Chapter Text
Ayato remembers the feeling of the touch which saved his life, the hand that pulled him into the darkness of some stuffy under-top of a mediocre sweets shop. He remembers how the girl dug her nails into his forearms and shoved him into the tight space, standing still while the assailants demanded to know, albeit not so politely, of whether she had seen a pair of blue-haired children about.
He remembers how her lips opened to say “no” in the sweetest voice, dripping with saccharine that only he could pinpoint.
He remembers how when the storm abated, she, brimming with innocence and as young as his little sister, had released the two wide-eyed children, him and Ayaka, hand-in-hand, with a parting box of sweets in kindness that he thought he didn’t deserve.
He repeats her touch every second of the day just before he drifts to sleep, soothed of her presence and longing perhaps, that one day, he could say a word of thank you to that seemingly unaware girl who had saved his very life that day.
He dreams of you sometimes, but not often.
It is improper, impolite, and unsuitable for a man of his standing.
Ayato does not delegate time to court you; he thinks it’s unnecessary. Instead, he stands by the precipice that overlooks your sweet store, lips silent as he watches you grow.
Like a blossom. He notes. Budding from bustling, innocent, stupid little girl to a woman, courted endlessly by men for your fairness.
Innocent, if only just for a little while, just as the flowers of the Somei-Yoshino; pure-white delights scarred by the spread of pink from its heart.
Tainted from the gravestones of your parents that you commission, the prayers that you hang by your doorstep in some macabre hope.
Destroyed. He thinks. Bound to fall by the end of spring, saved only by the gardener who diligently waters his plants.
When the borders grew shut, he wondered if you’d survive. Little girl like you, heading a sweet shop when customers dwindled with every day that passes.
How morbid. Even tourists, who long kept Inazuma economy thriving, soon forgotten it as a state, knowing well that they wouldn’t be able to cajole some sort of entry in.
Would you make enough to cover the expenses for the past month? Probably not.
“When are you going to talk to her?” Ayaka asks softly.
When I’m sure I will own her is what he wants to say, but he bites his tongue down, supposedly continuing his spying with casual indifference.
Ayaka only lets out a slight hum and a sigh in response, noticeably when she sees the tip of his ears shading red and the corner of his lips twitching at her question.
Caught, exposed, set for death.
It is reprehensible, he thinks, that someone as sly as him, a man that even the other commissioners or the head shrine maiden, Guuji Yae, cannot find, has obsessed over the same spot for years now. If anyone had half a brain about throwing an assassination his way, this would be the most for-sure spot they could guarantee. Yet, nobody seems to have challenged him for years now… Why? He does not take time to ponder.
He watches you crawl back into you’re store, the tail of your obi disappearing through the rickety wooden gates. It is not until you are completely out of sight before he turns away and offers and arm to Ayaka, helping her down the angled cliff as a true gentleman would.
Wake up. Act. Work. Stare. Return home. Sleep.
Rinse and repeat.
He can almost pity himself; pathetic lovesick boy waiting for a slither of attention from you. Do you even care about him? Do you even know who he is aside from the fact that he is the Yashiro Commissioner? Probably not.
“Will you stare until the end of your years?’ Ayaka tries again. His sweet, loving sister who could do no wrong. Who throws herself at the weak and innocent and starving with some blind hope that maybe she can do something for them. Who thinks with some form of childish innocence that people should marry for love and not for alliances or some other ploy.
It's childish, but Ayato won’t bring it up.
If people can murder for alliances, if people can torture and eliminate entire families for the sake of power, then marriage, arguably, is the kindest way to get something deep and dark done.
So, he does the reasonable thing. He stops and stares straight at her sweet face, asking, “what will you have me do instead?”
Nothing. The right answer. Nothing, because it’s good enough that he can escape having to enter a loveless marriage. Maybe asking to own you, a useless little girl who doesn’t have a drop of noble blood in her, is a little too much to hope for. Maybe you’re better suited as a favoured concubine, but he doubts you’d accept. More probably though, he can take you. He has enough power, enough wealth, enough strings to play to keep you for himself.
A wife is all you’d settle for, probably. He knows you’re a stubborn little girl.
Ayaka lets out a loud sigh as she pinches the bridge of her nose, drawing the fan with the other hand to cover her eyes in displayed exasperation. “Do you wish to court her?” She responds, shutting the fan shut as she met her brother’s impassive eyes. Now, they stand beneath the Sakura tree, heart-to-heart. Two defenceless souls now not bound by the strands of honour.
“Yes.” He never lies to his sister.
Not when they were young and running from assassins he didn’t know the name of.
Not when he could not promise that their name would be saved and that the Kamisato bloodline would not die on them.
Not when he could not promise to uphold the legacy of the Yashiro commissioner that was thrust onto his shoulders at a young age.
Her face is hard when she continues. “What’s stopping you?” She inquires, now more interested than she was before.
Of course she would be curious. He hadn’t felt particularly strongly about anything for years now. Always “I don’t mind” or “Can you handle this, Ayaka? I have something quite pressing to attend to.”.
Now, none of those words surfaced from his sharp lips. Instead, he panted like a desperate puppy waiting for a woman’s validation.
She wonders if she should be concerned about him.
Oh, how he felt the punishing touch of love, a hallmark of humanity… but refused to capture it within his palm…
“You could tell her the truth.” Ayaka offers, though her words betray her. She looks to the ground immediately, the carefree nature of her words stinging as she realises their insensibility.
“She would feel obliged to love me, maybe even disturbed by how I’ve seen her grow.” He pats Ayaka’s head, ruffling her blue locks until they mess up her perfect pigtails, and she huffs in displeasure.
You don’t have to hide forever.
“You’re at marriageable age, Ani ue, and the requests won’t end unless you wed.” Ayaka starts weakly, but it earns only a grunt of acknowledgement from her brother.
His eyes gloss over that fact, uncaring as his mind wanders to another plane, thinking, plotting, and subjecting.
“I’m aware.” He answers, blinking slowly as his latest plot ruminates. “I’m sure you know to reject them?” He asks.
Marriage. He thought. A mundane topic that deserves little thought.
“Are you not curious as to who I am?” He had asked the little girl.
“Not particularly! Here, take this and go; the street’s all clear.” She handed him a box, inside littered with the finest artistic Amezaiku candies. “Okaasan made these, but I helped; they’re really good!” She had replied, giving him a small wink as she ushered the teenage Ayato with little, terrified Ayaka, out of the shop.
He didn’t look back then, and he hadn’t looked back now.
“Yes.” She responds agreeably, though she wants to argue that rejection isn’t the premise she is looking for. She wants a permanent solution. She won’t get it. So, she does the next most reasonable thing.
Concede.
“Good, then there is no issue.” Ayato shrugs off his coat, shuffling into the Genkan with his sister. They remove their shoes, bending down with dignified grace as the racks hang the thick soles, both individuals consumed in their thoughts. The walk to the Zashiki is filled with silence as they settle before Chabudai, eyes meeting each other as tea is brought in.
“Ani ue, do you intend to be celibate?” Ayaka breaks the silence before noticing that the question sounds unreasonable, and so a slither of a smile creeps onto her face. “My apologies.” She hides her grin under her fan as Ayato chuckles into the warm cup of tea, blowing ripples onto its surface.
“Not at all,” Ayato replies, settling the excessively warm glass on the table. “I should apologise for my part in causing you undue distress as you handle the proposals.”
“But…” Ayaka begins, chewing the inside of her lip as her brother’s stern glance once again settles onto her.
“You simply need to allow me time to find a suitable match,” Ayato says softly, though there is a dangerous edge to them. “Are the families cajoling you with unnecessary demands? If required, I can settle that as soon as possible within my means.” He propositions, taking a sip from the warm cup, deeming that the tea is finally at the right temperature. His eyes never leave Ayaka’s as he does so, blue globes staring deep into the confines of her soul.
Ayaka sighs. “That’s not the part that causes me distress, Ani ue. However, I respect you, so I will continue to reject the proposals with the utmost care. Though I must warn you, my excuses are running thin, and unless you suddenly come with a bride, I’m afraid they will only grow more… demanding.”
“I understand. Though, it would please me greatly if you continued your part, and I will work on mine.” Ayato reassures her, and they chuckle over rumoured plans and estate battles as they throw Koma pieces across the wooden Shōgi ban. His ōshō battles against her gyokushō, and eventually, Ayaka wins as Ayato’s mind wanders.
He thinks about you by the sweet shop. He thinks about Ayaka, his poor sister, writing letter after letter to reject noble clans who pursue the Kamisato heir’s legacy. He thinks about how to make his dreams a reality but succumbs to nature at the leg’s end.
The Shogi is a lonely game, a disgruntled king settled behind a frame of his followers, absent from the Shogi ban is the possibility of a powerful queen. In Inazuma, the Shogi is a game appreciated, coveted, and played. It reeks of stoic culpability, honour and rightened grace. It is a game warriors play as they defend their land, drowned in the terrors of war. In Liyue, Adepti spend their long lifelines jesting in Xiangqi, a purely military game. In Mondstadt, they play chess, where the queen lies as the most powerful piece on their board.
He thinks about the possibilities of queens as he handles the flat wedged pentagonal pieces in his palm, throwing them up as he packs up the board. He wonders if he can make you his Tokin, a promoted pawn that cannot stray too far from its crowd but is powerful against the common man.
But how would he do it?
The joy of capturing you within the third of the enemy’s board, the greatest asset a man could possibly have.
A “queen” in a lonely game.
He would do it, no matter the stakes.