Quick drabble, where bad angst and symbolism abounds. You can blame winter.acacia for making me want to write RK.

xxx

Doing the Laundry
sinful serenity

xxx

Worn white cotton soars over wooden slats, billowing over the rack and plunging back into soapy water.

The motion is repetitive, constant: comforting.

But really, it was anything but that for him. It was a motive driven by hygiene, by request; by will. By desperation. The Kamiya household needed their clothes to be washed, dried and folded, and the task was always set to Kenshin without argument or complaint. Kenshin didn't mind at all. Kaoru thanks him for doing a neat job and Yahiko actually remembers to put the garments away. So he smiled benignly and started sorting out the dark and white wash.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

The warm water pricks at the scars on his hands, but that isn't exactly his source of discomfort. Washing is all but a paradox to him.

How can one clean with such stained hands?

"Ah…"

The orange-haired man sighed softly and began pulling out the dripping articles of clothing, piece by sopping piece. The chapped skin on his hands tears over the washing rack as the strokes grew repeatedly faster, and the blood of his and the slain corrodes the bubbly water.

Kenshin tips the bucket over, and watches red-tinged water foam onto the grass.

He still had the dark wash to handle, after all.