Don't Be Afraid

The room looked almost like how she pictured it would be—undignified, debased. There were cracks lining the mildew-covered wall, and the only window, the only redeeming feature, had no draperies—but at least it wasn't boarded up, though it had a few holes hastily repaired with tapes. The lights were practically nonexistent, provided only by a bulb that flickered with disquieting consistency. Shoukaku wrinkled her nose from the unmistakable smell of tobacco permeating the clammy air, mingling with the faint trace of ambiguous things she couldn't comfortably describe.

"…As stupid as this sounds, make yourself comfortable," Lieutenant Ohtori Kensaku rasped as he stood behind as if encouraging her. She nodded, though not without apprehension, and stepped in.

There was a profound sense of loneliness and isolation within the room, just like the eerily silent halls outside, even though he had remarked in passing that there were others beside them there—if not destitute travelers, then those seeking to satisfy their carnal desires in a tryst. That was probably why the proprietor didn't even bat an eye at their arrival, even though learning about it still made her feel somewhat uncomfortable.

But despite knowing all kinds of comforts the room couldn't provide, she felt some sort of freedom there. No wary eyes of her supposed allies, the Americans, could follow her here.

She sat on the corner of the bed as Ohtori went to his bag, noting how it creaked and that its moth-eaten sheets and blanket had not been changed in years, at best.

She grimaced at the sight of the smashed mirror before her and the bits of crimson on the remains, which disturbed her more than the bottles on the floor. She wondered if that was his handiwork but found out that she couldn't bring herself to ask and that her voice would die out when she tried. But she could understand the reason if he did—because she didn't want to look at herself now either, nor did she could.

"…Don't know if you're hungry, but if you are, I only got this…" Ohtori went to the bed and placed a nondescript package beside her.

Shoukaku briefly considered denying it but realized she was indeed famished and that her stomach was threatening to growl. She decided to spare herself the shame of having it rumbled as she declined, so she nodded.

"Thank you. It's enough."

Ripping it open, she found out it was packed with kanpan. She was no stranger to the spartan nourishment; the piece she bit into was hard and dull, like how she remembered and expected one would be, so she couldn't complain. Ohtori took a bite from one as well, smiled, and sighed.

"Heh, just like the old times, huh?" Sorry that I only have this. Was the only thing I could get from the shelter. They aren't going to waste better things on able-bodied people like me."

"Don't be sorry," Shoukaku dismissed. She noticed he was holding a bottle and reached forward to his hand, keeping it in place before he could savor the drink.

"But I'd rather you not drink anymore."

Shoukaku felt his hand twisting free from her grasp, and though he said nothing, Ohtori set the bottle aside anyway before slouching on the floor.

"…Remember when you used to call me a coward all the time? I've realized now that you're right after all," he laughed, a laugh cut short by a series of hacking coughs.

Shoukaku almost choked on her food as an unwelcome pang grew within her chest, as if every corner of it had been drawn and stretched taut by some infernal, unseen contraption.

"…I…I don't mean it, alright? I'm sorry for saying that."

"But I am really a coward. I let her go without at least telling her what I felt…and now, I'm reduced to drinking to escape…the pain and regrets. I'm running away from everything," Ohtori shoved the bottle away; it rolled and disappeared into the dim corner.

Shoukaku swallowed, rose to join him on the floor, and leaned on the wall, relieved he didn't seem to mind.

"Do you remember all the times you would call me a stupid crane? How true that was, don't you think? That I've been a fool and naïve, that I thought I could finally become an esteemed hero…instead of…" Shoukaku's voice waned as she buried her face into her knees. She couldn't even look up when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

"…But you're not—"

"Don't try to make me feel better," Shoukaku hissed, and the weight of his hand on her shoulder quickly went away.

"…What? Isn't that what you're trying to do to me? Why can't I do the same?"

"But you deserve it."

"And so do you."

"But I let her die! I failed to protect her!" Shoukaku snapped, jerking her head up and aside. Her tear-streaked face was now plain to see. Despite the mist obscuring her view, she could still see how her emotions had imparted anguish upon him and that he was about to break like her. But even then, when he turned to her, she could see a glimpse of a smile. It was almost like an understanding.

"I…I…too. Me too…me too. It was my failure, too," Ohtori murmured. His lips were partly hidden by his knuckle, but not the fact they were quivering. "I…can't…at that time…right after I took care of those thugs, I was thinking of…leaving you behind in shame. But then you spoke of your promise to her, and it gave me pause, gave me something."

Shoukaku blinked the tears away, not caring that the act did little to get rid of them nor the fact that the room had grown colder and darker.

"And…what would that be?" She sidled closer as Ohtori wheezed and inhaled.

"Hope. It gave me some kind of hope. And I knew now I should stop running away and make up for my mistakes. Okay, so I almost failed, but I meant it."

Shoukaku didn't expect him to laugh at his own remark, but she didn't think it was born of self-deprecation. And though she had thought she didn't deserve happiness, hearing it had her reciprocating anyway, the ache within abating as quiet laughter resounded in the place.

"See, you are not a coward at all if you can say all that," she whispered as the mirth died down.

"And you're not stupid at all."

Shoukaku smiled—he was just being kind, his words almost weightless. Still, just this time, she would keep her mouth shut instead of stubbornly refuting them. Short-lived as it might be, being reassured turned out to be pleasing.

Just for now.

***

"What will you do now?" Shoukaku questioned as Ohtori went through his bag once more.

"Asking about my plans for the future or for the rest of the day?"

Shoukaku chuckled.

"Both."

"For now, just looking to continue reading the book I got."

"…I see," Shoukaku turned away to peer outside the window into the night, watching the hunched, wandering shadows under the streetlights disappearing into the dark side of the road, even under the snowy rain.

"You like to read now?" Shoukaku commented when she noticed he was indeed sitting on the rickety chair, carefully leafing through the pages. Even back then, he didn't strike her as someone well-read, so it came as surprising to see him being immersed in literature.

"You wouldn't have many choices when you're a prisoner of war. Books like this one were actually reserved for American soldiers, but we're allowed to read them. They were in English, but the camp commander was kind enough to teach us, though. In a few months, I could read some of them already—if they aren't too complicated. When I got released, he allowed me to take some. Said he was a teacher and he would always leave students parting gifts. I was kind of flattered when he said that."

Shoukaku barely paid heed to what was said as she glimpsed at the book. It was small and looked cheaply made, and she couldn't make out the words on the cover, symbols so alien and taunting. She had little doubt what was written within would be no different, but Ohtori seemed to understand them just fine, nodding and humming as he read on.

Another distance, she realized. She was again, in a way, left behind. It felt lonely. She looked away, casting a gaze outside once more. The view had hardly changed—shadows wandering back and forth before disappearing as if searching in the night. She leaned against the cold, rough glass, her forehead pressing against the unforgiving surface. Those grasping blindly for answers, for another chance, for everything else—she could understand their plight.

"Hey, are you…looking for something?"

"…I don't know," Shoukaku hastily removed herself from the window. She couldn't claim otherwise even if she wanted to.

"Hm," Ohtori merely nodded and soon returned to his book, but only for a brief moment, before setting it aside and staring into the ceiling instead.

"…I'm thinking of going back to my hometown."

Shoukaku blinked as the words sank in.

"What?"

"Well, you did ask me about my plans for the future, too. And that would be it."

"Why?" Shoukaku demanded as she paced toward him, closing the distance enough that now he had no other choice but to face her. "You're leaving me behind? What about my promise? How could you think lightly of it?"

"I'm not! I know that it means a lot to you; that's why…"

The retort had Shoukaku staying her tongue, holding back the knife-edged barb. She waited as Ohtori's head bobbed back and forth in uneasy motions.

"…I…I want you to come with me."

Shoukaku's lips parted slightly as she brought a hand to her chest. The heart within was restless, astir, beating like never before when their eyes met.

"Come with you...?"

"Yeah...I mean...I did say I want to make up for my mistakes—Her last request wasn't for you alone, and I want to fulfill it."

She could not see any—hesitation and frivolity, the marks of the insincere. The intensely gentle gaze was terrifying and gratifying.

"You...you do realize what you're saying, don't you? What are you going to do if I refuse?"

"I'll stay here."

"Really…?"

"You will not weather this alone."

Shoukaku found that it had become less chilly now, seeing him rising to his feet, slowly and restrained, and standing before her in a way that reminded her that he was once a soldier indeed, speaking with the grit and firm clarity of one.

 "Ah…"

"…I'm not going to force you, but give me the chance."

He will have it because he had given her one even if she didn't ask, Shoukaku decided.

"…You won't be alone, either."

He smiled, and Shoukaku wondered if Ohtori had read her answer as agreeing to go with him. But she wasn't as apprehensive as when she first heard about it.

"…In any case, I'll stay here for a few more days, gather my thoughts. Maybe by that time, you'd have, too," Ohtori said.

"Yes…"

"It's getting late," Ohtori glimpsed at the window.

"It is, isn't it?"

"You can take the bed and the blanket; I'll sleep on the floor."

"Are you crazy? You're sick, aren't you?"

Ohtori coughed and coughed before he could offer a rebuttal, but he proved defiant still.

"I can handle this."

"No, just take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

"But it's freezing!"

"And that's why you should take the bed!"

"I still have my jacket!"

"It's hardly enough!"

Ohtori had another fit of coughing, harsher than before, cutting the fiery back and forth short. When he turned to Shoukaku again, he already seemed drained but calmer—much like her.

"But I promised…"

"So am I..."

"…Can you at least take just the blanket?"

"…Why?"

"…I still have the bed…at least? Please?"

Shoukaku frowned but nodded; whether she was already too tired to argue or something else, she didn't know why she agreed to the peculiar proposal, and with such a weak argument, to boot. It was probably the way he said it.

The blanket was full of holes and hardly warming because the floor was starkly cold, but Shoukaku lay down anyway, just like he did. She lay on her side, allowing her a glimpse of him on the bed. He hardly stirred in his slumber.

Shoukaku recalled the past nights of her own, alone and tear-filled. Perhaps the dreams wouldn't come back now. Or maybe they would, but now she wasn't alone, and she didn't cry, and she could only smile and be unafraid.