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The rebuilt house no longer smelled of burning fire or old grief.
It smelled of fresh wood, of earth turned by careful hands, of blooming flowers on a new garden, of tea leaves warming in iron.
Atsu sometimes still expected the walls of her childhood home to echo with ghosts, but instead they held laughter now—soft, domestic sounds that felt almost unreal after everything that had come before. Footsteps on the wooden floors as Kiku prepared the table. The clink of a plate as food was set down. The low, patient hum of a shamisen being tuned by skilled hands.
Oyuki. She had become part of the house the way sunlight had; quietly, indispensably.
Before, when the pain of yet another loss clung to Atsu like a shadow, and she cried for her brother when her niece was asleep, Oyuki visited. Those visits became longer when, during fragile late nights, none of them wanted to be alone again. They stopped being mere visits when winter came, and the snow kept Oyuki from leaving for days that turned into weeks. When the fourth week came, and Oyuki remained, Atsu allowed herself to breathe. To stop counting the days they had left.
Atsu told herself she was simply grateful. Grateful that her hunt was over. Grateful she had people to call family again. Grateful that Oyuki had stayed.
But gratitude did not explain the ink stains on her fingers.
The first time it happened, Atsu barely realized what she was doing.
The sun had dawned only a couple of hours ago, the breeze still held the coldness of an early morning. Kiku sat cross-legged on the porch, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, and her shamisen a little too big for her to hold. Oyuki knelt opposite her, posture relaxed and patient, her own shamisen resting lightly on her lap. She nodded at the press of Kiku's fingers against the strings of the instrument, guiding the young girl with a unique kind of gentleness.
"Let the note breathe, Kiku. Patient." Oyuki said softly, smiling.
Sunlight filtered through the open shoji doors and caught on Oyuki’s profile—the slope of her nose, the calm focus in her eyes, the way her hair had slipped a little loose from its hairpin.
Atsu had been passing through with the intention of checking the recent roof repairs; rainclouds loomed over Mount Yotei, and they didn't need another puddle in their kitchen.
She halted her steps. When the sunlight coming through caught onto her eyelashes too, Atsu found herself enraptured. The open doors framed Oyuki perfectly, the sun's glow hugging her like a lover, wind blowing her hair until its strands caught on the edges of her smile.
Atsu's mouth went dry, and she was glad to be partially hidden by shadow, fading into the background of their song. Watching Oyuki now, Atsu began to understand why some men waged war in the name of their beloveds.
Against her own better judgment, Atsu sat down. Her bare feet brushed the wooden floor as she crossed her legs. She gripped the edges of her sleeves because she didn't know how else to deal with the flutter in her stomach. This feeling—ever present whenever Oyuki let her guard down or looked at Atsu too softly—was still foreign and new.
It really was merely a coincidence that Kiku's painting supplies were resting atop the low table just beside Atsu; sheets of paper, an ink pot, and brushes.
Atsu had always learned that beautiful things should be immortalized.
Dark smudges painted the tip of Atsu's fingers. Ink bloomed against the fibers in delicate strokes she hadn’t known she was capable of. She didn’t draw the whole scene. Just Oyuki’s hands, steady and precise against the strings of her shamisen. The slight curve of her smile and the softness of her eyes. The dark strands of her hair. The outlines of her features kissed by the sun. The quiet attentiveness that made even teaching a child feel reverent.
Atsu knew she had seen this very image once before. Golden, and safe, and adoring. Right before she opened her eyes, right before she woke up.
When Atsu finished the painting, her heart was racing, as if she’d done something dangerous.
She folded the paper away before Oyuki could look at her.
After that, it became harder to stop.
She found Oyuki brewing tea the next morning. When Kiku still slept, and Atsu had barely brushed the sleep from her own eyes.
Her good morning to Oyuki was hoarse and dripping with poorly concealed affection as she stepped closer, humming at the smell of fresh tea.
It stole the softest of smiles from the shamisen player, steam curling around her face and turning golden when the morning sunlight caught it. Oyuki handed Atsu the first cup, her hands warmer than the tea itself when they brushed Atsu's and lingered for a touch longer.
That day, Atsu captured the gentleness of Oyuki's expression in her painting, the care in every measured movement. She painted the steam that rose from the brewing tea with envy, as it caressed her songbird's cheek. She lingered on Oyuki's eyes, too, always the eyes—thoughtful, alluring, kind in a way Atsu still struggled to deserve.
She also found Oyuki in the garden a day later, the sleeves of her kosode tied back, kneeling in the dirt as she coaxed stubborn seedlings into neat rows.
There was something overwhelming about seeing Oyuki bring back to life the garden that once belonged to Atsu's mother. It disarmed the former bounty hunter, left her heart stuck in her throat, and her fingers tingling to do something about it.
Atsu didn't have the bravery to take Oyuki's hand and brush the dirt from her knuckles so she could place a kiss there. So she painted.
She painted the way Oyuki brushed soil from her palms, then paused to admire the leaves as though they were old friends. Atsu sketched the line of her spine, the way the fabric of her kosode clung faintly at her shoulders, and how the hair strands at the nape of her neck stuck to her skin.
In the late afternoon, Atsu then found Oyuki beneath the ginkgo tree.
Her shamisen rested against her knee as golden leaves lazily drifted down around her. The sound of the instrument was low and wandering, half-melancholy, half-content.
On the porch of their home, Atsu played a lighthearted round of Zeni Hajiki with Kiku. She lost miserably. Because her attention lay almost fully on the woman framed by golden leaves, who held her heart in a chokehold. And when Kiku ran off to feed their horses, Atsu rushed inside to find paper and ink. Her cheeks burned hot, and her heart grew anxious.
Atsu’s brush struggled to keep up then, ink bleeding where her hand trembled.
This time, she also captured the twist of the tree trunk, the unique shape of the ginkgo leaves as they surrounded Oyuki's form like something out of her prettiest dreams. A shiver started at Atsu's neck and made its way down her back. Oyuki fit into the painted figure of their home like she'd always belonged there. She did.
Atsu drew quickly, desperately, as if afraid the moment would vanish if she didn’t pin it down. Each time, she told herself it was nothing. A habit. Practice. A way to keep her hands busy now that they were no longer needed for killing.
Each time, she hid the paintings.
Oyuki noticed eventually.
Not at first. At first, she only sensed it—the way Atsu grew quiet at odd moments, the way her gaze lingered a beat too long. The way she would abruptly excuse herself, ink-smudged fingers curling inward as if guarding a secret.
Then one afternoon, Oyuki went to fetch fresh water while Atsu and Kiku brushed their horses, and she found a scrap of paper left behind on the porch, just beside Atsu's shamisen. They had been playing a song together when Kiku appeared through the arch at the entrance of their home, leading the three horses by herself. Atsu had left her things aside without much thought, rushing to help her niece as a laugh escaped her.
Maybe it was a coincidence that Oyuki had to come back for a bucket of water, and the wind had teased the edges of the folded paper until it revealed itself fully. Oyuki couldn't contain her curiosity, so she picked it up, all careful and tentative as if she held Atsu's own bleeding heart.
Painted with dark ink, Oyuki saw her hands. Her eyes. Her smile. Each line had thought behind it; nothing was left to chance. It wasn't perfect—Atsu’s lines were a little rough and shaky at times—but done with such care that Oyuki’s breath caught. Every familiar detail was there; the beads of her hairpin, the crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she smiled, the loop of her tied hair, the curve of her fingers as she held the bachi of her shamisen.
Oyuki had to bite back the wetness that pooled on the bottom lid of her eyes. It was not flattering in the shallow sense. It was honest. It was a mundane moment immortalized in time because Atsu wanted to remember it. Remember her.
Oyuki folded the paper back where she found it, her heart beating too fast. She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to.
After that, she began to notice more. And she found she did not mind. She didn't mind feeling the familiar weight of Atsu's gaze on her. She didn't mind pretending not to notice the other woman lurking in corners with a brush and paper. The knowledge warmed her in quiet, unexpected ways.
The day everything finally came into the open was ordinary.
The sky was wide and blue. The air smelled of grass and freshly bloomed flowers. The ginkgo leaves danced with the wind. Oyuki brushed down her mare near the wooden fence, murmuring softly as the animal flicked its tail in contentment.
Atsu sat some distance away beneath the yellow tree, knees drawn up, paper balanced against her thigh. She worked carefully, slowly now, no longer trying to steal the moment but savoring it. One stroke of her brush shaped Oyuki's waist, the other the curve of her jaw, and then the loose form of her mare beside her.
Even if Oyuki moved and Atsu lost her point of reference, she smiled down at her own creation; the other woman had become so familiar that she knew she could draw her from memory alone.
The wind picked up its pace and then settled again, ruffling leaves and the mare's mane, as if impatient.
Oyuki could feel Atsu's gaze like sunlight on her back. Warm and comforting, ever present. She bit the inside of her cheek before she spoke, hesitating for a beat. Without turning around, Oyuki said lightly; "You know, you could just ask me to stay still."
The brush slipped. Ink splattered.
Atsu froze, then flushed so hard it felt like her face might burn hotter than the sun. "I- what? I’m not-"
Oyuki turned then, putting aside the horse's brush and letting her mare loose to pasture. Amusement was soft in her eyes, in the small curve of her smile—not teasing, not unkind, but overwhelmed with affection. She walked over and sat beside Atsu on the grass, resting her back against the tree trunk, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Oyuki sucked in a breath, chest tight, and cleared her throat in order for her voice not to come out as tender as she felt. "May I see?"
Atsu gulped, her throat too dry. Her fingers gripping the paper almost poked a hole through it. She handed over the painting with both hands, as if offering up something fragile. A part of herself, only for Oyuki to see.
Oyuki took it with the same care. She studied it in reverent silence.
The painting showed her bent over the mare, hair loose, expression unguarded. There was a gentleness to it, to her. Beautiful in a way Oyuki had never thought to apply to herself. The dark lines carried unspoken affection in their details.
Oyuki's eyes stung. The image of the painting in her hands became all blurred at the edges.
"I didn’t know," Oyuki said slowly, timid in a way that the wind almost carried her voice away, "that anyone saw me like this."
Atsu glanced at the ground, pursing her lips before her heart inevitably pushed a confession past them; "I see you like that all the time."
Oyuki looked at her then. Really looked. At the shy tilt of her head, the sun-kissed cheeks, the ink-stained fingers, the vulnerability Atsu wore so carefully and so honestly.
"Why?" Oyuki had to know, barely above a whisper.
Atsu's mouth opened and closed, hearing her own heartbeat in her ears. Her love for Oyuki threatened to swallow her whole if she kept it guarded any longer. "Because I want those moments to last."
Oyuki's lower lip trembled when the last of her composure broke down. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She tried to hide it by turning away, but Atsu caught her before she could put any kind of distance between them.
A careful thumb pressed against Oyuki's cheek, slowly brushing away a tear, and leaving a faint dark smudge of ink in its place. Atsu handled Oyuki with a kind of tenderness she didn't know she had in her. And Oyuki gladly leaned into it.
"Because when you're here, with me, and the world is quiet," Atsu breathed. She shifted just a little closer, like gravity pulled her in. Her hand carefully moved up Oyuki's face, cupping her cheek fully. "It feels like… something worth keeping.”
Oyuki reached out, covering Atsu’s ink-smudged hand with her own, squeezing it tightly when their foreheads touched. Then their noses. And their lips.
Neither of them said the word love. They didn’t need to.
The paintings would keep. The moments would return. And for now, that was enough.