AU Series: Equilibrium - Chapter Three
Ohno Satoshi had settled for almost everything in his life. He was glad to do what made other people happy - his father, his mother - and that made him content enough.
The members of Satoshi’s family were farmers, first and foremost. Satoshi’s great-grandfather came to inherit several large fields from his sire, a day’s walk from the provincial capital of Fuchu. When Kimura’s predecessor incorporated the land the Ohno family lived on into his domain, he requested their service in return for the right to control it. The patriarch of the family had never had any military training and could not bear to break ties with his beloved soil so Satoshi’s grandfather became the first samurai in the family at the tender age of eighteen, sent to serve in the castle by his father.
Satoshi had grown up with a cultivated love of the land. As a child, he spent hours chasing mice through the fields with his elder sister and helped in the fields after his lessons, working side-by-side with his father. The Ohno family employed neighbouring farmers to work their land and Satoshi’s father tilled the soil with them. He did not think of them as employer and employees - they were all farmers and all felt an affinity for the land and its ability to produce. Satoshi’s father, like his grandfather before him, could not keep himself away from the fields.
Satoshi made a passable attempt at academics, but when his father decided to begin his education in jujutsu-the way of softness-Satoshi put his energy into training and practice. It almost became a problem with his tutors when his eyes would become glassy, staring at nothing, imagining how he would dance across the mats in the afternoon.
When Satoshi joined his father in the fields, he loved the warm embrace of the summer sun on his skin, the gentle kiss of the cool breeze weaving through the plants and trees; it was Paradise on Earth. But Satoshi was not like his father: this could not make him happy forever.
The spring following his eighteenth birthday, he walked to the capital to enlist for his mandatory military training. Standing at the gate of their modest house was his mother with tears clinging to her lashes. His mother was overwhelmed by the sense of loss that accompanies children leaving home. That same year, his sister was to be married and would move to her husband’s home near the coast.
The first year passed without incident. He had been assigned to a training ground adjacent to Kokubun-ji, the provincial temple in the capital. Originally a small post town, along the Koshu Highway that connected Kyoto with Edo in the east, Fuchu had grown into a small seat of cultural activity, catering to the whims of politicians and government officials.
Days were filled with intensive physical exercises; he was taught weaponry and found a particular finesse with a bow and arrow. At sunset, they convened at the main hall of the temple to meditate. The ceiling of the hall was elaborately painted with serene images of the Western Paradise that reflected in the golden face of the Buddha on the altar. Satoshi was so intrigued by the images on the ceiling that often found himself victim of the head monk’s icy glare.
During his second year, on a particularly humid early summer day, he met Sakurai Sho.
Sho’s father was a magistrate near the north-western border of Musashi Province who had been granted a position close to his home and family as a reward for serving the previous daimyo in the Imperial Court. His father was a respected samurai in the region, and his mother was an equally respected samurai wife. She instructed a staff of eight and oversaw the education of her three children while performing her wifely duties with ease. Sho was the eldest child; four years separated him from his sister, and thirteen from his brother. His bushido education started early; he learned quickly about loyalty to loved ones, respect for elders and the duty to teach.
He was an inquisitive child. He could not wait to begin learning to write. He spent hours in his father's library, a small boy with a round face, lying on the tatami with a book before he could even read; he turned the pages with amazing delicacy for a four-year-old, drinking in the pictures, penning the story in his head. When he was older, he would entertain his brother and sister by reading to them the stories he had made up when he was young.
Sho traveled two days to the capital with his father in their horse-drawn cart when the time for his military training arrived. His father beamed as Sho stamped their family name in red ink on the page of the registry book. He tried not to look like the embarrassed teenager he was, but with every senior officer they met that his father knew, the rosy tint on Sho's cheeks deepened.
Satoshi met Sho during his first week of training as opponents in the dojo. Sho had studied jujutsu, as all boys of the samurai class did, but from a rather academic standpoint. He had read books on form and technique but his learning had rarely been put into practice, with his father being occupied by court business and his brother much too young to spar.
Where Satoshi seemed to float across the mats, Sho’s movements were stiff and uncoordinated. The practice of jujutsu was to disarm an enemy without weaponry by using the attacker’s energy against them. The more Satoshi pinned Sho and held him in a lock or threw him to the ground, the more frustrated he became and the harder he attacked.
“I-I think we should stop there,” Satoshi said, almost timidly. Sho was flat on his back on the tatami, his hakama bunched around his legs, severely wrinkled from lying on the floor. Sho closed his eyes and took deep, even breaths. His face was flushed with frustration and exhaustion; his brows had been creased for so long, Satoshi wondered if it might become permanent. “Come on.”
Sho opened his eyes and saw a hand outstretched above him. Satoshi looked at him hesitantly, expecting to have his hand slapped away. One last deep breath and Sho let Satoshi pull him to his feet. “Thank you, for helping me. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing.”
The older boy smiled. “It’s alright. You were kind of starting to get it, until you lost your concentration. That will only work against you.”
“Apparently,” Sho replied, a wry smile playing on his lips.
“How do you feel about a drink? I think you deserve one.”
“I would like that,” Sho said, ducking his head in gratitude.
They spent the night at a local teahouse with a cheap bottle of sake and rich conversation before being kicked out by the owner near dawn, pouring themselves into Sho's futon as the sun came up. All new recruits slept in a large common room on the first floor of the dormitory while their seniors graduated to smaller rooms on the second floor. Satoshi couldn't think about stairs without suddenly feeling dizzy and Sho didn't have the heart to make him sleep on the naked tatami.
Their friendship continued along much the same path for the next two years. They taught together, sparred together and drank together. Satoshi would buy a bottle or three after a long, frustrating day and Sho would keep enough sense to make sure Satoshi didn't hurt himself or end up in a senior officer's chamber.
When Satoshi returned home after his three years of training, his father made quick arrangements to see him sent to serve the daimyo in his stead; his father had long wanted to relinquish his samurai title so he could oversee his fields without interruption. As a filial son, Satoshi could not refuse. He hadn’t even bothered to unpack his belongings before setting out again. This time, he traveled north to Iwatsuki Castle.
The daimyo was not in residence when Satoshi arrived; it would be six months before his year of required attendance in Kyoto was complete. A letter was sent from the Imperial Palace with instructions for Satoshi to remain at the castle, watch and learn.
Matsumoto-san had charged Jun to watch over the young samurai and provide him with anything he might desire. This task was entrusted to Jun as the first of many, as Matsumoto-san began to place more trust in his son. He felt a little bit sorry for the youngest samurai at Iwatsuki but his intentions were not altruistic: he hoped that a friendship might form between the two that would come to benefit the Matsumoto family in the future.
Satoshi did come to make a lasting bond with one of Matsumoto’s house, but it wasn’t his son Jun.
An informal welcome party was held in Satoshi’s honour, initiated by Nakai and Katori who were merely looking for an excuse to drink to excess. It reminded him of Sho-they had drank together to commemorate the end of his training-but sake was the liquid courage he needed to make an impression on his seniors since Satoshi was a quiet and somewhat reserved person.
Jun tended to the party, as per his father’s orders, joined by two others. He was the perfect host; everyone was well-fed with cups that never emptied. The taller one-they called him Aiba-chan-was buoyant and bright. He would come and sit by Satoshi when the older man fell silent for too long, though he would not speak to him. Satoshi noticed that all of them only responded to the samurai when they were spoken to. Despite such silence, Aiba had a warm aura that comforted him.
The third boy was silent and innocuous. He weaved between and around the revellers in a dark grey yukata, making empty dishes disappear while other delicacies took their places. Satoshi was aware of his every movement, his eyes following his convoluted path around the room. That was before he heard him play for the first time.
“Nino-kun! Get your shamisen and play something for us!” Yamaguchi sang out, words slurred with alcohol.
Ninomiya-Nino-kun-retrieved the instrument from his room and arranged himself in front of the samurai. He slipped his left thumb and forefinger through two holes in a band of yellow cotton. The round body of the dō was cradled in his lap as he ran his hand up the long neck, the fingers of his small hand caressing the silk strings. He hit a few notes with the tortoise shell plectrum andturned the pegs at the end of the neck with his left hand, tuning the second and third strings. The change was so fine; Nino must have been the only one to hear it.
Then he began to play. His hands created music from the instrument effortlessly: the slight twist of his right wrist to hit the strings with the plectrum, the way his fingers crawled up and down the neck, hesitating on certain notes to draw out the sound. Nino’s eyes fell closed, his head tilted to the left, a look of peace on his face as he played. It wasn’t a song Satoshi knew, but it was one he would find easy to remember.
After a set of four songs, Nino placed the shamisen beside him and made a bow. When he looked out to the drunken audience before him, Satoshi was watching him intently. Satoshi had never seen or heard anything like that before; it made humbled him to see someone so young play with such skill. He caught sight the blush staining Nino's cheeks as he lowered his eyes to the floor and bowed his head once more.
Satoshi wanted to say something but all words died on his tongue. Nothing sounded good enough. He couldn’t think of anything strong enough to describe the tingly sensation he felt at the base of his spine every time the Nino’s plectrum struck the strings. For the next three days, whenever he saw the boy, attending at dinner service or whispering past in the halls, he could hear nothing but the vibrating notes of Nino's shamisen and imagine nothing but his look of peaceful intensity.
The second time Satoshi heard Nino play was an accident, at first.
It was late in the afternoon and the air was thick; a thunderstorm was drifting in from the east. He was restless with watching and learning; Nagase paid him little attention when regional tensions were discussed at meetings and Satoshi couldn’t care less. He was no politician and had no desire to become one. He left the stuffiness of the keep and wandered along the pathways of the castle grounds. The only sounds were the drone of the cicadas and the crunch of gravel underfoot.
When Satoshi reached the second courtyard, he came upon a simple building slightly larger than the guesthouse where he slept. The shoji screens to the veranda were open in an attempt to catch a passing breeze. Coming from within the house, he heard a wavering, hesitant note that made his breath stutter. He stepped out of his geta in the genkan, his feet sticking to the floorboards in the humidity. He closed his eyes and trailed his fingertips along the papered walls as he followed the string of notes down the hallway.
Eyes closed, listening his way through the house, he did not see the tall brown-haired figure watching him. He did not see or hear Aiba stop in the hallway, arms full of freshly laundered futon covers taken in before the storm, watching him curiously. There were no rules forbidding samurai in the staff residence; samurai could come and go as they pleased in while staff were restricted in their movements about the castle.
Satoshi walked to the end of the hall and stopped outside the room Nino shared with Aiba. Their room was at the back of the house with access to the south veranda and a view of the valley below. The door to their room had been left half open, creating a cross draft through the house. Satoshi placed one hand on the door frame while he pressed the palm of the other over his heart. He stood there frozen, gazing into the room, his lips parted slightly. Nino took up the same position every time he played: sat in a delicate seiza on a cushion, just in front of the open veranda doors, looking out to the southern gardens. His silhouette would be outlined with hazy, late afternoon sun.
This was the tableau that captivated the samurai until, “Excuse me!”
Aiba called out in a sing-song voice directly into his ear and stepped around the older man. Satoshi startled, slamming his shoulder into the door frame. Nino’s fingers slipped as his concentration broke, a strangled note coming from the third string. Nino turned and saw Satoshi gaping at him, mouth opened to apologize but no sound coming out. “Sorry, did I interrupt?” Aiba asked playfully.
Nino shot his friend a dirty look and pursed his lips, “No more than usual.”
“I’m just putting away some laundry. What brings you here, Ohno-san?”
“I… ah… got lost,” he finished lamely.
“Is that so? Well, since you’re here, why don’t you request something? I’m sure Nino wouldn’t mind. Isn’t that right?” Aiba was ignoring the look he was being given and pulled out a cushion and gestured for Satoshi to sit. He would probably find something unpleasant in his futon tonight but it would be worth it. “Well, I’m sure I have something else to do so, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, as he bowed to Satoshi and gave Nino a pointed look that screamed just play for him, before sliding the door shut.
The silence that enveloped the room was heavier than the late summer air. Satoshi fiddled with the hem of his yukata nervously before gathering his thoughts to speak.
“The way you play… I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
“Thank you, Ohno-san.” Nino bowed his head. “Would you like me to play something?”
“Anything. I just want to watch you.” Satoshi looked to the floor in embarrassment; he hadn’t meant to say that much. He missed the look of surprise that flitted across Nino’s face, and the way his lips curled on one side, before he picked up the plectrum again.
Satoshi started to get “lost” on a regular basis. And Nino started getting irritable if he didn’t see Satoshi every few days. Aiba and Jun suspected that Nino wanted to play for Satoshi as much as-if not more than-Satoshi wanted to hear him.
The next time Satoshi heard Nino play, it was a pretext.
It was a brisk autumn night and a full moon was just beginning its journey across the sky. Aiba shoved Nino out of their room into the hall; Jun pushed Nino’s shamisen into his hands.
“We’ve had enough of your moodiness,” Aiba scolded, perching his hands on his hips.
“But I-,” Nino protested.
“No, enough is enough,” Jun agreed, crossing his arms firmly.
“Go and play and don’t come back ‘til morning.”
Nino knelt outside Satoshi’s room for a quarter of an hour, trying to catch his breath. He had played for Satoshi-san-when he’d started using his first name? -countless times. Why should this one be any different? While Nino had played for him often, it was always Satoshi who came to him.
Nino finally knocked on the frame of the door and called out before sliding it open. Satoshi looked up from the low table in the centre of the room, light from a candle throwing long shadows across the room. He smiled softly when his eyes focused on Nino’s face. He put down the brush he was holding, balancing it on the edge of the ink stone.
“Am I interrupting?” Nino asked hesitantly.
Satoshi shook his head. “I’m just writing a letter to my mother.”
Nino crossed the threshold and closed the door silently as Satoshi pulled a cushion out from the closet for him. He folded his legs beneath him, laying the instrument across his lap with the plectrum tucked neatly underneath the strings. He ran his fingers over the skin of the dō and chewed his bottom lip nervously.
“What is it? Just say it." Satoshi's voice, like his expression, was quiet and tender.
“I want to play for you,” Nino replied, barely above a whisper. He plucked the strings under his fingers; the hum of three notes hung in the air. Playing for an audience had never been so thrilling until Satoshi came to the castle.
“Is that all?” Satoshi bridged the space between them and reached for the neck of the shamisen. He curled his fingers around the wood and paused; when Nino made no move to stop him, Satoshi laid the instrument on the floor beside them. He then reached for Nino’s left hand, the hand that danced up and down the silken strings, and held it in his own. He turned it over and ran his index finger across the lines charted on Nino’s palm, down the length of each digit, caressing the calloused tips of the first two fingers and thumb. “You know, I’ve always wondered what these hands felt like.”
Nino had no words as Satoshi lifted that hand to his lips. Satoshi searched for his eyes in the dark as he pressed a chaste kiss to the open palm. His rough fingertips caressed Satoshi’s face as lips were pressed to the inside of his wrist. His fingers threaded through the short hair at the nape of Satoshi’s neck and stilled, not sure how they should continue.
“What else do you want?” Satoshi asked with the open expression of a child. He held his breath as he waited for Nino to make his choice.
“I want… this,” Nino said, fingers curling around the hand that held them, punctuating with a squeeze. Satoshi smiled and that was enough. He leaned forward, pulling the samurai closer, the hand on the back of his neck gentle. Nino leaned in slowly and kissed him.
Nino felt Satoshi’s hand skate up his arm, stealing into the front of his yukata, fingers brushing lightly over his collarbones making him sigh into the kiss. Nino slid his fingers into the samurai's hair, urging him forward, to dip his tongue into Nino’s mouth. The kiss turned hungry and then it wasn't enough; there was so much more to touch. I want this.
Satoshi responded to Nino's boldness with quiet encouragement, watching the boy take what was laid bare before him. Nino acted on instinct, following the lines of the older boy's body, tasting the velvety skin as he followed with his tongue. He wondered if the curve of his lips could be felt as he smiled when his fingers made Satoshi gasp softly. His skin felt warm as Satoshi followed his movements south with his gaze. Nino settled on the floor between Satoshi's knees and pushed their bunched robes to the side with determination.
“Wait-I, ah-” Satoshi cupped Nino’s face, halting the work of his lips and tongue. He crawled forward and straddled Satoshi's lap, feeling warm breath across his cheek as the samurai wrapped an arm around his waist.
“What do you want, Satoshi-san?” he whispered as he brushed Satoshi’s damp fringe off his forehead. The fingers on Nino's waist clenched in the fabric of his yukata and Satoshi moved his hips to bring them flush together.
Nino felt his stomach pitch at the look on the samurai's face as he traced the contours of Nino's face, committing each line, each curve, each freckle and mole to memory. “You, Kazu.”
Satoshi kept him close as his hands waded through the tangled robes they still wore for the light skin beneath. His fingers left invisible marks on the skin of the round of Nino's hips, the arc of his back, the curve of the insides of his thighs. It was almost too much and yet far from enough.
Nino sought the samurai's lips again as he pushed his yukata out of the way. Satoshi groaned as he felt the small hand wrap around him again, spreading slick across the heated skin. Nino shifted closer, bringing them chest to chest, holding his breath before slowly lowering onto Satoshi's cock. Satoshi gasped at the tight feeling around him; a small whimper came from Nino.
“Don’t." The hand on Nino's slight waist arrested all movement. "Kazu, if it hurts, don’t.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Nino replied, shaking his head.
“Don’t lie to me."
“…just a little. It will pass. Just go slowly.”
Nino dropped his forehead to Satoshi's shoulder, taking deep shuddering breaths. He sat in Satoshi’s lap, tense, hands clutching the arms tight around his waist. He tried rocked forward, to adjusting to the new feeling, a small breathy moan falling from his lips, but Satoshi held him still.
"There's no need to rush," Satoshi murmured against his temple.
Nino felt everything with such clarity: everything focused to pin-points as Satoshi snaked a hand through the fabric bunched around them to take Nino in hand, distracting him as him established their rhythm. His body was wound tight like the strings on his shamisen, each caress and thrust causing vibrations to echo, voicing themselves through Nino in pants and sighs, mewls and moans. Compared to the heat coming off his skin, Satoshi’s breath was cool on his neck where the samurai has his lips pressed. A hint of teeth across his pulse and Nino was coming undone, taking Satoshi with him.
In the afterglow, Nino with his nose buried into the crook of Satoshi’s neck, his hands still tangled in the front of his robe, they remained. They leaned into each other with perfect balance before climbing into the futon, Satoshi’s arms lazily embracing Nino as he nuzzled his cheek against the boy’s dark hair.
When Nino returned to his own room the next morning, he was wearing one of Satoshi’s yukata and displayed a rather telling mark just beneath his left ear. Jun and Aiba were already awake and waiting for him with conspiratorial grins.
“Don’t say a damn word,” Nino said as he propped his shamisen in the corner.
“We don’t have to,” Aiba giggled.
“This says it all,” Jun said, poking the dark mark on Nino’s skin.
“What?” Nino’s hand flew to his neck as he scrambled to find a mirror. “That bastard. He’ll pay for this next time.”
“Oh! So, there’s going to be a ‘next time’?” Aiba flopped down onto his futon, kicking his legs in the air. Nino glared at him in the mirror.
“Shut up.”
Chapter Four