Chapter Text
Kimura didn’t really think of himself as an early bird. He just woke at the time that left him most productive, most successful. And it just so happened that business was done early rather than late. So he wasn’t really an early bird, not by his own definition. His body, while freakishly tall, was equally as frail and unmanageable, and the early morning hours combined with his typical late nights did not help his health. So he wasn’t really an early bird, not by choice, but success waited for no one, especially not him.
He wasn’t really an early bird, but he was used to pretending like he was.
Though today, just like the past few days, it felt infinitely easier to pull himself from the thin covers.
He shivered unconsciously, feeling more affected by his lack of body fat than ever. With purposeful steps not at all resemblant of a sluggish, recently woken individual, he trudged towards a metal rack that acted as his closet. A poor substitute, but it functioned nonetheless for his rather pitiful wardrobe, consisting of old discarded clothes that came from unwanted homes. Like him.
Though, his heart didn’t feel as hurt thinking like that as it usually did.
Kimura picked off a threadbare black undershirt, the kind that extended all the way down to his wrists and nearly up his neck, the kind he liked to sneak under his kimonos, when he used to wear them, because they were uncomfortably itchy against his bare skin. He kind of missed the look though, the regal and innocent appearance from within a kimono. Yōko pulled it off flawlessly, most of the time with her sunshine yellow signature dotted with pops of pink firework asters, but occasionally dawning other kimono patterns upon absolute necessity. It probably wasn’t difficult for her to get multiple sets of the same kimono, or have hers washed and re-pressed an insane amount of times, but that was besides the point. Maybe he’d look into getting himself a kimono, a nice formal one he could use for festivals or business dinners.
That made him crack a soft smile.
He slipped on a pair of equally dark, equally fraying slacks, much too large for him. The waist tightness was nonexistent, barely held up by his hips, and the ends torn away by time and hungry moths. But it was soft, comfortable, and warm. It shielded his ankles from the nips of the wind and his pale skin from the sun. Though, he found himself missing the sun just as he missed kimonos. Missing the feel of a warm sunset kiss on his forehead, akin to the way his mother used to care for him as a child, the comforting touch of her hand against his scalp and through his hair. Maybe he’d look into spending some time at the beach by himself, just to soak up the sunlight like one of his herbal plants he started growing by the windowsill.
That made his eyes mellow against fluttered lashes.
Finally, he covered himself in his oversized coat like a second skin, not at all weighed down by its heavy fabric and thick seams. Kimura relished in the way the ends of his sleeves cuffed around his wrists and how his collar fell on his neck. It made him feel so safe and so strong, like nothing could hurt him from inside it, like the unwavering shell of an ancient tortoise. It was just some old coat he found in the dark of an alleyway, trashed in an unwanted manner, and yet left for him like a blessing.
He flared the ends of his coat, watching the way it fell back to his sides with pleasure.
He’d been blessed with so much as of late.
Kimura then moved towards a small table off to the side of his pitiful bed, decorated messily with random bits and pieces of his daily routine. His fingers loosely wrapped themselves around a flimsy hair comb in a cautious and delicate manner, taking a moment to make sure he really was holding the item in all its solid form before taking it with him a couple steps over.
A large pane of glass that leaned dejectedly against the wall acted as his mirror, just long enough that he could see himself fully in it. He shuffled closer to get a clearer look at his head and the mop of bed hair that adorned it.
His long, messy, loose white hair.
Admittedly, his face did redden slightly at the sight, warming like he’d drunk straight from the sake bottle again. But he hadn’t done that for the past few days, so the feeling caught himself off guard, stuttering uncomfortably in his heart.
He’d always been a bit embarrassed at his hair, especially when he had it loose, which wasn’t very often in itself. Yōko used to tease him about it when they were very young, saying it made him look tomboyishly feminine, and after enough comments, he eventually started tying it up permanently. He used to pin it up with elegant hair pins, the kind his sister wore all the time, but after being exiled from the home, he settled for using pieces of twine. Eventually, he stopped caring for his hair all together, letting it devolve into this mess of breakage and rattiness.
He ran a hand through his locks, letting his fingers untangle it, or at least attempt to. Yōko had always loved his hair, for as much as she teased him about it. According to her, it resembled a puffy cloud on a clear day, with all the same temptation to hug and touch. His hair hadn’t always been the grayish white that stared back at him through the mirror, however. He remembered having light blond hair at a time, so light it could’ve been mistaken for white at a glance, but something had happened and it had simply bleached in a matter of only a few months. That obviously hadn’t helped endear him towards their parents during the remaining time he lived along with them, but Yōko would always tell him how much she loved his hair, far more than her bone straight ebony.
He struggled a bit towards the ends, not remembering it being so long. It was past his shoulders at this point; he’d have to take the time to trim it whenever.
Embarrassment mostly was the thing keeping him from wearing it loose other than to sleep. He kind of liked his hair the way it was, finding comfort in tying it up each morning. But he never let it get too long, as much as he would’ve liked to try.
Long hair was a symbol of elegance, of pride, of regalness. A luxury reserved only for the Yūki name. And he was no Yūki, so he only kept his hair just long enough to be able to put it up each morning.
He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it loose in public, as much as he unconsciously felt the desire to try it.
He finished the shitty job his fingers had started with the comb, pulling out strands of dead hair trying to hide with the others. He dropped the comb to the floor when he was done, moving to pull it all together so he could put it up into his usual ponytail, but something had stopped him midway. He looked intently at himself in the mirror, looking at the way his wispy hair gathered in his hands, looking at the way pieces naturally fell to frame his face, looking at that one irritating piece just short enough to escape his hands and settle between his eyes. Looking at how much of Yōko he could see in his dark, deadbeat eyes.
He kept pulling up his hair, far higher than his usual high ponytail, and gathered it into a messy ball. He reached for a length of twine from his pocket and wrapped it around his hair a few times, finally tightening it after it felt secure enough. It wasn’t perfect, some strands stuck out awkwardly; the whole thing looked eerily unstable. But as he looked at it in the mirror, looked at the bun he’d so routinely used to make for Yōko, he couldn’t help but light up in a manner he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.
His heart felt so light and everything just felt okay again, like it was all starting to go right again.
Kimura understood that, as much as he found such happiness in doing so, he couldn’t stand in front of the mirror forever, so he turned away and moved to leave his bedroom. He slinked through the small doorway and into his makeshift kitchen office parlor —everything other than a bedroom or bathroom— space. His apartment above his cafe was small, but he made do with stuffing all his necessities into one space. His kitchen was just a small cast iron stove next to a table, which he used for both prepping food and eating it. He washed any vegetables and rice in the bathroom sink, which was… less than ideal, but he managed. He had a desk shoved in the back corner by the window, obnoxiously large compared to the space and covered with nothing but paperwork, but it was what was necessary for his work. That was about it really, about all the small space could handle, and he was alright with that. Kimura considered himself a bit of a minimalist, he had to, in order to survive the way he did. So this was about all he needed, among his bed and bath necessities.
Other than the massive framed painting that hung upon his main wall.
It loomed just across from his desk, visible from every corner of this main room, unable to be avoided even if he wanted to. It was intimidating in every way, shape, and form, and if Kimura had ever invited anyone to his humble abode, they would immediately be put off by its intense aura.
Of course, that was just what he had wanted.
He moved towards the painting until he could reach out and touch it, not that he ever would. It was a masterpiece of oil paint and cloth canvas, brought together in delicate strokes and wrapped into a thin layer of color. It was framed in the most regal golden border he could afford, making the whole thing look like it belonged in the home of the daimyo. Velvet curtains were draped over the face of the painting, protecting it from the sunlight that leaked from his window. Every night, he pulled the curtains closed to cover the painting, and every morning, just like this one, he spread them open.
His eyes met the painted eyes of his father.
Kimura had the painting commissioned almost imminently after he’d secured himself in this apartment. Some would call it a poor decision, to blow nearly all of his leftover income after making such a momentous purchase, on a painting of all things, but for Kimura, it went without a second thought.
It had been an interesting experience getting his father’s portrait, after all, it wasn’t like he could have his father sit down for one, being ostracized from the family and all. He’d gone to the artist with a seemingly insurmountable request, to paint a portrait of a man he could not immediately see, but Kimura guessed he underestimated the power of the Yūki name. After all, who could forget the face of the head of the family? He sure couldn’t, not by the way he was looking for a portrait of his father to begin with.
The artist had asked him suspiciously why he would need a painting like that, and Kimure merely lied and said it was a surprise gift for the man. That was all it took to get his hands on the painting just 3 months later. It had all taken longer than Kimura had expected, but to be fair, it had been done from memory and scraps of details that did the real face no justice.
And here he was, staring at his father every morning, and his father looking down upon him.
It wasn’t a surprise that the artist did not recognize him as a once member of the Yūki family, much less his esteemed father’s son. Kimura looked nothing like his family, nothing like the portrait of his father he so idolized. He hated to admit he’d fallen victim to hushed rumors that circled around the family staff a few times when he was young, genuinely considering in his most vulnerable moments that maybe his mother had been unfaithful. But he never truly believed that, after all, it was more likely a series of unfortunate coincidences than any fault of his mother’s. His mother was a Yūki, and although married in, she embodied all their legacy from the moment of her induction.
But even still, as he looked up at the portrait, the differences were so apparent it was startling. His father’s royal ebony hair, smooth and draped over his shoulders in all its length, not a strand out of place, compared to his mangy, messy, once light, now white hair. His father’s rich brown eyes, magnificently deep like the expanse of the night sky, compared to his pale irises, akin to those of a blind man, just as empty and lonely. His father’s regal, formal kimono, pressed to perfection, lying effortlessly upon his shoulders without even a wrinkle, compared to his dirty overcoat two sizes too big, picked out of an alley, scrubbed until he rubbed his skin raw just to feel barely clean enough. The Yūki family’s elegance, respect, and excellence, compared to his brashness, forcefulness, and mediocrity.
And he tried not to let it get to him, but it was so hard when everything was so painfully obvious.
The kettle he’d forgotten he’d placed on the stove started to shrill, and Kimura walked away to serve himself his morning tea as he always did, a warm glass of his own Sunset Lavender. He took the glass with him back to the painting as he always did, and raised it to his father as he always did, this time however, with a childlike smile he was sure his father had long forgotten.
“Father… I dedicate today to you and the honor of the Yūki name, as I have every day before.” Kimura focused hard to keep the cup solid in his hands. “And with my newfound ascension, I dedicate to you a man who will one day write the Yūki name into legend. I swear this to you upon my immortal blood.”
He then brought the drink to his lips and sipped, sighing in content at the taste of home, at the taste of the sunset, at the taste of blessings.
And suddenly, Kimura could see himself in the place of his father, himself memorialized in a swirl of paint and canvas, framed in gold, shrouded in velvet. He could see himself worshiped as a god amongst men, as a savior to the good, a comfort to the sick, a token to history. Everything he’d ever wanted, everything that had all seemed so far away, finally was in reach, waiting for him like one of the distant stars he admired from the beach far below.
He could see himself not as Kimura Hirotaka, but Yūki Hirotaka once again.
The thought alone made his heart skip like a child once more, made him smile widely from behind the cup raised to his lips, edging out from the sides.
The last drops of tea touched his tongue, and once he found himself lapping for more that wasn’t there, he brought the cup down into both his hands. A sigh escaped him, leaving his mouth in a puff of steam from the temperature difference. Oh well. He could always make more later. Like his father always said: life waited for no one, not even a Yūki. What separated a real man from a groveling excuse for a pity party was the ability to reach out and take the things he wanted. It was almost like he could hear his father’s voice saying it all back to him, and in a way, through the painting, he did.
Kimura turned away from his father’s stare, looking to wash his glass quickly before getting on with his day. His eyes refocused on the new set of surroundings, eventually landing on his messy excuse for a workspace. He couldn’t stop the deep and exasperated groan from escaping his lips. He hadn’t been slacking, quite the opposite actually. He worked day and night, between lunch breaks and weekends, sometimes at his desk, sometimes behind the counter of his cafe, sometimes even in bed. But no amount of stubbornness could help him keep up with running his newborn business, working his cafe as the solo employee, and now his new job. Things just piled up faster than he could get to them, and Kimura was forced to choose which juggling balls were plastic and which were glass.
Still, the slew of papers wasn’t a pleasant sight, even for a workaholic like him, so he set down the cup temporarily on the one clear spot of the desk and flipped through the loose papers. Kimura liked to think of himself as an organized mess, at least, that’s how he justified it. Everything had its order. The multitude of stacks of papers were things that could wait, arranged from top to bottom by priority. And everything else, the loose items, were the stuff he needed to get done sooner rather than later, putting it lightly. He’d thumbed through all this last night, but between his new responsibilities and the completely pathetic excuse for sleep he couldn’t even say he managed to get, he didn’t remember any of it.
Most of it he could put off until later in the day: completing a purchase order for a bigger stove downstairs in the cafe, approving the final design choice for his packable tea bags, composing an updated list of blends, including his very recent creation of Mint Shincha Soul. But his hand brushed over a more textured piece of stationary, and as he picked it up and noticed the loopy writing of his signature quill, he immediately remembered what he was holding.
It was a letter he’d started last night. He thought he had finished it, but apparently not, not by the way it suddenly stopped midway through a sentence. With disappointment, mostly for himself, Kimura wrapped around his desk and sat gently in the chair, scooting himself in. He brought the letter in front of him and reached for his quill and ink he’d left out last night, tapping the writing utensil carefully on the side of the jar. He held it off to the side, reading over his words brewed from last night’s exhausted thoughts.
'May 16, 1874
Dear Okada-san,
I humbly welcome you as the newest shareholder of Beyond The Shore Cafe. Even as a newborn business, Beyond The Shore has displayed extraordinary potential, and I am proud to welcome you as a partner in that future success.
Below I am enclosing a copy-'
And the writing abruptly died, shot down like a goose during hunting season.
Kimura sighed, head in one of his hands. He was really a mess, wasn’t he? He glanced across the desk again, eyes landing on that new design he was supposed to put the final stamp of approval on. Guess that couldn’t wait as long as he thought. Plus, he needed to get that paper pressed and copied if he was really going to send the design to his new investor.
He didn’t bother wallowing in his own lacklusterness. Things had to get done, and he had to do them, no matter how overwhelming all these stacks of papers seemed to his barely adolescent brain.
So he raised the quill over the half completed letter, and touched down like a wave crashing onto shore.
'Below I am enclosing a copy of the final design for Beyond The Shore’s unique new asset, packable tea bags meant for long term shelf life and large scale distribution, as well as a physical prototype.'
Kimura lifted the quill, thinking for a moment, before dipping the tip back into the ink jar once more.
'I am excited for this opportunity to begin manufacturing my signature blends for large scale consumption. Your services will be a part of a new wave of revolution towards the tea industry.
Please let me know if there is anything else you require to start production. I thank you again for partnering with Beyond The Shore, and I look forward to working with you.
Sincerely,
Kimura Hirotaka'
And he was done! He dropped the quill back into the ink jar and stood up from the desk with a stretch, cracking his joints uncomfortably. He kept his eyes away from the visible stress of his workload, but even still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it all. And instead of feeling as stressed as it all looked, all he could do was smile at the prospect.
It wasn’t success yet, but it was a start, and that was enough to fill Kimura with renewed vigor.
Everything was all beginning to look bright again.
Spurring into action, Kimura grabbed the dejected cup at the edge of the desk. He didn’t feel like washing it in his bathroom sink like he always did, like a pitiful man would do. He could leave it downstairs by his large cafe sink, the one he used strictly for business dishes and not his own, and honestly, that’s what he felt like doing. Better yet, maybe it was time to spread the workload, get someone else to do the dirty work for him.
God, he really was blessed with the chance to be a new man. Everything just seemed to turn for the better since that old ghost visited him a few days ago. He wished the spirit was still around so he could thank him again. How lucky was he to receive a blessing like this?
So Kimura didn’t bother washing the cup in his bathroom sink like he normally would’ve. In fact, he didn’t even bother washing it at all. He hastily slipped on a worn pair of waraji sandals and lunged an arm to grab the design paper from atop his desk, leaving and locking the door to his upstairs living quarters before descending the stairs into his cafe. He was closed today, and so he didn't have to worry about customers or work or washing dishes at all as he placed his cup dismissively in the basin of the large sink reserved for the cafe. He didn’t think twice before opening the cafe entrance and locking it behind him, setting out for today.
Thankfully, some adult part of his brain remembered his responsibilities and had managed to grab that final design he needed copied. His wallet was also already in his coat, left there from last night, which he needed to pay for the copy. Everything worked itself out, leaving Kimura with a pasty smile on his face that wasn’t used to being there.
He walked calmly through side streets, occasionally popping into alleys to avoid large market crowds. He wasn’t used to moving so slowly, always having a place to be and things to get done, but for a first time situation, he quite liked the bubbliness in his heart. Maybe that was more a result from the pure, long lasting happiness he’d been starting to feel for the first time in a long time, but whatever it was, Kimura could get more than used to it dwelling in his soul. He liked feeling happy contrary to the pessimistic attitude he usually gave off.
Still, he was forced to walk through the edges of the market to get to the office building in the center of the city. Pushing through people was never a pleasant experience for him, but today, it didn’t feel so bad. None of the disgust or annoyance that loved to creep under his skin was enough to overpower his mood. That’s what blessings did; they changed lives forever.
Kimura entered the office, and it didn’t take long for him to be serviced. He left the design with an employee, along with his fee, and stressed the importance of the job and quality of the copy. He left out the way he came with a time slot ticket for when he should come back to pick both back up. It wasn’t for another few hours; he guessed that was to be expected with something as detailed as this.
Oh well, he’d kill the time somehow. Maybe he’d open up the cafe later for a small while, even if he wasn’t planning on doing so originally. He honestly might end up filling the time with his new job; he didn’t want to fall behind on that.
But regardless, he could figure that all out later, because right now, his time was reserved for his most favorite thing in the whole wide world: chatting on the beach with Yōko.
They weren’t supposed to meet for another half hour, but Kimura really had no qualms about waiting. Yōko had done the same for him time and time again, when business and responsibilities stole minutes here and there from their meetings. He was never more than 10 or so minutes late, but that was 10 or so minutes less that he got with her. And on its own that was a lot, but added up over the course of however many times they impromptuly decided on secret meetings since he’d been exiled and disowned, it grew to be too much. He would wait there forever if he had to, if it meant that the two of them would get as much time together as possible.
He loved his business, he loved the idea of success, he loved the thought of earning back the Yūki name, but most importantly: he loved his sister more than any of that combined. Kimura would gladly give up everything he had and would have in the future: his business and the potential it had to skyrocket, any fame, fortune, the chance to write his name —what would be the Yūki name— into legend, he would give it all away, just to be able to live happily alongside his sister, to give her everything she’d been denied in childhood.
They talked about that a lot, what they’d do once Yōko was of age. It always started as a sore subject, and Kimura couldn’t blame her. She was such an independent and headstrong child, of course she’d find inadequacy at the notion that as a young lady, she was worth nothing more than to be married off for the Yūki name. But whereas that could be seen as a countdown towards an inevitable demise, they had learned to see it as a countdown towards freedom. Because once Yōko was married off to some ignorant fool who didn’t deserve her sunshine, she’d finally be away from the intimidating clutches that was the Yūki family, and that was the one opportunity they were going to get for Kimura to take her hand and run far far away. If he hadn’t earned the family name back by then, he surely wasn’t going to get it after the plan, successful or not, but at that point, he was more than willing to throw it away for her.
They talked about the house they’d live in together. Kimura wouldn’t settle for squeezing her into a small and bare apartment like the one he’d been living in. Instead he promised her a small home, one just big enough for the two of them. Where Yōko could have a room of her own to paint as she pleased, where she could draw all along the walls and ceiling if that’s what her heart desired. Where maybe Kimura could have a small office to finally separate his work from relaxation, where the stress could be locked away from sight if need be. Where they would have a wonderful kitchen, where she could teach him how to cook more lavishly, compared to his lackluster meals of plain rice and soybeans, and where he would brew all his comforting teas for her, so she could enjoy their inspired tastes. Where they’d be just a walks away from a beach, any beach, maybe even where they’d been lucky enough to have one right in their own backyard, where they could enjoy the warmth of the sun, the salt of the air, the cold kisses of waves at their feet, and their lighthearted chats just as they had always.
They talked about the things they’d do together. Kimura would take her swimming along the coastline of ocean blue, where Yōko could ruin her perfect doll-like hair, let her draw all she wanted in the sand and ruin her flawless fingernails. He’d take her to festivals and markets where she could meet so many new people and see so many amazing things, where he’d buy her anything she set her eyes on and desired. They’d visit the library every day, where she’d teach him all that she’d learned from familial lessons, and never once grow angry with him if he admitted he didn’t understand. Maybe, by some miracle, she’d be able to teach him how to play piano, so they could play together just as they talked together and laughed together and lived through each other.
There were things they didn’t talk about, things that filled the empty spaces of Kimura’s head just as the sand seemed to worm its way into every nook and cranny of his coat after he left the beach. Kimura thought about the day he’d see Yōko’s paintings on the walls of museums, where he’d be able to admire them and feel pride in the fact that he knew their creator so closely. He thought about the day he’d see Yōko fall in love —real love, not the falsehood that was regally arranged marriage— and watch her eyes sparkle for someone other than him, where he’d have that infamous talk that all brothers have when they care so much for their sisters, about keeping her safe and happy. He thought about the day he’d see Yōko with children of her own to keep safe and happy, where they would come to visit him and warm his old heart. And maybe she might not want children, or get to have them, and if that was the case, he’d love her all the same.
All he wanted in return, for everything, was just to be able to feel the absolute euphoria that came from her happiness for the rest of time, until one of them was here no longer.
And by every drop of blood in his body, he’d make sure he’d be the first to go.
Somebody bumped him on his way past, bringing him out of his head and back to the real world, the real bustling world around him. He’d unconsciously brought himself through the market instead of around it like he’d come, his body instinctively relinquishing control to his feet and memory as he became trapped inside just that. With a sigh, he shoved past another person, pulling himself through the typical market crowds. It didn’t bother him as much as it normally would, his skin feeling an extra layer thick today, as it had been the last few days, since he had been blessed. It helped that he was by the food vendors, the signature smell of raw fish from the pier working wonders on his homesick heart.
“I can recognize that mess of white hair anywhere!” Came an oddly familiar voice from just across a crowd. “You better not be walking away from me, Kimura dear!”
Kimura sighed heavily, but this time, the air was light and with a hint of freshness, nothing like his slight annoyance before. He ran a hand up to his forehead and through his hair in mock exasperation, but he couldn’t hide the impish smirk on his face as he trailed over to a very familiar stand.
“Why, I would never, Hanako-san. What kind of customer do you take me for?” He rested his forearms lazily on her makeshift counter, leaning in to smile crudely at her in a fashion only her old soul could find amusing.
She smiled coyly right back at him, almost egging on his mischievousness. “Oh, I don’t know, you act a lot like my mago, and boy can he get himself into trouble.”
“I can assure you that I am far more responsible than your grandson.” Kimura rolled his eyes playfully, feeling unusually loose in the presence of an elder. “How is he, by the way?”
Hanako looked caught off guard for a moment, but quickly steeled her resolve like the fine gray strands of her hair, occupying her hands by tying together bushels for another order. “He is well; he turns 8 next week actually. I'll be going up to celebrate in the next day or so, and I won’t be back until that Thursday. I’m glad I managed to catch you before then, so you better do all your shopping while you still can.”
Kimura nodded his head absentmindedly, and in one slick motion, he pulled his visible pockets inside out in a comedic fashion, gracing his face with one of his drunken grins, absent of alcohol and yet full of the same shame. “Well, I wasn’t planning on doing any shopping today, so unfortunately my pockets are quite empty.”
He ignored the pressing weight of his wallet against his breastbone.
“But I suppose if I won’t see you again until next week-” he jumped right into his next thought in an effort to take his mind off the immediate discomfort- “then I can always stop by again later, after I finish with my sister.”
“Ah, well you know I’ll always be here; I’d never want to get in the way of you and that dear sister of yours. Kami knows, I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.” Hanako chuckled out a sigh. “She is lucky to have someone like you in her life, much less as her brother. Even my own children don’t see me as often.”
Kimura picked himself up from his leaning slouch, grinding a sickening crack from his spine that could only be heard by the two of them. “I’m the lucky one, really. I don’t deserve her… I’m just thankful that fate happened to arrange us as it did, as selfish as that may be.”
“You’re a good kid, Kimura dear. I think you both deserve each other.” The old lady stopped wrapping her herbs, placing them gently on the counter before looking up to him. “Is she what’s got you in such a good mood? I mean, I don’t think you’ve ever asked me about my family in all the time we’ve known each other.”
He didn’t even realize he’d been smiling so fully this whole time until he brought a hand to his lips and felt the smile along his fingers. And even against his chapped lips and dry skin, he’d never felt something so whole in his life.
“Her and so many things. I think… I have been blessed, because it truly feels as if everything is finally starting to go right again.”
Hanako smiled softly back, and the air around them warmed only in a way that a wise old grandmother could provide. “I’m glad to hear that, I really am. If anyone deserved a change for the better, Kami knows it was you, Kimura dear.”
He moved to refute, but she waved him off with a flick of her wrist.
“Now, now, don’t you have a sister to go to?”
The fact she always seemed to be right had Kimura suppressing a momentary grumble, but the thought of seeing Yōko, as well as the thought of being late despite having the opportunity to get there early, instantly took the foreground in his mind.
Seeing the immediate change in demeanor had Hanako smirking slyly in triumph. “That’s what I thought. Now go on! It’s rude to keep a lady waiting, you know!”
Kimura turned to leave, stuffing his hands back in his pockets, but unable to stuff that last quip back down his throat. “It’s almost like you don’t want me around, Hanako-san. You of all people should know you can’t get rid of me that easily.”
The old lady didn’t even humor him with a response, but her subtle laugh was enough of a goodbye for Kimura to get a move on and merge back into the bustling crowd.
Despite bumping elbows and shoulders with strangers as he made a forceful attempt to get out of the marketplace and back to the comfort of the alleys, the smile on Kimura’s face and the rosy joy on his cheeks didn’t fade in the slightest. He felt almost shielded from the world by the warm atmosphere that was conversation with Hanako, coating him like a second layer of skin. Kimura had never met his grandmother on either side of his family; his father’s had passed before he was born and his mother’s was still alive for all he knew, but had never come to meet him. Is that what a grandmother was supposed to feel like to his heart? So warm and inviting like a woolen blanket by the fireplace on a snowy morning?
Is that what a parent was supposed to feel like?
He dismissed the thought just as quickly as it came. His family was what it was, and he wouldn’t change a thing about them. Not even if he wished for more validation from his father. Not even if he wished for more love from his mother. Not even if he wished for more time with his sister. He was thankful for what he had, all of it nothing he deserved. The common denominator was always him; he was always the wolf in black sheep’s clothing, destined to fit nowhere at all. But maybe, by the rush of everlasting blood in his veins and the absolute power at his fingertips, he would have the chance to be a part of everything once again.
Is this what hope was supposed to feel like?
He wasn’t really thinking, or maybe, he was thinking too much, as he left the swarm of the crowd and trailed down alleyways. He had always felt at peace in places like these, places abandoned by humanity, deemed unworthy by the majority. Maybe that was because they both had so much in common; maybe it was because of the potential that stirred in them both. Maybe it was because here they both stood, lost to the world.
But as he walked through dirt, trash, and scrap, alongside scurrying rats and cockroaches, Kimura said goodbye to what felt closest to belonging. Because he had been chosen for greater things, and while he would not forget his beginnings as many successful people liked to, he knew he could no longer stay with them. He was meant for more, more than scavenging, more than cowering, more than simply surviving.
Kimura’s hand brushed a discarded stack of weather worn wood lying against the alley wall, and watched with an eager smile as it withered away to dust at his fingertips.
He was meant to thrive.
That thought had him grinning the rest of the way to the beach.
Even with his unplanning stop at Hanako’s stand, he still found himself the first one to the shore. Carefully taking off his waraji sandals, he held them in one hand as he chose a spot by the water, just close enough to keep his body dry and still have the tide kiss his ankles. Kimura found his mind wandering off to the swell of the ocean, running his bony hands through the damp sand just as he often told Yōko not to. The grainy feel was soothing even in its attack against his skin; it had felt especially more natural since he’d gained his newfound abilities.
He pulled his hands from the sand, watching any that had managed to stick flake away into nothingness.
Sand felt like dust, and dust felt like him.
“Kimu-niichan!! You beat me here!!” Kimura looked back at the call of his name, only to see his sister barreling towards him, one hand holding her sandals and the other holding up her kimono so it wouldn’t drag along the beach.
She skidded to a stop right beside his sitting form, kicking up sand into his hair and face. He sputtered, spitting and brushing the grains from where they didn’t belong. Wincing at her actions, Yōko hastily squatted to help clean her brother’s hair and clothes, her soft hands brushing against the rough skin on his face every so often.
“Sorry, oniichan! I did not mean-” She stopped speaking all of a sudden when her eyes landed on his wide, unprompted smile.
Her heart nearly exploded when he laughed freely, swatting away her hand in a playfully unbothered manner.
She thought the world had truly ended when he collapsed back onto the sand, laying down and spreading his arms out like an angel, all while laughing and smiling so uncontrollably that the sound alone nearly drowned out the crashing of waves.
His laughter died down, and upon realizing how silly he must have looked, Kimura nearly started laughing all over again. Still, he had enough rational thought left in his brain to sit back up again and remove his long overcoat, spreading it out next to him like a beach towel.
“No, I apologize,” he chuckled out, lying back down on the sand once again, letting his legs uncurl and allowing his pants to meet the water. He then gestured towards his coat. “Would you care to join me?”
Yōko didn’t even hesitate, throwing herself and her pristine kimono against her brother’s coat, that worn piece of fabric the only thing protecting her from dirtying her clothes. Her small, child size body fit easily on his oversized coat, and she happily snuggled into one of his outstretched arms, resting her head atop one. She giggled like a mischievous toddler, and in most ways, that was what she was, or at least what she should be.
She looked up at him, relishing in the smile that still stained his cheeks and the remnants of laughter that bubbled from his lungs. “It has been so long since I have heard your laugh. I miss it.”
The “I miss you” went unspoken.
“Oh Chiyōko, I cannot even begin to tell you all that has happened since we last met…” Kimura breathed out, lolling his head deeper into the sand, smile still as bright as the high noon sun. “I have been blessed; the gods themselves look down upon me now, gracing me with opportunities I could only dream of before.”
“I do not recall the last time you called me by my full name, nor a time at all where I heard you cite blessings of Kami in all seriousness.” Chiyōko propped her head up on one of her hands to get a better look at him. “Tell me, oniichan; what has happened for you to thank Kami as you would mother and father?”
And while there was no disdain in her voice, the analogy alone was enough of a touch of sarcasm for Kimura’s smile to falter as his head turned defensively to meet her gaze.
“I mean it! I truly do! I was blessed by gods of ancient texts, whose names were lost to legend!” Kimura sat up in his excited animation, and his sister had to crane her head to see him. “A man visited me in my bedroom just a few days ago and spoke to me of the great wonders I would be receiving!”
Chiyōko looked skeptical. “A man? In your bedroom? Were you not frightened?”
“Oh, he frightened me at first,” Kimura admitted with a nod. “He was shadowed by dark robes with limbs made of bone, and a face I could not see. But he told me to ‘be not afraid’ and that I was being chosen to carry out the gods’ will just as he had a century ago! He taught me what my future would entail and left me to experience my destiny yesterday morning.”
“Taught you?” She repeated dumbfoundedly. “I am afraid I do not understand. Forgive me if I still think this is all preposterous. I wish not to doubt you, oniichan.”
But Kimura shook his head. “No, I apologize. In my excitement, perhaps I failed to convey what would truly convince you.”
He reached for one of the pockets of his coat, Chiyōko shifting slightly to allow him access to it. Between his long fingers, Kimura pulled out a scrap of wrinkled paper, likely an old receipt from one of his trips to the market. Intrigued, Chiyōko sat up from her recline, watching intently as her brother held the scrap in the air by two fingers alone, eyes closed and in deep concentration.
And without even a notice, Chiyōko watched as the slip of paper turned to dust before her very eyes, and was blown off into the coastal wind.
“He called himself a Death, a Shinigami if you will.” Kimura broke her from her stupor with his voice, continuing on despite her awestruck expression and gaping mouth. “He spoke to me of his great sadness at how mortals convey beings like him, that some were spirits of malicious intent, but the many like him were peaceful beings that were content with keeping the order of the universe quietly.”
Chiyōko’s mind was whirling like an overheating clock, her lips sputtering into action despite her head being two steps behind. “Is that what you are now, oniichan? A Shinigami?”
Kimura shrugged, flicking off the few specks of dust that stuck to his skin. “I suppose so. I feel little different than how I was before, but he made it clear that it was his time to pass the torch onto someone else, to me. He said the gods chose me.”
“I am sorry; this is all so overwhelming.” His sister held her hands painfully close to her chest. “What do you do now? Must you go out and-”
She couldn’t finish her sentence, but he knew exactly what she was implying.
“Paradise no! A common misconception, he told me. Deaths… do not take life, but rather help guide it to its rightful place on the other side. That is my job, a busy one at that.”
Calming significantly, Chiyōko sat in silence, trying to process what her young brain could of the total reality break. Gods? Deaths? Shinigamis? She knew she was taught to worship Kamisama, but all of that was real? And now her beloved brother was wrapped up in it all? Was he even mortal anymore? She had been taught, had education drilled into her to always rationalize the world around her, that analytical Yūkis would always be one step ahead of the competition, but what could be rationalized about this?
Kimura looked at her with such excitement, and all she wanted to do was jump up and cheer for him, to celebrate this once in a millennium opportunity. After all, it wasn’t everyday that she’d find herself related to a… god? Shinigami? Immortal? She wasn’t sure what to call him anymore. And that, the idea of hesitating to call Kimura her brother, of losing the one person in her life that brought her happiness, that terrified her to an extent far greater than the thought of losing herself to an arranged marriage.
She didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t want him to not need her anymore, because she still needed him.
Chiyōko placed a hand on his knee, forcing him to look down at her and into her serious eyes, much too forceful for a young child. “And you are pleased with this turn of events?”
“Of course!” Kimura cried with obvious exclamation, raising his open hands to the sky in thanks. “How could I not be? Someone has finally seen worth in me, gods no less!”
Chiyōko bit her lip and her rebuttal.
“The Death before me, my mentor, he told me I would live at least a century! All that time for me to change the world, to write my name into history, to ensure the Yūki name lives forever!” Kimura’s actions calmed down considerably, though his aura remained just as inspired, echoing through his innocent smile. “I would be able to do so much, to have so many new opportunities, all to make you and mother and father proud. I would want nothing more.”
Kimura turned towards his sister, suddenly clasping her hands in his, large dry palms smothering small soft ones. She looked up at him with a naively shocked look upon her lips, matching the naively hopeful glint in his eyes.
“My whole life I have been nothing but lucky. With this. With being born into our family. With you. All I want is to give it back. To give it back to the people who really deserve it. To you.”
And almost like they weren’t on the beach at all, like the cool coastal air wasn’t blowing between them, everything suddenly felt so pleasantly warm. Chiyōko could almost swear her lungs were infected by the overly sweet sensation of Kimura’s melting heart, and her cheeks flushed like thick syrup.
“Kimu-niichan, you have never needed to prove anything to me,” she sighed with sparkly glints in the corners of her beautiful eyes. “I have always been proud of you.”
She leaned into his side, resting her head against his arm, and they savored the peace that came from their closeness.
“But with this, I can finally be someone worthy of that praise.”
Of course, peace was always temporary.
Chiyōko pouted, but with her baby face, it came off more cute than anything, which only made her pout harder. She stood up all of a sudden, surprising Kimura and making him tense up. Did he say something wrong? He knew they sometimes disagreed about things, mostly things he’d say, but he had no intention of ever making her upset. He just wasn’t going to lie to her, not ever about the way he felt, and certainly not about how he could fix it.
The young girl fished around in her kimono sash, the large piece of thick fabric often what she used to sneak presents from her brother back home. Kimura couldn’t see what she pulled out from it, holding the item secretly within clasped hands against her chest as she turned back to him. He wasn’t prepared for her to hold out her hands like an offering, to look at him so honorably, to the point where he nearly missed what she was presenting to him.
In her small hands rested a stone of enough size to nearly hide them from view. Its surface was buffed to an opaque coating, beautifully chalky and solid like a cloudy night. The edges were perfectly rounded, running a complete oval from one end to the other. It was a gorgeous stone; Kimura could more than appreciate nature at even its smallest.
But what really took his breath away were the elegant swirls and specks that ran across its face, the signature strokes of his sister’s delicate hand. They ran like ocean currents, weaving in exaggerated directions and ending abruptly, dotted with touches of her fingerprints. And in rich black paint, they pierced his soul with definition, in perfect simplicity.
“I did not paint this with anyone in mind, really I had no mind at all when I first picked it up. But as I continued, it came to me just how much of you I could see: your cloudy white hair, your soft gray eyes, your wonderful heart and strong ambitions. And I realized all along, I painted this stone for you.”
Chiyōko held it out closer to him, bowing her head slightly.
“Truly a desire of fate, for me to give this to you on a day of such celebration,” she laughed nervously under her breath, the feeling usually alien in the company of her brother. She peeked her gaze upwards, still keeping her head slightly down. “Do you like it?”
Silently, he took the stone from her like a robot, movements stiff from shock. Carefully wrapped around his long fingers, he dared not to even risk smudging the dry paint. In his hands, it felt so undeniably cool, yet filled him with such warmth of adoration it was as if he had a speckled stone shaped hole in his heart his entire life.
“This is the most magnificent thing I could have ever hoped to own in my life. I promise on my long years that it will never leave my side, so I may always have a piece of you to touch my heart.”
But before she could say anything, Kimura pulled her into a tight hug, cradling her in his arms and against his chest. And even with his threadbare undershirt and cold skin, he could only hope Chiyōko felt the same peace she always provided him.
“But please, do not ever bow to me again,” he whispered into the salty air. “I may be different now, but I will always be your brother first and serve you foremost.”
He held her tighter upon soft sobs of relief and the touch of warm salted water that greatly contradicted the cool opposition at his feet. He clutched her in a desperate attempt for her to feel the comfort that oozed from his soul, for her to understand the weight behind his words.
“No matter gods, longevity, or mortal conflictions, whenever you call for me, I will always be at your side.”
He couldn’t help but start to cry as well, and once again, despite the fact that he deserved nothing, she held him tighter in her own tears so they could cry together.
He was so lucky. He was so fucking lucky. Someone like him deserved nothing, and yet, the universe continued to shower him with gifts unfit for someone like him. And if that was truly the way the world wished to treat someone like him, then it was his absolute duty to repay his luck tenfold. Because here, with his business on the road to success, with the graces of gods in his blood, with Chiyōko’s happiness in his heart, he was the luckiest man in the world.
Kimura pressed his lips gently to his sister’s forehead, if only to avoid messing up her hair by accident.
“I love you so much, Yōko. I am so lucky to have you in my life.”
He smiled one of his drunken grins into her skin, absent of alcohol and yet full of the same bliss.
He really was lucky-
“Fuck!!”
Returning from one of his nightly escapades, Gami had nearly reentered Midoriya’s room through the wall before collapsing on the weight of his own soul. Instead, he laid curled into himself just outside, heaving into his hands like he’d just drowned. He had no injuries, was in no physical pain, and yet the intensity alone was enough to cripple him in such a helpless manner.
That word. It was that awful, awful word that wounded him. Carefully picking himself back up, he noticed his body was much hazier than it typically was, and while it allowed him to pass through the wall and into his successor’s bedroom without thought, it left him just as empty and distant as fog. His spirit was unusually docile, despite the prominent lack of bright light, and he was so exhausted beyond anything he’d ever felt, trailing in like a wounded animal.
His lidded eyes landed on Midoriya’s sleeping form, curled peacefully among soft blankets and pillows, and for just a moment, the shock in his body disappeared, replaced with such sereness he had to remind himself that he could not be affected by Links’s quirk.
For as much as he hated that word, he couldn’t help but smile in a way he knew he didn’t deserve.
Gami wandered over to the desk by the window, looking at the mess of scatter notes and sketches. His successor had been working so hard to get through the rest of his internship list, to give the rest of the offers a chance. But by the way Gran Torino’s offer and the corresponding notes laid atop of everything else, it was clear to see that his mind had been made up from the start.
He sighed quietly and tried to sit down in the chair, but his body was still much too transparent for that, so he settled for curling himself just beside it, just close enough to Midoriya to see the boy as he slept.
Gami could never sleep, even in his relatively relaxed position, but he was more than content with staying awake so Midoriya could sleep peacefully. His wispy body trailed off into the air, guarding the door, the window, and all the space inbetween.
Times like these were the rare occasions where Gami wished he could sleep, where he wished he could have an excuse to refuse to think for a few hours. He imagined it to be so peaceful, daresay maybe even more than how he always felt around his successor.
Instead, he floated silently, contemplating the newly swirled hurricane in his head and why he hated that word so much if it was true.