24 December 2014, Saitama, Tokyo
Thud. A dull, tragic little thud.
That was the sound of Satoru's forehead meeting his desk. He didn't move for a few seconds, just lay there, cheek mashed against the wood, willing his brain to leak out of his ears and put him out of his misery. Eventually, he tilted his head sideways, squinting toward the window; outside, the sky had gone dark, and Christmas lights blinked across the road.
"Shit," he muttered.
What time is it? Definitely past dinner and possibly past reason. Had he even left the room today? Probably not. Time had stopped being a thing the moment Kaoru had started nesting and making his life difficult. As days bled together, he'd been waiting for the first snow and Scarlet Mist while intensifying his research about her, but all he had was dust and scrolls. He peeled his face off the desk and slumped back in his chair. His room, since they'd moved into the residential house in Saitama, looked like a library had exploded; scrolls were everywhere, especially on him. The one under his elbow was yellowed. Edo period, probably. Another dead end of course. He'd gone backward, era by era, desperate to find anything on Kaoru, but every entry got vaguer the further back it went, as if history itself had started gaslighting him.
Damn.
He was smart, genius-level, Six Eyes-tier intelligence and all that. So why did digging through jujutsu records from the past period feel like an impossible mission?
Satoru ran both hands through his hair until it stuck out in heroic, messy waves because screw it, sometimes he was allowed a breakdown.
He reached for the scroll again, the last and oldest one. Early Edo; his last hope.
It was penned by Michinobu, the first "official" head of what had once been the Edo Jujutsu Training Ground and now was Tokyo Jujutsu High. Terrible name. What was it, a military boot camp? Possibly. He considered that maybe it still was.
He leaned forward, fingers trailing over the text again. No clan listed, no affiliation, just… Michinobu. The first page of the diary was like a manifesto written by a bureaucrat with a fever dream; neutrality, education for all, bloodline transparency, blah blah clan alignment, directives from the newly founded Jujutsu Order. Satoru snorted. Yeah, right. Four hundred years later, and we're still measuring sorcerers by the shape of their bloodline. Further down: procurement logs, dozens of them, all addressed to the Zenin Clan. Huh. So much for neutrality. From the frequency of correspondence, it looked like the Zenin clan had a... generous relationship with the school; their logistics clearly sustained the place for years.
Then—finally—tucked at the end, too tattered to fully preserve but legible enough, a fragment of what looked like a personal journal.
Michinobu's notes on the Training Ground origins; 1599, Keichō, Sengoku period's last breath.
His eyes narrowed. "1599," he read aloud, pulse quickening. "The Edo Jujutsu Training Ground was established under the order of the Daimyo Tokugawa Ieyasu, with oversight from the three great clans. Supervision assigned to the newly appointed Zenin clan head... Oh." Satoru leaned in with a slow grin creeping up his face. "Oh, hello. There you are, you little antique gremlin."
Kaoru Zenin.
He sat up straighter, legs kicked under the desk like a schoolboy. So, there was a Kaoru Zenin on record, four hundred years ago.
Then the next line hit: Kaoru Zenin, Ten Shadows prodigy, was a young man who took clan leadership at nineteen. He severed clan ties with the training ground in early 1600 and died in Sekigahara's campaign. Labeled a traitor by all three clans and the Tokugawa shogunate.
Satoru deflated. "Ugh," he muttered. "This one man again?"
Yet again, a perfect match and a dead end. No matter how far back he dug, he always hit the same wall: the Keichō period, a dead man, a war criminal with her same name, bloodline, and cursed technique.
Every. Damn. Time.
"Not my Kaoru," he muttered.
The moment the words left his mouth, the shame was already blooming. Satoru twirled a pen absently, then shut the scroll a little too hard for something centuries old, slapped on his tinted glasses, and tried to dull the cursed energy leaking through the floorboards from Kaoru's cursed basement, or maybe her cursed comb being moody again. He stretched until the joints cracked, fingers laced behind his head.
This is ridiculous. What are the odds of a perfect homonym and overlap?
The coincidences were piling up. How many chances were there of a Kaoru Zenin, from the year 1600, Ten Shadows, Zenin clan, and all the package? What if... Just what if it wasn't a coincidence at all? Could they be the same person?
"She can't be him," he said aloud, staring at the ceiling. "Right? Right. That would be crazy."
But not impossible.
She was secretive and weird, impossibly calm about history, and freakishly skilled. Plus, she'd said some things that didn't line up with anyone born in the last century, so she was probably older than the Meiji restoration. It would make so much sense. That would be… entertaining. Especially for the elders.
Satoru imagined the Zenin clan's current leadership discovering that little twist of fate. 'By the way, the disgraced patriarch from 1600? She lives in my home now.' It would be hilarious.
He paused, a little frown creasing his brow. No. She's a woman. Right? There was no way she wasn't, he was sure of that; too pretty to be a man in disguise, wasn't she? Objectively, and definitely not because he'd looked too long. He thought back to their spar, when he'd pressed her to the ground hard enough to feel... confirmations, there. Soft ones, unmistakable confirmations, in fact.
"Not a man," he said aloud, defensive. "Definitely not a man."
He raised both hands in front of his face and gestured vaguely, trying to make it more scientific. Those were two anatomical proofs. Small chest, not flat exactly, but precise and compact like the rest of her. Better that way, honestly, anything more was a nuisance in a fight. And legs. She had good legs, the kind that could kick someone through a wall. Satoru liked strong legs, no shame in that; entirely objective observations. That was also hardly adjacent to his research. His hands froze midair and then slowly lowered, mortified.
A knock at the door spared him from spiraling further into his historical-gender-identity-crisis-thing.
Satoru jolted upright, hands behind his head in record time. "Come in~" he sang, already rocking on his chair.
The door creaked open just enough for a familiar face to peek in. Tsumiki. Sweet, angelic, emotionally stable Tsumiki, thirteen years old and already more adult than anyone in the house, including Kaoru, including him. She was wearing the oversized Christmas sweater he'd gifted her last year, matching ones for the whole house: a blue monstrosity featuring a duck in a Santa hat. She was the only one who wore it voluntarily; Megumi had threatened arson.
"Tsumiki-chan!" Satoru cried, flopping one arm toward her like a dying courtesan. "Don't tell me Kaoru cursed the fridge or Megumi ran away. Or—wait—is this about shoes? If you need new shoes, say no more, I'll personally take you to Shibuya and buy you the entire mall right now."
She stepped inside with a small laugh, hands tucked into her sleeves. "Oh no. We made popcorn, and Kaoru-san picked a movie."
"Kaoru's pick?" Satoru's brow arched beneath his glasses. "Is it even in color?"
"I... think so?" She squinted in thought. "Movies were in color by the '80s, right?"
Satoru grinned. "I'll let you find out. But if it's black and white and silent, blink twice and I'll stage a rescue."
She giggled. "Gojo-san?"
"Mmm?"
"How long are you planning to stay?"
That caught him off guard. He sat up a little straighter. "Not too long. Just until we wrap things up, y'know, the usual. Save the world, defeat the evil, restore balance, then boom, Megumi gets his room back and—" he gestured vaguely at the house "—this place can go back to being your peaceful little kingdom. Promise!"
He smiled, expected her to nod. She didn't.
Tsumiki raised both hands quickly, shaking her head. "I didn't mean it like that." She hesitated. "I meant… Usually, you drop by only once a month, but you can stay if you want. I think Megumi would like that."
That made him pause. "…Megumin?" He gave a soft laugh, deflecting. "He calls me annoying at least twice a day."
She looked down, fidgeting with her sleeve hem. "He won't say it, but he does. Me too. We like having you here. Even after everything ends… I think we'd want you to stay. This is your home too."
That landed somewhere he wasn't braced for. He wasn't sure what kind of presence he thought he was for them; a provider, maybe, a necessary guardian, even. He'd always thought the best thing he could do for those two was not get too close, circling, not landing, like a satellite. Satoru hadn't considered... they might want him emotionally present. Provide money, food, gifts, protection, give them weird sweaters for Christmas... that was enough, wasn't it? But Tsumiki, apparently, wanted to keep it all. That little house in Saitama, the cursed basement, the mess of people; somehow, she wanted to keep it all.
She looked up at him, determined as it had been that first day when she'd faced him, asking if he was going to take Megumi away from her. "And Kaoru-san. Megumi's learning a lot from her, even if he pretends not to. And Kashimo-san is actually pretty helpful around the house."
Satoru nearly laughed at that. Helpful was certainly one word.
Tsumiki's smile turned shy. "It's noisy now, but it feels... full. Like a real home. We could keep going, like this. After."
Oof. Direct hit, Your Honor. That one hit straight in the soul. He scratched at the back of his head, flustered in a way he hadn't been in years, and all because of a thirteen-year-old too honest. "I'll think about it." For once, it wasn't just something he said to avoid hard truths. "Can't promise anything about Kaoru or 'Nobu. But hey—I'll bribe them if it makes you happy, princess."
Tsumiki beamed. "Good." She turned, but then added, almost casually, "Oh, and you should come watch the movie—"
Thud.
A heavy tremor ran through the floor beneath them, followed by a wave of cursed energy. They both stilled as Satoru's Six Eyes snapped into focus behind his tinted lenses; he caught the edges of the ripple bleeding up the stairs, familiar and overcompressed; Megumi's.
"…I think Megumi might need rescuing," Tsumiki said mildly, already backing out the door like someone far too used to supernatural incidents interrupting movie night.
Satoru sighed, standing with a chuckle. "And I almost had a quiet evening."
He grabbed his ugly blue sweater—yes, the duck-in-a-Santa-hat abomination—and tugged it over his head. It matched Tsumiki's, which she liked, and some small part of him liked matching with her. Time to see what kind of ancient movie Kaoru thought counted as appropriate Christmas entertainment.
Satoru headed for the stairs and by the time he hit the halfway mark, the house smelled of popcorn, and—
Thud. Another wave of cursed energy, a more refined burst. Still Megumi. Still alive, at least.
He narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you doing down there?" he muttered in curiosity.
With his hands stuffed in his pockets and his balance barely engaged, he skipped the last few stairs like a teenager and turned toward the living room, already loading a sarcastic quip, only to nearly walk into a finger. Kaoru, back to him, raised a single finger to his lips without even turning, in the universal sign for shut up. And he obeyed; without thinking, without protest, his mouth snapped shut like a trained dog. It kinda annoyed him how the command came easily to her, how she expected to be obeyed.
Then Satoru narrowed his eyes hard behind his glasses. Because—
What the hell.
Kaoru stood in ridiculous bathhouse slippers that squeaked every time she shifted weight, an oversized grey shirt hanging halfway to her knees and hair in a haphazard braid with Mame half-buried in it like a trapped cursed spirit begging for salvation. The look should've been ridiculous; somehow, it wasn't. Somehow, she looked like she owned the damn house. In her hands, reverently held, was a stopwatch.
Satoru followed her gaze. On the couch was Megumi, still as stone, with a single bead of sweat sliding down the side of his face; he stared—dissociated—at the glowing TV screen, which was currently broadcasting what looked suspiciously like a historical drama.
A bad feeling curled in Satoru's gut. "No. She didn't. Not the NHK again."
Kaoru raised the hand that had silenced him in slow motion, and Satoru instinctively flinched, but she wasn't aiming at him; her hand descended, chopping onto Megumi's head.
Thwack.
"Now," she commanded.
"Holy—!" Megumi jolted like he'd been shot, and his hands slammed together in a perfect form. Cursed energy surged. Thud. The Divine Dogs burst into the living room that absolutely did not have the square footage for them, knocking over a lamp and skidding on the rug.
Kaoru clicked the stopwatch, and her smirk could have outshone a battlefield general's. "1.8 seconds." Megumi massaged his scalp where she'd hit him, muttering a chain of insults that was definitely not age-appropriate. His eyes locked on hers with the betrayed look of a war orphan, but Kaoru, unfazed, only planted a hand on her hip and raised the stopwatch in front of his nose. "That's another 0.2 seconds shaved off your previous reaction time." She leaned down, teasing. "Well done. When you hit 1.5, I'll consider letting you tame another shikigami."
It was a terrifying scene. And yet—
Megumi made an actual pout, small and brief, and Satoru's brows lifted; he was annoyed, sure, but also... a little flustered and proud. Like he was actually enjoying being scolded and praised and didn't know what to do with it.
Well, well. Someone's getting soft.
Apparently, Kaoru noticed too, because she reached out to ruffle his hair with a smug little hum.
Megumi yelped and launched off the couch like it was on fire, the Divine Dogs vanishing into shadow as he scrambled away. "Absolutely not."
Kaoru chased him around the couch with all the grace of an older sibling dead set on ruffling his hair again, just as Megumi was dead set on escape.
"You're deranged!"
"You say that, but you're grinning."
"I'm not—!"
"You are."
It was chaos. Warm, stupid chaos. It was—
Satoru watched them with an expression that began as mild amusement and softened; then he stepped into the room with perfect timing, ruffling Megumi's hair mid-sprint. "Wow. Didn't think anyone else could get away with that but me. You two are really setting this place on fire."
Megumi groaned like a boy who had long suffered living through tyranny. "Stop it, both of you," he snapped.
Kaoru grinned. Satoru grinned harder, shoulder nudging hers. "So. How long's this been going on?"
Kaoru barely glanced at him. "Couple hours," she said, still tapping at the timer like a coach at Olympic trials. "He's getting faster."
"Uh-huh," he said, gaze sweeping the air thick with Megumi's cursed energy. "Explains why the room is full of cursed energy and trauma. You know… one might even say you're enjoying this."
"It's a waste to let a Ten Shadows user be inefficient. At his age, I'd already—"
"—probably tamed four shikigami, mastered battlefield tactics, ended a dynasty," Satoru cut in smoothly. "You terrifying woman." And with that, he flopped down onto the couch like a spoiled cat claiming its throne, legs draped over the armrest. "So? Where's my promised popcorn and ancient cinema?"
"Coming!" Tsumiki's voice chimed from the kitchen.
She appeared with a bamboo bowl comically large for her arms, Hisanobu trailing behind like a hostage of domestic peace: black three-piece suit, pale pink apron with embroidered flowers. It wasn't clear who'd lost the bet. Kaoru accepted the bowl as if it were an offering at court. Satoru squinted at the apron; Hisanobu squinted at the duck on Satoru's sweater. Neither commented as the older man took the far side of the couch and, still making eye contact, mirrored Satoru's lounging, elbows on the armrest, one leg crossed. The unspoken tension of two men forced to share a queen-sized ego buffer radiated across the cushions.
Kaoru, entirely unaware, dropped between them like she owned the space, taking up more space than someone her size should, cross-legged, eyes fixed on the screen. She dug into the popcorn with serenity.
Satoru shifted a little to the left; Hisanobu adjusted to the right; the elbow standoff resumed across Kaoru's oblivious head as she expertly kept chewing.
"Comfy?" Satoru asked, not even hiding the irritation in his voice.
"Mhm," she replied, utterly at peace.
Megumi flopped forward on his stomach like he'd just barely survived boot camp, limbs splayed across the floor, while Tsumiki settled neatly beside him, hugging her knees, the hem of her ridiculous duck sweater bunching around her thighs. She smiled, soft and full of private joy as her gaze flickered between the screen and her brother.
The TV blared on, broadcasting the world's grainiest recreation of the Battle of Sekigahara. Costumes that had probably been cutting-edge in 1983 paraded across the screen, and someone in a full kabuto screamed, "Tokugawa-dono!!!" as if the world might end.
Satoru tossed a few popcorns into his mouth, slouched farther into the couch, and exhaled with the long-suffering sigh of a man at peace with his own martyrdom. "Ah, yes. Christmas Eve. Popcorn. And…" He glanced at the TV, where a samurai was currently yapping about bushidō and loyalty. "What exactly are we watching again?"
"Tokugawa Ieyasu," Kaoru answered, still watching with disturbing focus. "NHK Taiga Drama. 1983."
He groaned into his handful of popcorn. "Of course it is."
The next few minutes passed in what could only be described as organized chaos. Kaoru took to tossing popcorn into her mouth with an archer's accuracy. Hisanobu picked methodically at the bowl with exactly three fingers as if trained in royal court etiquette. Satoru hoarded it like a raccoon, occasionally letting Tsumiki steal handfuls with a smile that could get away with murder. Megumi tried and failed to swipe some from Kaoru's side, but every time she flicked his hand away without even looking. Onscreen, actors in suspiciously perfect armor flung themselves across a plywood battlefield in slo-mo, over-the-top dramatic music. A banner with the Tokugawa's Mitsuba Aoi mon fluttered triumphantly in the fake wind.
"Is that supposed to be Ishida Mitsunari?" Satoru asked, pointing incredulously at an eyeliner-heavy general delivering a war speech with too much flair.
"Huh. He was not that dramatic," Kaoru huffed, reaching for more popcorn. "Also, the formations are wrong. The Shimazu never broke from the rear like that; they had a separate understanding with Tokugawa-dono. This is just dramatization."
"Tragic," Satoru muttered. "You know, they say Sekigahara decided the fate of Japan—"
"—for fifteen years," Kaoru cut in dryly. "Then came Osaka."
Megumi, face still buried in the floor, grunted, "Ah. They reused that actor. He died two scenes ago."
"I liked his second death scream better," Tsumiki offered.
Satoru chewed slowly, then reached for another fistful of popcorn. Odd. How were they still warm after all that time? "Why is this still hot? It's been like an hour."
Kaoru lifted the oversized bowl proudly. "This," she announced, as if that was something normal people said, "is the ceremonial rice bowl of Oda Nobunaga. It maintains the internal temperature of whatever is stored inside. Legend says it survived the fire at Honnō-ji and is still warm, four centuries later."
Satoru stared at her as if she'd just told him she used human skulls as teacups. "So we're eating cursed popcorn?"
Kaoru only raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather they were cold?"
"I'd prefer not to be cursed by the angry spirit of Oda Nobunaga," he said, voice pitching high in mock terror. "Pretty sure he didn't die so we could eat snacks."
Just then, Hisanobu's phone buzzed; he checked the screen and stood with all the urgency of a soldier reporting to his commander, bowing slightly toward Kaoru. "Forgive the interruption, Ojousama. It's Ieiri-sama."
Kaoru raised an eyebrow as he left with suspicious speed. "When did those two even start texting?"
Satoru leaned toward her. "Bet you anything it's a tactical retreat. Even he couldn't survive another hour of NHK."
Kaoru said nothing, just reached over, reclaimed the bowl, and returned to the screen, watching the reenactment of a battle she might very well have led. Onscreen, someone screamed "Masamune-sama!!!" before dramatically falling off a wooden scaffold.
Megumi snorted, arm tossed over his eyes as Tsumiki stifled a laugh against the couch cushions. Slowly, they began to slump sideways; Kaoru glanced down at them with a humph, then reached behind the couch for a blanket. She threw it over them both with more force than grace; still, it landed like care.
"Fools. They'll catch a cold," she muttered like a threat. Then she nestled herself back into the sofa, pulling her legs in again, clearly not planning to give up an inch of space even with the couch now half-empty.
Satoru watched the whole thing. "Can't blame them. Probably not the top choice for kids' holiday entertainment. Too much screaming." On screen, Tokugawa Ieyasu stood on a fake hill, brooding dramatically into the middle distance. "...And kind of a dick."
Kaoru hummed. "Did you know—" she began, in that about-to-history-nerd all over you tone.
"Oh, no." Satoru groaned into his hand. "Not another Did you know."
Kaoru didn't acknowledge his suffering. "Tokugawa-dono wasn't a jujutsu sorcerer," she went on undeterred. "But he gained the loyalty of every major jujutsu clan by the end of the war."
She said his name with reverence—Tokugawa-dono—like she wasn't quoting from a documentary, but from memory, as if it hadn't been four hundred years since anyone called him that with any real weight.
Satoru squinted at her like she'd grown a third eye. "Tokugawa-dono?" he teased, mimicking her overly formal tone. "That's a lot of reverence for a dead man. Don't tell me you actually knew him."
Kaoru's smile turned smug and knowing. "Oh, you have no idea."
That made him pause. "No way. So tell me, Miss Living Archive. What was Tokugawa-dono like?"
Kaoru's eyes slid over to him. "He was... Terrifying, in his own way." She tilted her head, as if searching the past, and her voice dropped into a little distant tone. "None of us moved. Not me. Not Date Masamune. Not even the young Kamo heir. No one acted until he told us." Her mouth curled. "And when he did, it wasn't some big speech. He just glanced at us from across the battlefield. That was all and... suddenly the entire field ignited."
She stopped there. She didn't elaborate on what happened next.
Satoru frowned; it was the first time he'd seen that expression on her. Her eyes looked far away, as if she could still hear the sound of clashing steel. And just like that, it clicked; one of those puzzle pieces he'd been toying with finally slid into place. If she'd really been at Sekigahara... then she'd been alive in 1600. Just when that other Kaoru Zenin existed, the one man with her same name and background. They were alone now, the kids asleep, Hisanobu gone; it was just the two of them, the taiga drama droned on, and maybe he could just ask.
So, Satoru, driven by that same dumb curiosity that had gotten him into trouble his whole life, asked:
"Hey, Kaoru. Were you—like—a guy, four hundred years ago?"
The question hadn't sounded that ridiculous in his mind.
Kaoru didn't react immediately. In fact, for a full second, she didn't move at all. Her breath caught as she turned toward him a little too slow, as if unsure of what she might find. She looked surprised, and there was a trace of fear behind her eyes, or hope. For a moment, it seemed like she might ask him something instead.
Satoru held her gaze, a curiosity he didn't know how to let go of, and that was the mistake; he was good at staring people down, he'd made grown men cry in meetings with a glance. But this? God, the question sounded so dumb now. He winced inwardly. "Never mind. Forget it," he said quickly, eyes darting back to the screen. "Stupid question."
Her gaze didn't drop; he could feel it still on him, considering. "…Does it matter?" she asked softly. "Who I was, four hundred years ago."
It shouldn't have landed like a gut-punch, but it did. Satoru looked down, brows drawing together. Did it matter? Did it actually matter? Or was it just… that itch in the back of his skull, that need to understand everything? What was he expecting to do with the answer? Congratulate her on her supposed gender evolution? Pin down something in the past that might help him understand who she was now? He thought about the question, about the curiosity that had followed him for weeks, about the way he watched her and the way he remembered her before he'd ever met her. Maybe it didn't matter, and she had her reasons for keeping quiet; maybe the past was buried for a reason, and it wasn't his right to dig it up.
Satoru realized he didn't actually want the answer; he wanted her to trust him with it, and that wasn't the same thing.
"No," he said finally, with more honesty than expected. "Doesn't matter." He shifted to face her more directly. "Still curious, though, how'd you end up like this?" He gestured toward her with a half-lazy, half-deliberate sweep of his hand. "Immortal and... a tiny bit terrifying."
Kaoru's eyes, when they met his again, had an odd clarity that asked: Don't you already know? She held his gaze for a breath too long, then she looked away, pulled her legs closer. "Long story."
"I've got time."
She hesitated, then—quietly, like it wasn't a confession but simply the truth—said, "I didn't die when I should have. That's it." For a moment, she looked so tired. "A Binding Vow, or a curse. Depends on how poetic you feel."
Satoru raised a brow. "So. You got stuck."
"Mm," she hummed, not denying it. "I tried breaking it in every way you can imagine. Nothing worked." She exhaled through her nose. "So I stopped trying. Figured I'd make myself useful. Watch the Three Heirlooms, keep them from causing more trouble, that kind of thing."
And just like that, Satoru felt the hairs on his arms rise, the popcorn stalled halfway to his mouth. Oh. Oh no. A cold shiver crawled down his spine; she was talking about those weapons again, the Three Heirlooms, the artifacts she mentioned during training and probably loved more than most people loved their kids.
One of which he'd blown to cursed hell. The Inverted Spear of Heaven. Vaporized. Kaboom.
Should he… drop it to her? He glanced sideways, calculating the odds of survival if he told her now. She'd bury him under a thousand-year lecture and then—possibly—literally bury him with a cursed spoon. Nope, not tonight. No need to die before Scarlet Mist, and frankly, he liked his face. So he did what any smart man would: pivoted, hard. His eyes drifted to Tsumiki, curled peacefully under the blanket, then back to Kaoru, still folded into her corner, pretending none of her tragic backstory mattered.
"Hey." Satoru bumped her shoulder, lips tugging into a grin. "Tell you what, since you're helping me deal with Scarlet Mist," he paused, theatrical as always, "I'll return the favor. Help you break it."
She whipped her head toward him. "You what?"
"You heard me," he shrugged, all pride and Gojo-level arrogance, "I'm generous like that, call it a thank-you. I mean, c'mon—if there's anyone in this world who can break a four-century-old Binding Vow, it's me. I am Satoru Gojo."
Kaoru stared, and he could see the exact moment her expression faltered; slowly her eyes softened as if it took her a second to process that he wasn't joking. She dropped her gaze as a breath of laughter escaped her, small and disbelieving. Her hand rose automatically to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and behind Mame.
"What?" he asked, confused and trying not to look too pleased. "What'd I say?"
Kaoru shook her head. "Nothing. Just…" she quickly turned away, flopping sideways and curling into herself, hiding her face in the cushions, still smiling in that weird, fond way. "You're right. If anyone can find a way, it's you."
There was something nearly girlish that didn't fit her and at the same time did, in the way she said it. She sounded… really happy. That expression on her face tugged at his chest in a weird little flip that he hated immediately.
He glared at the back of her head. "You're weird."
"You're worse," she replied, sneaking the popcorn bowl closer to use it as a shield.
Silence stretched, not awkward as onscreen, the Battle of Sekigahara raged on in glorious overexposure. Satoru watched for a while, then, casually, like he didn't care, like he wasn't offering anything that mattered: "So… I guess you and 'Nobu are gonna stay here after this whole thing's over, huh?" A beat. "Lucky me," he added with a put-upon sigh.
A sleepy mumble rose from Kaoru's cocooned corner: "…Deal…"
He leaned back, smiling in victory. There. You happy, Tsumiki-chan? Kept my promise. Family acquired. You're welcome.
But when he turned to look at her, she was out cold. Completely asleep, breathing softly, lips parted slightly, and arms curled under her head as if the warlord had been replaced by a cat napping in the sun.
Satoru leaned in. "Kaoru," he called, frustrated. "Are you seriously asleep?"
Silence. She had no intention of moving for the next fourteen hours.
He poked at her head. "Ka-o-ru~"
Nothing. She might as well have been under general anesthesia.
"Great," Satoru muttered. " Of course she'd leave me alone to finish Tokugawa Ieyasu with popcorn from Oda Nobunaga's cursed bowl."
He sat back, arms folded, lips twitching as he watched her chest rise and fall, her hair spill around her face, like she was safe, somehow. As if she trusted the room. His gaze lingered; he should stop staring. Instead, without thinking, his hand reached out and plucked Mame, the wooden comb, from her hair. Mame woke with a puff of cursed energy in his palm, weirdly pleased as if it was happy to see him. Wood smooth from years of touch and painted red camellias faded around the edges.
"Hey there, Mame," he whispered. "What are you, huh? Like mame-maki? You know, the Setsubun? Bean-throwing? Tell me, you keep the oni away?" The comb thrummed with cursed energy like a very proud child being praised by a parent, and Satoru blinked in surprise. "Oh. You do." He laughed under his breath. "You do keep the oni away!"
He turned it in his fingers. Manages my RCT, Kaoru had said once. And other things. He still wasn't sure what that meant, but it felt familiar. Weirdly so. The thing looked too loyal to her for a cursed object, like the damned thing liked her. Loved her, even.
"Figures. Only Kaoru would bond with a comb," he muttered.
Slowly, carefully, he tucked it back behind Kaoru's ear; his fingers brushed her temple and she twitched, scrunched her nose at the touch, then stilled again.
Satoru froze; his hand hovered there, just above her temple.
…Had he done this before?
The motion felt familiar, the way his fingers knew exactly where the comb sat best, the way her hair parted, the way her body instinctively relaxed.
Then, Everything hit at once, and the world fractured.
A different sky, like an eternal dusk. And in front of him—
Kaoru, hair tied high, standing proud and bloodied, in a crimson tattered kosode. Smiling a terribly final smile. Hands that were his, but weren't, blood on his knuckles. He, Satoru, and not Satoru at the same time, carefully pressed the comb—that same camellia-painted wooden comb—into her hair with shaking fingers. His voice, but not his voice, older, or younger, and words he didn't remember saying, reached him.
"There, I made it for you. Took me months, but it suits you. Good."
The moment snapped back like a thread pulled tight across lifetimes, slapping the inside of his skull. His heart kicked, sweat cold across his back. He shut his eyes hard, pulling his hand back like he'd been burned. Something in his chest twisted. His fingers pressed to his temples. What the hell. A residual cursed technique? Hallucination? Déjà vu? No. It had felt real. Her hair, that comb, his voice, but not his, the battlefield around them, and the blood in the air. Not a vision, more like a memory that didn't belong to him at all, or maybe it did and he had just forgotten.
Not again. Another vision, his voice, her face.
"Shit. Too much taiga drama." He swore softly under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair, scooting away as if it would fix any of this, and turned his face away, suddenly too hot, too close to—
Distance; that's what he needed. Distance, distance between him and that cursed immortal woman. Satoru shoved himself backward on the couch, standing too quickly and pacing the living room. As he could still feel her warmth on his fingers, he looked outside and noticed fat white flakes that drifted beneath the streetlamps.
Snow had begun to fall. The first snow.