Two weeks after the disastrous dinner, a slight awkwardness had settled between Tsukiyama and Kaneki. Sometimes Tsukiyama would catch Kaneki watching him, his head tilted to one side. It would be adorable if Kaneki's gaze weren't so serious.
Hinami had quietly apologized to Tsukiyama, feeling guilty for suggesting the dinner. But Tsukiyama assured her it was not her fault.
"Mademoiselle, the real mistake was made by me, at another time, at another dinner," he told her.
The living room of the apartment was nothing to write home about. The furniture was functional and sturdy, but lacked style. As Tsukiyama sat on the couch and opened his book, he imagined upholstering the cushions in velvet, of a wine red color, perhaps. Tsukiyama was fond of the way velvet felt smooth when brushed one way and rough and stubbly going the other.
He soon became engrossed in his book, so he didn't look up until he felt a weight on the other side of the couch. Glancing over, his heart skipped a beat. Kaneki was sitting there, opening a book of his own. In the lamplight a few stray hairs on his head glowed like lightbulb filaments, dangerous to the touch without their glass covers.
"Do you mind if I sit here and read with you, Tsukiyama-san?" Kaneki asked in a neutral tone.
"Of course not, Kaneki-kun."
Tsukiyama continued gazing at Kaneki as the latter drew his legs up and propped the book on his knees.
"What are you reading, Tsukiyama-san?"
"It's a short story collection called 'I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like?'"
Kaneki snorted. "But you already know the answer to that question."
Tsukiyama chuckled nervously. "Nevertheless, mon cher, it has a lovely style. The gruesome events described seem almost like dreams. The reader has to wonder if they really happened.
"And you? What are you reading?"
"It's called 'Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage'", Kaneki answered.
"Oh? I haven't read it."
"It's about a guy who is outcast from his group of friends. Many years later he decides to find out why.
"There's also a character nicknamed Kuro, who lives a happy life, and a character named Shiro, who is the victim of some tragic things and eventually loses her sanity…"
He ran a hand through his hair, once black, now white.
Tsukiyama could only nod. He longed to keep the conversation going between them, because when they were talking about books it felt like they were just friends, that their gruesome history was only a dream.
But they both turned back to their books and kept reading in silence.
Some hours later, Tsukiyama finished his book and closed it gently. The dimness of the evening had deepened to nighttime while they read. Kaneki, however, had fallen asleep at some point. His eyelashes fluttered restlessly, casting twitching shadows across his cheekbones.
Tsukiyama stood up and stepped to the other side of the couch. Carefully he slid an arm under Kaneki's knees and another around his shoulders. Then he lifted the slumbering body and carried him down the hall to Kaneki's bedroom. As Kaneki's head lolled against Tsukiyama's arm, he decided there was no other feeling quite like the warmth of someone precious, of knowing a heart was beating right next to you.
Tsukiyama nudged the bedroom door open with his foot. The only lights were the glaring red numbers of an alarm clock and a few stray threads of moonlight slipping through the blinds. Permeating the air was the unmistakable bittersweet smell of Kaneki.
Gently, gently, Tsukiyama laid Kaneki on the bed. As he removed his arms, Kaneki stirred and his eyes blearily opened.
"Tsukiyama?"
The name on his lips was softer than moonlight.
"Bonne nuit, mon cher."
As Tsukiyama turned to leave, he could still feel the weight and warmth of Kaneki's body on his arms.