Chapter Text
Decembers in Tokyo are deceptively mild. The sun hangs low in the sky, tinting the sides of skyscrapers varying shades of yellow and orange as morning bleeds into afternoon, and one would almost be forgiven for thinking its rays held some trace of warmth. But the sun is a fickle friend, always promising more than it delivers, and as the days drag closer towards the end of the year, the temperature drops lower and lower, the mornings and evenings taking on a bitter chill that seeps into the bones.
Sakusa Kiyoomi occupies a desk on the 41st floor of one of Tokyo’s premier sunlight-repelling skyscrapers. The sun makes no inroads into his cubicle, the dull yellow glow of the overhead fluorescents the only source of light Kiyoomi is granted.
On this Wednesday afternoon, the office is both silent and deafeningly loud, soundtracked by the buzz of fax machines and the persistent click-clack of mechanical keyboards. Kiyoomi sits hunched over his desk, posture being a concept left abandoned much earlier in his career. His collar scratches at the skin of his neck, a consequence of his propensity to overdo the laundry detergent, and he runs a hand through his curls, a sigh escaping his lips as he tabs through the spreadsheet on the screen in front of him. The numbers bleed together and blur in his vision. Another nameless, faceless business; people’s livelihoods reduced to mere cells in a document.
Just another day in paradise.
To some people, work is a calling, a passion. To Kiyoomi, it is anything but. Kiyoomi didn’t so much join the rat race as he was born into it. Academics were the only things that held any value to his parents. He was always expected to achieve, to excel. He was to take the hardest subjects, to place highest in the class. Personal interest played no part in it: every test or term paper was but another rung in the ladder. A ladder which led him here, to this innocuous skyscraper in Tokyo, in a 5’ x 5’ cubicle, completely indistinguishable from the fifty or so others surrounding it.
All that hard work, all that stress, only to be another cog in the machine.
And what an uninspiring machine it was. Administration: a process in which a group of nondescript accountancy types like Kiyoomi are charged with investigating the finances of a company that has run into pecuniary difficulties. Put simply, Kiyoomi’s job is to read through the accounts and decide if the company should be restructured, shut down, or sold off for parts. It is rarely interesting and frequently depressing. Often it’s a result of company directors letting their egos run amok and biting off more than they can chew. Sometimes though, it’s honest folk who just didn’t know enough about business to really make a go of it. Either way, it usually means jobs lost and careers tanked.
Some calling, huh?
Kiyoomi blinks at his computer screen, attempting to stave off the eye strain that always seems to plague him by the mid-afternoon. He’s in the process of checking over his work when one of the company secretaries appears at his side.
“Sakusa-san, Watanabe-san would like to see you.”
Kiyoomi steals a glance at the clock. It’s nearing 5pm on a Wednesday. It’s not usual for his boss to request a meeting at this hour. He rises from his seat, shrugging his suit jacket over his shoulders as he follows the secretary down the drab, dimly lit corridor that leads to the managers’ offices.
The secretary bows when they reach the door and ushers Kiyoomi inside.
“Ah, Sakusa, take a seat.”
Watanabe stands in front of the tinted window that lines one side of his office, staring out at the world below. It’s not much of a view at the best of times—little more than a reflection of the near identical neighbouring skyscrapers—but on a December evening such as this, there’s even less to remark on than usual. Even the sea of illuminated windows from nearby buildings seems sleepy and lacklustre.
Kiyoomi perches on the cheap armchair opposite Watanabe’s desk and waits. The stitching on the armrest is fraying, small strands of blue cotton standing up like blades of grass along the seam of the upholstery. Watanabe pulls his attention from the window and turns to face Kiyoomi. A short man with a shock of charcoal hair coiffed extravagantly on top of his head, he is the epitome of mid-level management. All the airs and graces befitting someone of a much higher station in life, paired with a distinct lack of taste and an inability—or perhaps unwillingness—to acknowledge the perspectives of others. The term “brown noser” was invented for people like Watanabe, and interacting with him was a distinct displeasure that Kiyoomi never quite got used to.
“You’re being sent on assignment,” he begins, unceremoniously.
Kiyoomi sits up a little straighter.
“A small job, only needs one person. Some farm out in hicksville’s dug a hole for itself. Seems fairly cut and dry, but you’ll head out there and go over the books all the same. Shouldn’t take you more than a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” Kiyoomi echoes. And then, remembering himself, “Sir?”
“Yes, seems it’s all paper-based. You know how it is with these country folks, haven’t quite caught up with the times. We’ll put you up in the nearest town while you work through the files, and you can finish up your report from back here.”
Kiyoomi nods absently. “When do I begin, sir?”
“Monday. We want you out there by Sunday night at the latest. Your current work will be passed off to Takahashi, so make sure you give him a proper handover. Attention to detail is not his strong suit. Anyhow, I expect you won’t be back until after Christmas, so we’ll expect the report from you in the first week of the New Year.”
Kiyoomi’s brain ticks over slowly. Won’t be back until after Christmas. A few weeks. Hicksville. The details fall into place in his head and the resultant image is…not ideal.
Watanabe continues prattling on in the background.
“…rough deal, being away at Christmas. Not right to send a family man. But you’re young, single, ambitious.” He clenches his fist and winks conspiratorially at Kiyoomi as he says that last part. Kiyoomi wants to smack him. “It’ll be good experience for you. A nice solo project to round out the year and add to your portfolio. You’ll be glad of the challenge, I’m sure.”
His tone leaves no room for disagreement. So Kiyoomi nods, and thanks him, and once dismissed, he trudges back to his cubicle, the slump of his shoulders more pronounced than usual.
Christmas was usually a rather solitary affair for Kiyoomi. His family were all too busy working, and his friends from University had long since scattered across the country, leaving no one in his immediate circle to celebrate with. He supposed that was a normal part of adulthood: holidays lose their magic and become just another day in the calendar.
Still, he can think of better ways to spend his holidays than cooped up in some backwater town thinking about farming, of all things.
His computer chimes as the first of many project documents and travel booking emails appear in his inbox, courtesy of Watanabe’s secretary. The cogs of the capitalist machine continue turning, and Kiyoomi allows himself to be dragged forward without a fight.
Kiyoomi steps off the train in Hyogo with sleep-rumpled hair and a crick in his neck. He had slept for most of the near-three hour shinkansen journey, and his sleep-addled brain was now facing the mammoth task of locating the rental car his employer had pre-booked and driving another two hours to the small town that would be his home for the next four weeks.
A thin layer of frost is covering the ground outside Shin-Kobe station, and Kiyoomi’s dress shoes slide on the pavement as he walks to the rental car kiosk. His stomach muscles tighten in an effort to keep himself upright, and the wheels of his roller suitcase chart an awkward zigzagging path alongside him. After collecting his keys, he stands amongst the rows of parked cars and presses the remote experimentally. The tail lights of a lemon yellow Toyota Pixis Epoch flash obnoxiously and Kiyoomi sighs with resignation. So much for remaining inconspicuous.
His GPS guides him through the outskirts of the city, as the urban density wanes and high rises give way to sprawling rural highways and dirt roads. The weather turns more and more inclement the further he gets from the city, and by the time he passes the welcome sign that marks the edge of his destination, the fields are covered with a thick blanket of snow.
Kiyoomi hates snow.
One of the few positives of his life in Tokyo is the low chance of encountering snow in winter. Kiyoomi has never been too good with the cold. No matter how many layers he wears or how many heating pads he shoves into his pockets, he still feels the chill deep in his bones, and spends most of the Tokyo winter with his face buried in a scarf and his shoulders hiked up around his ears. He’s brought his warmest clothes to Hyogo in anticipation of lower temperatures, but as he squints through the windscreen at the sea of white in front of him, he resigns himself to the reality of spending the next four weeks freezing his ass off in a lemon yellow Toyota.
The rolling fields and occasional farmhouses taper off in favour of smaller lots with traditional style homes the nearer Kiyoomi gets to the town centre. His GPS leads him away from the town’s main street—he’ll have to explore that later—and through a winding backstreet full of small cottages, until he reaches a large corner block at the end of a cul-de-sac, bordered by tall stone gateposts. A large guesthouse sits on an angle in the centre of the block, and Kiyoomi follows the curved driveway up to a small parking lot outside the front gate. The sun is sitting low in the sky by this point in the afternoon, and the house looks weary, its awnings casting long shadows across the facade.
Kiyoomi hoists his suitcase out of the trunk by its handle, thinking better of trying to roll it over the poorly-shoveled front path that leads up to the porch. A wooden sign affixed to the front door invites him to enter of his own accord, and he kicks off his shoes in the genkan before making his way to the reception counter and pressing the call bell. The house is silent save for the crackling of a fire in the front reception room, and Kiyoomi’s eyes take in the soft, slightly faded furnishings while he waits for someone to answer. The house has a homey feel—it’s well lit, with a distinctively kitschy sense of decor that Kiyoomi assumes is meant to feel cozy, but to him just feels old.
Footsteps sound from further down the hallway, and a tall man about Kiyoomi’s age appears from round the corner, wiping his hands on a tea towel.
“Sakusa-san?” The stranger nods, expectantly.
Kiyoomi inclines his head in response.
The stranger takes his place behind the front desk, tapping at an old, brick-like laptop. The machine hums in response, and the stranger waits patiently, presumably accustomed to poor technological performance. He drums his fingers against the counter, and his eyes flick over Kiyoomi with mild interest.
“Just in from Tokyo?”
“Yes.”
“Here on business?”
“Mhm.”
The stranger nods, looking around absently before meeting Kiyoomi’s eyes again. The laptop continues to hum loudly.
“Ya find the place okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The laptop screen shudders to life as a new page loads containing Kiyoomi’s booking confirmation. The stranger makes a few more clicks of the mouse and reaches below the counter to pull out a small silver key attached to a wooden tag emblazoned with the number 15.
“Kay, yer room’s this way.”
The stranger skirts around the edge of the counter and mounts the staircase leading off the main hallway.
“There’s 16 rooms all up, yers is number 15. We’ve only got three guests at the moment, including yerself. December’s pretty quiet.”
They reach the landing, and the stranger shoves his hands into the pockets of his faded blue jeans. His grey t-shirt clings to the frame of his shoulders, and Kiyoomi wonders how he hasn’t frozen to death yet.
“Yer company requested a room with a desk, so we’ve given ya one of the suites. It’s nothin’ fancy, but there’s a sitting area and space for ya to do yer work. But if it’s not to yer likin, let me know, and I’ll see what I can do.”
He looks over his shoulder. “I’m Osamu, by the way.”
They stop outside a plain white door. A small plaque on the wall announces it as Room 15.
“Well, here ya are,” the stranger—Osamu—says, fitting the key into the lock and standing aside as he pushes the door open for Kiyoomi to look in.
The room is just as he described: a large futon sits against the far wall, while a small seating area with two armchairs and an ottoman occupies the front third of the room. A desk sits under the window, adorned with a reading lamp. There’s a door off to the left of the bed, which Kiyoomi assumes is a bathroom.
Kiyoomi leans back and meets Osamu’s gaze once again. He holds out the key expectedly and drops it into Kiyoomi’s outstretched hand.
“Breakfast’s at 7 every day, served in the dining room. There’s always one of us here, day or night, so any questions, just holler.”
Kiyoomi thanks him, and Osamu turns to leave.
“Oh, by the way,” he calls, turning in his stride. “Since it’s getting late, and it’s a Sunday, yer options for dinner are kinda limited. But I’m makin’ dinner for me and the night staff, so yer welcome to take part if ya like. Ya don’t have to eat with us, I know ya’ve been on the road all day, but I can bring ya up a tray in an hour or so.”
Kiyoomi thanks him and accepts the offer gratefully. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about what to do about dinner, but he was grateful not to have to venture out into the snow again.
He sets to work unpacking his belongings. The room is a mix of traditional and modern styles, presumably to cater to a mix of local and international guests. The sleeping area features a traditional tatami flooring, while the sitting area is appointed with dark wooden floorboards. Kiyoomi sets his laptop down on the desk and begins arranging his files for the next day. He would miss his external monitor, but he would just have to make do without it for the next four weeks.
The water pressure in the shower is surprisingly good—better even than his Tokyo apartment—and after showering and changing into pyjamas, he feels like a human again. Just as he finishes hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, a knock summons him to the door.
Osamu stands on the other side, this time with a black apron tied around his hips. A black lacquer tray is balanced on his left forearm, and he extends it towards Kiyoomi with a practiced smoothness, the liquid contents of the dishes barely registering the motion.
“‘S not much, but hopefully it’ll tide ya over for the night. Ya can leave the tray outside the door. Housekeeping’ll pick it up.”
Kiyoomi thanks him and retreats back into his room. Laying the tray down on the small table in the seating area, he inspects its contents.
At the centre is a large soup bowl, filled with a mixture of meat and vegetables in a cloudy broth, which Kiyoomi recognises as tonjiro . Beside it, a small plate of horenso gomae , some tsukemono , and another small bowl piled high with short grain rice. Simple dishes, but ample servings.
Kiyoomi feels his eyebrows climb towards his hairline as he takes his first sip of the broth. The miso is robust and flavoursome, with an added sweetness from the pork. The vegetables have been cooked perfectly, retaining just the right level of crispness. Their flavour seems heightened somehow, holding their own even when paired with more aromatic ingredients like miso and meat.
Kiyoomi dips his chopsticks into the bowl of rice, and stops still when the first grains of rice hit his tongue. He has never tasted rice like this before. It is perfectly cooked, yes—just the right level of chewiness, with individual grains standing out from one another. But more than that, it is the flavour that surprises him.
Rice is rice, or so Kiyoomi had thought. But this is unlike any rice he has experienced before. Its flavour is at once earthy and floral; hearty and refined. Kiyoomi wonders how something so ordinary, that is such a staple of Japanese daily life, can suddenly seem like a delicacy.
He eats with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, savouring every last drop of broth and grain of rice until the dishes before him are all but licked clean. He deposits the tray back out in the hallway, makes a mental note to thank Osamu in the morning, and wonders if breakfast will be anything like the impromptu supper he was just treated to.
Whatever else happens on this assignment, at least he’ll eat well while he’s here.