Chapter Text
The road was dark.
It had been more lively the last time he came here, he thought to himself. The memory of a town lit up with warm sunlight, people passing by, talking, laughing played like a vintage film reel in his head; grainy yet nostalgic, melancholic, and undeniably mesmerizing… clearly, now gone, since the sight in front of him posed a great contrast to the once vibrant view that had etched itself into the crevices of his mind. The expanse of the land in front of him was foggy, a lifeless, green-grey hue possessing the atmosphere and turning the once beautiful land into what could be described as a stomach twisting ugliness. A wretched amalgamation of hollowness and grief clinging to the very soul of the town, visible, even in its aura—the road leading into the place itself. Despair, one should dare to call it—as not even the cicadas would let their incessant song fill the air, a rare phenomenon in Japan.
Kenjirou rubbed his face, inhaling deeply as his eyes drooped. He had been driving since the morning—6 in the morning, to be exact—the letter from his husband still crumpled in his hand, now damp with the light sweat that accumulated over the course of the drive. He hadn’t let go of it, not since he came home yesterday and saw it in the mail.
He could've brushed it off, but—
He knew it was him who wrote it.
Kenjirou could recognize his handwriting anywhere.
Especially when he’d seen that same, scrawly, shaking slant to it when he would write lyrics, cutting words out, adding a few in; like he had been dying to get his thoughts out, like he couldn’t bear to pause even for one moment—he acted like the fleeting ideas he’d have would dissolve the moment he even tried to put it off for later. Kenjirou used to think of it as annoying, especially when he sat next to him in the passenger's seat and all Kenjirou could hear was humming, and the grating scribbling noise of pen on rough paper… but now, he almost missed it.
“Get yourself together.” He mumbled under his breath—willing the thoughts and memories and the dizzying feeling that came with them away. He sighed heavily, trying to remind himself of what he was here for: ’Shirabu Kenjirou. Shut up. Hotel. Going. Now.’. He didn’t let the exhaustion in his bones stop his drive toward the hotel.
… The one they stayed in last time, all those years ago, before they married, before they had Yuki, before—
’God, shut the fuck up!’
The grip he had on the steering wheel tightened as his thoughts continued spiralling, it seemed like that's all he did now. It was pathetic, really, to relate this place—Kanseigaoka—to someone to this extent, to break down at the simple thought of them. Everyone had offered their condolences when they had met him—saying sorry as if it meant anything, as if it was their fault that Kenjirou hadn’t been there for him. They didn’t know how he felt, they couldn’t, and maybe that was the only thing they could apologize for; offering him pity as if it were a handout, acting like they understood and could feel what he felt.
Utter bullshit.
“Hey! Watch where yer fuckin’ driving, dumbass!”
A voice snapped Kenjirou out of his thoughts; hitting the brakes on the car immediately as he looked around, it seemed like he had driven to the area of the hotel he’d have to stay in, clearly, the place wasn’t all abandoned, even if empty. A few people daring to still stay here, as indicated by whoever he nearly hit. He couldn't see the person well, because of the headlights, but he could barely make out a head of dyed blonde hair with an undercut, revealing their actual brown hair.
“Sorry,” he called out in reply—with a barely visible roll of his eyes. He couldn’t have cut it so close, but… then again, he did seem to arrive quicker than he had anticipated. He didn’t know he was that lost in his own brain, a brain fog that seemed to have suddenly bedevilled him midway through the road. The person smacked his car gently; a gentle, metallic ‘thunk’ filling the odd silence of the town, Kenjirou found himself pissed off at it, even though the other only laughed and said, “Don’t worry about it! Ya better be mindful, though, comin’ here and drivin’ like that—people aren’t as forgiving as me, go on yer way now.”
The person walked away, raising a hand as a goodbye—Kenjirou observed him as he walked away, that blonde hair, the brown undercut, paired with those large, dark brown eyes and a shit eating grin. Kenjirou mumbled a ‘thanks’, barely restrained irritation lacing his voice—hidden, a skill he had mastered by now, especially due to his high school days. Either way, the interaction had pulled him out of the train of thought he had been trapped in, and he was finally in the town.
He remembered the path to the hotel by heart; a testament to how many times he had been here, years ago. He hummed under his breath, a tune he vaguely remembered from the radio that he had since turned off, due to the strident voice of the radio show host, on the station he had been listening to. ’Shame,’ he thought, ’I actually wanted to listen to the ‘calling your date’ segment they had been hyping up. The drama would’ve been fun.’
Even so, he parked his car in the lot of the hotel that he’d be staying at. He hummed, finally turning the engine off as he got out of the car—groaning and stretching his limbs out. God, it had been a while since he had done that. He sighed, letting his arms fall back as he observed his surroundings. It seemed as if the aura he had previously thought was already ugly was emphasized upon here; the fog making nearly everything non visible, besides the hotel itself, the grey structure neglected; the paint chipping away, visible water leak marks etched on the walls. The sign in front, ‘Aobaview Hotel’, had been kicked over, with no one bothering to pick it up and putting it back in place.
’Patient zero.’ He thought to himself—faintly registering the thought and filing it into the back of his mind. Maybe Taichi had been right, he was spending too much time at the hospital, if he was alluding the fog and unsightly scene to an illness and the hotel, for some reason, to ‘patient zero’.
He went to the trunk, pulling out his suitcase, and the bag he had brought with it. He made his way to the hotel, gently nudging the door open and taking in the cold nature of the lobby, with its dim, warm lights, trying to mimic the sense of a ‘homely feeling’, failing in its attempt. The furniture was placed for multiple people, but no one besides Kenjirou himself seemed to be there. Maybe it was one of those places that had a lot of people coming, until they seemed to forget that it existed, and eventually stopped coming altogether. The only person beside himself was the extremely bored receptionist—with pinkish-brown hair and fatigued beady eyes. He didn’t notice Kenjirou, until he came up to the desk.
“Oh,” the person—Hanamaki, as the pin on his uniform read—said, a nearly playful smile coming upon his lips, “didn’t know people still came here. Heyo~ I assume you either need a room or a better haircut, happy to help with either cause you DEFINITELY need the latter.” He said. Kenjirou’s eyebrows raised, as he scoffed—not only at the audacity, but at how bluntly casual it seemed, “Not taking advice from someone working in a creepy hotel in the middle of nowhere. The first one.”
“Ouch, you wound me,” Hanamaki shot back, he chuckled—now looking at his computer as he hummed softly, “well, uh, Mr…?” “Shirabu Kenjirou,” Kenjirou replied. Hanamaki nodded, “Shirabu… alright, uh, we have a room available—Room 1111, should be available right when you take a left at the first floor.” He mumbled, quickly typing the information in, giving him the keys. Kenjirou took them, pocketing it, “Alright, thanks. Don’t you need my—”
“—card info? Yeah, that’s standard, but you can pay after you check out. Trust me, we know if you don’t,” he spoke, waving him off. Kenjirou blinked, “Uh, o… kay?” he mumbled, confused about how fast the process was—better for him, his head was pounding, begging him to sleep already and finally recharge the energy that had already sapped out of him. He turned to walk toward the elevators, to maybe, finally, get some rest in his room.
—
Kenjirou sighed out as he ruffled his hair with the towel that had been provided by the hotel—hair damp with the faint smell of medicinal shampoo he had carried. He was currently scrolling through the group chat made between him, Taichi, Wakatoshi, and Satori. They all hadn’t talked in a while; probably to give Kenjirou some space after he had gotten the letter. They all looked at him like he was crazy (even Satori, which is crazy, if you ask Kenjirou) when he said he was coming here; and then in disbelieving shock at the letter; like they didn’t expect that he’d want him back, that he’d even write to him. Kenjirou wasn’t sure why, but he had snapped at them at the time, and... well, after that, it was silent.
With hesitance, he started to type.
shiraBOO
> hey, just got here.
> i’ll see u guys when i come back.
> sorry about what happened, i just wanna see him.
He turned his phone off, pausing—looking at the group chat for a second, and then turning it off as he dropped onto his bed; groaning in relief as he felt the exhaustion seeping into his bones, before finally leaving his body. He turned on his side—looking at the view of the lake that greeted him, and his bedside table. He reached over, to turn the lamp off and finally sleep after an exhausting day of driving.
But his hand froze.
He looked at the letter, his hand hovering over the paper for a second as he debated reading it again or not. He’d read it a million times, practically behearting the thing. Hell, if someone cracked his skull open and looked at the bone, they’d probably see his handwriting, that letter, written again and again—as if a madman had chiseled it into his very being. He swallowed thickly, giving into the need that seemed to put him under a spell.
Deft fingers took hold of the letter; his calloused skin tracing it reverently, as if it were a priceless jewel or treasure that had to be shielded from the world. It was folded, not in an envelope like a normal letter would be in—the writing, in red ink, read: ’To give to Shirabu Kenjirou.’ He exhaled softly, as if mentally preparing himself, once again, for what he was about to read—an action he had quickly been accustomed to. He flipped it open.
’kan-seigaoka.
i see that place, in the countless, irritating, sleepless dreams i have.
you promised to take me there; saying we could try camping there for once, ‘if you’re not scared’, i replied.
but you never did.
well, i’m there now—in that place that we called special.
waiting for you.
— semi eita.
His heart jumped, as he read the name—his husband’s name.
It was short, yes—but those words kept him going.
Especially since it was Eita.
Kenjirou wondered why he was here, why he would send it so cryptically—but Eita was always like that, annoyingly playful, always trying to tease and play around with Kenjirou. But he supposes that that’s why he married him in the first place, and why he still yearned for him so strongly. He put the letter aside—a nerve-wracking, yet all too dizzying feeling taking over him; the thought of getting Eita back, after so many months of feeling disillusioned and exhausted…
It furthered his resolve.
He reached over to the table again, pulling the chain of the lamp so it could turn off and carefully setting the letter on the nightstand as if it were made of glass. He softly exhaled as he sunk into the soft bed, eyes slowly, but steadily, falling shut—as the words of the letter repeated in his head. Over and over again.