Chapter 35: The Cursed Rooster
The first grey light of dawn filtered through the paper shoji screens, painting Anne's quarters in soft, cool tones. The fountain still bubbled its quiet song, the water’s otherworldly glow muted now. Anne sat on the edge of her futon, the pounding in her head reduced to a dull, manageable throb, the nausea a distant, unpleasant memory. She’d managed to wash up, the cool water on her face a small benediction. Now, she smoothed the soft cotton of her light beige off-shoulder dress, the fabric cool against her skin. Her long brown hair was half-pinned up in a loose twist, secured with a simple black bow, the rest cascading freely down her back. She felt human again. Mostly.
Giyu Tomioka was still there. He hadn’t moved from his position against the frame of her futon, his head tilted back slightly, resting against the wood. He slept. Deeply. It was an unfamiliar sight. The harsh lines of his face were softened in repose, the perpetual frown erased. His dark hair, usually neatly pulled back in its low ponytail, had loosened, strands falling across his forehead and cheek. His breathing was slow, steady, the rise and fall of his chest under the mismatched haori the only movement. He looked… peaceful. Vulnerable. Utterly unlike the formidable Water Hashira who’d held her hair back with stoic patience just hours before.
Anne shifted closer, moving silently on the tatami. She knelt beside him, her knees sinking into the soft mat. The memory of his cool palm on her forehead, the grounding pressure of his hand steadying her elbow, the sheer, silent presence of him staying… it swirled inside her, warm and complicated. Her usual teasing confidence surged back, tinged with a newfound intensity. She wanted to touch him. To bridge the distance his wakeful reserve always maintained.
Her fingers, almost of their own accord, lifted. Slowly, cautiously, she reached out. The tips brushed against the roughness of his jawline, tracing the angle just below his cheekbone. His skin was warm, the faintest hint of stubble catching against her touch. It was feather-light, a whisper of contact.
His eyes snapped open.
Blue. Piercing blue, instantly alert, locking onto hers with startling intensity. No grogginess, just the sharp focus of a warrior instantly assessing a threat. Or proximity. His gaze darted to her fingers, still hovering near his jaw, then back to her face. His lips, soft-looking in sleep, were now slightly parted. The air between them crackled, thick with the unspoken tension of the garden, the vulnerability of the night before, and this sudden, intimate breach of his space.
Anne didn’t pull her hand back. She held his gaze, her large brown eyes wide, her expression open, confident. A small, challenging smile touched her lips. She leaned in, just a fraction. An invitation. A question hanging in the charged silence. Make the move.
Giyu didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. His own expression was unreadable, but his breathing hitched, the steady rhythm gone. The air seemed to thicken, pulling them closer. He shifted, almost imperceptibly, towards her. His hand, resting on his knee, flexed. His gaze held hers, intense, searching, a storm brewing beneath the surface calm. The distance between their lips was closing, measured in heartbeats.
Then, shattering the fragile, suspended moment – a raucous, grating Cock-a-doodle-doo! ripped through the quiet morning air from a neighboring farmstead. Loud. Insistent. Crude.
The spell shattered like glass.
Giyu jerked back as if burned, his eyes widening fractionally before the familiar stoic mask slammed down. He sat up sharply, his posture rigid, the vulnerability of sleep gone. Anne flinched at the sound, stumbling back onto her heels, a nervous, slightly breathless laugh escaping her. Her hand flew self-consciously to the bow in her hair, adjusting it where it had gone slightly askew.
"Right on schedule," she said, her voice a little too bright, trying to reclaim some levity, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "The world's worst alarm clock."
Giyu didn't respond immediately. He ran a hand through his loosened hair, pushing the stray strands back roughly, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over her shoulder. His jaw was tight. The moment hung between them – the almost-kiss, the abrupt interruption, the sudden, awkward space. Anne watched him, the confidence still there in her posture, but a flicker of uncertainty now shadowing her eyes. She’d laid it bare. She’d hoped. He’d almost… but he hadn’t. The rooster had crowed, and the moment was gone. Would he acknowledge it? Would he reach across the new chasm?
He didn’t. After a long, silent beat where the only sounds were the distant crowing fading and the fountain’s gentle splash, he simply pushed himself up from the floor. His movements were stiff, deliberate. He straightened his haori, the mismatched fabric settling around his tall frame. He didn’t look at her.
Anne swallowed the slight pang of disappointment, masking it with practicality. Okay. So that was that. For now. She pushed herself up as well, brushing non-existent lint from her skirt. "Breakfast?" she offered, her voice regaining its usual warmth, though perhaps a degree softer. "I could murder some miso soup. And coffee. Gallons of coffee."
Giyu finally met her gaze again. His expression was back to its usual impassive state, the brief storm in his eyes completely banked. He gave a single, curt nod.
He didn't move towards the door. Instead, he stood there, waiting. Anne stepped closer, a small, wry smile playing on her lips. She extended her hand towards him, not to pull him up, but in a gesture of… what? Companionship? Solidarity? A silent acknowledgment of the strange night and the stranger morning?
He hesitated for only a split second, his gaze dropping to her outstretched hand. Then, with a swiftness that belied his usual reserve, his fingers closed around hers. His grip was firm, warm, calloused – the hand of a swordsman, the hand that had held her hair, the hand that hadn’t quite touched her face again. He didn’t pull her towards him; he simply held on, a silent anchor point, as they turned together towards the door, the unspoken tension a living thing walking silently beside them towards the promise of breakfast.
The worn wooden door of Anne’s quarters slid shut behind them with a soft thud, severing the hushed sanctuary of her room from the waking corridor. Giyu’s hand remained clasped around hers, a solid, warm pressure against the lingering chill of her hangover. Their footsteps echoed slightly on the polished wood floor, the silence between them a taut wire thrumming with the ghost of his almost-kiss and the rooster’s cruel timing. Anne squeezed his fingers lightly, a question without words. He didn’t squeeze back, but his grip didn’t loosen either; a silent, grudging acknowledgment.
The scent of miso soup, grilled fish, and rice grew stronger as they neared the communal mess hall, mingling with the damp-earth smell of the early morning courtyard. Chatter and the clatter of dishes drifted through the open doorway. Giyu finally released her hand as they crossed the threshold, the sudden absence of his touch leaving her palm feeling strangely cool. He moved towards the serving counter, his posture stiff, the mismatched haori a defiant splash of colour against the muted tones of the Corps members gathered.
Anne grabbed a tray, her stomach both hollow and rebellious. She poured herself a large mug of bitter black coffee, the steam warming her face. "Nectar of the gods," she murmured, inhaling deeply. She ladled miso soup, the salty aroma promising salvation. She claimed a corner table near a window overlooking a small, mossy rock garden, the dawn light painting everything soft gold. Giyu joined her moments later, setting his tray down with quiet precision. He sat opposite her, methodically arranging his chopsticks. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the shared misery of the night before and the charged nearness of the morning hanging heavy. She watched his long fingers handle the chopsticks with economical grace, remembering their feather-light brush against her jaw.
A shadow fell across their table. They both looked up.
Sanemi Shinazugawa stood there, tray in hand. His usual scowl was absent, replaced by an intense scrutiny fixed solely on Anne. His white hair was slightly messy, his kimono still open at the chest, revealing the stark map of scars. He looked… ruffled. His gaze swept over her, lingering on her face, assessing the lingering pallor beneath her tan. "Kinomoto." His voice was a gruff rasp. "You alive?"
Anne managed a weak grin, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Mostly. Thanks for the sack-of-rice transportation service last night, Shinazugawa. Appreciate the lack of accidental concussions." She took a deliberate sip of her scalding coffee, the bitterness grounding her further.
Sanemi grunted, dropping his tray onto the table with a clatter and sliding onto the bench beside Anne, deliberately crowding her space. He ignored Giyu entirely. "You looked like hell warmed over," he stated bluntly, stabbing a piece of fish. "What possessed you to try matching that idiot Tengen drink for drink? He’s basically pickled."
"Hubris? Temporary insanity?" Anne shrugged, swirling the dregs in her coffee mug. A mischievous glint sparked in her large brown eyes as she leaned slightly towards Sanemi, conspiratorially close. "Turns out," she stage-whispered, "neither royal blood nor intensive magical training prepares you for Harbour District rotgut. I didn't stand a chance." She flashed him a wry, self-deprecating smile.
Sanemi barked a sharp, genuine laugh, a rare, rough sound. "Royal blood?" He snorted, shaking his head, a reluctant grin tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth. "More like lightweight blood."
Giyu’s chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. His knuckles whitened slightly against the lacquered wood. His gaze flickered between Anne and Sanemi, their easy familiarity, the shared laugh over her joke – their joke, referencing something private, something he wasn't a part of. The image of Anne leaning towards Sanemi now, smiling that intimate smile, collided violently with the memory of her leaning towards him just hours before, her fingers on his jaw, her lips inches from his. He’d hesitated. The rooster had crowed. He hadn’t kissed her. And now she was laughing with Sanemi about her royal blood.
Something cold and sharp twisted in Giyu’s gut, a familiar feeling he usually suppressed. Annoyance. Hot, irrational, and entirely unprecedented in its strength. It wasn't just their banter; it was the bitter echo of his own missed chance, the intimacy he'd witnessed and now felt excluded from. He set his chopsticks down with unnatural quietness.
"Tomioka," Sanemi finally acknowledged him, his tone returning to its usual abrasive edge. "Didn't see you there. Babysitting duty?"
Giyu didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on his untouched bowl of rice, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The muscle jumped beneath the skin. The easy, shared laughter grated on him like shards of glass. The warmth in his chest from holding her hair, the cool touch on her fevered brow – it curdled into something sour under Sanemi’s presence and Anne's apparent ease with him.
Anne, sensing the sudden shift in the air, glanced between the two Hashiras. The playful spark faded from her eyes, replaced by a flicker of concern and something sharper – curiosity. She saw the rigid line of Giyu’s shoulders, the way his eyes had gone hard and distant, fixed on nothing. She saw Sanemi's challenging stare, waiting for a reaction Giyu never gave.
The silence stretched, tight as a drawn bowstring. Giyu didn’t rise to Sanemi’s "babysitting duty" barb. He just stared at his rice, chopsticks abandoned, knuckles pale. The air crackled with unspoken hostility, thick enough to choke on. Anne glanced between them, the remnants of her headache throbbing in time with the sudden, awkward tension.
Sanemi leaned back, crossing scarred arms over his open kimono. His challenging stare at Giyu never wavered, a silent dare hanging in the air. Giyu remained statue-still, only the slight flare of his nostrils betraying the storm beneath the surface. It was ridiculous. They’d both helped her last night – Sanemi hauling her home, Giyu… well, Giyu doing the messy part. Why were they acting like this now?
"Okay," Anne said slowly, putting her coffee mug down with a deliberate clink. Her voice cut through the thick silence. "Did you two have some kind of… epic falling out I missed?" She waved a hand vaguely between them, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Like, over training methods? Territory disputes? Who gets the last dumpling? Because seriously, the vibe over here is tense." She tried for a light laugh, but it fell flat.
The reaction was instantaneous. Giyu’s head snapped up, those intense blue eyes locking onto hers with an expression she couldn’t quite read – shock? Disbelief? Something raw and fleeting. Across from her, Sanemi let out a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter that held absolutely zero humor. "A falling out?" he repeated, his voice rough with disbelief. He looked at Anne, then back at Giyu, incredulity plastered across his scarred features. "You think that's what this is?"
Giyu just stared at Anne. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping violently in his cheek. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it. He simply looked… stunned. Stunned by her utter obliviousness. The idea that she could witness the charged hostility crackling between them, the history of near-misses and territorial glares, and chalk it up to some mundane argument was… staggering. His gaze intensified, searching her face for any sign she was teasing, but found only sincere, slightly annoyed confusion.
Anne blinked, looking from Sanemi’s scoffing disbelief to Giyu’s piercing, silent shock. Their reactions were too strong, too visceral. It wasn't just annoyance at each other; it was something directed at her, at her question. "Okay, okay," she backtracked, holding up her hands. "Sensitive topic. Duly noted." She pushed her half-finished soup away, the sudden shift in atmosphere killing her fragile appetite. "Whatever ancient Hashira grudge you're nursing, take it outside. Some of us are still recovering from near-death-by-sake."
She stood up, grabbing her tray. The motion felt jerky, fueled by a confusing mix of hangover nausea resurfacing and genuine bewilderment at their intensity. She offered a tight, meaningless smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks for the… company. Enjoy your cold rice, Tomioka. Try not to pick a fight, Shinazugawa."
She didn’t wait for a response. Turning, she walked away, the soft soles of her boots scuffing lightly on the wooden floor. Her brown hair swayed, the black bow still slightly askew from the morning's earlier, aborted intimacy. She felt their eyes on her back – Sanemi’s incredulous stare, Giyu’s heavy, unreadable gaze – like physical weights. What was their problem? A falling out? Clearly not. But the alternative… that their animosity might somehow revolve around her… the thought was so ludicrous, so utterly outside the realm of her current understanding, that she dismissed it instantly. Men. Impossible creatures.
Left alone at the table, the silence descended again, heavier now. Sanemi watched Anne's retreating figure disappear through the mess hall doorway, then slowly turned his head back to Giyu. A slow, grim smile, devoid of any warmth, spread across his face. "Ancient Hashira grudge," he repeated, his voice low and laced with dark amusement. He shook his head, picking up his chopsticks again but not eating. "Unbelievable."
Giyu finally moved. He picked up his own chopsticks with deliberate slowness. His knuckles were still white. He didn't look at Sanemi. He stared straight ahead, through the window towards the mossy rock garden, seeing nothing. The shock in Anne's eyes, the pure, unadulterated confusion – it replayed in his mind, a silent accusation. She had no idea. None. The near-kiss in her room, his turmoil over Sanemi carrying her, the raw jealousy that had twisted his gut moments ago… she was blissfully, infuriatingly oblivious to it all. His jaw tightened further. He brought a single, cold grain of rice to his lips, the gesture mechanical. The taste was ash.