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The room smells of lilies and carnations. It's overwhelming, and beautiful too. Kyouka brushes her long hair, little by little. It will be knotted and frizzy by the end of the day, but she makes sure it's beautiful at night, before going to sleep, and in the morning, before stepping out of her room.
She brushes her hair and lets the memory of her mother drag her along, like she drags the knots out of the strands. It's gentle, and it can turn painful so, so easily. Her mother's hair was also black, just a shade warmer than her own. She smelled like carnations too, and was always sweet with Kyouka.
If she lets herself slip far enough into her mind, she can still feel her mother's hands, calloused, but never rough, running through her strands —ten centimeters shorter, she keeps track—, humming some made up tune in that alluring way of hers, giggling when Kyouka is just about to doze off.
There's steps down the hallway. Only one person at the mafia wears shoes that make that sound, and she's wary. Kouyou's humming —Higher pitched, a pretense, not serene like her mother's— yanks her out of her thoughts entirely.
She always knocks before entering. It's a delicate sound, not unlike the hands that make it, not unlike the footsteps that follow, but they ring into Kyouka's head like bells at a funeral. She keeps brushing her hair, stare fixed ahead and so filled with sorrow it just circles back to empty.
"Good morning, Kyouka," a smile tugs at her soft, graceful lips. "Did you sleep well, my dear?"
A silent assent is the girl's only answer. She watches Kouyou from the corner of her eye, doesn't let the tension that tugs at her body change her posture, but the woman in pink notices, of course she does.
"My, my, we should change today's lesson on combat skills to give you a refresher on stealth..." She tuts, just on the verge of fondness.
Kyouka puts her headband on, divides her hair in two and ties it, looking longingly at the flowers she secures on each pigtail. Kouyou slips her datejime from her hands when she goes to take it, making a show out of tying it herself.
She stands behind the girl and is precise and careful in wrapping it around her. It feels like sticking a needle in her chest: She's too numb to properly feel the pain and the anger, but she knows there's drops of venom slowly leaking into her blood with the injustice of having the one that taught her how to kill do what her mother should be doing.
"If you keep behaving so well, we'll probably send you to do fieldwork soon enough," her voice drips with pride as she speaks. "Akutagawa isn't fond of training, but I can convince him to if you need to ease into it. It wouldn't be very different from what we've been doing anyways."
The woman's delicate hands adjust her headband, then slip under her pigtails and free the hairs that got stuck under her belt. She smells vaguely like dried tea on the bottom of a cup. It makes Kyouka dizzy. She turns around, forces herself out of her grasp.
If that displeases Kouyou, she doesn't show it. She takes one last, painfully tender, look at the girl, chuckles, and turns to leave the room again. "Don't be late to our meeting, Kyouka."
Kyouka wants to crawl out of her skin. Wants to jump out of the window of her room, but Demon Snow would just save her again. She skips breakfast that morning and stays still instead, clutching the cell phone her mother left her like a lifeline, counting down the minutes she can cry for without anyone scolding her until she absolutely has to leave.
❆
Demon Snow dries Kyouka's hair with a towel while she slips her socks on. She can smell food already, even on top of the soaps and creams she just showered with, and the expectation of a clumsily rolled tamagoyaki makes her smile.
She thanks Demon Snow, who points towards the hairbrush, wanting to help, but Kyouka refuses. She watches her reflection in the mirror, picks up a lock of soft, black hair, and starts detangling from the ends.
She still thinks of her mother's voice humming behind her while she works her way through the strands. She'd surely be happy to help her out with it on the slower days, if she was alive. Kyouka's fingers are rough now, too, but graceful as ever, and she feels proud when the memory of her mother's hands melts with the sight of her own.
She ties her datejime around her waist, then her cell phone around her neck, and pulls gently at her hair to get it out of the cloth. She makes her bed last today, because she had a nice dream about home and doesn't want to forget it. She ponders on it while she evens out the covers, lets it mix with the memories she holds of her family, envelope her in laughter and song, and odd stories about odd jobs, and good tea and warm hugs, and full moons and wet grass.
Leaving the room, she realizes it isn't so different now. There's white hair instead of black at the table, there's bagged tea and a meal made by hasty, learning hands instead of her parents' skilled and experienced own, there's paperwork waiting for her afterwards instead of the usual calligraphy and math assignments; but there's love, too. There's love and warmth and light waiting for her with open arms, which she doesn't hesitate to run towards anymore.
If nothing else, she owes Kouyou a few minutes to wonder where she would be if the mafia hadn't picked her up. She owes her mother to keep the love that consoled her when the world was a dark void of hurt. She owes herself rage for the tides life has made her soar. She owes all of them the determination to make the most of her day, of this one and every last one she's allowed.