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It’s been so long since he’s come back home that he considers knocking. It might’ve been easier if he’d turned up during the day, when the convenience store was open… his name’s still on the sign outside, he noticed: his name and hers, now, because she held him at night, because she ushered him to her table. Because she didn’t throw him out, and he doesn’t kill anymore, for her, playing the role of Taro Sakamoto the Good Man like wearing a uniform apron.
If the store were open, he could watch her through the window and try to get an idea of where her mind is before going in. Whether she looks healthy. Whether she’s happier without him, while he’s been off taking care of assassin business. Doing what needs to be done. Keeping her out of it, away from him and his history, his messiness. If he could run some surveillance here first, he’d know whether he should throw in the towel without causing a stir. Drift away, without making her cry again. Maybe she’s replaced him with someone new, someone better. Maybe she’s relieved that his fights haven’t wrecked the store, lately. That she hasn’t been in serious danger since he left. He made some deals, pulled some strings to keep things that way. Don’t ask what he did to guarantee she’d be kept out of things: it’s better not to know.
He never actually belonged here, did he? They were fooling themselves. He’s seen so much, killed so many people with his bare hands, making everything dirtier. He’s meant to be a stray, hungry thing, watching from the sidelines. He always knew it, but for a while he let himself forget. Or… maybe that’s not true, and he’s being unfairly defeatist. He’s drifted back here, after all, on the night before what might be the last battle of his life. If he gets through all this, maybe he can… well, maybe he can…
Can stay?
If she isn’t happier without him, say. If there is something he can still provide his daughter, this long after failing to even deliver her a crushed birthday cake. If he hasn’t ruined everything, first by being what he is, bringing what bloody stories he does, and then by disappearing like a stereotypical lousy father, a deadbeat husband, all that. It’s been weeks… weeks of battles and trainings, hideouts and schemes. He doesn’t have any right.
Aoi said this would always be his home, unless he killed again. At the very least… tonight… it feels like he should say goodbye. Promise he loves her, whatever else is true about him. Maybe he’ll regret it; he doesn’t deserve it; she really shouldn’t have to see him again. Still, he hesitates outside the door, watching his jagged shadow beneath the streetlight. Last time he stood here, that shadow was so different, soft and round. His footsteps creaked loudly on the steps, then, but he drifts up silently tonight. He unlocks the door, slinks in through the familiar entryway. He kicks his shoes where they would usually go, and then winces. Shoves them out of place, because they don’t belong. Shouldn’t belong.
He realized it as he bent over his daughter’s ruined birthday cake, didn’t he? And his family’s been safe ever since then. So he was probably right.
There are new drawings and graded tests on the fridge, an unfamiliar brand of instant coffee on the counter. There’s a place set at the table, too, with a note folded on the plate: “Taro, you jerk. There’s something for you to heat up in the fridge.” Has Aoi prepped extra meals for him every day he’s been gone? He doesn’t deserve her. He’s always known that. What should he say to her, tonight, to remind her he doesn’t belong here?
It’s hard to feel that way, though… hard to really believe he isn’t wanted… as he slides back into this familiar place. He can walk through this home so easily in the dark, every corner memorized, just a few changes scattered here and there, catching his eyes. He folds Aoi’s note into his pocket, and finds another on a pile of blankets on the couch: “Taro, you jerk. You can sleep out here if you need to. But if you’re afraid of waking me up, remember this: you’ll need to face me sometime.”
How did she know he’d come back? He folds this note into his pocket, too, telling himself he’ll carry them both into the showdowns tomorrow. Reminders of the life they built here, what he could’ve been, what he would die a thousand times to protect. He misses her so much, misses them both. It feels like clawing in his insides. He stands, shuddering, in the living room, lithe muscular arms folded around himself, head bent. He should leave. He should just go now, or he might never leave again.
He turns towards the window in this room, planning to scramble spider-like out to the roof, and there’s another note here: “Taro, you jerk. If you open this window, it will ring a little bell in our bedroom. I’ll wake up, I’m not kidding. I’ve run drills.” He laughs, then. Just a surprised burst of a chuckle. He finds the thread running along the side of the window, follows it down the hallway, past his daughter’s room and a bathroom where his toothbrush is still in a cup by the sink. He belongs here.
No he doesn’t. But maybe he does?
Taro pulls the string, gently, and hears a little bell jingle from behind the closed door. By the time Aoi thuds out of bed and throws the door open, he still has no idea what to say to her. He came here to say goodbye, but, really, that’s the last thing he wants. She’s impossibly beautiful, with mussed hair and bare feet and a nightgown sleeve falling off her shoulder.
“It should be over tomorrow,” Taro says, instead of goodbye. He hopes his glasses are hiding his eyes all mysteriously, but they aren’t. “If you — if I — I mean. I can’t make this up to you, obviously. I can’t apologize enough.”
“It should be over tomorrow?” Aoi asks. “You’ll come home, then?”
“I don’t…” I don’t belong here. I don’t think I belong anywhere good.
Aoi flicks Taro’s forehead, pulls him into their bedroom by the front of his oversized shirt and closes the door firmly behind him. “I know what you’re thinking. But we were going to make a place for you to belong, weren’t we? I’ve really tried. Are you saying I did a bad job?”
“No! No, not at all. You’ve done more than I could ask for —”
“Then cut it out. If you don’t fit, we can fix things so you do. Don’t… don’t ever disappear on us again, okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Promise me. New rule: don’t kill, don’t disappear. Promise me.”
Taro takes a deep, slow breath, letting himself be lowered down into their bed, into the deep outline of his body as it was most of the time he lived here. He feels small and dirty, like he should’ve washed his hair a few times before getting so close to her pillow. Like he should triple-check to make sure he doesn’t have any blood under his fingernails. But he lets her drape his arm over herself, for now, even knowing he shouldn’t let his guard down. Shouldn’t sleep. It isn’t over.
“If I make it through tomorrow, I’ll come home,” Taro promises, whispering against his wife’s neck. “I can’t guarantee nothing awful will ever happen around me again…”
“I know.”
“And, uh, Hana doesn’t hate me, does she?” Aoi and Hana. “Blue,” and a “Flower”… like a blue rose, that old symbol of impossibility. But they’re here, solid, and they want him here, too. Taro’s been overthinking this.
“She’s upset. But she misses you. I think you owe her an explanation, too.”
“Yeah… I’m sorry.”
“You’d better tell her, Taro. Not just me. And you’d better make it through tomorrow.”
Aoi rubs Taro’s arm, folding it tighter around herself. She leans back against his sharp bones, as if something like him can truly bring comfort, and he closes his eyes. He hasn’t felt like this since he left. He didn’t know he could feel like this again.
He’s gone before the sun rises: there’s work to do, after all. But he’s eaten what was waiting for him in the fridge, by then… he’s left a letter for Hana… he’s planning to be back as soon as he can.