Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's been a month since Katsuo moved out of his old apartment.

The one with the slightly crooked kitchen drawer that Ayumi always complained about. The one with the balcony where they'd sat together that first summer, drinking sake and watching fireworks in the distance. The one with the bedroom where he'd woken up next to her for five years, convinced that was just... how his life would be.

It wasn't an easy decision. They'd moved into that apartment together—both of them young and optimistic and certain that this was it. The start of something permanent. Katsuo had looked at the bare walls and the scuffed floors and thought, we'll fix this place up over the years. Make it ours. And when we save enough for a mortgage, we'll find a house with a real garden, maybe, and we'll look back on this apartment and remember being young and in love and starting out.

That was the plan.

The plan had not included Ayumi rejecting his marriage proposal months ago at that fancy restaurant with the Tokyo Tower view. The one he'd saved for weeks to afford, the one where he'd practiced what he would say a hundred times, the one where she'd looked at him with something between pity and guilt and said I can't.

It also didn't include the month of emotional self-discovery that followed, where most of his preconceived opinions—about gender roles, about what a woman should want, about proper food and proper lives and proper happiness—got challenged and dismantled, one by one. Ayumi had pushed him to question. Making him see the world differently.

It didn't include them finding each other again, tentatively, hopefully, only to break up once more—but this time it was final. This time it was for good.

He's not sure how he was able to do it. To sit across from her, to look at the woman he'd loved for five years, and to say let's end this while something in his chest quietly cracked open as she repeated it back to him.

Yeah, let's end this.

But somehow he'd done it. And the next morning, taking her plants and her cookbooks and the weird little ceramic cat she'd bought at a festival, Ayumi left behind empty spaces that seemed to multiply every time he looked at them.

He'd stayed in that apartment for a month after she left. A month of coming home to silence again. A month of sleeping on one side of the bed because the other side felt wrong now. A month of finding her hairpins in weird places—under the couch, behind the bathroom sink, caught in the corner of a drawer—and having to decide, every single time, whether to keep them or throw them away.

He'd thrown them away. Eventually. Most of them. because he'd made her a promise, the night she left. A stupid promise, maybe, but he'd meant it.

I'll get over you, he'd said. I will. So you don't have to feel guilty. Go open your restaurant. Be happy. I'll be fine.

He'd cried as he said it. Ayumi had thanked him.

And then he'd spent that month not getting over her, in that apartment full of memories, before finally admitting that if he was going to keep his promise, he couldn't stay there.

So he decided to move.

Shirosaki and Minamikawa had helped him—Minamikawa complaining the whole time about her bad back despite being in her early twenties, Shirosaki silently carrying the heaviest boxes without being asked. They'd gotten it done in a single afternoon, and then Minamikawa had demanded beer as payment, and they'd sat on the floor (no furniture yet) drinking and making fun of each other until Katsuo forgot, for a few hours, that his life was supposed to feel like it was falling apart.

The new apartment is actually pretty nice.

It's closer to the company—only fifteen minutes by train. He used to spend an hour commuting every morning, an hour to sit and think and remember. Now he's home before his thoughts have much chance to wander.

It's smaller than the old place, too. That place had felt cavernous after Ayumi left anyway. Plus this one has a kitchen he actually likes: enough counter space to cook, cabinets that close properly, a stove with all four burners working. By week three, all the boxes were gone. He bought new curtains. Rearranged the furniture three times before settling on a layout that felt right.

Some mornings, though, he still catches himself thinking Ayumi would have hated those curtains. Or reaching for his phone because he found a restaurant she'd have wanted to try. Sometimes he still turns the wrong way after getting off the train, muscle memory carrying him toward the old place before he remembers.

In a way, moving did feel like defeat—like admitting the life he'd planned wasn't going to happen, like starting over from scratch. And that thought still comes with a stab of something he can't quite name. Katsuo can't put words to it. Every moment that feels even slightly light—an easy morning, a meal he enjoys, the quiet after work—feels like it’s being taken from a place he hasn't properly left yet. Like a kind of betrayal.

Tsubaki, his closest friend, is probably the only one that can understand it.

She'd shown up at his new apartment two days after he moved in, armed with takeout and a bottle of wine and a determined expression he recognized from their months of friendship. She'd sat on his floor (still no furniture, at that point) and listened to him talk about Ayumi for three hours, only interrupting to refill his glass or ask a question that made him think.

Tsubaki knows about broken hearts. She'd had her own, a few years back—the kind that leaves scars. She doesn't talk about it much, but she doesn't need to. When Katsuo said I promised I'd get over her, Tsubaki had just nodded and said, Then you will. But you have to actually try, Katsuo. Not just wait for it to happen.

So he's trying.

He's trying new things. Small things, mostly—a different coffee shop on the way to work, a new route home, cooking recipes he'd never attempted before. He'd even gone to a beer ball event with Tanaka, the one he'd been avoiding for months, and discovered it was actually... fun. Tanaka had been so pleased that Katsuo finally came that he'd bought the second round, and Katsuo had gone home feeling like he'd passed some kind of test.

So really, all in all, things have been pretty good.

Or that's what Katsuo wants to tell himself.

Only now, sitting in a Latin-themed club that is aggressively loud and aggressively not his kind of place, while Tsubaki—who roped him into coming in the first place—has been gone for the last thirty minutes to support Ryo-kun and his band, Katsuo is not so sure anymore.

The music pounds through the floor and up into his bones. The lights flash in patterns that seem designed to induce seizures. The air smells like rum and sweat and perfume, all mixed together into something overwhelming. He's surrounded by people who look like they belong here—beautiful people, confident people, people who know how to move to rhythms Katsuo can't even identify.

He's nursing the same beer he ordered forty-five minutes ago, because ordering anything else would require talking to the bartender, and talking to the bartender would require admitting he has no idea what any of these cocktails are.

Tsubaki had bounced on her heels when she spotted Ryo-kun setting up. "That's him! His band's really good, Katsuo, you'll love them—" She'd grabbed his arm, squeezed it. "I'll be right back, okay? Just for a bit. You'll be fine."

He'd waved her off with a forced smile. "Go, go. I'm a grown man. I can drink alone."

Famous last words.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of sitting here, alone with his beer and his thoughts, watching couples grind against each other on the dance floor and feeling approximately one hundred and seventeen years old. Thirty minutes of telling himself this is fine, this is good for him, this is the kind of new experience he's supposed to be seeking out.

But all he can think, sitting here, is:

What am I even doing here?

He's not a club person. He's never been a club person. He's a guy who likes quiet bars and good food and conversations you can have without shouting. He's a guy who spent five years building a life with someone, convinced that was enough, that he didn't need anything else.

And now that life is gone, and he's supposed to be building a new one, and he doesn't even know where to start.

Tsubaki is across the room somewhere, probably wrapped around Ryo-kun, happy and in love and living her life. Good for her. Really. She deserves it.

But watching her, watching everyone else move so easily through a world that feels completely foreign to him, Katsuo feels something he's been trying very hard not to name: Left behind.

Ayumi is chasing her dream. Tsubaki is here, chasing her love—Ryo-kun, the band, whatever comes next. Shirosaki and Minamikawa have their own lives, their own trajectories. Everyone around him seems to know where they're going, what they want, who they are.

And Katsuo is just... here. In a club he doesn't like. Drinking a beer that has gone since gone warm. Waiting for a friend who might not come back. He thinks about his nice new apartment, his good performance at work, his attempts to try new things. All of it feels hollow. Like he's been going through the motions, telling himself these things should be enough. They're not. He doesn't know what would be.

He takes a long drink of his beer. Grimaces at the cheap brand aftertaste.

"Hey."

Katsuo looks up. There's a woman standing next to him—bold makeup, confident posture, a dress that catches the light, standing closer than strangers usually stand. She's smiling at him in a way that makes him immediately alert.

"You look very deep in thought," she says.

"...Do I?" He hears himself reply, after a beat too long.

She laughs, "Yeah. Want some company?"

Katsuo looks at her. Pretty. Confident. Interested in him, for some reason he cannot fathom.

"I'm waiting for my friend," he says. "She's watching the band that's playing. She's coming back." At least Katsuo hopes so. 

The woman's smile doesn't waver. "Female friend?"

"Yeah. Friend. Her name is Tsubaki. The lead guitarist is her boyfriend. His name is Ryo-kun." He pauses, then adds because he can't help himself, "He's very talented but hasn't gotten his break yet. Tsubaki's really supportive about it. It's kind of nice, actually. She comes to all his shows." He pauses again. "But she'll come back for sure. Probably. I mean, she left her bag."

He hears himself talking and immediately regrets it. Too much detail. Unnecessary detail.

The woman laughs again, but it's confused now. "Okay. Well, while you're waiting... How about I give you some company? You don't seem like you come here often?"

"No." Katsuo looks around at the flashing lights, the pounding music, the crowd of strangers moving in ways he cannot replicate. "Not really my scene. The lights are too bright and the music makes my ears ache. But Tsubaki invited me, and I said I'd come. So I came. Thought it might be fun."

Fun was definitely the wrong word. Educational, maybe. Exhausting, certainly. But he doesn't say that out loud.

The woman stares at him for a beat. Then she laughs again—genuine this time, if a little bewildered. "You're weird." and then she smiles, "Can you buy me a drink?"

Katsuo considers this.

She wants me to buy her a drink. That's... that's a thing some women now do apparently, ask the guy to buy them a drink. It's quite direct really. Not that Katsuo minds direct. He used to have this image of how a woman should be—cute and passive and waiting to be pursued. His father's voice, probably. Or maybe just the weight of thirty-plus years of subconscious programming. But he'd long since gotten over that, thanks to Ayumi and slowly learning to question the things he'd always assumed.

If he can be honest—and he's trying to be honest these days, with himself most of all—it's actually quite refreshing to be pursued so directly. No guessing games. No decoding. Just... I'm interested, are you? He looks at her again. Pretty. Confident. Waiting for his answer with that same smile, though it's starting to look a little strained at the edges. 

I could say yes. This is normal. This is what people do. This is what I'm supposed to be doing—put myself out there, meet someone new, move on.

But.

I don't want to.

The thought is stark and simple and undeniable. He doesn't want to buy her a drink. He doesn't want to make conversation. He doesn't want to perform interest he doesn't feel, ask questions he doesn't care about, pretend to be someone who belongs in this loud, flashing, overwhelming place.

He doesn't want to be here at all.

The woman is still waiting. Her smile is definitely strained now.

Katsuo opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I..." He takes a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm not—"

"Oh my God." The woman's eyes go wide with sudden, dawning understanding. "Oh my God. You're gay, aren't you?"

Katsuo blinks. "I'm what?"

"Gay." She says it like it's obvious now, like everything just clicked into place. "That's why you've been so awkward. That's why you keep talking about your female friend like she's a safety blanket. That's why you’re not reacting to me." She nods sagely. "You're not into women. It all makes sense now."

Katsuo stares at her in chock. The word sits strangely in his mind. Not offensive—he's not offended, that would be hypocritical after all his growth, after learning to question his old judgments. Just... wrong. Incorrect. A mismatch.

The woman smiles again, genuine and warm now that she thinks she's solved the puzzle. "You should have just said something! I wouldn't have kept pushing."

"I'm really not—"

"Don't worry about it, no offense taken." She waves off his protest. "Take care of yourself, weird guy."

And then she's gone—melting into the crowd with a little wave, leaving Katsuo sitting alone with his warm beer and a surging annoyance at not being heard.

I'm not gay.

He takes a long drink. Grimaces again at the cheap taste. What the hell? Why would she even assume that? He shakes his head. He's still staring at his beer, trying to make sense of how she got there, when a voice from his left says:

"You know, I've been sitting here for five minutes trying to figure out if that was the worst or best coming out conversation I've ever witnessed."

Katsuo turns.

There's a man sliding into the seat Tsubaki vacated. Blond hair, messy, falling over his forehead. Dark eyes watching Katsuo with clear amusement. Lean build, open shirt over what appears to be a genuinely unfair amount of muscle. He looks like he's been there for a while—long enough to witness the whole thing.

"I'm not gay," Katsuo says. He's not sure why he's being so adamant about this to a stranger. Maybe because the stranger is looking at him like this is normal, like sitting in loud clubs and overhearing awkward conversations is just part of his evening.

"Okay." The man's voice is calm, unbothered. He signals to the bartender. "Rum. Dark."

"That's it? Just 'okay'?"

The man glances back at Katsuo, one eyebrow raised. "What else should I say? You told me you're not gay. I believe you." He shrugs. "Or I don't. Doesn't really matter either way. You're the one who has to live in your head, not me."

Katsuo blinks. That's... not the response he expected. No teasing, no probing, no awkward reassurance. Just... acceptance. Of whatever the truth is.

"I'm not," Katsuo repeats, but it comes out weaker now. Less certain. "I was with someone for five years. A woman. We almost got married."

"Almost." The man's drink arrives. He takes a sip, those dark eyes still watching Katsuo with that same calm amusement. "But you didn't."

"No. She left. To follow her dream." Katsuo pauses. "I told her I'd get over her. That's what I'm trying to do."

"And how's that going?"

Katsuo looks around pointedly at the flashing lights, the pounding music, the warm beer in his hand. "What do you think?"

The man laughs—a real laugh, loud and surprised, like Katsuo just said something genuinely funny. “Fair point.” He settles more comfortably into his seat, turning slightly to face Katsuo.

“So you’re in a club you don’t like, drinking beer you clearly keep grimacing at, after rejecting a pretty woman so cleanly, she thought you were into men instead. And this is your plan for moving on.”

“Put like that, it sounds pathetic.”

The man exhales a laugh through his nose. “Yeah, a bit.”

Katsuo stiffens slightly.

The man lifts a hand. “Not in a bad way.” Then, after a beat, softer: “You’re kind of intriguing.”

Intriguing. No one's ever called Katsuo that before.

"I'm quite boring," Katsuo replies. "I'm failing at something everyone else finds easy."

The man sets down his glass. “No one finds it easy,” he says. “They just get better at pretending they do.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. "Take it from someone who spends his life on stages, the people who look most comfortable are usually the ones working hardest to seem that way."

Katsuo considers this. It's oddly comforting, the idea that everyone else might be faking it too.

"What do you do?" he asks. "On stages, I mean."

"Dance." He grins. "Latin. I compete—nationals, internationals. Top three, mostly. With a fair few number-one finishes."

"Dance." Katsuo repeats the word like it's foreign. "I can't dance."

"Can't, or won't?"

"...Probably both."

The man lets out a soft laugh, like that actually amuses him more than it should.

He parts his lip to say something but pauses, glancing past Katsuo toward the dance floor. The music shifts—something faster, heavier—and something in his expression changes with it.

“Alright,” he says lightly, like they’ve known each other longer than three minutes. “This is my song. I’ve got to go.” He reaches for something—a napkin, the kind scattered around the bar for drinks. Katsuo watches, confused, as the man pulls a pen from somewhere and scribbles quickly.

He slides the napkin across the bar toward Katsuo.

Suzuki, it reads, and then a phone number.

“I teach beginners,” Suzuki says, those dark eyes holding Katsuo’s like it’s mildly entertaining that this is even happening, “so if you ever decide to give dance a chance, call me.” Then, like it’s nothing at all, he straightens. “Or don’t. You seem pretty committed to the ‘won’t’ and ‘can’t’ lifestyle.”

And he’s gone—slipping into the crowd like he never really stopped moving, leaving the napkin behind like it was always going to end up there.

Katsuo stares at the napkin.

Beginner lessons. Is that what this is? Some kind of recruitment for his dance studio? Or—

No. No, it's just a business card replacement. A practical offer.

He folds the napkin carefully and puts it in his pocket. Tells himself he'll throw it away later. Definitely throw it away.

Then he looks toward the dance floor, following Suzuki’s moving silhouette out of curiosity more than intent.

And God—

The man erupts.

The music takes him over completely—hips moving in ways Katsuo didn't know hips could move, his fit body glistening under the lights, sweat making his skin shine like he's been carved from something precious. The crowd parts slightly, drawn to him like he's a fire and they're all moths. People surround him, clapping, cheering, feeding off his energy.

Katsuo can't look away.

Suzuki spins, drops, rolls back up without missing a beat. His open shirt flaps around him, revealing more of that unfair musculature, and the lights catch the sweat on his chest and Katsuo's mouth goes dry.

Woah.

The thought is simple. Inarticulate. Completely insufficient.

And then—

Suzuki reaches for a partner. Pulls someone in close. And Katsuo's stomach does something complicated when he realizes who it is.

The woman. The one he rejected. The one who thought he was gay.

She's laughing, delighted, as Suzuki moves with her—leading her effortlessly, making her look like she's been dancing Latin her whole life instead of just following his cues. They fit together perfectly, bodies close, hips brushing, and she throws her head back and laughs and Suzuki grins at her like she's the only person in the room.

Damn, Katsuo thinks. What a guy.

It's not jealousy. It can't be jealousy. He didn't want her—he made that very clear. So why does something pinch in his chest watching them move together?

Why does he feel like he's watching something he'll never have?

He forces himself to look away. Takes a long drink of his beer. Grimaces again.

"Katsuo!"

He splutters.

Tsubaki appears at his elbow, flushed and glowing, with Ryo-kun in tow. The guitarist is tall and lanky, still holding his instrument, with the kind of easy smile that probably makes him very popular at shows. His arm is around Tsubaki's waist like it belongs there.

"We finished! Did you hear any of it? Ryo-kun was AMAZING, wasn't he?" Tsubaki bounces on her heels, clearly still riding the adrenaline of performance. "Oh my God, that crowd was so into it—"

"It was good," Ryo-kun says modestly, but he's looking at Tsubaki like she hung the moon. "The sound mix was better than last time."

"Better? It was PERFECT. You were perfect." Tsubaki kisses his cheek, then turns back to Katsuo. "Anyway! Sorry we left you alone for so long. How was—" She stops. Looks at his face. Her expression shifts. "Katsuo? You okay?"

"I'm fine." He's not fine. He's sitting in a club he hates, drinking warm beer, watching a beautiful stranger dance with a woman he rejected, while his best friend is so happy and in love it practically glows off her. "I'm great. The beer's great. Everything's great."

Tsubaki's eyes narrow. She knows him too well.

"Ryo, baby, can you get us some water?" She pats his arm. "I need a minute with my friend."

Ryo-kun nods easily—he seems like the kind of guy who goes with the flow—and disappears toward the bar.

Tsubaki slides into the seat Suzuki just vacated. Katsuo doesn't mention it. Doesn't mention the napkin in his pocket or the stranger who wrote his number on it or the way he can't stop glancing toward the dance floor even now.

"Okay," Tsubaki says quietly. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. You were gone for like an hour, I sat here, a woman tried to talk to me, I was weird about it, she left." He shrugs. "Standard stuff."

Tsubaki waits. She's good at waiting. It's one of the things that makes her a good CEO—and a good friend.

Katsuo cracks after about five seconds.

"She thought I was gay."

Tsubaki's eyebrows shoot up. "She what?"

"She thought I was gay. Because I wouldn't buy her a drink. Because I was awkward and kept talking about you and didn't want to pretend to be interested when I wasn't." He runs a hand through his hair. "Which I'm not. Gay, I mean."

"Okay," Tsubaki says carefully.

"I'm not."

"I heard you."

"I was with Ayumi for five years. I wanted to marry her."

"I know."

"But why did she think that? Isn't that a crazy assumption to have about people?"

Tsubaki is quiet for a moment. Then she says, gently, "Look. You're going through a lot right now. The move, the breakup, the whole 'trying to figure out who you are' thing. A random stranger in a club made a guess about you. That's all it was—a guess. She doesn't know you. She spent a few minutes with you and made up a story in her head. That's not your responsibility to fix or prove wrong."

She reaches out and squeezes his hand.

"Just because she assumed something about you doesn't mean it's true. And even if it were true? That wouldn't change anything either. You're still Katsuo. You're still my friend. You're still figuring things out. One wrong guess from a stranger doesn't need to live in your head rent-free."

He reaches for his beer. It's empty.

"I think I want to go home," he says.

Tsubaki squeezes his hand again. "Okay. Let me grab Ryo, and we'll—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than he means it. "Sorry. I mean—you stay. Enjoy your night. You've been waiting to see him play for weeks." He stands, pulls out his wallet to leave cash for his drinks. "I'll get a taxi. It's fine."

"Katsuo—"

"I'm fine." He's not fine. They both know he's not fine. "I just... need to think. Alone. You know?"

Tsubaki studies him for a long moment. Then she nods. "Text me when you get home. So I know you're safe."

"I will."

She hugs him—quick, fierce, the way she always does. "It gets better, you know. The figuring out. It takes time, but it gets better."

Katsuo nods against her shoulder. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

As he walks toward the exit, he passes the dance floor. Suzuki is still there, still moving, still glowing. Their eyes meet again—just for a second—and Suzuki's mouth curves into a private smile.

Katsuo keeps walking.

Outside, the air is cold and quiet. His ears ring from the music. His hand goes to his pocket, touches the folded napkin.

If you ever decide to give dance a chance.

He pulls it out. Stares at the number in the streetlight.

Then he puts it back in his pocket, hails a taxi, and goes home.

He doesn't throw it away.