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Getting up in the morning was hard, and for that Uruha put the blame entirely on Fushimi.
He’d explained that when he’d first joined the Kamunabi, all he’d had was a tiny little room with an uncomfortable bed. When he’d moved to an apartment, it was just a studio with thin walls and no space. Then at Kokugoku Fortress, they’d all had futons, which were fine, but what he really wanted was a huge bed with room to sprawl out, with soft covers and piles of pillows, like something from a furniture catalogue.
Afterwards – when the Hishaku had been defeated and they’d been allowed to return to something resembling peace – they’d bought a place of their own, a little cottage out in a small town, and Uruha had said that Fushimi could have that big bed he’d always wanted.
But the thing about a big, comfortable bed was that it was very easy to get into, and very hard to get out of.
Every night, Uruha slept in Fushimi’s arms, or Fushimi slept in his arms. The bed was big enough to sprawl out on – as Fushimi had demanded – and yet they slept like there was no room at all, with their limbs tangled together and their heads resting on one pillow. The covers were white, and with the sun streaming in through the curtains each morning, Uruha felt like he was sleeping on a cloud.
On one morning, Uruha’s eyes snapped open, his heart racing. He breathed in and out as the dream faded; already he couldn’t remember what it was, but it was most likely some horrid nightmare of Fushimi at the train station, when Uruha had thought he was dead. Fushimi mumbled something in his sleep and pulled Uruha tighter as he twisted around in his arms to face him, their noses bumping together.
Uruha stared at him until he woke up.
“Uruha,” groaned Fushimi, blinking sleepily. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you,” said Uruha.
“Making sure I’m still alive?” Fushimi grinned, then yawned and groaned again. “It’s too early.”
“Don’t joke,” Uruha said, scowling. Months and months had passed since they’d moved out here, and though it had been well over a year since that moment at the station, Uruha couldn’t forget the sight of Fushimi’s blood dripping down onto the white tiles. Though they’d later reunited in the Kamunabi’s medical ward, the ache of the heartbreak would always stay with him.
“Sorry,” said Fushimi. He kissed the tip of Uruha’s nose and laughed when Uruha grumbled in complaint. “Are you getting up?”
Uruha glanced over at the window, at the warm golden light filtering into their bedroom. He was warm and comfortable and he didn’t think that he could get out of this bed even if he tried. Fushimi’s grip on him hadn’t loosened a bit. Uruha shifted closer to him, wedging a knee between his thighs and burying his face in the crook of his neck.
“No,” he said. “Let’s go back to sleep.”
*
Normalcy took some getting used to.
It was something that Uruha had never thought he could have; something he’d given away willingly when he accepted Kumeyuri. He was hailed – rightly or wrongly – as a hero after the war, and he got used to the glares and the gasps when he walked down the street. It had been a relief, in some ways, to be taken to Kokugoku Fortress and hidden away. Fighting the Hishaku had put him in the spotlight once again, and he’d resigned himself to a life of hiding.
But then they’d moved out here.
It was close enough to the city that Fushimi could go back to the Kamunabi headquarters for meetings, but not so close that they had to deal with the crowds. Uruha had opened a dojo; Samura had passed the torch of Iai White Purity Style onto him, wanting to retire in peace and make up for his missing years of fatherhood.
If the people in this town knew who he was, then they didn’t act like it. To them, he was nothing but the guy who ran the dojo and taught people swordplay, the guy who’d bought that nice little cottage with his – friend? Partner? Husband? People probably speculated, but they didn’t ask.
And Uruha got to have a normal life after all.
“I think I’ll get pizza,” said Fushimi.
“You can’t get pizza,” grumbled Uruha. “This is a nice restaurant.”
“I don’t get to eat Italian food very much.”
Uruha rolled his eyes. This place had only opened recently, and was a bit of a novelty. “Get pasta, or something,” Uruha said. “It won’t be good, anyway,” he added in a hushed voice.
“Let’s get spaghetti and eat it like those dogs in that movie.”
Uruha groaned and ordered tortellini. Fushimi ordered pizza after all, and under the table he brushed Uruha’s ankle with his foot, which Uruha couldn’t find annoying because it was sweet. He slid his hand across the tablecloth and laced his fingers with Fushimi’s. They hadn’t even eaten dinner yet, but already he felt full.
“You’re staring at me a lot, lately,” Fushimi said with a grin.
“Can’t help it,” said Uruha. “I’m happy.”
Fushimi nudged him again under the table with his foot, his grin widening. He leaned an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand.
“I’m happy, too,” he said. “It’s nice, not having to fight for our lives anymore.”
Uruha nodded. It was like he’d been carrying a heavy weight all this time without even realising he’d been carrying anything at all. Finally getting to put it down, to learn how light things were supposed to be, was more freeing than he could have known.
He squeezed Fushimi’s hand. These dinners together were a regular occurrence, something they did at least once a week, and he hoped that when they were old and grey they would still be visiting restaurants together, and that Fushimi would still kick him under the table.
*
Fushimi was a bad cook.
That wasn’t Uruha being mean; it was an objective fact. And the thing was, he was a bad cook, too. Fushimi had spent most of his adult life eating in the Kamunabi cafeteria or getting meals from convenience stores, and Uruha had started out on military rations before also graduating to convenience stores. It embarrassed them both, actually, that when confronted with their quaint little cottage’s kitchen, neither of them really knew what to do with it.
The only thing they could do was learn how to cook together.
Uruha consulted Hakuri for tips. He’d learned to cook recently, too, and he was a good teacher. Uruha would call him and put him on speakerphone, then set his phone down on the counter as they listened to instructions on how to make rice or how to sauté vegetables.
It did not go well at first. Fushimi and Uruha burned more meals than they could count, and were frequently forced into eating sandwiches for dinner while Hakuri and Chihiro laughed at them over the phone. Eventually, though, little by little, they got better.
“Okay,” said Hakuri, his voice tinny through the speaker. “Break up the block of curry and melt it in the water.”
“Weird how it looks like chocolate, huh?” said Fushimi.
“Did you do it?” said Hakuri.
Fushimi hurriedly dropped the broken up blocks of curry into the water as instructed, and gave it a stir. “Done it,” he said.
“Good. How’s your rice?”
Uruha glanced over at the rice cooker, where the fluffy white rice was waiting. “It’s done,” he said.
“Look at you guys,” Hakuri said, laughing. “You’re chefs!”
Fushimi laughed too, and Uruha winced. “We’re doing our best,” he said.
Hakuri patiently talked them through the cooking times of the onions and carrots and potatoes, and reminded them to take the chicken out of the oven – they weren’t yet trusted to fry it, apparently. He told them to slice it and top it with the vegetables and curry, and when he hung up Uruha stared down at two plates of food which looked almost like they could’ve come from a restaurant.
Kind of.
“Not bad,” Fushimi said, sliding his arms around Uruha from behind and kissing his cheek. “We really are chefs.”
“I can’t believe we’re only just learning how to make curry,” Uruha said with a sigh. “I’m nearly forty.”
“You are not nearly forty,” said Fushimi.
“Whatever. Let’s eat.”
They took their plates to the table, and when Uruha took his first bite, his eyes widened with shock. Fushimi’s did, too. It really was good. It was spicy and flavourful and moreish. Hakuri was an excellent teacher, but Uruha wondered how much of the tastiness of the food came from the fact that he’d made it here, with Fushimi, as part of this new and peaceful life they were settling into. It was so simple, really.
Cooking together.
Uruha never would have thought he could enjoy it so much.
*
Their cottage had a garden, a wild, pretty space with twisting vines and overgrown weeds. At first they didn’t do anything with it. Fushimi mowed the grass at the front so that place looked somewhat respectable, but they let the back turn into something of a jungle.
After they’d lived there for about a year, Uruha decided that he couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. The kitchen was at the back of the cottage, so when Uruha was washing dishes he had to look out at the tangle of plants and wonder what else was in there. What if there were rats? He needed to do something about it.
While Fushimi was in Tokyo for a work conference, Uruha rolled up his sleeves, put on some boots (borrowed from Fushimi) and set out with some brand new gardening shears. He cut vines and pulled up weeds and ripped out clusters of stinging nettles, making a pile in one corner that he would either burn or which would become compost; he hadn’t decided. He figured out how the lawnmower worked and immediately ran it over a rock, which broke it. A neighbour fixed it for him and on the second try he managed to mow the grass.
When Fushimi came home, Uruha was exhausted and his muscles were aching – not a bad thing, because it meant that he got a lengthy massage – and the garden was in a somewhat respectable shape.
Fushimi was impressed with him. He kissed him and told him how hard a worker he was, then he kissed him again, on the lips and the cheeks and the jaw and everywhere else. Uruha was even more exhausted when he was done with him.
“It’s not finished yet,” Uruha said, when they were back in that big bed with the soft pillows and Fushimi’s arms were around him. “I want a vegetable patch.”
He expected Fushimi to argue, but he didn’t. He kissed him on the top of the head and said, “Whatever you want, you’ll have.”
So he planted a vegetable patch.
That took a while. Much like the cooking, neither of them knew what they were doing. Fushimi enlisted the help of several old ladies who grew their own vegetables and sold them at the market, because they were all charmed by him, with his manners and his dazzling smile. They gave him tips and told him what kind of soil to buy, what seeds to plant and when, how to harvest. Fushimi took a little notepad with him and wrote it all down, and they found that charming as well.
Fushimi turned out to take quicker to gardening than he had done to cooking. A few plants died, but for the most part he had a green thumb, and it seemed that before Uruha knew it, he was pulling carrots and radishes from the ground, and saying that they looked like Uruha’s ponytail, and their home cooked meals were made with their home grown vegetables.
*
One year, for Fushimi’s birthday, they went to stay at an onsen.
They couldn’t go back to Kokugoku Fortress, of course; though Uruha would have liked to – he’d have liked to revisit the place where their romance had begun – it had been destroyed by the Hishaku. He’d heard that there were plans to rebuild it, but those hadn’t yet come to fruition. Still though, he wanted to take Fushimi away somewhere. He wanted to do something special, because Fushimi had been willing to give his life for him – and then he’d been willing to build a life with him – and Uruha needed him to know that he treasured him more than anything in the entire world.
The place he chose was in the mountains, and it was blanketed with snow. The views were incredible, sparkling peaks towering over them, piercing the clear blue of the heavens. Hot springs steamed and bubbled invitingly, and the warmth of them was delicious in the crisp coldness of the mountain air. They’d chosen an odd time of year to go, apparently, and they had the place almost to themselves. Occasionally they spotted another guest walking through the halls or leaving the pools, but for the most part they were alone.
They stayed for a week. The days were spent soaking in the water, then getting dressed and eating hearty, nourishing food cooked by the family who owned the place. They wrapped themselves up in coats and scarves and went for hikes up the mountains, passing under the boughs of fir trees and stepping suddenly onto outlooks where they could see over pristine valleys, threaded by crystalline rivers and crossed by herds of wandering brown deer.
The nights were reserved for each other. They had two futons in their room – like at Kokugoku Fortress – but they slept on one. They had slow, lazy sex with the moon shining in on them through the window and they slept knowing that they didn’t have to get up in the mornings.
It felt like being in a different world. It felt like a dream.
On the last day they took thermoses of hot tea on their hike, and picked a scenic spot to sit down and drink, leaning against a tree so they could watch the birds soar through the air.
“I never thought that this would happen,” Uruha said softly.
Fushimi rested his head on his head on his shoulder. “I did.”
“You did not.”
“Well, I wanted it to happen,” he said. “I wanted you to be happy, when we met and you were so sad.”
Uruha had his arm around him, and he was playing with a lock of his hair. “Right away?”
Fushimi shifted, sitting up straight so that he could cup Uruha’s face in his hands and fix him with a determined stare. “Right away, Uruha,” he said firmly. “I always thought you deserved to be happy.”
Uruha wasn’t sure he agreed with that, but Fushimi had got what he wanted. Uruha was happy.
*
The year after that, they went on vacation to the beach.
Uruha’s motivations were less selfless this time; he wanted to see Fushimi shirtless in the sun.
He got his wish. Uruha sat beneath an umbrella – he didn’t want to burn – and rubbed sunscreen all over Fushimi’s scarred, muscled body before sending him off to play in the ocean, where he could watch his golden hair shine in the sun and his tanned body disappear beneath the waves as he tried to do handstands. When he was tired of that he came back to Uruha and flopped down beside him on the towel, ignoring his complaints that he was getting his book wet or that he was covered in sand.
Uruha wasn’t truly complaining, anyway. When he ran his hands over Fushimi’s arms he liked how warm and sticky he felt, from the sun and the salt of the ocean. His hair dried wavy and seemed to lighten to an even brighter shade of blonde. Fushimi suited the sun, Uruha thought, and he told him so.
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Fushimi whispered, trailing a damp finger up his chest.
They’d paid extra to have a hotel right on the beach, with a balcony that looked out over it. They left the doors open so they could feel the breeze, and Uruha kissed Fushimi to taste the salt on his lips. Their room had a bed even bigger than the one in their cottage, with too many pillows to count and a duvet stuffed with feathers. It was too hot for covers, though, so when they slept they kicked them away and settled with only each other for warmth, and still left the balcony doors open.
One night they sat out there to watch the sunset. Fushimi ordered room service, and they sipped beers as they watched the sun go down.
When it touched the horizon, it looked like it was melting, the rippling reflection bleeding out over the mirrorlike sea. Pink and orange and gold, and up above there were so many stars that it looked like the night sky had been spattered with silver paint. Uruha sipped his drink and gazed up at them, and Fushimi rested a hand on his thigh.
He didn’t have to say anything, this time.
During the war, Uruha had thought that he had more in common with the sword he wielded than the people he was supposedly protecting. He was a weapon, a thing to be aimed and fired at an enemy. It was something that he’d accepted, when he’d looked into the forge-glow of Rokuhira’s eyes. He’d taken that sword and given up his humanity in exchange for it, and never expected to get it back.
Only now he did have it back. Now he had a little cottage in a small town. He had dates and a garden and vacations.
And Fushimi, he thought, tearing his gaze from the stars to smile at him instead. Fushimi, most of all.