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The air reeked of smoke and metal.
Gunfire cracked through the valley like thunder, each shot tearing through the chorus of screams that had long lost their rhythm. Sanemi Shinazugawa crouched behind the crumbled remains of a tank, his chest heaving, mud streaked across his jaw. His uniform was torn, soaked in rain and blood—not all of it his own.
“Squad 17, report!” he barked into the static-filled radio, voice hoarse.
Nothing but white noise answered.
He clicked the receiver again. “Goddammit—Squad 17, do you copy?”
A weak voice came through at last. “C–Copy, sir. They’re all gone. Only me and Tokito left, we’re pinned—”
The line died.
Sanemi clenched his jaw. He could taste iron. His mind was a whirl of instinct and noise, but somewhere deep beneath that—beneath the anger, the exhaustion—was one thought that never left him, not even in the chaos:
Giyu.
He could still see him that morning, blurry and soft in the light of dawn. Giyu had woken before him, brewing coffee in silence, wearing Sanemi’s shirt that hung too loosely on him. There had been no grand goodbye—just a quiet “come back soon” and a touch that lingered too long.
I’ll come back. I promise, Sanemi had said.
He wished he hadn’t made promises in a place where no one returned whole.
---
Hours later, the world went black.
A shell exploded near his flank, throwing him off balance. When he woke, his head pounded, wrists bound tight behind his back. He was on the cold ground of a dim tent, surrounded by unfamiliar soldiers with hostile insignias. The taste of dust coated his mouth.
“Where am I?” he rasped.
One of them sneered, crouching in front of him. “Welcome to the other side, captain.”
Sanemi’s jaw flexed. He tried to lunge forward, but a boot pressed against his shoulder, forcing him down.
“Save your strength. You’ll need it,” the man added, standing again. “Your army thinks you’re dead anyway.”
That sentence echoed inside him like a curse.
Dead.
They thought he was dead.
For a fleeting second, his mind raced to Giyu—his husband, waiting in that small house with the cherry trees by the window, the place that always smelled faintly of tea and pine. He imagined Giyu answering the door to uniformed officers. He imagined the silence that would follow.
He wanted to scream, to tear free, to run back no matter how far it was. But all he could do was glare up at his captors, breath ragged.
“Say what you want,” he spat, voice low and venomous. “I’m not dying here.”
---
Meanwhile—
Thousands of miles away, in that quiet home that now felt too large, Giyu sat at the edge of their bed, fingers trembling over a folded flag. The walls were lined with medals and photos—Sanemi’s smile, half hidden, his arm around Giyu’s waist.
The knock on the door had come at sunrise. The officers’ words still played in his ears like a broken record:
Captain Shinazugawa has been declared KIA.
Killed in action.
He’d stood there in silence, staring at the ground as the words shattered something inside him that he hadn’t even known was fragile. They gave him Sanemi’s tags. A folded flag. Their condolences.
Now, Giyu couldn’t even cry. His face was a mask, his body hollow.
He pressed his thumb over the dog tag’s engraving, whispering, “You promised you’d come back.”
Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain—the same scent that used to cling to Sanemi’s uniform whenever he came home.
And somewhere, on the other side of that storm, Sanemi was alive. Bruised, bleeding, but alive.
And thinking only of him.
The house was too quiet.
Every sound—the kettle boiling, the floorboards creaking, even the whisper of wind through the curtains—only reminded Giyu that another voice should have been there.
Sanemi’s voice.
He still half-expected to hear it whenever the door opened.
That rough, familiar tone grumbling something like “You forgot to lock the gate again, idiot,” followed by the sound of boots being kicked off and a kiss that always came unexpectedly—quick, but real.
But now, there was only silence.
The folded flag sat on the coffee table, untouched since that morning. Giyu had been staring at it for hours, maybe days. He’d stopped keeping track of time. The letters Sanemi used to send from base were stacked in a neat pile beside him, corners creased from how many times he’d opened them.
He read the last one again, though he’d memorized every word:
> Don’t wait up too late for me. You always fall asleep on the couch. I’ll be home soon, I promise. I’m still wearing that ring you gave me. Don’t lose yours, dumbass.
The paper trembled in Giyu’s hand. His chest felt too tight, as if the grief had reached inside and wrapped its fingers around his lungs.
He whispered, “You liar.”
The sound barely escaped his throat.
He folded the letter again, pressing it against his lips for a moment before tucking it back into the envelope like it was something sacred. His vision blurred, but the tears still refused to fall. It was as if his body had forgotten how to cry—too numb, too hollow.
At night, he dreamed of footsteps in the hall. He’d wake up gasping, convinced he’d heard Sanemi’s voice—“Giyu? You up?”—but the sound would fade, leaving him in the dark with nothing but the echo of his own breathing.
The days blurred into one another. Giyu moved through them quietly, mechanically. He’d boil water. Make tea. Forget to drink it. He’d sit by the window, staring at the rain, his hand unconsciously reaching toward the empty side of the bed every night.
He still wore his wedding ring. He couldn’t take it off.
---
Far away, across the borderlines of fire and mud—
Sanemi lay on the cold floor of a dim prison cell. His body ached, ribs bruised, lip split, but his mind refused to stop moving. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Giyu.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there—days, weeks—but he knew one thing for certain: they thought he was dead.
Which meant Giyu thought he was dead, too.
That thought burned deeper than the wounds.
Sometimes he caught himself whispering his name, quietly, like a prayer. “Giyu…”
The guards would hear and laugh, but he didn’t care.
He clung to every memory he had—the smell of tea, the sound of rain against their roof, Giyu’s voice half-asleep saying “Don’t go yet…” in the early hours before dawn. He remembered how Giyu used to hold onto him in his sleep, gentle and steady, as if he was the anchor keeping him from drifting away.
Now Sanemi was the one drifting.
But even here, chained and broken, he swore he’d come back. No matter what it took.
He’d crawl through hell itself if it meant seeing that quiet face again.
He didn’t care if the military had written him off, or if the world had forgotten his name. Giyu hadn’t. He knew he hadn’t.
So he waited.
And he planned.
Every day, he listened—counted the guards, memorized the shifts, mapped the cracks in the floor. Every breath he took was a promise: I’m coming home.
---
And somewhere back home, Giyu sat at the kitchen table, hands folded around a cup of tea gone cold, staring at the rain.
He whispered softly, like he always did, to no one.
“Goodnight, Sanemi.”
And on the other side of that same rainstorm, in a cage soaked with shadows—
Sanemi whispered it back.
“Goodnight, Giyu.”
~
It had been four months.
Four long, grey months since the soldiers had come to Giyu’s doorstep with their pressed uniforms and rehearsed condolences.
Spring had come and gone. The cherry trees by their house had bloomed without Sanemi there to see them. The petals had fallen, scattered and gone, leaving behind nothing but green.
Now, it was late summer, and the cemetery was quiet.
Giyu stood alone before a white headstone etched with Sanemi’s name. The ground was freshly tended, grass trimmed, flowers fading. He’d come here every week without fail, sometimes bringing tea, sometimes just sitting in silence for hours.
He never spoke much. There wasn’t anything left to say.
But today, his voice came out—soft, cracked. “They said you went quick,” he murmured, kneeling to brush the dirt from the engraved letters. “That you didn’t suffer.”
A pause.
He smiled weakly. “That doesn’t sound like you, though, does it?”
The silence that followed stretched endlessly. The world moved around him—the wind rustled, birds called, somewhere a car door shut—but inside that space, time didn’t exist.
He sat there for a while, tracing the edge of the stone with his fingertips, the wedding ring glinting faintly in the sun. He’d thought about taking it off, more than once. But every time he tried, his hand froze. He couldn’t do it.
He still made tea for two in the mornings. Still caught himself talking out loud sometimes, saying things like “You’d laugh at this, Sanemi,” or “You’d hate this show.”
Still dreamed about him almost every night—sometimes alive, sometimes just out of reach, always fading before Giyu could touch him.
He didn’t know how to stop loving someone who wasn’t there anymore.
So instead, he kept waiting.
For what, he didn’t know.
---
Meanwhile—
Half a continent away, Sanemi Shinazugawa was running through hell.
The forest was dense, the air heavy with smoke and rain. His body was raw—scraped, bleeding, trembling—but his legs refused to stop. Each breath came out sharp, the pain biting through him with every step.
He’d escaped three nights ago. Slipped through a break in the watchtower patrol after weeks of pretending to be too weak to move.
He’d killed two guards with his bare hands.
He didn’t feel proud. Just alive.
The map in his head was vague, just scraps of memory from briefings long ago. All he knew was that he was deep in enemy territory, with nothing but mud and silence around him.
He stumbled through the trees, half-blind with exhaustion, clutching the small piece of fabric he’d ripped from his old uniform—the one that still had his name on it. He kept it close to his chest, like it was proof he still existed.
When he collapsed near a stream, his body shaking, he pressed the cloth against his lips and whispered, “I’m coming home, Giyu…”
The name gave him strength. It always had.
He’d whispered it when the guards beat him. Whispered it when he thought he’d die. Whispered it now as the stars blurred above him.
He crawled to the water, washing the blood from his hands. The reflection that stared back barely looked human—scarred, hollow-eyed, pale—but his violet eyes still burned with the same stubborn light.
He’d promised he’d return.
And he wasn’t about to break that now.
---
Back home, the rain started to fall as Giyu stood from the grave, pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The sky wept in quiet drops, soaking into the soil.
He whispered one last thing before he turned to leave.
“Wherever you are… I hope it’s peaceful.”
The wind picked up, carrying his words far, far away—across oceans and borders, across all the noise and chaos—until it reached a soldier staggering through the woods, rain dripping from his lashes.
Sanemi lifted his head, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t name.
It felt like someone had called his name.
He didn’t know where he was.
Didn’t know how far from home.
But his feet began to move anyway—slowly at first, then faster, driven by something unseen.
He didn’t need a map.
He only needed the thought of Giyu.
The night was endless.
Every step Sanemi took felt heavier than the last, his boots sinking into the mud as rain poured down in sheets. His breath came out ragged, clouding in the cold. The forest seemed to stretch forever — dark, wet, and merciless.
He’d been walking for days.
No food. Barely any water.
His arm was wrapped in a torn sleeve, blood seeping through from a bullet graze that hadn’t fully healed. His ribs ached each time he drew breath. The world tilted sometimes, like the ground beneath him wasn’t steady.
Still, he walked.
He’d learned that stopping was worse than pain.
Because when he stopped, he could hear things. Voices.
Not the enemy’s — no, those were long gone.
It was his.
The one he’d left behind.
Giyu.
Sometimes it was just a whisper in the rain. Sometimes he swore he could hear him say something small — “You promised you’d come back.”
Other times, it was softer. “You’re late again.”
And that made him laugh, even when his throat was raw.
He knew he was losing it — fever creeping in, body too cold to fight it off — but that voice kept him alive.
---
The third night after his escape, he stumbled into an open field. The forest broke into a stretch of pale grass, slick with dew and moonlight. He froze, swaying on his feet. For the first time in months, there were no fences. No searchlights. No shouting guards. Just… quiet.
It scared him more than anything.
He dropped to his knees, head hanging low as the rain washed over him. His hands trembled, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. He’d made it out. He didn’t know where here was — somewhere beyond the border, maybe close to the edge of neutral ground — but he was free.
It didn’t feel real.
He wanted to laugh, to scream, to cry, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper:
“…Giyu.”
His voice cracked on the name.
He clutched the scrap of cloth tighter against his chest — the one from his old uniform, dirty and torn, with his name half-faded. It was all he had left of himself.
“I’m not dead,” he rasped, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “You hear me, Giyu? I’m not—”
His voice broke again. The wind swallowed the rest.
---
When morning came, the storm had passed. The sun rose pale and weak through the mist.
Sanemi could barely see straight anymore. His body felt like it was moving on instinct alone — like something inside him refused to give up even when everything else had.
He followed the faint sound of a river downstream, dragging his feet through the mud. The water was cold when he dipped his hands in it, but he drank anyway, ignoring the burn in his throat.
After a while, he saw it — a faint trail of smoke curling in the distance. Civilization.
A village.
His pulse quickened. He didn’t know if it was friendly or not, didn’t know what language they spoke or what flag they served under — but he had to take the chance.
He pressed a hand to his ribs, forcing himself upright. The world spun around him, but he kept walking, one step at a time, until the treeline broke and the first rooftops came into view through the fog.
A small farming settlement. Wooden houses. Laundry lines. A barking dog somewhere far away.
He almost laughed. It looked so normal.
Sanemi stumbled down the dirt road, every breath a battle. He didn’t even realize he was bleeding again until someone shouted in a language he half understood. A woman appeared in the doorway of one of the houses, eyes wide, rushing toward him with a cloth in hand.
He couldn’t make out what she was saying. His hearing was fading, drowned by the rush of his heartbeat.
He just muttered one thing before everything went black:
"Please..."
Then the ground rushed up to meet him.
---
When he opened his eyes again, it was night. He was lying on a small cot inside a dim wooden hut. His arm was bandaged, his chest wrapped tight. The faint smell of broth lingered in the air.
Someone had found him. Saved him.
For the first time since the war began, Sanemi exhaled — long and shaky — and let his eyes close again.
He wasn’t safe yet.
But he was alive.
And somewhere out there, across all that distance and grief, his husband still believed he wasn’t.
That thought cut deeper than any wound.
“I’m coming home, Giyu,” he whispered into the dark.
Even if it took him the rest of his life.
The world came back in fragments.
The creak of a chair. The smell of herbs. The sting of sunlight leaking through a curtain.
Sanemi blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dim room. The walls were made of rough wood, the air thick with warmth and faint smoke from a nearby hearth. He tried to move, but a sharp pain shot up his side, forcing a hiss from his teeth.
A soft gasp came from the corner.
A woman — the same one he’d seen before collapsing — hurried over, murmuring something he couldn’t understand. Her tone was gentle, her hands careful as she pressed him back down onto the cot.
Her words washed over him like a stream of sounds, none of which made sense.
“I—” he rasped, trying to find his voice. His throat was dry, cracked. “Where…?”
She paused, tilting her head as if she’d heard a sound she couldn’t place. Then she smiled faintly, shaking her head. Whatever she said next sounded kind — comforting, even — but it didn’t answer him.
He realized then: he didn’t know the language.
Didn’t know where he was.
The reality hit like a stone in the gut. He’d crossed the border blind — deeper into the same country that had taken him prisoner, maybe even farther into their lands. If anyone found out who he was — a captain from the other side — they’d hand him back in a heartbeat.
He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. He couldn’t let them know.
Not yet.
---
Over the next few days, he stayed quiet, watching. Listening. The woman — he learned her name was Mila — seemed to live alone with an older man, probably her father. Their home was modest: a wooden hut with a clay stove, bundles of herbs drying by the window, and the faint sound of chickens outside.
They spoke softly, moved gently, and never asked too many questions.
They didn’t seem to recognize him. Or if they did, they didn’t care.
He was grateful for that.
Sanemi spent his days lying on the cot, bandages tight around his ribs, pretending to be half-asleep while his mind raced. He studied the sounds of their speech, trying to pick out familiar words. Once or twice, he managed a nod or a quiet “thank you” in broken syllables. Mila always smiled, as if proud of him for trying.
But inside, he was restless.
He hated being still. He hated feeling helpless.
And most of all, he hated not knowing where he was — how far from home, from Giyu.
Sometimes, when Mila would step out to fetch water, Sanemi would drag himself to the small window, clutching the wall for balance. He’d watch the distant hills, the faint trails of smoke rising beyond them, wondering which direction the border lay.
He’d whisper under his breath, “I’ll find my way back.”
---
At night, he couldn’t sleep.
The pain came and went in waves, but worse than that were the memories.
He’d wake gasping, drenched in sweat, seeing flashes of the battlefield — the explosion, the shouting, the faces of his men. Then he’d hear another voice — softer, clearer.
“Come back soon.”
“Don’t break your promise.”
He’d stare at the ceiling, eyes burning, whispering into the dark, “I’m trying, Giyu. I swear I’m trying.”
Sometimes, Mila would come in when she heard him coughing. She’d press a cool cloth to his forehead, humming quietly, unaware that the song made his chest ache because it sounded too much like the ones Giyu used to hum while cooking.
He’d turn his face away, biting back the tremor in his voice.
---
Weeks passed.
His strength returned slowly. The cuts began to close, the bruises faded, and soon he was able to walk short distances without feeling dizzy. Mila had lent him an old coat and boots that didn’t quite fit.
He helped with small chores to repay her — chopping wood, fixing the fence. She laughed when he tried to communicate by gestures, mimicking his movements until they both ended up shaking their heads, smiling through the confusion.
It almost felt… human again.
But every time he caught his reflection in the basin — gaunt face, hollow eyes, violet irises dulled by exhaustion — he was reminded that he didn’t belong here.
He was a soldier lost behind enemy lines.
And somewhere across miles of border, his husband believed he was buried beneath a stone with his name on it.
---
One night, as the wind howled outside and the fire burned low, Sanemi sat by the window, clutching the piece of his old uniform. His hands trembled slightly as he stared out into the endless dark beyond the hills.
He didn’t know the way.
He didn’t know how far the border was.
But the thought of Giyu — that quiet face, the way his voice softened when he said his name — was enough to make him stand again.
He whispered, almost like a prayer:
“Just wait for me a little longer.”
Because even if the world thought he was dead — even if he didn’t know where the hell he was —
he’d find his way home.
He’d find his way back to him.
Time dulled everything except memory.
A year had passed since Sanemi stumbled into that village half-dead, the rain still clinging to his hair and blood on his sleeves. A year since Lady Tamayo — that was her name, he’d learned much later — found him at her doorstep and chose mercy over fear.
Now, the house no longer smelled of smoke and sickness. It smelled of herbs and tea, of spring and wood polish. Tamayo’s home had become a haven, tucked quietly at the edge of a valley surrounded by mist and pale trees.
And Sanemi… somehow, he’d become part of it.
---
He still looked like a soldier — broad-shouldered, scarred, his hair unevenly cut by his own hand — but his eyes had changed. Softer now. Less sharp. The kind of softness that came from being forced to live quietly after years of noise.
Tamayo had taught him her language, slowly, patiently, with the same warmth she gave her patients. Every day, she’d sit with him at the table, pointing at things, naming them, making him repeat the words until his accent stopped slicing through them.
At first, he’d grumbled.
He’d hated feeling like a child again, struggling to form simple phrases. But Tamayo had a way of disarming him with calm smiles and gentle humor.
“You’re quick to learn,” she would say, scribbling notes in a little book.
“Because you talk too much,” he’d mutter back in broken syllables, and she’d laugh quietly, shaking her head.
By the end of that year, he could understand her almost completely. His speech was still rough, but he could hold a conversation without her needing to guess what he meant.
He’d never admit it out loud, but he was grateful.
---
Sometimes, at night, when Tamayo was busy tending to her patients, Sanemi would sit on the porch and stare at the hills. The sky was endless here — painted with stars that looked too peaceful for someone like him.
He wondered if Giyu ever looked at the same sky.
He wondered if he’d moved on, or if he still whispered goodnight to a ghost.
The thought made his chest tighten in a way he could never put into words.
He still wore his ring, though he hid it beneath a strip of cloth whenever someone came near. Tamayo had noticed once, but never asked. She was smart like that — she saw too much, said too little.
---
One late afternoon, while Tamayo was sorting through her shelves of jars and books, Sanemi stood in the doorway. He hesitated, thumb rubbing over his palm — a habit that showed when he was nervous.
“Tamayo,” he said, carefully. His voice carried the rough edges of their shared language, but it was steady.
She looked up, smiling softly. “Yes?”
He took a breath. “Do you… have a map?”
Her hands paused over a stack of parchment. “A map?”
“Yes.” He nodded, eyes shifting toward the window. “I need to… find something.”
He didn’t say someone. Couldn’t. The word sat heavy on his tongue.
Tamayo studied him quietly, her gaze gentle but knowing. “You’ve healed well,” she said after a moment. “Your body, at least.”
Sanemi didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the floorboards.
She sighed softly, then turned to a chest in the corner and opened it. After a moment, she drew out an old, folded map — worn at the edges, but detailed. She spread it across the table, smoothing the creases with her hand.
“This is the region,” she said, tracing her finger over the inked terrain. “Our village is here. The border…” She glanced up at him. “...is far. Very far.”
Sanemi leaned closer, following the lines of rivers and forests. His heart thudded hard in his chest. “Which direction?”
“Southwest,” she said softly. “But the roads are dangerous. You’d be crossing into ruins, old checkpoints. Soldiers sometimes patrol there still.”
“I’ll manage,” he said quietly.
Tamayo’s eyes lingered on him. “You’ve been patient, Sanemi. You’ve built something here, even if you didn’t mean to. Are you sure you want to leave it behind?”
He met her gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his tired violet eyes.
“I never belonged here.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not cold. Tamayo finally nodded, folding the map and pressing it into his hand.
“Then take this,” she said softly. “And when you find what you’re looking for… I hope it’s still waiting.”
Sanemi hesitated, his throat tightening. For the first time, he bowed his head slightly — a small, wordless gesture of gratitude.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
When she smiled, there was a trace of sadness in it, as if she already knew that the next time he stepped out of her door, it would be for the last time.
---
That night, Sanemi sat awake beneath the dim lantern light, the map spread out before him. His fingers traced the faded border lines.
A year.
An entire year of surviving, learning, pretending.
Now, it was time to go home.
He folded the map, tucked it into his coat, and whispered into the still air — a promise that had never left his chest, not even after all this time.
“I’m coming back to you, Giyu.”
The words hung in the cold air like a promise—quiet, almost fragile. Sanemi’s breath came out in soft clouds, fading into the pale morning mist that clung to the rooftops. His fingers gripped the old map tighter, tracing the faint ink lines that marked rivers and mountain paths he didn’t recognize. But east… he knew east.
He’d always known how to follow the sun.
The next few days, he studied it every night by the dim glow of the oil lamp. The writing was foreign, curved and elegant, but he remembered enough of Lady Tamayo’s patient lessons to make sense of a few names. She noticed his quiet determination, though she never pressed for answers.
One evening, she brought him tea and sat beside him. “You’ll leave soon,” she said softly in her language.
He froze, the cup halfway to his lips. “…Yes,” he admitted, after a pause. His voice rasped, the weight of it scraping through his chest.
“Then you should take this.” She placed a small pouch on the table—herbal compresses, by the smell of it. “For pain. You may not have time to rest again.”
Sanemi’s throat tightened. “Why… help me?”
Lady Tamayo’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Because you remind me of someone who once couldn’t stop fighting—until he forgot what he was fighting for.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, muttering, “I won’t forget.”
When dawn came, the village was still asleep. The frost cracked under his boots as he crossed the empty paths. A faint pink bled into the horizon. He stopped at the edge of the forest trail, glancing back one last time—at the quiet home that had kept him alive when the rest of the world wanted him gone.
He whispered, more to himself than anyone, “Thank you… Lady Tamayo.”
And then he turned toward the east.
The forest swallowed him whole.
For days, he walked through bitter wind and silence. His uniform had long since turned into scraps of cloth patched with local fabric. He hunted small game, drank from rivers, avoided main roads. But every night when he stopped to rest, he’d unfold the map, tracing the route with trembling fingers, muttering to himself under his breath like it kept him sane.
He didn’t know if Giyu would even be there—if home still existed—but the thought of him was the only thing keeping Sanemi moving. The way Giyu smiled without trying. The way his voice softened when he said Sanemi’s name. The way his eyes looked in the firelight the night before he left for war.
He could still hear it—Giyu’s last words before he deployed:
“Come back to me.”
And Sanemi had sworn he would.
Now, he just had to keep his promise.
~
The mountains loomed taller the farther Sanemi walked. The air grew thinner, colder, biting through his patched jacket. Every step felt heavier now; his legs ached, his shoulder still burned where an old wound refused to fully heal.
But he couldn’t stop. Not when the border was close enough that he could feel it—like a pulse beneath his boots.
He crouched low in the underbrush, scanning the valley below. Through the fog, faint lights flickered—torches, maybe. He could make out the faint outline of a wall stretching far across the landscape, rough and weathered with barbed wire curling across the top like thorns.
That was it.
The border.
The line that separated his year-long nightmare from home.
Sanemi crouched lower as voices echoed nearby—two soldiers in the enemy’s uniform, talking lazily, rifles slung over their shoulders. He waited until they passed, heart pounding so loud it felt like it might give him away.
He moved when silence returned, creeping along the rocks until he reached the base of the ridge. The wall towered above him, easily twice his height. Up close, it smelled of rust and oil.
He stared at it for a long time, his breath visible in the night air. His hands tightened around the rough stone. He was exhausted, hungry, barely healed—
but he’d come too far to stop here.
So he started climbing.
The first few footholds tore his palms open again, blood slicking against the cold metal. He bit back a hiss, pulling himself higher. Every movement sent sparks of pain through his arms, but he didn’t look down. The stars above looked blurry through the fog and fatigue.
When he reached the barbed wire, he hesitated only a second. Then he ripped a strip from his coat and wrapped it around his hands before pushing through. The wire cut deep, snagging at his sleeves, scraping his skin. His breathing grew ragged, shallow, but his eyes burned with focus.
And then—
his boot hit the top edge, and he pushed himself over, landing hard on the other side with a grunt.
He lay there for a long moment, chest heaving, staring up at the sky.
For the first time in a year… he was back on his side.
The smell of the soil felt familiar. The air tasted different—sharper, cleaner, filled with something that almost felt like relief.
He turned his head toward the dark stretch of forest leading inland. That was home. Somewhere beyond that, maybe miles, maybe days away—was Giyu.
Sanemi forced himself up, wiping the dirt from his face. His hands trembled as he whispered under his breath, hoarse and quiet—
“Almost there, Giyu…”
He didn’t see the distant lights approaching through the trees. The flicker of a soldier’s torch, a uniform that belonged to his side this time.
He was too focused on the path ahead to realize he’d just been spotted.
The crunch of boots on frost snapped Sanemi’s attention up.
He froze, heart jolting.
Torches flickered through the trees—four, maybe five soldiers in dark green uniforms, rifles at their sides. His country’s colors. His people. But the way their guns lifted the second they spotted him made his chest tighten.
“Don’t move!” one barked.
Another aimed straight for his chest.
Sanemi lifted his hands slowly, palms still bleeding from the wire. “I—I’m not—” he tried to speak, but his voice cracked from disuse, his accent rough from a year of speaking their enemy’s tongue.
“Drop your weapon!” another shouted.
He didn’t even have one.
They surrounded him quickly, flashlights glaring in his eyes, the sharp click of safeties being turned off filling the air.
“Looks like we caught one of them strays,” a soldier muttered. “He’s in enemy rags, looks half-starved.”
“I said don’t move!” another ordered when Sanemi tried to speak again.
He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling under exhaustion. “I’m not—”
“Quiet!”
A rifle butt jabbed against his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Pain shot through his back. His breath hitched, but he stayed silent, staring at the dirt.
Then—
A voice cut through the chaos. Calm, familiar, disbelieving.
“…Wait.”
The soldiers paused, glancing back at the man approaching from behind the line. His uniform was cleaner, rank marked on his shoulder—an officer. He stepped closer, the torchlight catching his face.
Sanemi blinked, chest tightening.
Masachika.
The soldier froze mid-step, staring like he’d seen a ghost. His hand trembled slightly as he lowered the torch, his mouth parting but no words coming out for a moment. “…Sanemi?”
The other soldiers exchanged confused looks. “Sir? You—you know this man?”
Masachika didn’t answer. He just stared at Sanemi, eyes wide, voice cracking when he finally spoke again. “Holy hell, you’re— You’re alive?”
Sanemi let out a rough, almost broken laugh. “More or less,” he rasped. His throat burned as he tried to stand, but his legs gave out halfway.
Masachika rushed forward, catching him before he fell completely. The men behind him hesitated, lowering their guns, murmuring in disbelief.
“They said you were dead,” Masachika muttered, voice hoarse. “They told Giyu— they told everyone there was nothing left to find—”
Sanemi looked up at him, face pale under the dirt. “Where… where is he?” he croaked out, barely able to stand. “Giyu… is he—?”
Masachika swallowed hard, eyes flicking away for a second. “He’s alive. But, Sanemi… he thinks you’re gone.”
Sanemi’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the world felt like it stopped.
He’d made it back. Barely alive, scarred, broken—
but Giyu didn’t know.
Masachika squeezed his shoulder, his voice steadying. “We’re getting you home, brother. You’ve been gone long enough.”
Sanemi nodded faintly, exhaustion finally winning as darkness crept into his vision. The last thing he felt was Masachika’s grip keeping him upright, the soft echo of his voice—
“You’re safe now.”
~
When Sanemi woke, the world was white and quiet.
Too quiet.
The first thing he felt was the softness beneath him—a bed, not dirt, not rock. Clean sheets, the faint sting of antiseptic in the air. His eyelids fluttered open to a bright ceiling, canvas walls around him rippling gently with the wind.
For a moment, he didn’t move. His body felt heavy, sore, wrapped in bandages from shoulder to ribs. There was a steady beep nearby, something mechanical—a heartbeat monitor, maybe. He hadn’t heard one of those in what felt like forever.
Then a voice cut through the hum of the machines.
“You’re awake.”
He turned his head slowly. Masachika sat beside the bed, uniform jacket unbuttoned, exhaustion written all over his face. When Sanemi tried to sit up, Masachika pushed him gently back down.
“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered. “You’ll rip those stitches.”
Sanemi groaned softly, his throat dry. “Where… where am I?”
“Medic camp,” Masachika said, leaning back in the chair. “Inside our border. You’ve been out for almost three days.”
Sanemi’s eyes blinked in confusion. “Three days…?”
Masachika nodded. “You collapsed the moment we got you past the gate. Half the camp thought we were bringing in a corpse until you started yelling in your sleep.”
Sanemi winced faintly. “Yelling…?”
Masachika’s tone softened, though his eyes dropped. “Mostly someone’s name.”
Sanemi’s chest tightened. He didn’t have to ask which name.
Masachika sighed and rubbed his temple. “You’re damn lucky, you know that? Walking straight through the border, looking like the enemy’s poster boy. Half the men wanted to shoot first and ask later.”
Sanemi exhaled shakily, staring at the white sheet covering his legs. “…Would’ve saved me some trouble,” he muttered under his breath.
Masachika frowned. “Don’t start that.”
Silence lingered between them for a moment—thick, heavy. Sanemi’s hand twitched, fingers curling against the mattress. “Does he… know?” he asked finally, his voice hoarse. “Giyu.”
Masachika hesitated. “…Not yet. We wanted to make sure you were stable first.”
“Why?”
“Because if you didn’t make it,” Masachika said quietly, “I didn’t want to give him hope just to lose you twice.”
Sanemi turned his face away, jaw tight. The tent around them rustled faintly, the wind brushing through canvas seams. He wanted to move, to get up, to run—anything but lie here waiting.
Masachika watched him for a while, then stood up. “Rest for now. When you can stand without collapsing, we’ll talk about what happens next.”
He took a few steps toward the exit, but paused before leaving. “Sanemi… he never stopped wearing your ring.”
The flap closed behind him.
Sanemi stared at the ceiling, the faint sting in his throat deepening. His hand trembled as he reached toward his chest, feeling the absence where his own ring had once hung on a chain. It had been torn off months ago.
He swallowed hard, whispering into the still air—
“Just a little longer, Giyu.”
By morning, Sanemi could sit up without coughing. The pain was still there, deep in his bones, but the worst had passed. Masachika came by with reports, medicines, and the same unreadable face he wore every time he had bad news to hide.
Sanemi waited until he was done checking his bandages before speaking. “Don’t tell him yet.”
Masachika blinked. “Giyu?”
Sanemi nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. “Not yet. I want to see him myself.”
Masachika frowned. “He’s been mourning you for a year, Sanemi. You think showing up out of nowhere won’t kill him from shock?”
Sanemi’s lips twitched faintly, tiredly. “Then I’ll die with him if it does.”
Masachika groaned under his breath, but the look on Sanemi’s face told him there was no arguing. That stubborn fire was back, the same one that kept him alive all this time.
“Fine,” Masachika muttered. “But when he punches you in the face for making him grieve a ghost, don’t come crying to me.”
Sanemi smirked weakly. “I’ll take it.”
---
A week later, the medical tent was just a memory. Sanemi stood outside in a crisp uniform—borrowed, still smelling faintly of starch and metal oil. His hair had grown out slightly, and scars marked the edge of his jaw where he’d been cut. But he was alive.
Alive, and finally heading home.
Masachika drove the old jeep through the countryside roads. The air was clearer here, warmer, carrying the scent of summer grass. Sanemi leaned against the window, eyes tracing every familiar sight—the rivers, the dusty houses, the narrow bridge where he used to meet Giyu before deployments.
When they finally turned into a small town road, Sanemi’s heart began to pound faster. Their home was still there—a small white house with ivy crawling up the porch, curtains drawn, the faint sound of wind chimes moving in the breeze.
But when he stepped out of the jeep and looked toward the house, the window was dark.
Masachika glanced at the empty front porch and sighed softly. “He’s not home.”
Sanemi frowned. “Where would he be?”
Masachika hesitated only a second before his gaze turned toward the hill beyond the town, the one that overlooked the valley. “I know where,” he said quietly.
He didn’t explain further.
The jeep rumbled again, carrying them uphill until the trees thinned, revealing rows of white stones glinting under the sun. The cemetery.
Masachika parked at the edge of the dirt road and turned off the engine. “He goes there every week,” he said softly. “Same time. Same place.”
Sanemi stared out the window, throat tightening.
Masachika’s tone softened. “Go.”
Sanemi turned to him. “You’re not coming?”
Masachika shook his head and looked away with a faint smile. “This part isn’t mine.”
He started the engine again and backed down the road, leaving Sanemi standing alone among the quiet graves, the wind brushing through the long grass.
---
Sanemi took a step forward, then another. The air felt colder here, heavy with silence. Between the rows, he saw a familiar figure kneeling—black hair, pale skin, dressed neatly but worn thin, a bouquet of lilies in his hands.
Giyu.
Sanemi stopped a few meters away, his chest aching with every breath. He watched the way Giyu’s shoulders trembled slightly as he adjusted the flowers, how his lips moved—muttering something too soft to hear.
He hadn’t changed much, except for the sadness in his posture. That quiet, heavy grief that clung to him like a shadow.
Sanemi’s throat went dry. His feet felt frozen. But he forced himself to move closer, one slow step at a time, until his voice—rough, trembling—finally left his lips.
“…Giyu.”
Giyu froze. His hand paused over the gravestone. Slowly, he turned his head, almost afraid to look.
His eyes widened.
He blinked once, twice—his breath catching audibly in the air. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no sound came out.
“Hey,” Sanemi said quietly, a shaky smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re still visiting me, huh?”
Giyu stood there, silent, eyes glassy with disbelief. He didn’t move for what felt like forever. Then, all at once—
he dropped the bouquet and ran.
The impact knocked the wind out of Sanemi as Giyu collided into him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, trembling so hard it made Sanemi’s knees buckle.
“You—” Giyu’s voice cracked, muffled against his chest. “You were— they said—”
“I know,” Sanemi whispered, his hands coming up to hold him close, trembling just as much. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Giyu pulled back just enough to see his face. His hands cupped Sanemi’s jaw, fingertips trembling over the scars, as if to confirm he was real.
And then—without a single word—he kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, almost wild—months of grief, disbelief, and love crashing all at once. Sanemi kissed back just as fiercely, the world spinning around them, the distant wind scattering petals from the grave they stood beside.
When they finally pulled apart, both were breathing hard, tears streaking down Giyu’s face.
“You idiot,” Giyu whispered, voice breaking. “You said you’d come back.”
Sanemi brushed his thumb across his cheek, smiling through his own tears. “I did, didn’t I?”
Giyu let out a choked laugh, half a sob, and pulled him back into his arms again—refusing to ever let go.
The wind was soft that evening, the sun bleeding orange across the horizon. The two of them stood there for a long time, arms wrapped tight, as if one wrong breath would make it all disappear again.
When Giyu finally loosened his grip, it was only enough to look at Sanemi properly—his eyes red, his face streaked with tears. He reached out, touching Sanemi’s cheek with trembling fingers.
“You’re real,” Giyu whispered, almost like he needed to say it out loud.
Sanemi smiled faintly. “Last I checked.”
Giyu let out a broken laugh, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “You look like hell.”
“Guess hell spat me back out.”
That made Giyu laugh again, a sound that cracked halfway through before dissolving into another sob. Sanemi just pulled him close, pressing his forehead to Giyu’s temple, the scent of him so painfully familiar it almost made his knees give out.
They stayed like that until the sky darkened, the first stars flickering overhead. Then Giyu finally tugged at Sanemi’s sleeve. “Come home,” he whispered. “Please.”
---
The drive back was quiet. Sanemi sat in the passenger seat, watching the familiar streets roll by, heart pounding harder with every turn. When the house finally came into view—their house—his chest constricted. It looked the same: the ivy still clinging to the porch, the faint light from the kitchen window, the wind chime still swaying where he’d hung it years ago.
Giyu parked the car and turned to him, eyes soft but uncertain, as if afraid Sanemi might vanish again if he blinked.
Sanemi offered a small smirk. “You gonna invite me in, or do I sleep outside?”
That earned him the tiniest smile. “You never even liked that joke,” Giyu murmured.
“Guess a year alone taught me to appreciate your bad humor.”
Giyu’s eyes glimmered with something fragile, and before Sanemi could say another word, he reached out—fingers curling around the front of his uniform. He didn’t pull hard, just enough to bring Sanemi closer, their foreheads touching.
“Don’t go anywhere again,” Giyu whispered.
“I won’t,” Sanemi promised softly. “Not even if the world ends.”
---
Inside, everything was untouched. His jacket still hung by the door, his boots still by the mat—dusty, but there. Giyu had never moved them.
Sanemi stood there for a moment, the silence wrapping around him like a memory. “You really kept everything…”
Giyu nodded faintly. “Couldn’t throw them away. Felt like you’d be cold without them.”
Sanemi’s throat tightened. He turned, stepping closer, and before Giyu could say more, he cupped his face with both hands. “You waited,” he murmured. “All this time.”
“I didn’t know how to stop,” Giyu whispered. “I didn’t want to.”
Sanemi’s voice softened. “Then I guess I don’t need to ask if you still love me.”
Giyu let out a shaky laugh, eyes glistening. “You’re still terrible at being gentle.”
Sanemi leaned in, their noses brushing, breath mingling. “Then maybe I’ll try being terrible at this too.”
And he kissed him again.
This one was slower—deep, unhurried, full of everything they didn’t get to say for a year. Giyu melted into it, hands clutching Sanemi’s jacket, while Sanemi’s fingers slid into his hair, thumb tracing the curve of his jaw. The world outside didn’t exist anymore—just their breaths, the warmth, the sound of hearts finally beating together again.
When they broke apart, Giyu stayed close, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re really home.”
Sanemi pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Home’s wherever you are.”