The slow, rocking motion of the ship makes it difficult to write.
Still, I persist, as I do in every endeavor I embark upon, no matter how seemingly futile, my pen scraping rudely across the white paper, smearing the characters. Hijikata-fukuchou calls this dogged perseverance of mine stubbornness, yet for all his teasing I know he admires it in me. If ever I have any admirable qualities, Hijikata-san and Kondou-san are sure to find it out of me, and tease me with it, gently, as if fearful of injuring my pride.
Despite the incessant creaking of the ship, I hear the soft footsteps descending to my quarters from above, bamboo sandals sliding against the wood, lazy, belying the speed and stealth their owner is capable of employing.
I don't look up from my journal, but instead continue writing.
"Practicing your calligraphy again, Saitou-kun?" my visitor drawls. I see him leaning against the door jam through my peripheral vision, his stance easy, cocky, not relying so much on the support as he does on other nights.
I want to feel relieved by this, but I know it is only a fleeting thing.
"You have rounds to do," I say, still without looking up.
I sense him draw closer, then after a moment, feel the cool touch of his fingers under my chin, forcing my eyes away from my pen and paper. Though he is younger than me, I allow this minor display of insubordination, conscientiously lowering my pen while raising my eyes, locking with his.
He smirks and drops his hand, his arm thin beneath his kimono. "Come back up with me."
"No," I say, but I don't look away. I don't want to see him in moonlight, soft white glow enhancing his features, sharpening his eyes. But I can't bring myself to dismiss him either.
I'm not so certain he would respect my request if I did.
He reaches down then and takes my book, folding it around my pen and setting it on the bunk before taking my hand next, pulling me to my feet. The smile on his face is mischievous, just as it usually is, and I allow my feet to follow after his, when he turns and heads back up the narrow wooden steps, the sea breeze hitting me in the face as we emerge above deck.
In the distance, I see a lone figure, standing along the bow of the boat and looking outward, long dark hair trailing in the sea breeze. We turn away from the figure, heading starboard, coming up along the side of the ship, our footsteps now thoroughly muffled by the sound of the sea.
We stand facing one another, close, like lovers, though my eyes drift somewhat over his shoulder, out toward the black depths, my hand resting on the wooden side of the ship, soaked wet with sea spray.
I feel his hand on my cheek this time, his cold palm cupping my skin.
Abruptly, I lift my own hand, seizing his wrist gently and pulling his hand away from my face, my eyes finally meeting his.
"No, Souji," I say, and he must sense that same stubbornness in my voice because he only smiles at me.
He sighs and pretends to look away. "Saitou-kun is so cruel to me lately. He never visits me as he used to do."
"You're too ill," I say.
Quickly, his eyes meet my own. "I've taken the Ochimizu."
"It hasn't helped."
He smirks. "You don't know that. How could you know that? You don't wear my body, Saitou-kun. You don't know what it's like to be in this body." He shifts a little closer, his hand rising once again to cup my cheek. "I know what it's like to be in yours."
I pull his hand away again, irritable. "Things are not the same anymore."
Unbidden, I feel my eyes glance towards the figure on the bow, but he's no longer there.
Souji chuckles. "Hijikata-san is giving us some privacy."
This embarrasses me for some reason, prompting Souji to make some ridiculous comment about the color of my cheeks, which I ignore.
Predictably, this irritates him.
"Would you rather Hijikata-san were here instead of me?" he asks. He is insufferable in his childishness, his voice dropping to a whine, body shifting closer to mine again. I stiffen automatically, willing his closeness away.
"Would you?" I ask back.
He smirks, apparently amused again. "Saitou-kun is jealous." He moves closer, slipping thin arms around my waist, our faces only an inch apart now. "Don't worry. I'm too faithful for Hijikata-san. He has wandering eyes."
"You both have something in common now," I say. His closeness makes me breathless, but I know this doesn't show on my face. I close my eyes.
He pulls away, prompting me to open my eyes again, gazing back into his own. His eyes are cold, immutable—he's angry.
"So that's what this is about." The teasing tone is gone from his voice. "This is why you won't come to me."
When I don't respond, he makes a tsk!ing sound with his tongue, like an angry schoolboy who can't be bothered to understand what his teacher is telling him.
"I'm the same as I've always been," he insists. "Look!" He grabs my hand then, and slips it inside his kimono, pressing it against his chest. I look at him, my eyes widening ever so slightly … but then my arm relaxes, and I notice the press of his cool skin against my warm palm, the rhythmic pounding of his heart just beneath the surface of that cool skin. His chest rises and falls with each breath, and my fingers curl instinctively, fingertips brushing lightly over his chest.
He smiles, the expression lazy again. "You don't have any right to be angry with me, you know."
"I have every right," I say.
His eyes narrow. "Because I drank the Ochimizu? Without consulting you?" I don't know what my expression reveals then, but it prompts him to smile again, satisfied. "I don't have to consult you on such things, Saitou-kun. Just as you don't need to consult me before pretending to defect in favor of that walking ball of slime, Itou Kashitarou."
"I told no one. I was instructed to do so by Hijikata-san and Kondou-san."
His eyes narrow again, the smile disappearing. "I'm not no one."
"You hid your illness from me."
All of a sudden, he chuckles. "Saitou-kun is prickly tonight." Without warning, his arms fold around me again, and my hand slides over his shoulder somewhat as we draw closer, me faintly unwilling, my eyes drifting towards the sea again. I know if I push him away enough, he will desist. He is reckless, childish, and head-strong, but he never goes too far, never makes me feel as if the difference between us in age should be made negligible. I've never felt dishonored by his persistence, or ashamed that the others know.
Hijikata-san claims I am above shame, but even he isn't above such feelings. Chizuru told me what happened after Inou died, and I think, somehow, I can more easily forgive him for becoming a Rasetsu than any of the others.
"Saitou-kun," says the teasing little voice in my ear, "I'm going to kiss you."
I close my eyes. He thinks this is a sign of submission. Before I can lower my head, he lowers his own first, sliding his nose against mine before brushing our lips together, his own then pressing firmly against mine, mouth nudging mine open as well.
I kiss him back. I can feel how much this surprises him, but then his surprise turns to delight, and I realize my mistake, in letting Okita Souji kiss me out on deck in the moonlight, in full view of anyone who might happen to pass by.
This is what the poets would refer to as a romantic moment.
His tongue has slipped inside my mouth, his hand sliding inside the front of my kimono, his other, the one still around my waist, lowering and grasping, squeezing—until I slap it instinctively away, then recall myself and instead grasp him by the wrist again.
He laughs, unperturbed. His laugh is like a woman's, soft and flirtatious, the sort of laugh Chizuru is still too young to make, although she would no doubt make Heisuke blush if she did.
I don't blush, even when his hand inside my kimono slides lower, over my belly and down the front, slipping beneath the obi.
Instead, I step back.
He grins and steps forward.
I frown. "Souji—"
Then he kisses me again, and I realize that what is about to happen is the result of my own stubbornness, my own inability to forgive the imagined faults of another, an inability to forgive which has kept us separate for too great a length of time. Okita Souji is young, impetuous, not one to wait or hear out excuses. But he respects me. He listens to me when I speak, as so many of the others do, including my superiors.
But I don't say anything.
I'm silent, except for the sounds that find themselves inevitably pushed out from between my lips as we make love, the wet, salty air incredibly cold against my hot skin. If someone sees us, they will only turn away, as Inoue once did in the garden. And the next morning, there will be an exchange of smiles, and I will ignore all of the imprudent remarks as I always do, while Souji basks in the attention, lazily stretched out beside me, rice bowl in one hand. And they will all fall silent when Chizuru enters with the morning tea, blissfully ignorant as all girls usually are.