#sugakai

The first life he could remember was more than two hundred years ago. The 1860’s, not the best time to be alive unless you belonged to a conquering empire, and even then life wasn’t the best. Sickness, death, and unlawful human rights ran rampant then. And Hakuba Saguru was caught in between two worlds. The bastard child of an English nobleman, living with his Japanese mother in a well-to-do house just outside of Kyoto (all expenses paid for by his estranged father, of course). His mother drank herself to sedation every night and he, well, he kept company with the servants. Nothing would keep him from a night in the kitchen with all of them, hushed giggles and good food; nothing would keep him from the only people who treated him like he was a person: not a bastard, not a jewel, just another human.

He was happy then, he supposed; he’d had a good education and more than enough food. It was a comfortable life. And then he came along: tattered bangs wet against tanned skin, slim, no more than 100 pounds soaking wet (and that he was—soaked to the bone), standing in the rain on his bedroom balcony looking terribly frightened. Saguru could hear shouting in the distance, and the boy jumped a bit, startled. The boy met his eyes and Hakuba could see the fear, clouded and angry, but there all the same. His body seemed to move on its own, unlatching the bay doors and grabbing the other boy’s wrist, pulling him inside and wrapping him in the comforter laying at the bottom of his bed. Hakuba guided him gently to his closet, putting a finger to his lips and winking before shutting the boy in the closet. And then he stopped, his heart pounding, hands shaking, and composed himself. He walked out his balcony door just before the sheriff stumbled through the line of trees that separated his house from the neighbor’s. The sheriff looked around, quick and dazed, and his eyes landed on Hakuba,

“Did you see a boy running through here?” His voice was commanding but rushed. Obviously the boy had been much quicker, perhaps cleverer even.

“He went west,” Hakuba pointed toward the back of his yard, toward town. And the sheriff believed him; he ran off without another thought or a thank you. Sighing, he stepped back into his room, shutting and latching the windows before making his way back over to the closet. He opened the door, surprised to find only a comforter instead of a human. Suddenly, something cool was against his neck and a whisper, airy and shaking, in his ear, “Why did you help me?”

“You were being chased.” Simple, to the point.

“By the police.”

“Yes,” and he laughed, it would be fitting for him to die like this, “and?”

The boy scoffed and let the knife slack, hands dropping to his sides, “I could’ve been a murderer and you just…” The boy trailed off.

“You looked too scared to be a murderer.” Hakuba laughed under his breath. You looked like you were the one that was going to be murdered. “How did you get on my balcony anyway? It’s two stories off the ground.”

The boy shrugged, but you could see his shoulders were still tense, on edge, “It’s a secret.” They looked at each other for a good long while. Minutes that seemed to turn into hours before either of them spoke again.

“I should go.”

-=-=-=-=

One week later, Hakuba was still captivated by the night he met that strange boy. He had concluded that the boy was about the same age as him, lower-class (if his appearance was anything to go by—he looked starved and sleepless, though that could be for another reason…but he didn’t want to delve into those), and exceedingly clever and quick on his feet. His mind often drifted back to the picture of him standing soaked on the balcony, ribs jutting out through the wet, see-through cloth, and Hakuba could almost feel those calloused fingers gripping his neck as the blade pressed gently into the skin of his neck.

Eight days, twenty hours, and four minutes. That was how long it took the boy to return to his balcony. Fresh clothes this time, bangs splayed on his forehead but from sweat, not rain. Eyes darting, hands working themselves together in a well-worn pattern; nervous ticks. Hakuba unlatched the door and the boy drifted in. Careful, predetermined steps on barely-creaking-floors, hands still wringing themselves together. And then he turned, spinning on his heel to face Hakuba, a grin that nearly split his face in two sliding in to place.

“Hello again, Angel.” Heavily accented English came from the boy’s mouth, followed by rough Japanese, “You really saved my ass a week ago so I thought I needed to repay you.”  His hands stopped as he bowed and took Hakuba’s hand in his own. The boy leaned down, his lips grazing the skin on the back of Hakuba’s hand and he could feel the blood run to his cheeks. Another hand came out from behind the boy’s back, yielding a small assortment of wildflowers. When had he? He tucked them in to the blonde’s breast-pocket as he stood and turned to leave before Hakuba could even finish the thought.

Hakuba Saguru had never thought himself to be the type to fancy men. He had always imagined himself married to a respectable woman, having two or more children and living a quiet, peaceful life. That’s never how things were meant to turn out, he told himself. His feelings were only confirmed by the weekly visits from his mysterious stranger who was all about whispers and flowers and calling him ‘Angel’ and leaving little notes in broken English all around his room.

Hakuba still didn’t even know his name. He’d learned so many things about him, he’d even invited him to stay at his villa (an offer which he had politely declined), and he refused to tell him. “You don’t need to know,” he’d said, “It’ll never be important.” Even after the sixth week, when he’d come in bloody and bruised, smiling like an idiot, and Hakuba had tended to his wounds, cleaned them out, bandaged them, and asked him how. And he wouldn’t answer; he just grinned again with one of his eyes nearly swollen shut and he’d kissed him. It tasted of salt and metal, but it was wonderful and it ended too quickly for his liking.

The weeks after that seemed to stretch on and on, as Mystery Man began to visit more often, stealing kisses and holding him close. His mother had gotten quite a few suitor requests for him, all respectable women of various titles of nobility. He had declined each one, of course. It was not a matter of timing, as his mother assumed. She had covered it up, “He’s just so young; he doesn’t want to settle down yet.” It was instead a matter of interest. He had no intention of taking up a suitor when he already had one.

Sticky nights in the middle of summer, their breath hot, their hands fleeting; nights spent warm, wrapped up in blankets and each other in winter, and they were happy. Hakuba knew it was illogical, ill-thought-out, and even dangerous, but those were small compared to the warmth in his stomach, in his chest, whenever he was near; it was nothing to the way they fit together, snug, perfect, their hands, their hearts, and their hips. He had long since convinced the stranger to stay, long since stopped caring about the morning.

And then it came—a morning like any other, his mother knocking at his door. Stranger still slept, not even flinching at the sound. His mother called to him. He kissed the smaller boy’s cheek and gently ran a hand through his hair, a soft smile creeping onto his face. The other boy rustled, a smile of his own, “Mornin’, Angel.”

A louder knock, a disgruntled sigh, “Saguru. I’ve accepted an offer.” Blood ran cold; he answered, “An offer?”

That was how he ended up in his bedroom dressed in his sturdiest travelling clothes at midnight, waiting for his stranger. They’d planned it all out: where they’d be going, how they’d get there, who they’d become. Just waiting, glancing at his watch, and waiting. Two minutes and fifty-seven seconds past the time he said he’d be there. Saguru paced around his room, small suitcase in hand, glancing out the glass doors that led to his balcony every few seconds. He’d taken money from his mother’s safe, enough to get them out of town, enough to get them somewhere hopeful.

The wind was howling outside, sending the shutters crashing repeatedly into the sides of the house. It sent the trees into a frenzy. Leaves were sent flying, branches snapped in half and flown in every which way. This may not have been the best night. Saguru shook the thought off, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The click of the door opening and a gust of wind hit him and he heard the door shut.  A wet cough.

“You look so stressed, Angel.” Another cough accompanied by the sound of liquid splattering on his hardwood floor. Hakuba turned and opened his eyes to be met with the sight of blood. Blood: staining the front of the other boy’s shirt, bubbling from his lips, pooling on the floor. It was in that moment that Hakuba forgot how to breathe; he just stood there.

“L-love,” He choked on his words, a sob trying to make its way up his throat. Stranger’s eyes softened and he smiled; he smiled soft and closed his eyes, taking a staggering step toward his lover.

“Don’t look so upset,” Nearly doubled over, spilling more blood onto the floor, “It’s our big night, isn’t it?” His fingers touched Hakuba’s face, thumb grazing over his cheek. Their foreheads came together, breaths mingled, and all Hakuba smell was the sick scent of metal on his breath. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, as well as see the ones forming in his lover’s.

“We’ve got to get you to a—” The thumb came to rest on Hakuba’s lips for a moment, and he shut his eyes for a few, “What hap-happened?” The sob came out, splitting his words as his throat tightened. A pained laugh, a groan came from Stranger.

“You know, I never did tell you my name, did I?” He closed his eyes and all Hakuba wanted was for him to open them again, to meet those dark irises with his own and pray.  Pray for his stranger, pray for himself, pray for their life together. Hakuba was holding him up by now, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, one pulling his chest to his own, in an attempt to keep him standing, to pretend he was fine, to pretend that his love wasn’t bleeding all over his floor, to pretend that he didn’t know that this amount of blood loss would likely be fatal.

“No, you didn’t.” Tears were flowing freely now and his throat ached more with every word.

“Kaito.” A small intake of breath as his grip on Hakuba’s neck grew looser, “Kuroba Kaito.”

Hakuba let out a breathy laugh, more sad than anything, “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Shut up.” The hand on the back of his neck went limp, the body he was holding slacked, and Hakuba pulled him closer, silently sobbing into Kaito’s neck. He was still warm. He couldn’t be—he couldn’t. He was just here yesterday, bright and full of life.

In the end, Kaito had died with a smile on his lips, in the arms of someone who loved him. Hakuba learned more about him in the weeks following his death, both from the police and from Kaito’s ‘siblings’. He’d been a common thief, stealing from the rich and supporting his little ‘family’ that lived in a ramshack-shed on the edge of an abandoned farm. The police had been pursuing him for quite some time, they were exuberant that Hakuba had “caught him,” even more so that he was dead. His family, a group of boys and girls ranging in age from two to eighteen, took the news with an expected amount of grief. The oldest, a girl of eighteen named Aoko, had told him the most. She was composed, comforting the others, but he could see the blankness in her eyes; it mirrored his.

Aoko and Kaito had met when they were young, both abandoned at an orphanage that closed down a few years later. They had collected kids along the way, creating the little family in the process. Kids had come and kids had gone. Malnourishment, sickness, injury; they were used to it. She had turned to him halfway through and told him, “He talked about you a lot; how you saved him, how kind you were to him. I thought you were just stupid or looking for a quick fuck so when he told me he planned to run away with you, I slapped him. I thought he meant to abandon us. For you. Someone with means, someone he had just met.” She looked off into the field, hands growing restless in her lap, “The last conversation I had with him was an argument. I accused him of abandonment and he’d run away smiling. Later, I found the map under my pillow and tickets for the cross-country train.”

  Hakuba felt a knot growing in his chest as he looked down at his lap, mouth growing dry.

“Hey,” She poked at the top of his head, “Look at me.”

He listened, peering up through his eyelashes. And she cocked a tiny, crooked smile at him. They were very similar in some aspects, he thought; of course they were they grew up together.

“I’m glad I got to meet you, though. Things that make him weak come only once in a blue moon.”