Ritual
It is late.
I do not know the time, but I know that it is dark over Ayu-nee's herb garden, and dark here in Okita-san's room.
The weak, sallow light from the paper lamps does nothing to flatter his pale skin, or the sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones. It does nothing to disguise how tightly the skin is drawn over his face. I can feel his thinness, too, when our hands meet as he passes me the hairbrush. I want to grab his shoulders and shake him but I think that if I do, maybe he'll finally shatter into a thousand pieces, and even if I could pick them up I would never be able to put them all back together. Are there words, in this language or the strange tongue of the foreigners, to tell him that he can't go because we need him? Because he's the only one keeping us sane? That he can't go because he's loved?
I keep silent as I carefully pull the tie from his hair, and in silence marvel at the intimacy of what we share: of how vulnerable he seems in such a casual state, how open, how...naked. It's so much more sensual than if it was his yukata falling away instead of his hair fanning out; more serious than if we sat discussing philosophy and why we don't fear death; sadder and infinitely more beautiful than if he were to lay his head in my lap and weep for all the world's evils that a sword cannot cure, for all his pain and the pain he has caused.
There is no feeling more soothing than the silken sweep of his hair over my fingers as I bring the brush down through it–one stroke, two, three... He sighs in contentment, this beautiful broken thing, and leans back into me, just close enough for me to feel the warm, pulsing heat of his body and know that I cannot really touch him. Tonight it hurts more than ever, to know I cannot take him into my arms and stroke his face as I do his hair, to kiss his lips and hands and neck and anywhere else I could reach, because tonight I can see how close he is to fading away completely. He is a god among mortals, but his time is short, and he must return to heaven soon.
When I first met him, I thought his beauty was bright; then it seemed translucent, like crystal, and still as radiant; now, though, I can see the truth: he is otherworldly, only half here, and washed-out, like a favorite hakama rinsed one too many times. Unlike a garment, Okita-san cannot be re-dyed. When all his color has left him he will be gone, nothing, and I will be empty.
But it seems almost a sin to think of such unhappy things when he tries so hard to seem normal for the rest of us, masking his pain and cheerfully laughing at our concern. No matter how often I tell him he doesn't have to hide from me, he will not admit anything is wrong. It seems almost like usual tonight, me brushing his hair and him pressing back into me and purring like a kitten–but then I think that he is leaning too heavily, because he is tired, and I remind myself that he is ill and then I can again see how gaunt he has become, and his hair instead of seeming satiny and soft feels thin and too light.
Almost silently he exhales, something at once leaden and liberated. Any other time I might have mistaken it as a noise of quiet pleasure. Not tonight. Tonight it is a complaint of a burden too heavy for his slim shoulders. Tonight there will be no tender passion between us, nor tomorrow, nor ever again after that. I feel myself begin to tremble with tears he will not shed for his own sake. His hand falls to rest upon my leg, the other over mine as I run the comb through violet locks, shaking. I look up, into our reflection in the small mirror that hangs on the wall, and see a smile, a tired shadow of how he looked...before.
It breaks my heart and makes me angry. I want to shake him again. Suddenly, he begins to hum.
And he is smiling and gently guiding my unsteady hand and hiding how dead he is.
"Tetsu-kun..."
It is late.