Was it Meant to Be?
The fog was sitting rather heavily over the town this morning. The air was cool and moist, like drying hair, and it rushed against my face in greeting. I had expected a little more from a mid-spring morning, but I wasn't complaining—at least the sky was clear, for once. It had been raining nonstop for the last week, clinging stubbornly to the last touch of late winter-early spring storminess.
I couldn't handle winter very well; it went against all I stood for. Even the snow couldn't keep me down—after months of blizzards and bone-aching chills, I found myself nearly bouncing off the walls to preserve my sanity. I must profess that I am a woman of action, and such cooping up did little to improve upon my temper and served only to dull my wits a bit further. Calligraphy lessons did not stick, training in the dojo put aside, chores were meticulously yet mindlessly done—even social interaction was decreased to a certain extent. I don't really know what it was—whether it was the weather, or something else about me, but I found myself preoccupying less and less about him.
He seemed to thrive in the desolate cold, the hostile bite of winter. He rose at the first hint of dawn (whether there was a sun or not), walking to the temple with an almost masochistic relish. I found that despite all the years I had been under his custody, I did not know him at all. At first, this had bothered me to a great degree, bringing me nearly to tears at the unromantic ignorance I held, mourning over the connection I had never had. But by now, I found that I merely shrugged at it all—I simply did not care much anymore.
I suppose it started shortly before I had turned eighteen. I was foolishly ambling about, scampering to the temple with a tray of tea accessories in hand. I normally was not clumsy—boyish, yes, but not clumsy. But winter had struck sooner than expected. Before I could notice the sleet of slick ice covering the dead grass, I had slipped, falling heavily on my side. The tray in my hands? It had nowhere to go but downwards—smack on top of my prone body. Clay teacups and tea accessories pelted my fallen figure, but only when the teapot shattered by my side, scorching me with burning liquid did I give in to pained surprise and let out a shaky breath. I do not know how long I lay back, drinking in the burn and the utter solitude of my predicament. I was alone, but, to my great surprise, I did not fear my condition. I sat up, wincing slightly as the searing ache of the burn dug into my abdomen. The tinkling of broken cups and discarded tea utensils met with high-pitched dissonance, which immediately made me wince as I took in the damage. Cuts littered my wrists and fingers, and upon lifting my shirt up, the paleness of my stomach was marred by angry, sweltering marks of haphazardly spilled tea. I would bear marks of this incident for at least a half-year before my skin would fully heal. Sighing, I got to my feet—hell, there was no reason for me to throw a tantrum now, not when I only had myself to blame. Ignoring the feverish soreness cultivating on my lower body, I bent over and began to clean my mess.
I eventually got to the temple, balancing another tray of tea warily with bandaged hands. I had taken much more caution on this second trip, almost inching towards the temple. Gone was my careless walk, gone were my actions of frivolity—for the moment, I was scared even out of my unrestrained disposition. I carefully opened the door, walking slowly to Aoshi-sama, my eyes for once not focused on his unyielding back. I settled the tea tray noiselessly by his side and began the ceremony. After a while, I realized his eyes were on me. Perhaps it was due to the slight, unusual trembling of my wrapped hands. Or perhaps it was due to my startled countenance; indeed, my brow was still marginally twitching from my recent misfortune. Either way, his silent scrutiny was soon adjusted as he chose to stare into my eyes instead. Or rather, he tried to. I would not meet his gaze for the world. Funny. Before, I had no qualms about meeting his eyes, but not this time. I merely served the tea, then attempted to pick up the tray, but found that my hands were trembling so badly that I couldn't pick it up. Without a sound, I gave up and left it by his side. He would bring it down himself when he returned. I, for my part, was done. I got up to my feet, suddenly feeling liberated. Without a backwards glance, I walked away, feeling my heart leap in unexpected flexibility. I don't know what the significance of that last tea meeting had meant, but all I knew was that my feelings had gone down an abrupt and different path from that moment on. It is quite hard to explain. I guess the best way I can try to sum things up is by saying that after that day, I didn't live my life the same way I had before. I simply changed.
At first, the others had been alarmed. Misao, not boisterous anymore? Not making the littlest thing seem like the greatest crisis in the world? Not in constant pursuit of her Aoshi-sama? To tell you the truth, I had gotten a little bland. Well, at least, in my opinion. For the next few months, I swear I did literally nothing. Actually, it was more like I did a lot of busy work, but nothing of significance to truly occupy my mind. No more tea sessions spent in dim candlelight trying to futilely dissect Aoshi-sama's mysterious psyche. No more training sessions that I threw myself in tooth and nail. They had, at first, thought that I was trying to withdraw and act more lady-like to get Aoshi-sama intrigued. Honestly, I can't remember if that was my goal—the reasons for my sudden change were hazy. Whatever it was, I certainly didn't find myself thinking in that matter after winter had passed. Me… ladylike? Fat chance. There was no way that I was (at present, at least) going to exert myself in trying to act like someone else. I was trying too hard to get myself together, at it was. At least, without being dictated by Aoshi-sama. Yes, thinking back, I can presume that my initial change had been wrought by Aoshi-sama as the focus, yet again. Possibly some sort of rebellion, some petty adolescent scheme. It does not matter any longer. It is slightly amusing, to say the least, that I had no idea how Aoshi-sama spent those three winter months, or how he had reacted to my change. My ignorance in that slight lapse was large, to say the least.
Yet, with the coming of spring, I felt something…melt. The freedom that had brought such plasticity from before had started to weigh me down during those long, nocturnal months. With the first melting of the snow, I found my heart respond to the change with an elemental, childish delight that I had thought was repressed. I found it easier to laugh, easier to smile. Perhaps it had to do with the first glimpse of the green shoots peeking out of the sparkling snow, or with the greatly welcomed warbling of the forest birds. Whatever. Anyway, I found myself almost responding to this blooming, this thawing. I felt a sudden solidarity that I had lacked for the last season or so. With these new revelations, I felt my spirits surge—perhaps this was the real me, the one that was destined to be in control from now on. It was at this stage of transient euphoria that he approached me.
*
This had to end…now. Did she not see what changes she brought upon the Aoiya with her gradual deterioration? Aoshi shook his head slightly, frustrated and mystified for the first time in years. At least, to this extent. He had always taken Misao's emotional candidness for granted, reading her as easily as an open book or a slate with posted announcements. But she had withdrawn from the others—from him—as of late. He assumed that this conscientious estrangement took root after a certain incident near the market place. A week after her birthday, Misao had gone to the market with Omasu to shop for that night's supper. She had worn a kimono that the older women had pitched in to buy her. She looked exquisite in that color. Indigo, a deeper shade of her own blue-based eyes. She didn't know it, but he had caught a glimpse of her as she left through the front gate. He had been heading towards the dojo for some training when he saw a flash of sapphire and midnight black silk. That silk happened to be her hair, loose from all restraints as it trailed down her slender figure, framing her to a degree of beauty and feminine allure he had not thought possible in the same spitfire he had raised as a youth. At once, he had felt something eat away at him, something consuming him, gnawing upon him like a hungry animal. He could barely repress his dismay and shock at these new feelings and promptly decided that they weren't worth his inspection.
Enough on the introspection. What had been of importance was that when the two women returned, Misao had come leaning on the older kunoichi's arm, her face pale and nearly wraithlike in its pearly sheen. That was, until she turned her head to the side. Blood dribbled a dark crimson path from the crown of her head, marking her temple and the curve of her cheek with fine, delicate lines. It was almost surreal, the effect the fluid had on her. He had almost thought she had applied some sort of cosmetic for the ultimate joke, but Okon's horrified gasp and the boys' hoarse shouts were not the effect such a prank would elicit. And there she stood, a fairy-like creature in all of its disintegrating beauty, bleeding onto her fine attire. It took nearly all of his effort to keep from jumping forward and gathering her in his arms. His legs were already bringing him to her as if they had a will of their own as it was. Soon her glazed eyes were focused, peering up at him with dark azure impenetrability. He had nearly started back—this was the first time she had erected walls around herself, shutting him out. On purpose. Yet, there was a silent plea in those unyielding, hard eyes. They begged him to leave her in peace. Or perhaps for him to leave her room to breathe with ease. Whatever she had meant to say, Aoshi understood her plea for remoteness. He halted and kept his distance, watching her with barely shrouded eyes. She was gently ushered into the Aoiya by sturdy hands, leaving him to take in the lingering, sweet scent of her perfumed hair in isolation.
Later he had heard that she had been pulled into a brawl by accident, having been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Malicious men, lust and innocent women had always made a fatal combination. And she was not only an innocent woman, but also a beautiful, innocent woman. He would not grudge her the compliment, not when it was the truth. But beauty seemed to be an obstruction this time around. Luckily, Omasu had finished her bargaining in time to catch the men who had managed to corner Misao due to her lack of attention and constrictive kimono. In the scuffle that followed, Omasu had come out unscathed, but the same absence of mind that had gotten Misao in trouble to begin with had gotten her injured by an attack she should have easily dodged. He wasn't sure if it was this incident that caused the fading of her previous spirit, but it was the first time he had let it come into notice.
In all due respect, he had come to acknowledge her too late anyhow. So completely wrapped up in his own penitence, Aoshi had not been open to crossing paths with love. He had never stumbled upon such emotions before, so he presumed it would be relatively easy to live without them. How wrong he was. He could not exactly pinpoint what precise instance she had struck him in that manner, but he could presume that it had been a gradual process. First, flickering images of her in his mind's eye, then enduring gazes cast when he knew she wasn't looking. The worst of all came during the bitterest time of winter, shortly after solstice. Dreams of her, tantalizing and painstakingly detailed, came to play in his nocturnal world, bringing little respite to the Okashira. Yes, it was possibly then that he had come into terms with his changing views on the young ward who had somehow blossomed into a woman over the years. He had acknowledged these sensations, but he would by no means act upon them. The slight sliver of hope came with her soft yet persistent pursuit of him, an interest he had vaguely recognized over the years as what he hoped would be only a youthful infatuation. Now he feared that it would be so, and he was proven right when she withdrew from him. It was only an infatuation, nothing more. He had to admit that no conclusive truth had hurt him to such an extent before.
He was not a man to press his feelings upon an unwilling lady—he would forget these unnecessary, unfamiliar emotions. But he did know that her condition as of yet was fragile and unnatural. This Misao had to come into terms with herself. And for the last few months, she had been struggling. He knew that her situation was foreign, unexpected—unwonted. He would go see her; astoundingly, he had something to offer to her.
**
Fate. Was there anything that was ever meant to be? Was Himura meant to beat Yukishiro Eniishi, or did he just luck out? Was it destiny when he chanced upon Kaoru-san's dojo? Was it merely a coincidence when she met up with Kaoru-san and Yahiko when she had been traveling with the quaint rurouni? Was it fated for Aoshi-sama to fall at his deceptively effeminate hands? Misao shook her head violently. No, nothing was ever meant to be. Nothing would be more than some bizarre happenstance, a queer toss of the dice. The only thing she could be sure of was her own strength, her own knowledge of her self. In other words, she was screwed. Her own strength… she had a fair grasp at what that was. But a knowledge of her self? In this matter, she was hopelessly drowning. She needed something to grab onto, anything to pull herself up with. For a long time, she had thought Aoshi-sama would be her branch, her savior. But after five years of hopeless, one-sided love, Misao had to take the bitter dose of reality. It was not going to happen that way. She had snapped out of her fantasy world of ideal love—she would not be loved the way she wanted to be, especially from him. She was simply not compatible in that manner.
"Enough of this."
The cold voice pierced the morning dampness, startling Misao out of her early reverie. She spun on her heel to face no other than her Aoshi-sama. The surprise that had brushed upon her features was briskly cast aside as Misao put on a polished look of polite indifference, "Ohayo, Aoshi-sama." She chose to ignore his earlier statement until he explained himself, which was most likely not going to happen unless she inquired about it. Which was something she no longer did.
Gone was the self-pity she had seemed to bask in, making Aoshi gaze down upon her with narrowed eyes. This woman was foreign to him, glacial in her untouchable beauty. She was gazing up at him, yet managing to avoid his face at the same time, if that was possible. Under the guise of being direct when she was really trying to avoid him. Aoshi frowned. It seemed that, along with her blossoming, adult body, Misao had acquired some of those infuriatingly clever womanly tricks as well. There was no need for confusion—he would be blunt.
His arm snaked out, grasping her wrist in a split second as Misao looked up into his face this time, her black locks falling over her ocean-veiled eyes, betraying the surprise she was feeling. The okashira's face was pale, his mouth tight and unyielding as his steady, steel blue eyes bore onto hers. The girl nearly shivered at the sensation of the power he held over her by merely holding onto her. Humph. It seemed like she wasn't immune to him, after all. He took advantage of her silence by turning and dragging her away from the open window and taking her outside—away from the comfort and propriety of home. Closer to the forest, the wild and unbridled sensations she had attempted to leash for the last few months. In her panic, she overrode her shock and began to fight against him, clawing his forearm and demanding in an undertone that he let her go. It wouldn't do to awaken the others, you know. By the time the tall man had drawn the young kunoichi into the seclusion and anonymity of the garden, his arm was littered with red scratches and his chest was heaving forcefully as he let go of the young woman roughly and stared at her unfathomably through dark eyes. Misao was in no better state: her hair was rampant, coiled and tousled as it wildly framed her wan face, her eyes large and clear in the weak morning sunlight, her body leaning backwards as if she would bolt at any minute. But she didn't; she was no fool—if she so much as tried to flee, she knew Aoshi would snatch her up at an instant. A part of her wished to do so anyway, to blatantly disobey her Okashira to see what kind of reaction she could kindle from the man. She suddenly stood up, bringing herself as tall as she could, given her limited stature, and regally lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with a fiery defiance of her own. She would not stoop down to running; Makimachi Misao was a woman of her own right and she would deal with all conflicts with an even mind. Her resolute standing was slightly ruptured; however, once she caught a fleeting look of heat pass over the man's face.
Reluctant respect. That's what it was. He had seen a rebirth of the Misao he had known, a resurging of the fierce, sure spirit she had wielded but a year ago. She must have restrained it in her confused state of mind. Aoshi knew now what he was dealing with, and what to aim for. With a steady expression, he reached over once more and jerked Misao close to him, his arm resting against her waist as he brought her to him. For a short-lived moment, their bodies blended in the morning haze, their breath mingling as he clutched her to his chest with all that he was worth. But that was not enough. Misao, shocked for a moment, leaned rigidly against his chest, her breathing choppy and jagged, until her blue eyes cleared up and grew hard. She balled her fists together and wrenched out of his hold, her head snapping up as she glared at him with all her might, "What the hell was that for?"
To this formidable inquiry, Aoshi merely glanced down at her and stepped away from her. Turning around, he began to walk noiselessly back to the Aoiya, leaving behind a very wound-up and bewildered Misao. But her confusion only lasted for an instant. Narrowing her eyes, Misao scowled to herself, unable to swallow the vague feeling that she had been used somehow. He would not walk away from her without an answer! Before she could reason with herself and manage to argue her way out of such immediate action, she was already running. Running to him. It wasn't quite so simple, however. He stopped when he heard the light padding of her feet against the dewed grass, his figure tall and straight, dark against the vividly green grass. Misao's mouth curved up in the mildest of smirks before she lodged herself and leapt onto his back.
Aoshi had been expecting an attack of some sort, but he had expected a verbal one, not a physical one. A physical assault was more within the former Misao's line of action, which meant that she was not without some hope. He fell hard onto his front with a low grunt, feeling her supple figure thud hard against his.
"You," she panted out, "cannot ever walk away from me like that." Aoshi felt the grass tickle his cheek—this was all very outlandish and undignified. With an attempt to release her grip on him and slip out from under her, he reversed their positions with a fluid move, trapping the young woman under his large frame. She blinked owlishly before growing red with frustration, fuming aloud, "Why you—I'm not even done with you yet. I oughta—" She fought against his grip, bucking up underneath him and jerking, "Lemme go!" He knew he should—this all had gotten rather out of hand, as it was. All he had meant to do was offer her some comfort, some stability in the midst of her personal confusion, but here he had her pinned against his weight, possibly confusing the both of them even more. Yet he would not let go. After a few moments of frenzied resistence, Misao let her head fall back limply, her chest heaving as Aoshi watched a line of sweat trickle down her sloping cheek. He must have been watching her intensely for a while, because she flushed crimson, hiding her eyes behind her bangs for a moment before she tossed her head defiantly, her eyes flashing as she murmured in a low, quiet and impossibly dangerous voice, "Are you… toying with me?"
It was his turn to blink. Aoshi looked down at her with barely concealed dismay before murmuring, "Toying?"
Misao's eyes narrowed, "If you are, I simply won't allow it! You of all people should—"
Before she could even finish her threat, Aoshi lowered his head even more, his eyes dark as he cut her off, "Perhaps I am, although it was unwittingly done." He stopped for a fluttering moment, his nose brushing against hers, "I guess I should make it up to you." With that, he fell upon her.
Temptation was too much to handle at the moment, especially with their intimate contact. He could feel the softness of her breast as it was crushed against his own chest, his mouth desperately seeking hers in this clash of lips, this bumping of noses—this mingling of breath. Suddenly, he wanted to feel all of her against him, proceeding to strip her of her clothes. She did not seem to mind, since she complied readily, shrinking out of her kimono as she tugged at his shirt. With a resolute, swift action, he flung their clothes into the air, leaving them both shuddering and impossibly intense with the novelty of their situation. Then he tensed, feeling Misao gently brush her soft fingers in a fluid upward movement against the bare nape of his neck. Without any further rational thought, he took her there and then.
***
It was she who had broken their connection first. She looked painstakingly beautiful. In fact, she looked the more beautiful than he had ever seen her before. It was possibly because she was in his arms now. His arms, his mind reasoned, did that make her his? He wished it were so, even more than he had ever wished for the leadership of the Oniwabanshuu, the title of the strongest, even more than the lives of his companions. But the look on her face told him otherwise.
"Not that way." She was biting on her lower lip with consternation, her eyes lucid and vulnerable as she shook her head slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Misao looked up at the only man her young heart had ever loved to such an extent, "I didn't want you to make it up to me that way."
Aoshi could only gaze down upon her in gray silence, his expression even more withdrawn than usual, "I see."
"No," she contradicted, "you don't. I don't want these… outbursts of passion, although," she paused, throwing in a wry semi-smile, "I guess it's quite a shocker whenever you muster up emotion of any sort. I need trust, too."
He exhaled sharply, leaning over to the young woman. She made as if to back away, almost wincing. This instinctive withdrawal seized his heart, making him wonder dismally to what extent he had hurt her before. But she did not rise to her feet. Instead, she let out her breath in a low whoosh and peered up at him, her eyes light as she said in a startlingly clear voice, "I need trust. I need effort on your part; I don't want to do all the chasing." Her face took on a more resolute expression as she stood up straighter, watching him with unguarded eyes. This was it.
"It takes two to make a relationship work."
Aoshi gave her a slight nod; his eyes alit as he looked down upon her. It was almost as if he were…asking something. Misao returned his gaze, uncomprehending. Aoshi pulled her closer, gently and slowly, giving her room to fight back. Misao only had to gaze down at his right arm and see the scratches that littered his forearm to know that this time she would not fight. She allowed him to draw her closer to him, nearly gasping when she felt him lean forward and curve over her, his lips hovering maddeningly close to her ear. She closed her eyes, drinking in the sensation of being in his arms.
He inhaled deeply, letting the rush of her fragrance wash over him. She was unaware of her control over him as she rested her head against his shoulder, her breathing even and calm. Wisps of her midnight hair tickled his cheek as he murmured into her ear, "I won't pretend to know why you changed so much, nor will I pretend to know what has been upsetting you for these long months. I have never tried particularly hard to understand you, because I knew," he stopped suddenly, feeling her shiver slightly at the impact made by his breath against her sensitive skin, "that if I tried to know you better, I would fall hard."
Misao let a ghost of a smile flicker over her delicate face, "No pun intended, of course."
Aoshi merely lifted an eyebrow: "Indeed. It was only a while ago that I even knew that it was too late for such precautions. I myself was dwelling in my own confusions while you dealt with yours, and was callous enough not to offer any comfort to you in those days. If I knew how much pain it would save you from, I would have interfered sooner."
She had sobered extensively with this last statement, her eyes serious as she lifted her head from his shoulder, "There was not much you could have done, unless…"
Her voice broke off, making Aoshi crane his neck closer as he murmured smoothly, "Unless?"
"You had told me what you were willing to offer."
Aoshi stiffened slightly, and Misao exhaled jaggedly, ducking her head as she reached over to grab her clothes. She was ten times the fool to expect so much from him as it was.
Yet his hold on her did not loosen. If anything, it tightened, "What if I told you what I have to offer now?" At this, Misao's gaze snapped into his, her large ocean-tossed eyes bewildered and uncomprehending as she waited breathlessly for his answer.
"All I have to offer is this…" His grasp on her arm relaxed as his fingers climbed up the smoothness of her wrist and became enmeshed with her own fingers, bringing their intertwined hands to rest against his chest, the back of hers resting directly over his heart. As she felt the beating of his heart through her sensitive skin, Aoshi watched her expression change. Something began to thaw within her—it showed through her softening countenance. Gone was the hardness from earlier, gone were the uncertainties that haunted the depths of her eyes. She held his gaze steadily for a moment before she fell on him heavily, without warning. Aoshi caught her out of reflex, air rushing out of his lungs as he felt the impact of her slender body with barely concealed surprise. Then he felt her clutch at him with a fierce death grip, and then he understood. Without any hesitance, he let one arm snake around her waist and the other slowly ride up her back until it cupped her head. And they held onto each other for all they were worth.
Author's note: Misao had you worried for a while, eh? Sorry for the confusing, switching POVs. First, it's Misao (1st person), then it's Aoshi (3rd person), and then it's both of them (3rd person).
It is ambiguous as to what Misao is suffering from, so I wouldn't blame you readers if you couldn't figure out what was bothering her. She is suffering from mild depression (non-suicidal) that leaves her apathetic to her surroundings and significant others. If the cause seems vague also, then I'll simply say this: perceived solitude. Misao thought she was alone: alone in love. Sorry if she's out of character. She is recovering from depression, after all.
If anyone can guess (correctly) why I gave Misao a 1st person perspective and Aoshi a 3rd, I'll write another chapter/ make an update on the story of their choice (I know… it's kinda measly for a reward):
- The Most Incompatible of Unions
- Lingering Fragrances
- A Whisper of Grace
- In My Place
Or any other story he/she likes (besides Muted Discourse, which is done, done, DONE!) or on this one, since it's a one-shot. Just include your guess in a review and I'll check 'em and see who won (if there are any winners).