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He remembers a time in his life where he had been inexplicably happy—the idiotic kind of happy that lived inside of his heart like fools allowed. That particular brand of happiness only occurred when people had found comfort in a person instead of their ambitions, and Shuichi had admittedly fallen victim long ago. During that time, he considered it comforting. Soothing , if he had to choose a better word. If you had asked him two years ago, he would have considered finding her as salvation. She was his salvation, saving him from what he didn’t know at the time.
When he slept next to her at night, he kissed nimble fingers hardened by physical labor and thought of the stars that shone for her. When he woke up, he loved every eyelash swept over her cheeks and kissed her awake. The foolish happiness he felt, he concluded at the time, was one reserved for fortunate people who could afford such luxuries.
Things were different now, though. He thinks of once-pristine statues sanded down by the hands of tourists when he thinks of her, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
It means we’ve prevailed through the weather and unrelenting assaults , he tells himself over black espresso and the paper. Something inside of him lurches in discomfort and he isn’t sure why he feels this way when he reminds himself he loves her.
It’s possible it has something to do with the deal that weighed precariously over them like a black cloud; it’s easy to overlook a decision when he doesn’t need to calculate her into the equation. There was a lot less feelings involved when he didn’t include her, and he doesn’t need to worry if she’ll still love him at the end of the day or not.
He doesn’t have the heart to consider her a nuisance—but considering her as a factor makes things more difficult than they have to be for him. In a distant memory, someone had once told him that if he wanted to rule, he would have to be able to rule alone.
In other words, everyone else is to be collateral. And for a long time, he was okay with that. He was never quite fond of anyone in particular anyways, and the people that he was fond of always found ways out of his life. He decided his aspirations were larger than the loneliness that encased his heart.
Becoming the prime minister was easy. Loving someone was not. He had understood this well on when he began his disguise as “Shu” as a means to gather information, and it’s silent moments without work where he wonders why he kept the facade on for so long. There was a strong possibility he had kept the persona because he knew Shuichi couldn’t love her. . Shuichi had vast political ambitions—Shu, on the other hand, didn’t.
Shu is who he would have been if his aspirations didn’t involve taking office, a pipe dream and partial daydream of a person. Dreams required sacrifice, though, and it was decided long ago he’d give up anything to become the prime minister.
So he takes the deal. He doesn’t tell her that he does.
The deal is simple as long as it involves himself exclusively. He’s to be with a woman who could greatly benefit him and further secure his position to becoming the prime minister. He tells himself it’s the push he needs after months of setbacks and delays that frustrated him to no end.
When he finally meets her, the agreement solidifies over wine and steak in a candlelit dinner. He pretends not to notice how desperately she wants him to love her, acting as if he doesn’t see the woman he truly loves in place of her. The pen that he uses to scribble his signature over the contract is heavy from either anticipation or guilt. A shuddering feeling makes a home in his chest, with his tie feeling far too tight once he leaves the restaurant.
This is your dream , he reminds himself. There’s an air of reassurance around him on the car ride home that he can figure this out; he always can figure things out.
What he doesn’t expect occurs two days later: seeing the same contract he had signed, this time between the nimble digits of the woman he loves. He’s out of words and she doesn’t have enough, and he wonders if he’s in the position to soothe the tears that compete for her jawline if he’s the cause of them.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. “It’s the best way to secure the position I want. I love you, you know this.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that… how can I even explain this to you? It would be so obvious to anyone else.”
“This shouldn’t affect us.” His tone is gentle.
“Well it does. You’re doing this for power and it’s not right , Shuichi. Your ambitions are too much. You’re asking for too much.”
“I just need a safety net after the mess that happened the last few months. I’m not going to do anything with her besides the bare minimum. You know how I feel, and you know I wouldn’t do anything. She just wants the image.”
Shuichi’s gentle tone never gave away an ounce of himself while hers is everything she has to offer, and it unnerves a part of him while he watches the onslaught of tears. He wants to conquer in politics and love as if he could have both, but it starts becoming vaguely clear that he was simply being greedy.
He doesn’t say anything, though. He doesn’t have to, because he knows what she’s already decided. And so they begin to fall apart in small pieces, from cold hands left unheld and diminished kisses in the night and dinners spent apart.
There didn’t need to be words to signify the end of their relationship. The week after that, he tells her she no longer needs to check in with him as often. Texts regress from loving to informative. Their schedules forbid them from seeing one another awake in their home, and it strangely comforts him. He starts seeing the woman on weekends over brandy and sometimes wine. She likes the color red, and he’s disappointed in himself for not remembering the favorite color of the woman he loves, so he washes the feeling away with another sip.
Shuichi only sees evidence of her: a hairdryer on the toilet seat, a moved bottle of lotion, a shirt missing off a hanger in the morning. There’s a day where he realizes he hasn’t seen her in forty eight hours, and he remembers fondly when he couldn’t stand even twelve without her.
He remembers when he would work diligently so he could return to her and be greeted with soft kisses and open arms—there’s a warmth he can’t explain when he remembers how he felt back then. It’s a grave contrast when returning back the same cold expanse he calls home. Silently, he wonders how it was the same home from months ago when times were much better. He has to remind himself that time never stops for anybody.
While his political advances were nothing short of victorious, it leaves him empty, in a way. He can only place the feeling momentarily when a flash of dread washes over his whole being. If you had asked him before, he could be able to explain it; the feeling felt foreign and strange to him now.
He faces enough discomfort living inside of a suit every single day, and he decides for himself that he might need a drink to soothe himself further when he heads towards the Tres Spade’s dimly lit bar.
And so he’s lead to where he stands currently, staring at a weathered print of a world map while he sips from a decorated glass of brandy. He can see every brushed curve and penned mark over the looming illustration that hangs prestigiously on a wall inside the bar.
His gaze wanders slowly to the painted sea placed between large deposits of land, and the vast ocean seems near suffocating. Although it presents itself as a mere painting, he feels the distance between her and him in the faded blue and worn canvas, a representation of thousands of miles apart she feels to be. The painted ocean bleeds loneliness and distance the same way he does, and he finally acknowledges the feeling he had experienced since the contract signing as guilt.
I have to fix this, he tells himself under a bare whisper. Liquid courage pumps through undaunting veins and he feels a sudden clarity akin to being doused with ice water.
He’s halfway towards the bartender to leave his glass when he sees it. Her hand intertwines itself with one that wasn’t his, along with a smile for somebody that isn’t him. The smile that dawns on her delicate features is one he’s all too familiar with. It is an expression he adores because it was always so simple to read, effortlessly declaring her love for the receiver without words—and this time, it isn’t for him to see.
Instead, it belongs to Eisuke Ichinomiya. Shuichi takes no time in noticing the suit and its purple accents, one that he had seen far too many times to forget. Stepping closer to get a better look, there’s nothing particularly scandalous about the affair with the two of them. They sit together in a dark booth with hands holding another’s along with the familiar idiotic happiness engraving their features, and somehow that manages to hurt more than anything.
He’s unmistakably angry for a moment. Betrayal comes in substitution of sorrow, and he has to ground apart the rage inside of him into ashes, distinguishing it until only smoke remains. What comes after is a deafening emptiness that seems to be an absence of something he can’t place directly, but it leaves a gaping hole in his chest all the same.
Somehow, he’s understanding. When he breaks, it’s never about explosions and anger for him—instead, it’s about suppressing whatever feelings he could. Stuffing whatever emotions he holds into a box and storing it away is something Shuichi does easily, since he can always clean up the mess later when nobody is looking. A numbness replaces whatever embers are left of his feelings and it leaves him hollow while he remains unable to tear his eyes away from them.
If he’s to be prime minister, there were things he needs have to give up, free will being one of them. Even if he could be angry, he isn’t sure if he would be; he already has a vague understanding that she was no longer his to lose.
She wasn’t his to lose the moment he signed the contract. He had signed his right to her away and replaced her with someone else. If Shuichi had to think about it, he wasn’t allowed to be angry.
That doesn’t stop the indistinct pain in his chest, however. He loves her in a way he’s no longer allowed to express and failed to express it when he had the chance. His only option—and retribution—now is to watch her smile be gifted to someone else, someone far more deserving than he is after what he put her through.
Shuichi learns first hand that it is greedy to wish for both power and love, and his punishment lies in seeing her bloom for someone else—more than she ever had for him.