wound me, oh dearest.

by arrow_head

Summary:

Trapped in a marriage with a man who does not reciprocate your affection, you try to find meaning in your life despite your upbringing.

Notes:

I typed this instead of sleeping. English is not my first language.

Chapter 1

You could still recall the countless, 'Congratulations!' from your relatives, which you thought were neverending back then. The scent of food that seemingly towering over and covering the tables remained ingrained in your mind, mocking you, taunting you every time you faced the tray of meal filled with the variety of what were necessary for an officer to intake for the time being. The weight of your wedding attire felt as though it was still wrapping your body of its many, many layers, and the sensation of the reds that painted your lips stayed even after the years that have passed. 

A wife, only by name. 

Never by bond.

Never by acceptance. 

Never by affection.

Never by love. 

Never, ever by love.

"Vice Captain's staring again," Hibino, your ironically older underclassman, whispered beside you. "He's starting to scare me." 

You picked up a small portion of your breakfast with your utensils, and without any wasted movement, you put food inside your mouth. You chewed slowly, your mouth closed and not making any sound. Swallowing, you smiled, yet you never followed Hibino's eyes as he silently attempted to guide you to the direction of second highest-ranking official of the third division. 

"That's to be expected," you replied ever-so-casually. "May I remind you that you declared war during the ceremony?" 

He sputtered, ashamed. He shrunk, which was hilarious, considering that he was taller than the dark-violet-haired man.

"I was—" 

"—Overtaken by passion?" you teased. "You're not the only one passionate about the captain. If anything, I'd even think that he's way more passionate than you regarding the idea of serving her." 

You tipped your head to Hoshina's way, putting aside the ache that was growing along the middle of your chest.

The man whose heart you have never had despite the years you have spent yearning for it—begging for it—Soshiro Hoshina was a man unfortunate enough to be shackled by the marriage he never wanted.

The marriage with you, who were raised with the reminder of constant softness and grace, the marriage with you, who were declared to be his the moment his brother outright rejected the idea of marrying a woman who was not his chosen lover, the marriage with you, who were once rejected and once more rejected—the only difference between him and his brother was the latter's courage to speak out and to tell you directly that he never wanted you. 

Although the two of you were given a house to share, neither of you never step foot in it. Although the two of you were handed wedding bands for each to wear, neither dared to even look at it. Although the two of you were expected to share his surname, you, the woman he never paid mind to—or so he wish he could simply not pay mind to—respected his wishes of you never using it unless unavoidable. 

Soshiro Hoshina was a man who should not be bothered by something as trivial as the life being a married man, because his mind was filled with only his desire to be of use to this nation and his desire to protect everyone as long as he could. Hilarious that that desire of his never extended to you—to your heart, at least. 

"Can't blame him, though," you added, shrugging. "It'd practically be a sin not to admire the captain." 

With that, Hibino nodded. 

"Min—er—Captain Ashiro's really strong," he praised.

"She really is," you agreed. "So you better do your best to defeat and replace him."

You softly laughed, your words not actually having the edge.

Soon, Hibino's newfound companions have joined the table you were sitting on, and the plaguing gaze of the vice captain was then forgotten. 

They began conversing about their frustrations about their shortcomings, while you listened to them intently and gave them tips from time to time. They voiced out their worries for that Ichikawa boy and Furuhashi boy, and you comforted them by affirming them that the two would be fine. As your underclassmen, they indeed appeared to be interested with what you say, which was a stark contrast to the way you feel whenever you were unfortunately sharing a space with your husband—a rare occurrence. As you reveled in their attention, you could feel your sadness chip little by little. 

Still, their eyes on you would never be the pair that you most wanted over anything in this world. 

Pathetically, you stayed wishing for the day that he would look at you with emotion. Any emotion would do; even his anger would suffice. 

"I got to go," you told them. "You lot enjoy your food, 'kay?" 

Carrying your tray with you, you let the rookies spend their time with each other. You returned it to the cooks, giving them a small yet genuine thanks. Walking back to your shared quarters with your fellow platoon members, you shoved your hands deep into your pockets. 

"Captain Ashiro," you said to no one in particular.

You were neither blind nor stupid enough to be unaware of your husband's loyalty for one of the sole reasons he achieved the position he was right now. He viewed her so highly, and deep down, you knew that he owed her a lot of things—things unsaid, which you will never have the chance to hear—even when the captain would dismiss the salvation he gave her as a simple chance given to a deserving officer. Hoshina was possessive of what he has with the captain, and he deserved to be such, knowing how hard he pushed himself to stand up despite the world itself dragging him by the feet and shoving his head down onto the ground.

There were—are—times that you hoped that he could at least give you a fraction of that adoration. You wanted him to want you the way you crave for him in every way possible. You wanted him to desire your skin, similar to how you longed for the opportunity to feel his heat against you, to warm you when you feel so cold alone on the bed you never even owned. You desired for his pride, for his confidence on you and your capabilities, considering how he treated your admission in this division as a display of unwanted affection. 

After all, he was neither blind nor stupid enough to fool himself that you have never harbored any romantic feelings for him. 

That was his innate skill, was it not? 

To perceive things differently and to see what others do not—it was a curse you both suffer from, because awareness never meant acceptance. Often times that not, it meant rejection. The kind of rejection that burns so unhurriedly—painfully warm and deceptively caring.

You wanted him to be brave enough to tell you how much he loathed you, because being so would be less hurtful than his cold, biting indifference. 

"Ha," you chuckled weakly. 

He was such a coward, and so were you.

 

---

 

You spent your day training, making sure that you were not in his vicinity as you have done so.

It was a routine, at this point, for the two of you to avoid each other's existence. You do the tasks expected from an ordinary officer, and he does his as a higher-up. Both of you were committed to be under the guise of being a normal pair of boss-employee, and even when it crushes you to behave like this with him and him with you, you do your part in this needless act.

You always do, out of respect for his wishes. 

"Numbered suit," you read the text quietly.

You leaned onto the shelf behind you and flipped through the pages of the hardbound file on your hand. Minutes passed, and you found yourself sitting down on the cold floor, your legs crossed comfortably. 

"Kafka? What'd I tell you 'bout overworkin'?"

You heard the vice captain's voice ring inside the study hall. His light footfall followed, each step louder than the previous. 

"It's late."

You looked up, and you saw his chastising eyes returning your confused gaze. 

Realizing that Hibino was not there with you and that the vice captain was referring to you and no one else, you immediately rose from the floor and stood up straight. Still holding the file with your left hand, you saluted with your right one.

"Sir."

You mulled over your answer, words flooding your brain. 

"I know," is what you would reply if he were someone else.

Instead, you settled with, "I didn't notice, sir."

"You didn't notice?" he repeated. "There's a clock 'ere." 

There it was, the change in his tone. 

Devoid of any playfulness, he always talked to you with words that held no emotion.

You, in turn, would return the energy—or lack thereof. Careful and deliberate, you would speak in the manner taught to you by your mother. You would speak so tenderly with underlying obedience. 

It was a part of you, if not wholly you, to be the way you were right this moment, because this was what you were expected to be. Before the individual achievement you attained by working yourself to the bone, you were his wife first. 

Perhaps, you were merely his wife in the end.

"I apologize for not being mindful of the time," you finally answered. "I was resting after training." 

"Restin' means sleep," he rebutted.

Once more, you left with no other option but to shut your mouth.

Interactions with him were less than a blue moon, and whenever he opens his mouth, his lips would spill of criticisms you never asked for to begin with. Harshly objective to you, Hoshina—this Hoshina—was always prepared to undermine you. Unintentionally or not, he always did.

He once told you that you fit the operations better than being a front-line officer. 

You delude yourself that it was sad out of concern for your safety, yet you knew that it was him not wanting to see you so often and him not believing that you could survive the battlefield in which he dances on. It was disheartening, because you never would and never had doubted his conviction. 

Not even once.

"You ain't wearin' your weddin' band," he suddenly pointed out. 

"Neither do you," or "It's impractical," sounded so clever inside your head, but you never uttered either. 

The life of an officer has taught you not to be as docile as you were before. In a place where your upbringing hardly mattered, you gained a voice to tell the people around you what were needed to be told.

Yet, that voice never was present when you were with him.

"I apologize. My mistake of not being in my quarters will not happen again," you said, bowing. "As for the ring, I will remind myself to wear it next time."

You tucked the file back to where it belonged. Saluting for the second time, you walked past him. Your emotionless face never cracked, and for the first time, you were grateful that your mother taught you how to pretend effectively.

Unseen to you, he rubbed the left pocket of his pants.

Chapter 2

"This is Ikaruga Platoon, Delta Squad," you informed the opposite end of the communication radio. "We've discovered a humanoid Kaiju!"

With trembling hands, at that moment, you grasped your gun and pointed it to the beast standing tall just meters away from you. 

"Zone Echo in southeast area. From its features, it appears to Kaiju Number Eight!"

"Copy," your husband—no—the vice captain responded then. "I'll dispatch the neutralization squad now."

There was heavy silence as the Kaiju stared at you and your fellow officer.

"So the camouflage barrier is broken, huh?" a static-filled, monotonous voice said. 

Slowly, your eyes diverted from Number Eight—

There—

There was another one. 

"But thanks to that, I have a chance to escape."

 

---

 

Now that the two rookies from your platoon were getting closer to being discharged, your mind has become more and more occupied of the thoughts about the identified Kaiju Number Eight and Number Nine.

You knew that it was not your fault that it has escaped, but a part of you still blamed yourself for interfering after learning that Number Eight's contribution to stopping the two newcomers from facing death prematurely.

Now aware of its potential to cause a calamity, you dread for the day that it will reappear.

"I'm late," you realized.

You practically ran to get to the shooting range on time, but alas, they were already starting.

Bullets shoot inside the shooting range, holding an unplanned yet synchronized beat. The smell of gunpowder was distinct, bold and demanding against your nose. The shooters were quiet, letting their guns speak in their stead. Your superior, who has his familiar furrowed eyebrows, stood by the doorway. 

"Platoon Leader Ikaruga," you greeted with a salute. "I apologize for being tardy."

"I'm not mad." He handed you a rifle. "I'm honestly surprised that you're capable of being late." 

You looked down in slight embarrassment, not able to meet his eyes any longer. 

"What's my penalty?"

He slapped your back, forcing you to stumble inside the range. You sucked in air sharply out of surprise and pain. 

"No need for that."

With your back stinging from his friendly smack, you walked to an empty booth and took the gear to wear it. You prepared yourself, your eyes focusing on the dummy at the opposite side of the range.

"One," you counted under your breath.

 

---

 

"Good work today!" your ever-so-enthusiastic platoon leader shouted.

You removed your shooting gear and placed it down. You went to the gun shelves and searched for the number of the rifle you were holding.

"Where is it?" you muttered.

You scanned the other shelves, and you saw the group number you were looking for.

"I never see Vice Captain Hoshina here," you heard your underclassman comment on your way. "I've been here for a year, but I never saw him here." 

Glancing at her, you saw that she was with someone.

"I heard he doesn't know how to use guns." 

You laughed quietly at the other one's assumption. 

"The vice captain is actually good with shooting," you butted in.

Snapping their head to you, their eyes widened when they realized that you were their senior. When they tried to salute, you dismissed them with a wave. 

"He's good with guns?" she asked in shock. 

"No, no, no. Just shooting." You slipped the gun to its compartment. "He's got that perfect aim, but since he has no aptitude for guns, he never pursued it."

They nodded, but one of them seemed to gain a newfound conclusion. 

"How come you know a lot about him?"

A lot?

No. 

Not a lot. 

The things you know about him could never compare to what she, the captain, knows. 

Only a little. 

Only a portion. 

You know only a portion of who he is, because you spent all your years chasing him as he chased the highs of fighting. Even when he claimed to swing his sword to prove those who underestimated him wrong, you knew it all too well that your husband loved swinging his sword for the sake of it.

"Well, he's my reason for joining the division," you said, half-lying and half-honest. 

"Oh, you're a fan?"

You smiled at your junior and tilted your head. 

"You could say that."

You exited the shooting range and ambled to toward the canteen. On your way, you fiddled with your hands. You removed your gloves, and you examined your palms full of callouses. Using your right thumb, you traced the irregularities of the skin and the slight deformation of your bones caused by the rigorous training you have done during the course of five years. 

You could still remember the day that your mother found out about your decision to join the workforce where your husband was in. Her gaze that day was filled with disappointment, her mind never able to comprehend the reason for a woman of your clan to ever want to sully her hands with bumps of skin that are product of blisters. When you told her that women of this age have the right to do the things they want, and that right include a woman joining the Defense Force. 

She only told you that you were not one of those women; your only reason for existence was to serve your husband. 

Just like she did.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket, and reading the caller identification, it was your brother-in-law. 

"Soichiro," you answered the call. "You called."

You heard a click—probably a door—and his muffled footsteps. 

"[Name], how are ya?" 

"Tired. Just finished shooting." You put your phone in between your phone and shoulder and wore your gloves again. "Why'd you call?"

"Have a vacation 'ere."

You cocked your head forward, finding his comandesque request rather ridiculous. 

"Vacation?" you huffed incredulously. "I barely have day-offs." 

"Oh, come on. Father misses ya." You picked up a tapping noise from his end. "Him, too." 

"Why not tell him that yourself?"

"He ain't talkin' to me no more," he whined.

Soichiro Hoshina, the captain of Division Six, has always acted this way whenever he was conversing with you. He never behaved as the cool-headed leader that his own people looked up to; he behaved as a friend, if not a brother, that you had for years. He was warm, welcoming, and loving. 

It was a shame that he never viewed you romantically, and it was a shame that you never did, too.

"Our situation is not any better than yours," you said, sighing. "I'm here with him, and he isn't even acknowledging the fact that we've been married since eighteen." 

"He cut me off," he confessed.

"Are you trying to make this a competition?" 

"No—never."

 He grunted, causing you to stifle a laugh. Reaching the corner where the canteen is located, you made a decision of turning right and go to the elevator. 

"Good thing, he can't do that to me." You chuckled bitterly. "Father will be angry."

You pressed the button and waited for the compartment to arrive and for the doors to open. You went in, and you were thankful that you were alone. You pressed the ground floor, planning to sneak out and buy outside food using the several minutes you have before lunch. 

"I'm real sorry for subjectin' ya to this," he said.

"Don't apologize. I simply can't force someone to accept me romantically, Soichiro," you consoled him. "I have learned that the hard way." 

He became silent, but he did not end the call yet. 

You could hear his soft breathing over the phone combined with the white noise, which created a pleasant sound against your ear. The elevator pinged, and you saw that you were two floors away from the ground. You were staring at your feet with your head held down when the door opened. You scooted to the left and gave them space, but you did not tilt your head up to see whoever it is that entered, thinking it was a stranger. 

"I'll visit you soon," you told your brother-in-law. 

"Ya tell me when, so I can make some arrangements." 

"I will, Soichiro."

You ended the ca—

"I didn't know yer close with 'm."

Time seemed to freeze the moment you heard the voice coming from your right. 

Shame, for some reason, pooled in your gut. It poked around your insides, clawing your stomach. It tingled, and it rippled. It was chilling, yet it burned you simultaneously. It surged, and it bubbled. It penetrated your flesh and soaked your skin until all you could feel is the coldness of the elevator and his scorching stare.

"The Sixth Division's Captain is a great friend of mine," you surprisingly managed to croak out.

"Since when?" 

Ever since the beginning. 

Ever since the godforsaken beginning, Soichiro has been your friend.

Ever since his older brother told the elders that he desired not to marry someone five years younger than him, Soichiro has been your friend. Ever since his older brother despised the idea of building a family with someone he viewed as his little sister, Soichiro has been your friend. Ever since you have hated his older brother for abandoning you and giving you to him, Soichiro has been your friend. Ever since he, your most beloved Soshiro, was forced to take you and you were forced to let him, Soichiro has been your friend.

"I—" you stuttered.

You were not at any fault, so how dare he? How dare he make you feel as though you were committing adultery?

How dare he? 

"Officer [Surname]."

Officer [Surname]?

"[Surname]?" you gasped.

The door finally slid open. The two of you were at the ground floor at last.

"[Surname]," you repeated as you marched out first.

Not even your given name.

You could cry. 

You could cry right now.

You could, yet he would never offer you his shoulders. He would never offer you his hands to catch the tears pouring down from eyes. He would never usher you with his voice, telling you that everything will be fine before your cries could even die down. He would never offer your heart. 

He would never, so what would be the point of crying? 

"[Name]," he corrected himself, following you. 

The way he called your name was tender, desperate even. It was afraid. It was lacking of boast. It was vulnerable. It was similar to the manner in which you have aways longed to be referred to.

However, it was already too late.

You halted on your steps, and so did he. You turned on your heel to look at him, yet your eyes were downcast.

"Please, don't concern yourself with my personal matters." You shoot him a smile that never reached your eyes. "We don't want others to mistakenly assume that we're involved with each other, do we?"

With your eyes still not meeting his, you did not see the way his throat bobbed up and down. 

"Look, 'm sorry."

"What for?" is what you wanted to ask him, but you did not.

You never did. 

You have wanted him to spill his guts out to tell you all the unintentional mistakes and purposeful faults he has done to wrong you. You wanted him to grovel at your feet, to touch you, and to embrace you as he lists all the times he has made you less and made you feel more lonely than you already were. You wanted him to whisper sweet nothings to your ear after, as he intertwine his fingers with yours. You wanted him to realize that you have a place in his life—a place so large that it would feel empty once left unfilled by your existence.

You wanted him, but he wanted you to vanish from his life.

That was why you never reached out any more than you had. 

"I know," you whispered. 

You knew he was sorry.

Beneath all his facades of indifference, he was sorry. 

"I'm very sorr—" 

"Vice Captain," you interrupted, your voice breaking. 

If it was not indifference, it was pity that he felt for you. 

You were so sick of it. You were so sick of this treatment. You were so sick of him. You were so sick of the fact that although you were in constant agony being with him, you still loved him.

"You don't have to repeat it." This time, you looked at him straight in the eye. "I understand."

Notes:

The detail about him being good with guns is something I learned from the game.

Chapter 3

Summary:

I love ya.

The air that day was cold and dry, and it was filled with nothing but frost. 

Your bare feet against the stone pathway of the Hoshina residence felt a sharp chill that swiftly traveled through your bones and attacked your spine. Your sleeping attire was a mess, and so was your hair as you rubbed your hands from your clothes, to your nape, and to the top of your head just to keep yourself warm. You puffed air, and it turned to white, visible cloud. Your eyes scanned through the unfamiliar residence, blindly navigating the way even with the use of the full moon above. You inhaled through your lips, and it proved to be a bad decision. Your throat itched, and you had no other option but to cover your mouth when you coughed in order to cover the noise.

"I want to go home," you said, your twelve-year-old voice much higher.

You do desire to go home. 

After your betrothed has decided that he did not want to have you as his bride once you turn of age, you simply want to return to your actual residence and spend your days and years waiting for a suitable groom—the kind of groom that would fulfill his spousal duties as a man of the house. 

You could still remember how an argument almost broke off due to the eldest son's, your former betrothed, refusal. Your father claimed the act as disrespect, considering that it has been a centuries-old pact for your clan to marry off the eldest daughter to the ultimate incarnation of the Hoshina Clan. He has concluded that any more refusal from the clan would mean treachery. In fear of facing your father's wrath, the clan head, your former betrothed's grandfather, arranged you to the other son, who happened to share your age.

When you asked to see him after your father has left, the old men only cooed at you, claiming that you need not see a reject like him.

It made you confused, because you were a reject, too, and being a pair of rejects, should he at least show his face to you?

"I hate this family," you grumbled. 

The words sounded innocent coming from a child's mouth, but if your mother were to hear you utter them, she would have you kneel on top of spread out salt. She would remind you that a woman must be gentle, while she mercilessly watched her servant whip your upside palms with a piece of thin yet sturdy stick. She would berate you for your inability to suppress your emotions, yet you could see her seethe when you father conversed with a younger woman from the tertiary family of the Hoshina Clan. She would tell you to be grateful, but she would blame your birth as a female as the reason why your father spends most of his time at the Hoshina residence instead of your own. She would teach you patience, but she has never have  such. She would claim that you were a gift, yet you could hear her confide to her servant about her wants to be a mother of a boy.

Adults were miserable liars, and you swore to yourself that you would never be one of them. 

As you skipped through, your ears suddenly picked up the sound of wood hitting with another material repeatedly. The noise that came from the west wing of the residence was blunt, and it seemed so unrefined in comparison to those created by older swordsmasters. When you followed it, you found yourself standing in front of the tall bamboo forest. Despite feeling fear, you walked inside the growth, burying the discomfort caused by the soil against your soles away and ignoring it. 

Each step you took inside, the sound became louder. At the last step you made—

You saw an angel.

 

---

 

"Heard the rookies were celebrating tonight," a female officer told her companions. "My brother was bragging that they're having wagyu tonight."

"Wagyu?" the second one practically shouted. "Must be nice being a platoon leader."

"Must be nice being a rookie now, you mean," the third one stated. "That Izumo kid's loaded."

They chatted merrily, but when they realized that their fourth roommate—you—were unresponsive, they checked your bed, only to see that you were curled up under the covers and sleeping. 

Without a warning, your phone vibrated, causing them to scramble away from you and stumble back. They fell against each other like dominoes, almost comical. 

"What the—" the second one stuttered.

Struggling to get up with two bodies weighing her down, the first one harshly pushed them away from her poor torso. She picked up your phone up and learned that there were someone calling your personal phone. 

"She's sleeping. Do we disturb her?" 

"Should we? To be fair, it's an unknown number." 

"Unknown to us. Maybe she knows them."

"Why would she leave a contact she knows unnamed?" 

"I don't know! I'm not [Name]!" the second one defended herself. 

"What's the matter?" you asked, which petrified them. 

Sneakily, the first roommate smacked the second one for being so loud.

"Call." 

"From?"

"We don't know." 

You looked at the number phone and drowsily accepted the call.

"This is officer [Surname] speaking."

Your eyes shot open, which alarmed your roommates.

"Hey, what's the matter?" the second one inquired, rubbing the part where she was hit. 

"I—" you gasped. 

Without any explanation, you rushed out of your quarters.

 

---

 

You arrived to your husband's place, and you were greeted by the captain, who was now in her sleepwear. 

"Captain," you called softly, saluting to her. 

"At ease."

"He's in there, right?" you panted. 

She nodded, handing you his keys.

"He's blackout drunk." She snickered—something you were not aware she could do. "I'll let you deal with him." 

It was the first time that you were able to see the interior of his quarters. Similar to any other aspects of his life, he has never permitted you to peer through them.

Your eyes searched for the man, and there he was, your husband, sprawled on his bed.

You locked the door and cautiously walked to him. 

"Soshiro," you whispered. "Soshiro?" 

When he did not respond, you lifted his upper body and made him lean onto the headboard of his bed. 

You removed his shoes and socks, your touch anxious and inexperienced. You dusted the sheets with your hands, mentally chastising yourself for not taking them off first before moving him. You washed your hands in the sink and continued your task. You then unzipped his jacket, and you carefully peeled his shirt off, which was rather difficult, since the shirt was skin-tight.

You used to think that seeing his bare chest would send you electric, yet all you could feel in the meantime was worry. It overpowered everything else, and it made you think of nothing but tending to him. It was somehow hilarious that you, a lady of your clan, were using your hands to take care of someone. 

You placed his clothes on his bedside table and covered him with his comforter, before you rose to rummage for small towels in his closet. You found several, but you only needed two. You went back to the sink and wetted the first one, squeezing any excess water until the fabric was damp at most. After returning to him and taking the comforter off, you slowly wiped his upper body with the damp towel, immediately drying him off with the other one.

Satisfied with your work, you picked his used clothes and put them in his laundry bin. As for the damp towel, you searched for a place to hang it for it to dry properly. You came back to his closet and chose a more well-fitting shirt and return to the drunk man still unconscious. You dressed him with it, but before you could even finish, your ears picked up the sound of his voice muttering something. When his head got past the neckline of his shirt, you flinched after seeing his red irises staring at yours intently. 

"[Name]." 

Your name on his lips was a strange sensation, but his lips on yours was more so.

Initially, you were shocked to feel the hotness of his mouth pressing sloppily onto yours. However, thanks to your mind processing quickly, you reacted quite soon. 

You gently pushed him back to the headboard, yet to your another surprise, he did not want to be pried away from you. Despite his intoxicated state, he had the strength to pull you into his space by placing his left hand on your right hip. With your center of gravity unbalanced, you unintentionally fell right to where he wanted you to be. He, to your demise, smiled before laughing jovially.

Using his right hand, he cupped your jaw and attempted to kiss you again. 

"Soshiro, stop," you said in frustration. "Seriously—you're not sober."

Hearing your last three words, he appeared to be offended, as though you insulted his whole bloodline. 

"I'm sober," he huffed. 

"You're not." 

"Am too," he insisted childishly. 

"You're not," you finalized. "Because if you were, you wouldn't do this."

You did not want to indulge yourself with something you were aware that he would regret the moment his system gets rid off of the poison he willingly drank. 

"You're under the influence of alcohol, so you're doing all this nonsense." The irritation you had turned into solemnity. "The fact that I can smell liquor from your breath is enough proof that you're not sober." 

You did not know why your mouth has run off more than you normally would with him, but it was apparent that you were done with these antics—his antics—and you want them to stop right this instant.

"[Name]," he slurred, clasping his hand around your wrist.

Your eyebrows knitted on their own, and you mindlessly bit into the flesh of your inner cheeks. 

"How come I'm the only one respecting this mar—" You pursed your lips, not wanting to tear up. "—arrangement?"

His gaze softened, and he touched the corner of your mouth. 

"I love ya," he said.

The manner in which the words left his lips were serious. There was no trace of drunken behavior—it was as though he meant them. 

At that moment, you broke—no, you crumbled. Your will was pulverized, until you were an empty shell.

"Stop taking me for granted and sleep alone like you so wanted to."

You forcefully took his hand off of you and stood up. You did not look back to see if he was still awake or not. You did not dare fool yourself that what he said was not out of his brain being incapable of forming coherent, truthful thoughts.

You switched the lights off, and you got out of his quarters. 

Without even having the chance to be alone, you were once more facing the captain. 

"Let me walk you," she said, not a command, yet not a question either.

You let her walk first, but she waited.

"Ikaruga was the one who carried him here, but I told him to go first. The newcomers left first before he got in that state, so no one, except the platoon leaders, saw him become out of commission." She put her hands behind her back. "It was my first time seeing him this drunk."

You sighed, bobbing your hand up and down. 

"The Vice Captain is a heavy-weight," you said. "There was a time that he drank a whole bottle of sake, and to our surprise, he did not even become tipsy."

"I see," the captain replied, thoughtfully listening. 

Romantic relationships, especially when they were subordinate-superior, are generally prohibited by the higher-ups because it can cause difference of treatments and, in worst-case scenarios, power imbalances. To make things more complicated, relationships ending can cause discomfort and/or animosity from former partners. It was why she was a little on-the-edge when she learned that you were applying. She wanted to trust her second-in-command, but people can be contradictory when they were with the ones they are romantically involved with. 

However, Mina Ashiro has spent her years as a captain watching you and her vice captain interact, and yet, not even once has she caught you behave the way any normal couple would. Being from a loving family—before her father passed away, at least—she could not help but become worried that you were facing a challenging marital hurdle with your husband. As your superior, she would make sure that she could help your relationship flourish, if it meant pulling some strings.

"He told me that he didn't want you to receive any special treatment, so your surname was listed as your maiden's," she informed you.

Liar.

He was a liar.

That was not the real reason. 

Tha was not the real reason, and Soshiro knew that. 

How could he lie to her with a straight face? 

How could he be like that to you?

"But feel free to visit him after working hours," she added. 

You could not do that.

You were nothing but a bitter reminder of the memories he wished to throw away. Your face was the reason that he could not forget of the life he had before he was able to fly with his means. You were the metal ball that chained him before he could be free. You shackled him, and you force him to stay in a situation that neither one of you would be happy. 

You were selfish. 

You are selfish. 

"It's fine for us not to meet frequently." You stopped at the door of your shared quarters. "After all, we're not exactly the affectionate kind." 

What you said shocked her, because she has seen Hoshina act with friends and you with yours. Even when you were telling her a while ago the memories you shared with your husband, you appeared so fond of him. 

You looked like a loving wife.

"My husband can be shy with me," you lied. "So I refrain from doing things I know would upset him." 

You saluted and watched her go back to her own room. You opened the door, and you saw that your roommates were still awake. You sighed, realizing that in the end, you could not fully ruin her perception of him. 

"Where've you been?"

"I was—"

Your voice failed you. 

You let out a single, pitiful sob. 

"Hey, what's the matter?"

You waved a hand dismissively. 

"It's a family problem. It's fine. Sleep." 

You have never felt more alone than this moment, and you could not even properly cry. 

Chapter 4

It was the day in which the snow fell for the first time that year.

It was seventh day of the wedding ceremony, and you stood alone at the center of the courtyard of the Hoshina residence. Your skin was clothed with thin attire, and your hair was styled in a way that it would not hinder your movements as you moved later. Your eyes were covered by a blindfold, and you held a sword in your right hand, its blade sharpened beyond dangerous. Your footwear had bells attached to the ankles, and so were hilt of your sword. Patiently, you waited for the music to play. 

A custom of your clan for the wives to perform a sword dance—while your husband was trained to swing a blade to slay, you were trained to use the blade to relive the centuries-old tradition your bloodline has passed from one bride to another.

You inhaled slowly.

The lute was struck. 

You lifted your right foot from the ground. 

Swaying to the tune of the instruments, you carefully yet swiftly ran your left palm along the sharpened edge of the sword. You leaped with your right foot and landed on your toes. You sliced the air, pivoting after. You pointed the blade at the sky, and then you swiped it down. You rotated your hand and stabbed the space once. Each move of your feet, the bells shook, creating a symphony with the strings. As though a graceful flower in a field of grass, you danced. Your sword pulled the falling flakes of snow as you disturbed the air and made your own wind.

You paused. 

You let the frost cover your head. 

As quick as a storm, you sprinted. You halted.

As loving as a lullaby, you twirled. You continued.

The lute was played again. With each pull of the strings, your head snapped. You brought the dull side of the blade to your neck, your right shoulders raised. Using the heel of your left palm, you caressed the icy metal. You bent your upper body backwards, unhurried, until you could your feel your head turn upside down. With your skin sensitive to the cold, you felt the ground with the excess fabric of your blindfold. You felt your equilibrium almost escape you, but you held onto that position with your sword pointing up once again.

The music slowed down. 

Your placed your left hand on top of your nose with the palm facing you away. You held your blade horizontally approximately an inch away from your head at the level the same as your eyes. You dragged it across your palm again. You distanced your hands from your face until your elbows were close to straightening. You twisted your wrist and moved the sword vertically, its tip now pointing down.

Then, the music sped up. 

You spun once. Twice. Thrice. You kept spinning again and again in what felt like the quarter of a minute.

You stopped. You gently stomped repeatedly your right feet to induce the bells to make noise. You placed your left hand on your right upper arm, and using your sword, you wrote the characters that your and your husband's surname contained in the air. 

With that, the ritual was finished.

Claps erupted from who you assumed were the members of both your clans. You, who hid her panting through slow, painful breaths, were left standing at the center. Your sword was still held up, and your vision was still covered. You sensed a pair of footsteps approaching your location, and the moment it stopped, the applause only loudened. 

You felt a warm piece of cloth cover your back, and soon, you were guided by an equally, if not hotter, hand settling close to the small of your back. You took a whiff of the scent of the person, and you smelled the familiar fragrance of lavender. You smiled to yourself, pleased.

"Wait 'ere," here said. 

His hand parted from your clothed flesh momentarily, and you felt it along your feet—another custom of your clan for the groom to remove the footwear of the bride. Once he has taken them off, he walked again with you. You, being the obedient bride, followed the steps that he took with an ease, all thanks to his touch never leaving you. You heard a sliding door open, and upon stepping inside, your feet was warmed by the flooring. You were made to sit on a plush material, which you could only guess was your shared bed.

"I'm takin' off yer blindfold." 

You let him remove the cloth around your head, and you could only squint when light hits your eyes. You searched for him, and when your gaze fell, you saw him touching your legs.

At first, you thought that he was elated to see your performance, but you were proven wrong a little too quickly than what you would prefer. Disapproval radiated from his stares on your skin. 

"Are ya gonna do this every winter?" he asked.

He wrapped his hands around your limbs, his heat seeping through. 

"Yes," you answered truthfully.

To your terror, he clicked his tongue. Just when you thought that he could not be any more vexed, his jaw ticked. 

"Husband?"

He flinched.

Did he not like that?

"Just call me Soshiro," he said. 

What to do? Your mother taught you that wives are not allowed to address their husbands using their given name.

"Uhm, the dance, do you not want me doing it?"

"Nah."

Oh.

He did not want to see it. 

Come to think of it, he looked as if he would rather be anywhere else than with you.

"Why?" you pressed. 

"The main family don't care about these things," he dismissed. "'sides, it ain't gonna be useful when yer in danger, no?"

He was calling your years of hardwork useless.

Not only did he not care about your customs, he called your sacrifices useless.

Meekly, you could only say, "Yes."

The cold eventually left you, and as it did, he remained kneeled in front of you. A beat of audacious courage landed on you, and your tongue slipped. 

"Soshiro," you whispered, testing the waters. 

He did not react badly this time. Instead, he hummed. He glanced at you, his face now absent of that irritation. 

"Will you be staying here?" you inquired, immediately adding, "For another day, I mean."

He shook his head, his eyes returning to your legs. When he noticed that they were no longer the temperature of ice, he let them go. He covered your lower half with the sheets. 

"The leave I took was already too long," he answered monotonously, leaving you wondering if he was as sorrowful as you were.

You opened your mouth, only for you to close it again.

"I see," you replied.

 

---

 

"Oh, [Surname], whatcha doin' here?"

You opened your eyes to the sight of your older junior staring down at you. It took you a moment or two to process that you were actually at the track field, sitting on a bench with your nape rested against its headrest. 

"Hibino," you acknowledged. "Enjoying the sun, I guess."

He sat down with you, offering you one of his cold drinks. You refused, knowing that it was either for himself or Ichikawa. 

"Today's your day-off, isn't it? You should be enjoying your rest day somewhere that's more fun."

You raised your eyebrow at his brotherly display. Seeing him like this could sometimes make you forget that he was a terrible officer. Still, you liked him and his energy. 

"I have nothing to do aside from train even when it's my off. But I don't feel like training, so I don't know what to do now."

"Mall?" he suggested. 

"Too noisy." 

"Hiking?" 

"Too secluded." 

He nodded in consideration. He put his hand under his chin, looking like he indeed care about helping you. 

"Why not go to a coffee shop? 

"Not in the mood," you said. "Reminds me of someone I wanna throw off from a roof." 

"I hope that it's not the vice captain," he teased, chuckling. 

Making no attempt to correct his assumption, which was correct, you changed the subject.

"Hey, aren't you officially one of us now?" you said.

"Yeah. I'll be recognized tomorrow."

Oh, alone with the captain, huh?

You scoffed lightheartedly, stating, "Congrats."

He beamed, and it made your lips quirk up ever-so-slightly. 

From a distance, you then heard Furuhashi running toward your direction. 

"Old-timer!" he shouted, waving his hands. "Let's run!"

He looked at you, likely checking if you would be alright. 

"You should go," you permitted him. "I'm fine here."

"Good luck with your day-off!" he said before fully leaving.

Back to being alone, you closed your eyes. 

"He's going to apologize again," you said under your breath. "It's a pattern at this point."

 

---

 

Hoshina woke up to his feeling like it was going to split into two. 

"Ah," he grunted. "Where the he—"

Suddenly, memories from the last night came crashing down his already hurting head.

The hesitant looks from his subordinates. 

The flash of his superior's camera. 

The careful touch of his wife's hands. 

The sound his name from his wife's mouth. 

The sensation of his wife's supple lips.

The pained words his wife exclaimed. 

The painful tug of his wife's hand.

"Darn it." 

He smacked his forehead with his right hand.

"Stupid," he rasped, his throat aching. 

He groaned and rubbed his palm against his face, mentally debating about what he could do to make it up to you. 

You were no Kaiju; you were the woman with whom he has tied a knot.

He could never simply take you head-on the way he would with Kaiju. He could never simply cut his way around solving this problem, and no way in hell that you would forgive him if he apologize after doing all that to you unprovoked.

He touched his lips, the ghost of your own lingering. 

Soshiro knew he should be ashamed, and yet, he could not bring himself to regret kissing you. 

"Vice Captain Hoshina?" a voice from outside his quarters called. 

He groggily opened the door, and there was his platoon leader, Ikaruga. 

Ikaruga, thank whoever was up there, did not shout and softly commented, "Oh, you were able to change clothes, I see. Here's food from the canteen and hangover relief from the infirmary."

The platoon leader gave him a tray of food and water and a small caplet of over-the-counter medicine, which Hoshina gracefully accepted. 

"Ikaruga, 'm sorry for last night." 

"There's no need to apologize, sir." He saluted. "Besides, you're the quietest drunk I've ever met. Talk about being disciplined."

Hoshina laughed—a big mistake—and hissed.

"Uh, Ikaruga," he said, preventing the other male from leaving. 

"Yes, Vice Captain?" 

"How's [Na—" He cleared is throat. "[Surname]?" 

After bringing up your name, Hoshina observed a change in Ikaruga's disposition. 

"She's strangely furious about something," Ikaruga, despite finding his superior's curiosity about your well-being a tad bit odd, answered with no ounce of lies. "She asked to use the swordsmanship training hall."

The swordsmanship training hall?

"Did she say why?"

"No. But that's how she is, sir," he shared. "She's always been diligent. Even during her off, she trains."

Satisfied, Hoshina smirked wryly. 

"How commendable," he said, which sounded almost mocking—but it was far from being so. 

"She is," Ikaruga agreed, unable to notice the tone.

Notes:

Did you know that it was canonical that Hoshina's sole reason to live is to serve Ashiro? I wonder how Reader-Insert would feel about that.

Chapter 5

"Remember what I will teach you in order to satisfy your husband," your mother used to tell you first thing in the morning. "A good wife's posture must remain straight." 

You stepped foot inside the swordmanship training hall with your back slightly crouched. You did not close the door behind you, as if daring that very someone to come and taunt you like he seemed to make a habit out of. 

"A good wife must be graceful when she walks."

The thick soles of your boots thudded over the hard, unbuffed wooden floors of the large training room, its rubber material squeaking when you creased your leather shoes along the toes. You went straight to the changing room to replace your shirt with the proper clothing and footwear. However, you did not wear the padding and headgear that came with it. You picked up a practice sword and put your hair away—not enough to be considered proper by your mother, but enough for your eyes to be free of any obstructions. 

"A good wife must remain beautiful, like an immovable sculpture on display."

You sauntered all the way to the middle, making your preparatory stance. You let your body recall the way its muscles contracted and relaxed all those years ago, your heartbeat replacing the music that used to fill your brain constantly as a young girl. 

"A good wife must never make a noise." 

You danced with the sound of distant ventilator and relived the days that you waited for him to appear, holding his own sword. You learned all too quickly how he would rather face straw dummies instead of his own wife-to-be, yet it never deterred you to follow him to his usual place in the middle of that godforsaken bamboo forest. You would bring him food and water, but he would never touch the former. He would look at you with disgust as you continued watching him even when the rain fell upon your frail body—or so what he called yours.

"A good wife must be obedient." 

You stopped doing the things he has spoken against. You refrained from walking behind him five steps apart because—in his words—it was uncomfortable. He never liked you being his shadow, so you tried to become his light. Whenever he felt discouraged by the words of his relatives, his father, and his own brother to whom he looked up to, you would give him a gift. A compliment, a reassurance, a piece of you to share with your most beloved—all of them felt like annoyance to him. 

"A good wife must be patient." 

When you have gotten married, you expected him to stay. You waited for him to let the night pass and sleep next to you—not quite with you, just beside you—but he left before you could even retire. You felt your self-worth leave you, yet you never said anything. Instead, you waited for him again. You hoped for the day that he would finally spend at least an hour with you—for days you did. Until days turned into weeks, into months, and into a year. He never appeared, even in your most desperate dreams. 

"A good wife must be eager to please." 

Upon learning whatever it was that brings him happiness—being a defense force officer—you asked your husband's family to train you. At first, they did not agree, claiming that a woman must not hold a sword, but you already did. You have wielded a sword the day your hands have abandoned your mother's bossoms. To their surprise, you have the innate talent. After a few months of light training, they let you partake in their practices. Your mother opposed, but your father-in-law only said that you were not hers to decide for anymore. Before you have turned nineteen, you were able to apply and be accepted by the same division where your husband were. 

To your confusion, your name in the letter was listed as the one you had before you have given yourself to him wholly. When you asked him why, he only said that he would never want anyone to know that you were connected to him in any way. He said nothing more, yet your eyes saw that he rejected the part of him he has surrendered to you. So, being the good wife you were, you upheld his desires. 

You never wore your ring. You never introduced yourself as his. You never questioned his decision of putting you in someone else's wing. You never even dare steal a glance when he passed by.

"A good wife—" 

"Shut your mouth," you gritted. 

You have done them all. 

You have kept quiet, swallowing every lump in your throat as you watched him drift away from you. You have been a submissive spouse, but even when you followed what he wanted, he never regarded you as more than a thorn to his side. You have filled every possible checklist there was, but he never wanted you. You followed the words of your mother, and yet, how come her own husband never valued her? How come every single wife in your clan and from your clan has perished with tears of melancholy streaming down their perfectly crafted smile? 

How come you were so miserable even when all you have done was try to make him happy? 

"A good wife must never be angry."

Oh, you were.

You were so damned angry. 

You were so angry that no words could ever accurately describe the hatred you were filling your insides with.

Each of your swings screamed of anguish. Every inhale pleaded to be heard. Every blink of your glistening eyes were a cry for help. Each spin you turned whispered of the words, "You were not good enough." 

Never once. 

Never will. 

You survived for their expectations. You lived for the search for your worth. You will die wishing that death came a little sooner. 

And—

And the moment your hands were about to spell the two surnames you have cursed every time you wait for sleep to come, you could not. 

You froze. 

You could not do it.

The sword felt stiff. 

You could only turn around. 

"Oh, I didn't see you there," you tell the person standing by the doorway.

 

---

 

Hoshina stood under the rain-like shower above his head. 

The droplets accumulated, and they formed a single stream that flowed through every dip and crevices that they could make contact with. The suds of the minty shampoo woke him up properly, but the scent of the showergel the division has been issued was strong against his nose, almost causing him to miss the one he has used before he vowed to himself that he never return to that estate. The spirit of alcohol has already departed from his system, but the ache in his head was not yet leaving. It seemed as though it wanted to stay there, making friends with the pill that he has taken earlier.

"Agendum for today," he recited quietly. "A private training session." 

Rinsing his hair, he debated how he would approach this situation with you at hand. He dried himself with a towel and promptly got dressed with his uniform. He jogged over to his office, remembering that he still had some reports to review. 

In the end, he could not think of any way to solve things with you.

 

---

 

"Shinomiya, right?"

Kikoru Shinomiya, a rookie from the vice captain's squad, appeared as if she has seen a ghost. 

"I wasn't—uhm—" she stuttered. 

"It's fine if you saw me," you assured her. "It's a clan tradition danced with an audience anyway."

You walked back to the changing room, and to your amusement, she followed you. Realizing that you were about to change clothes, she turned away, covering her eyes embarrassedly.

"Clan tradition?" she asked, clearing her throat shyly. 

"Mhm. I'm from a clan of swordsmen." You put away your used training attire in the washing machine by the corner. "You should get changed, too."

Following your suggestion, she pointed out, "Oh, like the vice captain?" 

"Yes." You put enough amount of detergent into its proper compartment. "Women in our clan are not allowed to hold real swords, though. Only ones for dancing." 

She absorbed all the details she heard, knowing that there would not be another time that you would freely disclose information about yourself in the future.

"Did they not like that you're here?" 

"Oh, my mother hated me for it." You laughed, sincerely happy about that simple statement. "Even my husband does, too." 

Concealing her surprise with a feigned look of seriousness, Shinomiya fastened her pigtails silently.

"Are you happy here?" she pressed, her teenage curiosity overcoming her sense of indifference. 

"In a way, yes." 

You were glad that you once disobeyed the expectation set upon you, even when every fiber of your being was programmed to be subservient.

Notes:

It's just the fifth chapter, and looking back, it once took me twenty-five chapters to finish an angst fic, only for it to end sadly. However, I have acquired my own character development, so I promise to make things a little shorter—and happier, I guess.

Me reading miscommunication: =(
Me writing miscommunication: =)