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Even bare of makeup and with her hair tucked under a pageboy cap, Imuri Atsuki in her waiter's uniform looked like nothing more than what she was: a stylish young woman in boy's clothes.
By contrast, Aria had settled very well into her new role. She looked like a bishonen right out of a shoujo manga; hair tied back at her nape and a devil-may-care grin on her face as she swaggered around.
Imuri was discontent.
"Why'd you have to egg them on, huh?" she said belligerently.
Asmodeus gave her a benevolent smile. "Imuri, really now. A little excitement spices up school life. And Mikhail was the one who did most of the heavy lifting."
"You—!" fumed Imuri, resisting the urge to stamp her foot on the floor.
"Aria, Atsuki! It's your turn at the front," called out the class rep.
Aria got up gracefully, smoothing invisible creases down the front of her trousers. Imuri adjusted her cap fussily. She was beginning to come around to this whole ordeal; she was wondering what Father was making of all this.
He had blinked slowly at the proclamation that their class would set up a crossdressing café for the school festival. Imuri had immediately wondered if he even knew what crossdressing meant—"So we'll all dress like Mikhail?" he'd questioned thoughtfully, and the boy in question had leapt to pushing the rest of the class headlong into picking out outfits.
Imuri's lips curved reflexively at the memory. Father was so very ancient half the time—an aged prophet in a too-young body—that it always felt new and wonderful when he was unselfconsciously youthful. Her smile fell. And that was exactly what Asmodeus was after, wasn't it? Melting away the shell he'd grown around himself, till the soft body within lay naked. Vulnerable.
Something inside Imuri hungered for that too. Father bare of armour, his cassock loose and slovenly. The knight templar breaking his vow of his own will.
Of his own will—yes, that was what made Imuri different from Asmodeus.
"Don't be—weird, with him, alright?" she hissed. Asmodeus simply glanced back with a small malicious curve to her lips. And then they were at the little café the class had set up.
The first thing Imuri noticed were the bows. Far too many of them, in her opinion. It was Mikhail's sense of aesthetic intruding onto the world again. She paused to eye all the lace trimmings judgmentally. It was cute, but it was all a bit try-hard, wasn't it? Imuri would have—
"Ah, Father!" came Aria's dulcet trill. "You look wonderful."
Imuri galloped.
Mikhail was blocking her view. She impatiently craned her neck to the side—he had on some lolita headdress confection that everyone was complimenting. It had the side-effect of adding another ten inches to his already considerable height.
"What do you think of my cuteness today, Atsuki-san?" he asked coyly, striking a pose.
"Stronger than ever," mumbled Imuri, finally inching past him. She collided into a lean, slight form. The figure did not buckle whatsoever—instead, he steadied Imuri with a matter-of-fact habitude.
"Father!" gasped Imuri.
"You look very handsome," said Father, diffident as always. His eyes were very wide as they peeked through the curtain of his hair. "Miss Aria too."
"That's very nice of you to say," said Aria, with a soft laugh. "But I would've hardly recognised you, Father. Mikhail really outdid himself."
Imuri had to second the thought. Mikhail had managed to find false twin-tails the exact shade of ashy blond as Father's hair; they were artfully pinned to the sides of his head and transformed his cherubic face into heart-shaped femininity. Some of the other boys were done up with exaggerated make-up, but the only concession Father had made was a very clear coat of lip gloss. It glistened under the sunlight. Father's skirts were knee-length, and fluttered lightly around him. A white lily was pinned neatly to the side of his head, and his stockinged feet were set in a pair of buckled shoes.
He was lovely.
Imuri found herself blushing. "You—you look good with long hair, Father!"
He nodded solemnly. Imuri would have liked to make him pose for pictures then, but the class representative began chivvying along the rest of them to their café stations.
Imuri jotted down orders and furtively took bites of biscotti in between. Succubi required calories, it wasn't her fault!
Father, of course, was doing his part with the same single-minded perfection he cooked and did chores and exorcised demons. Imuri would have liked to just sit back and watch him whiz around the room, hair flying and plates balanced flawlessly on his palms. There was something soothing about him in motion; Imuri could see why the younger clergy looked up to him so.
She was relieved when their shift finally ended. She grabbed onto Father immediately before he could get himself caught up in helping the next shift prep their desserts.
“C’mon, you've done enough!” she said, while tugging him out.
The courtyard in front of the alcove their class had set up the café in was bustling with members of the dance club. Imuri squinted. Their outfits looked strangely familiar—and then the speakers started blaring.
“Tantarella,” said Father out loud.
Imuri nodded her head. “I didn't expect to see it here! Oh, they're pretty good, Father.”
Father was staring ahead, something unreadable in his eyes. He didn't answer.
The two of them stood there together, watching the dance club perform a flawless sequence. Imuri clapped enthusiastically, and then some of the club members peeled off and began guiding members of the watching crowd to the centre of the square.
Imuri tugged at Father's ruffled sleeve. “Why don't we join in?”
“Have you—danced it before?” asked Father, not quite meeting her eyes.
"I lived in Italy for so many years," said Imuri. "Of course I know the tarantella. Father, dance with me, won't you?"
He was curling his fingers into the taffeta of his dress, the way he would dig them into the sleeves of his cassock when he was nervous.
"I've never—" he began haltingly. Imuri waited, still beaming at him with her arm outstretched. The dance club members were stretching out their circle now, and more and more bystanders were joining in, shaking tambourines and mimicking the moves with graceless joy. "I only ever watched the moves," he finally mumbled.
"Then we can figure it out together," she said.
She took his hand in hers; their palms were almost the same size. He was small for his age and his fingers had no calluses whatsoever. They were as smooth as a newborn's. Another side-effect of Heaven's gifts?
She leaped into motion and he followed her, brow furrowed in concentration. Imuri liked watching him move. Before, against Lord Beelzebub—he had been a supernova; blinding to even look at. Now, though; his holiness was muddled by simple human joy. She was touching him and he was wheeling around, coming closer and closer like a moon orbiting its planet.
The boys were shaking their tambourines in one arm and dipping their partners with the other. Long skirts were swaying like voluminous bellflowers. Imuri looked down at Father. There was a small smile carved on his granite face; secretive and hesitant
"Go on," she said. "Let go. I'll catch you."
He was heavier than he looked. Imuri was glad for the exercises Barbara and Leah had put her through; she held on tight as Father lay loose and pliant in her arms while the music changed cues.
His hair extensions were fluttering in the breeze. Imuri resisted the urge to sneeze when a few strands tickled her face. She blew them away gently.
Father was staring at her. His lips were very glossy. If he were a different boy, Imuri might've dared to steal a kiss.
The music shifted. Imuri hoisted Father up and they continued on with the sequence; arms at each other's waists while they skipped to the beat. Imuri could feel herself sweating; this was harder than the dance club had made it look.
*
"That was a workout," said Imuri, taking heaving breaths and dabbing at her forehead. Father solicitously led her to a bench.
"I'll get you something to drink," he said. Imuri nodded absently. Father hadn't broken a sweat during the breakneck tarantella sequence. He had finished smoothening down his ruffles now, and was as neat and demure as he'd appeared at the very beginning of the festival. I'm a slob, came the sudden thought. It was mixed with something darker than self-deprecation; but she was not quite sure if she was ready to dig into it.
She yawned. The stone bench was sun-warmed and wonderfully comfortable.
She was snapped out of her daze by the sound of the school marching band beginning its parade. Father still wasn't back yet. Imuri gnawed on her nails. He was fastidious about being punctual. He would apologise if dinner was delayed because the stew took five more minutes to thicken properly.
(And then there was Lord Asmodeus, stalking around campus with her prey none the wiser.)
Imuri was glad for her trousers when she began her brisk stakeout of the festival grounds. She skirted around the stalls and escaped to the outskirts of the festival area. Father was too efficient to have gone to the festival stalls for drinks. The crowd was at its height now; he must've headed straight for the vending machines.
And there he was! Imuri turned the corner and smiled at the sight of him. They were separated by a fountain; spouts of water surged up and down alternately, sparkling under the sunlight. Father had a bottle of water, a can of Imuri's favourite iced tea and another can of her favourite soda flavour tucked to his chest. He was so—!
Lord Asmodeus was there too. She was grinning, gesturing at the cans and laughing softly. Father was smiling at her.
Imuri leaned against the wall and stared at them through the fountain spray. Ha—Asmodeus could take what scraps she could win, because she, Imuri Atsuki, would be the one to ma—
In slow motion, Imuri saw Asmodeus kneel. Father still had his hands full with the cans. Imuri squinted—one of his stockings had fallen down. Asmodeus was pulling it up gently, fingers carefully only touching the nylon and nothing else.
Father was stock-still. His face was hidden by the twin-tails and shadowed by the sun. Imuri burst into motion. She strode past the fountain, something hot and possessive curdling in her chest.
"There you are," said Asmodeus. She straightened her tie, businesslike.
"You really didn't have to bring them all!" said Imuri, grabbing a can from Father's arms and ignoring her.
"Wasn't sure which one you'd want," he mumbled, still hiding his face behind his extensions.
"Anything you pick would be good." Imuri popped the soda can open and took a large swig. The coolness seeped right into her and she immediately felt calmer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and turned to Asmodeus: "I think I heard the class rep asking for you."
"Oh?" said Asmodeus, inclining her head. "Then I suppose I should get going."
Imuri nodded her head. Asmodeus strode by her, mockery hidden in the curve of her smile. "Goodbye, Father," she said. She leaned over and lightly brushed the lily in his hair. “I'm surprised you found such a lovely specimen at this time of the year.”
Father blinked. “Mikhail gave it to me,” he said.
“It suits you,” said Asmodeus, finally stepping away. She nodded at Imuri as she passed her; and in that gesture Imuri could read a silent challenge.
“Do you want to sit down?” asked Father, tilting his head towards the blocks surrounding the fountain.
“Alright,” said Imuri.
Imuri fumed silently as she finished sipping at her soda. Father had unsealed the bottled water for himself and was nursing it in his hands as he stared at the waters of the fountain gushing away merrily.
"What were you talking about with Aria?" Imuri asked casually.
"She helped me find the vending machines. And then she wanted to know what flower this was," said Father, gesturing towards the white blossom.
Imuri leaned closer. White lilies. Purity and rebirth.
It was a little askew now. "Can I–?" she said.
Father blinked, and inclined his head. She adjusted the flower, carefully pinning it to the base of one of the twin-tails. This was the closest she'd been to him so far; apart from the aftermath of almost drowning—but she'd been unconscious then so it didn't really count.
Father's hair was soft and downy. The white lily melded with his dusky blond tresses. Imuri would have picked carnations for him. Red ones—to stand out against his colouring and bring out the brightness of his eyes.
She had begun combing away the tangles in his hair on autopilot. He was as pliant as he had been when she had held him during the tarantella. Imuri reluctantly abandoned petting his head and cleared her throat.
Father lifted his head up and settled back into his usual pose; back straight and shoulders squared. A holy soldier at the ready. Only his face did not match his bearing; Imuri fancied she could read a blush there. She was feeling strange and giddy herself—how odd that it was these half-way moments with him that could make her heart hammer more than the thought of anything carnal.
"It's getting late," said Father. He got up and primly smoothed down his skirts before offering Imuri a hand up.
"We have a free slot tomorrow," said Imuri, letting herself be pulled up. "Why don't we check out the festival together? We barely went to any of the stalls today..."
"I'd like that," said Father softly. Whatever she had read on his face before had been packed away into his heart now; his small face was as grave as ever, but from his voice she knew he was happy—happier than she'd ever seen him at the church safehouse.
"I'll make sure we get the best experience possible," she continued, swinging her arms side-by-side and planning out the best order to hit the stalls—first they'd go for the snack stands and then the games; she was sure Father would kill it at hoopla—
"I always have fun with you," said Father quietly. Imuri jerked her head to look at him, but he was facing down, fingers tangled in the ruffles of his dress.
"I always have fun with you too," she said. They smiled at each other as the sun began setting and shadows lengthened all around them.
Yeah. Lord Asmodeus could never beat Imuri here. She grinned at Father.
"Let's go back quickly, some donuts must be left over! It would be awful for them to just go to waste."
"Yes," said Father, nodding his head solemnly. They ran—well, Imuri ran at her most comfortable speed and Father jogged casually next to her, breathing not even staggering. It really was rather unfair how everyone around her was so very fit and warriorlike, thought Imuri crossly.
But it didn't really matter; Imuri was a lover, not a fighter. And there were donuts to be eaten and demon lords to bat away from her exorcist.
I'll get you, she thought, sneaking a glance at Father. Just you wait.
FIN.