Makoto was the first to wake. His shoulder ached fiercely, and he swore he could still feel the imprint of Haru's teeth there. Gently so as not to wake the men sharing the bed he reached up to tease at the skin there, feeling the raised welt with questing fingertips. Rin stirred, eyes opening only slightly before the weight of sleep pulled them closed once more. They had slept the night through in a bed with an enemy, and somehow both of them were here to see the morning.
Cautiously, he shifted his weight enough that he could see Haru, sprawled bonelessly just behind Rin. Mako smiled thinly: he slept like a child, arms thrown above his head and around the pillow to hug it desperately to him, his mouth open just a little, enough for Mako to hear the small puff of air every time he exhaled. Rin might have been his perfect twin, legs twined with Mako's and arms occupying what little free space was left. Mako vaguely recalled waking once or twice after a sharp buffet from twitching hands. There was hardly enough space left for him, one leg dangling in open air, back arched forward to keep from upsetting his precarious balance lest he fall to the floor.
If they were going to keep Haru, the first item of business would be finding a bigger bed.
Mako gently untangled himself, avoiding Rin's sleepy attempt to pull him back down. He made his way to chest buckled securely at the foot of their bed, tsking at the sight of his ruined clothes. It was just as well he had been wearing coarse linen. If Rin had damaged what precious silks he had left, Mako would cheerfully have gutted him. He flipped the lid open, sifting through their combined belongings, pausing for a moment to rub a jade green robe between his fingertips. He wanted to wear silks for Haru someday, wanted the young man to see him in all his finery and tremble with lust and nerves.
He wondered at the stray thought, casting the robe away from him as though it had become a hissing viper. Instead he reached for the coarse linen once more, the nondescript eggshell shirt and the tanned pants.
They had taken him apart last night, reduced him to a creature of instinct whose fear had risen too close to the surface for comfort. Makoto still wasn't certain what to make of it. Some traitorous little voice craved it, whispered that he had needed it for too long, but the memory was enough to make his breath come short with a mixture of shame and nervousness that was not wholly unpleasant.
A lifetime he had spent in the pursuit of power, courting invulnerability the way some men courted death, and Rin had stripped him of that dear illusion he had been at such pains to cultivate. That he had done so with the help of a man Mako had been certain he could control made it all the more viscerally terrifying. That he had submitted, even enjoyed it, confused the hell out of him. Rin and he had played their games, but always Mako had known the power lay in his hands. Last night the thought had never even occurred to him.
He dressed quickly. Pants, shirt, the knife that lay next to Haru on the scored floorboards. It was early yet, he could feel that in the chill bite of the air and see it in the dimness of the cabin. He would take some air on deck before the rest of the crew woke and by the time Rin joined him, he would have his errant thoughts under his exacting command once more.
False dawn cast an eerie light across the deck, the soft wind stinging his cheeks with salt and cold. Makoto breathed deeply, allowing a solemn smile to grace his lips. Even Rin had seldom seen the expression, since it didn't usually rest comfortably on Mako's expressive face. It felt right this morning though, as did the creeping sense of bittersweet nostalgia stealing up on him. It was his own fault, letting himself be drawn into such games last night, thinking that he could play them unscathed.
It had reopened doors in the corridors of his mind that Mako rarely dared to venture into without the comfort of good sake and a night alone.
Helplessness, weakness was not a trait he had ever associated with 'Makoto'. Tachibana Makoto was lethal, whether he was in the employ of the imperial navy or taking up with pirates. The occasional brush with death or high water had shaken him a time or two to be sure, but never so much that it had robbed him of the absolute certainty of his own power. Live or die, he had always made sure it would be by his will alone.
Makoto had always believed that, at least.
As a boy, though… well, there was a reason he had taken a name of his own choosing upon his coming of age.
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Sometimes, if he slowed his breathing until he could hardly hear it and stood absolutely still, Nezumi could remember his mother's voice. It was an important ritual, this moment of stillness. He practiced it every night in the hour after the last of his chores but before one of the sisters shooed him to bed. Perhaps if he had learned this trick sooner, he would still be able to recall her face. Having nothing else to remember, he always took especial care to be certain he had captured every subtle nuance of her voice in his memory.
Ayame returned too soon, shielding a light with one delicate hand. "You should be sleeping," she whispered, and the last of his illusion was dispelled.
Nezumi tried not be angry at her. This exercise was his secret, and Ayame was his favorite of all the sisters.
"I'm not tired." He groused, allowing her to chivvy him to the futon anyway. She knew he was lying, it was a struggle just to keep his eyes open let alone cross the short distance to his mat, but Ayame only laughed. That was why he liked her best; it never felt like she was laughing at him.
She hummed a soft melody, carding her fingers through his hair like she did every night while he rested his head in her lap, determined that she wouldn't sneak away and leave him alone tonight.
"What were you and Mother talking about?" Mika wasn't his mother and it still felt wrong to call her so, but all the other girls did, as did most of the men that frequented her small establishment.
He heard Ayame's breath catch, felt her fingers falter in their steady motions. "It was nothing you need to worry about."
Her breathy chuckle sounded false to his ears.
"Then what was it?" He insisted, worry dispelling some of his fatigue.
"You're always so curious." For once the words did not sound remotely teasing.
Nezumi tried to push himself up, wanting to see her face the next time she tried to lie to him, but Ayame foiled him once more by the simple expedient of gathering him up into her voluminous sleeves and resting her chin on his head. He squirmed and writhed in vain, doing battle with her crushing grip and the heavy fabric, annoyed when she easily subdued him. He hissed at her like the fat tabby in the kitchen always hissed at him when he played with its tail, catching her hand to keep her from patting his head any more.
"Why are you lying to me?" He hated liars with all the passion he was capable of mustering at his young age, and Ayame knew it. That made her betrayal all the more cutting.
He felt more than heard her sigh, nearly squeaking when her grip tightened with bruising force. "I am not lying." She slipped back into her proper speech, professional mask falling smoothly into place.
He hated that too, hated the doll-still smiles all the girls wore when the sun set, hated the way they dismissed him when only a moment before they had been laughing and smiling together.
"You have never liked it here, Nezumi."
"That's not true." It wasn't. He loved Ayame, he loved the fat, mean tabby in the kitchen and the old man who delivered their food- always careful to slip in a sweet or two for greedy, little hands. He loved the feel of Nahomi's tortoiseshell comb brushing the knots out of his hair while he breathed in the scent of the cloying perfumes all the sisters wore as it mingled with the lighter smell of incense. He even enjoyed his chores, carrying the water and fetching drinks, mending the tears in workaday clothes.
"It is not your home." That was true, but Nezumi wasn't sure where home was to begin with. He knew enough to know the scars winding about his wrists meant he hadn't left by choice, but whether his parents had sold him or if there was a home out there waiting for him, he didn't know. He didn't really care either, but saying that only made Ayame sad, so he swallowed the words as he had always done.
Suddenly he knew why Ayame was lying, and the realization sent a cold pang of fear racing through him. "I want to stay here."
He wasn't fighting to get away anymore, instead he twined his arms about her as firmly as he could and buried his face in her sleeves lest she see the way his eyes had teared up with panic.
"Now, you're much too good for that." Her speech grew warm and familiar again, but he could still hear the distance- in her thoughts he was already gone.
"I'm not, I want to stay."
"And do what? Fetch water and whisper secrets in Mother's ear forever? You're meant for better, you always were."
He was getting a little old for the eavesdropping game; Mother said it was because he was getting so tall and strong she had other uses for him now. Nezumi knew she was lying though, he always knew; he had seen the way her already sickly pale skin blanched when he had read aloud the spider-script on one of her little slips of paper. He had felt her hand trembling from more than age when she pressed it into his hand and told him to carry it to the shrine.
Most of the girls could not read, Nezumi had understood then that he wasn't meant to either.
"I'm sorry." His voice broke on a sob that he couldn't entirely stifle with his fist. "If I tell her I'm sorry will she let me stay?"
"You haven't done anything wrong, you're just so smart-"
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again." Mother would never believe that though. By now she probably knew about all the little papers he kept tucked in the tree by the well. She had probably found the precious ink he had squirreled away and all the little stones that betrayed his early efforts. Nezumi had known better than to steal, he had known better than to play when he should be working, and this was going to be his punishment: he was going to lose his home again.
"Hush. We don't want to wake anyone."
Nezumi wanted to wake everyone, but he bit his tongue and curled in still closer. "Don't make me leave."
Ayame drew a sharp breath when his nails dug into her ribs, the wetness of his tears finally seeping through silk. She could feel him shaking under her hands, but telling him so would only injure his pride.
"Listen to me, this is a very great honor for you and for this house."
"Getting rid of me?"
"No, silly boy." She pinched his side, forcing a surprised giggle out of him. "The man who came for you is well-placed. He's going to teach you more than we ever could."
"I don't care!" Nezumi didn't even try to stifle his sobs anymore, gasping and heaving with distress, though he could see the beginning of fear on Ayame's face. Good. Let her worry, she was the one that was allowing him to be sent away.
"You're going to be a very great man someday, and then you will look back on tonight and wonder why you ever wanted to stay."
"Liar." His sobs turned to wails, only barely muffled in Ayame's stomach. Nezumi slid down even further, resting his head in her lap again as he always had done, forcing her hand to his head in the hope that she would pet him again, croon her lullabies and forget about ever sending him away.
He knew it was a losing battle when he felt another warm teardrop land on his face, this one not his own, just as she began her broken humming again.
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"Tread softly, careful not to wake him." Ayame's hushed voice brought him back to consciousness, and he immediately wished he could have slept even a minute longer.
"What is the matter with him?" Mother's dry voice grated on his ears, adding to the splitting headache pounding behind his eyes.
His face was dry and too hot, every bone and muscle in his body ached viciously. Nezumi was certain he didn't have a tear left to shed, his eyes hot and hurting fit to burn in their sockets, but he was calm.
"He is ill. The news came as such a shock…"
"I doubt that." Mother returned archly. "Much like his namesake he is everywhere, often least where you expect- or want- to find him."
Mouse. Mother had been the one to name him, fondly then, running her fingers enviously through his hair, tilting his face up to admire his green eyes. He had been even smaller, thin to the point of emaciation after so long without a proper meal. She had taken one look at his shrinking form, seen the way he instinctively evaded her touch, and dubbed him that most timid of creatures. In his early months it had only been a pet name, said in fond tones by most of his sisters, usually with a touch of asperity whenever Mother spoke to him.
Now he wasn't certain whether he had come to them with a name that they had stolen or whether he had lost it long before he ever set foot here.
"You should have your breakfast, Ayame, it won't keep long."
"But-"
"Go. I will take care of him."
Nezumi could hear the reluctance in Ayame's departing steps, but she knew better than to object in so many words.
"I know you're awake, boy, it's no use playing dead."
"It hurts." He explained, clutching at the cool cloth Ayame had laid across his eyes in a vain attempt to soothe the sting.
"Whose fault is that? Come, take the cloth away and sit up for me."
He grudgingly obeyed, wincing at the renewed throbbing in his temples; he couldn't recall ever hurting this much in his young life. Mother helped him, bracing his back against her arm when dizziness nearly overtook him. She was fond of him, in her own way, but affection had never overcome good business sense in this woman.
She murmured discontentedly, brushing the cloth across his swollen eyes. "We need to clean you up, your master will be here soon."
"My master." Nezumi repeated flatly. He knew he belonged to this house, as much as any one of the sisters, but it had never been spoken aloud so plainly before. He didn't like it. Mother had permitted him the run of this house, even sent him on errands outside the red light district sometimes; he had his freedom, more than most children his age, and with a single word she had taken it from him.
She seemed to sense his thoughts and paused long enough to lock gazes with him, willing him to understand. "Every man serves a master, mouse. You are fortunate to know whom you serve."
Nezumi did not speak again, he heard the finality in her voice and knew any objections would be swiftly dismissed if they were heard at all. He would not be reduced to begging. Instead he met Mother's eyes, not uttering so much as a word of protest when she began to bathe his face again, neither when the girls brought in his clean clothes- neither one of them Ayame. He dressed in silence behind the screen, memorizing the painting there: fantastical birds and soaring mountains, things he had never seen except from afar. He never would see them either, not if he stayed here.
It was with a renewed determination that he stepped out to face her again, clean and dressed and dry-eyed.
For all his outward appearance of courage, it took everything Nezumi had not to hide behind Mother when he met the man. In his thoughts at least, he refused to call the man 'master.'
He was tall, Nezumi thought, a little too tall, with a stomach just starting to turn to fat. In all other respects he was thoroughly unremarkable: every thread was tailored to suggest modest means, his smile was benign but did not invite any conversation. Even his unkempt hair seemed to have a touch of artistry about it, as though to suggest he had not deliberately arranged such a thoroughly inoffensive appearance.
Never, for as far back as Nezumi could remember, had he feared anyone on sight as much as he did then.
He didn't hear the words they spoke over his head, every ounce of his attention devoted to trying to see what it was that set his skin to prickling with dread or his heart pounding fit to beat out of his chest. He hardly registered anything at all until the man took his hand.
Nezumi lurched back violently, unconsciously rubbing his hand on his sleeve. The man feigned indifference, laughed even, but Nezumi could nearly hear his instincts whispering lie. He would have run then, but his legs had turned to stone and would not obey, not even when the man reached out to take his hand again, firmer this time. His grip might as well have been the manacle that had left the first scar on Nezumi's wrist, but far less forgiving. Then he could move again, pulled along in the man's wake, struggling to keep up with the man's long-legged stride. The effort left him breathless, and when he tried to look back to his home once more it cost him his balance, would have sent him stumbling into the dirt if the man had not taken such a solid grip.
At least with his eyes as dried out as they were, the man couldn't see him cry.
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Nezumi called him 'sir'. He had never asked for a name and the man had never given it. After months serving as the man's whipping post, Nezumi had learned he wore all manner of names with ease, some of them even foreign enough that Nezumi's tongue would have refused to shape them if he tried.
He hated the man most when he used those names, hated that he could not understand a word he spoke to his acquaintances: men and women dressed as nondescript as he, whose voices were always hushed even when they were alone, who never drank the tea the man always bade him to bring. Sometimes he was allowed to leave the room, but never to go far, only to sit and listen through the doors and walls, gleaning what he could. He would repeat the words back verbatim upon command and the man would ink them in precise script upon O-Mikuji that Nezumi would tie to the tree at the shrine. He was not supposed to read them, of course, but even when he had dared anyway, the words held no meaning for him.
It made the cane smart that much more, knowing that he had gained nothing from it, and somehow the man always knew.
He was learning though. No longer was he forced to practice his script on stones or in the dirt, and he had seen the improvement in his work even as the man denied it. Unfortunately the days were not all filled with writing and literature: he could pour the tea now according to the man's exacting standards. It had not taken him long to learn when every mistake meant the hot tea being poured over his fingers. More than once the healer had been summoned to tend his burns, but the man never spoke as he lathered on the ointment, never even met Nezumi's eyes when he could help it. He was stronger too, strong enough to lift the lead-weighted bokken without his arms trembling from effort, strong enough to run from one of the end of the market to the other over and over without being short of breath.
Sometimes his master set him to snatching petty baubles; a purse here, a comb there, and slipping them to unsuspecting customers. He enjoyed the mischief, even knowing he was not practicing it for anything so lighthearted as tricks. In just such a way had he acquired his most prized possessions: the two goldfish that swam lazily in a vase near his futon. Nezumi had almost feared taking them back, wondering if the man might not make him eat them the next time he made a mistake, but the man had only waved Nezumi away, too preoccupied to care that the boy had brought treasure home.
He made time to visit the old man that had given him the fish whenever he could. It was one of the few times he felt like 'Nezumi' again, not that he was ever permitted the same name from place to place. It changed according to whether he was in the market, at the docks, paying his respect at the shrine or attending lessons at the temple school. The man always called him 'mouse' though, a constant reminder that he must always make himself small, that his continued usefulness- and therefore survival, hinged upon his ability to go unnoticed.
Always Nezumi remembered to be one of a thousand faces, never the one anyone sought. He loved it, loved becoming the bright, inquisitive 'Kotaro' at the temple school, loved being the shy, retiring 'Shin' at the docks, but he loved being 'Makoto' most: a little too brave, a bit playful, outspoken for his age. Makoto could sit with the old fisherman for hours, listening to his tales of the sea or eagerly devouring stolen sweets while he showed off some of the new skills he had been at such pains to learn. The man would not have approved, so Nezumi did not tell him, just as he did not tell the fisherman why he moved stiffly some days, or why he always seemed to be bandaged somewhere.
Much as he hated liars, Nezumi was finally learning the art of deceit.
The wind was howling fit to blow their little house down, but Nezumi no longer feared storms. He had faced far more dangerous hardships since his days with Ayame, and thunder was no longer half so daunting as the prospect of dealing with the man when he was drunk.
Nezumi had tried to sneak the sake away several times, but the man would not be deterred. Whatever news he'd had from the merchant did not please him.
"You're getting slow, boy. Another cup."
"Yes, sir." Nezumi murmured, meek as his namesake. On nights like this it was always best to obey hastily and without question. He didn't even try to drop the 'sir'; that earned him punishment enough when the man was sober. The high color in his cheeks and the slight distortion of his words warned Nezumi tonight he was anything but.
"This is thankless work you are learning, and it will probably be the death of you." The man laughed softly. Nezumi had never heard him do anything loudly, even his infrequent fits of fury were silent. Most men found that far more terrifying than yelling and violence he had learned, himself included.
"But someone must do it." He finished, serious again. Nezumi didn't trust these mercurial moods; they could end with anything from a savage and frighteningly efficient thrashing to an almost fond pat on the head and an offer to have a sip of the man's drink. Nezumi promised himself he would never drink the foul stuff again once he was free, and he would be free. The man had promised him once his teaching was done he would be as free a man as had ever walked under the sun. Assuming he survived that long. Nezumi knew there had been others before him who had not, but the man had conceded that of all his pupils, Nezumi was the quickest and most eager to learn.
They sat in silence for a long hour, only the rumble of thunder and keening wind to accompany their thoughts before the man spoke again: "You will leave in three days, Nezumi. Take nothing with you, not even your name."
Nezumi's heart soared at the prospect of leaving this place. He would gladly go anywhere else, never mind the man's dire warnings of there always being far worse.
Cautiously, acutely aware that he was taking his life into his hands, Nezumi ventured a question, "May I go to the market tomorrow?"
The man did not answer, perhaps he had not heard, but Nezumi could not find the courage to risk a question again. He proffered his cup and Nezumi filled it once more, gracefully, carefully; if he spilled the sake the man would make him lick it up lest it be wasted. The first time it happened, he had taken his meals from the floor for three days- clumsy beasts could not eat like people. His stomach still churned with the memory, so he quickly blocked it out, using every ploy he had been so keen to master in his days here.
"You want to say goodbye." It was not a question, but Nezumi knew it was the answer to his. The man was not happy, but he did not sound angry either, only disappointed perhaps. Nezumi had heard that tone often enough to recognize it with reasonable certainty. He held his breath, waiting expectantly.
"You're still a thick-headed fool, aren't you, mouse?"
"Yes, sir."
"I waste my time with you." The man whispered into his cup.
He tried to take another sip only to find it empty; Nezumi knew that his training had not been entirely useless because he predicted exactly where the cup would strike him and adjusted his stance so that it shattered against his forehead above his left eye. The world sparked and danced before his eyes, warm blood seeped between his fingers when he calmly pressed a hand to it. The man was rarely so careless as to make him bleed in such a noticeable place, but it was not so infrequent as to startle him any more. In time he hoped he would be quick enough to dodge the projectiles completely.
"Damn it." The man staggered to his feet; he ignored the way Nezumi shied from him, twining a hand in his hair and forcing him to submit to ungentle prodding. "You need stitches. If you had been a little faster on your feet, you wouldn't be hurt at all." He sighed, "That's my fault. I've been too easy with you."
"It is your fault." Nezumi agreed, "Watch your temper." The words left his lips before he could clamp his teeth shut on them, and he regretted them before they even slipped past his traitorous lips. He regretted it all the more when the man's fist met his ear, nearly destabilizing him enough to make him fall. Nezumi stubbornly remained on his feet, though the world spun wildly around him. He was proud even if the man was not, a year ago he would have hit the unforgiving floor after such a blow.
"Did you say something?"
"No, sir."
The silence between them stretched taut. Nezumi did not dare to glance away; he had the sense that if he did, he would end up like the other apprentices.
"Go."
Nezumi turned and ran as fast as he could, not stopping until he had found a small, quiet corner. Somewhere he was certain even his master, for master he was, would not look for him.
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Three days Nezumi secreted himself in the house, moving quietly and staying out of sight, giving his master's temper time to abate. He had tried to stitch the cut himself, taking a strange comfort in the bite of pain, but his own hands defeated him, unaccustomed to the delicate work. It was no great matter to make his way to the surgeon, and once more the man never met his eyes. Not for the first time, Nezumi tried to bait him into conversation, another challenge he had issued himself, another way to hone the skills that would one day free him.
"Are you going to tell him I was here?" No need to clarify who 'he' was, the surgeon never called him by name either.
A noncommittal hum was the only answer he received, but Nezumi read sympathy in the disapproving curve of the man's lips. The hand on his forehead gentled too, but only a little.
"I'm sorry for waking you early." An apology opened doors even a compliment could not. His master had not taught him that, but he had often used it to his advantage.
"Don't be."
At last! The first words he had ever heard from the healer's lips. Nezumi's heart swelled with victory, the price he had paid in blood made it all the more precious.
That didn't stop him from flinching when the surgeon rested a solid hand on his shoulder, "Just be more careful next time."
Nezumi laughed, taken aback by the first tinge of bitterness he heard seeping into the sound. They both knew there would be a next time, and they both knew the next time might be the last if he was not clever or if he moved just a shade too slow. But Nezumi knew in his bones he would not die that way. He was not going to die a slave, he had promised himself that much as he jogged to this ramshackle little home, hand still pressed to his head and blood running down past the ever fading scars on his wrist to his elbow. Someday those scars would disappear completely, and with them any obligation he had to acknowledge a master.
He took his leave, warm tea in his belly and a light feeling in his heart, to say his goodbyes before he left everyone he knew again.
Except the old man was not at his stall, it sat boarded up and empty. Nezumi made himself comfortable in the mud in front of it, playing with the strays that always lingered in this part of the market looking for unwary customers or unattended scraps. He remembered the fat tabby and the lessons its claws had taught him, careful not to tug their tails too hard. When they left, looking for someone more willing to share scraps, he began to play with the pebbles and mud as he had not since he had first come to live with the man. The hours wore on, false dawn giving way to sunlight, other merchants were beginning to set up but still the old fisherman did not come.
It was strange, enough so to leave Nezumi wrestling with a vague feeling of unease that grew heavier with every passing hour. He hoped his master had slept overlong after indulging so much last night or his next beating would come far sooner than he had expected. By the time the sun was peaking up over the horizon, busy shoppers finally beginning to pour into the street, he knew he had to leave.
He heard the news from the woman who sold hairpins near the Eastern corner, about the storm and the ships wrecked even as they were tied in harbor, about the ships that hadn't even made it back to the harbor so quickly had the storm blown up. Among them, of course, his fisherman.
For the first time since the day he had left his home, Nezumi cried himself to sleep in the small hours of the night, the only time he thought maybe his master would not hear him.
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Thereafter Nezumi was diligent in his studies: literature, combat, the million and one trickeries his master practiced on a daily basis, he learned them all one by one with a dedication that impressed the old bastard. And he was growing old- eventhough he used henna to conceal the white hairs and adjusted his posture to seem like that of a much younger man, Nezumi could read his age in the slope of his shoulders and the lines near his eyes he could never quite hide. He knew what the man intended for him, could see it in every resentful glance, every half-concealed sneer. The punishments too grew far more creative- at once more painful yet leaving fewer marks upon his skin.
Nezumi showed every sign of becoming a beauty, and he had learned enough of the world he moved in to know that too could become a weapon, one his master was hesitant to tarnish.
It came as no surprise then when the man told him he was going home. Back to the establishment, back to his sisters and Mother for the last of his training.
For a few precious months, Nezumi felt warm again: Mother was still as stern as he remembered, but she had a fair hand that she never raised to him. Ayame had wept to see that he now stood head and shoulders above her, baby fat replaced by wiry strength and an edge to his smile that dulled the sweetness only somewhat. He could hardly bring himself to touch her with his soiled hands, but she cupped his face as she had always done, brushing her fingers wonderingly over his cheekbones and eyes, cooing over him like he was still the boy of all those years ago.
He surrendered to the illusion, just for a little while. Just while he mastered music and dance, the come-hither stares and inviting words that were the stock-in-trade of whores all the world over. Nezumi knew the names now, saw all the dirty little secrets his child eyes had glanced over or dismissed, and he welcomed it, reveled in it far more than his master would approve of. With a heated glance he could make men and women love him, beg to serve him and do as he pleased. With a cold word he could break their hearts and leave them scrambling to find some way back into his good graces. He sent one of the girls to the shrine nearly every other night, information flowing as easily as the sake he poured so beautifully. His fingers remembered the searing hot tea, the memory coming to him with a tinge of fondness to it. He was more graceful than any one of the trained courtesans, and he owed it to years spent suffering for his imperfections.
By the time he returned to his master, he had found a name for himself: Makoto after the child he had been, the one who hated lies yet stole sweets to eat while he told them so capably, and 'Tachibana', a name he had borrowed from Ayame. It was the family name she no longer had a use for, and a reminder that he had made a comfortable home for himself in this treacherous, false world.
At least he had been foolish enough to think so: Tachibana Makoto, taken in by his own lies.
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"I think we ought to tie him to our bed, don't you?"
Long practice kept Makoto from leaping out of his skin, but only just. He fixed Rin with a cool stare, disregarding the devilish grin Rin flashed him in return. The fact that he had thought much the same thing not an hour past was irrelevant.
"You're angry with me." There was a question in the words, genuine hurt gathering between Rin's brows; Makoto banished it with a simple shake of his head.
"No, but I am still not sure what to make of your games."
It was hovering on the tip of Rin's tongue to say Mako had started it, he could see that much and it finally brought a smile to his face, instantly warming his chilly features. Rin relaxed imperceptibly.
"I thought you would object if I took it too far."
"I would have if you had."
"Then?"
"I am not sure how you thought I could keep any sort of control over the man when he's fucked both of us."
"I don't think that's going to be much of a problem." Rin shrugged carelessly, "You of all people know there's more than one way to keep a man in chains."
"If you think for a moment he's not dangerous any longer just because you've fondled his cock, then you must not have thought much of me when I was a whore, hm?"
Rin blew his bangs out of his eyes with an annoyed huff, "That's different."
"You're right. I was your accomplice."
They stood in silence watching the sun come up, neither one willing to be the first to break the moment with idle chatter. The ship was waking up, cabin boys already darting about the deck setting it to rights. Makoto spotted Rei clambering out of crew quarters to make his dogged way to the galley, he looked vaguely haunted and for once Nagisa wasn't frolicking at his heels. Interesting.
"I think once Haru has a chance to cool his head, he'll realize we all want the same thing."
"Health, wealth, and the fear of our enemies?"
"Power. The man has been living on that damned island for longer than anyone knows, making himself fat and rich off its spoils. He won. He chased us off his precious island, yet he pursued. Why? He is bored, Makoto, it's not a challenge any longer."
Makoto smiled, tilting his face up to glance at the sunlight painting the clouds. For Rin it would always be a matter of power, and wealth was the only power he acknowledged, greedy creature. Mako knew better; power, the only true power, lay in self-determination, and that could not be bought with anything so cheap as coin. Rin was half-right, but on that key point he was dead wrong.
"Not bored, furious. We invaded paradise, that illusion is permanently shattered for him now. He'll never forgive us for it. Not completely. And there will be no going back either, whether he realizes that yet or not."
Rin shook his head, "It all amounts to the same thing in the end, he'll never be content to return; so in this I suppose we must agree to disagree."
"Stubborn." Makoto hissed fondly.
"Captain." Rin returned with a grin.
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When Haruka woke, he was alone. The sheets were still warm with residual body-heat; he couldn't help pulling a face when he woke up enough to see some of the stains setting. Makoto struck him as a fastidious man, hopefully they would sleep on clean sheets tonight.
The casual assumption that he would be sharing their bed again stole the breath from him for a few seconds. When exactly had he made that decision? Why?
He stretched, feeling aches and pains that nevertheless hummed with the memory of pleasure. What had begun as a battle of wills had certainly turned out to be enjoyable, for all of them if Rin and Makoto's peculiar playfulness had been anything to go by. But that did not make them friends, they were still very much the enemy and never mind that he had indulged a vicious whim last night. The body could go all manner of places that the mind need not follow. It did not change the fact that he would be seeking out old friends once they made Sanctuary, arranging for his passage home and possibly a nasty surprise for this ship and its crew.
It wouldn't do for them to think they could cross him and emerge unscathed for the sake of a few good fucks. Still, the entire experience had left him profoundly disconcerted. It had been easy, too easy to fall into their rhythm, they had meshed as easily as if there had been years of these nights between them rather than that being the first. Haru wasn't sure what to make of how easily he had yielded, wasn't sure what to think of Makoto offering himself so willingly at Rin's words or how much he had enjoyed the captain's body even as he seethed at the thought of what the man had done to him.
He wanted to fuck Rin again, this time without the protection Makoto's presence had afforded him. He wanted to pry him apart, force him to bare all those tempting vulnerabilities Mako had permitted him to hide last night and imprint his anger and lust all over Rin's skin.
Of course it would not be that easy, but Haruka was sure he would enjoy the challenge. As for Makoto… Haruka wasn't sure he had the skill to play that deep a game, but even if he lost the results were sure to be spectacular.
He rose, padding over to the cooled tub in search of the wash cloth; he needed to bathe, whether the water was cold and used or not. His reflection in the water gazed back, features still and serene but eyes sparking with something like mischief, just a bit of malice to it. There was more life in the expression than he had seen on his own face in some years. How many now?
Haruka cast back, skipping over weeks and months. He knew the time was measured in years but… He could not remember. He frowned, kneeling beside the tub, resting his arm on the edge of it to perch his chin there. Perhaps when he had first met Miho- but he could not remember that time. They had been close friends for so long, in his mind it had been an eternity, the details of how it had started were irrelevant. He remembered their first season on their island, remembered the faces and names of the men and women that chose to accompany them… but that couldn't be right; in his mind's eye there were far fewer names than faces, and even fewer stories he could recall.
Had he grown so complacent that he had ceased to care for them as he should? No, no. They were his family, the one he had chosen for himself, the one Miho had helped him assemble, all of them craving the same freedom and sense of autonomy that came of living outside imperial control, no matter that it made survival that much more difficult. He remembered the lean winters, repetitive in their nature, remembered when Miho had taught him the pearl-hunting skill that had become the keystone of their people and how easily it had come to him, like he had been born to it.
Other details were dim and hardly seemed a part of him at all: the time before their island, the days and nights they must have spent constructing their home. All gone.
Even trying to dwell on those faded details felt wrong somehow, and his thoughts constantly tried to pull him away from them. It distressed him keenly to find that he had lost so much of himself somewhere in the business of day to day living, and it had taken an abduction by corsairs to wake him up enough to realize it.
The water rippled gently, as though someone had blown a puff of air across it. Haruka reached down, skimming his finger along the top, feeling the water part to welcome him-
He started back, skittering across the floor, panting and wide-eyed with disbelief. For a split second and no more, Haruka could swear his face in the water had smiled back, something bright and a little wild, certainly nothing like a smile he had ever felt on his face before. It had distorted his features somehow, made him look something other than human. Never one to avoid danger, he slowly gathered himself up and made his way to the water's edge again.
The Haruka in the water smiled back still, but his questing fingers assured him that was not his face, his lips were thin and tight with fear whereas this creature in the water smiled with treacherous welcome.
The water rippled again, almost as though responding to his confusion, teeming with his fear and curiosity. Then the creature reached out, fingertips never quite breaching the surface but plainly intending him to reach in. Haru caught himself just before his fingertips touched the water; it gurgled and leapt, licking at him playfully like a faithful hound welcoming its master home.
"What are you?" The words were more a breath than a whisper, but he knew the creature heard him. It made a coaxing gesture with its hand, stretching out its fingers once more. There was no haste in the gesture, no desperation. The water swirled about his fingertips, imploring him to reach in just that bare centimeter farther-
The door opened and Haruka stood quickly, the reflection in the water once again mirroring only himself, naked, defiant and terribly confused.
"You're awake. Good. I brought clothes." Makoto paused in the doorway, brow furrowing in a mute question as he took in the tableau: Haru halfway across the room, eyes flicking nervously between him and the tub, skin impossibly paler than normal. "Is something wrong?"
There was a glint in Haru's eyes he did not trust when at last the man answered, "No, nothing. Whose clothes am I wearing?"
"Mine. I think we are of a similar build." Mako glanced into the tub on his way past: nothing but water. There was nothing unusual, not even a few stray soap suds from the night before, yet Haruka continued to watch it with hardly even a spare glance at Mako's approach. Very unusual, and slightly disconcerting: what was it about Haru's eyes that had the hairs on his neck prickling so?
"Thank you." Haru offered meekly, no trace of acerbity in his voice; Makoto trusted that even less.
"I'll leave you to change. Come out when you're ready and I'll escort you to the galley."
"An official escort? I'm honored."
There, that was more like him, but the words seemed to come by rote. It took a concerted effort to turn his back on this new man, and even then Mako kept his ears pricked until the door was safely bolted behind him.
Haru hurried to the water as soon as the door closed, plunging his hand into it before he lost his nerve.
Nothing- only a splash as his hand dipped below the water. He was losing his mind: consorting with pirates, flirting with demons, imagining other selves in the water… it had been a trying few days and obviously he was not bearing up well under the strain. He stepped away briskly, nevertheless keeping a wary eye on the tub as he changed into the workaday clothes, mind churning with doubts he didn't dare voice aloud.
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At this hour of the morning, the galley was in cheerful chaos: the cooks bellowed orders to each other across a makeshift stove where pots boiled over, wood crackling and sparking beneath from excess moisture. Haru spotted several familiar faces: the blond brat that so loved his pistols was perched in a corner, moodily watching the tall, mild man Haru blamed for his capture. The surgeon, Nitori, was in conference with the captain, steaming bowl clutched protectively to his chest, looking nothing like the frightened animal that had held a blade to Miho's throat.
Haru would have liked to return the favor, but Mako stayed close to his side, protecting his crew as much as he did his… prisoner? Pet?
What was he now? Not whatever he had been last evening, Haru was sure; he would have to decide very soon what position he intended to occupy aboard this ship until his departure.
The captain- Rin- caught sight of them and quickly excused himself, making his way across the floor to stand before them. Haruka locked eyes with him and found he couldn't look away: he remembered clear as any painted print what they had done last night, knew every bruise beneath that artfully disarranged shirt, could guess at the minor aches and pains cramping the man's muscles. Yet Rin looked at him as though he was still a hostile stranger.
For reasons he couldn't explain, Haru's fingers began to twitch violently with the desire to reach out and tear the buttons on that shirt, show the crew a few of the secrets their captain kept. He wanted to touch Rin's hair, fist his hand in it again and force him to his knees, make him beg for forgiveness and mercy then fuck him until he begged for something else entirely. Rin's eyes said he knew all this. The taunting smile that settled on his lips dared Haru to step out of line.
Tonight, he consoled himself, tonight he would act out every fantasy he had and hopefully rid himself of this unexpected and thoroughly inconvenient lust.
"Captain." Makoto. He had crumpled so easily at a few quiet words from his captain, and even now Haru's arms remembered the banked strength he had felt beneath that deceptively slender frame as they tangled together. He wanted that again too.
He wanted. Haru clenched his teeth and swallowed tightly, wondering at this new tightness beneath his skin, the heat pooling in his belly and the violence that set his muscles to spasming. He wanted to injure as much as he wanted to soothe, but then he was quite certain it was an impulse both of these men understood very well.
"Makoto." Rin smiled, "Ha. Ru. Ka." He smiled all the wider seeing the way Haru bridled at his cajoling tone.
"Bold move, captain, leaving me alone in your quarters."
"Did it upset you, waking alone?" Rin tutted mockingly, ignoring the warning glance Mako shot him over Haru's shoulder.
"Yes." Haru stated simply, laughing inside at the way Rin's eyes widened with surprise. "I wasn't near through with you yet."
Rin's eyes narrowed, smile taking on a promising edge, "Mako and I were just saying the same thing this morning."
"Rin." Makoto's quiet voice would not be ignored. Rin finally glanced away and Haru felt like he could breathe again, whatever peculiar spirit gripped him subsided little by little.
"I'll need you to accompany me after breakfast, Makoto. Rei has already prepared his report."
"Aye, sir." Mako chimed, light and unconcerned once more. They exchanged a glance that Haru couldn't read, though he sensed there was a whole conversation contained within it; then Rin was gone, sweeping out of the mess to go about his business.
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"Are there fleas aboard ship, Rei?"
Rei frowned, tapping his finger on the map to mark his place. "No, sir, not to my knowledge."
"Then why are you twitching like a madman?" Rin snapped, annoyed and out-of-sorts ever since that thoroughly unfulfilling encounter with Haru in the mess. If he could but start the morning again, he would wake Mako and they could in turn wake Haru together.
"Sorry, sir." Rei glanced back down, not even blushing slightly at Rin's needling. Odd. His crew was in a fey mood today but Rin was at a loss to explain it. Mako was subdued, Haru was cooperative, unshakable Rei was fidgeting worse than Rin's little sister the first time he had taken her to an official meeting and Nagisa hadn't picked a fight with anyone over breakfast. Nitori had even emerged from his lair to eat with the common folk, though Rin suspected that had been a ploy to corner him and demand payment.
Still, a happy surgeon was a capable surgeon, and seeing as Nitori had finally embraced his position aboard ship Rin saw no reason not to reward him accordingly. With the caveat that his own sharp tongue would cut his throat if he was not careful.
Rei cleared his throat, tracing a line across the map already designated in red. "If we can catch the current, we might make Sanctuary by tonight, likely by early morning, but with the ship in this condition I am not satisfied it would be wise, captain."
"I understand your concern, but that is my standing order. I mean to make Sanctuary as fast as mortal means can take us."
"And I believe it can be done, but-"
At last Makoto put in an appearance, Haru trailing at his heels. It made Rin uncomfortable, having the man here to see the damage he had inflicted, learning their plans and doubtless making plots within plots of his own, but obviously leaving him on his own had been a grave miscalculation the first time. Nothing for it but to adjust and keep him under some semblance of control until they reached the relative safety of neutral territory.
"But?" Rin prompted, unwilling to be interrupted.
"But as it stands, repairs will be costly and will take precious time. If she's damaged any more, our purse will be that much lighter and the time… Captain Mikoshiba will certainly catch us up regardless, however-"
"Don't concern yourself with Sei, I have him handled." With Sei nothing was ever that simple, but Rin disliked hearing a member of his own crew give that man his rank. He respected Sei as a captain, certainly, and a clever foe, but of all his men he trusted Rei the least. He still had the air of a naval officer about him, and Rin suspected he always would.
Rei seemed to sense this and corrected himself immediately, "Sei will catch us up, however there's no need to give him more time than necessary to find us."
"Let him find us. No officer will ever set foot on Sanctuary." It was neutral ground, and all too often that translated to pirate's haven. Good men avoided it like the plague.
Makoto didn't seem as certain, eyeing the map at Rei's side. "I share Rei's concern, but this is no time for uncertainty. I will draw up an estimate of what we should need- I'll be in charge of negotiations, of course?"
"Of course. I expect you to function as my liaison while I- " Rin glanced tellingly at Haru and reconsidered his words, "Tend to other matters."
Mako nodded with satisfaction, face lighting up once more to cast off the pall that seemed to have settled over him at dawn. Rin heaved a quiet sigh of relief; he needed every man in top form for these coming days, particularly the one he kept at his side.
"Rei, coordinate with Nagisa and see to it you have a working list of everything we need in the armory. Nitori has a handful of requests I expect you to make note of, you will accompany Makoto as quartermaster."
"Aye, sir." Rin arched a brow at the stiff tone, but Rei's features were so perfectly neutral he couldn't discern what emotion prompted it. Evidently Mako could, he appeared devilishly amused. Rin resolved to ask him later, preferably in the comfort of their cabin once they had worn Haru out.
He glanced in the man's direction, skin prickling with the awareness of being watched. At first glance Haru appeared to be studying the picture they made, eyes flickering everywhere but not settling on anyone for a significant amount of time, his gaze had turned inward and Rin could read the lines of heavy thought on his brow. Plotting, or still sorting through the ramifications of last night as he was?
Rin shook his head, forcefully coming back to himself, "Then you are all dismissed. Rei, if you would deliver a message to Nagisa he'll take lookout while you take inventory."
Rei bowed slightly, a more formal gesture than Rin had seen from him in years, "Aye, sir."
There was something strange happening aboard this ship, and it could all be traced back to the night he had brought Haru aboard. Rin narrowed his eyes, studying Haru anew; all that was left to determine now was whether the man was a boon or a curse.
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A.N. I promise to get better about updating here, lol.
I still feel like this chapter has a bit too much "tell", but it remains as is unless/until I re-write