Chapter Text
If he had known how this was going to turn out, Hitoya would never have agreed to meeting for for drinks, he would never have even stepped foot in this damned apartment in the first place.
Before he left for Jakurai’s apartment, Hitoya had glanced over his temporary office once more. The lights outside had long been switched off—the last colleague had left 2 hours ago—when the last train still ran. Other than himself, the office was dark, empty and silent. He sees in the reflection of the skylit windows, the blurry outline of himself flicking against the dark skies. Neon lights that speckled the tall buildings piercing the skies, like long, stocking fingers grappling at the vast expense in search for heaven; this is Shinjuku, a smouldering town that never sleeps.
The bratty client had demanded he come down personally to her hometown and though she was rich and loose with her money, annoyed him to no ends. She cried at the tiniest of issues and flailed about when he said anything that sounded like “no”, “definitely not” and god forbid he ever brought up the fact that even the law couldn’t bend to her heavy, silver fists. When her eyes welt up with tears, when she sobs away into her hands, the lady cries not like the high-pitched, reedy sobs of Jyushi, but with a hoarse crackling of her throat, as if she had spent her life screaming and never recovered from it. At least she paid well and even provided him with an office, albeit a rather cramped one, while he handled her numerous legal issues. It was his last day in Shinjuku and he had handed in the last slip of document, effectively freeing him from the dreary obligations. There was nothing else to do here, in this place he hadn’t been in a while, where the streets reeked with the bitter odours of neon colours, staining the coats of all its residents, staining the white snow that falls so plentiful in winter. There was nothing for him in Shinjuku.
Except for his phone, vibrating intermittently on his desk. As he stood gazing into the distance, someone had been calling him. Someone had left him messages, flickering on his phone screen. The latest model had cost a pretty penny, but budget had never been Hitoya’s problem, at least not when he felt inclined to indulge himself. (No one would pay for a Roomba that they would never get to use. Someone should tell Kuko that rumbas aren’t really suitable for wooden floors.). Now however, he felt a twinge of regret at his choice of phone. The latest had come with facial recognition; unlock your phone with just a glance, they said. Convenient and stylish, the mechanical lady crowed from the advertisements.
Convenient my ass. Now I have to deal with this shit.
Looking back, Hitoya knew he could’ve left the man on read, hung him there in between two sharp ticks. Sure, it stung but he wouldn’t have landed himself in this mess. He could’ve had a nice rest and been back in his office by now. What had went wrong, he wanted to ask though he already knew the answer.
It was almost midnight when he finally reached the apartment. With no trains or buses operating at the hour, Hitoya took his bike instead, weaving through the still packed streets of the night city. He took the longer route that day, slipping into smaller alleys and deviating from the bustling roads packed with fidgety cars and people. The wind blew cold that night and though it did not snow, the road was littered with the shimmering after images of bright headlights burning hazy circles into his eyes. Out of sheer will, Hitoya managed to drag a 30 minute journey into an hour and a half of silent riding, accompanied only by the rumbling of engines.
Hitoya loitered outside the door, not raising his hand to knock or even ring the bell. He hadn’t bothered to check the unit number, there was no need, yet he couldn’t find it in him to make his presence known. He stares at the peephole, as if it were an eye that took his shifty presence in with the contempt of an elderly lady eyeing up a reckless teen. He grits his teeth and reaches for the doorbell, only to miss his mark as the door swung wide open.
In his lounge wear, Jakurai greeted Hitoya with a gentle smile. Warm grey sweats and a matching sweatshirt, lint gathering in balls on the long sleeves of the fluffy material, there was an ease surrounding the doctor that Hitoya barely saw about him in the day. Homely, was the way he’d describe it, the comfort of a man shedding his skin and breathing with ease in his home. With all due respect, Hitoya knew how hard it was for even someone like Jakurai, proposed saint reborn by Jyushi, to carry the weight of expectations around others. He was someone who ran about hospitals, and the weight of mortality hanging on your shoulders was not a fun one; to shed the white coat probably gave the man some much needed peace. Hitoya found himself tugging uncomfortably at the lapels of his leather jacket, the cold of its metal zippers biting his hand. He didn’t know what to say, other than Hello”, “Good evening”, “I thought you would wear that white coat even in the house”. He says them anyway, afraid of the silence that hangs from the smiling face of the saint, conscious of the awkwardness between two friends whose paths diverged so far from each other, they find themselves almost unrecognisable. As he followed Jakurai into the house, the door swung shut behind him, creaking wearily on its shiny hinges.