Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ VI. Are faintly white ( Chapter 6 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don’t own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos. Neither do I own the haiku of Matsuo Basho (translation by Haruo Shirane, this chapter).

A/N: Much love to everyone who’s been kind enough to R & R; your fabulousness is of the amazing and the way to my heart — thanks, all! I seem to be rewarding you with the chapter that went Godzilla, but . . . yeah. Um?

We’re coming to the top of the first hill on our roller coaster ride, so check your seat belts and keep hands and feet inside the car at all times.


Nenju


At some point, Fuu was convinced, her head was going to explode.

Either that, or the man who was holding her hands in his and smiling at her — she had forgotten just how pretty he was, he was almost as handsome as Jin — was going to die. Although, she amended, catching a glimpse of her yojimbo, he might have a few minutes while they battled it out for the right to kill him. Maybe this was that Christian hell Jin had been talking about in the forest outside Kasumi?

She gave the man the brightest, perkiest smile she could manage under the circumstances and turned to face her companions. “Toku, I want you to meet my friends, Mugen and Jin,” she managed to get out before her voice stuck in her throat. Silently, she added, Mugen, Jin, meet Toku. Say, would you mind not killing him? Her conviction that the man from Kyoto was seconds away from the afterlife was only strengthened by looking at their faces; Mugen’s hand was behind his head, resting on the hilt of his longsword, and Jin wore that speculative, cold look that always made her shiver, thumb resting against the guard of his katana. The impression of having fireworks with a lit fuse inside her head intensified.

She could always break them out of jail, she supposed—

Toku kept her hand in his as he turned to face the other men, who were taken aback when he did something unexpected: he smiled and bowed. No, no, don’t do it, Toku — “It is a pleasure to meet the men who have brought my Fuu-chan back safely. Please, would you consider staying at my house this evening? It’s the least I can do to thank you,” he said.

Jin blinked, as Mugen’s jaw fell.
Kaboom!

The Christian hell (because, she figured, this had to be it) was actually . . . well, nice.
Mugen was unabashedly gaping at the room they were in, and even Jin looked as if he was impressed in a tiny way . . . or, possibly, thinking about how best to clean his wakizashi. She sighed. Men. Toku was the only one completely ignoring their surroundings, which she put down to seeing them every day, and the fact that he was still looking at her with that dreamy, moony expression of his face like he’d been hit on the head.

She’d been to the house of Komeya no Toku once before, before she’d left for Kasumi, and it hadn’t changed much — the room was long and airy, and she could tell the tatami maker had been in recently to change the covers; the mats were still faintly green, and the scent of freshly cut hay lingered in the air. The fusuma were left partially open, but they now bore the painted scene of rice paddies in spring, which was new. She thought the scroll hanging in the small alcove at the head of the room was also new, but hadn’t had the chance to look at it closely. It was all very rich, and very clean, and shouted that Toku was Someone Important.

It was all, she thought and was instantly ashamed of herself, a little too much.

It wasn’t that the house wasn’t beautiful — it was — or that she didn’t like being able to sit in a comfortable room — she did — but she could have told him that he was trying too hard. It was evident to everyone but Toku that this was the house of ashigaru, not quite farmer and not quite samurai. Even Mugen, she thought, knew that there was something a bit off. It was an unkind thought and she thought a little less of herself for thinking it. Still . . . if she hadn’t been samurai herself, she wondered not for the first time, would Toku have been as interested in her as he was? He’d called her ojosama as a joke the first time she’d met him at the gambling house, and then the next; she wasn’t sure when it had stopped being a joke. She smiled sourly to herself. Maybe, she thought, she was the joke.

The sun was setting as the servants brought their meal, tofu dumplings with eggplant, which she’d mentioned once to him as one of the things about Kyoto that she particularly liked. She noted with some amusement that Jin had been seated in the place of honor, right next to the scroll alcove, with Mugen right next to him; Toku had an excellent view of Mugen as they ate. She almost felt sorry for him, as the Ryukyuan poked suspiciously at the food, then began to wolf it down in earnest. Toku’s eyes widened, but he managed to keep up his end of the conversation without staring too much at Mugen’s table manners. She stifled a little giggle, as she met Jin’s eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, the tiniest expression of amusement crossed his face before he was calmly listening to their host once more. Toku had evidently decided that the ronin was in charge of Fuu and Mugen, and so was directing most of his attention to Jin, who gave him the bare minimum of polite small talk. It was all right; Toku was talking enough for an army of silent ronin.

“ — which is what my friend Sugimori-san says, but the poor man is obsessed with suicide. Most unhealthy. I’m sure you remember him, Fuu-chan, his father used to come in all the time and talk about the books the westerners had on medicine. Sugimori-san was thinking of traveling to Nagasaki for western studies, but now he talks of nothing but the theater.” Toku patted her arm, as if to reassure himself that she was still there, and gave her a blindingly white smile. “He has this idea about puppets — “

She made a small noise of interest in the somewhat one-sided conversation — Sugimori? Puppets? Mm, eggplant — and shook her head mentally. Fuu-chan. Gaaaah. She wasn’t sure why it was annoying when Toku said it but not when Jin called her that, deciding to abandon that train of thought immediately if not sooner. Jin and Mugen were her friends, odd fantasies aside, so obviously they thought of her affectionately. As one would think of a little sister, probably.

Hn. She stabbed at a mushroom with her chopsticks and bit into it viciously. Mugen looked up from his dumplings — how, she wondered, had he gotten rice on his forehead? — at her sudden movement. She gave him a warm smile and shook her head to let him know it was nothing. He shrugged and gave her cup a significant glance, which she ignored.

“ — my lord is still unconvinced as to its wisdom concerning the harvest, but the westerners do have some interesting things. Take the sword that you carry, for instance. I have no small experience with the sword, but I have never seen anything quite like it,” Toku said; it took her a moment to realize he was addressing Mugen.

Mugen looked equally surprised, mumbling his answer through a last gulp of rice. “Hm?”

“Yes, it’s quite unusual,” Jin answered. “But effective.” He sipped cautiously at some sake. He’d been nursing the same cup throughout the meal, to Fuu’s great relief. She had not, but her head for sake was a little better than his; she felt pleasantly relaxed, and happy, and if the servants would clear the dishes from in front of her, she could indulge in a nice little nap.

“Perhaps — I know you plan to leave tomorrow, but if you would care to spar with me in the morning? I would enjoy seeing your Ryukyu style. Nothing too strenuous,” Toku said. “A friendly match. I would keep myself in check, of course. Then possibly a lesson in bujutsu? Although I’m sure that Takeda-san is an excellent tutor, sometimes it’s good to practice with another swordsman, and I have a good deal of experience.” He laughed, modestly. “In fact, I am unbeaten in eleven duels.”

“Of course,” Mugen said, his eyes glittering unpleasantly as he grinned. “Eleven duels, you say? That’s, uh, impressive.”

Jin eyed them both. “It has been a very pleasant evening, Komeya-dono, but I’m afraid that it may be getting late.” He nodded at Fuu, who was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

“Oh, I am sorry. I had forgotten that you must be tired from traveling, but with such enjoyable company — “ their host rose gracefully to his feet, hakama elegantly draped. He led them down a broad hallway, toward a series of fusuma doors set into the wall, stopping when he reached the first. “The servants have prepared this room for you — you’ve been put in together, if that’s all right?”he asked the other men, who nodded.

“Yes, thank you,” Jin answered. “And Fuu?”

Toku paused. “At the end of the hall,” he replied. “I believe you will be very comfortable, Fuu-chan.”

“Thank you.” Fuu yawned. “This is really nice of you, Toku.”

“My pleasure.” Casually, he took her arm, nodding at the other men. “Then I will say good night. If you do find you need something, there is always a servant at the door.”

“Thank you.” Neither Jin nor Mugen showed any signs of moving, Mugen even going so far as to give their host a cheeky grin.

Toku gave a small sigh and placed his hand possessively on the small of her back. “I would be very happy if you would join me for a walk in the garden, my ojosama.” She nodded, as he steered her away; over her shoulder, she could hear an odd noise that sounded suspiciously like someone grinding their teeth together. She shook her head to clear it. Obviously, she’d had more to drink than she should have.

Her head was clearing a little by the time she set foot on the immaculately raked gravel path, but he kept a firm grip on her arm. It was surprisingly quiet, considering that outside the garden wall lay a city of over a quarter million people; she could hear the tok of a bamboo deer scarer as it emptied water into a small pond, and a breeze rustling through the leaves.

The gravel crunched underfoot, as their shadows stretched long before them in the light from the house. She glanced back and her mouth quirked into a smile — the shoji screen separating Jin and Mugen’s room had been inadvertently on purpose left partially open to the garden, and she wondered if it was possible to find any better chaperones than her mismatched yojimbo.

Toku drew her into the picturesque shadow of a gnarled old willow, and moved his hand from her arm to her waist. “Fuu, you are as beautiful as ever,” he said, looking down at her. “I have thought of no other woman but you, since you left.”

He really was so very, very pretty — “Um, thank you?” she fumbled. He was less similar to Jin than she’d thought, she decided; the ronin had filled out a little in the two years since Ikitsuki Island, becoming a little less the starved boy, but he was still so wild. Toku had neither Jin’s fierce spirit nor his innate grace — what she’d thought was graceful in the man pulling her gently to him was what she’d wanted to find. He was only a handsome man, but in the end, she knew it wouldn’t be enough, for herself or for him.


Still, she did like his hair, long and dark, tied at the back of his head neatly; she slipped her hand up to rest against it as he leaned in to kiss her.

His lips were soft, and pleasant, and — she felt nothing. Gently, she patted his shoulder as he pulled away, his eyes warm as he looked at her. “Ojosama,” he said quietly, and drew her down to sit on a bench under the willow. “May I ask you something?”

“Mm? Anything.”

He laced her fingers into his own. “I should not be asking you this, but as your father is dead, and you have no one to speak for you — “ He was uncharacteristically nervous; she watched, as he bit his lip. “It is time for me to take a wife, and — “

Oh. “Toku,” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes went involuntarily to the half-open screen, where she imagined she saw a shadow flicker against the lantern light.

“Please. Don’t answer me now — take the night to think about it.” His eyes were dark and pleading and wrong —

She closed her own, but found herself saying, “All right. In the morning. I’ll think about it.” It was, she thought, the least she could give him.

“Hey.” She’d been expecting a quiet voice at her door; just not this one.

“Hey, yourself. Come in.”

The fusuma slid open and shut behind him as, barefoot, he padded over to sit at the side of her futon. She sat up.

“What’s going on? You want me to light the lantern?”

He shrugged, shaking his head no. “Jin’s trying to meditate. Never thought I’d complain that he couldn’t just sit there, but — “

She nodded. “He’s been acting really weird. You don’t — ?” She looked at him hopefully.

Mugen eyed her. “What am I, a woman? You want to know, you ask him.”

She rolled her eyes in frustration. What was he, twelve? He knew perfectly well what she was asking, he was perceptive enough —

“Anyway, I don’t care about that. What’s going on with you and lover boy there?” Those silvery eyes glimmered at her in the darkened room. The air still held the warmth of the late summer day and he was close enough for her to smell him; his scent was pleasant, Mugen overlaid with soap. He must have taken a bath, she thought distantly. She knew it didn’t bother him to do without, but that he would take the opportunity to be clean when he could. Another way in which she and Jin left their mark on him — they had all left marks on each other. She rubbed her arm, trying to dispel the goosebumps that had come up.

Not this again. “Nothing’s going on,” she told him. “I’m not what he thinks I am, I never have been. He just wants me because he thinks this is a good way for him to find a wife from a samurai family.”

“I heard you outside, Fuu. I know what he wants.”

“Mm.” Now it was her turn to shrug. She lay back, closing her eyes. “He’s not going to get it.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t get you.”

“Hn? I’m tired now. Go away.” She waited for the sound of him standing up, the fusuma sliding back and closed again, footsteps moving down the hall toward the room he shared with Jin . . . nothing. Nothing? Was he still there? Maybe he’d gone out the shoji into the garden, but she would have heard that, wouldn’t she — ?

She opened her eyes a fraction to see Mugen’s water-colored ones a finger’s breadth away from hers, looking directly at her. In the faint moonlight, the scars on his cheek were dark, like dried blood —

“Eeee!” She scrambled backwards. “What are you doing? You — you weirdo! What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s going on, Fuu?” He casually settled back against her covers, cushioning his head with her leg. What the hell — she realized that not only was he prepared to stay all night in order to have an answer to his question, he was also prepared to cut off any avenue of escape she might plan. She narrowed her eyes and surreptitiously tried to slip her leg out from under him; he responded by yawning, rolling onto his side — and looping his arm comfortably over her thighs. He grinned up at her.

Oooo! She was going to — do something. When she figured out what, she would do it, but for now her brain was busy, helpfully pointing out, he’s touching you. Cover’s not as thick as you thought, is it? She squashed that down, compressing her lips together into a strict line to let him know that This. Did. Not. Affect. Her.
At all.

A tiny part of her (which she concentrated on kicking into a deep mental hole, where it would never, ever get out) brought it to her attention that the last time she tried squirming out from under him, more of him had ended up on top of her, so perhaps if she tried it a second time — gaaaah!

“Hm?” His eyes were amused, watching her.

“If I scream — “ she began.

He yawned and scratched himself with his free hand. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“I said, go ahead.” He leaned in, a little closer. “Maybe I should be asking lover boy why he’s not the one who’s making you scream, mm?” His voice was silky and she could feel the rumble of his voice against her thighs. “So, if you did, I wouldn’t have to walk down to his room to ask him, would I? He wants to, you know.”

Did he — she gaped at him. “Did you get hit in the head?” she hissed. “Because you sound like — “

“What’s going on?” he repeated.

“Are you jealous?” She was dreaming, she must be — any moment now, she’d wake up. She’d be late for work at the teahouse, and her miso and rice would be cold, and none of this would have ever happened except in her head.

He gave her an odd, speculative look. “Dummy,” he said at last, voice softening. “It wasn’t him, was it?”

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She pulled the covers over her head as much as she could. “I’m not talking to you about this. Good night, now go away. Go to bed,” she commanded, squinching her eyes tightly shut. She heard him sigh, then felt him move off her legs. She let go a deep breath and felt herself relax. She’d hear the fusuma, any moment now —

She felt the brief flicker of cooler air, as the covers fluttered back for an instant and closed around her again. This time, however, there was a strong, sinewy body under the light quilt with her; her rational mind threw up its hands and decided it was going off to spend the night at some inn, because reason? Not happening. If it was, she would deduce that simply because she could feel another person in her bed, that the person was actually there, and that the person was Mugen, which — she peeked out from between her lashes to see him propped up on one elbow and facing in her direction, lying in bed with her. In bed. With her. Um.

Eeee!

And really, really close to her; she could feel the coarse hair on his legs prickling through the fine material of the juban she was wearing, as well as his warm breath on her face. “Okay. So who was it?” he asked. He was so, so warm, she thought, as rational Fuu shook her head in disappointment and went back to admiring the moon. Irrational Fuu could only say things like Man! In bed! and Bed! Mugen! before she wibbled into a post and knocked herself out cold.

“Wha — “ She blinked.

“Hey, not my idea. You’re the one who told me to go to bed.” He twitched at the quilt, making himself comfortable. He considered her pillow briefly, then shook his head.

“I did not — “ she began heatedly, poking him in the shoulder. His eyebrows lifted, as she moved against him and the extent of what she was wearing became apparent to them both. Face flaming, she rolled over; maybe he’d go away if she stopped talking.

He draped an arm over her hip and pulled her back into his chest. “So if it wasn’t lover boy . . . “ he said thoughtfully. “Believe me, I’m not going to forget about him — there’s another guy?” His voice sounded vaguely surprised.

She gritted her teeth. “There is no other guy. None. Now, will you get out and leave me alone?”

He leaned in close, his lips next to her ear. “No.”

“Go. Away.”

“I don’t like it when I don’t know what’s going on,” that silky voice rumbled. “So, two choices: you can tell me, and I get out of your bed, or you don’t tell me, and lover boy wakes up tomorrow morning to see me strolling out of here.”

“What makes you think I care about what he sees?” she said. “But, you snore — so, no.”

“Fuu. Come on, it’s me,” he said, and poked her in the shoulder with his long, knobby finger. “Are you worried about what I’m going to think? Or Jin? Because I don’t necessarily have to tell him if you don’t want me to.”

She snorted. “Try that one on your granny. You tell him everything.”

“Hah. Fish face wouldn’t need to know — “

The fusuma slid open, for the second time since she’d gone to bed, as they both looked up. Really, she thought distantly, they might as well have camped outside Kyoto for all the sleep she wasn’t getting, as she squinted to make out who was at the door. With her luck, it was probably Toku, come to see what the noise was. At least when he kicked them out, she wouldn’t have to hear him call her Fuu-chan any more. Or tell him yes or no, which would be nice.

She smelled cotton, and clove oil — then the moonlight was enough for her to see Jin standing over them, his eyes dark and furious as he looked down at them, taking in her loose hair and the hand on her shoulder.

“Jin — “ She could feel Mugen silently tensing up behind her, as his attention shifted to the ronin. Her stomach did a lazy flip as she realized what he must have heard. “It’s not — “

She never saw him move.

She felt Mugen being pulled out from behind her, then saw his feet dangling above the floor momentarily, a pale fist gripping the front of Mugen’s haori. Jin gave her an unreadable look, and they were gone, with only the passing warmth where she’d shared her futon to let her know she hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

Bewildered, she lay awake for some time before finally falling asleep.

Day broke clear and fresh, with the promise that it would be warm and humid later on. The kimono refused to lay quite right against the nape of her neck as she sat on the steps, watching Toku instructing Mugen on the use of the sword; it would have been funny if her headache would go away and her mouth wasn’t quite as dry. Or if Toku hadn’t looked quite as crushed when she’d given him her quiet no, a moment ago.

Mugen stood, longsword in hand, eyebrow raised, as the other man demonstrated an upward thrust. He’d said nothing to her when he’d come out of the house and dropped his pack at the side of the steps, just a movement of his head to indicate he’d seen her. She’d been standing next to Toku at the time; she was grateful for this unlooked-for sensitivity.

Toku nodded, and the two men drew apart. Mugen stood loose and ready, Toku with his feet planted shoulder width apart but his elbows locked — she could have told him that while he might have won eleven duels, he wouldn’t be winning a twelfth today if he stood like that — when she heard a disturbance at the front door. Hm?

She turned to see a very stormy-looking Jin jerk his katana out of the grasp of the servant at the door and stride past her. He bit out a terse “We’re leaving,” before he crossed the courtyard to the two startled men. “Komeya-dono, our thanks, but we must be leaving.”

“But — our sword lesson?” Toku gaped up at the very cranky ronin, who narrowed his eyes at him, and moved — the katana describing a perfect silver arc in the air — steel on steel ringing out, before the other’s hands were empty.

“Your wrists need strengthening,” Jin told him, and walked out through the gate toward Motomachi. Her dejected suitor watched them go — Fuu sketching a quick, apologetic wave toward him, the Ryukyuan with the scarred face swinging his pack over his back and nodding as he went by — sitting a long moment before he got up.

There were other women, he thought; but he knew there were no eyes finer than those seen in the roll of the dice. He’d never see her again, he knew.

Small translation note: ojosama is a title that was used to address young, unmarried noblewomen. It’s not too far afield to think of it as equivalent roughly to ‘miss’, but slightly higher in social status; when Toku addresses Fuu as ojosama, he’s giving her higher rank than he himself has. Not bad, for a girl who rolled dice for a living.