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The final stragglers of the day milled by the food stalls, chasing the scent of carefully crafted stews and sizzling meats. Families shut their doors and chased the summer warmth out open windows. The oppressive heat terrorized them more than anything that went bump in the night. The evening breeze was a blessing.
Yūgen was cursed to remain in the claustrophobic walls of his textile shop which would be better suited for a sauna than a working establishment.
Poor Akari had already sweated through her top layer, her tied-back sleeves revealing pink, feverish skin. Her eyes crinkled as a bead of sweat wept past her brow, leaving a salty sting in the corner of her eye.
Her only source of relief was the tattered uchiwa that Yūgen resolutely flapped in her direction. He remembered not long ago when humans used sheets of flat leaves to fan away the Summer's burning touch. Now he holds a piece of art in his hands. Even this ratty fan with moth holes and chipped wood showed delicate craftsmanship. And while faded, the intricate design of misty mountains and fine feathered cranes was immaculate.
For their many faults, he could not begrudge humanity's impeccable tastes.
At the front of the shop, a bony girl slouched against the doorway, taking a much-needed break after collapsing from the heat. She clutched her tea cup tightly, pressing her wrists to the cool ceramic. Perspiration dripped down the surface, pooling blissfully on her overheated skin. The open doors let in sparse winds that were a balm to her sunburnt cheeks. The weather-worn wood left splinters prickling along her back that punctured through her top that's turned into a skin-tight swamp from sweat, sticky and humid. She swiped uselessly at the mosquitos buzzing by her ear.
“I’ll die of blood loss at this rate,” She hissed waspishly, twitchy, and irritable.
“Only if you survive this heat,” Akari grumbled, greying hair limp and oily.
Her experienced hands rifled through the edges of the fabric, calloused fingers feeling for the telltale shortage of materials. She was tucked into the back with Yūgen in front of a rainbow wall of textiles, trapped with her body heat and no breeze. The bolts of fabrics were organized into cubicles that spanned the entire wall, from floor to ceiling. While the shop was a humble three jō tall and five jō long, it was still a chore to check every. Single. Cubicle.
Yūgen tugged the silks with a scratchy whoosh from their shelves to hand to Akari. She would record the ones that required restocking and Yūgen would shove them back with a wooden thump.
Whoosh.
Thump!
Whoosh.
Thump!
A rhythm so familiar that Yūgen knows he will be hearing it in his dreams. He shadowed Akari patiently, fanning the woman with his spare hand. His gaze was drawn towards the sickly figure casting shadows in his front door.
His brows furrowed at the sight of her pale skin and the wet imprints her back left upon the doorframe. He has seen the sun steal many a life during his long existence. He thinks back to bone-thin children, orphaned from wars and left to wander the streets, shivering in blistering weather with barely enough water to sweat through their fevers. The thought left a strange tightness in his throat.
"Hey, jii-san!" Haru called, peeling at the sunburnt skin of her hands, "Hurry up and pay us so that we can go home."
Bam!
The whole shelf shook as a bolt was slammed into the very back of the cubby.
Yūgen loathed the worry lines this girl has carved into him.
Not long ago, Yūgen would have naively preened from the nickname. A junior paying her proper respects to her senior's superior wisdom and experience. He underestimated the barbs that humanity weaved into their words. That battles here would be fought with more than bloody claws and sharp teeth.
He has learned to carve his words into precise weapons.
“Brat.” Yūgen hissed under his breath, shooting a chilling glare out of the corner of his eye.
“We would've been home hours ago if someone remembered to keep track of inventory." He said.
“Hey! I already said I was sorry,” Haru said, brows pinched as she turned her back toward him.
She curled into herself her knobby elbows sticking out like an urchin's spines as she rubbed her fresh mosquito bites.
"Would you like me to say it again? I'm so sorry I can't count stocks with a wave of my hand." Haru said, rolling her eyes.
She hissed painfully when her eyes rolled right into a blinding sunbeam.
Akari hid her laughter behind a cough.
Not well enough by Yūgen's flinty glare. The elder woman expertly erased any sign of mirth from her face, face serene as she brushed her fingers over the last of the silks.
"Don't work yourself up, Haru-chan," Akari said, handing another bolt to Yūgen, "You're supposed to be resting."
Akari paused momentarily, tilting her head into a fresh breeze wafting from the doorway.
She continued, "All it takes is practice. Fondling fabrics is an art, not a science."
Haru snorted, looking over her shoulder to share a small smirk with Akari.
"You think I could get as good as you, Akari?" Haru smiled, hackles cautiously lowering.
Akari's growing grin suddenly dropped, her face falling to stone.
"Never like me," Akari said soberly.
The two held their breaths, eyes gleaming and cheeks stinging from their identical grins before they broke into uproarious laughter. The stress of the day finding an outlet through their nonsense humor, their mirth feeding one another in an endless loop of cackling.
"Children, the both of you," Yūgen drawled flatly.
Haru swiped a stray tear from her eye as she finally trudged back into the shop, reluctant to leave the heavenly gust of the front door. She attempted to pull the bolt from Akari's hands, only for Akari to snatch it back with a dismissive grunt and a half-hearted smack to the hand.
"Come on, Akari-san," Haru chided, "Let me do it."
"I am perfectly capable of finishing my work." Akari huffed, not bothering to wipe the sweat dripping down her brow.
Yūgen huffed a laugh, sharp and knowing. He knew better than to part Akari from a task unfinished.
"Here," Yūgen carelessly tossed the uchiwa fan toward Haru.
"Oi!" Haru fumbled with the fan, just managing to grip the rough paper awkwardly between her fingers. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Take care of Akari while I get your pay," Yūgen said, turning with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Unless you don't want to get paid."
"No! no, no. Here I am, supporting my elder," Haru obediently fanned Akari, her enthusiastic flaps stirring Akari's baby hairs.
"Not so hard, Haru-chan. I'll get teary-eyed," Akari sighed.
Yūgen returned shortly with two small satchels. One that was as red as a tsubaki bloom, simple and vibrant, the other white with embroidered fuji flowers. Both clinked musically with coins.
"Here you go, brat," Yūgen said, holding the embroidered bag by its drawstrings.
Haru eagerly accepted the fuji pouch with a respectful two-hand grip, bowing absentmindedly.
"Thank you, jii-san!" She teased.
Yūgen whipped his hand out to steal the pouch back, growling when Haru nimbly dodged his hands. She danced out of his reach, yelping playfully as she fled behind Akari.
"Watch your words, brat. Or I'll take it out of your pay." Yūgen wagged a finger at her, handing the vermillion bag to Akari.
"Manners, Haru-chan," Akari chided, weighing her pay in the palm of her wrinkled hand.
She herded Haru out the door, Yūgen trailing behind to see them off.
"After all," Akari's eyes sparkled playfully. "We should respect our elders."
Haru snorted loudly before she slapped her hands over her mouth. She did her best to hide her berry-red face behind the cage of her fingers. Yūgen took pity on her and decided not to comment on it.
"You're both fired," Yūgen proclaimed.
"We'll see you in the morning, Yūgen-san," Akari said nonplussed with a bow.
It was not the first, nor the last, time that Yūgen has threatened to terminate her employment. She slid her work shoes under the safety of the porch, grumbling when her back decided to creak ominously.
Haru followed suit, securing her waraji with a tap against the ground. She looked anxiously between the fading form of Akari and Yūgen, shuffling nervously in front of the shop.
"Something I can do for you?" Yūgen asked, tapping his finger impatiently.
Haru cleared her throat, straightening her spine before dipping into a painfully formal bow.
"I'm sorry." She said.
Yugen eyes widened. It was frighteningly out of character for his bratty apprentice to be so polite. Maybe the heat did more damage than he feared.
"For today," Haru mumbled.
She stayed perfectly still like a child awaiting a parent's scolding.
Ah. Yūgen sighed, combing his damp fringe out of his face tiredly.
It was not long ago when this strong-willed young woman was a starving child sneaking into his storage room to hide from the winter cold. It was too easy to forget that his capable student, as strong and independent as she may claim, was still horribly young. But already, he dreads the changes he has seen in her. When did that tiny head that tipped back to stare adoringly at him suddenly meet his gaze daringly? When did her face start creasing with laugh lines that will soon carve themselves permanently onto her face? He too often forgot that this infuriating woman was the same child that clutched his leg with an iron grip.
He swiped the clay jug tied to his waist. He slid down from the porch to stand face-to-face with his ward. He had to gently guide her out of her bow, meeting her startled gaze with a smile. He took her limp hand in his, clasping his fingers around her's with the clay jar under two pairs of hands.
He has not always given Haru the kindness that she deserved. It is something he will need to remedy.
"Go home, Haru-chan. Rest up. You have a busy day tomorrow," Yūgen said.
There is nothing to forgive.
He visibly saw the tension deflate from her, leaving her body loose and her posture sagging dramatically. She recovered quickly, her smile crooked and awkward.
"Have a good night," Haru cleared her throat, turning with quick steps. "Jii-san."
"Oi!" Yūgen barked.
He waited until she caught up with the distant form of Akari - the old woman making good time despite her pace - before heading inside.
He slammed the sliding door shut, heaving a bone-deep sigh that melted the tension from his shoulders. He'll have to check in on her tomorrow to see how she fares after a night's rest. Hopefully, by then she will have recovered from her heat exhaustion.
He relished in his exhaustion, his muscles worn and loose under tawny flesh. His limbs protested as he locked his doors and shut his windows. The last golden beams of sunlight streamed through the seams of wood, illuminating particles of dust floating through the air.
There was magic in the stillness. It floated through the room and sparked against his tongue like embers.
Ding!
A broom jumped to life with the chime of a bell, bristles rustling as it swept away the day’s dust and debris. Misplaced products hobbled back to their spots, their ceramic bottoms scraping and clattering across the wooden floor. Crooked signs straightened themselves with a wooden shuffle.
Yūgen ducked and dodged the sentient appliances with practiced ease, gently combing his hair free from his ponytail, he nearly groaned at the bliss of the insistent tension loosening its clawed grip on his scalp. He crossed the threshold between the shop and home. A long, winding hallway led to an expansive backroom that would better fit the Emeperor's palace rather than a modest textile backroom.
Candles bloomed into life, lighting the way down an endless hallway. Yūgen's pupils constricted into pin needles when the light pierced his eyes, only to dilate into fathomless voids in the first shadows. The sweat on his brows evaporated off his skin, curling against the ceiling in steamy wisps. Padding down the hallway, the pungent odor of crushed herbs assaulted his senses. He inhaled delicately, eyes fluttering shut. The musk of a beast wafted through the air, getting stronger as he got closer to his quarters. His lips curled into a too-large grin that bared teeth that didn't quite fit inside his mouth. Slow. Predatory.
His old friend has come for a visit.
Hastening his pace, he noted the smoke streaming through the seam of the door. The toxic fumes rose and lingered in a thick layer trapped by the walls. He sighed, rolling his eyes as he clicked his claws together. Prepared for intoxicated melodramatics, the doors whipped themselves open at his approach. He immediately met the narrowed gaze of his friend.
And what a sorry sight he made.
Exhaustion weighed down Kusuriuri like a ball and chain, his limbs weaved through the fine pelts and furs that made up Yūgen's bed. He could only manage to lift his arm to keep the steadily burning pipe pressed close to his tattooed lips.
Yūgen dare not break eye contact. It was his bed that was being invaded. A pregnant pause froze the room, with neither figure moving a muscle. It wasn't until Kusuriuri blinked - slowly, so slowly it looked like he would drift off to sleep - that Yūgen looked away to investigate the room.
Kusuriuri's pack rested under the sill of the window - his most likely entry point - with drawers freshly rifled through. On the bottom-most drawer, a beautifully ornate scale balanced primly on the rim. Its bells jingled merrily as it tipped into a respectable bow. Yūgen paid no heed to the tool's greetings, preferring to rifle through the drawers' contents. Tenbin-san wilted in dejection before sullenly hopping back into its compartment.
Yūgen grazed a hand on the stores of medicinal herbs. He could only assume his friend has concocted an unholy mixture for his pipe. Peeking from the corner of his eye, Yūgen noted how Kusuriuri’s obnoxiously colorful robes barely hung on to his frame, limp and uncared for. Kusuriuri only breathed when the pipe touched his tattooed lips as if the smoke was the only thing keeping him alive.
With his friend in such a fragile state, Yūgen knew he should approach him with utmost grace and kindness.
“Why are you stinking up my room with that trash?” Yūgen grimaced, leaning his weight against the window sill.
Kindness was for those that didn't hog the bed.
Yūgen continued, “If you must imbibe, at least open a window.”
The sound of the hyōshigi resounded throughout the room with a sharp clack clack.
Yūgen’s human guise blinked out of existence. His hair stretched down.
Down.
Down.
Dragging behind him in two loose braids, its weight pulled pleasantly at his scalp. Bells woven into the hair with ribbons jostled with each step, his every movement marked with their delicate chime. The soft thump of feet is overtaken by the click of claws against the hardwood. Two, dark tails slithered out from the hem of his outer robe, smacking the ground irritably as they twined through the air.
He climbed onto the makeshift bed, palms skimming possessively over the pelts before he found his prized kyuso pelt. He fluffed and flattened the pelt until he has covered it with his scent. With some of his property reclaimed, Yūgen could now address his guest.
Kusuriuri did not protest when Yūgen pulled his limp figure into his lap. Yūgen draped his arms around his friend with a long-developed familiarity. Kusuriuri returned the embrace lazily, hooking his chin over Yūgen's shoulders. Yūgen trailed a finger to the back of his head, unraveling the knot holding the purple bandana together. The rough fabric whispered as it slid from the medicine seller’s hair. Yūgen combed the stray hairs back, lulling his friend to rest his head upon his lap.
Kusuriuri sighed through his nose, releasing one last breath of smoke before offering it to his host. Yūgen took it gratefully, running his fingers through Kusuriuri’s hair. There they stayed, basking in the easy silence of companionship. Yūgen reclined against the wall, lips pursed around the lip of the pipe as hot embers danced past his tongue and down his throat, burning sweetly in his lungs. He held it for a time, focusing on the smooth glide of his fingers through muted curls.
He held it for one.
Two.
Three minutes.
The fumes dripped like oil from his parted lips, easing what tension remained from the day. He cannot refute his friend's choice of intoxicant.
“Old friend,” Yūgen said, each word marked with a wispy puff, “Tell me a story.”
The medicine seller remained silent, eyes out of focus and hazy. Yūgen waited patiently, taking another euphoric breath as Kusuriuri gathered his words.
“Feelings and memories,” Kusuriuri murmured. “They only exist within her heart.”
Fingers threading through loose flaxen curls, Yūgen listened.
“Though we may pass the same time, and see the same sights,” Kusuriuri continued, each word slow and carefully chosen. “What we hold within our hearts can never be the same. My face, my voice. The image of me, which exists only within her. I lost myself.”
“Ah,” Yūgen sighed.
The young woman, beautiful beyond imagining, who the fox found treading in daydreams to escape her body's suffering. Her bloodthirst and loneliness reflected the beast in the mirror.
Kusuriuri's Other Self.
The Other Self thought her a kindred spirit; a fellow predator to be his equal. But humans were no beasts to be lost to their primal instincts. Yūgen paused in his combing, his thoughts drifting dangerously. While he knew the attachment was strong, any relationship created by the beast would naturally be short-lived. He suspected the pair would love as beasts do. They would hunt and play in the fields of the girl’s daydreams before inevitably parting ways. Their moments together would be as bright and brief as firecrackers.
No pain at parting, only pleasure at having met.
But Kusuriuri mourned. As mortals mourned for what could have been. Their greed and aspirations lead them to create what does not exist and grieve what could never become reality. Yūgen’s eyes flicked down, meeting his friend’s red-rimmed eyes.
No, it can’t be.
Kusuriuri reached up to pull Yūgen’s hand back to his head, encouraging the nekomata to continue. Yūgen did not ignore him for long.
With a speed that barely rippled the cloth of his sleeve, Yūgen gripped the medicine seller’s chin a pinch too hard in one hand. His claws dimpled the pale skin of his chin, a hair’s pressure away from drawing blood. Yūgen leered down at his friend, shoulders hunched like a predator waiting to pounce. Kusuriuri did not resist the violent touch. Tilting the medicine seller's face up towards him, Yūgen stared into the medicine seller's blank eyes.
“You loved her,” Yūgen whispered, mouth agape.
The click of teeth resounded around them.
Just as quickly as it happened, Yūgen released Kusuriuri with a flick of his nails. He slid off the bed, putting distance between himself and the medicine seller. Kusuriuri flopped inelegantly onto the bed without Yūgen keeping him upright. Yūgen sauntered to his window sill, leaping deftly to sit on the ledge as he took a long drag from the stolen pipe.
"I knew you were fond of humans," Yūgen said not unkindly, “But to fall in love?”
Yūgen turned to face his friend, eyes sparkling with mischief. He held little sympathy for his friend.
“How cliche.” Yūgen teased.
How foolish Kusuriuri was.
He can see it now: a beast found a fellow hunter. A mate to share the joy and excitement of a bloody pursuit. A companion who understood the sheer instinct, the pure bestial brutality of an apex predator. But she was no beast. She was a woman stripped of her dignity. To love her as she deserved, that beast needed to reject its nature. The beast loved her, and thus, could not keep her.
Kusuriuri had little control over his Other Self. He could not cease its attention upon Ochou, nor could he stop it from falling for her. Their affection for her was shared, but Kusuriuri knew. He knew that with each successful hunt, Ochou lost a piece of herself. His Other Self remained quiet within its realm, a betrayal and shared heartbreak radiated between them like a burn. But He was Kusuriuri, and Kusuriuri was Him.
Kusuriuri let his face drop into the pelts. He let out a sigh that rippled through his frame, a wave of tension finally exiting his body.
“Be quiet,” Kusuriuri said, muffled through the furs.
Yūgen snickered, dropping off from the window ledge with a soft thump. With two bounds he vaulted onto the bed, wrestling his friend out of the sheets. Kusuriuri fought him off with lazy smacks and grumbled protests. Successfully trapping his friend’s back against his chest, Yūgen smoothed Kusuriuri’s rumpled robes and worked the new knots out of Kusuriuri’s hair. Kusuriuri leaned back into the attention, enjoying the last of his high before sobriety inevitably returned.
"Dare not to forget this, Old Friend," Yūgen said, "This pain. Never forget it.”
Kusuriuri leaned back. The base of his skull cradled in the crook of Yūgen’s neck. The nekomata paid no mind to the pale hand gripping his pelts too tightly.
“And you will never have to feel it again."