Saitou had instead gone home. Tokio was out. Infact, tokio was away. She was staying with her family in tokyo. They'd talked little about the rumors that were thick around town, the rumors of what had transpired between he and the souji. She felt shame, though. He could understand, of course. With tears in her eyes she said she had to get away for a little while. She had to catch her breath and think. Her soft hand trailing down hajime's face. "maybe you're a man no woman can understand.." even in the midst of betrayal and confusion, words to comfort the man she loved, until the very end. It was a vacation then, so to say. but who knew if it would ever end. God knows it shouldn't. He knew she deserved someone ..better suited.
Alone in their home, he'd been for the last few days since she'd left. Maybe his long nights away had driven her to it. She realized the only real love he'd ever felt had died.
Instead of going to her room, he went to the spare room souji had stayed in. The tatami matt was still rolled out, the sheets neat across it. Nothing else, really though. Hijikata had demanded to have souji's sword.
Saitou sank his knees into the soft bedding, pressing his face into the blankets, inhaling souji's smell that was barely there anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut and in the dark cold house, on the floor that was settling with dust; on the floor he'd once sat and laughed, on the floor hajime had made love to souji, he wept. His fists tightened into balls and he cried into the blankets, his sword still at his side, his blue uniform wrickling in this croutched position. His hair mussled down into the blankets, and as he picked his face up long strands of it stuck to his wet face.
Noone was there to comfort him, but when had saitou ever needed that. As daylight broke to orange dusk, he tore his jacket off and collapsed onto okita's once-bed. He laid like that, in the darkening house. noone to tenderly turn on lights and ask him what was the matter. Blackness grew around him.
The wolf of mibu was alone.
Alone in their home, he'd been for the last few days since she'd left. Maybe his long nights away had driven her to it. She realized the only real love he'd ever felt had died.
Instead of going to her room, he went to the spare room souji had stayed in. The tatami matt was still rolled out, the sheets neat across it. Nothing else, really though. Hijikata had demanded to have souji's sword.
Saitou sank his knees into the soft bedding, pressing his face into the blankets, inhaling souji's smell that was barely there anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut and in the dark cold house, on the floor that was settling with dust; on the floor he'd once sat and laughed, on the floor hajime had made love to souji, he wept. His fists tightened into balls and he cried into the blankets, his sword still at his side, his blue uniform wrickling in this croutched position. His hair mussled down into the blankets, and as he picked his face up long strands of it stuck to his wet face.
Noone was there to comfort him, but when had saitou ever needed that. As daylight broke to orange dusk, he tore his jacket off and collapsed onto okita's once-bed. He laid like that, in the darkening house. noone to tenderly turn on lights and ask him what was the matter. Blackness grew around him.
The wolf of mibu was alone.