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They’ve shared a city for months, but this is the first time Shinpachi has been to Chizuru’s house. When she’d mentioned all the sorting and cleaning she needed to do, he’d offered his services, and only now does it seem like he’s traversed some unspoken boundary.
She tells him where to put his shoes- this isn’t the kind of household where tons of slippers would be piled up on and top of each other- and then he pads in after her on bare feet. Then he takes in where she’s been living. ‘Modest’ is the first word that comes to mind. He knows what ultimately became of Kodo; Chizuru has told him how Kazama felt it necessary to cut him down. But in all of Shinpachi’s dealings with the man, he’d been rather unassuming. Chizuru is the same way. Shyness didn’t quite apply, neither could one say that either of the Yukimuras were timid. They were just… quietly crucial. For all their eccentricities, both did what was necessary, without drawing any undue attention to themselves. Without asking for much in the way of praise (though Chizuru warmed to it, when offered. Kodo had remained unmoved by it.)
Shinpachi wouldn’t describe the house as old-fashioned, no. However it's a near perfect cross-section of what life had looked like for Chizuru before Kyoto. Before the Shinsengumi. Before all of this. And, if he looks, he can see a few decorations that must be recently purchased. On crisp sheets of paper, he sees characters in dark, newly dried ink. In spite of everything, the present day is sneaking into the faultlines of this home. Burrowing in, making itself known. Like a tiny flower blossoming through stone.
“Uh, where should we start?” He asks. A little spooked, and terribly ready to put his hands to work.
“I guess… My father’s room?” The house is so quiet, that their voices should be as loud as cannon fire. Instead, the silence seems to weave around what they say, cushioning even the sharpest of syllables.
“Makes sense. Lead the way!”
And she does. He suspects she’s wearing her plainest yukata for this kind of work, but it’s still brighter than any of the clothes she wore when living with them. When they'd first bumped into each other in this city, he had nearly passed her by. Even though, for months prior, he had sought her face in every short woman with dark, simple hair and kind eyes. In the end, when something finally answered his prayers, his gaze had still slid over a green yukata (not pink, not white), and Chizuru had had to be the one to call his name.
He still laughs, sometimes, when he thinks of the commotion he’d caused that day. Grabbing her, spinning around. The crowd that had stared until he said he’d been reunited with his sister at last. And then he thinks about what would have happened if he’d left home a little later that day. A little earlier. If he’d gone down a different street…
Nothing. Nothing would have happened. And that was the thing that haunts him.
It’s not far to her father’s room. When they reach it, her arm darts out and he walks into it.
“Whoa, sorry.”
“No, no. No. I did that on purpose to stop you. It’s just that… I haven’t been in here yet.”
This is the point where Sano probably would have patted her on the head. Shinpachi’s hand hovers, but he can’t make himself do it. Somehow, that would be the worst kind of lie Thankfully Chizuru doesn’t turn around and see.
“So you wanted to go in first?”
Chizuru twists and looks up at him. She has to crane her neck, but sometimes it seems like she doesn’t have to tilt it quite as much to look into his eyes anymore. That’s probably his imagination. She's not any taller.
“Is that okay? I know I won’t take long.”
“It’s fine.”
She puts her hand on the door, slides it open, and sighs before the dust hits them. Shinpachi realizes her question was more than mere politeness. She wanted to delay this moment, too. Maybe he should have protested, made a fool of himself. Anything to prevent her from slipping back into the past, and shutting the door behind her.
Now he waits. If asked, he’d say he’s waiting for her to call him in. In truth, he’s also waiting for a sob or a ferocious tirade.
Instead he gets more silence.
“Hey. Chizuru?”
“Oh. Yes, yes. Pardon me. Please come in.”
He pulls open the door with a careful hand. He does it the same steady way he cleans his sword, trying to avoid cutting himself.
Chizuru doesn’t look all that out of sorts, really, but she is standing by her father’s wardrobe. Holding on to one of the sleeves.
And he remembers taking her home, that first day. How she’d seen Sano’s spear, and how she’d held her fingers against it with a similar same kind of reverence. She was the only one he could stand touching that weapon. She’d cried over it, despite not crying during the initial news of Sano’s loss. He’d understood that too.
Now, when she turns to him, her pupils seem to waver, again, but he doesn’t think tears will fall. This seems more like one of those losses where you cry yourself out, pile the issue high with tinder, then burn it all down.
“I got distracted,” she says. “It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“That’s alright. That’s why you brought me along.”
They start with the clothes. They make piles; things that people might buy, and things people probably will not. Despite the changing fashions, Shinpachi is glad to see that the latter pile has a fair amount of items in it.
“What will you do with the ones you’re not selling?”
“Oh, various things. Maybe I’ll refashion some of them, or sell them. Or I’ll give them away to people who need them. I have a lot of options..”
“Yeah, you’ll figure it out.”
When the two of them had been pulling out Kodo’s clothing, they’d tossed it to the ground, almost violently. It hadn’t been very satisfying though. Fabric has no give to it. Now, though, Shinpachi bends down and starts folding some of it. As he does so, Chizuru watches, like there should be a person in that piece of clothing. Then she blinks, and gets to work, organizing the other piles.
Next, he asks to work on the books, and Chizuru agrees. Those might be the items he’s most interested in seeing. As a child, Shinpachi had poured over most writing he's come across. On the rare idle day, he’d read and read until his eyes felt scoured, scrubbed raw. He’d never gotten his hand on a rangaku tome, though, and for a while he just flips through this one. Admiring and cringing at the detailed pictures. An illustration of a human hand, makes him stop and stare. All the fragile bones that fit together. Creating something that can hurt or build, kill or heal. He squints, and tries to find something that would predict which hand would be the dominant one. If such a thing existed, would it be a comfort to Saito? Or would he accept it as one more thing belonging to the natural order?
It’s a pointless to think about it. It's not like he'll find the answer in this drawing.
He almost forgets he’s not alone in this room. But then Chizuru catches his eye, and offers him the widest smile he’s seen from her in a while. Shinpachi laughs and tries to close the book, but she catches him by the wrist and he refrains.
“This isn’t exactly helping you, is it?”
“I don’t care,” she says. “I didn’t expect to get all this done in one day. And it’s nice to see you looking so content.”
She says it like it’s a rare thing, and for a moment he’s confused. Ever since they reunited, he’s been quick to shower her with smiles and laughter.
“This one is a bit old,” she says, rather than explaining herself. “We had it when I was a child. The first time I opened it I had nightmares. But then I kept going back to it, until I realized that the body wasn’t scary. This is just a part of life.”
Shinpachi remembers the first time he’d read a historical record on some war. The statements of casualties had been a weight on him, like he had been forced to roll a boulder up a hill. But then he got accustomed to the idea. Wars happened, people died, and so many of them were only represented as numbers.
“So,” he says. First he gives her the smile he now realizes she sees through. So then he lets his expression settle into whatever expression his heart wants him to make. Their hands are still alive, and they’re resting on the same book. He taps her fingers with his before withdrawing. “So,” he tries again, “is this one you want to keep?”
“Yes,” Chizuru says. “I know the ports are opening, so this is bound to be outdated but… for the meantime I’m getting a lot from it.”
Oh, that's right. She's training herself to be a doctor. Wow.
They ultimately decide to save most of the books. Chizuru indulges him when he wants to take his time to flip through a few pages. She tells him a little of what she’s learned from the various volumes, and it amazes him how she can speak about some gory things without even flinching.
In one corner of Kodo’s study area, however, they find a pile of letters. They’re from him, and they’re addressed to Chizuru. Shinpachi notices the last date on the last letter. A few months later, she had become their hostage in Kyoto.
“What should I do with these?” She presses her palm to her forehead, like she’s trying to force down a headache.
“You don’t have to decide now,” he says. “Actually, I kinda encourage that.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
In the end, she hides them where Kodo’s clothing use to be. They stare down at the small stack of letters.
“I wish I know how he’d gotten rid of my letters. Maybe he never received them in the first place”
“Chizuru…”
“I think we’re done for the day,” she says. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“Come home with me.” He blurts it out, his whims outpacing sense.
“Huh?” She starts to laugh, then shakes her head instead. “I’ve seen your house, Shinpachi. You keep it very neat. You don't need my help.”
“No, I mean…” Come away with me. Just for a moment. Get the hell away from all the ghosts you’re probably seeing here. “You’ve done your work for the day. So you should have some fun.”
He wonders if she’ll demure or flat-out deny him. Instead she straightens her back, and nods. “Alright. Though we should get some sake.”
“That’s not necessary. I don't really party like that anymore."
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I kind of want to try it for once.”
Yeah, I feel that..
They pick up some drinks on the way back, even though he has some in his place. Shinppachi’s dead certain she’s never purchased alcohol before, but she haggles and wins with such speed he hardly realizes what’s happened. And then, on the way to his home, she insists on carrying most of the bottles. Shinpachi could have lugged them all along (and then some) but the look in her face is a sword he doesn’t want to cross.
She’s been to his place before, but he hadn’t really been expecting her presence. So they step through the door, and he almost curses aloud when he takes in all the pieces of paper resting on his table.
“Oh, those are new.”
“Old, actually. I’ve been working on this for a while.”
Chizuru sets the drinks down on the floor. Whenever the writing on the table crosses her line of vision, she squints a little or turns her head away. Like she’s come across him naked. It’s funny. He hadn’t told her how important all this was, but she’s guessed anyway.
When he goes to get sake glasses, he just picks up the one. He has to go back for the second.
“I’m writing about everything that happened to us. During all the different conflicts,” he says, even though Chizuru didn’t ask. Probably never would have without prompting. That's why he wants to tell her.
“Can I read it when it’s done?” She asks, face glowing with interest.
“Yeah. If I ever finish.”
She sits down by the table. Chizuru runs her fingers over the margins that hold his words in place. She doesn’t touch the ink, and, he’s pretty sure she’s not reading it either. Somehow, it reminds him of Saito, and that face he made when he was making up his mind.
“You’ll finish. You’re disciplined.”
He wants to laugh that away in a fit of self-deprecation. Instead, he remembers why he picked up this project in the first place. The idea had ravaged him like an illness. He wanted to put ink to paper while he still remembered the exact timbre of Sano’s voice, or how Heisuke’s hair sounded when it slid over the shoulder of his haori.
Shinpachi had never wanted to be a pawn in the changing of an era. Chizuru had never asked to be an oni, either. But here he was; a part of history. Here she was; something straight from mythology.
Of course they should share a drink together.
“Thank you, Chizuru.” For being alive. For being the person you are.
In the end, it ends up being far more than one drink. After a certain point, Shinpachi is in the deep end, where tides of drunkenness knock him off his feet. Making him loud, making him crack up. Even in the gauzy world of inebriation he tries to remain aware of Chizuru. Tries to avoid scaring her, or worrying her. In contrast to his steady pace, Chizuru escalates through distinct phases.
In stage one, she makes faces at how the drink tastes and he watches her closely for signs of regret.
In stage two, she talks rapidly and loudly about how nothing is happening. Nothing. Drinking is a sham.
In stage three, everything is funny. Her neighbors are amusing, her sleeves are hilarious, and Shinpachi’s loose headband is uproarious. The both remember their friends and the absolutely ridiculous stunts that they sometimes pulled. They do so without pain, and that makes them laugh, too.
In stage four, Chizuru starts to cry long, hard, gasping sobs. Shinpachi goes to comfort her. He pulls her into his lap, saying “I understand, I understand.” And then he realizes she keeps talking about Shimbara that night she went there in disguise. She’d overheard some lovely song and never learnedthe name of it. Shinpachi still tells her that he understands.
In stage five, they lie together on his futon, far from each other, nearly falling off. Despite the distance they confess anything and everything in their hearts. In the morning neither will remember what was said, but in the moment the words are like an embraces.
In stage six, Chizuru murmurs “I could sleep forever” somewhere past his elbow. Shinpachi worries a little that she might end up doing just that. That fate might carry her off too. He tries to tell her to be careful, to stay here. But it’s like trying to talk under water, and he’s sinking under, under. And for the moment he’s gone somewhere deep, dark, and memory-less.
*
Chizuru doesn’t sleep forever. She doesn’t even sleep the night away. Instead she wakes in the darkness and she knows its just been a few hours. Her stomach aches, and it feels like someone’s stuffed an entire blanket into her mouth. The bed doesn’t smell like hers. In fact, every time she inhales, she mostly breathes in the sting of sake. And then she hears Shinpachi’s breathing. It’s shallow. Not the sound of a man deep in a dream.
She rolls onto her other side carefully, the way she might pull out a splinter. And she begs her senses to stop clamoring. Let me rest, let me rest, let me rest.
“Chizuru,” Shinpachi’s voice is cracked and pale. She’s never really heard him fresh from sleep. She’s heard him early morning grumpy, awake before the sun and not happy about it. But this is something else. Something much rarer.
“I’m sorry. I tried to be as still as possible.”
“Don’t be like that.” His fingers nudge her shoulder. Grab her chin to look in her eyes. “Hungover?”
“I think so. I wouldn’t know.”
Her stomach rumbles, and nausea rises, peaks, and slips away. Rises again.
“You probably won’t be able to sleep like this.” Shinpachi’s voice warms, grows deeper. She thinks of sunlight pouring into a valley. She thinks of the long shadows that would exist in such a place. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
“You don’t have to,” she says.
“Nah, but I want to.”
So they trudge out of bed, over to the area where Shinpachi seems to keep his food. He tells her to sit while he goes and gets water from the well. He’s out the door before she thinks to ask if she can help prepare this impromptu meal.
“No way,” he says, when he comes back and she asks. Then he hands her a cup of cool water. “Just chill out. I probably should have told you to pace yourself anyway.”
Chizuru sips the water. At first it tastes impossibly bland, but the more she drinks, the cooler her mouth begins to feel. The less it's like she’s speaking around flavorless syrup.
Shinpachi ultimately hands her two bowls. Plain, warm rice in one. umeboshi in the other. Shinpachi laughs at the face she makes when she smells them. First she picks at both, but soon she’s devouring them.
“Not bad, eh?”
“No, it’s great!”
“I try. Saito always made the best hangover food, though... If you could get him to do it.”
Chizuru pauses, food halfway to her mouth. And then she swallows well before she puts more plum on her tongue.
“Do we know what happened to him?” Shinpachi asks. “I know we’ve talked about it but do we really?”
“I heard he’s… gone.”
“I swear I’ve heard rumors that he’s still alive, though.”
Chizuru drains the last few dregs of her water. Just as before, it’s refreshing and good, and it makes her mind work a little faster.
“Nagakura…” She holds out her hand.
“Oh, please. Call me Shinpachi.”
“Okay then Shinpachi.”
Only then does he reach out for her in turn, and she wraps her little finger around his.
“Saito is alive until we know for sure. I swear.”
It’s ridiculous, and nothing she would say with the sun overhead. But it’s worth it for the way Shinpachi looks at her. It’s worth it for the way the manic gleam in his eye diminishes, replaced by something like hope. She finishes eating soon enough, and they both opt to try to sleep again. Chizuru considers everything going on in her body and is shocked to realize she is quite comfortable. Yes, it’s still like there’s a fine layer of alcohol coating her nose, and tongue, and esophagus. But, when she breathes, she tastes air rather than dust. Her stomach is lined with decent food. This is like lying out on the glass, a warm breeze dancing over her skin. It’s still night, but she’s basking in warmth anyway. And it can only be coming from Shinpachi.
In fact, simply lying next to him seems pointlessly formal at this point. Very carefully she sits up, then lays her head on his chest. Even a year ago this would have been impossible. Tonight she can’t imagine doing anything else.
“Chizuru,” He says, and his voice is so warythat she tilts her head up and tries to meet his gaze. Moonlight hits his pupils, leaving flecks of brightness. “I don’t think you owe me… that.”
First she focuses on how awkward he sounds, and then the words weave together into improbable meaning. Her face heats up. If he feels that, it probably adds to his mistaken impression.
“Oh! No, no, no.” Words roll off her tongue, just as quickly as she rolls off him. Chizuru lands with a thud back onto the futon. “It’s not like that at all. I just wanted to hold you, I guess?” She hates how she sounds. So much younger than she feels. She covers her face with a corner of the blanket, wondering if she’s upset this treasured equilibrium.
Apparently not. She couldn’t say how he did it, but Shinpachi tugs her towards him. He gets his hand under the small of her back and, almost one-handed, pulls Chizuru back. This time all of her is on top of him, and no part of her touches the bed. At first she’s still tight with embarrassment, but Shinpachi rubs her back and the sheer comfort of it all makes her settle in.
“You’re okay with this?” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything. I might still be drunk.”
“No you’re not drunk, but it’s fine. I just wouldn’t have thought to do it, ever, because… well. This is nice. You were right.”
At first, the front of his body averages out into something uniformly hard and flat. The longer she rests there, the more she notices sharp crevices, and surprisingly delicate areas. He’s probably sensitive in those places, but she won’t test her theory. She realizes her can feel her too. He can feel her curves, and the arms she wishes were a little stronger.
And she considers the idea he’s almost named. Seeing where that leads her. It should be easy to do, here in his arms. But every time she tries, her mind returns to the one time she's been kissed. And she doesn’t want to feel anything of Kazama right now.
She sighs heavily, her breath probably tickling his collarbone. She opens her mouth to apologize, but Shinpachi beats her to it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise.”
She doesn’t immediately recall this particular vow. With every syllable, her body rocks as he speaks. It reminds her a little of the few times she’s been on a dock.
“You’ve never let me down.” She rubs his arms briefly, fingers tracing dormant muscles. He preens over them in the daylight, and she knows he has used them to kill. But, right now, his hands on her back are so light. Gentler than a light blanket. Shielding her from cold and harm.
“In this case I did.” This close she can hear him swallowing. The low shaking in his voice. “I promised to protect you. Instead, I left.” With Harada. It’s not spoken, but it doesn't need to be.
And the memory trickles in slowly, like blood emerging from a sudden, deep wound. He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. But it’s not the type of statement she can brush aside with ease, because it’s something that matters to him. It’s not accurate, but it’s also something he needed to say.
How can she explain it, though? Whenever she looks back on that day, the exact shape and sound of what was said are lost. What she remembers are the callouses on his finger (even on his pinky) as it wrapped around hers. She remembers the warmth of his smile, and how she had returned that expression. And above all she remembers the feeling of it all. Not the offer of protection, so much as the offer of love and friendship. She can’t imagine kissing him, but she can remember that moment. She can remember hundreds of such moments with him.
“I think I should be saying sorry.” She moves her head, resting the other side of her face on his chest. This time she’s facing the window, but it’s covered. There’s nothing to see. “I tried to follow them, but I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t save a single one of them.”
Once again she hears the start of something, deep in his chest. It echoes like a flat out denial. And he must be refraining for the same reason she did.
No, she almost hears. That’s not right.
It’s enough that he thinks that.
So she blinks, scattering her tears, stopping them before they begin. Shinpachi rests his arm completely across her back, and pulls her in even closer. The other hand begins stroking her hair, and for a while that’s all she focuses on. The slight tugging on her scalp is so nice. The smooth gliding of his fingers is even nicer. She moves her head even closer to his chin. She listens for his heart, but isn’t sure if she’s hearing his or her own.
“Damn it.” He nearly laughs, and she wants to curl into that sound. “Would you just listen to the pair of us?”
Chizuru tries to even out her breathing. Her body is content, still. Untouched by the distress in her mind. She supposes that makes sense. If the mind can lead a person astray, then maybe physical sensation contains wisdom.
“We have a ways to go, yes. We’ll be alright though.”
“Come home with me."
“I did.” She’s fading out. This isn’t the exhausted plummet from before. It's not the sudden landing of a rock breaking through ice. This is more like dyed colors waning in warm water. Beautiful in its own way, as they float away.
“Not tonight. For a while. Just live with me until you have your father’s house in order.”
They can’t stay together forever, but Chizuru won’t ignore how they found each other. In this city swarming with people. In this country papering over blood and war. They found each other, they trust each other, and she will catch him when grief lays him low. She knows- knows somewhere deeper than bone and marrow- that he would do the same for her.
“Alright. I will. Just promise me I get to be the first to read your book.”
“Oh, Chizuru. Sure, you can. Dunno why you’d want to, though. You lived it.”
She had. So had he. And they’d keep on living.