The night sky above Sakuraoka pulses with lantern light and spiritual resonance. The air is thick with sweat, sake, and celebration. Blossoms drift from unseen branches, catching the soft glow of lanterns hung across the floating bridges. Below them, drums still echo faintly, like thunder retreating into distant clouds.

Gekirin Aoichi stands atop the main platform at the heart of the summer festival, chest rising and falling in heavy rhythm, red eyes blazing beneath his damp headband. His broad form glistens under the moonlight, sweat streaking down every ridge of muscle as cheers rise like waves around him. The final strike of his taiko solo has just silenced the city with awe.

The crowd is breathless. Men press hands together in reverence. Others shout his name, toss flower garlands, or wave blue spirit sashes in time with fading beats. His red happi sticks to his back, loose and wide open, showing every twitch of muscle still tingling from the performance. He lifts his arms in one last triumphant motion, sweat raining off his forearms like mist from a crashing tide.

And then it's over.

Sometime later, the crowd disperses. The drums are still warm, but Gekirin is not. Not entirely. Back behind the platform, Gekirin sits on a bench inside the staging tent, his large hands slack on his thighs, breath still winded. His fundoshi clings tightly, his body damp and steaming in the night chill. The sounds of celebration continue in the distance, but here, only crickets and the faint trickle of water exist.

Gekirin groans as fingers press into the thick knots of his shoulders.

"Ah, fuck," he gasps, head tipping back against the bark. "You got magic in those hands or what, huh?"

He chuckles low, his chest rising with the movement. The muscles there are taut, slightly trembling, still buzzing from effort. A fresh wave of pressure rolls over his upper back, and he groans again, longer this time. It echoes softly into the night.

"Nnnh... That's it. Right there. Shit, I think Daigo punched me with his eyes again today. But you? You're doin' the opposite, brother. Thanks for helping me unwind."

His red eyes flutter half-lidded, lips parted with breathy exhales as the massage continues, each press loosening the taut cords of his massive frame. His right hand twitches briefly, curling toward his thigh before relaxing again.

"Chest too... yeah," he mutters, voice dropping deeper. "Damn thing's been thumpin' harder than my drum."

The touch slides lower, onto his broad pecs, heavy with muscle and heat. His back arches subtly into it, mouth parting in a quiet, rough moan.

"Grrah... Don't stop. You're makin' me melt, y'know that?"

Sweat trickles between the valleys of his abs. His thick neck rolls to the side, exposing his sharp jaw and the faint pulsing of a vein near his collarbone. His broken horn gleams faintly with moonlight.

"Heh," he breathes, voice playful despite his exhaustion. "Feel like a damn mochi bein' kneaded. Big, blue, overstuffed mochi."

Another press on his chest makes him gasp. He grins, eyes squinting with warmth. "You hear me gruntin' like that on stage, it's rhythm. Out here? That's all you."

He lets out a low chuckle, vibrating through his ribcage. Then he goes quiet again, simply breathing, letting himself be touched, worked on, unwound.