Blind Love

by Sedonia Guillone

  Hirata broke out into a cold sweat in spite of the warm air. No other word could describe Sho’s expression or his tone but bloodlust. “Sho, I wouldn’t let you. I can’t allow it.”

  “Why? You wish to defend him?” Sho’s chest was heaving. Rage contorted his features.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t wish for you to kill. You’ve already killed in my defense.”

  “Not defense this time, Hirata. Revenge.”

  Hirata rose up and grasped Sho’s upper arms. “Sho, please. I didn’t mean to tell you.”

  “You mean you would have kept it hidden from me?” Sho’s rage shifted to hurt.

  Hirata looked down. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… it’s a shameful thing. I provoked him. I must have.”

  “No, Hirata.” Sho’s hands flew to his cheeks and cupped his face. Sho’s eyes blazed as if he were trying to see Hirata and stare into his eyes. “No. You couldn’t have. You were still nearly a child. An innocent. You must believe me. I beg you to believe me.” Sho grew quiet except for his ragged breathing. His very expression beseeched Hirata.

  Hirata’s lip trembled. Perhaps he’d let slip the truth just so this would happen, so that Sho would get angry and want to avenge him before saying words that comforted him more than anything else ever could. Words that washed away years of shame the way rain could cleanse the entire world in a few moments of falling. Perhaps he’d known deep in his heart that Sho would do and say all these things and make it better. “All right, Sho,” he murmured, “I believe you. I promise.”

  Sho was quiet for what felt like a long time, remaining with his hands on Hirata’s cheeks. The only sound was the birdsong in the trees. “Hirata,” he finally said, his voice heavy, “you are the truest samurai I could ever imagine knowing.” He paused while Hirata’s heart pounded. “And the truest friend. If we live another fifty years, it won’t be enough time to apologize to you.”

  “Sho….” Hirata forced himself back from reaching out and pulling Sho into an embrace. Before he could say more, the door to the house slid open. Both he and Sho looked at once in the direction of the sound.

  Toho stood in the doorway, his face sleepy. “Jiro-san?”

  Sho turned to him. “I’m here.” With obvious hesitation, he released Hirata and held out his arms. “Come.”

  Immediately the boy stepped down and crossed over to him. Without another word Toho dropped into Sho’s lap, allowing himself to be wrapped up in Sho’s embrace. Toho closed his eyes and buried his face into the hollow of Sho’s shoulder.

  Sho held the boy close, resting his cheek on Toho’s head. Sorrow and affection softened Sho’s chiseled features.

  The sight made Hirata’s heart feel as if it would melt. They sat that way for a long while as dusk approached. A gentle breeze blew over. The world felt so hushed, peaceful. As if nothing could be wrong anywhere.

  “I’m sorry, Hirata,” Sho murmured. His voice, his demeanor were both softer now.

  Hirata felt the shift as it happened, like a hand caressing his soul, as if the softening had occurred in his own heart. Warmth spread through his limbs. “Please don’t be. You’ve helped me more in this last moment than you can ever know.”

  Sho sighed. “It’s the very least I could do. I’ll never be able to make things right.” He cradled the boy’s head, his hand underneath the tie on the crown of his skull. “Toho is only a little younger than you and I were when we were… separated.”

  Hirata cleared his throat, which began to tighten. “Yes.”

  “He reminds me of how vulnerable children are, how powerless we both were.”

  Hirata fought back a rush of emotion. He nodded. “Yes, we were.”

  Another breeze passed over, rustling the tea-whisk-like brush of Toho’s hair confined by its tie. “As the years passed, I told myself you were better off, that you had your family, your father’s school to inherit. You had the whole world at your feet. But now I know it wasn’t that way for you. Not at all.”

  Hirata sat up straight and leaned in slightly toward Sho, as if propelled merely by the force of Sho’s words. “I suppose not.”

  “Even if you had, you gave it up to look for me.” Guilt saturated Sho’s voice.

  A pang squeezed Hirata’s heart. In the wake of Sho’s apology, he couldn’t let Sho believe that was the whole truth. “Sho, I would have left anyway. I couldn’t stay there anymore. Not after what… happened.”

  Sho was quiet, seeming to digest this confession. “Still, I remember, Hirata, the day Ichi-san came for me. You pulled me away. You risked shaming your father and enduring great punishment to prevent me from having to leave. Who could blame you for leaving after… what happened to you? Even then, upon leaving, you may not have wandered homeless for ten years. You may have found a new home. Perhaps you would have become a retainer to a provincial lord. You endured more hardship than you would have for the sake of finding me.”

  “Nothing is of greater value than friendship,” Hirata murmured, his throat tight.

  Sho nodded and rested his cheek again on the child’s head. “Yes. Which is why I’ll… never mind.”

  “No, what?”

  Sho lifted his face and shook his head. “No. I was merely going to start another argument with you. I just know it.” He sighed again. “Since you found me I’ve done nothing else but pick fights with you.”

  “That’s not true. You saved my life.”

  Sho paused and let out a wry chuckle. “Extremes, Hirata. Nothing in between.”

  Sho sounded so remorseful, and his distress for the child was so obvious, Hirata wanted only to comfort him. Without thinking, he reached out and grasped his friend’s shoulder. The hard muscle was warm under his hand, through the soft material of Sho’s kimono. “Perhaps we can try in between for a while and see what happens.”

  Sho’s eyebrows rose for just a second and Hirata recognized that he’d startled his friend with an unexpected response. But in the next second, Sho smiled, seeming relieved and grateful at once. “All right. I’d like that.”

  Hirata gave Sho’s shoulder a squeeze then released him. “I know neither of us is given to moderation.”

  Sho exhaled and caressed Toho’s hair again, the gesture hinting that he was about to refer to the child without wanting him to catch it. “True, but there’s one thing that I’m finding should never be given in moderation. Always in abundance.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Compassion.”

  Hirata’s heart thumped. That melting feeling took him over again. “Yes,” he said softly. “That’s true.”

  SHO’S WORDS rang through Hirata’s mind as the sun set and then long into the evening. They manifested in Sho’s constant care and patience with Toho, who never spoke a word except to occasionally utter Sho’s name—Jiro-san—when he wanted Sho’s attention. Otherwise, the boy simply acted as Sho’s shadow. Wherever Sho went, even just from one side of the small house to the other, Toho was there, at his heels. When Sho sat, Toho sat, his face bowed down, staring at his hands.

  Things went on this way in the days that followed. As Hirata’s strength came back and his wound healed, he made an effort to live the “in-between” way they’d agree on and noticed that Sho did the same. Sho was preoccupied with caring for Toho and seemed content to have Hirata’s support in taking care of mundane tasks.

  And yet, because he had now healed, he also waited for Sho to tell him to leave. He didn’t dare bring the matter of his leaving up with Sho, who seemed to rely on his help. No doubt, when the boy returned to his family’s care, Sho would tell him to leave. In the meantime, Hirata did what he knew best—he assisted. The way he had all those years in his father’s dojo, he simply did what was asked of him—helped Sho to clean and put away his needles, sweep the floor, wash their bowls after they ate, and set out their futons for sleeping.

  “Put our beds close together, please, Hirata,” Sho said, his hands busy with combing Toho’s ha
ir. The boy sat in his usual quiet kneeling posture, hands on his lap, face down. “Toho will sleep between us.”

  “Of course.” For some reason, Sho always said that even though he’d prepared the bedding the same way for nearly a fortnight.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Why would I? He’ll feel safer.” And, Hirata loved the way Sho’s feet sometimes rested against his when they lay close enough.

  Sho bowed his head, as if embarrassed. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Hirata smiled at him. Guiltily, he caught himself wondering yet again when Toho would return home. As promised, Heizo and his wife brought food for them nearly every day, taking the burden of food preparation from them, yet each time they came, worried they were imposing terribly on Sho’s kindness, Sho assured them he was happy to look after Toho. Hirata always felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Not that he didn’t care for the boy, he just couldn’t help feeling envious of the attention Sho lavished on Toho. It seemed he and Sho would not have any time alone to renew their friendship. Not that Sho wanted to do so. Hirata inwardly scolded himself for such selfishness. At least he was here with Sho, day and night.

  He watched Sho finally put away the comb.

  “All right, Toho-kun….” Sho passed a hand gently down the boy’s hair. “You’re ready now. Time to sleep.”

  Obediently Toho lay down on his side, facing Sho.

  Sho took his hand and held it. “You’re a good boy,” he murmured. Sadness enveloped Sho’s features. He was quiet for several moments, stroking the boy’s hair while holding his hand. After a little while, Sho bent lower, over Toho, listening. “He’s asleep,” he whispered to Hirata. He straightened yet still kept a gentle hold on Toho’s hand. “He sleeps very deeply, until the nightmares wake him. Until then, you could pass a crowd of people through here and he wouldn’t hear them.”

  Hirata nodded. “Yes.” He thought Sho would lie down and urge him to do the same, but then Sho carefully released Toho’s hand and sat, his gaze trained downward, as if he were watching over the child.

  Sho nodded. “It’s unbearable.”

  Hirata’s heart thumped. “I know, Sho-chan.” He took care to speak as softly as Sho did. Not that he understood specifically what Sho was talking about.

  Sho jerked his head up. He looked about to blurt out a retort but then sighed. “Yes, you do understand.” The lantern light glowed off Sho’s perfect skin, and Hirata watched emotions pass over his face. “Hirata, I will never be able to take back the way I’ve treated you, but I want to make amends… if I can.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Please, don’t stop me.” Sho’s voice had a pleading tone Hirata had never heard in it before. “If you think Toho’s suffering is the only suffering I feel and not yours, you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t think that, Sho-chan. But I don’t feel you ever need to make amends. I understand.”

  Sho was quiet a moment. “So you don’t want me to tell you the truth about how I feel?”

  “Of course I do!” Hirata’s heart pounded and his cheeks burned.

  Sho took a deep breath. “Because that’s what my amends is. To bare my heart with you as you’ve done with me. To tell you things I had intended to hide always. Even from myself.”

  Hirata froze. “Oh, I see.”

  “After we were… separated,” Sho began, “I cried. Every night for a year. I tried to hide my tears from Ichi-san, but you know how sharply we both can hear.”

  Hirata swallowed hard. To think of Sho crying that way, so alone and sad. And frightened. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “I do know.”

  “I couldn’t bear the pain of missing you, Hirata. It was almost worse than being away from my parents. As time passed, so often I wanted to come home, just for a visit. But then I’d think, what if Hirata doesn’t feel the same way about me anymore? What if he’s moved on? Found another friend, a samurai with whom he can spar? No doubt your father’s dojo had handsome students who could have won your affections. I’d just be the lowly blind anma you once played with as a child. Even the pain of leaving my parents couldn’t compare to that.”

  Hirata stared at him. This confession was the last he’d expected Sho to give, not after the cold way Sho had first denied even knowing him and then had ordered him to be gone. The only reason they were in the same room together now was because their fight with the deadly ronin had forced Sho to nurse his old friend’s wounds. What would have happened had those criminals never emerged from the grasses?

  And yet, even as Sho’s explanation sank into Hirata’s heart, Hirata felt as hurt as he did elated. “Sho, how could you think so little of me that you would believe, even for a moment I wouldn’t have been overjoyed to see you again? How could you have thought anyone could ever take your place in my heart? And so easily?”

  In the shadowy light, Hirata saw that Sho was trembling. The other man’s shoulders quaked under the soft dark cloth of his kimono. Sho’s head remained bowed, his hands now on the bedding, using them to support his sagging torso. “Because, Hirata, I’m not like you. You never suspected for a moment I would feel differently about you once we were together again. You are full of faith in life. Instead of faith, I abandoned you. I betrayed you in every way. Not only did I never tell you where I was, but I demonized you in your absence in order to deal with the pain.”

  Hirata suppressed a strong impulse to reach out and pull Sho to him. To do so, he risked disturbing the child sleeping between them. In stopping himself, he became aware that his own body quaked. “Sho, I—”

  “My response to you when you appeared was unforgivable, Hirata.” Sho’s voice now trembled as much as his body. When Sho lifted his face, Hirata saw tear tracks on Sho’s planed cheeks. “You gave me faith and loyalty and unending love. I gave you shit.” Sho’s trembling increased until his entire body shook with the emotions passing through it. “And now that I know what happened to you… my crime is even greater.”

  Now Hirata leaned forward and grasped Sho by the shoulders. “Sho, I beg you, listen. As you begged me earlier.”

  Sho turned his face upward as if to look Hirata in the eyes. As always, Sho’s eyes looked off in a different direction, but Hirata knew Sho was obeying his plea.

  “We were forced apart all those years ago. You dealt with the pain as best you could, and so did I. But now, we’re both here. I just reach out my hands and I can touch you.” With each word, Hirata felt inspiration grip him as he gripped his friend’s shoulders. “Nothing else matters.” His voice was now a tight whisper. “Nothing. I can hear your voice and you can hear mine. Finally I can see your face again and you, mine.” He released Sho and picked up his hands, placing them, palms down, over his face.

  Sho’s tremulous breath huffed into the air. Tentatively, he began to feel around—his fingertips explored Hirata’s cheeks, his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, and his forehead. Then down, along his jaw. Back over his lips. “You’re just as I remember,” he breathed.

  Tears rushed Hirata’s eyes. The moisture spilled out, and Sho gathered it onto several fingertips, which he then brought to his own lips and tasted. “Now you’re inside me, Hirata.” He slid the pads of his fingers down Hirata’s cheek again. “I lied to you about the stone too. I didn’t just wear it all this time only because I promised you I’d always keep it. I wore it because it was something you’d touched.”

  “You don’t need to explain.” Joy washed away every cruel word that had passed between them in the recent days. Hirata could feel only what he always had felt for Sho—undying love. Sho had said everything he wanted to hear.

  Well, not everything. Sho hadn’t said he could stay. But now was not the time to press such an issue. Sho had only admitted his true feelings in order to make amends. This didn’t erase the way Sho saw himself, as someone who lived on the sword’s edge, far from the possibility of steady companionship or friendship. Somehow, Hirata knew in the deepest reaches of his soul that Sho would still hold to what he
saw as an enforced and crucial solitude.

  Sho lifted his hand away from Hirata’s cheek and sank back onto his heels. “I don’t deserve you, Hirata. Now I know that I must be alone as my penance. You are better than the most noble prince. You deserve someone as true and fine as you are.”

  Hirata too sank back down. His chest felt as if a rock had been shoved against it. But he didn’t dare start an argument with Sho now. Not in the presence of the fragile boy. He glanced down at the sleeping child. “Let’s not worry about it right now, Sho. The boy needs our help. I’ll wait until you say I’m well enough to travel. All right?”

  Sho was quiet. Then he nodded. “All right.” Another moment passed and then, “Perhaps we should get some sleep.”

  Hirata nodded even though Sho couldn’t see the gesture. “Yes.” Without another word, he lowered himself and lay on his back next to Toho. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sho do the same. Realizing then he’d forgotten to extinguish the lantern, he started to rise and then lay back down. Of course, Sho wouldn’t see the light still burning but it didn’t matter. This way, Hirata could turn his head and see Sho, who was turned toward him on his side, facing Toho.

  “Sleep well, Hirata.”

  “You too.”

  THE SOUND of whimpers pulled Hirata from sleep. He opened his eyes. The lantern still burned, illuminating Toho squirming and crying.

  “Shhh.” Sho was up and comforting Toho already with a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s all right. A bad dream.” Sho moved closer and pulled Toho against him, holding him close and stroking his hair. “You’re safe now. Shhh.”

  Hirata rose on his elbow. “Do you need anything?” he asked Sho.

  “No, thank you. Just your presence close by is enough.” Sho rocked the boy. “He’ll fall back asleep soon. Sorry to have woken you.”

  “Please… don’t be sorry.” Hirata watched them. How many nights had he awoken well before dawn, sweating from reliving in his dreams the horrible scene when Sho was ripped from him? Only there had been no one to comfort him and help him fall back to sleep. His and Sho’s separation had not been an issue of concern in the household once Sho was gone. There was too much else to worry about in running his father’s school in an age where the art of swordsmanship was waning.