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justminawrites · 10 months

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Eremophobia

AO3

Summary: The fear of being isolated, lonely, or alone. Five times Hayama Akira asked someone to stay, and the one time he didn’t need to.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 19 when Shiomi Jun looked up from the unzipped suitcase and gave him a half-hearted smile, even though he couldn’t see it. He knew it would happen eventually, he just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. He thought he’d have more time. I’ll only be gone two months, Akira-kun, she’d promised. Two months of sun and sand and Greece, and she’d be back before he even had time to miss her. He knew she was lying, he didn’t even need to open his eyes to notice her torn cuticles or the slightly white pallor of her skin; she didn’t intend on coming home for a long while. She wouldn’t tell him why.

Jun put down the shirt and walked over to hug him; he returned the embrace without getting up from his place on the bed. It’s okay, she whispered soothingly petting his hair as he let himself cry into her sweater until dawn. It’s going to be okay.

By the time he’d woken, red-eyed and cotton-mouthed, tangled in her bedsheets, she was already gone.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 22 when Arato Hisako paused at the door to their shared apartment and sighed.

They’d done this many times, this dance, their little back and forth and it had left scars on the both of them. The agreement was simple, they’d begun dating out of convenience; falling in love was never on the table. As long as you never ask me to put you above Erina-sama, she’d proposed, and I never assume I can take Shiomi Jun’s place– we should be alright. It had gone so well, until it hadn’t. He couldn’t remember who had started it, maybe it was her, maybe it was him, maybe it was someone else; but a wine-stained tablecloth and a smarting cheek later, when he’d seen genuine tears in her eyes, he knew he had gone too far.

She’d always threatened to leave, packing a duffel bag as she sought refuge in the arms of a Nakiri princess, but he’d always chased after her, pulling and pulling, somehow losing a piece of her each time he did. After two years, he didn’t know how much of her he had left.

They had always come at each other with claws and fangs bared, unguarded and itching for a fight, but they’d found out quickly that the line between honesty and cruelty was terribly, horribly thin. Hisako waited for him to run after her again, even turned back a few times, but all he had left were words. She shut the door with a final resounding click.

They had never been good with words.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 26 when he breathed it into Sendawara Natsume’s ear, smirking as he watched her writhe beneath him, lips parted in pleasure. She loved it when he was rough with her, all sharp angles and jagged edges, voices husky, kisses that were more teeth than tongue– just enough honey to numb the poison.

The first time was at an award ceremony, even his greatest victories were reduced to paltry displays of arrogance when he didn’t have someone worth winning for; where she’d run a teasing finger across his chest and he’d reciprocated by pulling her into an empty broom closet and made her moan his name.

It had happened many many times since then, he was quite partial to ambushing her before she had a stage appearance or anywhere with cameras; her feeble protests dying on her tongue the moment he pinned her wrist to the wall, but it was always so alarmingly empty. He grew more and more unfeeling as the time passed, his thirst unquenched, the hole in him getting wider every time she pouted her lips or batted her lashes. The awards on his shelf grew, the medals collected dust, the flowers withered away in their bouquets.

Still he drank, hoping her poison would put him to sleep so he wouldn’t have to wake up to the very very faint smell of cinnamon on his pillow.

Natsume grazed his jaw with a long, manicured nail and he stiffened, waiting for the vacant promises to slip into his ears, but she only sighed I’m late, before pushing past him to get to the doorknob.

He didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 30 when he said it in his head as he looked into Nakiri Alice’s doe-like eyes, under the harsh glare of the laboratory lights.

She’d barged into his office as usual and demanded to use his workspace at three a.m. to test out a new recipe that had come to her in her sleep. They’d spent all morning trying to turn the damn lobster blue, and he had never been more tired in his life, but still he watched her wrinkle her nose in frustration as she squinted at the cloudy liquid in the little test tube, and resisted the urge to lean in and kiss her till she forgot her own name.

Ryō-kun would know what to do, she’d sighed finally and dumped it into the sink. He watched the purple liquid swirl around, once, twice and smiled sadly as it trickled down the drain. He should have known. She’d only ever had eyes for the brooding, dark-haired chef she’d met in a small port side town in Denmark, and from what he’d noticed during their school days, the feeling was almost certainly mutual.

She huffed and puffed and lay her head on the cold counter top, and within seconds she was fast asleep. Hayama made sure to cover her slight frame with his coat, before reaching for the phone to dial a familiar number.

Kurokiba Ryō arrived not even an hour later to take her back home and he stopped at the doorway to watch them leave, trying not to wonder what might have happened if Alice had met him first instead, all those years ago, before either of them had learnt the true taste of love.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 32 when he saw her sitting on the rooftop of Polar Star Dormitory, drinking sake out of a shot glass as she gazed at the moon. The new dorm matron, Sakaki Ryōkō had blushed at his intrusion and quickly made to leave him alone, before the words had slipped through his lips and sunk into the night air like an open invitation.

She’d raised an eyebrow discerningly, but obliged his whims, scooting over to give the newly admitted Tōtsuki professor space; he took it with as much grace as he had left. They’d sat in silence for a good part of the next hour, taking turns downing the alcohol as they quietly recalled their own days at this school; competing with their peers, sharpening themselves with their rivalries, the 92nd Generation’s diamonds in the rough now haunting the place where they’d been forged.

Hayama swayed a little and she turned and grabbed him by the shoulder– he’d been leaning too far out the edge and would’ve fallen if she hadn’t steadied him.

Unfortunately, he inclined towards her too quickly and his arm reached out and knocked the glass over. They watched mutely as it roll away, plink, plink, plinking down the roof tiles and shatter onto the balcony below them. Ryōkō did the strangest thing then, watching those same broken pieces glitter under the moonlight– she threw her back and she laughed.

The sound was so infectious that Hayama couldn’t stop himself from snorting too and soon they found themselves in stitches, giggling like a pair of love-drunk high schoolers who’d stayed up too late.

It could have been the alcohol, hell, it could have been the fact that he hadn’t laughed in so long, but the world seemed brighter all of a sudden. The tiles under his feet were rougher, the gravity more pronounced, like he was waking from a long, long nightmare.

As Hayama felt a cool breeze nip his neck, he found himself noticing the new matron more, her distinctly sweet smell, like honey and ripe citrus, and how her dark eyes reflected the tiny stars in the sky. He hadn’t seen it before, gaze too clouded by memory, but she was quite beautiful with her magenta hair and easy smile.

He would’ve liked to stay longer but his stomach churned and it was all he could do to turn away in time before he found himself bent over the roof, hurling the contents of his dinner across the edge.

_________

Hayama Akira woke to the sound of knocking in his skull. He didn’t realise it was the door until he’d downed the jug of water beside his bed and felt some semblance of normality return to his body.

“Hello? Professor?"

He croaked out a quick, Be right there, before shedding the stained lab coat he hadn’t bothered to take off when he’d stumbled back into his dorm room last night and passed out on the couch. Hayama never handled alcohol well but yesterday’s embarrassing display nearly took the top spot for worst moments of his life; if it hadn’t been for the new matron’s quick thinking he’d probably still be sitting on the roof of Polar Star Dormitory, covered in puke and dead to the world. He would find a way to apologise to her somehow, a half-hearted thanks didn’t seem nearly enough for what she’d done.

Once he’d splashed his face with cold water and rinsed his tongue with mouthwash- the smell bothered him more than anyone- he propped open the door to find a familiar magenta-haired woman standing outside, a steel thermos in her hand.

Sakaki Ryōkō smiled at him in greeting, skin dewy fresh, wearing a flowery bandanna, no visible sign of the copies amounts of sake she’d chugged last night anywhere as she held out the flask.

Hayama took it in surprise.

“My special hangover cure,” she explained, watching his green eyes widen at its warmth, “I thought you might need some since your classes begin today.”

“A-Ah,” he replied, trying to muster up a reaction that wasn’t confusion, he must have said something to her about his lecture somewhere between retching over the side of the roof, and dragging his feet across the polished floors as she helped him get back to his room.

“Thank you, Sakaki-san. I hope you didn’t trouble yourself.”

“Don’t mention it, Hayama-kun, I’ve been up for hours anyway.”

Ryōkō seemed more luminous in the daylight; she’d tied her hair up in a ponytail and was wearing a light pink apron over her sweats, a streak of dirt smudged across her cheek and the gloves peeking out of her pocket the only indications that she’d been working outside in the garden all morning.

Hayama had never seen someone so alive. Jun was a heavier sleeper than he was and Hisako had always looked like she would stab anything that moved within 10 metres of her radius until she’d had her morning coffee; this shine in the new matron’s eyes alarmed him a little.

“When do you have to leave?” She asked cheerfully, cocking her head to one side.

He checked the clock behind him: 9:00 a.m. His lecture wouldn’t start for another two hours at least.

“Do you have time for breakfast? The kids left already but I’m sure I can scrounge up something with–“

“Thank you, Sakaki-san,” he repeated firmly, “But I don’t want to intrude.”

He said it normally enough, but his voice came out flat and ungrateful. Her face fell and he resisted the urge to immediately soften the statement. This was better for the both of them.

Hayama had returned to Tōtsuki Culinary Academy solely to take over the Shiomi Seminar at the request of the new director; he couldn’t leave Jun’s life’s work in the hands of someone who couldn’t properly care for it. He’d come here knowing he’d be surrounded by her ghost at every waking moment, he’d resigned himself to it, looked forward to it even. It would be cruel to start something with someone new, that would no doubt end in tears.

“I see,” she frowned, let out a breath and snatched the thermos back.

Hayama blinked– he hadn’t expected that.

“I guess you don’t need this either.” She huffed and then made to leave.

He stared after her mutely. His head began to throb in warning, dull beats, steady as a drum, and he could almost feel the ache pulsing through him as he stood in front of the lecture hall, in a few hours. His stomach tightened unhelpfully, making him aware of its painful emptiness. Perhaps breakfast wouldn’t end in tears after all.

“That’s-“

��Hm?” Ryōkō looked back, one hand on her hip. His pride clamped his tongue shut.

Hayama had always kept his cool around people, women especially; he hadn’t been one of the most eligible bachelors on Top Chef for no reason, but there was something unpredictable about Sakaki Ryōkō that left him feeling strangely flustered.

He thought he knew her type, the kindly mother-figure of the friend group, the go-to shoulder to cry on; a more self-assured version of his friend Tadokoro Megumi– but an undercurrent of pure defiance ran right through her homely persona. There was kindness, yes, but none of the naivety he’d associated with it so far; a savoury sweetness– caramel, but the sharp tang of salt was unmistakable.

“I can’t stand the smell of eggs,” he blurted out stupidly.

The dorm matron nodded sagely, as though that was a perfectly normal thing to say in such a conversation.

“You’re in luck, Hayama-kun. We seem to be all out of eggs at the moment.”

He could’ve sworn she was trying not to smile.

“Then.. uh-“ he opened the door wider, taking a step out into the hallway, but his voice wouldn’t work all of a sudden. Don’t go, Wait, Stay, the words got lost in his throat, tangled in the memories of all the times they hadn’t worked.

The ambience of the night had been his friend, hiding his loneliness with a blanket of polite indifference but saying it in the light of day was harder, more concrete. Irreversible.

She turned away, heading down the staircase now.

Hayama stared after her; he’d missed his chance again.

A vision of Hisako’s back came to him suddenly; the way her hands had shook with barely concealed distress, the downward incline of her shoulders, her last words to him before she left; bitter and tired. I hope you’re happy. He should have let her go sooner. Sighing, he felt the weight of his mistakes chain him down and coerce him back into the room- back into his bed for the next hour, where they could run uninhibitedly in his dreams, and was about to take heed when–

“Hayama-kun?”

He looked up, bewildered; the dorm matron had paused on her way down the steps and gave him a little wave.

Hayama lifted his hand almost involuntarily and waved back; What a strange woman.

Ryōkō smiled brightly as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and the feeling from last night burst in chest.

He felt his thoughts recede almost instantly as the world flushed with colour, the line between past and present slicing through his hesitation like a well polished knife, daring him to make a choice. But she was already ahead of him there too.

“I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.”

She was gone before he could open his mouth.

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