|| In the Absence of Memory ||
by mikan
Chapter Five: Prelude
A faint draft seeped in at the edge of the steel window frame. Resting the side of his head against the cold glass, he looked down at the street below.
It was probably dangerous, what he was doing -- leaning against the window like that. The single pane of glass stretched from floor to ceiling -- unbroken, unsupported -- across half the width of the room. Twenty-six floors below him, the chaos of Tokyo traffic pulsed distantly in the street.
... Why am I here?
Small droplets of rain began to spatter against the glass. He watched them bead and slide away. The weak glow of the winter sun barely touched the darkness around him. He turned away from the window and walked back slowly to his desk. His computer hummed lightly in the silence, the IMF logo bouncing cheerily across the screen. Pulling his chair out, he jabbed at the button on the monitor. The screen blinked into darkness.
He sank into the seat and sat there, perfectly still, feeling the shadows settling onto him. It was the same shadow, the same heavy grayness that hung in the corners and hovered under the unlit ceiling. He had turned off all the lights hours ago. He looked down at his desk. A folder sat squarely in the center of his blotter.
He had work to do. It was probably time to turn the lights back on.
Yet he remained where he was, cloaked in that shadow, in that perfect silence which surrounded him. For the first time in his life, he found the darkness strangely comforting. It had its own warmth -- an insulating protectiveness which kept everything at a distance. Sitting there, nothing touched him, nothing was near. He felt almost at peace -- his senses numbed, his mind mercifully blank.
His eyes were drawn to the folder again.
There was simply no way to avoid it. He needed to get it done.
Leaning forward, he flipped the cover open. A memo slid out onto his desk. For the second time, he scanned the brief message.
Dr. Sohma, it read,
Please find enclosed the data which we have compiled for your analysis. We would appreciate it if you could send us your recommendations within the next week. Also, please be advised that the Committee requires a draft of your presentation to be submitted before the end of the month.
From there followed page upon page of tables and graphs, loaded with statistics on the current economic situation of every country in East Asia. Wearily, he stared at the numbers populating the first page.
I can't do this. Not right now.
But he had to. He looked at the memo again.
It was addressed to Dr. Yuki Sohma, senior economist. It had been sent, along with the folder, straight from the headquarters of the International Monetary Fund in Washington, D.C.
Two weeks. That was all the time he had to produce an analysis solid enough to be presented to the Committee, which was going to assemble in Washington the following month for another summit on global economic development. It would have been fine if they had just asked for his recommendations to be submitted. Unfortunately, they expected him to present. That meant delivering his recommendations, addressing the Committee, answering questions. It also meant a week-long stay in Washington which he could not afford to make.
Not at the moment. Not with the way things were.
He leaned back into the seat and gazed blankly at the folder before him. Washington. He was expected to be in Washington in a few weeks, ready to address an assembly of experts and world leaders...
I can't leave her.
He cradled his head in his hands, closing his eyes tightly and blocking out the frightening images which had been haunting him for nights now.
"Tohru," he whispered, holding the memory of her face in his mind. Why is this happening to us? Where did I go wrong?
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Before he could answer, it opened. The light from the hallway glared into his eyes.
A figure began bowing apologetically at the threshold.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Sohma, I know you said you weren't to be interrupted, but... please forgive me, there's really no excuse --"
"What is it, Ritsu?" he cut in curtly.
Sohma Ritsu's eyes widened. Intimidated by the undercurrent of impatience in Yuki's voice, he began bowing even deeper.
"Please forgive me, Yuki-san -- I mean, Sohma-sensei!" he corrected himself hastily, becoming even more flustered. "I truly apologize --"
Suddenly the door was flung fully open, the knob striking the wall forcefully. Ritsu jumped, startled. Yuki stared at the figure in the doorway.
"Move," it commanded.
"H-hai," Ritsu mumbled, bowing again as he shuffled to the side.
The man crossed the room with slow, deliberate strides, the hem of his long coat swinging with each step. He stopped in front of Yuki's desk.
Yuki looked up at him, his eyes narrowing.
"Haru," he murmured, trying to gauge which Haru stood before him.
Sohma Hatsuharu planted one hand squarely on the desk and leaned over, curving his palm against Yuki's cheek.
"What's this I hear," he whispered, his tone low and dangerous, "that you're not eating?"
Yuki made no move to avoid the hand cradling his cheek. "You talked to Momiji."
"He's worried about you. And I am too." Hatsuharu scanned Yuki's face, noting the gauntness underneath the cheekbones. He brushed his fingers gently against Yuki's jaw. "Don't make me worry, Yuki. You know I care about you the most."
Yuki said nothing in reply. Pushing away from the desk, he got up and walked over to the wall, flicking the lights on. The room was flooded in brightness. He glanced at the doorway.
Ritsu looked down at his feet hastily, clutching his appointment book to his chest.
"It's alright, Ritsu," Yuki assured him. "You can go back to your desk now."
Ritsu hung his head.
"Oh, but -- "
"You didn't do anything wrong," Yuki said, regretting his earlier loss of patience. Ritsu was smartly dressed in business attire, the dark suit complementing his fair complexion. It was painful to watch him cower by the door. Sighing, Yuki went to him and touched his shoulder.
"Haru didn't cause any trouble outside," he said softly. "Thank you for taking care of him."
Shaking his head, Ritsu began to deny the compliment again, but Yuki interrupted him:
"Ritsu, remember what we agreed on? What did we say is the right answer when someone says thank you?"
Ritsu looked up at him.
"You're... welcome?" he answered timidly.
"It's not a question."
Ritsu bit his lip.
"You're welcome," he repeated.
Yuki smiled. "Good. Now I don't want to hear any more apologies out of you." He began walking back to the desk.
Ritsu stood there for a moment longer, pointedly avoiding Hatsuharu's gaze. Slowly he turned towards the doorway.
"Oh, and Ritsu -- "
Ritsu stopped and faced them, eyes downcast again.
"Did Kyou call at all?" Yuki asked.
"No, Dr. Sohma."
"What about Hatori?"
"There were no personal calls, sir."
Yuki was silent.
"You're expecting a call from Kyou?" Haru asked.
"Somewhat." He gave Ritsu a brief nod. "Thank you, Ritsu. That'll be all for now."
Ritsu bowed and reached for the doorknob. Quietly he shut the door behind him.
Yuki stood behind his desk and slipped the memo back inside the folder. He glanced at Hatsuharu.
"Why don't you sit down, Haru."
With cool grace, Haru settled his long frame into one of the two seats positioned before Yuki's desk. He stretched out his boot-clad feet.
"How is he doing?" he muttered, tilting his head slightly towards the door.
Yuki sat down and switched his monitor back on. "Very well. He seems to like it here."
"He looks good in a suit."
"I tell him that every day."
Haru studied his face.
"But you don't look good at all," he remarked.
Yuki felt a slight annoyance rising in his chest. He turned his attention to the documents sitting in his inbox, taking out the whole sheaf and quickly scanning through the first page.
"I'm fine, Haru," he said evenly. "It's just that Momiji wanted to eat but I didn't have time."
"Everyone makes time to eat, Yuki. You can't not eat."
"I can't not do this work. I need to get it done."
Hatsuharu leaned back in his seat, resting a leather-clad ankle on his knee.
"She'll be alright, you know. He won't hurt her -- "
"Please don't say that," Yuki interrupted, his voice soft and strained. "Because you don't know."
Haru gazed at his cousin in silence. Yuki was unconsciously gripping the papers in his hands, his slender fingers trembling delicately with tension. His eyes were unnaturally bright, his face paler than usual.
Momiji had said he hadn't eaten since the day before.
"You're right," Haru muttered, "I don't know anything. I can't say I know what Akito's planning. But you see... I believe Hatori-nii-san. And if he says that Akito won't hurt her, well... that's what I'll tell myself. You should try doing that too, Yuki. After all, there's nothing we can do -- "
"There is," Yuki said fiercely. "Kyou's with the police right now. They've started their investigation -- "
"Well then, that's great. So maybe you can relax for a bit and have something to eat."
"I can't, Haru," he gritted. "I have to get this work done."
"Yuki."
Yuki kept his eyes fixed on the paper.
Haru reached over and pulled the whole sheaf from his hands. Carelessly, he tossed it onto the chair across from him.
Yuki shot him a furious glare.
"Haru, I'm working right now," he said coldly.
"You're not really working, Yuki. You're too worried about her to think about anything else."
"At least I'm trying! You don't understand. I have a presentation -- "
"Let's have lunch," Haru said abruptly.
Yuki frowned. "Lunch?"
"Yeah. Lunch."
Yuki took a deep breath, recharging his patience.
"Haru," he said, careful to keep his tone even, "it's four o'clock in the afternoon."
Hatsuharu shrugged, flicking his windblown white hair away from his eyes.
"Yeah, well I got lost looking for this damn building. I've never seen so many one-way streets in my life. To get anywhere you have to go three blocks in the wrong direction."
"How long were you looking for it?"
Haru paused thoughtfully.
"Uh... I left work at noon, so... four hours?"
Yuki's eyes widened.
"You've been away from work for four hours? They must be wondering where you are!"
Haru waved a hand dismissively, the metal studs on his black leather wristband glinting in the light.
"It's a hair salon, Yuki. The world won't end if I'm not there for a couple of hours."
"Where did you leave your bike?"
"Outside the entrance. I told the doorman to watch it." He arched a brow. "So? Shall we go? I brought an extra helmet for you."
Yuki hesitated.
"You know, Yuki," Haru said quietly, "if you don't take care of yourself, you can't help find Honda-san. How are you going to rescue her if you let yourself waste away like this?"
There was a long silence. Yuki stared at the folder sitting on his blotter.
Tohru... No matter what, I'll find you. I'll get you back from him.
"Alright," he said to Haru. "Let's go."
Tohru stood before the wide sink, a thick robe draped on her shoulders, her skin warm from the steam of the bath.
. . . "... All this is for you."
She stared at the veins of light copper on the marble countertop. It was more than anything she could have ever imagined -- the house, and him...
The steam on the mirror had already faded away, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see the sharpness of her own reflection. Slowly, she raised her eyes and stared at the face in the mirror.
She didn't get to see her face too often. Looking at it now, she found it less pale and less haggard than when she had seen it first, in the car that day, when she had woken up. Her cheeks had some color to them now. And her eyes... She blinked, frowning slightly.
How strange. Now her eyes seemed... blue.
I thought they were green.
Her robe gaped open slightly, revealing a narrow column of her flesh. Staring intently at the body in the mirror, she parted the robe just a little bit more, exposing the white span of her stomach and the curve of her breast. The breasts were small and light. And the stomach... her fingers moved lightly over it. The stomach was flat.
Hesitantly, she let her palm rest against it.
Was there a heartbeat? Was there a child, growing inside, drawing life from her, sheltered within her womb? She felt nothing under her fingertips. She stared hard at the pale face in the mirror, and at the body that went with the face.
It was the face of a stranger. It was a body she did not know.
Inside this body is a child...
Is there really? I don't feel it. I don't feel anything.
But he had said... he had told her...
Suddenly the door opened. Akito took a step inside and stopped short, his hand still on the doorknob. Their eyes met in the mirror -- hers wide and startled, his opaque and veiled by those long lashes. Even in the mirror, she could see their dusky shadow framing the slant of his eyes.
Those eyes were fixed unyieldingly on her now -- moving slowly down the pale skin left exposed by the gaping robe, stopping at the hand so boldly splayed against her stomach. His gaze met hers again. This time there was an undeniable intensity in his eyes -- a liquid darkness which she found frightening, yet strangely compelling all the same.
Disturbed by those eyes, and giving in to the creeping embarrassment, she hastily pulled the robe closed and looked away. Her hand clutched blindly for the sash at her back.
She felt him walking towards her. In a second he had both ends of the sash in his hands. He turned her around to face him and tied the robe snugly shut.
A hot blush spread across her cheeks and down her neck.
"I thought you'd fallen asleep," he said.
"Oh... " she smiled nervously, wrapping her arms around her middle, "I must have taken a long time. I'm sorry I made you worry. I've... I've finished anyway, so if you... "
He reached out and let a wet lock of hair slide neatly off his fingertip.
"You ought to dry your hair now, you know," he murmured. "The water's soaking onto your back. It's not good to stay in a damp robe."
She was suddenly aware of the cool moistness at her back.
"Ah… right." She stepped away from him and clasped the collar of the robe tighter around her neck. "I'll go and change now." She turned towards the doorway.
"Wait."
She stopped and glanced back at him. Akito pulled a towel from the rack.
"Here." He handed it to her. "For your hair."
"Oh." She clasped the towel in her arms. "Thank you."
Leaving the bathroom slippers near the door, she headed down the hallway to their bedroom, her feet padding softly against the cool hardwood floor. She paused at the edge of the tatamis. He had already laid out their futons, side by side. The door to the veranda was open. A soft breeze blew in from the sea.
She went to the shoji at the side of the room and slid it open. The night they had arrived, she had seen him dump the bags there... She felt around on the wall, found the switch, and flicked it up. The light turned on.
Her eyes widened.
Slowly, she wandered inside, totally caught up in awe.
It had to be the biggest closet she had ever seen in her life, whether she remembered anything or not. It was hard to imagine closets being any larger. The ceiling was high and punctuated with two skylights. Long wooden bars, set at multiple heights, shot from one end of the room to the other. Several narrow mirrored doors stood near the far wall.
She walked to them and opened one slowly. Set into the cabinet were five levels of revolving shelves. Behind the next door was the same contraption, only this time the shelves were fitted with drawers. She pulled one open and discovered that it was partitioned into little circular cells.
Oh, I see... that one is for sweaters, and this one is for socks...
There's so many little circles. Do we even have enough socks to fill them all?
She stared at the drawer for a moment longer, then pushed it back into the shelf.
Quietly she closed the cabinet doors, suddenly struck by the overwhelming emptiness of the place. Fine-looking hangers, carved out of dark wood, hung at one end of the bars, but they held nothing -- they seemed to her like pitiful empty shoulders huddled there in the corner. The closet was just like the rest of the house -- fantastically new, filled with stylish ingenuities, but empty all the same.
She glanced to the side. The two duffel bags that Akito had brought sat on the floor, their wrinkled and beaten appearance at odds with the magnificence of the closet.
These bags are the only things in this house that feel real. Everything else is so... new.
The newness of everything made her feel even more disconnected from her surroundings and from herself. There were absolutely no traces of the past anywhere. In the whole house, there was not a single photograph or box of junk to be seen. Neither had she found anything old, worn, or even remotely familiar. Everything seemed connected only to the present, to this reality -- a reality that she was beginning to find frighteningly empty at its heart.
It was a new house. They had just moved in. And she did have a problem recalling things.
But something should at least look familiar to me. Where are the things we owned before we moved here?
Once more, her eyes were drawn to the bags. They were ordinary duffel bags -- not sturdy, not large, and not even packed to the limit.
Everything we owned can't possibly be in just these two bags...
She knelt down and pulled one of the bags closer. It was open, clothes messily spilling out. Akito had obviously gone through it in a hurry when he had helped her get ready for their little trip to the grocery store. She reached into the tumble of clothing and pulled out a pair of black slacks.
Undoubtedly his. She folded the slacks and laid them on the floor beside her.
Looking once more inside the bag, she saw layer upon layer of black, in different textures -- silk, cotton, wool. She took the clothes out and put them into orderly piles, separating the tops from the bottoms.
Then she spotted a corner of color peeking out from under a black sweater.
She removed the sweater and found herself staring at a small pastel blouse. She pulled it out of the bag. It was a simple top, made out of cotton, with a charming embroidered square neck. She glanced back in the bag and found a pink skirt and, under it, a light green dress. She took them both out and spread all three pieces of clothing on her lap.
Her fingers moved over the material reverently.
My clothes...
She suddenly had the absurd impulse to hug the clothing close, as if they were old, long-lost friends. She peered back inside the bag and frowned.
What, no more? He had two full piles of clothing, but she only had... three pieces?
Well, there's still another bag...
She reached for it. Unlike the one she had just gone through, this bag was tightly shut -- the zipper up all the way, the handles gathered into a velcro hand grip. Slowly, she pulled the velcro apart and let the handles fall to the sides. She dragged the zipper downwards.
The black canvas parted, revealing a jumble of small plastic bottles. She pushed the bag open fully. The bottles rolled off into the folds of the collapsed fabric. At the bottom of the bag were some more clothes... some more shirts and some socks. For a moment, she was tempted to dig them out to see if they were hers too.
But her eyes were drawn to the little white bottles. She picked one up and scrutinized the label.
There was a long, intimidating-looking chemical name printed on it. She turned the bottle to the side. A bar code was stamped next to the usual warnings -- for prescription use only, keep in a cool and dry place...
Something in the corner of the label caught her eye. She peered at it, trying to decipher the uncommon kanji.
"Soh... ma... Pharmaceutical... " she read out slowly.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!"
Tohru's head whipped around. Akito stood in the doorway, his eyes wide. He stared at the bottle she held in her hand.
"Oh... I... " She looked at the bottle again. "I was just -- "
He didn't wait for her to finish. He strode into the closet and yanked the bag off the floor. With a roughness that startled her, he snatched the bottle from her hand. His fingers curled around it with convulsive intensity.
"This is none of your business," he hissed.
Tohru held still, rooted to the spot by the sudden, vicious fury in his eyes. He was so angry his hands shook.
"I'm sorry... " she whispered. "I -- I didn't know what was in the bag -- "
"I left it shut for a reason!!!"
She cringed. Unconsciously, she held on to the clothing in her lap, the virulence in his voice making her want to shrink away from him.
"I was just looking for something... to change into." The words were soft -- apologetic and afraid.
His arm shot out, a finger pointed stiffly towards the bedroom.
"Your sleeping robe is inside your futon," he said through gritted teeth, "exactly where you left it this morning."
She didn't even look up.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "I didn't know."
He stood there fuming, staring down at her. The silence stretched on into a choking heaviness. Without another word, he walked out of the closet. She listened to his footsteps, brisk and angry, move down the hallway and grow faint.
He had gone downstairs. She bowed her head, a rush of tears stinging her eyes.
She had ruined the evening for both of them. She should have asked, should have checked with him first...
I didn't know he would be so upset...
What are those things anyway? Why does he want to hide them from me?
There were so many things she didn't understand -- the empty house, the sickness she had, the past she couldn't remember. But him -- her own husband, the only person in her life -- she had told herself that she did remember him, this thoughtful, soft-spoken man who watched over her zealously and never left her side. That this was the man who loved her, and whom she had loved...
But the truth was -- she understood him least of all.
The pile of his clothing sat by her elbow. She gazed at it for a long moment. Then, with hesitant fingers, she reached for the sweater at the top of the pile.
It was cashmere, soft and silky, dyed a deep black. The color was as unyieldingly dark as his eyes. She held the sweater close to her face. The fabric held a faint trace of sandalwood and cedar -- a masculine scent, clean and crisp.
Is this what he smells like? she wondered. They had slept side by side the night before, and he had hugged her close that morning, but she had never really stayed close enough to be able to discern his scent. Slowly, she lowered her head and buried her face in the fabric.
The scent filled her senses.
Akito...
Tears began to spill out of her eyes onto the cashmere.
She wanted so much to be close to him, to make herself remember who he was and what he meant to her. She wanted to be held, to be assured again that everything would be alright. There was only one thing in her mind -- one face, one person. She wanted more than anything to be able to touch him, to be near him, to hold on.
He was all she had. Yet now, she found herself fearing that the warmth she had felt that morning would turn out to be empty too.
A face, stark and harsh with anger. A small white bottle gripped in a trembling fist.
Akito...
Her fingers curled into the sweater.
What are you hiding from me? Why won't you tell me everything?
Please... don't be like this.
I need you so much.
Akito strode into the study and threw the bag onto the floor. Several bottles spilled out and rolled off onto the tatami, stopping near his feet. He kicked them away in frantic rage, hating the sight of them, hating the feel of their little plastic bodies touching his foot. He glared at the bottle in his hand.
Sohma Pharmaceuticals.
Sohma...
With vicious force, he hurled the bottle against the wall. The edge of the plastic cap made a small nick in the smooth wooden paneling. The bottle fell to the floor, the pills inside clattering noisily.
Akito covered his face with his hands, blocking out the sight of the small white monstrosities that surrounded him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to lash out, break things, throw those bottles into the dark black water outside. He wanted to dump all of them into the water, into the surf, so they'd be washed out to sea and he'd never have to look at them again...
Careless!!! How could he have been so utterly, stupidly careless!!!
The medicine... she had seen the medicine... the cursed medicine...
It's the curse of my life --
The curse. Always the curse. There would be no escape.
With a trembling hand, he pushed his hair away from his face and stared hard at the bottles at his feet.
They were the only things that were saving him. He knew that better than anyone. But god, how he hated them -- the little jingly noise they made, their bitter taste, their sharp hard compressed edges scraping his throat. For as long as he could remember, he had had to take them -- different kinds over the years, small ones and large ones, white and colored -- but always taken in handfuls, all bitter and hard to swallow and sickeningly vile. There was a time when he had thought it would make no more difference whether he drank them or not. He had felt like a wasting tunnel of flesh, shot through with holes from all the injections Hatori gave him, pills being poured in every four hours or so.
A dead body stuffed with drugs. That was what he was. Good as dead, the chemicals preserving him, keeping him from rotting away much faster. The Sohmas, in their benevolent loyalty, had seen fit to prolonging his life.
How grateful of them. How admirably filial.
There had been a time when he had believed in that loyalty.
. . . "Akito-sama, please come inside. It's too windy in the garden, and we don't want you to catch a cold..."
. . ."Akito-sama, you mustn't tire yourself so... We are all here to serve you..."
So many voices, everything a lie. Until one day, he had finally heard the truth.
. . . "Akito, you are the only one who can break the curse."
Ah, Hatori. One had to admire his frankness.
Well.
Too bad nobody knew exactly what he needed to do to break it. Which was just as well. Even if he did know, he most certainly would not do it for their benefit. In fact, he was quite convinced he would enjoy not breaking the curse. After all, even if he did break it, he would still die. His body was being ravaged, weakened beyond repair, with every day that passed. The curse no longer made any difference.
Yes. He had determined a long time ago that he was going to disappoint them all. Softly, in the quiet of his room, he had laughed to himself. The agony was excruciating, but at least they were being tortured too.
But then...
Everything had suddenly changed.
. . . "I want to see... "
A voice he had despised --
. . . "... how terrible it is... "
A face he had found revolting --
. . . "... this pain of yours."
Akito stared out the window blindly, hearing the waves lapping in the darkness. The tide was probably high tonight, the water reaching up boldly across the sand, daring to touch and cover everything with itself. The night beyond the window reminded him of a similar darkness, and a similar touch -- unafraid, gentle, and all-encompassing, leaving in its wake a calm warmth.
Even now, he had no idea how it had happened, or why it had happened -- he only knew that things were no longer the same. A body he had thought dead could suddenly feel. A woman he had believed worthless had suddenly given him reason to live.
He dropped down on one knee, and slowly began collecting the small bottles, putting them back into the bag. He picked up the last bottle off the floor and stared at it. After a second's thought, he twisted the cap open and shook out three pills. It was time to take the evening dose, anyway. The pills sat there in his palm, white and crisply compressed, insidiously plain. He popped them into his mouth and stood. The bitterness spreading over his tongue had long since become a dulled, familiar taste.
He walked over to the desk and opened up the half-empty bottle of oolong tea he had left there that afternoon. With one gulp, he forced the pills down his throat. Setting the bottle down, he picked up the bag and brought it near the wall.
Over one of the wooden panels hung a wide antique scroll. He pushed it to one side and pressed a small black button embedded in the wood. The panel slid open.
A large, imposing safe sat before him. He punched in a sequence of numbers on the digital keypad. The lock clicked. He pulled the heavy metal door open and began transferring the bottles inside, arranging them in neat, orderly rows on one shelf. When all the bottles had been put away, he turned his attention to the pile of documents sitting on the lowest level of the safe. He checked them quickly. The title to the house, the access numbers to his new bank account, several legal papers... all there, exactly as he had left them the night before.
He shut the safe, slid the wooden panel over it, and let the scroll fall back into place.
Everything would be locked away, far from her memory, far from her eyes. In time, perhaps she would find out the truth -- about the money, about the medicine, about the name. About the marriage and the house and the reason why she could remember nothing. But by then, he'd probably be dead.
All that mattered now was the time they had together.
If I managed to live this long just to spite the Sohmas, maybe... if I'm careful enough...
Gripping the handles of the limp duffel, he walked out of the room and headed purposefully towards the stairs.
He needed to be careful. Her life depended on it.
He found her on the veranda, still clad in the bathrobe, running a comb through her dripping hair. The towel he had given her was draped on the railing. She stood with her back to him, staring out to sea.
"I told you to change out of that robe."
She turned around quickly, the comb halting halfway down her hair. Her eyes were wary.
"My hair's still wet," she murmured.
Akito took the towel off the railing and pulled a wooden deck chair to where she stood.
"Sit."
He waited behind the chair. After a moment's hesitation, Tohru walked over and sat down.
Immediately he began toweling her hair. The movement was vigorous yet gentle, his fingers light and deft. She sat there silently, her back stiff, her body visibly tense. Akito finished with the towel and threw it onto his shoulder. Placing his fingertips at her temples, he tilted her head slightly backwards. Tohru found herself staring up at the stars.
He leaned over and took the comb from her hand. Slowly, he drew it through her hair, stopping at each tangle and patiently unraveling each snag. She felt no tugging, no strands snapping and breaking. He continued until all the tangles were gone and the comb ran sleekly through.
Tohru closed her eyes. His movements had a soothing, paced quality to them -- from the top, then downwards in one smooth glide, then back at the top again -- like breathing. She felt her neck beginning to relax. Bit by bit, the tension in her spine began to melt away.
Akito stopped combing.
"Sleepy already?" There was a hint of a smile in his voice.
She leaned back into the chair, resting her head against his hands.
"A bit. This feels so good."
With one hand supporting her head, Akito slipped the comb back into her palm and pulled the towel from his shoulder. He gathered her hair into a loose ponytail and wrapped the towel around it. Briskly he began rubbing the ends dry.
"Well, you can't sleep just yet," he said. "Unless you want to go and blow dry your hair now."
She shook her head, looking up again at the stars above them.
"No, I think I'll sit out here for a little while. It's beautiful tonight."
"You might catch a cold."
She lifted her hand and felt the breeze pass, light and balmy, through her fingers. "The air's warm. I think it'll be alright."
The palm leaves shushed gently in the silence. His hands, cloaked with the towel, continued to move against her hair.
Gazing up at the stars, Tohru noticed a dark, unusually large patch of sky, devoid of stars. There was nothing there -- no misty evening cloud, no glimmer of light. Only an inky, infinite darkness. The profound emptiness of that stretch of sky somehow reminded her of his eyes.
Quietly, she said to him:
"I'm sorry about the bag."
There was a short silence.
"It's not important," he muttered. "You just took me by surprise." He went on toweling her hair.
"Are you sick?"
His hands froze.
She turned her head and looked up at him.
"Akito?"
"No," he answered.
Her brow creased slightly.
"But those bottles -- "
"I said no."
The cold finality in his voice silenced her. His face was pale and tense in the moonlight. He pulled the towel from her hair and tossed it back onto the railing, turning his back to her.
"Are they for me then?" she asked him softly. "That medicine -- is it for me?"
Akito gripped the railing and stared at the vast blankness of ocean before him, trying to clear his mind.
She was asking a simple question.
Just answer it.
He knew all the answers. He had everything planned out, down to the last lie. It should be no problem to respond in a perfectly calm voice. She would accept anything he said. She knew nothing, suspected nothing, had no reason to imagine anything vaguely close to the truth. She couldn't imagine anything near the truth. There was no way she would be able to remember.
No way. Hatori's work was always permanent and completely annihilating. The memories could never again be recalled because they had simply ceased to exist.
There really was no reason to worry. She was miles away from the Sohmas, in a place where those meddling brats would never find her. There was nothing around her that held even a hint of the past.
The medicine, he remembered with sudden anxiety. She had seen the medicine.
Akito closed his eyes for a moment and consciously forced himself to calm down.
Perhaps it wouldn't be a problem -- that she had seen the name. For all she knew, it was just the name of a drug company, nothing more. As for the drugs themselves...
Slowly, his fingers eased their grip on the railing.
"No," he finally said. "That medicine isn't for you." He turned and looked down at her. "Don't worry yourself about it. It's just something I keep on hand for emergencies."
She regarded him in silence.
"I see," she murmured.
Somehow he found that calm answer disturbing. He looked away from her unsettling gaze and surveyed the robe that covered her body.
"I presume you've found your clothes already, since you've been looking through the bags?"
She sat up slowly in the chair and smoothed her hair into a slick ponytail, pulling it forward over her shoulder.
"Well... I have, I guess. Although... there's really not a lot, you know... "
Akito studied her as she sat there, clad in his luxuriously thick robe, stroking her hair.
Of course, he thought to himself with some irritation. Isn't it just like a woman to complain about clothes.
Of course she didn't have enough clothes. He barely had had enough time to pack for himself. If only she knew the trouble he'd gone through to snatch those things from her closet! And at least he'd had the foresight to pack the snow boots and wool coat for that short side trip to Sendai.
Not enough clothes... What now? I'll have to take her shopping too?
Suddenly, a realization came to him.
Why... how silly of me.
His lips curved into a slow smile.
"Would you like to go shopping tomorrow?" he asked her.
She stared at him. "Shopping?"
"Yes. For clothes. Or whatever else you think you need."
"But there aren't any department stores here -- "
"Of course there aren't, silly. We'll have to take the ferry to Ishigaki. We can even go to Okinawa, if you like."
Her eyes widened. "Okinawa?"
"There are more stores there."
Tohru sat there mutely, unsure of what to say.
Okinawa. Shopping. A ferry.
She looked down at the comb in her hands. He had been in such a rage earlier that evening. Yet now --
"You probably think the house is a little bare, don't you?" Akito remarked.
She hesitated a moment.
"... I was wondering where all of our things are."
"Oh, you mean our junk?" he asked with careless indifference. "They're in storage."
She looked at him. "Can we go get them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't have the key." He pushed away from the railing. "You see, Tohru... my family and I had a falling-out which was quite serious, and -- in all probability -- permanent. That's why I bought this house. That's why we're here. So we can start over in our own place, far away from them."
Her eyes were fixed intently on his face. "Your family... "
"... Is made up of people whom, fortunately, you will never have to encounter again in your life. Don't even worry about the things we've left behind, Tohru. We can buy anything you think we need tomorrow."
He leaned close and ran his fingertips gently through the damp, sleek mass of her hair.
"What do you say?" he murmured. "A day out tomorrow, just you and me... "
Just you and me...
His sleeve brushed her cheek. A trace of sandalwood lingered in the air.
She looked up and met his eyes -- those deep, still eyes that always hid something from her. At that moment, she thought she saw something different, something she had missed before...
Was it sadness? A distant sadness, well-hidden behind his calm?
She felt something twist in her chest.
I never even saw it, she thought, the guilt suddenly painful. The whole time -- even now...
He's being strong for me.
He had left his family behind. He had no one else but her, nothing else but what they had in this house.
. . . "So we can start over in our own place... "
She suddenly had an urge to cry.
Although I'm so useless... this person needs me too.
Blinking back the tears, she reached out and touched his cheek.
He needs me.
"I'd love to go," she whispered.
He smiled, clasping her hand and pulling her up from the chair.
"Let's blow dry your hair then, so we can go to sleep," he said. "I'd like to catch the early ferry tomorrow."
Tohru let herself be led back into the bedroom, her feet light, following his.
"How early is the early ferry?" she asked.
"Right around sunrise." He walked into the bathroom.
"Sunrise!"
He pulled the hair dryer from its cradle in the wall and smiled at her.
"Yes, sunrise. Have you ever been out at sunrise, Tohru?"
She shook her head,
"The water turns to gold," he said softly.
Tohru gazed at him, her mind filled with images of a glimmering sea.
"Tomorrow," he said, turning her around gently. His arm curled against her collarbone, pulling her close. She found herself leaning back into his embrace. "Tomorrow I'll show you," he promised. He pressed his lips against her hair.
Tohru reached up and touched his wrist, touched the arm that held her so possessively.
"Hai," she whispered, feeling his warmth seep into her heart.
Tomorrow, and the day after that...
We have all the time in the world.
Hatori stood patiently in the waiting area, his eyes fixed on the doorway of the gate. The first-class passengers were already emerging from the tube, all looking relatively decent despite the twelve-hour transpacific flight they had just endured. He glanced for a moment at the large digital airport clock near the wall. Its bright red numbers read 7:30.
Seven-thirty in the evening. Kyou hadn't called at all. That probably meant there was no progress in the investigation.
He had expected as much.
Scanning the lounge briefly, he found himself wishing he could pull a cigarette from his pocket and have a quick smoke. Shigure was taking his sweet time coming out of the airplane. How surprising. He was the one who had insisted that he be picked up on time. The flight had landed fifteen minutes ago.
Suddenly, a low rumble broke into Hatori's thoughts. With some embarrassment, he looked down at his stomach.
How unbelievable. Even though he was standing in a noisy airport lounge, he could hear his stomach grumbling.
Intent on keeping his rigid poise intact, he tugged discreetly at his coat, pulling it tighter around his body. Dinner. He had been in such a rush to get to the airport that he had missed his usual late lunch. Now it seemed that dinner would be late as well.
I wonder if Shigure will want to go to the Main House first.
They would arrive too late for dinner, but in any case, he could always have the cook heat up the leftovers. If Shigure agreed, perhaps they could have a little gathering that night -- Ayame would probably drop by. And Haru would probably come home late anyway, since it was a Friday. On Fridays, all the socialites in Tokyo flocked to the salons to have their hair done before they jetted off on their weekend getaways.
So a late dinner, then -- Haru, Ayame, Shigure, Momiji... and Kyou...
Suddenly he remembered --
Yuki.
Yuki. He had to check up on Yuki sometime. Momiji had told him some disturbing things -- that Yuki wasn't eating, that he stayed in his office all day long, with all the lights out, just staring into space...
Hatori decided then that he would drive straight to the IMF building from the airport, and pick Yuki up himself.
At that moment, a tall, slender man clad in a black wool coat passed through the gate and paused halfway into the waiting area. His eyes swept across the lounge, stopping when they met Hatori's gaze.
Hatori remained where he was, watching as Shigure crossed the floor with brisk strides.
There was something different. Something about Shigure had changed.
Shigure came to a halt before him.
"Hatori." A brief nod.
"Shigure."
There was no smile, no 'Ha-san', no flirty cheerfulness. Shigure's dark eyes were unusually solemn. His fingers gripped the handles of a compact overnight bag.
"Shall we go?"
Hatori glanced at the bag.
"That's all you brought?"
"Yes."
The curtness of the reply gave Hatori pause. He studied his cousin in silence.
An undercurrent of tension fired the lines of Shigure's face, giving it a sharp, harsh cast. His lips were thinned into a grim, impatient line. Fatigue shadowed the hollows underneath his eyes.
"Where did you park?" Shigure asked him.
"In the south lot."
Slinging the strap of his bag onto his shoulder, Shigure walked into the wide hallway and stared into the distance, searching for the south exit.
"It's this way," Hatori said, turning to the opposite direction.
Saying nothing, Shigure fell into step beside him, his eyes fixed on the green exit light far ahead.
"You flew coach," Hatori commented.
Shigure had to restrain his strides in order to keep pace. "There were no available seats in first class."
"I'm surprised you were able to come so soon."
"I took an emergency leave."
Hatori's brow arched fractionally.
"I thought you couldn't."
"I just did."
"You just left, you mean. Without permission."
"It doesn't matter if I have permission or not," Shigure snapped. "That's why it's called an emergency."
A silence settled between them.
How very unusual, Hatori mused. Shigure's temper was strangely strained, and that characteristic cool self-possession of his was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly Shigure spoke.
"We are going straight to the Main House tonight," he said flatly. "When we arrive, I want everybody there. Do you understand me, Hatori? Everybody. Make whatever phone calls you have to make. I want to speak with every single person who's been near Tohru ever since she came back from New York."
"That's going to be a bit difficult, Shigure."
Shigure shot him a hard glare. A cold, controlled fury came momentarily unmasked in the depths of his eyes.
"A bit difficult? Is that why you're letting the police handle everything?"
"You don't even know what we've been doing."
"That's right," Shigure answered, turning his gaze back to the stretch of hallway before them. "That's why you're going to tell me everything. Everything, Hatori -- starting with Akito. And we're not going to stop until I find out exactly how Tohru ended up with him."
In those words Hatori detected a tightness, a lashed-in tension seething through. He stared at the shifting flow of nameless faces passing them by.
To Shigure, she had just been another face. Another tool, another pawn -- fit to be used for his purposes, nothing more. He had even admitted it himself.
. . . "No matter whom I use, or whom I hurt... "
He lived solely for the fulfillment of his dream. Nothing else was in his heart, nothing else had the power to touch him.
Yet...
"And Hatori... " Shigure murmured, breaking into his thoughts.
Hatori glanced at him.
"... I'd better like what I hear. Because if I find out that you let him take her away... "
Shigure's gaze flicked to his for an instant. Suddenly Hatori was reminded of Akito's dark, still eyes.
"... I don't think I'd be able to forgive you," Shigure finished softly.
Hatori said nothing.
They walked on in silence.
The moment lingered in Hatori's mind. Threats veiled in delicate whispers, fury hidden in calm eyes -- those were nothing new. They had been an aspect of daily life when Akito had been around. That whisper was Akito's whisper; those eyes, Akito's eyes.
Shigure had changed.
Hatori wondered what he would say when he found out that Tohru's memories had been erased. That she had gone to Akito of her own free will.
That she was carrying a child.
Suddenly, his cell phone rang. Shigure looked at him.
Hatori reached into his breast pocket and pulled the phone out.
"Yes?"
It was Kyou.
Hatori listened intently. Shigure stood before him quietly -- watching, waiting.
After a long moment of silence, Hatori said:
"We'll be there." He hung up.
Shigure waited.
Hatori slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked at his cousin's expressionless face.
"They've been found."