His breath misted into feather ice. The tea party didn't go for long, he didn't talk much to people. The early evening sky depicted a paper moon, a cutout that was tacked on. He puffed vapor at his fingertips, placed them on his cheeks, below his eyes. Those were warm, he drank too much, he lost too much. That prince kept pecking him. He had stared like a lech, yet hadn't acted like a good angel. More a hog than a bird. He spared a chuckle which nipped his nose tip. The alley crimped like hokkaido tundra. Neither would such fringes bear a shinsen kekkon.

Was it usual for the streets of Kagai to be this empty? Maybe because the night was too young.

He clenched the fan on his waist and made his way. If he hurried, the cold wouldn't claim him. But frost already spread on his fingers, and a lonely bell echoed in the street. It was the sound of imagined snow, snow which had gone amiss all winter this year. The first time he had been to this Kagai was with his father on a snowy day. How old had he been? It didn't matter, childhood years melted together in a watery mist. He had adored the geiko's dance, and when maiko played with him, that was the first time girls were safe and beautiful. 

Papa, may I learn to dance like geiko-san?

There was laughter and shamisen far behind the lattice walls that repeated down the streets. Shoji separated worlds, shoji separated heartbeats. Streaks of air splintered his throat, the bone between his eyebrows ached. The lack of sleep was getting to him. He halted in the middle of the alley, calmed his breath. Bells swallowed their tongues along with the teahouses, only a freezing breeze remained. Maybe he couldn't stand winters anymore. 

He wore his sky blue zori that night, tabi that enticed the sagging cold which cramped his toes. His eyelids were too heavy to blink, pulled down his head.

Get yourself together, you don't need to whine.

He pressed ice fingernails into his closed eyes, scooped a lung-deep, prickling breath.

He flipped the corner and was blinded by stacked paper lanterns and banners, merging into an arched entrance down the alley. With fingers shielding his side and eyes, he chimed through. No longer was he the crybaby who couldn't be alone at night. The wuss who couldn't leave his father until he was pushed aside. No shide or confetti led to a shrine, no red-white stripes. Going in is easy, but returning is scary. The narrow path to the Tenjin shrine, teary-eyed in his father’s arms, asking to pass through. Growing to be a man. If only he had become a better one.

A whisper of a woman sang, the banners wavered. Kabuki? It must be another love story. His eyes dried onto the lantern luster, he hurried his steps, but froze at the origami entrance. Cold laid its thorn teeth on his nape. Short feathers ruffled, a chill.

How longing is the feeling of love? Even if it makes me weep and cry, it’s a grief I want to cultivate and cherish, oh how I want to see it grow! The spring to my lonely winter night, how godly is it, so-

“Won’t you go in?” Crisp paper rattled. It was the Chinese prince. He smiled. “I was talking down the street when I heard you. Why don’t we go in?”

His eye twitched. “I made my disinterest clear. And frankly, I don’t want to spend time with Shinajin."

The smile didn't falter. Playing tough? "Then let's say I'm not Chinese, I'm diaspora. We're the same, you and I."

He was not, he was Japanese, but he couldn't push that lie over his lips. "I'm not in the mood for romances," he said instead.

"A broken heart?"

His eye twitched. He meandered out of the way. The prince grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the entrance. They descended a dark stairway, their pressed steps were soft. Mildewed wood.

"Tsukine, why does your young heart dislike romances?"

"Loving endings. I neither want tragedies, I'm tired, and I hate winter nights. I want it all to end."

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