#ok bye for now!!! i’m gonna watch the new trigun and cry over millie’s disappearance!!!!

[hiyuna]

golden! ☀️ keigo takami | hawks x reader

On one end of your apartment’s hall, there is you: a down-on-your-luck photographer with a penchant for bottling everything up. On the other end, there is Keigo Takami: an incredibly chill physical therapist that you once bet your sister wouldn’t look twice in your general direction. You lost the bet the very next day. Thankfully, the friendship that you’ve cultivated with him is worth much more than that.

— rating: t | word count: 5.3k | AO3 link!! — tags: modern!au  / no quirks!au / gn!reader / fluff and humor / slice of life / a lil’ angst but there’s some comfort too / i did a deep dive into photography in japan for this whole thing / this first part is set around thanksgiving so i mention it a few times

one.  ↪ the shared spoon.

"Pretentious artist notes... thirty-sixth edition? Or is it the thirty-fifth edition? Hmm. Let’s say the thirty-sixth edition for shits and giggles. Today is November 21st, 2022. It’s currently—roughly, I should say—ten in the morning. It’s freezing outside, but there’s no snow—thank god or whoever else is responsible for that.”

Your eyes drift from the phone on the round table beside your bed to the ceiling fan just ten feet above you. It lazily circles, set to the lowest speed despite the chill outside just to clear the stuffiness of your room.

“First order of business is the obvious failure from earlier this month. I don’t think I need to go over the whole thing again after the last two recordings. It’s time to move on.”

Biting your lip, you take a minute to go over the beginning of the month for what feels like the millionth time. There’s so much that’s happened in between then and now—a disproportionate amount of it more harm than good for your career, your mental health, and just... you in general. Coming to this realization in the timeframe hurt, but all of a sudden it’s hitting you here and now two days from a holiday while you’re sprawled over your comforter, tears welling easily in the corners of your eyes.

The next thing you say is whispered under the breeze of the fan as if it’s a secret you can’t even trust yourself to keep.

“How the fuck do I move on?”

What a question, a riddle for the ages.

Sniffling hard in a way that your mom would tease you over, you stretch the edge of your sweater over your fist and brutally wipe at your eyes. Your notes are no place for tears, and they sure as shit aren’t any place for wasting time, either. 

“Second order of business is moving on: where do I go from here?” You pause in your questioning to sniff again. “Touko says that all great photographers—really, all great creatives—are molded and made by the breakthroughs they have after a slew of failures, but I don’t agree. Neither does Kamihara... Granted, I’ve only ever seen the guy’s works and read his one single interview over and over so I could be talking out of my ass here, but I would confidently bet he doesn’t agree with that.”

You take a few moments to think, then let your eyes drift to the ceiling again.

“Okay, fuck it, surprise third thing. What’s the deal with ceiling fans? There’s something kinda... I dunno. Nice, I guess, in the way it moves. It’s not like a roll of the tide or the sway of a pendulum, it’s this ever-repeating circle. Which is pretty cool, because it’s only that way because I made it that way. I gave it perpetual motion when I turned it on, and it’ll go until something else stops it. That could be a good metaphor for one of the prints in the next gallery, right?”

You watch the fan above for a few moments more, then slap your hand over your face with a muttered curse. “What the hell am I even talking about? ‘Perpetual motion’ of a ceiling fan. This shit is too out there even for these notes.”

Thankfully, your ringtone begins to blare right then, saving your notes from another rant. You aren’t safe, however, as the sound causes you to violently jerk out of your moment of reflection and pop your neck in a way you weren’t expecting.

From a cursory glance that is accompanied by another curse, you can see that it’s your sister calling, and you immediately know that the call is presumably to accomplish what both of your parents could not. With an exaggerated groan, you tilt your head back between your flexed shoulders and close your eyes. You know what time of year it is and what holiday lurks right around the corner. You know it’s a time for family to gather and fellowship together. You know that it’s worrisome to everyone in your family that you aren’t making the flight halfway across the world to the States after missing Christmas. And New Year’s. And every other holiday that came before now.

Unfortunately... after a myriad of recent events, you really just can’t find it in you to care even an iota more.

Rolling over to your side to grab your phone and stop it from recording your voice notes, you say, “Bear is calling, gotta jet. See you next time, pretentious artist notes.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Putting on a smile that you desperately hope will assist you in getting through another one of these phone calls, you answer your phone and put it on speaker.

“Bear, my darling and beloved little sister,” you chirp, “if this is about what I think it’s about, you can stop before you even start.”

"So your mind’s really made up then? There’s nothing I can do to convince you to come home?”

“Nope! I’m fine staying back here this time. I’ll see you all in a few weeks anyway!”

Your younger sister sighs deeply, the exhale sounding equal parts exasperated at and forgiving of your stubbornness. The thought of her standing in the hall of your parents’ home on her phone with a hip popped out as she rolls her eyes at your answer is enough to make your lips quirk. As predictable as she believes you to be, she should take a good long look in the mirror.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” you playfully scold, “you did the same thing last year.”

“That was different! I was a broke freshman in college!”

“And I’m a broke photographer trying to live off of the money from my last gallery and an almost full-time job at the art museum. Think I’m justified in wanting to hang back for now.”

“Sure, sure. Just know that mom sicced me on you because she wholeheartedly believed that I could convince you. Dad was gonna get the other one, but he demanded not to partake in our quote-unquote ‘unhealthy family politics’.”

“Oh, god,” you chuckle as you press your fingers to the bridge of your nose, “who let frog get a sociology degree, again?”

She snorts along with you, “The real question is who the fuck let mom have him first? He totally fits into the whole ‘pretentious oldest sibling’ stereotype now, always going on and on about social bullshit. I’m so not ready for him to mansplain my relationship with Rina to her face in less than three days.”

“Ha! I’m getting plane tickets as we speak; I have to be there for that.”

“Ha, ha, fuck you.” She doesn’t mean it, of course, especially considering the way she’s clearly holding back laughter as she says it. The two of you let your laughter live its course before settling down, a warm sort of fondness that comes from a family like yours settling in the pit of your stomach. You’d almost like to let yourself pretend that you weren’t avoiding seeing them for a plethora of reasons, let yourself say to your sister that she convinced you to come back home and that you are actually buying a last-minute flight out of Fukuoka and back to the states.

You can’t do that, unfortunately, because a large part of yourself won’t let you.

It’s comfortably quiet for a moment on both of your ends before you hear a snap. “Hey, how was that last gallery of yours, anyway? I saw your post on instagram when you were starting it, but you didn’t post your normal wrap-up pic afterward. How many pieces did you sell? I bet they can’t get enough of you over there, huh?”

How easily that fondness can be ripped away and replaced with a pit of anxiety. You have to remind yourself to breathe again. “Uh, I honestly can’t remember how many pieces I sold, bear. I was really busy leading up to it and I had a shift at the museum like an hour later so...”

“Oh, uh! Sucks that you were busy! But I’m sure it was fun, and I know your pieces sold well. You’re a really great photographer, bug.”

You want to cry again. If only she knew that you only managed to part with two prints for a combined total of a little under a hundred dollars. If only she knew that you had a good crowd, but it seemed like everyone was only interested in moving to the next photo and not analyzing the themes in your works that you saw from behind your lens. If only she knew that your hours at the art museum went up because one of your colleagues moved to Tokyo just two days after the gallery.

You could tell her, but it would just add to the stress of everything everyone around you is going through. Your brother just had a kid. Your sister’s apartment caught fire a few months ago and she’s still trying to recover. Your mom lost her own brother at the beginning of the year, and while your dad has it relatively easy, you know he’s trying to be the strongest he can be for your little family. You don’t want to add to that just because of a few road bumps. And you won’t.

“Bug? Are you there?”

“Y-yeah, I just... Thank you for the compliment. I wish you could’ve been here to see it.”

“Aw, me too! Ooh, you should facetime me when you do! That way I can walk through it with the exclusive artist commentary like a dumbass billionaire with nothing else to do.”

That gets a watery laugh out of you. “You’ll have to text me and remind me, but I’ll try. Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” she softly agrees. “Before you go though... You know you can talk to me about whatever, right? I know there are fifteen hours between us and that messes with a lot of scheduling and stuff, but I promise to call whenever you need me. Just thought you should know.”

“I know, I know. And I’ll promise to do that if you can promise me the same, alright?”

“Of course, I promise! Alright, I think frog and company just rang the front door, so I gotta go too. Take care, bug!”

“You too, bear. See you soon.” And with that, the line drops, leaving you to stare at your phone.

One day, you will call your sister and tell her everything that’s been troubling you. You’ll tell her, then your parents, then your brother. And then, you’ll plan to take as long of a vacation as you can just to see them all. One day you will.

Just maybe not today.

The day passes you by after you get off the phone with your sister. You spend most of it curled into a tight ball on your couch with a positively gigantic fleece blanket draped over your shoulders like a wise ruler presiding over their kingdom...only your “kingdom” was your tv playing that one restaurant show that stressed everyone out this past summer. Another man’s treasure, right?

Around six, however, you decide to stretch your legs by taking a walk downstairs to get your mail and maybe see a neighbor or two. You could most likely benefit more from that than watching another episode in the dark of your apartment. So, you press your feet into a pair of canvas shoes, slip into your favorite jacket, offhandedly comb your fingers through your hair, and head out the door with just your keys and phone.

The elevator ride down is uneventful—one of the older kids living on your floor is on his way to get the mail for his parents and thoroughly ignores you by playing with his switch instead. Not like you’d have much to say, anyway. He’s courteous though, because he motions for you to get your mail first when the two of you make it down. You keep your voice to a murmur as you thank him, hastily grab your mail, then apologize as you scoot out of his way.

You don’t have much, thankfully. There’s a letter from the art museum’s director saying that you’re welcome to schedule another gallery for your works a few weeks into the new year that you sigh at, a paper bill that reminds you to sign up for paperless versions, and a thick yellow envelope from your mom. You stop in your tracks to rip the envelope open and find a card in the shape of a goofy cartoon turkey inside.

“Just because you aren’t coming doesn’t mean you can’t eat like we will. I’ll have your brother send you some money from me through those weird money-transfer apps you kids use these days. Treat yourself to some turkey on me!”

Oh, mom. You’ll have to call her the second you get back to your apartment. You don’t need money to buy a turkey—and you’re not even really a fan of turkey to begin with... The thought is very kind and very mom of her, and yet another show of love you needed from your family at this moment in time. With a slight pep in your step, you begin to walk back to the elevator while giving the goofy turkey another fond glance.

The second you do, however, you run into a giant and very solid... thing. 

Luckily, while you do stumble over your feet in order to regain your balance, you don’t fall flat on your ass in front of a lobby of your neighbors. Unluckily, you recognize the person you ran into, and he’s picking up the plastic bags you made him drop with a friendly smirk that makes you want to simultaneously want to hide and roll your eyes at him.

“Ah, Kei—oh, I mean Takami! I didn’t see you there, I’m so sorry! You alright?”

Takami Keigo, your neighbor from the opposite end of the hall, laughs with a practiced poise. “It’s fine, I swear! Though I do have to wonder why you continue to call me Takami...”

“How many times—it’s polite to call you by your last name,” you grumble as you hastily squat down and yank the last plastic bag off of the ground before he could attempt to with your free hand. “I’m being polite.”

“You are very polite to me! I can’t say the same about the eggs in that bag, unfortunately.”

You stiffen automatically in shock, immediately (but carefully) peering into the bag to inspect its contents... and this time, you do roll your eyes. No dice. This is a bag full of food from KFC.

Keigo laughs again at the utterly unimpressed look you give him, the bastard. You have half a mind to whack him with the bag in retaliation, but it’s ultimately nothing more than a thought. Not only would that be incredibly rude of you, but it’d also instantly contradict your earlier point about being polite. Instead, you gesture to the elevator with the hand holding the bag, and when he confirms that is his ultimate destination, you go and press the button to go up.

“So, Keigo,” you emphasize just to be a little shit, grinning when he wiggles his eyebrows in response. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are things on your side of the hall?”

With an amused sigh, he tells you, “Same old, same old. Yuri’s as cranky as ever, Masaki and his baby girl are as adorable as ever, and Michiko is as man-crazy as ever.”

“Oh? What number is she on this month?”

“Three! And you know, she told me just the other day that I should be ashamed of forcing her to keep busy with other men while she waits on me. I was almost going to stop by just to tell you that when it happened.”

“I wish you did! How many times have you told her that you aren’t interested?”

“With that incident added? Six times.”

You grimace, though you know you’re doing a terrible job at keeping the amusement off of your face. “Well, if you ever need to get her off of your back, you can always call me. Can’t say I’ll know exactly what to do, but I’ll do my best to help.”

The elevator arrives then, a couple from a different floor stepping out first before the two of you go in. Since you have a free hand, you push the button for the fourth floor and then take your spot opposite Keigo in one of the back corners.

“Anywho, how’s your side—“

“—Hold the elevator, please!”

Without thinking you shoot your arm out to stop the doors from closing. A cloud of perfume and cologne engulfs you moments later as a small group of people squeeze in with you and Keigo, the highly incompatible scents almost enough to give you an instant headache. You shuffle backward a bit to try and minimize your contact with it, but thanks to the way these people have shoved their way in—and the fact that Keigo is now behind you—you have little room to work with.

“Look who it is!”

Jesus. Speak of the devil—it’s almost as if you and Keigo talking about Michiko somehow summoned her and her posse. You’d laugh if you weren’t dreading getting whatever they drenched themselves in stuck as a taste in your mouth.

Closer behind you than you’re expecting, Keigo mumbles a curse you hope only you hear before raising his voice to say, “hey there, Michiko! Throwin’ a party or something?”

“We’re just having a little get-together! You know you’re always invited to come around, Keigo. It’d be so much fun with you there.” 

“Aw, I’d love to, but we’re having our own dinner party for two tonight!” As he lies explains this, a hand falls onto your left shoulder in a friendly gesture. You try your damned hardest not to freeze at the unfamiliar touch, even as Keigo says your name. “Isn’t that right?”

“Totally—”

“—That’s just too bad,” Michiko cuts you off with a pout. “If it gets cut short for any reason you can always stop by!”

“We’ll be fine.” Oh, god, sometimes you can even surprise yourself. There are five sets of eyes on you the immediate moment after your curt reply, and you really don’t even want to imagine the look on Keigo’s face right now. Hate, hate, hate.

The rest of the ride to your floor—which is blessedly short—is spent in awkward silence on your and Keigo’s end. Michiko and her group converse about what they’ll do at their “get-together” in a way you presume is to entice Keigo to attend, but he keeps to himself. When the doors open up to your floor, they all step out without bothering to even feign letting the two of you leave first. You roll your eyes at their backs as you wait to follow, idling outside of the doors with Keigo.

“Ugh, they probably smelled good one-on-one but together? I think that could’ve been used as a torture tactic,” you (somewhat) over-dramatically cough the second they’re all in Michiko’s apartment with the door shut.

Keigo snickers at that, eyeing you carefully. “Yeah, that was a lot. Are you okay?”

You raise an eyebrow, following after him when he starts toward his side of the hall. “I mean, I guess; it was just another typical conversation with Michiko. Why do you ask?”

“We kinda summoned her back there. She also tried to walk right over you and it was rude, which I didn’t point out.”

“It’s okay, I promise! It was uncomfortable as hell, but if it weren’t for you it could’ve been way worse. Thankfully we’re out of it now.”

He stops in front of his apartment door to look back and give you a lopsided, yet genuine smile, his normally sharp eyes softening into something almost as sweet as honey. Right then and there you feel like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. 

Fuck, he’s gorgeous, and it is so unfair in so many ways.

“So, are we having dinner together or what?”

You can’t help yourself. “What?”

“Wow. I didn’t think people actually still made that joke.”

“A joke—I’m not making a joke here,” you hastily explain, “I’m genuinely confused. Was that not just a trick to get Michiko off of your back?”

“Sure it was, and I’m making it into a genuine invitation right now! We were catching up and Michiko interrupted, so why not just eat together and finish our conversation?” At this, Keigo turns back to his door and unlocks it, striding in without waiting to hear your answer.

With a slightly exasperated huff at his nonchalance, you follow him inside and close the door behind you while asking, “Did you even get enough food to feed two people?”

“Of course! I always get more just in case I’m feeling extra peckish. And if we run out of this, I guess I could make a salad on the fly. Anyway, welcome to my humble abode!”

The gravity of the situation hits you the second you turn on your heels to face him and his living space—the place he calls his own and has carved out as a natural extension and expression of himself.

You’ve never been in his apartment before, not like this. And on second thought, he’s never been in yours like this either. This is completely uncharted territory. In the eight-ish months you’ve been living in Fukuoka, in this apartment building, Keigo’s been nothing more than a friendly, utterly handsome face from the other side of the hall, one you’d occasionally see when heading out for work around the same time each morning, or checking your mail, or in one of the corner stores nearby. You just barely know that he’s a studying physical therapist with a job at a local gym and that his birthday falls sometime in the winter. His number is saved in your phone, but you can count the number of conversations over text you’ve had on maybe two hands. 

You barely know him, and now you’re waltzing into his apartment like you two have been doing this since you moved in.

Deciding to break the tension you’re suddenly feeling with something easy—maybe a compliment on his decorating—you glance around the space to take it all in. All of his furniture—from the couch and loveseat to the chairs rounding the square glass table—is pristinely spotless, a fact almost comically exaggerated by the fact that they’re all a shade of white that’s startlingly bright under the fluorescent lights above. There’s a plush-looking light gray rug on the floor and a deep red throw blanket on the couch with matching pillows that are seemingly the only splashes of differing colors out in the open. When you look to the kitchen, you see that it matches the color scheme, and your heart drops a little.

There are no pictures decorating the counters in the kitchen, no reminders stuck to the fridge by magnets, no half-burnt candles on the coffee table in the living room or the console with a giant tv. You expected a bit more from him on this front, even with the small number of his eccentricities you’ve witnessed firsthand thus far.

There are, however, two things by the sink: a single succulent with slightly browned leaves rounding its base, and a photo of Keigo beaming widely and waving at the camera with a serious-looking, dark-haired young boy at his side. This makes you smile a bit to yourself. At least he has that.

When you turn back to him, his face mirrors yours as he asks what you think of his place. If you’re being honest with yourself, it disappoints you that he seemingly only uses it as a space to sleep at night, but you’ll keep that to yourself. You could just be assuming—not everyone can fill every corner of their home like you strive to. So you tell him that it’s cool.

“Probably not as cool as yours,” he returns, motioning to the table full of food boxes. “You gonna just stand there or are you gonna leave all this chicken to me?”

Walking over, you ungracefully plop down into the chair across from his and smirk at him. “Since you’re being so generous, I guess I might as well join you for dinner!”

“I knew you’d come around eventually.”

Keigo takes his seat after grabbing two plates from the kitchen and you both get to work divvying the food. He wasn’t lying when he said he usually gets extra whenever he eats fast food—there’s more than enough left over even when your plates are close to being full. As you dig in, you continue your conversation from the elevator and tell him that you haven’t been up to much other than working and taking time for impromptu mini-shoots when you can. He’s more attentive to you talking about almost nothing than you’re expecting, and it almost makes you choke on a chicken tender. Your recovery by asking how his studying is going is a little clumsy, but it nevertheless works. He’s been busy, he informs you in a neutral tone, and he wishes he could spend more time working at the gym due to the soccer season coming to a close.

His voice is tender and affectionate as he tells you, “There’s a youth league at the gym I work at. I was coaching the fifteen-year-olds before my course load got a bit too wild, and it was a lot of fun watching those boys interact with each other.”

That warmth of his is infectious, as you’re feeling it when you chuckle, “Must remind you of your high school days, huh?”

“...Guess so.”

Oh. Ouch. Wrong thing to say, for sure. Just a swift glance at him slowly pulling away from eating to place his elbow on the table and his head in his palm is enough to confirm it, never mind the faraway look he has as he stares into the kitchen. For the second time in an hour, your inner monologue is kicking you in the metaphorical balls for your slip-up.

“What is that, by the way?” Keigo juts his chin out at the mail you set on the chair beside you, clearly asking about the cartoon turkey at the top of the pile.

You snort, “A Thanksgiving day card from my mom. She’s going to have my brother send me money to get a turkey and thought that a card would be the best way to let me know.”

After you say this, you think for a second. Then, “You know? It’s funny. My younger sister called me earlier asking if I was coming home for Thanksgiving, and now we’re having dinner together.”

Keigo looks back at you with a slightly more lucid expression. “I’m sure they’re looking forward to having you back in the states again.”

“I think so too... it’s been a long time since they’ve seen me in person and not through a phone screen. You know, I’m pretty sure the last time I was in the states was early last summer for my dad’s birthday.”

“That’s not so bad considering the last couple of years. If you don’t mind me asking, why not go back for Thanksgiving?”

Million dollar question, that one.

With a sigh, you explain, “I’m in the middle of a rough time currently. Do you remember the gallery I had earlier this month? Only a couple pieces sold, and as much as I love working at the art museum, I’d love it even more if I could cut my hours back and focus more on photography.”

Keigo studies you for a moment, golden-hued eyes giving you a brief moment to peer deeper beneath the practiced mask he constantly wears. Normally you’d be a bit more bashful at openly staring at him like this, but at this moment he’s less of the neighbor who genuinely invited you to dinner with a lie to someone else and more of someone you’d willingly spend hundreds of hours studying just to come within an iota close to capturing him perfectly on film.

You weren’t wrong when you thought him gorgeous earlier, not even close to it. He might intentionally play himself off as carefree and casual to a fault, but you can see the tension that defines the hard edges of his jaw, the keen vigilance in the glint of his eyes.

Then the moment ends, because Keigo slides his gaze to the window without moving, and says, “That’s not all, though, is it?”

It’s not. And you really don’t feel like rehashing it a second time today.

He must gather this from your silence because it’s in the moment that you start debating whether you want to tell him outright that you’d rather not explain it to him or tell him as much through hints that he stands to clean the table. He takes your plate after confirming that you’re finished, placing both in the sink and washing them. Your conversation lulls in the space and quiet between you. At least until,

“I admire that about you, you know?”

For a brief second, you wonder if his goal tonight is to utterly confuse you. “You admire what?”

“You moving to Fukuoka from Chicago, of course!”

“Keigo...” you draw out the second syllable of his name in slight disbelief as you glance over your shoulder at him. “I packed up all of my life just to move to a city halfway across the world that I’ve only ever fantasized about only to actively be faced with the reality of doing that, and you admire that about me?”

Keigo’s smile is a little bit sad now. “What else? That takes courage, ingenuity, and resilience. You knew nothing about Fukuoka, yet you still sought to live here. You knew there would be a language barrier between you and an overwhelming majority of the population, yet you were working on your Japanese back in college if I remember right. You moved with a plan, you had a job with the art museum by mid-April, and you’ve made friends with a local photographer and that intern at the museum. So what if your first gallery here failed? You’re just getting started. Why rush it?”

That gets you to fall silent as he walks from the kitchen back to the table, a carton of ice cream and two spoons in his hand. He sets the carton—peach and mango is the flavor—down in the center of the table after taking the cap off, and sticks his utensil in it to take a bite. You absorb his words of encouragement in the meantime, pinning his words on a mental corkboard alongside your sister’s call and your mom’s card. When you consider yourself finished in letting all of the sentiments and affection warm you like your blanket from earlier, you find that he’s staring at you with a concerned furrow of his eyebrows.

“Thanks, Keigo,” you sigh, feeling soft-hearted. “Between my sister this morning, my mom’s card, and now this get-together, I think I’m feeling a lot better about everything.”

His once cloudy expression clears, and the bright, kindhearted look he gives you in return is all you need. “No problem, friend. Now, no more worrying! I thought this ice cream might be something you’d like and you haven’t even tried it yet. You’re making me look bad here!”

You scoff as he grabs your spoon and scoops up a hearty chunk of ice cream with it, looking all too pleased with himself as he waves it in front of your face with a smirk. Giving him a stink-eye, you snatch it from him and he guffaws, nearly dropping his own scoop in the process.

Why rush it indeed.

You stick the shared spoon into your mouth with a large grin and not a single worry in the world.

hi!! i’m yuna and this was written by me for me and i really needed to get this out of my system so here we are ✌🏾i don’t know how long this series will be—i have a handful of ideas but who knows what will get turned into a chapter—but i hope to be back soon, and i hope you enjoyed!! 💕