Work Text:
The scalding hot waters of the bathhouse finally granted Naoya Zenin a moment to breathe. Hearing the door shut behind the servant girls who had brought him his ceremonial clothes, he sighed, closing his eyes and letting his body sink further into the pool.
He should have dismissed them the moment he set foot into the bathhouse. It wouldn’t have been unusual; he had always preferred to bathe alone. The thought of anyone- lessers, at that- seeing his naked body unsettled him.
Even though he enjoyed formal events- the elders’ praise, the women’s flattery as they tried to win the hand of the Zenin heir in marriage- the preparations for Satoru Gojo’s coming-of-age ceremony had taken far too much of his day for his liking.
Naoya knew the heir of the Gojo clan was extremely powerful. His name was spoken with admiration and fear alike by the members of his clan. Hell, his entire life had been shaped by the existence of Satoru Gojo. From the moment his technique manifested, he had been subjected to hellish training by his father, just to be able to compete with the other heir, to touch what everyone else referred to as untouchable.
And maybe, just maybe, despite his feigned indifference, his heart still stirred whenever someone mentioned the Gojo heir’s new feats. And maybe he always pressed closer to the messenger, eager for every detail, his pulse quickening as he imagined the day he’d finally stand beside him in battle.
And he was going to! In fact, even though he had personally never before met the other, he held a deep pride in his own technique. After all, his technique alone had granted him the respect of his clan and the title of heir, proving him superior to the disappointments that had made his older brothers. So, he was sure he could reach him, and if not now, when he was older, and had further refined his technique.
He dipped his head back, his freshly dyed hair submerging into the water for a final time. He ran a hand over his skin, washing away the last traces of soap and oil before emerging from the water.
Squeezing the excess water from his hair, he opened his toiletry bag to place back the bottles of soap, then threw a towel around his head, and walked to the spot where the servants would place his clothes after his baths.
At first glance, he knew something was wrong. The dark and patterned kimono he had expected to meet, as was tradition for ceremonies like these, was replaced by a plain white fabric. He approached it confused, and lifted it to better inspect it.
Naoya’s lip curled, dropping the silky fabric to the floor, and sighing exasperatedly. The kimono, in fact, wasn't a kimono at all.
The width of the loom was significantly larger than that of a kimono, and the sleeves and collar were also cut and hemmed to different widths than they were supposed to be.
He shut his eyes, irritation clouding his thoughts as he recognized the cloth- a kosode. During various ceremonies, he would see it worn by shrine maidens. The scarlet hakama that was placed under it confirmed even the last doubts in his mind.
Fucking gods, he thought angrily, are these women mentally incapacitated, or were they simply trying to mock him? Whatever it was, he would see to have them punished for this.. this..
But that would have to wait.
Because currently he was standing naked in the middle of the bathhouse, when he was supposed to be getting ready for an- it’s an extremely important ceremony, Naoya, you will represent the clan in front of the Gojo heir. Do not make a fool of the Zenin. Make sure you do nothing to bring dishonor- the words of his father echoed in his mind.
He took a deep breath. It was going to be fine. Those words were always playing in his head anyway, weaving themselves between the thoughts of his each and every action, every fight, and every step in his expensive, sculpted wooden geta. He was used to them, he did not care, and he knew the consequences.
Despite the constant praise from the clan, his father’s disappointment never wavered. So miss him with that shit- he wasn’t about to let it get to his head now, least of all over some Gojo brat.
Only though the Gojo heir wasn’t a brat at all- his mind supplied that treacherous thought before he could stop it. And he knew that the weight of his father's drunken gaze would burn through him as if it was boiling him alive. It usually did.
One day, he would be able to look at Gojo, and Gojo would even look back at him, with the same respect and admiration he harbored for him in his heart. And when that day came, he’d finally meet his father’s eyes without shame.
He would just call the servants back, and they would bring him new clothes. Yeah, that could work.
But, he was naked, though? Like, he couldn't just walk out naked, he huffed. He wouldn’t let anyone, least of all those lowly servant girls scurrying through the halls, see what they had no right to.
Still, the idea of shouting from behind the door like some helpless fool, begging for a change of clothes made his stomach twist. No. That was beneath him too.
Those stupid women, how could they fuck up that badly? Did they even bother to look at the clothes before running off? Probably not.
They were all the same. Stupid, shallow, useless creatures who couldn’t tell silk from cotton unless it was torn off their backs. They were too busy dreaming that one of the noblemen might take pity and fuck them inside of some broom closet, so they could cling to his sleeve and call it marriage. He sneered. Whores, all of them
He yanked the towel from his head and wrapped it around his waist. It was too short, of course it was, and wouldn't fully close, exposing more than he would like, no matter how he turned or tucked it. He dropped onto one of the benches, jaw tight, and waited.
It felt like hours had passed, and his patience was thinned to shreds. His gaze drifted back to the white robe lying on the floor. He would rather die than wear something meant for maidens- but he was supposed to leave in an hour.
He leaned back and exhaled through his nose. Despite his disdain for all the fuss surrounding the ceremony, he couldn’t deny a certain curiosity about his future rival- and, if he was being honest, his slight idol. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.
Getting caught wearing women's clothing would bring nothing but shame, he reminded himself. They would make you a pariah for weeks. They’d talk for weeks. He’d be the joke of every clan gathering. He could already hear his father’s voice- disgusted, disappointed, slurred with sake. No. He would not humiliate himself again. Not in this way. Not again
But, like, maybe, if he only wore the robe, no one would know, right? It is just a robe, after all. It was just fabric. White, simple. Maybe a little too delicate, too soft- but he’d only wear it long enough to find someone actually competent enough to fetch his real clothes. That was all. No one would know. It's not like he had many other options. It wouldn't mean anything. It was just a robe. Right?
Right.
With an exasperated sigh, he stooped down and picked the silk off the floor.
–
Naoya doesn’t have that many scars, the most significant being the one on the right side of his back.
Naoya has a scar on the right side of his back that he got at the age of seven, when his father beat the absolute shit out of him with a wooden rod.
It’s not that big of a scar,
It broke in half by the force of the beating, the splintered wood slicing his skin.
around a quarter of an inch in width, running four inches long, with a slight curve towards his shoulder blade,
He didn’t stop then, continuing to beat him until he lost and gained consciousness multiple times.
It reminds Naoya of a newborn snake.
His father didn’t stop screaming the entire time.
No one ever bothered to ask him how he got it.
It was all due to that stupid woman he called his mother. They were close, back then. So close that whenever his father would yell and berate her, when he would raise his hand, and she would flinch, trying to protect herself with her arms, he would even feel bad.
He didn't understand that it was her fault, back then. He hadn't known that was the rightful fate of a woman who had failed to serve her husband. He hadn't been yet taught that it was what she deserved. He pitied her, pathetic, naïve Naoya, though he supposes he didn’t know any better; he was only seven after all.
The reason for his beating started on a day like any other day. It had been well over a year since his technique had manifested itself, and his training was already rigid. That day, he had trained profusely under the hot summer rays, and when he was done, when the sun finally set, his clothes were uncomfortably drenched in sweat.
So he ran to his mother’s room. Her servants always had a fresh pair waiting for him there. His small feet slapped against the polished wood of the estate’s halls, nearly slipping in his hurry. He wanted those filthy clothes off now.
Naoya opened the door with vigor, his small body not quite managing to slam it open. He walked into the room and was pleased to immediately spot his mom, sitting on the mat, holding a small mirror in her right hand and a brush in her other.
“Mama!”, he pouted “My clothes are dirty.”
His mother turned to face him and smiled, her gaze warm, like always. Always too soft, always too kind. Too gentle for a man like his dad, the little kid thought.
“So it’s clothes you need?” she laughed lightly, pointing to her dresser. “You know where to find them, Naonao. But get a maid to help you bathe first.”
Naoya nodded his head eagerly, and dashed out of the room, grabbing the first maid that he saw by the wrist.
When the maid returned him to his mom’s room, bathed and finally clean, exhaustion was beginning to creep up on him, but his mother was still there, painting her face in the dim candlelight.
“Mama,” he asked, “why are you painting yourself at night? Dad’s not here to see you.”
His mom took his hand gently, His mother smiled faintly, taking his hand. “I’m not doing it for your father, Naonao. It just makes me feel pretty.”
Her gums showed as she smiled, the same grin she always did, the same way that would make him feel warm after the cold attitude of his father.
“Pretty?” the boy echoed confused, letting her hand guide him to her side, “but, you're already pretty, mama.” Naoya let his head rest on her shoulders.
His mom laughed, “What a sweet child I have,” she kissed his head, “but this makes me feel so warm and cozy,” she looked into her mirror, checking her eyes. Naoya liked her eyes; they were brown, like his, and not at all cold and gray like his dad’s.
His mom stared at him for a moment, deep in thought, then, with a chuckle and a grin on her lips, she asked him in a low voice, “Do you want to try?”
Naoya's eyes widened. The tiredness left his body, and a wave of excitement replaced his every thought. “Yes! Please, mom, please, please-”
“Okay, okay,” she took him in her lap, “but you must not tell your father a single word. He is not going to be happy about this.” Naoya didn’t care; he nodded his head and grabbed his mom's mirror.
“Mama, start with my eyes.”
-
It was way past his bedtime when they were done, a sharp black eyeliner adorning his lids, his cheeks a rosy color, and his lips reddened to a deep shade of crimson.
Naoya stared at the mirror, hardly breathing.
He’d never felt like this before. Not quiet, not still. Usually, he was noise and nerves, bouncing, shouting; he always had a restless buzz under his skin. But now, staring at the soft colors brushed across his cheeks, something in him went calm. The usual veil of panic momentarily lifted.
He leaned closer.
His eyes looked different somehow — brighter, maybe, or just more his. It was like seeing himself for the first time after years of looking at a stranger.
A warmth bloomed in his chest, almost too big to fit. It hurt a little, the feeling of so much joy that he didn't know what to do with it.
For a moment, the room outside the mirror disappeared. It was only Naoya’s reflection. Not the Zenin heir, nor his father's most promising son. Just Naoya. Just them.
Them? It didn't quite fit either.
“Mama, when I grow up, I want to be a lady just like you,” Naoya confidently announced with a bright smile.
Their mom paused, her smile faltering just for a second before softening again. “You can’t always be whatever you want, Naonao,” she murmured, pulling them close. “But you’ll always be my Naonao.”
But Naoya wasn't listening; they were already planning to prove their mom wrong, because… because finally something felt right.
-
Naoya had hidden the stolen makeup bag under their futon.
Every night for a couple of weeks now, they would practice painting themselves in secret, before washing off and going to sleep.
Holding the liner with a trembling hand, they tried to recreate the sharp shape their mom did so seamlessly.
Tonight was special, though. Because tonight Naoya had sneaked into the unguarded laundry room where the maids had set clean clothes for all the zenin clan members, and had managed to take a kimono meant for one of the younger girls of the clan.
It was a little small, and they couldn't tie it by themselves, but they had finally managed to get it to look at least somewhat proper.
They moved to the other eye, a small line, their base.
The bedroom door swings open, “Naoya, have you seen my-” their older brother enters, “Naoya, what? What the hell-”
-
I'm sorry
How dare you! No son of mine- dressing up, like you are a faggot-
I'm sorryI’m sorry I’msorryplease stopstopstopstop-
What’s wrong with you, Naoya? Did I teach you nothing? Did I fail you that badly? You’re supposed to be my son, not—this-
It hurtsithurtsitshurts
You think this is funny? You think this is what men do? Look at yourself, Naoya!
I didn't know, I swear I didn't know it was bad I'm sorry-
Why would you do this to yourself? To me? To us? How could you forget you are my son?
Stop-stop hitting meI'm sorry I'm sorry, I'm sorry-
You’re ruining yourself. You’re ruining me.
He didn't see his mother quite as often after that.
-
Naoya stared at himself in the bathhouse mirror, tracing his scar over the silky white robe.
He hadn't meant to go back and wear the kosode; he didn’t know what curse had put the idea in his head, and he didn’t know why he actually went and fucking did it.
Hadn't he already learned his lesson once before? And what good is reminiscing now? The hatred hadn't left his body in years.
It stayed burning inside him with his every breath. His heart rotting inside his chest, evoking a foul smell that he only now notices was choking him alive.
It burned quietly with every breath, a smoke of anger- incoherent, unidentifiable, inconsolable. It had seeped into his bones years ago and had now made itself at home in his soul.
“I must be a horrible person”, he thought bitterly as he stared at the individual in the mirror.
They didn’t quite resemble a woman. No. Their hair was cut too short, too wild, exposing their masculine bone structure. There was no paint adorning their lids.
There could be, though...
What were the chances that at least one of his eyeliner sticks was inside his toiletry bag?
He did wear eyeliner quite a lot; it would make sense.
He didn’t think. He just moved. Breaking his gaze from the mirror, he ran to search the bag. Bottles clattered against tile, the sharp scent of oils spilling over the steam.
His hand trembled when he found the eyeliner; he felt his heart break down in tears of joy.
Returning to the mirror, he leaned closer.
He had gotten better at this, the only thing he allowed himself to indulge. A sharp liner. Short, not as long as the one he used to draw, the one his mother showed him all those years ago. Just enough to feel a shimmer of the boiling happiness. Just enough for his father not to care.
Not now, though.
No, no, he knew what his heart wanted, uncaring, alone in the bath house.
Like muscle memory, the pen slides across his eyelids, shaping his liner just right after almost a decade.
He stepped back, looking at the reflection. The woman in the mirror stared right back at him, her brown eyes prominent thanks to her beautiful liner.
“I am all that you could have been, but you are all that I am,” she told him. The words rang like a curse, and something in him recoiled.
He gently touched her face, slowly running his hand down his neck and over his chest to his waist and to his hips.
Like echoes from a memory, the door burst once again, a young girl rushing, holding a dark blue kimono, dogbane flowers embroidered at the bottom.
“I am so sorry, master Naoya,” her whiney voice panicked, snapping him out of his trance, his chest dropped, panic enveloping his mind,
“I got them mixed up with this young mistress who is going to be a shrine maiden, and then-”, her eyes widened with a look he had seen before, “Master Naoya?”
“Master Naoya?”
The sound made his throat close. Of course. How could he forget? Master. Man. He wasn’t supposed to-
His teeth gritted with anger, eyes piercing through her soul.
“Shut up-”, his hand moved before he could stop it. He was next to her in an instant, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her on the floor.
“You stupid woman- how dare you,” his father’s voice slipped out before his own could form.
“Who do you think you are? You think this is a joke? Say one word about this and I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life, pathetic whore,” he spat, grabbing her and throwing her against the wall once again.
“I’m sorry, Master Naoya, it won't happen again- I apologize so much; this is all my fault- I, ” she threw the kimono at his feet and ran out of the bathhouse.
Weak women ruin everything, he thought angrily.
Naoya Zenin stared at the kimono at his feet. He was probably already running late for the ceremony. He sighed, picking it up and folding it over his left hand. He took a moment to stare back at the reflection in the mirror.
The woman from before had disappeared. She needed to disappear. He couldn't let his mind flood with such perversions. His clan needed a powerful leader, a man, his father’s son, to guide them and keep them in power.
That was him; he had been chosen the moment his technique manifested. If it hadn't…
If it hadn't, he would be a nobody, he interrupted his thoughts. He would be as stupid and useless and lowly as those jealous creatures that are his brothers.
He licks his thumb, bringing it to his face and wiping the liner off his eyes, shortening it to its usual length. He noticed it made them look a little grayer.
Steam curled through the air as he changed, swallowing her last breath. He felt her final whispers.
The sins of the father skipped over the sons and settled in the collarbones of the daughter.