Rohan pushed his pen harder than he meant to, the nib squeaking across the page. Pages curled at the edges, ink everywhere — the kind of mess that promised something, but he couldn't see it yet.
"Ugh. This chapter needs… real life," he told the empty room. He dropped the pen with a little clatter, shoved his sketchbook into his bag, and shoved his earring back in. "I'll go out. I'll get… something."
Sun on his face as he stepped out. The street was quiet; the kind of Morioh afternoon that made everything feel small and possible. He mouthed lines absentmindedly, planning panels, when a shout — a sudden, embarrassed "Ah!" — made him turn.
A man had bumped into someone else, and a cup flew — coffee arcing, hot, a sharp drip landing on the man's forearm. He hissed, clutching his sleeve.
Rohan didn't think. He reached out and grabbed the man's wrist. "Hey, are you— you're burned. Come on, my house, now."
The man blinked at him, surprised more than angry. Dark eyes. A calm face. He let himself be tugged along like it was no trouble.
Inside Rohan's narrow bathroom he turned the tap on cold and rinsed the reddened skin. He worked carefully — gauze, aloe vera gel from the little medicine shelf, gentle fingers that knew how to be precise when they had to be. Up close the man's features were softer, a smile like he'd expected too much and was amused anyway.
"Hold still. It'll sting for a bit." Rohan's voice came out small. He focused like it was a panel he had to get right.
The man watched him, head tilted. "You're very… focused."
"You got hurt 'cause of me," Rohan snapped, embarrassed, then softened. "So I'll fix it."
Bandages wrapped, algae-green gel smoothed, Rohan's hands trembled a little only when they weren't touching the skin. He pulled his hand back and rubbed the back of his neck, hair falling over one ear. "I'm—sorry."
The man smiled, and for the first time Rohan noticed the tiny ring in his ear and the easy way he held himself. "It's okay."
There was a pause. The man glanced at Rohan's ink-stained fingers, the earring, the sketchbook poking out of the bag. "You draw?"
Rohan's ears went hot. "Y-yeah. I'm a mangaka."
"Of course." The man's smile grew crooked, pleased. "I thought so. You have that look."
Rohan blinked. "What's your name?"
"Hirohiko Araki." He said it like any other sentence, almost casual, like he'd introduced himself to dozens of people that day.
For a second Rohan forgot to breathe. "Wait. Hirohiko Araki? As in—"
Araki nodded, eyes kind. "Yes."
Rohan's fingers found the sink edge. He felt suddenly ridiculous and very small. "I… I read your stuff. Pink Dark Boy." He said it fast, anxious. "I'm— I'm a fan."
Araki's smile softened in a way that made Rohan's stomach flip. "I know who you are, Kishibe Rohan." He looked around at the messy bathroom, at the sketches Rohan kept tucked in the medicine cabinet like contraband. "I read your panels. You have… a particular eye."
Rohan's cheeks went pink. He shifted his weight, embarrassed and weirdly proud all at once.
Araki lifted the cup — clumsily, carefully — with his left hand. The right was still wrapped where the burn was. He held the cup like it weighed nothing or everything. "Can I… have some coffee?" he asked, as if it were the most normal thing.
Rohan moved before he could think. "I'll make it." He made coffee badly fast, fumbling with the kettle, but Araki watched him with an amusement that felt like warmth. When Rohan handed the cup over, Araki steadied it with that left hand and then, like a man marking a small victory, took a sip.
"Mm." He smiled again. "Nice."
"Thanks." Rohan's voice was soft. He found himself watching how Araki held the mug—left hand over the ceramic, fingers curled, a faint tremor when he set it down. The right hand rested, bandaged, against his side.
"Is this your place?" Araki asked, eyes scanning the living room as if cataloguing everything — the wall of manga, the poster, the messy table. Then: "Show me your study."
Rohan almost said no. He didn't. He should have been careful, professional, but he didn't want to hide. The study room was upstairs: a crooked little space with paper towers, pinned sketches, a lamp that gave everything a golden smear. Araki's steps were sure; he moved like someone used to taking the lead.
They sat. Rohan pushed a stack of rough pages toward him, heart thudding. "These are— unfinished," he warned.
Araki flipped through them like a reader hunched over a favorite story. Then he stopped, looked straight at Rohan. "I came to Morioh because I wanted to meet you."
Rohan's mouth went dry. "Meet me?"
"I read Pink Dark Boy." Araki's voice was laid-back, but it landed like a promise. "I liked it. I thought… maybe we could work together."
Rohan's fingers curled around the edge of the chair. "Work… with me?"
Araki leaned in, close enough that Rohan could see the tiny collagen lines at the corner of his eyes when he smiled — a predator's calm, but gentle. "Yes. I want to collaborate. Your panels. My… ideas."
Rohan laughed, a short, surprised sound. "You want to work with me? The Rohan? Are you sure?"
Araki's hand brushed Rohan's as he reached across the table, half to point at a sketch, half because he wanted to touch. His fingers stayed. "I'm sure."
Rohan felt something like a current. It wasn't dramatic or loud — more like the way a panel's punchline hits after the quiet build-up. He should have been professional. He should have been aloof. Instead he looked down, then back up, blinking. "Okay," he said. "Okay, let's try."
Araki's eyes lit, and he moved around Rohan so naturally it was almost possession — he stood, straightened Rohan's stray papers with a thumb, then leaned against the bookshelf like he owned the room. His presence filled space. Rohan, in the corner of his mouth, smiled and blushed and pretended not to notice his heartbeat.
"You know," Araki said, softer, as if sharing something private, "I'm a fan too."
Rohan laughed, a little breathless. "Of… you?"
"Yes." Araki's gaze dropped to Rohan's hands, then up to his face. "Of your stubbornness. Your style. The way you find truth in messy details."
Rohan's throat tightened. He wanted to say something smart, clever, but all he managed was, "Don't tease."
Araki stepped closer, close enough Rohan could feel the heat of him. "I'm serious." He reached for Rohan's unburned hand and took it — gentle but firm — like making a choice. "I'll watch your back. You draw. I'll push you."
Rohan felt the world narrow to that hand in his. He didn't pull away. Instead, somehow, he leaned in a whisper. "Promise?"
Araki smiled, that confident slow smile, and tightened his grip just a touch. "Promise."
They sat like that for a while — the fan and the fanboy, or whatever strange pair they were. Outside, Morioh hummed on. Inside, there was coffee cooling on the table, a sketch half-done, and the small, enormous beginning of something neither of them had planned.