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i would meet him,
but there’s no way, so on this moonless night
from my yearning the embers of my love
send sparks leaping in my breast,
setting my heart aflame.
—ono no komachi
.
the first time you meet miya osamu is marked by indifference. you do not mind giving your womanhood to someone repulsive so long as he has land, a title, and a semblance of respectability. finding a husband based solely on looks is a fool’s game, but of course, finding one who possesses both good looks and good fortune does not hurt either. you do not bother yourself with the rest — manners, treatment, intellect — for they can always be mended by a woman’s nimble hands. miya osamu is not hard to look at. he may be slightly aloof, heavily guarded, but that is none of your concern.
the second time you meet miya osamu, he is not miya osamu anymore.
the sight: two snakes, swirling head on.
the reality: you are flanked by your party, the servants you brought from home along with a few from the miya clan that have been appointed to tend to you. they flutter at your back, an extension of your junihitoe, if nothing else. miya osamu is flanked by the same party, only his strides are longer than yours, more confident in his destination. you meet in the middle of the extending hall.
you lower your head, and with a steady voice, “otto.”
miya osamu is confused at first. his eyebrows draw and he looks at you like he has never seen you before. why do you go around calling men you have never met your betrothed, his eyes seem to say.
“lady,” he treads. “did you mistake me for my brother?”
you are irked, confused, fatigued from travel, forced to retire to a life where the west is not facing the mountains but the sea. “your brother…?”
“hah! tell me, am i not better looking? surely you must see the difference between us.”
surely, you do not. miya osamu is a tease, imperious, bloody annoying. you glare.
he laughs once again. “i am miya atsumu, the second son.”
.
you let your hair be brushed as you gaze at the full moon while the cicadas flirt with the peaceful silence of the night. within a turn, after it darkens and wanes and blooms fully once again, you will be married.
there is no greater tragedy, you decide, than that of a second son.
.
“does it not bother you?”
“i am not that sharp, my lady. i beg you to enlighten me about what you mean.”
people who say they are not smart are often liars. you clear your throat. there is no one around, oddly. you’re sure you were accompanied by at least five maids only a moment ago. he must have dismissed them without your notice.
“does it not bother you, my lord, that your twin will inherit this land which reaps 5,000 koku every year while you inherit nothing?”
there is something about the second son that agitates you, so you must agitate him a bit to find out what it is. it is all a matter of trial and error. miya atsumu smiles. it irks you even more, and the innocent orchids choke at your grip. “lady, i presume you were not loved as a child?”
such arrogance! the bamboo slit bangs upon the wood, having had its fill of water, emptying the stream into the basin. it springs back up and it starts again.
“if my brother were a lesser man what you say might hold a truth, but he is not. i assure you: i do not lose sleep over the fact that i was born five minutes later than he.”
so that is how it is. your grip loosens. he is underneath your skin, ebbing away at your instinct. you feel your blunder on your cheeks.
“if you are unconvinced,” he hums, turning away and going inside, his robes fluttering behind him. “you are welcome to watch me – sleep, i mean. i will tell the guards to grant you passage to my chambers.”
despite your better judgement, you let out a surprised giggle.
.
a week has passed, and you discover that the southern sun agrees with you. your skin is glowing and your hair smooth. the warm temperature makes your eyes brighter.
that is, the maids here are spectacular in the art of flattery. such proficiency astounds you. they can have fun with a few of your jewels while you bask in the glow of their compliments. it seems like a fair enough exchange.
“you’re new here,” you declare.
it’s not a question, but the girl answers with a squeak and a slight nod. she unfastens your obi with deft fingers.
a voice outside your door calls suddenly: “my lady, osamu-sama is here.”
“odd,” you whisper. the girl brings the obi back to your waist, and when she is done you call, “tell him to enter.”
osamu does as you ask, stepping into the room. it is his house — or will be, once the daimyo is dead — but he looks out of place. propriety suggests he not be here, that you two must meet outside where everyone can see him court you properly. osamu does not care for whispers and talk, and you are starting to believe his brother when he said that he is a formidable man.
“are you well?” he inquires.
you swallow a confused sound about to escape your throat. the sudden interest in your well-being is disconcerting. “i am,” you reply, but then you realize he is not looking at you, but rather over your shoulder to where your maid is standing.
.
most of your days are spent in your garden. there is a circular patch of sunlight you like to twirl in, tracing your steps and rounding back to where you started.
the world is as wide as your eyes can see: the west wing, the east wing, the entryway north, and the servants’ quarters south.
your heart is too tired to be discontent.
.
“do you think — do you believe in fate, my lord?”
he cocks a brow. miya atsumu, despite being the second son with nothing to his name but the comfort he was raised in, is arrogant. he wears his arrogance like a scent, exuding command even though he shouldn’t. he is nothing but a spare, but he moves with all the purpose in the world.
“something is troubling you,” he observes. he is arrogance reincarnated. you hate that he is right. “will you be frank so you may get it off your chest, or do you prefer talking in circles?”
“i should not be talking to you at all,” you squint, looking far away. you are apart, looking at the same sky from behind the opened shoji. he occupies one frame while you occupy another. the rest remain as they are, empty in the lateness of the night. “it is improper.”
“my father is in edo with the tokugawa, being taken hostage. osamu does not care for propriety — or he cares, i am not sure — it does not matter. i can get away with my misconduct.”
“my betrothed does not care about me, that is true.”
“would you like him to?” he glances at you, glowing bright under the moon. his shadow falls in in elegance, spilling from the darkness of his robe and continuing on to the floor. still, his face is illuminated softly, softly, and you wonder if this is what it is like to find someone beautiful.
“no,” you say, looking away. his lips burn in the back of your mind. “i am much too realistic for that. husbands and wives do not love each other.”
“lady, were you truly not shown love as a child?”
“my lord, do you plan on insulting my upbringing for the rest of my days?”
“i have no plans of staying here,” says he. a simple sentence from him makes you panic. it is silent enough that he must feel the catch in your throat. “i will travel.”
“to become a merchant?” you spit, horrified at the prospect.
“no, no,” he laughs. “i am much too ambitious. i’m afraid i cannot tell a lady my plans. it destroys the mystery, you see.”
“i see,” though you do not want him to leave, and you do not quite see.
“now, pray tell, what bothers you?”
he talks of travel. how much of the world will he discover, you wonder, while you trace circles around your garden as much as the sun will allow?
“nothing at all.” you swallow the careful sanctity of the moment. you know that when you sit with your thoughts tonight, pry them and lay them bare you will come to the conclusion that you are yearning for the touch of the wrong brother. “i am at ease now.”
you leave.
.
osamu is unashamed of his little exploit. he dangles the girl around thinking no one would notice — and no one does, to your utter bewilderment. he pays you visits everyday, and everyday you resist the urge to roll your eyes and exit the room and leave them to it. you are becoming sick of this game he’s playing, making you a mouthpiece, or a centerpiece, or whatever unfortunate piece it is that’s woefully stuck in the middle.
she has soft brown eyes, and everything about her is warm like the last rays of the burning sun.
he doesn’t even care that you’re in the room. he makes horrid conversation, the same one everyday: “are you well?” followed by “the weather is wonderful today, you should go outside,” and then the absolute stunner “your tea is splendid.”
you’re not the one who brewed the bloody tea.
you excuse yourself every time, asking for reprieve. you are feeling faint, you say, and you need a bit of air. he asks if you need him to come with you, and you reply with a steady no. he should wait for your return in the room, the maid will tend to him while you are gone.
enlightenment must favor you by now. you do good by your betrothed, and you do good by your servant. your good deeds do not discriminate. it is amusing to think about.
you watch as the leaves sway with the wind. your heart is as light as their dance for you bear osamu no resentment. in a sick twist of fate, you understand him.
you understand him completely.
.
lusting over your betrothed’s brother is not… ideal.
all reasoning points you to the direction decidedly away from it, but your feet bring you to the solar where you know he will practice his kata.
the longer you stay in this place, the more your body betrays you. you are making decisions you have never made at home. at night you lose sleep, writhing and turning in your bed, thinking about the hard planes of miya atsumu’s shoulders, the column of his throat, and the thickness of his fingers. something blooms in your abdomen, something primal and full of want – you shut your eyes and force yourself to enter slumber.
in the morning, you see the same shoulders move, the same throat vibrate in slight laughter. he makes fun of everyone like he is some court jester and not the son of the daimyo and it’s horrible, and it makes you flush –
“lady,” he disrupts your thoughts. he is sweaty, clad in nothing but his hakama, his kimono heedlessly discarded in a puddle on the wooden floor. “what brings you here?”
it would be shamefully transparent to tell him not to stop on account of you. you avert your gaze instead. “the flowers are wonderful in this light.”
he smirks, “there are more flowers outside. in the east especially, in a town called tsumago. they say there are all sorts of flowers that bloom in different mountains and valleys.”
“i have not lived anywhere else, i’m afraid. all i know is my home back north and your palace here. both structures are disappointingly similar,” you confess truthfully, though you are partial to this one. not quite sure if it is because of the finely polished floors or the company, you do not say that you are. “this is the only thing i know.”
“i am the same as you, in that regard.”
he should stop putting you at ease. it would make it all easier if he stopped putting you at ease. “you are a man. you can travel, go high and low, and no one will question you for it.”
“if you were a man, would you do the same?”
you think long and hard, adjusting the sleeves of your robe. he is close now. he smells of sweat, and while you do not appreciate it, you do not want to push him away either. “no. i am too ambitious. i will find a way to become emperor.”
“lady,” he laughs. “that is talk that could have your pretty head severed.”
your head feels incredibly heavy today, now that he’s mentioned it. your yuzuru must weigh two stones. you raise a brow, looking at him from the edge of your vision. he regards you not with chastisement, but with wonder. “you like my pretty head too much to want it cut off.”
“you think with a woman’s delicacy.” he tuts. “have you thought that i might want your head so i may take it with me on my travels?”
you laugh, light and true. “you have a man’s vulgarity, miya atsumu, that much i am sure.”
“yet you continue to speak to me, seek me out in my corners of the castle. if you find my vulgarity disturbing, you would not have interrupted me practicing my kata.”
“and if you found my delicacy unappealing, you could have continued and paid me no heed. yet you sit beside me after dismissing all my servants.”
“i will sleep soundly tonight, lady, knowing you are as curious about me as i am you.” he breathes loudly. the palms of his hands make a sound as he slaps them on his thighs, making his way to stand up. “i know you are not here for my conversation.” he looks at you, and something cold runs down your spine at his gaze. “i will dutifully go back to the field and practice my kata. you may pretend to admire the shrubbery at my back, though both of us know you do not care for flowers. you can pretend i am merely in the way of your afternoon… ah, contemplations, and not the object that you so studiously sought out.”
you blush a little, caught red handed by the very person you were indulging in.
.
“i know what you are.”
“look upon me kindly,” she pleads— and you realize you do not know her name. she is the girl, simply, and soon she will become the concubine your husband will cherish, your husband will bed, and your husband will hold. he will spend more nights in her chambers than he will in yours. you are willing to bet that after your wedding night, after he has done his duty and you have spread your legs, he will go back to her arms, apologize, and she will say it is alright. this is their curse, and in their story, you are nothing but the looming wall. in their story, you do not feel remorse for setting them apart.
“you do not stir my emotions. i do not like you,” you hum, turning a page of the book. such wonderful letters. you spare her a single glance, a breath from the nose. “nor do i despise you. do not fret.”
to be jealous over osamu is gluttony. he is free to do whatever it is that he wants. you have always credited yourself to be level-headed. you are not jealous of this girl whose only way to come into the palace was to become your maid.
“my lady, please —”
“do not beg,” you feel yourself wanting to stomp. frustration grates your bones. you must tell atsumu how his brother is perfectly matched. atsumu must know, for he is quick and there is little he isn’t well-versed about. the book is slammed with fervor. outside, the birds are chirping in a morning tune. “it is unbecoming.”
you take a sip of her too-sour tea. you flinch, wondering if she plans to poison you. she cannot be that stupid. poisoning the wife will not make the mistress a wife, it will simply weaken the claim of the clan and sever good relations. the man will find a new wife and the mistress will remain where she is.
the sky is blue, and mistresses are not to be wed.
she must know that. she must. if she doesn’t, and you die by the extract of chamomile and lavender – you do not know the specifics of poisons, but it must be either of the two for they are hideous – then it would be worthy of a good, hearty laugh.
.
osamu does not come to you after that, but when you are taking a stroll south, downwards on the slope of the hill, you see the unmistakable tilt of his shoulders. at first you believe the man to be atsumu, but as you look closer, you see the head of the girl on his lap.
there are several thoughts that run through your mind, all hurtling at terrifying speed, and each one drives a dagger deeper into your heart than the last.
is this love, you wonder. is love the soft touch of a man, gentle devotion that can bend principles? he touches her like she might break. he looks at her like she is the night sky.
how come you have never learned about this before? how hideous must you be that you have never felt this way?
the most crushing, perhaps, is how you felt devastation, painful and searing, bringing tears to your eyes, in the split-second you thought the man was atsumu.
“my lady?” calls the girl holding your umbrella. “do you wish to go to the stream?”
“no,” you shake your head, turning away. “let us head back for now. tell the others not to go farther down. i am feeling faint and i need all of you with me.”
.
you sit by the pond right outside the wing of your chambers. close enough that you are not straying to iniquity, but far enough that atsumu can stumble upon you if he decides to take an evening walk.
and like the sun sets and the moon rises, he takes his evening walk. he does so with an air of importance. atsumu is dependable, his walks are routine, and you look forward to them more than you should.
he stations himself by the stone path. he is a throw of a pebble away. “are you having trouble sleeping?”
“a heathen is invading my dreams,” you reply, chin tucked over your wrist. you regard the koi. little do they know of the troubles that plague your mind. all they know is to swim and to eat what they are given.
“show me the heathen, hime, so i may vanquish it for you.”
“look into the pond, miya atsumu.”
he obliges, footsteps falling lightly. he stands before you. he is most beautiful in the moonlight.
“i see the moon, the koi, and my reflection. the heathen is one of these?”
you look at him. you wonder —
“hime.”
if in this life, you can stand close enough to him that you can count the sun marks on his cheeks. honesty thrives in silence. honestly, there is nothing in the world that you want more than to touch miya atsumu’s face with your lips.
he folds his hands behind his back, a habit of his when he is exasperated.
“how large is the koi in your dreams?”
“oh,” you cover your face with your hands. miya atsumu smiles wider to the right than to the left.
“tell me of the koi. the heathen in your dreams cannot be the moon. it is simply too stunning. and it certainly cannot be me, lady, that haunts your nights,” he lowers his voice to a whisper. “it cannot be me who makes you fitful and sleepless and makes you sit and sigh.”
“the koi was large,” you reply. “with arms and legs that had sprouted from its body.”
laughter rings, and you wonder if the servants know, if they will tell the daimyo of your betrayal. it is punishable, what you are doing. if you are disgraced, your clan will be disgraced along with you; your father, your siblings, and everyone that comes after. you will become a smear on white cloth that cannot be washed out. if they are too blind to see osamu and the girl in plain sight, then they must be blind to you and atsumu as well. this brings you little comfort, but little is better than no comfort at all.
“say the word, lady, and i will take you with me.”
your heart stops. he stares at you, and the pond between you is large and small at the same time — an endless infinity keeping him within arm’s reach.
“you said it yourself: my brother does not love you.”
“i cannot leave.”
for a moment, something soft flashes in his eyes. “i will not change your mind if you do not wish it. all you have to do is ask. if you ask, i will tell you that osamu will take a concubine the moment you are married. there is a girl from town he has been visiting since we were children that now stationed herself as one of your maids—”
he knows as well. of course he does. “but i will not ask.”
“but you will not ask,” he repeats, nodding. “i will not force anything upon you. not if you do not wish it. i would love nothing more than to whisk you away, but i do not expect you to return my sentiments.”
“will you go?”
“yes, i believe i must.”
“no,” you sound petulant, even to your own ears. a child begging for scraps of affection. “you can stay.”
“to see you wed my brother?” he scoffs. “i would sooner have a spear lodged at my throat.”
“always so dramatic, my lord. what are these walls without you?”
“and yet you will not ask.”
you feel yourself falter, you feel yourself sway. would it be so hard, asking? to live a life away from the one you know, disgraced and hunted. “and yet i will not ask.”
.
miya atsumu is the first person who mentioned the word love with your name. miya atsumu believes in it, much like people believe in the true north and the existence of the stars.
desperately, you cling to this memory. when he is gone, he will take his words with him, and you are sure he will forget you when he sees the rest of the world. you will not follow him. you are not a fool. you will remain where you belong, resigned to a fate you were born into.
still, you engrave in your heart: you can be loved.
.
“i am good at weaving silks.”
“truly?”
“i have never tried before, but how hard can it be?”
“you astound me, woman.”
.
“hime,” a sing-song tune, sauntering steps, the scrambling of your lady’s maids like fish in a lake at the drop of the rock, “you look rather dull today.”
ah, but atsumu is a liar.
you smile, and with proper decorum you say, “is my rogue put on too thick?”
“your cheeks are not pink enough,” he responds. his hand comes to rest on the edge of your cheekbone, right below your eye. his touch is as soft as snow. “and you have a fallen eyelash. make a wish, lady, then blow.”
“what is it i should wish for, my lord?”
he pretends to think. the only thing between you is his hand, and the thinness of an eyelash. “good fortune? prosperity — really, i am not competent enough to say. i am not the wishful kind.”
“you are the kind who seizes opportunity by the throat.”
he bristles. “not all the time, lady. not as frequently as i would want to.”
your fingers shake desperately. your body responds to him quicker than your mind can, but you catch the fools before they betray you. your fingers stay by your side. “prosperity is too uncommitted, don’t you think, my lord? prosperity for what?”
“your impotence scares me, lady,” he replies, a little aghast. “for the land you will rule, of course.”
“think me selfish, but i will not wish for prosperity upon a land i have barely lived in – take no offense — who knows when my next eyelash will fall again? no, i must make a wish with sincerity.”
“my hand is becoming strained, lady.”
i wish for happiness. happiness, you understand as clear as day, too much that it scares you, is to have miya atsumu say how much he loves you. you close your eyes, round your lips, and blow.
the eyelash flutters away, never to be heard of again.
“what did you wish for?”
“if i tell you, you will laugh. i’d rather your teasing end for today.”
.
“osamu is perfectly matched. the girl feels like the first drop of honey on the tongue.”
“osamu has always favored sweet things.”
“and you, my lord? do you favor sweet things as well?”
“lady, i know not what you mean. i have always favored tuna.”
.
you are called to have an audience with the daimyo on the day before your wedding. in a streak of boredom, you ask your maid to come with you. the one with warm eyes, you request.
you do not do it out of spite. you do it because you are bored, a little cornered, and a little desperate. you sorely need entertainment. miya atsumu is leaving on the morrow. she is paid to serve you, so if her tolerance must be gauged for the sake of your comfort and your distraction, you do not see how it is your problem.
you float across the floors, hands tucked into the red, silken fabric of your dress as you cross the threshold to where the daimyo sits. you have sprawling acres of land behind you and a name that has been known for more than ten generations, pure when traced. you will float if you wish to.
what you did not know entering is that beside the daimyo sit his sons. osamu on the right, atsumu on the left. osamu does not even look at you as pure horror passes his face, and you cannot look at atsumu in shame.
.
you leave the chamber, guilt bubbling in your stomach, fists clenched.
“you are far too cruel, lady, to let them meet like that.”
you stop in your tracks. he is leaning on the wall. the corner of the house is dark, a crevice made for conversations between brides and the brothers of husbands. his stance is carefree, yet his face is hard.
you swallow. “the world is cruel to me. why must it be kind to them?”
“you—”
“yes, i was not loved as a child,” you lash. “i did not know the tender touch of a mother. i did not know the loving eyes of a father. i am vile, you say —”
“i say no such thing.”
“but you think it. i can see it. you think me horrible, and you will leave me in this castle, alone with people who don’t care about me. my betrothed loathes me because i embody all he cannot have—”
he pulls you to his chest suddenly. he grabs your wrist and yanks you closer, nestling the back of your head with his palm. you melt in his embrace, and without wanting to, you weep. he whispers, lips tender and close to the crown of your head, “all you have to do is ask, hime.”
“ask for what?”
you do not ask for things. if it is not given, then it is not for you. it is the way of the world.
“devotion, adoration, love. all you have to do is ask.”
“i doubt they exist.”
“if they don’t exist,” he whispers so softly it makes your hands fist at his robes. “why do you feel empty?”
“and if i ask, who will give them?”
“me.”
.
there is no greater tragedy than being promised the first son only to find comfort in the second.
there is no greater tragedy than being taught love only to have it yanked out of reach after a taste.
.
“we cannot do this much longer, hime. you know that, i trust?”
on the morning of your wedding day, before the sun has risen, you search for atsumu only to find him on the cliff at the edge of the castle. you did not sleep, staring into the ceiling. only after the fifth hour of your maundering did you decide to move.
“i have known for quite some time.” and yet you hang onto every scrap of him. any scrap the world is willing to give you.
you shed decorum, throw it to the sea. later you will pick it back up, wear it like rogue for the rest of your days, but when the skies are blooming bruised and the stars are connecting, and somewhere below the cliff, the sea is crashing without care: “i would like to know how it feels like to be kissed.”
atsumu could say later, my brother will kiss you, or it is improper, or merely a simple, resounding no. but it does not come. and you wonder why, in your memory of him, in the nights you think of him — which, you loath to admit, is all of the nights — you remember atsumu as difficult, someone who twists your bones and makes you furious, when in reality, atsumu is… simple. easy. comfortable. he puts your nerves at ease. he makes your chest light. with him, you feel like you can do anything.
at the very edge of the unforgiving cliff, his lips are on yours. he leans towards you, and you lean towards him. with petulant tears blooming in your eyes, you grasp at straws, at a dream that will never come true. he cradles your cheek. his thumbs are wiping your tears away.
“i will visit every year, during the summer. you would like that, i think. in every town i pass, i will pick a flower i have never seen before and then i will send them to you wrapped with my well-wishes. you will marry my brother, sire his children, and grow old in the walls i grew up in. and i will tell you, lady, that for the rest of my days, same as i do now, i wish you nothing but happiness.”
you see your life flash before your eyes. you will live with the face of the man you love, the same eyebrows resting on his skin, a different smile, and a warmth that is not for you. everytime you look at your lord husband’s face, you will be reminded of the man you cannot have. you will bear him a boy, an heir. the concubine will bear him five – and in this you wonder: what if you do not want this life anymore?
to live a life away from the one you know, happy and content in the arms of the man who has taught you love. you are unsteady, and without atsumu you might fall.
“and if i say i want to run away? there are things more important than honor. i want us to fade into obscurity, way up north or far east by the sea, or even in another land — and if i ask that of you?”
“then i will tell you that my horse is saddled for two, lady.”