sometimes it’s as if you’re still waiting—

in passing when your tepid gaze glosses over me, 

and pins needles in my back the moment i turn away. 

(i returned your gift with a smile once.)

i was blinded by the subtleties

between admiration and comparison, 

fruition and competition, 

barely able to keep up with myself amidst it all.

in the castaway of my sinking ship, 

you saw a flurry of white the shape of a flag, 

and beckoned to the horizon, 

while i welcomed the sea.

you tended to only see what you wanted to, 

presented in the way you liked to see them—

refined, polished, adept. 

idiosyncrasies strung on the wrong chord were chided with a sepia-rimmed simper.

i, a marionette in your world-class act, 

saw through you an act too late.

yet you, assiduous as ever, 

continued to entice and bewitch, 

performing for contenders and for prey, 

for whoever will stay and watch.

after all, 

“The fireflies.. they’re like lanterns. Living lanterns!” Eight years old Giyuu squatted down to admire a firefly that landed on a faded leaf, pearly doe eyes glistening with awe.

“They sure are.” Tsutako smiled fondly at her brother. She bent down, leveled herself to Giyuu, and carefully enclosed her palms around the resting firefly. Light spilled from the minute gaps between her fingers. 

“Though unlike a lantern, or fire, which gets hot if you’re too close, a firefly’s light is cold.”  She explained and slowly transferred the ember into Giyuu’s small, outstretched hands. 

“Meaning you can touch one without burning yourself.”  

Giyuu’s eyes impossibly widened. He peaked through the roof of his glowing hands. 

“Wow.. So like cold light?” 

Tsutako giggled and nodded.   

“Cold light, huh? I like that. It’s simply beautiful no matter what form it’s in.” She mused, watching the golden flare flutter from Giyuu’s palms to join the hundreds that surrounded them.   

Giyuu blinked at his sister, dazzled by the spectacle. “Oh. I think fireflies are more beautiful though.”   

Soft laughter. Tsutako nodded earnestly. “You’re right, Giyuu. There’s nothing more beautiful than fireflies on a summer night.”

On the engawa, a faint glow emanated from Giyuu’s periphery. He looked down to find that a firefly had landed in his sencha cup. Instinctively, he tipped the cup onto his palm. He watched the light grow weaker and more subdued as the fly tumbled out, the remnants of the tea trickling down his hand. 

Unsure of what to do, he cupped his hand over the other, shielding the fading light—from what? He stayed there for a while, unmoving, until he felt a taut stickiness from the tea. 

With a sigh, he removed his hand. Almost immediately, the firefly shuddered as if awoken by the gust of warmth. Its wings fluttered, then fluttered again, and the bulb flashed to life, leaving a blazing trail as it flew away.

Giyuu followed the meandering streak. Dusk rooted its claws into the soil, yet the stars in Giyuu’s garden persisted, undeterred. The darker it got, the brighter they burned, twinkling in a cipher only Giyuu understood.

Giyuu followed its path with bated breath. He shivered and tugged the covers over his shoulders. He brought his knees to his chest and curled toward the sunrise, waiting for the warmth to settle, but it never did.

He unfocused his eyes and watched the phantasmic shapes collapse into each other. They appeared nebulous at first. Slowly, they grew darker and rougher, sharper and louder. Eventually, he found himself staring at a distortion of serrated scars and purple specks. He stared and stared into the eyes that beckoned him with hated, disgust, desire, rapture, but never warmth. Sand scratched at his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Giyuu knew the conditions of their so-called meetings. Sanemi was to never stay longer than he needed to, as if the implications carried a weight far greater than their sacrilegious partnership. Yet the Wind Hashira insisted.

“It’s better off this way,” he muttered as he fastened his belt.

Giyuu watched Sanemi’s silver strands glisten under the moonlight. He made no move to stop him from leaving but the willfulness in his voice betrayed him.

“I see.”

“Don’t forget who proposed this, Tomioka.” Sanemi’s back was turned to him, the expanse hiding flushed streaks underneath the haori.

Giyuu wished Sanemi forgot.

“How come it’s always at my place?”

Sanemi paused. He had one foot out the door. With a harsh chortle, he looked at Giyuu.

“Why would it be at my place?”

The door slid close. The wooden thud ricocheted off the walls of the room, landing in the hollows of Giyuu’s chest.

He splayed his hand across the empty space beside him. The cool night air was tinged with Sanemi’s scent.

Giyuu knew the conditions of their meetings because he was the one to suggest they established them in the first place. He thought it would prevent an unnecessary emotional entanglement. Damage control, essentially.

Yet the more they met, the more the lines blurred. He found himself contesting the very safeguards he imposed only to realize that they were useless.

Sanemi didn’t need them at all.