Morning sunlight pours into Natsuo's small home, warm and steady across his futon. For once, he wakes not with dread... but with a quiet pulse of determination humming beneath his ribs.
He sits up slowly, stretching stiff shoulders, and allows himself a small breath of pride.
I did something right yesterday.
He dresses with care—straightening the collar of his haori, tying his sash neatly. When he reaches for his glasses, he pauses, letting his reflection settle. He doesn't look different.
But he feels different.
When he steps outside, the village is already alive. Women sweep porches, men haul baskets of tools toward the fields, children chase each other through the dew-soaked grass.
Natsuo walks through it all—head a little higher.
For the first time in... maybe ever, villagers glance his way with something that isn't disdain.
Not warmth.
Not quite approval.
But something in-between.
Two farmers adjusting a cart speak to each other, clearly not realizing he's close enough to hear:
"That jump he made yesterday... I didn't think he had it in him."
"Hmph. Maybe he's not as useless as we thought."
A woodcarver nearby hums, adding, "My boy said he lifted Banri like he weighed nothing."
Natsuo's cheeks warm.
He doesn't interrupt.
But the whispers give him a strength he didn't know he needed.
Continuing down the main road he abruptly stops.
Because beneath all the praise and the tentative respect...
There's something else tugging at him.
A memory of a soft voice asking why he thinks so little of himself.
Of steady hands guiding his through sharpening strokes.
Of a blue eye watching him with a clarity he is rarely offered.
His smile falters.
He lets out a breath. "I... s-should apologize and th-thank her," he murmurs to himself. "The last time w-we met...Leaving like that was r-rude. She even returned m-my furoshiki along with meat...how ungrateful c-can I be?"
He paces back and forth, frantically playing multiple apologies in his mind, his hands gripping his sleeves so tight his knuckles ache.
In the theater of his mind, he rehearses apology after apology, each one more hollow than the last.
I'm sorry for running off— No, too blunt. Like a child caught stealing sweets.
I didn't mean to flee— Flee? Terrible. It admits cowardice.
Please forgive my behavior—
He groans, pressing his forehead into the cool palm of his hand. Each imaginary version ends the same: she turns away, her single blue eye turning cold, asking him with that terrifying, quiet calm to leave and never return. He feels like a man trying to mend a silk veil with a rusted needle.
He stops dead in his tracks.
I'm such a terrible person...
"Morning!"
Natsuo jumps, practically levitating off the path.
Banri stands beside him, hands on his hips, beaming like the sun itself.
"What are you doing out here?" Banri asks, tilting his head. "Paving a new road? You've been stomping in the same spot for, like, five minutes."
Natsuo's face floods with color.
"I—I—wasn't...," he insists weakly but trails off.
Banri raises both brows. "Suure? Come on, what's bothering you enough to start digging a trench with your feet. You cant outwalk your thoughts...trust me I've tried."
Natsuo swallows, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the overwhelming urge to run.
Banri leans in, playful but perceptive. "Seriously, though... what's going on?" His grin falters just a little. Enough to show he's actually listening.
Natsuo swallows, his eyes drifting toward the treeline.
He wrings his hands once, takes a breath, and forces the words out.
"A-Alright... there's t-this... p-person," he begins, voice barely above a whisper. "S-Someone I need to a-apologize to."
Banri's eyebrows shoot up immediately.
Natsuo nods, staring at the ground. "B-But I... I fear my w-words aren't good e-enough. Everything I think of s-sounds foolish or insincere or— or just p-plain wrong."
Banri puts a hand up to his chin, leaning his weight onto one hip. "Then don't use words," he says simply.
Natsuo blinks. "What...?"
Banri shrugs. "Welllll, if you're not too sure about your words" He gives him a gentle nudge. "Try something else."
Natsuo hesitates. "S-Something... else?"
"A gift," Banri declares, as if the idea is obvious. "People love gifts."
Natsuo's heart clamps tight in his chest. "A... a g-gift?" he repeats, heat rising to his face.
Banri grins again—wide, mischievous. "Yep. If you cant say sorry, let the gift say sorry for you."
Natsuo glances away, voice dropping to a timid murmur. "I... w-wouldn't even know w-what to give..."
He immediately lifts a finger and says, "how about a rock."
Natsuo stares. "...A rock?"
"Not just any rock," Banri continues proudly. "A really cool looking rock!"
"Banri."
"Alright, fine, fine." Banri points a finger and twirls it in a circular motion. "Mmm, how about a spinning top."
Natsuo gives him a flat look.
"No? Then...how about a bug catching cage! Its actually become a popular hobby."
Natsuo exhales slowly. "Banri. No." He hesitates, cheeks warm. He lowers his voice. "It's... f-for a wo-woman."
"Oooooooooh," he sings, leaning in and wiggling his eyebrows. "Natsuo. My Natsuo. My dear, sweet, shy, fragile boy. You're giving a gift... to a girl?"
Natsuo's entire face bursts into pink. "I—i-it's not like t-that! I just— I o-offended h-her and— and I must a-apologize properly—"
"Oh-ho-ho, sure," Banri says smugly. "You want to "apologize". Definitely not because she's pretty or smells good. This is amazing. I've been waiting YEARS for you to like someone!"
"I d-didn't say I l-liked—!"
Banri pats his shoulder pityingly. "It's okay, Natsuo. Love is confusing."
Natsuo sputters like a boiling kettle.
Banri suddenly straightens, all teasing replaced by decisive seriousness.
"Well then," he announces, "if the gift is for a girl, we need an expert."
Natsuo blinks, wary. "...An e-expert?"
"Daiji." Banri reveals, with the wisdom of a sage.
Natsuo's blood drains from his face, his knees suddenly feeling like weak. "N-no! Banri, a-absolutely not! Not h-him."
"He's popular with girls," Banri says with the unshakeable logic of a man who has already decided the future. "He knows what they like."
"But D-Daiji hates me—he'll j-just—he'll—"
"Laugh at you, belittle you, insult you," Banri lists the points on his fingers with cheerful accuracy. "But then he'll tell you something actually useful. It's the Daiji Tax, Natsuo. You pay in dignity, you get back results."
Natsuo lets out a small, wounded whimper.
Banri throws an arm around him, already dragging him toward the fields.
"Come on! Time to consult the resident heartthrob!"
"Banri—w-wait—please—!"
"It's for love, Natsuo!"
"It's n-not—!!"
But Banri is unstoppable and Natsuo's feet follow against his will, heart hammering, wondering if he is making the biggest mistake of his life.
***
Banri spots Daiji near the edge of the fallow fields, where the dirt has been packed hard by generations of footprints. He is in the center of a makeshift ring, the air around him thick with the smell of kicked-up dust and the salty tang of exertion.
He is mid-wrestle, his upper body bare to the waist, skin glistening like polished mahogany under the relentless morning sun. Natsuo's breath hitches. Where Natsuo is all sharp angles and hidden tremors, Daiji is a masterclass in controlled power.
His muscles ripple with a fluid, feline grace—broad shoulders tapering into a lean, powerful waist, his back a map of tensed sinew as he anchors his weight.
With a sudden, explosive pivot, Daiji catches his opponent's momentum. He doesn't just throw the man; he guides him into the air. He flips the other villager over his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a sack of summer straw.
The man hits the ground with a heavy, bone-deep thud that sends a shudder through the dirt and startles a nearby flock of sparrows.
A cluster of young women nearby erupts into a flurry of giggles, hiding their crimson faces behind colorful sleeves, their eyes bright with a hunger they don't bother to hide.
The other men roar with approval, slapping their knees and shouting jests.
Daiji doesn't gloat. He simply exhales, a long, steady plume of breath as he brushes a stray lock of damp, dark hair away from his eyes.
He steps out of the circle to let the next match begin, his movements as unhurried as a predator who knows he has nothing to prove.
As he reaches for his discarded haori, the sun catches the sharp line of his jaw and the hollow of his throat. He carries himself with a terrifying, effortless magnetism—the kind of man who makes the very air in the village feel crowded.
"See?" Banri whispers, leaning into Natsuo's personal space. "The resident heartthrob. Even the dirt seems to like being under his feet."
Natsuo feels smaller than usual. He adjusts his glasses, his fingers cold. "He's... he's r-radiant. Like a s-sunfire."
"And sunfire is exactly what you need to melt a lady's heart," Banri declares, already dragging him toward the golden boy.
"Hey! Daiji! Stop looking so handsome for five seconds, we need your help!"
Daiji turns. His gaze is sharp, dark, and heavy with the confidence of the well-loved. When his eyes settle on Natsuo and his brother he lets out a loud sigh.
Banri waves both arms, nearly hitting a passing villager. "Daiji! Hey! Daiji—over here!"
Daiji doesn't even grant them a chance. He is busy reclaiming his pride and his breath.
"Go away, Banri. I'm busy existing."
Banri ignores the dismissal entirely, dragging a stumbling Natsuo right into the shadow of the champion. "We need your help! Life and death stuff!"
"No."
Banri sputters, "You didn't even hear what kind of help!"
Daiji wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the motion fluid and infuriatingly graceful.
"Doesn't matter. I'm not doing it. Whatever it is, it involves effort I'd rather spend on myself."
Banri steps in front of Natsuo protectively, like a small dog barking at a mountain.
"Come on, Daiji! It's important!
"No."
"It's something only you can do."
Daiji pauses. The movement is subtle—a slight tilt of his head, like a predator catching a scent. Then, slowly he lifts his chin. The smug satisfaction that radiates off him is almost blinding.
"...Well, of course it is," he says, his voice a rich, condescending velvet. He brushes imaginary dust from his bare, sun-kissed shoulder.
"Most things in this village require my specific level of competence to function." He sniffs, looking down his nose. "So..
no."
Banri groans loudly, a sound of pure sibling frustration. "Daijiiii, please! Just hear us out!"
"Not interested."
Then Banri taps into the quintessence of a thousand little brothers. He lowers his eyelids, shrugs his shoulders, and adopts a tone of bored, clinical disinterest.
"Fine then. I guess you don't want to help because... well, it's about a girl. Probably too high-level for you anyways."
Daiji freezes.
The air in the clearing seems to still. A full, perfect second of silence passes where the only sound is the distant thud of the next wrestling match.
Then, Daiji slowly... painfully slowly... turns his head. His dark eyes narrow, flickering with lurking curiosity.
"A girl?"
He crosses his arms over his chest, his expression shifting from bored god to intrigued strategist.
"So. Have you finally decided to ask Umeko out? I thought you'd wait until she actually noticed you existed."
Banri beams triumphantly. "See? NOW he cares!"
"I don't 'care,'" Daiji snaps, though the sudden spark in his eyes betrays the lie. "I just... want to make sure my brother doesn't make a complete fool out of himself."
"Whatever disaster you court affects my reputation, you know. I can't have 'Brother of the Village Idiot' on my headstone. Anyway, back to Umeko."
"It's not Umeko," Banri says bluntly.
"Oh. Then Ayane? Bold choice. She's got a temper like a cornered badger."
"No."
"Right." Daiji snaps his fingers, the sound sharp as a whip. "Hana. She was asking about you recently. I told her you were mostly harmless."
"Nope," Banri says.
Beside them, Natsuo is witnessing this exchange utterly astonished. His mind is a static-filled void. The thought of Banri wooing so many girls—presumably with his collection of "cool rocks" and "bug-catching cages"—shatters his entire understanding of the social hierarchy. He feels like he's watching a foreign play without a translator.
"Nooooo, Daiji," Banri sings, leaning in with a grin that spells doom. "Not me. It's Natsuo who needs the girl help."
Natsuo makes a noise like a dying cricket—a tiny, crushed sound of absolute surrender.
Daiji stops. He stares at Natsuo. He looks him up and down—from his dusty boots to the smudge on his glasses—as if he's looking at a math problem that doesn't add up.
Then, he slowly turns his gaze back to his brother.
"...You woke up today and chose violence, didn't you?"
Banri nods proudly. "Only the best for my best friend."
Natsuo squeezes his eyes shut, praying for a sudden, localized sinkhole to swallow him whole.
"And she's real?" Daiji clarifies flatly.
"Yes! Well, I haven't met her myself, but I'm pretty sure!" Banri adds cheerfully, entirely unbothered by the implication.
Daiji drags a calloused hand down his face. He looks Natsuo up and down again, in a manner so judging it feels like a legal deposition.
"...And she talked to you willingly?" Daiji asks, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine, scientific disbelief.
"D-DAIJI!" Natsuo sputters, his face reaching a shade of red that suggests he might actually catch fire.
Banri slaps Daiji's arm—a solid, brotherly thud. "Hey! Be nice! He's trying!"
Daiji rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. "I am being nice," he snaps, adjusting his haori over his broad shoulders. "If I wasn't, I would've asked if she was injured, unconscious, or perhaps trapped in a well and mistook him for a rescue party."
Natsuo covers his burning face with both hands, wishing his fingers could simply pull him into the earth.
"So?" Daiji demands, his posture shifting into something more focused. "What do you need help with, exactly? Aside from your general existence."
Natsuo nearly curls inward, his shoulders hitching. "W-Well, I acted r-rudely toward her...and I w-wanted to apologize properly. Banri s-suggested I give her a g-gift."
Daiji exhales a long, exaggerated breath of suffering, as if he's personally carrying the weight of the village's romantic failures. But then—shockingly—the sharp edge of his sarcasm softens. He looks at Natsuo, not as a joke, but as a problem that needs a precise solution.
"Listen carefully, scroll-hugger. When apologizing to a woman, you need two things."
Natsuo leans in, his heart hammering.
Daiji raises a single, steady finger. "One: sincerity. If you're faking it, she'll smell the rot on you before you open your mouth."
Natsuo nods, swallowing hard. "Yes, I—I can do t-that. I truly feel t-terrible."
"Suure," Daiji mutters, though there's less bite in it now. He raises a second finger. "Two: attention."
Natsuo blinks, his fogged glasses sliding down his nose. "A-Attention?"
"To her," Daiji clarifies impatiently, "What she likes. What she dislikes. What she needs but won't ask for."
He jabs a thumb toward the group of young women watching them from the adjacent field.
"You see them? If you say sorry and she thinks the gesture is thoughtless, she'll throw you in a ditch. Or worse—she'll ignore you completely. Depends on the woman."
Banri leans close to Natsuo and whispers loudly enough for the entire field to hear, "Daiji's been thrown in a ditch. Twice. Once by a girl half his size."
Daiji whips his head around, his color shifting eyes flashing. "BANRI—"
Banri lifts both hands, laughing as he ducks behind Natsuo. "Okay, okay! Focus on the student!"
Daiji huffs, turning back to Natsuo, his expression settling into something clipped but strangely sincere.
"Anyway. A woman wants a gift that proves you were looking at her. Not just standing in her presence, but seeing her. It shouldn't be expensive. It shouldn't be random. It needs to be something that shows you noticed what she values. What she's missing."
Banri blinks, his teasing forgotten for a moment. "Wow. That was... unexpectedly wise, Brother."
Daiji's scowl deepens, a faint flush of annoyance creeping up his neck. "Don't say things like that. It ruins my image."
Natsuo hesitates, the word value echoing in his mind. "So... s-something meaningful. Something... p-personal?"
He thinks of her hair.
The way it cascaded down her shoulders and into the stream.
The way it dragged on the ground.
Daiji grunts. "Yes. And for someone like you..." He pauses, looking at Natsuo with a sharp, final smirk. "...who panics when people breathe too close to him—stick to something simple. Try to be clever, and you'll just screw it up."
"That was actually gold! See? I told you he was an expert!" Banri beams, slapping Natsuo on the back.
Daiji claps his hands once, shaking off the conversation as he heads back toward the wrestling ring. "Anyway. Don't blame me when she turns you down. I can't perform miracles.
Natsuo goes still.
Something she'll use.
Something thoughtful.
Something to prove he noticed.
A hair tie.
A simple cloth tie.
Made from his own kimono.
Daiji watches him go distant and narrows his eyes.
"...Did you think of something?"
Natsuo swallows. "I... I d-did."
Banri is ecstatic. "Really? Already?!"
Daiji smirks. "Huh. Didn't think he had it in him."
Natsuo shakes his head, cheeks warming, and stands. "Th-thank you. Both of you. I... I'll try my best."
Banri jumps to his feet. "Go for it!"
Daiji waves his hand lazily. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't embarrass yourself."
Natsuo bows deeply and hurries away, heart thudding with new resolve.
Banri watches him go, smiling wide. "Awe, he's so excited...!"
Daiji snorts. "That's not excitement. That's fear."
Banri elbows him. "No... that's hope."
Daiji says nothing to that.
But something unreadable flickers across his face.
Natsuo barely breathes until he reaches his small home.
Inside, it's dim and quiet—just enough light filtering through the thin shōji walls to paint pale lines across the floorboards. Natsuo drops to his knees beside the wooden chest at the foot of his futon and throws it open with trembling hands.
Inside lies every kimono he owns.
He pulls them out one by one, laying them carefully across the floor despite his frantic pace. Rich fabrics, simple ones, muted grays, soft blues, a faded cream—folded, refolded, spread out again.
He sits back on his heels, chest rising and falling.
It has to be the right one.
Not too bright.
Not too ordinary.
Not something that screams noble, but not something so worn it's insulting.
He runs his fingers along each sleeve, checking texture, weight, durability. Some fabrics are too stiff. Some too delicate. Some too bold. He lifts a dark indigo kimono—too somber. A pale green one—too springlike. A patterned gray—too formal. A soft blue—too familiar; villagers would notice its absence immediately.
Natsuo groans softly and drags a hand through his hair.
She deserves something that suits her. Something gentle but strong...
Something that won't snag in her hair...
Something that won't stand out too boldly against white...
His fingers brush a folded garment at the very bottom of the pile.
A kimono he rarely wears.
Simple. Soft. A pale, warm beige with a faint woven pattern—subtle enough that you only see it when the fabric catches the light.
He lifts it carefully, the cloth slipping through his hands like calm breath.
"...This one," he whispers.
It's nothing fancy.
Not expensive.
But sturdy.
Warm.
Comfortable.
And something about the color—earthy, soft—feels like her. Like the stream water. Like the forest floor. Like the quiet between her words.
Natsuo presses the fabric to his chest, cheeks warming.
"This... this will work."
He gathers scissors, a length of twine, and a needle from a small lacquered box. He spreads the kimono across his low table and takes a slow, steadying breath.
Then he begins cutting a strip of fabric—careful, precise, almost reverent. His hands shake, but he keeps going. He folds the strip neatly, tests its strength, and nods to himself.
Cloth first. Twine braided through, maybe... yes. Stronger that way.
He works in silence as the sky outside darkens, threading twine through fabric, smoothing every wrinkle, shaping the tie with determination he didn't know he possessed.
A hair tie—
simple, humble, made with his own hands.
Not perfect.
But full of intention.
By the time he finishes, night has fully fallen.
Natsuo sets the completed hair tie gently on the table and bows his head over it, whispering:
"I hope... you'll accept it."