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Obi doesn’t cry.
Not since that night where he hid underneath the bar room table, fingers curled against alcohol soaked floorboards littered with glass shards as he watched his mother fall unmoving and unbreathing onto the ground, her face swollen shut and her body mangled into odd angles. Not since he saw red and flew at her attacker with a half a broken bottle slicing into his own skin and as he stabbed true, right into the jugular, in the same way he had seen the men of his village slaughtering a goat or a pig for a special occasion (there was so much blood…). Not since he ran, forever stained, into a summer storm from the only place he knew as home only to wake up who knows how much later, far, far from any recognizable landmark, well and truly lost.
He had been damp and cold, clothes torn and feet covered with blisters. And he was so, so very hungry. Above him, the clouds which had parted at some point started to thicken again, letting out a defending rumble. Collapsing to the ground, Obi had wailed in fear and terror and loss. But no matter how hard he cried for his mother, she wouldn't come for him. Neither would any of her sisters, as brusque and stern as they could be, half-heartedly scolding his mother for not leaving him at the orphanage like they did with the rest of bastards because Honestly, this is no place for a child as they wiped the snot off his nose and the tears from his eyes before giving him an apple and a pat on the tush, telling him to "Get lost!" because they had customers.
He cried long and hard until he choked on his own throat, until he heaved in the wet grass, shaking, until what little light he could see on the horizon faded again into night and his stomach and his heart twisted in agony.
She would never come for him again, he realized as the first icy wave of rain started pouring down on his prone form. No one was left in this world to comfort him, to feed him, to cloth him. There was no one left who was invested in his survival. No one whose sight and smell signaled “home.” He was all he had.
And in that moment, the sobbing stopped, the pain stopped, he stopped. Something inside his chest snapped into place. His mind took over, ice forming a solid shield around his bruised heart and sharpening the knowledge behind his eyes. He spent that night, frozen from the inside-out, huddled under a thick canopy tree, violently shivering against the rain and the cold. Never again, he decided, realizing how much time and energy he had wasted. Never again…
~ ~ ~
Heavy doors suddenly thud shut behind Obi and he abruptly finds himself back in the present moment. Looking down the hall to his right, he barely registers the tall windows and art so expensive that just one piece sold on the market would ensure that he’d never go hungry again. He blinks, never before realizing just how long this particular corridor was. Belatedly, he wishes he had some companionship to keep his mind off of this particular journey. Master and Sir had asked to accompany him, and he had brushed them off with a broad smile and a wave of the hand “Don’t worry!” he laughed brightly, “I know the way! Why don’t you enjoy the rest of the party, hmm? Plenty of wine to go around still!”
They had looked at each other in mild concern, coming to some unspoken agreement between the two of them, before affixing him with fond smiles, firmly slapping him on the back and wishing him a good night.
“Too late to go back now,” he mutters as he begins the long walk down the lonely corridor, his boots muffled against fine carpets, his heart rattling in his chest, and his blood surging beneath his skin. He’s hot—too hot—and tries and fails yet again to calm down.
Her Majesty, Her Highness, and Miss Kiki emerge from his destination down the hall, closing the door gently behind them before they notice his approach and cast him half-smiles full of secrets and mirth. “She’s ready for you, Sir Obi,” Miss Kiki says, and he can’t stop the way his heart skips a beat, the way the heat curls at the base of his spine.
He wants to say something, anything, to delay them so he can settle his nerves, but they move past him to take their leave before he can utter a word, the only sound in the wing the whispering of the copious fabric of their formal gowns. Only when they disappear around the corner and he is again alone does he remember to breathe. Turning back towards the door they had just exited, he finds himself intently studying the details of the engraved door handle before him.
He . . . hesitates, temporarily filled with an unfamiliar panic.
His hand twitches and he stares hard at the door as if it is somehow responsible for his state while trying to swallow his heart so it goes firmly back into his chest where it belongs. Shakily exhaling, he reaches for the handle again and firmly opens the door into… their rooms.
He hasn’t been in here, he realizes. She had wanted to keep it a secret and surprise him, and he is so immediately struck by the unnamed feeling churning inside his whole being as he casts his eyes over the main sitting room. Slowly, he takes in every detail, every soft touch, every sweet reminder of them, while also taking note of the exits and windows to make sure their apartment is secure. Satisfied that Master and Mitsuhide had taken his concern for her well-being to heart and chose an appropriate location in the west wing, he nods and takes a step into the room, closing the door behind him and sliding the lock into place.
He slowly rounds the corner into the bedroom and immediately curbs the urge to run. She’s there… she’s there. Laying back on a soft mattress just big enough for two, propped up against the pillows with her hair fanned with curated beauty across the sheets, a happy fire crackling on the other side of the room, and a sweet comforting smell that he only recognizes because of so many hours spent in the pharmacy in Lyrias watching her crush herbs into relaxants for stressed scholars. He exhales again in one loud rush, unashamed. She’s there, looking like hell and heaven in the same breath, eyes shy, cheeks flushed, folded hands laying on top of the blankets of her… their… bed. Her fingers briefly clench, belying a slight tremor, and she can’t seem to talk, either. As if the flush rising up her throat has choked her words.
He sees her and he feels something loosen in his chest.
“Hi,” he breathes.
The flush intensifies, and he is briefly curious about how far it goes down her body, when she lowers her eyes with a tiny, but happy smile, before the full force of her green eyes, so bright, are on him and she whispers back, “Hi.”
Never in his life has he been so lost for words, so lost for action. He just stands there, stupidly, at war with himself and how, when he joined Zen and the rest years ago, this was not the way things were supposed to be. He was not supposed to fall in love with his Master's love, and even when he came to terms about how he was, oh how he was, he considered himself lucky to just feel those sweet flutterings against his chest.
He would have happily stood by their sides for the rest of his life, grateful just to stand in their shadow and just breathe in that sweet emotion, for as long as they would’ve allowed it. But fate, and Shirayuki, it seems, did not agree with his plans.
He’s not good enough for her, he’s not. He knows this. He spent years reminding himself of that fact. Not when he has no last name to give her, no vast holdings of land, no reputable education. Not with his bloodied hands and a body so covered with scars it reminds him at times of a ratty patchwork quilt. But for some strange reason, no matter how hard he tried to persuade her otherwise, she was insistent that she wanted no one but him. And he was never strong enough to deny his Miss something she wanted.
Shirayuki smiles so brightly then, bringing him back to the present yet again, as she realizes that he is just as lost as her. He smiles back because the light in her eyes feels just like the sun when it first emerges after a blizzard, rapidly melting all the snow until it the cold becomes a faded memory, and suddenly his Miss’s smile falters. “Obi?” she asks, with a hint of panic, pushing herself off the pillows.
He’s by her side in an instant, sitting at the edge of the bed and gently laying a hand against her cheek so she doesn’t get up. Her concern doesn’t fade, verdant eyes rapidly searching his. One slim hand reaches up and touches his face so softly that his eyes blur before dampness spills from his eyes and between her fingertips.
“Obi?” she whispers again, bringing her other hand up to cup his other cheek.
He closes his eyes, letting the gathered moisture fall, taking gentle hold of her wrists, and pulling the knuckles of both of her hands before his lips. And he kisses them, reverent, for her hands must have some sacred magic in them to instill such warmth. He breathes her in, deep into his lungs, into his bones, and those amber eyes, always so alert, so aware, focus in on her. Just her.
Obi lowers her hands so both of them rest on her lap before leaning forward to press their foreheads together, his breath fanning across her face as he whispers: “I’m home, Shirayuki… my wife.”
And he should expect it, he should, but when her eyes suddenly widen and fill with water, his breath is again lost. She blinks rapidly, letting the tears fall where they may as she leans forward so her words brush his lips: “Welcome home, Obi… my husband.”