Entanglement - Chapter Three
: Illusion (Sano POV)
It's hot. Sweltering hot. The roads are muddy and puddles of murky water pool in the dipping parts of the road. Even the air feels damp. The puddles seem to steam; you can almost see the vapours rising and swirling in the air.
It doesn't help that you have to wear a long-sleeved jacket, buttoned up, and long trousers, to hide the marks he left.
'He' is Saito. Obviously.
You snarl angrily.
Fuck Saito, you think, and then, Well, I've done that.
A mirthless laugh twists your mouth. To be more precise, he fucked you. Screwed you. Whatever.
Oh, it wasn't as though you didn't expect it. You were actually asking for it. You wanted it, needed it. You didn't care that it would be violent.
Of course it would be violent. It wouldn't be anything but violent. A man like him, having to restrain himself on an invisible chain and leash, not being able to act on instinct and reflex - he couldn't possible be gentle in bed. More so with you.
Well, you wanted a fuck, and you got one.
You're not angry that he was violent. It just burns at you, chews away at you, that he could leave so many marks, and drop you in the morning, just going as though you were nothing more than a cheap whore he picked up on the street or from a brothel.
A shiver runs down you back. No. No. He wouldn't.
How do you know?
For a moment, before he let you lead him away, he seemed reluctant. He seemed vague, lost, distant. Not here, not seeing you. Lost in some other memory. He seemed locked away, kept away, in a place no one could or would touch. A place he wouldn't let anyone catch a glimpse of.
Must have been damn similar to be triggered so.
To aggravate matters, your headband is missing. Your forehead feels odd without it. You keep raising your hand, touching your wrist to the hot skin there.
You have no idea where you're going now. Fact is, you've never seen the path you're on before. You gave up trying to find out where you were after the second village. Your thoughts kept wandering as you walked. You've gone through six villages so far, and you only ate there. No point sleeping in some steamy inn, made hotter by the lamps. And with all the bites and scratches on your skin, you look like a male prostitute after a particularly rough customer.
Maybe you'll stay at the next one. It doesn't matter.
Why are you chasing after him? There's no point.
Are you chasing after him?
You shrug. Maybe you want to beat him up, or maybe you just want an explanation.
He might not even have one. You can see him now, looking down at you with that coldly indifferent, contemptuous expression, one eyebrow arched in detached amusement. He might pretend that that night was nothing but a figment of your imagination, a hallucination, an illusion.
It is so irksome the way he never cares about you, the way you don't matter at all to him, while he affects you so, just with a glance, or a word, or an action. You never finished your fight with him.
Did you not dare, or could you not bear?
What is there to not bear? You probably couldn't have hurt him. Not much, if any of your blows even landed.
You've come to another village. It's small, but quite bustling. Little children darting about the streets, farmers sitting on the balconies of the inns, drinking wine, plump women bargaining with hawkers and vendors, and pretty young girls giggling in the shade together, holding paper fans.
You sit down at one of the inns and order a drink. Resting your head on your hand, you look out on the street. A tall young man walks in, dressed in the blue police uniform.
". Your father's back?"
"Yes, just arrived."
"Been some time since he last was home, isn't it?"
"I suppose."
"Saito Hajime."
You jerk around abruptly. Saito Hajime? Father?
You observe the young man closely. He does resemble Saito. The same gaunt face and sharp nose. His eyes are more brown than golden-yellow, and his hair is darker. But the resemblance is there.
You get up and follow this man. He might just lead you to Saito.
He walks briskly, as if in a hurry. It is a military stride, very sharp, very neat, very Saito. Probably ingrained during childhood.
He's going toward a large house on the outskirts of the village. There's a small farm, and fields. Herb gardens. Scented plants growing on the edge of the veranda. The house is very neat, very precise. Everything is in order, no overgrown plants, no weeds or wild grasses and flowers, no dusty corners. The young man goes in.
"Father," you hear him say respectfully. "Mother."
You look in cautiously. It is Saito. Sitting cross-legged on the tatami matting, and across a low table, directly opposite him, is a woman. His wife, Tokio. You heard about her from Kenshin. She's looking down, lashes cast toward the ground. There is a certain delicacy to her features and grace to her movements. She behaves as though they were newly-weds, although they have been married for more than ten years. Saito is looking very hard at her, his golden eyes boring into her. The young man is standing uncertainly inside the door.
You suddenly feel a prickle down your spine. Something's going to happen. Something you most definitely will not like. And it will not be an illusion. Although for days after you will probably try to fool yourself that it is.
: Illusion (Sano POV)
It's hot. Sweltering hot. The roads are muddy and puddles of murky water pool in the dipping parts of the road. Even the air feels damp. The puddles seem to steam; you can almost see the vapours rising and swirling in the air.
It doesn't help that you have to wear a long-sleeved jacket, buttoned up, and long trousers, to hide the marks he left.
'He' is Saito. Obviously.
You snarl angrily.
Fuck Saito, you think, and then, Well, I've done that.
A mirthless laugh twists your mouth. To be more precise, he fucked you. Screwed you. Whatever.
Oh, it wasn't as though you didn't expect it. You were actually asking for it. You wanted it, needed it. You didn't care that it would be violent.
Of course it would be violent. It wouldn't be anything but violent. A man like him, having to restrain himself on an invisible chain and leash, not being able to act on instinct and reflex - he couldn't possible be gentle in bed. More so with you.
Well, you wanted a fuck, and you got one.
You're not angry that he was violent. It just burns at you, chews away at you, that he could leave so many marks, and drop you in the morning, just going as though you were nothing more than a cheap whore he picked up on the street or from a brothel.
A shiver runs down you back. No. No. He wouldn't.
How do you know?
For a moment, before he let you lead him away, he seemed reluctant. He seemed vague, lost, distant. Not here, not seeing you. Lost in some other memory. He seemed locked away, kept away, in a place no one could or would touch. A place he wouldn't let anyone catch a glimpse of.
Must have been damn similar to be triggered so.
To aggravate matters, your headband is missing. Your forehead feels odd without it. You keep raising your hand, touching your wrist to the hot skin there.
You have no idea where you're going now. Fact is, you've never seen the path you're on before. You gave up trying to find out where you were after the second village. Your thoughts kept wandering as you walked. You've gone through six villages so far, and you only ate there. No point sleeping in some steamy inn, made hotter by the lamps. And with all the bites and scratches on your skin, you look like a male prostitute after a particularly rough customer.
Maybe you'll stay at the next one. It doesn't matter.
Why are you chasing after him? There's no point.
Are you chasing after him?
You shrug. Maybe you want to beat him up, or maybe you just want an explanation.
He might not even have one. You can see him now, looking down at you with that coldly indifferent, contemptuous expression, one eyebrow arched in detached amusement. He might pretend that that night was nothing but a figment of your imagination, a hallucination, an illusion.
It is so irksome the way he never cares about you, the way you don't matter at all to him, while he affects you so, just with a glance, or a word, or an action. You never finished your fight with him.
Did you not dare, or could you not bear?
What is there to not bear? You probably couldn't have hurt him. Not much, if any of your blows even landed.
You've come to another village. It's small, but quite bustling. Little children darting about the streets, farmers sitting on the balconies of the inns, drinking wine, plump women bargaining with hawkers and vendors, and pretty young girls giggling in the shade together, holding paper fans.
You sit down at one of the inns and order a drink. Resting your head on your hand, you look out on the street. A tall young man walks in, dressed in the blue police uniform.
". Your father's back?"
"Yes, just arrived."
"Been some time since he last was home, isn't it?"
"I suppose."
"Saito Hajime."
You jerk around abruptly. Saito Hajime? Father?
You observe the young man closely. He does resemble Saito. The same gaunt face and sharp nose. His eyes are more brown than golden-yellow, and his hair is darker. But the resemblance is there.
You get up and follow this man. He might just lead you to Saito.
He walks briskly, as if in a hurry. It is a military stride, very sharp, very neat, very Saito. Probably ingrained during childhood.
He's going toward a large house on the outskirts of the village. There's a small farm, and fields. Herb gardens. Scented plants growing on the edge of the veranda. The house is very neat, very precise. Everything is in order, no overgrown plants, no weeds or wild grasses and flowers, no dusty corners. The young man goes in.
"Father," you hear him say respectfully. "Mother."
You look in cautiously. It is Saito. Sitting cross-legged on the tatami matting, and across a low table, directly opposite him, is a woman. His wife, Tokio. You heard about her from Kenshin. She's looking down, lashes cast toward the ground. There is a certain delicacy to her features and grace to her movements. She behaves as though they were newly-weds, although they have been married for more than ten years. Saito is looking very hard at her, his golden eyes boring into her. The young man is standing uncertainly inside the door.
You suddenly feel a prickle down your spine. Something's going to happen. Something you most definitely will not like. And it will not be an illusion. Although for days after you will probably try to fool yourself that it is.