(Requested)

post-war muichiro

__

Wringing my hands together, I shook my head and knocked frantically on the wooden table of the coffee shop. My teeth tugged at my bottom lip as I wracked my mind, trying to think of ideas for my upcoming novel. The blank sheets of paper seemed the glare at me from the place on the flat surface, dauntingly jeering at my very existence. My knuckles pressed hard against my forehead, attempting to squeeze even one thought out.

I growled at my own incompetence and furiously bounced my leg, trying again and again to at least start somewhere. Alas, all those attempts ended in failure. Groaning to myself, I gave up, reaching over for my bag and slipping the contents splayed out on the table back into the satchel. It was a bittersweet moment, as I faintly remembered the last time I got writer's block.

Hadn't had the feeling in a while.

Standing up, I made my way to the door and pushed it open, the small cat-shaped bell hanging from its handle making a tiny ringing sound as it swayed. It had been a few hours since my departure from my apartment, and I was more than eager to get back to the familiar environment. The cafe I usually went to was closed for the day, due to the owner going on vacation, and I opted the other one nearby. 

My trek home was longer than usual, as I lost my way a couple of times and got on the wrong bus, but in the end, it was fine. Turning the key to my apartment tiredly, I stumbled inside after taking off my shoes and collapsed on the couch. Fake-crying into the pillow, I sniffled and turned my head so that my cheek rested on the soft surface.

Feeling four tiny feet on my back, I could at least admit a smile knowing that my cat would be there to support me. She padded around for a bit before jumping onto the arm rest of the couch, eyeing me curiously.

"Sorry baby, I'm just having a rough day," I mumbled, scratching her head. The four-legged animal closed her eyes in comfort, nuzzling further into my hand with a soft purr. Laughing airily at her antics, I tried to calm down for a minute, releasing all the negative emotions before getting back up again.

Five minutes later, I was sitting with my legs crossed and bag placed in front of me on the small coffee table. Determined to take another stab at writing, I pulled out my bag and felt around for my papers and pen. When coming into contact with a foreign surface, I pursed my lips in confusion and pulled it out, examining the object.

A journal?

A hardcover, sleek, black journal with a tiny royal blue ribbon attached to the top. It fit in my hands perfectly, fingers able to firmly grip the sides. I opened it, eager to see what was inside, but all I found was nothing, except for a date on the first page.

"3-20," it read, the numbers scrawled down in relatively neat handwriting. I allowed for myself to smirk at the numbers, amusedly humming to myself. March 20th was last week.

Writer's block getting to you too, huh?

As I brought the book closer to my face, I was able to get a whiff of something unfamiliar. The scent felt like I'd just breathed in a gentle mist, with the slightest hints of freshly cut flowers. Pollen seemed to trickle off the pages, although they seemed to be clean, as far as my eyes could see. The sheer whiteness the paper was colored glimmered underneath the bright sun, releasing more of the floral notes.

My cat sneezed and I giggled a bit, patting the top of her head, realizing that I wasn't the only one experiencing this phenomenon.

The book smelled like water, even though it contained crisp paper inside of its bindings. It was stitched together with a kind of white string, a bit clumsily done, but elegant nonetheless. My fingers ran over every inch of it, savoring the touch, the feel of all its quirks.

It seemed to beckon for me to write in it.

Not even thinking about who or what it belonged to, I picked up my pencil with a new spirit -- hope and excitement blooming inside of my chest. I was sure something about the way the book smelled rejuvenated my energy, but I didn't give it a second thought. 

I should write a short story. Mist holds innocent love.

Scribbling down whatever came to mind, I found my smile gradually getting more genuine. Though my hand cramped and my legs fell asleep, my mind was clearer than ever. A sense of serenity flushed over me, leaving my body completely still, with the exception of my hand. This continued for what felt like mere seconds, then the piece was completed.

Done.

Holding up the black book brightly, I beamed and gazed thoughtfully at it. Deciding that I should leave it there for the night, I closed the journal, bookmarking the page with the wonderful blue ribbon and headed off to make myself dinner.

Rain falls with the soft splashes, staining the ground. Breathing in the mist, I know that it's hopeless, but when I feel you, it's like the thunderstorms have stopped. Just as lightning crashes, and the oceans flood, we hold each other tight while the world ends around us.

It's hard, being stuck in your arms, feeling like you have nowhere to go, yet it's so familiar. I can't see you through my fright, through my helplessness, but I can touch you. Your soft skin, ever so present in my grasp. The way your lips press against mine is like experiencing heaven all over again.

They taste like bluebells, sweet and decadent. Drops of honey coat your tongue, and every kiss seems to speak a thousand words. I remember your twinkling eyes, your rosy complexion, but the memories seem to fade away the more I think about it.

How I long for the tumultuous times to end, and for the sun to shine again so that we may rejoice once more under its warmth.

__

The next day went by smoother than usual, although the cafe was still closed. I chose to stay at home to write, thinking that it would be better option than to go to that stuffy work space again. After eating breakfast, I plopped down on the floor and began to write, excitedly breaking open the journal again. 

I fully expected to just see the first page filled out, but instead found that the second page was too. My breath hitched in my throat as I touched the writing on it. No one could've broken into my apartment, and I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't a ghost, either. 

So who was it?

The pads of my fingers traced over the ridges someone's pen made and I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. This wasn't a ballpoint pen.

A steel point?

I'd only seen souvenir shops that carried them, and they were quite hard to find. They were a symbol for the vintage aesthetic, but I hardly even saw them around. No friends of mine had them, not even other authors. Faintly jogging my memory, I knew from a history project I did in college that people from the 18th century used them, especially in England. 

Shaking my head, I diverted my attention to the context of the second page, rather than the way it was written.

I do not know who it is that is writing, and I imagine it cannot be a thief, nor an apparition of any kind. I bought this journal one week ago, and simply could not bring myself to write, no matter how hard I tried. I was stuck in a rut, to put it simply. But seeing your declaration of love inspired me to draw on these fine pages, and for that, I thank you. I hope with all my heart that you see this message, and write back to me, as I have become infatuated with your words.

My name is Muichiro Tokito. I don't quite remember my history, but all I know is that I am living in Britain, and immigrated from Japan after the war. Writing poems has become a profession for me after we won the battles against our demons. It's quite enjoyable, I think, being able to express yourself on paper. 

I'm getting a bit sidetracked, aren't I? I should elaborate more on the "war" part.

I was part of the army at one point, in a unit called the "Pillars." We were a small group of fighters, the best of the best in the army. Though our own country never really knew of us, the underground bestowed upon the army the name "demon slayers." Of course, the demons were not the actual beasts of mythology, but our enemies. Ferocious, blood-thirsty monsters, they were.

But I'm sure you do not want to listen to that.

However, if you do, pen me back in this very journal.

If you do write back again, perhaps I will share more of my story. For now, a small poem as a gift:

I imagine all kinds of wondrous words

That spout from your lips

Like raindrops and roses and petals with tiny bees on top

The birds sing

And it's nothing

Compared to your voice

When flowers bloom in early spring

I will find the fairest one

And to you I will bring,

Because you are a marvelous thing

Sincerely,

Muichiro

I kept on reading it repeatedly, my heart fluttering and insides churning. Feeling my face heat up, I pressed a hand to it, uncontrollably smiling. He was a charmer, wasn't he? Sighing to myself, I softly flipped the page and popped open the cap to my pen, newfound energy surging through me. Is this what it felt like to be in love with a stranger?

I'd always heard tales and stories about falling for someone, yet never had a chance to experience it myself. It's not that I was longing for a lover, but I found strange exhilaration in the fact that I was writing back to a complete stranger.

Dear Muichiro,

I too, am shocked at the fact that you somehow managed to write to me, as I'm certain no one broke into my apartment, and no ghost is haunting the black notebook. I don't know who you are, and yet here I am, sitting at my table on the ground, scrawling down letters to a stranger in a journal. It's funny how the world works sometimes.

Thank you for your war efforts and service to Japan. They will not go unappreciated, I'm sure. You must be very strong to be able to call yourself the best of the best, no? I've never heard of such an army, and I will look it up later.

Anyways, it is only fair that I tell you a little bit about myself, as much as I'm eagerly awaiting a response from you -- your life seems much more interesting than mine.

My name is (Y/N) (L/N). I'm a published author, and a couple of days before I wrote that "declaration of love," I was coincidentally also stuck in the dreaded hole of inconsistent writing (funnily enough). I graduated from college, and have a Masters in English. Life is flowing smoothly -- the income is fairly nice, and I seem to have all my relations sorted out.

Mundane and plain as usual. I have nothing exciting to share. 

Before I go, I do have a question: Where did you get your pen from? I know it's a common tool townspeople used in the early 1800s, but I don't know anyone who uses it presently. The steel nib is hard to find around the city.

If you can, just let me know!

Sincerely,

(Y/N)

I took out my computer after closing the book and did a little research before really starting to write my new novel. Typing in the keyword "demon slayer," I didn't find any results pop up immediately. Frowning scrolling down, I clicked for a few pages until I discovered an article written on a small blog.

Everything Your History Books DIDN'T Tell You About

It was interesting enough for me to give it a click, and what popped up in front of me was a direct link titled "DEMON SLAYERS, HISTORY'S GREATEST WEAPONS." Raising my eyebrows, I read the article, eyes scanning the small font on my screen.

Breathing styles, training, wisteria, history...

I squinted and finally caught sight of its members and when the wars happened. My eyes widened and my heart stopped, clenching in my chest. I felt my jaw go slack as I looked on in disbelief. A tiny little picture was next to the text about Tokito, showing a blurry but still legible picture of the demon slayer. Muichiro was there. 

In 1812.

Gently clasping a hand over my mouth, I immediately broke open the journal to write more, furiously uncapping the pen again. How was this possible? A nineteenth century poet, writing to me? It just didn't make sense.

PS: Muichiro, I'm not sure if you believe me, but we might be from different times. Where I'm living, it's 2020. Do you know the date where you are?

I could only anticipate his response for what seemed like ages. Throughout the day, I kept a close eye on the journal to see if anything new popped up. Surprisingly, I did get four chapters into the novel, which was developing spectacularly. I managed to draw a whole plot line and add arcs, a good of advancement. I just needed to send emails to my agent, and have my editor approve the drafts.

Taking a break, I poured myself a glass of water and sighed in relief. Finally, I had gotten somewhere. Feeling a bit proud, I failed to notice the journal's page turning and a new message starting to be scrawled down. Once I had seen the words appearing on the paper, I nearly spat out my water and slammed the cup down, hurrying to go and check what Muichiro was writing.

This was in real time. Right now, exactly at this moment, there was someone who could potentially be from the 1800s, writing to me. 

Did that mean he was 200 years old?

I shuddered at the thought and shrugged it off, trying to focus on the scripture the ex-Pillar was scrawling. His pen moved in quick strokes, flicking here and there with the utmost precision, effortlessly gliding across the thick pages of paper. Watching in amazement, I picked up my pen and started on the very bottom of his signature.

Muichiro, can you see this?

Biting my bottom lip, I could only hope at this point. A couple of seconds passed and lines of ink darted across the page, forming one word:

Yes.

With a slightly shaky hand, I drew a response, small puffs of breath coming out of my chest from disbelief.

I'm sure you saw my message, and as much as I'd like to keep chatting, I really need to know what exactly is going on.

Read the message above.

My eyes shifted upwards at the small paragraph Tokito had just written, quickly skimming through.

Dear (Y/N),

I'm sure you are an extremely talented person, with more than enough intelligence than the average simpleton. Please do not stress yourself with the matters of mind and cognitive skill -- you even have a Masters degree, which are not easy to obtain.

I, on the other hand, have some questions regarding the words that you used.

I just may not be accustomed to the outside world, but what does "look it up" mean? I have never heard anyone use that terminology towards books, and I am quite excited to hear about it. 

Also, I do not know what an "apartment" is, do you mind explaining?

If you do "look me up," I am not sure you will find anything. The records of demon slayers are very scarce, sadly. But as promised, I will let you in on more information about me and my companions.

In my time serving the army, we all developed specific styles of fighting called "breath styles." I was the Mist Pillar, a technique derived from the Wind Breathing form. The idea around it is that a swordsman could essentially harness the power of the element and incorporate it into their moves. 

Quite neat, right?

Anyways, it is time for me to bid you farewell.

Until next time, (Y/N).

Sincerely,

Muichiro

PS: I am terribly sorry, but I do not quite believe the year difference. Though I am beginning to open up and find that a small spot in my heart belongs to you, I cannot tolerate foolery. It is 1814 here, two years after the war. Please accept an apology, dearest (Y/N).

I'd finished reading it in a second, and scratched down something random to let Muichiro know I was still there. He responded back by writing a question mark, his pen neatly dotting the page underneath the little squiggle. Laughing a bit, I at least knew that he was still waiting on the other end.

Muichiro, you don't believe me, do you?

It took him a minute to respond, as if the boy was considering it.

I'm afraid not, but I am beginning to.

What if I proved it to you?

How could you do that?

I'll tell you more of your story.

How did you get the information?

Random blog.

What is a "blog?"

Never mind that.

You are Muichiro Tokito, one of the famous fighters in the demon slayer army that served the Japanese empire for hundreds of years, fighting their oppressors. Known to be the Mist Pillar, you were ranked as a hashira, the highest level any slayer in the army could possess.

You had fellow hashiras as well, including Sanemi Shinazugawa, Gyomei Himejima, Shinobu Kocho, Kyojuro Rengoku, and many others. Fighting against the Muzan, a Japanese immigrant that worked as the head general for the enemy, the "demon slayer" army swore to never retire until his reign of terror finally ceased.

Then that's where the blog ends.

Then I might be wrong. Perhaps you are from the future. No textbook in my time would have information as detailed as this.

I suppose so.

Say, do you have flying carriages in the future?

Sigh. 

Why do you sigh?

No, we don't.

Oh.

But would you like me to tell you what an apartment actually is?

Oh, yes please.

The conversation continued until midnight, but we occasionally took breaks to work on our own stuff. Muichiro was a curious spirit -- he kept firing so many questions at me that it was hard to keep up with his pace. Soon, two more pages of the journal were filled out completely, lined messily with the remnants of our conversation.

I was feeling a bit drowsy, so I prepared myself to say goodbye, as much as I didn't want to.

I have to go to sleep, Muichiro.

Alright, so do I.

I'll see you tomorrow.

Goodnight (Y/N). Sleep well.

Wait Muichiro.

Yes?

You still didn't give me a poem.

Would you like one now?

If you don't mind.

Of course, dear.

The starry night sky reminds me of fear,

My tears,

Falling down rapidly as the light ceases to be

Demons haunting my very thoughts and dreams

I'm left alone, but I can feel your near

Right beside me, though you're so far away

I long for your touch, to hold your hand

But all that comes up is dust and sand

I would be a lying man if I said

I am not missing you harder every single day

__

By now, a few months had passed and it seemed like whenever Muichiro wrote, a part of me grew more and more fond of him. I'd completely fallen for whoever he was. He inspired me to write, to live happily as a more confident person. Every single day, I was reminded that I was enough, that I was an amazing person who could do no wrong.

A flatterer, he was.

As we exchanged laughs and cute messages, I started to notice the pages of the journal getting more and more scarce. Soon enough, we were down to the last piece of paper.

It was my turn to write to him, and I so desperately hoped that I would make good use of the space we had left. I switched out of the ballpoint pen and used a fine tip pen so I could write smaller and hopefully conserve more space.

Dear Muichiro,

I realize that our pen-pal journey has almost come to an end. It's sad. Through the months, I've had the delight of conversing with you and it was an amazing experience. You taught me things I never would have dreamed of alone. 

Before all of this, I always hoped that my life would be simple, so I don't regret moving on to whatever death has in store for me. But the amalgamation of all of these conversations has made me realize that my life was worth living, that I should explore and make the best of it. 

I wasn't even sure that I would find someone worth loving, a couple of months ago.

In life we constantly worry about others, we worry about ourselves and our futures. But you've taught me to accept the circumstances and learn to thrive under them. You've taught me so much in such a short time, whether it be about myself or you. Your ever-present spirit spurs me to write, to continue pursuing the passion I've had ever since I was little.

I thank you for inviting me so warmly into your open arms, for embracing me and my curiosity about you. To be able talk to you is the best gift I've ever received. 200 years separate us, but the universe was somehow able to connect our two souls. I may be daydreaming, but I think that it's destiny. 

I don't know how to feel, leaving you. It's as if I'm suddenly yanked out of heaven and plunging down to the ground, my vision turning black and jaded. If this really is the end (though I hope it isn't), I guess I'll be saying goodbye for the last time.

I love you, Muichiro Tokito.

I regret not saying it sooner.

Always Yours,

(Y/N) (L/N)

Hot tears slid down my rosy cheeks as I sniffed, lower lip trembling. My heart wrenched at the thought of leaving him, of not being able to see him again. Emitting a shaky sigh, I gripped the edge of my small coffee table and sobbed, desperately awaiting his response. How I would miss him, how I would miss my love. 

When the first traces of ink appeared, they were blotted, so much so that I suspected that Muichiro was trembling as he wrote. After a few minutes, the pen steadied and I peered down at his reply, eyes taking in every single stroke.

My dearest,

The summer days have awakened and the sun is out for longer now. It brings me great sorrow to know I cannot hold the thought of you during the cruel night anymore. Writing to you brought me great joy in these past few months, and I cannot bear to tolerate the thought of our departure from one another.

I am too deeply wounded to properly express myself in a proper speech, so I'll write a poem to you. It's something you've always loved, after all.

When the moon finally descends on the horizon,

My chest fills with hope, bubbling and brewing ever so gently

With the thought of being able to arise in

A bed next to you 

Oh, one day I will look into your eyes ever so intently, 

Since

I know in your hands is where my heart lies in

I love and miss you dearly, (Y/N). 

Let us toast to the hope of embracing each other like couples do.

Love,

Muichiro

A small, filled in heart was signed right next to his name and I just kept on crying, hugging the journal to my chest. My mind was swarming with regret, of not making use of our time together, not appreciating him more when he was still there. The falling tears stained my apartment floor, plopping onto the carpet with tiny splashes. I stifled a cry with my hand, trying not to make too much of a ruckus.

It was only pain that lingered.

PS: I couldn't even use one thousand words to describe how wondrous you are. My love, my life, my (Y/N). Please be well.

__

"(Y/N)! It's good to see you again!" I smiled as I hugged the cafe owner, who was finally back from their vacation. They smelled faintly of a tropical smoothie, but I decided to ignore it. I was just happy to be back in a familiar environment. The loss of Muichiro still hurt, but after a bit of thinking, the best option for me was to just move on.

We both had our separate lives, anyways.

As the owner continued to blabber on about their adventure, I took a seat near the counter, where I could still hear them and got my computer to work on the drafts my editor had sent back. Taking out the journal for good measure, I turned to the last page and started at it for a long time, hopelessly waiting for another message to appear.

Nothing.

I sighed and continued to work on my novel, my fingers quickly racing across the keyboard, fixing any errors that were pointed out. About two hours in, I took another look at the journal and my heart nearly jumped out of my throat.

There was a new message.

(Y/N).

(Y/N), where am I?

I furrowed my eyebrows as I spotted a different handwriting continuing to mark the page.

Where are we?

Who are you?

Back to Muichiro's handwriting.

What are those fast-moving vehicles?

(Y/N), why are people carrying these flat little screens that light up?

Quickly hopping out of my seat, I carried a pen and the book with me to race out of the cafe, desperately pleading that I had enough room to find him. Was Muichiro here? In the 21st century? I called for the owner to watch over my things as I tried to pinpoint his location.

Muichiro, I need you to stay calm and describe your surroundings.

There is a green sign that says "Park Road."

Okay. I'll pick you up.

Hurry, please.

Sprinting down the sidewalk, I knew that the road was near my apartment complex, fortunately. For now, I could only make my way to Muichiro. He used the term "we," so I guessed that he had others accompanying him. My chest heaved with heavy breaths as I spotted the corner to turn around to Park Road on. 

It was like the world slowed down as I took the final step.

My body turned and my eyes caught a glimpse of someone that looked eerily similar to the photo of Muichiro displayed on that blog.

Black hair, faded into turquoise locks, big blue eyes. He stared at me for a while, eyes widening in surprise. A smile slowly blossomed on my face and tears threatened to spill out. Gasping as I saw him move towards me, I ran up to him.

As soon as his fingertips touched my arms, I knew it was all over for me.

Large, hefty sobs shook my body as I cried into Muichiro's shoulder, arms wrapped around him so tightly. He embraced me with the same strength, but stayed silent. My eyes were squeezed shut in disbelief, not actually processing any thoughts at the moment. With trembling hands, Muichiro cupped my cheeks as we parted, staring fondly into my irises.

I laughed breathlessly, pressing my hands atop his, dewy eyes reciprocating the gaze.

"You're more enchanting than I could have ever imagined," he spoke. The slight lilt of his voice made me weak at the knees, butterflies beginning to stir in the pits of my stomach. I was on Cloud 9, my heart soaring high in the sky. Seeing him in person was a dream come true. The fuzzy image on the website didn't account for even a quarter of his true beauty. 

I heard a cough from behind Muichiro and lifted my head so I could see who it was.

"Who the hell is that?" the grey-haired male said haughtily, "Is that the person who's been writing to you in the little book you always carry around?" I recognized him from the blog as well.

"Sanemi Shinazugawa," I blurted thoughtlessly, my fingers still curled around Tokito's hand. Looking around, it seemed like I knew every single one of their faces. The Mist Pillar smiled a bit, guiding me towards the group.

"If you don't mind, they'd like a more formal introduction, and an explanation." I kissed his temple and tightened my grip a little, winking at Muichiro. A small blush appeared, dusting his cheeks with a faint red coloration.

"Of course."

__

wow, that was long