NOTE: The last chapter did seem rushed, ne? Most of you who have grasped a feeling for what kind of writer I am have probably thought at one point: Wait a minute, isn't she rushing things? Aoshi and Misao in bed already? I agree: they were hasty, especially if you take the more chaste relationship between the two I had portrayed in "Muted Discourse" (good kids… they waited until marriage). But with all the locked up emotions and restraints the two of them had pent up inside of them, it's no wonder they went a little wild once they were given some freedom (no Jiya, no Aoiya, they're on their own—what do you expect?), so it's actually not so unexpected. Sorry, I don't like writing perfect fics in which everything comes out stardusted, sparkling and beautiful. In this story, Aoshi snores and Misao ruins an article of clothing in nearly every chapter. Anyways, onto the next chapter…

Chapter 5: Tension

This was wrong—things had blown out of proportion the night before.

            Aoshi awoke when the first glints of the sun shined playfully in his eyes, only to freeze up inside when he saw Misao asleep by his side. Naked with only her pooling hair glistening in the soft light to cover her, the peace of sleep emitted a content beauty that he had never seen on her features as of yet. Hesitant, Aoshi's long fingers reached out and grabbed a silky tress of her ebony hair, enjoying the feeling of its texture under his thumb and forefinger. He knew what they had done was wrong, especially when self-control was crucial for the success of their mission, but he didn't regret it one bit. He had awaken with a feeling of euphoria that couldn't be compared when he had seen that the woman he had wanted for so long by his side—his; she was his.

Misao awoke to greet the sun, its golden slivers of light sparkling against the clear glass of their room. She felt odd—strangely sore, yet satisfied. In fact, she hadn't felt that sated for a long time. She looked around the strange room bemusedly, still not quite awake, and wondering how the Aoiya could have changed so drastically. Baka! She admonished herself, That's because you're in Nagoya with Aoshi! She started forward, clenching the folds of the bed sheets to her chin, simultaneously recognizing she was naked under the covers…Aoshi. A deep rose tinted her cheeks as she looked around frantically for the man who had shared her bed  (in the true meaning of it) and found that he was nowhere in sight. Sighing tremulously, Misao sat back against the bed, propping her chin up with a slender arm, deep in thought. That was quite unexpected from both of us. She didn't rue the moment of their union, but she did regret the rashness in which they gave themselves up so easily. So much for an onmitsu's self-control, she mused dryly, fingering her unruly locks pensively. Now what to do? Knowing Aoshi, he had probably left for work to avoid seeing her in the morning, and now she was left to deal with the constant reminder of their night of passion alone in this dull, foreign house.

Grrr! With frustration, Misao moaned deeply and grabbed a pillow, beating it repeatedly against the bed. Once she had finished venting part of her anger, Misao looked up with her cheeks colored from exertion to see Aoshi staring at her by the bathroom door. He had a towel around his neck and his jet-black hair glistening with moisture, portraying cool eminence even when his face was flushed from the hot bath. He nodded curtly before returning to the bathroom, his voice cold and more distant than usual, "Did you rest well, Meiko?" Misao's eyes narrowed and she leapt out of bed: if that was the way he was going to be, she was truly on her own. Without answering him, Misao walked quietly over to the closet, threw on some clothes and then slipped her feet into a pair of slippers—she needed some time alone to think this mess out.

Aoshi had watched her throw the pillow around with understanding—this was going to be a long week for both of them. They had rushed matters in their fervor, and now they would have to pay with infinitely more temptations. Catching her eye once her tantrum had subsided, Aoshi bid her a frosty good morning, which he could tell did not rest well with Misao, since he had felt a surge of anger blaze in her ki. He returned to the bathroom to dry his hair and felt Misao quietly leave the room moments later, as quiet and stealthy as a cat. He was sure that she went out to deal with things her own way; in other words, she would be throwing yet another fit outdoors. She had always found comfort in the outdoors—she was nature's child at heart, and he—he would have her no other way.

And sure enough, there she was—kicking up a ruckus in the garden. Biting her fist roughly, Misao blinked back frustrated tears as she stormed about, sending stones and pieces of grass flying with her fury. Soon she felt like she was weary from fighting herself, she sat dejectedly on the grass, hair tumbling down her back and slippers soiled from her exertions. Cradling her head with two small hands, Misao gripped her hair in anger—was being an adult so frustrating, so confusing? If that was the case, it would have been better if she had cherished her childhood for a little longer, lingered where the fragrance of innocence and ignorance were one and acceptably interchangeable. She had thought what had happened between the two of them was beautiful, even if not thoroughly planned out. True, they had acted like anything but mature adults the night before, but she felt so complete. Aoshi, however, broke her fairytale image of their time together with his coldness, his nonchalance. And if she was with child? Could she deal with such a man as the father of her child? No—that wasn't even a smart question; he would love the child unconditionally. He never had qualms with loving her when she was a child. What she feared was his not loving her enough. She would not cry—crying was for the weak, she told herself steadily, even as her chest heaved with the effort of keeping her anger down. As she peered at the naked blue of the sky, Misao felt herself unknot under the natural splendor of an ordinary day: if laying myself bare for one to see me in my utter truth brings pain, then why do I insist on doing so? But she already knew the answer: because love demands such honesty…

She was quite a picture with her unbound hair streaming all over the place and her feet shuffling about in house slippers. He wished to have the courage to face her in her righteous anger, comfort that wild beauty until she took him in her arms and returned the favor. Kami-sama knows he needed comforting. He could; however, only watch from afar, his large hand resting against the large glass window as he watched her prone figure bear her solitude in the morning sun. Her back stiffened, she sensed his presence. Slowly, she got up to her feet, dusting herself off hesitantly as she looked up to meet his eyes. The two lovers stood, separated by a wall of glass, the tension nearly suffocating them. Misao's expression, one of pleading helplessness and dejection, lasted only for a matter of seconds. Aoshi blinked as he saw the young woman's countenance drain the sadness and grow fiercely beautiful with determination. Walking steadily up to the glass, Misao stood so close to the glass that Aoshi could see her hot, moist breath fogging up the clear crystal. With a firm expression and unwavering ocean-sprayed eyes, Misao pounded her fist suddenly against the glass as she said calmly: "We need to talk this out like adults, Aoshi. Don't run from me." For the first time that morning, Aoshi smiled.

The sun played over her features in broken rays, illuminating her sea-misted eyes to a paler sky blue. She gave him a tentative smile, a faint blush tinting the apples of her cheeks and her nose as she reached over hesitantly to grasp his hand, her hold weak so she could give him a chance to refuse her touch. He didn't. As a matter of fact, he clutched at her hand tightly, feverishly. His previous wish to stay away from Misao proved futile, but being near her did nothing to relieve his anxiety. They soon stopped by a sturdy wooden bench underneath a slender, verdant momiji tree, each taking a seat with a respectable distance from the other. Misao swallowed unsteadily as she let her gaze roam over the garden before she let a rueful smile appear on her lips—if she had stayed in the Aoiya, her garden would be growing steadily under proper care by now. She averted her gaze to her clenched hands, biting her lower lip in apprehension—now she knew something else was growing, but she was uncertain about the fruits of this garden: if mislead or deceived, the gardener of this patch could destroy her cultivating love. She let out a tremulous sigh, the wispy locks of her hair riding the wind.

She was deep in thought, her rich lashes hiding her crystal eyes as she wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She looked so vulnerable—like a glass figurine that would break if dropped but once. Aoshi felt his heart wrench—would he risk shattering something so exquisite, so rare? He suddenly came into terms with the severity of their relationship. With one misstep, he could mangle her heart, making her close her blooming heart permanently from the world. Was he competent enough to shield her heart and keep it? Aoshi had his doubts—he never knew what she had seen in him, since the first day her feelings became evident to him, Aoshi had regarded her with wonder: how could any one have the ability to love a recluse like him? Perhaps she had a limitless heart, encompassing and wonderful in its spread warmth. Or perhaps she, the only one besides Okina in the Aoiya, had seen what he had been before the fall of his comrades, the man he was with his soul intact. Then when he had returned, a wasted man with but shattered fragments of his essence, she had decided to mend his broken self with her love. Was she capable of such a feat? Was he capable of sitting passively and watching her ache alone in her attempts to try and reach out to him? Aoshi looked over at the young woman by his side. His ward? No longer—they had overreached their limits last night, bringing their relationship to yet another level: that of lovers. Aoshi saw her sigh acutely, her face shadowed by the towering tree. She was submerged in shadows, looking so lost that Aoshi ached to touch her hand at the very least. It was then when he made up his mind—he would not sit immobile; if she were to fall in an abyss of turmoil, he would fall with her. He reached over and clasped her hand firmly, his sorrowful, yearning eyes claiming hers when she looked up startled out of her gloom.

And she smiled.

"Aoshi," she said softly, "You look so worried."

"Misao, I won't let you fall."

Misao looked at him curiously, uncomprehending as she peered into his face anxiously, "What about me falling?" When Aoshi did not respond, merely tightening his hold on her, Misao inched forward a bit more, scrutinizing Aoshi closely as he looked out at the garden impassively. He did not need to question her skills in reading him; after a few minutes of prolonged silence, Misao's eyes lightened considerably as she laughed freely, her voice bringing instant relief to his tension, "Why, Aoshi! Do you doubt me? I will not despair, and I certainly won't give up!" She then stepped up impulsively, holding his head against the hollow of her chest as she laughed in relief. Aoshi wanted to laugh in relief as well—as usual, she had uplifted his gloomy preoccupations and had relieved his anxiety with her incorrigible optimism and her faultless faith. Her drive was admirable; now he knew that he was more likely than she to plunge into depression, and that if he did, she would be there to soften his fall. And all it had taken for her to cheer him up was her twinkling laughter, her few words and a comforting embrace. An embrace he would not have dared to seek but a month ago. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her gently curving hips, breathing deeply as Misao's voice resonated clearly in his ears, "Aoshi?"

Her voice betrayed a slight tinge of worry. Aoshi loosened his grip on her and gently pushed his head back, making her release her hold on him. His face was as unresponsive as usual, but his eyes held a degree of warmth and love that made her heart beat faster, and best of all, they held a glimmer of hope that made her push away all previous fears. He looked up, his eyes searching hers as he murmured, "We have a party to attend to tonight, Meiko. You still need to improve on some of your dance steps."

Romantic? Hardly, and yet Misao did not feel disappointed. Their way of making amends was far from the fantasies Misao had concocted before, but she knew that progress had been made. After all, it wasn't every day that Aoshi revealed himself so plainly, and like she had concluded earlier, love demanded such honesty. The onmitsu-turned-lady gave Aoshi a slight curtsy, "By all means, Ayo. Will you teach me the rest of the waltz you introduced me to a few days ago?"

"Certainly."

The slender young man tucked his hands into the folds of his kimono shirt in the attempt to keep them warm. He peered out of his window with a semi-smile, barely there—a just hidden reminder of his bloody past. His boyish looks somehow looked strained under the pressure of the night. He slipped a hand out and ran it through his cropped hair, grayish-blue eyes attempting to hide the frustration that writhed behind the dark depths. It had been so much simpler to follow a strong man in blind faith, putting all other logic for another supreme logic—a ruthlessly simplistic view of life that had nearly ruined everyone else's. Now that he was on his own, he had no one to trust and nothing to put faith in than himself and the power of his own hands, a power that he was wary of wielding. Soujirou let out a breath to calm his mixed emotions: this night would be a night for him to reckon with. Social intricacies and the subtle battle of words was not his forte. He let a reluctant but more genuine smile flitter over his features suddenly—he knew he would not be alone in this formidable test of aptitude. He could count on having Misao-san and Shinomori-san aid him; they were, after all, on the same side of the coin. He had to give props to the notorious Mibu Wolf: his skills were nearly insurmountable. How in the world he had managed to coax (no, coaxing was not in his nature; more like deign to offer) the once maddened Okashira of the utterly elusive Oniwabanshuu and his overprotected ward to work with him was inconceivable. That the stealthy police officer had managed to sniff him out and coerce him to work off his crimes in retribution also spoke measures for his cleverness. And he—he was satisfied if not a bit relieved that he would have time to take his mind off of the frightening memories and bloody nightmares his past had haunted him with. Soujirou relaxed abruptly, his hand brushing against the hidden sakabatou by his side; he would be all right. He had; after all, mastered the art of social placidity and indifference through his shrouding smile. The carriage came to a halt, and Soujirou arose automatically, noticing with some discomfort that the ceremonial kimono he wore was somewhat limiting if not utterly impractical in his terms. Little did he know that his previous partner in crime had been thinking the same thought as she stepped out of her carriage with her hand in her Okashira's.

These damn restricting petticoats! Misao gritted her teeth and scowled up at Aoshi's slightly amused face as she took his hand, stepping carefully out of the carriage so she wouldn't trip on or tear her fine lace. Once outside, Aoshi gave her a brief, intense look before swiftly turning to the coachman and offering his thanks in an undertone with his back to Misao. Misao shivered slightly—even under the thick, velvet cloak she had wrapped around her, she felt the chill seep into her bones. It was not the chill caused by the cold, nor a visiting breeze; she was eagerly anticipating this night, and she prayed that she wouldn't screw it up royally.

"Ready, Meiko?" Misao frowned slightly when she registered Aoshi's presence by her side: note to self—be extra careful with names. Must not call Aoshi anything other than Ayo. Ayo, Ayo, Ayo…Aoshi. Damn! She felt his hand securing her elbow firmly and looked up, seeing a slight warning pass through his blue depths. Oh, and remember to smile. The ninja pasted one on her face; her body tensing as she faced the impressive mansion with barely contained awe. This Dr. Bretton, whoever he was, had to be filthy rich to own a palace like this one. Her gaze roamed from the spacious, pristine garden with its healthy lawns to the ivory statues that graced the front of the mansion complete with an extravagant fountain set before the entrance. Misao's gaze turned from the mansion to meet the glance of the man by her side. She didn't know what was more magnificent—the mansion or Aoshi. He was dressed impeccably with midnight silk shirt tucked underneath a black, crisp suit, a sharp cravat tied stylishly at his neck. She suddenly felt her face flush and regretted she hadn't put make up on—it would have made it easier for her to hide her emotions.

She appeared to have emerged from the forests; her nymph-like features graced by an elegant yet free mauve dress. She looked exquisite, not anywhere near the young girl he had left behind all those years ago. Her face was blissfully free of beautifying agents, just a dab of rouge on already rosy lips and a dash of turquoise eye makeup to emphasize her wide, sparkling sea-kissed eyes. A healthy flush graced her features and he surprisingly felt a faint inclination to color himself when he caught her eyes roaming over his body appreciatively. Instead, he released his hold on her elbow and offered her his arm, nearly blinded by the sun-drenched smile she bestowed upon him at his offer.

He looked around languidly, his half-lidded emerald eyes searching the already bustling ballroom with mild interest, searching for a particular figure. Hanabusa Ayo—the son of the Japanese ambassador. He had thought there was something amiss with him, some sort of falsity. He was not worried yet; his secrets were always well guarded with the best money could buy. He smiled somewhat coldly as he took a proffered cigar from a servant—he would find out all about this man. If he proved to be an impediment to his business, both open and hidden, he would find ways to get rid of him quietly. Besides, there was the man's wife to take into account. He became conscious of a sudden hushed halt to all conversation, the turning of heads and the quieting of hand fans. He saw the direction of the crowd's eyes turn towards the entrance and knew that his special guests had arrived.

A drastically painted woman inhaled sharply as she took in the figures of the latest arrivals. The woman—she was nothing compared to the masterpiece by her side. He was tall, distinguished and powerful. His icy blue eyes pierced through the gaze of any person who deigned to meet his eye, his unyielding chin betrayed pure masculinity, his smooth movements betraying a leonine grace. He was dressed impeccable after the European fashion with his black suit and white gloves—all the better; she had always had a preference for polished men. Snapping her fan shut decisively, she took a glass of champagne and drank from it impatiently, almost greedily—she was insatiable. With one purpose in mind, the okami Natsuko thrust aside her empty glass and sauntered through the burgundy satin curtains with the intent of getting a better look at her new challenge. Little did she know that she was being watched suspiciously by a hidden, smiling man.

Misao impressed him. Not once had she given away her nervousness; although, he had felt her hold on him tighten faintly as she walked by his side. She was aware that all eyes were on them at their arrival, and had resisted the immediate urge to run away from all the finery, all the superficiality. Aoshi leaned over and murmured words into her ear in a manner that would seem that he was whispering words of relief or endearments in her ear. The crowd twittered in an undertone, avid curiosity aroused by the mysterious couple. Whatever he had actually uttered to her had done wonders: Misao's breathless beauty stepped back to make way for a greater degree of loveliness with the added ease of her smile and truly relaxed features. Aoshi threw a glance across the room even as he repressed a smile—now he could be sure that she would perform her best.

She was Hanabusa's wife? Bretton smirked with pleased amusement and roguish anticipation: she was a lovely toy, one of those porcelain doll-like Japanese women the men kept to themselves like precious virgins. The tall Caucasian removed his cigar smoothly and eyed the approaching couple, his green gaze calculating and swarthy. She would be the perfect tool to get under the man's skin. He could tell that Hanabusa was very protective of her just by the way he lent her his arm and led her to him, always a half step ahead of his wife, as if he would part the seas for her. These unsullied Nippon ladies—he would show her what pleasures he could reveal to her, like he had with many others countless times before, and she in turn would let words tumble out of her naïve mouth. After he was through with her, he would make the proud Asian man fall. The tall man stepped forward, his arms outstretched in welcome, "I'm glad you could join us, Hanabusa-san! And who is this beautiful woman by your side?"

Aoshi repressed a frown and opted for a pseudo-smile instead—he could see right through the European man, and what he saw were lurking threats and malicious intentions. Unconsciously stepping forward so he could keep Misao slightly behind him, he delivered a curt bow, "She is my wife, Hanabusa Meiko." Misao let go of his arm gently and gave him an endearing smile before turning to Bretton and curtsying deeply, her voice clear and pristine, "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Bretton"

"The pleasure's all mine." Aoshi froze slightly as he felt the copper-haired man's dark eyes seek out Misao's, his lips curved up in a polished smile as he grasp her hand and kissed it in a manner which would have been indecent had he added a bit more fervor to it. Aoshi's eyes swept over Misao's face, noting her deep flush and her nervous smile. Definitely not a good start.

Misao slipped her hand away, her face betraying her discomfort with such an action. Aoshi stepped forward and opened his mouth to excuse her behavior when Misao regained her composure deftly and articulated softly and good-naturedly, "I am sorry, Sir. I just am not accustomed to the attention of any other man besides…" she stopped thoughtfully, bringing a hand to her cheek in mock-contemplation, "besides my dear husband and my old grandfather."

Aoshi permitted a minute smile—wonderful recovery. The Britton laugh heartily, "Why, I am surprised it is so, my good lady. You appear to possess not only grace and beauty, but a keen sense of humor as well." Aoshi threw his companion a muted look: among other surprising qualities…

Misao then dipped her head in what seemed to be a flattered smile, "I am honored, Dr. Bretton."

"And I would be the most honored if the two of you would open the ball tonight."

Steely cobalt eyes collided with eyes the color of crisp grass, "We would be honored."

Misao brought her arms to grip his shoulders, her voice hoarse and throat dry, "Here goes nothing."

Aoshi peered into her eyes for a prolonged moment before he murmured, "Do not hold on too tightly, you will betray your emotions."

Misao grinned lopsidedly, her stance relaxing almost immediately as she retorted in a whisper, "What, and look like you?" Faint signs of a smile traced through his features as Aoshi rested his hand on her slender waist and enclosed her hand with his. Misao let out a slight sigh; his hand was warm and comforting. She closed her eyes slightly when the music sifted throughout the room, keeping the tempo in her mind. Suddenly, Aoshi started and Misao's eyes flickered open. Collected synchronization and fluid ease—the couple waltzed across the room with ease and expressions of cool enjoyment, even as the small ninja felt like she was soaring. Her calm stage smile was replaced with a genuine one as she danced to her heart's content.

Glossary:

Momiji: Maple (I think)

Author's note:

 I personally like the idea of a Dr. Bretton—smooth, debonair villain (oops; did I give anything away?), like the ones they have on James Bond.

Soujirou's a cutie, in the little brother sense, but he's a little too creepy for my tastes (sorry… I see nothing attractive in a guy that smiles all the time).

Now Misao, she's really something, if we're talking about intriguing characters. Nobuhiro Watsuki-shi certainly chose to portray her character during a vulnerable age (barely older than a child, but still not yet a woman), and yet she still had such strength of mind and spirit that it is almost inevitable that with the right guidance, she would become a beautiful woman. Sure, she's bratty, and she's loud, but sixteen is a killer year for most, and true cheer seems to be embedded in her character. I assume with time and much patience, Misao becomes a charming, eloquent (but not babbling), illuminating adult. That is the precise remedy Aoshi needs, which is why I'm so inclined to write only A+M (although E+M tends to come out nicely, especially when Midori Natari Himura writes it, I can't write do it myself… Aoshi needs Misao; I can't deny him anything. Ohohoho).

I recall there was someone who asked how he/she could improve his/her writing skills… all I can recommend is to read a lot of books (I personally love reading), and to just write in a journal regularly out of whim—some of my favorite papers came from totally random thoughts. Anyone else care to add more advice for improving writing skills? I'm sure there are some great writers out there who could give better advice.

I have never truly thanked those who have reviewed for me (and those who sympathized with me when I moaned and griped needlessly). Sankyuu!!!