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“I don’t do this” Sekkachi had said time and time again. “This…being vulnerable thing. I don’t do that.”
What Mikazuki asked of her was an impossible request. To lay herself bare in front of her, to strip herself down and reveal her deepest insecurities. Sekkachi could do no such thing.
“You can’t live on white rice and cigarettes” Mikazuki had told her.
“I’ve survived this long” Sekkachi scoffed back. She had always presumed that the sooner she died, the better. Living was an unending string of suffering and chaos. Sometimes she felt as if she would be better off bowing out early. She had deserved a respite.
But Mikazuki had such a different perspective. Life was spiritual and moving and fluid and raw. Life was the culmination of good and bad. Life was the rough of tree bark beneath your fingers, the way a babbling brook rushes over your bare feet, the way you look up at the full moon and feel a little less alone. Life was everything that had come before you, and the infinite possibilities of what may come after you’re gone. Life was poetry and music and art. Life was dessert and Sekkachi refused to pick up a spoon.
When she was thirteen years old, Sekkachi got her belly button pierced. Her chakra was no good, they said. None of their chakras were good. It was a family affair—a sick, twisted ritual. They said the metal of the piercings would help redirect the faulty chakra lines, help heal. It never seemed to make Sekkachi feel any better.
Their surname was Fumeiyo: a word that signified their defection and disgrace. They were outcasts, a whole bloodline excommunicated. Sekkachi never knew what their name used to be. All she ever knew was the new life that Kohai had forged for herself, her children, and her children’s children. A reclamation of a word so vile, so as to spit in the eye of those who cast her away. All Kohai had ever wanted was to choose her own path, to make her own decisions about her future. When she sought termination for the dissented life growing inside of her, she in turn seemed to terminate her own acceptance within her family. And so like a butterfly fresh from the cocoon, she turned east toward a new future.
They had said she was selfish, that she was ungrateful and monstrous. They had said that she and all those that she bore forward would be cursed. And thus came the genetic affliction of the Fumeiyo.
Sekkachi did not blame her grandmother for the choices she had made. She only blamed her ancestors for having ruined the lives of so many in spite of those choices.
Faulty chakra networks. It was hard to survive in a village of shinobi when your body refused to even allow you the necessary abilities. All Sekkachi ever wanted was to prove that she was worthy. To fight tooth and nail for recognition, not even renown.
It was the Gate of Joy that caused the most trouble. Located in the stomach, the chakra seemed to pool and clog there more than anywhere else. The doctors called it irritable bowel syndrome. Sekkachi hated that term and everything it stood for. She could never bring herself to explain it to others. Not without the utmost embarrassment. Her sickness in and of itself required her to be vulnerable. After all, how else can one explain the debilitating cramps, the hot nights sweating on the bathroom floor, the cyclical bouts of constipation and diarrhea back and forth like a pendulum? It was unpleasant and fowl and uncouth. And so Sekkachi lived on white rice and cigarettes.
“But that’s no way to live” Mikazuki argued. But did she really believe that Sekkachi wanted to live a life hindered like this? Did she really think that Sekkachi wanted to deny herself the simple pleasures of a life unrestricted?
Mikazuki was a shinobi by trade, but a chef by heart. She was obsessed with subtle notes of flavor and rich broths and fresh ingredients pulled straight from the garden. Obsessed with the slice of her knife against a cutting board and the crunch of fresh vegetables and the steam of a hot bowl of soup. Food was poetry and music and art. Food was life. Food was joy.
Sekkachi could not bring herself to deny the social implications of food. It was so deeply ingrained in Konoha’s culture from it’s very inception. Sitting around the dinner table with your family, going out to eat after a long day of training, first dates at fancy restaurants. Food was as much a social function as it was necessary sustenance. And so Sekkachi denied herself two important factors of life: food and friendship.
Such a bleak existence, but Sekkachi had grown comfortable in the shades of gray. She enjoyed being alone. She enjoyed being hungry. She enjoyed living off of white rice and cigarettes.
The first time Mikazuki cooked for her, Sekkachi slid her bowl across the table and told her she wasn’t hungry. All the while, she reached for her pack of cigarettes in her back pouch. Mikazuki frowned. She had slaved in the kitchen all day to make a stew from scratch, had thoughtfully picked and measured and mixed the ingredients. Mikazuki liked a challenge in the kitchen and Sekkachi’s dietary restrictions were the perfect puzzle, like a tangled thread she was tasked with straightening.
When Sekkachi finally forced herself to take a bite, she felt her entire body ignite in a newfound carnival of flavor. Everything was so rich, so warm and inviting. A subtle heat spread outward from her stomach and drenched her in a sense of calm. It was only a matter of time before her body would deny her such pleasures. It always did.
And yet this time, there was nothing. The creak of her intestines never came. Sorcery.
And so Sekkachi eased up. She inched her way into Mikazuki’s arms, into her longstanding welcome. Slowly accepted the food she was offered, slowly accepted the camaraderie she was offered. Food was joy, and when food was made specially for you, for your unruly nature, then it was also love. Sekkachi found vulnerability in a bowl of miso soup. She found joy in the arms of a woman who only ever wanted to care for her. And for once in her life, she no longer had to rely on white rice and cigarettes.