Work Text:
“Hello! Would you kindly tell me where I am?”
The corone slips from your fingers. It lands on the ground with a pitiful splat!— creamy contents burst from its shell inside the plastic wrapping, spilling over the ground. Your mouth is left hanging open— you slowly turn to face the man that’s just materialized in the middle of your hallway.
He was not there five seconds ago— you know because you’d just walked through the exact spot that this fiery-looking stranger currently stands in. Clearing your throat, you tighten your hold on the doorknob of your front door, opening it further. Three thoughts run through your head.
One, there is quite possibly, a cryptid that has just manifested itself in your house.
Two, said cryptid does not appear to be threatening— but you are beginning to feel uneasy under his unblinking stare.
Three, huh?
“Um,” you cough, hand still on your doorknob, never breaking your line of sight with the entity. “Yeah— hey, um… how… exactly did you get in here…?”
He— it?— blinks owlishly at you, before it turns its head to survey your apartment. Of all the times some supernatural being decides to appear before you, or maybe arguably better, a hallucination, it had to be when your parents had just left for a business trip, and on the day you were running late for school.
You carefully lower yourself to pick up your squashed breakfast, but having to maintain eye contact with it meant you were essentially just fumbling around the general area you’d thought you heard the plastic rustle— and after a few more moments of fruitlessly patting at the ground, you return to standing.
“It seems as if we are both confused!” It booms, “Do not be afraid! I mean no harm!”
It’s hard to not be afraid— sudden appearances aside, this being spoke with volume that shook the whole house with each syllable. His very presence was demanding, hair like wild locks of untamed flames, fire-patterned haori draped around his broad shoulders, and his bright, piercing gaze — all of which, by all known laws of nature, are as good as neon signs pointing to danger. It was unfortunate that he was instead something beyond nature’s comprehension.
You shuffle around to face him— but your shoe catches on the splattered cream, causing you to slip and tilt backward — and as if to add insult to injury, your head strikes against the doorknob with such forcefulness it shuts the door behind you with a bang. You land straight on your rear— bringing forth a yelp as you feel the corone squash itself below you.
Dude. Just put me out of misery.
The cryptid doesn’t. He extends his right arm toward you, the corners of his mouth upturned. Your eyes flit toward it. His palms were calloused, uneven and littered with varying lengths of pale scars— unusual in this day and age, but at the very least, it makes him look human. Hesitantly, you reach out, accepting his offer.
Except— your hand phases right through his. Where your fingers overlapped, you feel a light buzzing at the very tip, as if you’d fallen asleep on your nails. Your arm falls limply to your side, and you stare agape at him. It looks like he doesn’t expect it either. The smile on his face freezes.
With a nod, he retracts his arm and folds it across his chest.
“Hm! Looks like I may be a ghost!”
You fling open the door and slam it shut behind you.
You’re still pressed against the front door, arms splayed out, holding it shut as if a ghost couldn’t just phase through it. Your mind races, nausea threatening to overtake your body as the ground shifts beneath your feet.
Two sharp raps sound from behind you. You jump so high you nearly feel your soul leave your body— perhaps it would be better that way, then you could finally shake hands with the ghost in your home. From behind you, a muffled voice. “It looks as if I am able to interact with objects, still!”
The knob twists, and the door flies outward with such force you’re sent flying forward, slamming straight into the parapet. Your stomach makes harsh contact with the railing. All wind escapes your lungs upon impact— a shrill ring bursts in your eardrums and your hand flies to your chest, gasping for air— until breath enters your body again. You swing yourself around, heaving, staring at the ghost-man.
He at least has the decency to at least look somewhat apologetic. Releasing his hold on the knob, he reaches out again— but pauses, thinking better, retracting his hand.
“Sorry! I was not aware that you were leaning against the door!”
The ghost straightens back up, shifting to the side, as if trying to coax you back into the house. “It was rude of me to not start off with an introduction. My name is Rengoku Kyojuro! Allow me to ask for yours!”
You fumble around your words a little bit, but finally manage to introduce yourself with minimal stuttering. He grins, exclaiming, “it is nice to meet you!”
“Uhh, it’s nice to meet you too, Rengoku-san…” you scramble to stand up, ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from the your stomach, around to your tailbone. With your names introduced, you’re slightly less apprehensive regarding this ghost named Rengoku. For one, he doesn’t seem to desire any bodily harm upon you.
You narrow your eyes at the man. Now that you think about it, he did look strangely familiar. An odd sensation nips the back of your mind, as if pulling at your cheek and admonishing that you’ll soon feel like a complete fool once you figure out exactly why he gave you such a strong feeling of déjà vu.
No time for tomfoolery, you shake your head. You’d be late for school if you dallied any further. You twist around to see the smear of pastry cream on the back of your uniform. Groaning, you charge back into the house and turn around to cast a wary glance at Rengoku, who now stands stock still at your genkan, as if awaiting for an invitation to enter your abode once more. He’s dressed in an outfit that looks rather out-of-fashion, and— is that a katana on this belt?
“I have absolutely zero idea if you’re a ghost or a hallucination. But— how about this,” you glance at the clock again. “Are you, like, a vampire? Can you go outdoors?”
The creature yells spiritedly, “I have no clue!”
“—alright, then I’ll grab a change of clothes, you follow me to class. If you are real, you would be a great explanation to my homeroom teacher,” you pull off your shoes and sprint toward your room. “Stay there!”
“What is a ‘homeroom’!” He yells back at you, but you’ve already shut your door behind you.
Rengoku is oddly quiet as you briskly walk down the hallways, dodging groups of students making similar beelines toward their classrooms before the first bell chimes. Nobody seems to notice his presence, with a handful of them even walking through him. He doesn’t seem to mind it, though— at least, not that you could tell.
You sprint into class, barely making it into your seat before your homeroom teacher enters. The ghost stands beside you somewhat awkwardly, and you pull out your Campus notebook, scribbling on the corner of the page and subtly sliding it toward him.
‘You okay?’
Rengoku stares at your notebook, then your face. “Where is this? What year is it?”
More scribbling. ‘Tokyo. 2020.’.
He pinches his lips together. “There’s… there’s so many things different about this place. It’s incomprehensible to me that this is Tokyo.”
Your teacher calls out your name for attendance. You raise your hand, then quickly return to writing on your notebook. ‘Are you from the past?’
After thoughtful deliberation, he opens his mouth—
“Rengoku!”
Both of you jolt, heads snapping up.
On the other side of the classroom, by the window— just out of your field of view, a very familiar figure turns to face the front. His golden hair shifts, crimson ends catching the sunlight streaming through the glass panes—
“Rengoku Tojuro!”
The splitting image of your spectre slowly raises his hand. Your homeroom teacher raps sharply against the teacher’s desk.
“How many times have I told you to cut your hair, Rengoku-san? Already in your third year and still asking for trouble?”
Of course— this ghost…! You slap your hand over your mouth. It echoes loudly throughout the room, and the entire classroom turns to stare at you. Rengoku— both of them, shoot you a look. Mortified, you slowly retract your hand.
“Do you have something to say about Rengoku-san’s haircut?” Your teacher curtly asks, but you shake your head vigorously, lowering your gaze to the notebook in front of you. The classroom ripples with murmured laughter. In front of you, Agatsuma Toko snickers as well. You kick the back of her chair. Quietly, alive-Rengoku speaks from the back of the classroom. “I’ll see to it.”
It was still a little absurd, but you had to be given some leeway for forgetting that Rengoku Tojuro existed in your classroom. He’s withdrawn and reticent, not quite all there in the few times you’ve spoken to him. The only piece of information you knew regarding him was that he is apparently part of the school's acclaimed kendo club, but even then, he didn’t seem to stand out.
Once the teacher leaves the classroom, Toko leans back, her silky hair cascading down like a stage curtain, spilling over your desk. “Someone got a crush on the quiet kid?”
“Shut up,” you hiss, kicking her chair again. Your best friend only rolls her eyes, but you know from her smile that she’s just getting a kick out of teasing you. You return to furiously scribbling in your notebook, eyes darting up to meet the ghosts’ when you notice him staring.
‘Are you supposed to be some manifestation of his ego?’
Ghost-Rengoku shakes his head, arms folded across his chest. “No!” A pause. Quieter, he adds. “He has my brother’s eyes.”
A quick glance at Tojuro proves that you have no clue what the ghost is on about, because they quite literally have the same set of eyes— just that the alive-guy’s spiritless pair happens to look more like it should belong to the dead-guy’s. But then again, who are you to say such things when it sounds like this ghost knows your classmate better than you do?
The door slides open, and your math teacher walks in. Hastily, you scribble in the corner again. ‘I’m sorry. I really gotta pay attention to this class. Do you want to walk around the school, or something?’
Rengoku nods, suddenly quiet. It unnerves you, if only just a little, but you leave him to it, eyes trailing him as you watch his attempts to squeeze through the narrow corridors of student desks and bags— pausing when he realizes he can simply phase through the items, then slowly making his way to the other side, eyes scanning the blackboard in the back of the class, the lockers below it— darting back when he hears the yawn Toko lets out, before coming to a stop.
For the entirety of the day, he doesn’t leave Tojuro’s side.
“I think I’ve got it!” Rengoku suddenly speaks up. You jolt at his volume, your shoulders only easing when you remember that nobody else could hear him.
You’re huddled away on some couch in the corner of the school library, flipping through as many accounts of battles from the 1900s, 1910s, 1920s— all to figure out if this ghost-man really was who he claimed to be.
“No descendant of the Rengoku lineage is supposed to be this dispassionate!” He folds his arms. “Tojuro is missing a spark!”
“What do you mean?” You murmur, hoping that you’re tucked away far enough that nobody can hear you.
“Everyone from my family always needed to have something to strive toward. My brother— he was exceptionally kind and determined for the family. My father— he fought for my mother!” He turns toward you. “You must be able to see me because you’re destined to be Rengoku Tojuro’s spark!”
“Me!?” You blurt, before covering your mouth. Someone shushes you from behind a bookshelf, and you mutter an apology before shoving your face into the third journal of your search. Your hope is dwindling steadily— you’ve been chasing vague stories told from numerous perspectives, yet none have been clear enough to give you a lead just yet.
Your eyes widen as you flip to the last page of the journal. “Rengoku-san, look. Is this you?”
You point to an image of a messy-haired boy in the bottom corner of the image. It is in black-and-white, but his hairstyle undeniably matched your ghost's, nearly a carbon copy. Though the boy has a considerably softer expression than Rengoku does, his big smile is the ultimate proof of their relation. Above him is an older clone of himself, a small smile on his face and the same haircut as well. You nearly miss the stubble beneath his jaw, obscured by the grain of the picture. Rengoku leans in, scrutinizing the image, lips parted. You hear his breath hitch— the corner of his jaw twitches, words caught in his throat.
After a silence too long, he finally speaks.
“Senjuro. Father. They did it,” he croaks. “I knew they did— they had to have. But—” he leans in further to hold the book, phasing halfway into your body. It leaves your arm tingly and numb. “Mitsuri-san. Obanai— Gyomei, Lady Shinobu, Muichiro…”
You’re not sure who he’s listing, but it must be his comrades from back then. You’ve heard tales of this group before— it wasn’t taught in history class, but every Japanese citizen knows the folklore of the devastating battle against the Demon Progenitor that took place a hundred years ago, and the stories that arose from it. Slayers that walked around wielding nichirin blades, demons who would prowl at night to feast on unsuspecting humans.
A teardrop falls onto the book— phases through it, rather.
You glance up, Rengoku’s eyes are glossy, tears rolling down his cheeks in large, round droplets. His mouth is pursed, but you can see the slivers of his canines peeking out, biting down on his lip as he fights to hold back his tears. His exhales come out in unsteady, shaky rhythms, shoulders quivering with each breath. He blinks once — cheeks turning red as more tears spill from his flaming eyes.
“It’s okay, Rengoku-san,” you’re compelled to whisper. “Nobody else can hear you.”
As if given permission, the Slayer lowers his head into his hands and weeps. Not wail, nor sob — but quiet, mournful hiccups, as if he was finally relieved of a great burden, released from the shackles of his duty— his lineage. Rengoku grasps the book in his hands, holding it with such tenderness that his thumbs only gently press against the paper, brushing over the image of his brother.
“Senjuro… did you live a happy life? Were you fulfilled?” He rasps. Slowly, his thumb traces upward to the older man, touch growing slightly firmer. “Father— I hope you were able to find solace. I did my best to fulfill my role.”
You gingerly place your hand on his shoulder, but it dips into his spectral visage, so you’re left awkwardly patting the air.
Rengoku Kyojuro weeps for a long, long while.
The sun is beginning to set by the time he’s regained his composure. He apologizes to you with red eyes, but you shake your head, horrified that he even thought of himself as bothersome. This guy clearly had some weight he needed off, and you were just glad you could give him some closure.
You’d stopped by a 7/11 on the way home to grab a quick bento, effectively short circuiting his brain in the process— Rengoku was astounded by the sheer quantity of food lining the shelves, salivating over every displayed row of onigiri (’I did not know there were so many variations of them!’, he had exclaimed.). You offered to buy him a meal, but he turns you down politely, saying he doesn’t seem to feel hunger.
You pick at your dinner with thoughts racing through your head. Seated on the opposite end of your dining table, Rengoku eyes the egg mayo sandwich you’d bought as an à la carte to your microwaved pasta.
“Rengoku-san,” you put aside the chopsticks you’ve been fidgeting with. “Do you have anything you wish for? Maybe if I helped you, you’d be able to move on.”
“We would not know unless we tried!” Rengoku nods. Then he closes his eyes, thinking.
You reach over to your bag and pull out the Campus notebook that’s basically designated for him. You flip it open to a new page, scrawling the date down at the very top of the page. “What’s the number one thing you want to do right now?”
“I would like to eat!” He replies without hesitation. You jot it on the notebook.
Rengoku’s Wish: Eat.
Wait. That’s all?
You snap your head up to him with a look of disbelief. He merely laughs, a loud, hearty bark that almost makes you forget he'd just been dealt life-changing news of the fate of his family hours earlier. His attention quickly diverts to the sandwiches beside your meal with clear intrigue.
“If that’s really all… try this?” You slide them over.
He’s more than happy to pick up one of the sandwiches and take a bite. The ghost chews on it for a bit, an unreadable expression on his face. You’re oddly tense as you await his verdict, the silence that stretches only making it worse.
Then, he takes another bite. And another.
He looks back down at the bread in his hands, turning it around, before placing the last bite into his mouth. Rengoku looks up at you with a grin. “This is not good! I can’t taste anything!”
Your mouth goes dry at the remark.
“Can't taste anything?” You put your pen down. “At all…? Are you okay?”
“Yes! I am disappointed!” He laughs, seemingly unbothered. “However, it is of a small matter. I lived a good life appreciating all my meals! You never know when it will be your last!”
You look at him with an expression equivalent to that of a kicked puppy. He panics. “Have I upset you?”
“I’m upset for you, if anything,” you murmur, poking at your own food. You don’t think you could stomach anything— not in front of him, at least. You look back up. “What’s your favourite food?”
He thinks for a moment. “Sweet potatoes! Even better with miso soup!”
Seemed simple enough. You think you could probably make it at home— perhaps the smell alone might bring him some comfort. But for now, you put away the remaining pair of the egg mayo sandwich into the fridge, your appetite gone for the day.
That night, you offer Rengoku your bed, insisting that you could sleep in your parent’s room for the duration. He’s reluctant to even step foot in your room at first, but when he rests his weight onto your mattress, you see his entire body immediately droop to one side as if the poor spirit hasn’t had a day of proper sleep in his life. You leave to grab a glass of water— and when you re-enter the room, Rengoku is passed out cold on your bed.
You pull the blanket over his shoulders— watching as it phases over his ghostly silhouette, flattening over your sheets, like a grim reminder of his existence.
Rengoku’s Wish, again: Eat miso soup with sweet potatoes.
In an incredible stroke of luck, the bright, bold words ‘MISO SOUP WITH SWEET POTATOES’ are penned across the school cafeteria's signboard the very next day. Rengoku is delighted to see as such, so you buy two sets for take-out, making up some excuse to Toko and your group of friends about unfinished homework — sprinting out of the cafeteria before anyone could question you.
“Does miso soup in the future taste any different?” He asks as you wheeze up the steps to your classroom. It makes you pause as you consider that very real possibility— but how different could it really be? Hopefully not that much, fingers crossed. You slide the door open —
— Rengoku Tojuro sits alone in the classroom, head turned toward the window, watching the clouds float by. You curse under your breath— you didn’t think there’d be anyone here, since the cafeteria always had more than enough space to accommodate the entire school. Tojuro turns his head to look toward you, gaze apathetic.
“Are—” you force a smile. “Are you not going to have lunch?”
A slow blink. “Hm,” Tojuro mutters. “I don’t think so.”
From beside you, Rengoku sucks in a sharp inhale. That answer must be all sorts of sacrilegious to him, you’re sure— you quickly rush to Tojuro’s seat, placing the bento on his table.
“Nonsense!” You cut in, casting a quick glance at Rengoku’s bewildered face. “Don’t you have kendo later today? You must eat something, I bought an extra bento!”
The boy is clearly taken aback at your sudden insistence. It’s only natural— you’ve barely spoken to him for the entirety of high school, and you’re suddenly asking to have lunch with him. He nods cautiously, and you happily hand the extra miso and sweet potato meal over to him, cheeks beginning to ache from the smile you’ve plastered over your face. You pull a chair from the table in front of him, seating yourself on the opposite side.
You’re too far in to back out now — but you remind yourself. This is for the sake of Rengoku’s spirit. There’s still no definite answer, but you were both certain that Tojuro had something to do with it.
“Rengoku-san,” you start, and suppress a wince when both of them turn to you at once. “What’s the kendo club like? You guys train a whole bunch, right?”
He prods at the rice with the pair of wooden chopsticks in his hand. “It’s okay.”
The wind outside blows, rustling the tree leaves by the window. You take a sip of your miso soup and munch down on the sweet potato cubes. From the corner of your eye, you spot Rengoku watching, arms folded across his chest. His smile has gone— clearly disappointed at the lack of Tojuro’s vigor. The subject of his stare only nudges his food around lackadaisically, placing singular grains of rice in his mouth.
“W— What’s fun about kendo?” You laugh uncomfortably. You raise your hand in the air, mimicking a strike. “Like this? Hidari-Men!” You swing down on an imaginary helmet.
He glances at you, the chopstick in between his teeth. “That’s straight down. Hidari-Men would be skewed to the left a little more.”
That was the longest response you’ve ever gotten from him. Another laugh slips out from your lips, shifting your arm toward the left and swinging, the tension making your shoulders stiff. Tojuro picks up a cube of sweet potato, turning it over in this chopsticks, observing it. Then places it into his mouth.
The air around him shifts ever so slightly. Both you and Rengoku catch it. Tojuro’s eyes widen, glancing down at this bento with an expression you’ve never seen before on his face— almost like one of astonishment.
“What’s this? It’s really good,” his irises flit back to you. You finally make proper eye contact with him — have they always been such a dazzling shade of crimson? Your breath catches in your throat as he picks up the miso bowl, sipping on it. “This miso tastes different. Is it because of the sweet potatoes?”
You exchange glances with Rengoku, before turning back to nod enthusiastically. “The potatoes sweeten the taste of the miso soup! It’s yummy, isn’t it?” Your hands return to your own meal, picking up a chopstickful of rice. “Try it with the rice too!”
Tojuro eats with an eagerness you’ve never spotted on his face before. For once, he seems to genuinely enjoy his food, chewing intently as his blazing eyes rests upon the sweet potato chunks. The silence that ensues between the both (or, three) of you doesn’t feel as awkward as it did earlier, your thoughts occupied with Tojuro’s sudden switch in personality. Your mind races— this could actually be the key to helping Rengoku. You just had to figure out the full puzzle. Was it food? Should you talk more about kendo?
“Thank you for the meal,” he says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You startle, noticing his empty container. Tojuro reaches into his bag, pulling out his wallet. “How much was it? Let me—”
“No!” You cut him off, hand in front of his face. “Don’t worry about it!” A thought enters your mind— you grin. “Actually, you can repay me by getting lunch next time!”
Tojuro’s lips part, clearly not expecting the trade. He deliberates it for a moment, before yielding to the suggestion with a nod. Suddenly— a shout for your name cuts through the air. Before you have the chance to even react, Toko bursts through the front door. “We wanted to ask—”
She freezes. You’re frozen, too, stuck between thinking if you should fling yourself as far away as possible, or the fastest way to explain your situation without sounding like a maniac.
Toko glances between the both of you. “Right.” She turns to you. “Staircase?”
You knew your best friend would never believe your explanations regarding Rengoku Kyojuro— she had always scoffed at the tales of the Slayers, saying that those were just superstitions of the past. You couldn’t blame her; there was never any concrete evidence of demons having ever existed— in fact, you weren’t very keen on believing it yourself. It just so happened that the ghost of a Slayer stood beside her as she interrogated you about skipping lunch with your friends to eat with Tojuro.
“You do like him!” She had admonished, poking a finger at your shoulder. “When did this all start? Tell me right now!”
“It— it’s just the final year of high school!” You blushed at her accusation. The bento you brought out with you to the stairwell had gone cold, clearly forgotten by the both of you under her heavy fire. “It would be sad if he graduated with no friends!”
She relented, pulling back with a sigh. From her pocket, she pulled out a milk bread, shoving it into your hands. “Whatever you say,” she eyed you warily. “But keep me updated, alright?”
The scene plays over and over again in your head now that you were back in the privacy of your own home. You’re sprawled across the hardwood floor of your living room with Rengoku standing above you. He peers down at your defeated figure curiously.
“Is there something wrong with liking Tojuro?” He asks.
“No— no, there isn’t,” you groan, dragging a hand down the side of your face. All things considered, you were pretty sure that there was at least another kid in class who was enamored by his ‘mysterious, aloof’ aura. He wasn’t a bad candidate, per se— despite his listlessness, he was rather handsome. Almond eyes, a strong nose bridge and sharp jawline all placed him as well above average in terms of looks (you ignore the fact that it also means that Rengoku Kyojuro is handsome). However, you knew that Toko would never let you live this down.
“Maybe you don’t know, but getting a crush in high school can be social suicide,” you blow air through your lips. “You’d be teased relentlessly, and you can never face the other party ever again.” You sit back up. “It’s just kinda bad because I don’t actually like him— I just want to help you.”
Rengoku’s face softens, but nevertheless, his grin still remains. “I’m grateful you went through all this trouble to help me! You have a good soul!”
His compliment brings blood rushing to your face. You cough, hiding your embarrassment as you get up from the floor, dusting off the back of your uniform. “Come on,” you gesture. “I feel bad for giving away your meal to Tojuro— let’s make miso soup with sweet potatoes for dinner.”
Cooking with Rengoku is oddly domestic. Since he could still interact with objects if he willed so, you assign him to the chopping board, cubing all the sweet potatoes as you stir miso paste and dashi into your pot. Under the orange lights of your kitchen, you observe as he ties his hair back into a ponytail and rolls up his sleeves, revealing milky white scratches darting up his forearm in the shape of ravenous claws and burns. You wonder how many battles he must’ve gone through to attain all these scars— and if he wears them as a sense of pride or duty. Rengoku’s eyes look up to meet yours. You fluster, quickly turning your attention back to your own pot.
When he moves over to tip the sweet potatoes into your soup, his forearm brushes against your arm, leaving your bicep prickly— setting your nerves on fire. One cooking session later, you serve two steaming bowls of miso soup and a generous serving of rice.
“Thank you for the food!” You clap your hands together. Rengoku parrots you, albeit with a more enthused tone. You look at him with anticipation lacing your features— so on edge you nearly forget to breathe, head going light with nervousness.
He pauses under your stare, soup bowl already midway to his mouth. “Is something the matter!”
“It’s just—” you hesitate. “I hope that you can still enjoy this, even if you can’t…”
He lets out a loud laugh, one that shakes the walls of your house and sweeps you up with it. “It is of no matter! Food is more than taste— it is about the texture on our tongues, the anticipation derived from its smell, and about the energy it imbues oneself with. We give appreciation to the farmers that harvest our rice from dawn till dusk, and to the chef who puts their soul into cooking it!”
You don’t think it was that serious, but you nod along anyway, feeling inspired. Rengoku smiles at your assuredness, raising the soup bowl to his mouth —
— and promptly yells.
You leap to your feet, nearly knocking over your own bowl in the process. Your chair scrapes behind you, tilting over and landing on the ground with a clatter.
“What!? What happened?” You rush over to his side, but halt when he looks up at you with an indecipherable look on his face.
“I can taste it!” He shouts. He sips on the soup bowl once more, and lowers it in disbelief. “I can taste the sweet potatoes and the miso! I can taste the rice!”
You lean your weight against the table, pressing your palm against your forehead as you stare at him, flabbergasted. Just like that— he could suddenly taste? What changed?
Rengoku charges over to your fridge, picking out the leftover sandwich from yesterday. He sinks his teeth into it— chewing aggressively, turning back to you with sparkling eyes. “I can taste the egg in this! I can taste food! This is delicious, by the way!”
The shock settles into silence. You swallow. “So, are you supposed to… I don’t know, move on?”
Rengoku smiles as if he wasn't just dealt the greatest revelation of his life just moments ago. “I would think so as well! However, I’m not sure why I’m still here! Sorry for the intrusion!”
“It’s fine,” you wave him off. Then, a thought enters your mind. “What if… one wish wasn’t enough?” You reach over to pull out the notebook from your bag again, slamming it open atop the table. “Maybe you need multiple wishes. Maybe Tojuro needs to be a part of those wishes!”
“Great idea!” Rengoku nods, folding his arms across his chest. “My instincts tell me it might be just that!”
“Alright, Rengoku-san,” you spin the pen around your finger. “Let’s hear your greatest wishes!”
Rengoku’s Wish #2: Win the Kendo Championships.
You raise your notebook to shield your face from the sun. Today’s cloudless sky offers no shelter — the sun rays are relentless in their assault, though you’re wondering if the heat building underneath your uniform’s collar was stemming from your own frustration instead. You come to a stop at the red crossing, jamming at the button at the side of the pole with the end of your pen.
“I’m sorry, Rengoku-san,” you pinch the space between your brows, tapping on the first item of your checklist impatiently. “That request is probably too much to ask of him— plus, it’s out of my control.”
“Nonsense!” He insists. “Any member of the Rengoku lineage can— should learn Flame Breathing! All he needs is motivation and discipline!”
You look at him with fond exasperation. It would be nice if Tojuro could win the championships, but then again, it isn’t competition season, and it wouldn’t be for anytime soon— at least, not for another few months. You glance over the page, absentmindedly toying with the dog-eared corner of the paper. Seeds of doubt plant themselves in your chest— you’re left wondering if this checklist was even feasible.
“Alright,” you spin the pen around your finger. “What if you gave me a training regimen, and I pass it to Tojuro? Maybe that would help him prepare?”
The green light beeps, and you shift the strap of your schoolbag higher on your shoulders as you cross.
Rengoku nods eagerly, falling into pace beside you. “First! He needs to warm up by sitting under a twenty-metre high waterfall for two hours—”
You scrawl out the item, cutting him off. “Out of my control.”
Somewhat unsurprisingly, you and Tojuro are the only ones this early to class. After all, the only other students in school at this time are those in the kendo club, who’d arrive early to train in the mornings. You take your seat at the opposite end of the classroom. He doesn’t seem to even be aware of your presence, simply staring out of the window, chin in his palm.
(You rarely get to see the early sunlight filtering through the windows like this in class. It’s because of Rengoku waking up at ungodly hours that you’ve been treated as collateral damage — forcing you to wake absurdly early as of late.)
You lay your head atop your desk, turning over to look at Tojuro. How exactly are you going to strike conversation with him…?
As if he was summoned, he turns his attention to you. Your eyes meet from across the classroom, and you jolt straight up in your seat, feeling a blush crawl up your cheeks at having been caught staring. Fortunately, Tojuro doesn’t seem the least bit bothered— actually, he stands up from his desk. And begins walking over to you.
You’re the kind of person to be on relatively good terms with your classmates— at least, you strive to be. But for some reason, this triggers your flight or fight response, even if it had no reason to. You jump up from your desk as he crosses in between the empty chairs, coming to a stop in front of you. Rengoku must be similarly surprised— you can’t turn to look at him, but he’s silent, for one.
Tojuro says your name with a flat tone. Your heart slams against the wall of your ribcage.
“Yes?” You squeak.
“I still have yet to repay you for lunch,” he says simply, and then turns back, leaving you flustered, confused.
Tojuro is clearly not pleased to be sandwiched in the crowd. You spot glances thrown his way, whispers from other classmates who have never seen him once step foot into the cafeteria in their three years of high school.
You couldn’t blame him— it could get hectic during lunch hours, and especially so when they’ve displayed their bestseller— adzuki taiyaki— today. You yourself weren’t particularly keen in joining the swell of the student body that spilled at the front of the counter, but you grit your teeth. For Rengoku, you remind yourself. And it’s Tojuro’s treat today.
The Rengoku in question doesn’t seem fazed in the tiniest bit. He plants himself beside you, arms folded across his chest as the students phase in and out through his body.
“How lively!” He barks, teeth gleaming under the bright lights of the storefront. “This is truly school spirit! I feel the vigor of youth!” Rengoku turns to you, golden hair shifting from his shoulders as he tilts his head.
With some luck, Tojuro gets shoved to the front of the queue. He turns back to you, at a loss.
“Sea bream set meal!” you mouth. He casts one last distressed glance at you, before his face is swallowed by the masses. With your job done, you burst out of the crowd, gasping for air as you stumble to the nearest pocket of space. Tojuro re-emerges beside you not long after, with your bento and two steaming taiyaki in his hands. For someone who seemed to be a little more sentient than a walking houseplant, you were pretty surprised he managed to achieve that feat.
“Do you need anything else?” He asks. You shake your head, just grateful to be out of the crush.
A girl bumps into Tojuro’s arm, squealing as she rears back with an apology. As she glances up at him, her face goes red. Her friends beside her slow down their pace to gape at him as well.
There’s a beat as you realize that this is the first time most people have gotten a proper look at his face— you’re suddenly filled with an overwhelming, protective urge to shield him from their prying eyes. Your hands dart up to tug at his sleeve ever so slightly.
Tojuro doesn’t seem to acknowledge their apology nor expressions, simply turning around to follow you out of the cafeteria. Right before you exit, from across the room — you spot Toko shooting you a smirk, and the rest of your friends giggle at the sight. You blush furiously, tugging harder at his sleeve.
Over lunch, you brazenly ask Tojuro out— not on a date, you’d stammered as you clarified that. You happened to get extra tickets to a show, you swear, and he looked like he’d be interested. Tojuro shrugs, nodding, and you’re left slightly more embarrassed, as if you’d made a big deal out of nothing. Rengoku leans against the desk beside you, a small smile playing on his lips.
Rengoku’s Wish #3: Watch sumo wrestling.
“You should really stop calling me Rengoku-san!” Rengoku yells louder than usual over the din of the crowds. It’s especially crowded today— partly because it was a weekend, and partly because it was an uncommon occasion where two yokozuna were competing against each other. You look at him quizzically, glancing back to make sure that Tojuro was sufficiently absorbed in the match that he doesn’t hear you talking to yourself.
“What do you mean?” You whisper-shout, though you’re pretty sure it’s being drowned out by the wows of the crowd.
“I believe it also—” he pauses, distracted by the ongoing match. From both sides of you, Tojuro and Rengoku tilt their bodies forward in sync, their eyes following every movement. The wrestler with a purple mawashi pushes hard against the other, their feet losing purchase on the sandy ground. It kicks up a dust storm, and for a moment you think that purple is going to win— but the other wrestler twists his body ever so slightly, shoving the purple out of the ring.
Hurrahs erupt from around you— Rengoku pulls back, celebrating with loud applause at the valiant display of strength. Tojuro is still much more reserved, though his irises are undeniably sparkling with clear interest, fists clenched in anticipation as he watches the announcer raise his hands to make a call.
Rengoku continues from where he left off. “I believe it also confuses me with Tojuro, correct?”
His cheeks are flushed from exhilaration, hair messier than usual from all the cheering he’s been doing. Golden strands stick to his forehead, framing his large eyes and boyish grin. Your eyes trail down the bead of sweat forming on the side of his jaw, to the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Your hands brush in the proximity— the pinky he passes through buzzes with faint numbness. You nod.
“Then, please do call me by my first name!” He exclaims, irises twinkling like there were a thousand stars laid beneath it. “Kyo-ju-ro, if you’ve forgotten!”
At the request, your heart pounds so heavily in your chest that it muffles your hearing. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and your hands go numb. For a moment, you could mistake Rengoku for Tojuro’s more affable, personable twin. Like a friend— a voice in your head tells you. Not a ghost.
A first name basis would turn this into more than a mission— you’re awfully aware of that fact. But you think that you’re too far in.
“Kyojuro,” you call. It gets drowned out by the shouts of the crowd as the wrestler with the purple mawashi scores a point against his opponent.
Even so— at that moment, nobody else but Rengoku Kyojuro hears you. The intensity of his burning gaze lowers into something more akin to the warmth of a fireplace. His smile tempers down to something more intimate— private. Like a secret exchanged between the both of you. You turn back to the match, the tips of your ears searing hot. You don’t notice the way Kyojuro’s ears burn red, too.
“H-having fun?” You stammer, tilting your head toward Tojuro. He looks back at you.
“Yeah, it’s pretty interesting. More than I’d expected,” he admits. Still, it doesn’t pull the smile you’d hoped it would. You huff quietly. Tojuro’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer— before his gaze is pulled away by the roar of the crowd.
Kyojuro’s Wish #4: Experience youth!
“Hello!” Toko leans over the both of you. “Mind if I join you two for lunch today?”
“It would be an honor!” Kyojuro shouts. Beside him, Tojuro gives an impassive shrug, so you pull a chair over to let her sit at Tojuro’s desk. She plops down her own packed bento, one wrapped in a pink asanoha-patterned furoshiki, and leans forward so casually it was as if she’d known him her whole life. Kyojuro mirrors her, leaning forward as well.
“Y’see,” she chirps, an awfully gleeful expression on her face. You’ve been friends with her for the past three years, so you knew when something was up. Hidden behind the face of the most beautiful girl of the school was a scheming, devious mind— one who would go to any lengths to fulfill what she believed was the best outcome possible.
“Toko-chan,” you warn.
“Rengoku-san,” she sings. Kyojuro nods earnestly, and you stifle a laugh. Tojuro blinks at her. “Summer break is next week, and our group of friends have been planning on doing lots of things!”
That was news to you. “What have you guys been planning?”
Kyojuro folds his arm across his chest, eyes twinkling. Toko smiles cheekily at you— your heart sinks. That sly grin could only mean one thing.
The school term comes to an end, uneventfully.
The more eventful thing, however, was that the entirety of summer break is spent running to each corner of Japan with your friends— and Tojuro.
Your first stop is an amusement park. Kyojuro, of course, guns straight for the most terrifying roller coaster you’ve ever laid eyes on, and you’re forced to accommodate him by looking as if you were the interested one. Toko wastes no time pushing you into the seat on the left of Tojuro— and you’re screaming the entire ride down, with the one person on the ride who looks as if they’d rather be at home asleep.
The second, an aquarium date. Well, it wasn’t meant to be, at least— your group had mentioned wanting to view the newly unveiled deep-sea exhibit in the area, but you’re pretty sure Toko had sweet-talked the rest of your friends into bailing, each making up excuses of some variation along the lines of catching a flu bug. You know they’re lying, because somehow every one of them had managed to convince you to wear your best outfit under the guise of taking plenty of photos.
Instead, you’re left to tour the area with Tojuro. And of course, Kyojuro, who’s been awed into speechlessness at every exhibit.
“I never knew there were so many kinds of deep-sea creatures!” He’d pressed his face against the aquarium. You’re mildly worried that he’d phase into the tank if he really wanted to, but thankfully, it looked like the Flame Hashira was rather content on staying on the dry side of the glass.
It was peaceful, actually— the only other time you’d gone out with Tojuro alone was during the sumo match, and the rambunctious crowd made it feel more like a group outing than a date. This was much more intimate than— you can feel the heat radiating off Tojuro’s body when you both lean in to stare at an axolotl, with a face as listless as his. Only when you realize the proximity do you reel back, with a red face and cheeks that burn as if they’ve been set ablaze. You part ways that day with an odd fluttering of your heart.
Then, your plans to go to the beach were hampered by an incoming typhoon. Someone else suggests karaoke instead, and the rest, Kyojuro included, are more than happy to agree.
Drinks slosh around as your friends sing the latest pop song drunkenly, not quite from alcohol, but from the feverish excitement. You’re squeezed into the seat right beside Tojuro, crammed with your friends flanking both of your sides, pushing you together. His skin burns, even though he doesn’t look red nor bothered— so you can only assume it’s natural for him to feel like (and look) like a literal fireplace.
Standing at the side of the room, Kyojuro surveys the scene with keen interest. There were no seats available for him— it wasn’t like you could communicate with him with all these people in the room, anyway. But he doesn’t seem to mind it, quite obviously enjoying the lively atmosphere.
You’ve run out of apologies to spew to Tojuro, but he brushes all of them off, not minding the deliberate shoving your friends are doing. A particularly animated jostle from beside you causes your leg to brush against his.
“I’m so sorry—!” You murmur again, shutting your eyes as your face burns warmer and warmer.
The feeling of eyes on you forces you to glance up. Opposite, Kyojuro’s expression has dropped, clearly recognizing your discomfort.
“Would you like to go get ice cream!” He offers. You sheepishly excuse yourself to leave the room, offering to grab a soft serve for your friends as well. You burst out of the door, stumbling down the corridor before catching your breath as you lean against the counter with the ice cream machine. Kyojuro exits behind you, walking through the door.
“My apologies,” he lowers his gaze. “I wasn’t aware that this would make you uncomfortable!”
“No, no, it’s alright!” You wave him off. “Karaoke is really fun, they’re just being extra pushy today because Tojuro is there.” Turning to the machine, you begin filling ice cream cups to bring back.
“Still…” he murmurs. Your eyes dart up at his sudden dip in volume. “To see you in such a state…”
You feel yourself smile at him fondly. Despite all his eccentricities, Kyojuro was surprisingly sensitive, and you feel an indescribable urge to ruffle the top of his head. You settle for just lightly punching his shoulder, your fist buzzing as you pass through his spectral visage.
“As long as you’re having fun, Kyojuro-san, I don’t mind at all!” His first name unwittingly slips out from your mouth. The both of you freeze. Your hand drops and you quickly spin away, back to the ice cream machine as you fill the remaining cups, stammering. “R—Really, it’s no problem at all. I want you to be happy, too.”
“My happiness should not be at your expense!” He insists. His irises look even warmer, a more vivid shade of crimson under the light. “You don’t have to go back in there! Or sit next to Tojuro, for that matter!”
That makes you stop in your tracks. “Do you… have an issue with Tojuro?”
Something flickers across the face of your ghostly companion. Something almost like guilt— at having been caught red handed. He opens his mouth, then closes it— then opens it again, like admitting to a confession.
“It does make me a little uncomfortable to see you pressed against him like that!”
You nearly drop the ice cream cup in your hand. A puff of laughter escapes you. Then, you double over in silent laughter, shoulders shaking as you try not to draw attention to yourself. Your stomach aches with the effort, and you’re out of breath with how hard you’re muffling your guffaws. With tears in your eyes, you look at up at him. “Don’t worry, Kyojuro-san. I’m not going to do anything to him. It’s cute that you think of him like an extension of yourself, though!”
Kyojuro huffs, almost childishly. “That’s not what I mean!”
Unfortunately, his whines are drowned out when the room beside you chooses to blast their speakers at full volume at that exact moment. It makes you jump, and you don’t miss the way Kyojuro’s hands fly to his katana on instinct. You hold your hand out to stop him from drawing his blade (but again, forget that you would simply pass through him).
“It’s alright. Nothing will attack us here,” you smile reassuringly. Kyojuro's eyes dart between you and the room, before reluctantly relaxing his posture. Old habits die hard, clearly. You wonder what he's been through to be so on edge all the time, but you're determined to teach him that there's nothing to fear— not anymore, in this world.
Kyojuro’s Wish #5: Visit his family.
This time, you head out alone with Kyojuro. The train rattles below your seat as you clutch the flowers closer to your body, letting your fingers brush over the velvet petals of the white lilies. You fluff up the chrysanthemums beside it a little more, hoping it wouldn’t droop too quickly under the blazing summer sun.
“Shinagawa-ku,” you mutter under your breath, looking at the map on the walls. Just a few more stops to go, you note. The train is relatively empty, so Kyojuro sits beside you, arms folded across his chest. He’s awfully tense, and his usual grin has been exchanged for a more neutral expression. One that almost conveys nervousness.
The Hashira had mentioned he was born and raised around this area— so it would mean his house had once existed here, too. However, the area had undergone massive redevelopment. Office buildings and hotels tower high above you, like a concrete jungle that flanks all sides, populated by salarymen in sweaty suits and businesswomen whose heels clack loudly atop the pavement. You feel very displaced, with your casual wear and the sizeable bouquet of flowers in your hand.
“The map says turn right here,” you look at Kyojuro. But he’s not paying any attention to you, head swiveling around, scanning the area. Then, without warning— he takes off to the left. You follow behind him, clutching onto the bag slung around your shoulder.
“Hey!” You whisper. “Where are you going?”
Kyojuro doesn’t respond. He simply swerves left, right— through the buildings, into the residential complexes. Truth be told, you didn’t think you would find anything here. After all, this area had been stripped of whatever shred of history left, replaced by glass buildings that reached the sky and an overwhelming sense of dread seeping from those who'd succumbed to corporate life— which makes the discovery even more shocking.
You gingerly step foot into the cemetery, lowering your head in respect as you enter. Despite the relentless blaze of the sun above you, the air is somber, mournful. Your eyes flit over the gravestones. Feet shuffling forward, you read each name in your mind, looking for familiarity of the intricately carved kanji characters—
Rengoku Ruka. You halt. “Kyojuro-san,” you breathe. “Kyojuro-san.”
He’s by your side in an instant. You continue down the row. Beside her grave— Rengoku Shinjuro. Rengoku Senjuro.
Rengoku Kyojuro.
You’ve known this whole time. His ghost has been haunting you for the past weeks, so it obviously meant that he was...
But seeing it laid bare in front of you like that, spelled out, pieced together that Kyojuro— your Kyojuro, was dead.
Your knees give out from under you. He reaches out to catch you— but his grasp phases through your arm anyway, letting you collapse onto the ground. You don't even feel the buzz in your arm this time, too caught up in the discovery, like a slap to your face. It's quiet, here, only punctuated by the occasional chirps of cicadas camouflaging in tree branches.
“That’s silly of me,” you break the silence with a forced laugh. “I mean— you’re obviously a ghost, duh.” You struggle to get up, but your legs refuse to cooperate. You press your hand against your calves, willing for it to move. “Huh? My legs aren’t working.” You shove harder.
Kyojuro calls your name with a voice so quiet you thought you’d imagined it. His figure distorts before you. Why is he blurry? What’s going on? What’s going to happen to him now? What's going to happen to me?
He calls you again, and you finally will yourself to look up at him.
“You’re crying,” he crouches down beside you.
“Huh?” You blink at him. It causes more tears to roll down your cheeks, but it at least clears your vision.
Kyojuro smiles, a gentle smile that makes your chest ache. You’d gotten used to his loud demeanor, his fiery disposition and blazing personality— but this smile was more akin to the bloom of a flower, like the acceptance of one’s fate. It makes him look painfully human.
“How surreal!” He snaps back into his usual tone, turning to the gravestone before him. “To think I would see my own grave like this!”
You follow his gaze, fighting back the jump forming in your throat. Was he the exact same Kyojuro back then as he is now? You can’t imagine someone this earnest being any different— who did he take after? Was his mother or father this earnest as well? His brother looked much more bashful in the picture, but did he inherit his determination?
Sniffing, you wipe away the tears on your cheeks, scrambling to your feet and bowing deeply in front of the Rengoku graves. “My apologies for my behaviour,” you lower your eyes. “Kyojuro-san's father, mother and brother— I’m a friend of Kyojuro-san here. I’ve come to pay my respects with him.”
With his help, you grab a nearby broom and begin to dust off the headstones, starting with his mother’s. You sweep away dead leaves, toss out leftover joss sticks from previous visitors, replacing it with freshly lit incense and fully bloomed chrysanthemums and lilies. Then, you move on to his father’s. And Senjuro’s. You pause in front of Kyojuro’s, eyes darting to him as he looks at his inscribed name.
“I wonder if my ashes are underneath here!” He chirps. It's morbid, but you laugh at him anyway, before repeating the same motions as you did earlier. You continue down the line— to Senjuro’s wife, and so on.
“Do you think Tojuro visits here as well?” You lay down the last flower on the final Rengoku grave. Your back hurts after toiling for about an hour straight, and the sheen of sweat over your skin has grown uncomfortable.
“He must! The incense laid before our visit was fresh!” Kyojuro nods. You stand beside him, hands tucked behind your back as you let your gaze sweep across the row. Then realizing you were intruding— you retreat to the side of the graveyard, ducking under the shade of a tree, letting Kyojuro have his own space. He lowers his head and closes his eyes as he recites prayers for each tombstone he stands before.
When he’s finished, Kyojuro walks over to join you. He's smiling, as usual, but you can tell from the tilt of his mouth and the uncharacteristic melancholy of the air that follows behind him that his composure hangs on by a thread. You slip your hand into his, ignoring the buzzing that numbs your fingers as your skin brushes over his. Kyojuro squeezes back.
Kyojuro’s Wish #6: Stargaze.
“We’re finally here!” Toko gasps, and the entire group collapses into a mess of heaves and pants as you reach the camping grounds of the mountain. Tojuro is the only one left standing, blankly scouring the scenery ahead of him.
“Who even suggested to go hiking?” Someone grumbles. Everyone’s too exhausted to reply— but you shoot a glare at Kyojuro, who merely grins in response.
“The air is much fresher up here!” He announces proudly. “Hiking is a great way to clear your mind!”
You’re not sure if he’s completely unaffected because he’s a ghost, or if he naturally had that much boundless stamina. You’re thinking it’s the latter, looking at how not-exhausted Tojuro appears to be. Perhaps having inhuman amounts of stamina run in their genes. You are, unfortunately, not in the right state of mind to be entertaining him at the current moment. However, you do feel a little bad for Tojuro, who stands around awkwardly watching the group catch their breath, so you grit your teeth as you roll over onto your feet, gesturing for him to head to the clearing.
“Let’s set up before it starts to get dark,” you direct him, though you’re so out of breath the sentence comes out as one long garble. Tojuro still seems to understand you— the both of you get to work unloading the backpacks you’d brought, and setting up the tents. One by one, your friends that have finished recuperating join you in your efforts.
With Kyojuro discreetly nudging the items you needed toward your direction, you finish setting up rather quickly. Higher in the mountain, the air is much cooler than it was on the ground, so it wasn't too arduous of a task. Sunset comes and goes, and the night sky descends upon the group. Stars blanket the midnight blue expanse above, each dot twinkling and shining in its own unique way. Everyone, Tojuro included, roasts marshmallows over the campfire, exchanging stories from their past few years of school, recounting anecdotes that has the rest rolling on the ground in laughter (Tojuro excluded).
As it dips further and later, your friends retreat into their tents, exhausted from the tiring trek up. Tojuro is the last to leave, almost reluctant to leave you outside alone, but you smile wryly at him, saying you wanted to watch the stars a little while longer. You don't tell him you're not exactly alone. With a nod, he heads back as well— you’re left with Kyojuro seated on the log opposite you, still enamored by the stars above. The campfire eventually dies out, leaving glowing embers behind, plunging you both into complete darkness— only barely lit by the twinkling stars above.
“Was this what you were wishing for?” You whispered. It snaps Kyojuro out of his daze, who turns to you with a grin so bright it practically illuminates the path before you.
“It is! I’ve always wanted the chance to admire the stars like this,” he admits bashfully. “Back then, we never had a chance to relax like this in the night, much less in a forest!”
You pat the space beside you, and Kyojuro complies willingly, seating himself by you.
His hand brushes against yours. It sends sparks up your arm.
“There were always too many factors to worry about,” he glances up again. The stars shine pale, casting the lightest shade of blue against his cheekbones, turning his golden hair monochromatic. “If it wasn’t demons, it’d be animals! If it wasn’t animals, it’d be bandits,” he turns to you. “To be able to relax in the dark is a blessing!”
He’s gorgeous like this, you think. His eyes are soft, adoring. His hair, usually untamed and wild, now gives him a more mellow feel, spilling over the sides of his face and around his shoulders, making him look younger. You forget that he never really did get to have a proper childhood— one that wasn't plagued by a sense of duty and responsibility. This was a side of Kyojuro you’ve learned to treasure— one that rarely comes by, reserved for moments as sentimental as this.
He exhales contentedly. “I wonder if father and Senjuro had a chance to experience this—”
“—I don’t want you to move on,” your voice breaks. Kyojuro turns to you.
You avert your eyes, not quite daring to meet his. “I’m sorry— I know it's selfish, but I don’t want to lose you. You’ve been such a good friend I— I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.”
You brace yourself for an indication of anger, or an accusation of betrayal. Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, biting down harshly on your lip.
“I feel the same way, too!” Kyojuro replies honestly. “I would be upset if my friend had to leave me!”
“It’s not the same,” you argue. “You can't stay here. You have to move on— but I’m acting as if I want you shackled to me forever.”
He laughs once again, a clear, ringing sound that echoes against the trees, a melody meant just for you. “Forever’s just a saying. I do not know what will await me after this!” He leans back, tilting his chin higher to admire the sky. “But things pass— nothing is permanent. Daybreak will come, as will the sun rise from the east. Night falls, as will the moon go through its phases! There’s nothing I can decide— we all just follow the path our heart tells us to take!”
A thin streak of light darts across the sky. You both look up, but there’s nothing else there.
“We should’ve gone earlier,” you murmur, ignoring the pressure that’s beginning to form at the back of your eyes. “We’re past the stargazing season. The Perseid meteor shower was last week— we could’ve seen even more shooting stars.”
“That was a shooting star!” Kyojuro ignores you, excited by the prospect of what he might've just witnessed. “Let’s make a wish!”
He closes his eyes, folding his hand across his lap, a smile playing the corners of his lips. You’re more reluctant, but you do the same either way, eyelids fluttering shut.
Dear star, if you can hear me…
You peek at him. Kyojuro remains upright, his eyes closed in concentration. What could he be wishing for? Peace for his family? Selfishly, you hope that you were in that wish of his too.
I wish that Kyojuro…
You say your goodbyes as your group of friends split different ways at the station. You can all still feel the boiling humidity of the summer sun even under the shade of the station entrance, so everyone is quick to flee, eager to reach someplace with air conditioning they could hide out. Yet again, you’re left with Kyojuro babbling about how fun the hiking trip had been, and the different sorts of trees he’d seen on the trek down.
Except, Tojuro lingers behind awkwardly, as if unsure of how to bid farewell to you. You sigh. There was still a long way to go regarding his awkwardness, you guess. But this summer had been a good one.
“I’ll see you in class, Rengoku-san!” You wave at him cheerfully, taking the initiative.
“Wait,” he interrupts. Both you and Kyojuro halt in your tracks.
Even if it was only one word, Tojuro had never been so forward before. You swallow nervously. “Y-yes?”
“Thank you,” he mumbles. Your heart thumps in anticipation. He clears his throat. “I— I didn’t expect to have spent my last summer break in school like this. I didn’t know there were so many things to do outside of kendo. You’ve opened my eyes.”
You’re floored. Kyojuro chortles behind you.
“Ye— yeah, there’s loads of stuff to do."
Bewildered at his unexpected response, you then proceed to say the lamest thing possible to come to your head. “Have fun in kendo training,” you raise your arm, swinging it down. “Hidari-Men!”
There’s a beat of silence as Tojuro stares at you. Heat rushes to your face as your arms fall limply to your side.
Then, he smiles.
Your embarrassment quickly fades away with the realization that he’s smiling. His eyes glimmer at your measly attempt of a swing, and he laughs. His eyes close as he doubles over, hands on his knees as he bursts into laughter, like you’ve told the funniest joke known to mankind. A joyful, piercing bark that sounds exactly like his ancestor’s— as if he was in there all along.
Tojuro finally catches his breath after a few more bouts of giggles. “I’ll— I'll see you in class then,” he gasps, wiping a tear from his eye. He waves one last time at you before turning around and jogging away. You wave back at him, dumbfounded, until he rounds the corner— and lower your gaze to stare at your open palm in shock.
“Tojuro smiled,” You whisper in awe. “He smiled! Kyojuro-san, did you see—”
You spin around, but there’s nothing behind you.
You return home, face drenched in sweat and tears. It had to be right as your parents reached home from the airport as well, so they fuss over you — but you walk past them, dazed, turning straight into your room.
Your body runs on autopilot. You take a shower, lie down on your own bed for the first time in weeks.
You jolt awake at a time too early. Your pillowcase smells faintly of smoke — and when you inhale once more, the scent is gone.
You fall into a fever the very next day— one that takes you out of commission for a week. The silence in your room accompanies you in place of Kyojuro— being confined inside only makes the crushing loneliness worse.
The first day of school after summer break comes and goes with you stuck in bed, and Toko spamming you incessantly on your phone. You only muster enough strength to text her a ‘sick’, followed by a sticker of a rabbit with a thermometer. Your phone blinks nonstop from all her texts, and you tell yourself you would read all 120 messages at some point. Later.
Finally, after your fever subsides, you gather enough willpower to drag yourself out of bed to prepare for school. You empty out your bag— Kyojuro’s Campus notebook falls onto your desk, opening to the page littered with your secret scribbles.
(‘Are you from the past?’)
Swallowing thickly, you flip the page over to his bucket list. There’s still half more that haven’t been crossed out— Go to the beach. Make friends. Win a Kendo tournament.
You end up poring over the notebook and crying again, with only an hour left to the start of class. Stupid, you tell yourself. He himself had said that nothing is permanent. You'd accepted that and wished for him to move on in peace. Both of you knew he would vanish someday— but it doesn’t take away the agony of having to sit in silence for the first time in months. Reluctantly, you leave the notebook aside on your table— you won't have a use for it anymore. Your walk to school is more of a trudge, with puffy eyes and hunched shoulders. Kyojuro had always followed beside you on your walks— but left on your own, you couldn’t even bring yourself to lift your eyes to appreciate the cool breeze, an indication of summer going by.
Toko greets you at the shoe lockers with a lilt to her voice.
“Hey!” She bumps into your arm playfully. “You were out for reaal long—” She cuts herself off when she notices your face.
“Uhhng,” you sniff, feeling like you’d been dragged through hell and back.
“You look terrible! You sure you don’t wanna stay home?” She pokes your cheek. “By the way, have you seen my texts about Tojuro lately?”
Right— the whole cause of this. You think you’d bawl if you saw even a hint of yellow and red right now, so you weren’t keen on seeing him at the current moment. Toko slings an arm around your shoulder.
“He did, like, a complete turnaround,” she whispers. You’re still so out of it, so you don't really register her words in your head. Right now, you were focused on just making it through the day.
Just as Toko slides open the door to your classroom, there’s a commotion down the hallway. Loud greetings— cheers and slaps of high-fives echo along the corridor loudly. You both stop, curiously staring at the crowd to spot its source.
Tojuro’s face appears in between the bodies of students that have congregated around him, smiling brightly and waving at everyone. He's glowing, undeniably even more charismatic than you'd last saw him. Everyone is eager to flank his side, inviting him for a round of baseball, or asking how his latest kendo tournament went.
“See!” Toko grabs your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. “Look at him! What did you do?”
You're stunned, too. His fiery eyes meet yours from down the hallway— a shiver runs down your spine when an expression of recognition crosses his features— and he sprints toward you. The golden-haired boy shouts your name from the other end, making everyone turn toward you. Your hand darts up to your mouth in shock, absolutely baffled by the unforeseen change in circumstances.
Toko releases her hold on your shoulders with a 'bye!' as Tojuro grabs your hand, pulling you down the hallway behind him. You let out a yelp, but follow anyway, heart pounding in your ears as you feel the scorch of his palm against your skin, the rough pads of his fingertips brushing against your wrist— from endless training of kendo, surely— and the firm yet gentle pressure of his grip.
You stumble up the stairs behind him, bursting through the rooftop door. The outside air blasts into your face from how forcefully the door opens, squinting as Tojuro brings you to the center of the school’s roof— turning to you with a smile so bright, as if he were the summer sun that never set.
He clears his throat, fingers still lightly curled around your wrist. “I won the local kendo tournament! I’ll be headed for the championships next month!”
Frazzled, you nodded. “Uh, that’s great to hear, Rengoku-san.”
“I also jumped over three buildings and the school gate with a friend! Yesterday, I bought sea bream from the cafeteria by myself— though they didn’t have taiyaki on sale that day. But after that, I went home and ate sweet potatoes until I threw up! I also went to the beach and felt the sand between my toes! I have decided that sand is rather bothersome to clear out from your shoes, but it’s fun to build sandcastles with!”
Your head spins with the information overload. Awkwardly, you laugh. “That’s great, I’m glad you broke out of your… shell…”
The realization that those were all the things that Kyojuro wanted to do slowly seeps in. Tojuro made friends. He went to the beach. Ate good food. All of them, he fulfilled in place of him. The slayer that never had a chance to experience youth, all of it taken far too young from him.
You’re about to cry again for the second time today — but Tojuro tugs you toward him, startling you into clarity. With the gentle tone that you’ve grown fond of— he calls your name. He looks at you with those soft eyes of his, his smile like that of the subdued warmth of a freshly kindled fireplace, and the early bloom of a flower.
“It’s me," he says in the voice you've missed so dearly.
A sob rips out from your mouth, and you wrap your arms tightly around his torso.
Kyojuro returns your hug, the searing heat of his arms seeping through the fabric of your uniform. You cry into his uniform, tears staining every surface that which you rub your face in, tightening your hold as if he’d vanish if you let him go again. You pull back, hands cupping his face— grabbing his shoulders—
“But how?” You blubber, lifting his hands to look at them— though, you can’t see much through the blur of your tears. “What happened to Tojuro?”
“I’m not sure!” Kyojuro admits. “But I think— I think Tojuro was me all along! Or I was him!” He turns your grasp around so that he’s the one holding your hands instead. “I was under the impression that we had been two separate entities, but we were most likely just two halves of a whole! Because of you, we could reconcile!”
Still sniveling, you place your hand in his, feeling the ridges of his palm, tracing the outlines of his knuckles. “I can’t believe I— I can’t believe I’m actually touching you, Kyojuro-san. This feels like a dream.”
He grabs your hand tightly. “It’s not a dream!”
You wail louder, and he hugs you again, patting your back comfortingly. “Perhaps the gods took pity on me. I do not know! But what I know is that I am here with you— and I have a list I would like to fulfill!”
The warning bell for first period echoes throughout the school. You step back, wiping at your face hurriedly. Your hands are numb, legs shaking— but you know that if you’d missed any more classes, your homeroom teacher would murder you on sight.
“We’ve gotta go before we get caught,” you sniff, pressing the palm against your cheeks. “Do I look—”
“Let’s skip class!” Kyojuro shouts. You clamp a hand over his mouth.
“Are you insane?” Your eyes dart to the staircase access. “We can’t!”
He blinks at you, and you feel him grin from underneath your palm. His voice is muffled, but he still speaks with a timbre clear enough that you know every word he says. “There’s still so many food I would like to try from the convenience stores! And I also want to sing karaoke!”
You laugh, releasing your hold. “We can do that after school. Anyway, we’d be caught going down the stairs.”
Kyojuro sweeps you off your feet— literally. Your arms fly to his neck as he picks you up, a determined look in his eyes. “We don't have to take the stairs!”
“We’re on the roof, Kyojuro-san!”
“Trust me!”
With a huff, he leaps off the roof— straight for the tree.
“Kyojuro! No!”
EPILOGUE
“Happy graduation!” You greet Toko. She runs toward you, squealing with joy.
“I can’t believe these three years are over just like that,” she gushes, jumping up and down. “Can you imagine? College?”
“Agatsuma-san!” A voice yells from behind her. She spins around. Another confession— you realize. The boy approaching her is blushing so hard you can see steam pour from his face. The second button on his uniform is prominently missing— you guess it’s currently clutched tightly in his fist outstretched toward Toko. You leave her to handle it herself, drifting further into the crowds of graduands.
A loud laugh sounds from the crowd beyond. Your eyes dart over, landing on Tojuro's figure, chatting away with his own friends. In his arms, a literal mountain of bouquets and awards tower way over his head. Every step he takes, a letter folded in the shape of a heart falls out of his pocket, and he struggles to pick it up while balancing the pile, not wanting to be rude to the tens of hundred of people that have confessed to him today. You wonder if he’s given away his button yet.
Kyojuro— Tojuro has grown immensely popular over the past few months. After having won the kendo championships by a landslide, it only catapulted his fame to unfathomable heights, having students from other schools coming over to get a glimpse of his famed golden locks. Paired with his amiable personality and good looks, it’s no wonder that everyone began to pay attention to him. He was even featured on the local newspaper once, labelled a budding star set to go to nationals soon.
It’s still confusing between calling him Tojuro or Kyojuro, and you’re pretty sure Toko has caught you slipping up a handful of times, judging from her narrowed eyes when you fumble— but the entire story of the Flame Hashira still remains as a secret between the both of you. In school, you call him Rengoku Tojuro; the formerly shy kid who's found his place in the world after being declared a kendo prodigy. When it's the both of you, he's just your Kyojuro, a boy who shouts 'delicious!' after every bite of his sea bream bento and with a burning passion to taste every assortment of onigiri at NewDays.
Toko lets out an exasperated exhale as she returns to your side, buttons spilling out from her skirt pocket. “They just keep coming! Hurry, let’s take a picture before there's more!”
You get an underclassman to help snap a picture of the both of you, posing with victory signs and beaming smiles on your faces. From behind you, Kyojuro calls for your name— though you wonder how he’s even seeing the path before him with all the gifts in his face. He comes to a stop before you, setting down half his gifts on the floor.
He clears his throat with an uncharacteristically bashful grin on his face. In a voice as soft as he can manage, Kyojuro murmurs to you— “There’s still one more thing I’ve yet to experience!”
That line strikes fear into your heart. “Tojuro-san,” you start cautiously, making sure the correct name rolled off your tongue. “We have done virtually everything possible. We’ve been to every single haunted location in Tokyo, nearly set the school on fire after you wanted to try glass-blowing, and almost got into trouble with the police for climbing the fire escape of the NHK building.” You raise your hand to your chest. “I don’t think my heart can take anything more.”
“Not everything!” He shouts, suddenly. With a sparkle in his eye— “Go out with me!”
You freeze. Around you— the crowd gasps.
“Why are you even surprised?" Toko rolls her eyes. She shoves you toward him until you’re both nearly chest to chest, the only thing separating the both of you being the mountain of flowers in his arms. Suddenly self-conscious, your eyes dart around the crowd that’s beginning to form.
“Tojuro-san,” you whisper, ignoring your burning cheeks. “Are you sure you don’t want to, you know, experience youth? Experience falling in love!?”
He grins, the same sunny smile that you’ve learnt to grow endeared to. “I already have!”
You blush so hard you think you’re going to pass out, but you nod anyway, at a loss for words. Kyojuro drops all the bouquets in his arms onto the ground, wrapping them around you instead. You’re enveloped in his warmth— the scent of smoky pinewood wafts from his uniform, encasing you in his familiar presence.
“You’re embarrassing me!” You pull back, head ducked low as you watch the crowds around you whoop at his brazen display of affection.
He laughs— it reverberates through your own body. “It wouldn’t be as embarrassing as this!” He kisses your cheek in front of everyone.
You’re not sure what happened, but you think you explode. Cheers erupt from around you, and Kyojuro has to hold you up as your legs become jelly, giving out underneath you, and your brain turns into mush from the ensuing chaos.
His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear as he leans forward to catch you, his voice low, rumbling. “A kiss on the lips would be great too!”
You nearly leap out of his hold, entire face set ablaze. “Not here, Kyojuro!”