Watercolor Pencil (CretaColor Aqua Monolith) is my favorite medium. I also enjoy graphite. Prismacolors frustrate the hell out of me, though they certainly have beautiful results. I used to work with a tablet quite a bit, but these days fibromyalgia makes that difficult. I did a lot of stuff in pen when I was younger, and most of it was crap, but these days I still combine pen with other media pretty frequently. I’ve experimented with a few other things such as pastel pencil, marker, and makeup.
PL: BC part and drawing, HR chapter and interlude, ASZz, Kamatari, TLY, not feeling like stuff, Nine Decades
"Sooner or later, whoever's behind the usurpation will have to make some kind of 'divine' display affirming his claim to the throne... Having my own source of miracles will even the playing field somewhat."
Orchard-hand Sano is pulled from his small-town life to assist royal knight Hajime in restoring the usurped throne to Kenshin, the rightful king, and the two of them may find a connection beyond only this quest.
This story was last updated on February 25, 2020.
Chapter 1 - Heretics
Chapter 2 - Purpose and Awareness
Chapter 3 - Another Homeward Encounter
Chapter 4 - Not Stable
Chapter 5 - Warrior's Coma
Chapter 6 - The Defense of Eloma
Chapter 7 - Alleged Miracles
Chapter 8 - Departure
Chapter 9 - Egato 8ni Kasun
Chapter 10 - Torosa Forest Road
Chapter 11 - Proxy's Son
Chapter 12 - Yahiko's Burden
Chapter 13 - Enca Inn North
Chapter 14 - First Report: Kaoru, Tomoe
Chapter 15 - First Report: Megumi, Misao, Yumi
Chapter 16 - Nine Years Later
Chapter 17 - Second Report
Chapter 18 - The K
Chapter 19 - Tangles
Chapter 20 - Thirteen Years Ago
Chapter 21 - Third Report: Purple Sky
Chapter 22 - Third Report: Wishes That May Be Prayers
Chapter 23 - Wanted
Chapter 24 - Playing Thieves Guild
Chapter 25 - A Small Gathering of Malcontents
Chapter 26 - The Visitant
Chapter 27 - At the Sanctum Doors
Chapter 28 - Twitch
Chapter 29 - As-Yet-Unknown Powers
Chapter 30 - Unoppressed Light
Chapter 31 - Final Report
Chapter 32 - Known Powers
Chapter 33 - Before (or After) the Storm
Chapter 34 - Converging Forces
Chapter 18 – The K
What he sought at this point was what would under other circumstances have been considered purely social interaction: the opportunity to discuss whatever came up (whatever he could induce to come up) with whomever he met. He hadn’t run into his acquaintance Toki so as to have her direct him to the best places for such interaction, so he searched for them on his own.
The problem with this was that Toki had seemed so pious, not at all the type to enjoy socializing in casual and only moderately religious settings, that Sano doubted he was likely to find the sort of interaction he needed based on what she’d shown him. As such, he mostly wandered blindly through Tomoe’s part of town poking his nose into corners where it looked like chatty people might be inclined to congregate (and hopefully share political thoughts and updates with newcomers).
Really, it was pure luck that a first-wash, whose name Sano didn’t remember but whom he recognized by the guy’s frizzy hair as someone to whom Toki had introduced him, happened to notice him poking around and hailed him in a tone of friendly secrecy by the false name he’d been using.
“Glad I saw you, buddy,” he said. “I was just checking the street, about to lock up.”
“Sounds like I’m just in time for something,” Sano replied, having no idea what that something might be but playing along and speaking in the same tone of subdued, clandestine excitement.
“You sure are.” The frizzy-haired devoted’s voice dropped. “We’re all hitting the K tonight, since we just finished a whole batch of shiiyao and made sure we had plenty left. Figured you might want to see how we do it here in the city.”
The bright-eyed anticipation — actually, the somewhat disconcertingly wide-eyed, pointed, almost twitching anticipation in the man’s face would have been impossible to miss, but Sano was so far from any idea what he meant that, though he followed him into the building from which he’d come, it must be inconceivable to play along any further than that.
Immediately inside the door frizz-hair was now locking stood another first-wash Sano vaguely recognized, and this man too greeted him with an obvious excitement whose source Sano could not place. Though he’d successfully stumbled upon a gathering, he was beginning to think it wasn’t the type likely to be exchanging political opinions. What it might actually be he couldn’t guess.
“Look who I found on the street,” said the first devoted.
“It’s Sometarou, isn’t it?” said the second, whose best identifying feature was a large mole on his jaw on the left.
“That’s right,” Sano replied, trying to sound easy and ready for anything.
“Good timing! But I bet you were probably looking around for it anyway, right?”
Evidently Sano’s total lack of understanding was glaringly apparent, for the mole-faced devoted burst out laughing. “Oh, man… I heard small-towners didn’t do it much, but, seriously…”
Frizz-hair clapped Sano on the back with a friendly hand that lingered there a few seconds too long for perfect comfort. “You really did come just in time,” he said, sounding pleased. “You’ll have your first taste of kereme in style.”
Kereme… that sounded familiar… but no matter how Sano wracked his brains, he couldn’t think where he’d heard the word before, or what it might be. So, wondering what the hell these people were on about, and distinctly uneasy about whatever was about to happen to him, he allowed himself to be led down the corridor by the two devoted. The latter moved quickly and quietly, looking around with practiced wariness that did little to make Sano feel any better about any of this.
“We’ve got another first-timer here too,” said frizz-hair as they entered an antechamber of some sort and there seemed to be security to speak more freely. “So we two’ll be keeping a watch all night so you’ll be cozy and safe for your fist time.”
Safe? Keeping a watch? What was this?
“Don’t look like that, master newcomer,” mole-face laughed quietly. “There’s no way for us to explain it; you just have to experience it yourself.”
“You’ll be closer to Tomoe than you’ve ever been before,” said the first devoted, with a decidedly un-pious grin on his face.
Sure, Sano remarked silently. ‘Cause that’s exactly where I wanna be. Especially given that ‘closer to the lady of death’ might be a euphemism for more than just religious experience. “All… right…” he finally forced himself to say aloud. “Is it against the rules or something?”
“Oh, man, I can’t believe you don’t know any of this. It’s against the law… but if that doesn’t stop Enishi, why should it stop us?”
“Enishi? He does this thing too?”
They’d entered another room past the antechamber by now, and those already present had evidently caught the tail-end of this conversation. “Does it?” one of them said. “He practically lives off the stuff. Gein and Akira complain nonstop about how often they have to cover for him when he’s out.”
“‘Out?'” Sano echoed.
“All right, enough questions.” Mole-face was still laughing at Sano’s ignorance, though it wasn’t a particularly unkind laugh — more anticipatory than anything, really, as if he sincerely looked forward to introducing Sano to this thing. “You’ll get it soon enough,” he went on, and gestured to the set of lounge cushions where those present were already seated or sprawled as if ready for a nap. “Just sit there; we’ve gotta check if everything’s safe.”
Trying simultaneously not to show his reluctance and to decide whether he would go through with this or back out now while he still seemed to have the chance, Sano obeyed. Frizz-hair and mole-face left the room, evidently heading a different direction than that from which they’d come, presumably to ensure doors were locked and no authority figures present — though if the head of this entire branch of the church partook of this entertainment, how much danger could any of them really be in here tonight?
In a confidential tone, “It’s my first time too,” said the red devoted seated on Sano’s left. She didn’t sound nearly as uncertain as Sano felt, probably because she actually knew what they would be doing.
The middle-aged man on the other side of the young woman leaned forward and addressed both her and Sano. “You guys are going to love this.” Sano was starting to recognize the bright-eyed excitement surrounding this activity. “I’ve done it a few times already, and they say eventually you can actually remember what you saw the next morning.”
“So it’s like being drunk?” If that was the case, Sano thought, it probably wouldn’t be too bad. He also logged away the fact that an overnight stay was the expected aftermath.
“Hmm, a little.” The older man’s thoughtful expression turned to a grin. “Better, though. Much better.”
“All right, well, that sounds good.” Silently Sano added, Maybe.
They’d barely gotten through introductions — the woman was called Lioda, the man Korucun; Sano had not really paid any attention to what other information, such as their family names and what they did around here, they’d given him — before the other two came back.
“All clear,” announced frizz-hair, dropping down at Sano’s side opposite Lioda. He held a tray containing a plethora of small cups and two stoppered ceramic bottles very much like the ones Seijuurou made (only, Sano thought with the loyalty of distance from his annoying former master, not quite as well constructed or elegant-looking). The reminder of Seijuurou and the promise of a drink of some sort eased Sano’s concerns about this process.
Mole-face took the last lounge cushion, on frizz-hair’s far side, and passed toward the latter a plain wooden box with waxed paper protruding from under its lid such as might be used to hold cosmetics or medicines. Frizz-hair accepted the container and set it down next to the bottles before unstoppering one of the latter and carefully opening the former. As Sano had expected, the small box contained powder: pale pink, appearing uniform in texture, clumped somewhat in spots, and topped by a miniature cup on a handle.
Though not eager to continue displaying his ignorance, “What is that?” Sano couldn’t help asking.
“Leftover dye,” frizz-hair replied, and began pouring out water into cups.
“Left over because we made too much,” mole-face grinned.
“We’ll start the newcomers on one portion,” said frizz-hair next, carefully lifting some powder from the box and doling out exactly one scoop each to two of the water-filled cups. “Korucun has graduated to two.” He’d set the cups into a line that matched the line of people on cushions, and now he put two scoops of powder into the one on the end. “And the rest of it for the rest of us.” He gave a matched number of scoops to the remaining two cups, then lifted the paper lining of the box to tip the last of it into what was presumably his own.
“You gotta start small,” mole-face explained as Sano watched in mystification, “but you’ll get up to our level eventually.”
“Right!” said Lioda breathlessly. Her excitement about doing this was a little creepy.
The small cups on the tray numbered twelve, and Sano wondered, as he watched frizz-hair fill five more of them from the second bottle, whether they’d expected another person or just grabbed the whole matching set without concern. This second liquid, by its smell, was hard liquor, and one helping went next to each of the previously readied cups to make five pairs.
“One drink of kereme,” frizz-hair instructed as he began distributing the cups, “one drink of ab’giru. Try to keep them even. Don’t gulp.”
“Keeps your mouth from turning bright red,” mole-face elaborated. And without further ado, he set the example.
Sano accepted his cups with mixed feelings. It was probably too late to back out now, but by this point he was curious in addition to a little concerned. This might be strange and illegal, but he wanted to know what its effect would be, so he didn’t mind giving it a try.
He took his first alternating sips.
The water, into which the powder had dissolved completely, had an unpleasantly bitter, plant-like taste that made Sano assume the dye was derived from some flower leaf or something. The abigiruou was good — he’d always been fond of this potent potato-based drink, but hadn’t always been able to afford it — and hopefully did its job of washing the dye-suffused water into his throat so it didn’t sit around coloring his gums. But that was the extent of the experience until about two thirds of the way down the cups.
They all imbibed in silence except for the sound of Lioda giggling; perhaps she was more of a lightweight than Sano, who was only just beginning to feel something. He concentrated on the sensation as he made his way through his last few drinks.
He was starting to feel very easy, very comfortable. This cushion was extremely nice to sit on. And yet there was a lightness to his frame, a floatiness, that suggested he could jump up at any time, that he was ready for any sort of physical exertion. Yes, there was a bit of buzz in his head and warmth suffusing him, but did that come from the kereme or the abigiruou? He didn’t really care.
By the time he’d emptied his cups, he found himself disappointed there was nothing left. Simultaneously, though, to sit here with good friends and feel so light and dreamy was very nice. Lioda’s laughter fell melodically from her lips, and the two first-wash had struck up a conversation in pleasant voices. Sano was quite content.
And then, as if he’d been wading into the ocean and suddenly reached the dropoff into deep water, everything around him seemed to fade and swish and change. Had it been a room made of wood? He wasn’t sure, and wasn’t sure he cared. Brimful of energy and yet incredibly relaxed, he explored, not quite walking but neither flying; in some manner between the two he moved along, brushing past soft, gentle veils of sweet pastel colors as if he were skimming just above the ground. At the same time he felt as if he were lying down comfortably, both asleep and aware. He smiled lazily.
Faces peeked from the weave of the veils, nice faces that changed and disappeared and reappeared as if playing hide-and-seek with him. They might have been the source of the gentle voices that filled the air with friendly murmurings, and they might not. Sano didn’t really care.
In that type of sudden, comfortable, heavy gust of warm wind that ruffled his hair and made the long ends of his bandanna snap out joyfully behind him, the veils whipped about as if parting just for him as he advanced at an even greater speed, almost carried by the buoyant air. And through the translucent cloth that seemed to sparkle as it fluttered away from him, he saw an unexpected figure. Unexpected, but far from unwelcome.
What was Hajime doing here? Sano wondered. And Hajime, stretching his lean body languidly where he lounged on the cushions, told him not to be stupid, that of course he was waiting here for Sano. What had taken so long? He reached out a strong hand, beckoning.
Hajime was warm and smooth and handsome, and it was lucky and convenient that no rough, troublesome clothing lay between them. Sano couldn’t say what had taken him so long, but he was sure he made some very insolent reply to the question as he floated into Hajime’s arms and into ecstasy.
He awoke with a muffled start, as if he really was quite startled but didn’t have the capacity, at the moment, to feel it as he should. Groggy and hazy-headed, he lay in what he came gradually to realize wasn’t a very comfortable position with someone using his thighs as a pillow and his entire upper half lying on the bare floor, and tried to figure out where the hell he was and why.
His breathing came in uncomfortable wheezes through a congested nose and an incredibly dry mouth, so much that he couldn’t even tell whether or not the air had a flavor to it — which was probably for the best. All his senses seemed dulled, as if each was set apart from the others in thick packing material. And he felt as if he’d had very little actual sleep during his period of unconsciousness. Plenty of time had passed, he believed, but what had gone on during it was a complete blank.
He had on a few occasions (mostly thanks to Seijuurou’s encouragement) been so drunk he’d had a difficult or even impossible time remembering in the morning what he had done the night before, and this was like that in certain respects… The physical symptoms weren’t terribly similar to those of a hangover, but the disorientation, complete lack of recollection of how he’d come to be here, and creeping horror of waking up were.
Traces of sex, he was starting slowly to note, lingered on his nerves, but he couldn’t remember a damn thing about what had happened last night. Presumably whoever clung to the bare skin of his legs had been part of it, and his imperfect hearing seemed to be picking up the sounds of someone else snoring nearby. And were there voices somewhere close? Not too close… indistinct… in another room? How many people had he slept with last night?
Actually, what, in general, had happened last night? What day was today? What had he been working on, and what should he be thinking — worrying — about now? Trying not to panic, he forced himself to lie still and give his best effort to remembering.
At first what he’d been doing during the entirety of yesterday — what he assumed had been yesterday, anyway — was vague and disorganized in his head, but he managed more or less to force it into some kind of focus and meaningful order with strenuous thinking. He recalled wandering around Tomoe’s corner looking for people to talk to… he recalled finding people… but they hadn’t wanted to talk, exactly, had they?
The closer he got to recalling the kereme itself, the more of an empty page his mind was. He remembered some of what had been said about it beforehand, he thought he remembered that the actual substance had been a drink of some sort, and… he’d… enjoyed the experience, hadn’t he? He couldn’t be quite sure, but he thought he had.
Finally he struggled to look around, finding the room unlit rather than that anything was wrong with his vision. His eyes did adjust gradually to some light from another room — candleflame, he believed, not daylight; wasn’t this an interior chamber? — and he was able to make out the shapes around him: a woman, her clothing in great disarray and hardly covering anything, was out cold on the next lounge cushion over, except for her head and shoulders that were haphazardly pillowed on Sano’s lower half; and a man, almost completely naked, lay close to him on the other side, snoring. Sano’s own state of dress looked about as bad: his pants, including his belts and sword, were down around his ankles, his stolen Tomoe shiiya nowhere to be seen (though he assumed it was in the room somewhere); and his shirt had actually been torn down the left side so it sat sadly bunched around his right arm, leaving his chest entirely bare.
Though not as uptight about casual sex as many people, yet he liked at least to know who someone was before he fucked them. Some manner of introduction had taken place last night, but he didn’t remember a word of it now, so that didn’t count. Beyond this, he didn’t have any idea which of the four people he was fairly sure had been there with him he’d actually had relations with. It didn’t bother him that the one he was most certain about was a woman — though he usually didn’t go in for that, whatever you enjoyed at the time, right? — but it did bother him that there were three other strangers that might have taken part, possibly all at once, and he couldn’t remember a minute of it. And hadn’t that frizz-haired devoted looked at him with… a lot of interest?
Actually, the frizz-haired devoted was probably the source of one of the voices coming from the next room, given that he and mole-face had seemed to be the experienced parties and therefore had probably awakened in greater clarity and sense than anyone else. Sano really didn’t relish the thought of confronting those two, of facing their laughing references to last night and how fun it had been when he couldn’t remember it and whether he’d done anything horribly embarrassing. Somebody needed to confront those two with the admonishment that ‘first-timers’ should be warned they might be headed for a night of unrecollected sex upon swallowing that stupid dye stuff, but Sano wouldn’t be the one to do it. It was about time to untangle himself from this pile, from this highly embarrassing situation, find his missing things, and sneak out of here. Sneak out of here and never look back.
“Kereme,” Sano said.
“What about it?” Hajime demanded impatiently.
And all at once, Sano realized there was no way in hell he planned to tell Hajime any of that. There was just no need for the knight to know; ladies could only guess what Hajime would think of him. Even after the indication Hajime had given a few minutes ago of not being nearly so prudish about sexual matters as Sano had expected to find him, he couldn’t imagine admitting he might have had a bit of an orgy but knew neither the details nor, for certain, whether it had happened at all. It was too damned embarrassing. Sano didn’t think he would even be capable of looking Hajime in the eye and saying it aloud.
So what he finally decided on was, “It’s pretty big in Tomoe’s corner, and it seems like her white’s whole life revolves around the stuff.”
Hajime nodded. If he’d noticed Sano had just omitted a huge part of his story, he said nothing about it — which probably meant he hadn’t noticed, since Sano couldn’t imagine him not insisting on hearing it all if he had. “It’s typical for any high-ranking devoted to be suspected of using kereme,” the knight said, “but Enishi always did seem the type more than the rest.”
“Yeah.” Sano was immensely relieved at having successfully evaded discussing his little kereme ‘outing,’ and quickly volunteered more information not related to himself in order to hasten past that uncomfortable topic. “Apparently sometimes it even gets in the way of his duties, and his golds have to cover for him. I guess it just figures, for a guy named after a city.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“From some of the Tomoe lower-wash.” Sano tried not to blush or otherwise signal there was more to it than just that. He also tried to reassure himself there was no way Hajime suspected the truth, since Hajime would absolutely say something if he did. And it wasn’t as if Sano owed Hajime that kind of personal detail, or owed Hajime any kind of restraint of his sexual behavior.
Hajime nodded. “I wonder if it’s true.”
Interest caught, Sano was distracted from his discomfort and wondered, “Why might it not be?”
“A rumor like that could provide excellent cover for any number of other activities. If Enishi and his golds are up to something — they’ve been secretly supporting or guiding Soujirou’s takeover all along, for example — people are less likely to suspect it if they believe Enishi is out of his mind on kereme half the time and his golds are busy trying to cover it up.”
“Shit,” Sano muttered. “You’re right.” He might have thought of that point himself if he hadn’t been so absorbed in other aspects of his own experience. “Sounds like I should try to find out whether Enishi really uses the stuff or not.”
Again Hajime nodded. “I’m not entirely familiar with how kereme works, but the impression I have is that the more someone uses it, the more they need it. If Enishi uses at all, that makes it seem less likely the rumor is just a cover story for something else.”
Sano sincerely hoped this growing need of kereme didn’t take any kind of firm hold after only a single instance, but of course said nothing to that effect. He was trying to put the entirety of that night out of his mind, even if he would have to make inquiries about the stuff the next time he was back in the city, and to this end felt they must stop talking about it as soon as possible. So he nodded his understand and said, “I’ll see what I can find out. I guess I’ll head back in the morning.”
As he’d hoped, this redirected Hajime’s thoughts toward plan-making and what they didn’t know yet. And though that did involve, again, some at least implied reproof of Sano and disregard for his abilities, that was significantly the lesser of two conversational evils at this point.
Chapter 19 – Tangles
Though there was no doubt that Hajime, impatient for news from the capital and unable to seek it on his own behalf, would not allow Sano to sleep far past the time he arose himself, Hajime hadn’t needed to shake or prod Sano awake even once at this inn. Here, something about Hajime being awake had, in turn, awakened Sano even when he might not normally have been inclined to alertness just yet.
So it was this morning: upon opening his eyes and stretching upward from his prone position, Sano noted Hajime too sitting up and looking as if he’d been awake for a short time already. Only the palest of pre-dawn light framed the closed shutters from outside, and the room was very dim, so when Hajime turned toward Sano, his eyes as he faced away from the window were barely visible beneath his brows.
Unable though Sano was to remember exactly what he’d been dreaming, yet he was pretty sure Hajime had been there. It couldn’t have been too terribly unpleasant, either, since Sano found himself in a reasonably good mood upon awakening — much better than last night when, even after distracting unrelated conversation and Hajime leaving the room for a while to take a bath, Sano had still bedded down with a worried and embarrassed feeling about what he’d omitted from his report.
And now he’d gone and thought about that again as pretty much his first reflection of the day.
“Morning,” he said as he pushed the blanket from his naked upper half and swiveled so his legs slid out from under it and off the bed. As a distraction from his unwanted thoughts he added, “Hot water been by yet?”
“Do you see any hot water in this room?” Hajime replied as he rose and went to open the window.
“Well, no, but…” Sano’s words degenerated into a yawn, and he didn’t bother to resume them. Instead he looked around for where he’d dropped last night’s shiiya, which turned out to be on the floor in such a spot that it had been kicked mostly under the bed. He picked it up, but decided not to put it on just yet; he wanted to wash up a little first.
Suddenly, making Sano start, “What happened to your shirt?” Hajime wondered from where Sano had believed him to be looking down into the yard.
Sano had made sure to get ready for bed last night while Hajime was out of the room so as to hide the damaged state of his shirt from the knight’s shrewd eyes, then crumpled the garment up and shoved it into his backpack… but obviously those eyes were even shrewder than he’d realized. Either that or Hajime had noted the unusual circumstance of Sano sleeping entirely bare-chested and was simply curious. No more than simple curiosity sounded in his voice, really, and Sano should probably stop being so paranoid. What, after all, was the worst that could happen if Hajime found out?
Still, he tried for absolute casualness as he answered, “Oh, it’s been threatening to fall apart for months,” and just hoped Hajime had never paid too close attention to the actual state of his shirt. There was no reason he should have.
Hajime’s skeptical expression was visible now in the growing light from the window, but if he intended to say anything, he evidently changed his mind when from outside in the hallway came the call — quiet enough not to be too disturbing to sleepers, but firm enough to be audible to anyone listening for it — of, “Hot water!”
After this Sano was safe, since he could tease Hajime about feeling the need to wash his face even though he’d had a bath mere hours before, respond to Hajime’s return tease about his own personal hygiene that Hajime had no idea when Sano was or wasn’t bathing in town, thank you very much, and generally get ready for the day without further worry. The process overall succeeded fairly well at driving what Sano didn’t want to think about out of his mind, at least for now.
Of course the conversation, as it so often did, shifted gradually to a reiteration of everything they still needed to know that Sano was trying to figure out in town, and, despite the usual apparent lack of confidence on Hajime’s part, it was an acceptable topic. Having pretty thoroughly covered any new ideas yesterday after Sano’s report, they had no fresh ground to tread, and the familiarity of everything they came up with to say actually, oddly, made the subject more or less comfortable.
But Sano noticed, while smoothing out his hair as best he could with his fingers and some of the water that had by now settled into tepidity, that Hajime seemed annoyed. Given that the knight not infrequently seemed annoyed about something or other, this didn’t immediately strike Sano; but after observing it over the course of the next several comments back and forth between them, he began to wonder why it should be the case now. They weren’t discussing anything particularly provoking — no more provoking than it usually was, anyway. And eventually so much of Sano’s attention was bent toward trying to figure out what was bothering Hajime that it caught Hajime’s attention. He broke off what he was saying to ask, “What are you making faces about?”
Abandoning subtlety and settling for asking directly, Sano retorted, “What are you making faces about? What’s got you so annoyed?”
“You think I need a reason beyond your mere presence?” It was the type of exaggerated sarcasm too over the top to be even a little cutting.
“I might not think so,” replied Sano, rolling his eyes, “if you always made that kind of face every time I was around… but these are new annoyed faces today. I can’t believe it’s just me.”
With a twitch of lips Hajime admitted, “It’s your stupid hair that’s annoying.” And his audible reluctance seemed somewhat at odds with the straightforward insult. The mismatch of sound and statement was so palpable, in fact, that Sano couldn’t even get annoyed himself; he was too busy trying, now more intensely than ever, to figure out what was really bothering his companion.
Hajime, to a certain extent, explained. “Your scraggly hair is too attention-grabbing, and we should have done something about it before the first time you ever went into the city.”
Reflecting hard, adding together the reluctant tone and an irritation that couldn’t possibly be centered on this alone, Sano stared at Hajime — at his hair, long and unbound, clean and still damp but lacking the sleek evenness that had marked it before.
“Combs aren’t expensive,” Hajime went on. “We should have bought one the first day here and taken care of your stupid look. It would have made you stand out far less.”
Reaching a conclusion at last, Sano shook his head. “No, this isn’t about my hair, is it?” he said pensively. “At least mostly not. This is about your hair.” And though Hajime’s instant scowl said, “Don’t be stupid,” his voice said nothing, so Sano’s confidence in the idea increased. “I seriously never figured you for the vain type–” he was grinning now– “but I guess if I had hair like yours I might be pretty happy with it too — and maybe want to comb it with an actual comb every once in a while!”
Perhaps he was merely grasping at what evidence he could of the correctness of his hypothesis (since the knight obviously wasn’t going to speak up and offer any verbally), but he thought there was a touch of redness to the irked darkening of Hajime’s face. Impetuously he stood, grin undiminished. “So obviously the answer is to run to the market and buy you a comb. I can grab some stuff to mend my shirt at the same time.”
Hajime too got to his feet, and this time he really did say, “Don’t be stupid. You need to get back into Elotica.”
“This won’t set me back more than an hour, and an hour’s not going to hurt anything.”
“Something so frivolous isn’t worth even an hour,” Hajime insisted irritably.
Sano wasn’t sure why, but he was overcome with a giddy impulse to have his own way in this. Maybe he’d been dedicating himself too completely to following Hajime’s orders lately and needed to strike out on his own, however minor the activity. Or maybe he just liked the thought of buying Hajime a present, however insignificant. In any case, he laughed as he reached for the door. “I’ll be able to make my hair look more respectable, and you’ll have something else to entertain you while I’m in town.”
“I do not entertain myself by combing my hair!” was Hajime’s final argument, sounding by now rather exasperated by the absurdity of the situation — and his own protest — than truly irritated. He preferred not to be seen outside the inn room more than necessary, though, and certainly wouldn’t draw attention to himself by staging a conflict in the hall, so this was as far as he could go.
Sano too appreciated the absurdity, and was laughing again as he waved a cheeky goodbye to the scowling face watching him through the crack of the door and turned to head toward the stairs. His steps were buoyant as he left the building.
Though Hajime hadn’t actually confirmed Sano’s guess, neither had he openly denied it, which was as good as a confession to Sano. And there was something unexpectedly endearing about Hajime longing to give his neglected hair a good combing. Sano loved it when Hajime offered such proofs that he wasn’t merely a royal knight dedicated at the expense of everything else to the restoration of Kenshin’s throne, but also a normal person with some interests and desires that might be, in his own words, frivolous. And admittedly some really nice hair that probably deserved more attention than he’d been able to give it lately.
In a town this size, the markets tended to get going quite early, as Sano had already noticed when he’d passed through on his way to and from Elotica. He was certain, as he made his way into the busy, chattering crowd around the various stands lining the streets, that it wouldn’t take long — or too extravagantly much money — to get exactly what he needed here. He should have told Hajime half an hour.
He’d become so accustomed, over the last couple of weeks, to listening carefully whenever he was in a group for any even remotely interesting or useful snippet of informative conversation or gossip that he’d started doing it without conscious thought. Only when certain provocative words lodged in his brain too firmly for him not to give them complete and intense attention did he start deliberately listening, and then his attitude changed swiftly from the unaccustomed but welcome cheer of the morning’s silliness to one far more somber and intent. He was back to the inn in under an hour, but he brought more than what he’d set out to retrieve.
Perhaps Hajime hadn’t believed Sano’s time estimate and had anticipated a longer wait, for he was reading when Sano entered the room. Or maybe the book was just that engrossing, and Hajime couldn’t wait to return to it. Sano, not being much of a reader, couldn’t guess, and it didn’t matter. The instant the door was closed and Sano advancing across the small room, he said in a low tone, “The market’s going crazy with news from town. Misao’s white’s been murdered.”
“What?” Hajime looked up and around with an expression of sudden concern — not, Sano thought, for the murdered devoted personally, but for what the event implied and what the political ramifications might be. “By whom?”
“Nobody knows! They can’t even agree whether it was one person or a group or a man or a woman or what. All the whites were attacked, people are saying, but all of them are fine except Nenji. And I guess the attacker got away every time.”
“Any more details than that?”
“No. Not floating around the market, anyway.” Sano took the last step forward and set the comb he’d bought down on the table.
Hajime, his expression very serious, did not reach for it. “And we can’t even guess how this may change things. You’ll have to be even more careful in town than before.”
“You think so?” Sano retreated to his bed and sat. “I bet everyone’ll be talking about it; it won’t be a problem for me to ask straight out.”
Swiveling on his stool to face Sano completely, Hajime did not lighten his sober look. “I mean you’ll have to be careful about wandering around in a devoted shiiya when there’s an assassin loose who’s targeting devoted.”
At the concerned sound of the statement, Sano was surprised. “What, you think this guy’s gonna come after me? When I’m dressed as a red? Why?”
Hajime shook his head as if he either had no concrete reason for his concern or simply didn’t want to voice it — neither of which seemed much like him — and finally moved to exchange the book in his hand for the comb on the table. Abruptly he stood from the stool and nudged it forward with one foot. “Come sit here,” he ordered.
“You’re really going to comb my hair?” Sano wondered skeptically. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had performed that service for him, but had an idea it might have been his mother back before she’d died. As such, it felt a little odd to think of Hajime doing the same.
“It’s more important than ever now that you don’t stand out too much,” the knight replied, gesturing to the stool.
Figuring he might as well, Sano obeyed. “You really think there’s a threat to me,” he said as he took the seat in front of Hajime.
“I think it’s a possibility we would be foolish to ignore.”
Hajime’s fingers working at the knot of Sano’s bandanna startled the younger man for only a moment, but then he accepted the loosened red tie and held it on his lap as Hajime began combing. It started out, and remained, a difficult process.
“When was the last time you took an actual comb to this?” Hajime muttered presently.
“Uh… before I left Eloma, I think. Maybe at Seijuurou’s house…”
“No wonder, then…”
The weird feeling of having set Hajime parallel to his mother in his thoughts faded as the gulf of difference between the two experiences rapidly expanded. As a child with attentive parents, Sano had worn his hair as smooth as Hajime’s normally was, and the act of combing it had been a soothing morning and bedtime ritual. As an adult with defiantly untamed locks, he found the taming thereof an uncomfortable and wearisomely lengthy business.
At least Hajime knew what he was doing, starting from the ends and working the tangles out with sure, patient movements. Sano actually wondered a bit what he would look like when the process was finished, but there was no looking glass in the room to consult on the subject and he doubted Hajime would be accurately descriptive.
After a fairly lengthy silence that was surprisingly free of awkwardness, Hajime returned to their previous topic by asking, “When did the attacks take place?”
“Yesterday, I think.” Sano was continually trying not to grimace at the tugging of his hair. “Maybe the night before? Over the last couple of days, I guess… you know how gossip like that is; nobody knew for sure, and people make shit up when they want to be the first person to tell the news.”
“Why? What are you thinking?”
“You were out in public yesterday and the day before. If any of the attacks took place on those days, why did you only hear about it today?”
“That’s… true…” Sano said slowly. “What does that mean?”
Hajime also spoke slowly, pensively, as his hand holding the comb continued to move over Sano’s head. “If all the attacks occurred at the same time, it would make sense to hear about them all at once as well. It would also indicate a group of enemies able to coordinate their attacks. But if the attacks really did take place over the last couple of days, it could have been the same attacker or attackers every time — someone talented enough to get at whites wherever they were and escape without leaving much information — which is worrisome, but probably less worrisome than a larger group with those same skills. But why, in that case, would we only have heard about it today?”
“Maybe,” Sano suggested, “the other whites besides Nenji just didn’t bother mentioning they were attacked? They’re mostly warriors, or they’ve got warriors around to keep them safe… maybe they just didn’t take it very seriously until someone actually died?”
“That sounds like how you might respond in that situation,” said Hajime dryly. “But all of the current white devoted must be aware of their political importance, especially in the current climate, and wouldn’t let an attempt on their lives go unremarked. I think it’s more likely that the news came out only when it could no longer be suppressed; or that the gossips are simply wrong about the time frame, and all the attacks happened at about the same time.”
“Which doesn’t help us at all,” Sano grumbled.
Darkly Hajime agreed. “Nor,” he added, “do we have any idea what this assassin is after or whose side they’re on.”
“So add ‘anything I can find out about the assassin’ to my list of shit to look for.”
“Yes. I think, however…” It seemed clear that Hajime didn’t want to say this. “It might be wise if you didn’t go back into Elotica immediately.”
Again Sano was startled. “Why?”
“Even if you are dressed as only a red, we know for a fact that devoted have been attacked. Besides, you’re a newcomer who’s been asking questions and possibly making people suspicious even if they haven’t been showing it to your face. It’s probably best if you don’t show up again until this news has had time to fade a bit from everyone’s mind.”
Though Sano grasped Hajime’s meaning, he almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Not even that long ago you were complaining about me taking a whole hour to go buy shit we needed before I headed into town! Now you’re saying I should wait — how long?”
Hajime sighed in frustration. “I don’t like it. But I think you — and our cause — will be safer if we give it a day or two before people start noticing you again.”
Sano did not miss the placement of his safety before that of the cause — or, indeed, that the two were listed separately at all — but that wasn’t the aspect of Hajime’s statement he felt the immediate need to comment on. “So today and tomorrow? I know this is going to sound weird from me to you, but do you have the patience for that?”
Hajime chuckled faintly, darkly. “Even longer would be safer, I think, but, no, I probably wouldn’t have the patience for that. This is the best compromise I can come up with.”
And that the single-minded royal knight was willing to compromise at all in this matter that seemed to mean the entire world to him was… significant, Sano thought. Hajime’s hands had stilled, and the tugging at his hair had ceased, so Sano twisted where he sat to look up at the other man. He couldn’t quite read his expression, except to observe that it was very serious and not very happy.
Abruptly Sano stood and held out a hand. “So obviously it’s pointless for you to be messing with my hair right now.” He shook his head, feeling an unusually smooth swishing sensation against his chin and neck, and grinned. “Here, let me do yours instead.”
Hajime raised his brows not so much in his usual disdainful skepticism as in genuine, straightforward surprise. Drawing back he said simply, “Why?”
“Well, you said earlier that combing your hair doesn’t entertain you or whatever, but it obviously needs to be done, and now it turns out I don’t have anywhere to be anytime soon. So give it here.”
Hajime’s hand holding the comb had pulled back so far now that it actually lay against his chest, and on the man’s face was a frown. There was also, however, a discernible touch of reluctant, dubious amusement to demeanor and expression. “I don’t believe you even know how to comb hair.”
“That’s… fair…” Sano admitted. “But we’ve got a lot of hours ahead of us that you’re not allowed to spend sitting by the window reading books and ignoring me. And, yeah, I’ve got a shirt to fix, but that’s not going to take all that long — even if I have to pull all the stitches out halfway through because they suck and start over. So we can spend a little while seeing if I’m any good at combing hair, and if I’m balls at it, there’s plenty of time for you to teach me how to do it right.”
Sano still believed the theory he’d concocted earlier — that Hajime was discontented with the state of his hair and would be happier after a good combing — and for some reason wanted to be part of that… especially now that he wasn’t going to be able, any time soon, to contribute to easing the uptight knight’s mind with his usual method of searching out information in the capital.
Whatever Hajime’s real thoughts and source of discontentment, by the end of Sano’s defiant statement he was smiling with just one corner of his mouth, as if against his will — as if, in fact, he genuinely couldn’t believe he found this funny, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of the fact that he did. But at last he held out the comb, and when Sano took it moved forward to sit down on the stool Sano had vacated. “I suppose if you make a hopeless mess of my hair, you can always go back to the market for a pair of shears and some more gossip.” His sarcasm took a darker turn as he added, “Brace yourself, though… you don’t have any idea just how boring it gets around here during the day.”
Chapter 20 – Thirteen Years Ago
Despite Hajime’s warning, the first day of waiting wasn’t terribly bad to get through. Yes, they argued on and off throughout its extent, but Sano had reached a point where arguing with Hajime felt about the same as having less combative conversations with him, so that didn’t matter much.
He managed to wheedle Hajime into telling him what was so special about the book he was reading, and, though it didn’t sound like anything Sano would be even a little interested in reading for himself, he had to admit (not aloud) to a surprising level of enjoyment and interest at hearing Hajime talk about it. However annoying Hajime could be at times, he was also insightful to an impressive degree about a lot of things, and there was an unexpected passion about him — which perhaps shouldn’t have been so unexpected, given Hajime’s behavior in relation to the usurpation — that Sano found very engrossing; besides that, Hajime’s sarcasm made his descriptions endlessly interesting. Sano thought he could have listened to Hajime talk about any number of otherwise-boring-sounding books.
That did not, of course, stop Hajime from making snide comments about Sano’s level of literacy and ability to comprehend what he was saying. Which didn’t necessarily bother Sano, just led him to retaliate with unflattering suggestions about Hajime’s ability to make friends neither fictional nor historical.
As Sano set about mending his torn shirt and Hajime watched with eyes that expressed skepticism about the younger man’s needle skills but no verbal comment on the subject, they considered whether Sano should head back into the market and see if he could hear anything else useful. Sano marveled a little at the way they could turn a discussion without sides into an argument when they both expressed the idea that to seek more information tomorrow — whether through another trip into the market during a second day of lying low here in Enca, or through the usual methods in Elotica — would be wiser than to possibly draw attention to himself with a second trip in on the same day that wouldn’t end with any purchase as an excuse for his presence. How, he wondered, could they conjure confrontation, this tension between them, when agreeing on something? Sometimes there was no word for their conversations other than ‘silly.’
When supper time eventually rolled around, Hajime again gave Sano his sweetbun, and it occurred to Sano to ask what Hajime did with the things — which seemed to be a regular fixture of the meal included in the price of the room — when Sano was not present. And when Hajime grudgingly admitted that he ate them himself under those circumstances, Sano was led to a further set of questions about what meals were like at the royal palace. Did some comparatively spectacular dessert item there render the meager sweetbuns of the Enca Inn North more of a chore than a treat?
So then Hajime maintained, with an air of perfect disdainful seriousness, that a small-towner like Sano must obviously have no taste whatsoever, and it would be a waste of breath to discuss capitol cuisine with him. Which Sano interpreted (aloud) to mean that there was some dessert concocted by the palace chefs that Hajime was embarrassed to admit his excessive liking for. And Hajime reiterated that Sano, with his penchant for excessive sweetness that led him to actually enjoy the buns at this inn, would not understand the subtle appeal of finer cooking. To which Sano protested that Hajime too had been eating the inn’s sweetbuns when Sano wasn’t around. And Hajime informed him almost primly that, yes, this was true, but he scraped that overpowering glaze off them first. Then Sano had his really good laugh for the day while Hajime tried to look stern in the wake of that conversation.
At several moments throughout this downtime, but at greatest length just before bed, their talk came back to the assassin. This was never particularly useful, no matter the length of the conversation, since they’d already touched on every point they could based on what little they knew. Clearly Hajime was torn, longing for more data but worrying about the potential outcome of sending Sano to seek it. Sano continued to feel surprise that Hajime was so worried, but couldn’t honestly object to this day of relaxation, nor the one Hajime grudgingly decided he really must take tomorrow as well. So they went to their beds in a strange mixture of emotions and thoughts regarding the future. Or at least Sano did.
It was a long, long, high, steep hill, but what he couldn’t quite figure out was whether they were at the top or the bottom. They had to get to the other end — they would, inevitably, get to the other end — but would that prove a helpless careen or a wearying climb? He supposed it didn’t really matter much; they would see everyone along the way in either case. The idea of houses and businesses lined each side of the road and, like some cog-driven mechanism, it was clear that the people would emerge from each of these as Sano and Hajime passed their places of dwelling or employ.
In fact, the first had already appeared from the small home that was as neat as he could keep it in his near poverty. He was an old man, and clearly defeated. He’d worked hard and honestly all his long life only to receive proof at this late stage that other means might yield greater rewards. He looked at them with dull eyes and said, “I’m ruined.”
The next, stepping from the door of a boarding house, was a middle-aged woman with a number of responsibilities destined now to be more difficult than ever. She looked at them with weary bitterness and said, “We all trusted him.”
The next, coming from where he still lived with his parents, was a young man — very young; a boy, really — too young, maybe, for romance of any kind, and certainly for coupling with someone much older than himself. He looked at Sano and Hajime with embarrassment and perhaps some shame and said, “I thought I was something special to him.”
The next was a fellow city guard, as characteristic a citizen of Emairi as could be imagined. He looked at them with anger and said, “It was my entire savings.”
The next was a draftsman, the leader of a group of builders from Elotica. She looked at them in frustration and said, “He promised us work.”
On they plodded, up the difficult grade that was almost a climb, lungs and muscles burning. On they plunged, precipitously down the steep decline, loath to see and hear more but unable to stop.
“His plan sounded like such a good idea.”
“I thought he really wanted to help.”
“We trusted him with everything.”
“He really seemed like he loved me…”
The faces blurred together and the voices blended. They were, after all, conveying the same emotions, speaking the same ideas. Every one of these people — these allies, these relative innocents — had suffered the same thing. They’d committed time and effort and money to a plausible, desirable project; they’d given trust and love to a man that had promised improvements and services and, in some cases, his love in return. And they’d all been burned when the project had turned out to be a con, the man a fraud, the promises lies.
Sano felt he could hardly lift his feet to walk further up the tiring slope, so heavily weighed down was he by pity and despair. Simultaneously a burning and growing rage drove him onward, throwing him down the clifflike path as if he were weightless. Besides that, Hajime was obviously desperate to find something — to find someone. None of these people was unimportant — they had all suffered — but none of them was the specific victim Hajime needed to reach.
It was no surprise that their road ended with that specific victim, that she waited at the top or the bottom of the long hill. This house sat squarely, centrally at the cessation of the pavement, bringing their journey to an abrupt and decisive halt. There was something familiar about it — the kind of deep, aching familiarity that marks an old home under new ownership — and at the same time a discomfort, almost a horror, that grew as they drew closer. They would find only further suffering inside.
And she, like the old man that had been their first encounter, was utterly defeated.
“He made me think I was the only one.”
Unlike the previous victims, she was cool and calm. She assessed rather than lamenting.
“I can see now he made everyone feel that way — like they were the most important contributor, or the one he’d come to care about most.”
Her strength was remarkable, deeply admirable. She focused on analysis and planning rather than the hurt and betrayal.
“That’s how he got everyone to give just a little bit more… of whatever they were giving.”
Yet she had been hurt. Somehow, even in her placidity, the pain and the resulting bitterness came across even more clearly and intensely than it had from any previous interviewee. Only her strength made it endurable to witness, and that only barely.
“He acted his part well, but I should have seen through him sooner.”
Hajime was reaching out to touch her, to embrace her… but his hand never quite made contact with her form. He didn’t know how to offer comfort, or feared his efforts might be inadequate, in the face of this disaster.
“I should have realized that his willingness to be with someone outside the church as a second-wash indicated a disregard for the church’s policies and prioritization of his own desires.”
Hajime’s despair and anger at not being able to do even the slightest thing to help in this situation was almost as palpable as the woman’s sorrow and sense of betrayal; the calmness that nevertheless somehow expressed these emotions was shared between them.
“I should have seen what he was; then I could have helped prevent all of this.”
She put a hand to her belly, where an outward curve was just starting to show even beneath her shiiya.
“But love really is blind.”
Sano blinked awake as abruptly as if he’d been physically shaken. And though it wasn’t the irrational fear-heat of nightmare, still he felt overwarm from his emotional reactions to the dream. His fingers curled into fists in the bedding, but, tempted though he was to throw it off to cool down, he forced himself to remain still and silent.
As in every dream he’d shared with Hajime since the knight’s coma, sensory details had been unclear: the woman’s face had not been distinctly delineated, and Sano probably wouldn’t know her if he saw her again; the ideas of her calmness, her hurt and bitterness, had been far more present than any specific sound to her voice conveying them; and the mere knowledge of her progressing pregnancy had confirmed the fact better than any hazy visual indicator. The concepts inherent in the dream had been its strongest feature, and those concepts were what stayed with Sano now, firing his emotions.
He had no way of knowing, in the completely dark and noiseless room, whether Hajime had also awakened, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss this with him right away… or ever. He never had been able, after all, to determine to what extent these dreams were a shared experience — mostly because he’d always felt too embarrassed to ask — and if it turned out that Hajime wasn’t aware of Sano’s continued window into his head at night, this particular dream seemed like a bad place to start. Because this one had felt so personal.
No wonder Hajime disliked the church so much! Reading that dream as a sort of abstract memory or summation of actual events — and Sano didn’t know how else to interpret it — it became clear that some church official had at some point hurt and taken advantage of Hajime’s entire community, including someone he particularly cared about. That might even have been a cornerstone to his heresy, since it had happened so long ago.
Thirteen years. That this had all occurred thirteen years in the past had been a sense present throughout the dream as well, as if the number was of special significance… or perhaps as if the dreamer was pointedly aware of every year that had gone by since then. Was Hajime deliberately holding onto the bitterness he’d taken from that experience, never wanting to forget? What had happened to that woman he’d loved, who’d been conned and heartbroken? What had happened to that devoted, who had deceived her along with so many others? Had justice ever caught up with him? Had any member of the community besides Hajime ever acknowledged that a religious system full of people like that was both logistically flawed and no indication of a divine guiding hand?
And why, Sano wondered almost more than anything else, was Hajime dreaming about this now? Did that vision come to him intermittently, and this just happened to be the first time Sano had been present for it? Or was there some reason — beyond Sano’s current power to guess — that it had arisen tonight? He wanted to sit up and ask, to wake Hajime if necessary and ask why he’d had that dream, what it had meant, and whether there was anything Sano could…
But he couldn’t ask. He’d asked Hajime about his parents, he’d talked to him about religious beliefs, he’d discussed his own sex life; hell, he’d combed Hajime’s hair… but somehow he couldn’t pry into the details of an event that had so hurt someone Hajime loved and damaged his community, that Hajime was still carrying with him to this day.
He felt his fingers clench even more tightly into the bedding, his jaw clench against the pillow. He wanted to be able to ask. Sure, he’d come on this venture to help get Kenshin back onto the throne, to do legwork for Hajime in a (thus far) covert political struggle… but it wasn’t unreasonable to want to help Hajime with something a little more personal, was it? After all, Sano and Hajime were both heretics; they should stick together, right?
Of course if he were to question Hajime on such a subject, to offer good wishes and sympathy, Hajime would probably just snipe at him and refuse to answer straightforwardly. And with this hypothetical reaction in mind, Sano, scowling, wondered why he was interested in asking.
Yet they were both heretics. Sano certainly knew what it was like to be bitter about the church, if not for exactly the same reasons. Surely there was scope for discussion, for close understanding of each other here. Sano felt that, for some reason or other, he would… like that.
But Hajime probably wouldn’t. So Sano would just stick to the job he’d come to do.
As such, he felt an abrupt surge of impatience to get back into Elotica, to get on with things. Who was this assassin, this new player that had emerged onto the scene, and whose side were they on? Was Sano really likely to become a target, as Hajime so bizarrely thought possible?
Some answers — or at least further information that might suggest some — might be uncovered tomorrow when he went gossip-hunting at the Enca market again. More answers might be forthcoming when he went back into Elotica the day after. But none of those answers would be about Hajime and that woman he’d loved. Unless Sano could bring himself to ask that personal question, to pry into a matter it was possible he should never have become acquainted with at all, he should probably resign himself to ignorance.
And that might make tomorrow a good deal more difficult to get through than he’d been anticipating after the relative success of today.
Imau had been staring absently for several minutes before she realized what her eyes had fallen on: the letter she’d started to her family. Had it really been just three days ago? It felt like forever since her greatest personal concern had been the demands of her parents that she return to Elotica, when such petty things had seemed at all important.
I don’t know how long it will take to get this situation resolved, but I doubt it will be before New Year. A Misseihyou-New Year festival sounds wonderful, and a tournament sounds even better, but, as I said, I can’t leave Hokichi to finish this alone.
The meetings with the Encoutia Merchants’ Guild and the representative from Etoronai’s had proven even trickier than expected, and they were far from a solution to the problems that had come up while discussing terms. Imau’s peace-loving uncle obviously appreciated the presence of a princess willing to deal more sharply and relentlessly with the group he spent most of his time trying to placate; he clearly couldn’t spare her now. She should probably, as her father had suggested, be more informative about the differences in temperament that made them such a good team.
And at night…
How, she wondered, had Noru — whose full name was Shinorutei of family Tal’garou — made such a drastic difference in her plans? How, in only three nights’ time, could she feel her tactics had expanded beyond what she ever could have expected? One woman and three nights… how could so much have changed?
The truth was, she’d very foolishly never considered the potential benefit of having ‘the average citizen’ help her in this. She’d concocted a scheme she thought would work, and applied it without much further cogitation on the matter. Out of a desire to keep her goal a secret, she’d sought no outside advice, until a voice of reason had unexpectedly intruded on her private endeavor.
Noru had friends and acquintances all over Encoutia — sailors and tradesmen, mostly — and her straightforward good sense and frank humor allowed her to connect with them in a way Imau, disguised and distant from them, never could. Noru knew whom to entrust with the idea that the people needed to stand together against an anti-social menace. And they listened to her. Imau speculated that her presence, as well as Akemi’s, made a difference, helped to reassure those they interacted with that they had warriors on their side; but it was Noru’s influence that had won them numerous allies where Imau had never expected any.
The sailor had made it clear that, though she believed in encouraging the people of Encoutia to show united intolerance of pirates and their ways, she would only take part in this recruiting effort until her injury healed; her place was at sea. That left a few weeks during which she’d promised to meet with Imau as often as possible, but she would eventually board her father Ryuutei’s ship and sail away. She seemed to think the true answer lay there anyway.
The princess had her doubts, but simultaneously had been formulating a new plan. To combat the overwhelming numbers that were pirate ships’ primary advantage, a much more aggressive tactic than the political ones Hokichi had thus far adopted seemed necessary. Warriors, weapons, training… she revolved them all in her head, and had even begun jotting down ideas on paper. Of course she had only Akemi’s input on this for now, since she couldn’t approach her uncle with anything less than a fully developed proposal and hadn’t revealed to Noru how much influence she might have over policy, but Akemi was at least a royal knight for a reason.
Noru had her suspicions, though. She’d declared that first night that Imau (who’d been using the name Penka for her interactions with the woman) must be a noblewoman, and she’d left it at that; but the assessing looks she sometimes gave the princess, and certain remarks that seemed to carry quiet assumptions about her, agitated Imau somewhat. In fact they made her want to confess everything and seek Noru’s counsel on her ideas all the way up to the top.
Beyond a greater and more accomplished armed presence on merchant ships, they needed answers to crucial questions about the pirates themselves: was there any cooperation among them, and, if so, did they have leaders whose removal might weaken their overall effectiveness? What ports did they most frequently use, and in which areas or on which routes did they most frequently appear? To what extent did they terrorize ships from other nearby nations? These questions, as Noru had hinted, might best be answered at sea.
It seemed a special reconnaissance mission was in order, and Imau already had a ship and crew in mind to undertake it if they would accept the charge.
And at the same time, political measures should not be neglected; they simply needed to shift to a larger scale. Ayundome was in the middle of another power struggle, but could anything be accomplished working with their governing bodies? Gönst was Akomera’s biggest trade partner, and Hokichi might be able to put pressure on the Gönsting to throw in with active anti-pirate policies. Jo’onhkun, for all the strain in its relations with Akomera, might be of service too. Everything needed to escalate, and in quick but regulated manner.
Which meant Imau really did have only a few weeks to draft out a far more ambitious plan than she’d ever conceived before — certainly much greater in scope than her little project of prowling inns and taverns! — light a fire under her uncle so he would be willing to take more drastic steps, and convince Noru of the role she and her people must play. It might have been daunting, but in fact it made Imau feel more like a true princess than she ever had before.
Foreseeing herself as the spearhead of this effort, she tried to decide where her own talents would be the most useful. She’d come to Encoutia to train in swordsmanship with her uncle and his court, and, though she’d learned plenty about rulership as well, Hokichi’s kind-heartedly lackadaisical attitude toward government left something to be desired as an example. Would she do better, despite her state as a political beginner, to stay at his side as the constant galvanizing influence he needed; or to go to sea herself and come to grips with pirates as a model of fearlessness, defiance, and personal royal response for the people of this and other nations? Akemi would stand by her in either scenario, and, as Noru had said, the two of them were fair formidable.
Her thoughts kept returning to the Yujuui Nikamoru, the special mission she had in mind, and particularly the captain’s daughter. With Noru these last three nights, Imau had felt so alive, so much more effective. Noru hadn’t only impressed and inspired her; she’d changed Imau’s life. She’d spurred the princess to more dedicated and complex reflection and planning, to a greater sense of responsibility even than what Noru had recognized in her when they’d met. In Imau’s thoughts, Shinorutei shone and flashed like some kind of beacon.
She reached for the pen and ink. She must continue listing her ideas, setting them in order, before she spoke to Noru again tonight. Because she fully intended to put everything openly before the sailor and seek her advice in this paramount matter. But first she needed to finish her letter to her family.
…as I said, I can’t leave Hokichi to finish this alone.
As with her uncle, she believed it would be wisest not to get into detail until her plans were more completely formed. But she knew exactly what to say to placate her parents, to ensure she was allowed to remain in Encoutia as long as she needed to. Such a simple thing, not really a problem at all. Uncapping the ink bottle, she dipped the pen and set it to the paper without hesitation just after the last line she’d written so long ago.
Besides, she added easily, I think I’m in love.
Chapter 21 – Third Report: Purple Sky
It wasn’t that he hated it when Hajime was right, but in a way, Sano hated it when Hajime was right. Part of this was probably more that he hated the unpleasant and inconvenient circumstances the knight had predicted and warned him about, but merely the fact that Hajime had managed to anticipate something Sano had thought unlikely must be consistently annoying.
A mere two days in Elotica had proven Hajime’s concerns not unfounded. After the news of an assassin targeting devoted, naturally everyone in the religious districts was on edge, but it was worse than just that for Sano: suddenly almost everyone acted differently around him than they had. As Hajime had feared, a mood of mistrust had spread through the devoted, and anyone not long-established was being eyed askance and treated with less friendliness and welcome than before.
This applied, of course, to others besides Sano — any newcomer, really — but Sano, who carried a sword in contexts (such as in Megumi’s corner) where it was less than entirely usual to do so, and who’d had very attention-grabbing hair up until this very visit to town, was particularly visible. So he often got the worst of it, which was extremely inconvenient for someone trying not to stand out in order to gather information.
That wasn’t all Hajime had been right about.
Now Sano hurried back to Enca after those mere two days in the capital, his footsteps occasionally threatening to hasten into a run despite his efforts at keeping to an unsuspicious pace, his heart thudding with a beat far faster than those footsteps and that in part, he thought, served to quicken them past what he wanted, past endurance. The lump in his throat threatened to choke him, or to burst out of him as a hopeless cry, at any moment; and if it weren’t for the adrenaline pounding through him to the very tips of his extremities, he feared his entire body would be weighed down with an intolerable heaviness that would have prevented any movement whatsoever, except perhaps uncontrollable shaking.
Having passed out of sight of the Elotica gate-guards and onto a stretch of road completely untrafficked at this dark hour, Sano felt it safe to release some of his wretched energy in a brief run. It didn’t help much. And then forcing himself to slow as he reached a bend, around which he might encounter late-returning farmers or other tradesmen to whom his agitation and haste might appear strange, was tremendously difficult; it seemed his legs would easily continue running until the entirety of his being gave way in exhaustion and he collapsed. Running certainly felt more right at the moment.
There were a few people on the road outside Enca, and Sano struggled to move with something like calm. He hardly knew how he must look to them. How was he ever supposed to get into town and to the north end without someone taking unnecessary and detrimental notice of him? Or was he worrying too much? His thoughts were in chaos; he had no idea what he should be doing.
Whether or not he managed it in any way subtly, he did eventually, after what felt like an eternity, get back to the inn. And whether his footsteps on the wooden stairs and upper floor stomped or staggered, he did manage to get inside.
Hajime had obviously been in bed but not yet asleep, and was on his feet by the time Sano’s clumsy hands got the door unlocked and himself inside the room. His tall, wiry form, sword drawn against what he must perceive as an intruder at this unlikely time of night so soon after Sano had left, would have been intimidating — even terrifying — to an actual intruder, but to Sano was unexpectedly reassuring. Sano closed the door perhaps too abruptly and loudly, and leaned back against it with a shuddering breath, finally stilling except for the trembling of his body and the pounding of his heart.
Hajime’s sword lowered as quickly as it had risen, and he said somewhat harshly, “What happened? Why are you back here already?”
“I… shit…” At the thought of answering Hajime’s questions, Sano felt suddenly shakier than he had the entire way back to the inn. He moved to the table, dragged a stool out, and sat heavily down.
“You’ve got blood on your arm.” Later Sano must remember to be gratified in retrospect at the concern in the knight’s voice as he said this. “Were you attacked? Are you wounded?”
“No. Yes.” Sano shook his head. “No, I’m not wounded. Yes, I was attacked.”
“What in Yumi’s name happened?” demanded Hajime, both speaking and dropping his sword on his bed with evident impatience. “Unless you were attacked in the street right outside the inn, you’ve had the entire way back to calm down — so don’t just sit there; tell me.”
Sano snorted. “You really know how to comfort a guy.” Though the irony was that he was comforted. Somehow, though he hadn’t recognized it during the chaotic trip, he’d very much wanted to get back to Hajime. “All right.” He sat up straight from where he’d been resting his face on one hand, and took a deep breath, bracing himself to tell his unpleasant story. “I went to Tomoe’s plaza…”
Starting at the beginning helped calm him a little, enough that he was able to leave out the details he didn’t want to give. Other details, though, he found himself emphasizing to an unnecessary extent in a pretty obvious attempt to put off the eventual relation of the climax.
Hajime would never know just how difficult this was, because Sano would never tell him, because Sano would probably never want to relate the prior circumstances that made it so difficult. And maybe it was childish to keep that hidden, but that was how things were, and therefore led to how things must be.
He needed to find out more about kereme and whether or not Enishi used the stuff, and figured his best avenue for doing so — and the most effective use of his time, since, despite the approaching meeting with those he and Katsu had been chatting up lately, he often found himself at loose ends at night after most of the common roomers at the inn had gone home — was to head back to Tomoe’s corner and look around for the same companions with whom he’d had his own kereme experience.
He really, really didn’t want to — didn’t want to see any of them ever again, didn’t want to hear anything they might have to say, didn’t want to risk getting entangled in another scene like the previous — and hadn’t yet come up with anything logical he could ask that would get him information but keep him from having to partake again… but this was still the surest way he could think of to seek what he needed to know. With anyone else, he would be forced to work his way around to the subject first, and then what if they weren’t involved with kereme themselves and had no idea what he was talking about — or, worse (though probably better for them), were opposed to kereme and tried to get him in trouble for his interest? No, he thought, if he could find one or both of those two guys that had been in charge of the get-together before, that would be his best source of information.
Largely thanks to the memory gap that persisted of much of the night in question, Sano couldn’t be sure in what part of the purple end of town he’d run into them last week, so he was simply moving cautiously and watchfully through the darker and smaller streets of Tomoe’s corner, looking for low lights in any of the residences or the furtive movements of someone checking for trouble outside their doors. But thus far he’d seen nothing. It was so dark on this latest street, in fact, that he didn’t notice a still-standing figure leaning against the corner of a building until he was startlingly close.
“Sometarou?” Though there was a slight questioning tone to it, still the speaker detached from the wall and came toward Sano as if he’d been specifically expecting him.
Hoping his violent start hadn’t been visible in the darkness, Sano replied with all the levelness he could command, “Yeah. Is that–” Hair thinning and greying simultaneously, unremarkable face and figure… even in the low light it took only a moment to recognize one of his companions from that night last week, but… “Sorry, I… can’t remember your name.”
“Korucun,” the man replied with understanding friendliness. “It was your first time, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah…” Sano tried not to sound as chagrined as he actually felt, especially considering this was one of the people he might very well have slept with on that unfortunate occasion. “I forgot everyone else’s names there too.”
“That’s normal,” Korucun reassured him. He probably didn’t realize, actually, just how reassuring was his unpressing and unsuspicious good will; Sano had expected him to be as wary as the rest of the religious folks — or perhaps, on the other end of the spectrum, given what they’d conceivably done together, leering and overly familiar — but here he was nothing but welcoming. He did seem a little abstracted, though, glancing around and up into the sky as if specifically waiting or searching for something.
“Are you looking for them again?” Sano wondered, quiet and conspiratorial. Maybe he could get the information he needed without having to risk another kereme encounter. “Going to hit the K tonight too?”
“No,” said Korucun, still looking upward. “No. I don’t think I’ll be doing that again.”
Though it was a little off-topic, Sano couldn’t help asking in genuine curiosity at both words and tone, “Why?”
Instead of actually answering, the other man remarked, “Did you notice how purple the sky is tonight?”
Sano cast his bemused gaze in the same direction as Korucun’s and assessed, but couldn’t say he had.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Korucun added softly, maybe even a little shyly.
And what could Sano say to this? Possible answers in his head ranged from, “Are you sure you haven’t been hitting the K already?” to, “Do you have to stop existing too, to meet a nonexistent lady?”
Korucun was staring upward as if he’d forgotten Sano was there. After a moment he proved he hadn’t, however, by asking in the same distant tone, “Have you ever had your death reading done?”
Sano didn’t really want to know what a death reading was, and certainly couldn’t ask while posing as someone who probably should already have known. So he merely answered in the negative, and was a little surprised at how hoarsely the word came out.
“It’s an amazing experience. Yeah, it’s scary, but you feel so close to her…”
This time Sano didn’t bother to ask which ‘her’ he meant.
Finally Korucun’s eyes dropped from a sky Sano now realized he associated with the divine lady of mysteries and all that, and the look on his shadowed face proved that, however else he felt about it, ‘scary’ was accurate for his experience of whatever they were talking about. “Though I was a little surprised it was so soon,” he said, and there was a slight tremor to his tone.
Sano had a feeling he knew, now, what this death reading was, and it made him extremely uncomfortable. He was reminded a little of Yahiko claiming his proxy mother had pulled his father’s spirit from his body to spare him the pain of death by fire, and that was nothing he wanted to think about. He wondered how he could get out of this insane and unsettling conversation without giving away the fact that he didn’t believe in any of it. He cared less about hurting Korucun’s feelings than he had about Yahiko’s, of course, but here he had more of a cover to maintain…
“But I don’t think you’re the–” Korucun broke off suddenly, drawing in a sharp little breath, and in the shadows the whites of his eyes showed abruptly brighter around his irises. Startled at the expression, Sano whirled to follow the direction of his gaze, and he too found his breath catching when he saw what Korucun had seen.
There had been no sign of the man’s appearance or approach up until now, and he’d already come within a few yards of them. He moved utterly noiselessly, seemingly unaffected by the fact that they’d noticed him, and as he drew closer he also drew a keonblade whose sudden flash into energy momentarily brightened the scene. Though he was fairly clearly a man, judging by the shape of his body, little else could be determined about him; he had a hood pulled low over his face, which was consequently hidden in shadows. But if this wasn’t the assassin that had attempted to kill all the white devoted — and succeeded at one of them — it was, at least, somebody with a very similar purpose.
“Korucun,” Sano commanded in a low, tense tone, “run.”
“…and the guy came charging at us totally silent; I could barely hear his feet even when he was running. It was pretty creepy, but I drew my sword and got ready to fight him. He didn’t say anything — like, to explain what he was doing or why — but it wasn’t like we couldn’t tell he wanted to kill us.”
“Or just you,” Hajime speculated. His tone was tight, and he remained standing beside the table, not having found a seat anywhere in the room to listen. He was clearly hanging on Sano’s every word, which under other circumstances Sano would have found extremely gratifying.
Sano took a shaky breath. There were so many ways he could have responded to that brief statement, but some of those options — the most appealing, really — were sarcastic, and he didn’t have a drop of sarcasm in him at the moment. Probably best just to go on telling his story.
As the figure finished its approach, drawing up to Sano with those eerily quiet steps, Sano had a moment of relief and confidence as he reflected, Oh, this guy doesn’t actually move all that fast. And it was a moment in which he could easily have died. For what he mistook for slowness was a transition from running to attacking as fluidly smooth as a river that, under its apparent languidness, has a deadly swift current. The backhanded slice of the enemy’s sword, taking Sano unawares with its deceptively fast appearance of sluggishness as it did, should have removed him from the battle before he entered it, possibly even killed him immediately if it caught him in the neck rather than the chest. But in an instant of unexpected confusion, and more motion and heat than Sano’s awareness of the situation could account for, he felt nothing — no sudden, precise slice of pain from the energy blade, no blunter strike from the physical sword within — for it suddenly wasn’t his chest taking the blow. Nor was it the enemy’s body or weapon that met the keonblade Sano was raising in an anticipated attack of his own.
“Ko–!” Sano’s gasped-out cry of surprise and horror only got as far as the first syllable of the man’s name as the red devoted of Tomoe collapsed backward onto him, and Sano’s sword, abruptly devoid of energy, clattered to the ground.
Korucun had thrown himself into the middle of this with his back to Sano and arms spread, as if to shield him, but as he tumbled into Sano’s fumbling grasp, his head turned enough that Sano could see his expression — fear, pain… and determination. Maybe a touch of regret, but certainly no surprise. This was what he’d meant when he’d talked about meeting Tomoe. This was what he’d meant when he’d said, ‘so soon.’ He even made a brave attempt to smile now as he choked out, “Tomoe bless you, my friend.”
There wasn’t time for anything beyond that; just those five words, and he went limp. And Sano was left staggering backward under a suddenly dead weight and an oppressive purple sky.
This old picture wasn’t actually drawn for the drug trip scene, but the effect I believe I intended as rain back then does make it a little surreal, so here it is.
Even in a series where I’m open to lots of potential pairing arrangements, I still have an optimal lineup of couples that provides me with the greatest possible satisfaction at one time. My favorite arrangement of Rurouni Kenshin characters is as follows:
Saitou and Sano
Kaoru and Kenshin
Chou and Kamatari
Aoshi and Soujirou
Hiko and Megumi
Enishi and Misao
Shishio and Yumi
This leaves some characters I’m fond of — Katsu, Tomoe, and Gein, for example — without romantic partners. In combination with the lineup above, I tend to prefer Katsu with practically OC Tokio, Tomoe as Kenshin’s ex (probably dead, poor thing), and Gein as all the single ladies put your hands up.
Interestingly, I’ve never actually written a story or series of stories wherein I’ve hit every single one of these pairings. HoH is going to come close, but Enishi’s dead before the series starts and Misao and Tokio are cats. Katsu’s romantic fate is still up in the air… maybe he will become part of the first cross-fandom pairing and hook up with a Gundam Wing character? We’ll see, I suppose.
Anyway, my point is that, for a pairing that’s part of my optimal lineup, I don’t give Chou and Kamatari nearly enough love. They’re just so freaking adorable together. So I drew a picture of them in their canon outfits (and with Kamatari’s anime hair color, which I am fond of but which tends to revert to manga red for just about every story I write that mentions it). It took me, like, three months to draw on account of being busy, but whatevs! Yay Chou and Kamatari!!
Why did Saitou kiss Sano on their way into Shishio’s fortress? Can Sano figure it out now Saitou is dead?
Two steps earlier and Kenshin would have seen. Two steps later and Yumi would have. Two seconds shorter and Sano wouldn’t have been quite shocked enough to keep quiet; two seconds longer and, again, Yumi would have seen.
Saitou certainly had a good sense of timing.
This wasn’t Sano’s only thought on the matter, but it was one of the more prevalent. The universe seemed to have handed Saitou that moment, that perfect opportunity, to surprise and confuse the hell out of Sano, and Saitou had not been remiss in accepting.
And now he was dead.
How long he’d been awake Sano couldn’t be sure; dream and waking thought tended to blend rather uncomfortably when you were wounded. Had he been dreaming about Saitou and was now consciously thinking about him? Or had he been awake, contemplating, and slipped into a dream that still gripped him? Honestly it didn’t matter much; such metaphysical questions paled in comparison with the greater query, Why had Saitou kissed him?
Sano sighed (a gesture that, he thought, indicated fairly well he was awake). He could recall the exact feeling of Saitou’s lips on his, the racing of his heart, the shock that had suffused his entire body, the taste and the smell… but why? Had it been an apology for all the ill treatment? A premature profession of a secret passion? A goodbye preceding what Saitou knew was coming? Or perhaps just a whim?
Saitou was an asshole. This Sano’s logic told him with alarming frequency while these reflections meandered through his head. Saitou was an asshole, and why he’d done anything he’d done during his lifetime could not be a question worth asking. Nor Saitou, the asshole, worth pursuing, nor the feel of his kiss a sensation worth dwelling on. But Saitou was also intelligent and persistent and honorable. Not to mention attractive as hell, but what did that matter? The guy was dead.
The ability to predict and plan for the moment of his own death was something Sano would not put past Saitou’s impressive skill, so perhaps it had been a sort of goodbye. The concept of a ‘goodbye kiss’ was not unusual, after all… just totally bizarre in this context. Because why a kiss? From Saitou? Though it didn’t seem too out of character for Saitou to have left Sano with an insoluble mystery in an aggravating memory just to drive him crazy after he was dead…
And Sano couldn’t regret it. After all, apology, proposition, or farewell, it was the only one he’d gotten.
He’d felt for some time that Saitou’s disliking of him, strongly expressed though it was, really didn’t exceed Saitou’s disliking of anyone else… that Saitou might, perhaps, not even dislike him much at all. It had been a significantly shorter time since he’d started thinking his disliking of Saitou might not be as intense as he’d all along believed. Was that merely because he felt bad about Saitou’s death? Was he cutting him slack because they’d fought side by side and Saitou had eventually given his life for the cause? Sano couldn’t be certain it was only this and not something more, because he’d never bothered attempting to analyze his feelings before.
That analysis was not proving very successful now. His hands ached, his head ached, his entire body ached, and he was operating in a state of perpetual weariness; the mental fatigue that came with this topic clouded the issue further, until he could barely think straight. And wasn’t it a moot point in any case? With Saitou dead, did it really matter how Sano had felt about him?
As little able as he was to distinguish sleep from waking at any given moment of this contemplation — he knew he’d had some real sleep since coming back from the fortress, and acknowledged vaguely that it was now the next day, but more details than this eluded him — he felt it was about time for another long attempt at some real rest… the kind that didn’t involve surreal memories of Saitou’s hand gripping his jaw, holding him in place for precisely four and a half seconds, and what the hell that meant. Afterward, maybe seeing how everyone else was doing and getting a more coherent version than they’d had on their return of what had happened in their absence would distract him from what he’d been thinking about ever since that return.
Just as he was lying back down, however, from the seated position in which he’d been dully looking around the room he’d been occupying in what remained of the functional chambers of the damaged inn, there came a knock at the door. Most likely, he thought, here was that hyperactive girl trying to find anyone to talk at when everyone was as busy resting as she should be after the ordeals of the last few days, but he retracted this speculation when the knock was not repeated.
Despite its probably being someone else, then, he considered not answering, pretending to be asleep — but only for a moment. He might as well see what whoever it was wanted. Something interesting (distracting) might be going on that would be even better than rest for him at present, since if he actually managed to fall asleep he couldn’t be at all certain what type of dreams he would have (or continue to have). So he called for the unknown to enter.
It was one of the two Oniwaban guys, Kuro or Shiro (visually they were perfectly distinct, but Sano sure as hell couldn’t remember which name went with which man), and all he’d come for, he explained apologetically when he saw Sano lying down, was to bring up a note that had just been delivered to the Aoiya. Thinking he’d been right not to pretend to be asleep, Sano thanked the guy and accepted the folded paper, though he didn’t open it until he was again alone.
Its purport was merely that he should come immediately to a certain room of a certain inn, and the unfamiliar handwriting, strong but neat, had a dictatorial slant to it that matched the style of the language.
What was this? Whom was it from, and what did it mean? The writer had put Sano’s full name on the outside, so it certainly hadn’t been misdelivered, but they sure hadn’t bothered to put their own name at the end of the message. With the conflict over and Shishio dead, what kind of meeting would someone feel the need to summon him to at this point?
None of this mattered much, he reflected as he rose from his futon and looked around for something to wear. Pursuing this mystery would be an engrossing pastime, and in that light the note was little less than a godsend.
Given how imperiously it ordered him to come, Sano thought its writer might at least have provided directions to the area of town where his destination was located. He intended to go, and go immediately as instructed, but there was no guarantee, in this unfamiliar city, he would be there anytime soon. That was fine with him — a relaxing walk with thoughts of this unknown communicator to keep him from what he’d been agonizing about was exactly what he needed — but how the sender of the note would feel about his probable lateness he couldn’t guess.
It had rained significantly sometime while Sano had been unconscious, in pain, deliberating, and analyzing, and the brisk wet air under the silver cover of clouds made Kyoto feel like a different world than the one he’d walked through with Kenshin and Saitou to reach the path to the shrine. Of course, that one of those men was dead had an impact on the scene as well. Every death made the world a different place; Sano wasn’t sure why this one should make so much more of a difference than most. Maybe because it had been preceded by that damned inexplicable kiss.
But he really must stop thinking about that. Whatever secretive and dangerous circumstances he was preparing to put himself in would not be improved by thoughts of the taste of Saitou’s breath through barely parted lips, and wasn’t the entire point of going to force his mind away from that topic? Firmly Sano started running through names of potential senders of the note and potential reasons for their having sent it.
Though he’d come up with a few scenarios whose pieces more or less fit together, though sometimes only roughly, by the time (after having separately asked three people for directions that had turned out to conflict in various aspects) he found the stupid inn he was looking for approximately ten thousand miles away from his starting point, nothing he’d thought of seemed terribly likely. This wasn’t terribly important, since the distraction had been unobjectionable, and now he was finally here he could concentrate on what this situation actually turned out to be rather than his speculations about it.
The place looked normal enough, Sano considered as his gaze swept across the second-floor windows, all of them in perfectly natural and innocuous positions, where the room he needed must be located. Of course an enemy could be waiting up there to attempt to kill him silently, or possibly the entire inn was in on the ambush or whatever it was… Sano couldn’t think what enemy it was likely or even possible to be, but it wasn’t impossible. Still, he didn’t really mind walking into ambushes; one against many was his specialty. He would have preferred to be less tired and incapacitated, but everyone needed a handicap now and then, right?
When the employee inside, upon hearing of Sano’s errand (just that he was supposed to meet someone, not that he anticipated an attack), merely directed him politely as if this was expected, Sano’s suspicions intensified. He saw no one all the way up the stairs, and the second-floor corridor was empty, but he listened hard at every step for anybody that might burst out of one of these rooms or try to sneak up behind him. And when he reached the door he needed, after double-checking the note he then thrust into his pocket so as to have his hands completely free, he tensed for action before knocking. He couldn’t help hoping there might be a really fun fight waiting for him in here, and he could lose himself in those good old emotions and forget about everything else for a while.
The door opened, and Sano found himself staring up into narrow golden eyes.
“I sent that message over two hours ago. What could possibly have taken you that long?”
Sano could have told him to fuck off, that Saitou was not entitled to his presence in a timely or even an untimely fashion, that Saitou should feel damn lucky Sano had bothered to respond at all to an anonymous note mysteriously ordering him around, that he might have been in the middle of something and had taken his sweet time responding. He might even have told the truth, admitted he was unfamiliar with the layout of Kyoto and had made one or two wrong turns on the lengthy trip over. But he actually said nothing, at least at first.
For the world seemed to go simultaneously unnaturally sharp at all edges and blurred in the middle, while the saturation of every color fluctuated wildly. A sudden pressure in his head combined with an erratic jumping of his heart made him feel as if he was suspended by the latter in a haze of surprise and other, less definable emotions above an unknown abyss.
The first he knew he was swaying was when Saitou caught him. The feel of the man’s hands on his arms, hot and alive, jolted him out of his momentary syncope. And when the officer said with unexpectedly warm sarcasm, “That happy to see me, are you?” it worked further to bring reality back.
“You asshole,” Sano gasped, and, neither content to leave it at that nor able, just yet, to articulate anything more meaningful, repeated himself in a stronger tone. Finally, after what seemed at least an entire minute during which Saitou had drawn him into the room, guided him to a seated position on the mat, and dropped down beside him, he felt up to continuing. “You survived. You fucking survived, and let me think you died.”
To this there was no response, and Sano needed none to know the rebuke was unjust. Everything around him signified this was almost the earliest possible moment he could have been called here: near the futon not far off were indications of a doctor’s having been in attendance until recently; a thoroughly consumed meal’s empty dishes, though neatly stacked, had not yet been removed; and a packet of what looked like official paperwork had not yet been untied or attended to… indeed, that Saitou was here at an inn at all, rather than already back at a police station plugging away again, seemed meaningful.
And the very instant Sano’s brain had finished up these thoughts, he was overcome once again with the abrupt memory of Saitou turning suddenly toward him, gripping his chin, and kissing him firmly for four and a half seconds. From the cold and light-headed whiteness it had undoubtedly attained during his brief weakness, Sano’s face transitioned instantly to a burning heat that was probably brilliant red. Was that why Saitou had brought him here? To explain his strange behavior? And what would Sano say when he did? He never had figured out how he felt about it.
He opened his mouth to demand to know why Saitou had kissed him, but found he couldn’t quite bring himself (indeed, didn’t even really know how) to tread such vastly alien territory. What emerged instead was, “So how did you get out of there? Seemed like there wasn’t even much ‘there’ to get out of when we were leaving.” The words sounded surprisingly rational, considering how different they were from what he really wanted to say, what he really meant.
“There was a second exit on the other side of the canyon,” Saitou replied, “though it did take some work to get to.”
“Shit! Did you have to climb burning wreckage and stuff?” Though Sano was legitimately alarmed by the mental image of that escape, what he meant by the question was, ‘Why the hell did you kiss me?’
“In between dodging it,” Saitou nodded.
Impressed rather in spite of himself, the younger man gave the older a more thorough visual examination than before. Like Sano, Saitou had abandoned for the moment the ensemble, now rather the worse for blood and battle damage, he generally favored; he wore a more traditional kimono and hakama from under which bandages peeked in bright contrast to the outfit’s dark grey and black. And like Sano, Saitou had about him the kind of passive pained weariness that comes after the first long rest following injury and exhaustion. But in general, remarkably, “You don’t even look all that much more hurt than you were when we left.”
Saitou’s lips lifted at one corner as if he could tell this near-praise was delivered almost against Sano’s will, but he probably couldn’t tell that what Sano would rather say was, ‘So why’d you kiss me?’ At any rate, his reply was, “It looks like you managed to stumble back without hurting yourself too much more as well.”
“Excuse me, dickface,” Sano retorted, instead of asking why Saitou had kissed him, “I am capable of walking across town without fucking dying.”
“But apparently not without taking two hours.” It was irritating how attractive those thin lips could be even when arranged in such a mocking expression.
“You know, you’re lucky I came at all. An unsigned note telling me to come to some strange place for some reason it didn’t bother to mention?” Sano was pleased to make one of the points he hadn’t been able to when he’d first arrived, even if the point behind that point was, “And now you’re going to tell me why you kissed me, right?”
“Certainly nobody with an iota of sense would have come in response to a note like that,” Saitou agreed with mock solemnity. “I was counting on that.”
“Bite me,” Sano growled. “Or at least goddamn explain why you kissed me yesterday.” Yesterday? Had it really been only yesterday? He felt like he’d been dwelling on it for a lifetime. With an effort he forced himself to ask, “Why the hell did you even call me here, anyway?”
“I thought you might want to know I was still alive.”
“You really thought I’d care, huh?”
Rather than point out that, just minutes before, Sano had grown faint at the revelation and then profanely reprimanded Saitou for not telling him sooner, the officer merely said, “I thought it might at least be interesting to you.”
“You know you could have said that in the note, though, right?” Annoyed that he had reacted so dramatically, whether or not Saitou had called him on the discrepancy, Sano sounded more surly than he actually felt. “I didn’t have to come all the way across town when you could have just written, Hey, I’m still alive, and actually signed it.”
“But I couldn’t kiss you from all the way across town.”
Having gone so long without bringing it up and then made inroads away from the topic, then giving this statement so blandly, Saitou took Sano completely and shockingly by surprise, and he’d leaned in and almost connected with Sano’s lips before the stunned young man could react to the words or the gesture. As in the previous instance, Saitou’s nearness and intoxicating smell overwhelmed him, and Sano was for an instant entirely paralyzed.
And then, jumping as if stung, he jerked back and raised a hand to block access to his mouth. “Fucking–” he gasped. “No, just– stop that!”
Though the time that passed between this broken admonishment and Sano’s subsequent words was the span of a breath and no longer, it was enough to observe, interpret, react, and feel a great deal. For Sano thought he read in Saitou’s slight straightening movement toward his previous position some disappointment and resignation, and just that was enough to provide a few answers or at least conjectures to similar effect.
Saitou had summoned him here not merely to let Sano know he was still alive, but to reiterate the overture he’d made at the gates of the fortress… and in that brief moment before Sano explained himself, Saitou interpreted Sano’s impetuous reactive words as a rejection, and was disheartened by it. This was simultaneously, even in that fraction of a second, empowering, pathetic, and irritating to Sano.
He could never have predicted that, having (or perhaps being) something Saitou wanted, he would be able to hold over Saitou’s head his ability to deny him that desire. The lightning-fast realization that he didn’t want to deny Saitou that desire didn’t change the fact that, with this unexpected influence in mind, they were on much more equal footing than they’d ever been before. Much more equal footing was much more solid footing, and Sano felt abruptly much more sure of what to say, much more able to deal with this scenario.
And even that merest hint of disappointment he thought he saw in Saitou made him feel bad for the man. Who hadn’t, after all, experienced fear of rejection, fear of losing or even entirely failing to gain a desired prize? Saitou had too much pride to display anything beyond just that faint hint that couldn’t be hidden, but just that faint hint had been enough to make Sano pity him and feel more disposed toward his cause.
And this was annoying. A normal person, someone not intolerably arrogant and overconfident in their own powers, would perhaps say words to the effect of, ‘I like you; let’s have a romance.’ There might be presents involved, or at least pleasant conversation or other signs of friendship preceding the declaration. But not Saitou Hajime. Saitou would kiss a guy out of the blue, unsolicited, unwarned-for, unexplained, then allow his victim to suffer agonies of indecision and confusion, then try to repeat the performance without ever giving any other overt signs of interest or even good will… and then make a grippingly pathetic display of his manfully repressed sorrow at the apparent failure of his scheme. What a marvelous jerk.
And yet Sano didn’t want to say no, and did feel something in response to Saitou’s disappointment.
He might have tried to play with that power he suddenly felt he had over the other man, but couldn’t quite bring himself to evoke a possibly even stronger dismayed reaction in Saitou. Though Saitou would certainly deserve that, it might get Sano thrown out on his ass before he could admit he was just messing around, making the whole situation much more difficult and uncomfortable. Also, he maybe wanted to hasten, as best he could, the moment when Saitou would kiss him again.
So he lowered his hand, leaving his lips unguarded, and said loftily, “We need some First Kiss rules before you can do that.”
Saitou’s lean toward Sano disappeared completely as he sat straight again, eyebrow raised. “And the previous kiss doesn’t count why?”
Sano’s glare was one of righteous indignation. “Because you didn’t explain anything — like why the hell you did it — and then you went off and died.”
Any and all signs of unhappiness had vanished from Saitou’s demeanor, and the skeptical expression on his face took on a touch of amusement. “Setting aside the fact that neither of those things makes this our first kiss, are those the rules you want? ‘Tell you why I’m kissing you,’ and ‘don’t die afterwards?'”
Pensively Sano replied, “Also you have to promise you’re not just fucking with my head — because you’ve pretty much been nothing but a complete bastard all along to me, so it’s hard to believe you kissed me except to mess with me.”
“Is that all?” Saitou asked with an exaggerated air of patience.
“Um, no, also–”
“These are a lot of rules for something that’s only going to happen once.”
“Well, yeah, but a First Kiss is important!” Sano too was impatient to get on with this thing, but he meant what he said. “It’s a big moment, and it means a lot — it sort of sets up how everything’s going to go from then on!”
“So when you beat me up outside Katsu’s place, you were saying…”
Saitou’s brows both rose as Sano proceeded to elaborate the fourth rule. Presently, with a slight sound of frustration that might have been his forbearance snapping, he leaned forward again and cut Sano’s words off entirely by kissing him.
As Sano’s lips worked slowly against Saitou’s, opening gradually at the advancement of a tongue that tasted more of soba and green tea and less of cigarettes than he would have expected, every nerve in his body seemed to intensify in its receptiveness so his injuries throbbed like his heart. He felt sensitized and dizzy and overwhelmed, and he clutched at Saitou with painful hands as the man pushed him slightly backward with the fervor of their connection.
This was Saitou being an tyrannical asshole again, but Sano could not have complained even if he’d had breath and opportunity to do so. As a First Kiss it was acceptable, even superior, and as a representation of the rest of their relationship, whatever that turned out to be, Saitou muscling past any preexisting animosity to startle and incapacitate Sano with something new and shockingly wonderful seemed neither inaccurate nor undesirable.
When after some time they divided like a chemical bond breaking, forming two entities from what had previously been one, Sano was panting heavily and almost painfully and watching little darting, sparkling dots at the edges of his vision. He was definitely in no physical condition, at the moment, for kisses that passionate; if he had been, he would probably have flung himself on top of Saitou at this point and demanded more… never mind that Saitou’s physical condition seemed even worse than his.
“I did that,” Saitou said somewhat breathlessly, “because I like you. And I have no intention of dying any time soon. And if this weren’t such a bad time for it, I would drag you onto that futon over there and prove that I’m not just fucking with your head.”
The rush of hot blood mobilizing through Sano’s body at these words and at the look in Saitou’s eyes, making him feel all over again as if he might faint, only served to reiterate what he’d just been thinking and Saitou had essentially just said: that, despite how much both of them would love to continue this experiment, this was not a good moment for it. All the interesting possibilities that had arisen between them must be put off until another time.
“I might drag myself onto that futon over there and take a nap,” Sano muttered.
“No. I have paperwork to do, and I can’t have that temptation lying there the whole time.”
Sano couldn’t help grinning a little at what was essentially a compliment no matter how coolly Saitou had delivered it, but he was concurrently annoyed. “You want me to walk all the way back across town again?”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to.” Saitou threw a look half regretful and half irritated at the bundle of papers.
“You and your stupid dedication,” Sano snorted.
Saitou’s gaze returned to him, the quirk of his lips and the narrowness of his eyes now clearly teasing. “Think you can manage it in less than two hours this time?”
“Probably not. I know the way better, but I’m in worse shape now — which is your fault, by the way.”
Without responding to the accusation, Saitou just said, “You’d better get going as soon as possible, then.”
“Fine!” Only Saitou would start something like this and then dismiss his partner like that. Sano climbed laboriously to his feet, somehow managing not to reel once fully upright, and stuck out his tongue at the smirking policeman. Then he turned toward the door. When he’d opened it, before actually leaving the room, he glanced back briefly, perhaps to offer a goodbye, though whether it would be friendly or belligerent he couldn’t be quite sure.
His breath caught, however, and he found himself incapable of speech of any kind when he observed Saitou smiling at him as Sano had never seen him smile before — with a look of fondness, of genuine pleasure, of satisfaction untouched by mockery. In the face of this interesting unknown he’d somehow unlocked, Sano clutched at the doorframe in an unexpected repeat of his earlier imbalance as he blushed madly… but he did manage a return smile before departing.
He made his way back to the Aoiya in continued dizziness and a mixture of buoyancy and discomfort. His injuries hurt more severely than before, and he was far more exhausted than he should have been after a mere two leisurely walks (even with an earth-shattering kiss between them), but his fluttering heart seemed to keep him half-hovering off the ground, and his emotions, though not significantly more coherent than they had been earlier, were now such a pleasant tangle as to give a vigor he could not otherwise have expected to his steps.
By the time he’d reached the blue roofs, some of them even more damaged than he was, and let himself in and found his way back up to his room as quietly as possible, he was happily, fuzzily contemplating both the general future with its bizarrely unexpected pleasures and the very immediate prospect of some thorough rest and recuperation almost this very moment. Though famished and still curious about what his friends were and had been up to, he must consider sleep his absolute first priority; with one contact of lips, Saitou had managed to enforce that.
Sano thought he understood, now, the meaning of the original kiss that had so baffled him at the time. It had been neither apology nor goodbye, as he’d speculated (though there had probably been in it some smugness at the thought of how much it would puzzle and annoy Sano until it could be explained); it had been no declaration of deepest affection, nor yet a meaningless whim; in fact it had been nothing more nor less than a suggestion of something they might try and see how they liked it. Which meant Sano didn’t need to figure out how he felt about Saitou, since the experiment was not over; actually it had just begun.
Currently he felt pretty damn positive about him, despite how much Saitou had annoyed him even during the pleasant parts of their conversation. Currently he felt pretty damn positive about everything. Getting some proper sleep was going to be a lot easier now.
For a second time, however, just as he was lying down and preparing to rest, in this instance far less worried about (indeed, rather looking forward to!) the type of dreams he might have when he did, there was a knock at the door. Also for a second time he speculated it was probably Misao, and also for a second time was proven wrong.
It was the other of the two Oniwaban guys, Shiro or Kuro, and the déjà vu of debating over appellations augmented that of seeing the note just delivered to the Aoiya. That it had arrived directly on Sano’s heels reiterated one of yesterday’s startling points: what an uncannily good sense of timing Saitou had. And Sano’s full name on the outside of the folded paper was so identical to the first, he had to pull the other out for comparison before he could believe there actually were two notes. Then, once again having waited until he was alone, he opened the message.
I thought about it, and that one may not have qualified either. We had better discuss your other rules and try again tomorrow. Come by at around lunch time.
Sano lay back down in triumph and weariness, hugging the refolded note to his chest. That was right; that was exactly right. Saitou recognized his First Kiss requirements, that they hadn’t all been elaborated upon, and that another attempt must be made at meeting them. And if he and Sano didn’t manage it tomorrow, they could easily give it another shot the next day. Eventually, when wounds had started to heal and bodies had regained some stamina (and perhaps when paperwork had diminished a trifle), they could try more than once in a day. His standards were fairly high on this point, after all; the number of attempts it might require could not really be fathomed at this juncture.
He plunged toward sleep happily anticipating something he would not previously have considered a matter of question, something he would have taken entirely for granted before yesterday: the probability that he would never have a proper First Kiss with Saitou.
I’ve rated this story . The part where Sano reacts to Saitou reacting to Sano blocking his attempted kiss is my absolute favorite. The rest of the fic is pretty good, but that part is genius, if I do say so myself. Too bad I can’t say the same about the illustration XD
Month after month after month, I put off my art exchange piece until the last weekend of the month, draw something barely passable at best, and tell myself, “Next month I will start as soon as I get the assignment so as to work on it in whatever spare time I happen to have all through the month so my picture will NOT SUCK.” And month after month after month, this doesn’t happen.
But in September, by some miracle, I actually managed to do it. And behold! The picture does not suck!
“You always thought I’d get myself killed doing something stupid before I was twenty-five… but here I am a hundred and forty-eight, and you’re the one who can’t get through half a life.”
A modern-day American cop isn’t sure what this unnervingly familiar vampire wants from him, until Sano reveals the tragic events of a past life and his undying connection with a Meiji-era Japanese cop.
This story was last updated on November 26, 2019
I’m so rarely afraid of anything that when I do happen to encounter something that scares me, I hardly know what to do about it.
It would be easier to decide on a course of action if the source of my fear were something that might reasonably frighten a normal man — but this sudden, irrational wariness of the teenager leaning against the wall near my apartment door isn’t really something I know what to do with. I stop, under the pretense of checking something in the car before I get out, to examine the stranger.
About my height, though he’s slouching and that estimate could be off; a pale, Asian face with dark-lashed eyes; shaggy brown hair — I can’t tell how long, as it’s pulled back; seems fairly lanky, though not a lightweight; and could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty-two-or-three. He doesn’t appear threatening — at least not in any way I, as a cop, would normally consider threatening; there are, of course, any number of things that could be hidden under the jacket he’s wearing, but his bearing doesn’t suggest him ready to attack at any moment. So why does the very sight of him send a chill through my entire body?
Afraid I may be, inordinately and unusually so, but a coward I am not. I’ve already determined that he doesn’t mean to attack me, and, besides that, I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest and have a gun and a nightstick at my side. Closing the car door with no more firmness or haste than I normally use, I head up the sidewalk toward the building without hesitation. “Can I help you?” I ask the young man casually.
“I was waiting for you, actually,” he replies, and though on the surface his tone is equally casual, there’s something immovably… hard… in the voice… some cold note I can’t quite place, but which sends a slight shiver up my spine and puts me even more on my guard.
“And what can I do for you?” I ask, stopping before the stranger without a flinch.
He straightens up and pulls empty hands out of the pockets of his jacket. They’re unnaturally pale in front of the black leather and even the blue jeans they fall against as they drop to his side. He’s now looking me very intently in the face; I think that staring into his eyes, which are, like his skin, uncannily bright, might well and probably should increase the irrational fear, but somehow it doesn’t. In fact, the effect is rather the opposite.
“There’s a lot of things you could do for me, Joe,” he says after a long moment of silence. “It’s gonna be up to you like always, though.”
I wonder briefly if I’m being sexually propositioned, but dismiss the notion as implausible at best. Even the boldest prostitutes don’t wait for police officers outside their own homes and then make their advances in cryptic, stalker-like language — and this isn’t the neighborhood for it at any rate. It’s also far from the center of what little gang activity there is in this city, as well as the worst areas of drug-related intrigue. Thus I’m really at a loss what this young man who knows my name and address could possibly want from me here at night with empty hands and an aura of danger.
But, once again, I am far from cowardly. “I think you’d better tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here.”
He gives a wry smile — almost rueful, I think — and shakes his head. “You’ll find that out one way or another,” he says. “This is your first chance.”
“Are you threatening me?” I ask, my cool tone far from a reflection of my state of mind.
He shrugs. “Kinda. I’ll be back in a week.” And, replacing his hands in his pockets, he turns and begins to walk away.
I’m surprised and annoyed. That someone should show up like this outside my home, frighten me as nothing has for a decade, and then walk so carelessly away after making such incomprehensible remarks… it isn’t merely unsettling and bizarre, it’s irritating. However, as I’m opening my mouth to tell him to come back and explain himself, my entire attention is arrested by something — yet another inexplicably disconcerting object that really should mean nothing to me — something that sends another shiver up my spine.
There is a large symbol in white on the back of the stranger’s jacket: some sort of Japanese character, I think, though this is just my default guess because I happen to have a Japanese-American girlfriend. But something about it freezes me to the spot and silences whatever protest or demand I was about to make. It isn’t an innately frightening sign; it doesn’t convey any meaning to me whatsoever; it certainly does not, in its design or general aspect, have any sort of hypnotic effect; but somehow it’s riveting. Because it’s… familiar…?
When the young man’s back has disappeared from my sight around the corner, releasing me from the disturbed and absorbed contemplation of the symbol thereupon, my presence of mind returns instantly and informs me that it would be absurdly foolish to let him walk away like that.
However, darting around the corner with quiet, determined footsteps, I find the parking lot completely empty — empty, silent, and calm under the peaceful moon. My eyes stray from one part of my placid and familiar surroundings to the next, my ears straining for any sound out of the ordinary in the quiet neighborhood, for a good five minutes before I turn with yet another shiver and make my way back to the apartment.
Inside, in the comforting skepticism of an air-conditioned and linoleum-floored kitchen, I analyze the confrontation as I mechanically seek out something microwaveable for dinner. I’m realizing now, in even greater annoyance than I was feeling a few minutes ago, that I wasn’t really afraid so much as disturbed by the stranger’s aspect and presence. Something inside me doesn’t want to have anything to do with the guy, even look at him. Of course there’s a certain amount of fear involved in this, but the primary reaction was and is reluctance. As if I really do know, and disapprove of, who he is and what his appearance signifies. Which seems impossible, but there it is.
And then that symbol… what did it mean? And what did it mean that I found it so terribly fascinating that I couldn’t look away or say a word while it was in view? Turning from the busy microwave, I seize a paper towel and the nearest available writing utensil, and do my best to reproduce the image; having a good eye for detail, I think I’ve done fairly well, but it means no more to me now than it did then.
A glance at the clock confirms that it isn’t too late for a phone call, but I can’t decide for a moment whether or not that would be overreacting. Eventually I opt for better-safe-than-sorry and dial Renee’s number.
“You’re calling me on a Wednesday?” she greets me. “What’s the big occasion?”
Ignoring her sarcasm I command, “Grab something to write with.”
“OK,” she says gamely, then, a moment later, “Go ahead.”
I study the figure I’ve jotted down, realizing just how stupid this is going to sound. “Draw a tic-tac-toe board,” I begin.
“Is this our date for the week?” she wonders, but I can hear the scratch of a pencil.
“Yes,” I deadpan. “Now put lines across the top and bottom about the same length as the other horizontal lines.”
“Then add a wide letter U or smile underneath.”
“Oh, I see what we’re doing.”
“Yes, but it’s not really a fair game… you don’t know any kanji, which means I never get a turn. Where are you seeing this one?”
I find myself oddly reluctant, suddenly, to tell her about the strange young man. Am I hesitant to admit how much he disturbed me? Though unsure if this is my actual motive, the impulse not to mention him is too strong to resist. So I put her off with, “I wasn’t finished.”
“Well, with dashes around and inside the ‘smile,’ and the sides of the ‘tic-tac-toe board’ closed off” — she obviously finds this quite amusing — “you’ve got ‘waru’ or ‘aku,’ which means ‘evil.'”
“Evil,” I repeat slowly. Somehow I’m not surprised. Then, in response to her expectant silence I explain, “I saw it on someone’s jacket and wondered what it meant.”
She laughs. “People wear kanji all over the place and have no idea what they actually say. At least it wasn’t a tattoo.”
“Or a shirt that says, ‘Let’s Begin To Love Myself Over Again?'” I can’t help bringing that up; I never can.
“May I remind you that that was a birthday present?” She’s laughing. “I didn’t buy it.”
“And yet you still wear it.” I really don’t feel like further banter, though, so before she can retort I add, “Thanks for the translation; I have to go.”
She must have observed that my tease was half-hearted, for after noting that I sound tired and promising to call me on Saturday for a date that will not involve tic-tac-toe, she lets me go.
I stand in the kitchen staring at the paper towel for who knows how long, eventually make slow progress with my warmed-up leftovers to the table, and turn on the TV. I don’t pay any more attention to the news than I do to my dinner, however. It’s irritating but predictable: I can’t stop dwelling on the stranger. He was giving me a chance… to do what? He’ll be back in a week… why? And what was it he thought I could do for him? It’s pointless to speculate; if he does come back, presumably I’ll find out… but I hate being left in the dark, sitting back and waiting for my turn to know until it’s too late for action.
Most engrossing, though probably not most important… why was I so perturbed by him? I didn’t know the meaning of the symbol on his back until after he was gone, so why did I find it so riveting, so nearly horrifying? But he probably couldn’t answer those questions even if I felt like making a fool of myself asking them.
The next question is why such a minor event is still bothering me so much now that it’s over. It’s understandably annoying that I was disturbed enough not to act as I logically should have, but why I should be feeling echoes of that agitation even now… why I should be feeling traces of some kind of superstitious premonition, as if that brief encounter was a herald of upheaval… why I should be feeling like there’s something I should remember but that’s just past the edge of my conscious mind… I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know.
I’m certain that going to bed is not likely to improve my state of mind, but I’m not about to change my habits or disrupt my sleep schedule for some stranger who shouldn’t really be at all unsettling.
It was probably just a prank anyway, and I’ll never see the guy again.
“Saitou,” she said. “With a mysterious, bloodthirsty psychopath murdering his way through Tokyo, I really should have been expecting you.”
“Good morning to you too, doctor,” I returned the greeting. “I’m not surprised to find you here.”
“No,” she replied sardonically, “considering I’ve managed to examine five of these things so far.”
I wasn’t about to mention how lucky I found these combined circumstances. I hadn’t yet had opportunity to examine much physical evidence, so I’d been less upset than I might have at another murder — and far from upset that Takani-sensei, who had no selfish motives or class biases and who knew me better than most, had once again been the closest doctor to the crime. The fact that the pattern had been significantly broken this time was another point in the incident’s favor.
Hironaku was getting excited over the signs of violence, which hadn’t been present at any of the previous scenes. He seemed to be missing the fact that, as usual, the victim had evidently gone peacefully without a struggle — that the smashed dishes, broken table, and dented wall had not been part of the murder — but he’d been with this case since the first corpse and had watched two other investigators make nothing of it, so his enthusiasm was reasonable. As subordinates went, he was a greater combination of tolerable and competent than most; I would probably keep him.
Takani was still kneeling beside the body, looking understandably disheveled. This certainly wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks she’d been summoned to an unusual murder scene in the early morning without even the consolation of being a police doctor. I wasn’t entirely without sympathy, but was still glad she and not some other physician was present.
A few drops of blood on the floor that had evidently come from the victim’s single wound were the only indication as to where the body had originally fallen and how it had lain. Apparently the wife, in her understandable but damnable hysteria at finding her husband the latest of possibly the most bizarre string of murders in Tokyo’s history, had dragged him out of place and might have caused more harm to the scene had her frantic screaming not alerted the neighbors and, subsequently, the police.
Only by chance had there been an officer in the vicinity at all; it wasn’t the type of neighborhood that got much attention from our upstanding and unbiased justice system. And that was the most significant deviation from the pattern here. The murders thus far had fallen into two categories: successful businessmen killed in their own homes, apparently by design; and unemployed lowlifes or homeless killed in the streets, apparently at random. This man had been an unemployed lowlife, yet, by all appearances, had still been specifically tracked to his home and deliberately murdered.
“What can you tell me?” I asked the doctor once I’d finished my methodical look around the room.
“He’s the same as all the rest,” she reported dully, “just fresher. Exsanguination and no trauma as far as I can tell. At least this time you found him soon enough for a proper autopsy.” The last remark was clearly made without much hope that she wouldn’t be the one performing it.
“Time of death?”
“He has no blood,” she reminded me flatly. “That throws everything off. Until the autopsy, I can only guess. Three hours ago, maybe more.”
I nodded as I stared down at the corpse. I hadn’t disbelieved the reports regarding the cause of death, but I hadn’t exactly believed them, either. Not until I’d seen it for myself could something so outlandish seem at all real. And I found myself a good deal more disturbed than I typically was at a murder scene. It wasn’t the abnormally pallid, dry-looking flesh and emaciated, slightly twisted frame that made it so much more horrific than usual… I’d seen bodies barely recognizable as such, turned inside out or strewn in pieces across large expanses, seen rooms so drenched in blood as to make me go temporarily colorblind. This was the exact opposite, and somehow just that… the mere absence, the complete absence of blood… that made it worse than all the rest.
Only the most puerile investigators jumped immediately to insanity as the likely motive for a crime, but this… this had the mark of a madman. Though still a madman with specific goals. The theory the previous investigators had been working with was that we had on our hands a disgruntled, jealous, overly ambitious businessman who’d hired an assassin to give him an edge and had set the killer on a few unrelated victims as well in order to cloud the issue. Not a bad hypothesis… but, typically, its flaws had either never occurred to my predecessors or had been willfully overlooked. Significant among these was a question they had entirely ignored: what would a businessman — or even an assassin — want with such a large volume of blood?
I’d been in town and on the case for several days now and still had no solid theories, and that was a deviation from pattern of another kind. Nothing we knew so far was remotely conclusive; indeed, every new clue we turned up seemed to point in a different direction from the last.
The final deviation was the witness. Every previous victim seemed to have been killed in complete solitude, and a few of them hadn’t even been discovered for days. But this man had been entertaining at the time of death — a guest who’d been knocked hard into a wall and fallen thence onto the table where the sake they’d been sharing had rested… but who might have seen something before that, who might be able to explain why a struggle had been necessary to subdue him but not the man actually being murdered.
I worked my way through the scene once more. I felt like I was missing something, or perhaps that some of this was making more sense to my subconscious than to the surface of my mind. Either way, I didn’t think I was likely to learn anything more from the room at the moment. “Let’s get him out of here. Takani-sensei, you’ll perform the autopsy?”
Hironaku looked at me askance but said nothing.
“Of course,” the doctor answered, heavily but unhesitating, as she rose. She wasn’t happy about this; it was rather outside the boundaries of what she usually dealt with, her connection to the Kamiya dojo notwithstanding… but she was resigned, and not lacking in the aplomb necessary for her profession.
I’d sent for a closed wagon to transport the body, and at my orders a few of the men who waited outside got the latter wrapped and loaded onto the former. “The wife was taken to the south station?” I asked another.
“Have arrangements made for her for the next couple of days, and one of you stay here to keep the curious off. I’m going to look this place over again after I’ve questioned the witness.” He repeated his acknowledgment, and I left him discussing with the others who would return to the station and who would stand guard.
“I doubt your ‘witness’ is going to have anything to say for some time,” Takani warned me quietly.
“On the off chance that he’s awake and coherent and happened to see something, I’m going to look in on him.”
She was giving me an odd eye, and it seemed she might have something useful to say, but eventually she merely shook her head and remarked, “I won’t have you jeopardizing his recovery.”
I had no answer for this, since each of us knew that, if it came to it, the other would press their side of the issue — and probably knew equally well who would prevail.
By the time I handed the doctor into the cab and took the spot beside her, Hironaku was already seated looking over his notes. While I preferred to keep my thoughts organized in my head where troublesome people couldn’t get their hands on them, I had to appreciate his dedication.
“This murder method…” he remarked as the carriage began to move, then abruptly glanced at the doctor. His expressive face was as plain as a direct question whether he should discuss his theories in front of her. She wasn’t looking at either of us. I nodded.
“It reminds me of some things yakuza bosses have done to scare their people into sticking with them,” he continued slowly. “Or something similar: someone trying to send a message to someone…”
“With as much specific aim as anonymously tacking signs up on lamp-posts,” I replied. “If it’s a message, it could be meant for just about anyone, and that anyone isn’t likely to step forward.”
He sighed. “In any case, we’re dealing with one sick bastard.”
“Or more than one,” I reminded. “Don’t get too caught up in speculation until after we find out what the other man knows.” Not that I wasn’t speculating. I just wasn’t doing it aloud.
With an expression of perturbation, Hironaku nodded. In actuality I feared he might prove a little too emotionally fragile to last long… He hadn’t shown signs of excessive brittleness, but he seemed the type that might crack all at once when things piled up. Still, someone relatively competent for a short while was better than someone hopeless I couldn’t get rid of. Perhaps I could increase his longevity by letting him handle most of the paperwork. That would be doubly useful.
“I do wonder why the other man is alive at all, though,” he murmured thoughtfully after several silent moments. “Our murderer has killed eight people so far… why not this other man?”
“If you’ll allow me to speculate…” Takani had looked up abruptly. “‘Your murderer’ seems to be interested in collecting blood, not committing murder.” It was only very slight, but in her voice was the tone of someone patiently explaining something obvious. Hironaku’s expression in response was slightly amusing; it seemed this thought really hadn’t crossed his mind. Maybe I wouldn’t keep him.
“If he was equipped to extract blood from only one man,” Takani continued, “and had no idea there was anyone else there until he entered…”
“Oh?” Now I was curious, and turned to regard her with a raised brow, wondering what she thought she knew. “Why would he assume his victim was alone?”
“Oh?” she echoed. I got the feeling she was somewhat darkly pleased at having information that I lacked. “None of your fine officers were able to identify the other man?” Finally I comprehended her earlier odd expression as she added pointedly, “I doubt anyone besides the victim knew Tsukioka-san was there, or would be there, at that time. He’s not the type to let people know what he’s planning.”
I nodded slowly. That complicated things.
“…of all the stupid things. A degree in criminology, and they’ve got me hunting vampires.”
Overhearing this at the station the next day is not exactly comforting. Nor is the fact that I make mental connections as fast as I do.
“I don’t know what else to call them, though… I’ve never seen murders like this before, and neither have you.”
Curious as I am — and I am — I decide not to ask. Better not to know the details of this elaborate hoax. It isn’t my case anyway, and it certainly won’t help keep my mind off the strange, pale visitor of last night.
The latter, as I somewhat anticipated, is in and out of my head throughout the day. The same questions I’ve been asking about him all along arise and are steadfastly ignored while I get what I need to do finished. Even more assiduously I ignore the movie lines that keep popping up in my head trying to distract me… things like, “You know how few vampires have the stamina for immortality, how quickly they perish of their own will?” and, “The vampires didn’t realize you were following a human… did they?” and, best of all, “You’re not a full vampire until you’ve made your first kill. You were supposed to be mine… but I couldn’t…” Only then do I realize just how many stupid vampire movies I’ve actually seen. It’s very annoying.
I wonder how the stranger would react if he knew these thoughts. Vaguely putting myself in his place (assuming some sort of reasonable motive for the mysterious behavior), the idea is actually slightly amusing, in a god-forbid sort of way.
The question from last night that returns the most persistently is why this matter continues to bother me so much. Mere unusualness is not enough to justify this kind of devotion of thought. I try to tell myself that it’s the natural result of boring paperwork, that as soon as I’m out on a new case I’ll forget it entirely… but not even boring paperwork has ever led me to reflections this firmly locked on a seemingly unimportant subject before.
Eventually, thinking to drown the fixation with excess information, I give in and ask someone to enlighten me on the ‘vampire’ business. My precinct is given to gossip like some proverbial group of old women, so he’s only too happy to do so — and what I hear is no more than I expected: a couple of apparently-related killings by some unknown whose MO matches what one must assume a vampire’s would be if such creatures existed, right down to the presence of foreign DNA in the neck wounds. Predictably, keeping the press off the occurrences is taking up half my colleague’s energy at the moment.
For all our gossipy habits (and, yes, sadly, I’m forced to include myself in this description), the tales don’t leave the station; as such, the number of people outside the police force who are likely to know about this matter is small (for now, while the press is still in the dark). Therefore, little as I want to assume there are two similar hoaxes going on simultaneously in the same vicinity, I have to believe this is unconnected with my visitor — mostly because if the circumstances were connected, that complicates and darkens something I thought simply unusual.
Wait; similar hoaxes? Why, I wonder in annoyance, am I connecting them at all? Why has such a fantastic concept as vampires attached itself so tenaciously to the visitor in my head? Because he was pale, because he moved quickly and quietly, because I was disturbed by him? How utterly childish of me. Maybe I’ve been working too hard lately. I wonder briefly when I can next take vacation time. Renee would like that, anyway.
“I fucking hate vampires.”
I roll my eyes, and, with an effort of will, force myself to stop thinking about it. And once I’ve torn myself away, I manage, if not entirely without further struggle, to stay away for the rest of the day.
Leaving rather late, having lost track of the time in enthusiasm(?) for my paperwork, as is often the case, I find the parking lot dark and sparse when I finally emerge. Not even the faintest glow of sunset remains on the city-obscured horizon, and I parked in a spot where the lot lights don’t touch. It’s from the shadows near my car, which I haven’t quite reached, that a woman’s voice unexpectedly speaks: “You’ve been contacted.”
Simply because of the brazen oddity of the greeting, yesterday’s occurrence — and all related reflection — springs immediately back into my mind.
Stepping forward into the full light, she displays pale Asian features and bright eyes. When she catches sight of my face she stops moving. “Oh,” she says in a tone of understanding.
Two encounters with washed-out, glowing-eyed, cryptic Asians on two consecutive days is no coincidence — especially given the news, I can’t help but think — so I’m immediately tense, ready to make sure she doesn’t run off. “‘Oh,’ what?” I demand.
Her face takes on a sad expression. “He hasn’t reminded you yet.”
Assuming she’s referring to the young man, and considering he didn’t tell me anything, I have to assume she’s correct.
She looks even more somber at my silence. “I know you’re confused,” she says quietly, “and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But I can assure you you’ll know everything in time.”
“Everything?” I echo wryly. “Not something I ever wanted to know.”
Her smile matches my tone. “And you won’t want to know most of this. But I’d like at least to assure you that we don’t have any criminal intentions towards you.”
I frown, unable to keep from becoming suspicious at this carefully-worded statement. “Who are you?”
She looks thoughtful for a moment, almost indecisive. Finally she says, “Megumi.”
A Japanese name, I know; Renee is a fan of some trembly-voiced singer called the same thing. That doesn’t tell me much, but it’s better than no information at all. “And your friend’s name?”
Another wry smile. “‘Friend?’ Hmm. Well, his name… I’ll leave that up to him.”
This is getting frustrating. I’m tempted to return to the prank theory, but there’s something about her that seems too serious to disregard. “And what do you want?” I wonder next.
“I want nothing from you,” she says, and her slight emphasis of the word ‘I’ again makes me frown.
“Again, that’s up to him,” she replies.
There’s very little more I can ask her, given that this is not an interrogation and she’s basically told me she isn’t going to tell me anything. And as the silence lengthens, she shakes her head and turns. I don’t feel I should let her walk away, but can’t think of anything to make her stay.
Then, as she puts her back to me but before her first few steps take her out of the ring of light, I see very clearly, slung over her shoulder, a sort of leather holster that contains, unless I’m very much mistaken, a neat row of wooden stakes.
By now even my better judgment is starting to give way, and only my desire to consider this a hoax allows me to keep doing so.
Sagara answered after I’d knocked about four times, opening the door sluggishly and blinking at me for several moments. Then he scowled. Grunting, he withdrew, leaving the way free for me to follow. “I figure if you’re here to kick my ass,” he explained at a grumble, “you might as well do it inside where you won’t wake up all my neighbors.”
“How considerate of you,” was my reply as I shut the door behind me.
“Since when are you in town?”
“Since last week; I’m here for a case.”
“Then I guess I can forgive you for not showing up earlier to kick my ass.”
“Unfortunately, I have business other than kicking your ass today.”
It was the first time I’d been inside his home, and I found it a little neater than I’d expected… mostly because he didn’t seem to own very much. What he did have was enough, however, to provide sufficient clutter that his search for the upper garment he lacked was taking some time. “I thought all your Tokyo cases involved kicking my ass,” he said as he hunted.
“Hn.” I would have had a better reply for this, but I really was here on business — business he was probably going to find even less pleasant than his speculations. “Hurry up and get ready.”
He straightened, his gi in one hand, and threw me a black look. “Like I’m going to take orders from you.”
“You are if you want to hear what happened to your friend.”
The gi dropped to the floor. “Which friend? What happened?!”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
Hastily now he recovered the article of clothing and shrugged into it, demanding, “On the way where? You didn’t come in a stupid carriage, did you?”
“No. Come on.”
He followed me out the door, not bothering to lock it behind us. Of course, I didn’t know if he ever bothered to lock it.
“Well?” he demanded as we started up the street.
“Have you heard about the recent attacks?” I began.
With a snort he replied, “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that… think about where I live.”
He hadn’t heard, then; he’d have known what I meant without any elaboration otherwise. “Eight people — so far — have been killed by having large quantities of blood drained from their bodies.”
“Eight?? What the fuck are you cops doing? Is one of my friends one of ’em?!”
One of his questions was a very good one, but not one I felt like addressing right now. “He isn’t dead,” I replied. “He was found unconscious next to the body of the latest victim. He’s the first potential witness to any of the attacks.”
Sanosuke drew a deep, angry breath. “You’re an asshole, you know that? Scaring the shit of out me like that for nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. His shoulder was dislocated, his arm broken, and he has a concussion.”
“My god, you are an asshole… Why the hell didn’t you say that before?”
“He’s also incoherent and won’t talk to me.”
“I fucking wonder why,” muttered Sanosuke. “So that’s what this is all about. You want me to help you question one of my friends because you can’t do it yourself. I’d never have known he was hurt otherwise.”
“I’m fairly sure you’re his only real friend, and probably as close to family as he has at this point,” I replied coolly; “you’d have been notified if he died.”
“Shit, it’s Katsu, isn’t it?” His tone had taken on an edge of much greater concern. “Why didn’t you just say so?” When I did not reply he went on in a surly tone, “So what do I get out of this?”
I raised a brow. “Safer streets?” I suggested. “The opportunity to talk to him at all?”
“Ch…” He’d only asked in order to be perverse, I was certain; we both knew he wouldn’t refuse to help in a situation like this. “Hurry the fuck up, then,” he added.
The only reason I hadn’t taken a carriage was that I recalled how difficult he’d been the last time I’d tried to get him to ride in one. The walk between the clinic and his neighborhood took more time than I really wanted to waste, but I’d decided that keeping him in a relatively compliant mood was probably worth it. Still, my impatience to get back and get on with things led me to accede quite easily to his demand that I ‘hurry the fuck up.’
Eventually he recognized the direction we were going. “So he’s at kitsune’s clinic?”
I nodded. “Takani has been lucky enough to examine most of the bodies so far, including this latest one.”
“No wonder I haven’t seen her around lately…” Sagara murmured thoughtfully. I was vaguely surprised at the implication that he saw her around enough to know the difference; I hadn’t thought they got along that well.
As we finally approached the clinic, I broke the silence again. “He has no reason to trust me. But if you can convince him he’s safe in telling you anything that might be related to this matter–”
“Dyou realize what you’re doing?” Sagara broke in.
I glanced at him with a raised brow.
“You’re counting on me,” he stated. Though his tone was nearly flat, it had the air of a defiant announcement. “I’m doing something important for you, and you’re trusting me to do it.”
“You’re the only one who can,” I replied, by which I meant (and he knew it) that if there had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have asked him.
His face darkened briefly, then cleared, and he grinned slightly. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“Do as you please.”
We’d reached the door, and here Sanosuke paused. “All right, so what am I finding out if I can?”
“Anything he remembers about the attack, anything he thinks might be related to it. The series of events, what the killer was like, and any guess he might have about why the killer chose that victim.”
“You don’t ask much, do you?” wondered Sagara sarcastically.
“I’ll be out here,” I replied.
He shook his head and entered the building.
It took much longer than I expected. Whether this meant Tsukioka had a lot of information to relate, or that he wasn’t lucid enough to relate it quickly, or that Sagara was dominating the conversation talking shit about me, I couldn’t guess — though presumably I would find out soon enough.
The lady doctor, who’d left to get some rest after the autopsy, returned while I was waiting. She didn’t look particularly rested, however; actually, I thought the darkness beneath her eyes was even more pronounced than before. But I restrained myself and didn’t speculate about nightmares or anything less appropriate that might have interrupted her sleep, merely nodded to her.
With a grim expression she glanced from the door to where I was leaning against the wall looking out at the yard. “You found Sanosuke?” she guessed.
I nodded again.
“You know I don’t approve,” she said flatly.
“And you know it’s necessary,” I answered in a similar tone.
She held my eye for a second and then replied more lightly, “I meant your smoking just outside my clinic.” Evidently she knew better than to argue further against disturbing her patient.
I smirked slightly, darkly, as I took another drag. “That’s necessary to keep me from going insane.”
“Yes, this case of yours is enough to have that effect on anyone.” She sounded simultaneously sympathetic and exasperated, though mostly tired. “Just don’t bring it inside.”
Again I nodded, and she disappeared through the door.
Eventually Sanosuke emerged. He was moving slowly, with an unusual restraint on all his limbs, as if he were a patient here and suffering from some invisible wound; but when he looked up and met my gaze, I could see in his face a deep anger just waiting to invigorate him against some unsuspecting target. Breaking eye contact, however, he sat down on the edge of the porch with his back to me.
After several long moments of silence he said abruptly, “He doesn’t know anything.”
I lit another cigarette and waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I requested that he should.
“You can’t get much more specific than ‘nothing,'” he retorted, though I felt that, for once, he wasn’t really angry at me. He sighed slightly and went on. “He doesn’t know that the dead guy — Irutou’s his name, right? — had any enemies in particular. Apparently the guy was always going on about some big shot he used to work for named Tomizawa, but it wasn’t the kind of thing Katsu prints. But Katsu loves gossip whether he prints it or not, so it’s no wonder they were drinking together. Everything was normal, and then the next thing he knew somebody was knocking him into a wall.”
“What did he see?”
“Almost nothing, I guess… shadows… he said the lamp had gone out. Though apparently whoever attacked him moved really fast and was pretty normal-sized.” Sanosuke shrugged. “He doesn’t remember it very clearly, but it sounds like even if he did he probably didn’t see anything helpful.”
“So it seems,” I murmured thoughtfully.
“And that’s all he said.” This statement had a fatalistic edge to it, as if Sagara’s friend had died after saying all of this.
“How is Tsukioka doing now?”
Sanosuke made a noise like a snort or a grunt, bitter and angry, and said nothing; so I turned my thoughts to the minimal information he’d provided.
Though I did appreciate the artist’s remembering it, the name Tomizawa was not likely to be terribly useful. For though Tomizawa — whoever he was — might not be aware that the victim’s information on him wasn’t the sort of thing Tsukioka was interested in printing — thus providing a motive for the murder — that would not explain any of the other killings, the blood thing, or, most significantly, the fact that Tsukioka was still alive. Still, it was a name; I would have Hironaku look into it.
Sagara interrupted this brief reverie with the very stiff-sounding pronouncement, “Thanks for coming to get me.” Turning my eyes back to him, I could easily mark the further stiffness in his figure as he stared out across the yard at nothing.
“Don’t mention it,” I said.
“So this person,” he began again presently, in what I might have called a careful tone if I could have thought him capable of that. “This person who hurt my friend… he’s killed eight people, right?”
As I realized why he was asking this, I was a little surprised at my own reaction: an abrupt sinking of heart. I was certainly taking care as I replied, “That’s why I’m here.”
“Yeah, you always get to play with the psychopaths, don’t you?”
“The doctor made much the same comment.” I was still wary, not daring to hope the danger had been averted.
And it hadn’t. “So what do you know about the guy so far?”
“Nothing.” Normally I wouldn’t be so quick to admit such a complete lack of results even on a case I had only very recently taken, but I didn’t want to give him anything he might see as a clue lest he… get in my way.
“Nothing?” he echoed suspiciously. “You’ve been in town since last week and you just found a fresh corpse yesterday, and you still don’t know anything about the murderer?”
I must have been tired from staying up all night: his skepticism was slightly flattering; I wouldn’t have guessed he thought so highly of my abilities. That didn’t change the situation, however, and I threw back his earlier words: “You can’t get much more specific than ‘nothing.'”
He rose and turned to face me, staring me in the eye much as Takani had earlier. But unlike her, Sagara had no issues with arguing. “You’re lying,” he stated flatly. “You’d be way more annoyed if you really didn’t know anything. You’re lying ’cause you think it’s none of my business.”
“It is none of your business,” was my cool response. Of course he’d really only been skeptical because he didn’t want to believe I had no information. “It’s police business.”
“Bullshit,” he said emphatically. “You wouldn’t tell the families of the victims that it’s none of their business, and you said yourself I’m as close as Katsu’s got.”
“I would tell them that, if they were likely to get in my way. But I’m not lying,” I added before he could retort. “Whether you choose to believe me or not is your own business, but all I have at this point is speculation… and that won’t give you any skulls to crack.”
“Well…” It seemed I’d convinced him, for his anger had cooled. Or at least his specific annoyance at me had. “What do you speculate?”
He’d grown much stronger since our last don’t-get-involved argument, but somehow my desire for him not to get involved was also that much stronger. And while I wouldn’t hesitate to lie to him to accomplish that, there was no lie in this situation that was likely to be as effective as the truth. So I answered immediately, hoping to give the impression of compliance despite fully intending to give him more questions than answers. “Your friend’s presence would complicate even the most straightforward investigation. A political journalist doesn’t become a witness to a murder like this by coincidence.”
“Right,” Sanosuke muttered thoughtfully.
“But did they mean to leave him alive? If so, why? Does he have some information they want to see published, or is there another reason? If not, why do they want him dead? Does he know something they don’t want to get out? And why did he survive? Is the murderer simply sloppy?”
My companion’s face was now very serious and contemplative, and, given that rare circumstance, I thought I could be forgiven for staring. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “I’m surprised you’re not in there questioning him to death,” he finally remarked.
“If he does know something that’s related to this, he’s not aware of it, or he would have told you; I’m sure he trusts you enough for that. Our only option is to keep an eye on him in case the murderer really does want him dead.”
Sanosuke took the bait. “Oh, believe me, nobody’s gonna touch him again,” he vowed darkly. “And if somebody tries… well, I’ll solve the case for you.”
I gave him an assessing look, not because I was considering options but because I wanted him to think I was. This should keep him out of my way at least for a while, let him think he was helping, and (I thought) put him in no more danger than he would already have been in. I agreed with Takani’s assessment — the murderer, who was primarily after blood, hadn’t expected to find Tsukioka there and, in getting him out of the way, hadn’t cared whether he lived or died.
“Fine,” I said at last.
Sagara’s expression turned skeptical again. “What, you’re gonna let me do that?”
“I can hardly keep you from hanging around your friend, and you’ll probably be a much more competent bodyguard than anyone I could assign from the police force.”
This time he frankly gaped. “Did you just call me ‘competent?'”
“It was relative, but, yes, I believe I did.”
“Holy shit…” He had looked down, and I might have been mistaken, but I thought he was blushing slightly. I was probably mistaken.
As early as the next day, I’m forced to think about the ‘vampire’ issue again. A new body has turned up, this one in a small grocery store dumpster used for the disposal of old frying oil. Cause of death was the same, but a little more care was given this time to the subsequent disposition of the corpse, and the shape of the container and the weight of the victim make it unlikely that only one person was involved in hiding the body… These facts make my colleague somewhat wary of assuming he’s even dealing with the same murderer. But how many murderers with vampiric aspirations can there possibly be in this city? And if one or more of the crimes was imitation, which was the original? Interesting as it is, I’m grateful this isn’t my case.
Unfortunately, this discovery has been largely publicized. Last night’s news (which I, regrettably, skipped watching) talked about it, for one thing, and before I get the real details at work that day I’ve heard of it from no fewer than three of my neighbors. Whether they’re trying to comfort themselves with the reminder that they have a cop in the near vicinity, see if they can be the first to tell that cop about a murder, or just garner my approval on the plans that are evolving in the area, I don’t know.
Because plans are certainly evolving. The murder wasn’t precisely in the neighborhood, but close enough that the families in my apartment complex are thrown into a subdued panic of carpool and neighborhood watch arrangements. I know that fervor will die down after a few uneventful weeks — possibly even a few uneventful days; it always does. People strive for complacency, after all, to the point of disregarding a real threat the moment they’ve ‘done their part’ to prepare for it.
Besides instilling in my neighbors the aforementioned paranoia, this affects my life by shutting down the closest grocery store, probably for several days. Which is why Friday evening finds me walking to a convenience store just around the corner, rather than wasting the gas it would take to drive all the way to the next-closest grocery store, in search of macaroni and cheese.
Renee would certainly tease me about venturing forth on foot in the middle of a murder scare to buy what she calls fake food, but the shopping I planned to do tonight now isn’t going to happen. Of course, I would have bought macaroni and cheese at the grocery store anyway; it isn’t an inability to cook real food that makes this item a regular in my kitchen, but rather a hypersensitivity to the pointlessness of spending much time or effort making anything complicated for myself alone.
The local juvenile-delinquents-in-training that are always at the gas station pretending to be some variety of hardcore, knowing me for a cop, slink off as I approach, leaving the exterior of the store vacant and silent. Silent, that is, except for a couple of voices I can just hear conversing quietly around the corner of the building. It seems an unlikely place for a drug deal — though god (and the entire precinct) knows that well-off neighborhoods like this can produce some phenomenally naïve dealers — but since it also seems an unlikely place for any entirely innocent conversation, I stop to listen for a moment before going inside.
“–know you were back in the country until today,” a woman is remarking in a chiding tone. “You need to get a new cell phone.”
“Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed,” replies a man’s voice, “I’m not in much position for a credit check, and the prepaid ones don’t cover half the places I go.”
Startled and experiencing abruptly some of the same agitation as a few nights before, I stiffen and listen harder. It’s that vampire boy.
I have no idea when I started thinking of him that way.
“There are channels…” Having identified the young man, it isn’t difficult to recognize the other as the woman who approached me last night. Megumi.
“Fuck them,” says the young man, dark and vehement.
“My thoughts exactly,” Megumi agrees.
“Besides, they’ve figured out my connection to you across the whole damn country by now; they wouldn’t do a thing for me.”
She laughs mirthlessly and then (to judge by her tone) changes the subject. “So do you have any idea who’s vagabonding around here?”
“I thought the police might be farther along than they usually get when I felt the touch on one of them, but it was just…” Here she seems to trail off in some sort of hesitation.
“Yeah,” the other puts in abruptly, harshly. “Just him.”
Silence ensues, and lasts so long I think the conversation must be over. But then the young man goes on, now in a tone that sounds so close to tortured as to be entirely absorbing, “He’s a cop again, Meg. A fucking cop.”
“I know,” she replies quietly.
“And eventually I’m not gonna ask; I’m just gonna–”
“I know,” she repeats, interrupting. “I know.” Without missing a beat she goes on in Japanese, and he answers in the same language.
This transition doesn’t make their conversation any less comprehensible, but I have no doubt that I am the ‘fucking cop’ and that they’ve stopped using English because they know I can hear them. They know I’m here. I haven’t made a sound; I haven’t stepped forward or even moved; I feel I’m barely breathing in my efforts to catch every word… yet somehow they know I’m here.
Which means there’s no reason to keep pretending I’m not.
Walking quickly around the corner, I find myself in a sort of alley between the store and the car wash, the kind of place that seems to have been built deliberately for the kind of young men with nothing better to do that my approach spooked just a few minutes ago. It couldn’t have been constructed with much else in mind, given that it’s too narrow to house anything beyond a few large trash cans and a lot of grime.
And it’s empty.
That my first thought is, Of course it’s empty; they can probably fly, isn’t even my greatest source of chagrin; rather, it’s that it takes me nearly a minute to recognize that this was my first thought and react to it with proper disdain.
Normally this kind of stupid semi-subliminal fixation with an absurd idea would somewhat irritate but mostly amuse me; that I’m more disturbed by it than anything else in this situation suggests that it has taken far more hold of my subconscious than I really want to admit. It almost makes me angry to find myself searching the rooftops of the two buildings with my eyes, to admit thus that I don’t find it totally illogical to think the speakers might have escaped in that direction.
But, really, where they’ve gone is probably the least compelling question of the evening. Questions… I need more questions, don’t I? I feel like I should be writing them down, there are getting to be so many of them.
Beyond merely wondering at the meaning of that strange conversation, I wonder that I caught it at all. Either they deliberately allowed me to hear, or they didn’t notice at first that I was there. And since what I heard meant almost nothing to me, I have to assume the latter… and therefore that this place is a customary haunt for the young man. A block from my home.
So it appears that it isn’t his intention merely to give me an ultimatum and come back when the time is up; he’ll be watching me through this week of his. Why? Does he expect some specific reaction from me? Or is he just curious how I’ll behave under these strange circumstances? Perhaps I’ve become the subject of an undeclared, unethical psychological experiment, and there will be a reward once it’s all over if I get through with sanity intact.
Why does it bother him so much that I’m a cop, though, and what did he mean by ‘again?’ There was something in his tone as he made that remark that was completely riveting. Despite Megumi’s comment about the police being ‘farther along than they usually get,’ which logic suggests should be the most interesting part of the exchange, my mind keeps returning inexorably to the pain in the young man’s voice as he seemed to deplore my being a cop. ‘Again.’ It was the manner of one struck unexpectedly with a tragic memory, and I simply can’t think what it might mean.
If he really were a vampire… But I cut that thought off before it can bloom into absurdity. It wouldn’t provide an explanation anyway.
How long I stand in that little alley I’m not sure, but it must be quite a while; when I leave it I find that the loiterers have returned. And the irritation on my face must be rather severe, for at my appearance they scatter even faster than before.
It’s reassuring, at least, how easily I can transition from thinking about vampires to shopping for macaroni and cheese, as I’m fairly certain that means my subconscious really isn’t as convinced as some of my thoughts seemed to indicate it is; surely I would not be able so smoothly to return to the mundane of the familiar world if I truly believed I was being stalked by vampires.
I am being stalked, though, and what I should do about it (if anything) I don’t know. The woman assured me that they have no ‘criminal intentions’ toward me, but do I believe that?
“He’s a cop again, Meg. A fucking cop.”
Perhaps the young man has done this before to others — whatever it is that he’s doing — and I’m not the first policeman in his lineup. The anguish in his tone, though, which would seem to indicate that he finds it an unpleasant, even painful task to carry out makes that theory incompatible with ‘no criminal intentions.’ Other than this, I have no theories.
And why should I continue to theorize, when the issue is so obviously beyond my comprehension at this point? Personally, there’s nothing I can do about this: they are clearly capable of evading me with apparent ease; legally, I still don’t really have a basis for action, and in any event just the thought of the phone call to the precinct to report the supposed crime makes me almost shudder with chagrin; mentally, persisting in my speculations will get me worse than nowhere: if I keep up at the rate I’m going, I might well have some sort of breakdown before the week is over.
Presumably the latter will bring the answers I need. It had better, I find myself thinking grimly as I head back home with my pseudo-groceries. And despite the resolution I’m forming about this entire affair, I still have to force myself not to look behind me at every other step to see if I’m being followed. Not that I would probably see them anyway, even if they happen to be there.
When I originally started writing this story approximately forever ago, what are now odd- and even-numbered parts formed the halves of chapters. Eventually I decided I liked it better this way, since previously there was some implied connection between the specific events in the halves of each chapter, and I didn’t like giving that impression.
The idea to have the modern parts in present tense was also a later decision. I think it’s an interesting way to differentiate the timelines and the narrating voices.
And then the world exploded. Also Heero’s jaw distended horribly. Strange things happen sometimes.
“A curse affects both the victim and the caster. A skilled curse-caster can bend this effect so that their share in the curse is something they don’t mind, something that doesn’t inhibit them… but even if they manage that, repeatedly having a share in any curse leaves a mark eventually.”
When Heero rescues an abandoned doll from the gutter, he hardly thinks it’s going to change his life; but now he and his best friend Quatre find themselves involved in the breaking of a curse from almost a hundred years ago, and perhaps in falling for exactly the wrong people.
Heero was not a morning person. He did what he had to, of course (part of which was being to work on time at eight every day), but in general the world before ten o’clock seemed to him something like the setting of a horror movie — and the monsters were those perky people that could do equations and complicated analysis and be polite to obnoxious others at only the slightest notice upon awakening. On Saturdays he made sure to stay safely in bed until the coast was clear.
The problem with sleeping late, however, was that, no matter how nice it felt to awaken in his own time without an alarm, he was always rather sluggish for a while unless he had some specific task to see to immediately. Most weekends this didn’t bother him, but right now, with Duo around, he preferred to be a little more alert. So as soon as he was out of bed, he turned on some music a little louder than was his habit, and headed for the kitchen to start his coffee immediately.
“Good morning!” Duo greeted him cheerfully from his end table.
Before replying, Heero reminded himself firmly that Duo couldn’t sleep and therefore could be neither night person nor morning person at this point. “Morning,” he finally said.
Duo had muted the television with the remote lying by his side; as Heero got the coffee going he asked, “So what are we listening to?”
It occurred to Heero that he was a little too accustomed to living alone; he hadn’t even considered that his wakeup music might inconvenience Duo. This, of course, sent his thoughts out to the happy field of ‘living with Duo,’ whence he quickly reined them in because that kind of thinking wouldn’t do anyone any good. “Prisn,” he answered the question.
“Never heard of it,” said Duo promptly.
“Yeah, most people haven’t,” Heero yawned. Turning his back on the gurgling of the coffee-maker, he leaned against the counter and looked at Duo. “So what kind of music do you like?”
“Mexican circus music,” Duo replied after a moment’s thought.
Halfway through another yawn, Heero felt his brows contract in confusion. “What?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s really Mexican or what…” Duo waved an arm vaguely. “In one place I lived, there was a Mexican family next door, and they used to play this stuff really loud so we could hear it too. Drove my kid’s parents crazy. It was this really cheerful, upbeat stuff that sounded like what you hear in circus scenes in movies, and it was all in Spanish. I think.” As a sort of aside he added, “I speak maybe ten words of Spanish, and that’s Wade Spanish anyway.”
“And that’s…” Heero stared at him. “That’s your favorite music? Something you heard through a wall and didn’t understand?”
“You asked.” It was Duo’s ‘shrug’ tone, but there was a grin involved as well.
“But…” Heero couldn’t quite explain why this baffled him so much. How could someone over a century old be so lacking in any decisive opinion about music? “Didn’t you live through the jazz era? Didn’t you pretty much live through the development of all modern styles of music?”
“Well, yeah, but mostly with kids! I mean, if you had to listen to things like Mr. Green Jeans and Muffy Mouse and Hanna Montana for seventy years, you’d appreciate some Mexican circus music too!”
Heero laughed. “OK, I see your point.” Then he moved forward, picked up Duo in the hand that wasn’t holding his newly-filled coffee mug, and headed for the hallway. “But I think this is something we need to fix.”
“Onward!” cried Duo in his small voice as he was carried away from the place he’d occupied for almost the entire time he’d spent in Heero’s apartment.
Entering his bedroom, Heero felt a slight, unaccustomed embarrassment about its state. It was true that he only tolerated mess up to a point, but he knew that sometimes that point was farther along the clutter scale than others’ — certainly farther along than Quatre’s. However, the only thing Duo had to say was, “Ooh, I finally get to see your bedroom.” Which Heero really should have been expecting.
“Yes,” replied Heero calmly, and then just couldn’t help adding, “Remember what I told you about being a very good boy?”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Duo said in a deliberate tone of pleased surprise. “I mean, that’s definitely something we need to fix too, but I thought you were talking about music.”
Deciding that he probably couldn’t get away with the response he was considering, Heero just chuckled again as he set Duo down on his dresser next to his CD player. The doll began swiveling his head back and forth in a wide arc, examining the room. “Oh, you’ve got that cool hands-drawing-each-other picture,” he commented, waving an arm.
Heero nodded, unzipping the binder that held his CD’s and beginning to flip through it. Duo turned his painted eyes in that direction and watched him. “So what do you call this stuff?”
“What stuff?” Heero looked up at him, forgetting that there would be no facial expression from which to obtain a hint about Duo’s meaning. Not that he minded looking at Duo: it was always thought-provoking to see the plastic body in those little clothes Heero had bought beneath the long and bizarrely realistic hair, and Heero still liked to imagine what Duo would look like as a human.
“This music that’s playing,” Duo said.
“Oh. Well, this group’s ten fans,” replied Heero ironically, “call it ‘experimental-hard-rock-slash-neo-classical-fusion.'”
“How pretentious,” remarked Duo in his ‘grin’ tone.
Heero shrugged. “It sounds better than ‘our orchestra has electric guitars.'”
“You know how weird it’s been to watch this whole ‘genre’ thing develop?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s half a million different kinds of just ‘rock’ now, aren’t there? I mean, I remember where all there was on the radio was ‘pop’ — and for a while they were calling all of that ‘rock’n’roll’ — and ‘country-western.'”
“Really?” Heero had found the CD he wanted, and was spinning it somewhat absently around his finger while he waited for the song currently playing to end. “No classical or jazz or anything?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess there was that… But you didn’t hear people talking about ‘trance’ and ‘thrash metal’ and whatever the difference between ‘hip-hop’ and ‘rap’ is… which, by the way, what is it?”
“I’m…” Heero grimaced. “…not really sure…”
“Can’t be important, then,” declared Duo.
Heero’s expression needed very little alteration to go from grimace to grin. “OK, you’ve heard enough Prisn; now listen to this.” And he switched the CD.
“All right,” Duo agreed jovially.
They might not have found Duo a new favorite, or even broadened his musical horizons to any great extent, but Heero at least was enjoying himself so much that he rather lost track of the rest of the world for a while. He was only brought back to it, with something of an unpleasant jolt, when Duo remarked eventually, “Trowa really likes jazz.”
Because it always came back to Trowa, didn’t it?
When Heero had nothing to say in response to this, Duo went on a little wistfully, “At least he used to. He was pretty good at clarinet back in the day. Of course he was almost completely self-taught… we sure couldn’t afford music lessons. I wonder if he still plays…”
So Trowa was musical as well as magical, was he? Heero restrained himself from remarking sourly that he bet Trowa did still play, and had been practicing for ninety years and was now a virtuoso — whereas the extent of Heero’s musical inclinations was occasionally singing along with something when he was absolutely certain nobody could see or hear him.
He looked around, letting life come back into focus, and realized with a start what the time was. “Oh, Quatre’s going to be here soon to watch the game,” he said. “I’d better get dressed.”
“Aw, you’re going to change out of those sexy pajama pants?” Duo complained.
Feeling his face go abruptly hot, Heero glanced down at his cotton pants and their repeating pattern of Optimus Prime’s face. “Yes,” he said, and was pleased at how levelly he managed it.
“Well, do I at least get to watch?”
If Duo’s tone hadn’t been so clearly joking, Heero did not doubt that his own face would have gone even more red than it probably already was. In any case, he took care not to let Duo see it as he picked him up. “No,” he said in the same level tone.
Duo made an exaggerated sound of disappointment as Heero carried him back into the living room and replaced him on his end table. A moment later, before Heero had even reached his bedroom door again, the sound of the TV coming back on floated down the hall. And Heero went to change contemplating how frustrating words could sometimes be that otherwise might have been exactly what you wanted to hear.
So he liked Heero.
Duo had unmuted the television, it was true, but he wasn’t paying it any attention. His view of the hallway was mostly blocked, but he thought what he was doing could still accurately be called ‘looking after Heero.’ And if he’d had the luxury of a facial expression, it would have been pensive indeed.
The last time he’d been even remotely romantically interested in anyone had been eighty-seven years ago. Oh, sure, he’d always been able to recognize attractiveness when he encountered it, and there had been that whole coming-out thing in the 60’s… but it had all been almost more clinical than anything else — observations that led nowhere. And he’d never really thought about why he’d spent so long without anyone specifically catching his eye. But he was thinking about it now. Why exactly had this been the case? Surely over the course of nearly nine decades he should have met someone to interest him…
Admittedly he’d spend a good percentage of that time with children, but he’d gotten to know his fair share of adults as well. Also, he was a doll, but so what? His mind was the same, wasn’t it? Or had Trowa been right, all those years ago — was Duo really so petty and superficial that he couldn’t even fathom liking someone without the possibility of attendant physicality?
And, more importantly perhaps than why it had been like this for so long, what had changed now? Because something had. Was it Duo? Was something inside him maturing to allow a new interest after so long without any? Or was Heero just that overwhelmingly attractive? Perhaps it was more that Duo had some hope of regaining his humanity sometime soon, and so was allowing himself to notice humans in that light again.
He laughed helplessly at himself. This was all just another observation that led nowhere, since Heero was still clearly uninterested. Which hadn’t been a problem when Duo was idly reflecting that he might at some point start thinking of Heero as more than a friend, but could prove somewhat annoying now that he actually had.
Little time was available for him to dwell on this (which was probably for the best), as a knock sounded on the door and Heero reappeared, fully dressed, to let Quatre in. Evidently it was Heero’s turn to provide snacks again, for Quatre was empty-handed. Duo was getting the hang of these sports-oriented get-togethers.
That Duo had gone over a century without ever learning the joys of basketball seemed incredible. It was always interesting (and, to be frank, somewhat annoying) just how many things he’d never seen or done. Immortals were supposed to be knowledgeable and experienced, weren’t they? In the vampire movies, they always spoke a dozen languages and had contacts everywhere and loads of money. Duo spoke only English, could have counted his friends on one hand if his fingers separated, and didn’t even have any way to make money.
But he did like basketball. Movie immortals never did that. And they didn’t know what they were missing.
He liked Heero, too. This fact was rapidly becoming inescapable. The way Heero shook his fist and half-growled out commendations at the team he was supporting, a much less obtrusive celebration than Quatre’s cheers or the victory dances Duo would undoubtedly have done if he’d been capable, had an intense, subtle sort of happiness behind it that Duo enjoyed seeing almost as much as the skillful plays that inspired it.
Perhaps as a direct result of this, Duo was struck with the thought that playing basketball with Heero might be even more fun than watching basketball with Heero. Of course, the idea of playing anything was pleasant, for obvious reasons… but basketball in particular, especially with Heero, seemed like fun. He couldn’t be sure, of course — it had still been a relatively new sport back when Duo might have had the option to play it, and limited mostly to venues he didn’t frequent — and besides that was a pipe dream at this point anyway, but even so he had to express his curiosity on the subject.
During the next commercial break, therefore, he asked, “So do you guys ever play this game?”
“Sometimes,” Quatre replied, while at the same moment Heero said, “Every once in a while.” And they exchanged a look, the spontaneity and mutuality of which was comical even if the expression itself was not.
“What?” wondered Duo, amused.
“Two-on-two is more fun than one-on-one,” Quatre explained with a smile, “but we have a hard time persuading our friends — the friends we play stuff with — to play basketball. They’re fine with tennis–“
“As long as they can use racquets that cost at least $300,” Heero put in.
“–but they don’t think much of basketball. I think they find it a little…” Quatre trailed off as if unsure of the word he wanted.
“Ghetto,” Heero supplied.
Duo laughed, but could question no further as the commercials were over. Once a new set arrived, however, he pursued the subject. “So these snobby friends of yours who won’t play basketball… they wouldn’t happen to be the same ones who are always playing matchmaker at you guys?”
Quatre threw him a surprised look. “Yes, they are.” And he glanced at Heero as if to ask, “What have you been telling him?”
Pleased to have put these pieces together, Duo sat back (figuratively speaking) to enjoy the rest of the game.
Thereafter, Quatre announced his intention to check that Trowa had eaten something today before he went home, much to Duo’s satisfaction. It was silly to worry about not having seen his friend since Thursday when he hadn’t seen him for almost ninety years and Trowa had been just fine, but that didn’t make Duo any less pleased that Quatre was going to check on him.
“And I need to do my laundry,” Heero said as Quatre disappeared into Trowa’s house.
“Ooh, can I come with?” Duo requested.
Heero gave him a very skeptical look and said, “Why?”
“Just to spend more time in your scintillating presence,” Duo replied in a tone that indicated this should have been obvious.
“I don’t think you pronounce the ‘c’ in ‘scintillating,'” Heero said.
“Yeah, maybe not,” Duo allowed. “So can I come with you?”
Heero’s face took on a pensive expression that Duo knew very well. It was the look that said he was pondering the logistics of carrying a talking doll to wherever it was he did laundry — never very promising. What, then, was Duo’s pleasure when Heero suddenly grinned and said, “Why not? You can sit in the laundry basket.”
“I get to sit in the laauundry basket, I get to sit in the laauundry basket,” Duo sang cheerfully as Heero went to fetch what he needed. He had a feeling this was going to be a good weekend.
Quatre awoke on Monday morning at about his usual time, and for a good ten seconds was somewhat distressed and disoriented because his alarm hadn’t sounded. Then he remembered the last-minute plans for a week off, and relaxed. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, he thought for a while about what he meant to do today, then finally got up with a smile.
Although the purpose of these days off wasn’t to waste a lot of time doing nothing, Quatre had no objection to adopting a leisurely pace in what he did need to get done. This included jogging, some tidying up at home, his laundry, playing with the dogs for a little while, and, eventually, a trip to a grocery store. But he was anything but leisurely when, late in the morning (EST), he marched into Trowa’s house with his grocery bags and an expression of determination.
“Who’s there?” called Trowa from the study as usual, but Quatre did not enter that room this time. Instead, he identified himself and went straight into the kitchen.
At the store, he’d concentrated on finding things that wouldn’t go bad quickly — crackers and canned food and microwaveable frozen stuff — and was pretty pleased with his results. They certainly made Trowa’s almost completely barren cupboards and freezer look a little less forlorn.
“What are you doing?” Trowa had emerged so quietly that Quatre hadn’t noticed he was in the room until this moment. Quatre turned, a little startled, to find Trowa staring blankly at where he was trying to decide on a good place to put microwave popcorn.
“I brought you food,” Quatre answered.
Quatre had come prepared for this question. The argument that Trowa would feel better and work better if he ate regularly had thus far been entirely ineffectual, so Quatre had specifically planned on approaching this from another angle. “Do you know,” he said conversationally, “what Duo said yesterday when I told him how often you don’t eat?”
He was beginning to recognize the tiny signs of discontent Trowa gave on occasion, and now saw clearly the very slight drawing-together of brows at his question. “He complained about not being able to eat,” Trowa guessed dully.
“Well, yes,” Quatre conceded. “But he also said that somebody needs to come over here and force you to start eating on a daily basis. Obviously he can’t do it,” he added with a bright smile, “so here I am.”
Trowa stared at him for a long moment, and finally said, “Fine. What’s for lunch?”
“Um…” Quatre reopened the freezer and pulled out the first box to hand. “Looks like… shrimp scampi.”
“Fine,” said Trowa again, his entire demeanor now subtly, indefinably defeated. Then he added, “But you’ll have to join me. You cannot stand there and watch me eat again.”
“OK,” Quatre said happily, and opened the cold box in his hand.
The wisdom of this particular purchase was confirmed in the ease of preparation, though the flavor had yet to be ascertained. Once Quatre had figured out the buttons on the excessively dated microwave, he leaned against the counter and again looked at Trowa, who hadn’t left his place at the edge of the kitchen. “So how’s your progress?” he asked. “Any new ideas for Duo?”
Trowa turned abruptly away and moved toward the table. “No,” he said shortly.
After a few moments of contemplation during which the microwave was the only sound, Quatre said, “So tell me about curses. What is a curse, exactly?”
“A curse,” Trowa answered slowly, flatly, “is a malicious spell that causes a set of circumstances to take effect and can only be reversed when another set of conditions is met. Cursing is considered a branch of command magic.”
“You sound like a textbook,” said Quatre with a smile.
Trowa made a faint, sardonic sound. “I’ve had quite some time to think about the nature of magic, especially curses, and organize my thoughts on the subject.” He paused, then went on more quietly, “I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a book… but I haven’t felt motivated to do so.”
“We know what you’ll be working on once you’ve cured Duo, then!” said Quatre cheerfully.
Trowa was silent.
“So there’s an entire branch of magic dedicated to curses?” Quatre was determined to keep this conversation going.
“There are five branches of magic. Cursing is a subcategory of one of them.”
“‘Subcategory,'” Quatre murmured as he began pulling out the dishes they would need. “That makes it sound so organized.” And he knew so little about magic that any question he could think to ask on the subject was essentially a shot in the dark. That didn’t matter much, though. “So are there… specialists in these subcategories? Experts at cursing who’ll curse someone for you if you pay them?”
“Yes. They’re not very nice people.”
Quatre laughed. “Really?”
“Not just because they’re willing to curse others for money,” Trowa went on seriously. “A curse affects both the victim and the caster. A skilled curse-caster can bend this effect so that their share in the curse is something they don’t mind, something that doesn’t inhibit them… but even if they manage that, repeatedly having a share in any curse leaves a mark eventually.”
Under cover of bringing dishes to the table, Quatre stared surreptitiously at Trowa. The unhealthily pale skin, the strange eyes, the overall sickly glow… were these parts of Duo’s curse, as Quatre had vaguely assumed prior to this, or did Trowa’s knowledge of the nature of curses come from more extensive experience than just Duo? It would make sense, he thought, for Trowa to have experimented with curses over the years in order to be better prepared for meeting with Duo again… but what a miserable thought. Quatre wasn’t entirely certain he would blame him, but also wasn’t entirely ready to know for certain.
So instead he asked, “So what is it about Duo’s curse that’s giving you trouble?”
Trowa sighed faintly. “Someone who deliberately casts a curse has a limited control over and understanding of what is required for the curse to be broken. But this wasn’t meant to be a curse; it was the artifact that twisted my spell into one. I have no idea what needs to happen for Duo to be human again.”
“And your divinations haven’t answered the question,” Quatre finished for him, “and your research hasn’t given you any answers either.” He’d finished spooning shrimp and sauce onto two plates, and was now bringing these back to the table.
Trowa nodded in response to Quatre’s words, and turned his eyes to the food in front of him. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Quatre made a noise of acknowledgment, and sat down nearby — not too near, but not at the opposite end of the table, either. And it soon became evident that, as far as microwaveable frozen food went, he’d made a good choice on this. He noticed after not long, however, that Trowa was staring down at his plate without moving. Bracing himself for another debate, Quatre asked, “What’s wrong?”
Trowa looked up, then over at the kitchen. “Did you buy all of this?”
“Yes,” replied Quatre, raising his brows slightly and wondering what Trowa thought the alternative was.
“How much did you spend? I’ll pay you back for it.”
Quatre shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Trowa set down the fork he’d picked up but hadn’t yet used. “I am perfectly capable of doing my own shopping.”
Matching Trowa’s flat, steely tone, but laying a sheen of cheerfulness over the top, Quatre replied, “Of course you are. But since you don’t…”
Trowa stared at him hard for a moment, and Quatre got the feeling he had other arguments he would have produced if he felt like continuing to argue at all. Instead he simply said, “Half, then. I’ll pay you half.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Quatre said, “OK. It was about sixty dollars.”
Trowa nodded, then finally began eating.
After several silent moments Quatre asked thoughtfully, “Where do you get money, anyway? You don’t seem to have a job…”
“No.” At least Trowa appeared to be enjoying his lunch, whatever he might say. “Eighty-seven years of investment and interest.” He went on in a ‘before you ask’ sort of tone, “According to official records, I am Trowa Barton the third and was born in 1970.”
“You’re your own grandpa, huh?” Quatre grinned. But as the reference seemed to go right over Trowa’s head, he added, “Well, you certainly look good for someone who was forty at last count.”
To his surprise, Trowa actually smiled. It was faint and sardonic, yes, but it made Quatre’s heart leap. “And a hundred and eleven at a more accurate count,” he said, and bit into one of his shrimps.
Quatre left Trowa’s house later feeling that this endeavor had gone very well. Admittedly it was a little difficult to tell, but Trowa had seemed to be in a better mood after eating than before. And Quatre was obviously going to have to come back every day this week and make sure Trowa ate again in order to get him into the habit, but it wasn’t exactly a task he minded. Indeed, the memory of that little smile, brief and ambivalent though it had been, would undoubtedly have bolstered him through any number of much less palatable undertakings.
“I really don’t know how you stand this,” Heero remarked conversationally. “Some TV is fine, but this is insane.” They’d essentially spent the whole of Monday in front of the television, and Heero didn’t think he could handle a repetition on Tuesday; he wondered how Duo could.
“Oh, I have a special power,” replied Duo mysteriously, “which allows me to watch TV for days on end without doing anything else.”
Heero looked over at him, curious.
Duo explained. “It’s called ‘having no other choice.'”
Heero winced. There were just so many ways being a doll must be miserable; it didn’t quite seem fair that even Duo’s primary source of entertainment formed one of them. Remind me never to piss Trowa off, was Heero’s immediate reaction to this thought, but he forebore from saying it aloud. Duo had been complaining lately that Trowa hadn’t come to see him for so long, and Heero didn’t feel like bringing the subject up if it wasn’t already on Duo’s mind.
Instead, he stood abruptly and said, “No. We’re going to find something else to do.”
“‘Something else to do?'” Duo echoed in an eyebrow-waggling sort of tone.
Firmly, Heero took the remote control from where it lay next to Duo on the end table, and turned the TV off. “Yes,” he said. “Anything but more TV.”
“‘Anything?‘” said Duo in that same suggestive tone.
Heero gave a monosyllabic laugh and rolled his eyes. He was already pondering what kinds of pastimes besides television-watching were available to someone that couldn’t hold, eat, or drink anything, couldn’t stand under his own power, whose knees and elbows didn’t bend, and who would be considered more than a little bit anomalous to the world in general. (He couldn’t deny that a little voice in the back of his head added, ‘and whose entire groin is a solid piece with no movable parts,’ but he did brush the thought away as entirely unhelpful.) He hadn’t come up with anything yet when his reflections were interrupted by the ringing of his phone.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to cell phones,” Duo remarked as Heero dug into his pocket.
It was one of his parents calling. Heero took a deep breath, bracing himself mentally, before picking up.
His mother always greeted him, “Heero?” in a questioning tone, as if someone else might be answering his phone.
“Yes,” he replied. “Hello. How are you?”
“We are very well,” said his mother with her usual businesslike, almost brusque cheerfulness and faint trace of disapprobation. “Relena and Colin are coming over for dinner on Sunday, if you’d like to come too.”
Heero counted the days since he’d had dinner with his family, and saw very plainly that he could not turn down this particular invitation. If only they’d planned this for Monday, so he could plead Final Four… Stifling a sigh, he said, “Yeah, that would be great. Six thirty?” Because no dinner at the Yuy household had ever happened at any other time.
His mother confirmed this, then proved that, as usual, she didn’t have much else to say besides what she’d specifically called for. She wasn’t very good at chatting on the phone, a trait Heero had inherited from her — but at least he didn’t try. She asked what he’d been up to lately without really wanting to hear the answer, which was good, since he didn’t really want to give the answer.
He could just imagine telling his mother, “Well, I found a talking Ken doll in the gutter and have since developed a crush on him, but he’s already got a 100-year-old boyfriend.” She might, at least, be glad to hear that Quatre was chasing someone else; she was just sure that, any day now, Heero was going to announce he’d started sleeping with his best friend.
They exchanged a few more somewhat stiff comments, and finally hung up, with the reiterated promise of a meeting on Sunday that Heero wasn’t particularly looking forward to. A couple of months ago he wouldn’t have minded, but at the moment there were few places more awkward and uncomfortable to be on a Sunday evening than at his parents’ house with his sister and her fiance.
“I didn’t know you were bilingual!” said Duo, sounding impressed, as Heero put his phone away.
“Oh. Yeah.” Heero shrugged slightly. His family tended to speak Japanese among themselves, which included phone conversations; Heero didn’t really think much about it.
“Well,” Duo went on matter-of-factly, “that is extremely sexy, and I am totally jealous.”
Heero laughed briefly. “Didn’t you say you spoke some kind of Spanish, though?”
“I said I spoke maybe ten words of Wade Spanish, which doesn’t even start to count.”
Looking down thoughtfully at the doll, Heero said, “You keep mentioning this ‘Wade.'”
“That was what they called the neighborhood Trowa and I lived in growing up.” Duo’s plastic head was swiveled upward to return Heero’s gaze, and his eyes blinked with unnerving regularity, like an animation in an old video game or something. “See, the city was right up against this shallow river, and there was this big old sort of shantytown on the other side… a bunch of poor people lived there, mostly non-white, the kinds of people that got kicked around most back then.”
“Has that changed?” asked Heero with light dryness.
“It was worse back then,” promised Duo somewhat flatly. “Anyway, it was quicker for them to wade the river than walk a couple of miles to a bridge to get into the city, so they got called ‘Waders’ and the part of town where most of them worked — hell, it was practically the only part of the city a lot of them could get work — but that part next to the river got called ‘the Wade.’ I mean, this all started before I was born; I always knew it as the Wade.”
“And what was it like?” Heero asked curiously.
In response to this question, Duo laughed. “You know, there’s this thing I see happen on TV,” he began in an amused, pensive tone, “and you probably know about it too, if TV hasn’t been lying to me like it sometimes does.”
“Yes?” Heero prompted, returning to his seat on the couch and facing Duo.
“Someone’ll find out that someone else speaks another language — say, Spanish — and they’ll say, ‘Oh, oh, say something in Spanish for me!’ And the other person suddenly has no idea what to say.”
Now Heero laughed too. “OK, yes, I do know about that.” He was certain, however, that Duo, if he found himself in that situation and did happen to speak Spanish, would be one of those smartasses that just translated the words ‘something in Spanish’ into Spanish.
“Because you know about a billion words in that language, right?” Duo said. “And how are you supposed to decide just at a moment’s notice which ones will represent the language and how it sounds to someone who doesn’t speak it?”
“Are you sure you haven’t experienced this personally?” Heero asked, eyebrows raised.
“Well, I think that’s about what it feels like when you ask me what the Wade was like.” Duo said this in some triumph, as if he’d just made an irrefutable point in an intense debate.
“Oh,” said Heero, understanding, and laughed a little again.
“I mean, I could tell you a million things about life there, but there’s no quick and easy way to tell you ‘what the Wade was like.’ What would you say if I asked you what this city was like?”
“All right, I see your point,” Heero conceded. For, while there were a lot of concise answers he could have given to the proposed question, none of them would really paint a reliable picture of the city in general. “How about this, then: do the movies get it right? I guess that’s more about era than location,” he admitted immediately, “but still…”
“Well, sometimes…” Duo went on in a ‘scratching his head’ sort of tone. “As right as anyone can get it when they’re trying to cram all the social changes and attitudes and stuff of an entire decade into an hour and a half. They always try to capture ‘the spirit of the times’ in movies, but that’s something you can only do after the fact, I guess. I mean, I don’t think I ever did anything that embodied the progressive and inventive spirit of the 1910’s, and I definitely never looked around and thought about it. But sometimes the movies do get sets that look pretty good.”
Again Heero nodded his understanding, and couldn’t help thinking about how movies a hundred years from now would portray this decade; what ‘spirit’ might they attempt to capture? “OK,” he said. “Then tell me one of the million things you could tell me about life in the Wade.”
And as Duo obeyed, leading them into a fascinating, lively, and long-lived conversation, Heero wondered why he’d ever been under the impression that they lacked interesting things to do.
Evidently Trowa was getting used to this routine Quatre was imposing on him, for, when Quatre came over for lunch on Wednesday, he found Trowa closing the book he’d been reading as if he’d been specifically waiting for a reason to do so. Actually, that wasn’t at all uncommon; Trowa seemed to be more than pleased at any excuse to set aside his research. Given how many hours a day Trowa was spending buried in books or on the internet, and to no avail, Quatre found this completely understandable.
They had some kind of breakfast-like affair involving sausage and potatoes — not the best of the frozen meals with which Quatre had stocked Trowa’s freezer — and their conversation somehow found its way to hiking and the local opportunities therefor. Local to Quatre, that is, but since he was the one that did most of the talking this was not inappropriate. Trowa always seemed to listen somewhat grudgingly to what Quatre had to say, as if he’d rather be doing or thinking something else but couldn’t help being interested. This simultaneously amused and bothered Quatre, but, as he wasn’t really sure what to do about it, he simply continued as he had done.
After lunch, Trowa returned to his study and, as far as Quatre could tell, the same book he’d been perusing before, but instead of reading it he only sat still in his horrible armchair and stared at the nearby table. He had that pensive little half frown on his face again, and Quatre decided to make him some tea before he left him to his work.
Almost the only food-like item present in Trowa’s kitchen before Quatre had forced half a grocery store on him had been a package of cinnamon orange tea. Having observed this, Quatre had bought him some more, but had also picked up a couple other flavors he thought Trowa might like. Of course someone that generally didn’t eat or drink anything, and that quite possibly had an entire century’s worth of tea experimentation under his belt, could probably be trusted to know of his one culinary indulgence what flavors he did and didn’t like without help from anyone else… but Quatre speculated — it was just a feeling, really, but an instinct he trusted — that it was the caffeine Trowa really sought, and the taste was irrelevant.
Wild mint seemed a good choice for today, so Quatre got a cup of that ready and returned with it to the study. There he found Trowa continuing to stare at nothing, the book evidently untouched in his lap, a slight frown still on his otherwise unreadable face. The magician did not even seem to notice when Quatre set the teacup in its neat little saucer down at the other end of the table.
Was Trowa staring at nothing, though? As Quatre’s eyes left the object he’d brought into the room and roved over the others on the cluttered table, he began to rethink this assessment. Trowa’s gaze seemed to be directed at an old, tarnished silver candlestick devoid of a candle that stood among the books and papers and other items. It occurred to Quatre that it had always been there, but he had never really taken notice of it before; and simultaneously that, even in a house full of mismatched articles from a variety of eras, this particular piece looked out of place.
He leaned closer to examine it. It was obviously very old, much too old to be any relic of the early twentieth century, or even — though he was far from an expert on the subject — of the late nineteenth. And then, with a faint, quick intake of surprised breath, he noticed the pattern of tiny moons, progressing from the merest sliver to round and full, carved delicately into the sides of the square base.
“Is that…” he began, and found his voice coming out in a murmur, almost a whisper, as if he were asking Trowa to divulge some serious secret.
For a long moment Trowa did not move or speak, as if he hadn’t heard Quatre’s beginning of a question and had, in fact, forgotten he was there. But finally with a deep breath he tore his eyes from the candlestick and turned them on Quatre. He wasn’t wearing his contacts today, and Quatre had already noticed that the moon must be starting to wane at the moment. Now the moons in Trowa’s face regarded him emotionlessly for a moment before returning to their previous object of scrutiny.
“Yes,” Trowa said.
Quatre also turned back to peer intently at the artifact. “It’s a… candlestick…” he said at last.
“Yes,” Trowa said again.
“I’d expected it to be… something…” Quatre shrugged and laughed faintly. “Something more, I guess. Something that seemed more magical.”
“Any object can become an artifact,” Trowa reminded him, “if enough magic is performed around it.”
Quatre nodded, then murmured, “So it was Trowa in the study with the candlestick.”
Here was another reference that seemed to go right over Trowa’s head. “It was created by a group of moon-worshiping magicians around 1760 in France,” he explained seriously. “It’s been difficult to find records of its history, but, as far as I can gather, it was created by accident — most artifacts are — when the group used to cast spells at an altar where this and another, matching candlestick stood.”
“So there are two of them.”
“I don’t believe so. Apparently both became magical artifacts, but when the group noticed how much magic the candlesticks were absorbing, they began deliberately channeling their own power into one of them; so it became extremely powerful, while the other remained a standard artifact. Well, perhaps a little more powerful than a standard artifact, but nothing in comparison to this one.” Trowa gestured at the candlestick on the table, from which Quatre’s eyes had wandered to his companion’s much more interesting face.
“Why did they put their power into it?” Quatre wondered, looking back at the candlestick as seemed to be indicated by Trowa’s movement. “I can see where such a powerful artifact would be useful, but did they know that’s what would happen?”
Trowa surprised Quatre by snorting in derision. “I doubt it. I can’t be sure, but the feeling I get is that they did it just to see what would happen. Just for fun.”
“Really?” wondered Quatre, amused. “Not to… appease the moon spirit… or something?”
“The changing nature of this group is interesting to watch in retrospect. I would let you see the records, but you wouldn’t be able to read them.”
“I’m fairly good with French, actually,” Quatre informed him.
For the second time that week, Trowa smiled, just a little, and again Quatre’s heart-rate seemed instantly to increase at the sight. “I’m not,” he said simply. “I can’t even pronounce the name this group called themselves. But one of the conveniences of magical skill is the ability to understand the magical language, which is universal to everyone who also has magical skill.” Now he gestured to the book in his lap, across whose pages were marked the indistinct and unfamiliar characters Quatre had noticed a few times before in books here. “Almost all of the records of note are written in the magical language.”
“Ohh,” Quatre said, a little disappointed. “Well, what do they say that’s so interesting?” He was pleased at getting Trowa to talk to so much, but also had to admit that the subject was not without interest in its own right.
“The group was not a serious undertaking at the beginning,” answered Trowa sardonically. “They were all or almost all magicians, yes, but they were not people who used magic for anything. They were aristocrats: rich, idle people who thought it would add some spice to their pointless lives to start a secret society and pretend to worship the moon in made-up ceremonies. I gather that it was mostly an excuse to show off useless magic and have drunken orgies.”
This startled a laugh out of Quatre, and inside he couldn’t help reflecting that, while he’d certainly never expected it, hearing the word ‘orgies’ from Trowa’s pale lips was every bit as pleasant as he would have thought it might be if he’d ever thought about it at all.
“But there were a few who took it seriously,” Trowa went on, unaware of the fascinating train of thought onto which he’d put Quatre for a few moments. “The second generation of members, you might call them — people who actually felt a connection to the moon which they wanted to enhance. They were the ones who wrote all the records, and they were the ones who transformed the group into a real cult after it had been nothing more than an exclusive club for several years. They continued pouring their energies into the artifact, and using it in rituals related to the moon and its cycles, which eventually gave it an affinity with the moon.”
“What happened to the cult?” Quatre asked.
Trowa shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find any records later than 1785. As I understand,” he added a little wryly, “that was a bad time to be an aristocrat in France. I’m lucky to have found any records at all.”
“How long have you been researching this?”
After a moment’s thought Trowa answered, “Sixty-two… no, sixty-three years. I thought if I could find something that would tell me more about the artifact, I might learn something that would help break the curse.” He sighed faintly, and said nothing more, though the lament was clear: he had learned more, and it had been fascinating research, but so far it hadn’t helped. He reached out a pale, slender hand to the candlestick and ran one long finger up and down its tarnished side.
Quatre watched without blinking. Trowa had a sort of stark, lean sexiness about him that was only augmented by his strangeness and sadness, and which Quatre could really do without noticing at moments like this. He was afraid he’d caught his breath just a little, too, as he watched Trowa’s cold, almost caressing movement toward the artifact, for Trowa looked over at him again abruptly.
Blushing as if Trowa were able to read his thoughts — Quatre assumed Trowa couldn’t read his thoughts, anyway — he said quickly, “Well, I made you some tea,” realizing even as he said it that it probably wouldn’t be hot anymore… not that Trowa ever seemed to care… “Maybe today will be the lucky day when you find your answers.”
Trowa returned to staring at the candlestick beneath his fingertips as he murmured, “How many times I’ve thought that…” The hopelessness in his tone was almost overwhelming.
Quatre wanted very much to hug him, but still didn’t quite dare. Instead he smiled as brightly as he could and said bolsteringly, “Well, it has to happen sometime — why not today?”
With a faint sound of doubt that was almost disdainful, Trowa turned his eyes downward to the book in his lap once again, and Quatre reluctantly deemed it time to leave. Without a word of goodbye, which was becoming customary at the ends of these visits, he moved toward the door. A look back before leaving the room showed him that Trowa’s gaze had already strayed from the book and was once more riveted on the artifact on the table, staring blankly into the past.
His Own Humanity is an AU series set in modern-day America (plus magic) featuring characters from Rurouni Kenshin (primarily Saitou and Sano) and Gundam Wing (primarily Heero, Duo, Trowa, and Quatre). In chronological order (generally), the stories currently available are:
Sano enlists the help of exorcist Hajime in discovering the nature of the unusual angry shade that's haunting him.
Best friends Heero and Quatre have their work cut out for them assisting longtime curse victims Duo and Trowa.
During Plastic (part 80), Cairo thinks about thinking and other recent changes in his life.
A look at how Hajime and Sano are doing.
A look at how Trowa and Quatre are doing.
A look at how Heero and Duo are doing.
A meeting between Kamatari and Wufei.
Couple analysis among Heero, Duo, Trowa, and Quatre.
Quatre undergoes an unpleasant magical change; Heero, Duo, and Trowa are forced to face unpleasant truths; and Hajime and Sano may get involved.
During La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré (parts 33-35), Sano's 178-day wait is over as what Hajime has been fearing comes to pass.
During Guest Room Soap Opera (part 3), Cathy learns a lot of interesting facts and Trowa is not happy.
A few days before the epilogue of La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré, Duo and Sano get together to watch football and discuss relationships and magical experiences; Heero listens in on multiple levels.
On the same evening as That Remarkable Optimism, Trowa tells Quatre's parents the whole truth, as promised.
And here’s a picture of Trowa playing his clarinet (not entirely relevant to this part, but he never actually plays the thing during the course of the story, so here’s as good as any):
I actually drew this for Zombie Girl’s 2010 birthday, since, as I’ve mentioned, the whole story is for her and Trowa is her favorite. I screwed up the damn angles, and I can’t fix things like that on paper very well, so the clarinet got all super long, but ZG didn’t seem to mind.
Love is for everyone ^__^