YUN @kewpye - Tumblr Blog

as long as you love me — g. satoru

i. these hearts adore

synopsis: you've always hated everything about the snow—the cold claws that sink into your bones and the way it follows you wherever you go. until a god with snow for hair comes along and you realize not everything is what it seems—the snow isn't so vile, and even gods can be made mortal.

content: 28.8k words. fem!reader, gojo takes a while to appear, violence, death, fluff, angst, cursing, reader's technique relates to physics and chemistry (#womeninstem) but could be inaccurate, strong!reader (kind of), jjk power system confuses me and it shows, pre-hidden inventory, clan politics, TIMESKIPS, allusions to suicide, suicidal thoughts, elders & higher-ups, no use of y/n, a shit ton of imagery and parentheticals, first kisses or sumthn, reader is not perfect and will be a bitch at times, childhood friends to something, pls lmk what i missed!

note: english is not my mother tongue, and despite its proofread state, i cannot ensure proper grammar, so i apologize if there are any spelling errors, inconsistencies & inaccuracies. [part ii]

You are not fond of the snow.

Why? One might ask. Well, it’s cold for one. It seeps through the many layers of your clothes, finding the depths of your bones and settling in there like an old friend. It is not. And you have spent many nights shuddering, and trying to calm the freezing on your hands.

The other and main reason? It’s the white of it all.

The whiteness makes you feel uneasy, anxious, as if a man is going to burst through the many trees of the estate gardens and chase you down with an ax. Your brother had laughed his mouth off when you screamed while watching the film. He proclaimed himself as a cinephile, though, you suspect it was just a fancy word he found in a dictionary. Though, he did love watching movies, especially with you. It still escapes you how many movies he found.

(This is one of the greats! He had exclaimed on the cold morning of your birthday once, holding a DVD with a picture of a balding, old man wearing a suit with a boutonniere plastered on the cover. You didn’t understand what was so great about that film, or any other films your brother showed to you preceding that. It was usually just a bunch of white men.)

Mother had not been pleased at the sound of your shouts especially since it was at the crack of dawn. She had rushed in, hair mussed from sleep and a scolding already leaving her lips. Hikaru, what did you do again? And Hikaru, laughing at your scared expression—Look at her reaction, mother! Are you scared, Biku-chan?

Then again, mother did not like a lot of things, right?

You honestly can't remember. You do try, sometimes. You try very hard to remember her face. You can recall the feeling of touching it, soft, and you know she was beautiful, but the finer details always blur into the night. Did she have a mole by her left eye, or was it by her mouth? Did her voice lilt up at the end of sentences, or down? Did she smile? Did she frown?

You remember her hands, cool on your forehead whenever you had a bad fever. Steady as they tied your obi. Gentle when they wiped your tears. Shaking when she died, the same day you inherited Rupture. Freezing when the servants had to pull her away to prepare for the funeral.

You remember looking at the window, and seeing the snow stain the glass with its white. You remember starting to hate the snow. You remember being pulled into a hug by Hikaru, and seeing the very thing that binds his cursed energy, and how to split it apart. You remember the whispers uttered by the servants and the hard stares they give you in the following days. You remember the look in your father's eyes after he realizes what you have become, what you have inherited. You remember seeing your grandmother arriving during the otsuya, and asking for you. You remember picking mother's bones after her cremation to place it inside her urn. You remember overhearing father and grandmother fighting over you and Hikaru.

You remember attending a second funeral in just two months, picking your father's bones this time into his urn. (No one knows how he really died, but from what you heard from the gossiping servants, his demise was signed by heartbreak. Father loved mother too much. You wonder if someone could love you at the same intensity that they'll follow you to death's dominion. Would that be a blessing or a curse?). You remember your grandmother arriving once more the day after, and ordering servants to pack the children's bags.

You remember Hikaru's hand tightening while holding yours as the car took you both away to Sapporo. You remember Nishikagura fading into the background, and grandmother speaking in a hushed, formal tone—something about being the first user in two-hundred and fifty years, and the duties that come with it. You remember arriving at the destination and standing in front of the looming Imai compound. You remember the snow.

You remember everything. You remember nothing.

The Imai estate is beautiful. The sentiment still rings true after living there for one-thousand and ninety-seven days. The servants bow down to her at a level that is mostly lower than their waists. There are portraits of revered female ancestors lining most halls, and you muse if they are staring at you with judgment, awe or a mix of both. Grandmother's personal chambers sit at the very end of the same hall. The gardens are meticulously taken care of, making sure it survives the harsh winter season.

Despite the grandiosity of it all, it feels like a dollhouse, and you are an unwilling toy forced to play house. Though, you suppose the library isn't too bad. But maybe that's just the bookworm in you. You do happen to be biased when it comes to ink on paper. You like to think it's because you're intellectual and knowledgeable for your age (you are not).

(Your home back at Nishikagura was filled to the brim with books. Every corner was tainted with covers and titles by various authors, be it foreign ones or not. You have your mother to thank for that. You may not remember her that much, but her legacy with books has left a mark on you.)

Hikaru likes to tease you about reading too many books. You're going to get reading glasses soon from reading too much in the dark, and then you'll be a real granny. You'll be older than Grandmother! He laughs. You think he's stupid, and quite frankly, he is. But he's your older brother. Despite the wild mosaic that Hikaru is, you seek his comfort, and his ramblings about films and its nuances have become a familiar melody to you (after all, he memorizes the stanzas of your lines and poems).

You love him, but hate him for having vivid memories with your mother while you cling to remnants. You love him, but hate him for bringing your mother to life, while you led her towards death's door. You love him, but hate him for being everything you're not—sweet where you are sorrow, radiant where you are bleak, open to winter where you detest the season, and the echo of your mother while you are the silence she left behind.

But, above all, you love him. Perhaps, enough to forgive him for surviving differently than you did, if you even had the privilege of forgiving.

After all, he sneaks into your room after a tiring day even if it's a long walk, just to make sure you're feeling okay, and if you're eating enough. You can overlook your distasteful judgment if it meant having Hikaru with you.

"You are not supposed to be here, you know." You chastise lightly, Hikaru ignores your words and flops down on your shikibuton next to your sitting form, letting out a satisfied sigh. You watch him, amused, your book left momentarily forgotten on your lap. It's one of the nights that is becoming a familiar dance to you—him sneaking over and falling asleep on your mattress.

"Bug off." He groans, rubbing his eyes. "Today was so tiring. Watanabe was drilling me–"

"Watanabe-sensei."

"–about propriety, tradition, and how I'm equivalent to a stud horse."

You quirk an eyebrow. "Watanabe-sensei did not say that."

Hikaru sits up, and pouts. "But he implied it! I'm always reading between the lines when it comes to him." He sighs and plops back down. "But, hey, at least I'm a handsome stud horse, right?"

"You're not a horse."

"I could be. Would you still love me if I was a horse?"

You consider this, and ponder for a moment. "Maybe. Only if you're fast. I hear betting on fast horses can make you rich."

"Ouch, reduced to nothing but my assets." But he grins and for a moment, he looks like your mother. At least, you hope that he looks like Mother.

There's a brief silence, and you go back to reading, but the words read like a foreign language to you. Mother would've read any books in a foreign language quite easily (a polyglot was she not?).

"Mother would have let me be a horse," Hikaru says.

You pause at his words, and lift your eyes to where he was resting on your shikibuton. "Horses are not allowed in the compound. Grandmother would never allow it."

"Well, I'm not talking about grandmother, am I?"

"Would Mother really allow it?"

"Of course she would." A little indignant, a little outraged.

You think of your mother's gentleness, or rather, the fragments of what your memory offers, and agree (you don't remember her enough to have the luxury of disagreeing). You presume she would have changed the rules for your brother. He's the one that got to spend ten years of his life with her, her firstborn son, her reason for motherhood. You don't have a say on what she would do or would not do. You don't have a say on anything! After all, what is forgetting to remembering? What is four years to ten, when ten is a lifetime and four is only a visit? When one is memory, and the other is history?

"Maybe mother would've allowed a lot of things." Is what you settle on.

A quiet, breathless chuckle. "Yeah, she would."

Hikaru likes to keep your mother alive through his words and stories. Grandmother doesn't keep any portraits of her anywhere in the compound, and the walls are adorned with the faces of all the deceased clan heads and the three women who have inherited the same technique as yours (when you die, your portrait will join theirs too. You hope your death is one of serendipity). Your mother's memory is nowhere to be seen, but in your brother's heart.

You have met Mother many times through Hikaru's anecdotes, his tales, and epics, yet it's not enough. Her responses are already set and her laughs are already decided. Her whole fate is pre-determined. You wonder what other words she could've said, would she cry or laugh?—if you were to take Hikaru's place. But, alas, one should be content with what they have.

"What about father?" you ask.

Hikaru hums, closing his eyes as the lull of the crickets soothes him. "What about him?"

"Would he allow it?

"Of course. If mother would allow it, he would too." A brief chuckle escapes his lips. "Father adored mother. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he could."

"Is that why he died right after she did?" The words slip out of your mouth before you could mull over them, but there is no point in crying over spilled milk. Hikaru doesn't say anything, and you grow a little antsy at his delayed response.

"Maybe," he says eventually, sitting up and rolling his shoulders. "Maybe not. Maybe he died because he couldn't live without her, or maybe it was just bad luck."

You think about your father's devotion, and his tendency to mimic the moon, orbiting and reflecting off the sun that is your mother, but then ultimately dying when her collapse engulfs him. You think it's terrifying. You think it's lovely.

"Do you think that's romantic?" you ask quietly. "Loving someone so much you die right after they do?"

Hikaru tilts his head, studying you with honeyed eyes. Eyes of your mother. You see your mother. Your mother sees you. "Do you?"

"I asked you first, you know."

"Mm." He leans back on his palms, and directs those honeyed eyes to wooden beams on the ceiling. "I think it's a little sad. We still needed him, you know, but mother was there first. I guess we know now where his compass was always pointing."

Maybe it's a curse and a blessing to be loved by someone like that. Maybe it's a good thing he died, or else he would've cursed your mother, and tied her soul to the physical world. Maybe it's a good thing he died as that would be his last act of devotion for her.

A distant, sudden slam of the door cuts through the atmosphere, and your brother quickly covers himself with the kakebuton while you hastily place your book away and kill the last light before burying yourself under the covers. His foot jab into yours, and you let out a hiss before he uses his hand to cover your mouth, and a sharp 'shh!' motion with his free index finger.

The footsteps draw closer to your door, and you can see the silhouette that spills onto the light behind the lattice frame. There's a moment of contemplation on the other side, and you and Hikaru hold your breaths. You breathe out when the footsteps shuffle into a different direction and disappear overall. You sigh in relief before kicking your brother away, and hogging the kakebuton all to yourself.

"Hey! Give me that!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, this is my room," you grumble and bury your face deep into the soft cloth.

Hikaru crawls over and grabs the covers from you, but you grab the end which starts a relentless tug-of-war with neither of the sides willing to give up. You win (obviously), and Hikaru starts dramatically lamenting about betrayal and treason.

"Is that how Dave felt when HAL turned against the crew?" he mutters under his breath, and your eyebrows crinkle at the foreign names.

"Who?"

"You wouldn't know because you're too pea-brained to comprehend the wonders of cinema—"

"You know what? Freeze to death for all I care."

"Wait, wait, I was joking!"

After grumbling threats to murder each other in sleep, and feet jabbing into each other, Hikaru is finally warm under the covers. He keeps blowing air into your face, and despite your protests about how his breath stinks (it doesn't), it makes you feel warm. He is what is left of your parents, and to him, you are what is left of them too. After all, you both are all that's left of a home that no longer exists.

You stay awake for a while, watching Hikaru drift into the realm of dreams. Grandmother would absolutely be mad that you had stayed awake past midnight, and she would definitely amp up the training from now, but you'd suffer through tedious lectures and the droning voice of your sensei if it meant having Hikaru's warmth.

An eternity of burden for fleeting tenderness.

A nuclear fission happens when an atom's nucleus absorbs a neutron, becomes an highly unstable isotope, and divides into two small fragments—daughter nuclei—which releases massive energy, heat and emission of radiation.

At its core, that's what Rupture is.

All physical things have matter, but energy—light, heat, and so on—does not. Cursed energy, despite the name, is a physical matter. It can't be touched in the literal sense, but can be controlled by sorcerers so technically it can be touched. It doesn't follow the laws of nature, but then again, everything in the jujutsu world mostly defies the laws of nature.

Due to cursed energy's state (being physical matter), it is composed of atoms and all atoms have nuclear binding energy—the minimum energy needed to disassemble an atomic nucleus into its individual protons and neutrons. With Rupture, you use it to see the, quote unquote, "binding energy" that makes up every nook and cranny of an object or a living thing's cursed energy.

Akin to a fission reaction, you can split the said binding energy into the same smaller fragments which headstarts the process of draining cursed energy as the fragments become unstable. You either wait for it to fully drain or wield the remaining scraps to finish it off.

In theory, it seems like a breeze.

In practice, it bleeds you dry.

The wooden beams of the training room seem to mock you. You can't tell how many times you have stared at its wooden texture. You can't tell how many times you've fallen to the ground.

"Inadequate."

You can't tell how many times you've heard that word repeated over and over at the end of every training session.

Was it already noon? Midday? Or afternoon? The translucent material of the windows, despite its state, do so little to inform you of what time of day it is. Or maybe you're just drained from all your energy, limbs feeling too heavy to move, eyes barely staying awake, and the smell of iron seeping through your nostrils.

But when did Grandmother care whether you're tired or not?

It takes everything in you not to collapse on sight as you sit up. You're pretty sure your bones are screaming bloody murder and probably despise their owner, but hey, with great power comes great bleeding, or whatever those Greek philosophers had the comfort of saying in their almost-naked state.

Grandmother's mismatched eyes bore into yours, disappointment evident in them. You think it's funny. You should be the one disappointed—your daughter fragments exploded in your face, not hers. If anything, she should be grateful that she's not the one who has the lower section of her face bloodied, and skin deep with bruises, but adults always want more from children than children can possibly give. Perfect behavior, perfect outcomes, perfect everything.

"Again, Haretsu."

The title drops like stones onto a still river. You don't move for a while—not out of defiance (something you've lost months ago), but because your body has simply forgotten how. Your fingers twitch against the tatami mat, your eyelashes meet the bottom of your eyes, and your chest hurts when you exhale. You feel as if those movements don't belong to you.

"You are not focusing." Fuyumi purses her lips. "The daughter fragments dispersed before they could even reach the target. All you're doing is bleeding the remaining cursed energy into the air. Again, Haretsu."

You wish you could bleed into the air, but you don't say that. You don't say anything. With what little strength you have, you finally push yourself up on trembling legs, and the world immediately tilts. You're surprised you don't tilt with it.

Your cursed energy flickers and for a moment you see the binding structure of the cursed dummy in front of you. It's beautiful. The lattice of invisible threads holding the cursed energy together with the core in its center, ready to be split apart. You could split it. You could split it all.

You don't. You can't. You've learned that much at least.

Grandmother taps her foot impatiently, and you take that as a sign to raise your hands in front of the dummy. Cursed energy hums around your palms and you ignore all other sensory details—the copper in your nose, the dryness in your mouth, the ache in your limbs—and focus on the core. Yet, you feel less like a sorcerer and more like a child playing pretend.

Your cursed energy reaches for the cursed dummy's binding structure and it's just right there. Light fills the edges of your vision, and you let out a broken gasp. Right there, right there—

And you slip.

The fission event happens way too early, and the core does erupt but the daughter fragments scatter everywhere instead of being properly split, and they bounce off the walls. Fuyumi immediately activates her technique to contain most of them but she's not fast enough. One of the fragments immediately hit you in the chest, sending you back to the floor before disintegrating.

You land with a harsh thud and Fuyumi stares down at you. She doesn't help you up, she doesn't ask if you're okay, and she doesn't immediately scream for help. Why would she? You have failed her time and time again.

"Your mother," she says, and the words cuts through the fog in your tired mind, "doesn't deserve your failure."

Mother.

The words hang in the air longer (so long they could be the daughter fragments). You think you might be sick. You think you might already be with the bruises kissing your skin, the blood that pools everywhere, and your chest caving in every time you breathe. You're sick, sick, sick.

What does Grandmother know about what Mother deserved?

(Everything. Nothing. She's her mother too. Is, not was. She buried her too. Did she cry? Did she mourn? Has she ever looked at you and seen anything that isn't the "fortunate" vessel for the clan's prized technique that skipped her daughter, her generation?)

Fuyumi looks around the training room once more and sighs before her eyes land on your fallen form again—inadequate. She doesn't say it, but she doesn't need to. It's written all over her face, yet it cuts clean. Cuts deep. You wonder if you even can bleed anymore.

"I'm sorry," you croak out. "I'll try again."

You don't get to. The world tilts again, and you tilt with it this time (way too quick for your liking). The wooden beams blur into a blurred palette of browns, and you can distantly make out the figure of her turning away.

Then nothing.

You wish it could be nothing forever.

You're dead, but the afterlife doesn't have gentle hands holding your own, and the cedarwood incense wafting through the atmosphere.

Your eyes twitch open despite the want to stay drifting through sleep, and you are greeted by the familiar ceiling of your room with a wet stain in the corner. The shikibuton cradles your weak body and the kakebuton is draped over your frame. Someone has changed you out of your training clothes to a nemaki. The fabric smells like lavender.

"You're awake." The voice sounds tired. "Finally."

Hikaru's frame finally registers in your vision. His face is shadowed by the lamplight which also catches the worry lines forming around his mouth, and the dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept. He looks older than his age.

"Hikaru." Your voice comes out as a rasp. "You're here."

"Astounding observations, really. They should add 'the next coming of Sherlock Holmes' in your résumé."

"I'm being serious. Grandmother doesn't like it when you're—"

"Fuyumi can shove her opinions right up her—"

"Hikaru!"

"—intelligent mind." He finishes with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Relax, Biku-chan, she doesn't know I'm here. Watanabe probably told her I'm memorizing some clan factions or whatever nonsense he assigned this week. I sneaked out through the window instead of the front hall. Sustained minor injuries, and a kiss to some ants. . . feces, but other than that, I'm a-okay."

You roll your eyes and try to sit up, but your body immediately protests. Every muscle screams, every ligament weeps, and every tendon groans. The area of your chest where it took the hit feels like someone took a hammer and went crazy on smacking. A hiss escapes your lips from the overload of pain.

"Yeah, no. You're not moving another inch." Hikaru gently stops you before taking your hand to tie the bandages that have come loose. "Takamaki-san came by earlier. Said you were bleeding heavily, and nearly drained your cursed energy, and your reserves. Nearly." He laughs but it's hollow. "Nearly. As if we should be thankful you didn't almost kill yourself."

"I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me."

"I am. I've had worse."

"You know, I could just poison her."

"Oh my god, Hikaru."

"Just sayin'."

"Then don't say it."

"Why? I'm just being resourceful, you know. Watanabe says I should work on my problem-solving skills. The voices in my head are saying he's calling me stupid."

"Have you, like, ever tried listening to the voices in your head?"

Hikaru grumbles something under his breath. The lamplight catches the furrow of his brow, the downturn of his mouth, and the hollow of his under-eyes. He looks older when he's angry. You hate that he's so angry often now.

"She's working you too hard," he says. "You bleed, and have bruises. Don't think I haven't noticed. Whenever I pass by the training room, I always hear you cough up blood." He says your name, and it feels like a reprimand. Gentle but, still, it hits.

You frown. "You're not supposed to be listening."

"Well, someone has to make sure you don't die."

You don't know what to say to that. You feel guilt eating away at your stomach. He's only fifteen. He should be laughing with friends, debating with them on what movie to watch, and getting reprimanded for falling asleep or goofing around in class. Not this—bandaging his younger sister, praying she doesn't die every time she enters a room he has no power over, and looking three decades older.

"There," he says as he ties off the last wrap with a performative flourish. "Good as new. Well, not new. Slightly used, like a vintage dress."

You wave your bandaged hands in front of your face. "Never compliment me again."

"You're such an ungrateful, little bat." Despite his words, Hikaru grins. He leans back on his hands, honeyed eyes studying at your form. "How do you feel?"

Like a bomb going about to go off.

"Shit," you say instead.

"Language," he says in a tsk-tsk tone and with a shake of his head.

"You curse too!"

"But it's cool when I do it. I'm way older and you're, like, five."

"I'm nine."

"Potato, potahto." He waves a hand and plops down on your shikibuton. "Well, there's a silver lining in this. You'll have a break soon without Fuyumi breathing down your neck."

You blink. "What do you mean?"

"Ah." He gives you a sheepish smile. Oh, gods. "So, funny story. Remember when I told you about wanting to watch that movie about people living in a simulation?"

"Hikaru."

"Stop interrupting me! Anyways, Tatsuya-kun, when he returned, told me he overheard the elders talking about a clan summit happening soon. Here." He pauses, and something akin to resignation flickers in his face. "The Zenin, Kamo and Gojo families will be here, and some other clans too. Can you imagine all those people under our roof?"

You do, and a strange feeling of awareness washes over you. Strangers will walk pass by the walls that forbids the portrait of your mother and the training hall where you have surrendered to unconsciousness far too many times while they remain completely unaware. Mostly. (They're clans too, no one clan in jujutsu society is known for being kind and lenient with their prized heirs. Some prized heirs.)

"Why here?" you ask.

"Something about rotation. Last time was Zenin, and before that, the Gojo clan hosted. Now, it's our turn." He shrugs. "Besides, the elders are throwing a fit. Fuyumi didn't receive the notice until yesterday, and now all the servants are running ragged with preparations."

"It gets worse." Hikaru's voice drops as he continues. "Tatsuya-kun also mentioned that the elders think it's a good time to find me a bride."

The words feel like stones being forced down your throat. You feel them sink, one by one, settling in the pit of your stomach.

"A bride," you repeat.

"Apparently, I'm at my prime to be married off and that 'it's about time that boy fulfills his duties to the clan'," he lets out a faux laugh. "Some stud horse, right? The auction is happening in the place I'm forced to call home, really puts a lot of emphasis on the 'forced' part."

You don't give a response. You can't. Your throat has closed up, and your chest is caving in itself again. Hikaru, engaged. Hikaru, married. Hikaru, sent away to some other clan compound, in some other estate, city, some other life that doesn't involve him sneaking into your room and brightening your day, some other life that doesn't involve you.

(Perhaps it's a grace. You can go off at any moment, and it's better to have Hikaru far away and safe than suffer the explosion.

Perhaps it's a grace. But for who? Not for him, and definitely not for you.)

Hikaru, leaving.

(Everyone leaves, eventually. Mother. Father. Soon, Hikaru. The snow always comes while everyone leaves and you get left behind, engulfed in the never-ending white of winter's funeral shroud.)

"Hey." His warm voice stops you before you descend into a spiral. Gentle hands cover yours—the bandaged ones, the ruined ones—and squeezes them softly. "Look at me."

You do, and his honeyed eyes are steady in the lamplight. You see your mother's gentleness in them, and for a moment you could cry, cry for your mother to come back.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I don't care what those old geezers want. I don't care what Fuyumi wants. I'm not leaving you alone in this prison, not when they could bleed you dry when I'm gone. Do you understand?"

Your eyes well up with tears. "Hikaru—"

He says your name. "I mean it. They can find me a hundred brides, they can show me every eligible woman in Japan, but I won't do it. I won't leave you, okay?"

"You'll have to." Your voice comes out wobbly. "Grandmother would never let you stay here, not when you could be producing the next generation of Rupture. The clan needs—"

"The clan needs to fuck off." He scoffs, and he looks at you more firmly. "Besides, Rupture doesn't appear within the Imai bloodline often. It took more than two-hundred years to have you. And I've been thinking about it. Really. If they try to force a marriage on me, I'll just . . . run away. Become a ronin, live in the mountains, grow a beard. You can visit me on the weekends."

"You don't know how to even wield a katana properly, and you hate the mountains after watching that film about those people lost in the Andes."

"Then I'll become a common man, live in the city. Open a video store. I can work at Tsutaya. Tatsuya-kun can help you sneak out of the clan compound and visit me."

"Grandmother would track you down, and drag you back by the ear."

"Then I'll cut my ear. Like that one painter. That'll show her."

You laugh despite yourself—it's a wet and ugly sound but it makes Hikaru grin.

"The summit isn't really about me, anyway," he adds as he gently drops your hands. "The elders were also talking about you."

"Me?"

"Mm. They think it's probably a good opportunity for you to make connections. Meet other clan kids around your age. You've been hidden away long enough. This summit, you can introduce yourself properly." He shrugs. "You know, networking. Bow, say your name, and smile. Be a proper clan heiress. Entertain the guests. Let them all gawk at Imai's most prized rare beauty."

Your nose wrinkles and you make a face at the prospect. "That sounds worse than training. Aren't the kids of the Big Three Families really arrogant?"

"They are, but, hey, at least you don't have to travel. If it gets too unbearable, we can just ditch everything and go to my room to watch that simulation movie I was telling you about." Hikaru pauses. "Also, Fuyumi doesn't know I know so you better put on your best acting face and act surprised when she tells you about the trip."

"Hikaru, I don't know how to act."

"That's too bad. Then you better learn how to."

He stands up and stretches his arms over his head with a groan. "Just do the thing where you look polite but secretly constipated. That'll get her gears grinding."

"I don't look that bad."

"Really? You sure that's not just the constipation talking?"

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, laughing, and the sound is so familiar, so precious that you want to bottle it and keep it somewhere safe—where the compound can't reach, where the snow can never taint.

"You're such an ass."

"Language!"

"You're such a bitch."

True to Hikaru's word—Grandmother does tell you, granted, it happens on the day of the summit where you are forcefully pulled away from the land of slumber and forced to face harsh reality by hands way too far too eager for a morning that should be, frankly, illegal.

Now, here you are—soft waves being arranged neatly by a pair of attendants while the two others make sure your furisode is fitted to your frame. The silk feels heavy, dyed with the clan colors. It feels like you're playing dress up. You suppose, in a way, you are.

"Hold still, ojou-sama."

"Chin up, please."

"The obi needs to be tighter—"

"It is tight enough," you mutter, but no one listens (Mother would have listened, Mother would have used her gentle hands to make sure you could have more space to breathe, Mother would have done everything). They never do. You are a doll to be dressed, a canvas to be painted on, an artifact to be displayed. Your mirror shows you a girl you can barely recognize—all proper posture and every elegance a clan heiress has. She looks like you. She looks like a stranger.

The attendants chatter among themselves in whispers about the arriving guests. Some are eyeing the servants that come from the other clans, some are talking about the Big Three Families—the Zenin clan had arrived first and had asked (a nice word to say demanded) for specific accommodations that sent the household staff in a frenzy. The Kamo arrived shortly after, more quiet but no less imposing. The Gojo delegation are the last to arrive—they always are, one attendant notes. And no one reprimands them for it. They can afford to be late. Everyone waits for them.

You tune out their mindless ramblings, and stare out the window. The snow has started to fall. Start is not the proper term as they have been falling since the start of November but it's starting to snow heavily now that it's midweek of December. The snow covers the courtyard in its endless white.

The servants scurry around like worker ants, mindless of the snow. The main gate is decorated with what seems like the never-ending arrivals of black cars (the other clans), more silhouettes of clan members, dark shapes against the pale winter, and—a flash of white. He's standing next to an older Gojo clan elder, surrounded by servants hovering at a respectful distance (but close enough to intercept anything). His hair is white—impossibly white, the color of fresh snow, of funeral shrouds, of everything you hate.

But his eyes are blue.

It's not the muted blue of a winter sky, it's not the gentle blue of forget-me-nots or hydrangeas, it's not the still blue of water, it's not the blue of anything natural in this world, but blue like the heart of the star. Blue like a gas flame. Blue, infinitely blue.

You stare at the blue and you feel your wings start to melt. Icarus, you are. The blue stares back, and you look away before Icarus could touch the sun, before your wings could fully dissolve.

(Satoru Gojo. The Six Eyes. You've read about in clan archives, and mentioned by your teachers. Reading about it is one thing, but having it bore into you is another entirely. You are standing too close to the sun, a supernova in the making. You think of your mother's collapse and your father's accommodating death.)

"Are you alright, ojou-sama?" One of the attendants is frowning while the others are looking at you in curiosity and expectation (for what? You don't know), and you realize you've been holding your breath.

Your eyes tear away from the sight. You give the attendants, what you hope is, a smile. "I'm alright. The snow is very white today, isn't it?"

The attendants glance at the window and see the usual snow, falling and staining the window panes, the guests arriving and the rest of them shrug before going back to work.

"Are we almost finished?" you ask.

"Yes, ojou-sama. Just final adjustments."

You don't bother looking out the window again, not when you can feel the phantom weight of the blue drilling its irises into the side of your head.

The main hall looks nothing like the halls you've padded down in the last five years. Banners hang from the rafters, and the tatami mats have been replaced by fresh ones. Incense fills every room, and seems to get stronger with every step taken, it is also accompanied by the floral scent of camellia. Sorcerers fill every corner in a sea of clan robes and crests. At the very center of the hall kneels your Grandmother, mismatched eyes surveying the gathered clans with her cold authority (something that is becoming all too familiar for you). Hikaru kneels on her left side, while you kneel on the right. Your eyes meet, and the corner of his mouth twitches—almost a grimace, almost a smile.

Your eyes return to the crowd, and immediately regret it. Dozens of eyes, staring and calculating. You are not a person to them. You are a variable, a potential asset, a piece on the board they're all playing. They assess you like they're measuring your value, they're studying you like they've discovered a new specimen, they're whispering behind their sleeves —scheming on how to secure an alliance through marriage, no doubt.

And the Six Eyes hasn't stopped looking at you. You keep your expression tranquil, your breathing steady. You are the Haretsu—you have bled on tatami mats more than you can count. You can survive piercing stares.

Grandmother begins her opening address and the hushed whispers cease. Her voice is cool and commanding and you let it get in one ear and out the other. Hikaru catches your eye again—his expression, this time, concerned. You give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head.

The summit begins. And you last for only two hours before you give up. The weight of all the stares have becoming something intolerable.

The excuse you give Grandmother is one of a headache (something not entirely false), and she dismisses you with a promise for a later conversation. You bow to the assembly of people, and keep your eyes carefully averted from a keen blue gaze before retreating from the hall with whatever dignity you can muster.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of the engawa overlooking one of the many gardens of the estate. You let the rigid air bite at your cheeks and you feel your fingers start to go numb. The garden is beautiful. The stone lanterns are powdered with white, the branches of the plum trees have iced, the pond frozen but alive with swimming koi. It's the only part of the estate that you love.

"Pretty."

The voice comes from behind you, tinged with amusement, awe and slight curiosity. You feel his cursed energy—vast and wide, ready to swallow you whole. You turn around and see him. He's tall for his age (your age, you are only twenty-nine days younger. Yes, you counted). The snow-white hair glows in the daytime and his face are sculpted by a maestro's chisel, his eyelashes follow his hair.

(He has snow for hair. Snow around a face that could set the whole world on fire if he wanted to.)

His eyes are exactly as you remember them from the window. Piercing. Infinite. Blue. They see through everything, they see through you.

Satoru Gojo stands near the entrance of where he just came from, arms casually crossed over his chest and looking around the place as if he owns it (he probably can with just a snap of his fingers. The Gojo clan is rich).

"The garden," he clarifies, gesturing vaguely at the winter wonderland before you two. "It's pretty. Very . . . white."

"Yes," you manage to say, voice steady and polite. "We take great pride in our gardens. Even in the winter, it is well-taken care of."

"Even in winter? Now, that's just pushing it." He chuckles. You do not, and the smile on his face widens just a fraction.

There's a wave of silence. The snow continues to fall. You do not invite him to sit. He does not ask.

"So, you're Imai's most prized heir."

"And you're the Gojo's."

"Satoru Gojo." He inclines his head in a mockery of a bow. "But you probably knew that."

You stand up to face him, and do the same. You give your name as you introduce yourself, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gojo-sama."

He tests your first name on his tongue, and he smiles as if satisfied when he finally gets it right. "A pretty name. It suits you."

The compliment sends ripples across your chest but you don't let it show. "You are too kind, Gojo-sama."

He tuts at the use of the honorific. "You left early. Were you bored?"

"I had a headache."

"You're lying."

The word is devoid of any intent for malice—just a plain, simple truth. Yet it feels like a slap across your face. Your back stiffens, and you purse your lips, carefully adjusting your face to look neutral.

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't have a headache." He takes a step closer. "You don't have to lie to me, you know? Your cursed energy might seem calm to other sorcerers, but it's stiff to my Six Eyes."

(What a blessing. What a curse.)

"I get it," he continues. "The summit is suffocating. I didn't even want to attend in the first place, the forty-first episode of Digimon Adventures was supposed to air today, but then you get old people talking about alliances and bloodlines and more blah, blah, blah." He waves a hand. "It's boring. I left too, and one of the elders is probably throwing a fit."

You blink. Digimon Adventures? You can't form a response. You've been trained to smile, nod, and laugh—etiquette and politeness, but this?

"I just needed air," you say instead.

"Uh-huh." He keeps looking at you with those keen blue. "You know, everyone kept talking about you when we arrived. Something about being the first in two centuries, huh?" He snorts. "Said we're alike."

"Alike?"

(You don't think you could measure up to a god. You're a weapon, not paraded as a deity. Though, you aren't sure if the latter sounds like comfort. You can only imagine what pedestal they'd put you on.)

"Yeah." He points to his eyes and then at you.

"But the Six Eyes are a physical trait, and Rupture is a technique. Your Limitless manipulates space."

"Yeah, at an atomic level, just like yours." He grins, and suddenly he's standing right next to you. "Yours splits atoms apart, right? Isn't that cool? You could actually kill me."

The casual way he says it—like killing the Gojo Satoru is some sort of easy feat without any repercussions—makes something cold slide down your spine. You don't know if it's a threat, a promise of a future duel or just simply the truth, stated too plainly by a boy too powerful to care for pretenses.

"I would never use my technique against you," you say. "Our clans are allies, and the Gojo clan would have my head if I did."

His eyes pull away from the snow and he looks at you. "They would, wouldn't they? And allies, huh?" He savors the word, trying to test it around his tongue to see if the flavors match his palate. "So, that's what they're calling it. The elders did mention something about "strengthening ties" and "securing heirs"." Gojo grins. "I guess they want me to marry you."

For one long, terrible moment, you just stare at Gojo Satoru next to you, not in reverence. The snow continues to fall, the winter wind scrapes against bare branches of the plum trees, and you can hear the Ezo Ural's hooting in the distance. He continues to look at you with those impossible eyes, and you realize with horror that this is why he sought you out, why this summit was made in the first place.

"I'm not aware of that arrangement." Your voice only wavers a tiny bit, and you keep your cursed energy from fluctuating. "My grandmother hasn't informed me of any marriage proposals."

"Yet."

"I suggest you watch what you're saying, Gojo-sama."

He, unsurprisingly, ignores your warning. "They're probably gonna announce it in a few weeks or a month from now. Clans act fast when it comes to securing powerful babies. That's how these things work, right? The adults talk, then tell us what to do, and we're expected to smile and nod." He crosses his arms again. "Though, unlike some clan kids, I can't say I'm the smile-and-nod type."

"Neither am I." It's supposed to be a whisper, but comes out as a defense. An admission, a crack in your crafted mask. You see his eyes sharpen, and you curse yourself for the blunder..

"Really?" He quirks an eyebrow. "The Imai perfect heiress isn't so perfect, after all."

"You assume too much."

"I assume nothing." Gojo's eyes flicker to your clenched hands before it goes back up to you. "You might want to relax your hands. You're probably hurting your palms."

You look down, and despite everything you stand for, he is unfortunately correct. Your hands are clenched and you force them to relax, finger by finger. He murmurs something under his breath, and you feel something pop.

"What do you want from me, Gojo?" Your tone is cold, your tone is the snow.

If he notices the lack of an honorific, he doesn't mention it. "Nothing. You just looked like you wanted to escape, and I wanted to escape and talk to you, so why not hit two birds with one stone and be somewhere else together?"

"I don't know you," you say pointedly.

"Sure you do." His voice is one of amusement. "I'm Gojo Satoru and you're–" Your full name leaves your lips. "We're both shoved into clan politics, and techniques that deal with atom nonsense." He counts the points off his fingers. "See that, Ha-chan? We're practically the same."

"We are nothing alike." He is a god, a weapon and a man first. You are a breeding ground first, a weapon second, and a woman last.

"We could be."

You stare at him. He stares back at you. The snow continues to fall around him, and for a moment he looks like something out of a folktale—a winter spirit, a white kitsune, a boy with eyes that see too much formed from snow.

(The snow has followed you your whole life. It took your mother. It rests on your father's grave. It watches you through every window, every season, your constant reminder of everything you've lost. And now, here he is—with snow for hair, and frost for his gaze. You don't know whether to run away from him, or stay rooted in your place.)

"Excuse me, Gojo-sama, I need to return," you say. "You should do the same, in case your family will notice you missing."

(You choose the former, apparently.)

"My family notices everything." He looks back at the pouring snow, his blue eyes dimming just a tad bit. "That's the problem."

You don't offer words of comfort, or any words in general. You just bow before making your way to the way when the call of your name stops you.

"Your technique," he starts. "Rupture. Does it hurt when you use it?"

You pause and think. It does. You want to split your own binding energy instead of others' so you don't have to undergo the brutality that comes with mastering it.

"Sometimes." A truth and a lie.

"Cool. Mine too." Verity and deceit.

(Perhaps, there is a sense of similarity, but it doesn't bridge the gap between you two).

And that's that. You don't say anything else, and walk inside, leaving the god with his canopy of ashes. (The snow keeps falling. It always does. You wonder when it'll cease to exist.)

"—and he's such a know-it-all."

You finally crack open your book after recounting your encounter with Gojo to Hikaru. Your older brother stares at the ceiling while you flip to the first page. But the words are blurred together into meaningless shapes.

"But a marriage isn't out of the question," he says after a long silence. His words sour your mood, and you force yourself to keep reading the words on the page lest you blow up your own brother.

"It's way too early for that," you grumble, fingers tightening on your book. "And Grandmother would inform me if I was getting married to the Six Eyes."

"Since when did Fuyumi care about informing?" Hikaru's eyes glide over to your not-so-subtle tense form. "She didn't even tell you about the summit until the day it was happening. Who is to say she won't arrange a marriage behind your back?"

"Whose side are you on?" you snap.

"Yours, obviously." He sits up, crossing his legs beneath him. "But I'm not stupid. Clans don't do anything without reason. The Gojos don't do anything without reason. You think they came here to admire our garden?"

"They came because it's a clan summit. All great families are here."

"Because you're here."The words are gentle, but a gun shot slowly doesn't soften the bullet's blow. "You're the reason why we're not dying of obscurity. The Gojos want to secure a promise of marriage before anyone else can."

The words fall like a hailstorm. Gojo's casual grin flashes in your mind, his too-blue eyes, and the way he suggested marriage like it was nothing, like it wasn’t something binding. Maybe to him, it was nothing. Maybe to him, everything is nothing. A god playing human, amusing himself with mortals who bleed at the cost of their power.

(But gods bleed too. Ares let his ichor seep out when Diomedes lunged his spear into the god of war. Izanami was drowned by fire, her very own creation.)

"I'm nine." Your voice is smaller than intended.

"I know." Hikaru slowly plucks the book from your hands and places it down on the shikibuton. "But when did they care about that?"

When have they? They have been looking at marriage prospects before you could even spell or even know what the word marriage meant. You're a womb with a technique attached. The moment you produce an heir, your value doubles. The moment an heir is produced with the same technique (if that could happen twice without skipping another generation), you become obsolete.

(You are a breeding ground first, a weapon second, and a woman last.

You are a breeding ground. A weapon.

You are a woman—)

"I don't want to get married," Hikaru whispers before he laughs brokenly. "I haven't even finished training but the elders are already looking for the perfect broodmare for the Imai's stud horse."

You frown and pinch his side. "Don't call yourself that."

"It's true, Biku-chan," he sighs tiredly, letting his head rest against your shoulder. Black, unruly strands tickle your chin, fingers wrapping around your own and squeezing the digits in comfort, in solidarity. "We're just breeding stock for the next generation of sorcerers."

The words hurt but you know that's not Hikaru's intention. He's trying to protect you in his own way. The only way to survive is to see the prospects of marriage coming. And a proposal from the Gojo clan? That's coming—whether that be next week, next month or next year, but you know, you know—despite your reluctance—it's coming.

(Gojo Satoru does not do things halfway.)

You stare at his hands, his calloused hands that look more like a man who has gone through war. You wonder when yours would look like that.

"If they make me marry him," you say slowly. "do you think he'd be kind?"

Hikaru hums. "The Six Eyes? I don't know. Maybe. He didn't have to follow you to the garden and asked if using your technique hurts. People usually don't care about a stranger's pain."

"I don't know him."

"So did Mother when she met Father. So did everyone, before they weren't." He shrugs. "I'm not saying you need to marry him, but he doesn't need to be a stranger entirely. Besides, if the choice is between Gojo Satoru and some Zenin scum . . . " The implication hangs in the air.

"I hate this," you say. "I hate all of this."

Hikaru grins and closes his eyes. "Me too."

You look at your brother on your shoulder, feel the hug of his cursed energy, and wish for the impossible. Don't get married, Hikaru. But you are a mere mortal among a sea of a thousand, unfeasible wishes.

"I won't leave you," he says as if reading your thoughts.

You want to say yes, yes, yes. You want to believe. But having and wanting, you learned, are two very different things. Fragile as they may be, their structures are different. Promises are words, and words can be broken easily. You don't say anything, and rest your head on top of his, letting the warmth lull you to sleep.

Snow falls on the cold morning of your tenth January birthday, and so does the announcement of your engagement to Satoru Gojo. Though, the hints were already there. The Gojo delegates had arrived that morning with the Six Eyes in tow, and you had seen them from the window of your room (blue doesn't meet yours this time).

And maybe the fact that Gojo Satoru was seated in front of you during breakfast while the clan elders and your grandmother conversed in hushed tones should have really spelled it out for you. But a part of you kept clinging onto the rope of hope, not knowing it was already cut.

That ignorance is the reason the fall hits harder.

You stare endlessly in both shock and awareness at your engagement. His eyes bore into yours but face remains blank, and you feel a rush of anger. Is this really nothing to him? You know you're both strangers, but he needs to have some semblance of emotion, right? (Perhaps, you shouldn't be too angry at him. You didn't want this marriage in the first place. Between the two of you, you were more on the less accepting side of this union.)

You look away after realizing you've been staring for way too long and stare down at your food. The oshinko fills the orbit of your irises, and the sound of your heartbeat reaches your ears. The droning voices of the elders drown out. You're only ten and engaged to the pinnacle of jujutsu society. You're only ten and your life is truly, surely not yours anymore.

You're only ten.

The breakfast passes by in a blur of time, and you feel like you're watching from an outsider's view as the elders stand up, and leave you and the Six Eyes alone to get "acquainted".

Gojo hums and looks around the interior of the dining area before his eyes—so blue, they're yours now too—look back at you.

"Care to show me around the garden?"

The garden looks the same from the last time he was over, but this time he walks into the snow. He stands in the middle of the place and waves his arms around as the snow falls, staining white against his haori and disappearing into his hair. He has snow for hair. He lets his tongue out as a snowflake lands on the organ.

Your eyebrows crinkle at such childish display. Gods do not concern themselves with their mere creations so why is the Six Eyes doing such a thing?

"What are you doing?" You can't help but ask.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He gives you an incredulous look. "I'm tasting the snowflake. I heard chefs in Europe do this too."

"They taste . . . snowflakes?"

"It's called palate cleansing or something. It's supposed to help you taste the food better. I saw it on TV."

"You watch cooking programs?"

"I watch a lot of programs." He sticks his tongue out again, catching another snowflake. "Digimon Adventures—it's the best show of all time, you should watch it—and a documentary. I saw this one about deep-sea creatures. Apparently, there's a fish with, like, a transparent head. It's called barrel-something. It has its eyes inside its skull. It's pretty cool."

You stand at the edge of the engawa, sheltered by the overhang, watching this boy who is apparently to be your husband in a few years taste snow without any worry of what contamination is inside the flake.

"That's disgusting," you say.

"Nah, it's nature." He grins. "Come on, try it. You might like it."

"I'll pass on getting E. coli."

"Eh, your loss." He shrugs and continues to wave his arms and taste-testing snow, completely undeterred by the look of disbelief you give him. The cold nips at your fingers, and you find yourself actually walking to where he's standing. You don't wave your arms and taste the snow but you cup your hands to let some of the flakes fall into the palm of your hand.

They melt and disappear almost instantly, vanishing into small droplets of water against your skin. You stare at your empty palm and wonder if this is how your life has become—reaching for something that's already gone.

"You're doing it wrong," Gojo appears at your side, and shakes his head. "You're supposed to catch it with your tongue."

"I told you I'm not catching anything with my tongue."

"Come on. It's your birthday. Live a little, Ha-chan."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's cute, despite the meaning. Kind of like you, huh?"

Your face heats up despite the cold. "We are not familiar enough for nicknames."

"We're engaged, Ha-chan." He drawls the nickname out on purpose and tilts his head, snowflakes catching in his hair and lashes. "You can't get more familiar than that. Unless, you want to start holding hands and write love letters. I heard those are pretty traditional ways for courting and our clans are suckers for tradition."

"We are way past courting, Gojo-san."

"It's Satoru to you, Ha-chan."

"I said stop calling me that—"

Your name falling on his lips stops the words on your tongue. It's not the first time he's said it but now? Now, that you two are engaged?

He's looking up at the sky and it's endless white, letting the ashes of snow pile onto his own.

He repeats your first name, softer this time. "See? I can be serious."

"Sure."

He snorts at your skepticism. "I'm full of surprises, I know. Goes really well with the mystery, don't you think?

You can't believe he is your betrothed.

You sigh, and don't even bother giving a response. You cross the garden and sit down on the edge of the engawa, folding your hands on your lap. A few moments later, he joins and you feel his cursed energy wrapping around your shoulders, careful enough not to drown you on it.

For a while neither of you speaks. The snow falls. The ice scrapes against tree branches. The koi swim in circles underneath a frozen surface.

"For someone engaged, you could look happier," he says finally.

"I could say the same thing about you, you know."

"Touché." He laughs. "So, how are we feeling about this engagement?"

"What are you, my therapist?"

"Easy, tiger, I thought open communication was the key in most relationships?"

"You don't seem like the type to know that."

"You're not wrong. I only see those types of things in ad breaks."

"You get your romance advice from commercials?"

"Oh, and you're any better? Let's see where you get your romance advice from."

". . . somewhere definitely better than advertisements, that's for sure."

"You are such a terrible liar," he laughs. "No point in lying when my Six Eyes can sense it."

"Your Six Eyes really need to mind their own business."

"We are engaged, you are my business."

"Engaged," you echo. "I don't know how to feel about that."

"What happened to not being your therapist?"

You give him an irritated glare. "Oh, shut up."

He chuckles and leans back on his hands. "To be fair, I don't know how to feel either. The elders were ecstatic when they told me. Some crap about strategic timing, the Gojo and Imai techniques, united. I think they used the word destiny four times." He glances at you sideways. "What about you? What did your grandmother say?"

"She didn't tell me." Your voice comes out flat. "Then again, she never tells me anything. I found out about the summit through my brother's friend eavesdropping, and she still didn't tell me until the day of."

"I've met her twice now, but she sounds like a real piece of work."

You tut in mock reprimand. "Watch your words, Gojo-san."

"Satoru." He stands up and stretches. "Come on, Ha-chan, I still need to see what this place offers."

"So, I'm your tour guide now?"

"Well, you clearly don't want to be my fiancée."

"Correct. Now, let's go, Gojo-san, before we get hypothermia, and you get E. coli."

You stand up and head indoors while he quickly scurries after you.

"It's Satoru!"

Gojo Satoru is hyper. Not in a coffee-induced kind of hyper, but the hyper where his voice rings in your head—especially about some Digimon crap, some random sponge who lives in a pineapple under the sea, and whether kikufuku was superior to regular mochi (maybe you can shove one down his throat to shut him up).

Your birthday couldn't get any better.

The Gojo delegates had left earlier, and you and Grandmother had watched them drive away. A journey back to Kyoto would be a long one. When it was just you and her now, you expected some sort of acknowledgement about the engagement (and maybe an apology about not informing you, but even you had to admit that would be a stretch).

"Now that you are betrothed, every once in a while, he is expected to visit Sapporo and the same is expected of you but to Kyoto." Her voice is colder than the snow that falls on your hair. "Do not run dirt in our name, Haretsu. Training will start at five tomorrow, I expect punctuality."

Hikaru looks up at you as you enter his room from his kneeling position, a box—of what you can only assume is tapes—set in front of him. He stands up and brushes the imaginary dust away from his palms. You huff and lay down on his shikibuton, staring at the ceiling. There's also a water stain on the corner of Hikaru's ceiling, vaguely shaped like Kyushu.

"Congratulations," your brother says as he settles down next to you. "You're engaged."

"If you remind me one more time, I'll use my technique on your DVD collection."

"You wouldn't. I had a hard time finding them."

"Yeah, right. All you did was scare poor Tatsuya-kun into doing all your illegal work."

"It's not illegal."

"That's what you focused on?"

"Well, I'm an honest man."

"You could be a quiet man."

You bury your face into the pillow. "He made me give him a tour of the whole house, and wouldn't stop asking questions. He asked if there were any secret passages, and then he tried to convince me there was one and wanted us to find it. As if I don't live here."

"Did you?"

"Did I do what?"

"Help him?"

"No."

"Right."

You roll over to glare at him. He just sticks his tongue out at you before settling against the wall. "On a scale of one-to-ten, how annoying is he?"

"The scale's broken."

"Damn, that much?"

"He watches some sponge under the sea."

"Spongebob?"

"Of course, you would know."

"Hm, I don't know, it sounds like you were listening to a lot of what he was saying." He makes kissy faces, and you give him a look of disgust which he laughs at. You kick his shin and yawn, stretching your arms above your head.

"How was your day?" you mumble, changing the topic. "I was so caught up with the Gojo I forgot to visit you."

Hikaru shrugs, and plays with the pinky on his left hand. "Nothing much. Watanabe made me look at the Narukami clan. Apparently, there might be a girl who could be a match. She's the same age as I am, and likes calligraphy." His voice couldn't be more disinterested.

You let the words settle in before responding: "So, are you gonna marry her?"

"I don't know, yes?" He throws his head back against the wall. "That's how these things work, right? Now that you're engaged with the Gojo kid, they're probably going to marry me off too, just to finish everything."

You keep silent, staring back at the ceiling and Kyushu-shaped water stain. You're engaged. Engaged, engaged, engaged. The words keep repeating in your head. Granted, Gojo is not that bad of a person, but you didn't have a say in anything. Grandmother didn't even bother checking in with you, but, then again, that's her nature. A head-up would have been nice.

You wonder if your mother would oppose this marriage—you think she most definitely would. She would have fought for you, she would have grabbed her own mother by the hair if it meant keeping your independence and losing her dignity. She married for love, she would've wanted the same for you. She would, would, would. (It's a funny thing, Hikaru talks about her in the past tense, you talk about her in the future even if she's long gone. Will the future hold a reunion between her and you, or will the future hold you next to Gojo Satoru?)

"Do you think Mother would like our future spouses?" Because there is no denying it, no matter how many promises are uttered, the two of you are getting married. Time is of the essence. Time is such a fickle thing.

"I don't know." For once, Hikaru doesn't have a proper answer. In the past, he would always have a confirmation with a proud grin on his face. This time, he looks unsure. Even a library doesn't have all the books, even books don't contain all the answers, even answers don't guarantee to satisfy one's curiosity. (Would your mother loved having her children treated as livestock? No. But would she like the person who would stand next to you for life, livestock you two may be?)

You laugh softly at his answer. "Yeah. I don't know either." (You never knew in the first place.)

Hikaru watches your hunched form, and pulls something out from the small drawer next to his shikibuton. He lays down next to you before shuffling closer and nudging your shoulder.

"Happy birthday, Biku-chan, I hope you like my gift more than you do with your engagement," he jokes. He places a small package wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. You open it carefully, revealing a book—a collection of poetry by an author you've never heard of. The spine is cracked, the pages are worn and yellow, but it still feels brand new.

"I sneaked out a week ago with Tatsuya-kun, and we went to this secondhand shop that sold a lot of books," he says apologetically. "I thought you might like it since you're always reading, and the library mostly has clan archives."

You trace the spine—it may be used, but it's clearly loved. You'll love this book as much as the previous owner did. "Thank you," you whisper.

Hikaru laughs as you place the books aside and hug him. He wraps his arms around you and shuts his eyes tight. Sometimes, you just want to be kids forever with him, and your parents. Sometimes, you learn the world can be kind at times. Most of the time, the world drowns you in snow.

Your birthday couldn't get any better.

There is a plus side to being engaged to Gojo Satoru despite the headaches that come with being his bride-to-be. (There is also a bounty on your head—Gojo laughed when you told him about it. He just told you it was nothing, you have him after all.)

Your training sessions—despite your bloodied and bruised state—are now cut short due to a new variable: proper lessons on how to be a wife. Okumura-sensei is divorced so you wonder why she is the one teaching you when your lessons are the antithesis of her own lived experience. Perhaps, failure teaches what success could never do. Or perhaps Grandmother simply enjoys the irony (you wouldn't put it past her).

Your cheeks are bruised from the many times you have fallen against the tatami floor, and your fingernails are chapped and bleeding —but you're still on your two feet while Amagi-san, the close combat trainer Grandmother had hired, stands upright like this is a breeze and, you suppose it is, to a twenty-something person, fighting someone who is a decade younger than you. They have more experience under their belt, after all. But they don't have a cursed technique despite their physical prowess and ability to sense cursed energy.

Your lungs burn and there is blurring at the edge of your vision but you can sense it—the steady hum of cursed energy pulsing from the training dummies stored behind the door that Amagi-san is standing in front of. A plan forms in your mind, and you lunge forwards, a feint aimed to look desperate, and Amagi-san's arms come up in defense, their stance preparing to absorb the contact, and fists curling to hit you in a counter strike.

But you're not aiming for them. You reach past them, past the barrier of their physical form, pass the bulk of their body and towards the binding structure of the dummies. Activating Rupture at the last second, you see the lattices and structure and make sure to pull.

The fission event starts exactly when you want it.

The wood explodes, and the explosion tears through the training room door behind Amagi-san. The shockwave slams into their back, and for one single moment, their attention is not on you. Their head turns towards the source of the blast and there's a twitch on the corner of your mouth.

Got you.

You move quickly. Time is of the essence and it won't be long till they recover. But Amagi-san is faster than you anticipated. Mid-turn, they return to their proper senses and their hand snaps out to catch your wrist before you can touch them. The world tilts as your own momentum is used against you, slamming you onto the tatami with enough force to rattle your teeth.

"Your footwork needs more improvement," Amagi-san says, voice clinical and dull. "You're favoring your right side, not to mention over-doing the feint. Had this been a real fight—"

You move your index finger. The daughter fragments that you have been keeping under control behind Amagi-san swerve mid-air and come rushing for the back of their skull. They don't sense it coming—Amagi-san relies entirely on physical combat as someone with no technique, and you've hidden the cursed energy of the daughter fragments well. The sudden blow sends them staggering forward and you're immediately on your feet.

You don't waste the opening and your legs sweep them out before they can regain balance, and they hit the hard ground. A small snap of your fingers, and the remaining fragments attack Amagi-san from all sides. It's not fatal—you manage to concentrate the energy so it feels like punches rather than knives coming at them from all angles.

You stand over them, chest exhaling, blood dripping from the split lip on your face. Your hands are trembling, but you offer one to Amagi-san's heaving form just as the daughter fragments disintegrate.

"Yield," you say.

Amagi-san chuckles as they take your hand as you help them stand up. "I yield."

There is slow clapping behind you and his cursed energy reaches you. It's wide and voluminous, swirling and wrapping around your shoulders. It's steady as a hand on your back, warm as the first sunlight cutting through the snow. Your body is already moving sideways to face him, and there he is in all his glory.

His hair catches the faint, gray light of the room that seeps from the windows—white on white on white. Snow for hair. Stars for eyes. The most powerful sorcerer of your generation, the highest pinnacle of jujutsu, and your husband-to-be, watching you bleed on the tatami mats (has he just entered a place with a key you didn't give him?).

"Not bad, Ha-chan."

"Satoru," you mumble.

You don't notice you've said his name, as easy as breathing, as easy as dying. You don't notice the way his eyes widen and the tips of his ears going pink. You don't notice as black spots cloud your vision and you lose yourself to gravity's hold.

When you wake up, it's to the sound of arguing.

"—all respect, Gojo-sama—"

"You can just say none."

"—I've been telling them, but no one listens to me."

"Then make them listen. You're really just going to let her bleed?"

"I'm sorry, but have you met Fuyumi? That woman is not exactly the definition of sugar, spice and everything nice. You try making her listen to you."

Your eyelids feel heavy, but you manage to pry them open. The familiar ceiling of your room greets you, the stain still in its place. You feel a sense of déjà vu maybe because you've been in this position countless times. Your kakebuton is draped over you, and you're wearing the nemaki that smells like lavender.

Two figures are seated near your shikibuton. Hikaru is one, sitting on your right and his back rigid. His hands are firmly planted on your lap, but his knuckles are tight. The other is—

"You're still here," you rasp.

Gojo turns to look at you, and his irritated expression shifts. "Ah, the great Ha-chan awakes. Took you long enough."

"She's been unconscious for more than three hours," Hikaru says dryly. "I think the word you're looking for is concerning."

"I'm fine, Hikaru," you say because that's what you always say. It's a phrase programmed into the code of your very being. You sit up and feel your muscles scream in protest, but you ignore it, grimacing instead.

"You're not fine," Gojo and Hikaru say at the exact time, then glance at each other with something that might be annoyance or respect. It's hard to tell when your head is spinning at every axis imaginable.

"So, three hours, huh?"

"Three hours," Hikaru confirms. "Takamaki-san came by earlier, said your cursed energy reserves were almost depleted again."

"Eh, I still won the spar, though."

"You have to admit it was pretty impressive," Gojo comes to your defense. "But Amagi-schmagi was right—your footwork is sloppy. Of course, I could easily beat you but it was impressive you managed to take them down."

". . .are you complimenting me or showing off?"

"It's not showing off when it's true."

Hikaru grabs a cup of water from the low table beside your futon and helps you drink. The water is cooling against your parched throat, and you drain the cup before handing it back to Hikaru.

"Calm down, Ha-chan," Gojo laughs. "You act like a camel in a desert."

"You try being unconscious for three hours without drinking anything."

"Can't. I'm already too good."

Before you can spit at him, the door slides open. All the three of you go still. Hikaru straightens his back, Gojo's lazy posture turns alert, and you try to look composed while sitting up straighter against your pillow. An attendant bows down low at the threshold.

"Oku-sama requests for waka-sama's presence in her office. There is a matter regarding the Narukami clan."

Hikaru's expression falls flat. He looks at you, and something flickers in his honey eyes. You give him a nod—Go on. I'll be fine.

"I'll be back," he says, the words are meant for you but his glare directed at the snow-haired boy next to you. "Don't do anything stupid."

"O ye of little faith." Gojo smiles and Hikaru flashes your fiancé another irritated glare before he rises and follows the attendant out. The door slides shut leaving you and Satoru in the quiet of your room, the snow falling quietly outside the window.

"You know, Ha-chan, you had me worried when you suddenly collapsed," Gojo says casually. "I thought I would have to explain to the elders that my fiancée died before we could even get married. That would have been inconvenient."

"Sorry to inconvenience you."

"Apology accepted."

You sigh at his antics while he stands up and extends a hand to you. You raise an eyebrow as you look up at his blue eyes (You don't know why but you've gotten used to seeing it. Maybe there's something comforting in knowing someone can see all your tells).

"You don't want to go to the garden?" He tilts his head, and he reminds you of a kitten.

"I don't have the energy to change into something thicker."

Gojo sighs, and kneels back down, shrugging off his haori and placing it around you. You stare at him, dumbfounded at his action, and he simply shoots you a questioning look.

"What?"

"Why are you giving me your haori?"

"Because it's cold outside? And I want you to go with me?"

Your stare continues to linger a little longer before you let him help you stand up. You let out a gasp when he makes you take his arm. (Your puzzled look is kind of adorable. He should do this more often. Granted, he's just making shit up as he goes.)

"How am I touching you?" you ask. "Shouldn't you have your barrier around you?"

"Infinity? Yeah, it's tiring to keep it up all the time, but . . ." He trails off and looks away (he prays to whatever deity out there that you don't see the red that stains his pale skin). You burn holes into the side of his head, waiting for an answer (how the tables have turned). Gojo shakes his head and starts walking, bringing you with him. "Never mind, it's nothing important. Come on, Ha-chan."

You frown at his dismissal. You don't really like being kept in the dark (courtesy of your grandmother), but you let it go. When you two arrive at the garden, Gojo lights up. Though, you don't really understand the appreciation. It's just a garden, sure it's beautiful—the gardeners have done one hell of a job preparing it for spring. You suppose he sees things you don't—he has the Six Eyes, after all.

"It's heavier here," Gojo comments, tilting his head back to look at the sky and letting the snow fall onto his face. "The snow." He removes his arm from you to cup his hands, making a bed for the snowflakes but it disappears almost entirely. Well, at least, he isn't letting it contaminate his tongue this time. His cursed energy pulses around him lazy waves.

"Kyoto barely snows." He turns to look back at you. "Here, the entire ground gets buried. And it's so white."

"It'll melt soon. Sapporo eventually starts to melt away during March."

He hums, closing his eyes. The snowflakes always find him, kissing the apples of cheeks and disappearing into his locks. "You don't really like the snow, do you?"

You feel everything in you stiffen, and despite the cold drying your fingers, there's sweat on your palms. His words poke and prod every sense of yourself but he does it with his infuriating calm. (You chalk it up to his Six Eyes. Of course. There's nothing to be hidden from him—not when you're his betrothed, yet his throne, his shrine is a thousand steps to reach.)

There's no point in lying.

"Yeah," you murmur. "I don't really like it."

"Why not?"

You think of your mother's cooling hands. You think of the snow-stained window on the day she died. You think of the snow on her casket, her urn, the car taking you away from Nishikagura (it was snowing that day). You think of the snow that fell, and the way it continues to fall even now.

"It took something from me." Is the most honest you could be with him.

To your mercy, Gojo doesn't ask and nods his head instead. He turns his attention back to the pond and kneels beside it, watching the koi underneath the surface. You feel your legs move on their own and you kneel beside him, shoulders touching.

"My estate back home also has a garden," he says. "It's bigger but the elders don't really care for it, of course, unless they were hosting some clan gathering. But it's nothing like how your garden is taken care of."

(It's because of your grandmother, you don't say. Fuyumi Imai is many things. She finds it revolting to love you but she is capable of loving flowers. You conclude that she simply chooses what to love. Flowers make her list. They bloom when tended, and they die when it's their season. No memories, no heartbreak, no mess. That's why the garden thrives, not because she takes care of it but because someone else does. She loves it from a distance—through the windows, through the hands of the servants, through the occasional passing by. Maybe that's why your mother came to this garden often as a girl.)

"I'd like to see your garden," you say. "When I can visit."

Gojo glances at you. "I'll show you our pond. It has the ugliest koi ever. They're all lumpy and weird. I feed them whenever everything gets way too loud."

"Loud?"

"The Six Eyes." He taps his temple. "Sensory overload, I think that's what they call it. But it's nothing too serious, it doesn't happen often." (He doesn't tell you that the overload quietens whenever you're around, or that your cursed energy hums a frequency enough to block it.)

You think he's lying. Gods lie, and gods bleed too, but looking at him right now—he looks less like a god and more like a boy with way too much power on his hands. You rest your head on your knees and stare at Gojo Satoru, and the marquee of white that crowns him, the blue that glows from him, and his luminosity in the pale winter. (Maybe it wouldn't hurt that much if you get to spend your life with him. Maybe Mother would like him with his eccentric taste in television. Maybe he can be kind to you.)

"Satoru," you say softly.

His cursed energy immediately fluctuates—a sharp, startled spike—and you watch in quiet amusement as he scrambles quickly to bring it under control. He opens his mouth to say something, but ultimately closes it back down. Your fingers find his own and you lift his hand gently, cupping it between both of yours before you blow air onto his knuckles—a soft exhale of warmth against winter's bite while he watches you, puzzled but pink. You drop it after a moment and stare at the sky your mother was born under.

He says your name.

"Hm?" Eyes not leaving the sky.

"Write to me."

You blink in surprise and turn to look at him already staring at you—has been, probably, this whole time.

"Write to you," you repeat. "Like letters?"

"Well, I'm not expecting a recipe."

You laugh at that (and his ears pick up at the sound). "Fine, I'll write."

"There better be a letter when the snow melts."

"So demanding. Patience is a virtue, Gojo."

"Aw, you were doing so well."

You sigh again, and pinch the bridge of your nose which he laughs at. "You're really, really annoying, Satoru."

Despite Satoru's insistence for you to write the first letter, his correspondence is the first to arrive at the first bloom of spring—just as the snow melts. His handwriting is way too casual.

Ha-chan,

Kyoto has spring now. It's like the snow was never here (I bet you'd like that), and everyone is already talking about the cherry blossoms. You'd think after a thousand years of having those trees in this country there'd be something special about them, but they're just pink and fall very easily. Anyways, you promised to write but here I am, writing first, because I'm generous and compassionate and other things. You better write back or I'll come to Sapporo myself.

Also, how's your training? Did you collapse again? You know, you should really stop doing that. It's inconvenient and a hassle for everyone involved, especially me. Imagine having to face the elders and explaining to the elders why my bride-to-be is dead. So, don't die. Write back. It's getting boring here, and the television is only doing re-runs. I think I've memorized all the commercials.

Satoru,

Your handwriting is atrocious. Do you not have any calligraphy tutors back home? To think the strongest sorcerer in my generation would have the handwriting of a chicken, and I've seen chicken with better penmanship. (I saw it in a movie once. Hikaru showed me.)

Training is fine. You know, I think you just want me to die just for the laughs of it. Would my death really inconvenience you? But I've gotten better at it. I don't bleed a lot now! Hurray! Also, please don't memorize commercials, you're already weirder than you were.

Write back.

Ha-chan,

I write first and the first thing you do is insult my handwriting? Have some decorum to your future husband, Ha-chan. Has that Okumura woman not been teaching you well? I heard she is divorced which seems…interesting that she took the job. You'd think she'd have better things to do than teach little girls about being good wives. Hmm, I might have a word with her the next time I come around.

And why are you hurraying for? Jeez, your standards for training are so low. Don't worry, I'll tell them not to run you ragged or else I'll run them ragged. I can be, ahem, unserious when the situation calls for it. I contain multitudes, did you know that?

Write back to me!

Satoru,

Actually, I think Okumura-sensei killed her past husbands that's why she's divorced. But she's doing well, I think. She's rooming with a close friend she calls Mako-chan. Hm, I don't mind that she could be a serial killer though, she might give me tips and tricks on how to hide the body, so I suggest you better get your act together when we get married. I have access to knowledge that Six Eyes don't know about.

When's your next visit? Just so you don't embarrass yourself (and by extension ME. I have a reputation to maintain) by being "unserious". I don't know what tricks you'll pull, but please don't even think about it.

Write back.

Serial killer in the making,

I'm not even going to ask how many husbands she's had. I hope you don't go on a killing spree after I die, not because I died but because you'd be marrying other men and you'd really just tarnish my good name. Satoru Gojo, greatest sorcerer in the world, with a wife who has a lust for blood. The words don't really sound good together when you put it like that. You just sound crazy. (And you kind of are).

I'll be there when the hydrangeas bloom. Don't die and don't miss me too much.

The hydrangeas bloom in early June, and true to his word, he arrives with the first wave of purple and blue.

You stand near the window of your room, watching the attendants scurry in the courtyard. The black car of the Gojo clan pulls through the hair. The snow is long gone, its cold replaced by the lush of summer. The gardens are alive with color now, rows of camellias, azaleas and the first unfurling of peonies painting a vivid brightness to this otherwise dull compound. Your grandmother's garden thrives in every season but shines during summer.

(You wonder if your mother loved the flowers too, if she stood in the same room, watching the flowers sparkle—given life by her mother's love. You wonder if she ever saw herself in the flowers or if she ever felt like she was competing with nonexistent siblings for her mother's love.

What a silly thing, mother being jealous of flowers all because they had Fuyumi's attention. What a silly thing, you being jealous of Hikaru all because he had held mother's hand longer than you did. What silly girls you are.)

Satoru's letter sits on your low table, paper already creased from how many times you've read it. Hikaru had laughed and teased your growing attachment to the snow-sprinkled boy. You had thrown a pillow at his head to get him to stop teasing you. Even now, you can feel your cheeks heat up (embarrassment? You don't know).

You straighten yourself and dust the imaginary dust off your homongi before straightening the folds. Your heart is running a little faster than normal. Nerves, you conclude (liar, you conclude.)

The main hall is already filled with the low murmur of conversation when you arrive. Your grandmother sits at the head of the table while the Gojo clan elders are seated on the left column beside her (you wonder how they must feel sitting beneath a woman). Satoru, sitting on the right column, his white hair catching the light and blue eyes glinting in the dimmed room. His eyes find you the moment you enter and his cursed energy hums happily, slumping over you and tucking you in its hold. (It's almost unsettling how quickly he finds you.)

Your grandmother gestures for you to approach, and you walk towards her—measured steps and perfect posture. You kneel beside her and bow your head towards the Gojo delegation. "Thank you for making this trip to Sapporo," you say smoothly, all practiced words and saccharine tone. "We hope it was pleasant."

When you lift your head, you catch the corner of Satoru's lips twitching. He's trying not to laugh, and you don't get what's so funny about being proper (it's the way he knows that it's not you, it's the way he knows you're putting on an act, it's the way he knows you'll drop it later for him). You narrow your eyes at him as a warning, and he has the audacity to send you a wink that it takes everything in you not visibly scoff.

"I must thank the Imai clan's hospitality," one of the Gojo elders says, having the decency to look humble. "It is such a pleasure to be here again, and to see our families united in such a promising alliance."

The elders and your grandmother exchange pleasantries while you let their words wash over you like water. A performance, you think, is what they're putting on for the benefit of everyone watching while they make decisions about your life without your input behind closed doors. The elders decide to move to a more private meeting room to discuss more clan matters (a fancy code for "argue about clan politics while the children entertain themselves".) The moment they're out the door, Satoru grabs your hands and leads you out the room.

"Easy, Satoru!" you yelp as he runs like a madman, making wild dashes through random corridors and accidentally bumping into servants while you hastily apologize on his behalf. You bring the boy to a stop when you kick the side of his leg (you're surprised his barrier—Infinity?—didn't block it).

He lets go of you to clutch dramatically at his leg, acting like you've stabbed him. "Don't tell me that Okumura woman has taught the ways of murder!"

You slap a hand over his mouth. "Quiet!" you hiss. You didn't want any servants reporting to Okumura-sensei that you've been having certain theories about her life. You remove your hand and fix your homongi. "Where did you want to go anyways?" you ask.

Satoru hums as he plucks something out of your hair. "The library?"

"You could have just told me that instead of running around."

He shines his pearly whites. "Where's the fun in that?"

You feel yourself age three years older, and grumble as you lead him towards the destination. The large doors slide open, revealing the rows and rows of shelves against walls and each other with books tucked in either haphazardly or neatly.

The library is one of the few places you love. It's not grand but there's a comfort in its simple but wide space. The smell of old paper and cedarwood fills your lungs every time you step inside, and for a moment, you can pretend you're back home, a voice reading aloud from a foreign book you couldn't yet understand. Satoru follows you inside, cursed energy humming. He's quiet as he looks around (which is a surprise), blue eyes sweeping over the shelves with an expression you can't quite read.

"This is impressive," he says and you raise an eyebrow at the genuine compliment. "Your grandmother lets you roam this place whenever you want?"

You shrug. "She lets me in here because it makes me look proper or whatever. A clan heiress who reads is a clan heiress who is educated. It's really just about appearances."

"Ah." He wanders over to a shelf and lets his fingers run over the spine. "So, if I wanted the Imai clan's secret to overthrowing the jujutsu world, I wouldn't find it here?"

"And why would you need that? You can use your technique."

"It's better to be over-prepared than underprepared, Ha-chan."

You roll your eyes, but you can't quite stop the small smile that tugs on your lips. It's so easy to forget that you're supposed to be angry at him, that you're supposed to resent the engagement, to protest against the fates that have bound you two together. (He looks at you like you're something other than a womb with a technique attached.)

"Woah, Ha-chan, look at this!" Satoru grabs a random book and you peer over to read the title. He reads the title out loud: "The Art of Pleasing Your Husband: A Comprehensive Guide to Marital Bliss." He flips the cover open and laughs. "Wow, there's even illustrations. Ha-chaaaan, look, look. It's about—"

You snatch the book from his hands and shut it close before shoving it into a nearby shelf with more force than necessary while he laughs loudly. "That's not supposed to be there," you hiss. "It must be from Okumura-sensei, she may have left it—"

"Maybe she's secretly repairing a marriage. That could explain the book."

"I really couldn't care less about what goes on in her private life. She's a good teacher, and that's that."

"Really? She's teaching you how to be a proper wife?"

"How to survive being a wife."

The teasing leaves his face. He looks at you for a long moment, and you feel the weight of his stare settle over you. It's strange. You've been stared at your whole life, evaluated and appraised and measured against the never-ending impossible standards. But this is different. Satoru is looking at you, not through you.

(He sees you. He sees the bits and pieces that make you, the things you hide, and the parts of yourself that you let him lock pick his way through. Not through the Six Eyes. He sees you, and he doesn't look away. He can't look away).

He says your name softly, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm not scared of that." You and your slippery tongue.

"Then what are you scared of?"

You don't answer. You can't answer.

(How do you explain that you're afraid of everything—being used only for the sake of what you can give to the marriage? That at the end of the day, what matters is whether you can produce the rightful heirs or not? You don't want your identity being stripped away from you out of consideration of your passing down your technique. You lost your parents to this technique, you don't want to lose yourself to it too just for the pursuit of having powerful offspring.

The world devours women and spits at them when they can't take the beating anymore. The world is cruel to women and punishes them when they want something other than what tradition gives them. The world is cruel to you.)

Satoru watches you struggle and doesn't press. Instead, he turns to look back at the shelves and grabs a more worn book, devoid of marital matters. The Pillow Book.

"Read this to me," he says.

You blink at the sudden request. "What?"

"Read this book to me." He holds out the book. "I want to hear what it sounds like from you. Come on, Ha-chan. Just this one request."

You take the book from his hands and examine it. It's a collection of observations and musings recorded by Sei Shōnagon during her time as court lady. Perhaps mundane things can make your brain feel lighter. You sit on the floor against the shelves with Satoru copying your movements. You open to a random page and begin to read, shaky at first but growing steadier as the rhythm of the words become familiar.

". . . it is beautiful indeed when the snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the ground is white with frost . . ."

Satoru brings his knees to his chest and places his face on his knees as he watches you.

You're beautiful, he notes. The Imai women are known for their beauty—it's practically a clan trademark at this point, something written in their bloodline alongside their cursed techniques. He's heard elders describe in those clinical tones they use for everything—like they're talking about horses. Like they're talking about paintings.

But you're not a painting. Paintings don't breathe. Paintings don't roll their eyes at him the way you do. Paintings don't have the mole under your eye that seems to disappear into your skin. Paintings don't have your soft tone whenever you read a passage you find particularly lovely. Paintings are a cheap imitation, and don't hold a candle to what you truly are. Words don't do you enough justice. To appreciate your beauty, Satoru concludes they must be in your radiating presence, but at the same time, he doesn't want anyone in your presence.

The afternoon light filters through the latticed windows, casting patterns on your face that shift with every movement. He likes you like this, all moving and alive, not just a statue that is made of aesthetic appeal. He wants to see you soften, to smile, to laugh. He wants, wants, wants. The light catches your hair and for a moment, just for a moment, you look otherworldly. Like something out of those folktales he's heard a lot, like a princess from a faraway land, like a goddess from ancient myths. Like divinity made whole. He thinks of Kaguya-hime and her bamboo, of heaven who came down to earth. He thinks the moon would weep to lose you.

When you finish reading the passage, you look up from the page and catch him staring. He looks away too quickly, praying to whatever gods might be listening that you don't notice his burning ears.

"That was . . . " he starts, and his voice comes out a little too bare, a little too honest. "You have a really nice voice."

You feel the heat creep up and close the book to distract yourself. "Oh, thank you. It's actually nice to read out loud. I used to dream about reading to a whole room."

"Dream about reading to people?"

"Mhm." You lean your head against the shelves. "I once read about these book auctions—they're these events where people come together and bid on books, rare books, and there's always someone who reads passages aloud to demonstrate their value. I thought it sounded amazing to be the one reading, and to have people listen to you talk about something you love, to share the words with them."

"There should be more of those," Satoru says with surprising conviction. "More book auctions or whatever. More people reading aloud." (So he can keep you reading to him only.)

"You think so?"

"Yeah." His gaze makes your stomach flip.

And before you can respond, he stands up abruptly and stretches his arms over his head with an exaggerated groan. "Come on, let's get out of here. The old paper smell is suffocating me."

"You asked to come here."

"And things change over time. Get with the times, Ha-chan. Get it? Cause times?"

"Yes, yes, haha." You let out an exhausted sigh and stand up, placing the book back into the shelf before asking if he'd like to see the garden next since that seems to be his favorite place.

(He'll buy you a library, he decides. A whole library full of every book that's ever been written and some that haven't been yet. He'll fill it with stories and poems and fantasies, and he'll sit and listen while you read every single one of them. He'll never get tired of you. He'll make sure you never have to dream of reading to a crowd because you'll always have him, and he'll always listen.)

Even if Satoru is a thousand kilometers away from you—one thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven kilometers to be exact as he has had helpfully calculated (he got it from a book) in one of his letters accompanied by a poorly drawn map that looks more like a deformed squid than Kyoto and Sapporo—his presence lingers. It seeps into the spaces between your training sessions, curls around the edge of your meals, and settles into the corners of your room.

Ha-chan,

One of the elders, who had a mole that looks like a third eye, tried lecturing me about restraint and some clan bullshit that I don't really care about and I just stared at him until he left me alone. It's a new technique I'm developing, exclusive only to THE Satoru Gojo. And maybe you. You should try it on your grandmother, I bet it works wonders.

Also, I watched a rerun of Digimon 02, and it was the Christmas episode, it was going fine until Sora ended up with Matt! MATT! My heart is broken! Broken, I say! How could she choose him over Tai? I'm going to write to the producers. This is unacceptable!

Write back soon! It's getting boring here.

Satoru

You read his letters during the brief moments of rest you're allowed, curled up in the corner of the library or in the night, laying against your shikibuton. You hear his voice in every word, and can envision the crinkles in the corner of his eyes while he recounts his grievances with fictional characters.

(You've been imagining him a lot lately.)

The training intensifies with the seasons. Amagi-san drives you through combat drills until your legs and throws you against walls like you weigh less than an ant. But, also, with the seasons, Amagi-san has become something of a friend despite their determination to knock you onto the tatami mats at any given opportunity.

"Your footwork is improving," they say one afternoon, wiping sweat off their forehead while you gasp for air on the floor. "It's less obvious that you favor your right side, but you still need to work on that."

"That's good," you manage in between breaths.

"It's adequate." They offer a hand and you take it, letting them help you get on your feet. "Oku-sama won't be satisfied with adequate, but for me that's plenty enough."

Okumura-sensei still teaches you proper etiquette though it reads more like a survival guide which, in your opinion, is a far more practical knowledge anyway.

"You'll be the lady of the Gojo clan's household someday," she says as she guides your hands on how to pour a drink from a kyusu. "That means you will need to manage servants, navigate clan politics, and try not let your husband blow up."

"Will that be hard?"

Okumura-sensei expression turns deadpan. "Have you met your betrothed?"

You get what she means.

She also talks about Mako-chan, her dear friend and roommate, with such frequency you've started to suspect there's more to their relationship that she lets on. Not that you'd ever say anything, that is Okumura-sensei's business after all, and you're just her student but it's nice to see the woman's eyes soften when she mentions her roommate.

Love comes in many different forms, and who are you to judge? At the end of the day, everyone is just a pile of flesh and bones. Maybe that's what your mother would've said. Maybe she would've smiled and told you that love is love in all its messy, complicated glory (and you think about how complicated and easy Satoru is).

Hikaru also has gained more color these days. The shadows under his eyes have lightened enough to bring back his skin color, and he laughs more freely—less of the hollow sound he'd developed, more of the genuine and full-bodied laughter you associate with your big brother. You think maybe it's because the wedding talk has been pushed back, though you don't know the details and you're too scared to ask.

"Biku-chan, are you in love?" he teases one evening, waving one of Satoru's letters in your face.

You feel yourself blush and snatch the letter back with practiced ease. "Stop looking through my things! I'll use Rupture on everything you love."

"Threats, threats, threats. All I hear are empty threats."

"Fuck around and find out."

"Woah, woah, and who you taught that word, young lady?"

"You?"

"Touché ."

You roll your eyes and lay down on your shikibuton, clutching the letter to your chest. "It's not love," you say, but the words leave a bad aftertaste on your tongue that you ignore. "It's just . . . letters, words on paper."

"Words on paper that make you smile like that?"

"Get your eyes checked."

"You're smiling right now."

You press your lips together to prevent this 'smile' from happening and throw a glare at your brother. He grins, unrepentant, as he settles besides you.

"You're right," he says. "It's not love, but it's something that's going to make you both very happy someday."

"Since when were you Masaoka Shiki?"

"Since I started watching romance. You know, I realized in the movies, you can give a shit confession as long as the delivery is good."

You bury your face in your pillow, groaning. "The Notebook?"

Hikaru nods. "The Notebook."

(You think Mother would be looking down at you, a smile on her face, happy that you're seeing the world in colors now, happy because you're happy. You hope she likes Satoru, you hope she likes his ridiculous letters, you hope she likes his strange tastes in television. You hope she's proud of you.)

Grandmother is a force to be reckoned with. You would think after living almost eight years with her, you'd soften her up, but no. Yet, she's woven into the very fabric of the compound—the gardens she takes care of from the comfort of her office, in the portraits that line the halls, in the weight of her expectations that fall on your responsibility to carry.

And, despite all the things she has done to you and the inferno that is hate you feel for her, you still want her to look at you other than clinical assessment, other than your technique, other than Haretsu. You just want her to see you. You, you, you! But even you know that is a want too large for the world to hold.

Maybe your grandmother loves from a distance, just like how she loves her garden, her flowers, and maybe your mother. Fuyumi Imai is heartless, but maybe you're wrong. Maybe she has a heart and it just stopped beating, or maybe she chooses what things her heart should beat for. Or maybe you're right.

But even Frankenstein had a heart.

The invitation to Kyoto arrives in early autumn just as the leaves start to turn into shades of orange and yellow. You're summoned to your grandmother's office, and she gives you a letter stamped by the Gojo seal. Fuyumi's expression is unreadable but there is the faintest flicker of something like approval in her mismatched eyes.

"It would be good for you to see where you'll be living," she says. "Make sure the accommodations are suitable. The Gojo clan has a tendency to be indulgent in material things."

(You can't tell whether she sees you as a womb or your technique. Maybe it's both.)

The journey to Kyoto is tiring. Thankfully, Grandmother sent an attendant with you and had arranged for a flight (private, courtesy of the Gojo clan, though you have a feeling Satoru is the reason they arranged it) instead of a bullet train. The flight from Sapporo to Kyoto is your first time and you try not to show your excitement too much (though you suspect your cursed energy might have spiked a little).

When the plane landed in Kyoto, you felt your heart sink a little. There was something cathartic about watching Hokkaido get smaller and smaller as the plane ascended, the white of the snow melting into the brown and green of the mainland.

(You almost miss the snow. Almost.)

There is a car waiting for you once you hop off the airplane. You get to watch the landscape change through the window, the road becoming a blur of dark orange and golden, the urban sprawl giving way to the countryside. The leaves have turned and you find yourself pressing your face against the glass, watching them fall.

The Gojo estate is large. That's the first thing you notice when you exit the car and are led inside. It's larger than the Imai compound. Through the latticed windows, you can notice the gardens stretching out in every direction, and a sprawling body of water filled with koi that, you hope, are remarkably ugly.

"Ha-chan!"

He bursts through one of the many doors of the estate. His cursed energy is immediate and it reaches yours before he can. Your attendant is swiftly shooed away by one of the clan servants, leaving you and Satoru alone.

"Satoru." You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He infects you, and you let him.

"You came!" He's in front of you in an instant, and you notice his imposing height (does this kid ever stop growing?) His voice has started to change too, cracking at the edges. "I was starting to think you got lost or got killed by a cursed spirit on the way here."

"I'm not that incompetent," you say with a roll of your eyes. "And I won't get eaten by a cursed spirit. That would be embarrassing."

"Well, it's a good thing you won't make me a widower before the wedding," he says with a grin that warms your cheeks. "Come on, let's see the pond."

"Shouldn't I greet the elders first?"

"The elders can wait." His hand reaches out for your hand and you let him. "Let's go Ha-chan!"

He drags you through the maze of corridors and you emerge onto an engawa that overlooks the garden you saw from earlier. The view is more beautiful than what you had seen from the window. The sprawling landscape is manicured with trees and stone lanterns, the koi pond at its very center. The leaves that fall to the ground paint the garden in the muted shades of autumn.

"I told you I'd show you the fish," he says, pulling you towards the pond with an urgency that makes you stumble. "They're ugly, see?"

The pond is smaller than yours back home, but the koi fish are indeed ugly. They're lumpy and misshapen, their colors faded and patchy, and they swim in lazy, uneven circles.

"That's Gyoza cause he looks like he got stepped on, and that's Mochi because he's squishy!" He points excitedly to some random fish.

"Mochi? You've touched the fish?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "Details, details."

"You're ridiculous, Satoru." But your tone is soft.

"Generous," he corrects. "I give my love to the deserving." He smiles at you and his eyes shine brightly. (He has stars for eyes and snow for hair and he's showing you his ugly fish. You think of gods entertaining mortals with their gifts.)

Satoru continues to show you around the garden, pointing at random plants and making up names or just outright giving them the wrong names ("And that's pampas grass!" "Satoru, I'm pretty sure that's just wheat that someone threw out.") but despite his ridiculous naming and over-the-top descriptions of book summaries when he brought you the library ("It's life changing—" "That's a dictionary."), you don't feel as if you've wasted your time.

In fact, you're smiling by the time Satoru has pulled you back to settle down on the engawa overlooking the garden. He slumps against the wood and you hum happily, letting the breeze kiss your cheeks and mess your hair a little bit with Satoru's cursed energy humming around you (you wonder what he thinks of your own cursed energy—does it comfort him like how his comforts you?).

"I'm very happy you came."

His voice comes out soft, a little shy.

"Of course I came, I wanted to see your ugly fish."

"You're a liar, Ha-chan."

"Yeah, I wanted to see the garden and the library."

"And me, right?"

You don't answer, and he pouts (but you know he knows the answer. What are the Six Eyes for? They see through everything, they see through you).

You continue staring up at Kyoto's sky. It's the same sky as Sapporo's but it's also not. The constellations are the same, the heavens constant, but the air has a different density. Light, less heavy. Maybe it's the sense of freedom you get from being away from the compound. Maybe it's Satoru. Maybe it's both.

You're pulled away from your thoughts when there's a sudden weight on your lap. He's arranged himself with his head on your lap, his blue clashing brightly against yours. He looks almost content. He looks like he's at peace with himself for the first time.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Can't you tell I'm getting comfortable?"

He produces a small book from the sleeves of his haori, and holds it out to you. You read the title and look down. The author has a Western name. "Read to me?" he asks, white hair spilling on your thighs like fresh snow. (There's a hint of vulnerability in his request. Like he's asking for more than words. Like he's asking to be held, to be soothed, to be loved. Even gods need warmth.)

"Here?"

"Where else?"

You sigh and accept the book. Satoru closes his eyes, white lashes fanning against his cheeks. The afternoon light catches his face, and he reminds you of a cat sleeping in a sun spot. (He's beautiful.) You clear your throat and flip the cover open before you start reading: "I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart, I am never without it, anywhere I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling. . ."

Satoru's cursed energy pulses, shifting gently against you. He's so still, so quiet. He's letting your voice wrap around him, letting the melody of your words find the depths of his bones.

"I fear no fate for you are my fate, my sweet, I want no world, for beautiful you are my world, my true—"

(Satoru falls asleep to the sound of your voice.

He doesn't know why but your voice is at that perfect pitch where everything quietens down. The constant hum of the Six Eyes, the endless input of cursed energy and information—they all fade when you speak. He can reach for sleep without fear, without the feedback that keeps him awake.

You're the perfect interference between him and godhood, you're the perfect tether to earth, you're perfect. A god made mortal.)

The snow makes its return and cleanses Sapporo with its ashes. They stain your window, leaving wet streaks as the flakes drift pass. The snow is already heavy, though you shouldn't be surprised—it's always been like this; the constant in your life. Winter has returned, and as always, is the bearer of bad news.

The dining hall is warm with food when you arrive. Grandmother sits at the head of the table, posture perfect as she picks at the food with calculated precision and her other hand reading over some documents (clan matters, you assume). She doesn't look up at you when you enter.

Hikaru is already seated at the right, pushing around his plate. He's the one to offer you a smile when you enter. You return it, settling into your seat from across him. The attendants serve your breakfast in silence, the only sounds of the chopsticks against the ceramic and the distant tapping of snow against the windows fill the room. You eat mindlessly, letting the food scrape against your teeth and giving your tongue the luxury taste of nothing.

Then Grandmother speaks: "Well then, Hikaru, the wedding preparations are underway. You will do your part and prepare. You will meet with your bride before the wedding."

The words make you freeze, chopsticks hover the pickled vegetables on your plate. Your eyes find Hikaru, expecting to see shock, anger, or something but there's nothing. His face is calm. Serene, one might say. He doesn't even flinch.

He knew.

"The wedding will happen in the second week of January," Grandmother continues, speaking as if she just didn't drop a bomb, as if a life isn't going to change, as if it's just another daily occurrence. "You and the Narukami girl will be of age. It's fitting."

You feel your stomach twist. Your fingers tighten their grip on your utensils. January. Your brother—the only warmth in this frozen state—will be married in a month, leaving you to die in a block of ice.

"What do you mean?" you ask, desperate for all of this to be a dream, a cruel dream, but a dream. "What do you mean wedding?"

Grandmother shoots you a flat look. "Those are matters that aren't of concern to you, Haretsu, though you are required to attend the ceremony. Eat your food."

Her words make you want to pull your own hair. You're a technique, and also a foolish child, but you are his sister.

"It is my concern! My brother is married and I wasn't informed?"

Your cursed energy spikes out of control and a nearby servant lets a yelp when a vase in the corner explodes.

Fuyumi's eyes harden and her lips purse into a thin, disappointed line. "Haretsu, control yourself—"

You turn to look at Hikaru again, and this time you see the truth in the set of his shoulders, the quiet resignation in his honeyed eyes. Your mother's eyes. He's known for weeks. Maybe months. He's been carrying this alone, accepting it, and preparing himself. You remained blissfully ignorant.

He didn't tell you. The betrayal has a sharper edge than the announcement itself.

"I need air." The words tear from your throat like a wound given voice. You don't wait for permission. You don't bow. You don't excuse yourself. You run. Run like the girl you are, not the dignified and proper heiress the clan has molded and beaten you into. Damn dignity. Damn propriety.

Damn Fuyumi and the cold she brings with her and her inability to see her grandchildren as anything but winning moves on an unseen game. Damn Hikaru and his quiet resignation, his retired smile, and the way he accepted his life sentence without a flinch.

(Damn you, you, you!)

Your torment greets you the moment you step onto the garden. You don't know why you went here when it's littered with the bane of your existence, to this white expanse that has swallowed everything you love.

Maybe you like to hurt yourself, to press your palm against the blade to feel other than the deep ache in your chest. Maybe you want to let it know your anguish, to show the devastation and hell it has wrecked on your psyche. Or maybe the snow finds you—the way grief does, the way loss does, the way it settles into the depths of your bones like an old friend.

Oh, snow, why must you be so cruel?

Footsteps behind you—soft, hesitant. You don't turn around. His voice is gentle as he says your name, as if he's approaching a wounded animal. You want to scream until your voice becomes hoarse, to beat your fists against his chest until the skin turns purple, to demand to know why. But you just stand there, froze, a statue carved from woe.

"I'm sorry," he says and the words hang in the air, fragile as you. "I should have told you. I should have—"

(He should have, he should have, he should have—)

"You knew."

A pause. Then, quietly: "Yes."

You turn to face him, tears threatening to spill. And there he stands, your brother—your mother's reverberation—leaving you. "How long?"

"Two months," he admits. "Maybe three. I overheard the elders talking, and they already had started the negotiations. I just . . . I didn't want to worry you. You were so happy with the Gojo boy, and I just thought—"

"You thought what?" Hikaru flinches at your sharp words. Good, let him know how you feel. You both came out of the same womb, after all, it's only fair he gets to experience the pain you are in.

"That I wouldn't notice?" you continue. "That you could just leave and I'd be fine?"

"Biku-chan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You promised." The words are soft, blue. "You promised you wouldn't leave me."

Hikaru's face crumples, and your heart howls with a soundless desperate cry that tears through every fiber of your chest. Honeyed eyes go glassy with tears and he looks like Mother.

(You hate it. You hate it because Mother is always happy, always smiling with that gentle upturn of her lips, always laughing at Hikaru's antics, always pressing soft kisses on your head. She doesn't frown, she doesn't cry, she doesn't look at you with a heartbreaking tenderness that promises a goodbye you don't want to hear. But Hikaru looks like Mother and looks at you like that. You want to scream, you want to claw your own eyes, you want to rip off your ears. You want, want, want.)

"I know I promised," he says, voice thick with the tears he's holding back. "I know I promised. But I can't . . . I can't fight this. I tried. I begged the elders to delay, to drop it all together, to—" He trails off before shaking his head. "It didn't matter. The Narukami clan head, and Fuyumi already agreed."

You collapse into him, burying your face in his chest, and his arms wrap around you immediately. He holds you as the snow continues to fall, and continues to drown you in its bleak sorrow. He's warm, you realize, so, so warm. It's the warmth of your brother who used to bandage your wounds and make you laugh when the burden on your shoulders felt too heavy.

You feel his shoulders shake, and the wetness of his tears soaking into the grain of your hair. He's crying too after holding it together for moments—smiling, joking, pretending everything was fine—all while he knew he was going to leave the only family he had left. He's leaving and he's hurting just as much as you are, but the thought doesn't make you feel better. It makes it worse.

He pulls away to use his sleeves to wipe your tears. "Listen to me," he says, voice steady despite the tears that stream down his own cheeks. "You can't come with me, you know that. The Gojo clan would hunt us down, and Fuyumi would never stop looking for you. And you have a future, Biku-chan, a real one. The Gojo boy is going to take care of you."

"Satoru—"

"Will be good to you. I know he will." Your brother's voice is firm, certain despite his red-rimmed eyes. "We'll visit each other, okay? I'll write you letters. With better handwriting unlike your fiancé's."

You laugh, a wet and broken sound. He brings you into another hug, careful with his hold this time, so gentle, so careful, like he's afraid you might shatter (you might).

You watch the snow fall on his hair—black spilling against white, ink spilling across a letter you'll never finish. It settles there, its freezing cold wrapping you despite the warmth that is Hikaru's embrace.

You watch the snow fall on the ground and painting the garden, its ivory knowing no bounds. You think of your mother's cooling hands, you think of your father's hollow eyes, and you think of Hikaru getting married (you think of the snow taking everything you hold dear, fleecing you until your hands are permanently stained in its white).

You watch the snow fall on the day of Hikaru's wedding.

Momo Narukami's face is epitome of tranquil, her hands are steady, and her eyes are downcast in practiced modesty. She is everything a bride ought to be—beautiful, obedient, composed. Her dark is pinned with ornaments and expression is placid underneath her white hood. Hikaru stands across from her in his juxtaposing black montsuki hakama against her white shiromuku. The end of one life, the beginning of another. His honeyed eyes, your mother's eyes, are fixed on some point in the distance with an expression you can't decipher.

The priest's voice rises as he calls out the kami and gods in a ritual cadence, asking them to bless the union, to sanctify the binding of these two souls.

(The kami and the gods don't grant wishes but you think they could grant you mercy. The mercy of you waking up and finding out everything was just a cruel dream, a spiteful reverie made from a brain with masochistic tendencies.

The kami and the gods don't grant wishes, they give you a technique that froze your mother's hands, a clan who sees you as a breeding stock, and a bethrothed miles away—the cons outweigh the pros.

The kami and the gods don't grant wishes, they are cruel and unforgiving, so why should they stop now when they could add more for their own entertainment? But the kami and the gods don't grant wishes, and the mercy you ask of sounds an awful lot like a wish.)

The ceremony blurs before your eyes. The white of Momo's shiromuku, the black of Hikaru's montsuki hakama, the lines of the altar, the distant murmuring of guests—they all swim together in a haze and threaten to pull you under.

You watch your brother's hands accept the cup of sake. You watch him drink once, twice, three times—each sip sealing his fate, solidifying his union with the girl in white.

(You hate her. You hate her standing beside Hikaru, being his family. You hate her for the way she smiles at him, soft and trusting, as if she has any right to look at him like that. You hate her, you hate her, you hate her.

But, at most, you feel sorry for her. You know it's not her fault. She's just another pawn, like you. A girl who was told to marry a stranger and smiled because that's what girls are supposed to do—nod their heads and do whatever slimy men tell them to do. Despite the hate in your chest, you hope Hikaru treats her with the gentleness she deserves.)

Your fingernails dig into your lap. Your cursed energy is a turmoil barely contained, a reactor on brink of a meltdown. It hums beneath your skin, pleading to escape, to shatter glass, to break anything. Control yourself. Grandmother's voice sinks its teeth into your head, cold and final. You hate her too. You hate everyone. (But, most of all, you hate yourself.)

The ceremony ends with the final exchange of vows, and you watch your brother become a husband. He's still Hikaru with Mother's honeyed, crooked smile, and the warmth that you hold onto, but he's also something else now. Something else that belongs to someone else.

The reception hall oozes with celebration. People laugh and drink and offer congratulations to the newlyweds while you stay put in your assigned seat (your face mirrors the clinical expression your grandmother has and you hate it but can't break into a faux smile. This is a joyous ceremony to everyone but you). Your hands are folded tightly on your lap, knuckles clutched tightly.

You watch Hikaru move through the crowd, accepting the wishes with his smile. Momo clings to his arm like he'd disappear if she let go and you feel a pang of something—anger, recognition. She's afraid of losing him, and you're already mourning him. (He's not dead. He's right there. But he might as well be.)

The music swells and Hikaru is pulled onto the dance floor by his wife. His arms wrap around her, hesitant before becoming certain. They move together like they've been dancing their whole lives, they move together like they're Mother and Father, and you feel bile rise up your throat. You excuse yourself before you can throw up everywhere and no one stops you. No one notices. (You are the Haretsu, the Imai's prized heiress, but you are also a walking paradox. You are invisible, a girl who only exists when someone needs her power.)

Your feet carry you through the corridor, past the servants mingling with laugher in the halls. You don't know where you're going until you're there—the engawa overlooking the garden. The snow has buried the landscape again, settling on the stone lanterns and the bare branches.

You settle down on the edge and press your palms to your eyes, trying to stop the oncoming tears. You're so tired of crying. You've so tired of continuing to live your life. You're so tired of being born. You're so tired.

You feel him before you see him. Cursed energy vast and wide swirling around you in comfort, in warmth. (You forgot he's here. Of course, he would be. He's the Six Eyes and the groom's brother-in-law. He's your betrothed. He's yours.) Satoru sits down beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cold. He says your name softly. "You okay?"

You should say yes. You should smile and nod and tell him you're fine, that everything is fine, that you're just tired and need a moment. You should do a lot of things (and you should follow but you're so tired).

"You should go back to the reception," you say instead.

"Nah." He tips his head back, looking up at the December sky. The stars are scattered across the darkness, a sprinkle of white against the inky canopy. Piercing blue and impossibly vast, looking up at the heavens that contains the same celestial bodies. "The reception's boring. Besides I was wondering where you'd run off to. I expected to find you here and I was right."

"You mean your Six Eyes was right."

"Technicalities."

A giggle escapes you—small and unexpected. He smiles at the sound. A silence develops but it's not the uneasy kind. The distant sounds of laughter from the reception drift through the cold air, muffled, and an Ezo Ural hoots somewhere in the darkness. The snow continues to fall, pearly and continuous.

"Hikaru's leaving me," you say suddenly. The words spill out before you can stop. You don't know why you say it. Maybe it's the cold, maybe it's the solace his cursed energy offers, or maybe it's just you. But the words spill, ceaseless and unforgiving.

"He promised me he would never marry, you know," you continue, your smile turning wobbly. "He looked at me in the eyes and told me he would never leave me. Some part of me believed him."

You laugh, hollow and bitter. "Deep down, I knew that it wasn't true. He needed to marry and the elders would never let it go. It's just . . ." A shaky breath and the words come out thinner than you intended. "I just wished he never made the promise only to break it. My mother left, my father left, and now him. He's all that I have left."

You wipe the edge of your eyes with the back of your hand. You turn to look at him with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about spilling all of that onto you. It's stupid. You didn't need to listen to me complain."

Satoru's blue envelops your sight and it's quiet for a moment before he speaks, voice firm. "I don't really remember my parents."

You go still. Satoru has never talked about his parents. It's usually the present with him, not the past.

"All I can remember is being held as a baby and then training as soon as I could read and walk." His eyes have gone distant and you hate that the blue does the same—the light dims to something colder, something older. "I thought they just abandoned me, handed me to the elders the moment I opened my eyes and they saw the Six Eyes. I thought they didn't want to raise me—their own son."

Satoru then looks back at you. "Then, I saw them at one of my birthday parties and they bowed down to me, Ha-chan. Bowed. Like I was a clan elder instead of their son. I found it weird. Sure, I hated them, but they were my parents. But it turns out, they had no choice. The clan elders made them give me away, separated us because they weren't 'qualified' to train me. Because I was too powerful, and they were too weak."

(You think of Hikaru getting married because it was required. You think of Satoru's parents having to give away their own son because it was demanded. You think of all the ways the world takes and takes and takes. You think you understand.)

You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him through the layers of your clothes. Your fingers find his (and he lets you. He lets you part his sea and wander into his wilderness of Shur). You look up at the sky as snow descends, blanketing the garden in its dust.

"I won't let anyone separate me from you," you murmur. A promise, a vow, a covenant.

"I won't leave you," he murmurs. A pledge, a creed, a bond.

The snow falls and you think of your mother's hands—cooling as they pressed against your warm forehead, steady as they tied your obi, gentle as they wiped your tears. The wet streak of snow on the glass window when she died, the white of her face.

The snow falls and you think of your father following your mother to the underworld, his heart a compass always pointing towards her. You think of the snow on his grave, like it marked him as another person to fall to its crazed spell.

The snow falls and you think of Hikaru standing at the altar, his honeyed eyes—your mother's eyes—reflecting the white of a stranger's shiromuku and the pureness of her soul.

The snow falls and you think of it how it takes, how it buries and keeps things under. How it always leaves you alone in the aftermath, trying to find your way through the endless white.

The snow falls and takes. The snow falls and gives.

It gives you Satoru.

The snow falls, and you think maybe, just maybe, you can let it stay.

The snow leaves and it takes Hikaru with it, blowing him towards the Narukami compound in Nagano.

The car had arrived during the break of day, a black blob against the pale morning light. You watch Hikaru place his things into the trunk. His clothes, his books, himself—all off it compressed into one single box

(Was his life really that small? Small enough to fit into one compartment? Hikaru was everything you weren't—loud where you were quiet, bright where you were dim, full where you were hollow.

And yet, all of that, all of him, could be contained in a single luggage. You think of his movies, the contraband VHS tapes he had risked everything to collect, the ones that made up every nook and cranny of his being, being placed in a different pile—to be thrown out, to be disposed of as if they were nothing. As if he was nothing.)

You watch him spot you on the engawa, honeyed eyes—oh, your mother's eyes—finding yours across the distance. He lifts his hand and waves, and you raise yours in return.

You watch the car take your brother away, away from the compound, away from Sapporo, away from you, to a place where you don't have the right to visit because you're the Haretsu, because you have duties to the clan, because you are no longer his family.

(You let Amagi-san beat you into a pulp later that day.)

But while snow leaves and takes Hikaru with it, the snow leaves and yields Satoru. You suppose his letters are the only thing that keeps you smiling through the days—his awful handwriting, his exaggerated retellings of whatever story he has seen or read (which is rare), or the strange eating habits of Gyoza and Mochi. Though, the absence of him has you going antsy, your fingers itching to open a new letter and eyes wandering around the courtyard, unconsciously waiting for a familiar black car to show up.

But till then, you have to be satisfied with his letters that seem to be coming every month now instead of the weekly occurrences. It's fine, everything is fine. Hikaru is adjusting with his new life and Satoru is the Six Eyes. It makes sense that the two of them will be busy. They don't revolve around you. Satoru doesn't revolve around you.

Until Fuyumi tells you that she and the Gojo clan elders have agreed to have you and Satoru no longer see each other—some shit about training or whatever traditional nonsense she said. The last threads of restraint snap.

"How could you?" The words tear out of you, crude and jagged. "How could you agree to this? You're keeping Satoru away from me, and Hikaru—Hikaru hasn't even sent an update in weeks! And he's my brother! I don't even know if he's alive or dead!"

Fuyumi sets down her brush with deliberate precision. "Your brother is fine. He is adjusting to his new life in Nagano with the accommodation of the Narukami clan."

"Adjusting?" Your eyes could pop out of your sockets. "You didn't even tell me he was getting married. He didn't even say goodbye to me properly. He just . . . he just left! And you're taking Satoru away from me too? He's the one person who can make this place tolerable and you're taking him away from me?"

"Mind your tone, Haretsu."

"I don't care about my tone! I care about the fact that you've decided to keep me away from people who actually care about me! Hikaru is married now, and Satoru—"

"Attachments hinder growth." Fuyumi's tone is ice. "You have a duty to this, to your technique. You cannot afford to have the Gojo boy as a distraction."

"He's my fiancé!"

"He is a political alliance. One that you will fulfill when the time is right. Until then, you will focus on your training and you will behave."

The words hit you like a slap and you can feel your cursed energy spike even more, looking for a way out. Behave, behave, behave. It's always behave. Be quiet, be proper, be perfect. Be everything except yourself. You're so tired of behaving. You're so tired of being Haretsu. You're so—

The vase on the corner of Fuyumi's desk explodes.

The carefully arranged chrysanthemums scatter across the tatami and their petals float through the air. Shards of the ceramic rain down and one of them catches Fuyumi's cheek, leaving a thin line of red that bleeds against her skin.

(You look at your grandmother and feel something ugly curl in your chest—a twisted satisfaction that she's finally gotten a taste of her own medicine. For once, she's the one bleeding. You look at your grandmother and remember you are a bomb.)

Your eyes widen and your cursed energy retreats back into your core, a tide pulling away from the shore, leaving behind only the wreckage of what you've done (a mindless bomb, you are). "I. . . I didn't mean . . ." But words are useless when a bomb goes off, when a gun shoots a bullet, when a hammer hits the nail on the head. You are reminded again you are nothing but something disastrous. A destruction in the making. An explosive wrapped in flesh and bone, waiting for the right time to detonate.

"Those were your mother's favorite flowers," she says and her voice is soft—softer than you've ever heard of it. (And you wonder if your grandmother was becoming human in front of you or if she's always been this way and you have simply refused to see it.)

You stare at the petals on the floor, at the blood on Fuyumi's cheek. You stare at the person you forgot was also a mother (did she mourn her daughter so much she forgot to be a mother? Or was Mother also standing in this exact position, years ago, asking why Fuyumi was such a cold excuse for one?).

Your chest heaves. Your lungs burn. Your eyes wet with tears you refuse to shed in front of Fuyumi Imai. You refuse to let her see how deeply she can leave a wound and yank on your heartstrings.

You turn and flee before you can deal any more damage, your footsteps echoing throughout the corridor. The image of those chrysanthemums burned in your mind (a reminder of what you've done, a reminder of what you are).

You and your grandmother don't talk afterwards. Her soft tone becomes a broken record inside your mind, playing a loop you can't escape.

You do everything to distract yourself from the cadence and lilt. You throw yourself into training until your body screams and Amagi-san has to be the one to tell you to stop. You read until the words become a different language. You write letters to no one until your hands cramp.

(Maybe it's a mercy that her mismatched eyes don't linger on you for too long. Maybe it's a mercy she doesn't oversee your practices anymore, doesn't lecture you on control. Maybe it's a mercy she lets you pretend, at least for a little while, that the shattered vase and scattered chrysanthemums never happened

Maybe it's a mercy she doesn't acknowledge you at all.)

The seasons blur together—the florescence of spring, the torridity of summer, the foliage of autumn, and the gelid of snow. Your days follow the same rhythm you've got down to a t—wake before dawn, train with Amagi-san until your bones protest. Lessons with Okumura-sensei where you have progressed from etiquette to household management to navigating politics with a pretty smile. Dinner in silence, your grandmother's presence an absence all on its own.

(You have spent the last ten years reliving the same moments, day after day, until routine become indistinguishable. But now Hikaru is married, and you haven't seen Satoru in over two years. The repetition feels hollow. You are simply going through the motions.)

And when dusk paints the sky, you return to your room. To your books. To your letters. To the spaces where Hikaru used to sneak in. (There's a part of you that still expects him to suddenly slide the door open with Mother's eyes and his smile. You've stopped anticipating. Mostly.)

He makes sure you're not being run ragged by your training sessions, and every letter has him offering to drop everything in Nagano for you if things get too unbearable back at the Imai compound. You never respond to that segment—you can't do that to him. You know he already has a good life out there in Nagano, evident by his letters. You don't want to wreak havoc.

Hikaru also sends you gifts when he can—the more recent one is a new collection of poetry, the pages smelling of fresh ink and the spine uncracked. You have it placed on your shelf next to the worn secondhand book he gave you years ago.

(There are days when the silence grows too heavy, and you trace your fingers over the spines of both books and pretend he's at the edge of your shikibuton, telling you about stupid movies he has found and currently has Tatsuya-kun looking for a contraband copy.)

And then there's Satoru. His letters remain your constant. They arrive at a regular interval and you've learned to ignore the particular way your heart stutters when a courier appears at your door with an envelope bearing the Gojo clan's seal.

Ha-chan,

Yesterday, I had to memorize the last thirty Gojo clan leaders and there were twelve of them named Satoru! Can you believe that? Were my parents really uncreative or was that a sign that I am meant for greatness? Considering I am the only Satoru Gojo with the Six Eyes and Limitless. Guess, you really hit the jackpot with me, huh?

I also overheard the elders talking about this school in Tokyo. It was called Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College. Kind of a mouthful, huh? But they call it Jujutsu High too. Apparently, some sorcerers go there to study and train. I don't think the clans even like the school. They think it's beneath them, and by extension me.

But I've been thinking about it. What if I went? What if I just left?

What do you think?

Yours, Satoru

You read the letter quite a few times before setting, fingers smoothing over the sheet. Jujutsu High. You've read about that place too. The school where sorcerers are trained, sent on missions, and fought curses. They could live. They could die. It's all a gamble (but so is everything in life. Take the risk or lose the chance, right?).

The thought of Satoru leaving Kyoto, leaving the estate, leaving the cage that has surrounded him since birth—you feel a rush of hope for him. Hope that he'll be able to escape from the elder's grasp. Hope that he'll make friends. Hope that he'll be free. All birds deserve to fly.

But there's something else too.

If he goes to Tokyo, he'll be even farther away. The distance between Sapporo and Kyoto is already immense, but Tokyo feels like another world entirely. A place where he'll meet new people, form new friendships, and build a life far away from you.

(Turns out everyone just leaves you.) But you push the thought away. It's selfish (and you've been selfish enough). It's ugly. You refuse to let it take root lest you go insane. Instead, you grab a piece of fresh parchment and begin to write.

Satoru,

You should go. You spent your whole life doing what the elders do, and if you want to go to a place where they'll be far away, then do it. The elders will fight you on it. You already know that, but why should you let them win?

If anyone can force a bunch of old men to change their minds, it's the Great Satoru Gojo. I've seen you argue the superiority of kikufuku over regular mochi for half an hour without breaking a single sweat. I have strong confidence in your abilities.

Go, Satoru. Be selfish for once. The world owes you that much.

Yours, Ha-chan.

You send the letter before you can second-guess yourself, pressing it into the Gojo clan's courier's hands with instructions to deliver it as quickly as possible.

And you realize you are not a patient person.

Autumn makes way for winter. The leaves fall, the air grows a tad bit cold, and the first snow of the season arrives in early October. It's earlier than usual, the servants murmur something about an ill omen. You watch it fall through your window, letting the small specks of white kiss the ground before evaporating.

Satoru doesn't respond. A week passes. Then two. Then three.

You tell yourself it's fine. He's just busy and probably fighting with the elders on the Jujutsu High matter and too exhausted to write. Or maybe the letter got lost. That happens sometimes with clan correspondence. (What if he's changed his mind? What if your letter was too bold, too presumptuous? What if he realized that your opinion doesn't matter?)

You throw yourself into training with a vigor that even Amagi-san has to sometimes to stop you and make you take a break. Your body protests but you push through anyway, driven by a ferocity that borders on desperation. You can hold Rupture for thirty seconds now—thirty seconds of fission made manifest in your palms before the daughter fragments destabilize and scatter and eventually explode in your face. The first time you hit twenty seconds, you had been so excited that you lost focus entirely and accidentally blew a hole through one of the training dummies.

December eventually arrives with its display of grandeur. The snow falls thicker than it has in years and the servants whisper more about the bad women. The garden disappears beneath the white, the koi ponds freezes over and the servants work in shifts to keep the paths clear, but the snow always returns, persistent and patient.

You let it fall, this time. You watch it through your window and you don't cry. Hikaru's letters still continue to show up when they can. He's been overseeing a minor branch of the Narukami clan down south, somewhere in Kyushu. He writes about Momo and the comfort and support she brings him, and how brilliant she is in being herself.

You smile at that, despite everything. Despite the distance, despite Kyoto's silence, despite the hollow ache in your chest that hasn't disappeared ever since Hikaru got in that car. At least he's happy. At least one of you is.

In the end, the letter arrives on the tenth of December, three days after Satoru's fifteenth birthday (you had sent him a letter a week before his birthday so it would arrive in time).

You're reading in your room when a servant slides the door open, breathless from running all around the place. They place the envelope onto your hands before hastily leaving. The envelope bears the Gojo seal, and your heart —such a traitorous thing—sings.

My dearest Ha-chan,

I know I haven't written. I know. You're probably furious with me and you have every right to be. But I promise that I have a good reason.

I did what you said and I fought those old geezers. I won!

It wasn't easy. There were so many meetings, Ha-chan. I had to sit through hours of stinky, old men telling me why I couldn't go, why it was beneath me, why the clan's reputation would suffer. I had to make threats, promises, and negotiations like my life depended on it. But, hey, I won! I'm going to Tokyo. I start in April. Those asshats won't really let me off the hook, though. They want me to do a genpuku ceremony before I leave. It's some traditional nonsense to prove that I'm still tied to the clan and that I'm not abandoning them. It's supposed to happen at the end of February.

I hate it but I agreed because it was the only way they'd let me go. Besides, I made them agree to something in return. I want you there, Ha-cha. I need you there. The ceremony is going to be miserable enough without having to suffer through it alone. If the elders want me to play their little traditional games then the Imai clan gets an invitation which means you get an invitation.

Please come. It's been so long since I've seen you. The letters do help but they're not the same. I want to see your face, hear your voice and show you how much bigger the koi has gotten. I want to sit with you in the garden and listen to you read. The Imai clan can't turn down an offer from the Gojo clan, can they? The formal invitation should arrive at the compound alongside this letter, I made sure it was the first invitation sent.

I've missed you. More than I know how to write.

Yours, Satoru

You read the letter once. Twice. Thrice. Until your hands are shaking and there's a pressure behind your eyes making your vision blur.

He fought the elders. He won. He's going to Tokyo.

And he wants you at his genpuku ceremony.

You press the letter to your chest and let out a breath you didn't know you have been holding. The relief is a high—dizzying, overwhelming, and a rush of warmth that cuts through the December cold like sunlight.

Following Satoru's word, the formal invitation has been delivered to Fuyumi's desk. It's addressed to her and requests the honor of her presence and the presence of Haretsu at the genpuku ceremony of Gojo Satoru, to be held on February 27th at the Gojo estate in Kyoto.

You are summoned to her office and you find yourself face-to-face with your grandmother after a long, long period of silence and cold stares. (Mercy, right?). The scar on his cheek has faded into a thin line, barely visible in the dim light of the room.

"I'm sure you're aware the Gojo clan has sent an invitation," she says, breaking the running silence. "For the Gojo boy's genpuku ceremony."

"I want to go."

The words hang in the air. Fuyumi's expression doesn't change—when does it ever, really—but something glimmers in her eyes before she blinks it away.

"You assume I would refuse," she says, an eyebrow raised. Fuyumi sets down her brush with the same deliberate movement you've witnessed a hundred times before folding her hands on her desk. She regards you with an expression that is not quite cold and not quite warm.

"The Imai clan has been invited," she says. "It would be improper if I were to decline, and leave the Haretsu behind."

Relief floods through you, so sudden and keen that it leaves you a little lightheaded. "So, then, can I go?"

"You will." She pauses. "The Gojo boy requested your presence. It would be a dreadful stain on our clan and its politics to refuse him." Of course, politics. It's always politics with her but you don't care. You don't care about her politics, her reasons, her endless play on the invisible board that only she and other elders can see. All that matters is that you're going, and you're going to Kyoto and you're going to see Satoru.

"Thank you," you say. The words leave a strange taste on your tongue. You can't remember the last time you thanked your grandmother. You can't remember saying anything positive to her.

Fuyumi inclines her head—if the thanks affected her, she doesn't show it. "The ceremony is in February. You will need appropriate attire. I will inform the servants. Until then, wait."

"Okay." A beat of silence before another. You feel the weight of unsaid things pressing against you, against any surface of the room, against the walls before you stand up and bow.

Before you can slide the door open, your grandmother's voice stops you. "Your mother," Fuyumi says suddenly and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. "She attended a genpuku ceremony once for a cousin. She was younger than you are now."

You don't know what to say. You don't know why she's telling you this. Fuyumi never talks about your mother like this, she doesn't bring her up unless she uses it against you. The words feel like a gift and a knife to the stomach at the same time.

"She complained about the furisode she was wearing," she continues, her voice and expression distant, reliving a memory (you wonder if she was a mother there). "She especially complained about the obi being too tight. She then spent the entire ceremony fidgeting."

A wistful smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "That sounds like her."

"It does." Fuyumi's eyes meet yours and for one moment, the ice cracks and Frankenstein receives a heart. "You have her stubbornness and her temper."

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "About the chrysanthemums."

Fuyumi is silent for a long moment before she picks up her brush and turns her attention back to the documents piled on her desk. "You are dismissed."

You bow again and slide the door open before sliding it shut behind you once you exit. The corridor is empty, the light of winter filtering through the thin, latticed frames. Outside, the snow continues to fall and blankets the garden, the pond, the stone lanterns. It covers everything in its familiar white—persistent, patient and everlasting.

The cycle continues. When has it stopped?

February can't come fast enough and you grow restless with anticipation once the new year passes. The flight to Kyoto is a long and exhausting one, and you find yourself a little sluggish once the plane lands (in your defense, it has been a while since you've ridden a plane), but you become more alert once you and your grandmother arrive at the Gojo estate.

The estate has transformed since your last visit—lanterns line the pathways and the banners bearing the clan's crest flutter in the breeze. The ceremony takes place in the Gojo's estate oldest hall, a space that hasn't been opened for centuries until the key that is Gojo Satoru. You kneel alongside with your grandmother beside you, posture straight. You look down on your homongi and can't help but think of your mother fidgeting in her own furisode and complaining about her obi.

His cursed energy wraps around your shoulders before you see him. Satoru enters and everyone in the hall snaps their head toward his presence. His hair is shorter than the last time but, gods, is he tall. His eyes, twin stars, sweep the assembly with his all-seeing blue (a god, he is). His eyes find yours and the storm of his blue pacifies.

The ceremony unfolds as one would expect—there are rites and there are rituals. Satoru's face is blank but collected as the rite continues. (But you know better—he hates this. His cursed energy buzzes rather than hums, and there is tension in the set of his shoulders. But he endures. He endures because this is freedom's cost, because Tokyo is waiting on the other side, because he is the strongest and even the strongest must bow sometimes.)

The priest places an eboshi cap on his head and it's done.

The reception that follows is filled with veiled alliances and concealed scrutiny. You slip away as soon as decorum allows, your feet carrying through the familiar corridors until you find yourself standing in the garden. The snow has mostly been cleared, but you can still see some of them sticking onto the branches. Gyoza and Mochi are still swimming in lazy circles .

The familiar hum of his cursed energy reaches you and you hear his footsteps, quick and eager as they stomp against the ground. A whisper of your name and, finally, you turn around. And there he is, still in his ceremonial robes, hair a little mussed, and his cheeks are flushed. The god has left the heavens, and he is just Satoru again. Your Satoru, grinning that same cheeky grin.

Your feet move before your brain can catch up. Your arms are suddenly thrown around his neck, and he finds the dip of your waist. He laughs, bright and startled before he lifts you off the ground—spinning you once, twice until the world is nothing but the warmth of his arms and the sound of his laughter.

"Did you miss me that much, Ha-chan?" he teases, setting you down but not letting you go.

"Oh, shut up." You roll your eyes and he holds you tighter.

Eventually you two part, enough to look at each other. He plops down on the ground, near the pond and grabs you before you could do the same. You shoot him a glare but he only grins.

"Where's your cap?" you ask, hands reaching out to play with the white crown. He preens at your attention.

"Threw it away." His eyes are half-lidded. "They made me look ugly."

"You could never look ugly." The words escape you and your face heats up with embarrassment when you realize what you've just said. Satoru's eyes snap open, blue bright with delighted surprise.

"Ha-chaan, was that a compliment? Did you just admit I'm handsome?"

"You're hallucinating, Satoru."

"The Six Eyes don't hallucinate. I don't hallucinate." He catches your wrist gently and presses it against his cheek. His skin is warm despite the February chill. "Come ooon, say it again."

"No."

"Ack! So cold . . . "

You try to pull your hand back, but he keeps it cradled against his face. The garden is quiet except for the occasional crickets and the splish-splash of Goyza and Mochi. In the distance, there is the faint sound of the reception that drifts through the corridors but none of it reaches you here.

"So, Tokyo." You finally reclaim your hand and at his dejected pout, you intertwine your fingers with his.

"Tokyo." His grin returns in full force. "I leave in April. Can you believe it? No more elders breathing down my neck, and no more meetings with those old bastards."

"Sounds fun."

"Sounds real fun." He rests his head on your shoulder and nuzzles against your neck. "The school's in the mountains and then there's this barrier from Tengen-sama. There are dormitories, training grounds, the whole deal. I heard there's even a vending machine that sells kikufuku with edamame and cream filling!"

"You're leaving the most powerful sorcerer clan in Japan for . . . kikufuku?"

"You make me sound like a glutton." His voice then softens when he says your name. "I wish you could come with me."

You stare at the koi, at their lumpy bodies moving through the dark water. "The Imai clan would never allow it," you say quietly. "Grandmother wants me to stay in the clan until I get married, she wants me to train and then do more training."

"But what if they did?" He sits up, suddenly serious and his cursed energy stills. "What if I could convince them? What if I could find a way to get you to Jujutsu High?"

"Satoru—"

"I'm being serious. The school takes students from all clans. Apparently, the Inumaki clan plans to send one of their clan kids when the kid comes of age. If they can do it, why can't the Imai?"

"You know why, Satoru. It's the same reason your elders don't want you to leave Kyoto. They would rather lock me in the compound until our wedding day than let me set foot in Tokyo where they aren't controlling my every move."

He sighs. "I'll find a way," he promises. "I don't know how yet but I will."

You look at him—the determination that burns fire in his blue eyes and you feel something swoop inside your chest. Hope. Stupid, reckless, terrifying hope. (You have learned not to hope. Hope was what made you believe Hikaru would stay. Hope was what made you think your grandmother might one day look at you and see her granddaughter. Hope is a wound waiting to happen. But with Satoru, it's very hard not to hope.)

"It would be nice," you say. "Going to Tokyo. Meeting new people and making friends." You pause. "Seeing you without having to have to wait for days or years."

"You won't have to wait anymore once we're in Tokyo. I'll make it happen, Ha-chan." He leans closer, and you can feel his breath on your lips. "That's a promise."

Your eyes glance at his pretty lips before shying away. "That's a big promise, Satoru." (Oh, you don't know what you do to his heart when you say his name like that. Lay all your love on him and he'll do the rest.)

"I'll keep them." And then a god leans down from his high heaven and seals a covenant to your mouth.

(You have been many things—a womb, a weapon, a pawn on an invisible board, Rupture, Haretsu, Mother and Father's daughter, Hikaru's sister. But you are also Satoru's anchor, the impetus for a god's mortality, and a girl being kissed by a boy who tore himself from the heavens just to kneel at your feet.)

April had arrived like a thief in the night, stealing Satoru from Kyoto and unloading him into the mountains of Tokyo, into dormitories, training grounds and a vending machine that supposedly sells kikufuku with edamame and cream filling.

He had sent a letter within the first week, detailing the beauties of Jujustu High and how, unfortunately, the vending machine rumor was just a rumor (he had his grievances that spanned three pages). There are two other students in his year—a girl who smokes too much she might as well be a chimney and a boy with "weird bangs". You laughed when you read it.

April left and May took over. The hydrangeas started to unfurl, their purple and blues bowing heavy with the morning dew. The Imai compound remained constant, as it always did, as it always would be. Training with Amagi-san. Lessons with Okumura-sensei. Meals taken in silence beneath your grandmother's clinical gaze.

Rinse and repeat. The only saving grace was the occasional letters from Hikaru (he and Momo are expecting), and when you could get a letter from Satoru. He hasn't sent anything since April, and it was already May—nearing June.

(It's fine, you tell yourself. He's the Six Eyes, the strongest sorcerer of your generation. He is busy with missions and classes and making friends who saw an idiot instead of a god.

You are happy for him, you are. But you can't help but feel pain. Was he really going to leave and forget you exist? Were you just something convenient he kept around to cure his loneliness? Would he only remember you if the wedding came?)

The garden is beautiful in spring. The koi swim in their never-ending circles. The hydrangeas nodding their heavy heads. The sky is a pale, cloudless blue. But it's not his blue, nothing like the heart of the star, nothing like a supernova in the making.

You miss him. The admission sits heavy on your chest. You miss the exaggerated stories in his letters and his ugly handwriting. You miss his voice. You miss the weight of his cursed energy wrapping around your shoulders. You miss Satoru.

"The Gojo boy didn't write anything to you?"

Amagi-san's voice startles and you turn to find them leaning against the entrance of the engawa, an amused expression on their face. They have forgone the formality with you and they are your only friend in the compound,

"Snooping now, are we?" You roll your eyes but gesture at them to sit down next to you and they do so—quite happily.

"Not really. I figured he hasn't written anything since you've been looking constipated throughout training sessions," they tease you, nudging your shoulder.

You let out an indignant gasp. "I do not look constipated! Why does everyone think that?"

Amagi-san laughs and ruffles your hair. "Calm down, kid. He's probably just busy with whatever he does in that little school."

"Yeah, you're probably right . . ."

Your trainer glances at you, taking in the way your shoulders have slumped with dejection and the obvious disappointment in your face. Their expression softens.

"Hey," they say gently. "I'm sure he misses you just as much as you miss him. You know him better than anyone and if that boy could write you a letter everyday he would." A reassuring smile. "Don't lose hope. The letter will come, just wait."

At that moment, a servant enters the engawa and bows, holding out an envelope with the familiar clan seal that takes your breath away. Amagi-san smirks as they watch you pluck the letter from the servant's hands and smooth over the delivery.

"Well, I'll be doing some sightseeing." Their eyes land on the scenery in front of you. "In your garden."

You can only nod, feeling every burden on your shoulders lift. Your heart thuds heavily in your ribcage, threatening to escape. You take a deep breath before breaking the seal and taking out the letter inside. You smile at Satoru's familiar handwriting.

My dearest, Ha-chan,

I know, I know. It's been a while since I sent a letter. You're probably furious with me, cursing my name with whatever spell you could find in your books, and thinking, "Satoru has forgotten all about me, Satoru is too busy with his fancy-schmancy school in Tokyo, Satoru is the worst fiancé in the history of arranged marriages."

First of all, ouch. Second of all, you're wrong. I haven't forgotten you, how could I forget you? Do you know how many times I've started writing a letter only to be dragged away by some mission or training or to attend some stupid class. Suguru, the guy with the weird bangs, keeps telling me my handwriting sucks and I want to fight him but, unfortunately, can keep up with me. Shoko doesn't help either! She's the one that smokes. She says things that I'm honestly thankful they are words or else they would have cut through my Infinity.

Sometimes, Suguru and I follow her because she hides whenever she smokes. Do you think she's like your Okumura-sensei? Yesterday, she caught us following us and threatened to leak . . . state secrets to Yaga-sensei so now we have to be more subtle about it. Yaga-sensei is our teacher and he looks like a bear and acts like one too. He makes these cursed corpses that move, fight and stalk students to tattle on them when they blow up training equipment. Suguru was the one who blew it up, by the way! Yaga-sensei gave us a lecture and I think I fell asleep with my eyes open. He threatened to make a cursed corpse of me so he could punch it whenever I misbehaved. Can you believe that? No one can capture my beauty!

But enough about them. I miss you. I miss you so much that I feel like I'm going stupid. Sometimes, I wake up and find myself reaching for you, like I could just wake up and you would be right there, smiling at me. Have I ever told you look beautiful when you smile? Well, I'm telling you now.

And I'm also telling you that I did it. You're coming to Tokyo. It took so many meetings and so many arguments and so many ugly old men with their old man opinions. But I'm THE Gojo Satoru and I never lose. The Jujutsu High administration has agreed to accept you as a student, and the higher-ups and elders have agreed not to interfere. All that's left is the Imai clan's formal acceptance and they won't refuse. Not when the higher-ups are involved and I've made it sure that they WON'T refuse. By the time you read this, the official invitation should already be on its way to your grandmother.

When the hydrangeas bloom, you'll leave for Tokyo and you'll finally be here with me. I promised you I'd bring you here and I kept my promise.

I'll see you soon.

Signed, Your Satoru

"Amagi-san! I'm going to Tokyo!"

this was actually supposed to have 10-12k words but i got carried away w the prose, in general this fic had a handful of "supposed to be" LMFAOO i hope you enjoyed reading!!

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