Chapter Text
Saturday morning at the Tendo household was a blur of noise and motion, the kind of chaos that felt exciting. The dojo echoed faintly with the sounds of Akane’s children’s class—sharp voices calling out moves, feet slapping tatami. Steam hissed in the kitchen where Kasumi and Ranko prepared tea to go with the light lunch and snacks, and the television in the living room was already on, volume lowered while everyone settled.
Nabiki’s television debut was scheduled for 11:30, and by the time the opening credits of the morning variety program rolled, the family was crowded around the table. Ranko knelt between Kasumi and Ukyo, who had come early with a generous offer of okonomiyaki, still warm. Ryoga was there too, bleary-eyed from another night shift, polite as always as he sipped his tea next to A-Akane-san and tried to follow what was happening.
Akane, still in her gi, sat with her legs tucked under her and her hands clenched nervously in her lap. She hadn’t even touched her food.
“There!” Ranko pointed, sitting up straighter as the camera panned across a group of background dancers.
And there was Nabiki—serious-faced but fluid, her movements crisp and easy, blending perfectly into the rhythm of the segment. The family erupted in proud, surprised cheers.
“She’s good,” Ukyo said, a little impressed.
Akane let out a breath and leaned forward. “It’d be so much nicer if we had a bigger TV!”
At once, both Ranko and Kasumi turned toward Mr. Tendo with matching, subtle smiles.
He sniffled loudly, dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. “That’s my daughter,” he mumbled, proud and teary.
Ranko watched him for a moment, chin resting in her hand. There was something so fundamentally kind about Mr. Tendo—his silliness, his pride, his warmth. He probably would cry again in the next ten minutes over how proud he was of Nabiki, but she’d take that any day over the cold silence she remembered from her own apartment across the bridge.
When the show ended and everyone’s stomachs were sufficiently filled, Kasumi stood, already reaching for her coat and wicker shopping basket at the entrance. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
“I’m gonna shower,” Akane said, stretching her shoulders with a groan. “I’m still gross from teaching.”
Ryoga excused himself with a polite bow and a muttered apology, still half-asleep as he shuffled out toward the genkan. Mr. Tendo mentioned something about helping at the local shrine and disappeared into the hallway, whistling quietly as he gathered his things.
After everyone had gone—the soft click of the front door trailing behind Mr. Tendo’s humming—silence returned to the house, with only the low, ambient murmur of the TV left running in the background.
Ranko and Ukyo stood amid the quiet remains: empty tea cups, snack wrappers, dirty bowls, a stray paper napkin folded into a triangle. Without saying much, they both began to clean. It wasn’t chore-like. It felt easy. Familiar.
Ukyo gathered the wrappers and empty dishes, taking them to the kitchen while Ranko lingered a moment longer to pick up cushions and straighten the kotatsu. Then she followed, rolling up her sleeves.
“I’ll do the dishes,” she said, reaching for the sponge and filling the sink with warm, soapy water.
“You sure?” Ukyo asked.
“I like it,” Ranko replied with a little shrug, already starting to rinse.
“Dangerous declarations towards a restaurant owner,” Ukyo teased.
Ranko giggled as she washed. Ukyo started wrapping leftovers and putting the last pieces of okonomiyaki in the fridge, then tied off the small bag of trash and set it near the door.
When they were done, they returned to the living room, the space now reset to its usual neat calm. Ranko sat cross-legged on the floor with a tired sigh, stretching her arms behind her head. Ukyo dropped down beside her and tilted their head.
“Your braid’s coming loose,” they said.
Ranko reached up, fingers fumbling with the fried, dry strands. “I don’t know why, but when I do the dishes, not only do I get the wet spot on my stomach, but my braid also seems to dissolve.”
Ukyo reached out gently. “Want me to fix it?”
Ranko blinked at them, then gave a small, trusting nod.
Ukyo scooted closer and carefully undid the braid, combing their fingers slowly through Ranko’s hair. It was brittle in places, warm from the sun, and still smelled faintly like the lavender shampoo Kasumi kept in the bathroom.
“You used to scream bloody murder whenever someone tried to brush your hair,” Ukyo murmured with a half-smile.
Ranko chuckled, shoulders relaxing. “Only when it was you.”
Ukyo smirked. “Liar. I was the most patient one.”
Ranko said nothing, but the way her head tipped slightly toward Ukyo’s hands betrayed the comfort she felt now. Ukyo worked slowly, twisting the hair back into a tidy braid, their fingers light but assured. There was something intimate in the silence, not romantic exactly—but warm, deeply familiar. Like being remembered.
When Ukyo tied off the end, Ranko touched it lightly, as if to test its neatness, then glanced over her shoulder.
“Thanks, Ucchan.”
Their eyes met. Ukyo gave her a soft, crooked smile, one that crinkled the corners of their eyes.
A second later, Akane padded in drying her hair, then looked toward the genkan as the door opened again.
Nabiki stepped inside wearing an oversized denim jacket and sunglasses, which she immediately shoved up into her hair.
The moment she entered, Akane perked up. “Hey! You were amazing!”
“Congratulations,” Ukyo said.
Nabiki gave a lazy wave. “Thanks, it was easier than I thought.”
“You looked super cool,” Ranko added.
Nabiki smirked and kicked off her shoes. “That’s because I am. Gonna pass out for a few hours,” she announced. “Wake me if someone offers me money.”
She shuffled off toward her room.
Ukyo stood up and dusted off their pants. “I should go too. The new place needs a little more scrubbing before it stops smelling like dust and loneliness.”
Ranko stood as well. “Let me know if you need help.”
“You’ll be the first I call,” Ukyo promised. They smiled again, softer this time. “See you later, girls.”
“Bye, Ucchan.”
“Bye, Ukyo.”
Ranko watched them go, then turned to Akane, who was already gathering up some books.
“Homework?” Akane asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ranko groaned. “Do I got a choice?”
They both laughed and made their way upstairs to Akane’s room, side by side. The house behind them exhaled again, peaceful and bright with the soft noise of a weekend afternoon.
It was cold the next day, Sunday, the kind of cold that lingered even after the heater kicked in. The four girls sat around the kotatsu, half-lulled by the hum of the space heater and the muffled voices of a jidaigeki romance drama playing on the television. The low table was cluttered with mandarin peels and tea cups.
Nabiki tossed a mandarin piece into her mouth, then spoke casually after swallowing.
“So, how was your encounter with your samurai, Ranko?”
The words hit Ranko like a cold splash. She looked up, surprised.
Akane turned her head sharply. “You don’t have to talk about it,” she said quickly, her voice gentle.
Ranko blinked once, then smiled, grateful for the out. But she shook her head. “It’s okay,” she said. “It didn’t go well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kasumi murmured, reaching for another orange with her usual quiet grace.
“Well,” Nabiki said, peeling a new one, “he keeps getting into trouble. And he’s about to be in much bigger trouble on Monday.”
“With what?” Akane asked, frowning.
“He’s getting challenged for his team captain position. I don’t think he’s gonna be able to save himself this time.”
Ranko’s eyes sharpened. “So you made up those rumors? About him bein' away on a kendo tournament?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Yup,” Nabiki said without hesitation. “Bought him some time. But it didn’t fix the real problem. The teacher who supervises kendo club hates his guts, and a couple of the third-years are hungry for the title of ‘kendo captain’ for their graduation ceremony in March. It’s a perfect storm.”
“I don’t understand,” Ranko said, quietly, her fingers resting still on her mandarin.
“He’s been missing too many practices,” Nabiki explained. “No valid excuse presented to the school, like a doctor’s note. He basically gave them a reason. Now they’re going to use it.”
“But he’s strong,” Akane interjected, sitting up straighter. “He’s a weirdo, but he’s the best kendoist the school ever had. Why wouldn’t he be able to defend his captaincy?”
Nabiki shrugged. “He’ll have to fight every challenger back-to-back. That’s the rule when they contest a captain. No rest. Just one after the other. He might get through the first one, maybe two. But if they gang up on him by having several challengers... he’s not walking out with the title, not in his current state.”
“ Current state ?” Akane asked.
“Out of practice,” Nabiki lied.
Akane scowled. “I still think he’ll manage.”
Ranko didn’t say a word.
She sat very still, listening, her breath shallow. The mandarin in her hand was half-peeled, the skin flaking away beneath her fingernails without thought. Her mind was spinning. Even if he had hurt her feelings, Ranko couldn’t help but worry about him.
Monday was abuzz with whispers, the school corridors humming with the same rumor: Kuno’s getting challenged. Kuno-senpai’s going to lose his captaincy. It had spread like spilled ink on rice paper—slow, staining, impossible to ignore.
She tried not to listen. She told herself not to get too stressed out about it. And yet, her chest still clenched every time she caught the syllables of his name in a stray sentence.
Of course I care , she thought bitterly, her shoulders tense. But I’m still hurt. Still angry. “Partly busy in Tokyo with accountants,” she repeated inwardly, chewing on the words. What was the other part?
When classes ended, students spilled out into the halls with purposeful energy, not pretending they weren’t desperate to watch something unfold. Most skipped their club meetings and headed straight for the kendo hall.
Nabiki, in the corridor, waved and called over her shoulder, “Left my girls to handle the betting. I better see someone taping this—I want details, blood, and someone’s shinai snapping in half.” Then she was gone, off to choreography practice, rolling her eyes at the injustice of missing the best drama Furinkan had to offer.
Ranko lingered near the shoe lockers, uncertain. Her feet wanted to take her to Ucchan’s, where the air always smelled like comfort. Or maybe to the boxing club, where she could hit something that didn’t talk back. Or even just… home.
But then Akane appeared beside her. Silent. Steady. She didn’t say anything, just slipped her hand around Ranko’s arm and gently guided her forward.
And Ranko let her.
It felt like a small kindness. A sacrifice, even. Akane hated Kuno—but she didn’t hate her .
The kendo hall was packed by the time they arrived. Students crowded into the bleachers, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with anticipation, heated breath clouding faintly in the cold, high-ceilinged room. Wooden floors gleamed under the lights, and the scent of polish and sweat hung in the air.
Ranko sat cross-legged on the bench like a true yankii, close to the edges of the court, across from where the challengers were preparing. Kendo armor clacked softly as it was fastened. Some of the second- and third-years joked quietly amongst themselves, but the tension coiled in their shoulders gave them away.
Near her, two first-years from the club stood, talking under their breath, arms crossed.
“It’s not fair,” one muttered. “He said it was family stuff, right? I mean, yeah, he’s too serious, and he doesn’t know how to make friends with people, but he’s not a bad captain.”
“He is an idiot, though,” his friend said, voice dry.
The first one opened his mouth to respond, but caught sight of Ranko and immediately elbowed the other into silence. Both of them turned their eyes away awkwardly, shuffling like kids caught misbehaving.
As if she were a reflection of Kuno. An extension of him. Her hands rested on her knees. Her heart was loud in her ears. Her eyes searched the edge of the court for him.
Despite the identical kendo uniforms, the heavy gloves, the helmets obscuring their faces, Ranko recognized Kuno instantly. It wasn’t just his height—though he stood tall, not the tallest, but tall enough to carry attention. It wasn’t just his build—broad-chested and lean, muscular in a way that was quietly impressive rather than boastful. No, it was something else. A kind of presence. He had always been composed, upright, quietly self-possessed. Masculine. Not the most at everything, but somehow—at least to her— better than anyone .
Her throat tightened. Even now. Even after everything.
The teacher in charge of the kendo club—a narrow-eyed man who always seemed slightly too eager to correct or criticize, but too cowardly to do so—called the first match. Ranko squinted at the challenger: a second-year, maybe the one she’d once disarmed in front of the whole club months ago. Hard to say, all she remembered is that he was too aggressive and heavy-handed.
The match began.
Kuno fought cleanly, with his usual disciplined precision, but the referee’s calls were... dubious at best. The teacher, having declared himself official referee—despite there being a perfectly qualified female referee present—seemed almost eager to let points slide against him. But Kuno still won. Just barely. Ranko could see it: not in the outcome, but in the effort. Something was off.
Then came the second match.
“Did I miss a hit?” Ranko whispered to Akane, brows furrowed.
Akane leaned in. “I don’t think so… but he moves like he was hit, right? His side…”
Ranko nodded slowly. Yes. His left side, just beneath the arm. His stance was slightly off-center. The subtle, instinctive fluidity he usually had—it was gone, replaced by something cautious. Protective.
Still, he fought. Got a few clean hand strikes in, enough to take the second win. But it cost him.
Then a third-year stepped forward. Bigger. Stronger. Aggressive. Slower, less elegant.
Kuno raised his shinai again, but the stiffness had worsened. His form was still technically correct—Kuno was always technically correct—but the power behind it had faded. He didn’t stumble, but there was something desperate in how long he lingered between movements, the way his fingers flexed against the grip at every reset, as if the sword were slipping through the sweat.
The match was brutal. Not in violence, but in erosion. With each round, the edges of Kuno’s composure frayed a little more.
When the teacher called it in favor of the third-year, the reaction from the bleachers was instant. The third year students exploded in celebration. Laughter and cheers. A few surprised faces from the rest of the attendees. Ranko couldn’t tell if it was because someone else had the chance to lead the club, or because someone had finally beaten Kuno, and it meant his fall had finally come.
Kuno bowed, precise as ever, then turned and walked to the bench. He removed his helmet, letting the sweat cling to his temples, and stared ahead at nothing. No expression. No collapse. Just silence.
The teacher addressed the room, smug. “Any other challengers?”
Another third-year stepped forward. This time the referee—a proper one—took over.
The teacher approached Kuno on the bench. They exchanged a few brief words Ranko couldn’t hear, but she saw the change: a slight tension in Kuno’s posture, then the faintest sag. He rose, stiff, collected his gear, and walked toward the exit.
Ranko looked at Akane, questioning.
Akane looked back at her, gently. “Go for it,” she said, quiet, reassuring.
Ranko got up and left after Kuno.
She was about to turn a corner when she caught sight of the kendo teacher stepping into the changing room. She froze. The door shut behind him with a thud.
Shit.
She wanted to listen. Needed to. Without hesitating, she doubled back, darted out through the side entrance, and climbed the old zelkova tree beside the kendo hall. Her hands scraped bark, her breath puffed in the cold, but she hoisted herself up anyway, balancing on a thick branch. The window was half-open. She pushed it wider and hauled herself inside, crawling flat across the top row of dented metal lockers at the back of the room.
She couldn’t see much from here. But she could hear. It seemed like she had missed most of their conversation, if it could be called that at all.
The teacher's voice echoed off the tile and metal.
"...Such a shame, Kuno-kun," he said, the suck of his teeth punctuating the false pity in his tone. Kuno didn't respond, didn't seem to move.
"Not like being captain of this club was all that important to you, right?" The teacher prodded, irritated at the lack of response. "Well, I have to get back out there. It’s not the end of the world, is it?"
There was a pause—an ugly silence, almost daring.
Kuno didn’t answer.
Ranko shifted carefully, creeping forward until she reached the end of the row. From this angle, she could just barely see him from behind. He was sitting on the bench, armor off, shoulders squared but motionless. His hands rested on his knees. His expression was unreadable, eerily still. The teacher seemed disappointed by the lack of reaction, as though he'd been hoping for a tantrum, a scene, something he could punish.
He got nothing.
And then he left.
Ranko nearly dropped down to reveal herself, to approach him and ask if he was okay. But just as she began to move, Kuno punched the locker beside him.
KRAK.
The crash of fist against metal rang out sharp and hollow. The door buckled, and Kuno winced, immediately regretful.
“Damn it,” he muttered, voice low and frayed.
Ranko flinched. She stared. She hadn’t expected that—not from him. But of course he was angry. Ranko had never seen Kuno lose his cool.
Her eyes involuntarily flicked to his neck. The mark—lighter now with the passage of days—was still faintly there, visible just below the edge of his collar. A smudge of purple shadow above his pulse.
He rose to his feet and reached for the tie of his uwagi, fingers moving with a hesitant, weary grace. The knot loosened, and the fabric began to fall away from his shoulders. Ranko watched, transfixed, as it slid down the breadth of his back—broad, pale, the muscles shifting beneath skin drawn taut with fatigue. He eased one sleeve down, careful and deliberate, until his arm slipped free with a quiet exhale of effort.
Her breath caught.
Ranko flushed. This was too much. Too private. She could talk to him later. She turned quickly, crawling back toward the window, hoping to slip out before he noticed. But her foot nudged the edge of a metal vent.
Clang.
Shit.
She recoiled instinctively, scrambling backward, her palms slipping against the cool steel surface of the locker. Her breath hitched. Too loud. Too late.
Kuno’s head turned sharply. His gaze swept to the rear of the room—then locked onto the shape above. He began to move, footsteps deliberate, echoing faintly in the stillness as he approached the source of the sound.
Ranko didn’t move. Couldn’t. She was frozen in place, caught mid-crawl, crouched like a stray cat cornered atop the metal locker, eyes wide, heart hammering.
“Ranko?”