Chapter Text
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edo period
the evening draped edo in a heavy, humid cloak, summer’s tail end pressing damp against the city’s skin. satoru paced the estate’s garden, sandals grinding into the gravel, dust clinging to his kimono’s hem like a shadow he couldn’t shake. he’d left utahime inside, her voice a soft thread weaving through some scroll about honor and lineage. she read with care, each word placed gentle and sure, but it still felt like a weight settling over him, one he couldn’t lift. his mother would know he’d slipped out—her eyes missed nothing—and the thought tightened his chest, a dull ache he buried deep.the gojo clan towered in tokugawa-era edo, a samurai line forged in steel and unbroken will.
his father had bled for it, his grandfather had bound it in oaths, and now satoru was next—tied to a marriage he didn’t choose. utahime was the match, his mother’s pride: a girl from a solid family, quiet, graceful, a pillar to prop up their legacy. satoru didn’t doubt her worth. he just didn’t feel anything when he looked at her, nothing beyond the faint echo of duty. she deserved more than that, but he didn’t know how to give it.
he paused by the koi pond, staring at the fish flickering beneath the water, their shapes blurred in the dimming light. cicadas droned on, a restless hum that matched the hollow buzz in his gut. he was nineteen, too young for this cage, too tethered to break it. his mother’s presence loomed over him always—sharp, unyielding, a force he couldn’t face head-on. she’d summoned him that morning, her voice cold as she stood over the breakfast table. “the wedding’s in three months, satoru. you’ll be ready.” it wasn’t a question. he’d stared at his rice, blank, throat tight, and nodded once. she’d waited for more, but he had nothing to give.now, with dusk creeping in, he felt her shadow even out here, away from the walls. he crouched, fingers brushing the pond’s edge, and watched the ripples spread. the air was thick, pressing down, and he wondered what it’d be like to just keep walking—out of the garden, out of edo, away from the gojo name.
a useless thought.
her reach was too long, her will too hard. he stood, wiping his hand on his sleeve, and drifted toward the garden’s rim, where the estate bled into the city’s pulse.lanterns glowed inside, their light seeping through the shoji screens. he could hear utahime’s reading falter, then steady again, her patience endless. she’d wait for him, like she always did, and that gnawed at him—her kindness against his silence. he didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t change it either.
he moved toward the gate, slipping out before the servants could call him back, his steps quiet against the earth.edo’s streets pulled him in, the air ripe with smoke and river damp. he didn’t know where he was going—just away. the main roads buzzed with lantern light, but he took the tighter paths, where the noise softened and the shadows grew thick—carts groaning, a vendor haggling, the faint clatter of dice. his kimono snagged on a rough beam, and he tugged it free, ignoring the faint rip. it didn’t matter. nothing felt like it did out here.he found himself by the river, a slow, dark ribbon cutting through the city’s sprawl. a bridge stretched over it, worn and bowed, planks slick with age. he stepped onto it, feeling the slight give, and stopped in the middle, leaning against the rail. the water murmured below, a sluggish sound that barely stirred the quiet.
he didn’t know why he’d landed here—just that it was far enough from the estate to unclench his jaw. he pulled a coin from his sleeve, rolling it between his fingers, the metal cold and steady against his skin.his mother had dropped the news at dinner the night before, her tone flat over her tea. “i’ve arranged a musician for the wedding. a shamisen player from the teahouses. skilled, they say.” utahime had dipped her head, a small nod, while satoru sat still, eyes on his bowl. he hadn’t spoken—couldn’t, with her gaze pinning him like a blade. “his name’s suguru,” she’d added, almost an afterthought. “no lineage, but his music carries weight. it’ll fit the occasion.” he’d kept his face blank, hands still, but the name lodged somewhere in his skull.now, alone on the bridge, it circled back—suguru. a nobody with a shamisen, plucked from edo’s fringes to play at his wedding.
his mother’s choice, like everything else. he flipped the coin, watching it catch the last light, and pictured it: some scruffy stray strumming while he stood beside utahime, bound in silk and silence. it’d be grand, she’d make sure of it—a spectacle for the gojo name. he didn’t care what it sounded like. he didn’t care about much, when it came to her plans.the sky sank to black, stars lost in the city’s glow. he should’ve turned back—utahime would be finishing, his mother waiting, her patience a thin thread ready to snap. but he stayed, elbows on the rail, coin sliding over his knuckles. the river’s drone filled the space, a low hum that dulled the edge in his chest. three months till the wedding, till this suguru stepped into their world. it was nothing yet—just a name, a detail. but it stuck, a faint ripple he couldn’t smooth out.a fish splashed below, breaking the surface, and satoru let the coin drop, watching it vanish into the dark.
a waste, maybe, but he didn’t feel it. he straightened, rolling his shoulders, and started back across the bridge, the wood creaking under him like a tired sigh. he’d stretched the night too long, let it pull him too far, but he couldn’t regret it.
not entirely. the estate loomed when he neared, lanterns casting long fingers across the walls. he eased through the gate, avoiding the servants’ shuffle, and lingered in the courtyard. his mother’s voice drifted out, firm and icy, likely pressing utahime for answers he wouldn’t give. he didn’t smirk this time—just stood there, blank, the sound washing over him like rain. utahime didn’t deserve the weight, but she’d carry it. she always did.he shed his sandals, damp tracks trailing behind him, and stepped inside.
utahime knelt by the table, scroll still spread before her. she glanced up, eyes gentle but searching, and said nothing. he sank onto a cushion opposite, legs folding loose, head tipping back to stare at the beams. the silence stretched, heavy but not sharp.“she asked for you,” utahime said finally, voice soft. she didn’t press, just let it hang.he nodded once, face empty, hands resting limp in his lap. his mother’s summons were a summons—there was no dodging them, not really. he felt the familiar twist in his gut, not defiance but something colder, something that kept his mouth shut.
utahime watched him, then closed the scroll with a quiet rustle.“she spoke of a musician,” she said, almost casual. “for the wedding.”“suguru,” he murmured, the name slipping out flat. he didn’t look at her, just traced a crack in the ceiling. “shamisen. her pick.”utahime’s fingers stilled on the scroll, then moved again, smoothing it flat. “she said it’d be fitting.”he didn’t respond, didn’t have anything to say. fitting was her word, her world. he sat there, sprawled but stiff, the room’s clean scent—ink and wood—clashing with the mud on his feet. utahime lingered a moment, then rose, her kimono whispering as she stood.“goodnight, satoru,” she said, bowing her head slightly, and left him there, the door sliding shut behind her.
he stayed, staring at nothing, fingers brushing the empty spot where the coin had been. three months till the wedding, till suguru and his shamisen showed up. it didn’t mean anything yet—just another thread in his mother’s web. but as the house quieted, the river’s hum lingered in his head, a faint echo he couldn’t place. he didn’t sleep well that night, caught in a restless drift he couldn’t name.