A/N: There are many lovely people I have neglected to reply to now, and I'm terribly sorry for that. ;_; I needed time to write, and I couldn't take it from school, so… Well, I hope you forgive me enough to enjoy the chapter.

You're gonna love this. Or, well, that's subjective of course: but if you're reading this then you probably like TEotB-verse, and if you like TEotB-verse I'm pretty sure you will like this. I'm talking about a fic called The Staff by The Toe of Sauron. It's the answer to all my prayers for a fic centred around Belial (I love background characters! It's a curse!) and the endeavours of running the household of His Highness Samael. It's gorgeous, and you're highly recommended to check it out if you haven't already. ;)

/ Dimwit

P.S. Speaking of that, when I updated my profile with The Staff, I realised that holy shit you guys are so sweet I just sknihbiawräåpkjfoaisaf! Q~Q I know I've thanked each one of you for it, but I was struck by a wave of feels and I just wanna thank you all again. Thank you for all the beautiful, funny, clever spinoff stuff you make from TEotB. I'm adding another link to the profile page, kind of hoping to show that to me, you're a big part of what makes writing this fun. D.S.

Refs to ch: 40, 91, 96, 106
(Note to the latecomer: the original chapter 132, which was an April Fools prank, is now included in Between the End and the Beginning on request from readers.)

I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

Shiro drew four slow, metallic-scented breaths in the stairwell to convince his gut that the apartment door before him was as harmless as any other apartment door, and that it was ridiculous to think anything else.

The bell gave a soft, pleasant duo of tones on the other side of the door when he rang it. Steps. Shiro caught himself holding his breath and wondered just when his body would stop acting stupid about this. He had been on the verge of turning around at least three times on his way there, and for what? It wasn't like there was going to be any demon waiting for him in there, just humans. Just humans.

…but damn if they weren't more frightening than demons sometimes.

"Shiro-san, welcome!"

Shiro's first, random thought was that uncle Satoshi didn't look much like his brother, aside his build.

Hideo and Satoshi had been like the pines that grow on cliffs leaning over the sea; forced to grow in meagre soil, struggling against the harsh winds for every centimetre that they gain. The Great Depression and the Second World War had made food scarce and work scarcer, a time that made the people of Japan grow short and sinewy and tough as bones. But bones are rounded; smooth. Uncle Satoshi was hard as rock, full of jagged angles; almost as if the jutting cheekbones strove to grow into a shelf to support the thin-rimmed glasses on his nose. His hair was greying, something that made his sharply hewn features seem like he was made of granite with the paint flaking off in places.

"Uncle." It was an unfamiliar word on his lips, but he didn't linger on it as he bowed, returning the smile.

…somehow, Satoshi's scanning gaze was worse than Samael's. Not because it was sharp, but because it was soft.

"Look at you, how much you've grown. Congratulations on the big day, Shiro-san." Satoshi sounded proud, as if he had been congratulating his own son on turning twenty. And then, as quick as it had come, the pride was replaced with concern: "But what has happened with your hair? Are you bleaching it?"

The trace of disapproval in the question made Shiro smile to himself. Old people stuck to old ways. His hair would probably be a topic of discussion for everyone that met him until he was old enough to actually go silver; until then, he had a lie handy for questions like Satoshi's.

"No, I'm just greying early: study stress, I'm told."

At that, the smile on Satoshi's face brightened. It looked very much like his brother's: charming, reassured, with a hint of mischief hiding in the corners.

"Is that so? What do you study?"

"Exorcism." Shiro raised his hand to gesture at the emblem of True Cross Academy on the chest of his blazer. "I graduate this semester. With honours."

He honestly didn't know why he added that. It was true, but he felt like… Shiro needed a moment to properly grasp what it felt like: like he was throwing his honours out there like a shield, or proof; like he had something to prove to Satoshi. …Or it was just nervous prattle, plain and simple.

"With honours", Satoshi echoed, a smile on his lips. "Make sure to tell us when so we can be there to congratulate you."

"I will." Shiro felt like he was in a slight daze. "I can't recall the exact date but it's in early June."

"June? Ah, that's right: True Cross Academy has its own system."

"Yeah, it has its traditions. It was awful when you never had holidays at the same time as everyone else." He shrugged. "But kinda nice not to have to study and wear uniform when summer's at its hottest."

"Oh I remember." Satoshi shook his head, smiling. "Summer and uniform, I certainly don't miss that. Ah, where are my manners! Let's not talk in the hall: come in. Your cousins are helping with the meal preparations but we have some time before we eat. Did your trip here go well?"

"I guess. It was nothing special. It was a strange feeling to step off on that station and see these familiar streets again, though. It's been a while."

"It has. I look forward to hearing how you've been. We all do."

Shiro crouched down to undo his shoes, feeling as though some of the knots in his gut were loosening as well. It looked more and more like he had worked himself up more than necessary over this.

While he was untying his shoes, Shiro was temporarily distracted by the small set of drawers standing on the single step where the genkan ended and the rest of the apartment commenced. It was a simple piece of furniture, light wood, made for storing gloves and scarves and other small things. It was a little worn around the corners, the way you can expect in a household raising four children, with the chafed flakes of a sticker bravely clinging to its side despite someone's efforts to peel it off. There was no reason his eyes would linger on something like that… and yet they did.

Shoes discarded, Shiro followed Satoshi through a straight corridor, gaze immediately darting from the colour of the walls to the balding spot on the crown of Satoshi's head, and then on to scrutinizing the design of the corridor's light switch. It made him… not dizzy – not physically dizzy, at least. But there was a surreal tint to everything that made it hard to grasp, with every little detail jumping out at his eyes as if his brain needed to confirm that everything was really there – that he was really there – before he could believe it. He was in his uncle's apartment, and while it was really just an apartment it was his uncle's apartment. And he was in it. And that was surreal. Every part of it, from that peeled-off sticker to the photographs that patched the anonymous light grey of the corridor walls. Most of the frames showed weddings; one, two, three of them. One wedding photo was in black and white, probably Satoshi's and Noriko's own. Then there was another photo in black and white.

Satoshi noticed him stopping and came to stand next to him.

"Yes, there we are. All three of us. This is me." He pointed a thin finger at the boy to the left in the photograph. The army uniform on him looked like it was brand new, with ironed jacket and spotless leg straps tied around his shins. "Seventeen years old, I had only just been conscripted for training", he told him, with that special nostalgia people feel when they speak of old prides and achievements. "I already knew a lot from Otou-san and Nii-san. You can tell who this is, no?"

To be honest, that was the reason Shiro had stopped so suddenly at that photo. It might as well have been a mirror, an enchanted one that showed the world in black-and-white and on smaller scale. The figure to the right stood straight and proud in his bulky jumpsuit uniform, with fur-trimmed lapels and a white scarf sticking up in the lining at his neck. His hair was trimmed short, like his father's and his brother's, and in his left hand was a leather cap and goggles that hung almost casually against his leg.

"Dad was a pilot?"

"He never told you?"

"No." The reply was absentminded. Shiro was fully occupied just… staring. "We really look alike. I've never seen him so… He must have been about my age when this was taken."

"Twenty-one", Satoshi confirmed with a nod. "This photo is from 1940, just before we went separate ways for training. I went to Komakado, Nii-san to Tokorozawa. One year later his regiment was given the honour to start the war."

The surreal feeling wavered like air over sun-baked asphalt when the words rammed into Shiro's ears. His elementary school class had had work projects about the war, yes – had been to war memorials and museums. Lots of those things. He had read about the attack on Pearl Harbor, the spark that drew fire onto Japan and obliterated two of her cities before the Emperor declared the war was over.

His dad had…?

"I'm not surprised Nii-san never told you." Satoshi's voice was unreadable, as if he wasn't surprised but still had had some form of expectation. "He wasn't the same man after the war. It broke his spirit. Broke his honour."

By then, Shiro knew his uncle's voice was unreadable because there was something he wanted to hide. A feeling he didn't want to show. If he let the shield around his heart drop for a second he might be able to pick up on… No. Never again. He would not risk human lives – not for curiosity, not for pleasure or any other desires.

"Did he tell you who this is?"

Satoshi pointed to the last figure in the photograph. This man's uniform had seen war, not just training camps. He was only slightly taller than his sons, and must have been middle-aged but wore the face of one who had aged beyond his years. Shiro could tell where Satoshi got his sharp bone structure from.

"That's Fujimoto Kanetake." It was meant to come out as a question, but it sounded more like a statement. "I've never seen any photos of him but I know he was my granddad."

"Grandfather", Satoshi corrected; softly, but sternly.

"He's…" He's dead, it's not like he's gonna hear it. But that would have been rude to say, and Shiro didn't feel like being rude was a step in a good direction. "He's different from what I had imagined. I visited the grave before I went here. Grandmother is still alive?"

"Yes. She's in the dining room. Her memory is beginning to falter now, but she knows you will be here today and she's looking forward to seeing you very much. Just remember to speak loud and clear to her."

Shiro nodded, trying to remember when he last had seen granny Aiko. It must have been on Obon, when families came together to wash the graves of their departed. Come to think of it… it had always just been him and his family on Obon. Not once had he seen Satoshi's family at the grave, even if he was also Kanetake's son and should honour his dead father. Satoshi did go to the grave, obviously, since it was clean and well kept.

"Did your family pray at a different time? On Obon?"

"Yes. Nii-san wanted it that way", he said curtly. Then, after a brief pause: "I'm guessing he didn't tell you that the grave is empty, that Otou-san's ashes aren't there?"

Shiro blinked.

"Uh, no…"

A deep, unsettling feeling burrowed in Shiro's chest. It reminded him of when his whole class had known that Midori and Sen dated, without telling him. That had been for laughs, for half a year, but this…? All these secrets, all this silence – why?

Why did his parents insist on betraying his trust even after he had finally accepted their reasons?

"Uncle… I know you and dad didn't talk but do you have any idea why he never told me anything? Why mom never- Did she even know about this? About dad and the war and grandda-father?"

To Shiro's surprise, Satoshi placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch itself was unexpected, but even more so was the unspoken weight it carried – a weight very apparent in in Satoshi's eyes. His face remained calm and schooled, but his eyes were smouldering: and Shiro could imagine what his own face looked like, those times the anger flared up inside him.

"Come into my study, Shiro-san. I will tell you everything."

The study lay behind the corridor's only door. It would have been a room of average size if not for the shelves and archive lockers that crammed the desk in on a square so small Satoshi had to inch past it sideways. His goal was the window blinds; the study was facing South, like Shiro's dorm room, which meant that during daytime it would get sweltering hot in there. Satoshi, however, had a ceiling fan installed alongside the blinds, so it couldn't be that bad.

"It's not a happy story", he said, tugging the string and hauling the blinds up with efficient movements. "But I don't think you expected it to be."

"Not really." Shiro wanted to put his hands in his pockets, to have them somewhere, but opted for clasping them behind his back instead.

The warm glow of afternoon spilled into the room when the blinds came up. It illuminated a galaxy of dust particles in the study, but aside that the room itself was neatly kept. Sunlight shone on rows and rows of arch files on the shelves, and cast bright reflections from three massive archive lockers to the left of the desk. It was the room of someone orderly who kept private life and business separate, without a single photograph of loved ones or missed ones.

"Please, sit." Satoshi motioned to the chair before the desk and seemed to smile although he wasn't. If he smiled it was to put Shiro at ease, not because he had anything to smile about.

But Shiro did take a seat. Satoshi followed, sinking down into the larger chair behind the desk with a creak that could have been his knees as well as the leather upholstering of the chair.

"The war." Uncle Satoshi adjusted himself to sit comfortably, letting the words mingle with the dust particles in the air. Once he had settled, he folded his hands on the empty desk surface and seemed to consider his next words. "The war was terrible." Satoshi flicked a glance at Shiro's eyes before settling it back around the height of his shirt collar. "Towards the end we had no more iron or steel. But we didn't give up. We were prepared to fight the Ame-koh with sharpened bamboo spears and wooden bullets. I was given one such bamboo spear. Two metres long, barely thick as a man's wrist." Satoshi grasped his own wrist with one hand, as if to illustrate the measurement. "We knew we couldn't win with such weapons. Our Captain kept holding speeches saying that we would, because our spirit was stronger than that of the Ame-koh. Anyone could tell we wouldn't. We all knew we wouldn't. But we didn't give up." There was a glow in Satoshi's eyes when he spoke; a glow of pride, a glow of strength, and of something hard and uncompromising. "Because our spirit was stronger than that of the Ame-koh. Had they been left with only spears to fight with, they would have surrendered: we didn't. We were going to fight to the end and die to defend our country."

When Samael held long monologues, as he liked to do, Shiro was a poor listener for several reasons – the demon's self-absorbed nature being the least of them. But when humans speak, it's because they have something they want to share, or need to share. So Shiro listened, and did so with genuine attention; because at some point Satoshi's story would also become his story, when he finally learnt of his dad's reasons.

"I can't expect you to understand what that is like, without having experienced it", Satoshi mused, as if trying to gauge the gap between his own experiences and his nephew's. "It's a special moment, to feel that. Your life; it suddenly matters, because you know you will be doing something great with it. That, the Captain was right about. At the end of each such speech he would raise his sword, and we all began singing Doki no Sakura. The true anthem of Japan." Yes, this was something Satoshi needed to share. One could see the emotion glistening in the corners of his eyes, hear it swell in his controlled voice, even when he did his best to maintain a collected appearance. "I thought of my father and brother when we sang. I hoped that they, too, got to know that feeling, wherever they were; by then it was impossible to get accurate reports, you see. What I knew was that we had only a handful operational planes left in the Imperial Air Force, and our pilots were assigned either to die in tokkou tai attacks or fight on the ground", Satoshi confided, face etched with sombre memories and a stern pride. "We fought. We died. Many friends of mine died. Then the Ame-koh dropped the bombs."

The look Satoshi gave him then spoke of things Shiro could never imagine, and never wanted to imagine. Brief as it was, the silence that followed contained the silent homage of a nation.

"Pikadon", Satoshi murmured. A word weighing a hundred thousand lives. "It became our new word for destruction when destruction wasn't enough. I didn't see when it hit, but the remainders of my battalion cleared up what once was Hiroshima – another thing you can't imagine if you weren't there. Everything was rubble. Everything was burnt."

Shiro nodded quietly. He had seen photographs of the city after the bomb: a wasteland of pulverised buildings and black-burnt trees.

"For days we did nothing but burn bodies. Day and night, the fires burnt – there was no time to identify the dead." Satoshi rubbed a thumb over his knuckles, slowly, as if contemplating the work those old hands had done. "We wouldn't have been able to identify them even if there had been time. We could barely move them because the skin, it fell off; like on cooked fish. If we found survivors we took them to the hospital. It was still standing, by some miracle, and some of the doctors were still alive. We brought blankets and food there, as much as we could spare."

Shiro remembered those pictures, too. He had had nightmares for weeks after that class. He had dreamt of people with no skin, people with no faces, people with radiation damage where the skin thickened and hardened and distorted their limbs. Many nights he had crawled down next to his mom in her futon after waking from such a dream. Whatever Satoshi dreamt, Shiro didn't want to know; the creased, stern face said enough.

"When you see things like what I saw in Hiroshima…" he murmured, quietly. "It made me wonder if the dead weren't the lucky ones. Those who survived – many of them were barely recognisable as human. Still, I went to the hospital as often as I could and looked closely at each one of them. I asked the nurses if there was anyone there by the name Fujimoto Hideo. The odds were slim, of course, but I had to. I hadn't heard from Nii-san in a month. After the bomb radio communication was down. It took days for the engineers to get a radio in there. And then the Emperor declared the war was over. My heart." Satoshi tapped a clenched fist to his chest. "My heart broke that day. We had fought like dogs to keep the trash out of Japan: for nothing. All the men that gave their lives in battle, all the thousands of corpses we burnt: for nothing." This time there was a tremor in his voice; the sound of someone wronged who still hasn't forgiven. It was a feeling Shiro could relate to, even if he was many years too young to have felt the full effects of the war. "And your father…"

The tremors were too much; Satoshi's voice was threatening to fail him, and on the desk his fingers clenched around each other. They sat silent for a while, in unspoken agreement to let him compose himself to continue. Some things require time and effort to speak of; Shiro could relate to that, too.

"I was notified a week later where your father was. He had surrendered." Satoshi's voice was more than calm – it was dead. As dead and cold as the brother he had buried years before he jumped in front of a train. "Long before Hiroshima was destroyed, he laid down his rifle while our comrades died fighting with bamboo spears."

And for the briefest of moments… their two stories did converge, in the dust-heavy air of that cramped study. One story of a boy whose father betrayed his wife and son; one story of a man whose brother betrayed his trust and his country; and when these two stories came together, so did Shiro and his uncle. Quietly. Through shared betrayal and shared resent. Shiro wondered if he should say something, do something, but in the end… he probably didn't need to.

"I did not want to talk to your father again – I hope you can understand", Satoshi resumed. "I wouldn't have, if Okaa-san hadn't insisted there should be no bad blood between brothers: even if he had dishonoured his country and his family, our family had become too small to be made even smaller." Satoshi made a gesture at Shiro – or so he thought, before he realised that he had been thinking about the old photograph out in the corridor. "Father – your grandfather – was stationed in Manchuoko when the Soviets captured it. He was sent to the labour camps in Siberia, along with thousands of other Japanese prisoners of war. We never saw him again."

It was on Shiro's tongue to mumble "damn" as the full picture bloomed out before him, but he didn't. He just watched it grow as Satoshi's voice filled in the gaps in his family history.

"It was a hard time for Okaa-san. I wanted to do what I could for her, so I went to talk with Nii-san." Oh there were many things Satoshi didn't say, many feelings that were kept strictly out of sight; Shiro knew all the signs to look for. "Hideo-nii wouldn't acknowledge what he had done. He wouldn't apologise for it, wouldn't even speak of it. First he sent me away, then he refused to see me altogether." Satoshi drew a breath, as if collecting himself for the next sentence. "The last thing I said to him was that if his shame was that great it wasn't too late for him to die honourably." Satoshi nodded his head slightly, adopting a tone that was softened into an apology: "That was before you were born. I wouldn't have said such harsh words if Nii-san had had a child to provide for."

Damn. It made so much sense now. Shiro vividly remembered the family dinners from his childhood – the forced congeniality, the infected silence – and it all made sense in one bright flash of understanding.

Tatemae. That was the explanation his mom had given him, one time, when he in childish naïveté had asked her why she never said anything about dad's other woman. She was unhappy, Shiro knew that, but she never let it show. That was tatemae: to show what was expected, not what one truly felt. Stay silent and lie. Avoid conflict and maintain harmony, maintain a good façade, even if you were breaking apart inside.

Shiro hated tatemae. Hated what it did to people. Hated how the silence it enforced strangled people to death. And it wasn't just the mistress that had been quietly ignored around the dinner table. Of course his dad had never talked about the war, or about Satoshi; of course granny Aiko had never brought the topic up. It was shameful. It was a conflict. It threatened to crack their frail façade of harmony and therefore it must be avoided at all costs. That was what tatemae was for.

"Stupid piece of…" There was nothing shameful in not having the mettle for being a soldier. There was nothing shameful in not having the guts to put your life on the line, or kill – hell, that was the most human thing of all! Just look at Ryuuji!

What was shameful was to shirk away from what you had done without taking responsibility for it. To make a mess and leave it for someone else to clean up. To run away, like the cowardly rat Hideo had been; run off to some mistress and probably fucking know he'd get away with it, because his family was a good family that would cover up all his unseemly secrets to preserve their beloved goddamn façade.

It hadn't taken long for the connections to form in Shiro's mind, but it felt long. It felt like all the years from 1945 to 1968 replayed in split seconds. 1968, the year when Fujimoto Hideo had shirked away from his responsibilities for the last time.

"Took him a while to realise it was good advice." It was a cruel thing to say of one's father; Shiro was well aware of that. It was a cruel thing to say of anybody, but in the pit of his stomach he felt like Hideo deserved it for all the pain he had caused the people around him. "I don't blame you. For saying that to him. He needed someone to straighten him out – just never…" Shiro had to pause and exhale the stinging irony of what he had been about to say: that Hideo just never wanted to listen to those who tried to make him see reason. Just like Shiro hadn't listened to all the voices that had told him Samael was not a friend. "He just never had the spine to take responsibility."

"No." Satoshi nodded in soft agreement. The single word was followed by one of those silences where you don't know if you're supposed to say something more, or what to say. Despite their shared experiences and opinions of Hideo they were still strangers to each other, and for strangers to speak of sensitive things was… not easy. "My only regret is that I didn't try harder", Satoshi said softly, as if he were leaving a confession. "Nanako-san's death came as a shock to us. I kept thinking that if I had been more persistent with my brother, if I had only been there and confronted him when he started seeing that other woman, then things would never have reached the point where she took her life." Satoshi heaved a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose, as if dispelling restless thoughts spawned by unpleasant memories. "No, my brother lacked every ounce of responsibility."

…it may have been a strange response to the situation, but in the chair across the desk, Shiro smiled. He didn't smile because he found something funny, but because he understood. And Satoshi understood him. When someone has gone through the same things you have, and formed the same opinion… That creates bonds. Shiro wouldn't deny there was an odd tinge of humour to it, as well. Although Hideo had pushed them apart and made them strangers, it was now Hideo that became the bridge between them.

"I want to apologise to you, Shiro-san." The solemnness of Satoshi's words caught him off guard. "No one should have to go through what you've had to go through. I should have been there for you. From now on I will." It was a vow that left no room for doubt, not when Satoshi said it like that: it was a vow made on honour and blood and name. "We're family."

His uncle's words struck a deep, jarring chord in Shiro. Yes, they were family, but Satoshi had never acted like it. No one should have to go through being abandoned and alone, he was damn right about that – and where had he been, the nine long years that Shiro had been an orphan incarcerated in a governmental institution? Shiro had wondered that many times. He had lain awake many nights – wondering why nobody wanted him, wondering why nobody came to visit him – and slowly grown the bitter conclusion that if they didn't want him then he didn't want them. He didn't need them. He could manage on his own. He didn't need to rely on anyone.

But he had still wanted an answer. Not an apology: an answer. And now he could get it. All he had to do was open his mouth and pose Satoshi the questions he had carried for so many years; stab him with those questions, and with all the rage and hurt that had made him the youth delinquent he had been.

"We are", he affirmed, with a smile that wasn't entirely fake but not entirely genuine. "I've been thinking a lot about this, actually. I wasn't sure how to approach you, so I'm glad you sent that invitation card. I'm glad you told me this."

…so why didn't he ask? Why didn't the words come out, when he had always wanted to confront his uncle with them?

There are three fundamental desires that motivate the human heart; and while Knowledge may be the most significant, one should never forget that Greed has levelled empires (it's not only for material things) and that Lust has been the guillotine for a hundred thousand men and women (humans desire more than the intimacy of the flesh).

Shiro wanted to know the whys and hows of Satoshi's decisions as much as his dad's… but that wasn't the only thing he wanted.

Coming out of the study Shiro felt like he had, in fact, taken one step closer to adulthood. Turning twenty in itself didn't change anything, aside giving him the legal rights and responsibilities of an adult Japanese citizen. Learning the things he had learnt from Satoshi, however, and making decisions like the ones he had made in that room; that made him feel like an adult Japanese citizen.

"We're very happy that you came." Satoshi closed the door to the study with a smooth click. "Dinner should be ready soon. Why don't we take a seat at the table?"

"Anatta… Ah, welcome, Shiro-san."

Shiro's first view of aunt Noriko was that of shining black hair, carefully coiffed in a fashionable style. When she rose from the bow, the image was accompanied by a rounded face that was just as carefully – although discreetly – painted. And the way she kept her hands folded in front of her, the way she carried herself in her yukata, the delicate gentleness of her voice… Aunt Noriko was a Lady, capital L. Shiro sent a silent prayer that she would be like Kohu-sensei, and harbour some puzzling, grandmotherly affection for him; that really was his only chance to ever be liked by his aunt.

"Anatta, Chiharu…" She turned to her husband again as soon as she had greeted him. "She is in her old room."

Chiharu. Must be the youngest cousin. Good thing he found out her name before he had to ask about it.

"I will speak with her", Satoshi said, answering his wife's unspoken request. "Is dinner ready…?"

"Soon", she replied, casting her eyes down as she nodded. "A few things have yet to boil. Meanwhile, would you like to take seat at the table, Shiro-san?"

"Actually… If it's not too much trouble for you, I can help Akane-chan finish things up in the kitchen."

It wasn't the reply she had expected, evidently, but she did a good job of not letting it show. Shiro helpfully motioned for her to turn and look behind her: the apartment was big but still had a standard layout, which meant that the corridor opened up to a large dining space with a small kitchen niche immediately to the right. Akane, the cousin closest to Shiro's own age, had slipped into view from that kitchen in order to snatch up an escaped stalk of warabi from the floor. She must have heard what he had said, because she had frozen on the spot with her eyes locked on him.

Upon closer inspection, all three of them had their eyes locked on him.

"I know my way around a kitchen: I have to, since I live alone." Shiro shrugged to make light of the request in case it wasn't well received. "It would make me feel more at home." It was half the truth, at least. The other half was that doing something practical would make him less nervous of aunt Noriko. If he was just sitting around her he would worry about a hundred things like posture and whether or not he spoke correctly.

"…if Shiro-san would like to help he may of course help."

The kitchen smelled in a way that assaulted Shiro's mind with memories. It had that special smell of cooking, cleaning agents and traces of nature gas that amassed because the kitchen was a small niche, not like the big dorm kitchens at the Academy. The dorm kitchens were a Western inspired style, with all utensils fitted into drawers; this kitchen couldn't fit in that many drawers and used all space available to fasten hooks and hang tools. It made it look more cluttered, but it was an organised, homely clutter that made the kitchen more than just a place to cook.

It wasn't what Shiro had expected, though. Well, it had all the cupboards and machines you expect a kitchen to have, with a two-burner gas stove in the corner, a sink in the middle, and a rice cooker sitting atop the sauce pan cabinet. Every object had its designated place, from the pans and utensils hanging above the sink to the hooks for towels, oven gloves and aprons on the side of the cabinet. It was a kitchen where anything disorderly became glaringly apparent, which was the case with the apron tossed in the corner, the wooden cutting board on the floor, and the stalks of warabi and asparagus that were scattered all over the place.

The one crouched down and picking them up at fervent speed had to be Akane. She was one year younger than he was, if Shiro remembered correctly. She wore glasses that swallowed much of her face and made her look older, but it had to be her.

"Here. You won't be able to hold them all in your hand."

The woman who offered her little sister a ceramic bowl to gather the vegetables in could not be Akane. Shiro did some quick maths and concluded that Saki was eight years older than he was while Tomoe was five years older. Right. So whoever this was it was perfectly normal for her to be pregnant. That did help ease the shock a little. Shiro had been mentally preparing himself to meet four cousins, not four cousins plus half a… whatever children of one's cousins were called.

"Pleased to meet you again, Shiro-san." The plump little woman smiled and made a small, small bow, as if she was afraid of tipping over. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Tomoe."

"I do remember, a little. Congratulations."

Tomoe beamed, the way he had always heard that expecting mothers could beam. She had the same round face as aunt Noriko, although not as flat and not in need of any make-up to smooth out wrinkles.

"Thank you – and thank you for offering to help. I'm a little out of commission at the moment, I'm afraid."

"It wasn't me", Akane made sure to say before he could assume that it was her fault half the dinner was on the floor. "Chiharu can be very immature."

"If you nag her", Tomoe replied casually; then, her tone changed immediately: "Could you hand me that, Shiro-san? I'll wash it off so we can chop the rest."

"Sure." Shiro picked up the cutting board and handed it to her. Next he bent to pick up the apron, which also allowed him to catch the glare Akane shot her sister. It was a look that reminded Shiro that while he had a girlfriend, he was eons away from speaking Girl. The absentminded comment from Tomoe had been a veiled stab, clearly, but Akane's quiet response had far more nuances than plain hostility. Whatever it was, Tomoe appeared unaffected, fully occupied smoothing her hand in circles over the cutting board she was washing under the tap.

"I don't see why you take her side when you know I'm right."

"Take sides, imouto…? I just state facts."

"Uh, so…" Change of topic, change of topic; Shiro may not speak Girl, but he could tell when conflict was brewing. He left the apron hanging next to the towels and crouched down next to Akane to… look at the bowl she was dropping stray vegetables in. He hadn't meant to, but he couldn't avoid it. The bowl was weirdly familiar. His own family had had the same set, hadn't they…? Shiro shook the side track out of his head and began picking up vegetables. "You must have graduated this spring?"

He assumed so, at least. True Cross Academy was the only Japanese school that followed the Western system; all the rest began their school year in April and ended in March.

"Mh, I did. I've applied to five different schools – vocational schools – in and around True Cross, so we'll see where I end up. I wouldn't mind moving to my own apartment – or share one with a flatmate – if it turns out to be far off, but… We'll see." She pushed her glasses further up on her nose, then glanced around for more vegetables while also taking the opportunity to shoot Shiro a curious glance. "Those strings for your glasses look really nice. Where did you buy them?"

"These? A friend made them." For lack of better word. "What are you going to study if you get in?"

"Hairdresser", the response came immediately. "I always liked doing mother's hair – well, anyone's hair. I did it on dolls first and then on my sisters. Tomoe-nee asked me to arrange hers for her wedding two years ago, and when we graduated – my high school class – I did all my friends' hair. Hairdresser just felt like a natural choice." As if marking the end of her speech, she grasped the filled bowl and stood.

The only time Shiro had heard anyone speak the way Akane did was when Matsuri-sensei had invited him to join the audience for an Upper Middle Class Doctor's essay disputation. The Doctor – a Korean exorcist with an unfortunate underbite – had delivered her thesis, method and conclusion with the clattering efficiency of a printing press, and had been about as pleasant to listen to.

Shiro quietly decided that Akane didn't need to know that.

"Noriko-san's hair was the first thing I noticed, actually", he admitted and stood. "You've done a great job with that."

"A-ah, it's nothing, but… Thank you." Akane bowed, acting suitably demure although Shiro could tell she was pleased.

And without further ado, she opened the cupboard beneath the sink and emptied the bowl in the trash. Just like that. Tomoe didn't seem to mind either, so perhaps it wasn't such a strange thing to throw vegetables that had touched the floor. Perhaps it was only poor people that felt a twinge inside when food was wasted (a good rinse with water would have done the job).

"Speaking of that, Shiro-san." Shiro jolted back to the present. "That's a distinct-looking hairstyle you've got. I like it." Akane took over the cutting board from Tomoe, who returned to stirring the pot on the stove. "You look very mature."

"Old, you mean", he smiled.

"Oh no, I didn't mean it like that. Just that you look more mature."

…maybe his cousins needed a little more time before they could start pulling jokes.

"You do look older", Tomoe jumped in, smiling. She didn't only have her mother's looks; she was stirring the pot of miso soup as elegantly as if she had been holding a calligraphy brush. "Like a perfect skin care model: sixty years old and skin like a teenager. Akane, will you check how much more we have of the asparagus? We have to make do with what's left, but it should be fine."

"We have… six stalks of asparagus and six of warabi left", Akane observed, rummaging through the textile bag they had used for shopping. "It won't be enough." She pushed her glasses up and threw a glance at the wall clock. It showed 17:55. "If I rush down maybe the food market hasn't closed entirely yet."

"Don't bother. There will be less vegetables, that's all. We have a bottle of junsai in the pantry, we'll manage."

"No, I'll be there in three minutes: I can make it." Akane had already started on her mission, discarded the apron and was washing her hands hastily.

"Akane, no. Dinner will work out fine. At this time there won't be any good vegetables left anyway."

"I can still check", she persisted.

"You would only slow us down and everybody is already hungry."

From Shiro's point of view, Tomoe was the one that made most sense. Yet, Akane ignored her and hurriedly wiped her hands off. He was about to say that he was fine with a bit less vegetables, when Tomoe spoke again – in a different tone this time.

"Besides, there is plenty of dessert if we're still hungry. What type of dessert do you prefer, Shiro-san?"

"Tomoe-" Akane had stopped dead in her preparations for leaving and shot her sister a warning glare.

"What? It's not like he won't find out later anyway."

"That's later. What if we got it wrong?" she hissed, as if whispering, although Shiro really didn't get why since he could hear her perfectly anyway.

He may not understand Girl, but manipulation he had studied closely. Shiro knew what Tomoe was trying to accomplish, and donned a confused look to help her out with it. In all honesty he was pretty hungry.

"Got what wrong? Dessert?"

"We weren't sure, you see", Tomoe confided, smiling behind her hand and completely ignoring Akane's distressed looks. "So I proposed that each of us should pick one flavour we thought you'd like. Akane's just afraid of being wrong."

"I'm afraid we all are wrong", she corrected testily and shot her sister a disapproving glare (that was ignored – again).

Even if two of his cousins looked about to fly at each other's throats, a warm feeling spread in Shiro's chest. They had gone to such extents for his birthday?

"Alright, but first tell me who picked what", he demanded with a grin, careful not to let his eyes dart to the wall clock and give the game away. It was at times like these that he felt the drawbacks of his deal with Samael most tangibly: they needed only a few minutes of stalling to thwart Akane's intentions of running to the food market, but Shiro couldn't gauge that time at all.

"I picked vanilla, Saki-nee picked sakura mochi…" Tomoe scrunched her eyebrows together. If she wasn't serious about forgetting she was a very good actress. "What did Chiharu take…?"

"She took azuki beans, I took strawberry", Akane finished.

"Not bad. Right answer is azuki beans."

"See, Akane? We have everything we need – without you wasting time at the food market." Tomoe nodded at the wall clock, which now read 17:58.

Akane really looked like she wanted to say something about her sister's unfair tactics, and preferably something nasty. It was an addictive look: as a seasoned prankster and tease, Shiro could tell right away – and this kind of scenario had probably played out many times while all the sisters still lived under the same roof.

"A pleasure to work with you", he smirked at Tomoe, who was rapidly becoming his favourite cousin. She laughed at his boldness, reflexively placing a hand under her belly to support it as she did. Yeah, he could get along with her. Akane was stiff and Noriko was dangerously proper, but Tomoe he had a good feeling about.

"Pardon me a moment, please. I just need to wash Sasuke-chan's bottle."

Speak of the devil: aunt Noriko came padding into the kitchen with an emptied baby bottle in hand.

"Sasuke-kun is… Saki-san's kid?" Shiro asked as he stepped aside to let her use the tap.

"Yes – eight months old. He's such a sweetheart." Noriko turned her head and smiled softly at him. "Why don't you let us finish the last bit here and say hello to the others in the dining room? Aiko-san has been looking forward so much to seeing you. Take a while to relax and get reacquainted before we all sit down to eat, hm?"

"I think I'll do that, yeah – yes." Shiro cursed quietly. Aunt Noriko had that formal kind of aura that he never felt comfortable around. "And, uh, how's Chiharu-chan? Is everything alright?"

Noriko stood quiet for a while, flushing the baby bottle with water twice before answering him.

"Sometimes teenagers have troubled minds. She will grow out of it, I'm sure."

"It's just a rebellious phase", Akane confirmed while chopping asparagus. There was a condescending tone in how she said it, however; as if rebellious teens were failed human beings that should be quickly set right for their own good.

"I think it's healthy for kids to have that phase", he responded, turning on the tap to wash his hands after Noriko was done with the bottle. "It's part of growing up. You don't know yourself properly until you've run into a few hardships and made a few stupid decisions."

That made Akane shut up. Tomoe, on the other hand, threw him a glance of covert intelligence, as if she could tell right away that those were words he spoke from experience. Then her glance swept over her mother and sister – watchful, calculating – and Shiro realised she was the kind that kept a close eye on things.

"Wise words", Noriko agreed. "But even wise words have their time."

Tomoe's glance shifted back to him to dowse for a reaction; that was the only reason it occurred to Shiro what his aunt had implied. It had sounded like he was defending – supporting – Chiharu's rebelliousness, and a proper lady like aunt Noriko might not appreciate that.

Goddammit he had never been good with subtleties.

"I didn't mean to sound like I was encouraging her to be disobedient – I just don't think you should worry too much about this phase of hers. She'll come around eventually."

Was that too straightforward? Or what was the meaning of that glance his aunt gave him? Why did it have to be so hard just to talk? But then Noriko smiled (and covered it), so it was probably okay.

"You're a considerate young man. That's a good quality."

…Shiro had no idea what he had done that made him come off as considerate, but when paid a compliment you should express gratitude (especially if the one paying the compliment was someone like aunt Noriko).

"Thank you, aunt. Um, I think I will say hi to grandmother. And Saki-san. You just… Yeah I'll leave the kitchen to you."

The dining room lay just across from the kitchen niche: a spacious place, eight jo of tatami mats with a dark lacquered table in the middle. A second table – tea table, from the looks of it – had been pushed up next to the regular one to allow for extra guests, and at this table sat two women. Granny Aiko was too busy to notice him at first: she was cooing over the toddler that held her gnarled old finger in a firm grip. Said toddler was standing up on the mats with its mother, Saki, holding supporting hands under its armpits. This didn't last long before the balancing act became too difficult and the baby plopped down on its butt. And there it sat, looking around wide-eyed as if it had no idea what just happened. The failure to remain standing caused an eruption of nonsensical, high-pitched twaddling – not from the baby, but from Aiko and Saki, who seemed overjoyed that the kid couldn't stand. It didn't take more than a second before the baby joined in with its own happy, high-pitched gargles, for no reason whatsoever except that everyone else was doing it.

Shiro blinked, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Because… he had never seen something like that. Not that he could remember. And he could have sworn the world shifted beneath him then, because suddenly he saw how wrong it all was. An old grandmother (his grandmother) casually chatting with her grandchild and great grandchild (his cousin and cousin-child): that was something he should be used to, but he wasn't. He was used to living nightmares with glowing eyes and snarling maws, and that was something nobody should be used to. For that one split eternity of a moment, it was like he could see both worlds at once. One world where Satoshi and Noriko had taken him in when he was orphaned, where he was sitting there as one of them, Saki as his older sister and Aiko as his grandmother, and where those tables and cups and bowls were etched with childhood laughs and memories; one world where no one had taken him in, where violence and theft had raised him until he decided to get a proper education for himself, only to become a rare toy in a demon's collection and an assassin in the shadow politics of exorcism.

The feeling wasn't entirely unlike that time in Deep Keep when Tanzi's infiltrator shot him.

"Life's not fair, you know that", he reminded himself, blinking to clear away the visions of the world that could have been. "You just gotta make the best of it." Because sometimes life does give you second chances, and when it does it's up to you to make the future better than the past. "Obaa-san, Saki-san." He bowed one time for each of them, then stopped to wonder if he should bow to the baby or not. It would have felt kinda… stupid, to do that.

"Ah, Shiro-san! Happy birthday!" Saki took one hand from her baby and waved him over. "Come closer, Baa-san wants to look at you. Baa-san, it's Shiro – your grandson Shiro, he's here now. Sasuke, honey, let go of Baa-chan's finger; she wants to say hi to uncle Shiro."

He had never, even in his most far-fetched dreams, imagined that he would be anyone's uncle Shiro; he could clearly picture Kasumi cracking up at that new nickname. He could picture other things too, as he padded towards granny Aiko over the rustling mats. She reminded him of the old nukekubi mother (grandmother?) he had beheaded, and that wasn't a pleasant association. Once he had thought that, however, he realised that he probably didn't evoke all too pleasant memories in Aiko either. He resembled a certain someone, too.

"Oh, you look so much like your father." She said it with a sigh, her watery eyes too far away in memories for the smile to reach them. "Come closer, my eyes aren't- Yes, thank you. I must see what a handsome young man you have become."

Shiro folded himself down on his knees to sit next to Aiko. She was so tiny – made of bird bones and sunken in until she was so light she looked like she might float on water. Her face was pale and crinkled, like clay in dry season. Her hair was thinning, and had become white and wispy like the silky fibres of a corncob. Still she had done her best to arrange it neatly, or maybe Akane had. There were teeth missing both here and there when she smiled wider, but it was the sweetest old granny smile he could imagine; it stretched the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes so that her face looked like one big smile.

"How are you, Shiro-kun?"

"I'm fine. It's a lot to do in school, but I like the job so it's okay. How are you, Baa-san?"

"Oh fine, just fine. Satoshi tells me you are an exorcist? An old friend of mine, Houtarou-san, had help from an exorcist once. He had goblins living in his garden shed, they said. Then they got rid of them for him. Have you done that, too?"

Shiro couldn't help but smile; it was the simplest form of exorcist pest control, and she sounded completely intrigued.

"Yes, I have. You see, goblins are earth demons, so they like dark and damp places…" Shiro told her about easy missions that wouldn't make her fear for his safety, as that was one thing he knew from Kohu-sensei that elderly people were experts at. Aiko seemed to suck in every word, occasionally contributing with an "ooh" or an "aah" when he explained in general terms how exorcism worked.

"You're a good boy, Shiro-kun, you are." She grasped his hands with gentle, wizened fingers and held them as if they were something tenderly precious. "I missed you so much. I kept thinking about you. You were so little, and we were all…"

Aiko looked like she was about to cry, and Shiro had no idea what to do.

"It's alright." He returned the gesture and grasped her hands, firmly. "I've been thinking about you too." Well, of sorts. "You don't- There's no need to cry, Baa-san."

Aiko looked like she was staring down at her knees, all hunched over and quivering.

"I-I'm not… crying. I'm just ha- happy", she said, raising her face again. She was crying – loads. But even when she did, she smiled, and she didn't let go of his hands. Not for a second.

"That's good, Baa-san. Letting it out is good. Baa- Shiro-san, here: give these to Baa-san, please."

Saki had produced a small pack of tissue paper and reached across the table to give it to Shiro – who didn't have any hands free to take it with. He looked down at their hands – hers were so small and gnarled in his – and squeezed her fingers for a second; then he untangled his hand and reached over the table, careful not to sweep down any bowls or cups. Yeah, that definitely was the same brand of set that his parents had had. It was a standard model, blue karakusa floral pattern on white background, but one he would recognise anywhere.

"Here." He put the tissues in her hand. Aiko just nodded and pulled one out, crying softly but still too much to speak easily.

It took a while for Aiko to completely stop crying. It wasn't a comfortable while for Shiro, who felt a fundamental… not dislike, but discomfort, when people were so openly emotional. Saki, however, seemed perfectly okay in the situation. Maybe it had something to do with raising kids and managing their mood swings, but she remained calm and warm and reassured the both of them that all was fine, that it wouldn't be a proper reunion if there wasn't any tears, and that Shiro sort of looked a bit like Aiko with that hair. He had to explain the hair again, of course, which led on to Saki retelling an anecdote about her husband (a convenience store assistant), who was also going grey even though he was only thirty.

"And then it turned out that the customer that had been debating pricing with him for fifteen minutes had believed he was the store owner's father", she finished a while later.

"Oh dear, oh dear…!" By that time, Aiko was chuckling heartily at the story, and Shiro had eased out of his previous discomfort. Saki was chuckling, too, and showed prominent dimples in her round cheeks when she did.

"Well, that hasn't happened to me yet, but new students have mistaken me for a teacher a few times." Holy shit, the day somebody would mistake him for someone's father… "Is it because I tend to scowl and get more wrinkles?"

"Oh you don't have any wrinkles, Shiro-kun", Aiko chortled. "You're smooth as a mochi."

"Oh, yeah – I heard you picked sakura mochi as my favourite dessert, Saki-san?"

"They told you? I thought we were going to keep it a surprise?"

"I think that was the plan, but we had to distract Akane-chan for a few minutes."

Saki's surprised face transformed into a smile, and she gave off a light titter that would have led Shiro to think she was the youngest sister.

"Well, departing from the plan is a good way of doing that."

"I noticed. I can't take the credit for it, though. Tomoe-san started it, I just followed her lead. But sakura mochi? What made you guess that?" Because honestly, sakura mochi were pretty girly. (Samael loved them.)

"Oh, I just thought it would fit", she said brightly. "Sakura mochi is a spring dessert, you're born in spring. Well, early summer, I suppose, but I've always thought of May as spring. It can still be a bit chilly at this time of year."

"That… was simpleminded…" Shiro thought. Saki really didn't come off as twenty-eight years old, but by the same token she seemed very friendly and kind. "I guess I should've been born in winter, then. Hotpot food is my favourite – oden especially."

"Really? I love winter food too!"

And from there, they talked mostly about food and cooking, and domestic life in general. Saki had worked only briefly at a convenience store before she got married. Since then she had been a full-time mother and housewife, and she loved every minute of it even if Shiro would have been bored out of his mind. Oh well. To each their own. If you were able to wipe milk vomit from your baby's chin with a loving smile, as Saki did when it turned out Sasuke hadn't burped enough, then you were most definitely well suited to being a mother.

"They're so precious, the little ones." The way Aiko looked at Sasuke you'd think that baby vomit was the cutest thing in the world. "They grow up so fast, you barely have time to blink. And you never stop loving them." Aiko's old voice hovered on the edge of memories, Shiro could tell, but she wouldn't go there. Instead she reached for the present, for her great grandchild, and smiled when the baby in turn reached out to grab her finger. "You look like a little mochi too, don't you?" She poked Sasuke's soft belly gently – and tickled. The baby shrieked with laughter. Shiro winced, and suppressed a strong urge to stick his fingers in his ears. Were all babies that loud? That shrill? Couldn't you just… make it quiet?

"I'm having a hard time working out the relationship ties here. What exactly am I to Sasuke-kun?" he asked. "'Cause I'm not really his uncle."

His hopes were that, if they were talking, then hopefully Saki would make an effort to keep Sasuke calm. It did work: Aiko stopped tickling him and Saki bounced him lightly on her lap, hushing him softly.

"I haven't thought about it, to be honest. Baa-san, do you know?" When she noticed Aiko didn't catch the question, she raised her voice: "Shiro-san wonders what he is to Sasuke, if he isn't his uncle."

"Mmm you and Shiro-kun are first cousins", she clarified, seemingly to herself, before she turned to Shiro. "That makes you and Sasuke-chan first cousins, once removed. And of course you and Kaede-chan are also first cousins, once removed."

"Kaede-chan?" Shiro directed his question to Saki, who answered him happily.

"Sasuke has a big sister. Yes you do, right? A sweet big sister that loves to help mommy look after you?" She smiled down at her boy, who was too busy trying to stuff his little fist into his mouth to listen. Chuckling warmly, Saki returned to addressing Shiro again. "Kaede turns six next month. She talks and talks and talks – you know how children that age are."

Shiro vaguely remembered some kid at the orphanage – Yosuke or whatever his name had been – that had talked and talked and talked. He had no idea how old Yosuke had been.

"Uh, sure."

Four cousins plus two and a half once-removed first cousins. Damn. His family was suddenly very big.

"And when you find a wife and have children, your children will be each other's second cousins." Aiko probably meant it in the best way possible and not at all as some form of expectation, but Shiro hoped his feelings didn't show on his face. The thought of having children of his own was… God he didn't even want to think about that. Not only did he have zero experience (or patience) with children, but as a Catholic priest…

"That will probably take a while", he said evasively. "I have to work, find a place to live, buy furniture and utensils and all that. I've lived in a dorm the past years, I don't even have a futon for when I graduate and move out. Once I've gotten the basic stuff together I can start thinking about meeting someone, but now is too early." And now he felt like he was babbling just to avoid questions. "Uh, so, where's Kaede-chan?"

"At home with her father. She really wanted to come, but: ear infection", Saki explained, eyebrows pulling together empathically. "She's always been prone to ear infections, poor thing."

"She grows out of it, hopefully. I was often ill when I was little, too", Aiko told them. "For me it was always the… the… These here, in the cheeks…?" She dabbed her fingertips at her cheeks just under her eyes, looking to her grandchildren for help.

"Sinuses." Shiro had touched on them briefly in human gross anatomy when he studied for Matsuri-sensei. "Did you have sinus infections?"

Shiro learnt one very important life lesson then: don't ask elderly people about their illnesses. They have gone through many, and they are happy to go through the whole list and give you a detailed account of each one. Thus they were stuck on the topic until Satoshi returned and Noriko announced that dinner was ready.

And what a dinner. The main course, that Shiro hadn't been part of making, was ayu: sweetwater fish, grilled whole and dusted with salt like on the finest restaurants. He did have a hand in preparing the spring vegetables, but he would never have arranged them as beautifully as Tomoe and Akane had. The food was a feast both for the eye and the tongue, and everyone had soon made themselves comfortable at the table; even Sasuke, who was napping soundly on his own zabuton next to Saki. Conversation flowed back and forth and wove a good-humoured atmosphere around the meal, everyone eager to catch up on recent happenings and share plans for the future. Tomoe's husband held a high position in the Tomy company, and Satoshi was eager to be invited for dinner again to hopefully tie favourable connections for his logistics company. They all wanted to come to Shiro's graduation ceremony, but before that aunt Noriko had a birthday that she didn't want to celebrate because she was getting old, plus there were all the speculations on whether Tomoe's first baby would be a boy or a girl, and what its name should be.

"It's in the shape of the belly. When I carried Kaede I was wide as a truck", Saki explained between mouths of rice. "When I carried Sasuke the belly was all in front of me, not out on the sides at all. I think you're having a girl."

"I don't know how reliable that is", Noriko responded. "When I had you I was wide, as you describe, but when I had your sisters my belly was also much more protruding. Maybe the first one is wide and the rest not?"

"It depends on what you eat", Aiko said knowledgeably, and used tissue paper to dab her mouth after drinking her soup. "If you eat mostly meat it will be a boy, and if you eat vegetables it will be a girl."

Tomoe stopped for a moment to look at the asparagus sprout she was about to put in her mouth. Then she ate it.

"A girl, then. That would be good, in fact. We have already agreed on a name if it's a girl: Mayuri." Tomoe gingerly blew on her tea. "If it's a boy Yasushi-san wants Kintaro, but I would much rather like Kazuki."

"Kazuki is a good name", Saki agreed; then she tittered into her hand, glancing at her sister with laughter in her eyes. "Besides I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of the folk tale Kintaro if you named him that. That would make you the yamauba that raised him."

"Better think twice before you let your children come play with mine then, Nee-san…" she returned with a wicked grin, and they all laughed heartily.

The dinner was great… Except for Chiharu. Chiharu sat on the opposite side of the table from Shiro, two seats down. Her long, straight bangs blocked the view of her eyes, and she didn't look up from her bowl even once. The only indication that she was holding back tears was the small, small quiver in her lips that she vehemently fought down. There was a reddish mark on her cheek, a mark Shiro recognised clearly from all the times he had been disciplined for disobedience at the orphanage.

And tatemae worked its magic. The amiable chatter around the table continued, encapsulating the quiet girl as if suffocating her silence would make all her problems disappear. It was a straitjacket tension and it made Shiro squirm where he sat. He couldn't leave it like that, somebody needed to acknowledge that everything wasn't as jovial as they pretended it was, not for Chiharu. It reminded him too much of what his own family had been like towards the end, where thoughts and feelings were silenced to death. However… Just like before, he didn't say a thing.

Shiro ate slowly, virtually rice grain by rice grain, as he tried to pinpoint what was going on. It wasn't like him to just shut up when something like that bothered him. What happened to his principles? This was exactly the kind of thing he hated the most! Why would he shut up when his family was… when his family was…

It was then very clear to Shiro why he hadn't put Satoshi against the wall in the study, and why he didn't address Chiharu's discomfort now. He wanted a family, subconsciously; and here he had one. All he had to do was to blend in, nice and quiet, and get them to accept him.

"Really? Am I that fucking cheap? Tch, evidently…"

He looked away from Chiharu – or rather, looked away from his own shame. Instead, his eyes landed on granny Aiko. The soup had been for her, as chewing wasn't easy now that she had lost so many teeth. She had lost much more than that over the years; and… while his chopsticks hung still before his mouth, it dawned on Shiro… Maybe, he could understand tatemae after all. Lose enough, and if the price for not losing more is to quietly pretend like nothing, then… maybe you'll find that price worth paying.

It wasn't just the topic of his dad's mistress that had lurked in the silence he had grown to hate: granny Aiko had stayed silent through the pain of knowing her husband was dead and her sons weren't speaking with each other. She had eaten dinner with them and celebrated birthdays with them, and not once (that Shiro knew of) had she approached Hideo about the matter of his brother or mistress. She had let it be, believing that was the price for not losing her son completely.

"Doesn't matter. It's still all lies." He returned to his ayu and peeled himself another piece of savoury meat. "You can't have a family based on lies." That was easy to say when you hadn't been in a family for the better part of a decade; now he had been in one for less than a day, and he was already conforming.

"Oh. Uhm, I won't be able to come to Kaede-chan's birthday." Shiro hadn't been paying attention but he did catch that they were all invited to celebrate her on the 20th of June. "Once I've graduated and gotten my license I'll work abroad, in Italy. I leave on June 17th, but if I can come early and give her a present I could do that."

It was the most pragmatic solution he could think of, but the response to it was not what he had expected. There was no response. Saki, who he had assumed was the one that would be responsible for the celebrations, looked to uncle Satoshi. Next to her, Tomoe also darted glances at her father, but more covert. Noriko shot no telling looks in any direction, but she stopped eating to listen for a potential response.

"What does Kaede-chan wish for on her birthday, Saki?" That was Satoshi's response. And everybody followed suit without even missing a beat.

"A cat, if she could choose, but I don't think she's old enough to have a pet just yet. Picture books are good, and small animal dolls." Saki motioned with her hand what size of doll she meant. "She likes animals a lot."

Shiro didn't understand. Oh he did understand that they were ignoring him, that was blatantly obvious, but why? Had he said something inappropriate without realising it? He was just about to speak up again and ask if he had said something wrong when Satoshi announced that they had a surprise for him. On cue, Noriko, Akane and Chiharu rose from the table.

Shiro didn't understand what it meant until he remembered it was his birthday: of course they would have surprises for him. When the three appeared again, they were singing for him, and all the others around the table chimed in. He appreciated it, he really did, but he would have appreciated it much more if he hadn't just been brushed off in that peculiar way. Chiharu and Noriko carried trays with all the desserts they had bought, and Akane carried two books. Big books, the wrong format to be anything but atlases or lexicons or-

Photo albums.

"Happy birthday, Shiro-san!" They finished the song in union.

Shiro knew they were photo albums before he even accepted them from Akane. He remembered them – hazy images of those mottled, deep red backs sitting side by side in the bookshelf in his childhood home, far left on the second shelf.

"It's been a long time since you saw these", Satoshi said fondly. "Open them."

It felt odd to open the album, as if Shiro were somehow far away and sharply present at the same time. The first monochrome picture was of his mom and dad in their living room, younger than he had ever seen them: happier that he had ever seen them. Between themselves they held a bundle of white blankets with a tiny (ugly) face and a wisp of black hair sticking out. Underneath the photograph was hiragana, so tiny and faded it was barely legible: 1957-05-12, Shiro comes home Next page, another photograph: it was Christmas, the lit tree in the background glinted weirdly in the camera lens, and his mom was wearing her favourite dress, laughing into her hand as the baby beside her happily massacred the slice of cake before him. 1957-12-24, Shiro's first Christmas (first cake) Shiro remembered that picture well: it had been almost a tradition to mention it on his birthday every year, when either his mom or his dad recalled his first encounter with cakes. The album was full of such things, silly snapshots that made unexpected memories spring to life – his first bike, his shichi-go-san, vacation by the sea, throwing baseball in the park with his dad, his first school uniform…

"There's your fifth birthday. You were pulling on Saki's hair the whole time and wanted to ride on her shoulders." Noriko pointed at a monchrome photo where Shiro and his three cousins (Chiharu was newborn and stayed with her mother) were sitting around the table in their best clothes. Only Saki was looking into the camera: the others were busy gulping down ice cream, each from their own karakusa patterned bowl.

"And here we are at the zoo, all of you together." They had been photographed in front of the entrance sign to the children's playground: Shiro's mom with a firm grip on his hand so he wouldn't run off somewhere, Saki holding hands with Tomoe and Akane, and Noriko pushing a baby cart with little Chiharu sticking up as nothing but a baby cap above a pair of curious eyes. "You ended up running around so much at that playground that we had to carry you back because you all fell asleep when we ate. I remember Hideo-san complained about back pains for weeks after."

The more photos Shiro saw, the more did he remember. Those bowls they had eaten ice cream from on his birthday, they hadn't just been the same brand that Satoshi's family owned – it was the same set. The drawers in the genkan were from his home, too; it had stood in the corner of his room, and the sticker on the side was one he had put there when he was little.

"On the side facing the wall", he remembered, seeing his old room before him as vividly as if it had still existed, "so mom wouldn't find it and make me peel it off."

His family's belongings had been sold after his dad's death, to pay off the debt he owed the company; auctioned out to highest bidder and scattered to the four winds, except that one stored cardboard box that contained things without- …Things that only an eleven year old could see the value in.

"God, I remember these things… That was my room. I used to hang the sheets over the desk and pretend it was a secret base. And that toy kitty mom would hide somewhere in the house for me to find. That's me and that neighbour kid playing in the garden. That's- Pff that's the flowers I picked on Mother's Day." The ones that had been planted by his mom, in their garden, and that he had pulled up without a second thought. "God I was stupid as a kid…"

Shiro didn't hold himself to be the sentimental type, but as he flipped through page after page he couldn't deny that the memories did awaken feelings. It had become increasingly difficult, over the years, to remember what life had been like before he had been aware of the theatre his parents played. Sometimes it felt like he had always been angry and guarded. But these pictures… That was another Shiro, from another time when things hadn't been so complicated and so false.

Shiro was reminded of Samael's history lesson at Castel Sant'Angelo in Rome: how the adult Mayu and the child Mayu were the same person, yet not. He still couldn't see it – couldn't feel it. That scrawny little boy that gave his mom flowers he had pulled up in her garden was a stranger that had nothing to do with the jaded, cynical exorcist looking at photos in the present.

Still… The cynical exorcist of the present felt like he could benefit from not forgetting the little boy that gave his mom flowers. It was a stupid and ignorant boy, sure, but it was a boy who knew how to open his heart for others, both to give and to receive. If he and that boy truly were the same person, then… if he still had it in him…

"Thank you", he said, closing the photo album and bowing where he sat. "You really couldn't have found a better gift. That was… Yeah I really appreciate it."

Pleased smiles greeted him from around the table. Satoshi cleared his throat and rose.

"We have another gift for you: one that I think you have looked forward to as much as we have. Happy birthday, Shiro."

Satoshi placed a single paper on the photo albums. It looked a bit like the report forms he had been filling in after missions, except it wasn't.

Application for consent to the adoption of a child
(Children's court act 1963)
(Adoption act 1974)

Two of the sections (prospective mother, prospective father) were already filled in with the names and birth information of Satoshi and Noriko. The third section of the form was to be filled in by the child agreeing to be… adopted.

Adopted.

Shiro could have sworn his dyslexia was back at full force and jumbled the strokes of the kanji as he stared at them, unable to…

Adopted.

It just wasn't… After all these years, this… Somebody wanted him, somebody finally, really… Feelings Shiro had never even known he had surged up and swallowed him from within – warm, deep, tender – and he knew, like he had never known before, how much he had wanted this.

They didn't want you nine years ago: why would they want you now?

The question reared up like a viper, sowing the cold seeds of doubt in his ear. There still had been no answer to that question, because he hadn't posed it. But there was an answer. One he hadn't gotten because he didn't want to know; he was afraid to know, and the first surge of emotion faded as doubt grew in its place.

"-will go through it together once you have graduated." Shiro barely registered what Satoshi said, as if his dyslexia had spread to his ears as well. What was this talk about his graduation…? "There is an established protocol to follow for all incoming orders when you archive them. It takes a while to learn, but don't worry: once you get the hang of it it's like riding a bike. The ledgers for book keeping are in the archive lockers. I will guide you through procedure there as well, but only after you have made yourself at home with the practical aspects of the business: looking at numbers is easier when you have the hands-on experience to relate to."

Shiro had a surreal feeling that he was floating – weightless – and that all the words that came out of Satoshi's mouth were floating around with him in a random jumble. The business – Satoshi's logistics business? Book keeping, protocol…? And he was supposed to-? Once he had graduated…?

"But… I'm going to Italy, didn't you hear what I…?"

No, he didn't. Not because he didn't hear: because he didn't care.

"This is where you were born, where you belong: not Italy", Satoshi explained with an understanding smile. "Once you're ready for it I'm leaving the company to you: office, trucks, delivery cars, everything. Getting there takes work, but we will get you through it – together." Satoshi sounded like a proud father, sounded like this was… Just what the hell…? "Do you have a driver's license yet? If not I will book you a course as soon as you know when your graduation ceremony-"

"NO." Shiro startled even himself with how loud his statement was, but he wouldn't get through to his uncle otherwise. "I mean – I can't. I can't take over any company; I'm going to Italy. My visa's approved, my flight is paid, I'm enrolling an education that takes four years to complete: I'm an exorcist, not a-"

"I heard." Satoshi had already made a decision, and that decision would stand: the tone in his voice made that perfectly clear. "I realise that this is all very sudden for you, but nothing changes the fact that your place is here, with your family: I hope you understand that. I will help you cancel the flight, send a letter to the school in Italy-"

"The fuck? I'm not some dog you can order around like-"

Satoshi's fist slammed into the table, and everyone around it flinched reflexively. His gaze was resting directly on Shiro, and it was stern. Authoritative. More than ever, Satoshi's face looked like it was carved from rock.

"You will not speak like that to your elders", he said, and this time his voice matched his looks. "This is not a request, Shiro-san. You have a duty to your family and I need you to understand that this is for-"

"Duty?"

When the sap in a tree freezes from a sudden spell of cold, it can cause the tree to explode. The blast comes out of nowhere, sharp as a gunshot, shattering the living wood in splinters. Duty. The word made Shiro's blood freeze: and crack, and shatter the illusion they had so kindly woven around him.

"You have no right to speak to me about duty." Rage squeezed his throat like a fist, sharpened his words with icicles; and it was words that had been waiting a long time to come out. "You left me in that orphanage nine fucking years: where was your duty to family then?"

No answer. A deeply uncomfortable atmosphere settled around the table. Everyone was staring at their bowls and picking at their food, eating just to have an excuse not to speak.

"I apologised." Satoshi's reply was curt, final; a dead end roadblock, as likely to budge as a chunk of granite. "And I'm offering you a place in this family. But you should know that with family comes duty; something your father never-"

"I don't give a shit about your apologies!" Shiro sprang up from where he sat, bumping the table and sending tea sloshing out of cups and spreading over the lacquered surface. The outburst woke Sasuke and set him off wailing like a piglet dragged to slaughter. Fuck that. Fuck all of that. "And you never gave a shit about me", he seethed; a blizzard of painfully clear truths and shades of blood throbbing at the edge of his vision. "You never wanted me – you wanted a son. You left me in that orphanage 'cause I was a disobedient little shit that-Don't you fucking interrupt me you old fart!" He stabbed a finger at Satoshi, who had shifted to rise. Part of him was very pleased to see his uncle flinch and freeze. "You're gonna sit down and you're gonna listen till I'm fucking done! You didn't want me 'cause I wasn't useful to you, and now that I am you come crawling with apologies and expect me to nod and obey like a good son and be fucking grateful for it!"

Chaos – all around was chaos, broken expectations coming down like winter hail and social norm crumbling from the impact. Saki fussed and hushed and tried to soothe her baby back to calm; Akane stared at her bowl without eating, frozen and unresponsive without a clue of what to do; granny Aiko's face was shrivelled up in tears, her frail, whimpering old body rocking back and forth with Tomoe and aunt Noriko at her side, trying to comfort her. Chiharu sat wide-eyed at the end of the table, jaw slack with disbelief and the chopsticks in her hand completely forgotten. Tatemae and silence fell apart like shattered glass, a dollhouse world crashing down around them but holy shit did it feel good, deep down where the shadowside of Shiro dwelled a perverse thrill made it feel so good to destroy it all. They needed that, every single fucking one of them; the ones used to enforcing the shackles of tradition and the ones used to quietly accepting the weight of them.

Tradition is a convention of the human mind, a set of customs passed on from one generation to another.

"You actually expected me to happily give up everything just like that?!"

It exists only so long as the mind sees fit to sustain it. If enough humans were to change their minds, it would fade.

"How about you fucking ask what I want – did that ever cross your mind?!"

Tradition doesn't like change, and doesn't like questioning: it aims to preserve itself, and that necessitates preserving its habitat unchanged.

"You're the same egotistical son of a fuck as my-"

"Enough, Shiro!" Satoshi was white in the face when he rose, eyes livid and all muscles in his neck taut with anger. "Look at your grandmother!" His arm swept at the wailing old woman huddled in the arms of her daughter-in-law. "Hasn't she shed enough tears over your father?! Are you going to break her heart completely?!"

"Don't you dare make this about her! This is about you, wanting a fucking heir for your goddamn company!"

Oh but it was about granny Aiko. Her beloved sons were fighting all over again, with a much younger actor playing Hideo.

"You are my heir, and I do care about you; you would see that if you only stopped acting like a spoiled brat that only thinks about himself!"

And any pity Shiro might have felt for Aiko evaporated in a flash of blind rage.

"Who the hell are you calling a spoiled brat?!" He was in Satoshi's face before he knew it, a decimetre from his nose, roaring at the top of his lungs. "Who is it that wants everything his way, hah?! Who's the spoiled fuck that thinks he can decide what others should do?!"

"You are the spoiled little shit if you think you can abandon your family just because you're an adult!" Satoshi increased the distance between them again with a warning finger pointed right in Shiro's face. "I'm giving you an opportunity people like you can only dream of: realise that! Yes, you should be grateful! Yes, I expected you to take over the company – it's what sons do! You can still finish your studies overseas, I won't retire in another ten years: just-"

Shiro didn't care. Satoshi's words were a surreal distant buzz and he didn't care, didn't care one fucking bit. He only had one thing to say to that man, and he put on his best sneer to do it:

"Go fuck yourself."

For one split moment, Satoshi's face went blank.

Then, Shiro's head whipped to the side. The sound of the slap rattled around in his skull, and somewhere beyond the shock his cheek was burning from the impact.

Three things happened, in the unnatural silence that followed. The first two were simultaneous: Shiro's ravenous impulse to pay back the slap, with interest; and the thrumming presence of a demon that egged him on to do so. It would feel so very good to bash Satoshi's face in, wouldn't it? Oh yes, his whole being crawled with the need to hurt him and the demon had all the right arguments. But the Vatican would be notified of the possession. Shiro would be confined and "studied". And his contract with Samael would be breached. Those arguments outweighed every tempting word the demon whispered in his ear, because they had to.

The third thing came later, muted through the haze of shapeless whispers and throbbing rage that lay thick around Shiro's consciousness. It was words, his brain informed him. It was words his uncle spoke, quivering but firm, while Shiro was struggling against himself to save the bastard's life.

"You are your father's son. Hideo-nii only ever thought of himself. Spat on his family and everything we did for him. If you are going to take after him, then you should never have a company or a family."

Then again, feelings are immune to arguments of reason.

The punch he landed in Satoshi's face sent his uncle straight to the floor, instant knock-out. And for Shiro; instant clarity. His brain may be pumped full of adrenaline but his thinking was clear as ever, his mind was focused, and the demon didn't stand the ghost of a chance to get through his mental shields.

"You're right. This family brings nothing but fathers that spit on their family and don't care for their children." And with those words Shiro turned and walked away. However, before disappearing in the hall, he stopped long enough to say one last thing. "Thanks for the food."

The stairwell filled with echoes as Shiro walked down. Counted breaths. Quietly rehearsed scripture verses in the hopes that his mind would find them interesting enough to stop screaming that his uncle was an asshole (he was) and that he deserved to get hospitalised (the demon's words, the demon's words). It didn't matter. It couldn't. No matter how much it hurt to be betrayed (again) he couldn't let it matter.

"Fuck, the photo albums…"

Didn't matter. He wouldn't set foot in that apartment again, ever, and although some part of him remembered the feeling when he had seen those pictures, there were far stronger feelings that…

"Breathe."

Shiro ran his fingers through his hair and drew deep breaths, exhaling the anger and focusing his mind, finding the balance again. A smoke now would have been a fucking life-saver. If he could find a 7-Eleven he would buy a new lighter – two – and as many cigarette cartons as he could fit into his blazer pockets.

He had barely stepped out the door and into the mild evening before he came face to face with Chiharu. It was so unexpected that he halted, mind completely derailed from its former track. When had she slipped out? Way before him, that much he could figure out, but…

Chiharu regained her bearings much quicker, and started bowing and apologising in rapid succession.

"I'm sorry I ran off. I am. I should have stayed, I wanted to take your side but-"

"You know what, it doesn't matter. I should've taken your side way before you- Well, fuck it, I'm out. Thanks, I'm gonna-"

"No!" She grasped his arm when he turned to leave. "Please, just- Just listen!"

Of course. Chiharu wanted somebody to listen, naturally – her father never did, her sisters never did. Her mother? Noriko was such a perfect Japanese lady that Shiro couldn't even tell what type of person she was inside.

"Look, I understand, but… I'm in a real fucking shitty mood right now. I'm not good for talking."

"You don't need to talk." Chiharu shook her head, a faint blush spread out over her cheeks. "Promise. I'll make it short, you don't have to say anything, just let me say these things. Please?"

It was a fine summer's eve that settled in around them. It was the kind of night when young couples strolled side by side and talked until dawn yawned at the horizon, the kind of night made for spreading your futon on the roof and sleeping under the stars. It was not the kind of night when you left young girls that pleaded you to stay. What was that thing Midori had said…? Breathe and feed your heart to the world? Shiro couldn't remember her words exactly, but he remembered what she had meant: talk about what troubles you and the burden won't weigh as heavily on your mind. It was the same philosophy Catholic confessionals operated on, and if he could do that – if he could do just this one thing for his cousin, when he hadn't stood up for her before…

"Alright." He scratched his nose, looked away; looked back at Chiharu. "Make it quick."

Victory, her eyes said – shouted. And there wasn't a trace of blush on her face: what he had mistaken for a blush was a Milky Way of freckles draped over her nose and cheeks. Chiharu wasn't a blushing maiden: she was… energetic.

"I just wanted to say thank you", she said, and bowed. "Dad always thinks he can decide everything, and Akane's the same. They're all the same, just in different ways. Sorry, that sounds weird, doesn't it?" she laughed nervously, scratching the back of her head. She wasn't nervous or apologetic, though. She knew what she was talking about, just not how to express it. "Dad never said he wished he'd had a son instead, but you knew he did. He had a room cleared out for you and everything. He was so sure you would- Sorry, sorry, I'll make it quick. I'm sorry dad treated you like that, but I'm glad you did this." Chiharu flashed him a smile, and unlike her mother and sisters she didn't hide it. She smiled, proudly, and bowed. "I'm glad it's not just me. Thank you, Shiro-nii."

"You're welcome. I… should probably say something more, but I can't get my thoughts together right now. So take care. And don't give a damn." He bowed, too, and turned to walk. "Uh, Chiharu-chan?" Shiro stopped and turned, finding his cousin still out on the sidewalk. "Is there any 7-Eleven nearby? I'm out of cigarettes."

Shiro could have taken his cram school key directly back to the Academy. He could have gone directly to the Sentou station and taken the tram back to the relative safety of the wards that surrounded the school. He pushed those options out of his mind as they presented themselves, and they took their leave respectfully; this evening, Fujimoto Shiro was best left alone.

He didn't know how long it took to walk from Sentou station to True Cross Academy but tonight he would find out. There had been a 7-Eleven two blocks from the food market and he had everything he needed to walk all night if that's what it took – and if his head wasn't clearer by then, he would continue to walk. Past the Academy. Past the farthest reaches of True Cross Town. Men without goal just continue to walk, don't they? Or is that men who don't care where they are headed? Tonight, Shiro didn't care. His feet set the course and his thoughts the pace, and beyond that he didn't care as long as he kept moving. The rhythm of his footfalls became a steady mantra as the half-moon shone clearer and clearer against the darkening sky. Dusk came slowly in May, struggling to overpower the sharp electric lights of the city. It was only when Shiro noticed stars that he saw where his feet had led him.

There were only a few places where you could hope to catch a faint glimpse of stars in True Cross Town: in the parks, and at the graveyards. He had arrived at the New Graveyard, where the gates were closed for the night. A few candles still burnt like eerie will-o'-wisps among the graves.

Shiro huffed, sending a plume of cigarette smoke into the night. He rested his eyes on the gates for a moment, pondering… Hell, why not? The graveyard was as good a place to think as any. He took a few steps back, gauging the height of the gate once more (as tall as a man; the crossbar below the top spikes was just above eye-level for him), and rose up on the balls of his feet to test the flex of his calves. His P.E. teacher, Gokuro-sensei, had made sure to test his new strength over the past year, carefully but thoroughly getting him acquainted with his full potential and how to use it without hurting himself.

Shiro sprinted forward, tuning his tendons to the muscle strain and synchronizing his body for the kick off; the air whooshed around his ears when he jumped, clanged when his left hand gripped the iron crossbar between the spikes and let his body sail over the gate in a wide arc. He landed on both feet, continued smoothly into a roll, and rose. The gate rattled on its hinges behind him. Drawing another breath on his cigarette, Shiro began picking his way among the stones that shone ghostly white in the dark.

Crouching down before his parents' grave, Shiro placed his cigarette upright in the gravel as a barbaric form of incense. He lit a new one for himself, drawing deep breaths as he watched the grave, pondering. It had been one hell of a day. It had been one hell of a fucking day, and it would take him many more days before he was finally done with it.

Deep down he wanted a family: yes. But not that kind of family. Not a family that wanted him because he was useful. A useful tool.

Demons and humans, sometimes you didn't know which were worse or if they were both the same.

Shiro slid his thumb over the new lighter in his pocket, back and forth, getting acquainted with the new shapes and textures. Satoshi could go to hell for all he cared, both him and his spineless fuck of a brother. He was done with both of them. No, what still galled him was how he had played along with it. He could have asked Satoshi straight out and he could have spoken up for Chiharu. And he hadn't. He had done the exact same fucking thing his mom had done; sat there quietly, not wanting to see the truth, not wanting to break the illusion of family. It just continued to happen, over and over. Repeating his parents' mistakes no matter how much he fucking hated it.

As he looked back on it all, a bitter smile curled his lips.

"Really. The one who keeps betraying me… is me." Fujimotos really were good at messing things up, it was like a bloody family curse. "Can't trust any of us", he huffed, feeling a bout of cynical humour coming on. "We're just a bunch of selfish assholes that betray everyone who loves us." Shiro dragged a deep breath on his smoke, letting his eyes linger on the glow of the cigarette he had placed at the grave. It had almost burnt out. "Maybe he's not entirely wrong. Maybe I'm not fit to have a family."

It wasn't something he believed because Satoshi had said it. It had been a thought he turned over in his mind from time to time before putting it down, leaving to do something else, and then chancing upon it again later, when little reminders set his mind on that track once more.

An exorcist… It was the perfect job, as far as Shiro was concerned. But exorcists didn't make good family members. To choose that career was just as irresponsible for a father as his own dad's actions. Moriyama Mayu was a widow because her husband had been an exorcist. Shizuku and Kasumi had lost their father and sisters because they had been exorcists. Every year, on Obon, the Japanese headquarters of the Order held a lantern ceremony down by the river, in memory of all the men and women that had fallen in the line of duty. More than anything, however, it was a ceremony for the ones they left behind.

If you chose a career as exorcist… Then maybe you shouldn't have a family.

As he stood pondering, something entered the graveyard; something that arrived quietly, not stirring a single breeze, yet Shiro's attention darted to it as if drawn in by a magnetic field. He never knew how he felt it – five senses weren't enough to describe that feeling – but he did.

"So, how did your birthday dinner go?" The chipper, nasal voice of Samael's dog form drifted over to him from behind, accompanied by the soft crunch of paws padding over gravel.

Great. Just fucking great. Shiro drew a long, deep breath on his smoke, and let it out just as slowly and steadily. He made no move to turn around.

"You want me to think you weren't spying on it?"

"I was busy giving an interview. Mainichi Shinbun wanted exclusive rights to the story of Japan's first school for Western education, what with the Academy's centennial next year and all."

The statement was airy, untroubled, and didn't convince Shiro one bit.

"You control time and space." Samael had been there, he was sure of it. There was no way the bastard would set him up for something like that and then miss the grand finale of the show.

"Ah – dinner didn't go so well, then."

Shiro would not answer that. He stared straight ahead, past the Fujimoto grave, past the rows and rows of square pillars vanishing in the dusk.

"But you learnt something from it, didn't you?" prodded the little dog, as snowy white as the grave markers around them.

Shiro kept the silence, tight-lipped, as if holding in breath underwater. Time stretched, and the silence grew; rose like fortress walls around him, a pathetic attempt at keeping out an enemy that couldn't be repelled.

"I can't read minds, you know that."

No, the silence couldn't shut him out, but it did frustrate him – had to be grateful for the small blessings. It was a blessing, truly: Shiro could taste (smell? feel? "sense"?) the acidic surge of pressure his lack of cooperation induced in the demon.

Of course, Samael would not let it show that his petty resistance annoyed him. He merely exhaled through his nose in something that could have been a sigh and could have been a huff.

"Holding grudges makes you dumb: makes you see what you want instead of what is." The dog sat down at his side, peering up at him and waiting for a retort. When none came, it spoke again, voice brightened by a good idea: "How about a riddle? 'I have no mouth, yet my voice is in your ear. I have no bars, yet I am a prison. The more you try to run from me, the stronger does my grip on you become. What am I?'"

"Annoying."

"Doubt", the dog answered, and sought his eyes for any trace that the weight of the word had been felt.

He found it, Shiro was sure. Because he did feel the weight of it. The meaning of it. The point that Samael had been trying to teach him.

"This path was always there if you chose to take it", the dog continued softly. "But you never did, because it led back to a past that you sought desperately to leave behind. Still, it didn't lead to the same past. It led to an alternative to the family you knew: perhaps better, perhaps worse – you didn't know. Thus you hesitated at every crossroads, prisoner of your doubt, never quite sure what lay down that path and never daring to try it. Now you have. Now you know." The gravel rustled softly as the dog got up on its paws. "Now you're free."

And with that, Shiro could no longer remain passive. The implication that Samael had done something good, done something Shiro should be grateful for…

"Humans don't always want to know – ever thought about that?" His words came out sharp, smashed to splinters by bitterness and honesty. "It's not certainty that keeps us going: it's hope. Hope that there's something better. Without doubt there's no room for that."

Dangerous words. Dangerous because they were true, heartfelt: clear and pure, like well-water salvaged from depths where pollution hasn't reached. And here he was, dredging those pure, honest, painful feelings up from their shelter and baring them before one whose very name meant Poison.

"Thinking never went well in Shiro-kun." Shiro wasn't thinking, not clearly; he never did around Samael, and he was perfectly aware of that. Being moved by emotion is a dangerous thing that births dangerous actions and words.

And sometimes – just sometimes –, that might be what's needed. Samael rarely took him seriously, rarely – never – treated him with respect, as an equal. But now, be it what Shiro had said or how he had said it, Samael was actually looking at him, listening to him; giving him his full, undivided attention.

The sheer force of it made Shiro's skin prickle with goose bumps.

"Those are not the words I heard from you a year ago." It wasn't a question, and yet… Samael sounded like he was waiting for an answer? "Back then you believed that hope for something with no possibility of becoming real wasn't any good hope to hold on to."

It seemed like much more than a year ago that they went on that bar crawl, but Samael was famed for good memory. Shiro could muster up a vague recollection of having said something like that, one drunken night in a dim bar in the Creek's End part of town; that a hope that could never become real would only hurt when it was taken away. It was a point Samael had proven pretty fucking well: that didn't mean Shiro would acknowledge he was right.

"It isn't. But it's better than nothing." At least better than being "free" by Samael's definition of freedom. Freedom… What is that, even? To be free of… doubt? Hope? Free of fear, free of worry, free of things that hurt to lose, free of things that hurt to want, free of…

Everything.

Everyone.

"Or is that the kind of freedom you think I should have?" Shiro spoke with steel in his voice, once the outlines of what freedom – absolute freedom – meant became clearer. "Cut me off from everything until the only thing that holds me up is your puppet strings? More convenient with no one else around to meddle with your plans? Really don't like sharing your toys, do you."

Shiro wanted to bite his tongue off at every word. Being honest was the last thing he wanted but fuck it, everything inside hurt and it pressed against his ribcage to come out no matter if that was strategic or smart. He could have used his head and not gone to his uncle's family in the first place; that would have been fucking strategic and smart. He had enough regrets for a lifetime, circulating in his veins like snakebite toxins – but not enough to miss that, in the dusk around him, Samael's presence soured again. It was a poor way to express the sensation, but Shiro wasn't sure how else to express it. The bitter sour of lime fruit peels, a clenching feel, and a spark that sputtered but refused to light: that was what it felt like.

"Indeed, grudges work wonders for your intelligence." The disdain in Samael's words was only matched by his sarcasm. "Happy birthday."

*poof*

Faust Mansion could be compared to the miracle that had transpired in Japanese economy and industry following the world war. It was a compound of well-greased routine with each member of the staff specialised enough to perform his or her task flawlessly, while at the same time flexible enough to respond to any unexpected situation that might arise. Such situations did arise, and often enough to be called a routine within the routine.

As in any economy or industry, a workforce requires coordination. This task fell on the butler of the household. Belial had, as the longest serving member of the staff, been thoroughly seasoned and could respond to any demand duty placed on him. Admittedly, it wasn't always painless. And it wasn't always he had the luxury of sleeping, or keeping his host body fed, but the disadvantages of the job were outweighed by advantages such as a very favourable position in demon hierarchy (or put simply: not getting eaten by someone more powerful).

Sometimes, however, his job did make him nervous. Because his master was unpredictable. His highness could easily change his mind three times in a split second (what were seconds to one such as he anyway?), render all previous orders and arrangements nil, and (when too excited about his new idea) doing so without informing anyone: such as seemed to be the case this particular evening. There had been orders – very clear and comprehensible orders – and Belial had made sure they were followed down to the syllable. Along the way, however, some parameter had changed, and the arrangements were no longer adequate; as the butler of the household, it fell on Belial to find out what parameter it was and adapt – post-haste.

Belial's knock on the bed chamber door was answered with an "enter" from his highness.

Very little anime aired on Tuesday nights, and what played on the TV screen instead appeared to be a series of British origin, judging by the accent of the actors; and of horribly low budget, judging by the main character's dishevelled suit and horrible scarf (in every way horrible: horribly long, horribly patterned, horribly coloured).

Belial made his entrance and bowed.

"Your highness-"

"He isn't coming." His highness lounged comfortably among his cushions and fuzzy blankets, a bowl of crisps cradled in the crook of his arm, and seemed intent not to move a single inch for the rest of the night.

"Understood." Belial fell silent, awaiting further orders. His highness might still want to make use of the food and the beverage: the question was when, and until this "when" some of it might need to be put in the refrigerator. "Would your highness like-"

"Put the cake away. I'll have it for breakfast tomorrow."

"Certainly, your highness."

A/N

"Demons are pleasure-seekers that can only destroy." (Even when they don't mean to…?)
- Sir Mephisto Pheles

Jo is a measuring unit based on the size of one tatami mat. So a room eight jo large is a room that takes eight mats to cover. (It's pretty cool that Japanese architects adapt the size of rooms to fit the measurements of tatami mats and not the other way around.)

Sakura mochi is what it sounds like: you can see Mephisto eat that in chapter 2 while he's on the phone with Yukio. Sakura mochi were traditionally served as dessert on Girls' Day (March 3rd).

Yamauba is a demon or monster hag that may or may not be cannibalistic.

Mainichi Shinbun is one of Japan's biggest and oldest newspapers.

The Academy's centennial is something I just made up to keep Mephisto busy while Shiro is in Rome. (Otherwise he will get bored, and I do not want to put up with a bored Mephisto.) The Ministry of Education started constructing a national Japanese school system in 1871 and encouraged Western education in order for Japan to catch up with the imperialist superpowers. Give it seven years to let Mephisto and the Order build a school on top of their base (probably not as big then as it is now) and in 1978 it might have been the Academy's 100-year anniversary. (…you could also roll with it just because it's fun, right? =0w0'=)

Military history for any other country than the US is an elusive bitch unless you can read and write in the country's native language, which in this case I can't. =w=' Camp Komakado trained ground soldiers and Tokorozawa had an air service academy, which isn't really the same as a training camp but screw it, it will have to do.

Military training in Japan at the time of WWII… Oh that was a gruesome business. Brainwashing and systematic abuse, indoctrination to fight to the death and take no prisoners. The Imperial Japanese Army was one of the cruellest in the world: to fight against and to fight in. You probably know this already, but the extremism and pride in Japan made the war situation quite different from what you would imagine it to be. Soldiers were encouraged to do "banzai charges" straight at the enemy and die: these were completely unnecessary deaths, but they were honourable. Civilians were encouraged to kill their families and themselves in case the Americans invaded, because the government spread tales of the cruelty of the Americans and said it was better to die than to be captured.

Ame-koh because Satoshi doesn't hold Americans in very high regard. Does anybody know what the kanji for this looks like and what the slur actually means…? Because I'm curious. =0u0'=

Doki no Sakura sounds like just about any other military song, but what gives me goose bumps is how it explicitly is a song about the glory of dying for your country, not the glory of victory. When I researched for this chapter I came upon this story that made me bawl like a kid. It was an account from the personnel at a ryokan where kamikaze pilots (in Japan the attacks were known as tokkou tai) stayed while they waited for orders to take off. One pilot who was going to fly the next day told the daughter of the ryokan owner not to worry, not to cry; he promised to be back in the evening again, as a firefly (there were plenty of fireflies around the ryokan). The next evening, the pilots were gathered in the ryokan again to eat, and one lone firefly found its way in. The little girl had kept watch all day, and piped up joyously that "there he is! there he is!", and when the other pilots saw the firefly they began to sing Doki no Sakura, to welcome him back. (I'm awful at telling short and consise stories, I know.)

Adoption in Japan
Bloodlines. Honour. Family. These are very important things in Japanese culture, so it's not surprising that adoption is a sensitive topic. In fact, adoption is a social taboo, and Japanese couples that do succeed in adopting a child might even move to a new location where nobody knows them so they can introduce the child as their biological one.

Throw-away children. It's difficult to adopt in Japan because 90% of the children in Japanese orphanages aren't orphans, but so-called "throw-away children". For one reason or another, their parents put them in an orphanage, and never take them back. Some don't even visit their children. But they don't put the child up for adoption: again, because that is a social taboo. (When Shiro tells Samael "You know what people do with kids they don't want" in the chapter Closet skeletons, matchbox ladybugs, this is what he means.) You can, technically, be left at an orphanage facility at one year of age and grow up there until age 18 without meeting your parents more than maybe once a year. You're still expected to adhere to tradition and provide for your old parents when they can't work anymore, however, 'cause they haven't given up the "legal rights" to you.

But there are adoptions… Ironically, for the same reasons that adoptions are so rare: bloodlines, honour and family. If you don't have a son to take over the family business for you, you can adopt an adult male orphan (preferably a hard-working, prodigious one) and make him your heir. This is the most prevalent type of adoption in Japan.

With Shiro's parents dead I don't know what happens to his legal papers. (I have spared myself the agony of going through Japanese legislation: in case of emergency I will invoke artistic liberty.) This chapter is just me guessing. ^_^'

Dear Zy – and other shy ones
Your writing has such a soft-spoken quality (in the good sense!) that I feel bad for hounding you both here and in BtEatB. ^_^' I don't mind people who prefer to review anonymously: it just gives me a bit of a start when I'm approached about a topic (like being flattered or offended by dedications) with no direct means of replying back. I immediately wanted to assure you that I'm not the least offended by people making their own works based off mine.

I know it's scary to tell somebody you admire that you love their work and that you've made fanwork of it. Believe me, I know: I met Kato face to face in Leipzig, where we both ate at the restaurant where Faust and Mephistopheles dine in Goethe's play. I had the chance to tell her in person how much her work has inspired me, but I couldn't get a sensible word out of my mouth and just mumbled something incoherent about "I have to catch my train back to Sweden" (which was absolutely ridiculous since the train didn't leave in another five hours). ^_^'

Anecdotes aside, I know the feeling; I just hope I can convince you that I'm not as scary as you think. It's not like you can fail more than I did in Leipzig. x'D I'm immensely flattered when people create something of their own out of the storyverse I provide. If there's any "disease" I'd want to infect people with, it's the urge to create. You're quite right, too: at times when I'm assaulted by doubt that this project of mine isn't as good as I want it to be, remembering that there are people who have been impacted and inspired by it helps rekindle my own passion.

I would be honoured, flattered, thrilled – I would be many things! – to read your continuation to the Sorrows of Young Hohenzollern, and other writings; whenever you decide to take the leap of faith and publish. (I don't believe there's any use in saying "when you're ready", because with most things in life you don't know if you're ready or not until you do it.) So yeah… That was my attempt at seeming less unapproachable. xP

"Concerning entirely different things" – heh. x) I will do my best with Memoriae. Thank you for your faith in me. =)

/ Dimwit

Dear Magyckal Bananas
I don't even know if you read this particular "book", among the things I write, but aaaah Perennial is a one-shot so I'll have to reply here if I am to reply at all. ^_^' Haha ya know, making an odd impression is fine: it's way better than making a bad impression, or not making any impression at all. Most awesome people are odd people.

Heh, no, I'm not a professional writer, just a very passionate amateur – maybe that's why it's so strange for me to wrap my head around myself as someone people look up to. That said, I'm always happy if I can inspire others to pursue their passions (or just have fun experimenting with writing in general).

I'm incredibly flattered that you think so highly of my writing: thank you! =^.^= Although, keep in mind shuhari. It's a development concept from martial arts originally, but I believe it can be applied to all forms of art. The first step, shu, is about learning from the masters of the art and preserving its traditional form: learning how it's done, you could say. The next step, ha, is about breaking away from the art as the master taught it: break free from the rules, and use what you learnt to transcend your master and develop your own style. The final step, ri, is to break free from the boundaries of your own style and transcend yourself.

What I mean to say is, if you aspire to write like I do: don't let that be the goal. Let it be the beginning. Learning starts with observing (I pick up tricks and techniques from everything I read) but once you've got a hang of things it's time to start breaking away from what you've learnt and transcend. =)

If I do publish works of my own one day I promise to translate them to English as well. =) And if you read them, you will most definitely see where I pulled my Mephisto from. x_X I've always had a thing for manipulative masterminds. The original work I began typing up when I was in my teens (before Ao no Exorcist existed, mind) was centred around one such magnificent bastard, and when I look at my Mephisto I realise I've only painted a different name and appearance on my own character. x'/ So, if you like how I write magnificent bastards and the poor people around them (and never-ending amounts of worldbuilding…), then I suppose you would enjoy my original work as well.

/ Dimwit