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It takes longer than it should for Choso to realize that he has never intentionally sought the company of anyone before Tsukumo Yuki.
This realization first occurs in their second month of guarding over Tengen, after a healthy barrage of questioning that he found he didn’t actually hate. It comes to him again during month three, day five, when he’s starting to wonder if there is some stagnation in the greater plan. He’s sprawled out on the ground, facing the endless sky, and he thinks that Tsukumo probably wouldn’t enjoy sitting around for so many hours doing nothing like this. It’s a weird thought, and it gives him pause.
Choso seeks out his brothers, of course. That goes without saying. It’s his entire reason for being, and it brings him complete satisfaction. He watched over Kechizu in his earliest stages of incarnation and taught him how to use verbal speech and language. Many nights were spent soothing Eso’s self-doubts and assuring him that his form was perfect, elegant in every way, and that he had no reason to think otherwise. Those were the moments that he enjoyed, and that he subsequently missed. These days, he tries to look after Yuji despite his adamant protests that he’s fine. He calls him, and if he’s in luck, he’ll get a response and a slightly awkward conversation that makes his heart soar.
It’s not as if he hates others. When he traveled with that man’s lot, he was neutral towards them, save Mahito, who too often mocked his familial love and quickly earned his hate. Plenty of the sorcerers he’s learned to ally himself now with are fine enough people, keeping him at an understandable distance but treating him with respect. They’re strange, every one, but talking to them isn’t always unpleasant. In the end, though, the strangers don’t matter. Blood is the only permanence in Choso’s life, and so it is the only meaningful thing.
That seems to have changed.
How do you describe Tsukumo Yuki?
Tsukumo is electric. Impermanent in every sense of the word, less a person than a phenomena. She spars as if every blow will be her last, merciless and polished. Her deep eyes remind him of Jupiter, a planet that he knows vaguely from his vessel’s spotty memories. Tsukumo’s presence has its own gravitational pull, and it’s tugged him closer. She was fine, and then she began talking to him regularly as they were isolated together, ignoring his barely-there responses. Then ‘fine’ evolved into something that left him with more questions than answers, but that he found himself drawn to nonetheless. It’s not as though she dotes on him or speaks to him particularly sweetly, but he thinks he likes that. He’s blunt, too. She’s forward with her questions, forcing him to consider things about himself that he hasn’t before.
Tsukumo drinks a specific brand of plum wine nightly and complimented his one and only attempt to cook. Tsukumo rarely sits down; if she has to, she’ll crouch in her seat in increasingly interesting positions. Tsukumo wears mango-colored lip balm (he wonders if the taste is the same, too?) and smells like ozone mixed with industry. It’s familiar if not pleasant.
Choso turns onto his side, feeling coarse granules of sand brush the stain on his cheek. Dipping his finger into the earth, he idly draws long, swirling shapes. Imaginary gulls cry far overhead.
At times he feels disgusted at himself for giving an outsider such a massive space in his head, which should belong to his loved ones exclusively. His blood boils in his veins as it tells him that this is a false connection that can and will be broken. He is merely the nearest person, and she doesn’t have any particular interest in him. It makes him feel like a fool, or worse, like he’s intentionally desecrating the memory of his brothers. He keeps himself in check by attempting to be curt with Tsukumo, though this doesn’t stop her from talking to him. This, he thinks, is his curse half, and it is prone to winning out in these internal battles, with mixed success.
This does nothing, of course, to stop the fact that he gets butterflies in his stomach whenever she chooses to sidle up next to him at breakfast, blowing him a kiss across the table. It’s just her personality, not specific to him, but he always manages to take it to heart. Choso always gets a little unintentionally excited when she suggests sparring, eager to improve his technique and perhaps encounter a rare piece of personal information from her life. Between them, he might as well be an open book. She tends to be rawest after a brawl, and he supposes he can understand why.
This half of him–the human one–wants to hear and memorize every part of her like a beloved story that he won’t put down, though its victories in his life have been few and far inbetween. It’s shameful beyond words. It’s entirely wrong, because he’s not human, and it’s not as if he can or should pretend otherwise. It’s delusional. It’s—
“Hey, Choso!”
A familiar, faint voice breaks him from his daze, making him squint and blink. It’s brighter than he thought. His face aches and everything feels a little itchy. He turns to see Tsukumo approaching in the distance, arm swinging in a wide wave.
“Good afternoon, Tsukumo-san.”
Tengen’s domain is a beach today, blue waves lapping up against the endless white shore. No other living creatures, but the manufactured sounds of gulls and splashing fish sound out every now and then. Tsukumo jogs close, wearing a jet-black wetsuit and carrying a long, bright orange shape under one arm. A surfboard , his vessel’s memory helpfully supplies.
“Just Yuki. Don’t be so formal about it.” She looks down at him almost pityingly, glancing over at him with ill-concealed confusion.
“That’s not beachwear, big guy.” she says, a bit too gently. He surveys his thick navy sweatshirt and pants , both stained white with sand. Maybe her tone is a little warranted.
“It’s fine.”
She grins wryly, resting one hand on her cocked hip.
“Sure it is. You’re sweaty. And sunburnt.”
He reaches up to touch his face, the skin thinner and a bit more swollen. It aches dully. Something odd raises in his chest that makes his face feel red-hot (it’s not irritation, it’s something more foreign and personal), but he steels his nerves. She won’t get a rise out of him.
“It’s not bad.”
“Bull. Tengen can work you up a swimsuit and some aloe at the base. C’mon.”
She extends a hand to him and he takes it, feeling her calloused and scarred palm against his smooth one. Tsukumo yanks him up in one fluid motion, starting to bat some of the grit off his back and hair as they walk.
“How long have you been out here doing, as far as I can tell, literally nothing?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
She puts a palm to her chest, looking shocked. “Damn, you wanted to get away from me that bad? That’s cold, Choso, even for you.”
This is sarcasm, and she employs it often. It’s part of her very particular and often confusing brand of humor. He presses his lips together and decides to take the bait in front of him. So much for not letting her under his skin.
“It’s the truth. I can’t tolerate you.”
For a moment, her face registers surprise, before cracking into a wide grin.
“Well, look at you! Mouthing off! Big brother’s learning.”
She barks a laugh and claps him on the sore shoulder before slipping her hand into his. After that, it becomes a bit of a blur. Suddenly he’s in swim trunks and an SPF shirt while Tsukumo dabs a greasy lotion across his boiling face and tells him about the importance of proper UV protection. He loads up a bag with a variety of ‘beach essentials’, carrying it over his shoulder to a spot in the sand far enough away to be safe from the encroaching tide.
He tries swimming, which he takes to easier than expected. Time passes quickly. Choso learns what purple grapes taste like, sweet immensely refreshing after the taste of saltwater on his tongue, though not coming close to the mango that follows it.
Things slow back down as he sits on the shoreline with a towel around his shoulders, watching Tsukumo ride waves with the setting sun haloed behind her. Garuda has joined her, threading between the waves and following loosely in her wake. She is silent and determined, head bowed like a stalking predator as she slices through the water, although she poses dramatically when she catches him staring.
He wonders, idly, how all of this will play out. Maybe he’ll maintain the connection, assuming they survive, or maybe once this whole thing is over he’ll slink back off to be a shadow over Yuji. It’d be easy. It’s not that deep of a bond, really. Can’t be.
It makes his stomach churn and his body tremble like a dying, feverish man, but far too much of him is pulling for human nature to win out this time.