Chapter Text
I
Japan — Meiji Era
Reo walked from the castle to the river. When he arrived, Nagi was in his usual spot, under the tall sakura tree where Reo had first found him a few years ago, when they were both just kids.
To his surprise, Nagi was not lying down, eyes closed, sleepy. Nagi didn’t like to bother with…anything. Just existing was too much work, in his words.
Except if it was for Reo. For Reo, Nagi talked; for Reo, Nagi forgot his boredom and laziness, ran around the river and the rice fields; for Reo, Nagi even sang. When both of them were tired after a whole day roaming the forest, they would lie down under their tree, the sun sinking toward the horizon, the breeze moving the branches above their heads. Holding hands, they sang.
Nagi’s voice was low and soft; Reo’s was bright and clear. Together, they wove melodies they invented, songs that made them feel connected, invincible. Reo once asked Nagi if he could feel the vibration coming from his chest, traveling upward, spreading through his arm, and mixing with the vibration coming from Nagi’s chest — flowing between them, strong and uninterrupted.
Nagi had felt it.
That same day, Reo told him about the guardians of the barrier.
They lay in the grass, the river murmuring nearby, sakura petals drifting down like lazy snow. Their fingers were still linked.
Reo turned his head, a grin tugging at his lips.
“You want to hear a story? A real one. The kind they tell in the castle.”
Nagi cracked one eye open, unimpressed.
“Stories are too much work.”
“This one isn’t,” Reo insisted, his voice playful. “It’s like a fairy tale. About voices.”
That got Nagi’s attention. He shifted slightly, watching Reo’s profile.
“Voices?”
Reo nodded. “They say there’s a barrier between this world and the demon world. It keeps us safe, invisible, like air. But it doesn’t stay strong by itself. It needs… singing. Special voices that, when joined together, make the barrier whole.”
Nagi huffed a little laugh, rolling onto his back again.
“So, what? Guardians who sing all day? Sounds exhausting. I’d rather nap.”
“Some call it an honor,” Reo said, his tone a little more serious now. “The guardians are chosen, bound to the temple for life. Their voices become the wall between us and the demons. Without them…” He paused, eyes on the branches swaying overhead. “Without them, the world would break apart.”
Nagi went quiet, his usual laziness gone. His gaze lingered on Reo’s lips, the way his words seemed to shape the air around them.
“…If that’s true,” he murmured, “then you’d be one. Your voice… It’s beautiful. Clear. Like the river. I’d listen to it forever.”
Reo flushed, looking away quickly, though he was smiling despite himself.
“Don’t say things like that,” he muttered. “You’ll make me forget it’s just a story.”
For a while, neither spoke. The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of blossoms and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, temple bells tolled — soft, lingering, like an echo carried from another world.
It had become Nagi’s favourite story. He made Reo tell it at least once a day. And it made the vibration Reo usually talked about more real.
One night, Nagi overheard some of the older girls in his peasant village talking about something similar — a rush of blood going through their bodies when young, strong samurai walked by the rice fields. Love, they had called it. That is what you feel when you’ve decided you want to spend your whole life with someone.
So Nagi concluded it was love he felt whenever Reo was near. And if you loved someone, then you married them and lived together forever.
That was why Nagi was not sprawled in the grass as usual when Reo arrived. He was standing straight, shoulders tense, his clothes unusually clean.
When Reo reached him, he tilted his head, smiling.
“What’s this? You look like you’re about to meet the Emperor.”
Nagi didn’t smile back. His hands were hidden behind his back, and his honey-coloured eyes — usually half-closed in a sleepy haze — were fixed on Reo in a way that made Reo’s cheeks warm.
Then Nagi brought the flowers forward. a fistful of wilderness: plum blossoms trembling on thin twigs, bright rapeseed blooms, clover with leaves still damp, a few violets peeking shyly between them. The stems were bound with a strip of worn cloth, fraying at the edges.
Reo’s eyes widened, surprised but pleased.
“They’re beautiful,” he said, hugging him without thinking, breathing in the faint scent of blossoms and river.
But when Reo let go, Nagi swallowed, held his hand, and blurted,
“It’s a promise. When we’re grown, I’ll marry you.”
Reo hugged him again, this time tightly, then pressed a shy kiss to Nagi’s cheek, making both of them blush furiously.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
Nagi only nodded.
They sat by the river, holding hands in silence, until the sun went down.
II
When Reo arrived back at the castle, he found it in turmoil.
Two servants were in his room, folding his clothes into neat bundles. Wooden chests stood open like hollow mouths, already half full.
Bachira and Chigiri, his brothers, were already in the meeting room — an elegant hall where councils were usually held, and where they were not allowed unless summoned by their father, the feudal lord. Reo was taken there immediately.
His father sat in his usual place at the head of the room. There were also two Shinto priests and several maids.
“What’s going on?” Reo asked, his voice too loud in the stillness.
No one answered right away. Then his father looked up, eyes dark and distant.
“You’re leaving.”
“Leaving? Where?” Reo looked at his brothers, both staring at the floor. It was clear they had been crying.
“To the temple,” the eldest Shinto priest said, without meeting his eyes.
The words fell like stones. Reo stared, uncomprehending.
“They’ve chosen us,” Bachira said. “Our voices… together. They say they align with the barrier’s song.”
Reo’s hands curled into fists.
“What barrier?”
“The one between this world and the demon world,” came the answer, flat and heavy. Chigiri was shaking. “We’ll live there now. Train as guardians. Keep it alive.”
“But that’s just a fairy tale!” Reo shouted, almost standing, but his father’s gaze kept him in place. “Just a stupid tale for small kids.”
“And when can we come back?” Reo asked, almost whispering, when no one responded to his outburst.
His brothers didn’t look at him.
A servant closed the last chest. The sound was final, like a door being barred.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of blossoms from the river. Reo’s chest ached. He thought of the promise he had just made under the sakura, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if fate could be cruel enough to break it before it had even begun.
III
The next afternoon, Nagi waited under the sakura by the river, the place that had always been theirs. He kicked at a smooth stone, glancing at the path. Reo was late.
He waited.
The sun dipped lower. Petals kept falling.
When the shadows began to stretch, Nagi’s restlessness turned to unease. He set off toward the village, following the streets until the castle’s roofs rose ahead. That was when he heard it — music and laughter spilling from the high gates.
The celebration was for something big. Everyone seemed to know it. He caught pieces of conversation as people passed:
“The new guardians…”
“Chosen for their voices…”
“The barrier will be safe for another generation…”
Nagi froze. His stomach went cold.
Guardians. Voices.
The story Reo had told him by the river — half-fairy tale, half-omen — rushed back like a blow.
He could still hear Reo’s voice: “Special voices… bound to the temple for life. Their voices become the wall between us and the demons.”
And his own careless words, whispered as if they meant nothing: “If that’s true, then you’d be one. Your voice is beautiful.”
Now the story didn’t feel like a game. It felt like a curse.
“No,” he muttered, shoving through the crowd. “No, no—”
He pushed forward until the temple walls came into view. Guards barred the way.
“He’s inside, right?” Nagi demanded, breathless. “Reo—he’s here. Just let me—”
“You can’t enter,” one guard cut in. “He belongs to the temple now.”
Nagi’s chest clenched so tightly it hurt. “No. You cannot take him. No!” He slammed his fists against the heavy wooden doors, shouting until his throat ached. “Reo! Come out! Reo!”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door cracked open, and one of Reo’s brothers stepped out — the one with the pretty red hair. His face was calm, but his eyes brimmed with pity.
“You have to leave,” he said quietly. “Reo is a guardian now. He’ll serve here until the end of his life. You won’t see him again.”
The words struck harder than any blow. Nagi opened his mouth, but no sound came. He stayed there the whole night, crying and shouting Reo’s name, punching the door until his fists bled.
Inside, behind the closed doors, Reo sat in a dim corner of the temple. The walls muted the sound of celebration outside. In his lap lay the bundle of wildflowers, still bound with the strip of frayed cloth. The plum blossoms had begun to wilt, but he held them tightly, pressing his face into them as tears slid down his cheeks.
Bachira and Chigiri sat beside him, stroking his hair as their tears fell.