this fic would never have seen the light of day (nor would it have even been half as good as it is now) if not for my good friends: M for being my sounding board/wall to toss ideas to & E for being the world's sweetest and most supportive cheerleader slash beta slash living meme/vine/LITERARY ICON to encourage me as i tried to sort out bits and pieces in tying up the scenes of this story all together ahaha so even if you know this already and i've spammed you with all possible variations at expressing my gratitude let me say this again: thank you for everything i love you :)
i've always found edo's red light districts a fascinating world to look into so i wanted to try my hand at a narrative that would portray the complexity of the lives of people working in the pleasure industry. i also drew inspiration from Natsume Soseki and one of my fav ph authors, Nick Joaquin (particularly his "May Day Eve" hehe), when it came to style. please note, however, that i can't write porn to save my life so lol i can't give you lemons but i sincerely do hope you enjoy my minuscule attempts at writing limes hahaha
disclaimer: i don't own haikyuu!
Yoshiwara rises alongside the moon. Only when the setting sun calls the day to a close does the city come alive, rousing from its slumber like a transient beauty that wakes only in the night. It is at these hours that men make their way through the crowds and the curious stares from behind latticed harimise, stumbling past the cobblestone alleyways and back roads of teahouses, through streets lit by paper lanterns as the stars hang low above the horizon. Edo is a world of a lonesome man's wakeful dream, with the rumble of the rickshaws and the chatter of the masses and the noise of geta thumping against the sidewalk as familiar as a melody, the kind of music that is welcomed by sentimental ears yet fades almost unnoticeably in the unquiet humdrum of the capital and its nightlife.
There's a shuffle of footsteps, and the sound of the shoji door that clatters as it slides open.
"Irasshai!" a chorus of voices call out. Bokuto steps inside and is received by a silver-haired hostess with a mole beneath her eye. Her skin glows like the moonlight and he notes the way it complements the rich ebony of her kimono.
"Good evening, my good sir," the host — Bokuto soon discovers upon the other's utterance of a voice and promptly corrects himself — greets him. "What brings you here on this fine night?"
The nobleman takes off his top hat and returns the greeting. He slips out of his shoes at the genkan and sheds off his coat, handing it to a petite servant with short hair, all darkened roots and tips dyed blond.
"Uhm," the nobleman responds almost awkwardly. "Yes, good evening…?"
"Oh, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself: I am Sugawara Koushi, head of this establishment. But please, just call me Suga," He flashes a smile towards his direction, warm and welcoming. Refreshing, even. "May I inquire as to your business here, sir?"
"Ah, alright…Suga," Bokuto replies. "I'm supposed to be meeting with a friend here. Kuroo Tetsurou? I believe he booked a reservation for us in one of your rooms."
Suga regards him briefly with concern before recognition flashes in his eyes. "Are you perhaps referring to the samurai?"
Bokuto nods. Suga beams.
"Wonderful. He is in the Chrysanthemum Room. Come, sir. Kindly follow me; right this way…"
§o§
Kuroo set him up.
Bokuto discovers this when he walks into the Chrysanthemum Room – a lavish tearoom with walls lined with gold foil and hanged masterpieces of ink-washed paintings, all artificial memories of bamboo leaves and woodblock prints of the Kanagawa sea – and meets a man who is not at all his best friend. In fact, the man is a stranger. Still, Bokuto be damned, the man is perhaps the most beautiful stranger the young noble had ever had the fortune to come across in all of his lifetimes.
"Good evening, Bokuto-san," the man greets him with a bow. "My name is Akaashi, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Please, sir, have a seat."
The nobleman follows, and promptly plops down onto the floor. The other man sits across him in a perfect seiza, his legs half-tucked beneath his figure as his hands rest atop his thighs. His kimono is dyed in the faint shades of the sunset, patterned with the auburn of the gingko leaves and vestiges of a silken autumn. His hair is adorned with a pearl kanzashi, its bright white a stark but pleasant contrast that complements the man's dark locks. Up close, Bokuto notes the way his irises resemble the color of jade.
"I believe that Kuroo-san had other matters that required his attendance, but he had requested for me to deliver this note to you prior to his departure," the man tells him courteously as he hands a folded paper over the table. "Sake?" he offers, and his voice lilts in a pleasant tenor.
Bokuto nods mutely. Akaashi pours him a cup as Bokuto busies himself, unfolding the letter and reading its contents.
Kou,
Welcome back to the homeland. Forgive me for not meeting you tonight as promised, but I was forced by circumstances to make plans with my kitten in the next room over. I'll pay you a proper visit tomorrow. We can celebrate our reunion by then.
Your friend,
Tetsurou
PS: Like what you see? I figured he would be your type. Enjoy yourself tonight, my treat!
Akaashi serves him the sake as Bokuto takes it wordlessly. He downs the drink in one sitting.
"You seem to be quite nervous…disappointed, maybe? Is my company not to your liking, Bokuto-san?"
At this, Bokuto jolts out of his stupor and quickly shakes his head.
"No! Not at all, Akaashi!" he exclaims, adamantly. "Don't worry. You're great company. I like it. You. I like you. Erm… I mean, I like your company—"
There's a breathy chuckle. A held-back laugh.
"That's very sweet of you, Bokuto-san," the kagema murmurs and Akaashi does not miss the way Bokuto preens underneath his praise. "I am relieved to hear you say that."
"You really think so, eh…Akaashi?"
"Of course," the other boy replies amiably. "Forgive me, Bokuto-san, if I may be so forward, but… is this your first time?"
Akaashi takes a moment to look at him in silence, and Bokuto squirms under his quiet scrutiny.
"Yes. No. Uh. I mean, I've been to these places and kissed and stuff before, yeah…but. Uhm. Never with—"
"Never with a man," Akaashi finishes for him.
Bokuto shrugs.
"Yeah."
"Then, Bokuto-san," he says, "would you like to learn how?"
Akaashi leans closer, and Bokuto stills. He smells faintly of camellias, the nobleman thinks, as he etches Akaashi's features to his memory. Gingerly, the kagema tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
"May I?" he asks.
The kagema does not drop his gaze. Bokuto looks back at him without a word, eyes transfixed on the seeming softness of his parted lips, senses wrapped in the sweetness of his scent, and he opens his mouth to speak when—
Akaashi takes him in for a kiss.
The kiss is chaste, at best. Bokuto has never imagined the way these things would feel. Still, Akaashi is skilled, if not careful, and ushers Bokuto under his steady guidance. The kagema takes the lead in his own supportive way – pale hands tilting Bokuto's jaw at the right angle as he adjusts his own head to match their positions; prompting yet gentle as he waits for the nobleman to allow him entry. The noble leans tenderly into Akaashi's touch; his young heart pounding heavily in the sidelines, overrun by sensation as the smaller man presses their lips warmly against one another. His tongue slides in and for a moment, they meet – until Bokuto takes this chance to break away and part for air.
"Sorry, I—" Bokuto stammers to tell him, albeit obviously flustered. "Don't get me wrong, Akaashi! You're very pretty, you know? Let's try again. I can fix this, alright? It's just…I...uh. I've never done this before. So. Wo—"
The other shakes his head.
"What good will it do to know that I was pretty enough to catch your eye, but never enough to warrant a second glance?" the kagema says to him then, the distance between their lips only mere inches apart. "Our hour is approaching its end. Come back tomorrow, Bokuto-san."
§o§
The nobleman returns, prompt as ever, the following day, announcing his entry upon the instance of nightfall.
("Tomorrow, then," Bokuto had agreed with a lopsided grin, after Akaashi's prompting and assurances that there had been no need for him to force himself further. "I swear it!")
"Good evening, Akaashi!" Bokuto greets.
"Good evening, Bokuto-san," Akaashi echoes the notion with a cordial bow. "How would you like to have me?"
The nobleman regards him with wide eyes.
"What?" Bokuto shakes his head, waving a hand away in mild protest. "No, no. Nothing like that...yet? Yeah, yet. I think we should start slow. So. Just. Uh. Just...talk to me, I guess?"
The kagema raises an eyebrow in askance. Bokuto heeds the implied question no mind.
"Hey, what flavor is this daifuku?" he inquires instead, shifting his attention to the sweets that lay on the table. At Akaashi's silent gesture of Help yourself, the nobleman happily takes up the offer with childlike glee and rambles on. "I really like daifuku, you know. Especially, the ones with strawberries in them. It's like a surprise with every bite. Oya? Is that peach mochi? This is amazing, Akaashi, I've never had peach mochi before!"
"You're quite an odd one, Bokuto-san," Akaashi mutters under his breath, though he moves the conversation along without further argument. With a practiced hand, he gracefully reaches for the porcelain set laid out for them by the manager earlier that afternoon. "Tea?"
§o§
It doesn't take long for them to fall into a routine soon afterwards, with Bokuto's frequent bookings and Akaashi's prompt greetings as soon as the former slides open the shoji doors. The kagema eases the nobleman into their practice, with gentle hands and nimble fingers and late night gestures graced with clockwork precision. All in all, however, it's oddly domestic.
Sometimes, the two talk over tea and Akaashi practices his calligraphy and scribbles down ideas on his fifth draft of a manuscript while Bokuto prattles on about his day and discoveries from his travels in the west.
Sometimes, the nobleman pours himself a cup of sake and sits by the windowsill, eyes fluttered shut as he listens to the other man play tunes on the shamisen - his voice light like the melodies of the songs from the orient, a euphony harmonious with the gentle hum of the evening breeze.
Sometimes, they do all these things and more – Akaashi takes the initiative and sneaks in an extra bit of service as he kneels to position by the other man's feet. The moonlight glistens upon his shoulders and glows against the skin peeking out from his collar, his lashes brushing past his cheek through half-lidded eyes as his seasoned lips ensure that he make Bokuto's time in his care worth his while.
Other times, though few and far in between, Bokuto takes the initiative in turn and returns the favor.
§o§
"Hey, Akaashi."
"Yes, Bokuto-san?"
"How old are you? I've always wondered."
An eyebrow shoots up in surprise.
"Is it not common knowledge that a man ought not dare to ask a lady for her age? Granted, I am not a true lady but a mere onnagata…" Akaashi's voice trails off before he clucks his tongue in mock distaste. "For a noble with a ranking such as yours, Bokuto-san, I had expected my client to be well, more – er, well-mannered."
"Hey, hey, hey! Akaashi! I am well-mannered!" Bokuto huffs. "Very well-mannered, actually!"
"Mm?" the other boy hums. Bokuto takes it as his cue to go on.
"I picked up some western etiquette when I did some studying overseas, you know. Like for example, I learned that a man should never touch a woman without her permission. This means that it is unacceptable to hold her hand, touch her during a conversation, and push her or take her hand above the elbow…unless a man is helping her to get into or out of a vehicle, or cross the street, or something…and see, Akaashi?" he gestures to the half-emptied teacup and the twelve-centimeter space between them, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No touching!"
"You mean," Akaashi amends, "no touching unless I give you a signal that it is all right to do so…yes?"
"Exactly!" Bokuto agrees, nodding his head in approval. "I told you I am a man of my word and of good moral character."
"You say all that, Bokuto-san," Akaashi chides playfully, propping his chin atop the knuckles of his left hand, "and yet you still choose to frequent places of pompous indulgence and lasciviousness such as this? My, what a paradox you are."
Bokuto watches the wind that blows through the window, a mild breeze that flutters Akaashi's hair and makes him appear almost ethereal with its tender force. With trembling hands, he clutches the cloth of the thigh of his trouser pants, suddenly all too aware of the desire that pools at the pit of his stomach and the way the fabric fits an inch too tight - too stifling - against his skin.
Akaashi leans forward, an arm reaching closer as the nobleman leans back in surprise. The kagema lowers his free hand to cradle the older man's jaw, beckoning. From his periphery, Bokuto espies a glimpse of a thin wrist, porcelain skin peeking out from the edge of the furisode sleeve. The nobleman freezes, swallows down the noise at the back of his throat, doesn't make a move to pull away.
"Paradox, huh?" Bokuto manages in between the quick rush of blood, struggling to fight back the creeping blush of his cheeks. "You sure do know a lot of words, Akaashi."
"Words," the kagema mutters softly, cutting him off as his voice trails faintly to a near-hesitant whisper, "are my only solace in a world as cruel as ours, Bokuto-san."
At this, Akaashi halts in his motions. Bokuto coughs once to clear his throat; he arches backward and steadies himself back into an upright position.
The tension dissipates.
"Is that really what you think, Akaashi? Has the world truly been so cruel to you?" Bokuto asks, forlorn. His voice is quiet, tinny with the slightest bit of hesitation and a feeble hint of pity. His expression is a picture of lost innocence.
Bokuto probes. The kagema turns to meet the larger man's eyes. "Why are you here, Akaashi?"
Akaashi holds his attention for a second longer, and then quickly averts his gaze, green eyes almost wistful as they set their sights on the view beyond the windowpane.
"It was never my place to decide," he sighs. A pale arm drops and falls slack against his side. "I lost my family in a fire when I was nine. I was only fortunate that Sugawara-san had been magnanimous enough to take me under his wing soon after the incident."
"Oh, sorry!" Bokuto blurts out in haste. The noble gathers his bearings and scrambles to his feet, arms folded before him as he sets himself to a low dogeza. "My apologies, Akaashi…I, uh, I didn't mean to make you sad, or offend you. It was rude of me to have asked. You don't have to talk about it anymore if the memories still hurt y–"
The kagema chuckles.
"Goodness, Bokuto-san, there is no need for the likes of you to bow to me. Even more so given that you are one year my senior. It has been twelve years since then, and I have come to terms with the cards by which I have been dealt. Now, please, lift your head." Akaashi rests a hand atop his crown, thin fingers curling tenderly in his hair. "Do not be so willful as to cast your pride away so easily, so eagerly. It will not do for you to be so flippant."
§o§
Their routine breaks when Bokuto arrives at the teahouse one morning, rattling open the shoji doors to declare his grand entrance. By now, his boisterous laugh is no longer a surprise to most of the staff at the teahouse, and though Oikawa – a modelesque wakashu who is oftentimes designated with the duty of manning the storefront during the day shift to grant reprieve to Suga who takes graveyard hours in the night – starts at the sudden noise signaling the nobleman's arrival, he appears unfazed as he peers up from his periodical.
"Akaashi," he calls, without batting an eye, "a client."
§o§
"What is this?" Akaashi asks, crinkling his nose in speculation since the moment the nobleman waltzed into the tearoom and dumped the palm-sized package in a manner almost unceremoniously onto the table.
The nobleman regards him with an owlish expression, an elaborate ruse to feign ignorance despite the all-too-knowing glimmer in his amber eyes. Akaashi spares him a second to raise an unamused eyebrow, to which Bokuto responds with an enthusiastic grin, albeit a lopsided one.
"A gift," the noble says simply.
"I am well-aware that it is a gift, Bokuto-san," Akaashi answers with a sigh, his tone nothing short of fond exasperation. "But what is this thing that you intend to present to me as a g–"
"Just open it, Akaashi," the other man tells him, promptly cutting him off. "You know, my grandfather always used to say: thou must enter the tiger's den to catch his cubs. You'll never know if you never try!"
The kagema doubts that that was the intended use of such a saying, but nevertheless he does. Follow, that is. Akaashi opens the velvet box to reveal a ring: ornate in design and studded with gemstones along its periphery. With awestruck eyes, Akaashi takes a moment to admire the accessory and the allure of its craftsmanship – from the deep cut of the emeralds to the way the gold of the band shines almost iridescent against the harsh lantern light.
It's beautiful.
What does this mean? Akaashi wants to ask. Instead, he croaks. His voice catches in his throat and comes out like a choking, painful sound. In the end, he only manages a hoarse Why?
"Oh, well...uh. I thought it was pretty obvious," Bokuto replies, sheepish. He lifts an arm to scratch the back of his head. For all his penchant for pomp and extravagance, it is in this moment that the nobleman makes an effort to appear almost bashful.
He looks at him in the eye, takes a deep breath, and then–
"I'm in love with you, Akaashi."
Time ticks by, inexorable. In the silence, the seconds bleed into a minute.
Then, comes a bitter laugh.
"How can you say that, Bokuto-san?" the kagema wonders aloud. His eyes are empty; his voice, hollow. Morose. More quietly, he adds, "You hardly even know who I am."
§o§
(A brief exchange, between two almost-lovers, as told in the city of no night:
"Do you ever find yourself wanting to get away from the world, Akaashi? You know, like sometimes society gets suffocating and you just wanna shut everyone away?"
"All the time, Bokuto-san. It's why I write."
"...even me? Do you ever find me suffocating?"
"You're insufferable at times, but– I guess, no. Not at all."
"Really, Akaashi? So you...you don't mind? If I'm with you here, like this, all the time?"
"I think it would be fine, Bokuto-san, for us to remain the way that we are.")
§o§
"The moon is beautiful tonight...don't you think, Akaashi?" Bokuto asks him once, almost suddenly, on a stray night they stand restless in the land of the rising moon.
It's a quarter past midnight and they're standing on the balcony of the second storey of the teahouse. There's a chill in the air from the blowing winds of the north, a tranquil stillness in a time on the cusp of winter, and Bokuto takes this moment to grab his hand and hold it in his as Akaashi tilts his head up to look past the stars.
At the back of Akaashi's mind, what registers throughout the entirety of this gesture is the feeling of Bokuto's hand, warm and steady, against his. The older man's palm is rough, skin taut: firm and calloused, and significantly much larger than his own.
Still, Akaashi doesn't bother to think twice about the moment, just lets his fingers slide between the gaps wordlessly and takes the small mercies as they come.
There's a softness to his touch, a fleeting pain. Despite the many masks he dons to conceal his emotions, Akaashi for one cannot hide the sincerity held by his hands. It is woven between his fingers; he holds Bokuto with the kind of grace that is born only from an epoch of weary experiences, from the raw ache of loneliness and a decade's worth of longing. It is a patient but pitiful form of tenderness.
He recalls the pain of such a similar emotion and struggles to grasp the concept that haunts him at the back of his mind, a heavy heart burdened by the weight of restrictions and responsibility. He can only liken its cure to something as simple yet sinister as a brief and willful death.
Melancholia, he thinks. That was the word. The kind of sickness that one bears by the soul, harbors a deep weight at the back of one's mind and sucks the vitality out of existence. It's a darkness, suffocating; it wraps itself like vines along the chest, coils into the pit of the stomach, and creeps into the crevices of the heart. It is insidious, marking man's insides with the same words that sting like a flesh wound and burn with the same vengeance as envy, as jealousy, or perhaps even more.
But, oh–
Oh, how he loves him.
He wishes he could tell him, but the words remain unbidden at the tip of his tongue. In the end, the thin man lets go of his grasp and clutches tightly onto the balustrade, easing his hold only when his bony knuckles turn white from the pressure and the seasonal cold threatens further to break skin.
The noble turns to his side to face him; the kagema remains unperturbed, though he doesn't quite return the older man's gaze. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked onto the white-grey orb that looms above the city, thoughtful in the way he watches the celestial body cast a soft glow over their horizon.
"I think it is sad," Akaashi says to him instead, his low voice filling in the silence. "Do you know, Bokuto-san? Of the story from the Heian folklore of the moon? I often think of the rabbit who pounds rice cakes against its craters and ask myself why I could never find, alongside his silhouette, the promised forms of his companions."
At last, Akaashi turns to look his way.
"I don't think I can ever come to understand how one can see beauty in the idea of being up there in the sky, trapped in the monotony of its vastness and the overwhelming ache of being alone."
§o§
("Hey, Akaashi."
"Yes, Bokuto-san?"
"Run away with me.")
§o§
Two weeks later and their dynamic alters.
The nobleman is no longer fazed by the novelty of their situation; he simply takes the smaller man by the hands, by the lips, by the waist — hungry and eager but never an ounce not careful. Bokuto preps him with slick fingers: first one, then two, then three until the larger man thrusts into the kagema and the noise of the city is drowned out by the sound of the younger's voice. Bokuto waits for the other to fall wanton with yearning, presses butterfly kisses briefly against his skin and listens, like he would music, to the soft tenor muttering his name over and over, fervent and raw and hoarse in something short of yet akin to worship.
He is beautiful like this: Akaashi — with his locks splayed out against the tatami, hair as black as the night sky. Pale skin blossoming under the older man's touch, flushed with the same heat as their bated breaths. Limbs warm and tangled in his. Irises as dark as emeralds, piercing and unwavering in their gaze – the richest of greens.
There can be no jewels, the nobleman thinks, that shine brighter than his eyes.
It's a ritual, a rite of passage. An exquisite benediction. The sanctity of grace evades them in their wake. Akaashi calls out to Bokuto in the darkness, tangled between the sheets, speaks to him in a breathy whisper that carries an air of reverence the nobleman feels unworthy of bearing. He thinks, at these times, that Akaashi says his name the way he would a divinity. Like a god. Like a prayer.
Bokuto doesn't pay the guilt any mind. As they say, the worst sins always did taste the sweetest.
§o§
("Keiji," Akaashi murmurs, as Bokuto finally falls asleep beside him, body spent from exertion. His voice is hushed like a whisper, like a secret meant only for the shadows.
"Before I came into this world, I once was called Keiji.")
§o§
"Akaashi!"
Bokuto calls out his name in his usual grandiose manner, bursting into the young kagema's quarters uninvited. Said man is hunched over by his dresser mirror, face half-done with the lining of his left eye starkly unfinished and the crimson red of his lips natural in hue yet still lacking in vibrancy. His grip on the make-up brush slackens slightly.
"Bokuto-san," he greets him lowly.
Soon afterwards, another kagema shuffles into the room. He offers a brief apology to Akaashi, not bothering to hide the pronounced frown that makes its way onto his features at the mere sight of the client.
"I tried to stop him," the blond boy grumbles, pouting. "I told him to wait for you to finish getting ready. He wouldn't listen."
"It's fine, Kenma-san," Akaashi tells him in turn, before granting him a quick exit. "I appreciate your efforts anyhow."
Bokuto, seemingly unbothered by the other's departure, continues on unfazed.
"You won't believe what just happened with Kuroo an–" He exclaims in a frenzy before his eyes catch sight of a wince and promptly cuts himself off. In an instant, the noble rushes to the younger man's side. "Akaashi! You're hurt!"
Akaashi doesn't quite look his way; he simply resumes the task of finishing with the eyeliner, moving on to apply a rouge balm onto his lips instead.
"Please do not concern yourself with such a trivial matter, Bokuto-san," he replies in the midst of his work. "It's only a split lip."
"Only a split lip?!" the nobleman hollers. He peers closer at the injury and sees the crack in the other's bottom lip, the sliver of blood against the artificial crimson. "But, Akaashi, you're bleeding! Who did this to you?"
"It's nothing," Akaashi shrugs it off, despite how in truth, it was anything but. A client had been particularly rough with the kagema the night before, having had lost control of his liquor and, consequently, his temper while under the influence. Still, business is business and the courtesan had no other choice but to proceed with the service.
"No, it's not 'nothing.' Akaashi, you need to rest–"
"Please, Bokuto-san. You're overreacting for an injury as minor as this. I've dealt with much worse and have survived them all. This is fi–"
Bokuto regards him with a steely gaze.
"Really now? Like what, then?"
"Like a broken wrist, for example," the kagema replies. Akaashi traces the cupid's bow atop his lip line before setting his brushes aside. "I suppose you may say it was an accident."
"What? We should bring this to court. I'll have my father attend to the matter immediately. This is far too much, far too unjust, I cannot in good fai—"
A delicate hand moves to shush him, a pale index resting atop the nobleman's lips. "No courts," Akaashi tells him simply.
"But Akaashi—!"
"Have you forgotten, Bokuto-san, that my line of work is not exactly the most noble of professions?" he offers briefly, taking the larger man's lips before the other finds fault with his words and decides to argue any further.
At this, Bokuto falls silent, acquiescent. The nobleman no longer decides to attempt speech, just simply takes Akaashi in, fascinated by his artistry.
§o§
"Bocchan dropped by again today," Oikawa tells him the next evening, on a warm night spent soaking in the common area bathhouse on the west end of the district.
Akaashi lifts the towel off his head and turns to face him. His eyes lift up to meet the other's stare, his gaze flitting briefly over damp locks of chestnut brown hair.
"Did he book an appointment for tonight?"
"Well, no." Oikawa shakes his head. "Not exactly."
"Oh, th—"
"But he did put in a request at the front desk and ask if he could be the only one to reserve you from now on."
"I see," Akaashi hums. "Did you say yes?"
"He spoke to Refreshing-kun about it, not me," Oikawa tells him. Akaashi watches as the larger boy lifts his hands from the water, eyes inspecting their condition: pale fingertips wrinkled like dried plums in the summer heat. "We haven't confirmed anything for him yet. Kenma-chan asked me to run it by you, first. Does it bother you?"
"Not at all. In fact," he mutters in reply, "I'm just surprised he hadn't asked sooner."
"What makes you say that?"
"He asked me if I wanted to run away with him."
"And?"
"And what?"
"And," Oikawa prods gently, inching closer, "...and did you want to?"
At this, Akaashi pauses, if only to collect his thoughts. Slowly he averts his gaze and lets his body sink deeper into the tub, drowning his memories in the bathwater.
There's a beat of silence. A wisp of a smile.
"Oh my," Oikawa gasps, loud enough for an echo to ripple through the near-empty room. The wakashu waves an arm around with his usual array of theatrics, before summoning the courage to question him in a voice that is clearly a failed attempt of a whisper. "Is the great Akaashi Keiji – second most popular male courtesan and fellow top-tier kabuki actor of all Edo, Japan – finally falling in love?"
"Don't be daft," he scolds the other boy, softly. "You know we can't do that, Tooru-san."
§o§
The sun does not shine on the morning of the nobleman's visit.
"Otou-sama is growing impatient for an heir," Bokuto tells him, his voice smooth from practice but laden thick with unease. "He wants me to take on a wife. They've scheduled an omiai for this Thursday. It's more of a formality than anything else, though. They're already making preparations for a ceremony in spring. She wants it to happen beneath the blooming of the sakura, so our reception can coincide with the hanami."
Akaashi wishes for the world to stop. He feels the welling up of emotions, the telling pinpricks that sting behind his corneas and form a lump at the base of his throat. His cheeks burn as though with fever.
There are a million more things he wishes he could say in this moment, but he bites back the words. Holds his tongue. Feigns a smile. Instead, he says:
"Congratulations, Bokuto-san."
It's a pitiful sight: the nobleman once a figure standing larger than life now reduced to a picture akin to that of a wounded puppy, or a victimized child – golden eyes wide with apprehension and concern. In the distance, the rain begins to fall.
"Are you… are you sure, Akaashi?"
The courtesan sighs, arms crossed and fingers clutching tightly onto the thick cloth of his kimono. The marigold embroidery has long since faded, the phoenix that rises in the pattern no more than a dying illusion of a hope that falls prey to its own flames. Akaashi grits his teeth and turns away.
"Why are you here, Bokuto-san?" he murmurs, just a little short of breath. "We are worlds apart, you and I, yet I never fail to find you here, day after day after day, always and without fail…"
"A–Akaashi," the nobleman stammers. "I...I don't want to hurt you, Akaashi. If you don't want me to do this, just say the word. Is this really okay for you? For us? You know, I ju–"
"My," he breathes, promptly cutting him off, "what a paradox you are."
"What do you mean by that?" Bokuto asks him, though not for the first time. To this, the younger boy laughs a bitter laugh.
"A nobleman asking a kagema for his blessing. Oh, heavens. Once again, you never cease to astound me," the courtesan remarks as he rises to pour them tea. Bokuto looks up to meet his gaze hesitantly; Akaashi looks down from where he stands to meet him halfway.
"Only you have the power to decide these things for yourself, Bokuto-san," Akaashi whispers to him at last. He regards him gently this time, a quiet voice coupled with soft green eyes and the saddest of smiles. "It is not my place to ask for you to stay."
§o§
Akaashi writes:
I do not have the audacity to try and turn our relationship into a bestselling novel, or to make people believe that we had the greatest love story of all time.
Because, you see, the thing is…we didn't.
What we had was not love. It was war. Everything that we have done, every charade we've played, every intimate act that we've 'shared'…all of it was just leading up to this moment, don't you think? To this godforsaken battle, in which I, my dear sir, wholeheartedly surrender.
He tosses the manuscript aside. A dull ache settles in his bones, his body lying in the transient stillness. The kagema waits patiently as he watches the sun set, the mark of yet another ending for another day.
§o§
(In the bin, a crumpled letter lies.
Bokuto-san,
Do you not think of me as selfish?
That I, with the sheer status by which I stand, would be happy knowing that you would without a doubt follow my words if I were to so much as ask you to remain by my side?
Our realities are not all the same. I know this well. I have known this since the time words have begun to fail and your eyes no longer speak to me of the joy they once used to. I know this, and yet–
I long to return to the day you once asked me to run away with you.)
§o§
"One more then," Bokuto begs him a week later, thrusting a thick wad of money into his palms, "for the road."
"Bokuto-san," Akaashi softly reprimands, "that's not how the saying goes."
Nevertheless, the kagema holds back a sigh as he rises from his seat, reaching for the bottle of sake from the tray resting by the entryway. Its contents are warm, and his hand wavers as he pours the noble a cup.
A careful hand wipes away the dampness from the brunet's cheeks. Only then does Akaashi realize belatedly that he had been crying.
"Keiji," Bokuto says, and Akaashi stills.
The sentiment fades into the shadows. There's an intake of breath, a heavy emotion that burns with the same illusive vibrancy as their flower and willow world. It slips into the crevices of the sheets and lingers loosely in the biting winter, hanging in the delicate balance of their intertwined fingers and the small spaces in between.
Akaashi looks at him in the stillness, between breaths, as the January air wraps itself around their figures in a ruthless, biting embrace. He kisses him once, twice, and again, this time. There is less force as he presses his lips, featherweight, against Bokuto's.
It is lukewarm at best - an empty plea, a failed attempt of reassurance. There's a little bit of salt, and the moment weighs heavily upon them with persistent remorse and a certain kind of sadness.
When Bokuto kisses him, he tastes a little like hope.
When Akaashi kisses him back, he speaks only of the weight of goodbyes.
§o§
In time, as Yoshiwara rises alongside the moon and the setting sun calls the day to a close as the city comes alive, Akaashi rouses from his slumber like a transient beauty that wakes only in the night. It is at these hours that he waits for a nobleman to make his way through the crowds and curious stares from behind latticed harimise, stumbling past the cobblestone alleyways and back roads of teahouses, through streets lit by paper lanterns as the stars hang low above the horizon. Edo is a world of a lonesome man's wakeful dream, with the rumble of the rickshaws and the chatter of the masses and the noise of geta thumping against the sidewalk as familiar as a melody, the kind of music that is welcomed by the kagema's sentimental ears yet fades almost unnoticeably in the unquiet humdrum of the capital and its nightlife.
And it is here, at last, that Akaashi thinks – as he waits for the familiar shuffle of footsteps and listens to the sound of the shoji door that clatters as it slides open and joins in the chorus of voices that call out a well-practiced Irasshai! and welcomes the solitary client who greets him with a familiar, Keiji, and speaks with the tenor of a voice that has matured into an age a quarter of a century of years old – that indeed, the moon is beautiful tonight.
congratulations for making it this far! thank you so much for taking the time to read this. please leave a review and let me know what you think, i'd love to hear from you all! your comments and reviews never fail to make my day :)