Family

“What did you draw on my face?”

Seeing Kiyohime still staring at him, Haruka assumed she was admiring her handiwork. A flicker of genuine curiosity stirred within him, and he started to get up to look in the vanity mirror. But the moment he moved, a shy, surprisingly gentle hand grabbed him. “Where are you going?”

“To the mirror. I want to see what you drew on my face.”

Kiyohime panicked. If he looked in the mirror, he would know she had been lying, that her grand prank was nothing but empty words. “You… you can’t look, okay?” she said quickly, her voice a little too high.

“Why not?” Haruka asked, touching his own face. A suspicion, small but persistent, began to dawn on him that she hadn’t drawn anything at all.

Afraid of being found out, Kiyohime put on a cold, fierce expression, a familiar mask. “Because I said so!” But then, afraid he would misunderstand, that he would see only her cruelty, her voice immediately softened, becoming almost a plea. “It’s… it’s a little ugly. You’re not allowed to look.”

Haruka found her flustered state incredibly, unexpectedly endearing. He guessed she was bluffing after all and decided to tease her, to play along with her game. “How ugly is it?”

“Very, very ugly!” Kiyohime saw the smile he was trying to suppress, the corner of his lip twitching, and her face grew hot. “As ugly as you are, anyway.”

“Then I really must have a look.”

As Haruka made to stand up, Kiyohime quickly got up and pulled him back down, her voice a low, pleading whisper. “I’ll call you ‘oni-chan’, okay? Just sit down. Please don’t go look in the mirror.”

Haruka saw the way her eyes darted around, her cheeks flushed a delicate, rosy pink. She was utterly adorable. A wave of warm, gentle affection washed over him, and he slowly sat back down. “Alright. I’ll sit.”

Kiyohime sat down beside him, fidgeting restlessly on the bedsheets, her earlier confidence gone. After a long, charged moment of silence, she said, her voice small, “Actually… you’re not that ugly.”

Haruka had thought she was building up to something important, but it was only this. He couldn’t help but let out a soft, low laugh. “Then that must mean you’re a good artist, Second Young Mistress.”

Hearing this, a little deer began to leap and dance in Kiyohime’s chest. But the title “Second Young Mistress” diluted her joy, creating a faint but palpable distance between them, a reminder of their formal roles. She had been about to confess her lie, to laugh with him, but the formal title made her sullen again. “What ‘Second Young Mistress’? I’m your older sister!”

Haruka was taken aback. He was simply used to polite, formal forms of address; he had never imagined she would react so strongly, with such passion.

Kiyohime’s red eyes stared at him intently. “My mother has already recognized you as her own flesh and blood. We are a family now. You can’t be so distant. I’m a few months older than you, so you have to call me ‘onee-chan’.”

The look in Kiyohime’s eyes reminded Haruka of Lady Murasaki—an unquestionable, tyrannical authority. But looking closer, he could also see a naive, romantic innocence within it, a desperate desire for connection. He didn’t know if Lady Murasaki truly thought of him as a son, but Kiyohime was an easy girl to read. She genuinely, fiercely, thought of him as her family.

Haruka had never known any family affection besides that of his mother, and even that had been scarce, a rare and precious commodity. Because of this, he valued such connections deeply. Seeing Kiyohime’s undisguised, almost desperate acceptance of him touched a soft, lonely place in his heart. Even if some of her actions seemed childish to him, he spoke the word with a sincere, surprising feeling: “Onee-chan.”

Haruka himself didn’t have much of a reaction, but Kiyohime’s face turned a deep, beautiful red, a blush that spread all the way to the tips of her ears and down her snow-white neck. She immediately turned away, showing him her back, her heart screaming, So embarrassing, so embarrassing, so so embarrassing!

She couldn’t tell if it was shyness or joy. It was just one word, “onee-chan,” so why was she reacting so strongly? She fidgeted with her sleeve, twisting the silk until it was as crumpled as paper. If Sakuya had been there, Kiyohime would have grabbed her hands and spun her around in a joyful, dizzying circle.

Even as clever as he was, Haruka couldn’t guess the tumultuous thoughts of a young girl. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Kiyohime turned back, and the way she looked at him had changed. There was a clear, new intimacy in her eyes, a soft vulnerability. “Nothing.” She was so happy that she felt the urge to tease him again—not a malicious prank, but the playful, gentle teasing of family. “You just sit there and don’t look in the mirror,” she said. “I’ll get a towel and wash your face for you.”

In her innocent, romantic mind, Kiyohime thought that since Haruka was younger than her, he couldn’t possibly be as smart, that he hadn’t yet seen through her simple lie.

Haruka found this amusing, but he played along, sitting obediently on the bed, a willing participant in her little drama.

The bedroom had an en-suite bathroom, with toiletries already prepared by the maids. Kiyohime took a soft, white towel from the rack, rinsed it twice under hot water, and wrung it out until it was almost dry before coming back out. She was truly fond of Haruka; she had never been this meticulous even when washing her own face.

The sky outside was beginning to lighten, but the light was still dim. While waiting, Haruka had turned on the small, orange lamp by the bed, which cast a soft, gentle glow over the room.

Hearing footsteps behind him, Haruka turned his head and saw Kiyohime, now wearing a black robe over her thin, white pajamas, holding the warm, damp towel. The orange light fell on her skin, making her look delicate and lovely, a faint, shy blush on her snow-white cheeks. If the servants could see her now, their jaws would drop. They had never seen her look so gentle. To them, no matter how beautiful she was, Kiyohime could only be described as “cruel” and “cold.”

Kiyohime folded the towel. “Sit still. I’ll wipe the marks off your face.”

Haruka sat there, watching her. Kiyohime knelt on the bed with one leg, leaning forward, and began to gently rub his cheek with the towel.

Haruka could only feel the warmth of the towel, the faint scent of soap. In the soft, hazy light, his mind began to wander. Her fingers, hidden beneath the towel… are they cool, or are they warm?

He soon had his answer.

Kiyohime’s free hand, as if with a mind of its own, reached out and gently touched his other cheek. It was even warmer than the hot towel, a soft, living heat.

Haruka froze, staring at her face, so close now. The thick, orange light seemed to flow like honey, dripping onto their long, blurry shadows on the wall behind them.

He couldn’t help but lean closer. He could see her long eyelashes, like tiny, dark fans, her lustrous, translucent skin. A strange, indefinable desire began to brew within him, a slow, simmering heat. He knew he shouldn’t, but the words that came out of his mouth were a soft, hazy murmur. “Onee-chan, you can take the towel away now. It’s probably clean…”

Hearing the word “onee-chan,” spoken in that low, intimate tone, Kiyohime felt something bubble up inside her, warm and sweet. Her hand did not stop its wiping motion. Her other leg came up onto the bed, and she knelt before him, wiping his face, her breath warm and moist against his skin. “Not even close,” she whispered, her voice a breathy caress. “It’s not enough… not nearly enough…”