My Piece Of Art

If you really wanted to, you’re sure the throng of people and the flickering neon lights could cover you long enough to slip away into the cool night air once more — but you know capture is inevitable either way, so you might as well stay to see how this game plays out.

The ice in the cup clinks softly as you take another sip.

And speak of the devil; the grating music from behind you dampens ever so slightly, glaring lights dimming in sync. The sudden sensory deprivation is that of a sudden void — a black hole that’s formed at your back, sucking you into it’s gravity.

You let yourself be dragged into its pull, tilting your gaze up to greet the looming shadow. With a muted thud, the crown of your head taps gently against his broad chest, strands of your hair gracing the expensive fabric of his suit as you inhale the scent of woodsy cologne.

“Hello, Rengoku-san.”

Your bright-eyed, tenacious bodyguard smiles back. “Hello!”

His lips pinch together tightly after that greeting. You know it must be taking everything in him to not shout your name nor title in public, having been trained thoroughly to address you with only the utmost of respect. But your safety always comes first. You cannot afford to be identified in a situation so compromising, after all.

This fact doesn’t stop you from pushing your luck.

You raise the glass in your hand above your head, a slight wobble the only giveaway of your tipsy state. Languidly, you press the rim of it to his chin. “I’m beat. Finish this drink for me?”

Rengoku’s lips remain sealed in a smile, his stare unwavering. After a few tense seconds of silence, you yield with a dramatic sigh, lowering your arm.

“You’ve always been a tough nut to crack, Rengoku-san,” you grin wryly.

Just as you prepare to down the remaining whiskey, his hand shoots out, halting you — but his grip is gentle, a silent indicator that you could wrench it out of his hold whenever you see fit. Rengoku had always been good at that — gauging his strengths, calculating his boundaries. It’s no wonder Father had seen the man most fit to assign you under his care: even after meticulous planning, your disguises never did once evade his sharp eyes.

Eventually, he shifts from his upright posture, leaning over your shoulder as his fingers pry the drink from your hand, pushing it toward bartender, away from you. The ends of his golden curls tickle your cheek, and he radiates heat — burning, scorching, a delicious warmth that has you craving for more.

“I think that’s enough, young master,” tone low, chest against your back rumbling with each syllable — Rengoku’s voice curls around the shell of your ear, warm breath ghosting the sides of your cheekbone. But make no mistake — it’s a demand phrased as a suggestion, and it leaves no room for compromise.

Making clear your reluctance with a pout, you acquiesce anyway. A rap against the wooden countertop is enough for the bartender to face you with a bow — and you slide a handful of crumpled hundred-dollar notes toward him.

“Thanks for the company, Goto-san,” you grin at him. One that reaches the corners of your eyes, lights your whole face as if you’ve never tasted anything better than his pours. (It’s a tactic you’ve picked up from years of observing your bodyguard — how he disarms strangers with a laugh, disorientates targets with that deadly charisma of his. A natural charmer, with an inclination for honesty that makes people let their guard down too easily.)

As expected, it works well. The bartender immediately relaxes with a nod of his head. Rengoku inclines his, and his large hand finds the small of your back, nudging you off the chair, pulling you closer to his side. An irrelevant action — your body knows to seek out his warmth even without his guidance. You lean into him, curling your arm around his, pressing your cheek against his bicep — and Rengoku, who’s been through this hundreds of times, barely flinches. He mutters your name to get your attention, but you simply hum contentedly in response, blissful in your drunken state as you stumble along. An exhale through his nose, and he tries again.

He is by all means, a patient man. But you’ve tested him too many times to count — by the fourth ignored call, he lowers his head to your ear.

“Kagaya-sama,” like a quiet secret exchanged between the both of you.

Instantly sobered, you lurch back to shoot him a dirty glare — he knows you hated being called that. Reducing your existence to nothing more than an heir, tying your worth to your father’s.

All according to his plan, because he turns to you, the beaming grin an indication of his satisfaction. “Oyakata-sama requested for your presence within the next hour!” A glance down at his watch, gleaming platinum and screaming money, “it takes forty minutes to return to your estate from here!”

Truly, nobody understands you better than Rengoku. “I’ll leave in thirty. And you drive.”

The corners of his lips curl up. An impish smirk, reserved only for you.

Before he can speak, a piercing gunshot rings through the air.

It deafens you temporarily, plunging the sounds around you underwater, leaving a shrill pitch lingering in your head. Rengoku’s coat is immediately wrapped around you as he spins you around, placing himself between you and the source of the attack. Your ringing ears clears after a second too long, giving way to shrieks from around the bar, the sound of squeaking shoes, and shattering of glasses as the crowd flees.

A loud swear — two more gunshots echo in reply.

Without hesitation, Rengoku tugs you close to his chest, darting down the corridor. The walls pass by in blur of flashing red, green, blue, and you’re whisked into a room, locked inside. It reeks of cigarette and alcohol and oddly enough, cleaning supplies — most likely a repurposed janitor’s closet, you think distantly.

Though, how are you supposed to focus when your bodyguard has rendered you helpless, caged between his arms? The dim flicker of the incandescent bulb highlights the bridge of his nose as he lifts his head, staring at the door intently — you can see the way his jaw sets, and the shift of his sleeve as it stretches over his shoulders. Displayed to you in complete, unrestricted view.

He retracts one hand to brace it against the door frame instead, then slowly, carefully, he lowers his head, straining to hear the chaos unfurl from beyond the room —

There’s a sharp crack — accompanied by more gunshots. His hand darts out to wrap around the back of your head when you flinch in response, pressing you into him. You feel the jump of his muscle — the tensing of his arm as he leans further into you, and the steady rise and fall of his chest as he braces himself for something — anything.

An awfully familiar voice rings out — dampened by distance, but you both hear it clearly. “Kyojuro! Come out and fight!”

Disgusting recognition slithers down your spine.

“Akaza,” the forsaken name escapes his lips in a growl. Your heart drops to the bottom of your gut, hand darting up to cover your mouth.

(That very day, Kyojuro returned to you pallid, bleeding from every orifice on his face. He barely musters the strength to open his eyes — you wail beside him, gripping onto the stretcher so tightly your fingers turn ghostly white, and unfamiliar arms hold you back as you watch him vanish behind the emergency room doors.)

A boyish cackle. “Where are you, Kyojuro ?”

Rengoku’s hand flies to the pistol by his waistband. Your stomach lurches at the action — forced to watch as he draws his gun and releases the safety in one swift motion.

“He’s here for me,” he whispers, solemn.

“For us,” you correct him. The bounty on your head was never lifted, but you’d gotten complacent over the quiet few months. Overconfident in your ability to slip away and hide amongst the common folk, shutting out the memories of when you’d lived in perpetual fear.

You nearly forget it was the whole reason why Father had personally assigned Rengoku to you. In your first meeting, his bright, blithesome personality had you double-take multiple times — a rarity in this line of work. A gleaming star against the inky night sky.

(Back when he would still call you nicknames. Rub your head affectionately, laugh at your pout if you complained that he’d embarrassed you. But after that fateful brawl — he could never quite look at you in the eye again.

Kyojuro survived. But you think some part of him died that day — replaced with the stranger you call Rengoku.)

Another gunshot, and —

Your fingers fly up, latching onto his sleeve. Rengoku’s quizzical stare flits up to your face — the faint twitch of your eye a clear display of your objection. Blazing, furious. Panicked. Afraid.

“Don’t go, Kyojuro,” your voice is quiet. But it is an order. “Stay.”

His conflicted expression tells you everything. A man torn between duty and loyalty, forced to choose — your father, or you? Another yell from beyond the door has him tightening his grip on the handgun, shifting his jaw as he hovers over you, mind racing as he debates the consequences of his actions.

A crash. The same, haunting laugh — “Kyoju—”

“Don’t you dare say his name again!” Tengen’s offended tone carries down the hallway, followed with the shrill ring of metal against metal. “Rengoku, you stay wherever you are, you hear me?” Clang. “I’ll murder you if you leave young master alone!”

Though, his warning goes unheard.

Kyojuro is too preoccupied with the feeling of your lips against his, the taste of whiskey on his tongue as you pull him down by his lapel, tangling your fingers in his hair. Warm breaths brush across his face, and you tighten your arms around him — a silent plea.

He shouldn’t. He knows its inappropriate — that master would have his head if he knows of what transpired in this dingy, cramped booth.

But with you against him, all his inhibitions are haphazardly tossed aside — Kyojuro melts into your embrace, arms around your waist as he sinks into the kiss, his eyes slipping close as he lets your scent envelop him. He wraps around you, pulling you closer, closer as if trying to meld the both of you together, and you respond in turn — finding purchase on the back of his suit, pressing him to you. Large, calloused hands roam the back of your neck, the spot just beneath your ear, before coming to rest just above your tailbone.

The two of you tangle for what feels like an eternity, yet it is a moment too short. You have to pull away to catch your breath, but you stubbornly plant yourself against his chest, the metal pin on his lapel ice-cold against your cheek.

“You can’t leave, Kyojuro. If I lose any more of you, I’ll die. I’ll really die.”

He nods silently, a lump in his throat as he buries his face into your hair, hands still loosely clasped around your waist. God, you have no idea how long he’s yearned for this. Every time you’d grin cheekily at him, swat at his shoulder when he was too loud, or laughed at a joke he didn’t expect you to find funny —

But it had always been a dream held out of reach before him. You simply existed in a different world, of a society kept at bay from him. Ever since the day he’d nearly failed to protect you, the disappointment ate away at him in large, purposeful chews, guilt washing over him with every glance at your scars. He thinks about the splatter of blood on your cheek and admonishes his failure — his inability to keep you shielded from such unsightly views.

The gunshots and the screams from outside are nothing but white noise as he finally allows himself to look.

Your eyes are glossy, brows furrowed with your lips pulled into a pout. Like this, he’s reminded of the first day you’d met. Your curious glance, the tilt of your head as you greet him —

“Kyojuro,” you warn, shakily. “Kiss me. Now.”

And for the first time in his life — he allows himself to indulge.

if you enjoyed this, please feel free to like, reblog or leave a reply. i'm also grateful for any feedback regarding my work— I write as a hobby, and am always looking to improve it.

my ao3

You feel eyes on you as your feet crunch down on the gravel.

Despite the warm light of the sun that shines over your path, there’s a slight feeling of unease that crawls along your belly. Careful not to tip over the basket of wisteria petals in your grasp, you reach into your sleeve to pull out the pouch of soybeans, scattering a few in your trail. It will be a weak deterrent to the yōkai lurking in the thicket of trees just beyond the bamboo fences surrounding your home— but it eases your worry, if only just a little.

They have been restless of late, as they usually are during the period of preparations leading up to the festivities. The increased footfall to your district must’ve roused the yōkai from their usual slumber in the mornings, bringing them to the edge of the forest that encircles your village, curious as they observe the bustle of human life that disturb them from their rest. Yet, the residents remain safe in the generous embrace of sunlight your village receives, fending away the spirits who fear the fate of being burnt into ash by a mere touch of the light.

Still, you veer away from the edge of the path. It is better to remain cautious— there is no telling when a daring yōkai would swipe out, just to get a smidge of human blood.

You amble out of the side road into the entrance. The recent trend of industrialization had seen a boom in the tourism industry, so much so that you couldn’t recognize the faces of new residents now— still, in your heart, it remained the same village you once grew up in. The noisy chatter of the crowds greet you when you set foot onto the clearing, rising above the ambient noise of hammer against wood as builders perch themselves atop ladders to set up stalls, tying lanterns on strings that hang from buildings. It is a burst of colour, bright and cheery, vibrant in the healthy shine of the morning sun.

There’s still a sensation of being watched on the back of your neck as you escape into the safety of the herd, but you dismiss it easily. You are used to the feeling, seeing as you lived on the outskirts of your village— closer to the woods where most of the yōkai hide in. It is something you had dealt with your whole life, but you have long since learnt to manage feelings of unease.

Your feet carry you past flocks of outsiders. Their excited voices give them away as so, as do the way they point at stalls, snacks they would never see from their cities. Children gather around kamishibai carts as performers push them into view, setting up their paper screens. You slow your step, finding yourself unable to resist a smile at the stares of the enraptured visitors and children who lean toward the cart. The narrators tell the same stories they do every year— the same ones your mother regaled to you, when you were still a child, nestled on her lap.

Tales of the Nine Great Deities who reside in their shrines deep in the forests, across the same mountain your village rested upon. They have been a part of your history for as long as you can remember — the story goes that centuries ago during dark nights, yōkai would leave the forests in droves, attacking the women and children of your village, feasting on its dwindling population. On the verge of annihilation, the chief plead to the Gods for help— and nine deities descended to the land, to purge the yōkai, protecting the villagers.

The village celebrates their triumph over the demons with an abundance of offerings and celebrations, and the tradition is continued as a request to continue remaining under their care. The festivals held cycle through different themes every nine years, each year dedicated to one of the deities that defend your village from the dangers that lie in the woods.

The Water Festival— where you release paper lotuses into the river downstream for everlasting tranquility. The Love Festival— where you proffer gifts to those dear to you within the village. The Insect Festival— when villagers furnish eaves with fresh flowers, attracting hundreds of butterflies migrating through the mountains. The Stone Festival— the main attraction being a brawl held for displaying overwhelming power to vanquish the strongest of yōkai. The list goes on and on.

Last year’s festival was exuberant. Then again, anything for the Sound Deity must be as flamboyant as possible— if the tales were anything to follow. Flashy fireworks lit the night sky, rows of fugu sashimi adorned stalls, its unique flavour being met with a motley of emotions from visitors. It doubles as an extension of a celebration of love— of the Sound Deity that fawned over his three wives, expressed through the booms of taiko drums and adorning oneself with as many jewels as possible.

But it does not compare to the grandiosity of this year’s— the celebration of the Flame Deity. It is a commemoration of life, to thank the lineage that has kept the village safe throughout tumultuous times. He has been the oldest alongside the Water Deity to watch over the mountain, notwithstanding the way that deities often seem to phase in and out every decade or so.

The village expresses their adoration for him with the months of preparation that lead up to the festival. The robes sewn in his image are gorgeous, bright shades of yellow and red, most striking amongst any other— the way they flutter in the wind like a flickering flame. Harvests in the spring are kept aside for the incoming feasts. Booths are set up along the road, boasting all sorts of games, with an assortment of rewards that leave children begging their parents for ‘just one round!’. Bowls of miso soup and tempura are consumed on the days leading up to the main event— and the most anticipated of all, releasing sky lanterns beside a magnificent bonfire, built large and imposing to reflect the brilliance of the Flame Deity, lit up on the final night of the celebration.

You are swept up in the excitement, even as a simple passerby— the enthusiasm rippling through the air has been reaching an all time high— after all, there is less than a week left until the bonfire. A sharp ring of a bell sounds in the distance, followed by an excited cheer— someone must’ve won a prize at one of the numerous game stalls. A smile creeps across your face as you continue on your walk, ambling past establishments and restaurants filled to the brim with visitors.

A sudden impact to your back has you stumbling. You nearly fall over and spill your basket of wisteria— but you catch yourself in time, turning back to catch the culprit. A small child sits on his rear, grimacing. It was clearly an accident— his hands are smudged with dirt on the ground, as he clutches at his forehead.

The child gasps, eyes wide as he looks up at you. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to run into you!”

You feel yourself relax at the sight, reaching out to offer a hand. “It’s a small matter. Are you alright?”

He is bashful as he reaches out. His fingers brush against yours— before he is snatched away harshly by his mother, who looks at you with familiar disdain. “Let’s go.”

Even as their figures retreat into the crowd, you hear her distant chiding. You press your lips into a straight line, dusting off your clothes, blushing under the glances of those around you. The curious stares quickly disperse as you quickly dart away, too ashamed to meet the eyes of whoever may be watching. You’d foolishly thought you’d be safe under the cover of the crowd, but it seemed like you would still have to handle trouble on your visit today. The pressure of eyes on your back grow heavier.

The building of the village’s apothecary store is unassuming, aside from a butterfly crest and ‘Kochō’ etched atop its entryway. You slide open the shoji doors and step in, setting down your basket on the counter. Your fingers graze the bell atop the counter, but even with the lightest touch, its shrill ring echoes loudly down the hallway. “Excuse me! I’m here for the delivery of the flowers you’ve requested!”

Footsteps thud down the stairs— a voice responds with ‘coming!’, before a girl appears behind the counter. You don’t recognize her— perhaps she’s a new hire? You’ve been a usual appearance around the store for nearing two years now, ever since they discovered a cough tincture that utilized a compound in wisteria petals. The lady of the house had sought you out after noticing the unmistakable purple hue of the flowers hanging from the trees around your residence, and you have been in their business ever since.

The new employee’s smile drops into a scowl upon seeing your face. “You’re not welcome here.”

It is not hostility you expect, seeing as the staff at the apothecary shop were usually rather hospitable. Nonetheless, you’ve grown accustomed to the disapproving looks. You keep the polite smile on your face. “I have been requested. Please call for Kanzaki-san.”

She folds her arms across her chest, brows furrowing. “Like I said, you’re not—”

There is a loud thwack! as the girl squawks, before she spins around to reveal a fuming Aoi behind her, her hands quick to reach out and pull at her ear.

“Rude! How dare you!” Aoi tugs harder, eliciting another pained yelp from the girl.

You laugh, your hand waving dismissively. “I’m fine, Aoi, really. I was just here to drop off the wisteria.”

Aoi’s face scrunches, clear disapproval at your quick disposition to forgive, before releasing her hold on the girl’s ear. “It’s not fine. If you let people walk all over you like that, you’ll get hurt.”

The girl’s hands fly up to cup her ear, face reddened. Aoi turns to glare at her. “Apologize!” She snaps. “Then go and get the cash.”

Her shoulders droop with exasperation as she mumbles a weak apology and turns back to rummage around a drawer. Aoi busies herself with emptying the petals from the basket into an enormous glass jar from behind the counter, weighing it. The petals barely reaches the halfway mark— seems like you had severely underestimated the tincture’s demand. You watch curiously as she places a petal on her tongue, nibbling at it to taste the extract. Aoi nods, seemingly satisfied with its quality. The girl reluctantly pulls out a wad of cash to Aoi, who counts the bills, before recording the transaction down on a book and handing it to you.

“Please bring another basket tomorrow!” Aoi bows, and her hand flies up to push down the head of the other employee as well. “We greatly appreciate your help.”

With a smile, you agree to their request and bid them a good-natured farewell before you exit the building. You take a glance at the now empty basket in your hand, and decide that it wouldn’t hurt to stock up on essentials before you head home.

The lively atmosphere has you nearly forgetting about the prejudices you faced this morning. You let yourself mull over tubers and vegetables, debating which would be your meal for this week’s dinner.

“The harvest this spring was bountiful,” the vegetable seller makes small talk as she accepts the coins you hand her. “It must be because it’s the year of the Flame Deity. He has always been generous with food, you know?”

You continue strolling through the markets, stopping to gaze at the wares of those who were friendly enough to strike conversations with you, and skipping over the stores of those who glowered at your presence.

At the very end of the street, you stop to chat with a cheery boy, manning his family’s store on behalf of his mother, busy taking care of his siblings at home. His friendly demeanor was endearing and his responses earnest— you end up giving in and buying a grilled sweet potato from him. He is more than eager to hand it to you with a large grin on his face. “You won’t regret it, miss! Our family runs the best charcoal selling business around here— your grilled sweet potatoes will be lovely!” You reciprocate his warmness with a smile of your own.

Just as you turn around— there’s a distinct thwack! as your head bumps into a shoulder. The sweet potato flies out of your hand, and your hands fly up to clutch your aching nose.

You only falter for a moment. The thought of your potato going to waste horrified you enough to let go of your grasp, reaching for the snack with the intent to save it— but it unwraps itself from the paper wrapping as it hits the ground, picking a fine layer of dirt off the pavement. It’s devastating— you were truly looking forward to the meal, but you only had your clumsiness to blame.

Your head tilts up to apologize to the stranger, but you meet a burning gaze instead.

A voice booms. “My sincerest apologies!”

His yell shocks you and everyone in the vicinity. You hear a clatter as the boy behind you drops the wooden cover of his grill. You pick up the dirtied potato and hurry to rise to your feet, frazzled at his eccentricity.

The stranger before you is… interesting, if that word could be a little more encompassing. He is undeniably an outsider, with a loud, flame-patterned haori on his back over a black outfit. His hair is what gives his non-residential status away— stunning gold and striking auburn tips, swept-back and unruly, a shade that makes him stand out even against the splashy backdrop of the festival decorations. He stares at you, the smile on his face unfaltering. You come to a realization that he is awaiting a response.

“I’m alright!” You stammer out, a little too fast. “I was just shocked, that is all.”

He lets out a hearty laugh, turning to fully face you. You’re momentarily awestruck by the ring of gold that surrounds his irises, of the same hue as his hair. Both of them shimmer similarly under the sunlight, like the patterns on the haori he dons.

“It is my mistake that you’ve dropped your food!” He digs around in his pocket, pulling a handful of coins into his palm. “Let me buy you another one!”

“What?” You reach out to stop him, but he’s already in front of the poor young boy, who takes the money with confusion. “No— It’s alright, you don’t have to!”

A new sweet potato is in your hand before you can protest any further. The heat warms your fingers through the paper, and you’re left staring in disbelief, as the stranger walks away, munching at another sweet potato in his hand.

In the distance, you hear him yell— ‘delicious!’, and the people around him jump, very much like you did.

_________________________________

Four days left to the Flame Festival.

You were beginning to feel sick of the crowds, already. The previous years hadn’t been too bad— but maybe it was because of the rumours of this year’s celebrations being the grandest of all, that more people had flocked to your village, filling your inns to the brim.

The never ending stream of outsiders seem to come with their own issues, as well. A new wave of coughs has been spreading throughout the village, carried in with the influx of human traffic, and you have been working hard to harvest the wisteria trees around your compound for the girls working at the apothecary’s pharmacy. You think the yōkai must’ve tired themselves from the noise, too. You sense their restlessness from beyond the bamboo fences, but none have seemed to bother you today as you stroll down the familiar gravel path. You scatter a few more soybeans, just to be safe.

The only upside to this influx is that nobody pays you any mind when you enter the village, for now. Everyone is much too occupied with handling the masses that seemed to have doubled over the past few days. Another exasperated sigh escapes your mouth as you squeeze past two bickering tourists, fighting over the last of an orange tapestry with an abstract form of the Flame Deity weaved into its threads.

Thankfully, Aoi is the one manning the storefront this time. You’d brought double the amount of petals in anticipation of her previous request, but it barely fills the same jar from yesterday— had they already used the entire supply? At this rate, your trees would be stripped bare.

“This should be enough for now, but I will have to request for your deliveries again for the day after.” She nods, capping the jar tightly. Just as she is about to turn around to store it— a man walks into the apothecary storefront, coughing into a handkerchief as he gestures wildly. You step back involuntarily.

Aoi swiftly passes you a generous amount of cash ‘for your troubles’, and sends you on your merry way so you avoid the coughing man.

With spare time on your hands, you decide to take a walk around the booths that have been set up along the streets, admiring the assortment of prizes that line the walls. Wooden hyottoko masks lie beside boxes of sparklers— a small pang runs through your heart as you fondly recall memories of your childhood, when your father would carry you on his shoulders as you watch firecrackers pop noisily at the Flower Festival. Back when its Deity was still present.

(You fondly remember your village’s shaman kneeling on the tatami mats of his room facing the courtyard as villagers gather with building anticipation. His blind, gentle gaze directs to the wooden beams of the ceiling. In the reposeful tone of his, he solemnly declares the fall of Flower Deity Kochō— murmurs ripple through the crowd as they kneel, for the Deity’s sacrifice — and announces the rise of her counterpart, Insect Deity of the same Kochō lineage, taking her place, and grateful sighs would sound from the crowd. A reassurance to the village that they had not been abandoned.

Through all that, the Flame Deity remained unshakeable. His ancestors have taken the post for decades, and their descendants will, too. The eternal devotion of their lineage to the protection of the village has granted his position the utmost of respect, the most loved amongst the generations.)

Life was much simpler, then, when the village still unanimously welcomed your family.

Lost in your musings, you hadn’t realized that you’d stopped by a flower cart. The girl managing the stand grants you a polite smile, but remains silent as you take your time to glance over the assortment of wildflowers on display. Though she did not greet you, she held no air of hostility— so you stayed, thumbing through the lilies.

A hand reaches over your shoulder to pick a red carnation from the array of flowers. Somehow, you knew who it belonged to even before his voice graces your ears.

“I’ll take this, please!”

How the flower-seller remained unfazed at his shout will remain a mystery. You lurch, swinging around to face the same stranger you crossed paths with just yesterday. His smile remains steadfast as he reaches past you to hand the seller coins, and you glance at the carnation in his hand. It is bright red, yellow bordering its petals— complementing the vivaciousness of the Flame Festival’s with its bright colours. The flower is comically small in his large palms— which are calloused, rough, the signs of someone skilled at his craft.

Words tumble out of your mouth in surprise. “Ah, the man from the sweet potato store…”

The stranger jolts at your recognition. His gaze, however, does not leave the carnation. “It is good to see you again, stranger!”

There’s a pause before you realize that, yes, to him— you are the stranger. A laugh escapes you, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. His grin grows even wider at your apparent amusement— and you introduce yourself, enamored by his charisma. He repeats your name back to you, loud enough to make you wince and look around.

“You may call me Kyojuro!” He exclaims, finally turning to face you.

“It is a lovely name, Kyojuro-san,” you compliment with a small smile, watching his chest puff in pride. “Are you buying a carnation for your lover?”

Silence. Though, the enthusiasm does not fade from his face. You’re suddenly acutely aware of the flower seller who still stands by the cart, watching the whole exchange happening with her own impartial smile. You shift your weight, before awkwardly turning away and gesturing down the street. “I’m sorry if it was a sensitive question. Shall we—”

“Not at all!” Kyojuro interjects. He follows as you lead him away from the cart, like a duckling to its mother. “I bought it for myself, but this is now for you!”

You nearly trip over nothing at the proclamation. Kyojuro catches your arm, steadying you as he continues talking, staring ahead. “I am still regretful for causing you to drop your sweet potato, that day!”

“It’s fine, it really is!” You squeak out from the sudden contact. Your cheeks feels warm— you can only hope that he does not spot your growing blush. He releases his hold, turning to look at you.

“And,” his voice drops a few decibels softer— a normal speaking volume, something that you had doubted was possible from him. “I understand if it may be too much— but if you have no further plans for the day, would you be kind enough to tour me around the festival?”

Your head spins with the abruptness of the situation. A part of you is quick to accept, out of your own goodwill— but you know your presence would not be very welcomed amongst certain crowds, and you doubt you would like to wish such unpleasantness upon him. Still, his face is beaming so brightly you feel like a villain for even entertaining the thought of turning him down.

“I’m sorry, I would love to, but…” your voice trails off, words bitter on your tongue, the fear of disappointing him rooting itself in your stomach. “It’s really not best to acquaint with me—”

“Nonsense!” He cuts you off. “You seem like you would be a perfectly fine guide. I would be honoured if you would have me!” Kyojuro hands you the carnation, and you hesitantly take it from him. You let yourself admire the vibrant petals a little longer— noting that its yellow edges and red center resemble his eyes, before tucking its stem in between the weaves of your basket to ensure it does not fall out. His straightforwardness is refreshing and his honesty makes him feel trustworthy. Something about him makes you feel safe— so if he truly wants you as a guide…

“If you insist,” you look back at him, a sheepish grin on your face.

As customary, you first bring him to try the best miso soup in the village. It’s sold at a cart tucked away in a side alley, mostly only visited by locals who knew of the spot— the street was relatively quiet, and you were lucky that there was no queue awaiting the both of you.

The chef greets you by name when you sit by the cart, and nods at Kyojuro in acknowledgement. With a large ladle, he reaches into a big pot, scooping out a generous portion of miso soup into two bowls, sliding it over the counter. Kyojuro leans into the bowl, his eyes closing as he takes a big sniff. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that this is the first time you think you’ve seen the man blink.

“Hm!” He exhales, a satisfied look on his face. You take it as a good sign.

“Legend says that during the grand celebration after all the yōkai were chased into the forest, the first deity of the Flame Deity lineage finished all of the village’s tempura supply and washed it down with bowls of miso soup,” you inform him, taking a sip of your own. Even though scalding, the soup was divine— if this was what the Flame Deity tasted during the celebration, it would make sense that he would consume stacks upon stacks of bowls.

Kyojuro tilts his head back and takes a large gulp of the steaming soup. You’re left staring as he sets the bowl down, licking his lips with eyes that almost seem to sparkle.

“DELICIOUS!”

The chef drops his ladle into the pot in shock. You nearly spill your own bowl.

“I can see why you said this was the best miso soup here!” Kyojuro turns to you. “Your endorsement is much appreciated! My compliments to the chef!”

You’re wholly embarrassed at his outburst, but you manage to ask the chef to serve him two more bowls while hiding your blush behind your hand. On the bright side, it was good to know that your recommendation didn’t fall through. As if the positive comment wasn’t enough, Kyojuro drives home his appreciation by animatedly and very loudly describing its deliciousness as you both walk down the crowded streets. Thankfully, nobody seems to pay him any mind— perhaps they’ve seen greater oddities from the tourists that have sprung up.

“I’m regretful that I did not bring a container to store more of the soup in!” He nods to nobody but himself. “It would’ve made for a great gift!”

You would debate about the logicality of a barrel of miso soup as a gift, but you’re momentarily distracted when the breeze picks up the corner of his haori, catching your attention in your peripheral view. “Is your haori a gift, too? I’ve never seen one like that being sold around here.”

He places his hands on his hips, looking rather pleased with himself. “You could say that! One of the things my family prides themselves on is this haori. It’s been passed down for generations and has been through plenty!”

“Oh,” your eyes trail along it, with its unique hem and vibrant colouring. It’s distinctly patterned after fire— you’ve seen the same shades being used in Flame Festival souvenirs. “Does your family worship the Flame Deity as well? I assumed you weren’t from around here.”

“I am from around the area! Just not this village, in particular!”

You feel yourself flush from your ignorance. “I apologize. I didn’t know there were other villages on this mountain— it may be clear that I am not well-traveled.”

He comes to a halt, planting his feet firmly as he folds his arms across his chest. You jolt as well, turning to look over at him. His gaze remains trained on the end of the street, the smile on his face unwavering. “Please do not apologize! You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Dumbfounded, you simply nod and follow beside him when he resumes his walk, fists curled by his sides. It seemed that you needn’t worry about your remark being offensive, after all— Kyojuro is amiable and easy-going, and you both lapse into conversation over a variety of topics as you bring him around the souvenir street, pointing out various haori designs and bringing him to view gorgeous tassels dangling from storefronts, their finely spun gold threads catching the sun when the breeze blows by.

He stops to admire the tassels and so do you, but the store owner shoots you a nasty glare and you shrink back behind him. You’re not quite sure if Kyojuro caught it as well— but he turns away abruptly, a light brush of his hand against your back to guide you along. After a few more stores, he takes a particular interest in an array of omamori encased in a display shelf, and spends a leisurely amount of time scanning through them. The owner this time nods to you in acknowledgement as you bow slightly toward him.

“Are you thinking of getting one?” You lean over to take a look as well.

“Yes! I was thinking of a good luck charm. However, I worry that these would fall out if I keep them in my pocket!”

It’s refreshing to see someone so earnest about their intentions— you chuckle as your eyes sweep across the shelf. “In that case, how about a cord to wear around your wrist instead?”

You turn to run your fingers through the display of hanging cords, lingering on one, a twist of reds and yellows, much like the carnation he had given you earlier. You pick it out and raise it to him, comparing the string to the yellow of his hair. Kyojuro is obviously taken to the idea— he ends up buying a fistful them, and you guffaw to yourself at the image of him tying them all along his forearm.

“Do you believe in such superstitions?” You tease.

“Of course not!” Kyojuro laughs heartily, as he picks out a bright red cord with a small gold pendant attached to its center. “They are simply strings, but it is fun to imagine!”

As you both exit the store, he fumbles with the string as he poorly attempts to tie it around his forearm. You feel your grin getting wider at the sight, before you step in to help. Your fingers push the edge of his sleeve up, brushing along his skin as you nimbly secure the cord around his wrist. Your eyes flit to his upturned palm, and you’re reminded of the callouses along the palms of his hands. Is he a swordsman?

You realize he’s been uncharacteristically silent— you look up, and realize Kyojuro’s smile has dropped, replaced with an indiscernible expression. With a yelp, you jump back. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to get so close…”

His signature grin returns. “Again, no need for apologies! Thank you for your assistance!”

Kyojuro beckons you toward him with a wave of his hand. Confused, you approach him, raising your hand as he gestures for you to do so. He leans over— and ties a cord around your wrist, too. Your heart skips multiple beats and you hold your breath, heart thudding loudly. He’s so close. Was I this close to him earlier? Is that why he stopped smiling?

You barely register the feeling of the rough pads of his fingers leaving the skin of your wrist, as he rises back to his full height, looking proud of his handiwork. You look back down, and it’s the same sunset-coloured cord that you were admiring earlier.

His frame suddenly looks a little larger than it did earlier— even under the loose fabric of his flowing haori, you can tell how broad his shoulders are. The carnation in your basket weighs heavy.

“I—I can’t possibly accept this gift— not after you’ve already gifted me the flower,” you manage to stammer out.

“The string is on your wrist already, is it not?” Kyojuro laughs, stuffing the remaining strands of cords into his pocket. “Take it as a gesture of goodwill, for allowing me to taste such delicious miso soup!”

With your face red as the cord around his wrist, you turn to face the horizon, hoping the slight breeze would cool you down. A sinking realization hits you as you notice that the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, a forewarning of the encroaching dusk.

“Night is approaching,” you mumble to yourself absentmindedly.

Kyojuro nods beside you. “So it seems!”

You turn to him, swallowing the sinking feeling in your stomach with a bitter smile. “You must head home before it gets dark. Surely you’ve heard of the warnings of the yōkai that lurk behind the thickets surrounding this village.”

It is a redundant question. There are signs posted everywhere on the fences that border the forest, with clear depictions for the illiterate as a precautionary measure— and if he had survived the first night you ran into him, he surely knows of the rules.

He doesn’t seem to be as dejected as you. “Yes! But your village is lit all night, I presume because of the festival, thus it is rather safe!”

“Unfortunately, I stay on the outskirts, so I would have to head home first,” you’re careful with your words. “It is a shame we didn’t have much time to see the stalls on the other side of the area. The festival is much more grand than the slice we managed to explore.”

Kyojuro back looks at you with a peculiar face, his usual smile exchanged for a confused expression. “Oh! I was under the impression that we would meet tomorrow.” Hastily, he adds, “only if you’re free, of course!”

You heart lurches in your chest. You feel a strong, indescribable urge to hold onto his hand and thank him for his kindness. No— you’re aware that you were just lucky that you didn’t run into any particular nasty encounters. Perhaps the villagers were being more cordial with you due to the many more pairs of eyes on them— A small, albeit non-negligible, piece of your conscience wishes he would just part now, to preserve any good image he had of the villagers.

“Of course,” your mouth betrays your mind. “I would be glad to continue showing you around.”

He beams back at you so genuinely that it makes you feel guilty for your initial doubts. His brilliant grin causes your heart to thud noisily against your chest, feeling welcomed and appreciated for the first time in a decade, and you think his friendliness shines so bright he could easily replace daytime if he wanted to—

Kyojuro interrupts your thoughts with a loud laugh, folding his arms across his chest, making his shoulders look even broader than they already are. He looks like the spitting image of the sun, the his hair and the hem of his haori alike as they shift in the light breeze, billowing behind him as the rays of the setting sun behind him causes the edges of his figure to gleam, his eyes bright even in the shadow cast upon you.

His voice is firm, unwavering— teeth bared with the biggest smile you have ever seen. “I am greatly honored to have you guide me once more!”

Upon reaching home, the familiar scent of the wisteria trees that border your residence greets you. Though, you brush past them today in favour of quickly trimming the ends of the carnation stem— placing it in a vase atop the cabinet by your genkan. It matches the cord around your wrist, both vibrant and stark against the dreary neutral tones of your residence, like a sunset painting grey clouds saturated oranges and reds.

Though your memories are fuzzy now, but you’re sure if your parents were still around, they would’ve most definitely loved to decorate the house with trinkets like these; now, you’d let go of that habit to avoid the disdainful eyes of the villagers. You’re silently thankful for the lady of the apothecary store to have sought you out for the wisteria trees— as if her presence was a silent, final gift from your parents to you, telling you to keep pushing on for now you had a purpose.

With another longing glance at the carnation, you also think it is a gift— pushing you onto a new path where you meet a friend for the first time in a long, long while.

______________________________

The next morning, you’re blinded by Kyojuro’s overwhelming enthusiasm once again when he yells a greeting right by your ear. As you’re buying sweet potatoes.

It makes the charcoal-selling boy drop your order back onto the grill, but he catches quickly it with the flax wrapping, and artfully ties a twine around it, passing it to you with a smile. “Thank you for your patronage!”

“Sweet potatoes in the morning is a good choice!” Kyojuro agrees earnestly, accepting the potato you hand him. It takes a tick to register in brain. “Is this for me?”

You nod, reaching into your basket to take out two more. “You seemed to have a healthy appetite the other day. I assumed you would be hungry in the morning— plus, I never got to pay you back for the sweet potato the first time we met.”

“No need for that! More impressively, you are observant to have noticed my appetite!” He compliments you. You don’t think that it’s anything particularly outstanding— only a blind man would miss the way the stack of bowls nearly reached the top of the miso soup cart just yesterday. He polishes two potatoes off before you can comment on it. “I will be sure to return this favour!”

“No need. I was thinking we could take a look around the games they’ve set up today,” you suggest. His face lights up even further— you feel yourself squint reflexively at the glow exuding from him. “I guess you were looking forward to the games the most?”

His joyous laugh echoes back even through the noisy din of the crowds. “Who would not be? Games are the highlight of any festival!”

The first stall that stops Kyojuro in his tracks is a game of yo-yo tsuri. He halts the instant the colourful balloons catch his eye, and you run straight into him— receiving the honor of feeling how well-built his body is, by slamming your entire face against his back. You stumble back, clutching the throbbing bridge of your nose. He turns around and steadies you easily by a light touch on your shoulder blade, an action that makes your heart flutter— but soon after making sure you’re unscathed, his attention is quick to return to the bobbing balls atop the tank of water.

Who were you to deny those sparkles in his eyes?

He walks away victorious with six yo-yo, three attached to his each of his wrists respectively, and offers you one when he notices you staring at him. You decline respectfully— but he wrestles one onto your arm anyway. It is orange with yellow and red dots on it, and he insists that it is ‘for the spirit of the Flame Festival’. You don’t tell him that you’re beginning to liken the warm shades to him more than the deity.

Unfortunately for you, everything in the festival is fire-themed. His hair blends into the banners that stream down from the eaves of houses and the near fluorescent orange awnings of the stalls, and you think you’re beginning to go insane when you see images of him swirling in your vision as the both of you crouch forward to peer into the tank of vibrant goldfish, their thoughtless eyes staring back at you.

Kyojuro straightens his back, looking at you. “I am interested to attempt goldfish scooping!” His voice causes the fish to scatter in fright.

“Shall we play, then?” You smile at him, nodding at the store owner. The owner was distracted reading the newspaper— but once he notices you, his face drops into a scowl. For the sake of his business, he hands you two scoops anyway, making sure his fingers hold their edges— as far as possible away from your fingers.

“In hindsight,” Kyojuro interrupts, cutting between the both of you— his hand on your back radiates warmth through the fabric of your nagagi as he effortlessly pivots your center of gravity away from the storefront, leaving the owner stunned while ushering you away. “I think the scales on the goldfish over there look brighter!”

No matter how you squint, the goldfish look equally dazed and listless as the tank before. However, the owner this time is more than happy to hand the both of you two scoops and bowls enthusiastically, clearly happy that his stall tucked away in a quieter corner received some attention. You look at Kyojuro’s spirited mannerisms, and begin to feel worried at the force at which he’s about to swat the goldfish with.

“Kyojuro-san,” you start slowly, and his head whips to you at the call of his name, like a puppy to its owner. You stifle a laugh. “You have to be careful when you’re catching the fish,” you lift the scoop, lightly brushing your finger against the center. “The middle is made out of paper, so they’ll break at the slightest amount of pressure.”

You pull back the ends of your sleeve and the orange yo-yo up your arm, lowering your hand to the edge of the water. With a gentle sweep, you usher a black and orange speckled goldfish into your provided bowl, and it follows obediently, docile. “And be gentle.”

“Like swinging a katana!” He nods.

You smile back. “Maybe a little gentler.”

It doesn’t look like he heard you— he’s busy removing the five remaining yo-yo on his arms and affixing them to his belt, rolling up the sleeves of his haori, giving you the slightest glimpse of his forearm— and the muscles rippling just beneath as he stretches his wrist, testing the scoop in his grasp. You feel yourself swallow at the sight of the pale skin of his inner wrist and a hint of a scar peeking out from the edge of his sleeve.

Kyojuro dips the spoon into the tank.

You blink once, and three goldfish are in his cup instantly. He lifts the bowl in the air, the sunlight refracting through the water in the glass like a halo, and lets out a hearty laugh. You glance down— the paper still intact.

He lowers the bowl and beams at you. “Let me try again! I will get eight, this time!”

“Three is already plenty impressive,” you try to placate him. “Let’s not empty the tank.”

“Nonsense! There’s at least thirty fish in there!” He insists. He pays for another round before the shopkeeper registers that this man will drive his business to the ground if he continues.

Kyojuro’s usual grin is exchanged for an expression of focus— this is the first time you think you’ve seen him not smile. You only catch the slight flicker of his irises sweep across the tank, before his hand skims the edge of the water easily, and nine goldfish scamper into his lowered bowl. Their orange and red scales look like fire as they flounder in the bowl, clearly not meant to hold that many fish in one.

He looks at you eagerly, and you can’t help but cover your mouth in genuine amazement. “You’re sure this is your first time…?”

The man chortles, clearly pleased by your compliment. “The technique is rather easy to grasp!” He leans in close to you, his voice dropping into what you think is his version of a whisper (that is, a normal, conversational tone). “You just have to imagine that you’re swinging a blade, exactly in the direction of your movement, just slightly tilted to catch the fish, but not enough to tear the paper!”

Not like the advice would’ve helped. He clearly had prior expertise— most probably related to swords, just a guess— that made him skilled in this aspect. Kyojuro lowers himself and gently dips the bowl into the water, tilting it such that the goldfish are able to escape back into the spacious tank.

You tilt your head in surprise. “Oh! Are you not planning on keeping them?”

“I never had any intention of keeping fish as pets! I was simply interested in impressing you!”

Knowing him enough, you don’t take the in comment any way but platonic. Still, at his chivalrous gesture, the goldfish swimming aimlessly in your own bowl suddenly feels heavy. You’re obligated to release it back into the tank to rejoin its friends, as well. The storeowner looks rather pleased, and bids a ‘happy Flame Festival!’ as the both of you head off to explore more stalls.

Kyojuro seems bent on keeping his intentions about impressing you. He tries his hand on nearly every game the both of you chance upon— landing every ring toss on the first try, and knocking over every tin can at shateki. He wins you one of the hyotokki masks you were looking at the other day, and you couldn’t find it in your heart to tell him that you were actually weren’t particularly interested in them. Weak to his smile, you place the mask on the side of your head, slightly embarrassed when you realize the only ones who did the same were children half your age.

A commotion down the street catches both your attention, and you realize that you had just chanced upon one of the festival street parade, carts of lit-up sky lanterns being wheeled down the street, tied securely to wooden planks. It is meant to be a preview of the bonfire event taking place in three days. A vague memory surfaces to your mind— years ago, when you were still a child, perched upon your father’s shoulders as similar carts roll past the both of you.

“Magnificent!” Kyojuro chirps, and he ushers you further in, the waves of the crowd pushing you to the front easily. Midway through being shoved about, you catch the eyes of two girls. They’re dressed in flashy, bright kimono— clearly from the main city, but you see recognition flash in their eyes. One of the girl turns to her friend, whispering something into her ear.

Dread pools in your stomach at the action. It seemed like your reputation had spread to the outsiders as well— you had been too comfortable in the crowds of strangers.

You aren’t able to dwell much on it— Kyojuro bursts through the front lines with you by him, and you were just grateful that you didn’t get mouthfuls of fabric from being squished against bodies. The carts are decorated just as magnificently as you remember them, with horses pulling them at the front, their well-groomed coats gleaming in the light. Rows of lit lanterns trail behind them, attached with sturdy rope and twine.

Your eyes are trained on the performers dressed in their happi and colourful headbands, bright smiles on their faces— enough to distract you from noticing the soft snap of your yo-yo string, and the dull thud of the orange ball rolling across the ground.

Everything happens too fast.

The horse’s hoof stomps down on the ball, making it slip in it’s place. The ensuing pop of the balloon scares the horse enough to swing it’s head roughly, the cart behind it wavering unsteadily as its rider tries to pull on its reigns to regain control. The crates in the wagon tilt over into the crowd. You watch in horror as a child— the one that ran into you just the other day, you recognize, is rooted to the ground in shock, eyes wide as the crowd around him scatters from the boxes on the verge of tipping over.

With your eyes squeezed shut, you lunge for him. You feel yourself fall forward, shoving the child out of the way of the debris, taking his place instead. There are shouts of surprise that sound from around you, but the blood rushing in your ears roars much too loud for you to actually discern the voices.

Arms wrap around you, followed by the deafening crash of wood falling onto the ground. Dust rises from the collision, watering your eyes and causing you to cough incessantly into your sleeve. After a few heaves and gasps, the cloud settles back down onto the ground. The shrill pitch in your ears have ceased— and you lift your head to take a peek.

Kyojuro’s voice from above you booms loud enough that your ears ring all over again. “Are you hurt?”

…above you?

You’re on the ground, but you feel the warmth of Kyojuro’s palm against the back of your head, holding you tightly against his chest with his back toward the cart. You take a sharp inhale— the scent of his haori fills your nose. A faint whiff of something similar to wisteria mixed with the smoky scent of a furnace. He runs hot, you think briefly, feeling quite comfortable against his body heat even with the solid ground beneath you.

With a gasp, you pull yourself out of his hold, grasping his face in your hands.

“Kyojuro-san!” You scramble to your knees, scanning him over as you try your best not to jerk him around too harshly— a feat considering the indescribable worry that was flooding your very being. With the height of the stack that toppled, there was no possible scenario that a box wouldn’t have collided with his head. You lightly comb your fingers along his scalp, brush your thumbs against the back of his neck— and let out a large sigh of relief when your hands pull away, devoid of any blood. Still, you couldn’t rule out a chance that he’d been concussed, or bruised. “Kyojuro-san, are you alright? You took the brunt of the boxes, I— I don’t know why you would—”

He’s wide-eyed, staring at you. You have never once seen this man speechless— but he is, clearly, very much uncharacteristically, at a loss for words.

Oh, Gods, you think you’re going to pass out. He’s been concussed.

Swift as lightning, his arm flies up and he grasps your hand, tugging toward him so lightly you wonder if you were the one who reached out to him instead. “I’m unhurt!” He exclaims, his smile returning to his face. “I am glad you look fine as well!”

All at once, you realize the weight of stares upon the both of you. The crowd that dispersed had now gathered to stare curiously at your figures on the ground, murmurs stirring up. The child you’d pushed starts to wail— and the wall of stunned silence that held up the wave of accusations crumbles. Shame settles upon you as a curtain of red that descends upon your face, and you quickly tug Kyojuro up from his place, pulling him away from the chaos of the masses.

The voices surrounding you blend into an unpleasant memory. Standing by the altar of your parents, adults with contemptuous stares. Condemning fingers all pointed at you. The smell of prayer incense floods your nostrils, sending you into a dark, dark spiral— your hands shaking uncontrollably as you attempt to weave through the thick, choking crowds that fluctuate between grasping for the edges of your nagagi to stop your escape, and retracting from you in disgust. Faces you haven’t seen for years flash before your eyes, their gazes piercing as ever. Your breaths are too fast for your brain to register, a growing lump in your throat that feels like it could burst at any moment—

“Pardon me!”

Kyojuro’s voice breaks through the haze of your hallucinations, silencing the crowd. You turn to him with glassy eyes. His lips are pinched together, and though he still has a smile on his face, it looks almost angry. The man lowers himself and quite literally— sweeps you off your feet. With a blink, you realize you’re already out of the streets, on the path just outside the entrance by the clearing that forks right back to your home. He’s warm, you think, feeling the heat radiating off him once more as he holds you tight to his chest.

Slowly, he sets you down. The both of you stand in silence for a bit, you teary eyed, head lowered, and you realize it must be awkward for him too— being put in a spot where his curiosity must be eating him alive, but yet not quite daring to pry. You lift your head to him, only to see him turned away, gaze turned toward the sunset in an attempt to give you some semblance of privacy.

“Kyojuro-san—”

“I admit! I am perplexed as to why even after your attempt to save the boy, the villagers do not look kindly upon you!” He doesn’t face you when he speaks. “However, I understand that you may not wish to talk about it with me, since we have not met for long!”

He turns to you, and bows, eyes closed and hands stiffly at his sides. “I also would like to apologize for my earlier behaviour! I should not have held you like that without your permission!”

You sniff. Even through teary eyes, his zealous apology still elicits a laugh from you. Your chuckle makes his shoulders loosen. “I should be the one thanking you, really, for carrying me out of that crowd.”

Kyojuro returns to stand at his full height, the setting sun casting lovely rays of orange onto him, accentuating the strong bridge of his nose and the sides of his face. His smile is most probably out of habit for him, but it makes you feel comforted— knowing there was someone out there in the world who truly enjoys your company, who stood before you at this moment.

“I would not mind explaining it to you, Kyojuro-san,” you absentmindedly rub at your wrist. “But it is getting late. Perhaps I can tell you some other day.”

A subtle questioned intertwined into your words— a slight to determine if the earlier encounter had wavered his resolve to having you as his guide, one that Kyojuro can easily back out of with a simple ‘maybe!’. But the man catches on easily— he is sharp enough to pick up on hints like this, followed by promptly bulldozing any subtlety with his unfiltered, raw thoughts.

“I would like to meet you tomorrow as well, if you would permit me to!” He nods. Kyojuro clearly does not beat around the bush— you could afford to learn from him. Years of being shunned has made you sensitive to passive-aggressive remarks, enough to make you develop indirect questioning as your defense mechanism. You suddenly recall the apothecary’s deliveries in the back of your mind.

“I have an errand to run in the morning, so I will be a little later than today’s time. Unless you would like to join…?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro shouts, with even more enthusiasm than you’d expected. “I would like to observe the daily lives of the villagers here, while enjoying the festival!”

You laugh, a hand darting up to hide your grin. Kyojuro’s eyes lock onto your wrist— distinctly empty of a yo-yo. With a swift twist of his fingers, he unhooks another yo-yo from his belt and ties it around yours before you can protest. This one is bright red, smatterings of blue and white with a yellow spiral across its circumference. He takes a step back, admiring his own handiwork— your cheeks flare with red, nearly outperforming the balloon on your wrist. You do your best to protest his gift out of sheer politeness, even though it’s already attached to you. Kyojuro simply laughs, knowing you wouldn’t return it.

He is right. The balloon joins the carnation and the cord atop the shoe cabinet by your genkan, occupying the space where piled up, unopened mails had once been. The gifts are small, but they fill the space easily with their presence, the burning shades of red and yellow leaving their mark on your heart.

______________________________

Two more days to the bonfire.

The lack of disturbance from yōkai once again this morning confirmed your earlier suspicions— the odd period of silence is not a one-off happening, but most likely due to the bustle of the festival. Even during the Sound Festival, you'd had a few run-ins with them before (that you resolved with healthy sprinkles of holy water and strips of talismans), but strangely, their numbers seem to have dwindled greatly in the days counting down to the grand celebration of the Flame Festival.

A nagging feeling in you tells you to not let your guard down just yet. Seizing the opportunity, you glanced over the fences and barriers around your compound and down the path to the village. You take this chance to replace the tattered talismans that you’ve been meaning to mend for a while now, only deterred by its proximity to the forest edge. You feel eyes on you— but as you expected, nothing more than eyes. Perhaps at some point, you will be punished for stepping too far out, but for now, you remain alert, even as you run your fingers a little too far beyond the talisman barrier, knowing it must’ve tempted a handful of yōkai who caught the scent of human flesh.

At the main clearing of the village, Kyojuro eyes your basket of wisteria petals and the tattered talismans in your grasp. He looks back at you, as if asking for permission, and you hold it out to him, allowing him to reach into the basket’s contents, lifting a petal to his nose and sniffing. You admire the way he handles the delicate petals between calloused fingerpads, and the way his bifurcated eyebrows furrow slightly as he tries to identify its scent.

“Very high quality fuji!” He barks, returning the petal to its basket. “I’m surprised they can grow so well, considering that the climate up here on the mountains tend to be susceptible to unpredictable frosts!”

You're momentarily stunned by his knowledge. He did imply that he was from the same range of mountains, after all, so you didn't really have a reason to be taken aback by his comments about the weather. But not many would be able to differentiate the quality of Japanese wisteria— lest by its smell alone.

“Thank you. The wisteria trees surrounding my house were one of the last few gifts my parents left me,” you confess. Then, you realize it might’ve been a little weird to bring up dead family in front of Kyojuro, so you give him another leverage to continue the conversation. “How were you able to distinguish it’s quality based off it’s smell? Even the girls manning the apothecary store have to taste a petal to ensure I harvested a good batch.”

He points to his nose, then folds his arms across his chest, straightening his posture. You mirror his movements, pushing back your shoulder blades in an attempt to stand as straight as he does— like a sunflower mimicking the height of the sun. “I have a good nose!” He exclaims, grinning. “I owe it to my father! He’s always had sharp senses!”

It is the first time Kyojuro has mentioned his family. You perk up in curiosity, but he doesn’t continue the topic. Instead, he helps you dispose of the old talismans, standing by your side with his head slightly lowered as both of you give your thanks to the charms for their protection— before burning it and watching its ashes flutter into the forest beyond. At least he’s not a yōkai in disguise, you muse to yourself, peeking at the way he holds the talismans in his hands.

Kyojuro follows you to the store to deposit your wisteria. On the way, you tell him stories about the trees around your compound— about the painstaking efforts your parents took to ensure they were well taken care of throughout the winters, about how gorgeous they look when they’re in bloom. He nods at your comments.

“If time permits, I would love to show them to you someday,” you smile as you arrive at your destination. “Their blooms were once the main attraction of the villagers— they once lined the path to my house just to catch a glimpse of the flowers swaying in the summer breeze.”

He opens his mouth— but the door to the store opens before he can say anything, and the both of you are face-to-face with the lady of the apothecary store.

“Shinobu-san! What a pleasant surprise!” You greet, bowing. You lift your head and turn to Kyojuro, introducing the both of them to each other. “Kyojuro-san, this is Shinobu-san, the apothecary of the store! She’s incredibly proficient at her work. Shinobu-san, this is Kyojuro-san. He’s a visitor brought in by the festivities of the Flame Festival! I’m currently showing him around.” It was a perfect time for the both of them to meet— they were the two people you were most friendly with, and both were kind-hearted by nature. Surely, they would get along well with each other.

Heavy silence weighs between the both of them.

Huh?

You turn to face the two, your expression a clear display of your surprise. Silence was not what you had expected— Kyojuro had always struck you as an extrovert with plenty of conversational topics, and Shinobu was cordial when she had to be. Perhaps you thought wrong? The both of them simply stare at each other, the unreadable smiles on their faces unchanging, as if they were exchanging thoughts through glances alone.

“Um,” you clench the basket in your hand tighter, plastering a similar smile on your face. “Shinobu-san was the one who spotted the wisterias blooming around my residence and requested for my assistance. The tincture that they’re producing now for the cough that’s been spreading around utilizes Japanese wisteria!” You laugh awkwardly. “Isn’t that interesting, Kyojuro-san?”

“Indeed it is!” Kyojuro does not hesitate to respond to you, though his eyes remain trained on her— the tension that follows afterward thickens tenfold.

Shinobu steps aside to invite the both of you into the store. She greets you by your name, reaching to lift the basket from your hands as you enter. “I heard from Aoi about the employee from the other day. I’ve talked to her and she apologized. I hope we are still in your good graces.”

Before you can respond, she turns to look at your guest with an innocuous tilt of her head. “Kyojuro-san, was it? Thank you for coming down to celebrate the Flame Festival with us.”

Kyojuro’s eyes dart up briefly to the signboard atop the entrance before he crosses the doorway. “Likewise, Lady Kochō!” He exclaims. Her smile twitches. You flinch. “It is respectable work that you do here! The villagers must be grateful to have someone dependable like you around.”

“Please, call me Shinobu.” It’s phrased like a polite request, but the poison underlying her voice leaves no room for argument. “Even though I am the apothecary, my duties often have me travelling out of town, so I am rarely present. My assistants are the ones who manage the place more than me.”

She calls for Aoi, who appears after a few moments that felt much too long— and asks for her to retrieve the money for your wares. Aoi looks between the three of you, seemingly confused at the tense atmosphere as well, but leaves without commenting on it. You shift uncomfortably in the silence. It felt like you were intruding on a conversation that you weren’t meant to overhear, though you were sure that they weren’t discussing anything confidential.

After a few more curt exchanges, Aoi returns with the money, and you take it gratefully, almost desperate to leave the store to separate the two. Shinobu returns the basket to you, her eyes gentle. “You’ve brought plenty today. Please, enjoy the rest of the days off leading to the festival.”

“Shall we continue exploring, Kyojuro-san?” You laugh awkwardly, taking the basket from her. He doesn’t budge, eyes still trained on Shinobu with the same smile on his face. “Kyojuro-san?”

You reach out to tug at his sleeve, and it finally makes him break his line of sight to glance at you. He bows stiffly and bids the girls a goodbye, before turning around to exit the building.

The walk is quiet for a few moments, as if Kyojuro was preoccupied with collecting his own thoughts. After you both turn the corner a distance ways from the apothecary store, he pipes up.

“It seems she was unhappy with me calling her Lady Kochō!”

The sigh of relief that escapes you catches yourself off guard. “It’s understandable. The family name of Kochō is the lineage of the Insect Deity, and previously, the Flower Deity. Shinobu-san might have found it disrespectful you referred to her using the Insect Deity’s name.”

Kyojuro shoots you a confused look, and you correct yourself. “Disrespectful to the deities themselves, I mean. The only time their names are ever meant to be uttered is by our village shaman himself, even more so disrespectful that if it was used to refer to humans like us.”

The flame-haired man lets his stare wander back in front of him, hands folded neatly, hidden beneath his haori. “And yet, it is etched on the sign by the store,” he muses.

“It’s different!” You flush, startling him with your sudden insistence. “It’s rumoured that the Insect Deity gave the apothecary store her blessing to do so, and before her, the Flower Deity as well!” You pivot yourself to stand in front of him, halting the both of you in the middle of the street. “That’s why they are allowed to use the lineage name without being cursed for it!”

You’d seen the blessing with your own eyes. Well, not the Insect Deity’s, but the Deity before her. You clearly recall the way your mother had carried you in her arms, your body bundled tightly to protect against the cold winter wind nipping at your cheeks— as your tiny head peeked out from above the crowd, watching the village shaman raise the tamagushi offering high in the air, and as flowers sprout from his feet, through the frost-hardened soil around the apothecary building.

Even now, a decade or so after the blessing, you still held a soft spot for the Kochō apothecary shop. That’s why you were so touched when Shinobu had approached you for your wisteria, to have given you another chance at living a normal life in the village even after the death of your parents, even after all the glares you received from villagers.

Kyojuro blinks once, his lips pinched together in clear surprise at your reaction. The expression fades into a wide grin before you can register it, and he leans in slightly toward you, the strands of his golden hair catching in the sunlight.

“Then, my apologies again if I have offended you! I am still not entirely sure of your customs here, so please forgive me if I act out of line again!”

You shake your head furiously, not intending for your ramble to come off as a chiding. Your small commotion earned some nasty glares from passer-bys, but they’ve gotten easier to ignore with Kyojuro’s presence. Looking into his eyes, you’re suddenly reminded of the incident from last evening. Your face heats up at the recollection, but you duck your head as you reach into the sleeve of your kimono, pulling out a pouch of soybeans.

“I realized I didn’t thank you for the incident the other day, so I thought I’d give this to you.”

“What is this!” Kyojuro takes the pouch from you anyway, looking at you as his fingers hover above the mouth of the drawstring, silently asking for your permission.

“You may open it,” you gesture to him. His hands are fast, but gentle when he pulls open the pouch to peer into it. “It’s simply soybeans. Um, they’re deterrents for yōkai that lurk on the forest edge. I’m— I’m sure you won’t need it, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

There’s a pause as Kyojuro lets your words sink in. Then, he sucks in a sharp inhale— and lets out a booming laugh, his head thrown back. You’d prepared yourself, but was still inevitably startled by his sheer volume.

“Your vigilance is commendable!” He looks back at you with a grin. “But contrary to your belief, the wisteria scent lingering in your basket have more of an effect on the yōkai here!”

This information is new to you. You’re almost reluctant to believe it, but Kyojuro has given you no reason to doubt him, especially with his reassuring smile and confident demeanor. You stare at the pouch, blinking in confusion. “I was not aware of that. What makes you say so?”

He grins, tapping at his nose. “Call it a keen sense of intuition! Courtesy of my father’s genetics, again!”

“Ah… Well, then I shall return with a wisteria pouch tomorrow for you, then.” You reach over to take back the pouch in his hand. Kyojuro shifts it out of your reach.

“Wha—?”

“Regardless of its efficacy, I still appreciate the gift!” He tucks it into the breast pocket of his shirt. His fingers brush against the fabric of his pocket, and you force yourself to not stare at his hands. “It is always the intention that matters the most!”

“But still,” you protest, reaching out to the string hanging out of his pocket. Kyojuro snatches your hand in midair, the smile widening on his face. You squeak at the sudden contact— his hand is large, wrapping around yours easily, and the callouses on his palm is scratchy— it makes the contact feel raw, to have his skin against yours. Then, you realize he’s scorching, literally. The heat that radiates from his palm makes him feel feverish against the skin on the back of your hand.

Instinctively, you pull your hand out of his and press the back of your hand against his forehead, feeling the same burning heat on his skin. “Kyojuro-san! Are you unwell?”

He’s stunned, eyes widened as he stares at you. It takes a second too long for you to realize the inappropriate intimacy— your hand snaps back.

“I’m sorry—!”

Kyojuro cuts you off with a laugh, hands on his waist as he throws his head back once more, wracked by another bout of laughter. “As always, you are impressively observant!” He holds out his palm, beckoning you to press your own against his. It engulfs yours easily— a fact you already knew, but the deliberate contact makes the interaction even more intimate. “It is simply a trait in my family to run hotter than most! I understand why you may be concerned, but worry not!”

Just like that, you begin to learn the little quirks that make Kyojuro even more intriguing than you originally thought. You bring him to eat tempura for lunch, where he devours it with his typical enthusiasm that you’ve learnt to embrace, even with the stares it attracts.

When he finishes slurping down the extra bowl of udon he’d ordered on top of his previous order of the entire menu (twice), he sets down the chopsticks in his hand, seemingly satisfied with his meal. The waiter sets refills both your glasses with fresh green tea, giving you a worried smile over Kyojuro’s appetite that you reassure with a smile of your own.

“You previously mentioned about your village’s shaman!” Kyojuro inquires, tilting his head innocently as if he didn’t just devour the restaurant’s entire food supply for the day. “May I hear more about them?”

“Oh!” You set down the cup of green tea you were sipping. “Oyakata-sama is part of the long established Ubuyashiki lineage, whose family has the best kept records of our village’s history.”

Kyojuro leans back slightly, his eyes trained in front of him on nothing in particular, but you know he’s listening intently with the way he nods at your words. “I see! Is he held in high regard amongst the villagers?”

“He’s probably the most well respected of the residents here… but we rarely see him outside of his home since he’s frail by nature. Oyakata-sama has very good intuition, so even the village chief comes to him for advice regarding big events.” You raise a finger. “For instance, the exact date of the Flame Festival’s bonfire was determined by Oyakata-sama! Some say he directly communicates with the Deities themselves!”

“How interesting!”

“The most impressive thing is that his intuition allows him to navigate through daily tasks with minimal help despite being blind! It’s rumoured that the Ubuyashiki family were stricken with their hereditary illness as a trade off to aid in the village’s growth. I guess it did work, seeing as the Flame Festival this year has the biggest turnout of all previous festivals.”

“The high traffic must come at a cost!” Kyojuro nods. “The yōkai are attracted to the scent of humans and the body heat that radiates from such a large crowd! It is lucky that your village chief has taken many precautionary measures. But nothing is foolproof from unruly tourists who may not believe in such customs!”

You are stunned into momentary silence. “Well put, Kyojuro-san. Maybe you are the observant one, not me.”

He simply straightens his back further, the smile stretching across his face, brimming with satisfaction at your compliment. “You have a wonderful way with words! And very soft hands!”

Blood rushes to your face at the comment. Coming from Kyojuro, you’re sure he means well, so you try not to let his remark get to you— but you ultimately fail, letting out a giggle at his earnestness.

“Well, you’re very easy to say nice things about.”

The day continues on with compliments exchanged over snack carts, and ends with Kyojuro gifting you a stick of ichigo ame. Unfortunately, candies can’t quite be kept like yo-yo and carnations, but you think he finds entertainment in watching you attempt to finish the candied snack after a full day of near non-stop eating. You give up after the first two strawberries, and Kyojuro promptly devours the rest.

You head home with a sinking realization that you will miss the company of this man terribly, when he inevitably parts ways from your village after the celebrations die down.

But for now, as you relish in this newfound friendship, his words of advice ring deeply in your mind as you prod the wisteria trees around your estate. Most have been already been stripped to their bare minimum upon Shinobu's request for the copious amounts of wisteria extract— the trees were noticeably less lush than they originally were before the visitors started streaming in— but you decide that Kyojuro would be worth giving your wisteria vines a little more work to regrow.

He spots you the same time as you spot him. His face lights up even further at your attention— as if he wasn’t ecstatic enough at the idea of wielding an axe— and he raises his hand, calling your name. You cringe, withdrawing into yourself, but thankfully, nobody seems to have noticed his voice over the ruckus surrounding you. You raise a hand gingerly in acknowledgement.

Kyojuro returns his focus as the someone hands him a tasuki. He glances around at the others around him who begin to tie the sash around their shoulders, and swiftly mimics their actions.

Your eyes widen as he gently bites down on the tasuki, the corner of his canines peeking out from behind his lips as he reaches around his body to wrap the sash around his billowing haori. He raises his arm slightly, pushing back his sleeves, his fingers moving nimbly to perfectly finish off the ribbon on his back.

It couldn’t have taken more than a minute— but you feel your hand fly to your face to hide your growing blush. His exposed forearms do not help, either, with veins running up well-defined muscles, shifting as he adjusts his grip on the wooden handle of the axe— you swallow tightly and slap your cheeks repeatedly until they’re red and throbbing.

Yes, you admit that you’ve thought him attractive, but no, you will not ogle your guest, even if he had a handsome face and lovely personality to go with it— and even if he handled the axe as if it weighed nothing in his arms! The sight of him turning the axe in his grasp have trudged up some unwarranted thoughts in your head— you didn’t realize it with the chaos back then, but Kyojuro was extremely well-built. A solid, dependable figure when you were pressed against him, his arms firm around you like an unspoken affirmation of his friendship.

You think back to how excited he was to participate, and you instantly feel a wave of shame that suppresses your straying thoughts. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, your hands clasped in a prayer as you hold them close to your mouth.

Please, Flame Deity— let Kyojuro do well!

The feeling of eyes on you forces you to pry open your own. You meet Kyojuro’s yellow irises from across the clearing. His typical grin is more blinding than usual, and he lets out a loud laughter as he waves at you. You shrink back further as you timidly wave back at him.

A small man steps up onto the podium behind the competitors, haughty expression on his face as he faces the crowd. He clears his throat as he waves his hand in the air, commanding silence.

“You have to split as many logs as you can within in ten minutes! Any poorly split logs will not be considered!” He turns to gesture at the crates lined up behind him, and raises his arm in faux-grandiosity. “First place walks away with sweet potatoes enough to last them until the end of autumn!”

Oohs and ahhs sound out from the crowd in response to his announcement. It is not a particularly grand prize by any means— but nobody was really there to compete for the sweet potatoes as much as for the attention of others. You can see their intentions in the smirks behind some of their faces, raising their eyebrows as excited murmurs ripple through certain sections of the herd.

With the ring of a gong, the row in front of you gets to swinging their axe. The air is pierced with cheering and whoops, voices calling out names you vaguely recognize and faces you had faint recollections of before you had withdrawn into your home. However, they all fade away into white noise as your eyes are trained on Kyojuro— his actions are wide, deliberate, and though clearly not optimized for wood-chopping, his movements were far from clumsy. His face looks almost pensive, with the way he focuses on splitting the logs perfectly in half.

You feel your breath catch— time seemingly freezes as you follow a bead of sweat trailing the sides of his jaw. The subtle clench of his teeth as he raises the axe into the air, and the gracefulness of his swing as he brings it down onto the log. Kyojuro’s determination would most likely go unnoticed by the families and friends who came down to support one of their own— but you were there, every cell in your body inexplicably drawn toward him, taking in the way his hair sways with each shift of his body. His fingers— you recall them calloused, rough and the markings of a man practiced in a craft that required both skill and hardiness, confident and courageous with each decisive swing—

…Courage was not your forte. Ever since your parents passed on and you had to learn to fend against nasty remarks from the villagers by yourself— you’d learnt to shrink into your shell, not standing out any more than you had to. Attention was morphed into your greatest enemy, and you did everything in your power to avoid it.

But Kyojuro was the opposite of inconspicuous. The opposite of you. He was loud, his presence dwarfing the faceless crowds around him— sometimes oblivious, but oddly attentive despite his peculiar mannerisms. Even though you’ve only known him for a few days, the respect and care he’s shown you was enough to leave you bewildered, wondering if it was all too good to be true. But still— Kyojuro was a friend dear to you.

Your chest puffs up as a sudden wave of bravery rushes over your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You cup both hands to your mouth as you lean forward as far as you can.

“Kyojuro-san! You can do it!”

The grin on his face spreads wider, with his cheeks tinging a deep shade of red that you miss in the blur of his movements. His swinging gets hastier, but even so, his strokes are precise, elegant in comparison to the rough swings of those around him.

It ends anticlimactically. The winner is the reigning champion for the previous festival as well, a local boy with a face much too pretty for the body it belongs to and a laugh much too manic to suit his doe-like eyes. Nonetheless, Kyojuro places second— a feat most impressive for an outsider like him. You’d braced yourself for the inevitable crowd of tourists and fawning locals alike to swarm him after receiving his prize for second— but nobody seems to even be aware of his presence, brushing past his broad shoulders and flaming hair as they flock to their own selection of heroes, leaving him to weave his way through the throngs of people, eyes trained on you, beaming ear to ear.

He calls your name— but it is far from needed. Your eyes had already met from the moment he’d accepted his reward, and before you know it, Kyojuro stands before you, sweat trailing down the sides of his face, reflecting off the bright rays cast down upon him by the sun.

“You were amazing out there, Kyojuro-san! Your movements were so precise— I almost thought you knew how to wield an axe!” You retrieve a handkerchief from your sleeve, pressing it into his hand. He stares at it for a brief moment, lips parted, before he accepts it from you with a grateful smile, patting at his cheek.

You take the chance to peer into the sack holding the prize for second place— a stash of sweet potatoes, not as much as first place, but still plenty.

“Thank you! It was indeed exhilarating to be able to participate in such an event!” Kyojuro chirps. He wipes away at the sweat beading on his face, folding the cloth before tucking it into his pocket. “Thank you for your handkerchief, as well. I will wash it before returning it to you!”

For some reason— the word return strikes a pang in your heart. Your hand instinctively darts up to press against your aching heart, clutching it tightly. Return—? It’s an innocuous remark— of course Kyojuro would have to return it, seeing as keeping it would bring upon a whole slew of questions that would irreversibly alter the course of your current friendship. But deep inside— you didn’t want him to return it, because it meant—

it meant that he would be leaving.

Nothing slips past his keen eye, you know by now. The smile on his face falters as he looks at you. “Is something the matter?”

You smile back at him. “Just a little overwhelmed by the crowds. Please do not worry about the handkerchief, Kyojuro-san. If it’s too troubling, you may just hold onto it.”

“I can’t do that!” He refutes, immediately. You’re not too hurt by it— a man with such upstanding morals would of course object, lest it brings upon him unsavoury rumours to hold another’s personal belonging. “This handkerchief must be important to you! I cannot possibly keep such an item with sentimental value!”

Keen eye, indeed. A small smile plays on your lips as you tilt your head toward him. “What gave that away?”

Kyojuro points to the characters embroidered on the corner of your handkerchief, gold thread stark against the off-white of the fabric. “The name here is not yours!”

“You’re right,” you laugh, folding your hands in front of you. “It’s my mother’s name.”

Something in his eyes soften. Kyojuro tucks the handkerchief into his sleeve, and twists the end of the sack of sweet potatoes around his palm.

“Ah!” You lift a hand to your mouth. “This reminds me…”

Kyojuro stares curiously as you pull out a pouch from your sleeve. “I brought you a pouch of wisteria, as promised the other day.”

He nods his head in affirmation. “Hm! I could smell its scent even from here!” He leans in closer to you, enough to make your face involuntarily heat up in response.

The small talk continues as you both leave the venue, the idle conversation diverting to clothing and fashion trends as of late. You take note that Kyojuro is very distinctly flame-patterned— even more so than you realized, from his haori to his kyahan, and even his hair and eyes striking enough to make him look like a walking fireplace. Eventually, your feet carries you to the familiar food alley where you both met. Kyojuro looks around, before lifting the sack of potatoes in his hands.

“Let us have a celebratory lunch! It shall be my treat!”

Kyojuro pays the sweet-potato selling boy to roast the entire sack of potatoes for the both of you. Despite your abject refusals and insistence that you will not be able to eat any more than two by yourself, he quells your complaints with a ‘Then I shall finish the rest!’, before promptly fulfilling this statement. This manages to make you laugh, and he laughs alongside you, crumbs on the corner of his lips that you brush off with the edge of your sleeve.

“You know, Kyojuro-san,” you sweep the crumbs off your sleeve. “Despite your bright appearance, the villagers don’t seem to mind you very much.” It is a remark more straightforward than you would usually make, only doing so as you’ve grown comfortable with him.

However this time, he hesitates to reply, mouth half open— but he blurts it out anyway. “It is of no matter! I would prefer this way, actually!”

He clams up after that. You’re not daring enough to pry further, lest it involves some sensitive topic regarding his past — especially since he had so graciously respected yours. Instead, you change the topic to stories about the deities.

“There’s a superstition,” you wave your finger in a circle, recounting stories your parents would recite to you during bedtime. “The villagers believe that the year of the festival you are born in, is the deity you have the most affinity with.”

Kyojuro’s eyes sparkle. “Really! Which year were you born in!”

“I was born in the year of the Flower Deity’s festival!” You clasp your hands together. “Perhaps that is why the wisterias are still doing so well under my care.”

Though his posture is unfaltering, the disappointment on his face is clear at the new information. You stifle a laugh, patting him on the arm. “Again, it is just superstition. I am still inclined to agree the Flame Festival to be the grandest of them all. I would be surprised if you were not born in the year of the Flame Deity’s festival.”

It is easy to cheer him up. Kyojuro’s grin returns instantly, and he finishes the last sweet potato in his hand within two bites.

“Then, I shall repay your fun fact with another story of my own!” He leans down slightly, his face close to yours. You blush at his proximity. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the legends of the deities’ shrines, lost deep within the mountain’s forest!”

Of course you do— it is told as the very ending of the well-known folklore. After having saved the villagers, the deities retreated into isolation within the forest, never to interfere again. They believed that living near the village would result in over-reliance. It is the moral of the story— the elders would tell the children. To teach independence.

The clouds turn orange as the sun rays reflect off the roof of the houses surrounding you. Children brush past the two of you obliviously, bidding each other goodbye as they return to the embrace of to their parents. Shopkeepers begin to remove the items on their display shelves, and the lanterns adorning food carts begin to light up, signalling the start of dinner.

Kyojuro’s eyes glint mischievously, and your heart skips a beat. Against the orange of the sky, he looks like the embodiment of passion itself— compelling, something beyond human with the way his features are lined with the bright yellow strands of hair framing his face. He laughs, arms outstretched as if welcoming the sunset. “Your elders are wrong— they are not tales! They are, in fact, true stories!”

He turns back to you, a twinkle in his irises. “And if you are ever lost, they will be your solace.”

______________________________

On the last day of the bonfire preparations, you drop by the apothecary store with your last basket of wisteria for the week. You had asked Kyojuro to wait outside this time for fear of him running into Shinobu again, but it seemed that she wasn’t around today, thankfully.

“It is the last day of the festival preparations,” you strike conversation with Aoi as she weighs the petals behind the counter. “Hopefully the cough dies down with everyone leaving soon.”

Even with her brash exterior, like Kyojuro, she could be surprisingly sensitive to emotions. “You sound a little disappointed.”

You wave it off with a light chuckle. “Well, I would be sad to see Kyojuro-san leave. His company has been terrific.”

“Oh,” she utters, leaning over to place the jar on the bottom shelf. “Who’s Kyojuro-san?”

“Ah, the man who came in during my previous visit,” perhaps Aoi didn’t recall, though she did look equally confused at Shinobu and Kyojuro’s interaction at that time. “Uh, golden hair, flame-patterned haori, he was there the day Shinobu-san came by the store.” You raise your hand, palm toward the floor. “He was about this height.”

She gives you a puzzled look, eyebrows creased even further as she pauses her counting of the bills to recall who you might have been referring to.

“I… see…” She says, after a few moments of silence. It wasn’t convincing, but you didn’t want to be the sort of customer that expected her to remember everything that had happened to you. As if to prove a point, the bell of the front door rings and a group of visitors walk in, holding handkerchiefs to their mouths as they approach the counter, clearly looking for the miracle tinctures. She hands you the bills and you quickly excuse yourself, bowing your head as you walk past them.

“Odd…” You mumble to yourself as you exit. Surely Aoi would recall someone as boisterous as Kyojuro, yet her blank expression clearly told you otherwise. Perhaps the influx of customers must’ve taken its toll on her.

“What is odd?” Kyojuro easily slides in beside you, falling into pace. You shake your head, smiling up at him.

“I mentioned you to Aoi, but I don’t think she recalled. I just thought you were much too memorable to forget about,” you tap your finger against your bottom lip absentmindedly.

Kyojuro hums. “Ah, she must be too caught up with all her customers. I do not blame her!”

You nod, satisfied that he seemed to have come to the same conclusion as you. As you round the corner, a sudden cacophony of shouts shocks you, and Kyojuro’s arm quickly darts out to catch you as you instinctively backpedal.

Orange confetti flies into your vision as you watch the crowd clap along with the floats that cross the road. Carts are wheeled, tall enough that you see them over the heads of the crowds that have gathered, followed by performers donning colourful swathes of cloth and waving banners and flags in the air.

“Ah— this is the final parade carrying the bonfire’s base around the village!” You clasp your hands together, bringing it up to your chin as you watch with wide eyes. You turn to Kyojuro, your fingers moving awkwardly as you try to explain it to him. “How do I put this… the bonfire is built atop a wooden platform, then nine volunteers, each wearing haori in colours meant to represent the deities, carry it on their shoulders and bring it around to ensure the blessing of the Flame Deity reaches every corner.”

Kyojuro watches as your hands dance around your palm, attempting to map out the path they take. He chooses not to comment on the fact that it seems to stay within the main village and clearly doesn’t quite reach the area of your residence. After babbling for a few more minutes, you quieten down and turn back toward the parade. His eyes linger on your face— longing, hesitance in your irises.

“Would you like to go closer?” He suggests. You turn to him and scratch your neck lightly in embarrassment.

“No need!” You laugh shyly. “It’s alright, I’m afraid that…” The events of the previous incident play out in your head. Scornful looks, near-death and the sound of crying children fill your head, overpowering your childish yearning of wanting to view the bonfire.

Then, Kyojuro says your name. He says it with such clarity that you startle, clearly not used to being addressed so directly. Somewhere in your chest, there’s a slight bite of shame when you realize you want to hear it more.

A small smile graces his features. “I promise you will be alright. May I?”

He holds his arm out, and you stammer out a string of nonsensical babbles— ‘No, I couldn’t’, ‘You’re too kind’, ‘Kyojuro-san—’— But they all fall short under his gaze, and you gingerly slip your hand under his arm, letting him guide you toward the crowd.

It turns out your worries were unfounded, in the end. The crowd was too enthralled by the dancers beating their drums as they walk past, bright flame-coloured flags billowing as their wielders spin the flagpoles around with impressive mobility. You are quick to forget about your own apprehensions, too, as you admire the colours and feel the vibrations of every thump under your feet.

A lady at the top of a passing float rises, towering over the crowd. She dons a bright yellow haori with sleeves that dangle in the wind, waving to all her spectators below. With a reach into her basket, she swings her arm out — and showers everyone with a rain of red and gold confetti.

Your voices joins the cheers that erupt from beside you. Though you do not grapple for the confetti like the others, you can't help but reach your hand out to feel the paper flutter past your fingers.

Kyojuro is gentle when he removes a piece of gold confetti that clings onto your hair. You turn to thank him, face flushed from the adrenaline and excitement — too caught up in the celebrations to realize his hand had returned not to your arm, but around your waist instead.

And for the first time in long while, nothing bad happens.

The parade lasts past evening, and the crowd filters back into their homes and inns under the dim flickers of torches and lanterns.

“I insist!” Kyojuro harrumphs, stubbornly sticking by your side.

“I couldn’t do that to you, Kyojuro-san! By the time you’ve reached my house, it will be nearly midnight!”

“All the more that I shouldn’t leave you to walk home alone!” He folds his arm across his chest. You take one step forward, and he follows. You turn to the side— and he’s by you in an instant.

You look at him, a defeated smile on your face. “Will anything I do make you return to your inn?”

He takes the empty basket of wisteria from your hand as a sign of victory. “Clearly not! Please, lead the way!”

The silent night air is filled with soft chatter from the both of you. You tell him more folktales from the village, pausing to recall just exactly how your mother had recounted those stories to you before repeating them to Kyojuro, and him inquiring more about the processions your village holds for each deity.

It takes you slightly longer to navigate the path back to your residence— it’s been too long since you’d been out past dark, after all— but the time still felt too short. Your heart twinges at the prospect of leaving him to walk back in the dark alone, imagining his back fading into the darkness as he trots back down the dimly lit path. The idea of yōkai reaching out their claws, digging into his haori, and, Gods, what would you do if he didn’t even show up tomorrow—?

“I’d best be on my way, then!” Kyojuro chirps, none the wiser to your internal frets. He bids you a goodbye, turning back toward the path, and you grab the back of his haori.

“W-wait, Kyojuro-san,” you exhale a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in.

He turns back to look at you curiously.

Under his gaze, you feel your mouth go dry, and all the courage saps out from your bones instantly. “I—uh, I’m…” Your grip loosens. “It’s… dangerous to walk back at this timing… the, um, yōkai…”

Kyojuro laughs, turning fully to face you. Your arm falls limply to your side, and you feel blood rush to your cheeks.

“I will be fine, you have nothing to worry about! But thank you for your concern, nonetheless!”

(A memory flashes across your eyes— your father, his large hand atop the crown of your head, eyes twinkling. “I will be fine!”)

Your hands shoot out to grab his sleeve again, the fabric creasing under your grasp. “No! Please— don’t risk it, Kyojuro-san.” You usher him into your house, eyes fixated on the tiling of your genkan and the flame patterns on his kyahan. “Please, spend the night here. You insisted on walking me back, it’s the least I can do.”

Then, you pause. Immediately, your face erupts into a blush and you nearly stumble in your haste to remove your geta. “I mean—! I… I live here alone, so there are plenty of available rooms for you. Please, make yourself at home.”

His smile falters slightly, but nonetheless, enters your home, he lowering his head as he walks past your entrance with an air of politeness. You tour him around your house, but Kyojuro stops right outside the living room. His sharp eyes catch sight of your parents’ altars— and he is on his knees before your parents’ portraits before you can blink. He presses his hands together and lowers his head in prayer. “Pardon my intrusion! Your child has grown to be much kind-hearted. I hope you do not mind my presence here for tonight!”

You continue the tour, until you come to a stop outside your bedroom.

“This is my room— it's right beside my parents' room. If you do not mind, you can spend the night here,” you kneel down and struggle slightly before pulling open the drawer of your parents’ pinewood cabinet, unfolding an old yukata of your father’s that hadn't been touched since his passing. You hold it up to Kyojuro's frame, tilting your head as you compare it against his shoulders.

“This was my father's old wear, if you are alright with trying it on,” you hand him the clothes. “It may be slightly tighter on your frame, but it should still fit snugly.”

His eyes soften at your words, and he takes it carefully from your arms. “It should be me that shoild be considerate of you! I will treat your kindness with care! Thank you for your hospitality!”

The waxing moon is bright tonight, light streaming through the paper of the shoji door that divides your room and the engawa outside. You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, hair still slightly damp from the bath. It must be well past one in the morning, but sleep continues to evade you.

It might've been because you could hear Kyojuro's breathing just in the room next over, the only thing separating the both of you being bonsai-patterned shoji doors. It’s been a rather long time since you had another presence in the house. Buzzes of the summer cicadas fill the night air, their voices a droning background that lulls your mind into white noise. If you focus hard enough, you can imagine how he'd looked like asleep, messy hair splayed around him atop his pillow. You think he'd probably smile in his sleep too— his jovial nature must make him impartial to all sorts of people from all walks of life.

You frown. But… back then, when you'd brought him around town, Kyojuro did seem to purposefully veer away from those you were uncomfortable with. You'd chose to overlook it at the time, but lying awake with thoughts swarming around your head— you realize it wasn't a one-off occurrence. He didn't enter stores when their owners turned their nose up at you. And during the goldfish-scooping game, too, he'd ushered you away right as the owner scowled at you.

“Is something bothering you?”

You lurch forward, kicking your futon in surprise. A chuckle sounds from behind the doors. “I didn’t mean to surprise you! My apologies!”

“No! I just thought you were asleep!” You hastily reply, sitting up out of embarrassment. “How did you know I was awake?”

“From your breathing. It was shallow!”

You’re not quite sure how to respond. The cicadas chirp on. The silence weighs heavy on your shoulders— he was probably awaiting a response from you, but you're not sure how to even begin.

You let out a sigh, curling your fingers into a tight fist, leaving behind crescent marks on your palms. “Kyojuro-san… I’m… I’m sorry if this is presumptuous of me, but thank you for always being so considerate of me. I’m not sure if it was on purpose but— but you shouldn’t have to go out of your way to avoid the locals that have been unkind to me.” Your eyes dart down. “I don’t mind it. It’s something I’ve— I've grown accustomed to.”

“Nonsense!” He yells, startling you again. “I mind quite a bit! I enjoy your presence greatly. I do not like it when someone I like is being treated in such a manner!”

You overlook the ‘like’ part— it was funny how quickly you can get used to someone’s mannerisms, or perhaps he says things such endearingly you feel no ulterior motives behind them. Nonetheless, it still makes the corners of your lips twitch up.

“But, if I may ask…” He hesitates. “Why do they avoid you so?”

Your eyes follow the floating dust that drift by the rays of moonlight. It was a topic that was bound to come up— you’d been wanting to tell him since that day you’d parted. But you find yourself nervous, anyway, having to pause to collect yourself.

“My mother was inflicted with various illnesses and cursed with multiple miscarriages after my birth,” you begin. You ball your hands into even tighter fists, using the pain as leverage to stop yourself from tearing up.

“We once lived in the main village, but when I was a child, I tripped and knocked over a lantern, setting our row of houses on fire. This house on the outskirts was only meant to be a temporary residence— but the priest who came down to bless the land for us was attacked by a yōkai.

He survived, but refused to finish the job. Instead, he told us to stay away from the village and plant as many wisteria trees as possible, as they apparently keep misfortune away. It didn’t work— my father was caught in a logging accident a few years later, slipping off the cliffside. My mother succumbed to illness a year after.”

Kyojuro is quiet. You wonder if he's fallen asleep.

You feel a lump in your throat form, your voice growing quieter. “I— I’m sorry. It’s been years, nearly a decade since then. I’m not as upset over it anymore but— just recounting it makes me a little emotional.”

‘A little’ was a lie— finally being able to tell someone your story did little to alleviate your sorrow, rather, you feel your bottled emotions rush forth like an unforgiving wave. Your voice quivers, and there’s a stinging in the corner of your eyes. The words keep flowing out of your mouth, regardless of whether he was still listening or not. “That’s why the villagers despise me— I’m a walking misfortune, and I’ve squirreled away behind the wisteria trees to hide from everyone. I'm pathetic— the only ones that have been kind to me are a handful of locals, and the girls from the apothecary’s store. And now, you, too, Kyojuro-san.”

Tears spill over, rolling down your cheeks in fat blobs,. You do your best to stifle your sobs— your shoulders heave with each effort to stay quiet so you don't wake him up.

Suddenly, after all these years, you have never felt so small in your large, empty house.

“Forgive me!” Kyojuro shouts, jolting you from your cry. You hear the rustle of his clothes as he sits upright from his futon. “May I be excused to find you!”

You’re not quite sure what he meant, but you choke out a confused ‘okay’ anyway. The doors slide open, and a Kyojuro stands before you, cast in the pale blue of the moonlight. The dimness always made everything look monochromatic— your skin a muted shade of blue under its light— but Kyojuro’s hair was instead turned golden, his usual half-up mane untied, framing his face messily. His smile remains steadfast, posture unwavering. He looks much younger with his hair down like this— almost boyish.

Wordlessly, he kneels down by your side. You feel extremely self-conscious of your snot and tear-streaked face. Turning away, you wipe at your cheeks with the edge of your sleeve. Kyojuro catches your hand with a gentle hold, encasing your fingers in his, lowering them from your face.

“My mother also passed from an illness when I was younger!” He admits to you. “I miss her terribly every day. You should not apologize for your sadness, and especially, not for your misfortunes.”

His own confession breaks you. Your head droops down and you feel your face scrunch together with such force it turns numb— accumulated years of loneliness manifests themselves as salty tears and soft, hiccuping sobs. Kyojuro shuffles forward on his knees, and his hand guides your head to his shoulder. Once, a long time ago, your father had done the same when you were still a toddler throwing a tantrum over not getting some snacks. Your father had given you a stern lecture, but he still carried you tightly in his arms as you pouted over his shoulder, tears wetting the fabric. This time, it is Kyojuro’s warm hand that reaches out to caress the back of your head, stroking your hair gently. His other thumb brushes the back of your hand lightly, each touch slowly quieting your sobs.

When you run out of tears, Kyojuro’s hand continues to brush the back of your head. You stay like this for a while, before you let yourself succumb to sleep.

______________________________

The final night of the festival is the noisiest of them all.

Everyone, regardless of age and origin, has gathered around the main clearing of the village. The bonfire has yet to be lit, currently pending the arrival and subsequent announcement of the village shaman, but it is still impressive enough that every group thay enters the clearing wows in admiration at the magnificent structure. The entire clearing has torches lining its circumference, each with red and yellow lanterns attached to their poles. Children wave their own lanterns around, chasing each other with hyottoki masks on. Even curious fireflies from the forests have approached the edge, attracted by the bright lights but kept at bay by the noise.

You’re huddled under a lamp with Kyojuro— away from the main crowd, but still close enough to receive ample light. Both your hands are smudged with charcoal as you write your wishes on the sky lantern laid flat on the ground, and Kyojuro has a smudge on his cheek as well, clearly not used to writing with a charcoal stick. Your shoulders brush, elbows knocking as you crouch side-by-side, giggling as you write silly wishes such as ‘May all yōkai begone!’, ‘To more delicious soup and sweet potatoes!’ on the lantern.

Once satisfied, you light the wick at the bottom of the lantern, watching its paper shell slowly inflate. You both stand on opposite ends, filling up the remaining blank spots on the lantern with more personal, serious wishes. You pen down ‘I wish for safety, and a fulfilling life.’ in the corner. Then, you glance up at Kyojuro— his eyes trained ahead as he writes down his wishes. His presence had been the most unexpected, but you’d grown fond of him fast— he was passionate, thoughtful, admirable, and you don’t doubt that he was someone who would find success in whichever path he wanted to pursue. After all, not many are capable of changing the life of a stranger just within a few days of meeting them. With good looks and charisma, there was no doubt that he would return to his hometown, find happiness there, and live his own version of a fulfilling life.

You know what you want to write as a last wish, now. Focusing on the only remaining blank space on your side of the lantern, you grip your charcoal pencil tightly as you scribble with it.

‘Flame Deity, please grant me this one wish at least. I wish for Kyojuro-san to have countless of happy days ahead of him.’

“What did you write?”

Instinctively, you clamp your hand over your wish. Kyojuro looks at you with a lopsided grin, and covers his wish as well. The both of you have a stare-down for a few moments, before you point behind him, feigning surprise.

“Kyojuro-san, look! Food carts!”

He falls for it easily. You dart over to his side as fast as you could, lifting his hand from the lantern to peek— but he’s much too skilled for you, and claps it back over the lantern quickly before you can even catch a glimpse of any words. You laugh, turning to face him—

he’s so close.

Your heart skips a beat and your giggles fade at the realization. You’re almost face to face, noses nearly touching. Your breaths mix into one, mind blanking out. He’s so close— was he standing this close earlier? Our faces are so close together— I didn’t think that we’d— His eyes have lovely flecks of gold in them— he smells so nice—

“I’ll—!” You blurt out, turning away from him and rubbing at your reddening cheek furiously. “I’ll let you read my wish if you’d let me read yours!”

He nods, and though he’s still smiling, he looks nervous— an unusual expression, but that only served to make him look terribly cute.

Your switch places, your hands over the other’s written wishes. With your eyes meeting over the lantern, the two of you count to three— and you lift your hands. Kyojuro’s eyes dart across your sentences, and yours, his. Your name is written down with gorgeous penmanship, a calligraphy that puts your own scrawl to shame.

Kyojuro speaks softly. “I wished… for many more days like this, too. To be happy with you beside me.”

Oh.

Oh.

You blush, and stammer over your own words. Your body heats up instantaneously, and you’re sure that your entire face must be as red as the lanterns dotting the clearing right now. Your heart is thudding so heavily against your chest, he must hear it as well.

“The— the air in the lantern isn’t heated enough to fly…! I’ll grab more kindling! P-Please wait here, Kyojuro-san, if they light the bonfire before I return, just— just release the lantern!” You scamper off before you can even hear his response. You’ve never been so flustered in your life before. You push past crowds and sounds of indignation, but you have never cared less at this very moment.

He likes me. Kyojuro likes me! Kyojuro likes me? That was basically a confession! What do I do, Flame Deity, help me...!

In your distracted haze, you bump into an arm. A hand shoves at your side roughly in retaliation.

Your ankle turns inward at the sudden force, throwing you off course. You get a brief moment of realization— of confusion, before your shoulder roughly collides with a stack of firewood.

The mound collapses, knocking over lanterns. Tinder flies into the air, catching embers. Horrified screams sound from around you and you watch on as people flee the area, knocking over more lanterns and torches in their path. You sit up in shock, eyes widened at the growing flames.

“Fire!”

You quickly turn around and grab the nearest bucket of water, throwing it at the torch. It sizzles out fast— but there were too many stampeding people, turning the place into absolute chaos. Someone pushes a child aside, who crashes into a lamp. The torch on it wobbles unsteadly— before plunging straight down onto the wailing toddler. Before it could make contact with him, you quickly throw your body atop his. You squeeze your eyes shut, uttering a prayer—

The torch smashes against your back, knocking the wind out of you. Your clothes light up, and you quickly shove the child away, throwing yourself on the ground, rolling about on the ground to put out the flames. Your clothes must be in tatters— you can feel the raw, burnt skin of your back rubbing against the remaining bare threads of your nagagi. It has you groaning in pain, but you grit your teeth, rubbing your body onto the ground over and over again until the smell of singed cloth and flesh leaves your nose.

You’re not quite sure how long more it took, but after what felt like eons of frantically patting out the last of the embers on your shoulder, you look up to see the last flame in the clearing being extinguished.

The screams quieten down, only punctuated with the wailing of children and the residual ringing in your ears. The clearing is abuzz with cries of confusion. Shouts for friends that have lost each other in the dark, families for their children. Nobody for you. From your position on the ground, you look up at the sky. With the torches put out, the wish lanterns floating in the distance are even more observable in the dark— it was almost peaceful.

It was— dark. Fear prickles down your spine, and you realize that dark— is bad.

“Gods! Oh, Gods! Yōkai!” A cry pierces the night.

More screams fill the air. You sit up, head whipping around as you watch yōkai approach the clearing from beyond the trees. You’ve only ever seen them from behind the safety of your heavily-guarded walkway, but never in the dark, in such close proximity to other humans. Goosebumps rake up and down your arm, making you choke in fear. Pleas for help and cries sound from around you, but you remain frozen in place, every limb refusing to move.

The crowd screams again, running straight to the village houses. They aren’t going to make it— there were too many people, and too many hands shoving at each other. You watch a lady trip over herself, landing harshly against the fence, and it gives way, revealing more glowing eyes behind it. She shrieks so loudly that her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she collapses.

Someone kicks your back, their clogs leaving harsh bamboo splinters that scrapes your fresh burns. White blinds your vision as searing hot pain radiates through your body like lightning, sending you to the ground once more, where people begin kicking you in all directions. Bodies trip over your own, but they barely spare you a glance, clamoring over themselves to get away from the clearing. You’re bruised, burnt, and you think you’re going to pass out from the lack of oxygen.

With your remaining breath, you force yourself to utter a small sob. “Please, save—”

Your prayers are answered with roaring flames that engulf the entire clearing.

A tornado of fire surrounds the crowd, seemingly conjured out of nowhere. Panicked shouts sound out from the crowd again, the masses backpedaling toward you in an attempt to avoid the fire. You raise your arms to cover your head— only to realize that the fire… wasn’t burning you. The fire rages past your body like it does the to others, leaving nothing behind but a feeling of warmth. The yōkai, however, shriek in pain and scramble backward, retreating back into the thicket. The flames encircle the bonfire in the center— and it ignites the structure, casting a bright orange light upon the entire clearing. The fire crackles ferociously, and the remaining yōkai snarl in anger, before fleeing into the darkness of the forest.

The ensuing silence is deafening. Tourists and villagers alike are stunned into silence.

Then, a voice from the crowd— “It’s the blessing of the Flame Deity! Lord Flame Deity has saved us all!”

Everyone bursts into cheers, crying and hugging each other. You watch as villagers fall to their knees, their fingers intertwined as they thank the Flame Deity, bowing to the bonfire in the middle. Visitors chatter amongst themselves excitedly. Your shoulders sag in relief, forcing yourself to sit upright before the adrenaline leaves your veins.

It seemed like everyone was unharmed in the attack— but you should've known by now— how misfortune follows after you, like a tiger stalking its prey— it pounces with its claws out. Your eyes meet someone with a familiar face, looking straight at you, fuming from his ears.

The stall owner from the goldfish-scooping game you’d first visited raises a crooked finger toward you, eyebrows pulled into a frown and lips down-turned into an ugly scowl. He bares his teeth and screeches, “It was your fault!”

And like a bad nightmare come true, everyone stops to turn toward you, expressions of anger dotting the villagers, and the tourists, of curiosity.

“You cursed black sheep! Your mere presence must’ve caused this! You attract yōkai to you in droves, you bring bad luck wherever you go!” He spits, jabbing his finger toward you with every word. “You’re lucky it is the celebration of the Flame Deity today! On any other day, who will be here to protect us from you? You’re cursing us to die— to join your parents in the afterlife!”

Gasps sound from around him. Low murmurs ripple through the crowd. Someone yells back in your defense. “Leave the kid alone! You think anyone would’ve wished for this?”

More people try to defend you— but it is drowned out by the louder, more fearful accusations of the majority. A lantern is hurled at you. You bring your knees to your chest, hiding your head between your legs, sleeves shielding your tears to the public. Cursed child, bringer of adversity, village exile. The words stab you over and over again, an uproar from ten years ago that never ended. Perish with your family. Get out of our homes. You will never belong here.

But you cannot bring yourself to hate them. You’ve stewed in enough resentment from all those years, and you’ve learned that feeling sorry for yourself wasn’t how you wanted to live— but the ugly truth was that if you’d been in their shoes, you’re not sure if you would be welcoming to someone who places them in danger, too.

Perhaps, you just wanted it to all be over. Your tired eyes look up at the shouting masses, and you stare wearily at the stall owner— he’s rearing his arm back, fists clenched— a large rock in his hand— and you—

you give up, overwhelmed.

The rock doesn’t come. In its place, you hear a distinct, vaguely familiar voice.

“Everyone, please, calm down.” A hand on your shoulder.

You raise your head shakily, looking up into the cloudy eyes of Ubuyashiki. In his presence, the villagers immediately bow low, sealing their mouths shut. The stall owner immediately drops his rock. It thuds uselessly to the ground, and he lowers his head in the presence of the village’s shaman. It quells most of the shouts— but the visitors, unaware of his importance, continue their panicked murmurs.

Your voice is hoarse, shaky. “Oyakata-sama, I—”

You gasp, cutting yourself off. Kyojuro. Was he safe? Please, please don’t let him see me like this—

A smudge of yellow, just past Ubuyashiki’s shoulder, by the shaman’s children. You can’t quite see his face through the blur of your tears, but his you spot his haori easily, a fire that stands out even in front of the luminescence of the bonfire. Is he upset? Disappointed? He must know you’ve been hated all this while, but to be disgraced in this manner was practically a public execution. Your hands go numb, realizing that there was no greater shame than having Kyojuro witness your downfall.

“Oyakata-sama, I’m sorry!” You choked out, clambering to your feet. You don’t look back, and sprint into the forest. There are shouts of surprise from behind you, but you just run, clenching your teeth, your feet aching horribly with each step. Branches whip at your cheeks, slicing your skin open. Or maybe the cuts were from claws of yōkai. The wind roars in your ears. Or it might’ve been howls of hunger. Your feet sting from the flora crushed under your geta, but you persist— you run, and run because its the only thing you can do. Away from the village, away from the crowds, and away from Kyojuro. And should a yōkai eat you— perhaps, it will be for the better.

You burst into a clearing. A small temple sits in its center, lit only by the full moon and its twinkling stars. It must be abandoned— nobody can enter this deep into the forest without attracting any yōkai. Weary, defeated, you trudge to its front steps, hunched forward. Your eyes scan the etched words carved along the pillar of the shrine.

May the Flame’s blessings always follow us. May the Flame’s strength allow us to pull through. May the Flame’s light guard us from darkness.

A vision of Kyojuro flashes across your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, Flame Deity, for intruding. Please grant me this last respite, and I will leave when day breaks. I’m sorry, Shinobu-san, Kanzaki-san, the girls— for leaving my duty. I’m sorry, mother, father. I’m sorry— Kyojuro-san.”

The forest answers with silence. You curl up into a ball, and sob until exhaustion overtakes you.

You wake up to chirping birds and muted sun rays on your face. You squint reflexively, raising your arm to your face, only to feel cloth— and a futon underneath your body. Your eyes shoot open and you sit straight up, staring at your hands. Someone had applied ointment over your injuries and wrapped them up. Your fingers prod along the bandage wrapped around your torso, and wince slightly at the healing burn on your back. You’d been shifted into the temple’s interior, and the futon smells like freshly sun-dried laundry.

Confused, you stand up after much difficulty, and slide open the shoji door.

Kyojuro is seated on the engawa, facing away from you. His eyes are closed in meditation, his shoulder rising slightly with each breath. For some reason, it suddenly feels as if a fog has lifted itself from your mind. Was his hair always this golden…? Did they always have such distinctive red tips? His outfit is quite peculiar, and Kyojuro doesn’t look human from this angle—

He turns to you, and you freeze in your tracks. Stunning is a word too shallow to describe how he looks. Under the sunlight, his hair gleams an otherworldly hue of golden, and his irises are an extraordinary shade of red you’ve never seen before. Some part of you acknowledges this is how he’s always looked like— but for some reason, you’ve only come to realize his unnatural appearance now.

There’s a pause— a moment of silence as you both look at each other, the breeze picking up strands of hair that shifts across his face. It is only then, that you become aware of the land you stand upon.

“You are— you are of the Rengoku lineage,” you choke out. “You are the Flame Deity.”

Everything clicks into place now— the odd colours of his hair and eyes, the fire stitched on his kyahan, the flame haori that he mentioned was a family heirloom—

Immediately, you fall to your knees, pressing your forehead against the engawa, ignoring the screaming pain of the weight against your injuries. “My deepest apologies, Lord Flame Deity! I was so blind, how could I not have recognized—”

He’s by your side in a blink. You don’t even hear his footsteps, just a light rustle of his clothes. Kyojuro helps you up from your kneel. “It was not my intention to make you grovel!”

He lifts you out of your kneel into a sitting position, but you can’t meet his eyes. Not after all you’d said and done with him. You were mortified— you had a crush on the Flame Deity, told him your sob story as if mortal life entertained him, and stood him up just last night.

“I— I couldn’t, Lord Flame Deity. I was disrespectful—”

Unsatisfied, Kyojuro says your name. It shuts you up. His hand reaches to cup your jaw gently, deliberately lifting your head to make you look at him. You promptly get dizzy looking into his eyes— gold borders his vermilion irises like flames around the sun, the sun rays only highlighting his smooth features. You try to look elsewhere, like his pronounced brow bone— maybe not— or the strong bridge of his nose— how can a being be this beautiful—?

“Please call me Kyojuro, as you always do! If it makes you feel better, as deities, humans often struggle with perceiving our existence once we are out of sight. That’s why on that day you recognized me at the flower stand, I was rather surprised.”

You snap out of your panic. His smile is warm, familiar—

it reminds you that after everything, he is still the same Kyojuro you’d met and known. His thumb lightly brushes over a bandage on your cheekbone.

“We are not meant to walk amongst the common folk, but I couldn’t resist with the bustle of the crowds as of late. Call it luck or fate, but I’m truly glad to have run into you that day.”

His sentence finally makes you relax, slackening against his hold, resting your head in his palms.

“But still, I’m surprised nobody made the connection of you being… not human,” you mumble.

“Actually,” he smiles at you. “I knew you didn’t like attention! So, I took it upon myself and masked my presence to make you comfortable!” He pauses. “Lady Kochō would not like me to tell you this, but she employs similar tactics herself. May I offer you some dango!”

Kyojuro turns away to grab a plate of half-eaten mitarashi dango by his side. He offers you one, and you can’t help but chuckle at his blatant attempt of pivoting the topic. “Lady Kochō… as in… Shinobu-san?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes, but he nods anyway. Shinobu’s extensive knowledge of plants, the awkward tension between the both of them, if Shinobu was also a Deity— the Insect Deity— it would all make sense. Nevertheless, you nod, and gratefully take a stick of dango from his plate. Kyojuro scoots aside to make space for you, an invitation to join him by his side.

You chew slowly on the stick, letting your legs dangle freely over the engawa. Your feet brush against Kyojuro’s leg with every swing, and you feel yourself slowly readjusting to his presence.

“Kyojuro-san…” you try. His name leaves an odd taste in your mouth— knowing you were on a first-name basis with the Flame Deity made every action feel strangely intimate. “Kyojuro-san, are you… human?”

He throws his head back and lets out a hearty laughter. You chew harder on your dango, flustered at the idea of having asked a silly question.

“Yes! But also, no!” He offers you another stick. “I was born to inherit the role of the Flame Deity, like my father was many years ago. Being a Deity is a position of honour— after a Deity feels as if their successor has reached a sufficient level of ability, they will then step down, and live the rest of their lives as normal humans.”

“Then, your family…”

He hands you another stick, and you take it, fumbling slightly. “My younger brother is still alive! It has only been five or so years since I have taken the post of the Flame Deity. My father has grown jaded from his years as the former Flame Deity, but his heart is still in the right place, I am sure!”

You swallow the dango you were chewing on. “Ah, then about Shinobu— I mean, Lord Insect Deity…” Kyojuro takes a new stick for himself, and offers another one to you. You have three full sticks on your hands now, and you struggle to not let the mitarashi sauce drip onto the wooden platform. “Yes! As Deities, we are not supposed to significantly interfere with the lives of mortals. After you essentially ratted us out that day, we came to a mutual agreement not to tattle on each other!”

Kyojuro polishes off his dango, and stares off into the distance. The summer sun is usually sweltering— but in the middle of the forest, the trees feel as if they are shading you from the heat, their leaves rustling with each breeze. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to defend you any further last night. Oyakata-sama and his children forbade me from directly interacting with you in front of the crowd! But now, you are here, in my residence— and they are not!”

He hands you the last stick of dango. You blink up at him, and offer a polite smile. “Kyojuro-san… I don’t think I can hold onto any more sticks.”

“Oh! Of course!” He takes back the sticks from you, leaving you with the last to slowly chew on.

The both of you lapse into silence, and he remains motionless by your side, back straight, as you quietly munch on your stick. It’s peaceful, you think. A genuine feeling of tranquility— not like the previous times when you had to be on your toes for an attack or a scowl. Deep in the forest, under the sunlight, there were no villagers to worry about. And knowing that you were in Kyojuro’s care, under his warm gaze…

You finish off the last piece of dango on your skewer, turning to glance at him. He’s staring at you, too— but his gaze seems softer, kinder than you’d thought possible.

“I’m sorry if this is straightforward,” he takes the empty skewer from you, placing everything onto the plate beside him. Kyojuro turns toward you, kneeling, arms atop his lap. You freeze. What?

“I have grown rather fond of you during the past few days. If you would not mind— please allow me to court you, in hopes that you will marry me.”

Thankfully he’d taken the sticks from you, because your hand goes slack. Blood rushes to your head at the sudden confession, and you scurry to mirror him as well, kneeling to face him. Your heart beats loudly at your chest, crawling its way up your throat. What!?

“I—” you swallow. “Kyojuro-san, I—”

Images of your past intrude your thoughts. You were once loved, too— but it was all taken away in accidents, a series of ill-fated events that came crashing down on you. Your parents had both seemed so indomitable back then, and you think of the priest that came running out of your estate, holding the cut above his forehead that was bleeding so profusely it stained his sclera red for days after. Sure, Kyojuro might’ve been the Flame Deity, but— but what if your misfortune would curse him like it did to your Flower Deity—?

“I will protect you!” Kyojuro yells, snapping you out of your train of thought. “I will take care of you. I will guard you from the dangers of the night. I promise— nothing will wound me. If you would please grant me this chance, I will show you that you are deserving of love, too.”

You’re speechless at his bold declaration of love. Your thoughts run wild in your head, but within the cacophony of doubts and fears that loop themselves endlessly in your mind, only one question stand out amongst them all. Tears roll down your face. Kyojuro’s smile drops, and he shuffles toward you on his knees, his hand hesitantly outstretched toward you.

You weep softly. “Kyojuro-san. I am a cursed human— I have brought misfortune wherever I’ve gone, since I was a child. I have taken the lives of the Flower Deity, of my parents, and many more. Are you sure you wish for this body of mine, bearing nothing but ill-omens, to stay by your side?”

Kyojuro drops his hand to his side. He flexes his arm, clenching and unclenching his fist, before relaxing. Then, he nods at you. “May I hold you!”

Again— you burst into tears at this, nodding your head as your vision warps with the tears that cloud your vision. Kyojuro pulls you onto his lap, shifting himself such that he returns to his original position of sitting at the edge of the engawa, and you, pressed close against his chest. His hand strokes your hair in a gentle motion, rubbing circles into your back as you sob into his shoulder.

“My mother used to do this to me as a child. When I was young, I couldn’t come to terms that she would die so soon— and I would cry plenty. She would hold me like this, until I learnt to stay strong for my younger brother, and for my father. I hope this makes you feel better!”

You relish in his head pats, your arms wrapping tightly around his torso. Kyojuro reciprocates, hugging you tighter and pressing his face into your shoulder as well. When he speaks again, you feel the rumble of his chest against your own,

“You are not cursed!” He insists. “I can tell. You have simply experienced too many unfortunate events. This does not mean you are weak— many would’ve crumbled under the pressure of the challenges you have faced. Besides,” he pulls back. You look up at him, still sniffing and hiccuping.

“I am a Deity. Nothing you ever do could grant me misfortune.”

He leans forward and places a gentle kiss on your temple. Then, he turns his head and presses his lips against the middle of your forehead. Then, your nose— and he cups your cheek. You look back at him, glossy-eyed, puffy-faced— but even with all your flaws, Kyojuro kisses you. A quick peck on the lips— a touch so light you wonder if you’d hallucinated it again— but his face turns red, and warmth radiates throughout your body from his touch.

So you let yourself drift off, in his warm embrace.

When you come to, it’s late in the afternoon. Kyojuro seemed to have dozed off with you as well. He’s leaning against a pillar, a calm expression on his face— a new side of him. You sit up blearily, rubbing at your eye. You feel terrible— your eyes are puffy and you’re sure that your entire face was swollen.

Your stirring wakes him up. Kyojuro frowns— and pulls you back toward his chest, hugging you tighter. He presses his cheek against the crown of your head. “I rarely have the chance to sleep in. Grant me this one wish, will you?” He mumbles against your hair.

You nod against him, and spend the next hour or so tracing patterns against his chest. The sun begins its descent into the horizon, and only then does Kyojuro rouse from his nap, nuzzling your head as he does so.

At night, he presents to you the sky lantern that the both of you never managed to fly. It's still in pristine condition, your words and prayers thankfully undamaged in the chaos of the bonfire. You two stand in the courtyard at the front of his shrine, straightening out the folds of the paper lantern. Kyojuro bends down and brushes his finger against the wick— it lights easily, a warm glow spreading through the paper shell, painting its surroundings a bright shade of orange.

“Wow, Kyojuro-san… You are a Deity.” You blurt out in amazement.

He puffs his chest out, a proud grin on his face. “Of course! And I think it’s about time you dropped the honorifics!”

Pinching your lips together, you turn away from him. It takes you a good amount of time to collect yourself, enough for the flame to burn brighter, for the lantern to start tugging at your fingers. It paints his features a gorgeous orange hue, flickering reds and yellows like his eyes, casting shadows upon his hair, almost like a mini-sunset.

"You're really, really, handsome..." You swallow. "...Kyojuro."

You're burning up in embarrassment. You could've picked anything to say, but chose to admit the first thought that came into your head— 

Kyojuro lets go of his hold on the lantern, and you panic, pulling it down before it could float away. You look up to chide him— but he crosses the distance with a large stride, and squeezes you in his arms so tightly you nearly lose your grip on the lantern.

"Kyo— can't— breathe—!" You gasp. He releases you, and when he pulls back, he has the widest smile and reddest cheeks you've ever seen.

Eventually, the lantern fills with enough heated air, and you watch as it lifts off, the gentle breeze carrying it past the treetops safely. Your prayers will not mean much, seeing as the Deity you wrote to is currently right in front of you, but you hope that your amber wishes will fly far, far away, info the hands of whoever curious enough to listen to your story.

You stand side-by-side, arms brushing, leaning your head on his shoulder as you watch the orange fade into nothing more than a speck.

“By the way, I can hear all your wishes.”

You snap your head to face Kyojuro. “What?”

“Yes!” He affirms. “Every prayer made to the Flame Deity, I hear it! Same goes for the other deities! We have monthly meetings regarding the wishes we receive.”

You think back to every single prayer you’ve made— mundane wishes, frustrated complaints, or anything possibly incriminating. You cover your mouth in mortification. Then, all those times you'd prayed to the Flame Deity in front of him...?

Kyojuro simply laughs, “Fret not! There are plenty of wishes far weirder than yours. It is what makes humans so interesting!”

He pulls you toward him, wrapping his arm around your waist. Feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back melts any lingering humiliation at this newfound fact. You direct your gaze back to your lantern. It floats higher and higher, a orange dot in the dark blue expanse of the night sky, lonesome— until it joins the twinkling stars and the waning moon. Kyojuro slips his hand into your grasp, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Here, even in the dark of the night that you once feared, you’ve never felt safer.

EPILOGUE

“Shinobu-san!” You call out as you enter the store. “I’ve got your order today!”

“Ah!” She appears from behind the door. “Thank you…”

Her voice trails off as she gives you a once-over. You blink at her, and she giggles.

“Well, isn’t this a cute surprise?”

You blush, clutching onto your basket tightly. “W-What is? What?”

Shinobu leans on the counter, chin in her arms as she smiles innocently at you. “Haven’t you wondered why people haven’t bothered you lately?” Then, she traces an outline of your body with her finger. “It looks like Rengoku-san has given you the Flame Deity’s blessing!”

Your grasp on the wisteria basket loosens. “Oh… I wasn’t aware that such a thing existed.”

You hand her the basket, and she empties the petals into the glass jar, the petals touching its brim. “Ah, looks like we won’t be needing your services for a while!” She returns your basket. “If you could keep a secret between the both of us… the cough tincture actually didn’t need wisteria extract. We wanted everyone to ingest or hold onto some form of wisteria, to discourage the yōkai from attacking or eating humans!”

“How sneaky, yet honorable of you, Shinobu-san!” Kyojuro appears at the doorway. Shinobu smiles and greets him, much more amiably this time.

“Rengoku-san, what brings you to the village today?” She chirps, handing you the pouch of coins for your payment. Kyojuro walks over to your side with a proud grin, interlacing your fingers together. You squawk in embarrassment, clearly not used to the public display of affection— Shinobu simply smiles, and for a split second, you’re reminded of the flower-selling girl you came across the second time you'd ran into Kyojuro, with her own impartial expression.

“If I’m not mistaken, this year is the year of the Insect Festival, correct?” Kyojuro asks. “How about convincing the residents to hang wisteria flowers alongside the usual decorations?”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Shinobu clasps her hands together. “Although, we will need your green thumb again…” She turns to you. “…Rengoku-san.”

It takes you a few moments to register her words. When it finally sinks in, red crawls up your cheeks, and you jump up.

Without missing a beat, Kyojuro kisses your temple. “Well, we thank you for your blessing, Shinobu-san!”

“Ahhh!” You cover your face, batting at Kyojuro's hand. “You both have to stop teasing me!”

Shinobu laughs, ushering the both of you out of her store. “I’m sure Oyakata-sama would be glad to give you his blessings, too!”

END.

if you enjoyed this, please feel free to like, reblog or leave a reply. i'm also grateful for any feedback regarding my work— I write as a hobby, and am always looking to improve it.

This fic takes much inspiration from Thousand Needles by harisenbon on AO3, a collection of fics centered around Kyojuro.

!! Please DO NOT continue any further if you want to enjoy the anime in its entirety !! * There is sort-of canon-divergence/OOC. It is never explicitly stated in the series how old Rengoku Tojuro is, thus in this story, he is also in his final year of high school with reader. With disclaimers out of the way, please enjoy!

“Hello! Would you kindly tell me where I am?”

The corone slips from your fingers. It lands on the ground with a pitiful splat!— creamy contents burst from its shell inside the plastic wrapping, spilling over the ground. Your mouth is left hanging open— you slowly turn to face the man that’s just materialized in the middle of your hallway.

He was not there five seconds ago— you know because you’d just walked through the exact spot that this fiery-looking stranger currently stands in. Clearing your throat, you tighten your hold on the doorknob of your front door, opening it further. Three thoughts run through your head.

One, there is quite possibly, a cryptid that has just manifested itself in your house.

Two, said cryptid does not appear to be threatening— but you are beginning to feel uneasy under his unblinking stare.

Three, huh?

“Um,” you cough, hand still on your doorknob, never breaking your line of sight with the entity. “Yeah— hey, um… how… exactly did you get in here…?”

He— it?— blinks owlishly at you, before it turns its head to survey your apartment. Of all the times some supernatural being decides to appear before you, or maybe arguably better, a hallucination, it had to be when your parents had just left for a business trip, and on the day you were running late for school.

You carefully lower yourself to pick up your squashed breakfast, but having to maintain eye contact with it meant you were essentially just fumbling around the general area you’d thought you heard the plastic rustle— and after a few more moments of fruitlessly patting at the ground, you return to standing.

“It seems as if we are both confused!” It booms, “Do not be afraid! I mean no harm!”

It’s hard to not be afraid— sudden appearances aside, this being spoke with volume that shook the whole house with each syllable. His very presence was demanding, hair like wild locks of untamed flames, fire-patterned haori draped around his broad shoulders, and his bright, piercing gaze — all of which, by all known laws of nature, are as good as neon signs pointing to danger. It was unfortunate that he was instead something beyond nature’s comprehension.

You shuffle around to face him— but your shoe catches on the splattered cream, causing you to slip and tilt backward — and as if to add insult to injury, your head strikes against the doorknob with such forcefulness it shuts the door behind you with a bang. You land straight on your rear— bringing forth a yelp as you feel the corone squash itself below you.

Dude. Just put me out of misery.

The cryptid doesn’t. He extends his right arm toward you, the corners of his mouth upturned. Your eyes flit toward it. His palms were calloused, uneven and littered with varying lengths of pale scars— unusual in this day and age, but at the very least, it makes him look human. Hesitantly, you reach out, accepting his offer.

Except— your hand phases right through his. Where your fingers overlapped, you feel a light buzzing at the very tip, as if you’d fallen asleep on your nails. Your arm falls limply to your side, and you stare agape at him. It looks like he doesn’t expect it either. The smile on his face freezes.

With a nod, he retracts his arm and folds it across his chest.

“Hm! Looks like I may be a ghost!”

You fling open the door and slam it shut behind you.

You’re still pressed against the front door, arms splayed out, holding it shut as if a ghost couldn’t just phase through it. Your mind races, nausea threatening to overtake your body as the ground shifts beneath your feet.

Two sharp raps sound from behind you. You jump so high you nearly feel your soul leave your body— perhaps it would be better that way, then you could finally shake hands with the ghost in your home. From behind you, a muffled voice. “It looks as if I am able to interact with objects, still!”

The knob twists, and the door flies outward with such force you’re sent flying forward, slamming straight into the parapet. Your stomach makes harsh contact with the railing. All wind escapes your lungs upon impact— a shrill ring bursts in your eardrums and your hand flies to your chest, gasping for air— until breath enters your body again. You swing yourself around, heaving, staring at the ghost-man.

He at least has the decency to at least look somewhat apologetic. Releasing his hold on the knob, he reaches out again— but pauses, thinking better, retracting his hand.

“Sorry! I was not aware that you were leaning against the door!”

The ghost straightens back up, shifting to the side, as if trying to coax you back into the house. “It was rude of me to not start of with an introduction. My name is Rengoku Kyojuro! Allow me to ask for yours!”

You fumble around your words a little bit, but finally manage to introduce yourself with minimal stuttering. He grins, exclaiming, “it is nice to meet you!”

“Uhh, it’s nice to meet you too, Rengoku-san…” you scramble to stand up, ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from the your stomach, around to your tailbone. With your names introduced, you’re slightly less apprehensive regarding this ghost named Rengoku. For one, he doesn’t seem to desire any bodily harm upon you.

You narrow your eyes at the man. Now that you think about it, he did look strangely familiar. An odd sensation nips the back of your mind, as if pulling at your cheek and admonishing that you’ll soon feel like a complete fool once you figure out exactly why this he gave you such a strong feeling of déjà vu.

No time for tomfoolery, you shake your head. You’d be late for school if you dallied any further. You twist around to see the smear of pastry cream on the back of your uniform. Groaning, you charge back into the house and turn around to cast a wary glance at Rengoku, who now stands stock still at your genkan, as if awaiting for an invitation to enter your abode once more. He’s dressed in an outfit that looks rather out-of-fashion, and— is that a katana on this belt?

“I have absolutely zero idea if you’re a ghost or a hallucination. But— how about this,” you glance at the clock again. “Are you, like, a vampire? Can you go outdoors?”

The creature yells spiritedly, “I have no clue!”

“—alright, then I’ll grab a change of clothes, you follow me to class. If you are real, you would be a great explanation to my homeroom teacher,” you pull off your shoes and sprint toward your room. “Stay there!”

“What is a ‘homeroom’!” He yells back at you, but you’ve already shut your door behind you.

Rengoku is oddly quiet as you briskly walk down the hallways, dodging groups of students making similar beelines toward their classrooms before the first bell chimes. Nobody seems to notice his presence, with a handful of them even walking through him. He doesn’t seem to mind it, though— at least, not that you could tell.

You sprint into class, barely making it into your seat before your homeroom teacher enters. The ghost stands beside you somewhat awkwardly, and you pull out your Campus notebook, scribbling on the corner of the page and subtly sliding it toward him.

‘You okay?’

Rengoku stares at your notebook, then your face. “Where is this? What year is it?”

More scribbling. ‘Tokyo. 2020.’.

He pinches his lips together. “There’s… there’s so many things different about this place. It’s incomprehensible to me that this is Tokyo.”

Your teacher calls out your name for attendance. You raise your hand, then quickly return to writing on your notebook. ‘Are you from the past?’

After thoughtful deliberation, he opens his mouth—

“Rengoku!”

Both of you jolt, heads snapping up.

On the other side of the classroom, by the window— just out of your field of view, a very familiar figure turns to face the front. His golden hair shifts, crimson ends catching the sunlight streaming through the glass panes—

“Rengoku Tojuro!”

The splitting image of your spectre slowly raises his hand. Your homeroom teacher raps sharply against the teacher’s desk.

“How many times have I told you to cut your hair, Rengoku-san? Already in your third year and still asking for trouble?”

Of course— this ghost…! You slap your hand over your mouth. It echos loudly throughout the room, and the entire classroom turns to stare at you. Rengoku— both of them, shoot you a look. Mortified, you slowly retract your hand.

“Do you have something to say about Rengoku-san’s haircut?” Your teacher curtly asks, but you shake your head vigorously, lowering your gaze to the notebook in front of you. The classroom ripples with murmured laughter. In front you, Agatsuma Toko snickers as well. You kick the back of her chair. Quietly, alive-Rengoku speaks from the back of the classroom. “I’ll see to it.”

It was still a little absurd, but you had to be given some leeway for forgetting that Rengoku Tojuro existed in your classroom. He’s withdrawn and reticent, not quite all there in the few times you’ve spoken to him. The only piece of information you knew regarding him was that he is apparently part of the the school's acclaimed kendo club, but even then, he didn’t seem to stand out.

Once the teacher leaves the classroom, Toko leans back, her silky hair cascading down like a stage curtain, spilling over your desk. “Someone got a crush on the quiet kid?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, kicking her chair again. Your best friend only rolls her eyes, but you know from her smile that she’s just getting a kick out of teasing you. You return to furiously scribbling in your notebook, eyes darting up to meet the ghosts’ when you notice him staring.

‘Are you supposed to be some manifestation of his ego?’

Ghost-Rengoku shakes his head, arms folded across his chest. “No!” A pause. Quieter, he adds. “He has my brother’s eyes.”

A quick glance at Tojuro proves that you have no clue what the ghost is on about, because they quite literally have the same set of eyes— just that the alive-guy’s spiritless pair happens to look more like it should belong to the dead-guy’s. But then again, who are you to say such things when it sounds like this ghost knows your classmate better than you do?

The door slides open, and your math teacher walks in. Hastily, you scribble in the corner again. ‘I’m sorry. I really gotta pay attention to this class. Do you want to walk around the school, or something?’

Rengoku nods, suddenly quiet. It unnerves you, if only just a little, but you leave him to it, eyes trailing him as you watch his attempts to squeeze through the narrow corridors of student desks and bags— pausing when he realizes he can simply phase through the items, then slowly making his way to the other side, eyes scanning the blackboard in the back of the class, the lockers below it— darting back when he hears the yawn Toko lets out, before coming to a stop.

For the entirety of the day, he doesn’t leave Tojuro’s side.

“I think I’ve got it!” Rengoku suddenly speaks up. You jolt at his volume, your shoulders only easing when you remember that nobody else could hear him.

You’re huddled away in some couch in the corner of the school library, flipping through as many accounts of battles from 1900s, 1910s, 1920s— all to figure out if this ghost-man really was who he claimed to be.

“No descendant of the Rengoku lineage is supposed to be this dispassionate!” He folds his arms. “Tojuro is missing a spark!”

“What do you mean?” You murmur, hoping that you’re tucked away far enough that nobody can hear you.

“Everyone from my family always needed to have something to strive toward. My brother— he was exceptionally kind and determined for the family. My father— he fought for my mother!” He turns toward you. “You must be able to see me because you’re destined to be Rengoku Tojuro’s spark!”

“Me!?” You blurt, before covering your mouth. Someone shushes you from behind a bookshelf, and you mutter an apology before shoving your face into the third journal of your search. Your hope is dwindling steadily— you’ve been chasing vague stories told from numerous perspective, yet none have been clear enough to give you a lead just yet.

Your eyes widen as you flip to the last page of the journal. “Rengoku-san, look. Is this you?”

You point to an image of a messy-haired boy in the bottom corner of the image. It is in black-and-white, but his hairstyle undeniably matched your ghost's, nearly a carbon copy. Though the boy has a considerably softer expression than Rengoku does, his big smile is the ultimate proof of their relation. Above him is an older clone of himself, a small smile on his face and the same haircut as well. You nearly miss the stubble beneath his jaw, obscured by the grain of the picture. Rengoku leans in, scrutinizing the image, lips parted. You hear his breath hitch— the corner of his jaw twitches, words caught in his throat.

After a silence too long, he finally speaks.

“Senjuro. Father. They did it,” he croaks. “I knew they did— they had to have. But—” he leans in further to hold the book, phasing halfway into your body. It leaves your arm tingly and numb. “Mitsuri-san. Obanai— Gyomei, Lady Shinobu, Muichiro…”

You’re not sure who he’s listing, but it must be his comrades from back then. You’ve heard tales of this group before— it wasn’t taught in history class, but every Japanese citizen knows the folklore of the devastating battle against the Demon Progenitor that took place a hundred years ago, and the stories that arose of it. Slayers that walked around wielding nichirin blades, demons who would prowl at night to feast on unsuspecting humans.

A teardrop falls onto the book— phases through it, rather.

You glance up, Rengoku’s eyes are glossy, tears rolling down his cheeks in large, round droplets. His mouth is pursed, but you can see the slivers of his canines peeking out, biting down on his lip as he fights to hold back his tears. His exhales comes out in unsteady, shaky rhythms, shoulders quivering with each breath. He blinks once — cheeks turning red as more tears spill from his flaming eyes.

“It’s okay, Rengoku-san,” you’re compelled to whisper. “Nobody else can hear you.”

As if given permission, the Slayer lowers his head into his hands and weeps. Not wail, nor sob — but quiet, mournful hiccups, as if he was finally relieved of a great burden, released from the shackles of his duty— his lineage. Rengoku grasps the book in his hands, holding it with such tenderness that his thumbs only gently press against the paper, brushing over the image of his brother.

“Senjuro… did you live a happy life? Were you fulfilled?” He rasps. Slowly, his thumb traces upward to the older man, touch growing slightly firmer. “Father— I hope you were able to find solace. I did my best to fulfill my role.”

You gingerly place your hand on his shoulder, but it dips into his spectral visage, so you’re left awkwardly patting the air.

Rengoku Kyojuro weeps for a long, long while.

The sun is beginning to set by the time he’s regained his composure. He apologizes to you with red eyes, but you shake your head, horrified that he even thought of himself as bothersome. This guy clearly had some weight he needed off, and you were just glad you could give him some closure.

You’d stopped by a 7/11 on the way home to grab a quick bento, effectively short circuiting his brain in the process— Rengoku was astounded by the sheer quantity of food lining the shelves, salivating over every displayed row of onigiri (’I did not know there were so many variations of them!’, he had exclaimed.). You offered to buy him a meal, but he turns you down politely, saying he doesn’t seem to feel hunger.

You pick at your dinner with thoughts racing through your head. Seated on the opposite end of your dining table, Rengoku eyes the egg mayo sandwich you’d bought as an à la carte to your microwaved pasta.

“Rengoku-san,” you put aside the chopsticks you’ve been fidgeting with. “Do you have anything you wish for? Maybe if I helped you, you’d be able to move on.”

“We would not know unless we tried!” Rengoku nods. Then he closes his eyes, thinking.

You reach over to your bag and pull out the Campus notebook that’s basically designated for him. You flip it open to a new page, scrawling the date down at the very top of the page. “What’s the number one thing you want to do right now?”

“I would like to eat!” He replies without hesitation. You jot it on the notebook.

Rengoku’s Wish: Eat.

Wait. That’s all?

You snap your head up to him with a look of disbelief. He merely laughs, a loud, hearty bark that almost makes you forget he'd just been dealt life-changing news of the fate of his family hours earlier. His attention quickly diverts to the sandwiches beside your meal with clear intrigue.

“If that’s really all… try this?” You slide them over.

He’s more than happy to pick up one of the sandwiches and take a bite. The ghost chews on it for a bit, an unreadable expression on his face. You’re oddly tense as you await his verdict, the silence that stretches only making it worse.

Then, he takes another bite. And another.

He looks back down at the bread in his hands, turning it around, before placing the last bite into his mouth. Rengoku looks up at you with a grin. “This is not good! I can’t taste anything!”

Your mouth goes dry at the remark.

“Can't taste anything?” You put your pen down. “At all…? Are you okay?”

“Yes! I am disappointed!” He laughs, seemingly unbothered. “However, it is of a small matter. I lived a good life appreciating all my meals! You never know when it will be your last!”

You look at him with a expression equivalent to that of a kicked puppy. He panics. “Have I upset you?”

“I’m upset for you, if anything,” you murmur, poking at your own food. You don’t think you could stomach anything— not in front of him, at least. You look back up. “What’s your favourite food?”

He thinks for a moment. “Sweet potatoes! Even better with miso soup!”

Seemed simple enough. You think you could probably make it at home— perhaps the smell alone might bring him some comfort. But for now, you put away the remaining pair of the egg mayo sandwich into the fridge, your appetite gone for the day.

That night, you offer Rengoku your bed, insisting that you could sleep in your parent’s room for the duration. He’s reluctant to even step foot in your room at first, but when he rests his weight onto your mattress, you see his entire body immediately droop to one side as if the poor spirit hasn’t had a day of proper sleep in his life. You leave to grab a glass of water— and when you re-enter the room, Rengoku is passed out cold on your bed.

You pull the blanket over his shoulders— watching as it phases over his ghostly silhouette, flattening over your sheets, like a grim reminder of his existence.

Rengoku’s Wish, again: Eat miso soup with sweet potatoes.

In an incredible stroke of luck, the bright, bold words ‘MISO SOUP WITH SWEET POTATOES’ are penned across the school cafeteria's signboard the very next day. Rengoku is delighted to see as such, so you buy two sets for take-out, making up some excuse to Toko and your group of friends about unfinished homework — sprinting out of the cafeteria before anyone could question you.

“Does miso soup in the future taste any different?” He asks as you wheeze up the steps to your classroom. It makes you pause as you consider that very real possibility— but how different could it really be? Hopefully not that much, fingers crossed. You slide the door open —

— Rengoku Tojuro sits alone in the classroom, head turned toward the window, watching the clouds float by. You curse under your breath— you didn’t think there’d be anyone here, since the cafeteria always had more than enough space to accommodate the entire school. Tojuro turns his head to look toward you, gaze apathetic.

“Are—” you force a smile. “Are you not going to have lunch?”

A slow blink. “Hm,” Tojuro mutters. “I don’t think so.”

From beside you, Rengoku sucks in a sharp inhale. That answer must be all sorts of sacrilegious to him, you’re sure— you quickly rush to Tojuro’s seat, placing the bento on his table.

“Nonsense!” You cut in, casting a quick glance at Rengoku’s bewildered face. “Don’t you have kendo later today? You must eat something, I bought an extra bento!”

The boy is clearly taken aback at your sudden insistence. It’s only natural— you’ve barely spoken to him for the entirety of high school, and you’re suddenly asking to have lunch with him. He nods cautiously, and you happily hand the extra miso and sweet potato meal over to him, cheeks beginning to ache from the smile you’ve plastered smile over your face. You pull a chair from the table in front of him, seating yourself on the opposite side.

You’re too far in to back out now — but you remind yourself. This is for the sake of Rengoku’s spirit. There’s still no definite answer, but you were both certain that Tojuro had something to do with it.

“Rengoku-san,” you start, and suppress a wince when both of them turn to you at once. “What’s the kendo club like? You guys train a whole bunch, right?”

He prods at the rice with the pair of wooden chopsticks in his hand. “It’s okay.”

The wind outside blows, rustling the tree leaves by the window. You take a sip of your miso soup and munch down on the sweet potato cubes. From the corner of your eye, you spot Rengoku watching, arms folded across his chest. His smile has gone— clearly disappointed at the lack of Tojuro’s vigor. The subject of his stare only nudges his food around lackadaisically, placing singular grains of rice in his mouth.

“W— What’s fun about kendo?” You laugh uncomfortably. You raise your hand in the air, mimicking a strike. “Like this? Hidari-Men!” You swing down on an imaginary helmet.

He glances at you, the chopstick in between his teeth. “That’s straight down. Hidari-Men would be skewed to the left a little more.”

That was the longest response you’ve ever gotten from him. Another laugh slips out from your lips, shifting your arm toward the left and swinging, the tension making your shoulders stiff. Tojuro picks up a cube of sweet potato, turning it over in this chopsticks, observing it. Then places it into his mouth.

The air around him shifts ever so slightly. Both you and Rengoku catch it. Tojuro’s eyes widen, glancing down at this bento with an expression you’ve never seen before on his face— almost like one of astonishment.

“What’s this? It’s really good,” his irises flit back to you. You finally make proper eye contact with him — have they always been such a dazzling shade of crimson? Your breath catches in your throat as he picks up the miso bowl, sipping on it. “This miso tastes different. Is it because of the sweet potatoes?”

You exchange glances with Rengoku, before turning back to nod enthusiastically. “The potatoes sweeten the taste of the miso soup! It’s yummy, isn’t it?” Your hands return to your own meal, picking up a chopstickful of rice. “Try it with the rice too!”

Tojuro eats with an eagerness you’ve never spotted on his face before. For once, he seems to genuinely enjoy his food, chewing intently as his blazing eyes rests upon the sweet potato chunks. The silence that ensues between the both (or, three) of you doesn’t feel as awkward as it did earlier, your thoughts occupied with Tojuro’s sudden switch in personality. Your mind races— this could actually be the key to helping Rengoku. You just had to figure out the full puzzle. Was it food? Should you talk more about kendo?

“Thank you for the meal,” he says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You startle, noticing his empty container. Tojuro reaches into his bag, pulling out his wallet. “How much was it? Let me—”

“No!” You cut him off, hand in front of his face. “Don’t worry about it!” A thought enters your mind— you grin. “Actually, you can repay me by getting lunch next time!”

Tojuro’s lips part, clearly not expecting the trade. He deliberates it for a moment, before yielding to the suggestion with a nod. Suddenly— a shout for your name cuts through the air. Before you have the chance to even react, Toko bursts through the front door. “We wanted to ask—”

She freezes. You’re frozen, too, stuck between thinking if you should fling yourself as far away as possible, or the fastest way to explain your situation without sounding like a maniac.

Toko glances between the both of you. “Right.” She turns to you. “Staircase?”

You knew your best friend would never believe your explanations regarding Rengoku Kyojuro— she had always scoffed at the tales of the Slayers, saying that those were just superstitions of the past. You couldn’t blame her; there was never any concrete evidence of demons having ever existed— in fact, you weren’t very keen on believing it yourself. It just so happened that the ghost of a Slayer stood beside her as she interrogated you about skipping lunch with your friends to eat with Tojuro.

“You do like him!” She had admonished, poking a finger at your shoulder. “When did this all start? Tell me right now!”

“It— it’s just the final year of high school!” You blushed at her accusation. The bento you brought out with you to the stairwell had gone cold, clearly forgotten by the both of you under her heavy fire. “It would be sad if he graduated with no friends!”

She relented, pulling back with a sigh. From her pocket, she pulled out a milk bread, shoving it into your hands. “Whatever you say,” she eyed you warily. “But keep me updated, alright?”

The scene plays over and over again in your head now that you were back in the privacy of your own home. You’re sprawled across the hardwood floor of your living room with Rengoku standing above you. He peers down at your defeated figure curiously.

“Is there something wrong with liking Tojuro?” He asks.

“No— no, there isn’t,” you groan, dragging a hand down the side of your face. All things considered, you were pretty sure that there was at least another kid in class who was enamored by his ‘mysterious, aloof’ aura. He wasn’t a bad candidate, per se— despite his listlessness, he was rather handsome. Almond eyes, a strong nose bridge and sharp jawline all placed him as well above average in terms of looks (you ignore the fact that it also means that Rengoku Kyojuro is handsome). However, you knew that Toko would never let you live this down.

“Maybe you don’t know, but getting a crush in high school can be social suicide,” you blow air through your lips. “You’d be teased relentlessly, and you can never face the other party ever again.” You sit back up. “It’s just kinda bad because I don’t actually like him— I just want to help you.”

Rengoku’s face softens, but nevertheless, his grin still remains. “I’m grateful you go through all this trouble to help me! You have a good soul!”

His compliment brings blood rushing to your face. You cough, hiding your embarrassment as you get up from the floor, dusting off the back of your uniform. “Come on,” you gesture. “I feel bad for giving away your meal to Tojuro— let’s make miso soup with sweet potatoes for dinner.”

Cooking with Rengoku is oddly domestic. Since he could still interact with objects if he willed so, you assign him to the chopping board, cubing all the sweet potatoes as you stir miso paste and dashi into your pot. Under the orange lights of your kitchen, you observe as he ties his hair back into a ponytail and rolls up his sleeves, revealing milky white scratches darting up his forearm in the shape of ravenous claws and burns. You wonder how many battles he must’ve gone through to attain all these scars— and if he wears them as a sense of pride or duty. Rengoku’s eyes look up to meet yours. You fluster, quickly turning your attention back to your own pot.

When he moves over to tip the sweet potatoes into your soup, his forearm brushes against your arm, leaving your bicep prickly— setting your nerves on fire. One cooking session later, you serve two steaming bowls of miso soup and a generous serving of rice.

“Thank you for the food!” You clap your hands together. Rengoku parrots you, albeit with a more enthused tone. You look at him with anticipation lacing your features— so on edge you nearly forget to breath, head going light with nervousness.

He pauses under your stare, soup bowl already midway to his mouth. “Is something the matter!”

“It’s just—” you hesitate. “I hope that you can still enjoy this, even if you can’t…”

He lets out a loud laugh, one that shakes the walls of your house and sweeps you up with it. “It is of small matter! Food is more than taste— it is about the texture on our tongues, the anticipation derived from its smell, and about the energy it imbues oneself with. We give appreciation to the farmers that harvest our rice from dawn till dusk, and to the chef who puts their soul into cooking it!”

You don’t think it was that serious, but you nod along anyway, feeling inspired. Rengoku smiles at your assuredness, raising the soup bowl to his mouth —

— and promptly yells.

You leap to your feet, nearly knocking over your own bowl in the process. Your chair scrapes behind you, tilting over and landing on the ground with a clatter.

“What!? What happened?” You rush over to his side, but halt when he looks up at you with an indecipherable look on his face.

“I can taste it!” He shouts. He sips on the soup bowl once more, and lowers it in disbelief. “I can taste the sweet potatoes and the miso! I can taste the rice!”

You lean your weight against the table, pressing your palm against your forehead as you stare at him, flabbergasted. Just like that— he could suddenly taste? What changed?

Rengoku charges over to your fridge, picking out the leftover sandwich from yesterday. He sinks his teeth into it— chewing aggressively, turning back to you with sparkling eyes. “I can taste the egg in this! I can taste food! This is delicious, by the way!”

The shock settles into silence. You swallow. “So, are you supposed to… I don’t know, move on?”

Rengoku smiles as if he wasn't just dealt the greatest revelation of his life just moments ago. “I would think so as well! However, I’m not sure why I’m still here! Sorry for the intrusion!”

“It’s fine,” you wave him off. Then, a thought enters your mind. “What if… one wish wasn’t enough?” You reach over to pull out the notebook from your bag again, slamming it open atop the table. “Maybe you need multiple wishes. Maybe Tojuro needs to be a part of those wishes!”

“Great idea!” Rengoku nods, folding his arms across his chest. “My instincts tells me it might be just that!”

“Alright, Rengoku-san,” you spin the pen around your finger. “Let’s hear your greatest wishes!”

Rengoku’s Wish #2: Win the Kendo Championships.

You raise your notebook to shield your face from the sun. Today’s cloudless sky offers no shelter — the sun rays are relentless in their assault, though you’re wondering if the heat building underneath your uniform’s collar was stemming from your own frustration instead. You come to a stop at the red crossing, jamming at the button at the side of the pole with the end of your pen.

“I’m sorry, Rengoku-san,” you pinch the space between your brows, tapping on the first item of your checklist impatiently. “That request is probably too much to ask of him— plus, it’s out of my control.”

“Nonsense!” He insists. “Any member of the Rengoku lineage can— should learn Flame Breathing! All he needs is motivation and discipline!”

You look at him with fond exasperation. It would be nice if Tojuro could win the championships, but then again, it isn’t competition season, and it wouldn’t be for anytime soon— at least, not for another few months. You glance over the page, absentmindedly toying with the dog-eared corner of the paper. Seeds of doubt plant themselves in your chest— you’re left wondering if this checklist was even feasible.

“Alright,” you spin the pen around your finger. “What if you gave me a training regimen, and I pass it to Tojuro? Maybe that would help him prepare?”

The green light beeps, and you shift the strap of your schoolbag higher on your shoulders as you cross.

Rengoku nods eagerly, falling into pace beside you. “First! He needs to warm up by sitting under a twenty-metre high waterfall for two hours—”

You scrawl out the item, cutting him off. “Out of my control."

Somewhat unsurprisingly, you and Tojuro are the only ones this early to class. After all, the only other students in school at this time are those in the kendo club, who’d reach early to train in the mornings. You take your seat in the opposite end of the classroom. He doesn’t seem to even be aware of your presence, simply staring out of the window, chin in his palm.

(You rarely get to see the early sunlight filtering through the windows like this in class. It’s because of Rengoku waking up at ungodly hours that you’ve been treated as collateral damage — forcing you to wake absurdly early as of late.)

You lay your head atop your desk, turning over to look at Tojuro. How exactly are you going to strike conversation with him…?

As if he was summoned, he turns his attention to you. Your eyes meet from across the classroom, and you jolt straight up in your seat, feeling a blush crawl up your cheeks at having been caught staring. Fortunately, Tojuro doesn’t seem the least bit bothered— actually, he stands up from his desk. And begins walking over to you.

You’re the kind of person to be on relatively good terms with your classmates— at least, you strive to be. But for some reason, this triggers your flight or fight response, even if it had no reason to. You jump up from your desk as he crosses in between the empty chairs, coming to a stop in front of you. Rengoku must be similarly surprised— you can’t turn to look at him, but he’s silent, for one.

Tojuro says your name with a flat tone. Your heart slams against the wall of your ribcage.

“Yes?” You squeak.

“I still have yet to repay you for lunch,” he says simply, and then turns back, leaving you flustered, confused.

Tojuro is clearly not pleased to be sandwiched in the crowd. You spot glances thrown his way, whispers from other classmates who have never seen him once step foot into the cafeteria in their three years of high school.

You couldn’t blame him— it could get hectic during lunch hours, and especially so when they’ve displayed their bestseller— adzuki taiyaki— today. You yourself weren’t particularly keen in joining the swell of the student body that spilled at the front of the counter, but you grit your teeth. For Rengoku, you remind yourself. And Tojuro’s treating.

The Rengoku in question doesn’t seemed fazed in the tiniest bit. He plants himself beside you, arms folded across his chest as the students phase in and out through his body.

“How lively!” He barks, teeth gleaming under the bright lights of the storefront. “This is truly school spirit! I feel the vigor of youth!” Rengoku turns to you, golden hair shifting from his shoulders as he tilts his head.

With some luck, Tojuro gets shoved to the front of the queue. He turns back to you, at a loss.

“Sea bream set meal!” you mouth. He casts one last distressed glance at you, before his face is swallowed by the masses. With your job done, you burst out of the crowd, gasping for air as you stumble to the nearest pocket of space. Tojuro re-emerges beside you not long after, with your bento and two steaming taiyaki in his hands. For someone who seemed to be a little more sentient than a walking houseplant, you were pretty surprised he managed to achieve that feat.

“Do you need anything else?” He asks. You shake your head, just grateful to be out of the crush.

A girl bumps into Tojuro’s arm, squealing as she rears back with an apology. As she glances up at him, her face goes red. Her friends beside her slow down their pace to gape at him as well.

There’s a beat as you realize that this is the first time most people have gotten a proper look at his face— you’re suddenly filled with an overwhelming, protective urge to shield him from their prying eyes. Your hands dart up to tug at his sleeve ever so slightly.

Tojuro doesn’t seem to acknowledge their apology nor expressions, simply turning around to follow you out of the cafeteria. Right before you exit, from across the room — you spot Toko shooting you a smirk, and the rest of your friends giggle at the sight. You blush furiously, tugging harder at his sleeve. 

Over lunch, you brazenly ask Tojuro out— not on a date, you’d stammered as you clarified that. You happened to get extra tickets to a show, you swear, and he looked like he’d be interested. Tojuro shrugs, nodding, and you’re left slightly more embarrassed, as if you’d made a big deal out of nothing. Rengoku leans against the desk beside you, a small smile playing on his lips.

Rengoku’s Wish #3: Watch sumo wrestling.

“You should really stop calling me Rengoku-san!” Rengoku yells louder than usual over the din of the crowds. It’s especially crowded today— partly because it was a weekend, and partly because it was an uncommon occasion where two yokozuna were competing against each other. You look at him quizzically, glancing back to make sure that Tojuro was sufficiently absorbed in the match that he doesn’t hear you talking to yourself.

“What do you mean?” You whisper-shout, though you’re pretty sure it’s being drowned out by the wows of the crowd.

“I believe it also—” he pauses, distracted by the ongoing match. From both sides of you, Tojuro and Rengoku tilt their bodies forward in sync, their eyes following every movement. The wrestler with a purple mawashi pushes hard against the other, their feet losing purchase on the sandy ground. It kicks up a dust storm, and for a moment you think that purple is going to win— but the other wrestler twists his body ever so slightly, shoving the purple out of the ring.

Hurrahs erupt from around you— Rengoku pulls back, celebrating with loud applause at the valiant display of strength. Tojuro is still much more reserved, though his irises are undeniably sparkling with clear interest, fists clenched in anticipation as he watches the announcer raise his hands to make a call.

Rengoku continues from where he left off. “I believe it also confuses me with Tojuro, correct?”

His cheeks are flushed from exhilaration, hair messier than usual from all the cheering he’s been doing. Golden strands stick to his forehead, framing his large eyes and boyish grin. Your eyes trail down the bead of sweat forming on the side of his jaw, to the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Your hands brush in the proximity— the pinky he passes through buzzes with faint numbness. You nod.

“Then, please do call me by my first name!” He exclaims, irises twinkling like there were a thousand stars laid beneath it. “Kyo-ju-ro, if you’ve forgotten!”

At the request, your heart pounds so heavily in your chest that it muffles your hearing. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and your hands go numb. For a moment, you could mistake Rengoku for Tojuro’s more affable, personable twin. Like a friend— a voice in your head tells you. Not a ghost.

A first name basis would turn this into more than a mission— you’re awfully aware of that fact. But you think that you’re too far in.

“Kyojuro,” you call. It gets drowned out by the shouts of the crowd as the wrestler with the purple mawashi scores a point against his opponent.

Even so— at that moment, nobody else but Rengoku Kyojuro hears you. The intensity of his burning gaze lowers into something more akin to the warmth of a fireplace. His smile tempers down to something more intimate— private. Like a secret exchanged between the both of you. You turn back to the match, the tips of your ears searing hot. You don’t notice the way Kyojuro’s ears burn red, too.

“H-having fun?” You stammer, tilting your head toward Tojuro. He looks back at you.

“Yeah, it’s pretty interesting. More than I’d expected,” he admits. Still, it doesn’t pull the smile you’d hoped it would. You huff quietly. Tojuro’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer— before his gaze is pulled away by the roar of the crowd.

Kyojuro’s Wish #4: Experience youth!

“Hello!” Toko leans over the both of you. “Mind if I join for lunch today?”

“It would be an honor!” Kyojuro shouts. Beside him, Tojuro gives an impassive shrug, so you pull a chair over to let her sit at Tojuro’s desk. She plops down her own packed bento, one wrapped in a pink asanoha-patterned furoshiki, and leans forward so casually it was as if she’d known him her whole life. Kyojuro mirrors her, leaning forward as well.

“Y’see,” she chirps, an awfully gleeful expression on her face. You’ve been friends with her for the past three years, so you knew when something was up. Hidden behind the face of the most beautiful girl of the school was a scheming, devious mind— one who would go to any lengths to fulfill what she believed was the best outcome possible.

“Toko-chan,” you warn.

“Rengoku-san,” she sings. Kyojuro nods earnestly, and you stifle a laugh. Tojuro blinks at her. “Summer break is next week, and our group of friends have been planning on doing lots of things!”

That was news to you. “What have you guys been planning?”

Kyojuro folds his arm across his chest, eyes twinkling. Toko smiles cheekily at you— your heart sinks. That sly grin could only mean one thing.

The school term comes to an end, uneventfully.

The more eventful thing, however, was that the entirety of summer break is spent running to each corner of Japan with your friends— and Tojuro.

Your first stop is an amusement park. Kyojuro, of course, guns straight for the most terrifying roller coaster you’ve ever laid eyes on, and you’re forced to accommodate him by looking as if you were the interested one. Toko wastes no time pushing you into the seat on the left of Tojuro— and you’re screaming the entire ride down, with the one person on the ride who looks as if they’d rather be at home asleep.

The second, an aquarium date. Well, it wasn’t meant to be, at least— your group had wanted to view the newly unveiled deep-sea exhibit in the area, but you’re pretty sure Toko had sweet-talked the rest of your friends into bailing, each making up excuses of some variation along the lines of catching a flu bug, or having been grounded. You know they’re lying, because each of them had managed to convince you to wear your best outfit, under the guise of taking plenty of photos.

Instead, you’re left to tour the area with Tojuro. And Kyojuro, who’s been awed into speechlessness at every exhibit.

“I never knew there were so many kinds of deep-sea creatures!” He’d pressed his face against the aquarium. You’re mildly worried that he’d phase into the tank if he really wanted to, but thankfully, it looked like the Flame Hashira was rather content on staying on the dry side of the glass.

It was peaceful, actually— the only other time you’d went out with Tojuro alone was during the sumo match, and the rambunctious crowd made it feel more like a group outing than a date. This was much more intimate than— you can feel the heat radiating off Tojuro’s body when you both lean in to stare at an axolotl, with a face as listless as his. Only when you realize the proximity do you reel back, with a red face and cheeks that burn as if they’ve been set ablaze. You part ways that day with an odd fluttering of your heart.

Then, your plans to go to the beach were hampened by an incoming typhoon. Someone else suggests karaoke instead, and the rest, Kyojuro included, are more than happy to agree.

Drinks slosh around as your friends sing the latest pop song drunkenly, not quite from alcohol, but from the feverish excitement. You’re squeezed into the seat right beside Tojuro, crammed with your friends flanking both of your sides, pushing you together. His skin burns, even though he doesn’t look red nor bothered— so you can only assume it’s natural for him to feel like (and look) like a literal fireplace.

Standing at to the side of the room, Kyojuro surveys the scene with keen interest. There were no seats available for him— it wasn’t like you could communicate with him with all these people in the room, anyway. But he doesn’t seem to mind it, quite obviously enjoying the lively atmosphere.

You’ve run out of apologies to spew to Tojuro, but he brushes all of them off, not minding the deliberate shoving your friends are doing. A particularly animated jostle from beside you causes your leg to brush against his.

“I’m so sorry—!” You murmur again, shutting your eyes as your face burns warmer and warmer.

The feeling of eyes on you forces you to glance up. Opposite, Kyojuro’s expression has dropped, clearly recognizing your discomfort.

“Would you like to go get ice cream!” He offers. You sheepishly excuse yourself to leave the room, offering to grab a soft serve for your friends as well. You burst out of the door, stumbling down the corridor before catching your breath as you lean against the counter with the ice cream machine. Kyojuro exits behind you, walking through the door.

“My apologies,” he lowers his gaze. “I wasn’t aware that this would make you uncomfortable!”

“No, no, it’s alright!” You wave him off. “Karaoke is really fun, they’re just being extra pushy today because Tojuro is there.” Turning to the machine, you begin filling ice cream cups to bring back.

“Still…” he murmurs. Your eyes dart up at his sudden dip in volume. “To see you in such a state…”

You feel yourself smile at him fondly. Despite all his eccentricities, Kyojuro was surprisingly sensitive, and you feel an indescribable urge to ruffle the top of his head. You settle for just lightly punching his shoulder, your fist buzzing as you pass through his spectral visage.

“As long as you’re having fun, Kyojuro-san, I don’t mind at all!” His first name unwittingly slips out from your mouth. The both of you freeze. Your hand drops and you quickly spin away, back to the ice cream machine as you fill the remaining cups, stammering. “R—Really, it’s no problem at all. I want you to be happy, too.”

“My happiness should not be at your expense!” He insists. His irises look even warmer, a more vivid shade of crimson under the light. “You don’t have to go back in there! Or sit next to Tojuro, for that matter!”

That makes you stop in your tracks. “Do you… have an issue with Tojuro?”

Something flickers across the face of your ghostly companion. Something almost like guilt— at having been caught red handed. He opens his mouth, then closes it— then opens it again, like admitting to a confession.

“It does make me a little uncomfortable to see you pressed against him like that!”

You nearly drop the ice cream cup in your hand. A puff of laughter escapes you. Then, you double over in silent laughter, shoulders shaking as you try not to draw attention to yourself. Your stomach aches with the effort, and you’re out of breath with how hard you’re muffling your guffaws. With tears in your eyes, you look at up at him. “Don’t worry, Kyojuro-san. I’m not going to do anything to him. It’s cute that you think of him like an extension of yourself, though!”

Kyojuro huffs, almost childishly. “That’s not what I mean!”

Unfortunately, his whines are drowned out when the room beside you chooses to blast their speakers at full volume at that exact moment. It makes you jump, and you don’t miss the way Kyojuro’s hands fly to his katana on instinct. You hold your hand out to stop him from drawing his blade (but again, forget that you would simply pass through him).

“It’s alright. Nothing will attack us here,” you smile reassuringly. Kyojuro's eyes dart between you and the room, before reluctantly relaxing his posture. Old habits die hard, clearly. You wonder what he's been through to been so on edge all the time, but you're determined to teach him that there's nothing to fear— not anymore, in this world.

Kyojuro’s Wish #5: Visit his family.

This time, you head out alone with Kyojuro. The train rattles below your seat as you clutch the flowers closer to your body, letting your fingers brush over the velvet petals of the white lilies. You fluff up the chrysanthemums beside it a little more, hoping it wouldn’t droop too quick under the blazing summer sun.

“Shinagawa-ku,” you mutter under your breath, looking at the map on the walls. Just a few more stops to go, you note. The train is relatively empty, so Kyojuro sits beside you, arms folded across his chest. He’s awfully tense, and his usual grin has been exchanged for a more neutral expression. One that almost conveys nervousness.

The Hashira had mentioned he was born and raised around this area— so it would mean his house had once existed here, too. However, the area had undergone massive redevelopment. Office buildings and hotels tower high above you, like a concrete jungle that flanked all sides, populated by salarymen in sweaty suits and businesswomen whose heels clack loudly atop the pavement. You feel very displaced, with your casual wear and the sizeable bouquet of flowers in your hand.

“The map says turn right here,” you look at Kyojuro. But he’s not paying any attention to you, head swiveling around, scanning the area. Then, without warning— he takes off to the left. You follow behind him, clutching onto the bag slung around your shoulder.

“Hey!” You whisper. “Where are you going?”

Kyojuro doesn’t respond. He simply swerves left, right— through the buildings, into the residential complexes. Truth be told, you didn’t think you would find anything here here. After all, this area had been stripped of whatever shred of history left, replaced by glass buildings that reached the sky and an overwhelming sense of dread seeping from those who'd succumbed to corporate life— which makes the discovery even more shocking.

You gingerly step foot into the cemetery, lowering your head in respect as you enter. Despite the relentless blaze of the sun above you, the air is somber, mournful. Your eyes flit over the gravestones. Feet shuffling forward, you read each name in your mind, looking for familiarity of the intricately carved kanji characters—

Rengoku Ruka. You halt. “Kyojuro-san,” you breathe. “Kyojuro-san.”

He’s by your side in an instant. You continue down the row. Beside her grave— Rengoku Shinjuro. Rengoku Senjuro.

Rengoku Kyojuro.

You’ve known this whole time. His ghost has been haunting you for the past weeks, so it obviously meant that he was...

But seeing it laid bare in front of you like that, spelled out, pieced together that Kyojuro— your Kyojuro, was dead.

Your knees give out from under you. He reaches out to catch you— but his grasp phases through your arm anyway, letting you collapse onto the ground. You don't even feel the buzz in your arm this time, too caught up in the discovery, like a slap to your face. It's quiet, here, only punctuated by the occasional chirps of cicadas camouflaging in tree branches.

“That’s silly of me,” you break the silence with a forced laugh. “I mean— you’re obviously a ghost, duh.” You struggle to get up, but your legs refuse to cooperate. You press your hand against your calves, willing for it to move. “Huh? My legs aren’t working.” You shove harder.

Kyojuro calls your name with a voice so quiet you thought you’d imagined it. His figure distorts before you. Why is he blurry? What’s going on? What’s going to happen to him now? What's going to happen to me?

He calls you again, and you finally will yourself to look up at him.

“You’re crying,” he crouches down beside you.

“Huh?” You blink at him. It causes more tears to roll down your cheeks, but it at least clears your vision.

Kyojuro smiles, a gentle smile that makes your chest ache. You’d gotten used to his loud demeanor, his fiery disposition and blazing personality— but this smile was more akin to the bloom of a flower, like the acceptance of one’s fate. It makes him look painfully human.

“How surreal!” He snaps back into his usual tone, turning to the gravestone before him. “To think I would see my own grave like this!”

You follow his gaze, fighting back the jump forming in your throat. Was he the exact same Kyojuro back then as he is now? You can’t imagine someone this earnest being any different— who did he take after? Was his mother or father this earnest as well? His brother looked much more bashful in the picture, but did he inherit his determination?

Sniffing, you wipe away the tears on your cheeks, scrambling to your feet and bowing deeply in front of the Rengoku graves. “My apologies to your family,” you lower your eyes. “Kyojuro-san's father, mother and brother— I’m a friend of Kyojuro-san here. I’ve come to pay my respects with him.”

With his help, you grab a nearby broom and begin to dust off the headstones, starting with his mother’s. You sweep away dead leaves, toss out leftover joss sticks from previous visitors, replacing it with freshly lit incense and fully bloomed chrysanthemums and lilies. Then, you move on to his father’s. And Senjuro’s. You pause in front of Kyojuro’s, eyes darting to him as he looks at his inscribed name.

“I wonder if my ashes are underneath here!” He chirps. It's morbid, but you laugh at him anyway, before repeating the same motions as you did earlier. You continue down the line— to Senjuro’s wife, and so on.

“Do you think Tojuro visits here as well?” You lay down the last flower on the final Rengoku grave. Your back hurts after toiling for about an hour straight, and the sheen of sweat over your skin has grown uncomfortable.

“He must! The incense laid before our visit was fresh!” Kyojuro nods. You stand beside him, hands tucked behind your back as you let your gaze sweep across the row. Then realizing you were intruding— you retreat to the side of the graveyard, ducking under the shade of a tree, letting Kyojuro have his own space. He lowers his head and closes his eyes as he recites prayers for each tombstone he stands before.

When he’s finished, Kyojuro walks over to join you. He's smiling, as usual, but you can tell from the tilt of his mouth and the uncharacteristic melancholy of the air that follows behind him that his composure hangs on by a thread. You slip your hand into his, ignoring the buzzing that numbs your fingers as your skin brushes over his. Kyojuro squeezes back.

Kyojuro’s Wish #6: Stargaze.

“We’re finally here!” Toko gasps, and the entire group collapses into a a mess of heaves and pants as you reach the camping grounds of the mountain. Tojuro is the only one left standing, blankly scouring the scenery ahead of him.

“Who even suggested to go hiking?” Someone grumbles. Everyone’s too exhausted to reply— but you shoot a glare at Kyojuro, who merely grins in response.

“The air is much fresher up here!” He announces proudly. “Hiking is a great way to clear your mind!”

You’re not sure if he’s completely unaffected because he’s a ghost, or if he naturally had that much boundless stamina. You’re thinking it’s the latter, looking at how not-exhausted Tojuro appears to be. Perhaps inhuman amounts of stamina runs in their genes. You are, unfortunately, not in the right state of mind to be entertaining him at the current moment. However, you do feel a little bad for Tojuro, who stands around awkwardly watching the group catch their breath, so you grit your teeth as you roll over onto your feet, gesturing for him to head to the clearing.

“Let’s set up before it starts to get dark,” you direct him, though you’re so out of breath the sentence comes out as one long garble. Tojuro still seems to understand you— the both of you get to work unloading the backpacks you’d brought, and setting up the tents. One by one, your friends that have finished recuperating join you in your efforts.

With Kyojuro discreetly nudging the items you needed toward your direction, you finish setting up rather quickly. Higher in the mountain, the air is much cooler than it was on the ground, so it wasn't too arduous of a task. Sunset comes and goes, and the night sky descends upon the group. Stars blanket the midnight blue expanse above, each dot twinkling and shining in its own unique way. Everyone, Tojuro included, roasts marshmallows over the campfire, exchanging stories from their past few years of school, recounting anecdotes that has the rest rolling on the ground in laughter (Tojuro excluded).

As it dips further and later, your friends retreat into their tents, exhausted from the tiring trek up. Tojuro is the last to leave, almost reluctant to leave you outside alone, but you smile wryly at him, saying you wanted to watch the stars a little while longer. You don't tell him you're not exactly alone. With a nod, he heads back as well— you’re left with Kyojuro seated on the log opposite you, still enamored by the stars above. The campfire eventually dies out, leaving glowing embers behind, plunging you both into complete darkness— only barely lit by the twinkling stars above.

“Was this what you were wishing for?” You whispered. It snaps Kyojuro out of his daze, who turns to you with a grin so bright it practically illuminates the path before you.

“It is! I’ve always wanted the chance to admire the stars like this,” he admits bashfully. “Back then, we never had a chance to relax like this in the night, much less in a forest!”

You pat the space beside you, and Kyojuro complies willingly, seating himself by you.

His hand brushes against yours. It sends sparks up your arm.

“There were always too many factors to worry about,” he glances up again. The stars shine pale, casting the lightest shade of blue against his cheekbones, turning his golden hair monochromatic. “If it wasn’t demons, it’d be animals! If it wasn’t animals, it’d be bandits,” he turns to you. “To be able to relax in the dark is a blessing!”

He’s gorgeous like this, you think. His eyes are soft, adoring. His hair, usually untamed and wild, now gives him a more mellow feel, spilling over the sides of his face and around his shoulders, making him look younger. You forget that he never really did get to have a proper childhood— one that wasn't plagued by a sense of duty and responsibility. This was a side of Kyojuro you’ve learned to treasure— one that rarely comes by, reserved for moments as sentimental as this.

He exhales contently. “I wonder if father and Senjuro had a chance to experience this—”

“—I don’t want you to move on,” your voice breaks. Kyojuro turns to you.

You avert your eyes, not quite daring to meet his. “I’m sorry— I know its selfish, but I don’t want to lose you. You’ve been such a good friend I— I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.”

You brace yourself for an indication of anger, or an accusation of betrayal. Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, biting down harshly on your lip.

“I feel the same way, too!” Kyojuro replies honestly. “I would be upset if my friend had to leave me!”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “You can't stay here. You have to move on— but I’m acting as if I want you shackled to me forever.”

He laughs once again, a clear, ringing sound that echoes against the trees, a melody meant just for you. “Forever’s just a saying. I do not know what will await me after this!” He leans back, tilting his chin higher to admire the sky. “But things pass— nothing is permanent. Daybreak will come, as will the sun rise from the east. Night falls, as will the moon goes through its phases! There’s nothing I can decide— we all just follow the path our heart tells us to take!”

A thin streak of light darts across the sky. You both look up, but there’s nothing else there.

“We’ve should’ve gone earlier,” you murmur, ignoring the pressure that’s beginning to form at the back of your eyes. “We’re past the stargazing season. The Perseid meteor shower was last week— we could’ve seen even more shooting stars.”

“That was a shooting star!” Kyojuro ignores you, excited by the prospect of what he might've just witnessed. “Let’s make a wish!”

He closes his eyes, folding his hand across his lap, a smile playing the corners of his lips. You’re more reluctant, but you do the same either way, eyelids fluttering shut.

Dear star, if you can hear me…

You peek at him. Kyojuro remains upright, his eyes closed in concentration. What could he be wishing for? Peace for his family? Selfishly, you hope that you were in that wish of his too.

I wish that Kyojuro…

You say your goodbyes as your group of friends split different ways at the station. You can all still feel the boiling humidity of the summer sun even under the shade of the station entrance, so everyone is quick to flee, eager to reach someplace with air conditioning they could hide out. Yet again, you’re left with Kyojuro babbling about how fun the hiking trip had been, and the different sorts of trees he’d seen on the trek down.

Except, Tojuro lingers behind awkwardly, as if unsure of how to bid farewell to you. You sigh. There was still a long way to go regarding his awkwardness, you guess. But this summer had been a good one.

“I’ll see you in class, Rengoku-san!” You wave at him cheerfully, taking the initiative.

“Wait,” he interrupts. Both you and Kyojuro halt in your tracks.

Even if it was only one word, Tojuro had never been so forward before. You swallow nervously. “Y-yes?”

“Thank you,” he mumbles. Your heart thumps in anticipation. He clears his throat. “I— I didn’t expect to have spent my last summer break in school like this. I didn’t know there were so many things to do outside of kendo. You’ve opened my eyes.”

You’re floored. Kyojuro chortles behind you.

“Ye— yeah, there’s loads of stuff to do."

Bewildered at his unexpected response, you then proceed to say the lamest thing possible to come to your head. “Have fun in kendo training,” you raise your arm, swinging it down. “Hidari-Men!”

There’s a beat of silence as Tojuro stares at you. Heat rushes to your face as your arms fall limply to your side.

Then, he smiles.

Your embarrassment quickly fades away with the realization that he’s smiling. His eyes glimmer at your measly attempt of a swing, and he laughs. His eyes close as he doubles over, hands on his knees as he bursts into laughter, like you’ve told the funniest joke known to mankind. A joyful, piercing bark that sounds exactly like his ancestor’s— as if he was in there all along.

Tojuro finally catches his breath after a few more bouts of giggles. “I’ll— I'll see you in class then,” he gasps, wiping a tear from his eye. He waves one last time at you before turning around and jogging away. You wave back at him, dumbfounded, until he rounds the corner— and lower your gaze to stare at your open palm in shock.

“Tojuro smiled,” You whisper in awe. “He smiled! Kyojuro-san, did you see—”

You spin around, but there’s nothing behind you.

You return home, face drenched in sweat and tears. It had to be right as your parents returned from their business trip as well, so they fuss over you, asking what’s wrong— but you walk past them, dazed.

Your body runs on autopilot. You take a shower, and lie down on your own bed for the first time in weeks.

You jolt awake at a time too early. Kyojuro is not there.

You fall into a fever the very next day— one that takes you out of commission for a week. The silence in your room accompanies you in place of Kyojuro— being confined inside only makes the crushing loneliness worse.

The first day of school after summer break comes and goes with you stuck in bed, and Toko spamming you incessantly on your phone. You only muster enough strength to text her a ‘sick’, followed by a sticker of a rabbit with a thermometer. Your phone blinks nonstop from all her texts, and you tell yourself you would read all 120 messages at some point. Later.

Finally, after your fever subsides, you gather enough willpower to drag yourself out of bed to prepare for school. You empty out your bag— Kyojuro’s Campus notebook falls onto your desk, opening to the page littered with your secret scribbles.

(‘Are you from the past?’)

Swallowing thickly, you flip the page over to his bucket list. There’s still half more that haven’t been crossed out— Go to the beach. Make friends. Win a Kendo tournament.

You end up poring over the notebook and crying again, with only an hour left to the start of class. Stupid, you tell yourself. He himself had said that nothing is permanent. You'd accepted that and wished for him to move on in peace. Both of you knew he would vanish someday— but it doesn’t take away the agony of having to sit in silence for the first time in months. Reluctantly, you leave the notebook aside on your table— you won't have a use for it anymore. Your walk to school is more of a trudge, with puffy eyes and hunched shoulders. Kyojuro had always followed beside you on your walks— but left on your own, you couldn’t even bring yourself to lift your eyes to appreciate the cool breeze, an indication of summer going by.

Toko greets you at the shoe lockers with a lilt to her voice.

“Hey!” She bumps into your arm playfully. “You were out for reaal long—” She cuts herself off when she notices your face.

“Uhhng,” you sniff, feeling like you’d been dragged through hell and back.

“You look terrible! You sure you don’t wanna stay home?” She pokes your cheek. “By the way, have you seen my texts about Tojuro lately?”

Right— the whole cause of this. You think you’d bawl if you saw even a hint of yellow and red right now, so you weren’t keen on seeing him at the current moment. Toko slings an arm around your shoulder.

“He did, like, a complete turnaround,” she whispers. You’re still so out of it, so you don't really register her words in your head. Right now, you were focused on just making it through the day.

Just as Toko slides open the door to your classroom, there’s a commotion down the hallway. Loud greetings— cheers and slaps of high-fives echo along the corridor loudly. You both stop, curiously staring at the crowd to spot its source.

Tojuro’s face appears in between the body of students that have congregated around him, smile bright and waving at everyone. He's glowing, undeniably even more charismatic than you'd last saw him. Everyone is eager to flank his side, inviting him for a round of baseball, or asking how his latest kendo tournament went.

“See!” Toko grabs your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. “Look at him! What did you do?”

You're stunned, too. His fiery eyes meet yours from down the hallway— a shiver runs down your spine when an expression of recognition crosses his features— and he sprints toward you. The golden-haired boy shouts your name from the other end, making everyone turn toward you. Your hand darts up to your mouth in shock, absolutely baffled by the unforeseen change in circumstances.

Toko releases her hold on your shoulders with a 'bye!' as Tojuro grabs your hand, pulling you down the hallway behind him. You let out a yelp, but follow anyway, heart pounding in your ears as you feel the scorch of his palm against your skin, the rough pads of his fingertips brushing against your wrist— from endless training of kendo, surely— and the firm yet gentle pressure of his grip.

You stumble up the stairs behind him, bursting through the rooftop door. The outside air blasts into your face from how forcefully the door opens, squinting as Tojuro brings you to the center of the school’s roof— turning to you with a smile so bright, as if he were the summer sun that never set.

He clears his throat, fingers still lightly curled around your wrist. “I won the local kendo tournament! I’ll be headed for the championships next month!”

Frazzled, you nodded. “Uh, that’s great to hear, Rengoku-san.”

“I also jumped over three buildings and the school gate with a friend! Yesterday, I bought sea bream from the cafeteria by myself— though they didn’t have taiyaki on sale that day. But after that, I went home and ate sweet potatoes until I threw up! I also went to the beach and felt the sand between my toes! I have decided that sand is rather bothersome to clear out from your shoes, but it’s fun to build sandcastles with!”

Your head spins with the information overload. Awkwardly, you laugh. “That’s great, I’m glad you broke out of your… shell…”

The realization that those were all the things that Kyojuro wanted to do slowly seeps in. Tojuro made friends. He went to the beach. Ate good food. All of them, he fulfilled in place of him. The slayer that never had a chance to experience youth, all of it taken far too young from him.

You’re about to cry again for the second time today — but Tojuro tugs you toward him, startling you into clarity. With the gentle tone that you’ve grown fond of— he calls your name. He looks at you with those soft eyes of his, his smile like that of the subdued warmth of a freshly kindled fireplace, and the early bloom of a flower.

“It’s me," he says in the voice you've missed so dearly.

A sob rips out from your mouth, and you wrap your arms tightly around his torso.

Kyojuro returns your hug, the searing heat of his arms seeping through the fabric of your uniform. You cry into his uniform, tears staining every surface that which you rub your face in, tightening your hold as if he’d vanish if you let him go again. You pull back, hands cupping his face— grabbing his shoulders—

“But how?” You blubber, lifting his hands to look at them— though, you can’t see much through the blur of your tears. “What happened to Tojuro?”

“I’m not sure!” Kyojuro admits. “But I think— I think Tojuro was me all along! Or I was him!” He turns your grasp around so that he’s the one holding your hands instead. “I was under the impression that we had been two separate entities, but we were most likely just two halves of a whole! Because of you, we could reconcile!”

Still sniveling, you place your hand in his, feeling the ridges of his palm, tracing the outlines of his knuckles. “I can’t believe I— I can’t believe I’m actually touching you, Kyojuro-san. This feels like a dream.”

He grabs your hand tightly. “It’s not a dream!”

You wail louder, and he hugs you again, patting your back comfortingly. “Perhaps the gods took pity on me. I do not know! But what I know is that I am here with you— and I have a list I would like to fulfill!”

The warning bell for first period echoes throughout the school. You step back, wiping your at face hurriedly. Your hands are numb, legs shaking— but you know that if you’d missed any more classes, your homeroom teacher would murder you on sight.

“We’ve gotta go before we get caught,” you sniff, pressing the palm against your cheeks. “Do I look—”

“Let’s skip class!” Kyojuro shouts. You clamp a hand over his mouth.

“Are you insane?” Your eyes dart to the staircase access. “We can’t!”

He blinks at you, and you feel him grin from underneath your palm. His voice is muffled, but he still speaks with a timbre clear enough that you know every word he says. “There’s still so many food I would like to try from the convenience stores! And I also want to sing karaoke!” 

You laugh, releasing your hold. “We can do that after school. Anyway, we’d be caught going down the stairs.”

Kyojuro sweeps you off your feet— literally. Your arms fly to his neck as he picks you up, a determined look in his eyes. “We don't have to take the stairs!”

“We’re on the roof, Kyojuro-san!”

“Trust me!”

With a huff, he leaps off the roof— straight for the tree.

“Kyojuro! No!”

EPILOGUE

“Happy graduation!” You greet Toko. She runs toward you, squealing with joy.

“I can’t believe these three years are over just like that,” she gushes, jumping up and down. “Can you imagine? College?”

“Agatsuma-san!” A voice yells from behind her. She spins around. Another confession— you realize. The boy approaching her is blushing so hard you can see steam pour from his face. The second button on his uniform is prominently missing— you guess it’s currently clutched tightly in his fist outstretched toward Toko. You leave her to handle it herself, drifting further into the crowds of graduands.

A loud laugh sounds from the crowd beyond. Your eyes dart over, landing on Tojuro's figure, chatting away with his own friends. In his arms, a literal mountain of bouquets and awards tower way over his head. Every step he takes, a letter folded in the shape of a heart falls out of his pocket, and he struggles to pick it up while balancing the pile, not wanting to be rude to the tens of hundred of people that have confessed to him today. You wonder if he’s given away his button yet.

Kyojuro— Tojuro has grown immensely popular over the past few months. After having won the kendo championships by a landslide, it only catapulted his fame to unfathomable heights, having students from other schools coming over to get a glimpse of his famed golden locks. Paired with his amiable personality and good looks, it’s no wonder that everyone began to pay attention to him. He was even featured on the local newspaper once, labelled a budding star set to go to nationals soon.

It’s still confusing between calling him Tojuro or Kyojuro, and you’re pretty sure Toko has caught you slipping up a handful of times, judging from her narrowed eyes when you fumble— but the entire story of the Flame Hashira still remains as a secret between the both of you. In school, you call him Rengoku Tojuro; the formerly shy kid who's found his place in the world after being declared a kendo prodigy. When it's the both of you, he's just your Kyojuro, a boy who shouts 'delicious!' after every bite of his sea bream bento and with a burning passion to taste every assortment of onigiri at NewDays.

Toko lets out an exasperated exhale as she returns to your side, buttons spilling out from her skirt pocket. “They just keep coming! Hurry, let’s take a picture before there's more!”

You get an underclassman to help snap a picture of the both of you, posing with victory signs and beaming smiles on your faces. From behind you, Kyojuro calls for your name— though you wonder how he’s even seeing the path before him with all the gifts in his face. He comes to a stop before you, setting down half his gifts on the floor.

He clears his throat with an uncharacteristically bashful grin on his face. In a voice as soft as he can manage, Kyojuro murmurs to you— “There’s still one more thing I’ve yet to experience!”

That line strikes fear into your heart. “Tojuro-san,” you start cautiously, making sure the correct name rolled off your tongue. “We have done virtually everything possible. We’ve been to every single haunted location in Tokyo, nearly set the school on fire after you wanted to try glass-blowing, and almost got into trouble with the police for climbing the fire escape of the NHK building.” You raise your hand to your chest. “I don’t think my heart can take anything more.”

“Not everything!” He shouts, suddenly. With a sparkle in his eye— “Go out with me!”

You freeze. Around you— the crowd gasps.

“Why are you even surprised?" Toko rolls her eyes. She shoves you toward him until you’re both nearly chest to chest, the only thing separating the both of you being the mountain of flowers in his arms. Suddenly self-conscious, your eyes dart around the crowd that’s beginning to form.

“Tojuro-san,” you whisper, ignoring your burning cheeks. “Are you sure you don’t want to, you know, experience youth? Experience falling in love!?”

He grins, the same sunny smile that you’ve learnt to grow endeared to. “I already have!”

You blush so hard you think you’re going to pass out, but you nod anyway, at a loss for words. Kyojuro drops all the bouquets in his arms onto the ground, wrapping them around you instead. You’re enveloped in his warmth— the scent of smoky pinewood wafts from his uniform, encasing you in his familiar presence.

“You’re embarrassing me!” You pull back, head ducked low as you watch the crowds around you whoop at his brazen display of affection.

He laughs— it reverberates through your own body. “It wouldn’t be as embarrassing as this!” He kisses your cheek in front of everyone.

You’re not sure what happened, but you think you explode. Cheers erupt from around you, and Kyojuro has to hold you up as your legs become jelly, giving out underneath you, and your brain turns into mush from the ensuing chaos.

His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear as he leans forward to catch you, his voice low, rumbling. “A kiss on the lips would be great too!”

You nearly leap out of his hold, entire face set ablaze. “Not here, Kyojuro!”

END.

bonus post-epilogue

if you enjoyed this, please feel free to like, reblog or leave a reply. i'm also grateful for any feedback regarding my work— I write as a hobby, and am always looking to improve it.

this work was inspired by: harisenbon— Thousand Needles. If you're a sucker for amazing + diverse storytelling, pleasepleaseplease do check it out! There may be some mature themes, but nothing explicitly NSFW.