.
.
Kazuma dies.
Bishamon sinks to her knees and lets out an anguished wail; Yato stands, dumbstruck, as blood drips from the blade of Bishamon's sword.
xXx
.
When a shinki dies, its soul is reborn.
Bishamon searches. Hunts the mosaic of futures spread out before her.
Phantoms roam and wishes are granted, but Bishamon remains undeterred.
Other gods shake their heads and whisper that she's become obsessed.
Bishamon doesn't really care.
xXx
.
It is purely by accident that she finds him decades later, in the middle of a no-name Tokyo district. She had just finishing slaying some half dozen ayakashi that had been loitering around the train station, and it's only when they're leaping across the rail lines that she sees him, her Kazuma, and the telltale scar on the dorsum of his hand.
xXx
.
He is on the train. Bishamon is struck at how normal he looks, glasses and trench coat and black business suit and tie. The place where his name was is now a raised pink scar.
He doesn't notice her. Standing by the doors, he is leaning against a pole and scrolling through messages on his phone. Then the train doors open, and a torrent of bodies move between them. Bishamon scowls, looking away.
xXx
.
She takes the train every day, if only to pass the time.
The train rocks. Bodies bump into each other, and through the spaces of shoulders Bishamon can see how Kazuma cranes his neck, counting stops and readjusting his briefcase. The train stops and the crowd of bodies thins, and he looks behind him, no doubt scanning for a seat or a better place to stand.
And for a brief moment their eyes meet. Bishamon's eyes widen before she looks away, forcing her gaze toward the pole beside her.
She doesn't notice the black shape shouldering past the throng of commuters leaving for their stop; it's only when her seat jostles with the weight of another person sitting beside her that she looks up again and sees Kazuma smiling apologetically.
The train heaves. Bishamon stares pointedly at the windows across from her.
It is a strange thing, how humans occupy physical space. Shinki are thin and airless, slipping in and out of the darkness like phantoms, while humans have a physical heft, lurching through spaces with graceless purpose. This is how Kazuma is now, in human form, and Bishamon is all too aware of how his body is sitting next to hers, the slight brush of his elbow as the train rocks forward.
She is about to say something when the train slows to a stop and Kazuma rises, adjusting his briefcase and his trench coat before striding out the door.
xXx
.
He does not come back at his normal time; Bishamon waits, perched atop a cell tower with the moon at her back, until she sees him rushing through the crowd, briefcase in hand and stepping onto the last train heading home for the night.
The train car is empty when she steps on, and there is no good excuse to sit anywhere near him when there are many open seats to take. She chooses a seat diagonally across from him, near the door and just outside the line of his vision.
The train starts up, then heaves, slowly gaining momentum as it lurches past the station. For all intents and purposes, they are alone on the train car, and Bishamon mentally kicks herself for not having come prepared, wanting to say something to him but not sure exactly how to start. He probably doesn't even see me anyway, she thinks, and sighs, about to resign herself to forever staying blended in the background, when she looks up again and sees him staring at her.
Kazuma's eyes widen. A blush cracks across his cheeks and he quickly looks away. "Forgive me," Kazuma says, and that voice makes her heart clench, because he looks and sounds just like him, except that he's now a human. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to stare...but you look like someone familiar, and I was wondering if I've met you before."
Bishamon's heart stops. Her throat is dry when she shakes her head.
"I thought not," Kazuma says, and he smiles. Polite, apologetic. "I realize how disconcerting it is for some strange man to talk to you this late at night. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable-"
"No," Bishamon says. She smiles, brushing back a strand of hair. "Maybe we knew each other in another life."
"Maybe," he says, and he smiles.
Perhaps he is reading her body language (and it would not surprise her if he is; he seems equally as astute in this life as he was before), but he smiles again and moves seats to sit next to her, tucking his briefcase on his lap and readjusting his trench coat.
"My name is Souta," he says, and he extends a hand.
"Viina," Bishamon says, and she takes it, thinking how strange it is that her shinki has a name, but not the one she's given him. "You're out late tonight. I usually see you on the six o'clock train."
"Mm. It was a late night at the office. I take it it's the same for yourself?"
"Oh," Bishamon says, and she glances at her outfit, black business suit and skirt. "You could say that," Bishamon says, and Kazuma smiles.
The announcer overhead calls out the next stop, and Kazuma looks up at the map, frowning. "That's my stop," Kazuma says. He looks back at her and adjusts his suitcase, rising. "Will I see you on the train tomorrow?"
"Probably," Bishamon says. Kazuma smiles.
"Be safe," Kazuma says, and the train doors open. He waves back at her as he walks out the door.
xXx
.
It takes a full month before Kazuma musters up the courage to ask her out. Bishamon cocks an eye and tilts her head as he sputters and blushes and stares at his hands, until finally she lets out an exasperated sound and tells him, "For god's sakes, Souta, just ask already."
His ears are red when he looks back at her, chastised. "Would you like to go with me for dinner?" he asks, and Bishamon grabs him by the hand and pulls him toward the double doors.
It's a Friday night, but the place they go to is quiet. Bishamon looks around her at the hopeful, happy couples, skittish dates and old souls, and she thinks to herself how odd this is, going on a first date with her former shinki, someone who has spent the better part of a few millennia by her side.
"Oh? This?" Kazuma says, evidently catching how Bishamon had been staring wistfully at the scar on his hand. "They call it a port-wine stain. Usually it's on the face but I think I lucked out and got it on my hand. I have one on my shoulder, too..." and Bishamon's eyes widen, remembering the large gash she gave him just moments before his death. "I just hope my birth marks aren't too distracting," Kazuma says.
"No, of course not." Bishamon stares back at her food, flushing.
They walk back to his apartment, because it is late and they are close by. She says nothing when he unlocks the door and leads her in, quietly slipping off her shoes and coat.
He makes tea and rearranges it on the table near the coach, and there's a strange, awkward moment, when Bishamon is aware of his body next to hers, its mass and heft and weight, and while she has spent countless centuries with Kazuma the shinki, she has no idea how to react to Kazuma the man.
The kiss is not unexpected; nor is the gentle brush of his hand cupping her face. He leans forward and she feels herself flush at how soft his lips are and how warm his body is, and how good it feels to press her hand to his waist.
"Do you...do you have a shower?" Bishamon asks, and the question is ridiculous because all apartments have showers, but the implications are there and Kazuma nods, reddening.
They crash on the bed. The way he kisses her is not gentle. Hot mouth on her neck, her jugular, her nipples, her clit, he kisses her with a ragged desperation that she thinks she recognizes, something harsh and hard and with an unflagging, uncanny ability to know exactly what she needs. Everything spirals and the taut wire of her body snaps, contracting, her mouth popping open in a startled 'o.'
She falls limp on the bed, boneless in the aftershock of her orgasm. She is panting slightly, her hair sticking to her face and her skin damp with sweat.
He is rolling on a condom, and Bishamon is struck by how responsible but also how pointless it is, because she's a god and gods cannot get pregnant, at least not by human lovers. Her gut bottoms out when he pushes the head of his cock at her entrance, shaking as she feels him slide up inside her.
"You okay?" he says. His voice is soft. She nods against his chest, wrapping her arms around his back. As he moves, she sees the stain of his birth mark snaking down his shoulder, remnants of the wound from her blade, and she moans a little, squeezing her eyes.
xXx
.
She never would have slept with him if he were still her shinki.
It's a line Bishamon would never cross. Her shinki were her children, rescued spirits she took under her wing. Even Kazuma, who grew with her and was more a confidante and friend, she would not allow herself to use him so carelessly.
It's different now, because Kazuma is human again; as far as he knows, she is a girl on equal footing, not some cruel master who would force this from him. She lies against his chest, content and warm in the rise and fall of his breathing, letting her fingers trace an outline around the mark of his hand.
His eyes are soft. She props herself up on her elbows and looks at him, quizzically. "What is it?" Bishamon says. Kazuma shakes his head.
"It feels like we've been together forever," Kazuma says. "I know we've just met, but...I can't imagine my life without you."
Bishamon lowers her eyes. "I feel the same," she says, and she feels him hug her closer.
xXx
.
"Bishamon, what exactly are you doing?" Tenjin asks her one day, after she's disengaged her shinki and is heading toward the train station. "The gods are talking; you need to watch yourself."
"Kofuku takes lovers, no one says anything about her."
"Kofuku doesn't fall in love," Tenjin says, and Bishamon glares.
"The human will hurt you," Tenjin says. "They feel time differently than you and I. You of all people should know that.
He deserves to live his life," Tenjin says. Bishamon closes her eyes.
xXx
.
His friends do not remember her. Neither do his family, though he's introduced her to them several times. Bishamon can see how confused he is, then frustrated, when he realizes his friends' calls of, "Souta! Who's the hot chick with you?" aren't just good-natured teasing, and when his mother helpfully suggests he see a matchmaker, it's not good for a man his age to be single for so long.
Some days, Bishamon tortures herself, staying away from him to see if he'll remember her.
xXx
.
He's watching her with his hands clenched in his lap. Slowly, Bishamon looks back down at the open jewelry box and the pair of earrings staring back at her.
Two sakura blossoms, nestled in black velvet lining, with small, delicate pink pearl petals flanking two diamond studs, they are obviously custom-made. Kazuma had been excited before he gave it to her, moving with a jittery, nervous energy, as she had untied the ribbon to the box, but his face fell when he saw her reaction: shock and confusion, tears welling up at the rims of her eyes.
"You...you don't like it?" Kazuma says. Bishamon closes the box quickly, swallowing and closing her eyes. "I'm sorry," Kazuma says, and he looks so helpless and lost as Bishamon starts to cry, lifting a shaking hand to her face and wiping back tears.
"No, it's..." she gestures helplessly, then begins to cry harder.
He makes a move to touch her, but she lurches upright, heading for the door.
"Viina-"
"I need to leave," Bishamon says. "I'm sorry, I can't be here right now."
"Tell me what's wrong," Kazuma says. "If I did something to make you upset, just tell me-"
"Kazuma, stop," Bishamon says, and her eyes widen. He stares at her as if he had been struck.
"Souta," Kazuma says. And then,
"My name is Souta."
She screws her face tight and goes toward the door.
"Viina, wait." He rushes behind her, grabbing her by the arm.
"Stop-"
"Don't," Kazuma says. "Don't run away from me."
His fingers are sinking into the meat of her arm.
It isn't the first time he's heard that name. Some nights, she had nightmares, calling out for Kazuma in her sleep. She murmured his name when they made love, when she was nestled in his arms. "Kazuma is a dear friend of mine who died," she explained to him, once, and at the time he accepted that, just as he accepted the fact that he didn't know her family or her friends or even her full name.
"I love you," Kazuma says. "But I don't want to be just some replacement. I don't want to keep hearing you call some other man's name. I just need to know that you love me. Not this Kazuma. Not this other guy."
"I..." Her throat is dry. "I can't say that," Bishamon says, and for the first time Bishamon can see the lines of his face, and the hurt edging the corners of his eyes.
Humans feel time differently than gods, and Bishamon realizes that it has been years. Maybe close to a decade, maybe longer. He had wanted to marry her but she had peppered him with excuses, avoiding the talk until he let it drop.
"I can't do this anymore," Kazuma says, and Bishamon feels it, as acutely as she felt the day he died; another soul torn away from her. Another piece of herself being wrenched away.
She tears herself from him and moves toward the door.
"Viina, wait!"
She stops but doesn't look at him. Can feel him standing at the door.
"It's late out," Kazuma says. "At least stay here until morning. I...I can stay on the couch. Just don't leave. Please."
"I made a mistake," Bishamon says, softly. "Kazuma I'm so sorry."
"Viina-"
But she leaves swiftly, leaping out into the windy dark.
xXx
.
Yato is staring at her like she has two heads, but for once he doesn't say anything, just nods shortly and motions for Yukine to come join him, Vaisravana has a job for them, it shouldn't take long.
xXx
.
It's nighttime when she finds him, sitting alone on a park bench with his briefcase on his lap. With Yato's skill, it should take only a moment to cut their ties, and she knows it will be mercifully quick. She stands, just outside the edge of the streetlamp, as Yato wields his Sekki and steps forward.
"Viina."
Kazuma sees her. Even in the darkness, even among other gods. Yato stops, glancing behind him, before he withdraws, letting Bishamon step forward.
"Do you know why no one could remember me? Why I called you 'Kazuma' and why I couldn't marry you? It's because I am a god," Bishamon says. "You were my companion. Your name was Kazuma, and I exiled you after a misunderstanding. You died saving my life. That birthmark on your shoulder is where you were cut; the one on your hand used to be your name."
Behind her, Yato grips Sekki; the blade gleams in the murky dark.
"I know it doesn't make any sense, but in a few moments, it won't matter," Bishamon says, and Yato steps in front of her, raising his blade.
Above them, the sky is a swath of inky darkness, and Bishamon can see how Yato stands, dark and terrible and silhouetted by moonlight, when slowly, Kazuma lifts his eyes.
"I was an earring," Kazuma says, quietly, just before the blade comes crashing down.