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If you asked Ichiban 18 years ago where he thought Sawashiro would be if the Boss or the young master were dying, he’d say he’d be right there with them, doing everything he could, probably bleeding out with them.
Sawashiro hadn’t even made it to their funeral.
Not that it was his fault of course, imprisonment and all. Ichiban understood that better than most. But the fact irked him. Ichiban had been able to pay his respects, and as much as he didn’t understand the guy, he knew at least that Sawashiro would have wanted to as well. He was sure Sawashiro was thinking of them, praying and all that, but he had always been a stickler for rules and procedure. It was easy to imagine that he’d be bothered by the fact he wasn’t able to do things the proper way.
Well, it was sort of Ichiban’s fault. Kind of. He was trying not to blame himself, but it was hard not to sometimes. He’d wanted to save the young master, had actually managed to talk him down, and he was proud of that at least, but.
But he'd been right there when he was stabbed. Neither of them had seen it coming. He’d tried to get help, but it was all just too late. He watched it happen. Masato in his arms going limp, just like watching Arakawa walk away into the night, where Ichiban would never see him alive again. There wouldn’t have been a funeral to miss if he’d been able to save them both in the first place.
It went without saying that Sawashiro knew about it. News that big was everywhere. Had he heard it was a stabbing? That it was preventable? That Ichi was there, and Sawashiro wasn’t, and he didn’t stop it from happening? The captain could give him an earful over it, and he’d probably accept it. Not like he could say anything worse than some of the thoughts swirling around in his head. He’d grieved before, but grieving someone who was in the public eye made it worse in some ways. Ichiban was lucky to have his friends during the worst of it. Two of the people he cared for most, gone, just like that. There were others in his life now, and he’d grown to be able to live without the family, so he could move on. He could live.
Sawashiro sat in a jail cell with absolutely nothing to his name.
Sometimes Ichiban wondered if he should do something. A visit? Nah. Awkward. And he couldn’t imagine that going well anyway. But a letter – a letter, maybe. Ichiban had been in his position before. When you’re imprisoned, you can only sit and wait for someone on the outside to reach out to you, and that’d be how you got any personal updates, any personal closure. Ichiban had wanted to hear from Arakawa at the time, but at some point even the desire for sentimental words like “I miss you" gave way to a desperation for anything at all, even just a detached explanation of the things going on in their lives.
Ichiban tried to keep up with Sawashiro’s case, also being on the news sometimes. They rarely called him by name, just touted it as a shocking killer yakuza incident. He was held on remand, waiting for his trial date. Denied bail, obviously. Not that anybody would pay it for him even if he managed to be granted it.
Ichiban was almost lucky to be imprisoned when he was still young. He’d certainly seen older men while serving his time, but Sawashiro was already at the age where a prison sentence for murder could mean he dies in there. Pleading guilty and coasting by on good behaviour might help, but worst-case scenario, there was always a chance. It would only take one medical complication, really. Sawashiro deserved punishment for what he did, but thinking of him dying in there was just too much. Ichiban tried to dismiss the thought. Sawashiro could handle himself, and he wasn’t that old, yet. He could still walk free someday, could still visit the grave of the Arakawas eventually. He chose to hope for that instead.
Ichiban tried to write a letter, but to be frank, it was difficult.
‘To Captain Sa’—Whoops. That’s not quite right, is it?
‘To Sawashiro’, he started.
He was writing a draft first, working out all the kinks before he did the real thing. He was glad he did, the paper quickly filling up with false starts and crossed out words.
How's it going? I know
The young master is dead.
I’m sorry that
Ichiban sighed, then took a deep breath. This shit was hard. He couldn’t remember doing anything like this since, like, high school. Writing something for himself was one thing, but writing something presentable was another. His Japanese teacher had always deducted marks for his messy writing, and Ichiban had to try hard not to rush it all and smudge the pen ink on his paper. He imagined Sawashiro would have higher standards than the Japanese high school curriculum, so y’know, he’d have to try extra hard. At the very least, he was writing something he cared about, and that always helped.
His friends said that the most important part of a letter is the feelings behind it, and normally he’d agree if he was writing for anybody else. Part of him thought Sawashiro would be dismissive, blowing him off like he always did when he was his boss, ignoring any of his emotional appeals. But Ichiban remembered Sawashiro confessing the circumstances of the young master’s birth to him. That he’d told that to Ichiban of all people. He’d been honest. Ichiban could be honest too. Besides, he wasn’t going to let Sawashiro of all people beat him in a show of emotional honesty.
Ichiban thought about it some more and tried again.
To Sawashiro,
Good luck with your upcoming trial. If even an idiot like me can shut up and listen to their lawyer’s directions, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.
We held a funeral for the Boss and the young master about a month ago. It felt odd that you weren’t there. I light incense for them everyday. If there’s any way the boss can rest in peace, it’s by having the young master with him. I wish it hadn’t come to that, though.
I was there when it happened. I wasn’t being careful, I was just trying to talk him down, and God, he actually listened to me, but it didn’t matter because and then it happened so suddenly that neither of us saw it coming. I tried to help him, I swear it.
Ichiban has to stop writing for a moment. The young master is dead, and he was there, but as he writes this, it hits him with full force. The young master was Sawashiro’s son. Nothing he says could ever be enough. There was no explanation that would make it all better. Ichiban had done his best, and he knows that, but Sawashiro had to live with that now. Neither of them could do anything.
He puts pen to paper again.
I’m sorry, I did everything I could.
It rings hollow, even to him, but it’s all he has. Ichiban could visit him in prison and lower his head to the ground and it wouldn’t be enough.
If Ichiban continues writing like this, it’ll devolve into babbling and apologies, so he leaves that there. He wants to write something presentable. He tries to pivot.
I’m not sure what else to say. I’m sure I’d never be your first choice of pleasant company, but if you ever need me, or want to chat about something, let me know. You can reach me here:
Ichiban writes down the address of Hamako's place. He’d have to ask her to check if he ever gets any mail.
If you’d rather never speak to me again, that’s fine too. It probably doesn’t mean much from me, but take care of yourself.
Ichiban taps his pen against his chin, then, deciding he has said enough, he signs his name at the end. His draft is done, though it’s messy. He decides to sit on it for a few days before writing the real thing. Hopefully he can make his handwriting look nice. He’s tempted to ask Joon-gi or the bartender to write it for him since it’d look neater, but this is something he has to do himself.
Sawashiro’s been here long enough that all the days have begun to blend together, no matter how hard he tries to keep track of the passing days. It’s all the same. Waiting, sitting, doing nothing. Eating crap food. Talking to cops. Talking to his lawyer. Mostly nothing. Mostly the sitting and waiting.
A guard comes to his cell, tells him to stand and come to the bars.
They hand him a letter, then leave.
A letter.
Sawashiro has been thrown away and abandoned, a useless scapegoat put to the slaughter. Even without the messy scrawl on the front, he knows there’s only one person this could possibly be.
He bites down the flare of rage that rises within him, lets it simmer down into a more controllable contempt.
He doesn’t want Ichiban’s pity.
He puts it away without even opening it. But the days here blur together, there is nothing but nothing here, and he already knows that reading it is inevitable, if only because it’d be briefly engaging in the middle of all this sitting and waiting. A day goes by before he gives in.
Good luck— I wish— I swear it—
I’m sorry—
Sawashiro doesn’t even feel anger wash over him like he thought it would. He can’t even muster up the energy. He’s tired. He’s been so tired, all this time. Ichiban knows he is. Made sure to tell him that he’s grieving too, that someone else knows exactly who Masato and Masumi are.
If you ever need me— if you’d rather never speak to me again— take care of yourself—
He’s always been so infuriating with that bleeding heart, every bit Arakawa Masumi's son as you’d think, trying to be kind to him when nobody else could care less. Trying to be kind even though he knows exactly what Sawashiro has done. Yeah, Sawashiro hopes he never speaks to him again.
Sawashiro keeps the letter. Sawashiro prays, thinking of Masato and Masumi. Somewhere far from where he is, Ichiban is lighting incense.
The only one who will mourn like Sawashiro is Ichiban. The only one who will mourn like Ichiban is Sawashiro. Between the two of them, the Arakawas will not be forgotten.