Chapter Text
“No, none of this will do.”
Arisugawa Homare took to his notes with a red pen, slashing and circling away at poetry scribbled in elaborate cursive. Each stab of the pen hurt- his poems were like his children, and having to ax some from the lineup for his latest anthology made him feel like a neglectful father. But there were only so many he could include. His editors had made it clear- one hundred poems in what was supposed to be a small collection was foolish. Once again, Homare had dashed forwards too eagerly and tripped headfirst over the line between reasonable and foolish.
Sometimes Homare wondered if his decision to move out of the family estate was a good one in the long run. ‘Veludo Way- Japan’s theatre heartland’ had sounded so romantic when he’d begun to look up properties in the Greater Tokyo Area.
“It is a right of passage for a man to live away from home during his adulthood,” he’d told his grandmother and the assembled servants as they sat down for lunch in the Arisugawa mansion.
“But you don’t need to,” his grandmother had stated bluntly. “You have all you could ever need here at home.”
“Everything except worldly experience. My poetry, as it stands lately, threatens to become stagnant.” He gesticulated wildly at the word ‘stagnant,’ screwing up his face with distaste.
“Homare, put your fork down before you start waving your arms around.”
“Sorry, grandmother. But I really am serious. It would be nice to live away from home for a bit- to make my own space with my own hands. Besides, it would give the staff more time to focus on looking after you. You aren’t getting any younger, after all.”
“Thank you oh-so-much for that astute observation,” the older woman said dryly, but with a hint of a sparkle in her eyes. She knew from years of living with him that her grandson meant it in jest. With an irritable sigh, she raised one hand to her forehead and waved dismissively.
“If it’s so important to you, then go ahead. Just make sure to write to us.”
And with his grandmother’s blessing, Homare had packed his many suitcases and taken the train from Hachioji to Veludo, a few stops east along the Chuo line.
The apartment he’d purchased (not rented, the Arisugawa family did not rent ) was a few blocks back from the main thoroughfare of Veludo Way, with a nice overview of the nearby river and neighbouring Yosei University. The train trip into Tokyo had reminded him of the days their family driver had spent ferrying him to and from St Flora Academy in his boyhood days- though of course, the train was a decent amount slower and more crowded. Next came the days of unpacking, the struggle with the concept of paying bills (it seems the real estate agents did not have the common sense to include it with the house) and the purchase of a very expensive Baroque era mahogany dresser to lighten up the place. While the apartment, despite being a penthouse, was too small for the furniture he’d arranged to have shipped from home, he could still add little touches of the grandeur he desired.
And it was adjacent to this elaborate dresser, several weeks later, that he begrudgingly culled his collection of poems. The decisions had to be calculated- it would do well for him to match with an established theme throughout the anthology. Staring at his notebook, he sighed heavily. He’d been so wrapped up in the business of moving that he’d barely had time to actually write down his spontaneous musings. There were always a few fleeting poems that slipped past him (as expected of a man of such genius), but he had a hard time holding onto his thoughts these days. They seemed to skitter at the edge of his conscience, forcing him to work with older material, of which there was much to draw from. The days of a young rich twenty-something-year-old man were often filled with ennui and plenty of poem-making time. He’d often wander around the vast gardens of the Arisugawa estate, humming to himself as the fresh scent of roses coaxed verses from his thoughts. There were similar themes throughout the poetry of this period in his life- a sense of wonder for nature, the restlessness of passing time and dramatic, overblown romance. These themes would most likely underpin his next book.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Homare chewed thoughtfully on the end of his red pen and carefully drew a line between his old poems from home and the newer ones he’d written after moving to Veludo, writing ‘save for next volume’ in the margins. It marked a stark change, one that despite being self-initiated still felt strange and alien. To say he had underestimated the gravity of this move would have been an understatement. Homare Arisugawa seldom planned his ventures- he threw himself into them with reckless, good-natured abandon that often left him up the figurative creek without an imaginary paddle.
He reached for the mug of tea he normally kept by his side while he worked, then frowned when he noticed it was empty. A quick glance at his phone confirmed his suspicions- he’d worked much later into the evening than he usually did. Yet, when he examined his notes, it felt like he’d made much less progress than he should have in those four hours after he made himself dinner (another new experience). Sighing deeply, Homare put his pen down and stood up, stretching out his stiffening arms and back. It seemed like a late-night konbini run was in order.
Small, stuttering footsteps. A wavering figure limped through the streets. One eye blinked, watching as the tall, towering buildings undulated in their vision. Barely conscious, they continued on, barely registering the surroundings. They’d been walking forever, it seemed- for as far back as they could remember, they had been walking through city streets like these. A bleary eye had watched as those buildings soared higher, then shrunk as they journeyed in the vague direction of ‘west’. Their legs ached with the strain of days spent moving with barely any food to sustain those tired muscles.
That familiar drowsiness began to creep into the corners of their eyes. One thought crossed their mind- get undercover. A feeling of cold rain soaking through their clothes and keeping them awake forced this shadow of a person to press onwards. Ragged, staccato breathing fell into a syncopated rhythm with their limping gait. The streets were not particularly crowded, and it seemed that the few passers-by did not notice them despite their torn clothes and zombie-like appearance.
Eventually, passing a row of vending machines, they rounded a corner and staggered under an awning, collapsing against the concrete pillars and drifting off into unconsciousness.
The convenience store was fundamentally new for Homare. Occasionally back home he had gone to select ingredients for meals, but they were always from high-quality specialty shops with shining, lacquered cabinets and the finest things culinary Japan had to offer. This new world of shelves stacked to the brim with plastic-wrapped instant meals and processed snacks surprised him at every turn of these artificial food alleyways. Homare checked the price of a suspiciously-small baguette and raised one eyebrow before plucking it from the shelf, pairing it with a magazine and a collection of cup ramen that piqued his curiosity. Counting out change for the tired-looking cashier, he added a can of piping-hot coffee from the vending machine out the front to his konbini haul, humming to himself delightedly as he waltzed down the street, drinking in the night air.
(The cashier, on the other hand, was happy to see the strange man in the pinstripe suit go. He’d said some unsavoury things about the quality of the store’s carrots while lining up.)
The streets of Veludo began to narrow the further away from the theatres you walked. Homare was wary of those pseudo-alleyways, as he called them in his head- another new experience. Fate, however, necessitated him ducking into one on the way home as a group of drunken salarymen barreled out of a nearby bar, bawling profanities and swaggering down the street. It wasn’t that he despised drunks- that would have been hypocritical, as he was quite the lightweight himself and alcohol only made him louder. It was the sudden, unexpected burst of noise that left him off-balance and reeling, their shouts burrowing into his brain like worms.
“Good grief,” he muttered to himself, struggling to regain his composure. He began humming one of his favourite violin concertos, fingers tapping along the outside of his canned coffee to the melody.
It took five minutes for the inebriated men to pass by, and another five for Homare to return to that relaxed state of mind he’d inhabited earlier. With a wavering exhale, he continued the walk back to his apartment building, following the signs to Yosei University’s Veludo campus. From there it was only a few minutes to the drab concrete tower he now called home.
As he passed the looming skeleton of the university’s buildings, he exhaled with relief when the familiar front awning came into view- then almost choked on his own breath when he saw the slumped figure of a very ragged-looking man asleep on his apartment front porch! One hand almost dropped his bag and the other dug his nails into the aluminium can.
The man leaned against one of the awning’s support pillars as he dozed, snoring softly and unaware of the chill in the night air. He was clothed in a grey hooded coat with fabric that almost looked new, save for a few unsavoury stains. A rumpled red shirt and jeans completed the stranger’s outfit, both of them also relatively new-looking. Downy, snow-white hair framed his pale face and covered one eye all the way down to his chin. His face was the picture of relaxation; the way he clenched his fists and the odd angle of his right knee were decidedly not. He was, Homare concluded, an enigma.
“Hello?” he called out, waving his hand in front of the strange man’s face. The only sign of response was a small twitch of his facial muscles. Homare frowned again and cautiously outstretched his index finger to prod at his cheek. No response. He sniffed the man once- no scent of alcohol on him, which ruled out drunkenness- and considered his options.
1) He could leave this stranger alone and be forever tormented by the mystery of his circumstances
2) He could bring him upstairs and let him at least sleep somewhere warm- and maybe glean some information about why he was sleeping outside in late November.
His curiosity won that fight.
Gulping down the last of his coffee, he placed the empty can in the plastic bag and hiked it up over his shoulder before squatting down to slide his arms under this sleeping beau’s frame. With a grunt of exertion, he slowly lifted him up until he was holding the man almost bridal-style in his arms. He was surprisingly light as well, which pleased him.
“This could be easier than I thought,” he mused out loud.
Unfortunately he had forgotten that the lift was out of order, and thus Homare had to carry the stranger up five flights of stairs. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow before sliding down the rest of his face as he struggled not to drop the man cradled in his arms, still snoring away.
“The least you could do is wake up and walk upstairs yourself,” he complained as he passed by an old lady on the stairwell who had a look of utter confusion on her face. Cheeks flushed red from exertion and embarrassment, he cleared the last stretch of stairs and fumbled for his apartment keys. Pushing the door open with his knee, Homare speed-walked over to his couch and deposited his charge there, sighing with relief and massaging some feeling back into his elbows. Depositing the plastic bag on his kitchen countertop, he sat down at the coffee table with his notebook and pen, one eye trained on the sleeping stranger, waiting for him to awake.