#parallel paths

Converging Paths | Gyutaro

Word Count: 4284

Setting: modern!Gyutaro x gn!reader (platonic)

Content Warning(s): mentions of psoriasis, child neglect, abuse

Summary: an unlikely meeting between former opponents.

A/N: due to the modern world’s perinatal care, congenital syphilis is not as likely to occur in the majority of first-world countries such as Japan, I’ve opted for a non-specific skin condition as there are a number of conditions that can easily be confused for syphilis (and an attached stigma) to express a more modern experience.

Fresh and earthy, the crips scent that carried the impending summer weather touched upon the breeze that drifted between the slips of sheer curtains. Rolled with each breeze, touched upon citrus, and unnamed flowers, small touches of salt that carried upon the light air. Air that pressed against your skin, the small touch of sweat that threatened its way through your bangs, as the scent of bamboo caught upon your nose. Warmed your breast and dampened the mundane task of paddling the musk from classroom. Stroke the fibers one against another, paused breaths as the fine dust formed clouds upon the drafted classroom air.

The small respite of a breeze that greeted the crept of the windows, pressed between fingers that grasped upon the panes. Locked at the tips, as your classmates greeted the summer day. Small clips of commodity pressed between giggles, squeezed into the idle chatter from behind you as the distinct stifled yawns caught on the edge of another. Your own gaze drifted at the task of hand; nose slightly wrinkled at the press of the coarse material between your fingers. Stale, and uninterested in entertaining the gossip of the remaining assigned cleaning crew. Chatter that spewed latest gossips, delighted in rumors of recent lovers, cooed over split pairings, tossed in flirtatious remarks, and purred wishful encounters. The humdrum of junior high school girls fantasizing of unlikely rendezvous unremarkable amongst the drifting summer day. Routine and mundane expected as the small hushed utters that had fallen as you rolled up your sleeves, subjecting yourself to the task at hand as well as the murmurs that passed between clasped hands.

Though the school year had passed without incident, the consistent shuffling of those assigned club activities, cram schools, and drawn repeated rough drafts had ensured your cleaning companions were rarely repeat classmates and remained subjected to the onslaught of pressed smiles. Murmurs whispered at the catch of the bumps that kissed at your flesh, splattered amongst your skin in abstract formations. Raised edges of blossomed bumps that met the day’s air, less inflamed than the remainder of patches touches of salmon that dipped into shades of China rosed. Agitated hues of carmine red and blistered at the scrape of your school uniform that clasped at your elbows, the scratch of the collar pinned and aching.  Dry and irritable abrasions that littered your forearms, the depths of your condition had always surprised your peers despite the notable fall of scars that lined your cheeks, touched beneath your eyes as though the fallen beauty of spring, succumbed petals of winter seared into your skin.

              The hush of the girls piercing and low, small, pressed whispers amongst each other. One that expressed concerns, questioned your condition and ability to complete the chore of cleaning the chalkboard and erasers. While the disgust met the other girl’s, clear and reprimanding recoiled her willingness to offer further interactions. Openly berating the kindness of her friend for the harrowing realities such conditions could bear, hissed well intended warnings to her confidant, insisted horrors of shared medical conditions. Bore similarities to the ostracizing of lepers, uneducated disgusted dripped in fears of unfamiliar circumstances.

The small sigh pressed between your lips as your eyes met at the sleeve rolled to your elbow as your worked in discomfort. The tip of her voice tainted with repugnance though you had known all too well that her ire was born of miscomprehension. Drawn in silence, pressed at your lips, whispered the small touch of a bitter smile. All too familiar and understandable. The pressed smiles of customer service employees who did their best to maintain a professional air between close encounters; mothers who hushed manners and disbursed their children’s inquiries. The shock of would-be suitors whose attraction and devotion changed at a moment’s notice. Confusion and ill ease, fears born of contamination, admirers distraught at your growing disfigurement as they mourned your delicate features. The sympathies of the educated, melancholy smiles that shattered with pity. Though you knew all too well your classmate’s concerns and understood all too well that it was born of fear, but the pain that it bore was all too familiar as you allowed soft sigh to release between your lips, your shoulders to relax, as you scrubbed the board.

              “Oi, Takahashi, take a look at this,” Morita hummed, fingers pressed against a cloth between the windowpanes, having slid the windows in his duties. Dark eyes drew forward the tilt of his head, beckoning his friend forward.

One of the few reoccurring encounters you had had in the school year, Takahashi nonchalant in his interactions with you lent itself to the bored yawn he tucked not his hand. Disconcert at the tilt of his own head, eyes that found the courtyard. “Hmm?” Mused and jaded as the stale gaze as his brown eyes fluttered out the window. “Geez, you think he’d just ignore them.” The sigh pressed and sympathetic at the toss of his head.

“How can he? They never leave him alone,” Morita sighed, shaking his head.

“Hey, [LN],” Takahashi waved you over, “do you know this guy, you know with—well…” small gesture that wiggled over his own cheeks. Absolutely lacking in any situation awareness despite the dig of Morita’s elbow in his side.

Gestured to the windows, the sigh evident on your breath shaking your head, placed the erasers to the board before allowing your uwabaki to scrap against the flooring. Heavy foot that bore your unwillingness to endure whatever drama the school yard to drudge up for entertainment. Hand against the window seal fingers touched upon the warm glass at the scene before you. Four third years considering the size difference against one second year, the small details of their school motifs, a small indicator of their class year. The older boys standing a bit taller, the jostle of their laughter crude and near unbearable.

Mocking, and antagonizing, taunting that drew inspiration from the lower classman’s physical. Small gestures of drawing attention to the under dog’s facial features. Another upperclassmen, Okada from 3D if you remembered correctly—a real ass slumped over, as if to mock the natural dip of the boy’s shoulders that folded down. The tuck of his head, the small of his chin sharp from what you could tell as it dipped to his collar bone. Bones that met at joints, skin that plunged into the gaps, wary and tired as it endured the weight of its own skeleton. Muscles that strained, rocked from heel to heel, the dip of thin, spindle fingers that caught at his elbows. Tucked into himself, paper-thin eyelashes that attenuated round eyes. Sunken inwards, exhausted, and warn down. Trembled lips that caught on jagged teeth, the junior high boy anxiously surveying the older boys, searching for an escape. The touch of nervous chartreuse eyes that strayed, averted gazes, and jumbled at the clear snip of a voice that wrangled from his bones.  A mop of hair that captured a spring bud’s emerging warmth, touched upon a shade only pears could envy. Hs voice graveled, and nervous, the small reveal of anger beginning to furrow. Purce flesh bumped against abrasion. The litter of corrosion, rashes, and bumps that marred his complexion gave way to scars. “Shabana, Class 2C,” Morita sighed sympathetically. The met of his eyebrows as he shook his head, “poor guy really knows how to attract them.”

Shabana’s clumsy steps drawn backwards, shattered at the back of the schooling as your eyes followed the scene through the second-floor window. The snippets of conversation leave little to the imagination—it would appear the second year had made the mistake of growing brave in the past week. The staunched remarks a common form of entertainment for the upperclassmen, was unappreciative of the sudden growth of character of their target, called into action the audacity of the boy daring to retort back to his senpais, now corralled the mid classman as though he were livestock. Flanked from all sides, jeers, and taunts open and available with only onlookers offering sympathetic regards. None daring to impart intervention nor step their foot into the affairs-- Okada was notorious for his fowl temper, a junior high student that stood a near foot taller than everyone else. The rumor mill had circulated him for some time, murmured mentions of gang activity, others depicted that he had been held back (not that you would be surprised, he lacked any form articulation, and his grades were…), and the occasional swore that he was in fact a grown man with a wife and child at home masquerading as a junior high student. Yet, there was a quiver in Shabana’s bones, the nervous ache that met a small snarl, a pup with a little bite left to bear. “Take it back,” he growled, his eyebrows quivering as they met the height of his sunken state. “Take back what you said about Ume, now.”

“Ha,” the grin blossomed across Okada’s features. Met at a crude state, snickered shamelessly. Eyes that met his lackeys with a scoff, “nah, little bastard. Everyone here knows what a slut your little sister is, it’s only a matter of time before she’s screaming my name.”

The crack was shattering. Cracked knuckles, threatened to shatter on contact. The snarl undeniably, suddenly dripped with distain. Tainted in wrath and coiled as a snake that threatened to strike a second blow furrowed at the gnash of his jagged teeth rolled in the sway of his collar bone and uneven at the rock of his bones. “I said. TAKE IT BACK.” Rolled at the sway of interlopers, Okada’s features morphed and surprised. The bruising already beginning to set. The odds of four against one as clear as the track of the window wretched open beneath your hands, and the memories that flooded your senses. Drew you backwards, as though stepped through time, through memories left in another life, your reaction no longer your own, but of a ghost who guided your movements as you slipped out the second floor window.

His head hurt. His head, really hurt. The ache across his cranium came in waves, thundered against the cap of his skull. Slammed as though he had rattled his brain, his teeth shook with each breath as his thin eyelashes batted lazily. His thoughts felt jumped, Gyuutarou struggled to grasp his surroundings. Grappled with his cognition, the faint recollections… a fight? No? Ah wait, there had been something. He had been made, madder than he had been in a long time. The last time he could recall being dragged to the depths of such hatred had been at the hands of one of his mother’s temporary flings, and before that… Who had it been?

The press of memories, small and insignificant in away he could not grasp. The mangle of chartreuse hair, jaundice in appearance. Sickly and deformed, jagged teeth dipped in blood. Revenged as a nightmare amongst the night sky—no, it wasn’t that he could not recall. When he squeezed his eyes, when his conscious threatened to fade to sleep, when his mother had slapped him harder than expected, or the shake of her boyfriend enough to rattle his teeth—there were glimpses. Fleeting. Small recollections of a battle, of morbid curiosities and a misplaced soft smile that met his blade. A tender smile, soft and understanding, far more connected than a stranger passing on the street, but in his entire life, he had never been able to place whose smile it had belong to, and to be greeted with the faint recollection dipped into his groggy state as his yellow-green eyes traced the clouds above, it left a gnawing impression. Ume, that’s right. He had gotten his ass handed to him.

            Gyuutarou needed to get up; he knew this. Knew his little sister was likely waiting for him at the school gates, if she had not already gone home to prepare dinner. He could feel the crack of dried blood that met his pursed lips—he needed to wash up. Needed to scrub all evidence of the scuffle from his complexion. It was something, he couldn’t quite put in to words. Displaced understanding, but ah, it may have been the concussion forming at his temple. The touch of the blades of grass beneath his hands, it had always been this way, or at least so he thought. Some small touch of a promise, a soft smile—he didn’t want Ume to see him this way. He wanted to grow, to ensure they left their mother’s dingey apartment. College, Gyuutarou wanted his little sister to go to college. The crushing sigh that slipped between his lips.

            “Awake?” your voice resonated in his ears. Soft, curious, but its sudden intrusion left him off center. Nervous. Drew him from his laid-back position. Shocked and furrowed, back arched as an irritated, cautious cat that threatened to yowl.  Positioned to his side, unbothered by the pass of day to night. The quiet of the school yard, students slipped home from clubs, bid farewell to friends and retreated to home. The touch of a popsicle between your lips as you peeked at him curiously, “You’ve been out for a few hours.”

Nonchalant and smooth, pressed between the blue popsicle. Comforted against summer, allowing your fingers to rummage across the remainder of the package. Procuring its partner and probing it forward. Offering to share. The littler of your scars at the high of your cheeks, the soft gaze of your eyes as your eyes met their own. Blisters that formed marred the soft roundness of your cheeks. Dainty features that would draw the envy of his mother, and furrow of his sister. Black hair as luminous as spilled ink, and thick eyelashes could make a mockery of any doll. The small press of the popsicle, as he cautiously eyed the offering before allowing you to press the stick between his fingers. His eyes left to wander from the treat, back to you, and back again. Confused? Was it his head? No, no this was weird, odder was the touch of nostalgia. The touch of peace that threatened to dull his senses, whispered comfort and reassurance in a way he could not trace. Nor comprehend. The frayed edges of his nerves slipping from his fingertips oblivious to the way the corner of his mouth caught at the kind offer. Drew forth a shy smile, as his eyes traced the popsicle given by a complete stranger.  “It appears not much has changed in 200 years.”

            Gyuutarou Shabana could feel his soul quiver. As though a broken piece of himself had been set to a flame, vibrated in a frequency unheard amongst any other as his eyes met your own. Shattered memories. Mashed together, slowly than quickly. Rattled his consciousness, slammed his bones, left his thoughts reeling. As though it were a track that threatened to skip. Small snippets as though a movie tape that had been torn from its hinges. Scenes of blood, of battered bones, shattered ribs, reeked of lavish perfumes, and the soft glow of a smile that met his gaze. Recollections slowly glued back together as the soft glow of your smile upon him once more, just as it had so many years ago.

 “But I have to say… Oni-chan, you look beautiful when you smile.”

Modern Day Headcanons | Gyuutarou Shabana

Since reincarnating, Gyuutaro has tried his hardest to turn things around. He has done his best to ensure that Ume is raised properly this time around, but that doesn’t mean that the stars have aligned for him.

Once again, fates have left him in a neglectful mother’s care. One who would opt to entertain her current boyfriend, even if it means abandoning her children to their own devices for weeks on end. The earliest back he can recall being left to fend for Ume and himself was when he was only six years old. Terrified and doing his best to cook packaged ramen on the stove using his step stool. His mother had sold the microwave to chase her addiction.

He caught on early on through his school education, that what a mother was, or what a mother should be was not what he had been given, and though he was little and could not understand the abuses he endured, and often faced at the flare of her temper, or those of her most recent fling, some small part of Gyutaro clung to the faint reminders of a soft smile.

In the hopes that one day, someone might smile for him like those of his memories.

So, he pressed forward.

Gyutaro continued to get rise early every morning even in his first years of elementary to prepare Ume for the day. He would wake up long before his little sister’s alarm went off, crept throughout the small run down apartment for fear of waking his mother, and gather small breakfast items together.

Then, he would wake his sister, brush her hair, do his best to style it in a way she liked he melted with pride when she delights in her hairstyle. Gyutaro helps dress her, and often if she’s too tired from listening to their mother’s arguments with her supposed lovers, he would carry her to the babysitter before taking off for school.

Skipped meals to be able to buy her a birthday cake.

When she entered elementary school, he realized that all of the other children had bentos lovingly packed by their parents. Up until now, he simply skipped lunch to ensure he had money for Ume. So, he set to work doing his best to clumsily peel apples, cook rice, and pack lunch. It- It wasn’t cute at first, and at one point he felt a deep sense of shame before wandering back to the babysitter who had cared for Ume all of those years, a little granny in the neighborhood before asking her to teach him.

He swallowed his little pride.

Ume never cared how messy her lunches were, she would punch any kid in the face who said anything about her brother’s bentos.

His skin condition is miserable, without proper care, Gyuutarou has been left to suffer the symptoms of his condition. He’s often itchy, blistered, and his bones ache, but he has never allowed Ume to catch him feeling this way.

His mother never prioritized taking care of him, and so, Gyuutarou simply did his best with the basic hygiene knowledge he acquired through television cartoon shows, and remedies offered by the school nurse. At night when Ume is already in bed, he will slip out frozen cooked rice to place on his recent flare ups for just a moment of peace.

As you can imagine, even in the modern era, Gyuutarou has not lived an easy life, but he clings to the small snippets of a memory, one in which a stranger smiles at him, and another person sought better for their sister. He tells himself he can do it too.

He’s clinging.

As a child, Gyuutarou is… well, he’s what you would expect as a child of abuse and impoverish areas. He’s quite, withdrawn from his peers. Any opportunity to connect to others is nearly snubbed out, and as his flareups began to occur with no medical care, his isolation hit a peak. He grew accustomed to his classmates either pretending he didn’t exist, or prayed they would forget him.

Frequently a victim of bullying.

Did his best to hide his face when he would pick Ume up from school, worried he would embarrass her.

A really, really sweet kid who just wanted attention. Clung to the first teacher who gave him attention. Regularly continues to greet them, even after he has long since left their class.

Really, he tends to cling to anyone who showed him any attention, or kindness in his youth. Routinely greets Ume’s old babysitter, has really just adopted her as his old grandma.

Let’s be honest, no matter how good of a friend you are, Ume and Gyuutarou have hit a delinquent era in their later junior high to early high school years. I wouldn’t say they are as dark as their pat life in the Meiji Era (I mean, they’re not eating anyone).

It’s- It’s to be expected.

For Ume, you can expect a lot of behaviors to dance into her prior life as an oiran.

However, for Gyuutarou, there will be moments where he slips into his old self. No so much out of pride, but rather as a protective layer. The easiest way to cope with rejection, is more often than not to reject those around you.

So, he does.

He becomes louder, noticeably bristled when people stare.

Fowl language, is known for casually using obscene language.  Tattoos, piercing, finding comfort in the alternative aesthetic. Let’s be honest—the prep look will not work out for him. There is also the issue of his own skin conditions, the starch often used for the fine lined clothes are more likely to irritate him. Where as the  vintage clothes have a tendency to have the “worn out” affect, softer material, and tension pulled from them.

They just don’t irritate his skin as much as the more mainstream clothing.

Actually, I would believe Gyuutarou has an anxiety disorder of some sort causing him to pick at his blemishes, further irritating his rash.

Scratch that, Gyutaro in the modern world very well could have Sensory Processing Disorder. Sensitivity to the noise and blusting around him, agitated by the noise and lights, distaste of perfumes, or sticky textures. Being TOUCHED. Wearing shoes! I can see it I can see it, but this could also be a manifestation of abuse. Must be investigated.

Gyuutarou takes a lot of your advice seriously. If you are the more rational type, he at times may use you as a sort of guide—a conscious to consider if this is the best course of action. The truth is that he has no real guardian in his life, and without a proper guidance, he’s worried that he will (again) ruin Ume’s life, and because of this, he takes any of your counsel into great consideration.

However, this is not always the case.

There are times, where his anger gets the best of him, where his circumstances, his upbringing in this life and the last overwhelm him, threaten to drown him indesolation. He becomes biting, lashing out to those around him, even his little sister. Desperate to flee, eager to seclude himself. To turn away from the outside world, from school, from his sister, from his duties, and even you, his best friend.

Depression is a common issue for Gyuutarou, and one that he will grapple with admitting to. It’s not that he’s embarrassed per say, but—who would really care how he feels? Struggles with self-worth for obvious reasons.

I headcanon that the reader from parallel paths was reunited with their mother in the modern world, born to her in a healthy condition, one in which she does not have to bid you farewell. Fiercely protective of you--- fretting if you are remembering to take your medicine, your ointment for your skin condition. Ready to beat anyone who dares say anything about your blemishes.

She’s beautiful, as lovely as the oiran of the past, but there’s an unspoken beauty. A softness, warmth in her regards. Life that was not there, she has fully adapted to the modern expectatiosn of a house wife—in fact, finds a joy in having the opportunity to actually RAISE you. An overly doting mother.

Happily welcomes Gyuutaro and Ume’s drop ins when they visit, without so much a comment to their odd state of dress, or the new jewelry addition to Ume’s tongue. Rather, her first response is to look Gyutarou over, touch his cheek, and inquire if they’ve had dinner yet. Of course they haven’t. Always happy to welcome them to the dinner table.

Frets when they insist on leaving—shamelessly pulling out reserved frozen cooked rice, curry, snacks, whatever she can think of. Has taken to having a few snacks on hand for when they pop in.

The obvious pout when Gyutaro and Ume do not spend the night--- she knows that more often than not their mother is not consistent with paying the water bills. Worries about their wellbeing, and frequently slips ointment into Gyutaro’s backpack when no one is looking. Accepts the boy does not want his sister to know, but also understands your own condition enough to know. He. Is. Miserable.

As friends, Gyutarou needs someone who can feel at peace with the world. That can remind him of the simple beauties in every day. The sunrise, and the sunset. The welcome of spring, and cherry blossoms. The touch of snow upon your finger tips, or the tip of your tongue. The small smile upon witnessing the arrival of butterflies, or the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

He’s stressed, and far too captivated by adult responsibilities, that having a friend who reminds him that—well, he’s still a child is essential. Even more is having someone to listen to him. To notice him.