Kenshin isn’t sure what he means to Saitou, who’s been raping him for so long it’s become a matter of routine… but finding out and bringing an end to their interaction may be every bit as painful as not knowing and letting it continue.
Kenshin wasn’t afraid anymore. There had been a period, immediately following the period of anger, when he’d been afraid every time this happened. He was through with both of those stages now; he didn’t fear anything anymore. He knew he was strong enough to protect his friends — his fight against Shishio had proven this — and as for himself… he didn’t need to protect himself. He was practically the strongest in Japan, as everyone had recently seen, and practically was close enough for him. So there was no more reason to fear — anything. Not national domination, not local trouble, certainly not his current situation.
He was too jaded to feel fear in his current situation at any rate.
So when Kaoru appeared in the doorway with a purple-blue anemone tucked behind her ear and said, “Saitou was here looking for you, but he’s gone now,” Kenshin did nothing more than smile.
“Thank you, Kaoru.” He had dropped the honorific lately, which seemed to delight her to no end.
“You know, that man is so much nicer than he seems,” Kaoru remarked, loudly enough to be heard as she stepped back into the kitchen and continued her work. Kenshin followed her, face emotionless as she continued. “He gave me a flower!” She looked over at Kenshin, no doubt to see if he was jealous. “I sure hated him at first, but he definitely improves with time.”
“He does,” Kenshin agreed quietly. “But you seem to forget his trying to kill me.”
Kaoru stood on one foot as she chopped the vegetables, rocking her head back and forth as she searched for an answer. “Well, I guess there’s more than one person in the world with something from the past buried inside them.”
Kenshin smiled, forcing the expression to look cheerful rather than wan as it was inclined to be. “Will you need tofu tonight?”
She looked over at him sweetly. “No, thanks; I’ve got everything I need.”
Kenshin paused a moment in thought. “Have you seen Sano today?”
Kaoru shrugged. “I might have seen him around, but that might have been yesterday.”
Kenshin felt the urge to scratch his head. “And Yahiko?”
“He’s practicing. He’s gotten really serious since we came back from Kyoto.”
“And I do not blame him.” Kenshin was still searching his mind. Finally, seeing no viable alternative, he just said, “I believe I will go for a walk before supper — if you don’t mind.”
To his relief, the sweet expression on her face did not change. “All right. It won’t be too long, though, so don’t go far.”
It was strange to him how practiced he’d become at deceiving her. He foresaw a marriage between them soon (they’d even discussed it vaguely at times), and it felt odd considering marrying someone who couldn’t see through even this little lie. He always meekly obeyed her commands during everyday life, knowing that she would bow to his superior knowledge in out-of-the-ordinary situations — and it was a good balance, until you threw deception into the mix. He frowned as he left the dojo and headed purposefully into the woods.
A little clearing held a small pond in the dip between two hills, and a stretch of soft, weedy turf beside it was hidden by cattails but raised enough to stay dry despite its proximity to the water. This was the spot he made for, as he always had, not with any particular haste but not exactly dawdling either. As he drew nearer, he untied the band that held his ponytail, shaking his long, soft locks down around his shoulders and running an absent hand through them. His footsteps were silent, the rustling of his clothes as he walked blending with the slight rustling of foliage in the tiny, shifting breeze.
This same slight wind soon brought him a familiar scent, the one that always greeted him as he approached. Pushing his way softly through the cattails, he emerged onto the little grassy spot beside the pool, and stopped.
Saitou didn’t say anything, just sat there with one leg stretched almost to the water’s edge and the other drawn up to his chin, leaning back on a bare hand while the other, still gloved, held his cigarette to his lips.
Kenshin sat down beside him in equal silence and waited.
They never needed many words, for they were spirits totally aligned to each other. They’d spent so many years of their lives reading others, in almost exactly the same manner, that it was only natural the two of them should understand each other so perfectly. Body position, breathing pace, the slightest facial expression — nothing more than this was needed for either of them to determine the mood, thoughts, and feelings of the other. Kenshin could tell that Saitou was brooding over a difficult case just as easily as Saitou could tell that Kenshin was feeling bad about leaving Kaoru cooking supper for them back at the dojo.
Saitou’s entire demeanor said, I need relief.
And Kenshin’s replied, Let’s get it over with, then.
Finally Saitou reached the filter and tossed it down into the water, stretching out his other leg as he did so. He removed the single glove and set the pair carefully aside atop his folded jacket that lay neatly to his left.
Then, in what seemed an abrupt change of mood, he bore down on Kenshin, pushing the smaller man into the ground with a hand on each shoulder and a mouth pressed against his.
Kenshin fell beneath him, the familiar taste of Saitou’s smoke-flavored breath strong in his throat and the other man’s hot hands sliding up into his hair to stroke and tangle it. Saitou was on his knees, straddling Kenshin’s hips, and their clothed erections were rubbing together with electrifying regularity.
Kenshin’s hands remained motionless on the ground beside him, never so much as twitching. His eyes were lightly closed, his tongue barely responding to Saitou’s as it probed the insides of his mouth. As always. At this point in the game, he was usually too lethargic to react to much of anything — although some reactions he had no control over — until Saitou began hitting or biting him, which, if he was lucky, didn’t happen; it depended on how much of a reaction Saitou wanted on the particular occasion.
As Saitou loosened the ties of Kenshin’s gi, the redhead docilely slid his arms free of the sleeves and submitted to Saitou’s exploration of his naked torso — not that there was anything unfamiliar about it. Kenshin shuddered as Saitou’s lips played over the freshest scar, the bite-mark just beneath his left collarbone. Saitou always had to touch that scar. I wish I had done this, he seemed to say, by which he meant he wished nobody had. It was one of the things Saitou tried to hide, his regret about Kenshin’s fight with Shishio, but at times it surfaced in ways he didn’t even consider.
The moist, burning, nicotine-scented mouth had found a nipple, which prickled now that it was bereft of its customary cloth covering. Kenshin didn’t bother to stifle his moan as Saitou’s teeth pulled gently at him and the older man pushed their crotches more tightly together. The wolf’s hands were now reluctantly leaving the beloved hair behind and moving down to untie Kenshin’s hakama.
Their rapport extended even so far that Kenshin knew how Saitou wanted him; as the wolf stood to shed his own clothing, Kenshin dutifully turned over onto his knees. He laid his left forearm on the ground so his right hand would be free, and closed his eyes. Moments later he felt Saitou’s fingers probing at the opening between his buttocks, pressing inwards and smearing him with unscented oil. After this was finished, Kenshin braced himself. He grunted as Saitou pushed his swollen sex into the narrow cavity, rocked by the strong thrust of the other man’s body against his. Moaning, he waited until Saitou’s hands clamped onto his hips. Drawing from this the conclusion that Saitou was only going to get himself off, Kenshin sighed — more of a breathy moan, really — and reached his own hand down to stroke his throbbing erection. An embarrassing circumstance, but one much better than going unsatisfied and returning to the dojo with bulging pants.
Eventually it was all over; Saitou finished up just after Kenshin did and pulled out with a grunt, letting Kenshin fall. Panting and sleek with sweat as he lay on his stomach in the soft grass, the smaller man did not open his eyes. It was several minutes, in fact, before he moved at all, turning onto his back at last and trying to steady his breathing. Saitou, clothed once again, sat back down beside him and lit another cigarette.
The day had faded, and the soft glow of fireflies over the water illuminated the couple better than the last rays of dusk that tried to pick their way through the trees at the top of the hill. Saitou’s cigarette briefly appeared in the darkness as he took a long drag, then vanished again in a stream of smoke.
“Saitou,” Kenshin said softly.
Saitou glanced down at him.
“I will probably be marrying Kaoru.”
Kenshin opened an eye, then another, to look for Saitou’s reaction. The older man was sitting utterly still, staring out over the pond with a slightly narrowed gaze. I will kill her. But all he said aloud was, “Hn.”
Kenshin restrained a sigh, slowly sliding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes again. He did not open them until Saitou was standing, and watched the other man’s back as he stepped toward the wall of cattails. As he put out a hand to make a path for his body, Saitou stopped briefly and cast a slow, burning glance back at Kenshin. “Fifty,” he said.
Kenshin sat up in surprise. You’ve been keeping track?!
Saitou smirked, but only very slightly. Of course.
Once the man was gone, Kenshin began slowly to dress himself again, to smooth his hair and retie it, to make himself presentable. And he wondered all the while exactly what he meant to that man, that strange man who, although so easy for Kenshin to read, was in general still so inscrutable. Fifty times now Saitou had raped him. It made sense that Kenshin would keep count, since he was the one whose pride was ground into the dust with every encounter, but why should Saitou care? Kenshin didn’t for one moment entertain the thought that Saitou considered it an anniversary of any kind… It must be that the heartless spy had a head for numbers and that sort of thing.
Kenshin shook his head, and turned toward the Kamiya Dojo.
He awoke the next morning with moisture running from his eyes; it was not a rare occurrence after such an evening for him to dream of the first time. Saitou had been so utterly brutal, had made it so perfectly clear who would have won that fight between them (earlier that very day) had it been allowed to continue. As all his dignity had been torn and scattered away like a butterfly’s wings ripped off and tossed into the wind, Kenshin had cried. And strangely enough, Saitou had not mocked his tears — seeing, apparently, that he’d broken the younger man, he had only held him tightly and nibbled contentedly on his fiery hair.
Now Kenshin washed his face viciously and went, smiling, to do his morning chores. He did not have the fortitude of Soujirou, however (probably all for his own good at any rate), and his cheerful expression soon faded to one of pensive melancholy.
It seemed strange that, after everything he’d been through, after each former enemy he’d defeated, and despite the fact that through everything he’d always managed to come out on top, he was still so horribly not “on top” in this one area of his life. It stung like the blow of a whip as he looked back at those fifty encounters and watched himself, in his memory, grow weaker and weaker under Saitou’s attentions until finally he just let his eyes glaze over and resisted no more. Despite his seeming timidity, however, his pride had not been swallowed, and with every thrust of Saitou’s hips, every time, another blow was struck to it.
And that was his chief dilemma. It was enough of a wound that he was being raped by Saitou Hajime without his friends’ knowledge. What preventative measures might perhaps have been taken had he opened his mouth, he did not know; it was pointless to think about it since the idea of seeking help was almost nauseating, and after about twenty or so molestations he’d simply given up hope of any change in the near future.
He was Saitou’s sex-slave, and so it seemed he would remain until the former Shinsen grew tired of him, or one of them died. And Kenshin had already tried that one. It was the part of the whole mess that he liked least to think about.
It had been the third time Saitou had approached him that he’d snapped and attacked the older man with all the hatred in the blackest corner of his mind. He’d totally lost himself to blood-lust and rage, and was hell-bent on killing him or dying in the attempt.
And Saitou had backed off.
He’d redonned his jacket and lit a cigarette, starting to walk away. Congratulations, his half-disgusted look had said, you’ve discovered your one unattractive feature.
And with his enemy standing down, Kenshin had slowly pulled himself once more out of the inferno that was Bakumatsu assassin, and just stared after him. It didn’t take long for the theory to crystallize: that Saitou’s actions were all intended to bring Battousai out of repression in preparation for the coming conflict in Kyoto. But this idea had been entirely blown away when Saitou next came and actually seemed relieved as Kenshin managed to control himself. And then there was the fact that it had continued after Kyoto, leaving the victim with the single, unbearable resulting thought that it was Himura Kenshin, not the Hitokiri Battousai, that Saitou wanted to feel beneath him.
“Kenshin!” Kaoru’s voice disturbed his reverie, and Kenshin made haste to bring out the smile again. “Kenshin!”
“Out here, Kaoru!” he replied in a shout, vigorously scrubbing at whatever the hell he was washing.
She approached him with a bucket. “I will need tofu today,” she said. Playfully she bent and kissed him on the cheek before handing him the container. “Don’t take too long!”
For the first time that day, a real smile found its own way onto Kenshin’s mouth as he looked up at her. “All right,” he replied, and softly rubbed the hand she’d placed on his shoulder before rising. He was just so comfortable around Kaoru… As he turned away, he thought of Saitou’s reaction to his words yesterday. Was the man that jealous? He’d done everything he could to keep their ‘relationship’ a secret, even going so far as to come up with a little code whereby he could let Kenshin know he was wanted in their special spot. (Back during the stage where Kenshin had been afraid of their every encounter, just the sight of an anemone, even growing wild, was enough to unsettle him. Now he was, as toward everything else, indifferent.) At any rate, why should Saitou care if Kenshin had an actual, real relationship with someone? It wasn’t as if there were any emotional attachment between the rapist and his victim, so wasn’t Kenshin allowed some comfort? Apparently not. And Kenshin wouldn’t risk Kaoru’s life in the assumption. How to break it to her was going to be the difficult thing.
As he headed into town he brooded further. If he couldn’t get involved with Kaoru, his presence would merely be a source of pain to her, and probably to anyone watching them as well. Which meant that his life in Tokyo was drawing to a close unless he finally came out with the truth about Saitou. Because at this point, all he was doing was tormenting a woman who loved him in order to put up with the violent attentions of a man who didn’t.
At that precise moment he almost turned and went back to the dojo, intent on telling Kaoru everything. But a heaviness beset all his limbs, and a burning flush spread over his face at the very thought of admitting that he’d allowed Saitou to rape him fifty times. With a sigh he trudged onward, the empty bucket swinging in his listless hand. He was trapped.
He had not even realized which route he was taking until he heard the laughter of children and looked up to see neat apartments stretching down the block for quite some distance. It was one of the nicer middle-class neighborhoods, and, incidentally, the street on which Saitou lived. He was certainly dwelling on the man too much for his thoughts to have directed his feet down this road. But he only squared his shoulders and walked resolutely onward. Saitou would probably still be at work at this time of day anyway.
Kenshin let out a sigh as he dully noted the apartment to his left — it looked no different from the rest, and yet was somehow ominous. He’d been inside, of course, several times. He remembered one particular incident near the beginning with painful clarity.
He’d been lying on his back much like yesterday, eyes closed as he tried to deal with the discomfort bordering on pain in his lower half as well as with the bitter wound to his pride. Saitou was naked beside him, lying at his ease, smoking and smiling with his own eyes closed. Kenshin had stared at him with a mixture of anger and curiosity, and had finally said, “Aku Soku Zan.”
Saitou responded to those words as if to his own name, glancing over at Kenshin quizzically. What about it?
What happened to it?
And Saitou had reached out to pet Kenshin’s hair, smiling sardonically. “Everyone has one point of utter selfishness. You insist on not killing, after all.”
And you rape me.
Kenshin was still sighing when he suddenly saw Saitou’s door open. For just the barest fraction of an instant he considered taking off at a sprint up the hill, but that urge faded as impractical and he only started to look away. But the next instant he looked back — for the figure he’d seen emerging from within was not Saitou.
It was an unfamiliar man who didn’t look like a spy or policeman or government employee. Saitou had no friends, and since the man closed the door behind him it was obvious that the wolf was not there with him as host. Who was it, and what exactly was he doing? He looked casual enough, but that might be an act to cover up a robbery, or the preparation for one — setup for an ambush, even.
There was no reason for Kenshin to stick his neck out for Saitou, and fifty very good ones for him not to. And it might be extremely satisfying to see Saitou’s annoyance at having had his own house robbed, especially when Kenshin would be able to describe one of the chief players without hesitation. So why exactly was he veering away from his path toward the man? He asked himself this somewhat desperately as he approached and spoke. “Excuse me…”
“Yes?” The man didn’t look at all frightened or embarrassed, only polite as he turned to face the rurouni.
“What were you doing in there?” Kenshin said bluntly.
The man smiled, and indicated the apartment next door. “I live there. Fujita-san had to leave very suddenly just now, and as I was outside just then, he asked me to take his teapot off the stove and lock the doors.”
Kenshin nodded. “I beg your pardon. But why did he have to leave so suddenly?”
The man shrugged. “Something about his wife, I believe.”
“Thank you,” Kenshin said with a bow. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Oh, not at all. Good day.”
The hill suddenly seemed steeper than before, and clouds were rolling across the sun with depressing rapidity. Kenshin bent his steps quickly toward his destination in order to get back home before the rain. And he wondered why he was not smiling. Saitou Tokio lived in Kobe, he understood, and that was a good enough distance away to give Kenshin at least a week and a half of freedom — more, depending on carriage speeds and road conditions. But if possible, he only felt worse than he had before. Probably, he reflected, because he didn’t like to be uncertain where Saitou was concerned. Better to have him there, to know exactly what he wanted and when, than to have no material idea where he was or when was the next time Kenshin was likely to find an anemone grinning at him in some conspicuous spot.
And something about his wife… What could that be? If he had been forced to leave so quickly that he didn’t have time to take a teapot off the stove or lock the door, it must be something serious. Maybe she is having a baby, Kenshin speculated wryly. There really was no reason for this curiosity. But, then, Saitou’s actions always made him curious. Nothing about the man seemed to make sense.
Having brought the tofu back to Kaoru, Kenshin sat down outside and watched the shrieking Ayame and Suzume run from monster-Yakiho. He felt strangely listless, and wondered if it was the rurouni side of his personality making an especially strong bid. Perhaps it really was time to move on. He looked at the little girls and the boy who wasn’t much older, and thought about the sweet young woman only a few years senior to Yahiko who was inside making supper for all of them. He wasn’t sure he could stand hurting her like that.
He wasn’t sure he could stand to leave him behind either, if only because the big idiot needed Kenshin’s presence just to keep him out of trouble. Still, if Kenshin left, Sanosuke might have a better chance at Megumi’s heart… “Hello, Sano.”
Sano took a seat beside him. “You look stupid today… what’s up?”
“Nothing,” Kenshin replied with a laugh. “What brings you here?”
“Not that smell,” replied Sano with first a shrug and then a wrinkled nose as he looked toward the door into the building. “But free food’s a good thing even if she makes it.”
“You should get a job.”
“I’ve got something…” Sano scratched his head, looking a tad annoyed. “Gonna guard a wagon fulla stuff for some merchant. Actually, I was thinkin’ you might wanna come with… easy money, you know? Guy’s been robbed a coupla times, I guess, but they were just highway-geeks.”
“Where is the merchandise going?”
Kenshin stiffened reflexively at the name, relaxing instantly as he knew Sano was watching him. “I will go with you.” There wasn’t any reason to let the thought that Saitou was or would be in Kobe deter him from making some cash with which to pay his way around here… coincidental as the two circumstances seemed, they really had nothing to do with each other.
Kenshin was still telling himself this in two days’ time when he and Sano stood waiting in the early morning at the edge of town for the merchant’s wagon to arrive. Sano was yawning, a fishbone dangling precariously from his stretching lips. Kenshin often wondered where, exactly, Sano got all the fish, but didn’t bother to ask. Sano was not going to take it well when the inevitable announcement of Kenshin’s departure came. The boy loved Kaoru like a sister, not to mention being quite attached to Kenshin himself — no, it was not going to be pleasant. Kenshin expected to leave Tokyo with two black eyes at the very least.
Something of these reflections must have shown on his face, for Sano poked him in the stomach and teased, “Don’t worry, Kenshin — you’ll be back with her after not too long. And we can get fuckin’ sloshed in Kobe to make up for being away from her.”
Kenshin forced an embarrassed smile, waving Sano’s words away and saying something typical that he couldn’t remember the next second. Maybe getting ‘fuckin’ sloshed’ with Sano was a good idea — it might take his mind off Saitou. He only hoped they didn’t run into the wolf in Kobe and ruin everything.
The trip started out as boring as Kenshin had anticipated, but at least Sano did his best to liven it up. An hour out of Tokyo he started singing, and it seemed that he was going to go through every song he’d ever heard before he stopped. The funny thing was, he didn’t have a bad voice, and Kenshin found it quite relaxing to walk along in the sun and listen to Sano’s vulgar chorusing. Sano tried repeatedly to get Kenshin to sing along, when it was obvious that the song was familiar to him, but Kenshin wasn’t about to display his musical abilities (which included a high A) in front of the stranger driving the wagon who’d already made a comment on Kenshin’s effeminate appearance earlier in the day.
Sano broke off from a refrain about huge swords and commented, “I wish I could find another zanbatou.”
“Then you would have to call yourself Zanza again,” Kenshin replied in amusement, though feeling a bit guilty.
“Nah… That was all kindof a show, you know? It was cool and impressive and all, but it wasn’t really me.”
Kenshin smiled. “And the zanbatou was?”
“Well… maybe not…” Sano admitted. “But it got me more respect from the off, you know? People didn’t just look at me and say, ‘oh, it’s just some stupid teenager who thinks he can fight.’ I mean, just carrying the thing proved I was strong.”
“You don’t need to prove you’re strong,” Kenshin said. “Anyone to whom it matters knows it. Even Saitou — ” He cut himself short, brows furrowed. It had come naturally to say it, but hearing the name aloud was a jarring reminder of where they were going.
“That bastard!” Sano spat, though his tone was actually somewhat jovial. “He doesn’t know jack about me.”
“There you are wrong. Saitou respects you more than you realize.”
“How the hell do you know that? Been talking to him lately?”
“Yes.” Kenshin was unwilling to say more, though with the natural way they were conversing he feared the same answer might have slipped out even if Sano had said, ‘Been sleeping with him lately?’
Sano shrugged. “Like I care what he thinks.”
Kenshin smiled. He knew Sano would rather prove himself to Saitou than to anyone else in the world, despite (or perhaps because of) the hatred between the two. Kenshin envied him, for he would have given anything to be in the younger man’s position — with no doubt as to the emotions involved, and the question of strength and respect the only uncertain thing between them.
That night Sano slept first, sprawled out in the grass snoring and keeping the wagon driver, who was at least three yards away, up for several hours. Kenshin sat watch from the wagon, staring up at the stars and thinking not-very-cheerful thoughts about his future and the friends he would be hurting if things turned out the way he feared they must.
At midnight he woke Sano, and went to sleep himself in the soft grass.
He didn’t want to wake up.
He just felt so good, so warm and comfortable…
“What is it, Sano?” he asked as he sat up and shook sleep from him — sleep, and also an inexplicable feeling of contentment. Normally he awoke in an instant into full alertness; he couldn’t imagine why he was so sluggish now.
Sano jerked a thumb at the sunrise. “Mornin’,” he said.
“Thank you, Sano,” he replied, pulling the blanket off as he stood and folding it. He looked around for his shoes.
“That musta been some weird dream you were having,” Sano was saying as he headed for the wagon where the driver was already harnessing the horse.
Kenshin looked up from his now-shod feet, nearly dropping the blanket. The feeling he’d awoken with had held a definite sexual flavor, and a dream could certainly have caused it — what might he have said in his sleep that Sano had heard? “Why?” He tried to sound casual.
“You kept sayin’ weird stuff like, ‘the beginning, please’ or ‘start, please,’ or… something…” Sano shrugged. “And some other stuff I couldn’t hear.”
Kenshin tried not to blush, but, not entirely successful, had to look away. “I do not remember it,” he said. He was overcome with gratitude that Sano had misheard and misinterpreted, but didn’t dare say anything that might lead the boy to dwell on what other meanings ‘hajime’ might have.
Eventually Sano exhausted his store of songs, which seemed to relieve the wagon-driver immensely, and spent most of the rest of the day, in between more intelligent bits of conversation, trying to get Kenshin to sing. Kenshin refused to bend, however, and Sano was pouting when they made camp.
Several nights later, everything went to pieces.
“Let’s go swimming, Kenshin.” They were stopped just next to a large pond, and Sano’s logic was that even if someone did attack while they were in the water, they were close enough to get out and fight them off in plenty of time — and, he added cheerfully, any attacker would be likely to run off in shame at the sight of two such massively-endowed men.
“Sano, that doesn’t make any sense,” Kenshin replied in embarrassment.
“Whatever… let’s go swimming!”
And, as Kenshin had no particular argument against going swimming, he readily agreed. It was an innocent, forgetful mistake, but a serious one.
“You just haven’t been yourself,” Sano remarked as he floated languidly on his back.
“You think so?” Kenshin said. It was all he could say. The true brooding state of his mind could not easily be explained, after all. Beyond that, he was confused as to why his thoughts had gone from worry about hurting his friends in getting away to endless reflections on the man he wanted to get away from. The tall, dark figure with his various unique mannerisms, his forceful ideals, his strange tastes, had dominated the former hitokiri’s brain until he felt he must go insane. Why couldn’t he tear himself away from all of this?
“Maybe you need me to kick your ass to cheer you up, huh?” It was all the warning he had before Sano jumped him and they both plunged under the water.
Kenshin wasn’t exactly in the mood for sparring, but he didn’t have much choice as Sano was holding him down and he did need to breathe. So, with great effort, he managed to extricate himself and push Sano off. Even as he was sloshing away from his light-hearted opponent, he head the young man laughing.
He turned and awaited the next attack, wondering what was so funny. But Sano was lost in mirth and didn’t seem to be planning any more moves just yet. Kenshin straightened in the water, looked around for the source of Sano’s amusement, and finally asked, “What?”
“Now I see why you’re so depressed!” Sano cried, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “I thought it was funny that you missed her so much just being gone for this little while…”
“What are you talking about?” Kenshin wondered in bewilderment.
Sano floated on his back once more, splashing masses of water all over Kenshin as he continued to laugh. “You guys got impatient, huh?”
As Kenshin finally realized what this all must mean, he felt a shiver of fear go through him, and took a furtive glance down at his body to search out what Sano had seen — but found nothing that would suggest what Sano was apparently thinking.
“It’s on your back, man,” Sano giggled, “right below your neck. It’s fading, but don’t think I can’t tell what it is.”
Kenshin unconsciously put a hand to his shoulder, remembering. How could that mark possibly still be there? But then, everything Saitou did left a lasting mark, didn’t it? What was he going to say?
He didn’t have to say anything at first, for Sano had gone into a new fit of laughter at the look on Kenshin’s face. “I didn’t think she would be the one to do that to you…” Kenshin cleared his throat nervously. “But I guess you probably showed her what a man you are right after that, huh?”
Kenshin’s face was burning like the sun, and he made a vain appeal. “Sano…”
“I bet you guys’ve been going at it forever and I never noticed… she probably got sick of being a virgin and tied you up or something!” And that thought made Sano positively wild with laughter.
“Sano!” Kenshin said in a more commanding tone, annoyed that Sano would talk about Kaoru that way. Admittedly, if Sano’s assumptions had been true, Kenshin wouldn’t have minded so much — but with the way things actually stood, he didn’t like Sano guessing. Still, as long as he went on thinking it was Kaoru who’d given him that mark — and why shouldn’t he, if Kenshin kept his mouth shut? — it wasn’t so bad… was it?
It was. For Sano, instead of letting the matter go after that night as Kenshin had expected, continued to tease him with every breath until Kenshin was cringing at the sound of his voice. And Sano could be as vulgar as anything Kenshin had ever heard, bringing images into Kenshin’s head that didn’t need to be there during his current dilemma. The worst part was, Kenshin knew that the teasing wasn’t likely to stop once they got to Kobe, or, worse, once they got back to Tokyo. And then everything would have to come out — unless Kenshin put a stop to it right now. How exactly he was going to do that, he wasn’t sure, but something had to be said to shut Sano’s wild mouth.
Sano was in the middle of an imitation of Kaoru crying out something about Kenshin’s ‘Hiten Mitsurugiryuu’ when Kenshin snapped, seizing him by the arm and growling his name so fiercely that Sano’s full attention was riveted on him in an instant. “Whoa, sorry, man,” he said. “Didn’t mean to make you mad or anything.”
Kenshin took a deep breath. “You didn’t make me mad,” he replied. “It’s just that I wish you would forget about… that…”
The wagon driver snickered softly. He’d been enjoying Sano’s taunting just as much as Sano had.
Sano looked confused for a moment, and then an evil gleam came into his eyes along with a wide grin on his face. “I knew it,” he gloated. “She’s your first, isn’t she?”
Kenshin blushed and immediately cried, “No!”
The driver laughed openly at this.
“I mean, that’s not why,” Kenshin continued, lowering his voice with a slightly annoyed glance at the driver. “I would just appreciate it if you didn’t mention this again.”
Sano’s brows lowered, bringing the red of his headband right down above his eyes, at the serious tone in his friend’s voice. “All right, Kenshin,” he agreed slowly. “If you and jou-chan wanna it kept a secret, I guess I can…”
“Don’t mention it to anyone,” Kenshin said, trying hard not to let his voice shake and looking away quickly to hide another blush whose cause was a bit different from that of the previous.
Sano stopped walking abruptly, staring wide-eyed at the other man, his hands slowly clenching into fists. “Kenshin…?” he whispered, and in his tone was not only bewilderment but accusation.
Oh, he’d really done it now, hadn’t he? It was probably the worst thing he could have said. He turned to face Sano, letting out a long breath as the wagon progressed along the road without them. “Sano,” he said slowly, “don’t think that way. Please.”
Sano’s face was twisting into a familiar expression. “What the hell am I supposed to think?” he demanded, his voice rising toward the end of his sentence. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you want me to fucking mention that to jou-chan if you’re not having a fucking affair!?”
The wagon had creaked to a halt several yards beyond them, and the driver was looking back curiously.
“Sano…” Kenshin said again, feeling helpless. He took a step forward, his expression appealing. Don’t make me tell you, he begged mentally. Just trust me.
“Who was it?” Sano hissed. “Who’re you planning on breaking her heart for?” His eyes narrowed. “Megumi?”
“Sano!” It was almost a squeak in response to a new accusation that Sano was obviously taking more seriously than he let on — Kenshin could see the fear and betrayal in his eyes, surpassing even the anger in his voice.
Kenshin’s shoulders drooped, and he began to walk toward his friend slowly, his head turned downward in despair. “I’ll tell you,” he said softly, “but you mustn’t overreact. It’s totally different than what you’re thinking.”
Despite his anger, Sano’s trust in Kenshin made him pause and examine his friend’s demeanor. “What is it?” he asked quietly, raising a hand to Kenshin’s shoulder.
Kenshin could not lift his burning face as he uttered the single word, “Rape.”
“Rape?” Sano repeated in a whisper, his eyes widening once again. “But… who…” He seemed almost in shock, and Kenshin’s heart felt like it had stopped. Had he shattered all of Sano’s faith in him? “Who could be strong enough…” Suddenly Sano gripped Kenshin’s shoulders with his hands and shook him, probably harder than he’d meant to. “Who was it!?” he shouted, and as Kenshin unwillingly raised his eyes, he saw tears in Sano’s — tears of rage, perhaps, or disillusionment; he didn’t know. All he knew was that Sano was not going to let him slip away from this without an answer. An answer which Kenshin was infinitely reluctant to give, and inexplicably for more reasons than just the terrible, terrible wound to his pride.
He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and never broke his eye contact with Sano as he said the name.
Sano’s hands dropped to his sides as his face darkened and he began to shake uncontrollably. Kenshin could see his muscles tensing, could sense the blow that was about to land — somewhere.
Unexpectedly, Sano bent and slammed his fist into the ground, an unmistakable Futae no Kiwami that made Kenshin stagger as it rained him with shattered earth. Sano’s roar disintegrated into a cursing shout that used every obscenity Kenshin had ever heard and then some, and lasted for almost a minute.
The wagon driver had prudently turned and begun ignoring them.
“But why didn’t you stop him?”
This was most certainly not the next thing Sano said; however, it was the next coherent thing he said. It was about an hour later, actually, when Kenshin’s frantic, horrified efforts had finally managed to calm his friend’s frenzy. Kenshin had never seen Sano so angry. And he knew, no matter how little he felt like discussing the issue further, that if he didn’t answer Sano’s questions, the calm wasn’t going to last. But what could he say?
“Kenshin…?” Sano prompted him in a growl.
Kenshin looked up at the sky and shook his head. This was a moment he’d been dreading: the moment when he was forced to say aloud what he’d been fearing all along yet not wanting to admit he’d been fearing at all. “Sano, I’m not as strong as he is.”
And Sano’s reaction was also exactly as he’d feared, for instead of defending him hotly, Sano only dropped his eyes to the ground and fell silent.
Kenshin’s face was burning, and his movements felt awkward and stiff as he inwardly combated shame, anger, and fear. Shame at his weakness, anger at his foolishness, and fear of what might be going on in Sano’s head. Disillusionment? Horror? Would he scorn his friend now?
Shaking himself, Kenshin tried to dispel these thoughts. He’d always told himself that he didn’t care about being the strongest, but that had obviously only been the response of his logical mind to a subconscious desire to be just that. How petty, to worry about which of a handful of men was at the top in terms of physical strength and samurai abilities! How childish, to be afraid to admit that he wasn’t as skilled at fighting as someone else! How pathetic, to be worried what other people thought of him! He didn’t need those kinds of considerations.
“I’m going to kill him,” Sano said.
Kenshin tensed abruptly. This was, of course, the natural progression of events, but for some reason he hadn’t anticipated it. He found himself replying, “No!” before he even realized what he was saying. After a moment he wondered why he’d even said it.
Sano was wondering too, although he had his guesses. “What,” he asked in a surly tone, “you think I’m not strong enough?”
Kenshin knew he wasn’t strong enough. Sano knew it too, and knew that Kenshin knew. But what could he say? The fact was, that wasn’t the reason at all that he didn’t want Sano to try to kill Saitou, but he wasn’t sure what the reason was. He was so confused, it was a wonder he was walking straight. “It’s not that, Sano, it’s just that I… I want to deal with this myself.”
And once again, Sano didn’t have a reply. They kept walking in a silence like a subdued thunderstorm that could break again at any moment.
After quite some time Sano abruptly said, “But couldn’t you just have…”
Kenshin interrupted him, surprising himself with the harshness of his tone. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Needless to say, the rest of the trip to Kobe was every bit as unpleasant as this day had been. Sano, despite Kenshin’s desire that the subject be dropped altogether, started making guesses: when the first time had been, how many times it had happened since then, when it had happened when he’d been around and just hadn’t realized, and myriad other uncomfortable conjectures that threatened to drive Kenshin mad. The first sight of their destination was like a fresh wind through stagnant air.
Sano mumbled something as they accompanied the wagon down the hill into town, but Kenshin did not catch what it was. He turned a quizzical eye on his friend, who repeated himself at top volume in a tone of reckless and somewhat bitter abandon. “I’m gonna go get drunk. You can get our pay if you want, or whatever, and I’ll see you later.” Without waiting for an answer to this statement, he stalked off at a quick and heavy pace into the crowd.
“I guess I’ll do that, then,” Kenshin muttered, feeling abandoned. “Let’s go,” he added in a louder tone to the wagon driver, trying to act more cheerful than he felt.
The man shook his head, and urged the horse into movement once more.
Less than an hour later and somewhat richer than he had been, Kenshin found himself on the Kobe streets wondering what to do. The plan had been for him and Sano to get drunk together… now he didn’t even know where Sano was. He was a bit annoyed, actually, that Sano hadn’t bothered to make arrangements with him, as the ex-gangster probably didn’t have any money on him and would need to rejoin Kenshin just to get a room for the night.
He found his thoughts wandering into dangerous areas, such as where Saitou might be right now and, again, why he’d come to Kobe. It was understandable, but Kenshin didn’t like the way he just couldn’t get the older man out of his head lately.
Sighing, he decided that the best course of action would be to find the area of town with the most bars and gambling houses and search methodically through them for Sano. It might take all night, but it might also take his mind off things he didn’t really want to be thinking about. And it was better than finding Sano in the morning and trying to dredge out of his friend’s hung-over state where he now owed money and how much. Besides, he’d be up all night worrying if he didn’t locate Sano. Though that might be better than being up all night worrying about other things. He sighed again; there were no pleasant prospects for the rest of the trip.
Unfortunately, just as on that day when Saitou had left Tokyo, Kenshin’s feet (or subconscious mind) had different plans than his head did, and he found himself after not too long wandering a neighborhood in which he was certain not to find Sano, and more likely to find someone else. Although the chances of that couldn’t be particularly great, could they? How could he think just because it looked appropriate that this was the neighborhood in which Saitou Tokio lived? It was just because it was so similar to Saitou’s street in Tokyo, he assumed, that his wanderings had taken him in this direction. Still, it was unsettling. As much as he could be unsettled from a mental state that was already akin to an earthquake.
He stared absently at the fine, small houses, feeling his footsteps slow with every one he passed as if progress down the street were difficult for him somehow. A few leaves, dried since their fall from some shaken tree, skittered past him on a light breeze, and he raised a hand to his face against the intrusion of hair into his eyes. And finally his sluggish pace brought him to a halt entirely, directly in front of a house that looked no different in any respect from the others. He turned to face it fully, wondering why he’d stopped. There was simply no way he could know, but here he was before of a home that was entirely unremarkable, quite still in his tracks as if this were the exact place he had come to Kobe to visit.
He was truly foolish. He didn’t even want to see Saitou, and here he was standing in the middle of an unknown street wondering if it was the right place. But somehow he couldn’t move from the spot. Moment after moment he spent telling himself that he was about to turn and walk away, but for every repetition of the sentiment, his feet seemed to root themselves more firmly in place. Maybe he had something he wanted to say or do?
Or maybe he was just a glutton for punishment.
Not that he hadn’t considered that possibility before, in regards to the entire situation with Saitou. He honestly didn’t think it was the case, but had to admit that he hadn’t yet dismissed the idea as entirely implausible. There’d always been a kind of guilty haze in his mind through which he viewed just about everything; it was something he’d long since resigned himself to, as the crimes of his youth dictated it without a doubt. No matter how he lived his life, he would never be entirely free of the sensation; he doubted he even should be. And perhaps… just perhaps… it was in response to this that he had not yet worked to extricate himself from this dilemma. But he didn’t think so.
For one thing, what crime did this punishment fit??
Now he was going to turn and walk away.
The door in front of him opened.
He should feel sick. He should feel affronted. He should feel angry, or afraid, or even sad. He should feel something in response to the flash of happy surprise that showed on Saitou’s face for half a second, anything other than totally numb.
What are you doing here?
Kenshin had no answer. He didn’t even know how he’d found the place, let alone what he was doing here. And he certainly didn’t want to be here. At least now he could move, although he hadn’t intended to go in quite that direction.
Saitou didn’t like to show surprise, Kenshin knew, which was why, as the tall man stepped aside to allow Kenshin to pass him through the door into the house, he acted no differently than usual, as if he’d been expecting him. But the surprise had been there, only moments earlier, and they both knew it. That, and the fact that Saitou was glad to see Kenshin. Actually emotionally pleased by Kenshin’s mere presence.
He looked around the comfortable home with eyes that perceived very little physical detail but took in quite a bit of implication. There was no way Saitou could live in a house this… warm. He certainly had not had any say in its decoration or arrangement. Somehow… somehow a certain tightness somewhere inside Kenshin was eased. He told himself this was because he was suddenly doubting that there was a wife who loved Saitou that could be being hurt by the situation with Kenshin.
Despite seeming somewhat out of place, Saitou played a deft host. It was the same grace Kenshin had always known him to display, when he had a reason to display it or a deceptive face to put on, and yet different somehow. Perhaps it was just the contrast of seeing him in this unknown setting.
“What are you doing here?” Saitou finally questioned aloud when they were seated in a commodious chamber with bright windows and doors on all sides.
“Sano and I took a job guarding a shipment of goods from Tokyo.”
They were both very still, not looking at one another, and this in itself was a statement. Kenshin could not quite read it, however. “Why are you here?” he asked at length.
Saitou stirred a little, in a motion that tended toward the door to the left. “My wife is ill.”
“Her situation was reported as very grave, but by the time I got here she had recovered to the point where there’s no longer any need to worry. I may still be here for a while, though.” Kenshin marked Saitou closely during this statement — idle curiosity at work — and noted that Saitou spoke of his wife very clinically. Kenshin looked at the door to the left in a clear request for more information, but Saitou’s slight withdrawal of intention to speak as he answered briefly, “She is asleep,” told Kenshin plainly that the subject was not interesting enough to discuss.
For some considerable time after this, they sat still in a silence so profound that only those to whom communication is as simple as breathing can attain; no ideas were exchanged between them in any manner. Kenshin could feel Saitou’s eyes on him, calm and unflagging, but he had ceased to look at the other man.
Time wore on, accompanied by very slowly mounting tension. The scene felt surreal, almost dreamlike — the circumstances by which he’d arrived at it tended toward unreality, and nothing would have been better than to believe he was asleep and would at any moment awaken to find himself… anywhere but here. It was a silence that felt somehow like a wound to which he’d grown accustomed: as long as he didn’t move, it wouldn’t hurt him. Kenshin was on the verge of believing that it was all right to remain there wordlessly with Saitou until the end of time, and suddenly he remembered Sano.
It was not worth the effort to consider the issue — whether he should bring it up, whether Sano’s rage weighed more in his worried mind than the safety of this silence — for the moment the thought crossed his mind, Saitou perceived his agitation and became subtly but overbearingly inquisitive. Well, it would only be a small break in the silence to mention it and then let the matter drop.
“Sano knows,” he said softly, and although his tone was certainly not apologetic, Saitou would not fail to hear how sorry Kenshin was that the event had taken place.
The officer, however, after a brief frown, did not look particularly concerned. Doubtless he knew Sano well enough to realize what the boy’s reaction would be.
“I don’t want him hurt any more,” Kenshin insisted in an even quieter tone than he’d used before — although since he’d spoken once, a second statement was easier to make.
“And when he attacks me, what do you expect me to do?” Saitou wondered. His tone was almost blank: neither mocking, nor overly somber — nor anything else Kenshin could place.
As he had noted about Saitou’s demeanor as they’d entered, something was incomprehensibly different about this entire conversation from any other time they had interacted that Kenshin could remember. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar environment or the other man’s restrained manner; perhaps it was the fact that Kenshin felt he was for the first time in this matter defending someone other than himself. Whatever the reason, something was building inside him and suggesting that now might be a good moment to say some of the things he’d always wanted to say, the things he sometimes murmured aloud to himself at night, pretending Saitou could hear them. The silence was still a strong opponent, but when Saitou could obviously once again sense that Kenshin wanted to speak, and looked at him with calm attention, it suddenly became almost easier to break it.
“Saitou, we are not at war.”
Saitou looked mildly surprised and curious — still with no trace of mockery, nor of particular earnestness.
“It isn’t appropriate — it isn’t necessary — to hurt people in order to get what you want,” Kenshin explained softly. “But maybe you still think of life as a battle where anything is fair…”
Long moments passed while they again avoided looking at each other, but now the air was thick with apprehension, anticipation.
“At first it was,” Saitou replied at length. “It was a battle, or a message. And then…” He fell silent, clearly reluctant to continue on the subject. This seemed odd; Saitou had been almost flippant about this the last time it had come up. Kenshin, surprised, wondered where the composure had gone.
Following another long pause Saitou began again, this time, it seemed (but only at first), on a different topic. “During my youth I was a heavy drinker, but after the Bakumatsu I gave it up. That was… a challenge.” Kenshin did not have to look up to sense that this was an understatement. “A few years ago I attempted to quit smoking as well, and at the time I was unable to do so. I have yet to try again. And–”
He broke off abruptly, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say any more. Kenshin didn’t exactly feel sorry for him; moreover, he thought he understood where it was leading, and he wondered if Saitou was fool enough to think understanding would equal forgiveness.
Although Saitou could probably discern that unspoken query, he didn’t choose to reply to it directly — but what he did say, after an interval that was probably at least a minute long, was answer enough: “You’re welcome to stay here while you’re in town…” …as if you would ever want to. Kenshin had finally raised his eyes, only to find Saitou’s turned away from him and on the wolf’s face an inscrutable smile that might have been described as one of self-mockery.
Kenshin was frozen where he sat. Confusion immediately obliterated any thought of a reply he might have entertained, and after a moment he found himself rising almost clumsily to his feet and making for the door — as if his body knew better than his baffled mind that everything that needed to be said had been said. Indeed, more had been said just now than at any previous meeting, and he should be aware of that fact even if he wasn’t aware of what the results would be. Still, somewhere in the back of his thoughts he felt that perhaps his exit was a little too precipitous, that there could be one or two things left to say.
Whatever might or might not be going on in the rest of his head, eventually his eyes became aware of the sight of the dark street into which he’d fled, and his ears delivered to him belatedly the report of Saitou’s last words before he’d left the house: “I won’t hurt your friend.” What was the tone? He almost wished he’d paid a little better attention, for his memory couldn’t be coloring those words correctly; Saitou never regretted anything.
He should probably keep looking for Sano now, but somehow once he’d realized he’d left Saitou’s house, he couldn’t bring himself to move. At least, not for a very long time.
It had to be around midnight when Kenshin at last ran into Sano, somewhere down some turning in some area of town… he’d entirely lost track.
Sano seemed to have been looking for him as well, for he quickened his pace to stand before Kenshin, then stopped and went motionless. Kenshin was still trying to decide what to say when Sano at last grumbled, “I’m a dick.”
“Sano, it’s all right,” Kenshin replied automatically, and it was mostly true.
“No, really, I’m a dick,” Sano insisted. “I can’t believe I forced you to listen to me guessing and shit… and then I ran off like that…”
Kenshin looked away. “You were upset. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m still a dick.”
“Only a little.”
Sano seemed to relax a bit as Kenshin finally agreed with his self-assessment, but he still appeared to feel very awkward. “Hey, if you… wanna talk… or anything… I mean, if you need anything… now or whenever…”
Kenshin wasn’t sure how he felt about this offer; he knew that at another time, he would be grateful for the concern behind it, but he still wished with all his heart that Sano had never found out. But he couldn’t be upset with him for that… And at the moment all he really wanted was to go to sleep; there, after all, he had at least a small chance of being able to think about something else. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say. “Let’s go find a place to stay.”
And Sano was a model of self-restraint as they did so.
The trip back to Tokyo started out very quiet, and it wasn’t long before Kenshin was cursing Saitou and circumstance for driving this wedge into his friendship with Sano. But the boy was less socially maladroit (less of a “dick”) than he gave himself credit for. After the first day and a half of awkward silence, he began a bold conversation project wherein he delved with a semblance of cheer that eventually became almost real into every topic he could think of that had nothing to do with any subject neither of them wanted to discuss. It was undeniable that he was not light-hearted enough for singing, but his efforts were not without effect.
Tokyo did not seem particularly welcoming. Of course Kaoru was pleased and relieved to see them, Yahiko eager to hear that they’d encountered and defeated robbers on the way to Kobe (but not particularly disappointed that they hadn’t), and their other friends glad as always of their presence. But Kenshin didn’t really feel, anymore, that he was at home. Sano’s awareness of his plight heightened the sensation that none of his acquaintances really knew what he was feeling from day to day, or even really knew him. And while it did seem that having someone with him would make telling the others easier, still thinking back to the reaction of the same always made him reconsider. Beyond that, there was a new, perverse little voice in his head that was insisting he shouldn’t have to tell them: that he was unhappy, that he was conflicted over something this momentous should be discernable to those who claimed to be his close friends, who purported to love him.
And yet, now that Sano knew, it seemed things would be so much simpler and clearer if everyone else did as well. And what pride did Kenshin have left anyway? Thus his indecision was as bad as it had ever been, and he wavered between yes and no like the wind chime on the porch, with about as much weight to what swayed him.
So caught up in this debate was he that he almost forgot to dread Saitou’s homecoming, and it was some time — a month, perhaps, since he and Sano had returned — before he began to wonder where the policeman was. Surely he could not still be in Kobe? It wasn’t that Kenshin wished for his presence, by any means; again, it was merely that he would prefer to know exactly where his tormenter was at any given moment, so he could know what to expect. He began to keep his eyes open when he was in town — indeed, wanting the information sooner rather than later, he found excuses to be in town rather often. And what he discovered — sooner rather than later — was somewhat surprising, even startling: that Saitou was in Tokyo, apparently had been there for some time, and had simply not made his presence known.
Kenshin did not dare — could not afford to believe that this meant what he wanted it to mean. Still, weeks wore on and it was as if Saitou Hajime did not exist and Kenshin’s none-too-untroubled life had been further twisted by an illusion only. As he knew this was not the case, and could hardly think that Saitou’s libido had suddenly dropped off, the only other logical explanation was… but still Kenshin refused to believe it. It was of all the plausible events he could imagine the one he desired most, and he would not set himself up for such crushing disappointment. But the air of freedom has a distinctive scent, and eventually even the most prudent denial must give way to happy truth.
No. ‘Happy’ was not the right term. All the end of the affair did was raise more questions — now less likely than ever to be answered — and change the tense of the old ones: ‘Should he tell them it had happened?’ ‘What had he meant to that man?’ and so on.
Well, the answer to the latter could perhaps now be guessed at with more certainty, as Saitou had hinted at it himself. But despite the so-called happy resolution to the issue — he was not complaining — it did little for Kenshin’s self-assurance to reflect that he had been just another part of Saitou’s one weakness and been dropped accordingly.
And how had Saitou come to that decision, anyway? After so many times, to stop so suddenly… Kenshin wouldn’t mind thinking that his own words had had something to do with it, but felt it more likely that Saitou had been moved by some reflection stemming from the situation with his wife, entirely independent of his victim. Or perhaps it hadn’t been sudden at all; perhaps it had just taken Saitou that long to rally his will-power. Maybe now he would make another attempt to quit smoking.
No, Kenshin could hardly be expected to find anything pleasant in that area of thought. In addition, as time and accompanying hindsight brought clarity to the concluded circumstance, Kenshin’s shame rather grew than lessened. He’d always known that there were ways out of his predicament if he’d only been willing to take them, but only now as he began to regain, perhaps, a part of his old self-confidence did he see just how far into indifference he’d sunken, how easy it might have been to free himself. His prior helplessness, whose name and nature he did not know, was just one more thing he could not understand. Looking back, Kenshin almost did not recognize himself.
Disturbing as this was, and much as Kenshin came to loathe the thought of that apathy that had for so long taken the place of happiness in his life, it was slightly heartening to consider that as he was changing, moving away from the void of impassivity he’d let his existence become, happiness must surely follow. That it had not, as yet, was not, as yet, a matter of concern.
Kaoru had not sensed the change in him, just as she had never sensed his discontent; she could not discern his gradual and largely detached realization that he did not love her, could never marry her. Well, he could… but he could picture himself after a few years making a statement like, Her situation was reported as very grave, but by the time I got here she had recovered to the point where there’s no longer any need to worry, with an uncaring voice and no desire to continue the conversation on that topic. He’d once thought… he’d long thought… but it was clear by now that Kaoru could never make him happy.
Sano was around almost all the time now. Whether or not he could guess any of the finer points of Kenshin’s reflections of late, he made sure Kenshin knew he was there for him, stubbornly remaining the same quiet (quiet in respect to the situation, at any rate), relentlessly cheerful friend he’d become since the return from Kobe. And Kenshin was grateful for that, and wondered why, with such companionship, he couldn’t be happy.
Time wore on, and it became increasingly difficult for him to deny that he’d outgrown his life at the Kamiya dojo. He didn’t know whether he should be angry with Saitou for bringing this about, for he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t been inevitable — but as he pinned all his problems, mentally, on Saitou and his damned objectifying addiction, he didn’t mind the anger when it came. Anger was the antithesis of helplessness, Kenshin was certain; if he’d just kept his anger from the beginning… well, it was too late for ‘if-only’ thoughts, and he’d been down that path too many times anyway.
And then, suddenly on a cool morning in late October as he was hastening to get the laundry hung so it could dry during the sun’s highest hours, the anger was gone when he most expected, would have welcomed, its presence.
He knew who it was even before the outer door opened, but he didn’t know what to do. As many times as he’d thought out this encounter in his mind, still he had no clear idea of how to react. Except that he knew he must not ‘react,’ for therein lay the helplessness. And he was not helpless. The door slid open, and the doors across his heart slid shut. He would not give Saitou the advantage this time.
He’d unconsciously let down his sleeves and stepped forward to meet the visitor, as he always did, and so it was that they faced each other on the path before the dojo doors. It was a long minute of complete silence as their locked eyes exchanged no information or sentiments and their stiff frames held no indication of any desire to communicate.
Finally Kenshin forced himself to speak, if only to prove that he was not the man he had been. “No flowers today, Saitou?” His voice was cold — so cold — colder than the day around them. He couldn’t be regretting those words even as he spoke them, and yet he was… it was all so pointless. The moment he and Saitou came into contact, everything just became… meaningless.
Saitou didn’t seem to want to look as displeased as he did look, and strove to contain his expression before he spoke. “I’ve been transferred to Hokkaido,” he finally said shortly, and his tone held the same chill as Kenshin’s. “I wanted–” If in that beginning of a phrase there was any softening, any drop from the height of absolute disinterest Saitou was maintaining, or if there would have been in its remainder, Kenshin was never to know.
For at that moment the dojo door burst open and Sano blazed out. “You bastard,” he seethed as the shoji fell from its tracks behind him. The hatred and anger burning in his voice was baffling, and his bearing was that of one who moves to kill. “How dare you show your face here? How dare you fucking talk to Kenshin? As if…” But it seemed that words had failed him, for those were the last to push their way through his gritted teeth, and he threw himself forward with fists trembling.
Kenshin wasn’t sure why, but Sano’s motion had suddenly made it possible for him to move, and before the boy could land more than one hit on the officer who had for some reason remained still (I won’t hurt your friend?), Kenshin had gripped his arms and was holding him back with all his strength. “Sano, Sano,” he was saying desperately, “stop!”
Saitou spared Sano not even a glance; his eyes never strayed from Kenshin’s. He raised a hand to where the kenkaya’s punch had landed, and then turned and walked quickly, almost stiffly, away. If he’d made any further motion — shaken his head, given one hint of a facial expression — Kenshin might have been able to tell… but it was too late. I wanted— Wanted what?
“Let me go, Kenshin,” Sano was growling. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I know you won’t, so I’m going to kill him for you.”
“Sano, no,” Kenshin was saying; “it’s all taken care of; it’s all right.” He found he was not really hearing his words, because he was not really saying what he wished to. Saitou’s name was the one he should be shouting, to bring the man back here to finish that sentence. Why had he come here? Why, after so long, had he reawakened this thing? What did he want, or what had he wanted?
As the doors closed behind the wolf, Kenshin’s grip slackened; fortunately when Sano threw him off he did not pursue the enemy, only turned to face his friend. “I don’t understand this!” he growled. “Why don’t you– why can’t you– dammit, Kenshin, what the fuck is wrong with you? I thought…”
“Sano, it’s over,” Kenshin replied in something near a growl; he suddenly just found himself so desperate for Sano not to be involved in this… He forced himself to say more calmly, “Let it go.”
Sano was shaking his head, slightly as if the motion were difficult, and the look on his face was now one of barely-suppressed horror. “Kenshin,” he said, and it was almost a whisper. “Let it go? the fuck… how can you let it go?”
This was almost too much. Kenshin had to turn away, under the pretense of checking the dojo grounds for anyone who might be listening, to keep Sano from seeing the expression on his face. He wasn’t entirely sure, himself, what that was, which was all the more reason for concealment — Sano didn’t need to know his confusion. Not now when it was all certainly, unmistakably, irrevocably over.
“Kenshin…” The younger man’s voice had calmed a bit, quieted, and sounded now almost hesitant. “You told me the most important thing I ever heard in my life, so now I’m gonna tell you something, and you can judge whether it’s the truth or just some bullshit from a stupid kid.”
Sano paused, as if waiting for Kenshin’s permission to go on, so Kenshin nodded.
“Long as I’ve known you, and I bet even longer than that, you’ve been letting yourself get used. Not–not… not like…” He stammered in shock at his own phrasing. “I mean, you help people and you give everything you have and… and… and you let people… well, someday you’re gonna be used up, and there won’t be any happiness left for you ’cause you’ll have given it all away or let it get taken away or… shit, I’m not making any sense, but what I mean is that you fucking deserve to be happy, and you shouldn’t just let things happen to you because you think… you shouldn’t think you have to just ‘let it go…’ you should be happy, Kenshin. That’s all.”
This had taken longer for Sano to say than it would have seemed it should have, but it was all right; it had given Kenshin a chance to slow his heart and smooth his breathing. He wasn’t sure that he was really taking the words in just yet, but Sano’s desire to help him, Sano’s fierce devotion, he felt clearly. He stepped forward and embraced his friend, which Sano had evidently not been expecting, and murmured something that neither of them, probably, could understand, but which was meant as an expression of appreciation and most likely received as such.
As he drew back, he said more clearly, “Thank you, Sano. I think everything will be all right now.”
And Sano’s earnest face replied silently that he was desperate to believe it would be, and almost convinced that he did.
So. Whatever he could or could not discern, Sano knew that Kenshin was not happy, and his tone of near remonstrance as he insisted that it should be otherwise surprised the rurouni. Was that the solution, then, and Sano knew it better than Kenshin did — that the helplessness was his inability to feel happiness when he logically should? For this, as for so much else, Kenshin had no answer.
It was less than a week later. Returning in the evening from some meaningless, galling errand for Kaoru as usual, finding her smiling and sweet and loving and oblivious and insufficient as always, it was not quite as much of a shock as the ambiguous visit had been, but disconcerting still, when she held out the folded paper toward him. “I don’t know who it’s from,” she was saying a little suspiciously. “The kid who delivered it wouldn’t say.”
“Thank you,” Kenshin replied as he took it. It was very small; men of few words do not need epistles, after all.
Kaoru looked at him with suppressed eagerness, obviously hoping he would open and read it immediately and ease her curiosity. Kenshin turned from her with the routine expert calm deception, but was a little unsettled as his eyes immediately met Sano’s. No curiosity there, only grimly subdued anger. But Kenshin could do and say nothing before Kaoru. With movements almost stiff he turned again, this time toward the door. “Excuse me.”
Kaoru was clearly more curious than ever now, but would obviously content herself with the report she was sure he would give later. Little did she know — about anything that really mattered. But Sano was not so easily thrown off. Kenshin was barely out of the dojo and starting somewhat aimlessly across the yard, the note clenched tightly, unopened, in one hand, before he felt the boy’s agitated presence behind him.
“Sano…” He came to a slow stop, watching the puff of his breath disperse on the heavy, dusk-darkened air.
“Kenshin,” Sano replied, in much the same tone of uncertainty and concern.
“Sano, I have not forgotten what you said last week.” Kenshin found suddenly that he could not bear to face his friend; there was something significant about this exchange, and he feared… he did not know what, exactly, he feared. “I appreciated it.” Now he did not know what, exactly, he was saying. “Thank you for being such a good friend to me.”
Seeming to relax slightly, as if he’d been expecting something else that he would have liked less, Sano replied quietly, “I meant it. You do whatever you need to do to be happy. It’s your turn.” He sounded sad, and Kenshin wondered, again, if perhaps Sano comprehended things better than Kenshin did at this point. It wouldn’t surprise him.
“Thank you.” Still without looking back, Kenshin walked slowly into the shadowy woods to read.
It was very dim by the pool, and as night approached the air was growing frigid. Almost without thought on the location Kenshin seated himself at the water’s edge, in a spot that was so familiar and yet in this greyness, this chill, seemed as alien as the paper in his hand. After not too long, the pond would probably freeze over, but it could scarcely make him feel any colder.
He opened the note.
There was no greeting, nor was there a signature, but for these there was no need. The words on the paper were simply, “I’m sorry,” but, meeting the infallible standard, there was more to it than that. So much more.
Kenshin stared at it until he could no longer see it, wondering at the effect of one man’s impatience on minds and lives and fates, wondering at the clement emotions that would name selfish cruelty ‘impatience.’ As the stars, painfully clear, sparked into life in the sky, he looked out over the water at their reflection and recalled that the last time he had done so, he had not been alone. It was a hated memory, but he wished it were not. He realized after a moment that he had torn the note to shreds with numb, absent, vengeful hands.
He did not know how long he sat motionless among the cattails in the moonless dark, thinking about a thousand things that might have been and wondering where the true helplessness lay… was it in the pain, in the desire, or in the belief that things had happened the only way they could have? Perhaps he’d always been helpless, and happiness would therefore always be just beyond his grasp.
He counted the times he’d acted on someone else’s will. He counted the times he’d allowed himself to feel one way or another just because it was easier. He counted the times he’d said ‘yes’ when he meant ‘no.’
He counted the times he’d waited for happiness to blow into his hands, a statue trying to catch flower-petals in a high wind.
You should be happy, Kenshin.
He stood up. In the midst of all that he did not and could not know, one thing he understood well was that while some scars never healed, others at times did so unexpectedly. Perhaps if he could counter impatience with patience, he would learn which type of wound this was, and discover what he should do next; if it had healed, if the clemency remained…
It was possible that patience was helplessness, another name for passivity or cowardice, but although right now he felt he couldn’t comprehend any of it, he believed he could take that chance.
He stepped to the edge of the bank and reached out his hand. Stiff with cold and unwilling to unclench, it took some effort to let go, but once he opened it, his heart seemed lightened somehow as the bits of paper fluttered silently toward the still, black, star-flecked water. I’m sorry, they said, even long after they’d disappeared. I’m sorry.
So am I, Kenshin replied, and turned away into the darkness in the opposite direction of the dojo.
The case Saitou had been sent here to solve, though engrossing and distracting, had been soon closed, and after that had come the usual small-time nonsense he could deal with in his sleep. It was almost as if destiny had arranged the transfer specifically to give him time and opportunity to think about everything he’d been consistently pushing to the back of his mind for the last few months.
He had never begged anyone for anything in his life, least of all forgiveness. But if he’d had Himura Kenshin in front of him, he would have done it.
This Sapporo office was no different from any other office he’d ever inhabited, and his desk here was just as neat as any other he’d ever used. Paperwork and written evidence organized in easily-accessible stacks seemed to build a wall around him as he sat, protecting him from the stupidity of his subordinates, the prying of other investigators, and the meaningless appeals of the masses. It also boxed him in like a prison, keeping him and his thoughts in a tightly-enclosed space, forcing him for long hours on end to look at himself and what he’d done.
It hadn’t been necessary. He’d never considered it necessary. That had merely been his excuse, and that only at the beginning. He’d just… wanted him… so much and so unexpectedly that he’d jumped on the justification “I’m doing this to prove a point” without admitting that there were ways of proving that point, other means to that end, that were infinitely more worthy of him.
And why? Why had he given in to his desire so easily, and in a manner so heinous? The desire itself, which, though unprecedented, was perfectly natural, wasn’t the source of his shame; rather, it was the laziness that marked taking as easier than being given, and the cowardice that lauded it as a much surer thing.
He was filling out a report by rote as he entertained these thoughts — which had also become well-trodden territory, though without the paperwork’s subsequent potential for being almost completely ignored. But now as he looked down, he couldn’t help noting the coincidence of just having written “diligence” (in reference to a slightly less-than-incompetent subordinate) and used one of the same kanji he would to write “lazy.”
Since when had he ever been lazy or cowardly? It was almost impossible to believe, and looking back he did not know himself. But there it was: the possibility of rejection — the probability, more accurately — had led him not even to make the attempt. Too impatient to wait for a better moment to offer, too self-centered to look beyond his own desires — but in the end, he felt, it all came back to laziness and cowardice. He lazy. He a coward. He, Saitou Hajime. It was what he told himself on a daily, perhaps hourly basis, but it was still a struggle just to see that perspective, let alone believe.
The second stage of his crime, at least, made sense, though it did him just as little credit. Pride and an accompanying self-deception had upheld what laziness and cowardice had instigated. He’d pretended he still thought he was adhering to his “point,” he’d pretended it was the only way to keep Himura in line. He’d pretended, now that he thought about it, that Himura wanted it as much as he did but was too weak to admit it — that Saitou was the only thing between the two of them and the tragic loss of a good thing.
A good thing…!
At times like this, he often found his hand moving seemingly of its own volition to the breast pocket of his jacket and stilling when it found nothing there. He didn’t smoke anymore, which was more a form of self-punishment than any consideration of health. Now, fist clenched against his breast as if to mark the beating of his faithless heart, he sat still as the dark reflections marched inevitably onward.
The awareness of his own infamy had been all along growing steadily and subtly, while he played games with Himura — sometimes verbal, sometimes otherwise — in which he could refer to their unfortunate situation carelessly, with levity even. Had he convinced himself that Himura’s half of those word-games were in that same facetious spirit? Himura was also not the type to beg for things, and Saitou should have known that. Had known that. But he simply had not been able to admit, even to himself, that he’d done wrong, had stubbornly persisted in that wrong even when the self-loathing had risen to just beneath his skin, determined to prove himself right.
And even now he could not admit he’d been entirely at fault. He couldn’t suppress the belief that there had been something… he couldn’t write off as self-delusion the signs that Himura had given of wishing, not that it would cease, but that it could be different. Yet since that played straight into the frame of mind that had kept the thing going for so long, Saitou pushed it away with all the force of logic he could muster.
With a deep breath, he took up his pen again, compelling himself to finish the performance assessment he was writing. After that there was the recent robbery case review to look over before he submitted it.
He had never been a compassionate man, but he was not immune to the sensation. And as the knowledge of the true nature of his behavior had come closer and closer to the surface, and as he had become more and more deeply attached to his victim (god, it was hard even now to think of him that way), that little-used sensibility of consideration for the feelings of others, that awareness of and response to the suffering of another person — not of Himura’s physical status or usefulness or even the mental distinction between Kenshin and Battousai — had come into greater prominence.
It was a new take on an old exercise — putting himself in someone else’s place, now not to predict their next move or use their mental or emotional state against them, but simply to try to feel what they were feeling, to understand their point of view. And the reactions that should have been fundamentally obvious suddenly took on new dimensions and hit home: the shame, the anger, the helplessness, the despair….
Saitou thought it was safe to say that Himura was stronger than he was.
His one consolation was that he had managed to give it up at last. When it had finally gotten through to him that clinging to this behavior was doing more than simply retaining for himself a pleasure he ought to have earned rather than stolen, that he was, in fact, continually wounding the one person he’d ever understood to that extent, the one person that had ever moved him to that level of pure compassion, the one person he’d ever…
No, he didn’t dare use that word. He wasn’t worthy of it.
But at least he’d given it up.
How he got through each day with thoughts like these, with the awareness of what he’d done and what he was bombarding him, he didn’t know. It never stopped. Investigations and reports and the mundanities of everyday life and sometimes even the awareness of his surroundings all vanished behind it; it was before him and around him and atop him, a crushing weight he would not have felt it appropriate to shrug off even if he could have.
There was a persistent voice in his head telling him that seppuku was his only honorable option at this point.
To this a louder (for now) mental voice replied impatiently that he was no longer in the Shinsengumi. His work was important; it would be stupid to leave the world while he could still do so much good. Moreover, it would be selfish.
And yet, wondered the first voice, how could he continue to give himself more quarter than he gave his enemies?
Aku Soku Zan. What happened to it?
An unexpected voice pointed out that even an honorable suicide could hardly be a decent apology to a man that had chosen life as atonement for his sins.
Another voice merely laughed bitterly at the irony of Saitou Hajime committing seppuku over the Hitokiri Battousai.
He didn’t know which of these voices was right — if any — but he was fairly certain atonement didn’t, couldn’t enter into his considerations. He would do anything, anything, if he thought there was anything to be done. But there wasn’t. He could not atone for his crimes… and, as such, seppuku seemed a meaningless gesture. So for the moment, whatever was or wasn’t right, he was going with the option that had him getting on with his work.
If he’d had this attitude-altering experience as a younger man, lives might have been saved.
Not that he called this much of a life… hating himself, regretting the last year’s worth of choices, and having decided to live only for now, only for his work, with no anticipation of future happiness…
Like ears listening so hard for a summons that they fabricated the sound over and over and over long before it came, he was constantly under the impression that he sensed Himura’s presence nearby when he didn’t and never would again. It was trivial and little more than irritating, but it was just one more part of his endless punishment: a falsification of sense that would never let him forget, never allow him to let go.
And yet today… There was movement in his office, but he had no desire to look up and greet whoever was intruding on his dubious peace — and not even so much because his subordinates were all so incompetent as because he couldn’t bear having the illusion shattered again, having his deceptive senses corrected about the identity of his visitor. The robbery case review couldn’t really hold his attention, but it was better than looking up.
“Sir?” He knew he’d become more irritable and inscrutable to the general police force than ever before, but even that couldn’t account for the hesitance and confusion in the voice that hailed him now. Vaguely curious, he finally looked up. He rarely remembered their names anymore; it was the man with the receding hairline and the overbite. But now Saitou barely took in even these identifying details as his eyes were dragged to and locked on the man’s open hand.
For in the latter lay a large, perfect blood-red anemone to which the entire world seemed suddenly to have narrowed in an abrupt, heart-stopping constriction.
“Where did you get that?” His voice sounded choked and distant.
“Someone sent me to give it to you with a message.”
“What message?” It was almost a whisper now, since he had no breath left in him and couldn’t seem to draw any. His lungs, like the rest of him, were paralyzed.
“He told me to tell you, ‘It’s your turn,’ sir.”
A very long silence followed.
He knew down to the very last detail what that meant. It wasn’t a possibility he’d ever considered as part of his willingness to “do anything,” probably because even from Himura he hadn’t expected this degree of clemency. For some time he sat rigidly still and silent, while the other man fidgeted and looked confused.
The naysayers were those thoughts and emotions that couldn’t agree on a better solution, and in favor was the one emotion for which he’d never blamed himself — all equally incoherent. But Saitou wasn’t really engaged in any legitimate decision-making process during this time, consequent upon his faculties being in some kind of severe shock. So it was perhaps fortunate that in the end it wasn’t really much of a choice.
He found himself standing, with little to no recollection of having willed himself to do so.
He found himself setting aside his work as if it had never existed.
He found himself reaching out, taking the anemone in a hand that almost didn’t seem to be his own, though the coolness and texture of the flower was more precisely apparent to him than it had ever been before.
He found himself with no clear idea of what the future held, only of what he must and would do.
“Where is he?” he asked.
For some author’s notes on this story, see this Productivity Log. I can’t decide what to rate it, so it gets a . What do you think of it?