c h a p t e r  f o u r

—SPRING HAD ALWAYS BEEN A BUSY SEASON IN INAZUMA. As nature allowed the blanket of snow to thaw and colour to adorn its visage, you'd observe a renewed hustle and bustle among the floating world ; poets rushing in to weave verses of praise dripping with romance (and saving you the trouble), blushing maidens would pass by blushing streets and people would no longer gather for warmth but for admiring descending sakura. You cannot deny the beauty of spring and the efflorescence of inspiration it brings among artists, what does remain as a speckle of curiosity is why humans so easily forget the cold — as if it had not promised to return?

Ah, but a poet could most likely answer that better than whatever misty breath of a response the un-thawed pound of flesh stomping against your ribcage would release (for, what value does a self-proclaimed painter's pessimism hold in comparison to the wistful philosophies uttered by poets, in an era where the latter art-form is all the rage?). Take the Kasen who saw the mortal world as bubbles rising from sea-foam and sealed his ruminations in scarlet. Then, another countered with the ephemera of the fragile exhibitions of nature, that the show of beauty they put on is nothing but a premonition of due destruction and therefore, to know of their place. The general public consumed the heated debate between the two Kasens with fervor but you, with your nonchalance towards these abstract philosophies merely praised their calligraphy.

You know the text-book definition of the feeling —an uneasiness or apprehension towards the future and the phrase ‘stomach dropping’ (foolish, how does such an organ drop?) —but you cannot bring yourself to care much despite having grown up in the Grand Narukami Shrine and being warned by Kitsune Saiguu, Suikou even so! Yet upon being met with your unyielding modern views for the umpteenth time, they'd only ruffle your tied hair and remind you just not to ignore the apprehensiveness when, if ever, it was to make itself known.

Or perhaps, the utter chaos of the main city would bring a premonition of your early passing — now this, you wouldn't doubt.

It's not everyday you find yourself weaving through the populace and ignoring the loud beckoning of merchants and vendors but alas, when the Kitsune Saiguu intends to run an errand and a painter is deprived of ink to finish their piece, it calls for extra socializing in other words.

Lucky for you, at this time of the year, the busyness of the main city is not centered around economical purposes solely ; the little Kabuki dance (1) taking place a little far for example. You halt in your steps along some people to watch, one hand instinctively slipping in one of the cuts on your hakama while the other holds onto the wicker basket.

Two Samurais? My, if I hadn't known better, I would've mistaken them for actual males instead of females dressed in Samurai's clothing. Though, doesn't the makeup seem a little too realistic?

Your thought passed short-lived as they drew their katanas and lunged at each other in full force. Despite the very few opportunities you've had to watch a Kabuki performance first-hand (courtesy of the rarity of you stepping outside the shrine and of such a performance taking place at the same time), there's a wonder towards the tropes —or, of what they say of them being run by women entirely— that reminds you of the days where you would receive new and much more expensive than the last obi almost everyday and the similarity between the day and night circumstances? The softening of [e/c] and the stretch of the corner of your lips would reply when either was presented.

(But it's as ephemeral as the thunder at your archon's command as those days are nothing but bubbles of memories born of a little girl's ignorance and a visionary mistake of a maiden too hypnotized by a dance she knew she couldn't partake in herself, terminated, by their fragility.)

A number of things transpired in the upcoming moments and mid “dance” did you realize from the comments of passing locals that they were, in fact, not Kabuki Dancers instead, actual samurais who were rather ‘famous’ recently for being rivals in the pining of the heart of a rather popular lady. Your mild inner fluster for both the misinterpretation and your poor knowledge on the local gossip passed short-lived in the blurs of the two swordsmen's movements although. The distance may have muted what words were being exchanged but the defects, clangs of metal against metal and the energy passed through were very well heard and seen.

Then, dawned upon you the cloud of disappointment for you were but a naive customer in the restaurant of life, tricked, but not with a different order (no no, that'd be too blatant for the prankster chef) rather with a dish that merely resembled yours, only revealing it's true taste halfway and you, the pitiful customer having no one to blame other than yourself.

A building pain from your tight hold onto the wicker basket's handle reminded you the purpose of your visit. Loosening your grip, you began to your objective but a loud cry made you turn towards the commotion once more. Your [e/c] eyes lingered on the scene for one last moment ; one of the Samurais charged with an unexpected force, the other seemed to have been thrown off-guard. The impact of steel against steel penetrated the suspense and when everyone —along with yours— attention left the two swords thrown mid air was this pitiful play concluded : victory for none.

You pivoted from the dampened atmosphere, geta clicking against the stoned path and with no opinion on the cruel gastronomy (or is it a waltz? both?) of life. After some more of click clacks of your geta accompanying you, you noticed the stationary shop at one quaint corner of the main city.

You knocked on the shoji door thrice before sliding it open. While leaving your shoes by the entrance, you noticed new leaves beginning to adorn the branches of the momiji tree and made a mental note to make a sketch later. The scent of incense is as familiar as the person seated on one side of the long chabudai, inspecting the bristles of a calligraphy brush by a single glass and the skin between his thin, whitened brows creasing further in concentration.

“Ah, miko-san! Long time no see, have a seat, have a seat.”

You bow in greeting to the owner of the shop, Kaito Hiroshi and situate yourself on one of the cushions before him as he but laughs seeing your no-crack composure still in tact.

“Here for Kitsune Saiguu's order, I presume? Just a minute, Haru boy! Bring the suzuri-bako from the northern shelf, would you?”

Your shoulders loosen at the elder's words, Kaito Hiroshi held skill and a reputation for it with his name though paired with an energetic attitude, which would've otherwise earned your distance had it not been for him being quick to read the room and spare you of unnecessary small talk. For this, this stationary shop earned your positive review along with many of Narukami.

“Oh, Kaito-san, I'm also in need of ink-sticks, the same kind as last, please.” you pull out a small pouch of mora from your wicker basket and place it on an empty space among the items scattered around the chabudai just as the owner's son, Kaito Haru, enters the room from the inner quarters of the shop.

That was quick..

“Yes, right away,” the elder stands up from his seat (you suspect after how many hours knowing his dedication to work) and leaves to one of the shelves of the shop.

You don't even realize you were following the owner's movement until his son places the suzuri-bako before you. As he is rising from his position, his amber orbs make contact with your [e/c] for an awkward three seconds before being broken by you. Your new-found interest in the polished flooring of the stationary shop does little to subdue the boy's unyielding stare on your side profile and you heave a sigh of relief once he steps away completely.

The owner's son was a year older than you and albeit having a name donning spring, had eyes that sparkled with the warmth of summer and had an ambition to take over the family business eventually. Apart from this, you knew nothing else about him (two of said information came directly from Kaito Hiroshi) other than your recent notice of him finding interest in your countenance and thus, sparing a glance or two every time you do visit.

That's not to say you enjoy being scrutinized but you cannot gather enough courage to confront the boy up-front, in fear of ; 1. making an embarrassment of yourself and Kaito Haru because 2. his father would no doubt find amusement in teasing the both of you. So you do what you do best upon over-analyzing the social cues (most often failing to come to a reasonable conclusion) and ignore.

“Here it is,” the elder male places the ink-sticks beside the suzuri-bako and you shift your gaze from the floor to inspect them, realizing you'd completely forgotten about the latter item.

You don't advance towards the suzuri-bako yet, taking the ink-sticks and placing them in your wicker basket instead, “You see Kaito-san, I was working on this piece for a friend however, just as I was about to write my signature, I ran out of ink.”

The aforementioned male catches a glimpse of papyrus from your basket and adjusts his monocle, “Hmm, I see. But you ought to be more careful miko-san. Times are tricky for artists nowadays.”

Noticing your perplexed halt in actions, he continues, “There was a recent rumor of a painter's work being plagiarized, all because of the fact that he had been careless in signing and stamping his work.”

Hmm.. didn't Suikou say something along those lines, too?

“The worst part is that whoever plagiarized the work somehow turned it on the original painter before her excellency, nonetheless.” the amber eyed male chimed suddenly from the corner of the room, meeting your gaze.

“And what was her excellency's verdict?”

“The poor painter was exiled.” his father concluded with a sigh.

“Exiled? Did the man get no chance to defend himself?” your voice gave away the faintest disbelief.

“It was a meticulously crafted scheme, apparently. Even the tiniest evidence had been wiped and testimonies were bribed. Besides, who are we, to object to her excellency's judgement?” the younger male replies, holding your gaze.

And allowing an innocent citizen to die unfairly again...?

“Ah, but most of the details come from people's mouth thus putting a question mark to their credibility. The point I was trying to make was that, you should exercise caution regardless. You're a good child, I wouldn't want for you to face anything like that.”

The shop owner tucks away the pouch of mora in his sleeve and his jolly attitude returns, “Oh, what do you think of the suzuri-bako? Haru here made it himself! Think it'll impress the Guuji?”

You turn towards the item in question, giving it your full attention this time and keeping the conversation tucked away for later musing. Medium in size, a white cloth stitched with sakura patterned embroidery was neatly draped over the suzuri-bako, some of the black lacquer and golden stripes peaking out from the corners — suffice to say, it must've cost quite the fortune from Kitsune Saiguu. What you wondered was what probed her to go this far as she already possessed one such suzuri-bako ; was it a gift? If then, for who? Or perhaps, she just wanted something pretty to stare at, both seemed plausible to you.

But the exhibition of fine craftsmanship was undeniable and as an appreciator or all kinds of arts a ghost of a smile tugged along your lips, “Is that so? Spectacular work, Kaito-san .”

You're not given the opportunity to see either of the Kaitos' expressions as the reminder of your visit to the Tenshukaku presents along a loud sliding sound and multiple footsteps. Sensing more presence and wanting nothing to do with them, you secure the suzuri-bako in your woven basket and stand up to bow.

You're not sure what exactly happened next ; one moment you catch a glimpse of the Kaitos' visage painted in panic as the younger male extends a weak hand to reach out to you and the next your wicker basket barely hangs from your grip just as you hang from someone else's.

“I said to get outta my way, wench.”

You blink once, the world stops spinning ; you blink twice and the ringing in your ears are replaced by gasps (you cannot decide of who), you blink another time and the warmth on your waist and nape has you swivel backwards to two pools of melted momiji in full bloom, the serenity reflected among them a circus parallel to the startle forcefully splashed in your [e/c].

Then, a flinch travels through your body recognizing this out-of-place display of autumn to be a person, a man moreover. The strange warmth leaves you upon separation and you clutch your wicker basket tighter.

The individual, however, merely smiles and the splash of red on his attire stands out a little too much along your hakama among the bleak pigments of the stationary shop.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” you hear the close yet far whisper of autumn.

It takes a moment for you to find your voice and another to plaster the fleeting crack on your composure caused by the abrupt push, “No, thanks to you.” you bow towards the man who saved you from a disgraceful fall to further express your gratitude. But the moment is yet again tarnished by the group of intruders.

“—HEY. Are ya two done yet? Ugh, I don't even wanna know, jus' hand over the mora and things won't get ugly.” unlike the booming echo from last time, you hear rocks scrap against each other which, has you fully turn towards the source of the noise. An eyebrow raises in blank appraisal, three men, all clad in straw hats and some form of shady uniform, one who looked more like you drew eyes and hands on the bamboos you were painting earlier (and likely the one who commented), the second a complete opposite ; round belly maintained with care, judging by the four bananas on his hand (oh, no wonder they have to resort to day-light robbery— their rations probably don't even last a day!) and lastly, a bulky fellow with funky eyebrows (likely the leader judging by his heavy stare) who, you suspect was the one having pushed you.

You would've loved to dissect the men's appearance internally longer had it not been for the man garbed in crimson stepping in front of you. You felt the wind pick up in the store although no rustle of cloth or jingles from the wind chimes were heard, you just know it had. You glanced sideways to the Kaitos, only the son having his body ready in a tense position while the father stayed rooted in his seat, comically unbothered.

“D-din't ya hear what I said, old man?! Hand over the m-mora!” the lanky guy from earlier threatens (tries to) again in that high pitched tone, you surmise that he's probably the talker among the gang. You glance up to the tuft of pearl-white locks in front of you and notice some form of a staredown between this scarlet-clad individual and the bulky man.

“You've been exceptionally rude towards not only this establishment but also the citizens. But seeing that you've attempted a robbery at broad daylight as guards from the Shogunate patrol every corner nonetheless, you must be amateurs I fear.”

If this had been any other situation, you would've voluntarily let go of your practiced ataraxia and allowed the chuckles bubbling in your throat to escape — you have a valid reason to consider so for, what are the chances of seeing a towering, borderline intimidating gang leader sweat visibly by the musings (they might as be from how softly the words are uttered)
of a man half his size again?

“So, I'll let you off this time if you do not try anything and leave on the count of three. Ah, after you apologize to this miko-san, of course.”

The man steps away, leaving you face to face with the three. You merely look to the floor, disinterested in whatever half-hearted ‘sorry’ they'd throw at you. The bamboo figured guy half-whispers to the ‘boss’ if he'd actually do it, the guy seems to be in a mental debate with himself ; not moving a muscle but at the same time eyes darting everywhere and finally settling on the short male's hand resting on the hilt of his sword. This time, the picked up flow of the spring breeze is apparent from the rustles of clothes. Your gaze shifts to the... strange man again to see a soft glow of teal on his back, the light so faint you're sure you wouldn't have caught it had it not been for the close proximity. You squint and upon recognizing the item, [e/c] orbs widen.

A vision holder?

“—After all, you wouldn't want things to get ugly, no?” the man smiles, smiles as if this was just a casual conversation, smiles as if he had everything under control and glancing towards Kaito Hiroshi again to find him resuming his examination of the calligraphy brush like nothing, you think this stranger might just have.

The boss bends slightly, his two goons mirroring your surprise at first joined him next anyway (you couldn't help but question if they could be any more vacuous) and just as quickly they rose, you think the action lasted two seconds but the fact that it happened was enough a feat. You kept your lips sealed in a straight line as they began to leave, the strange man doesn't even have to count to three.

“D-don't think this is over!!” comes the holler of you-know-who. You let an exasperated sigh escape your lips along with Kaito Haru, noticing the unified action you both swivel your gazes towards the others' and then back to the opposite — no doubt adding another awkward moment of the day. Just as you can cringe upon it, your eyes lock again with the dark ones of the bulky gang leader's who seemed to have thrown you one last glance mixed with everything unpleasant before disappearing at last.

Huh, he did not even close the door, rude.

“Akahito-sama,”

The voice of the shop owner who had been quiet the whole time saves another curtain of awkward silence from wrapping itself around the ambience, the man from before passes by you to greet the elder formally. You notice the splash of momiji leaves on his dark hakama, the ends of his scarf trailing behind him and— wait.

Did Kaito-san address him as Akahito-sama???

The sleeve of your white kosode is immediately brought up to your lips to hold back a loud gasp. To think the person who'd saved and even made those thugs show respect to an ordinary citizen such as you, practically stopped something unsightly from happening and who you've been addressing as a strange man was none other than the distinguished Kasen of her excellency, Akahito.

I'm not getting a break today, am I...

“Greetings, Kaito-san. I do apologize for the commotion.”

“Oh don't you dare, you saved me a headache!”

“Father??” turns out the owner's son was just as confused as you.

With a boastful laugh the elder begins, “I saw dear old Akahito sama enter the shop after those thugs and knew I could have a rest, too much adrenaline isn't good for the old heart, you know.”

The manner in which they addressed each other aside, they seemed to be well acquainted. The man who you now knew as none-other-than-the Akahito bashfully laughs in response to Kaito Hiroshi's words.

“But I must say, you were fast in catching dear miko-san here. I wouldn't know what Kitsune Saiguu would've done to me had something happened to her.” que another signature laugh.

Oh right, I wonder if his anemo vision has something to do with it..

Rather than sincere gratitude with which you could curtsy again, an intruding flashback to the Kasen's warm hand on your waist, breath fanning against the small exposed skin of your nape and finally those deep red eyes presents itself on a silver-platter. You deem it unappealing and reject it's unwanted presence, gathering the last scraps of dignity (albeit, escaping your tight rule, tinges of vermilion smear along your ears like a rebel begging to differ).

“For that, please accept my sincerest gratitude again. If there is anything I can do to properly thank you—”

“No no no, please rise, miko-san. That was just the appropriate thing to do.”

You straighten yourself but before further words could be exchanged the sun's vibrant rays peaking through the windows remind you of your second objective, you decide not to prolong things further though you're sure if you told this encounter to anyone else they'd dejectedly slap their forehead and question dramatically why you, let's say, didn't ask for the Kasen's signature or or— ask for a spoiler about his upcoming poem? But you prioritize a friend's duty first and besides, it's not like you have any use of such information to begin with.

“If you'd excuse me then, I have some place to be.”

“Wait,”

You're not even given the chance to shift your footing as the Kasen stands before you again, taking something from his sleeve and holding a look that borderline pleaded.

“Would you hold onto these for me, please?”

“Sure...?” you reply, not sounding sure at all.

“Just keep them with you for this journey, you can throw them away later if you want.”

The Kasen pushes the items in your wicker basket gently, making sure they don't scrape the suzuri-bako. In the action, he catches a glimpse of painted papyrus which earns his brief intrigue though he chooses not to act on it. You don't put up a resistance much to his relief, your social reserves on the verge of vacancy.

“Well then, it was pleasant to meet you, Akahito-sama.” you do one final bow.

He returns respectfully, “Likewise. Until we meet again, miko-san.”

After your silhouette exits the men's fields of vision, Haru speaks, or more like chides his father, earning the poet's attention.

“You did not have to lie to her about that, father.”

“About what, son?”

“About the suzuri-bako in case your memory fails you, father. You're well aware I'm only adept in brush making.”

“Oh, what do you know, young man? I lied for your own benefit, didn't you see that she smiled? You were blushing like a maiden last I checked!”

“Ugh, this'll bite back at us...” the amber eyed male groans with a hand to his face, though makes no effort to deny his father's claims as said male crackles in victory.

“Miko-san is a gem hidden among us common rubble. Though it's just that...” he trails of unsure of his word choice.

“Just what?”

Kaito Hiroshi extends his arm to adjust his monocle, a single fraying sunbeam penetrated from the nearby window reflects and refracts in the glass, the escaping light shifts the scenery and shines down onto you in harsher rays ; surrounded by deserted forestry and three personifications of bold cowardice.

“Hey.”

A sigh threatens to slip past your lips but you force it to stay dormant, already being put in a perilous enough position, cornered with no sign of life within eyesight ; what great luck.

“Well, she's just a little detached from the world sometimes, not in a bad way of course. That's not really an issue though, I just don't understand why Kitsune Saiguu is so protective of her.”

They bare their unevenly cut teeth at you, a mimicry of some hungry beast to stamp their footing as the predator and leaving you, the prey. You know better though, for that manly visage is merely a mask to hide the child within.

“Anyway, so much took place that I forgot to ask you how I might help you, Akahito-sama.”

“Ah, just a new ink-pad, Kaito-san. If it wouldn't be a trouble.”

“Not at all, the same scarlet one I presume? You know what, I'll give you a discount, too!”

The shop owner resumes his work, no dent present in his jolly attitude while his son retreats to the inner chambers of the stationary shop and Akahito is finally given the time to process everything that'd transpired. Of the shrine maiden with remarkable etiquette he observed, though which may just be a distraction from the weight her [e/c] eyes carried, one many miss. He'd think back to this encounter and question if this was the start of a tragedy he'd later (exactly how later? his memory blurs) guiltily relish in or, was it just his failure —voluntary? involuntary?— to decipher the presaging winds?

For now although, he'd simply wish the spring breeze to be on your favour.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

(1) "Kabuki (歌舞伎, かぶき) is a classical form of Japanese dance drama. Kabuki theatre is known for its heavily-stylised performances, the often-glamorous costumes worn by performers, and for the elaborate kumadori makeup worn by some of its performers. Kabuki is thought to have originated in the early Edo period when founder Izumo no Okuni formed an all female group who performed dances and light sketches."

For anyone wondering, 'suzuri-bako' is a type of Japanese writing box, traditionally made of lacquered wood.

happiest new year to everyone<3

awh poor you, don't worry though i'll show you a real kabuki performance soon >:

can you guess who is next?:)