Chapter Text
He’d always known, in a sense. That there was more to him, to his story.
When he saw her face, the only difference was that in addition to knowing, he remembered.
It was one thing to admit to the slippery, distant shadows of his own mind that it had knocked the wind from his lungs, that it had swamped him, cutting him off at the knees, head, heart, flooding the cold, quiet corners of his being with an ache and fondness so old and familiar he had been almost relieved to welcome it back. It was another entirely to tell anyone else, so naturally, he hadn’t.
Being sneaky about things had always come rather naturally.
So had being patient, though needing to actually exercise it in the face of wanting was entirely new.
(For this life, he acknowledged, not unwryly).
When slim, graceful hands had been found, wrapped around a cup of tea with an absurdly cheerful slogan plastered across, he had been expecting, anticipating, an immediate appearance of eyes as pure and brilliant blue as the sky, beaming with love for the other, and so dear in the pairing that he’d lived a hundred lifetimes waiting to witness it again.
(But as usual, Yukimura was an idiot, and therefore late).
So Saizo watched her instead.
After all, he suspected that no matter what may have changed in the lifetimes between them, the probability of Sanada Yukimura being reborn with any degree of subtlety was simply nonexistent, and when he finally got around to blundering back into the little lady’s life, Saizo would notice.
The problem, in the meantime, was her inordinate knack for…charming people, he decided, which of course could muddy things up for the reunion he so patiently sought.
(It doesn’t seem right, to see her smile change to recognition before Yukimura gets the chance, so he orders the stick of dango from her little brother instead, and sticks to the shadows—which he remembers with considerable less enthusiasm).
The first fly, circling fruit not meant for him, was easy. A growled word or two, and the coward never called her again.
The second one was a bit more persistent, but eventually, with some doing, he’s offered a job in another country and that’s that.
It became something of a pastime, an amusement, contriving and observing the way they flocked, then were sent scattering with a casually placed word or piece of evidence. The smear of lipstick on a collar, a drop or two of the truth-poisons he knew now how to make again, a forged letter, an update they swore they didn’t make. Sudden credit reports, hitherto unknown involvement with mobs, or criminal histories.
(There is something cold to it, but he’s always been cold. He promises himself, at the sadness in her eyes as another one scrambles to explain the unexplainable picture, that it won’t go on forever. Just…long enough.)
When at last (at last!) he comes, when he and his team swing the door open, cheering, boisterous jostling loud enough to muffle the ding of the bell over the door, she is gripping them hem of her apron, furious and blinking back tears, and lamenting to the deliveryman that it’s just my luck, that I can only find losers.
He steps free of the shadows at last, because he can help with that, and as her eyes lock onto his, and widen with confusion, he takes her shoulders, and turns them before her lips can form the name they are remembering, and shoves her forward, not ungently, into the chest of a long-ago general, still leading troops with a smile. The recipient of his gift jumps in surprise, startled, but with a smile Saizo knows they won’t see—they’re staring at one another, like the lovestruck fools they’ve always been, and too distracted doing so to notice the gentleness—he finally relaxes, an old, brittle tension, a fear he might lose this, them, surrenders itself at last. There’s a feeble, uncharacteristic weakness to his bones, forged by relief, and he leans against the counter to hide it, fondness slipping into satisfaction as Yukimura hauls her into his arms for real, and she flings herself into them with equal fervor, and everyone else stares in a sort of befuddled bafflement as their supposedly bashful, stumbling, stuttering leader kisses a girl in a chef’s apron like he’s starved for the taste of her for centuries.
(But then, Saizo supposes, he has).
He doesn’t want to interrupt, but it isn’t in his character not to. “You should know, little lady, that this one’s a bit of a loser, too.”
She pivots, beaming, even as Yukimura blinks at her absence, but the clouds of confusion part to leave only a blinding sun, reflected in her smile, and the pair of them are in sync as he finds himself toppled to the floor, in two pairs of joyful arms, too tight and too much, endless warmth, and endless light.
(That’s the thing, about the pair of them.)
(Together, their light’s bright enough to burn through even the darkest shadows).