Chapter Text
Super Stop Travel Center, El Centro, California
After driving through the night, Shiro pulls into a truck stop just before dawn.
How’s he going to do this?
He wants the sky in the background. That’s why he stopped now, so early. The sun will rise in broad strokes of color across the sky. The red orange, the pink, the bright bright yellow. It will make for a dramatic contrast with the unforgiving black and the starchy white of his suit. It might be perfect.
He drives past the big rigs all lined up in rows. Parks his car in between a jeep, encrusted with sand and mud, and an old silver Buick, the kind that drives like a boat. There’s a store, a squat, flat topped building that boasts, oddly enough, a sushi restaurant. He walks in, greeted by a wall of ice cold air conditioning and the stale smell that seems to be ubiquitous to gas stations. There really is a sushi restaurant in here. Divided from the rows of gas station goods— shot glasses and racks of sunglasses, hats and tee shirts, cheaply made— there’s a section of pleather booths and what seems to be a small kitchen. The kitchen is closed now (of course, it’s not even five a.m.), but the hiragana on the noren , the short red curtain separating the kitchen and seating area, indicates that the sushi is delicious. Shiro has his doubts.
He bypasses the novelty goods and the questionable restaurant to select a bottle of water from the coolers. He takes out two, on second thought, tucking one under his arm until he gets to the till. The cashier grants him a small bag when he adds on a large container of almonds, for later, and a breakfast burrito, for now. All this, he takes back to his car.
How’s he going to do this?
For some reason, he’s nervous. Jittery, even. Something, maybe, akin to first date butterflies. But this is anything but that.
He retrieves the tuxedo from where it’s been hanging in his backseat window, a silent observer, a passenger on his journey thus far. Hanger and all, he carries the suit to the other side of the building, to find the perfect spot. The only bench at the truck stop with a clear view of the horizon is next to a cement ashtray. Dusty, low mountains roll in the distance while the foreground is dotted with some unhealthy combination of palm trees and underbrush. The idling trucks are a gentle hum that coats the air. The sun begins to rise. As Shiro is contemplating his next move, a woman joins him.
“Good morning,” Shiro gives her a nod and a friendly smile.
If she’s surprised by the greeting, she takes it in stride. “Morning,” she chimes back.
And anyway, Shiro is friendly.
“I know you want to be liked, but you don’t have to strike up a conversation with every single person on the face of the fucking earth, Takashi.”
Something tightens in Shiro’s jaw at the memory. He can hear the snide tone of Adam’s voice, see the sharp tilt of his shoulder as he avoided eye contact with Shiro. He was irritated. They were getting in the car after going to the grocery store together. Adam snapped his seat belt into place and pulled the car out of park without checking to make sure that Shiro had managed the same. Shiro hadn’t. It wasn’t so long after the accident, this day, but it was long enough that asking for help felt like being a burden. Shiro finally managed his own seatbelt buckle as they were just one street away from their neighborhood. The snap of it clicking together cut through the charged silence. Shiro thought heartbreak would be sad, devastating, but in this moment, heartbreak was anger. The merciless snap of a seatbelt buckle finally being forced into place when it was nearly too late to matter.
Adam had apologized, of course. Adam was— no, he still is , he’s just not Shiro’s anymore— Adam is a calculating, logical man. Smart. Shrewd, maybe, but not cruel. Shiro would not have married a man without empathy. He would divorce a man whose logic seemed to outweigh his care.
That day in the grocery store, Adam was right: Shiro did talk far too long to the old man. The man was a stranger, and Shiro was holding a bottle of wine— he was meant to grab it and bring it back to he and Adam’s cart, and instead it grew heavy in his hand while he chatted with a stranger. But the stranger reminded him of his grandfather. He didn’t look the same— Shiro’s grandfather was tall, chest and shoulders broad with a lifetime of physical labor, even in old age. He didn’t sound the same— Shiro’s grandfather had Japanese that was colored differently from being raised so far North. But the conversation had still reminded Shiro of home. Of youth. The old man in the grocery store was friendly and good humored and Shiro slipped into his native tongue like sliding into a well worn and much loved winter coat. It was a warm feeling and better than that, it was like no time at all had passed since he last used it.
It was a sweet moment that occurred in a year when everything seemed to be falling apart. The sweetness of it was forever soured by Adam’s reaction to it.
So. Shiro is friendly to the woman at the truck stop.
Her bleach blonde hair is curling with perspiration at the temples and the majority of her fake nails have popped off to reveal stubby natural ones underneath— Shiro notices as much as she roots around in her stud-covered handbag for a cigarette. Despite her age, her shirt is cut low enough to reveal a blue faded tattoo; Shiro makes a concerted effort not to read the text that’s sinking into her cleavage. She smokes and Shiro doesn’t, and conversation strikes easily between them. Normal, mundane— the area, the weather, the time, the traffic. Shiro imagines it must be lonely to be on the open road and says as much. Afterall, this is only the first morning of his trip and he’s already looking for conversation at rest stops. But she smiles. She’s not lonely; she steps closer to show him pictures of her grandbabies on her phone. Makayleigh’s fifth birthday was last week and she was home for that.
The conversation takes an inevitable turn. She nods to the suit jacket Shiro is holding. “What are you doing out here?”
‘With that,’ is the unsaid part. Shiro smiles, wry. What, it’s not every day that you find amputee men hanging around truck stops at 4am holding a wedding tuxedo? He’d never have guessed!
He avoids a straight answer— he makes it a habit to avoid most straight things in life— and instead responds with a question: “Mind giving me a hand?”
The bad joke is not lost on the woman and she grins, amused. “Sure thing, hun. Whatcha need?”
“Just hold it,” Shiro passes off the hanger, the hook of it slipping from his two fingers into her grasp.
“Like this?” she asks, uncertain. This is a strange thing.
He couldn’t explain even if he tried.
He directs her to hold the suit up— it’s a heavy jacket and shirt, the tie looped around the collar, hanging lifeless. The pants are hanging underneath, out of sight. She holds it up, as high as she can, arm diagonal from her body, one weathered hand clutching the top of the hangar tight.
It was exorbitantly expensive, his suit. Designer— the name mattered to him when he bought it. The name doesn’t matter to him now. What matters now is the orange on the underside of the clouds, the pink coming in from above. The bright, wide blue that will overtake the color as the sun rises to position. He stands back, lining up the frame. He taps the screen of his phone to focus the image. Snaps a picture of his wedding tuxedo against the sunrise.
He got it.
“I appreciate your help,” Shiro thanks the woman warmly as she takes care to hand the suit back to him without dropping it into the dusty cement below. The moment is drawing to an end; they both have to get back on the road. Maybe they’re going the same way, maybe not.
“Best of luck to ya,” the woman says with a wave. She’s finished her cigarette and then some. Like a wayward guardian angel, Shiro takes a step forward and watches her return to her truck— he’s always been like this, the type to care about the safety of strangers. Responsible. Unnecessarily. She hikes a leg up to the tall step of the cab of her big rig. She disappears inside.
Shiro is on his way shortly after. He’s closer, maybe, but he’s not there yet.
*
Quick Pic Market, Benson, Arizona
On the road, time means nothing. Shiro decides as much about five hours, four hundred miles, and one tank of gas later. Technically, it’s still early in the day, but he feels as if it must be midnight with how tired he is. It makes sense, considering that he drove through the night. He’s been awake for more than 24 hours now.
The drive has been beautiful, if monotonous. As California broke into Arizona, green became sparser and sparser, but the wideness of the sky has only grown. This lonely strip of highway through the southern half of the state has nothing to do with the congested roads of Phoenix. There were whole hours on I-8 where he saw no one at all— just red earth and tall, unfathomable juts of rock. Views too big to see. Terrain that looks more martian than anything of this world.
He rediscovers humanity around Tucson and, foolishly, decides to abandon it again in favor of staying on the road. He’s regretting this decision as the gas gauge sinks below the ‘E’ and the road continues on. All the radio stations are static. The sun is high in the sky and the road before him shimmers with heat like it does in the movies. He’s regretting everything.
Salvation comes in the form of some small town directly on the side of the highway. Shiro doesn’t know the name— as soon as he reads it on the sign, he forgets it, which is unlike him— but it doesn’t matter anyways. He pulls off the highway and pulls into the closest place with gas pumps. This isn’t a truck stop, but Shiro makes the decision that if he doesn’t sleep here, his other option is falling asleep at the wheel. He tucks the car close to the meager shade from the side of a brick building, gets out. Only to crawl in the back seat. Shiro is a large man and the backseat isn’t enough space for him to sleep comfortably, but the tuxedo hanging in the window is at least enough to protect his face from the desert sun. He passes out.
When he wakes, he stumbles out of the sweltering car, disoriented in the way that can only come with deep sleep at a strange time. For a moment, a beat of consciousness, or two, he thinks he’s in bed, at home. But he knows, even then, that Adam isn’t there with him. Regardless, as he pries open the car door and tumbles out, it takes him several seconds to place himself in this space, now that it’s night. And it’s very much night. The pitch black of the desert is broken by a single light attached to a post at the corner of the building. Tiny moths dance around it, in and out of the light. The gas station itself seems abandoned, but as Shiro walks around to the front of the building, he finds that’s not the case.
If the clerk manning the counter has any objections to Shiro snoozing on the property all day, he doesn’t voice them. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all, not even when Shiro slips in some backroom that may or may not be accessible to the public in pursuit of a bathroom. He finds one. He buys more prepackaged food and bottles of water to make up for his transgressions. The clerk is an older man who doesn’t utter a word to Shiro. It might be because Shiro doesn’t speak much Spanish. It might not be.
“Thank you,” Shiro tells him anyway, giving the man the warmest smile he can muster, given the general state of grimey-ness he feels after being in the car for so long. His hair is disgusting. His bathroom venture did little for his overall cleanliness, though he did sneak in a toothbrush. He wants a shower. And a shave. “Do you mind if I fill up at the pump?”
Do I sit here all day for my good health? What else would you be doing at the gas station? Shiro mentally responds to himself for the old man. The look on his face tells Shiro that Shiro is likely spot-on. Still, Shiro nods another thank you and moves his car to the pump.
Relieved to have a full tank, and re-energized by his nap, Shiro takes a moment to sit on the curb by the building and eat his lunch. Dinner? Breakfast?
Whatever meal it is comes with an excellent view. On this side of the building, opposite from the pumps and the front door of the convenience store, the dark is unbroken and the stars are out in full force. Above the open desert, with the mountains in the distance, the view is breathtaking. The moon is a creamy half circle. Shiro traces the big and little dipper with his eyes, working his way through a strawberry Uncrustable (the vegetarian options were limited and he’s had his fill of almonds and trail mix already). With the building to his back, he stretches his legs out in the dusty, rock covered ground, head craned back, breathing deep. He eats two more of the little sandwiches. Orion’s belt is up there too.
Breaking the silence of the night, there’s the crunch of gravel as another car rolls into the station.
With it, comes shouting.
At first, Shiro thinks the shouting is good natured, loud friends being loud together. Very quickly it becomes obvious that this is not the case. One of the men is yelling obscenities and two others appear to be in agreement with him. The object of their anger has yet to speak— but Shiro does hear the heavy sound of the first punch being thrown. The thud and smack of flesh and blood meeting flesh and blood. There’s scuffling and shouting to accompany it. The sound of a body hitting the ground.
Shiro stands up.
This is not your fight, Takashi. The voice sounds like Adam and that only spurs Shiro onwards. Still, he’s cautious as he rounds the building.
He’s met with this:
Two men are actively holding another man face down on the pavement. One of them has a knee to his back, and the other is doing a sloppy job of restraining the man’s arms. A third guy is standing over them, and blood is gushing out of his nose and mouth. It seems that he was the one shouting and that the man who is now facedown on the ground broke his nose.
“Fuck you!” The man spits, a spray of blood and mucus and tears from watery eyes. He’s wearing heavy boots— Shiro winces as one of the boots connects with the man’s side. Hard.
“Hey!” Shiro shouts, walking towards them. Admittedly, it’s not the most inspired opening, but a kick like that to the man’s head will kill him, and Shiro won’t stand by and watch. He may be missing an arm, but Shiro is still big enough to be intimidating when he wants to be. He puts his size to good use, and—
As the men holding him are distracted by Shiro’s approach, the guy who was face down somehow manages to throw the two men holding him off of his back. He’s on his feet in the blink of an eye and, out of nowhere, he has a knife in his hand.
“Woah,” Shiro puts a hand up to placate, but the guy isn’t paying attention to him. Actually, none of them are. What seemed to be an unfair fight quickly turns:
The knife is long and bright in the low light of the gas station. It flashes like a sickle of moon as the man wielding it moves.
He’s fast. The man ducks under one of the guys who was holding him, only to kick the other one in the gut. The third guy gets another swift hit to the face in a way that can only be described as merciless. As he’s doubled over, one of the other men tries to take the guy from behind— he ends up in a headlock. Like nothing at all, the man with the knife has the guy’s hair in his fist in one hand, and the other hand notches the long knife under his chin.
“I may have miscalculated,” Shiro observes under his breath. It’s less of a conscious decision to speak and more of an ‘oh shit’ realization…but the man with the knife jerks his head in Shiro’s direction.
Shiro is not easily intimidated. But he is also not— despite his willingness to involve himself in the street brawls of strangers— an idiot. He takes a step back.
The man drops his hostage. He flips his knife in his hand. He starts towards Shiro’s direction—
—Only to pass Shiro.
The three assailants (or, perhaps, the three assailed) and Shiro watch as the man runs past Shiro towards the gas pumps. He grabs the door of the nearest car, yanks it open, and disappears into the cab.
Within moments, the ignition catches and the sound of the engine blooms into the night. Good for him! He’s getting away!
Except…that’s Shiro’s car.
“Hey!” Shiro shouts, repeating his inspired speech from before. The keys to the car are in his pocket. His wallet and phone are not. Is hot-wiring a car even possible in this day and age? It must be because that’s what just happened.
Shiro shakes off the cultural shock of having his car hotwired at the same time that the three men rally. They pile back into their vehicle and are, once again, shouting. Their car peals out of the abandoned gas station in a scream of rubber, rocks and dust spraying out from the tires. They’re off.
Left alone in the dark, Shiro considers his life.
He walks back into the convenience store.
“Hello again. Would you be able to point me in the direction of the nearest police station?” he asks the older gentleman manning the counter.
In response, the man does not speak, but he does unspool a length of register tape on which to draw Shiro a map. The grid is easy enough to understand, even if the street names are slanted strangely in the man’s spindly writing. Shiro starts walking.
*
It is beyond the comprehension of the busty khaki-clad woman at the clink that Shiro does not want to press charges. His vehicle is sitting in the parking lot outside. It turns out that the three men already had warrants out for their arrest and in fact, the car that they were in was also stolen. The man who stole Shiro’s car has no such warrant.
“My car is fine. No one was hurt. I’d rather just put the whole thing behind me,” Shiro explains for the upteenth time. Again, what he really wants is a shower. And to leave Benson, Arizona in his past. For good.
“What about the perpetrator?” she asks. Again. Shiro has learned that grand theft auto is a felony offense that carries over a year in prison, a stint on probation, and fines.
‘Perpetrator’ seems like a heavy word for the guy. Afterall, no real harm was done. Certainly not to Shiro. Shiro rubs the back of his neck. “If I don’t press charges, will he just be released?”
“His bail is already set,” the woman states, incredulous. The badge on her considerable bosom glimmers under fluorescent lights, menacing.
“Oh!” Shiro brightens at the opportunity to resolve a problem that he absolutely does not want to linger. “How much?”
*
When the entire thing is said and done, it is already mid-day. The illustrious Gila Street in Benson, Arizona seems to boast little else besides the strong arm of the law. Shiro listens to the way the metal pulley clangs against the tin flagpole overhead while he surveys the place in the light of day. Browns and tans. Dirt and faded pavement. Chain link fences surrounding every property. He needs to move on.
First though, he takes out his phone.
His tux is still hanging in the back window of his car, no worse for wear. Just like that, Shiro snaps a picture of it— through the window, with the police station in the background. It looks as if the suit is the one under arrest. The thought is amusing.
The slight smile falls from his lips as he gets into his front seat and discovers via the gauges on the dash: he’s almost out of gas. Again.
Shiro sighs. Back to the gas station.
*
Inexplicably, the same man is at the counter as the night before when Shiro walks into the convenience store. Shiro gives him a wave.
“I got my car back!” Shiro tells him, far more chipper sounding than he feels. The man may be joyous on Shiro’s behalf, but he doesn’t show it. At any rate, Shiro buys out the entire supply of the man’s strawberry Uncrustables before heading to the pump.
And then he’s on the road.
The interstate is not so far away. Shiro has no idea how far he’ll be able to go today, given his late start, but he’s already resolved: no more sleeping in the car. From here on out on this journey, that’s a rule. He’ll get some kind of motel room tonight, no matter where he is.
He’s headed East. Towards the sunrise. What he’s searching for might not be hidden there, but it’s the best place to start. That's what he’s decided.
As he’s about to take the ramp onto the eastbound highway, he spots a man standing on the side of the road. Under the scant shade of the underpass. There’s no other vehicles coming or going, so Shiro pulls the car into park, right there.
He’s thinking to give the man one of his unopened bottles of water. He rolls down the passenger side window. A bottle of water isn’t much, but at least—
“It’s you!” Shiro exclaims as he recognizes the man’s build and his shaggy, dark hair.
Eyes widen as the man recognizes Shiro in return. He takes a step back, clearly ready to run.
“Wait!” Shiro, from the driver’s seat. When the man follows his command, Shiro falters. What to say? He tries: “No…hard feelings…?”
Dark brows pull together in blatant confusion.
“Need a ride?” Shiro asks him. The man doesn’t have any belongings it seems. Just the clothes on his back. (And, presumably, the knife. Shiro hasn’t forgotten about the knife.)
The man clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is different from what Shiro imagined. Smoky. Rough. Soft. Contradictory. “You’re offering me a ride.” He says it as a statement. Flat.
Shiro gestures to their surroundings. It is, utterly, barren. “Unless you want to hitchhike with someone else.”
A pause.
“Yeah, okay,” the man says, pulling open the car door on the passenger side. He slides in. Shiro waits for him to buckle up and then he shifts the car out of park.
*
The first two hundred miles or so are awkward. The man is hunched in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, face pointedly looking out the window. He’s ignoring Shiro.
Not that the views aren’t beautiful. The highway here skirts just north of the Coronado National forest. Tall saguros stand like ancient sentinels between man-made asphalt and awe-inspiring rock formations, impossible rivers, lonely, rolling mountains.
“My friends call me Shiro,” Shiro tells the man.
This isn’t true. It is, in fact, unequivocally, false. Shiro’s friends were Adam’s friends and Adam always called him by his given name, Takashi. Shiro’s family calls him Takashi, or some variation thereof. Shiro’s closest and oldest friend, Matt Holt, started calling him S-dog (pronounced, horribly, like S-daawg , because Matt is a horrible human) in college and has never stopped. No one calls him Shiro, they never have. But here, now, Shiro doesn’t want to be Takashi, the man who was married to Adam, the man who is divorced and struggling. If it was up to him, he’d never be Takashi again. ‘My friends call me Shiro,’ he tells the stranger.
“Shiro.” The syllables are split strangely in the man’s mouth. Like he doesn’t quite know how to wrap the words around his teeth. His expression is dull. Shiro can see the reflection of it in the passenger side window.
“That’s right,” Shiro confirms. His heart thunks out of time, he swallows, the beats fall back into place. “And you are?”
The man’s eyes flick towards him, but are soon returned to the landscape. He sinks further into the seat, chin tucked inside the top of his hoodie and head tilted toward the window like he might be asleep. But he’s not.
*
McDonald’s, Las Cruces, New Mexico
Under the wide range of the Organ Mountains— so named because Spanish colonists likened them to a leviathan pipe organ, rising out of the stone— the city of Las Cruces rests, as if content to stay just there, shaded from the full on blistering heat of the Chihuahuan desert. It’s a charming town, from what Shiro can see of it. The outskirts promise trendy cafes and small businesses, an art museum, a school. But Shiro stays on the outskirts, just off the interstate. And there, of course, they find the ever-present golden arches.
The McDonald’s, on the inside, looks like every other McDonald’s on the face of the Earth. It’s a little jarring, after spending so long in the car. Like Shiro hasn’t even left home.
The man follows him in the door. Quiet, unobtrusive. He hangs back, at first, while Shiro contemplates the signage. It might be driver’s fatigue, or clever mass-marketing, but Shiro feels giddy with the options. It’s been years since he had McDonald’s! “What are you going to get?” he asks the man, in a low voice, as if conspiring.
Wary, the man reaches into his pocket. For a moment, Shiro thinks he’s going for the knife. And wouldn’t that be something— stabbed in the lobby of a McDonald's restaurant in New Mexico! (Wouldn’t even make national news, to be honest.)
But he doesn’t pull a knife from his pocket; instead, a small package. It’s a bit of plastic bag, the kind they give you in grocery stores, or at least, they used to. (Shiro lives in southern California— single-use plastic bags are unicorns.) The Dollar General logo is faded and cracked on the thin yellow plastic. Clearly old, clearly it’s been folded and unfolded many, many times. With the dirt under his nails matching the package in his hand, the man unfolds this grimey bundle. It unwinds slowly, how it’s wrapped, and he’s careful, methodical. A wallet is revealed.
The shine from the black leather is gone from all the edges and the fold in the middle. Worn thin. Frayed at the corners. The stranger concentrates on what he’s doing, dark hair falling across his shoulders and into his face as he opens the billfold. The man’s fingertips find the opening, dipping inside.
“My treat,” Shiro decides, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder.
He jerks away, skittish. “I have money,” he says. Though his voice is level, and soft, the way he says it sounds like a threat.
“Get whatever you want,” Shiro reiterates. As if demonstrating, he orders far more fast food than any person has a reason to eat in one sitting. When he’s done, he motions for the man to add whatever he likes.
“How are you?” the man nods, polite, at the girl taking the order. He pauses, awkward, as if waiting for a response.
The girl— she’s young with long, pointed nails and large false eyelashes, but the black polyester uniform isn’t doing her any favors— doesn’t respond to the small talk. “Can I take your order?”
“Uh. Chicken sandwich.” The man looks at Shiro. He looks back to the girl and wets his lips before continuing. “With extra mayonnaise. And fries.”
“You wanna make that a combo?”
“Yes. Please.”
“What size?”
“Large.” The man looks at Shiro again. Shiro nods. The man blurts: “And a pie.”
“Flavor?”
He balks at the question, eyes searching the colorful boards overhead.
The cashier supplies: “Cherry or apple?”
Clearly at a loss, the man tugs at one of the strings on his red hoodie. He hasn’t taken it off since Shiro picked him up, despite the heat of the desert and the comfortable temperature of the car.
“One of each,” Shiro decides. He pays for the food and directs them to a table.
The man sits there, in the booth, expression unreadable as he watches the family in line behind them order their meal. He rises to his feet when the employees call out their order— in record time, despite the enormous size of it, god bless America— and, setting the two trays down on the table, he slides into the booth across from Shiro.
Shiro has barely managed to open one of the tiny bags of apple slices he purchased when the man crumples up the wrapper from the sandwich. He inhaled it in just a couple bites. He tucks several of the french fries in his mouth before he looks up and notices Shiro watching him.
“You didn’t tell me you were hungry.”
The man ignores Shiro. He pops the lid off of the top of the fountain drink and holds the cap and straw back with one finger while he tips the cup to his mouth to drink out of the side.
“When was the last time you ate?” Shiro tries.
No response.
“What are the chances of you stealing my car while I go to the bathroom?” Shiro wonders out loud.
The man stops, mid-cherry pie, and grins at that. He shakes his head. “You’re good,” he says, tilting his head towards the men’s room. “I’ll still be here.”
Taking him at his word, Shiro makes a pit stop before he finishes his meal. They haven’t gotten very far today, but he’s exhausted. The man goes back to ignoring him while Shiro searches on his phone for motels close to the interstate. It only takes a couple of minutes to book a room in one close by.
But, before they leave, Shiro pops the trunk of his car out in the parking lot. He opens the cab door and takes out the suit. He hangs it from the open trunk, letting it swing until gravity steadies it. Shiro snaps a photo.
The man watches, but he doesn’t comment.
*
Rodeway Inn & Suites, Las Cruces, New Mexico
He can feel the man tense when he first sees the sign for the two-star hotel on the side of the road. There’s a palpable tension in the car as the turn signal clicks out warning clicks between them. Shiro feels like he’s holding his breath as he makes the turn. The parking lot is small but mostly empty. Shiro glances over and sees the way the man’s hand is clenching the part of the seatbelt that cuts a diagonal across his chest.
Adam would have thrown a fit about staying in such a place. But this is easy and cheap. The pictures online make it look relatively clean. They’re already here. Shiro clears his throat. “It’s just for one night—”
“I won’t blow you for a place to stay,” the man says. Quiet. “Or for the food.” His expression is hard but from the way he swallows, the line of his shoulders, the way the tendons bunch in his arms as he squeezes his fist tighter…
Oh.
Shiro pulls into a parking space by the office. He turns off the car.
“I mean it,” the man says, gaze steely and defiant as he turns towards Shiro in the driver’s seat. His eyes are much louder than his voice. “You aren’t fucking me. I’ll kill you first.”
Shiro raises his eyebrows. He’s seen the knife, he gets the picture. But he’s tired. Way too tired to be murdered. And sexual assualt is not on his to-do list, either, believe it or not. “If you chose to stay with me—which, you can leave any time, just so you know— I’d welcome the company if you decide to stay— but. Regardless. The only thing I’m going to make you do is take a shower.”
At this, the man loosens his grip on the seatbelt. He looks like he might speak again,
“A normal shower,” Shiro clarifies. “Just…normal.”
Muttering under his breath sounds suspiciously like ‘ you can’t tell me what to do .’
“Non-negotiable,” Shiro warns. “For both of us.”
The outside of the hotel is painted a bright, goldenrod yellow. Like it’s been dipped in sunshine— the friendly kind, not at all like the harsh beat of the surrounding desert. The theme continues when Shiro opens the door to their room. Lucky number 278. Both of the bedspreads over the queen sized beds are bright yellow— and the curtains have a yellow and orange and red pattern on them that would make the most maximalistic person wince with eye strain.
“Huh.” Shiro toes his shoes off at the door. He sets his overnight duffle down and lays the suit on one of the beds. The one closest to the window. “Okay.”
The man behind him is silent. It’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking as he follows Shiro inside. The door closes, and then: It’s just the two of them. Closed off from the world, together. For the first time since he picked the man up, Shiro realizes that this is a strange thing to do. Picking up a random hitchhiker and inviting them into your hotel room— now that he’s considering it, this might not have been the best idea. But. The man clearly needs the help, and— provided he does not make good on his promise to stab Shiro— there’s not any real harm to it. And, anyways,
“It’s cold in here,” the man says in his low voice.
It really is freezing. Shiro hands the man one of the key cards— the woman at the front desk supplied him with two— and turns to fiddle with the air conditioning unit under the window. He has a feeling that the buttons and the digital readout may be more of a distraction than anything else. It’s probably controlled remotely. Still, he gives it a solid effort.
“We’ll see what that does,” Shiro reports. “No promises,” he adds, giving the man a wink.
“Do you want to shower first or should I?” the man asks him, flat.
“Oh!” Shiro nods. “Go right ahead!”
As creepy as it is to listen in on him, there’s not much else to distract Shiro once the man disappears inside the bathroom. Shiro can’t help but notice that after the snap of the door lock, there’s a long pause of silence before the water runs. He’s difficult to read, but it’s not much of a long shot to assume that the man does not trust him. He seems on edge. Shiro can imagine that maybe he’s standing on the other side of the door, waiting for the worst.
That bothers Shiro. Maybe more than it should.
Not everyone is going to like you all of the time, Takashi. It’s not the end of the world. And for fuck’s sakes, why do you always insist on believing the best in people? Of course you’re going to get let down!
Irritated, Shiro busies himself with the route for tomorrow. From here, he’s only 45 minutes away from the Texas border. From El Paso to San Antonio, it’s about eight hours. Not accounting for traffic, or stops. That’s absolutely achievable in one day’s drive.
He ignores the notifications on his phone. Childish, maybe. He deletes the latest email from Adam’s lawyer. Petty, absolutely. Instead he looks at the photos that he took of the suit. The sunrise really was beautiful, that first morning. It felt right, like a beginning. Inspired, he takes another photo, right then, of the suit against the marigold duvet.
He takes it just exactly the way the suit fell naturally, without any posing. The sleeves are askew, the shirt is wrinkled, the hanger isn’t sitting right in the collar. He studies the image, lost in thought. He’s been—
The lock to the bathroom door unsnaps. The door unsticks and steam pours out like a tidal wave.
“Uh.” The man appears out of the cloud of humidity, wearing the same dark jeans as before, but he’s holding the red hoodie now. Underneath it he must have had a plain black v-neck. His elbows stick out of the short sleeves, a little awkward in the shirt. He pads, barefoot, over to a chair on one side of the room. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
He’s younger than Shiro realized. A good ten years younger than Shiro, at least. Mid-twenties, maybe? With wet hair brushed out of his face, his features are severe— high cheekbones, sharp jaw, dark eyes— but in a striking way. There’s a hairline scar that cuts down one of his cheeks; the warmth of the shower makes it stand out white against the flush of his skin. He’s beautiful.
He ducks his head when he sees Shiro looking at him.
“Thanks,” Shiro says belatedly, taking his shaving bag to the bathroom.
All else disappears under the hot water. In his life, Shiro has experienced some memorable showers— the shower when he got home after being hospitalized when his illness was first diagnosed, the first shower he was able to take on his own after the accident— but this, this shower? Better than those. He has to groan when he lathers up his hair and feels the steaming water over his shoulders. With his injury, his left shoulder is often sore from overcompensating on that side. Even though his car is modified for his disability, the long hours behind the wheel have been rough.
In short, when he steps out of the shower, he’s a changed man.
A clean shave completes the transformation.
It’s only as he is about to exit the bathroom that he realizes: he left his clothes in the room.
Shiro runs a hand through his hair. Shit.
Well.
Better to be quick about it— like pulling off a bandaid.
With a towel wrapped securely around his waist, Shiro cracks the door: “Hello?”
“Yes?” The stranger is sitting in the armchair that accompanies the two queen sized beds as furniture for the hotel room. It was in the corner, but he must have dragged it closer to the door while Shiro was in the bathroom. Now it sits against a random wall.
“Well,” Shiro forces out an embarrassed laugh. “I may have left my clothes out there.”
The man looks at Shiro’s duffle and then back to the bathroom. “Okay?”
“I’m going to come out to get them.” Shiro warns him. “And then I’ll go back into the bathroom and get dressed. Is that alright?”
“Okay?” The man looks puzzled.
“I am so sorry,” Shiro tells him, rushing past the man as he walks out of the bathroom in his towel. With the one arm, he can’t hold the covering while he rifles through his stuff. It does not feel secure. He apologizes again.
“Dude.” The man, mortifyingly, makes eye contact with Shiro across the hotel room. His cheeks are flushed. “It’s fine.”
“Right,” Shiro agrees, nodding far too dramatically. It feels like the towel is slipping off his hips. Clutching a fresh pair of boxers and sweatpants, he scurries back to the bathroom.
The man snorts. It’s a little noise— something Shiro barely hears before the door latches. But. It lights something up in Shiro’s chest. Some fluttery, anxious, happy feeling. He feels, all at once, foolish and uncertain and excited—
Shiro stops.
That.
That’s what he’s searching for! That feeling— not the embarrassment or the fluttering, but the kind of moment it comes in. The feeling of being present. Of living.
He takes a deep breath, running his fingers over his mouth as he contemplates. It was a fleeting thing, gone as soon as he stopped to examine it, like catching a bolt of lightning in a photo. But.
Yes. He’s on the right track. Resolute, he tugs on a clean pair of boxers and his favorite sweatpants. After spending so long in the same clothes, the fresh, clean fabric against his skin comes with an appreciation that feels bone deep.
Shiro steps out of the bathroom, calmer now.
“All good?” the man asks him. He found a magazine somewhere, and he’s leafing through it. No doubt discovering all that Las Cruces has to offer to the intrepid traveler.
Nodding, Shiro turns down the duvet. Now that he’s clean, his body wants nothing more than sleep. “Great, actually. As wonderful as sleeping in the backseat of my car is, my back will appreciate an actual bed.”
The ghost of a smile tilts the man’s lips. He lowers his gaze to the magazine in his hands.
“Do you want me to wait to turn out the light?” Shiro asks him as he settles into bed. The white sheets are starchy and smooth. Lying down feels like heaven. The queen sized bed is smaller than his own bed at home, but that bed has felt empty instead of comfortable for months and months. Less spacious is a respite that Shiro didn’t know he needed. “I can wait until you get comfortable.”
“I’m fine where I’m at.” The man says, putting the magazine to the side. He has his legs pulled up in the arm chair, curling himself in the seat. He means to sleep there, Shiro realizes.
Which seems, to Shiro, a shame, considering there’s another bed going completely unused. But he doesn’t press the issue. He stretches to find the lamp on the bedside table. The snap of the switch finds a home within the long hum of the air conditioning unit. “Goodnight, stranger,” he whispers once the light is off.
He imagines that he can hear the start of a smile in the man’s voice when he responds: “Goodnight, Shiro.”
*
In the morning, the stranger is gone.
***