Chapter Text
Yoshiki arrives in Kubitachi in late spring.
The sky opens up before him in an endless expanse of soft, watery blue, and the entire town blooms with colorful flowers of varying hues. No one immediately recognizes him as he steps off the train, which is more of a relief than anything.
He takes a taxi to his parents’ house, staying silent the entire ride. The driver doesn’t pester him for being a familiar face, nor does he ask nosy questions about what a city boy is doing in their neck of the woods. Yoshiki is grateful; he’s not sure if he wants to lose the mask of anonymity just yet. He’s used to having one in Tokyo, where he’s lived since graduating from university for the past four years.
He’s twenty-five now, and he’s home for the week to attend Hikaru’s wedding.
His mother weeps when she sees him again.
“You never visit,” she accuses, burying her face into his shirt.
Never mind that she visits Tokyo more often than not. Never mind that, after the divorce, she’d kept in touch with Yoshiki with far more frequency than she ever did when he lived with her. They call once or twice a month now, and sometimes it’s a lengthy video call with a cameo by Kaoru.
Tears and accusations aside, his mother darts into the kitchen to fix him lunch, muttering under her breath as she goes. Kaoru emerges from her bedroom upstairs at this point, and, seeing Yoshiki, her eyes widen slightly as she waves.
“Nii-chan is back,” she says.
She’s taller than the last time he’d seen her. Her hair still falls above her shoulders, and she wears the same passive, indolent expression, her eyes slightly hooded.
They eat lunch together and gossip about the logistics of Hikaru’s wedding.
“I haven’t seen him recently,” says his mother.
“I haven’t seen Akane-san either,” says Kaoru, stealing an egg from Yoshiki’s plate. “She must be nervous.”
“What are you going to wear?” asks his mother, tugging on Yoshiki’s sleeve. “Do you need me to iron your suit?”
“I’ll wear this,” says Yoshiki, gesturing at his button-down shirt, and both Kaoru and his mother squawk in disapproval.
The next day, Yoshiki wakes early enough to hear the birds singing. He dons his suit quietly and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His mother had ironed it, as promised, and now he looks prim enough to be a butler. Later, his mother also helps him comb his hair out of his eyes and apply some hair gel, so he’s never looked more clean-cut and unfamiliar. It’s not that he goes around Tokyo with a scruffy, unkempt appearance by any stretch of the imagination, but he still isn’t used to dressing up in a suit and adding product to his hair.
After they’re done getting ready, the three of them pile into his mother’s car and she drives them to the largest ryokan in Ashidori. It’s a relatively short ride, and the weather is auspiciously perfect today, but Yoshiki still can’t help but feel like it takes a dreary, storm-filled eternity to get there. His nerves ping and prickle in warning, and he takes slow and deliberate breaths through his nostrils to keep from losing himself.
A slew of familiar faces comes into view. He sees the local grocer, Mr. Takahashi, first, and then Mrs. Yamamoto and her daughter amble past in their floral-print dresses, yammering excitedly about the ceremony. No one seems to notice the Tsujinakas, or else they appear to willfully ignore them. His mother holds her head high, though, and wades through the crowd to find them seats at the front of the venue.
While she and Kaoru sit down and bow their heads together to whisper, Yoshiki walks through the lobby in search of the restroom. His mother and sister fare well enough on their own, but Yoshiki feels distinctly uncomfortable with so many eyes flocking to him. He can feel their stares on his back as he walks past them, murmurs trailing in his wake.
He finds the restroom and slips inside with nary a glance back, eager to have some peace and quiet all by himself.
Yoshiki is gripping the sink and staring at the drain with unusual concentration when the door bursts open and someone stumbles inside.
He wouldn’t have looked up if it hadn’t been for the guest’s inelegant, noisy entrance, but he does, partially because he’s surprised, and partially because he feels like he’s been caught red-handed for brooding over a sink before his childhood best friend’s wedding.
Hikaru stares at him in the mirror.
Yoshiki stares back.
He’s still short. He’s gained some weight, so he’s no longer a tiny, lanky thing with spindly limbs and a thin chest. He’s filled out considerably, now more muscular than wiry, although his jawline remains sharp and angular, and he looks unfairly handsome in his montsuki. He blinks slowly and blearily at Yoshiki in the mirror, his gaze sharpening when it dawns on him that he’s looking at his childhood best friend.
“Oh,” says Hikaru.
Yoshiki says nothing. His voice has escaped him; he couldn’t part his lips to greet Hikaru if he’d tried.
Hikaru’s face is slightly flushed, a light pink under the bright bathroom lighting. He seems to wobble on his legs a bit, as if gravity were bearing down on him and making him submit to its force.
“Yoshiki,” says Hikaru at last, slurring his name a bit, and it occurs to Yoshiki at once that Hikaru is tipsy.
He steps into the bathroom and slumps against the nearest wall, sighing as he drags a hand through his hair, which is combed and smoothed to sleek perfection. He rucks it up with one careless motion. Yoshiki winces.
“Yoshiki,” repeats Hikaru, his voice low. “It’s really you.”
Yoshiki hadn’t anticipated meeting Hikaru in the bathroom before his wedding. He certainly hadn’t expected to meet a drunk Hikaru, at that, shortly before his san-san-kudo. It’s a bad look for the groom to be tipsy before his big ceremony.
Never mind that it’s been almost a decade since they’ve last seen each other.
“Hey,” says Yoshiki, brow furrowing as Hikaru stumbles a bit. “Are you okay?”
“M’fine,” says Hikaru, flapping a hand. “Ah, ya even sound so different. S’like that in Tokyo, huh?”
It’s as if Hikaru’s accent has thickened over the years they’d spent apart. He sounds unfamiliar, too: older, more like his father, and rougher around the edges. Yoshiki’s clean, neutral accent sounds like a foreign language in comparison.
“I thought ya wouldn’t come,” says Hikaru, fussing with his haori. He fans at himself, plucking at his belt with restless fingers.
“I did,” says Yoshiki.
“Did yer mom make ya?”
“No.”
Hikaru barks a laugh.
“Yer tellin’ me ya planned on comin’ yerself?”
Yoshiki grimaces.
Hikaru tugs the belt of his haori so that it loosens the knot cinching everything together, and he exhales a loud, shaky breath as he lifts up the shirt he’s wearing underneath. Yoshiki sees a flash of his abs and jerks his head back, averting his gaze sharply.
It isn’t lost on Hikaru.
“Still a prude, eh?” he asks.
Yoshiki steels himself to make an exit. He’s had enough.
Before he can march past, Hikaru lays a firm hand on his shoulder and stops him from moving. Yoshiki stays rooted to the spot, his jaw clenching and his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“Leavin’ so soon?” asks Hikaru, and there’s a hard, mean edge to his voice that makes Yoshiki’s hackles raise.
“Yes,” says Yoshiki tersely.
“I ain’t done talkin’,” says Hikaru. “You gonna leave me hangin’ again, Yoshiki?”
It’s as if Hikaru has dunked Yoshiki’s head under icy water. Yoshiki stares at him, eyes wide.
Hikaru laughs.
“What, cat got yer tongue?” he says bitterly. “Ya heard me. Yer always so quick to run, aren’t ya.”
“What do you want,” snaps Yoshiki.
His curt, sharp tone seems to spark something inside Hikaru. Hikaru grins, fisting his suit jacket and pulling him closer, the better to see his snaggle tooth and furious, cutting gaze.
“I wanted you to stay,” says Hikaru.
Yoshiki’s hands feel numb from how hard he’s squeezing them. He keeps his nails trimmed short and neat, but they still score deep into his palms and make his skin hurt.
“M’here now,” says Yoshiki, his accent slipping a bit in his anger and fear.
“No,” says Hikaru, sneering, “yer not.”
He lets go of Yoshiki’s jacket then with a harsh movement. Agitated and jittery, Hikaru rakes another hand through his messy hair and glowers at Yoshiki as he tugs his suit back into place.
“S’yer fault,” says Hikaru, jabbing a sharp finger at Yoshiki’s chest.
“You’re drunk,” says Yoshiki coldly.
“M’fine,” says Hikaru. “Never felt better.”
“Your bride is waiting for you,” says Yoshiki, and apparently this is precisely the wrong thing to say, because it makes Hikaru’s face knit into a harsh, furious scowl as he grabs Yoshiki by the collar.
Yoshiki, furious himself, grips Hikaru’s wrist with one hand and braces himself against the nearest sink with the other.
“You left,” says Hikaru, and the way his voice trembles and breaks reminds Yoshiki so much of the lost, scared teenager he’d once been. “You left me.”
Before Yoshiki can answer, another man enters the restroom and promptly backs out, bowing in apology and coughing as he disappears. Yoshiki takes the opportunity to break free from Hikaru’s ironclad grip, and, spinning on his heel, darts out the door after him.