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A week after the funeral, Senjuro saw a man in the garden. He was shrouded in the tall shadows cast by the surrounding trees, but he seemed to be tall, and muscled, and not wearing a lot other than some long trousers. The leaves of the well-pruned bushes rustled in the wind. Senjuro swallowed. He set down his lamp on the porch, and took a few steps out onto the lawn, avoiding the flowerbeds.
“Um, excuse me… hello? Who are you?”
The shadowy man lifted his head and flinched slightly, before shaking his head. “Fuck, you look exactly like him.” He scoffed, turning away.
“W-wait - did you know my brother? Is that why you’re here?”
Silence. Senjuro watched the little clouds that his breaths were making. The man was not making any. Then, “I guess I knew him.” A little grief seemed to crawl into the man’s voice. Senjuro crossed and uncrossed his pinky finger and his ring finger, wishing that he had brought the lamp, if only so he could trace the handle’s carving with his thumb like he had done many times before. He squinted into the dark. The man was still hard to make out. Senjuro almost jumped when the man spoke again. “I didn’t know he had a little brother.”
Normally, Kyojuro liked to tell anyone and everyone about his brother, which made Senjuro feel very embarrassed and a little guilty but also a little pleased. He was surprised that the man hadn’t ever had to hear about him. Maybe he hadn’t known Kyo very well. “That’s okay.” Senjuro said, because it was okay. Neither of them said anything for a minute or so. Senjuro listened to the susurration of the bushes and the dewy grass. It had stopped being so hot and dry in the garden once Kyojuro had left home, almost like he really was a flame and not just Senjuro’s older brother.
Suddenly, he felt as if he should tie back his loose hair and invite the stranger inside, but there wasn’t much point. The shady plants and the bench under the wisteria archway were far more preferred by guests than the overwhelming smell of alcohol that clung to every inch of the house. Senjuro hoped that it hadn’t clung to him. He wasn’t able to distinguish the scent as easily anymore.
“Are you here on your own, kid?” the man asked, stepping a little closer. Senjuro could now see that his hair was very short and very dark. He could tell that something else about him had changed in the past moment, but he couldn’t say what. The man just seemed different.
“My father’s inside. Please don’t wake him up.” Senjuro neglected to mention that there was no way that Father would wake up. He had been out cold since earlier in the morning, halfway through a bottle of sake. It was not his first bottle of the day. Senjuro had managed to drag him into bed, and clear up the spilt drink before it made the floorboards go all sticky.
“Well, that’s something, I guess.” The man mumbled. Senjuro didn’t think he was meant to hear that bit. “Was - was Kyojuro home often?”
First-name basis. Perhaps they had been close after all. “Um… not much. He was very busy. But he visited whenever he could.” The last time Senjuro had seen him was about seven weeks ago. He wished he could remember the last words his brother said to him, but he knew it had been something like, “See you as soon as I can! I love you!” or “Wish me luck! Take care of yourself, Sen!” After that, Kyo had left for about a month, and then he had left altogether.
“...You must have been lonely.”
“I- I was.” Senjuro felt a horrible, all-too-familiar lump in his throat. “I am.”
“Oh, fuck.” he heard the man mumble. He sounded annoyed about something. Senjuro did all he could to stop himself from letting out a sob, but it didn’t work. It was embarrassingly loud. He felt his face scrunch up and go red as tears began to roll down his cheeks yet again. He covered his face with his hands. This was the third time today. He had had three weeks to get over it. He wasn’t a child anymore.
“Shit, kid, I’m- I’m sorry, uh, do you want me to get something, someone, you aren’t even listening to me, are you? Great. That’s great. I’ll just- um-”
Senjuro heard the grass crunching under hurried footsteps, then felt muscled arms curl themselves awkwardly around him, bringing him a little closer. He wiped tears off his cheeks and started to duck away, but all of a sudden, he was hit by another painful memory. Of warm, muscled arms wrapped tightly around him, and feeling his hair be ruffled by his brother’s breathing, and being so close that he could feel more than hear his booming laughter. Of feeling like nothing in the world could hurt him if he stayed there forever, surrounded by Kyojuro’s warmth and his tall, strong body.
Though the person hugging him now was too still, too quiet, too utterly cold, Senjuro clung on for dear life, sobbing and shaking, digging his stubby chewed nails into the man’s bare waist, burying his tear-stained face in a bare chest rather than thick dark fabric. There was no laughter, no thumping heartbeat, no puffs of breath along his scalp. He felt the man hold him tighter like he was trying to squeeze the tears out of him. It must have worked, because after who knows how long, he stopped crying. The man kept a strong hold on him, still rubbing circles into his back and rocking him very slightly.
“You’re Upper Moon Three, aren’t you? Akaza. The one that killed my brother.”
The man stiffened. Senjuro couldn’t see his face. Eventually he said, “How did you know?”
“You match the description they gave us. You came here at night. You called him by his first name, but you didn’t know I existed. You changed your appearance when we were talking. You’re cold.” The man was quiet. “And you haven’t breathed once.”
Upper Moon Three let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, and allowed himself to change back. Senjuro saw his skin go grey, and inky blue patterns dripped all down the pale canvas. “You’re more like your brother than I thought. But I thought you’d be more angry at me.”
“I’m never angry.” Senjuro said. “With anyone, ever.”
“...Saying sorry just feels like a mockery of you, at this point.” Akaza said, deftly ignoring him. “Besides, I’m not really sorry for killing him. It had to be one of us, and I was far stronger.”
Senjuro felt dull. He felt the same way as one of the times that Father had been trying to quit, and had been sober for a few days. One evening, Senjuro had been washing the dishes when Father had looked at him and said, “I can’t even apologise, can I? I can’t just fix this by being a better man and asking for your forgiveness. I’ve hurt you too much. You deserve a different father.” And he had walked away. Senjuro had finished drying the plates with the tea towel.
“Are you going to visit again?”
Akaza paused. “Do you want me to?”
Senjuro thought about it. He listened to an owl hooting somewhere in the trees. “I don’t know.” Then, “What was he like when he died?”
“...I don’t know. The sun came up, before. But in battle… he was one of the most magnificent slayers I have ever fought. His fighting spirit was nothing short of stunning. I offered to turn him into a demon, but he refused.”
“Oh.”
“This is a lovely garden, you know.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe I will visit again.”
“Okay.” Senjuro finally extracted himself from the demon’s arms, and looked up at him. Akaza was very muscled, and wore a small, battered, pinkish jacket that was open at the front. His hair was a similar colour to the fuchsia flowers by the bench, and his eyes were gleaming gold. His face was tattooed like the rest of his body. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry.
“Thank you for visiting.” Senjuro mumbled.
“... Any time. And thank you for greeting me.”
Senjuro nodded and watched as Akaza turned around and walked into the forest. He watched until he had been completely swallowed by dark shades of green, and the sound of the whispering bushes filled the air once more. Senjuro turned around and padded to the porch, picked up his lamp, and stepped back inside, the door closing quietly behind him.