the window.
"I see."
Takeshi walked over to the edge of the rug. He didn't stop. "Look, I'm sorry I'm late. I know I said I'd—"
"Cook me fried rice."
"Now."
"Yes Mommy—I mean Ma'am."
He folded.
The kitchen was a narrow galley space. Takeshi turned on the small stove light, the amber glow illuminating the grease on the backsplash and the near, orderly rows of spices Emi kept on the shelf but rarely used.
He pulled out a cold bowl of leftover rice from the fridge, setting a cast iron skillet over the blue flame. The ordinary smell of sesame oil and sizzling garlic began to fill the air, cutting through the stale scent of the bar on his clothes.
Emi followed him out of the dark living room. She hopped up onto the countertop next to the stove, her legs dangling off the edge.
Pop.
The quiet sound of her gum stretching and snapping against her teeth blended with the regular click and hiss of the oil. She chewed nonchalantly, staring at the wall calendar across the room. Takeshi focused on his pan, the rhythmic, steady scrape of the spatula working against the lingering buzz in his head. He stared at the stove.
Under the ordinary overhead bulb, her white hair had come loose around the edges of her messy bun. Two golden pins, reflecting the yellow light, were stuck unsteadily into the side of her head.
Tonight, with the beer loosening his tongue, the filter in his brain slipped.
"Come to think of it," Takeshi murmured, "why won't you ever answer me about those?"
Her jaw paused its rhythmic chewing for a fraction of a second, then resumed. "Which ones?"
"The golden pins." He nodded toward her reflection in the dark kitchen window. "You wear them every single day. But whenever I ask where you got them, you just brush it off."
He offered her a small, tentative smile, shifting his weight a little closer to her dangling feet. Emi's expression didn't change, but her eyes flicked toward him. She slowly rolled the gum against the inside of her cheek, a deliberate, agonizingly slow movement. Then, she looked back at the wall calendar
"The golden pins?" she asked, her voice dry.
"Yeah."
"Clearly the golden pins."
Neither of them spoke. Only the violent, crackling hiss of the pan as the fried rice began to brown against the hot metal filled the kitchen. Takeshi waited, his spatula hovering over the food, expecting her to drop a sarcastic one-liner like she always did.
Emi shifted her weight on the counter, pulling her knees up to her chest and looping her arms around them, folding herself into a closed, impenetrable ball.
Huh… I never really told him yet did I?
She didn't respond immediately. Her eyes stayed on the calendar. "...Not yet."
Takeshi looked down at the rice, a faint flicker of irritation crossing his mind before he buried it. He wasn't going to push it. "I see."
To break the sudden awkwardness, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked the screen, scrolling through the blank menu with his thumb while using his other hand to shake the pan, flipping the grains of rice into the air.
It's so… awkward! AHH! What should I do? Text Kaoru for advice?! No, no usually I AM the one giving advice! Am I done for!?
On the counter, Emi's eyes tracked the movement.
For a second, nothing changed. Her foot swung once, twice, a lazy rhythm against the cabinets. Her jaw kept up its steady, casual chew.
Then, her eyes dropped to the glowing rectangle in his hand. The rhythm of her jaw stuttered—she bit down on the gum once, held it between her teeth for a long second, and then slowly resumed chewing, slower this time. Her gaze lingered on his thumb as it scrolled. Her foot stopped swinging entirely, hanging dead in the air.
The screen cast a sharp, pale light across his face. Emi's fingers curled inward slowly, her nails digging hard into the fabric of her oversized sweater, gripping her own waist tightly under the wool.
There it is… his damn phone. Again.
Her chewing slowed.
…Irritating. Why can't he notice me.
She forced her eyes back to the wall calendar, her chest tightening as she stared blankly at the numbers.
She watched him slide the device back into his pocket, his thumb tapping the fabric casually before he turned off the burner. The blue flame died with a soft poof.
"All done," Takeshi said, his voice cutting through the quiet. He scooped the steaming hot rice onto two plates, giving an extra portion to Emi. He could feel the sudden drop in her temperature. "Let's eat in the bedroom. It's warmer there."
She slid off the counter, her bare feet hitting the cold tiles with a soft slap. She took her plate, her face perfectly blank once more.
They ate sitting on opposite sides of the bed. Takeshi ate quickly, the alcohol made him starve, while Emi simply moved the grains of rice around her plate with her chopsticks, occasionally chewing a small bite. The quiet between them now was different from the kitchen because it was defensive, a mutual withholding of words as they both retreated into their own corners.
When he finished, Takeshi set his empty plate on the nightstand and leaned back against the headboard, letting out a loud sigh of satisfaction. "Ahh, I'm full! My cooking is pretty delicious, right? Like something you'd cook inside a dungeon while your sister was swallowed by a dragon." He grinned, deliberately forcing a playful energy into the room, trying to override the stiffness in her shoulders through sheer willpower.
"...yeah."
The response was empty.
Takeshi's grin faded. The silence rushed back into the space between them, heavier this time. He glanced at her—really looking at her. She was sitting with her spine completely straight, her shoulders locked, staring down at her nearly full plate.
"Emi?" he asked softly.
Emi paused. She slowly set her chopsticks down on the edge of the plate, her fingers resting lightly on the mattress. "It's nothing."
Takeshi shifted his weight, the awkwardness pressing into his chest until he reached into his pocket. The screen of his phone lit up again, casting that same pale, sharp glow across his face as he checked the notification.
Kaoru?! Why the HELL is he texting me right now!?
On the bed, Emi's fingers curled inward slowly, digging into the rough wool until her knuckles turned a hard, bloodless white.
He didn't even see it as he was already typing back.
C'mon… c'mon I'm about to finish this text!—
"Takeshi."
He didn't look up from the screen.
Here it comes. The couch again…
Just let me finish the text before she blows up…
"Takeshi."
Why is he ignoring me? That bastard…
Done! I finished the damn text, now hopefully that damn bastard Kaoru won't text me again! I'll punish him later for texting me at the WORST moment!
A cold bead of sweat rolled down the side of his neck, his throat tightening as he braced for the usual lecture.
"Takeshi. Answer me."
"H-hm?"
"Put it away."
Takeshi kept his eyes on the phone a second longer than necessary before locking the screen. He did not drop the device onto the nightstand. He kept it flat against his palm, the hard plastic casing pressing into his fingers as he finally shifted his gaze back to her.
"It's away," he said, keeping his voice completely neutral.
Emi remained seated, her legs pulled slightly toward her chest under her oversized wool sweater, her hands resting flat on the mattress on either side of her plate of rice. Her jaw moved once then a slow, mechanical slide to the left, rolling the piece of gum against her cheek.
"Good," she murmured.
The plate sat between them like a small barrier. A single grain of rice had escaped the plate, resting on the blue flower pattern near the rim. Takeshi watched it, his alcohol slowed-down brain, finding a strange, intense focus in that one white speck.
"So, uhh… The fried rice," he began, his voice sounding slightly too loud in the closed space. "It actually came out better than usual."
Emi's eyes didn't leave her lap.
"Okay."
Takeshi's throat clicked as he swallowed. He leaned his head back against the wooden headboard. The bedroom was too warm but the cold wind from the loose window frame cut across the floorboards, chilling his ankles.
"Y'know… You didn't eat really that much," he noted. He reached out, his index finger tapping the mattress in a lazy rhythmic pattern.
Tap Tap Tap.
"Usually you finish my beloved delicate rice. Even when you're pissed about something. You usually finish the food."
"I'm not hungry."
"You were clearly hungry in the kitchen. You hopped right up on the counter."
"I was looking at the calendar."
"Looking at the numbers doesn't take many calories."
Takeshi's finger stopped tapping. The silence returned instantly, rushing back in like water filling space. He could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, a distant, low-frequency vibration that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards into his feet.
He shifted. His pants pulled tight at the knees. He uncrossed them, letting his legs stretch out straight, his shoes digging into the mattress. The movement caused the bed to dip, the old springs giving a short, metallic grunt.
Emi's shoulders twitched upward an inch, reacting to the movement of the bed before locking back into place. She still hadn't looked at his face.
"You reply pretty fast."
"...It's just a text."
"Mhm."
Emi's gaze stayed fixed on her lap.
Takeshi let out a short breath through his nose. His chest felt tight, the air in the bedroom carrying a heavy scent of fried garlic and the damp stick of sweat clinging to his shirt. He thought about reaching for his water glass, but it was in the kitchen, sitting on the counter next to the cold stove.
"Anyway," he muttered, his thumb lazily sliding along the seam of his phone case, "did you eat earlier? Since... uhmm… I didn't really come back early as promised."
"No."
"Huh?"
"Why not? There was that leftover chicken in the silver foil. I told you it was behind the miso paste."
"I didn't want chicken."
"So you just sat here?"
Emi finally moved her jaw again. Her chewing had slowed down significantly, the pause between each movement stretching out, turning seconds into minutes.
"The lights were on in the hallway," she said. "It wasn't dark."
"It was dark when I walked in, Emi."
"The city lights are bright enough," she replied, her voice remaining dry, stripped of any inflection that he could use to gauge her temperature. "I could see the door fine."
Takeshi stared at her for a second, searching for some trace of irritation he could laugh off.
He forced his mouth to widen into a grin. It felt clumsy, the muscles in his cheeks tight and dry from the beer. He reached over, his hand hovering over the space between them, his knuckles about three inches away from her knee.
"Come on~" he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, exaggerated tone he used when he was trying to pull her out of a mood. "Don't be like that. If I knew you were starving yourself like a prisoner in a cell, I would've come back sooner. I would've brought those little custard cakes from the station. The ones with the faint regular imprints on the top."
He waited for the eye roll. He waited for her to tell him his jokes were stupid.
She didn't.
Her knee didn't move toward his hand, but it didn't pull away either. She just sat there, her body completely rigid under the oversized wool sweater, her white hair reflecting the lamp like old silver.
"I don't want custard cakes…"
The grin faded from his face, leaving his lips feeling slightly numb. He drew his hand back, resting it against his own knee.
"Right…"
"Of course not."
A wave of pure, heavy fatigue washed over him. It was deep, bone-weary exhaustion of a long week and too many drinks.
Without thinking, he let out a long, heavy sigh, his chest deflating as his shoulders slumped against the headboard.
It was a sigh of physical tiredness.
Emi's head turned.
It was the first time she had looked directly at him since they had left the kitchen. Her eyes were dark in her bangs, but the light from the lamp caught the hard, straight line of her lower lip.
"If it's that much of a chore," she said, her voice dropping lower, getting thinner around the edges, "you can just go back out."
Takeshi blinked, his brain stuttering over the words. "W-what?"
"The sighing," her eyes narrowing just enough to catch the light. "You do that every time you look at me tonight. Like you're carrying a sack of wet salt up a hill. If sitting here is that exhausting, Kaoru is probably still at the bar."
Takeshi's jaw tightened. A sudden, sharp prick of heat flared in his chest, a defensive instinct that rose before he could stop it.
"I'm tired, Emi. I've been working since six this morning, and then I had to walk three blocks in the rain because the bus line was down. It has nothing to do with you."
"Sure."
…Of course it's nothing to do with me, annoying Takeshi.
Something hot flickered across Takeshi's face.
"I mean it. Don't start turning my breathing into an argument."
She said, her gaze sliding back down to her plate, her fingers curling. "I'm not starting anything," she said, her gaze sliding back down to her plate, her fingers curling slightly against the mattress. "I'm just stating a fact. You're sighing. You're looking at the door. You're holding the phone like it's a lifeline."
Damn, she got me cornered… if I spoke now, my voice right now would basically just lock her up. I'll just have to swallow the words and endure it.
He stared at the wall calendar across the room instead. It was March. The corner of the page was curled upward, a tiny, white dog-ear against the dark wallpaper.
Emi's foot, which had been hanging still over the edge of the bed, began to swing.
One.
Two.
The rhythm was lazy, almost casual, but her heel hit the wooden frame of the bed with a dull, thud each time it came back.
Thud.
Thud.
Takeshi gripped his phone tighter. The plastic groaned under the pressure of his knuckles.
If I simply just tell her to stop swinging, she'll know I acknowledged that damn moment and…
…and then the conversation might get—worse.
Her jaw had stopped chewing entirely now. The gum just sat against her inner cheek, a hard, silent lump.
The pauses between their words grew longer, stretching until the ambient noise of the apartment—the refrigerator, the rain outside, the rattle of the AC filled the entire bedroom.
"Takeshi."
He didn't look up. He stared at his own knuckles, watching the skin turn a tight, bloodless yellow under the lamp.
"Yeah?"
…
"Who is she?"
The question settled heavily between them.
Takeshi's head snapped up. His chest felt hot, the alcohol haze dissolving under a sharp spike of irritation. He felt exposed, tired, and entirely finished with the silent games they had been playing since he unlocked the front door.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, his voice losing its forced lightness completely, turning rough and gravelly. "I told you. It's Kaoru. It's a personal thread. Why do you always do this?"
Emi didn't snap back. She didn't scream. But her shoulders, the rigid, straight line she had maintained through the entire meal finally began to fracture.
They sank inward, her chest tightening as she drew her knees closer to her torso, her fingers digging so hard into the thick wool of her oversized sweater that her fingernails were buried in the knit.
The white hair around her bun shook, just a fraction, the two golden pins catching the amber light and casting sharp, jittery reflections across the wall behind her
"Because… because you look at it differently."
"I look at a screen, Emi. It's just light."
"No," she said, her voice catching on a dry, ragged breath that didn't sound like her at all. Cracks had started showing in the corners of her mouth and in the way her eyes stayed too wide. "You look at it like—like you'd rather be somewhere else…"
She choked slightly. Just a sharp hitch in her breathing that she couldn't smooth out.
"And I'm just sitting here," she whispered to the floorboards. "....eating your rice."
Takeshi dropped his hands to his sides, the phone sliding back into his pocket as his shirt rustled softly against his pants Under the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, his eyes were wide and pleading.
"Emi, please. Just let it go. You don't have to keep fighting me every time things are going well between us."
Emi didn't snap back. She sat cross-legged near the edge of the bed, absently rolling the gum against the inside of her cheek. Under the dim lights, her hair had come loose around the edges of her messy bun, the two golden pins barely holding it together.
How...
"How?"
The words were barely heard.
"How am I supposed to let go…"
"...when every time something finally feels good—"
"it gets taken from me?"
The oversized sweater made her look smaller than usual. Without her sharp distance and half-lidded composure, she looked completely defenseless.
"...I don't know how to do this."
A pause. The quiet hum of the air conditioner behind the window felt deafeningly loud.
"To not be...
…me."
Wh-what am I even doing? T-that's not the emi that I am… so… why am I so… frustrated with Takeshi?
A shaky breath slipped past her lips.
"I-I get scared okay!? when... whenever you look at your phone...
I get scared."
Her fingers curled tightly against her knitted sleeves, digging into the rough wool until her knuckles ached from the pressure.
"Because every time... part of me keeps thinking you're about to find someone easier to love."
She choked slightly—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a sharp hitch in her breathing that she couldn't smooth out.
"And then I get mad..."
"...because being mad feels safer than being weak."
A quiet sob slipped out before she could stop it.
Her shoulders folded inward slowly, the tension finally draining out of them.
Takeshi's thoughts went blank. The defensive arguments, the irritation, the lingering buzz of the beer—everything cleared out of his head instantly, leaving nothing but a sudden, hollow quiet.
He crawled across the bed, the mattress shifting under his knees, and pulled her into his chest. He held her tight, his fingers locking into the rough wool of her sweater as if she might slip through the floorboards if he let go.
"I'm sorry," he muttered against her hair, his voice thick. "Emi, I'm so, so sorry."
She didn't pull away. Her forehead pressed hard into his shoulder, her breathing hitching against his collarbone.
Takeshi tightened his grip, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I can't believe I'm still staying with you. Not because of pity. Not because of what you're going through. Just... just—you."
"And—no matter where you are, where I am. I'll be the first to look for you, got it?"
Because you… you were the one who changed me and I will always be grateful to you… even if I'm not saying this directly to you right now.
For a second, Emi slowly nodded, but didn't move. Then, her hands came up.
She trapped him against her chest with a sudden, desperate strength that caught him completely off guard. She squeezed so hard the air was forced straight out of his lungs, his ribs pressing uncomfortably against hers. Takeshi choked out a quiet gasp, but he didn't pull away. He just let her hold him there, pinned together in the quiet room for minutes until the frantic, trembling energy in her muscles finally began to ease.
For a while, neither of them moved.
Emi stayed pressed against his chest, her breathing uneven against the fabric of his shirt. Takeshi could still feel the lingering tremor in her arms where they were wrapped around his back, stubbornly refusing to loosen completely.
Then, without lifting her face from his shoulder—
"..."
"When are you even gonna propose to me?"
"Uh... next year?"
"We've been dating for six years, isn't that enough time."
"Touché, touché." Takeshi rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly eager to escape the heat of her gaze. He nodded toward the pillows. "Well, let's just... go to sleep—"
"No." Emi cut him off cleanly, her voice hitching but stubborn. "I w-want an answer. Right now."
Silence stretched between them again. Takeshi looked at her, the exhaustion in his face softening into a small, wry smile. "It's a secret, obviously. You won't expect it at all."
"...What a damn disappointing answer." she muttered, she didn't move away from him. Her disappointed gaze flicked to the small digital clock on the night stand.
"Huh?!" Takeshi's hands went up, his voice cracking slightly in a mix of defense and genuine confusion. "Wouldn't any girl want an unexpected proposal?!
"What's wrong with my answer, Emi?!"
"Everything."
Emi's eyelids fluttered, heavy with the specific, crushing fatigue that only comes after a long cry. Her head tilted back slightly against the cold wall.
Takeshi watched her for a moment, his own anger vanishing. He shifted on the mattress, sliding his arms under her knees and behind her back.
Honestly you just make me wanna laugh. I'm so glad I've… I've met you Emi during my... lowest points.
"Hey," he murmured.
Emi didn't protest as he lifted her. She felt lighter than usual, her oversized sweater pooling around her as he stood up from the edge of the mattress. But the second he moved toward the center of the bed, her hands locked tightly around his neck again, burying her face into the crook of his collarbone.
She held on with that same stubborn, unyielding grip, not tight enough to choke him this time, but firmly enough to ensure there was absolutely no space left between them.
He carried her the short distance, easing his weight down onto the sheets with her still anchored to his chest.
Takeshi leaned back against the pillow, his shoes finally dropping to the floorboards as he carefully slipped his arms out from under her knees. He didn't pull away completely. He sat near the edge of the mattress, his hands resting loosely on his thighs, looking at her once before letting his gaze drift to the dark wall.
Emi slid back against the pillows. She was no longer folded inward like a defensive wall, but she wasn't entirely open either. Her white hair remained a mess from the carry, the golden pins still caught in the loose strands, doing nothing to keep it neat.
Takeshi shifted slightly, settling into the mattress. The old springs dipped under his weight, but he kept a deliberate bit of space between them, waiting in the silence for a permission that both of them knew would never be spoken aloud.
Emi didn't look at him. Her gaze stayed low, fixed somewhere on the frayed edge of the duvet. The piece of gum was still in her mouth, but she had stopped chewing it entirely. It just sat against her inner cheek—a habit she had simply forgotten to finish after the crying stopped.
Takeshi exhaled once through his nose. He lifted his arm, placing it behind her shoulders, resting it flat against the headboard just a fraction of an inch before making contact. He hesitated. The uncertainty lasted long enough to feel deliberate in the quiet room.
Ahhh! Screw it! I'm gonna GAMBLE it!
Then, finally, he pulled her in.
It wasn't a dramatic, sweeping movement. It was simply careful, handled with the quiet caution of someone who knew the argument about the proposal was over, but the exhaustion was still raw.
Emi didn't react immediately. For a second, her body stayed entirely stiff against his side, rigid and unfamiliar with the contact from this angle after everything they had said.
Takeshi's been so bold lately… I... kinda of like it...
Then she leaned in slightly.
Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge the weight of his arm around her.
Her head rested near his chest, not buried like before, not clinging. The lingering distance of six years was still present in the rigid way she held her spine, but she did not move away from his heat.
Takeshi adjusted his grip once, more secure now. One hand stayed steady at the curve of her shoulder, the other resting lightly against the thick wool of her sweater.
They stayed like that while the bedroom settled around them. The hum of the air conditioner behind the window, and the faint, rhythmic rustle of fabric whenever either of them breathed a little deeper against the other.
"...Takeshi?"
"What is it now?"
"Hug me harder."
"Alright…"