Chapter Text
Nagumo, as a person, likes sleep, but he has never been a particularly good sleeper. He wakes easily and falls back asleep just as quickly, so a night of sleep can easily crumble into interconnected episodes of naps. He is not good at sleeping while sick, either, which would explain why hours after sunrise he wakes again to something soft and warm pressing against his cheek, then his forehead, then ruffling through his hair— Nagumo opens his eyes to Sakamoto’s rounded face crouching close, half-obscured by his thick, tanned forearm and he sniffs, annoyed. He twists away from Sakamoto’s roughened hand and buries his head underneath the comforter— elbowing the cotton-thick thing with his elbow thick in the cast. He ignores that quiet, nearly-forgotten laugh in favor of his own pettiness; and all too soon, he blinks and falls back to sleep again. Outside, the sun rises.
“Mama, is Nagumo-san still sleeping?”
“Yes, dear. We should let him rest, yeah?”
“But what if Nagumo-san also wants to come to the park?”
“We can ask Nagumo-san if he is feeling up to it when he wakes up.”
“But I already changed! And packed my lunch! How long do we have to wait?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it… Well, how about you and Lu-chan go first, and then I’ll wait for Nagumo-san and ask him. Sounds good?”
“Okay, Mama…”
“I know you’re excited to show Nagumo-san the playground, Hana, but he needs sleep to recover…”
I want to go to the park, too, Nagumo muses under the warm, soft cocoon, but I’m tired… Just five more minutes…
Nagumo wakes again, very well aware that it has been a lot longer than five minutes, and groans. He blinks, feeling the sleep still clinging to his eyes, somehow still exhausted. He probably should wake up if he wants to go to the park with Hana. Nagumo wants to play with her, but he is so tired…
Nagumo lays around for a while more, staring emptily out of the window: where sunlight stretches across the full arc of the sky. There is nothing for him to do; nothing waiting for him to get to. There is a pointed pressure against his skull, ringing down his ears. He could close his eyes and go back to sleep— but no, Hana is waiting. He doesn’t want her to be sad and think that he doesn’t want to go to the park with her.
Nagumo sighs, heaving his body up on the bed; flinches when his neck cracks unexpectedly. He feels dizzy, and has to wait for his head to stop spinning before he can stand up, unbalanced, before slowly walking out of the room. Mrs. Aoi is sitting at the dining table, her half of it spread full with a litany of papers; green and red lines crawl underneath the number like bingo cards. When she looks up to see him lingering outside of the bedroom, she perks up, her smile small, rushing to his side,
“Nagumo-san, how are you feeling?”
“Uhm…” A little tired, very tired, maybe; I think I got too much sleep, I think I can go for more, but I can’t stomach more; my stomach hurts, the hurt faded, my tolerance is building up, “… I just woke up.”
Aoi frowns; Nagumo feels like whatever performance he just put up is not convincing at all, “You look pale, Nagumo-san.”
Nagumo hums, not really knowing what to say. Aoi-san gets closer, and from his height looking down he can see her brows weighed down in concern. It takes him a little more to notice that he is resting most of his weight on the doorframe. Aoi reaches up to press the back of her hand on his forehead.
“Do you feel cold, Nagumo-san?” She asks. Usually, he would feel a little frazzled by this line of questioning by now. Something on Aoi’s face stifles the same feeling.
“A little.”
“Any pain?”
Nagumo squeezes his eyes, willing his headache to go away, “Stomach, mostly.”
“Has it worsened, would you say?”
“Only a little.”
“How about your chest?”
“No, not really.”
Aoi stands, looking at him for a little more. Nagumo cannot see what she is looking at or what she is looking for — he has closed his eyes again, and is trying to subtly lean more of his weight against the wall. Yesterday he was feeling so well, almost like he could go back to life as normal. What could be the problem now?
“Nagumo-san, is there anything else you think I should know?”
Honestly, he is a little tired of his body’s bullshit, “I don’t think so. I’m a little tired, actually. I’d like to sit, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Aoi nods, moving over to his other side, looking to support his weight. Nagumo cannot help but think that if he were to stumble, both of them would come crashing down the floor, “I will bring you some breakfast.”
“Thank you, Aoi-san.”
Quickly after they successfully move to Tarou’s floor cushion (thankfully, without any side effect from gravity), Aoi pulls out a low wooden table, then returns with his breakfast. Maybe Nagumo should be concerned that he is only given some rice with bland soup and soft tofu; but more than anything, Nagumo is glad that Aoi only gives him what he can stomach. He should ask about Hana—
“Hana-chan—”
“Hana is at the park with Lu right now,” Aoi gently replies, “She’ll understand that you don’t feel well, Nagumo-san. You don’t need to worry.”
“Oh…”
“You can play with her when you feel better, right?”
Nagumo tries not to feel like he was scolded, “Of course.”
Aoi smiles, satisfied, before turning back to the dining table. She has the TV turned on, probably more to entertain him than anything, but Nagumo is tuned in to the sound of her soft mumbling, to the pages-turning and calculator-punching than the morning news-droning. Nagumo is glad for the soft tofu. It is really, really soft. The smear of minced ginger on top tastes very good. He feels a little bit like crying. Maybe he is finally going crazy. Sakamoto and Akao told him, once, at school, that it was inevitable. He probably can eat soft tofu for the rest of his life. If Sakamoto is ever making him a bento box again, he should add soft tofu to it.
When Nagumo tries to return the tray of dishes to the kitchen, Aoi springs up to take it from him before he can even stand up. She quickly places the dishes in the sink and, pulling her work apron on, comes to his side and hands him a small piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on top.
“I have to go down to the shop. We are supposed to receive our deliveries today, finally, after a few delays… I’ll leave you with my phone number, and I assume you have Tarou’s already. Just call if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay.”
“For now, just take it easy.”
Aoi looks at him as if looking at a small child, a sick wet dog in the rain, or maybe like she wants to pat his head but decided not to, before she settles on a worried smile. Nagumo thinks he gives her back a poor imitation of one back. Aoi nods a goodbye and leaves — Nagumo turns, looking at the door closing shut and listening to Aoi fiddling with the lock on the other side, before she opts to keep it unlocked behind her. Nagumo listens to the pitter-pattering down the staircase before it dampened to the soft ground.
Nagumo sighs. All of a sudden, the house feels empty. Not even like the stillness of glass walls and cold marble floors that he is used to— but the stillness of a place still rustled by its memories of noise, of footsteps milling about and hums not quite done fading. Now, what is left is the thrumming of the air conditioner and mindless babbling on the television. Sunlight pierces through the window on both sides of him; sheets of gold blanketing the stuffed animals Hana left sprawling around her flower-shaped cushion. Shin’s door is slightly ajar, and the game console the kids used yesterday are haphazardly shoved past it, the thin black cords tangled around one another like a huge sea urchin. It is like… well, it is like being alone in someone else’s home. His head hurts. He is tired. Maybe he should lie down— but laying down all day is just going to make him feel worse. He spent a whole week and more laying down already.
Very slowly, Nagumo twists and crawls his way into standing upright — only almost putting his body weight on the broken arm once — and drags his feet towards the goal to meander back to his room. It is a little pathetic, but it is either that or planting his face to the ground. He is certainly too dizzy to complain. He yanks at the sudoku booklet on the desk — way too quickly — the motion lashes back from within his skull; Nagumo winces, sinking down to the bed to catch his breath. Somehow, this fucking minor illness feels like bones falling apart. Nagumo lets out a shaky breath and looks up again, glancing down from the ceiling to the desk to see that the clothes he came here with, the oversized gray hoodie and sweatpants from overseas, are neatly folded, placed in the far corner there. Seeing them makes him feel cold, or maybe finally realizes that he is cold. Nagumo reaches out to grab the hoodie and unfurls the rest of the things underneath it in the process. He would just have to deal with that later; an ache shoots up his elbow, suddenly. All of that moving around makes him dizzy again. Fuck. What is wrong with him today? Are his bones finally giving out? Has his nerves frayed? When Nagumo was a rookie, Yotsumura told him that sometimes, the ones that have been running on nothing but adrenaline would randomly crash. Nothing to foretell it; no sign, no warning. They stand one moment and give out the next. Muscles, joints, bones, and brain blown out to smithereens. Nagumo knew that most of it was bullshit, that they were trying to scare him, but— maybe that is finally happening to him. He doesn’t know why it would or should, but maybe that is happening. Fuck. Nagumo presses his head tight against his knees, closes his eyes, and tries to focus on his breathing. He has lived for too long probably but he is still too young to die, right…
An endless moment after, Nagumo begins to move again, his eyes clearer than before. He walks slowly — without leaning on the wall — back to the living room, and is more glad than ever to sink down to Sakamoto’s worn cushions. His eyes stay clear enough for a square worth of sudoku before he cannot ignore his body anymore. Aoi-san was attentive enough to leave a water bottle next to him — Nagumo did not even realize it — and he chucks down the liquid like a man left for death. When he cannot stomach more, Nagumo fumbles around for the remote and changes the channels. Weather. Domestic news. International news. TV dramas. Variety shows. TV dramas again. Children’s shows. Children’s shows. TV dramas again. TV dramas. Nothing he wants to see particularly. Variety shows. Music shows. The news again. Nagumo changes the channel once more and settles on a calming nature show about whales, the deep-voiced narrator calmly reciting their migration patterns in a diction that is either calming or trying to lull people to sleep. There are no whales in aquariums. Not these big ones. It is not supposed to be cold this late into summer, but he is shaking. Eventually Nagumo climbs into his hoodie, refuses to put his arms through the sleeves, and settles there. He turns sideways so that the right side of his body leans on the back of the cushion and curls up, trying to fit most of his legs inside the hoodie. There is a tightness in his chest that is building up and slowly getting harder and harder to ignore. Nagumo turns to the TV, where a whale is now opening its jaw and sucking in all the smaller fishes in the process. He wonders how that works. Negative pressure, perhaps? He takes a few deep breaths to try to ease the pain in his chest, only to find that he can only make some shallow attempts before coughing. Maybe water would help? But he does not want to swallow anything right now. The whale has now swam away, young ones trailing behind their mother’s statuesque physique. Images bleed over each other and Nagumo has to squeeze his eyes shut.
Eventually even the ocean noise gets too much, so Nagumo fumbles for the remote, fails to turn it off at least five times, resists the urge to throw the remote past the screen, and finally turns it off. He rubs his forehead on his knees and closes his eyes. Nagumo breathes slowly, feeling himself dozing off.
It is very quiet.
Quiet.
Any minute now.
He can’t fall asleep.
There is a need to do something, a need for something to occupy him. But he cannot focus on sudoku, the television is too loud and annoying, he is cold, his stomach is uncomfortable, and his chest feels tight. This sucks. Everything sucks. Nagumo cannot tell if he is warm or feverish. He sinks deeper into the cushion until his body is entirely horizontal, a third on the cushion, the other two-thirds peeking onto the hardwood floor. This makes breathing more difficult but he does not want to move. This sucks so much. Nagumo feels like dying would have been easier than whatever this is. At least the pain would end somehow. The edge of the cushion is pressing against his thighs and his ribcage but the pressure feels faraway. It is a little interesting, actually. He knows the ache is there, it is pressing against his skin and tissues and nerves and the nervous signals feels like soft, slow-motion fireworks spreading outward from a tincture in the sky, but it is blurry and vague and he knows it is too far to touch. He tries to think that way about the pain on his chest, and eventually all the discomfort settles down to an equilibrium. Nagumo breathes deeply, willing his body to relax.
It did not last long before he feels his stomach churn and his throat begins to itch. He bolts upwards— surprisingly fast, too fast for the dizziness to register until he is already dry heaving into the toilet bowl. He tastes it in his throat before it rushes out— he expects the stench burning through his tongue and his mouth and leaks its way to his nose, which only makes him want to retch even more. But there has been nothing but liquid in his stomach since the morning and wait— wait, is that blood? Specks of black and brown dots the frothy clear liquid, and there are weird patches of bright crimson in there,
“Fucking hell…” Nagumo groans.
He feels even worse than ever before. He flushes the toilet — the vomiting was not even bad — and leans back against the cold tiled wall, feeling the dizziness bounce between his temples like steel balls. Nagumo breathes in the cold, vaguely watery and disinfectant-smelling air of the bathroom, somehow willing that this isn’t happening. But it is. He has been in the business long enough to know what all of his symptoms mean, even when his brain is slowing down on the uptake. The bloody vomit is just a nice confirmation— or maybe a knock in the head so that he will finally do something about it.
What should he even do about it?
Call an ambulance? Fuck. He hates hospitals.
It’s so fucking cold. Still, Nagumo sits there, trying to will the power to find his phone or to walk out of the damn bathroom. His hands are cold; Nagumo stuffs them in his pants pockets and feels a slip of paper inside. Oh, right.
Eventually, after what feels like another eternity — ugh, why has most of his day today been spent keeling over trying to stand up — he stands, still pressed against the cold tiles, then shuffles out of the bathroom and out of the Sakamoto's apartment. The outside world is so much warmer than inside. His hands still shake in his pockets and Nagumo barely has the strength to clench them shut. It is too bright out. He squeezes his eyes shut, immediately realizes that it is a terrible idea to walk downstairs blind when his legs do not even feel steady, and commits to keep his eyes downcast as he slinks downstairs in his thick hoodie in the middle of summer.
“Hey, dude, are you feeling be— Dude.”
“Hi, Heisuke,” Nagumo replies, disgruntled to find out that his voice is barely audible, “Is Aoi-san around?”
“Dude, sit down.” Heisuke put down the crate he was carrying and rushed forward, pushing Nagumo by the shoulder down to sit on the rusty stairstep, “Aoi-san is inside. I’m going to get her. Do you need, like, uh, water or something?”
Nagumo shakes his head resolutely, “No.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Split second after, Nagumo can hear Heisuke’s voice rings across the store yelling for Mrs. Aoi. He smells exhaust in the air and looks up briefly to find a truck parked in front, crates and boxes lining the outside of the store still, and he remembers the conversation Sakamoto had with Aoi-san at dinner yesterday. He sinks down, wrapping his arms around his head and resting them onto his knees. He barely flinches when his head hits the cast wrong. This is probably a very bad time to be needing medical attention.
Nagumo hears Aoi’s rushed footsteps coming close, “Nagumo-san, how are you feeling?”
“Internal bleeding.” Nagumo blurts, “There was blood in the vomit.”
“Okay. Yep.” Aoi replies. Nagumo cannot see her face, but he guesses that she is at least a little flustered, “We need to go to a hospital.”
“No.” Nagumo shakes his head, which, at this angle, looks more like a child whining, “Granny Miya.”
“Okay, then we need to go to Granny Miya’s.”
“Civilians shouldn’t be there.”
“Okay, well…” Aoi sucks in a deep breath. Out of his eyelid, he could see her twists and turns for a solution, “Sit tight. I’ll talk to Tarou.”
“Not going anywhere,” Nagumo sighs weakly. He wraps his arms a little tighter around his head and shifts so he is half-leaning onto the wall.
Around Nagumo, the bustles of carts rolling and boxes moving continue on softly. He hates to think that all of the store’s employees and even the neighbors are gawking at him curling up on the dirty steps of a stair like a helpless child, so he tries to not think about it. The world is rolling on as usual— carts keep moving, boxes keep getting heaved up with quiet grunts, footsteps steadily milling between concrete ground and clear tiles. Nagumo is too tired to lift his head but there is no mistake in hearing the Sakamoto's talking in the store.
“I don’t want you to see those kinds of people.”
“Tarou, you’ll have to trust me, okay? I’d rather bring him to a hospital than a holistic healer, but you both don’t want it so I’m trusting this… Granny Miya to know what she is doing. You know you can’t leave the store today. This isn’t debatable. I’m bringing him to Granny Miya, and it’s easier if you’d just tell me how to get there.”
A beat. Nagumo curls deeper into himself, somehow surprised that the increased pressure eases the pain.
“Okay.”
“Thank you, dear.” The relief is audible in Aoi’s voice as she rustles around for paper and pen, snatching the clacking keys as they scratch across the glass counter and fall noisily into her pocket. “I’ll borrow Yamada-san’s car.”
Nagumo cannot uncurl his head from his stomach, so he can only hear Aoi taking off in the opposite direction, her feet hurriedly bouncing on the soft ground before breaking into a full run. He tries to doze off, right there on the staircase, or at least trying to breath slowly and deeply enough to calm his heart rate down from whatever the hell it is trying to outrun. This is not the first time he lost a good amount of blood but it feels weird and jittery like nothing else, probably because he does not have a good idea how much blood is leaking out of his pipes right now to calibrate what side effects he should expect. It is sort of incredible, actually, that he went this far without a severe internal bleeding spell before.
The sun suddenly stops burning the top of his forehead, and Nagumo can guess that Sakamoto is standing over him right now, likely annoyed or angry, instead of doing his work like Aoi implied that he has to. Nagumo ignores him in favor of focusing on breathing regularly. In, and out. In, and out. In, and out.
“You are so stupid.” Sakamoto grumbles, pressing his thumb against the crown of Nagumo’s head, “Fucking stupid.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s not the point, stupid. Dumbass.”
Nagumo let Sakamoto go on a tirade (very softly-shouted, like a murmur or a soothe or a nervous stim than anything else) of stupid, dumb, stupid, idiot, dumbass, dimwit without commenting on how uncreative his insults had become. Peaceful days without Nagumo around to poke fun at him every moment has left Sakamoto’s skills greatly atrophied. But still, Nagumo let himself relax into Sakamoto’s fingers circling and pressing against his growing headache; it feels like forever and no time at all when a car revs to a stop next to them.
“Alright, let’s go.” Nagumo hears Aoi call out. He hears the driver’s door open and slam shut and then the passenger’s door pulls open; then hearing the backseat clanking back and snaps in place as Sakamoto loops Nagumo’s arms around his soft, thick neck. Sakamoto hoists him up by the armpits, clearly having unilaterally decided that Nagumo is in no shape to move himself. Nagumo finds himself too out of it to protest or even to feel embarrassed that Sakamoto is carrying him like he would a child: his own face is pressed on Sakamoto’s shoulders and nestling into his neck, arms dangle a mile out of Sakamoto’s back, which is the only indication that Nagumo is way too grown for this sort of treatment. But then Sakamoto’s hands wrapped around his thighs just perfectly and even this out of shape there is no sign that he is struggling, so Nagumo sighs and does not fight against his headache to overthink it. Too soon, Sakamoto gently sets him down on the seat, lifting his legs into the proper places, and guides him by the neck all the way down where the backrest is laid flat. Nagumo does not see how the seatbelt would be even remotely useful when he is a good few handwidths back from it, but Sakamoto clanks it in place anyway. Then, he manually shifts Nagumo’s legs around for apparently no reason, maybe besides as a nervous tick.
“I’ll see you once we are done here.” Sakamoto turns to Aoi and speaks. Nagumo can hear nerves quietly vibrate from the syllables, but he might be hallucinating it.
But, they do not leave immediately.
“Nagumo-san, I would like to do a quick check-over before we leave.” Aoi begins. She still stands outside, where Sakamoto was, and not at the driver’s seat. “I’ll check your pulse and breathing rate, so stay still and please don’t speak until I ask you to.”
Nagumo nods quickly before Aoi gently takes his wrist. He is too tired for anything but laying there. Elevated heart and breathing rate, he hears Aoi muttering under her breath, inaudible for anyone untrained in the arts of eavesdropping. Then, she asks,
“Where do you feel the pain coming from?”
Nagumo breathes out more than whispers his answer, “Stomach.”
“Describe the pain to me.”
“Cramp, mostly. Sometimes it’s like stabbing.”
“On the scale of one to ten—”
“Seven. Maybe eight.”
“What were you doing before it started?”
“Just sitting there.” Nagumo says, before remembering, “It might have started last night. I woke up from the pain. I managed to go back to sleep after that.”
A beat, “Did you take anything for the pain last night?”
“Just painkillers. Generic.”
“Okay.”
Nagumo starts to get a little nervous as Aoi stays still quiet after that curt reply. She isn’t saying anyting, and when Nagumo peels his eyes open he sees her scanning down his entire face and body, and then one of her hands takes in his hand, which is shaky and cold. Nagumo blinks and tries to keep breathing regularly, but his heart thumps violently onto his chest and down on his stomach, as Aoi speaks.
“I’m going to lift up the backrest a little bit.”
“Okay.”
Somehow Nagumo is surprised at how easily Aoi does it. Probably all the lifting she does. For some reasons, he blurts out,
“Am I going to die?”
“No, Nagumo-san.” Aoi replies, voice kind, “You have a terrible case of stomach bleeding and your heart rate, breathing rate, and anxiety are heightened due to the blood loss. You need immediate medical attention, but you are not going to die while we are getting you help.”
“Okay.”
“Just sit tight. We are ready to go.”
Just as she says, Aoi gently closes the passenger’s door before entering from the driver’s side, calmly and methodically checking the mirrors and adjusting her seat before the car revs up again, this time to Granny Miya’s place. Nagumo is never trusted to be in charge of driving so he is no good at remembering roads; he cannot judge how difficult it is to get to Granny Miya’s place, but Aoi seems coolly confident as she drives and turns about roads impossible for him to navigate. Nagumo closes his eyes and tries not to add carsickness into his list of current problems.
Randomly, he begins to think about Aoi. An unassuming, overwhelmingly kind, unimaginably ordinary woman who continuously catches him off guard by what she is capable of and her undaunting intelligence. It is terrible to think about it, but it is as if all he knew of her before was a caricature of a perfect wife, and now, seeing her as herself, Nagumo is surprised to finally learn that she is human.
Somehow, Nagumo begins to think of her as just Aoi, like he thinks of Sakamoto.
“Do you ever want to go back to school?”
Slowly, the car comes to a stop. Nagumo looks out to see other cars surrounding them; he realizes that they just reached a stoplight. “What, Nagumo-san?”
“Do you ever want to go back to school and become a nurse?” Nagumo clarifies, “If you could, would you?”
Aoi laughs, “It’s not like I have the time and money for that, these days.”
“If you have, would you?”
“If you are offering, and I know you have the money, I will have to say no, Nagumo-kun.”
“If five-hundred million yen mysteriously appears in your bank account with no notes, no return address, no string attached, and then an offer letter from the nursing college in town appears in the mail, would you go?”
Aoi sighs. All the cars rev up, and Nagumo starts to assume that Aoi will not answer him before she speaks again, “Nagumo-kun, are you happy?”
Nagumo blinks, “What?”
“It is true that I was once a student.” Aoi begins with a deep breath, “It is true that I liked my studies. It is true that, at one point, dropping out to marry was unimaginable to me.” She goes on, calmly, and Nagumo cannot predict where she is going next, “but I think you misunderstand, Nagumo-kun. Regardless of all of that, I don’t want to change my life as it is now. It wasn’t like I didn’t have doubts when I made the choice to drop out, but still, I made the choice to switch tracks and I stand by it.
“Maybe, in a very different circumstance; maybe one day, I would dream again about going to school, who knows? But right now, I’m happy with owning a neighborhood shop. I’m helping people this way, too, you know. I’m happy selling detergents to the old folks and food for everyone and restocking shelves and doing inventory. I’m happy with my family. My life is simply at a different place, now, and I’m more than okay with that.”
The car slows to a stop again. This time, Aoi releases her buckle with a click and steps out of the car. Nagumo sees her face right next to his next as she undo his seatbelt and raises the backrest up,
“If I am ever not happy with my life, Nagumo-kun, I’m sure I will have the power to change it. Tarou will stop at nothing to make me happy. I’m sure of it.” Aoi smiles so kindly, yet Nagumo feels like her eyes cut him open all the way to the bones. “Wait here. I’ll see if Granny Miya or someone can help carry you in.”
Nagumo holds his breath until Aoi disappears into Granny Miya’s shop. Is he happy? He really does not want to think about that right now. At any rate, that is not a question ever afforded to an assassin. What right do you have to be happy? is a much more familiar question, but Nagumo has never made the habit to think about that, either. He has friends, he has colleagues. He likes being around and poking fun of Shishiba— and Hyou, too, for that matter; he likes giving Osaragi reasons to be annoyed at him; and he especially likes being a nuisance to the upper crust, knowing that they cannot afford to discipline him. He likes his money, even if he does not care for it. He likes feeling himself better than the stupid, blind sheep out there, who walk around like they know all there is to know about the world. He likes being one of the strongest, if not the strongest, active assassin in the nation. He likes lying to other people. He liked school. He likes…
Ah, fuck it. Nagumo closes his eyes and refuses to recall the negatives. He likes plenty of things in life. That has to be enough.
It ends up being only Granny Miya in the shop, which Nagumo is glad for until the two women discuss lifting him out of the car, by which point Nagumo sits up and walks himself in. He carefully glues his mouth shut but has a feeling that Aoi and Granny Miya see the frowns in his face regardless, but no one comments on it as Aoi acts as his crutches and Granny Miya, surprisingly speedy, goes to prepare her medicinal kit.
“You are a stupid, stupid little child, Nacchan,” Granny scolds in that familiar, gravelly tone as she hops onto a chair next to the bed that Aoi helped him getting onto, a cup of bitter medicine already in her hand, “I have half a mind to strap you down here until you all healed up, but then Sakamoto would haunt my shop for days on end.”
Aoi holds his head up as Granny lifts the cup as if the hands he clutches it with is completely useless; she pours the concoction into his mouth as if she has to make sure that he tastes every bitter bit of the thing. When he is done swallowing, Granny Miya pulls his hoodie and T-shirt off his body; he involuntarily shakes from the cold air.
“Hold on a little, Nacchan, I will give you a blanket soon…”
It finally hit Nagumo how pathetic he is being right now. Usually, Granny Miya babies him because he makes a show out of whining and sighing about bitter herbs and paper cuts, but he is not doing any of that now and Granny is still treating him like a wet cat she picked off the street. And, somehow, as if knowing what he is thinking, Granny pats and rubs at his forearm as she needles thin metal sticks around his body. Granny hums as she threads through the map of knots and meridians she has long memorized— partly seen shifted as he grows out of the last traces of adolescence. There, there, I’m almost done, she coos, and Nagumo does not know what kind of face he is making to get Granny to soothe him like a withering child. But, quietly, just inside his head, just a little bit… maybe it is fine to feel like one. Just a little. Just for a little while— it is fine to pretend to be a small child in Granny Miya’s home.
“Go to sleep, Nacchan.”
He falls asleep again.
Nagumo only knows that he fell asleep once he wakes up. There is nobody in the room, but by room it is the entirety of the back of Granny Miya’s herbal shop, which, in all truth, is the entirety of her real practice. Assassins cannot afford privacy, cramped as they are into the place of the only healer they can trust in town; the beds are separated by thin sheets of curtains at best, and Nagumo hears murmurs at the end of the room where he knows Granny’s desk sits.
Nagumo is not awake enough to make out the syllables, but he tilts his head over (drooping it over the side of the pillow) to listen to Aoi and Granny rustling over dried leaves, one murmuring, one aweing along. He blinks sleep out of his eyes but the fog dissipates much more slowly. Aoi hums rhythmically to the beat of Granny’s murmurs, a slow and staccato thing as she rustles and pauses over her herbs. Nagumo wonders if Granny would sneak him the dried jujubes if he whines enough. But his stomach is all fucked up, apparently…
“You awake, Nacchan?” Nagumo swears he just blinks, but when he opens his eyes again Granny Miya materializes right next to him, her age-wrinkled hand, soft in between the ridges, strokes the stray, sweat-sticky hair away from his forehead. He hums quietly, air not quite making it out of his throat. Granny Miya grunts back, anyway, “Have some water.”
Granny Miya has the hands of God but they cannot help her lift the torso of a grown man, so Nagumo leans upward to sip the water through a straw. When he is done, he flops back — too violently — and Granny tuts disapprovingly as he winces,
“Take it slow, take it slow,” she pats his forearm as he blinks, “Be nice, now, Nacchan. I’ll get you something light to eat.”
His throat wrings out a small whine. He wants to ask for the dried jujubes, but he cannot squeeze the words out. He is still so tired. Sleepy. The more he blinks, the more he seems to slip back down into slumber. His eyes burst with sleep to the point of aching. Pulling his eyelids down alone presses on them even more.
But his eyes are stuck closed as Aoi slithers onto the chair Granny left vacant. She does not start a conversation or seems to have anything in mind in particular; she simply sits. His head is still swimming in thick fog as it gropes around for thoughts or feelings — anything at all, really — about fucking himself over so badly his best friend’s wife had to drive him over to Granny Miya. What time is it, anyway?
When Nagumo finally finds it in him to heave his head over to look at Aoi, he finds her engrossed in an old tome of a book. The yellowed edges are wrinkled with age, and when Aoi gingerly lifts to the next page, the paper rustles like dried autumn leaves. She looks up by the sound of worn cotton sheet scratching his cheek; for a split second her eyes shine like they are underwater.
“How are you feeling, Nagumo-kun?”
Nagumo swallows. “... Sorry.”
Aoi huffs, “For what?”
He shrugs, “All of this, I guess.”
“Honestly, why are you boys so cagey about needing help?” Aoi’s smile pinches at the corner of her cheeks, “Try saying Thank you, instead.”
“Thank you, Aoi.”
“You are very welcome.” She smiles brightly, then; not the usual brightness that reminds Nagumo of a schoolgirl, but more the first light of spring, diffused by still-wintery air, “I’ll be here if you need anything.”
Nagumo nods slowly — the old headache ripples away slowly from his temples. There is nothing much he can do or would do right now. He keeps his eyes on Aoi as she bows back to her book. Occasionally, her brows furrow, then her forefinger would trace the words on the page, fingernails scratching like sandpaper. His nose burns. His spine ebbs between feverish and freezing-cold ever so softly. The inside of his mouth tastes thick and gross with sleep and sick, and he wants dried jujube so badly.
Nagumo rasps, “Dried jujube.”
Aoi looks up, “What?”
Nagumo turns to Aoi, be sure to press his cheek against the pillow to be extra-pitiful, “Dried jujube.”
“Would you want some?” Nagumo nods. “Where would they be?”
Nagumo half-twists towards the medicine drawers, “Lowest row. Third left.”
Aoi raises a bemused brow, probably only now considering whether Granny Miya would approve. Nonetheless, she puts her book on the bedside table and stands up — quietly — towards the dark cherry drawers by Granny Miya’s desk. The drawers perch on a matching table, where a set of mortar and pestle and other equipment sit; it is full of tiny drawers the width of a palm, but Nagumo knows they are a lot deeper than meet the eyes.
Aoi pulls the drawer open, humming a little appreciatively at the drawer-full of dried fruits. She takes the care to glove-up before picking out some jujubes — Nagumo usually would just pick a fistful and pay Granny extra later — and quickly slinks over like they are little kids sneaking snacks out of the top shelf. Aoi slides slightly too-quickly into her seat, barely stifling her giggles as she spreads her fist to show Nagumo six shiny, fat, wrinkled jujubes that he knows are crispy and ever-so-leathery on the outside but still juicy in the flesh. Nagumo lazily picks out one — they all look good — and blinks up at Aoi, nudging her to be even more of an accomplice to his mischief.
Aoi takes the hint. She picks out one with her other hand and bites into half of the fruit. Nagumo just shovels his fully into his mouth.
Just as he expects, the jujube is soft and sweet in his mouth; the soft fiber shreds thinly on his teeth as the sweetness — fruity, clear and bright like a summer day — floats just on the surface of his tongue. The dried skin crunches thinly between his molars, and he, without anything better to do, chews very carefully and gnaws all the flesh of the wrinkled, arrowhead-like pith. He apparently does it very, very slowly, because when Aoi slips two more into his half-opened fist, Nagumo finally realizes that Aoi is all done and his pith is all clean.
It is right at that moment that the string-beaded screen tinkles; Granny Miya strolls in with a tray of food.
Aoi, very inconspicuously, jerkily stuffs the plastic glove into her pants pocket. Nagumo, ever the professional petty thief and even-better-professional baby, is completely remorseless; he slides the jujube under his blanket while he, very doe-like, perks up just so as Granny approaches.
“Sit up and eat, Nacchan.” Granny drawls; Aoi, very dutifully, helps Nagumo up before taking up the tray from Granny. She even fluffs up the pillow for him.
Nagumo thanks them quietly; the women reply with a low hum. It is just vegetable and herbs broth — Nagumo recognizes the ginger, daikon, lotus roots, thunder duke vines, sweet wormwood, cardamom fruit, and a heaving of jujube laying on top of a small bed of wild rice.
He coos, “Woah, Granny, you are spoiling me today~”
“Only so that you don’t sneak into my stuff,” Granny huffs, “Well, it’s not like you ever listen to me, anyway.”
Nagumo was about to argue, I listen to you plenty! but then realizes that that will end up in him being scolded, especially today, so he shoves a spoonful of broth and rice into his mouth instead, humming at the jujube-sweet flavor.
Granny Miya tells Aoi that she will be at the front of the shop. Oddly enough, it feels like being left alone with his cousin when the adults are busy whispering and trading envelopes with dark-suited men in the tea room — in the sense that they know, with a glance, how much mischief will ensue for the rest of the household. But then Aoi sits back on her chair and speaks up softly,
“The medicine that Granny practices is pretty cool,” she begins, “I was trained in modern medicine, of course, and they always tell us that there is no good scientific proof for traditional healings, but somehow they do the job.”
Nagumo, who is well-raised, swallows before he speaks, “Granny saves plenty of lives.”
“I suppose science has not solved every mystery in the world,” Aoi relents, smiling. “Tarou and you always come back, after all.”
Tarou and you. Nagumo’s hand stilted just for a beat. He cannot tell if Aoi notices. She continues anyway, even softer this time around,
“You know, it’s funny, how they say someone ‘gave up on their dreams.’ You certainly see it that way, don’t you?”
Now, Aoi certainly sees the way Nagumo jerks. He looks up at her, blinking guiltily, but she smiles kindly if despondently — not for herself — before continuing, “You are not the only one, you know, or even the first. I used to think about it often, too. I was from the countryside, and I had to work part-time to survive in the city. It was not easy. But still, I had no complaints…”
Wistfulness fills Aoi’s eyes as she continues, “I had a lot of dreams when I came to the city, though… honestly, they were more fantasy than anything. You know, I spent the entire train ride to Tokyo, in my head, planning out my entire life there. I was going to go to school, right, but I would work at a cute part-time job; find a cute boyfriend at school or at work, maybe a guy that visits often; I will have my own room, finally, and it will be a dinky little place but I will have my own bathroom and kitchen, and I would paste posters and buy cute bedsheets like the little girls I grew up watching. See, in actuality, I was just copying what I saw on TV.” She laughs, “I really wanted to buy a beret — a white one with a fluffy snowball on the side — for some reasons, and of course all the cute clothes that will go well with it. I will spend weekends working in the library or a coffee shop, and when I walk home at night, the city lights will catch on the glassy skyscrapers and twinkle like stars…
“And for the most part, it was a dream come true,” Nagumo, inexplicably, exhales; there were stars shining in Aoi’s eyes, “I went to school, went to my part time job, had my own apartment, even if the bathroom was communal, and I made friends. We work in the library together, though not so much the coffee shops. I don’t often walk home alone at night in the city. And, well, I bought cute clothes, but they are more expensive than I thought, and I never managed to get those cute bedsheets. They were either too expensive or kid-sized.
“Pretty silly, right?” Aoi laughs awkwardly, scratching her cheeks. It is like she breaks away from her reverie and, her shiny, schoolgirl eyes aged in a split second into the woman that she has since grown into, “But, well. I thought about it, and I think that sometimes you just grow past your dreams.”
She pauses. Nagumo, for his part, is still between her sentences, and Aoi finds something in his gaze that gets her to smile more confidently if nostalgic and goes on, “I got what I needed out of that dream and one day, I found another one that I would pursue next. That, for me, was Tarou and running a neighborhood shop with him. Marrying Tarou, I planned— but the neighborhood shop was something that popped up at a moment and I had to seize it right then before I grew timid. I wanted a family. Is that such a terrible thing?
“You are different from Tarou, Nagumo-kun,” Nagumo’s eyes widen against his wishes. Aoi, as if having expected it, huffs out a small laugh, “Tarou… I don’t think he was very attached to his job, then. It was just something he did and had no reason to stop. Until he met me, I suppose. But for you, Nagumo-kun, it’s more than that, right?”
“It’s…” Nagumo knows, but… but he is not Sakamoto who is too much of an idiot to think any of this, “It’s complicated.”
“I guess it’s not correct to say that, either. I think that, well, it is a lot deeper, for you.” Aoi smiles, as kindly as she always does, and for once Nagumo feels his heckles begin to raise, “Maybe I could have chosen differently back then, Nagumo-kun, but I didn’t, and I don’t regret it. Sometimes, I think, people just grow too big for their old dreams. I certainly did.
“Nagumo-kun,” Aoi says his name again, with so much kindness that he feels patronized, “I can only hope that whatever dreams I end up chasing, I will be happy. I hope the same for you, too. I hope the same for everyone in the world.”
Nagumo, for once in his life, is entirely speechless. For once, there are no replies he had memorized for this conversation, “I don’t know what you will choose to do next, Nagumo-kun. I don’t know if you will ever quit this job. But for now, I want you to be well. That’s all I have in my heart, really.”
“I…”
“Just a Thank you would be fine.”
The words feel odd in his mouth, like a puzzle piece trying to jam into a space it does not fit. Aoi, for her part, waits. “... Thank you, Aoi.”
Aoi smiles, “You are very welcome.” A knot somewhere down his stomach loosens.
The front door chooses to creak open then; both of them hear it, hear also heavy harried footsteps and Granny Miya saying, They are at the back and then the string-beaded curtain lifts, Sakamoto’s round torso nearly running inside. Aoi makes a surprised sound — likely he is not expected to finish work this early — and none says a word when Sakamoto looms over Nagumo, finally, and lightning-quickly smacks him right on the top of the head,
“OW!” Nagumo yelps; the hit resonates between the three of them, “What the fuck!?”
“Sorry, Aoi,” Sakamoto ignores Nagumo and turns to reassure Aoi first. Right then, Granny Miya strolls in, heading towards Aoi and mutters, Don’t worry, that’s how those two have always been.
Sakamoto turns back to stare him down. Nagumo will not stand for this bullshit, “Hey, fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
“I’m injured, you know!”
“Because you are stupid!”
“Shut up! Can’t you not come up with a new insult!?”
“Fucking idiot. Moron.”
“You are the idiot!”
“No, you are!” Sakamoto growls, his forefinger nearly pressing on Nagumo’s nose, “I was right there with you.”
“What, now?”
That is probably the wrong thing to say, because Nagumo knows the face Sakamoto always makes before he goes to smash something. Here in Granny Miya’s place of healing, but more importantly, in front of his wife, Sakamoto will not do that. That thought pisses Nagumo off. That definitely shows on his face because Sakamoto looks even more pissed off and he yanks, lightning-fast, the pillow from the next bed over to slam on the top of Nagumo’s head again.
“HEY!”
“Tarou!”
“That’s always the problem with you!” Sakamoto growls, low and thundering, “All the time. Always! I hate that about you. You are too stupid…” Anger sheens over his irises, shining past his spectacles; even without staring at Sakamoto’s eyes Nagumo can still see veins bruising on his red-hot skin, the coils bulging down his forehead. Nagumo has enough sanity to be taken aback; Sakamoto, in his memories, was rarely ever this angry, “You are so stupid, you couldn’t even… even!”
Sakamoto hacks off his sentence— one sharp heavy breath like a strike of a butcher knife— flinches away from Nagumo— his heart drops to the pit of his stomach— and slams his fist down the metal railing at the foot of Nagumo’s bed. It jolts Nagumo up, plunging his heart back in place, and he pays no attention to either Aoi’s gasp or the new dent on Granny’s bed, which he knows he will pay for. They never developed the words for any of this. Nagumo thinks they are getting too old for this sort of deficiency, but they grew too big for the words too quickly and now could never fit back the old skins. Now, these two old dogs are too grayed for new tricks.
“You are too stupid,” Sakamoto grapples at the tangled thought once more, as if meandering for an opening somewhere within it, “I was there. All night. Right there! You could have woken me up. You know I was there so I can be woken up! I hate that about you. Always. You never look at anybody else, anybody at all, you never see anybody around you!”
But I did, Nagumo wants to protest, but I did! I saw you and I saw Akao for the longest time and even when I was dreaming…
“You want to deny it, but you know I’m right. Even back then, every time…” Sakamoto pinches the corner of his eyes against the bridge of his nose, as if that exasperation alone will convey all of the tangled things they were, “Who sat around bleeding to death before telling anybody that something is wrong!?”
“Wise words coming from you.”
“I’m different.”
“That’s what all the noobs say.”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“My body is different.”
“And mine isn’t made out of glass.” Nagumo glares; these days, there is no one for Nagumo to look at, really. “How would I— ” How would I know that it will cause this much trouble; no, “It’s none of your business, anyway!” W— “Worry about yourself and your little family, will you!?” Stop dragging them into your messes, Sakamoto.
”YOU—!”
For several moments Nagumo is glad, so glad and so ecstatic that there is a grin on his lips he is almost unable to hide— it burns redhot in his chest, like old coals flashed with motor oil— Sakamoto’s face darkens in anger, his whole countenance grows heavy, darkens rapidly as oppressive as a black hole, so that Nagumo’s attention is trained on and sucked into his rage; Sakamoto is the most dangerous animal in this room right now. Nagumo flinches when his thick, heavy palm strikes down the exact same spot on the metal railing a second time; it reverberates through the room thunder-like. He almost laughs. Sakamoto’s face does not shift even when Nagumo feels seventeen again in a beat, feels it sparks rhythmically like fireworks and—
—this wasn’t a game of his design. When they first met, Nagumo nearly perfected his lack of anger. No matter how annoying Akao tried to be (Sakamoto was just inadvertently so), Nagumo Yoichi used to always laugh it off, saying something smart to dump the joke back on her. It was even more infuriating when Akao intentionally annoys Nagumo Yoichi when he was clearly not in the mood for it. In fact, he was in the exact opposite of a mood for her jokes, whatever that should be named. Sakamoto was just going along with her bullshit, as usual. But then, that one time, that stupid-blondwhite-head was the one that broke Nagumo. Nagumo threw the first punch; the rest is history.
They did it again and again. Again and again. Again and again— not in any hateful manner, but certainly more charged than the brawlings that decided who should go get drinks and debates over who is the president of Switzerland. Akao and Sakamoto, either or both, against Nagumo Yoichi. Always, when Nagumo was upset and did not feel like talking about it. Again and again. At some point, when they were not careful, it devolved to straight punches without preambles, without spoken pretexts. That went badly — for multiple reasons, obvious and not — and they figured out that there has to be an introduction to it; a warm-up round, of sorts, to make sure nobody will tear their Achilles heels.
Spring was pretending to be summer on that skin-scorching afternoon; sunlight unsheathed from his throat with each breathless breath, each holler scratching against the lining of his throat and his mind was so empty finally so empty so free— as Sakamoto threw a punch and he caught it, flung it to a side, borrowing the momentum to flip that fat ass over. That spring Nagumo finally managed to grow taller even if he never managed to bulk up; but he is strong and he is fast — just a smidgen faster — so he landed blows after blows after blows on Sakamoto, most of them blocked by rock-solid forearms, and his own shouting grows clear and loud in his own ears, then he starts laughing; words meant everything and nothing at all then and then
“You got it all out?” Sakamoto raised a brow, his normal voice; now deep as six feet underground when Nagumo’s heart still beat sky-high, “not upset anymore?”
All rehashed from somewhere.
“CAN YOU TWO STOP IT!?” Aoi’s yell cuts through his ear like taut violin strings; Nagumo does not know if he flinched, “STOP IT! YOU GUYS ARE GROWN-UPS! START ACTING LIKE IT!”
“Sorry, Aoi—”
“DO I NEED TO SEND ONE OF YOU OUTSIDE, OR HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF TOGETHER?”
“Sorry; I’m sorry,” Nagumo hears his voice speaking next; next to the bed, next to a calmly-standing Granny Miya, Aoi is flushed red and her hand balled into shaking fists; she stands tall and tight, whole body coiled by her shoulders into a perfect, tense rectangle. Only her chest moves, heaving with each breath. Only then does Nagumo realizes how terrifying this must be for her; Granny Miya is too used to their bullshit—
“Aoi-chan, Tarou, go get some fresh air, yeah?” Granny taps at their forearms, though her wrinkly hand lingers by Aoi for much longer, “Let me deal with that stubborn brat. Go! It’s a beautiful night outside.”
“Sorry, Granny…”
“I know, it’s all Nacchan’s fault, isn’t it? Come on, now.”
Nagumo feels dizzy. He flops down onto the bed — the mattress hit against his head like a slab of concrete for his troubles — as Granny Miya slowly walks towards him; she puts her hand on his forehead, a simple temperature check, then runs her hand down his cheek, his nape, and pinches something that makes the headache go away,
“Ow! Granny!”
“Serve you right. You were all tensed up,” Granny spits as she hands Nagumo his water bottle, “Are you stupid, or something?”
“You know I don’t mean any of it, Granny.”
“I know you never do. But you must be stupid to treat Tarou like that. Cruel, stupid little child— you, Nacchan,” but she still pats his cheeks kindly. Her palm is cool against the half of his cheek it can cover, and she has never faulted him for leaning into it, “Do you want ching bo leung?”
“Yes, please.” As if she ever has to ask.
“Alright, I’ll be right back.”
By the time the Sakamotos return (hand in hand— Nagumo sees them walking in from the street), Nagumo has finished chewing through the ice cubes in his second ching bo leung serving. He has, also, in the meantime, promised Granny a new bedframe and a new massage chair for all the troubles he stirred up. Aoi is calm and somewhat cheerful again as Granny tells them that he is good to go home for the night; Sakamoto mumbles something about searching his room (Nagumo rolls his eyes), and then they load him up in the backseat of the borrowed car like an oversized ragdoll. Apparently, Sakamoto ran here all the way from the shop.
Maybe Nagumo should feel bad about it.
They get home nine minutes before Hana’s bedtime to find her sitting in Lu’s lap, nodding off to the Sugar-chan show singing softly on TV. But that was only because Nagumo was lurking— as soon as the door clicks open, she springs up from her seat and runs towards them, feet bouncing on the ground.
“Mama!!! Papa!!! Nagumo-san!!!”
“Hi there, Hana-chan,” Aoi kneels to catch Hana onto her arms; as soon as her mother stands up, Hana leans over to wrap her arm around her mother’s and father’s neck, tittering on,
“Mama, Papa, why did you take so long? Nagumo-san, Nagumo-san!” Hana’s head dives between her parents’ to look at Nagumo, and he waves with a small smile, “Are you okay? Lu-nee-san said that you needed to go to the doctor, Nagumo-san. Is it your arm? Does it hurt?”
Nagumo suddenly feels like his bones have begun to melt to jello, “Mm, Hana-chan, the doctor fixed me right up~”
“Did you hurt yourself? You have to be careful, okay? You slept in for so long, you didn’t even get to go to the park! Mama said you can go next time, though.”
“Mm, next time, for sure.”
“Okay,” Hana-chan smiles; the curve of her mouth is gentle, like the first light breaking through a rainy afternoon, that Nagumo feels his lips wobble up to a smile to match, “Goodnight, Nagumo-san,”
In front of him, Aoi teases, Ah, and I didn’t even mention bedtime yet, Hana-chan must be so tired already… “Goodnight, Hana-chan.”
Aoi carries Hana into her and Sakamoto’s bedroom, which is currently her and Hana’s bedroom. As for the husband, who got Nagumo firm by the shoulders to steer him towards the living room, he thanks Lu for staying with Hana so late; the girl blithely takes up the offer to stay the night over. Then, Sakamoto turns to Nagumo. He lingers— just long enough to make it clear that there is something he is restraining himself from doing, before heading straight to their room and, as quick as a skipping fox, pulls out a set of sleeping clothes (that Sakamoto himself had packed); Nagumo, himself, has not seen those pairs of pants for years, but he still remember the hastily shortened hems on those— a result of Akao trimming out the cigarette burns she had put on there.
“Shower,” Sakamoto declares.
“Okay.”
It is nothing strange — Nagumo was just discharged from (what is functionally) the hospital, he has one working arm, and they had done the same multiple times as pupils. Once or twice, it was because the other is incapacitated, too. Sakamoto was bad at it because he was an oaf, and Nagumo was bad at it because he did not know how to physically interact with other people normally. What? How do you expect to kill people if you don’t even touch them? But now, fortunately, Nagumo remembers the beginnings, at least: by slowly inching himself and his bad arm out of the stretchy, sweaty T-shirt; slinking his legs, marble-cold, out of the equally sweaty sweatpants; slipping on the plasticky arm-covering; tries not to look himself in the mirror or feel how sweaty his hair is; and instead, stares at Sakamoto in his shorts and undershirt as he turns on the hand-held shower to perfect temperature. Behind Sakamoto, the bathtub is slowly being filled up, and Nagumo walks naked into the shower, obediently sitting with his back to Sakamoto. The water is at the perfect temperature.
Sakamoto tilts his head back by the neck before wetting his hair, because Nagumo hates water streaming down his eyes. Sakamoto makes quick work dampening his hair — always fast, efficient, lacking any sort of preambles unless he finds it necessary — before slathering on some generic, unscented soap on the ink-black threads. Nagumo has taken to stealing Sakamoto’s soap, because Sakamoto didn’t pack him any. Nagumo does not know how much time has passed before Sakamoto’s hand leaves his scalp and reaches to turn off the bathtub faucet; he lets Sakamoto’s chest push against the crown of his head in lieu of the other man’s hands. Quickly enough, those hands return,
“The first time Hana-chan got sick, really sick, she must have been only two or three.” Sakamoto mumbles, “I couldn’t do anything but watch. I was nervous. It was the first time in my life I got so afraid. I thought she might die, you know. She was so little; and I couldn't do anything to help at all. The doctor said we just have to keep her warm, keep her hydrated, give her the medicine when it’s time, and just wait the fever out… but I was helpless. I thought I was strong. I still am; but all that strength in the world, and I couldn’t do anything at all.
“I couldn’t do anything at all, until Aoi scolded me to get my act together. My pacing around was making her nervous, too.” Sakamoto huffed out a laugh; it made him sound old, “I watched and learned from Aoi how to do everything: check her temperature, get her to eat, get her to sleep… Then, Hana got really fussy when it was time for medicine. Medicine isn’t fun even when you are not old enough to know what they are, I guess. So Aoi got me to hold Hana, right, and to soothe her as Aoi fed her the medicine. Hana only fussed even more when I picked her up; I thought I was doing it all wrong, but then, eventually, Hana just… settled down. She snuggled into my chest as she fell asleep. I thought I had already fallen in love with Hana when she was born but— it was just kike falling in love again. I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain. I fell in love with life, I guess, being a father, being a husband, that kind of stuff. Being Hana’s father.”
Nagumo scoffs, “Are you comparing me to an infant, Sakamoto-kun?”
He smiles, if only internally, at the vein popping up Sakamoto’s forehead, “I have half a mind to throttle you with Granny’s medicine. No sugar, either.” Sakamoto grunts, clearly still annoyed, “At least infants can’t rip their stomach open.”
“I’m happy for you, Sakamoto-kun,” Nagumo relents. He sighs as he bends over like a wilted plant, resting his head on his knees as Sakamoto rubs soap all over his back, “I’m happy; really, I am, that you’ve got a life here, Sakamoto-kun. You seem happy. It’s the best thing that could happen to you.”
“You can have it, too, Nagumo.” Nagumo sucks in a breath, already surrendering to the fact that Sakamoto would feel it under his palm. “You can. You can find it.”
That’s a nice thought, Nagumo thinks. He cannot tell if Sakamoto himself believes that. Knowing Sakamoto, knowing what it took him to get into the assassin world then out of it, maybe Sakamoto truly believes it. It— being a dream, a possibility, an aspiration— a goal, perhaps; if Nagumo is as strong as he is, why would it be any more difficult? But Nagumo sighs, humoring Sakamoto by attempting to imagine something close to a family, to kids, and finds that he knows no children outside of Hana-chan.
Ah, shit, huh.
There was not much to return to. Nagumo knows that compared to Sakamoto, he at least knew his old man and his mother. There is not much to look forward to, either. He eats, sleeps, goes to work, gets back home early if he is lucky, and stays in bed to wait out the exhaustion. He is still young, he still has time to figure shit out. Still unmarried, still have the chance to be irresponsible— to live his best life, so to speak! Most of the time, it at least feels like that cocky conviction is his. Only sometimes does the jaded edge win out, and for a night, he has to admit that all of it is a load of bullshit; it is an excuse while he grapples around for reasons when there is nothing for him to do but think, and he cannot sleep. He absolutely does not have his shit together, and he is not getting any younger. He does not even know where to start. He has no idea what outside or inside mean or would even look like. I don’t know what else is out there. I can’t walk into this world and look away from the veil. Do you get it, Sakamoto-kun? I can’t look away. I know I can’t. I was born standing outside and staring at magic tricks looking for straying threads; I was not born for the sort of life normal people get to live.
So how did you do it, Sakamoto? Because I don’t understand it at all. I don’t understand how people live without seeing the threads tangled in front of their eyes. Surely not everyone can be that oblivious. I don’t understand how people live like there is no blood under their feet. I can’t look away from any of it. But I can watch. I know how to watch, Sakamoto-kun. Even when I decided to give up the watching and plunged headfirst into action, I could watch you and Akao and follow along for my whole life. I can watch. I only watch. I can keep watching across the veil just fine. What else is there?
Do you get it, Sakamoto, or am I going crazy?
“I have a looooong career left in front of me, Sakamoto-kun.”
“You can quit whenever you want.”
“But I won’t. Besides, what am I going to do? Freeload on your payroll? No thanks.”
“You are good with kids. You could be a teacher, I think.”
“I’d have to fake multiple degrees, a license, and all the paperwork. That’s too much work~”
“The girls back at school always said that you could be a model or an actor.”
Nagumo laughs, “That’s even more work!”
Janitor, then. How about an arts curator, you know about all the arts. Real estate agent, maybe. The embassy? How about the post office, there is one right nearby; or, just go to college for real and figure it out all over again. Or, hey, how about just making sudoku puzzles for sales? Wouldn’t that be nice?
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Nagumo’s stomach hurt by the eighth suggestion, “what, just living here and do fuck all?”
“Nagumo,” Sakamoto asks, “do you like it here?”
It gets all serious, all of a sudden. Nagumo’s stomach aches from all the laughing and he sighs as Sakamoto squeezes the same spots on his nape for the eightieth time that evening. It has ached all night.
“Yeah,” Nagumo thinks; words feel honest, for once, “Yeah, I do.”
Nagumo knows what Sakamoto is asking for; he is too tired to pretend like he knows where his life is going. He sighs again, longer and deeper, and maybe in another lifetime it won’t be so difficult to admit to it,
“Stay.”
“Okay.”
Just for a little longer. It’s been a while, after all.