Chapter Text
Iwa-chan,
Did you know that everyone and everything has electrons sitting on the surface of their skin? They’re really small, so you wouldn’t even notice them on a daily basis, but it means you’re never really touching anything in actuality, because the electrons are busy repelling each other. Every time you slip on your tennis shoes, or turn the page in a book, or swipe a hand across my cheek, you experience the smallest distance between your favorites.
How do you feel about this? Knowing how close you come, but not close enough?
How long can you live with these almosts?
On the grounds of the Nara National Museum is an old guesthouse at the bottom of a hill, forgotten under high-hanging wisteria trees and the people of a current lifetime.
"Welcome to the universe," its sole curator, Oikawa, announces with all the pride the museum grounds can muster anyway, sliding the doors open to this season's round of volunteers, two rowdy underclassmen from the nearby university (in dire, dire need of extra credit). He presses hard candies and satsumas into their pockets for their much appreciated services here at the museum today, disregards the house’s terrible creaking, and watches their faces sink further in skepticism. When the breeze kicks up, blowing in strong for the mid-spring, he shuts the door behind him closed, peering ahead at one of the oldest houses in the country, and home sweet home, by most accounts.
One of the volunteers—Oikawa thinks his name is Hinata, but chibi-chan might do just as well, thanks to his height—glances at the gaudy stand-up sign in the corner. He reads the name of the exhibit, simply titled "Almost," nearly as grave as the melodramatic font face, and waits for Oikawa's explanations.
To start, Oikawa just paces further into the house, socked feet on newly-polished hardwood. The two other boys follow when the one named Kageyama Tobio opens his mouth to repeat the word again. "Almost," he says. "What a simple title for an exhibit like this."
"Yeah," Hinata follows up, too. "What does a house full of old stuff have to do with anything almost?"
"Old stuff?" Oikawa starts, brushing the dust off one of the heirlooms hanging on the walls. "You know, it really hurts my feelings when volunteers come in and don't know a thing about my work."
"Hinata isn't a historian," Kageyama corrects, taking interest in one of the rooms, its door already slid open. "So you'll have to excuse his ignorance."
"Oh, shut up, Kageyama-kun!"
Oikawa rolls his eyes at their bickering, remembers why he hates taking on undergrads for things like this (lest they break something), but forges on anyway. Kageyama's still got his sights on the room ahead, so he takes the liberty of showing them its splendor.
"Well, let's begin the tour," Oikawa announces. When he switches on the dim lights to the Heian room, Oikawa lets them go starry eyed. On the walls hang two sokutai robes only worn by aristocrats of the times, both fine in their own ways, along with the adornments that only seek to follow. Kageyama starts babbling on about everything in the room, from an early edition of Genji Monogatari just out in the open, to the piece of an old vermillion column from a torii gate, to the frayed parchment from a lady's unused stationery set. Oikawa just waits until Kageyama gets a closer look at the exhibit's centerpiece, because he's bound to see it, just like everyone else, and lets himself swell with pride.
"Wait."
"Hm?" Oikawa smiles when the undergrad finds it. Gotcha.
An original edition of poem Iroha, the only glass-enclosed artifact in the whole exhibit, sits carefully under the hanging robes like two ghosts might be guarding its legacy.
Kageyama frowns. "It can't be. I've heard rumors, but is this—"
"It is."
A poem only captured in the most general of general knowledge by now, knowing Iroha was no great feat, but owning the original manuscript was an entirely different story. With something smug, Oikawa prepares his answers to questions he knows he’ll probably get. Oh, yes, that really is the original. It's been in my family for centuries now. Oh, yes, I’ve gotten it tested by hundreds of experts and they've passed all the inspections. It really is the real thing!
Oh—and yes, you should probably count all your blessings for getting to be here. There's no place in the world like it.
Kageyama spins around, tongue-tied, before staring up at the two sets of robes. Hinata looks on with him. “You should know that I read about your exhibit before coming here,” he explains, and Oikawa lets a smirk break across his face. “Your research has been focused on one-on-one correspondence—”
“Letter writing, in other words,” Oikawa explains to Hinata, more in layman’s terms.
“Letter writing,” Kageyama repeats back. “And it’s always between just two people, stretching from Heian to Sengoku to post-war. Every single time, they’re companions, or best friends, if you’d like to use those terms.”
“Interpersonal relationships can say a lot,” Oikawa chimes in, as casual as possible, “and I certainly think it’s worth studying in depth."
"I mean, that's not my point."
"Do you even have one?"
"I do," the underclassmen insists.
"Then get to it."
Kageyama clicks his tongue, trying to form the words. “You’re telling me that one of those letters you've collected contains an original copy of Iroha?” asks Kageyama, fully disbelieving. "And that you might know the person who wrote it?"
At the inquiry, Oikawa steps forward, places outstretched fingertips on the glass over the encasing, and nods. “Not only do I know, but I believe it was this writer's last, left by a court poet for someone he held dear,” he brings himself into a whisper.
“And who might that be?” Kageyama asks.
“Who do you think?”
“I’d...rather not speculate.”
Oikawa doesn't give the answer away. He just lets the silence hang deep for a moment, and his two volunteers scan the room for clues.
Hinata beams up suddenly. “The emperor?” he suggests rather wildly, pointing up at the finer set of robes on the wall, spotting the modest crown of a kanmuri on the ground of the display under it. Oikawa only nods in affirmation, and watches how both of them realize the gravity of the room. Kageyama is the first one to regain composure, scholar facing scholar-to-be, and Oikawa only rolls his eyes when he knows what Tobio-chan will end up saying.
“Oikawa-san, I really mean no disrespect, but you need to get these heirlooms out of this old house, then,” Kageyama insists, so antsy in his place he looks like he might run off with a few of the artifacts himself. “I mean, the museum probably has the vaults to house all of this—"
"Oh, I'm aware of the National's storage options."
"Then shouldn't you get them out before the house comes down?"
Oikawa remains calm, more bemused than anything. “Because it won’t.”
“Oh, but it really will, Oikawa-san,” insists Kageyama. “I understand that this house goes with the exhibit, but think of the history you’re putting in danger.”
“Well, not that I asked for your opinion, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa answers him, suddenly feeling stifled by the room’s four walls, “but keeping this house open isn’t just for aesthetics.” He goes over to the sliding doors on the left side of the room, lets some air in by the crack of the wooden panel, and waits for the wisteria petals to find their way in. He takes a deep breath at the strong breeze, sights cast briefly on the emperor’s seafoam robes, before going to prove Kageyama wrong. “This is the strongest house you’ll find in the nation,” he tells them both. “It’s seen things you wouldn’t even imagine. Flooding and fire. Monsoons and wars." To further prove his point, Oikawa pounds the hardwood below with the heel of his foot, making a solid thunk in the process. "And since you've taken the time to look me up, I'm sure you know my stance on going anywhere else."
“Yes, and I’m sorry, but I can’t sit back and listen to urban legends,” Kageyama insists, wind howling even fiercer. “Come on, Hinata, maybe it’s not too late to change our posts at the office—”
“But Kageyama-kun—”
“Let’s go!”
“But look!” Hinata yanks Kageyama’s hand and points up once more at the robes, how they remain still despite the flow of an incoming gust, still too strong for the typical season. The entire room remains frozen in time, loose papers still in place, exhibit kept in tact, and Oikawa watches how both boys, dumbstruck, remain to gather petals at their feet.
"Impossible," Kageyama breathes out.
"Cool," Hinata squeaks out in awe.
“Typical,” Oikawa mutters. He just forces a smile once more, slides the door open to sit on the terrace outside, and welcomes the two of them to join. When they do, as skittish as they all are, he thinks of where to start. It is always difficult to find the right beginning.
“It sounds like the two of you need to hear my story,” Oikawa continues without missing a beat, cupping a wisteria billow so close to his face he's tempted to kiss it. He picks a few flowers off instead, subtle and felt only by the skin of his hands, and he ponders just the right place to tell the tale. Loose petals drift from his grip when he does, lost forever to the rush of a floral storm.
"There once was a wisteria tree in Nara, where two boys were fated to meet. One was an emperor to be, and the other, a poet."
Tooru had decided.
Tooru had decided, that amongst the shedding ginkgo leaves and the cranes bathing in the Kumano River, the wind and the rain and sun up above Nara, that he would write his first poem about a wisteria tree. It had been his first year of traveling outside of Heian-kyō, and it was probably the only thing he liked about the old capital—with all of its eerie tranquility and abundance of breathing room—and the flurry of falling petals reminded him of just the opposite: there was a chaos in such storms, the reassurance of movement, and this had been nothing short of inspiration.
(And oh gods, did he need inspiration.)
Because Tooru had decided, despite the droves of scholars and mentors saying six was too early to start with anything good—that like the sun coming up for the morning, or the single bird bathing in the bank before the others could get the chance—that there was no such thing as too early at all. He could not wait, if he was to be brilliant. To beat the plague of idleness (and damn the court’s persistent idleness), he had to keep his fingers busy.
"Six is too young to be ambitious," the aristocrats had told him, annoyingly so. Tooru thought otherwise, because even the smallest hand could hold a brush, and it would be a waste not to put them into use. Dipping a new one clean into the ink, steadies his grip for the perfect penmanship, and casts his sights up at the wisteria billows for final reassurance. The morning sun glitters in the spaces between leaves and petals, and the branches spread out to reach the sky. Oh, how I'd like to reach it, too, he thinks, and if I die, let me die a star.
"I refuse! I am not going back!"Another boy’s voice rings loud, but cracked like it might cry.
Tooru spills his ink, and peace is broken before he can make his ascent. In a huff, he darts his attentions to the house right across the tree, peers into the sliver of an open door of the servant's quarters, and watches another boy his age come through in a rush. He's wearing the finest robes he's ever seen his life, hems muddied and ruined by recklessness. The boy, dark and frowning and mean by his glares, looks straight to Tooru, hops off the terrace side, and presses a finger to shushing lips. "Be quiet," he cuts Tooru in a whisper, disappearing behind the thick trunk of the wisteria tree.
It doesn't take long for a few guards to burst through the same door, and Oikawa is left to clutch at his wrinkled parchments. He gasps when a few upper ranking court members saunter to the front, and immediately switches to a deep bow, waiting for further address.
"Boy," a voice rings out. "What is your name?"
"Tooru, sir," he tells them.
"Which house do you come from, Tooru?"
With a shake of the head, Tooru has told this story many times. "I have no house. Just a court noble who was gracious enough to take me in patronage and firm belief."
Another aristocrat scoffs. "You speak eloquently for a child."
"The highest compliment I have ever received, sir," Tooru states, getting deeper in his bow.
"You can hear more of that praise, if you'd like. No need for just one patron. You could have ten, if you help us out."
Tooru raises his head, eyes wide. "Pardon?"
"You'd just have to tell us one thing."
"And that is?"
"Where did he go?"
“Well…” At once, Tooru weighs all his options, the good, the bad, the falling petals in between, and sucks in a deep breath. He shakes his head, mustering the shyest front he can muster, and tells them, "I saw no one pass through here." He then points to his empty ink bottle and finds sudden bravado. "You see, I was working on my first ever poem, a masterpiece, when I spilled my ink. My apologies, if you heard me holler about it—"
"We could have you tried and executed for treason, if you're lying."
Tooru blinks. "And what is treason again?" he asks, fully aware of the implications.
“Little brat—”
"Let's stop wasting time, already!" another court member cries out. "You know how fast that boy runs. He could be on the other side of the city, by now!"
With no further duress or interrogation, the guards and nobles take their leave through the servants' door once more, leaving Tooru alone. He exhales, brushing the dirt off his knees before settling back down on the petal bed.
"I owe you a new bottle of ink," the boy tells him from behind the tree after a while.
Tooru shrugs, but doesn't turn around. "Hm," he pouts. "It was nothing. There's adventure in running away, and a little bit of ink is a decent price to pay to fund it. "
"Still," says the boy.
"It's fine! Really!" Tooru giggles. "So...why were you running away? You could at least tell me that, right?”
"That's not important."
"Okay..." Tooru stifles a frown. "Then what's your name?"
The boy doesn't answer at first. Tooru peeks back up at the terrace, finds no trace of stirring, not even a single servant, and extends a cautious hand behind the tree.
"You can come out now, if you want," Tooru offers. "I don't think anyone will find you here now."
And so the boy does. He crawls towards Tooru, petals still stuck in bristly dark hair, and the poet-to-be watches him soften out of scowling, and the counted way he calms his breathing. But Tooru really can’t blame him for the strain: he remembers all the times he couldn't sit still either, where hours turned into whole afternoons hiding from mentors and tutors and the ladies-in-waiting.
“Hi,” Tooru says to him, all soft.
In the wildest of speculation, Tooru conjures up stories about why the boy might've run away. (A servant boy, who has stolen the crown prince's robes, runs for his life in the finest silks! A cook's son, sneaking poison into the soup, seeks revenge upon a particularly idle noble!) But upon tracing the tiny freckles on the bridge of the boy's nose, pondering about his tanned country skin and the dirt under short fingernails, the firm way he holds the earth under him, Tooru decides he can't quite place his story. For once, and at the strangest ease, he lets this go.
"My name is Hajime," Tooru hears him say, and he beams at the sound of it. Hajime. He thinks it sounds familiar, but he's not entirely sure why. Hajime. The other boy only slinks back, but Tooru closes the distance anyway, so close he takes the liberty of picking a petal off Hajime's cheek.
"It's nice to meet you, Hajime. I'm—"
"Tooru," Hajime repeats back. "I know. I could hear you and the guards, and how they offered you ten patrons to give me up.” From there, he gets up from the base of the tree, looks out at the low valley ahead, and starts walking. His geta sandals stomp the earth on the way to nowhere, grace hardly considered. Tooru decides he might like the impact of it, nonetheless.
“Oh, I doubt they were being serious anyway,” Tooru tries to refute, letting the thought sting nonetheless.
Hajime brushes the petals off his shoulder. “You don't know what a bunch of bored nobles might do.”
“What? Like you do?” Tooru asks him back, finding himself farther and farther from the wisteria tree.
On their stroll, tall grasses hide them from view, and the whistle of mountain winds stifle their voices. Leading the way, Hajime only glances over his shoulder, hides a cheek against the cloth of his fine robe, and keeps going. Sandals continue to dig into earth, making their marks. Tooru follows, pretending not to be entranced.
“You said you write poetry,” Hajime continues, and Tooru nods back before deciding that is a lie.
“No,” Tooru answers him, quieter than he'd like, and the wind dies down at that moment to suit him. “Not yet.” At this, they both stop walking. “I’d like to write poetry, and I was going to write my first today, but it's hard, I think. There's something special about the first. I believe it must be something to remember.”
Above them, the wind kicks up again, and Tooru watches Hajime dig his geta heel into the dirt.
“I see,” Hajime tells him.
Tooru smiles, shy and nodding. He's never had anyone listen to him about this before, and it is enough to make goosebumps on his skin. “Do you like poetry, too?” he asks excitedly, holding his breath.
“Not particularly,” Hajime confesses.
“Oh.”
“But that doesn't matter. We should make that first special for you, and we can't have that without a little exploring. It's all blooming sakura and cicada songs, isn’t it? I think I owe you that alone, even if I think poetry is boring.”
“You don't owe me anything, especially if you don’t like my craft,” Tooru tells Hajime all miffed in return. After all, he had been alone up until this time, and it wouldn't hurt to stay that way (even if it wasn’t particularly nice, either).
“Fine. Then let's say I want to.”
“But you don’t,” Tooru argues back.
“I do.”
And just like that, as impolite as impolite can get, and surely in the mark of someone without a court’s high stature, Hajime has the audacity to take Tooru’s hand without offering. Tooru gasps in something silent, but he stays anyway. He’s never really liked anyone touching him, but he might be able to take exception with this; there is something in Hajime’s grip that is warm yet never smothering.
They walk on and on from there, below the sun and hollering mountain winds, waving at bathing cranes and collecting the ginkgo leaves. When they're not hiding from the guards, Hajime talks about skipping rocks in the Kumano and riding horses, and Tooru gossips about every noble and meritless poet he finds annoying in the lower ranks of court. They even venture in the villages where orderly rows turn into something less so, and the walls come down in lieu of something more honest. Amongst the farmers scrambling to get their spring plantings in, the thatchers working on battering down old and flimsy homes, their dirt-dusted hands and blackened feet, Tooru learns of a new world, and finds that Hajime seems to belong in it more than anyone else.
“So, have you figured out what to write about yet?” Hajime asks him on their way out, both of them no longer on the run from guards or nobles or the unwanted influence of writer’s block. Tooru doesn’t know how to tell him though, that yes I know exactly who to write about, and resorts to something he knows best.
“No,” comes a white lie. “Not yet.”
By the end of the day, past the skipping stones, the prodding feet, the working hands, and the gentle, private smile of a boy in ruined robes, Tooru learns two important truths: that Hajime makes Nara a place Tooru might miss, and that he will be sad to leave by the early morning.
And so they part. Right at the wisteria tree, back where they started, and Tooru wonders when he'll see him again.
That night, he dreams of a poem to write, all about Hajime and their time together, and tentatively titles it Iroha. It is one that he’d change over and over in the years to come, for better and for worse and every instance in between.
x
By the time autumn arrives and Tooru’s returned from the farthest edges of the island’s countryside, he is seven, homesick for Heian-kyō, and ready to reunite with his city.
“Bliss!” Tooru sighs out in a dream, ever dramatic. When he throws himself at the mercy of his home atop the hillside—oh, home sweet home—he flails about with robe sleeves all fluttering. A handmaiden in his patron’s household scolds him for falling so uncouth over the tatami mats, and Tooru just laughs right back at her.
“The countryside was so boring, even the crickets were chanting funeral prayers!”
“Yes, that may be true, but that is certainly no excuse for such a hideous display. Gather yourself and get rid of those habits!” the handmaiden insists, too disgusted to yank Tooru up herself. Tooru sits up, still beaming, and looks out the open door. A bunch of aristocrats in their formal kanmuri hats come rushing past the house, too heavily dressed to do anything but waddle by, and Tooru can only stifle back more laughter. In something lingering, he immediately softens at the thought of his friend Hajime, so free from haughty prestige.
“But those habits are the only way to remember him by,” Tooru tells her. “I made a friend in Nara, you see, the most impolite boy you'll ever meet, but he was kind and—”
“It's not like you'll ever see him again,” the handmaiden says, already bored and past the issue of manners. Cracking the door further open, she watches more of the procession walk by, bowing lightly to the men of the court. “It's best to forget him, and focus on your poetry,” she concludes, and Tooru wilts by a sigh.
To divert himself, he looks to the crowd as well. He pretends her words don't sting. “What's going on outside?” asks Tooru, consciously flippant.
“Oh, that's right—you just got back to the city today. Your master was briefed on it this morning, so he's already with the rest of them, but you don't know, do you?”
Tooru shakes his head. “What's happening?”
“Emperor Shirakawa is giving up his rule,” the handmaiden whispers. “It's a very odd move, unprecedented if I do say so myself. But I doubt he will be far from the throne. His heir is much too young to do anything.”
Tooru hasn’t a faintest clue either, but usually prefers to keep out of politics anyway. Pretending to care about seeing the new emperor in action, he just follows the court lady out onto the deck of their house, dragging some parchment and a few brushes along in case the wait would be a long one. Certainly not as extravagant as aoi matsuri in spring, or as dour as an official’s winter funeral, Tooru even forgets about writing after a while, letting himself drift off to the sound of the shamisen and a pulse-beat drum. The sweet smell of chrysanthemum wafts in from the parade to put him in the utmost peace, only to mix with the crackled air of the season.
“Tooru, he’s here! The emperor is here!” the handmaiden exclaims, and the neighbors also erupt in a joyous cheer.
“How nice,” Tooru lilts with little enthusiasm, still heavy-lidded and ready to sleep. He stretches out a yawn and catches the sight of a vermillion palanquin up the road. A dozen soldiers, all stone-faced, come marching with the new emperor in their care, and the drums continue to bang. Boring, boring, boring, Tooru hears.
Under the noise, Tooru perks up when he hears a mother argue with her son:
“It’s time for you to accept this!”
“I will stop and run, if you make me go through with this, I swear to you—”
Run. Tooru instantly recognizes the voice. “Hajime!” he cries out from his place on the ledge, leaning out too far with hands barely gripped on the house column. He falls over—much to the horror of the handmaiden—and ends up tumbling down the hillside, dead brambles serving as little reprieve for the catch.
“Heavens,” Tooru cries out (when he might actually be crying about this). With a groan, he knows he’s probably ruined his robes and cut his lip open, tasting blood on his tongue. One geta sandal has even escaped him, and his knees sting in something scraped on the gravel. Sucking in tears, he thinks to stay down for a moment to retain the littlest grace he has left. In the next, someone has taken his hand to help him get back up again. The grip is warm, but never smothering, and Tooru has to tell himself not to look up. Don't you dare.
“Tooru?”
At the call of the name, Tooru raises his head despite the messiness. He wipes the dirt off his face, sees Hajime, his Hajime, fully dressed in plum blossom sokutai robes, kanmuri firmly placed on his head.
At once, Tooru realizes who he is.
“You’re the emperor,” Tooru breathes out. “The new—” when he reaches out to say anything further, two guards come running out from the thickest part of the crowd, pull Hajime back in their grasp, and jab Tooru with the blunt end of a spear. From there, Hajime starts screaming at the top of his lungs, head yanked back and calling after his friend. The guards go unfettered when Hajime tries to kick them.
“Tooru!” he yells, over and over. “Tooru!” And this time, because movement cannot sustain itself forever, Tooru really does drift off, chest in hearty ache, and feels his scrapes with a gentle sort of burn.
x
When Tooru wakes up the next day, he is in a futon that is not his own. He doesn’t remember ever being this comfortable, under sheets so smooth he might as well have been wrapped in a warm bath; he wonders if he is dreaming at first—because seeing Hajime surely must have been a dream—and sits up, heavy in the head and throbbing all over.
His house’s handmaiden, dabbing tears with her sleeve, and gasps when he sees him awake. “Oh, Tooru! I thought you’d never wake up!” she exalts. Tooru smiles wearily, still confused at just where he is, and declines her offer of soup or tea.
“What have you done to yourself?” she starts scolding him after, simply beside herself that a noble in the making would be indelicate enough to make such a scene, and that potential has surely been wasted. After calming down, another ugly cry emerges once more when she tells Tooru the news: in the light of following events, the lord of their house has disowned him, effective immediately to save face, and there was simply nothing she could do to stop it.
“Then...where am I?” Tooru asks, too shocked to ask the right questions. “If I am to leave the house, why did he bring me somewhere so nice?”
The handmaiden goles pale in the face. “The master did no such thing.”
“Then who did?”
The doors slide open at that moment, and Hajime comes through with two guards trailing behind him. He quickly shuts them out before they can even enter, and the handmaiden quickly goes into a bow of utmost respect. Hajime waves her off, looking supremely uncomfortable, and goes over to Tooru immediately.
“Hajime—”
“Tooru! Have some manners! Address him as Emperor Horikawa—”
“I swear if I have to hear that name one more time today, I really will run away,” Hajime threatens, more blunt than anything else. Tooru can’t help but hold back a laugh.
Hajime goes over to him, takes one of his bandaged hands, and inspects to make sure it is clean. At this, Tooru winces, more so because it tickles, and ends up laughing despite his series of mishaps. The boy emperor, Hajime, smiles in turn.
“Can I please have the room?” he turns to ask the handmaiden quietly. She does shortly after that, chirping to the other ladies-in-waiting outside on the terrace.
Hajime goes mum when he thinks of what to say to Tooru. “You can stay here as long as you need—”
“You’re the emperor.”
“I mean, my mother says it’s okay, and my father’s already taken his office in another estate so I doubt he’ll any problem with it—”
“You’re the emperor,” Tooru repeats back, still in awe. Horrified. Enlightened. He hasn't quite decided yet.
Hajime sighs, pausing to find the things he’d like to say. “I…” he starts, before tailing off. He plays with his robes uncomfortably, shaking his head a few times. “Does that change anything?” he asks without shame, and Tooru blushes at how sincere the question is. He gulps in turn, trying to find his own words, and reaches forward, to find his first and only friend in the Heian-kyō court.
Friend. At that moment, Tooru decides that’s what he is, like it or not, peasant or emperor, and says nothing more about it. He just smiles for him, still a little sleepy, and waits for Hajime to grip his hand back harder.
“Thank you,” he whispers to Tooru in turn, and he does. When their hands lace and stay together, two boys on the precipice of the unknown and the pressures of the imperial court, Tooru just lets the comfort set in, homeward bound and safe, and does not recoil at his touch.
By the time Oikawa has finished telling just part of his story, Hinata and Kageyama have eaten all their candy and satsumas, waiting for more to unfold.
“So the poet and the emperor were together from then on, right? Like always?” Hinata asks, like this might be some kind of fairytale. He's all wide eyed, chin perched on his hands, while Kageyama seems intent on finding any sort of falsity within his stories. He's even got a notepad out by now, jotting down notes along the way, and Oikawa can only find his scribbling supremely annoying.
Oikawa shakes his head and answers Hinata’s questions before Kageyama can even open his mouth for his own. “Well, you can't always be together,” he explains. “From the letters I've read since their first meeting, I gather that the two of them spent considerable time apart, too, learning their respective trades. The emperor excelled in horsemanship and rice wine tastings, while the poet continued to seek literary greatness, sometimes in self-imposed solitudes. He travelled often.”
Kageyama eyes him with a frown. “Yeah? And how can you prove that?” he sneaks through, and Oikawa can only grit his teeth and smile through it.
“Letters,” Oikawa reminds the both of them again. “After the poet came to live at the imperial household, he started writing them all the time, most of them to Emperor Horikawa.” He thinks of the other name, testing it out on his tongue. “Hajime.” He shivers when it sounds much too fond on his tongue, and he promptly clears his throat to keep on course. “It's safe to assume they were very close, even if they weren't in the capital together all the time. They were still very close even after the poet moved out to form his own household, too,” he explains further, perhaps too pleased at an accomplishment not his own.
(But he figures he should be proud either way, since it’s not everyday—2015 or 1087—that a fifteen year old should gain his own household, servants and decorative koi pond and all.)
“Does that mean Emperor Horikawa wrote to the poet, too?” Hinata asks.
Oikawa laughs. “Oh, no, he disliked all sorts of things like that, and wrote back very few,” he states with extra buoyancy. “He even once said to the poet that he hated poetry.” When he hears the last part come out much too familiar, he thinks of the wisteria tree just across from the house, sees wild fields past it like the museum isn't in the way, and shakes his head.
“Oikawa-san?”
But it nags. His imagination persists like it has for the past year, for as long as he can remember, beyond the things he knows from recorded letters. Oikawa thinks of two boys, growing up together by Nara summers, and feels the warmth of their history in his hands. He scrunches them closed, fingertips to life lines, and tethers himself before getting carried away once more. Back on earth, Kageyama calls out for him again,”Oikawa-san,” and forces him to concentrate.
“Ah, sorry. Long day!” He smiles once more, clearly false again, but his two volunteers buy into it all the same. He’s gotten good at that. “You know, when you study these people for so long, you start to feel their lives meld with yours. It's the strangest sensation,” Oikawa remarks in the most inconsequential weight, peering out past the wisteria tree again. He feels his head pound.
Kageyama puts his notepad down. “Should we pick this up again tomorrow, then?” Hinata nods along, out of courtesy.
Yes. A thousand times yes. He tries not to sigh. Oikawa merely nods, trying hard not to show too much relief. “I think that would be best. Emperor Horikawa and his poet can wait.”
“Sure!” Hinata bolts up, collecting his garbage along the way. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
Kageyama is slower to get up, eyes still glued to the exhibit inside. “Just a few more questions, Oikawa-san.”
Of course.
“Oh, don't be such a bother, Kageyama-kun!” Hinata says, kneading his side with a wriggling foot. The historian-to-be only remains, unfettered and sitting like a soldier.
“Go on,” Oikawa tests him.
“How come we don't know the poet’s name? History has given us the likes of Murasaki Shikibu, Shōnagon.”
“Legends say a controlling father scratched his name out from history books as punishment.”
“For what?”
“You'll have to find out more tomorrow.”
Kageyama gruffs out a sigh. “Just one more question, then,” he does his best to concede.
“Go on.”
“Why have I never heard of this poet until now? How can you claim to know so much about him?”
At the question, one that Oikawa has tackled a million times before, he lets the house do the talking for him. Wind sweeps in once more, no match for the creaking foundation, and does battle in lieu of everyone else’s silence. Done for the day, Oikawa simply gets up from his place on the floor, goes back inside to observe the Heian era in its glory, and answers Kageyama firmly.
“It's all a matter of belief, I guess,” Oikawa says, and Kageyama can hardly accept the answer. With Hinata in tow (and Hinata squawking all the way, “aw, don't be like that, Kageyama-kun!”) they leave for the day (and maybe forever). (Hopefully forever.) At this, Oikawa just takes a deep breath, brushes his hands against a certain emperor’s plum robe, and takes his leave for the rest of the afternoon.
My Esteemed Emperor Horikawa,
How does one count a year? Should I measure it by the lunar celebrations, or the change of seasons? Because it is hard to fathom that we’ve spent a whole year apart, and I just cannot wait to show you my new pieces! I keep hope for the day that you will sit still for one of my poems, instead of fretting over your hunts or horses or village visits.
But in all seriousness, you must've missed me terribly, yes? Please don't for too much longer, for I will be in Nara soon.
x
By the time summer returns to Nara for his eighteenth year, Tooru is a fully-fledged member of the court, spending his days wandering for his newest muse to write poetry to. Staring out the window of his ox-cart, he'd like to say he has many, but it is always the passing sort that never really means anything: chirpy crickets and girls with long hair make for fine additions in some patron’s archive or memento box, but nothing more, and such hollowness only makes Tooru antsier than ever before. He just shuffles his toes in the thongs of his sandals, and sighs in the purest lamentation.
Two other court members, Kunimi and Sugawara, look up from their readings across the carriage. Kunimi just blows smoke out from his pipe, not looking to get involved. (He never gets involved, always so deeply involved in his folklores and other spiritual matters.) Sugawara, on the other hand, leans forward and offers a snicker.
“Now, now, you'll get to see him again soon,” Sugawara offers, and Tooru just scowls right back at him. Kunimi hums out a single note, barely heard, and goes back to reading.
“Not everything is about him, you know,” Tooru says, leaning his head back on the carriage wall, eyes darting between the two nobles. He settles his sights back out the window again, hoping to find peace, but even Nara’s clearest sky cannot help him today.
“Oh, of course not,” Sugawara chimes back, holding up his materials. Upon closer inspection, Tooru recognizes his own handwriting, and the title for address: The Merit of Persistence in the Court. He wrote that one last winter as a cheeky jab to the aristocracy's ever-present idleness, and was then deemed the most irrepressible busybody amongst gossipers (despite ascending to second rank out of eight that year, gods bless the ritsuryō codes). At this, Tooru can't help but crack a smile, still proud at his doings, and wonders how he could’ve fallen into such hypocrisies—he recounts the last week spent mostly sipping oolong tea and watching shamisen performances, and how court life was all starting to become too routine.
“Precisely, then,” Tooru says with a smirk, masking a forlorn sigh with little effort.
“But then again, there is no weakness in saying you'd like to see him,” Sugawara offers. Tooru just goes agape at the notion, about to retort when a horse’s neighing beats him at the chance.
Out the window, the nobles peek and watch three riders come zoom past their cart, a black and tall stallion leading the pack.
“Stop!” Tooru calls to the driver. It’s his horse. In an instant, and because a year really has been too long, Tooru waves to their driver to halt, startling both Sugawara and Kunimi in turn. Their ox halts a nasty neigh, and pulls their cart up in a sudden yank, sending their loose scriptures flying.
“Where are you going?” Sugawara asks, when Tooru’s too busy smoothing his hair back and fixing his robes. “We have an appointment to keep with Nekomata-dono, remember? We don't have time to stop!”
Tooru bows lightly. “My sincerest apologies,” he breezes out to the other nobles, hoping out from the carriage. “Like you said, maybe I did want to see him.” From there, he watches the way Sugawara scoffs, beaten at his own game, and how a smirk forms across even Kunimi’s face. For a finishing touch, and only to leave himself on Nara’s outer roads, Tooru tells the driver to continue on without him, knowing that his destination will come by other means (and that appointments could always be rescheduled).
And so the cart leaves. Tooru trudges into unsown fields, a stampede of hooves roaring along wind ahead of him, and watches the dust fly up in their wake. He spots Hajime’s other friends, the young Kindaichi and the sturdy Sawamura, and glazes past them without much thought. Hajime lengthens their distance, leans parallel to the saddle of his beloved horse, and takes no chances at winning his sprint. He speeds up, faster than ever, and a certain poet cannot help but hold his breath for victory.
“Hajime!” Tooru calls out across the field with a wave, no longer able to keep it in. Hajime does not hear him right away. “Hajime!”
When he does in fact win his race, the emperor throws himself back upright, tightens his grip on the reins, and slows into a fast little trot for the most modest victory lap Tooru’s ever seen. He even waits to greet his company, smiling in something smug (or trying to be). Higher spirits ensue when the three riders erupt into laughter, hopping off their horses to recount their race.
“You cheated! No one can beat your horse in a race!”
“And how is that my problem?”
Tooru keeps on. By the eve of his eighteenth year, he should know better than to stare. But it's a habit Tooru’s never learned to break, and he knows that such things are harder with the likes of the boy in front of him; so past the bending summer haze, he watches all that he can, and sees Hajime—not as as emperor, or god’s given gift to this country, but Hajime.
His hands, gentler than in any instance of penmanship or tea ceremony, graze across his favorite horse’s hide. His laugh, loud enough to be heard across the field, is hearty and clear but in no ways disruptive. A chin turns slightly to the gust, and he sighs with it. Cerulean suits him well under his armor plates, just like he's got the sky guarding his back, now full and grown. (And, oh, how he's grown.) It is when Tooru traces the outline of him like a mapmaker doing his finest work, that he realizes that Hajime is no longer what they'd call a boy emperor. At least, not with that extra bump of muscle on his bare forearm, or the melted baby fat, or the added height—at once, he is too embarrassed to even stare head on, and keeps his eyes on thistle stems below.
“Tooru!” He hears two horses race away. Daring to peek up, he sees the head of a black stallion come trotting through the weeds. Hajime leads by his lucky red reins, walking over without mounting his stallion.
“Is that you, my heavenly sovereign?” Tooru feints back.
“You really have to stop calling me that.”
At once, Tooru tidies himself up further, matting clammy hands down at his sides. He offers a flirty smile, the same one he offers for the ladies of the court and potential patrons, but it never feels quite right with Hajime. He forges on anyway, even opting for a mocking sort of bow.
In turn, Hajime only offers back a small tch of the mouth, crossing his arms and examining Tooru up and down.
“You've gotten taller again,” Hajime remarks, gaze suddenly averted, and Tooru knows that is code for, taller than me. He pretends he isn't proud about this and walks on with Hajime, sharp weeds prickling his ankles.
“You can pray to Amaterasu and hope for the best,” Tooru jokes, and Hajime only speeds his pace with his horse in tow.
“No.”
“Tsukuyomi?”
“Stop.”
“Susanoo?”
“I can just ride off and leave you in the fields, so good luck on making your appointments in time.” Still laughing, Tooru follows him anyway, and Hajime doesn’t get on his horse. A gentle quiet surrounds them in the fields, typical for two people who’ve known each other for so long, and lets them make the rest of the journey in comfort. On the way, Tooru tells offhanded stories about his new home on the northern edge of Heian-kyō, prattling on about the huge koi pond and the terrible cook, and keeps on despite Hajime’s silence.
“Tooru,” he finally offers, when they’re at the edge of imperial property, their wisteria tree in the barest line of sight.
“Yes?” the poet answers, all small in a whisper.
Hajime looks up at the sky, like he’s about to make a proclamation to the heavens. “I want to lead this country,” he says, as the wind dies down on his command.
Tooru hums out. “Hm? But you already do. You’re the emperor.”
“But everyone in the court knows that doesn’t mean anything,” counters Hajime, and Tooru cannot refute this. “When was the last time I was called for anything substantial? It’s all purifications and temple openings! Power passes through cloistered rule. Law passes with Emperor Shirakawa and the office where he sits.”
“You never cared before,” Tooru says.
“It’s growing up,” Hajime argues back, trying not to raise his voice. Tooru wonders if he can feel the sting of it too, these periods of time of coming and going, of being here with him, and then not. Of growing up. Of leading households and bright-eyed apprentices, of leading whole courts and nations. A certain sort of quiet emerges once again, certainly the less comfortable kind, and Tooru can only do what he does best.
“It’s funny,” he says, trying to smile. “The first time I met you, you were running away from it.”
“I think it's time I take my seat back, Tooru. I have to,” Hajime insists, and facades are thrown away. “It was fine, riding horses all day and drinking sake when I was younger. “But...not anymore. Not when people forget this country is more than just the court that presides over it.” He stops walking, tightening the reins in his grip. “There's a whole world out there, don't you know? Wouldn't you like to see it, too?”
Tooru cannot argue with this. “Of course,” he can only answer in all honesty, cracked in a way that never would be with Sugawara or Kunimi or anyone else on the court. “Of course,” he can only repeat like it’s the only words he knows, despite the different paths and converging roads and almost there’s that Tooru cannot even begin to imagine. “Of course,” he can only admit, because he knows he must continue to see the world for himself, too, whether Hajime is there or not.
“I can only hope for the best then,” Hajime says, mounting his horse. Tooru watches how high he goes, how tall he sits, and notes, once more, how much a difference one year really makes. From there he thinks of the many more to come, the ones together, and the ones apart, and takes his hand to ride with him, too.
All the way back to the wisteria tree, Tooru leans against Hajime’s back, closes his eyes like he might drift off altogether, and lets himself have this moment of peace. His chest tightens when he wraps his arms around Hajime, enough to speak up, enough to write volumes, but he does not end up saying a word.
Almost, Tooru thinks, but not today, and pretends he has won a consolation prize instead. At least he has the day to be with him.
That night, pouring over the hundreds of poems he's written by now, he finds Iroha, thinks to makes new amendments, and continues to keep it somewhere safe. And when he settles down to sleep, Hajime right on the other side of makeshift walls, Tooru tells him goodnight, hears him breathe easy, and seeks to do the same.
x
My esteemed Nekomata-dono,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that the winter is not too cold for you in Nara. I am writing back because I have received your letter here in Heian-kyō, congratulating me on my ascension to junior first court rank, and I can only hope that I’ll serve the position well. I know many place my youth in question, and that I am too bright-eyed for the likes of such offices, but I can only promise an utmost devotion to the court and our emperor.
But with that in mind, I must question the rumors that have been rife on the grounds, lately. Are you actually considering putting your daughter up as the empress consort? I do not blame you, for it is an enviable spot in life, and one that I’m sure she will fill oh so well, but do consider her frail constitution. As a close friend and advisor of our dear emperor, I am afraid such a fine lady will be distressed with his hunting quests and propensity to muddy his robes. He is simply a mess! His handwriting is also illegible, and he cannot put his kanmuri on properly in the mornings. As a friend of the court, and no one with any stake in these possible dealings, I propose the crown prince instead, for he will offer the same advantages with a higher semblance of grace. I look forward to your next letters, and hope you will reconsider!
x
My dearest Sugawara-dono,
I apologize for the late letter this spring evening—and another sudden departure from our ox cart by Mibu the other day—but I am writing in concern over the young poetess in the Shimizu household, a close friend of yours. It appears that her family is positioned to propose a union to make her empress consort, and I fear that his distaste in poetry will put him off and embarrass her estate. As a fellow poet and close advisor of the emperor, I am only acting on everyone’s best interests, and hope you will intervene before any damage is made.
x
My dearest Sugawara-dono,
Again, I must apologize for another late letter, but I feel that I must thank you for taking care of the situation I mentioned beforehand. I have always considered you in the highest regards, and this only cements this. We are diligently looking for the most righteous lady to make empress consort, despite our emperor’s apparent difficulties.
Also, before I end this letter, let it be known that I sensed apparent cheekiness in your last letter. This will not do. I would just like to address this now.
I do not have affections for Emperor Horikawa, and have promptly burned your last letter in protest. It went up like a glorious sun. I hope this will not affect our future correspondences.
x
My dearest Sugawara-dono,
Sending wisteria flowers to my estate is not a ruse I find all too humorous. Emperor Horikawa is only a close friend of mine, one that I cherish no more than an adopted brother. I must ask you to cease and desist, or risk severing our ties altogether.
x
My dearest Sugawara-dono,
For the last time, I must tell you—you are terrible, apprehensible, and in no ways correct about the emperor. I will never speak to you again, for as sure as the leaves will shed in fall! I only wish Susanoo’s curses upon your household!
But, on a side note—
I hope to still see you for a game of go this afternoon. Make sure to bring the bigger board this time.
x
“The emperor is wreaking havoc upon court life as we know it,” Sugawara remarks casually over a game of go one late afternoon, when Tooru hits his twentieth autumn in the city of Heian-kyō. They've just come from a gathering amongst junior first court members, spending a better part of the day discussing the indiscretions of their beloved Emperor Horikawa, the newest terror of a heavenly state.
“I don't want to talk about it,” Tooru whines, throwing back another cup of rice wine, hands too shaky to properly line the tiles.
Sugawara talks on anyway, ever amused. He is rife with recollection. Rumor has it that the emperor’s been sneaking out in common dress to aid the poorer sides of the city, handing out scoops of uncooked rice and various trinkets with the guards that dare to follow, and has even personally subsidized farmers that could not produce a fruitful harvest this season. As the emperor’s key advisor and best friend, Tooru has just spent a better part of the afternoon addressing such gossip, artfully dodging questions with new poetry samples (they love those) and funny little anecdotes (they really love those), but he knows it will be hard to get them to believe much further. Sugawara certainly doesn't, from the way he waits for Tooru to tell him more.
“You're not a part of this, right? I can't imagine you dirtying your robes like that,” Sugawara asks, like he's about to laugh.
“Of course not,” Tooru lies. In fact, he had gone with Hajime every night this past week to help him; because although he had to admit that he wasn’t the biggest fan of handing out rice bags or mingling with the farm oxen, he did not mind the reading lessons with children (when they were good, at least) or the neighborhood celebrations after. Like that first meeting all those years ago, Hajime looked right at home in the villages, the so-called poorer sects of the city, and Tooru enjoyed seeing him so full of life. Going out afforded Hajime the sort of motion, the action the court never could, and their adventures were enough to inspire ten new poems in the meanwhile (none of which were used at tea time today, for obvious reasons).
“So, what does his family think of all this?” Sugawara tests further.
Tooru pours himself another cup, and it is gone in an instant. “I don't want to talk about this. Haven't I been angry enough with you in our correspondence?”
“Not enough, I'm afraid,” the other noble laughs out. “Susanoo does not scare me.”
Silence hits, and Tooru is thankful for another cup of sake.
“So, tell me, what about our delinquent emperor enthralls so much?” Sugawara asks, and the other noble spits out his drink.
Tooru goes even redder in the face, feels it, and knows it isn't solely a matter of having too much to drink. He dribbles some of his wine, made a fool. “He does not enthrall me—”
“You've disrupted six appointments to see potential empress consorts,” Sugawara notes. “All in the last two weeks, too, mind you.”
“Because there's no lady who'll actually put up with him,” Tooru counters, more lightheaded than anything. “I'm just saving all of them the trouble,” he hiccups, throwing a go tile at Sugawara. Laying his head on the table below, he groans and refuses to get up.
“You. Are. Smitten,” Sugawara singsongs. “And it might be better on your system if you admit that now.” Without much of a fight, Tooru lets Sugawara take away his bottle and cup, getting up from the table to answer a knock at the door. Tooru hears a small gasp and proceeds to hide further in the bend of his arms.
“G-good afternoon, Emperor Horikawa!”
“Hi. Is Tooru here?”
Tooru does not stir from the table, too drunk to face the likes of Hajime.
“Just how much did he have to drink?” he asks.
“Well, he finished off a bottle when he first got here,” Sugawara answers. “And maybe another one while we were setting up for our game of go…”
“Oh, quiet, Sugawara!” Tooru barks to him, raising his head back up from the table. He comes face to face with Hajime instead, all runny-nosed and scowling, and sniffles back in something irrevocably distasteful.
“Hard day?” Hajime turns to ask Sugawara. “He only ugly cries when he's had a hard day.”
“Incredibly,” he sighs out. “First rank juniors had a morning meeting today, and our poor poet was bombarded with all sorts of questions. I've never seen a court usually so idle this fired up. They do love their gossip.”
Hajime sits down next to Tooru and shakes his head when he takes a good look at him. Pressing a pinch of fingers to his forehead, Hajime unsticks a go piece from Tooru’s face and softens from something about to scold. He even turns to Sugawara, asks for the room alone, and nods graciously when he obliges.
“Hajime?” Tooru just lies his head back down, sick to his stomach, and wishes this would all go away. “Are you here to yell at me?” he inquires miserably.
“No,” Hajime says, sifting around in boxes for a clean towel. When he finds one, he takes the tea kettle from the tray and pours out some of the water on it, settling back down to press it over Tooru’s head. He expects it to tickle, but it doesn’t; the cloth blankets Tooru all lukewarm and kind, allowing for the draw of a deep breath.
“Well, you’re not so bad at taking care of the sick...for someone who’s never been ill a day in their life, at least,” Tooru tells him with a smile, admitting to himself that he enjoys the attention. Definitely still drunk, he brings himself closer to Hajime without abandon, finding the strength to sit up before collapsing against his shoulder. Tooru takes in the smell of chrysanthemum and river mud against robes and a bare neck. Oh, how very Hajime, he thinks, and oh, how I’d like to stay, he wishes, to no one in particular.
“It’s the least I can do,” answers Hajime, all forthright as usual. Tooru expects the following derisions as usual, like I’m always looking after brats like you or poets are always so high maintenance, but no such thing ever comes.
“And what do you mean by that?” Tooru asks.
“You were asked about my activities, and my lack of empress. That’s what they all want to know, right?” Hajime asks him right back. “You fought them all off for me.”
Tooru only smiles. “I am an expert at handling that for you by now, with all due respect,” he says with all the assurance the country has to offer, perhaps too out of mind to keep any modesty. “I keep whole anthologies in case people ask about you. My poems distract from the cause at hand.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be that way, Tooru. I should be able to fight, too, and be strong—”
Tooru scoffs. “But you are strong,” he mutters into Hajime’s ear. “Who said you aren’t? I’ll write something scathing about them.”
“What?”
“The most troubling haiku I can dare muster.”
Silence erupts once more, but it does not remain. It takes a moment, but Hajime begins to laugh, and he even takes the liberty of leaning on Tooru right back. He thinks of how ridiculous—unsightly—this whole display must be, to be so close in another noble’s house, but Tooru quickly decides it doesn’t matter in the slightest; in fact his strength swells when Hajime runs a hand up Tooru’s spine, and he cannot help but wonder if Hajime feels the exact same way with him.
“No more of this being strong business,” Tooru whispers against Hajime’s robes, knowing there’s just about another ten million other things he could be saying, but even drunkenness will not free him. “No more,” he just repeats once more, nuzzled in and safe.
Hajime obliges with nothing more than a nod, and the two of them remain like this for just a little while longer.
“You're going to rule, and history will never forget you,” Tooru says back to him, knowing how much the next part will hurt. “And I'm going to find you an empress consort, the right one, the perfect one, and your son will learn from the best.”
“But Tooru—”
Tooru hiccups hard, breathing out to remain composed. He blames the wine, and always will. “And he'll have the best teacher to learn from, all your children will, because I'm surely the best poet in the nation, and maybe I'll finally get you to like poetry, if they are the ones to recite them—”
“Tooru.” The way Hajime says his name stops Tooru dead, and he wonders if he really might die right here in his care. But the thing is, Hajime would never let Tooru do such a thing like die, and he props him up by the shoulders to prove it. Tooru closes his eyes before realizing he's no longer dizzy, and sets his sights out of tipsiness. Hajime remains in his vision, ruddy cheeks all too funny on a twenty-year old, but he doesn't cower away from it. He never, ever does.
“I don't want an empress consort,” he says, possibly loud enough for the handmaidens to hear, but Hajime doesn't seem to care.
“Two empress consorts, then?” Tooru jokes.
“None of those things,” Hajime tells him gravely.
“What do you want, then?” Tooru asks, nothing but tentative, and Hajime inches closer and closer. “How can I…” He breathes out, when Hajime doesn't stop. “...help you?” he finishes, looming close. Lips almost touch, and Tooru closes his eyes to welcome something new, something old, something that has always, always been—from past to present to future—and swallows. The smallest distance remains, that taunting almost, always, always an almost, and Tooru can only seek to close it, once and for all—
“Wait! Wait!"
But when the door comes barreling open, Sugawara coming through it with a few of his friends, the two of them part immediately, never getting to initiate the kiss. Tooru flies back on the floor, right on his elbows, and Hajime stays frozen in place. All of Sugawara’s company bows at once, prostrated in the utmost respect, and immediately give their regards to Emperor Horikawa. Tooru watches him squirm in return, and winces when he knows Hajime was never built for such pomp and circumstance.
“I'll...I’ll see you later,” Hajime announces, right at Tooru for everyone else to hear, and goes to the door in a hurry. “You know where to find me.” Tooru only nods, fingers still pressed to his lips, just as the other aristocrats begin whispering amongst themselves.
“Those two are always together, aren't they?”
“It would be a shame if they were defying the court together! Did you hear about his village visits?”
Looking extra sorry, Sugawara shushes them all at once and helps Tooru off the ground, only to drag him outside under the guise of needing fresh air.
“I'm so sorry, Tooru,” Sugawara says with the shake of his head. “I completely forgot I was having a few friends over this evening, and once they saw the emperor's guards there was no stopping them.”
“It's okay,” Tooru breathes out, shaking his head free from the dizziness. “It's, um, fine, really.”
“You seem shaken up. Did you two get into a fight?”
Shaking his head, Tooru can only muster the bitterest smile. “No...um. No,” he stutters. “It was something else. And I...I have to go! I’ll see you later!” he decides at the last second.
“Where are you going?”
Tooru doesn't answer, head simmering like a lit gunpowder keg. Keep moving, he urges of himself, when the other nobles come clamoring at the door with questions and accusations. He finds a pair of mismatched geta sandals by the door and slips them on the way down the stairs, determined to get as far as possible. Forget composure, your poise. Keep going, he tells himself instead, as he forces himself into a sprint and off the grounds of Sugawara's estate. No one follows.
His throat catches in something burning because he isn't used to running this much, but he doesn't dare stop.
x
Tooru runs and runs, up streets and down alleys, until he comes across one of the more prominent temples in Heian-kyō. Head still light and drunk with pounding, he bows to the looming facade of the Sai-ji, shakes his head clean of his impurest thoughts, and staggers past the gates. Tooru even wonders if the gods will eat him alive for impudence, expecting the most gruesome demise upon entrance. But when they don't offer any such comfort, and Tooru gets to live, he curses out to any kami that might be eavesdropping, whether it is the likes of Susanoo, Amaterasu, or Tsukuyomi. He cranes his neck up to the forming dusk and exhales deep, finally catching his breath when he realizes his nonsense, and ambles up the grounds.
A small garden offers solace up ahead. Tooru sits himself down, hidden behind one of the eden’s lined trees, and waits for his solitude to not to feel so damning. Clacking footsteps follow behind him, prodding and heavy.
“You are the great shame of this nation.” Tooru nearly gasps when he hears the voice call out, stern and deep. He surmises that the gods are on to him after all, and holds his breath for the end.
“I am trying to help this nation!” another voice bellows instead, and Tooru knows it instantly. Hajime. It is Hajime calling, and Tooru can barely keep himself from going out to see him—
“And what do you know of politics?” the unknown voice refutes before Tooru gets the chance. “What do you know other than horse riding and stealing imperial reserves to feed peasants?”
“I am now twenty! I have been long overdue to lead, and I had to, somehow—”
“You call what you do leading? You are nothing more than a thug. A thief!”
Quiet rises up in the worst way possible, unresolved, and Tooru only cups his mouth as to avoid being heard. He feels tears bead the corner of his eyes, but he shoos them away as soon as they form.
“Father.” Tooru hates hearing Hajime like this. “Father, you can’t just—"
“You have summer eyes, your mother once told me. Warm, like that might be a good and honest thing—but this country has always been run by a cool touch, and that is something you’ll never have!”
“Father!”
“You will never be the emperor!”
“But I will! I will be! Better than you, or anyone else—”
A hard smack hits the air, and the sleeping sparrows flee their roosts. Tooru almost loses it when he feels the trunk of the tree rumble behind him, and he hears the stifled breath of his best friend, about to break into tears. He knows the sound of his strain more than anyone else, and prays for Hajime not to fall prey.
But the thing is, Tooru has always known that prayers aren’t enough for anything, and that staying still has never been his forte. So he wills himself out from hiding altogether and brings Hajime with him, too. Hands come together once more, despite the people that will see, the fathers that will judge, and bring Hajime to safety.
“Tooru!”
They go on. Geta sandals dig into the earth, and two boys run. Both of them cry, one harder than the other, but not enough to blind the paths ahead.
“We have to keep trying,” Tooru insists, when they’re on the move, always on the move, hands unclasping and clasping again.
“I know,” Hajime only answers, still shaken up. “I know.”
And so they go. Past the courts, shedding their heavy robes, donning disguises. They defy and defy, blessing the villages with bags of rice and subsidies, stolen trinkets and paid dowries. They defy and defy, past the guards that come after them by nightfall when they return to the emperor’s homes, by horses stolen from imperial stables.
And so they ride, past the city limits of Heian-kyō. When their torches run out and nearly singe their robe sleeves, a banquet of fireflies are the only light to guide their way. Stars hang up above, littered across the dark expanse of sky, and Tooru breathes up like he might inhale its heaven.
x
They don't talk the entire journey to Nara, because neither one of them dares to break the peace of it. Tooru just writes poems in his head in the meanwhile, while Hajime sprints up ahead (but never out of complete sight).
The night burns thick and horses slow down, as they're bound to do. Tooru and Hajime end up stopping in a local village for new ones, all to pay their shares and a little extra for the last minute hospitality. They dare not take anymore on the chance someone recognizes either one of them, and they leave for the wild on little rest and hungry stomachs. They cup their hands to bordering riverbanks instead, and drink until they are nearly full, only to continue on their moonlit path.
Nara is theirs by morning, when the two of them stagger to a familiar house by a blooming wisteria tree. The horizon is pale with a light not yet morning, and the servants are just barely awake to start their daily routines. In a sigh, Hajime just goes to the tree to tie their horses, almost collapses onto the deck ahead after, but catches himself when he thinks Tooru can't see. But Tooru does see, and flinches at the sight of him like this.
“What do we do now?” Tooru asks, even though he's the one who led Hajime away from the temple in the first place.
“I don't know.” Hajime looks out to the horizon, voice nothing but wind-beaten raspiness. Tooru only thinks how hasn't felt this raw in a long time, too.
Out of the silence, the two of them hear a few doors slide open and shut behind them. A few housekeepers whisper about unexpected guests (“aristocrats are sitting right outside the guesthouse!”) and how no one’s had a chance to clean, but neither of them (even Tooru, this time) care too much about upkeep. Hajime even barges into the room and tells them all to take a stroll—the longest one they can, just so they can have some semblance of peace—and leave the house in their care. From there, Hajime just takes Tooru’s hand, abrupt as usual but never unwarranted, and leads him inside, past their wisteria tree and the rest of the searching world.
“Hajime,” Tooru calls out in small syllables, and Hajime reaches over to slide the door shut. He keeps close like he might need to hear it again—Hajime, Hajime, Hajime—and Tooru can only oblige him further.
“Hajime,” Tooru says once more in a plea of his own, when neither one of them can keep their distance any longer.
The rest of the morning is spent own their own. Their first kiss, cautious and god fearing and barely the brush of two lips, dissolves into a mess of more. (And oh, how Tooru has always wanted more.) They fall onto the tatami mats this way, arms wrung up and bodies arched into the other, and confess by the way of sighs and lingering touches. When light breaks in through the windows and cracks under doors, Tooru lets it spill over onto them in shadows, never daring to hide from the day.
Geta sandals slip off, and legs mingle in closeness. Outer robes are shed, leaving just the thin kosode garments underneath, and Tooru aches at the small instance of nakedness left in its wake. He lets his fingertips trickle over Hajime’s freckled collarbones, lets his palm cup one of his bare and burdened shoulders. At once, with something wanting, selfish to the core, Tooru decides that his hands have to be the ones to dance between cloth and Hajime’s skin.
Forget piety. Modesty. When he raises himself to kiss Hajime deep, his own kosode drooping down helplessly down his back, still kept on by a tied obi but barely so, he decides that he's done enough waiting. They both have, past the taunting promise of almost. With nothing left to hold them back, they bare into each other because they both know they can take it, and seek solace in whatever time they might have left.
x
Hajime.
I make no claims to know what's best for our futures anymore. Because as much as I want us both to find our peaks, and stay there until we are old and plump and dead from laughing, I know that our roads will live for the strain of our journey. How are we to keep making it, when this world keeps getting in the way?
All I do know, past anything I do know about the arts, or literature, or your favorites and qualms, is that I choose you to make this journey with. I choose you to live out this life with, even if I am a man of superior taste and class, and you dare to hate poetry.