ONNAGATA Socked feet pad on the rough deck, but somehow the white fabric never catches. Souji has a trick of gliding over wood, it seems. He sits next to Hijikata with a wry expression and, when a questioning glance is thrown his way, explains. "I got scolded by Kondou-san." Souji laughs prettily, with a hand over his mouth. "He asked if I couldn't be more manly." Hijikata raises a thick eyebrow and his dark eyes glide over Souji, appreciating the view - long silky hair, creamy skin soft all over except on his well-worn palms, violet eyes that can flash or glow or something whenever Souji chose. And the white kimono, soft and draping around a slender frame that, truth be told, was never all that masculine. Souji sees the rare moment of lightheartedness in his lover and plays it up accordingly, drawling, "I saw this beautiful kimono in a stall, and I said something about how much I liked it. Then Nagakura-san, Heisuke-san, Sanosuke-san laughed at me. And then Kondou-san said, with this embarrassed face, 'Souji, can't you at least act manly'?" Souji uses a poor imitation of Kondou's face and tone for effect. Hijikata frowns. "Kondou has a point, every now and then." He shifts, nudges himself closer to the younger man and feels a few threads in his kimono snag on the deck. Eyes peer up through long lashes and a silk curtain of longer bangs. Two layers of white sleeves fall over off-white hands as Souji frownes. "What do you mean by that?" Hijikata makes a noise that sounds half-dissatisfied, half-hopeless, in his throat. "You should at least wear swords when you go out. There are more and more fights these days." He glares at the thin fabric draped around the younger man, a garment looking like a white yukata instead of a respectable kimono for a samurai. "You look like a girl in the summertime." Souji tugs absently at the overlap of the kimono at his front, as if that small gesture will be enough for Hijikata. The surrounding air responds with a sharp, chilly burst of wind and Souji shivers, glares at Hijikata as if the older man is the cause of all this. "Is that so. Which way would you prefer me, then, Hijikata-san?" "Souji, wait, I didn't mean it like that -" Frowning some more, Hijikata reaches out a hand, but Souji looks away and pretends that Hijikata isn't there - pretends badly at that, as evidenced by one or two tiny hesitant turns that his face makes in that direction. He rises to his feet, still facing away from Hijikata, and hurries unsteadily to his room. ^_- Hijikata is irritable on the streets, and even without the fear-inspiring haori, other denizens of Kyoto know to keep their distance on the streets. Hijikata nearly bypasses the garment district of the marketplace. He does not actually see it; he smells it first. Teasing fingers of scent descended upon him: the flat scent of laundered clothes, sharp twinges of camphor preserving precious embroideries, floral scents that exhude from small silken trinkets that ladies will tuck into their sleeves and sashes. All of the combined fragrances curl around Hijikata's mind and draw it towards the memories and context of Souji: after a warm bath, smelling like hot water and a distinct absence of blood; soft white kimono that are too delicate for his task and position in life; hair the color of lavender when the sun shone on it, and sometimes, the entirety of Souji would smell of that faint scent. Souji tries so hard to be clean and proper and, well, *pretty* when he isn't in the streets, Hijikata thinks, and remembers the sprigs of jasmine and lavender Souji insists on tucking into his folded-up clothes. For a brief moment, Hijikata compares Souji to the silks fluttering in the wind and wondered if camphor - or anything - could protect Souji from everything. ^_- Hijikata didn't follow him, Souji thinks with exasperation. Hijikata hadn't even been back to the compound in time for dinner, so Souji had to make do with teasing Heisuke/Sanosuke/Nakagura. He hadn't returned after dinner, so Souji had to sit around in his room, doing nothing instead of entertaining and being entertained by his lover. He isn't entirely sure what he had wanted Hijikata to do in the afternoon, but blatantly being ignored was not the proper response. Souji opens some drawers and winced at the scent of camphor, then searches through a pile of white, off-white, and gray clothes for the one dark kimono he owns. He hates it, but if it makes Hijikata happy, there were more irritating things he'd do. "So ugly," he grumbles as he startes peeling off his clothes wearing with one hand, slipping the material down and around his shoulders while the other arm reaches for a thick kimono of brown wool. It itches even when worn over his thin underkimono, and he makes a long-suffering, mocking sigh. When his shoji slides open without so much as a knock, Souji doesn't need to look up as he greets, "Hijikata-san?" He turns to see several grayish paper-bound packages, each tied up with string and all snugly tucked under Hijikata's arms. "Hijikata-san?" Hijikata slams the shoji shut and, for good measure, wedges a scabbard against the frame so that the door would take some force to open. Souji notices, and waits for lust to simmer in Hijikata's dark eyes. "You don't look like yourself," Hijikata comments, well aware of the irony as he carefully set the packages - four of them, Souji counts - on the tatami with soft, careful sounds. The kimono seems to have added years of something palpable and sad and dragging-down to Souji's thin body, as if all of Souji is lighter than the horrible brown robe. Hijikata reflects that Souji is always in white, when he could be, when he wanted to be. Some winter days when snow tumbled form the sky, Hijikata saw Souji standing in the midst of ice, white with morning light. Then Hijikata's mind had strayed inexplicably to the Yukionna, and he had stood there, frozen, imagining Souji seducing him with a soft icy embrace, pulling him down into whiteness, dazzling with nothing. Hijikata's eyes are the same color as the brown kimono, and look just as sad as he surveyes the sorry picture that Souji makes. Nothing is lost on Souji, who takes a particle of victory in Hijikata's displeasure with his appearance. "This was Hijikata-san's idea," Souji points out lightly as he fiddles with the collar and sleeve. He can hear very delicate rustling of paper against something when Hijikata sets the packages on the floor. Souji blinks and walks over to the pile, asking, "Hijikata-san, what's in that?" "Open." Hijikata guides Souji's hands to the largest of the mysteries, and Souji senses apprehension and uncertainty, and a small amount of fright - though Souji predicts that the fright comes from the unfamiliar first two emotions. Souji's dextrous fingers work the strings and open the flaps of paper. The first package holds a luxurious kimono, the one he'd been coveting in the afternoon. Sapphire silk, thick and glossy and tasteful, snugly lined in softest white crepe-silk. Fantastic embroidery wrapped all around the front and back, a painting of of gold and silver plums, with such detailed needlework that he could distinguish buds twisted up shy and tight in gnarled branches, from flowers in full bloom on proud display. The sleeves will dangle to the ankles once the kimono was worn. Hijikata, impatient, opens another package to reveal an obi in gold brocade, fantastically woven with tiny, repeated patterns of waves, crests, small subtle hexagons and swirls that might not have been intentional, but had just happened during the serendipity of the crafting. The material is stiff to Hijikata's fingers, but when he gives it over to Souji's reverent fingers, he could swear that the fabric draped softer in Souji's hands, under Souji's gaze. "Do you like it?" Hijikata's voice still carries its usual arrogant, rough grate, but Souji can hear the faintest shade of hope in the space between tones. Souji smiles, and for Hijikata at least, the room seems to glow a little brighter than it had. "Hijikata-san always knows what makes me happy." He sets the kimono down and gives Hijikata a kiss on the lips. "You really didn't have to ..." Hijikata grunts. "You could say 'thank you' after someone gives you a gift." Souji drapes the blue kimono over himself like a wedding robe, loose and elegant and luxurious. He plops down to the tatami in a perfect kneeling position, places his hands in front of him, then touches his forehead to the mats and makes a deep ceremonial bow. "I humbly thank you for going to so much trouble for this unworthy one." "... put it on." Hijikata takes a few moments to entirely realize what he says. "Hmmm, Hijikata-san, are you sure it's a proper kimono for me? I mean, it's for young unmarried women - I suppose I'm two out of the three -" Souji's eyes laugh with his mouth. Hijikata misses the laugh some days. Every kill tears the smiles farther away, and every drop of blood spilled under Souji's sword makes his lips pale another shade of loss, makes his eyes, like bruises layers atop each other, darken another twinge of hurt. Souji's skin seems whiter and softer than ever when placed in the context of the blue silk. Hijikata thought about streets and alleyways painted black with blood and carnage. He desperately wants to hide Souji in a place that held nothing broken or destroyed, only things that were bright and beautiful. Souji, white sleeves fluttering like a womanÕs even when he snaps down his katana, never belonged among the devastation that he causes, and it is utterly confusing to Hijikata how Souji and ruin coexist. It's so much more fitting to wrap Souji in beauty, he ponders, wistfully as if there is a missed chance somewhere long ago that he just now remembers. He watches the younger man cautiously open the other packages to find fine silken underkimono, cords and small sashes and all the accessories he'd need to put the furisode on properly. Hijikata is proud that he'd bought *everything*, down to a pair of white tabi and black lacquered sandals. Souji turns to Hijikata with a smile like the sun peeking through rain. "Hijikata-san, do you know how to put this on?" "No," Hijikata admits with a low, brief chuckle as he moves to Souji. "Do you?" In answer Souji begins taking off his kimono again, and Hijikata's breathing turns rough and hitched; he inhales sharply when Souji, mischievous, takes care to pass through several choice poses as he disrobes. When Hijikata's arms descend upon the younger man's smooth waist, Souji whispers, "How about we wait until I put this on - and then you can take that off me, and we can ..." "As if you were a woman?" A smile fights to break onto Hijikata's lips. Despite all the jokes and comments and nudges in the sides, "Souji, you're a *man*. And I -" "Yes, I know, you gave up women for me - as you remind me every time you don't go to Gion with everyone else." Souji's words feel and taste reckless, perhaps from the sake on his breath. Hijikata smirks when he caught the scent; Souji rarely indulges in alcohol, and this special occasion would make the evening interesting. He also wonders why Souji had been drinking - nobody except himself dares pressure Souji about anything. Hijikata admires the view of a temporarily naked Souji, and asks, "Why the sake? You don't like it --" Souji reaches for the white underkimono. "I felt like it," his smile is teasing, "and since you weren't at dinner, somebody had to finish off the last bits of sake." Hijikata's hands almost touch the ice-smooth white, but he pulls his fingers back, afraid of ruining the fabric, the moment, and the picture that Souji composes. "That's not the 'last bits of sake' I smell, Souji." "Oh, well," he murmurs. "Hand me a sash, Hijikata-san." Souji bites his lips, a girlish accent magnified by the shimmer of bridal-white all about him. "If I were a woman ..." Souji suddenly, again, muses. His voice is soft and subtle like still water, a gentle break from the silence in which he has dressed himself. He stands and lifts his arms slightly, as if caught in the middle of an act. Hijikata's eyes snap up and he takes in the entirety of Souji's ensemble. When Souji clasps his hands just below his waist, his slim white underarms, that seems incapable of delivering deathblows, peek out from long swinging sleeves. Because he cannot stop himself, Hijikata reaches for Souji's hair and fingers it like skeins of new-spun silk. "And if you were?" Hijikata raises a dark eyebrow once his ministration is finished. "... imagine it," Souji gives the other half of his thought, bridging minutes of silence, infinitesimal fragments of movements and twists of hands, fingers, hair. He softens as he pads over to Hijikata, white socks rustling over straw mats, his feet in the tiny stuttering gait that men seem to favor. Silk, hands, arms wrap around Hijikata's rough, none-too-clean kimono, and Hijikata nearly shouts out that Souji shouldn't defile his beautiful new clothes, much less himself. There is a brief vision of red splashed on blue silk and white skin, and Hijikata nearly trips as he tries to back away. Souji coaslesces next to Hijikata as only a woman should be able to do - soft and soundless, soft and sweet, skin vaguely glowing in the kind candlelight. It is night, and they realize this when the light wavers. "Stupid page," Hijikata mutters, "he forgot to fetch new candles." Souji makes him forget it when he twirls a sleeve, then his hands take hold of his hair and twists it into random silken loops, piles it atop his head in glorious waves tiat curl and trail down, violet mingles with blue and reminds Hijikata of the ocean on a rainy day. "Beautiful," Hijikata admits in a soft sigh, as if he does not know why, or how, or whether it should be. Souji returns to the earlier question. "Would you still love me? You gave up women for me, after all." "You, Souji? Always." And Hijikata smiles like the fond lover at last, love and desire both smouldering from the inside out, glimmering in his eyes, fingertips fairly burning now. "Well then," Souji whispers, "then ..." He comes close and Hijikata breathes in a brief tendril of the scent of Souji, mingled with the last traces of sake - an amount that could not possibly intoxicate anyone, and yet it makes his face hot and his eyes glimmer. Then he thinks on wedding ceremonies and exchanging three little sips, and stares at his dark-eyed lover whose lips are pursed and eyes are downcast in concentration as his white hands fumble with silk and brocade and undoing everything that has been done. end