"I hope you weren't waiting long."

Though we'd agreed upon a time and I arrived ten minutes early, he beat me, like always. Shuichi smiled beside the temple gate, thick hair tied with a ribbon atop his head. Chest flashing between the folds of his yukata, he sported the crimson and cream checkered pattern with pride, no longer afraid of his scars. Geta straps secure around his feet, he rose nearly half a foot above me now, bare toes relaxed against wooden soles.

I was overdressed in comparison. Suddenly the black cotton seemed too formal, the printed clusters of silver flowers antiquated. Wearing nothing beneath the robe's slip had definitely been a bad move; there wasn't supposed to be any wind tonight. Still, the breeze teased my breasts above the obi, tickled my bare nape. Styling my hair took way longer than I thought it would but then again, I'd wanted to use a kanzashi. Who used those anymore, anyway? I couldn't tell if there was too little makeup or too much; there had been no time to be sure. The zori were a bad choice too. They were too plain on my feet, didn't match the outfit at all.

He saw all of this and smiled anyway.

"You are radiant, as always."

I blushed but quickly looked away, hoping he wouldn't notice. The matsuri was in full swing, festival stalls lining the street from one end to the other. Patrons scurried about like ants: families, couples, groups of friends, even the odd loner. Everyone was enjoying themselves, faces warm and bright from laughter and flickering lanterns.

This was my idea; I couldn't back out now. When Tatsu mentioned a festival would be held a few blocks from my apartment, I told Shuichi without a second thought. Apparently, neither of us had been to one in several years, at least since junior high, and I suggested we go together. Not as a couple but as friends, since neither of us got out much. There was nothing wrong with friends having fun together, friends who just happened to enter dance contests together:

Friends who had kissed more times than I cared to remember. "Thanks but flattery will get you nowhere."

His smile widened as he came to me, eyes narrowing in that peculiar way of his. "I am simply speaking the truth."

Another short breeze tore colored leaves from their branches, framing him in various reds and yellows. It should be illegal for a man to be this pretty. "Listen–"

"Something is missing." He murmured, hand dipping to the opening at his chest. A flick of the wrist and it reappeared, fingers curled a bright flower. The rose rested well in his hand, scarlet petals reached first out then in, spiraling from the center in gentle arcs.

"Oh, Shuichi . . ."

There were no words when he stepped closer, weaving the thornless thing in my hair. When he'd finished, the blossom rested above one ear, stem lost in the black sea.

No compliments came; he knew they would embarrass me. Instead, he turned towards the festival, extending his arm. "Shall we?"

For the next few hours, we did nothing but enjoy ourselves. We enjoyed the parade, ate ourselves sick, and applauded acrobats. I wanted to sing karaoke which he declined but made up to me by scooping goldfish, winning one for each of us. After a short debate, he even agreed to keep them so neither would become a Toki snack. We both tried our luck at the balloon game though his aim was better, darts never missing their target.

When we passed a stall ran by demons, he took my hand, as if he'd done it a thousand times. He had no way of knowing the nightmares were back – he couldn't feel my gut twisting at the sight of them, sweat gathering beneath the robe. They stared after us but Shuichi ignored them, never allowing our conversation to falter.

Come to think of it, I'd never seen him afraid of anything.

"We should look for a spot to watch the fireworks."

Only he didn't answer, fingers slipping from mine. I glanced back and saw him standing before a mask vendor, staring at the wares. Painted wooden faces stared back, beings from every corner of Japanese folklore: Oni, Tengu, demons of every shape and size. Human faces looked on too, sumo wrestlers, samurai, even blushing geisha.

"You like masks?"

He started from his stupor before shrugging, glancing at the table once more. "Not particularly."

"What, don't think you'd look good in one?" The vendor worker gave us space and I picked up a mask at random, slipping it over his face. "This from the guy that could rock a garbage–"

Bag; the word froze on my tongue. Suddenly Yoko, not Shuichi, stood before the stall, golden eyes gleaming behind the mask. While white wood hid most of his face, his chin and cheekbones jutted out in a way that was almost comical, or would have been in any other circumstance. Other than that first night in the park I'd only seen him in my bedroom, appearing when loneliness closed in and the thirst was overwhelming.

But now he was here, towering over everyone, milky hair flowing down his back in waves. He wore a yukata as well – a beautiful work of startling silver etched with gold – hanging open nearly to the waist, tail drifting back and forth against his calves. Ear erect, he watched as I took in his chest, the bare feet, claws clacking as he lifted the mask–

And then Shuichi was here again, holding the thing in his hands. "Azumi?"

I blinked before shivering, this time not feeling the cool of the wind. There was no way . . . no way he could know. They were acquaintances, nothing more. Yoko promised he wouldn't tell Shuichi what we'd done, what I allowed him to do. Late nights spent in those arms, lost in woodland musk; the ecstasies he'd incited:

Shuichi couldn't know, not yet. He knew I was cautious of demons, that they still had the power to frighten me.

What would he think of me taking on one as a lover?

September 2020 OTP Drabbles

Prompt 15 – Different Clothing Style