Datsuzoku

[Eidolon]

With his response came a disarming sense of acknowledgement, and along with it peace. Though she would have accepted whatever he had said, she realised she’d cared about his reaction. Kōta tried and failed on many occasions to understand the half-life she had chosen, and it always involved a lot of questions. After they left Kyoto and their people, Kōta had shed that life like old skin. He still did not see why she could not do the same. In Moscow, more than anywhere else they had ever been, there was an opportunity for true freedom, even for someone like her. She suspected it was why he had taken to calling her Chihiro again when they were alone, as though the reminder of her past might chip away at her resolution.

She did not expect Kiyohito to say more, and neither did she need him to; her reaction was minimal, though when her eyes rose up to meet his they did not move away while she listened. The words permeated deeply, but as he continued to speak she couldn't fathom what to do with them. The soft patter of her heart was not unlike her anticipation of an assassin’s blade, but it was a different fear entirely that held her motionless. Denying herself was easy. She did not ever consider her own wants, let alone acknowledge them, but it meant there was no acceptable answer to find within. The sense of soft erosion inside was something she wished to both shelter and reject in fear of what it might mean. But it was not a case of what she wanted. It was a case of what was right.

Silence fell, and Eido did not know how to navigate through it. She sat like marble, graceful and still, her expression softened in surprise. More than anything she did not want to spurn what was offered, recognising that it was something sensitive and of value to him. His privacy. The walls built around his life. The who he was that he felt a need to protect. She’d shared too much of herself already, and she knew it was because of what he had said in the alley. Kiyohito was shrouded in mystery to her, and like the clouded fog of a mirror, she'd peered to glimpse the reflection of something she felt she recognised beyond – only to realise now a startling cognition, as she felt him peering back through that same fog.

He spoke again before she could truly process, and she realised she had been quiet for too long. When he gestured she did not look at the space around them, for though she understood he meant to offer a sanctuary, what she felt most keenly then was the apartment's emptiness. Such a declaration meant he did not intend to go back to Japan at all, or perhaps that he simply could not. She might suppose on why but didn't choose to do so. Wherever his brother was, there had been no reconciliation, just consequence. Kiyohito was alone here. Reduced to the tattoos he so dutifully pulled his sleeves down to hide from her. He saw her in a way she wished he didn’t, but she saw him too, and it stirred both longing and conflict. The desire to ease another’s burden. To reach for a connection she did not deserve and could not sustain.

Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. Instead she nodded to show she understood, and let her eyes drift lower. Her gaze dipped to the teacup cradled in her palms. Her heart beat so loudly she wondered if he might be able to hear it.

“Thank you for your time, Kiyohito-san,” she said quietly, leaning carefully to replace the cup. Her gaze was respectful, and did not avoid his, but was nonetheless uncertain of his reception. She was not concerned for his reaction, which she knew would be cushioned in stoicism, but for the quieter feelings inside; the things she could not see, but feared to unintentionally injure. Her movements were not hurried as she stood, hands laced, yet her gaze finally moved away. Hair ghosted across her cheeks, and she fought not to narrow her brow, beset by shame that she could not offer more. That she could not accept more.

She retrieved her shopping, but paused upon the package balanced at the top; the translation of Ningen Shikkaku she had purchased from the market, in English titled No Longer Human. The story as she remembered it was not a happy one, but it was poignant – of a man incapable of sharing his true self with others, and whose life ended in the tragedy of isolation and deteriorating mental health. She lingered on it now, her thumb tracing the cover as she pulled it free, and her resolution crumbled into something easier to communicate. Less fraught with risk.

“It is a tragic story. Poorly suited for a gift. But every home should have a book, Kiyohito-san. Preferably more than one. Perhaps you could borrow it.” She did not ask him if he had read it. It was a post-war classic back home, and there was nothing in his apartment to indicate whether he had any interest in literature. Eido did not hold it out to him, but placed it gently on the kitchen counter. She could not rely on him for sanctuary – to admit how much the kindness moved her would be to admit the true despair in her situation. But she could return for a book.