Archive of Our Own

A few days after everything, Chihiro calls.

Uruha has expected it, but not so soon. With the help of Azami and Shiba, Chihiro and Hakuri had vanished following the destruction of the last enchanted blade, for safety, but most of all for peace. The media – and even some in the new government – had wanted to plaster the faces of the secret son born of Rokuhira Kunishige and Soga Chiaki’s union and the disowned-child-turned-true-heir of the Sazanami clan on every TV screen and newspaper front page, but Azami made sure to put a stop to it. No more agenda, the Colonel has said. The country can grapple with its sins all on its own; the boys deserve the quiet life they have been denied for far too long.

Uruha has his doubts about whether it would last, this fragile peace, but perhaps age has made him just a tad cynical. That, or dying and coming back to life.

“Uruha-san, where are you now?” Chihiro asks.

He settles on his couch, glances outside at the balcony of his apartment, beyond which the heart of the city pulsates to the beat of its cacophony of sounds despite the cold of winter. “Back in Tokyo. How about you?”

He has chosen to return here, in the end. Back at the house he had lived in for over a decade and left behind three years and some months ago, when a new war burst onto his doorstep. Yet, after fighting and dying and living to fight again with the ghost of the wielders’ collective sins, coming back has not felt like coming home. He thinks the ghosts have beaten him to it and made themselves comfortable, somehow.

“I’m going to be an apprentice for Urita-san,” Chihiro tells him.

Like his father was; though Urita would probably never admit out loud what Rokuhira Kunishige was to him. “Becoming neighbors with a Living National Treasure? Were you guys even trying to hide?” Uruha laughs.

“That’s why it’s a good idea, Uruha-san. Nobody would think to look for us there.”

It does sound like the kind of absurd reasoning Urita Subaru would come up with. Though, the Kamunabi – or whatever its reformed iteration is going to be called – never loses track of anybody, least of all Rokuhira Chihiro and Sazanami Hakuri. Uruha suspects the decision came down to Chihiro, in the end; it always does.

“How’s the house?”

“It’s great.” Hakuri says, bright, easy, like the past months had not been hell on earth, sleepless nights and blood and tears, scraping them all raw body and mind both, “We have a nice garden. I’m going to grow so many vegetables.”

“Yeah.” Chihiro’s voice brims with subtle but unbridled pride. “Hakuri took that project on.”

Uruha can picture it – eager and hyper-focused Hakuri, spending days with his nose buried in a book researching the best crops for each season. Once Hakuri decides on something, he gets after it like an arrow loosed. “Very impressive,” he smiles, even if Chihiro and Hakuri have no way of seeing it. “I’m glad to hear you both are well.”

“You should visit us sometime,” says Hakuri.

Uruha chuckles. “Let’s wait for things to settle down. I wouldn’t want to be conspicuous.”

On the other end of the line, he hears Hakuri laugh, clearly remembering their first encounter. Chihiro mutters a soft huh, then appears to decide he will get the story out of Hakuri later. “Uruha-san, what’s next for you?” Chihiro asks.

“Azami-san mentioned he would like to rebuild the Kamunabi.” We need something better, something right, the Colonel said, just a few days ago at a field hospital, still covered in bruises and bandages. Uruha might have been a little groggy, lying in the healing bed with a massive gash on his side, but he remembers the resolve in Azami’s voice cutting through the fog in his mind, sharp as a blade. “He asked if I would come on board.”

“As an agent?”

“Why do you sound surprised? I’d make a great agent.” Well, Kumeyuri’s wielder probably would, the master of illusions; but there is no Kumeyuri anymore. “Nah. He wanted me to teach swordsmanship to future recruits.”

“That’s amazing! You’d be great, Uruha-san.” Hakuri says without hesitation.

Of course, Hakuri would think that. During the months on the run, it had been Uruha who trained sorcery alongside him the most, both of them learning and re-learning how to use the powers that had been absent from their lives for too long – Hakuri by circumstance, Uruha by choice. “They should ask Samura-san instead of me,” he says, ignoring the twist in his chest, the craving that used to smolder now burned to ash, marring his lungs like the invisible scars Tobimune left behind. “Samura-san is the only one who’s actually taught swordplay.”

Chihiro hums, oddly reminiscent of the way Shiba does sometimes, and the thought makes Uruha smile. “Might be a hard sell to get Samura-san to ever step foot in a Kamunabi building again.”

They all laugh. It is fine to laugh about it now, because Samura came back. “I think you’re the best teacher, Uruha-san. The Kamunabi will be lucky to have you,” says Hakuri, completely earnest. “Will you accept it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

A lifetime ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. After all, he signed his sorcery and life away, all measly seventeen years of it, at the edge of a war for little more than Rokuhira Kunishige’s intent gaze and resolute faith. This blade suits you. Then he fought Soga Akemura and the Kamunabi itself because Rokuhira Kunishige’s son needed help, because duty called for him, because the least he could do was to help carry the weight of the world that their collective sins had created. But all of that is over now. Colonel Azami has given him not a new mission but a choice, and he realizes, at thirty-six years of age and two wars fought, that he still does not quite know what to do with choices when the fate of the world is no longer hanging in the balance.

“Uruha-san,” Chihiro starts, and goes quiet. A soft intake of breath, wordless words spinning in circles, louder than anything said out loud. Then, eventually, “You’re always welcome with us, you know.”

It would have been so easy to laugh it off, make a joke, say Oh I couldn’t impose. Uruha thinks all of that and says none, the sincerity in Chihiro’s voice stumping even the trained actor in his bones. Silence stretches on; the words sink in like a pebble breaking the water’s surface, sending ripples through the corners of his mind. It was shameful, how the new generation had to pick up the pieces after the old. But Chihiro and Hakuri do not see Kumeyuri’s wielder when they look at him; and all of them have been lonely enough that the ties that bind become a treasure of their own.

“You’re very kind, both of you.” He says and means it, hopes the boys hear it in his voice. “I’ll visit you soon, for sure. Any souvenirs I should bring from Tokyo?”

“Dealer’s choice,” answers Chihiro. Then, “How about you? Is there anything you need, Uruha-san?”

“45 minutes 30 seconds,” announces Fushimi, followed by a familiar faint beep of a stopwatch.

Uruha huffs, throws an arm over his forehead, cracks an eyelid open to find Fushimi’s wolfish grin boring down at him. The way Fushimi is standing thankfully blocks the sunlight from shining into his eyes, so that is welcome. “Need a medic, Uruha-san?”

“Need you to stop being that giddy about distance running,” mutters Uruha. Fushimi only laughs, full-chested, boisterous, bright like the summer sky.

He hears cheers in the background – the other bodyguards have also finished their run, panting and complaining half-heartedly while Fushimi tells them to disperse for the handover to the night shift. Secretly, Uruha is glad he no longer comes in dead last these days; not that he thinks the squad would judge him, but he has his own pride as a fighter, even though it has been over fifteen years since he last saw battle and Iai White Purity Style is all about burst speed and not endurance. For a moment, he does not move, content to stay lying on the ground with his eyes half-closed, feeling the burn in his lungs and the ringing in his ears and the sweat on his skin.

The grass rustles. Uruha senses the heat radiating from Fushimi’s body before he sees him flopping lazily onto the ground and shuffling over to sit at his side. The sun bores down on them, still unforgiving despite the late afternoon hours. The air is stuffy and they both run hot. One of them probably should move away. Neither of them does.

“Uruha-san, you’re doing really well,” says Fushimi, quieter now. “Your time’s gone down by a lot.”

“Running is a pain. Can we change this escape plan?”

A chuckle. “No.”

“Well, consider this. If I’m running, wouldn’t someone need to come with me? In case I get attacked on the way?”

“You’re right,” hums Fushimi thoughtfully. “I’ll have a think about who best to send.”

Of course, Fushimi will send someone else. The captain stays with the ship until the bitter end.

The plan. If Kokugoku falls, Uruha will escape to Atago Station on foot and meet up with new bodyguards dispatched from the closest Kamunabi outpost, who will then escort him to Senkutsuji where he will be under the protection of yet more bodyguards. The squad has run these practices and drills so often that they can probably execute the plan half-asleep with their eyes closed. Every single one of them is ready to buy Uruha time to escape or die trying.

Uruha has been training with them for months. Running drills for just as long. Now he is used to the thought, has accepted it grimly, the same way he accepted the reality of his exile. If he had the foresight he would keep his distance with the men, if only to spare himself the inevitable heartbreak.

A rare breeze passes. Fushimi tips his head to the sky, loops a finger around the elastic of his low ponytail to pull it out, shakes his head to let his hair loose. Sunlight is a soft halo around his features, momentarily splintered by drifting clouds. He fishes around in his pocket for an e-cigarette, puts it to his lips and sighs contentedly after the first exhale. Wisps of white vapor meander skywards, smelling of bubblegum.

“That’s terrible.” Uruha tells him. “Weren’t you just lecturing us about endurance training?”

“Well, yes, but I still run fast, don’t I?”

“Only because you’re young. Bad habits will catch up to you eventually.”

“True wisdom from an old man.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Fushimi lets out a wordless chuckle. He takes a few more drags from his e-cigarette, then pockets it away, leans back on his hands to look towards the horizons. His compression shirt is drenched in sweat; it clings to his body, to the expanse of lithe, wiry muscles, baring his arms that have been slightly tanning in the summer. Uruha knows there are a few scars beneath there, has seen them the first time he joined the squad at the communal bath – raised ridges of pale skin, the largest curving over Fushimi’s right shoulder. He thinks perhaps he wants to ask about it someday. Maybe in a far-flung, indeterminate future when his world is more than just hot spring steam and greenery surrounded by four walls and constantly on the precipice of collapse.

“Hey, Uruha-san.” Fushimi’s fingertips idly graze the back of his hand. “Don’t fall asleep. You’ll get sunburned.”

“I’m sure you have a cream for that,” drawls Uruha. It makes Fushimi laugh. These days, Fushimi seems to find a lot of the things he says absolutely hilarious. Uruha thinks he knows why. The rational part of him says to leave it be. The other part—

Fushimi clears his throat. “It’s late. We should go back,” he says. He stands up, dusts off his clothes, and offers a hand to Uruha, waiting.

—the cravings, bad habits, afflictions; he wants—

Uruha reaches out, grasps the proffered hand, lets Fushimi pull him to his feet. Feels the callouses slide against his own, warm, familiar, entirely mismatched; maps of divergent fates. “Yeah.”

“You look like shit,” says Kiri.

Today, the sky is an ashen grey, a dreary winter day welcomed with grim acceptance. Rain drizzles from the curved eaves, pattering onto the roads and drawing jagged streaks on the glass windows. The two of them are in a themed café, sipping colorful drinks full of sugar out of equally colorful straws, only because Kiri has wanted a limited-edition item of a vaguely terrifying horror-esque bunny-shaped character from some video game she is into. It reminds Uruha of all the times he went shopping with her, wandering from store to store with bags upon bags of her treasures in his hands, back when they were both children and before the wars. “Cut me some slack. I was in the hospital not that long ago,” replies Uruha with a faux-wounded expression.

Kiri waves a hand, the white edge of bandages peeking out of her sleeve. “So was I, but I’m not wandering around Tokyo looking like a lost puppy.”

Uruha does not tell her that this is the first time he has wandered out in public since he returned to Tokyo. He knows that he has disappointed more than a few people in the government; the suits expected more from him, the wielder with a high profile – an entertainer no less – even though their names have all become controversial after the public learned of the events that unfolded on the island. Perhaps they wanted him to help rebuild society the same way he did after the end of the Seitei War. The Public Relations department will certainly find a way to use him. He could make statements. Do interviews and press conferences. Be the face of the reforms.

How things change. Back in the day, hardly any biographies of Rokuhira Kunishige got published without a quote from Uruha Youji, the wielder of Kumeyuri himself. He was barely eighteen when the first war ended; twice that now, after the second one. He does not know if he has it in him anymore. Not that he is afraid of graffiti on his wall, statues being taken down, or protests on the streets; he is just—

“—in need of a real vacation, that Colonel Azami, can you believe he is already part of all the reform committees? And reassembling a team, he told me.”

“You say that, but you’d be the second person to get mad if Azami-san hadn’t called you back.” The first is Misaka Natsuki, of course. “Didn’t you join the Kamunabi straight out of high school, Kiri-chan?”

Kiri scrunches her nose, “Only to piss off my grandfather.”

That makes Uruha laugh; nothing baffled old Shirakai Itsuo-sensei more than the girl he considered too delicate for fighting or swordsmanship bringing her giant sword to fight criminal sorcerer gangs in what is essentially the country’s second police bureau. Though, he expects that the reform of the Kamunabi will take some time. The betrayals have cut deep through the heart of an organization which had long been bogged down by politics, propaganda, and terrible secrets; Kiri, herself a squad commander, already seems like she is halfway out the door. “I’m considering. Maybe if Colonel Azami offers me a massive pay raise,” muses Kiri.

“What’ll it be then, if not the Kamunabi?”

“I still gotta destroy Iai White Purity Style for good. Then, maybe open a dojo for girls.” Uruha cannot help but smile, exasperated yet proud, to which Kiri responds about as well as expected, narrowing her eyes and jabbing a finger in his direction. “Speaking of Iai White Purity Style, where has that Samura gone, anyway? Have you talked to him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Uruha takes a long gulp of his drink. The sugar burns on the way down. “His daughter is going to come live with him. They have enough on their plate to figure out.”

For all this time they have known each other, Kiri has never been the type to offer unsolicited opinions, though Uruha can read the judgement all over her face. Nonetheless, she lets it slide, for which he is grateful. “Well, for one, when you meet Samura you can tear him a new one for putting the whole country on surveillance for a week,” Kiri snorts. “It was creepy.”

He laughs, incredulous. “That’s your chief complaint?”

“Among others, including the dying, but feel free to start there.”

Uruha reaches for the garish drink once more, but winces when the syrupy liquid assaults the insides of his mouth again, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste. He coughs. “Damn, these things are really terrible.”

Kiri sticks out her tongue with a disgusted expression. “They are gross. Unfortunately they come with the limited-edition items,” she says, with enough grace to keep her voice low so that the waiter cleaning the next table cannot hear. She points to the posters on the walls, “Only one per customer allowed, you see, that’s the reason I called you.”

“I thought you wanted to catch up. Like old friends.”

“You can think of it that way if it helps,” says Kiri flippantly, but she pours a cup of plain water and pushes it in Uruha’s direction with a big grin, which he accepts in lieu of goodwill.

The doorbell rings. A group of high schoolers enter, stirring the atmosphere with their chatter and the sounds of umbrellas clicking closed. A gust of wind sneaks past a gap at the door, carrying the scent of wet asphalt, sharp and metallic. The teenagers gesture to the limited-edition merchandise sitting snugly behind a glass display, and whisper to each other with barely-restrained excitement. Kiri shakes her head, but her smile is a little fond. “These kids have no clue, do they,” she mouths.

“Isn’t that the point?” Uruha whispers back.

To his surprise, Kiri is quiet for a beat, tilting her head at him thoughtfully. Uruha drinks another gulp of the water, swirls it in his mouth, feeling the congealed sugar dissolving from the tip of his tongue.

Eventually, Kiri nods. “I suppose so,” she says, finally giving up on her own limited-edition drink. She waves down a waiter to order a coffee for herself and tea for him, and dismisses him when he moves to reach for his own wallet, “Nah, I’m paying.”

“Brave new world.”

“Don’t even.”

Outside the window, rain patters on.   

“By the way, I’m leaving for Tokyo in a few days,” says Fushimi, stretching his arms above his head like a cat. He slides out from underneath the covers and reaches for his shirt on the tatami floor. “Is there anything you want, Uruha-san?”

“Only my freedom,” replies Uruha with a smirk.

If this were the early days it would have come off as bitter, but he has it in him now to joke about this indefinite exile; plus, it is worth it to hear Fushimi’s snort of laughter. “You know, I’d actually like to bring back that news,” says Fushimi. “Some of the men are getting restless. Not that they’d quit or anything, but. It’s been a quiet year.”

The wind whistles on the balcony, damp from the rain earlier. The clouds wrap the night in muted hues of charcoal, silver and indigo; hardly any light comes through save for the orange-tinted glimmers of lanterns that light up the paved paths around the hot spring pools. Uruha can just about make out Fushimi’s silhouette in the dark, but he hears his smile all the same. “You should bring back things for them, then,” he says.

“Oh, I’ve already got a shopping list a mile long. Check this out…”  

Fushimi has put his clothes back on; he sits cross-legged on the tatami floor, at the edge of Uruha’s futon, gesturing animatedly as he talks. Uruha props himself up on his elbows with the blanket pooled around his hips, half-listening, mostly watching. Fushimi’s shirt is a little crumpled from having been haphazardly discarded on the floor, his blond hair wild and slightly frizzled at the ends, which he absent-mindedly cards his fingers through as if trying to school it back into order. In a little while Fushimi will tie his trusty bandana over his head to hide the dark roots that have begun to grow in; then he will whisper goodnight and tiptoe his way out of Uruha’s bedroom back to his own. It used to be a confusing sort of relief when Fushimi left. These days, all Uruha can think about is how the spot Fushimi left behind on the mattress is rapidly losing warmth.

The unending, empty days in exile are driving him mad, Uruha thinks. Making him want things he should not want, not yet, because they are still at war and war is no place for daydreamers, only survivors. Instead, he decides to focus on the question at hand. “Well, I have everything I need here. Spare your luggage space for the guys.” He hums thoughtfully.  

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Only what he needs. Anything more is wanting, daydreaming. It is already almost too much that Fushimi has become a good friend and not just a bodyguard, that Fushimi is in his bed, that lately he has been wishing Fushimi would stay the night but has never asked him to.

“If I come across something fun, I’ll pick it up for you,” decides Fushimi, eventually. Uruha chuckles wordlessly in response. Fushimi stands up, fixes his clothes, puts his bandana back on. Uruha does not move from his spot; he is used to watching him leave.

Except, this time, Fushimi turns around and asks, “Mind if I have a smoke?”

Why Fushimi has elected not to do that in the comfort of his own room is a mystery. “Knock yourself out.”

Uruha’s eyes follow Fushimi’s footsteps as he pads to the balcony door, slides it open, sits down at the threshold with his e-cigarette in hand. He leans over, blows vapor into the open space, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each exhale, the faint amber light from outside brimming at the sharp edges of his features. A whiff of bubblegum perfumes the air, mingling with the scent of petrichor roused by the evening showers. From where he sits Uruha can hardly smell it; the bubblegum is faint, a mere whisper in the dark, as if conjured to life by the craving deep in his bones.

He never asks, but he never has to. Fushimi tilts his head in Uruha’s direction and pats the empty space beside himself. “Come here.”

Uruha goes. Another indulgence, he thinks, letting Fushimi’s fingers ghost over his as he accepts the e-cigarette. Draws the bubblegum into every one of his capillaries, holds it there for far too long, releases what remains of it into the liminal space between them. E-cigarettes were imported and popularized in Japan after the war as a trendy, healthier alternative to tobacco; but is there truly any safe manner to inhale chemicals into your organs?

These toxins will probably not turn his lungs into tar. They might just kill him another way. How whimsical; death by bubblegum.

“I should buy you your own,” says Fushimi.

“I thought your mission was to keep me alive.”

Fushimi laughs. “We let you drink alcohol.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe.” To his mild surprise, Fushimi concedes. “But you’re not fragile, Uruha-san. It’s not the end of the world to indulge a little.”

“Oh, I indulge plenty.” There is ample proof of it on their bodies beneath the loose drape of clothing.

Fushimi’s free hand, cool from the night air, caresses his face and settles along the curve of his jaw. “And you’re still alive.”

Before he leaves Fushimi often kisses him goodnight, a chaste press of a smile somewhere on Uruha’s skin that lingers about as long as bubblegum. But this time when Fushimi’s lips find his Uruha tastes sugar, heat, poison, lantern lights and the summer rain; and for just a fleeting moment the wars become a distant echo.

Uruha awakens to the sound of pans and pots clanging.

For a moment, he lies still, eyes sewn shut, letting the background noise seep through his consciousness like tea leaves in hot water. A clock on the wall, ticking away. A pair of swallows chirping under the eaves. In the direction of the kitchen, two sets of footsteps and giggles, one soft, one trying to be.

“This one came out nice,” he hears Chihiro say. “Let’s save it for Uruha-san.”

At the sound of his own name Uruha opens his eyes, and finds himself staring up at a white ceiling, his head on the armrest of a couch, a fleecy blanket seemingly having materialized out of nowhere and draped itself over his shoulders. The winter air is cool and crisp, Chihiro and Hakuri’s living room softly illuminated by the low-angled morning sun spilling through the window. He vaguely remembers tossing and turning, then padding his way out of the guest bedroom to sit on this couch and stare at the fireplace, but does not remember falling asleep. The flame he lit last night has long burned out, the grates covered in a silent layer of charred remnants and powdery ash.

A tap squeaks; water flows. “Today’s batch is not bad.” Hakuri sounds proud, if a little cautiously so. “I didn’t burn any.”

The smile in Chihiro’s voice is unclouded, fond. “You did great, Hakuri.”

The boys’ conversation gradually subsides into inaudible murmurs amidst what sounds like mouthfuls of food, interspersed with the clattering of utensils. Uruha curls up deeper into the blanket, just listening, not yet ready to make his presence known. It feels alien to him still, after the year he has had, to wake up to a house with other people on a slow morning, not rushing to a fight.

Like déjà vu, he thinks, and feels his guts sink.

“I’d better go,” says Chihiro. Footsteps heading to the door; the rustle of a thick pair of boots.

“Have a good day! Tell Urita-san I said hi.”

A pair of socked feet pads back inside, drawing closer. Two knocks on the wooden doorframe, then the panels slide open to reveal Hakuri’s curious face and slightly stained apron. “You’re awake, Uruha-san!” Hakuri says, smiling.

Uruha rouses from the couch, wincing as his neck and back begin to protest the night he spent sleeping in an uncomfortable position. “Good morning.”

He follows Hakuri out of the living room and into the kitchen. The smell of a traditional breakfast hits him first – miso soup, grilled mackerel, and rolled omelettes; warm, inviting, disorienting. He blinks the bleariness out of his eyes and glances around. Despite the early hours, large windows make the most of sunlight, the atmosphere made comfortable by the heat from the stove. A boiling kettle whistles a string of high notes from the kitchen counter. He lets Hakuri lead him to the dining table, and a tray of food quickly materializes in front of him, wisps of steam coming off each of the little bowls and plates. Even with his nonexistent appetite Uruha can sense the meticulous care that has gone into the meal; he compliments Hakuri, who responds by scratching his head and grinning bashfully. “Chihiro taught me that,” he points to the rolled omelette.  

Uruha asks, after the plates have been cleared and Hakuri has put a cup of hot tea in his hand, “Do you have plans for the day?”

“Not much. I’m just thinking about starting some new plants for our garden,” says Hakuri. “Would you like to do some sightseeing, or…?”

“Oh, I can entertain myself. Don’t feel obligated to put things off on my account.”

“No, I mean, ‘cuz,” Hakuri starts, then trails off. “You didn’t sleep very well last night, did you.”

Uruha feels it again then, the unyielding bundle of knots, dead weight in his chest, pressing his lungs into the ribcage and cutting off air, old cravings and other unfulfilled things clawing at the walls of their lockbox. He thinks he might have thrown away the key ages ago. He flashes a grin, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s okay.” Hakuri shrugs. “We can’t sleep sometimes either.”

Hakuri is eighteen now, so Uruha is unsure whether he would accept a hug or would get embarrassed, but the urge to give him one is there.

Fortunately, the boy continues, breaking the awkwardness. “Well, you’re more than welcome to go shopping with me at the home improvement store, Uruha-san.” Hakuri adds hurriedly, “if you’d like.”

And that is how Uruha finds himself in a shed amidst gardening tools, fertilizer and pots of various shapes, while Hakuri hums and haws over shelves upon shelves of different plant seeds. The boy has a palm-sized notebook in hand, squints at it as he paces the aisles, picks something up, puts it down. When they finally exit, the trunk of their car is full and Hakuri looks more excited than Uruha ever remembers seeing him. “What’s all this for?” Uruha asks.

“New crops for the spring!” says Hakuri. And then, with a light blush across his cheeks, “And I wanna try growing some sunflowers. They bloom in August.”

“For Chihiro?”

Hakuri’s face is beet red, but his grin is wide. “Don’t give it away now, it’s a surprise,” he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, also in case I fail and they all die.”

Uruha chuckles out loud at that. “You’ll do just fine, Hakuri-kun.”

He presses on the gas, drives out of the parking lot and into the open country road. The sky is a crisp, cloudless blue; at this time of day the air is still chilly, but sunlight warms his skin where it touches. At the passenger seat, Hakuri rolls the window open, leans outside, lets out a happy sigh as the wind flutters by and tangles into his silvery hair. The sight reminds Uruha of a puppy’s first time in the car on a road trip, if the puppy is also on the Kamunabi’s watchlist as one of the country’s most formidable sorcerers alive. “Thank you for coming along,” says Hakuri, “I’m not that confident with driving yet.”

Uruha raises an eyebrow. “How long have you practiced for?”

“Only since we moved here.” That makes sense. Uruha has learned that before they met Hakuri was a runaway from the Sazanami clan; and after that, who would have had the time to learn driving of all things, being on the run and in the middle of a war? “Chihiro’s been giving me lessons, but he has his apprenticeship as well. And Shiba-san’s busy, too.”

“I’ll teach you, Hakuri-kun. I have time.”

“Really?” Hakuri’s response is immediate and eager, before he clears his throat and says sheepishly, “But, I can’t ask you to do that. You’re our guest.”

“You’re letting me crash at your home. It’s the least I can do.”

Hakuri is quiet for a beat. Uruha lets him be, keeping his eyes on the road, but the next time he glances over he catches Hakuri’s gaze, as if the boy had been watching him. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll take you up on it,” says Hakuri, eventually, sincerely. “Thank you, Uruha-san.”

Uruha returns a wordless smile. The twist in his chest loosens a fraction, just enough for air to pass through; it feels like the first proper breath he has taken since this morning. The wind chill suddenly seems almost welcome. “Then let’s start after we’re done with the gardening today.”

“Yessir.” Hakuri feigns a salute. And then, with the same toothy grin, “What about you? Is there anything you want to do, Uruha-san?”

The end of winter is approaching and Uruha feels restless.

His first birthday in exile he hardly noticed, buried so deep in his grief that the months had passed by in a blur. His second birthday was a tentative little thing, like a newborn deer staggering to its feet; celebrated casually and quietly alongside a few off-duty guards with some beers, a card, and one candle on top of a cake someone working the kitchen at Kokugoku had whipped up. It was no-frills, exactly what he needed; it was nice. That morning, Fushimi was not there. But when Fushimi snuck in just before midnight and kissed him hard and fucked him like he was in love, Uruha knew he probably had his hands in planning it all, even if he never mentioned a word of it.

That was when Uruha first noticed something had shifted. A chink in the armor of what he had always thought Fushimi to be – loud, bold, perpetually unfazed, effortless. Uruha knew the cracks because he had seen them in the mirror, carved into him since his youth, filled with smoke and ash and the scent of burnt tobacco, from the dojo to the battlefield.

And what of it, he thought. All of them were still at war. He wondered if he had ever left it.

Then a third February rolls around and Uruha finds it difficult to sit still. As if his center of gravity were misaligned, throwing him off-balance. At first, he blames it on the surprise drill they ran just that morning, which sent an odd chill down his spine that refused to dissipate long after it ended. Or it could be the sake he swiped from the kitchen, which he drank half of before stopping himself and turning in early. Or it could be because Fushimi had again come and gone, which Uruha does not blame him for.

Uruha wakes up in the morning of his thirty-sixth birthday with his heart in his throat and embers tingling beneath his skin. His eyes dart to the e-cigarette Fushimi has bought for him which is resting on top of the drawer. Still, it feels wrong to smoke at this time of day, especially without Fushimi, so instead he goes for a run, spars with the guards; lets his limbs tire and his lungs burn up. When they are done he climbs into the hot spring pool, sinks to his chin, feels the tension finally seeping out of his body as he listens to the men’s chatter and watches hot spring steam rise towards the winter sky. Nearly three years of this, he thinks. And you’re still alive.

He gets out of the bath, and enters the building to a shower of confetti.

The noise disorients him, at first, like a crack of thunder in the sky; but only for a second. Then someone puts a party hat on his wet hair while Uruha peels ribbons out of his eyelashes, laughing as he does. Someone else is taking photos with a Polaroid camera. A clumsily decorated cake with a pair of lit candles in the shape of the number thirty-five gets walked out from the kitchen to great fanfare. Uruha is completely surrounded. The ambush forces cheer, victorious.  

“Happy birthday,” whispers Fushimi, some time later.

They are up on the rooftop, the only ones left in the world, feet dangling from the balcony and pleasantly tipsy. By coincidence, the nearby town’s annual winter festival was happening the same night, so the squad spent the evening here eating cake and watching the fireworks which were just visible from the highest point of Kokugoku. The tranquil village has been pulsing all night with colors and music like a living heartbeat. Uruha thinks he might be on fire, too. “I miss the festivals,” he says. “Every season is different.”

“Yeah?” Fushimi scoots closer. “How so?”

“Occasionally I’d have a performance. Other times our theater troupe would go out for karaoke.” He looks towards the night sky, now still and hazy, wisps of grey smoke lingering amidst the clouds. “Or I’d go watch the fireworks.”

Fushimi tilts his head. “Alone?”

“Sometimes.” After Samura got married, Kiri grew up, and the occasional dates with strangers became few and far between. “This was nice. We can pretend Unazuki Village was throwing me a party.”

That makes Fushimi laugh. His breath fogs up the air, so close it warms Uruha’s cheek, smelling faintly like sake, cake frosting and bubblegum. Uruha takes Fushimi by the chin and sinks his teeth into him, drinks him in like he had been parched; Fushimi freezes for just a moment before melting into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair, searing hot brands on his skin where they touch. They are both breathless when they break apart, but Fushimi stays close, rests his forehead against Uruha’s and inhales a lungful of the shared air between them. “I think I’m in love with you,” he says, with that effortless clarity Uruha has always known him for. "That makes my job easy, and yours difficult.”

“Fushimi—”

“There’s no future among these walls.” Fushimi meets his gaze with a smile, clear-eyed and without dejection. “After this is done, let's meet outside. I’ll win you over fair and square.”

Now it is Uruha’s turn to laugh. “You talk like you’re going to fight an army of suitors.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Uruha knows better, but he lets himself close his eyes and smile back and believe. “Very well, then,” he says, stealing another kiss, this time chaste and sweet. “See you on the other side.”

It is the end of another winter when Uruha walks through the hallways of Tokyo Headquarters again. Whatever is left of the Kamunabi’s personnel has taken over an ordinary office building while a new headquarters is being built; Uruha strides past an open floor lined with cubicles and glass windows overlooking the city, not at all reminiscent of the looming high ceilings and columns of the Kamunabi he remembers. A few people look up from the screens and scrolls on their tables, cast one glance at him, and nod briefly before returning to their work. In a way, it is oddly comforting that he is no longer regarded as a novelty. He is not quite sure what he is anymore.

“Thanks for coming in, Uruha,” says Colonel Azami from across the table.

They are in the Colonel’s temporary office, a dingy little thing by all intents and purposes compared to what he used to have. Earlier, when Uruha stopped in front of the door he found a slightly crumpled piece of paper with the words COLONEL AZAMI SOUSHIROU scrawled across, taped haphazardly at eye level with bits of blu-tack, one corner already threatening to peel off. “You look well, Azami-san,” he says.

“So do you.” Azami’s fingers idly tap on the desk’s surface. It is difficult to imagine those hands were severed from his body during the Hishaku’s attack, then painstakingly regrown with sorcery and sheer force of will. The Colonel is the same way Uruha remembers him when they briefly met as boys at the precipice of the Seitei War – grim, reliable, stubborn as a mule.

“Things look quite different around here,” remarks Uruha.

Azami grimaces. “The open floor plan is not popular. I hope the new building’s construction is completed soon.” The Colonel’s visible eye meets his. “Have you thought about my offer?”

Uruha hesitates. When he first heard the question he had dreaded a negotiation, dreaded having to say no to a trusted ally, after all the fighting they have done side by side; but to his surprise, Azami simply leans back in his chair and says, “It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”

He blinks. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

“Part of it. There’s one other thing,” replies Azami. A moment of hesitation, then, “It took some time, because of everything that was going on, but we finally completed the site investigation of Kokugoku.”

Uruha’s guts sink. His hands shake beneath his cloak, nails biting crescents into flesh. He hears echoes of explosions and walls crashing down, of fireworks in the distance and whispers in the dark. Azami continues, “We recovered what we could of the agents’ personal artefacts and returned them to their families. I was wondering if you wanted to check the storage for anything of yours.”

“There’s nothing I need from there,” says Uruha immediately. Nothing he needs that the Colonel can give.

Azami is quiet for a while, just watching him. Uruha vaguely wonders if the Colonel has enhanced senses, being the great fighter that he is; if Azami can hear his racing heartbeat as the dead weight in his chest swells and drags him down, down, down. “Well, they did find something.” A desk drawer pulling open; the rustle of paper. “I think you should have this.”

When Uruha blinks again he is standing outside of the temporary Kamunabi building, looking over a sun-soaked courtyard; a lone Polaroid photo lies nestled in his palm. He holds it to the light, squints at it more closely. One corner of the photo seems to have been singed by a fire, and the silhouettes are oddly blurry. Bursts of glitter. Party hats and a cake. The laughter of dead men.

Uruha puts the photo back into the envelope and tucks it in his chest pocket. To his surprise it weighs nothing at all, three years of his life and his faith and the end of his naïve hope.

He does fumble a little with his phone when he takes it out, presses the call button, and closes his eyes. The ringtone does not chime for long. “Hello, Uruha-san,” greets Chihiro on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Chihiro-kun.”

“Uruha-san? Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, tips his head towards crystal-clear winter skies. The air feels damp; perhaps it is about to rain again. “Hey, what do you say I pay a visit to your abode? If it’s not too much trouble.”

A beat, then Chihiro replies, “Of course. You’re always welcome with us.”

Uruha hears Iori’s voice calling out to them before he spots her at the entrance. Hakuri turns a corner, maneuvers the car through the narrow path, coming to a stop just before the steps to the home. He whoops and pumps his fist in the air in celebration, only to wince as he accidentally knocks his fist onto the roof of the vehicle. From the passenger seat, Chihiro reaches out and gives Hakuri a high-five, his expression fond. It shifts into palpable relief when the boy turns around and exchanges a discreet look with Uruha, who returns it with a grin and a thumbs-up.

“Just in time, guys,” Iori grins at the three of them as they exit the vehicle, hands on her hips. “For lunch my dad and I are having a cooking competition. You’ll be the judges.”

“What are the stakes?” asks Hakuri.

Iori frowns. “Wait, I haven’t thought of that.” She hums and haws for a moment before shrugging, “Bragging rights, I suppose.”

They follow Iori inside, hang their outerwear by the door, and place offerings before Inori’s smiling face on the altar. Sizzling sounds echo from the kitchen, carrying with them the smells of succulent meat and comforting vegetable soup. Samura’s head pokes out at the end of the hallway, his hair wrapped in a comically large hairnet. “If you guys can help set the table, please,” he gestures to the dining room.

By home-cooking standards, this is an extravagant meal. As much fanfare as the cooking competition starts with, the outcome is quickly forgotten as the young people tuck into their food happily, chatting away as they eat. At one point, Iori and Hakuri start an animated conversation about some social media trend, to which Chihiro listens intently and Uruha finds himself completely lost; he glances over to Samura, who shrugs with a defeated look of a middle-aged man forced to learn new-generation pop culture through osmosis. Samura is smiling, though, which is rare to see.

“So you drove all the way here from Seki?” says Samura, after the dishes have been dried, leftovers packed away, and the teenagers have dragged each other out to the backyard covered by tannish-green short grass and steeped in golden afternoon sunlight.

Uruha nods. “Four and a half hours. Hakuri did well.”

The Samuras’ new home in Totsuka, Yokohama Prefecture is spacious but cozy, with a wide veranda overlooking a well-maintained yard. Uruha leans back on his hands as he watches the teenagers set up the tameshigiri targets in a row for swordsmanship practice, similar to what Samura’s old house used to have. Samura had regained his eyesight by the time he moved to this new place with his daughter; Uruha wonders how it felt for Samura to furnish a new home with a brand-new sense, if any old habits carried over from his years of living in the darkness. Or perhaps Iori has decided it all. The same way she has chosen to attend Yokohama City University this year, and decided the next step of their lives for them both.

Samura sets a tray onto the floor between them. Uruha looks over; a steaming teapot, cups, some sweets and no ashtray. “Did you finally quit smoking?” He asks, grinning. Samura responds with an awkward nod. "Congratulations, Samura-san."

Iori stands tall, takes a breath. The air whistles. A row of tameshigiri falls.

“I met Kiri a few weeks ago. She said she still wanted to wipe out Iai White Purity Style,” says Uruha. Samura lets out a snort. “Maybe you shouldn’t teach that to Iori anymore, Samura-san.”

“Too late. Kiri’s fond of Iori, though.”

“That she is.” At the moment, Iori appears to be showing Hakuri the White Purity Style reverse grip using a wooden katana, while Chihiro collects a few more tameshigiri targets to set up in a circle around them. It seems that Kiri’s mission will continue.

A cold gust of wind sweeps by. Uruha senses Samura’s posture shift before hearing him say, with apprehension in his voice, “I thought you were back in Tokyo, Uruha.”

“Did someone tell you?”

“Shiba did.”

Uruha chuckles inwardly. He, too, has certainly heard about Samura’s whereabouts from everyone except Samura himself. “Yeah, I did go back.” He rests his chin on one knee, curls a little deeper into his cloak, eyes trained on the teenagers buzzing with energy at the other end of the yard. “I’ve just been in Seki for a week or so.”

“I heard Azami offered you a teaching job. You should take it.”

“Maybe you should,” Uruha says. It comes out a little more biting than he intended. “I mean, I don’t know when I’d return to Tokyo yet. Just needed a little change.”

A sigh. “Uruha—”

“It doesn’t work that way, Samura-san.” He knows what Samura was going to say. Samura said the same thing after he got married to Inori and Uruha decided to depart the house attached to the dojo, where they had been living as Shirakai-sensei’s last group of live-in students. You know you’re always welcome here, Uruha. But he could never have stayed then, not so close to where it all started, day after day looking at a star in the sky just out of reach with his feet planted firmly on earth. He certainly would not start now, especially after—

“Uruha.” Samura’s voice is quiet. “I know I hurt you.”

Which part, Uruha thinks. Samura Seiichi killed him; Samura Seiichi brought him back and made him human and free. Samura Seiichi put a sword in his hand when he was a child; Samura Seiichi ripped the bindings of Kumeyuri out of every cell in his system and burned it to ash. His body remembers the hurt, Tobimune’s ebony blade splitting him apart, spilling blood and the last of his desperate hope; it remembers too all the old cravings and other unfulfilled things, but it remembers the flames of mercy just as well. “It’s okay,” he says, knowing he is probably the only one who would say it to Samura, mean it, and have Samura believe it. “I understand.”

Samura pours himself some more tea and drinks in silence. The old Samura would have lit up a cigarette by now, or maybe three. The old Uruha would have asked for one, and ended up empty-handed and watching.

“Woa, hey,” says Samura, seemingly taken aback, when Uruha fishes an e-cigarette out of his pocket. “Since when…?”

“A while back.”

The e-cigarette Fushimi bought for him is long gone, buried beneath rubble; this one Uruha picked up just this morning, at a convenience store on the drive here from Seki. He had caught a glimpse of the selection while wandering the aisles and decided to buy one on a whim. It still feels a little wrong to smoke alone, but when he takes it in hand and holds it between his lips the urge feels different. Like pulling on an old, familiar thread and finding it empty.

He thinks maybe he craves neither nicotine nor smoke nor old unfulfilled things. Maybe the winter has been far too cold; maybe the absence of heat is what makes the craving.

Samura raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it’s your turn now to develop a habit, Uruha. There are kids here.”

He bursts out laughing. “You of all people can’t be lecturing me about not smoking around kids, Samura-san!”

From the other end of the yard, Iori turns around, calling out for her father. “Well, Uruha, do as I say, not as I do,” says Samura before standing up, dusting off his pants and trotting over to the teenagers, a grin blooming on his face.

Looking to the sky, Uruha takes a slow drag of the e-cigarette, lets the poison seep into his blood, watches the wispy vapors meander upwards and away to the end of winter. He thinks it hardly feels like a craving anymore. Little by little, the bubblegum warms, settles in his chest, and makes itself at home.