. . .
"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."
—Oscar Wilde
. . .
Rei Kashima.
The Son of Hypnos. One of the three remaining demigods left alive in this world. The oldest monster hunter of Proserpina.
...Eiji's grandfather.
A private hospital room was where the demigod dwells in these past few years, where the faint smell of antiseptic was always lingering, no matter how much the fragrant scent of flowers tried to hide it.
The walls are too white here, too clean, too plain... and it seriously irked Eiji's eyes whenever he had to stare at it for a second far too long. And while his grandfather's hospital room was by any means, not a small one, he couldn't help but still feel sort of suffocated around here.
This place felt too much like a clean prison cell.
He couldn't be too sure but sometimes, especially a few years back when he was younger; it felt like his eyes were playing tricks on him because he could have sworn the walls were slowly closing in on him, shadows dancing from the corners of his vision. Like they were slowly creeping closer to the hospital bed.
To his sleeping grandfather.
And sometimes Eiji had to seriously wonder to himself just how on earth his grandfather can take staying here for so long.
Why did Rei even had to stay here?
The old man wasn't even sick or really in a comatose state no matter what the medical staff believed in. If it were Eiji, this set-up would have driven him mad.
So whenever, he comes by―every single other day, two hours after school―he made sure to keep the only window open, making sure to keep the curtains drawn as the air was rather chilly these days before busying himself with replacing the old flowers he had left with new ones.
It was a tradition that Eiji's grandmother had sort of started ever since she had come to learn that her husband was prone to getting hospitalized for long periods of time so many years ago.
Back when the rest of their family are still alive and well. He remembers his grandmother, a bright, cheerful woman, who had been adamant with leaving flowers for Rei, citing that it didn't feel right to leave her husband waking up alone in a too-cold hospital room; she had opted to leave her husband with flowers (as well as a get well soon card that Eiji and his father had opted to pointedly ignore; Rei wasn't even really sick anyway) so that the colorful petals she had planted in their garden will be the first thing her husband sees upon waking up, the soothing smell washing away most of the stench of medicine.
Rei didn't even liked flowers, Eiji knew.
But Eiji also knows for a fact how much Rei had missed his wife and that he appreciated to know that his wife's flower garden are still being taken care of. Even if he wouldn't admit it out loud, that silly old man.
"Lavender?" his grandfather asks, not bothering to open his eyes.
He does that a lot, Eiji notes with an amused huff as he finishes fixing up the lone vase on Rei's beside table, right next to their small family picture.
Rei had often complained of how much the light hurts his eyes, even years before he had indefinitely stayed in the hospital... although Eiji suspected his grandfather just really didn't want to exert such effort in doing something so simple such as opening his eyes. Hence, the reason why Rei had his eyes usually closed or half-lidded when he really had to look at something.
