Chapter Text
Riding the train with Kyoujurou used to be fun. They used to take the train all the way south from Nikko to where great uncle Senjurou lived, in a remote little house surrounded by trees and a pretty little garden. Kyoujurou and his little brother Senjurou (named after the uncle but with a different Kanji) would sit by the windows, and Ruka-san and Obanai in the seats by the aisles. The scenery would change fast as the train passed by, ducked shacks in the mountains, wide rice fields and taller buildings the closer the capital came. They’d transfer to another train on the outskirts and then go west to their final stop, Takao station. From there it was a short ride on the public bus and a little walk to the house where great uncle Senjurou lived. It was always an adventure to visit him, and despite his shyness around strangers and people in general Obanai enjoyed it, because Kyoujurou and his little brother got so excited.
That at least hasn’t changed.
Kyoujurou waves at him from a window seat when Obanai enters the wagon. His smile is as bright as the summer sun. He looks like a teenager in a school uniform without his extravagant haori on.
“Not to make a great stir,” he explains, patting his light luggage that probably contains his signature garment alongside his blade.
“You have the wrong travel companion for that,” Obanai notes. With his bandages and heterochromia it’s inevitable that the other passengers stare, but Kyoujurou barks out a laugh.
“I think it’s the best I could have asked for! Ah, I love travelling on the train!”
Obanai folds his striped haori in his lap for good measure, Kaburamaru hiding between the folds.
Their destination is Hokuto, a small town southern of the Yatsugatake volcanos, where a demon has been sighted recently. Obanai wonders if Oyakata-sama sent him out with Kyoujurou purposely after his past missions turned out... not so well. They grew up together after all, and Oyakata-sama knows they work effectively as a team. The fact that travelling with Kyoujurou brings back nice memories is a plus. Until Kyoujurou starts inquiring about Kanroji-san, that is.
“So, how have things been going?” he smiles at him, eyes drilling right into Obanai’s soul.
“Nothing’s going anywhere, anyway,” he tries to stifle the topic.
Kyoujurou is, of course, not having it. “Did you take my advice from last time? I heard you asked Uzui-kun for help? Shinazugawa-kun mentioned that there was something going on a few weeks ago but he didn’t want to go into detail, so I thought I might as well ask you to tell me about it personally.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Obanai hisses. Of course that jerk Uzui wouldn’t keep his flamboyantly wicked mouth shut, but that the incident would even end up with Shinazugawa, that scar faced idiot, makes Obanai salty. “I got a present for her and handed it over, end of story.” He crosses his arms and stares at the empty seat ahead. If only he had the window seat so he could pretend the dark trees outside held his interest, but that’s just his luck.
“And did she say something?” Kyoujurou presses, his smile even wider than before.
“No.”
“Did she write you a letter?”
“No.”
“How so?”
“I have no fucking idea.”
At that Kyoujurou tilts his head. “That’s interesting. Was something wrong with the present? What did you get her?”
Obanai pouts. With how his courting attempts are doing the rounds like some kind of taishou rumour, spilling the details is the most idiotic thing he could do. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
With a huff Kyoujurou sits back. “Don’t let that discourage you,” he says with a much softer smile. “You’ll figure something out.”
Obanai shrugs and after a moment murmurs: “If there weren’t
Cherry blossoms
In this world,
How cheerful and calm
Could the heart be in spring.”
Kyoujurou chuckles. “If there weren’t
Cherry blossoms
In this world,” he answers,
“How drab and doleful
Would the lake shore look in spring.”
Obanai looks up with a heavy beating heart, but Kyoujurou has leaned his head back against the backrest and closed his eyes. “The bamboo sprouts are sapid in Hokuto this time of the year”, he murmurs, still smiling.
Train rides are still fun with Kyoujurou. Maybe nothing really has changed except the fact that now, instead of great uncle Senjurou, in the remote little house surrounded by trees and a pretty little garden live a boy and his friend snake.
The mission, despite everything, is an absolute disaster.
What was said to be one demon turns out to be three, all cornered and feral, fighting claws, teeth and thorns for their lives. Four civilians are dead, a dozen heavily injured, and some sick with what seems to be the poison of the strongest of the three. The other two team up to attack simultaneously while the poisonous one strikes from between the thicket with sharp thorns. Kyoujurou dances in between the trees, his blade red like the sunrise and just as fast. The unexpected number of enemies has them running out of time. They need to defeat all three of them as long as they feel safe. As soon as they become aware of the sunrise they’ll attempt to escape and then it’ll take days or even weeks to locate all of them again. What comes out of it is that they get reckless.
At dawn all three demons dissolve into ash, carried away by the wind. Kyoujurou is covered in the blood of the pair, but seems to be alright otherwise. The poisonous one, and this might be a problem, was taken out by Obanai, but not after planting its thumb long thorns into his right shoulder. It starts feeling itchy when the villagers appear to praise them for their success, then there’s a sharp pain down his sword arm and through his chest. He grits his teeth, trying to keep his breath under control. It’s hard.
He sees Kyoujurou next to him turning his head, hears him say his name, “Obanai, are you-”
Then the world goes black.
At least he is not dead. Or so it seems. If he was dead, the pain wouldn’t be so overwhelming, would it? His insides cramp, his muscles too, and he can’t breathe, then he loses consciousness again.
He tries to remember how often he has been awake and fell unconscious again. Maybe three times by now, maybe eight? His head hurts, his shoulder hurts, his throat burns like it got slit open with a nichirin blade, Kyoujurou’s, on fire. Then everything is black again. Or maybe not, because everything has been black for a long time.
One time he feels half awake and there's a scent. Sweet, tender. The first thing not unpleasant since he came here. Where is here ? What happened? Why can’t he open his eyes? Why does everything hurt so much?
He coughs when he can’t swallow fast enough. Someone pours water into his mouth. He tries to breathe, breathe ,
“Breathe,” someone says, but he can’t and so he falls unconscious again.
Obanai comes back and fades to black again. His thoughts are mostly pain, disorientation, more pain. Maybe he is not dead. Maybe he is just dying. He hears things, smells things. He still can’t open his eyes. Most of all he feels things. Pain. Warmth. Water on his lips. He doesn’t cough this time.
If he is dying, that’s a good thing, he realizes. Maybe after all Buddha has mercy. He takes him from this body, this filthy, impure vessel and puts him somewhere else. A deer would be good. Or an owl. A snake, too. Yes, maybe in his next life he’ll be a snake. He’ll live in the high grass and eat little mammals, mice or even rabbits if he’s a big snake. Maybe he’ll go into a house and become the friend of a boy. Wouldn't that be nice? He’s sorry that he didn’t have a chance to thank Kaburamaru though. There’s so many things he should have said and done before he died. Thank Kyoujurou. Thank his father and little brother, too, for giving him something like a family. Pray at Ruka-san’s grave. Thank Oyakata-sama. Thank Kochou and her menage. Apologize to Tomioka for always being so mean to him. Tell Shinazugawa that he’s an asshole and that he needs to get his shit together if he ever wants his brother to forgive him (also that it’s not a secret that he has a brother complex, he’s so obvious!). Tell the lady from the grocery store down the road by the shrine that her sweet potatoes are the best he ever had in his life. And tell Kanroji-san that he loves her.
He’s going to tell her. Next time. If Buddha shows him mercy. No matter if he’ll be a deer or an owl or a snake. He’ll be free of his sins and be someone whose love Kanroji-san deserves. When he’s reborn, he’ll not hesitate. He’ll definitely tell her that he loves her!
“Don’t cry,” someone murmurs and wipes his tears away, but he’s already lost consciousness again.
It’s too bright. The light, yellow and shrill, hurts in his eyes. It’s hard to open them, because it feels like the lids are glued shut. It hurts to open them.
The sweet scent is still there, the warmth too. The pain, too.
The ceiling is white. Faint yellow in the light that comes through a window.
He tries to turn his head to look around and find out where he is, but there’s a hand in his hair, stroking it gently.
“It’s alright,” someone says. “Take it slow.” The same voice as before.
He closes his eyes for a moment, the hand soft in his hair. It’s nice. It strokes from the top of his head down the side, behind his ear to his nape. Slow, gentle strokes. Like you’d caress a cat. Like you’d caress a child. But he doesn’t have a mother. Who is it, then?
“Are you awake?”
He blinks his eyes open again.
“You need to drink water. You must be thirsty.”
He turns his head with the help of the hand that carefully cradles his skull.
It’s Kanroji-san. The scent is the same as that in the sword smith village, when she came to the hot spring. She sits on the edge of the mattress with a soft smile, her one hand holding his head up a little, the other placing a cup against his lips. The water is cold and refreshing. Only now he’s aware how much his throat aches.
“Slowly,” she reminds him, but it’s too late, he was too greedy.
Water falls from his lips as he coughs, and she hurries to put the cup down on the nightstand, next to a tall vase with a branch full of cherry blossoms, then dries his mouth and chin with a small towel. The fabric feels rough against his
lips.
His lips- The bandages
His bandages
are gone.
No!
He panics. He’s up in the blink of an eye. The floor is cold, his legs almost give in under him. Everything hurts. But she can’t - she can’t - she can’t see his face. His bandages are gone. Water against his lips. Towel - rough - she can’t see -
His breath is fast, his heart beats threefold, his bare feet on the wooden floor, “Iguro-san!”, the door!
His fingers hurt when he grabs the frame. His nails hurt when he pulls it aside, clang! , the hallway, grey twilight, his knees hurt, he’s too fast. He crashes into the wall across the hallway with his right shoulder. The impact hurts so much it punches the breath from his lungs, his vision goes black. The demon with the thorns, it struck his shoulder. He’s injured. He’s at the Butterfly Estate. His bandages are gone. He has to get away, get out of sight, hide . He opens his eyes, he’s on the floor but his legs won’t move.
“Don’t look,” he croaks, hiding his face behind his hands.
“Iguro-san,” her voice is so close. She’s right beside him, kneeling on the floor. Her scent is sweet and her fingers in his hair gentle.
“Don’t look,” he sobs. His hands are wet from tears.
There’re steps approaching, three, four people from the sound of it. It doesn't matter. She saw. He still hides, pressing his palms against his face, bending forward until his spine screams in pain. Why didn’t he die?
“Kanroji-san!” someone exclaims. “What’s going on?”
There’s the flutter of fabric, then the touch of something light and soft shielding him. The scent, her scent, it’s gentle. It’s all around him.
“It’s alright,” she says, voice calm and muffled through the fabric of her haori covering his upper body. “Can you call Shinobu-san?”
There’s a short “Yes” and the steps disappear. Three people. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters anymore.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs when it’s only the two of them, sitting on the familiar hardwood floor of the Butterfly Estate. “Can I take you back to the bed? You need rest. You’re injured.”
He doesn’t answer, but lets her scoop him up in her arms and carry him back to the sheets that are still warm. But even after she sets him down she doesn’t let go of him. He remains hunched over, shaking from sobs, cradled in her arms. Everything hurts. Everything but her soft, warm, sweet smelling body and her gentle fingers caressing his head even through the fabric of her haori. It’s soothing.
He wipes tears from his eyes, but there are more immediately. They fall from his lashes, onto the sheets, onto the fabric of her uniform skirt, onto the moss green stockings. He whines with despair.
“Iguro!” It’s Kochou. “What happened?”
“He woke up, but he got scared when I gave him water,” Kanroji-san answers, her hand coming to a halt on his neck. “He tried to get away, but ran into the wall.”
Kochou hums, then the seam of the haori moves and her face appears in his hideaway. “Good to see you’re alive,” she smiles at him. The strangest thing is that he can tell it’s a genuine smile, even through all the tears. “Do you remember what happened?”
He shakes his head slowly, fists pressed against his lips to suppress his sobs. His head hurts so much.
“You were on a mission with Rengoku-san. You killed the demons but you were poisoned by one of them. I had a hard time figuring out what it was it used on you, because the body was gone already. Plant poisons are very different from those of insects or snakes. And it had spread in your body fast, because you’re so small.” She chuckles. “We have that in common. But I managed to compound an antidote, so you owe me one.”
He stares at her, body shaking. “She…,” he rasps, “she saw it.”
“Ah, yes.” Kochou has the audacity to shrug. “You were vomiting three days and nights because of the intoxication; I would have let your bandages on but I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to choke on your own puke while she was sitting by your bed, sorry about that. That’s why your throat might feel sore, too, in case you wondered.” She reaches out and slowly pushes his hands down from his face. “She saw it, Iguro.” Her voice is almost a whisper now. “But she’s still here.”
And it’s true. He realizes when more tears spill from his eyes, fall from his lashes onto her lap. He looks at Kochou who smiles as she slowly pulls the white haori from both their heads.
In a corner of the mattress Kaburamaru sleeps rolled up like a white spiral in the fading sunlight. The rays are golden and soft now. It must be afternoon. The sweet curve of Kanroji-san’s thighs throws a lovely, even shadow. Obviously the stockings are one size too small, they’re tight around her legs. But she wears them. She accepted his present. He doesn’t know what that means.
“I’ll leave him in your care, Mitsuri-san.”
Mitsuri -san. When did that happen?
“I’m sorry, if I scared you,” she murmurs when Kochou is gone.
He doesn’t dare look up at her face, because he’s ashamed.
“I brought you a branch with cherry blossoms. You’ll need to stay in bed a little longer, but I didn’t want you to miss hanami. Rengoku-san said you liked flowers. I hadn’t known before.” With a sigh she leans against the headboard, leaving him sitting hunched over awkwardly, still so close to her. Her white haori lies draped around him like fresh snow. “Rengoku-san asked me to tell you that he awaits your letter. He was not worried about you at all when he left you here with me. He just waited through the first night, until Shinobu-san said you’d be alright and went to report to Oyakata-sama. It seems he knows your strength. I’m still glad you didn’t die.” She chuckles and it makes him look over to her.
She’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so. He feels more tears running down his cheeks, just when he thought he had stopped crying. There’s a shimmer in her eyes that makes her look like she’s not even a human. Maybe she’s a spirit, not from this world. Hair like petals and buds on sakura trees. A cherry blossom in a sea of blood. Everything hurts, but his heart hurts the most because he loves her so much.
“Could a man,
Solely from thinking of his loved one, die,
I had died a thousand times
Again and again.”
Eyes as green as jade lock with his. They’re staring speechless, both of them. She blushes and he swallows hard, twitches from the pain.
“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” she murmurs eventually. Her hand reaches out, wiping the tears from his cheeks, from his deeply ragged scars. “But you didn’t have to hide. You didn’t have to run away from me.”
No one has ever touched him like that. Not Ruka-san. Not Kyoujurou. Not Kochou. He closes his eyes, self-indulgent, drinking up the gentle caress like a man dying of thirst.
“I’m different, too, Iguro-san,” she whispers, the other hand tugging on his healthy shoulder, down, down until his head rests in her lap. She caresses his cheeks, his temple, his hair. Soft fingers comb it back and expose his marred face. Tears wet her skirt that’s ridiculously short. His fingertips brush against the stockings; angora, dyed with indigo, nettle and ferrous sulfate. He’s gentle so she won’t notice. Even if she noticed, what would it matter, after he said that:
I had died a thousand times
Again and again.
When he dies, things will be alright. But like this?
“I’m a monster,” he whispers.
“No, you’re not. You’re just human. And sometimes I feel you’re being too hard on yourself, when there’s no reason. When no one else is. When everyone likes you the way you are.”
“Likes me the way I am?”
“Easy to talk to, smart and pragmatic. Sure, you get angry fast, but only because you have such a strong sense of justice. And you are an amazing swordsman. You’re small and delicate. And your hair is so black even I get jealous. You’re considerate. You gift stockings to a girl so her bruised knees are covered. You like animals so much that you won’t have their bodies feed you. Your voice is low and calm and nice. And your eyes are like a golden chrysanthemum and an ayame iris.” She wipes the tear streaks from his face carefully. “I like you, Iguro-san. And Rengoku-san likes you, too. And Kaburamaru. And Shinobu-san. You’re not a monster at all. You’re our friend.”
He doesn’t know what to say, so he remains quiet.
“You should rest,” she says. Her fingertips are never still.
When he opens his eyes again it’s the middle of the night and her nose is buried in his hair.
He can’t tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Her lips are parted a little and her lashes are long and curved.
There’s one bowl of white rice and steamed vegetables on the nightstand and four empty ones.
He smiles. It’s always her who makes him smile.
If only they had met under different circumstances, maybe he would have told her. Not in this life, though.
But maybe, maybe he needed this life to see how much she means to him.
He looks at her and feels happy when he whispers:
“When I compare my heart
After we met
To before
How shallow were all
My ideas of love.”