Aizawa and YamadaIt began with an email. `Subject: Faculty Wellness and Team Integration Retreat – Mandatory 😊`
Hizashi had howled with delight the second he opened it. “OH, HECK YES! Retreat time, baby!” His voice ricocheted off the lounge walls, rattling mugs and Aizawa’s soul in equal measure. Nemuri cackled. Cementoss braced for impact. Vlad King blinked like he’d been hit with a flashbang.
Aizawa, two seats away, buried in a capture weapon and existential dread, deleted the email without opening it.
He should’ve known better.
The follow-up was hand-delivered—Nezu’s pawprint, dorm coverage, patrol shifts, all laid out in ruthless, inescapable logistics.
Escape was impossible.
So Aizawa packed a small duffel bag—three changes of clothes, a half-empty bottle of eyedrops, and a handful of jelly pouches—and boarded the bus with the energy of a man being led to execution.
Hizashi brought a duffel the size of a small car and a full playlist titled “Relaxation Station: Faculty Funk Edition.” Also three pairs of sunglasses, two emergency hair ties, and sake of questionable legality.
The trip to Hakone was mercifully short, but not quiet.
Within ten minutes, Nemuri hijacked the bus mic to deliver hot springs trivia in her sultry midnight radio voice. Hizashi egged her on like a jazz club hype man, limbs flailing, sunglasses tipped low. Recovery Girl snored like a contented lawnmower. Cementoss muttered what sounded like a eulogy.
Aizawa sat in silence, one earbud in, capture weapon around his shoulders.
“You didn’t bring snacks,” Hizashi said.
“Or conversation.”
“Rude,” Hizashi grinned. “But accurate.”
They took a selfie halfway through—well, Hizashi took it. Aizawa, mid-eye-roll, was immortalized beside Vlad’s thousand-yard stare and a blur of cedar trees.
Shizukanoyu Ryokan was a relic tucked deep in Hakone’s misty hills—all warm lanterns, worn tatami, and air thick with cypress and sulfur.
Even Hizashi paused at the threshold. “Damn,” he whispered. “Sound dies pretty here.”
The inn’s name—Bath of Silence—wasn’t just branding. No TVs. No vending machines. Just forest views and a silence thick as steam.
Dinner was a warzone of sake, laughter, and airborne daikon. Hizashi declared a karaoke contest. Nemuri turned it into a towel-dance solo. Aizawa peeked into the bath, saw floating beer cans and jazz hands, and retreated like a shadow slipping back into the dark.
He waited.
The inn quieted in stages—voices fading, lights winking out like drifting fireflies. Until only the cicadas and the mountain’s slow, steaming breath remained.
Then—movement.
Two sets of footsteps padded across the polished hall floor. One soft, one louder. A late-night drift, a deliberate return. A shoji door clicked.
And soon after—
The onsen steamed like the mountain’s exhale. Pines framed the sky in jagged brushstrokes, and stars bloomed above—riotous and silver, the kind that never made it past city glare.
Hizashi stepped into the bath first, yukata folded neatly on the stone. A lacquer tray of sake sat beside him, portable speaker silent for once. He sank into the water with a satisfied groan.
“Mmmnhhh. Okay—this is officially better than therapy.”
Arms spread, head tipped back, steam curling through the loose strands of his bun. The heat unspooled the knots in his spine. The silence fit like it was made for him.
Aizawa appeared ten minutes later—summoned by the absence of noise.
He didn’t speak—just set his towel down, tested the water, and stepped in with a sigh—not quite a groan, but close. He moved with the slow, wary grace of a stray cat investigating a sunbeam.
Hizashi cracked one eye open.
“Didn’t think I’d see you out here,” he murmured.
Aizawa sank deeper, eyes half-lidded. “The noise finally stopped.”
“Mm.” Hizashi passed him the sake without another word.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, silent save for the clink of ceramic, the kiss of water, the hum of cicadas stitching the dark together.
And then—
Footsteps.
Unfamiliar—quieter than Nemuri’s bold stride, not Vlad’s heavy footfall. Slippers scuffed just slightly against the wooden walkway, the quiet pause of someone weighing welcome against want.
Hizashi cracked an eye. “Ah,” he said softly. “We’ve got company.”
Aizawa didn’t look up. He knew what they were chasing—peace, or the closest thing to it.
“Join if you want,” he said. “Just don’t be annoying.”
Hizashi raised his sake cup in lazy toast. “Hot water’s good. Silence is golden. Plenty of room in between.”
Hizashi had howled with delight the second he opened it. “OH, HECK YES! Retreat time, baby!” His voice ricocheted off the lounge walls, rattling mugs and Aizawa’s soul in equal measure. Nemuri cackled. Cementoss braced for impact. Vlad King blinked like he’d been hit with a flashbang.
Aizawa, two seats away, buried in a capture weapon and existential dread, deleted the email without opening it.
He should’ve known better.
The follow-up was hand-delivered—Nezu’s pawprint, dorm coverage, patrol shifts, all laid out in ruthless, inescapable logistics.
Escape was impossible.
So Aizawa packed a small duffel bag—three changes of clothes, a half-empty bottle of eyedrops, and a handful of jelly pouches—and boarded the bus with the energy of a man being led to execution.
Hizashi brought a duffel the size of a small car and a full playlist titled “Relaxation Station: Faculty Funk Edition.” Also three pairs of sunglasses, two emergency hair ties, and sake of questionable legality.
The trip to Hakone was mercifully short, but not quiet.
Within ten minutes, Nemuri hijacked the bus mic to deliver hot springs trivia in her sultry midnight radio voice. Hizashi egged her on like a jazz club hype man, limbs flailing, sunglasses tipped low. Recovery Girl snored like a contented lawnmower. Cementoss muttered what sounded like a eulogy.
Aizawa sat in silence, one earbud in, capture weapon around his shoulders.
“You didn’t bring snacks,” Hizashi said.
“Or conversation.”
“Rude,” Hizashi grinned. “But accurate.”
They took a selfie halfway through—well, Hizashi took it. Aizawa, mid-eye-roll, was immortalized beside Vlad’s thousand-yard stare and a blur of cedar trees.
Shizukanoyu Ryokan was a relic tucked deep in Hakone’s misty hills—all warm lanterns, worn tatami, and air thick with cypress and sulfur.
Even Hizashi paused at the threshold. “Damn,” he whispered. “Sound dies pretty here.”
The inn’s name—Bath of Silence—wasn’t just branding. No TVs. No vending machines. Just forest views and a silence thick as steam.
Dinner was a warzone of sake, laughter, and airborne daikon. Hizashi declared a karaoke contest. Nemuri turned it into a towel-dance solo. Aizawa peeked into the bath, saw floating beer cans and jazz hands, and retreated like a shadow slipping back into the dark.
He waited.
The inn quieted in stages—voices fading, lights winking out like drifting fireflies. Until only the cicadas and the mountain’s slow, steaming breath remained.
Then—movement.
Two sets of footsteps padded across the polished hall floor. One soft, one louder. A late-night drift, a deliberate return. A shoji door clicked.
And soon after—
The onsen steamed like the mountain’s exhale. Pines framed the sky in jagged brushstrokes, and stars bloomed above—riotous and silver, the kind that never made it past city glare.
Hizashi stepped into the bath first, yukata folded neatly on the stone. A lacquer tray of sake sat beside him, portable speaker silent for once. He sank into the water with a satisfied groan.
“Mmmnhhh. Okay—this is officially better than therapy.”
Arms spread, head tipped back, steam curling through the loose strands of his bun. The heat unspooled the knots in his spine. The silence fit like it was made for him.
Aizawa appeared ten minutes later—summoned by the absence of noise.
He didn’t speak—just set his towel down, tested the water, and stepped in with a sigh—not quite a groan, but close. He moved with the slow, wary grace of a stray cat investigating a sunbeam.
Hizashi cracked one eye open.
“Didn’t think I’d see you out here,” he murmured.
Aizawa sank deeper, eyes half-lidded. “The noise finally stopped.”
“Mm.” Hizashi passed him the sake without another word.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, silent save for the clink of ceramic, the kiss of water, the hum of cicadas stitching the dark together.
And then—
Footsteps.
Unfamiliar—quieter than Nemuri’s bold stride, not Vlad’s heavy footfall. Slippers scuffed just slightly against the wooden walkway, the quiet pause of someone weighing welcome against want.
Hizashi cracked an eye. “Ah,” he said softly. “We’ve got company.”
Aizawa didn’t look up. He knew what they were chasing—peace, or the closest thing to it.
“Join if you want,” he said. “Just don’t be annoying.”
Hizashi raised his sake cup in lazy toast. “Hot water’s good. Silence is golden. Plenty of room in between.”
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