Talking through stuff with Mizuki had helped. Kind of. Now he wasn't exactly sure whether his 'pure feelings' negated the 'special creepiness' or not, and whether the answer to that was positive or negative. He was pretty confused, and he was a guy who did the sulky kind of confusion (… Mizuki would sagely comment, sulky kind of everything else in life, too).
One thing was certain, though, and it was that he'd never burnt the crème bruleé before, so something had to be done about The Nanami Predicament.
Fast. Confusion be damned.
Also because he couldn't keep showing up for work looking restless, underslept and bedraggled because his associate was bound to find out sooner or later about… stuff, and Mikage belonged to the kind of guys that took stuff into their own hands. Especially star-crossed-romances, which is how he was likely to label The Nanami Predicament.
… Nevermind that there was much of star-crossing and almost nothing of romance.
Perhaps he could begin by asking her birthday. And wait. Then the creepiness factor could be done with. Right?
He could be a friend. Get to know her, most platonically and decently. He was decent.
He sighed. Yes, decent. And honorable.
She's 17 for goodness' sake!
And he was 27. 10 years was a preeeetty fucked up age difference, anyone would agree. Anguish radiated off him violently, making him also mess up the cooking project he'd undertaken after the crème bruleé was deemed unsaveable. He then made tea, only to spill it.
He tried to fix the dishes, only to have a cup slide through his fingers and smash against the sink.
Anguish, anguish, unsurmountable anguish.
Later, when Mizuki came back home, his intention of getting a bottle of water from the fridge was met with burnt dessert, dough splattered on the tiles, tea spilling onto the floor and broken pieces of ceramic in the sink, plus a pile of dirty dishes and ingredients all scattered over the counters.
Annoyance was starting to rise in his throat as he moodily snatched the water bottle and began to drink, but the less water remained, the more his anger dissolved, and an unfamiliar sense of worry began to take over. He finished his water, and started to, quietly, clean up the mess.
For all that Mizuki was exuberant, he cared about Tomoe a big deal; in a familiar kind of way, in a big-brother-Tomoe kind of way. As such, Tomoe was untouchable, distant, like a glacier hanging from a remote mountain side. And, whatever happened, Tomoe was unshakeable.
But now, now he had been shaken. And Mizuki was slightly scared, but most of all he was concerned, because this was a side of his friend that he had not ever seen before. Propriety, control, cleanliness, duty, all forsaken!
That could only mean…. it could only mean that something truly momentous was happening to his friend. And Mizuki, wise in spite of his jests, knew that there was little he could to in the way of comfort or advice or consolation. So he cleaned the mess, and did not complain, and the next day, when he met Tomoe in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with dark rims around his eyes, he did not say anything except comment on the windy weather.
.
.
.
And so, the months did pass. Seasons folded into one another, projects came and went from the studio; and Mikage often thought to comment on his associate's worsening appearance, but always refrained in the last minute.
Tacitly, both Mizuki and Mikage gave Tomoe a wide berth. No one said anything about how slim, how too slim he looked, or how hollow his stare was, or how little bite his retorts contained. Neither treated him any different; but amongst themselves, then they did talk. It began a Saturday, when Mikage had dropped by Tomoe and Mizuki's to leave a folder with some design samples, and Tomoe had been out on an errand. Mizuki had opened the door. Coffee had led to conversation. Opinions and worries had been shared, and neither, it turned out, had actually had the heart to confront Tomoe about what the matter was. But both of them harboured the same suspicions. They had been watching over him ever since, hawk-like but distantly, and even Mikage's two kids, Onikiri and Kotetsu, had carefully been instructed not to breathe a word about Uncle Tomoe's haggard looks. Not even about how his usually Channel-worthy haircut was overgrown and unkempt. Not either about how his stylish nails were trimmed short and robbed of their trademark claw-like manicure.
Kurama was religiously kept informed of all this by loyal Mizuki.
The whole of Tomoe's world worried. No one, however, said a thing.
All the while, Tomoe kept in touch with Nanami.
As he had promised after the opening night at the tea house, he had called her. It had been slightly awkward in the beginning, but then, oh, then it had unfortunately been delightful to talk to her, and hear her voice. He'd been at a loss, an anguished loss, but he had known exactly what needed be done.
He'd asked her out.
And they had met, in a charming nook of town, and he'd taken her to the fanciest ice-cream café in the city, treated her like a million dollars, and explained that he was… that he liked her a lot. Too much. And that it could not be, because he would in no way want her to think him dishonorable.
He'd bowed deeply, as if it would allow him to also fold in two his despair, and somehow make it lesser. But.
But!
Her warm smile still haunted him. He wanted to chase that smile, every day, whenever his thoughts got carried away. She'd said she could wait for him.
Wait for him!
As if. If was he who had to wait for her, if anything.
Thus had their separation begun. The daily texts, the weekly calls, and the distance, like a horrible abyss that clove the city into two, the part where he was, and the part where she was, and Tomoe would be dead before that divide would be breached. But it killed him, it did. That host of feelings that led him to think he could see her, touch her, if only he should want to break this barrier that he himself (well… and the law….) had constructed between them.
And so, months passed, seasons folded into one another; and as project after project rolled into the studio, Nanami graduated high school, and Tomoe, well, Tomoe, torn between hope and anguish, slowly wasted away.
.
.
.
I've always had the hope of finishing this story.
I also got around to reading the whole manga, which was not complete when I was writing this story. So that was nice.
After re-reading this and thinking from a POV closer to Tomoe's age here, I realised what a shitty situation he'd be in, so I thought it interesting to explore it. But if I get around to writing next chapter, they'll all be adults then so yay, all's legal, we like that.
Cheers!