Chapter Text
You don’t follow either of the paths you’re supposed to until a few years later.
You tell yourself it’s because of the overwhelming demands of your profession. As a doctor in an era of ceaseless warfare, the demand for your services is just as ceaseless. You spend your days establishing a new reputation among the local communities; with the advantage of your medical studies abroad, you soon become one of the highest demanded practitioners in the region. Yet, perhaps the security of your standing is a double-edged sword; between treating wounded warriors, concocting remedies for common ailments, and indulging in private experimentation on the side, you have little time to even consider wandering into the wilderness in search of downtrodden maidens or potential demon hunters in the making.
However, the opportunity eventually comes in the form of a summon to one of the most reputable samurai schools of the region.
The master is a warrior you once treated, a man past his prime who tells you about his star pupil, Michikatsu Tsugikuni. He describes Tsugikuni as a genius on the cusp of eclipsing his own master’s accomplishments, and at an age even younger than he himself. He speaks as much of his excellence as he does of his unrelenting habit of overwork, of continuing to train rather than resting his injuries and of sneaking out into the surrounding forests late at night to practise alone. The master hopes that with your charismatic reputation, you will be able to coax the boy to grant his body the reprieve it sorely needs. After all, he laughs, all of the other students seem more than eager to play up their injuries just to be able to visit you when you’re there.
And so you find yourself in a clearing in the sun-dappled evening, where a lone warrior swings his sword while everyone else gathers inside for dinner.
As you approach him, a pang of familiarity strikes you immediately. It is the unmistakable aura of purpose, of the potential for unparalleled strength enough to make waves in a future yet unknown. In both aura and visage, the boy in front of you is a splitting image of Yoriichi, and you are certain that if not twins, they must be brothers. And just like his brother, Tsugikuni is extraordinary.
Though ambitious fighters are not an uncommon sight these days, this boy’s raw determination is a far cry from that of other aspiring warriors you have encountered. There is an anger that simmers beneath each swing, and his eyes glaze over with such a profound emotion – could it be disappointment or disdain? – with every movement falls short of his standards that you can feel something festering within you. You realise it is his resentment, so potent that it sends an electric surge through your veins, the very same adrenaline that powers every swing, and your fingers begin to curl into fists before you manage to quell the building tension with a controlled breath. Maintaining this steady rhythm, you draw closer to the boy, your presence going unnoticed until you’re within earshot.
“Excuse me,” you interject, voice projecting an air of calm assurance that seeks to bridge the gap between his intensity and your intrusion. “I couldn’t help but notice your technique. It’s clear that you possess remarkable physical abilities and a fierce focus.”
His blade halts mid-swing. Tsugikuni lowers his stance and turns to face you, long black tresses swaying about at the movement. His chest heaves from the exertion, but you can tell he tries to suppress it as he regards you with scepticism.
“Who are you? Are you a swordsman?” He asks, as his eyes wander from your elegant robes to your silken gloves. The dichotomy between your appearance and your interference raises his curiosity, but the prowess of his prodigious brother reminds him, bitterly, not to judge solely based on appearances.
You give a slight chuckle, shaking your head. “No, not quite. You could say I’m more of a doctor, a student of medicine.”
“A doctor?” A crease appears between his dark brows, hinting at his disdain toward your intrusion. “What would you know about swordsmanship?”
“While I may not wield a blade, my expertise lies in understanding the intricate workings of the body, how it moves, and how emotions can shape its performance,” you quip, smile widening when you see his frown deepen at your banter. “I’ve also had the opportunity to work closely with many swordsmen in training, much like yourself. Your dedication is evident, but I sense that your emotions may be hindering your true potential.”
His brow furrows further, yet a hint of intrigue flickers in his eyes, ever so keen on improvement in spite of himself. “What do you mean?”
“Your movements are powerful, but there’s a tension in your form that suggests a struggle between your physical prowess and your emotional intensity,” you explain, your gaze meeting his. “It’s as if the frustration you carry is impeding your breath, disrupting the flow of energy through your body.”
Michikatsu’s expression shifts, a mixture of surprise and consideration mingling on his features. “You can tell this merely from watching me?”
That is not the full truth, seeing as you can quite literally feel the extent of his emotions and the impulses that come with them. However, you simply chuckle. “Again, being well-versed in the human body is an integral part of my profession. Will you allow me to suggest a technique that might help you channel your strength more effectively?”
As he listens, you guide him through the basics of controlling his breath, the technique you have harnessed through centuries of struggling to grasp your thoughts and achieving the internal harmony necessary to separate the turmoil of others from your own.
“Breathing is the foundation of your strength,” you emphasise. “By harmonising your breath with your actions, you can find a balance that enhances your physical abilities while allowing your emotions to guide you rather than hinder you.”
He regards you with a mixture of scepticism that is slowly overtaken by curiosity, clearly intrigued by your words. “And you believe this will allow me to reach my full potential?”
“It’s a first step,” you respond, voice gentle yet assured. “The power of focus is immense, but it’s important to channel it in a way that sustains rather than exhausts you.”
He considers your words, gaze shifting back to his sword. The evening sun casts a warm glow over the clearing that paints the metal with a soft amber sheen. In his violet eyes it appears as a fleeting streak, like a meteorite in the night sky that flashes as his gaze meets your own. “I’ll give it a try,” he finally concedes, a subtle new determination kindling in his cool eyes.
“Good,” you nod approvingly. “Ah, and one last thing – training on an empty stomach won’t do you any favours.”
His brows knit back together in displeasure as if he’s about to protest, knowing what will come next, but you continue before he can object. “Do you truly consider it a weakness to care for your body? Even the most skilled warriors need to rest and refuel to perform at their best.”
It’s a sentiment he’s heard many times over, yet this time he doesn’t turn away from it. Rather seeming like a nuisance, it seems like only simple logic when coming from you.
“Consider it a strategic move, investing in your own growth – you’ll need a clear mind if you plan to master that technique, after all.” With that, you turn away, heading back toward the dojo and leaving your supposed patient behind. You offer him the choice between continuing as he has been or heeding your advice, and, feeling a little frustrated, Michikatsu finds himself walking back to the building of his school in your footsteps.
He realises a little too late that you are not just any doctor, but the charming doctor who his peers whisper about in between training sessions – the same doctor who he has made a point to avoid like the plague in the interest of using the empty training rooms while everyone else flocks to your office. He hasn’t once seen you in the flesh, but now that he has, he finds himself understanding why his master refuses to hire you as a resident doctor despite your efficacy. Something about the students – still hormonal teenagers at heart – getting distracted by the prospect of being coddled by such a beautiful person. This is made evident by the way the students seem to swarm you as soon as you appear in the doorway, attempting to usher you to the table as you attempt, in vain, to decline politely.
Yet Michikatsu notices that you do not coddle or scold him as you do with his peers, who thrive from the attention. Instead, you choose to appeal to his own goals in a way that ensures yours are met as well, persuading him to put a hold on training by framing what he would have once deemed slacking as a necessary part of his growth, making it out to ultimately be his own choice rather than a demand of your own. Not only is the doctor beautiful, he concedes, but a surprisingly cunning negotiator as well.
Casting you a sidelong glance as he scoops rice begrudgingly into his bowl, he wonders if he is the first among his peers to notice that you are more than an ordinary doctor.
∞
As you speak with Tsugikuni more throughout the months, you come to realise he is more different from his brother than you assumed. Though he teems with potential and purpose, undoubtedly driven and resolute in his ambitions, he does not overturn human boundaries in the same way as his extraordinary brother.
But even so, you come to realise this does nothing to diminish his character. By all means, he exemplifies what you once wanted to be: an ordinary person who succeeds by pushing the boundaries of their mundanity, breaking past the barriers that arbitrarily assign greatness as a blessing while forgetting that greatness is attainable through the toil of those arbitrarily deemed average.
And it is due to this that you find a third spark within you: not the spark of embers like flickering tadpoles nor that of awe in bearing witness to the extraordinary, but one that is equal parts an envy that laces your thoughts with unjust suspicion and a familiarity that endears the boy to you.
And in this bittersweet endearment, you begin to wonder just how much farther he can transcend his limitations in a way that you were never able to yourself.
It is early in the afternoon during winter. The world is blanketed in white, and the symphony of summer has faded into a silence that stretches all throughout. Half of the world sleeps while the other bears the scarcity and cold; likewise, the most adamant warriors in training have transitioned from a regime of growth to one of purposeful deprivation and endurance. The harsh conditions are ideal for students to test their fortitude and push their limits; you watch from afar as a familiar boy trains in spite of the weather, wearing just a thin layer more suitable for summer. His breath emerges in rapid clouds that are quickly dispersed by the wind, disappearing into the endless snowfall.
“How is that technique coming along?”
The boy stops mid-swing, freezing as his eyes find you amid the wintry terrain. His hair and robes continue to flow around him in the wind, masking the stiffness of his posture as he slowly releases his stance.
“Fine,” Michikatsu is suddenly conscious of his shallow breaths, cursing the fleeting clouds that form with every exhale.
In truth, he has not been able to master your technique at all. Your words from that day are etched in his mind as if spoken only seconds ago, and yet his body cannot make sense of them. But he refrains from asking you, whose breath is ever imperceptible in the cold, for clarification. You had entrusted him with this task, believing him to be capable, and to admit to his inability to complete it would be humiliating. He wonders if his movements look foolish to you, if your keen eyes can pick out his persisting weaknesses from afar. So instead of continuing his practice, he sheathes his blade and walks closer to where you stand basking in the weak winter sun, accepting the water you hold out with gloved hands. “I don’t recall Sensei mentioning asking you to visit today.”
“He didn’t,” you accept the now empty cup with steady hands. There is an involuntary tremor in his own that he hopes you do not notice.
The boy frowns. “Do you need something from him, then?”
“Hmm,” you muse. “Is it so inconceivable that I just wanted to see you?”
Michikatsu has always considered himself to be composed. His peers look up to him, the top student, and so he strives to exemplify the integrity and conduct expected of him. He is respectful to his peers and superiors alike and tries his best to be the honourable, trustworthy, and honest pupil his master has spent years shaping him to be. But this discipline always seems to fall apart in front of you; he finds himself unwilling to admit the truth of his frustrations and oftentimes fails to respond at all.
He looks away, hoping the wind and snow are enough to excuse the red that tints his skin. “Are you not busy during this season?” he frowns, the harsh tone unfamiliar on his tongue. “There are plenty of illnesses going around, and you are the most reputable doctor in the region.”
“I am, but there’s a reason I’m so highly demanded. I’ve finished my work for the day already,” your pleasant expression doesn’t waver. “Besides, you’re one of my patients too, are you not? Speaking of which, please follow me if you will. I have something for you.”
And inevitably, Michikatsu finds himself seated on the tatami across from you as you set a plate down in front of him. There are three pieces of mochi arranged at its centre, almost reminiscent of the snowballs he and his brother once tossed at one another as children years prior.
“Red bean filling,” you offer unhelpfully at his sceptical stare.
He only glances back down at the treats before meeting your eyes with a blank stare. “New Year’s celebrations are still weeks away.”
“There’s nothing wrong with celebrating a little early,” when he remains unamused, you chuckle. “Have some faith in me, Tsugikuni-san. I’m a doctor, and a,” you pause in consideration. When was the last time you made anything like this? “...relatively decent cook. I promise they’re not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Of course not,” Michikatsu huffs. Though he is pleased to know you had taken the time to make something for him, he knows this gesture is far from being romantic. For all he knows, the mochi could be medicated; there is more than likely something he would rather not ingest hidden in the filling. “I’m not ill, doctor.”
You lean back as your laughter dances like music in the air, light and airy. It’s a practised sound. “I know you’re not. Consider this a token of goodwill, then, to reward your determination in training. Besides, it’s good to indulge every once in a while, especially during this season. Keeps the spirits high, wouldn’t you say?”
Michikatsu signs in reluctant agreement, conceding to the truth in your words. He doesn’t admit that you are enough to fill the absence of simple pleasures amid his training, in spite of the pressure he feels to meet your expectations of him. Hesitating for a moment, he picks up a piece of mochi and takes a bite. The taste is unexpectedly pleasant, a subtle sweetness from the red bean filling mingling with the chewy texture of the rice cake.
“It’s good,” he admits at last, surprise lacing his voice.
“I’m glad you think so. I was experimenting with a new recipe,” a pleased smile tugs at your lips, but you eye him carefully through your pleasant expression. You pride yourself on being patient, but your eyes scrutinise him for any abnormalities as a precaution.
“Well then, I should get going,” Tsugikuni watches as you retrieve something from your satchel. A red wrapped box is pushed toward him. “These are for you. Please enjoy them in moderation, and do keep me updated on your progress next time we see each other.”
“Thank you…” Mildly bewildered by your abrupt gift, Michikatsu eyes the parcel in his hands. It is relatively light, covered with a decorative red bamboo paper and a wraparound twine tied with care into an elegant garnish on top. The presentation of your gift is unlike anything he has ever seen, and he wonders if it might be a family tradition or simply another product of your own invention. What he does know for certain, however, is that he will not share its contents with his peers, no matter how many times they pester him.
“Good luck on your training, Tsugikuni-san,” You begin to stand, pulling an embroidered dark coat over your shoulders. Michikatsu eyes the patterns – delicately stitched images of summer, as if to spite the winter season. “Please send your Sensei my regards.”
And before he can even respond, you are gone.
When he resumes his training outdoors, he is taken aback by an unexpected rush of stamina. A vitality he can’t quite define courses through his veins – is it warmth, numbness? – and suddenly the biting cold wind loses its edge despite his senses reaching unprecedented heights. For a fleeting moment, Michikatsu feels almost as if he can take on the world, as if the greatness his brother had once so effortlessly claimed has now become his own.
Could this surge of strength be only a lingering reaction to your unanticipated gesture, or had your treat been much more than it appeared?
∞
Winter has never been your favourite season.
You exhale as you regard the patch of snow you have just broken free from, your shoes and the ends of your coat carrying a damp chill. At the very least, it is your favourite time of the day. Amid the pitch black canvas of dusk, lanterns paint the crowds in hues of fleeting warmth. You brush shoulders with strangers you will never see again under the anonymity of the night, under the supervision of nobody but the infinite sky of stars overhead.
Though typical bustle of the port city is only somewhat subdued by the hour and elements, you find yourself less nauseous than usual as you weave your way through the crowds, retracing familiar paths toward a specific destination. You soon find yourself in front of a familiar stall adorned with an array of colourful trinkets, fabrics, and fragrant herbs. The idling vendor perks up as he catches sight of you.
“Well if it isn’t the wisteria fiend,” he smiles good-naturedly. “Here to buy out my stock again, I assume?”
“I’m afraid so, Minoru-san.” you return his pleasant smile in greeting, drawing near until you are face to face with the dark-haired vendor. Is it just your imagination, or has he gotten taller since your last encounter? His hair is longer as well, tied into a ponytail that drapes partially over one shoulder.
“Luckily for you, I have plenty of it to spare this time,” he laughs. Indeed, you see a generous number of sticks, and promptly ask for all of them. “Guess I’ll need to restock soon, again.”
You hum thoughtfully. “You know,” you muse, “I’ve looked in shops like yours all around the area, and yet yours is the only one that sells wisteria incense.”
“You’ve been visiting other shops?” He feigns an affronted look, and you both share a laugh. While it is all in jest, it’s obvious that due to your regular patronage throughout the years, the young vendor has grown quite fond of your presence. Fonder than he openly admits, though he remains blissfully unaware that hiding such matters from you is futile.
“Solely for research purposes,” you play along with false reassurance. “Rest assured, I’ll always remain your loyal customer. But I’ve been meaning to ask…”
Minoru tilts his head in interest, urging you to continue with roseate cheeks. Strands of dark hair fall over his face, the red numenistic charm hanging from his ear grazing over his shoulder. You note the familiar coins that glint back at you from the charm – as pristine as ever, the coins you’d given to him for your first purchase from his stall. “Where do you acquire the wisteria that you use to craft this incense?”
Although a skilled tradesman would usually guard his secrets, particularly from customers, he can’t help but feel inclined to reveal them, if only for you. “Well, to be honest, it’s not a straightforward endeavour, given that wisteria is quite rare to find these days,” he laughs nervously. “But I have a friend in Ashikaga who cultivates wisteria in their garden. We meet every few months to exchange our goods, though it’s quite the long trek. It’s gotten a bit complicated with the political and social instability in the region, so I’m not able to make the trip as often as I’d like. It might be some time until the next restock.”
“I see,” you furrow your brows, thinking. “Has wisteria always been so scarce?”
“From what I’ve gathered, it was less uncommon in the past. But in the recent century or so, it’s become so rare that most people haven’t even heard of it,” he continues, oblivious to the way that your grip tightens around your satchel. “There’s a possibility it was wiped out by a disease, or deliberately destroyed by lords who deemed it unsightly within their territories. It’s unfortunate, but the exact reason for its sudden disappearance remains a mystery.”
You have a hunch, one that only deepens your intrigue.
“I’m amazed you’ve managed to maintain your stock all these years, despite the challenges,” you remark, though your thoughts are spinning in a different direction. “It almost makes me feel bad for always buying out your entire supply,” you confess with a guilty grin. He only flushes as he attempts to acquiesce your concern. Minoru doesn’t dare admit that his efforts are largely fueled by the desire to ensure you would always have a reason to visit him; it’s a sentiment too embarrassing, too deep to disguise under lighthearted banter. In an attempt to regain his composure from his internal dilemma, he begins to package the product in question, just as he has done countless times before for you.
Casually, your gaze drifts to the shelves behind him. “Do you happen to have any wisteria flowers that you have yet to use?”
“Unfortunately not. The last of it is here,” he pushes the bundle on the counter toward you as you rummage in your bag for the payment. “Although I do believe I have some seeds…”
“Seeds?” you inquire with curiosity.
He laughs sheepishly, a dusting of colour returning to his cheeks. “I had the notion of planting them someday to avoid all the trouble in case things get worse, but I’ve never really gotten to it.”
“Ah, that’s a shame…” Another idea begins to take root in your mind.
After a moment of contemplation, he seems to reach a decision. “Would…would you like to keep them instead? I do my best to capture their fragrance in these sticks, but the beauty of the flowers themselves is something else to behold entirely.”
Your brows raise as you consider his offer. How fortunate for you, you think to yourself. “Are you sure? That’s not a very sound business practice, Minoru-san.”
He only chuckles sheepishly, averting his gaze. “I don’t have anywhere to plant them at the moment anyway. And… I believe you’d enjoy seeing them in bloom.”
“If it’s really okay with you,” you smile gratefully. He nods earnestly. “Thank you. I really appreciate it, Minoru–san.”
As Minoru excuses himself to retrieve the promised seeds, you watch as he disappears further into the store. You catch a glimpse of his ears, almost completely red, as he tucks a fallen hair in front of his face back into place. Exhaling a quiet sigh, you lean against the counter, idly perusing the selection displayed on the storefront.
“I’ll be setting out on another journey tonight,” you find yourself sharing as he reemerges before you.
“Ah, is that so? For work, I presume,” The light in his eyes dims slightly as he holds out the satchel to you, the cheer draining away from his smile. Still, he attempts to muster enthusiasm for your sake. “Where are you headed?”
“Somewhere quite far away, though I’ll still be in the country.”
“Will…” Minoru’s voice wavers as he swallows, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “Will you return?”
Instead of responding, you reach out and take his extended hand, gently tugging him forward and over the counter that divides you. A surprised sound escapes him as he stumbles, only barely catching himself. He attempts to move backward to regain a respectable distance, apologising profusely despite having done nothing wrong as he looks anywhere but into your eyes.
The embarrassment of your gesture is lost on you as you lean in closer, cupping his face with your other hand, bare of its glove. His skin feels warm against yours, and only warms further as he begins to register the sudden intimacy you initiate. You gaze into the eyes of the liability to your duty, and he stills, gazing back into those of the enigmatic customer-acquaintance who he has always subconsciously hoped would one day become more. The long shadows cast by lanterns overhead enshroud your exchange in secrecy, and – as always – the snow blankets the city in hushed stillness. Your actions remain hidden from a world that winter has rendered both mute and blind.
“Ah, wait…”
But Minoru silences himself as you study his features in silence: the mole beneath his eye, the strand of hair that grazes his forehead, the redness that seems to seldom leave his cheeks. He does the same, eyes lingering on the perpetual smile on your face that seems to waver just the slightest, so imperceptibly that he wonders if he imagined it. Up close, your smile does not seem as infallible as it appears from afar.
Then, softly, you press your lips to his forehead.
In an instant, it’s as if his thoughts are being drained, dissipating before they can even fully take shape. Your image blurs, a surreal vignette that remains before him yet slips through his fingers. Panic surges – he’s overwhelmed by a sensation, a presence more powerful than merely being swept up in the moment. It engulfs his senses until he can scarcely even see, think, feel anything, slipping away from the present as swiftly as a shooting star streaking into the infinite abyss. You watch the alarm fade from his eyes, the vibrant colour seep from his face, the memories bleed out from his mind until not a trace of you or this moment remains in the eerie calm left behind. And when you draw back at last, you find yourself nothing more than a spectre gazing into the eyes of a stranger, your own mirthless smile mirrored in the emptiness beyond.
As your figure disappears into the crowd, the vendor shakes off the remnants of disorientation. Gradually, he composes himself, and his gaze travels through the items arranged around his stall, searching for any signs of theft during what could only have been a sudden migraine-induced haze.
An empty space captures his attention, yet no matter how hard he struggles to remember, he can’t seem to recall the object that once occupied that space, or the customer who might have purchased it.
∞
In spite of your endless work, there is a single routine you never fail to make room for in your schedule.
Every few weeks, you venture back into the mountains, up the path that runs next to the ever-flowing stream and to a certain home that always makes you feel a little warmer than before. And always, without fail, you simply linger beneath the trees, watching the sinking sun dye the world in warm colours while you remain cast in shadow. Only in the cover of darkness, under an infinite sky of stars, do you dare to approach the veranda to set down a new bundle of wisteria incense, making sure to set one alight to burn throughout the night to infuse the air with an unseen boundary. A boundary that even you refuse to cross, time and time again.
Tonight, the delivery you set in front of the doorway is heftier than usual, and wrapped in red. As you move silently away, your hands wander back into your satchel, finding a second parcel as you circle the home’s perimeter in thought.
“It’s you.”
You stop in your tracks. The voice is immediately recognizable; though a few pitches lower than you remember, the presence behind you that stirs familiar feelings within is unmistakable.
“Ah, I was wondering when you would notice me,” you turn, casting Yoriichi a smile. In truth, Yoriichi had known of your visits for a while already, but had only mustered the resolve to confront you now. But instead of correcting you, Yoriichi only calmly steps closer.
“Uta wants to see you again,” Yoriichi says. In truth, both of them do, he and Uta: the ache you feel in your chest, mirroring his own, says as such. “She knows the incense is from you.”
“Well, it’s not as if I was trying to hide it,” you chuckle mirthlessly. Almost ironic, coming from someone who sneaks through the garden of their home in the dead of night for the sole purpose of evading them.
Yoriichi regards you, no malice within the maroon of his sharp eyes. “Why do you choose to avoid us?”
A beat of silence elapses as he awaits your response.
“Would you like to sit down with me?” you ask instead.
And so years after your first meeting, you find yourselves sitting side by side for the second time in the moonlight, listening to the quiet nocturnes of winter: Yoriichi, who is gradually learning to express himself through words, and you, who instinctively weaves lies into every sentence and thus chooses to say nothing at all.
“You know, I’ve heard that there’s a celebration that occurs around this time in some distant countries,” you say at last, breaking the silence. “Christmas. Traditionally, people partake in festivities and exchange gifts with loved ones.”
You reach into your bag, pulling out a small red satchel secured neatly with a ribbon. “This is for you.”
Yoriichi inspects the parcel, its crimson fibres dark within the shadow you cast upon it. “What is it?”
“Wisteria seeds,” you clarify. “Please plant them around your home in the spring. They should flower not long after, but in the meantime, please continue to light the incense during the night.”
You reach out, taking Yoriichi’s hands into your own. Your heartbeat quickens as you place the satchel in his palms, the silken fabric a frighteningly narrow boundary between your skin and his. Yoriichi follows your movements as you pull away as calmly as you can with tense muscles and a rapid pulse.
“But I don’t have anything to give you,” he utters, but accepts the gift nonetheless. It seems a little unfair to him that you have given him so much, yet he has done nothing in return.
“I don’t expect anything in return, but there is one thing you can do if you are willing,” your perpetual smile subsides into a weaker incline. “Yoriichi, do me a favour. Do not let Uta know that you spoke to me tonight. Can you do that for me?”
Yoriich’s frown persists, the serenity in his eyes shifting. He wonders why you are so adamant on remaining a ghost to her even when you are only a few feet away from one another, separated by the thin shoji of their home. It is evident you care for Uta by your gifts, but Yoriichi surmises there is a deeper reason you are unwilling to share with him that keeps you from approaching her directly. In return for your kindness to both of them, he respects your privacy and trusts your intentions, despite wanting inwardly to pull you out of your secrecy and into his life, where you can share in the warmth that he has found with Uta.
“Will you still be returning?” he asks instead.
You stiffen, but distract yourself from the memory by contemplating the conflict that brews briefly in his eyes, unable to quell the warmth that rises within your core as you realise you will be missed. “You won’t see me for a while after this. But yes, that is my intention.”
For a while Yoriichi only studies you, tracing every one of your features with his ever-knowing gaze as if wanting to etch you into his memory – an image he can revisit until your indefinitely promised return. And then, at last, his eyes find yours once more. His lips lift uncertainly into a smile that mirrors your own, and he inclines his head into a bow, an expression of gratitude and seeming contentment as deep as the one he gave to his brother years prior. “Be safe,” he says – Uta’s words to him before every journey down the mountain, an unspoken wish for your peaceful passage and timely return.
As you bid him goodbye, disappearing into the shadows, Yoriichi looks down at the satchel nestled in his hands. The ghosts of your fingers linger around his own, silken phantoms that trail warmth on his skin.
For reasons unknown, he feels more than content to keep silent, relishing this secret moment between you and him only. And even as he watches Uta press the red-wrapped bundle into her chest the following morning, an unmistakable sorrow glimmering through her smile, he does not say a word of the gift you have given him and the gift he promises to you.
Sengoku Secrets:
Uta misses you dearly, despite the briefness of your encounter. She lights the incense on the nights that she feels especially lonely. She has attempted to stay up all night a few times in hopes of catching you in the act, but always ends up falling asleep.
You never do get to say goodbye to Michikatsu, and he wonders where you’ve gone. It bothers him more than he would like to admit, so he trains extra hard to distract himself.
You picked up your habit of gift wrapping from your time overseas. The first documented use of wrapping paper was actually in ancient China - decorative paper was used to add a sense of ceremony to gifts of money, and later on the Chinese court used paper of rice straws and bamboo fibres to embellish gifts to government officials. As you do here, red wrapping was used to signify wishes for happiness and good health.
Yoriichi plants the wisteria seeds around their home in the spring immediately following the winter, as you’d advised. He wonders when it will bloom.