A refresher for Japanese terms:

Kata is a 'set' of sword drills. Gi is the style of shirt Kenshin and Hiko wear. Hakama is the style of pants Kenshin wears. Hiko tucks his hakama into his boots. Kabuki is traditional Japanese theatre. Futon is a bed roll set on the floor. Whetstone - not Japanese, lol, but the stone you use to sharpen knives.

1885

Kyoto

The Aoiya's restaurant filled up within minutes, and streets were again loud and bustling as people streamed out of the buildings at lunch hour. Everything resumed as usual, the methodical inner workings of the city ticking on. As Saito exited the Aoiya he walked straight into alleys and gutters and lesser known side-streets, keen to avoid the crowds. He'd taken off his blue officer's coat in the heat, letting it drape loosely on his shoulders instead. The limp sleeves dangled restlessly at his sides.

Eiji, who'd been caught by a waitress and held there being lectured for running down halls, scrambled after him. Saito hadn't waited. Eiji rushed out just in time to catch Saito's blue uniform bob between speckles of kimono and yukatas in the distance.

He tailed him. Always ten steps behind, with a wall of chattering people between them. When Eiji finally caught up, Saito had led them to the far side of town. Dusty, unpaved streets lined with overgrown trees and green — much more quiet and peaceful, but also the long way back to the station. It was more practical to use the cluttered main streets; one could easily disappear into them, easy invisibility, but Saito had wanted privacy.

They walked in silence. Eiji tottered behind Saito. Five steps behind.

"…I told you not to call me 'Shishou' at work."

It was a reprimand. A slap on the wrist, a point to do better, but instead it slid out of him like an exhaled breath, tired and resigned more than anything resembling admonishment.

Eiji took it in stride, a short huff being the only indication of his knowing he was being rebuked, and without even a second of reflection he parried with, "There was no one there — only Kamoda." A childish lilt he didn't care to mask coated his voice. "He already knew."

There was no one there: meaning, there were no other police there, no one to tattle back at the station, but that wasn't really true — they both knew police being there or not didn't matter — it was simply unprofessional. A slip-up. And slip-ups, Saito would not excuse.

"Kamoda knew." Saito didn't turn around. He just talked to the air in front of him as he walked. "What does Kamoda know. Kamoda is a blithering fool who let our only suspect gallivant into the night like the blithering fool he is. I should have him scheduled in front of the firing squad."

Eiji was reduced to silence at that.

He just followed quietly, the sound of Saito's mistake ringing hard in the open space.

A slip-up.

Because they both knew that was not even vaguely in the realm of rational things to say; Saito didn't expect the likes of Kamoda to take a stand against Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, known master of a master swordsman. If he did and became a puddle on the floor, Saito would be here right now reprimanding him for the opposite. Stupid man. Should have waited for reinforcements.

"And you," Saito started. "Remind me. Did I teach you the sword so you could pull a blade on a child in the middle of an inn, Mishima?" he said, completely hypocritically. And despite Eiji being the same age as Yahiko. But Eiji tastefully did not point this out.

"I knew it was too early to teach you the Gatotsu."

"Yet you did."

Saito stopped. He turned back, uniform whipping around him. Eiji stared at him with unbothered eyes.

Saito nodded, his head bobbing in an amused manner, up-down like a rattlesnake's tell.

"Is this insubordination?"

"No, Shishou. This is an intervention," Eiji said.

And without anything further, without fanfare, not even a rise in ki, Eiji went to his knees.

Saito peered down at him. "An intervention? You?"

"You don't listen to me when you get like this. I thought a grand, sweeping gesture might help, Shishou." Eiji's words were rather acerbic, not unlike Saito himself. "And don't worry," he said, noting the pull in Saito's lip, "There's no one else here."

Saito laughed. It sounded like gravel scraping together, half-pack-a-day smoker's rasp. "Fine. I'll humour you, now that you've learned to bite the hand that commands you. Whatever have I done to displease you, Mishima?"

Eiji stayed on his knees, but he looked Saito starkly in the eyes with all the pomp he'd been poised to express days ago, building up like tar. But instead of anger, frustration, and instead of letting him have it, he side-stepped rebellion and only very carefully said—

"You're losing it, Shishou."

Saito reacted unfavourably to this comment.

His eyes narrowed into dangerous, offended slits, a positively murderous gaze on him, but Eiji took no notice of this, carrying on with that same tentative approach.

He said, his voice like a calm, still ocean, "You're not…well. You're not in control. You are not yourself, Shishou. You haven't been since…before Himura-san came to help. I didn't know how to break this to you before, but I've run out of options to run it by you discreetly. You need sleep. You need food. You got to get some rest." Eiji bowed his head to the floor. "Saito Shishou, you're in no condition to go back to the station."

"You're in no condition to go back on the field."

"I can still fight."

"Fight? You're a liability like this."

"Vice-commander—"

"Control yourself in front of me, Yamaguchi."

Saito's demeanour wavered a little. Something he realised only now he'd let get eggshell thin: fractured, and about to crumble. But Eiji, busy bowing, hadn't seen. Even if he had, nothing would have mattered. He'd have seen, filed it away, and tactfully kept it for his own future reference.

Saito looked at Eiji properly. He was almost eighteen. Almost at the age when Saito killed for the first time. No longer did he have the boyish cheeks or pimply forehead he'd sported not so long ago. His voice was level, almost disturbingly so — when they were alone Eiji had always been keen to make sure Saito knew exactly what he thought about a current case or a fellow police officer…

When did the kid get so…in control of things? Saito always took the lead in their conversations and on the field, not Eiji. When had Saito lost it, thrown his control behind him like a discarded cigarette butt.

Cigarettes.

Saito's hands shook to life, going for his pockets. It had been almost a day and a night and he realised all at once he was desperate to get a smoke. With some struggle, he pulled out a slip of paper. One of the calling cards. He rummaged in his coat some more, pulling out another calling card, and then another calling card, like some sad, feverish man, clawing for water in a desert. Like a weak, snared addict. Mad to get his fix. One of the cards slipped from his fingers and floated away on the wind. It was still police evidence. Saito reached out to snag it back. But it was too late for that.

Rather like how it had been too late for him to catch a crook, or to get to that girl in time. To screw on his logical head and go to meet Yamagata to play mind games. As he watched the evidence drift away into the air, a white speck of a dot in the sky, he thought with sudden, startling clarity that all of this — all of this seething anger was so absurd.

"Shishou?" Eiji muttered. He lifted his head ever so slightly, addressing Saito's shoes. "Shishou? Are you listening?"

Peace could truly be as deadly a thing as war.

Saito was irked over what? A few dead kids? A massacre or three? Saito Hajime had seen hundreds of people die. Hundreds had perished under his command. He was not like Battousai, he didn't have the luxury of vanishing after Toba-Fushimi, he kept fighting; fighting and fighting losing battles, fighting change, all to be in time to watch the world he fought for finally exhale and expire.

And now he was getting huffy over a few murders in the street? Feeling a bit under the weather?

Saito finally produced a cigarette, mangled from his pocket, and slid it between his lips. It was then he realised his lighter wasn't on him, and Eiji was staring. After another night of flipping through old records, he'd left his lighter at his desk. This being too pathetic to witness even for Eiji, he got up. From nowhere, he produced a lighter. He was quickly becoming Saito's devoted critic when it came to this vice; yet he still supplied himself with these things. Eiji clicked it alive, then held it dutifully up to Saito's cigarette. His eyes carefully lowered.

Saito took a long, comfortable drag. He took his time, wanting to make Eiji wait. But Eiji expected it and left him to stew in his silence. Saito blew out smoke, flitting the cigarette up and down his fingers.

"You're saying I'm unfit for duty." He grunted. "How very frank of you."

"When's the last time Shishou went back to the house?" Eiji crossed his arms, realised this was a defensive look, and then uncrossed them again. He looked him in the eyes. "…The lady of the house speaks about you, you know. She's always asking me about you…I have no gall to tell her the truth. And your sons—"

"—The audacity!"

Saito snapped. His ki spiked, a tea kettle whistling, a keg about to burst, accidental and blind; but as it did, the fire and anger rolled in on itself, dissipated again. He simply did not have the energy to get so worked up. An apathetic gloom took its place instead — the likes of which Saito had felt when his last superior handed over to him the Shinsengumi.

Smoke exited his mouth unevenly as he glared down at Eiji.

Eiji bowed his head. Not because he was sorry, but only because he wanted to placate Saito by letting him think he was sorry. When did the kid get this insufferable? And when did the kid start playing better mind games than Yamagata?

There was a small garden rail to the side, half collapsed from bad weather or timely wear. Saito went up to it and sat. Eiji followed his movements with his eyes like a hawk. He remained standing.

"She hates when I bring work home," Saito drawled. "Now here, is the kicker. All I have on my mind are murders, child trafficking, and moles in the police force."

Eiji's eyes widened a moment before settling back into professional blankness.

Saito took another drag. "Why do you think we've made this little progress. This little army of manslayers running wild. No leads. Disappeared evidence. Practically non-existent witnesses. These aren't professionals, Mishima. They're not assassins. These are common thugs, and I am running blind like a headless fowl. There are moles in the force, protecting the mob from the inside. Doing this alone makes me suspicious to Yamagata, who's been on my back for years. But I refuse to trust a police force that I know is laced with rot."

Saito sighed. He used a gloved hand to push his hair back into place. His bangs swayed in front of his eyes. "—And you think I am prepared to bring that with me back to the house?" Saito said lightly. "She can feel ki. None of this escapes her."

Eiji took this all in without the customary squirming Saito was met with most other officers.

"Permission to speak freely," Eiji said, and Saito gave him a very discontented look. As if he hadn't been speaking as freely as he'd wanted, with no decorum coming from a disciple to his master.

"…Granted," Saito said. He already knew he'd regret it.

"Murder and crime is always on your mind. It's kind of our job, Shishou. If you want it to be flowers and sugar on your mind when you go back to the house…By that logic, the lady will only see you when you're either concussed — or senile."

Saito almost burst a vein. He understood why Eiji chose to say this with his blessing — so he could be responsible for it, and the deshi could wipe his hands clean. Crafty little fox. In a bygone era, any subordinate caught saying such ludicrous things would have had their tongue rightfully cut out. If someone had the gall to say the likes of this to Hijikata, they'd be awarded a dagger and the backroom to finish themselves.

"…The things I let you say to me," Saito huffed.

But Eiji gave him a look that quietly said, the things I have to put up with you.

Saito lifted himself off the wooden rails. "I'm going back to the office."

Eiji's expression tightened.

"To get the whetstone I favour. I practically ground my sword on that blunt excuse of one Himura holds, who knows what damage it did mine." He straightened, draping his uniform coolly on his shoulders again. "Meet me back at the house."

Eiji smiled. Without smugness. Without smirking. He just smiled serenely, dimples indenting his cheeks. "No, I'll come with you."

They walked side by side like that for a while.

After a few minutes of blissful silence, Eiji spun his head in his direction. "...So...Shishou..."

"Hm?"

"—Why did Himura-san attack you?"

Mount Atago

Lying upon the outskirts of Kyoto was a mountain.

Upon the mountain a group of friends and family made their journey in relative quiet, trekking far into the wilderness where no prying eyes ever went for fear of getting lost and stranded in labyrinth. Their guide, a red swordsman in the murk of green, feared not, because he knew the way like the lines on his hand.

When Kenshin was young, there had been stories: stories about evil spirits and angered deities that disappeared anyone who strayed from the overgrown path. They were not without truth. People did disappear from these gnarled forest floors — people who were unfortunate enough to cross its longtime resident, bringing down swift death upon themselves. Years ago, forty bandits and slave traders died on this soil, and three young women rested here. This place was remote and unwelcoming, easy to get lost in, and frankly inhospitable; but little did anyone know, Kenshin had once lived here.

He'd called this place home once. He'd hunted in these woods. Ran wild. He'd grown up here, hidden in the bushes, isolated from the battles that raged on in the outside world until his illusion of peace and normalcy could no longer endure. Far away from the rest of the world, here, there had been only him, and Hiko. A half childhood spent training and fighting for a war Hiko would forbid him from joining. It reminded him of endless games of counting, one to one thousand; dipping his blisters in river water; and performing katas until he dropped.

That had been a long time ago. A very, very long time ago.

Kenshin sighed darkly. After everything that had happened with Saito, he'd still kept one glaring piece of information from him:

Kenshin knew exactly where to find Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth.

Because, even surprising him, Hiko had never left the place Kenshin abandoned all those years ago. He was still here. On the same mountain. In the same clearing. Living in the same, rundown hut.

"Here we are," Kenshin said. "Mount Atago. The clearing on the east side. Six hundred steps from the river. Nearby the cliff."

It was the same as it ever was, like time had never passed: a varnished polaroid shot of a moment forever in stasis — and suddenly Kenshin was twenty eight coming back and begging at Hiko's feet for help — and he was also fourteen and hating every single detail of this godforsaken place, walking this same path out the door convinced he'd never come back.

His mind ran in circles, as if revisiting a botched past he'd never really thought too hard about. Like two very different versions of himself intersecting, reintegrating. Kenshin, a swordsman's disciple; and Kenshin, a husband to a dojo instructor: the middle conveniently missing. While his head was looping into knots his body moved on its own accord, casually curving branches out of their path, leisurely walking to lead the way — not an outward impression that anything was wrong.

"Oh," Megumi uttered as she took in the shack. "…So this is where Ken-san learned the sword?"

"Yes. That I did."

"…There's a little flower garden," she said pleasantly.

"Oh, that." Kenshin looked at a small collection of nearly drowned tulips she was referring to. "It's meant to be a vegetable garden. This one used to grow yams there, that I did."

It would have been selfish of Kenshin to keep this secret location hidden, to shield the likes of a murderer — if that murderer were not Hiko. Instead, he convinced himself he was saving the lives of countless officers by questioning Hiko in the safest way possible. By himself.

Or would have. If not for Kaoru, Sanosuke, Megumi and Yahiko all putting a death grip on him all the way up the mountain.

"You think we're letting you go talk to that guy all alone? Think again!" Sano had huffed. "Think about it this way, if something goes wrong, at least we'll have numbers."

Kenshin was indeed thinking about that right now. If something were to go wrong, no matter how many numbers they had, there was always the possibility they could die in this place and fuel the Mount Atago superstitions. Having no idea why he let everyone come, and having no clue as to why he'd caved, Kenshin politely pushed back the branches to let Kaoru and Megumi pass unobstructed.

"Um," Kenshin started, biting the inside of his cheek. "So…this one's master is…er…what this lowly one means to say is that this one's master is not always…"

"A hobgoblin?" Sano said, swiping his nose. "Yeah, we're here to judge his morals, not his living state, Kenshin."

"What — no!" Kenshin turned to Sano defensively. "This one was trying to say, it's best for this one to ask the questions. Shishou can be…" He struggled to find the word.

"A dick," Sano offered.

"…Abrasive."

"An abrasive dick!"

"Oh shut up, Sanosuke." Megumi came between them. She pointed a finger and dug it into Sano's chest. "You're the one being a raging abrasive dick right now," she said sternly.

Megumi ignored the reddening faces of Kaoru, Kenshin and Yahiko around her. She turned back to Kenshin. "That's fine, Ken-san. It's not like we can't take a few mean words. I know what a master is like. Kaoru's met him before, she told me some things. What's the worst he can do?"

"Kill a bunch of people, it seems," Yahiko mumbled under his breath.

Sano kicked him in the ankle.

"Hey! You were the one getting growled at — what right do you have to—"

"Shhh, Yahiko, we're right outside his house," Kaoru reminded them all. Without further ado, she stalked around the house, creeping past the kiln. Kaoru peered into the windows, which were outfitted with straw curtains and couldn't keep out a whisper. "…I don't think anyone is home."

Startling them all to sudden, jumpy attention, Kenshin knocked on the door.

"Hello. Shishou, it is your deshi," he announced. "Himura Kenshin," he added, as if Hiko might have forgotten. "He has come to pay his respects."

There was no answer.

"Well, damn. He really isn't home. What now?" Yahiko stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Guess we head back. Try again tomorrow."

But Kenshin put his elbow on the door, heaved in a breath, and forced it open with an uncomfortable sounding crack. He let himself in.

"…Ooookay. Maybe not." Yahiko followed him in.

"I don't know…isn't this breaking and entering? Should we wait outside?" Kaoru pried through the crack in the door. But after a minute she went inside too.

The inside of the house had changed the most. A rather cramped assortment of pottery sat on the shelves, which now lined every side of the walls. Even more than the last time Kenshin was here. There were ceramic creations hovering above the sanded cooking area, the sword stands, the drawers, the low writing table, and above the futon and animal hides. Little beige pots, sake cups, tea cups, incense holders, bowls, the odd plate lining each shelf…

Pots and ceramics everywhere.

"Woah." Sano spun around in a circle. "…Didn't know your old man was so into vases."

"He is 'Ni'itsu Kakunoshin.'" Kenshin said, matter-of-fact. "A well-known name in the pottery industry."

"…Who would have known? Pretty talented guy."

"He always boasted he was a genius at everything he did."

Sano had spoken in a joking tone, but Kenshin sounded completely serious.

Sano picked up a few pots, eyeing the bottom. "Signed Ni'itsu. Made in 1885." He picked up another. "Made in 1885. Made in…1885. Made in — you guessed it —1885…damn, Hiko is busy, making all of these just this year."

Kaoru, who was perusing a pile of folded hides, bent to smooth her hand in the fur. "This is…I think this is a wolf hide."

"How opulent," Megumi said. "Those are expensive."

"No…I don't think he spent a penny on this. I think he skinned this himself."

"…Do you smell that?" Kenshin said softly.

A few confused heads turned his way. No one else seemed to be bothered.

He began to walk aimlessly around, searching for the suspicious scent, when he happened across a shelf of toy spinning tops.

Kenshin stopped brokenly in front of it, eyeing the carved spinning tops with disproportionate alarm. It brought back a memory he'd forgotten so long ago it seemed to put a cut into his very bones to remember. Hiko had made spinning tops like this once. A clay spinning top that he mashed into shape with his fingers, hardened over a candle and threw casually to Kenshin, who loved it so much he slept with it snugly beside his futon. He'd loved it so much he broke it within the month, then ran into the woods to cry about it discreetly. His shishou had to go out to find him and never realised why Kenshin had been so upset. Kenshin was harshly scolded and punished for running off like that. All over a badly made spinning top.

Then Hiko made more, this time carving them out of wood. One day in Choshu Ishin Shishi's Kohagi Inn hideout, Kenshin slipped into his pockets and pulled out a spinning top. After thinking he'd take nothing from his shishou when he left, he'd come to war with a spinning top. Of course, he placed it on the window sill and spun it. He used to spin it in the evenings, over and over, like a secret kata, clearing his head before a mission. He didn't remember what became of that thing.

Kenshin picked up one of the spinning tops from the shelf, staring at it.

A beat passed, and he quickly placed it down.

For a moment he was completely overcome by the fear he might break it in his hands, even though it was wooden.

Suddenly, Yahiko's voice cut off the rest of Kenshin's thought.

"Hey Kenshin, your ol' shishou is married?"

Kenshin spun on him. His mouth was open as if he couldn't even begin to dissect what was wrong with that question.

"…O…ro?…No, Yahiko. He is not. Why — why did you ask that?" His brain flashed madly for a half a minute as he skimmed the premises for women's objects.

Yahiko nodded at the shelf in front of him. "Look. Aren't these San-san-kudo wedding cups?"

As Yahiko said it, everyone converged on the shelf and crowded around the cups.

San-san-kudo: Three-by-Three Exchange of Nuptial Cups. They were special ceremonial objects in a typical traditional wedding. Three small sake cups placed neatly upon one another from largest to smallest.

"Yes. Good eye. They are." Megumi picked one up. "Kaoru and Ken-san had something similar for their wedding." Her eyes lit up as she marvelled at the intricate paint. Like the other works, it was dated. "…Made in 1880."

The smallest cup represented the past, an offering of gratitude to the lucky couple's ancestors and parents for allowing their chance meeting. The medium cup represented the present, with the couple binding their energies to share a long life. The largest cup was the future, a wish for tranquility as one household from then on. With three drinks from all the nuptial cups, the couple exchanged sake of divine offerings, celebrating the union.

Kaoru, knelt beside him in her white wedding kimono, smiled from beneath the arc of her ceremonial hat. "I drink to you, Kenshin."

Kenshin, his eyes creased in joy, lifted his cup in front of him. "I drink to you, Kaoru-dono."

Kenshin vaguely understood why the cups had drawn Yahiko's attention. They were the only thing that was colourfully painted across all the beige pots and vases, and endlessly more intricate. The cups were lacquered in precious maki-e style, painted with gold and silver dust. A touch of luxury. It was clear whoever had made these had spent triple the time on it than anything else. Kenshin didn't quite want to believe Hiko had made this, even through the glaring proof of it being in this remote ceramics workshop.

"Maybe it's a commission?" Kaoru mused.

Kenshin shook his head. "Unlikely. Shishou would have to speak to people to take commissions, that he would."

The last time he was here, Hiko had made it clear he simply carted his freelance pieces off to sellers in Kyoto and Osaka. After all, pottery was his answer to never having to see more human face than was strictly necessary. Kenshin didn't even entertain the idea he could have made them for himself. The man was a bachelor through and through.

Everyone shifted away from the wedding cups after they'd finished staring.

The smell Kenshin had caught before floated back to him, but this time he latched onto it. "…This one doesn't believe he is imagining this," he turned to Sano next to him. "Sano, do you smell that?"

Sano's easygoing demeanour wiped off him as he straightened and came alert. He stared at the empty room for what seemed like an age. Then his shoulders dropped again.

"Booze?" he said finally, slightly impressed at himself.

"No."

"Terracotta?" Kaoru started, noting the shelves of unset pottery.

"Not that."

"It smells like he hasn't aired this place for a century," Yahiko said snidely.

"Kinda," Sano nodded.

"It smells like blood," Megumi said.

The group froze in their places. Yahiko dropped the clay teacup he was holding and jerked violently forward to catch it in the same instance. He wasn't even in the mood to marvel at the fact that he'd caught it with his trained reflexes.

"No. No, it…" Sano trailed off. He looked at Kenshin before throwing up his hands and gesturing to the room. "Where?"

Both Kenshin and Megumi moved. As they wandered around, Megumi set her eyes on a burlap bag. She peeled it open, revealing a pair of black cloth boots. Steeped in blood. Also in the bag were a pair of dark hakama and leather vambraces. All speckled with blood.

"It's still wet," Megumi whispered.

"It's fresh." Kenshin thought back to the witness Kamoda's account. The facts had been airtight already. A performance of Kuzuryusen, a death that happened last night. Hiko had come back to the house to change out of his soiled clothes and rest before leaving again. Where had he gone? What was he doing right now?

As these questions unveiled themselves to Kenshin, like a Shinsengumi ambush along the street, more came at him.

What was Kenshin supposed to do right now? Wait for Hiko and ask a question he already knew the answer to? Ask him why he killed a yakuza so viciously?

Kenshin sighed.

He looked languidly at his friends as they muttered over the blood, speaking in raised voices, but Kenshin, hearing none of it, backed away. Slowly, he turned around, turned back, letting his legs carry him out of the house. Out of his childhood home. Out into the clearing.

Outside, the wind rustled the leaves. Birds were engaged in song, and the rushing river a way away could be heard distantly in the woods. To one side of the clearing was an unlit fireplace with a log for a seat. Kenshin used to sit there with Hiko, listening to his brief stories — always short tales with the barest of details and no embellishment. Everything told like it was. Momotaro was born from a peach. Sent by the gods to be a good son. A band of oni demons came. He killed them. The end.

When he got older the stories were replaced with poems. Cherry blossoms in Spring. Stars cover the sky in Summer. Full moon shines in Autumn, and in Winter the snow covers the ground. All these things make sake taste good. If it tastes bad, it's because there is something wrong with you.

Kenshin turned suddenly to the storehouse and shelter latched onto the side of the hut. He bypassed a pile of firewood with an apathetic kick and found exactly what he was looking for.

In the store were jugs and jugs of sake. Empty pots that Hiko made himself stood piled up in one corner, a few jugs of 'Osaka's best' shone in the low light. Store-bought. A number of jugs lined the back of the storage: homemade sake left to age. Kenshin, going through motions, picked one up. He popped off the stopper, brought the jug to his nose. It smelled as strong as Hiko liked it, and surprisingly sweet. Different from how he remembered but pleasantly fragrant. Hiko would always go on about how he hated Kyoto sake, even though Kenshin could not reliably taste a difference.

Hiko would also go on about how good he was as a killer. After Momotaro, he'd tell a tale about his younger days. One time, there was a band of brothers, stranded on the other side of the river. Hiko went to help them. When he realised all they wanted was to steal his sword, he killed them. The end. Another time, there was a band of thugs, harassing a fleeing husband and wife under a large tree. Hiko killed them. One thug ran for his life. He cut down the tree, killing them. End. This other time, there was a band of slave traders, who were attacked by a band of thugs. All the slaves were killed, except for a weak little boy. Hiko killed the thugs. He told the boy to get help from the village, but he was too stupid to do even that. Oh, you were in that story, weren't you? Yes, yes, you're the boy. I forget. That's enough tales about yours truly for today.

Kenshin lifted the sake to his mouth. But before he could take a drink, he stopped himself. His fingers curled until his knuckles whitened. Why had he stopped himself?

Because of the likes of a poem? Was he…afraid? Afraid of what he might taste.

Kenshin's ki rose.

In a bout of anger, Kenshin tossed the sake to the ground.

It smashed at his feet, soaking his socks. After all that time jumping through mental hoops not to think about Hiko Seijuro, all his thoughts imploded: firecracker quick, gunpowder aflame. What was he doing, killing left and right? Killing gangsters or random people who couldn't touch him if they tried — not even if they had a hundred years to train and prepare. Mixing up the murders with whoever was leaving calling cards, making Kenshin the one who was guilty in the eyes of the world.

There were so very many things wrong with Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, Kenshin was astonished he could stomach all this sake.

Kenshin unsheathed the sakabatou, the lighting ring of battou-jutsu reverberating in the air. With one fell swoop he smashed apart six jugs into pieces. The sake exploded, going everywhere, wetting the firewood, sinking into the sand, terraforming the storage shelter into a sloppy, wet marsh; but before a drop could even land on Kenshin he'd swung again, shattering more jugs, creating a thousand more porcelain pieces, their seashell white shards riding down waves of pungent, store-bought sake. Kenshin swung again, breaking another. He swung again, breaking another. And again, shattering everything. He swung over and over—

"Kenshin?!"

Kaoru's voice. High and horrified. She ran up to him, running into the pool of sake in her nice shoes and floral kimono, steeping the hems.

"Oh…dear…" Kaoru started, "I know you're upset, Kenshin. And I'm…I'm sorry I doubted you. I didn't think Hiko could…" Kaoru shook her head. She tottered forward, pressed her hands into his back and hugged him tight.

"It seems this lowly one is…just a little upset, that he may be…" he said. "This lowly one didn't mean to run off…forgive me, Kaoru-dono…that he daringly asks."

Kenshin leaned into her. In his anger, he'd made it rain sake.

"Silly Kenshin," Kaoru said into his ear, and Kenshin dropped the sakabatou, freeing his hands to embrace Kaoru back. "Stupid Kenshin. You just hold onto me. Let out your anger, then let it float down the stream." She paused. "I know this isn't what you want."

"What I want..." Kenshin echoed. "It doesn't matter what I want. Heh. Upset? I don't get to be 'upset.' I didn't control myself. I acted out. I'm sorry, Kaoru-dono."

"Acted out? It's just sake!" Kaoru shook her head. "...You deserve to be angry. This isn't—" She sighed, bone-deep, and squeezed her eyes shut. "We were happy. We were home. Safe. Dry. About to celebrate our son's birthday...I know this just — messes everything up! None of this — none of this is your fault! But people are blaming you for something they don't understand. For something you're not remotely responsible for. The injustice is, is, is — strangling me — never mind how you must feel. Of course you should be angry. Of course you should be upset!"

Kaoru punctuated her sentence with a kick to a bottle shard, sending it flying, shattering against the wall. "Fuck!"

Something she said struck Kenshin deep down. They were happy. They were home. They had Kenji. After everything — war and death and wandering — it felt like Kenshin had finally, finally discovered what peace might look like. And then that peace was taken away from him.

This entire time was like those few numb moments coming back to the hut in the woods — his mind spinning, deeply disturbed — but he had been acting as if nothing at all was wrong. Soldiering on because expressing discomfort was breaking form. Because anything else was being soft. And being soft...was unacceptable.

Kenshin let out the breath he'd been holding. Feeling like Kaoru had dragged his feelings out of his chest, feeling emboldened, he took two steps forward and grabbed her into a hug. Kaoru let him. She held him close, gripping his back, telling him he was hers, and she was here, and if Kenshin couldn't quite manage it himself, she'll be angry and upset for him.

"We'll get through this." Kaoru pulled back a little, looking into his eyes. "We always do."

Kenshin smiled weakly. He just leaned into Kaoru, and glared at the horizon.

The very first time Kenshin had met his master, he'd watched him butcher nearly forty men in the time it took for his six year old self to push Miss Sakura's body off of him. Maybe that was the reason he was quite underwhelmed at his first kill. He'd seen it play out before — forty times in fact — and frankly, it looked easy.

Notes

Ni'itsu Kakunoshin is the name Hiko goes by in his pottery trade. In RK, he was 'a rising star in the pottery industry.' Now he's 'a well-known name in the pottery industry.' ...Oh, Hiko.

Shoutout to FrostyEmma on ao3, who named Hiko's mountain as the real life Mount Atago — much better than using 'the mountain' forever and ever.

I mentioned 'polaroid' photos in the fic, but the more accurate early photographs in this time are 'daguerreotypes.'

There's a tiny flashback to Saito calling someone 'Vice-commander.' If you haven't guessed, it's Hijikata Toshizo the second in command of the Shinsengumi. This particular bit happened when Saito was in the Mibu Roshigumi - the precursor to the Shinsengumi. (A refresher: it's the reason Saito and co were called the wolves of Mibu. Their taskforce originated in Mibu.)

About the fic - I said I was going to post what I got and end it there, but since I've started I've written new stuff. So, see how we go. Basically, back to normal fic status.