xxii.
There was a game they used to play as children.
Wide-eyed innocent little things, who envied the adults that danced in splendid clothes and drank only the finest wines, attending balls, and they could not.
He didn't know any better, Toushirou supposes. In retrospect, it's not much of a comfort.
"Let's fall in love," Momo said, five, six, seven years old, and isn't that a nostalgic thought? It's a memory, weaved into the lazy summer nights when she visited his manor, carving her name on a tree, etching it in his heart. Those were the days when there were no weight carried on his shoulder, and if he had carried even a little, his parents could discard it in an instant with a smile, putting him at ease.
Let's fall in love, Momo said, eight, nine, ten years old, because that's how the best stories go. People dance when they're in love, and when their life has just begun, like the first blossom of spring, the first hue of pink, they might as well pretend.
"Alright," Toushirou agreed, eleven, twelve, thirteen years old, and took her hand, followed the stardust trail she left behind.
And he did.
"Come on," Momo says, taking his hand and leads him to the dance floor. She smiles at him. "We haven't done this in so long."
"Whose fault is that?" Toushirou retorts, lifting an eyebrow, and smirks when he gets the reaction he wants, her flushed cheeks and the barely restrained instinct to stamp her foot on his.
"Yours!" Momo shoots back, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, as they move into position and the music begins to swell. "You haven't attended a ball in so long!"
He frowns. "I've been—"
"Busy. I know, Shirou-chan," Momo sighs, lowering her lashes, her sadness casting such loveliness on her cheeks. "I understand, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Momo."
"I'm sorry," Momo says, meeting his gaze. "I just want you to have fun. Every time I see you, it's like you're slipping away, bit by bit. Sometimes I even worry you've forgotten how to smile."
"I can smile!" He grumbles.
"Then prove it," Momo sticks her tongue out at him, when she's fairly certain no one but him will see her. And Toushirou—
Toushirou can't help but chuckle, lowering his head to his chest, despite himself. Like he's holding himself back. Like he's hiding.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Momo asks, twirling in his arms, and there's no place he'd rather be than here. She doesn't voice her concerns completely, preferring to focus on the positive, but he can still sense her unspoken worries, evident on the crease between her brows.
"It was awful," Toushirou teases. He smirks, feeling weightless at last, like he's able to lose himself in the string of violins as they dance and forget about everyone else. "Don't let me do it again."
"Shirou-chan!" Momo huffs, but she's laughing. Her mouth curves.
The dance ends soon after that exchange, and the moment is over too briefly for his liking.
"Where to now?" He asks, letting her take the lead once more.
"This way," Momo decides, grabbing hold and never letting go, "I don't think you've seen the gardens yet."
"Don't you have a ball to host?" Toushirou enquires, earning himself a look.
"It's five minutes. Nobody needs to worry, and besides," Momo says, to his amusement that is cut quickly with a sharp blade, "I've promised myself that I'd dance soon enough."
"To whom?" Toushirou asks, unable to escape a note of bitterness and curiosity.
"To Renji." Momo grins, utterly jubilant.
"I see," Toushirou relaxes, and all is well again.
Now that would be a sight to see.
"How are you really?" Momo looks at him, reaching out to touch him, his face, his cheek. Boundary has never been an issue between them.
They've always been close.
Her touch both lifts and crushes his heart at the same time, and makes Toushirou wonder why she asked him of this time, when there's such tiredness steeped in his shoulders and he wishes that he could go back.
"And don't lie!" Momo adds, regaining a flicker of strictness that makes him smile at her in fondness. "You can't fool me, Shirou-chan. I know there's something wrong."
"It's nothing, Momo," Toushirou mutters, because he can't tell her. It weighs on his mind too much already, and he doesn't know what he's going to do. He can't keep it a secret forever.
She looks at him, unimpressed. Trying to stare it out of him.
"Fine," Toushirou concedes, giving her part of the truth. An aspect that she can understand. "I'm just stressed. Being a noble is a little… too much at the moment."
It works.
Her gaze softens, as he knew it would.
"You should talk to him, Shirou-chan. I mean, he's your uncle, he should—"
"I can't do that," Toushirou exhales heavily. He's measured the pros and cons before. He knew the risks, and the only way to work through it is to power through, hoping for the best.
"Why not?" Momo says, defiantly trying to rouse something inside him which he just refuses to acknowledge.
He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, trying to contain the feeling inside of him. "It's not easy, you know that. Besides, he's family, Momo. When I make a promise, I keep it. I can handle it, you know I can. Even if I am feeling overwhelmed at the moment."
It's enough, he hopes, that he can confide in her this much.
Maybe one day she'll understand that.
She's not convinced, Toushirou knows that much. But then, Momo understands a little of what he means. Understands that he could always talk to Ukitake instead, or employ someone new and delegate the workload. It's only pride that makes him decide not to.
"I miss you being you," Momo says, simply. "We used to spend every day together. I miss that. I miss those days."
"And we'd pretend that we were in love," Toushirou says, and her hand draws back, as she looks away, embarrassed.
"I… yes, that too," Momo coughs, her cheeks flushing cerise, twisting her gaze to look at the garden instead. The lights behind them illuminate it well enough. It is a pretty picture of a well looked after garden, hydrangeas and hyacinths ready to bloom. "We did play something like that. It's just a silly game though, Shirou-chan. I read too many books; they filled my head up with so many ideas. Thank you, for playing along, back then."
"Momo," Toushirou says, quietly, so quietly that maybe he only thinks it. He should take her in his arms, kiss her sweetly, tell her that he loves her. That what he felt for her went beyond childish game of innocence. That he's only able to feel like himself when he's with her.
"You're my best friend, Shirou-chan," Momo says, turning back to face him, and a cold night breeze blows through him.
And doesn't that say everything.
"I know," Toushirou says, embracing her, knowing that the five minutes they have is up. She is delicate in his arms, and he is holding himself back, even now. He breathes in, inhaling the perfume that accompanies the letters she sends him, the perfumed letters that he keeps with him at all times. "That's all I ask."
Her smile is small, brown eyes watching him as she tries to read the lines on his face, as easily as turning a page on a book. So many things garnered, and yet the most important is unknown, or ignored.
"We're going to have a real conversation one of these days," Momo says, poking his chest, before she steps back. "Not just letters or stolen away moments."
"Soon," Toushirou promises, kissing her cheek, lingering only for a second, letting himself have this much. "Now go, enjoy yourself. This is your ball."
"And what about you?" Momo asks, a note of worry unable to hide.
"I'll be fine. Don't fret."
He just needs a moment.