Two Wings - an RK fanfic
By Peregrine Vision
3 - Gently to My Heart
"Where did you meet him?"
It was late. Liu Chen had left, begging off from Sagara-san's proposed "night on the town" (which Soujiro did not feel quite ready for, either). A little disappointed, Sagara-san was preparing for bed. Soujiro helped him with the dishes, which were washed outside by a tiny well. They were squatting outside, washing the heavy mismatched plates in a wooden tub.
"Huh? Liu Chen, you mean?" Sagara-san shrugged. "Up north. I was heading up to Mongolia; heard there were some really tough fighters there." He grinned.
"You really *like* fighting?" said Soujiro, wonderingly.
"Hell, yeah. Don't you?"
The question settled in Soujiro's guts like a lump of bad rice. //Don't you?// He remembered blood curling into rainwater, into earth and wood and tatami. The rush of the opponent past him and the sure, safe knowledge that the other was already dead. The comfort of the sword hilt in his fist.
"I...don't know yet," he said, staring down at the wet plate he was holding.
Sagara-san gulped audibly. "Oh shit, sorry. I forgot."
Only Sagara-san would do something so wonderfully thoughtless. Soujiro gave him a smile and stacked his plate in the growing pile by the tub. "Not at all," he said cheerfully, reaching for another plate.
He blinked. There was that intense look again; Sagara-san had set down his own plate and was gazing across the washtub at Soujiro. The look was accompanied by an equally intense energy that radiated off Sagara-san like heat off a fire. It was hard to read, though, what kind of emotion caused that particular energy.
"You know, that smile," said Sagara-san quietly, "was one of the things I used to hate most about you."
For the first time in his life, Soujiro was completely at a loss for a response. His throat seized up. The only think he could think of doing was running away. He dropped the plate into the tub with a loud noise that echoed in the quiet night, and half-spun, starting to get up from his crouch.
With astonishing speed, Sagara-san's hand was suddenly around Soujiro's small wrist. The startled young man, so unexpectedly checked, lost his balance.
Both of them yelped as Soujiro toppled backwards into the half-filled tub, with a loud splash and crashing of plates.
Sputtering, Soujiro tried to get up and get his clothes sorted out at the same time. The yukata, heavy with water, had tangled in his legs, and the sash was loosening. If he hadn't wound it round his shoulders it would have fallen off by now. Soujiro half rose, but the water sucked at his robe, dragging him down again. Before he could flop back down, a steadying hand landed firmly on the small of his back. Blinking, he turned to look into Sagara-san's face.
The older man was hardly more than an inch away from him. Soujiro could feel Sagara-san's breath on his face, warm and a little sharp from the tea they had taken to cleanse their mouths. Sagara-san's lips parted, and Soujiro's own lips unconsciously repeated the gesture.
Soujiro didn't know what made him do it, but he tipped forward just a tiny bit and he closed his eyes as his mouth touched Sagara-san's. It was a languid but brief kiss; he drew away after only a few moments. Avoiding Sagara-san's gaze, he pulled himself out of the tub, water streaming off the robe.
He searched for something to say as he stepped up onto the back verandah, leaking water into the wood. It was useless; he didn't even know what to think, let alone what to say. All the things that had been said and done in the past few minutes were like a dream from which he was slowly waking.
There was a soft sound behind him, but he didn't move as Sagara-san came up to stand right by the verandah, a move which put his head on a level with the back of Soujiro's neck. Sagara-san's warm breath feathered across Soujiro's short ponytail as the fighter said quietly, "I don't hate you now. I don't know *what* I think about you. But I don't hate you."
"I don't hate you, either," whispered Soujiro.
He gasped as Sagara-san abruptly pressed his cheek against Soujiro's wet hair. "We're square, then. C'mon. I've got a spare jacket and pants somewhere." He bounded up onto the verandah and strode into the house. Soujiro followed, suddenly blushing.
* * *
Next morning Soujiro was awakened by what he thought at first was the chatter of birds. He soon realized that it was the noise of the townspeople passing outside, chattering as they went about their business. It was a persistent, but not unpleasant noise.
The sun slanted in golden bars across his body; it was still fairly early. Soujiro turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Last night Sagara-san had heated water for him, as an apology for giving him a dunking in the first place. It had been a long time since he'd had a proper bath. How delicious it had been to go to bed clean, and in a fresh though rather threadbare set of clothes. He was comfortable with the restrictive Chinese collar, being used to the buttoned-up Western shirt he had always worn inside his gi.
Also, somewhat to his embarrassment, Sagara-san had washed his clothes while Soujiro had had his pre-dinner nap. They ought to be dry by now.
I don't hate you.
He had kissed Sagara-san. The thought made him hot all over.
How had that happened?
//I wanted to.//
There was no denying that Sagara-san was handsome, in his own way. The wild mane, the red bandanna, the fierce brown eyes, that stubborn unshaven chin. Soujiro closed his eyes and imagined running his hands over Sagara-san's powerful shoulders, kissing the tanned skin. Making Sagara-san want him.
Please me, boy.
Soujiro's eyes shot open again. His skin burned as if remembering Shishio-san's touch.
No, making peace was one thing. Seduction was something entirely different.
And Soujiro had sworn to himself that, along with the sword, he would give up his other strange little obsession. Soujiro had learned how to handle a man as well as he could handle a sword. And despite his seemingly blind loyalty, he had a strong will. He would never have gone to Shishio-san's bed if he had not wanted to. He *liked* pleasing someone this way, liked seducing and being desired.
It had been a very long time. Last night he had been tired, and indulged himself. That had been a mistake, and a betrayal of Sagara-san's newfound trust. It must never happen again. Soujiro almost wished Liu Chen had agreed to Sagara-san's proposed night of drinking and gambling; it would have prevented last night's mishap.
The thought nudged something in Soujiro's mind, and he realized that Sagara-san had never had a chance to tell the story of how he and Liu Chen became friends. What was a Shao Rin monk? Sagara-san had said they were all fighters, like the warrior monks of Mount Hiei perhaps. But those were violent and greedy, while Liu Chen seemed quite nice, except of course when he was fighting.
Perhaps he should ask about it today. That would take both their minds off what had happened last night.
One leisurely stretch, and Soujiro slipped out of bed. He headed for the little kitchen: some tea and fish for breakfast would be nice. It would also be a pleasant little surprise for Sagara-san.
One of the kitchen windows had a little ledge, and on it a flounder had been laid open and left to dry. Soujiro had not noticed it yesterday. He wondered if it was Sagara-san or Liu Chen who had done it. No matter. He set to work.
Cups and plates in one cupboard; well, there was a space for plates, but all the plates and bowls were outside, drying on top of the overturned tub. Soujiro fetched them, and stacked them, saving two smaller plates and two bowls to lay on the table.
Rice pot, little sack of rice, ladle, firewood, cooking niche...Soujiro found them all and was soon squatting outside at the cooking alcove, fanning the flames under the happily bubbling rice pot. He hummed under his breath, a perky tune with dirty words, something Yumi-san had taught him.
Well, aren't we domestic.
The voice had only spoken inside his head, and Soujiro knew it. Yet he still jerked upright and turned, as if Shishio-san were actually there behind him.
Weak. You're just as weak as you were when I found you. Worse--you didn't know any better. Now you're just a goddamn housewife.
//Better than a whore,// Soujiro protested silently. //Better than a whore and a murderer.//
Shishio-san's breath on his face, even imagined, was a good deal hotter than Sagara-san's, harsh and raw. You really believe that? In your-- in Shishio-san's mouth the word turned foul --heart? Tell me, boy. Which *felt* better? The memory of Shishio-san's dry tongue ran across Soujiro's cheekbone, and the young man felt a shudder of weird pleasure.
Suddenly Shishio-san's presence was gone. Soujiro drew a long shaky breath, and felt his cheek with trembling fingers. But there was no mark there.
* * *
The smell of cooking rice and frying fish soon brought Sagara-san downstairs, and by that time Soujiro had composed himself.
As usual, the fighting man was bare-chested, only wearing blue pants that didn't quite cover his ankles. His feet were bare as well. He had not yet donned his bandanna, and he kept pushing his shaggy dark hair out of his face.
"Man, that smells good." Sagara-san blinked when he saw Soujiro crouched by the clay alcove. "Hey, you're not supposed to be doing that! You're a guest, ya know!"
Beautiful, clueless Sagara-san. Soujiro gave him a gentle smile. "I just felt useless being in this nice house and doing nothing," he said.
Sagara-san looked at him for a long while. "Sometimes, you really remind me of him," the older man said softly.
There was no doubt in Soujiro's mind who "he" was, or what that wistful look meant.
"Breakfast is nearly ready," he said, avoiding Sagara-san's eye. "Will you help me set the table, Sagara-san?"
-end 3-
"Where did you meet him?"
It was late. Liu Chen had left, begging off from Sagara-san's proposed "night on the town" (which Soujiro did not feel quite ready for, either). A little disappointed, Sagara-san was preparing for bed. Soujiro helped him with the dishes, which were washed outside by a tiny well. They were squatting outside, washing the heavy mismatched plates in a wooden tub.
"Huh? Liu Chen, you mean?" Sagara-san shrugged. "Up north. I was heading up to Mongolia; heard there were some really tough fighters there." He grinned.
"You really *like* fighting?" said Soujiro, wonderingly.
"Hell, yeah. Don't you?"
The question settled in Soujiro's guts like a lump of bad rice. //Don't you?// He remembered blood curling into rainwater, into earth and wood and tatami. The rush of the opponent past him and the sure, safe knowledge that the other was already dead. The comfort of the sword hilt in his fist.
"I...don't know yet," he said, staring down at the wet plate he was holding.
Sagara-san gulped audibly. "Oh shit, sorry. I forgot."
Only Sagara-san would do something so wonderfully thoughtless. Soujiro gave him a smile and stacked his plate in the growing pile by the tub. "Not at all," he said cheerfully, reaching for another plate.
He blinked. There was that intense look again; Sagara-san had set down his own plate and was gazing across the washtub at Soujiro. The look was accompanied by an equally intense energy that radiated off Sagara-san like heat off a fire. It was hard to read, though, what kind of emotion caused that particular energy.
"You know, that smile," said Sagara-san quietly, "was one of the things I used to hate most about you."
For the first time in his life, Soujiro was completely at a loss for a response. His throat seized up. The only think he could think of doing was running away. He dropped the plate into the tub with a loud noise that echoed in the quiet night, and half-spun, starting to get up from his crouch.
With astonishing speed, Sagara-san's hand was suddenly around Soujiro's small wrist. The startled young man, so unexpectedly checked, lost his balance.
Both of them yelped as Soujiro toppled backwards into the half-filled tub, with a loud splash and crashing of plates.
Sputtering, Soujiro tried to get up and get his clothes sorted out at the same time. The yukata, heavy with water, had tangled in his legs, and the sash was loosening. If he hadn't wound it round his shoulders it would have fallen off by now. Soujiro half rose, but the water sucked at his robe, dragging him down again. Before he could flop back down, a steadying hand landed firmly on the small of his back. Blinking, he turned to look into Sagara-san's face.
The older man was hardly more than an inch away from him. Soujiro could feel Sagara-san's breath on his face, warm and a little sharp from the tea they had taken to cleanse their mouths. Sagara-san's lips parted, and Soujiro's own lips unconsciously repeated the gesture.
Soujiro didn't know what made him do it, but he tipped forward just a tiny bit and he closed his eyes as his mouth touched Sagara-san's. It was a languid but brief kiss; he drew away after only a few moments. Avoiding Sagara-san's gaze, he pulled himself out of the tub, water streaming off the robe.
He searched for something to say as he stepped up onto the back verandah, leaking water into the wood. It was useless; he didn't even know what to think, let alone what to say. All the things that had been said and done in the past few minutes were like a dream from which he was slowly waking.
There was a soft sound behind him, but he didn't move as Sagara-san came up to stand right by the verandah, a move which put his head on a level with the back of Soujiro's neck. Sagara-san's warm breath feathered across Soujiro's short ponytail as the fighter said quietly, "I don't hate you now. I don't know *what* I think about you. But I don't hate you."
"I don't hate you, either," whispered Soujiro.
He gasped as Sagara-san abruptly pressed his cheek against Soujiro's wet hair. "We're square, then. C'mon. I've got a spare jacket and pants somewhere." He bounded up onto the verandah and strode into the house. Soujiro followed, suddenly blushing.
* * *
Next morning Soujiro was awakened by what he thought at first was the chatter of birds. He soon realized that it was the noise of the townspeople passing outside, chattering as they went about their business. It was a persistent, but not unpleasant noise.
The sun slanted in golden bars across his body; it was still fairly early. Soujiro turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Last night Sagara-san had heated water for him, as an apology for giving him a dunking in the first place. It had been a long time since he'd had a proper bath. How delicious it had been to go to bed clean, and in a fresh though rather threadbare set of clothes. He was comfortable with the restrictive Chinese collar, being used to the buttoned-up Western shirt he had always worn inside his gi.
Also, somewhat to his embarrassment, Sagara-san had washed his clothes while Soujiro had had his pre-dinner nap. They ought to be dry by now.
I don't hate you.
He had kissed Sagara-san. The thought made him hot all over.
How had that happened?
//I wanted to.//
There was no denying that Sagara-san was handsome, in his own way. The wild mane, the red bandanna, the fierce brown eyes, that stubborn unshaven chin. Soujiro closed his eyes and imagined running his hands over Sagara-san's powerful shoulders, kissing the tanned skin. Making Sagara-san want him.
Please me, boy.
Soujiro's eyes shot open again. His skin burned as if remembering Shishio-san's touch.
No, making peace was one thing. Seduction was something entirely different.
And Soujiro had sworn to himself that, along with the sword, he would give up his other strange little obsession. Soujiro had learned how to handle a man as well as he could handle a sword. And despite his seemingly blind loyalty, he had a strong will. He would never have gone to Shishio-san's bed if he had not wanted to. He *liked* pleasing someone this way, liked seducing and being desired.
It had been a very long time. Last night he had been tired, and indulged himself. That had been a mistake, and a betrayal of Sagara-san's newfound trust. It must never happen again. Soujiro almost wished Liu Chen had agreed to Sagara-san's proposed night of drinking and gambling; it would have prevented last night's mishap.
The thought nudged something in Soujiro's mind, and he realized that Sagara-san had never had a chance to tell the story of how he and Liu Chen became friends. What was a Shao Rin monk? Sagara-san had said they were all fighters, like the warrior monks of Mount Hiei perhaps. But those were violent and greedy, while Liu Chen seemed quite nice, except of course when he was fighting.
Perhaps he should ask about it today. That would take both their minds off what had happened last night.
One leisurely stretch, and Soujiro slipped out of bed. He headed for the little kitchen: some tea and fish for breakfast would be nice. It would also be a pleasant little surprise for Sagara-san.
One of the kitchen windows had a little ledge, and on it a flounder had been laid open and left to dry. Soujiro had not noticed it yesterday. He wondered if it was Sagara-san or Liu Chen who had done it. No matter. He set to work.
Cups and plates in one cupboard; well, there was a space for plates, but all the plates and bowls were outside, drying on top of the overturned tub. Soujiro fetched them, and stacked them, saving two smaller plates and two bowls to lay on the table.
Rice pot, little sack of rice, ladle, firewood, cooking niche...Soujiro found them all and was soon squatting outside at the cooking alcove, fanning the flames under the happily bubbling rice pot. He hummed under his breath, a perky tune with dirty words, something Yumi-san had taught him.
Well, aren't we domestic.
The voice had only spoken inside his head, and Soujiro knew it. Yet he still jerked upright and turned, as if Shishio-san were actually there behind him.
Weak. You're just as weak as you were when I found you. Worse--you didn't know any better. Now you're just a goddamn housewife.
//Better than a whore,// Soujiro protested silently. //Better than a whore and a murderer.//
Shishio-san's breath on his face, even imagined, was a good deal hotter than Sagara-san's, harsh and raw. You really believe that? In your-- in Shishio-san's mouth the word turned foul --heart? Tell me, boy. Which *felt* better? The memory of Shishio-san's dry tongue ran across Soujiro's cheekbone, and the young man felt a shudder of weird pleasure.
Suddenly Shishio-san's presence was gone. Soujiro drew a long shaky breath, and felt his cheek with trembling fingers. But there was no mark there.
* * *
The smell of cooking rice and frying fish soon brought Sagara-san downstairs, and by that time Soujiro had composed himself.
As usual, the fighting man was bare-chested, only wearing blue pants that didn't quite cover his ankles. His feet were bare as well. He had not yet donned his bandanna, and he kept pushing his shaggy dark hair out of his face.
"Man, that smells good." Sagara-san blinked when he saw Soujiro crouched by the clay alcove. "Hey, you're not supposed to be doing that! You're a guest, ya know!"
Beautiful, clueless Sagara-san. Soujiro gave him a gentle smile. "I just felt useless being in this nice house and doing nothing," he said.
Sagara-san looked at him for a long while. "Sometimes, you really remind me of him," the older man said softly.
There was no doubt in Soujiro's mind who "he" was, or what that wistful look meant.
"Breakfast is nearly ready," he said, avoiding Sagara-san's eye. "Will you help me set the table, Sagara-san?"
-end 3-