Chapter Text

Heartache

The day Tokio received a letter from her husband, she was ecstatic. Written in neat, precise strokes was the news she had been holding her breath for: her husband was finally returning to Tokyo.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

It had been at least nearly a year since he had been transferred for this assignment. Gorō wrote seldom, especially when abroad, so every letter was a delightful surprise, a small reassurance that he had not perished. He never included details, of course. To do so would be a risk he wasn't willing to take, and frankly, he preferred only to give them upon his return.

Getting those details out of him, however, often had her feel like her bones were breaking. He would sit there, tea cooling in his hand, reciting events as if reading from a police file. It took a fair amount of prying, and occasionally a teasing word or two, to have her husband regale her with his travels like a normal person.

The assignment in Kyoto had been the worst of it. She hadn’t seen Gorō for weeks after he departed for Kyoto. When he finally appeared at their threshold--disguised as a foreigner, covered in burns and bruises--any thought of scolding him vanished. Anger evaporated, replaced instantly by the overwhelming relief that he was simply there.

There had been dark days during that absence when Tokio was certain he was dead. She had caught herself rehearsing the words she would say to her toddler and their new ward. Worse still, she practiced the explanation she would one day give the child growing in her womb. She had been due soon when he left, perhaps a month or so away, but fate had been kind; he arrived back just in time to witness the birth of their second son.

His return had left them both uneasy; that particular silence, the first few days had been heavy, walled off by trauma she could only guess at. Tokio felt she was owed the truth, especially considering the state he had been in when he finally crawled back home. There had been many evenings where she dug until she got the entire story out of him. Eventually, though, she had summarized it down to a few notable details: a rival from the past, a loud-mouthed ruffian who wouldn't die, and a plot to overthrow the government.

For a while, the silence of the household was peaceful. Graciously, the police left Gorō alone. It seemed even the Meiji government could understand when a man needed respite and time alone with his family. With the household swelling from three to five, they hired a nursemaid, buying Tokio precious moments of quiet with her husband.

In those first few months, Gorō played the perfect, dutiful father. It warmed her heart to see him with their children, but watching him hold their newborn melted it entirely. Tokio could’ve sworn the perpetual stiffness in his shoulders dissolved if the two were in private. Gorō wasn’t a man who would coo words at a baby, but even in those short moments of holding the child seemed to ease the man. Her husband seemed relieved, softer even, during that time.

Such fleeting tender moments did not last long in the Fujita household. They had dwindled the moment he donned his uniform again.

It was only a short time before that hardened man was back. The transition was usually instantaneous, the shift happening at the genkan; that is where the work personality stayed. When the hat, coat, and boots came off, the cold, stern mannerisms of the officer were usually hung up with them. But during that time, the darkness lingered. It was not unusual. He wasn’t always like this with work, unless it was severe enough to warrant it.

Tokio knew her husband’s history; coming home with such a dire shroud reminded her often of the samurai he once was. That man had been justice-driven, blood thirsty for it even, but he, too, was usually left at the door.

Typically, when arriving at home, Gorō was mostly quiet, succinct, and--if she teased him enough--capable of a dry, biting wit that could make her laugh despite herself. And yet, any fly on the wall would see that she was the cleverer of the two, a fact she reminded him of frequently.

His response was always the same, delivered with a smirk: he wouldn’t have married her if she were anything less.

That was the routine. A moment that ended in contentment for each of them, that was until the swell of a new day washed over him again, erasing all the work she had put in.

It wasn’t strange that Gorō’s demeanor moved in tides, shifting with the gravity of his work. But this time, the tide did not go out. She could not pull her husband back. All but gone were their small, teasing conversations.

At the very least when he returned home, there was always an adjustment period where he reset and stayed pleasant. That is, until he was sent on a temporary transfer across the country. Each time he returned, he would be cold and rigid again, and breaking him of that always took so much time, but it would last.

This last time, however, it hadn’t lasted. Maybe returning to work after what she could only assume was a brush with death, he had grown weary of it. Tokio knew the man was made of sterner stuff; dying was not something he feared.

So why then had he started returning at the end of the day so fraught? Why did he not leave all of that at the threshold of their home as he always had before? It was disappointing to be sure, but something in Tokio told her it wasn’t the work.

Weeks went by, and Gorō remained a diligent father, but his patience thinned, and he had less time for them. Always busy with work, and those evening patrol shifts he did not enjoy were back. She always assumed it was because of not seeing her or their children, but something told her that wasn’t it.

It could have been something far simpler; he had little respite when he returned home each night. No, it wasn’t the work itself, but something else. It had to be. Perhaps he felt stifled by the domesticity; the Wolf of Mibu was not meant to be some tame pet.

One morning, the tension snapped over breakfast. He spent the entire meal scowling at his rice as if it had personally offended him. Tokio wondered if the tsukemono had been the cause of such a sour face, but she held her tongue, lest the children decide to mimic their father's distaste. Tsutomu had only just recovered his appetite after the ‘natto’ incident; she didn't need another food strike.

She wasn’t so meek as not to say anything at all.

"It is far too early," Tokio remarked, setting down her hashi, "for you to look like a kamakiri that has missed his mark."

Gorō froze mid-bite. He choked slightly, staring at her with wide, surprised amber eyes. Had the barb been too sharp?

“No,” he said slowly, recovering. “It was clever.”

A smirk played at his lips for the rest of the meal. Lost in some amusing thought, no doubt. If he had looked up, he would have seen the suspicion narrowing her eyes. He had been called a mantis before, and certainly not by her.

He left in a better mood, but the reprieve was short-lived. When he returned that evening, the heavy cloud was back. Tokio heard the door slide open, but no footsteps followed. Fearing an injury or worse, she rushed to the genkan, heart hammering. It was not as she feared, but instead, Tokio was greeted by something she didn’t understand.

Sadness. Vulnerable sadness.

Gorō stood motionless, staring at a letter in his hand. Tokio reached out to embrace him, expecting him to stiffen or push her away. He did neither. He simply stood there, wrapped in her arms, not even bothering to embrace her back.

When she drew back to look at him, she didn't see the Wolf that at times came through the door, nor the pleasant mask he wore as an officer. She saw a man mourning a loss he couldn't name. All remorse and regret. Tokio’s brow furrowed. What had he done?

Wordlessly, he handed her the letter.

Tokio scanned it rapidly, dread pooling in her stomach, only to dissipate into confusion. Her posture relaxed upon reading the last few words.

Why would he look so upset about this?

"A transfer for an assignment," she said, looking up. It was routine. He had been back long enough; a trip was inevitable. "I feel as though I am missing something, Gorō-san."

“I do not know when I will return.”

That wasn’t unusual; often his stays did not come with a specific time he would be gone.

“I will not be able to visit.”

Ah. One of those assignments. Deep cover. High risk.

Tokio arranged her face into the smile of an understanding wife and patted his chest. “I understand.”

“I will not be able to help you with our chil--”

“You need not worry about us, Gorō-san," she cut in firmly. "We’ve hired help, and I’m more than capable of managing."

Her capability seemed to snap him out of his trance. He began the routine--hat, coat, boots--but the expression on his face remained fixed.

The days leading up to his departure were suffocating. He had been quiet, somber; and that sadness and guilt shrouded him until the day he left. It hadn’t made sense to her. To their staff and their children, Gorō hadn’t seemed different, but Tokio saw through it. Seeing such emotion written all over Gorō was not, well, him.

Dread crept up her spine as she watched him bid farewell to their children. Gorō gave Eiji a small speech about taking care and ensuring he helped Tokio manage his step-siblings. Eiji was all too eager to take up the role and vowed he would not disappoint. The smile he gave the boy panged at her heart.

Something in that moment had felt like finality. Even if Tokio knew better, her husband... he wasn’t right. While they exchanged goodbyes, an embrace, and a brief kiss, there was coldness radiating from him. Not even the gloves on his hand could suppress the sensation.

She could’ve sworn it was something like suffering. No, that wasn’t it. While the carriage carried off into the distance, she finally knew.

Her husband had been overwhelmed by heartache, and not for her.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

The memory of that cold departure in those final moments had haunted her for months, but had not crossed Tokio’s mind until she finished reading the letter. Whatever had plagued him then was absent from the paper in her hand. In fact, she could’ve sworn the strokes were lighter; there might have even been a hint of cheerfulness to them. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and he had been gone for so long--maybe it was true.

On the day of his return, the family waited at the gate like a welcoming committee. Tsuyoshi clung to her chest, while Eiji kept a firm grip on Tsutomu’s hand to keep the toddler from diving under the wheels of the approaching carriage. The moment the carriage had stopped in front and Gorō’s face was in view in the window, Tokio’s heart sighed in relief. Even if she knew he wasn’t injured, there was always a worry that he had omitted such a thing from his letters.

And not all injuries were physical ones, she reminded herself.

Gorō hadn’t returned in the state he had left. Though she didn’t want to let her mind wander, especially with it being such a happy reunion, Tokio could not help herself. He stepped down from the carriage with a lightness she hadn't seen in years. He greeted the children with a warmth that bordered on affectionate. When he turned to her, he offered a faint, apologetic smile before gesturing to his luggage with a shrug that said, Later.

Walking behind him through the courtyard, Tokio studied his back. His step was easy, fluid. A long carriage ride usually left him stiff and irritable, yet he moved as if he’d just had a revitalizing rest.

Her suspicions deepened at dinner. He bypassed the bath, bypassed the rest, and went straight to the table. The boys were at his heels, and for once, he didn't seem to mind the noise.

Tokio handed the baby to the nursemaid and hurried to join them. Gorō was waiting for her to sit--a small courtesy, but telling.

The meal was a flurry of questions from the boys. As usual, Gorō navigated them with vague, succinct lies about his work. Eiji, bless him, knew better. He likely knew more about Gorō’s true nature than anyone, having been sent to them by the very man who avenged his family. But even Eiji kept the peace, pivoting the conversation whenever Gorō’s answers became too guarded.

Tokio stayed quiet, content to observe. The tension that had choked the house before he left was gone, replaced by a strange, vibrant energy.

Later, after the dishes were cleared and the house fell quiet, she walked with him to their room.

“Did you not stop to eat on your way home?” she asked, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “I’m sure you could’ve afforded the delay.”

Gorō huffed quietly, stepping ahead to slide the shoji open for her. “I would’ve missed the meal you prepared.”

She rolled her eyes as she stepped through. “It would’ve been cold at worst.”

“Eating it cold would’ve been disrespectful to the meal,” he said, closing the door. “And to you.”

“Hmm. I would’ve preferred a greeting.”

“I know.”

Overwhelming warmth suddenly wrapped around her as he pulled her into his arms, clutching her to his chest.

“I am sorry I was gone for so long.”

The words she needed to hear and wanted to hear. They had her tear up only for a few seconds, but she willed them away before Gorō turned her around to face him.

“I made you worry.” He lamented softly.

“No.” She pulled back slightly. “Your letters were plenty to set my mind at ease. Although I do wish you’d write more often when you’re away.”

Gorō chuckled softly. He kissed the top of her head before releasing her. “Is it more letters you’d want, or more of the letters we used to write?”

Tokio blinked. “Used to write?”

He smirked over his shoulder as he walked to the tansu, undoing the buttons of his shirt. “I suppose it has been a while.” He huffed a pseudo-lamenting sigh. “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

‘Used to write’? She echoed the question in her head, the question distracting her even from his continued state of undress. Tokio watched, but didn’t register any nudity, completely wrapped up in her thoughts. Before she could parse the comment, he was standing before her in his samue, holding out a yellowed, fragile piece of paper. It was addressed to him, dated eight years prior.

Had he been holding on to this that long?

Tokio opened the letter, reading silently for a few moments, before her hand came up to cover her mouth. Heat flooded her face. She continued reading, and when she couldn’t tolerate reading another word, she shoved the letter back into his hands, covering her face with both hands.

“You... You kept those?!”

“How could I not? Did you not keep the ones I wrote you?”

Tokio turned away, hiding her scarlet face.

“You did then.” Gorō could see that any of her exposed skin was just as flushed.

“... Of course.”

Defeated, she went to her own tansu. Buried at the bottom of a drawer, past various personal items, was a bundle of letters she hadn't touched since before Tsutomu was born. The birth of their first child had overshadowed many things in her life during that time, and with the second, she had forgotten entirely. Life had simply gotten in the way of youthful pining and writing scandalous missives.

“You kept every single one, I see.” Gorō plucked a letter from the stack, unfolding it with agonizing slowness. “Oh my, this one...” He peered over the edge of the paper. “It’s so worn. You must’ve read it a lot.”

Tokio snatched it back. “You were quite explicit.”

“When I wrote you more romantic letters, I didn’t elicit the response I wanted back.” He sighed, feigning innocence. “I was lonely, Tokio. You can hardly blame me.”

“As was I.”

“Hardly.” He opened another letter, scanning it, eyebrows raising before he spoke again. “If anything, I was replaced.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” He reached into the drawer again, his smirk widening as his hand closed around an object tucked in the corner. “And look at that. It looks well used.”

Tokio said nothing. She couldn't.

“Ah, and you kept the shunga. I had wondered.”

“They were an unnecessary, expensive gift,” she muttered.

“So you kept them out of obligation due to price?” He side-eyed her.

“Yes.”

A lie.

“I see.” He pulled the wooden box forward. “And the harigata you kept out of obligation? Is that why it is so... polished?”

Tokio slammed the drawer shut, her husband moved deftly enough for it to narrowly miss his fingers, but she had been fast enough to catch his sleeve, pinning him to the tansu.

“I get lonely still,” she said pointedly.

“Apparently.”

“You’re...” Tokio trailed off. She had set out to chide him, but this side of her husband was rare. It wasn’t exactly unwelcome; he hardly acted boyish, but it was strange. Not once had he ever acted out upon returning home. “If you’re aiming for something tonight, I unfortunately must decline, unless you want another child soon.”

Gorō plucked his sleeve out of the drawer. “I think you’re under the wrong impression.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I am merely teasing.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course. Am I not allowed to tease my wife?”

Not when he’s been acting so suspiciously.

Gorō had not acted like this in... well, before the first letters were even written. When they were first arranged to be married, it had been all awkward and shy moments, mostly on her end, and mostly stoicism and silence on his. Yet during courtship, things had changed to an understanding friendship. By the time they were wed, he had the confidence to be far more passionate than she thought. Her husband, in the privacy of their home, was a far different man.

Over time, passions had tamed--his work had an overwhelming part in that--but the one part of their relationship they could maintain over great distances were those letters.

“Tokio,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer register. “I am glad you kept them.”

Flustered, she nodded and retreated to her futon.

Later, in the dark, the silence stretched between them. It wasn't an empty silence, but a loaded one. Sleep would not take her, not while she was plagued with an unyielding notion that something was off about him.

Why had he even brought those letters up?

Tokio reached out, sliding her hand over her futon to his until she found the curve of his back. He made a small contented grunt, leaning into her touch. Grazing her hand along his neck to the base of his spine, like she used to do to ease him into slumber, she finally spoke.

“Hajime?”

He went rigid. She rarely used his given name; nor would she dare utter it in front of the children. No, it was used in only moments of intimate privacy, or when she wanted honesty. The name had put him on edge, as Tokio expected.

“Did something happen while you were away?”

“Any plots to overthrow our government, you mean? No.”

Deflection. Not good.

“Hajime,” she pressed, thinking back to the day he left. That coldness she felt, the suffering that had accompanied it, was not here. “Before you went to Yokohama... I was worried you were not coming back.”

He turned toward her in the dark. “Why would you think that?”

“The way you said goodbye. You were so upset.”

What she didn’t add was that it had felt so final, like he couldn’t bear to see them go, but he had been the one leaving.

“I was not upset.”

“I know you. You were. I know you--”

Before she could finish, he pulled her from her futon and into his arms. He buried her protests against his chest, silencing her worries with his warmth. It was a calculated move, and it worked.

Lulled by the rhythm of his breathing, Tokio felt herself drifting. He smelled of charcoal and sweet tobacco--a scent she had grown to tolerate on his breath. But beneath that, there was the faint, comforting scent of wisteria from the drawer where she kept his clothes.

Tokio had kept dried flowers from the tree in the drawers with his clothing. It had been a smart approach to combat the odor of his addictive habit. The samue had been left in that drawer for so long, the scent of wisteria had become intoxicating.

“You smell nice,” she murmured sleepily.

He rumbled a thanks and kissed her throat.

And then, the scent changed. As he moved, the wisteria faded, replaced by something else. It wasn't cigarettes. It wasn't the komenuka either.

It was like sun-baked earth, and something more, salty and sweet yet musky like sweat. It was familiar, maddeningly so, but he pulled his head back. She sniffed again; his neck and even his hair smelled strongly of it.

“Sleep,” Gorō commanded softly.

Tokio obeyed, thoughts still twisting around the scent as she drifted off. Minutes later, Gorō pulled away as she began to mumble. Had she woken up? No. The sentences she tried to speak were absolute nonsense, as if she were having a conversation with someone, but one line had stood out. The words were clearly for him, as if whatever she didn’t ask while awake had broken through anyway.

“You look sad.”

He froze.

“W-wah... are you heartbroken?”

Without understanding why, or perhaps because the darkness offered absolution, Gorō whispered back. “Yes.”

“Did you run away?”

“Yes.”

She hummed, shifting in her sleep. “M’m’here... need me. Don’t look...”

“Don’t look like what?” Gorō coaxed softly.

“‘Artache.”

Heartache. Was she still thinking about the day he left?

...

Had Tokio really picked up on such a thing?

“Who?” she mumbled.

Gorō held his breath. He knew better than to respond, and he waited on bated breath for her next utterings.

“Did that to you?”

It didn’t matter anymore who had done it. It had been mended. But listening to his wife’s intuition cutting through the dark, Gorō wasn't sure the mend would hold if she ever found the thread.