Every year. Every year for the past 8 years he had been taking the same week off. Tashigi had noticed. She didn't know why he did or where he went; he always went alone. But it would be different this year, for her at least. They hadn't been in charge of G5 the previous year. Now, if Smoker left, Tashigi would be left in charge to handle all of these rowdy men on her own. She would have her work cut out for her. But that's exactly why she thought that he wouldn't take that week off. She was wrong.
It had always seemed odd to Tashigi. And once Smoker had gone, the rest of G5 expressed the same sentiment. Smoker didn't seem like the type of guy to take a vacation. From what she knew of the man, she would have expected him to say that he didn't need any vacations. That a vacation would be a waste of time—yet, every single year, like clockwork, he took one.
The men of G5 sat together, trying to figure out where exactly they're big, mean boss would possibly go for a vacation.
"Maybe it's not really a vacation," offered one man. "Maybe he's just going to train somewhere. I can't imagine him relaxing."
When Tashigi told them that he went every single year at the same time, they all collectively gasped. But it sent their thoughts in a different direction.
"Maybe it's his birthday!" Said one.
"The anniversary of someone's death," said another.
Tashigi couldn't deny that she also wanted to know. She couldn't help her curiosity. She had been by this man's side for all of these years and yet it felt like she knew nothing about him—about who he really was when he wasn't a marine. She wondered if it was better that she didn't know.
***
Smoker puffed out smoke out of his mouth as he looked at the house in front of him. The house was still exactly the same—light blue paint, wooden door, flowers blossoming on the front lawn. He sighed as he tapped his knuckles on the door.
"Coming!" Shouted a feminine voice that made his stomach clench. He hated doing this; he hated coming here every year. He loved it, which is why he still came, but he hated it too. Because, while he loved seeing the people that lived there, he hated the guilt that would choke him while he was there. He adjusted his white jacket as he sighed softly—he had made sure to leave his Vice Admiral's jacket behind to avoid drawing any unwanted attention.
The door opened to reveal a woman who's eyes brightened up at the sight of the man that stood before her. She wiped her hands on the white apron that sat at her waist before welcoming him in. He avoiding making eye contact with her and walked inside. She smiled softly as she watched him for a moment—it made her fill up with warmth to see him again; she had missed him dearly.
"Boys!" She shouted. "We have a special visitor!" There was the sound of shuffling and then two pairs of running feet before two small identical boys, each with a head of white hair, appeared.
"Daddy! Daddy!" They cheered as they ran up to the man and each held onto one leg. The woman smiled at how happy the boys were. They looked forward to this time of the year—the one time of the year that their father would come to visit them.
He placed a large hand onto each of the boy's heads.
"How am I supposed to walk with you guys holding onto me like that?" He asked them. They let go but started jumping up and down in front of him, vying for his attention.
"I've gotten stronger since last time!"
"I'm stronger than him though! I always win our fights!"
"But I've been training harder!"
"Well, I—"
"Boys!" Shouted the woman, drawing their attention to her. She gave them a stern glance. "Be nice to each other!" She said. They both huffed and looked away from each other and complied.
"I have to go and finish making dinner," she said. "But make yourself at home." He didn't say anything back to her. He usually didn't. He usually kept his distance from her and only spoke to her when it was necessary; it's just how it had to be, he felt.
The woman sighed at his lack of response and left to do as she said. Yes, she was happy that he was there, but it always came with pain. It had been like this for the past 8 years. Things had been perfect between them until then—they were both marines and had become the best of friends; and the friendship blossomed into something more at a point; and the two were happy and in love; the perfect team on the battlefield.
But then she told him that she was pregnant and reality crashed on them hard. She was happy. He was not. It did not fit into his plan. She left the marines to be able to raise them in a safe environment. He did not want to give up his marine life for something that he hadn't wanted in the first place so he didn't. He grew distant from her. The kisses shared between them diminished until there were no more. No more gentle touches, no more sweet words, no more anything. He wouldn't even look her in the eyes, she noticed. And she hated it. She was still in love with every single part of that man, and she felt like she had ruined everything—not that she regretted having the children, though. She loved her two boys dearly.
She was glad that he would come and visit. Even if he hated her very existence now, the boys needed a father. And even if he wasn't around except for that one time every year, it was still something. Her two sons looked forward to it every year and spent the rest of the year training to become strong marines like their father. It was endearing, she thought.
***
The days passed quickly—they usually did when he came. The twins would never give him a moment of rest; they'd keep him occupied wanting to show him things that they had found and tell him all of the things that they had accomplished over the year. At every accomplishment that they told him, he felt more guilt settle upon his heart. He should be there for those moments, he thought. But he could not—would not abandon his duties and goals as a marine because of a mistake he made with a woman. Just because she decided to do so did not mean that he had to.
This was why he hated coming; this and the pain that he knew he caused her. It's why he avoided looking her in the eyes. He was afraid of what he would see there—of how much pain he would see there. He had enough guilt on his conscience, he felt. He didn't need anymore.
He made sure to tuck his sons into bed when it came time for him to leave. He always left once they were sleeping. He would leave a letter for each of them by their beds—he had never been good at saying goodbye. He always wondered how they reacted the following morning. She had never told him, he assumed it was to spare him the pain, so he had never bothered to ask.
"Happy Birthday," he would tell her before he left—he always timed his visits so that his last day with them would be on her birthday. Not the twins' birthday, but hers. It made him feel selfish, though. He wanted to be there for her birthday; he wanted to be there for that day even if he knew that his presence hurt her. What a wonderful birthday present he gave her, he thought sarcastically.
Normally, he would leave right after, but that day, that year, he made a mistake that he told himself he was sure to never repeat again. He let his eyes meet hers. And, though he saw pain in her gaze like he had expected, he also saw love and it caught him off guard. How could she still care for him after all that he's done—after all the pain that he's caused her?
He made the mistake of looking in her eyes. He made the mistake of stepping closer to her. He made the mistake of placing his hands on her face—of kissing her and letting himself fall into the pleasures of her body that he had missed; he didn't realize just how much he had missed her. He had told himself many times that he had moved on. He had slept with different women, but this was different; it was better than sleeping with those women. He wasn't exactly sure why, but kissing her felt comforting—not unattached or awkward. Kissing her felt like safety, and warmth, and home.
He made the mistake of kissing her all the way to her bedroom—of pushing her onto the bed, of undressing her. It seemed that all he could make her were mistakes.
He woke up the next morning to a comforting warmth that made him not want to get up from the bed, or leave the island, or go back to his responsibilities. But he knew that he had to. He got up quietly, making sure not to wake her, and quickly got dressed. He sighed as he left a letter for her on the bed, where he had been laying. He walked out of the room and softly closed the door behind him. He froze as he heard her stir awake.
"Smoker?" She asked in a sleepy voice. He could only imagine what was going on on the other side of the door. She had woken up, his warmth would still be on his side of the bed, but it would be empty. In place of him, she would find a piece of paper.
"Smoker?" She heard her voice call out again, a little louder, but also a little more desperately. Her voice cracked as she said his name. "No," he heard her say. Her voice now shaky. "Again." And then sobbing. No more words. Just harsh, loud sobbing. The kind that he knew would make your body tremble and your lungs gasp for hair. He felt the guilt wrap around his heart so much that he couldn't breathe. He closed his eyes tightly, balled his hands up into fists, and dug his nails into the palms of his hands as hard as he could—until he bled. He let out a breath and opened his eyes.
He had to do this, he thought. It was for the best, he told himself.
And then he left.
***
A/N: This was an actual dream I had. Suffice it to say, I woke up heartbroken.