How Many Days


“You need to learn the difference between persistence and stubbornness,” Saitou half sighed, dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it underfoot before turning to face the young man approaching him through the dusk.

Is there a difference?” Sanosuke wondered, his tone an interesting mix of dark determination and joviality.

Saitou couldn’t believe the idiot had managed to keep this up for so long. “One evidently too subtle for you to grasp,” he replied at a murmur, undoing the top two buttons of his jacket.

“Fuck subtlety,” was Sano’s growled retort as he hurled himself forward to attack for… yes, Saitou believed, this really had to be the thirtieth time.

“Your personality in two words,” the officer marveled as he jerked aside, dodging the kick Sano aimed at his shoulder, and, turning, slammed a solid blow into his face.

Sano had no reply for the quip other than to wipe vaguely at the trickle of blood now issuing from his nose, clench his fists, and come back for more.

“Eventually you’re going to have to realize,” Saitou admonished patiently as he blocked a few punches and returned a few, rather idly, of his own, “that it can take just as much strength to admit defeat as to keep fighting a losing battle forever.”

Sano staggered back and slowly regained his balance. “You’re so sure I’m never gonna get anywhere with you.”

“You’ll never defeat me,” agreed Saitou, waiting for the next charge.

“Che…” Sano rubbed absently at a growing bruise on his right forearm before making it. “Even I know that by now.”

“You’ve attacked me every evening for a month, and barely hit me a handful of times.” Saitou caught the fist flying toward him, twisted to dodge the other, slammed his own hard in Sano’s ribs, and threw him back again. “If you know you can’t beat me, what can you possibly hope to gain from this?”

Coughing and stumbling, his face a grimace of pain, it was several moments before Sano could answer. “Proof… that you’re not… invincible.”

A black eyebrow rose. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, I don’t see how my beating you up every day will help.”

I already know it.” Sano’s breathing was labored from the last blow, his growl considerably subdued. “I wanna prove it to you.”

“If I were under that impression,” Saitou wondered as he sidestepped entirely the roosterhead’s next attack, “and you did somehow manage to disillusion me” — spinning and elbowing Sano in the back of the head — “what makes you think I’d admit it to you?”

But there was no answer, as with the crack of contact between arm and skull Sano fell limply to the ground.

Saitou stepped back, brushed off his jacket and refastened the top two buttons, and stared at the unconscious figure as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Ahou,” he muttered, though not to any particular purpose. After a few moments, he crouched at Sano’s side, flipped him easily over, and examined briefly the wounds inflicted by today’s bout. These were difficult to distinguish from yesterday’s wounds, but it seemed he’d actually broken a rib with that punch. He sighed; to the doctor, then.

He’d altered his route home to take him past a clinic when it had become obvious that this new hobby or fixation of Sanosuke’s would not relent for a while, and the young man had timed things well enough this evening that it was only a short walk there with the extra weight.

Again, Fujita-san?” asked the doctor in a despairing tone as the officer entered.

Saitou, laying Sano’s slack form down on the table as usual, shrugged. “It makes just as much sense to me,” he replied, drawing from his pocket, as usual, enough money to cover today’s treatment. “I believe he has a broken rib this time.”

The doctor sighed, taking the money and stepping into the next room to retrieve what supplies would be necessary to patch Sano up yet again.

Saitou looked down. “Ahou,” he said softly once more, shaking his head. “How many days will it take you to find something better to do with that energy of yours?” He snorted and added in a very dry and quiet tone, “As if I would admit it to you.” Then quickly, briefly, he bent and brushed his lips against Sano’s. “I was invincible.” He went to the door, turning to glance back once before he exited. “See you tomorrow.”


This story is for 30_kisses theme #16, “Invincible, unrivaled.” I’ve rated it . What do you think of it?

Even when Sano’s one-up on Saitou, he’s still the one unconscious with a broken rib. I love it when he manages to win something, though. All it took to show Saitou was a month of getting his ass kicked XD

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


漸進的 な 会得 – Gradual Understanding

These people Saitou and Sanosuke, they’re not him and me, and we don’t live in Japan, and none of this has anything to do with our relationship.

A string of bizarrely realistic dreams in a language he doesn’t speak about some old-timey Japanese people has absolutely nothing to do with his relationship and possible breakup with his boyfriend, no matter how much Sano and Saitou remind him of the two of them.



It’s always thirty billion degrees when I get home from class, because he has the air conditioner set not to run when neither of us is here. Saving money or something. So the first thing I have to do is turn it up all the way. Then I toss my backpack next to the couch and my keys somewhere nearby, and sit down to yank my shoes off, humming the song that was playing on the radio in the car. I swear some of those songs from the 50’s only still get played because they get stuck in your head so easy. Some people might call that ‘catchy,’ but I call it fucking annoying.

There’s nothing quick to eat in the kitchen; there never is. I bug him to buy better food, but he goes for all that ‘sensible’ bullshit. And there’s only so much a poor college student like me can afford to buy on his own.

I end up drinking the rest of the milk, then flop down on the couch. I find my keys again that way somewhat painfully, and throw them on the floor. With a yawn I arrange the cushions better and close my eyes. Hopefully I won’t wake up until he’s home and making dinner… or maybe if I wake up right when he gets home I’ll be able to convince him to make grilled cheese sandwiches. With that happy thought, I drift off.

Almost the moment I’m really asleep and nothing’s left of my actual surroundings, it starts: I find I’m sitting somewhere I don’t recognize on some wooden steps — or a porch, I guess — my chin in my hands. It seems like I’m annoyed; I think I came into this dream a little late and missed stuff. Maybe a lot of stuff. I’m staring at some funny walls and doors that look like… something out of Crouching Tiger or something.

I yawn and mutter incoherently, and although it’s definitely the familiar feeling of me moving, I don’t have any sense of really being in control, of having sent the commands from brain to body to do those things. Guess I’m just along for the ride here, then.

One of the doors opens — slides open — and someone comes in. Well, this is outside, but he comes through the door. I recognize him right away, except he looks all Chinese. And he’s wearing some goofy outfit with a… skirt… I swear it is.

I realize I just said something to him. I don’t think I was making fun of the skirt, though, which is what I’d actually be doing if I were in charge here. Anyway, somehow it doesn’t seem to bug me that he answers in a language I don’t know: “始めまして. 私 石田散薬 という 妙薬 を 扱っている 多魔 の 薬売りで 藤田 五郎 と申します.” He’s pretty close in front of me now, opening this box he had on his back and holding up this paper sack. He sounds like a total yuppie, too, as he keeps talking about it; I think he’s selling it. Door-to-door salesman’s not something I ever would have thought to see him as; it’s pretty funny.

“待った 待った,” I tell him, whatever that means. “俺 は ここ の 者 じゃねーよ.” I guess I don’t want any of the paper bag stuff. “ここ の 者 は 留守 だぜ みんな.”

He looks kinda pleased with this. “そうなんですか…”

Something besides his funny clothing is obviously wrong here, because whatever I say next sounds pretty suspicious.

He just laughs, though, giving me a bright and somewhat creepy smile as he replies, “この 目 は 生まれつきな もんで.”

But evidently I’m not taking that answer. I can feel my eyes narrow — though not to the extent of the squint he’s got going — and I reach out and grab his wrist. “そう か い じゃお,” I growl accusingly. “薬売りにゃ全然 似合わね この竹刀 ダコ. これ は 生まれつじゃねえよな. てめ 何者 だ?”

Smiling, he just looks at me for a moment. Then he lets up on his squint and murmurs very pointedly, “なかなか 鋭い男 なんですね, 相楽 佐之助君.”

The uncanny color of his eyes has always been riveting, but at the moment I don’t have time to be captivated. His words are a jolt, and I’m jumping backward quickly and warily. For good reason, too: as he continues to speak in a dark tone, he’s pulling from almost nowhere — well, from his back — a real, actual sword.

This shit keeps getting weirder.

Still, I don’t seem to be as surprised as I reasonably should be at my pedemarketer-boyfriend pulling a sword out of nowhere or his back. I’m just making some grim comment and tensing up like I’m getting ready to fight him. Maybe I’ve got a sword too?

And then, I guess in response to my remark, he — I swear I’m not kidding — licks the sword. What the hell kind of kinky shit is this?! Isn’t he afraid he’s going to cut his tongue? God! “いいだろうよ,” I growl at him, not caring much for this behavior. I slam my fists together menacingly. “受けて 立つぜ!” Wait… am I going to fight him with my bare hands?? “てめえ の 正体 は この 拳 で 聞いて やろ!” I assert, and charge. I guess I am. Well, the adrenaline I think I might have conjured out of nowhere (from my back, maybe?) convinces me pretty well that I know what I’m doing. And the punch I throw at his face seems pretty effective.

At least, for about five seconds it does, until it becomes obvious he wasn’t knocked away by it, he stepped away to get his own attack ready. “成程,” he says. “ケンカ 一番と噂される だけおって いい 拳打 を しているよ. だが…” As he pulls the sword back and holds it funny, he finishes in this irritatingly disdainful tone, “それも 明治 という 泰平 の 世 で の 話 幕末 の 京都 に 於いて は この 程度 の 拳打 は 全く通用しない.” Apparently the meaning of the words is just as annoying as the tone, if my rush of indignation at them is any indication, but again I don’t really have time to react, because — shit, he’s fast!! — he’s suddenly racing at me with the sharp end of that sword pointed where I’d really rather not have it.

I try to dodge, but my movements seem sluggish and meaningless compared to his. Holy shit, that fucking hurts! Right into my shoulder goes the sword, and right through something hard and solid goes my entire body with the force of his attack. I skid and crash to a halt on my side, grating across the wooden floor of whatever building this is, pummeled with rubble from the smashed wall, losing sight of him somewhere even when the dust and the haze of pain allow me to see anything at all.

Oh, and I’m pissed off now. I’ve barely stilled before I’m hauling myself to my feet with a roar, swaying just slightly with pain and the loss of equilibrium. “どこ を 向いてる, 細目野郎?” I demand, catching sight of his back as I stand. “まだ 終わっちゃいねえぞ!”

“威勢 が いい な. だが…” He turns casually toward me; the sword is gone from his hand, probably because the snapped-off end of it’s still sticking out of my screaming shoulder. “大人しく 寝ていた 方 が 身 の 為 だったな,” he says; “致命傷 に 至らなかったとは 言え 深 傷 に は 代わない.” And though I don’t understand, it’s no surprise I’m not pleased by the admonition.

“るせい!” I bellow. “深 傷 は 負ったが てめえ の 刀 も 砕けた! 勝負 は これ から だ!” With this I rush to attack him again.

If I thought my chances were better now he’s got no sword, boy, was I wrong… he half dodges, half blocks my punch and at the same time slams the protruding end of the broken weapon into my shoulder. Through the agony this occasions, only a hot blur is his hand on my face, his harsh command “寝ろ,” and my swift descent.

I jerk awake as my skull should hit the floor, and I think I’m making some kind of funny gasping sound. Disoriented for a second, it takes me a bit to realize I’m in my apartment on the couch and nothing unusual is going on. My heart’s pounding like mad, though, and I swear for a split second I can feel ghostly echoes of the pain from my dream.

He’s sitting in the chair across from me reading the paper and looking as American as ever, and I can’t help staring at him for a bit. He raises an eyebrow at me as he turns a page. With a frown that melts into a yawn, I get up and go over and smack him.

He looks up at me skeptically.

“That’s for stabbing me,” I tell him.

The eyebrow goes higher, so I take his paper, throw it on the floor, and climb onto his lap. “You’re just as big a asshole in my dreams as you are in real life.”

“And I’m sure you’re just as big an idiot,” he replies, groping my ass.

“Well, I guess you thought so, ’cause you fucking stabbed me.” But I’m frowning as I say this. The more I think about it, the weirder that dream seems — because I usually dream about things I’m familiar with, you know? And I’m familiar with him, of course, and his bastardliness, but I don’t know anything about katanas or whatever, and I definitely don’t know any other language.

“You probably deserved it.”

“Maybe I did.” Maybe it was some kind of psychic message. That would be cool, except… why would I get a psychic message about my boyfriend stabbing me? Of course there’s the obvious sexual meaning, but it didn’t feel like that kind of dream. Maybe it was a warning, letting me know that everything I’ve been worrying about lately’s been right on target.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, with more curiosity than concern.

“Nothing.” I jump up. “I’m gonna take a shower.” Pulling off my shirt, I head down the hall.

I can hear him following, and soon he’s standing at the bathroom door watching me strip. Obviously he picked up my shirt on the way — which was mostly why I dropped it in the hall — but he doesn’t say anything about me throwing the rest of my clothes all over the bathroom. I’ll never get it — how is the hall different from the bathroom, when they’re both places you’re not supposed to throw clothes? He’s weirdly picky like that.

I close the shower curtain and turn on the water, but don’t get in just yet. First I have to say over my shoulder, “You coming?” As if I really need to ask. The sex is the one thing in this relationship I could never complain about. Hell, that’s probably why I’ve stayed as long as I have. That and the money. Which is really sad. Anyway, I step into the shower as he starts to unbutton his shirt.

It’s hard to use up all the hot water in a big apartment complex like this, but we’ve done it, like, three times now. I’m really tired by the time we’re finished, and neither of us says much of anything as, vaguely and mostly as if it doesn’t matter, we get ready for bed. And I’ve pretty much stopped thinking about the dream by the time I’m curled up beside him in a nice haze and falling asleep.

I can’t help but remember it the next day, though.

He’s almost always up and gone a lot earlier than I am — I’m not one for morning classes — so I come to alone, as usual. The new images in my head are already dimming, but that doesn’t mean I’m forgetting them. Having a second dream like that so soon after the first is more than a little startling.

I was still in pretty bad shape, and had to lean real hard on this woman’s shoulder to stand up. He was fighting some little red-headed guy in a dress, and none of the people watching seemed very happy about it. I’m not sure who was winning, though, and I woke up pretty soon after making some fatalistic-sounding comment in Chinese or whatever again. “無理 だぜ 嬢ちゃん… 俺達 には 止められねエ…”

I lie in bed for a bit and watch the image of the blue outfit he was wearing this time — a much better choice than his previous thing — blur into the ceiling as the dream fades. I have to wonder, really wonder, what this all means. Two in a row is no coincidence, and non-coincidental dreams are pretty much always important and trying to tell me something, right? And in this case the message seems fairly obvious.

My boyfriend’s a freak.

I’m broken from the downward spiral of this reverie by the grumbling of my stomach, and I remember the other thing I forgot last night: the dream and the shower distracted me from the fact that I didn’t have any dinner. Jerk probably had his own while I was getting beat up by him inside my head, and didn’t bother to wake me up for it. Or, I amend with a little more charity, lost track of the fact that he was human and forgot to eat entirely. Because he does that sometimes too.

With an inarticulate remark I’m fairly sure is about food — see, I make as much sense in English as I do in whatever-dream-language — I finally haul my ass out of bed and go to see which of my guesses is correct.

The issue bugs me on and off all day, but not so much that I can’t pay attention at school. Or at least not so much that I pay any less attention than I ever do. Between classes, I’ve got to dodge/hide from the poster people who want me to come to the environmental club thing and the campus improvement panel thing and the association of gay-bi-les-whatever students thing. Drive-time I’m too distracted trying to choose a new radio station (hopefully one that won’t annoy the shit out of me) to think about dreams. But once I get home, it’s on my mind full-force once again. I turn up the air conditioner and, after another futile glance through the fridge, plop down on the couch to do some homework.

I should know better. Know better than to look in the fridge and better than to think I’m going to get any homework done.

“なかなか 鋭い男 なんですね, 相楽 佐之助君.” I still don’t understand a word of it, but phrases are replaying in my head like they should mean something. “幕末 の 京都 に 於いて は この 程度 の 拳打 は 全く通用しない.” The image of my fist meeting his face, of him charging at me with that sword. “俺達 には 止められねエ…” Him fighting that other guy and me just totally despairing of a good outcome… And what’s the significance here, anyway? That I had two of these dreams? If I went to sleep now, would I have another one?

But there’s no way I can take a nap today, I remind myself dejectedly… I already put off studying for my marketing test, which is tomorrow, by wasting yesterday evening. And I don’t have time to dwell on dreams either, I add firmly. With a sigh I go back to the couch from the random pacing I was doing, dig out my notebook, and find that my marketing book isn’t in here. It’s probably in the car.

With an annoyed groan I lean my head onto the back of the cushion and glower at the ceiling. I don’t want to walk all the way out to the car through this heat… why the hell can’t I bring stuff in when I get home?

I turn on the TV.

The TV’s not mine, I reflect as the somewhat comforting noise fills the room. Practically nothing in here is. If I break up with him, everything’s going to be really empty for a while… Not that I’ll have leisure for TV, since I’ll have to go full-time just to pay rent. I probably won’t eat for a while, too.

I close my eyes and frown. Is that why I’m still here? Because I’m too fucking lazy not to keep leading him on if it means more work for me? Am I that big a half-assing jerk? That’d make me way worse than he is. He doesn’t deserve that…

The first commercial break makes me wonder suddenly what the hell I’m doing, and I flip to my marketing notes. I don’t take very good notes; I need the book. This is probably why, after several minutes, my attention drifts again.

Why’d he stab me, anyway? Was he there specifically to stab me, or was he just mad that I didn’t want to buy anything? Deranged door-to-door salesman… perfect… And why didn’t he kill me, then? I was obviously still alive to see the thing with the red-head, who it seems like he did intend to kill… why him and not me? Did he need me alive for something? Why through my shoulder like that? Why would he go to the trouble of kicking me around so badly, but not kill me, when he’s evidently Mr. Super Violent?

More importantly, why am I not studying?

I look to my notebook again.

He gets home after I’ve been following this pattern for a few frustrating hours without ever going out to get the textbook, and, given the prevalent topics of the day, I’m only half glad for the distraction of his presence.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to turn the air conditioner up? Just hit the ‘occupied’ button.”

“Yeah, good to see you too.”

“I’m serious; is it that difficult?”

”’bout as difficult as it is for you to be nice.”

“Grouchy today?” he wonders a little testily, and neither of us says anything more for a while.

I find I can’t stop looking at him, trying to pin down the exact differences between his real face and his face in my dreams. A certain annoying-as-hell quality definitely exists in both. And he’s hot either way, but who the hell cares about that when he’s stabbing you or harassing you about the air conditioner?

Eventually, of course, he has to start again. “You drank all the milk, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, so?” I look studiously back at my notebook, but he’s got to know I’m not actually reading it.

“So, if you tell me, I can buy more before we need it.”

“What do you ‘need‘ milk for?” I ask skeptically.

“A case I’m working on,” is his very sarcastic reply. “For dinner, idiot; what do you think?”

“Well, since you’re so smart, I’m sure you can figure out something to make that doesn’t need milk.”

He snorts. “Or you could.” And he leaves the room; pretty soon I hear the shower starting. I echo his grunt and jump up to go get my book from the car finally.

I’m not sure whether I think it’s a good thing that I end up sitting awake half the night studying and then sleep so hard there’s no room for dreams. Do I want more dreams? Do I really believe they’ve got some deeper meaning, that I’m going to find some answer in them? Or do I want them to stop? Do I think they’re getting in my way, clouding the issue, that I need to make up my own mind without this weirdness? Oh, give me a break. I don’t have time for this; I’ve got a test today.

It doesn’t go too badly, considering. Well, OK, it goes badly. But I don’t have to find out exactly how badly until next week, and then there are other tests this semester to make up for it. I try not to think about it. Not too difficult, when I’ve got plenty else to keep my mind off it. A little too much, really. I’m not the most gung-ho student ever, but this is getting annoying. They’re just dreams, probably induced — oh, yeah, why didn’t I think of this before? — induced by the stress of indecision about leaving my boyfriend.

I experience an almost-tangible wave of relief as this occurs to me. Of course there’s no secret, no message… it’s natural to have unpleasant dreams about him at this stage, right? It makes me feel so much better, that thought… for about two seconds, before some stupid voice in my head answers, Not in Chinese, it’s not. Not with swords and blood and shit. That’s not normal at all.

So I keep going back and forth between thinking the dreams mean something and that they don’t… that they’re the cause of my anxiety and that they’re just caused by it… and the point I keep coming back to is the language thing. Two dreams in a row in a coherent-sounding language I don’t speak has to mean something. But what the hell is that?

If I take any notes this whole day, they’re going to be hilarious to reread when this is all over… a painful, I’m-going-to-fail-all-my-Wednesday-classes funny.

My homework efforts this evening are just as laughable. Too bad I’m not laughing.

I give up the attempt when he gets home, but he’s late and tired and I’m grouchy… and, rather than argue again — though I remembered to hit the stupid ‘occupied’ button this time and he’s bought more milk — we’re quiet for the rest of the evening. More quiet than usual, actually, for after such a little argument. I mean, we fight all the time, and usually we’ve forgotten it the next day, unless we need make-up sex (which is pretty much always). But tonight we end up in bed with the lights off and no indication of wanting to do anything more than sleep. Is this because of my indecision, or it is the natural death of a relationship that was never meant to be?

I’m almost nervous as I close my eyes, and, probably because of that, it takes me a while to fall asleep. Then I’m standing very suddenly in a narrow street. It’s got the same type of look as the last place, just a lot shabbier. There’s an intermittent hot breeze, and by the smell carried on it, this neighborhood is every bit as run-down as it looks. I feel incredibly tense; I’m staring steadily, angrily in front of me… I guess I came into this one late too.

Barely a yard away, he’s facing me with a somewhat annoyed expression, and saying severely, “抜刀斎 に とって お前等 の 存在 など 弱点 以外 の 何でも ないんだ.”

For some reason, these words come as a painful shock, and for a moment I can’t make any reply. I don’t know who Battousai is or why I care so much what he thinks of me, but evidently it hurts to have this pointed out. He goes on, but I barely hear any of his harsh explanation and remonstrance. I’m shaking, breathing hard, battling a huge wave of anger.

I find, though, as I begin to speak, that I sound a good deal calmer than I really feel. “そう か… 俺 は 剣心 の 弱点 で… 守り きれない から あいつ は 独り で 旅立った って 訳 か…” Again with this Kenshin person who seems to be the center of this issue… that red-haired guy… who left me behind… and my stabbing boyfriend here agrees with that decision. My attempts at staying calm failing utterly at this thought, rage explodes through my chest as I clench my fists and shift toward him. “それ を 聞いて 尚更 あいつ を ブン 殴りたく なったぜ!””

He looks like he expected this, and says nothing.

“どけ 斎籐!” I order him angrily. “どかなきゃ, 力ずくで いくぞ!” Of course I’m not going to put up with this type of treatment; I’ll make him get out of my way.

“その 言葉… そっくり 返すぜ,” he replies grimly, tossing my threat right back at me. But I’m not afraid of him — actually, considering what he did to me last time we ‘fought,’ I’m probably a little too not afraid of him — and I’m racing at him, ready to do battle.

He doesn’t take the hit this time, but dodges almost faster than I can see. With a disdainful expression, he grabs me by the sleeve of the weird black-and-white thing I’m wearing, and punches me in the armpit. It must be not too long after the stabbing, because my shoulder’s obviously not healed yet. This Holmesian deduction that puts the scene into better perspective doesn’t do much to distract me from the sensation of shit tearing that’s really better off in one piece, blood gushing abruptly, and my whole body suddenly flying through the air as he throws me.

I slam into the ground with a pained grunt. A voice I don’t recognize is yelling something about that not being fair, but with the wind knocked out of me and my shoulder reopened I’m not in any condition to state my agreement. A moment later as his shadow looms over me and one of his heels slams unexpectedly down into the aforementioned shoulder, I’m not in any condition to do much more than scream.

He waits until I’m good and recovered from that shock — or at least have stopped screaming and can listen to him — before starting to explain why he won’t leave my damn shoulder the hell alone. The other voice (which, I finally recognize indistinctly, belongs to one of the people who were watching the fight with that Kenshin dude) is arguing the point. I override them both as I struggle to my feet. “痛かねエ…”

Oh, look at that — he’s surprised. He didn’t think I could still get up. He thought his point was made. Ha. Still, if I’m not mistaken, I just claimed this wound doesn’t hurt. I know I’m all for bravado, but, uh, it does hurt. Like hell, actually. But then I go on to explain that something having to do with Kenshin hurts a thousand times more, and I guess that makes sense… I may not have much idea what’s going on here, but I can damn well feel all this emotional turmoil. Using the latter to power my movement, I charge him again, and this punch connects hard.

Looking startled, he blocks it, but is still knocked backward. “Out of the way, Saitou!” I command again. “I’m going to Kyoto! 京都 で 俺 が ヤツ の 力 に なれるって この 拳 で あかしてやるぜ!”

“身 の 程 知らず が,” he replies tensely, almost angrily, looking me up and down. Then he puts a hand to his chin and says with grim thoughtfulness, “よく 言うぜ この 前 は 俺 に ボロ負けしたくせして.”

This makes me so irate I want to rip his throat out, but the sight of him removing his sword from his belt and tossing it aside calms me. Is it possible he’s going to take me a little more seriously now? But then, “So you won’t have any excuse about me having a sword,” he says, pretty much disproving that theory. “This fight will be on your terms — 拳 の 勝負 だ.”

I’ve noticed this blue outfit he’s got on, with the way the jacket-thing’s shaped, still kinda looks like he’s wearing a skirt. A mini-skirt this time. Too bad I’m too busy being pissed at him and preparing to get my ass kicked again to make fun of it.

He has a brief exchange with the kid, who’s trying to warn me about something, but I’m not really listening. I’m watching his hands as he gets ready to fight me. But as he finishes with, “No matter how stupid he is, he’ll understand how weak he is when I beat him at his own game,” I can’t help paying attention to his words.

I’m angry as all hell, but I think being about to fight helps me control it better (because I know I’m about to let it all out?) “Interesting,” is all I say through my clenched teeth, then slam my fists together and hurl myself at him with a growl.

Scornfully, and in a motion that looks almost slow compared to my wild rush, he blocks. Apparently exasperated, he opens his mouth, doubtless to tell me why that punch sucked — but I’ve got more up my sleeve this time. Without warning — and I think it’s a surprise to both of us — I follow up the first blow with a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth… countless more hits… I just don’t stop, my arms working like machinery, and there’s no way he’s blocking all of them… What a good idea! I’m pleased with myself. As long as I don’t relent, he’ll never have a chance to hit me back, and eventually I’m sure to get enough through to take him down. Seems messy and slow, but, hell, if it works…

It’s a flurry of heat and movement and the thump of flesh-and-bone contact, and after a while, arms burning, I guess it’s OK to let off and stand back to see how it went. Looks like I’ve forced him to retreat a couple steps, and completely shredded the sleeves of his jacket… but as he straightens from his defensive stance, I can see… Shit, it doesn’t look like a single one of my million or so punches actually connected with his body. What the fuck? Ruined sleeves shows what nice forearms he’s got, sure, but if that was the only effect of my great attack, even I have to admit it was a waste of energy. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say about it.

“Finished?” he asks in that infuriating tone, advancing. He raises his gloved hands, and…

I needed more pain today, right? I needed fists like iron slamming into my face and chest over and over and over, right? It’s another unintelligible flurry of motion and impact, this time with a lot more hurting mixed in, as he returns my attack — only it works for him. Why the hell am I not blocking?

A jarring blow to the jaw knocks me right off my feet, and I barely feel myself falling to the ground through the stunning tremors from the hit. I’m definitely tasting blood, and the image of him standing over me wavers slightly. I find I’m not yet able to move.

“Do you understand?” he demands, then, ironically, adds, “お前 は 俺 や 抜刀 には実力斎 も 経験 ありと あらゆる 面で 遠く 及ばない. 俺達 から すれば お前 など 口 うるさい だけ の ヒョッコ過ぎん.”

During this little speech I’ve mostly regained my mobility, though my voice still sounds slurred as I shout, “Shut up! So what?” I force myself up, feeling unsteady, planting my feet firmly apart to keep my balance. “I’m going to Kyoto no matter what anyone says!” But I find even as I make the defiant statement that, though I’m standing, my ability to do just about anything else is not great. As a matter of fact, I may fall over again if I even try.

He’s evidently aware of this, and knows I know. As he draws back, stretching his right arm out and holding his left fist tight at his side, he says in a tone of grim command, “You cannot go to Kyoto.”

I don’t need the noisy kid’s warning to recognize the danger I’m in. The stance reminds me of the one he used to stab me before; he’s like clockwork, wound up tight and ready to strike. Problem is, I don’t think there’s really much I can do to avoid taking this hit. So like him to save his worst attack for after he’s already worn me out.

“No matter how hard you try,” he tells me disdainfully, then finishes as he begins his charge, “you’re still nothing more than an amateur!”

In the next flashing instant I seem to be concentrating on three things at once: trying to roll with his incredibly painful blow, avoiding getting knocked off my feet again, and doing something with my arms. It only takes a moment to find out what the latter is, even with the blood now running down my face and hazing across my eyes: I’ve caught his arm, as he drew it back, between my fists, and am applying what has to be an uncomfortable amount of pressure.

He looks unpleasantly shocked, and I feel a rush of satisfaction as I growl, “Your arm could have been broken by an amateur — how does that feel?”

“きさま…” But he doesn’t go on. I guess he’s actually going to hear me out.

“You’ve been having fun with your ‘amateur, amateur…'” I continue, drawing closer to him but not loosening my hold on his arm. “Maybe you and Kenshin are stronger than me, but you didn’t start out that way. Maybe I didn’t fight in the Bakumatsu ten years ago, or help build the Meiji era… Maybe I am an amateur, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak.”

It seems for half a moment like he’s contemplating my words, but before I can even begin to hope, he just makes a contemptuous sound and punches me across the face with his free hand. Which, now that I think about it, kinda is the tactical drawback to pinning one of his arms with both of mine.

“Bastard!” I shout at him as he moves to walk away.

Without pausing he replies, “I’m finished with you.”

“What?!” I demand, incensed.

“Trying to keep an idiot from doing idiotic things is a waste of time. Go to Kyoto if you want. You’ll die soon enough.”

“何イ?!?” I cry, even more furious than before.

He turns briefly to look back at me. “Any moron who relies on his current strength with no thought of defense can’t possibly survive very long.” Then he keeps walking.

I wake up with what sounds like a growl to find myself tense in a tightly wound sheet. However much I must have moved to get it so twisted up, I don’t seem to have bothered him; he’s got his back to me and the entire blanket.

I find I’m still pissed. He didn’t think I was good enough for whatever was about to go down in Kyoto, wherever the hell that is. I don’t know why I wanted to help with whatever it is at all, considering he stabbed me in the shoulder, and I don’t know anything about this Kenshin person, but obviously the whole thing meant a lot to me, so why did he have to be such an asshole about it? It seems so typical, though…

OK, this has to be some kind of warning message. Why else would I dream about him kicking my ass repeatedly just now when I’m wondering whether to leave him? He’s never hit me or anything — well, not seriously like in the dreams, and definitely not with a sword — but imagining him getting abusive isn’t too hard, even if the idea does kinda bug me.

As I struggle to escape the sheets, some of the grunts escaping my lips sound like curses against him, and I’m not quite sure they’re not. Finally free, lying still at last, I stare at his back and wonder. How many days can it possibly take me to make up my mind or work up my nerve or whatever? I mean, why am I still here? My reasons for being with him are stupid, he’s not a nice guy, and my subconscious seems to have an even bigger problem with him than my conscious. But here I am…

Maybe it’s just that I’m not quite sure how to do it. Not that I think he’ll be heartbroken or anything — yeah, right! — but what the hell exactly do I say? ‘Hey, man, we gotta break up because I’m just a horny gold-digger and I dream about you beating me up in Korean or something?’

I sigh and bury my face in the pillow.

It doesn’t even really strike me until I’ve lain still for a while trying not to think about it that I understood a good half of the dialogue in that one. The words were still… whatever language… but it wasn’t a problem for me any more. It felt so natural at the time, it didn’t seem at all strange to be slipping into comprehension… but it sure doesn’t clear up the issue. Yeah, I know a bit more about what’s going on in dreamland, but what does that imply here? My first thought would be that my brain is starting to make sense of its own nonsense… but that would have to mean I’m getting closer to some kind of real understanding — and I certainly don’t feel even the beginnings of enlightenment.

It takes a while to get back to sleep, and then thankfully I don’t have any more stupid dreams before waking up the next day. But what’s the difference at this point? Three of them is enough to mean whatever it means… that I need to leave him… that I need to stay with him… that I’m fucking stupid and don’t even understand myself

I go to school dully and without much hope of getting any higher education out of the day. The phrase ‘going through the motions’ comes to mind… an expression that’s often used, coincidentally, to describe failing relationships. Perfect. And for some reason, “No matter how stupid he is, he’ll understand how weak he is when I beat him at his own game,” keeps echoing through my head. The anger comes and goes, but mostly the day is just apathetic.

A new idea occurs to me when a psychology class empties into my hallway as I’m heading for the shuttle back to the parking lot. I’ve never thought about it before, but we’ve got to have some kind of psychology therapy counsely person on campus somewhere. Don’t most schools have those? And wouldn’t that person maybe be able to interpret my dreams for me? That’s what they’re there for, right? Assuming they’re there at all? They could help with the stupid dreams and the stupid big question.

Or would I just get handed off and become an unwitting contributor to some psychiatry major’s thesis?

No, I’m not even remotely distrustful and bitter about this place because of how much they charge me for the privilege of doing homework and having no life.

It’s the beginnings of an idea, though, and I give it some serious thought as I drive home. But I haven’t really reached a decision by the time I get there (which is so typical of me these days, isn’t it?), because… well, going to a therapist seems so extreme. They’re just dreams. And couples break up all the time without having to see shrinks. Simultaneously, though, I remind myself that if they were really just dreams, they wouldn’t be bothering me this much… and that no breaking up has actually occurred yet, just a lot of thinking about it. And if I can’t deal with something on my own, isn’t it about time to get help?

The idea of ‘getting help,’ however, is distasteful. It suggests I really think there’s something wrong with my head that I can’t work out. And I don’t think that, do I? God, I hope not. But as I seem to hear again, “Trying to keep an idiot from doing idiotic things is a waste of time,” and feel the same rush of anger in response as I did then, I grab the phone book.

Staring at the list of doctor names and numbers, running my finger absently over them again and again, I wonder if I’m really going to do this. Am I overreacting? I’m really just a very normal person who’s had a couple of abnormal dreams coinciding with a difficult decision, that’s all. Do I really need therapy? What if they want to give me drugs? Despite my misgivings, I’m drifting toward the phone. If I call, they’ll probably want me to schedule an appointment. Then if I change my mind later, I can just not show up. This isn’t a commitment to being crazy; I’m just testing the water. I pick up the receiver.

What meets my ear is the manic-sounding quick tone that means there’s a voicemail. Without even thinking, I dial in to listen to it.

“I’m going to be working late.” He always sounds so brusque on the phone… “There’s some cash on the dresser.” You’d never guess it was his boyfriend he was calling… “You can order pizza for dinner, and make sure to put what’s left in the fridge.”

I delete the message, hang up the phone, and go flop down on the couch. ‘Working late’ means ‘working really late,’ usually because of something exciting and dangerous, or at least some important development in some case. He’s got a pretty cool job.

Idly I wonder how he would react if he came home late after tracking down and arresting and processing some serial killer and found me and all my stuff gone. It’s actually a really disturbing scenario. No matter what I end up choosing, I won’t do it that way. He’ll know, and he’ll know why. Which brings me back to the question of what I am going to choose.

I don’t call a therapist.

After some pizza that isn’t nearly as exciting as pizza usually is and should always be, I head to bed. Yes, I remember to put the leftovers in the fridge. No, I haven’t touched a textbook since I got home from class. Yes, I’m going to regret that another day.

There’s no way I’ll fall asleep quickly. I’m not tired — hell, what-all have I done today? — and I’m sincerely nervous about having another dream, and hours pass with me tossing and turning and thinking almost nothing, never allowing myself to relax. When he finally gets home and moves quietly to get undressed and into bed in the dark, however, I force myself to breathe deeply and lie still. The last thing I want right now is a conversation.

Hmm, is that really the last thing I want? Is discussing whatever we would end up talking about really worse than getting beaten up by him once I’m asleep?

Now I’m almost tempted to speak.

Obviously, I don’t. And forcing myself to relax makes a difference. I don’t even realize for a while that I’m back there again until a chill starts settling over me and I notice that I’m seated on a hard surface rather than lying in bed. I open my eyes.

It looks like a jail cell. How the hell I got myself into jail I don’t know, but it kinda makes sense given how much violence I seem to be part of around here. I’m sure it has something to do with him, too.

As if in response to this thought, he appears. Well, I don’t see him just yet, but a door opens somewhere off to my left and I can suddenly hear him talking to someone else as they move in my direction. I get the feeling he doesn’t have any idea at all that I’m here, so I’m almost kinda looking forward to the moment he gets to my cell and sees me.

There he is now, walking alongside some short guy with a mustache and the same uniform he always wears. Guy’s talking about me, which seems like a good cue to jump into the conversation.

“Just like I thought,” I say loudly, triumphantly. “Instead of stumbling around in the dark, I made some trouble for the police so I could find you. Seemed like the quickest way of finding Kenshin.”

“You…” He only glances over his shoulder briefly, but I’m pretty sure he’s both surprised and displeased to see me here.

“おうよ,” I grin around what seems to be a feather or something in my mouth. “Sagara Sanosuke’s magnificent arrival in Kyoto.” After a moment’s pause, as he turns more fully toward me, still silent, I add thoughtfully, “Well, it was a gamble, actually… I didn’t know whether you’d come to Kyoto yourself or not. When I thought about it, I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t just sic Kenshin on him and stand back.”

He still doesn’t say a word, so I get up and advance on the bars. “You could look a little happier to see me. I did do some training along that damn Nakasendou. Actually, I got pushed a lot farther than I needed to go by this one guy, just because I got lost…” It seems like I’m rambling, but my follow-up is more to the point. “Anyway, Saitou, I’m gonna show you the results of my training!”

The short dude asks Saitou if he knows me. “いえ, 全く,” he replies, and, turning, they both start to walk away.

“Hey!” I bellow, watching them through the bars. “Wait just a second, you!”

“It’s easy to mistake people when you’re angry,” he says. “He’s in the way, so just leave him down here for a while.”

Oh, I am so not going to take that. “Running away, you bastard?!” I demand at the top of my lungs. “Open this door or I’ll open it myself! Do you hear me?!” And when he only barely glances back before continuing down the hall, I actually do it.

Wow. Holy shit. I just totally trashed that thing! I punched it, but it wasn’t a normal punch… the wood’s half turned to sawdusty powder all over the floor, and the other pieces are splintered and small. And I did it. With my hand. I’m… I’m fucking awesome!! Guess I really did do some training on the damn Whatever-it-was. This’ll show him! It’s got to. Hell, that was so cool, I missed whatever I just said.

He watches me for a moment, then, “Chief, I will deal with this,” he tells the little fat guy (who’s not looking happy). “Please wait for me upstairs.” Notice he’s never that polite to me. Of course, I probably wouldn’t really like it if he was.

Once the other dude’s gone, he starts stalking toward me with this dark and very pointed stare. And I have to admit, even when I’m annoyed as hell at him for pretending not to know me and trying to walk away, he looks pretty hot like that. He also looks like he might want to kick my ass again. This is apparently what I want too, given what I’m saying to him: “I’ve got a lot of things I want to ask you, but first we settle the fight we started in Tokyo!” Why do I have the feeling this is going to hurt again?

Except that he’s not paying attention to me.

How is he not paying attention to me?!

“コラア!!”

He kneels down and examines the wreckage of the door, speculatively analyzing the technique. Which, I guess, is better than ignoring me completely. Except he doesn’t seem to be impressed by it at all. How the hell can he not be impressed?!?

Suddenly he stands and looks over at me. And although it’s a fixed gaze, I can’t help thinking he seems rather indifferent. Tired. “And what about the basics of defense I told you to practice?”

I shrug, grinning. Even from the inside I can tell it looks stupid, and he certainly isn’t pleased with me. Annoyed, he grabs the edges of my shirt and drags me toward him… but he doesn’t have words, apparently, for his frustration, so I speak instead, angry again: “Since when do I have to do what you tell me?” Dislodging his hand from my lapels or whatever they are, I continue, “Defense just isn’t my thing! I’ll fight my own way!”

He gives his hand a little shake, as if to get rid of the sensation of touching me, makes an exasperated sound, and turns away. “I don’t have any men to spare, but even so, you’re useless to me.”

I stare after him, fists clenching. “You’re running away again!”

“I’m very busy; I don’t have time to play with you.”

Frustrated but trying hard to keep my tone fairly casual, I take a deep breath and answer loudly, “Well, then, I guess it’s my win by default.”

“If that’s what you want to think,” he replies indifferently, not even slowing.

I think it’s the surge of pure rage at this behavior that jolts me to consciousness this time. Though I can’t even begin to piece together what the hell is happening in these dreams, one thing I’m sure of: he never takes me seriously, he never thinks I’m good enough for this big project of his. Seems like I’d even gotten stronger — which is kinda cool, especially since it felt like I was pretty damn strong before — and he still totally blew me off.

Of course, it doesn’t seem like we’re exactly lovers in this little sword story, so he’s not under quite so much obligation to take me seriously.

But half the time, he doesn’t take me seriously in real life either.

Shit, this is so messed up. Dreams are not something you base important, relationship-altering decisions on. At least they shouldn’t be… but these ones of mine are getting to that point…

I can’t stop thinking about it now. Not at home or school or anywhere. In fact, I skip my first class of the day to go to the computer lab and try to find some of the words I’m picking up. This isn’t all that educational, though, except to confirm that it’s Japanese. Whatever that should mean to me. Did I watch some movie in Japanese at some point and store away all these words in my subconscious or something? Because there’s just no way my brain’s coming up with all of this on its own… unless I’m really going crazy.

Yeah. Maybe he’s driving me crazy.

With this thought I start wandering around campus without much intention of going to any of my classes… and possibly no intention of going home, either. Home? Shit.

Maybe it’s about time I discussed this with someone else. Not a shrink, like I was thinking yesterday; that idea’s definitely out of the question now, though I’m not even sure why. But what are friends for, other than paying for dinner and driving you home when you’re drunk?

Once in the car out on the street, though, my confidence in that idea drains away. I’m still heading in the general direction of the place where a couple of my pals live, but I’m changing lanes at random and taking what could be considered the scenic route. Because none of my friends like him, but at the same time they’re all way pro-relationship in general… it’d be impossible to get an unbiased answer out of any of them, and no way in hell am I bringing up the dreams. What am I expecting to say or to hear? And what do I think I’m going to make of it? I know perfectly well I’m too hard-headed to take advice anyway.

Which is a really bad thing, I realize, if the dreams are some form of advice, whether from my subconscious or from the mystic ethereal lands of whatever.

I end up driving aimlessly for a long time. Briefly I play with the idea of just continuing to drive and seeing where I end up, but I don’t live in a movie where I’d coincidentally run into exactly what I needed to fix the situation at a little gas station twenty miles outside of town. I’ve got things to do and a boyfriend waiting either to be dumped in a face-to-face, not-spineless way or… not. So I stick to city limits.

I skip eating; contrary to the impulse that set me driving in the first place, I’m not in the mood to talk to people, and the process of ordering food seems overly complicated and not worth the trouble.

The best part of all this is that it’s not helping. I’m not resolving issues or comparing pros and cons… I’m just driving endlessly, wasting gas, my mind almost entirely blank, annoying myself with oldies on the radio again for some reason (though the instant some pansy ass starts crooning, Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream, dream, dream, dream, I turn the damn thing off). The occasional fleeting thought that has a shred of meaning is usually just a retread of everything that’s been bothering me all along, and what’s that going to accomplish?

And yet I don’t go home until it’s way later than I ever get home without letting him know where I am. Which seems blatantly rude considering just yesterday he let me know where he was when he was going to be home late… but it’s done now. The apartment’s dark; evidently he didn’t wait up for me.

It’s too much to hope that I can sneak into bed without disturbing him, since he’s such a light sleeper, but I do my best. He doesn’t sit up or even move as he asks, “Where have you been?” His tone is pretty neutral, but I get the feeling he wasn’t even asleep.

“Out.” I don’t snap it, but a one-syllable answer is always going to sound a little tetchy.

“That much I had noticed,” he replies dryly.

Since that’s not a question, I decide I’m not required to respond, and just settle into my place in the bed and close my eyes.

“Hey,” he says after a moment. Great, now he’s going to demand I tell him.

“Yeah?”

“Are you OK?”

He’s… Dammit, I’m just not sure… Of course he’s noticed something’s going on with me; he’s not stupid… he’s probably even guessed what I’m trying to decide… and he’s not a complete jerk… I just don’t… I don’t know.

“Yeah,” I lie.

It’s a thick silence, like he wants to say something else, but eventually it’s clear he’s decided not to. We go to sleep with our backs to each other.

Next morning I’m thinking maybe it was my increased uncertainty and discomfort caused by this brief exchange that brought on a dream with a slightly different focus. It wasn’t so much that he was an overt asshole this time… just that he was still undervaluing me. I blew up an entire fucking battleship singlehandedly, by being awesome, and kept from getting shot in the process, and he still didn’t have a word to say to me. I would say it’s like I don’t exist, but I sure as hell seem to when he wants to beat someone up.

So I’m angry again; seems I’m always waking up angry now. I’m getting into this way too much. As real as it all feels, and as much continuity as I’ve come up with, they’re just dreams, right? These people Saitou and Sanosuke, they’re not him and me, and we don’t live in Japan, and none of this has anything to do with our relationship. Just because I’ve got some fixation with impressing him — I mean, just because Sano has some fixation with impressing Saitou in my dreams — doesn’t make any difference in my real life… right?

I don’t even go anywhere at all today. Normally Saturday is a time for me to sleep in (more than usual), lounge around for a while, then go do stupid shit and find my friends… but what’s the point? I’d just be moody and annoying, and it’s about time to make up my mind once and for all anyway. If I’m staying with him, I need a good reason why. If I’m leaving him, I need to do it, stop leading him on and driving myself crazy. I need to figure out what these dreams mean, what they’re telling me. If anything.

First I lie on the bed and then the couch, watching sunlight creep through the apartment through open blinds. Then I eat something… not sure what… Eventually I find a deck of cards somewhere and deal myself a game of solitaire, or maybe more than one… I don’t know. I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing, but at the same time my thoughts are just going around and around and not accomplishing much either, like yesterday. What does he really mean to me? What do I mean to him? Am I brave enough to go? Or do I want to stay and I’m just being childish? And where in all this mess do the fucking dreams come in?

It’s inevitable that, spending so much time doing jack, I’m going to fall asleep at some point. At multiple points, actually, though they’re really just cat-naps. Long enough, though, for a broken string of brief images to hound me through the day:

Him and me talking as we walk up some steep path under these red arches in some mountain forest. He’s calling me an idiot again, of course.

Him volunteering to take my place as I fight some big guy in kinda gothy makeup. Obviously he still doesn’t think I’m good enough, and I’m surprised he cares whether I get my ass pounded.

Him getting ready to fight some weirdo in a blindfold while I run off, picking up some woman (oddly enough) and carrying her away before I throw a look back at him. I’m worried about him.

Yeah, so it all makes even less sense than before, but I’ve given up trying to follow the story, if there is one. The point, again and again and again, is that he doesn’t think I’m worth anything, but even so I

Well. I don’t know. Or maybe I do know and I’m just denying it.

He’s quiet and thoughtful this evening — worried, I think, probably about something at work connected with what kept him late the other day. Normally I would ask, but right now I’ve got my own concerns. We don’t really say much of anything, actually, and dinner is quiet and a little awkward. Then we watch TV for a while in continued silence.

After the news, we both get up to go to bed as if we’ve discussed it. I feel dull, and as if physical stuff like what I’m wearing to sleep just doesn’t matter at all… and he probably gets the wrong idea from me sitting down on the bed in nothing but boxers, because the next second he’s leaning against me, mouthing my shoulder and running hands around to my chest.

I fight off a shudder, trying hard not to show how much I’d like to… because I really don’t need this right now. Pushing his hands away, I say a little stiffly, “I don’t feel like it.”

He pulls his arms back immediately. “Fine.” Considering I’ve not once ever ‘not felt like it,’ I actually expected more of a reaction than that neutral tone, but not having to explain is a good thing. I lie down with my back to him and return to my thoughts.

Tomorrow is his day off, and of course I have no classes on Sundays. Normally when our days off coincide, we find something fun to do, and I’m wondering… would one last day and night together be a nice parting gift, or just leading him on more? I guess it depends on how much I really think he likes me. Which, when it comes down to it, I’m just not sure about. And maybe I’m only finding excuses to stay. Because, when it comes down to that, I don’t think I’ve even really made up my mind yet.

This isn’t the best mood or train of thought for falling asleep, but eventually I’m as worn out fussing about it as I would have been if I hadn’t stopped him, though not as pleasantly, and I slip uncomfortably off.

The scene I come into smells like shit and doesn’t feel much better. I could say it’s nice to get here after the ass-beating for once, but actually I find I prefer to know where all this raging pain came from before I experience it. As it is, it takes me a bit to focus on anything else — but eventually I do become aware that we’re standing on a stone bridge overlooking… I’m not sure… napalm or something… a canyon, I guess, filled with fire and billowing, rancid smoke.

I’m holding the Kenshin guy, who’s unconscious and, wow, he’s so short… Nearby is some sad-looking dude in a glowing trench-coat, and on my other side, of course, is Saitou. He’s… he’s hurt pretty bad, it looks like… bleeding heavily all over his chest and both his legs. Somehow I don’t think I did that to him, so it’s a fair guess I look about ten times worse. Of course, I don’t really have any idea what I look like at all around here.

I know what I sound like, though, and I think it’s the remains of my desperate annoyance echoing in the air as we stare at a giant pair of heavy-looking metal doors starkly closed in front of us. There’s a feeling here like everything’s almost over; I think the battle’s been fought and all we have left to do is get the hell out, which probably means getting through these things. Seems ample cause for frustration.

“Out of the way.” Rude as always, even when we’re all dying. But I shift aside to let him pass, noticing as I do so that he’s drawn his sword.

“Hey, you’re wounded too,” I object. It makes sense he’s almost as bad-off as Kenshin: he was pretty much in charge of this whole thing, I think, and he’s too dedicated to just let someone else do the hard work. But what is he up to now?

I don’t seem to be nearly as surprised as I should be to see him charging at the doors in that silly-looking attack position of his. There’s no way he’s going to be able to…

Well, I guess there is.

Wait, I took one of those to the shoulder? What the hell am I made of?!

He stands back in this kind of ‘after you’ gesture, satisfied with the jagged hole he just created as an escape route. Hell, I’d be pleased with myself too. I can’t help but notice, though, that the blood seeping through the bandages on his legs has increased quite a bit, and his face looks grim. But all he says, I guess in response to my protest of a moment ago, is, “I’ve gotten through more of these situations than you have.”

And then shit starts happening fast. As everything begins rumbling so violently it’s almost difficult to keep my feet, I glance back and see that some building thing behind us — sticking out of the opposite canyon wall or something — is starting to explode in places with loud booms and bursts of fire. Fire is likewise flaring around us from below, and in the next instant a huge pillar of it roars up just in front of me, right through the stone I’m standing on, scorching my hair (I think) and making my sudden gasp burn all the way down my throat into my lungs. Then in an instant it dies down again.

Panic leaps up inside me with the explosion just as abruptly, and is quelled just as quickly with its dissipation; it’s replaced by a very sharp sense of relief when I see he’s OK… if you can call it ‘OK’ when a twenty-foot gap has been blown through the bridge and he’s on the other side. “Sa- Saitou!” I call out to him, aghast.

“How annoying.” He isn’t shouting back exactly, but purposely says it loud enough for me to hear over here, I’m sure of it. Then, casually as if he’s not standing on the edge of a hundred foot drop into a fucking inferno, he pulls out matches and cigarettes and lights one. He lifts his eyes again, looking us over in that damn calculating way… and a moment later, starts to turn.

I can feel my eyes widening, my heart-rate increasing until I think my chest must burst, my breaths coming short, hot, and angry. Where does he think he’s going? There’s no way he can survive over there! “Saitou!” I’m screaming, and I can easily hear the internal desperation leaking through into my voice. “You bastard, are you trying to run out while you’re still ahead? Saitou!! What about our fight? Answer me!!”

What is wrong with me?! ‘What about our fight?’ What the hell kind of question is that? Can’t I think of anything else to bring him back here, get him to try to save himself?

“As I just told you,” he says, turning again and sucking on his cigarette as he glances back right at me, “I’ve gotten through more of these situations than you have…” His lips curl into that derisive smile as the cigarette leaves them and he adds decisively, “…idiot.” Then he walks away into a rising chaos of flame, rubble, and smoke as more of the world falls apart, explodes inescapably — most pointedly the place where he was standing just moments ago.

The sound of my own voice screaming his name as if I were the one dying is, I think, what wakes me up.

I’m struggling hard. I don’t remember for a couple seconds that it was just a dream, that nobody’s died, that I don’t need to save anyone. He’s holding onto me tight even though I was probably kicking him, and the room feels uncomfortably hot. Still, as soon as I’m awake enough to stop struggling, I cling to him, trying to calm down. I can’t get the images out of my head; my heart is pounding, and I don’t want him to let go.

“These dreams of yours are getting out of hand, it seems.”

Trying not to seem so childish and out of control, I attempt to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky and weak. I’m planning on asking whether he’s been wakened up and bothered by all my weird dreams lately, or at least something comparably reasonable, I really am… but I find as I bury my face in his chest, the only words that come out of my mouth are, “I love you. I love you, and I’m not going to leave you.”

A startled silence falls over us, interrupted by my rasping breaths against his skin.

“I’m… glad to hear it,” he finally says.

“Are you?” I ask shakily. I’m glad to hear it too. Guess I’ve got my answers.

“You were thinking about it, weren’t you?”

“Only because I’m an idiot.”

After that we just hold each other for a while; I’m calming down and adjusting to the heat in the room, which I think may actually be more internal than anything else — remembered heat from that platform thing. Finally I’m relatively rational, and with a deep breath I speak again as if there hasn’t been a lengthy silence between statements. “You and me, we’re… we’re not in a good place. We both have things we need to change about ourselves and the way we treat each other.”

After a pause not quite as long as the previous, but still taut and anticipatory in the warm darkness, he says, “I agree.”

The clutching of my arms around him intensifies as I declare with a strength of purpose, almost a desperation, that surprises even me, “But I think it’s worth trying to get right.” I stop myself just short of admitting that the idea of losing him, of letting go of what we have or could have without even attempting to fix it, is horrifying beyond endurance — a dramatic avowal that, even in this intimate, accepting atmosphere, might get me laughed at a little.

He returns the tightening of embrace, and, with an intensity to match mine, repeats, “I agree.” And he presses a kiss to my temple before we both loosen our grip in order to lie more comfortably. “In the morning,” he goes on more levelly, “I’ll make you a mushroom omelet and we can talk about it.”

“Thank you,” I whisper — and my gratitude relates much more to his immediate willingness — earnest desire, even — to work with me on this than to his offer of my favorite breakfast. He hasn’t specifically told me he loves me back, but I think I’ve got it pretty much figured out now. Closing my eyes, I bury my face in his chest. I’m exhausted, as if I really did just fight a major battle. And escape from the fiery fortress really is in view: I feel I can rest properly, dreamless and optimistic in his arms, now I know he’s going to try to save himself. Now I know we’re going to try to save us.

As I’m falling back toward sleep, however, he pulls me out, briefly, with a quiet statement: “I do have one question right now, though.”

“Hmm?”

“Who the hell is Saitou?”

I chuckle just as quietly against the soft cloth of his t-shirt, shaking my head in a nuzzling motion and grinning slightly as I reply, “It’s a long story.”


This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


Serious Risks to Your Health



It was pouring rain, which formed a decent enough excuse to take shelter under the awning of a large open-air restaurant even though he didn’t plan on buying anything. Well, Saitou was here; Sano could just pretend he had business with him.

The cop said nothing as Sano came to stand beside him, and even his facial expression appeared fairly neutral. This was his typical greeting these days, and, though technically pleasanter than his previous manner, it disquieted Sano. The latter could easily tell they weren’t what they had been to each other, but he was proportionally uneasy in not knowing exactly what they’d become. Their harsher animosity had faded, but into what? What did this subdued, sometimes even restrained show of mutual disdain signify? It made him uncomfortable to think about it. So, with an attitude of avoidance that, being so different from his usual confrontational style of dealing with things, seemed a miniature of the entire affair, he had developed a tendency to focus deliberately on some other, minor aspect of their interaction.

Today it was Saitou’s smoking, and its interesting prolificacy, on which his mind fixed. He noticed now concretely, which before he had never been overtly conscious of but must have seen, that Saitou lingered over the withdrawing of each new cigarette, the setting it to his lips, the striking of the match… and that once these tasks were accomplished, the object’s purpose was evidently fulfilled… that he rarely finished them before tossing them away. This behavior puzzled Sano, especially given that each new cigarette followed the half-spent last with such unflagging consistency.

It didn’t take long for Saitou to notice Sano paying minute attention to the smoking process. Perhaps mistaking the purpose of this stare, Saitou silently offered him one.

Bastard probably thinks I’ve never smoked before, Sano reflected, though more wry than annoyed, and just wants to watch me choke. This theory was corroborated when Saitou, instead of offering to light it for him, merely handed him the matches.

Sano stared at the little white cylinder. It was not an unfamiliar object by any means; even if he hadn’t smoked plenty of them, he’d seen enough in Saitou’s hands to last a lifetime. And, knowing as he did just how expensive they were, that the taste was not exactly compelling, and that they made your hands and breath stink, he had to wonder…

For him, in the world he knew and his level in it, smoking formed more a social ritual than anything else. It was a symbol of camaraderie to offer or accept a cigarette in settings where the need for a clear head made an equivalent offer of sake inappropriate. It wasn’t something he did obsessively like Saitou did, and he didn’t feel the craving he knew developed if you had too many of them. Not addicted thus, he found the entire thing an enigma. What made this little thing in his hand so appealing?

“Something wrong?” Saitou wondered casually, obviously waiting for what he believed would be an entertaining show.

Sano shrugged and lit the cigarette, then handed the match-box back without allowing himself the grin toward which he was inclined. This was just as well, for if Saitou was disappointed he didn’t show it.

Bitter. Harsh, bitter, potentially dangerous… There was no logical reason for the attraction. It didn’t make sense and didn’t seem healthy. The buzz just didn’t last that long. Why, then…?

He sucked slowly on the filter and, between drags, studied the object’s shrinking length pensively. He could feel Saitou’s eyes on him perhaps as steadfastly as his own had been on the officer a minute ago. The question why in regard to the cigarette still engrossed his mind far beyond the pale of logical inquisitiveness. Everything rational spoke against these things, and the rewards were few… why did anyone — why did he like them?

Slowly he came to a conclusion he had to find rather unpleasant: that the allure actually lay in everything that was unpleasant about them. They were foreign, alien, but this merely made them exotic; they were dangerous and went against common sense, but that only made them a challenge; they were expensive, but didn’t that just mark their buyer as having selective and therefore presumably good taste?

The appeal of a harsh obstacle with questionable dividend might be contested by some, but Sano thought he understood — and it made it all the more unfortunate that just in time for them to lose that allure — as they became commonplace, as the anticipated danger went unvisited, as the challenge was met and forgotten — then the addiction was felt, and what were you left with? A costly habit of mediocre appeal that you would probably still be better without, but by then could not do without.

Somehow this entire concept bothered him a good deal more than it reasonably should have. Yes, he found for some reason, as he kept his eyes locked on the shortening cigarette, he almost couldn’t stand the idea of running the risk of an inescapable addiction for the sake of an attraction that didn’t even make sense and was quite possibly based on everything that condemned it. It was… frightening… disheartening… and he had the urge to toss the thing to the ground, grind it out, and walk away without a word into the rain. Why it should disturb him so very much he didn’t care to consider.

He looked over at Saitou, thinking to say something but unsure what. Saitou still watched him, appearing inquisitive and bemused, smoke drifting from his slightly upturned lips. That was such a familiar sight, it only struck Sano after several moments… of course Saitou had more experience in this area, more information on this disquieting subject than Sano did, and could perhaps answer his questions.

“So,” he asked at length, “how long have you been smoking these nasty things?”

“Several years,” answered Saitou in a tone that echoed the curiosity on his face.

“You still like ’em?”

The cop glanced skeptically down at the cigarette in his hand, then over at Sano. “Yes?” It was a very derisive and now demandingly curious answer.

Sano took a long drag of his own caustic but oddly satisfying cigarette, and found his own lips forming a smile as it left them. He wasn’t sure why, just as he hadn’t been sure why he’d originally been so distressed, but he found himself entirely comforted.


This story is for 30_kisses theme #13 “Excessive chain.” I’ve rated it . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


It’s Enough



He hears his own voice, rough and harsh in the burning air, unexpected even to himself: “Shinomori, take him.” He doesn’t have time for surprise at the lucidity, in enunciation and purpose, of the command. His arms are freed of the weight they bore even as he starts to move.

Suddenly there are other voices crying out, telling him… something… but he barely hears. There’s no room for anything in his mind but that absolute necessity to get across, to get to him. He’s running, raging forward with burning legs and lungs until he can push off the jagged edge.

He’s flying, the flames licking at his feet, in his heart no doubt he can make this distance. Then he hits, grunts with pain, spatters blood over the chaotic stone as he half-crumples, and staggers forward.

He’s caught before his unsteady inadvertent steps can fail entirely. He’s shaken, and that means he’s shaken.

“Ahou! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He clings to him, and Saitou does not disengage. “Bastard! Do you really think I’m gonna let you die without me?!”

“You absolute idiot.” It’s an intense, bitter, adoring expostulation as Saitou crushes him in his arms.

He shakes his head at Shinomori, and the sight of the Okashira fleeing through the shattered door with his red-headed burden is the last they see.

For, as they pull each other close for the first and final time, the world fades around them — the heat of the fires, the choking atmosphere, the memory of horror… even the pain occasioned by their contact… it all dissolves.

It’s the perfect mixture of hopelessness and contentment for escaping reality. The task is complete, freeing them from the need for further action except to save their lives… which, by now, seems impossible — and why bother, when the disaster has brought about the concession they might never otherwise have made?

All is calm as eyes close and lips meet — indeed, it’s a placidity they would probably never otherwise attain — and they simply concentrate on what they can only wish they had adequate time for. It isn’t a fantasy, denying what’s happening around them. It isn’t a speculative dream, dwelling on what might have been. Simply admitting what they’ve been reluctant to confess until now…

That there is no pain in this, because they are together…

That they can let go in each other’s arms…

It’s enough.


Back in 2006, I wrote this with the intention of its being the narration for a comic. At the time, I actually started drawing the comic, and I’m sure some of that crappy art is still kicking around somewhere. Of course I never got farther than a tiny, tiny bit of the way done with it and then stopped, because comics and I rarely get along. Then this sat in my Saitou and Sano folder for seven years unposted because I assumed it wouldn’t make sense on its own. Eventually I read it again and went, What? Yes, it would! So here it is.

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


Prescription

“As a doctor, I cannot recommend strenuous sex so soon after an injury.”

Sano is closer to recovering from his recent wound than Megumi thought to find him, and Saitou is curious.

“Oh… oh… oh…”

Megumi’s raised hand paused near the doorframe and did not knock. She’d thought to check on Sanosuke and that wound of his she’d dressed the other day — not that she had any reason to concern herself particularly over an idiot that never went to a doctor except when he was dragged in unconscious, but he happened to be on her way home this evening. But it was evident from the noise within that he was in something like decent shape by now anyway.

A moan sounded clearly through the thin door, and Megumi found herself blushing fiercely. From what she remembered of the single other time she’d visited Sanosuke’s apartment, there wasn’t too much further inside to go… but it really did seem like they’d gotten down to business immediately within the entrance.

Megumi moved to depart, to the sound of, “I’ll try, but if you keep doing that I’m gonna come right now,” but then as Sano cried out more loudly, “Oh, god, Saitou!” she stopped and with wide eyes turned back. The moaning within continued, for a while entirely inarticulate.

She knew she shouldn’t be listening, but that unexpected name held her. She would have thought that for those two to become involved was an entirely hopeless business, something she would have bet money against; indeed, only proof such as this would have convinced her of it at all. Which didn’t justify her eavesdropping, but she was too overcome with curiosity to move.

“Stop teasing me,” Sano was gasping; “just put it in already!”

Accompanied by some thumping, the sounds of pleasure intensified. So did Megumi’s blush. She really should go.

“New hobby, sensei?”

She jumped, squeaked, and spun to face the very last person in all existence she could possibly have expected to catch her at this. As she stammered and blushed, quickly rethought her assessment of things, and tried to get hold of herself, Saitou glanced at the apartment and asked with a smirk, “And who are we spying on?”

The doctor, as was her talent, was swiftly recovering her presence of mind, and the amusing fact that Saitou didn’t even know where Sano lived, let alone… well, that helped. “Sanosuke,” she replied almost calmly, though the blush had certainly not gone. But her growing entertainment as the reality of the situation struck her more thoroughly added a whole new dimension to her reflections — especially as she saw Saitou, at her answer, throw another glance, seemingly inadvertent and much more interested, at the run-down building.

He gave a brief, disdainful laugh.

“I was going to check on his wound from the other day,” Megumi continued with composure, “but from what I’m hearing, he’s better than fine.”

At just that moment, as if in deliberate support of her statement, a rapturous groan burst out that must have been loud enough even for Saitou, not nearly as close to the door as Megumi was, to hear. His eyes narrowed as he took two steps forward, regarding the entrance, and he murmured darkly, “They should wait until they’re out of the doorway to do that.”

Megumi noticed he didn’t step back. By now completely in control of herself and thinking she comprehended well enough how things stood, she restrained a smile and said, “It isn’t a big room.”

Saitou shook his head and muttered, “Ahou.” He still did not step back.

Nodding, Megumi agreed gravely, “Yes; as a doctor, I cannot recommend strenuous sex so soon after an injury.”

She drew extreme satisfaction from the expression he could not quite keep off his face. All he said, though, in a slightly forced tone of sarcasm, was, “And therefore you feel vindicated listening at his door.”

“Of course,” replied she in the same serious manner. “I need to know what to prescribe when he hurts himself in there.”

“You must be an excellent doctor –” the sarcasm coming more naturally this time — “to determine that much just from listening to something like this.”

“Oh, I know exactly what he needs,” she said blandly.

Just then they were startled by a much longer, louder moan — almost a wail — from within. Megumi blushed again, and Saitou growled, apparently without even realizing he was saying it, “Who is he with in there?”

Megumi smiled wickedly. “Let’s find out,” she said, and, raising her hand once more to the door frame, knocked loudly.


This story is for 30_kisses theme #26, “If only I could make you mine.”

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


A Run of Good Luck



It didn’t seem the type of day for the fulfillment of secret desires. If Sano had been asked to guess, when he woke up in the mid-to-late morning or when he got up in the mid-to-late afternoon, what type of day it would turn out to be, he wouldn’t have been able to come up with anything specific. It was just another day, mediocre. He wasn’t wounded or starving or any richer or happier than usual, Tokyo wasn’t any better or worse than ever a place to live, and the weather was mild. Still, he was in a good mood as he ambled out of his run-down apartment and took to the street with no particular purpose; that boded well, as a good mood meant a run of good luck with the dice. Well, sometimes.

Greeting people he knew, smiling at people he didn’t, and grinning at people that whistled at him (it happened twice), he made his leisurely way in the general direction of his favorite gambling area, keeping a sharp eye open for anyone likely to want to treat him to a free meal on the way. He stopped to talk to someone about something, didn’t get any food out of it, and eventually moved on as the sun began to set.

Encountering a group of little boys among whom he ranked as a favorite, he was quickly talked into racing them down to their hideout a few streets over. After giving them a good head start, he took off after them with a roar he knew would make them run even faster.

At the corner he was just catching them up, but found, as he turned it, an unexpected volume of pedestrian traffic that he was not nearly so good at infiltrating as his small friends were. He dodged a sour-looking lady shouting at all of them, stumbled over someone else, and slammed into a third as the boys, laughing, outdistanced him and disappeared around another corner.

He was yelping an apology even as he lost his balance and fell. He had to consider himself rather the victim, however, as the other person didn’t go similarly tumbling or even seem to waver; indeed, it was almost like running into a brick wall. Oddly and unexpectedly, however, he found himself pulled back up again by a strong hand almost before hitting the ground. This wouldn’t have been quite so bizarre and disconcerting if the gesture hadn’t been accompanied by the remark, “Clumsier than usual today, ahou?”

Sano couldn’t speak; there were no words to express his sensations in response to this. He simply stared at the officer, dumbfounded. Saitou, smoothing out his jacket, seemed to be giving him time to think of a comeback… but Sano had none. Seeing this, the taller man smirked at him and strode on around the corner, leaving Sano still overwhelmed and motionless where he stood.

Saitou had just… been nice to him.

True, he’d hauled Sano to his feet roughly and much like a sack he intended to toss over his shoulder, but the result was the same: he’d helped him up. And though he’d mocked him immediately, there had been more amusement than ridicule in the tone. And that smirk… certainly one of derision, yes, but friendly derision. Almost good-natured, it all had seemed… if that didn’t feel so much like blasphemy against the god of assholes, and an insult against nature…

With a monumental effort recovering his wits and power of motion, though entirely forgetting his young cohorts and their race, Sano turned and ran back around the corner after Saitou.

The officer did not slow his pace when Sano reached him, only glanced at him without change of expression. “Hello again.”

Sano was nearly rendered speechless a second time. Who ever heard of Saitou saying ‘hello’ to him? Or even greeting him at all except with an insult? “Hey,” he finally managed, which, in its effectiveness in promoting conversation or conveying his wonder, was certainly close enough to having no clue what to say.

Saitou gave no reply, but Sano thought, looking at him, that more of a smile was riding those lips than he’d ever seen there for more than two moments together in all the time he’d known him.

Growing easier after walking half the length of another street with no sign that Saitou was trying to trap him somehow by feigning amiability and then turning suddenly and stabbing him, Sano ventured experimentally in a conversational tone, “Nice weather today, ain’t it?”

“It is,” Saitou agreed with a nod.

“All right,” the younger man demanded, having received the last indicator he needed, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Interesting you should ask that,” Saitou replied, bemused, “considering you’re usually the first to point it all out.”

Sano shook his head as if trying to clear away growing confusion and doubt. “You’re being nice to me!” It was half explanation, half protest.

“Am I? That is a problem.” And Saitou only barely rolled his eyes as he said this.

“Shit…” Sano stared him up and down as the only possible solution to this mystery slowly dawned on him and seemed confirmed by all the evidence he’d collected thus far. “I didn’t know it was possible for you to be in a good mood!”

Saitou merely smirked.

Examining this along with the rest of the older man’s face in continued surprise and possibly some growing bemusement of his own, Sano kept on at Saitou’s side. “You got blood on your ear,” he eventually remarked. “‘Zat why you’re so happy? You been out giving some Aku the old Zan?”

“If you want to put it that way.” Saitou extracted from a pocket an already bloodstained glove and rubbed his ear with it.

Sano watched critically. “It’s not coming off. Looks like it’s dried.”

Saitou shrugged.

“So who’d you kill?” Sano asked next.

“You’ll have heard it by tomorrow.”

“Being all pleased with yourself about it ain’t gonna make me less curious, you know…”

“You’d better try to think about something else, then.”

Sano was still unable to get his brain around the concept of Saitou so nice. Well, nice for Saitou. “Sure,” he complained, “but I was asking because I was trying not to think about what you were making me think about before.”

Saitou raised a skeptical brow at him.

“See, I hate to mess up the first good mood I’ve ever seen you in, but it’s just too good of an opportunity, and you’re kinda asking for it not answering my questions…” And without further warning, Sano put a hand on Saitou’s shoulder, leaned in, and kissed him soundly. Then he took off running once again.

Saitou was left in the middle of the street as motionless as Sano had been earlier, watching the young man rapidly disappearing and the entertained expressions of a few other pedestrians that had witnessed the exchange.

“Ahou,” he murmured after a moment when he took to walking again.

What a nice day this was turning out to be.


This story is for 30_kisses theme is #12, “In a good mood.” As you can see, 30_kisses was a fabulous way to come up with utter pointlessness XD

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


I Dream I Know Not How



“When he said you’d gone completely mad, he wasn’t exaggerating.”

“I… wanted to talk to you,” Sano admitted, feeling foolish.

You spend most of your time talking to me. Your neighbors think you’re insane.

“Well, none of them are here right now, are they? That’s kinda the point.”

Ahou.

“Why’d you just leave the other night, anyway? Didn’t even say goodbye or anything.”

Do you think I’m at your disposal? That I have nothing better to do?

“Course not. Not like I have any real idea what you do these days, but still… you… missed what I had to say.”

Hmm, what an extraordinary pity.

Sano gave a sigh, amused and exasperated. “Well, listen now, all right? Don’t go running off, or floating off, or whatever you do at this point.”

In exchange, try not to make it too boring.

Sano chose not to respond to this jab either. “Look, what I want to tell you is…” Even without having to meet an intense golden stare while making this statement, it was difficult to spit out. “You’ve changed me. You held me to your standard while you were alive — I practically had no choice but to be a better person — and even after you were dead you wouldn’t let me throw my life away. So it’s like you saved me twice. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get to your level. The only thing I can ever really do is wish for it and want to touch it and want…” Finally, finally he came to the point. “And want you. Not like that’s possible now, I know, but at least I want you to know… I love you. And I’d kinda like to know how you feel about me back.”

There was a very long, and to Sano very tense silence. Eventually Saitou simply remarked, Hn…

“What does that mean? Is ‘I love you’ too boring, or what?”

Maybe, when you’ve said it twice before.

“What the– you did hear me then? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Saitou had no reply.

“Any chance you could stop being an asshole and say something? Right, like you could ever stop being an asshole. Why the hell do I love you, anyway? Could you at least tell me that?”

Still no answer.

“Guess it bothers you to hear me say it, huh? Well, suck it up, bastard. I love you, I love you, I love you. You hear me?” And he flung his gaze into the sky, shaking an irate, clenched fist upward. “I love you!!”

The water was now even blacker than it had been that day, its increased darkness in some ways more enticing and in some more horrific. It stretched like a shadow, a deep endless shadow you could easily blend into… or, at least, somebody with dark hair and dark clothing could. Sano would stand out, a blemish on the water, until he sank and was entirely forgotten, not by choice but because he just wasn’t good enough.

Eventually he stirred from his motionless stare, and his limbs felt heavy and sluggish. It took more effort than it should have to haul himself up onto the railing. The water appeared even closer now, despite its being technically a few feet farther from him. He glanced around at the rest of the dark world. Why did it seem he was expecting something? Expecting someone? Expecting… Saitou… to say something… What would Saitou say?

Well, he probably wouldn’t bother trying to stop Sano, but he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to mock him. What are you doing, ahou?

“What does it look like I’m doing, old man?” Sano replied to the hypothetical question out loud.

And just what do you intend to accomplish with that?

He had no answer.

Do you think you’ll be helping anyone? Saitou would persist. Do you think the state of the world will improve? Do you think anything you’ve ever lived for will be carried out in that kind of death?

“Well, no, but…” That would be a fairly good point.

But what?

“I… don’t know…”

A typically well formulated justification.

“Pretty sure you’re dead, bastard,” Sano growled, as if Saitou could really hear it. “Why do I have to justify myself to you anyway?”

It makes no difference to me, of course. Rushing into things without thinking is what you’re best at. This will be particularly glorious — something you’re not even sure about but can’t take back once it’s done. Yes, you’ll really outdo yourself here, boy.

“You just don’t want me to come bug you in the afterlife.”

That could be.

“Well, if you still hate me so damn much, why don’t you just stop haunting me?”

For this the fictional Saitou had no answer. But suddenly, whether it was the hazily imagined conversation, the thought of Saitou actually haunting him — watching him, demanding concrete reasons for this course of action — or something else entirely, the blackness in the water below did not look nearly so enticing. Staring down, Sano’s eyes grew wide and he began to shake. That’s right… it wouldn’t help anything… it would only make things worse. What had he been thinking?

Oh, were you thinking something?

“Shut up… just shut the hell up…”

He imagined he could hear Saitou chuckling.

The state of his body, half-forgotten on the way out in his previous frame of mind, reiterated itself now as he tore himself from the bridge and threw himself toward home, and his walk turned almost to a stagger. “Goddammit,” he grumbled breathlessly, “I might as well be dead.”

Of course he would have to make further effort eventually… he did have to eat. But as he still dreaded further questioning, it was at least another day before he tried. That made it he did not know how long since he’d had any food; he couldn’t imagine how he looked to the others in the scummy little restaurant to which he eventually dragged himself… since he had no problem getting a meal on credit, it must have been either intimidating or pitiable. At any rate, he wasn’t disturbed as he ate, and his mood slowly grew less black.

He started leaning toward the ‘intimidating’ theory, however pathetic he felt, when on the way out the door he nearly ran into an incoming restaurant patron whose reaction was to yelp, jump, and scurry out of the way. Normally Sano would stop and talk to the guy — make sure he was all right, probably tease him for being twitchy, find out if he wanted to buy a drink for the ex-mercenary that had startled him so badly — but today he didn’t feel up to it, and moved on without looking back.

He’d already muttered, “I’m as scary as you, I guess,” before he even realized he was thinking of Saitou again. Still.

You’ve always been somewhat frightening, Saitou replied easily, as if he’d been expecting Sano’s remark perhaps more even than Sano had, if only because of your terrifying fashion sense…

“Hey, now,” Sano grunted, but did not continue as Saitou went on.

But I think a drug-addict river rat like that would probably jump the same way no matter who he bumped into. It could be that shy little girl from the Akabeko and he’d still probably piss himself if she surprised him.

The image of Tsubame scaring a man twice her size out of his self-control just by appearing in a doorway was unexpectedly hilarious, and the laughter it induced unexpectedly relieving. “Shit, I can just picture her face,” Sano chortled. “Tsubame…! I love you…”

His laughter stopped along with his movement and breathing.

Had he really just said that out loud?

He hadn’t meant it like that; it had merely been an expression of appreciation, albeit a stronger one than he might normally have used — his tone must have been enough to convey this — but once the words were out, he found himself frozen in place with his head spinning. Because now that he thought about it…

Now that he’d said it, couldn’t take it back, couldn’t help but think about it…

Now that he’d slipped…

“Maybe I really do,” he whispered.

He’d been anticipating ridicule for the original statement alone; in response to this addendum he didn’t know what to expect. Certainly he did not hope. It was a foolish thing to have admitted so carelessly, to have realized so late. So… late…

Suddenly he did not feel at all well.

He stood very still, waiting for Saitou’s derision.

It did not come.

His breathing returned to normal and the nausea receded gradually, yet he heard nothing but the wind. He couldn’t say that whatever cruel remark he’d been expecting was worse than this, but no response at all he simply could not deal with. “Saitou?” he queried.

Still no answer.

Sano looked slowly around. Of course he saw nothing more than he ever did… but he felt very much alone.

Saitou hadn’t heard, then. He didn’t know.

The state of his body, half-forgotten on the way out in his previous frame of mind, reiterated itself now as he tore himself from the bridge and threw himself toward home, and his walk turned almost to a stagger. “Goddammit,” he grumbled breathlessly, “I might as well be dead.”

Too weak to handle a little pain?

“Thought I told you to shut up,” Sano snarled, as if Saitou, living or otherwise, would actually do as Sano told him.

Which hurts more, came the easy tone, the pain or the truth about yourself?

“I didn’t go through with it, did I?”

You had to be talked down.

“Not like it’s totally unheard-of for someone to get suicidal.”

Yes, you’re perfectly normal… very mainstream… You help people in ways that will get them killed, you try to kill yourself and don’t know why, and you talk to dead cops.

“Guess that makes us pretty damn similar, then, since you did the same thing and did get yourself killed so you are a fucking dead cop who doesn’t seem like he’s got anything better to do than hang around talking to me!”

Nobody ever suggested I was normal.

“Ch…” Sano was home by now, and fell to his futon gratefully, dragging an arm across his eyes although there was no light in the room to block them against. He lay silent for a long time, getting his breath back and letting the trembling stop. He needed something to eat and then he would certainly be all right.

Even before Saitou wondered idly, Nothing more to say? Sano could not feel entirely alone in the room, but with his vision obscured it almost did seem the other man was actually present.

“Hey,” Sano asked in a weary and nearly indifferent tone, “are you really here?”

Of course not. When was the last time you talked to a ghost?

A little startled by the question, Sano paused in the slow act of sitting up, supported on one elbow and still half recumbent. “Not too long ago, actually…” He hauled himself up and glanced around at the empty apartment. “But I still don’t think I believe this.”

Do as you please.

“Yeah, I always do.” Sano stood and shuffled to a cupboard to see if he had any food.

You know it’s empty. You’ve checked it every day since you came home.

Sano didn’t feel like explaining that in repressing the awareness of the cupboard’s emptiness and going to look as if it might contain something, there was a pleasure, if not equal to eating, better at least than lying around realistically contemplating the lack of food in his possession. What he did say was, “Seems like it’s gonna get real crowded around here pretty quick.”

If you had a job, you could afford a bigger apartment.

“Fuck you,” Sano replied, turning toward the door to go find somewhere to freeload.

Telling his buddies the story of his wounds did not appeal to him. Katsu undoubtedly already knew about the kidnapping-related events, and talking to him about it didn’t really appeal to Sano either. Obviously the dojo was out of the question. This was going to take a little more effort than usual.

But more effort was exactly what he didn’t have to expend. For the night was different now, colder and heavier — so heavy, in fact, it seemed to weigh on Sano’s shoulders and slow his steps until walking became useless for as far as it was likely to get him before he inevitably collapsed. He felt suddenly very weak. Weak in more ways than he’d often worried about in all his energetic days.

The sky looked like the water had: black and ready to swallow everything. He faltered to a complete halt as he stared up. There was a feeling of grasping emptiness to it that matched his soul, or perhaps it was just that the coldness of his frame and the coldness of the stars seemed to be one and the same. And he was still in pain.

Even if he wanted to ignore certain conclusions, wanted to forget certain emotions, the wounds would not let him… so he gave up, gave in, and started to ponder the last few weeks: the news, the coincidence, his own decisions, the bridge… Had Saitou actually had some hand in those events? Had he actually shown up, just at the right time in the right place to keep Sano from suicide? Was he still here, still near Sano, even now?

It didn’t really matter.

“Thank you,” Sano told the man, wherever and whatever he was, in a gruff murmur, forcing his gaze now toward the ground rather than that disturbing sky. Then, almost as if he couldn’t contain the words, he added, “You know, I don’t really hate you. I never did.”

There was no answer.

He stumbled back home.

Of course he would have to make further effort eventually… he did have to eat.

If Saitou were here, he would ask why Sano had done it. But it wouldn’t mean quite the same thing coming from him.

This was Sano’s first coherent thought, though Sano himself was far from coherent. It seemed too much of an effort to struggle for real consciousness, and he didn’t mind how disordered and incohesive was the parade of images marching past his mind’s eye, the play of sounds that did not always match.

Kenshin, solemn and quiet, telling him the news. There was no ambiguity this time. There could be no mistaking the matter. There was no misunderstanding, misinformation, or misinterpretation. Kenshin had seen the body.

His head hurt so much. Someone was talking, but he couldn’t quite hear any words just yet.

Footsteps, swift and urgent, coming his direction. They pounded across the bridge on which he stood. He looked up.

“…boy and his fiance were killed…” There were the words at last, still a bit distorted.

He’d been the only one Kenshin had told, because he’d been the only one Kenshin had thought would care. In that supposition he was wrong, of course. Sano had never cared.

“…should have gone to the police…” He wondered if he’d taken a blow to the side of his head that might have done something to his hearing.

The river beneath him. That was the only real reason the news was so unsettling — because the river he looked out on was gilded by the sunset to just the color of Saitou’s eyes. He’d thought that old man would never go. Well, he’d thought that old man was invincible. But Kenshin had been in Kyoto by coincidence just then, and had seen the body. Had made sure to see the body, so there could be no mistake this time.

His chest hurt; he thought he was breathing shallowly, out there on the other side of consciousness where he could not quite reach.

Although he didn’t care, he questioned Kenshin rather carefully about circumstances, as he’d been deceived once and didn’t want it to happen again. Kenshin gave explicit answers to the best of his knowledge.

Apparently Saitou had gone alone to attempt the rescue of a abducted child, feeling he would have a better chance at infiltrating the kidnappers’ hideout by himself. But he’d been discovered and the enemies’ numbers had been greater than was generally supposed. Greater even than Mibu no Ookami could handle on his own. Although Kenshin did hint that Saitou might have been more aware of that beforehand than he’d let on. That perhaps there had been more… bravado… in the act than many others believed. At any rate, he was killed, as was the hostage; the police were still looking into the affair, but now there was no longer any hope of recovering the abductee, the case was likely to be dropped rather quickly.

Sano could see it all, even when only half awake. He could picture every detail: Saitou striking blow after deadly blow but slowly hemmed in by an overwhelming group of thugs, falling finally of many wounds… the last justice the wolf would ever deal out.

“…what was he thinking?”

The bridge. The figure of a much-distressed youth whose rich fiance had been kidnapped from under his nose. It was just too tempting, too perfect — too coincidental. Did you set this up, old man? Sano wondered. But Saitou would not have answered such a stupid question. “Don’t bother with the police,” he said. “They fuck everything up. I’ll go get her out.”

“But why did he do it?” That was the question the voices all kept asking. Saitou would have asked that too, if he were here. If he were still alive. Except that Saitou wouldn’t mean it the way they did. Saitou saw through everything, and Sano knew he would know.

The light that shone on his closed eyelids was as golden as the river had been.

The river. He knew what Saitou would say if he saw him here, watching the shining water roll away beneath him endlessly in the long dusk and thinking fixedly of a rival he would never see again. It would be something to the purpose of, Ahou — because that was how it always started — why don’t you find something productive to do?

And he probably should. After all, it wasn’t as if he cared. But then the sun set completely, and the water seemed to burn for a moment and then go black, like a bright flame suddenly extinguished. And Sano wondered… had it been like that? Had the fire in Saitou’s eyes gone out that abruptly? From gold to crimson to sable in an instant, just so?

Saitou would mock him: A little fanciful, are we? But Sano couldn’t help thinking that so it must have been. Also that it was terribly inviting, such a deep black color of death. He couldn’t blame Saitou for having accepted it. The best way to go would be to flame and burn out; would Saitou have thought so too?

And perhaps now…

And then the footsteps.

Too convenient, he reflected at the thought of the circumstance and its timing. You really must have set this one up.

“…should have known it was too big for him to handle alone…” He wondered if voices had asked the same questions, made the same comments, if in perhaps more hushed tones, after Saitou’s failure. Although he noticed Kenshin had no input. Kenshin probably saw through it too; he alone knew how similar Sano’s situation had been to the one he’d described earlier that very day. He must have his guesses as to why Sano had been so foolish.

“Hey, bro, haven’t you heard of me? You’ve got Zanza on your side now!” The young man seemed to perk up at this, and didn’t mind so much the idea of leaving the police out of the business. But still he insisted on coming along too. Well, that was fine. Sano could show off a little.

His body hurt all over: bruised, he thought. Lots of heavy bruises. As soon as he woke fully, he would be able to move and figure out if he had any cuts or broken bones.

There were too many of them, and the girl was too front and central for him to get her out first and then go down fighting. He’d left behind the days when he’d refused to admit he was dangerously outnumbered, and now he knew perfectly well this was not a battle he could win.

Saitou must have known that too.

“…but I don’t understand why he…”

Yes, if Saitou were still alive, he would surely say the same. Except that he would have seen the answer to the immediate question and would be asking something a bit more profound:

There were better ways you could have chosen to be like me. Why would you want to die like I did?

And Sano would have no answer for him.

No more than for the other question Saitou would probably ask — Why did you want to die at all?

He was waking up now, slowly, finally. He must have made some noise, probably a groan at the heightening pain as consciousness approached, for the conversation whose bits and pieces had been reaching him through the haze abruptly ceased. Or perhaps more time had passed than he realized, and they’d all gone away.

He could open only one of his eyes; the other ached and stung, obviously swollen. His throat ached with dryness, so much that he could make nothing more than a croaking sound when he tried to speak.

Megumi appeared, blurry and overly bright, and gave him a little water. She spoke no word, but her eyes were like books, and what Sano read in them made his heart sink. It was more than just Why did you? — it was You shouldn’t have. As if she were at all qualified to make that judgment when she didn’t know why… but he might be imagining things.

“Sano,” Kenshin’s voice said.

Now to see if Kenshin saw through it. He didn’t always see things the way Saitou had, so maybe he couldn’t tell.

“Yeah,” Sano rasped. “Hello.”

“I’m glad you are awake,” Kenshin said.

Sano honestly couldn’t bring himself to say the same. Despite the chaos of his jumbled thoughts, being halfway conscious had been a good deal less painful than being fully so. And he didn’t like Kenshin’s tone. So the only answer he made was inarticulate and low.

“Sano, please do not do that again.” It was a tone that tried not to be hurt or reproving, and failed.

For several moments Sano was tempted to reply, “Do what, Kenshin?” as if he didn’t know perfectly well his friend had him figured out. But he had a sneaking suspicion, somehow, that pretending ignorance, forcing Kenshin to explain it to him plainly, would not make him feel much better. So finally he merely said, “I won’t.” And didn’t add, Unless another coincidence like that pops up. Actually, he tried not to admit that thought even to himself.

“Thank you,” said Kenshin softly.

That was the worst it got, but the next step down was almost less tolerable for being more protracted. Megumi, Kaoru, and Yahiko, not to mention the other friends that came to visit, were ignorant of the true depth of the circumstances, so all they could do was ask why… but that was enough.

“Let’s have a look at this thick skull of yours,” Megumi would say, sardonically pleasant, then add silently, with real darkness, “Why did you give me more work for no good reason?”

“I brought you lunch, Sanosuke!” Kaoru would chirp, turning severe with, “And don’t you say a word about how it tastes!” But her true comment was, “Why did you ruin everyone’s peace?”

“If you don’t hurry up and get better, I’m gonna move into your place,” Yahiko threatened. What he really meant was, “Why did you let me down?”

Sano pretended to need a lot more sleep than he was actually getting.

Kenshin saw through this, of course, and his ever-present and far more penetrating “Why?” was the worst of all.

Saitou hadn’t heard, then. He didn’t know. But, again, now he’d been forced by his own carelessness to think about it, Sano couldn’t decide whether this was good or bad. Did he want Saitou to know? It was too late now anyway, and what could Saitou possibly say in response? Even if he didn’t tear Sano to pieces for his foolishness, it was still… too late. A certain nausea, the same that had twisted his stomach the first time, again threatened his already-dubious physical well-being every time he considered the matter, and this as well as everything else that had happened lately made Sano doubt himself. He wasn’t as certain of the clarity of his own reflections as he would like… should he really share them with someone else, someone so… capable of hurting him… if he wasn’t sure?

He lay awake, or half-awake, meandering through pain and dreams and contemplating this question for hours in the darkness… and eventually reached the conclusion (a conclusion he perhaps should have expected and therefore reached much sooner) that some things needed to be said regardless of the outcome. Regardless of his state of mind.

Coming out with something like that, seriously saying it aloud, premeditated and deliberate, wasn’t as easily done as it was decided upon, however. Days passed before he managed to work up the requisite resolve (he couldn’t quite call it nerve, as he couldn’t quite call what held him back fear), and during that time he grew restless and agitated. It didn’t help that Saitou said little and Sano had no hint of a clue about what the response might be when he finally managed to tell him.

Eventually he forced himself out of the quiet apartment and took to the streets. He had no idea where he was going, but the impetus to movement had something to do with not wanting to see or be seen by anyone. Anyone living, that is. He felt his confession nearly ready, that it was creeping up on him, and he didn’t want to be around people when it burst out.

A field he came upon in a sparse, quiet, distant area of town beckoned him to its center, for the wind-ruffled yet empty feeling that hung about it seemed appropriate somehow. He wandered across, steps slowing in the rustling grass. Finally he stopped and took a long look all around him.

You’re more aimless than usual today, Saitou commented, and it was as good an opening as any.

“I… wanted to talk to you,” Sano admitted, feeling foolish.

You spend most of your time talking to me. Your neighbors think you’re insane.

“Well, none of them are here right now, are they? That’s kinda the point.”

Ahou.

“Why’d you just leave the other night, anyway? Didn’t even say goodbye or anything.”

Do you think I’m at your disposal? That I have nothing better to do?

“Course not. Not like I have any real idea what you do these days, but still… you… missed what I had to say.”

Hmm, what an extraordinary pity.

Sano gave a sigh, amused and exasperated. “Well, listen now, all right? Don’t go running off, or floating off, or whatever you do at this point.”

In exchange, try not to make it too boring.

Sano chose not to respond to this jab either. “Look, what I want to tell you is…” Even without having to meet an intense golden stare while making this statement, it was difficult to spit out. “You’ve changed me. You held me to your standard while you were alive — I practically had no choice but to be a better person — and even after you were dead you wouldn’t let me throw my life away. So it’s like you saved me twice. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get to your level. The only thing I can ever really do is wish for it and want to touch it and want…” Finally, finally he came to the point. “And want you. Not like that’s possible now, I know, but at least I want you to know… I love you. And I’d kinda like to know how you feel about me back.”

There was a very long, and to Sano very tense silence. Eventually Saitou simply remarked, Hn…

“What does that mean? Is ‘I love you’ too boring, or what?”

Maybe, when you’ve said it twice before.

“What the– you did hear me then? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Saitou had no reply.

“Any chance you could stop being an asshole and say something? Right, like you could ever stop being an asshole. Why the hell do I love you, anyway? Could you at least tell me that?”

Still no answer.

“Guess it bothers you to hear me say it, huh? Well, suck it up, bastard. I love you, I love you, I love you. You hear me?” And he flung his gaze into the sky, shaking an irate, clenched fist upward. “I love you!!”

Startled by a soft noise behind him, he whirled suddenly, and found himself looking unexpectedly into the face of an uncertain Kenshin.

“Shit,” he muttered, lowering his hand and letting it go lax. He hadn’t considered how loudly he’d been talking; he hadn’t felt the need. Had Kenshin heard the whole thing? Sano must sound certifiably crazy at this point.

Such seemed to be the case, for the look in Kenshin’s eyes that the rurouni was not very well able to conceal seemed to be one of pitying horror.

“Kenshin…” he began. “Hey… this…”

“Sano,” whispered Kenshin with a minuscule shake of his head. “Sano, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry?”

It appeared Kenshin didn’t quite have words to convey his feelings or thoughts at the moment.

“Kenshin, look,” Sano said, trying to sound reasonable. “I know that sounded kindof… um, crazy… but, seriously, I’m not. It’s… it’s just something…” There wasn’t really any way to explain it, though, that wouldn’t sound just as insane as the overheard one-sided conversation must have.

“This is my fault… I never should have told you…”

“Told me what?” Sano demanded, a little impatiently. He didn’t like that expression of Kenshin’s, the one of sympathetic despair. “I’d have known he was dead soon enough when he started haunting me, wouldn’t I? It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Sano, I never thought your liking him was a good idea. He didn’t think so either, so–”

“What, he knew??” Sano broke in. “He knew I liked him?!” The fist clenched again. “That fucking asshole,” he muttered, looking away so as not to direct his pained rage straight into Kenshin’s face. “He knew before I even knew and he didn’t say anything, and he won’t say anything now even when I fucking tell him straight up.”

“Sano… Sano, Saitou is not–”

“Don’t even go there, Kenshin. I’m not crazy. I know perfectly well nobody else can hear him. Doesn’t make me crazy. I’ve met ghosts before; doesn’t make any difference that I just hear him and don’t see him this time.”

“Sano…”

“Dammit, just leave me alone, Kenshin,” Sano commanded, a little wearily. “I’m pissed enough as it is.”

Appearing helpless and desperate, Kenshin seemed to be contemplating a variety of things to say; finally he just shook his head. “All right.” And he turned and walked away.

Days wore by without another encounter with the rurouni. Of course Sano hadn’t been around him much lately anyway, but now he didn’t even see him, walking through town, as he usually did. “Guy must really think I’m crazy,” Sano remarked on this at a mutter after a week had passed, “and he’s avoiding me now.”

You were ranting like a lunatic, was Saitou’s helpful, amused-sounding comment. Himura’s tolerance level is high, but everyone has to draw the line somewhere.

“If you goddamn heard me ranting like a lunatic, you could have answered my fucking question,” Sano protested.

Hn. He still sounded amused, but at the same time somewhat disinterested. Obviously Saitou didn’t feel like answering, and what exactly did that mean? What did it mean that he was willing to stick around, to converse with Sano at all hours of the day, to share inside jokes with him and comment carelessly on almost every aspect of Sano’s private life… but unwilling to respond to what might be the most important statement Sano had ever made, the most meaningful question he’d ever asked?

Because Sano wouldn’t like the answer? He couldn’t believe that; Saitou would not have so much consideration for him. Why, then? He didn’t understand.

And perhaps the reason Saitou didn’t answer was part of the reason Sano didn’t understand… some deficiency in him that rendered the answer as well as Saitou’s motives incomprehensible? He’d never been good enough; that almost made sense.

But of course Sano could not accept it.

He couldn’t run. Despite the fact that, figuratively, that was exactly what he was doing — running from an array of accusing eyes and pursed lips and soft voices asking endlessly why, why, why?? — he was still too weak actually to run. He thought a few more good nights’ sleep would have him up to a decent level of strength again, but he wouldn’t spend them at that quiet, accusatory clinic. So he stumbled home.

He felt sure he knew what Saitou would say if he saw him stagger into his dirty little apartment and hit the futon like he weighed a ton with a grunt to match. Well, Saitou would just call him some rude name. But if he were in a mood to elaborate, he would surely mock Sano for being so weak he couldn’t handle a little disapprobation in order to get the medical attention he needed. And Sano would insist he didn’t need any medical attention, and Saitou would probably point out the worst of his wounds and ask facetiously if they were cosmetic.

Sano couldn’t help grinning up at the ceiling a little at the thought.

Here he could sleep, for there was no interminable conversation of why‘s on the other side of consciousness to invade his dreams. Soon he would be completely well again, if left alone like this. That was all he really wanted: to be alone.

You’re lucky you didn’t get sick, then, Saitou would say. The words would be a disinterested observation, but the tone would be sarcastic. If a fever had come with those bruises of yours, you wouldn’t be able to make it on your own.

And that was true. Sano was glad he didn’t have a fever. He wouldn’t have much to say in response to that.

The passage of time eluded his comprehension. When he awoke, he couldn’t remember what part of the day it had been when he’d left the clinic, and therefore couldn’t determine how long he’d been asleep. His head still hurt. He was excessively hungry.

Forcing himself to sit up, however laborious and painful the process, he slowly checked his bandages. Some had come loose, and they could probably all do with a change. When he would have the energy to wash the used ones, though, he didn’t know. He hoped he had enough of his own to keep himself alive until then.

Saitou would certainly have something to say, on observing this, about Sano’s forethought, and Sano muttered preemptively, “Shut up…” as he lay back down. Then he contemplated, for a very long time, sitting up again. He needed to change the bandages so he wouldn’t get infected, but somehow all he could give any serious thought to was the memory of the bridge and approaching footsteps just as the sun set.

“That guy’s dead now.” He didn’t realize he was talking to Saitou until he added, “Dead as you are.”

He thought that if Saitou were feeling relatively light-hearted, he might inquire into Sano’s assignment of degrees of deadness. Otherwise he would probably just comment that most people died eventually.

“Most of the time it ain’t my fault, though.”

Maybe it is, and you’re just not aware of it, Saitou might say.

And Sano laughed quietly, painfully, at the thought of expecting any kind of comfort from that man. He fell asleep again.

How many days passed in similar manner he couldn’t tell, and probably didn’t want to. His own convalescence might have served as some type of measure — how at first even taking stock of his condition exhausted him, but eventually he was actually able to stand and move — but he did not heed it, not wanting to risk Saitou’s hypothetical derisive comments on his recovery rate.

Eventually his apartment and the heavy awareness of what he had done or hadn’t done, not to mention the why‘s in his own mind, became too oppressive, and he stumbled out for a walk despite the pain. He couldn’t bear bright sunlight just yet, so he waited until dusk; in the cool evening he found there was a sensation vaguely like freedom about escaping his empty room and moving about as if he were perfectly well in mind and body, and this almost made him able to forget or ignore his condition. Thus he walked farther than he’d intended, farther than was probably healthy, and found himself after not too long, unexpectedly and yet so appropriately, on that bridge again. He couldn’t quite say this was where it had all started, but still it fit so well to revisit this spot.

The water was now even blacker than it had been that day, its increased darkness in some ways more enticing and in some more horrific. It stretched like a shadow, a deep endless shadow you could easily blend into… or, at least, somebody with dark hair and dark clothing could. Sano would stand out, a blemish on the water, until he sank and was entirely forgotten, not by choice but because he just wasn’t good enough.

But of course Sano could not accept it. Time slipped by, however, without any possible solution occurring to him. He didn’t exactly have a history of getting likeable answers out of Saitou, and Saitou’s current state just made things more difficult.

Kenshin was around town again. Sano saw him once or twice, but avoided his eye, and Kenshin did not solicit his company. Sano didn’t regret this; he was avoiding all of his friends right now while he grew more and more agitated within himself, felt more and more helpless and trapped and just unutterably stupid. He took to going on a lot of long, aimless walks, greeting or even looking up at nobody he passed.

And then, not to his surprise but perhaps a little to his dismay, he found himself again in the field where he’d made his first deliberate confession. As he looked around and remembered that day, a frown formed slowly on his face.

Saitou, who had been rather quiet during that walk, now commented sardonically, Returning to the scene of the crime, are we?

“What crime?” Sano demanded, instantly incensed. He definitely hadn’t come here to revisit the previous conversation, as he’d yet to determine how to word what he wanted to say, hadn’t actually figured out whether he really wanted to know… but, as was or had been often the case, a statement seemingly casual on Saitou’s part was unbearably stabbing to Sano; it set him off, and, all hesitation and uncertainly flung aside, he plunged on without thinking:

“Is it so wrong I finally figured out how I feel about you? I know it was fucking stupid that it took me so long, so go ahead and mock me for that… but first you better tell me one thing straight out: what the hell do you think about me?” Trying to calm down wasn’t working. “Did we ever have a chance?” He wasn’t sure whether he sounded (or felt) more angry, sad, or confused. “And if you like me, why didn’t you ever say anything? And if you don’t, why the hell do you still hang around?”

No reply, only a tense, foreboding feeling in the air as it stilled; in no part of the field did the wind move, and the anxiety heightened as Sano continued to wait for a rejoinder that never came. It seemed to him that whatever was about to happen here would change everything — there was something dark and ominous in the stillness — but that it simply wasn’t going to happen, for better or worse, if Saitou didn’t want it to; it was Saitou’s move.

“Why is this the one thing I say that you can’t answer?” Sano burst out at last, his blood heating even further. “Anything else I say or do you’ve got some smart-ass comment on, but the one thing I really want you to respond to makes you suddenly shut up? I think it’s pretty damn important, when somebody tells you they love you, to give them an answer at least! Especially when… goddammit, Saitou, you’re fucking dead! I know you can’t hang around here forever, so at least tell me if…”

As his voice faded, thick, pensive silence again enveloped the field, and Sano’s heart-rate and desperation increased. “You set up that stupid coincidence, with the kidnappings and all,” he growled. “Almost like you wanted me to go like you did and join you; then you started hanging out around me when that didn’t work, when there’s gotta be better afterlife shit you could be doing… If you don’t care about me, why would you go to all that trouble? Why would you still be here?”

At the continued strained quiet, Sano crouched and pounded the ground in anger, sending a slight tremor out a dozen feet around him and causing the grass to ripple. “Dammit, Saitou, answer me!”

He stood straight again, staring ahead of him with wild, unblinking eyes, as if by gazing hard enough he could cause the outline he envisioned to materialize, even if in a non-corporeal form, force his will on Saitou and get his questions answered. “You can’t go forever without saying anything!” he shouted. “Do you think I’m just going to let it drop, stop bugging you about it? Saitou!!”

Into the next silence he gave a frustrated roar as he fell to his knees and slammed both fists into the ground this time. “Damn you!” he gritted out. “Damn you.” His hands opened to lie flat against the earth as his voice sank to a whisper. “Damn you… even if you fucking hate me, doesn’t it mean anything to you that I love you? Can’t you even have the decency to let me know, let me stop wondering? Are you gonna make me go forever not knowing what I mean to you, why you had to get into my head while you were alive and why you decided to haunt me now you’re dead?” His hand clenched again, clawing at the dirt as his eyes squeezed shut against tears that wanted to fly from them as his head dropped to face the ground.

For the next few moments, his ragged breaths were the only sounds to disturb the thick and sober atmosphere, until finally a slight breeze shifted the air in his direction. Startled, he drew in a gasp and opened his eyes, for it seemed he suddenly smelled cigarette smoke.

“S-saitou?” he stammered.

“Himura was right, it seems. What he thinks I can do about it, I’m not entirely sure, but when he said you’d gone completely mad, he wasn’t exaggerating.”

Sano’s eyes grew wide with disbelief, and he found he couldn’t quite get his shaking body to move, to stand as he wanted it to. So like an animal he clawed his way around on his knees to face the sound of that voice, that voice whose source he had to find, because it had come not from the hazy nothingness of the afterlife as he was accustomed to, but from just behind him at a normal human level, with normal human tone and volume.

He scrambled the one hundred and eighty long degrees, all the breath gone from his body, his mind at once numb and exploding, his gaze unblinking but faltering badly as every part of him shook except his abruptly motionless heart, to look up — up what seemed a hundred miles past despair and insanity and denial — up into the eyes of a very present, very real, very living Saitou Hajime.


Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken, —
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.

–Edgar Allan Poe


This story is dedicated to MsJadey because I originally discussed the idea with her and because it’s just the kind of tragic and messed-up take on this pairing that she always seemed to like.

Sano didn’t feel like explaining that in repressing the awareness of the cupboard’s emptiness and going to look as if it might contain something, there was a pleasure, if not equal to eating, better at least than lying around realistically contemplating the lack of food in his possession. And therein, to great extent, lies the theme of this fic. Unhealthy and unhappy, isn’t it?

But it’s only partly the fault of this attitude of Sano’s; Kenshin and Saitou are very much to blame as well. Apparently Kenshin hasn’t yet learned his lesson — that when he tries to interfere in the Saitou/Sano thing, it just prods that Great Fanfiction Writer In The Sky to do horrible things to them all. At least Saitou was in on the heinous plot this time. Of course, if he hadn’t been, I would have succeeded in writing a Saitou/Sano story that did not actually feature Saitou.

I commissioned a sort of illustration/concept piece for this fic of Link Worshiper:

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


"Video Games"

Sano paused his game and pulled the buzzing cell phone from his pocket.

“Oh, good, I hoped you’d still be up,” was Kaoru’s greeting.

“Yep, just playing video games,” Sano confirmed, wedging the phone between ear and shoulder and resuming the aforementioned. “What’s up?”

“I just needed somebody to talk to. You don’t mind, do you?”

“‘Course not. Why would I?”

“Oh, I was just worried you might not be too excited just to chat with me when I kinda stole your best friend…”

“Aw, don’t worry about that… it’s pretty normal for a guy not to hang out with his friends so much after he gets married.” Well, Sano had been a little annoyed at first, but had eventually found other sources of entertainment. “So is everything OK?”

“Yeah…” She sounded hesitant, and Sano restrained his urge to chuckle as he speculated she had some kind of girly problem she wanted to discuss but he was her only acquaintance likely to be awake at one in the morning.

“Everything OK with Kenshin?” he prodded.

“Well…”

“C’mon, you called me,” he laughed; “don’t make me guess what you wanna say!”

She laughed a little too. “It’s silly, though.”

“Then I’ll definitely never guess it. C’mon, spit it out!”

“Well, I’m waiting for Kenshin to get back from his business trip. He had a late flight and then that long drive from the airport, so it’ll still be a while before he gets home.”

“So?”

She sighed. “He told me not to worry about waiting up for him because he’d be so late, but I’m doing it anyway.”

“The old anxious wife routine, huh?”

“Yeah, I thought people only did that in romance novels and country songs.”

Sano laughed again. “Nah, I figure that’s probably pretty normal too for someone who’s only been married a few months. It is cheesy, though.”

“I know… it’s not like I’m really afraid something’s going to happen to him… like his plane crashing or him getting robbed at gunpoint or something…”

“But you still mention ’em,” Sano chuckled; “way to be paranoid.”

“I know, I know,” she answered somewhat irritably.

“You should be worried about what happens if he accidentally drives through a time/space portal and ends up in, like, ancient Japan or something! Or what if aliens landed and he got tangled up in this big government conspiracy and had to disappear and change his name and shit?”

“Oh, great, thanks, now I’ve got more things to think about! But, seriously… when I’m worried not about anything real, just… worried… I come up with real things like car wrecks and robberies, kindof as an excuse for how I feel, even if I know they’re not really likely to happen.”

“Shit, girly, you got it bad! Good thing Kenshin’s job ain’t dangerous, or you’d have problems even when he just worked late! Maybe you should be reading romance novels instead of calling me.”

“Now, just a minute ago you said it’s normal!”

“I’m just giving you hell. You’re a perfect match for Kenshin, you know that?”

“I’m not sure how you figured that out just from this,” Kaoru replied, smile evident in her tone, “but thanks anyway. And thanks for listening to me.”

“No problem.”

“I should let you get back to your game.”

“I been playing this whole time! I’m skilled like that.” Actually he’d died twice. “But if you wanna go listen to some country music until Kenshin gets home…”

Kaoru laughed. “Now you’re never going to let me forget this, are you?”

“Probably not,” confirmed Sano.

“Well, I’ll talk to you later.”

“See ya.” Sano yawned and stretched, and, after glancing at the time, shoved his phone back into his pocket and returned the greater part of his attention to the TV screen.

After another half hour or so, there came the sound of a key turning in the door. Sano glanced up from his fictive destructive efforts with a smile, then went intently back to them. The door opened and in came Saitou. He locked up behind him, then stepped over to Sano and looked down. Glancing at his watch and back at the young man, he smirked, “You’re going to be even more useless than usual at work in the morning.”

“Oh, shit, I didn’t know it was that late!” Sano set his controller aside and crawled over to turn off the TV.

“And didn’t you already clear that level?” Saitou began to remove and put away his gear.

“Huh? Oh… I wanted to find a secret area I missed.”

Saitou rolled his eyes.

“So, how many shootouts did you get into today?”

“As many as usual.”

“Knife fights? Djyou get to break up any of those?”

“I barely made a single arrest, actually.”

“What kept you so late, then?” wondered Sano in surprise that hid his relief rather efficiently.

“Paperwork.”

“Oh, your favorite thing!” Sano beamed.

Saitou, closing the closet door on his bullet-proof jacket and other accouterments, moved to seize the young man and kiss him. “Bedtime for little boys,” he said when that was finished.

“Yeah,” said Sano, sounding neither regretful nor penitent as he accompanied his lover into the next room; “I can’t believe I lost track of time like that…”


*__* Check out the awesome fanart Avek did for this story:

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


Responsibility



Sano had been even lazier today than usual, ever since he’d come staggering through the doors, practically dragged himself onto the porch, and flopped down into an abjectly idle position he’d then retained for the next several hours. It was getting on Kaoru’s nerves.

“Sanosuke!” she chided as she passed him for perhaps the sixth time and found the sight of his utter stillness just too irritating to be further put up with. “If you’re going to hang around here all day, come help me with the chores!”

Sano groaned. “No way… I’m too fucking sore to move.”

A glance at his body showed him, indeed, covered in bruises and scratches and Kaoru didn’t know what else. “Well,” she sniffed, “if you didn’t spend all night getting thrashed, you might not have that problem. And don’t even try that old ‘You should have seen the other guy’ line!”

Sano’s face went unexpectedly red. Kaoru couldn’t help some inward pleasure at the sight: was her good sense somehow finally getting through to him? She took a step closer, intending to reiterate the scold just for good measure, but as she drew within smelling distance she found another subject to complain on instead. “Did you get into those awful tobacco things, or have you just been hanging out with people who smoke them?” Bending toward him she added with a grimace, “Ugh! You’d practically have to be kissing them to smell this bad! Sano, please tell me you haven’t taken up smoking yourself?”

Sano blushed more intensely than before, and consequently Kaoru approached satisfaction more closely than before: for him to realize he was in the wrong, that his indolent lifestyle was a burden to those around him, must be a step in the right direction — and she had been the one to convince him of it at last!

“No,” he mumbled, “I don’t smoke.”

“Good,” she replied with a decisive nod, though not entirely sure she believed it. “Now come help me with the chores.”

Despite his apparently increasing awareness of her wisdom, it took some bullying to get him up and moving, and then she noticed he really did seem to be in pain: he walked very stiffly and slowly, and seemed to deliberately avoid certain specific motions. Her attitude a little softened, she gave him a relatively easy inside task that even a stupid drunkard of a brawler that might have taken up smoking couldn’t botch. She hoped.

Just to be sure, she went in to check on him after a few minutes — only to find him nowhere near where he was supposed to be. Instead, he’d sneaked into the kitchen. Assuming he was looking for a covert snack while her back was turned, she prepared to do some tiptoeing of her own and give him a good whack on the head to pay him for his bad habits. But she stopped short in confusion when she observed he’d opened the cupboard where she kept spices and seasonings and seemed to be putting something into it rather than taking something out.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked, perplexed, before she remembered her goal of stealth.

He jumped, and whirled to face her with a visage even redder than before. “I… last night I noticed you were out…” he stammered, “so I thought I’d… get you some more…”

“Out of what?” she inquired, coming closer and peering past him at the bottle he’d placed in the cupboard. “Is that cooking oil? Wait — are you the one who’s been using it? I ran out yesterday making lunch and wondered how in the world I was going through it so fast! What can you have been doing with it? You don’t cook, do you?” She stared at him skeptically.

He cleared his throat and scratched his head. “Yeah, actually, I’ve been trying a little of that lately.”

Kaoru had to laugh. “Well, I don’t see what’s so embarrassing about that. Next time just tell me, and I’ll let you use whatever you need.” She beamed at him. “I think it’s great that you’re trying to take responsibility for feeding yourself!”

*

“So eventually I hadda promise sometime I’d come over and make dinner for everyone,” Sano finished with a grimace as he sank into the steaming water and sighed.

Saitou chuckled. “Time to learn to cook, then.”

“Time to sneak some bento into the dojo’s more like it,” Sano grumbled. “And you getta pay for it.”

“It’s your own fault for not thinking about being prepared for things until five minutes beforehand.”

“And since when is it my responsibility to provide lube anyway?”

“It’s your ass.”

“But you’re the one stretching it out of shape, bastard!”

Saitou, always in a good mood in the bath, just smirked somewhat lazily.

Sano laid his head back with a groan. “Just for future reference, spit is not enough. It might be days.”

Despite the dire quality of this pronouncement, Saitou was still smirking.

“You think it’s funny,” Sano growled, “but it’s your fucking fault!” Standing abruptly with an upward rush of water and turning as it splashed back down, he bent over and demanded, “Does this look comfortable to you?”

Saitou’s eyes glinted, though he was simultaneously amused at the unceremonious display. “Comfortable for you or for me?” he wondered, moving across the bathtub to where Sano’s posterior was making such an undignified exhibition. Sano was about to reply angrily to this flippancy, but Saitou silenced him by adding, “It does look unusually red, though,” and running his tongue over the sensitive spot.

Well, to say that silenced Sano is not quite right, for he made some interesting noises, but it did keep him from protesting.

“Don’t think this means you get to fuck me later,” he eventually gasped, once words ceased entirely eluding him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Saitou managed somehow to sound chaste and terribly sarcastic in the same breath before going back to his task.

“Yes, you would,” Sano contradicted, “you dirty old– god!”

“Certainly the first time anyone’s ever called me that,” Saitou remarked thoughtfully, and reached a hand up and around to see if his actions had brought about the anticipated result.

Sano leaned both elbows against the tile floor around the bath and moaned loudly.

Being irresponsible had very mixed consequences.


This story is a companion to Magic and Corner of the Eye.

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


List (Mobile Without Motive)


Sano awoke very slowly, mostly because the greater part of his energy was being directed toward combating a looming hangover. There was always a sort of perverse, bitter pleasure about coming to his senses hung over, though, because the more miserable it was, the more fun that meant he’d probably had the night before — so the waking wasn’t as slow as it could have been.

Eventually he opened his eyes and looked sluggishly around for Katsu, but wasn’t surprised not to find him; the artist consented to hang out with him at the dojo from time to time, but wasn’t comfortable spending the night there. This always impressed Sano — god knew being picky about where he slept when drunk was more than he could usually manage — but he not infrequently preferred to have someone nearby to complain to, describe his headache to, when he came around in the morning. That this might be another reason for Katsu’s consistent abandonment of him after he passed out he could not fail to be aware.

Slowly attaining greater mobility, he began eventually to observe the minor disarray of the room; he’d better get this place straightened up before jou-chan wandered in… but there was no way he was going to attempt standing just yet. When his eyes fell on a somewhat crumpled piece of paper lying carelessly on the floor not far off, however, he did make the effort to reach over and grab it. And while he endeavored, squinting, to read it, he had to chuckle (and wince) at the memory of the silly conversation that had occupied a large part of last night’s edge of lucidity.

List, the paper was headed in Sano’s handwriting: a creative title only a drunk could come up with. Well, at least he hadn’t drawn little hearts around it.

1 – Pretty

After some argument with Katsu over whether he could definitively demand this characteristic when his attention could as easily be drawn to a man as a woman, Sano had struck it out and written Sexy instead. After this he’d apparently decided to make an essay in abstract on the subject, for something nearly illegible went on about turning heads and not looking like everyone else and off the bottom of the page. Sano would probably have to scrub the rest of it off the table or the floor or his leg later.

2 – Has money

Katsu, who for all his politics and getting-things-done was sometimes a good deal more fanciful than Sano, had protested violently against this being on the list. What argument Sano had made for practicality over romance in this instance he couldn’t recall, but as the point was not crossed out he had to assume he’d thought of something decent. Drunk was pretty much the only time he could out-philosophize Katsu.

3 – Good cook

The list was getting more difficult to read, and next to this entry was some addendum that had been entirely scribbled over; if Sano remembered correctly, it had been some comment to the purpose of (Not like jou-chan!), and was glad that, even when drunk, he had enough sense of self-preservation to keep that, at least, from possible public view. The Kenshingumi had been in and out of the room all evening, though, so, assuming thereby that he’d had constant reminders, he didn’t give himself too much credit.

Katsu had objected to requiring culinary skills almost as strenuously as he had to the money thing, and, though he’d obviously been argued down again, he’d evidently carried his point enough that the next two items were a little less shallow.

4 – Recspect

Sano thought he got the gist of the scrawl that meandered next to this, but only because the thoughts had been his in the first place: something about recognizing and not failing to acknowledge good traits, having your back in a metaphysical or social sense, and knowing when to stop teasing.

5 – Commartion

He was fairly sure this was supposed to say Communication. Equally mysterious were the accompanying ramblings that again marched right off the edge of the paper, and this was the end of what Sano had written.

But it was not the end of the list.

Sano squinted at what succeeded; Katsu must have added on after Sano had stopped paying attention.

6 – Nice, it said in the artist’s considerably neater handwriting, then added (Not abusive)

Sano snorted. “Kinda goes without saying, doesn’t it?” Then he frowned; the next entry was in a completely different hand:

7 – Close to the same age

“Who the hell wrote that?” he wondered. And why? Who cared that much about age? He puzzled over the neat, familiar stroke of the characters for a bit; it had definitely been written by one of his friends, but he couldn’t guess which.

The following item was in yet another hand: 8 – Not obsessive/fixated

“Well, no shit,” he laughed. Obviously the dojo residents had gotten hold of his list while he’d been unconscious and thought it funny to add a bunch of stupid stuff. Not that he cared much; it had all stemmed from intoxication to begin with.

9 – Not lacking in basic social skills

Sano thought that had pretty much been covered by previous points, but maybe he was wrong; perhaps the nuances of Recspect and Commartion didn’t encompass basic social skills.

It was at a loopy, feminine hand’s 10 – Doesn’t smoke that he paused with a disturbed, thoughtful expression. It had all seemed random up until that point, and maybe he was still overthinking, but… He scanned the latter half of the list again. He supposed it could be a coincidence, but there really was only one abusive, obsessive, fixated smoker not his age lacking basic social skills that came to mind. And why did it seem like his friends were purposely expressing disapproval of that specific person in this specific area of discussion?

Sano, who was by now sitting up scrutinizing the list carefully, hangover nearly forgotten, gave a skeptical laugh. Did they really think… where would they get… what a stupid… unless they thought they saw something that he hadn’t noticed? It wouldn’t be the first time.

He continued to chuckle as he got up and looked around for his gi. Wouldn’t be the first time they’d been totally unsubtle about something, either.

Well, whatever the case…

He opened the door, stepped off the porch into his shoes, and headed out of the dojo in search of someone.

…they really should know by now what was his usual and immediate reaction to being told not to do something.


The original idea was just the perverseness — Sano’s friends trying to warn him away from Saitou, and Sano immediately deciding to do exactly what he’d been told not to. After that it struck me that a drunken sleepover with giggly list-making would be the perfect setup for this. Though I have to admit that I never made a list of the qualities I wanted in a sweetheart at a slumber party. I do remember one time when we wrote chain-story porn, though. But we were sober. And that’s a tale for another time.

Anyway, I find this story cute and amusing — though, as in several of my less successful vignettes, the overall point gets a little lost. In regard to the title (besides being a reference to the line in the story, a creative title only a drunk could come up with), Poe said about perverseness (among other brilliant things), In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile without motive, a motive not motiviert. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason that we should not. In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more strong.

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


No More Pretending

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t come back at all. It was just that he wouldn’t come back her Horohoro.

Pirika knows that her close relationship with her brother can’t last or become what she wants it to be.


The brush snagged, and she yanked it down with a barely-restrained growl that might have been anger at the occurrence, might have been pain occasioned by her violence, and might have been… something else. She glared at the tool and the tangled strands of blue that had come away with it, then tossed it onto the counter and left the bathroom in a huff.

He often brushed her hair. Granted, he wasn’t very good at it — there was a reason he kept his own so short — but it was a gesture that was never lost on her. He would put one hand on her shoulder and brush away with vigor, chattering all the while about what he was going to do that day or the dreams he’d had while they’d slept; her eyes would be locked on his in the mirror, and she would smile.

And that was all she wanted! To keep him beside her, against her, to stay close to him, to know she was first in his thoughts. Was that too much to ask?

But how long would a boy brush his sister’s hair, really? How many years? They were getting so old — he was almost seventeen already! — and eventually, no matter how much she did for him, he was going to realize that she was just his sister. Could never be anything else to him. That he could be brushing anyone’s hair, holding anyone in his arms at night, and that someone who wasn’t blood would probably be more appropriate for that purpose anyway.

The awareness of this inevitable realization was something she tried to ignore, and often managed to, but then it would creep up on her in the dark — those evenings when he could sleep and she could not — and she would fight it off by pressing herself against him, laying a hand on his bare chest to feel his heartbeat, putting her face to his shoulder, and pretending… pretending this was how they would always be.

There was no possible way she could do that now. No more pretending. For one thing, they’d slept in separate beds for the first time she could remember. As she sat on the one and stared at the other through a filter of tears, she wondered how anyone could ever sleep alone. Cold hotel beds and brushing her hair alone in a tiny hotel bathroom, she thought, must always be a symbol of growing apart, of loss, of hatred.

Because, for another thing, he was gone to America, and he would never come back.

No, it wasn’t that she thought he was likely to be killed or defeated. It was just that he had left behind his primary protector against those who might… distract him. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t come back at all. It was just that he wouldn’t come back her Horohoro.

She’d never thought that they would be separated during the course of the fights. Why should they be? Not like this, at any rate. But, having chosen to remain a shaman trainer rather than become a shaman herself — having opted to support him with her entire being rather than pursue her own course — she had unconsciously driven in the wedge that would eventually tear them apart. And she could not protect him now, could not keep his eyes from straying.

There had always been people who looked at him the same way she did. People he looked at the same way. He never realized it, of course, and it had never caused any trouble before — because she’d always been there to keep him on track, keep him where he belonged. But now… now there was a wide ocean, two hotel beds, and a pair of headphones between them. And nothing she could do about it. Not even pretend that what she’d already seen hadn’t happened, or that what she foresaw wasn’t going to happen.

Pirika was not blind.

There was more than one reason she hated Asakura Yoh.


Though I don’t get a similar vibe in the manga, I was just enchanted by a couple of scenes with Pirika and Horohoro in the anime — when they were cuddling in bed, and when he pictured her naked to motivate himself during a particular battle — and immediately determined there must be incest going on or at least contemplated.

I’m a little unclear on how old everyone is at different points in canon. My guess in this piece with the statement that Horohoro is almost seventeen when he leaves for America is based on the fact that at one point in the manga during the Shaman Fight, Amidamaru remarks that it’s been something like three years since he first met Yoh.

Anyway. This is a nearly pointless fic, though there is a follow-up from Horohoro.

I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?



Autosite

“What’s with that look?” Sano wondered as he slid into the booth across from the scowling man and immediately stole his nearly expended cigarette.

Used to this, Saitou snatched it back before Sano could take more than half a drag, and asked in reply, “Are you aware of how fast you came into the parking lot?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I can give traffic tickets, you know.”

“You would, too, wouldn’t you? You live to make my life difficult.”

“Is it really that difficult to follow the speed limit?”

“Yeah, it is! It’s fucking frustrating! People get all up on your bumper like ‘Hurry the fuck up!’ and then they roar past you and’re gone.”

Saitou smirked. “And then you turn on your lights and siren and watch them twitch because they didn’t know you’re a cop.”

Sano gave him the finger and in the same movement snagged the new cigarette Saitou had just lit. “Yeah, I bet you do enjoy that,” he said, trying to keep the stolen item away from the officer and smoke it at the same time, and failing at both. “But some of us aren’t cops, in case you forgot.”

“So ride with me.”

“You better be careful what you’re offering, pig! Your car’s a lot nicer than mine; I might never wanna drive myself anywhere again.”

“You’d better be careful what you’re calling me, idiot, or I might retract the offer.” The cigarette dodged Sano’s pursuing fingers as it made its way back from the ash tray to the officer’s mouth. “I’ve seen the kind of trash can you make your car into, after all, and you’re not doing that to mine.”

“I could probably not throw shit on the floor…” Leaning back and putting his hands behind his head — mostly in order to look innocent — Sano finished with a grin, “if I got to choose the radio station.”

“And make me suffer that senseless noise you call music?” Saitou sniffed.

“Well, I guess we could throw in some of that whiny ‘classic rock’ shit you like sometimes too,” the younger man shrugged, “when I’m feeling nice.”

“I’m not a chauffeur. You’ll have to wash the car every week, and taking it through a cheap car wash won’t do. It’ll need waxing, too.”

“Fine, but I ain’t pumping gas; I hate the way that shit smells.”

“I wouldn’t trust you with it anyway.”

“Hey, how do you think I get around now?!”

“I don’t like to think about that.”

“But you’ll really pull people over so I can laugh at ’em?”

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

Sano grinned broadly. “I could handle not speeding forever, in that case.”

“Good,” said the cop with a smirk.

At an unexpected darting movement from Sano, the cigarette changed hands again. This time, though, the contented Saitou just brought out another one and lit it, trying to trace the conversation back to the exact moment it had stopped having anything to do with driving.


An autosite is the opposite of a parasite, and, though I can only find that the term is ever actually used in reference to conjoined twins, I didn’t think it was too much of a stretch to use it here and get a good play on words out of it at the same time. I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook:


Just That Bored

This wasn’t a topic that would normally make the least bit of difference to Saitou.

Saitou tries to keep himself from dying of boredom by looking for the answer to a seemingly unimportant question.



“Saitou? What are you doing here, de gozaru ka?”

“Oh?” wondered the officer with heavy sarcasm. “Wasn’t I invited?”

Himura cleared his throat.

With a roll of eyes Saitou explained. “The police chief asked me to patrol around the dojo to make sure this party of yours isn’t disturbed.”

Now Himura looked skeptical.

“I did remind him that with the kind of people you and that girl were likely to invite, the only danger would be from each other… but he insisted.”

With a slight smile Himura nodded his understanding. “The chief of police is very attentive.”

Saitou rolled his eyes again.

“Well, you’re welcome to come inside if you want.”

Saitou raised an eyebrow. “So I am invited.”

“And I’m sure you’re as pleased to know that as Kaoru-dono will be.”

“No need to alarm her,” Saitou replied dryly. “I won’t be coming inside.”

Himura, who’d already assumed as much, just nodded and smiled as he turned back toward the door; Saitou began his ‘patrol,’ looking forward to an exceptionally dull night.

Contrary to his avowal, however, the temptation to enter at least the grounds became after not too long acute, for he found that traversing the streets around the Kamiya dojo was about the most tedious thing he’d ever done. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if there had been any point to it other than that the chief of police had a hopeless crush on Himura; as it was, even the headache he must acquire from the presence of those within would be better than this monotony. He let himself through the main doors.

Patrolling the inside of the wall was at first just as boring as the outside, but eventually the party spilled from the building and there was at least something to watch. Saitou was actually fairly surprised at the presence of certain of the guests; those that noticed him were surprised at his presence as well. And given the caliber of some of them, about a third of those attending must be aware of his shadow-prowling vigil. Let them find out from Himura why he was here, though, if they were curious.

He didn’t think he could stomach drawing close enough to catch any of their conversations — though some of them (any that included the Oniwaban chibi in particular) reached his ears anyway — but at least watching kept the tediousness from driving him mad. Some of it was even faintly amusing. He had to reflect, for instance, as he observed the looks the tanuki constantly threw Himura, that if such a girl had been giving him that treatment, his reaction might actually have been legitimate fear.

The truly frightening thing about these glances, though, was that the rurouni appeared to enjoy them. In which case he was being remarkably slow about things… How long had he been living here, and no progress between them? Of course, all of the members of the pitiable Kenshingumi had been single for a very long while, it seemed. Obviously this wasn’t a topic that would normally make the least bit of difference to Saitou, but at the moment he was just that bored. And, really, it was a little sad how relationship-challenged this group appeared to be. That Sagara boy, for instance, who was currently entertaining a small cluster of friends with a gesture-filled anecdote… shouldn’t he have snagged that doctor woman by now?

Well, the pointy-eared medic, for all her manhandling ability, wasn’t strong enough for someone like Sagara. The boy would be better off with Himura himself… except that the redhead was so short and annoying and enamored of an even more obnoxious girl. The latter might actually have been a decent match for the doctor, but she also wouldn’t do for the roosterhead.

Shinomori might be a good option… or perhaps not… even if Super Angstman could escape the jealous clutches of the Shrieking Sidekick, there was no way Sagara could long put up with someone that dull. The Okashira might do well for Himura, though. And the weasel might match Sagara’s energy fairly closely, but the boy definitely didn’t have the patience it would require to tolerate her for any great length. Saitou didn’t think anyone did. It might be amusing to watch someone try, though: the kenkaya or — sudden thought, even better — Chou. How long would the weasel last once the broomhead snapped? And what kind of damage would she inflict on him before he killed her?

Come to think of it, Chou himself might not be the worst choice for Sagara. Well, if the stupid phallic-symbol-collector had the stamina for more than a two-day relationship and an attitude focused just a little more outward, that is. And maybe a better hairstyle.

So perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise that Sagara didn’t have anyone, when there seemed to be something that unsuited each of them for him. But for some reason Saitou kept thinking there was somebody around that was suited for him… somebody so obvious it was actually a little difficult to figure out who it might be… who was he missing? He looked around at the remainder of the party guests.

Of course there was always Himura’s eccentric master with the odd taste in clothing… Saitou wasn’t overly familiar with that person, but from the little he’d seen so far it seemed the caped giant was in love with himself to the point where bringing somebody else in would make it a threesome and someone was bound to get jealous, possibly the man himself.

Sagara’s quiet friend with the long hair was probably the one Saitou was thinking of. The officer didn’t know much about him either, other than what he did for a living (and otherwise), but… it still didn’t seem right. The man always looked so gloomy… that wouldn’t do for Sagara. Not in a romantic sense, anyway. It might for Shinomori, though…

This was no use. A question whose answer eluded him so completely was almost worse than the boredom it was supposed to replace. And yet nothing else would occupy his mind. Well, there was that restaurateur… Sagara was fond of a good meal, of course, but there wasn’t much to Sekihara beyond business; she probably wouldn’t be able to hold his attention anywhere but at a dinner table.

And then there was that overdressed scythe-wielder that was supposed to be in England… Saitou wouldn’t even have considered him, but he was running out of choices; still, it was obvious offhand that Honjou wouldn’t do: Sagara might look decent with a woman prettier than he was, but never with a man. Maybe the psychotic Tenken was a better former-Juppongatana candidate… but, no, the last thing Sagara needed was somebody that compliant; Seta’s smiles would only egg Sagara on in every one of his foolish behaviors.

There had to be someone else. Why did it seem the answer was there, but barely beyond his reach? The most annoying part was that it didn’t matter… it was just something to keep him from insanity… it shouldn’t be this frustrating…

Eventually, after what felt like several ages, the party began to break up, and goodbyes were said to those not staying at the dojo. Saitou was fairly sure his presence was even less required at this point than it had been before, and gladly slipped away for home before the guests really started to leave.

The question about Sagara, and the conviction that he was forgetting someone, bothered him still, but that was fading along with the overriding need to stave off boredom. And once he stopped thinking about it all together, the answer was sure to come to him.

Actually, considering it had to do with that perverse roosterhead, it was likely to strike him at the least convenient moment possible — just when he’d fallen asleep, or some such.

Stupid boy was troublesome like that, even when he wasn’t around.


I’ve rated this story . What do you think of it?

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook: