#slbp fics

Pitter-patter.

Her eyes stare at the ceiling up above her. If she concentrates hard enough, she can count every single wood grain pattern in the rafters. If she concentrates hard enough, she can hear every single separate raindrop falling on the roof.

If she concentrates hard enough, she can forget.

Even with the tray and its three clean skewers that she knows is still sitting outside in the hallway.

Even with the abandoned black tabi boot and its beyond-repair ripped seam hiding in the closet.

But as soon as her eyes drift, she sees the small white figures hanging from the ceiling, and all of it becomes pointless. She closes her eyes, hears the rain. Eyes like dried blood stare back at her in the recesses of her mind. Words, mocking yet impossibly fond, cut into her. Kisses, gentle and fiery and soft and greedy, scorch her mouth.

A heart, once so shielded and hidden, lies bared for her.

In an instant she’s out of bed, tearing the ghosts from the ceiling. She’s outside, flinging them into the deepest puddle she can find, only to see them them bob back up through the mud. She’s stamping her foot down to bury them, dirtying the hem of her sleeping robes.

Her ribs feel like they’re about to split open. Anger or hurt or grief… she’s not sure. It doesn’t matter.

The sky is dark and cracks with lightning. One of the rain ghosts escape her heel and floats up again, soiled face smiling up at her through the puddle.

She stops abruptly. Shoulders shaking, from the cold or her sobs or both, she sinks to her knees and reaches out. Crushes the ghost in her fist while hoping maybe it’s not too late to save it.

What a sight she must be - sitting in the dirt, crying, her hair sticking to her face as she waits endlessly for an impossibility.

Until she no longer feels the raindrops on her head. The shadow of a red umbrella stretches across the ground in front of her, and an arm loops around her shoulders to embrace her.

No.

She shrieks and scratches and swats and tries to shove the intruder away from her but he only tightens his arm around her in response. The umbrella falls, he lifts her up and she thrashes in his arms, landing more than a couple hits but he doesn’t let go of her.

Why? Why now?

He deposits her onto the rumpled bedding, straddling her hips and holding her wrists down with a strange gentleness. Omaesan, he starts, but that’s as much as she allows.

Leave, leave, leave, she screams until her voice goes hoarse and she’s forced to whisper instead.

Leave like you always do. Don’t choose now to stay, are the words that get stuck in her throat, but she thinks he understands anyway.

Because he wordlessly pleads with her. Let him. Let him be here - not forever, but for right now. Let him into her arms.

She hates this. Hates how one look from him is enough to crumble her resolve. Enough for her to wish for things she knows she cannot have.

But she is only human. And she hates him and loves him in equal measure, and against her better judgment, she clings to him, digging her fingernails into his back hard enough to draw blood. And when he hovers over her, pressing in with bitter kisses, he is gray and confusing and everything she wants and doesn’t want. There are a thousand and ten reasons why this is not alright, and she ignores every single one.

And later, after they’ve exhausted their bodies and fallen asleep and the sun has sunk back down into the horizon, letting night creep in, she’ll know this was a mistake. She’ll sit up and pull the covers to her chest, watching him slumber and allowing him to unconsciously tug at her hip to bring her closer.

She’ll look over by the door and see the muddied rain ghosts hanging from the ceiling, ruined and eerie and quiet.

She’ll blink away tears and pretend like her heart is still her own.

She’ll know that he’ll be gone again by morning, taking his world with him, and she’ll know that gray was never meant for her.

—

Before she even opens her eyes, she knows something is amiss.

It’s completely silent. There is no whistle of the gentle summer breeze, no odd creaks and cracks of the doors and pillars around her. Even the cicadas have ceased their song.

It is almost as if her surroundings are trying to warn her.

Her heart begins to pound painfully in her chest, the fear settling in her bones.

Thud.

Thud.

She struggles to keep her breathing even. Eyes still shut, she turns to her left, then her right, feigning restless sleep, all while reaching for the kunai hidden under the folds of her futon. Once she can feel the cold metal and bandaged grip in her hand, she mentally prepares herself for the struggle to come.

Three.

Two.

One.

She bolts upright to her feet, brandishing the kunai in front of her. It all happens so quickly. A dark figure drops down from the rafters. He claps a hand over her mouth, silencing her. Grabs her wrist, stopping the kunai in its tracks.

When her eyes have a second to settle, she sees the fox mask on her captor’s face, coupled with the cloying, coppery smell of blood and - though it’s faint - the unmistakable powdery scent of rice flour.

“Tsk, tsk. It’s only been a few months - have you forgotten me already?”

His low drawl is as deadpan as ever, and the mask obscures his expression, but she goes shock-still, the kunai clattering down to the tatami.

“Saizo,” she whispers against his fingers, barely a breath. All the anxiety she had been harboring in her chest mere moments ago begins to ebb away, disbelief flooding up to take its place. The heaviness in her stomach drops, and she too sinks to her knees.

Saizo follows, dropping her wrist and finally taking his hand from her mouth. The sudden removal of his touch leaves her feeling unbelievably cold.

His fox mask is marred with crimson. She hesitates just a little before grasping the mask on both sides and pulling it up over his head. He blinks a little as she puts the mask aside, but his eyes are soft, lips turned up just slightly.

“It really is you,” she says quietly, breathlessly. Her hands cup his cheeks as if just seeing him is not enough. “You’re here.”

Saizo’s eyes narrow a fraction. He says nothing still, letting his eyes roam over her face.

Her fingertips travel from his face down to his neck, down to the collar of his kimono. It’s only now that she notices the red splattered across his throat, the dampness of his clothes. When she draws her fingers back, they’re stained pink. She looks up at him in alarm.

He gives her a self-deprecating sort of smile. “It’s not my blood. Promise.”

She’s not sure if she’ll ever get used to him saying things like that. “Still. I…”

Saizo again silences her, pressing a finger to her lips. “To be continued, alright?” And in the blink of an eye, he vanishes, like he was never there.

He’s probably only gone to take a bath, or rest, or eat - logically, she knows this - but still she feels the loss of his presence so keenly it’s almost painful. He’s only just come back, and he was gone for so long…

Stop being so ridiculous, she chides herself. He’s here. That’s all that matters.

But her hands won’t stop shaking.

It only takes her a second to decide to go to the kitchen to make some tea, if only to do something to keep her hands busy.

When she returns to the porch outside her chambers, she pours herself a cup, then begins arranging and rearranging the items on the tea tray. When that’s not enough, she takes a sip. Then another. Then another. One at a time.

That’s not enough either. She sets her cup down, puttering around back and forth in the hallway, rubbing her palms together in slow circles.

She thinks about the past few months, thinks about Saizo’s gentle eyes, his words just before he left -

I’ll be back before you realize I’m gone.

What a lie that was. She knew he was gone every single minute. Every moment without him felt like a piece of her soul was being carved out, until there was nothing left. He was only meant to be gone a fortnight, at most. That was what he said.

In the end, it was almost a year.

At first it wasn’t terrible. Just a fortnight, she reminded herself at first. Then at the one month mark - maybe this mission is just taking longer than expected. Maybe there were some details that he missed.

After two months - maybe there were additional obligations that he had to take on. Maybe he was needed elsewhere.

After four months - maybe he’s injured. Maybe he needs help out there.

After six months - maybe he’s not coming back.

The memory of those thoughts, negative and dark and ugly, begin to consume her, and she swallows, trying to keep the burning at the back of her eyes at bay.

He’s alive. He’s here. He’s… he’s…

She can’t control it anymore, despite her best efforts. She sucks in ragged, rattling breaths, each more noisy than the last. Tears drip down her cheeks, one after the other.

It’s like a trigger, because in that moment, arms - now dressed in clean, fresh clothing - reach for her from behind and pull her into a familiar embrace. All it does is make her sob harder - she never thought she would have this again.

“What’s going on, little lady?” he murmurs, low and worried, into her ear.

She shakes her head, not saying anything at first, not trusting her voice.

The arms around her tighten, and she sinks back into his chest, shuts her eyes, relishes the closeness. She can’t lie to him - never could. Ultimately, all she can do is hope her voice doesn’t crack completely as she speaks out loud the one thought she feared above all else -

“I thought you were dead.”

Saizo doesn’t say anything - and she thinks maybe she’s made a colossal mistake, offended him somehow, thinking him incapable of doing his job - when she feels the ghost of a kiss at the side of her neck.

He shifts, moving so that he stands in front of her.

“But I’m not. I’m alive,” he says quietly. “I swear it.”

Maybe there’s still a bit of hesitation or doubt in her face, because he then tilts her chin up so she can look in his eyes.

Saizo guides one of her hands up to his cheek. He looks so much less deadly this way, when there’s no sword in hand and no blood on his clothing. When he wears that smile just for her - small and soft and genuine. “There you are. See? Am I alive or not?”

He’s right in front of her. Warm, and real, and alive. The relief finally begins to sink in, and the crushing fear of his unknown fate also starts to fade away. So she whispers, “Alive.”

“Alive or not?” He repeats. Large hands grasp hers, interlacing their fingers together. His, calloused and rough and practiced. Hers, smaller and softer but capable in a different way. She marvels at how perfectly their hands fit.

“Alive.”

He crouches down to accommodate for her height and repeats, “Alive or not?” and then kisses her so deeply it takes her breath away. After the initial surprise, she gently wraps her arms around his shoulders, drawing him close, and chasing after the myriad of emotions between his lips. His reassurance, his apologies, his love - she tastes it all. It fills her up, buoys her heart. Makes her feel - because there’s no other word for it really, as she pulls away just long enough to murmur -