Touta Matsuda

It was almost amusing how different Touta Matsuda was from the men you were used to back in England.

L was quiet, analytical, and unreadable - a man whose mind moved faster than the world around him. Watari was composed, always the perfect gentleman, carrying himself with an air of dignity. But Matsuda? Matsuda was… something else entirely.

He was warm. Open. Almost too open.

Right now, he sat across from you at a small café, eyes practically sparkling as he stirred his coffee. “So, uh, what do you think of Japan so far?” he asked, his voice just a little too eager. “Better than London?”

You glanced outside. The neon lights of Tokyo were a stark contrast to the dreary, rain-soaked streets of home. “Different,” you answered simply, taking a sip of your tea.

Matsuda grinned. “Different good or different bad?”

You tilted your head. “Different… interesting.”

Truthfully, you weren’t sure how to explain it to him. English men - at least the ones you were used to - were sharp around the edges. Cold, reserved, like everything they said was calculated. Matsuda, on the other hand, was like an open book with dog-eared pages. Nothing about him was hard to read. His emotions were right there on his face - whether it was excitement, embarrassment, or the occasional nervous fidgeting when you got too close.

It was endearing.

And maybe that’s why you found yourself smiling, just a little, as he tried to impress you with his knowledge of British culture.

“Oi, oi,” he started, furrowing his brow in concentration. “Did you know fish and chips actually comes from Jewish immigrants? And that tea is from China? So technically, the most British things ever aren’t even British!”

You raised an eyebrow. “And where did you learn that, Matsuda?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Uh… Wikipedia.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. Such a sweetheart.