Disclaimer: Just using the characters for my mere entertainment. And hopefully yours.
shoji – Japanese sliding doors
hakama – a wide, pleated skirt for the lower body and worn over a kimono. Women also wear hakama as part of their martial arts uniform.
bokken – wooden katana
Over the Sky
Chapter Eight
He sat there on the porch with great vigilance, observing the sky as he often seemed to do on clear evenings such as this one. The air was inordinately thick and he could feel, by the tingling of his skin, and hear, by the lively drone of the little sakura tree in the yard, the natural change of the seasons. Winter and her cool breezes became distant visitors. In her absence days became longer, and occasionally he could smell the incoming oceanic currents from the east, bringing with them thick, heavy clouds and the promise of spring rains.
A stray moth entered his line of vision, fluttering tiredly from a long arduous journey, and he reached forwards to feel its russet, constantly beating wings. They were smooth under his touch. Smooth and cool, like . . .
Like the rain.
His heart whispered something and he unconsciously winced, insides churning with something akin to boding, outsides, in opposite effect, entirely impassive by its counterpart's crisis and set in its customary, emotionless smile. Rain was an odd thing—gorgeous, dark, and intense, frequently all at the same time; always untamable, never overlooked. To many people, it was when the skies turned grey and when the clouds cracked open, showering the terrain below with water, and every so often with a murmur of thunder.
To Soujiro, it was a force of nature that seeped through his mental barriers and rejuvenated within him a torrent of mixed emotions and jumbled memories.
It had rained, he remembered faintly (having been only two years old at the time), the day he—the scandalous result of an affair his father had with a common whore—was given away to relatives for the duration of his being.
It had rained the night he had defined his future as a merciless, inexpressive killer by taking hold of a weapon—Shishio-sama's sword—for the first time and slaughtering his adoptive family amidst those dreary, dark hours without a blink of remorse.
It had rained during the height of his departure as he left Kyoto, and his previous occupation as a manslayer, for life as a rurouni, packed with nothing but the clothes on his back and other simple necessities, in search for a new meaning of existence.
And, most importantly to him, it had rained briefly that crisp morning when he had first stepped within the Kamiya Dojo's perimeters, instantly mystified by its quaint, homely look . . . only to, seconds later, be bewildered tenfold by the girl who owned it.
He wasn't sure he wanted the rain to come. There would be change—he could sense it—but wasn't entirely comforted by this foreshadowing. He liked his lifestyle at the present—it was simple, comforting, fulfilling. But who knew?
Maybe the rain will bring change for the better.
Blinking, he felt the moth perch on his still outstretched palm. For a while he simply admired it—the moth that was no bigger than his thumb, innocently resting in the center of his hand, flapping its near-translucent brown wings. Then, in a flash, his fingers wrapped tightly into a fist and engulfed the poor critter in an eternity of darkness.
Soujiro heard the stifled gasp in the background and didn't need to turn around to figure out who it was. He had known for some time that she had been standing there against the shoji, wordlessly joining him in observing the sunset, as she often did now, ever since Sano left three days ago. They would watch in comfortable silence as the sun slipped into the horizon, leaving in its wake admirable hues of red and purple, casting shadows that moved to a beat of their own. Then, she would smile and ask him if he wanted to eat dinner and he, with a smile of his own, would indeed always agree to do so.
It had become their afternoon ritual.
"You know," she coolly started, "it's considered bad luck to squish a moth."
He turned to briefly observe her behind him, eyebrows cocked in speculation. "Is that so?" Then, without further upheaval, he opened his enclosed hand and revealed the moth still very much alive. It did not fly away once freedom was attained, as one would logically imagine, but instead stayed and affectionately batted its wings.
"Oh." She chuckled, leaning forward to touch the steadily roosted moth. It liked the feel of her fingers, much like he did when they accidentally brushed against his. "I thought you had killed it."
"No," he replied as she stood back straight and then silently finished, I stopped killing a long time ago. Ruefully, he lightly flicked the winged insect off his palm and it, no longer having secure resting ground, soared away. There was a shuffling noise behind him and Kaoru shifted her weight to her other foot. Completely turning to her now, he finally took into consideration of how the light hit her visage (accenting the angle of her cheekbones, he noted with especial certainty), the typical dark lavender hakama she currently was dressed in, and the two suspicious bokken currently in her possession.
He smirked slightly, nodding at them. "Afraid you'll loose one?"
She laughed in return, a sound soothing to his ears, before offering him one. He looked at it with blatant surprise.
"I want you to train with me," she responded to his astonished expression. "Practicing alone is rather boring, to tell you the truth, and I've been dying to have a partner to spar with."
He slowly took the presented sword in front of him and felt it in his hands, gripped gently between his calloused palms. It was light and vaguely worn, maybe a few years old from what he could tell. "But I'm not that good."
"I'll go easy on you." She grinned, eyes twinkling and he realized with a sudden jolt that they were gorgeous, dark, and intense—just like the rain.
"But . . . " Darn, he was running out of excuses. "What about dinner?"
"It can wait."
He looked around uncertainly—there was a perturbed feeling in his gut that wouldn't leave him alone, tickling his stomach, and he didn't have the faintest clue what it was. Excitement? Happiness? "I don't know . . ."
Caution?
Sensing she was losing him, Kaoru's voice took on a whiney, blithely fluttering tone. "Oh come on, Soujiro! Please?" She batted her eyelashes, bottom lip jut out in a cute little pout that made it impossible for anyone, let alone him, to say no. He sighed, aware of a lost cause when he saw one, and promptly gave up trying to persuade her otherwise. He squished his uneasiness into the depths of his mind until it was forgotten.
"Alright," he finally agreed, getting up and dusting his kimono. "I suppose a little duel won't do us any ha—"
But the rest of his sentence was drowned by her squeal of delight. Then the words he had planned to say proceeded to escape from his brain completely when a pair of arms—her arms—wrapped around his neck in a hug of gratitude. It was an odd sensation. He felt the goosebumps joyfully giggling down his spine, and her hair, scented with a touch of peonies, delightfully tickling his nose. He curved his own arms to wrap around her thin waist, having developed a greater sense of ease in holding her ever since visiting Himura-san's grave, but before he could respond to her abrupt embrace, she pulled away, face absolutely beaming.
His own features softened instantaneously. He loved seeing Kaoru smile; it was contagious.
"Thank you," she breathed, squeezing his hand before pulling him along in the direction of the dojo, dismissing the fact that he was well aware of its location on his own. But he didn't mind.
No, he thought with a smile, idly glancing at their joined hands, not at all.
She couldn't remember the last time she had a sparring partner. There had been attempts, she remembered all too clearly, in trying to get Kenshin (when he had been alive and able-bodied) to fight with her. But he had always characteristically declined with a flustered smile and nervous sweat. She never took the rejection personally, having known entirely well who he was—who he used to be—and what such a man had been capable of at the prime of his career. She knew because he had told her stories; during intimate moments when they used to walk under the moon, hand in hand, she had every so often spotted a faraway look in his eyes. One time, she had questioned him about it.
"I was at Kyoto once," he had said, voice just slightly above a whisper, "patrolling the streets alone, as I always seemed to prefer doing, when I came across a man—Kiyosato Akira, as I later found out—who claimed to be the bodyguard of some administrator for the Shogunate. I . . . I killed him without the least regard, though he had some how managed to give me a little present in return." He had fingered the horizontal part of the scar on his cheek then, vision still frozen at the sky, "There had been a full moon; I remember it distinctly because it had been a night that changed my life forever."
When she had asked how, he had soothingly cupped her face and stared at her with such adoration that it took her breath away. "That, Kaoru-dono, is a story for another day."
And because she had been speechless, because she couldn't get over how luminous his amethyst eyes had looked in the moonlight, she had wordlessly agreed.
Kaoru snapped back to reality and the memory faded away until once again her eyesight refocused and she remembered where she was.
The dojo.
And who she had to fight.
. . . Soujiro!
She quickly looked up and found him staring at her from the other side of the room with a worried expression stitched on his boyishly handsome face. The sun had begun its routinely setting just seconds ago, radiating a golden light that bathed everything in the dojo—including his distinctive, extraordinary features—in an orange glow and she stared back at him, unable to tear her eyes away for some inexplicable reason.
"Are you alright?" He looked like he was ready to rush over to her in a heartbeat lest she might faint.
She blushed, flustered for acting like a gawking freak and forced a little laugh to cover her stupidity. "P-perfectly fine! I was just thinking . . ." About Kenshin, she realized mournfully.
Soujiro only nodded, though looked far from convinced and she become aware, not for the first time, that he was far more observant than he, a supposed simple wanderer, let out to be. But she would not question his integrity and utterly refused to do so. He had been nothing but kind to her ever since he first came to her simple abode, and while some would question her sanity for letting a complete stranger take refuge in her home, she frankly didn't care. Some would call her disregard naïveté.
She liked calling it trust in humanity.
"Ready?" she asked, gripping her bokken tightly between her hands; it was comforting to her.
He shrugged. "As ready as I ever will be. Don't forget you promised to go easy on me."
"Don't worry," she grinned good-humoredly, "I'll play fair."
Then, silence fell as both contenders slipped into position. Her feet parted, one further ahead than the other, and arms locked as they held her weapon steady. She breathed slowly, filling her lungs to their greatest capacity, holding briefly, and then exhaling until all prevailing, irrelevant thoughts disappeared. All that lingered were the essentials of her technique and the position of her enemy, who at the moment had mimicked, with a slight variation, her stance several feet ahead.
To the untrained eye, Soujiro looked like a peaceful, genial man who had never held a weapon in his entire life and was now being forced to use one. And yet . . . and yet maybe it was a trick of the light, or a lapse in judgment, but for a split second she saw him differently—saw him standing there weighing his katana, studying his options with unsurpassable expertise, and running through his mind all the different moves essential to best his opponent. She felt, as oddly as that sounded, the years worth of experience emanating off him, as if this was, despite her initial belief, not the first time he had held a sword.
Then, she blinked and the spell shattered.
They were staring at each other for the first few seconds, trying to figure out who would make the first move, when she saw his foot shift from the corner of her eyes. Taking this as the initiative, she pushed her heals against the floor and sped forward, sword arched besides her. Their eyes met—different shades of blue clashing—as both smiled at each other, excitement betrayed in their respective expressions.
It had begun—the beginning of their battle; the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
And maybe, her heart inaudibly hummed but left the sentence precariously hanging, because Kenshin's genial face appear suddenly in her mind's eye and because she was suddenly within striking distance of Soujiro and dwelled no longer on things left unsaid.
There was a loud clang as their bokken met. She hid her surprise behind a veil, grunting discontentedly before swinging again, sure he was going to miss her next attack, sure his block had been nothing but a brief stroke of beginner's luck. Because, clearly, that was the only reason he had been able to successfully thwart her offensive maneuver . . . right?
But he didn't miss.
Nor did he have any trouble blocking her swing after that, or even after that, and this pattern continued with several of her affronts afterwards, like an endless waltz. For long minutes under the waning daylight, they performed the dance around the dojo with nimble feet—she, diving for an attack; he, parrying with astounding, well-locked blocks. The buzz of winter cicadas from outside and the resonating clicking noises from whenever their wooden katana decisively met was their orchestra. All she heard, however, was her pounding heart and the tender whispers of sandals against the shining floor where their mirthful long shadows mirrored their actions in an embellished, yet exquisite presentation of speed and flow.
They came close several times, so near that Kaoru could have brushed her fingers against his dark hair or touched the contours of his lips, before pushing against each other and separating sometimes numerous feet apart. She became increasingly frustrated as the fight drove on by his continuously placid expression. As a result, it was impossible to read him, to figure out what he was thinking, to predict his next defensive move. How someone who alleged in being inadequately informed by the teachings of swordsmanship had managed to block every one of her attacks, she didn't know (but would definitely find out once this match came to a close).
And to make matters worse to her already deflated ego, he didn't even have the gall to attack her! He was always cool, always balanced, always blocking—never dodging. She would have admired him if she wasn't so ticked off by his nonviolent attitude.
"Attack me," she growled finally, shattering the silence, panting. She would not last long now. Her stamina was quickly diminishing, as the arduous task of performing blows after blows was unquestionably taking a toll on her. She was going to be aching all over in the morning, she knew. Her muscles were stiff, crying in agony from zealous overuse, and she quietly hushed them, too determined and proud to quit.
Soujiro saw the state she was in, concern shining his eyes. "But Kaoru—"
"It isn't much of a spar if you don't contribute to the action," she huffed, blowing her persistently annoying bangs out of her eyes.
He gave her a dubious look over. She was right, of course, but that evidently did not make him feel any better.
"If you insist . . ." he murmured at last, hesitantly shifting into an offensive stance, shoulders and waist inclined in a posture ready for sprinting. There was something, though, in the way he broke into an indecipherable smile and how he delicately tapped his foot against the ground that threw her off. But before she could consider the peculiarity further, he was gone from just standing, to running really fast towards her, his feet a blur in her vision. Then, she could feel, rather than see, his upcoming assail by the shift in the air and she sidestepped, just barely, his swift swing. The tip of his sword skimmed the sleeve of her hakama tauntingly.
She swallowed her gasp of shock, desperately trying to regain her poise from her haphazard dodge. Composure. She could hear her father's berating voice. Composure and patience is the key to victory—
She swerved her boken in front of her, blocking another one of his stabs and gritted her teeth at the iron force behind it.
—Too bad she was too busy trying to evade her opponent's moves to take her late father's advice to heart.
The assaults kept on coming, one after the other, and she had no time in between dodging/blocking them—constantly in the knick of time, a hair's width from losing—to consider her possibilities of attacking back. She pointed out, with a taste of irony, how their positions in the match had switch from the beginning and also noted, this time with a tang of gloom, how much worse she was faring defensively. She was draining out quick, like the sun outside which had now all but disappeared.
Her exhaustion was only made all the more obvious when his next barrage of quick attacks came and she, with deteriorating vigor, tried obstructing them but utterly failed. Her resistance broke suddenly and she saw, just briefly, a look of horror flash across Soujiro's face . . .
. . . before hot searing pain erupted from her shoulder and she screamed, as if some iniquitous demon was tearing her forearm muscles apart.
The tip of his katana had connected.
He hadn't meant to hit her. He honestly hadn't.
But damnit, he had! And now she was standing there, leaning against the wall with a hand pressed to her wound. It wasn't bleeding—they were smart in using wooden weapons—but this little relief did not completely lift the unbearable, surging guilt that had suddenly overwhelmed him. To be the cause, the source, of pain to someone he had undeniably and indubitably come to cherish . . .
He dropped his bokken, as if it was poison, and it clattered against the hard floor, the noise reverberating throughout the large, spacious dojo.
Where had it gone all wrong? Where did he slip?
He viciously racked his brain, trying desperately to make sense of the situation. The idea had been amusing to him at first—he had never fought for fun before, not having, when he held a real sword, the word "fun" in his vocabulary and therefore never exceedingly experienced such activities. He had always been doing Shishio-sama's biddings and had come to assume, in his ingenuousness, that slaughtering hopeless victims for his master was the closest thing to "fun" a boy in his situation could hope for. But when she had mentioned sparring, when he had taken her up on her offer and began dodging her attacks—for indeed, she was a very good swordfighter—he saw things in a different, more sensible light.
Fun was not killing people. Fun was doing the laundry. Fun was watching the sunset. Fun—and happiness—for him was, in essence, Kaoru.
And how had he repaid her? One glance at her condition told him his answer and Soujiro's innards burned with self-hate.
She grunted in pain and slid to the floor into a sitting position. He instantly appeared in front of her and crouched to her level, hands raised as if to touch her but hovering a distance away instead, as if he was afraid that he would only inflict more misery by coming in contact with her. "Kaoru," he whispered but couldn't get himself to look at her, couldn't get himself to say the words he wanted to.
I'm so sorry.
He should have never gone against the troubled feeling in the pit of his stomach from before, should have never ignored his gut when it told him not to attack her when she so tenaciously asked (or really, demanded). But he had. He had pretended to be ignorant of he used to be—who he still was, as today's events evidently showed—and should have known that even if he softened his blows to assure her safety, she would have never been entirely protected against a monster like him.
"Hey." She smiled widely, lifting his chin so he could look at her face. "It's okay."
"But—" He started to argue, however a finger on his lips cut him off and she glared at him with something like hopelessness.
"It was a duel," she stated flatly, "and that means victory is only attained when one successfully disarms his opponent. Plus," her features lit up and he couldn't help but gently beam back, as was the power her smiles had, "I've suffered worse. Far worse. I'm not weak, Soujiro. I can handle something as measly as this."
He sighed, nonetheless unsure. "Still, I'm very—"
"—sorry, I know. And you shouldn't be, but I suppose convincing you that is out of the question, isn't it?"
He grinned sheepishly at her.
"But," she let out an exasperated breath, "if it'll make you feel better, I forgive you."
He searched her face—the dazzling eyes, gently upturned lips, and smooth forehead covered slightly with her midnight bangs—and found nothing but sincerity. She did not hate him . . . and Soujiro never felt so relieved in his entire life. If only the rest of the world had been as forgiving and humane as her. Maybe then he wouldn't have grown up way he had.
"Well then, at least let me bandage that wound for you," he resolved.
"Alright," she chirped, apparently fine with the idea. "I keep a couple of spare bandages here, near the rack of kendo swords. You'd be stunned at how much I've wounded myself sometimes."
He threw her a disapproving glance while retrieving a little box sheltered in the corner, behind a few scrolls of kendo philosophy, and a small jug of water settled nearby. "You shouldn't overwork yourself, Kaoru. It isn't healthy."
She nodded, suddenly dour, "I'm aware of that, but surpassing my limits is the only way I'll get better. And if that means injuring myself every once and awhile, so be it. After all, only the strong . . ."
. . . survive and the weak must die.
". . . minded do well in life," she finished as he returned relieved, spreading the items next to her. She tugged her hakama's sleeve until its collar slid down her forearm. He traced the curve of her neck and shoulder with his eyes—astounded at how robust her upper body was; the signs of years of sword fighting was evident on her delicately muscled forearm—before spotting the bruise he had caused, snug comfortably right at the structure between her arm and body. It was turning a rather nice shade of purple and pink, sorely standing out against her pale, creamy skin. He momentarily wondered if it was as soft and porcelain-like as it appeared.
"But you're already strong," he argued, leaning closer to carefully observing the bash. He could see some of the muscle tissue was damaged. When he gently touched the discolored bruise, brushing with the tip of his fingers to see if he was right, she hissed—to which he immediately smiled apologetically—but whether she had reacted that way because he had sparked uncomfortable agitation from making physical contact or from what he had said, he didn't know. Either was a likely possibility with someone as willful as Kaoru.
"Strong?" she echoed incredulously as he folded a strip of cloth into a small pad and dipped it into the jug of water, until it was thoroughly moist, before applying it to her shoulder. She tensed for a bit, though eventually relaxed, as the cool liquid eased the ache. "Compared to you, hardly!"
He shook his head sadly and continued patting the wound. "I don't count."
"And why not?"
He didn't respond, silently cursing himself for walking into a question he knew he could not answer without betraying some form of his past—the very thing he wanted hidden from her because he was sure she would not take well to the circumstances of his personal history, no matter how forbearing she was. He was not proud of what he used to do, who he worked for, and while he knew the near impossibility of forgetting those horrid days—as they clearly had a habit of resurfacing—he was aware that the least he could do was shelter Kaoru from bearing the knowledge, from looking at him any differently.
"Soujiro," she said his name in a tone he could not ignore, however, and he carefully met her gaze. She was in such close proximity that he saw the blistering curiosity in her orbs, swirling, perplexing, and especially mesmerizing in the disappearing light. "How did you become such a good swordsman?"
He sighed; there was no avoiding it now, he was going to have to give her an answer. Maybe if he chose his words carefully . . . "When I was little, I saved the life of a man, who later offered to take me along on his travels as his protégé. For a while, he taught me a few skills with the sword. But then he died, and with it my training did too. I can't say I'm disappointed, though."
She stared at him inquisitively, unmoving, and for a split second he worried she was going to inquire more or question the validity of his story. But she didn't and only smirked coyly at him. "That explains why you fight so well." She paused, peering at him, and then asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think it was important."
She gave a very unlady-like snort, mumbling something about 'unfair advantages', and looked away in half-hearted irritation.
He chuckled—She's so easy to tease.—and turned to resume in the task of dressing her shoulder. The lesion was reasonably cleansed by now, so he slipped a strip of long cloth in between his fingers before diligently wrapping it over and around her arm joint. He worked slowly, but precisely, having honed such skills from the frequent times he had bandaged Shishio-sama's unearthly burns. A comfortable silence hung in the atmosphere and he felt extraordinarily at peace being with her, for there was something soothing in the nightly choir outside, the faint radiance of a dying sun, and her steady heartbeat under his touch.
Life was fleeting, but infinitely beautiful.
When he was done, she looked at her newly bandaged shoulder with admiration. "Wow," she murmured, "I've got to say, Soujiro, you've got magical fingers. I can barely feel a thing."
He smiled, admiring the girl upon whom his handiwork was performed on. "It was a straightforward wound, thankfully. You will heal in no time."
"Good." Kaoru experimentally gave her fingers and elbow a flex. "The sooner I recover, the sooner you can teach me some moves."
His eyes instantly grew wide but before he could exclaim his astonishment and directly refute such a ludicrous request—because after what happened today, the last thing he was fit to be was her teacher—he felt an aura probe the back of his mind and turned his head to examine the entrance of the dojo. The characteristic force belonged to none other than Yahiko, quickly, and quite furiously from what he could tell by his heavy, irate stomps, making his way towards their current area of location.
"What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, seeing how his attention quickly shifted.
He gave her a small, perceptive smile, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yahiko is coming."
Brace yourself, in other words.
And as if on cue, the shadowed outline of a figure appeared parading the walkway outside, visible from the thinness of the shoji and the candle in his hand. There was a loud "Oi, buso!" before the entrance of the dojo suddenly opened and, like in Soujiro's prediction, Yahiko appeared before them, thoroughly pissed. "I've been waiting for hours! When's din . . . ner . . ." The words gradually died in the boy's mouth as he saw the scene in front of him—the abandoned bokken in the middle of the room, Kaoru slouched against the shoji with her hand pressed to her bandaged shoulder, and Soujiro questionably kneeling nearby with a faint, ghost of a smile on his face.
It was not hard piecing the evidence together and shortly thereafter, he turned to him, rage burning in his eyes. "What the hell did you do?"
"He didn't do anything, Yahiko." Kaoru retorted, standing up. Soujiro, without having it cross the vicinities of his mind, instantly came to her aid by gripping her waist and uninjured arm. She smiled gratefully at him, for the evening duel had fairly worn her out, before meeting her student's blazing glare with a fiery one of her own. "I asked him to train with me and we were sparring when—"
"You hit her, didn't you?" The young samurai once again veered his attention back at the man under accusation. He reached for something attached to his back—a kendo sword—and pulled it out, pointing it at his direction and looking as if he was ready to lividly kill Soujiro for injuring his precious teacher. He couldn't blame the fellow, of course.
"Yahiko!" she screeched, control over her anger teetering on the edge, as she slid to stand in front of her guest protectively. Soujiro felt a surge of warmth. "Stop it! Put that away!"
The boy grunted in protest, and for a while stood defiantly unmoving. Eventually, once he realized that Kaoru was equally stubborn in staying where she was, he crossly replaced his weapon, sliding it back where it had rested before he had intently exposed it. She stepped forward, eyes soft but tone still hard with scolding strictness. "Now what has gotten with you? You've never acted like this before."
He turned away, running a hand through his tousled black hair in an infuriated gesture. "You don't know what he's capable of, Kaoru," he gritted out.
She looked at him, forehead crinkled in puzzlement. "What's that supposed to mean?" She spared Soujiro a quick glance, who, meanwhile was also wondering inconspicuously what the boy was talking about. In fact, now that he was mulling it over, Yahiko had been acting quite strangely towards the rurouni as of late—the constant, not-so-subtle glowers; the regular inspections of his and Kaoru's habitual activities; the overbearing protectiveness that seemingly sprouted out of the blue like a weed amidst a bed of flowers ever since Sano left days ago. It was as if he was aware of . . .
Ah. He inwardly smiled. I see. It all made sense. The conclusion that answered all his questions was relatively simple.
He knew.
There was no doubting it. Yahiko had been informed of Soujiro's past—that he had been the ruthless, unreadable, right hand man of the notorious Shishio and the strongest killing machine of the Juppongatana. That he had been, ultimately taking his master's philosophy to heart, fully intent on sucking the life out of the very man who had unmistakably caught Kaoru's devotion and was now resting, hopefully in peace, for eternity.
He caught Yahiko's gaze and stared back knowingly, a secretive smile tingling on his mouth. The boy bit his lip, flustered and turned around, as if he realized he had already said too much. "Never mind." He promptly changed the subject as he sauntered outdoors. "Let's go eat. I'm hungry."
"Yahiko!" Kaoru cried, reaching for him. She was confused, but the boy had already left, nothing but a bouncing speck of gold disappearing into the shadows of the night. And because he had taken their only form of light, the candle, along with him as well, the two remaining inhabitants of the Kamiya dojo were engulfed in bleak darkness. He could still see, nevertheless, her eyes when she turned around to face him. The unshed tears of hurt flooded them and sparkled in the dimness.
"I'm so sorry," she mumbled brokenly. "I don't know what's wrong with him."
"I don't expect everyone to be fond of me." He put a comforting had at the small of her back before gently guiding her outside. "The world does not function in such a blissful manner for me to do so, but I'm okay with that." So as long you still like me, I will always be okay with that.
Once outside, he took a deep breath of fresh air. The cool of the night bit into his skin and would have chilled him to his bones if it hadn't been for the warm, sober, and pondering female next him still in thought over the problematic moment that had presently transpired. Neither talked, though he did not mind the quiet; in actuality, he enjoyed it, as it gave him an opportunity to admire the stillness of the trees or the singing crickets without thinking too deeply.
That is not to say, however, he wasn't welcoming to the change when Kaoru leaned against his body—for heat or familiarity, he didn't know, but would provide whichever thoughtlessly. His hand, in fact, moved to her waist on its own accord and stayed there for the remainder of their journey and only removed itself once they reached the dining area (more so for Yahiko's sake than anything). The room stood out like a beacon, illuminating a light that threw dangerous shadows on nearby attributes of the yard. Small, insignificant rocks transformed into the warped forms of dangerous phantoms. Helpless twigs by morning became lethal, elongated claws.
Funny how deceiving and truly frightening the night was sometimes. Gorgeous, dark, and intense.
Just like the rain.
Just like Kaoru.
There was one other major quality, however, that the young dojo owner had that neither of the previous possessed, nor could ever possess. Compassion, he noted, remembering her smile, her tears, her forgiveness. And as she stepped away to slide open the shoji, Warmth, he added, growing suddenly very cold.
The light from inside was bright and welcoming. Yahiko sat on the floor, feet crossed and resting his chin in the palm of an arm erect on the table. He was listlessly poking something in his bowl with his chopsticks, face twisted with obvious distaste. He continued stabbing his dinner until the tip of his utensils impaled something and the boy held it up in what must have been an attempt of understanding what he was being forced to eat. It was charred beyond recognition and even Soujiro himself had to squint for a considerably long time until he, having remembered that Kaoru had wanted to cook some seafood for them that late evening, realized it was overcooked shrimp.
Yahiko, who predictably disregarded Soujiro, took a wary bite of the decidedly unsavory thing, gave it an tentative chew, and then immediately spit it out. His face twisted with dislike, pain even, as he urgently reached for his cup of water and gulped the liquid down in one swallow. "Damnit, buso!" he gasped, wheezing, "I swear your cooking gets worse every time you try!"
This declaration of loathing directed at her food preparation skills—something, as the wanderer learned quickly, that she took very personally—snapped her out of her moody trance, much to his delight. She glared, pointing a finger at her student. "You ungrateful little brat! If you can't be thankful, don't eat at all! Starve, for all I care!"
Oh, but she did care. It was as obvious as the sky was blue in the morning.
"Yeah, well," Yahiko grunted, picking through his food, "I think I'm better off starving than being poisoned to death."
She stomped inside noisily, trying to hide her smile with a deep frown. She was practically glowing with rekindled joy; things, albeit for now at least, were back to normal between the student and teacher. She dropped across from the boy and they continued to argue amongst themselves in a familiar manner. It became apparent to him that this was a routine they had performed a countless number of times, way before he came along. Kaoru and Yahiko had a bond—something he could only wish to have one day—and Soujiro wavered on whether he should intrude any more than he already had. The idea of entirely skipping dinner did not sound too bad. He wasn't that hungry, either, as wandering for three years had severely curbed his diet.
"Oi," an aggravated voice called and he—as well as Kaoru—looked to the direction of the yell, shocked to see that it was Yahiko, considering his prior display of dislike, talking to him, much less so calmly. "You're letting the cold in. Get inside and close the door."
The rurouni did not need any more convincing and he quickly slipped in. Satisfied, the boy proceeded begrudgingly in trying to swallow his meal while Soujiro, still partially bewildered, slowly sat down at an empty space wondering if normal teenaged boys were prone to chaotic, bursting mood swings. He was wholly uncertain, though, having been far from the definition of normal when he had been around that age and dubbed for being fully devoid of any emotion.
His thoughts were interrupted when Kaoru beamed at him (which he returned with no conscious) and offered him some dumplings, which he took heartily to please her. It was when he reached for a bowl of wasabi sauce that Yahiko's eyes met his and he saw the words transpiring in them.
For a while, they only watched each other, Kaoru's amiable chattering in the background.
Then, Yahiko's eyes narrowed in warning. 'You better never hurt her again.'
'I can assure you, I won't.' Soujiro coolly stared back, his own eyes hard in seriousness.
This unnerved the boy a bit. He was not expecting it. 'I'll make sure of that. I . . . care about her. A lot.'
'I know.' He gave the young but undoubtedly wise samurai-in-training—with whom he now shared a common understanding—a furtive smile. 'I care about her too.'
A lot more than maybe even he himself was aware of at the moment.
"What are you still, still thinking,"
He asked in vague surmise,
"That you stare at the wick unblinking
With those great lost luminous eyes?"
"O, I see a poor moth burning
In the candle-flame," said she,
"Its wings and legs are turning
To a cinder rapidly."
"Moths fly in from the heather,"
He said, "now the days decline."
"I know," said she. "The weather,
I hope, will at last be fine."
-excerpt from "The Moth-Signal", Thomas Hardy
To Be Continued . . .
A/n: Oh boy. laughs nervously Where do I start? I can't even begin to say how sorry I am for taking nearly . . . forever to update. Time, I suppose, flies by when you're trying to sort through life, especially when its being uncooperative and nowhere as kind as you wish it was. Basically, issues arose and I needed to sort through them before shimmying down to write.
The positive aspect of my hiatus, however, is that I have a pretty good idea of where the story is going holds up her outline. And now that my problems are gone (or at the least, momentarily subdued), you guys can be rest assured that upcoming updates will definitely not take as long as this one did. :D
Hopefully this extra-super-long chapter will make up for my absence, too! Count'em—nearly 7000 words! Granted a few hundred are from my disclaimer, mini-glossary, bizarre poem insert, and author's note . . . but still, I worked hard making it my longest update ever! I also, after completing it, went through some past chapters and gave them a good revising over. Nothing, of course, that requires major rereading, though.
Musical Inspiration: Memoirs of a Geisha Soundtrack (so if you have it, I highly recommend giving it an ear while reading this in the future, as it has become an integral muse of mine).
Anyway, I'd like to thank my reviewers for their constant support (I got 100 reviews!). You guys are absolutely the best! And to the supportive email-ers (you know who you are!) who dropped a note every once and awhile to check if I was alive and planning on continue this story: my answer, by the length of this chapter, should be obvious. :D
Please review; I'll be eternally grateful!