Behind closed doors

Late Night or Early Morning

Summary:
Post series Carmen and Shadowsan agreed to wait one month before calling one another. That month is up, and now Suhara waits anxiously by his phone.

Notes:
Lawd I had no idea it was father's day for some of you, how ironic I had this sitting in my drafts from last week-ish? Anyways, enjoy!
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An aroma of cherry blossoms and black tea wisps through the retired man's nose. The scent is dull, but beautiful. A perfect glimpse at spring in Japan, where pink flowers bloom on nearly every tree, and he's granted one of the most breathtaking views he has ever laid his eyes upon, even since travelling the world. Suhara takes a sip of his beverage, squinting against the sunrise that had been blinding him both with beauty and raw screams of light. Blending sights of the new blues that had been before taken by the night, coupled with pinks, reds, and oranges all filtering through the sky like he had never quite seen the sunrise before now. Or, rather, not as beautifully as it is now that he was home.

The scenery reminded him of springtime as a child. As he stares out at a lone cherry blossom tree past Hideo's deck, the Japanese man's mind curls around the faintest memories of his mother showing him not to pick the flowers from the trees so that they may stay pretty. To leave them alone. It taught him when not to touch on an individual's flaws, or pluck from a moment of beauty, because in her words 'there are no promises for when it will happen again' and she was right... but he never understood it then. It was also supposed to hammer into his mind that he was an observer. There were no milestones or achievements left in his life... only memories. Only news from his wholesomely departed team of whom he had not spoken with this past month.

Before his gratitude, Suhara had taken the majority of his life for granted. He thought life was a game of who would survive, and in his eyes, that only happened through thievery. The boys he grew up with were no better than himself, his brother repeatedly told him at the time that he kept bad company, but it fell on deaf ears. And now, they are all passed. Lost to the cycle of fire and revenge for a world that was only cruel, a flame he was grateful every day to have been taken from; because enacting unnecessary violence was not a way to live. It was dishonourable, cruel on the world, and bad for the soul. And though he knew that now, Suhara was not soon to forget his youth, nor how he always felt he had to steal from those moments of beauty, which only robbed his family, and by that extent, himself. The diasho had felt so wrong beneath his hands, even the blade seemed to quake with warning, with regret. But his youth didn't stop there, and as time went on Suhara felt the only way to maintain his survival was to metaphorically wed his future to crime syndicates. Anything that had his heart pumping with adrenaline was good. The horrors and murders and blood on his hands were just necessities in the grand scheme of things. And most of all they told him there was no going back... perhaps the only thing he got right.

Suhara never held himself accountable enough for what he had done. For stealing and killing for a cause that was selfish. An entire life that was built upon falsities crafted to allow only those at the top riches. To keep killing and hurting for some crime boss' word for one because he would die if not, and for second, it was because he believed in that cause. That there was no other way. That was when he found VILE, or rather, VILE found him, and Suhara found himself breaching a new ladder to the top. But when he had finally made it, he was not able to relish in the finality of achieving his power... because there was an infant in his arms.

The wind seeps through his short hair, and Suhara feels himself almost utterly at rest, except for one factor. Carmen.

If you asked him at the time, Suhara was a sceptic of his own decision, taking his frustration out on his colleagues every time they asked him to take care of the (god forbid he even repeat what they all once called Carmen) less her tiny head blow off. And yet presently, Suhara sits in a creaky rocking chair, his weight pushing the wood back and forth, as he, every so often (...every second, more like) glanced at the sleeping face of his electronic device for her very call. For the head to blow off his phone with her fondly crafted ringtone. Suhara knew that for a sure fact, he did not regret Carmen. He never could. It seemed all those times he spent caring for another rather than killing had done his heart good—good enough to get attached and find his way out of the fire. Travel the world, feel inspired again, reunite with his brother, and remember what it was to be at peace. To accept life for what it was, and to admire the cherry blossoms from afar as per the last, fading memory of his mother.