Chapter Text
Munching on an onigiri, Kuni watches the scene in front of him passively.
It’s night, with the blackest ink spilling across the sky. There is no break in it, and the stars that would have shone through like pinpricks are nonexistent. Instead, the city below is lit up by paper lanterns decorating storefronts.
Kuni watches the flame within dance around through the gauzy sheets of paper, kept alive by the oil spilled across a small ceramic dish. This is mirrored by the dozens of women on the streets and the women whose slender arms wave at passersby through bamboo posts. Their voices meld together in one high trill, and Kuni’s vision blurs momentarily at the sudden heat weighing down on his body before he shakes his head, blinking a couple of times.
It’s not difficult to find what he needs in his bag. A satin pouch given to him by his closest maid, stocked with at least a month’s worth of medicine. Unfolding the white parchment, he tips the powder back into his mouth and lets the bitter flavor melt on his tongue. Then, he shoves another onigiri in his mouth and decides he should probably find a place to stay unless he wants to sleep outside yet again, unguarded for the night.
“Ume?” An unfamiliar voice, followed by the appearance of a foreigner. “Isn’t that a bit too sour to stomach at nighttime?”
Hearing the words the Emperor had drilled into his head the morning prior, Kuni spends too much time staring, eliciting a slow smile from said foreigner.
“But then again, we’re in the pleasure district, where men and women stomach worse things, I suppose.” The foreigner’s eyes immediately go to Kuni’s belongings. They sit propped up against sanded wood, a long cylinder to hold canvas and paper, a shorter one to hold brushes, a small bag for other various things, and an undone furoshiki with two uneaten onigiri resting at its center.
“You’re here to find work?”
Kuni, who hasn’t spoken a single word since the foreigner approached him, nods and swallows the rest of the onigiri in his mouth. “I’m a—”
“A wanderer? A traveling artist?” Before Kuni can respond, the foreigner grabs his things, then his arm, and ushers him onto the streets, walking at a pace that is obviously too fast for Kuni but not caring to slow down for even one second. “Do you, perhaps, also know music? Shamisen? Koto? Because our brothel is short on hands at the moment, and it would be lovely if you could work the night.”
“I am—” Kuni lets out a short gasp, having to almost jog to keep up with the long strides of the foreigner pulling him along. “I am not a woman.”
“And does that matter?” The foreigner glances back with a wide smile that doesn’t match his fathomless lapis eyes.
Flabbergasted, Kuni stares back hard. He has just met this foreigner, exchanging the merest words before being whisked away from a comfortable spot. Kuni hasn’t even agreed to do whatever it is this man wants. “I mean, yes? Are women not those who entertain the men who wander these streets, looking for a temporary partner?”
The foreigner turns his attention back to the front. “In whose company have you grown up?”
Royalty. Court officials. Handmaidens. Mostly Fumi, the maid who cared for me when the Emperor confined my mother within the inner palace walls. Of course, Kuni can’t say any of this out loud. Just thinking about it makes the pendant with his family crest emblazoned upon it burn around his upper arm. The cord is secured, tight against his bicep, and yet, Kuni still worries that it will unravel and slip down the length of his arm, catching at his wrist before falling to the ground.
He would probably die if that happened. Nevermind that. He would die.
Kuni eyes the sheathed sword that is fastened against the foreigner’s right hip. A ronin who owns a brothel, huh. A foreign ronin. His eyes lock onto the ginger hair, remembering the deep blue eyes.
Akatsuki. That was the name of the man the Emperor wanted dead. Although this foreigner has not yet introduced himself, his visage matched the one that was described to Kuni.
“By the way,” the foreigner starts, as he stops in front of a modest-looking brothel. When he slides open the wooden front doors, a blast of noise hits Kuni in the face, and he pales immediately from the environment that is within the establishment. He hopes the nausea that ebbs at the back of his head doesn’t show on his face. “My name—er, well not really, but it’s what most people call me. It’s Childe.” His eyes fix themselves on Kuni. “May I ask what yours is?”
Kuni has to let out a long breath of air first. Then, he snatches his arm back from Childe’s grip, and rubs the tender skin that is probably bright red underneath his sleeves. “Kuu is fine.”
“Kuu? Just ‘Kuu’?” Childe tilts his head to one side. “That’s a rather short name.”
“And does that matter?” Kuni parrots the same thing Childe said to him when he questioned the idea of men as entertainers.
The corners of Childe’s lips curl up. “No, I suppose not.” He walks deeper into the brothel, beckoning Kuni to follow him.
The reasons why Kuni hasn’t left yet are clear: one, he needed a job of some sort to support himself while he was outside the palace. Two, he somehow found the man whose head is wanted by the Emperor. And three, because he needed someplace safe to stay for the night.
Arguably, it would be stupid to leave now, when this golden opportunity has so graciously, though suddenly, presented itself in front of him.
“Kuu… Kuu…” Childe mumbles the name over and over again. The patrons and workers do not question his sudden appearance, nor does anyone stop to stare even though he has just loudly interrupted the scene that plays in the main room.
A woman, dressed in a fine kimono, wears her robes loose around her shoulders. They dip down to her elbows, exposing her collarbones, the swell of her breasts. The white powder that covers her face is brushed down to cover every inch of exposed skin. Her gaze is pointed low, lashes against her cheeks, the red that dots the corners of her eyes a perfect circle. The woman—or, geisha, rather, is playing the koto beautifully while yuujo attend to their patrons.
”Ah!”
The sudden exclamation almost makes Kuni jump out of his skin. He has to stop for a moment, fingers blanching around the strap that holds his painting materials.
Childe spins around, a grin on his face. “‘Kuu-chan’ would be fine with you, right? ‘Kuu’ is too short. Too… hm… how to put it?” He ponders the thought for a moment before giving up. “Anyway, it lacks something. So I’ll call you Kuu-chan from now on.”
Honestly, Kuni could care less.
“You would probably prefer a private room, right?” Kuni is beginning to understand this man. Childe is the type of person who likes running his mouth. He fills the silence because he can’t take it. Kuni briefly wonders what this buoyant ronin is like when he is killing.
Is he as animated as he is right now, or does his disposition change altogether?
For all the rumors he has heard about this man being a savior, a vigilante of sorts, he can’t imagine such a pretty face splattered with fresh blood, clothing soaked through with red, his sword coming down in a wide arc to slice down enemies.
It wasn’t that Childe looked weak—because his tall frame, wide shoulders… even the tiny silvery scars Kuni can see webbed across his fingers—make him out to be someone practiced and experienced with the sword. Someone undoubtedly strong. Unmatched, even. Kuni continues to survey the man in front of him. In more ways than one.
“It’s a good thing you still have your hair long,” Childe continues, stopping for a moment in front of a door to confirm no one is within before sliding it open and stepping over the threshold. “With the rapid Westernization of Japan, I’ve seen more men cut their hair short. They trade their clothing for the stiff buttoned uniform of Western soldiers. I, to be honest, don’t prefer that.” He glances at Kuni, as if he expects some kind of animated reaction. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Because I have the appearance of a Westerner.”
“I disagree.” For someone who speaks Japanese with a native tongue and chooses to wear the traditional clothing of Japanese men, no, this is not surprising at all.
Kuni stays behind the threshold and only moves within the room when Childe beckons him close and deposits a white towel into Kuni’s arms. “The indoor bath is right around the corner. You’ll find soap within. And there should be hot water waiting.”
Kuni pauses to ask the question that has been at the back of his mind for a while now. “By entertaining, you mean—”
“Painting and playing music, of course,” Childe says. “You think I would force you to bed someone? No. The yuujo who work here aren’t blought. They work here freely without a contract binding them to this brothel, so they are free to entertain as they please. Also, you smell like the rusty patrons no one likes because they haven’t bathed in over a week, so—“ hands waving, he motions for Kuni to enter the indoor bath— “bathe first, then entertain for the rest of the night. I’ll have Ana come to dress you and make you up. Ask her any other questions you have; I’ll be away for the time being.”
Staring at the fluffy towel in his arms, Kuni replies, “I haven’t told you I know music.”
“When my hands brushed yours back when I took your arm, I felt callouses. On the pads of your fingers.” Tapping his mouth, Childe regards Kuni with curious eyes. “Characteristics of a musician, right? It’s rare for a fairly common man to learn music. Yet, you clearly stated that only women entertain.”
“I play for myself.” And for my mother. “I paint for myself.” And for my mother.
“And you look as if you haven’t lived properly for over a week, Kuu-chan,” Childe states, brows raised. “You haven’t yet refused my offer as a stand-in, so I suppose you’ve accepted it? Unless a refusal has always been at the tip of your tongue, in which case, I am happy to show you the door whenever you please.”
The towel in front of him is suddenly now the most interesting thing. Kuni doesn’t want to take another glance at Childe’s face. He wants to defend himself, but saying something along the lines of ”I am the crown prince, why would I need to know how to live according to a ronin’s definition?” or “Of course I look like this; did you expect that I would take care of mundane things like living and food on my own when I reside in a palace?” is obviously not allowed if he wants to live.
“You may play for yourself and paint for yourself, but I’ve given you an opportunity to earn bread by playing for others and painting for others.” Childe says. “Personally, I would accept it.”
Lips pressed together, Kuni strides past Childe and into the bath room.
A hand catches his arm once again, and Kuni flinches at the contact even though Childe’s hand does not touch his skin directly. “Your tools of trade, Kuu-chan. You don’t want the steam to ruin them, do you?”
Shifting the towel to one arm, Kuni begrudgingly parts with his belongings. “If anything breaks—”
“I promise everything will be safe and sound.” The words are earnest. And, quite frankly, Kuni would believe this famed Childe anyway, given his sparkling reputation. He was more so anxious to hand over his medicine, which he absolutely needed. The promise reassures him.
It’s only when Kuni hears the door to the room slide close that he finally undresses. He pulls at the thin cloth that binds his hair together, then discards it onto the pebbled ground. The plain yukata he was given is dirtied in multiple places, the hem browned from the mud and slosh that he’s walked through earlier in the week when it rained heavily. His socks, too, though once white, are stained almost black, and Kuni scrunches up his nose at the sight.
Once he deposits everything in a neat-enough pile on the floor, he steps into the wooden bath. Childe did not lie when he said the bath was already filled with warm water. Lying back, Kuni’s muscles relax. He should have probably scrubbed himself clean before warming himself up in the bath, but he didn’t care about that right now. The grime would wash itself off… Kuni’s eyes drift over to the other end of the bath where a bar of soap sits on top of a linen.
Taking it, Kuni decides he should probably scrub himself as clean as possible, since he was asked to—or rather, nicely ordered to, by the presumed master of this brothel.
The soap holds the fragrance of cherry blossoms, subtle yet sweet, and Kuni closes his eyes to this scent, the steam that surrounds him making his brain a little fuzzier than it probably should.
He would have fallen asleep altogether if it wasn’t for the uniform knocking at the door. A woman’s voice, muffled by the thick wood separating them, says, “Kuu-san, your garments.”
Kuni’s eyes remain closed, and he is about to give the woman permission to enter before he stops, mouth parted, suddenly wondering if that was the correct way to address someone if he is acting in the same class as them.
She pauses for a few more moments before speaking again. “Kuu-san? May I enter?”
Straightening in the tub so he isn’t so submerged within, Kuni nods, even though she can’t see him. “You may.”
A woman—Ana, Kuni presumes, as he remembers Childe mentioning her before—enters with another towel. Her gaze catches the one Kuni had laid on top of the wooden stool near the entrance, but pays no attention to it as she continues to walk toward Kuni.
When her gaze falls onto Kuni, she blinks once before padding back to the entrance and laying her towel on top of the one Childe gave him. “Are you not accustomed to baths?”
“I—” Of course, she would ask this. Because he chose to wash in the bath, he was hardly clean. Just bathing in slightly muddied water, suds floating on the surface. Embarrassed, Kuni flushes and hopes Ana attributes the pink of his cheeks to the steam still rising from the bathwater.
“No matter.” Ana grabs the soap, dipping it in a small basin of extra water at the foot of the bath before returning to Kuni’s side. Kuni notices her eyes lingering on the pendant that is still wrapped around his upper arm, but she does not comment on it. The metal back faces the viewer, his family crest pressed tightly against his skin.
She hovers near his head, where his hair sticks in dark streaks against his back, some locks hanging out of the wooden bath. “May I?”
Nodding in consent, Kuni shifts forward a bit so she can gather his hair in one hand, the other running the bar of soap against it before gently massaging the lathered bubbles into his scalp. A low hum, almost like a purr, involuntarily leaves Kuni’s mouth as he leans back, eyes closed.
He probably shouldn’t be showing her that he enjoys this. Because he was supposed to act as a traveling painter, and traveling painters most definitely did not have people wash their hair for them. But Kuni allows himself at least this moment to relax. He doesn’t know when the tranquil waters will break for the tsunami that will inevitably come.
It’s after he is fully cleaned that Kuni is allowed to leave the bath. He sits on a stool as Ana dries his hair, then helps him get dressed in a simple yukata.
Kuni is confused for a moment, running his fingers along the crisp cotton of his clothing. Performers or entertainers, to his knowledge, definitely did not dress so plainly in front of patrons. “Will I not be entertaining guests today?”
“You will, Kuu-san,” Ana responds as she ventures deeper into the back of the brothel. Kuni trails after her like a lost puppy, surveying everything. The entire hallway is lined side-by-side with what seems like mostly occupied rooms. Every door is closed, and Kuni walks faster when he hears a loud, harassed moan erupt from the one beside him.
Thankfully, they soon enter a room at the very back where stacks of linens lie against one wall while half of the room occupies row after row of silk kimonos and other women’s clothing.
When Ana motions for him to sit on a low stool, Kuni does. “Your skin is pale enough,” she comments, dipping a brush into a shallow dish of red paint, “so there is no need to spend too much time on makeup.” Though the paint is cold, Kuni hardly flinches, face as still as stone, as he closes his eyes, then opens them when instructed. The same brush pronounces the pout of his lips before subtle color is pressed against his cheeks.
The process lasts another ten or so minutes as Ana helps Kuni into his uniform, and wraps a crimson ribbon around Kuni’s neck, tying the ends into what feels like a bow at his nape. “For protection, Kuu-san,” she clarifies, though he hasn’t asked.
“Childe-dono informed me that you are a musician,” she says, as she leads him outside. Kuni shuffles in his kimono, legs bound by the few layers of robes underneath. The fact that he is wearing zori rather than geta helps with his movements, but he is still so painfully slow in this uniform.
Ana, ever so considerate, adjusts her pace so Kuni doesn’t have to struggle to keep up. “What do you play?”
“The koto.”
They stop behind a door, and Kuni can see the faint outline of both yuujo and guests sitting around a long table. “Do not speak,” Ana instructs, catching his eyes with hers. “If they ask for your name, do not give it. If they request a specific song, you are free to ignore it. You are not a geisha. You may play what you would like, so long as our patrons are entertained well enough.” She pauses. “Though the people in this room should know not to speak or look at you.”
When Kuni nods, Ana gracefully lowers herself onto her knees, then slides the door open, head lowered. Kuni enters, spotting the koto sitting at the very back of the room, and approaches it, disregarding his peripheral where men sit with yuujo, laughing and tipping back sake.
He sits seiza on top of the plush zabuton behind the koto and runs his fingers down the stringed instrument, listening to the reverberations that reply to his touch. He is about to play when a clattering noise interrupts him. A man stands, fingers barely supporting a ceramic dish half-filled with sake. He’d hit the table with his knee, and his chopsticks had rolled off of it and onto the floor. “You—” The man points an unsteady finger at Kuni, but doesn’t get to finish his sentence before his presumed friend yanks him down.
”She is the master’s!” The friend hisses.
Several gazes fall below Kuni’s face, but Kuni doesn’t lower his eyes to see where those gazes converge. The crimson ribbon at his throat. Somehow, though he has remained calm enough after being shoved into this situation and role, he is very much unsettled by being labeled as a possession.
The pads of his fingers press against his palms as Kuni squeezes his hands into fits, letting out an inaudible sigh of air before he resumes his initial position, wrists tilted upwards, fingers positioned over the strings.
The waterfall of music drowns out everything. Well enough.