Chapter Text
Springtime is for lovers, as the saying goes. But Naoya thinks of the season with disdain. He looks at cherry blossoms and wants them to burn. He looks at the koi fish and wants them to drown. He looks at his bride-to-be and wishes for her to die.
Usuzumi.
The name is nothing special. The place they come from is nothing special. Their role as onmyoji is nothing special. He looks at her, at her dyed hair, the black lining her eyes, the hint of tattoos around her neck and her wrists, and the silver decorating her ears. She's a proper delinquent, he thinks, probably as dirty and foul as every other delinquent. But then, all the other family members with her are the same; all with tattoos and piercings like they're the last remnants of a Shinjuku subculture.
He thinks they look filthy, and he obviously deserves a cleaner and better-looking future wife.
"We are grateful for your hospitality, Master Naobito."
He scoffs when they're introduced. He rolls his eyes when they talk about Date. He groans when they begin discussing the Thirteen Buddhas. He loses interest completely when she is made to sit forward by her grandmother, the head of the clan. He turns a deaf ear to the introduction; he couldn't care less about what her name is and why she was the one brought here and not one of her many cousins. Though he doubts they'd look any better. Probably every single one in her family looks like they belong in a campy movie about yakuza.
But she sits still and dutiful like she'd make a good bride. Like she wants to be a good wife. Like she's a delicate flower all trimmed and made pretty, but she looks nothing at all like one. And when everyone else is the room is made to leave so that the two of them can "get to know each other better", she bows her head low and deep. She presses her head to the floor like she is supposed to, but the practiced sight of it makes him sick.
But like the very few women who know their place and accept it, she won't rise from the floor until she is told, until he tells her to. She could flatten her forehead for all he cares. She could even stay there, starve there in that very position, piss and shit herself without any complaints. She could rot there, and she will, because if she is a dutiful woman, she will.
Naoya wishes she'd do something already, so he can complain and tell his dear, dear father how unruly and disobedient she is. She wouldn't make good children. She wouldn't even make a good wife, and he's too important to even bother training her. He's no husband, he's a sorcerer, the promised future head of the Zenin family. And if his future wife doesn't meet his taste and expectations, then she's better off dead.
He can complain that she's a delinquent, a criminal. What good woman would have tattoos all over her body? What good woman dyes her hair that color and wears an ostentatious amount of jewelry? Women are supposed to be clean, prim and proper, and humble. They're supposed to be simple. They're supposed to be plain and never even dream of standing out.
Her hair is dyed a bright and blinding color that stands stark against the tatami.
He decides that he hates it.
"Then we'll have her dye it back."
If he complains about the color, his father would have that to say.
"Then we'll have her remove them."
If he complains about the piercings.
"Nothing we can do about her inherited technique."
If he complains about the tattoos.
"You're not a child anymore."
If he complains about anything else.
But doesn't he, the future head, have a say in all this?
"Imagine what a combined technique would be."
He absolutely does not want to have children with her; she's filthy, dirty, and she probably caught some disease in the back of bar bathroom. And he will not have her taint him, or stain him, or even touch him. He will never, ever allow her to touch him. And if he had a choice, he wouldn't even let her breathe the same air as him.
But he doesn't have a choice. So now they're in this room, this stale and quiet room, without even a word said to each other.
Well, maybe he would prefer her mute. That way, he can complain about how droll and boring she is, and that's unacceptable for a wife. Or maybe he'd prefer she be brain-dead, he can't marry someone like that anyway. If all the elders want out of this is to secure the next generation of sorcerers, then he can't father children with a woman that's lacking.
That's right. He'll complain about that.
"She's so stupid, she can't even hear."
"She's brain-dead, Father."
"She's going to produce defective children."
Because, of course, it will be her fault if the children she bears are lacking.
Then again, he wouldn't marry someone who is barren. And maybe that's what he'll say instead. She's barren. She won't bear children because she fucking can't.
"She wouldn't be brought here if she was, son."
Of course. Fertility is part of the selection process. She wouldn't even be considered if she wasn't the least bit able to bear a child.
"I don't like her."
And that would be the easiest answer, the most honest answer. But he knows his father would have this to say:
"I didn't like your mother either, at first."
Because at the end of it all, what matters is the potential to create stronger sorcerers.
But really, couldn't they have chosen another family? One with a better reputation, prettier and simpler women, and stronger techniques. The omyodo society is interesting and all, but it's nothing special. It's not even close to being the best match, the best fit. As the future head, he deserves nothing but the best, doesn't he?
If that's the case, then it's obvious. The answer to his problem is obvious.
"You're the worst for me." He says, "The absolute worst."
But she does not reply; she doesn't even move.
"I don't like you." He continues, "Leave."
"You're filthy, you're disgusting. Get out."
That's when she raises her head, slowly and carefully with a practiced grace that's too textbook and too rehearsed that he finds it almost repulsive. The pattern of the tatami is pressed onto her forehead, and he wants to laugh at it. She looks so stupid.
"I will do my best to please you." She says, and the calmness of her voice is something he doesn't expect.
He expected her to scowl or spit, to raise her voice so he'd have proper reason to refuse. He expected her to feel insulted or complain, tell him how she doesn't like him either, but she's so sickeningly mannered in her reply that he wants to challenge it. He wants to see how far this charade of hers can go, how much more she can take before she splits and becomes the joke of the century; a bygone omyoji family thinks they could worm their way into the greatest of sorcerer families? Please.
Naoya's a big fan of a good laugh, especially when it's at another person's expense.
"Rot in here, then."
He leaves the room without another word, but stays just outside the door to listen. She must be on the verge of breaking now. Her frustration must be so high and so potent that she'll scream and curse at any moment.
So he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
But he hears nothing from the other side.
He thinks to catch her off-guard then, and slides the door with a force that's bound to break her calm.
"Master Naoya."
But it doesn't.
There's a small smile on her face, like she's happy to see him, but all he sees is measured gestures and rehearsed movement.
"Fuck you." He spits out.
"I apologize."
He slams the door shut when she bows her head.
She isn't sorry.
The thing Naoya hates the most about women is that they all lie.