Chapter Text
It almost didn't happen.
If you didn't spend that half an hour debating whether or not it would be worth it. If you didn't consider taking the long way over the direct route. If you hadn't stalled, he might not have seen you that night. The timing would have been off.
Eventually, you arrived, late and reluctant, ready to leave the moment you slid the door open. And that's exactly when he first saw you.
Others had transformed, wearing the club like a second-skin with him loosely among them in an attempt at belonging, lending his already obliquely impaired consciousness to whatever drink felt strong enough. His then-company, their arms slung over his shoulders, asked in a narrowly irritated falsetto once catching how his focus had departed: "Are you even listening to me?"
He was—but only until the moment you appeared, tripping his peripherals. You, leaning over the bar countertop, dying of boredom. You, the only person to resist what was offered in abundance, oblivious to the throbbing aphrodisia around you. And he was struck.
Night after night brought more of the same thrill—and that was fine—like an unwritten contract with the universe. Easy, assured, but wearing him thin.
"Hey, are you listening?"
Again, his date's voice snapping him back to a face bent with a pout and the cold, slick feeling of condensation from the glass around his fingers.
"Yes, of course, I am," he reassured with a coo and a practiced closed-mouth grin, completely denying his wandering attention.
But he hadn't been. Not at all. Because there you were. Something different entirely.
Strange how it works.
You had been entirely ready to retrace your steps when he approached, temporarily freeing himself from the shackle of possessive hands and perhaps able to gauge his shrinking window of opportunity. First, he was a sleeve of tattoos, exposed by a black blazer thoughtfully rolled to mid-forearm. Then he was a playfully smooth voice, bending the congested room.
"Evening."
A few strands of hair had fallen in his face from the commotion of other bodies around him. He raked them back with his free hand, routine maintenance, while an overpriced drink occupied the other. You blamed the low-lights for the green dye, thinking it borderline outrageous for someone dressed as he was. Tailored, sleek, and otherwise unapproachable.
Who are you?
He patiently waited as you searched yourself for some reply. Coy smile widening, holding his careful distance; he knew you were still undecided with what to make of him. He spoke again, the ice in his drink clinking as he gestured around, "You know, from where I was standing, it looked like you'd rather be anywhere else but here."
I do, or I did.
Though you still had not quite found your voice. The static of movement, drinks being poured, and overlapping voices all moved in waves; environmental textures all too intent on keeping you strangers. The intervention of greater forces, perhaps. You managed, finally, "I was just leaving..." It hung in the air like a question.
He raised an eyebrow knowingly, calling your bluff. Swirling around you in a graceful movement, his chest almost at your back, he spoke low into your ear, strictly to be heard of course, "I'll walk you out."
You didn't protest. In some unfair way, if had you seen him before, you might have found the desire in you to stay. Before you could pin the feeling, to explain it or otherwise, he set his still-full glass down at the counter behind him, looking to where he had previously stood. To his then-date, distracted by his other friends.
"On second thought, what if we both left?"
You looked over your shoulder to gauge his expression. In his eyes, the whites with a blue stain from the club's moody darkness, but plainly: Is that okay? In the strange intimacy of the moment, of the sudden closeness, hoping you were the person he needed you to be—his exit strategy. There must have been a hundred people around, as least, but they vanished when he asked.
Nerves, relief, or the two intertwined, responded on your behalf. "We could do that."
A seemingly harmless response, as all things can appear to be at first glance.
Beneath his shirt, his chest surged in warm, silken laughter from more of the same thing. Nerves or relief. Before it reduced entirely, he cleared his throat. "Then it's settled," a brighter pause than the last, "Genji Shimada. Nice to meet you."
Why does that sound so familiar?
Though it was of no importance as Genji's animation consumed your attention, escorting you to the doors. Freeing yourself from the swelling, pulsing club, he came alive in the night air, flushed, free as a sparrow. The breeze allowed his scent to unfold around you, to disarm you by the acute and devious precision of whatever cologne it was he had been wearing.
You introduced yourself then without fighting to be heard. He was thankful to be granted a piece of you, a name to remember and repeat to himself as if a forgotten answer to an important question. Full of nimble consciousness, you felt his examination of your profile. The moonlight played games with you, carving his face and filling the hollows of his cheeks, a gaze of liquid amber and golden tiger's eye. You had to turn away in delayed embarrassment for not noticing sooner.
Politely, he, too, looked away. Chin tipping up toward the sky, he spoke while navigating by the constellations overhead. "It's a coincidence, us meeting tonight." Ask me why? Unsaid, but there all the same.
So, you obliged him. "Why's that?"
Because, he smiled to himself, already assuming you would question him saying so before his attention flickered back. "I know a place nearby I want to take you to. Are you hungry?" An indirect answer, you could fill in the blanks easily enough.
Neon signage greets you first, then a creature in a spaceship with an exaggerated comical expression. Slipping under the fabric divider hanging at the entrance into air warmed by boiling water and steam, you were welcomed by the smell of egg noodles and miso that tangled and knotted with his own. Irrashaimase! Come in, welcome! The regular for my regular? A chef waved enthusiastically in your direction, beckoning you to the counter as he dipped his head in recognition.
"Rikimaru has the best ramen," Genji explained after a satisfied, fortifying inhale. "Trust me."
"I'll believe it when I try it," you challenged him with mislaid doubt, passing off a look towards him as a glance at the menu; his green hair continuously brilliant under the shop's fluorescents, his expression further complicated by a tight, sly smile.
"Ah, good..." Folding his arms as if to appear thoughtful, he looked down at you through coal eyelashes, creating a bizarre moment of seriousness. He added in quickly, amending, "It is wise to be skeptical."
You wondered what was going through his mind if he were teasing or praising you.
Who are you really, Genji?
The steaming bowls placed before you would have been emptied sooner if it hadn't been for the effortless conversation, conversation that wound around you and let the broth go cold before you had finished. There was cyclical nature in your interactions; questions from him would pull a story from you, leaving you both snickering into your food until speech was tempted again. The silvery, light-hearted sound of his laugh became your favourite totem of the night. You began to look for signs of it, quickly defining his sense of humour all to hear him dissolve in amusement. And when you were between jokes, he dared you to hold eye contact. His was only interrupted by languid blinking, substances from events prior meandering through his bloodstream, unhurried as they vacated his system. He flirted with clarity but expertly held himself together, centred and focused. Your voice, the very clearing of your throat, would draw his focus. Everything about you was interesting.
What did he see? What was he looking for?
He paid. You refused, but he told you, "I'll let you. Next time."
Will there be a next time? And just as suddenly, almost panicked: When will I see you again?
Satisfaction from a full belly was mutually understood, and he practically hummed as he walked back outside and down the street through the colossal gates. Crossing through into the castle grounds, he stood straighter, taller. Night sent the daylight crowds away into clubs and ramen shops, but it became his and yours in its rare solitude. Your feet scraped over the planks beneath you as you moved around the perimeter of the yard, approaching the largest of the immediate structures, looming over you through its own shadow. The immaculate finish of the wood appeared as red as oxblood. You talked all the while as if you had known him for your entire life, easily keeping pace and no effort towards keeping momentum, searching for the next thing to say.
With the simultaneous fear and thrill of feeling something for someone so clearly and quickly, you understood the sensible thing to do was get his number and leave, to call him later after a few days of making sense of it all. But that in itself was impossible, destined to futility since that required prying yourself out of his gaze, losing the sound of his voice. He was too devoted to what you had been saying, too invested in your voice—and you to him.
Just a little longer, you lied to yourself.
You threaded into and out of the moment, trailing off and losing your place as the breeze picked up. Petals carried from surrounding trees burst through the air as if a great plume of smoke—restless spring. The seasons were changing, and the evidence encircled you. Genji was spring, too, you decided. Blooming, swaying, sudden—staring as he waited for you to finish your thought.
"I'm sorry... What was I saying?"
He gave you a lacquered gaze in response. Terrible and excruciating, though incredible, forcing you to listen to that small voice in the back of your head once again: Who are you really, Genji?
"Skeptical and forgetful... What a combination." He shrugged, trying with all he had not to smile and break the illusion of disappointment. Even knowing he was teasing, the bite of embarrassment was sharp and quick. You pressed a hand to the slant of your forehead. Softening suddenly, he eased up. "I didn't mean it. Honestly. I'm too caught up in the moment..." The same embarrassment you felt bled into his voice.
Then, as if it were on cue, the wind played again, and petals around you lifted, scattering. Only this time, he reached out reflexively, operating on half-remembered instinct. You narrowed your eyes as he closed his hand around something and brought his closed fist to his chest. The likeness of a magician performing a trick, he revealed an entire blossom intact, sitting in his palm.
"How did you do that...?"
He doesn't dare mention. Instead, he admires the flower for a moment or two, paper-thin and delicate. It passes his inspection and becomes an offering. "For you."
You took it from him slowly and cautiously, entertaining either pinning it to your hair or giving it back to the wind. You did neither, trying to forgive yourself out of the implied sentimentality.
"Luck," he explained slowly to the comfortable silence, "or fate. Whichever you prefer." Eyes molten, golden, he stood next to the ornate bell with dragons curled around it. The world felt as small as the temple grounds as pinpricks of stars overhead burned softly.
Conversation picked up again and ran in endless loops, carrying you through twilight. You were trying not to think about time. Going home meant leaving him. Going home meant thinking about the petals and his cologne, trying to remember the sound of his laugh and the exact shade of his green. Going home meant submitting yourself to temporary madness.
The dark blue bruising of night had begun to lift and broke your voices. You were both silenced by the view past Hanamura, expanding into the surrounding cities. Recognizing at long last what you had been skirting around, Genji affirmed what you were both reluctant to mention: "It's late."
You imagined wincing at the sound of him saying so. Or perhaps you had. Your apprehension did not go unnoticed.
He added thoughtfully, "I didn't mean to keep you out all night."
Maybe that was true, and he hadn't, but you were thankful he did.
He asked how far away you lived. Your answer was ambiguous. Decently far. You asked, wondering if you would catch the last train back. He seemed to know without looking it up, laughing disguised as coughing into his fist, "I think you're stuck here until morning. But, again, that's my fault."
Your eyes edged back to the horizon. The last ride home would have meant sacrificing your time with him.
Just as you were entertaining getting a taxi, he made a point of mentioning, "I live around the corner. You can sleep with me." But the way you looked towards him in response fractured his confidence. His face stretched; he looked apologetic or mortified at his sudden lack of refinement, tripping over words. "What I meant was that you're welcome to stay at my place..." He spluttered further, trying to explain his intentions, but by then, you'd already accepted.
Your smile will be the end of me.
Walking through the quiet streets, with Hanamura fully settled and advising you to do the same, your shoulders accidentally brushed. Neither of you pulled away and instead leaned slightly on the other. Playfully, tiredly.
Genji lived in a beautiful, sprawling single-story house that appeared undecided if it was built to replicate modern or traditional tastes. After swiftly unlocking the front door, he revealed an open interior in much of the same style. All rich dark wood floors and white-washed walls with tasteful furniture scattered throughout, hints of emeralds and gold. The furthest wall was almost entirely glass, with one continuous window with slatted blinds from floor to ceiling. The monumental view of the world beneath hadn't yet been exhausted.
You both pulled your shoes off at the genkan, leaving them to face the door. He did the same before straightening to his full height.
"So, a quick tour? Yes?"
With each room flowing into the next, he led you through the space as if it were all much less than it had been—as if each room had been bare or unfurnished, completely unfazed by what he owned. You wanted to gush about how his home could have well been clipped from a magazine but instead took to wordless, approving nods towards the abundant and lavish supply of traditional art, cleverly disguising your looks of awe with the back of your hand when you were certain he would not catch them.
He stopped before tall built-in shelves in a high-ceilinged central living area to pull out a book, seemingly at random. "For the flower." He cradled the spine as he spoke, allowing it to fall open into his palm. An intricate illustration of a dragon coiled about the paper, inked in a green that was strikingly similar to his hair. You pressed the delicate thing to the page, and he sealed it shut, holding it towards you with both hands.
"Please, take it with you when you go." There was a flicker of something behind his eyes, but only for a second. "Don't forget."
"Oh, I couldn't..."
Genji wanted to laugh, wanted to explain. He wanted a great deal of things at that moment but couldn't have any of them. Wasn't allowed. "You must. I already know how the story ends. He set the book on a low table. Don't forget. The way he said it. The echo of his reminder would be long with you.
The air around you took its time to settle, crackling with electricity and pressure; his manipulation over stillness was something you couldn't quite register or wrap your mind around. He was masterful, but at what, the art of just existing? It wasn't fair that you had only just met. He struck you as someone that you wanted to know completely, someone that you wanted to understand.
"Are you like this with everyone?" You prodded, charged by skepticism again, looking for something that would allow you to tear your fascination away from him. Anything. Notches on the bedpost, childish monuments of triumphs.
But he was armed and avoided your question expertly. "I don't see anyone else here. Only you."
He watched how you observed him, accepting your soundlessness and reflection. He allowed it, patiently, an amused, soft smile hiding about the pout of his lips as you drew your own conclusions. You were quiet, committing the previous hours to memory, pressing it all between pages in your mind.
Where were you before tonight? I'll never know.
He stirred finally, and you freed yourself from thought. Drifting over to the kitchen, he pulled glasses from the cupboard. You followed, watching his movements and listening to the hiss of the faucet, leaning against an island that halved the floor. The time on the chrome microwave was of little surprise to you. Dawn crept forward, beginning to streak and stain the sky. He moved around you towards the sink, the graceful sway in his movements never dulling, before placing a glass of cold water in your hand that raised in recognition of his gesture.
"Are you tired?"
"I'm exhausted."
He tipped his cup to yours. The glasses clinked ceremoniously.
"Me too."
Afterward, what should have been awkward was fluid. Both broken by sleeplessness, he led you down the long hallway to his bedroom as you communicated in glances. Light seeped into the space, dusting everything in gold. Remarkable contrast left you privately amazed, locked in conversation under the moon, silent by the rising sun.
His jacket fell to the floor. Then his socks, one by one, creating a pile at his feet. He began lifting his shirt over his head before stopping mid-way. You looked towards him then, beginning to remove your clothing as well. His earlier horror at the insinuation of sleeping together had been reduced to a trivial thing in seconds. Your lips twisted into a half-smile, understanding all the same. You were past the debate of why neither of you would sleep on the couch for the sake of the other, having decided already. And neither of you was embarrassed about undressing because you hadn't been strangers, not since earlier that night—forever ago. Everything seemed so small at the first blush of morning. All that was left had been the last few sips of water, and I'm so glad you're here paired look and exhale and the mattress cradling your spine.
Sleep found you before him, having ignored the full extent of your need for rest until it was no longer possible. You rolled to your side with a gentle groan, the comforter slipping down over your shoulder as you shifted, becoming laced with the morning's gold ribbons like everything else had been in the sunrise. The light cast bars across Genji as well, wrapping his skin with silken oblong shapes as he propped himself up by an elbow to face you better. Absently, his free hand began reaching over to you.
He imagined, recklessly, how it would feel to swirl the tip of his finger over your arm until the numbing fever of want demanded more but froze, blinking slowly before adjusting the blanket and pulling his limb back, cursing the thoughts he had no right to think. He wished that he had known you longer. He wished he had been closer to you. And still, above anything else, he wished you had never met.
Strange how it works.