—now—

Takamatsu Residence Block 9
Keio, Workers’ Republic of Minato

There was still a mirror in the bathroom, probably because it was bolted to the wall, as unmovable as the toilet or the washbasin. The weak, flickering bulb in here combined with the green tile walls always gave his skin a sickly color. He brought his fingertips to his face, spying the dark circles under his eyes. His nightmares had never been like this before. Almost every night now, and he’d sit awake, refusing to give in to sleep again for fear they might come back.

When Matsumoto-san woke him, it was with the lightest of shakes. “Yoshimoto, are you okay?” If the nightmare came late enough (or early enough, by Matsumoto’s schedule), he’d sometimes stay awake since he always had to leave for work long before sunrise. Sometimes he’d make them tea. Koya almost took comfort in the sight of him in the genkan now, taking out that stinking wool coat, pulling his hat down over his dark hair before heading out for the day.

When Ninomiya woke him, it was in his own way. He poked at Koya with his foot. “Yoshimo-chan. It’s alright, Yoshimo-chan, they can’t hurt you.” He’d poke with his foot again and sometimes he’d be too lazy to go back to the futon in his room, curling up at Koya’s back, snuggling like a puppy and dozing for a few hours. The added warmth sometimes made Koya cry.

It was Nino he’d asked for the pain cream. “Why didn’t you say something?” Nino had chastized him, ruffling his hair and pulling the Chiba Fund tin down from the shelf. They’d gone to the market that morning, searching until he found the familiar jar. Nino ignored Koya when he said he’d just need one, buying him three. Nino didn’t ask what he needed it for.

They were leaving tonight for Funabori, leaving Keio behind. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the haircut Nino had given him in the sitting room the day before. It no longer covered his ears. It was parted on the side, fell across his brow. From the neck up, he probably had quite the princely aura, bags under his eyes notwithstanding. He stepped a bit back from the mirror, staring at his scar.

He twisted the lid off the jar, dipping his fingers in the cream. With the fingers of his right hand he reached behind his left shoulder, wincing as he stretched to rub the cream into his skin. He was never quite able to hit the mark. The old exit wound was a bit further down, but so many of his muscles back there were stiff that every little bit helped. Satisfied that the cream was rubbed in, he repeated the motion on his chest. He watched himself in the mirror, fingertips rubbing in a circular motion over his scar. He’d gained weight since coming to Keio, living with Matsumoto and Ninomiya. Aside from the nasty scar, he looked healthier, stronger. Nino had started to tease him. “Your face is so round, you look half your age,” he said, poking Koya’s cheek.

For the last decade and a half, whenever he’d looked into a mirror, it was the face of Yoshimoto Koya that stared back. Because that was the name he’d woken up with. With his haircut, with the extra suit packed in his satchel (they were saving the nicer clothes for after the border crossing), he saw the face of Mimura Takuya, the name on his travel papers, on the fake identity card Nino had so carefully made for him. And in the last month and a half, he’d become Sakurai Sho, the Crown Prince of Minato.

He was Sakurai Sho in the way he carried himself. He was Sakurai Sho when Matsumoto came in the door, barking out the name of some Duke or Duchess so Koya could rattle off four generations of their family members with ease. And when he woke up sobbing, when the images started slipping away, of palaces and parties, of gunfire and screams, he wondered how much of it was fantasy and how much of it was real. How much of it was the story Matsumoto Jun had told him and how much of it was a truth he was struggling to cope with.

Who the hell was the man staring back at him, the man with the old bullet wound? He was Yoshimoto Koya. He was Mimura Takuya. He was Sakurai Sho. He was none of these men, he was nobody at all.

The way Matsumoto looked at him had changed. At first, there’d been hostility. Then suspicion. Now Koya didn’t even know. Since Mita Palace had come crashing down, since that day Matsumoto had looked into his eyes with such surprise, had called him “Sho-kun” with something akin to hope in his voice, things had been awkward between them. Matsumoto didn’t push him any longer, and the lessons had largely stopped.

Instead of spending the evenings quizzing him, Matsumoto instead wrote letters, asking for Koya’s advice as he wrote a letter to break their lease at Takamatsu Residence Block, as he wrote a resignation letter for his place of employment. And when Nino was around, Matsumoto sometimes just sat quietly, watching Koya when he probably thought he wouldn’t notice. As if he was waiting for Koya to just come out and admit it.

That the person he’d been before Gyoranzaka, before Kamezuka Hospital, was Sakurai Sho.

Logically, Koya had to admit that it probably was the truth. He remembered things, more and more, things that Matsumoto wouldn’t have known. Snippets of private conversations, blurred faces. The languages he could read, the music he could play. The things a prince would have been taught. He woke once with a girl’s face burned so clearly into his memory that he’d begged Nino to find a photograph of the royal family (but not to tell Matsumoto about it). Most had been destroyed, portraits and photographs alike, but his bookseller friend came through once more.

The girl he’d seen in his dream, there was no mistaking it. Princess Eriko. Matsumoto had never shown him a picture. Yoshimoto Koya had never seen this girl. But it was her, the very same girl. Not just Princess Eriko. His sister Eriko. His sister.

He’d unlocked it, hadn’t he? He had the key now, he’d turned it. But the door had yet to fully open. He was still not ready to look all the way inside, to lay claim to all of it. He stared at himself, clinging to the washbasin. Yoshimoto Koya. Mimura Takuya. Sakurai Sho. Nobody. Yoshimoto Koya. Mimura Takuya. Sakurai Sho. Nobody.

“Stop,” he whispered, shutting his eyes. “Stop.”

He pulled on the shirt that Nino had pressed for him, buttoning it with shaking fingers. Next a tie, new trousers, and a belt. He shoved the pain cream into his satchel with the others and came out of the bathroom, finding Nino and Matsumoto waiting for him, dressed similarly in suits and overcoats, with hats that were more for show than for warmth. They were to travel in second class accommodations. They lacked the finances and the amount of luggage a first class passenger would bring. And in third class, the guards were liable to check your papers again and again, looking for an excuse to swindle you.

The train that left Aoyama Station for Funabori every evening had twelve cars behind the locomotive. A dining car, smoking car, and three carriages for first class use only. First class accommodations included private washrooms and pull-down beds. For second class, there was another dining car and two second class carriages, which were made up of closed compartments of four seats each. Less privacy and you had to sleep upright in your seat, but Nino had observed boarding at Aoyama for the last two weeks straight. The train was never full, and he doubted that anyone would intrude on their compartment of three. Toward the rear of the train were two third class carriages and two baggage cars. Third class was nothing but rows of seats, first come first serve, no meals provided.

Nino took a look at the emptied out apartment, whistling. “I won’t miss this dump.” He’d been downright cheerful all day, though Koya suspected it was to keep morale high, that Nino was just as nervous as they were. In all his years making forgeries, he’d never really had to make one for himself.

Matsumoto adjusted the brim of his hat. “You’ve lived in worse places.”

“And soon, with Yoshimo-chan’s help, I’ll be living the good life. Me, a bottle of Chiba’s best shochu, a luxurious townhome in Maku-Harihongo, maybe a girlfriend or three,” Nino declared, bowing reverently. “My thanks in advance, Your Highness.”

“Technically, the address would be Your Majesty,” Matsumoto said quietly. He looked at Koya quickly before leaning down to hoist his suitcase.

“Only if they crown him!” Nino shot back, leaning over to wrap a friendly arm around Koya’s back. “Remember, you’re doing all of this for me and my future rotation of beautiful women. If that’s not motivating…”

Koya shoved him away, chuckling. Without Nino to lighten his mood, he doubted he’d have lasted this long. “I’ve been under your care, Ninomiya-san.” He looked over. “Matsumoto-san.”

“Mimura-san,” Matsumoto said pointedly, pulling his own identity card from the inside pocket of his coat. For their journey, he was traveling under the name Tokita Shuntaro and Nino was Wakui Takuro.

“It’s about time I get to play pretend,” Nino said happily, taking off his hat and using it to gesture to the door. “Tokita-san, Mimura-san. Shall we be on our way?”

“It would be a pleasure, Wakui-san,” Koya replied.

Carrying only a bag each, they locked up the apartment in the Takamatsu Residence Block, leaving the key behind in the landlord’s mailbox. They took the underground train a handful of stops, arriving at the bustling Aoyama Station and the sound of whistles and locomotives shortly after 6:00 PM. Boarding for the 9:00 PM train commenced at 7:00 PM so that first and second class passengers might settle in and have dinner before the train departed.

With the ease of a regular, Nino led them through the train station, the ceiling a massive arched structure that soared over their heads. The main hall was dominated by a giant clock at either end. It had been during his grandfather’s reign that the station was built, the clocks having kept time ever since, through every war, every uprising. Phrases like “his grandfather’s reign,” they were starting to feel almost natural to think.

There were twenty-eight platforms with trains that departed for every major city in Minato, carrying troops or regular passengers. Freight lines also came through Aoyama, bringing in grain shipments and other foodstuffs from the countryside. Civilians and soldiers alike snaked through the station. The workday for those in offices or the civil service had just ended, hundreds of men and women milling through on their way to local trains to other parts of the city.

Nino had their tickets in hand already. After they’d purchased Koya’s pain cream that morning, they’d come straight to Aoyama to buy them. Three second-class tickets had wiped out nearly sixty percent of the money they had saved up in the Chiba Fund. Nino hadn’t even batted an eye shelling out a stack of bills, listing the names of the passengers who’d be using the tickets.

They approached Platform 23, which served the eastern regions of Minato, including the 9:00 PM departure for Funabori. Past the security checkpoint, where soldiers were inspecting travel visas, identity cards, and luggage, Koya could see the carriages waiting. Though much of Keio and most of Minato was impoverished, struggling to feed themselves day to day, the trains were in good working order, the carriages freshly painted and ready for the journey. Koya thought of the budget for the Gyoranzaka Home for Boys, the monthly allotments dwindling, and found himself scowling at the irresponsible wealth of the train, of the luxuries provided to those in first class.

Nino lifted a hand just before they entered the checkpoint queue. “Wait. They’re turning people away.”

Instinctively, Koya stepped closer to Matsumoto, his satchel knocking against Matsumoto’s arm. He felt Matsumoto’s hand come up to rest on his shoulder, offering a quick, reassuring squeeze. Nino’s face changed, from ambivalent middle class traveler to shrewd opportunist. He approached a couple that came walking back from the platform, leaving Koya and Matsumoto behind to wait.

Koya watched as Nino spoke with them, an elderly man and woman in fairly nice clothes. At least they could confirm that they had arrived safely in the second class dress code. It was a few minutes before Nino wrapped up his conversation, shaking hands with the old man and tipping his hat to the wife. When he came back to them, his face was otherwise calm but there was a surprising anger in his eyes that Koya had never seen before. It was the face of a man who’d planned for every contingency other than what had just happened.

“What’s wrong?” Matsumoto asked, trying to keep calm as soldiers with rifles walked the station around them.

“General Higashiyama’s Minister of Labor is en route to Shirokanedai. That’s two stops before Funabori. Last minute trip apparently, off to investigate some mischief at a munitions factory there.” Koya could see Nino’s hand tightly gripping the handle of his suitcase, his knuckles white. “He’s bought up a full first class carriage for himself and his staffers.”

“How does that affect us?” Koya asked.

“They’re moving some of the first class passengers into second. That means second class is now full, with a bit of overflow.”

“We have tickets already. For tonight, and they’re not refundable,” Matsumoto hissed.

Nino nodded. “We do. And if we can pay an additional fee, they’ll guarantee us the second class compartment we’ve already paid for, or we’ll be allowed to travel standing room only in third class.”

“No, they can’t do that,” Matsumoto complained. “What kind of fee?”

When Nino said the amount, Koya wanted to scream. Money. In this country it always came down to money. “Then we travel in third class,” Koya said, trying not to panic.

“And have them come after us for more money? They’ll tack on an additional baggage fee, a toilet usage fee, a fucking standing in the aisle causing a nuisance fee,” Nino said, listing off all sorts of cash grabs the soldiers patrolling the train used. “We pay for second class, one flat fee, or we have every last yen stolen away in third and thank them for the privilege.”

“Wakui-san,” Matsumoto said, his voice almost menacing. “We don’t have the money for any of these fees. This wipes out the rest of our funds. We’ll never make it to Maku-Harihongo.”

Koya saw that Nino already had an answer, but there was a regretful look in his face. “We go tonight or we don’t go at all,” Nino said. “And I know where we can get the money to pay those assholes off.”

Matsumoto rolled his eyes, gesturing to the big clock. “Now? After 6:00 PM? The banks are closed, and if you haven’t noticed, we have nothing else of value besides our clothes. Unless Mimura-san’s hiding some gold teeth in his mouth that we haven’t seen.”

Nino took off his hat, looking at Matsumoto. “Jun-kun, I need you to listen to me. Don’t interrupt. Just listen.”

—

Ohno Fishmongers
Keio, Workers’ Republic of Minato

For some reason, Ohno hadn’t been surprised when Jun had turned in his letter of resignation the other day. “I could tell,” Ohno had said. “I knew something was up.” In his letter, he’d apologized profusely for the sudden inconvenience he was causing, though he doubted his words would do much good. It was still a burdensome thing.

Compared to what he was doing now, though, Jun felt that his resignation letter was an incredible kindness.

The underground station nearest the warehouse was three stops south of Aoyama, and Jun had run all the way to the gate before slowing down, walking as quietly as he could. Nino had made a deal with the soldier at the checkpoint. While most of the bumped second class passengers couldn’t afford to pay the outrageous fee, Nino had asked for time to procure the funds. Since the train wasn’t leaving until 9:00, the soldier promised to hold a compartment for them until 8:00.

For a price.

That last-minute deal alone had cost them the money they’d been saving for decent accommodations in Maku-Harihongo. Once they entered Chiba, paying for and boarding the train in Urayasu, they’d have enough to stay two nights on the outskirts of the capital, maybe three if they shared with strangers. If they couldn’t find a way to get an appointment with Prince Masaki or his staff those first few days, then they’d be living on the streets until they did.

But first they had to get out of Keio, and to do that, Jun had to betray someone who’d done so much for him already, without ever asking for anything in return. He had almost slugged Nino for merely suggesting such a thing, but Nino had looked him straight in the eye. “I can’t pick that many pockets in the next ninety minutes,” he’d said, acid in his tone. “It’s the only way.”

It was Yoshimoto who had been the deciding vote. “We’ll return it to him. We’ll return double what we take and more,” Yoshimoto had said, firm and confident in a way that surprised Jun. “I promise that we’ll return it. When I meet the Prince and succeed in convincing him, I’ll give from my share.”

It was easy for him to say, though. Yoshimoto didn’t know Ohno Satoshi. And who knew how difficult it might be to get funds back across the border, from Chiba to Keio? But it didn’t matter. It was Nino, Yoshimoto, and their non-refundable train tickets against Jun and the morals he thought he’d still had.

The scent of the nearby harbor stung his nostrils, a thick salty smell. The delivery truck was parked in its usual spot just outside the warehouse, the cab door unlocked. Nobody was stealing the noisy thing without getting caught. And nobody trying to steal it would think to feel around beneath the seat for the small leather pouch sewn into the upholstery. He gave it a tug, dislodging the spare warehouse key kept there. It was cold in his hand, and Jun knew this was his last chance to turn back.

Clutching the key in his fist, he used it to unlock the employee entrance as quietly as he could. Nobody would arrive until long after midnight, the fishermen usually going straight to their boats and returning only when they had the morning’s catch in tow. That meant the only person inside the warehouse was Ohno Satoshi in his small apartment upstairs behind his office. That Nino knew this, how perfect the timing was, how easily this plan had come to him, Jun knew that this had been an emergency back-up plan he’d come up with from the start. It wasn’t one he’d wanted to fall back on, because Nino knew how much Ohno meant to Jun, but now there was no other option, save for breaking into a bank vault.

The warehouse was dark, sparse moonlight streaming through the high windows that ringed the top of the building. He found his way to the stairs by memory, climbing the metal steps as quietly as he could. The seconds ticked by, and the higher he climbed, the more Jun wanted to turn and run. How could he be doing this? How could he even be doing this?

Before they’d had enough money to move into the Takamatsu Residence Block together, he and Nino had shared a small one-room place over a shoe repair shop. The lock constantly jammed, and their landlord refused to have it replaced. It was Nino, with his small hands and deft fingers, who’d taught Jun how to pick the lock for “emergency” purposes. Aside from opening the door to that apartment, Jun hadn’t used this skill since. Unlike Nino, who could probably pick a lock with one hand tied behind his back, Jun had never had an interest in breaking the law.

But here he was now, breaking the law and severing ties with a person who’d trusted him, all for his own selfish reasons. There was no coming back from this, and when Jun was living free and easy in Chiba, living off of the money Yoshimoto Koya was going to win for them, Ohno Satoshi would be here in Keio, knowing that Jun had cheated him. Because Ohno was trusting and Ohno was kind. And Ohno was smart enough to know that it had been the spare warehouse key from the delivery truck. It didn’t matter that they were going to send back everything they took. Jun doubted any amount of money would matter.

It took a few tries before he finally got the door to Ohno’s office open. By now Jun’s eyes had mostly adjusted to the low light, and he felt his way past Ohno’s desk. The safe was in the corner, and he finally allowed himself to pull Nino’s cigarette lighter from his pocket, flicking open the metal top and lighting up the dial.

He tried, in succession, the birthdays of Ohno himself, his father, mother, and sister. When those didn’t work, he moved on to other days that might have meaning for Ohno - the day he’d become captain of his own boat, the day he’d been discharged from the army. Jun was still crouched down, holding the lighter up and squinting at the dial, when the door opened behind him.

He didn’t say a word, simply shutting the lighter. He took a slow, measured breath when there was the quick little pop of electricity as Ohno turned on the overhead lamps.

“Here, let me do it.”

Jun didn’t know when he’d started crying, but it had been long before Ohno had even opened the door. He got to his feet, not bothering to wipe his eyes. “Satoshi…”

“It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary. You’d never have guessed it,” he said, and there was no anger in his voice, not even a hint of disappointment. He simply crouched down, turning the dial. “My dad set it years ago, and I never saw a reason to change it. You know me.”

“I do know you. I can explain.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, actually.” The combination entered correctly, the safe door opened and Ohno looked up at him. “How much do you need, Jun?”

He took a step back. “I can’t.”

“You got this far, come on. How much?” He’d never heard Ohno Satoshi sound so paternal before. He was only three years older than Jun, but at present, Jun was acting like a spoiled child.

He mumbled the amount, and Ohno’s only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils. When he started digging through the safe for bundles of cash, Jun broke down, sinking to the floor next to a box of old invoices, pulling his knees up and hugging them against himself. In his life, he’d hated himself before. Hated himself for not being there, at Sakura House, when he’d been needed most. Hated himself for running away. Hated himself for surviving. But those feelings, they’d eased over time. Until now. Nino had forced him to make a terrible choice, and there was no going back.

He tried to apologize, his voice garbled from his childish, hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Ohno ignored him, getting up to grab a pouch from one of his desk drawers. He then started filling it with the money from the safe, and Jun, his glasses speckled with his pathetic tears, realized that Ohno was giving him more than he’d asked for. “Stop, that’s too much.” He grabbed at his hair in frustration, yanking at the strands. “It’s too much!”

Ohno zipped up the pouch and closed the safe, getting to his feet. He’d probably been in bed for an hour, maybe a bit more. He’d always been such a sound sleeper, but it was probably for the best that Jun had been caught.

“Where we’re going, we’re going to get money. I’m going to return every bit of it to you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Ohno said quietly, holding the pouch out to him. “But you have to take it first, you know.”

Jun looked up from where he’d crumpled to the floor, a sad excuse for a friend. “I didn’t have any other choice.”

“I believe you,” Ohno said firmly. Jun thought he’d look more irritated. It was a lot of money. It was really a lot of money, and yet without asking why he’d just shoved it in a bag and handed it over.

“Satoshi…”

“I’m sure there’s someplace you have to be. Don’t be late.”

He stumbled ungracefully to his feet, taking his glasses off and wiping his eyes. He didn’t insult Ohno by offering him any more useless apologies, taking the pouch of money from his outstretched hand. “I didn’t want to do this.”

“Please leave,” Ohno said, finally letting Jun hear weariness in his tone. This amount of money, Ohno Fishmongers would survive without it. But Ohno, who hated math so much, would have to get truly creative with the ledgers now. Or maybe he’d just report a theft and see what happened. Either way, Jun would be gone. No consequences.

There was no need to be sneaky this time. Holding the pouch full of cash in hand, he tore out of Ohno’s office, racing down the stairs and out the warehouse door. He didn’t unzip it, he didn’t count it. He was almost hyperventilating when he boarded the train back to Aoyama, knowing he probably looked crazy in the eyes of his fellow passengers, who were just trying to get home after a long workday.

When he got back to Platform 23, he shoved the pouch against Nino’s chest, hard enough to send him staggering back a little. “Fuck you,” he said, looking him right in the eyes. He took Nino’s lighter from his pocket, yanking his hand hard and slapping it down into his palm. “Fuck you,” he repeated, not loud enough for the other passengers to hear, but loud enough for Nino to grasp the implications of it. What Nino had asked of him had just cost Jun one friendship. Though Jun was furious now and would be for some time, he couldn’t afford to lose Nino too.

Before Yoshimoto could intervene, not quite understanding, Nino simply bowed low, asking for forgiveness but not expecting to receive it any time soon. It was going to be a long trip to Funabori.

“Go clean yourself up,” Nino said as he straightened up, his voice almost devoid of its usual flippant tone. “We’ll board when you’re ready.”

—then—

17th Infantry Regiment, Army of General Kondo
Outside Toranomon, Workers’ Republic of Minato

Of the half dozen challengers that have raised armies of their own, he doesn’t think General Kondo is going to win the day. Jun’s just a grunt, another body listed on the roster, but they’ve been dug in outside Toranomon for a month now. If Kondo really wants to take Keio, they ought to have left already.

But that’s fine by Jun. It’s the height of summer, and carrying his full pack, which probably weighs about as much as he does, is agony in the heat. Toranomon’s still loyal to Kitagawa, likely because it’s a town full of factories, organized laborers. Towns like Toranomon welcomed the Glorious Revolt with open arms, shed no tears when the royal family was murdered a year later, cheered when Kitagawa then crushed the Loyalist armies in a matter of months.

But now that Kitagawa’s sitting in Keio getting fat, the cycle’s repeating itself. The men who got behind Kitagawa want a bigger slice for themselves. If General Kitagawa, who’d been born in a slum, could depose King Hiroki and then give the order to kill the man and his family, then why couldn’t someone else do it to him? The armies scattered across the plains and fields of Minato, their generals turn with a quickness that leaves most people reeling. Nobody is loyal to anyone. Each general (or even an upstart colonel) has their grand plan for saving Minato, and they’ll kill anyone who gets in their way.

The Kingdom of Kansai, still shocked by the slaughter of Minato’s ruling family and elite, has refused to give aid. Minato’s years of aid both financial and physical during the Western War don’t matter now, not when the country’s up for grabs. Not when the man who sent Kansai assistance was riddled with bullets in the cellar of his summer estate two years back. Chiba and many other nations are watching from the sidelines as well, watching Minato destroy itself from the inside. All the countries that still have monarchies and don’t want to risk a repeat are starting to treat their citizens like human beings, not just chess pieces to be sent to the front lines or taxed to death.

Jun was promised meals and a living wage for signing away a few years of his life. By willingly signing on, having no other prospects and not being foolish enough to tell any army recruiter where he’d grown up, he doesn’t have the worst assignment in camp. His poor eyesight helps too. Jun is a courier, responsible for delivering messages from General Kondo’s chief of staff, Major General Takahashi, to the various regiments. He doesn’t need good eyes to carry the metal tubes they use, orders and directives rolled up tight and shoved inside.

When they’re on the march, Jun isn’t always marching. He’s running. Back and forth down the line, again and again because Colonel So-and-so wants more clarification or Lieutenant Commander Whiny Face is pissed off that rations are getting cut again. It’s been three months since they’ve even been in battle, not that Jun’s eager for another one. Those are the days when his position may kill him. He’s not on the front lines, he’s not charging at the enemy, but on the days when Kondo feels like wasting ammunition and human life, in that order of importance, Jun’s running even faster to deliver the orders. Friendly fire nearly took his head off once, but he’d lived to run another day with only a graze to his ear.

He’s been part of a rear guard in a few skirmishes, if only because of deserters. Loyalty’s not so strong in Kondo’s army, not lately. He hasn’t killed anyone, and for that he feels fortunate. He’s been taught to assemble, load, and fire his rifle. He’s been taught that in close quarters it’s best to save the bullets and use his bayonet to gut someone. He hopes he never has to put these teachings into practice. And with the way things are going, he probably won’t have to.

He wasn’t yet eighteen when he signed on, but at that point it was still just one big army, Kitagawa’s, and nobody was checking. Once they all started to fracture, Jun found himself under General Kondo and since he was the fastest runner in his unit (on account of being skinny as hell with nothing to lose) he received his promotion to ferrying messages from Kondo’s second-in-command to all the other officers. It’s been more than a year of this, marching, fighting, gaining a town or two. Marching, fighting, losing it to someone else. Running, running, running, and getting nowhere.

There’s little for a courier to do when an army’s been camped for a month. The messages he carries now aren’t tactical plans or intel about the enemy’s camp. Half of it’s Takahashi seeing who’s still around, who has the best black market source in Toranomon since they’re running low on supplies across the board. The idle time is making the men stir crazy, and they wonder what will happen to them if Kitagawa holds on to power or if one of the other factions will take his place. What will that mean for the thousands that make up Kondo’s army?

Takahashi’s finished with Jun for the day, and he’s told to work the mess in the 17th because they’re still short handed. Of all his assignments, Jun likes this one the best. Sure, he’s had surly infantrymen spit in his face because there’s no meat on the tray again, sorry. He’s been caught in a food fight that was more needlessly wasteful than fun. But working the mess in the 17th means he can be close to Ohno-san, and that’s worth it.

Ohno Satoshi is a fishing boat captain, and he was initially snapped up for naval duty mere days after the Revolt. He was nineteen then and he’s twenty-two now. When Kitagawa murdered the Sakurai family and nobody stopped him, he funneled money into the army instead of the navy. No boats from Chiba or Kansai were going to storm into Keio Bay seeking vengeance. Instead the army’s ranks swelled to keep the peace, soldiers garrisoned inside and outside towns large and small as the Kingdom became the Republic.

Ohno says that on his ship he was a Lieutenant Junior Grade on account of his experience at sea. He was in charge of the torpedo bays, but they never fired a shot. Moved to Kondo’s army, he’s all but won the lottery, put in charge of the mess hall for the 17th. Like Jun he knows how to fire a gun and use a bayonet, but the only things he stabs are food tins, prying them open and hoping for the best with what they’ve been able to procure. Ohno feeds the 17th, and ever since he lost half of his crew, part of a mass desertion that almost wiped the 17th from existence, Jun’s been tasked with helping him feed the ones who remain.

And it’s Ohno who helps Jun to find a reason to stay alive.

It’s easier, during the day when he has a job to do. Messages to carry and meals to serve. But at night when the camp goes to sleep, it’s hard. It’s really hard. Jun’s been alone for almost two years now, and he’s fairly certain he sleepwalked through most of that time. March, shit in a hole, run messages, sleep. March, shit in a hole, run messages, sleep. Thinking about Sakura House, thinking about Sho, fuck, thinking about his mother? For almost two years it was nothing but a low buzz in the back of his mind, an insect trapped in another room.

But now when there’s no fighting, when they aren’t going anywhere, it’s flooding in. He’s had bad dreams after battles, seeing men fall, but now that there’s no battles in the forefront of his mind, it’s just Sakura House. It’s Gunma Town in flames. It’s his mother putting her love for them ahead of her love for him and he doesn’t see the point of any of it. They’re gone. Every single one of them, gone. He never took the time to grieve, to do things the right way, and now it’s just Jun in his tent at night, listening to the snores of his bunkmate, staring up at the canvas knowing the world’s changed and there’s no way to go back. And there’s nothing to go back to. It eats away and it eats away and it eats away, but at least there’s Ohno and Jun isn’t devoured whole.

They were cleaning up one night, scrubbing pots and pans, and Ohno-san was never very talkative, but that night it had been his mother’s birthday. “I miss her. I miss her a whole lot.” And he’d gone on and on, talking more than Jun had ever heard him, listing things about his mother that he loved. The way she cooked his favorite foods, the way she yelled at him when his boat came in late with a catch, her scent and her smile. All the things waiting for him at home.

“What about you, Matsumoto-kun?” Ohno had asked.

For the first time in more than a year, someone had asked Jun about himself. He’d stood there, scrub brush in hand. “They killed my mother, and I wasn’t there when she died,” he’d said, saying it out loud for the first time. Putting the words together, speaking them. And then it was too much. “They killed my mother, and I wasn’t there when she died. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there.”

Ohno had walked over. He’d taken the brush from his hand. He didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t say anything. He was smaller than Jun, and it might have looked funny to anyone else, seeing him open his arms so Jun could have someone to hold onto, for the first time since he’d bid his mother farewell and stolen Yama from the stable because she asked him to.

After that first night, Ohno became his friend. The only one Jun really has in the whole world.

It’s easier now, since Ohno knows everything. Jun’s told Ohno enough to get himself killed. He’s told Ohno about his life at Mita Palace, his life alongside Sho and the Sakurai family. He’s told Ohno about leaving Keio behind for Sakura House, the long uncertain months there. He’s told Ohno about the plot to save them and how it all went so wrong. With all that Ohno knows and could tell someone, Jun might be accused of Loyalist sympathies and executed on the spot.

But Ohno doesn’t tell a soul, and for that reason, Jun decides that even after all he’s lost, it’s better to stay alive. To live another day. His world’s turned upside down the last few years, but not everything is bad. There’s the 17th regiment’s mess tent and crappy tinned food. There’s the days and days outside Toranomon, staying put instead of riding into a bloody battle. There’s the sunrise and the sunset and the birds that fly over camp, unchanging. He gathers these reasons, each of them, and he writes them on scraps of paper, keeps them in his pillowcase. There’s Ohno’s smiles and quiet chuckles, and Jun decides that it’s enough.

—now—

Aboard the Great Eastern Express (Keio-Funabori)
Near Shiba Forest, Workers’ Republic of Minato

By now he’d grown used to the rumbling of the train, the constant hum beneath his feet and the sounds of passengers in the corridor. Compartment 7 of their second class carriage was paid for at a high and unforgivable price, and Koya had never seen Matsumoto and Ninomiya go so long without speaking.

It had been easier the night before. Shortly after their departure, Nino had taken Koya to the dining car, where they’d stayed until it closed for the night. Koya had wanted to ask questions, to ask Nino if he and Matsumoto were going to talk through their problems, but Nino had dodged with his usual expert precision. Instead of hiding away in their compartment, Nino thought it was best to be out in the open, to be seen by others on the train, to make small talk with the serving staff in the dining car. “Easier to blend in if you act like you belong,” Nino had explained.

Guards went through every hour, looking for someone to slip up. But during their stay in the dining car, Nino spending some of their new, but unearned money on a three course meal and cocktails, the guards moved past them without so much as a travel visa check. Their dinner conversation revolved entirely around Nino’s parents, who ran an inn not far from Funabori. Once they “achieved success,” Nino said, alluding to their plans in Maku-Harihongo, he planned to send word to them so they might join him in Chiba. For the first time, Koya learned that Nino’s ambitions regarding money weren’t entirely self-serving.

By the time the dining car closed and they made it back to their compartment, Matsumoto was already asleep, curled up on the seats to one side, his back to them.

“He’s going to sulk for a while,” was all Nino had to say about that before closing and locking their compartment door. Before Koya could protest, Nino set his coat down on the floor of the compartment and went to sleep, leaving the other cushioned seats for Koya’s use. Nino clearly felt guilty for what he’d made Matsumoto do, but he wasn’t yet ready to talk about it.

Koya woke to find Nino already gone, opening his eyes to see the empty floor of their compartment and Matsumoto across from him staring out the window. “He’s gone for breakfast in the dining car,” Matsumoto said. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unkempt. For as long as he’d known him, Matsumoto was a neat, well-groomed person. Today he’d clearly skipped a washing up in the carriage washroom, his tie loosely knotted and the lightest peppering of stubble on his fair skin.

“Have you eaten?” Koya asked.

Matsumoto’s gaze didn’t leave the glass, his eyes barely focused as soaring cedars and fields of melting snow flew by outside. “Not hungry.”

“I’ll return soon,” Koya said, feeling awkward and embarrassed as he got up on his tiptoes to pull down his bag, digging around for his toiletries, a clean dress shirt, and underwear. Matsumoto said nothing as he let himself out of the compartment. He relieved himself, shaved and washed his face, cleaned his teeth. He applied his pain cream, wincing as the train jostled him around while he tried to rub it in. When he was finished, he stared at himself in the tiny mirror.

Mimura Takuya, second class passenger, stared back.

He returned to the compartment, seeing that Matsumoto had apparently not moved yet. He put his things back in his bag and departed again without speaking, finding Nino in the dining car. He was having breakfast with a well-dressed couple, laughing as they peeled some hard-boiled eggs.

Nino waved him over, and he knew he couldn’t hesitate. He sat down beside Nino and was quickly introduced to Matsuoka Masahiro, a jovial fellow with a noisy laugh. An obviously wealthy merchant from Funabori, the woman beside him was not his wife. Nino always seemed to find the most interesting people to gravitate to. Koya hoped that Nino didn’t have any plans to pick pockets or break into compartments while on board.

Nino deftly managed the conversation, making sure fresh coffee, eggs, and toast were brought over for Koya while also steering Matsuoka and his mistress away from asking any questions about their journey. Instead Koya barely said a thing while Nino got Matsuoka talking about his business, about Funabori and the current economic climate there compared to Keio.

Matsuoka had been booked in first class and was one of those demoted to second class, which brought about a more hushed conversation, complaining about how everything had gone down at the last minute. Nino handled every aspect of the conversation with comfort and ease, pocketing Matsuoka’s business card and making plans to meet up for dinner and cigars if they could talk their way into the first class dining car. Without Nino’s social agility, Koya figured he’d be doomed. He didn’t have the stomach for lying or making small talk, although he’d certainly have to get better at it once he found his way to a meeting with Prince Masaki of Chiba.

Meal finished, Matsuoka escorted his lady friend from the car, waving goodbye. Nino visibly shrunk, his posture less controlled as staff cleared their plates. “I hate people like that. Rich fools with more money than common sense. I don’t know what’s worse, the thugs in the government or the members of the so-called Workers’ Republic who don’t work but collect money all the same,” Nino grumbled under his breath.

Koya was shocked. “But you spent the better part of an hour talking with him like the best of friends.”

Nino elbowed him. “It’s practice, for buttering up our future friend in Chiba. The subtle, nuanced art of ass kissing and pretending you give a shit. I’m happy to offer lessons.”

He frowned. While Nino was in here honing his strange skill set, Matsumoto was suffering in silence. “Do you intend to spend the entire journey hiding in here from Matsumoto-kun?”

Nino snatched a newspaper from one of the passing staff members, not in the mood to correct Koya for not using their aliases. “I’m not hiding. I’m giving him space. It’s how the two of us haven’t killed each other all these years.”

Koya was taken aback slightly by Nino’s admission. He realized that after all the time knowing them, he had yet to ask much about how they’d come to live together. “How long have you known each other?”

Nino opened the newspaper, eyes drifting across the page though Koya knew he was only doing it to behave as expected. “A decade. We met when I tried to pick his pocket.”

“What?” Koya exclaimed, and Nino shot him a dirty look. He lowered his voice. “Why?”

“He was in Aoyama Station, just discharged from the army…or more like the army discharged itself, once Kondo surrendered and Sanma was running Minato. Figured he’d gotten his final army wages as a severance, was coming to Keio to look for work and I gave it a try.”

“And?”

Nino had an amused little glimmer in his eyes. “And he broke my arm for it.” Nino held up a finger before Koya could express his shock noisily once more. “I got over it. Liked him from the start, Jun-kun. All the years I’d been in Keio, I never met anyone as stubborn as him. Nobody as decent either.”

“Why would a decent person live with…” Koya lowered his voice. “…someone like you?”

Nino’s smile changed his whole face, made him look years younger. “Whatever your stance is on whether or not I deserved to have my arm broken for petty theft, our Jun-kun felt miserable about it. He abhors violence. Life he’s had, I can’t blame him. To quote unquote ‘make it up’ to me, he came by the piece of shit hovel I was living in every day to bring me a hot meal while my arm was broken. By the time I was out of my sling, we were friends. He’s never had many, you know.”

Somehow, Koya knew that without Nino having to say it. Guilt hit Koya hard, his head aching. There was no reason for Yoshimoto Koya to feel that way, nor Mimura Takuya. Koya did his best to ignore it, the guilt that Sakurai Sho felt.

“He’s a good man,” Nino admitted. “I don’t deserve a friend like him. Just lucky, I suppose.”

“Will he be alright?”

Nino nodded. “In time, yes. But for now, it’s best that he doesn’t see my face.” Nino turned the next page of the newspaper, wiggling his fingers. “I’d rather not have any more broken bones in my lifetime.”

“I don’t think he’s had much to eat since we’ve gone. I’ll bring him something.”

“If he bites your head off, he doesn’t mean it,” Nino told him, resting a hand on Koya’s sleeve. “Especially since you’re…”

Koya had a hard time speaking. “Since I’m what?”

Nino rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t suit you, Yoshimo-chan.”

He felt suddenly warm, uncomfortable and like Nino had just turned a spotlight on him. Koya was a mess. His brain, his memories, it was all a mess. And that was without factoring in Matsumoto Jun and what he’d obviously meant to Sakurai Sho. And what Sakurai Sho meant to him.

Koya got to his feet, leaving Nino to his newspapers and his intelligence gathering in the dining car. The dining car was soon changing over to lunch service, and Koya was able to talk one of the hostesses into giving him some sandwiches to take back to the compartment.

When he returned, Matsumoto was leaning back against the compartment wall, reading a book. When he looked up, large brown eyes meeting his own, Koya stumbled over his words. “Sand…sandwiches. You need to eat something.”

Matsumoto bent down the corner of the page he was reading, accepting the food with a murmured thank you.

He sat across from him, nervous. If only Nino hadn’t said anything. “I…uh, I forgot to get you something to drink. What shall I get you?”

“You’ll be a prince soon,” Matsumoto said, nibbing the corner of the sandwich. “No need to go fetching something for a commoner.”

Koya looked down, trying to lose himself in the pinstripe pattern of his slacks. “Sorry.”

“Princes don’t apologize.”

At that, he couldn’t help looking up, the words hitting him like a slap to the face. “What did you just say?”

Matsumoto swallowed, wiping a few crumbs from his lap. “I said ‘princes don’t apologize.’ It’s something I heard quite often, growing up.”

“From Sakurai Sho?”

“From everyone else.” Matsumoto cocked his head. “He was mean sometimes, Sho-kun. They said it to excuse how he treated me.”

He leaned back against the seat, hearing the train continue steaming along. Lately he’d found it easy to imagine Matsumoto Jun, a younger version of him. He’d seen no pictures, but Koya sometimes dreamed of him, could easily picture a thin slip of a boy with crooked teeth and shining eyes. He could imagine strange jokes told poorly, clumsy hands on piano keys. Most of Matsumoto’s lessons were impersonal - staff members, facts about the palace and the Sakurai family. But there’d always been a thread in the background, something waiting to be tugged, explored more fully. Matsumoto spoke about himself very rarely, little beyond insinuating that he and Sakurai Sho had been very close.

But maybe he didn’t have to speak of it. Maybe it was something that didn’t have to be taught but simply remembered.

“If he was mean to you, why did you stay friends?”

Matsumoto chuckled softly, a warm sound that made Koya ache whenever he heard it. Probably because of its rarity. “He wasn’t always mean. And besides, he’d been told from birth that he would rule millions of people. That would give anyone a big head. I suppose I helped keep him grounded sometimes.”

“By calling him Sho-kun?”

There was a handsomeness to Matsumoto’s face that was difficult to ignore. The boyish way his hair fell across his brow. The curve of his mouth when he smiled, the intensity of feeling in his gaze that he never tried too hard to hide. Koya received a smile from Matsumoto then, genuine and true. It made his heart race in the best way, try as he did to pay no mind to it.

“Yeah, that was part of it. And since I was given the opportunity to study and learn when I could, he discovered that he wasn’t as smart as everyone told him he was. If the kitchen boy could do sums as well as he could, then what was the difference between a prince and a servant really?”

Koya couldn’t help smiling in return. “I bet he didn’t like when you proved that point to him.”

He could have sworn Matsumoto was blushing, adjusting in his seat so he could move his book out of the way. “I was Sho-kun’s friend, but he was also mine. He talked to me almost every day. He told me things he didn’t tell anyone else. He trusted me. The future king, and he always included me. In lessons, in games. He got me out of chores all the time, lying about needing a sparring partner for kendo practice or asking me to help him with his studies. I should have been nobody to him, just another servant. He broke the rules, what was expected of him. For me.”

Koya thought of the look Matsumoto had given him when the walls of Mita Palace had crumbled before them. He thought of how Matsumoto had touched him, his fingers wrapped tight around his wrist, the way he said “Sho-kun.” There was something that Koya was deliberately ignoring. It was there, inside the room that he still didn’t feel brave enough to enter. The room where he was Sakurai Sho and all the flashes and images from his dreams weren’t dreams at all but memories. Where everything was real, including Matsumoto Jun. Not just the man sitting before him with his five o’clock shadow and tired eyes, but also a teenage boy who sometimes spoke out of turn and cried so easily.

A person who’d been such a large part of his life, locked away the same as everything else that had happened to him before he’d woken up in Kamezuka Hospital.

“I’m sorry if I’m a poor substitute for him.”

Matsumoto’s eyes widened. “Koya-san…”

He cleared his throat. “I know you were reading, but it might be best to give me a refresher course. I want to do my best when we reach Chiba, especially after all the time you’ve spent on me. Would it be a bother?”

Koya saw how quickly Matsumoto could change. From the open, smiling man speaking of a childhood lost and back to the solemn instructor who betrayed little emotion at all. Matsumoto shifted back so smoothly, it made Koya feel even worse. “What needs refreshing most?”

“The timeline,” he said, hoping he didn’t look as sad as he suddenly felt. “After the Glorious Revolt, the bits of the timeline that only those in the palace would have known.”

Matsumoto simply nodded and began to talk, the words flowing from him with clinical detachment, as though he was reciting from a history book and not events he’d lived through. And Koya sat there, Mimura Takuya sat there, Sakurai Sho sat there, trying to absorb it all again and ignore how easily Matsumoto Jun was sneaking into his heart and taking up more space with every passing day.

Part Five