The Other Side of the River
by Michalyn
Fandom: Fuyumi Souryo’s Cesare
Pairings: Cesare + Michelotto
Rating: PG
Word Count:854
Notes: Birthday fic for liriaen. Set somewhere during chapter six.
Summary: Miguel knows the real Pisa.

If you want to see the true Pisa … I’ll show you what lies on the opposite bank of the Arno.

Right. Miguel snorted. He rolled the body onto its back with a grunt. The water lapped blackly against the riverbank and he was careful to avoid slipping on the mud squelching underfoot. Instead of taking Angelo through a few stinking alleys, if Cesare really wanted to show their little Fiorentine amigo the true Pisa he should have let Miguel be his guide. Then Angelo would have no illusions about the world he lived in or the man who so fascinated him.

Miguel crouched, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “But he doesn’t want to shatter too many illusions, does he?” he whispered, patting the cheek of the corpse next to him.

The dead nobleman, who was in fact no man at all but a boy of their age, stared blankly ahead. His blond curls reflected silver in the moonlight, the color marred only near the temples where the hair was black with clotted blood. He looked remarkably like Angelo and was beautiful in the pale pretty way of the Fiorentine: large blue eyes … rosebud lips. (The death was recent enough that not all color had faded from the skin.) In fact, in the darkness it was impossible to tell the difference. Yet, Cesare had chosen this one to die and the other to live.

Miguel worked unhurriedly but efficiently, checking the body one last time to make sure he had not missed any hidden documents before tying a weight to the boy’s ankles. The brilliant topaz ring on the lordling’s forefinger he ignored. He never bothered with trinkets. Information was Cesare’s power. Everything else was useless.

Miguel peered at his unfortunate companion. Sometimes he knew who they were. Most often, they were the men of clear strategic importance. Other times like these, he knew nothing of his victims or why they must be eliminated. He only accepted that they fit somewhere in the sprawling schema inside Cesare’s mind.

Miguel dragged the body to the water’s edge and let it roll down the incline. It sank with only a small splash. After yesterday’s rains, the corpse would be carried far downstream by the time Miguel returned to Cesare. They didn’t care if it was discovered. The current would create enough confusion that no one would be able to untangle exactly where the body had come from. “Drownings” were common enough anyway among those foolish enough to venture out alone in these parts—especially among the rich.

Miguel began making his way back towards the city lights. He murdered but he was not indifferent. It was merely that once one knew Cesare nothing as trivial as a single conscience could stand in the way of his vision. One must either yield or break under the force of that will. Besides, there was a part of Miguel that was fascinated by the crude egalitarianism of death. Whether his target wore rags or velvet, they all bled the same; all stank the same in that last ignominious moment when the limbs stopped moving and the bowels released.

Not that Miguel had anything against hierarchy per se. He was more suspicious of innocence.

Once on the bridge, Miguel turned back to watch the vastness of the water. The cool wind tickled the hair about his cheeks and it occurred to him that at every crucial moment in his life he had never been far from a river. As a boy in Valencia he had played beside Rio Turia and now here he was with the Arno rushing beneath his feet.

Of course, why shouldn’t it be so? The Greeks believed the Styx separated the mortal world from the realm of the gods. Most men were fated to shuttle from the earth and back to non-existence with nothing to recommend them. Their lives were banal and narrow, mere flickers on the line of fate. Yet, a golden few like Cesare came from the other side—the side where the gods beckoned. They touched the world once and set it ablaze with their incandescence.

As for Miguel, he was merely the oarsman who would cross the river over and over again, never staying long on one bank, but always in the service of a greater power. He needed no coin as payment. He lived only for Cesare’s touch and his smile. He had always known that the only way to touch a god and not be consumed was to live in his shadow. Most of all, to gain access to that immortal plane a man of ordinary power had but one choice: It was to cross the river—to row the boat and carry the dead over one body at a time.

Miguel quickened his step, blending into the shadows and darting into alleyways Cesare himself had traversed only hours before. The roar of the river followed him all the way back to the estate. Already he was imagining the warm bed and the even hotter embrace awaiting him.

His master was calling. Time to return to the other side.
End

Giovanni’s Monkey
by Michalyn
Fandom: Fuyumi Souryo’s Cesare
Rating: MA
Pairings: Cesare + Michelotto, Cesare + Giovanni de Medici
Warnings: debauchery, dubious consent, abuse of power and a monkey

Notes: Giovanni di Lorenzo de’ Medici would become Pope Leo X, known most for his excesses and his love of animals. He owned an elephant named Hanno and was heartbroken when he died. Leo X is also blamed for spurring the Protestant movement in part because he sold many offices in order to finance various projects.(from Wikipedia)

—————————

Rumor had it that Giovanni di Lorenzo de’ Medici had returned from a visit to his father with a rare monkey. Cesare wanted to see it. No, he was determined to get a glimpse of it.

“What did you say it looks like, again?” Cesare drummed his fingers on the dark wood table. Beside him, a plate of fruit and cheese lay uneaten. His goblet of wine stood half-drunk.

Miguel shrugged. “A funny little thing with a brown tonsure and white breast [1]. Uncannily nimble hands.”

“Hmm.” The staccato rhythm of Cesare’s fingers paused then resumed.

Miguel had mentioned the monkey only because of the excitement it had created among the students, but Cesare had seized upon it with a fascination he could not fathom. There was an unreadable light in Cesare’s eyes and Miguel could not tell if it reflected Cesare’s overactive mind knitting together possibilities, or boyish envy.

Of course, there was no love lost between Cesare and Giovanni and news of an ailing Lorenzo was portentous for both men. Yet, even Miguel could not see what could be gained from the knowledge of a pet, no matter how unique. Besides, the decidedly puckish thrust of Cesare’s lip suggested the simpler cause for the other boy’s irritation. Cesare hated anyone to steal his thunder , even in this most trivial way. The insult to his sensibilities was worse since he held Giovanni in such contempt. As a matter of pride, it meant that whatever was on Cesare’s mind, he would now pursue it even more doggedly.

“I want to see him.”

“Giovanni?”

“No, the monkey.”

Miguel adjusted his farsetto. “Giovanni was showing it off in the palazzo a while ago, but I’m pretty sure he’s retired for the evening. It will be difficult to get into his apartments.”

“Difficult but not impossible.” It was a statement not a question.

Miguel inclined his head.

“Then lets go.”

—————————————-
“I hate him. I hate that damned Buonarroti [2]. Why does Father have him eat with us? Descendant of Mathilde of Canossa my ass. He’s nothing more than a rude commoner!”

Giovanni flopped onto the velvet sofa with a theatrical bounce. “Come to think of it Canossa is the family name of that brat Angelo too isn’t it? Worthless breed, the lot of them.”

“But of course, someone of Your Eminence’s refined sensibilities would be offended by Michelangelo but that is often the way of these artists. He is a bit too brash but it is part of his terribilità. They say he is talented and will be one of the greats,” Roberto, the solemn-faced boy who was Giovanni’s third-in-command murmured.

“Hmph.” Giovanni pouted but immediately brightened when his eyes fell on his new pet. At least Papà could be forgiven for thinking of him. “Come, Pepi! Come to your master!” Clucking his tongue, Giovanni tore off a bit of fig from a nearby bowl and extended it to the monkey.

It darted over, snatched the morsel then scampered to the top of the armoire. It perched there, chittering excitedly as it tore the fruit apart with its nimble little fingers.

“He’s a marvelous creature isn’t he? Father says the merchant who found him claims he’s not from the Moorish lands or further east, but from a mysterious and unspoiled place far far away.” Giovanni’s eyes shone as he imagined jungles with monstrous plants and even more fantastical creatures slinking through the dappled shade.

Roberto nodded sagely. “Sir Pepi is truly a gift worthy of Your Eminence.”

That made Giovanni feel better. He was smug as he tossed another piece of fruit to the little monkey.

Meanwhile, Roberto was moving about, tidying up the room and arranging things to Giovanni’s comfort. From where he was reclined, Giovanni had a nice view of Roberto’s short farsetto and his shapely calves in their forest green hose. When the other boy bent to retrieve a fallen item, his buttocks tightened in a way that sent a familiar stirring to Giovanni’s groin.

The other boy with his reddish gold hair and rosy mouth was pretty. It was the only reason Giovanni kept him around, especially when there were others more interesting and capable than he. Besides, he thought Roberto and his family of petty nobles pitiful. However, certain things made up for those little annoyances.

Giovanni’s gaze slid over to the enticing bulge at Roberto’s groin. Yes, he was very very pretty. Though Giovanni had never scrounged up the courage before to act on his feelings towards other men, he was in an uncommonly bold mood tonight as a result of his pleasure over his father’s gift.

“Roberto….”

“Yes, Your Eminence?”

“Come here.”

Roberto abandoned his task and hurried over to Giovanni. The young Medici licked his lips. He reached over and squeezed Roberto’s crotch.

“Your … Your Eminence!” Roberto slapped Giovanni’s hand away and stumbled backwards. His cheeks were hot with shocked color. As soon as he touched Giovanni, however, a look of horror registered over his features. Roberto immediately fell to his knees, apologizing profusely.

Giovanni reddened as well, embarrassed at being so sharply rebuffed. His cheeks puffed outwards. “How dare you strike me? I could have you hanged and worse for such insolence!”

“I am so sorry, Your Eminence. It was a mistake. I was surprised … I …” Robert blubbered a litany of apologies and explanations into the expensive Perisan rug.

“What are you going to do to make up for your abominable actions?” Giovanni demanded.

“Anything, Your Eminence. I will do anything to receive your forgiveness.”

Giovanni spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “Then take off your hose.”

Roberto pressed his lips together, but even so, a choked sob escaped him.

Giovanni watched as he fumbled with his clothes. Roberto still wore the slightly outmoded farsetto with the hose attached to its pleated skirts. The ruff was slightly shorter in the back giving a saucy thrust to the wearer’s behind. Giovanni flushed with satisfaction.

“Leave the farsetto—and the boots.” Giovanni ordered, deciding he liked the look of the short frill framing Roberto’s genitals and reddish pubic hair. He was dismayed though to discover that the other boy’s cock was much larger than his, the girth and length suggesting a maturity Giovanni had yet to attain.

“Come closer.”

Roberto’s face crumpled. “Please, Your Eminence, my family is a simple god-fearing people.”

Roberto’s strawberry curls framing his face and the tears streaming down his cheeks, made him look less like a youth of almost eighteen years and more like a petulant child. It only excited Giovanni further. He pushed aside his robes to expose his own cock.

“Do I need to remind you of your position? Of the grossness of your offense to my esteemed person?”

Roberto shook his head.

Giovanni crooked his finger. “Then come here.”

Roberto continued to beg as he inched over but Giovanni ignored him. He was panting heavily as he circled Roberto’s shaft and touched his finger to the plum-shaped tip, pink as some sweet exotic fruit. Behind them, Pepi crowed with delight at finding another morsel at the table. He leapt onto the couch and hovered near Giovanni’s shoulder, cocking his head and chattering inquisitively.

Giovanni rubbed the blind little opening at Roberto’s tip and the other boy’s hips jerked. His shaft began to rise. Excited, Giovanni repeated the motion and his fingers came away with a faint dewiness. He stuck his fingers into his mouth and suckled that sweet nectar. By then, Roberto was shielding his face behind his arm and a novena of wet muffled sobs escaped him, but he had inched imperceptibly closer. Now, his impressive cock was curved towards his belly in an edifice to burgeoning lust.

“Pl…please, my lord.”

“Turn around.” Giovanni savored the view of Roberto’s pale skin and rounded buttocks. He expelled an eager gust of air through his nose as he spread the other boy’s cheeks with his hands.

Oh this was so much better than his father’s gift.

——————————————–

Miguel’s informant in the Medici household had served them well, Cesare concluded as they made their way through the labyrinthine passage which led to Giovanni’s apartments. The youth had warned them however, that after a day of travel Giovanni might return to his rooms early. That didn’t give them a large window of opportunity but Cesare was feeling reckless. He was not even sure what he was hoping to accomplish but he thought it would be worth it to see the look of panic on Giovanni’s face when he discovered the monkey was gone. He would return it … eventually. Cesare grinned in the darkness.

Miguel was a shadow next to him, moving noiselessly over the rough stone. Alert, he moved like he had been here or in similar places a million times before. Cesare supposed he had. It was why he could count on him.

Cesare studied the dark curls clustered at the nape of Miguel’s neck. Nothing showed in his expression or the line of his shoulders but Cesare knew his companion well enough to recognize sulking when he saw it. Miguel disapproved of this little adventure. He thought it was foolish and ill-thought-out. But of course he didn’t push; he never pushed. Cesare was the one who gave the orders though he doubted Miguel knew how much he wished he didn’t have to—especially when it was just the two of them.

Cesare sighed. Somehow Miguel’s sullen mood only made him more determined to go through with the ridiculous prank. Still it wasn’t nearly as satisfying with his friend being so cool to him.

Cesare reached out and grasped Miguel’s shoulder. “Miguel, I…”

“Shh.” Miguel raised a finger to his lips. He jerked his head to indicate that Giovanni’s rooms were ahead.

They pressed against the paneling, hearing muffled sounds within. Through a clever slot in the wood they could see the room and its opulent furnishings. Cesare expected Giovanni’s penchant for excess. After all, it was nothing new to the Borgia either, but even he was somewhat taken aback by the profusion of silks, tapestries, and jewel-encrusted baubles. Most notable was Giovanni’s apparent obsession with all forms of animalia. The bed was burdened with luxurious pelts of ermine, bear and tiger. The walls and wooden surfaces were cluttered with drawings, paintings and statues of furred, feathered and crawling specimens too countless to name. The entire suite was less like a bedroom and more like the lab of some mad medico. Unsurprisingly, at first, Cesare saw neither the monkey nor Giovanni. Oh but when he did….

Cesare could have crowed.

Giovanni was visible in profile, his puffy cheeks hollowed out as he sucked on the tumescent and surprisingly large cock of a red-haired Florentine. His fingers were not idle and were rooting busily between the other boy’s cheeks.

Cesare had seen the redhead as part of Giovanni’s coterie as the one most often sent to correct poor Angelo’s many faux pas. To Cesare, the youth had appeared meek but reasonable—and attractive of course. Still, he would have never placed him as Giovanni’s favorite.

Or perhaps he wasn’t. The redhead was moaning and squirming even as he begged Giovanni to release him. His cries fell on deaf ears. Giovanni continued to lick and suck to his heart’s content. Next to them the monkey gave a little screech and tossed an orange rind onto the floor.

Cesare had come to teach Giovanni a lesson with a simple prank but this was better than anything he could ask for. To catch haughty whiny Giovanni in flagrante delicto was priceless. Cesare was not about to let such a perfect opportunity slip away from him.

He barely felt Miguel’s hand on his shoulder trying to haul him back. Besides, not even the gods themselves could have stopped Cesare at that point. He sprung the hidden catch and stepped into the room.

“Well, well what do we have here?”

There was a moment of utter stillness as Giovanni tried to understand what was happening. Then his eyes bugged; his complexion went from white to mottled rage in a second.

“Borgia! What are you doing here? I will kill you!” he screamed. Flecks of spittle landed on his cheek and on his companion’s stomach. The redhead burst from Giovanni grasp and hobbled to the door where Miguel calmly intercepted him with a dagger to his throat.

“How dare you? How dare you?” Giovanni raged. He lifted his hand to ring a small bell near his elbow.

Cesare tutted. “Do you really want to call your condottieri? What would they think to see the Great Giovanni de Medici engaged in a vice contra naturam? Or is it that you want more witnesses for the Officers of the Night? I suppose a few florins is a meager fine for the Medici to pay.[3]”

Cesare looked meaningfully from Giovanni’s engorged erection to the redhead’s state of undress. Of course, they both knew the reputational cost of Giovanni’s actions far outweighed any other damage Cesare could inflict. Even that was probably overstated given the Night Office’s permissive attitude.

But, if Giovanni was anything, he was a coward. He visibly hesitated. His hand slowly fell away from the bell.

“Just as I thought.” Cesare nodded. While he spoke, Miguel bolted the door.

Giovanni squealed as Cesare forced him onto the bed. His pale haunches jiggled as he crawled up the mattress and Cesare surveyed his body, so unlike Miguel’s lean-muscled grace with a snort of derision. Weak, weak weak. Cesare reached around Giovanni’s protruding belly and gripped his short thick penis.

“Nn!” Giovanni bucked and let out a squeal of terror.

“Shut up.” Cesare’s hand came down hard on Giovanni’s backside. He squeezed Giovanni’s cock, stroking it in time to the rain of stinging slaps he showered upon his upturned ass.

Giovanni wailed. He snuffled, blubbered and cursed Cesare but he was pushing back against him, raising his hips and thrusting into the hot circle of his palm. He buried his face in the sheets and a moan bubbled from his throat.

Cesare swallowed. He had expected to remain disgusted but lust smouldered and ignited within him. There was something strangely sensual about Giovanni’s slow ponderous movements. His ankles and wrists were delicate. The fingers gripping the sheets were the pale tapered digits of a Botticelli Madonna. The sheen of sweat on his body only increased the allure of that doughy dimpled skin, the soft rounded belly with its generous rolls.Cesare pinched and tugged them until tears streamed down Giovanni’s face and purplish bruises bloomed beneath his skin. Yet he still arched into Cesare’s hand, still called Cesare’s name with abandone.

Cesare fiddled with his hose. He crouched over Giovanni so that the other boy could feel the throbbing heat of him.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?”

Giovanni’s shudder and his wild cry were all the answer Cesare needed.

——————————————–

Cesare could barely breathe for the guffaws seizing him as they raced over the cobbled stones. He could not contain himself.

“Perfect! Perfect! Did you see the look on Giovanni’s face when we barged in? Ah that was worth a thousand lire. If only there were a way to—”

Cesare stopped, finally noticing Miguel’s silence. He yoked an arm about the other man’s neck with a sigh.

“Come now, don’t pout. You know that means nothing to me. I was just having some fun.” Cesare pressed his lips against Miguel’s cheek; his warm breath bathed his ear.

“You know that, right?”

——————————————–

“I’ll never, never ever forgive them!” Giovanni wailed as he scrubbed at his face. There was seed between his thighs and he ached in unnamable places.

Roberto, all but forgotten, was cowering near the door where Michelotto had left him—the same corner from which the assassin had watched Giovanni’s humiliation with his dark unreadable eyes. The condottiere had not shown a flicker of emotion throughout, even as that hooded gaze had sent a debasing thrill of excitement through Giovanni while Cesare pounded into him.

The young Medici released a bellow of rage. He would get his revenge. As long as there was breath in his body, no Borgia would ever become pope. He swore on it!

Pepi hopped over and offered him a pilfered nut. He gave a little chatter and cocked his head.

Giovanni’s face crumpled.

Pepi’s bright-eyed look seemed to say he understood.

Cook Smoke
by Michalyn
Fandom: Harutoki
Pairings: Tomomasa + Takamichi
Warnings: mild violence, angst

Beyond the scraggly
mulberry grove–
cook smoke
coming closer [1]

Takamichi awakens to the sound of Tomomasa dressing in the darkness. The morning is cold and a fine mist is seeping through the windows and curling through the cracks beneath the sliding doors. Takamichi shivers; he does not pretend to be asleep though he knows Tomomasa wishes it. Instead he listens to the slide of cloth and the whisper of metal being eased into its sheath. Tomomasa is barely discernable, a shadow moving against the stillness. Tied and rolled, tucked and bound, not a tendril of his bright hair is visible. Yet, only a few hours ago Takamichi had buried his fingers in those soft strands to caress the warmth of Tomomasa’s scalp beneath. How different the shiver that had raced through Tomomasa then from the one that Takamichi cannot cast off now.

Must you go? The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he knows it is useless to utter them.

“You know you have nothing to worry about,” Tomomasa says to him without turning around. There is exasperation in his voice.

“I know that I should be going with you.”

Takamichi sighs and Tomomasa echoes him. There is so much more to be said, but on this wet and dreary morning all their heated words are silenced, compressed into ghostly plumes of breath. Tomomasa seeks Takamichi out beneath the bedclothes where he lies naked. His kisses are soft, his lips warm against Takamichi’s skin, but the tips of Tomomasa’s fingers, so recent from the unheated water of his bath are cold; they steal the fire from his touch. Takamichi huddles closer beneath the blankets.

The leaves have barely fallen but already winter seems to be upon them.

————————–

There is water in his eyes and water creeping down Tomomasa’s neck, yet nothing bothers him so much as the soft tracks they are leaving behind in the mud with every step. He woke to a feeling of unease this morning and it has not left him since. Their archer is a nervous young man on his first mission. Every time the wild geese cry overhead he starts, bow trembling. Tomomasa curses as Takamichi’s steadfast gaze returns to him. He knows he has made a mistake.

He had been careful to keep his arguments weighty, but in the end, Tomomasa was moved only by selfishness. That Takamichi is a skilled archer with an equally treacherous dagger means little to the man in love with him. Fighting to protect the Miko is one thing, another thing entirely to include Takamichi on this cold-hearted mission against emperor’s assassins. Tomomasa remembers Takamichi’s gentle hands and luminous eyes and the thought of losing his young companion clenches his heart like a fist.

It is not so much Takamichi that he fears for, but himself.

Today that fear will cost him. Tomomasa feels it as surely as the wind chilling his bones, for fear is walking beside him, keeping time with the young archer’s footsteps. They near the traitors’ camp and the hair on the back of Tomomasa’s neck prickles as his men ready themselves. The smell of charred meat and a glimpse of lingering cook smoke is all they’re allowed before the enemy falls upon them. Ten to their five, the odds are not in their favor. They slice through the throng and the tang of blood fills the air.

The rain will not stop nor will the cold release them. Five to five now and Tomomasa is sure they will make it. Already he is dreaming of Takamichi’s unbound hair.

The young archer falters; he is out of arrows. Fumbling, he cannot draw his dagger quickly enough, nor can Tomomasa’s shout reach him before the ground is stained red. The chain is broken; confusion reigns. The soggy earth now seems unquenchable in its thirst for the blood of his men. The wild geese circle above the trees but they are too high up for Tomomasa to hear them.

One man left now and he is all alone.

They face each other: two leaders, both the worst of their men. There will be no taking of prisoners here. Tomomasa raises his sword.

His last thought as he surges forward is that he should have made love with Takamichi before he left.

————————

They have told him that he is being kept here.

Though the sun has barely risen, a curl of wood smoke is already wafting above the trees like an omen. Takamichi’s heart is pounding as he gallops ahead of the Miko’s lumbering train. Seven days of wondering, seven days of agony are too much to allow him to be patient. He hurries to the old inn and bangs on the doors. The shuffling of feet from within, a few exchanged words, the glimmer of coins and Takamichi is rushing up the stairs.

The room is dank and unlit, the figure on the futon still.

Is he breathing? Takamichi does not know until he touches his palm to Tomomasa’s chest. He grimaces at the seeping wound in Tomomasa’s side and the hastily tied bandages. Unchanged for seven days. Takamichi unpeels the soiled cloth with trembling fingers. He has brought medicine and clean bandages, his love and a desperate hope that he has not lost the person most important to him.

The cloth is unfurled and the wound’s red mouth stares back at him, miraculously uninfected. Takamichi’s eyes are burning and his hands cannot stop shaking. He is angry at Tomomasa’s suffering, angry for his own torment, which he knows could have been prevented if, instead of trying to foolishly protect him, Tomomasa had only seen fit to exercise a bit more common sense. Yet, in the pure heart of the wound Takamichi also sees Tomomasa’s implacable will, that same stubbornness that brought him so close to death. His anger leaves him. He kisses Tomomasa on his cheek and strokes his bright, unbound hair.

Takamichi goes downstairs to ask for water and the innkeeper questions him about the man sleeping in the room above. He tells Takamichi the story of the bleeding nobleman stumbling on a cold night into the inn. The innkeeper is poor. He can offer him no care, only a room for his coin and a promise to deliver the message that the nobleman writes with fingers still wet. Imagining it, Takamichi mutters a prayer.

Steam rises from the basin Takamichi rests next to the bed. Of course Tomomasa awakens just as he is washing him.

“Could not wait to get me out of my clothes, could you?” he jokes feebly though his lips are white and his face is wan.

Takamichi shushes him and continues to rub the cloth over Tomomasa’s skin. It is the best he can do anyway through the moisture clouding his vision and the constriction in his throat. He applies the ointment, securing the fresh bandages. Their fingers are twined tightly together and it is enough, for neither can say a word. The miko’s train has finally arrived and Takamichi can hear shouting and the clattering of men on the stairs.

The innkeeper reappears to tell them that dinner will be ready shortly, and Takamichi thanks him, though his hands never stray from Tomomasa’s and his eyes linger on his lover’s face. They will eat here before taking to the road once more. A chill has desecended and outside all the leaves are dead. Winter has returned in all its indifference.

The road will be long and difficult but no matter how arduous the journey Takamichi does not worry. Wherever there is cook smoke, the weary traveler knows that it is a sign of life within.

End

———————
1. From Passing by a Mountain Village at Dusk by buddhist poet, Chia Tao.

Gardenia
by Michalyn
Warnings: Tomomasa + Takamichi. Angst?
Rating: PG13

Notes: A maiko is a young geisha in training, an obi, the wide belt used to fasten a kimono. Tabi are special split-toe socks worn with Japanese clogs (geta) or sandals. People can also be seen wearing them (tabi)inside since Japanese consider entering a house with shoes on, rude.

The breeze shakes the lanterns on the verandah, bringing with it the sound of muffled voices. The koto twangs in the stillness.

Outside, Takamichi can just make out two blurry figures making their way across the garden path from the main building where celebrations are in full swing. The breeze rushes in again, carrying a woman’s trilling laughter and the huskier tones of her companion as they pass beneath the lanterns. A flash of white, the bold patterning of a flowered kimono…. There, is that a touch of aquamarine he sees? The candle guts.

Fireflies burn against the darkness.

Takamichi makes an impatient sound and rises. He lights the candles again and returns to his desk. The scroll fanned out against its surface remains half-written. He cannot concentrate and his hands tremble as he dips his brush into the ink. Swish, swish, swish across the paper. Soft, soft, soft like the ritualized steps of tabi-covered feet against the tatami.

Tonight, the maiko was very beautiful.

A fine young woman, about Takamichi’s age, pale and graceful, bound in an iridescent obi. He had been close enough to smell her perfume. A delicate scent, something flowery. A lingering hint of gardenias. Takamichi was not her only admirer, there were other eyes on her as well.

He has only written one more sentence. Takamichi sighs and contemplates abandoning his work for bed, but is startled bythe padding of feet on the verandah. There is a quick knock and his door is opened.

“There you are, Vice Minister, Takamichi.” The man leaning against the doorframe smiles, watching Takamichi from beneath drooping lids. “Running away from the party, again?”

Takamichi stills. He will not stop writing now for the world.

“Ah, Tomomasa-dono.” He smiles. “What brings you here so late in the evening?”

The older man does not wait for an invitation and instead advances. His fan, normally plied between his fingers, is tonight notched in his belt. He makes himself comfortable, sitting next to Takamichi, with one leg stretched out before him. His other knee is raised and he rests his arm on it as he leans over to peer at Takamichi’s work.

“Do the civil affairs of the city keep you up so late, Takamichi-san?” There is sake on his breath.

Takamichi shivers as their shoulders brush. The space between them is heavy with the scent of crushed gardenias.

A surge of heat, not quite anger but with a pain like lightning shoots through him. Takamichi inclines his head. “You must forgive me, Tomomasa-dono, if I ask you to excuse me, but as you can see, I must complete this.”

Tomomasa studies him. Do those eyes miss anything? Takamichi’s brush moves rapidly over the page. He doesn’t think so, but then, he cannot be sure of anything when the General’s hand covers his. Large and warm and more callused than one might expect.

“Your penmanship is beautiful, Takamichi-san.”

The ink blots on the scroll, spreading as fast as concealing darkness. Tomomasa laces their hands together, his fingers insinuating between the slenderness of Takamichi’s own. The wind howls on the verandah and this time when the candle guts Takamichi does not move to re-ignite it.

His hair is loose about him, his glasses tossed aside. Tomomasa’s breath is hot against his ear. Clothing rustles and shifts and now he can feel the night air against his skin.

Takamichi recalls the noise of the party and the brightness of Tomomasa’s hair in the firelight, turquoise and burning aquamarine as the maiko dances before them. A different kind of fire is stealing through him now and Takamichi’s breath is coming fast. The perfume of gardenias clings to his nostrils and he cannot remember where he first scented it:

From the girl twirling in an iridescent obi or the handsome General sitting next to him.

End

Goofy
by Michalyn
Pairing: Harutoki; Tomomasa + Takamichi
Warnings: None

If I’d the knack
I’d sing like
cherry flakes falling (Basho)

“What,” Takamichi asked as Tomomasa pulled him into his arms and twirled them naked about the room, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Dancing for joy, my love. Dancing for joy,” Tomomasa purred, giving a lewd shake to his hips.

“You’re drunk aren’t you?”

“Why must I be drunk? Did you see me dipping into the sake?”

“No,” Takamichi said slowly, allowing himself to be dipped and whirled, “but I must ask, since surely there is no other explanation for this.”

“This,” Tomomasa repeated, “is the effect your lovemaking has on me.”

Tomomasa raised Takamichi’s hand to his lips, kissing each soft finger in turn. His eyes lingered on Takamichi’s face and Takamichi’s breath caught, his heart suddenly thumping. His response was so instinctual, so automatic that Takamichi did not realize he had moved until he found himself pressed tight against Tomomasa’s chest. When he raised his mouth for a kiss, Tomomasa did not oblige him, but instead threw his head back and warbled into the ceiling.

It was a peasant song Takamichi often heard as a child before he had come to his father’s house, one little boys sang to their sweethearts. The moment could have been romantic, would have—if Tomomasa could sing. As it was, the older man’s modulated voice, so finely tuned for seduction, could not rise out of that low register, even for song. Takamichi winced.

“I’m guessing this is not the voice that wooed a thousand lovers.”

“No.” Tomomasa laughed, bending to capture Takamichi’s lips. “Just one,” he said winking. “Just one.”

End

Hotaru
by Michalyn
Pairing: Tomomasa + Takamichi

Pinching the firefly
he has caught, the boy’s fingers
go green at the tips
(Seishi Yamaguchi)

“Come with me.”

“Where?” Takamichi blinks suspiciously.

Tomomasa’s lashes lower. His laughter bubbles up, rough as a cat’s tongue over Takamichi’s senses.

“Come and watch the summer moon with me.”

Takamichi nods. A warm breeze tickles beneath his yukata as they make their way across the field, their footsteps muffled in the summer-ripe grass. The air is vibrating with the chirping of cicadas and beside him, Tomomasa’s fan opens and shuts with a sound like the fluttering of wings.

The evening is beautiful and Takamichi presses forward into the fading light. He cannot stray too far, however, for Tomomasa’s hand is in his: warm, rough, keeping him close, measuring the pace.

A little boy in a red kimono is catching fireflies near the pond. One hovers on the tip of his finger, trembling in the instant between freedom and captivity. Near his feet, its brethren wink on and off, glittering in a makeshift bamboo cage . Takamichi smiles wistfully.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why the children catch them.”

Tomomasa cocks his head. In the moonlight his hair is limned in silver, his eyes unreadable.

“This world is so sad, so fleeting….” He pauses, his gaze seeking Takamichi’s. “Sometimes when we find one bright, beautiful thing we don’t want to let it go.”

Takamichi frowns, considering. The boy is still bobbing near the pond, his kimono muted by the darkness. Only his face, moon-round, moon-pale, is easily visible.

His face and the fireflies, blinking and winking, burning against the cage.

Tomomasa’s palm tightens around Takamichi’s.

When he extends his arm, Takamichi allows himself to be folded into it.

End

Mikan
by Michalyn
Fandom: Harutoki
Pairings: Tomomasa + Takamichi, Tomomasa POV
Warnings: None?

Summary: What I really wanted to do was write a long,lemon between these two but I couldn’t get the balance quite right so I ended up with this little ficlet instead.

The mikan blossom–
supplying the passing breeze
with burning fragrance. [1]

Stay with me in this hollow grove and let the trees close us round with mikan blossoms.

The meal is laid out and I have spread the blanket over the grass. You are munching on a slice of watermelon, collecting the polished seeds in your palm. To plant or to hoard? Which way will your mood move you? I have discovered that you have a penchant for collecting odds and ends, a myriad of discarded things: snatches of poetry, forgotten books….

And disillusioned generals.

Last night I found a scrap of silk beneath your pillow. Why did you put it there, I wonder? Perhaps you wanted to soar in your dreams like the patterned crane, endlessly gliding, never having to alight.

Last night I dreamed I was flying, yet not once did I see the clouds. I have only memories of your tangled hair and your body next to mine.

Come closer and lie with me under the fragrant shade. Yes … you can rest your head there. There is no need to worry; no one will interrupt our retreat. I have closed off every entrance, taken every care.

You shiver as I part your yukata.

Pungent scent on a summer breeze and the heat staining your cheeks with color. The blossoms are cool, their petals pale as you are pale, but you are warm beneath my touch. Do not think, or if you must, think of me as the bee, sipping delicately at the flower. Seeing that look on your face, the way you arch—

Do my words embarrass you? Then close your eyes.

Dream of the patterned crane and tumbling endlessly through the clouds.

These long summer days are meant to be spent like this:

Perfumed with the scent of blossoms and with your body next to mine.

End

Notes
———
[1] Seishi Yamaguch

Shoji
by Michalyn
Pairing: Tomomasa + Takamichi

Screening the moonlight,
sliding doors brought together
firmly into place. [1]

Courtly pleasantries and green tea cooling in narrow cups. I think the scroll there in the nook is your calligraphy.

You smile and nod, laughing politely at some witty remark, some paper-dry joke the visiting official tells you. Why is he here, again? I have made myself forget.

You are relaxed, graceful in your movements. How can you sit so calmly when the sight of your naked wrist, emerging from your kimono as you replenish the tea is enough to set me a-clamor?

Red, yellow, incandescent orange: the maple leaves shake outside the window.

Inside there is only muted spring: watery tea in delicate cups, your robes fastened and tied, your hair bound in a demure clasp. I sit in silence, watching as he watches you, this intruder come from some snow-wreathed country far away. He follows your every movement, hangs on your words.

“The state of affairs in the city? In Hokkaido our records are all in disarray. Ah, if only we could borrow your expertise, Vice-minister, Takamichi.” A smile, a sidling look.

Tittering, twittering locust.

You do not know your charms. What would happen to me if I were not here to protect you from them?

He studies you over the rim of his cup, coveting the amber of your gaze, but these eyes, they are my sunlight. The warmth that turns this twirling maple leaf to fire.

Who dares to touch our playground with frost?

“Tomomasa-dono?” You look up, puzzled.

“Yamaguchi-san, it is growing late and the emperor requires your presence. Allow me to show you to the door.”

You press your lips together, forming them into a displeased line.

But that too is spring fire.

I light the candles and slide the doors shut.

Concealed behind the glowing rice paper, I beckon to you.

End

——————
Notes: Haiku by Seishi Yamaguchi

Waiting
by Michalyn
Pairing:Tomomasa +Takamichi

Why haven’t I
thought of it before?
This body,
remembering yours,
is the keepsake you left. [1]

Where are you this morning? The dew wet upon your ankles as you move through the grass. Which way are you going?

I am waiting for you.

The rain is falling softly with a murmuring like the vows shared between lovers. Hush, hush, can you hear it? The pitter-patter pitter-patter of rain drops under the eaves….

Or is that my heart longing for you?

The nights are too short. Through the window I can see the sun creeping above the horizon, but what need have I for dawn when that color there, spreading across sky cannot rival one of your blushes?

The scent of your perfume is still upon my pillow, the space next to me warm from your body. You are shy. You worry that the others should find out about the time you spend here and you have forgotten your book in your haste to leave. I thumb through it, seeing the pages that you have marked. When have I not found you with one of these in your hands? Whether in the library or bent at your desk, these little tomes are never far from your reach. I wonder, do you think I will not notice the way your fingers tremble as you turn the pages?

Has no one ever told you that words are a precarious shield?

When you lose yourself to me in the darkness neither of us can speak, yet nothing remains unsaid. The suppleness of your hip beneath my palm, the hitch of your breath as you lean into my caress…. These moments of beautiful incoherence are what I hold dearest.

Yet, here your General lies in wait.

Not by siege or in ambush, for you have conquered me. I am defeated, not by dagger but the precision of your brush, by dusty books and musty bureaucracy.

By your gentleness and your smile.

How shall I resist them? I have never learned this art of war-making. My defenses are weakened, battered and blasted by heart’s fire.

It seems only fitting to surrender.

The rain is softly falling and I wait.

Your prisoner.

Your lover.

Counting the hours till you return.
————
Notes: [1]This beautiful poem is by Izumi Shikibu, a famous Heian poetess.

I thought for sure he’d be home by now. But no, the house is empty when I get in. It used to be that the quiet was what I craved most. Now I hate coming home like this, with the sound of my own footsteps echoing down the hall.

All because of a damn stray cat.

There’s only a hastily-folded newspaper and some empty beer cans on the counter to let me know that Gain was here. Typical of him to not pick up after himself but I find strange comfort in it. I can’t help it. No matter how many months we’ve been together, every time I walk into the door and he’s not there, I can’t breathe for a moment; this feeling of panic seizes up my chest. So. These cans, that old newspaper, the crumpled up candy wrapper I find under the coffee table, they’re signposts on the long road back to my sanity.

I wonder if Gain knows; if he leaves them on purpose. I like to hope so. I like to think of them as kitty markings—the work of a cat claiming his territory, if you please. Otherwise, I’m reminded of just how little of Gain’s stuff there is here to suggest any kind of permanence. All he’s added to the house so far is a funky art-nouveau-ish poster and a tiny cactus that he always forgets to water, which is a good thing, considering that it doesn’t need much.

Maybe it’s time we went shopping.

The cans rattle as I toss them into the garbage. My hands are shaking as I light another cigarette. In that flicker of light, the ring on my left hand glints. God, I have to stop doing this to myself.

I’m not really hungry. Seyoung insisted on dragging the film crew to dinner after the shoot and I’ve more than eaten my fill. Still, I start cooking anyway. Hearty pibimbap [1] for Gain who lives off pretzels and cigarettes when he’s at the bar. It’s an extravagant dish and especially so at two in the morning. An exasperated sound gusts past my lips and I can’t help chuckling. I work 12 to 16 hour days and yet I rush home to play the wife. Me. Eunhee Kim, the coldest fucking bastard in the business (at least according to Seyoung). I start to think, “How have I come to this?” but the answer is too obvious for me to try to pretend ignorance.

Still, this new topsy-turvy world has its advantages, like the rave reviews I’ve suddenly been getting for a couple of low-budget independent films that no one was supposed to notice:

“Eunhee Kim in his most moving performance yet—”

“Kim shows astounding maturity and emotional range for a man once called the “prince” of commercial film.”

Ha. Road movies. Who would have thought?

I take my eye off the sizzling beef and vegetables for a moment to grab a bundle of clothes from the hamper for washing. When I raise the washer’s lid, though, I find a load of wet clothes already in there. I tug one of the shirts out and sniff it, wrinkling my nose at the faint moldy odor that indicates it’s been in here far longer than it should have. Gain must have thrown in the clothes early this morning and forgotten about them. Then again, for all I know, they’ve been there since yesterday. Well, so much for doing a new load. I sigh and turn on the washer. Why do I do this again?

Fuck. Who the hell am I kidding? but I’ll pretend a little, just for the sake of my pride.

All that’s left to add to the pibimbap is the kochu jang. Both Gain and I like a generous helping of the hot sauce with our meals but I’ll wait until he gets home before applying it. I don’t want the vegetables to get too soft from the heat of the rice. With the meal done, though, I’m once again left to my own devices. I try not to watch the clock. For the hell of it, I put on some tea. The hum of the washer helps distract me and I’m grateful when it’s time to put the clothes in the dryer.

I hadn’t paid much attention to them before, but looking at the clothes now, I see the total madness of what Gain has done. I swear he really is no better than a kid. Not only has he thrown together whites with colors and cottons with expensive silks, but as I take the clothes out of the washer, I realize that everything is tinged pink and/or mottled red. Damn it! I dig through the pile and find the culprits of this measles-inducing affair: the striped red and yellow socks Gain so happily bought me a few months ago. The outrageous, ridiculous socks I agreed to wear. Well, at least they’re as bright as ever, I mutter as I toss everything into the dryer. I don’t even know why I bother. They’re all ruined anyway.

My inner tirade is interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. The distinctive tone is one I still haven’t gotten used to hearing. Suddenly all my irritation washes away. That he called, that he remembered, that this is another blaring signpost on the crazy road to happiness makes me giddier than a kid with his first crush. Nothing else matters as I press the phone to my ear.

“Eunhee?” Gain’s voice comes over the phone, sweet, clear and a little self-conscious.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry, we had a bunch of salary men here tonight celebrating a closed deal. We finally got them out of the bar a minute ago. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay,” I murmur, and it is. All I need is his sweet voice. I hop into the shower with a spring in my step.

______________________________

“Honey, I’m ho~me.” Gain grins as he waltzes in the door, and my heart speeds up. “Mmm, something smells delicious.”

“It’s pibimbap. I figured I should cook something edible before you came home and attempted it yourself. I saw the mess you made of the laundry. A brat who doesn’t know to separate whites from colors shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a stove,” I say drolly, puffing out a ring of smoke.

“Ah, you’re such a good wife. What more could a man ask for?” Gain teases cheekily, but his expression softens as he leans in to peck me on the lips. He doesn’t linger which is good, because my nostrils are already flaring at the alien smells clinging to him: smoke, liquor, the overly-affectionate bar owner’s cloying “floriental” perfume and even more annoying, a hint of that loverboy, Sukwa on his clothes. Gain knows. He slips into the bathroom before I can say a word. The shower comes on and I picture his wet naked body as I set the table.

Gain emerges not too long afterwards, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt. True to form, his golden hair is dripping water onto the floor despite the towel wrapped around his head.

“Idiot, when will you learn to get it right?” I growl, reaching for him. I snatch up the haphazard mess of a towel on his head and roughly wipe his hair. Then I can pull him close and bury my nose in that golden softness. Then, I can touch him, kiss him and make him mewl. It’s not about sex, though we have plenty of that and very good sex besides. That is not why I wrap my arms around him now. I miss him when he’s away and I am happy he is home. That’s the long and short of it.

Gain sighs and nuzzles closer. Even like this, with his eyes heavy lidded, his sensual mouth reddened from my kisses, there is always that little something about him, that bit of distance in his gaze that makes it impossible to take him for granted. I want to bind him even tighter to me. I want him to say that he knows this is home.

So many emotions are crowding my heart, but when Gain twines his fingers around mine, I am quieted. There are no words. Instead we cuddle on the couch with the pibimbap and the tea. The meal is damn good, if I say so myself.

After dinner, Gain suggests putting on another of my old movies, but we’re both too tired to get much past the opening sequence. I’ve had enough of road movies for one night anyway. We stumble to the bed and Gain immediately curls up against my side. His slender body is hot against mine. His scent is sweet and familiar. Gain, my sleepy-eyed cat. But only around me.

Sleep: amazing how something so ordinary has come to take on such significance in my life. Before Gain, the hours I spent in bed were nothing more than a footnote to the whirlwind of my day. Now they are proof of something. Something which fills my waking hours and only finds completion when Gain is near. Even more important, I see the same proof in the dark circles under Gain’s eyes when I come home at five in the morning and he’s still awake—run ragged from waiting, restless. That makes me think: Maybe it is not about sleep at all. Maybe it’s more about finding a place to rest.

I pull the covers higher about us. Outside, the sky is already turning the gray of impending dawn. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got my sleepy- eyed cat and he’s got me.

End

______________________________

Notes:

[1] Pibimbap: One of the classics of the Korean kitchen, a one-dish meal consisting of a mixture of rice and an assortment of cooked cultivated and wild vegetables, perhaps some meat, a fried egg, and topped with a generous dollop of kochujang. Traditionally served in a very hot earthenware bowl with a raw egg, which cooks from the heat of the bowl. [http://www.rao-osan.com/osan- info/korea/korean_food.htm]