Chapter Text
Keizo had told him how he had gotten the land and dojo. With the familiar smile he always dons, the man spoke about the old man he barely knew, and how he would always remember that old man’s act of kindness. There was something sour in his laughter as he told Hakuji if he would need to find a young man to save him from bandits, so he could have someone to hand over the dojo to when he gets old.
Keizo also spoke brightly of the neighboring dojo, of how it belongs to a generation of skillful swordsmen for years and years counting, and how it was part of the reasons people flock towards it instead of his.
“Ah, I’m just some nobody. It’s no wonder, really!”
Hakuji wanted to punch him in the face for it everytime. He’s still not sure why, but listening to Keizo talked of himself like that made him so angry. His fist did connect to Keizo’s arm, far from enough to bruise, but enough to shut the old man up. Keizo laughed and poked at Hakuji’s forehead, commenting on how he’s so angry all the time.
Maybe that’s why he holds so much resentment towards the neighboring dojo. With the lack of anything he could do about it, he had held it all in, for Keizo’s sake than anything else—because if the thing with his father taught him anything, not everyone appreciates it when he commits crimes for them. Even when Keizo had only stood there and listened with a smile as Shinjuro spoke of how worthless both of their efforts would be, miraculously enough, Hakuji only watched from a distance as his knuckles turned white and his entire body shook.
Some time later in the same day the Rengoku kid came to him, all bright with eyes wide and smile even wider. Misinterpreting the smile as another mockery, and the way Kyojuro looks so much like the man who might as well spat at Keizo, Hakuji’s fuse all but blew.
So that’s what he told Keizo, figuring he owes the man some kind of explanation for his violent fit.
Somehow Keizo’s laughter isn’t surprising. A little over two months living under the same roof with him, Hakuji notices laughter is the older man’s first reaction to a lot of things, good or bad. It’s not mockery, just—something like ingrained instinct.
“I guess you’re right,” Hakuji admits, the slightest bow to his head, “I am a pretty angry guy.”
“Maybe so!” Keizo’s shrug is relaxed, and there’s no judgement to his tone. “But you’re also sweet, you know? You wouldn’t be so angry on my behalf if you didn’t care.”
Hakuji hums noncommittally, wondering when his world had flipped and his acts of crimes were seen under a different light outside of he did some bad, he must be punished . The experience is still so stranger to him, so he didn’t react—unsure how to.
“That being said, it would be nice if you stop breaking people’s bones. We can set up some wooden poles as an alternative, though.”
His fingers clamp around the fabric of his yukata, face turning bright red. Keizo laughs as he splutters, big hand patting his back—rough yet hearty.
“You look like you had a nice time going out.” Keizo is merciful enough to change the subject, slinging his arm around Hakuji’s shorter frame. “Did something good happen?”
“Uh, yeah.” His nail scratches at his arm absently, half of his mind wanders around to consider Keizo’s offer about the wooden poles. He might be joking, but Hakuji thinks it might be a good idea. He needs to think about how often they would need to replace them, though, and he wonders just how much extra money that would cost them. “Kyojuro bought me lunch.”
Keizo beams, pulling him even closer, smiling wider. “You’re getting along now!”
“He gives me a headache,” he says next, because he’s still a lot of an asshole. “I feel like people were staring at us the entire because he was so loud.”
“Get used to it. He could be worse,” Keizo replies lightly. Trapped under the weight of his arm, Hakuji can only traipse along as Keizo starts walking—not that he’s planning to go anywhere. “Actually, hey, go tell Koyuki about it. I’ll get her lunch.”
Today is actually one of the few days Hakuji has time to get out and play—as much 'play' as he could, anyways—since his schedule is always packed with odd jobs and taking care of Koyuki. It's not one he minds, really. The familiarity is comforting—and there's significantly less judgement or bruising hits against his skin, so that’s something he wouldn’t complain about.
If he wasn't still so shaken by the change, he would've called it a good life. Besides, he knows better than to get comfortable. Good things never quite stick on him.
Nonetheless, he does tell Koyuki about his day. He wouldn’t call himself talkative, but he finds that spilling his brains through his mouth while his hands work and take care of Koyuki is quickly becoming his favourite part of the day.
He tells about how Keizo had told him to go out and relax; how he had met an odd boy who yells everything he says, whose gaze is as intense as the sun that it made his eyes sting and his face warm. He talks about none of his appearance, trying to be vague about who he met while still listing off the traits of the boy he had just met.
“Ah.” Koyuki’s gears seem to turn. “Kyojuro-kun?”
...Hmm. Maybe Hakuji isn’t vague enough. Or maybe it’s just impossible to be vague about someone like Kyojuro.
“Yeah. Weird guy.”
“I think he’s nice to have around.”
“I beat the shit out of him the other day and he bought me lunch.”
Koyuki laughs softly. Her laughter is indistinguishable from her sobs, so for a split second Hakuji wonders if he should start freaking out. “That is pretty kind, isn’tt it?”
“I guess.” Hakuji shrugs, once again replacing the cloth on her forehead. “He also challenged me to a match. I accepted because I didn’t know what to say, and I think I start to regret it.”
“You made a good choice!” Keizo appears like out of thin air, a tray of bland food in one hand and a water pitcher in the other, causing Hakuji’s heart to migrate to his throat for a split second. “Sparring can be a really good way to bond, and you can learn to channel your strength in a way that isn’t destructive! Actually, hey, who challenged you?”
Coming down from his small shock, Hakuji stutters, “Uh. Kyojuro.”
“Hmm. Wouldn’t that be unfair?” The older man sits next to him, setting the tray and pitcher down. “Kid got half of the bones in his body broken.”
At the corner of his eyes, Hakuji sees Koyuki’s eyes widen, like trying to figure out whether Hakuji’s earlier statement and Keizo’s are connected. He pays it no mind. “I mean when he’s better , you dumb old man.”
“Ah, my bad! I got excited.” Hakuji cocks a brow at that. “Kyojuro usually visits every one or two weeks, but he hasn’t visited since some time before you came, so we got worried.”
That only raises Hakuji’s brow in an unspoken question. The way he sees it, there’s absolutely no reason for Keizo to be worried about Kyojuro of all people. Broken bones aside, Hakuji doesn’t think anyone that loud and obnoxious can be not fine.
“He looks fine.”
“That’s good, then!” Keizo knows no personal space as usual, slinging an arm over Hakuji’s shoulder, patting his arm. “You should tell Kyojuro to visit again. Koyuki and I miss him.”
Hakuji trails his gaze to Koyuki, whose smile only confirms that statement.
He hums, pushing the arm off his shoulder, “His estate isn’t even that far. Why don’t you visit him yourself?”
Keizo, evidently, is not done yet, now resting his hand over Hakuji’s head, in which he responds with a pout.
“I can’t exactly bring Koyuki with me, and Shinjuro’s been kind of… You know.” He shrugs, gesturing uselessly with a hand. Only then Hakuji just now notices that they never entered the Rengoku estate properly. When they went there for Hakuji’s initially half-assed apology, they only ever got as far as a few steps beyond the gate.
Eventually, Hakuji gives up on trying to get Keizo off—helping Koyuki up despite the older man’s arm nesting on his head like a particularly heavy and annoying bird. The ‘ dickwad’ he grumbles might have been directed both towards Keizo and Shinjuro—Shinjuro, mostly, but still. So here they are, Hakuji’s arm supporting Koyuki as she eats slowly and listens while Keizo’s is stubborn atop of Hakuji’s crown.
“I wonder if it’s related to the dwindling amount of his students.”
“If my master starts talking about how my efforts would never be count for anything I’d fucking leave, too.”
And of course Keizo laughs, hand tucking stray hair behind his ear. “I was thinking that he might be grumpy because he’d been losing students, but there’s just no way to tell which one’s the cause.”
“You could always find out how to mind your own business, though,” Hakuji suggests, ever so sarcastic. Koyuki makes a small noise at the back of her throat, covering her mouth with a hand like she was trying not to laugh.
“Oh, Hakuji. You’ll learn the joys of gossip when you’re older,” Keizo coos, ruffling the mess of his short locks “Really, though, Shinjuro wasn’t always like that. We used to be friends, you know? Wonder what’s gotten into him.”
Hakuji doesn't care whatever might be the reason, and frankly is more willing to put energy to his fists rather than consideration for the so-called master swordsman. The repetitive gesture of Keizo's hand on the crown of his head is calming enough to shut the toxic words in the back of his throat, though, so he's content enough to leave them unspoken.
Hakuji doesn’t remember a lot of things outside of his routine of work, cook, tend, clean, train on free time, and repeat—not that there’s that many to remember in the first place. Eventually he forgets the loud and bright boy in that ramen booth, the same way he would forget about the stars behind closed doors as he tucks himself in under the soft blanket with patterns of the sea.
Just like the sun, however, Kyojuro appears and disturbs him from his sleep—or laundry work—peeking from above the wall separating Keizo’s home from the rest of the neighborhood.
“Hakuji-san!”
There’s not one solid opinion he has on Kyojuro. With the way he’s odd and loud and way too kind than anything Hakuji had ever experienced, opinions are a bit hard to form. So Hakuji, staring from between the wet clothes hanging on the clothesline, isn’t sure if he’s annoyed or excited.
“I’d wave, but I’d fall if I let go of the ledge,” Kyojuro adds, and only then Hakuji is reminded of the boy’s injuries, noting how the bandages around his head are now gone at least, exposing both of his bright eyes.
“Isn’t your arm broken? ”
“I’m not using my broken arm!”
Before Hakuji could respond, Kyojuro drops himself off and disappears behind the wall. For a moment Hakuji wonders what a twist of fate would it be if Kyojuro landed badly and broke his only good arm. He wouldn’t call it funny, but it would be pretty amusing.
He expects Kyojuro to enter through the front gate properly like a normal person—but of course Kyojuro defies that expectation, resurfacing from the walls with a basket between his teeth. Hakuji’s eyes and mouth alike are gaping as he watches the boy climb up the wall with nothing but an arm, hooking his leg over the ledge and throwing himself up to the other side.
Kyojuro’s exclamation is muffled by the basket as he fails to catch the tangerines tumbling down to the ground. Hakuji only stares, eyebrows raised as the smaller boy puts the basket on the ground and chases after the rolling fruits, dirtying his cream yukata to clean them.
Hakuji would be less baffled if Kyojuro wasn’t as injured as he is.
When he finally finds his voice, the first thing he says is, “What the fuck .”
“It’s faster this way!” he reasons, scuttling closer as he tries to look through the shogi screens and open doors. “Is Keizo-san home?”
“No, he’s out working.” His hands continue to hang wet fabrics over the clothesline. “He said it’s one of those escort jobs, so he won’t be home for a few days.”
“Aww.” There’s a pout in the boy’s smile, disappointment thick in his tone as he sets the basket down on the engawa. “I was hoping to see him today.”
“You can come again the other day.”
“I don’t know when I can come again,” Kyojuro laughs, uncertain, scratching the back of his ear, “I’ve been busy. I never realized how tough it is to do household chores alone. Mothers are so tough for doing it all every day.”
Hakuji wouldn’t know—he never truly had one—but he hums nonetheless.
“But, I have time now! And I come bearing gifts! I hope these would still be good when Keizo-san gets home. You should have some for the meantime, Hakuji-san!”
“Uh. I’m a bit busy right now.”
“I can help!”
“You don’t ha—”
Too late. Kyojuro is dipping his good arm to the bucket of clothes before Hakuji could do as much as give him a reluctant smile. Hakuji sighs in defeat, starting to figure out that nothing would stop Kyojuro from doing whatever the hell he wants, injury or not, and fighting back would only be futile.
Kyojuro is wordless as he works, which is surprising—though his throat rumbles as he hums a tune loud enough for Hakuji to hear clearly through the drip of water and rustles of the leaves. It makes him feel light, warm.
“Oh!” Kyojuro interrupts his own tune. The boy exclaims as he lifts a bright-colored yukata with floral patterns at the hem. “This looks just like Hahaue’s!”
Hakuji tilts his head, absentmindedly than anything else, still focused on the repetitive task of pick up-hang-repeat.
“Hahaue’s is blue, though, or is it green?” After carefully hanging the yukata and spreading it over the line, Kyojuro runs his hand on the damp fabric, fingers treading over the patterns like he would on fragile flower petals. “She always likes cold colors. I was hoping to save up to get her a new kimono, but…”
In his focus, Hakuji doesn’t notice that Kyojuro never quite finishes his sentence. By the time he does, all the clothes and fabrics are all hung up nicely, and the two of them sit on the engawa with the basket between them.
“But?”
Kyojuro tilts his head,
“You said you want to get your mother a new kimono.”
“Oh.” For once, Kyojuro seems awkward—it’s a weird look on him—the tangerine he’s picked with his hand slips back to the basket, rolling down the floor. Kyojuro catches it before it could go further. “She said I shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, Hakuji-san,” he laughs instead, eyes crinkling as he peels the fruit clumsily. “I talk a lot, don’t I?”
Is he avoiding the question? Weird. Hakuji tilts his head quizzically, raising a brow.
Still, he doesn’t know how to respond to that. Hostility is his first reaction to a lot of things, and he figures it wouldn’t be proper for this moment.
“I don’t think ‘a lot’ even covers it,” so he retorts, taking the tangerine from Kyojuro’s hand, digging his thumbs to the top of the fruit and tearing it in half. With his fingernails he peels the rest, before handing a segment to Kyojuro. “Keizo talks more nonsense, though, so you’re fine.”
Kyojuro takes the segment of the tangerine, a beaming gratitude drawn on his smile.
They talk like that—between sweet pulp of tangerine in their tongue, Hakuji's legs swinging while Kyojuro rocks back and forth in his seat.
Hakuji learns a lot of things about Kyojuro then. He learns that Kyojuro is the firstborn of his family, which means he will carry on the family tradition to be the next Flame Hashira. He also learns about demons and slayers and how hashira are the strongest nine of the latter. It all sounds a lot like fairy tales, and Hakuji raises an eyebrow way too many times at Kyojuro's grandiose stories about the flaming blade his family had cultivated for generations.
The stories move on to the more mundane ones. Of Kyojuro's little brother Senjuro and how he would always trot after Kyojuro, always determined to help with his little, clumsy hands. Of his elder brother Obanai and how he's so sharp like a snake's fang yet calming like water. Of his mother Ruka and the way she's so strict and stern and so gentle all the same.
Kyojuro doesn't talk of his father. Hakuji doesn't ask.
He doesn't have as many or colorful tales to tell as Kyojuro does, so he only talks of Keizo and the way he's strange yet warm and the way Koyuki fits into his life so easily like a puzzle piece.
Hakuji also finds out Kyojuro is actually older than him, if only by a year. The smaller boy comments on how he would never guessed Hakuji was indeed younger, with the way that he's so strong and tough and dedicated. In his lack of familiarity with compliments, Hakuji only hums and scratches at his nape, breaking eye contact.
"You don't need to be so nice."
"It's true, Hakuji-san. I truly believe you are!"
"Ah, uh… Thank you." Once again Hakuji feels light, like he was lifted off the ground. It's still new, still odd—he's not sure if he likes it yet. "...Sorry."
"Hm?"
"For the beating." Hakuji forces himself to meet Kyojuro in the eyes, face folding to half a grimace. "I wasn't- I wasn't even mad at you , I just… your father talked some shit to Keizo and then you came and you just look so much like him."
Hakuji feels like he was relieving another day when Kyojuro laughs in response.
"I'm really sorry about my father," he says, like it was his fault. "He's been troubled."
This again. Hakuji doesn't care, anger once again swelling and curving his lips downwards. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself just who the cold poison in his veins is directed at.
"You're not the one who should apologize," so he says.
Kyojuro hums. "Someone had to, though."
Because he won't, Hakuji doesn’t hear, noticing the words under the shift of Kyojuro’s features instead. Something pushes Hakuji to dig for more, search under the warm hue of Kyojuro’s eyes to answer the question unspoken in his tongue— what the fuck is wrong with your father .
Fathers aren’t supposed to act like that. Fathers are supposed to smile and tend to their children the way they would a seedling. Hakuji's father might had been weak and ill all his life, but even then he always managed to do that—with the way he would smile and tread his fragile fingers on Hakuji's short locks, laughing and listening along as Hakuji tell him of the birds and falling leaves and whatever small pleasures he had found on his way home.
"How's Koyuki?"
Hakuji blinks, only realizing he's been glaring right through Kyojuro. The next moment he gathers the tangerine peels with a hand, ears tinted red in slight embarrassment.
He doesn’t answer with ‘she’s fine’ , because he figures the both of them know that would be a lie. There aren't really any ‘good’ or ‘fine’ days with the way Koyuki is—similarly to his father, as always—but there are better days when she could breathe just a little easier, could digest food without throwing up all over the tatami or her futon.
“She’s been on her better days,” he replies, and as an afterthought: “I’m just hoping it would last.”
“Oh, that's great!"
"Yeah." Peels gathered neatly on one hand, Hakuji nods in agreement, already forgetting what bothered him just a moment ago. "Do you wanna stay a little longer? She should be awake soon. She and Keizo said they missed you."
The smile on Kyojuro lips seem lighter, once again matching the look in his eyes. "I suppose I can stay."