Chapter Text
“Flowers suit you.”
The stranger jerked up. He had been sitting in the middle of a clearing when Kazuha stumbled upon him. Bushes of sunny and fuschia honeysuckles surrounded the stranger, with petals of dandelions and cotton flowers laid out around him. The blades of grass twinkled from the recent rain, and Kazuha had been sitting behind a bush the past hour, watching the stranger speak in foreign dulcet tones.
At every stroke of his finger, flowers would sprout from the ground. Kazuha’s mouth had fallen open at this, watching, entranced, as the stranger painted the dull forest with color.
It was when a glittery butterfly landed on the stranger’s nose did Kazuha feel the need to speak up and immediately regret it. Stupid, stupid.
The stranger whipped around, the flutter of his long hair causing a ruckus with the fallen petals. Kazuha could not help but gulp. A relatively fresh, fruity, and rosy scent wafted into his nose: blueberry. His keen scenes struggled to single it out from the hundreds of flowers around him, but it was the foreign touch that helped him. This stranger was different — nothing like any human he has met before.
Kazuha revealed himself from behind the bush.
The stranger scowled. His starry eyes hardened, and he bared his teeth like a cornered animal. Pretty, Kazuha could not help but think. Little fangs peeked from his glistening lips, wet from previously wolfing down peaches. Black and violet robes hugged him, texture resembling the petals of a hibiscus — a fully bloomed gumamela.
“I apologize.” Kazuha had to do more than apologize; he should slap himself for ruining such a pretty picture. He stepped into the clearing, and the stranger scowled harder. Freezing, he spoke, “I… Uh. I’m out to search for soapstone, and I happened to come across you. I mean no harm, I promise.”
His words did nothing to soften the frown. More like it angered him more. With a swish of his robes, Kazuha could only watch as the stranger and all his flowers disappeared, leaving behind a single puffy dandelion.
“I truly mean no harm,” mumbled Kazuha.
The lack of flowers dulled the forest. It returned the clearing to its dark state of withered leaves and burly trees, devoid of any color the stranger brought. Kazuha walked, dejected, to the dandelion in the middle and crouched.
He blew a wish.
“Oh my…” breathed out Ayaka. Her fingers grazed over the smooth marble, running over the stone Kazuha spent sleepless nights carving to perfection. A statue of a small sakura tree planted on a pot rested on the table, the Kamisato Crest carved into the middle of the clay.
It took him a week to sculpt this. After Ayaka described what she wanted, he dreaded the complicated details. The branches of the sakura tree were thin, and sculpting every single flower in it proved easier said than done. Kazuha had tried using soapstone for it, at first, but after it crumbled three times in a row, Ayaka provided him with the finest marble to use. It went smooth sailing after that.
Art was art. The more difficult the creation, the more fruitful the rewards. At least, that's what he thought.
And he thought right since Ayaka paid him three million mora upfront.
“Your art is exceptional,” she said. “I have never seen a sculptor with such precision. Every part of the stone I touch, it is as if I could feel the love you placed into it. It feels real.”
Kazuha bowed. “The pleasure is mine. To personally sculpt for Miss Kamisato is an honor in itself.”
Ayaka guided him out of the estate. It’s a huge place, bigger than the previous Kaedehara household. Every crook and hallway weighed familiar to him, but he pushed it aside. Unwanted feelings would only hinder. They passed by a garden, and his eyes could not help but stare at the statue of the Raiden Shogun. It stood proudly on the estate, tall as her sculpted sword gleamed in the sunlight. The Tri-Commission had required every household to have a statue of Her — it kept Her strong: the belief, the prayers, the faith, the offerings.
As long as a god had followers, they would remain in the heavens. And what better way to show belief than pray to a shrine? This was what kept Kazuha’s business thriving. Other than special orders like Ayaka’s, most of his works were shrines for different gods.
He was about to bid his farewell when Ayaka paused.
“There’ll be a prayer for the shogun in a while…” she said, lingering. “You could pray with us.”
Kazuha opened his mouth to speak, but Ayaka cut him off.
“But you don’t have to!” she added quickly. “I know you don’t believe in her after…”
He smiled and offered her shoulder a light squeeze. “Thank you for thinking of me, my lady. However, I'm afraid I have to decline as my orders are piling up.”
Kazuha went back to the clearing. He dropped the handles of his wooden cart and set up his workplace. A handmade foldable table he made himself stood in the middle of the area, untouched with a pile of dry fallen leaves on top of it. Below it hid a basket of stones, jewels, clay, and his trusted hammer and chisel. The clearing soon turned into his second home. It's a much better environment than the stuffy walls of his cottage, with the gentle breeze on his skin and the songs of hummingbirds. He glanced around.
No flowers today either. The same withered plants and burly trees surrounded him. No piles of fresh petals, nor a beautiful boy to admire.
Kazuha sighed.
He had been coming back here every day for two months. At first, he sat in the middle like an idiot, waiting, hoping for the boy to come back. It became boring after a while — staring at nothing — so he brought his sculpting materials along and worked there. It turned into a habit from then.
But even after two months of sculpting, he could not carve the boy as he wished.
Kazuha tried at first but ceased. He didn’t want to make a mistake, to carve even the littlest piece inaccurately. Doing so felt like committing a sin. A disrespect to the ethereal being he witnessed in the flowery meadows. If he ever had to build a sculpture of him, Kazuha preferred if his muse lounged before him so he could latch onto every minute detail.
He settled into his workplace. The foul scent of dried leaves and nothingness never pleased him, so he brought out a wooden bowl and a bag from his cart. Kazuha picked out petals of dried lavender, lemons, a vial of olive oil, and little pieces of star anise. Placing them all on the bowl, he got a rock from the ground and crushed them together. The back of his neck tickled, but if what he thought was right, then he wisely ignored it.
A light and fresh scent wafted into his nose. Its herbal, balsamic undertones added a sweetness to it Kazuha breathed in. He had never made a potpourri before, too unskilled to do so, but after mulling over flowers for weeks, there would be no harm in trying.
Kazuha was about to pound the rock into the crushed flowers once more when a hand grabbed his wrist. Sharp nails dug into his skin, but it wasn’t enough to hurt, only pressure. It’s as if the stranger didn’t know how to handle a human and used more strength than necessary.
He looked up, and to his heart’s content, the boy from before stood beside him — the same pretty scowl on his face.
“Hello,” breathed out Kazuha. He could not help but stare at the beautiful boy’s eyes, a reflection of stars shimmering on a pond — the inside of a kaleidoscope’s burst of colors, a pattern with varying shades of dark blue. “What’s your name?”
The beautiful boy frowned at him.
“I’m Kazuha,” he tried again. Perhaps sharing his own would add comfort between them.
The boy opened his mouth, and Kazuha held his breath, waiting for heaven’s song, until a mixture of whistles, croons, and trills chimed off his lips. Kazuha paused. The sounds stopped, and the boy might have mistook his silence for hostility since he jerked away like he got burned.
Kazuha recovered and reached for the boy, but he backed away even more.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Kazuha stood up. He held his arms up, a show of surrender, and spoke with careful tones, “You… don’t speak Inazuman?”
The boy stared at Kazuha’s raised arms, and the sign of surrender must be universal since his shoulders relaxed. Flowers covered the entire clearing now, beds of dandelions, daffodils, lavender, and sunflowers on the ground to create a sea of endless color. Although it stopped on the clearing’s surrounding bushes.
Kazuha smiled. This specific part of the forest, full of flowers and life. Their own little world.
He was about to point this out, but the boy grabbed his bowl of attempted potpourri.
“Oh,” said Kazuha, watching as the boy snarled at it. “That’s supposed to secrete scents, but I believe I failed.”
The boy gave him a look as if saying: “No shit. This is a disrespect to flowers as a whole.”
“I'm new to this kind of craftsmanship,” Kazuha defended himself, and he didn't know why when the boy couldn't even understand him.
The boy shoved past him, and blueberry bombarded his senses; a strong, sweet kind that had him following like a mindless fool. Kazuha let the boy search his cart — he would let this boy do anything. If he was currently being robbed, then he would let it happen. Let his trusted blade be damned.
A minute passed. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, a bamboo mug of water and the poor attempt at potpourri before him. Kazuha crouched beside him, merely watching, afraid speaking would scare him away.
The boy poured the water into the bowl of crushed lavender and meshed everything with his hands. A sweet, floral scent entered his nose again, stronger this time.
“Oh,” said Kazuha, peering closer. So the water accentuated the scent.
Next, the boy held a palm out. Kazuha stared. Thinking he was asking for… something, Kazuha held it. The boy slapped his hand away and pointed at a bed of rosemaries by Kazuha’s feet.
“Oh…” Kazuha got off them. He plucked one off the ground and offered it to him.
The boy placed the rosemaries into the bowl and began crushing them with the heel of his palm. As he did this, colorful leaves fell around them like snow. And Kazuha was not dense enough to believe this a chance of fate, but the boy seemed unaware of his own doings, dutifully making potpourri. The tip of his tongue stuck out and his brows furrowed in concentration and Kazuha, like a fool, stared. A maple leaf fell on the boy’s nose, and before Kazuha could think, he reached out to pluck it.
The falling leaves stopped, and the flowers around them stopped shining. The boy looked up from his bowl and pierced Kazuha with a stare, a low growl spilling off his lips.
Kazuha held up the leaf. “It fell on you.”
The boy bared his teeth.
“I mean it. You have no need to be so cautious.” Slowly, while maintaining eye contact, Kazuha placed it on the potpourri bowl. The boy took one look at it, wrinkled his nose, and threw it away, glaring at Kazuha as if he was an ignorant worm who knew nothing.
An idea struck him. The boy didn't seem to understand his words, but so far, they managed to communicate through actions and tones of voice. Kazuha also received reactions relatively normal in human communication. Even if the boy spoke in animalistic tones, he could detect the feeling and intent behind every one of Kazuha's moves. Regardless of the essence of stars the boy gave off, whether he was a secret god or not, Kazuha wished to keep him close.
He pointed at himself.
“I’m Kaedehara Kazuha. Ka-zu-ha.”
The boy blinked. Once, twice, not a single thought in his eyes, then went back to crushing the lavender.
Kazuha stared helplessly. He tapped the boy’s shoulder, who snapped his head up, a growl on his lips, but Kazuha would not stop until he got this beautiful boy’s name. Pointing at himself, he said, “My name is Kazuha. May I get yours?”
The boy frowned.
Kazuha pointed at his own chest. “I’m Kazuha, and—” He pushed his finger toward the boy. “You are?”
The boy’s eyes lit up, and Kazuha memorized this look, engraved it into his mind to store along with the rest of his priceless art.
“Ku…” His voice rolled of gravel. An ancient undertone to it containing divine power leagues above anything Kazuha has ever witnessed. He wouldn't be surprised if this was the boy's first time speaking in years. “Kun—” He wrinkled his nose as if his struggle disgusted him. “Kuniku… zushi.”
“Kunikuzushi,” Kazuha repeated. Like a prayer, he said, “Kunikuzushi.”
“Kaz...” Kunikuzushi tried, but the pronunciation must have been too hard since he pursed his lips. He went back to crushing the petals, the whimsical scent of lavender re-entering their noses.
Kazuha did not mind silence. He preferred it even, and Kunikuzushi didn't seem to mind it either with how many flowers grew around him. While Kunikuzushi worked on the potpourri of lavenders, Kazuha memorized every slope and angle of the boy. With the sea of yellow dandelions surrounding them, Kunikuzushi’s dark hair popped out like a spill of black ink. Pretty, pretty sight. The kind to push an artist to create.
“Kunikuzushi,” Kazuha said after a while.
Kunikuzushi ignored him. He continued to crush the petals and when the scent of lavender heightened, he shoved the bowl under Kazuha’s nose. A low croon fell off his lips, communicating something that Kazuha could not understand.
“Forgive me,” said Kazuha. He cradled the bowl in his hands. “Your words are foreign to me. But thank you, I’ll make good use of these scents.”
Kunikuzushi snapped his mouth shut and his lips curled down. When Kazuha only stared — how could he not? It was such a pretty sight — Kunikuzushi bared his teeth, little fangs like porcelain.
Kazuha could not help his smile. “If you’re attempting to intimidate, I’m afraid you’re doing the opposite.”
A dandelion on his side grew until it bombarded his face. The pollen tickled his nose, and Kazuha laughed as he pushed it to the side. Kunikuzushi stared at him, face blank, until he bared his teeth again. This time, his lips moved in a peculiar manner, like he was trying to form a shape with his mouth. Kazuha smiled wider at this. Cute.
Kunikuzushi’s eyes latched onto him and his fingers reached up to trace the corners of Kazuha's mouth. His lips curled up, although it looked odd on Kunikuzushi’s face. It showed off his little fangs and gave the impression he swallowed a sour lemon. Nothing like the ease of Kazuha’s smile, no matter how hard Kunikuzushi tried to imitate it. He only managed to look like a hissy cat.
“Are you copying me?” Kazuha leaned into the touch. He kept his smile and watched, heart melting, at the sight of Kunikuzushi making awkward expressions.
Kunikuzushi must have sensed his amusement since he stopped and glared.
“Sorry.” Kazuha made an effort to drop his smile, but it's hard. His eyes twinkled too much. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”
Kunikuzushi saw through this and huffed. Pink tinted his cheeks like sakura blooms and before Kazuha could point it out, Kunikuzushi vanished with a swish of his robes. This time, the flowers stayed in the clearing, all of their scents mixing into magical dust for the nose. Smiling to himself like an idiot, Kazuha placed the potpourri of lavenders at the side and sculpted.
“That’s a lot of orders,” said Yoimiya. A pile of ripped papers and scrolls full of sculpture designs sprawled all over his table. They were all the usual: blueprints for sacred shrines. Unfortunately for them, Kazuha was not in the mood to sculpt some god he couldn’t be bothered to worship.
“Mmh.” Kazuha turned the stove off and placed the fried eggs in a plastic container. Gently, he rested them inside a straw basket. Shaped sugar cookies, dango milk, braised fish, and jelly sandwiches filled it to the brim. And after mulling it over, Kazuha added bars of chocolate to the mix—the expensive kind the Kamisatos gifted him for his work.
“Oookay?” Yoimiya placed her box of fireworks down. Then perked up. “Are you going on a date?!”
“No.”
“You order fireworks, and now you’re preparing an entire feast. You sure as hell didn’t invite me to eat!”
He paused in his ministrations. “His color is purple and blue.”
Yoimiya squinted. “Huh?”
“But I am sure, with my artistic expertise, that subtle traces of red would suit him perfectly,” muttered Kazuha. He wrapped the basket with a thin muslin cloth, and he stood there, quietly, thinking until— “Do you have a red ribbon?”
“And you say you aren’t on a date?” Yoimiya raised a brow, but she still plucked one out from her pocket. Kazuha didn’t bother questioning why she had it in the first place and thanked her before keeping it.
“An artist survives off his motivation,” Kazuha told her. “I merely found a perfect muse, and I intend to keep him for quite a while.”
“And I guess that explains why you haven’t taken orders in…” Yoimiya counted her fingers, then abandoned it to throw her arms up. “Weeks! The villagers are worried, y’know. The streets say you’re having a…”
Kazuha stared at her. “A what?”
“I mean, I’m no artist myself but—” Yoimiya rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know the terms and all, but they make it sound so grave!”
“Yoimiya.”
“An artist’s block!” she cried. “There!”
“Oh.” Kazuha mulled it over, then shrugged. “It is the opposite, actually.”
“Wait, really?!”
“Mhm. I’ve been working on a project, my greatest one yet.” He picked up the basket of food and sheathed his sword by his hip. Once Kazuha deemed everything ready, he hauled the box of fireworks up in his arms.
“So… you’re not depressed?”
Kazuha chuckled. “Far from it.”