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The first thing Obanai notices when he looks outside of the rickshaw is the soft dusting of snowfall along every frosted surface. The second, of course, is the teeth-aching squeal of the cart’s axle competing with the thrum of celebratory noise around him. White drifts gather in the crevices of the kawara rooftops, softening their edges until the entire city looks like it has been conjured up from a dream. The scent of roasted chestnuts mingles with something sweeter— perfume, maybe— Obanai can’t exactly tell if it’s coming from the crowd or from the woman beside him.
Kanroji Mitsuri beams as she looks out from the opposite side, ears and neck bundled in a rosy scarf that looks far too thin for the growing cold. The only source of warmth comes from the grilled kiritanpo steaming between her mittened hands. The smile on her face grows wider with each new bite.
That expression of hers has been bright and gleaming since the moment they set out. Obanai assumes it is over the snowfall— the amount fallen is more than this part of the region is used to seeing— but the bridal parades taking place are what truly captures her eye. She hums as she nibbles on her rice, quiet and content, but still loud enough to keep the sound threaded onto Obanai’s awareness.
A ribbon-like breath slips out from beneath his face coverings. Far more women than he’s comfortable being near hurry past them in blurs of silk and fox fur, each vivid kimono flittering in the snowfall like loose flower petals. Laughter rises and falls. Geta clack against ice. Somewhere, beyond the tall buildings, a ceremonial flute emanates a hoarse note.
It should all be overwhelming, and yet, the small world inside the rickshaw feels separate from all of it.
Mitsuri finishes chewing with a triumphant nod— almost like she’s proud of herself for not talking mid-bite— then twists to offer Obanai a gleam. Her cheeks are bright and plush, attributed from the cold and from how delighted she is by her own train of thought.
“Isn’t it amazing, Iguro-san?” Mitsuri’s eyes crinkle at the corners, kiritanpo stick nudging in the general direction of the crowd. “Everyone seems so in love! I hear there’s places that have romantic traditions around this time where they give each other thoughtful presents, and they even make huge feasts with tons of delicious food! It’s like everything is designed to make your heart fill with warmth.”
Just as Obanai opens his mouth to answer, another thought hits her and she illuminates even more.
“Oh! And there’s this tiny plant called ‘mistletoe,’ and if two people stand under it, they’re supposed to kiss!” She leans in, whispering loudly. “Can you imagine something like that?”
Her enthusiasm urges an uncomfortable, traitorous heat to pool inside his chest, and the image comes to mind before he can stop it: her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes bright, and her lips parted with the expectation for him to lean up and kiss her. His gaze flickers over her face for half a second too long before resting on his lap.
Obanai clears his throat and schools his expression back into something cool and composed. “It… sounds rather far-fetched,” he manages, tone dry to hide the tightness underlying it. “A plant dictating that people should kiss? It doesn’t sound real.”
Mitsuri giggles. It’s a soft, crystalline sound that glows with enough affection to steal Obanai’s breath for a moment. Her braid brushes his shoulder, but it’s the sparkle in her green eyes that is his undoing— they’re bright enough to leave him momentarily dazzled.
“But don’t you think it’s sweet? A whole season dedicated to love?”
He swallows. Her gaze is too lovesome, too earnest, too… her. Obanai quickly turns, pretending the snow-dusted path requires his attention.
“A sentiment like that surely has its… charms… but I still think it’s a bit implausible."
Beneath the kerchief tied below his chin, Kaburamaru pokes his head out with a small wriggle. He flicks his tongue toward Obanai’s cheek as if teasing him for being so easily undone.
‘Did she say something you liked? You’re getting warmer…’
He pretends not to hear him.
Mitsuri’s delighted gasp comes so suddenly that the entire rickshaw gives a sudden wobble.
She spins toward him— fully, knees and mittens and rosy scarf all turning in one chaotic sweep— and the cart rocks just enough for Obanai to nervously steady it with a hand on the wooden frame. Her excitement radiates like a small sun, bright enough that he feels her smile warming his own skin.
“You agree!” She beams, leaning so close that he can see the little details in her eyes. “Iguro-san, that’s so sweet of you to say! I knew you had a softer side!”
Obanai stiffens, mortified. He did not agree. Not really. Not in the way she’s implying. He meant to keep the statement vague— almost hypothetical— and yet here she is, praising him like he’s just confessed a fondness for romance itself!
Kaburamaru flicks his tongue in the cold air. ‘A softer side indeed…’
He inhales sharply and decides, with all the stubbornness in his soul, to keep his mouth completely shut for the remainder of the ride. If he says nothing, neither Mitsuri nor Kaburamaru can tease him further. He fixes his gaze to the wooden slats of the rickshaw, on the snow gathering in the narrow grooves— anywhere but her face.
But after only a moment, curiosity seems to get the best of him.
Mitsuri’s glittering gaze has shifted over his shoulder and out of the cover’s opening. He decides to follow her line of sight, mismatched eyes scanning the waves of people until they drift towards the city’s main square.
A wedding procession passes by outside in a sweep of shimmering white and soft winter pastels. An umbrella hangs above the bride, protecting her from the snowflakes threatening to dust over that pretty hooded veil. Gentle awe emanates from the crowd as the couple moves through.
Mitsuri watches with her whole heart visible on her face.
Her lips part in wonderment while her hands press together around the stick of her kiritanpo. Pink glows across her cheeks an even deeper shade now. For a moment, Mitsuri appears to be entirely captivated— an expression so soft and full that it could melt the snow around them without trying.
Obanai shares the sentiment— not quite captivated by the procession, but at her watching it.
He drops his gaze again, quickly, as if he’s been burned by how radiant she looks in this moment. Kaburamaru’s own ruby stare follows him knowingly.
The town swells louder the closer they draw to the square— voices layered over shamisen plucking, vendors calling out wares and sweets, and the weighty ring of bells sounding from a temple far off.
Then, there is a shift.
He hears it first in her breathing— her inhale catches, shallow and careful, like she is trying not to make a sound. The hum that had been emanating from her just before goes quiet. Those bright, unaware little movements she makes when she’s delighted halt for half of a heartbeat.
Obanai glances up.
Mitsuri’s smile is still there, yes, but it has drawn tight at the corners and stretched just a little too thin across her face. Green eyes become glassy and unmoving as her gaze tracks the procession. It lingers on the bride’s demure and loving face— and for the briefest moment, something tender passes over Mitsuri’s own.
It comes so fast that he believes he hallucinated it.
He finds it impossible to tear his eyes from her. In a way, it reminds him of the poetry he has long since shelved.
Obanai has heard the flowery fragments before: those lines traded by travelling art dealers, sonnets sung by painted women leaning over balcony rails. A beautiful woman’s smile like spring, those poems would say. Like the moon slipping free of cloud. He has always dismissed wording like that as indulgent, overwrought drivel.
But looking at Mitsuri now— at the way her smile softens her cheeks and her eyes tell every little emotion she holds inside— he understands why men compare such a sight to something as as the seasons.
But not even something as cognizant as poetry can capture what he feels looking at her. The thought is so intimate it makes his throat ache.
Mitsuri must sense his stare— there’s no other explanation— because only moments later she straightens and schools her features into something harmless and easy.
The tenderness is gone as quickly as it appeared. A careless giggle follows, light and a little rushed, the sound of someone trying to laugh away the embarrassment of having been caught wearing her heart open on her sleeve.
“Oh!” She titters, as if the glassiness of her eyes is simply a funny surprise. “Oh my goodness, I’m sorry—”
One of her gloved hands dabs quickly at the corner of her eye. Obanai notices a single grain of rice from her kiripanto stuck on the seam, and it clings there as she presses her hand to her face. It’s such a small, mundane thing to notice in a moment like this, and yet he does. Mitsuri blinks hard, sniffs once, and smiles wider.
“Weddings always make me cry.” The corners of her eyes crease as she smiles, her expression carefully bright— just enough to brush away the vulnerability that had threatened to surface. “It’s just… I feel so happy for them.”
Obanai watches her for another moment. “I’ve never been to a wedding.”
Mitsuri’s eyes widen, and some of that forced brightness eases into something more honest.
“Never?”
He gives a small nod of his head.
For a moment, she just looks at him. Mitsuri’s fingers drift together and fidget with the edge of her sleeve— a nervous tick of hers that doesn’t go unnoticed. Her green eyes flicker over his face a few times before settling on the bride once more.
“I always wished that could be me one day.”
The words are so quiet that the festival noise nearly swallows them. Obanai leans forward without meaning to, almost as if the sound of her voice itself has lured him closer.
Mitsuri’s smile loosens, becoming wistful. “When I was younger, I hoped to be a wife to somebody,” she says, twirling the thumbs of her mittens. “I wanted to look as beautiful as my mother— ah, she looks like a princess in her wedding photograph. She said my father had the brightest smile he’s ever had in his life that day. I’d want to smile so wide that it makes everyone else smile with me.”
Her voice catches again, yet Mitsuri’s resolve steels in the same way it does in battle: brows pinching together as if she is looking at her foe.
“My suitor…” she begins, and that word itself makes something sharp twist in Obanai’s gut, “…broke things off before we finalized our marriage.”
Mitsuri’s eyes flutter, but her gaze remains fixed somewhere over Obanai’s shoulder. He keeps his own face composed beneath his face coverings, yet he feels the tension begin to creep up his neck regardless.
“And with all my responsibilities as a Hashira, I think that it might not happen for me.”
Those words land with a soft, terrible finality.
Obanai’s breath stills. For a moment, he hears nothing but the slow squeak of wheels against the snow and the muffled pulse of the crowd.
The small voice in the back of his mind tells him that this is not the moment for his thoughts to stray. That Mitsuri deserves comfort, not his selfish ache of his. And yet his thoughts betray him immediately, taking her words to augment them into something more vivid.
He cannot help imagining her on her wedding day. Not as an abstract idea, not as some poetic verse, but as a certainty.
Mitsuri would look dazzling and radiant in white. Her soft hair would be neatly combed back— tamed into a smooth, shining arrangement that shows the rosy flush of her cheeks. Those big green eyes would shine so bright that they would get mistaken for polished jade. He thinks of the way she moves like a living ribbon in battle and imagines that same grace slowed into ceremonial steps. Then there are her hands, delicate and powerful, folded over one another as she mimics the same walk as the brides outside.
Obanai’s throat tightens. Then, he realizes where he is standing in this vision.
Not among the guests. Not at the edge, watching from a respectful distance.
He is seeing her from the place of the groom.
The realization strikes harder than the foolish fantasy of her beneath the mistletoe ever did. It hits him like a physical blow, like someone has pressed a palm to his chest and pushed with all their might. His heart gives an ugly, eager leap.
Obanai forces himself to speak before he makes a fool of himself.
“I know it isn’t my place to say this,” he murmurs, carefully, “but I think you would be the most beautiful bride in the world.”
Mitsuri turns her head slowly and looks at him— not with her usual brightness, nor with playful delight, but with a stillness so sudden it makes his heart squeeze impossibly tighter. Her eyes are wide. The timidness that showed its face earlier has all but vanished, and her gaze stays on him as though she’s trying to understand what this means, or where it came from.
Obanai begins to sweat.
A thought comes unbidden, as it always does when something good draws too close.
He thinks of the past— of being the one to live at the expense of the other — and how that simple fact feels more like punishment than any type of relief. Survival wasn’t a mercy. Some days it feels as if the weight of their deaths lives in his blood like a sickness. As if it just chose him to carry it forward.
He has spent years half-convinced that anything he holds too closely will eventually decay with him. That the safest way to love something is from a distance, and to leave it untouched rather than risk leaving his mark on it.
Mitsuri— so open, so unguarded in her kindness— feels especially untouchable in that way. He tells himself she would be better off without someone as cursed as him longing for her.
If it weren’t for that— if he did not carry misfortune simply by existing— if loving him did not feel like inviting sordidness—
He would have asked for her hand a thousand times over.
“…Tell me, Kanroji,” he says, keeping his tone quiet and controlled, “if you did get married to someone… what would you want your wedding look like?”
Mitsuri blinks again, startled by the pivot. The tension in her face eases into confusion, then softens into something bashful.
“You… you want to know?” She asks with a wobble of disbelief in her voice, as if she’s braced for mockery and can’t find it.
Obanai inclines his head once.
Mitsuri’s mouth parts. And then, like a sun peeking from grey skies, she beams. Her shoulders lift with a small breath and her hands come together at the swell of her chest.
“Well,” she voices, the word itself like the beginning of a story. “If I could choose, I think I’d want a winter wedding.”
Obanai’s heart gives a single, heavy thump.
Mitsuri’s smile lifts as she imagines it, and her voice steadies, warming as it goes. “Not on a harsh winter day,” she amends quickly, practical even in her dreaming. “A gentler one. A morning where the wind is mild and the snow falls really lightly— a bit like how it is now.” She gestures out of the rickshaw towards the white fluff descending from the sky. “Just enough to make the world feel like it’s being dusted with sugar!”
Obanai’s mind fills in the rest without asking.
Pale winter sunlight filtering through falling snow. Mitsuri’s cheeks already blooming from the cold, her breath faintly visible when she laughs.
“And there’d be a long walkway,” Mitsuri nods, hands lifting as if she’s arranging it herself. “Maybe lined with tree branches— like pine, or even plum blossoms if they would bloom in time.” She lets out a tiny, fond laugh.
“Perhaps I’d wear my mother’s shiromuku,” she says, softer, reverent. “But pick out my own uchikake. I’d like it to have something like cherry blossoms, or maybe peonies. Something really auspicious. Something that tells the world that I’ll be happy.”
Obanai pictures that, too. Every stitch. The white silk. The embroidery catching on the light. Her pink hair tucked neatly beneath the hood of her wataboshi while a few strands inevitably escape because it’s Mitsuri and she cannot be perfectly contained.
“And after,” she rushes on, cheeks brightening again, “after the ceremony there would be a huge feast! Not just fancy things, but everything I love. Lots of fried treats, grilled fish, and steamed buns, and— oh, and maybe a huge cake! I’ve heard Western weddings can have cakes as tall as people, can you imagine? I don’t know if it's even true, but I’d want something fun like that.”
Mitsuri continues her colourful descriptives, voice lifting and falling as she narrates exactly what she wants the most out of her perfect day. When she speaks, Obanai watches with unguarded emotion. Her smile is no longer stretched nor hurried— it sits easily on her face now, glowing without apology.
“Does it sound silly?” She asks, though there is no embarrassment in her tone— only tenderness.
Obanai's eyes soften. “Not at all.”
The words come easier than he expects. He turns fully toward her, shoulders squaring as though this, at least, is something he can face without flinching. “I hope,” he says carefully, “that you have every part of that someday. I would want nothing more than to see it come true for you.”
He does not say with me. He wouldn't dare.
But if she wishes the same thing, then it’s something she keeps to herself; tucking it carefully away within that fluttering heart of hers.
Against his collar, Kaburamaru shifts, tongue flicking thoughtfully.
‘Your chest is warm again,’ the serpent teases. ‘It seems to get this way when you look at the things you love.’
Obanai exhales through his nose, almost a scoff, but he does not deny it.