Author's Note: Started writing this on a whim after realizing that Davis' dream of owning a humble "noodle cart" is a much bigger deal than it seemed at the time, given what a big deal ramen is. We'll see where it goes. Not meant to be AU exactly; I'm following canon as closely as I remember it, but it is unlikely that any Digimon will appear in this story, at least for the time being.

Thanks for reading ^_^

Incanto

Fukuoka, the largest city on Japan's southern island of Kyushu, was once two cities. The old castle town, Fukuoka, and the merchant quarters of Hakata stood on opposite banks of the Nakagawa river. Today as the sun goes down on the broad flat back of the Nakagawa, showing the veins of deep blue and purple concealed in the water, and broadening the haloes of neon light from the big shopping centers overlooking it—Canal City, Don Quixote, Riverain—the early summer air smells of ramen.

Tonkotsu ramen stinks. Pig bones stew in pressure cookers for hours, oozing their dark cartilage into the water until it turns a creamy white. Tupperware boxes are filled with dollops of bright pink shredded ginger, cool green negi onion slices, sesame seeds, and—a local speciality—damp mounds of sour, spicy takana leaf. Lights are kindled inside red paper lanterns. Already exhausted, the chefs puff on cigarettes behind their stalls as the tourists and locals begin parading by.

On a Friday in the last week of May, just before the last pink-purplish light rose up out of the sky, while there were still a few empty stools even at the most popular of the Nakagawa stalls, three boys were playing soccer in the brief courtyard that separated the row of stalls from the Canal City shopping center. This courtyard was decorated with colorful flowerbeds that were in full bloom only a week ago. Now it was too dark even to tell the three soccer-playing boys apart from each other, the soccer ball flitting like a giant moth in between their wiry bodies.

Davis stood pushing up the awning of his food stall with one elbow, watching the boys, smiling. His face was as perfectly round and open as ever, if a decade of living in the hot south of Japan had baked his skin very brown. If this were a movie, he thought, he'd jog over to the boys, juggle their ball away from them, bounce it on his head and shoulders while they gasped and cheered, maybe give them a few pointers, tell them to follow their dreams and never smoke cigarettes. But it wasn't a movie, he didn't remember a thing about soccer, and while still smiling, his hand moved down and kneaded the small pot belly he had been busy acquiring; although his arms and legs were still muscular.

It wasn't a movie, but that didn't mean there were no happy endings.

Davis' stall (the sign over his shoulder read Gogglehead, next to an appropriate pair of oversized swimmer's goggles) was not empty because he had no customers. If was empty because it was currently 6:27, he opened at 6:30 sharp, and the line to get in already stretched practically to the end of the row of stalls. People standing at the far end of the line might be waiting over an hour before they settled their butts on his stools. If there was one thing that still faintly embarrassed Davis about being Japanese, it was their willingness to stand in line for things. But in the long queue of Japanese faces there were some Chinese and Korean; even a few white, brown or black.

If there was anything to regret, it was the withering jealousy of his fellow stall owners; this Tokyo hot-shot stealing the crown of tonkotsu ramen right off the heads of Fukuoka's native sons. But no one could hold a grudge against Davis for long. He'd always made friends easily.

Davis's head chef, a calm young man with died brown hair, sat behind the red counter that circled him on three sides. While he didn't smoke, unlike many chefs, he was sipping the beer he liked to enjoy before his shift. His name was Kugiyama. He was the son of an old ramen house, and while Davis handled the menu, the ingredients and most of the publicity, he had Kugiyama to thank for the secret of his gold-colored broth; although he had helped by tasting many, many spoonfuls during its long perfection.

"Hey Kugi," Davis called back, "think you can handle the place for like a half-hour?"

"Sure." Kugiyama sipped his beer. "Hot date? They never last long with you."

"Harr, harr.—Nah, I just wanna stretch my legs a bit. It's a nice night, y'know?"

He bobbed slightly up and down on his heels. Kugiyama, whose narrow eyes were keenly perceptive, smiled.

"Sure thing. But hey, if doesn't work out, send her my way, huh? Lord Buddha knows I'm single too."

"Tch. Shut up. You stink like pig bones anyway."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

Davis laughed as he skipped out from under the awning, aware of the eyes at the front of the queue attaching to him—was it really him, the Daisuke "Davis" Motomiya?—scattered whispers…He picked his way between the black flowerbeds, under the shining lights that blinked Canal—City—Canal—City—to the place where the three boys had been playing.

They were gone.

Three boys. Maybe one or more of them had even been girls, it was hard to tell at that age. He walked a little way down the river's edge, scuffing his sneakers on the paving stones.

All of a sudden, for no reason he was aware of, he let out a big sigh.

It seemed to take all the air out of him. He sank down, looking over the water dark and bright that sloshed, rolled, moving past, on and on. He was only a hundred feet or less from the stalls, but they felt much farther away.

Said the pot to the kettle, he thought. What did that even mean? He wasn't sure, although it had seemed to make sense when Kugiyama said it.

Near midnight, only one customer remained under the awning of Gogglehead. Some of the nearby stalls were already shuttered for the night. The half-hour Davis had been stretching his legs had turned into one, two, then many; although a brief text message—alive?—had at one point yielded a similar answer—yeah.

Kugiyama wasn't surprised. He was twenty-four; Davis must have been nearly thirty. Guys got weird around that age. They started remembering things. And from observing his father, and others, it was Kugiyama's guess that, far from realizing that their lives were short, they began to feel that they had already been long.

He was polishing a beer glass, and without looking up he said to the only customer: "Sorry, boss. Doesn't really look like he's coming back."

"That's okay." The customer sipped down the last inch of shochu, potato sake, that remained in his glass. His voice was friendly and mild. He clicked down a five-hundred yen coin on the counter. "Thanks for your trouble."

Kugiyama had made a little conversation with the light-haired man. He was from Tokyo, and would be in town for a few weeks. He might have been some kind of writer or journalist, although he was vague on the point. He had come to Fukuoka to see a painting they had in the small art museum in Ohori Park—a painting by a Spanish artist, Salvador Dali, called The Madonna of Port Lligat. In twenty-four years of living in Fukuoka, Kugiyama had never been to the art museum.

"Hey. Give him my card, would ya?" The man placed a business card face-down next to the sticky imprint from his glass. "He'll remember."

"You mean you guys go back?—Well, yeesh, you should've phoned him up or something."

The man shrugged. It was difficult to tell just from looking at him what his line of work might be, or anything else about him. He wore a light-colored suit that matched his yellowy, flyaway hair, and there was the faintest suggestion of crows-feet around his eyes when he smiled, which was often. There was a camera looped around his neck. The camera was small, pink and white.

"I thought it might be cooler if it happened like this," he said. "Like something in a book, y'know? But life's not like that, not really. I should know that better than anyone."

He started to get up.

"Nice camera," said Kugiyama, as he slid the card toward himself.

"I'm holding onto it for a friend."

"Girlfriend?"

"A friend who happens to be a girl…yeah."

"Huh. If I'm giving the boss your number, how about you give me hers?"

The man smirked.

"Dream on," he said, took down his soft, almost shapeless hat from the peg it hung on, fitted it carefully on his head, and walked off into the fragrant, wet darkness.