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Kouyou’s hair always fell over her right eye, Kyouka noticed, gaze lingering on the single cherry-red iris left uncovered.
She’d once read that the right side of the body was tied to virtue, purity, all the gentle things the world liked to pretend still existed—
while the left was linked with shadow, mischief, and everything better left unseen.
Maybe that was why Kouyou hid hers.
Maybe that was why Kyouka understood.
After all, that’s what they were,
flowers meant to bloom in the dark,
petals soft as silk,
roots twisted deep into places sunlight never reached.
Kyouka wouldn’t say any of this out loud ofcourse- she never would.
She hugged her knees closer to her chest, watching as raven wings kissed by twilight fell across her shoulders.
“Put your legs down, Kyouka,” Kouyou says with a tiny smile, the kind that looks gentle until you notice the steel in it.
Her voice is far too firm for someone sipping tea out of a delicate white porcelain cup, but that’s Kouyou — sweetness lacquered over something sharp.
Kyouka freezes- she lowers her legs immediately, cheeks warming.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” she mutters, which is technically true, even if Kouyou has always been the type to catch everything.
“I know,” Kouyou answers, eyes drifting back to her tea as if the matter is settled.
Her hair spills over her shoulder in dark waves, the right side still hidden, the left eye fixed on the swirling steam like she’s reading fortunes in it.
The room is quiet except for the soft clink of her cup against the saucer.
It smells like jasmine and faint gunpowder — a combination that shouldn’t feel comforting, yet somehow does.
Kyouka sits a little straighter.
Kouyou has that effect on people.
As a child, Kyouka never paid much attention to how she dressed or acted
(after all, weren’t children supposed to be worryless? wasn’t she still a child? didn’t Kouyou realize? did she even see Kyouka as human?)
That had changed after she met Kouyou because unlike Kyouka’s actual mother, Kouyou minded. She cared about posture and femininity. Kouyou wasn’t like Kyouka’s mother.
Kouyou who scolded her for putting her feet on furniture.
Kouyou who fixed her kimono without saying a word.
Kouyou who stood a little too close when someone else spoke to Kyouka, as if daring them to use the wrong tone.
Kouyou who was nothing like her mother had been
Yet in a way, she supposes Kouyou is her mother now. While ofcourse nobody could replace the role of that woman, Kouyou seems to have fitted into the mould- not perfect. Never perfectly. There were parts that stuck out and wax that dripped out of the mould, all while ignoring certain parts of it. Yet she fit, even if it was like a sore thumb, she still fit
Kyouka doesn’t know if she loves Kouyou. She loved her mother yet her emotions for Kouyou are far too complex to sum up in one word.
Kouyou hates love.
Kyoua would know
It is one of those things that Kouyou would warn her about, one of those topics that would lead to tears and screams along with cruel words hidden by the sweet promises of an apology.
(Kyouka’s actual mother never yelled)
‘I only want whats best for you Kyouka- I was once your age too and I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did’
Kyouka always felt bad whenever Kouyou brought up how she simply cared because care in the mafia was a dangerous emotion. Caring for someone in the mafia was the equivalent of pressing a rose to your chest as you pretend to not notice the thorns digging in.
It’s the kind of thing that leaves Kyouka feeling guilty even when she hasn’t done anything wrong.
The kind of thing that makes her miss the simple, honest warmth of her mother with a sharp ache she tries not to show.
The kind of thing that always ended in Kyouka apologising and Kouyou telling her she was forgiven.
Kyouka shuffled in her sheet
if Kouyou noticed the obvious discomfort and longing in Kyouka's gaze, she didn’t comment on it
“Drink your tea before it cools,” Kouyou murmurs,
and there’s that sweetness again,
that careful tone that feels like a ribbon tying itself too tightly around Kyouka’s chest.
Kyouka lifts the cup with steady hands,
but her mind drifts to her mother’s hands instead—
warm, calloused,
always gentle,
never demanding she be anything but her daughter.
She wonders if Kouyou realizes how different she is.
Or if she simply doesn’t care.
Either way,
the room feels colder than it should.