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hunterartemis · 5 years

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The Assistant: Filler Chapter : Nostalgia and Unresolved Issues

Word count: 4340 (initial) 5745 (after edit)

Chapter Theme: Beth’s Theme by Ólafur Arnalds : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmKkaCKWreM

Warning: Intoxicated state, mention of alcohol and smoking (I do not drink, do drugs or smoke or advice to do either one of these to anyone.)

This chapter is also very prose based, and has lesser dialogues and actions (I thought, I should take it easy in this chapter)

Summery: As the title suggests, there will be some nostalgia and unresolved issues.

The golden memory of the sunset stayed picturesque in their mind while they whirled in the edge of Dover cliff. All that happened in the golden winter afternoon seemed like a distant happy past in comparison to the ashy lilac sky against the stark white and still Dover cliff. They parted ways like two playmates after a long day in the playground, forcibly separated from each other by their mothers, however good memories need to be embalmed with a quiet solitary pondering.

Newt didn’t go straight home. He was tired and out of his senses with exhaustion. He went to the Leaky Cauldron to have himself a dinner; smiling and recalling his memories at Le Procope just to take off his mind from this perpetually subordinate meal, under a musty and dark roof. At the time of his return, while he was paying his bills, he felt the rigid folded paper in his inner breast-pocket, dormantly tucked in for a chance of safe posting.

He called upon the Hotel Owl and posted the letter, and with a crack, he was standing in front of his apartment. With a click of lock, a soft plop of his coat on his side-couch and clacks of kicking shoes of and a sweep of disrobing, Newt thudded in his bed, fast asleep. The last image in his eyes was the light blue Lanvin paper bag on his bedside study table, bulging with his unexpected ‘Christmas gift’.

On the other side of Thames, Maxine entered her apartment. Despite the day, there was a lingering futility in her exhaustion. It was that kind of exhaustion that comes after labouring intensely and getting no positive result out of it. She disrobed and donned on her favourite pink watersilk dressing gown, plopped herself on the chaise and called for her dinner. Lampito, her elf brought her dinner at the baroque coffee table at the lounge. She downed her food without any enthusiasm, as if she was being tube-fed while being anesthetised. She was constantly reminded of Newt’s molten gold eyes and dazzling smile when he replied “yes... I do.”

There was a sense of disassociation in those three words.

While uncoiling her finger-curled bob, she leaned at the door panel of her bedroom, looking around her room with displeasement. It was the usual, a normal bedroom with a single bed and a small study table, monochromatically dull and claustrophobic. Two of the four walls were stacked upto ceilings with some read and mostly unread books. It was literally done prim and proper by her elf and instead of a welcoming comfort it generated a sternness and rigidity. She lolled towards her bed, kicked off her slippers and tossed her robe at an indefinite direction and sunk into the bed, only to summon her slender pipe and light a cigarette. But coincidentally, not once her lips touched the pipe. As the bluish gray smoke rolled upwards her mind whirled in her past.

The journey hadn’t been easy

The night oddly reminded her of her first night at Hogwarts. It was a rain-drenched September night, cold as the ninth pit of hell and awfully quiet. She smiled sourly at the affectionate bed arrangement for her on the floor by her roommates, where she slept all night, just to return the favour for the next few weeks. And she couldn’t blame them. After all, not every day a beautiful French girl comes to claim one of the spare beds amongst the people she never seen in her life. She wished she was this confident when she was actually there. The execution of the revenges and wiping the OWL papers blank of that bully Montague just after submission would have been way more fun.

His face was priceless when he had to repeat fifth year.

Although she would never admit it to herself, she clearly remembered the first time she walked the grounds of Hogwarts, accompanied by her father Hrothgar Valois*, grabbing her by the wrist. Her unsteady feet and mass of black waves interfered with her vision and caused irritation her otherwise generous father. She remembers how he sat her down in front of Headmaster Armando Dippet and Albus Dumbledore, the assistant headmaster and head of Gryffindor house, with utter disappointment, and she remembered the flabbergasted look on their faces, as at the time of admission she was 14.

“Zere ‘ad been some circumstances for which I have come ‘ere--” Monsieur Valois spoke with a low melodious tone with a heavy French accent, and did not sound very pleased with himself.

“That we can conclude... however” Professor Dippet answered with a wheezy voice “may we know what is the reason she is insisted to be admitted here so late...? The window of admission at Hogwarts comes only once, and it is the rule and the Law of the British ministry.” Professor Dippet looked at Monsieur Valois with displeasement.

“You misunderstand me, Professeur , she is, in fact educated. She is ze third child of mine and an heiress to the noble house of Valois, surely you’ve ‘eard?” Hrothgar waved his left hand perhaps to give them a glimpse of his baroque Alexandrite signet ring, glinting on his small finger.

“Blood purity cannot buy your daughter a place in Hogwarts, I am sure you know that.” Dumbledore answered sternly and Dippet agreed with him.

“What is the proof that she wasn’t neglected her education... a couple of purebloods we know take pride in their illiteracy and claim that Hogwarts have nothing to teach... they are the Gaunts, descendants of Salazar Slytherin, surely you’ve heard?” Professor Dippet commented with taunt. Hrothgar did not faze at all, in fact e softened instantly, in fact, he became almost glib.

“Of course, of course Professeur , ‘ow impudent of me. I should ‘ave brought it earlier” Monsieur Valois gave the headmaster a series of papers, “Zis is ‘er proof of previous education, a certificate from ‘er previeus school, ‘owever, in ze matter of delicate circumstances, ze name of ze school must be confidential.” Valois looked grimly at headmaster Dippet.

“And you are still insisting that I let her in my school?” Professor Dippet spoke quite loudly, but was pacified when Dumbledore spoke something in his ears. Dippet took the papers and read through all of them, and then he looked at the girl, who was, until this point, invisible. Both Dippet and Dumbledore fixed their gaze upon the fourteen year old.

“Do you know how to perform standard spells?” Dumbledore asked her, and her dark eyes fearfully looked at her father’s face then at the professor’s face, in shaking voice she replied

“Pardon, mais je ne comprend pas…” (I am sorry but I do not understand anything) and she was more scared when professor Dippet looked displeased, “Professeur, je suis désolé pour mon incapacité a parler Anglais, je promets…” (Sir, I am sorry for my incapacity of speaking English, I promise...)* she sounded positively panicked, “d’essayer plus fort--”* (I will try my best)

“It’s okay Maxine... Ca va... Est-que ce tu savais a effectuer les sorts standard?” (do you know how to perform standard spells?) Dumbledore asked kindly, and her fearful eyes glowed with hope. She went up and attempted to perform a spell, but she could not do anything except sparks and smoke.

“It’s no good…” she heard Dippet utter, “she is just another--”

“No Professeur… j’essayer encore… une chance… sil vous plait” (No sir, I will try again, one chance... please) she waved her wand desperately again and again but nothing happened.

“Miss Valois... relax...” Dumbledore called out “respirez...” (breathe)

She breathed and closed her eyes, letting her surroundings vanish. Slowly she raised her wand and conjured a paper out of the thin air. She manoeuvred the paper to fold on itself into a bird which increased its size each time it flapped its wing and gave a final dive into the teacher’s table where it vaporised with a small ‘poof’. Dippet was judging the child by her father, and now he looked impressed for her talent.

“Very good…” came Dippet’s verdict while Maxine huffed a little sigh of relief.

“Peux-tu me montre… un sort pour transfiguration avancé?” (can you show me an advance transfiguration spell ?) Dumbledore asked her and within a moment Maxine transformed the jade paperweight on the table into a black iguana which jumped from the table and slithered across the room, startling all three men in the room.

“Bah… j’essayair un dragon” (I was aiming for a Dragon), Maxine mused but she knew with their expression that she is as good as in. Her years in L’estate Valois made her good in reading men.

Maxine smiled at her little memory of entrance exam. She remembered when professor Dippet finally agreed to bring out the sorting hat and place it on Maxine’s head. Dumbledore kindly informed her about all the formalities of the school. But that’s not the most kindest or memorable about the first day; the strangest thing started when that frayed battered hat was placed upon her head.

“Ah… how very interesting” the hat whispered in her mind, “courageous and timid, loyal and detached and an inquisitive mind… what to do with you?” the hat as if whispered into her inner psyche, like some cumbersome thought bugging one in the dead of the night.

“C’est étrange… Vous parlez ?” (How strange… you talk?) Maxine’s mind relayed this at an instant. In the reply of the child, a faint coarse laugh echoed in the hollow of her brain, “Oui, petit fille, et je peux regarder dans votre espirit” (yes little girl, and I can see into your mind)

“Tu crois que tu peux me comprendre?” (you think you can understand me?) Maxine thought, “un petit chapeau comme toi?” (a little hat like you?)

“Défiance, c’est vrai?” (Defiance, is it?) The hat whispered “mais ma petit fille, est-que ce vous savez quand j’ai possède un abélite extraordinaire ce qui rend vous petit esprit claire comme du verre pour moi ?” (But do you know little girl that I possess an extraordinary ability that renders your little mind as clear as glass to me?) the hat haughtily answered her back and paused, and in a assuring and firm tone spoke “laissez moi démêler ton âme Maxine Valois… laissez moi te guider a la sublime.” (let me uncover your mind Maxine Valois... let me guide you to the sublime.)

“Comme ca?” (how so?)

“Even in the least confident child lies innate capability that, if harnessed correctly, it transforms them into someone extraordinary.” The sorting hat sermonised “and I am here, at the threshold to the doorway to greatness, only to make that choice easier.”

“Je comprend tout… mais c’est Anglais!” (I understand everything... but it’s English) Maxine thought.

“Yes… now let’s look at you again. Ah, such curious mind you have… what a complex concept you have on good and evil, respect and retaliation, rage and calm. An old fear that have caged you long since, but what is that that lurks inside? A bird or a monster...?”

“So you are nothing but a rusty old hat, who cannot even decide where to put me...” Maxine thought sarcastically, and then within her head the voice echoed “You possess contempt for the world because it fails to understand you, but do you understand yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“And that is the reason you crave greatness to conquer them all and knowledge to conquer yourself” the hat asserted, “and both sides weigh equally. So if you have to choose one of them, which one would it be?”

“Knowledge” Maxine answered in her mind “you can achieve greatness without knowledge, but it will not be for long, someone will eventually defeat you. However, if one has knowledge, greatness is a matter of time.”

“A heart fit for a Slytherin…” the sorting hat said aloud. However in that finality of note, lingered another statement, in which’s anticipation made Maxine lose her patience for every passing fractions of seconds. She knows what she was getting into, another place where status and family meant all. At the same time seeing her father’s eyes glinted with pride; she didn’t had the heart to disappoint him. She saw Dumbledore and Dippet watching her closely, and instantly she knew none of the conversation was heard by them. It must have been quite long because they looked at her way as if they were waiting for long anticipated news.

“But the spirit soars with Eagle wings…” the sorting hat concluded, and announced the verdict “I place her in Ravenclaw.”

Her life in Hogwarts wasn’t normal at all. She struggled a lot with the languages, got a lot of detentions and eventually she became more reckless and desperate with the faculty and the students. She hadn’t any friends, even within her houses. People would either whisper “go back to your country” or openly call her ‘Quin’ or some other adorable slurs. The faculty couldn’t do anything to her because of her grades, but she could tell that they didn’t like that she was the topper, there was some disapproval in their eyes... for which she caused it, she didn’t know.

Another thing which made her more of a target for bullying and censor. She was frequently visited by ministry officials, for what she didn’t know. They always asked the same questions: who was she? how was her family? where she came from? and the answers were always the same exasperated replies. She didn’t even remembered their face at this point, but they looked at her in a way that made her feel like she was being pitied. And she didn’t like that-- after all, why should she, she was from the Noble Family of Valois, one of the oldest and richest French Purebloods. She should not be pitied, she should be a subject of jealousy.

Hogwarts, as she remembered, was a prison to her. The hardest part of this experience was the inability to express her opinion. After all, who would believe her? Hogwarts was the best Wizarding school in the whole world.

Therefore she sought her escape in the Dark Forest, away from the maddening crowd, far from the scorns and judgement, into the musty scent and under the shades of the green canopy, with the dryads and wood-fairies, bowtruckles and the nightingales... flying all across the vast forest, harmonising with the Merpeople into a green horizon of peace. The silent ones don’t judge and discriminate, they love unconditionally, give unconditionally and that was the only thing that pacified her in the whole world. That same peace, she found with Newt Scamander. Only with Newt she found a place where she can belong--without and family name or money, or grades. Just as herself.

The cigarette ash suspended on its dying ember. Maxine tipped it off and blew out the candle.

Many miles underground, inside a dark office, scratching of quills over papers could still be heard. Theseus Scamander was still working on the leads of Grindlewald. His well combed waves were astray, and he was on his fifth coffee in the past three hours. The towers of documents, immigration papers, and status profile and employment details were taking a physical toll on him as well as mental. All his employees left after sunset, as per standard rules, but not him. He could not bear to go home and eat, and sleep and let the memory of Pere Lachaise haunt him. He had to find a way to avenge Leta—

Thud.

“For Merlin’s sake Max, stop generating more work and just go home...” Theseus screamed while scribbling and when he looked up to see the scattered piles of paper, he saw no one there. Feeling stupid on his antics and thanking that he was alone, he tried to refocus. However, he couldn’t. He put down his quill and tried to reach for his coffee. It spilled all over his papers.

“This evening could not get any worse... tergeo” with another wave of wand he put away all his papers, took his bag, opened the door and locked it, determined to go home and take some rest. Now he regretted his frequency of consuming coffee which will make him stay wide awake.

At the same time, he was made terribly aware of himself and the silence and utter solitude around him. Each step he took magnified and came to his ears like some demented dying heartbeat. As if he was alone in the world, the only human cursed to walk in his wretched world that had stripped away everything from him. The slopey rails took him further and further down to the landing, now gleaming darkly as the dying lights slowly tossed themselves against the black marbles. The golden bars of the lift glowed dimly with the pallor of dead bones, which in fact surprised him. He always thought them beautiful, but now they did not.

He walked towards the right hand side corridor, towards the Department of Mysteries. It looks like it was one floor down from the Auror Office, but it was not. The illusive architecture always amazed him and always amused Maxine; she called the illusion of the floor ‘like a screw’, winding upwards and winding downwards at the same time.

He smiled on his own, as he trotted through the dark corridor, doors after doors passing like some avoided and neglected people on a depraved street. Then at one point he stopped, he stopped at the Door of Archives, where from the inception of the Ministry, every person is documented and kept behind the locked doors. On the opposite was the interrogation room; where convicts are brought for questioning, and curiously enough, interviews took place. The first time Theseus entered those doors after entering the ministry, was as one of the directors in the Interview board. After a boring set of interviews, entered a willowy and pale woman, whose sharp black eyes and slit smile announced that she was no ordinary woman

“Tell us about yourself...” Travers asked her and Theseus was noting everything down on his clipboard, mainly about her body language.

‘Tall, attractive, very French... ’

‘I am Maxine Valois, I graduated Hogwarts in the summer of 1912, and I grant myself proficient in all the qualities you require for an Auror.’

‘Late-comer, desperate, trying to conceal insecurities with confident voice’

“Excellent... now, if your testimony is correct and so is your records, you’ve been graduated about eleven years ago.” Travers asked, “May I ask why you delayed yourself from reaching out?”

“With all respect sir, I said I graduated Hogwarts at the summer of 1912, that doesn’t conclude that I have pulled a curtain upon my studies, now does it?” said she with amusement “I was out and about around the world, studying and researching, and when my inheritance of some few thousand galleons were at exhaustion I decided that it was an end for my academic pursuits.”

Theseus scratched out the last sentence and scribbled ‘Possibly formidable candidate, intelligent, little on the over-confident side, has a way with words, less likely to follow authorities,’

“What kind of studies were you pursuing...?” Travers asked with curiosity and a sense of annoyance that sounded to Theseus’ ears as a mockery.

“I am not really obliged to disclose that here because I have sworn secrecy with the institutions about the lessons I received...” said Maxine.

Theseus scribbled ‘Emphasis on arrogant, likely to fail for angering Travers.’

“Why is that?”

“I have paid visits most of the Wizarding schools in the world, you can ask them individually if you want. Nothing shall escape my lips”

‘Bordering on insufferable,’

“Thank you Miss Valois you shall be called--”

“You cannot cast me out like this.” Maxine said calmly and Theseus looked up from his paper to look at her face. The level of audacity was just too unimaginable for him and later he understood that he was on the same page with everyone about this interviewee. There was no sign of fear, arrogance or sneer on her face. The calm demeanour signified that she knew what she was talking about and it made Theseus look straight across her face, but only for so long. There was a dazzling sharpness in those angled black eyes that made the beholder lower their sight after a few moments.

“Why do you think that we do not have that kind of power” said Travers, laughing “because we at this side of the table have every power to cast you out as you like.”

“You misunderstand me sir...” Maxine continued with her serene voice “British ministry is getting weaker and weaker every moment, you see, this little Island is not only detached from Europe but also the rest of the world where the recruitments are better, stricter and more efficient. You see, your inefficient policy with wizards and non-wizards have made you vulnerable against the extremists and right now most powerful wizards in the country are rallying against you. If I walk out of this and send a word, most powerful anti-British ministries will jump on the bandwagon of recruiting me, and I would rather be on this side than on the other side of massacre and extremism... if you think I am lying or bluffing, the fourth page of my Curriculum Vitae can testify to that.”

Theseus and Travers, out of curiosity peered to the page Maxine mentioned and a shining golden badge on a piece of silk paper was encrusted. Maxine, understanding that they cannot read the language, pointed her wand towards them and softly uttered in an unfamiliar language.

“This Award of Golden Robe and of Five Seals goes to Miss Maxine Valois, By Japanese Wizarding Congress. She is hereby awarded an honorary member of Society of Eurasian Magical Corporation and is hereby granted a full permission to take citizenship and work on Japanese soil”*

The men could not speak for some times, and then suddenly Travers looked at her “that is indeed an impressive feat. To be able to acquire such a position in an ultra-homogeneous community” Said he and started to counsel amongst his fellow board members. After some painful minutes and questioning stares the verdict was passed.

“And we will be glad to have you here on the British Ministry.”

“Thank you sir... I am most delighted” Maxine stood up and shook his hands.

After all the interviews, when the selections were being done, there was a time when Maxine’s names was announced. Theseus was astound at the frivolity of the minds of men in power; those openly displayed disapproval were now fighting over that single girl who had outwitted them. He remembered how the interview board turned into the fights of Juries in Wizengamot. He quietly observed how the Head Aurors practically jumped on each other. Not even Theseus knew what was going to happen in the next moment.

“Sirs...“ boomed Theseus, standing up, “with all due respect, I think your fight is nothing more than redundant.“

“What is the meaning of this Mr. Scamander?“ Damon Yaxley roared, “just because you have won the war, doesn’t make you decider of our fates...“

“Why would I try to decide your fates Sirs, I am an Auror... I destroy my enemies, like you all.“ and with him all the interview board started to laugh with him “all I am asking that I should have that Franco-English girl as my intern and subordinate.“

“Sorry m’boy, but I think you are a little too young to decide to that“ answered Archturius Black, and Theseus replied, suppressing the heated insult “and you Mr. Black, is too old for that.“ and the board laughed again

“Sirs... not only my department is short stuffed and suffering, but also compromised most aurors in the field than yours. I am only asking a fair recruit. Besides, don’t I deserve that for winning the war?“ Theseus smiled and sat down, because he knew the game was his when no one spoke against him anymore. He too was surprised of himself... he never thought he would be this desperate.

Theseus smiled at that memory and for a good reason. It was the pivotal step of their relationship, he as the boss and she as the intern. And soon from fetching papers and carrying out notices, that belated intern became an inseparable member of Theseus’ team. Soon Travers started ordering Theseus to take her into important missions, carrying out espionages and surveillance jobs, and her promotion rate was going upwards so steeply that she was soon the Assistant General on Theseus’ team, working alongside him in the same office. Of course he never told her what he did to the entire Law Enforcement team to get her. The Scamander-Valois team was unbeatable, until that time...

It was almost six months ago...

He was preparing for departing to Paris with Leta and his team, Travers had a big row with Maxine as she thought the operation will be a great failure. Terrified more than excited, Theseus was coming out of the archive room after inspecting some papers. After closing the door, he saw Leta in front of him, equally terrified as him and sad.

“Leta... we will be fine” Theseus tried to console her, but she didn’t budge; the thought of dead Corvus Lestrange always plagued her. Theseus took her into his arms, lifted her face and embraced her lips into his. Leta understood that, Theseus always tries to console her at both physical and psychological planes, but sometimes when he finds himself at loss of words, he lets his affections physically manifest and radiates on to others. Each time he connected himself physically with Leta he felt an unknown fulfilment, and Leta allowed him that.

In his moment of satisfaction, his ken picked up another face, gleaming at the dark at the side. He broke his kiss with Leta and looked at the person.

“Max...” he unconsciously wiped his lips and spoke hoarsely and unsteadily. Maxine on the other hand, looked like her usual self; Theseus cleared his voice and said “what you’re doing here?”

“I am sorry to interrupt your meeting but Travers is calling for you...” Maxine informed; and was attempting to leave the place, but Leta stopped her. Her hand reached her high shoulder gently and she waited for Maxine to turn, “Maxine I am sorry that you could not join us.”

“It’s okay...” Maxine asserted before even Leta could finish, “Besides, dictators, social climbers and brainless whiners seems to be the order of day. Someone needs to keep their heads in the right place” Maxine added with her usual twisted smirk, “and um... that dress seems to be a little on the drinking party side than ‘I am visiting my brother’s tomb’ side--”

“Maxine...” Theseus’ voice concealed an alarm in that hushed tone.

“However, who am I to judge, I am not the only French here right?” a cruel smile graced on her lips.

Theseus could take no more, he took a few stepped forwards, “Stop it” he hissed at Maxine, whose expression looked unaffected and almost bored. She turned her face towards Leta, “so bon chance on your failed mission and do let me know how many of you gets compromised--” after a sneer and a wink, she clacked away.

Leta prevented Theseus from chasing her back and shook her head in the indication that Theseus should not speak about this fiasco and cause a ruckus. As Leta left to join Travers, Theseus chased right after Maxine. He could feel the skin under his collar heating up with every step he took. Blood pounded in his ears. As he slammed his office door open, he saw Maxine there, organising papers. She turned towards him as if it was another day in the office, but it only did so to infuriate Theseus even more. He forcefully turned her towards himself and his face, by this time looked like he had murdered someone.

“Why are you like this Maxine, Why?” Theseus bellowed, “Your attitude was beneath you. I can overlook your petty pranks here and there but that... that was unforgivable. You behaved like a mean schoolgirl with her and I am disappointed in you.”

“Beneath me?” Maxine asked unemotionally, “you claim to understand what is beneath or above me? Stop sounding so noble Theseus, you sound like those imbecile chevals.”* She tried to walk off from the conversation by brushing the topic lightly but Theseus wasn’t having any. He again turned out towards her “yes I do.” He said with heat “You behaved improperly today, and not to mention you have hurt Leta beyond the limit. All the ministry employees know that Corvus Lestrange is a forbidden topic--”

“By your orders it is then? Merlin when I came to this place I had to work so much harder despite my academic qualification and she, didn’t even had six months is getting treated like a queen. I wonder how far she went in your--”

“SHE IS MY FIANCEE MISS VALOIS AND YOU WILL DO WELL TO SPEAK WITH HER WITH DECENCY.” Theseus took a few steps back and turned on his heel and walked away. For a brief moment he saw the dazzling black eyes moistened, but he was too proud to stand there.

The memory hit him hard. He stopped at his tracks and leaned on the wall; the same wall where it all started. That incident that never really got resolved even though things got back to normal after the days. Whenever he tried to apologise, Maxine would ignore it or veer the conversation otherwise. Sometimes he thought she leaving Ministry and joining as Newt’s assistant was a big prank on its own; why argue through your job and literally throw it away for animal scutwork?—he will never understand that, and sometimes just thinking about all those mismatching things gave him a headache.

Nothing makes sense anymore these days.

...

‘‘Maîtresse... maîtresse...’ a wheezy voice woke Maxine up in the middle of the night. Rubbing her eyes, she breathed sharply and sat up on her bed. There was still some streetlight left in the street that could permeate through the still and transparent linen curtain.

“What?” Maxine exclaimed angrily and the elf turned on the bedside lamp, “it’s two thirty in the morning, I told you unless someone is dying on my doorsteps do not disturb--”

“It is a man maitresse… ” Lampito answered fearfully, “he introduced himself as Scamander… he is asking for you maitresse, and he is not well.”

Maxine’s face hardened and a trace of worry in her sleepy eyes appeared like a thin curtain “Barbe de Mer…” she almost jumped out of the bed, throwing herself only her blush colored dressing-gown. The time she entered her sitting room, she saw a tall brunet man in tweed suit lolling on her chaise with his face down towards the floor. His hand lolled at one side and it seemed like all the blood in his body was drained. Maxine rushed towards her chaise and straightened him to see his face.

“Theseus--” she whispered, but it was unlike anything she ever known that barely resembled ‘Theseus Scamander’. His face was red and lulled to a drunken stupor. Traces of vomit crusted around his lips and jaw, and some even soiled his shoulder. Maxine covered her nose and pointed the wand to siphon the dirt of his body and face, and indignantly looked at her chaise, if something has been dirtied or not.

“This chaise cost me six hundred galleons… direct from Provence too…” Maxine exasperated, “I wonder what gotten into him to do this. Lampito…” she turned to the elf “go make Monsieur Scamander some tall espresso and fetch all the sausages and eggs we have. For now, get me a glass of milk. Levicorpus…” Maxine lifted Theseus up on air and kicked off the door of her study, to prop him on the fainting couch; no way will she let a drunken man into her bedroom.

She laid him on his side first, loosened his shoes, necktie and got rid of the blazer and the waistcoat. She gave them all to the elf and ordered them to wash it. With all the changes of position and possible rise of discomfort, Theseus started to groan as a response of being moved.

“Okay you schmuck…” Maxine propped his head as gently as possible. It was a strenuous job to lay him comfortably on the cushion because not only he was a foot taller and weighed at least 40 pounds more than Maxine, but he was also an exceptionally difficult person in his intoxicated self. Maxine tried hard to hold the head close but not too close to her chest, the fluttering of her neckline due to Theseus’ groaning and breathing was unnerving already. After an agonizing struggle when she finally managed to lay his head on the pillow, he jolted up and another wave of projectile vomit ensued, spewing everywhere.

As much as Maxine wanted to scream at Theseus and bash his skull in the walls for ruining her Victorian couch and Chinese watersilk, she felt an uncommon pity towards him that she never knew before. Siphoning every speck of sick, she knelt beside him as he groaned feverishly. His dry, puce lips mumbled something so low that Maxine had to bring her ears to his lips to listen.

“Forgive me…. Leta… I couldn’t save you… I am sorry… so sorry”

“Oh you fool…” Maxine whispered to herself, “stop blaming yourself for her death… it wasn’t your fault” her small voice shook, “you cannot carry the whole burden of the world… stop being such an imbecile Cheval… ” Maxine put her hand on his forehead reluctantly after contemplating against doing it, and stroked him gently and surely. She felt terrible seeing someone who had always been superior to her broken into pieces like this. Not even in her worst nightmare she would have imagined that Theseus would do something like this. Even the day when she quit, he seemed fine and alright. Personally she blamed herself a little for this state of Theseus; after all she was the Vice Head of his team, working alongside him day and night. She could have understood it—but she failed.

People say it’s the woman who are difficult to get a read on, but what about men like him, who suppress their emotions to such a point that it breaks them from within?

“please don’t leave me… pleas--”

“Maitresse…” Maxine startled into life and looked at the back, Lampito was standing with a glass of milk, “you wanted it for Monsieur Scamander”

Maxine stood up hastily, rearranging her robe a little, “feed him, and check on him every hour…” she walked towards the door.

“Maitresse, are you alright?” Lampito asked in a puzzled voice.“Yes…” she turned towards the elf and smiled with a small manner, “I am just tired.”

Tags: @my-current-fandom-is

In this chapter I wanted to explore a bit with the dynamics of Maxine and Theseus. They were former colleagues and I have hinted that things weren’t entirely platonic. From whose side it was more, I will leave it to you. At this point you can see, Maxine has totally different dynamics with Newt and Theseus.

The French subtitles were getting cumbersome, so I added the translation right there. But some words here and there are added in the footnote.

Baroque: I have mentioned that quite often. Baroque is a style of architecture, music, and fashion that is emotional, overtly religious and ornamental. It was famous form late 17th to late 18th century. This is also the period when French Aristocracy died (French Revolution : 1789), so I thought that an old French Pureblood family, such as the Valois will try to hold onto that ‘good old days’. Here is an example how ‘Baroque’ looks like:

Signet Ring: a family jewel worn as a ring on the little finger by European aristocratic males (the eldest son, the Paterfamilias). It usually bears the Family crest, and passed down generation after generation. Here is the sample Baroque signet ring worn by the Last French Monarch, Louis XVI, crested with Fleur de Lis

Valois: French for “From the Valley”, it was a very famous Aristocratic house in France, and for several centuries, they assumed the French Throne.

Quin: a Slang for Vagina

Maitresse: French for “Mistress”

Barbe de Mer: French for “Merlin’s beard”, however, Maxine shortens Merlin into “Mer”, French for the sea, also signifying “Beard of the Sea” or tumultuous waves.

Fainting couch : a couch in the Victorian household where women who were sick, fainting or both used to lay down.

Cheval: french for “horse”, metaphorically signifying Cheveliers (knights).

#fbawtft #crimes of grindelwald #theseus x oc #theseus x reader #theseus scamander x oc #theseus scamander x reader #newt x oc #newt scamander x oc #newt x reader #newt scamander x reader #drunk!Theseus #drunken confession #flashbacks #angst #the one that got away #ex girlfriend

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indoukaoru · 7 years

Text

wherever you would call me (read on ao3?) rated T; ~3.5k words kazama jin / tsukamoto tsukushi, one-sided kurusu hiroyuki / kazama jin

it's fine as long as they're happy, right? or: the one where kurusu doesn't have a crush on kazama, because – that'd be weird.

(companion piece to let me hear you, though this can be read as a standalone.)

Hiroyuki’s feeling good about making Seiseki. He knows he’s got the strength, the speed, and the charisma he needs to become a star playmaker. For a first year, he’s doing pretty well.

And then Kazama Jin strides onto the field, exuding confidence, all long hair and sly smiles, and something in Hiroyuki’s world tilts on its axis, zeroing in on Kazama’s plays. Kazama manipulates the ball with grace, making it look effortless, blond hair like a veil around his face when he dives for an interception.

– so he idolizes the guy a little bit, but really: can you blame him?

It’s around the time of the first training camp when he realizes that something’s up.

Hiroyuki’s lounging around in one of the hot baths, letting the water soothe his sore muscles, when Tsukamoto awkwardly inches over to him, eyes wide.

“Kurusu-kun,” he starts, “what was Kazama-kun like in middle school?”

Hiroyuki tries to recall seeing Kazama in action on the field, but recalls only the sting of crushing defeat against his team.

“Dunno. He wasn’t able to play in the final match of the junior Nats,” he offers, and Tsukamoto looks thoughtful. Wonder what’s on that shrimp’s mind.

“Oi,” he says, leaning over and prodding Tsukamoto in the center of his chest. “What makes someone good at soccer?”

Tsukamoto blinks, and then raises a hand excitedly. He’s like a puppy, geez. “O-oh, scoring goals!” Hiroyuki resists the urge to slap him, growling in frustration.

“You idiot,” he says, “that’s not it. It’s the way they handle the ball, the way they act on the field. Kazama…” Hiroyuki pauses, swallowing. He’s goddamn amazing, that’s what he is. He’s –

He’s pretty sure he wasn’t going to complete that thought with hot , but it comes to mind unbidden and he recoils, internally.

“Kazama’s control is watertight. That guy… his talent is natural. When he plays, it’s graceful, elegant – that’s real soccer. That’s how you can tell that he’s good. ” Hiroyuki leans back, crossing his arms. In his mind, he replays the goal Kazama scored in their last practice match, the way he’d executed a perfect feint, dodging a defender’s slide by kicking the ball up into the air, jumping over the enemy player with infuriating grace, lining up the shot and scoring it easily into the back of the net. Hiroyuki thinks about the way Kazama’d smiled, brushing his bangs back out of his face and lifting the hem of his shirt up to dab at the sweat on his face, and his face heats up.

He slides under the surface of the water, trying not to think about it. He’s just confused, and it’s Kazama’s fault, anyways. If he just – if he just cut his hair, like a normal guy, if he stopped looking so goddamn feminine all the time –

Guilt stops his thoughts in his tracks, and he sighs, blowing bubbles out into the bath. Nah. It’s me. Distantly, he hears Tsukamoto make a small noise of alarm.

What the fuck am I doing?

It only gets worse from there.

Once he’s started to notice things, it’s like a switch has been flipped, and before he knows it Hiroyuki’s eyes are locked on Kazama every game, as if he can’t look away.

“You must be really jealous, huh,” Nitobe mutters, next to him, and Hiroyuki elbows him in the side indignantly. Yeah, if only it was that. He looks away, clenching his fingers against the bench, feeling self-disgust threaten to swallow him whole. He shouldn’t be thinking these things about his teammates. It’s – it’s traitorous. Disgusting.

There are words for what he is, and none of them are kind.

It’s – it’s not as if he hasn’t noticed this before, the way he’d never been able to focus on girls the way his peers had, how it’d been the glimpses of skin in the locker room that’d set something tight in his stomach, that’d made heat flush up the back of his neck. Hiroyuki shuts his eyes, trying to distract himself. It’s a betrayal of his friends, of his team. If he just tries harder, he’s sure these feelings will go away. It’s just a matter of time.

It’s a weakness, a character flaw, and Hiroyuki hates himself for it, pushes himself harder, desperate to prove to himself that he’s masculine enough. It’s pathetic, and he knows it.

A snap in front of his face shakes him out of his reverie, and he turns to see Nitobe, watching him with a strange expression.

“Are you sick, or something? What’s up with you today?”

Hiroyuki glances back to the field, just as Kazama scores a goal, triumphant smile lighting up his face and setting sparks loose in Hiroyuki’s gut, and he swallows thickly, mouth suddenly dry and parched.

“No,” he grits out. “I’m fine.”

It’s at a home game when it happens.

Kazama has control of the ball, dribbling it across the field and avoiding most of their defense skillfully, dodging their goalie with a quick back pass to Mizuki that gets returned to him quickly. He lines up for the shot, and Hiroyuki sees what’s going to happen a split second before it does.

A defender catches up to Kazama, kicking out for the ball, and hits Kazama’s leg, hard. It buckles, and Kazama stumbles, just as the defender clears the ball, sending his knee straight into the side of Kazama’s head.

“Kazama-kun!” Tsukamoto screams, already running to his side. Where he lies on the field, Kazama is deadly still, and Hiroyuki gets to his feet, hands fisted at his sides. He’s striding forward when Coach Nakazawa grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him back.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Hiroyuki fumes, pointing at the enemy player. “That bastard –”

“Sit down, Kurusu,” Nakazawa orders, and Hiroyuki breathes deeply, casting a sharp glare across the field before complying. Tsukamoto is fretting over Kazama’s prone figure, Ooshiba’s hand already bunched up in the enemy player’s collar. Hiroyuki sees Kimishita pull Ooshiba back, and the other team’s defender quickly backs up, hands held up in an apologetic gesture. The referee calls for a stretcher, and Kazama is quickly carted off the field, Tsukamoto being subbed in to take his place.

Kazama…

The rest of the game passes by in a flash, and the minute Tsukamoto’s off the field he’s in Hiroyuki’s face, tears already pooling in his eyes. Don’t give me that look…

“Kurusu-kun, you have a car, right?”

“I’m the same age as you, dumbass! I’m not even legally allowed to drive yet! It’s my dad’s car.”

Tsukamoto stares him down, insistently. “Kazama-kun’s at the hospital only fifteen minutes away from school.”

“What’s your point?” Hiroyuki knows exactly what his point is, and rubs at his face with a tired hand. “Agh, fine. But two rules: first, you don’t tell anybody about this.”

“And the second?”

“You ride in the backseat – quietly. And don’t even think about crying in my car, y’hear?!”

“I-I’ll try my best!” Tsukamoto exclaims, bowing over and over again. Hiroyuki slaps him across the head, hissing.

“Shut up, idiot, the others will hear. Now change, and let’s go.”

When they get to the hospital, Kazama’s still out cold. Hiroyuki sighs, glancing around the spartan room. It’s mostly empty, aside from Kazama’s bed, an assortment of medical equipment that Hiroyuki’s too afraid to touch, and a bunch of cheap-ass plastic chairs placed across from Kazama’s feet. Tsukamoto dives into a chair, exhaustion evident in the way he sprawls out, head lolling back in the seat.

“Oi, don’t take up all the chairs,” Hiroyuki grumbles, rolling his eyes when Tsukamoto jumps up, apologizing profusely.

“Shut up,” Hiroyuki mutters, taking the seat farthest from him. He gestures to Kazama with his head, breathing out wearily. “We’ve got a long wait ahead of us, apparently.”

Tsukamoto stills, sitting back down, and frowns over at Kazama, fingers curling and uncurling in his lap, his gaze intense. He and Kazama are awfully close, huh?

Hiroyuki glances over at Kazama, eyes scanning over his face. There’s an ugly bruise purpling over his temple, his hair fanned out messily over the pillow. He still looks like a damn model.

Almost self-consciously, Hiroyuki runs his fingers through his hair, wincing when he feels the waxy residue of melting hair gel, noting how his hair is drooping more than usual.

Tsukamoto makes a soft noise, and Hiroyuki looks over at him in surprise. Eh?! Tsukamoto fell asleep already? What the hell…

Uncomfortably, he realizes that it leaves him alone with his thoughts, and he tries to look down, staring at anything but Kazama. Why did I agree to this? It’s not like I care as much as Tsukamoto does. They’re – close. God, what am I doing here? I’m just an awkward third wheel.

Kazama’s head turns, slightly, and Hiroyuki spots it from the corner of his eye. Kazama lets out a soft, pained noise, and Hiroyuki’s traitorous chest fills with worry.

“Kazama? Oi, Kazama!” He gets to his feet, crossing his arms and glaring down at the blond, who stirs sleepily, blinking up at him with puffy eyes. Kazama glances at him before his gaze lands on Tsukamoto, and the edges of his lips quirk up. Hiroyuki tries to tell himself that he’s not bothered, a little bit, by that dismissal, jabbing a thumb backwards to point at Tsukamoto.

“This idiot wouldn’t leave me alone until I drove him here to see you,” he starts, almost defensively. “Hey, are you okay though? You scared us, back there –”

“Kurusu,” Kazama interrupts. His voice is hoarse. “There’s something wrong.”

The medical talk goes way over Hiroyuki’s head, but he gets the gist of it: Kazama’s hearing is damaged because of his injury. Kazama is quiet, saying nothing, and Hiroyuki frowns, fidgeting awkwardly in the silence.

Tsukamoto paces the length of the room, hovering around Kazama’s bed as if he wants to reach out to him, but keeps his distance. Tsukamoto’s eyes are wide, fixed on Kazama, who tries to send him a reassuring smile.

Hiroyuki feels, again, as if he’s intruding, and hurriedly excuses himself with the excuse of buying lunch.

Once he’s out of the room, he leans back against the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. What the hell am I doing?

When Hiroyuki gets back, Tsukamoto’s asleep, head pillowed into Kazama’s side. The blond is staring down at him with a soft expression, hand reaching over to card through Tsukamoto’s hair. Hiroyuki freezes, shock running through him. So they’re – that.

He tries to tell himself that it’s not a problem, but something about it worms under his skin and bothers him. Memories flood to the surface, lectures from his parents. It’s immoral. Wrong.

He glances at Kazama’s eyes, protective and fierce, as if issuing a challenge. Hiroyuki shuffles in, setting down the food on the table, and awkwardly clears his throat.

“I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”

“Don’t be crude,” Kazama scoffs.

“So,” he tries. “You two –”

“We’re not like that,” Kazama says, hurriedly. Hiroyuki feels relief and guilt roll through him all at once, and he turns away, quickly. Yeah. It’s just me. I can’t expect anyone else to feel the way I do, after all. I keep forgetting.

Hiroyuki raises his hands in a placating gesture, shaking his head.

“It’s – it’s not a problem, y’know, if you, uh – if you are. Which you’re…not.” He pauses, awkwardly. “You’re not, right?”

“No,” Kazama says, flatly, and Hiroyuki wants the ground to open up underneath him. Real smooth.

Still, there’s a part of him that’s – not disgusted. He’s uncomfortable, but he – he wants that, on some level. He wants someone to fall asleep on, wants someone to tell him that what he feels is okay.

He’s not jealous , but – he’s pretty damn close.

He breaks out the food, and tries not to let it show.

Kazama gets released from the hospital the next day, and he comes to practice looking paler than usual, the dark bruise standing out against his skin. They’re playing an easy practice game, and when Hiroyuki calls Kazama’s name for a pass, he doesn’t turn. Hiroyuki hesitates, frowning, and passes it to Nitobe, instead.

Something’s off.

When Mizuki blows the whistle, Kazama winces, hand flying up to his ears, and Hiroyuki stares at him, glancing across the field and meeting Tsukamoto’s worried eyes before he decides to act. Typical.

He follows Kazama off the field and into the corridor leading into the locker room, passing him a bottle of water and standing not-so-subtly in his way. Hiroyuki hesitates, trying to figure out what to say.

“Hey,” he starts. “You, uh…”

Fuck. Shit. Why is this so hard? Frustration wells up in him, and before he realizes it he’s stepping forward, poking a finger against Kazama’s chest.

“Don’t overwork yourself, idiot!” Kazama winces, and Hiroyuki is hit with a small pang of guilt, remembering the way he’d flinched at Mizuki’s whistle.

“I’m fine,” Kazama says, weakly.

“Like hell you are,” Hiroyuki snarls. Why am I the only sane one on this team? “Tsukamoto’s too scared to say anything because he doesn’t want to take away the first change you’ve had to play in weeks, but unlike you two monsters, I’m a normal human being who cares about things other than soccer – like my teammates’ wellbeing. So stop pushing yourself like this!”

Kazama shakes his head minutely, and if he wasn’t injured Hiroyuki would have punched him by now. Why is he so stubborn?

“What’s it to you, anyways?”

Hiroyuki freezes for a split second, gritting his teeth, because Kazama’s right – why does he care so much, anyways?

– he’s pretty sure he knows, and he hates himself for it. Kazama takes advantage of his silence, moving to walk away, and Hiroyuki reaches out, grabs Kazama’s wrist, pulling him backwards. Tsukushi does this, doesn’t he? He grabs your wrist and looks at you like you’ve lit up his world.

“Oi, what’s your problem?” Kazama says, frustrated.

“What’s your problem? You’re obviously hurt – I can see it. Tsukamoto can see it. Hell, half the team can see it.” Hiroyuki’s not – he’s not smart , most of the time, but he’s not stupid , either, and he’s angry that Kazama doesn’t see it. Tsukushi’s not the only one who cares about you, dumbass.

“I’m fine ,” Kazama says again, and this time Hiroyuki can’t take it, pushing him backwards, watching him stumble and recollect himself sloppily. You call that fine?

“Take a break, Kazama.” He takes a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. “I’m not the only one who’s worried – you think Tsukamoto wants to see you hurting yourself like this?” Kazama’s eyes flit to the side when he mentions Tsukamoto, and Hiroyuki wants to laugh, a little bitter. He continues, “You’re not alone now, dumbass. You have Seiseki – you have the team. ”

You have me, if you’d see it, he thinks, placing a hand on Kazama’s shoulder.

“We’ve got your back. And when you do need to take time off, we’ll be here, playing extra hard for you. That’s what teams do. That’s what friends do, hell. So take a damn break, geez.”

Kazama is stunned into silence, and Hiroyuki’s hopeful this time. Maybe he’s finally learned to listen to what people are saying. He realizes with a start how close Kazama is to him, how his warmth radiates off his body and into his hand. Hiroyuki draws back, turning red.

“Oi, don’t just stand there. Say something already!”

“A-ah,” Kazama stutters out, looking down. “Yeah.”

“That’s not a response,” Hiroyuki mutters, sighing. “For someone so smart, you can really be dense sometimes, huh?” He turns away. “Sit it out for the rest of today. Get some rest.” Knowing him, he won’t, though.

He walks away, leaving a shocked Kazama behind him.

Kazama doesn’t come to practice the day after that.

Hiroyuki pretends it’s not an issue, pretends he doesn’t notice.

Kazama doesn’t show the day after that, either, though, and that’s when he starts to worry. He considers seeking Kazama out himself, but stops himself. He won’t want to hear it from me , Hiroyuki thinks, swiping a palm over his eyes. He only ever listens to Tsukamoto, huh?

He seeks out the forward after practice, leaning back against Tsukamoto’s locker and glaring at him.

“Kazama’s not here,” he says, off-handedly.

Tsukamoto, to his credit, doesn’t burst into tears. That’s a first.

“I know,” Tsukamoto says, miserably.

“You should talk to him,” Hiroyuki says. Does it have something to do with his injury?

“I don’t think he wants to talk to me,” Tsukamoto says, nervously.

Hiroyuki sighs, lightly patting Tsukamoto’s shoulder. “Kazama always wants to talk to you.”

Tsukamoto only shrugs, packing up his tracksuit into his bag.

“Seriously,” Hiroyuki says. “I don’t think it’s you. It – it wouldn’t be you.” Tsukamoto looks at him doubtfully, and something bubbles behind Hiroyuki’s lips, slipping out before he can help it.

“Do you like Kazama?”

“Kurusu-kun!” Tsukamoto jumps a little bit, glancing at Hiroyuki fearfully. Don’t look at me like that, damn it!

“I’m – I’m just wondering. It’s not my problem. It’s – it’s not a problem, if you do.” At least we’d have something in common, huh?

“Kazama-kun is a very good friend,” Tsukamoto starts, and Hiroyuki interrupts him.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Tsukamoto is silent for a very long time, which is answer enough. Hiroyuki kicks off of the locker, getting to his feet fully, and stretches. There’s a pang in his chest that eats away at him, as if he’s being hollowed out. Still, he puts on a smile.

“He feels the same way, y’know,” he says, glancing over at Tsukamoto’s wide eyes, the blush rising in his face, before walking away.

This better have been the right thing to do.

Unsurprisingly, Kazama’s back on the pitch the next day. Something’s putting a spring in his step, and Hiroyuki’s almost certain he knows what’s happened. He pushes aside the thoughts buzzing about his head, walking up to Kazama and clapping him on the shoulder amiably.

“When I said take a break, I didn’t mean ditch practice, dumbass.” Kazama scoffs, but he’s smiling.

“As if I need the practice anyways,” Kazama says, self-satisfied, and smiles through Hiroyuki’s glare.

“Still, welcome back,” Hiroyuki says, eyes grazing Kazama’s face before looking away.

“It’s good to be back,” Kazama says, before he hesitates. “And Kurusu – thank you.”

Hiroyuki stares at him, shaking his head. You don’t know what you’re thanking me for, do you? He flicks Kazama on the forehead, feeling smug when the blond winces, rubbing his head with a hand. It’s for the better that you don’t know.

It doesn’t feel that way, though.

Tsukamoto runs over to them, and Hiroyuki’s suddenly gripped with the urge to flee.

“Kurusu-kun, you’re not being mean to Kazama-kun, are you?”

Kazama laughs, putting an arm around Tsukamoto’s shoulder. “Nah, Kurusu’s just playing around.” Kazama winks at him and slides a hand up Tsukamoto’s neck, across his collarbone, and Hiroyuki swallows, tries not to give anything away. He goes red, but not for the right reasons.

“So, you–” he starts, glancing at Tsukamoto.

“Looks like it,” Kazama interrupts. Hiroyuki tries not to stare, looking away with gritted teeth, stuffing his hands in his pockets. It’s none of my business, anyways. They’re happy, and that’s what’s important.

Hiroyuki makes a half-hearted quip, and Mizuki blows the whistle to resume the game.

The second half ends quickly, with a joint attack from Kazama and Hiroyuki leading to Tsukamoto scoring a goal, and for once Hiroyuki’s on the pitch, watching Kazama up close score, and the rush of victory dulls some of the ache that’d been plaguing him all day. He runs up to Kazama, bumping him amiably on the shoulder. It’s enough.

Tsukamoto runs up and Kazama congratulates him, raising a hand to run through Tsukamoto’s hair. Hiroyuki brings a hand up to his face, swiping over his eyes. Get a grip.

“Public displays of affection are prohibited on the pitch,” he hisses, and Kazama laughs.

“Prohibited? That’s a long word, Kurusu. I’m proud.” Kazama looks around, eyes sharp, before leaning in to quickly press a kiss to Tsukamoto’s forehead. Tsukamoto beams, and they’re so happy that Hiroyuki has to turn away, lips quirking bitterly to the side. I don’t have a place here, after all.

“You two are disgusting,” he mutters, jokingly.

“Jealous?” Kazama asks, and Hiroyuki almost trips, eyes widening. Luckily, he’s turned away.

You’d be surprised.

It’s okay, he tells himself. What he feels will fade, and it – it’ll be okay, as long as Kazama and Tsukamoto are happy.

(– somehow, he doesn’t quite believe it.)

#days anime #kazatsuku #kurusu hiroyuki #kazakuru #kazatsukuru #fic.txt

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