Archive of Our Own ^beta

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I should’ve gotten something to eat right away, Amon quietly chastises himself as he walks towards the 7-Eleven on the corner in a brisk pace.

Exercising’s his emotional outlet. He plunged into an intensive cardio workout, doing jumping jacks, pushups, rope jumps, dumbbell swings and squats for little over an hour this evening at the gym, and went jogging around Ueno Park when the second-guessing became too much to handle.

            And with his mind constantly racing a hundred an hour, he wasn’t really in the mood to eat anyway.

He should’ve known that after showering and settling down in his bed to do some final revisions on a report, his stomach would start to protest and grumble loudly.

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, Amon pauses in front of the automatic door and sighs impatiently. He’ll probably buy a ready-to-eat meal and eat it at one of the tables in front of the window. Squinting a bit at the harsh glare of the white lights, he goes inside, dutifully nodding at the scrawny teen who mutters a disinterested irasshaimase from behind the counter, and walks over to the back of the store where the fridges are lined up against the wall.

Two of the refrigerators are filled with bottled tea, milky tea, iced coffee, beer and water, while another one’s stacked with yoghurts and cartons of flavored milk.

Standing in front of the open cabinet wedged between the last fridge and the door to the bathroom, Amon starts to browse the ready-to-serve dinners. He conscientiously reads the ingredient list of the curry chicken and rice, before putting the packaging back on the shelf and moving on to check out the price of the udon with beef and omelette, it’s at least twenty yen cheaper, so he decides to take it.

While he’s busy digging up a couple of coins, a new customer enters the store; the automatic door slides open, the bell chimes and the cashier then churns out another monotone greeting.

But from the corner of his eye, the guy who just entered bears a striking resemblance to that one ghoul with the eyepatch mask, begging Amon to flee, begging Amon not to turn him in a murderer. He spins around on his heel to watch him saunter over to the table with a can of coffee in his hand and a book in the other. Once the guy’s seated, he notices that his face reflects in the window glass, revealing him to have soft, boyish features, a mop of black hair, small thin lips and a white, medical eyepatch covering his left eye.

No way, he mouths the words silently, ignoring the impatient look the cashier’s levelling him, no way that ghoul’s here.

“Sir?” The cashier prompts, bringing his palm down on the counter to catch his attention, “You’re still eighteen yen short.”

Amon turns around at the interruption, and frowning, he digs up two ten-yen coins from his wallet and hands them over to the scrawny teen, then disinterestedly watches both the selection of smokes behind the counter and the cashier typing in the balance on the cash register. He tries to ignore how the wound on his shoulder tingles. Soon enough he’s presented with two one-yen coins, glimmering dully in the bright lights of the fluorescent tubes overhead, and his meal wrapped up in a handy, blue bag with a pair of throwaway chopsticks.

Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath, then he purposefully walks over and loudly puts his meal down on the table.

He’s secretly a bit pleased that he managed to scare the guy. But that trickle of satisfaction quickly turns to inexplicable guilt when he snaps his head up from his book and simply looks at Amon with a startled expression. Much like a skittish animal—a mouse, or a sparrow maybe, would be surprised to see a predator approaching its cover.

But the reaction’s so wholly normal, so far removed from the animalistic way the ghoul had thrown himself at him and tore a chunk of meat from his shoulder or the sheer panic on the ghoul’s face when he realized what he had done. Self-consciously tugging on the silver cross around his throat, he offers the guy an apologetic smile and somewhat sheepishly motions to the chair, unwilling to break the silence by asking if it was okay to sit down.

When he gets a nod in response, he settles down on the barstool and props his elbows on the tabletop.

Itadakimasu, he whispers under his breath before he rips the plastic from his meal and breaks the chopsticks in two, ready to dig in.

Amon feels underdressed enough as it is in just his sweatpants, plain white t-shirt and running shoes, but the guy next to him seems to be checking him out through his reflection in the window glass if the lingering glances are anything to go by.

“Um,” Amon knows he’s a bit of a catastrophe when it comes to initiating small talk—and he can feel splashes of sauce on his chin and there’s probably a stain on the neckline of his t-shirt, but he sincerely hopes the other guy won’t notice.

He somehow manages to sort out his words, “It’s a nice evening, isn’t it?”

Slowly he turns around to peer at Amon with his one visible eye from underneath his evenly-cut fringe. There’s wonder in his gaze, not recognition—and if Amon’s completely honest with himself, he would’ve preferred recognition because it would’ve at least confirmed his suspicions about the guy, but now he’s left with an undercurrent of doubt.

“Ah…” Here he scratches his cheek, squints a bit, before throwing a glance outside, at the empty street and the clear sky, then he regards Amon again and breaks down in a slightly nervous smile. “Yes, I suppose it is. Nice and cloudless—” It’s weirdly endearing how he points up to the sky outside, as if to prove his own point.

“Were you still out jogging just now?” He prompts then, leaning forwards a bit, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his book. His gaze’s far more inquisitive than the tone of his voice.

Amon wipes his mouth with a napkin and replies, “No, I was doing some paperwork—” and here the guy tilts his head, making him add the following, “At home. And I guess I just forgot to eat dinner. Why?”

He didn’t really mean to sound so defensive, but he’s just so used at being prodded for weaknesses.

“Oh, it’s just,” the guy pauses for a split-second, rubbing his chin in consideration, and continues, “I heard it got pretty dangerous around these parts at night… With the ghoul attacks and everything… Um. I’m sorry for prying.”

“Right,” he mutters quietly in response, his brows furrowed together.

Sometimes he forgets how casually civilians can mention ghouls, as if the threat they pose isn’t as pressing as he knows it is, as if they’re like pickpockets in abandoned alleyways instead of monsters searching for a meal. His entire life’s centered around fighting ghouls after all. From his peripheral, Amon wagers another glance at the guy and while he knows there’s no dismissing the possibility that this guy’s the eyepatch ghoul, he also knows there’s a big chance the guy’s not.

Meanwhile the bike some high school girl put against the wall of the store outside clatters to the ground and the girl jumps in surprise at the sudden noise; but it’s just something that happens to be there on the backdrop, like the pop music playing or the soft whirring of the air conditioner.

“Strange time to be reading by yourself here,” Amon comments as he straightens his back and rolls his neck to ease off the strain.

He backs away and closes the book, showing off the cover; Manji, the title reads, underscored by the name of the author, Junichiro Tanizaki, and the date of publication. Smiling sheepishly, the guy replies, “I need to finish the chapter by tomorrow but I ran out of coffee.”

                           —But there’s something so disarming about the way his mouth curves in that close-lipped smile.

“So… you’re a literature student.”

Obviously, Amon bristles, feeling embarrassment the second those words left his mouth, otherwise he wouldn’t be carrying a book like that around.

“Yes,” the guy says very softly, turning around on the barstool to face him properly.

Amon’s taken aback by how delicate the guy looks: his eye’s a glassy gray, framed by thick eyelashes, his cheeks are round, not entirely done away with its baby fat, but not too chubby either, and the cupid bow of his mouth is rather pronounced, but he does have a noticeable underbite.

If anything, there’s something androgynous about his features and his lithe form.

But it’s not unappealing, he concludes as he rakes his gaze over the guy’s body, from his head to the frumpish, over-sized sweater and the pair of skinnies that are rolled up at the ankles he’s wearing, down to his simple white sneakers.

“I’m quite passionate about reading, actually,” the guy continues, bringing his hands nervously to his lap, appearing to be uncomfortable with talking about himself but perhaps equally so with the prospect of an awkward silence.

He brings the full weight of his one-eyed gaze back to Amon’s flustered face when he asks, “Do you like to read?”

“When I was younger…”

He shakes his head, trailing off as the memories come trickling through slowly at first—this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins, with notes sprawled in a hasty cyrillic in the margins— and then they burst through like water from a dam. More biblical verses, corrections to a Japanese copy of Anna Karenina, sheets with choral music that slip from clumsy children’s hands, and so many more things he had once cherished to read during his childhood.

                         His sigh sounds a little bit like loss.

“Most of the things I read now are related to my job,” Amon explains dryly, drumming his fingernails onto the tabletop. “I haven’t really been on the lookout for decent reading material lately, I guess.”

“Could I, maybe, recommend a few of my favorites?” There’s a spark of hope in his tone of voice, matching the expression on his face, as if it’s important to him.

Amon offers him a somewhat stilted smile in return, briefly—reflexively—touching the cross around his neck, and answers, “Sure… I think I’d like that, actually.”

He perks up instantly, straightens in his seat and takes a quick sip of his half-empty coffee can before beginning to talk.

“Thank you! So, I enjoyed everything Takatsuki Sen wrote, but I really suggest the Black Goat’s Egg, because the imagery is just… wow, so vivid and meaningful, especially when it comes to the juxtaposition between the physical and the psychological. It’s nothing short of magnificent the way she writes…”

Amon knows he’s blatantly staring—no, he’s ogling the guy at this point, from the way his face lights up, to the intonation and emphasis in his speaking, to the soft curve of his bottom lip and the hint of teeth. He props his chin up on his knuckles and just listens to him.

“But enough about the Black Goat’s Egg,” the guy concludes awkwardly when he gets caught up in the intensity of Amon’s gaze.

Swiping his tongue over the seal of his mouth, he then continues, “You can’t go wrong with a classic, of course, so I think you might find Kafka’s Metamorphosis interesting too.”

“That first one must be a really good book if you’re so captivated by it,” Amon remarks matter-of-fact, as he seizes him up.

“It is, I could talk hours about it if I wanted... But then again, you might not want to…” He trails off here, too self-conscious suddenly, shirking back and grabbing his can of coffee. Shyly scratching his chin, the guy then asks, “We haven’t really introduced ourselves properly yet, now have we. May I ask what your name is?”

“Amon. I’m Amon Koutarou. It’s nice to meet you.” He means those last words and sincerely hopes it translates in his voice, in his expression.

“What’s yours?”

He smiles widely, showing off his teeth, and says, “I’m Kaneki, Kaneki Ken. It’s nice to meet you too, Amon-san.”

They spend a couple more minutes unhurriedly talking, up to the point where Amon feels guilty for keeping Kaneki from his assignment. Up to the point where the last sip of coffee tastes stale and cold and Kaneki grimaces when he gulps it down like he swallowed a lemon whole. For some reason, they ended up grinning like idiots at each other.

It was one of the better nights Amon’s had since Mado died.

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They meet again on a battlefield, on opposite sides, with wisps of smoke curling around Kaneki’s face, hiding his ghoulish, red eye away from sight.

                         —May I ask what your name is?

He inhales, exhales, and tries to remain stone-faced at the question.

                         —Amon.

Kaneki dips his head and smiles.

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