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Not for the first time that week, Kiriko’s eyes follow Mizuki as he departs the Yōkai hideout.
“See you tomorrow.” It’s the same casual remark he always says when he leaves, and yet.
The tiniest crease appears on Kiriko’s forehead.
“See you tomorrow, Mizuki,” Sakura replies, not looking up from the Hashimoto shipment logs she’s been studying.
“...See ya,” Kiriko adds finally, entirely too late and entirely too muted. The door has already swung shut behind him by the time the words leave her lips.
Sakura slowly looks up from the logs and fixes her hawk-eyed gaze on Kiriko. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You know what. You’ve been watching him for days now. Something you wanna tell me?” Sakura crosses her arms over her chest and leans back expectantly.
Kiriko sighs in defeat. And here I was thinking I was being so inconspicuous. Nothing ever gets past her.
“...It’s Mizuki. He’s been acting weird.”
“Well, yeah.” Sakura shrugs, seemingly unperturbed.
“You noticed it, too?”
“I mean, it’s Mizuki. He’s always weird.” As if to make a point, Sakura jerks her chin toward the row of maneki-neko at the entrance, their little ceramic paws all waving in tandem.
Kiriko groans. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then, what do you mean?”
“He’s…” Kiriko struggles to find the right words. “He’s…been acting different lately. All of a sudden, he’s listening to Antler Antler? He used to hate that kind of music. He bought snacks for us from the konbini yesterday, and doesn’t want to be paid back…? We’re talking about the same guy who bugged Ryota for over a month to settle a check. When was the last time you saw him in a T-shirt? He wore a button-down to our last mission brief. And, if I’m being honest, he’s been weirdly nice to everyone lately.”
The longer Kiriko continues, the more she feels like she’s grasping at straws. It’s just not adding up in her head.
Sakura’s unchanging, stoic expression throughout Kiriko’s monologue makes her want to hide in a cave somewhere and forget she ever said anything.
And his scent, she wants to say, but bites her tongue, realizing how deranged it would sound. His scent changed too.
She doesn’t expect most people to notice subtle shifts in scents, but given her enhanced sense of smell, it’s hard for her to miss. In fact, the change in his scent was one of the first things she noticed.
The next words out of Sakura’s mouth hit Kiriko like a bolt of lightning.
“Maybe he has a girlfriend?”
“WHAT?”
“C’mon, don’t act so shocked,” snorts Sakura. “Anyone with eyes can see how handsome he is. When things aren’t adding up, assume the simplest explanation. People change for their significant others all the time.”
“That’s…”
“Impossible?” Sakura finishes for her. “Is it really, Kiriko?”
Kiriko sighs for what feels like the umpteenth time. She’s been perched on this rooftop for ages (minutes really, but long minutes) waiting for the Hashimoto patrol unit below to leave so she can move without being spotted. She normally wouldn't need to be this careful but she doesn’t want to be seen carrying something this recognizable through the city. She shifts her weight, not used to the bulk of Mizuki’s kasa strapped to her back with a makeshift sling.
It had gotten damaged in yesterday’s scuffle with the Hashimoto, thrown in haste by Mizuki to intercept a bullet that had been meant for her. It’s only right that she be the one to return it to him, since it was technically her fault it needed repairs in the first place.
Finally, the Hashimoto move out of her line of sight, allowing Kiriko to clamber down to street-level. She makes a beeline down the alley toward Mizuki’s apartment and quickly enters the building, taking the stairs two at a time to his floor.
Kiriko knocks on the door impatiently. “Mizuki, it’s me.”
After several agonizingly long moments, the door swings open. “Kiriko? What are you doing here?”
Kiriko gawks at him. “What are you wearing?”
Mizuki averts his eyes, cheeks flushed in what she can only presume is utter embarrassment. “I was in the middle of something. Are you just going to stand out there or are you going to come in?”
Kiriko shakes herself from her stupor and steps into the apartment, closing the door behind her. Once she’s inside, she resumes gawking.
“Why are you in an apron?”
Mizuki huffs and turns away, retreating to the kitchen. “People wear aprons to cook, Kiriko.”
“But you don’t cook,” Kiriko retorts, trailing after him. “Also, you’re clearly doing it wrong because aprons are supposed to keep the flour off you.”
She chuckles and teasingly prods him on the cheek, smudging the spot of flour there. She expects him to bat her hand away but is surprised when he doesn’t. Instead, his hand simply twitches at his side. She peeks over Mizuki’s shoulder to see a bunch of dough rolled out on a flour-speckled kitchen counter.
The image is such a far-cry from the last time she visited him, in his old apartment across town. That place didn’t even have a kitchen. It was a glorified closet, one that he’d only recently upgraded from.
When he’d first informed the Yōkai that he moved, she’d thought nothing of it. It made sense that he was distancing himself from the Hashimoto; the old apartment had been provided by them, after all. But now, seeing him so–for lack of a better term–domestic, she wonders if that’s really all there is to it.
Kiriko slowly undoes the makeshift sling, setting his kasa carefully atop a nearby bar stool. The stool looks new, and there’s two of them.
A strange feeling develops in the pit of her stomach, like she’s eaten something that doesn’t agree with her.
Kiriko turns away from the kitchen to distract herself from the odd sensation, eyes appraising the rest of the new apartment.
The walls are plastered in talismans, both new and old. She even spies a few that she’d made for him hanging above a tiny window. His kusarigama is laying on a small coffee table next to a jar of weapon polish. The apartment is small, spartan, and neat.
Her eyes catch on his futon in the far corner. It’s the comforter that stands out the most, a shocking splash of color in an otherwise monochrome apartment. Red and white, with an attractive but simple pattern; it’s the loudest thing in the room. His old futon was nothing more than a lumpy and shapeless mass of slate-gray fabric.
Sakura’s voice rings in her head. Maybe he has a girlfriend?
Mizuki’s voice from the kitchen sink jolts Kiriko from her thoughts. “Tell Nobuto thanks for me.” He turns off the faucet and dries his hands on a nearby towel. “It’s as good as new. Looks like I won’t have to sit out the next mission, after all.”
When she doesn’t respond, he raises an eyebrow apprehensively. “Kiriko?”
“I need to use the bathroom,” she blurts quickly.
“Uhh, sure,” Mizuki replies, gesturing to the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”
“I think I ate too many donuts.” Her stomach is in knots, and the longer she’s in here with him the worse it feels like it’s getting.
Mizuki drags a hand down his face, exasperated. “I told you to stop having those for dinner. Donuts aren’t a replacement for real f–”
Kiriko slams the bathroom door closed before she can hear the rest of it. She sags against the bathroom sink, trying to take deep breaths through her nose to calm herself.
Get it together, Kiriko. What is wrong with you?
She makes the mistake of looking at herself in the mirror. A pale and queasy-looking version of herself looks back. She refuses to consider that donuts are doing this to her. Donuts would never betray her. This has to be something else.
Maybe I’m just dehydrated, she thinks with a small shake of her head. She places her hands over her stomach in an attempt to soothe it, and finds her palms heinously sweaty.
Ugh, gross.
She moves to turn on the faucet and knocks a small bottle off the ledge. It starts to tumble into the sink, but her vulpine reflexes kick in. She handily rights the container and sets it back on the ledge without incident. Kiriko realizes with a start that it’s a bottle of cologne.
She blinks at it in disbelief. I knew it. His scent really did change. He’s using–wait a second…
Upon closer inspection, it’s clear the bottle is still sealed and hasn’t been used.
Wait…so it’s not from the cologne? Then why–
“Hey.” A careful knock on the door. “Do you need a bucket in there?” Mizuki’s voice is laced with sarcasm but also the faintest trace of concern.
“I’m fine,” Kiriko replies quickly. “Just a second.”
She turns on the faucet and thrusts her hands into the running water. It’s icy cold and just what she needs to anchor herself in the present moment.
The slightest glimmer on the edge of the sink draws her attention. Kiriko’s brow furrows in confusion. It looks like a strand of blond hair, but that can’t be, because Mizuki isn’t blond.
Must be a trick of the light, she thinks, squinting up at the incandescent fixture in the ceiling. Right?
But the unsettled feeling in her stomach has only grown, and a shred of doubt makes her take a second look around the bathroom.
Her eyes land on Mizuki's bath towel and the horrible feeling in her stomach mutates into something perverse and unrecognizable. There’s traces of blond hair there too. She feels like she might throw up.
Sakura’s voice thunders in her head. When things aren’t adding up, assume the simplest explanation.
And here it is. Irrefutable proof that Mizuki has someone over, sharing his towel.
The futon, the kitchen, all the little things; it all paints the same picture. He’s seeing someone. Maybe even…sleeping with them.
Kiriko screws her eyes shut, trying to gather herself. She can’t think about this now. When she opens her eyes, she realizes the water in the sink is about to overflow.
In her frazzled state, she misses the faucet handle, sloshing water all over her shirt.
“Fuck!” she swears loudly, fumbling the handle again. With a shaky breath, she jerks the handle and turns off the water. The sudden silence is deafening.
Kiriko doesn’t even bother with the hand towel, irrationally afraid of what she might find there. She hastily wipes her hands on her pants and yanks open the door, nearly walking into Mizuki in the process.
“Whoa–” Mizuki catches her by the shoulders before she smashes face-first into his chest. “You okay? I heard you yell.”
Kiriko swallows down a lump in her throat, her thoughts a jumbled mess.
Mizuki’s eyes study her face before lowering to her soaked shirt. His eyes go wide before he jerks his gaze away, color rising to his face. “What were you doing in there? Swimming?”
For once, Kiriko can’t find it in herself to come up with a clever comeback. She’s soaked, sweaty, and feels like she’s been poisoned.
“You’ve got your kasa. I’m going home.” Even to her own ears, she sounds hollow and exhausted.
“You’re really going home looking like that?” Mizuki counters.
“It’ll dry.” She weakly shrugs Mizuki’s hands off her shoulders.
When she tries to slide past him, he blocks her with his body and she nearly collides with him again. “At least let me get you another shirt to wear.”
“No!” she snaps vehemently, panicked at the idea of being enveloped in his scent. Cologne or no cologne, he smells too good. The last thing she needs is to be reminded of it.
Mizuki looks taken aback at her outburst.
“I’ll change when I get home,” she manages, trying to blunt the sharp edge in her voice. “It’s not that far.”
“Then at least let me walk you home,” he insists, concern for her written all over his face. She can’t blame him; she probably looks deeply unwell right now.
“I’m good, Mizuki,” she lies. “I’ll see you later.”
She hasn’t seen Mizuki since that day. It’s not that she’s avoiding him necessarily; it’s more that she’s trying to maintain a professional distance. That’s what she tells herself, at least.
But fate, it seems, has other plans.
Kiriko finds herself buffeted about in a disastrously large crowd of people exiting the train station. Based on the jerseys, it appears some kind of sporting event just ended downtown and people are making their way home. The timing couldn’t be any worse. Kiriko clutches a box of donuts to her chest for dear life, praying the donuts don’t get crushed too badly by the throng. This is her lunch, after all.
“Excuse me…” She struggles to be heard in the clamor, flinching as someone’s backpack thwacks her across the temple. “Just trying to get through…”
The crowd surges forward, shoving her along with it. She winds up face-first in someone’s chest and reflexively starts to apologize.
“Ow, sorry–”
Wait, she recognizes this chest. Not by feel–she’s not a pervert, but by scent. (It sure feels perverted to recognize someone this way, but it’s not as if she can turn off her preternatural sense of smell.)
“Mizuki?” Her voice comes out in an awkward-sounding squeak, which is frankly mortifying.
He registers her at the same time, mouth opening in shock. Before he can say anything, the crowd shifts once more.
Kiriko winces as people press and shove into her; elbows, knees, and bags going every which way.
She feels Mizuki’s arm wrap around her back and she stiffens before realizing that he’s trying to guide them both out of the suffocating mass. She feels the gentle pressure of his hand against the small of her back and follows his lead. She’s begrudgingly impressed that people seem to part the way for Mizuki. Maybe he’s more formidable than she gave him credit for.
“Almost there,” Mizuki murmurs, so close to her ear that it sends a shiver down her spine. She’s starting to feel awfully sweaty again.
Finally, the two of them emerge into an alleyway that breaks off from the main street.
Kiriko braces a hand on the wall, trying to gather herself. She takes a deep breath before speaking, willing her voice to sound as normal as possible. “Thanks for the save back there.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
Mizuki’s hand falls away from her back. Kiriko doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. This professional distance thing is a lot harder than she thought.
“Looks like the donuts didn’t make it, huh?”
“What?”
Kiriko looks down at the box in her arms and groans. She’d be clutching it so tightly that all the donuts merged into one amorphous blob beneath the cellophane.
As she’s debating the merits of eating a glorified pancake for lunch, Mizuki offers her a wrapped sandwich.
She looks up in surprise. “You just have those laying around?”
Mizuki scoffs, holding up a plastic bag she hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. “No, I buy them at the store like a regular human being. You should try it sometime.”
“I buy groceries, too, you know,” she says defensively. “Here, take it back.” She thrusts the sandwich back at him, but he thwarts her by not accepting it.
“You can have it. I’ve got another one in here.”
Kiriko narrows her eyes at the bag, which definitely looks like it holds something, but whatever that something is doesn’t look sandwich-shaped. “No, you don’t.”
They have a brief staredown, during which Mizuki says nothing. Instead, the longer she scowls at him, the more his lips curve into a smile, which throws her off. She quickly averts her gaze, her stomach in knots again.
“Looks like I win,” he drawls in that infuriatingly cavalier voice of his.
Kiriko wishes she could do something about that smile and settles for snatching the bag out of his hand. She opens it up, and sure enough, there’s no second sandwich.
Instead, she’s looking at two boxes of store-bought hair dye in gray and black.
“You dye your hair?” she splutters, unable to disguise her shock.
“Yeah, my hair color stood out too much growing up.” His tone is no less dry and casual than usual, but Kiriko detects the faintest trace of guardedness. She wonders, like many things from his past, if he’d meant to keep this particular thing a secret. “It was easier to just change it–uhh, Kiriko, what are you doing?”
Mizuki nervously backs up until his back meets the wall. Kiriko appears to have momentarily forgotten about the concept of personal space, because her face is so close to his that if he’s not careful, something improper might happen.
His blue-green eyes grow to the size of saucers, and his cheeks go ruddy. He doesn’t even dare to turn his head away for fear that his lips might accidentally graze something–or someone–they’re not supposed to.
“Why are you acting like this?” She sounds both puzzled and annoyed.
“You’re asking me? Why are you so…” Mizuki can’t bring himself to finish his sentence. Kiriko places a hand on his shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Come here, Mizuki.”
It’s hard to think with her warm breath ghosting across his skin.
Kiriko makes an impatient sound in her throat and the hand on his shoulder applies some pressure downward. “Closer, I can’t see ‘cause you’re too tall.”
“See what exactly?” His voice is nothing but a strained whisper now.
“Your hair, obviously,” she snorts in that naturally bossy tone of hers, and Mizuki comes to his senses instantly.
“Okay…then back up first,” he says hoarsely.
Kiriko obliges and steps back, giving him ample space to bend at the waist without headbutting her. If anyone were to see them now, they’d think he was bowing to her like some kind of servant.
In the light of day, it’s undeniable. Mizuki’s roots are blond.
Her thoughts flashback to the day in Mizuki’s apartment. Not only is he blond, he is the blond. Kiriko feels the knot in her stomach loosen and disappear. She can’t believe she’d been avoiding him over a misunderstanding. There’s no girlfriend. Mizuki’s just weird. She almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.
When someone passes by the alley, Mizuki self-consciously rights himself. “Are you happy now?”
“Very,” Kiriko admits, surprising herself.
Mizuki regards her quietly for some time before he announces, “You’ve been acting really weird lately.”
Kiriko makes a choking sound in her throat. “Me? What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You…you’re the one who…ugh, nevermind.”