A/N: Written for Liviania for Chocolate Box 2017.
The life cycle of a Sakurazukamori is a fragile and ethereal for the cherry blossom tree. One Sakurazukamori dies in the flow of time and another gathers their prestigious mantle. The candidate for the Sakurazukamori was not her specific choice but the clan's, though the elders take her feelings into proper condolence.
The cherry blossom tree is not biased. She takes each accomplice under her wing equally.
She does not expect her dreary, aimless thoughts to alter drastically one spring day.
It is a normal meeting. In hindsight years later, she should have been more self-aware of him.
When the next would-be Sakurazukamori looks up at her at nine years old without a trace in his aura to beguile her and curry her favor, she wonders what his deal is. No impression has ever left her so curious. His face shows only the barest hints of emotion and he seems to silently judge her impartially. But he is polite about it.
"Go on, Seishirou," Setsuka encourages him. She pushes him at the shoulders closer. Her smile was discreet, eyes watching critically.
Seishirou steps forward obediently. His foot rustles in the heavy patch of grass in front of the ancient cherry blossom tree. Sakura could hear his breathing faint and collective in the silence of Setsuka's illusionary world.
Her world is cheerful and bright. Sunlight streams down in crests of golden sunlight; the cherry blossoms dance around playfully.
Introductions should go according to plan.
Seishirou's head tilts. His lips press together.
"Are you really that impressive?" he asks.
Sakura, in her entire lifetime, had never heard such a brazen, insolent question. She accepts all without prejudice but harbors withheld and customary reservation for courtesy. How could he even be here and know his future and still feel dubious about her majesty, a power so ingrained into the spiritual realm it spans and engulfs everything the her petals touch?
Setsuka's eyebrow furrows and she looks down at him. She blinks in a mixture of surprise and shock. Not able to contain a giggle at how obviously incongruous he is at the prospects of what is in store for him, she grins like a wolf.
"You'll learn, Seishirou," she says affectionately. "Now go. You have to get to know her."
He approaches her side and touches her.
Seishirou's hand gently caresses her bark. Letting anyone in the park do this grates her patience. His touch is smooth and calculative. He spends moments readying her signature and finds the right place to grip onto, the exact point he could fit his shoes on and not slip. He hoists himself upwards on one of her massive roots and clutches at the nooks in her spiraling trunk. He pulls up and puffs at the exertion. His face never breaks out in apprehension.
Secretly, Sakura hopes he would fall. Spraining an ankle would not be so much of a punishment as a lesson. After insulting her, watching him squirm would delightfully toughen him as she craves in making him the cream of the crop. Tossing aside his weakness would align their harmonies, and she has no qualms about it.
Luckily, he manages to make it halfway before he tumbles down to the ground on his side. He shakes his head. Setsuka does not move and neither did Seishirou expect her to, because he gathers himself proudly without comment and continues to climb back up her winding trunk.
Sakura awards him a point for effort, at least.
Climbing her branches was another matter. He grips onto the edge and maneuvers himself delicately. He reaches out and, losing his balance a bit, he scratches his finger on one of her branches. No waterworks or anger follows this blunder. He swings his body to the right and sits on her branch. He peers down at the pink cherry blossom-strewn ground below.
Delight shines through his essence, and Sakura can tell he is pleased with his surroundings. He loves beauty. He has a keen eye for detail.
Sakura warms up to him a little bit more.
Seishirou glances at the prickling cut on his finger. He does not mind the ruby droplets pooling on his skin. He instead strokes Sakura's branch and hums to himself thoughtfully.
The petals react before Sakura does. Her little petals are trained to seek blood, so they do.
Sakura's branch reaches out to him. The cherry blossoms descend upon his hand and tickle it with each velvety swipe of their buds, greedy for a morsel of the metallic scent. Blood from the Sakurazuka line, no matter Sakurazukamori yet or not, sustains her better than anyone and triples the strength of their intimate bonds.
Gracefully, Seishirou snatches his hand away from her and detangles it from the petals' vice grip on him. He grits his teeth, finally annoyed.
Human emotions elude Sakura. However, when she realizes the blood was forcefully and hasty drawn from her, the equivalent of shock and fury may have bubbled up in her very roots.
Seishirou scoots away as her branch shivers.
"You don't get to have my blood," he snaps, but his voice is level-headed. He shows no signs of hostility other than covering his cut with his other hand and staring Sakura down coolly.
Setsuka's face twists. She is not horrified, but her gaze channels a warning, austere. She crosses her arms. Didn't I teach you better than that? Setsuka's expression reads plainly.
Seishirou is unfazed. He shrugs and smiles.
"Seishirou." The reprimand is instantaneous after their glaring match. Setsuka steps forward. "You don't speak like that to the tree like—"
"Yes, Mother," Seishirou replies automatically. He has no remorse, but he does not question her intelligence in such paramount matters.
Setsuka sighs. Things like this must happen frequently between them during their training. The creases in her forehead retreat back under her skin. She composes herself again. "Then be a good boy and let her have your blood."
Seishirou does not budge his stance. He smirks nonchalantly, not betraying his original goal.
"Mother," Seishirou cut in respectfully and more insistent, smiling intensifying as if his logic were truly this obvious to them both, "I refuse to give my blood to her. She doesn't understand me."
He is pure impudence. Sakura never knew if Setsuka did something about it, but Seishirou never relents. Sakura's exasperation grows, but she does not fault him or even resent him.
Sakura is put into an awkward position. He overrides her knowledge of the humans that have always served her. She welcomes a little rebellion wholly, because he is an enigma.
Though there are hiccups, the following years after their first meeting do not disappoint her.
The blood relation between the mother and son is fragmented. Setsuka is his mother, but he finds so much satisfaction in a mother he had only known for a short duration of his lifetime. He does not love her or view her as his mother, and Sakura can at least identify with that. Not all Sakurazukamori acknowledges each other platonically or romantically even if feelings one-sidedly are strong enough to pass on the title.
Setsuka is not tender in her training lessons, either. She forces him into many compromising scenarios that are both brutal and intuitive. As far as she knows, Seishirou never argues with her methods, and he embraces her tactics.
Perhaps it is the reason Seishirou does his homework with her in his free time, because he can revel in the peace the quiet park brings.
In a way, perhaps their less than satisfactory relationship steels her own resolve to watch over her irresponsible Sakurazukamori as a doting mother figure. Well, she does not really pamper him, but she lends her company and strength. He is not an "ideal" Sakurazukamori in that adheres to all orders unquestionably, and Sakura is intrigued underneath the surface. Sakurazukamori should rarely abide to anyone else's rules besides their own regardless.
Seishirou sits at her side on some days. The sunlight streams through her canopies and falls on the pages of his homework. He is brilliant at many subjects, she notes. He tells her the high marks and red bubbles scribbled across his test pages show he is above his peers. Seishirou mumbles that he has to pass an exam or else his scores will lower, which will not be a good match for the career he must strive for.
So young and already thinking about such trivial things like his impending future.
Sakura does not grasp the reason he sits next to her specifically if he does not always accept her opinions. It does not fit the logicalities of his mind, or the notion to steer away from anything that does not concern him directly. But he does choose her over the comforts of a little café or the plush workings of the Sakurazuka mansion in Kanazawa. He continues to sit next to her through middle school and high school.
Sometimes he forgets his coat at home. He never complains, but his sneezes give away his discomfort. On those days, he manages to fall asleep at her roots because it is too cold for him to walk home alone, head lolling against her trunk. During the nights he shudders in his sleep. Setsuka does not come looking for him—she probably expects Sakura to take care of it for her while she attends to other matters.
Sakura wonders why it is her responsibility even when he is a fledging Sakurazukamori, but she does not resist. She cannot stop herself from wrapping him up with her branches and crossing her petals over him as a warm blanket. It is not suitable, but he once never mentions the slight indentions of wood or cloying scent of cherry blossoms that attaches to his skin and never fades. Cramming for his studies becomes so commonplace Seishirou slumbering against her side becomes their routine for many nights.
Sakura cannot help but feel, at the very least, she has found a confidante in him. Someone who knows the icy truth behind a life sealed in too many complications. No matter how much of a brat Seishirou can be, she endures.
The next time Sakura meets Seishirou face-to-face he is covered in blood. His pristine shirt is splattered, his hair is ruffled, and he limps on a bleeding leg with a slash cut into his uniform slacks. Many events lead up to the moment.
Setsuka dies amongst the camellias flowers in her garden. For many years she had warned of such whimsical fantasies. Sakura had never understood her fascination with those lower plant forms—the cherry blossoms were her true home. Still, Sakura had always listened to her and cherished her refined taste for beauty.
Seishirou does not visit Sakura after that. He neglects seeking her out for what stretches out days to weeks. What was once their special time together is ripped apart like one of the pieces of paper Seishirou loves to write on. She does not immediately take his reckless attitude into offense. She is used to being forgotten.
Sakura loses track of time, as she has after so many centuries. But the most insulting to her pride is that he does not ask for a shred of her power to aid in his job assignment. Fighting genuine criminals is strenuous compared to homework, after all. Doing the dirty work all by himself proved that he was a daredevil.
A Sakurazukamori that fully abandoned insight for selfishness would fall prey to death.
But selfishness was the nature of her Seishirou.
Seishirou's approach was interpersonal. He never asks for anything, and he never makes a big show of his own failures. Sakura is positive he must have failures. Setsuka had failures as a teenager and Seishirou bled the same Sakurazuka blood that she possessed. He was mortal. If the ability to die was an option for him to be swallowed by, he eventually would be.
What a waste of resources. Who would be the next heir to her power if he died prematurely?
Sakura's branches sway in the eternal wind. The crown of her petals dance and bend to the will of the world around her. She suddenly feels the clash of heated battle something far off.
Sakura could feel the faint tingle of pain but not see it. Grasping out for it did nothing; Seishirou blocked her immediately out of his airspace.
He was in a fierce fight. She did not know who the culprit exactly—Seishirou's connection to her is instantly rejected. He is on the offensive.
Sakura knows in his distracted state she can pierce his defenses to reinforce the idea that he needs her and must rely on her like has in the past. It could have been any enemies seething for revenge within Tokyo's boundaries. But she does not, and she respects his clumsiness.
And yet her Sakurazukamori does not let her know anything about his current predicament.
Sakura waits and frets. Just because she does not approve of him does not mean she is a heartless guardian. So, her one comfort was that he was not dead, because she would feel the instant snap of his soul from his body.
Normally, she is so magnificent and composed. She does not know how long she crosses her fingers but the battle ends as abruptly as it began. She can feel his connection to the world waver, though she notes it is weakened.
The truth is he is unbridled and impulsive. She is well-aware. He is unstoppable. But his faults might outweigh his cunning, and fighting himself into bad shape meant underestimating his enemy or decided to have too much fun.
Her Sakurazukamori was so foolish.
The frayed edges of the portal to the illusionary world open. He staggers inside the barrier. A light trail of blood dripped down a cut on his arm. But the gash in his leg makes him hop. He does not grit his teeth or curse, however; he trudges next to her side and collapses against her.
Sakura does not drill a snark at his pain. She simply decides to let him speak about it first.
Seishirou does not ignore her anticipation.
"You didn't help me," he tells her offhandedly. No malice or ill-will makes itself known to her in his words, and he smiles gently at the sky.
Sakura bristles at his apathy.
Of course she had not helped him! He was an excellent judge of character, but he is ignorant to his own needs. Was he accusing her?
But Seishirou's demeanor was not that of someone petulant or full of grievances. He watched her carefully, curiosity evident.
He holds up his hand to her. He also hunches over and leans on his knee. Still not upset, he lifts his pants' leg high and shows off the blood staining his skin. The gash is manageable but, as Sakura muses for the hundredth time, he is so highly blasé to the sight of his own blood.
"We all deserve feasts every once and a while, you know?" He says casually. His eyes alight with amusement, beckoning. "How about it?"
Sakura hesitates. At first she does not know if she hears him right, but he swipes off a bit of blood against some low-hanging petals.
"In this world, there aren't many people you can trust," Seishirou explains matter-of-factly. He has acquired a worldview she had not thought possible of him so early, but he does not lose heart. "Not in Tokyo—this city bent on its own destruction. But I think, in this wasteland, I'll need someone to depend on in what I want to do and won't judge me. Will you do that?"
Sakura wants to laugh, because he is ridiculous. He formed such self-provoking ideals but he only now wants to entrust himself to another.
But still he treats her that way. He treats her respectfully albeit aloof. The deep tingling in her cherry blossoms alerts Sakura to the fact she would follow him anywhere he wanted to go.
Sakura's branch descends and meets his hand head-on. Her petals gently brush against his wounds, testing and exploring. At this he finally winches. The petals attach themselves to his skin and suckle out the fresh beads of crimson blood, tasting the delectable salt of his skin. They sap and sap delicately but ravenously.
Sakura had never tasted blood so succulent.
Out of all the blood she has ever tasted, this blood speaks of delectable, devilish truth and white lies but earnestness that she finds quite appealing. It is a delicacy she thought she would never have the privilege of tasting.
His wounds slowly begin to recover as she pours healing magic into him. The cut on his arm fades into a scar, and the gash on his leg disappears into a vivid purple bruise.
So he had manipulated her into not helping him because he wanted her to realize what kind of person he was. Apparently, he wanted to work with someone who saw him for who he was.
This Sakurazukamori was extraordinary, really. He was a breathtaking representation of death that had breathed the life back into her.
She touches his cheek and he leans into her. She finds it oddly endearing. You should talk when you craft personalities to deceive people, including me. Because, yes, he had swindled her views on pride under his clever disguise.
Sakura has never heard Seishirou's laugh so sincerely. When he does, her petals shiver.
"I should talk," he agrees. It is a rare feat when a Sakurazukamori shows he understands her, but his smile is still innocent yet devious.
Sakura wonders if the breeze has warmed up in the illusionary world. His illusion has long taken over for Setsuka's, but she feels like she has many things to understand about the structure of it. An eternal world shrouded in darkness and the glowing light of cherry blossoms should not change on a whim, she tells herself. The heat of Seishirou's blood darts to her deep-set roots. She cannot help sprouting a flurry of new cherry blossoms that fall anew to the dark winds.
From that day onward Seishirou allows her to his plans and ambitions. She never interferes in trouble unless he explicitly calls for help or the circumstances outmatch the power he has.
That being said, she usually observes.
Over the years into adulthood, his progress improves. Seishirou's youthful mistakes lessen significantly. He never leaves the solitude of his thoughts, but he no longer fully isolates himself. Seishirou becomes a beautiful predator. He is the fearsome crow hiding within her branches waiting for the rabbit to fall for the pit trap.
Sakura has never once been so proud of a Sakurazukamori's gradual movements.
Of course, she never lets him in on the secret.
At one point she feels the signatures of the Sumeragi descendants visit Ueno Park quite regularly. We go on picnics. Hokuto-chan insists, he relays to her, but those days are over within a flash and he never reiterates them. What he does not show on the surface she picks up in his stoic and perplexed expressions. He does not understand, and neither does she, but she enjoys his frequent visits to her nonetheless. Through them, she feels like he sorts out his innermost worries with her even though he disguises them otherwise.
The reason he masks himself so thoroughly and thinly at the same time makes her gleeful. His deception is meant as bait, but Sumeragi never seeks out the opportunity he does not see. It makes her feel all the more powerful and conscious of her bond to her Sakurazukamori.
And then the end of the world is upon them. Legend said this would happen one day, but she hates the earth for having a mind of its own against her, and she does not want anyone else to steal his life. Death at the hands of anyone besides her is repulsive and unsightly.
Luckily, his visits become more frequent. He seems to be active and on duty nowadays. He is far more willing to avoid the park because the Sumeragi seeks him out here directly on some days, but he never leaves her lonely for long.
Sakura wraps her branches around him when the urge pushes aside her judgment. Her twigs dig into his suit, pressing against the bottom of his throat. The wood of her twigs scratches against the starch of the white collar.
Seishirou pauses while inhaling the first drag of his cigarette. He evaluates her behavior. Today, he is a little tired. It is not anything as obvious as dark circles under the eyes or yawning, but a minimal slump of his shoulders. He lets her support him more than he usually does.
"What is it?" Seishirou asks. His voice was serene yet distant, amber eyes unfocused. He lightly kicks at the petals on the ground.
Sakura twists her twigs a smidge underneath his collar to grip onto him. You're distracted.
"I'm not," he protests, barely absent enough to force the vigor into his own words. "Sometimes, you know, I like to think about where I've been."
The Sumeragi flickers through her memories again, though she does not allow begrudging feelings. She does not have to care about him obstructing her time with her Sakurazukamori, because Seishirou always makes special time for her. His company at late at night in the quiet of the moonlight is all she could ask for.
Sakura cups his cheek and makes him look up at her crown. Think about me instead.
Seishirou chuckles and strokes her branch. In his distracted naïveté, he misinterprets her meaning. "I have assignments awaiting me in my fax. Once I finish the paperwork, I promise you'll have your fair share of souls. After all, I believe the energy attached to a serial killer is quite powerful for you, now isn't it?"
What does he think she is, a gluttonous leech? Sakura's branches rustle dangerously. Though her intentions are playful she nudges his palm as a warning. He would say cruel things like that all the time to rile her up, but she never takes those tendencies seriously. She latches onto the smooth velvet in his tone as he addressed her only, his dispassion laced with the underlying current of care he tended her.
It is true. Serial murders collect an incredible amount of soul energy which sustains her.
A soul for a soul, as the saying goes.
But that is not the point.
How many times does she have to tell him she cares about him more than he cares to believe?
"I can't stay all night. I should be leaving soon." His mouth works into a curve and he reigns in something else he is about to respond with. The intention reveals him hiding a truth. But he lets that issue slip. "I'll come back tomorrow."
Sakura's branches roughly tighten around his midsection. She does not want to let him go, and she wishes they could stay forever.
She does not want him to die.
Sakura does not want him to give into temptation and sign the final warrant.
She knows how he feels.
Sakura hates it immensely.
Seishirou sighs and leans back, staring up at the purple sky of his illusion. Confusion jolts through his eyes for a second, but he drops the thought he had, and it seems like his foolish thought has been put to bed because she refused to let him go through with it.
"You're persistent for my attention," he chides her ruefully. She definitely detects what he had been thinking but he never confesses. He sucks on the edge of his cigarette and the ash falls like a veil to his feet. "As you wish. I'll stay."
Persistent she was, and Sakura was unabashedly quite content with that.
So, she holds him like that while he continues to smoke. She lets him rest and rejuvenate his strength. Sakura is the brick wall that will stop anyone from hurting him for now and ever.
Sakura would do anything for him.
Sometime in the future she would wither under skies full of grey destruction. Sakura will likely die trickling every ounce of her energy into his veins for his survival. It would be worth it.
Seishirou would be the last one standing in the cruel world she had lived so long in herself; she would do everything in her power to keep the heart of the last Sakurazukamori beating.