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tenjiiku · 1 month ago

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Love story: 1/2, au

“Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” — Richard Siken, War of the Foxes

— February, 1999

It started small: Sae began to forget which side of the bed was his.

You enter your shared bedroom with a start. There, on the right side, trapped between the left pillow and the wall, he lays — unsounding and stifled. You approach him tentatively, naively assuming that perhaps he is having a bad day. That, maybe, the admission he made so many moons ago slipped his mind. Granted, it was small in meaning — but at the time, it had meant everything to you. So you do not make a fret, knowing his affections are always true. Instead, you calmly sit down on the left side, leaning over to place a cold hand on his upper bicep.

“Darling,” you murmur. He tilts his head and looks to you as though you took him out of thought. Sae has always had the troubling habit of never voicing his desolation.

“Hm?”

Your lips lift up in amusement, “You would like to switch it up today?”

For a few seconds, no emotions graze his face. Then, he looks at you like the words you uttered are something foreign. He remains unsaying for a few seconds, then the furrow between his brows dissolves. He shakes his head.

“Oh, right,” he murmurs, crawling over you. You giggle and roll over to the other side he leaves open for you.

When you turn to him, placing a half-asleep kiss on his cheek — you do not notice the blank confusion painted in his eyes. You chalk it up to the long and laborious day he has had with coaching his students. You do not see the warning signs — too content and infatuated with your life, with him, and with the sign of your affection for one another lying soundly in her room across from you both.

And how could you have?

— April, 1999

That incident occurred nearly two months ago, and much like the change in season, was forgotten about with the snow. Months later — it is eighteen degrees celsius in Osaka, the hottest it has been since spring began two weeks prior. Your daughter has started her last year of junior high school and has developed her father’s temperament. She is sound asleep after cramming for her chemistry test tomorrow. But it is nearing two a.m, and Sae has yet to call you informing that he would be late in returning home. He always did. It was an unspoken ritual you shared since embarking on this journey as his partner. And him, yours.

You are utterly frantic.

For the first half an hour, you called a few close friends, detailing the situation. They have no idea. You were on the cusp of calling the authorities, until Sae had called you, himself.

You find him in Red Herring Park, on a bench. He sits, hunched, as though he is protecting himself from something. Or someone.

“Sae,” your voice is weak and unused. You only realise now that this is the first time you have called him by name for days. You run to him, your knees feeling like they can buckle under you at any second. And they do. You kneel down to get close to him, and you grab his face with your hands — needing to feel him to know it is truly him. If it is truly your Sae. “Sae. What—What— Where, where were you?”

He looks to you, solemnly so. You furrow your eyebrows and scan him for any visible marks of injury. You don’t know why you do this. You just wanted to make sure he was okay. But Sae says nothing. He looks at you blankly, then, his pupils dilate. As though he has just heard you.

Your voice is wet. You can’t help but whisper, noticing his dejection. “Darling, what happened?”

Cicadas chirp in the dead of night. Sae is still wearing his work clothes, though his briefcase rests beside him. He runs a shaky hand through his greying hair and though he looks away from you, he does not move away from your touch.

“I… fell. A few days ago?” He sounds even uncertain about that. “Eiji told me to go home. To go get it checked out.”

You blink slowly, confused beyond belief but relieved at the same time. Still, you ask, “Wha—… huh? Why—Why are you just telling me this?”

When he finally looks at you, your tears escape the corners of your eyes. He frowns when he sees it fall down your skin and he wipes it away with his index finger. You remove your hands from his face so he can hold you now.

“I forgot. I’m sorry.”

And you can’t help but laugh. You don’t know what else to say or what to do. He is in front of you now, safe and sound. Everything is alright in the world now that he is here. Maybe it really was an honest mistake. He’s older now — a father to a growing teenager, now. Maybe these things were common with old age and in a long term partnership.

You should have nothing to worry about. He tells you this softly, gently kissing your tears away, as you cry — and you believe him.

— January, 2000

Your father never liked Sae. Granted, the old man favoured very few people in his life, and was closer to even less. Your mother, ever the subservient, held no opinion of her own. She only ever echoed your father’s sentiments in the small chance she’d win the man’s favour. Yet when that did not work, she gifted you rice porridge after your elopement. You think that, deep, deep down — within the caverns of her convoluted mind — she was happy for you. Relieved, that you managed to branch out and find happiness outside of the oppressive congregation you were raised in. Your family was not nearly important enough to be considered famous — or to be acting as mighty as they were. You wished you knew this when you were sixteen. You are glad you realised it at thirty. Yet, at forty, it seemed the universe had much left to teach you regarding parental relationships — as you find yourself fainting during work on a cold January afternoon, pulling double shifts to scrounge up enough money for Sae’s medical fees.

Your emergency contact was still your mother. You’d put it down when you first started working at your hospital as an intern. It was an honest mistake that you forgot to change it. Though nothing occurred the day of, your employer had informed your parents of the incident. And, the next Sunday, you were appointed to meet them at noon, sharp. Not a minute late. Not a second too early, either.

The berating from your father thankfully only starts after tea is served.

“When will you keep exerting yourself like this? Keep pulling overtime like this? Hm?” His voice is angry. Worried, maybe? But what he utters next confirms that leaving was the only choice you have made that was right in your life. “Because of your choice of partner we bear the burden, hah?”

You slam your cup of tea down and get up from the kotatsu, where your father sits across from — gaping at your audacious behaviour.

“Petulant child! You will only learn when we end up in our graves! Only then will you realise your mistake!”

You hate how he blames you for the burdens you never told him to bear. You wish you were dead to him just as much as he was to you.

“Yes. It is my mistake still having you as my emergency contact. I will change it as soon as possible.”

And with that, you leave the living room. In the genkan, you hastily wear your coat and wrap your scarf. When you trip putting your boot on, you frustratedly sit down. Your mother places a hand on your shoulder.

“Child,” she starts, but you yank your arm from underneath her. When you turn to look at the dejected expression on her face — a wave of guilt and frustration boils over you, making you feel nauseous.

“I’m sorry, mama. I will continue sending money. But I am afraid I will no longer be visiting.” Your voice threatens to wobble but you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Here,” the woman hands you a bag of presumably her home-cooked food, and suddenly she turns into a petulant little girl and you — her oppressor. Instantly, a wave of utter desolation engulfs you, and you place your hand on the wrinkled one she holds out to you. “You have been looking thin, dear. Please take care of yourself.”

You look up from where you sit, your boot still not on. Huffing, you stand up and suddenly you are eye to eye. When your mother reaches out to caress your cheek — you do not stop her or put up a fight. When she was your age, she was taking care of you and your erratic temperament. The idea wants to make you cry, but you hug the woman instead. You cannot be angry at her, no matter how much time passes by, no matter how many mistakes she has made. Was she not a child when she had you? Had she not been the sitting duck to your father’s cruelties for so many years, before you? How ever will you understand her — or even begin to?

You offer her your affection — it is the only thing you can do.

Placing a kiss on her cheek when you pull away, you whisper quietly with a strained voice when you see her cry, “Thank you, mama. I will.”

Opening the door after wrapping your scarf, you walk home alone — making footprints in the blank, white snow.

Your hands feel cold in Sae’s old brown gloves.

— August, 1982

Sae was never one for excessive portrayals of romance. His fondness for you snuck up onto your unassuming frame with the same type of familiarity one would receive from seeking refuge in a warm home during a never-ending storm. It came quickly — your affection and love — not nearly as slow as the movies or romance novels you used to base your entire infatuation around, suggested. You were born to fall in love with him, you think. For the longest of times, you lived off of that very conviction.

In your first year of medical school, you were scared, insecure and bursting with a want. For what, you were not entirely certain at the time. You think if you had to put a name to the feeling — you would use deprived. Despite putting yourself through four gruelling years of pre-med, the terrible emotion of self-doubt awakened in your mind. It had laid dormant in your brain all throughout your early adulthood — you surmised it to be a coping mechanism. You likely would have fallen apart, skin and bone, if such a creature preyed on you at such a vulnerable time of your existence.

You were 25. Himself, 30. Under the roof of a provocative karaoke club, shortly after he retired from football against his will, you met — utterly disastrous.

You remember your friend group asking you a week prior if you wanted to come along. And despite your utter distaste for singing and blind dating, you foolishly and adamantly agreed. You were a stupid girl, wanting to impress people you cannot even remember the names of anymore. You remember sobbing in the mirror of how your body looked in the terrible top your friend recommended you wear. You recall going to your mother for comfort only to be told off for wanting to go out in the first place. You did your makeup three times that night and seriously debated faking your own death to your friends by writing a script you would get your erratic mother to read.

Despite everything, you decided to wear a comfortable sweater and a skirt as a safe compromise — for your friends and for your state of mind.

You think you will never know what it is like to be a proper adult. You sit in the car with your friends and feel alone. You talk about school with them and feel alone. You get ushered into a karaoke room and get squeezed into sitting next to one of the men — your friends were far too shy, you would be the joke and put on your pants and save them all — and you feel alone.

Why do you feel so alone? You should be happy that you are now an adult and can do so many things. See so many people. You carry more burdens now — such is life. Why can you never adapt? Perpetually frozen at nineteen.

It is in your naive reverie a hand snakes itself around your shoulders. You stiffen like a tree under the grasp and your dull eyes widen at the unwanted touch. You turn to the culprit — a brown-haired man with cold, brown eyes. You feel the alarm bells ring yet you cannot act. Your friends are having fun — paying you no mind. You do not want them to pay you mind. They will resent you for it either tomorrow, a week after, a few months from now — up until your death bed.

“What have you got there?” The man slurs. He reeks of cigarettes and you wince, shyly looking away.

“A— uhm, a virgin piña colada. I think.”

The man does not answer, only staring at you like you are below him. You feel yourself sweat profusely and suddenly the makeup you are wearing on your face feels like a thousand kilograms. Your hand sweats around the glass as its condensation wets your exposed legs, causing an unpleasant chill to shoot through you. Your hair sticks to your neck. The man is still staring at you. The music is too loud. The man is still staring at you.

“I—I do not drink. Uh— my friend, she bought me this. Or, recommend it to me. I can…” you drift off, your tone growing quieter when you realise how close he has come, “…pay for my own drinks.”

“How cute.” The man says, but his words do not match his eyes and suddenly you feel a wave of nausea overcome you as your friends joke about your drinking habits — or lack thereof.

With an unwanted arm around you, joyous laughter filling the room at your expense, your cheeks on fire and your eyes prickling with tears — is when he comes to you, as soft as a breath of air, as gentle as the early-August sun.

“Osamu,” a voice drawls, “leave the girl alone.”

At this, the laughter dulls down. Your friends return their attention to another member of the group making a fool of themselves for their entertainment. The drunkard, Osamu, distances him almost instantly from your hunched frame. You straighten it when the man who managed to save you from your precarious circumstances leans forward, to make it easier for you to hear him.

“Don’t mind him.”

His voice is velvet smooth. He smells of cologne and though the smell of cigarettes linger on him, they do not stay long enough to consider him burnt. It was quite pleasant. When he furrowed his eyebrows, taking in your nervous demeanour and flushed appearance — you shy away.

“T—Thank you,” you murmur, not making eye contact with the man. He was so beautiful, the most beautiful man you have seen. You feel disgusting and need to leave, so you get up and head for the exit.

A friend hollers, “Y/n, where’re you headed?!”

You murmur, “Restroom,” unsure if they heard you or not. You don’t quite care. You feel the man’s eyes on you but feel flushed. A terrible feeling.

You step outside into the setting sun rays. You feel tears prick the corners of your eyes, still imagining the man’s hands still on you. You hate yourself for being so sensitive. He just touched you for a few seconds. You should not be crying over it. Your friends would mock your desolation if they found out. Your mother would tell you she told you so if she knew. You hate what you are wearing — this style does not suit you: you feel like an ugly woman costuming as a prettier person. Awkwardly you stand by the entrance, feeling your entire face grow sweltering hot as passerby’s catch the sight of tears wetting your cheeks.

The door opens up from behind you and you step out of their way, sniffling a quiet apology for your dramatics. But when your eyes meet the beautiful man who helped you escape moments earlier, you hear the beating of your heart in your ears. His eyebrows furrow when he looks at your face, and you instinctively look away.

“Are you alright?” He asks, slightly leaning down to accommodate the height difference. You don’t know why the question elicits only more tears to stream down your face. No, no you are not alright. And now that he has confirmed that for himself, it makes your emotions skyrocket. The man senses this and, in his concerned state, looks at the small patio for the bar next to karaoke with two empty chairs.

“Come, sit here.”

You don’t know why you let him guide you — holding you by the hand. Even more, you don’t know why he is helping you in this way. Still, he smells nice, is handsome and kind — so you decide to overly indulge in his company. You wipe the remaining wetness off your cheeks and slump down in your chair, petulant and angry. The man offers you a forced grin. Under any other circumstance you would burst out laughing. It was as though he was trying to cosplay as a human. But you rather feel mad at how handsome he looks even with such an unnatural expression painted on his features.

“Osamu is an ass when he drinks. Don’t know why they invited him to begin with.” He starts, ruffling through his pockets. You presume to pull out a cigarette and lighter like the asshole he is, but when he only chews on a candy. Konpeito, you notice.

You stare silently for four seconds. You take one to save him the embarrassment of rejection but before you unwrap it, you ask, “Apologies, who are you?”

The man chokes on his konpeito and you are unfortunately an awkward girl and laugh at him. He doesn’t seem to take it to heart, though. He only stares at you — nothing like that of the strange Osamu. When he smiles, it reaches his eyes. Slightly and subtly enough to make shivers run up and down your spine. Unlike the man inside — you want him to touch you. But he does nothing of the sort, which you suppose is the reason why you want him to act that way.

“My mistake.” He holds a hand out, “Itoshi Sae.”

You return it, shy and slightly smiling, despite the obvious mascara on your under eyes. You never knew he was at the time. He’d later tell you that made him fall for you.

“L/n Y/n.”

It’s almost strange how quickly the two of you click. You can’t even remember how you agreed to meet with one another every week, at the bar next to the karaoke place you met. Conveniently, it was in the middle of both your places.

Every Tuesday night, after your evening classes, you would meet with Sae. He would always be the first one there. You would overly indulge in alcoholic beverages. He was a safe man to test the waters around — and he took you home every night, without fail.

And who were you to deny him when he’d ask to meet you himself? He was nice to stare at. So you complied. Alright.

“Honestly speaking, I feel as though I am a…”

You slump across half of the bar table. Sae ushers the bartender away.

“A…” you trail off, scrunching your nose as you try to focus both your eyes on it and end up dizzy.

He even helps you continue your sentence. “A?”

You feel sleepy in this dimly lit environment. The drunkenness feels more like a sedative than it does as an energy booster. You wonder if this is normal or if you are just a strange girl. You scrunch your nose, lifting your face and pressing your cheek into your left bicep, arm laying flat out across. You turn your face to Sae who sits on the right. You huff. “It is—It is getting to me, hold on.”

The nice thing about Sae is that when he chooses to listen, he truly listens. He never pushes you, or ridicules you: in fact, he takes your utterly unserious demeanour more seriously than you would, at times.

You think you are starting to like him — and for that you scream into your pillow every single night leading up to your Tuesday evening rendezvous. It has only been five weeks.

“A placeholder.” You say, finally managing to remember the word, “A placeholder,” you repeat, this time making sure not to slur your words.

Sae lifts his glass of water to his lips, amusement behind his eyes. You wish he’d spare you a smile. “You feel as though you are a placeholder?”

“Yes. A fine substitution for someone — something — else. I truly think my friends do not enjoy my company.” You pause, testing his expression. It’s blank, urging you to continue and you feel emotional today so you do. “I mean, it’s not like I enjoy there's. At least not anymore. Not how I used to. I have given so much of myself to them. And—and it seems like it is never enough for them. I play a constant, never-ending charade to keep them happy. I am always in competition with my past self. I don't even know who I am anymore. Just the other day, I overheard my friends making plans without me. I was the one who introduced them to each other but now they’re closer than I ever was to either of them. Hah! And maybe I should have seen it coming. They enjoy making jokes at my expense. They never offered to wait with me for my train — but I—I was always expected to wait for theirs. I never took offence to it because I assumed I was their very good friend. And—And I like being kind, despite what it might sound like. Offering genuine kindness without any strings attached. I was raised like that my whole life.”

“But…but now I realise I was more of entertainment or a way to pass time,” you hate how your voice wobbles in between, and you feel tears fill your eyes. Whatever. You can blame the alcohol. “I—I don’t care about being a placeholder. Or even being considered stupid. I can be like that. I—I just… I don’t want to be no one’s priority. I—I will more than happily fill the silence if you do as well, every once in a while, you know? Isn’t friendship supposed to be like this? You give and you take and, sure, it might not be balanced but — at least, at the very least — you’d be acknowledged.”

You start tearing up again. You do not even care anymore. Sae has seen you cry more over the three weeks you have known one another than your own mother has for eighteen years. Ironically, you feel much like her these days. Always treated like a second thought: Always looking out for others, never being looked after. And maybe she liked it that way — giving herself until there was none of her left to hold for herself. Love comes in all forms — and you try to be gentle. She was your mother, after all. However, when it comes to why everyone in your life was so persistent in making you replicate her life and be content with that, you will never know. Were you not made to receive love? Were you not made to be held — to be told sweet nothings to, to be utterly spoiled to the point where it is so overzealous and nonsensical. But even that overzealousness was never looked at as a bad thing, because you deserved it? You deserve the things which desired you — was that not something you were meant to expect? To desire? To want? To need?

The idea makes you cry even more.

“Sometimes—sometimes even I wish someone would wait with me until my train has arrived,” you sob, your voice octaves higher than it usually is.

Sae pulls a handkerchief out of thin air. You think he has been carrying extras ever since meeting you. The concept makes warmth settle in your loins. You are reading far too much into this, you remind yourself.

“Sorry—Sorry,” you murmur over and over. Sae runs a hand on the small of your back, awkwardly. But the gesture was appreciated irregardless.

Then, he offers a very sound solution after three minutes of silence. You like that very much about him. He only offers opinions after offering comfort. “Then stop being friends with people who make you feel like this.”

“Then I will have no one. I will be alone.”

Sae pauses, setting his glass down.

“But you will know yourself, won’t you?”

Sniffling, you rub your tear-faced cheek on your upper arm, still awkwardly laid across the table. You know you will regret not straightening your posture when you reach your 40s, but you cannot get yourself to care.

“Men are such simple-minded creatures. You all don’t care about the principle of such things.”

“Principle?”

Raising your head, your eyelids feel sensitive to touch. You squint your eyes and feel your lip wobble. “Women have this code we have to obey by. If not, you will be ostracised. Forever casted aside. A total loner!” Your voice raises near the end and you only let more tears fall as the other remaining patrons around the bar turn their gaze towards you.

Sae’s voice is quiet, and, if you listen closely enough, he almost sounds nervous.

“You won’t be alone.” He sounds annoyed, “You will have me.”

The implication of his statement is something you read into, very quickly. But you do not ponder on it for too long out of fear of embarrassing yourself if what you're reading was wrong. So you cover up your shyness with a stupid joke, raise yourself off of your arm and tilt your head towards the man who sits next to you. A friend.

“You sound quite confident labelling yourself as a sufficient replacement for my friends.”

Sae only tilts his head back, and stares right into your eyes for a few seconds. You immediately shrink backwards and feel an explosion in your stomach.

“Friend?” He murmurs underneath his breath.

You think your pupils have dilated. You laugh, trying to play it cool. It does not work, especially in front of someone as charismatic as your drinking partner.

“Y—Yes...?”

Sae chuckles, and it goes straight to your heart.

“Hm. How cute.”

You feel a shiver run up and down your spine, travelling around all your bones.

“You know, I’m not usually this kind to people. The day I met you, I was in the mood to atone for my past mistakes.”

“And it was by a stroke of luck that you chose me as the subject of your kindness?” You challenge, feeling excited when his eyes land on your frame and entertainment clouds the turquoise colour.

“Mmm,” he hums, his eyes trailing your face. Up and down. The actions of a man who has very little care in the world, except when it comes to his interests, “Hah.. sure. Think about it like that.”

You shrink into your frame, and you cannot help but be locked in a daze — staring at Sae. It’s funny that he says the same thing another man told you which made you sob hysterically the other day. But, strangely, you don’t feel upset at all.

Well, you do. Only in an entirely new way.

— July, 2002

It was a sweltering, hot Summer the day Sae gets into an accident at work. It all happened so fast, you only remember bits and pieces. You took a day off from work, reeling in from the flu, when the phone rang mid-afternoon. Sae was in the hospital, being treated for a serious concussion.

You have never gotten to leave your home so quickly. After informing your friend to pick up your daughter from school, you grabbed the car keys and left your home in Sae’s sweater, an old pair of shorts you bought in college and winter boots because you couldn’t find your sandals.

When you get to the hospital, the doctor informs you of where he is currently resting, and you almost collapse beneath yourself when you find him resting on the bed — a shell of his former self — staring soundlessly outside the window.

“Sae!” You exclaim. He doesn’t turn your way.

Approaching him tentatively, you call for him again, this time more reserved than before. “Sae…”

Sae still doesn't turn your way.

“Ma’am," the doctor looks at you with contempt. You don't turn to look at them until Sae finally gazes at you, a blankness painted in his eyes that you have never seen before. "If you could take a seat—"

A white noise rings in your ears. You think that is when your world came crashing down.

#writing #sae itoshi x fem reader #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi

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