His room is so spartan that it would be grim were it not for a shelf with books and writing utensils, and in a corner by the window, a small tray on legs that serves for an altar. Beyond that, he has a futon that he covers in crisp white sheets, complete with a small box pillow, tatami mats on the floor of woodplanks that he keeps meticulously clean, and a pitcher and bowl on a low wicker sideboard under the window. A canvas nightstand by his bedside and bamboo blinds against the window complete the furnishings. His room is a medley of muted shades of beige, brown, cream and white, with the scented pale green of the tatamis underfoot.
Scent. Clean and warm. His room breathes the aroma of a calm, blue autumn day on the shaded banks of a river: reeds, wood, a hint of pine needles and floor polish, and a whiff of stale incense. Aya's clothes smell of leather, sweat and blood. His skin... on one of the missions we worked together and found ourselves hiding, waiting for Omi's signal. We crouched, squashed between two rows of wooden crates, me behind Aya, both of us leaning forward to peer through the gap between the crates. He was squatting, ready to jump, his gloved hands clutching the katana with no room to manoeuvre; I was down on one knee, the wire coiled between my fingers, with Aya propping me up.
I could feel his back pressing against my chest, with a slight creaking of leather in the rhythm of his breathing, and I could smell him: steel, heat, warm leather. Laced with pine and sandal in a mixture so heady it made me dizzy. I put my hand on his shoulder to lean in a bit more, he did not even object – too focused, I thought, way too focused, Fuji – and my cheek touched his hair as I looked over his shoulder. It felt wiry and smooth; it smelled a bit of dye, cologne and the tiniest hint of sweat. I felt a pang of regret that I wore working gloves. I would have liked to touch his skin, wondering whether it would feel warm or cool, dry or damp. It looked smooth and almost transparent, with the veins shimmering pale blue on white.
I shifted my balance some more until I pressed down on him and he had to bear my full weight, and though he shifted in slight discomfort, he was too distracted to realise... I could not resist, my lips touched the shell of his left ear, just above the dangly earring he wears. "Careful," I whispered, in a stupid pretense that warning him was all I wanted.
A small shiver ran through him, I saw goosebumps appear on his white neck, and then he nearly floored me with a sharp elbow right into my stomach. Fast. Hard. Without warning, and without comment. Omi's command came through the earpiece before I had stopped gagging and gasping, and we were off after our target.
He never picked up on this incident.
He does get drunk now and then. Very now and then. The first time we realised he was pissed, he turned up in the kitchen to get his dinner rice, filled his bowl, sloshed vinegar into the dish, and marched out again, without even acknowledging the rest of us who were sitting at the table and eating our dinner.
It would have been fairly normal had he worn more than a loincloth around his hips. A very low-slung, impeccably white scrap of cotton that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Omi's eyes went as round as saucers, Ken forgot to close his mouth, hand with a spoonful of vanilla ice cream hovering mid-air, and I... well, I choked on my burger, had to leave it and get a drink of sake and a smoke to stop spluttering.
Aya does not smoke, and I suspect it has something to do with money. Though he is not above the odd snide remark about us catching some kind of cancer or another. He won't buy papers or magazines but will religiously watch the news on the television, or listen to them on the radio in the mission room. He washes his linens and towels without softener so that they are like board when he collects them from the drying line on the roof of the Koneko, and while our stuff in the bathroom is a jumble of small things in bowls and boxes, his is neatly set aside in a wicker box atop the mirrored cabinet opposite the loo: shaving kit, washcloth, a small bar of hand-made soap, baking soda toothpaste, beaker and brush. No coins, keys, condoms, or other bric-a-brac, let alone lint. He does not need to warn anyone or tell us it's his, the stuff and the way it is kept has Aya branded all over it.
Not that he would need condoms: I have never seen him going out.
Next chapter: Moods