ETERNAL SUMMER
⸻   あなたの手で神性を獲得するために

( 2011 )

     After one thousand prolonged years of self-imposed banishment, the black gates of the Kurosawa clan reopen to the world on the thirty-first day of October, two thousand and eleven. An exodus of prominent clan members and household staff embark from the sacred lands of Kyoto's Mount Hiei to Kamigyō-ku within the early hours of dawn. In the span of that time, the entire sorcerers' community including curse users alike find themselves in a furore. The news spreads like wildfire amidst the astonished masses, setting mouths agape and eyes widening in awe. It is a day that marks the most paramount occasion of their age since the venerated birth of both their honoured clan leaders.

The union between the Gojo and Kurosawa families.

All eyes turn towards the shrine of Kitano-Tenmangu, dedicated to the groom's ancient forefather Sugawara no Michizane. The winter plum blossoms earlier than their due this year as if the patron deity himself is pleased with the turn of events. A mist of pink and white hangs above the grounds, the floral scent of its honeyed fragrance permeating the brisk air. As beautiful and poignant as the poetry he penned in the moments of his callous exile; for all things to return to where they're supposed to be.

Sayuri stares at her reflection in the mirror as her mother pins her hair in an elaborate nihongami decorated with scarlet camellias. The intricately embroidered shiromuku flows over her figure in a silky cascade of snow-white purity. With her heart fluttering in the enclosure of her ribs, hands wringing together with remorseful contrition. She can not fathom her own capricious nature, that her determination is so malleable and fragile. With one word alone, one look from his eyes, and she willingly falls to her knees in acceptance of his whims.

( Though was it not the same for him? )

Shoko grabs hold of her fidgeting hands, warm brown eyes penetrating the transparent veneer of her soul. As if to say, You deserve this and everything else. Sayuri grasps her slim fingers in return, offering an almost imperceptible smile of gratitude. After Satoru brought her back from the brink of self-destruction, Sayuri spent countless nights spilling all her grim secrets and irrepressible regrets to the bottom of innumerable sake cups in Shoko's confidence. She turns back to the mirror, feeling like a trickster in her own skin. That at any moment the floor will be pulled from under her feet and she'll find herself back within the prison realm where she belongs. Was she truly deserving of this?

Homura enters the dressing room after a knock, pausing by the doorway as he takes in her pristine garments and the inexorable reality that is unfolding before them. In truth this is all thanks to him, he was the one who led Satoru into their sacred shrine and laid waste to the protective barriers that can only be broken by their inherited techniques. Her own flesh and blood conspiring to intervene with her ill-conceived affairs but she can never fault him for it. Homura has always protected her since the day she was born, guarding her from her own disregard for life and reason.

"Are you ready?" he finally asks, voice piercing the numbing silence. "The ceremony can begin once you are."

Sayuri inhales deeply in a rush of nervous exhilaration before nodding to his reflection. He leaves to inform the shrine priestesses and Shoko helps secure the wataboshi veil over her head with an encouraging grin. "I always knew this day would come," she says. "Now let's get you married to that good-for-nothing idiot!"

Sayuri gives a feeble chuckle as she's pulled to her feet and tucks her guardian kaiken into her obi. The bridal kimono is thick and heavy, as cumbersome as the self-reproach she holds within her heart. She's carefully led towards the foyer of the extension building, descending the glossy wooden stairs until she's brought to a pause. With a throbbing heart, she slowly lifts her eyes from the black hakama to the haori stitched in five layers with the crest of the Gojo clan. All the oxygen escapes her lungs in a painful rush, nails biting into her palms underneath the sleeves of her kimono.

She knows that Satoru is not of this world, that he walks on clouds above the rolling hills of this viridescent earth. No matter how many times—be it a thousand or a million—that she lays eyes on him, it still steals all the breath away from her. He is ethereal and stunning in every best way possible, an Elysian painting where she has memorised every stroke in admiration of his beauty. She thinks of how lucky she is to know him, to be able to touch him so intimately that she feels him within every particle of her soul that intertwines with his.

Satoru lifts a hand to gently stroke her cheek with an affectionate smile, crystal blue eyes softening to the hue of empyreal skies. "You're beautiful," he whispers and she takes a shuddering breath as tears start to prick her eyes. Feeling as if she's falling unto a bed of tulips and irises, undying love and bliss in the familiar adoration of his touch. She can't help but smile back, her enraptured heart elating at the sight of his handsome face. Absolution on his divine fingertips, exoneration in his tender gaze.

And she remembers all the moments she spent memorizing the verses written on his skin, where she found religion in the crevices of his body. How she inhaled the stardust and drank the sun from the chalice of his lips. The unmaking of her soul as he caressed her with hands of benediction, sanctifying the immoral sins of her passion. Paradise in the entwinement of their hearts under the pale moonlight, the ache of golden helianthus dreams burning in the night.

As if the events of the last month have never happened, as if she had not almost wrought devastation onto both their souls. If their intricately woven fates cast any shadow of a doubt in his mind, she can not see it. There is no blame in his eyes, no want for accountability in her reckless inclinations for martyrdom. Just pure, unadulterated and incandescent bliss. She wants to reach out to capture the hallowed grace in his eyes and the shining resplendence of his silvern hair. The ground he walks and the air over his head, everything he touches and every word he utters. All of it, she loves everything about him and his entirety.

There is nothing else she wants more than this, with every atom of her fleeting soul. With his name hanging on the tip of her tongue, they are interrupted by her brother clearing his throat. She directs her attention to Homura at the foot of the stairs as he watches them with narrowed eyes. "Everyone is waiting for the both of you," he states with irritation.

Satoru grins shamelessly as his hand drops back to his side and Sayuri can not help the flitting laughter bubbling on her lips. Continuing their descent and slipping their zori sandals on, the procession begins with the shrill and wafting melody of ancient flute notes. Guided towards the altar and passing over the tightly knotted straw rope of the entrance. Her heart reverberates in her chest as the priest begins the purification ritual to set the stage for their union before the eyes of the tiresome gods.

She wonders if Michizane Sugawara is privy to it all, that he witnessed their tribulations and is now rewarding them for all their hardships. The wild plum petals fall in a whirl of perseverance and thriving beauty, a testament to conquered adversities and the transient nature of this world. The blossoming hope of a new future in the coming spring, the dawning fulfilment of their yearning dreams.

They drink deep from the sake cups proffered to them, the taste of heaven, earth and humankind coating her tongue with its tart sweetness. Binding them in an irrevocable vow of love and devotion, etching their defiance of fate into the skies and stars. With gentle hands slipping their wedding bands onto one another's fingers, Satoru looks at her as if he now finally knows peace and she trembles under his eternal gaze of reverence. As tears of infinite joy spill over her cheeks and she feels his soft caress against her skin. She silently begs and prays that she will never wake from this moment, that the gods are satisfied and will never tear him away from her again.

"I love you, Kurosawa Sayuri," he whispers before lifting his lips in a teasing smirk, "Or should I say, Gojo Sayuri."

She gives a breathless chuckle as she whispers back, "I love you too, in every life infinitely."

He smiles like the radiant sun, ethereal and glorious and undying. How she aches to kiss him, to show the gods that nothing can ever come between them again.

     Champagne flutes clink loudly over congratulatory proclamations and effervescent laughter fills the banquet hall under the golden glow of chandelier lights. Large bouquets of blushing peonies and vivid blue roses decorate all corners of the room. From the shining chinaware to the glimmering diamonds, there's glamour and elegance surrounding her in every direction to dizzying heights. She thinks she's been spoiled rotten by Satoru, knowing that he's prepared all this just for her.

Sayuri beams with happiness as she greets old and new faces alike, feeling as if she's strayed into the nirvana of a floating world. Ukiyo; where she lives only in the moment of this transient life. With his warm hand clasping hers, she walks the room like a moving centrepiece within an exhibition. She's traded her traditional shiromuku for a beautiful white gown with swanlike details that trail along the velveted floor. The auspicious symbolism is not lost on her; loyalty and eternal love are the two creeds of her soul. It's so fitting that she wants to bless the woman who chose it for her.

Gojo Tomoe is amongst the first to welcome Sayuri with open arms, eyes sparkling with delight upon the first meeting between their families. She now knows where Satoru gets his upbeat personality from and his mother is a lark whose melody ushers in the rising dawn. Sayuri remembers being riddled with anxiety that afternoon when they arrive at the decadently luxurious hotel for lunch. If the Gojos plan to intimidate her with their wealth and prestige, this is perhaps the best way to do so. Her family by no means come from humble beginnings but isolation has blindsided them to such indulgent splendour.

Though to Sayuri's utter surprise ( no matter how many times Satoru has assured her beforehand ), Tomoe takes her hand and accepts her wholeheartedly into the family without so much as a question. She immediately starts to discuss wedding preparations with her mother who has always been the stricter of her parents. Kurosawa Asami only concerns herself with the traditions and customs, obeying them as if they're written laws passed down from the gods themselves. Though her father would have broken out the sake if he was still around, imparting blessings and honours like he has every god-given right to. In his place instead is Homura who eyes Satoru with such distaste that it's actually amusing. ( "So where's your Maserati, Gojo? Let me drive it." )

But it is Gojo Yoshimori who sits in cordial silence for the most part that finally quells every anxious nerve in her body. He turns to Satoru with an expression that can only be described as relief and says, "Your grandfather would have wanted to be here."

That sentence alone tells her everything that she needs to know. But the way Satoru smiles when he hears it sends her heart fluttering in her chest, wondering what can be the reason behind such a poignant gaze as he looks at her. As if he has seen it all before on the back side of an old VHS tape, as if he knows how their lives are meant to play out. That he's written the script and memorised it by heart. She wants to know what his enlightened eyes have beheld within the depths of those warm ocean currents, whether he sees the elusive future that has always been out of their reach until now. ( Do you see it, Satoru? Do you see us keeping our promise to one another? Will we finally be able to love each other without restraint? )

Sayuri brings herself back to the present when Satoru excuses himself in search of more food. She watches him cross the room toward the five-tiered cake by the head table and smiles at his predictability. There's a brief moment of respite as she leans against an empty table, wishing that she can take her heels off for just one minute. But she's disturbed by a voice suddenly saying beside her, "The both of you are so in love, it's disgusting."

She turns to the unfamiliar woman with mild curiosity, taking in the inappropriately revealing maroon dress and short raven hair that accentuates her heart-shaped face. The woman exudes an aura of mystery and sex appeal that reminds Sayuri of vintage films that take place on dingy street corners, within hazy gambling dens in the beating neon heart of Kabukichō. There is something dangerous about her that puts Sayuri on edge, the shrewd way the woman's dark eyes regard her with reminds her of death-filled memories and jagged smiles across opposite ends of a battlefield. A shiver wants to run up her spine and she suppresses it with a frown.

"Have we met somewhere before?" Sayuri asks.

"I don't remember names or faces very well," the older woman replies and the room grows cold. She's heard something similar, a long time ago, with her heart caught in her throat and the world inverting itself on its head. Sayuri swallows uncomfortably as the woman turns to her with a smile that's filled with sickly sweet malice. "So how does it feel to be married to the strongest sorcerer in the whole of Japan? Must be nice to feel protected, any woman would kill to be in your position."

Her frown deepens as the question stirs something ugly inside her and coats the inside of her mouth with a sour aftertaste. "Who are you?" Sayuri demands.

The woman chuckles at her heated tone before finally obliging with an introduction, "Zenin Toa. Don't look so disheartened. For people like us, love can only get us so far. Well, you're still young anyway, so you'll learn in time."

Sayuri's face contorts with a dirty scowl at her overbearing smugness, wondering what gives the woman any damned right to impart such advice when she knows nothing of the things they've been through. As if they can be compared to anybody else, as if their hardships are nothing but a common inconvenience. She can feel her blood start to boil at the woman's audacity and it feels too familiar, wishing she can forget the memories that have been grudgingly dredged up.

Zenin Toa is a living testament to the true nature of the sorcerers' society, an embodiment of ruthless aspirations that serve as a warning for her ingénue mind where she holds only the stars within her eyes. It is an introduction and a lesson to what lies in store for her in a world where the strong eat the weak and ancient bloodlines prosper under the doctrine of Machiavellian powers of authority—a world that Satoru has been living in since the moment he was born. She does not like what she sees, has no interest in playing their game of thrones and status-seeking battle royales. Venom seeps into her voice as she replies, "Mind your own fucking business."

To her chagrin, Toa grins widely with amusement evident in her half-starved eyes. Her alluring beauty is only rivalled by her ruthless candour. "There might be some hope for you yet."

Before any more words can be exchanged between them, Sayuri hears a recognisable voice call out to her. She turns her head in its direction and finds herself enveloped by friendly arms. "There's my favourite kohai! Congratulations on your marriage!" Utahime exclaims delightfully with Mei Mei standing behind her. There is a knowing look in their eyes where concern spools in the quirks of their lips and Sayuri feels a flood of relief from their intervention. Toa discreetly slinks back into the crowd of guests but Utahime continues to hold onto her arm with comforting reassurance.

"I'm so happy to see the both of you again," Sayuri tells them with sincerity. It's been years since they first met each other in Kyoto Jujutsu High and both women had already been two years her senior. Though they did oftentimes cross paths for several missions.

"If I had known you were going to get married to that insolent moron then I would have persuaded you not to leave Kyoto," Utahime says jokingly.

"Don't worry, Utahime," Mei quips. "It's obvious that Satoru treats her well."

Utahime turns to Sayuri for confirmation. "He does treat you well, right?"

Sayuri laughs with a nod. "Better than I could ever wish for."

Mei looks at Sayuri as if she can see through her thoughts before starting, "So now that the Kurosawas have re-entered society after an entire millennium. What do you plan to do now? Will you stay as the clan leader alongside the Gojos?"

Sayuri tilts her head to the side and briefly contemplates the possibility. She knows that if she hands the position to Homura, he will undoubtedly do well. But there is also an implication in Mei's tone for an opportunity to seize a slice of power within the sorcerers' hierarchy. It's almost expected of her to do so, leveraging on her lineage and Special Grade status and the commendation of an established god at her side. Toa's words echo in her ears and her lips twitch in a fleeting grimace. "I haven't thought about it yet," she responds and there's a hint of disappointment in Mei's eyes.

"Don't sit on it for too long," she cautions with a smile.

Satoru finally rejoins them with a heavily laden plate of cake in hand. "Utahime, Mei Mei, yo!"

Utahime sighs at him. "You need to take better care of your wife, Satoru."

Sayuri's heart skips a beat at the title. For some reason, hearing it from Utahime makes it irrevocably official that they're indeed wed. Satoru hums questioningly in response and Mei points in the general direction of the Zenin clan. "You have a few unwelcomed guests."

"Oh," he intones. "It can't be helped, we had to send an open invitation to the other clans on such short notice. You know how these old fools—"

But before any of them can expand on the topic, he's interrupted by Homura who walks up to them with a brow raised in confusion. "Hey, someone dropped this off for the both of you," he says and hands them a paper bag from Don Quijote.

Sayuri and Satoru take a peek inside, finding a bottle of plum liquor and the latest copy of Digimon Story, along with a note that hasn't been signed off. ( "Stop drinking so much. Pokemon is still better." ) They look at each other with widened eyes and faces aghast before dropping the bag and running out of the hall.

Her heart squeezes painfully in her chest as Satoru wrenches the front door open. It's drizzling outside and a brisk wind strokes their skin. There's no one in sight, no residuals to their trained eyes, but they both know. There is no one else who will risk his own life by going into the lion's den to leave them with one last remnant of their bygone friendship. The door opens behind them and Shoko steps out, almost treading on the now sodden trail of Sayuri's gown.

With cigarette in hand, she pauses between them. "Suguru dropped by?" she asks.

"How do you know?" Satoru questions.

"He's still using the same peppermint charcoal soap," she explains with a nonchalant laugh, lighting up the cigarette and taking a puff.

"Do you have a nose of a dog or something?" he mutters sullenly. "I haven't even touched a game in months now."

Sayuri chuckles as she looks up at the grey sky, feeling a sense of nostalgic belonging within the bittersweet memories of their youth. The troublesome bonds that bind them can never be broken, no matter how much it snares and tangles at their limbs, no matter the distance in their hearts. Just like how beginnings cannot exist without an end, for every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

She smiles as she shares Shoko's cigarette. "We should all have a drink together sometimes," she says to the wind, knowing that it will carry her words to their listening friend.

AUTHOR'S NOTE. they deserve some happiness before all hell breaks loose :')