Chapter Text
The trek from the penthouse to Sakamoto’s was not long, if only because Nagumo passed out the moment Sakamoto helped him into the cab. Earlier, as Sakamoto packed his bag (a large, near-bursting duffel), locked his door, then hoisted him onto the lobby’s couch as he phoned a taxi, Nagumo’s bones and muscles had begun to soften to mush; a feverish exhaustion slowly unfurled somewhere within him and let loose its pressure, leaving his bones to droop. Nagumo was pretty sure the only thing that was keeping him standing up in that elevator was Sakamoto’s shoulder. When Sakamoto shook him awake, Nagumo blearily saw Shin’s blond head standing in front of the store, duffel bag on the boy’s shoulder as he exchanged words with the sniper guy— the delivery guy— but the outside heat made Nagumo too tired and dizzy to think. Thankfully, Sakamoto made quick work of whipping out his (Nagumo’s) credit card to pay before lugging the weight of two up to the second-floor apartment, entirely hoisting Nagumo up by the waist at the last few steps.
Nagumo did not process much after that. He was escorted to a small, pink-walled room and instead of being dumped on the narrow futon on the floor, gently nudged down onto the twin bed that barely fit his frame. He curled up, feeling cold, but at least his legs would fit. Nagumo remembered Sakamoto pulling a blanket over him, but only barely.
He slept. He wakes up somehow feeling simultaneously more tired and well-rested. A headache pounds. The room is, thankfully, not completely dark; a gentle mushroom-shaped night light shines a soft green halo on the nightstand. Nagumo observes the room without really seeing — a small, white desk with a child-sized white chair pushed in; lines of bookshelves on the wall heavy with thick tomes of colorful books and rabbit plushies; the window showing that it is night, something like stars twinkling above the halo of city lights — as he faintly catches the conversation happening outside. From the laughing, softened yelling, and clinking of dishware, he is roughly aware that it must be dinner time.
“Heisuke, that’s mine!”
“No fair! Two each!”
“You guys are setting bad examples for Hana right now, you know that, right?”
“It’s okay, I already know that Heisuke and Lu are very silly.”
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!! See!”
“Shin told me to say that!”
Must be nice, Nagumo chews the inside of his cheek. Out of the force of habit, he fumbles around for his phone, as it is about time that he should order dinner. When he doesn't find it, it sinks in one final time that he is not at home anymore.
Suddenly, he hears the door to the room creak open (he must be incredibly out-of-it if he couldn’t hear the approaching footsteps), and a soft pyramid of light enters the room as the ruckus outside intensifies. Nagumo is grateful that Sakamoto closed the door behind him immediately and does not try to turn on the main light.
“Fish and ginger porridge,” The other man announces simply, placing the tray of food on the small desk, “Sit up and eat.”
“Okay.” Nagumo tries to speak and unexpectedly feels out of breath. He thinks about sitting up but his head swims with the briefest of motion. He bites his tongue and pushes himself up regardless, then finds himself leaning into Sakamoto’s palm.
“Stay on the bed.” As Nagumo shifts to rest on the wall, facing Sakamoto and the window, Sakamoto fumbles around for a towel, depositing it and then the tray of food atop the thick comforter on his legs, “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Headache?”
“A little.” Nagumo mutters, picking up the first spoonful. It’s surprisingly difficult to balance a tray on his legs with an arm off-duty. “Probably from the sleep.” The porridge tastes incredible. He probably could cry from it. It takes all his years of training for his eyes not to water at such a divine taste of mankind.
“Aches?”
“At the usual places.”
“Left arm and stomach?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you cold? Hot?” Sakamoto asks, before reaching an arm around Nagumo’s ankle.
“Cold. A little bit.” Nagumo twists his ankle free and crosses his legs, stuffing his bare ankle under his knees, “Since when are you an expert?”
“I do remember most of my training, you know.”
“Good.”
“Drink more water. Take the medicines when you are done,” Sakamoto points at the little cup on the tray, “From Granny Miya. She told me to tell you that you are stupid, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t do this again next time.”
“Okay.”
Sakamoto lingers for a moment more, and, seeing no protests or concerns, exits the bedroom to the world outside. Nagumo hears the immediate cheer of Daddy!! from Sakamoto’s little girl and somehow fails to not-feel a little lonely. It must be because he is sick and miserable right now.
He slowly finishes about three-fourth of the bowl, then quickly knocks down the cup of tea trying his best to avoid hitting the tongue with it. The food does help. He feels a little more steady, the fullness giving back structure to his muscles, dampening the headache and dizziness. Suddenly, having a surge of energy he hasn’t felt in a week, Nagumo feels restless. He doesn’t want to leave the room — while Sakamoto is dumb enough to bring him home with the intention of making him stay, in a civilian households when his hands had never been clean of blood, it doesn’t mean Nagumo have to entangle them into his web anymore than already necessary — but maybe his phone or a game of sudoku would be nice right now. Suddenly motivated, Nagumo slides off the bed, quickly finding the duffle bag Sakamoto packed for him and trying to find his phone. He is also curious about what Sakamoto packed, if only because he is doubting his airheaded-friend’s packing ability. Seems like being a father did do him some good: Nagumo spies a good, balanced number of comfortable T-shirts and pajama pants (understandably, all the things that he has worn back at school), underclothes, his toothbrush, his waterproof arm cover (!!), and his half-solved sudoku book (purchased at Sakamoto’s) with a pencil still wrapped between the pages. Eventually, Nagumo finds his personal phone stuffed in one of the outer pockets, and miraculously enough, Sakamoto even remembered to pack the charger.
Satisfied, Nagumo picks up his phone and the sudoku book, turns on the light, and curls back under the blanket, pencil in hand.
When he wakes up again, he finds himself re-tucked into bed, his hand empty of a pencil and the sudoku book. Nagumo couldn’t believe he fell asleep before he could even write a single number down; Granny Miya’s medicines are crazy. Nagumo blinks, grazing his eyes downward to see Sakamoto sleeping soundly on the mattress on the floor, and before he could think of anything else, he passes out again.
“I’ll entrust him to you, then. Thank you, Aoi.”
“Hana, quieter, please.”
“MRS. AOI— oh, oops, I’m sorry—”
“Hana, turn down the TV a little, won’t you?”
Nagumo knows rather than feels that his body is awake. He tries to unglue his eyes open and blink — the curtain was drawn, but streaks of sunlight slips between the edges like golden fingers — and Nagumo is acutely aware of how long his body has laid dormant, muscles aching and joints creaking, somehow certainly more ineffectual than the week before (which was also spent mostly in bed). He knows that when he look down to the floor Sakamoto will not be there, but he has expected to see strewn blankets and crumbled futons littered around, the same way Sakamoto and Akao left them on the floor of his dorm when they woke up first (always) and decided to ditch him for breakfast. But they were not seventeen anymore. No, Sakamoto has grown up since. The futon is neatly folded, resting in the opposite corner of the room, and in this small pink bedroom the only one still fondling their fingers over the past is him.
Nagumo breathes and listens to the faint sound of children’s TV chirping outside. He could hear Sakamoto’s wife’s soft footsteps around the house, her sliding open the balcony door and gentle wind rushing inside for warmth. In several beats, as the TV switches to a new melody, the balcony is slid close again, this time the footstep slower and heavier. Laundry, then. Somehow the sound was comforting.
The footsteps pause in front of the room, and Nagumo gleans to look at the door before it even clicks open. He probably would have sat up (or pretended to be asleep) if the circumstances were a little different, if he isn’t owing the Sakamoto’s grace by staying in their house. Mrs. Sakamoto takes a beat to notice Nagumo looking, and when she does, her round doe eyes curve like mid-spring petals,
“Nagumo-san, good morning!” She softly greets, “Please take your time to get ready— I’ll warm up your lunch.”
Is it lunch time already? Ah, he guesses that made sense. He has slept in that late the entire week.
“Thank you very much, Sakamoto-san. Sorry for the intrusion; I’m sure I’ve caused trouble for your household.”
“Oh, don’t be so formal,” Mrs. Sakamoto waves her hand, blushing a little, “A friend of Tarou is a friend of mine, too. This isn’t much between friends, isn’t it?” Friends. He rolls the word over his tongue silently, “Please, call me Aoi.”
“Of course, Aoi-san.”
Mrs. Sakamoto— ah, Mrs. Aoi now— smiles brightly, “Fish and ginger porridge, coming right up.”
Usually, Nagumo would stay in bed for as long as possible after waking up — for hours, maybe, on days he has nothing to wake up for — but it is impolite to procrastinate getting up when somebody is making lunch for you, so Nagumo sits up, gathers his belongings, and stumbles out of the room, where Mrs. Aoi very helpfully points out the bathroom for him. The bathroom is smaller, traditional; homey, but cramped, smelling faintly damp beneath the bleach-y smell of floor cleaner. Nagumo makes quick work of cleaning himself up. Now that he is more awake, Nagumo feels especially sticky and gross, the dirt and grime of days subsisting on nothing but greasy junk food clings to his sickly sweats and drenches his hair. Nagumo doesn’t have any of his own soap (Sakamoto didn’t pack any), so he would just have to steal some of Sakamoto’s instead.
When he pulls off his cast arm-cover and puts on fresh clothes, Nagumo feels monumentally lighter, for a blink of a moment even healthy and well. He blinks away the water in his eyes and gathers his folded dirty clothes along with the towel to his borrowed room. As the bathroom door clicks open, the children’s tunes grow softly louder, flowing across all corners of the apartment like sweet morning air. Sakamoto’s daughter, Hana-chan, is sprawling on the floor, intently drawing something on a sketchpad as a small army of teddy bears and stuffed rabbits circle around her, watching no less intensely. When Nagumo crosses the room, he hears her softly whispering the TV tunes under her breath. It is kind of cute. Through the window, the sun falls gently on the top of the girl’s head, bemusedly looking at her colorful sketch. Behind Hana-chan, Mrs. Aoi busies around the kitchen, a pot of what he assumes to be porridge just got on the edge of bubbling. Nagumo quickly places his belongings next to his bag; but then, he falters; unsure what to do next. There is no couch on the house except for three variously-sized cushions scattered on the rug that marked the living space, the largest of which he assumed to be Sakamoto’s. Behind that is the dining table, beyond which Mrs. Aoi is warming up his meal. Back when they were all staying at the dorm, he had no qualms about plopping himself on Sakamoto’s bed or sprawling all over the floor and just let Sakamoto and Akao walk around or on top of him, but this is different. He could stay in the bedroom, but perhaps that’s a little… anti-social? It also feels strange to sit at the table before his food is ready. It’s strange, not knowing what to do. He has never been to anyone else’s houses before.
He never receives guests at his penthouse in Minato, and the Nagumo residence has an entire separate wing for guests, which, as a child, he rarely had reasons to visit. Usually, it goes that guests are invited to sit on couches. The equivalent of which is (most appropriately) Sakamoto’s cushion. It even looks comfortable. But is it weird if he were just to sit there and… what… watch Hana-chan plays? Watching TV? Somehow the image of him belonging in this picture feels nonsensical; like a paper figure pasted askew on a magazine page. How would Nagumo, a guest of the Sakamoto’s household, a friend of Mr. Sakamoto, fit in this picture?
“Nagumo-san?”
Before he can finish the thought, Nagumo jolts at Mrs. Aoi calling out to him. He turns to see a bowl of porridge, a glass of water, and a small cup of tea being placed on the dinner table, on the seat closest to the living room. Suddenly, he is made aware that it is even weirder to stand just inside of the threshold of a room gazing helplessly than to actually sit down in the living room. Nagumo feels his neck heating up, but can only sheepishly approach the dining table and sit down on the seat Mrs. Aoi already pulled out for him,
“Thank you for the meal.”
“Please also take your medicine after,” Mrs. Aoi nods at the little cup, before turning back to the kitchen sink.
He should repay her for everything somehow, when he feels well enough to leave (back at school, Sakamoto, Akao, and him has always had their own disagreements on how short of a break is acceptable. Sakamoto’s bones and skins has always been harder than steel, Akao recovers as fast as a prancing leopard, and Nagumo has always been a little better at pushing through his pain – above the already high pain tolerance JCC has beaten into their bones) without Sakamoto making a face or worse, convincing him to stay longer. Granny Miya has the hands of God but besides pulling a man back from the gate of hell by his Achilles’s heel, God did not grant her the miracles of knitting bones together and forcing them to recombine. Healing broken bones would take normal people around two months. Nagumo garners he could get away with one and a half. It doesn’t mean he has to stay here for all of it— surely, when he feels better and functional enough to take care of his own medicine and pain, he can just return to Minato and do nothing but get take-outs and sleeps all day—
The porridge is really, really good though — especially now that it feels as if even his taste buds are refreshed — and Nagumo will at least mourn his access to such high-quality home cooked meals.
Nagumo is broken out of his train of thought when the chair opposite of him creaks backward, and behind it, Hana-chan’s big, round doe eyes stare at him in bright curiosity. On the table is a stack of paper next to a pencil and an eraser, the rows of neatly printed arithmetic equations on the front page already lined in with neat strokes of numbers. Hana-chan catches his eyes, looks uncertain for a brief moment, and quickly enough a smile returns to her face again, even more determinedly this time.
“Hana-chan, don’t bother Nagumo-san, okay?”
“I’m just going to do my homework, Mama.”
“Very disciplined today, aren’t we?”
The excuse seems satisfactory enough that Mrs. Aoi does not protest further when Hana sits down on the chair and begins to flip to the back of the package. It is two weeks into August and so summer vacation will end soon, Nagumo calculates — Hana-chan is already disciplined enough that she is almost done with her homework. That’s better than him at that age, Nagumo thinks. But it’s clear that Hana-chan spends more of her time covertly staring at him sipping at porridge than completing her arithmetic,
“Is five plus six equals ten, Hana-chan?”
Hana freezes mid-movement, her little eyes aborting their upward motion at him to run back down to the paper, before she quickly erases her answer and scribbles in a new (and correct!) one. Hana is only a little bashful about getting the wrong answer (and perhaps about getting caught staring) before immediately launching into questions, beckoned by Nagumo’s smile,
“Can you read upside-down, Nagumo-san?”
“Yes, I can. It gets easier when you are an adult and see numbers a lot already.”
“Can you also read upside-down?” Hana-chan asks again, doubtful this time,
“Sure can! Try me.”
Hana turns to another page of her own writing, a short report.
“‘Today, I woke up early and help Lu-chan, my big sister, make pork buns for the store–’”
“Wow! You are so cool, Nagumo-san!” Hana-chan excitedly proclaims, turning to another page before he could finish the first reading aloud,
“‘Today, it is sunny and hot. Dad says it is thirty-two degrees outside. Birds are chirping outside of the window—’”
“What about this one?” Hana-chan points at the tiny printed prompt at the edge of the page,
“‘Write about the weather today and what you see outside of your home.’”
“Wow! Your eyes are so sharp! Like an eagle!”
“Hana-chan, please let Nagumo-san finish his meal first.”
“It’s alright, Aoi-san,” Nagumo smiles at Mrs. Aoi, before winking at Hana-chan conspiratorially, “I’m done with my meal. Where should I bring it?”
Before Mrs. Aoi could turn around to answer, he makes a show of quickly tipping the rest of the porridge into his mouth and finishing it in a split of a second. Hana-chan’s eyes round in awe before she tries to stifle her laugh, as Nagumo moves to deposit the bowl and utensils to the sink as he was told, Mrs. Aoi seemingly oblivious to what was happening at the table. Nagumo comes back to knock down the cup of medicinal tea — winces a little at the strongly bitter taste — followed by the rest of his water.
“Was it very bitter?” Hana-chan asks, frowning.
Nagumo sticks out his tongue and knits his brows together, “Yucky.”
“Why do you have to take medicine? Are you sick?”
“I was! But I feel a lot better now.”
“Is it because of the yucky medicine?” Hana-chan asks again, warilying eyeing the small cup on the table, where a speck of green powdery tea dust remains.
“Partly. Aoi-san’s porridge is very tasty, so it helps a lot, too.”
At this, Nagumo is relieved to see Hana-chan’s eyes brighten again, “I know, Mama is the best cook ever!”
“Much better than your dad, right?” Nagumo snickers slyly.
“Mmm… I don’t know. I like Dad’s karaage.” Hana-chan hums, brows thoughtfully furrows, “But sometimes when he makes soup Mama has to help him with it.”
“Wow, that’s a lot better than how he was in school!”
Hana blinks, “Nagumo-san, you have known Dad since that long ago?”
“Mm, yeah, we went to high school together!”
“Wow… you guys are old.”
“I’m the same age as your dad, you know.”
“Hana-chan is only in first-grade. High school is, like, ten years away.”
“Technically, only nine years.” Nagumo tuts, leaning back on the dining chair. “You have six years in elementary school, then three in middle school, and then you’d be in high school. Another three years in high school, and that makes twelve years total.”
Hana-chan stares at him intently, clearly absorbing the information. Nonchalantly as he sits, he can see the cogs in her brain turning, her eyes twitching a little from time to time as if carrying out some very difficult and vital reasoning, “... So Nagumo-san and Dad are at least nine… ten… years older than I am.”
“That’s right! Hana-chan is so smart!” Hey, learning to make inferences is vital at this age, alright? Nagumo claps, genuinely delighted at Hana’s deduction skill, “We’re twenty-one years older than you are!”
“That’s so long!”
“That’s right! Because your parents have to be all grown up before they have you, right?”
“Wow…”
“Yep,” Nagumo quickly interjects, “and the rest of that you’ll have to ask your parents.”
“Hana-chan, are you done with your homework for today?” Mrs. Aoi asks, returning from the kitchen, “It sounded like you guys have been very chatty.”
“Almost done, Mama.”
“Let’s finish your work before playing, okay?”
“Yes, Mama,” Hana-chan affirms, picking up her pencil before turning to Nagumo again, “Nagumo-san, when I’m done, can we play?”
“Of course,” Nagumo smiles.
With nothing better to do, Nagumo mindlessly gazes at the TV still softly singing out children’s tunes, unclear if it has been the same program since Hana-chan turned it on or if it is something else altogether. Truth be told, he isn’t all that familiar with TV outside of the news channel he keeps up with for work purposes. Turns out, even if you were never formally trained at spying beyond the first- or second-year level, it is still enough of a skill set for them to keep you in the game when it is convenient. That’s why he is a lot less of a brute, Nagumo thinks. Simpletons out there just want to go straight for the kill, no question, no complication, no information, but to weed the grass you have to pull all the way at the root. It’s what makes killing efficient.
Unfortunately, even the ORDER gets feed scraps of information, and they are so touchy and stingy with the details all the time. Only Kindaka was ever amenable to his poking around, and they only had one mission together. The only useful information he ever gets for his investigation all comes from his intelligence connections…
“I’m done!” Hana cheers, excitedly stretching her arms,
“Can I see?” Nagumo asks, turning back to face her. He quickly scans her work, “All correct! Good job, Hana-chan!”
“Can we play now? Do you wanna play with me, Nagumo-san?”
“Of course.”
“Play nice, okay, Hana? You see that Nagumo-san is hurt.”
“Yes, Mama.” Hana-chan, who is rushing over to the other side of the table and seemingly has the instinct to pull at his other arm, now very softly collects his right hand into her smaller ones, “Mr. Nagumo, Mr. Nagumo, can we play doctors? I will be the doctor and I will fix your arm for you, okay?”
Nagumo blinks, before he smiles, “Okay.”
Mrs. Aoi stifles a quiet laugh in the background before reminding Hana to be gentle again. After (very carefully and slowly) guiding him to the biggest cushion in the room — the dipped and worn cushion very clearly indicating the large curve of Sakamoto’s body — Hana-chan digs into her toy box for a clear plastic bag of medical toys, a large, red cross printed on at the very middle, which partially obfuscates the mix of stethoscope, fake pills, tongue depressor, and other purple plastic tools in the bag. Digging around a little more, Hana pulls out a surgical headlight whose plastic dish is as round as a radio telescope, and places it squarely on her head. Hana-chan happily totters back to where he is sitting, where, upon her intent, doctoring glare, Nagumo makes a show of hugging his cast to his body and scrunching his eyes into a pout. Dr. Hana sits up straight, opening her tool bag as she begins her examination,
“Nagumo-san, can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Uhm…” Nagumo hesitates, widening his eyes, “I broke my arm, I think. And I have a tummy ache.”
“I see, that is very, very dire.” Dr. Hana nods, putting the stethoscope to her ears, “I must examine your uhm… lungs.” Hana presses the bell to his clothed chest, “Can you breathe in for me?” Nagumo gulps in a mouthful of air, “and out. In. And out.”
“How did I do?”
“Very good, very excellent.” Dr. Hana nods rapidly, her head moving like paws of maneki-neko, “Okay, I will check your arm now. Tell me if it hurts, okay? I’ll be veeeeeery gentle.” She reassures, digging around her bag for a plastic hammer the size of her fist. At his nod, Dr. Hana began to, very softly, bring the hammer to his arm, “How about here?”
“Nothing.”
The hammer glides a little forward, “How about here?”
“No.”
A little more, “Here?”
“A little bit,” That’s getting a little close to where the break is, he thinks.
“Here?”
“Owiee~ That hurts~”
“I see we have located the break,” Dr. Hana announces solemnly. She takes out a (solid plastic) roll of bandage and miming wrapping it around the break, before placing a sticker on the top of the cast, “Is that better now?”
“A lot better, Doc.”
“Can you tell me how it happened?”
“I… uh… tripped on a banana peel and fell down the stairs.”
“Pfft… You are so silly, Nagumo-san!”
“That’s why teachers usually say that you are supposed to pick up trash that you see on the road, right?”
“That’s right.” Dr. Hana nods sagely before pulling out a piece of plastic candy from the bag, “And here is candy, for your tummy ache!”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Hana.”
“You are welcome! From now on, uhm…” Hana turns to her bag and digs around some more, pulling out a purple-and-pink pill box, clearly empty and a little crumbled, “Take medication! So your tummy won’t hurt and your arm will get better!”
“Of course.”
“Remember to pick up banana peels from now on!”
“Yes, yes.” He pretended to sit up and roll out of the chair, “So long, Dr. Hana!”
Nagumo is halfway out of the cushion before he plops back down again, breaking character, “You are a very good doctor, Hana-chan!”
“Thank you!!!” Hana-chan beams as she pulls off her headlight, “Nagumo-san, it's your turn to be the doctor!”
“Actually, Hana-chan, if you don’t mind,” Suddenly, Mrs. Aoi appears behind Nagumo, gently interrupting, “Would you be able to walk to Yamada-san’s supermarket and get some eggs? Ask Shin-kun or Lu-chan to give you the money downstairs, alright?”
“Oh, but I’m…” Hana hesitates, turning to look at her mother and then Nagumo. Encouragingly, Nagumo nods towards Mrs. Aoi. Hana relents, “How many eggs, Mama?”
“Just a dozen.”
“Okay!” Hana-chan springs out of the living room, grabbing a yellow hat and a yellow cross-body bag hung near the entrance. Before she leaves, she turns and waves, “Bye bye, Mama. Bye bye, Nagumo-san!”
“Walk slowly and be careful.”
“Bye bye, Hana-chan~”
As the door clicks close behind Hana-chan, Nagumo and Mrs. Aoi simultaneously turn back to each other. Aoi moves to kneel in front of him; somehow he half-expected her to bring a real medical kit. She smiles apologetically,
“Sorry to interrupt your playtime with Hana-chan, but if you don’t mind me poking around your business, can you tell me more about your injury?”
Nagumo does not hesitate, “Ah, Aoi-san… The story about me falling down the stairs—”
“I don’t know much about your line of work nor all of its dangers, Nagumo-san, but I was not blind when I wed my husband.”
Nagumo suppresses a sigh. Her husband. That’s right. Of course that idiot would let a thing or two slip, because he is an airhead of a moron, “It is true that I fell down the stairs at some point, but I didn’t break my arm from that. Some brute punched at it with brass knuckles enough time and the bones gave.”
Though he puts up a show of nonchalance, Nagumo is not prepared for how little of a reaction Aoi shows, “And your stomach?”
“Different brute, same method. Punched me through the concrete with that one.”
“Any pain on your back?”
“I think Granny Miya took care of that.”
“That’s impressive,” Mrs. Aoi nods appreciatively, “I’d have to trust her expertise, since you are not in any pain. Did Granny Miya say anything more about your stomach?”
“No… I don’t think so, at least,” Somehow, Nagumo feels compelled to be as honest as he can, with Mrs. Aoi’s eyes intently focusing on his, “Truth to be told, I was a little out of it when I left her place.”
“Would you mind if I take a look?”
Nagumo sucks in a breath before lifting his shirt up, exhaling as cool air evades his skin and raises goosebumps. He has seen it before but never in close enough attention; only enough to note the general area of the purpling bruise. It looks a lot worse now, Nagumo thinks — maybe it has even gotten larger — the general purpling has given ways to mottled spots of blues and veiny greens sprawling at the edges, surrounding four big knuckles of dark, cool purple in the middle, gathering like four deep pools. Nagumo himself has been trying his best not to touch or see it, and he hopes Mrs. Aoi doesn't see the need to poke around.
When he looks up, Aoi is attentively staring at the wound. Her forefinger toys with her chin as if to think or to recall something. She hums thoughtfully for another beat before finally asking,
“The entire area must be tender, but I surmise that the center must hurt the worst?”
Unthinkingly, Nagumo presses down on one of the purple circles and winces, “Yep.”
“Brass knuckles, hm?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel pain anywhere else? Head, neck, back, chest, hips, arms, or legs?”
Nagumo stills, quietly taking stock of everything, “There was a headache, but it’s gone. Everything is a little sore, but that’s normal. There is the broken arm, obviously.”
“On the scale of one to ten, one being a minor inconvenience and ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, how does your stomach feel right now?’
“Maybe a three or a four.”
“Can you describe the pain to me?”
“Kind of like a stomach cramp, I guess. It kind of aches constantly, and sometimes there is a sudden pain but it eventually goes away.”
“I see.” Mrs. Aoi nods, “Well, I would ask about what medicine you were given, but since they are herbal medicines, I don’t think either you nor I can figure them out.”
“You seem to be very knowledgeable, Mrs. Aoi. Were you trained as a medic?”
At this, Mrs. Aoi smiles, her shoulders raise in pride, “I was in nursing school, you know. It’s helpful knowledge.” Nagumo let out a hum of awe, slightly taken back. Clearly, he has underestimated Sakamoto’s wife. But before he can comment, she presses on, “Has the pain been constant since your fight? Did you take anything for it?”
Nagumo shakes his head, “It only started hurting a few days ago. Three days, maybe. I just took general painkillers.”
“What kind?”
“... The one you sell downstairs, actually.”
“I see. Well, you shouldn’t take those for more than four days in a row, so it’s good that you stopped. Is Granny Miya’s medication helping with the pain?”
“Yeah. Last night it put me to sleep immediately, so there is that.”
“Sounds like appropriate pain management,” Mrs. Aoi jokes, “Better than more painkillers.”
“I’m surprised the dose I just took didn’t also knock me out.”
“She separated the doses by morning and night.” Mrs. Aoi explains, “Well then, at least I have an idea what kind of food you can stomach and what you cannot. It’s best to stay gentle on the stomach, but I suppose just ground fish and porridge all day gets tiring quickly, right?”
“Actually, that’s probably the best cooking I’ve had since I moved out.” Nagumo blurts.
Mrs. Aoi laughs at this one, “You assassins are all the same type, really. I’m glad you are eating well while you are here.”
“I am in your debt, Aoi-san.”
“Too formal, too formal.” Mrs. Aoi laughs shyly, waving him off, “Just a thank you would suffice.”
“Thank you, then.”
“Thank you for being so kind and indulgent to Hana-chan, too.”
Nagumo tries to return Aoi’s smile, somehow finding himself faltering — landing somewhere between a genuine and a stiff curl of the mouth. Their silence wilts into an awkwardness that bears no witness — Nagumo twists forward to gaze at the still-blaring TV, Aoi back to her household chores. What a stilted and overly-formal rapport they’ve formed, Nagumo thinks. Here is his best friend’s wife, one of the most important people to someone who is perhaps still one of the most important person in his life but probably not so anymore. Here is his (perhaps former) best friend’s wife who held his best friend’s hand and delivered him from the road of terrors and sins, who begat him a normal life and a normal child and a normal job, who unsheath that beastly skin and let breathe the man underneath. Here is his best friend’s wife who unwittingly beckoned one more person from a road built for three, leaving him alone all over again. The worst part is, none of it is personal. None of it was a transgression against him; to Aoi, he never existed. And yet solitude snagged at his sleeves, itching for someone else, something else to blame— isn’t it his right to seethe and revel his abandonment? I was very alone, Sakamoto-kun. I was alone and then I was not and there I was again, Sakamoto-kun. Should I blame you or your happiness?
Nagumo said none of it. Those final few months Sakamoto had as an assassin felt like the most human his best friend had ever been— the happiest he had ever been. Nagumo understands enough of human psychology to understand why the flowering road of normalcy is preferable to the damp, dark alley that killers sequester themselves in, of course. But he has also only ever understood that the normal world was never made for him, a world or a prison under a veil. Nagumo was born outside of that veil, and was taught to slither in and out of it like an observer or an infiltrator— a stranger.
He can blend in. He can eat their food. He can sit at their table. He can talk to them about the weather, can complain about the delayed trains, about the construction that blocked their usual working commute and join in the grumblings about the detours, conveniently mentioning the new crepe shop that was just opened in Shinjuku, discussing the state of international order on the Pacific or the changes in import prices due to European agricultural reforms, but ultimately, they don’t see the same things, hear the same things, feel the same things, even taste the same things as he does. Parts of the world slip past their periphery, flit between the gaps of their fingers, laid unnoticed under their heels. Nagumo’s world is made up of all those invisible threads, their tangles forming strokes that is clarity, a reality only comprehensible to people like him. At some point, when he was younger, Nagumo came to accept that reality: that the veil was carefully constructed around the eyes that live normal lives; a veil dyed rose-colored to dull the crimson of blood, a fog that covers the shines of sharpened blades. Eventually Nagumo understood that to be outside is to uphold that veil; to maintain, to repair, to protect it, so that blood is separated from water and he can keep the veil clean without wasting blood.
He wonders how it feels to see the veil then sweep it under his feet, to carry on a life while ignoring the lines that crossed your visions. He wonders if he can ever grow blind of them. He wonders how it feels to give up.
When Hana-chan returns, a carton of eggs in hand, Nagumo cheers when she proudly announces that no eggs are broken and she didn’t run on the way there or back. He watches as she excitedly sprints off in his direction after handing the carton to her mother, demanding that they continue to play. Outside, afternoon turns to deep evening and soon enough the pots on the stove start to bubble again.
As expected, dinner at the Sakamoto’s is a loud, chaotic mess of dining chairs and plastic chairs pulling and creaking on the tiled floors and raucous teenagers ravenous from a day of work. Nagumo is drawing with Hana — her sprawling on the floor, him awkwardly balancing a sheet of paper on a hardcover medical textbook on his lap — when the door clicks open and one, two, three, four teenage faces arrive mid-squabble. At this point Nagumo has known all of them by face: Shin with the blond hair and who is very easy to lie to, Lu with the red hair and flour always stuck in the creases of her jacket, Heisuke with the little bird on his shoulder, and a younger child with sharp, blue eyes that Nagumo immediately recognized as being of Mr. Yotsumura’s, if only because their most recent meeting is still so fresh in mind. Nagumo knows Sakamoto has a soft heart even before he started acting like a real human being, but he didn’t know his friend’s tendency to gather strays took roots so deep inside his heart. Briefly, Nagumo wonders how the little shop manages to sustain such an extensive roster of staff. But watching Lu grab the back of Shin’s head to yell directly into his ears, he is more curious how Sakamoto manages to keep the children in check, if he does at all.
Quietly, behind them, Sakamoto serenely enters the threshold, hangs up his apron, and makes a beeline for Hana-chan.
“Daddy!!!” As if possessing a sixth-sense exclusively for her father, Hana looks up and jumps up to Sakamoto’s stomach, where he immediately catches and lifts her in the air, “Welcome home!”
“I’m glad to be home, Hana. Did you do anything fun today?”
“Yeah!!! Nagumo-san and I hung out the entire day!”
Sakamoto nods, as short-of-words as he ever is, but clearly happy to listen to Hana narrate all the things she did at home, eyes darting back and forth between the visitor to the household and his daughter. These days, Sakamoto is even less readable than when his features were more defined, but Nagumo can clearly tell he is enraptured by Hana-chan’s excited talks, humming thoughtfully and aweing at the appropriate moment, patting her head and even giving her a piece of candy from his pocket for finishing her homework for the day. Behind them, even the quiet-looking Amane is wrapped into the newest argument; Aoi laughs at something one of the children has said before asking them to set the dinner table. Outside the windows, the sun has retired, streaks of orange and purple losing to dark navy night. Inside, the apartment is as bright as if it is hosting the runaway sun, completed with its noisy chatters. Nagumo let the noise meld into a symphony of speaking, teasing, chair draggings and ceramics plating and laughter; and somewhere in his mind he thinks of a cold marble hall and wisps of blue threads fluttering in the air.
(Someone somewhere somewhen told him that he was so occupied with watching he forget how to live. Nagumo only smiled then and kept on watching.)
“How are you feeling?” Sakamoto quietly appears, sitting down on the rug because Nagumo was sitting on his cushion. Nagumo keeps his eyes forward, where Hana-chan is helping Lu putting a pair of chopsticks around each seat on the dining table,
“Hana-chan is an awesome kid, Sakamoto-kun. You are so lucky~” Nagumo drawls, “I was a nightmare when I was her age, you know.”
“I’m very lucky, indeed.”
Sakamoto sounds so genuinely grateful that Nagumo is taken aback, just a little, but he quickly bounces back to the same well-used lilt he speaks in, “See this sticker right there? Fixed me all up.”
This time, a small laugh escapes from under Sakamoto’s beard, “She saw Aoi’s nursing textbooks and wants to be just the same.”
Nagumo hums, “A trained-nurse and a former-assassin? What a match.”
“We just run the neighborhood shop now.”
And what a life it is, Nagumo thinks. He used to think it was strange – something so utterly ridiculous and unprecedented it cannot even be qualified as a waste – and now settles on the thought that it is, after all, a life to be chosen.
“I’m going to help Aoi with dinner.” Sakamoto pats his uninjured shoulder gently, “Just relax.”
“I am always relaxed.”
“Okay.”
It feels like he just lost an argument somehow, but still Nagumo sits as the children, having finished setting up the table, rotates between the sink and the washroom to clean their hands before settling down at a table, the seatings surprisingly undisputed as if a routine well-oiled. Lu and Hana sing a sharp children’s tune about washing one’s hands as Heisuke, Shin, and Amane gather around Shin’s phone, intently focusing on something on the screen. Nagumo takes his turn washing his hands and, luckily, when he comes back, there is only one seat left. For some reason, it’s between Hana-chan and Sakamoto.
“She wants to sit next to you.” Sakamoto explains simply, and that is that. Nagumo sits down between Hana-chan and her father, the former beaming up at him before excitedly pointing out what is on the dinner table. There is a delectable spread of vegetables, mushrooms, tofu, and meat neatly piled on large ceramic plates, which surrounds a central hot pot bubbling on a camping stove. The dining table has been extended with a smaller table on one end, and several folding chairs were brought out to accommodate all the guests. It reminds him a little bit of the larger dorm parties that he, Sakamoto, and Akao were sometimes invited to — mismatched plates of food smuggled from the main island, wobbly tables, rows of plastic chairs whose heights dip and fall like ripples in a pond — but the air is at once bubbly (the boys are huddling over something again, and Lu is listening to Hana talks about Yamada-san and the eggs) and calm, a sense of warmth that washes over the clinking of chopsticks and bowls and the Sakamoto’s quiet whispers, something about The shipments are delayed again. They said they’ll try again tomorrow. Nagumo feels like smiling. He lets the air wash over him, warm and viscous like honey, as he sneaks bits of boiled vegetable into Hana-chan’s bowl and sips the warm, flavorful broth. The Sakamoto’s occasionally glean over to check on Hana, who is perfectly happy and capable of getting her own food under Lu’s tutelage, only occasionally needing his help with pouring the hot broth into her bowl. Last he paid attention, (it has been a while, him not having to tune in to every conversation in the room) Hana-chan was talking to Lu about seeing a Sugar-chan on TV and how she wants to learn kung-fu, too. The night passes slowly, mindlessly, quietly, and Nagumo learns to let himself sit with it.
He is excluded from the dinner cleanup after. It soon becomes clear that they don’t need his one-armed loitering around – Shin and Heisuke make quick work clearing away the tables and chairs while Lu and Amane help Aoi with the dishes, ole’ Sakamoto’s tasks being carrying the dishes to the sink and sweeping up the floor, with Hana-chan’s enthusiastic help. Soon enough the boys bring out a game console of sorts from Shin’s room, fiddling to connect it to the TV set and raucously laughing as they race each other on a brightly colored track in equally colorful race cars occupied by different cartoon characters. There are five kids and four controllers, so the losers rotate. Amane has yet to drop from his throne even after several rounds, while Heisuke and Shin repeatedly switch out with Hana (who always has at least two rounds to play before the “loser out” rule applies), with Lu vying closely for first place rounds after rounds. After a while, tired of laughing at Shin and Heisuke and egging Lu on, Nagumo decides to retire, too, quietly feeling his age catching up to him. Living around Sakamoto and this hoard of kids makes him feel old.
Nagumo is several pages into his sudoku book, getting through around half (which is on the slower side) when Sakamoto enters the room and spreads out the futon in the corner of the room.
“Taken your meds yet?”
“Yes, Dad.”
Nagumo fights his giggles when he sees the veins on Sakamoto’s head begin to pop, “Don’t play smart with me.”
“Sure, sure.” Nagumo smiles genially, putting down his pencil, “You going to bed?”
“You can keep the light on.”
“It’s fine. It’s getting late anyway.”
Sakamoto hums.
“I don’t need constant supervision, you know.”
“Just in case.” Sakamoto leaves no room for argument, “Hana is taking my spot, anyway.”
“Sure.”
“I’m turning the light off.”
Nagumo sets the sudoku book and his pencil on the small white desk, turning on the small mushroom light, “Okay.”
In the dark everything is suddenly silenced. Nagumo finally notices that the sound outside is gone, the children and teenagers already gone to bed— if he strains his ears he can hear whispers and rustles of blankets outside, a light giggle here and there. Nagumo wonders if the kids sleepover often, are permanently staying, or if there is any special occasion for their congregation over night. Could be a weekend thing, perhaps.
On the floor, Nagumo can only see the top of Sakamoto’s head. He has released the tight bun he always prefers, letting long silver strands cascading over the plush pillow. At this angle Nagumo can barely see the years his friend has accumulated and briefly think again of hard dormitory tiles and nights spent rotating between three rooms as if they each didn’t have a bed of their own— strays of their own making, strays together. There were some poetics in that which Nagumo had long forgotten. At any rate, this beats sleeping at home — guided by Sakamoto’s slow breathing he finds himself gazing emptily outside of the window, willing the night to take hold,
“Nagumo?” Sakamoto suddenly asks.
“Yeah?”
“Do you like it here?”
“That’s a weird question to ask.” Nagumo sniffs, answers but not quite answering, “What gives?”
“If I asked you to stay, would you?”
That’s an unfair question, Sakamoto-kun. Nagumo wants to say. That’s a nonsensical and obtuse question. You have a kid and a wife and you are a civilian, and part of my job is making sure people like you would never have to see the smoke.
If I asked you to stay, would you?
Nagumo swallows back a heavy exhale. I gave you up long ago, Sakamoto-kun. I gave you up when I saw you that last time before you got married. I was on the way to giving you up when we couldn’t look at each other without a third and I was ready to let go when you stood half-distracted during meetings and trekked out thirty minutes every night visiting a convenience store. I think I gave you up when Akao died and I still don’t know how much I regret that. I think I might have given you up before we even met. I gave you up when I was taught that when a spy dies they die alone. I gave you up when I was taught that I must carry no baggage except what I was ordered to deliver. I thought I had forgotten all about it. I thought after you two there was nothing I must bring back but the two of you alive. And then I gave you up.
Children dream when they are seventeen. Even if they think all they have is cold, solid, rational visions of the living world, they are in fact dreaming. Even when they think their clear, dry, unshy eyes see nothing but stone-set premonitions, seeing the strength and hubris that would surely keep them grounded on the path to invincibility— all they see are dreams. For a while, Nagumo dreamed.
To be woken up was a bitter thing.
“That’s an unfair question, Sakamoto-kun.”
Nagumo was born with both eyes open, unblinking. He was born outside of the veil. For but a brief moment on that remote island, he has never been able to ignore the threads.
Nagumo doesn’t think he has ever dreamed of anything else. No, I have never dreamed of anything else. No, I have never thought of doing anything else. I don’t dream the way you do. I cannot dream the way you do. He could not manage to imagine. I can’t leave, Sakamoto. I can’t give this up. Not now.
“I’ll be sad when you die.”
“That’s hypocritical, Sakamoto-kun. We killed people. I kill people.”
“I know. I will grieve anyway.”
Nagumo closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Sakamoto-kun.”
“Goodnight, Nagumo.”
Nagumo sleeps. He doesn’t dream.
He sleeps easily and then he doesn’t. Somewhen during the still-pitch-black night, Nagumo wakes, feeling his limbs shake and sweat bundle into puddles sliding down his forehead. His hair feels damp. It takes several breaths to understand that the pain emanates from his stomach, which cramps terribly. He takes a few uneasy breaths, clutching at his stomach to prevent the muscles from shifting and worsening the pain. Nagumo lies there for what feels like hours, just breathing and failing to go back to sleep. He should have a bottle of painkillers left somewhere in his duffel. At this point, it’s probably better to bear the hurt and move so that he can at least go back to sleep. He can’t figure out Granny Miya’s medicine on his own anyway.
Nagumo stands up, trying to suppress a gasp, slowly inching towards the side pocket of the duffel and pouring out a number of pills (the thing about poison resistance is that it is also medicine-resistant) and swallows dry.
“Nagumo?”
“Go back to sleep, Sakamoto-kun. My stomach just cramped.”
Nagumo slowly trudges back to bed, waiting for his nerves to be numbed. By the first crow, he falls back asleep.