Tomorrow Will Be Sunny

The last train could've departed that abandoned station years ago or perhaps decades ago. It didn't matter.

The lights had all but fizzled out, dead stars in an unforgiving sky. The loose planks rattled as the gust blew past them, the rain pounding the roof, water seeping in through the leakage. Rats skittered about the ground before scurrying into the darkness, into the dense overgrowth, into the fog and frost.

Shoukaku slept on through it all, her back against the wall, with only a worn coat about one size too large to keep her warm, which became damp all too quickly. Her slumber was an uneasy one, Lieutenant Ohtori Kensaku noted. It was always like that when she was on her own. Whimpering, flinching, shivering, muttering under her breath. She could be dreaming of their lost love again or something else no less painful. But it was as if she fought back, resisting the urge to wake up only to break down. She held her sword close, but the meaning of it was lost to him.

His own dirk had been lost, taken as a trophy by a nameless Allied soldier, along with many of the things he happened to have on his person back then. She had told him she'd get rid of that sword soon enough. He'd never brought it up again; it was probably a good idea to hold on to it longer, even though they weren't hiding from anything.

Except, maybe, from the past.

He was tired of the taste and scent of tobacco, but it did keep his mind off other things, like the gnawing hunger and the nipping cold. He wouldn't light another one after this, he promised himself, just like he did a few cigarettes ago. But he meant it now—they still had a long way to go.

For how much longer? That, he couldn't really tell. They knew where to go, at least. Just thinking of it and the distant memories it stirred up was as moving as it was dreadful. But it was the only place he knew, even with no family left to welcome him back.

His wandering gaze settled on her again, and he just had to smile, one that lingered and one he had forgotten he could muster.

And there was that stir within him again. Indescribable, unknown, and yet, somehow, grew evermore familiar and warming.

"Zuikaku..." he muttered—and for a moment, a flicker in time, it felt as if she was still there, alive and whole as if they had never lost her in the first place, as if fate had never separated them.

His eyes were beginning to water, and he allowed the illusion to pass, just like the last puff of smoke before the cigarette completely burned out.

The feeling, however, remained.

As he soon realized—just like the person before him, sleeping on, now still like the calmest of seas.

A reminder of his promise.

He felt full.

He didn't want to sleep.

Not now.

And certainly not with that noise outside.

It wasn't the wind, or the rats, or the rain, or the thunder, or the creaking wood.

Muffled footsteps on the platform, frantic, just like his racing pulse. They were audible enough as the rain had subsided, leaving only drizzle.

He drew breath and approached the door.

He only managed a step beyond the threshold when the shadow leaped out of the dark, then something heavy coming down on his skull, and then the cold, damp wood.

And then, the black.

***

"—please."

Ohtori barely registered the voice, desperate and pained, as his eyes fluttered open, the blur of shapes and what little color around him clearing out.

"Ohtori!"

"Shou—"

A drop of water fell onto his forehead, followed by another.

That forehead felt warm, but the pain told him it was only because of bleeding.

He idly touched it, feeling a familiar fabric wrapped around it.

Then Shoukaku did the same, and he could see more clearly, the state of her hardly relieving.

She sported a bruise on her cheek, the sleeve of her clothes torn, and the rest of it disheveled and wet and nearly come undone.

"Shoukaku... you..."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?!"

"No..." he nursed his head, now realizing that what wrapped around the wound, keeping the blood from spilling, wasn't a bandage at all.

. "Who hurt you?"

"...He did."

She moved aside, revealing a man leaning still against the wall, head hung down, bloodstains on his clothes, and a particularly nasty gash on his arm. Her sword lay nearby, unsheathed, smeared with the same blood.

His attacker, no doubt. A former Imperial Army private, too, from the looks of it. Unless he somehow got that tattered uniform from someone else, which was unlikely.

"Did he try to—"

"No, he...didn't," Shoukaku looked away, seemingly already realizing the state of her clothes. She hastily adjusted the top, which had almost fallen to the side entirely.

"Did you...?"

"He's still alive," she whispered. She wasn't looking his way, nor anywhere else but the floor.

So there was something else, he guessed.

"You almost did."

He wasn't accusing, and he hoped his words were gentle enough to let her know that.

The pause as she stared at her hands was too long, but he waited still.

"I had my hands on his throat...I was so close to crushing it."

"Shoukaku," he didn't bother to wait for her to look up, to look him in the eye, and gently drew her closer. She didn't reciprocate, but at least she didn't cry, even though she was shaking. "It's alright. He's still alive. You did the right thing. That means you're still yourself."

"I almost broke my promise."

"Yes, but you didn't, and that's good."

She slowly let go of him, a hand wandering into the injury, the touch so light he barely felt it.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. I'll be okay. You took care of me."

That seemed to ease her a little, and he couldn't help but smile along.

"What now?"

He glanced at the man, and only then he noticed how thin he was. How they were more alike than he had imagined. Who knew when the last time he ate something was, if at all? Who knew what horrors he had seen?

"...Let's treat his wounds, at least."

"...Why?" Shoukaku was incredulous at his suggestion, and rightly so.

"We all suffer, in a way. Perhaps he's just desperate, too. Like so many of us. So, what will it be, Shoukaku? Will you be kind, just as you always were?"

She bit her lips, which soon curled up into a small smile, her gaze softening.

"Me, kind? He must've hit you harder than I thought," she chuckled. He didn't mind the jest.

"You are, always have been—even if we used to argue a lot."

"Shut up," she chuckled some more, a voice from the past but also its shadow, yet it was the sweetest sound he had heard in a while.

"Well then, we can reminisce later," she followed as he went to his bag. Water was no issue, and he was relieved to find out that they still had spare antiseptic. There were no bandages, but they could manage.

Kneeling before the man, he could see better. He looked so young, like a flower that had just blossomed for the first time, barely a man. Self-care or grooming was probably among the last things on his mind.

But he had to put the thoughts aside for now.

They made short work of the uniform, exposing the wound. Shoukaku held the arm as he pressed the cloth drenched in alcohol into the injury.

That was when he came to, unsurprisingly—and immediately, he began struggling, his free, healthy arm attempting to shove them away after a feeble attempt to jerk the other one free, his legs kicking about, his breathing labored and uneven.

"Calm down," Ohtori growled. "Calm down!"

"No! No! Let me go! Let me—"

"We'll let you go after we get your wounds treated," Shoukaku held him in place. Her words were hardly soothing, but the man stopped flailing around. The quaking continued, however, and the horror in the eyes never faded.

"Bear with it for a little longer," Ohtori muttered as he applied more alcohol, ignoring the wince and groan, and used part of the private's uniform to stem the bleeding.

He was lucky, he noted—a brush with a sword, even if it was merely a mass-produced weapon instead of one crafted as an age-old tradition, could easily cut deep through flesh and arteries. This wound didn't even need stitches.

"...That's it. Don't move it too much," Ohtori warned as he bound the arm and went to work on the forehead, cleaning the wound as Shoukaku held the motionless body upright.

The man was looking at nothing, his gaze vacant and hollow, and remained so even when his injuries had been tended to. Ohtori backed away to give him some space and to prepare for the worst. When he noticed that he hadn't tried anything, he offered him the last cigarette from the pack and one of the last onigiri he had with him, given by a kindly old lady they helped along the way.

The man reached for the food first but soon stopped.

"I...I can't."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I can't."

Ohtori placed the food on his lap anyway but pocketed the cigarette back. "It's not much, but eat if you want."

"...Why?"

"Why did I help you?"

A sedate nod was all he received. The void in the gaze remained.

"It's the right thing to do."

"But...I attacked you. And her."

"And you almost paid the price for that."

"I...should've."

"Tell me your name."

He paused as if caught by surprise.

"Why...?"

"Fellow soldiers should at least know each other's name. I'm Ohtori. Ohtori Kensaku. Lieutenant, Imperial Navy."

"Former lieutenant," Shoukaku corrected him.

He smiled. "Former, yes."

The man stared at the two of them for a few moments before he found his voice again, a whimper, a whisper, terrified, ashamed. Considering the lasting enmity between the Army and the Navy, Ohtori couldn't fault him.

"I am Hara Yasushi. I was a private in the 15th Army. 33rd Division...P-please, don't hurt me."

Burma, Ohtori thought. Now that made sense. He was one of the luckier ones to survive that. But at what cost was something he didn't want to think about.

"No, we won't hurt you any more than this. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for your arm," Shoukaku stood and bowed, an apology that seemed to be beyond his comprehension.

"..You're...a KANSEN..."

"5th Carrier Division, Shoukaku, yes. Well, not anymore. I'm just Shoukaku now."

"I...I should be the one saying sorry," Hara muttered, eyes shut.

"Don't be...but if you have a reason, you could tell us."

"I..."

Ohtori knew that kind of face well, and Shoukaku must have, too. The face of someone on the brink of letting out all the long-held grief. His fingers dug into his forehead as he brought his knees closer, hugging himself, rocking back and forth.

"...I was so hungry...I don't know where to go. I can't go back to my family...father wouldn't want a coward who didn't die with the others...I'm tired, I'm cold...I robbed people, I hurt my own people. I was so ashamed, but I didn't want to die. Not like that. Then...I saw this place. I saw that the lights were on...then I saw food and water...thought I could take them. Then I noticed you two, huddled together, sleeping, peaceful...I...I got so angry...even more so when I realized you were from the Navy. You have someone with you, and I was alone, and...and...I shouldn't have...I..."

Ohtori decided that the question of whether he and Shoukaku did end up being that close should be left for later or forgotten outright. She didn't seem to be concerned anyway. There were other concerns.

"I could understand. I know that it hurts having no one to turn to. I did, for a long time."

"Then...you met her."

"That's right."

"It's true...it's not fair."

"Life never is. But what sets us apart is how we choose to live it."

"...How...I don't know..."

"Be kind, even if the world doesn't. I learned that from her," he turned to Shoukaku, and she didn't shy away from his gaze.

"Kind... I... "

"You're a good person, once, I could tell. You can still feel sorry for what you've done. You can still feel. If you can still feel, then you can change."

"Change...change..."

Ohtori stepped back; he had said everything that he needed to say. How Hara would process or take the words, he could only wait.

"...I...want to. But I don't know... I don't know... "

The tears would have brought him severe repercussions had he been still serving. A soldier should not shed tears. It was a sign of weakness that should be shunned and purged.

But now, no one would judge.

"It's alright. Eat up, get some rest, and then you can start thinking it over."

"Yes," he whispered. The rice was gone in mere seconds, and all the while, the crying didn't stop.

"What...what would you do?" he asked Ohtori after wiping the last grain from his cheek.

"Head home. Start over. That's all we could do."

"Home," Hara repeated the word as if testing it, letting it roll off his tongue. "Home..."

"Do you have one?"

"I'm not sure anymore. Maybe, maybe not."

Ohtori exchanged a glance with Shoukaku. The unspoken agreement was apparent.

"Well then...Tag along, if you'd like, at least for a while. See if you could find a place to start over."

"...How could you trust me so easily?"

"I'm giving you a chance. It's the least I can do."

His head dropped, but his voice was no longer choking.

"...I...I'll try. I...I know foraging, at least. So I could help find food in the wilds. Back then... I was too tired to look...too scared...but I want to help now. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be a load."

"It's fine. Now go get some rest. We'll leave at the first light."

He nodded, murmuring thanks, and curled up on the floor, turning away as if ashamed of being seen.

Ohtori waited until he was certain that the former soldier had drifted to sleep, and then he joined Shoukaku on the bench.

"You're still an idealist. Not that a bad thing," she remarked.

"It isn't doing much in this kind of world," he replied, feeling the weight of her head on his shoulder. It wasn't an absent gesture, and though he was caught by surprise, he'd gladly give what she sought.

"It does something, and that's enough."

"Hm. How do you feel? About all this?"

"I'm not concerned. If he tries anything, he'd have to deal with us both. Unless he's a complete fool, I doubt he would try."

"Exactly."

"How's your head?"

"Better. Are you sure we don't need to treat that bruise?"

"I was the Empire's 'punching bag.' This injury is nothing."

"...Punching bag. Now that's the first time I heard that," he chuckled despite the grim nature of the joke, earning a light smack in the arm.

"Laugh all you want. But remember, you were Zuikaku's punching bag back then."

"Yeah, I was, wasn't I..." He smiled as he recalled the memories of when they were untainted by what was to come. Innocent, pure, carefree, knowing not the ambitions of men and the cruelty it could bring.

"Ohtori?"

"It's alright. She...will be happy that we're still holding on. That we're still kind. I know it."

It was getting warmer, and not because the rain was abating; the drops now only gently tapping on the roof.

" I guess I'm glad, too. Seeing the old you again."

"Oh, go to sleep already. You're tired."

"Only if you do the same. Otherwise, forget it."

"Alright, alright," he sighed. It was such a tempting idea, in any case. He spared a last glance at Hara, who was unmoving but very much alive, and then his vision darkened as slumber began to take over.

The rain had stopped.