Chapter Text
Japan, Late Meiji period, 1900s— Early Autumn
The autumn air carried the scent of roasting sweet potatoes and the crisp promise of evening chill, though the afternoon sun still warmed the cobblestone streets of the small town. Leaves painted in shades of amber and crimson drifted lazily from the few maple trees that lined the main road, their colors reflected in the polished wooden signs of shops and storefronts.
A young boy with long black hair walked alongside his sister, his wooden sandals clicking against the stones with each eager step. Tomioka Giyuu, twelve years old, possessed the kind of bright-faced innocence that made elderly women pause and smile, that made shopkeepers inclined to slip an extra piece of candy into his purchases. His blue eyes, an unusual shade, like the deepest part of a winter sky, or the color of the deep sea, darted from stall to stall, from window to window, with the relentless curiosity of a child on a mission.
His mission, as it happened, was entirely culinary in nature.
His sister, Tsutako walked beside him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder to guide him away from the more crowded areas, her other hand carrying a small woven basket with their purchases from earlier. At nineteen, she had long since grown accustomed to her younger brother's particular brand of enthusiasm. His eyes had been doing that sweeping search ever since they'd left the house, scanning every food vendor, every wrapped package in passersby's hands, every promising wooden sign.
She knew exactly what he was looking for.
"Giichi," she called, her voice carrying that particular teasing lilt that always made him wary. "Stop looking at those shops with your eyes wide like that. They might fall out, you know."
The effect was immediate and precisely as she'd anticipated.
Giichi's hands flew to his face, palms pressing against his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut with comical urgency. "Stop saying impossible things like that!" His voice came out slightly muffled, but the genuine alarm in it was unmistakable. His eyes remained firmly closed, as if he needed to physically press them into their sockets to ensure they stayed where they belonged.
Tsutako pressed her lips together, but a soft laugh escaped anyway, the kind of laugh that came from a place of deep, abiding affection for this ridiculous, precious brother of hers. "I didn't say you should close them like that, either," she pointed out, stepping closer to gently tap his forehead. "If you squeeze them too hard, they might get stuck inside instead."
Giichi's eyes flew open immediately, widening with fresh alarm. He blinked rapidly, as if testing whether his eyelids still functioned correctly, before turning his gaze upward to his sister with an expression of pure, affronted indignation.
"Tsutako-nee!" The complaint in his voice would have been more effective if he hadn't also looked vaguely relieved that his eyes were, in fact, still operational.
Tsutako laughed again, louder this time, the sound carrying across the street and earning them a few fond glances from passing townsfolk. She had always been fond of her brother's trusting nature, the way he took her words at face value, the way his emotions played across his features, bright like sunlight through shoji screens.
In a world that would eventually teach him to hide such things, she cherished every moment of his openness.
"Come here," she said, steering him toward a break in their walking. She nodded toward a stall they'd just passed, its wooden frame decorated with a simple cloth banner bearing characters that made Giyuu's eyes light up like festival lanterns. Daifuku.
"As an apology," Tsutako continued, reaching into her sleeve for her coin purse, "would you like some? You've been searching for it so eagerly, I could practically see the Kanji written in your eyes."
Giichi had already turned toward the stall before she finished speaking. The scent reached him a moment later, sweet bean paste, fresh mochi and the faint dusting of potato starch. His imagination, always vivid where food was concerned, conjured the texture before he'd even taken a bite, the soft give of the mochi exterior, the smooth sweetness of the anko inside, the way each flavor seemed to melt across the tongue.
He was halfway to drooling when he caught himself, snapping his attention back to his sister with visible effort.
"I want strawberry!" The words tumbled out in a rush. "And the white one with the cream inside! The one you like, Tsutako-nee, so we can share, and the regular red bean one, and maybe..." He paused, suddenly aware that he might be pushing his luck. His blue eyes widened with calculated innocence. "...and maybe one more?"
Tsutako regarded him with a look of exaggerated skepticism, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "That's four Daifuku, Giichi. You're aware we just had lunch, yes?"
"Yes, but..." Giichi's brow furrowed with the intense concentration of a child constructing an argument. "But Daifuku is not lunch. Daifuku is Daifuku. It's different."
"Different how?"
"Different because..." He searched for the right words, his expression growing increasingly serious. "Because lunch fills your stomach, but Daifuku fills your heart."
Tsutako stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed again, shaking her head as she moved toward the stall. "You're going to be trouble when you grow up, Giichi. Do you know that? Trouble with a charming tongue that is."
Giichi didn't understand what she meant, but he understood the coins changing hands, and he understood the paper package being passed to his sister, and he understood that moments later, he was holding his first Daifuku of the afternoon, the strawberry one, its pale pink exterior promising sweetness within.
He took a bite, and for a moment, the entire world narrowed to the perfect combination of soft rice cake, sweet bean paste, and the tart burst of fresh strawberry. His eyes closed involuntarily, a sound of pure contentment escaping his throat.
Tsutako watched him with a soft smile, her hand coming up to gently ruffle his hair. "Come on, Giichi. We still have an errand to run."
They walked further down the main street, past vendors selling grilled river fish and pickled vegetables, past a shop displaying beautiful ceramic bowls, past a small bookstore where an old man sat reading outside his establishment. Giichi consumed his Daifuku methodically, savoring each bite of the first, moving to the red bean second, saving the cream-filled white one for later, possibly for the walk home.
Eventually, Tsutako paused before a shop with a different kind of display. Through the window, Giichi could see bolts of fabric in every color imaginable, deep crimsons and soft lavenders, tranquil blues and vibrant greens. A wooden sign above the door identified it as a kimono shop, and through the partially open shoji screens, he could glimpse the edge of a finished white garment hanging on display, its silk shimmering in the afternoon light.
Giichi, mid-bite into his second Daifuku, looked from the shop to his sister with obvious confusion.
"Why are we hwere agwain?" The words came out slightly garbled around his mouthful, but Tsutako had long ago become fluent in Giichi-speak.
She looked down at him, one eyebrow arching gently. "Because my wedding is tomorrow, Giichi. I need to make some last arrangements on my wedding kimono." She paused, searching his face for recognition. "Have you forgotten?"
Giichi had not forgotten, exactly. The wedding had been discussed at length over the past several weeks. Tsutako's fiancé, a kind-faced merchant named Sato-san who always brought Giichi small gifts when he visited, the preparations, the ceremony, the way things would change afterward. Giichi understood these things in the way a child understands concepts they cannot yet fully grasp. He knew the words, but their weight escaped him.
"I shwill fon't know whaft ich's fwor," he admitted, then finally swallowed his mouthful. He looked up at his sister with genuine bewilderment. "Why do you have to get married, Tsutako-nee?"
Tsutako's expression softened. She bent down, bringing herself to his eye level, and placed her hands gently on his shoulders a familiar gesture. She had done this since he was small, whenever he needed something important explained, whenever he was scared or confused or sad. Her hands were warm through the fabric of his yukata.
"Because, my dear brother," she said, her voice gentle as falling cherry petals, "I found someone suitable for me. Someone I want to spend my life with." She searched for words he might understand. "Marriage means getting together with someone who makes your heart feel at home. Someone you care for more than anyone else in the world. Someone whose smile makes your heart skip a beat, even on ordinary days."
Giichi considered this. His brow furrowed with the effort of comprehension. He understood caring for someone. He cared for Tsutako more than anyone. He understood wanting to spend time with someone, he always wanted to be near his sister. But the rest of it... smiles making hearts skip? Hearts feeling at home? These were abstract concepts that slipped through the fingers of his twelve-year-old understanding.
"Well..." He tilted his head, genuinely trying to connect her words to something he knew. "I like salmon daikon. And Daifuku." He held up his half-eaten rice cake as evidence. "How is that different?"
Tsutako's lips pressed together, her shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. "Oh, Giichi." The words came out somewhere between amusement and adoration. "You'll understand when you're older. When you meet someone who makes you feel the way salmon daikon makes you feel—"
"Nobody makes me feel like salmon daikon," Giyuu interrupted seriously. "Salmon daikon is special."
"That's exactly my point."
Before Giichi could argue further, and he had several points prepared about the relative merits of various foods, the shop's entrance slid open and a woman's head appeared. She was middle-aged, with keen eyes and the efficient manner of someone who ran a tight establishment.
"Ah, Tomioka-san!" The shopkeeper's face broke into a welcoming smile. "You've finally arrived. Please, please come inside, we need to finalize the measurements on your wedding kimono. The obi adjustments came out beautifully, but I want to be certain everything sits perfectly for tomorrow."
Tsutako straightened, nodding to the woman. "I'll be right there." She turned back to Giichi, reaching into her sleeve and withdrawing a small handful of coins. She pressed them into his palm, folding his fingers around the metal. "Stay here, all right? Don't wander too far." She glanced around, noting the bench situated against the wall of a nearby shop, safely visible from where she'd be. "Sit over there if you get tired. Buy something else if you're still hungry. But stay where I can see you when I come out."
Giichi looked at the coins, then at his sister, then at the bench. "Yes, ma'am!" The response came with automatic childhood obedience, though his mind was already calculating how many more Daifuku the coins might buy.
Tsutako smiled, that particular smile she reserved only for him, warm and slightly sad, the way older sisters sometimes look at younger brothers when they know they'll eventually have to release them into the world. "Good boy." She pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head, then straightened and disappeared into the kimono shop, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft click.
Giichi stood alone in the street, holding his remaining Daifuku and a handful of coins, watching the door through which his sister had vanished.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, chewing slowly on his red bean Daifuku. The street continued around him, people walking, vendors calling, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. But Giichi's world had narrowed to the space outside this shop, to the bench his sister had indicated, to the promise of waiting patiently like a good brother.
He moved to the bench and sat down, swinging his legs slightly since his feet didn't quite reach the ground. He finished his second Daifuku and considered the third, the white cream-filled one he'd saved. His fingers itched to unwrap it, but some small voice of restraint suggested he save it for the walk home. Instead, he simply sat, watching people pass, letting his mind drift to more important matters.
'I want salmon daikon for dinner,' he thought. 'And sweet potato rice. And maybe some pickled vegetables, the yellow ones Tsutako-nee makes that crunch when you bite them.'
The thought of Tsutako's cooking led inevitably to the thought of Tsutako leaving. He knew, in a vague and uncomfortable way, that marriage meant change. Sato-san had been talking about a house on the other side of town, closer to his work. A house with a garden, he'd said, where Giichi could visit whenever he wanted.
But visiting wasn't the same as living there. Visiting meant going home to an empty house afterward. Visiting meant cooking for himself. Visiting meant—
A sound cut through his thoughts.
Sniffling. Crying. The unmistakable hiccupping rhythm of a child trying very hard not to sob.
Giichi's head lifted, his blue eyes scanning the street. The sound seemed to come from somewhere nearby, but not from the crowds passing by. He listened harder, turning his head slowly until he pinpointed the direction.
An alley. Narrow and slightly dark, squeezed between the kimono shop and a store selling traditional sweets. The sound was coming from there.
Giichi hesitated. Tsutako had told him to stay here. To wait on the bench where she could see him. But the crying continued, small and miserable, and something in Giichi's chest pulled tight at the sound.
He thought about it for a moment. He could stay here, like a good brother, and let some random adult find the crying child. Adults were better at these things. They knew what to say, how to help.
But the crying continued, and Giichi thought about what Tsutako would say if she knew he'd heard someone in trouble and done nothing.
'That's not nice, Tomioka Giyuu,' he scolded himself mentally, already rising from the bench. 'Tsutako-nee taught you better than that.'
He approached the alley quietly, his wooden sandals carefully placed to avoid scraping against the stones. The crying grew louder as he drew nearer, definitely a girl, definitely young, definitely very upset. He reached the mouth of the alley and paused, peering around the corner.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Crates were stacked against one wall, and a few discarded items suggested it was used for storage by the neighboring shops. But Giichi's attention fixed entirely on the small figure huddled against the wall near the back.
She was younger than him, he could tell that immediately. Small and slight, wearing a kimono in soft colors that now had smudges of alley-dust on the hem. Her black hair was pulled back neatly, or had been, once, into a flat bun secured by the most beautiful hairpin Giichi had ever seen. It was shaped like a butterfly, its wings painted in shades of purple that caught even the dim light of the alley and seemed to glow.
She was facing away from him, her shoulders shaking with the force of her crying. One small hand pressed against her face while the other clutched at her kimono. The sounds she made were those of a child trying very hard to be brave and failing completely.
Giichi's heart clenched. He forgot about Tsutako's instructions. He forgot about the bench. He forgot about everything except the fact that this girl was sad, and alone, and needed someone.
He stepped into the alley. And approached the girl quietly—
"Excuse me!"
Or, maybe not.
The words came out louder than he intended, echoing slightly off the close walls. The girl's shoulders jerked in surprise, and she whirled around so fast that her butterfly hairpin shaked slightly at her hair.
Her face was wet with tears. Her cheeks were flushed pink from crying, and her nose was running slightly in a way she probably would have been embarrassed about if she'd had time to think about it. But Giichu didn't notice any of that.
He noticed her eyes.
They were huge in her small face, wide and wet with tears, ringed with reddish puffiness from crying. But the color, the color was like nothing he'd ever seen. Amethyst, but clearer, fading from dark purple to a lighter shade, like the first spring wisteria blooming against grey temple walls. They were beautiful. Purple was a rare color to him, so this is new.
He shook himself, suddenly aware that he was staring. "Are you lost?" The question came out slightly breathless.
The girl's lower lip trembled. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of more tears. Then her expression shifted—or tried to shift. She attempted a frown, clearly aiming for anger or indignation, but her face was too wet, the rim of her eyes too red, for it to land properly.
"They left me!" The words burst out of her like water through a broken dam. Her voice was high and slightly wobbly, the voice of a child barely holding herself together. "Mama and Papa were just around here with Kanae-nee and then I saw a cat and I told them it looked cute because it did, it was so small and fluffy with orange stripes and I wanted to pet it so I followed it just a little bit and I held it and tried to play with it but then it scratched me!"
She thrust out her left hand, displaying the evidence. The scratch was small, a kitten's scratch, really, barely breaking the skin, but it was red and slightly raised, and she clearly considered it a grave injustice.
"Then I turned back to them to tell them what happened, but— but they're gone!"
The words tumbled out of her in a rush, culminating in a wail that echoed off the narrow alley walls. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, cutting new paths through the drying tracks of old ones. Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with the injustice of it all. She had only wanted to pet the cat. The cat had been cute. None of this was fair.
Giichi processed this. The situation crystallized in his mind with the simplicity of childhood logic. A small girl, lost, crying, alone. His instincts warred briefly, Tsutako's instructions to stay put versus the obvious need right in front of him. He turned his head toward the kimono shop, where his sister had disappeared behind that sliding door. The wooden facade revealed nothing. She could be inside for minutes or hours; he had no way of knowing.
"That's... I..."
He turned back to the girl. She was still trying her best to look angry, he could see the effort in the way her brows pulled together, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. But her eyes betrayed her completely, they were awfully tearing up again, the corners growing wet despite her obvious determination to maintain some dignity.
'If I help her now,' Giichi calculated rapidly, the arithmetic of childhood responsibility, 'I could be back before Tsutako-nee even notices I'm gone. The shop takes time. Measurements take time. Wedding things take time.'
Then he concluded, with the absolute certainty that only a twelve-year-old boy could possess, that he must indeed help this girl. It was simple, really. Someone needed help. He could help. Therefore, he would help.
With his boyish determination crystallizing into action, Giichi stepped forward and placed both of his hands gently on the girl's shoulders. Steady enough to convey certainty, gentle enough not to startle.
The girl looked up at him, her tears stopping as abruptly as if someone had turned off a tap. Confusion replaced misery in those purple eyes, her lips parting slightly as she tried to understand what this strange boy was doing.
Giichi showed a determined grin, the kind that started in his eyes and spread outward until it illuminated his entire face. It was the grin he wore when he'd decided something absolutely, when there was no room for doubt or hesitation.
"Let's go find your parents!"
The words rang with conviction. He squeezed her shoulders once, reassuringly, then released them and stood straight, as if awaiting the next stage of an important mission.
The girl's expression lightened. Something shifted behind her eyes, a subtle change from misery to something warmer. Her lips curved upward, slowly at first, then spreading into a wide smile of pure, uncomplicated admiration. This boy, this stranger who had appeared from nowhere, had looked at her in her most undignified moment and decided she was worth helping. The novelty of it, the sheer unexpected kindness, made her heart feel strangely full.
Then she blinked. The practical part of her young brain reasserted itself with a simple question.
"How?"
The single word landed like a stone in still water.
Giichi's grin froze. His expression remained fixed for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, while the question penetrated his consciousness and settled into the uncomfortable realization that he had, perhaps, committed to a plan without actually having a plan.
This was, in fact, his first time dealing with something like this. Tsutako handled things like this. Tsutako always knew what to do.
Embarrassment crept up his neck, warm and prickly. He turned away, unable to meet those questioning purple eyes any longer.
"I... don't know."
The admission came out small, deflated, nothing like the confident declaration of moments before.
The girl froze. Slowly, with the deliberate weight of utter despair, she turned her back to him. Her shoulders hunched forward, making her seem even smaller than before.
"This is hopeless..." Her voice emerged muffled, directed at the wall she now faced. "I'll be lost forever!"
Giichi flinched as if she'd struck him. The words hit something deep in his chest, something that hated the idea of anyone being hopeless, of anyone giving up. He scrambled mentally for something, anything, that might fix this.
"F-For starters!" The words burst out of him, too loud in the narrow space. "For starters, let's start with your name!"
The girl didn't turn around. "Why would I tell a stranger my name?"
Giichi's mouth opened, then closed. She had a point. A completely reasonable point. His mother had probably taught her the same things Tsutako had taught him—don't talk to strangers, don't tell strangers your name, don't go anywhere with strangers. He was, by any reasonable definition, a stranger.
But he was also the only person currently trying to help her.
"Well," he said, and then paused, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice carried a deadpan quality that would have made Tsutako proud. Probably, "You've already cried in front of me, might as well tell me your name."
The girl's shoulders stiffened. For a moment, he thought he'd made her angry. Then, slowly, she turned back around. Her face was still blotchy from crying, but something in her expression had shifted, a reluctant amusement, perhaps, or at least a grudging acknowledgment that he had a point.
She considered it. He could see her thinking, weighing the strangeness of the situation against the practical reality that she was lost and this boy, however unfamiliar, was the only person offering help.
Finally, she drew herself up to her full height, which was not very impressive, and announced with as much dignity as a seven-year-old with a tear-streaked face could muster:
"Kocho Shinobu. My name is Kocho Shinobu."
She said it formally, the way one might introduce oneself at a tea ceremony or a formal gathering. The contrast between her precise diction and her disheveled appearance was so striking that Giichi almost laughed, but something told him laughing would be a grave mistake.
Instead, he smiled again, warm and genuine. "That's a nice name! My name is Tomioka Giyuu, twelve years old!"
He announced his age with the particular pride that children attach to such milestones, as if being twelve was an accomplishment worthy of recognition.
Shinobu tilted her head, interest flickering in her purple eyes. The tears had finally stopped entirely, replaced by the natural curiosity of a child encountering new information. "Twelve? You're as old as my Kanae-nee! She just turned twelve four months ago!"
The mention of a sister sparked something in Giichi's chest, a fellow feeling, a recognition of shared experience.
He mentally counted the months, lips moving slightly as he calculated. "Well, I turned twelve like..." His brow furrowed with concentration. "Nine months ago! So I'm older than your sister!"
He announced this triumphantly, as if being older than someone he'd never met was a personal victory.
"Giyuu-nii," she practiced, the syllables forming carefully on her tongue. Her head tilted the other direction, considering. "I'll call you Giyuu-nii," she concluded, with the air of someone making an important decision.
Giichi blinked. "But I'm not your brother."
"You're not," Shinobu acknowledged, as if this were an obvious but ultimately irrelevant detail. "But you're older, and my mother said I should respect older kids, even if they're not Kanae-nee. So you're Giyuu-nii."
Giichi blinked again. Then, after a moment of processing, he simply accepted it. Adults, in his experience, had strange rules about everything. This was probably just another one of those rules.
"Alright," he said, nodding solemnly. "Then I'll call you Kocho-san, because my sister told me it's proper that way."
Shinobu's face broke into a genuine smile, chasing away the last shadows of her tears. "That's how our neighbors call my mama and papa!"
"Then consider it a trial for your adulthood!" Giichi declared, with the profound wisdom of someone who was, himself, still very much a child.
Shinobu giggled, a small, bright sound that seemed to make the alley less dark. "A trial for my adulthood," she repeated, savoring the phrase. "That sounds cool, Giyuu-nii."
Later, after Giichi had extracted himself from the alley and convinced Shinobu to follow him, after they had emerged into the main street with its afternoon crowds and its vendors and its normalcy, they walked together through the town.
Approximately ten minutes had passed since they'd begun their search. The initial burst of purpose had settled into a more meandering pace as they both realized, independently, that finding people in a town of this size was not as simple as it had seemed.
Shinobu kept close to Giichi's side, her small hand occasionally reaching out to touch his sleeve as if reassuring herself he was still there.
Some elders glanced at them as they passed. An old woman carrying vegetables smiled fondly at the sight of them, a boy and a girl, clearly not siblings given the different coloring, walking together with the boy in the lead and the girl trusting him completely. But no one stopped them, no one asked questions. Children wandering was normal. Children making friends was normal. There was nothing here to concern anyone.
As they walked, Giichi's hand drifted to his sleeve, where the paper-wrapped white daifuku still waited. He'd been saving it, but the walk and the excitement and the general stress of the situation had created a hollow feeling in his stomach that demanded filling. With the unselfconscious ease of a child, he pulled it out, unwrapped it, and took a large bite.
Shinobu looked up at him, her purple eyes fixing on the daifuku with the particular attention of someone who recognized exactly what it was. She watched him chew, watched him swallow, watched him prepare for another bite.
"Giyuu-nii," she said, her voice carrying a note of gentle reproach. "You shouldn't eat so fast. You might end up choking. Especially because it's daifuku."
Giichi paused, his second bite halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, genuinely curious. "Why's that?"
Shinobu straightened slightly, clearly pleased to be asked. The opportunity to share knowledge, to demonstrate something she'd learned, brightened her expression. "Because if you don't chew it properly, it might stick in your throat and choke you. It will seal your airways and you'll fall unconscious."
She delivered this information with the solemn precision of someone reciting from a medical text, which, as it happened, she was.
Giichi stared at her.
"It's what my mother's medical texts said," Shinobu explained, warming to her subject. "She reads them to me and Kanae-nee from time to time. There was a whole section about choking hazards, and daifuku was mentioned specifically because of how sticky mochi can be. Also, there was a case study about a man who—"
Before Shinobu could finish her detailed account of historical daifuku-related incidents, a sound interrupted them.
A growl.
They stopped walking simultaneously, their heads turning toward the source. Emerging from between two buildings, its head low and its eyes fixed on them, was a dog. It wasn't large, not fully grown by the look of it, with gangly legs and ears that seemed slightly too big for its head. But it was definitely a dog, and it was definitely looking at them.
Giichi and Shinobu looked at each other, then back at the dog. It stood perhaps ten feet away, motionless except for the slow wag of its tail. Its nose twitched, sampling the air.
"Giyuu-nii," Shinobu whispered, her voice carrying the particular tone of someone who wasn't sure whether to be frightened but wanted guidance either way. "Do dogs also scratch kids like cats?"
The question was delivered with genuine curiosity, as if she were simply gathering data for future reference. Should she be scared? Should she run? The cat had scratched her, but cats were small. Dogs were... larger.
Giichi considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. He had seen dogs before, had observed them from a safe distance, but his direct experience was limited. Still, he knew some things.
"No," he said slowly, watching the dog as he spoke. "They don't have claws like cats do. Cats have claws for scratching and climbing. Dogs have..." He searched for the right word. "Nails. Blunt nails. They can't scratch the same way."
He took another bite of his daifuku as he spoke, the motion automatic, comforting.
"But," he continued around his mouthful, "Dogs bite. That's what they do instead of scratching."
As he chewed, he noticed something. The dog's head tilted slightly upward, its nose following some invisible trail in the air. Giichi stopped chewing. He lowered his daifuku slowly, experimentally. The dog's head lowered with it, eyes tracking the movement.
Curious, Giichi lifted the daifuku again, bringing it close to his mouth. The dog's head lifted in response, ears perking forward with interest.
Shinobu watched this silent exchange with growing comprehension. Her gaze moved from Giichi to the dog to the daifuku and back again, piecing together the obvious conclusion.
"Giyuu-nii," she said, her voice carefully neutral, "I think it wants your daifuku."
Giichi acknowledged this with a small nod. "Yeah. Maybe."
The dog took a step forward. Then another. Its pace was unhurried, almost casual, but its eyes never left the white confection in Giichi's hand.
Shinobu took a step back, her small hand finding Giichi's sleeve and tugging gently. "Giyuu-nii... it's getting near us."
Giichi stared at the dog. Then he stared at his daifuku. The daifuku was perfect—soft, sweet, exactly the kind of treat he'd been saving for the walk home. The dog was... a dog. A strange dog. A dog that was currently walking toward them with what appeared to be focused intent.
"Giyuu-nii," Shinobu's voice carried a new note now, urgency threading through the whisper. "You should give it your daifuku. Then we can escape while it's eating."
The logic was sound. Giichi could recognize that even as he considered it. Give the dog what it wanted, use the distraction to retreat, find safety. It was practical. It was sensible. It was exactly what Tsutako would probably advise.
But.
But that would mean giving up this sweet, chewy, perfect piece of food that he'd been saving specifically for this moment. That would mean surrendering to a dog. That would mean walking away empty-handed while some random animal enjoyed what was rightfully his.
The daifuku deserved better. He deserved better.
Giichi stared at the dog again. The dog stared back, its tongue lolling slightly, its tail wagging with what might have been friendliness or might have been anticipation.
"No."
The word came out flat, final, carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
Shinobu's eyes widened. "What do you—"
Before she could finish the question, before she could argue or protest or point out the obvious flaws in his decision, Giichi's hand shot out and grabbed hers. His fingers closed around her small palm, warm and surprisingly strong.
Then they ran.
"Giyuu-nii?!"
"RUN!"
Behind them, the dog tilted its head, its floppy ears shifting with curiosity. In the simple mathematics of its canine mind, the sudden sprint of the two-legged creatures could only mean one thing, play.
A happy bark erupted from its throat, bright and eager, and it launched itself after them with the uncoordinated enthusiasm of youth.
Shinobu's head whipped around at the sound, her purple eyes going wide as saucers as she registered the dog giving chase. Its gangly legs ate up the ground with surprising speed, tongue lolling from its mouth in what might have been friendliness but looked, to her seven-year-old mind, like the prelude to being eaten.
"Giyuu-nii! It's chasing us!" Her voice came out high and thin, panic threading through each syllable. Her small hand gripped his with desperate strength, her shorter legs pumping to keep up with his longer stride.
But when she looked at Giichi...
He was happy.
There, on his face, illuminated by the golden afternoon light filtering through the autumn leaves, was an expression she had rarely seen on anyone, let alone a stranger. His blue eyes sparkled with genuine delight, crinkling at the corners. His lips were parted in a wide grin that showed his teeth. And from his throat came a sound she had never heard before from a boy she'd only just met.
He laughed.
Not a polite chuckle or a nervous giggle, but a full, boyish, unburdened laugh that rang through the street like a bell. He laughed as he ran, as if the dog chasing them was the most wonderful thing that had happened all day. He laughed as if being pursued by an unknown animal through a town was not a cause for fear but an adventure, a game, a story to tell later.
Her mind was dazzling on something she couldn't name. The sound of his laughter wrapped around her, warm and infectious, and for a moment she forgot she was lost. For a moment she forgot her tears in the alley, forgot the cat that had scratched her, forgot the terror of turning around to find her family gone.
His laugh was... captivating.
Something stirred in her young heart, something her nine-year-old mind could not yet name or understand.
Three minutes passed. Perhaps more, perhaps less. Time had lost its meaning, stretched and compressed by adrenaline and the simple joy of movement. But eventually, inevitably, their lungs began to burn and their legs began to protest.
They stopped near the alley. The same alley. The one where they'd met, as if some invisible thread had guided them back to their starting point.
Giichi bent forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he sucked in great gulps of air. Sweat beaded on his forehead, plastering strands of black hair to his skin. But even through his panting, even through the exhaustion, the remnants of his laughter still bubbled up, escaping in breathless chuckles.
The dog, for its part, had stopped somewhere along the way, playing around somewhere else.
Shinobu collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the ground with her legs splayed out inelegantly before her. Her chest heaved, her face was flushed, and her carefully arranged hair had begun escaping its pins in dark tendrils that stuck to her damp cheeks.
"I'm so tired," she whined, the complaint drawn out and exaggerated in the way of children who wanted the universe to know of their suffering. Her head fell back against the wall, eyes closing dramatically. "I'm going to die here. Right here. This alley will be my grave, and it will be all your fault, Giyuu-nii."
Giichi's breathless chuckles evolved into full laughter again, though it was weaker now, punctuated by gasps for air.
"Don't die," he managed between breaths. "That would be sad. And then I'd have to explain to your parents why I let you die in an alley."
"My parents will be so angry," Shinobu agreed, opening one eye to peer at him. "They'll never let you have daifuku again."
Giichi's laughter cut off abruptly. His expression shifted to one of genuine alarm. "They can't do that! That's not fair!"
Shinobu's lips twitched. Despite her exhaustion, despite the lingering fear from earlier, despite everything, she was having fun. Which surprised her, because she had been lost, scared, crying in an alley. And now she was sitting on the ground, panting, while a strange boy is worried about being denied sweets. Yet she still had fun.
"You're so childish, Giyuu-nii," she said, but there was no bite to the words. They came out soft, almost fond, though she didn't recognize the feeling for what it was. "Running from a dog instead of just giving it your half-eaten daifuku. What if it had caught us? What if it had bitten us?"
Giichi straightened slowly, wincing at the protest from his overworked muscles. He moved to sit beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and pulled the remains of his daifuku from where he'd somehow managed to keep it clutched in his hand throughout the entire chase.
"Daifuku is more important though," he said, as if stating an immutable law of the universe. His tone carried no room for argument, no space for negotiation. "Tsutako-nee bought it for me, and it's really delicious so, I can't just give it up, you know?"
Shinobu stared at him. Then at the daifuku. Then back at him. Her young mind turned the statement over, examining it from every angle, searching for the logic that must surely be hiding somewhere within.
"Even if it means that you might get hurt?" she asked finally. It was a genuine question, a sincere attempt to understand the workings of this strange boy's mind. Because in her world, in the world her parents had taught her, safety came first. Risk was to be avoided. Danger was to be fled. You do not risk injury for a snack.
Giichi met her gaze. His blue eyes held no doubt, no hesitation. He simply believed what he believed with the unshakeable faith of childhood.
"Yep!"
He grinned. An idiotic and simple-minded grin of someone who had never been taught that some things weren't worth fighting for, that some battles should be surrendered before they began. It was the grin of someone who had not yet learned to guard his heart.
Shinobu blinked.
She still didn't understand. If she had been the one holding the daifuku, she would have given it to the dog without a second thought. The dog was probably hungry anyway, all living things got hungry, her mother had taught her that. And giving it the food would have been less risky, safer, smarter. That was simple logic. That was how the world worked.
But Giichi apparently lived in a different world. A world where snacks was worth running for. A world where laughter came easily and risks were taken for things that mattered, even if those things were just sweets.
She wanted to understand that world. She wanted to know why his laugh made her feel warm. She wanted—
"Shinobu?"
The voice cut through her thoughts like a blade through silk. Familiar. Beloved. A voice she had heard every day of her nine years of life.
Shinobu's head whipped toward the sound so fast that her neck protested. Her purple eyes, still slightly puffy from earlier tears, widened until they dominated her small face.
Standing at the entrance to the alley, silhouetted against the afternoon light, was her mother. Behind her, peering anxiously around their parent's shoulder, was Kanae. And behind both of them, his face a mixture of relief and sternness, stood her father.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Autumn leaves drifted down between them, amber and crimson, catching the light like scattered jewels.
Then—
"Shinobu!!"
Kanae broke first. She sprinted forward, her sandals slapping against the stones, her dark hair streaming behind her. She crossed the distance in seconds and crashed into her younger sister, wrapping her arms around Shinobu in a hug so tight it lifted the smaller girl slightly off the ground.
"Kanae-nee..." Shinobu's voice came out muffled, pressed against her sister's shoulder.
"I was so worried!" Kanae's voice cracked, the composure she usually maintained shattering completely. "We looked everywhere! Everywhere, Shinobu! I thought—I thought—" She couldn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Her grip tightened instead, as if she feared Shinobu might disappear again if she loosened it even slightly.
Shinobu's arms came up slowly, hesitantly, then wrapped around her sister with equal ferocity. Something hot and wet prickled at her eyes again, but these tears were different. These were relief, not despair. These were homecoming, not loss.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into Kanae's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Kanae-nee. I just saw a cat and it was cute and I wanted to pet it but then—"
"I know," Kanae murmured, though she couldn't possibly know, not really. "It's okay, Shinobu. You're okay..."
Their parents approached more slowly, their adult legs carrying them with the measured pace of those who knew the immediate danger had passed. But Shinobu's mother's hands trembled slightly as she reached out to touch her younger daughter's hair, and Shinobu's father's jaw was tight in a way that spoke of emotions carefully contained.
"Kocho Shinobu." Her mother's voice was stern, the voice of a parent who had spent twenty minutes imagining every possible catastrophe. "What have we told you about wandering off?"
Shinobu flinched, pulling back slightly from Kanae's embrace to face her mother's reproach. Tears still clung to her lashes, and her lower lip trembled with the effort of not crying again.
"I'm sorry, Mama..." She couldn't find the words. She could already hear the scolding she'll recieve.
Her mother's stern expression held for a long moment. Then, slowly, it cracked. The fear she had been holding at bay surfaced in her eyes, raw and undeniable. She knelt down, heedless of the alley's dirt, and pulled both her daughters into her arms.
"We were so worried," she whispered into their hair. "Don't ever do that again."
Her father joined them a moment later, his large hands coming to rest on his wife's shoulders, on Kanae's head, on Shinobu's cheek. The family stood together in the alley, wrapped in each other, breathing each other in, reassuring themselves through touch that everyone was safe, everyone was whole, everyone was here.
Giichi watched.
He had risen to his feet when the family arrived, instinctively moving back to give them space. Now he stood slightly apart, his squished daifuku forgotten in his hand, watching the reunion with an expression of pure, uncomplicated happiness.
His blue eyes softened as he observed the Kocho family. The way the mother held her children. The way the father's hands trembled slightly despite his steady demeanor. The way Kanae kept sneaking glances at Shinobu as if to confirm she was still there, still real, still safe.
It reminded him of Tsutako. The way she looked at him sometimes, with that particular expression that meant she was worried but didn't want to say so. The way her hand would find his shoulder, his head, his hand, as if she needed to touch him to believe he was there.
Family, he thought, was a wonderful thing.
Behind him, a soft sound interrupted his observations.
"Giichi? What's happening?"
He turned to find Tsutako standing at the alley's entrance, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. She held her woven basket in one hand, and her eyes moved rapidly across the scene—the embracing family, the panting dog, her brother standing slightly apart with a squashed daifuku in his hand.
"Tsutako-nee!" Giichi's face lit up, and he moved toward her instinctively. "You're done!"
"Yup, I am," she confirmed, her gaze still sweeping the scene. "I came out of the shop and you weren't on the bench. I looked around and then I heard voices..." She trailed off, one eyebrow arching meaningfully. "Care to explain, Giichi?"
Giichi opened his mouth to explain, to tell her about the crying girl who turns out to be a lost child and the dog and the running and the laughing and—
"Mama! Papa!"
Shinobu's voice cut through whatever he might have said. She had pulled back from her family's embrace and was pointing directly at Giichi with the urgency of someone who had just remembered something critically important.
"I want you to meet, Tomioka Giyuu-onii-san!"
Giichi froze. His eyes went wide. His mouth, still open to speak to Tsutako, remained hanging in an expression of pure surprise.
Shinobu had scrambled to her feet and was tugging at her father's sleeve with insistent little pulls. Her face, still blotchy from crying and flushed from running, now shone with something that might have been pride. As if Giichi was an accomplishment she had achieved, a treasure she had found and was now presenting to her family.
"Papa, Mama, Kanae-nee, this is Giyuu-nii!" She gestured toward him with both hands, like a merchant displaying valuable wares. "He found me in the alley when I was lost and crying. He talked to me and made me feel better. And then a dog chased us and he laughed and we ran and, and..." She paused, realizing she was getting ahead of herself. "He helped me! He's my new friend!"
Giichi's face heated. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks, could feel the eyes of five strangers, no, four strangers and Tsutako, fixing on him with varying degrees of interest. His free hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he'd developed without realizing it.
"It was nothing," he mumbled, his earlier confidence evaporating like morning mist. "I just—she was crying, so I—it wasn't a big deal."
But Shinobu's family was already moving toward him. Her mother approached first, her earlier sternness replaced by something warm and grateful. She knelt down to bring herself closer to his height, and when she smiled at him, it was the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd done something truly right.
It made him blush, the effects of puberty taking a hit on him. 'Kocho-san's mama looks so beautiful...'
"Young man," she said, her voice soft with appreciation, "thank you. Thank you for helping our Shinobu."
Giichi's blush deepened, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears until they burned like small lanterns. His blue eyes darted everywhere, the alley walls, the ground, his squashed daifuku, anywhere but the warm, grateful face of the woman before him.
"W-Well, I..." The words stumbled over each other in their rush to escape. "Anyone would've done it so..."
"Not anyone."
Kocho-papa's voice interrupted with the gentle but undeniable weight of adult conviction. He stepped forward, his sandals scraping softly against the stones, and placed a heavy hand on Giichi's shoulder. The warmth of it seeped through the fabric of Giichi's yukata, solid and grounding, like the weight of approval itself.
"Many people walk past crying children," Kocho-papa continued, his voice low and earnest. "Many people assume someone else will help, that it's not their problem, that getting involved might cause trouble for themselves." His hand squeezed Giichi's shoulder gently, once. "But you didn't. You stopped. You stayed with her. You made sure she wasn't alone."
Giichi's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to protest, to explain that it hadn't been heroic at all, that he'd just seen a crying girl and couldn't walk away.
Kocho-papa's gaze held his, unwavering. "That takes character, young man. That takes a good heart."
Giichi's eyes dropped. His free hand came up to rub the back of his neck again.
'I don't deserve this,' he thought. 'I just talked to her. I just... ran with her. That's all.'
But the warmth in his chest, stubborn and undeniable, told a different story.
Before he could formulate any kind of response, before he could even begin to find words adequate for the situation, a new voice joined the conversation.
"Thank you for taking care of my little sister."
Giichi looked up to find Kanae standing before him, Shinobu's hand clasped firmly in hers. She was tall for twelve, he realized. Almost as tall as him, despite being four months younger. Her dark hair, the same deep black as Shinobu's, was pulled back neatly, and her purple eyes, lighter than her sister's, softer somehow, held him with a gentle warmth that reminded him of Tsutako.
"She can be... a handful sometimes," Kanae added, and there was such fondness in her voice, such familiar exasperation, that Giichi felt an immediate kinship between her and his big sister.
"Kanae-nee!" Shinobu's protest was immediate and indignant. Her small face scrunched up, cheeks puffing outward as she stamped her foot against the alley stones. "I am NOT a handful!"
Kanae's smile didn't waver. She glanced down at her sister with the particular patience of someone who had weathered many such protests. "You followed a cat and got lost," she pointed out, her voice maintaining its gentle, reasonable tone. "You were crying in an alley. A strange boy had to find you and stay with you until we arrived." She tilted her head slightly, considering. "That sounds like a handful to me."
Shinobu's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, as if she might find some argument hiding behind her teeth. But none came. Her cheeks, already puffed with indignation, flushed a deeper shade of pink as she realized, with the dawning horror of a nine-year-old confronted with irrefutable logic, that her sister was absolutely correct.
She looked, in that moment, exactly like an angry chipmunk who had just been proven wrong in a very public debate.
Giichi stared at her. The indignation. The embarrassment. The way her purple eyes darted around as if searching for an escape from the situation. It was so familiar, so reminiscent of his own reactions to Tsutako's teasing, that he couldn't help it.
A laugh bubbled up in his chest.
"Fufu~"
A sound reached him like a splash of cold water.
Giichi knew that laugh. He had grown up with that laugh. He had been the target of that laugh more times than he could count. It was the laugh Tsutako deployed when she had spotted something amusing, something embarrassing, something she could use as material for future teasing.
She stood behind him, one hand pressed delicately against her lips. But he could see it. Behind that hand, hidden from the Kocho family's view but fully visible to him, was a smile of pure, delighted mischief. And her eyes sparkled with the particular light that meant she had witnessed something interesting.
"W-Why are you looking at me like that?" Giichi's voice came out higher than usual, defensive in a way that only made Tsutako's hidden smile widen. He could feel his cheeks burning again, could feel the eyes of the Kocho family shifting toward this new interaction. "I didn't do anything wrong! I-I was helping her!"
Tsutako lowered her hand slowly, dramatically, revealing the full expanse of her smirk, "I know, Giichi." Her voice was honey-sweet, the kind of sweet that preceded gentle torment. "You're not in trouble this time, don't worry."
Giichi looked away, a smart choice. The way she said it, implied that there would be other times. Many other times.
Kocho-mama, observing this exchange, smiled warmly. She approached Tsutako with the easy grace of someone comfortable in social situations, her hands folding neatly before her.
"Forgive me for not introducing myself properly," she said, bowing slightly. "I am Kocho Kaori, Shinobu's mother. This is my husband, Kocho Kosei, and our eldest daughter, Kocho Kanae." Her gesture encompassed her family with a gentle sweep of her hand. "We are deeply indebted to your younger brother, for his kindness to our Shinobu."
Tsutako straightened, her teasing expression shifting seamlessly into one of polite adulthood. She returned the bow with appropriate depth.
"Tomioka Tsutako," she replied. "It's an honor to meet you all. I'm Giyuu's older sister." A small, fond smile touched her lips as she glanced toward her brother. "He's a good boy. A little... enthusiastic about food sometimes, but his heart is in the right place."
"A quality more valuable than any other," Kocho-papa, Kosei, observed. He moved to stand beside his wife, his presence solid and reassuring. "Speaking of which..." He glanced at Tsutako, then at Giichi, then back at Tsutako. "We would like to properly express our gratitude. Would you both join us for dinner this evening? It would be our honor to host you."
Giichi's eyes widened. His gaze flew to Tsutako, searching for guidance, for direction, for any indication of what he should feel about this moment.
Tsutako's expression shifted. Her polite smile remained in place, but something behind her eyes flickered, regret, perhaps, or gentle refusal.
"I'm afraid we must decline," she said, her voice carrying the soft but firm tone of someone delivering unfortunate news. "It's a lovely offer, and we truly appreciate it, but tomorrow is..." She paused, glancing down at Giichi with an expression he couldn't quite read. "Tomorrow is my wedding day. There are still preparations to complete this evening, and I'm afraid I've already taken up too much of the afternoon with kimono fittings."
Kocho Kaori's face transformed. The polite gratitude shifted into something warmer, more personal. Her eyes lit up with genuine interest, and she took a small step closer to Tsutako, her hands clasping together in a gesture of delighted surprise.
"A wedding?! Tomorrow?!" Her voice carried the particular excitement of someone who genuinely loved such occasions. "Oh my, how wonderful! And here you are, out running errands the day before, with this handsome young brother of yours in tow." She shook her head fondly. "You must be exhausted, dear. The day before a wedding is always chaos, no matter how well you plan."
Tsutako laughed softly, a sound of shared understanding. "You know exactly how it is, then."
"My dear." Kaori's voice took on a conspiratorial tone, warm and inviting. "I have prepared three brides in my extended family, helped with countless others, and overseen every detail of my own wedding ceremony. If you would allow me, I would be honored to offer my assistance this evening. Whatever still needs doing, hair arrangements, kimono folding, last-minute blessings, I am at your service."
Tsutako blinked. The surprise on her face was genuine, unguarded in a way Giichi rarely saw from his usually composed sister. "Oh, I couldn't possibly impose—"
"Nonsense."
Kocho Kosei's voice cut through the polite refusals with gentle authority. He stepped forward, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder, and met Tsutako's gaze with the same direct sincerity he had shown Giichi moments before.
"My wife speaks truly," he said. "She has a gift for these things. More importantly..." He glanced at Shinobu, who was watching the adult conversation with barely contained interest, then back at Tsutako. "Your brother gave us back our daughter. He stayed with her when she was frightened and alone. That is not a small thing, Tsutako-san. That is everything."
His voice softened. "Please. Allow us to express our gratitude properly. Let my wife help you with your preparations tonight, and let me prepare dinner for all of us. As an early wedding gift, if you'll permit me to call it that." A small, warm smile touched his weathered features. "I'm told my grilled salmon is worth crossing town for."
Grilled Salmon.
Two words. Simple, ordinary words that should have carried no particular weight, no special significance. And yet, something clicked inside of Giichi's twelve-year-old brain with the satisfying finality of a well-fitted puzzle piece. His stomach, apparently operating on a timeline entirely independent of his conscious thoughts, chose that exact moment to register its opinion on the matter.
It growled.
Not a subtle grumble, not the kind of quiet rumble that could be politely ignored or disguised with a well-timed cough. No, this was a full-throated, embarrassingly loud declaration of interest that echoed off the alley walls and seemed to hang in the air between the assembled families like an uninvited guest.
Every single person present turned to look at him.
Kaori's eyes widened with surprised amusement. Kosei's lips twitched upward at the corners. Kanae's hand flew to her mouth, stifling what was clearly a giggle. And Shinobu, sweet, innocent Shinobu, tilted her head with the genuine curiosity of a child encountering a fascinating new phenomenon.
"Giyuu-nii," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone of scientific inquiry she'd inherited from her mother, "your stomach made a very loud noise. Are you hungry? Did you not eat enough today? My mother says that stomach growling means the digestive system is preparing for food, but sometimes it can also indicate—"
"Shinobu." Kanae's gentle voice cut off what promised to be a lengthy medical dissertation. "I don't think Giyuu-kun needs an explanation right now."
But Giichi was no longer listening. He had ceased to exist in any meaningful sense. His consciousness had retreated to a small, dark corner of his mind where he could pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't happening. His face had transformed into something resembling a ripe tomato, the heat radiating from his cheeks in waves that he was certain everyone could feel.
'Bury me,' he thought desperately. 'Six feet under. No, make it twelve. Twenty. Just... just somewhere far away from here, where I won't hear anyone speak of this moment again.'
Tsutako blinked. The surprise on her face lasted perhaps two heartbeats before it was replaced by something else entirely. Her lips pressed together in that particular way they did when she was trying very hard not to laugh.
She turned to Kosei with the graceful deliberation of someone who had just been handed a gift.
"You've heard my brother," she said, her voice carrying the warm authority of a sister who knew exactly when to seize an opportunity. "We accept your invitation, Kosei-san, Kaori-san. It would be our honor to join you for dinner."