Chapter Text
The day started like any other—same thing as the day before and the one before that. Life wasn’t always easy, but, at the very least, it was consistent.
Sleep clung to his eyelashes when he finally found the strength to open his eyes, once again testing his mother’s patience by staying in bed until her third call, not fully asleep but, surely, not awake either. He rubbed his face in an attempt to regain some sense of self, as if stretching the skin over his cheeks would wipe the tiredness away and help him feel human again. He shouldn’t have stayed up so late in the night, he was well aware, but it was easier said than done. The night was simply more appealing than daytime.
He sat at the table after splashing some cold water in his face, ready to devour the same porridge he’d been eating in the mornings for the last twenty-six years. A perk of always running late was that there was no time left to spare dwelling on the mushy texture, nor the bland taste, since his father was already nagging him to move his ass and join him at the door. That porridge was the equivalent of mixing sand and water, but it would be the only thing he’d be eating for the next five hours, so he had no other option than to be thankful for it.
Having his father lecture him about starting his day earlier so he wouldn’t need at least an hour of work to fully land again in the land of the living, was part of the routine as well. The man complained just for the sake of it, since Hajime never messed up his tasks too badly—not only that, but the old ladies in the neighbourhood often remarked how well behaved he was and how they enjoyed stopping at the shop just to chat with him for a bit.
Unfortunately, being popular among the aunties wouldn’t save him from spending hours salting meat and making sausages, so better start as early as possible. Followed by his father’s grunts and grumbles, he kissed his mother goodbye, grabbed his hanten, and bolted through the door.
The blood had never been a problem for him—the smell was. And the textures. He often wondered what would come before, his hands aching to the point of uselessness after many years of working guts into long casings, or him getting used to the metallic stench. His father once confessed that he’d never gotten over it; that every day he had to gulp and repress the nausea, just like his son. Hajime had his answer, then.
He put on his working clothes and the apron, and started to thoroughly wash his hands. He lived a frugal life, but one thing he wasted to his heart’s content was soap. His hands were dry, calloused, and too hardened for his age. When you worked manipulating stuff people would ingest, no amount of cleaning seemed enough. And, of course, he didn’t enjoy the burgundy clogs drying under his nails.
Once he was ready, Hajime met his father at the back, where he was speaking with Ukai, an old man who had already been ancient in Hajime's childhood. Ukai worked at the slaughterhouse, and let them pick the animals they wanted to process before anyone else. In return, they gave him some pieces for free once the meat was salted and smoked.
“Liven up, kid. You always look like the dead.” He wasn’t particularly friendly, but his eyes were kind.
“I’m fresh as the morning dew, sir,” Hajime retorted, smiling.
He took one of the crates Ukai offered them, full of the parts they’d curated the day before. The process of treating meat was slow, and, since people were apprehensive about having it done close to the urban area, Hajime and his father killed the animals and did what they ought to miles away, then paid Ukai to bring them the meat the next day.
From there, the day blurred in a spiral of monotony. The hours passed excruciatingly slowly; it was like every time Hajime looked beyond the small window next to the door, the sun hadn’t moved a single inch. Shadows weren’t growing, and the streets were still completely bathed in bright light. The afternoon was winning the battle against the evening, it seemed.
Once the frenzy of the late morning ceased, working in the shop was torture. He didn’t have any tasks left to do, except for cleaning the place, and he’d already done that twice. One could eat sausages from the floor and lick it after that so as not to waste any of them. No wonder he was good at conversation; greeting customers was the only thing that kept him from dropping dead out of pure boredom.
He knew better than to complain, though. When he was younger, he had let his father know that he hated staying put, waiting for someone to walk through the door. His father, always the extreme and pragmatic man, had made his point most brutally: he had sent him with one of his neighbors to work in the rice fields and had cut down Hajime’s meal portions in half. That, allegedly, would teach him ‘how life without the shop would be’. Brutal, but effective. Hajime never fussed about their routine ever again.
That didn’t mean he didn’t spend every waking hour dreaming of any other life that wasn’t the one he was living. He imagined himself working at one of the coffee shops, always buzzing with people in fancy clothes. At times, he wondered how life in the military would be, but concluded that blood from pigs and calves was better than from humans. The factory, a place where most of the men his age worked, was never a place he pictured himself in—although he hated dressing meat, he’d do that any day over spending hours doing the same repetitive actions like an automaton.
His head was miles away, picturing kids he knew from school showing off their severed fingers, or the cuts they’d gotten from heavy machinery when the bell at the door chimed, alerting him that a customer had just walked in. He got up quickly, putting on his best smile.
A wave of bile climbed up his throat from the pit of his stomach, burning his esophagus. He gripped the counter so hard to stabilize himself that his knuckles turned white.
“... you okay? Sir?”
The voice that cut through the ringing in his ears was terse, airy yet deep, and stained with concern. Hajime swallowed and inhaled deeply before daring to look up again. The silhouette that he’d caught a glimpse of before nausea overcame him was now a whole man standing in front of him, dressed in vivid fabrics that probably cost more than his family made in a quarter. Soft locks of chestnut hair framed a round face, and Hajime could only think that it was a shame that concerned wrinkles disturbed such flawless skin.
He was going to be sick.
“Yes, excuse me. I must’ve gotten up too fast,” Hajime replied, voice shaky.
“Please, sit back down. You look as if you could use a minute.”
He wouldn’t fight the stranger on that—the dizziness was so strong he wasn't even able to feel the shame from causing a scene in front of a customer. A thin layer of cold sweat covered him from head to toe, similar to the first time he almost chopped his hand off with a hatchet while cutting up a lamb.
Lean fingers wrapped around his wrist to guide his hand towards a clay cup filled with water. He startled at the contact, but got the message and took the offered cup with both hands in order not to spill it. He was shaking.
“Drink, you’ll feel better,” the voice said again. Hajime simply nodded, taking a sip, and then another. “This weather is terrible, so cold in the mornings yet warm till the sun comes down. It’s so easy to get sick.”
When Hajime looked up, he found a pair of sparkling eyes in front of him. For a second, that was all he could see: irises of such a deep brown hue he could almost smell burning embers of pine wood. Maybe Hajime actually had a fever, because he could swear the eyes were glowing, that a ring of fire consumed the brown little by little.
He shook his head and closed his eyes for a second, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d been awake for too long.
“My mother’s right, I shouldn’t stay up so late,” he mumbled.
“Oh, but aren’t nights the nicest of times?” the stranger replied with his chirpy voice. “Although she might be in the right, sleep is important!”
Hajime finally regained the strength to take in the customer. He had a knee on the floor to keep himself steady at Hajime’s height, and his hands rested gracefully on the bent one. His clothes were Western style, a shirt and pants of a loose fabric that seemed fragile and not suited for any work. The stranger didn’t look like he’d been doing heavy labour, anyway.
To put it simply, he was the most handsome man Hajime had laid his eyes on. But the embarrassment was starting to settle in, so he didn’t have time to dwell on the thought for too long.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I was doing fine a few minutes ago. I’m sorry,” he repeated himself, leaving the cup on the counter and standing slowly, fearing his queasiness might return.
The stranger startled at his sudden moves, but a polite smile stretched his lips and his eyes got even brighter.
“Happens to the best of us!” he replied, raising easily and dusting off his knees, even though the fabric was spotless. “I’m just relieved you’re feeling better.”
“What can I do for you?”
He needed to build up the professional facade as fast as possible; otherwise shame would eat him alive from the inside out. As he stood at his designated spot, he dared to steal a glance at the customer, who was stepping out from behind the counter with long and fluid steps. He moved without a care, as if it were his first day on Earth and there was no burden weighing him down yet.
“My sister sent me to buy some beef. I don’t know a thing about cooking I’m afraid, so whatever is fine for stew?” the stranger admitted with a sheepish smile.
Hajime had been around people he found attractive, or at the very least easy to look at; therefore, he couldn’t understand why looking directly at the customer was making his heart beat so fast. He felt the acid in his stomach trying to burn every single organ inside his body. It was like every time Hajime dared set his eyes on his, every single one of his muscles got ready to jump. Fortunately, talking about meat didn’t require much concentration on his part.
“Chuck’s a good option,” he recommended, turning around to wash his hands thoroughly. “Ribs, too.”
“Well, then I’ll take enough of both for five people. Please.”
Having something to do with his hands was a blessing. He carefully took the salted pieces and started cutting them with thunderous blows of a long, broad knife. The sound of metal against wood was familiar, soothing. He only had to be careful not to add a thumb to the order.
“If you need vegetables too, I’d recommend the shop three doors to the left.” Small talk was a safe option, although his voice betrayed him with its slight tremor. “The products are fresh and the owner is really nice.”
“I’ve never been in this part of town, but so far, everyone has been lovely.”
“Where have you been?”
“Your shop.”
Hajime snapped his head up so fast he was surprised he didn’t pull anything. A dusty red started spreading from his nose to his ears, and soon he felt the warmth creeping beyond the neck of his shirt.
The stranger, far from sharing the utter embarrassment Hajime was about to die from, had his chin resting on the palm of his hand, with his elbow propped on the counter carefreely. Hajime could tell the man was a flirt; although his comments couldn’t land too well when their interaction so far had consisted of him almost fainting and a brief conversation about what pieces of meat worked better for stew.
“Are you trying to fish for a discount, sir?” Hajime asked, the filter between his brain and mouth be damned.
The stranger laughed with his whole body—wrinkles around his eyes, his shoulders shaking. He looked so young, yet Hajime could tell they were most likely close in age. Who could blame him for having a physical reaction to him? There was something about the man that felt almost magnetic. He was one of those people who made heads turn in his wake. Hajime could still feel the warmth of his fingers around his wrist.
The fact that Hajime reacted to attraction as if he were a deer surprised by a hunter only meant his friends were right: he needed to go out more.
“Why, is it working?”
“Not at all,” Hajime replied with a smile himself.
He finished cutting and packaging the meat, turning around to wash his hands once again. When he turned back to face the customer, something in his features made him halt. Nothing had changed, though suddenly, he was different. It was just a second, enough to leave Hajime gasping for air again.
“Your order, sir. That would be two yen, please.”
The stranger, unfazed by Hajime’s hoarse voice and shallow panting, took the bag attached to his belt.
“With or without the discount we were discussing?” he asked, as cheerful as the moment he crossed the door. A headache startedto make itself noticed in the back of Hajime’s head, preventing him from continuing the friendly banter they had established.
“You’ll have to come back to discover it,” he managed to let out as casually as possible.
“Oh, if Iwa-chan asks so nicely, then I’ll surely have to.” Hajime’s brows rose to the start of his hairline. The stranger chuckled. “Not a big fan of nicknames? What a tough crowd!”
“Have a nice day, sir,” Hajime replied, rolling his eyes.
“It can’t get any better, but I’ll try.” With that, he turned around and opened the door. Before he finally walked away, he turned to say, “Thank you, dear, see you soon!”
Hajime shook his head, snorting quietly.
It was dark when Hajime finally got to close the shop and go back home. Exhaustion had settled in bit by bit over the last hours of the day, leaving him unable to stand on his feet for more than half an hour at a time. Maybe he was incubating something, after all.
The light from the streetlamps cast shadows over the still busy streets, an orange glow that enhanced the dullness in everyone’s faces. No one had energy to spare at the end of the day, not just Hajime. Maybe it was the season—the days were getting longer and the weather was warmer, but nights still held most of the hours.
Hajime’s shoulders touched his ears in an attempt to protect himself from the cold air. With his arms crossed over his chest, he walked as fast as he could, already dreaming of the steaming dish of soup his mother would have already placed on the table. And the best part was that the next day he didn’t have the evening shift, his father would take care of it.
The thought that maybe the stranger would come back crossed his mind, causing his step to halt. He furrowed his brow. Chances were, he wouldn’t be coming back; this part of town was way too far from the wealthy neighborhoods. He didn’t know a lot of businessmen—the actual count was, well, zero—but he imagined them just like this customer: polite, good with words, and well dressed. That farewell hadn't been a promise, just a formula to be pleasing.
Lost in his thoughts as he was, it took him a while to notice the person behind him. He didn’t hear them, it was the shadow walking beside him that gave them away. The street wasn't exactly small, so there was no need to walk so close to Hajime. He clicked his tongue, anticipating an attempt to mug him.
Criminality had been on the rise over the past few months, but the robber may be new, given that he was being so bold—who would try to get another man’s bag while surrounded by bystanders? Hajime wasn’t so worried, though, given that maneuvering dead animals frequently had gotten him quite buff, or at the very least, strong enough to knock out anyone who deserved it.
What bothered him most was that he couldn’t place the exact position of the other person. Most likely a man, judging by the silhouette moving on the road. It was hard to tell, but they might have a few inches over Hajime.
Adrenaline made his feet lighter, although he tried controlling his speed so his attempt at losing them wasn’t too obvious. Every turn he made, the other mimicked. His home wasn’t too far, a ten-minute walk at most, but the density of people around was quickly declining. Having no witnesses or someone to ask for help left him on edge.
It wasn’t until he had to cross the bridge to get to his neighborhood that he turned around to face whoever was following him. His blood buzzed in his ears and thundered in his temples. The familiar electric pulse of fight-mode got his hands clenched into fists, ready to throw the first if the situation escalated.
All for nothing, apparently, because, even though he checked before turning that the shadow was still right next to his, he was all alone.
No other person stood behind him, and, surely, they didn’t stand next to him. The only other living creature around was a stray dog that often wandered around, waiting for the ladies in the neighborhood to feed him. Hajime’s breath came out raggedly, his chest going up and down as if he’d run all the way there. He was safe, but confused. As he searched the street again for the mysterious shadow, he found none.
He was alone.
The stranger didn’t return the next day—he’d asked his father at night, over dinner. He also didn’t come back the day after that. Hajime wouldn’t waste time lying to himself: he was disappointed. A part of himself actually expected the man to show up, to purchase and chat for a bit. Hajime wasn’t in his best shape during their first encounter; he wanted to show him that he was more than a sickly man.
There was also the fact that he didn’t even know the name of the customer, yet he saw him everywhere. Whenever he caught a glimpse of a head of chestnut hair, he turned in hopes of finding those burning eyes. At times, while he was distracted carving wood, or busy chopping smoked meat into pieces, he swore he heard the door opening and a voice that sounded exactly like the stranger's had.
It was never him. Sometimes, it happened seconds before another patron walked through the door; most times, he found nothing.
There’d been a whole ton of nothing lately.
All those years he'd spent giving shit to his friends for becoming over-excited puppies when they fell prey to an infatuation, and now he was turning into one of them, if not worse. They usually just talked about the people they fancied—Hajime was borderline hallucinating.
“Come on, give us something, Iwaizumi!” Hanamaki nagged him again, kicking him right in the shin under the table. Hajime hissed, returning the favor.
“What do you want me to say? He was tall, rich, and didn’t know how to do groceries.”
“Oh, to be,” his friend sighed dreamily.
It wasn’t that Hajime was eluding the questions about the stranger just to be difficult; he simply couldn’t remember. When he tried conjuring in his mind, there was nothing but snippets: silky strands of brown hair, roasted almond eyes, the curve of a smirk. He’d been weak and dizzy, but the fact that there was no memory of a face to the broad back turned to him as the stranger walked out the door was… frustrating.
How could he explain that his chest ached at the thought of him? That his breath came out short when he closed his eyes and the memory of gentle fingers curling around his wrist visited him?
The scent of lavender still tickled his nose, nothing like the perfumes people of money used; it was exactly like letting your fingers graze the flowers. The stranger left at his wake the phantom of a forest, green and alive, fresh and inviting. He had no problem conjuring all those different sensations, but that was not enough to find him.
“He didn’t come to my nana’s shop,” Matsukawa told him, wiping the foam from the beer off his upper lip. “I asked her.”
Maybe he already had the vegetables covered, and he had only been after the meat. Hajime wasn’t delusional enough to believe that. Matsukawa solidified his suspicion that the stranger’s words had been for show, to be polite. He hadn't planned on spending more time than strictly needed in the area, nor was he coming back. Hajime needed to get a grip. Nothing had changed since the encounter; he still kissed his mother goodbye every morning, went to the shop, and sometimes went to get some drinks with the same friends he’d had since he was a kid.
“It’s a shame, he looked dumb enough to get a few extra yen out of him,” Hajime joked, taking a sip of his beer.
“Did you even try?” Hanamaki asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course not, I’m an honest man. Mattsun’s nana, on the other hand…”
“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Matsukawa conceded, shrugging.
And with that, the topic of the unnamed customer got lost in a wave of nonsense and animated chatter. Once again, Hajime got the reminder that nothing was that serious when you were out and having a good time with people you enjoyed being with. There hadn’t been a single time in his life that spending a late night with those two didn’t make a situation better, and this occasion wasn’t any different.
By the time they left the izakaya, with the moon at its zenith and washing everything with its pale light, his head was clear and his step lighter. The streets were barren, but their loud voices seemed to push away the shadows that crawled around them. Hanamaki was telling them about a woman he always saw on his way to work, one of the many girls who spend their days kneeling, elbow-deep in soapy water washing other people’s clothes.
Hajime was so focused on tiptoeing the line between making fun of his friend and encouraging him to finally ask her on a date that he didn’t realize they were almost at their destination. He stopped when they reached the bridge where they usually said their goodbyes, feeling like the night was still too young not to enjoy it for a little longer.
“Don’t fall asleep by the river again,” Hanamki taunted him with a smirk, clapping his back.
“At least now we know where to look when his mother knocks on our doors asking for him,” Matsukawa added, dragging some words enough to betray how drunk he was. He’d always been a lightweight.
“Eat shit, both of you,” Hajime chuckled, waving his hand before making a turn to the left, looking for the slope that led down the river.
They'd spent their days there back when they were kids. Hajime loved wasting hours away looking for tadpoles and watching them move around; he would just sit there, observing their erratic swimming, giving them names, wondering if they’d remember him when they grew legs and turned into toads.
It had always come easily, wandering into the forest, up the river. The city wasn’t the one he grew up in anymore; it had transformed at dazzling speed. New houses and buildings were almost reaching the riverbank, an attempt to take in the people who came from the countryside. So, if he wanted to lose sight of his everyday life, he had to walk into the depths of the trees.
Mattsun wasn’t joking; Hajime had fallen asleep in the foliage by accident more times than he was willing to admit. His mother always turned to his friends when she couldn’t locate him, so they were familiar with the forest, too, after so many trips to search for him. He had no excuse other than the one he had stopped giving when he was twelve: it was like the forest called for him. And nights were the nicest of times, just like the stranger said—Shit, there he went again.
Hajime clicked his tongue as he sat on the wet dirt. With his brows furrowed he angrily took off his shoes and dipped his feet into the cold water. The river still flowed slowly at this section, so once the disturbance he’d provoked eased it became a mirror. A not-so-well-polished mirror, but one could still discern their own reflection.
The moonlight accentuated his features, dying silver what should’ve been consumed by darkness. The scene before him was as if time had frozen: everything was deprived of color, just the argentum glow over the deepest black and the dim hues of grey in between.
With his eyes closed, he let the sounds around him show him what he couldn’t see. The melody of crickets harmonized perfectly with the whispers of the water. Toads croaked from time to time, and Hajime could hear them jump into and around the river; whether they were looking for their dinner or simply playing, that was unclear.
Then the lavender scent hit him.
He opened his eyes as if someone had just punched him in the gut—with the way his breath faltered, it might as well be what happened.
The stranger was right behind him, kneeling just like he did in the shop. Hajime saw his reflection in the water, and the vision of the face he’d been trying so hard to remember made him dizzy. There they were, the lazy smirk, the almond eyes.
Everything was deprived of colour, but his eyes were coals fighting to keep their burning core.
“Don’t turn around,” a voice that was so far away he felt it more than heard it said.
Hajime kept his gaze fixed on the river, watching the scene unfold more like a witness rather than an actor. The stranger got closer, until his chin was resting on Hajime’s shoulder and his arms cradled him, circling his shoulders.
He felt nothing.
Well, that wasn’t true. He felt warmth spread at every contact point, but there was no touch. There was no body against his, no delicate locks of hair tickling his face, no nose buried in the crook of his neck. His eyes told him a story that his body didn’t register.
Ah, of course. He was drunk. He wasn’t a lightweight like Mattsun, but surely he must have gotten carried away and drank one too many mugs of beer.
“You’ve made me wait for so long, Iwa-chan.”
There it was, the same annoying nickname. Hajime’s lids fluttered, but he fought the instinct to let them shut close—if he couldn’t feel the stranger’s touch, at least he wanted to watch. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he missed the way an ivory pale hand caressed his jaw, leaving a scorching trail behind.
His heart was beating so loud he wouldn’t be too surprised if it ended up breaking through the bone and muscle, leaving a hole the size of a fist on his chest, as he’d done innumerable times to pigs and calves.
To get to a pig’s heart, one should eviscerate it first: open its abdomen and take all the organs out—that was standard procedure. Sausages were a very popular sell, even though people were still a bit uptight about not eating meat. Everyone loved sausages. But the tricky part came when it was time to remove the ribcage: one had to open the breastbone and use a sturdy knife, or even a saw, in order to efficiently address this area.
Then you got to the lungs, and the smell was unbearable. Even when every month one of his neighbours died of hunger, pigs were always fat. And fat smelled terrible. Cutting the pericardium and veins and arteries always left him retching, yet holding the organ in his hand felt like a triumph, like he was raising a trophy.
Hajime wondered if the stranger would be so thorough in cutting him open, if he would cradle his heart as tenderly as he was caressing his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. He wished he could feel the stranger’s hands over him, roaming down his throat and to his chest.
“Don’t you want to touch me too, Hajime?” the voice reverberated inside his skull.
“Yes,” Hajime gasped. He gulped, feeling his mouth watering. How ironic, having that he was in no way going to enjoy a feast that night, but rather be devoured.
“Then do it. Touch me.”
Hajime watched the stranger's lips move so close to his ear, it left him aching for his teeth to sink into the meat of his earlobe. Wishing to obey, he lifted a hand, trying to orient himself following the reflection so he could thread his fingers into the strands of hair.
A lively snicker froze Hajime’s blood in his veins.
“No, silly. Not like that.”
The words were cryptic, but he understood. He probably didn’t need words to understand, yet he was glad the stranger kept talking. His voice was addictive, so was the scent of lavender, and the touch he didn’t feel.
Hajime bent his body forward until his hand was hovering less than an inch over the water. The stranger’s face disappeared under it, and the longing to reciprocate the caresses was surpassed by the anxiety of losing sight of his features. Hajime closed the distance, and everything turned black.