Special Gifts I – Dressing Up
(Special Gifts II – Dressing Down – to follow soon)
Thanks for everyone who read my stories and took the time to review. Hope you like this one – let me know what you think, folks. I have no beta reader, so if you pick up on something glaring, feel welcome to tell me so I can amend it.
Uh, the 'n' on my keyboard is iffy. Did some amendments. Thanks for those of you who reviewed this one. The follow up is in the making. Also, if you'd like my version of how Aya came to decide that Ran was dead for good, it is set out in 'Transformation'.
Cheers
Aabunai
xxx
Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-15/M. Shonen-Ai, I'd say, with lime tendencies. And they never watch their language, damn them, though Aya at least should know better. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.
xxx
A box.
Aya eyed it mistrustingly. Still tousled from sleep, he had crept from the tangled sheets to get some water and almost stumbled over the box at the foot end of the futon. Yohji's side of the bed was cold; he had most likely fallen asleep on the couch, with the television babbling away his nightmares that had returned with increasing frequency.
So what was this box about? Aya snorted softly to himself – he was not curious, merely cautious. Unlabelled boxes had to rouse suspicion, and it was only logical to check them out. So he went for a drink of water, and then settled cross-legged on the tatami to stare at the box a bit more.
The light that filtered through the bamboo blinds cast a dusky orange glow over the rough surface of the box. Woven reeds, rough and silky at the same time, with the aroma of the river still about them. Aya breathed it in deeply, his eyes narrowing as unwanted memories welled up and made him squirm. Summer days with his sister, laughing as they splashed each other with water...
He pressed his lips together in a hard line and shook his head. Those memories were Ran's. They had nothing to do with him.
He decided to poke the box with the tanto he had retrieved from its place underneath his pillow when he had gone for his drink. A soft rustling sound rose from the aromatic blades of reed as the tip of the blade of steel sunk slightly into the material. A sound like a sigh. Aya frowned and stabbed a bit more, poking the box around. A slight swish of something inside... This looked very much like one of Yohji's pranks for which Aya usually spared neither time nor humour because the man had yet some serious growing up to do.
The scent of ripe grass mingled with something sweeter still, and Aya's fine nose recognised the faint perfume of roses.
In spite of himself, he had to swallow hard for suddenly the air around him became too heavy to breathe, and his chest too hot inside. His mother had loved roses; she had used every available patch of space to plant them – containers on the balcony, a tiny roof garden, even behind their house, breaking the stark formality of the traditional garden his father preferred.
Wrong, he scolded himself, that was Ran. Ran again. And Ran had died a long time ago.
So what was this box doing here? He was getting truly cross. No, angry. He could feel resentment beginning to bubble deep within, swell and grow hotter, rise and suddenly surge with blinding force, blotting out-
The twisted reed strings fell off the box where Aya had slashed them with the tanto.
Welcome fury that blotted out the pain of memories uncalled for, unwanted, and not his. Aya gave the box a kick as he rose. The lid came off and slipped with a soft rustle, revealing a glimpse of white. Rice paper, used to wrap precious things... expensive silk, shimmering in a sea of black under the neat layer of near transparent white.
A scattering of rose petals.
A heavy kimono. see NOTES 2)
Hakama, finely striped in black and white.
A beautiful dark blue keku obi.
A black haori of habutae silk, with a white haori-himo, its silken tassels like silver bells. One corner turned over a little to show a flash of deep purple lining with hand-painted wisteria to match his chosen eye colour.
Grass-woven zori with white straps and white tabi to go with them.
A nagajuban of silk gauze, complete with a date-jime of corded white, blue and black silk.
A hadajuban of pale raw silk. An extremely costly understatement for the material was hand woven, extravagant in its simplicity, and would always be covered by the silken layers of the outer garments. Except to the eyes of those who would watch the wearer undress...
No question whether this was ready bought. The hand-sewn seams were almost invisible, artful testimony to the maker of this treasure.
At the bottom of the box lay even a fundoshi of flawless cotton. A slight blush stained Aya's cheeks – whoever had put this together knew what flattered tender skin, and how to wrap subtle messages into the lavish layers of fabric.
That innocent looking box was worth several million yen.
As the silk whispered over Aya's idly browsing hands, a faint gleam touched his gaze, and stiffly, he leaned forward to see where it came from. On the pale fabric of the nagajuban, at the inside of the hem, a tiny embroidery caught his eye. As iki as the rest of the ensemble, it would be known only to the wearer and... Aya refused to think this through as he examined the image, no larger than two thumbnails. It was exquisitely hand-stitched in grey-blue silk, the colour of the autumn sky, and showed an orchid winding around the leg of a crane.
He stared in silence. He had no idea for how long he knelt there, unable to do anything. Frozen until fine tremors begun to run through his protesting muscles. Trying to calm his shaking hands, Aya folded everything back into place as neatly as it had been, his movements deliberately slow as he fought to regain his composure. Then, wrapping his arms around himself, he sunk back to sit on his heels.
Cattleya and crane. Yohji. And he. NO. Yohji and Ran. Ran would have worn this stuff, ridiculously costly, luxuriously understated, highly formal, and breathtakingly beautiful.
Aya wore layers of leather and Teflon vests against the hazards of his job. The aroma of roses and reeds would have suited Ran in its gentleness. Aya stank of blood and waste, and when he had scrubbed the stench of death off his skin, he would smell of pine needles and sandal.
He had not realised just how far he had drifted until another smell mingled with the reeds and roses. Tobacco, booze and shampoo. Yohji. Before Aya could scrape himself together enough to decide whether to skewer him or just run, Yohji wound his arms around him, pinning him in place as he dug his chin into Aya's shoulder. His hair tickled Aya's neck and cheek, and his breath washed softly over Aya's skin. "Happy birthday," he murmured, dangling a card before Aya's nose.
He had gone to the length to have it calligraphed.
Bara no hana koko wo matage to saki ni keri, see NOTES 1)
Aya read, his lips moving silently.
Yohji's lips touched his cheek. "Are you cranky?"
He had been seething. Prepared to return the box with some choice remarks about raking around in things that did not concern Yohji in the slightest, to cut him to the quick so he would leave full well alone... for Ran was dead.
"I always... I mean..." Yohji faltered, withdrew one hand and fidgeted – fumbling for his cigarettes, Aya guessed, and swallowed a sigh when a lighter clicked and Yohji tried to wave the first mouthful of smoke away from him. He took a few deep, nervous pulls; Aya did not stir, and finally Yohji could not bear the silence any longer and blurted, "I'd hoped you'd wear it. Once at least."
Without touching the contents of the box again, Aya carefully replaced the lid. "Once?" He had gone to all this outrageous expense so Aya could wear this outfit, if only once? Buying this precious ensemble must have wiped out his savings of half a lifetime... their lifetime with Weiss. He would have been unable to afford it without saving. How long had he been planning on this? Aya managed to suppress a shiver, brought on by waves hot and cold that crashed through him and threatened to wash away his precious cool. NO, he berated himself, Yohji had bought this stuff not for Aya, but for Ran. He hoped to win Ran back if he could get Aya to dress up like this... bring alive memories Aya preferred to stay where he had buried them, close enough to fuel his drive for revenge, deep enough not to cut him to pieces. Yohji was stupid.
Aya gathered the cut strings and managed to knot them back together. "What a waste." His voice was harsh, his tone bitter. He shoved the box towards Yohji and rose to his feet, shaking his companion off. "It won't suit me."
"Everything suits you." And then, so typically mule-headed and somewhat incongruous, "I love you. But if you want, you can always strip naked and stay like this. I'd prefer that." Yohji did not sound funny. He did not even smile as he got up and walked out, leaving Aya alone with his ghosts, his anger and a cloud of smoke.
Behind the bamboo blinds, the day rose unwillingly from the grey dawn. Aya knelt by the window, staring through the gaps between the thin slats into the brightening sky above the awakening city. His hands rested idly in his lap, his back was stiff, his thighs tense from retaining this formal pose unmoving for hours. Down the hall, Ken's door clapped, then he heard Omi laugh and Ken chuckle as they padded into the kitchen to make breakfast. In the living room, the volume of the television got cranked up. Yohji would be grouchy and waspish after nights like that – no sleep, not nearly enough booze, running low on nicotine, and deprived of sex.
It did not matter. Not to Aya who did not feel a dull ache deep in his chest, who did not want to wear the precious garments to remind him of his dead self, who definitely did not long to tell Yohji...
With a soft groan, Aya shook his head and carefully rose to his feet, allowing his sore muscles to adjust and warm up. He slipped his yukata off his shoulders, poured water from the pitcher on his sideboard into the bowl and began to wash, as slowly and thoroughly as everything he did. He half-closed his eyes because they felt grainy from wearing the purple contacts for too long without a break, and because the loofah he scraped over his neck and arms felt strangely sensual, like the gentle touch of rough, scratchy hands. Especially when it tingled over his nipples that promptly hardened. As they would under Yohji's hands, scarred by his own weapon, sliced and healed many times over.
The sliver of a mirror that lay by the bowl showed Aya that a faint blush was rising to his cheeks, and he scowled at his image before flipping the offending looking glass over.
"Can't face it?" a soft voice startled him. Yohji still wore the clothes he had slept in, messy and crinkled, his soft hair looked greasy and dishevelled, and he reeked of sweat and stale smoke. He slouched against the doorframe, with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, face blank. The stance he adopted when assessing a situation and had not yet decided on the next step. "Another year older, Fuji, and still none the wiser?"
Ah, he was back to taunting, though his tone held no smile, not even a smirk. Rather a strange undercurrent... pain? No, he would just be hung over. Aya could handle this much better than the images his mind was trying to shove into his consciousness after roaming around in his nether regions. It only confirmed that he was right to stay well clear, just as he had tried for quite some time now, admittedly with varying success. But if just thinking of Yohji did this to him, he was still way off his self-appointed mark. "Get out, Yohji."
"The hell I will," came the cranky, rather aggressive retort, though it was delivered in the same soft voice.
Oh.
Aya froze, his fingers squeezing the water from the loofah into the bowl. "I cannot accept your gift," he said quietly. "It's too expensive." And it was not for him. "It is your own fault. You should not splash out on such things without checking beforehand whether they'll be welcome."
"Did it hurt?"
Aya's shoulders rose and tightened with tension. Yohji was with him in a couple of longlegged strides; Aya spun around even as Yohji's arms closed about his waist, and he ended up pressed against his partner's warm presence. Bathed in Yohji's muggy aroma of cigarettes and lust and life while he tried to come to his senses and will away the sensations stirring in his rebellious body, and worse, the ones that flooded his mind. The ache in his chest throbbed harder. "You knew it would. You did it on purpose," he accused, bringing up his fists between them. He shoved hard, Yohji tightened his clasp, his eyes darkening as his mouth hardened into a firm line.
"Hai, on fucking purpose. If that's what it takes to bring you back to yourself, I'll even hurt you," he rasped. "And I won't stop until you're-"
He was unprepared for the swift hook of a dainty foot around his ankle, drawing his legs from underneath him even as Aya's fists thwapped against his chest; a mean little trick landing him flat on his back with a hard thump that knocked the air out of him. Calmly, Aya regarded him from above. "I do not want this. I do not need it. You will not hurt me, Kudoh. No one will, ever again."
Yohji's eyes fluttered shut as he fought to regain his breath. He let his arms fall wide by his sides, palms up, and lay still while Aya returned to the sideboard to brush his teeth and clear up his washing utensils. "If you won't keep it, I'll burn the stuff," Yohji declared flatly to Aya's straight back.
He most definitely was nuts. They earned well with Kritiker, but not well enough to burn up millions of yen for a passing fancy.
"You will do no such thing," Aya countered firmly, without missing a beat, "but take it back where you had it made, and ask the shop to sell it for you. It should not be difficult. Then you can replenish your savings. Try to be reasonable for once."
"I'm not known for that."
Aya snorted softly in agreement.
Even in this position, Yohji was capable of finding his damn cigarettes and light one without dropping glowing ash onto his face, Aya noticed irritably. "Stop stinking out my room."
"You didn't mind earlier on."
"Earlier on, I was half asleep, and you needed it." He hated the smug grin that played over Yohji's face and settled in the fine wrinkles around his eyes. "Perhaps I should not let you abuse my goodwill like this."
"Ouch," Yohji mocked, eyes still shut, and took another deep pull. And then, "I do need it now, you know. Real bad." A slight grinding motion of his hips illustrated luridly just what he meant, just in case Aya tried to deliberately miss the point.
Why did he have to blush when Yohji came up with one of his entendres? Yohji was a damn slut after all. Aya felt himself grow even redder, this time with a hefty stab of shame. Yohji gave warmth, and perhaps he was a bit too indiscriminate just whom he gifted with it, but he never did things by halves, and his generosity made Aya feel small and selfish. And jealous. Aya bit his lip to lock in a gasp.
Sprawled like this over the tatami floor, he looked too tempting for his own good. "Get up now," Aya said, softer than intended as he stooped to reach out for Yohji. Long, hard fingers closed round his in a bruising grip. Yohji stilled, smoke drifting in lazy wisps from his nose and parted lips, his face becalmed, almost serene.
"I love you," he said quietly.
To hell with him and his directness. He just knew when to hit low and mean, and he nearly always got through. Aya sank into a crouch by his side and quickly raked his fingers through messy brown locks. "That's what you believe. It's just an illusion, Yohji."
"Then I love that illusion." He brought Aya's hand to his lips for a kiss. "I wanna die with that illusion."
"Nonsense," Aya snapped, and Yohji sensed the tremor running through him. He cracked open one critical green eye.
"Why? You're trying to pull that stunt on me all the time." Aya said nothing but tugged to free his hand. Yohji's grip was unyielding. "You know how that feels, huh? To go into every new job knowing your partner's trying to get his idiotic self killed? The thing you most love on this shitty world is trying to get away from you like this?" He thrust his free arm up and snapped the fingers in front of Aya's nose. "Got you there, Fuji. You damn well know how it feels, huh? I know you do."
"You hate me," Aya said pointedly, wincing in Yohji's clasp.
"Yeah, yeah, blah-di-blah, spare me the shit, will you? Or d'you really think I'm that thick?"
Not in the slightest. On the contrary, Kudoh Yohji was way too lucid for Aya's liking. It scared him no end how easily his shields had been crushed, how quickly Yohji had dismissed all those carefully built defences he presented to others as the real Aya. They worked fine with everyone else, so what was wrong with him now? Oh, well, they had slept with one another in the past, and somehow Yohji had gotten into his head that there should be more to it than just relief.
Yet there was nothing loveable about Fujimiya Aya whose hair was as red as his katana in battle.
Yohji loved an idea. His dream of Ran. And Ran was dead.
Leaving Aya with the impossible task to get this stubborn fool to see the truth for what it was before they both would crack completely. "No, I think you're delusional. Probably a consequence of substance abuse and insomnia, suffered over an extended period of time." He did not mention slutting around. Perhaps Yohji did not deserve being hit below the belt, so Aya decided he wanted to try softer methods first.
Yohji chuckled.
Could he not be serious for once?
"Just what do you want, Yohji?" And why did his voice not sound at all as he had intended – stern and cold – but had this odd... husky quality?
Yohji's other eye slid open, and he regarded Aya with a hooded gaze. "Allow me to love you as you deserve." He flipped onto his stomach and seized Aya's other hand, gathering them in a single grip and reaching up to touch Aya's cheek. Aya stared down at him and saw devotion, warmth, and so much hope it was plain silly.
"Wrong address, Kudoh," he said, trying again to free his hands, but Yohji slithered up to him until he knelt with his thighs to either side of Aya's, his arm slipping round Aya's shoulders and his lips touching Aya's ear.
"You are you. I don't care about names. I told you it's for life, I meant it," he murmured, holding Aya firmly as he tried to twitch away. He drew back a little to seek Aya's gaze. Aya stared at his knees.
"You don't understand shit," he said, longing for this touch to last, for Yohji to leave, for the stillness of his lonely room, for Yohji's energetic presence... too many things that would not match.
"I understand," Yohji said, gently thumbing over the wrists of the captive hands, "that one day, we might not return together from a mission. I understand that our lives are a fucked-up mess. I even know that I'm a slut." A spark of amusement entered his eyes when Aya's glance snapped up at this and immediately hid behind red bangs again. "But," Yohji began to rub soothing circles over Aya's back, "I also know that you've given me my life back. You wanna take that back, huh?"
At this, Aya lifted his head and gaped at him. Yohji did not smile. The spark had gone, instead his eyes held a deep glow that sent spikes of fire through Aya, pooling right down between his legs. Yohji leaned into him, touching his lips in a kiss, sinking his gaze into Aya's as he did so. "Love you," he breathed into Aya's mouth. "Can't help it."
And just when Aya felt his resistance go to hell, Yohji pulled back and released his hands, with an apologetic rub over the reddened wrists. "Aya?"
"Hm."
"Let me..." He drew the box closer and began to fumble single-handedly with the knots, his other hand sliding up Aya's arm and shoulder to weave into his hair, worshipping the wiry strands. "Let me dress you," Yohji murmured hoarsely, his voice heavy with desire.
Wordlessly, Aya lowered his head. Yohji did interpret this as consent. His breath hitched, then he raised Aya's hand to his lips for another kiss and got up, pulling him along. His hands slid from Aya's hair over his cheeks, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of the pale face, then on they roamed down Aya's muscular arms, and up again to splay over his flanks, seeking and finding. Yohji undid the knot of the narrow sash that held the yukata closed and let it fall to the floor. He gathered Aya against himself and eased the garment down his shoulders and over his arms, baring one, then the other. The starched cotton slid off Aya's body and pooled at his feet, leaving him naked in Yohji's arms.
Naked and wanting. As much as Yohji did.
Yohji paused, stroking Aya's back with shivering reluctance, before drawing a deep breath and peeling himself off Aya. He regarded him with a hungry, wistful expression, before kneeling down to retrieve the fundoshi.
"I want to fuck you," Aya's deep voice dripped into his ear, and he nearly fell over as a wave of heat rushed through him and piqued in his crotch. Aya talking dirty was an utterly rare treat. Yohji tried to breathe evenly around the lump that began to fill his throat, but his hands shook as he began to wrap the cloth around Aya's loins. Brushing his palms over the evidence of his wish with every turn until he could hardly think of anything but to take him in and drink him empty right there.
Oh, how would it feel... after such a long time, to wrap his mouth around Aya and suck him off like a candy treat. He sure would not last long – Aya did not do self-relief, no wonder his tempers sometimes seemed to eat him alive – and there would be enough reserves for more for Aya also possessed an uncanny stamina in this department. As in everything else, Yohji mused dazedly as he tucked the ends of the cloth in and blew a kiss onto the bulge in front. How long had Aya been tearing at his hair? It hurt fairly much, and Aya made no sound. As yet. Yohji kissed his way up the faint line of brownish hair to Aya's navel, and drew back to eye his work.
It nearly drove him over the edge to see Aya, in naked glory, clad with nothing but a flimsy cotton rope, his groin bulging, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, his lips drawn between his teeth to shut in any sound. His eyes had misted over and his cheeks shimmered pink. Yohji quickly adjusted the uncomfortable fullness in his jeans, and almost lost it when he realised that Aya was watching him as he watched Aya. Quickly, he dropped to his knees to pull the kimono slip from the box. Aya raised his arms and Yohji slipped the thing over his head, then smoothed it out along the length of his body, feeling every contour, every bone, tendon, and muscle, even his scars, through the whisper-fine fabric. The sleeveless garment of creamy silk made Aya look more vulnerable than his nakedness, his ivory skin a mere shade darker than the snow-pale fabric that provided a stark contrast to the blood-red of his hair.
And as he knelt at Aya's feet and gazed up at him, it struck Yohji that Aya possessed the colours of death – scarlet and white, and darkness within.
Desire and lust went down like a fire doused with water. Yohji reached up for Aya's hands that hung idly by his sides, and pressed them firmly, before taking the nagajuban from the box.
Aya gazed down at the tousled head, and allowed himself a small inward smile at the intent glances he caught now and then when Yohji met his eyes, with a somewhat searching, covered-up expression that he was hiding well behind a flood of warmth. Yohji's warmth. Rich, sweet, overwhelming, all-encompassing. Generously doled out to a multitude.
Aya's face darkened at the sharp pang of jealousy. Yohji's hands were all over him, smoothing, caressing, tugging here and there, tying expertly the ribbons and cords that held the under-kimono in place. Had he taken lessons? To imagine Yohji enlisting at a kimono school, the tall gaijin-like flirt among a gaggle of respectable matrons – Aya gave in to the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. And no, this did not belong to everyone Yohji fucked, as sure as Aya knew the sun would rise and set every day. There were not many sureties like that in his life.
He let slip a sigh of relief when he realised, surprised, that he had come to regard Yohji as one of them.
About to lift the precious kimono from the box, Yohji froze in mid motion, giving him a questioning glance. Was he so keyed in to Aya that he registered the slightest sound? Aya answered with a rare smile, and Yohji's face brightened with a happy grin. Baka, Aya thought, already back to safe and surly. "And what happens when you're done?" he grated out.
Yohji pushed out his lower lip as though pondering an answer, but then he shook his head, a frown darkening his face. "Ravish you?" He clamped down on Aya's hip to hold him in place as he twitched away. "Don't spoil it, Ayan – you don't want this nice stuff to rip, do you?" He got up, raising the black silk kimono that unfolded with a soft swish and rustle, almost like the hiss of the katana as it was drawn. Aya felt goose bumps run over his arms and back. Yohji slid the sleeves of the garment over his arms from behind, carefully smoothed any kinks, and took his time tying the obi.
Impatiently, Aya tried to interfere, but Yohji swatted his hands away. "I said, don't spoil it," he growled without looking up from his work, and finished with a quick slide of his cupped hand over Aya's crotch. It was too immediate, too surprising, and Aya threw back his head with a loud groan even as he steadied himself by clawing into messy brown hair again. It did not help his state of mind and body that Yohji reacted by digging his face into that very place and hummed wildly against that hard piece of flesh. "Damn you, Yo- ahhh, you telling me not to spoil- ah! Yohji! Yohnnngh-"
Yohji withdrew and had another excuse to touch him there because he needed to smooth out more creases. Aya's grip grew really painful, he had strong, hard hands that began to loosen tufts of Yohji's hair. "Patience," he rasped, "you do NOT wanna come in this, Ayan. It's a bitch for cleaning."
"Bastard," Aya gasped, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. "And... uh... don't – call – me – that!"
Oh, he was still fighting tooth and nail, against his heat, against pleasure, against feeling alive, but it was definitely a losing battle. Yohji smiled. Who would have thought dressing Aya up would be as much fun as getting him naked? Though somehow, it seemed to suit stuck-up, straight-laced Aya more, and Yohji only regretted not to have done this earlier. Well, Aya's birthday had provided a welcome excuse, and a purpose too, for even if Aya had been determined to ignore it, he would remember the day now as sure as Yohji was Kudoh the Flirt.
Aya moved somewhat stiffly when Yohji helped him into the hakama, and he had to steady himself holding on to Yohji's shoulders. Tying the sashes of the garment, Yohji thought amusedly how practical it was – the sharp folds hid Aya's embarrassment almost completely. By the wicked glance he shot at Yohji, and the slightly bared teeth, he could read thoughts as well. Dare you to say something, this glance said. Yohji bit his tongue. Today, he did not want to pursue his hobby of pissing Aya off. Instead, he straightened, leaned into Aya and pressed a kiss against his little snarl, flicking his tongue over those immaculate sharp white teeth. Aya tried to pull back, but Yohji cupped the back of his head and held him still as he finished the kiss tenderly.
He could feel Aya panting slightly, he could sense the familiar warring between wanting this so much, wanting to live and enjoy, and his home-made idea of self-punishment. And when he opened his eyes, he stared straight into the purple gaze.
Yohji stepped back, his pulse racing, and gave Aya an all-over. He moved in again to tug and prod and fuss until he was content that everything was arranged as perfectly as he could do this, before placing the haori over Aya's shoulders. Then he knelt down and lifted one of his feet. Aya's hand laced through his hair again, but unlike the lustful grip earlier, the touch was gentle, combing slowly through the tangle of brown strands. "Yohji," Aya said, wistfully. Yohji kissed his toes, one by one, ending his worship of Aya's foot by suckling briefly the smallest toe before slipping on tabi and zori. "Aya," Yohji answered firmly as he treated the other foot to the same kindness.
Yohji picked through the layers of rice paper and brought out a small fan of grey paper, lovingly painted with cranes.
And orchids.
He tucked it into Ran's obi and scooted across to the futon. Aya kept the katana under the long edge of the mattress on his side of the bed. Yohji returned, offering him the sheathed blade with both hands, and for the first time taking in his creation. His dream come true. Aya slipped the katana into the obi as well and regarded him with a mixture of nervous curiosity and embarrassment. Attired in full formal kimono, he looked like someone from a past century, a magic warrior, the wonderful hero of a fairytale of passion and beauty.
Still on his knees, hands now slack in his lap, Yohji stared. Awe, sadness and a nagging feeling of not deserving pulled at his mind. Suddenly, he felt the gap between them like a chasm: Aya – no, Ran – of good family, educated, refined, beautiful, destined to live carefree and one day, inherit wealth and power as it became him, and he – Kudoh Yohji, ex private investigator, resident mind-in-the-gutter, with an education that was at best mediocre, a lineage that could only be called muddled, and a history of dependencies of all kinds. He held no doubt that at some point, this life would be over for Aya and he would reclaim his family's fortune.
So I'll help taking you there, and be content.
"What?" Aya gave him a puzzled look, and Yohji realised he had said the words aloud. "Where are you planning to take me?"
"Where would you like to go?" Yohji asked, recovering his smile that was good at warding off anything from awkward questions to Aya's prodding gaze.
"Don't know. You seemed to have a plan all along," Aya shrugged, looking uncomfortable.
Yohji laughed quietly. "Hai. Let me change – I'll speed up, I promise – and then I'll tell you." He made for the door, and Aya started.
"Yohji! What- hell, what am I supposed to do now? You'll take forever!"
Yohji yanked the door open and swished out before Aya could get him. "Look at yourself in the mirror," he shouted happily as he stalked towards the bathroom, and shortly afterwards Aya could hear him sing, loud and off-key, in the shower.
Aya fumed for a while. Then he glared at the box. When this did not do anything, he reluctantly picked up the shard of a looking glass he had tossed away earlier and did as Yohji had told him.
His eyes widened and he leaned against the sideboard for hold.
For in the looking glass, he saw Ran.
xxx
NOTES:
1)
A haiku (short poem 5-7-5) by Issa, 1791
bara no hana koko wo matage to saki ni keri
thorny wild roses
"Step over us here!"
as they bloom
2)
hakama, finely striped in black and white - wide, pleated trousers or skirt. Striped in black and white, they are of the most formal kind.
abeautiful dark blue keku obi - a soft obi of precious fabric for men's formal wear.
ablack haori - wide sleeved jacket similar to a cut off kimono
of habutae silk - a structured fine silk
with a white haori-himo, its silken tassels like silver bells - a braided cord to hold the haori closed over the chest; in white it is suitable for the highest level of formality
one corner turned over a little to show a flash of deep purple lining with hand-painted wisteria to match his chosen eye colour - samurai shunned the ostentatious presentation of wealth through flamboyant clothes in favour of 'iki', i.e. understated chic including haori made of expensive though plain dyed silk but lined with richly painted or otherwise decorated fabric. This also helped to comply with sumptuary laws that were meant to restrict indulgence - so one could still up one's lord by having one's cake and eating it alone...
wisteria to match his chosen eye colour - wisteria is one interpretation of 'fuji'
grass woven zori with white straps and white tabi to go with them - highest formal footwear for men; zori: strap sandals, tabi: split-toe sewn cotton socks
anagajuban of silk gauze, complete with a date-jime of corded white, blue and black silk - here Yohji might have slipped slightly into the ladies' department but hey, it's Aya he's thinking of: an under-kimono and sash
ahadajuban of pale raw silk - kimono shift or slip
a fundoshi of flawless cotton - a loincloth, could be worn wrapped or twisted and then tied into a kind of underpants.
xxx