Archive of Our Own

For as long as I’ve known him, my brother has had a scar on his neck. It wraps all around the circumference of it, faded against his skin, always covered by his necklace or a high shirt collar. Nobody would be able to notice it unless they were looking closely.

I always know it’s there, even when I can’t see it.

I’ve never asked him about it, just like he’s never asked me about my scars. It’s rude. The only person who talked about his scars was Gramps, before he died. He told me stories of fighting in war with his friends, where he was slashed across the face and had to keep going even with blood dripping down his cheek, and where he had to have his leg amputated lest he die of sepsis.

He got those scars because he’s a hero.

My scars are because I’m a coward. Scratches from falling out of trees or into bushes, remnants of pustules from fire ant bites, blisters from ill-fitting shoes, scabs from hitting the pavement after falling off of my bike, and all the raised lines across my forearms from when life itself was painful enough.

I don’t know what my brother’s scar is for. I like to think he’s a hero, too. I don’t know much about his life before meeting me, but maybe he tried to protect someone and got hurt for it. Maybe he was attacked by an animal. Maybe he got bullied like me.

Whatever the reason, I know he didn’t deserve it, because my brother is good. He takes me to school, he lets me help cook dinner, he helps me with my homework, and even though he scolds me when I get hurt, he always makes up for it after. And even though I’m too old to be asking for it, he still lets me sleep in his room when my nightmares get too bad.

Tonight is one such night, where the summer heat has brought rain pelting against the windows and wind howling outside. With every strike of lightning, the trees turn into hands desperately grasping at the house, searching for a way in. They tap and screech against the glass. They knock and cry out. Please, Zenitsu, please, in a chorus of women’s voices. And I don’t know what exactly they’re begging for, but it sends shivers down my spine and bile racing up my throat.

On a boom of thunder that shakes the house, I scramble out of bed and rush down the hall.

“Kaigaku?” I question the darkness as I push open his door.

There’s a grunt from within.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

A rustle of bedcovers, then in his telltale tired voice, “Go ahead.”

It’s muscle memory, making my way through the inky midnight and into the futon he always has laid out for me. I snuggle into the blanket and squeeze the plush sparrow he got for me right after Gramps’s death.

Gramps always said I was too old for plushies, and some of my classmates think the same, but Kaigaku lets me have it. He never asks why I still sleep with it, or judges me when I bring it to school or set it down at the dinner table with us.

Because he's a good brother.

I know that when the lightning strikes outside and I see silhouettes of creatures waiting to pounce, he would protect me. I know that even when the night is calm and my mind is all that's tormenting me, he'll still be there in the morning. He'll be there to wipe my tears and cook me breakfast and, if the weather is nice, take us out on a bike ride for some fresh air.

It doesn't matter if, in my nightmares, I see a Kaigaku who turns away from me, who throws peaches at me, who calls me weak and cowardly and a runt. It doesn't matter if that Kaigaku doesn’t thank me when I give him extra helpings of rice, or refuses to wear matching clothes with me, or becomes unrecognizable and starts attacking me.

Because that Kaigaku only exists in my nightmares.

And when I wake up, my Kaigaku will come to the rescue.

🍑

I realized early on that I’m nothing like Zenitsu.

He is soft, made of flesh and blood. He is gentle like a lamb, fragile as glass, and his smiles could light up a room. Like the first songbird of spring, like fireflies on a dark summer’s night, like daisies blooming from the final slivers of winter grasses, he brings hope and guidance to all around him. His teeth are a bit crooked, he has an overbite, freckles dot his face, and his hair is uneven, but all those imperfections have never ruined him.

I’m forged of iron and steel. My heart lies behind a locked tomb. I am the droughts of summer, the biting winds of winter, the unrelenting storms of spring. Like ink spilled across a half-written page, like crow feathers on sidewalks, like panthers stalking through the dark night, I have brought nothing but misfortune on everyone I’ve ever come across. In all the hours I’ve spent making myself look perfect, it has never landed me special privileges.

He’s a boy who believes in everyone, who sees goodness in everyone around him. It’s even in his name. He’s always been good, albeit whiny and much too childish for his age, but that part is probably my fault, anyway.

Someone named “the mountain peak of slyness” could never be good. Someone who sends children to their deaths in exchange for his own life, someone who made his own teacher kill himself, someone who turned into a demon could never be good.

Chopping off my head was the best thing he could do. And even as he did it, he apologized, like a saint to a sinner.

And after spending a hundred or so years in damning punishment that I don’t even remember, I’m back here.

What kind of fucked-up joke is this? Some bullshit attempt at a second chance?

Zenitsu was good. He still is good. My teacher, who is my “grandfather” here now, was good.

So why are they stuck with me again? Why do they not get to live happy, peaceful lives?

Nearly every night, Zenitsu sleeps on the futon I always have prepared for him in my room, and I hear him whimpering. I hear him crying in his nightmares. I hear him begging people not to leave, I hear him yelling out for Gramps, I hear him tossing and turning until my body is too exhausted to listen anymore.

And it’s my fault, because he’s old enough to sleep on his own, and I should know to kick him out and make him deal with it himself. But how am I supposed to, when we’re all each other has? How am I supposed to, knowing I’m part of the cause of those nightmares? What good would I be if I did nothing to help him?

Not like I’m any good, anyway.

He wouldn’t have scars if I was.

I’ve cleaned and bandaged his scrapes, I’ve kissed his bruises, I’ve made splints for his broken fingers and sewn any ripped-up clothes, I’ve wrapped his bleeding arms and never asked why he was doing such a thing (because I know the answer is myself).

And I always feel his gaze on my neck, and I know he wants to ask about it.

I don’t even know what I’ll say when he does.

“Only bad brothers get scars like these,” maybe. “Only people who do really bad things get scars like these.”

Maybe a simple, “I don’t remember,” would suffice.

If every scar is a reminder of my sins, then that means they will never lose their grasp on me. If every time I held my own sword to my neck (despite knowing it would never work, despite feeling my head thunk to the floor every time and grow back as if it never happened, despite never even having a single scar from it) was an attempt to run away from every crime I ever committed, then this life is making me face it all.

Am I still in hell? Am I still being punished?

That must be why I’m here, with a brother who treats me like an angel. That must be why Gramps is dead here, too. That must be why I have friends my age who both show me too much kindness yet keep their distance. To constantly remind me of the guilt I harbor.

I wonder if I’m the only one with any memories of my past life, and I wonder if this is even my Zenitsu, or if this is a cruel joke played on me to torture me even further.

Sometimes on summer days after torrential rain, Zenitsu runs out into the thick fog that’s settled across the town and plays a game of hide-and-seek with me. He darts out in random directions and calls my name, leading me to follow his voice until I can hunt him down. I can’t see anything. All I can rely on is him. And I worry that one day, I’ll venture into that fog, and I won’t be able to hear him. That he’ll disappear into the mists, and I’ll be left a wandering, vengeful spirit, in the aimless empty world of shadows that has nothing for me but husks of what people once were.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be better for him that way.

⚡️

The cicadas sing a chorus as Kaigaku and I wander through a peach orchard. Even as the heat sends sweat dripping down the back of my neck, the sunlight caresses me as gently as a mother would. Floral aromas take me by the hands and throw me into a dizzying waltz that sends my head reeling, memories trying to unearth themselves but not breaching the surface.

(Suffocating perfume, silk kimono, itchy caky makeup, scalp pulled in two different directions-)

“Oi, Zenitsu! Catch!”

I raise my head and arms quick as a flash. A peach hurtles through the air towards me. 

(Splattering across my forehead, mush and juice dripping off strands of blond hair-)

It lands safely in my palms. I jump for joy, and Kaigaku offers a smile, a smile that is so rare it feels like a birthday, a national holiday, something to keep in a jar forever so it could never wither away. I set the peach in the small wooden crate at my feet alongside the others we've gathered.

Kaigaku strides over and hoists it up. “I think that's enough for now.”

And we set off back through the grasses, tones of chartreuse and lime spreading out across my vision mixed with the light pinks and creamy whites of peaches dotting the landscape. Not a single breeze tousles my hair. Only the summer humidity settles across my skin.

A couple with wrinkled faces like past-ripe apples greets us at a white table. Shaky hands with knobby knuckles take Kaigaku's payment and count out change for him. They're pristine, not a single scar across their dappled skin, even if their veins protrude in ways that would make Miss Shinobu drool.

A freezer buzzes in the garage behind the couple. Flies swarm the incandescent lamp on the garage's ceiling.

“Did you want a popsicle, sweetie?” the old woman asks me.

I glance over at Kaigaku. He nods at me.

I wring my wrists. “Can I get one for my brother, too?”

Within a few minutes, I'm licking droplets of orange cream from my fingers lest they fall onto the gravel below as Kaigaku makes quick work of his peach one (homemade, they told us). He fiddles with the cloth bundled around the peaches in his bike basket. My fingers are sticky as they grip my bike handlebars.

And even though my brother’s been doing all the work, he lets me shower first when we get home. When I pass by my reflection in the mirror, I swear I see-

(Blond hair caused by a lightning strike, toned muscles from years of training, the light missing from my eyes-)

Black hair and a skinny form, just as I’ve always had. I look the same. There’s nothing amiss.

I head into the kitchen to help cook after washing up. It’s not long before we’ve prepared platters of rice, thinly-sliced pork, steamed vegetables, and slices of peaches drenched in syrup.

“I’m sorry,” I say as Kaigaku sits down.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.

“We had dessert before even having lunch.”

“So?” Kaigaku shoves rice in his mouth and talks around it. “It’s summer. We can have some popsicles. Barely counts as dessert.”

“But…”

Shouldn’t good older brothers not let their younger ones eat something sweet without doing something to deserve it? Shouldn’t older brothers bathe first while younger brothers make the meal? Why does this feel so wrong, when it’s the way I’ve always lived?

“Just eat, Zenitsu.” His voice is firm, tired, held out with a sigh.

Am I a bad brother for questioning him? 

Hunger overtakes the thoughts in my mind. We eat in silence.

Gramps used to fill our table with conversation. Kaigaku has always been quiet, but when Gramps was here, he would join in the laughter and the discussions.

I wonder if Tanjiro and Nezuko make banter at the table and pass rice to each other and all their younger siblings. I wonder if Inosuke makes a mess at home and Miss Shinobu has to scold him and Kanao giggles behind her hand like she always does when he does something stupid. I wonder if Genya and all his siblings take turns washing dishes and argue over not wanting to do them.

I wonder if I’m doing something wrong.

We go to the mall after lunch, having to take the train. It bumps and creaks in the underground tunnels, crimson and golden lights illuminating us in between stretches of pitch darkness. And I swear, I swear this time, there it is-

(Black hair tinted with red as bright as spilled blood, the smell of ozone, dark sclera and uranium-green eyes, thunder roaring, magatamas glinting sapphire-)

And then sunlight fills the carriage, and Kaigaku is still standing beside me, staring off at the blank space in front of him with dull irises, gripping the overhead handle like normal. He reaches up underneath his necklace to scratch at his scar, the magatama shining golden.

He catches my gaze.

I look away.

There’s nothing to worry about. It’s all just from the nightmares.

When we arrive at the mall, Kaigaku dips into a clothing store. I follow him inside, assaulted by fashions I’d never wear, and he always takes so long looking around.

I think about the plushies Nezuko and Tanjiro have hanging from their bags, matching ones that they got for each other. I think about the hairclips that all of the butterfly girls - and Inosuke - wear. I think about Ume’s hair ribbon that matches a scrap of fabric her brother wears.

Why can’t my brother and I match sometime? Even if it’s something as small as an accessory. Maybe then…maybe then we’d feel more like siblings. Maybe I’d get more smiles from him.

I slip out of the clothing store (it’ll only take a moment, he won’t even notice I’m gone) and hurry to a neighboring jewelry shop. It’s a velvety room, with glass cases reflecting the overhead lights in all the colors of the rainbow. I stumble around and bump into a woman adorned in all sorts of colorful fabrics.

“Oh!” she yelps.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. I try to rush past her.

“Are you looking for something, young man?” she asks. Her gentle hand clasps my shoulder. Gold jewelry dangles from her ears, her neck, even her jet-black hair. “Need something for a lady friend of yours?” She smiles, bright brown eyes looking fondly down at me.

Heat rising to my cheeks, I shake my head. “I’m looking for magatama.”

Her eyebrows furrow and she raises a finger to her chin, nail polish glittering. “Magatama? You know, I think there’s an antique store upstairs that carries some.”

I thank her and hurry to the second floor of the mall. I spot the store immediately, with its hand-burned wooden sign. Dragon’s blood incense wafts out of the store. The wooden floor creaks as I step across it. The rug placed down does nothing to muffle the noise. A fan blows air at the couple sitting behind the counter, a man with black hair and a wide-eyed woman with white hair. When she spots me, she turns towards the man and whispers something in his ear.

“Young man,” the man says, and his voice drifts towards me with the warmth of a hearth, “is there something you’re searching for?”

I turn towards him. Purple eyes accentuated by long lashes gaze at me. I wring my wrists together, pick at the backs of my hands.

“Someone told me you have magatamas here,” I say.

“What a specific thing to be in need of,” the man comments, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Luckily for you, we do have some.”

The woman disappears past a beaded curtain into a back room behind the counter.

“Do you know about the history of this shop?” the man asks, toying with a crow-shaped charm around his neck.

I shake my head.

He chuckles. “My wife and I sell typical trinkets here, yes, but we also collect so-called relics. Some special items we have were given to us by people who claim they have wonderful stories behind them. I can’t verify any of their authenticity, but you never know…maybe all the legends are true. Even the rug you’re standing on.”

I leap away from it, studying the design embroidered all across it. It depicts a boy in a checkered haori with a box strung across his back and a sword in his hand as he defeats monstrous creatures across different locations. Patterns of water and flame lead my eye around the work until I reach the ending, where he stands face-to-face with a red-eyed, ghoulish-looking man with tentacles sprouting from his skin.

The man explains, “Supposedly it tells the tale of a boy whose sister turned into a demon, and he traveled all across Japan to save people from other demons and ultimately defeat the king of demons to save his sister. If it’s all just made up, they certainly have an active imagination.”

The woman returns with a wooden box in her hands. As she sets it on the counter, I step closer to inspect it. She unlatches it, takes the cloth inside and gingerly uncovers what lay beneath.

Two shimmering blue magatamas connected by a green cord sit in front of me.

(Blue and red, spurting red, dripping red, the smell of ozone, thunder roaring, lightning strikes, stinging bile, pain, pain, pain-)

“I was told that a golden-haired warrior once had these,” the man explains. “He wore them as a hairtie, as a memento of someone he once cared about.”

My hands tremble. A headache blooms and spreads across my skull.

“H-How much would they be?” I ask.

The man smiles, gentle as a spring breeze. He exchanges a glance with the woman, who wordlessly closes the cloth back over the necklace and shuts the box. She pushes it towards me.

“Free of charge,” the man says.

I balk. “But-”

“Something,” the man interrupts, “is telling me that you should have them.”

The silence that passes feels like eons. Two pairs of purple eyes bore into me, reaching out into my soul, grabbing something there that not even I have felt the presence of, ripping it out, exposing it to the air, and a tremble runs down my spine. My mouth fills with cotton and I swallow thickly.

I reach out my hand to grasp the box.

“Zenitsu!”

I jolt as a hand wraps around my wrist, turning to see Kaigaku there, his chest heaving. His eyes are wide, pupils barely a pinprick, face flushed with the effort of running all the way here. His teeth grit together. His whole body shakes, like he’s cold, like it’s the coldest place he’s ever been in, but even in this shop the heat is stifling. His mouth opens and closes, open, close, like a fish gasping for air, until his eyes dart over to notice the couple behind the register. He straightens and clears his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb,” he says with a bow towards them.

The man waves a hand. “It’s no disturbance at all.”

Kaigaku pulls on my arm, and his grip is tight, crushing, like a vice, like he can’t let me go, though his palm is sweaty and ice-cold all at the same time. “Come on, let’s go.”

I shove the wooden box in my pocket as we rush out. I glance behind me at the couple. The man still smiles, though the woman hides her mouth behind her hand, and I just catch a glimpse of her leaning down to speak once more into his ear.

And I swear I hear her.

“Zenitsu? Isn’t that the name of…”

The name of who?

Kaigaku doesn’t let go of my arm as we head back to the store I left him in. I feel his pulse rabbiting against my skin. He picks up the items he had left on a random shelf and pays for them. He doesn’t speak to me until we get to the train and in a mildly-empty carriage.

“Why did you leave?” he asks in a low voice. “Do you know what I thought when I turned around and you had vanished?”

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt.

Kaigaku swallows. “I looked everywhere for you. I was close to alerting security. Why were you in that shop?”

“Wanted to buy something,” I mumble.

He doesn’t look at me. “You can tell me if you’d like to buy something, and we can go to the store together.”

“Wanted it to be a surprise.”

His bottom lip trembles. “I don’t like surprises.” His voice is choked. “Don’t do that again.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, aniki.”

The box burns a hole in my pocket. Does he know I have it? Can I even wear it?

I’m a bad brother.

He starts the laundry when we get home, and I disappear into my room with the box.

I don’t understand anything.

I stroke the surface of one of the magatamas. I hold the cord up to my neck in the mirror. My hair is too short to tie it up.

Was that golden-haired warrior a brother, too? Is that why the man gave the necklace to me?

The longer I look at it in the mirror, the more it unnerves me.

I put it back in the box and set it on my dresser, then lay in bed with my sparrow plush.

How can I be a better brother? How can I make up for worrying Kaigaku? What’s something we can do together?

“If it’s all just made up, they certainly have an active imagination.”

I sit straight up. Of course! I rush to the office to grab printer paper and pencils and hurry into the living room. Kaigaku lounges on the couch, reading a book. His eyes are downturned when he notices me.

“Zenitsu-”

“Let’s write a story together!” I exclaim.

Kaigaku blinks, his eyes wide. “A story?”

I nod vigorously. “A story about two brothers. Warriors! And one of them has a sparrow companion.”

Kaigaku’s lips tremble, and he looks away, scratches the scar on his neck like he always does when he doesn’t know what to say. “Alright. But I want to write my own parts. And maybe you can get your friend Kanao to illustrate it. She likes drawing.”

I grin, and run to the kitchen table to get started.

🍑

The Kocho family mansion is no less impressive than the last time I saw it. I sit at a glass table in a high-backed chair, with a porcelain teacup in my hands that no doubt has touched the palms of generations of women in this house, socks pressing against the stone slate floor. Children’s drawings are hung on the fridge past where Kanae and Shinobu sit across from me. Paintings of mountain landscapes and portraits of women amidst wisteria flowers are hung in the sitting room, where Zenitsu, Inosuke, and all the girls are chatting amongst themselves.

“You didn’t name the characters after yourselves?” Aoi asks.

“I wanted to, but Kaigaku wanted to give them different names,” Zenitsu explains.

“So you used my name?”

“It wasn’t my idea! And Aoi can be a boy’s name, too.”

“I like the name Hinata,” Kanao chimes in as she colors a drawing.

“I wanna write a story too!” Inosuke exclaims. “Inosuke, Lord of the Mountains!”

“I can go get some blank paper,” Aoi says. “And Zenitsu, stay out of Kanao’s way while she’s drawing.”

“I just wanna see!” Zenitsu whines. “Kaigaku says I have to wait until it’s drawn to see the ending he came up with.”

Cotton fills my mouth. I try to alleviate the dryness with another sip of tea.

“You’re awfully quiet, Kaigaku,” Kanae remarks.

I huff. “I’m always quiet.”

Things are always quiet at home. Ever since Gramps died, there hasn’t been the idle ramblings to fill the silence.

Home has ceramic dishes and cups that have gold mending their cracks, and a kotatsu we bring out in the winter that has seen better days, and a scruffy couch with no decorative pillows and ratty blankets that have been patched up with old fabric instead of the fluffy patterned ones here. Our closets are still full of hand-me-downs, not the freshly-ironed clothes that the butterfly girls are always adorned in. And we’re full of scars that I don’t see on the sisters or even Inosuke.

Would Zenitsu be happier in a home like this?

Wouldn’t he be better off with someone who can grant him better things in life? Someone who hasn’t sinned?

The girls are going places, after all. Shinobu’s a prodigy in medical school, Kanae is studying biology, Kanao and Aoi are top students, even Inosuke has people scouting him for athletic prowess. The Shinazugawa boy who’s friends with Zenitsu has talents in archery and sharpshooting, the Kamados are beloved for their hospitality even more than their bakery, the Rengokus are revered in history and one of the richest families in town, there’s the Himejima animal rescue and the Kanroji cafe right next door, the Tokitos run a crafts shop, the Soyama dojo is always flowing with students, and here…

Here I am. Offering nothing of value, not even a damn proper name that has any lineage tied to it. All I am is a ghost of what once was. Scum. Trash.

If I wasn’t here, the world would be a much better place.

“I’m going to step outside,” I say, and nearly knock over my chair as I stride to the sliding door.

Cherry blossom petals cascade over the garden, a cultivar that, long ago, the Kocho family developed themselves so that it blossoms throughout the summer. Butterflies and bees dance around the expanse of flowers, birds sing arias from above, and even cicadas join in the chorus with a melody of their own. Koi fish make blurs of orange across the surface of the pond.

I lean against the edge of the house and dig in my pocket for cigarettes.

Ah. I left them at home.

Shinobu would have my head for smoking within a hundred-foot radius of her home, anyway.

The door opens beside me and Shinobu steps out. She stands a few paces away, letting the sounds of nature fill the silence.

“You know I can tell when something’s bothering you,” she says.

I cross my arms. “What do you know?”

“A lot of things.” She taps her finger to her lips. “Like how it’s not healthy to bottle up your feelings.”

A beat passes.

“I’ve got gourds you can blow into if you need to scream.”

I furrow my brows. “I don’t need to scream.”

“Then what do you need to do?” she presses.

“Dunno.”

She gives me a once-over, then copies the exact way I’m standing.

“Are you mocking me?” I ask.

She frowns at me, then in the deepest voice she can muster, repeats my own question back to me.

I snort. “You can’t do a deep voice for shit.”

She goes back to her normal voice as she responds, “I’d like to hear you try a high voice.”

“Hell no.”

“Try it.”

I roll my eyes. “What’s your plan here?”

She straightens up, brushes off her butterfly-patterned blouse. “I thought if I could break the ice a bit with some jokes, it’d help open up that stubborn heart of yours.” She smirks, a glint in her eye. “Did it work?”

“Nope,” but my lips twitch upwards in betrayal.

“I’ll give you the count of five to actually talk to me or I’ll beat the words out of you with a broom.”

Bewildered, I stare at her. “A broom?”

“Five.” She strides across the desk and grabs a broom leaning against the house. “Four.”

“Okay, shit, fine!” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine, you win.”

Smiling, Shinobu sets the broom back and stands beside me. “Good. Now spill your guts, mister.”

I run a hand through my hair as I heave a sigh. Where do I even begin? How do I start without her thinking I’m crazy?

“Do you ever…have strange dreams?” I start.

She hums. “Strange how?”

“Like…you’re living an entirely different life.” I glance at her.

Her eyebrows furrow. She tenses, staring at the grass. “Mm, well, Inosuke has told me of some ridiculous dreams where he’s wearing a boar mask and fighting off monsters in the wilderness, but that’s normal for Inosuke. Kanao, though…she’s come crying to my room in the night, telling me about nightmares where I die right in front of her.”

I swallow thickly.

Shinobu did die in that previous life. I never knew her then, but I knew from Douma’s telepathy that she was absorbed by him.

What a disgusting fate. I shiver.

“Zenitsu has night terrors, right?” she asks.

I nod. “It’s why we can never do sleepovers.”

“Are you asking on his behalf, or yours?”

My blood runs cold. “Why does that matter?”

She sets her lips in a straight line. “I suppose it doesn’t. But I’ll tell you something, Kaigaku, and I want you to pay attention to it. Got it?”

I nod.

Crossing her arms, she stares down at her shoes. “I have a dream almost every night. In it, I’m a helpless little girl wearing clothes two sizes too big. I’m trying my hardest to fight against monsters attacking my family, and every time, I fail, and I die. It doesn’t matter what new tactics I try in it. Even if I run away, I get caught.”

Shinobu lays her hand across her chest. “Every time, I swear I feel my heart stop. I feel the pain of something crushing me, of something stabbing into me, or of something consuming me.” Her hand balls into a fist. “Then I wake up, and it’s all okay again. My family is alive, I’m alive, and the day goes on like normal. I go back to bed, and the cycle repeats.”

She lets her hand drop, taking in a deep breath. “There’s nothing I can do to stop these nightmares, no matter how hard I try. It’s agonizing. Yet I know I’ll wake up and life will go on. I can’t change what happens in my dreams, but I can keep going about my days knowing that my family is okay.”

Turning her head, she looks at me, burrowing into my own eyes like cicadas nesting in the ground. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

A breeze ruffles my hair, catches the wind chimes and sends them tinkling against each other.

When I don’t respond, Shinobu shrugs her shoulders and stretches. “Oh well. Even if you don’t, I’m glad we talked.” She makes her way to the door. “Take your time out here, but we’ll be making dinner soon, so make sure to wash up beforehand.”

The door slides closed.

I scratch at the scar on my neck.

I really am an awful brother.

And on the train ride home, Zenitsu bounces excitedly beside me, the finished storybook clutched tightly to his chest, all the while my heart sinks into the deepest pit of my stomach.

Rain is pouring by the time we make it home. I pull Zenitsu down the sidewalk with one hand and hold an umbrella with the other. I usher him inside first, shaking the rain off the umbrella before going in myself.

“Get changed before you do anything,” I say. “I’m going to shower.”

It’s pitch-black outside by the time I’m dressed and dry. Wind howls, battering rain against the windows. The lights flicker before shutting off completely. Zenitsu yelps.

“Alright, alright, don’t panic.” I use my phone flashlight to guide me to the kitchen and pull out the electric lantern. I set it on the table and turn it on. “Here, use this to read.”

“Aren’t you going to read it with me?” Zenitsu pouts.

“I…” A lump forms in my throat. “I already know the ending, Zenitsu. I should make sure we don’t have any leaks, anyway.”

It’s a bullshit excuse, and I know he knows it, but I leave before he can say anything, before I can see the disappointment on his face.

He finds me in my room soon after. Lightning strikes and illuminates his figure. His eyes are bloodshot and wet from unshed tears, his lip trembles, and his hands are balled into fists.

“Kaigaku,” he says, and his voice is choked, “why did you write such an awful ending?”

I stare into the darkness. “It’s the kind of story I wanted to write.”

I can’t see him, but I swear I can feel his whole body shaking in rage. “Why would you make Hinata kill Aoi? Why couldn’t they have had a happy ending?”

“Aoi was a bad brother,” I say. “There’s nothing Hinata could have done.”

“Why couldn’t you have made Hinata save him?” Zenitsu stomps his foot just as thunder strikes and shakes the house. “I wanted a nice story!”

I sit up from my chair, gripping my desk. “Why couldn’t you have just written it yourself?”

“Why did you have to ruin it?!”

I grit my teeth.

Zenitsu continues, “I wanted to write something nice with you! I wanted us to have something nice together!”

There’s a resounding thunk as something heavy hits the ground and clatters open.

“I got that stupid necklace so I could match with you! I wanted us to really feel like brothers! I wanted to make you happy!”

Lightning strikes again, illuminating the tears streaking down Zenitsu’s face.

“Am I really such a bad brother that you can’t even bear to talk to me during dinner or act like we’re brothers at all? Why can’t you tell me?!”

I swipe at my desk, sending a cascade of papers to the floor. “Why can’t you see who I really am, Zenitsu?! I’m the scum of the earth! I’m trash! I made Aoi exactly like me, and you still can’t get it through your head?”

“Aoi isn’t anything like you!”

“I’m not even your real brother! Quit acting like I am!”

Zenitsu devolves into sobs, heaving and choking on his own breath. “But- but we are brothers! We always have been!”

My heart pounds in my chest as the storm rages outside. “I’d be better off without you.”

Hiccups erupt from Zenitsu. He throws the story on the floor and runs into his room, slamming the door behind him.

I stand in the inky darkness.

Wordlessly, I move to my bed and throw myself onto it.

That’s the first time I’ve truly yelled at Zenitsu. The first time we’ve ever fought over something that wasn’t petty like stealing food from the fridge. The first time I’ve ever said we’re not brothers.

The first time he’s ever mentioned a necklace.

I slide down to the floor and switch on my phone flashlight. There, amidst all the chaos, lay an open box and something bundled in white cloth. I lift up the cloth and jolt back as if I’ve been struck by electricity.

It’s my necklace. The very one I wore as a demon. The one he somehow must have gotten from that shop at the mall.

Something he wanted to wear to match with me.

I touch the magatama at my neck. Golden.

The one lying on the floor is blue.

Gold and blue.

Gold, still standing.

Blue, falling into the abyss.

Gold, sobbing in the room next door.

Blue, lying cold on the floor.

Gold, who has never done anything wrong. Gold, who deserves the world. Gold, who is an angel.

Blue, who has done everything wrong. Blue, who deserves nothing. Blue, who is a demon.

I really am an awful fucking brother.

Was the ending to the story I wrote really a punishment for me? Or was it just to punish Zenitsu and his desire for a happy ending for us?

What Shinobu was trying to say to me earlier today…

You can’t change the past, but you can do what you can for the present.

I think that’s what she meant, but…

I run a hand through my hair.

I can’t, is the thing. I’m doomed to be punished for my actions. I’m doomed to never be good enough. I’m doomed to be awful.

Tonight proves it.

I clean up the fallen papers. I set the necklace back in the box. I organize the story.

And then I crawl back into bed.

Zenitsu does not come into my room during the night, no matter how hard the thunder roars.

I lay awake until the rain calms, until the vestiges of sunlight peek through my window at dawn. Not bothering to change out of my clothes, I pad out of my room and through the hall, past Zenitsu’s closed door, and shove on my shoes before opening the front door.

Fog encompasses the town, thick and heavy. I can’t even see the road through it.

I close the door behind me as softly as possible and make my way down the sidewalk.

I didn’t believe in gods in my past life. Why would gods let such awful things happen to me, when I hadn’t done a thing to deserve them? Why would gods turn a blind eye to pain and suffering? It was nonsense.

There’s a temple at the end of town. It’s well-cared for by the members of the community, with auspicious animals carved out of stone and placed within it for protection. Incense is always burning outside of it, and often I see people bringing offerings to it.

I don’t go near it, because how could a demon ever step into hallowed ground like that?

Today that changes.

If the gods strike me down at its entrance, so be it. If, somehow, I live, then at least I can learn something.

On his deathbed, Gramps entrusted me with caring for Zenitsu, and I can’t even do that.

I’m sorry, Gramps. I’m sorry, Zenitsu.

I’ve failed you and everyone in my life. This one, and the one before, and maybe even every single one before that.

I hardly realize I’ve broken into a full-blown sprint through the fog. My shoes slam against the concrete sidewalk, past the houses, past the shops, and my lungs can hardly fill with air, only moisture. The wind howls with grief.

Kaigaku, Kaigaku, what have you done? Kaigaku, Kaigaku, what are you doing? Kaigaku, Kaigaku, where are you going?

Kaigaku Inadama, who do you think you are?

I skid to a stop in front of the temple. Even immersed in fog, it’s pristine. The komainu statues glare down at me. A sparrow perches on the head of one of them. My knees buckle under me and I collapse to the ground.

Please, if anyone out there can hear me, answer this…

Do I deserve forgiveness? Do I deserve a second chance?

“…u…”

Do I deserve a brother? Do I deserve a family?

“…gaku…”

Do I deserve anything good? Do I deserve happiness?

“K..gaku!”

Am I worthy? Am I good enough?

“Kaigaku!”

Would everyone be better off without me?

“Kaigaku!”

Give me a sign, something, anything to tell me-

A pair of arms wraps around my torso.

“I’m sorry!” Zenitsu sobs into my back.

My eyes widen. “Zenitsu?”

His grip tightens. “I’m sorry for being a bad brother! I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough! I’m sorry for cutting off your head!”

My heart drops into my stomach, hard and cold, like the pit of a peach. “Zenitsu? You remember that?”

He nods. “I’m sorry for not remembering before, I’m sorry for not being good enough!”

“Zenitsu-”

“You are special, Kaigaku, you always were, and I always saw you as a brother-” 

“Zenitsu-”

“I’m sorry I could never prove that to you and that we could never fight together and-”

I grip his hand. “Zenitsu. Please.”

Zenitsu sniffs.

“Stop apologizing.”

He whimpers.

“It’s not your fault.” Tears prick at my eyes. “It’s mine.”

And on my next breath, the tears flow freely, an unending flood to accompany all my apologies.

For throwing peaches, for calling him weak, for yelling at him, for becoming a demon, for leading people to their deaths, for devouring humans, for dismissing my own brother, and everything and anything in between.

And even though the moisture of the fog is soaking us through, he stays and listens to each of my regrets.

And once they’re all exhausted, he finally pipes up, “I forgive you. You’re a good brother, Kaigaku.”

I wipe my tears and stand up, keeping him on my back. “I’m not. But I will be. For you.”

He hiccups. “Can I wear those magatamas, even though they used to be yours?”

“Yes. And later today, I’ll take you for ice cream, and whatever else you want.”

“Please don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t, Zenitsu. I promise.”

I should have been a good brother back then.

Maybe that will always haunt me, just like the scar on my neck.

But today, and tomorrow, and every day onwards, I can be a good brother this time.