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sabraeal · 9 months ago

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Get Up Eight, Chapter 11

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There are few memories of her earliest years left to Shirayuki, but there is always this: her, in no more than her fourth or fifth summer, small legs tucked beneath her on the tatami, following Oba-san’s reflection in the mirror. In those days, Kino-san’s mother could never have aspired to a glass so large nor so clear, but Oba-san had never spoken of where she had come by it. It would only be on those certain nights that emerged from its hiding place, small jars of cosmetic lined up like offerings on a kamidama.

There was always a wistfulness as she settled in front of it, a longing that Shirayuki no more understood than a mackerel might the shadow of a fisherman’s boat. But she watched anyway, riveted by the ritual of white powder and rouge, by the strong sweep that gave shape to Oba-san's brows. It had been said that her grandmother had been a handsome woman in her youth, as captivating as any of the women in the ochaya, even those who commanded a year’s salary to serve tea. Shirayuki never understood why they spoke of it in the past tense; Oba-san was beautiful now— her hair still thick and black, with only the barest threads of silver strung through it; the delicately tracery at the corner of her eyes only adding to their warmth. But as the powder went across her face, erasing even the smallest blemish, she sees it— the woman Oba-san might have once been. Not the warm grandmother she knew, but the flawless face more suited to a shrine than a sake house.

Why do you dress like that, she had asked, because she was too much a child still to know she meant, I like you better as my grandmother.

Perhaps Oba-san had known anyway, for her smile was as benevolent as a bodhisattva. It reminds me of my own mother. I liked to watch her through her mirror— the way you are now, thinking she was even more beautiful than the Benzaitan painted on the temple’s scrolls. And when I put on this face, I remember her— the way she used to play the biwa in our rooms. The way she played for the love of it.

But your kimono. Shirayuki eyed the exaggerated curve of her collar, baring the whole of her nape. Why are you wearing it like that? Won’t you get cold?

It would be years yet until she saw her first procession in the streets of Edo, until she glimpsed the enticingly bared necks of the most expensive oiran. Until she understood her grandmother’s giggle, hidden behind a hand.

I wonder. Her mouth curves coyly, the lurid red of the paint turning it from familiar to fearsome. Like a wolf wearing her grandmother’s face. Or perhaps more fittingly, a fox. But I have heard that men find a bare nape quite distracting.

Shirayuki may not have understood just what sort of distraction Oba-san implied, but even so, she had worn her collars even closer after that, fussing with the knot of her head scarf until it obscured what skin remained. Even the smallest child knew: distractions lead to accidents; surely it was her duty to make sure her neighbors did not come into misfortune or misadventure.

It wasn’t until later— much, much later— that Oba-san would take her aside and explain why grown men would turn their heads as she passed. Why even with her most modest kimono and hair entirely covered, their eyes would linger on her back. About the intricacies of the union of man and woman, and the complications that could arise from it. And by then, well—she had her own ways of discouraging wandering eyes.

Which hardly helps her now, when it’s her own that stray.

Her feet hurt, that’s all. It makes her mind desperate for an escape, for a distraction from the growing numbness in her toes. And Obi walks just in front of her, his kimono slung askew, as if he’d just come from the baths. As if it hardly concerned him who saw the skin stretched taut across his shoulders, collar lingering low enough to bare where the blades of them kiss.

He should be pale there. She is, at least. But stripped down to his fundoshi at the river’s edge, she’d seen every inch of him, bronze as if he had been personally sun-kissed by the kami themselves. A pale scar cuts across his shoulder, like kintsugi in reverse, and her eyes are drawn to it, tracing down past where the fabric curls and wondering—

“Ojou-san.” Obi’s long fingers catch her elbow, searing through her juban. Her attention bobbles guiltily from his grip to his grin. “Here. Maybe that’s what you need for those feet of yours.”

Curiosity and confusion churns in her mind as she follows the tilt of his head, settling first on cloth spread over the packed earth, then on the cluster of offerings placed so purposefully across it. Slivers of dried licorice for the throat, a heap of clove buds for the stomach— even cinnamon dried and powdered, to ease a fever.

“A mendicant’s stall,” she murmurs, eyes wandering greedily over his wares. “Do you think he might have…?”

Her teeth clamp shut when she catches the sight of a slim little packet, the paper so thin she can make out the shape of small spheres beneath. Silver ones, she knows, since it has to be—

“Uiro!” the charlatan quacks, smile wide. “Good for anything that might ail you! Stomachache? Headache? Feeling a little light headed? One pill will have you back on your feet in no time!”

Shirayuki turns on her heel. It’s charm that these con artists rely on to hawk their wares, offering easy answers for a premium price; only the foolish choose to linger. Or rather, she tries to— but her ankles twist beneath her, the twine of her straw sandals doing little to help save keeping them on her feet. She stumbles once, twice, and on the third, her knees wobble, threatening to give—

But the firm grip on her elbow keeps her upright. “Not to your liking, eh, ojou-san?”

“It’s snake oil.” Each word strains through her teeth to remove the venom. She’s not foolish— nor stable— enough to shrug off his help, but she does hurry as much as her hobble allows.

Obi hums, humor curling beneath the thin veneer of deference. “Snake oil sounds like just what those feet of yours need right now.”

It’s right there, perched on the tip of her tongue— a whole lecture on the efficacy of these ‘local specialties’— but Obi casts her one of this sideways looks, the kind that makes her skin feel a size too tight, and, ah, he means oil. The kind that could be rubbed into the skin, the way he had with the salve last night. Her feet may be numb, but the arches of them tingle where his thumb had run along them, confident and gentle, a steady stroke from arch to toe. Thinking of him with oil in hand, her heels cradled between his thighs, those clever fingers digging deep into the places that ache—

It makes her far too breathless when she murmurs, “It’s not that kind of medicine. Just…pills to prey upon the most desperate.”

The sigh that saws from him would be more at home on the stage than the street, wistful and insincere all in one. “More’s the pity, ojou-san. I would have enjoyed being on my knees for you.”

There’s a curtain hung over the shop’s door, one Obi holds aside as she shuffles through. “You sure you don’t need to put your feet up first, ojou-san? The kimono aren’t going anywhere.”

She does— her feet hang at odd angles when she lifts them, as if everything below the ankle is simply dead weight. Every step is a gamble, a chance that she might roll instead of walk. But to stop now, well— Shirayuki knows that they will not hold her again. “A little longer won’t hurt,” she lies. “It’s not as if I can keep walking around like…”

This, she means to say, juban already pinched between her fingers. But it’s not simply that, not at all. It's already nicer than any of the ones she had stored away in the sake house; the cotton’s so fine it could be a kimono itself. If she to wrap an obi around it, she might pass for properly dressed for days before anyone noticed a lack of layers.

But that's the problem: it’s too fine. All of it is. Miyoko-san had dressed her like a daughter— no, like Kino-san’s wife, with fabric so well-woven it might well be silk. Shirayuki had no eye for cloth, but even she could tell it was worth nearly a year of a working man’s wages. With every eye that lingered as they passed through each post station, the cost was becoming too dear.

Obi lingers in front of a rack, squinting at the robe stretched across it. “These are pretty fine, ojou-san. Good taste.”

“I’m not…” Looking for nice, she doesn’t say, not when the walls burst with color; not the simple stripes she has worn as the proprietor of the sake house, but bright waves of blue that crash into storms of swirling petals, giving way to ships that sail placid bays and flowers that burst into bloom. The sort of shop a real ojou-san might shop in, looking for her everyday wear. “…Hopefully they’ll have something that suits our needs.”

He hums, unconvinced, but she’s saved from his needling by an older woman, emerging from the back of the room with a smile warm enough to keep back the night. “Okyakusama, welcome, welcome. Come in. How is it that I may help you?”

Shirayuki’s attention skitters over the fabric, trying to land on something, anything she could buy ready-made, but—

But she must hesitate too long. Obi bows at her shoulder, far more deferential than any he’s shown her, and says, “We have been traveling a long ways, and my mistress finds herself in need of a new kimono. One that is fit to be worn on the road.”

The proprietor examines her with an appraiser’s eye, taking in her juban’s quality of weave and the brightness of its white. Two days of near constant wear do not display it to its best advantage, but the woman’s eyes crinkle regardless, the faintest curve lingering at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes. I think we can find something that will suit your needs.” She inclines her head, one arm sweeping out towards a room further back in the show. “If you would follow me?”

Shirayuki, in all fairness, tries. Her toes lift, sandal dragging after them, but though her plodding steps had worked fine on the hard-packed earth, tatami is another matter entirely. Her straw sole catches in the narrow gap between mats, and had it been any other day, it would have been nothing to right herself, to simply blush and live with the embarrassment of stumbling like a child. But today her ankles fold instead of standing firm, and she pitches forward, hands flying out to catch herself—

“Ojou-san.” Obi’s voice is as tight as the grip on her elbow, holding her upright. “You should sit down.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” She waves him off— or at least she tries. Instead, one flick of her wrist sets her wobbling, knees ready to give at the slightest inconvenience. “Just— just tripped over myself, that’s all.”

He stares down at her, the furrow between his brows implying both concern and incredulity as the proprietor asks, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Shirayuki starts, but it’s drowned out by Obi’s, “Would it be possible for my mistress to sit?”

The woman’s eyes round, glancing to where her feet lay just hidden in the shadow of her hem.

“It would be my pleasure, Okyakusama. I will have it brought out presently.” It would be impossible for her to see the stains on her tabi, not when Shirayuki had taken such pains to wash the blood from them only the night before, but still, she nods, too knowing. “The path to Odawara is hard, no matter whether you come from the pass or the paddies. It is best you do not strain yourself, ojou-sama.”

“Ah!” A flush burns at the tips of her ears. “There’s no need for you to—”

Whether she meant to protest the seat or the honorific, Shirayuki hardly knows, but she’s not given the chance to find out— an assistant hurries over, unfolding a stool right at her feet. Obi wastes no time maneuvering her onto the stretched hemp cloth, setting her bundle aside and tucking her feet so that no wayward apprentice or distracted customer might trip over them. It’s thoughtful, she’ll admit, but Shirayuki scowls at him anyway.

It only serves to pull his mouth wider. “Don’t worry, ojou-san,” he says, so solicitous, so insincere. “You can leave everything to me. I promise I’ll be responsible.”

With your money, he doesn’t say, but his smirk does in spades. “Obi—!”

When Obi turns, it is all charm, even his mended kimono seeming more rich for its humility. “My mistress says that she will leave the rest in my hands, okusama.”

“But—!”

“Please rest, ojou-san,” he hums, turning the force of that charm on her now. “Your humble servant will happily tend to all your desires.”

Ah, her protest had been perched so prettily on her lips, ready to be let loose— but now it stumbles instead, tongue tangling behind her teeth as his brows lift, a suggestion and a tease all in one. It’s impossible to look at him, not when she can still feel his teeth on her neck, phantom pins prickling all up and down her spine.

“A-all right,” she murmurs, cheeks so hot she must rival the color of some of these fabrics. “I’ll wait.”

The woman glances back at her with the faintest smile. “Come with me, okyakusama. I think I have something that will please you.”

Were Shirayuki able to pace, she would surely have worn a trench in the tatami. In her head, mon slip between her fingers, fluttering away like sakura petals on the wind. It should be her back there— she is the daughter of a sake house, used to dickering down to the very last coin, and Obi…

Well, she’s not quite sure where he’s from, but he can’t squeeze a sen like she can. Or at least, so she thinks until he emerges from the back with kimono in hand, grinning from ear to ear. The proprietor, though hardly unfriendly, appears distinctly less pleased.

“Come on, ojou-san,” he hums, sauntering across the tatami, an assistant just behind him. “Let’s get you dressed.”

“Well, ojou-san?” he croons from behind the curtain. “What do you think?”

It’s lovely. That’s her first thought, the one she’s had since the owner’s assistants had stretched it out between them. Bright blue cotton with a motif of white cranes in flight, a small flock chasing up one sleeve while a larger one soars over the waves that roll from waist to hem.

“You chose better for me than I would have myself,” she admits, smoothing her hand over the fine fabric. She would have gone for one the striped fabrics, humble yet fashionable, and yet—

Obi pokes his head through, grinning when her hand snaps away, as if the cotton burns. “I spent our money well, didn’t I, ojou-san? Got a nice price for it and everything.”

“You spent my money well.” His shoulder stiffen guiltily at her correction, and her eyes narrow. “Didn’t you?”

“I wonder,” he hums, crouching down in front of her, hands held out behind his back encouragingly. “Now come on. We better find some place to put our heads down before the inns all fill up. You don’t want to have a moss for a futon and a rock for a pillow before heading up that pass.”

She hesitates, the phantom slide of worn fabric beneath her palms, heat a lingering memory. “I could probably walk, if you wanted. You must be tired of carrying me around.”

“You, ojou-san? ” He casts her a sly look, and with barely more than a huff, he scoops her up, bundle and all, with all the grace of a servant accustomed to being well-used. “I told you, I’m happy to serve.”

“But…” It’s hard to tie words together when she can feel the stretch and release of his muscles against her thighs— or when the proprietor and her assistants look on with such bemused expressions.

He bows to them, dragging a yelp from Shirayuki’s throat. “Thank you, my mistress is pleased with our purchase.”

She bows over her hands as well, amusement tugging at her lips. “Thank you for your business.”

Shirayuki resists the urge to squirm until they step outside the shop; they barely make it a stall before she swings her legs, hoping the motion might make him release— but all it serves to do is make him hoist her higher, hands gripping hard at her thighs.

“Obi!” she gasps, too breathless for authority. “Really, you can put me down!”

“It’s no problem to carry you, ojou-san. You’re light as a feather.” He jostles her again, just to prove his point. Or to make her cling closer; whatever it is, he accomplishes it. “Besides, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of having your body—”

Her hand wraps over his mouth. “T-that’s enough!”

His mouth widens against her palm, teeth pressed against flesh, and really, that should be all the warning she needs. But instead she grips him more firmly, hoping to keep all those strange, terrible thoughts from tumbling across her mind, and—

And he licks her. Not a simple swipe across her palm, the way Kino-san had once, when they were just children, but— but wedging between her fingers, wrapping around—

“Jou-chan!” Her hand drops, as if his skin seared. “There you are.”

“O-oh, Mihaya-dono,” she gasps, Obi’s shoulders stiffening beneath her palms. “You found us!”

“Too bad,” Obi mutters, squeezing her closer as Mihaya and his men approach, their baggage slung across their shoulders.”

“We sure did, though you two didn’t make it easy!” There’s a strange look that passes between him and Obi, accusatory and smug on both sides, but Mihaya shakes it off with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get far without your clothes, but I see you handled that just fine.”

Obi huffs, hiking her higher. “Thought ojou-san might like something that didn’t have monkey’s paws all over it.”

If Mihaya hears him, the only sign is a the smallest twitch his his cheek. “Guess we’re not making it much further today, jou-chan. Better go see what’s available before it’s all taken up.”

Shirayuki would love to protest, to insist that she could make it just as far as them injured feet or no, but she takes one look at the sun sitting heavy on the horizon, and the steep climb of the mountains beyond the walls and simply nods. “I’ve heard we’ll want good rest before starting up the pass tomorrow.”

“That’s right. It’s hard going, but it’ll be worth it for the springs at the end.” He spares them both a measured glance, as if he’s counting inches— or perhaps mon. “Two rooms, right? One for jou-chan, and another for the rest of us.”

“Ah.” Her fingers knot in the shoulder of Obi’s kimono, uneasy. “I guess…?”

“My mistress shares a room with me,” Obi informs him coolly, as if they had been traveling together for ages, and not a single night. “On the second floor.”

“Oh, got preferences do we?” one of Mihaya’s men laughs, a scar tracing down his forehead and across a cheek. “Your mistress has some fancy tastes.”

“My preference, actually.” The tension melts from Obi’s shoulders, muscle long and languid beneath her palms. “A bit of a deterrent for anyone who gets ideas about making a midnight visit.”

Another one of the men chuckles, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Not much of one! I’ve climbed up the outside of one of these places plenty of times! Easier than taking the stairs.”

Obi’s mouth parts in a grin that’s more tooth than toothsome. “I’d love for someone to try it. Especially here, with all these dōshin hanging around, just looking for an excuse to gut a man.”

The man may pale, but his lips still flap, words trying to find purchase. "Well, I--"

“Hey.” Mihaya's elbow buries itself in the man's side, as sharp as his sneer. “Don’t run your mouth.”

Those broad shoulder hunch, bringing a mountain of a man down to hill-size. “Y-yes, sir.”

When Mihaya turns to her, he's all smiles; a sunny sky after a storm. "Sorry about that, jou-chan. Now why don't we go get all this sorted out?"

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #1000 followers #get up eight #my fic #samurai au #edo au #ans #oh man the shuffling that happened to this chapter's timeline was IMMENSE #but i think we are finally about to reach the head of this little conflict in the next couple of chapters #because it's just about time for the HOT SPRINGS EPISODE #probably not next time #but SOON >:3c

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