Chapter Text
You get up with a heavy sigh, your hair all messed up, sleep in your eyes, and a dry throat. Apparently, you drooled in your sleep, and it's not like it usually bothers you, well, not when you're at home, but knowing Aoi saw you with a face like a koala that got hit with a jar of water and still hasn't processed it, makes you a bit nervous. Definitely not the way to start a new day.
Aoi looks at you with a silly sight of concern, though you can tell she's trying to suppress a smile. You don't blame her, you haven't seen yourself in the mirror, but you'd bet you look like you wrestled with the sheets and lost, as usual.
"Well, it seems like your first night was either super comfortable or the worst one in your life" she says with a sly grin.
You realize you slept too twisted and it'll probably come back to haunt you for the rest of the day. Aoi leaves the itinerary on the little table.
"I'll go do my tasks, hope we get some in common, hopefully cooking, portioning out food for that many people is a headache," she said with a smile you didn't notice before she left the room.
You sigh, reaching out to grab the schedule. Work, work, work, that's all you read. After a half-hearted attempt to shake off the sluggishness that every morning possess you when the thought of getting ready hits you, you get up and give your bed one last look. You could swear you hear those warm blankets, compared to the cold morning bite, saying, "Come back ____, we're not the same without you." You head to wash your face and put on your uniform, wich is your usual one with the little twist of an apron, with about as much enthusiasm as a dirty sock.
You head out to the garden, your first task is watering the plants, nothing too different from your "free" days where you used to live. If your calculations were right, you'd have the garden done in 30 minutes and have some time to rest.
Oh man.
You were VERY wrong.
You'd even taken a bit longer than the schedule said, you'd spaced out quite a bit while watering, and, God, why do they even need a garden this big? You feel like you've walked from one end of the garden to the other enough to deserve a gold medal and a kiss on the cheek from the president.
You slow down, almost done, and pick up your thoughts of (non) professional plant waterer. Being a kakushi wasn't your dream until a few years ago; as a kid, you wanted to be a baker, florist, or potter. You want a job that makes you happy and a house full of plants and joy, the house where you'd live with your two, no, three, three? Yeah, three would be good, three kids and your tender, strong, and very chivalrous husband who'd treat you like a treasure and work hard like dad did for your family.
But now, in your almost twenties, it seems unreal. Your family lives on the other side of Japan, and you don't keep in touch, thanks to the slowness of letter deliveries and your inability to expose yourselve, you no longer have contact.
You'd decided to join the extermination corps as soon as you found out about the atrocities that happened every night while you slept warmly in your futon. You didn't measure everything it entailed, but you don't regret it, that's for sure. Sometimes the thought creeps in, "what if." What if you weren't there in the first place? Maybe you'd have the chance to see your little siblings and parents more often, maybe you could go anywhere without worrying about risking yourself and others. Still, you wouldn't trade the feeling of being at least somewhat useful, knowing you're contributing your grain of salt and protecting those even more defenseless than you. The truth is, even if it wasn't the best, the ideal, or what you dreamed for yourself, you're happy doing what you do, helping as you can, and trying to be stronger each day.
After a few minutes, you'd finished, and you went in to do some simple basic maintenance tasks for the farm: sweeping, mopping a bit here and there, polishing windows, and generally not very complicated stuff. Shinobu didn't want to overload you with work, especially in your state of health.
You grip the cloth you're cleaning the glass with tighter, not wanting to think much about your current condition and the burden you have to deal with, trying to ignore the bad thoughts that come with the idea of being doomed to die in a way that, to you, is pathetic.
If Tomioka knew you, what would he say? You smile thinking about his serene face; maybe he'd say everything will be okay, a pat on the back, the usual, but even so, you blush violently just thinking about it, or rather, your imagination's version of him. You can't help but deflate like a balloon in the sun and adopt a soggy french fry posture that perfectly reflects your self-proclaimed misery.
As you get back to work, you feel a heavy, warm hand on your shoulder. You snap out of your daydream and, without thinking, throw the damp cloth at the person's face along with a muffled shout.
The man patiently removes the cloth from his face without a look of disgust and smiles. "Hey, nice to see you again, are you feeling better?" You blink twice, take him in from head to toe – he's a tall guy with a bandaged leg, striking hair that matches his eyes perfectly – and worst of all, he's talking to you