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There’s something off about Arataki Itto. For one, he’s been missing from his usual rounds through Inazuma City’s main street. When he does show up, he’s alone. He isn’t surrounded by his gaggle of children or by his misfit gang. He doesn’t yell, boast, gamble, harass, street perform, play games, converse with vendors, or perform any of his expected activities. He’s quiet. He’s normal, which is abnormal. He doesn’t wander aimlessly without a care in the world, like he’d used to; he makes his way somewhere, and then he’s gone. The Hanamizaka Bulletin Board hasn’t been vandalized in a week.
The Inazuma residents seem to have noticed a change too, and they almost act peevish and awkward when Arataki Itto does appear. It’s not a welcome change, it seems. They’d grown accustomed to his antics, to the liveliness he’d brought to the streets.
The worst thing is, Kujou Sara catches sight of Arataki Itto one day along the grassy paths behind Naganohara Fireworks, and he doesn’t make a racket. He doesn’t speak. He acknowledges her by nodding once and heads the other way.
Sara had previously dreamed of this day, the day Arataki Itto doesn’t announce his presence to her loudly or yells for the “fated rematch between rivals,” but it just feels wrong, now that it’s actually happened. Nonsensically, Sara wants the two of them to reassume their positions and redo the scene. She wants him to make noise, to take up space.
The next she knows, Sara has begun intentionally keeping an eye on him. Sara is distinctly aware that she’s shirking her duties somehow, and perhaps for no other reason but just to satisfy a morbid curiosity. If she’ll justify this as an “investigation” on Arataki Itto, it’s unethical—there have been no reports of suspicious behavior. No, she’s definitely shirking her duties. Abusing her authority. And so forth.
The other time Sara sees (rather, hears) Itto, he’s purchasing flowers at Tsukumomono Groceries, and she’s standing underneath a sakura tree, out of sight. His voice is subdued, off-tone.
“Hi Aoi,” Sara hears him say. “Do you have any… uh… white chrysanthemums?”
“Oh,” Aoi says from behind the counter. “Arataki-san, if I’m understanding correctly, are you attending a funeral?”
A pause. “Something like that.”
“I don’t have any chrysanthemums, I’m afraid. You can try Mikoshi-san’s store. But I don’t know how much luck you’ll find. We used to import them alongside silk flowers from Liyue, but that was before the Sakoku Decree.”
“Oh, I see. Thanks, Aoi. I’ll see you around.”
She hears his retreating footsteps.
Everything clicks. Sara feels... like a voyeur. Arataki Itto isn’t a cartoon character or Inazuma’s designated comedy relief; he’s his own person. Of course he’s his own person. If he’s been quieter or less excitable or unhappy because someone close to him has passed away, he should be allowed to grieve. And if he’s grieving, she should leave him alone.
Sara frowns at herself. This is unbecoming of her. She makes her way back to the Kujou residence as quickly as possible, bids good evening to her brother Kamaji, and retreats to her room for a long meditation session.
The following day, after a long shift at the Tenryou Police Station, Sara stays a while at her office, seized by the urge to unearth a piece of horizontal kozo paper from her desk drawers. She unhooks a brush from the calligraphy stand and starts writing in a simple block style.
Arataki Itto,
Dendrobiums are a fine memorial flower. You will not find them sold at shops, but they grow on Yashiori Island and in Kannazuka, if you feel inclined to go flower picking.
She decides against writing her name under the note.
This will go on the right-hand corner of the Hanamizaka Bulletin Board, arguably the most visible and most frequently-viewed object in town. She is definitely doing this against her better judgment, but when it comes to Arataki Itto… huh. Everything she does in regards to him surprises herself.
*
What’s left gnawing at her conscience is the question of whether or not she’s overstepped any boundaries. Admittedly, she doesn’t know what these boundaries are, or how she’s overstepping them. She’s taken measures to preserve her anonymity by ordering a subordinate to deliver this to a courier who will tack this on the Bulletin Board in her stead.
Sara finds herself telling this to Kamaji after breakfast—so much for anonymity. Then again, Kamaji is the only person she’s been able to properly talk to in her family.
“What do you mean?” Kamaji is saying. “Isn’t this just you wanting to console a friend?”
Sara stares at him. “Console… a friend.”
Kamaji quirks an eyebrow. “What, don’t you spend the most time with Arataki Itto outside of work than with anyone else?”
Sara doesn’t respond.
“You know you can go up to him and ask him how he’s doing, right? Offer your condolences?”
“I have never been good at these things,” Sara says.
“Give it a shot.”
It’s true—Sara had spent more time with Itto than would be considered professional or within acceptable bounds of her work. Granted, the first few times were strictly work-related; she had been the person who detained him when he was graffiti-ing a wall, and trespassing, and raising a racket staging onikabuto matches past curfew. She had been the person who had confiscated his Vision. She had been the person who accepted bail from Kuki Shinobu and watched Itto, ever the indomitable spirit, walk languidly out of his cell with that catlike grin. (Who on earth is that unbothered about being jailed for weeks?)
Afterwards, she had been the one who had found Itto injured at Nazuchi Beach and supervised his recovery at Kujou Encampment. She recalls the day he had removed the last of his bandages with an exaggerated gesture, flexed his wide shoulders, and whined like a little baby until she had acquiesced to his demands that she “accompany him on a nice monster-vanquishing stroll through Kannazuka”—which had ended up being an excuse for him to accost her with idle chatter and to brandish his kanobou in broad daylight, for no apparent reason. There had not been a monster in sight that day.
She had been the one Itto challenged to so-called “duels,” which had not been sumo wrestling matches but games of Inazuma chess, timed races across Kondo Village, and even on one occasion—to her vast confusion—a game of hide and seek. “A duel is any activity between two parties with a competitive agenda,” he insists when questioned. She still does not remember why she’d agreed to partake in his silliness.
Alright, alright. Who is she trying to deceive? She spends (spent) a lot of time with him, and that’s considering she has so little time in the day as is. Kamaji calls this friendship. So this is friendship, apparently. She wouldn’t know; she’s never had the luxury of being able to “make friends”—the Clan Head had never permitted such distractions.
And now here she is, distracted. But the old Clan Head is out of commission. What is she worried about?
*
Later, Sara catches sight of Itto sprawled on a rooftop of a Hanamizaka dwelling, his large silhouette lined by a nighttime rim light. She steels her nerves and teleports next to him with an Electro-infused flicker of her wings.
Itto starts violently with a yelp. “Tengu! What are you doing here?”
“I came to say hello,” she announces. Itto scrambles into sitting position to look up at her.
“You’re not here to arrest me again, are you?” Itto says, scratching his head. “I’m not trespassing. This is my house.”
“I am not here to make an arrest.”
Itto looks at her quizzically. She catches sight of a cigarette in his hand.
“I did not know you smoke,” she says.
Itto scoffs. “Of course I do! I’m a delinquent, remember?”
He brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a very long drag. Sara wrinkles her nose.
A second later, Itto breaks into a coughing fit, before finally catching his breath.
“I’m kidding,” Itto says, his voice slightly strangled. “This is my first ever cig.”
Thankfully, he’s still ridiculous.
“This is a nasty habit,” Sara says.
Itto shakes his head. “Arataki Gang motto number twenty-seven: Here for a good time, not a long time.”
“I see,” Sara says with as doubtful a tone as she can muster.
“No, you’re right,” Itto sighs. “I thought it’d help, but it’s not helping.” He extinguishes the butt of the cigarette on a roof tile.
Archons, she can’t get the words out. She really can’t. Kamaji overestimates her.
No, she needs to do this. Itto is her… friend.
Sara sits down beside him and crosses her legs. “Is there—Is there something bothering you?”
A beat.
“Not at all!” Itto says, eyes wide. “Why do you ask?”
“You have not been yourself lately.”
Itto shrugs. “I’m just busy. You’re busy all the time. Aren’t I allowed to be busy?” He chuckles, but it sounds hollow.
“I am the appointed High General of Her Excellency’s Shogunate and head of the Tenryou army. You are unemployed. You are not generally busy.”
That sounded cruel.
Arataki Itto glares at her, but the anger he directs at her has always been petulant and indignant, and not the famed oni rage that people speak of in folktales. Something in the back of her mind wonders if she’s taking advantage of him, but what does that even mean? She’s a mess of half-formed thoughts.
Sara wants to slap herself. She is not good at conversation, much less at… whatever this is.
Archons give her strength.
“If there is something wrong, I would like to know,” she bites out.
“Well!” Itto exclaims, slapping his knee. “It was nice seeing you, Tengu. We still haven’t done a ramen eating competition, so that should be in the books for our next duel. I’m gonna go take a walk. Anyway, I’ll catch ya later, hmm?”
He dusts off his pants with a few pats and starts moving to get up.
“Itto,” Sara says.
“Yeah?”
“I apologize. Please let me help.”
Itto plops back down and looks away, defeated. He says nothing for a painful stretch of time, and then:
“Granny Oni died three days ago.”
Sara’s heart drops.
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
What is she, an automaton? She really wants to slap herself.
Itto shrugs again. “She was sick for a while. I knew it was coming.”
Kamaji had not provided her with a script, so she does not speak. Itto does not rush to fill the resulting silence either. No one has ever prepared her for anything like this; Sara has not felt this terrified in years. There’s a rustling noise—Itto is fidgeting with the rim of his collar. She’d noticed he does that sometimes.
Her attention spasms. She looks upwards. The overhead stars are a whirlwind of minor light, smatterings like ink drops across a red-violet nebula. They’re what’s casting that gentle glow on Itto’s profile.
“Yeah. Anyway. You’re dismissed, General Kujou.” Itto lets loose a low giggle. “You are free to go.”
“What?”
“I mean, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” Itto supplies after a brief pause, turning serious. “I don’t want you to stay here when I’m being all glum and weird. Yeah, contrary to popular belief, I am capable of self-awareness.”
Sara’s throat closes. Is he the one reassuring her? When he’s the one with the dead grandmother?
“I sought you out,” she reminds him. “I am here of my own accord. Get over yourself.”
She winces, but Itto laughs, and this time it reaches his eyes. Is she doing something right? By being mean?
They settle into another silence, and it feels more comfortable this time. The stars really are beautiful tonight.
“Your Granny Oni was a good person,” Sara finds herself saying. “I saw her many years ago, when I was still a girl.”
“You did?”
“I do not know if you remember our first meeting,” Sara says quietly. “I was eight at the time, and I was still living in my forest, my first home, before it burned down. I liked venturing out into Byakko Plain, and I found you there one day. You were a child of my size, and we became playmates.”
Itto’s jaw drops. “Wh—That was—that was you?”
“We argued over something inane,” Sara continues, “Something about whether tengu or oni are the stronger race. We had a sumo match, and we tumbled down a mountain. You sprained your ankle, and I carried you to your house, where Granny Oni was waiting for you.”
“I can’t believe that was you.”
“She thanked me for bringing you home safely. She gave me… a plate of dango, and told me to stay after I had eaten, but I left before I could impose any longer. As a younger youkai, I had not yet learned to disguise my appearance, and my wings still stuck out a little bit, but she only treated me as a girl, nothing more. Other humans ran, or threw things, or the pious ones prayed at us, like we were deities. She gave me dango. I watched her bring you to bed and massage your ankle—you were asleep by then. That is how I know she must have been a loving grandmother to you.”
“Oh.”
Sara watches Itto squeeze his eyes shut. In the ensuing silence, she wonders if she’s said the wrong thing.
“How do you feel?” Sara asks tentatively.
Something cracks in Itto’s expression. When Itto speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I don’t know if… hah. I don’t know how I can go on. She was the first human who was ever kind to me, no strings attached. She’ll be the last, I think. I don’t know if I’ll ever find someone like her again. I don’t know how I’m supposed to live in this house again, when I see the pot she used to make miso with, the bed she used to tuck me into, the teacups she used to polish and rearrange in the cupboard. And now that I think of it, everything she ever did, she did for me. And I wasn’t able to… repay her, in the end. It’s sick. I never got to…”
Itto burrows his face into his hands. “Damn. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, for her sake. For my parents’ sake. For my own sake. I’m an oni. We’re supposed to take things in stride and then move on. Gah, I need to stop talking. Kujou Tengu, promise me you’ll forget you ever saw me like this.”
“I will not presume to tell you how to grieve, but you are allowed to feel things, Itto. Youkai are not immune to sorrow.”
“You seem to be doing well enough. You always look unaffected by wind and rain. The proud General Kujou.”
“Believe me, I am not unaffected.”
Itto is a silent crier, it turns out. The tensed shoulders, the low trembling—but no dramatic sobs, not even the occasional sniffle. He keeps surprising her, over and over and over, and she’s never known how to keep up with him.
When she was a girl, her tengu parents, the ones who burned in that fire, used to embrace her when they rocked her to sleep.
She nudges close and folds her arms around him, holding him awhile. It’s a chilly night, but something warm like a candlelight seems to flicker as he melts into her, as they’re wrapped around each other. She closes her eyes too.
*
Later that night, they return to their first meeting place, that mountain near Byakko Plain. It hadn’t been a mountain, as she’d remembered in childhood. It looks to her, now, like a lightly elevated hill.
“Are you the one who posted that note?” Itto asks.
Sara blinks. “How could you tell?”
“I recognized your handwriting. You didn’t think, with all our Bulletin correspondences, that I’d be able to recognize your handwriting?”
“Ah.” Sara hadn’t thought of that. And she had assumed, uncharitably, that he would be inattentive to such details.
“Well, thanks. It was thoughtful of you,” Itto says.
“We can go picking for dendrobiums together,” Sara offers. “If you will have me.”
Next she knows, Itto gives her a toothy grin—his first real smile of the night.
“I’d like that.”
*
Kujou Sara and Arataki Itto face the altar, kneel on their straw mats, raise their sticks of intense above their heads, and bow three times. Surrounding them in swaths are their big and small, full-bloomed and blooming, pink and red dendrobiums for Granny Oni.