Chapter Text
Of all the phone calls Fukuzawa could have gotten today, this particular one was the least welcome. He takes one look at the number and resists the urge to drain every bottle of sake in his kitchen. Still, after taking a moment to compose himself, he draws a breath and picks up on the final ring before the line goes to voicemail.
“This is Fukuzawa,” he says into the phone.
“Ah, Fukuzawa-dono.”
His eyes narrow. “Hirotsu-san, why are you calling me from your home line?”
“I’m not in the office today,” he states. “In truth, I’m calling on behalf of—”
“If he wants me, he can call me himself,” Fukuzawa retorts. “He’s a grown man, not a child.” He almost manages to hang up when the soft-spoken man beseeches him to wait. Against his better judgment, he lifts the phone to his ear again.
“I was told it was of the utmost importance.”
“Let me guess,” Fukuzawa retorts. “Mori-sensei has once again grossly underestimated Elise’s appetite for sweets and has thus requested that I, his editor, replenish the supply.”
“Worse,” Hirotsu states. “He has writer’s block.”
Fukuzawa bites a back a groan. “The manuscript is already going to be late. No matter how kind I am to President Souseki, I doubt I’ll be able to get him another extension.”
“Yes, but,” Hirotsu continues, “he says he might get inspired if you were to—”
“Please tell Mori-sensei to stop bothering someone in a different department with his suggestive comments,” Fukuzawa retorts, rubbing his temple with his free hand.
“I could tell him that,” Hirotsu states, “but I’m concluding negotiations in a new collection of short stories today, and I believe Mori-sensei would appreciate it if you came down and told him yourself.”
Fukuzawa plants his head firmly on the surface of his kotatsu. This is not the way he wants to spend his day. or the next few days, as it will likely turn into. He just wants to hide in his modest, traditional Japanese house with his tea, his katana, and his sake, give the stray cats that actually own the place some affection, and practice his calligraphy or his iaido. Probably both. The phone call, however, has already determined how this story will end.
“Kunikida—”
“Has his hands full with a different deal.”
“Dazai—”
“Dazai-san is likewise occupied with one Nakahara Chuuya-sensei, who I hear is absolutely petulant if things are not just right and he doesn't have a glass of red wine in his hand at all times.”
“Then Nakajima—”
“The intern?” Hirotsu laughs. “I don’t believe President Souseki would condone exposing him to Mori-sensei’s eccentricities this early into his work.”
“If I had my way,” Fukuzawa retorts, “he would expose no one to those eccentricities. Including me.”
Hirotsu clears his throat. “There is a saying, Fukuzawa-dono—”
“Yes, yes,” he retorts. “If the world was ideal, there’d be no need for business. I know, I know.”
“Actually,” Hirotsu says, “I was going to cite a proverb.”
“Which one?”
“Never mind that now, Fukuzawa-dono. The more time I speak with you, the later I will have to work tonight, and the less time you will have to ask President Souseki for another extension, which I gather you will need.” The line disconnects, and Fukuzawa is left staring at his phone, curious about what Hirotsu was even going to say.
The inevitable conclusion to all of this has already been decided. All Fukuzawa can really do is accept it. He grabs a haori in his entryway, slips a pair of geta onto his feet, and opens the door. The brisk winter wind hits him in the face. He grabs a yellow scarf at the last minute. It takes him until the train station to realize it’s one Mori gave him, that such a gesture might say too much rather than just enough.
No point in getting gray hairs over it, Fukuzawa tells himself. Never mind that my hair has been white since birth.
He sways in time with the train, rocking as it pulls into a station, rocking again as it continues forward, always keeping his grip on the bar. He hears a child whisper about his hair and his traditional attire. If it weren’t for Elise, he would be far less accustomed to it. He still sends an icy look to the boy who keeps peering at him and bites back a smile as the child refocuses his energy on his friends and starts talking about some anime he’s watching. He feels much better once the conversation has turned away from him, not that he’s thrilled about the situation.
Mori has been petulant like this since they first worked together almost twelve years ago, before he had Elise, before he was an internationally renowned best-selling author. Simpler times , Fukuzawa tells himself as the speaker overhead announces his station. This time, when it slows, he climbs off and walks towards the west gate. After feeding the machine his ticket, he joins the crowd on the sidewalk, stopping along the way for a box of monaka, a couple bottles of sake, and a sack of mikan oranges. He won’t buy anything to make dinner. Yet. There’s a grocery store near Mori’s house, so he can go if worse comes to worst. And he plans to take Elise with him. She’s not fond of cooking and is always joking about serving Mori raw fish, but despite her capricious behavior, he can tell she really cares about her caretaker.
Mori’s house is, like everything else Mori does, ostentatious. It looks ordinary enough even if the architecture leans western, but every inch of the inside is decorated with imports from Germany and England. If it looked any different in the past, Fukuzawa can’t remember. The place is so familiar to him that, much like his own face and Mori’s, he can’t really register changes unless he has reference photos to former times.
Bracing himself, he knocks. No answer. He’s about to knock again when the door opens. Elise, still in her school uniform, folds her arms.
“Are you waiting for a password?”
She answers in German—an act of cheekiness and defiance—but Fukuzawa has known Mori long enough to get a rough idea of the basics.
“Of course I bought you sweets. I don’t believe either you or Mori-sensei would let me in otherwise.”
She adds something else.
“Let me in first.”
Elise steps aside, and Fukuzawa pauses at the door to remove his shoes. He also unwinds his scarf, but he keeps the black haori around his shoulders. “Mori-sensei?”
“This way,” she says. “But I’m warning you, Rintaro is sulking.”
“I expected no less,” Fukuzawa answers, grabbing the bag and following her.
She leads him to the office, where Mori sits at his desk, motionless, head against the surface. The curtains are drawn, darkening the room. Stacks of books lay strewn about the floor, and at least one has toppled over.
“How long has he been like this?” Fukuzawa murmurs before entering.
“Since Tuesday.”
Almost two days, then, he tells himself, fishing a pack of sweets out of the bag. “You can have one. Depending on what Mori-sensei prefers, I’ll either be taking you out to dinner or we’ll be cooking.”
“Okay.”
He turns to go into the room but feels a tug on his sleeve and turns at the last minute to see Elise offering him one. “For Mori-sensei?”
“For you,” she clarifies. “Dealing with Rintaro when he’s like this is hard. You deserve some, too.”
“Ah.” Fukuzawa bows and takes the rice cake from her. “I’ll enjoy it.”
“Are you staying?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Fukuzawa admits, but he has a suspicion that he’s not going anywhere.
“I might need help with my kanji drills later.”
“Of course,” he says, though he doubts she needs any help. Elise is smart and often shy when it comes to requesting assistance. But she also knows what she wants, and it’s likely she just wants to watch him write. He chews on that realization as Elise bounds off to do her homework. Once she’s gone, he clears his throat and taps on the office door. “Mori-sensei,” he calls, creeping inside the still silent office.
Mori remains still, even when Fukuzawa stands next to the desk and leans over him. Mori is frowning, and his red-violet eyes are overcast.
“Mori-sensei,” he sighs. “You remember what you need to do in this situation and state of mind.” He can tell by the way Mori’s look sharpens in resistance. “Talk to me.”
“I lost the plot.”
Fukuzawa blinks. “You mean to say your mind is unwell.” He catches the little snicker that works its way out of Mori. “Truly, you need to stop bothering Hirotsu-san with your whims and call me directly. As someone in the sales department, he is a busy man. And you also need to make sure Elise eats at least two proper meals a day, if not three. And—”
“Ah,” he sighs, lifting his head. “Fukuzawa-dono, I’m incapable of writing a single sentence, let alone doing anything else you just listed.”
“Try,” Fukuzawa insists, extending the monaka Elise gave him earlier. “For my sake.”
Mori sighs and takes it, working through it nibble by nibble. About halfway through, he looks up at Fukuzawa and says, “About the novel…”
“You need to drink water. And you need a proper meal. Then, we can discuss a new timeline for your novel.”
Mori looks up at him. “You aren’t mad.”
“Why would I be mad, Mori-sensei?” he asks. “I’ve grown used to these dry spells of yours in my twelve years of working as your editor, just as you’ve grown used to my sternness.”
“You’re annoyed.”
“I had plans,” Fukuzawa retorts.
“Eating sea bream alone?”
He tilts his head.
“Hirotsu-san didn’t tell you.” A sly smile spreads over Mori’s face. “Were you really that impatient to see me?”
“You are pushing your luck, Mori-sensei. And you must not be too badly off if you’re making jokes.” He says that, but he feels himself giving one of his rare smiles anyway.
“You brought sake,” Mori observes.
“Well, Hirotsu-san did mention you were lacking inspiration.”
“I don’t believe I need sake for that.”
“If I recall correctly, it worked well last time.”
“The hangover was not worth it.”
“That,” Fukuzawa states, “was the fault of your excess, not of the sake.”
“What can I say?” Mori folds his hands and sends Fukuzawa a smile. “I know what I like, and I’m happy to indulge.”
“You should like yourself to the bathroom to shave,” Fukuzawa retorts, narrowing his eyes on the obvious dusting of stubble on Mori’s jawline. “Depending on your preference, I’m either cooking for you or taking you out to dinner. As an internationally-renowned bestselling author, I doubt you would want to look anything less than present—” He stops speaking when he feels the soft pressure of Mori’s hand closes around his wrist, doesn’t resist as the author turns his wrist and leans until face meets fingers. Like that, he can feel a subtle roughness. He opens his hand, and Mori’s skin draws his palm in like a magnet. “You… are intolerable.”
Mori sends him a smile that is equal parts content and triumphant.
“Truly, how do you lose your plots so often?”
“Perhaps I lose them simply so you will come and assist me.”
Fukuzawa watches Mori’s eyes—some supernatural mix of red and purple—disappear. He sweeps his thumb across Mori’s face. He’d never admit to anyone, except perhaps Mori himself, that he savors the prickle of incoming hair against his thumb. Sighing, he waits for that moment’s inevitable conclusion. Knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it any easier.
They separate so Mori can shave. “I have an appetite for steak. And your company, of course,” the author says as he rises. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll tell Elise-chan.”
“Should I wait here, or—”
“Oh, come now, Fukuzawa-dono, you’ve been here frequently enough that this is practically a second home to you. You can wait wherever you wish.”
“In the living room, then,” he murmurs, slipping his hands into his sleeves. He shows himself there as if nothing happened, but the truth is, something did. If twelve years’ worth of lost plots, childish teasing, and impulsivity hadn’t happened, Fukuzawa wouldn’t think much of it, but Mori has been this way since the very beginning. Bothersome, he tells himself, sitting down and mulling over that fateful introduction all those years ago.
“Ah, you’re finally here.” Natsume’s words echo in his mind as a version of himself from twelve years ago paced across the lush office. He’s surprised to find the president’s office occupied by one other person who doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Come sit down, Fukuzawa-dono.”
He approaches and places himself in the chair beside the man, who passes him one suspicious glance before lining his eyes up with the president again.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“I am always happy to do my part, sir,” he states, bowing his head slightly. “Am I to presume I’m here for a reason?”
“Yes.” He slides a stack of paper across the desk. “I’d like your opinion on this man’s manuscript.”
Fukuzawa hums, then glances at the man again. “He is?”
“Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Mori Rintaro, pen name Mori Ougai. And that,” he states, gesturing to the stack of papers in Fukuzawa’s hands, “is my first novel.”
Fukuzawa bows his head slightly. “Fukuzawa Yukichi. I recently started here as an editor.” He doesn’t bother reciting the brief history of how Natsume scouted—and consequently poached—him from a rival company, perhaps for this exact purpose. He still isn’t sure. Sitting up, Fukuzawa stares at the paper and murmurs, “Permit me a moment to read the first few pages. Then, I will make my assessment.”
“By all means, take your time.”
Fukuzawa reads, and within the first few lines, he feels something… remarkable. He’s been in editing since he graduated university, but he finds these words sweep him up in a way no others do. On the third page, he stops and says, “This cannot be your first novel.”
“I assure you, Fukuzawa-san—”
“Address me more formally, if you would, Mori-sensei, unless you’d like a five-minute lecture on the Fukuzawa family name.”
“Fukuzawa-dono, then,” he concedes. “As I was saying, it’s true.”
Fukuzawa exhales and peers at him. He can hardly believe it. He finally concedes, “It’s something.”
Instantly, the man pouts. “Praise me a little more directly, Fukuzawa-dono. I insist—“
“I will praise you once I’ve read the whole manuscript,” he states, rising. “That is…” Fukuzawa peers at Natsume. “If that’s what you’re asking me to do.”
On that day, it was only a contract. He had no idea what that contract would become through the years. He thinks he’s still figuring it out, feeling lost in the raging tide of Mori’s whims. But it’s been so long since he started, he isn’t sure he can feel at home anywhere else.
“Papa.” Elise’s voice breaks into his thoughts. She plops down beside him and instantly starts waving her feet. Passing him a glance, she asks, “Is Rintaro okay?”
“What makes you think he’s not?” Fukuzawa returns, because he knows despite her petulance, Elise is attuned to Mori’s moods.
Her feet freeze, and she stares at the floor. “He seems kind of lonely and sad.”
He hums. “I know he gets moody when his writer’s block hits.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not that.”
“Is it something I should know?”
Elise shrugs, then smiles. “I’ll tell you, but I have to whisper.”
“Alright.” He leans a little closer and feels the sofa shuffle as Elise shuffles and lifts her hand.
“I think it’s because he missed you.”
Fukuzawa fails to bite back his smile. “Did he tell you to say that?”
Elise shakes her head and gives a smile of her own. “Even if Rintaro promised to buy me a candy store, I wouldn’t. He can flirt with you himself.”
Astute as always, he thinks, tucking his hands in his sleeve again. He feels the light pressure of Elise’s head on his arm.
“Are you going to stay tonight?”
“Probably,” he concedes.
“I’m glad,” she says. “It means you can tell me a bedtime story. Rintaro says he can’t think of any.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much for telling stories.”
“You can tell me a story about you and Rintaro.”
“I will consider it,” he states, catching a glimpse of a clean-shaven Mori in the archway. There are thousands of stories he could tell her about the writer. He just doesn’t think any of them would be entertaining.