Author's Notes: The ultimate goal of YST 20 is to "hit the highlights." I want all (or most) elements of the series represented, from individual characters to series themes to even the oft ignored *gasp* OVAs. And as I was filing through the remaining prompts (I feel compelled to remind you; I did NOT write the themefics in numerical order), I realized I was missing one crucial subject matter for YST—SeijixNasuti! Now yes, I've made reference to/quickly brushed over their relationship in other prompts, but I haven't really devoted a singular themefic to JUST SeijixNasuti (Prompt 8 is really too short to count). I'm rectifying that NOW.
I'd originally intended this for Prompt 13. Seiji would do something dumb, and then perform "damage control" to salvage the mess. But I had other ideas for "Damage," so I went this route instead. It's still Seiji being, well...Seiji. But I thought I'd try my hands at an "actual" problem between the two, as opposed to the comedic "tiffs" I typically write.
Recurring readers of mine will probably recognize the "jealous Seiji" portrayal, a la "Dashboard Jealousy" (which is, in retrospect, horrifically written). In my head, these inclinations worsen as Seiji ages, due to the emotional trauma of dealing with torture, fighting, captivity, war, and all the other Trooper shenanigans he encounters throughout YST (on top of Seiji being just naturally kinda ass-ish). He and Nasuti are a smidge older in this one, with Nasuti in the twenty-three zone (putting Seiji at about twenty).
"Tear" here is used in the context of something "ripped" or "torn apart." Very important.
7-second French:
oh cher = oh dear
parfait = perfect
Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors/Yoroiden Samurai Troopers is © to Sunrise, Nagoya TV, and Sony Music Entertainment.
YST 20 Prompt 3:
Tear
The earliest incident had occurred in her very own home.
A professor from the university had called and left a message on her machine. He was an older man, in his mid-twenties at the time, well-educated and unattached, and in an ordinary world seemingly a wonderful catch. She knew him through her grandfather only; they'd had no interaction beyond passing pleasantries in the hall.
The summer holiday had just begun, and he'd phoned in the hopes they could "grab lunch" before her return trip to France. Beyond wrangling the Trooper "boys," she'd had no experience with men, but sensed his interest. He'd eyeballed her more than once, but kept his distance...up until he learned of her grandfather's passing. And from there he'd been the first to approach her and express his personal condolences for her loss.
He'd been a nice enough man—and still was—but a part of her wondered if his lack of initiative prior to her grandfather's death hadn't been her grandfather's influence to start. He'd carried on cordial enough with the man, but seemed purposeful in shooing her away whenever the young professor appeared. It was something she could have easily chalked up to age, her being only seventeen at the time, but the peculiarity of her grandfather's behavior gave her the impression it was something more.
The guys had rolled in the same weekend he called, wanting to hang out and catch up during their summer breaks. The house was all shouts and laughter and Nasuti welcomed the life that their visit had breathed into the lonely estate. Rooms were divvied up per the norm, and already she could see rolls of socks being cannonballed from bedrooms out into the upstairs hall.
The peace had lasted all of an hour when the phone rang. She'd missed the initial call, but Seiji, of all people, had been in earshot, the young professor's mature voice blasting through the speakers of the machine. The message itself was innocent enough, but the implied undertone of the invitation spoke to more than a casual meal between peers.
The young professor was asking her to a date.
It was some time later before the information trickled her way, and at that point, Seiji was nowhere to be found. Word of the "invitation" had spread like wildfire through the house, and judging by the look of her friends, they were less than thrilled. Her relationship with Seiji had teetered between "friendly" and "flirty" for...as long as she'd known him. It wasn't something she could reasonably explain. There'd simply always been that connection between them. And yes, it'd elicited a fair share of snorts and sniggers from the guys. But they'd never shown to have any objections to Seiji's subtle pursuits, or her equally subtle reciprocations.
A dinner invite from a stranger, it seemed, crossed the line.
The severity of their reaction surprised her. She would have thought they'd tease her a little, at the very least. Instead, they shot one another mixed glances. Shin looked annoyed, Ryo worried, and Shuu downright disapproving. Touma maintained composure better than his comrades, though his eyes roamed elsewhere, as if mentally willing himself to disappear.
The absence of her blond swordsman was troubling. She hadn't even bothered to mask the question with indifference; she'd simply asked outright where he'd went. According to Shuu, Seiji had "paced the floor" a good half hour, glaring daggers into the phone line. He'd apparently had propriety enough not to erase the message, but instead, grabbed a jacket and her tabletop keys—being underage was bad enough, but at the very least he could have asked—and drove off.
Some hours later he'd returned, tires squealing as he zipped Seiji-style into the rear garage. He'd made his way to the door with a huff, halting at the sight of her lithe form seated on the swingset of the back porch. They'd stared one another down, sizing one another up, but said nothing. Eventually, Nasuti had held out her palm, wordlessly demanding keys. Without so much as a blink, he'd dropped them into her waiting hand, the intensity of his gaze sending tingles down her spine. Collecting herself, she'd marched inside, making a beeline for the downstairs phone. And with every eye in the house not-so-discreetly zeroed in on her back, she'd smashed the "delete" button on the machine and walked off.
The incident was never spoken of again.
The second "episode" took place in the Shinjuku shopping district, just outside the local arcade. They'd gone into town, her and the boys, for some food and games. Shuu had challenged Ryo to some Kung Fu fighter, with Shin as referee. Touma was on standby, waiting to "decimate," in his words, the winner. Seiji had maneuvered himself to her side, holding an arm out in offering as they strolled away from the blinks and blips of the arcade and out into the flow of the couple-infested streets.
She'd held his arm like a lifeline, happy but nervous due to the mass of girls glaring enviously at her from all sides. To Seiji's credit, he'd ignored them all—or outright didn't notice—his attention fixated solely on her. They'd wandered that way for an hour, making one last stop inside a fashion boutique before meeting back up with the boys.
"I wonder who won?" She'd inquired delicately.
Seiji'd offered in response his trademark tut. "If the arcade's in shambles, it'll be safe to assume Shuu lost."
The seriousness of his tone made her giggle.
He'd turned to face her then, his mouth twisted upward in a half-smirk. Seiji wasn't exactly what you would call "playful;" he was by far the most mindful of their crew with regards to societal norms and expectations. But he possessed a rogue streak of unpredictability that made him, in certain settings, appallingly bold. In that moment, he was more nerve-wracking than the legions of surrounding girls looking to competitively claw out her eyes.
She'd often wondered what might have become of that moment, but she never got the chance to find out.
"Yagyu-san?"
There, in an outrageously stupid twist of fate, right outside the Shinjuku arcade, stood the University's young professor.
In the man's defense, he'd had no prior knowledge of Seiji, nor the concept of the unspoken drama his phone call had inadvertently caused. As far as he and any of the staff at Shinjuku University were aware, Nasuti lived alone, had no known relations or affiliations outside her parents in France, and was by all outward appearances a bonafide shut-in. To see her clasped around the arm of a blond-haired bombshell three years her junior in the midst of the afternoon downtown rush was, frankly, unexpected. The look on the man's face said as much.
She'd chanced a sideways glance at Seiji, hoping to gauge his response. At first, he'd seemed expressionless in his acknowledgement of the man. Months had passed since the infamous phone call. Life had resumed as if it had never occurred. Surely the memory of the purposefully buried "message" had officially gone "the way of the Dodo" in everyone's minds. But thirty seconds into the conversation, it became clear that Seiji recognized the voice. His eyes narrowed into a predatory gaze, his hair, she was almost certain, sticking even further and wilder in the air than before.
With split-second decision making skill, she'd brought their interlude to a close, excusing the both of them as she hastily pushed Seiji further on down the street. Ducking into a soba noodle shop, she'd scanned from behind the window for any sign of the professor or his colleagues from work. With the coast clear, she'd turned to face her companion, grimacing at the sight of his obviously upfronted face. Whether upset with her, the older man, or their graceless retreat, she couldn't tell. But it hadn't surprised her when he'd pointedly ignored her the rest of the ride home.
Then of course, there was her most recent and explosive bout of "Seiji drama," once again involving their impeccably-timed friend, "Mr. College Professor."
Seiji had driven up from Sendai the evening before and stayed the night—in his old bedroom, of course—in order to drive Nasuti into work the following day. Her beloved jeep was long overdue brakes and an oil change, but she needed a spare set of wheels for dropping-off and picking-up. Seiji, now legally old enough to drive, had generously offered to take the jeep in, leaving her free to handle her affairs at school. He'd see to it the repairs and maintenance were set, then pick her back up that afternoon for a late lunch.
She'd been looking forward to his arrival all week. They'd only recently "officiated" their couplehood, thanks to Seiji's "formally" introducing her to the rest of the Dates. Even though they'd been an "unofficial" item for years, the finality of meeting his family was exhilarating. She'd caught herself, more times than she was readily willing to admit, smiling at everything and nothing at the thought of him whizzing into the University's circular parking out front. Every few minutes, she'd poke her head out the third-story windows, excitedly searching for a red jeep and her swordsman's honey-blond hair.
Apparently, even the staff had taken notice of Nasuti's uncharacteristic glee. Her female co-workers probed in their "predictably female" way, and even the men had shot her distracted attempts at conversation a smirk. Rumors swirled at the sight of her absent-minded daydreams. And frankly, she couldn't have cared less.
It was her fiftieth glance outside when the sophisticated professor walked in.
"He's late."
Nasuti'd whirled around at the voice, recognizing it as not Seiji's, but blissfully hopeful all the same.
"I'm being obvious."
"It's not your normal behavior," he'd consented, his words kind. "But it suits you."
She'd bowed her head in gratitude.
An awkward silence hung in the air, the second hand ticking away on the antiquated, overhead clock.
"Is it him?"
"Hmm?"
"The guy from the arcade."
...Shoot. She'd hoped he hadn't remembered that. Weren't all guys supposed to have bad recall?
"Seiji doesn't like the arcade."
"Or college professors." His tone was teasing.
At that, she'd laughed, taken aback by his playful banter.
Awkwardness dissolved, she'd taken a moment to study his face. The look in his eyes was warm, and it was the first time in the six years she'd known him that she'd considered him even remotely "cute." But she hadn't had time to process the revelation. Standing behind him, in the doorway of the room was Seiji, in all his angular perfection, eyes ablaze and features laden with disgust.
He couldn't have looked more ready for battle than if he'd whipped out a sword wearing the Korin Yoroi.
Things had sort of spiraled downhill from there. The professor had tried introducing himself, but Seiji'd offered little more than a snort and a scowl. Concerned, Nasuti'd seen fit to usher herself and Seiji out the room. They'd made it all the way outside and to the front of the car, when she felt strong fingers grasp her by the arm. She'd yelped at the sudden jolt and Seiji, on high alert, whipped around, his right fist balled and ready to swing.
"Don't you dare!" The words were out of her mouth on instant reflex.
Seiji'd stilled at her words, but his eyes bordered on murderous at the sight of the professor's right hand encased around her bicep. And it might have given him reason to act, if Nasuti's satchel—the one left forgotten on her work desk in her rush to separate the two men—wasn't hanging profferedly from his free hand.
Nasuti had apologized with a bow and a pleading look and, accepting the bag, shuffled herself into the car. In retrospect, it might have been better for her to drive, but she'd been too angry in the moment to consider rational thought.
A half hour later, she was sitting cross-legged at the kitchen bar, her bag and other belongings flung to the floor. She kept bouncing between screaming her head off and punching his face. But neither seemed very constructive, and if she was honest with herself, she was more disappointed at the soiling of their happy weekend than the flare-up of his irrational jealousy.
Though she wasn't too thrilled with that either.
Seiji's possessiveness was nothing new. He'd had a jealous streak since she'd known him, but in his younger days had manifested in huffs, an upward turn of the nose, or a two-hour sulk. Never had he actually thrown a fist. It had nothing to do with trust, she knew. Seiji never asked her whereabouts, questioned her friendships, or gave any indication at all that he thought of her as anything less than virtuous and true. But the presence of another male set him off like a rocket. It was ridiculous...but a part of her understood.
The last few years had been rough. A group of kids, charged with saving the world, suffering the physical and emotional pains of war, enduring torture, watching comrades die—it wasn't what you would call a "typical growing environment" for a fourteen-year-old boy. Each of the Troopers handled the aftermath of the calling in their own way. Seiji, more so than any of the others, seemed linked to the battlefield. It hadn't been easy "hanging up" the sword.
In some ways, he'd struggled more than the rest. Whereas Ryo, Shin, Touma, and Shuu often fought in groups or pairs, Seiji was frequently left to battle alone. During the skirmishes with the Masho, he'd been pitted against Anubis with little aid, and with the added burden of caring for herself and Jun. A car wreck at sixteen had nearly killed him, he'd been captured and tortured more than twice, his armor had been responsible for the deaths of countless in New York, and his combative skill and Bushido-reared upbringing had fashioned him into a veritable fighting ace. And that didn't even take into account the weight of inheriting the dojo and continuing his family's name.
There'd been a lot of ups and downs through the years and Nasuti, for her part, was an uncomplicated reprieve. She was connected to the ordeals he'd faced, but in a way that provided comfort and relief. His complex emotional responses did not repulse her—though they were aggravating, at times—and that easy acceptance gave him breathing room to recover.
She wasn't afraid of Seiji or his petulance. Nor did she mind the possessive tendencies of his temperament. But slugging every guy that dared speak to her? Look at her? Breathe in her general direction? That posed a problem.
Lost in musing as she was, she hadn't noticed Seiji pull up a stool and seat himself opposite her at the bar. His features were noticeably troubled. It seemed remorse had settled in with the clearing of heads.
"Your car's all set. I can walk myself out, if you'd rather I go."
He spoke in earnest, but avoided her eyes. He'd leave if she so wished...but his body language suggested she'd rather he didn't.
"Stay," she said simply.
Seiji exhaled at the word.
There was no laying the night or herself to rest until they talked. It was a conversation she was almost too tired to tackle, but the events of the day demanded it.
And there was no sense in beating around the bush.
"You were out of line."
To his credit, Seiji didn't argue.
"The nature of my job necessitates my interacting with humans, many of which are male."
He looked a little miffed at the emphasis, but didn't start.
"I get that you feel," she paused, searching for the right adjective, "protective of me. But the professor, my co-workers...they're not a threat. You have to stop looking for opponents where there are none. I'm not working with undercover agents for the Youjakai."
"Funny," he said dryly.
"I'm being serious."
"So am I."
"You're a skilled warrior, Seiji." She locked eyes with him, her voice and expression stern. "You versus a civilian is no contest. I can't have you armoring up in the middle of downtown because someone elbows my arm!"
"That was hardly an elbow," indignance evident in his tone.
"It wasn't exactly assault."
"If you think he isn't interested—"
"But I'm not," she interrupted.
"You laughed."
The odd remark stopped her cold. "...Say what?"
"You laughed." Seiji folded his arms and looked away. "I heard you."
What in the world?
They'd somehow gone from fist-fighting to laughter in the most bizarre segue ever. She was officially confused.
A prolonged pause followed.
Seiji took her puzzlement as a sign to explain. "I checked in at the main office. I made my way to the third floor and saw that professor," the common noun was laced with venom, "in the doorway of your room. I didn't hear what was said, but whatever it was, you laughed."
Nasuti ran through his words in her head, but failed to see the connective thread. "You're upset because I laughed?"
"I'm upset because you laughed at him!"
She could feel a headache forming.
"So, you were planning to deck him for making me laugh?"
"I was planning to 'deck him,'" the slang terminology sounded strange coming from Seiji's silken voice, "because you never laugh at me."
"Huh?"
A deep sigh escaped his throat as he shrugged his jacket, laying it defeatedly against the adjacent chair. He folded his hands, his shoulders slumping as he leaned close. "Be honest, Nasuti. When was the last time I made you laugh?"
It was a strange question, to be sure. To her, it came—seemingly—out of nowhere, but judging from the seriousness in his face, it was something he'd been mulling over for some time. In truth, Nasuti had never given Seiji's "funniness," or lack thereof, a second thought. There was nothing "comical" about Seiji. He just wasn't a "funny" guy. He never had been. Frankly put, she couldn't remember the last time he'd made her laugh. But it'd never detracted from his appeal. It'd never taken away from the affection and deep-seated admiration she held for him.
To her, it was simply part of who he was. To Seiji, it was a cataloged fault. It didn't excuse his behavior, but it did shed light on why he acted the way he did.
The anger she'd felt all but melted away.
"Oh cher," Nasuti's French slipping in distress.
Seiji responded with a dejected smile. "I suppose that sums it up."
"Eh?"
Realizing her reaction was misread, Nasuti straightened her shoulders and chin, raising herself to her full height.
"Is that your idea of love? You equate humor with happiness?"
"'Sternness' isn't a quality in high demand."
"So you think me unhappy?"
"I think you're comfortable."
An arm slid its way across the tabletop, his hand snaking its way between the fingers of her own. The words that followed were forced, as if admitting something foul.
"You've known me since I was a boy. You've watched me grow. And time and time again we've been thrust together." He smiled wryly then, pausing to brush a finger across her thumb. "You'll forgive my dramatics for calling it 'fate.'"
"Seiji…"
But he didn't stop. "I'm no longer a boy...though my behavior sometimes speaks otherwise." He paused again, exhaling with fatigue. "I don't want you to feel...trapped. I don't want you to feel obligated. Especially surrounded with so many options."
"Options!" she shrieked.
"Come Nasuti," he countered with a pointed look. "I'm not blind. I may not like it, but I care enough for you to admit when I'm outclassed."
At those words, she balked. "Excuse me?"
"The two of you, standing together, innocent as it was..." He untangled himself from her grasp. "He's older, he shares your work. ...You look good together." Again he sighed, frustrated. "I wish more than anything I could be more for you. Different. Better. But here we are, not twenty-four hours into my visit and you're already muttering in French."
True enough, her native tongue was usually the first indicator she was upset.
"There's history between us, Nasuti. And yes, chemistry as well. But I can't help but wonder if it's enough. If understanding and familiarity can sustain dealing with," he waved a hand theatrically over and across himself, "this."
He brought his arms back to the counter.
"I care for you," he repeated. "But I'm...difficult. Petulant. Complicated. Jealous." He scrunched his nose. "And I'll never make you laugh. I'll never have that freeness about myself the way other men can. I loathe the idea of you belonging to someone else. But I couldn't live with the knowledge that you sacrificed happiness belonging to me."
And with that, Seiji stilled. He'd said his piece. And with a pointed look, he reclaimed his coat, shoved his arms through the sleeve holes and stared. He was about to push his seat back and leave when Nasuti spoke.
"Are you finished?"
He shot her a quizzical look. "Hmm?"
"This parading about of your inadequacies. Are you finished?"
Silence.
"You know," she continued after several seconds, holding her posture strong, "I was over the moon today." She smiled, recalling her earlier glee. "All I could think of was you, your visit...us. I kept thinking how 'official' things were. How accepting your family seemed. How pretty the dojo must look in the spring." She smiled again, teeth showing. "About all the little 'Seiji idiosyncrasies' I have a lifetime to learn."
The word "lifetime" seemed to pique Seiji's ears.
"The staff gave me nothing but grief." She blushed a little at the admission. "I was so obvious."
The bearer of Korin didn't look quite as ready to leave as before.
"You are complicated, Seiji. And petulant. And difficult. And yes, fueled by testosterone-driven envy." She hopped off the stool, closing the rift between them to meet him on the opposing side. "Not to mention dreadfully unfunny."
That got a chuckle.
"And I'll probably spend a good third of our life together spouting some wonky mixture of Japanese and French."
He outright laughed at that one.
"But," she laid her head to rest on his chest, "all the 'rightness' in the world with someone else, could never replace the happiness I feel in all my 'wrongness' with you."
And as he raised his arms to wrap around her, the ugliness of the day dissolved. Seiji made a promise to apologize to the professor, and though they never made it to that late afternoon lunch, the dinner on the swingset of the back porch was, as the French say, parfait.
Seiji felt not a twinge of jealousy the remainder of the trip.
