Chapter Text
There’s too much on your back. Figuratively? Sure. Work is nothing but long and boring hours of data entry, and your family can never be boring and drama-free for even a moment. You haven’t been eating well, as it’s busy season for your company and that means by the time you leave work all that’s open is convenience stores and seedy bars. You’re tired.
But also, you have your impossibly heavy bag you lug around with you, and you’re wearing a winter coat that makes it feel impossible to move your limbs. Your keys are too loud on the lanyard around your neck, and you’re holding your gloves because you can't handle being immobilized in yet another way for the sake of warmth. And besides, you needed to use your phone to navigate.
You did happen to leave work late again, and on your way home decided to stop in at one of the aforementioned seedy bars. Since starting your current job 6 months ago you’ve made it your mission to check out a new place for drinks once a week. Other than this, you have pretty much nothing going on. You wake up, go to work, come home, sleep, and do it all again. Every day is the same except for the days you come to these bars.
Something in your chest starts to buzz at the thought of observing yet another greasy establishment in the late hours of the night, warming your core. The cockroaches skittering along the ground in front of darkened buildings, neon lights peeking out of flat facades beckoning passersby to just have one drink. The whole thought of it intoxicates you. In the same way that some people like to eat shitty prepackaged food just to feel sluggish and gross afterwards, so went your attraction to those dim lights. Like a moth to a flame. A reprieve from your daily cycle was worth getting your shoes a little dirty.
“You’re getting close”, your phone garbled out in not so few words. Your breath hitches in your throat as you see the front facade of this week's victim. It’s called “The Cathouse”, and you picked it specifically for this week because you knew it would be a rough one. You can’t wait to rip open that door, saunter over to the counter, and down 3 million beers. Or maybe like, 3. Either way you’re getting tipsy tonight.
You go to open the door and almost run face first into a salaryman on the phone with who you assume is his wife.
“Yes honey, I'm on my way home. I just finished work. Yes I promise. Okay, see you soon.”
As you peer into the establishment, you see he waves goodbye to a group of drunken men in their 40’s. You slip in silently and march straight to the bar where an open seat waits for you and all of your stuff. Hanging your bag on the back of the chair you hurriedly fumble with your wallet to get out two essential items: your ID and some cash. The bar is dimly lit as you expected (and you relish in it), so it takes a little effort to get your affairs in order.
When entering the bar you notice a few things.
First, the bar is absolutely covered with random photos and memorabilia of all kinds of cat related things. Photos of actual cats, a cat food bowl on the counter, celebrities with their cats, and tickets to movies about cats.
Second, and most importantly you see the bartender. At this point, you have probably been to 20 or so bars in this district and you have gotten used to the crowds. It was always tired salarymen and office workers stopping in on their way home for drinks with friends. Usually accompanied by an older grey haired man or a well worn old woman behind the bar.
But at this bar, a coppery blonde-haired man in his mid-twenties stares you down, having watched you walk all the way to the bar with a saunter in your hips. He’s wearing a white collared shirt that's been rolled up to his mid-forearm, the top two buttons undone exposing a bit of the skin on his chest. His shirt bunches at the top of his pants, wrinkled undoubtedly from hours of reaching up and down and bending over.
He’s cute.
You smile to yourself (and to him), bravely still making eye contact. A cigarette hangs loosely in between his lips, almost spent. You notice how the lighting accentuates his dark eyes and sharp jaw. He looks tired, sure. But more than that he is attractive in the same way that this bar is. Grimy, warm, and well worn.
He takes silent note of your curves, the way your office attire crinkles at your waist from sitting all day, and your smooth skin. He maintains eye contact, and flicks his cigarette out into the cat bowl on the counter. He leans down to rest his chin on his hand, elbow against the countertop wetted with liquor.
Fuck, I’m gonna have to scrub that out later. He thinks, immediately regretting his decision to play nonchalant.
“Well? What can I get you?” the man asks, with guarded humor in his well-practiced smirk.
“Oh! Sorry, uhhhh…can I get a lemon sour?”
“Sure thing-” he says while taking your ID, looking at it quickly “- y/n. One lemon sour for the pretty stranger in the ugly suit.”
They ordered my favorite.
You’re not sure if you should feel complimented or insulted, so you choose the former.
“Thank you Mr…?”
“Reigen.”
“Mr. Reigen.
“My pleasure. What has someone like you in a shithole like this?”
You look around, feigning surprise.
“Wait, this isn't a 5 star restaurant?” You exclaim giggling, “Oh man, I must have really gotten turned around!”
“Yeah yeah, okay. Here’s your drink.”
He sets your beverage down on the counter, sliding it towards you a bit so it’s perfectly in your reach and then turns around immediately. You take a cautious peek at the backside of your new acquaintance.
Nice.
He discreetly grabs a rag to wipe off his arm.
Great. Curacao.
There’s just a faint blue shadow where the citrus flavored syrup was on his sleeve.
I don’t know why I was trying to be all cool guy. They’re just another bar patron. Even if they are sort of…nevermind. I don’t have time for anything else in my life. Working three jobs takes up most of my life anyway. Speaking of which-
He straightens up quickly and returns to his work. No need to let a random customer distract him from what he was doing.
As he bustles around the bar quickly doing random tasks, you watch intently trying to determine what has you intrigued by this man. His neck strains in the shadow created by the warm overhead lighting, and you see his muscles move. He takes a sip of water and you see his adams apple bob up and down. You notice scars peppered along his well toned (but not aggressively muscular) arms, likely from years of manual labor. The way he pushes his hair up and out of his face, you almost think you see his sweat sparkle in the light.
You came to the conclusion before even stepping into this bar tonight that you needed an actual, real change in routine. You haven’t had a date in years. Too busy working. You think maybe you’ll try to get this man to take you out on one. If only to make your life a little more exciting.
Speaking a bit louder since he’s slightly further away shining some glasses, you say in a sweet voice,
“Well…what has such a handsome man like you in a shithole like this, Mr. Reigen?”
You can’t see because his back is turned to you, but he blushes. Hearing you speak his name like that makes him sweat a little bit. Besides the fact that he's felt your eyes all over his body as he worked. But he’s sure you’re just trying to get a free drink. He spins around and says,
“ I’m working, doing the most important job in the world. Serving the good people of
Seasoning City delicious beverages! ”
While he’s speaking he moves in performative jerky motions. Almost like a ringleader showing his prized lion to an adoring crowd he gestures towards your now empty glass and says flatly,
“Another drink?”
His demeanor is like if someone lit a flame just to blow it right back out. The juxtaposition makes you giggle. He really is kind of cute. You respond,
“ Absolutely .”
He brightens up at your reaction. Maybe the tips from tonight will be enough for a half decent meal from the convenience store. Or maybe even a combo meal from Mobdonalds. He continues his confident salesman schtick as he quickly refills your glass,
“Don’t mind if I do. I do more than just bartending, by the way.”
He looks down to grab a business card from his apron, while your mind goes somewhere else. Scrolling on your phone, you think about what you’d like to do on your day off tomorrow. Probably just sleep. Or maybe you’ll go for a walk.
You hear him awkwardly clear his throat, sweat starting to bead on his forehead from the amount of time he’s been holding his hand out, trying to get your attention.
Come on. My arm is getting tired.
Your eyes trail up from the counter to see his outreached hand holding...a business card?
You take it from him while snickering,
“I didn’t think bartenders had business cards-” you pause, your eyes stopping on the business name: Spirits and Such Consultation Office . And almost as importantly, the bartenders full name.
“So, Reigen Arataka. What is ‘And Such’?”
He falters a little bit at you saying his name so sweetly once again. You really wanted that free drink, huh?
“Well, we do a lot at Spirits and Such Consultation. Why? Do you have a spirit that needs to be exorcised?”
He sounds so excited talking about this other business of his, and it definitely sounds like more fun than your job. So you humor him.
“Well, not really. The only thing I need exorcised is this knot in my shoulder.”
“That could actually be related you know! But I’ll need to examine you to be certain.”
You laugh,
“So this pain and tension in my neck is me being haunted by a ghost?
“I prefer the term spirit”
“Right...a spirit. Could you fix this if I came by your office sometime?”
This is my in. You giggle to yourself, silently praising yourself for making an excuse to see him again.
“Absolutely! I have just the thing for it. And it will only swing you 7500 yen! I will have you all loosened up in no time. Like a new person. Completely haunt free.”
Well , you think I guess this is way to see him whether or not his prices are a little high to just be going into this blind…why not? I can afford it.
“Alright, I’ll bite. When can I come by?”
His eyes sparkle with excitement, and whipping out a pen with exaggerated swagger he jots down a date and time as well as a phone number.
“Come by the office at the time I wrote down, I will have everything ready so you can live your life with renewed energy and vigor! Oh, and this is my personal phone number. I don’t really have an office number yet…”
Getting an office phone was an expense I can’t spare, besides, it’s not like business is booming.
“Perfect.”
You take his business card, put his number in your contacts, shoot him a text so he has your contact info, and slam a good amount of money on the counter before hopping up and swaying out of the bar slightly drunk.
“Goodnight, Reigen." You call behind you.
“See you soon.~”
He smiles to himself, god you really were so cute. But you’re probably just trying to get a discount on that exorcism.
“See you!”
And on your walk home you are warm. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it's the thrill of a new hunt. Maybe it’s your phone glowing in your pocket, one number heavier. Maybe it's the photo you sent Reigen after you left with the intent for him to put it as your contact photo. Maybe it’s the hope that he’ll actually like the photo. No matter. You reach your apartment, kick your shoes off, flop onto your bed, and almost immediately fall asleep.
Hours later your phone buzzes, he sent a photo back. It shows his cheeks glowing from the cold, and the street lights of the business district. He regrets it immediately after sending it.
You probably won’t even show up to the appointment anyway. But he has to admit it would be nice to see you again.