— assurances of the heart. yamada asaemon shion x f!reader. sfw/fluff, only mildly suggestive. reader and shion are married. brief mention of insecurities. lots of love and romantic declaration. shion cracks a few jokes because he can't help himself. wc: 1590.
“can i ask you something?”
your hushed voice breaks the comfortable tranquility of the room, bathed in warm morning light through the closed shoji screens, perfectly diffused into a soft dreamlike glow. there’s a gentle cadence of warblers that rings out, alongside a rustle of the spring sakura trees from the other side of your peaceful sanctuary, completely out of sight from the rest of the world.
the futon you share lays in modest disarray, layers of your sleep robes draped haphazardly around the tatami mat floor. there’s nothing between the two of you, only bare forms and blushed skin that tells a familiar tale.
“of course you can,” shion responds, lazily carding his fingers through your hair as you rest over his chest, his heart rate still leveling out from your bright and early activities. “you’re my wife.”
you smile at that, still, even after you’ve been wed and living together in this home for many months now, basking in the joy that is marriage to the man that nearly swept you off of your feet from the very moment you met him.
it was his calm gentleness, paired with discipline and understanding, that drew you to the asaemon, like a clumsy moth to a white hot flame.
shion, who is calm and kind, passionate and honest, and oh so very handsome.
“why did you decide to marry me?”
your husband entertains your inquiry with a quiet chuff, endeared by such an innocent curiosity. “what brought this on?”
“just…” you cling tighter to him then, seeking shelter from your own looming insecurities. your finger traces over the shallow roadmaps of his battle scars to sooth yourself. “will you tell me?”
shion hums in thought, letting it linger in the air like a weightless down feather. his hand reaches for your own, interrupting your tender touches to his skin to lace your fingers together, a harmonious lattice of both fragility and strength.
“i took you as my wife because you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever met.”
you watch as his calloused trained fingers enclose around your much smaller hand, thankful that his eyes can’t perceive the expression you’re making, almost pitiful… doubting even.
“but…” you chew on your lower lip, still kiss-swollen. “you’ve never actually… seen me. not really. why would you think that i’m—“
shion uses his grip on your hand to tug you even closer, an effortless strength that brings you into him, a loving demand for your attention.
“why wouldn’t i think that you’re beautiful?” it’s like he knows you have a better view of his face now, because he smiles, a tender thing that compliments his fair features. his eyes remain shut, but you can almost see them sparkle anyway. “you assume that because i can’t see with my eyes that i’m unable to evaluate one’s beauty?”
you know as well as anyone that shion perceives things that others cannot, a deeper sort of sense to a person’s being that the naked eye can’t begin to acknowledge. be it something that was born from the loss of his vision, or a training element learned from his rōnin status, it's impressive how much shion can 'see' without a proper visual field.
but you’d be lying if you said you never wondered if that was enough for the ways of his heart, that not knowing your true physical appearance holds no weight to a man robbed of his sight.
“there are other ways to observe such things,” he continues, somehow sensing your rapt attention from behind his eyes that stay guarded with the fan of his eyelashes, framed with those ever-present scars.
“your hair, for example.” shion abandons your hand in favor of weaving through the strands once again, thoughtfully twirling some of it around his index finger.
“it smells of lavender and honey, like an untouched wildflower field in the peak warmth of summertime.” shion lifts the twisted section of hair up to his nose, inhaling slightly. “it puts me at ease.”
you look at your husband as he speaks, watching the curl of his mouth as his fondness begins to drip out like a calming flow of water. the heat begins to radiate over your cheeks.
“i can also sense it through touch.” his palm rests over your cheek momentarily, warm and comforting, as if he’s brought the very hearth of his love right to your already burning skin. it slides to the back of your neck, following an invisible trail over the plane of your back.
shion pauses along the way to regard specific parts of your body; the curve of your waist, the shallow dip of your spine at your lower back, and the crescent of your hipbone, places he was touching only moments ago with a much different fervor.
the entire time, you’re basking in the breathlessness of your body’s reaction to his touch, the gooseflesh it leaves in it’s wake. you can feel yourself subconsciously drawing closer to him with every inch of exploration.
his fingers grip into the back of your thigh appreciatively, steadily pulling upward to drape your leg across his midsection. even though he’s beneath you, shion makes it feel like he’s crowding you somehow, brushing the tip of his nose over your cupid’s bow until your soft giggle fills the small space left between your lips.
“and that laugh,” he says with such a fondness that it nearly breaks your heart. “you have a beautiful laugh, my love. the cadence of it melts away every ache of a long day. i can’t say i’ve heard any song that compares to it.”
somehow, in a matter of seconds, your husband reduces the question of his assessment of you down to nothing but utter certainty, a bashfulness permeating your already feverish complexion.
and all the while he didn’t make you feel silly for asking in the first place.
“besides…” shion softly smiles, finally opening his eyes to reveal the palest milky white, like winter frost against a pane of glass. “i’m sure this face is less than pleasant to look at.”
you immediately balk in offense, pushing yourself off of your husband’s chest to point a finger that he can’t rightfully see. “you listen here! I happen to think you’re quite handsome! i feel incredibly lucky to have—“
shion’s sudden bright laugher cuts you off, willing his eyes to close once again. “see that? beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as the saying goes.”
you deflect his very obvious pun and pout, something he also can’t see, but perhaps he can feel it somehow judging by the way his expression shifts in acknowledgement.
“i’ll have you know that practically every woman in the town expressed disappointment upon hearing about our marriage announcement.”
shion’s eyebrows raise at that, giving you a look of genuine surprise. “now why would they do that?”
you can’t help but sigh at his apparent denseness for his own good looks, for the fact that all the single women — even some of the married ones — secretly pined over shion yamada asaemon for years before he met you, hoping to be right here in your place.
as observant as he is, that fact seems to escape him to this very day.
“all I want to know is…” you reach for your husband’s face, a soft caress of your fingertips that only mildly catches him off guard, letting your touch trace the outlines of the marred flesh around his pretty eyes. “are you happy that you married me?”
shion pauses, if only for a second, before he responds with a tender touch around your wrist, allowing his lips to find the delicate palm of your hand and placing a kiss directly to its center.
his thumb brushes over your skin soothingly, finding your other hand still resting against his sturdy chest to curl his fingers around it. you can feel him looking at you, somehow, even in the complete absence of sight itself.
“please don’t ever doubt that you’ve made me the happiest man alive.”
there’s a sudden sting of tears along your lash line, so much warmth and reassurance blooming over your heart at his reverent declaration. “really? you mean that?”
shion closes the space and presses his lips to yours, ones that remind you of the sakura petals that often drift onto the engawa just outside this room. you instantly melt into it, a gentle kiss laden with promise, for as long as you both continue to draw breath.
your husband finally pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“since the moment i laid my eyes on you.”
you can’t fight the reaction this time, letting another airy giggle dance around his senses. “i suppose i should be grateful that i married a man with a sense of humor.”
shion almost looks proud to receive your praises, curling his arms around you protectively, like you might suddenly disappear if he were to let go.
“and i’m grateful that i married such a beautiful woman that will laugh at my jokes.”
you smile then, brushing your nose against the slope of his own in appreciation of all that shion is and remains to be. calm and kind, passionate and honest, oh so handsome and decidedly quite humorous.
SYNOPSIS: Your arranged marriage is something you are unable to fight. Accepting your fate, you are surprised when your new husband just wants to treat you kindly.
A collection of moments following your marriage with Yamada Asaemon Shion.
CONTENT: Minors DO NOT interact! Female reader, arranged/forced marriage, physical and emotional abuse are mentioned/hinted at within reader's family, falling in love, two idiots in love, pining, food, alcohol (reader gets tipsy), poetry, blood, canon-typical violence, some angst, miscommunications, masturbation (male), kissing, smut, hand job, fingering, penetration, first time together, domesticity, humor, some banter, there are some notes at the end of this regarding the poems/stories used, as well as some translations!
WORD COUNT: ~ 16.8 k
NOTES: This works as a prequel for the couple from this fanfic! This is a repost from my old account. Seeing as how this fic is three years old, I feel a little embarrassed about the quality of the writing. Thank you for loving it enough to ask for me to repost it, despite that!
Your name is something you should not give to a stranger. There is a distance to be kept when it comes to men. Suspicious people should be avoided at all costs.
As much as the boy in front of you fits the description of someone you should not interact with, you don’t turn away. His clothes are dirty and worn, he looks a little sickly and the scars that marr his face are prominent. He’s probably around your age, maybe a little older. You’ve just turned seven a few weeks ago.
“Do they hurt?”
He turns his head towards you, wary now. You wonder how he turned so accurately, facing you despite his eyes being closed. His hearing must be very good.
It’s dark outside already and you really should not be out here, sitting in front of the door like this but you felt caged in. You needed some fresh air and some sort of distraction. The gods seem to be kind to you tonight.
“Your scars, I mean,” trying again, you don’t feel upset over his obvious lack of desire to talk to you. No one really talks to the daimyō’s daughter, unless they mean trouble.
“No,” he murmurs, as he turns his head towards the trash you found him digging through just now when you decided to sit down in front of the house. Tentatively he turns his attention back to you. Is he embarrassed? Or perhaps is he asking for permission?
“Here,” you offer, stretching out a hand. The boy tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. His cheeks are a little sunken in and he looks exhausted but there is some sort of pull you feel towards him. A sort of quiet resilience that has found its home in the downturn of his pouty lips and carved its existence into the lines of his face.
A sigh of frustration leaves you and you tell him to come closer. When he obliges, you pull on his arm. He flinches and instinctively tries to free himself from your grasp but you’re stubborn as you put the small fruit in his hand.
“Eat some. I brought enough here with me since I had to sneak through the garden. There is nothing in the trash and it’s dirty,” you explain as you pat the space next to you on the little stone wall.
The boy holds the small fruit in his hand as he examines it with his fingers. “What is this?”
“A plum,” you tell him simply. “I pulled the stone out for you. You can just eat it.”
Hesitation cannot win over the feeling of his stomach twisting with hunger and he quickly puts it in his mouth to eat it. He squeezes his eyes shut even more than they’re already closed and there’s a frown on his face now.
“That’s sour!”
For a moment, you’re stunned. With just two words, he suddenly seemed his age and you can’t help but laugh at his reaction. “I like it when they’re still a bit sour. If you come back after some weeks have passed, then they’ll be a lot sweeter,” you explain, plopping half a plum into your mouth.
It’s not often that you get to talk to someone your age and maybe it’s not the most clever thing to invite a beggar back to your home but that doesn’t deter you the slightest bit. “What’s your name?” you ask the boy while you eat another plum, offering your name before waiting for his answer.
He takes a moment to think before he replies, “My name is Shion and you should be more careful out here alone.” There is almost a tinge of worry to his tone and the frown on his face makes you grin. Saying something like that makes him sound like a nagging old man.
With a kind of bitter sarcasm that is utterly unbefitting of someone so young, lacing your voice, you tell him, “It’s probably more dangerous for you, right here in front of my house, you know? You never know when-”
And as if you’d summoned trouble, you hear shuffling inside the house and the voice of your father echoes inside, the door not doing much to hide his anger. Quickly, you hand the small basket filled with plums to the boy and forcibly turn him around.
“You have to go - Hurry! I need to go inside before my father gets even more mad at me. Take these with you, boy! I will see you around!”
With that, you turn around and hurry off to the other side of the house. The boy is left on the street, looking dumbfounded.
There’s a tinge of sweetness within the aftertaste of the plum you had given to him just now.
It is a warm summer day when your father whispers harshly, telling you to keep your back straight. The past few days have passed by like a whirlwind. Talks of marriage have never been unfamiliar business to you - the only daughter of a prestigious daimyō. Your father, a friend of the shogun, as close as friendship within such a hierarchy gets, has always received his favor.
So it was only a matter of time until you’d get wed off to someone the shogun trusts, in hopes of strengthening this friendship.
It’s more of a business relationship, really, but you are not in a position to criticize this bond of theirs.
When the sliding door opens, your forehead is already pressed against the tatami flooring. The servants lead the Yamada Asaemon into the room and your father moves to stand up but the rustling next to you settles as soon as it begins and he bows as he kneels next to you. Not quite as deep as you do and not for as long either.
He is a man after all.
You don’t doubt that even if your father was the poorest farmer in this country, his pride would still stiffen his back so that he could bow no lower than 45°. Respect only goes one to that man, unless the shogun is involved.
The Yamada Asaemon must have signaled for him to stay seated, or else your father would have at least had the courtesy to get up and puff out his chest as he does. The soft thumping on the other side of the table lets you know that he has taken a seat himself.
Raising your head, you make sure to keep your gaze cast to the floor, your vision barely reaching toward the white fabric of his pants. His work attire - how official. A show of respect? Or perhaps an intimidation tactic?
“Had I been informed of your acceptance of my offer, I would have brought the lady a present from my travels. I apologize,” the man speaks up and the deep tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and it makes your fingers feel numb.
The chance to answer is taken from you, as your father laughs, “It is forthcoming enough of you to come by so quickly right after your mission even after we took so much time to answer. I apologize. I hope the shogun was not offended by my leisure.”
When his hand settles on your shoulder, you feel as if someone put a heavy boulder on top of it. Its warmth feels uncomfortable through the already too-warm layers of your expensive kimono.
“We wanted to make sure that my daughter understands just how much of an honor this truly is,” he explains and it takes every ounce of patience you have to not grimace when he sends you a disapproving look.
They had ridiculed you. Made fun of you for being wed off to a man with a permanent ailment and your father had nearly beaten you senseless, as if it was your fault the shogun had set up the blind executioner with you. In your father’s eyes, this was a failure that was indeed caused by your lacking persona. He’d told you how this reflected poorly upon his relationship with the shogun.
“Do you know what this means? What this says about how much he values me? My daughter is worth nothing more than a crippled man!”
A crippled man who could cut you down this instant - is what you think to yourself. While you have never met the man face to face, he was the Yamada Asaemon who was assigned to your part of the town, protecting it from criminals. Daimyōs like your father would claim themselves to be the peacekeepers, while all they did was send their men to a certain death while filling their own stomachs with more food than the pigs they feed on could eat.
Thankfully, the voice inside your head is loud and clear. You can yell and scream and insult the man who had taken part in your birth as eloquently as you wished to. It is the only comfort you have. The only humor you can possibly find in such a predicament.
They exchange pleasantries, one man clearly far more genuine than the other, until your father nudges your side. “Go take a walk with your husband and then lead him back for some tea. We will have some things to discuss, which I shall prepare for this instant.”
Monetary things, surely. It seems your life as an entertainer continues from here on out, but your crowd seems to slowly shift. How miserable.
Getting up, you’re proud of how you manage not to stumble over the layers of fabric that seem to be draped endlessly over your body. “Let me lead you through the garden,” you speak demurely, still keeping your gaze low out of respect.
It is when you’re outside, the door shut behind you, and a few steps into the garden, that he speaks up. This time, it’s directed at you. For the first time today.
“Are you alright?”
It’s a simple question and the answer lays heavy on your tongue but you swallow it down. “Of course.”
“Would you look at me then?”
You stop walking, keeping your gaze no higher than his chest, “I am not sure if that is alright, my Lord.”
His tone now is much more mild and something in his tone tells you he is smiling. “You can drop the odd honorifics and titles. I am going to be your husband soon, am I not?” The rough pads of his fingers are gentle as he tugs you closer by the sleeve of your kimono, ever so slightly. Like a child asking for an adult’s attention.
“Or do you wish to annul the marriage? Perhaps, you have taken me into the garden so you could reject me dramatically, with a more illustrious scenery to fit the moment? Although I must admit, the visual aspects of such endeavors are usually lost on me,” the man tells you and when a soft gasp leaves your lips, you tilt your head up only to be met with a smile that makes your cheeks burn.
“Such jokes seem a little…of ill taste.”
“Even if I am the one making them? It is my ailment after all. Am I not allowed to make light of it?”
There is nothing clever you can quip back but your desire to do so anyway surprises you. Usually, you do well on holding back any snide comments but he makes it easy to let go of that control.
A defeated breath leaves your lips as you look at him. Carefully, his fingers travel along the end of your sleeve, grabbing your hand gently. His hand is warm, a little rough - from his sword, you assume - but the way it holds yours is very gentle.
“I hope you can forgive me for being this casual but I need you to know that I mean well with you. I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for you-”
You wonder if it is ideal for him.
“-and while I don’t know the exact circumstances of your life here…,” he tilts his head towards the main house, where your father must still be sitting inside, “I can at least promise that I will treat you as my equal. That is also all I wish for in return.”
He seems to know a lot about your family, even the parts that aren’t privy to the general public. Narrowing your eyes at him, you step a little closer, inquiring, “Why would you offer me this so selflessly? What do you gain from this arrangement?”
The man in front of you crosses his arms and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. He frowns slightly as he collects his thoughts and you think to yourself that he is quite handsome. On top of that, he seems to be as well-behaved as the ladies your mother would bring over would whisper to each other.
How ironic that you’d roll your eyes at their daydreams about the man and yet here you are, about to be married off to him.
“I think,” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, “You are someone who I wish to treat well.”
The wind blows softly, moving the fabric of your kimono ever so slightly and conducting a symphony of leaves as it slips through the bushes and trees of the garden. Taken aback, you blink up at him for a few moments. You take a deep breath, lick your lips, and then open your mouth slightly.
Only to close it again.
Shion suppresses a laugh and you gape up at him, heat licking its way up your spine as he squeezes your hands gently. “I did step forward when the shogun offered this arrangement. Just as you have inevitably heard a lot about me, I have also heard a lot about the lady in return.”
He lets go of your hands but the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin and you almost feel saddened by the loss of physical contact. “I know the members of your family are the ones who are responsible for the uniforms of the Yamada Asaemon, as well as the clothing for the shogun, no?” he asks with a tilt of his head and you notice that he does this a lot. It’s cute and makes him seem a lot more approachable, coupled with that soft smile.
“The previous shogun took a liking to the work of my grandmother and appointed her as his personal seamstress. My mother takes care of the current shogun’s robes and I take care of the ones that all of the Yamada Asaemon wear,” you explain, despite your feeling that he might already know that.
Shion nods and smiles, “You were the one who sent me my uniform without the bell attached. I took the liberty to ask who was considerate enough to do such a thing.”
“So you decided to marry me because I didn’t attach a bell to your uniform?” you ask him, still lost on his motives. What a strange man.
It is then, that the peaceful conversation and the prospect of a proper reply is shattered by the voice of your father. It is almost impressive how the man manages to sound as if he had woven five layers of suppressed anger into his voice. You flinch and Shion’s expression falls slightly as he notices your change in posture.
With a soft sigh, he puts a guiding hand on your upper back for a short moment, redirecting you back towards the house as the both of you walk back. It’s quiet for a moment, the air thick with tension before he dispells it easily once more.
“I accepted the offer because I was curious if I could be a considerate husband towards such a kind person. Perhaps I also simply feel like I have a favor to return.”
A husband in return for a change in uniform design might be the oddest deal you have struck thus far.
You’re sitting across from your husband for the first time since your wedding. Right after the small ceremony, work had pulled him from your now shared home and you did not get the chance to spend any time with him.
Perhaps it was for the better. His absence had given you the chance to make yourself familiar with this house you’d be calling your home from now on. You’d wandered the corridors, made your feet familiar with the grass of the garden until it got too cold to do so, and listened to the way the empty branches danced with the wind as they parted from a few of their leaves. You wondered if they’ve held fruit this year. The trees seem familiar but you cannot put a name to them.
In those moments you had to yourself, it had been peaceful. This house feels more like a home than the grand estate of the daimyō - your father - ever did. Now you share this home with the man sitting across from you.
Your hands lay on top of the small table, your tea untouched.
Shion clears his throat and your head snaps up so you can face him, ready to listen to whatever he’s going to say.
“I am sorry for how uncomfortable this must be for you,” he says, sounding a little resigned. In turn, it makes you feel a little sorry.
“It’s not your fault!” you hurry to speak, your hand instinctively reaching out to offer some comfort but you’re unsure if he’d be okay with you touching his hand, so you drop it softly, letting it rest on the table again. “I am just not too sure what to say. This is my first time being married.”
Your words cause him to hold back a laugh and you feel heat climb into your cheeks. That was a dumb thing to say.
“What a coincidence,” he tells you and the lines at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced when he smiles, “It’s my first time being married as well.”
His joke eases the tension you’re feeling and you feel your shoulders loosen up a little. There is something very comforting about his smile and the lines of his face almost carry a sense of familiarity but you struggle to put your finger on the reason for it.
“How was your work today?” you ask, grabbing a hold of your cup and drinking your tea. Finally. It’s only lukewarm now but that doesn’t matter too much.
Shion looks amused. “Do you really wish to know? My work isn’t the best topic for a lighthearted conversation between newlyweds… Unless you are harboring a sadistic side I was not made aware of?”
You grimace. “Never mind then. Apologies for asking, you’re right.”
A low chuckle leaves his lips as he brings his cup to his lips. Your gaze is drawn to the lines of his throat as he drinks and your ears feel a little warm.
After he puts it down again, he speaks once more, “I have a student who is going to be appointed as one of the Yamada Asaemon soon. Today, I spent most of the day training with him. No violent business.”
A strange sense of relief settles in your chest and you nod. “That sounds nice… Is it difficult to be a teacher to somebody else? I tried teaching one of the other daimyōs’ daughters how to sew once but I fear I lack the patience to offer guidance of any sort.”
“So you’re the impatient type?”
“It depends,” you defend yourself quickly, “I can be patient if I want to be. Are you going to answer my question?”
“There it is - your patience,” Shion retorts and you feel irked, breathing in deeply, causing him to laugh.
“Anyway, it’s not so much that it is difficult, it just requires a willingness to understand the other. When teaching, you cannot apply the same words and actions to every pupil you teach. Not everybody is receptive to my ways of teaching.”
Humming in reply, you think out loud, “Are you a strict teacher?”
“I can be.”
“I cannot imagine that. Put on a frown for me, please. To stimulate my fantasy,” you plead, a little too excitedly before you cough and clear your throat, reining it in again.
His eyebrows pull together and yeah - he does look a little intimidating but soon enough a smile tugs on his lips and the muscles of his face fail him. He breaks the strict facial expression in favor of a charming, slightly awkward smile.
“Did that stimulate your fantasy?” he asks with raised brows and your teeth sink into your lower lip, as you’re trying to hold back your grin.
“Plenty. Thank you,” you reply, drinking the rest of your tea before getting up and grabbing a hold of his empty cup, carrying both of them to the kitchen before returning once more.
Instead of sitting down, you decide to walk towards the shelf that covers the entire wall on one side of the living room, standing in front of it as you have done plenty of times during the first few days here.
“Perhaps I can get someone to do the household chores soon-” Shion begins but you cut him off.
“There is no need. I enjoy playing house. My cooking may not be up to par but I fear you will just have to show me some of that patience of yours in that regard,” you smile. “We may have had servants at home but to be honest, that kind of lifestyle has never suited me much.”
“What kind of lifestyle suits you then?” Genuine curiosity resounds in his question and you hum softly in response.
“Perhaps we will just have to find out together,” you offer, reaching out to run a hand over the back of a little booklet. A scroll lays on top of it so you carefully pull it out.
“I apologize if this is an improper question to ask but why do you collect so much poetry and so many stories when you cannot read them by yourself?”
After offering up this question, you turn towards him again, slowly unraveling the scroll as you wait for his reply. Unsure, your eyes flit towards his form again before settling back on the calligraphy displayed on the scroll.
“Whenever I go out to the market, I stop by the place where they sell poetry. The vendors read it to me and I buy it if it appeals to me. It’s a simple explanation, really,” Shion explains. “Surely, you buy things you’re fond of a lot too, right? Even if they aren’t necessarily something you’re able to use a lot.”
"Even if it were something of the past,
With each day the white snow falls,
My love for you grows stronger,
Surpassing all that came before."
Your eyes wander over the words on the scroll carefully while you answer him absentmindedly, “I wasn’t allowed to buy what I desired. However, sometimes I would receive fabrics as a present, from a dear aunt of mine. That would be my personal little luxury.”
Shion frowns, “The daimyō is quite the strict man, isn’t he?”
“Imagine dealing with the shogun and then multiply that by twenty. Perhaps then you’ll get close to just how difficult he is to deal with.” Your eyes flit towards his face and you wonder, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not looking at you,” he refutes and you stay quiet for a moment.
“You are quite fond of these kinds of jokes, aren’t you?”
“I find them incredibly amusing,” he replies, smiling in a terribly boyish manner. Adorable, is what you think it is but you would not dare to say that out loud.
Clearing your throat, you read the poem on the scroll out loud in the way you were taught to do it - with an elegant tone and yet, carrying a tempo that commands attention. Your literary criticism is immediate, “This is a little sad, is it not? Why would one yearn for something that’s in the past… Wouldn’t that just break your heart?”
Shion thinks about your words for a moment before smiling softly. “Something from the past might just return to become a part of your present, no? Also, I do think it’s important to cherish beloved memories.”
His words hang in the room between the both of you and for a faint moment you get the feeling that he is waiting for something else but then he gets up before you can ask any further questions.
“Come on. Let’s go out and get some fresh air. We can continue our talks about the depths of feelings of the past outside,” Shion invites you and you huff, before following him.
“Don’t pour him sake,” Shion tells you and you sigh, switching over to pour sake into your own cup. It’s clear that you have had too much to drink tonight and Tenza is finding great humor in it.
He whisper-shouts your name, pulling on your kimono sleeve excitedly. “And then? What did Sensei say?”
Right. You were in the middle of your retelling of an uncomfortable encounter with a man on the street before you decided to be nice and pour Tenza some of the sake as well. It’s the first time you've had a drink like this. Before, you were not allowed to drink any alcohol but tonight, Shion brought out some sake for you two to share. Tenza decided to join, in search of some entertainment.
“He said ‘I suggest you keep your hands off my wife’ and looked at the guy all scary. Like this,” you giggle, leaning onto your hand, your elbow propped up onto the table as you try to imitate Shion’s expression from back then. It doesn’t look anything like any of his expressions at all and the grimace you’re pulling is so ridiculous, that Tenza snorts loudly.
The tips of Shion’s ears are a little flushed and he shifts awkwardly. His voice is gentle yet firm. “I could not let someone harass you,” he mumbles, drinking from his cup.
“I knew sensei was a protective person but love really does change-oof!” Tenza groans and reaches down to rub his shin, right where Shion just kicked him under the small desk.
“Training tomorrow will begin an hour earlier than usual. Go get some sleep,” Shion urges the young man with a voice so kind that his words almost seem harmless. Tenza’s mouth is caught in a permanent gasp now, at the consequences of his nosy actions. While his mentor can be a little strict, he was not used to him practically throwing him out of his home.
Grumbling, he gets up and bows to you, foregoing his bow towards his mentor. “Good night. Please prepare more stories of sensei’s gallant acts for the next time I come over,” he tells you, a grin pulling on his lips.
With a grin of your own, you reach out and ruffle his hair, breaking into a fit of giggles when he groans about you ruining it.
The world spins and you decide to rest your head on the table. You don’t know how much time passes as Shion leads Tenza back to the entrance to bid him goodbye. Their voices are far away and you close your eyes, feeling a little dizzy.
Cool fingers touch your forehead. “You had too much to drink,” your husband tells you gently, sounding a little amused. Still, there is a hint of worried care underlying his words.
“No such thing happened…,” you mumble and Shion huffs softly, sitting down next to you. Slowly, he traces his fingertips over your face, running them over the apples of your cheeks, along your brow bone before following the lines of your lips.
“Don’t touch my face,” comes your complaint, slurred and hard to understand with your cheek pressed against the table.
Your husband merely smiles but you don’t see it, your eyes still closed. “I am looking at you,” he says in a tone that is so tender that it causes you to take a peek at him. The smile on his lips is a sweet one, so gentle that it pulls on your heartstrings. His brows are drawn together as his fingers draw shapes over your face and it makes him look painfully emotional.
The thought of him not knowing what you look like twists something inside your chest and your throat feels as if you’ve tried to swallow a small rock.
“I am looking at you as well,” you tell him and it would have made for an intimate moment, were it not for how jumbled your words sound due to the alcohol. He laughs softly and cups your cheeks with his hands to turn your face towards him better. His hands are warm, the skin a little rough from the regular use of his sword but they offer a comfort and now something you dare to call familiarity, that you wish to hold onto.
“You look at me a lot.”
“Because you’re handsome,” you shoot back and he looks a little taken aback, the tips of his ears flushing red. With newfound bravery, generously sponsored by the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream, you reach out and cup his face in return. Running your thumb over his ear, you giggle.
“You’re pretty drunk. Let me help you get to bed,” with that he gently tugs your hand away from his face and you pout as he helps you up. Shion wraps his arm around you, helping you to get to your room.
Your hands hold onto the fabric of his kimono. There is something about the way he looked at you when you told him he’s handsome. You decide that you don’t like it. “I really think you are handsome. It’s not the sake,” you promise, tugging on the fabric of his robes.
He pulls you along gently, opening the door to your bedroom before entering with you. Shion helps you get ready for bed, as much as is appropriate. When you change into your clothes for the night, he even turns to face away from you. Watching his broad back, you snort.
“It’s not like you can see me, even if I were to be entirely naked,” you tell him. The tips of his ears are red again and he huffs, shuffling in place.
“It feels inappropriate,” he mumbles, keeping his back turned towards you. “Did you get dressed already?” It’s quiet for a moment and he clears his throat, “If it’s alright, I will turn around-”
Your fingers find the back of his robes, tugging him closer gently… Or are you the one moving closer to him? Shion isn’t sure and his feet feel heavy, yet oddly light, as if he doesn’t have any in the first place. Your arms are warm as they wrap around his middle. As far as he can tell, they’re bare.
“Now, this is inappropriate.”
“We are married,” you tell him, leaning against his back, your cheek rubbing against the spot between his shoulder blades fondly. He’d compare you to a cat if your proximity didn’t toss his thoughts into a big, disorganized pile inside his mind.
“It’s cold. You should get dressed,” he tells you, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His breath is heavy and his tongue feels restless inside his mouth. It’s too hot and his body is yelling at him to simply take a step forward and a way from your body against his back.
He doesn’t.
You remove yourself from his back and he hears the rustling of fabric, coupled with your clumsy steps. “Don’t trip. Be careful,” he tells you and you simply hum, pulling on your robes to sleep in.
“I was wearing my kosode,” you tell him when he turns around and he nods, guiding you to your futon and helping you lay down as he sits by your side. “I wouldn’t hug you if I was indecent. Not even if it was because of the alcohol.”
With a sigh, he nods again and when he tries to stand up after having made sure you’re safe and sound in bed, you grab onto his clothes again. As he regards you with a raised brow, you feel odd. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or this strange tension that hangs in the air between you. Maybe that is due to the alcohol too. Perhaps, this is why your parents never let you drink before.
“Stay. I can read to you if you stay with me for a while longer,” you whisper and Shion faces you for a moment, quietly. It’s a little cheeky to offer such a thing this late at night - to ask someone to stay a while longer already has its implications but something like that, to him at least-
A smile tugs on his lips and he reaches forward, gently rubbing his thumb between your brows, chasing away the frown that he finds with such accuracy, that you truly wonder as to how easy he finds it to understand you without needing to see.
“What if the letters start dancing across the scroll?” he teases you for your tipsy state as he gets up to grab one of his poem collections for you to read out loud to him.
“Then we’ll just have to dance with them,” is all you offer and he huffs before leaving the room for a moment.
You hear him chuckling on his way down the hall to the living room.
“The old pond.
A frog leaps in -
The sound of the water.”
“So…the frog jumps into the pond?”
“You’re quite quick with your deductions, aren’t you?” Shion teases, and you raise your brow at him, pursing your lips in a dissatisfied pout.
“And you have bad taste in poetry. Why did you buy this? If you are in search of obvious retellings of natural happenings, I can be your source for that kind of information for the rest of your days,” you mumble, looking back at the scroll again as you lay on your tummy.
One of you visiting the other’s room with poetry or stories in hand has become a habit. You’ve been spending the past weeks reading to him - faithfully, every single evening. Both of you seem to regard this as an essential part of your days despite not talking about it. Just like how you avoid putting a name to the feelings that have blossomed in your chest.
Shion feels his chest tighten at your casual promise of a life together. The teasing lilt of his voice turns into a warm and comforting one as his hand reaches out to gently cup your cheek. His thumb strokes over your protruding lower lip until you stop pouting. “But can you be as picturesque with your words?” he asks and you grumble.
“How would you even rate that?”
It slips out before you can do anything about it, hours of frustration from trying to work your way around clever plays on kanji, as well as the haikus of Basho taking a toll on you.
“I am so sorry,” you say, trying to get up but your husband tugs on your yukata, urging you to stay on the comfortable futon.
“The old pond has always been peaceful. Quiet and undisturbed,” he speaks, undeterred by your antics and your little joke at his expense but you can tell that he is fighting off a smile. You being comfortable enough to join in on his neverending jokes about his ailment is causing him to feel a warmth that makes him feel unsure whether he wants to share it with you or lock it away inside himself for colder times.
“And then, a little frog comes along. It’s cheeky and doesn’t care about the current ways of the pond. So, mischievous as it is, it jumps into the calm little pond, causing a commotion. A big splash, a loud noise,” Shion murmurs softly, his fingers moving down your arm as he reaches for your hand.
Almost naturally, he laces his fingers between yours and concludes, “Ripples move all over the place as the frog breaks the surface of the water. The calm pond is no more.”
Shion’s attention is entirely on you now and you look up at him as he sits next to you on the futon. You take a moment to process his words, wiggling your fingers between his while you are deep in your thoughts.
“Is that kind of disturbance really that bad? Surely, for a pond that has never experienced anything, aside from its boring quiet life, something like that must be quite exciting, no?”
Amused, Shion lifts your hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses against the tips of your fingers, one by one before he replies, “It’s quite exhilarating.”
A grin tugs on your lips. “So you’re the pond now?”
“Indeed, and you’re the cheeky little thing that decided to shake my life up a little.”
Pricks of warmth climb their way up to your neck and you suppress a shiver. “Is that so…,” you mumble quietly, feeling a little flustered at how happy he sounds about your presence in his life. It grows quiet once more as you return to the poem. Your husband keeps your hand in his and runs his thumb over the side of your finger.
A soft yawn escapes your lips and you blink tiredly, finally noticing how heavy your eyelids feel.
“The kanji for ‘frog’ can be read as ‘to return’,” Shion tells you and you look up at him for a moment, mulling over his words. His attention is fully on you and when he notices that you are lacking a reply, he almost seems a little…disappointed?
“Which also means, the little frog needs to return to her room for tonight,” he concludes and you sigh. With a nod, you get up and as per usual, he accompanies you to your bedroom. Despite how it is almost right next to his own; only a few steps away.
Leaning down, he kisses your forehead ever so gently before bidding you good night and returning to his room.
Your forehead feels warm throughout the entire night as your hand rests on top of it in an attempt to preserve the feeling of his lips against your skin for a moment longer.
Crimson stains your vision on a cold winter day, breaking the abundance of pure white that your eyes have gotten used to.
The smell of iron stings deep inside your nose and your ears feel as if they have been filled with cotton. When you part your lips to speak, nothing escapes your dry throat and you force yourself to swallow before trying anew, “W-What-”
“Just help me get him inside. Quick!” Tenza all but shouts and you comply, your movements almost mechanical as you open the door fully, closing it behind him and leading him to the bedroom.
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor?” you ask, your hands anxiously grabbing onto the fabric of your kimono. You want to reach out and help but you are afraid of hurting your husband even more. You’re not even sure where he is hurting. All you see is how his clothes are stained a deep red.
Nausea climbs its way up your throat but you force it down. Carefully, you help Tenza sit him down. The young man seems unsure what to do himself, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s in distress but he is trying to keep it together.
You feel pathetic.
The wound is on his back and once you know this, it seems clear as day. The back of his clothes is dripping blood and you wince. “I sent for the medic, he should be-”
“Go wait for him outside. Someone needs to guide him here. I will take care of Shion until then.”
Tenza hesitates, shuffling a little before he springs up and into action, leaving the room. Carefully, you brace Shion against your body, unsure of how to lay him down, so this seems like the best option.
“I wanted to see you,” he rasps and you think you misheard. Shifting, you hold him in your embrace, his chest pressed against yours as you grab the thick blanket by your side. Pushing his uniform off his shoulders, you try not to react to the cut on his back. Using the blanket, you apply pressure on his wound. It doesn’t work too well.
“It’ll be okay…” you mumble, not sure whether you are trying to comfort him or reassure yourself. His head is resting on top of your shoulder, his fingers twisting into the fabric of your kimono. You had put on the purple one with the intricate patterns that could be felt by his curious hands. The fondness he expressed over this kimono did not escape you.
You had put it on for when you’d welcome him back. If you had hugged him, would he have been surprised? Would he have hugged you back, delighted by your affection? How long would it have taken him to realize what you’re wearing? Your husband has a sharp mind - you doubt it would have taken long.
Now the soft purple is ruined, stained murky red. Like an overripe plum thrown to the ground and stepped on until there was only a puddle of mush and juice left.
A wave of nausea hits you again, your hands pressing against his back with firmness, ignoring the wetness against your fingertips.
Tenza’s voice cuts through the deafening, high-pitched sound that has crawled its way into your ears as it chases away any and all thoughts, and relief floods you as your eyes lock onto the doctor he brings in tow. The older man seems calm enough at the sight of the wound, once you remove the bedsheet, that you feel a bit of it seeping into you as well.
It would be okay.
The doctor redirects your attention to the task of making sure that Shion stays awake as he works on cleaning the wound and stitching it up. Tenza scurries about the place, grabbing water and supplies from all over the place and he seems glad not to have to sit there in silence.
You hold onto Shion, asking him questions about his trip - What did he eat? How was the weather? Did he find something exciting and new?
His replies are sluggish, his head heavy on your shoulder but he answers, despite how strained he sounds. You try your best to not look at the stitches.
Once it’s done and finished, Tenza helps you change Shion into a comfortable kimono and your eyes find no joy in roaming over his body. All those little scars littering his body cause your thoughts to spiral. How much has he endured in the past? How much would he have to endure in the future?
Pushing those thoughts away, you carefully lay him down on his front, not daring to put any strain on his back. The doctor informs you about the things you should be aware of, instructing you on how to clean the wound and how to aid in his recovery. Tenza gets up to guide him out and when he sends a questioning look filled with worry your way, you simply shake your head and wave your hand to shoo him away.
The young man has had enough of a strenuous day as is.
“You can go home for today. I can handle the rest,” you tell him, still holding your husband in your arms. The look he gives you is not one that screams that he believes you much but his fatigue wins over his desire to help you and a mere nod ends up being his reply to your words.
“I will return after I finish reporting this to the others,” he tells you before he leaves and the moment he closes the door, it’s as if he’s sealed you inside a vacuum. You don’t know how you maneuver Shion onto the futon on his stomach but by the time you’ve snapped back into reality, he’s situated comfortably on it, pillows cushioning the parts of him that need it.
—
It takes a few days for him to get back into a condition where you don’t fear that his fever might turn his brain into charcoal. The snow has settled outside but the cold that seeps into your body every night as you lay next to him, waiting for him to wake up, is not due to the cold weather outside.
Your relief is endless when you enter his room in the morning to see him sitting up on his futon. He looks a little tired and a touch more pale than he usually does but he seems to not be waiting in front of death’s door anymore.
Quickly, you hurry to his side, kneeling next to him. Your hands hover over his body, unsure where to hold onto, the desire to help him in any way you can thrumming within your limbs. “How are you feeling?” you ask carefully, your hands moving to busy themselves by smoothing out the sleeves of his robe.
Your fingertips burn with a desire to touch him, to make sure this is real.
Shifting a little, he carefully rolls his shoulders back, hissing at the hot flash of pain. Immediately, one of your hands lands on his back, gently resting below the injury and offering support. “Don’t move too much. The injury is still not fully closed up.”
A raspy sigh leaves his lips. “I am sorry for causing you trouble,” he mutters, his voice strained from days of not talking. His brows are furrowed and his breathing is still a little heavy. A frown that mirrors his own makes its home on your expression.
“You are my husband. There is no such thing as causing me trouble,” you utter, gently flicking your finger against his forehead. He could easily move out of the way but he takes it in stride, the frown on his face giving way to a softer expression.
“Then allow me to rephrase that: Thank you for taking care of me,” he tells you and you smile gently. Your hand stays on his lower back, your thumb rubbing back and forth over his skin.
“I was a little afraid that you wouldn’t wake up again. It’s silly and I know that but…,” Withdrawing your hands from his body, you fix the blanket over his legs. “That day I thought you’d bleed out in my arms, Shion. I am not a doctor, so coming to me first - in that kind of state…”
The only thing that hangs in the air between the both of you is silence before his hand moves to take one of your own, gently untangling the blanket from your fingers. You didn’t notice that you had been grasping onto the fabric way too tightly. His hand holds yours firmly enough to reassure you of his presence.
“I wouldn’t leave you alone like that,” he tells you quietly, squeezing gently. When you look back up at him again, he smiles warmly, His fingers move to tease your palm softly, tickling you, as he asks, “Who else would explain all of those poems to you?”
Slowly, your frown slowly melts into an amused expression and you shake your head. “They don’t make sense. Trust me, I have spent enough time complaining about them while you were resting.”
Shion’s eyebrows quirk up at that. “Did you read to me while I was asleep?”
For a moment, there is no reply from you. He’s left in the dark and the only thing that reminds him of your presence is the weight of your hand in his.
You clear your throat, “I thought it would be rude to just stop reading to you.” Anxiously, your fingers press into his hand ever so slightly. “I wanted you to know that you’re not alone.”
You don’t notice that he has gotten closer to you until his forehead bumps against your temple softly, and his hand finds the back of your neck. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you, my lovely wife,” he whispers tenderly.
Turning your face towards him a little more, you sigh softly, your forehead pressed against his as your breaths intermingle. “You need to be more careful from now on. This house is too big for me to live in by myself,” you complain and he laughs softly. His lips are so close to yours that you feel your cheeks heat up beyond a level you consider comfortable.
You shift and move away slightly. He seems reluctant about letting you go but does so regardless. Cleaning up the supplies that you have kept around his futon, you watch how he shifts in discomfort. “Are you alright?”
“I need a bath,” he mutters, scrunching up his nose. These past few days you’d wipe him down but for someone who is as clean and as thorough about his hygiene as he is, this must be a nightmare. There is no way he can go by himself though. Not with how hurt he is.
“I will help you wash up,” you announce and the grimace he pulls makes you laugh. Firmly, you grab onto his upper arm where he is not hurt, carefully helping him up onto his feet. On the way to the bath, you support his weight, thankful for the fact that the houses of the Yamada Asaemon all have their own private baths. Helping him wash up in a public bath would have proven to be very complicated.
Steam envelops you merely a few minutes later. Your husband is sitting on a wooden stool in front of you, only covered by a simple tenugui. Carefully, you remove the bandages on top of his injury. With bated breath, Shion waits for a reaction but it never comes. Tentatively he asks, “Is it bad?”
“It’s healing up nicely,” you answer calmly, feeling a little emotionally detached whenever you look at it. The nausea that would take over whenever you’d look at it, left after the fourth day of taking care of him. There were more important things to deal with and it had faded into the background.
The thought of you getting used to violence like that in any way deeply aggravates Shion. He feels a little helpless and it seems to show. Your wet fingers meet his face when you tilt his head back so gently that it fills him with the desire to reward every single one of your fingertips that have bestowed such a tender touch upon him.
“Are you alright?” you ask, your fingers moving to gently trace over his eyebrows, fixing them in place before following along the lines of his scars. There is something about them that makes you feel weirdly nostalgic in a way that causes something to stir in your chest but you pour water on that warmth, preventing the spark that might offset something.
The way you are right now is alright.
“It just feels a little unfamiliar to be this exposed in front of you,” he tells you, his breath warm against your face and it is only then that you realize that you have been leaning down to be closer to his face.
The way his lashes brush against the top of his cheeks makes you want to lean even closer but you clear your throat, straightening your back again before allowing him to tilt his head forward once more.
“You’re covered up. I wouldn’t mind either way. We are married and eventually, we’d come into contact with each other like this,” stating this firmly, you move on to wash his hair. His ears are flushed a soft red but the bath is warm so you pay it no mind.
Surprised at his hair’s softness, you find yourself taking much more time than necessary to run your fingers through the tufts of silvery white, separating the strands before pushing them back together again. Your fingertips push into his scalp in a gentle massage.
When your nails join in on the fun and you tug on his hair a little, a sharp intake of breath echoes through the little room and your fingers leave his scalp.
Turning away, you grab a hold of the little bucket and scoop water into it. Once you turn back, your husband’s ears are still decorated with that healthy flush that now spreads to his shoulders.
“I would like to let you soak in the tub for a bit but it seems your fever is coming back,” you mumble, washing his body clean with water before helping him dry himself off with a soft towel.
Handing him his robe, you turn away to let him get dressed once more, albeit you tell him to not pull the upper part of the robe up. Instead, Shion leaves it down, the garment tied around his waist securely as the both of you walk back to his room. It’s cold and the way he shivers ever so slightly pushes you to walk a bit quicker.
Once you arrive, he settles on his futon and you get to work. With practiced movements, you put the ointment on his wound before dressing it carefully to ensure that nothing would be able to mess with the healing process.
It’s an action you don’t think about at all when you lean forward to press a kiss on top of the bandage. Shion startles slightly, turning his head towards you. You realize and freeze. “Don’t look at me,” you mumble, feeling a sudden sense of embarrassment flood your body.
He turns around to face you, your embarrassment no hindrance to him as he pulls you into a hug. “I am not looking at you,” he mumbles back cheekily, his hands pressing you closer against his body. His upper body is warm against you and very naked but the need for comfort outweighs your bashfulness and you carefully wrap your arms around him, mindful of his injury.
Something as simple as a hug shouldn’t cause you to feel a feeling as bittersweet as the one that pulses within your chest right now but you don’t remember the last time someone had held you like this.
You don’t think anyone ever has.
If Shion can feel the way your shoulders tremble and how your wet lashes brush against his skin, he does a good job not commenting on it. All he does is hold you tightly as he whispers, mere inches away from your ear, “I am really happy that I got to return to you. While I was gone, I was really anxious about how you were doing back home.”
He sighs. “I am sorry for being reckless.”
Pressing his lips against the top of your head, he sighs softly, confessing, “I missed you.”
Your breath is warm against his shoulder as you stay like this for a while. He holds you until the trembling subsides and you part with a shaky exhale. With care, you reach out to pull up his yukata, helping him get his arms inside the sleeves before draping it over his shoulders.
It’s late. The darkness slowly settles outside as stars creep out of their homes and show themselves in the night sky. Shion gets comfortable on his futon, laying on his stomach as per your orders while you go ahead and grab something to read to him.
You return with a new story for him - no poetry this time - wanting to have an excuse to spend more time with him. Rationally, you know you don’t need an excuse to spend time with your husband who is more than generous enough to let you waste all of his free time but still, this is the method of your choosing, your very own way of circling around your feelings.
It’s easier to push them aside if you don’t verbalize them - if they don’t hang in the air between you and make it difficult to breathe. Suddenly those silly poems make a little more sense and the longing described feels more palpable.
The cold doesn’t seem to be a problem to you anymore. You feel too warm.
You discard the haori that you had worn over your kimono all day long to shield you from the cold. Instead of putting it away, you carefully cover Shion’s back and shoulders with it, mantling his body with it like a blanket.
Bemusedly, he pulls it closer around himself. “It smells like lavender, just like you do,” he breathes out, sounding a little exhausted as he settles, laying his head atop his pillow. Snickering at how docile he looks, you settle on his futon as well, right next to him on your tummy.
Your fingers move to comb back a particularly messy patch of hair right at the top of his forehead, your eyes surrounded by tiny folds as deep as your affection for the sweet man as you smile fondly. Absent-mindedly, your fingers make their way through his hair, over the nape of his neck, and down his arm until they find his fingers, and then they travel back up to his shoulder.
Today, it’s difficult to keep your hands to yourself but he seems to be alright with that. So you don’t, and simply continue touching him, while you begin to read.
“The days and months are travelers of eternity, just like the years that come and go. For those who pass their lives afloat on boats, or face old age leading horses tight by the bridle, their journeying is life, their journeying is home.”
Shion listens to you, letting out a soft hum of acknowledgement here and there. His face twitches in reaction to the words every now and then when he scrunches up his nose at some of the details, or when he smiles at how you dramatize certain passages.
By the time you reach the end of the book, your voice is lower than usual, much more intimate and quiet. The way your fingers casually trace over the nape of his neck, right where his hair meets his skin, has his skin burning. Flipping his pillow over, he buries one side of his face against the cool material in hopes of bringing comfort to the heat that wells up inside him.
Intrigued by his antics, you turn your head towards him once you finish the book, putting it away. Leaning closer, you pout as your fingers rub at his neck gently. “You must be tired, hm? Let me head off for tonight.”
Swiftly, you move in to press a lingering kiss against the top of his head, before whispering a quick “Good night”. With that, you’re off and once the door is closed, a soft sigh leaves Shion.
As he shifts to get more comfortable, he notices that you’ve left your haori with him. Brows furrowed, he presses the soft fabric closer to his nose, breathing in deeply. It doesn’t just smell of lavender but it smells of you.
It makes him feel an intense sense of yearning and his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His hips feel restless as the minutes pass by and his fingers tighten their hold on the haori while his other hand moves a little lower along the front of his body as he leans more onto his side.
The sting of his injury causes him to take in a sharp breath - or rather, it’s the feeling of his hand pressing against the mortifying hardness that is slowly arising underneath his yukata as he hastily pushes the fabric aside. He wishes the pain were more severe. It might have prevented such a shameful situation.
Perhaps the mix of pain and desperation can wash away the shame that threatens to burn his ears as your voice still seems to echo within them, contorting in ways his mind conjures up. You have never made the kind of sounds that plague him at this very moment, that urge him to move his hand and his hips in an attempt to ease this ache. Shion is troubled by this sudden revelation of his mind's creativity.
He wonders what you’d sound like if he worshiped at your feet. If he showed proof of his gratitude, right between your legs. Over and over again, until your cries die out and turn into soft murmurs, until your skin is warmed by his reverence.
Shion returns your haori a few days later in a hurried manner, his face turned away from yours as he hands it to you rather passively before leaving. It’s freshly cleaned and the smell of lavender is nowhere to be found.
It smells like nothing.
It is when the leaves start turning green again and you get to describe the various shades of the flowers blooming in your garden to your husband, that you feel the desire for there to be more within this. How much closer can one really get when they’re married?
Shion treats you well. Not once has he gone back on his promises and you have more than you could wish for. Not only are you well-fed and warm, but you are also free to do what you want and he treats you kindly.
Yet, every kind word of his leaves you with a deep ache.
It is also during that same spring that Shion starts to avoid you.
At first, it’s just the small things. He flinches away from your casual touches. You chalk it up to a miscalculation on your side. Perhaps he is not that comfortable with it after all.
Within your presence, he starts to look increasingly uncomfortable. He is in deep thought most of the time around you, and he doesn’t realize you’ve been calling his name many times in a row, trying to grab his attention.
And then, he blatantly begins to avoid you. The hours you’d spend reading his beloved poetry and long-winded stories to him dwindle down to the smallest fraction of an hour until he tells you that he’s too tired for your shared reading time.
Long pages remain unread, the new stories you’d bought stay hidden within the beautiful fabric you had wrapped them up in to surprise him with, and your nights feel a little colder now, despite the weather warming up.
It is on a warm spring day, that Tenza refuses to leave until you promise him to visit the sakura matsuri later that week. It feels like only yesterday when the plum blossoms in your garden had started to bloom and yet, it was already cherry blossom season. “Bring Shion-sensei with you!” is the last thing he tells you.
It’s not that easy.
Frustration sinks its claws deep into your heart. It’s not as if he doesn’t talk to you anymore or as if he is unkind. He shares with you the same kindness as he did when you got married but that is precisely what irks you.
Back then, you barely knew each other. Back then, you were just happy to have gotten out of that household, away from your father. Back then, you did not harbor this many difficult feelings for this man and it is only when your eyes sting and your lower lip begins to tremble, that you get up.
Distance is not a wall, it can be minimized, one step at a time. Even if it were a wall - you didn’t climb over the manor walls when you were younger for nothing. You’d climb over any wall he would build.
Your feet carry you to his room, a route you’re awfully familiar with by now. Softly, you knock as you take a deep breath. Once your husband bids you inside, you enter.
“Tenza asked for us to go watch the cherry blossoms with him.”
“Did he phrase it like that when asking for our presence? How cheeky,” Shion mumbles, his hands working to polish his sword with an uchiko ball. There is no humor in his tone like there used to be and the straight, confident posture you put up falters ever so slightly.
“I want to go,” you tell him and he nods, still not stopping his work, not turning towards you either.
“You are free to do so. You know you needn’t ask me for permission, as long as there is someone to keep you safe.”
“Together,” you add and he stops, carefully putting down his katana as he finally turns towards you. You continue, “Please, come along. It will be fun. I have been working on a kimono recently and it would be a good opportunity to wear it.”
Shion looks like he might deny you, his brows furrowed, his expression stuck in that internal conflict that has nestled somewhere inside his mind. You wish you had the courage to talk about it, to pester him more whenever he tells you that it’s nothing.
The shuffling of your feet as your toes grow restless against the tatami mats is loud enough for him to relent. A night out might also distract you a little and lift your spirits. Recently, you have been rather quiet and it makes him feel guilty.
He wouldn’t dare pinpoint himself as the cause of the shift in your behavior but he is aware that his recent changes have made you… Uncomfortable, perhaps. Shion doesn’t know what exactly you are feeling but he doesn’t dare to ask. He doesn’t have the right to do so.
With a nod, he complies, “Alright. We can head out together then. It’s at the end of the week, right?”
You didn’t notice that you had been holding your breath, so the first breath you take after his reply feels exhilarating. “Yes! I will ask Tenza where he wants to meet up that day and I will also take care of the rest. Thank you!”
As you hurry out of his room, Shion smiles gently, the pitter-patter of your feet against the floor accompanying him as he picks his tools back up.
—
When the day arrives and he is washing his face as you wander about, getting ready, he is reminded of a poem the old lady at the market has read to him once.
"Even though we may be apart,
if I am to hear that you pine for me
as the Inaba mountain pines,
I shall return to you."
Reaching up, he ruffles up his hair, frustrated by the resurgence of this memory. It is ridiculous to think that you have seemed so excited for him to join because it is him in particular.
The more, the merrier - that is what you’d say whenever you’d invite the other Yamada Asaemon over for dinner, or whenever you’d tell Tenza to tag along for your walks together. Futile, is what it is, to hope and pray and spend his day interpreting your awkward shifting when he’d sent you away that first night, telling you that he was too tired to have you read to him.
Futile, to search for meaning in the way your tone has changed around him. It is especially futile to think about how you’d react if he were to reach out and claim your lips.
His face feels warm.
Your hand is cold as it touches the nape of his neck and he flinches. Dumbstruck, you stand there for a moment. He’s never been one to be surprised by your presence. He had chalked it up to his heightened senses, due to his lack of vision and you’d thought it a good enough explanation. On top of that, he was a seasoned fighter.
“You’re warm… And you seem a little out of it,” you mumble gently, the awkwardness of the past few weeks forgotten in light of the possibility of him being sick. “Are you coming down with a fever?”
“I am alright,” he tells you, sounding a little flustered. Ever so softly, you reach out to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. It doesn’t seem to be a fever but his skin is a little warmer than you’re used to.
With a soft sigh, you let him know, “If you are feeling unwell, we can stay at home, you know?” You take your hand off his forehead but he grabs a hold of it mid-air, tugging it towards his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss against where you had just touched his skin, he breathes deeply.
“I want to go together.”
A tingling sensation spreads over your skin and you smile. “Alright. Let me go grab your kimono.”
“I can get it myself. My closet is right there,” Shion points towards the closet in his room but you huff in reply, pulling your hand out of his hold.
“Now, don’t tell me I spent all week hurrying to finish your kimono, just for you to want to wear one of your old ones. How terribly unkind.” You’re pouting and it weaves itself into your manner of speech in a way that Shion finds so charming that it tugs on the corners of his lips.
“The kimono you were referring to a few days ago when you told me about this…was mine?”
“I have plenty of my own that I have made over the years. Since we have gotten married I have made even more. On top of that, you make sure to gift me fancy fabrics every time we go out, so I wanted to repay that favor,” you tell him, the end of it sounding a little flustered, and he smiles warmly.
“I will gladly wear it then,” he tells you and you smile, content now as you go to retrieve it. You leave most of the work to him, your back turned to him as a way of giving him privacy. It is only the details that you busy yourself with, helping him fix up the obi in a nice way, as well as smoothing out the odd wrinkle or two.
A happy smile tugs on your lips. “Is it comfortable?”
Shion runs his hand over the sleeves, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. “This is incredibly soft,” he mumbles softly, almost in awe. You smile triumphantly.
“I found this fabric the other day when I was out with Tenza. I wanted to make sure you get to enjoy the clothes you wear. Just for your knowledge, the color is really pretty too. A dark blue. It reminded me of the night sky so I just had to take it with me,” you explain proudly and he smiles.
“Thank you,” is all he replies but it’s filled with enough tenderness to make up for the lack of colorful words.
You feel at ease, for the first time in weeks, as the both of you walk towards the designated spot for your meeting with Tenza. Once you meet up with him and some of the other Yamada Asaemon, you feel the rest of your awkwardness dissipate.
It was fine this way. Shion could spend his evening with his colleagues and you could just stay with Sagiri and Tenza, trying out the different foods Tenza would carry over from the stalls to the blanket you were sitting on.
So that is what you do for the entire duration of the little festival. Your hand rests on Sagiri’s arm as the both of you move from one food stall to the next. She doesn’t ask any questions, seemingly knowing that there is something going on which must be solved between you and your husband.
She offers you a gentle squeeze as she rests her hand on top of yours, trying to comfort you. You smile at her but it looks awkward and wrong. The way Shion seemed more approachable again today worries you. If you return home and he ends up going back to his avoidant behavior, you don’t think you’ll know what to do.
You walk back to where the others are sitting.
It is only when everybody is knocked out from either the alcohol, too much food, or long-winded talks, that your group goes silent. Only soft conversations happen here and there. You’re seated on a soft blanket, the cherry trees blossoming around you, their petals illuminated by the moon as they drift onto the grass.
“The plum blossoms in our garden are this pretty too,” you murmur softly. Shion, who is sitting next to you, hums in reply.
“They are almost the same color, right? Both are popular topics for poetry after all.”
“I think plum blossoms are prettier,” you tell him firmly and he huffs softly. His fingers bump into yours on top of the blanket but neither of you move to change anything about that. Turning your head to look his way, you’re startled by how close his face is to yours. It’s quiet for a moment and you feel awkward.
Behind you, Tenza and Sagiri are eagerly mumbling. You catch a few words such as “kiss” and “romantic”, and heat flares up inside your chest. It feels as if Shion is playing pretend in front of everybody tonight. As if everything is alright.
But it’s not.
Getting up quickly, you dust yourself off. “We should head home. It’s late,” you declare, your tone tinged with a sense of detachment that causes Shion to purse his lips but he nods, following suit regardless. He gets up, grabbing what little you had brought along before bidding everybody goodbye and following you.
Brisk is the pace you set, your geta clacking against the floor rhythmically. Shion follows you, two steps behind you as he keeps his attention on you regardless of any distance between you. It’s noticeable and only upsets you more.
Shion tries to strike up a conversation twice. Once, by bringing up the sweets you had tried with Sagiri and the second time by asking about the view. Both times, your replies are curt and to the point, your desire to not talk to him evident.
He doesn’t say anything else.
You step inside the house first, discarding your geta and getting ready to head to your room for tonight. Your endeavor is cut short when you’re pulled back into your husband’s arms, your back against his chest.
“I am sorry if I upset you.” His words are met with silence from you and his arms tighten their hold around you in response as he whispers, “Talk to me. Please.”
“I don’t want to,” is all you reply, grabbing a firm hold of his arms and freeing yourself from his hold. Never one to get overly physical, he lets go of you easily but is persistent regardless when he follows you through the house.
When you open the door to your room, step inside, and turn around to close it, he’s quick to nudge his foot between the sliding door and the frame. Neither of you anticipates just how much power you put into sliding the door shut.
A gasp leaves you when he hisses and pulls his foot away. Immediately, you open the door and pull him inside. “Sit down and let me take a look,” you mumble, guiding him towards your futon. “I am so sorry, I really didn’t mean to. I just wanted to-”
“To shut your stupid husband out. I know,” Shion replies as he sits down, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. Regarding him with furrowed brows, you sigh softly as you sit down and grab his foot, squeezing gently.
“Does it hurt?”
“Tenza would stomp on my foot with more force than that during training back when he started. I will be fine,” he reassures you, allowing you to drop his foot on the soft futon. “I am sorry for upsetting you. That was not my intention.”
“Then what was your intention?” It’s a fair question and Shion knows this but despite his desire to tell you everything, he keeps quiet.
“I don’t mind if you aren’t by my side at all times,” you continue, “I was content just being your wife in name but when you go ahead and build up my hopes, treat me with so much care, and familiarity, just to turn around and avoid me-”
Shion feels his heart sink when your words are interrupted by a choked sob and his hands move to cup your cheeks. A Yamada Asaemon’s hands never tremble, for it would be detrimental to the techniques they use for their executions. He swings his blade with firmness, confident in the path he has chosen to tread in this life.
All of his confidence is washed away by the teardrops that run down your cheeks, his thumbs trembling as they wipe them away. Apologies are all that he manages to utter before he pulls you in for a hug.
He breathes in deeply as he holds you. “I was unaware that keeping my distance would affect you so,” leaning down, he buries his face against the side of your neck. “I suffer whenever you aren’t close but when you are close to me I suffer twice as bad. I love you deeply and I have loved you since I can remember.”
Pursing your lips, you sniffle, finding comfort in rubbing your damp cheek against the soft material of his kimono. Allowing for his words to sink in for a moment, you ask, “Is that why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he murmurs softly and your breath hitches when you feel his lips against your throat. Shion takes a deep breath, “I was enduring.”
A wry smile tugs on his lips, hidden away from your sight. He huffs, finding humor in his suffering and you tremble when his warm breath washes over your skin. “The self-control I take such pride in seems to crumble so easily when you’re around me.”
His hands find your waist and his fingertips press into the fabric of your kimono with such desperation and yet, he holds back. As always. “That night…when you read to me and forgot your haori…,” he continues, going lower until his lips are just shy of touching the bit of collarbone that presents itself to him.
“It smelled so much like you that I felt intoxicated by it. Your voice kept ringing in my ears and I was aching to touch you but I couldn’t.” His voice gives way to a shuddering breath when your hands cup his cheeks.
“But you can,” you tell him, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. If this was a man’s desire - no, your husband’s desire for you, then you wish for it to swallow you whole and mold you anew.
“I’ve yearned for you to touch me,” you whisper and your breath hitches when you feel attention fully on you as he leans back from your embrace.
“You should have told me.”
“I know,” comes your reply. He doesn’t fault you and neither do you blame him in any way.
“I will make up for the lost time,” Shion promises, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead, “I will leave no inch of you untouched. You won’t ever have to ache for me the way I do for you.”
When you lean forward to press your lips against his - not in that tentative and careful way you used to, whenever you’d kiss his cheek but ardently, with a need that shakes him to his core - only then do you feel his hesitance disappear.
His hands find your waist with a firmness that you have grown familiar with and you smile against his lips, your breathing still stilted by your earlier tears. Shion notices and leans back to kiss your cheeks, right where your tears are drying.
“I love you,” he tells you again, “I love how your voice sounds in the late hours of the night whenever you read to me. The way you smell makes me feel weak, especially when the smell of your favorite sweet treats lingers on you. Whenever I am away from you, I find myself thinking about you endlessly until I come back home.”
Grabbing a gentle hold of your hand, he pulls it up to his lips, leaving a kiss on each fingertip. “I adore these hands that cause my skin to burn beneath their touch.”
“I wouldn’t want to burn you,” you whisper bemused. A smile tugs on his lips and he lets go of your hand in favor of pulling you close.
“I wish you’d burn me terribly. The pain might distract me from my longing,” Shion whispers, his breath warm against your lips. His voice is quiet and you don’t dare to breathe in fear of sending it away with the wind. “May I kiss you?”
With a soft laugh, you pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. Gently exploring the other, your lips move together, falling into a comfortable, warm rhythm. You’re both a little clumsy, inexperienced, and hurried by your need but it’s sweet nonetheless and it fills the empty cup in your heart ever so slightly.
But a sip like that would not quell your thirst. Not anymore.
Your hands find the obi that they had neatly tied to hold his kimono earlier. Shion lets out a soft breath at the feeling of it untying and your hands diving beneath the fabric of his kimono. “We don’t have to-”
“I want to touch you,” you urge, firmly and in a way that won’t allow for him to question if you are doing this out of your own desire. “Don’t you think you’ve denied me your affections long enough?”
“I can share my affections with you but this is a bit…,” he mumbles, his cheeks red and you cup his cheeks.
Leaning forward, you press a gentle kiss against his lips before telling him, “If this is too hasty for you, I am willing to wait. I love you.”
The expression on his face is barely visible to you through the little moonlight that shines into your room. It’s one you haven’t seen on him before and you don’t get to decipher it for long before he moves forward to kiss you once more.
This time, he dives in to taste you, his tongue exploring yours as you engage in a heated kiss. His body presses into yours and you don’t know when it is that your back meets the futon underneath you but you don’t care enough to spend another second wondering about it.
Traveling lower, his lips find your jaw, then your throat, and your collarbone right after. The trail of kisses he leaves is hot against your skin and you find yourself feeling entirely too warm in your intricate kimono. Relief floods you when you feel his hands settle on your obi and your own hands move to help him out with the complicated bow.
Once the bow is untied and the belt is discarded, his hands move to glide over your shoulders, parting the fabric from your skin.
To his chagrin, his palms slide over another layer of fabric. A frustrated sound leaves him and you huff, amused by his antics. “Please tell me there aren’t any more layers to this. I wasn’t aware that my wife’s real identity was that of an onion.”
“Your wife likes to stay atop the latest fashion trends. There is no way I’d compromise my comfort and wear a kosode on top of my hadajuban. I’d be sweating way too much,” you explain, slipping your arms out of the fabric of your kimono and letting it fall down around you.
You could clean it later.
“Unfortunately, I think you’ll be working up a sweat regardless,” Shion teases as his hands work to untie your inner robes with such dexterity that it almost makes you feel impressed.
Your hands move to rid him of his robes and once the both of you are entirely bare, with no fabric between you to separate your bodies, you feel shyness creep up inside you. Hesitantly, your hand reaches out to brush over his chest and the way he shudders causes your touch to be firmer - more explorative and sure in its approach.
Your other hand moves to settle on his shoulder as he kneels between your legs and he allows you to acquaint yourself with his body. His own hands are resting on your thighs, balled into fists.
“You can touch me too,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss him for a short moment, feeling as if your chest would burst if you didn’t release all of this pent-up affection. Moving your hands to his, your fingers gently uncurl his fingers from their firsts, leading them to your waist. They settle on your naked skin and he shudders visibly. A soft laugh leaves you.
An embarrassed smile finds its place on his lips and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “I am sorry but now that I get to touch you, it feels a little overwhelming,” comes his soft explanation and you smile.
Your breath gets caught in your throat when his hands slide over the curves of your waist, tracing your skin up to your chest. Carefully, his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling the sensitive nubs until they perk up under his attention. The rise of his chest speaks for his delightment and he leans lower, still hovering over you but moving lower to take your nipple into his mouth.
It’s an unfamiliar sensation, different compared to your touch. His mouth is hot, his tongue wet and soft when it licks over and around your nipple before there’s a slight sucking sensation. It sends a hot tingle down your stomach and you gasp softly, your hand finding purchase on his shoulder while the other settles on the back of his head.
Strands of silver slip between your fingers and you tug gently while his lips leave your chest, the cool air of the room brushing against your wet nipple and sending a shudder through your body. You think you can feel him smiling against your tummy as he works his way lower, down to your pelvis.
His hands are gentle as they explore your curves. Sliding along your hips before grabbing a hold of your thighs, squeezing to feel your flesh between his fingers. You wonder how all of this feels for him.
Settling on his knees between your legs, he leans back over you. Meeting him halfway, you lean up to kiss him again. The initial eagerness has died out and what you are left with is a warm simmer between your legs. One of his hands slides between your thighs, his fingers exploring eagerly. A soft gasp tears itself free from your lips and Shion asks, in a whisper, if you are alright with what he is doing.
You nod and pull him a little closer until his lips rest against your collarbone once more. His breath is heavy as he slides his fingers over your folds, cupping your mound before dipping between your lips. There’s a stutter in his breathing once he gathers some of your wetness.
A smile tugs on your lips. “What? Surprised?” you tease, moving your hips a little so that his fingers glide back and forth between your folds. He follows your motions, thankful for the bit of guidance you seem to be offering.
“Just new to this,” he murmurs, playfully nipping at your throat. “It’s a little difficult to really get a feeling for it unless you indulge in the real thing. The few drunken words of others can only provide so much information.”
Your soft laugh reaches his ears and he moves upwards until his lips meet yours once more. “So you’ve been receiving private lessons, hm?” you tease and he chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and circling the swollen nub slowly, applying gentle pressure. Meanwhile, two of his fingers dip between your folds, finding you unbearably warm and wet for him as he slides them in and then out again steadily.
The soft gasp that leaves you sends a tingling sensation up Shion’s spine and he gulps.
“They were rather unpleasant lessons, although the knowledge I have gained seems to be proving useful,” your husband shoots back with more wit than you wish he’d have right now.
A little impatient, despite your desire to take your time, your hand moves to wander across his chest, tracing the defined lines of his abs. The muscles move under your fingertips, taut and firm as you continue lower until you reach his cock.
The way your husband bucks his hips into your touch and the way his breath hitches in his throat when your fingers wrap around him diffuses your anxieties. He has half the heart to tell you that you don’t have to touch him, that this is about you but you manage to chase all of those thoughts out of his mind once you begin to stroke him.
A little too slow for his liking and a little too gentle. Even so, he doesn’t stop you or complain. His hand wraps around yours and he squeezes it gently. “A little more firmly,” he tells you and his words are so airy that it knocks the wind out of you. All you manage is a slow nod as you follow his instructions, picking up on how he seems to like it. His hands rest on your hips, one of them still wet with your desire.
You wonder if he’d touch himself like this when thinking of you - if his breath felt as hot against his pillow as it does on your skin, and if his thighs trembled ever so slightly, just as they do now.
Tugging on your wrists, he coaxes you to let go of him. Reluctantly, you follow along, immediately missing the weight of him in your hands. Was it that unpleasant for him?
As if he’s read your mind, he presses a kiss against your temple and explains, “I want you to feel good too.” Breathing out softly, you shake your head. You were ready to protest but how could you, when he says something like that?
Shifting on top of you, he moves his lips lower along your body but you stop him in this endeavor, cupping his cheeks as you pull him back up to kiss you once more. “Please,” his voice comes in such a deep, parched tone that seems to rumble inside his chest; you find it hard to focus on what he is saying. “Let me have a taste.”
And as much as you want to give in - the fantasy of his lips caressing places you wouldn’t dare ask him to kiss making you feel a heat unlike anything else - you simply wrap your legs around his hips, keeping him right where he is.
“There will be time for that later,” you tell him, and the way he swallows at that, the movement of his adam’s apple faintly visible under the light that the moon provides, tugs on the corners of your lips and makes you pull him a little closer.
“You’re terrible,” Shion mumbles, his lips finding their home on your face, over and over again, wandering from your cheek to your temple, and then up to your forehead, “Have I not waited long enough?”
Pushing his hips right up against yours, you shudder at the warm weight of his cock that settles on top of your tummy. “I think there are more pressing matters,” you argue, shifting to change the angle of your hips. A soft sigh falls from your lips when he pulls back a little before sliding back, the underside of his cock rubbing back and forth over your clit as he slides it through your folds.
His chest is pressed against yours, the weight on top of you comfortable as it presses you deeper into the sheets. Warm lips find yours once more and you have lost count of how many kisses you have shared tonight. It doesn’t matter since there will be too many to count soon anyway. You’d make sure of that.
When he finally sinks into you, it’s not as violent of a sensation as you expected it to be. Not as harsh and unrelenting as the women in your life would whisper when the men were gone.
It’s warm, almost unendurably so and yet, you wish to cling onto this warmth. The stretch isn’t painful - a bit uncomfortable at most. You’re more focused on how he feels inside you and how you find it difficult to tell which heartbeat belongs to you, his heart thrumming in his chest that is right up against yours.
Bottoming out inside you, Shion lets out a soft groan. His forehead meets yours and your breaths intermingle. “I love you,” he sighs, relieved to finally be able to say it freely and you smile up at him fondly, cupping his cheeks.
“I love you,” comes your echo to his confession before your back arches and you push up against him more when he finally moves. The drag of his length inside you burns in a way which your fingers could never hope to replicate and your toes flex, your heels arching off the futon.
A choked sound of Shion’s has your head tipping back, your eyes fluttering shut at how good and right he feels buried inside you. Your eyes burn behind your eyelids and you’re only aware of the tears that escape the corners of your eyes when Shion kisses them away.
“Are you hurting? Should we stop?” he asks, his tone ever so gentle but it’s a little strained and you think you see his cheeks flushed with such a beautiful color that you make a mental note to explore this particular hue in the morning hours, accompanied by the light of the morning sun.
The shake of your head is immediate and you whisper a soft “No”. Putting your hand on top of his that is cupping your cheek, you turn your head to press a kiss to his palm and you get to watch as the firm, upright man on top of you melts, his expression twisting into one that you finally understand.
A suppressed chuckle leaves you in the form of a shaky breath and it’s wobbly as your lips tremble. “Feels good,” is all you manage to speak and he smiles down at you fondly, prompting you to return his smile. Your cheeks hurt.
The need for conversation subsides as he begins to rock his hips into yours again, pushing himself deeper with each thrust. Your thighs begin to tremble when one of his hands slips between your bodies to find your clit, circling it once more with his thumb to help push you over the edge.
Moans, heavy breathing, and the sounds of his skin meeting yours over and over again fill the room, echoing inside your four walls in a way that would usually make your ears burn with shame. Right now, you’re freed from any sort of feeling of that sort.
Your nails dig into his back, pulling him closer as his hips move insistently and his lips lavish your throat with soft bites that he caresses with his tongue to soothe the pain. All it takes is a particular grind of his hips and his name leaves you as a choked sound, your vision turning white as you close your eyes.
It feels like all the air leaves your lungs and you feel dizzy, your walls pulsing around his shaft as your body trembles in his hold, the soft tremors continuing until he removes his thumb from you and stops the onslaught of his mouth on your body. Shaky breaths are all that leave your lips for a few moments as you finally fill your lungs greedily.
Forehead bumping against his shoulder, you keep Shion close, the quick rhythmic up and down of his chest soothing your quivering body. The man above you is breathing heavily, way more out of breath than he’d be after one of those training sessions you were allowed to watch.
A breathless chuckle leaves him as he presses a little closer and it is only then, when you feel the wet sensation between your thighs that drips down your folds and onto the sheets, accompanied by a squelching sound that shoots heat into your cheeks, that you realize he has spilled himself inside you.
“You are beautiful,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that has never before been yours to claim from anyone. The way the folds around his eyes join in on his expression of joy as his cheeks push up against them while he smiles has you feeling a warmth that you wish to never miss again.
Blurry is your vision as you watch him pull out of you, making do by wiping the excess of your combined essence with the corner of his futon’s cover, before he lays down next to you. Your sniffling reaches his ears and he laughs joyfully, pulling you closer. “Cry as much as you wish to. I will be right here to wipe your tears,” he promises, chasing your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Although I do prefer you smiling and laughing.”
Wrapping your arms around him, you move as close as possible, resting your head against his chest. It’s quiet for a while; comfortable. Your breath evens out and you relax against him as his fingers trace shapes into the skin of your back. You’re too tired to decipher what kind of shapes they are.
After a while, you speak up and laugh softly at the way Shion startles ever so slightly. He must have thought you were already asleep.
“Does this mean I can come to your room and read to you again?” you ask mischievously, looking up at him with an unbearably cheesy smile pulling on your lips. You’re glad he can’t see it.
Shion smiles down at you warmly before pressing his lips against your forehead. Lingering there, he whispers,
“You may read to me in our room. Every single evening, for as long as you wish to stay with me. Every poem or story that piques your interest.”
“For as long as I wish to stay?” you ask teasingly, shifting to press your lips against his jaw. “That is going to be a long time.”
“It could never be long enough.”
A few months later it’s still warm, despite the late hour.
Too warm to stay inside, which is why you are sitting outside on the engawa, humming softly as you try not to spill the juicy goodness of your fruits onto your yukata.
“Don’t eat too quickly or you might not be able to sleep.”
Tilting your head back, you look up to see your husband hovering over you as he stands right behind you. There’s a teasing smile on his lips and the light of the setting sun illuminates his skin nicely. He looks warm.
“Oh, come on now. I am not eating that quickly,” you shoot back, opening up another plum to remove its stone, just to throw it into one of the bushes. A product of nature returning to nature. No harm done.
He chuckles, sitting down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Couldn’t find any shut-eye inside? I could give you a few tips.”
You snort inelegantly.
“It’s too stuffy and warm inside the house,” you explain, munching away on your plums. Resting one hand on the wood of the engawa, you lean back onto it. Autumn is around the corner but it’s still very warm. The ongoing heat rewards you with sweet plums so it’s a little easier to forgive the weather for now.
“You know, when I was a child I used to steal plums from my father’s trees.”
Shion tilts his head at you in a way that compels you to reach out and pinch his cheek but you hold back. “I know,” and the smile he gives you with that reply tugs your expression into one of cautious confusion.
“Did I tell you about that before?” comes your question, which your husband denies with a shake of his head. He holds a hand out to you, palm facing up. Removing the stone from a plum, you hand it to him.
“I got to eat them as well,” he explains and you look at him for a few moments, your gaze tracing the scars on his face and the way he eats the plum. Brows furrowing, he sticks out his tongue and mumbles that it’s sour and it is only then that you finally realize.
Putting your head in your hands you laugh, dumbstruck. Shion raises a brow at you, feeling a little anxious about how you’re feeling. While he did poke fun at you just now, he’s not sure if it’s all that funny to you. Maybe you’d feel differently about him now, or perhaps you’d-
“It’s not sour,” you tell him and he laughs at how you sound as if he knocked the wind out of you with one simple statement. Your shoulder bumps into his as you lean closer, grabbing a hold of his hand that rests on his lap. He intertwines his fingers with yours, bringing your hands up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your fingertips.
“You’re right. It’s sweet.”
NOTES:
Tenugui - a type of traditional Japanese towel
Hadajuban - traditional sort of underwearn, worn underneath kimono
Kosode - the direct predecessor of the kimono, short sleeved and worn underneath intricate kimono in some places when the switch from kosode to kimono happened
Engawa - A wooden terrace
—
The first poem is by Ariwara no Narihira, taken out of the KOKINSHŪ.
Frog poem is by Matsuo Bashō
“蛙 (kawazu) - Frog can also be read as (kaeru) which can be translated as “to return”, meaning that Shion was joking here about himself being the pond and the reader being the frog. She returned to him after their initial meeting
The story the reader reads to Shion is “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” written by Matsuo Bashō.
The poem where Shion is getting ready for the festival is by Ariwara no Yukihira from Hyakunin Isshu: Poem 16.
warnings: arranged marriage, reincarnation, possible historical inaccuracies, references to drugs and alcohol, minors dni, mention of prostitution, canon divergence, murder, gore, maomao!reader.
* Gabimaru and the reader are both sixteen in this fic, which was seen as the appropriate age to marry in the Edo period, references include historical articles and a fascinating post about the different types of arranged marriages in Japan posted by @kazenofuji. I will leave the article to that link here if anyone is interested in reading it.
Special thanks to @luna-azzurra for helping me to describe Gabimaru’s eyes than just amber irises 😆 if you are looking for writing references or prompts, I highly recommend checking out their blog~!
Divider by @sweetmelodygraphics. Credit goes to the artist(s) for the images found on Pinterest.
Series Masterlist
Deities have an odd sense of humor. You thought they were being gracious in giving you what you wanted - a solitary life. Free to gather information from the pleasure district and indulge in different medicines, remedies, and most of all poisons. Turns out you were the butt of the joke in the end when the village chief chose you to be the wife of his strongest shinobi, Gabimaru the Hollow. Better known as his protégé, who had killed his predecessor to take the title for his own, as per the tradition, which would make him the seventh successor.
Lucky number seven, what a lucky girl you are.
There was no warning, no way you could predict that this would even happen because that wretched old man was like a certain sly fox you had known in your old life. Incredibly wily, possessing a silver tongue that carried the weight of his authority in Iwagakure, speaking in riddles with a stony face that made him extremely difficult to decipher his body language.
He simply introduced you as his daughter, stating how you were trained from a young age to know your place - a bold, odious lie - and he expected many children that would be born from your marriage. Hah, ridiculous. Your brow twitched, trying to hold back a roll of your eyes as you smiled tightly at your new husband. You hoped it reached your eyes in any shape or form to hide the discomfort clawing at your mind, the weight of the uchikake bridal kimono on your shoulders.
You really thought he would postpone your marriage ceremony until Yui left the house with her own carefully selected spouse, not before her.
At this moment, all you could do was stare at the young man sitting across from you and contemplate how such an arranged marriage could work out, or even how to divorce him amiably without throwing Gabimaru out of the estate. Nothing — you came up with nothing. That was the problem with a yōshi-engumi marriage. It was an unusual practice in this era, where the father-in-law adopted the groom into the family as his son-in-law. If Gabimaru angered your father, he would remove him immediately from the family tree. He would lose everything.
You analyzed Gabimaru carefully, taking in everything you could see from where he sat.
He appeared to be no older than your age - sixteen, maybe seventeen summers. His white hair was tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it countless times before he came to this room. The angular lines of his jaw still possessed the softness of a teenager, but no light reflected in his eyes. You imagined innocent joy once filled those amber irises, like a bonfire dancing under the stars surrounded by laughter. But life doesn’t seem to have been kind to him. His eyes are like the coals in a firepit, glowing dimly before they slowly die out as the evening air wears on. Hollow.
What has he seen? You wondered. What did the village chief do to him? More importantly, amber was not an accurate description of his eye color, but orpiment. Why? Because it brought back the memory of the investigation surrounding the yellow arsenic, and remembering how it all happened was keeping you calm. Funny how memories from a previous life can provide comfort at unusual times.
Your skin prickled at the thought of the emperor, who deflowered little girls and kept them in the rear palace, discarding them once they became young women without batting an eye. And yet from one of them, a son was born and for unknown reasons he had become a recluse, spending all hours of the day painting in isolation. He used the orpiment as a pigment for his yellow paints without realizing it was poison. Chronic exposure to arsenic through skin contact and inhalation destroyed his mental and physical health over time. It was also the reason why his corpse had not decayed for over a year, and caused the empress dowager to believe she had cursed him.
“Treat him well, my child, and bring honor to this family.” The fox’s silky voice broke through your mind, causing you to blink rapidly. “As is customary in our village, you two shall stay here until your own residence is ready. The best laborers are toiling away as we speak.” You watched him rise from his seat, black robes billowing behind him. “We shall let the newlyweds be until the celebration banquet is ready.” He left the room, followed by the first wife Miyu. Then Yui, and an entourage of servants and shinobi. When the last shinobi closed the shoji door behind him, an awkward silence crept in.
You truly did not know what you could say to him. Apologize for being married to you against his will? Please treat me well, even though we are complete strangers and today is our first meeting without a lavish wedding ceremony because the village cannot afford to do such pleasantries when there are mouths to feed? But staying silent and staring at the floor changed nothing, and at this point all you could do was hope that everything would be fine. So you smiled; a sweet, innocent smile to show Gabimaru that you were looking forward to the days ahead in this marriage.
Whether it was because he did not want to waste any more time on you or wished to curry more of the chief’s favor, Gabimaru stood up from the tatami mat and left you in the room, smile still stretched across your face. Well, this was not what you were expecting but you supposed it could have gone much differently if he possessed a violent temper or immediately belittled you, to remind you that you belong to him now and not the chief as if you were nothing more than livestock.
It’s a sad truth, and that’s how people treated women in this world. You only hoped that no one would kidnap you and make you work for a eunuch again, or worse, in a pleasure house. You could only thank the gods for allowing to find clay and use it on your face to replicate freckles, or else this situation would have been much worse should that old man find out what you truly look like.
You were more than happy to work for the pleasure district as an apothecary, just not as a sex worker, even though you have nothing but the highest respect for them and what they do to make a living.
Time was a blur after that night, and eventually you found a silent routine with Gabimaru. It wasn’t awkward or tense like before, just…comfortable. You would wake up early with the sun just peeking above the horizon and dress swiftly. Slipping out of the house to check on the fields. Once you collected what you needed, you would head around back to your work shed, nestled in the back of the estate. Using the mortar and pestle to grind some into powders and placing others in amber containers, labeling and storing them away to protect from the sunlight and moisture until it was time to use them.
Once all the orders were done and packed to deliver to the city, you would study some herbs. It was fascinating how the usage and effect of these herbs in this world were so similar to the ones in your past life, even the poisonous mushrooms. For example, gan cao or licorice root can be used as an anti-inflammatory and heal the stomach lining. Some names for these herbs are different, though. This world’s gan cao was referred by another name, anise hyssop. Aphrodisiacs still come as exquisite chocolates, or a special blend of green tea with carefully picked ingredients to boost dopamine, like roasted hojicha or sweet kamairicha. Matcha tea was the most popular and expensive choice. You never handled abortion drugs since there were plenty of these circulating in the pleasure district. Pity you couldn’t piece together an alcohol distillation apparatus for obvious reasons, but mainly to make disinfectants which would help conduct further experiments and save lives, but having enough space to do your work in the early hours of the morning was enough for you.
When the rooster’s cries echoed in the sky, you knew Yui would arrive soon, cheerily announcing that breakfast was ready to be served and no, you couldn’t eat in the shed just so that you could continue your self-studying. You still asked though, only to tease a laugh out of your sister or a solid flick to the forehead depending on her mood.
Breakfast was held in the dining hall every morning. The chief would sit at the head of the table next to Miyu, as she was the one in charge of the other concubines and managed the household in his absence. Yui would be on the left. You were seated on the right, and Gabimaru would sit opposite of you as he was your husband. Sometimes he would be there, or he wouldn’t, depending on the length of his missions. When he was there it was awkward unlike your early morning routine.
You tried to make small talk, asking him if he slept well, but he just stared at you with no emotion in his eyes before he disappeared from the estate without a trace. Were questions like that not asked of him before, even during his training? That was odd, considering how valuable he was to the village as a shinobi. Unless that was the reason. He was not treated as a human being who had proven himself to carry the mantle of his predecessors, rather as a weapon wearing a human’s skin; honed, sharpened, and prepared to do any job given to them by whomever can afford the services of the Iwagakure shinobi.
A perfect weapon, but at what cost?
After everyone finished breakfast and the servants removed the dishes, they all continued with their day, yourself included. Gabimaru had his job, Yui had her own business selling homemade umbrellas that were popular with the villagers and the occasional tourist who had enough courage to travel through said Iwagakure to get to the city, and you were in the city running around fulfilling deliveries, checking on patients, etc.
Dinner was a short-lived affair; even shorter than breakfast, and everyone in the house was in bed as soon as the cicadas began their nightly song.
But one autumn evening, you decided to forgo the privacy of your bedroom and crept to the work-shed to do some light reading in hopes that you could fall asleep afterwards. The last thing you wanted was the chief finding out that you could read and write just as well as a noble, including what you really look like without your make-up on. You were examining an anatomical chart of the nervous system when you heard a knock emitting from the door. Puzzled, and a little worried as to who would come here so late in the evening except for one person, you quickly hid the scrolls beneath the loose floorboards of your work table and rose to your feet.
“Who is it?” You called out. Silence. “Yui, is that you? What’s wrong?”
She was the only one in the house who would have noticed the light from the work shed since the window in her room provided an obvious vantage point of it. No one else would bother to come here…unless it was someone with a grudge against you. You were about to reach for a scalpel discreetly hidden on a shelf between loosely bounded books and ink stones when a gravelly voice growled on the other side.
“It’s me. Let me in.”
“Me?” You parroted in confusion, hand still hovering in the air towards the scalpel. “Identify yourself.” You commanded. It was that or they might lose a finger, whichever came first. You were not taking any chances. Then you heard an annoyed sigh before the voice spoke again.
“Gabimaru, your husband. May I please come in, wife?”
You blinked. Gabimaru was here, outside of your shed? Now that was a concern. Why would he come here? Unless —
Fueled by pure instinct and muscle memory, your feet carried you to the door, and your rough fingers curled around the door handle, pushing it to the right with a loud rat-tat-tmp. The light from the oil lamp spilled out from behind you just barely illuminating the battered shinobi who stood, barely, before you. You scanned him, taking note of his tattered clothes soaked in blood. Your hand shot out, gripping his wrist as you yanked him inside. You head swiveled around the courtyard right left in the trees the bushes and up towards the roof because shinobi were sneaky like that before you closed the door behind you with a loud thamp.
You guided Gabimaru to the tatami mats. “Sit.” You said tightly.
He did and watched you intently as you darted to the shelves where you kept the salves, disinfectants, and of course, linen. You did not ask him questions, nor did you feel it was your right to just yet. In truth, all you were really worried about was time. How bad were his injuries, when did he receive them and how long did he let them go untreated? Minutes, hours, days? Depending on his answers, you could either prevent any infections that could lead to amputation or allow a disease to fester and spread through contact or the air.
You placed the supplies on his left and started to mixed together herbs in the bowl, your pestle clanking against the clay. “Do you feel lightheaded?” You asked.
“No?”
“Nausea, headache?”
Gabimaru scrunched his nose. “No.”
“Well, we can remove concussion off the list of injuries, but I’ll need to run a few more tests to be sure that you are coherent.” You stood up, grabbing another clay bowl and went to the water jug, lifting the lid and dipping the wooden ladle to spoon enough clean water to fill it, and walked back over to him. “I will need to remove your shirt to check for other injuries, so please pardon me.” You reached out and gripped the upper part of his uniform, only to have your progress be halted by scarred fingers coil around your wrists like vines.
You blinked, looking up at him. “It’s fine if you do not consent to a physical evaluation, but it will be hard for me to properly diagnose the extent of your injuries if I do not see it for myself.” You matched his intense stare with your own.
“I can take care of them.” He said. “I just wanted to see if you had something for pain relief.” He released your wrist, allowing to take a step back if you were scared of him. But you didn’t, and simply raised a brow at him.
“You are aware that pain relief will not stop an infection from, yes?” You said cocking your head as you crossed your arms. “It would be neglectful of me to simply give you an herb that can provide pain relief and not treat the wound that is causing the pain.”
“And you can’t make a proper evaluation at a glance?” He frowned, sucking his teeth. “The chief said you were good.”
“I simply know how to optimize a patient’s treatment based on an evaluation that includes examining their body, nothing more. Not to do so is neglectful on my part and in my practice as an apothecary.” You said, glancing down at his body, his bloodied clothes growing darker as more blood soaked the linen. “If you would permit me, I can at least disinfect the wounds and wipe you down with the water and clothes I have here instead of taking you straight to the bathhouse for a soak.” There would also be a risk of contaminating the bathhouse water if that were to happen, and make any wounds he has much worse, but you kept that thought to yourself. If you pressed any more, you had a feeling he’d hiss at you like a cat, unhappy with being pushed into a corner even if it is for his own health.
He stared at you for a long moment, amber irises unblinking before he closed them. “You’re serious.”
“Quite so.”
“And you would only do what you said? Just clean the wounds and apply medicine?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t try to take a peek?”
Your own frown deepened. “No, of course not.” I have never heard of a shinobi who was concerned about his chastity, let alone a married one. You thought. Is this another lesson that the old man had drilled into Gabimaru’s mind before he announced our marriage? Then again, should you really be surprised at this point?
“I would not do such a thing, I assure you. Doing so would be unprofessional and inconsiderate towards not only my patient but my husband.” You tilted your head slightly. “Unless you would like me to do everything blindfolded, but that would take much longer.”
Gabimaru was silent, and he stripped down, starting with the tengui kerchief coiled around his neck followed by the teppo-sode top right there in the middle of the work shed. You persuaded him to keep the tattsuke-bakama style bottoms on his person until you have finished examining his upper half. For someone who was worried about his virtue, he disrobed himself quickly. You would have to scold him for his lack of modesty another day.
Thankfully, the number of shallow cuts outweighed the deeper ones scattered around his abdomen, hips, and one on his left hand. The deeper cuts had to be cauterized and stitched together with a needle. Gabimaru was not pleased, but he kept his mouth shut and allowed you to do the work even when he seemed to want nothing more than to take care of it himself; the way he hunched his back, the deepening tell-tale twitches in his fingers. In this shed, the man known as the Hollow acted more like a cat than a shinobi ready to kill under the chief’s command. After spending more than an hour of washing, rewashing, changing the water and rags, stitching and threading the needle with more thread, Gabimaru was cleaned and covered in gauze; the grounded herbs, which had thickened into a paste with oil, was smeared into the mouth of the wound so it would speed up his healing. His legs, ankles, and thighs were fine, only bruising that must have started two days ago? Three?
“No fractures or broken bones — good, good.” You mumbled to yourself.
The candlelight bounced off of the wall as you continued to treat Gabimaru, double-checking the tightness of his bandages and being absolutely certain you missed nothing that he didn’t tell you in relation to his current symptoms.
“You are all finished.” You said finally, putting away your supplies and wrapping up the dirty linen, the bowls, and the needle with makeshift mittens. You would have to instruct the servant to get rid of these things and bring them to the furnace to destroy the bacteria. You glanced at the tatami mats before you clicked your tongue.
That might include the removal of the tatami mats.
Another reason you wished you had an alcohol apparatus; it would be easier - and more cost efficient - to simply disinfect the bowls and wipe down the mats instead of throwing them out, finding new equipment with the allowance you receive from the chief for your work and doing business in the pleasure district. In the grand scheme of things? It wasn’t much to live on your own independently. Quite unfortunate. “Do not take a bath for at least two days, and come back tomorrow so that I can change the bandages and apply new medicinal herbs.”
“There is no need for you to do that.” Gabimaru said, pulling the uniform top over his head. “You have done enough already.”
“It would still be wise to make sure that they are healing properly - ”
“I heal fast.” He spat, cutting you off. “I am Gabimaru the Hollow.”
You felt your brow twitch. You weren’t sure if you should feel less worried that this shinobi, your husband, possessed the ability to heal within days, or if you should allow your curiosity to examine the extent of said ability by poisoning his food and drink, gradually increasing the dose until you were satisfied with the results. But you had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate it, and the last thing you wanted to do was anger your spouse even further.
So you pushed that idea away, into the back of your mind and shrugged. “You might think you are hollow, yet you still bleed. That proves you are alive, does it not?” You saw him stiffen, shoulders going rigid.
Oh, dear. Perhaps you had gone too far?
You were about to apologize when he vanished in a cloud of smoke. There was no trace of him, except for the sight of the shoji pushed all the way to the right, letting in the night air.
“Sleep well, husband.” You murmured, moving to close it, making a loud clack. You sighed, pressing your forehead against the paper screen. You needed to get better at communicating with others; it had been a problem during your time at the imperial palace, unintentionally causing misunderstandings between you and the people you had cared about. This time, you needed to do better. You have to, because even if Gabimaru might never see you as a lifelong partner in the romantic sense, in this arranged marriage, you hoped that at the very least, you two could be friends. Now? It seems like even such a thing was impossible.
"let's see kids who can hug mamma the first!" Your husband told or rather commanded your twin boys as the three came back from their grocery run.
Your two sons giggled as they ran towards the house and the thirty-something-old kid (your husband) too ran with them. The only visible difference being was that he was taller and was carrying three to four bags with him. He, same as his kids, had that stupid little smile on his face.
When the door barged in and her kids ran to your side, Y/n couldn't help the smile that made its way to her lips. Putting down the cup of coffee she was holding, she stumbled back a little by the force as the two little humans hugged their mother like their lives depended on it.
Smiling, Y/n was caressing her two boys lovingly. What she did not expect was to see her husband as well to join in on the group hug and forcibly make his way into the middle making the kids grumble in dissatisfaction.
"That's not fair, dad! we came first!" Your kids whined.
The man gave them a smug grin. "You think? You little seaweeds wouldn't be here if I did not come first, you know." He blew raspberries at the kids. "Also, did you not know your mother loves me the best?"
His comment earned him a smack on the head from his beloved wife. The man held his head in feigned hurt and looked at Y/n like she just betrayed him in the worst ways.
The boys laughed at their father but were quick to ask, "Do you really love Dad more than us, mama?"
Smiling she pecked the two on their cheek, and her husband too to make him stop pouting. "Well...it may be partially true."
It was the kids turn to look betrayed. "But mom!"
Y/n giggled. "I do love you boys. I love you two so much. How can I not when you are literally a part of me? I love you two." She caressed their cheek.
"But as much as it's true that you two are a part of me," she continued, "I wouldn't be able to have you with just myself. It is thanks to your father that I am given such a beautiful gift." she smiled, her eyes shining with a sadness that is not melancholic. It was the realization that her kids would someday leave her. Of course they would, they are bound to. And when they do, she'd be thankful to her husband who stayed.
Her husband smiled at her and gave his kids a nod. Upon the command, the three hugged Y/n out of the blue and greeted, "Happy mother's day momma!"
Y/n was brought back to the present, she smiled, a few tears pricking her eyes. "Thank you, boys," she kissed their cheek. "We have brought you some food as well! We'll go bring it!" The two got up and ran to the kitchen to bring whatever they brought as a gift for their mother.
In the meantime, Y/n's husband snaked a hand around her waist, pulling her close. "Thank you, baby, for being the mother of my children. Really, thank you." And this time, her husband was speaking from the bottom of his heart
(yamada asaemon shion x merchant's daughter! reader)
you went to the yamada clan's dojo for the first time when you saw the blind swordsman. you couldn't shake off his image from your mind- so you decided to follow him. a chance encounter that will have you entangled together.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
it was the first time you saw him. the first time you witnessed an execution. your parents loved you too much you grew up to be fragile, locked away from the madness of the world. to see a sword brought down upon a person's neck should have made you shiver, made you scared.
but your eyes were unable to leave the figure of the swordsman who wavered, for a few moments, the hesitance was evident on his face. his brows were scrunched, teeth gritted. he had already put the sword down but he remained in place as the body was being taken away.
the call of your name took your eyes away from him, but the ache in your chest didn't dissipate. you placed your palm above your chest, rubbing it in circle motion.
a life has been taken away, and someone has to bear its weight. you couldn't understand the consequence that the government imposed--is this really what justice looks like? it could be your sheltered-upbringing, but you don't wish ill even on your greatest enemies.
you were escorted out of the dojo after the meeting had ended. still, the image of the man didn't disappear from your head. from what you know of the yamada clan, they were feared by the people. but what you saw was something different from the rumors you heard.
you have just passed by the gates when a familiar silhoutte entered your line of vision. it was the man from earlier. his pace was steady but his strides were long, was there a place he was bound to go or did he want to escape? question had you following his steps.
"ojo-sama, where are you going? danna-sama instructed you to go home. i'll be reprimanded if you don't follow them!"
"it won't take a while, i promise! just follow me quietly, please? you know i don't get to go outside often," you wished upon your maid, Kiku, who agreed in the end.
you picked up the pace in order to catch up to the man. in a while, you ended up in a field opposite of the city center. the trees gave you shade and cover from the man's detection. or so you thought.
the heat was starting to seep through your skin, you can already feel the sweat forming on your temple. yet the man seemed not to care as he continuously swung the sword around.
"ojo-sama, this is inappropriate. we must hurry and go back now, please!"
"kiku, don't be too loud. just a few more minutes then we'll go. okay?"
her maid can only sigh before retreating towards the carriage at the distance.
your gaze went back to the man where is he?
"is there something i can help you with?"
an audible gasp escaped your lips as you turn towards his direction. he was standing about an arm's length away, wiping down his sword. he couldn't see her, but he was staring right to her face.
your hands reached for the tree, looking for stability.
"n-no, i apologize for my actions... i-i'll be on my way."
"you've been standing there for at least half an hour yet you haven't spoken a word. were you not seeking me for something?" he put back the blade on its sheath as he circled the tree, seating at the side where the view of the field was clear.
you contemplated over running to the carriage to hide from embarassment or facing the man whose face you couldn't keep away.
you took a deep breath to compose yourself. you sat beside him, maintaining the arm length distance.
"i was at the dojo earlier when i saw you." you hugged your knees to your chest, fiddling with your fingers. "i'm ignorant with the ways of the world, but i thought it wasn't right to take away someone's life."
"i'm merely doing what i was trained to do. i am in no place to complain about the ways of the world," despite the monotonous tone of his voi emphasis on the words gives it impact.
"i'm sorry, i don't mean to condemn you for what you do. i just- i thought it hurt you... when you took that person's life. while the dead embrace peace, you're left to remember their memories. isn't it a devastating experience?"
the clouds gathered to hide the sun as it drifted down the horizon. cool air breeze making its presence known with the bristle of leaves, the field and surrounding trees dancing lightly.
there was only the sound of nature, you were left to wonder whether he heard you at all. your eyes trailed towards his direction, finally facing him after sitting beside each other for awhile.
"his name is tesshin."
you waited for him to say more, but nothing followed. if he knew the person's name... would it happen to be someone he was acquainted with?
you noticed his hand shaking, tightly gripping the sword's handle. despite being unable to see any hint of emotion on his face, you could somehow feel anger, sadness, the unbearable weight of what he has to carry.
you took his hand that was resting on his bent knee, placing your handkerchief on it.
"i don't know if it could make you feel better, but i find my heart feeling lighter whenever i cry things out, at times i just fall right to sleep."
he clenched the handkerchief on his palm. you thought he was going to keep it, but he retrieved your hand instead, placing it back.
"i would have if i could," he said as he slid his fingers over yours to clench the handkerchief. "i appreciate the thought, thank you."
it took you a few seconds to process what he said. if he could have? your eyes explored the expanse of his face. he has scars over his eyelids, running down vertically, and another laying horizontally across the bridge of his nose from one eye to the other.
you didn't know what to do with yourself. you tried to bite down your lower lip, but the sting forming in your eyes seemed to be unstoppable.
"can i cry for you instead?" his lips parted, back darting forward from being at rest on the trunk. but before he could even say anything, the tears bod already dropped down your cheeks.
"i'm sorry i don't know how else to provide you comfort. a-are you hurting?"
his hands hesitantly reached out, slowly coming up towards your face. his thumbs lightly brushed the tears away, you'd doubt he was touching you if not for the little tilt on his lips.
"i'm not sure the pain will ever go away... but it is no longer as heavy as it was. thank you, ojo-sama."
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧
did you enjoy the fic? please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. i'd love to know your thoughts!
if you ever find yourself looking for hell's paradise fanfics, send in a request! i'll try to keep the fandom well-fed, haha! hopefully, you like what i write.
Heeeeey!!! Hope you have a nice day! I’m sorry, English isn’t my first language. I’ve read your comment that you write for Hells Paradise (I hope I understand that right). Could you do fluff Shugen x reader, please ?🙏🏻
Hello!
Thank you for requesting! I hope this is of your liking, please let me know what you think!
Don't worry, english is not my first language either! and yes, you did understood right, I do write for hell's paradise!
Tsuki's note: Shugen is a new character to me. I did like him, he is interesting, i hope i him justice. And your request justice too!
You both are close in age, so it was fairly easy to get along.
His kind nature towards the clan members and his posture called your attention right away.
You admired the Asaemon, it was not an easy job, but did it with grace and they were one of the few clans to, reluctantly, allow women to hold swords.
Shugen was always very polite and kind to you, ready to help with anything and everything you needed.
He saw on you a source of comfort - being with you felt like his past couldn't hurt him anymore and the nightmares stopped.
That being said, he loved spending whatever free time he had with you.
He looked forward to talking with you about your day, his training and his recent job.
Shugen is a sensitive man, so you always carried a handkerchief with you to dry his tears - he greatly appreciated it.
He never skipped the opportunity to meet with you, so it meant that sometimes, he was dead tired.
On those days, you could see the effort he was putting to be there with you.
You would ask him if he would like to lie on your lap to rest, which at first caused him to blush furiously and refuse.
You were a bit worried about him, so for this very first proposal you gently patted his shoulder and smiled: " It's ok! "
He still refused, but in he was so tired, he ended up sleeping leaning on you.
When he woke up, Shugen jolted and proceeded to apologize nonstop.
Meanwhile you just laughed.
From that day onwards, he started laying on your lap to nap, not only because it was comfortable, but also because he had no nightmares. It was a blank, kind of sleep.
Shugen is also very protective of you. Not in an overbearing way, but he does get worried when you are late, when he notices bruises and scratches on you.
He likes to accompany you on walks, specially at night.
Shugen can also be very sweet with gifts! As he is very sensitive, he tends to gift you thoughtful things.
Items that hold an important meaning to you or even to the both us.
But due to his strong sense justice and his overprotectiveness of you, he will have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to your safety.
Whoever hurt you, physically or emotionally, is going to face a very, very angry Shugen.
He would never allow you to dirty or hands or plague or thoughts with such criminals.
All in all, Shugen can be really sweet with you. Warm hugs, respecting your space and thoughtful gifts.
But he is also very unforgiven of those who even try to harm you in anyway. There is no second chance with him.
Shugen needs a lot of care and an understanding shoulder - the man had a rough patch in life. He just wants you, his heaven, to be safe and sound in his arms.
c/w: brief mentions of blood, physical and emotional abuse, unhealthy relationships, codependency, violence and choking (not by shugen), hurt/mild comfort (?), supernatural elements, author attempts symbolism, innacurate depiction of rituals, reader is written as gnc, Shugen is nicknamed as "Shu" by reader, lots of angst (sorry), MAJOR SPOILERS FOR MANGA ENDING.
a/n: to that one anon asking for Shu having a mental breakdown-- here you go!! I made this fic w/ a Mitski playlist and a dreamm.
summary: In which Fuchi, Senta and Shugen-- attempt to help bring you to the afterlife. And in which Shugen grapples with the fact of losing you again a second time.
word count: 16k
Notes:
Kami: "Divine spirits that take form of things and concepts important to life"
Segaki: "A japanese Buddhist ritual, traditionally performed to stop the suffering of such restless ghost/monsters as Gaki"
Hydra: is a fictional drug from fall out new vegas lol.
The Segaki ritual performed here is not an accurate depiction/representation of how the ritual should be performed in real life. Please do not take it literally. I tried my best to present it with care. The meaning behind the actual ritual in real life is not just for spirits/ghosts, it can be done to let go of things that are personally bothering you or to cleanse karma. It’s rlly interesting!!
One of the greatest human dilemmas, to which neither biology nor religion has yet to give a direct answer to– is what happens after death?
They say death is a transition rather than an end. Maybe a sort of comfort to the grieving, to let them know their loved one isn’t completely gone from the planes of the earth.
Dead doesn’t necessarily mean gone— or so people liked to say.
Would you be considered a Kami? You were neither revered or malevolent, nor do you hold any power to protect any of your fellow clansmen. You were just another medical aide who had passed under unfortunate circumstances.
You don’t have any blood-related family that you know of aside from your grandmother, who you haven’t had contact with since you were transferred to the Yamada dojo. You wouldn’t be able to call yourself an ancestral Kami either.
You had really hoped that your spirit would disappear after your funeral.
And yet you still find yourself in the same place you thought yourself to finally be rid of.
The Yamada dojo finally went back to normal. Fuchi has taken your place as the dojo’s medical aid and maker of the Yamada pills. You had Shu dig up the recipe from Sir Kusuri’s mountain of papers and books— all the medical books, letters, and notes you’ve amassed and improved upon throughout the years have now been passed down to Fuchi.
It almost makes you feel emotional— seeing your own assistant take on your role seamlessly, using the same techniques and skills you’ve taught him throughout the years of knowing each other. Is this why Shu cries over his students' achievements so easily?
Some part of you feels like you should’ve passed down more of your knowledge to others. But working as the Yamada clan’s main Physician and creator of the Asayamagan and various other medicinal herbs, your time and energy has been stretched thin to its maximum capacity. With the little space of time you have– being spent with either Shu, or the Yamada clan (and rarely, a handful of people in town).
But now that you’re dead you spent most of that time with Shu.
You tried to get the others to notice you, but your efforts to hang around them and stick yourself to their side at all times of the day was fruitless. No one seemed to even look at you.
It feels alienating, to not be seen. You thought you had already gotten used to solitude, until that is, you had to be forced to live in a space where you exist but the others don't know that you do.
Your existence is either ignored, or bypassed completely like walking through the wind.
You try to relate this to Shu. You complain about being stuck in the dojo— unable to walk out of the premises or even go to the town due to some invisible wall blocking your path. The others don’t even know you exist, granted, you are supposed to be dead. But your point still stands! It’s boring, it’s infuriating, it’s making you lose your mind.
All that you have to look forward to is Shu and his company.
Which isn’t much, now that you’re forced to have only one person to see and talk to throughout the day. If you were more delusional and depressed, you can almost trick yourself into thinking you were a married couple, with how the only thing you can look forward to is Shu after his ten hours or so of training.
You almost feel bad for him, his inability to understand your predicament is something you can’t really fault him for– it’s not his fault you're dead. But you loathed to admit that some part of you is getting tired of his company.
Being a ghost sucks, this life sucks. You really just want to die, why can’t the gods just take you? Is heaven at full capacity?— did he think putting you on a waitlist inside the home you grew up in with one form of company is a gift? A mercy of some kind?
Was this some sort of sick test to see if you’re worthy of heaven?
Be it heaven or the void, you can’t stand being stuck in this type of purgatory for too long. There’s nothing here left for you—
The shoji door slides open.
You lazily turn at the sound, eyes following sock cladded feet from where you lie sprawled across the floor.
“I’m home!” Comes the voice of Shu, carefully slipping off his sandals, before placing his sword carefully on his katanakake.
You watch him, eyelids halfway down as you murmur a small greeting.
Your response elicits a small chuckle from him.
“No welcome back?” Shugen remarks lightly.
“I let you stay here in my room and this is the greeting I get?” Voice light and teasing. He lowers himself to the other side of the table across from where you're facing.
Dark eyes meeting your own. He stares at you for a bit, the side of his eyes crinkling as he smiles at you.
“I never thought ghosts could look so tired.”
“Please don’t start.”
Shu exhales through his nose in a half laugh. Head settling on his hand as he eyes you with quiet wonder.
“How was your day?” He asks.
You stare at him from the corner of your eye. You let out a soft sigh as you turn your back to him.
It’s a simple question— you know that Shu doesn’t ask it out of malice or ill intent, but it burns a side of you you can’t quite explain— a part of you that can’t help but feel trapped.
It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault. You chant repeatedly to yourself.
It takes you a long time to form a reply, and Shu feels every bit of the silence of your answer.
You lick your lips, “…you know how it is,” you start, “same old nothing.”
You don’t look at his expression, but you can feel the quiet drop of energy. The tenseness of the atmosphere. One which you’ve created.
You should have just waited someplace else, but you know that if you stray too far out for too long, Shu would come looking for you eventually, like a pet owner who’s trying to bring home their stray cat before dark. Wandering around the dojo like a lost child, it’s hard to watch. If he keeps this up people will think he’s gone insane.
You can’t tell if he’s trying to be considerate of your situation or if he’s trying to cling on to something that doesn’t exist. You know about his feelings for you, he’s already confirmed that suspicion months ago.
But Shu is logical, as emotional as he is, you know he’s smart enough to stop himself from making irrational decisions.
You are the irrational decision. Choosing you is the worst decision he could ever make.
He’s at that age where men should be looking for a bride, or a partner to that effect.
You expected him to move on in some way shape or form, everyone already has.
Staying away from the dojo isn’t an option either, as you’re physically stuck here without any chance of going towards town.
It’s like crashing into a stone wall, if you could feel pain or sustain injuries, you would have hurt yourself quite badly with how many times you’ve thrown yourself at the invisible barrier. Trying in vain to at least let you move away from the dojo.
Shu frowns at the continued silence.
“Is everything alright?” He asks in a small voice, it feels weird hearing the second in rank of the executioners talk with less conviction to a ghost. A spectral being that can’t even touch physical objects.
You rise from where you’re currently laying.
“Sorry Shu… I want to be alone for while,” you say, pulling yourself up to stand, “I need some fresh air, I’ll see you a bit later…” You phase through the shoji door, hardly sparing him another glance before disappearing from his view.
It’s rude, you know. He doesn’t deserve it, but it’s better than you exploding on him for being annoyed at his mere presence. You don’t want to be another added weight to his already heavy load of work.
He has better things to worry about.
Like that new roster for the Yamada-Asaemon’s chosen by the Shogun to scout the island of Shinsenkyo.
The shogun had enlisted Sir Eizen as a convoy for the first landing team. Leaving Shugen as the head of the clan’s external affairs for a short period of time (depending on how long the expedition party takes in completing their goal on the island).
It’s a terrible idea, you think. You’ve heard about it before in passing in town, just before you had died.
Rumours regarding an unexplored island southwest of the Ryukyu kingdom. They said that the first expedition team—high ranked samurais working under the shogun, was dispatched to the island, and was never heard from again.
It’s a terrible idea, but if the government tells them to risk their life, who are they to refuse?
The shogun had appointed half of the Yamada clan’s Asaemons to foresee the second expedition, with a carefully selected batch of death row convicts the Asaemon’s selected themselves.
It is an honour to serve the shogun, truly. But…
You have a bad feeling about this.
You find yourself walking towards a familiar clearing. The path just out the Dojo’s main building.
You spot the old wooden exterior of your old home.
Your beloved shed, where you poured all your hopes and dreams into.
You place your ear near the wall, trying to hear for any sounds— pleased to find a familiar clink of tools. You poke your head inside the wall, it’s not much in terms of privacy considering they can’t see you, but you do it out of principle anyway (and also because the last time you phased through a wall while wandering around the dojo, you ended up seeing Jikka in a compromising position with one of the maids— something you don’t wish to see ever again— even accidentally).
You phase through the wall, seeing Fuchi work on another corpse brought back from execution grounds.
You look at his soiled equipment with a slight grimace. Blood and bits and pieces of flesh on the tray where his tools lay. The way he does things is really unsanitary, if Sir Kusuri saw this he’d be enraged. You should have taught him a better sterile technique with his work.
Despite that, you applaud Fuchi’s way of investigating and dissecting corpses, he’s able to make much more progress in studying the body, and making medicines out of corpses faster than you have since taking your place.
You both have differing fields of interest in the medical world, while you focused mainly on medicinal herbs and salves, Fuchi excelled in making the Yamada clan’s Asayamagan pills, as well as other medications using the repurposed corpses from the execution grounds.
The current studies and advancements of medicinal properties and recent translations of western medical books spread like wildfire, it’s an exciting time to be alive for medical practitioners! You hope Fuchi starts reading the new medical books so you can read the material from his shoulder—
Oh, wait.
You saw Fuchi’s name on the list of Asaemons to be sent on the island.
You frown at the memory.
What were they thinking? He’s the Yamada dojo’s main medical personnel, most of the money made by the Yamada clan relies on the medications they make! Why would they send Fuchi out to that island?
You wonder how they’ll fare if he gets sent out to the expedition. Who will treat the students? Who would care for them once he is gone? The dojo was already missing one medic, could they truly afford to lose one more? Although it wouldn’t be difficult for the Head of the clan to employ another medical personnel, would they really be willing to let other individuals learn the process of making the Yamada pills?
The competition was sparse for Kampo medicine, but despite your differing beliefs in medicinal creation with Sir Kusuri’s more traditional methods, you respect the scholars and previous medical personnels who ensured the creation of said medication was improved upon and passed down through generations. A tradition the higher ups didn’t care much for.
You continue to watch Fuchi work, reminiscing about your past studies. If you could hold onto things, you’d read some of the books you left behind (ones you never had the chance to start nor finish). Shu collected most of them from your shed, reading them out to you occasionally until he feels too sleepy to continue reading.
This is the worst type of retirement in existence.
You don’t notice how much time has passed until you hear a loud knock on the door.
Fuchi places down his tools, cleaning his hands with water before drying them with the towel nearby.
He opens the door to find Shu, dark eyes landing on you first before quickly reverting to the smaller blond in front of him.
Fuchi calls out his name in question, tilting his head to the side.
“What are you doing outside so late?”
You look out the window, the sky’s already turned dark, it’s hard to tell the time here when it’s always so dark.
Shu raises a hand to his forehead, a wry smile making its way to his face. “I was not feeling quite well…Do you have any medicine I could use, just for tonight?” His voice comes out a bit hurried. He’s lying.
Fuchi perks up at his words, asking Shu to sit down on the bench. You scoot to the side, and Shu takes a seat near where you’re sitting.
He gives you a worried glance, you only stare back at him with quiet boredom. You mouth the word ‘liar’ as you do.
Shu can only sigh at your words, as Fuchi begins his examination.
Fuchi does a basic assessment on Shu, but even he seems to realise there’s not much amiss with Shu’s current vitals.
“How long did you say you’ve experienced these symptoms?”
“Only for tonight,” Shu replies, swallowing a lump of nerves as he taps his fingers absentmindedly on his knee.
Fuchi hums in reply, standing up from his seat.
“I see… I’ll give you some of these, it’s not a strong pain killer. It's some of the medicinal herbs (nickname)-san left behind. It should help.”
He fishes out a small square box from the cabinet.
Shu mutters a quiet thanks, receiving the item with both hands.
Fuchi stares at him for a bit, examining him. His mouth turns into a thin line.
“Shu, do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”
Shu raises a brow, nodding his head.
“Yes of course, what is it?”
“Is there any reason why you always seem to be walking around the dojo a lot after training?”
“Huh?” Shu looks taken aback by the question. A bead of sweat rolling down his neck.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” Fuchi scratches his cheek, thinking of the best way to phrase his words.
“We know you usually did it in the past to wait for (nickname)-chan but…you always seem to be looking for something—err… someone after training. Senta and Sagi are a bit worried.” He says with a frown on his face.
You knew this would happen. You rest your head on your hands. Inclining forward in your seat.
“Actually while we're on that topic— is it okay if I ask you another question? This might feel a bit too personal actually, you can choose not to answer it, if you wish.”
You cock your head back towards him, attention once again successfully captured.
“Were you and (nickname)-chan seeing each other?”
A loud indignant sound tears from your throat. If blood still flowed through your veins, your face would have exploded in deep red.
The question seems to take a bit longer to load in Shugen’s head. When it finally does— his face slowly creeps up with a red tint.
“I—I, no, it’s not, we were not…” he stumbles over his words, not expecting the question to flip towards that topic so easily.
“We were just friends...” He states, finally.
“This guy…” you say under your breath, irate.
“Have some respect for the dead!” You snap, pointing accusingly towards Fuchi.
Fuchi nods in understanding, “I see…” hand coming to scratch awkwardly at his head.
“Sorry, but for years we thought you guys were secretly dating— mostly because of how much time you two spent together…”
There’s a brief pause, as Fuchi seems to recollect his thoughts.
“(Nickname)-chan was always cooped up inside this place.” Fuchi says, eyeing the small trinkets lined atop the shelves.
You follow his gaze, you wonder why he hasn’t thrown some of them out yet. You wouldn’t be mad. They take up space he could potentially use for something else.
“…Always working and treating others, the only time we ever saw them outside was when someone got injured or when you guys were going out to town.” He picks up one of the takeshi dolls from the stand, the colours are a bit off, slightly murky, probably from the dried blood. He rolls it thoughtfully in his hands.
They were items given by different students— ranging from paper cranes, wooden toys, and some books gifted by the other Asaemons. They made the otherwise dim room a little bit more lively— or as lively as it can be for a room reeking of death.
“I deeply admire (nickname)-chan’s work. They were always so diligent in helping others, something I never quite fully grasped the importance of when working with them… they could have cultivated that time trying to improve on the Asayamagan or making new medicines… but instead, they spent essentially the majority of their life helping others. From the students here, to everyone in the Yamada estate…”
A forlorn look crosses Shu’s face, “Yes… they were a rare soul. Far kinder than people gave them credit for. They cared deeply for everyone in the Yamada clan, I’m sure they would appreciate hearing this sentiment from you, Fuchi.” Discreetly, Shu looks over at you— his smile looks too tender, too soft.
You let the praise pass by you like currents in the water, if you searched for approval in every corner of your work, you would never get anything done. Sir Kusuri never gave it freely, and Shu showered you with too much of it. It was one extreme to the other, the balance was uncanny to you.
You tear your gaze away.
Fuchi lowers his head, “Yes… if only.” He murmurs, eyes heavy.
He sighs, looking back over the dark haired man in front of him.
“Can I ask you another question, Shu?”
Shugen nods resolutely, not all worried—but you immediately shake your head.
“Shu, you do realise he’s only going to ask you something embarrassing again, right?” you mutter, catching a faint tug on Shu’s lips at your response.
You glance over at Fuchi to see him swallowing nervously, an uneasy expression crosses his face.
“I’ve never told this to anyone, as I wanted to hear it directly from you but…” he places the takeshi doll back in place, returning his gaze back to Shu.
“I heard you talking to someone the other day, but when I rounded the corner to see who you were conversing with—“ He hesitates, biting his lips.
“—There was no one there.”
The comfortable atmosphere drops abruptly, the wind seems to pick up– the flicker of the candle light shows Shu’s shadow towering over Fuchi’s.
The open cadaver in the corner doesn't help.
“Were you perhaps… seeing (nickname)-chan?”
You wince at the question. But Shu doesn’t seem phased, he looks oddly calm. A much milder reaction compared to the previous question.
Fuchi thinks Shu’s crazy now.
And you are partly to blame for this.
“Just say no,” you whisper, voice low despite Shu being the only one who can hear you.
“He doesn’t have to know Shu. I doubt someone like Fuchi would even believe you if you say you can see me.” You explain, leaning closer to Shu.
Shu closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose, his shoulders slacken. He glances to your side, a sad look in his eyes.
“Sorry…” he mutters, before averting his gaze back to Fuchi who merely looks at him in a state of confusion.
“Could you hear me out on this, Fuchi?” He asks.
Fuchi nods quickly. Head tilting to the side.
Shugen provides a long winded explanation about your appearance as a ghost since you had passed. You were surprised by how amicable Fuchi is as he listens to Shu attentively explain the happenstance of your current circumstance.
Fuchi hums contemplatively, hand resting over his chin, as he sits across from Shu.
“I see… so on the day that they had passed, they appeared before you as a ghost. And had stayed as one for the majority of the last few months– and, you’re the only one who can see them… is that correct?” Fuchi surmises concisely, looking over at Shu, head tilted to the side.
You and Shugen nod simultaneously.
“And… They're here right now?”
You both look at each other before nodding.
“Can they make contact with any physical objects?” Fuchi asks.
Shu shakes his head, “No, their presence is barely even felt. They can pass through walls and such…”
Fuchi bites his upper lip, nodding softly as he looks to the side.
“Ask if he thinks you’re lying.” You say.
“Do you think I’m not telling the truth?” Shugen asks, voice strained from talking too much.
“To be honest…” Fuchi gives him a wry smile, “It’s a lot to take in…”
So you do think he’s lying. You think, a small frown on your face.
“But with how convinced you look, it’s hard not to believe you either…”
You make a tapping motion on Shu’s shoulder, your fingers going through him, as you do.
“Get some scrap paper and a brush, tell him he can ask any medical questions and I’ll answer them through you.” You say hurriedly.
Noticing Shu look over to his side, Fuchi asks “Are they saying something?”
“They’re asking for some scrap paper and brushes, they said they’ll prove their existence by answering some medical questions.” Shu reiterates.
Fuchi nods, walking over to the tansu to retrieve said items. He hands them to Shu giving him a neutral look.
“Ready?” He asks.
“Yes!” You and Shu both say in unison.
“What are the main organs extracted to make the Yamada pills?”
“Brain and liver.” You answer simply.
You watch as Shugen writes down the answer.
“Correct.” Fuchi says plainly. “That one was easy, you could have easily answered that on your own Shu.”
You growl, “Then ask something harder!” You challenge.
“They were not pleased with that response,” Shu says lightly.
“Okayy, next question," Fuchi says, dragging out the last words.
“Aside from temperature, what vital signs of the body indicate that someone has a fever?”
“Elevated heart rate and increased breathing.” You state.
You draw a pointed motion with your hands “Draw an arrow up to indicate increased— should be easier” you instruct, as Shu follows your words diligently.
Fuchi looks at the words Shugen has written, nodding his head.
“Okay, one more— the only question (nickname)-chan knows!
“What fungi based medication was found recently this year inside a cave? It was proposed as a pain killer and anaesthetic that restores crippled limbs over time.”
Fuchi holds up both of his hands, signalling a timer.
You tilt your head to the side, confused, you and Shu both look at each other, he gives you a small encouraging smile.
You look back at Fuchi, cave? Found in a cave? You’ve heard about that before, you can vaguely remember reading it quite sometime ago through a letter.
An idea pops inside your head.
“Hydra?” You say questioningly.
“Should I write that down?” Shu asks, watching as six seconds are left from Fuchi’s manual timer.
“Yes,” you say quickly.
Shugen writes down your answer, presenting it to Fuchi who’s about to put down another finger.
He leans forward, reading the words written by Shu, and laughs through his nose— you don’t know if that’s a good sign or not.
Finally, Fuchi nods his head, clasping his hands together. “Yeah, I believe you, Shu. Good job to the both of you!” He praises.
“Can you ask him what that medication does? I only vaguely recall it…”
“They’re asking what this medications does,”
Fuchi’s neutral expression brightens, he hurriedly grabs a thick book from under the table.
“Hydra— is a fungus, it’s currently being tested as an anti-venom, it’s commonly found in the mountains. It’s said to be effective in providing pain relief for muscle discomfort and limb detachment— but apparently, it has a very addictive side-effect once consumed” Fuchi explains, pulling up one of your medical journals, he presents to Shu a badly drawn picture of a plant.
“Don’t mind the illustration, (nickname)-chan was never a gifted artist.” Fuchi deadpans, flipping through your other works before settling on the hydra plant.
You ignore the snide remark in favour of reading your past writing.
You remember now, one of Sir Kusuri’s old colleagues penned you a letter about a new species of medicinal plant found in the caves of the mountainside. They asked if you could trial the plant in the Asaemon dojo. As the medicinal side-effects were still unknown— you had turned down the proposal.
“A physician from a noble family had sent me a letter saying they wanted me to use a vial of the Hydra they cultivated.” Fuchi rummages through the tansu, picking up a tiny vial from the assortment of medicines.
He shows it to Shu. A black vial, halfway filled with a thin fluid.
“I know (nickname)-chan refused them initially, but I wanted to ask why they did so. It’s hard to believe they would say no to any opportunity to study a new drug.” Fuchi asks, tilting his head to the side.
“Well…” Shu glances over to you, you grimace. Sir Kusuri often used medication sent by other physicians at the dojo, most of those medications have never been trialled properly. You refused to use them on students/Asaemons from the clan as you had no idea how they worked.
“We don’t know the side-effects for them. In the off chance they cause harm, I won’t be able to attend effectively to it, due to how little information they give us.”
Shu repeats your explanation, and Fuchi nods along with it. Staring at the vial in his hands.
“Well, I did say I would accept it. I never said I would try it…”
“They’re pretty persistent, those old geezers…” you say.
Shu repeats after you, raising his brow at your choice of words.
Fuchi laughs earnestly, “They’re quite loathsome. Their approach to the current creation of medicines is rather old-fashioned. But there is a lot to learn from them I guess— Oh! Shu, while you’re here, can you have them to look at this letter?—“
The conversation between the three of you stretches far beyond your normal bed times. By the time you all finish, birds can be heard chirping from a distance.
You wave back at Fuchi as you and Shu retreat back to his room. He can’t see you, you know that, it’s the principle of it you still try to uphold. You missed talking to them, to your friends. Although you don’t admit this to Shu.
You feel refreshed, somewhat.
You didn’t need sleep, but Shu did, he’s still human after all.
You wonder when you stopped referring to yourself comfortably as a human.
You hear Shu call out your name.
He stops just short out of the clearing. Tired eyes glued to your figure, waiting for you to catch up.
“Let’s go.”
Between you and Shu, someone had to accept the fact that you're dead.
--------
The next evening Shugen is approached by Fuchi.
You hover around Shu this time, watching them interact. Your ears perk up when Fuchi asks Shu if you’re here.
Shu nods, although slowly, confirming your presence.
Fuchi smiles, “Good evening, (nickname)” he says, greeting you— though his gaze drifts towards the wrong space as he does so. The awkwardness of watching him greet empty air earns a chuckle from you.
“Evening, Fuchi” you reply, waving a hand instinctively,
The three of you fall into an odd rhythm of sorts. You and Fuchi both use Shu as a transcriber— a middle man situation where you exchange information to Shu, and he relays it back to Fuchi. It probably looks normal from an outsider’s perspective, until they hear the content of your conversations that is. The Asaemons are weird in that regard, all of you had grown so accustomed to death, that conversation about bodies and repurposing them are less of an uncommon topic you can prattle on about randomly throughout the day without anyone batting an eye (unless the conversation happened over mealtime, of course).
Still, it’s a nice change of pace.
The topics range from medical information and recalling of events from the past week or so as you all walk back to Shu’s room.
The conversation extends for a bit until Fuchi asks you a sudden question.
“Do you know when you’ll be returning to the after-life?”
The question doesn’t surprise you all that much. You find it quite practical for him to bring it up. You think you’ve already overstayed your welcome here in the Yamada dojo. You’ve avoided these conversations with Shu for the majority of your stay with him. Grief is different for everyone, it’s not hard to see that Shu— in a lot of aspects, still struggles to come to terms with your death.
He needs to move forward, he needs to accept you’re gone.
Which is why you shouldn’t be near him at all. But due to your limitations in where you can and can’t go, you’re stuck inside the premises, with Shu who still tries to find you despite your vehement refusal to stick too close to him (or be near him for too long).
This is the first time you’ve discussed this with anyone else, so having someone aside from Shu acknowledge the situation so plainly feels oddly refreshing.
You don’t answer Fuchi’s question immediately, instead, you glance over at Shu who seems visibly unsettled by the question.
Still, you shake your head, “I have no clue,” you admit honestly.
Fuchi hums thoughtfully. Taking a sip of the tea Shu had prepared.
“I’m not well adept with religion— especially the ones that explain the hauntings of souls in specific premises, but Sen-chan might know something about this, would you like me to tell him about it?” He asks, looking over at you, then to Shu.
“Of course! Now that I think about it— Sir Eizen also knows a lot about religion, does he not?” You place a hand to your cheek, recalling the times he’d bring you, Shu and Sagi into town when you were all younger. You would hold onto Sagi’s hand as Shu stuck close to Sir Eizen’s side. Before returning to the dojo, he would stop by a temple— encouraging all of you to participate in doing prayers. You heard he still does the same thing with Shu whenever they go out to town. He’s as studious as he is devout, perhaps he knows something…
You turn over to look at Shu, “Hey Shu, can you ask—“
The words die in your throat.
At first you think he’s simply thinking over your suggestion, but the longer you look at him, the more something uneasy curls inside your chest.
Shu’s gone still.
Not the same relaxed stillness you’ve grown used to.
It’s like he’s forcing himself to stay perfectly still, as if even the slightest movement can destroy everything he’s so desperately tried to contain.
His gaze remains lowered. Eyes filled with intense emotions as they stare intently at his hands, a conflicted expression on his face.
You call his name, hoping to ease the tension in his form. Instead, he looks away from you (and somehow, that hurts more than if he’d looked at you directly).
“Shu…?”
“—I think it will be helpful, they won’t be stuck wandering around here in stasis. I imagine it probably isn’t a fun place to be stuck in— I wouldn’t want to be stuck here in death… it's like being in purgatory— if purgatory was a dojo, filled with sweaty guys and people who chop off heads…”
Fuchi’s rambles die down as he spots Shu’s obvious displacement throughout the conversation.
“Are you okay, Shu?”
Shu shakes his head. “No. Please do not stop on account of me…” His voice is strained, controlled, the type of tone most people put on when they're at the verge of tears.
Guilt twists painfully inside your chest. Every point in the conversation forces him to stand in the middle of his grief all over again. You hate that Shu is the only person capable of seeing you. Of speaking to you. You hate putting him through this— not because you think he’s weak— but because you know how hard he tries to pretend that side of him doesn’t exist.
But you refuse to let the pain stop him from moving forward, you care about him too much to let him suffer through all of this in silence. Not when every mention of your death visibly tears something open deep inside him. You know Shu well enough to see what everyone else misses, and it hurts to watch, because a part of you knows that if given the choice, he would choose this pain over losing you again.
You simply can’t wait for the wounds to finish healing before you start moving forward— life simply does not allow for that.
“Shu, it’s going to be okay…” Your voice softens inexplicably, it makes you wince. It feels unnatural in your mouth.
The clumsy type of affection of physical contact that you used to rely on so heavily is not an option you can use anymore.
You were always better at tending to wounds than you were at speaking over them. And now, without a physical body, all you have left to offer are words. Maybe that’s why Shu kept coming back to you every night, because even a flimsy bandage is better than staring into a gaping wound.
“You don’t have to hold onto me so tightly anymore.”
He doesn’t look at you still, you wish he would. You wish you could reach him. But as you stand right now, you’re more of a physical manifestation of a wound than a person.
You really do need to disappear.
“Everyone in the Yamada clan is here. The younger Asaemons look up to you, Sir Eizen still needs you… and Fuchi— he’s taken my place as the Yamada’s main maker of the Asayamagan. Everything is as it should be…”
You see Shu’s shoulder visibly tense.
“The world won’t stop just because I’m gone…”
“I know that, I just…” he sniffs, wiping away his tears hastily with his sleeve before they get the chance to reach his cheeks.
“Do you have to decide right now?”
Fuchi’s gaze falls downwards.
“They’ve remained here since their passing… they deserve to have their soul rested.” Fuchi explains. Trying to shed some logic in the otherwise emotionally heavy atmosphere.
Shu’s hands curl tightly around the fabric of his hakama.
“I know… I know they deserve peace…” he swallows hard, fighting to keep his voice steady. He says the words like he’s trying to convince himself that it's true.
Everything Fuchi is saying is reasonable. Sound logic. Sensible. He knows you deserve peace, he knows the dead aren’t made to linger. But understanding that, and accepting it are two entirely different things.
If he truly loved you he would let you go— but what does that say about his love for you, when all he wants to do is to stay by your side?
Shu’s expression grows tight, “I want them to rest…” he says, frustration threading through his words.
His eyes find the outline of your hand as it hovers near him— his gaze finally meets yours. Regret crashes through him in waves. Twisting his insides in a deplorable feeling of shame.
After everything you’ve been through, you deserve to be happy. To be set free.
The Yamada clan had caged you here long before death ever did, ensnared you inside that same ramshackle shed you’ve endured countless hardships in (how you still manage to call it your home, he doesn’t know.)
Fragments of unpleasant memories flash through his mind.
Pictures of purple and yellow bruises, of jagged cuts littering your arms.
The sound of raised voices bleeding through the thin walls of Sir Kusuri’s lodgings.
He remembers seeing you during that same evening, watching the door close—the light of his lamp fading on your form as the door shuts itself in front of him.
He remembers how your arm trembled in his hold as he tended to your wounds, how he bandaged the wrappings lighter, in fear of hurting you even more.
He remembers all the times he couldn’t save you, of how he only stood by as he watched the light in your eyes grow dimmer, day by day.
And even now in death, it seems to have trapped you inside. Hiding you away as it always did.
“You of all people deserve a better end…”
His own words echo bitterly inside his head.
“Life is given meaning by death, and death is given value by life.” Fuchi parrots the words to Shu, who only looks at him in confusion.
“It’s the words (nickname)-chan said to me when I asked them about the importance of life when treating others. My interest in the medical field has always been purely for the pursuit of knowledge… working with corpses ensures you’re always met with a silent client, I never thought much about the importance of life because of it. However, (Nickname) thought otherwise…” Fuchi closes his eyes, a small smile on his face.
As if recalling those exact moments, Fuchi makes vague gestures– you realise he’ mimicking your way of explaining things with your hands, “Those two things go hand in hand in ensuring neither is thrown away haphazardly, they give each other meaning just by existing, they give them weight. As part of the Yamada clan, it is within our duty to honour the heaviness of that weight– for us, it’s to bring a swift, painless death to those incarcerated for crimes beyond– or within their control.”
Fuchi’s hands drop to his sides, a fond look crossing over his face.
“(Nickname) devoted their life in support of others. To the other students, to our fellow clansmen– to you, to me…Even when Sir Kusuri did not wish to have me as another apprentice. (Nickname) still made sure to include me in their work. They shared their medical books, medicine and even the techniques they learned from Sir Kusuri with me, despite earning Sir Kusuri’s ire and punishments in doing so…”
“And for that— in exchange for this small act of gratitude, I want to help (nickname). I want to assist in bringing them peace…”
Shu’s head remains lowered, “It’s not my decision to make… they’ve already made the decision for themselves. Whatever my feelings may be, it is not a deciding factor for what is to come…”
Shu’s eyes finally meet yours, before they drift towards Fuchi, a smile finally graces his face, but they don’t meet his eyes. You feel your heart split painfully in two.
“I will assist with the preparations, I’m their only tether to this place after all.”
--------
You feel as if you see more of Shu nowadays.
Not that the two of you were ever truly apart to begin with, but he’s developed a new habit of finding you in the mornings and lingering around you during his breaks. Instead of moving himself away from you despite your past conversation, it seems to have motivated him more in sticking to your side.
You would have found his actions endearing under different circumstances— if not for the increasingly worried glances that Sir Eizen and the other Asaemons exchange whenever Shu drifts off during those times. And Fuchi is of little help in easing those concerns, his vague and roundabout way of answering their worries only seems to frustrate them further— creating more questions than it does answers!
It’s been four days since you’ve last spoken to Fuchi properly. As much as you'd like to ask him how his discussion with Senta went, he’s been cooped up in your old shed for the past few days. And considering Shu is your only way of speaking to him, you feel infinitely more uncomfortable in asking.
You understand why— his time is stuck between medicinal production, research, training and tending to other students. You’re glad he seems to be happy in his line of work despite his busy schedule.
But they leave in the next two weeks or so, would they still have enough time to do so?
“Is there something on your mind?” Shu asks, breaking you from your thoughts.
Your eyes lift to his, you let out a soft sigh “Yes, several things, actually…”
“Is it about the ritual? I can talk to Fuchi about today if you’d like?” Shu asks sincerely, still eating the dango in his hold.
“No, it’s fine. I know he’s busy, I understand— I can wait…” You say, laying back down on the engawa. You hear faint sounds of laughter nearby– you identify the boyish tone of Tenza’s voice, along with other students. You turn your head to look at Shu, whose gaze drifts towards the empty courtyard. Your earlier worries resurface, clouding your mind.
You say his name, and his eyes meet yours once more, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face, acknowledging your call.
You can only muster a slight frown in response.
“Are you not worried about how other people perceive you right now?”
“What do you mean?”
You purse your lips, the question came out stronger than intended.
You’re sure everyone trusts Shu, he wouldn’t have placed second in rank if the higher-ups thought he did not earn his place. His reputation is still in good standing, a small miscreant like this would easily be wiped and forgotten after a few months— so long as you disappear first.
“You’ve been lingering around me far more than usual lately.” You say, pulling yourself up, “People are starting to notice…”
Shu returns his gaze back to his food, twirling it thoughtfully in his hold, “I spoke to Fuchi regarding this, he said he would explain it to everyone without giving away your existence.” he states plainly.
‘Well, he’s not doing a good job at being clear!’ you think to yourself, closing your eyes as you let out a deep sigh.
“He’s confusing them more than he is explaining things,”
“Confusion is a good tactic to distract others.”
“Shu, your clansmen and students are not enemies,”
He raises a brow at you, smile half-formed. “I never said they were.”
You roll your eyes at his reply, earning a small chuckle out of him, you force yourself to look away from the scene.
“I still don’t think it’s good for you to stay by my side longer than necessary. People will start thinking you’ve gone insane!" Brief flashes of your conversation with Fuchi resurface in your head, the confusion and disbelief in his gaze— the lengthy explanation, and even then he had only partially accepted Shu’s words. You doubt the others– especially people like Sir Eizen and Sir Shion would believe him (you can imagine Sir Jikka merely laughing it off).
If the suspicion begins to spread, if they start doubting his state of mind– they’ll demote him!---
Shu doesn’t reply to you for a brief moment. His eyes linger on your hardened expression— brows furrowed, lower lip jutted out in a poor attempt to conceal your frustration– the sight spreads a familiar warmth through his chest. Even now, you’re still more worried about him than you are about your own state.
You're about to start berating him once more when you hear footsteps approaching nearby.
“Yo, Shu-kun, I brought Sen-chan!”
You whip your head towards the familiar voice. Senta bows respectfully to Shu— who in turn responds warmly to his greeting.
“Is (nickname)-chan there?” Fuchi asks, looking over to Shu’s side where you currently reside.
You raise a hand, “Yes, good evening!” you say. The corner of Shu’s mouth tugs faintly at the gesture.
Shu nods affirmatively, “They’re here, they’re sending their greetings.”
You notice Senta visibly tense at Shu’s words, fingers tightening around the books in his hands.
Shu seems to notice his reaction as he redirects his attention back to Fuchi, “Did you explain the situation to Senta?” Shu asks.
Fuchi nods, “Yes, although I thought it would be better if you answered some of his questions yourself.”
Senta brings himself forward.
“Sir Shugen, Fuchi explained the situation to me!-- I would be honoured to help in assisting (F/N)-san back to the afterlife!” Senta starts off, bowing his head once more,
“However, there’s a few things I’d like to clarify first before proceeding. Would it be okay for me to ask you a few questions?”
Shu gives an encouraging smile, “Yes, of course! Ask me anything you’d like…”
The conversation goes on for more than just a “few” questions. They go over your first appearance as a ghost. And as far as Shu remembers, you appeared to him when your body was recovered at the Yamada dojo— shortly after they had put you to rest. The difference as to when you actually appeared— as to when Shu first saw you, makes you wonder what made it possible for him to see you in the first place, but not anyone else.
“Have you ever seen any other ghosts, supernatural entities, or yokais before, Sir Shugen?” Senta asks, brush and small notebook in hand.
Shu rubs his chin, “No… I don’t recall ever seeing anything like this before…”
“Could it be because you’re attached to (nickname)-chan?” Fuchi chimes in.
You shoot Fuchi a sharp look.
“Attached…?” Shu asks.
“Yes, like emotionally or spiritually… I was just joking but, it’s a possibility too, right, Senta?” Fuchi looks over at Senta who continues to write in his notebook.
“Huh?-- Oh! Yes, that could be possible, although it’s quite uncommon… I’m asking mainly to figure out what type of spirit (F/N)-san is. I couldn’t ever imagine them being vengeful so…” Senta briefly stops himself from writing, looking over at both Shu and Fuchi who listen to his words attentively.
“I’m just trying to determine what type of ritual would best suit bringing (F/N)-san back to the afterlife…”
“I see…”
Fuchi looks over to Shu’s side, where you currently sit. “You’re not vengeful right, (nickname)-chan? Is there any unfinished work you want us to do for you?”
You shrug, “I don’t hold any grudges towards anyone, and I… don’t think I have anything important that I feel as if I’ve left behind.”
You meet Shu’s eyes for a brief moment, something is poised at the edge of his lips— but he retracts, continuing the discussion by repeating your words. Your admission seems to elicit a slight emotion in him, as he purses his lips, avoiding your gaze.
“Is it okay if I ask (F/N)-san a few questions?” Senta asks.
“Of course!” You pipe in, looking over at Shu. “Ask me anything, anything at all!”
Despite looking away from you, you spot a faint tug on Shu’s lip, you rejoice in the small victory of bringing back his smile.
“They agree, they’re quite enthusiastic about being able to talk to someone new. So feel free to ask them anything you wish, Senta.”
“Just don’t ask them about their relationship with Shu, they don’t like that.” Fuchi interjects.
A surprised look takes over Senta’s face.
“Oh, are you two…?”
“No!” You and Shu both say, simultaneously.
“We're just… friends,” Shu says, eyes closed, a pink tinge coating his cheeks.
“Uh-huh.” is Fuchi’s deadpan response.
“--Just tell Senta to continue with the questions, Shu!”
The discussion continues long after their tea has gone cold, with Senta asking you several questions. He asks about the extent to which you can move freely in the dojo, whether you’re capable of leaving the premises, if your appearance shifts depending on the hour, whether animals react to your presence.
Some questions are easier to answer than the others. Some… were bizarre, but considering the circumstances of your condition (and how much knowledge you lack in theology), you guess it makes sense for him to ask you these questions.
(Senta had asked, rather seriously, if you could regurgitate fire from your mouth or had a large belly, or had a bad odour reminiscent of rotting flesh…In account for finishing his cross-examination, you decide to overlook the annoying snorts and giggles coming from Fuchi.)
And similar to Fuchi’s question earlier, he asks you about any lingering feelings, strong motivations and aspirations you might have had before your passing. Your thoughts drift briefly towards your work, to everyone in the Yamada Clan, then to Shu.
You’ve long resigned yourself to the fact that you would have to leave all of those things behind.
So you tell him no– you don’t feel as if you’re lying to Senta when you say you don’t.
By the time Kisho comes to collect the small group that’s formed near Shu’s lodgings, Senta’s notebook is already crowded with hurried lines.
Not wanting to hurry him, but also not wanting them to miss out on dinner, you turn towards Shu. “Shu, can you ask Senta how many questions we have left?”
Shu rephrases your question to Senta, to which Senta nods, saying he only has one more question left.
“Do you ever feel hunger, (F/N)-san?”
You tilt your head at the question, confused.
“Yes, in fact, if I don’t pass to the afterlife after the ritual— I’ll eat your soul.”
Shu levels you a firm look, “I’m not saying that, (F/N).”
“It was a joke…” you mutter, gaze flitting to the side. “I don’t have any senses, I feel neither hunger, pain, nor tiredness— I merely exist.”
Shu relays the information back to Senta, who scribbles it onto his notebook.
“You might have heard of this already, but Segaki is a ritual from buddhist origins, it’s performed to alleviate the suffering of restless ghosts who haven’t moved on to the afterlife.”
“We performed something similar after your cremation.” Senta says carefully, pushing his glasses up slightly as he opens his book.
“It’s commonly performed at home or in a temple. In this instance, we can perform it again here! Although… I cannot guarantee that it will work one hundred percent…”
“Sorry but— if it didn’t work the first time, what’s the guarantee that it will work again now?” you ask, worry coating your features.
“It’s worth a try, in your present state, you’re neither vengeful nor hungry, rather you seem to be similar to that of your normal self– however, you do seem to be tethered here by unknown means…” Fuchi surmises, looking over to Senta for confirmation.
Senta nods solemnly, placing a hand under his chin, “We can start by redoing the Segaki, before doing a more direct approach.” Senta turns his attention to Shu, “Sir Shugen, could you ask (F/N)-san if they would like us to make an ofuda for the ritual?”
You nod, without hesitation, but Shu on the other hand questions the rationale behind the need for an ofuda.
“Aren’t Ofuda’s usually for restless spirits? Doesn’t (F/N)’s constitution undermine the need for it?”
“I think that’s their second item for the other ritual,” you reply.
“Other ritual?" Shu asks, confused.
"It's merely a backup, in case the first ritual doesn't work," Senta clarifies.
"Are you not worried about it possibly causing you harm, are there not any risks to it forcefully banishing your soul?"
You blink at Shu's response. It's not unreasonable for him to say that, but in his state you would probably be more worried about the ritual backfiring on Fuchi and Senta and potentially inviting more spirits in the room.
"I'm more worried about how it could possibly affect all of you, if I'm being honest...but there’s no harm in trying, it’s not like I’m alive, I doubt it would hurt that much.” Now that he’s mentioned it, you think it actually might hurt. What would an attack to a ghost be like? Would it damage your soul? Would it actually injure you? But if Shu's worried about you despite them also being put at risk, it's probably not a good idea to ask. You're already beyond the point of worrying over simple pains.
You just want to get this over with.
Senta closes his notebook. “That covers everything! In the meantime, me and Fuchi can collect the materials. We'll try the ritual before we board the boat for Kotaku.”
The discussion ends there, you and Shugen thank Fuchi and Senta for their help.
The small group decides to depart for dinner, as another call from Sir Shion can be heard, reminding everyone once more to come quickly.
Upon noticing your absence by his side, Shu stops and waits for you just before he turns the corner.
You stay planted in the same spot. You make a ‘shooing’ motions towards him, ushering him to follow Senta and Fuchi for dinner.
His shoulders lax at your actions, his expression softening. Mouthing a quiet ‘I’ll be back’, before leaving.
Once he’s gone, you lower yourself onto the engawa, back hitting the floor with a soft sigh.
You rewind the earlier conversation in your head, despite talking about the afterlife, Senta never once mentioned Gods or worship. You expected some sort of sermon, but perhaps that type of talk only exists with Sir Eizen. You never considered yourself religious, nor as knowledgeable about theology as Sir Eizen or Senta. The mention of Gods and worship was a receding thought in your memories.
You never liked going out to the temple with Sir Eizen when you were young, but you held your tongue, numbing your thoughts as you watched everyone around you ease into the monotonous routine. You liked going outside, as all kids did back then, so you went despite it. Try as you might in denying it, you liked those moments more for the shared experience you had with everyone, wandering the nearby shops as you helped carry items for the dojo. It reminded you of your life back then, although you know that it would never be the same, reliving it with new people wasn’t so bad.
You think back to the blurry faces of your brothers and sisters, to the dilapidated shack you all called your home. You remember the meals you shared as you said thanks to a being you never felt connected to. You thought that perhaps god, or the sacredness of his being existed in your little family. That perhaps godhood is the same as your childhood– less of divinity, and more of preservation, of love that survives in places where it should have perished (and perhaps, in the end, it did).
You hear the familiar conjoined laughter of all your fellow Asaemons echoing through the premises.
You focus your gaze on the slow descent of the sun, the lavender and orange hues of the sky blurring together until it turns into a deep blue.
You close your eyes, humming softly to yourself, the sound just enough to drown out the noise that surrounds you.
--------
“We’ve collected most of the materials! We were able to scrounge up some of them here in the dojo, but some… well—“ Senta raises a hand to his cheek, scratching at the side as he laughs nervously.
“We had to barter with some merchants in town,” Fuchi adds.
Your eyes widened at his words, “Oh...did you use up your allowance for this?” You ask, feeling a pang of guilt hit you at the thought of them spending money for materials.
Fuchi shakes his head, “No– I mean, yes I did, but think of this as payment for the past ten or so years of training me.” he states simply. He offers you a tiny smile, but it does little to ease your uncertainty.
“Yeah, but still…” you deflate, the unease is quickly replaced by an overwhelming feeling of gratitude at their efforts “Thank you, Fuchi… I really appreciate it. You’re amazing, both you and Senta...” you say sincerely.
Fuchi waves of your words (well— Shu’s words).
“It’s fine, it’s fine…think of this as my parting gift—“ he states, turning his back to both of you.
“—and don’t make Shu say that ever again. It feels weird hearing it from him…” he furrows his brows, mouth curling into a sourly frown.
A laugh escapes you at his reaction, much to Shu’s utter confusion.
“Let’s get everything set up?” Senta suggests— Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he perks up, “Oh! I never got to tell you both the materials we’re going to be using today. Would you like me to explain them to you?”
You hum in reply, turning your head to Shu, “Would it be rude to refuse?” you ask him, voice lowering to teasing lilt.
Shu sighs, “Please go ahead, Senta…”
Fuchi ends up explaining in detail the items they had collected, Senta dropping in once in a while to explain in further detail about the reason for why each item is needed. He adds how the ritual should be performed, going in depth about each step and it’s importance. The steps are somewhat familiar, you’ve seen it before during Sir Kusuri’s funeral, although it was much more elaborate, yours would be fairly simple in comparison, due to limited resources, and also because they didn’t want to attract other spirits in the ritual.
Shu agrees to have his room be used for the ritual, to maintain privacy for your ritual and to avoid others from accidentally interfering with the ceremony, as well as to avoid questioning from everyone who doesn’t know of your existence.
They set out to clear the space in Shu’s room. Hiding away his items and moving his tansu near the entrance. And soon, the other half of his room has been emptied.
By the time they finish their preparations, the sun is about to rest. Falling between the lines of the trees, light hidden away by the mountains as the sky turns into a perfect mixture of orange and red.
“Is this time of day okay?” You ask, “aren’t rituals done around dusk?”
“By the time we finish, it would probably be around that time already. This should be fine,” Fuchi’s replies, opening the window slightly open.
Considering your standing, you weren’t given a shrine to commemorate your death. You’re not too hung up over the intricacies of it. Your photo was originally displayed near Sir Kusuri’s, but Shu had asked Sir Eizen if he could relocate it someplace else as per your request (you didn’t, but he could tell as much that you disliked it).
You come face to face with the portrait Senta painted the day before your demise. You don’t recall it being this worn out. It looks as if it were washed down in water with how the black ink seems to seep into varying shades of greys onto several parts of the photo, it looks quite terrifying, you wouldn’t want to see this in the middle of the night.
Senta places two bowls in front of your picture, one with water and the other with rice grains. Whilst Shu places several bowls with your favourite dishes on the further side, steam still emanating from the dishes.
You watch as they flit about Shu’s room in an organised manner. Accounting for each other’s actions and arranging the materials surrounding your makeshift shrine. Candles are lit at the side of your photo, a small arrangement of flower rests beside it.
It looks pretty. You think to yourself.
They say tastes and preferences are shaped by ones upbringing, you suppose the grim environment of yours must contribute to the appeal. You can tell they placed great care in preparing this for you.
You hadn’t been able to appreciate this in your funeral, you suppose anyone would have a hard time trying to. Too deep into denial about the state of your death– of distracting yourself from the gruesome truth of it. No normal person would feel normal with these circumstances, you should have never felt the way that you did.
A brief flash of red passes through your vision.
The sounds of screams, the galloping of a horse.
You were walking with Shu, carrying a small stack of books, along with that evening’s dinner– then, the crowd surges; you hear a sharp cry and raised voices, panicked movements of people surrounding you as bodies start pushing past one another quite forcefully—and before you know it, you get swept away by the crowd. Shoved into the ground, just as a shadow looms over you— your vision turns dark.
…
You look around you, and you see Shugen in front of you, along with Fuchi and Senta on either sides. A sizeable distance from where you sit in the middle. You don’t remember placing yourself here.
You meet Shu’s eyes, and they mirror the same look of doubt in yours. But you remain quiet.
The atmosphere turns stale.
You keep yourself steady, sitting upright. Unease crawling through your stomach.
“Are you ready (F/N)-san?” Senta asks, lifting the prayer beads in his hand.
You nod your head.
Fuchi gives Shu a brush and a slip of paper, whispering something you can’t hear to his ear, as Shu nods at his words, taking the items in his hold.
To his side, Fuchi carefully smooths over several thin paper talismans against the tatami, creating deliberate strokes on each one. It’s hard to fully make out what he’s writing from where you sit.
Shu does the same, although he only writes your name on paper Fuchi gave him. His eyebrows crease in concentration, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.
“Relax your soul, (F/N)-san, we’re here with you. We’ll be with you until the end…Do not dwell in the past; do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. ” Senta mutters.
You close your eyes, heading his words. The room feels suffocating. Perhaps that was the intended effect. You school your expression, forcing yourself to take deep breaths (despite your lungs no longer being able to fill with air).
You force yourself to relax, to remain calm. As everyone around you does their best in banishing your soul. In bringing you rest– to the afterlife.
The room falls silent, save for the soft crackling of fire and the sound of brush hitting paper.
You hear chanting, from Senta or Fuchi– you can’t tell. Your senses, or whatever's left of them feels numb. You sense their presence, their movements. You feel more accurately in tune with your surroundings, like your body is in the room but your mind is not. You feel the energy of those around you, the intense nature of Shu’s, the calm and collected aura of Fuchi’s, and the slight distention with Senta’s.
You remind yourself that you’re not alone in all of this.
You hear quite thumps, the items they prepared are laid in front of you. You can feel the strong presence of Shu bowing in front of you.
The chanting doesn’t stop, you feel another presence, this one is weaker, their aura dulls in comparison to the one beside them– it’s Senta. He mutters words you can’t quite make out, in your quite displacement, you see water and rice being offered to you. In such a long time, you forget the feeling of hunger, of thirst, of the need for the human body to sustain itself– but you feel all of it now, like you’ve been deprived of these basic necessities for all your life.
Your throat feels dry, an unreasonable thirst grips at your senses. You take the bowl in front of you, hands shaky and brittle– you drink from the bowl in fast big gulps, emptying it in near seconds– but for some reason, it still doesn’t feel enough.
Everything feels too much.
You feel the aura in front of you waver, but they don’t stop their actions. The chanting grows louder, closer– almost grating to your ears. You feel something placed on top of your head, a slip of paper. You take hold of the item, it doesn’t phase through your fingers– instead, it burns at the touch, you move your hand away quickly.
For a moment you feel warmth, but that feeling doesn’t linger enough to make you feel at ease, as the warmth grows hotter and hotter inside you, until you feel yourself slowly growing feverish.
The room spins around you, you think you let out a scream, but no sound comes out. You remain frozen in place, sat upright like a doll in a small box. Trapped.
The chanting continues, the warmth spreading across you like hot water being poured on an open wound, seeping deep inside you and making small hot threads that weave through your entire body, imbedding itself deep inside you, into your very being until it reaches your chest, the heat pooling inside, it stays there for a long moment, before dispersing all around you. You feel a faint tug– a pull.
For a moment, the pain dissipates, leaving a faint glow in its wake. You feel light, airy.
You think, perhaps this is what release feels like.
Perhaps they’ve succeeded, perhaps you truly are going to disappear.
And then, something grabs at you–
—violently.
Hauling you backwards until you feel yourself slam violently onto the ground. The force of it makes you choke.
(It feels familiar, doesn’t it, the cruelty of it all?)
The lightness is gone, the warmth inside you vanishes. Like a strong gush of wind to a mild fire.
The room shakes. You feel hands grab at your throat, clawing at your windpipes and torso in a show of malice, dragging you into the ground. Wrapping itself around you, around your soul and refusing to let go. Refusing to let you leave.
(Did you deserve this? Did you deserve what's happened to you?)
You think you hear screaming, muffled shouts, and painful cries.
–For a moment you think you were dragged to hell.
You cry for help, scream for a name that feels unfamiliar to your own mouth.
The darkness that surrounds you ripples, and in a blink of an eye– your returned back to the room. To Shu’s room.
You let out a deep shaky breath. Tracing your hands over your throat, the faint feeling of hands press into your body doesn’t disappear completely, it lingers far longer than you’d like, it feels disgusting on your skin. You feel like crying, but you can’t cry, nothing comes out.
You’re still here. You’re still dead.
The incense has died out. Thin streams of smoke curl upwards through Shu’s room.
The room is in disarray, food and water is thrown everywhere.
Senta looks terrified.
Fuchi's face darkens.
And slowly, Shu turns towards you.
Still here.
You stare at your hands. Still fully formed despite their transparency.
The ritual had failed.
You still remain.
Was all of that for nothing?
Fuchi calls Shu’s name, “Are they– are they still there? They’re still here, aren’t they?” he asks, voice trembling, hoarse from the continued chanting.
For once words fail him, slowly, he nods his head. Biting his lower lip.
Looking over at your distraught expression.
Shu feels sick to his stomach.
Not because the ritual didn’t work, but because of the sudden crash of relief that hits him in waves upon seeing you still here.
He shouldn’t be feeling this way.
It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.
“--We can still find another way! There’s still a lot of research and textbooks out there that detail how to bring souls into the after-life, while we’re here, we can still do one more!—“
“It took us five days to gather the materials.” Fuchi quips. “We leave in three days, we won’t have enough time…”
“T-then… we can collect some of the materials from the island! There isn’t much detail about the island’s flora…but I’m sure we can collect some of them from there as well!” Senta insists, fixing his glasses upwards. “When we come back we can try something else!”
“I guess…” Fuchi sighs, theres a distant look in his eyes, disappointment.
He looks over to Shu, then to your picture, to where you’re currently seated.
“We’ll do another ritual when we get back, (Nickname), don’t disappear on us without letting us say goodbye, kay’?” Fuchi states, lightheartedly.
The reassurance isn’t unappreciated, you can’t help the way your lips tremble at his words. Your chest aches painfully at his words. For once you’re glad they can’t see you. You place your hands to your forehead, letting out a deep breath.
“Thank you everyone… for everything” you say solemnly. You feel like crying (you can’t cry), simple sadness can’t explain the amount of grief you feel right now.
What went wrong?
Why didn’t it work?
What could you have done differently?
Question after question fills your mind.
Someone has to leave, if not for you, then someone else would have taken your place.
You had to leave. You were forced to.
So why can’t they let you? As benevolent beings, why can’t they set you free? Why won't the Gods set you free?
Why are you being denied rest?
Do you not deserve an afterlife?
You feel a presence near you. You whip your head upwards, only to realise that Shu’s already moved himself beside you. Far closer than you’ve realised. His hand hover uncertainly in the air between you, as though he had meant to reach for you but stopped himself halfway through.
He notices your startled gaze, body instinctively pulling away from him– and he immediately pulls away.
You don’t miss the way his expression shifts, the way it tightens. His internal struggle of reaching out for you, or giving you space.
Hesitantly, you decide to meet him halfway, inching yourself closer despite the lingering discomfort curling inside your chest. For everything that they’ve done for you, this is the least you could do.
(You can never get used to this, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this.)
An imitation of comfort performed by someone who’s no longer human– towards someone who’s heart still beats inside their chest, skin still warm from the blood still flowing freely inside them. You don't need the comforts of his touch. You don't need him to coddle you. And yet you can't find it in yourself to pull away.
(You’ve always envied Shu in that regard, in how easily he can care for others, in how easily he can let himself be loved-- in how beloved he is by everyone around him.
You wonder briefly, if the roles were reversed, would you have done the same for him?)
You should stop this.
It’s disgusting.
This feeling inside you...you shouldn’t be feeling this way.
You can’t love him, he can’t love you. He shouldn’t. By accepting this, by accepting him, you're only making this harder for the both of you.
His hands hover around you, you wonder about how bizarre this must look to your other companions right now.
If Shu insists on clinging to your existence, then perhaps you can at least pretend you’re someone whose still capable of being held.
This is wrong.
This is wrong.
This is wrong.
Perhaps throughout everything, you still don't want to admit that the person most hurt by all of this is you.
--------
It didn't take long for the first landing team to be sent to Shinsenkyo.
You were forced to stay in the Dojo, as you still weren’t able to move beyond the gates.
Fuchi lingers on the gate, Senta just a little bit in front. He does a sharp turn, bowing his head to the front gate where you’re currently facing them. Although his aim is skewed as you’re on the left, and he bows his head to the right. You sidestep to his direction quickly.
“We’ll come back, (Nickname)-san!” Fuchi says, loud enough for the other Asaemons walking in front to turn their head towards him.
They all smile fondly, Shion shaking his head, a small smile on his face, Tenza staring straight ahead as he fixes his headplate; Sagi laughs lightly, a sad smile on her face. Kisho and Genji are too far away for you to see clearly, but you can make out Kisho patting Genji’s shoulder roughly as they walk further ahead. Sir Eizen is with Jikka, who both walk in front, waiting for the others to catch up.
You raise a hesitant hand, waving it slowly (You know he won’t see it, no one but Shu will, but you do it anyway out of principle. You don’t want to let yourself hope that they could).
You wonder if ghosts can cry, you’ve wondered the same thing when you manifested in front of Shu— you probably would have right now. The feeling in your chest doesn’t suit a dead person. You should feel empty, hollow, as unmoving as your heart that’s already stopped beating. But right now, your chest feels full.
You mirror Fuchi’s deep bow.
“Please come back safely!” You say, voice equally raised.
You hear a ruffle of clothes, you open one eye to take a peak on your side. You see Shu, copying your movement.
“Thank you for your service, please come home safely!” He says loudly.
You laugh, the most genuine laugh you’ve let out since your death.
Everyone leaves, until they’re just a blip in your sight.
You hear sniffling, and you immediately know Shu has finally let loose all the tears he’d been holding back since this morning.
“You should follow them out.” You say quietly.
“I don’t want to leave you here.” Shu murmurs, lips trembling.
“I know you want to. I’ll wait for you here— go, follow them…” you usher, voice soft as you give him an encouraging smile.
Shu stares at you for a bit, tears falling down his eyes, he wipes at them childishly, taking a deep breath before setting off.
In a matter of seconds, he’s scampered towards the direction where the other Asaemons have gone.
You stand there by the gates on your lonesome.
Watching Shu’s back as he leaves your line of sight.
You snort. A bittersweet smile on your face.
You wish everyone a safe trip.
You pray they all come home safely.
--------
Shortly before they boarded the boat, Shu had told you that he had asked Sir Eizen to send a letter on their third day— detailing their safe landing and their current situation. He had Fuchi and Senta do the same.
It’s been two days.
You wait, lingering by the gates during the early mornings.
The familiar shouts of the Hiyakus slip by, none of which ever seem to be directed towards the dojo.
Shu has gotten restless from waiting. You think you did too.
He's been locked up in his quarters, going through stacks of paperwork. Even with prior experience in assisting Sir Eizen on handling the dojos external affairs-- Shu still struggled to parse through the mountain of letters sent by high ranking officials— their requests, the monthly reports of the dojos fundings and the unfinished assignments left for the other Asaemons-- mainly executions from different states, asking for a specific Asaemon, half of which have already been sent to the island. He has to review all of them, updating and answering to each one personally.
You’ve stayed with Shu all throughout the past two days, acting like a personal clock, telling him it’s breakfast or lunch, or when someone important has come to the dojo, or when a letter has arrived. There's not much you can do to help either way.
You worry for him, this type of work should have been handled by two people. He’s had less than five hours of sleep for the past consecutive days. It’s not healthy for him.
You try and voice your concerns to Shu, but it seems as if your words slip past one ear to the next, it's infuriating, but you don’t have the heart to stay mad, not when he's already going through so much.
The only time Shu ever listened to you was when you finally left his side to wander through the dojo’s premises. Unable to stand the darkness of his room, nor his adamant refusal to let even a smidge of natural light beyond the dying candlewick at his desk.
You didn’t notice his presence until he’s already called your name, a few steps away from you. You feel more like a pet cat with the tendency to wander rather than a ghost haunting the premises. You follow him back to the room, strategising on how you can utilise this information to get him out of his room more often.
Right now, it feels as if he’s more tethered to you, than you are to him.
--------
Shu's been cooped up inside here since this morning.
Refusing to eat as he finishes the last of Sir Eizen's unfinished paperwork.
Three days have elapsed. Sir Eizen still hasn't sent a letter back. Shu tries not to show it outwardly, but his heart hangs heavy from the notion.
Something's wrong, you can both feel it.
You stay by his side all throughout. With Sir Jikka as the only company available, it's hard not to feel tense. They had a prompt meeting as soon as Sir Jikka had arrived. The grim countenance on Shu's face tells you most if not all what you need to know about what had transpired.
You dislike making assumptions on things you have no evidence of, but it's hard not to lose hope, especially with how quiet the dojo has become.
Your thoughts are briefly interrupted as you hear Shu's voice, words barely audible. Like he's talking to himself rather than to you. You inch closer to his side.
He's stopped his earlier actions, cheeks glimmering under the faint light of the candle.
"I keep thinking about how things could be different..." he starts. His mouth turns into a straight line, voice barely above a whisper. You strain your ear to make out his words.
From the corner of his eyes, he glances briefly at your translucent silhouette.
"How you would still be here if I didn't ask you to come with me to town that day..."
"Shu..."
"I didn't even realise you were gone until it was too late, until life has already slipped past your eyes..."
This is... you never thought he'd blame himself for that. You never blamed him for your passing. It was an accident, a clumsy, messy accident. If there was anything that you could change with how your death transpired, it would be to leave Shu out of it. He doesn't deserve to witness the death of his loved ones twice.
"It's not your fault Shu, how could you have known?"
He stays quiet for a moment. Eyes trained towards the flames of the candlewick.
"...They say an elixir of life exists on that island. One that could grant anyone immortality."
It wouldn't work, you doubt something like that exists.
"My body's gone Shu. It wouldn't work."
There's a lot of rumours floating around about that island. All of which are hard to verify nor find solid grounding on.
It all feels like a convoluted fairy tale. A grim one at that. Everyone who's left for the island has yet to return, nor have they sent any reports back to the mainland.
"They say gods may exist on that island..." Shu adds, voice low, dry.
"If gods can grant prayers, if they can reach out to us, do you think they would heed my wishes if I ask them to bring you back to me...?"
You close your eyes, taking in a deep shaky breath.
"No. Gods don't choose which prayers they grant answers to."
You've seen families grieve, beg for mercy from a being so far out of their reach.
Your family believed in them, your brother and sisters did— you once did too. And now you have neither them, nor yourself on this earth.
You can shout, scream and cry all you want at the sky, but it will always remain empty.
If gods exist, then perhaps they are cruel.
Why create life when all it brings is tragedy?
"I see..." Shu says, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm almost finished, don't wander too far..."
Silence fills the room. Neither of you dare to speak. Only the sound of brush hitting dry paper can be heard.
You kneel by Shu's side. The tears in his eyes have dried. The dullness of his eyes remain-- hollow, hardened. Like a ghost inside a warm body.
His action is automatic, moving on practiced precision as he answers documents upon documents of paperwork.
You don't leave his side throughout. It's the least you can do.
You follow Shu till he tucks himself into bed.
He faces you as he does so. The dark rims under his eyes have worsened, his lips are dry, and bloodied, eyes bloodshot red from his crying.
It paints a familiar picture, reminiscent of a young child who has dealt with the pains of the world at such a young age.
You lay on your side, mimicking his posture.
It's the least you can do. The least you can do for the only person who has truly ever loved you.
"You won't leave in the morning, will you?" He asks.
The question is innocent, almost child-like, if it weren't for the deep timbre of his voice. Born from his need to have you by his side. Regardless of whether or not you were beside him physically.
You were never good at lying. At least, not to Shu.
"I won't."
A small imperceptible tug appears on the side of his lips. Relief or nonexistent belief. You can't tell.
"I'll be here when you wake up." You reassure him.
His hand slips out of the covers, reaching out to you, you copy his movement. Spectral hand slipping through his own.
You watch as Shu falls asleep, warm hands in your nonexistent ones— unmoving throughout the night.
You feel your eyes grow heavy at the sight.
You wonder how your hands feel on his own. Fuchi noted before that your presence feels like walking through a cold breeze— fleeting, but chilling…You wonder if that's what Shu is feeling right now, as your hands pass through him in a mock attempt to intertwine your hands into his own. But then, how is he able to fall asleep so easily?
You shift in your current position, taking care to not move your hand away despite Shu possibly not even feeling it.
You yawn.
You don't know when the feeling hits you, but exhaustion takes over your form. It's been a long while since you've first felt this type of heaviness, like you're sinking into deep water. Suddenly, your body doesn't feel like your own.
You try to call out his name, less to catch his attention, but more so to feel the way that it slips from your mouth.
But nothing comes out.
Your eyes eventually close, although not by your own will.
You try your best to keep yourself steady, to ensure your hand doesn’t move away from his own.
Shu's tired, peaceful expression is the last thing you see. Hand outstretched towards you as the memory of him slowly blurs out of your mind.
--------
The sun's rays shine on his face once more. The slip of light hitting his face as he groans at the discomforting brightness.
His eyes, that were once heavy with sleep and fatigue, widens as they zero in on the empty spot beside him, the sun's warmth barely doing anything on him as cold, unadulterated fear washes over him.
The space you inhabit by his side is empty.
Your spot is empty.
Cold. Desolate.
Gone.
"(F/N)?" He calls out. Voice course and husky from sleep. He slips out hastily from the covers.
"(F/N), are you there?”
He sits up completely.
You're probably outside-- wandering, as you always do. Despite his request to have you stay by his side as he slept, you still found it in yourself to leave.
You were always quite impatient. Restless. As is your nature. To leave when things feel too much to bear.
You're outside, you must be.
He leaves his room, the empty courtyard of the training grounds greets him. Shu doesn't bother closing his door, hurried steps thundering against wooden flooring.
He paces towards the direction of your shed. Perhaps you've made yourself home in your old lodgings. He can imagine you walking around aimlessly in your old workspace, inspecting equipment and specimens you can no longer touch, lounging about on the dissection table as you close your eyes, pretending as if you're dead-- waiting for him to come pick you up.
Your humour is grim, it's something he's gotten used to over the years.
He reaches your shed in less than a minute,
He knocks on the door, calling your name as he tries to push it open. It won't budge. He knocks again, harder this time, the sounds of his fists rattling the otherwise old door, calling your name repeatedly as he does so.
Stumbling through the thick greenery surrounding it, Shugen presses himself against the lattice grid windows— desperately trying to peek through the narrow gaps— it’s pitch black, no matter how much he strains his eye to look for your familiar silhouette amongst the darkness, he’s only stared back at by the endless abyss of nothing.
The silence that follows is harrowing. The ringing in his ears feels deafening.
He says your name softly this time, like a prayer, a plea— it leaves his mouth unevenly, cracked and twisted at the ends, leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth.
No matter how much he begs, cries for your name, you don't reappear in front of him either.
His breathing goes fast as he fumbles about the area for your spare key.
You used to leave an extra key in the bushes, digging a small hole and depositing it inside for safekeeping.
You said it's a spare, for him or for you— in case he ever needed to hide in your shed, or in case you ever lose your main key.
Despite your repeated insistence for him to tell Fuchi about its whereabouts, he never did. Shu doesn’t make it a habit to lie to you, but he did so anyway.
For each and every one of your belongings that's been burned, passed down, or quietly given away— Shugen had stood there in abject silence, watching the traces of your existence fade one by one. Like the gradual dimming light of a candle flame.
(He’s reminded yet again of his own shortcomings, of his inability to move when the moment calls for it— just like that morning you died— just like the night his parents were slaughtered.)
Shugen could not let himself surrender the sole remainder of what was yours. Of what was left of you and your shared memories.
So he lets himself have this. You need to at least let him have this.
Shugen’s hands dig into cold dirt, shoveling through solid ground and grass.
It's here, it has to be.
His teeth clench as he does so. Tears slipping past his eyes, and falling down to his hands as he continuously reaches for something that isn't there. Hands grazing against rocks and sharp minerals, they turn sore and bloodied from his continuous actions.
No, no, no…
It's not here.
It should be here.
You used to leave it here.
But you're not here. (And you haven’t been for months now.)
Where did it go? (Where did you go?)
The thought doesn't settle as it should in his head.
He calls out your name once more, voice strained— repeating it like a child lost in the middle of a busy street.
He wants to see you again.
His heart yearns to catch a glimpse of you.
To be greeted by your presence everyday.
You won't leave your key out for him to find here anymore.
You won’t be here to wait for him anymore.
The sound of your voice, the pleasant glow of your smile, the memories you once shared— they will all disappear to time.
He won’t see you anymore.
He will never get to see you anymore.
A waterfall of tears slips past his eyes, an agonised cry leaving his mouth as he curls into himself.
He repeats your name again and again, like it could bring you back to him. Like it did months before.
But nothing happens.The realisation finally settles, and it settles heavily inside him, crushing his heart under its weight.
You're gone. You're gone. You’re gone.
His throat tightens, it feels difficult to breathe— he's left to choke on his own sobs, grappling with the remnants of your fading existence.
You're gone now, truly gone, as you should have been months prior, as you should have been on the day you passed. He wonders if the gods have finally answered your prayers. Perhaps they realised his own was only prolonging your pain.
Perhaps this is his punishment, for latching onto you like a lifeline.
Should he be thankful for the gods that granted his prayers in extending your stay with him?
Or should he curse them for taking away the people that he loved twice?
Shugen can only hope, wish—pray, as the bright light of the rising sun creates crescent shaped rays on the outline of his back, splitting and reflecting light onto the dirt in his hands— he can taste the salty tears in his mouth, feel the soreness of the reddened and crimson shine of the cuts on his hands— every sensation that surrounds him dulls in comparison to the hollow throb of his heart. Shugen hopes, prays, that if not here—he hopes a better life awaits the both of you in the next, he hopes you're guided gently into the after life, where neither pain nor cruelty can ever put their hands on you ever again.
Pained sobs echo through the dojo. Haunting the placid grounds.
The end of a beginning (or perhaps, the start of a downward spiral).
For Shugen, the world starts collapsing in the bright morning sun. During the start of a new dawn.
…
(And it will all end on the night of a full moon.)
--------
Epilogue.
There were no gods on the island.
The elixir of life could only sustain life, not bring it back.
Even if Shugen lived a hundred years trying to figure out how to bring you back— just like that immortal on the boat— it wouldn’t have worked. And he has a feeling you wouldn’t have wanted that either.
His family is gone.
Everyone that he’s loved and cherished has perished on that damned island.
Shion, Sagiri and Jikka, are the last remaining Asaemons surviving on Kotaku. He lets himself rest with the thoughts of their safe passage to the mainland.
He doesn’t have much time left— his body is fading and so is the last of his consciousness.
His thoughts wander briefly, to the entirety of his life, the fading sounds of his mother and father’s laugh, the sharp clink of blades as they clash together in the dojo, the steady timbre of Sir Eizen’s voice as he calls his name; he recalls the memory of younger versions of all his fellow Asaemons– of training everyday with them, he remembers the faces of his students, who all looked up to him for guidance. He envisions small hands, bruised and reddened, and another pair of even smaller ones wrapping them in bandages. He envisions the blurry face of an old man, and the tiny visage of a younger version of you.
He sees an extended arm—your hand reaching out to him, willing him to take it.
Long gone is the spectral image of your ghost self, of the haunting memory of your empty and dull eyes in your last moments.
You look just as beautiful as he last saw you.
His hands find yours. Settling comfortably, wrapped gently in his own (for a moment, he feels at home).
He lets himself be led away by you into the growing warmth of a pitch-black darkness.
(Your hand feels warm, real.)
This time, Shugen promises that he won’t let you out of his sight— this time, he refuses to let go.
(Lest you slip from his grasps, and disappear from his life once more)
The path is dark, and murky— he’s uncertain where the path begins and where it ends.
But he isn’t too worried.
He doesn’t have to say goodbye anymore after all.
In the first place he was never even able to, perhaps this is why.
(Perhaps he was always meant to find you this way– amidst the sea of darkness, in the throes of pain and uncertainty. The way he first did when you were both young, the way he drifted instinctively to your side all those nights, all those years ago. In spite of everything that was held against him, you stood there by his side, the moon to the darkness of the bleak night sky.)
He feels the area around him grow hotter. The warmth becomes almost unbearable.
But you hold onto him all throughout it. Grounding his senses.
He etches your smile into his heart, into his soul. To remind himself of everything that he holds dear all encompassed in a single person.
No more tearful goodbyes,
No more silent farewells—
Shu tugs your arm towards him, enveloping you into an embrace.
His heart beat slows.
You’re here, and you’re real, and you're in his arms, he can feel your arms wrap tightly around his back.
And you’re warm. You’re so warm.
…
The ship collapses around Shugen, the slow decaying parts of his body erodes, flaking off of him as he fades out of existence, the wind carrying the last of his remains into the endless sea.
——-end
End Notes:
heyaaaa, thanks for reading this far!!! The lines for Senta’s “Do not dwell in the past; do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” is a direct quote from The Teaching of Buddha: The Buddhist Bible : A Compendium of Many Scriptures Translated from the Japanese, its from a section called “Sacred Aphorisms”.
If you have the time-- listen to "Multo" by cup of Joe after this, the english lyrics of the song rlly fit the vibe of the fic!!
