思ひつつ

ぬればや人の

見えつらむ

夢としりせば

さめざらましを

Thinking about him

I slept, only to have him

appear before me—

had I known it was a dream,

I should never have wakened.

— Ono no Komachi

002. waking

Yato hadn't written anything in the journal yesterday.

It's fine, Hiyori thought, drumming her fingers against her pencil. It's fine. She looked at the notebook.

It didn't feel fine.

She sighed, pushing away from the desk. It was hot today; the humidity clung to her skin, making her hair stick to her neck, her forehead. She paced around the room, the tatami mat cool under her feet.

Yato's never not written anything, she thought—since the day he had scrawled, Who are you? on her hand, he wrote something. He used her sticky notes, tore pages from her notebooks, doodled in the journal.

She had woken up to a blank page.

He's fine, she reasoned. He was probably busy.

Hiyori sighed, walked another circle around her futon, and dropped into her chair. Her schoolwork was spread out on the desk, her neatly-written notes mixed with Yato's, easily identified by the cartoon characters sketched in the margins. A miniature Yato with cat ears and a tail cheered her on. Hiyori smiled. He really is a good artist, she thought, admiringly. I wonder why—

"Hiyori?"

Her head lifted and she looked to the door as it opened.

Her father stepped inside. He was helping her mother in the garden today, and his pants were smudged with dirt, his sleeves rolled up. "There's a boy here to see you."

Hiyori's heart skipped a beat. Her stomach seemed to swoop out from under her. "What?"

Her father raised an eyebrow. "A boy is here to see you. I think he's your grandmother's friend's…grandson… Oh, what's his name? Fujii?" Her father frowned. "No—Fujisaki!" He snapped his fingers, pleased with himself.

"Oh." Hiyori let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"What?" Her father's forehead creased. "Do you want to see him…or should I tell him that you aren't feeling well?"

"No, no," Hiyori said. "It's fine. I'll be right down."

"Alright," her father said, and he quietly left the room.

She stood. Her heartbeat had calmed, but her hands were still trembling. What? Did you think…?

She shook her head, heading to the hallway and down the stairs. As she approached the foyer, Hiyori slowed. She heard voices—her parents, and Kōto.

"...school?"

"Oh, no, I…"

Hiyori crouched and slipped her shoes on, walking to the doorway and poking her head out. Kōto stood in the road, by the yard. He was in a T-shirt and jeans, leaning against his bicycle. Her parents were in the yard, pulling weeds, although her mother had stopped to chat with him, using a gloved hand to keep her wide-brimmed hat on in the wind.

When he saw her in the doorway, Kōto smiled. "Iki-san!" He waved.

"Ah, Fujisaki-kun!" Hiyori greeted. The wind blew her hair as she walked down the pathway, and she tucked a piece behind her ear. "What brings you here?"

"My grandfather wanted me to drop this off for your grandmother." He untied a package from the cargo rack on his bike and handed it to Hiyori. "It's kuzumochi," Kōto explained, "for the first hot day of the year. My grandfather seems to think that summer has started early." He smiled.

"Oh, she'll love it." Hiyori held the box carefully. "Thank you. You didn't have to come all the way up here."

"It's fine," Kōto brushed aside. "My grandfather can't move around so easily anymore, so I usually run errands for him." He pushed up the kickstand on his bike, and looked at Hiyori. "Will you walk with me? To the hill, I mean," He added. His face was flushed, and he glanced away.

She looked back at her parents—they were busy gardening. She turned back to Kōto. "Sure."

They walked slowly, the spokes on Kōto's bicycle clicking. They talked about school, and clubs; he played basketball. "I thought I would feel nostalgic, because I'm a third year," he laughed. "Instead, I'm just tired."

"Do you know where you're going to college?"

"In Tokyo, probably," he answered. "I guess when you spend your whole life in the country, you dream about going to the city."

It was quiet, the wind rustling through the trees—looking down on Okutama from the hill, the town seemed sleepy, drowsy in the heat. A few children chased each other across a lawn with a hose, shouting.

"What about you?" Kōto asked.

Hiyori blinked. "Me?"

"Yeah," Fujisaki-kun laughed. "Where do you want to go to school?"

"Oh, I don't…" Her brain stalled. She thought, suddenly, about the career survey sitting in a folder in her room. She had woken up to find it on her desk—Yato had brought it back from school. It was due by break, but it was still there, blank. "…I don't know," Hiyori admitted. "I'm thinking about medical school… My father and brother are doctors, and my grandfather was, too."

"A doctor." Kōto sounded impressed. He laughed and rubbed at his neck, embarrassedly. "Wow, that's more ambitious than anything I'm thinking about."

"Oh, no," Hiyori rushed. "My father runs a hospital in the city. My brother's a doctor, but he's not interested in heading the hospital, I think. So…" She looked at her hands, still holding the box filled with kuzumochi. "I think it's what my father would want."

"Yeah, well…" There was a frown in Fujisaki-kun's voice. "You have to figure out what you want, too."

Hiyori looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise.

He grinned, impishly. "If my family had it their way, I'd stay here, learn the ropes, take over the business from my father." He shrugged. "I probably will after college, but… I want to explore, follow my own path—even if it's only for awhile, y'know?"

Hiyori looked at him, surprised. She nodded, slowly. "I think that's a good plan," she offered, with a smile.

"Yeah? Me, too." Kōto smiled back. He stared at her, but his eyes skirted away when he saw her looking. He stood there, eyebrows furrowed—then, he turned to her. "Say, Iki-san—do you want to go to Tanabata with me?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Tanabata," Kōto laughed. "Would you go with me?"

Hiyori stared at him. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

Tanabata… It was more than a month away. She would be spending it in Okutama, probably, instead of Tokyo, but… She knew how Fujisaki-kun was asking. It would be a date. He was nice—very nice, and funny, and her grandmother would probably be thrilled, but…

Something in her hesitated.

"Fujisaki-kun, I…" Hiyori swallowed, and looked at him. "I'm sorry, but I'm not…"

"It's okay."

Hiyori's eyes lifted to meet his. "What?" She asked, confused.

Kōto shrugged. He smiled, but Hiyori thought it didn't look as natural as it had before. "I had to try, right?" He looked up at the sky, letting out a sigh. "Ah, it looks like it's going to rain…"

"Fujisaki-kun…"

He looked back at Hiyori, the smile still on his lips. "You're a nice girl, Iki-san." He swung a leg over his bike. "I'll see you around."

"I— Okay," Hiyori said. He kicked off, headed down the hill. Fujisaki-kun looked back, once, and when he saw her wave, he lifted a hand.

Hiyori waited until he disappeared around the bend. She let out a long breath, feeling the tension slowly leave her body. She glanced at the sky.

She would have to hurry home. Fujisaki-kun was right—it looked like it was going to rain.

Who are you?

The old woman had pulled her hand back, fingers curled like Yato's touch had burnt her.

I should have lied, Yato thought. He bobbed and weaved through the crowd swarming the streets—most carried umbrellas and a few used coats, briefcases, and bags to shield themselves from the rain. His hair stuck to his cheeks, his chin. It was getting long—he should cut it.

What are you talking about? Yato had asked, but the old woman had asked again, insistent: Who are you? Are you some lost soul that wandered into my granddaughter's body when she was asleep?

Yato side-stepped a bicyclist who zipped down the street, water spraying out behind him.

Now, that had offended him.

I'm no lost spirit! I have my own body and life, y'know.

You're not my granddaughter, the old woman had declared, triumphantly, but fear still colored her eyes. What did you do?

Okay, that had offended him, too.

I didn't 'do' anything. I—I don't know why this is happening.

He should have lied. Yato came to a crosswalk and stopped, waiting impatiently. He tapped his foot. Change, he thought at the light. Change. He was getting soaked.

It was that look in her eyes—that startled recognition—that scared him more than her fear had.

Did you switch in your sleep?

The walk signal flashed and an off-key beep chimed. The crowd separated from the sidewalk, sloshing across the street.

You're here one day, and Hiyori the day after, the old woman had said. Did you switch?

Hiyori's mother had come in, then—she had heard the teacup hit the floor. She had asked what happened, but Yato and Hikari had remained still, regarding each other in a silent stand-off.

Neither said anything.

Yato ducked into an alley, side-stepping knocked-over trash cans and burst garbage bags. He glanced either way before he stepped back onto the sidewalk, rejoining the crowds. Shibuya's lights pulsed above, making the rain glow in hazy colors. When he reached the arcade, Yato looked at the sign and sighed.

He pushed through the doors and stepped inside.

It was dimmer inside than out. Yato let his eyes adjust, surveying the room. The air was stale. He better be here.

Shibuya was packed with arcades, but only a handful were close to where Yukine stayed, under the bridge. Yato knew he spent most days playing games or shoplifting, and it was a rainy day—perfect to hole up in an arcade for awhile. The kid was smart, but he was still a kid.

(Plus, Yato had promised Matsumoto-san, who camped out near the intersection, some cigarettes—not the cheap kind, either—if he let it slip to Yato if Yukine happened to pass by.)

Yato looked around, glancing over chairs to see if any blond, snot-nosed kids were sitting in them. The games beeped and blared, lights flashing like carnival rides, glinting dully on the worn leather seats. Yato had almost given up hope and vowed that Matsumoto-san would be given only the cheapest cigarettes when he heard a, "Are you kidding me?"

Gotcha, Yato thought. He peeked around the corner to see Yukine, glaring at a shooter RPG. The kid looked ready to kick the machine.

"Well, well, well," Yato said, strolling leisurely over. He peered at the game's screen, raising an eyebrow. "Wow, you got creamed."

Yukine turned sharply, scowling. "What do you want?"

Yato rolled his eyes—if he was like a stray cat, Yukine was feral. "Nice to see you, too."

"I thought you only said that when it was actually nice to see someone." Yukine said, eyeing him distastefully. "Why are you here? What are you, my stalker?"

Yato frowned. Well, there was the deal with Matsumoto-san, but— "'Stalker' is a bit harsh."

"Do you think I didn't notice you loitering near my bridge?"

Yato opened his mouth, about to ask, What are you talking about? then closed it. Thanks, Hiyori. "It's not your bridge," Yato sniffed. "It's on a public road, as I recall." He looked at Yukine, curiously. "So, what'd you do with the skateboard?"

"You—" Yukine stumbled over his words. "It's none of your business!"

"Mm-hmm," Yato hummed, noncommittally. He peered around the arcade. "I wonder where you got the money for this." He gestured at the game.

"Shut up." Yukine's hands were balled into fists.

"Well, at least you're not stupid enough to steal from someone in here," Yato remarked, idly. "If they caught you, you'd never be allowed back."

"What—you're going to criticize me for pickpocketing?"

"No," Yato said, calmly. There were worse ways to make money, he knew. Hiyori might have been alarmed at a kid stealing stuff, but Yato wasn't fazed. "I'm just warning you—be careful. Keep stealing stupidly, and you'll get caught. You'll get sent back to whoever or whatever you ran away from."

Yukine stilled. His voice was cold. "Thanks for the advice," he said, sounding anything but grateful, "but I don't need it."

"Mm-hmm." Yato's hand slipped into his pocket—he felt the worn card, still dry. He pulled it out, and held it out to Yukine. "Here."

Yukine looked at it like Yato was offering him was a dead thing. "What is this, your card?"

Yato rolled his eyes. "No. It belongs to a friend—she and her husband run a store… Whatever—if you're in trouble, you can go here, and she'll take you in for the night, no questions asked. Don't steal anything, though." He warned.

Yukine bristled. He slapped the card from Yato's hand. "I don't need your help!" He said, hotly. "I can take care of myself."

"You're, like, eleven."

"Fourteen," Yukine snarled, "and what are you? Fifteen?"

"Seventeen," Yato shot back.

"Oh, wow. You're such an adult," Yukine mocked. He looked at Yato disdainfully. "Thanks—if I ever need your help, I'll be sure to look for you at McDonald's." He shoved past Yato and stalked towards the door.

Yato bent down to retrieve the card and sighed. I think that went well. He pursed his lips, slipping the card back into his pocket. Then, he stretched and sighed. He would need to get his rest.

After all, he was going on a hike this weekend.

"No, no, no, you do it like this." Masaomi took the pencil from Hiyori's hand, crossing out her answer and diligently writing down a formula. "Try it like that," he instructed, handing the pencil back to her.

Hiyori's eyebrows furrowed as she worked through the equation. Her pencil scratched lightly at the paper. The lamp on her desk cast a soft, warm glow.

While she was writing, Hiyori glanced at her brother. Masaomi leaned against the desk; his shirt sleeves were rolled up and his slacks were rumpled. He had gotten back from the city earlier, and was rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

"How was the hospital?" Hiyori asked, lightly. She glanced down at her worksheet, frowned, and erased a number, sweeping the shavings away and rewriting it.

"Oh, you know," Masaomi sighed and stretched. They both winced when they heard his back crack. "Busy."

"Mm," Hiyori said. She set her pencil down and handed the paper to her brother.

He readjusted his glasses, looking at it. "Hm… It looks right to me, but you'll need to be faster. Problems like this are frequent on entrance exams for medical schools."

Hiyori nodded, taking the paper and staring at it, lips pursed. "Do you like being a doctor?" She asked her brother, eyes flicking to his.

His eyebrows lifted. "Hm…" He considered, crossing his arms. "Well, I don't dislike it. When I was younger, I hated it… The pressure to go to school, become a doctor and work under Dad at the hospital… It was suffocating. It felt like the future was closed off to me." He tilted his head. "Why?"

Hiyori pursed her lips. She set the paper down on the desk and looked at her hands, folded in her lap. "I don't know. I… I've always wanted to be a doctor—or I thought I did…" She frowned.

Masaomi's lips quirked up. "Well, it doesn't hurt to think about it. I mean, look at me—I spent years swearing I would never become a doctor, and here I am, now."

"Dad says you do good work at the hospital," Hiyori offered.

"Well, I've learned that you can be good at something and not like it," her brother replied, "and that you can like something and not be any good at it—I love art, but that's not where my talents lie."

Hiyori's mind flashed inadvertently back to Yato. "I don't think you were bad, though," she protested.

"Oh, really—'not bad,' huh?" Her brother laughed. "Gee, thanks." He ruffled her hair and Hiyori swatted at him; Masaomi grinned. "Alright. What else is on your homework?"

It took them another thirty minutes to finish the worksheet. Hiyori shuffled her papers into a folder while her brother stood by, yawning. She crouched beside her desk, tucking the folder into her backpack for tomorrow.

Masaomi shifted. "Huh—what's this?" Curiosity colored his tone.

Paper rustled behind her; Hiyori looked back to see her brother picking up a notebook from her desk. He readjusted his glasses, and they glinted in the lamplight.

Her stomach dropped.

It was the journal.

"Oh, that—" Hiyori leapt to her feet, tripping over her words. Masaomi glanced at her, and back at the journal. "That's— It's, ah, a creative writing project." She sucked in a breath as he flipped through it. "It—"

"It's good."

Hiyori blinked, eyelashes fluttering. "What?"

"The drawings. They're good." Her brother lifted the journal to show her.

Hiyori realized, with a start, that her brother was pointing to a sketch Yato had done—it showed her, or Yato in her body, asleep on the train, sprawled out on the seat with her head tipped back and her bag tucked in her lap. Written by it was, The commute's so long… (=_=)

Hiyori swallowed thickly, looking at her brother. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. "That…"

Masaomi wasn't paying attention to her, though. He was looking at the notebook, frowning. "I didn't know you were so good at drawing, Hiyori."

"Drawing?"

"Yeah. You're not bad."

Hiyori smiled, nervously. He doesn't realize. "Oh," she teased, "'not bad,' huh?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's a compliment."

"Uh-huh."

Masaomi threw his hands in the air. "Fine, be that way." He sighed, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "It's late. I should check on Grandma."

Hiyori nodded. "Thank you for helping me with the homework."

Masaomi stretched and grunted. "It's fine. Let me know if you run into any problems again."

"Okay," Hiyori said, softly, watching him leave the room. "Goodnight."

"Night," Masaomi waved, and slid the door shut behind him. Hiyori stood still, listening as his footsteps faded. She heard him descend the stairs—and sighed, shoulders slumping. That was too close. She looked down at the notebook and frowned.

Hiyori walked to her desk, setting the journal on it and sitting down. She flipped through it, lingering on the drawing Masaomi had looked at. We only have a few pages left… She realized, looking at how few were still blank. She would have to buy another one soon.

Hiyori took out a pen and stared at the page, contemplating what to write. Her handwriting on the other side was visible, a reminder that Yato had written nothing yesterday.

She started with, Today was hot, then crossed it out, shaking her head. How was your day? She tried, and winced.

Hiyori sighed, leaning back in her chair. She chewed the inside of her cheek, considering, and picked up the pen.

I had trouble with my homework today, she wrote, so Masaomi helped. He said… Her eyebrows furrowed. …those problems are frequent on the entrance exams for medical school. He asked me if I want to be a doctor. I said—

Her grip on the pen tightened.

—I don't know. I've always said I wanted to be a doctor, but I don't know if that's the same thing as actually wanting it. She paused. Masaomi saw your art, by the way. Oh, don't worry—he thought I drew it. She snorted. He said it was good, though—and he would know. He was an artist for a while.

Hiyori paused, looking at what she had written. She tried to think about what else to say, but drew a blank. She wondered if Yato was having as much trouble writing as she was. She wondered if there would be a note for her tomorrow—or nothing.

Are you okay? She wanted to ask, but that felt too… She shook her head. It was strange—she and Yato swapped bodies every day. They lived each other's lives as often as their own. Yet, somehow, it still felt like there were boundaries between them that were impossible to cross.

Hiyori bit her lip. I hope you had a good day, she wrote, setting her pen down and closing the journal.

Standing, she picked it up, and looked around the room. Her brother had found it once; Hiyori didn't want anyone else in her family to. She would hide it, and leave Yato a note. Where, though?

Her gaze fell on the closet. She walked over and slid the door open—it stuck, and she had to push against it. Inside, boxes were piled high, along with a lamp covered in a sheet. Hiyori stood on her tiptoes to look at the top shelf. She pushed a box aside, coughing when dust drifted down. She slid the notebook behind the box and stepped back, scrutinizing it to make sure nothing looked amiss. Satisfied, she stepped back and shut the door.

"How much further is it?" Yato panted, heavily.

The old woman looked back at him disbelievingly. "Do you always complain so much?"

"Only when I'm hiking a mountain," Yato replied, pushing sweaty hair from his eyes.

Hikari looked unimpressed. "It's not much further," she said, but her tone was not reassuring.

The only sound was their feet on the path, Yato's labored breathing, and the wind through the trees. Birdsong echoed faintly through the forest. Yato could see the gray sky above them, through the branches.

Okutama was nestled between small mountains, leading to the lake, the dam, and the Tama River. The river ran all the way to Tokyo Bay. Its waters were a deep teal on clear days, but today it looked dark and opaque.

They started off in the morning, a concerned Sayuri and Masaomi waving them off. Hiyori's brother had offered to go with them, but Hikari insisted that she wanted to go on a hike with her granddaughter, and he relented; Yato suspected that Masaomi was as intimated by the old woman as he was. It had taken them over two hours to get this far, even though the mountain was small. The old woman picked her way up the trail carefully and cautiously—that was fine with Yato, who felt like he would keel over any second. It was less hot and humid in Okutama than Tokyo, and even cooler on the mountain, but the air still stuck to his skin uncomfortably.

"Are we there yet?" Yato asked, again, at the old woman's back.

"Only a few more minutes," Hikari answered, gruffly. "You should save your energy by talking less."

Yato eyed her back balefully. He had no idea why the woman wanted to hike a mountain, let alone with him, but he trudged after her anyway.

The forest became more coniferous as they climbed, scraggly pines striving towards the sunlight that fell between tall, broad-leaved trees. Rocks jutted out from the path, and Yato and Hikari moved slower than ever.

When they reached the top, Yato almost collapsed. Instead, he helped the old woman disentangle herself from her pack. She was careful not to touch him, Yato noticed. He set the pack down by a stump, which Hikari slowly lowered herself onto.

Yato sat—or fell—on a mossy log, breathing heavily. His shirt was plastered to his chest and back with sweat, and he was sticky from the bug repellant he had enthusiastically applied throughout the hike. His legs were killing him. Hiyori'll be happy about that tomorrow, Yato thought as he pulled his water bottle from his pack and drank greedily. He set it beside him, brushing sweaty bangs from his eyes and huffing out a breath, and looked over at the old lady.

While he could see sweat glinting faintly on her pale, wrinkled forehead, and they had had to stop several times on their way up—for whose benefit, now, he wasn't sure—she looked undeterred. Hikari pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and coughed into it, loudly. Yato winced—even in the hot, heavy air, it sounded painful.

"Are you alright?" He asked, finally, hesitantly, after the silence grew suffocating.

She arched an eyebrow at him, tucking the hankie away. "I'm fine," she replied, briskly. "I'm old. I cough."

Yato resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Now that the burning pain in his muscles had settled to a throbbing ache, he looked around. The path went on, down a steep slope, but here it widened to encompass the log and a few stumps and rocks. The ground was worn and packed hard from many feet trampling on it over the years, but the leaves from the fall still lay mouldering over it. It looked like no one had been here in months.

A glint caught his eye, and Yato looked over.

Sandwiched between two large trees was a small shrine. They were common in the countryside, and even the city, but this one was old. It was made from faded, cracking wood, with a steep, curving roof covered in pine needles. A large branch had fallen across it, but the shrine was still standing. A worn rope was stretched across it, zigzag-shaped paper streamers hanging limpy from it.

"The people who lived in town used to care for this shrine," the old woman said.

Yato blinked at her, surprised.

She wasn't looking at him, though. She was gazing at the shrine. "I used to come here with my friends, hiking up the mountain through the seasons—when the leaves changed in the fall, when the snow fell in the winter, when the cherry blossoms bloomed in the spring, and when the rains fell in the summer. I would take Sayuri, too," she confessed, "when she was very young. When she visited from Tokyo with the children, she would take Hiyori and Masaomi here sometimes, on walks."

Hikari shifted on the stump. "But the people in town who cared for the shrine grew old, or died, or moved away. My friend who passed away this fall was the only one left who still made the trek, aside from me, but I was bedridden all winter." She sighed and tutted. "Look at the state it's in."

The silence was heavy, broken only by the wind in the trees and the birds calling to one another. Yato glanced at her; he swallowed thickly. "How did you know?" He asked, then paused. "About Hiyori and I, how did you—?"

"I don't like it when strangers touch me." Hikari's lips were a thin line. She rubbed her wrists with weathered hands.

Yato recalled what Hiyori wrote, once: My grandmother hates being touched by strangers. The way their hands had brushed, when he handed her the teacup. "You mean—"

"A lot can be conveyed through touch," the old woman said, sharply. She glanced at Yato, then looked away. "I knew then, but I had my suspicions before," she admitted.

"What do you…?"

Her dark eyes, usually so sharp, looked dazed. "I think I experienced it, when I was young—although I'm still unsure whether it was a dream or not. It faded away quickly, after I woke. I don't remember who it was I dreamed about. Sayuri talked about it, too, when she was a teenager, but I think it was always more hazy for her."

The wind murmured through the trees.

Yato sat still on the log. He had been sweating profusely through the hike, but now, his skin was damp and cold. He looked at the dilapidated shrine, the trees' dark, spindly branches threading through the sky. "So," he licked his dry lips, "this will end."

This isn't forever. It's just for awhile.

Hikari looked at him, surprised. "Of course. It's a rare dream that lasts into the waking world."

His throat burned. "Why did you bring me here, then?"

The old woman's lips quirked. "Where else was I supposed to talk to you? I'm hardly left alone in that house." She sniffed. "Besides, I wanted to come visit this place again, but I'm too old now to make the hike alone." Her gaze lingered on the shrine. "I believe that everyone in this world is connected," she confessed, "Our paths converge many times with others throughout our lives. They wind, turn, and diverge. Yours and Hiyori's have converged in a special way, but all paths part, and all roads end. This place reminds me of that."

Yato was silent.

Hikari glanced at him, but turned back to look at the shrine. "When I was young, the old folks who lived in this town believed that the god whom this shrine was dedicated to had the power to manipulate the ties that connect people, although his name has since been long forgotten. Those ties are all-important. The threads that bind us may tangle and fray, stretch and bend, but never break, and if we take one in our hands we can follow it to one another and to our fate." She gazed at Yato from under her rounded, wrinkled eyelids.

Yato felt both hot and cold.

It's a rare dream that lasts into the waking world.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Hikari's eyes were on him, regarding him carefully. "Just because you part ways does not mean that it is impossible to find your way back. Roads don't lead in only one direction. No matter how lost you may feel, you only need to pay attention, and you will feel the thread tugging at you—even if it's from a place as small as your pinkie. Turn around and follow the path, and you'll be able to find your way back to the crossroads, no matter how much time has passed."

Yato was silent.

Hikari stood, then, grunting as her knees straightened out. "Well, we should get to work." She glanced at the sky. "It's getting dark."

Yato stood, silently, and trailed after her. He followed her instructions, removing the branch that had fallen from the roof and sweeping the pine needles off of it. Hikari had packed supplies in her bag, and they cleaned the shrine. When they finished, Yato stepped back, looking at it. While still old, it looked well-kept and cared for. Hikari seemed pleased. They paid their respects and left, descending the mountain even slower than they had climbed it.

It was dark when they got back to the house. A light was on in the hallway that wrapped its way around the house's exterior, and the shadows cast by the glass-paned shōji's frames criss-crossed the lawns and garden.

A moth circled clumsily by the door, fumbling for a way to the light.

Hikari sighed gustily as she slid the door open. It rattled on its track. She turned to look back at him, standing on the threshold. "Well?"

Yato stood in the pathway. The shadow he cast bled into the night. "Don't tell Hiyori."

Hikari looked at him. Her eyes glinted in the light.

"Please." Everything felt sluggish, but his head and heart were racing.

Hikari watched him with those clever, keen eyes. "I don't approve," she declared, "but it's your decision, I suppose." Her voice was as soft as the night air. She stepped into the foyer, leaving the door open for Yato behind her.

He stood on the pathway. The light spilling from the doorway fell at his feet, a few inches away, but he couldn't bring himself to come inside.

All paths part, and all roads end.

Hiyori groaned, rolling over in bed. Her legs felt like she had run a marathon.

She crawled to her hands and knees. What did Yato do yesterday? She wondered, rubbing at her eyes, and stepped over the checkered coverlet, padding over to the closet. She slid the door open and stood on her tiptoes, pushing the box aside and feeling her fingers close around the journal. She pulled it from the shelf, bouncing on her heels and heading over to the desk. Her chair creaked when she plopped into it and opened the notebook, thumbing through the pages. She felt her heart beating fast as a hummingbird's wings in her chest—what if he didn't write anything?

Relief flooded through her when she turned the page and saw Yato's messy, scrawling penmanship.

I went on a hike with your grandmother.

Hiyori blinked.

She ambushed me, Yato complained. We went to this shrine—a hokora on a mountaintop. A mountain. She made me clean it. I feel like an indentured servant—is this what being a grandchild is like?

Hiyori snorted, softly.

Anyways, my legs are killing me—or, well, your legs, I guess. Sorry! Below that was written in a gentler, slower strokes:

Oh, by the way… I think you'd be good at it, being a doctor—don't pressure yourself too much, though. I think that, no matter what you do, you'll end up helping people.

Her confused frown faded, and a smile twitched on her lips. Hiyori leaned back in her chair, fingers brushing the page.

"Yatty-chan!"

Years spent dodging Kofuku's attacks had given Yato a sixth sense for when she would strike. He side-stepped her as she careened down the path, skidding to a stop. She turned around, apron flapping by her knees. "That's not nice, Yatty-chan." She frowned.

"Neither is dislocating my shoulder," Yato complained, but when she launched at him he let her glom onto him.

"Well, look who's here."

Yato struggled to free his arm from Kofuku's grip—he wrenched it away and lifted it. "Hey, Daikoku."

The man was standing in the doorway to the shop, wearing an apron and holding a broom. His hair was tied in a loose bun, and he had a five o'clock shadow even though it was only noon. "What, no '-san'?" He asked, flicking ash from his cigarette.

Daikoku-san? Oh, c'mon, Hiyori. "You never call me 'Yato-san," Yato complained, disentangling himself from Kofuku, who pouted.

"I'm older than you, you twerp." Daikoku sounded unfazed. He set the broom against the wall and stepped into the shop, ducking under the faded nōren. Yato and Kofuku walked in behind him. A fan with streamers tied to its grate moved in lazy circles, blowing warm air across the room. The refrigerators and freezer hummed.

"So, got any work for me?" Yato asked, elbows propped on the counter. He grinned, lazy and cat-like.

Daikoku shot him a glare. He turned to sift through the slips and receipts he kept tacked to the counter, and shook his head. "No, not that I can see." He paused. "Kazuma-san mentioned something about having flowers delivered to his girlfriend, I think."

Yato recoiled. "What—that crazy bitch? She nearly killed me when I dropped off chocolates for White Day!"

"You were fine."

"She punched me!"

"You know," Daikoku mused, "if I were a woman and saw you skulking around outside my apartment, I think I would punch you, too." He leaned against a shelf, arms folded over his chest. "There's no work other than that." A malicious grin stretched across his face. "Unless you want to stock shelves, Yato-san."

"Ooh! C'mon, Yato! I'll help!" Kofuku tugged on his arm.

"You never help," Yato complained, but let her drag him to the store's back.

A few hours later, and it seemed like the only progress that had been made was from Kofuku eating the inventory.

"Mm, Creamy Vanilla Pocky!" Kofuku chewed loudly. She pulled a stick and held it out to Yato. "Do you want one?"

Yato, hefting a crate filled with beer, looked at her. "Are you enjoying that?" He asked.

"Mm-hmm." She nodded.

"Oh, good. I'm so glad," he snapped, pushing the box onto a shelf. He took the Pocky from Kofuku and bit the end off it, chewing grumpily.

He heard footsteps, and Daikoku appeared at the aisle's head. His hands were on his hips and he raised an eyebrow at Yato. "You were better at this before," he informed Yato, unimpressed.

"I'm sorry I'm not moving fast enough. You'll notice that your wife is sitting on the boxes I need to move!" Yato threw his hands up.

Kofuku blinked, innocently.

He got a good meal for his work, at least. He and Kofuku inhaled the food, Daikoku ferrying dishes to and from the kitchen without complaint. When he was finished, Yato fell onto his back, so full it was uncomfortable. Kofuku threatened to poke him in the stomach and he batted her hand away.

He let himself lie there, recovering, for a few minutes. Finally, he pulled himself to his feet with a grunt.

"Aw, are you leaving?" Kofuku asked.

"Yeah," Yato grimaced, stretching.

"You can always stay," Daikoku said. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. "We have the spare bed in the attic."

"Nah," Yato said, waving a hand. "I'm okay—thanks, though."

"Alright…" Daikoku looked unconvinced. "Well, get back quickly—there's an advisory out for torrential rains." He returned to the kitchen and Kofuku walked Yato to the door. She rubbed sleepily at her eyes and pouted as he slipped on his shoes.

"You don't have to leave, you know." Her hand dropped to her side. Her voice was serious.

Yato glanced at her.

He respected Kofuku more than anyone he knew. She had helped him at his worst, when no one looked at him with any value—taking him in despite everyone's warnings, even her husband's. She had survived what happened to Daigo without letting herself or her marriage collapse. People thought Daikoku was strong, because he looked big and tough, but he had admitted to Yato, once, that he didn't know where he would be without Kofuku.

Yato smiled. "I know."

Kofuku offered him an umbrella, but he waved it away. She watched him leave from the porch as he walked across the yard and down the road. The light from the house faded into the dark. The air was heavy, threatening to storm, and the clouds hanging over the city, lit from below, roiled. Wind gusted down the street, and the trees swayed.

Why don't you stay with Kofuku and Daikoku?

Yato felt a raindrop hit his hand. He tilted his head back, looking at the black sky as another drop hit his cheek, sliding down.

His mouth turned up at the corner. That's what I get for not taking an umbrella.

He walked on through the rain, towards the station. The road was dark ahead of him.

All paths part, and all roads end.

Kofuku was right, Yato thought. He was like a stray cat—a feral cat, with patience and care, had a chance at living happily in a home again. Their life and foul temper weren't their fault. A stray cat may have been deserted, at one point in time, but there was a certain willfulness to them. They resisted belonging anywhere, to anyone.

Rain pelted the sidewalk. His shoulders and head were soaked.

Hiyori wouldn't understand—maybe she would if he explained it, but Yato felt like that would involve bearing something, some part of himself that he didn't want other people to see, and he thought that if Hiyori saw that, if she understood it, maybe she wouldn't like him so much after all. Maybe she wouldn't want him to stay.

Masaomi saw your artwork. He liked it.

You draw so well.

Yato disliked staying in one place, because if you stayed long enough you started to get attached to things, people. It was better for him not to get attached to people; it was better for people not to get attached to him. His father had told him that, once. His father had been wrong about a lot of things, but Yato had always suspected that he had been right about Yato—about how he clung to people and things that didn't belong to him.

It was why he had said to the old woman, Don't tell her. It was why Hiyori was dangerous, because being around her made Yato think and feel things that he had no right to be thinking or feeling. Being with her made Yato want to stay, to keep her around, because he was selfish, and a hypocrite, and a coward.

But Yato was trying. That was why, when she had written, I don't know if I want to be a doctor, he had scrawled back: I think you'd be good at it, being a doctor—don't pressure yourself too much, though. I think that, no matter what you do, you'll end up helping people. She had helped him, after all.

So, Yato wrote that, because even if he had never envisioned much of a future himself, he could see Hiyori's clearly, mapped out and shining before her, and while Yato was selfish, he wasn't selfish enough to assume that it would be better with him in it.

Hiyori glanced out the window, frowning from her booth. It's still pouring… It was dark out, rain sluicing across the windows, but she could see water rushing down the street in torrents. Pedestrians rushed by, dark shapes using umbrellas to brace against the wind and rain.

She shifted in her seat, the vinyl under her creaking. Hiyori had hoped to collect some cans or newspapers, but it had rained the whole day, and yesterday; she had camped out in the McDonald's. She still had 2000 yen, enough for a net café for the night.

A bed would be nice, though… She sighed, glancing at the clock hanging over the register. It was 10:00 PM. She stood up from her booth, bringing her tray over and setting it on the counter; an employee picked it up and disappeared into the kitchen with it.

Hiyori walked to the door and paused. She picked at Yato's jersey and sighed. I need to buy him an umbrella, or something with a hood… Grimacing, she opened the door and stepped out into the storm. Cold, wet air splattered against her cheek.

Hiyori glanced down the sidewalk. She turned, and jumped.

Yukine stood a few feet away. He was drenched, his bulky coat dwarfing him. His unruly hair clung to his face and seemed to glow white in the watery light cast from the stores and signs in Shibuya. He was staring at her with a strange look, apprehensive.

"H—Hey," Hiyori greeted, awkwardly. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the downpour. "What're you…doing…" Her eyes fell on his hands—they were scoured raw and bleeding. "What— Are you okay?" She took a step towards him.

He stepped back. "I'm fine," he snapped, but he sounded more shaken than angry. He hesitated. "My shelter… Where I was staying got washed away, from the storm."

Hiyori remembered the small channel that ran under the bridge. "Oh, no—are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he repeated, eyes skirting to the side, but it sounded weaker. "I don't… I don't have anywhere else to go," Yukine admitted, then: "Do you still have that card?"

Hiyori's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Yukine went still. His face tightened, and he scowled. "Nevermind. I should've known you'd be a jerk about it." He turned around, feet splashing through a puddle as he stomped down the sidewalk.

"What— Hey! Wait!" Hiyori yelled. She went after him, a hand outstretched.

Yukine whirled around, lips curled in a snarl like a caged animal.

Hiyori pulled her hand back. "I don't… I'm sorry," she stressed, slowly. What card is he talking about? She didn't know, but Hiyori could see his pride was bruised. "I…I forgot." She fibbed, weakly. "Listen—I was about to go to a net café. You can come with me, if—if you want."

Yukine eyed her distrustfully.

"Or—I can get you some food." She glanced back at the McDonald's, adding: "It's pouring out. You'll get sick. We can stay in there, if you want, or… You stay, and I'll go." Her voice sounded pleading, now.

Yukine was looking through the window, into the restaurant. Hunger warred with hesitation in his eyes. He turned back to Hiyori. "Okay." He added, hastily: "You try anything, though—"

"I won't," Hiyori swore.

Yukine peered at her, like he was trying to suss out any lies. He must have failed, because he turned around, stalking past her and pulling the door open to the restaurant, and stepped inside.

Hiyori let out a breath. She followed.

Yukine stood in the entryway, water dripping from his clothes and hair onto the linoleum. He was looking around, befuddled—lost, almost.

"Here," Hiyori gestured to a booth. "Why don't you sit?"

He bristled, but sat down, scooting as far away from her as possible, until he was backed into the corner by the window.

Hiyori went to the napkin dispenser and pulled out a few handfuls. She ignored the looks from the waitstaff and other customers, and walked back to the table. She held them out, and Yukine stared at her, disbelieving.

Water was pooling onto the seat around him. Hiyori raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Yukine flushed, grumbling as he took the napkins. He shrugged off his heavy, wet coat, grimacing as he wiped at his hair and face.

"What do you want to eat?" Hiyori asked.

He glanced at her, then looked away. "I don't…" His mouth twisted. "I don't have any money."

She frowned. "I can buy it for you."

He looked at her, surprised. Slowly, he rattled off his order and Hiyori went to the counter and placed it, counting out the coins to pay for it.

When she returned to the booth, Yukine was sitting, staring out the window as the rain streaked down the glass. She cleared her throat and he looked over, startled, and scowled; Hiyori sat.

The restaurant was warm, but while Hiyori was damp, Yukine was drenched. He was shivering. She frowned, and unzipped Yato's jacket. Yukine stared at her as she shrugged it off, and scooted away when she offered it.

"What are you doing?" He asked, looking at her, wide-eyed.

Hiyori looked back at him, levelly. "You looked cold."

His cheeks turned red. "I'm fine."

She frowned. "But you're shivering."

"I'm fine," Yukine insisted, wrapping his arms around himself.

Hiyori sighed. "Listen—take this, please. I won't make fun of you. I promise," she added as she held the jacket out.

Yukine stared at it distrustfully. His eyes flicked between her and the jersey. Suddenly, he snatched it away, hastily shoving his arms into the sleeves and shrugging it on. He sniffed at it, grimacing.

She suppressed a smile.

They waited in silence, listening to people chatting, the fryer hissing and popping, and the rain hitting the window. Hiyori got the tray when their order was called, bringing it back to the booth. It smelled like grease and salt. She set it on the table, sliding into her seat. Yukine looked at her suspiciously, but his gaze lingered on the tray hungrily.

"I've already had dinner," Hiyori explained, prompting. "You can eat it."

He glared at her, probably resentful that she had given her permission like he needed or wanted it—then, he descended on the tray. He ate so quickly Hiyori was worried he would choke. She wondered how much he had eaten today—or this week.

When he was done, the tray was empty, except for a few wrappers and napkins.

"Do you want anymore?" Hiyori asked.

His cheeks turned red. He glanced away, scowling, and shook his head.

They sat in silence. Hiyori watched Yukine—carefully, because whenever he saw her looking, he scowled and grumbled. He looked funny in Yato's too-big jersey, but it still fit him better than his coat did. The warmth in the restaurant dried his hair in patches, soft tufts sticking out like the down feathers on a chick. She stifled a smile, imaging how irate he would be to hear her comparing him to a baby bird.

"What are you laughing at?" Yukine asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing." Hiyori's smile faded. She glanced at the clock hanging over the counter. "It's late. Do you… Do you want to go to the net café?" She asked, tentatively. She watched as the boy stiffened. "I mean—or we can stay here," she rushed. "I don't… I don't have enough money for two rooms, but—"

"—No," Yukine spoke. He looked at Hiyori, his voice level. "No—let's go to the net café."

Yato woke with a backache.

"Ow." He grunted. He picked his head up, groggily, and felt that his cheek was wet. When he looked down, he saw that he had drooled on the desk he was sleeping at. His nose crinkled. "Ugh."

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out. When he dropped them back down, Yato noticed a slip of paper lying on the desk. He picked it up, looking at it—it was a receipt from McDonald's. He turned it over, and saw, written in Hiyori's neat penmanship:

Yukine's shelter got swept away and he slept over. Take care of him! (^o^)丿

Yato felt his eyebrow twitch. He shoved the slip into his pocket, swivelling in his chair—

—and frowned.

Oh, boy. Yato sighed and stood. He grimaced—his T-shirt and pants felt soggy. He leaned over to the bench, grabbing his jacket, which was bundled and discarded in a corner. He straightened it out and slipped it on.

There was a problem with Hiyori's plan—Yukine wasn't there.

Yato stood, and frowned. He patted down his pockets and swore.

Neither was his money.

I wonder how Yato and Yukine are doing…? Hiyori looked down at her lunch. Everyone was sitting in the courtyard, eating and enjoying the break in the wet weather. Ami was sunning herself, sitting on a bench, and Yama was chatting animatedly with an upperclassman.

I hope they're okay. She worried at her lip.

Hiyori glanced back at her food. The wind stirred her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear.

It's fine. She assured herself. What's the worst that could happen?

Yato tripped when he climbed over the fence. He nearly fell down the embankment, but grabbed the railing and caught himself. He resisted the urge to swear colorfully. His plan relied on surprising Yukine—the little shit sees me coming and he might make a break for it.

Yato picked his way down the bank, through litter and weeds. Brown water flowed murkily through the channel, smelling like city and dirt. Yato wrinkled his nose and tiptoed towards the bridge.

He walked quieter as he approached it, pausing at every noise he heard. It was too dark to see underneath, but someone was rummaging around under the bridge.

Finally, Yato ducked, peering underneath it. His eyes adjusted to the dark—the underside was wet and muddy, smelling like warm, brackish water and garbage. A soggy sleeping bag was bunched up in the corner, along with a few cardboard boxes. Untangling a tarp from a skateboard was Yukine, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. His bulky coat was draped over a broken milk crate—without it, he looked smaller than usual.

Yato waited for him to notice him. When he did, glancing up, Yukine startled and tripped, falling onto his backside.

Yato ducked under the bridge's lip, slipping into the space.

"What—What are you doing here?" Yukine demanded, scrambling to his feet.

"Oh, you know, paying a friendly visit," Yato remarked, hands in his pants pockets. He glanced around. "It's a nice place you've got here."

Yukine's expression twisted. "Shut up." His fists were balled at his sides. "I'm not giving you back the money."

"Oh, good, you didn't spend it already."

Yukine snarled.

Yato rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to take back the money."

"Oh, yeah?" Yukine looked at him, anger warring with suspicion. "Why are you here, then?"

Because you're a kid. Because Hiyori'll be mad at me. Yato took a deep breath, and looked around. "So…this is where you're planning on staying."

Yukine crossed his arms over his chest. "It was fine before." He muttered. "The storm messed it up. I only need to fix it."

Yato raised an eyebrow, questioning how the kid's definition of "fine." "So, what—you expect to sleep here tonight?"

Yukine glared at him. "I'll stay in a net café, or—or a restaurant."

"What about tomorrow?" Yato pressed. "What about the week after that?"

Yukine's eyes were cold. "I'll get some money."

Oh, yeah—how? By stealing? "You're, like, eleven."

"Fourteen."

Yato sighed. "Listen… I'm not mad about the money—honestly. You keep it; I don't care." Well, that was a lie—partially. "But you know that this—" he gestured around the damp, drafty space. "—isn't working."

Yukine was silent. Yato could see his mind working furiously, futilely.

"Do you remember my friend's place?" He prodded, gently. "You can stay there—for the afternoon, for the night, whatever, until you get back on your feet. You can come back whenever you want."

Yukine was quiet. He was looking around at the wet, musty ground, his soaked belongings. He rubbed at his arm, mouth working. "I can leave whenever I want." He repeated, slowly, looking at Yato.

"Yep." Yato popped the 'p.'

"I don't have to pay." He added, hurriedly.

"Nope."

"Will you be there?" There was something curious and cautious in his voice.

Yato felt something within him soften. "Sure, kiddo." He cracked his neck—it still hurt from sleeping at the desk. "Besides, I can't leave you alone—you'll probably robb'em blind."

Yukine scowled, blushing. He glanced at Yato, then away. "Are you—mad about the money?"

Yato shook his head. "Nah." He was more mad that he'd been fleeced by a middle-schooler, really. "So." He swept his hand out, towards the canal. "Let's go."

Hiyori woke, and she was…comfortable. She was sleeping…on a bed.

Her eyes opened, confusedly, her sluggish mind struggling. Where am I? She wondered, groggily. She wasn't in her room—or in a net café, like she usually was when she was Yato.

Something crinkled under her nose, and Hiyori's eyebrows furrowed. Her eyes crossed as she looked down and saw the paper lying on the pillow, tucked under her head. Slowly, she sat and picked it up, scanning it.

Yukine ran away and stole my money. I found him, though—so everything's fine! We're at Kofuku's! Take care of him! (^o^)丿

Her eyebrows still knit together, Hiyori looked around. She was in a room with a low, steepled ceiling, boxes, banners, and odd items piled to the rafters—an attic, probably. She glanced behind her, and her gaze softened.

Yukine was lying curled up on a futon a few feet away, his face lax in sleep. I've never seen him look so peaceful…

Yukine cracked an eye open and peered at Hiyori. "What're you looking at?" He grumbled. He turned over, still muttering. "Weirdo."

He was slightly more amiable after eating breakfast. Hiyori watched as he scarfed down his food, mumbling his thanks to Kofuku and Daikoku between mouthfuls—more than Yukine, Hiyori was surprised by Daikoku and Kofuku. Kofuku acted like her normal, chattery self, poking and prodding at Hiyori and Yukine; Daikoku was quieter, but Hiyori saw him looking at Yukine in a soft, concerned way, and he brought the boy dish after dish without comment or complaint.

When breakfast was over, Daikoku washing dishes in the kitchen and Kofuku lying sprawled out on the floor, Yukine stood awkwardly to the side, picking at his shirt's threadbare sleeve. Daikoku had washed his clothes for him, but while they were now free from stains and dirt, the holes in them and their too-large size were glaring.

"I guess…" His gaze flicked from Hiyori to Kofuku. He was chewing on his lip. "I should go…" It sounded more like a question than a statement.

Hiyori had never seen Yukine so hesitant—or lost-looking.

"Wha—?" Kofuku lifted her head, wide-eyed. She shot up, pouting. "Aw, c'mon, Yukine-kun—don't go!" Her lip trembled, and her eyes were wide and sparkly.

Yukine looked at her, utterly baffled. "I… Uh… I was—" He glanced, helplessly, at Hiyori. "But—"

"I think," Hiyori offered, "what Kofuku means is that you've only been here a day. You need to make some money to clean up your place—that'll take time. Right?" She prompted, gently.

Yukine's eyebrows furrowed. "Well…"

"What's this?" Daikoku asked, emerging from the kitchen. He was drying his soapy hands with a towel.

"Yukine's leaving!" Kofuku protested.

"Leaving?" Daikoku repeated, eyebrows furrowing.

Yukine looked panicked. "I—"

"He's only staying here until his…place is fixed." Hiyori explained, diplomatically.

"I see," Daikoku said, slowly. He turned to stare at Yukine, and that firm, gentle look in his eyes resurfaced. "Well, you can leave if you want to—but it's okay if you stay another night." He paused, musing. "The shelves need to be stocked, too—if you're looking to earn some money."

'Money' seemed to be the right word to use. Yukine's eyes brightened, and the confused look faded from his face. "Really?"

"Sure." Daikoku glanced at Hiyori.

"Oh! Oh! I'll help you, Yukine-kun!" Kofuku volunteered, latching onto Yukine's hand. "We'll find you an apron!" She dragged him through the doorway, into the shop.

Hiyori sighed. She turned to Daikoku. "Thank you."

Daikoku's lips were pursed, and he shrugged. "It's nothing," he dismissed. "He's only a kid."

Hiyori heard a befuddled Yukine accepting an apron from an excited Kofuku. A smile, small and sad, twitched on her lips. "Yeah."

Yato stared at the chalkboard, his vision swimming. How does Hiyori pay attention to this stuff? He wondered, tiredly. His head lolled and he blinked rapidly, fighting off sleep. He glanced at the clock—five minutes.

He wondered how Yukine was—and how Hiyori was dealing with him. It'd been a few days since they'd come to the shop—since Yato'd talked with Daikoku and Kofuku in the kitchen while Yukine was in the shower. They'd spoken quietly, Kofuku sitting cross-legged on a chair and Daikoku pacing. Yato had looked at them, leaning against the wall.

They'd agreed to let them stay—and to help keep an eye on Yukine. Daikoku had a soft spot for kids, and Kofuku trusted Yato. Still, Daikoku'd been insistent. What's the plan, Yato?

Keep him off the streets.

Daikoku had rolled his eyes—after that, though?

The door upstairs to the bathroom had opened, Yukine padding down to the kitchen. Daikoku's mouth had snapped shut, and he'd smiled, strained, at Yukine, offering the boy some tea.

Yato had watched, silently.

I don't know. He had thought. He thought it now—I don't know. He'd seen a cold, hungry kid, clawing and scraping, clinging to a ragged edge. It was a familiar sight. He'd held out a hand, helped him up—now that Yukine was holding onto it, though, Yato didn't know what to do.

The bell rang, and Yato shook his head. He stood, slipped his notebook and textbook into his bag, and zipped it up, throwing it over his shoulder.

It was a warm, windswept day in Okutama, the leaves rustling and the sun warming the street. A breeze brushed Hiyori's hair aside, tickling her ear.

Her grandmother walked beside her, unsteadily. Her cane clicked against the sidewalk, and her silver hair glinted in the sunlight. She glanced back, checking that Hiyori was still holding the box filled with warabi mochi. Her grandmother had insisted on thanking the Fujisakis' for their gift, and giving them their present personally.

I wonder if Fujisaki-kun will be there…

Hiyori bit the inside of her cheek. She felt bad, showing up on his doorstep after turning him down. She hoped that they'd drop off the food without going inside—or that he wouldn't be there. She cringed, then, feeling even guiltier for wanting to avoid him.

They turned down a lane filled with small houses, lattice trellis' leaning against the walls—the wisteria had faded, leaving only springy, green vines. The hydrangea bushes were in full bloom, petals splotched blue, purple, white, and pink. Hiyori followed her grandmother up the uneven walkway to the door, waiting as the woman knocked.

The door opened, and Kōto's mother appeared. Her eyes widened when she saw Hikari and Hiyori. "Iki-san!" She greeted. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to thank you for the kuzumochi your son dropped off a few days ago," Hikari said. She glanced at Hiyori, ushering her forward, and took the box from her. "This isn't much, but I hope you'll enjoy it," the old woman declared, handing the box to Kōto's mother.

"Oh, my, thank you," the woman gushed. "I'm sure it will be delicious." She paused. "I would invite you in, but my father-in-law hasn't been feeling well lately."

"Oh, dear," Hikari's forehead wrinkled.

"It's probably only a cold." The woman assured. "Still, I can offer you some tea, if you'd like."

"No, no," Hikari said. "We wouldn't want to bother you. I hope he feels better."

"Yes, so do I." The woman smiled. "Thank you so much for stopping by." They said their goodbyes and Hikari and Hiyori made the trek back up the hill to the house. The walk back was quiet, filled with the leaves rustling in the trees and the birds calling. A girl sped by on a bicycle, and a car lumbered up the hill.

I hope Yato and Yukine are getting along, Hiyori thought, worriedly. Yukine seemed to be adjusting well to life at Daikoku and Kofuku's.

"—yori. Hiyori."

Hiyori blinked, looking up.

"Are you alright?" Her grandmother asked, her forehead wrinkled.

"Alright?" Hiyori repeated. "Oh, I'm fine—sorry. I'm tired, is all. I was up late studying," she fibbed.

"Mm." Her grandmother hummed. "Have you been sleeping alright—any bad dreams?"

Hiyori blinked, glanced over at her. Her brow knit. "I… No," she considered, musingly. "If there are any dreams, they're good ones."

Hikari hummed, her cane clicking rhythmically against the stones. "Well," she said, "treasure the experience. Dreams fade away after you wake up."

"Hm…" Daikoku surveyed the yard clinically. He looked over at Yato, who was standing, broom in hand, staring at him expectantly. "Again."

"Again?" Yato looked at him, disbelievingly. He shook the broom menacingly. "I swept the path, like you asked!"

"No," Daikoku shook his head. "I asked you to sweep it clean." He kicked lightly at a paving stone. "I see dirt."

"It's a yard," Yato snapped. "The path is the only part that isn't dirt."

"Employees shouldn't argue with their bosses," Daikoku informed, "and tenants shouldn't argue with their landlords."

"Landlo— I'm not even your tenet!" Yato shouted, dropping the broom with a clatter. "And I'm certainly not your employee! I'd have rights if I were!"

"What're you yelling about?" Yukine emerged from the shop, wearing a pale blue apron and holding a spray bottle. He looked from Yato to Daikoku quizzically.

"Nothing," Yato snapped, as Daikoku deadpanned, "He sucks at sweeping."

"I do not suck at sweeping." Yato replied. He waved a hand at the pathway. "Look—spick and span!"

"I see dirt." Yukine pointed.

"It's a yard!" Yato threw his hands up. "It's all dirt!"

"Boys!" Kofuku poked her head out from the doorway. Her pink hair, pulled back in a ponytail, bounced. "Lunchtime!" She zipped back behind the nōren, the curtain flapping.

Yato and Yukine glanced at each other, queasily. "She didn't…"

"I made it," Daikoku reassured. "C'mon."

Yato breathed a relieved sigh.

It was onigiri. Yato took two triangles—tuna-mayo and pickled plum—and Yukine took three. They sat on the porch with Daikoku and Kofuku as the wind swept through the trees, making sunlight-dappled shadows dance across the yard, and ate contentedly. Kofuku—after having five servings—rolled to her feet. "I'll do the dishes!" She volunteered, and skipped into the house.

Daikoku, Yato, and Yukine blanched. Kofuku was a walking disaster in the kitchen.

"I'll help," Yukine offered. He swallowed his half-eaten onigiri, the seaweed crunching, and scrambled into the house.

Yato snorted softly, turning back to the yard. "With Kofuku and Yukine in there, there may be no dishes left to wash—unbroken, that is."

"Nah, they'll be fine," Daikoku interjected. His eyes slid over to Yato. "Yukine's getting pretty used to domestic tasks. He's improved a lot."

Yato hummed noncommittally, swinging his legs. It had been two weeks, and Yukine—while still snappish and stingy with food—liked being at Kofuku and Daikoku's. Maybe it was the warm bed and warm food, but Yato didn't think that he'd ever seen the kid even smile before this week.

"You don't have to leave, you know."

Yato stilled, legs going slack. He glanced over at Daikoku, eyes a blue flash. "What?"

Daikoku looked at him, lips pursed. "I can see you, you know—looking for it."

Yato was stock-still, now. "Oh, yeah—looking for what?" He asked, lazily.

"An exit." Daikoku informed him, succinctly. "A way to leave. I see you doing it—Kofuku does, too. You don't have to leave, though, Yato—you or Yukine."

Yato looked down at his feet, hanging limply off the porch. "I know."

"Do you?" Yato could hear the furrow in Daikoku's brow. "You know, sometimes I don't—" He huffed, angrily. Yato heard him digging through his pockets, and he pulled out a lighter and a cigarette. Daikoku lit it, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. Smoke trailed up to the sky. "You can't just leave, Yato—Yukine's only here because you're here. You leave, and he'll leave."

"He likes you and Kofuku."

Daikoku laughed, dryly. "Of course he likes us—Kofuku's Kofuku and I cook him meals. He trusts you, though."

There was a thump in the hallway. They both turned, looking around, but it was silent.

Yato turned back to look at Daikoku. His chest felt pinched and tight. "Oh, really—'trust.' He argues with me and steals from my plate."

Daikoku rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because he knows that he can get away with it." He flicked his cigarette, sending ash drifting down to the ground. "Look, you have to stay, Yato. You have to show him that it can work—that it's possible for him to have this, a roof over his head, food in his belly, normalcy. You leave—you shirk off to bum around Shibuya—and it'll all crash down on him. You'll crush him."

Yato glared at Daikoku. "Oh, yeah, 'cause I'm such a great role model."

"It's not about already being one—you have to try."

Yato scrubbed a hand across his face. "I didn't want—" He squashed his lips into a thin line. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

The irritation bled from Daikoku's face. Now, he was looking at Yato with sympathy—worse, with pity. "You don't ask for people to get attached to you, Yato, anymore than you ask to get attached to them." Yato flinched—for a minute, he forgot that they were talking about Yukine. "But, make no mistake, that kid is attached to you, and you're attached to him—I can see it." Daikoku dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with his heel, and stood. He looked down at Yato. "Now it's a matter of what you're going to do about it—and running away isn't the courageous thing to do; it's cowardly." He walked back into the house.

Yato sat on the porch, watching the cigarette's remains smolder.

Hiyori sighed, tiredly.

She had helped Daikoku cook for the day. He and Hiyori had dragged a table and chairs from the shed into the yard, and built a fire pit to roast sweetfish over. Hiyori had stacked rocks and lugged wood the whole day, sweating from the sun beating down on her and the fire—her arms were sore. Yato would be mad tomorrow—but that's payback for the hike, she thought.

Lying down on the futon, with her head resting on her pillow, Hiyori heard Yukine breathing, soft and evenly. She craned her neck, looking back at him, curled up in bed. His hair looked white in the moonlight.

He had been quiet today, avoiding her looks and snapping at her when she spoke. Daikoku had been oddly silent, too, even as they worked side by side building the fire pit and cooking the sweetfish for dinner—but Yukine was downright hostile.

What's wrong? She wanted to ask, but she didn't think he would answer her if she did. Besides, Yato hadn't written about anything out of the ordinary in the note he left for her, tucked under her pillow.

He's probably having difficulty adjusting. Hiyori thought, rolling back over to stare at the square of moonlight on the floor. That was normal—right? He'd been homeless for months, and while he never spoke about his past, Hiyori was sure that wherever he had lived—and whoever he had lived with—had been even less kind.

Well, she'd written a note about it to Yato, and tucked it in his pillowcase. She would see what he said.

Yato woke to someone shaking him.

"Yato, Yato," a voice said—high and feminine. Sleep-addled, Yato imagined it was someone else—until he opened his eyes. Kofuku was crouched beside him. Her dark eyes were scared. "Yato—Yukine's gone."

"What?" burst from his mouth. Yato's sluggish brain struggled to keep up. He looked over Kofuku's shoulder, at Yukine's futon—it was empty, the sheets tucked in. He threw off his coverlet and struggled to his feet.

"He woke up before you and was helping Daikoku and I in the kitchen and then he said he was going to wake you up for breakfast, but he took so long that I came up to check on you, but you were there and he was gone and I don't know why he'd leave or where he'd go—"

Yato pressed his hands onto Kofuku's shoulders. "Where's Daikoku?"

"He went out to look for him." Kofuku said. Her eyes were wide and watery. "I don't understand, though. Why would Yukine—"

Yato's mind raced. "I don't know. Just— I'm getting dressed and I'll look for him, okay?"

Kofuku nodded, hurriedly, leaving the room. When the door shut behind her, Yato reached down, grabbing his pillow and rifling through the case—when he felt the slip of paper, he grabbed it and scanned it. He crumpled it into a ball, dropping it, and swore.

Yukine's acting strange today. Daikoku is, too.

Did something happen yesterday?

Yato's head swam—the thump in the hallway. Yukine had heard. He had heard Daikoku and Yato talking. It had upset him, and he had left, before Yato could.

Yato raced down the stairs, darting to the front door. He shoved his shoes on, called to a confused Kofuku, "I'll be back!" and ran out into the street.

"Alright, class, turn to page 373…" The teacher droned.

Hiyori pulled the book out, flipping through it idly. She heard pages rustle around her. Ami was blinking rapidly, battling sleep—Yama had given up and was snoring.

Hiyori tried to focus. She looked at the textbook, the diagrams and problem sets printed on the page, but her gaze wandered to the window, to the Tokyo skyline glinting under the blue sky. Yato and Yukine were out there, eating breakfast at Daikoku and Kofuku's—only a few stops on the train away.

It wasn't surprising—Hiyori had always known they were in Tokyo—but, still, the thought made her blink. Somehow, she had never thought about it—how she could leave school, get on a train or a bus, and see Yato, him in his body and her in hers, and Yukine, Daikoku, and Kofuku.

Treasure the experience. Her grandmother's words echoed. Dreams fade after you wake up.

"Now," the teacher wrote in neat strokes along the chalkboard, "turn to page 394…"

It wasn't hard to find Yukine.

Yato hopped over the fence, stepping down onto the bank. The water in the canal was a trickle, now. Waterlogged branches lay on the bed, surrounded by litter.

He walked towards the bridge. His feet kicked at rocks and pebbles, sending them skittering down the canal's concrete walls—and, as he drew nearer, he saw a shape under the bridge's shadow.

Yukine was sitting, knees curled to his chest and arms wrapped around them. He looked small and out-of-place—maybe it was because he didn't have on his bulky coat, or because he was wearing clean clothes that fit him, with no holes or stains.

When Yato ducked under the bridge, Yukine glanced at him, eyes wide, then looked away.

"Hey, kiddo," Yato greeted. He stood under the bridge's lip. "What are you doing?"

Yukine looked at him. "What does it look like?" He snapped, and scowled at having broken his silence. He closed his mouth stubbornly.

Yato sighed. He walked toward Yukine, but the boy scooted away. Yato stopped. "Well…" He drawled, slowly. "It looks like you're running away—badly, I mean, I found you pretty quickly after all, but still." Yukine was quiet, and Yato sighed. "How about we go back to Daikoku and Kofuku's?" He cajoled. "They're not mad—" Yukine flinched, "—only worried."

"Why should I?" Yukine asked. He was trying to sound angry, but he only sounded desperate and choked. "So you can leave instead?"

Yato closed his eyes. "Yukine, you should go back to Daikoku and Kofuku's. It's good. They're good. You should stay there."

Yukine leapt to his feet and whirled on him. His eyes were bright. "Why should I stay?" He demanded. "You won't!"

"Yukine—"

"No—it's not fair!" Yukine shouted. "You—You don't get to say, 'Oh, don't worry, Yukine,' 'Oh, I'll stay as long as you stay,' and dump me at Kofuku and Daikoku's! You don't get to make those promises and leave, like—"

His mouth snapped shut.

Oh. Yato thought. He looked at Yukine, eyes hard and glaring at his feet, his mouth closed mulishly.

Gee, Yato thought. A sardonic smile twisted his lips. I owe Daikoku; he's right. I've been so selfish.

Yato plopped onto his butt, sitting with his legs outstretched. Yukine looked at him, confused, and scowled when Yato patted the ground beside him.

"C'mon," Yato said, "sit down."

Yukine sat, but a few feet away, and kept his gaze on his feet.

Yato took a breath. "I'm sorry."

The boy looked up at him, surprised, then away.

"Really, I am." Yato insisted. "It wasn't fair for me to bring you to Kofuku's and leave you. You trusted me, and I betrayed you. I'm sorry."

Yukine shifted, glancing at Yato.

"It's not your fault, either," Yato added, looking at the boy. "I left because I'm an idiot, not because of you."

Yukine was silent for a moment. His voice was tentative, quiet, "Why did you leave?"

Why don't you stay?

We can't choose who we get attached to, or who gets attached to us.

"Well…" Yato looked at his scuffed shoes. There was hole in the toe. I need to buy new ones. "Someone told me, once, that it was better if I didn't get attached to other people—and if they didn't get attached to me."

"Oh." Yukine's eyebrows were furrowed. He was staring at his knees. He lifted his head, gazing at Yato, and pronounced: "That's dumb."

Yato laughed, nudging the kid with his elbow. "Yeah, I guess it is." He sighed, smiling softly. Then, he stood. Yukine lifted his head, watching. Yato extended a hand. "So—I know where I want to be, and, if you still want me around, I'll stay. What do you think?"

Yukine eyed his hand, gaze flicking between it and Yato. He took it, and Yato helped him up. "Alright," Yukine said. He was looking hard at Yato. "But no leaving."

"No leaving," Yato swore. "Scout's honor."

Yukine rolled his eyes. He glanced at Yato and asked: "How mad do you think Daikoku and Kofuku'll be?"

"Hm…" Yato considered. "Madder at me than you," he decided. "Daikoku'll probably scold you and give you some shaved ice, or something—he's gonna make me stock shelves for a month."

"Hm," Yukine said. "Maybe I'll give you some of my shaved ice—only a bite, though, and only if you're nice."

"Gee," Yato rolled his eyes. "How generous."

Yukine what? Hiyori had scrawled in angry, bold letters across the notebook.

Okay, so, he ran away—but I got him back! Yato had soothed. He's fine!

Yes, but—why did he run away?

There was… Yato had crossed out a few words, …a miscommunication. He's fine, now, though. I promise!

Hiyori sighed, leaning back in her chair. A fond smile squirmed onto her lips. Yukine was fine—she had seen him the other day, crouched beside Daikoku by the fire pit and watching intently as the man showed him how to grill sweetfish.

She glanced out the window, looking at how the afternoon made the shadows stretch long. She imagined Yato and Kofuku sitting at the table in the yard, making the appropriate expressions of awe and wonder as Yukine carried out a plate filled with the fish he had grilled, Daikoku beaming as he brought out the rice and miso behind him. She wished she could be there with them to see it.

Why can't you, though?

Hiyori blinked, surprised by the thought. Her eyebrows knit slowly.

Why couldn't she? Hiyori and Yato were in their own bodies half the time—and Tokyo and Okutama weren't far away, really. Why couldn't she see Yato and Yukine, and Kofuku and Daikoku?

Treasure the experience. Dreams fade away when you wake up.

The thought built in Hiyori's mind, gaining intensity and pressure like a wave threatening to crash and roll onto the shore. Carefully, with fingers that were trembling, she picked up her pen and wrote onto the notebook.

When Yato woke, it was warm and light. The mattress was soft and lumpy underneath him, but until he smelled that scent—less like dust now and more like flowers, hydrangeas or lilacs, that scent he knew belonged to Hiyori—he was unsure if he was in his body or hers, at Hiyori's or Kofuku's.

Brown hair brushed against his eyelashes when he woke, and Yato knew.

He grunted as he rolled to his feet, stretching and rolling his shoulders. He yawned and walked over to the closet, sliding the door open and reaching up to the shelf, elbowing the box aside and pulling the notebook out. He flipped through it as he walked to the desk—his chicken-scratch writing, Hiyori's neat penmanship, and his drawings scattered throughout. He plopped into the desk chair, spinning in an idle circle as he looked at her newest entry.

Yato stilled.

Written in small, looping letters were the words:

Will you meet me on Tanabata?

The journal dropped to his lap. His head swamp, but in the flurry was a steady, solid beat—his heart. Yato pressed a hand to his chest, feeling it thump against his palm.

Below was written in less elegant, hasty scrawl: I checked, and we'll be in our own bodies on that day, but if that doesn't work—or if you don't want to— I mean, we don't have to. We already have met each other, technically, but—not really, you know? I just thought… Don't feel weird saying no! It's fine if you don't want to.

It was a strange, Yato thought—this feeling. Bright and glowing like sunlight, bright—but not harsh. It was something that warmed from within.

Why don't you stay?

Yato picked up the pen and wrote, Yes.

"Can I—?"

"No, not yet!" Sayuri insisted.

"But—" She protested, twisting to peek.

"Hiyori!" Her mother scolded, and she was cowed instantly. It was a few more minutes as her mother adjusted the fabric, pinning and pulling it. "Alright," Sayuri declared, stepping back. "See what you think."

Hiyori turned, and looked in the mirror.

The yukata was a deep purple, patterned with orchids—the white egret flower, its fringed petals like a bird's wings. Wrapped around her waist was a thick, golden obi. They both belonged to her grandmother; hers were still sitting in her room back in Tokyo.

"Well?"

"I think it looks nice." Hiyori spun, smiling at her mother. "What do you think?"

Sayuri's smile was soft and warm. "I think so, too." Her eyebrows crinkled. "Who are you seeing, again?"

Hiyori froze. "Oh, you know…just a friend from Tokyo."

"Hm." Her mother frowned. "Not Ami or Yama?"

Hiyori blushed. "Mom."

"I'm sorry." Her mother laughed, raising her hands. "You don't have to tell me—but I may demand to know afterward."

"Mom," Hiyori groaned, laughing, too as she spun to look back at her yukata in the mirror.

Three days, she thought. Three days.

"Are you sure this'll work?" Yato complained, skeptically. "I only have three day—ow!" He yelped, glaring down at Kofuku. "Watch where you're sticking those pins!"

"Sorry, Yatty-chan," Kofuku apologized, crouched by his calf. She leapt to her feet and waved her hands. "I'm done!"

Yato turned, looking into the mirror.

It was a bit big, but, well, it was Daikoku's old yukata. It was navy, striped through with a softer blue and tied together with a dark sash. "Hm… I like it!" He declared. He whirled around, looking back at Kofuku, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, and Yukine, leaning by the window. "What do you think?" He grinned.

Yukine blinked, unimpressed. "You look like Daikoku."

"—That's good, though!" Kofuku promised. "Daikoku's dreamy!"

Yato and Yukine shot her skeptical looks.

They heard the stairs creek, and looked to the doorway—Daikoku stood, staring at Yato. "Wow." He rubbed at his neck. "You look…" he tilted his head, "like me, actually."

Yato groaned, and Yukine snickered.

The man hummed, walking into the room, surveying Yato in his yukata. "It fits pretty well." He glanced at Yato. "You have your ticket."

"Yep."

"But you won't tell us where you're headed."

"Nope." Yato popped the 'p' and grinned. He winked. "It's a secret."

Yukine rolled his eyes. "I don't want to know."

When Hiyori woke on Tanabata, her eyes flew open. She kicked off the coverlet, scurrying off the bed, and raced to the closet, yanking the door open. The yukata hung in it, the white flowers standing starkly against the dark purple fabric. I shouldn't put it on now. She thought to herself, firmly. I'll only…lay it out. She picked it up by the hanger, spreading it out on the bed. Her head buzzed and her heart hummed with energy. She ran back to the closet, pulling the notebook from the shelf, and flipped hurriedly to the newest entry—

See you tomorrow.

P.S. I did not peek at your yukata. It looks nice, though!

Yato had ridden the train from Tokyo to Okutama many times—every other day, nearly—but he had never ridden it as himself. It felt strange to sit on the train in his own body as the car grew emptier and emptier and the sky darker and darker. The sun set, and the lights faded as they travelled from the city to the suburbs to the countryside. It was nearly night when the conductor called, "Okutama Station, Okutama Station."

The train crept to a stop, brakes squealing, and Yato stood. He stepped onto the platform, warm air brushing against his cheeks and making his hair sway. Kofuku had insisted on putting it into a ponytail. ("Now you really look like Daikoku," Yukine said, disturbed; Yato threatened to give him a noogie.) He hopped down the steps, geta click-clacking against them, and stepped out into the street.

Okutama was normally sleepy and slow-paced, but now it was filled with people and stalls. Children ran by, holding sparklers and wearing brightly-colored kimono. Students wrote on tanzaku, tying them to bamboo stalks already laden with colorful paper strips. Streamers in checkered patterns—blue and white, yellow and orange—hung, swaying in the warm wind. The street was filled with excited chatter and the smell of fried food.

Yato stood, letting it all wash over him—the light, warmth, laughter. Stars dotted the sky, peeking out from behind large clouds, soft and round as cotton candy.

He glanced at the clock. He and Hiyori had agreed to meet in front of the station at eight. It was 7:18 PM now.

That smell—takoyaki, maybe—wafted to his nose.

His stomach growled; Yato had been too nervous to eat dinner before getting on the train.

Well, he thought, glancing at the clock. I won't go far. Besides, he thought. I know what she looks like. It's not like I can miss her. A grin stretched across his face, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Hiyori's feet ached from walking down the hill in her geta, and she was breathing heavily. She had rushed out the door—her mother had detained her, making her stand still for so many photos that her cheeks hurt from smiling—but, now that she glanced at her phone, the screen only read 7:20 PM.

She glanced at the sky. The sun had set, and it was a deep indigo, a few stars twinkling out from behind heavy clouds. Hiyori frowned. I hope it doesn't rain—at least, not before the fireworks. How awkward would that be—she invited Yato to Okutama for Tanabata, and they had to spend it huddled under an awning for some shop. Hiyori suppressed a nervous smile.

The street was bright and colorful. Bamboo stalks leaned heavily, decorated with paper kimono, nets, cranes, and purses. Giant, colorful streamers hung over the street, fluttering in the wind.

Hiyori looked back at her phone—7:22 PM. I'll look around, she decided. Maybe I'll see something to buy for Yato.

She wandered by shops and stalls filled with food, charms, and goods. Children played and laughed, and an old woman shuffled by, holding her grandson's hand. Hiyori stood by a stall, admiring the woven wallets and purses—

"Iki-san?"

She turned, blinking. A few feet away was Kōto. He was wearing a deep gray kimono, and his brown hair looked slightly less unruly than usual. He waved, walking towards her.

She waved back. "Fujisaki-kun!" She greeted. "It's nice to see you."

"It's nice to see you, too." He greeted. "That's a pretty yukata."

"Thanks," Hiyori smiled, looking down at it. "It was my grandmother's. Mine's back in Tokyo."

"It looks brand new."

"Oh!" Hiyori remembered. "How's your grandfather?"

"He's better." Kōto smiled. "Well, better enough to eat the warabi mochi you and you grandmother left. I came back and the box was empty." He complained, good-naturedly, folding his arms behind his head.

Hiyori laughed. "I'm glad to hear that he's doing better."

"So am I." Kōto's grin faded. "So, what are you doing—browsing?"

"Mm," Hiyori agreed. "I'm waiting for a…a friend. Where were you going?"

"Oh, to the riverside—I'm going to meet some classmates there to watch the fireworks. Do you want to walk down with me?"

Hiyori glanced at the clock hanging on the station. 7:40 PM. The river was only a few yards away. "Sure," she agreed, and they walked towards the water.

I love takoyaki. Yato dropped the skewers into the garbage, brushing his hands off. Now that he was not ravenous, he looked around and hummed. I should walk back to the station, probably. He weaved through the crowds and stalls. A wind blew, making the streamers sway and the bamboo leaves and tanzaku scrape and hiss. The paper slip Yato had gotten while milling around the market sat warm in his yukata, and he wondered what he would write.

I wish for some money to buy a new sketchpad with. His nose crinkled. Nah—hm…

I wish…for some money to pay for art class. He frowned. Nope, that's no good, either.

Yato took the tanzaku out, looking at it. I wish… I wish… I wish that Hiyori would visit me in Tokyo. Oh, that'd be nice—Daikoku and Kofuku would love to meet her, even though…they already have…I guess… He frowned. This is confusing. Oh, well—I'm pretty sure Yukine likes me more when Hiyori's me, anyway.

Yato reached the station, and glanced at the clock—8:14 PM.

"Damn." He muttered, looking around. I should wish for a watch.

He craned his neck, peering this way and that, but Hiyori was nowhere to be seen in the crowd.

I'll wait, Yato decided. He leaned against the station wall, looking idly at the paper strip in his hands.

Suddenly, his eyes widened.

I know what to wish for.

Yato grinned, pulling a pen that Kofuku had stuffed in his wallet, along with money, gum, a paper-clip, and what was quite possibly a marble. He wrote on the tanzaku in neat strokes, the dark ink cutting starkly across the colored paper. When he was done, Yato surveyed it proudly, letting it dry, and then tucking it back into his yukata. I'll hang it with Hiyori.

Suddenly, there was a whistling hiss, and a crack, and a boom—color exploded across the sky, a white-hot burst that blossomed red and faded purple as it cascaded down in sparks. It basked the crowds and the river nearby in a violet glow.

Yato glanced at the clock above the station and his lips thinned. 8:16 PM.

He glanced over at the water—maybe she's by there. She had mentioned that the river had the best view.

Yato walked through the crowds, slipping past people standing still and admiring the display—another deafening boom rattled the pavement, and color burst into the dark sky, bleeding into the world. When it faded, everything seemed darker and grayer.

Yato made it to the railing that ran along the road—below, the Tama River flowed, and he watched in its reflection as another firework rocketed into the air, bursting apart brilliant and red. He glanced behind him. No Hiyori. He turned, looking down the railing—

Yato froze.

There was a high, whistling screech—another, and another—and a boom as the fireworks exploded, shattering the night with sound and light. The world was colored red, blue, purple, and pink, and the crowd exclaimed, clapping and cheering. Yato felt separate from it all, as though he had slipped below the river's sleek, dark surface, and was watching the commotion from above through a rippling, swirling lens.

Faintly, he realized that his hands were trembling.

Oh.

It was like a star tumbling down, or a firework, streaking the sky with light. It was like sunlight spearing through the cracks in the clouds, illuminating the rain in a silver shower, a million droplets sparkling like crystal slivers in a chandelier.

I'm in love with Hiyori.

It was everything—

—and nothing.

We don't choose who we get attached to, Yato, or who gets attached to us, Daikoku's voice murmured, and below it, deeper and more familiar: It's better if you don't get attached to anyone, Yaboku, and that they don't get attached to you.

He knew he should—say something, or do something, so she would know he was there.

Instead, he turned around and pushed through the crowd. Each explosion rocked his ears and seared his eyes, threatening to make him lose his balance. He knocked into someone but recovered quickly, walking on, away. He was so busy trying to get through the crowd that he didn't even notice that the tanzaku had slipped from his kimono, falling to the ground. In the light of a dying firework, the words written on the paper were barely visible:

I wish for Hiyori to be happy.

Fujisaki-kun chatted amiably with Hiyori while they stood by the railing that ran above the riverbank. People crowded around them, and the air was tense with anticipation for the fireworks to start.

"Hey, Iki-san?" Kōto asked.

Hiyori glanced over. He was looking at her intently. "Yeah?"

Kōto's eyes swept back out to the river. "Have you decided about whether you want to become a doctor or not?"

Hiyori leaned against the railing, looking out at the black, flowing water. "Well… I think I'll apply to medical school—who knows, though? I may change my mind a year from now."

Fujisaki-kun laughed. "You sound a lot more relaxed about it."

Hiyori smiled. "Yeah, well, someone told me that no matter what I ended up doing in life, I'd end up helping people. I think that that's all I can ask for."

Kōto smiled. "They sound smart—whoever told you that."

"Yeah," Hiyori agreed, "they are."

Suddenly, there was a boom, a crack, and a burst—light exploded across the sky. She watched, awestruck, as the sky turned red, then purple. The fireworks had started. "They're beautiful," she breathed.

"Yeah." Kōto said. Then: "Hey, Iki-san."

Hiyori turned—and something soft pressed against her lips.

Another firework went up—and another, and another, and the world bloomed blue, purple, red, and pink. The colors flashed in her eyes, vibrant.

Slowly, they faded to black, and as they did, Hiyori wrenched back, stepping away from Fujisaki. Her eyebrows were furrowed. "What're you—"

The light cast strange shadows across his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought—"

Hiyori shook her head. She felt the pins holding her hair up scratch at her scalp. "You—"

Another firework shot up, the noise deafening. It ensnared the sky in a fiery net.

"I—" Fujisaki started, but Hiyori was already running away. She pushed through the crowds, a hand pressed to her mouth.

Why did he do that? She thought. Why did he do that?

There was a high-pitched whistle and a boom as another firework blew apart.

I didn't want him to do that, she thought, desperately. I didn't—if it was anyone, if it was anyone, I wanted it to be—

Her feet slowed to a stop.

Another explosion rocked the sky.

Oh, Hiyori realized. It was like a kaleidoscope—the pieces had always been there, but one twist, one wrench in her heart, and everything changed in a swirling, geometric configuration made of color and light. It was like something within her had been corked up, and with a soft pop, the stopper had fallen out, and she was overflowing.

I'm in love with Yato.

There was a tremendous crack as a firework blew up. Hiyori looked up, wide-eyed. What time was it? She pulled out her phone with shaking hands. 8:29 PM. I need to find him, she thought, looking around. It was important—now that she knew, she had to tell him.

Hiyori pushed her way towards the station, squeezing through the crowds, which were at a stand-still as everyone looked up at the sky, holding their breath. Hiyori ran up the steps, standing on her tiptoes and surveying the throng of people from overhead, but she couldn't see him. Where was he? She had to tell him.

I'll wait, Hiyori decided. She could do that—she could wait.

So she waited. She waited until the fireworks had faded, the crowds dispersing as the sky opened and it began to rain. She waited until it was nine o'clock, nine-thirty. Maybe he missed the train, she thought, anxiously. Ten o'clock, ten-thirty. Maybe something happened.

Hiyori wouldn't remember the waiting, in any particular detail—she wouldn't remember trudging up the hill back home, or standing in the foyer, dripping water, as her mother rushed down the hall, exclaiming, "Hiyori! What happened? You're soaked!" She wouldn't remember her mother stripping her, fussing and tutting over the wet yukata, and helping her into bed. She wouldn't remember lying in bed for three days, sick, her parents murmuring worriedly at the door as they looked in on her. She would only remember waking up on the third day, eyes wide and heart thumping wildly in her chest.

The bare timbers of the ceiling swirled above her. She tried to calm her breathing.

Masaomi was sitting at her bedside, dozing. When he saw her move, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Mm—Hiyori?" He took off his glasses, wiping them on his shirt and putting them back on crookedly. "Are you awake?"

Hiyori sat up, heart still racing. She let out a shuddering breath, hand resting against her chest. "I…I don't…"

Masaomi crouched beside her. His eyebrows knit together, concerned. "You caught a cold after the festival," he reminded, slowly. "You walked home in the rain. You've been pretty out of it for the past few days."

Hiyori looked at him. "I had…" She shook her head. "It… It was a dream… I think."

Her brother eyed her. "Hiyori?" There was something indecipherable in his voice. "You're crying."

Hiyori blinked and touched her cheek. It was wet. "I—" She looked at her brother. "I don't know why…"

Masaomi was staring at her worriedly. "I'll go get Dad." He stood up, padding softly but quickly across the room. He shut the door quietly behind him.

Hiyori sat in her bed, breathing, her heart pounding. The dream she must have had she couldn't recall—but the sensation that she had lost something lingered for a long time after she woke.

a/n: aren't i just the worst? seriously, though, while this story is marked completed there is an epilogue, one that might be added to it or uploaded as a separate story.

i'm not sure how it's possible for something to be 30,000 words but feel too short, but this does. nonetheless, it's a product of much time, love, and aggravation. again, i'd like to give a huge thanks to the artists i worked with for the noragami big bang 2020, asin-ka and ayyydrie, as well as the mods of the event. y'all are the best!