DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters in this piece other than Rukia and Madame Fuu. Nor do I own any of the groups/happenings mentioned, though I did use historical fact and documentation in writing this. I also do not own the lyrics to the song "Stiff Kittens," that belongs to the band Blaqk Audio. Thank you and enjoy! Please review!
"Sake, Okita San?"
He turned his head to watch her lift the little ceramic bottle to emphasize her question, her slender hands white against the deep blue glaze of the dish traced with pale pink petals. Serene gray eyes traced the line of her arm, studying the intricate pattern that embellished the folds of her kimono, the rich colors of deep red, black and gold striking an exquisite contrast to her pale complexion, looking up passed the curve of shoulder and the arch of neck to find her face in less than an instant. She needed no rice-powder to give her skin pallor, nor did she need the paint that stained her lips with the red of blood, but while she went without the first, she seemed to hide behind the second, using the scarlet as a shield – the infamous, steel-hard mask of the Geisha. He would have preferred that she leave her lips bare, but he knew the matron of the tea house and her strict ways. It was, to put it bluntly, a downright miracle that she had been allowed to step downstairs without the powder and kohl to line her already piercing eyes.
A smile graced his mouth, a mark of male beauty that seemed somehow unfitting to the name and reputation of the face it belonged to, and quietly declined. "You ask me every night I'm here, Rukia Chan," he answered, "tonight's answer is the same as always."
She nodded, a light laugh slipping from her throat, causing his eyes to wander to the slice of skin left bare by the spring kimono's classic neckline, the graceful curve of her chin and throat melding into a pair of delicate shoulders swathed in red cloth. Setting the bottle down on the low table, she abandoned the liquor in favor of the pale green teapot settled nonchalantly on the corner. "Hai, hai," her voice smoothed over him like a balm, rubbing gently into the aching places left by the day's tangled mess of meetings, plotting, and the three assassinations of Imperialist rebels. She always had that affect on him, soothing, calming, as warm water laving against the sand. It was one of the reasons he liked her so much – because she knew what he was, what his hands had done, and she never seemed to care. Nor did she let it shake her control over the situation. "But one day you might change your mind."
"That isn't likely," he told her, watching while she expertly folded back her sleeve in order to pour him tea, the kind made with ginseng that he was so partial to. The tender, delicate expanse of her wrist was exposed, a reward that she had often bestowed upon him after the first few weeks, and one that always seemed to send him a sense of longing to be in softer, quieter places. Somewhere far away from the bustle of the tea house, away from the clamor in the streets, away from the death and rage that streaked the skies above Kyoto. Somewhere veiled by the reddish-brown of her hair and pillowed with the soft white of her skin. He often had to remind himself that she had been trained to do this…to bring a man crashing to his knees with no more effort than what was in a single glance. But at the same time, he did not pay her, and he had noticed that she never seemed to show any other the same favor. The pleasure in knowing that she favored him over the rest of the men who frequented the place – many of whom held much more power than a common soldier – filled his spirit with a warmth that rivaled the one any liquor could lend, but he had tried not to let it get to his head. He didn't like to lose control of his self, and envy or possession often caused the reins to loosen.
The corner of her red lips lifted in a smile sweeter than the anticipated tea would be, and he found himself smiling in reply, reaching out to take the cup she offered to him. "Perhaps not," she agreed quietly, dark eyes meeting his in a sleek meld of raven black and cloudy gray. Her fingers were soft, slim and delicate against his larger hand, calloused with the marks of a swordsman. They were cool and calming, though the brush of them left streaks of fire to blister his skin in their wake when she pulled away. It was always like this, her touch sparking such a violent response in him the likes of which the brothel women had never been able to recreate. Only she could make him burn like that. Only Rukia. "Shall I fetch you something to eat, Okita San?"
She was half-standing, preparing to rise to her feet in order to abandon him for a moment and slip into the kitchens. But he was not hungry for food. Not tonight. He reached out, faintly touching her arm and shaking his head to indicate that she should sit, raven bangs whisking over his eyes like a curtain of mystery. "No, thank you." With an incline of her pretty head she settled back into place, primly seated on her knees and shins, an almost comical opposite to his half-sprawl beside her. He sipped his tea, found it pleasing, as usual, and gazed at her from over the rim, observing the way she acknowledged the passing of her friend.
The other girl he remembered vaguely as being called Tokio, his fellow captain's favored escort, and she smiled prettily at Rukia as she walked by their table on her way back to Saitou bearing a small tray of tempura and rice. Rukia's eyes lit up, her mask momentarily set aside when she smiled and granted her friend a silent greeting. It was one of her real smiles – so rare and free and full of life that it made his heart want to burst from his chest. He wanted to take her face between his battle-roughened hands and kiss the rouge from her lips, to die with her words in his ear. He would have done anything, everything, to see her look at him that way. But she never did. With him, it was always the same, falsely-shallow shell displayed like a paper screen before the intelligence in her soul. Always, always hiding. She noticed his stare, and turned to look at him with a curious tilt to her chin.
"Rukia Chan," he murmured, "didn't I ask you to call me Souji?"
"Hai," was her answer, pretty eyes twinkling with fun, "but wouldn't that be insolent of me, Taichou?"
He laughed, amused by her humor and finding a sense of pride in the apparent happiness she showed in response to having pleased him. "Not at all. So please, just Souji from now on."
Rukia's hands were busied by the tea again, elegant with their smooth, practiced movements, black-edged sleeve rolled back to flash her snow-pale wrist while she poured herself some tea. "As you wish, Soji San." Her eyes closed for a moment when she lifted the cup to her mouth, savoring the taste of the hot, sweet liquid before lowering it, warming her hands with the heat from the ceramic cup. The tilt of her face was low, gaze downcast, seeming to be thinking, contemplating something she wanted to say. How he wished she wouldn't do that. He didn't want her to be so meek or delicate with him, treating him like a man who would take offense to any one sorely-placed word. She should have been forward and direct; he knew her true persona was like a wild horse, fire for her mane and tail…but she stayed guardedly mild and masked. Keeping a painful distance between them because etiquette called for it. "Was your day difficult?"
He thought he could hear a trace of concern in her tone, but it was difficult to tell with her. Swallowing the rest of his tea, he relished the soothing affect of the soothing ginseng against his sore throat, and replied, "why do you ask?"
"You seem troubled—" her smile was wry when she took his cup from him in order to fill it again. "More troubled than usual."
With a sigh, he shifted his posture, sitting straighter than before to accept the tea. So observant – it seemed to be one of her strong points, noticing little things like that. She always seemed to know when he was feeling low and she always tried to lift his spirits if she could, though sometimes not even she could drag him out of the dark pit that he occasionally fell into. Perhaps she could have, if she didn't insist on crouching behind Geisha's façade.
It was on nights like these that he truly wondered if he loved her, if he had loved her from the moment she had literally tumbled into him that day…almost six months ago, yet it seemed like only yesterday. She was even more beautiful to him now; now that he knew her by more than just the lovely face peering up at him with apprehension in her eyes and a hurried apology falling from her lips. His days had been less chaotic then, he had felt younger, less burdened, less regretful, but after his request for her as his escort, she had always been there to greet him with a smile when twilight fell. A bright curve of a red mouth and the scent of cherry. Maybe that was when she had found his heart.
He had wanted nothing more than a companion, like the rest of the men here, all of them half mad with silent mourning, demons riding on their shoulders. Despairing soldiers; searching for something – anything to give them a means of escape from the blood and death dripping from their hands and down their sword blades. All he had wanted was someone to talk to, someone to show him a bit of tenderness to counter the sting of the clashing words and merciless blades. But he had never expected to receive anything more than the false smiles and flirtations of a desperate girl, greedy for his title and his power. He hadn't expected more, but more was what he had been given. From Saitou's recommendation, he had found more than simple company in the form of an angel. And not only was she beautiful, but she was strong and smart, wise in the ways of the world despite her young age, and she, like him, held extraordinary skill with a sword.
She didn't know that he had seen her, dressed in a man's hakamaand her hair in a hitokiri'shigh tail, whirling like a viper made of wind to strike at the wooden practice block with a speed no mortal could comprehend, or again when sparring with the nameless man in one of the abandoned dojos. She didn't know that he knew of the muscular expertise hidden beneath all her jewel-like kimonos or that her palms were lined with callous. She didn't know that he had seen the real soul tucked away behind her silken clothes and painted lips, or that he preferred it to the Geisha's whispering coo. But he wondered if he had ever seen anything so peerless before then – that breath of an instant when a goddess was born out of the Geisha he had never paid for her services. The Geisha (while not really an escort at all) who kept coming to meet him at the tea house door every Monday and Friday evening, and even on the nights when he was sure she wouldn't know to be waiting, leading him faithfully to his table to serve him tea, and ask if he had developed a taste for alcohol yet.
She was sure to think that if he knew, he would see her as less of a woman, as something threatening. She thought he would see her trying to step out of her rightful place as a female, as inferior – just like the other traditionalists would have. But what she never imagined was that he would take her secret to the grave, if it was, in fact, a secret at all. He was not honor-bound to keep silent about this woman running around practicing a Ryu in the streets, but he had never once deemed it prudent to call attention to it. It had never occurred to him to do so. Why would he betray her so coldly after all she had done for him? She had regenerated his soul, a healing light to pierce the darkness bent on swallowing him whole, sinking deeper and deeper with every swipe of his katana. But every time he looked around to see her smiling serenely up at him with that delicate little face and those deep, intelligent eyes, that ever-present slant of fondness to her brow, he felt stronger.
"It was no more difficult than any other day," he answered her calmly, his low, husky voice heavy though he tried to hide the weariness. One more day squandered in the search for the rebel leaders. One more day, one more hour, one more minute in anxious wait for when he would get to see her next. He'd had beliefs once…such goals, such vibrant, righteous feelings for tradition and his clan, his brothers in the Shinsengumi. But now it didn't feel like anything more than burying his hands in useless bloodshed night after night. He had wanted the Genji Era to last forever, but now his passions were drained, diluted by the pains that ripped through his heart with the loss of each life, stricken dumb by the coughs that ravaged his lungs and throat. Did he have any feeling left?
The sensation of her skin against his cheek jerked him from his brooding thoughts, yanking his attention to the lily-white hand that brushed softly from temple to jaw in a tender caress, her dark eyes slightly sad. "You don't have to pretend for my sake," she murmured gently, and he noticed that she had shifted closer in his silence, the sloping curve of her thigh just barely pressing against his knee.
Yes, he realized, yes, he still had feeling. But his passions were for nothing but her; the scent at her neck, the dark mass of the hair coiled atop her head and fixed with ornaments of gold and garnet, the white glow of her skin, the plump arc of her mouth. Had he known anything more lovely than the way her eyes lit with knowledge when he talked of politics, following his stories with interest and always that hint of quiet, knowing despair? The way she seemed to know just how he felt when he described the Shinsengumi's slaughter of the Imperialists who challenged them, the way she strayed from the other faceless women's gasps of awe and coos of delighted pride in their soldiers, when she remained quiescent and demure. He did not brag about his kills and she did not encourage them – she merely listened and understood. And he believed that somewhere he couldn't see, she really, truly cared.
He set down his half-finished cup of tea, standing to reattach his swords to the cord belt at his hips. "Come with me?" he asked her, gesturing to the shouji door that led to the tiny garden surrounding the tea house. He found the sitting room stuffy all of a sudden, and desired to ease the restless itch in his hands by venturing elsewhere. "I need some fresh air."
Following gracefully, her slender figure unfolding with a rustle of silk and a swift shift to slip on her shoes, she came to slide the door open for him and just as peacefully closed it behind him when he exited. He hadn't answered her comment, but she knew him well enough to recognize the silent acknowledgement he displayed. She trailed along behind him as he walked, dutifully fulfilling the post of a subservient female, lesser and meek – something that left a sour taste in his mouth – until he stopped and held out his arm to her. Even then she hid behind her pretense of borrowed finery and concealing lip-paint, the mask she held solidly between herself and him, her voice as lilting and mild as it ever was. "I am not your wife, Okita San."
"No," he agreed, gazing at her from behind the fringe of dark bangs that were not quite long enough to be pulled back with the rest of the night-black horsetail, drinking in the sight of the shapely female figure bathed in moonlight like something out of one of his dreams. "But you're the closest I'm ever going to get; I don't want you treating me like your superior."
Something in her eyes softened then, not quite pitying, almost worried, bordering on the edge of tenderness that mirrored her quiet whisper a breath later. "You flatter me."
"And I have never given you anything for your services," came his reply, turning his powerful body so he faced her directly, face painfully handsome despite the weight that hung heavy on his lean shoulders and shadowed his cheeks.
"I don't want your money."
He retraced his steps, moving with the soundless ease that came so easily to the wolf-like sons of Mibu, until he stood only a pace away from her, looking down at the soft, porcelain face that he called so dear without any attachment but for a few months-worth of nightly conversation and unspoken admiration. His gray eyes were hazy with something she had only seen once before in her life, albeit a short one thus far, his fingers tense as though longing to touch her, though he restrained the urge. His question was a whisk of sound against her cheek, his mouth so close to hers that she could almost taste the tea on his breath. "What do you want, Rukia?"
When she spoke again, it was just before she turned to slip softly away, out of his grasp and out of the reach of even his keen sight to disappear behind the side garden of the tea house. A goddess draped in scarlet silk, fleeing from the moon. "Your smile, Souji."
Not for the first time, she left him aching and empty, wishes filling his heart and the bitter taste of regret coating his tongue while he stared after her, enraptured and enthralled to know that his hopes had not been in vain. Miju Rukia was no common woman – not even a normal Geisha. In all honesty, he didn't believe for one minute that she had been at the tea house for even one year's time, unlike the other girls, many of whom had spent their entire lifetimes there at the beckon call of the men they served like faithful, painted, porcelain dogs. She was no follower. She obeyed the idle whims of no man, bowed to no one, walking with her head held high and her integrity and self-respect clear for all to read, yet she submitted to his dreaming yearnings for comfort. No labels could pin her into a corner. She was there because she chose to be. She was her own master…and yet she wanted his happiness.
For a long while, Okita Souji, captain of the First Squad in the Shinsengumi, merely stood in silence, frozen with a mix of shock and amazement. Staring after the one woman who had ever made him want something more deeply than any of his righteous ideals. Something that he would have killed for. Something…that he would have died for.
.:.:.:.:.:.:.
When he stepped outside through the tea house's front entrance a few minutes later, Saitou following a short ways behind while exchanging long and somewhat morbidly sweet goodbyes with Tokio, he noticed that Rukia was standing motionless beside the street, her eyes lifted to the sky and her hands folded over her breast as though clutching something there. For a moment, she almost appeared to be trying to keep her heart bound in place, but this was an exaggeration of illusion spurred by moonlight and ginseng. He approached, noting the rolling sounds of thunder that signaled the arrival of what was sure to be rain, and settled a hand over her slim shoulder. "Are you waiting for something?"
She turned her face slightly, not quite looking at him, but acknowledging his presence with the tilt of her chin. "Just trying to decide where to go," she informed him, and he heard the strength beneath her voice, all trace of the butterfly-like hush gone. No longer pretending to be the delicate little flower she certainly wasn't. It was almost as though the hilt of her katana was held clasped between her hands, pressed to her chest beneath her kimono. He was certain it couldn't possibly be there; else her movements would be stiff and awkward trying to hide something so large, but it did look as though she missed its presence. He knew how that felt. It was a kind of nakedness that couldn't be banished by clothing, no matter how many layers one wore. It was scary to be left so defenseless, but she seemed to be handling it well. At the back of his mind, however, he wondered vaguely why she bothered with this disguise of defined femininity; wasn't the style and poise of her normal self enough? Or did she, perhaps, feel empty without some kind of attachment to her female form? "I don't feel like spending the night with a bunch of shallow women."
Amusement made him want to smile. Poor girl, stuck in a world of fidgety, over zealous birds when she was so mature and decided. Sensible, clean, knowing…he wanted to shelter her; all too aware that such a maturity came only from exposure. But she didn't need coddling or protection. That was what made her so intoxicating, her certainty and control. And her wildness; so different from the tame, skittish little hens the at the tea house. "What about Tokio?" he asked, nudging her into the polite chat with the carefree question.
"Tokio is different. I love her like a sister, but I still would rather be somewhere else. I don't want to listen to her talk about how many times she's kissed Saitou San tonight." For the first time, he caught the bitter scrape of loneliness giving the warm sound of her voice a metallic aftertaste. She was lonely…unafraid, but alone and, somehow, grieving. Just like him. And here he had thought she was perfectly content with her life as it was, spending her days among the people and her evenings toying with the hearts of the soldiers while she treated and flattered the ego of some chosen man. Flattered with a healing touch. But no, she was as lost as he. Impossible. Loneliness did not suit a goddess.
At the back of his mind, he could hear the footfalls of the other men behind him, exiting the parlor with laughter and mild snippets of praise to the women who had adorned their arms and their tables, emphasized with muffled bragging about the promises of night-time companionship. It was as if he was suddenly on assignment, senses honed and sharpened to a point almost impossible to describe or completely understand, his grip upon her slender shoulder tightening to clutch like a dying man at salvation. She spoke of kisses. Oh, how he wanted to be the one to kiss that soft white skin, to bury his hands in the silk of her hair and drown in the sweetness of her lips. How deadly his rage would be should another man extend a hand to touch her – his beautiful redemption – how swift the judgment. Desire did not mingle mildly with the predatory nature belonging to the Wolves of Mibu.
And suddenly, he found that he didn't want to be lonely any more.
He leaned slightly forward, bending his neck over her shoulder to find her ear, the tip of his nose grazing the softness of her liberally pinned hair. The sweet scent of cherry twined about his senses, bewitching as it was soothing, warming his flesh in a way that spoke of not-so-innocent things. "Then spend your night with me," he invited, tone rough, a hushed caress of breath, "onegai…"
The sensitive condition of his senses alerted him to the sharpness of the breath she took, hushed as it was, and made him feel the flush that blossomed within her cheeks as a brand to his soul. She seemed to weaken, her slim little body sliding almost unconsciously closer to the sheltering width of his larger frame, the press of her silk-clad thigh to his sparking an almost nerve-shattering hunger in his flesh. Her throat was locked, yet somehow she managed to force a whispered reply, focus fixed solidly to the heat of his mouth against the shell of her ear. "Hai."
It was a feathery whisper, but he heard it clearly enough. It sang in his ears like a drop of hot liquid, burning deep in his brain like some kind of drug. Straightening, he turned his dark head to glance behind him at the gathering of Shinsengumi soldiers still waving and calling goodbyes to the giggling girls crowded in the entryway, wondering if it was tasteless or crass to find joy in such entertainment while in the real world a war was being sparked. He just managed to catch sight of Saitou and Tokio glancing mutually and discreetly away from where he stood. Saitou was smiling, that crooked little half-smile he wore when he had come out several steps ahead of an opponent. Damn, twisted bastard – he'd probably made some kind of bet on how long it would take him to discover the depth of his obsession. Souji decided to ignore them; lifted one hand to cup Rukia's elbow in his palm and gently steered her out into the street, heading toward the hostel whose owner had graciously agreed to house and feed the men of the First Unit while they were staying in Kyoto. The other hand he kept on the hilt of his favored katana. Sharp eyes watchful, silvery slashes in the dark of Kyoto's legendary, dusky twilight.
Night was a dangerous time in the city – assassins and killers roamed the streets, filled to the brim with malicious glee. Some with ideals to uphold, some merely using the excuse of the unrest to aid their own personal goals. It was fortunate that he had met her before she had decided to head out; the blood-splattered stones of the narrow allies were an almost guaranteed death-trap for a pretty girl. Not that he deemed her incapable of defending herself, because that most certainly was not true. He had witnessed what she could do with that sword of hers, but a kimono was not exactly the ideal kind of dress for walking in an area known for ambush and sudden attacks. As far as he could determine, she had no weapon tonight; and even for someone as strong as she was, it would be difficult to fend off attackers that would more than likely be armed. He would have lain down his own life to protect her, and quite gladly at that. Despite being well aware that his companion knew her way around the spray of blood and the parting of flesh, he couldn't help the desire to shelter and defend her from anything that might mean her harm.
Luck seemed to be with him, for they arrived at the hostel without any hindrance to speak of, despite his being a lone soldier escorting a woman dressed (to all apparent purposes) as a Geisha – jewel and gold in human form. But it had begun to rain along the way. They managed to stick to the buildings, taking refuge from the downpour by keeping under the eaves of the roofs that provided a few inches-worth of dry space. The last, mad dash to the building from the cover had consisted mainly of Souji grabbing Rukia around the waist, hoisting her halfway over his shoulder and making a run for it, her laughter loose and joyfully loud while he used his Koryū-accelerated speed to carry her to the dry safety of his home away from home. It hadn't saved either of them from getting wet, but it had lifted the spirit of the night (so often filled with wary dread) by coloring it with her laughter.
Madam Fuu greeted him with a cheerful call from the sitting room when they entered, inquiring about the state of his health and whether he had any new injuries that required tending. She quieted when she came around the stairs, however, noticing the silk-clad woman on his arm, and waved him up to his rooms with a suppressed giggle. Her amused surprise didn't strike him as odd, since he never brought women home, unlike many of her other tenants; but he was too highly strung to grant her his usual warm smile and soft-spoken inquiry on the events of her day, too tense to notice anything but the raindrops that clung to Rukia's cheeks and leant her hair a pearly sparkle. He led her up the stairs; shoeless feet silently padding down the hall to slide open the door to his solitary room in the eastern corner of the building, simply furnished with drawers for clothes, futon, table, and a calm little painting depicting a pair of cranes fishing in a cool blue lake. Simple and clean.
The door leading out to the second-story porch had been left open, a few inches of space letting in some of the light from the lamps outside, and he had left his futon unrolled and out as if for use, though someone (most likely Madame Fuu) had tidied up the blankets for him. The truth was he rarely stowed it away in the mornings. It gave him less of a hassle to drag it out before tumbling into sleep each night, torn with exhaustion and pain. He slid the shouji until it snapped softly shut, and allowed a soft sigh to escape his lips, completely relaxing for the first time that day, and untying the laces that held his weapons to his person. True, nowhere was completely safe, especially not for people like him; but this was something of a haven for him. Not as much as the tea house had been, perhaps, but that had only been because of Rukia. This place was where he slept and ate, where he went to think or to contemplate. Where she now stood, looking somewhat out of place in her fine clothes and jeweled ornamentation.
"I'm sorry," he spoke suddenly, apologetically; "I didn't think to stop and get you something to wear tonight." Setting his katana and kodachi gently down on the low, scrubbed wooden table pushed up against the nearer wall, he knelt and pulled open one of the drawers, lifting out a garment of soft blue-gray fabric. "You can use one of my yukatas."
"Arigatou," she murmured, sliding smoothly into a crouch a few feet away, her back to him, and added, "could you…my obi," she shot him an imploring smile over her shoulder and he could have sworn that his heart nearly stopped beating. "I can't untie it by myself, could you—?"
He inclined his head, a moderate nod to indicate assent, and moved forward to reach for the intricate knot tying the sash of black silk around her waist. It was far heavier than he would have expected, and the knot somewhat confusing to navigate until she took pity on him and instructed how to untwist and reverse the tying, and, though not without some trouble, he managed to free her from the long, beautiful mass of fabric. Almost immediately he noticed that it was due to the sash alone that women in formal dress seemed so boxy and flat in shape. Perhaps it was an intended purpose, to conceal the tapered curve of the waist, because once she was free of it, he couldn't help but notice the slender figure outlined by the rich scarlet of her kimono. She thanked him gratefully, her voice somehow warmer and fuller now that it seemed easier for her to breathe, and lifted her hands to her hair, plucking the golden ornaments from their places and setting to work on the numerous pins restraining the thick weight.
Feeling somewhat breathless, Souji busied himself with removing his uniform haori and sliding back the shoulders of the white juban beneath it to bare his arms and torso. It hung limply down from his hips, secured in place by the strings of the hakama still encasing his powerful legs; but despite the state of restless warmth, he felt somewhat reluctant to reach for the thick tresses of russet brown hair that fell smoothly to the level of her shoulder blades, tapering gracefully to her collarbone. He wanted so badly to touch the silky mane, to twine his fingers around the strands and let it flow over his skin like a dark river, but something about the haunting grace with which she removed pin after gold pin made him pause.
She was no brothel harlot. He couldn't treat her like he was accustomed to treating women. This wasn't to say that he was cruel or unkind, as some men could be, but he did tend to be a bit rough. There was a part of him that was not as gentle as his everyday persona was, and when instinct and desire fluctuated, control seemed to slip slyly out of his grasp. It seemed to run that way for samurai of his caliber – war twisted the mind and warped the spirit, splitting them right down the middle so that they became vicious, bloodthirsty demons in battle while remaining civil and mild during everyday hours. But battle instincts had a way of forcing their way to the surface more often than simply for killing. He wanted her, more badly and deeply than he had ever wanted a woman before, so badly that it caused his very bones to ache; but he didn't dare touch her now. What if he hurt her?
"I have a feeling you're making some misconceptions about me," she interrupted his silent rant of distress, taking out the last of the pins and setting the little pile aside on top of the discarded obi and running a hand through the loose glory of her hair to shake out the kinks from being restrained for so many long hours. It shone like some kind of jewel spun into thread, catching the faint light and glowing a brown so deep it was almost crimson in color. She turned slightly to sit on one hip, a position that threw the shapely structure of her figure into sharp relief, giving him a look that was partly pitying and partially playful. "I'm not some fragile, naive virgin sure to shatter when you touch me, if that's what you're thinking." When he remained silent, unable to speak, his eyes roving across the long line of her leg, she smiled and slid nearer.
The fabric of her kimono parted slightly at the top and at the bottom; and though it was held in place just barely by the ties hidden inside, enough new skin was exposed to tell him he had been correct in assuming that she needed no rice powder to make herself pale. He stiffened, unconsciously on alert, rapt attention focused solely on the slender little hand that lifted to touch the tip of a single finger to his lower lip, the heat of her scorching him right down to the nerves, setting fire to his blood when she pressed delicately to his thighs and abdomen. A sharp breath shivered its way along his lungs and throat, delight melding thickly with the hunger growling in the pit of his stomach for satiety.
She lifted her eyes, examining the planes and angles of his face as though she were seeing him, truly seeing him, for the first time. Her lips parted – those red, red lips – and she told him gently, "you won't break me."
It was partly a challenge to his ears, but that didn't register. His cool gray eyes met hers, and a split second later he reached out, scarred, work-roughened fingers tenderly stroking the lush silk that fell to curl softly at her white throat. She shifted closer, her hand sliding down his neck to rest contentedly against the smooth skin of his sternum, almost as if she was seeking his warmth, trying to fit neatly to the curves of his body. She tumbled gracefully into his lap when he sat back, the fabric of her clothing sliding sinfully down her shoulder to catch at her arm as her half-bared back brushed along his naked chest, her fingers curling around the nape of his neck to gather her balance. It took a great deal more strength than he would have cared to admit to keep from releasing the sound that wanted to break free from the back of his throat, the animal groan stimulated only by a few fingertips and a thin shoulder. Yet he managed to swallow it with effort, and wrapped his arm securely around her waist to make sure she couldn't escape, empty palm venturing to cradle her cheek and jaw, turning her face toward him.
"Wipe your mouth," he ordered, voice hard with the husky purr created by the fire churning low in his belly, pleased when she obeyed, carelessly using the sleeve of his juban to remove the paint soiling her skin. He didn't care that his clothes would be stained, kimonos like hers were expensive and difficult to come by – besides, it would be like carrying a bit of her around with him whenever he wore that garment again. But the main reason he didn't care about the blemish to his uniform was the distraction she offered, turning her face to show him that her lips were a clean, petal pink when not hidden by the scarring red.
"Souji—"
He didn't give her the chance to finish, but silenced her ruthlessly with the eager press of his mouth to hers, drinking in her breath and the flavor of her snow-soft skin. The barest sampling, a brief, quick taste, his tongue traced the soft curve of her lip before he pulled slowly back. If she had been beautiful when adorned in the Geisha's silks and jewels, wrapped up as an elegant, doll-like gift, it was nothing – nothing compared with how lovely she looked now. Partially unwrapped, cradled between his hips, cheeks flushed, her hair loose and flowing, lips reddened with his kiss instead of the garish false color…she was stunning. Her eyes were dark, eyelashes casting lacy shadows against her cheeks while she peered up at him, her hand weak at the base of his neck, the touch alluring and provocative. This was too sweet to be real, and he wondered vaguely if this was another of his dreams; but it was so vivid and stark that it couldn't possibly be only an illusion.
For a moment, he was brought to a harsh reality, startled and horrified by what he had done. How could he have been so greedy, so selfish? He had just wanted to help her, to offer his support…had just wanted company to ease the long, lonely night – and yet he had carelessly exposed her to the plague eating away at his body. The sickness that sent him reeling with coughs and choked his air when he had been too exuberant during exercises; that sliced up his lungs and bloodied his throat, slowly, painfully, chewing its way to the surface. What had he done? "I – I can't…"
She hushed him, that wise, knowing look in her eyes like before, understanding, reading his horror and his sadness. With an effortless push, she shoved the worry away, the soothing touch of her palms sliding down his torso, the light graze of feminine nails etching patterns into his skin. The contrast between them was slight, both pale, yet hers was so much purer than his, the color fresh and unmarred by the stain of dried blood he so often scrubbed away. She traced the scar that drew a diagonal cut through the firm structure of his otherwise flawless stomach, and it seemed that her hands could puzzle out the origin and cause of the line just by touching it with one patient, calming caress. Somehow, without his voice to tell her or his courage to show her, Rukia knew. She knew, but she didn't care. "Aishiteru," she whispered, the flow of her warm, cherry breath smothering his sharp, keen senses. "Yes, you can."
The desire to part her shapely thighs and lay her over his futon was crushing, the mouthwatering urge to ravish her senseless almost overpowering, but he retained enough sense to move slowly. It didn't matter if she wasn't inexperienced, stealing relief too quickly caused pain…and he wanted her to enjoy her time with him. He wanted her to feel his pleasure, his ecstasy when he bore her to the floor to bury his senses in the sweetness of her flesh. He wanted her to turn to him for the rest of her days, in sadness or in passion, not some other man. He had wanted her to love him as deeply and solidly as he loved her. He would have wasted away so much more quickly without her. A few weeks, maybe a few months…for her he could last years.
The edges of his knuckles slid gently across her cheek, marveling at the softness that was her skin, reveling in the words that had slipped so surely and unfailingly from her mouth. Aishiteru…I love you. Was that why she had tried to lock herself away in the guise of what she saw to be womanhood? Was that why she had hidden behind a mask? Did she think he wanted that – a Geisha? A painted-up doll too fragile to touch, too ignorant to converse with, too sheltered and sensitive to share the burden of a warrior's life? He didn't love her shields, nor did he love the concealing layers meant to protect the inner soul tucked beneath the flesh. He could not—no, would not love a lie. "I want the real you," he told her, smoothing his cheek against the part of her hair, the scent of her trickling into his nose and down his throat like a dose of warm honey.
Her eyes flickered with startled wonderment for an instant, alarmed by his confession of having known, almost all along, who and what she truly was. What she had thought to offer, he didn't want. He didn't want a toy to amuse him, or a prize with which to show off his rank. He wanted a woman to talk and to laugh with, who would see him as a friend and a comrade. He wanted someone to hold close to his heart, whose memory would soothe him when life hit hard. He wanted someone who wouldn't shirk him when he bled. What he wanted was Rukia; with her fierce joys and her serene, intelligent opinions, and the powerful strike of her sword. He wanted the pride and confidence in her truth and the mercy in her tiny hands, the sweat that coated her body after a long session of practice. That was what he loved. But shock only lasted for a fleeting moment before her hands shifted, feathering across his lap to grip the strings securing the hakama around his lean hips. She pulled until they loosened, then slid deft fingers down between fabric and skin to free the juban from its confines. The cloth pooled on the floor, abandoned and cold, left for better things. "Hai, Taichou."
Any other woman he would have turned away by now, sending them from his presence for the simple fact that not lying with him could save their life. But she didn't want to be saved. She wanted to be loved…and within that want was yet another need. To save him. To her, giving him the solace of her affection and her passion was worth taking the chance of contracting the illness dragging him slowly on toward death's door. He did not wish for her to take that risk, but if he had tried to fight her she would have been furious. And without her, he would have been sentenced to die with a broken heart. So when he cupped her stubborn chin in his palm and tilted her face upward to brush a tender kiss to the corner of her lips, his only word of protest was a quiet, "don't call me taichou."
Her laugh was the chime of a bell, light and tinkling, but full and rich where the Geisha's had been shallow and empty. "You don't want me to be soft and willing for you?" she teased, nuzzling gently at his cheek.
"Of course I want you willing," he replied, tone colored with a suggestive lilt. "But you're strong. Strong women don't revere their men like gods."
She scoffed, snorting delicately, and returned the kiss he had given her, her mouth like a flower touching the curve of his lip. "Yes, we do…if they merit the reverence."
His spirit soared, heart swelling, fit to burst with gratitude and desperation-laced affection for the girl cradled in the crook of his arm. What a thing to say – she revered him, when all along he had virtually worshipped the ground on which she walked? He wanted to hug her tight to his chest and never let her go, this gentle, forgiving creature who showed him such unquestioning faith and trust. But on what grounds could he accept such a blind follower? He had not earned her love. He killed while she healed; he took life while she worked between the quarrelling forces to protect it. "I don't deserve the honor you give me," he whispered. There was a kind of pain in his voice, a bitter coating to the modest words he used. He was nothing but a murderer – his deeds glorified by the awing light wrongly cast on the arts of warfare. There was nothing under his skin but rotten shadows, a sad, pathetic imitation of the human soul that had once been his; unworthy of such devotion from someone so pure and good.
The soft strands of her hair whisked across his collarbone, leaving searing trails hot enough to burn even through the fond denial aching deep within his chest. "I respect you. I've never met a man so gentle or kind...one who has every reason to be cruel. But you're not."
"Kindness in repentance for slaughter is not something to be proud of."
"You're not the only one who has blood on your hands." She turned her head away from him, hiding the hurt that clouded her eyes and marred her pretty mouth with a frown. "Yet you don't let it twist you into something evil. The way you are with children…and your students. You're always so patient and soft-spoken. That's the first thing I noticed about you, your kindness. That and—" she stopped herself, almost choking on the words as her fair cheeks tinged with a pale pink flush. Her eyes lowered, flustered and embarrassed when she muttered, "you made me feel like a woman."
He smiled down at her, warmly, stormy eyes glittering with tears he couldn't seem to shed. "And you made me feel like I could still have some purpose in life." Strong fingers gripped the thick silk at her hip, bracing himself, his voice like the whisper of a butterfly's wing. "You gave me something to love."
Gazing up at him through the reddish curtain of her hair, her face softened, grateful that her pride had not been crushed beneath laughter or scorn, she shifted. Her soft, slender body slid against him, causing lean muscles to clench and joints to liquefy under a rippling wave of heat. Fervor gripped him like a fist of iron, crushing any hope of escape into the realm of emotional depth under the command of aroused adoration. She was solid, pliant pleasure, inflaming his senses in the sheer, raging power that built his secondary self. The thin line between rationality and impulse, faraway longing and tormented lust dissolved in a violent lurch of desire. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he didn't let her form a single word. The time for talk was over.
Her gasp of surprise and delight forced a blissful shiver to slide down his spine, the touch hungry and demanding, yet still managing to be loving and tender in the same breath. She tilted her chin, reaching, pushing back with just as much need as he exerted, her lips molding deliciously with his. The curves of her smaller body fit neatly to the contours of his, the stroke of her hands to the sensitive skin at his chest and abdomen like the coiling of satin ribbons, invoking shudder after delirious shudder from the partner nearly lost in his passions. She strained at his grip, maneuvering so she could reach around his neck, her silk-sleeved arms stretching over his shoulders in order to take hold of the tie holding back his ink-dark hair. It fell like a river of blackness down his back, tapering off a few inches below the shoulder blades, shining dimly in the soft light, reminiscent of a raven's wing; and she filled her hands with it, using the beautiful locks as leverage to crush herself even closer to his hard, sturdy form.
A low moan tore at his lungs when the willowy female figure slid sinuously against him, and he pulled away, breathing deep and labored, his eyes fluttering closed, throwing back his head to allow her access to his throat. The position was vulnerable and could have symbolized weakness, but he didn't care, not while the velvety warmth of her mouth engulfed his flesh with fire. She drew lazy circles down his bare back with teasing fingertips, smiling against the rapid beat of the pulse at his neck, her tongue tasting the salt of the sweat beginning to give his naked skin a pearly sheen. Torment – stark, heavenly torment. Every touch was a tiny slice of nirvana. If he had to die, he would die satisfied.
Iie…not yet.
He struck back, moving with untraceable speed to lurch to his feet, jerking her around to clutch her flush against his own body, deserting the last of his clothing to the floor and kicking it aside. Though he was completely bare, the chill that tinted the air didn't seem to touch him. All he could register was the feel of Rukia's arms braced around his neck, the strong grip of her legs wrapped securely around his hips pressing the juncture of her thighs to the terrible, wonderful pain in his groin. With nothing but the thin-woven silk of her still fastened under-kimono between them, the shock of pleasure was like being impaled through the gut, struck with a primitive craving beyond mortal understanding. All they could do was react.
The air lodged in his throat; her back curved into a flexible arch, her grasp tightening, her toes curling with delectation as he was pulled closer, her chest straining at the fabric concealing her from his sharpened gaze. But her expression of appreciation caused the neckline of her kimono to slip, ties loosening, exposing the smooth, pale swell of her breasts to his eyes. Her mewling sigh ripped at his brain, a sign of victory, a sign of surrender. To a soldier whose instincts were carved and shaped in the heat of battle, it was permission to show no mercy. And looking at her, melting so sweetly into his arms, cooperating so willingly with his raving need for dominance, he knew she had (and would have) no complaints.
They didn't make it to the futon. His shaky control was gone, swallowed whole by the sudden, excruciating desire to feel her naked skin. No longer was he Okita Souji, but the wolf within, starved for the comforts of the one he wanted for his mate. He threw her to the floor, careful to use his arms to shelter her from any bruising that might have been caused by his overzealousness, remembering to be cautious with his enormous strength, and crouched above her, eyes clouded with lust as he stared intently at the expression of enthralled wonderment streaked across her flushed face. Riddled with tiny white scars, his powerful hands were ghostly pale in contrast to the rich red fabric of her kimono when he grasped the edges and wrenched the garment open, taking the under-layer with it to strip her cleanly of clothing. She lay like a creature from the heavens on his floor – her arms were still tied by the heavy sleeves, but the rest of her was perfectly exposed, beautiful, luscious curves and snow-white skin. His savior, his angel. All his.
Perhaps it was sinful to want her as badly as he did. Perhaps it was – if nothing else – what would send him to hell. But when she reached for him, redemption on her lips and love in her dark eyes, nothing in the universe mattered to him but the glorious, delectable pleasure of making love to her. Nothing mattered but her slim, flexible body writhing so sensually beneath him, above him, the scent of her rubbed deep into every inch of his skin. Nothing mattered but the lusty cries she emitted, praising him in the only way she could with a voice short on breath. Nothing mattered but her; her teasing response to his exploring touches, her tolerance when he bit a little too hard, her endless forgiveness when he kissed her to apologize, her taste and her smell and the sultry texture of her skin.
He took her twice on the floor; once with her arms still pinned immobile by her clothes, helpless to retaliate, and once while free to punish him for forcing her into weakness, though she cheerfully submitted to his rule when his eyes hardened with the steely allure of animal masculinity. Then, less desperately and more for the sake of experiencing the touch of one another, he took her again – pillowed this time on the cushion of his futon, her energy focused once more on healing his battered soul. Every time oblivion came too soon, leaving them trembling and convulsing like burning stars, repeatedly shattering under the sugared pleasure of indulgence. But when they lay down to sleep, she wrapped solidly in his powerful arms, her head resting against his chest, they no longer felt the gaping claws of emptiness inside.
Together, they watched the rain come down, knowing that the heavy spring downpour would forever remind them of that beautiful night. For that one night, the earth was not soaked red with the blood of Tokugawa and Chusho Imperialist alike. Together, they basked in the afterglow of their connection, knowing full well that they would never have a peaceful life to devote to marriage and children, knowing well that their time was already drawing to a close. But they chose not to dwell on the negative, deciding instead to devote the time they did have to showering each other in the unshakable love they shared.
Together.
.:.:.:.:.:.
We're one and the same dear;
You were born for this.
Forever forget your restraint.
Remnants of a past here
Pass like light through dust as memories fall fleeting like pain.
If you show me heaven I will meet you there.
Like it? Hate it? Let me know, please!! Press the wee little review button!