Back home, the sleek black piano stood temporarily idle in the living room.
Asou Akiya carefully changed Randou's bandages and reapplied the medication — after a day out, they had to be vigilant against any risk of bacterial infection.
Randou looked up at him. "I want to take a bath."
Determined to be the perfect husband, Asou Akiya rolled up his sleeves without a word, headed to the bathroom to draw the water, laid out toiletries and fresh towels, then returned with clear instructions. "You can only sponge-bathe today — the wounds must not get wet."
Randou gazed at him with those guileless gray-green eyes, pure and unclouded.
"So much trouble…"
"I can wash your hair for you."
"Akiya, I really think soaking in hot water would be fine."
Randou had been longing for days to sink into the deep, built-in Japanese bathtub — hot water was his truest comfort.
"No — what you think doesn't matter here." Asou Akiya set the medicine box aside with a bright, unwavering smile, issuing a firm warning to this French cat who feared the cold like mortal enemy. "On this, I decide."
Randou shrank back a little.
For a fleeting moment, Akiya carried undeniable authority.
"Just bear with it a while longer," Asou Akiya soothed, tone softening at once. "You don't want the wounds to reopen and leave scars, do you?"
Randou's shoulders slumped in defeat, the gauze wrapped around his forehead, his voice muffled behind the scarf. "Mm."
He looked every inch the wounded, pitiable patient — utterly endearing in his resignation.
Asou Akiya did not soften. In the future waited an even more broken, more fragile Dazai Osamu; by comparison, Randou's level was far too low to compete with those tactical masters who played the game of hearts.
Asou Akiya never counted himself among their number. He considered his own intellect modest at best — capable only of shouting "666"* in awe from the sidelines.
*{Note:The Chinese internet slang 666 (liù liù liù) basically means "awesome" because the number six in Chinese sounds like "溜" (liù), meaning "smooth". 666 started as gaming slang to praise a skilled player, like "GG" in English, but is now used generally to praise someone for doing something very impressively or "smoothly".}
What? You're part of the script team? Show me a single script insider who has ended up living like this.
Afterward, he finished washing Randou's hair and left the bathroom without offering to sponge-bathe him. It was not that he was some paragon of gentlemanly restraint; he had simply steeled himself for a long campaign. Seeking fleeting pleasure now would be cheap and unworthy — especially since, during those endless days of nursing in the hospital, he had already seen every inch of Randou's body.
A slight stirring — out of respect.
Bah.
He had accidentally recalled one of those crude jokes from his previous life; Randou must never know about it.
To Randou the Frenchman, Asou Akiya's caution and his strategy of slow, steady progress carried a faint, puzzling opacity. In the steamy bathroom, Randou stripped off his clothes and sat on the edge of the tub. His creamy-pale skin flickered in and out of view amid the rising mist; even the bandages could not diminish the sheer European beauty of his form.
Randou wiped his cheeks with a towel. "I thought he would stay."
After a moment's hesitation, he reflected aloud. "Was I mistaken?" He glanced down at his own body and understood. "My wounds haven't healed yet — the scars are ugly. It's only natural that Akiya wouldn't like them."
If Asou Akiya ever learned what Randou had just said, he would probably faint from sheer disbelief at the missed opportunity.
Once a relationship was confirmed, did lovers still need to be so polite?
A Frenchman would tell you —
No.
Randou dipped the towel into the hot water, wrung it lightly, and drew it across his waist, then down his thighs. Warm trails of moisture lingered on his skin, tracing the smooth, flowing lines of muscle that spoke of years spent in vigorous outdoor pursuits.
When it came to wiping his back, the motion proved awkward and inconvenient. He considered calling Akiya for help, but the impulse died in his throat.
"Japanese people might be a bit more reserved."
The naturally proud Frenchman muttered the thought to himself in the depths of his subconscious.
Before sleep, the two of them leaned against the headboard to finish watching an American film. Once it ended they settled down one after another. No sooner had Asou Akiya closed his eyes than Randou — true to habit — began inching toward the nearest source of warmth.
Asou Akiya knew how deeply he feared the cold. When their arms brushed, no improper thought crossed his mind. He simply sat up, adjusted the air-conditioning to twenty-eight degrees Celsius, and murmured, "My dear, I've raised it two degrees — any higher and I'll start sweating."
Randou gave a drowsy, indistinct sound of agreement.
Relieved, Asou Akiya lay back down, mentally mapping out the next day before slipping gradually into sleep.
In the dream.
Warm… hotter… the temperature seemed to keep rising…
This wasn't good… he was about to break into a sweat…
In the small hours of the night, Asou Akiya jolted awake. In the faint light filtering through the window he discovered an extra person curled in his arms. The other man's hands encircled his waist, face pressed to his chest, lips parted slightly with each breath to release soft puffs of warmth — this lofty flower of the European ability world, transplanted into a humble Japanese dwelling.
His heart pounded wildly, as though trapped inside an impossible dream.
"Randou?"
Had they somehow shifted positions in sleep?
Asou Akiya called his name softly, gently drawing Randou from the dream in which he clutched a living hot-water bottle.
Randou murmured through heavy-lidded eyes, voice thick with sleep. "What is it?"
Asou Akiya froze.
He answered stiffly, voice cracking just a little. "N-nothing… nothing at all."
Caught utterly off guard, Asou Akiya lay back down with exaggerated calm, sliding an arm around Randou's back as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The air between them grew charged and scorching; all his abundant theoretical knowledge proved utterly useless in the crucial moment.
He felt like a complete fool — the particular kind of fool who had pursued his wife, coaxed her into his bed, and now had no idea what to do next. If word got out, countless single men would rightfully curse him to oblivion.
He briefly considered pretending to be asleep.
It was too hot — but his heart burned even hotter!
Asou Akiya's hesitant behavior only reinforced the notion of "reserved." Some people spent their days posing as seasoned lovers, yet in truth they might prove less bold than a man stripped of all memory.
On Sunday, Asou Akiya chose to stay home, savoring a full day of domestic life with Randou.
Breakfast consisted of milk and fresh bread — perfectly suited to French tastes.
After finishing his simple meal, Asou Akiya set about tidying the house. As he worked, he noticed Randou seated in the living room, gaze drawn repeatedly toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
In this quiet mood, Randou seemed profoundly melancholic.
From the bedroom the crater was hidden from view, but the living room offered an unobstructed glimpse of the vast pit carved into the former Yokohama Settlement.
Asou Akiya inwardly cursed his own thoughtlessness — how could he have overlooked the psychological shadow the explosion still cast over Randou? Compared to the expensive house he had bought, Randou's emotional well-being mattered infinitely more.
We need to move!
They absolutely had to relocate elsewhere!
Asou Akiya dialed a real estate agent, only for his smile to freeze on his face as his heart bled in silent agony.
It was painfully simple — the value of their home had plummeted.
Rebola Street had yet to take shape, but shadows of vagrants, orphans, and the homeless were already visible everywhere, laying the groundwork for what would one day become a notorious slum. Even without deep thought he could predict it: property prices in the former Yokohama Settlement would soon collapse like a mudslide, dragging his own house down with them day by day.
Asou Akiya decided that a short, sharp pain was better than prolonged suffering. He turned back to Randou and said, "Randou, more and more unsavory types are gathering around here. Let's move to another part of Yokohama."
"Fine."
Randou had no objection — from the bottom of his heart he loathed that pit where countless lives lay buried.
He touched his forehead gingerly.
This lingering ache, this amnesia — all of it stemmed from the inexplicable explosion in the Yokohama Settlement. He had visited the site, watched the news reports, and refused to believe the wild rumors circulating outside.
"Akiya, do you know why it exploded?"
"…Yes."
Asou Akiya paused, weighing his options between lie and truth before choosing the latter.
Randou's gaze sharpened with fresh curiosity.
He had not mentioned it last time!
"It was likely caused by an extraordinarily powerful ability user. I didn't bring it up because you never asked — I wanted you to focus on recovering without worry." Asou Akiya watched Randou's expression carefully as he continued, choosing his words with deliberation. "The blast came without warning. The number of casualties in the Settlement were horrific. The government suppressed public outrage and has yet to offer any credible explanation, allowing every sort of rumor to flourish unchecked."
Randou sensed instinctively that the question carried immense weight. "What is an ability user?"
Asou Akiya answered calmly, drawing from his own understanding. "Someone who possesses extraordinary power — a person who stands atop the waves of the era."
Randou opened his mouth to press further, yet he caught the sudden shadow that fell across Asou Akiya's face.
"Akiya?"
"I envy that kind of power — the kind that shatters existing patterns."
Asou Akiya spoke with helpless bitterness, the words laced with old ache. "Randou, I'm so poor — the new house we just bought hasn't even been lived in long, and already its value is plummeting…" He set aside all pride, wrapping his arms around Randou where he sat on the sofa. "If I had power, I could give you a villa to live in — you wouldn't have to stare at this ugly view every day and feel lost."
Randou was caught utterly off guard by the abrupt shift in his lover's mood. Money's importance remained only a vague notion to him; he could not truly share Asou Akiya's emotional resonance on the matter.
Yet the gentler side of Randou surfaced. He answered with quiet calm. "I don't care."
Asou Akiya's voice sweetened at once. "You're really wonderful."
A faint blush rose to Randou's cheeks at the praise. This man never ceased showering him with rainbow flattery — from literary talent to character, from character to the smallest daily habits — there seemed no end to the compliments Asou Akiya could invent.
Randou murmured, "I'm not as good as you make me out to be. Look — I have nothing I can give you in return."
The thought continued to weigh on him, impossible to shake.
Asou Akiya tightened his arms around Randou's waist. "What's mine is yours — why count scores between us?" He nuzzled gently against Randou's temple. "I've already started inquiring about your identity. Trust me — with your foreign status, there will be travel records somewhere. The police will uncover useful leads."
Randou sighed softly. "Mm."
For reasons he could not name, hope felt distant; the path ahead seemed shrouded in unrelenting gray.
"Randou, do you have any requests for our new home?" Asou Akiya deftly shifted the subject, and Randou obediently turned his thoughts to it.
"Quiet, warm — and it must have a proper bathtub."
Asou Akiya smiled. "Anything else?"
Randou's eyes reflected Akiya's face as he answered with perfect certainty. "You."
Asou Akiya felt the tables turned — thoroughly flustered by the Frenchman's counterattack.
His heart raced.
No good — the French had an unfair racial advantage. Sleeping beside him every night would test his restraint to the breaking point.
"We… let's go read some books, write poetry."
"All right."
…
One month later, the Port Mafia had absorbed a fresh influx of recruits, raising the status of veteran members like a rising tide. Asou Akiya scraped by on that month's salary and bonus, determined to save for a new home. To stretch every yen, he subsisted on cafeteria meals day after day, yet he told his lover without hesitation to buy whatever he craved.
"You're in a sorry state, kid," Takekawa Izumi said, pitying the younger man. "We handle foreign trade and smuggling — translators who deal with commercial contracts aren't exactly poorly paid. How did you burn through your entire savings?"
Asou Akiya gave a wry smile. "You only hate being short of money when you truly need it."
Donations, the purchase of a new house, maintaining a high standard for his beloved — money vanished faster than he could earn it.
Takekawa nodded. "That's a Chinese saying, isn't it — something scholarly." The senior sniffed the air around Asou Akiya and laughed in disbelief. "You've even stopped wearing cologne?"
Asou Akiya answered with a pitiful expression. "I'm genuinely broke — I can't bring myself to spend on it."
Under the weight of his lament, Takekawa arranged a few lucrative side opportunities and added casually, "When you finally get married, remember to invite me for drinks — and bring your sweetheart along so we can all meet him."
Asou Akiya agreed without hesitation. "Of course."
Wife is wife.
As for when Japan would finally legalize same-sex marriage — well, that could wait for another day.
Within the "Sheep" organization — the tight-knit group the orphans had formed to survive — Nakahara Chuuya slipped back among them as though he had finally accepted there was nowhere else for him to go. Each day he devoted to mastering everyday speech or burying himself in books, no longer wandering off to stare blankly at the explosion site whenever he had a free moment.
His blank-slate personality grew rapidly under the steady nourishment of human knowledge.
If he did not understand, he asked; if he did not know, he learned. Through relentless effort, Nakahara Chuuya gained a clearer grasp of the world around him.
From the older children he gradually pieced together his identity: he was Nakahara Chuuya, male, his parents had died in the explosion, no one had come to claim him, and so he lived as an orphan alongside the others.
Nakahara Chuuya: ???
Utterly baffled, he asked, "What are parents?"
By his own understanding, he was something inhuman — he should not have parents at all!
A girl on the verge of leaving the Sheep — having finally located relatives — answered with tears in her eyes. "Parents are the ones who gave birth to you, raised you, and chose your name."
Nakahara Chuuya murmured thoughtfully, "I see."
The person who had turned him human and given him a name — that must be his parent.
For now, the idea stood unchallenged.
"Come quick! Someone donated food and clothes for kids under ten!" Excited shouts rang out from beyond the ramshackle house the Sheep had built. Nakahara Chuuya turned his head toward the noise; children of every size dashed past to help carry the gifts. He followed soon after, the silver pendant swaying against his skin beneath his shirt.
Minutes later, he received new clothes that actually fit — a sturdy red-and-black tracksuit designed to hide dirt, paired with skate shoes in exactly his size. Dressed like this, Nakahara Chuuya shed the awkward mismatch of hand-me-downs and looked markedly more spirited. The younger children bubbled with joy, while those over ten or simply too tall for the cutoff sighed in disappointment.
Nakahara Chuuya studied his reflection in the cracked mirror propped against the wall. In that fleeting moment of clarity, he felt — for the first time — truly like a human being.
He carefully tucked the exposed necklace and pendant back inside the round collar of his new shirt, shielding them with deliberate gentleness. The silver was soft and pliable; even the lightest bump could warp its shape.
Not to mention… red light tended to flare from his hands without warning, breaking things far too easily.
"I'll find out where I came from."
It was the only proof of his origins he possessed.
"Chuuya, hurry over here! The donor wants a group photo to remember us by!" An adult overseeing the delivery of supplies called from the doorway, following the philanthropist's request as he raised a camera to capture the children.
Nakahara Chuuya awkwardly edged into the crowd for the picture, too timid to push away those pressing close. He kept his hands drawn in tightly at his sides. Even so, his small frame stood out amid the group — vivid orange hair catching the light, his arm gently tugged by a pink-haired girl beside him until they both flashed a hesitant V-sign.
A click and a flash of white light preserved the moment. The camera immortalized the early days of the Sheep — young boys and girls standing protectively around their younger charges, faces radiant with hard-won smiles.
After disaster, rebirth will come.
…
June arrived, bringing Japan's summer heat. Asou Akiya had selected their new home in a quiet district — within three kilometers of Port Mafia headquarters, neither too far nor too close.
He and Randou celebrated with hot pot in Yokohama's Chinatown.
Afterward, Asou Akiya regretted the choice. With Randou present, the private dining room could not be air-conditioned.
He returned home drenched in sweat, the lingering sweet-spicy aftertaste clinging to his tongue. Randou fared differently — rising temperatures eased his chronic chill — yet the spice had overwhelmed him all the same. His eyes watered, the tip of his nose turned red, and he worked his way through an entire box of tissues while muttering, "Next time, I'll stick to non-spicy only."
The new house was a standalone single-family dwelling — worlds apart from their old apartment in the Settlement. Rooms stretched spacious and sun-filled, complete with a private garden courtyard. Removed from the bustling districts, the price had been reasonable, granting them even more square footage than expected. Once inside, Asou Akiya wasted no time showering and rinsing his mouth thoroughly, banishing every trace of hot-pot aroma from his skin.
Relief washed over him as he retreated to the study to bask in the cool blast of the air conditioner.
Why not just put an air-conditioner in the living room? Thank you, but no.
Randou's opinion mattered most, and Akiya could not bear the thought of letting him feel even a hint of cold.
Ten minutes later, Asou Akiya emerged to check on him and struggled to contain his laughter at the sight: Randou cradling a steaming mug of hot water, sipping carefully while hissing at every scalding mouthful, the skin beneath his eyes flushed pink in a perfect circle. Hot water, it turned out, did nothing to soothe the lingering fire of spice!
"Randou, you should drink cold milk."
"No."
Randou shot a suspicious glance at Akiya's mischievous grin, set the mug aside, and rose to fetch milk from the pantry at room temperature.
Asou Akiya offered with thoughtful care, "Let me warm it for you."
Their daily life flowed in remarkable harmony. Asou Akiya knew when to yield and when to envelop with patience; Randou's nature was profoundly gentle, and the rare flickers of temper that surfaced could only be cherished as small sparks of delight in their shared routine.
Yet Randou's very identity remained an unsolved enigma.
In all of Yokohama, no record existed of a Frenchman named "Rimbaud." He had appeared as though conjured from thin air — a complete ghost in the system, utterly undocumented. Apart from Asou Akiya, who claimed to have known him for several months, Randou had no acquaintances in the city. Verlaine had abandoned him utterly in Japan.
In the kitchen, milk warmed slowly in a small pot.
Randou watched it with quiet longing.
Asou Akiya turned and noticed the faint swelling on Randou's lips, a pang of tender regret twisting in his chest.
His thumb brushed ever so lightly across Randou's lower lip, drawing those gray-green eyes to meet his. "This time I failed to take proper care of you — you joined me for hot pot, so next time I'll accompany you for French desserts."
"Don't you find it spicy?"
The gentle touch sent a tingling warmth through Randou's lips, dulling the lingering burn.
It felt wonderfully comfortable.
"No, I can handle spice exceptionally well," Asou Akiya said, withdrawing his hand at just the right moment. "The milk is ready."
Randou: "…"
In the stillness of deep night, Asou Akiya glanced over and saw that Randou had fallen asleep. A knowing smile curved his lips as he closed the book on maritime shipping law and reached to switch off the light. The instant his fingers touched the switch, something entirely unexpected unfolded — Randou, still beside him in slumber, suddenly wrapped both arms around his neck. Darkness veiled their vision, and two soft lips pressed firmly against his own, breaths mingling in a warm rush that silenced every unspoken word.
Nothing could convey emotion more powerfully than action itself.
Randou bestowed upon Asou Akiya a real-life French kiss, teaching him the art in vivid, breathless detail.
Asou Akiya's breathing grew ragged from the kiss, his face flushing a rare, vivid crimson.
He surrendered completely to Randou's lead.
Hiss! So spicy.
After the deep kiss ended, Randou pulled the blankets over himself without a trace of fuss, drawing them up past his head to settle into sleep.
The "heater" radiated cozy warmth
—
Author's note:
Asou Akiya: Verlaine, I will thank you for the rest of my life!!!