#i need an interesting step-family that’s chaotic and wild yet still somehow works

[juniorfor2]

The amount of fans who say that they wanted the Team Black family, specifically the kids, to have more arguments in order to make them more interesting like Team Green are confusing.

First, saying that Team Black should be ‘complex and interesting’ in the same way Team Green is, is the least complex and interesting development ever. It would be repetitive, with absolutely nothing new. No characterization, just a useless parallel that would contribute nothing besides another both sides are bad argument. Which we’ve all heard a thousand times by now, we don’t need to hear it again.

Second, that’s just too easy. Team Black is a very messy family - it’s got an uncle/niece relationship that’s been separated for 10 years, illegitimate Velaryon siblings that look nothing like the rest of TB, two black twins that haven’t been raised in Westeros, who all have to juggle being both step-siblings to each other and betrothed pairs, two very new half-brothers, and absolutely none of them have a very similar personality, except perhaps for Daemon and Baela. That’s got to be one of the most confusing and chaotic families ever made.

So the expected development would be for them to break apart. To have arguments. To never get along. That’s the easy route, because writing it would come without thinking. Jace doesn’t like Daemon? Super easy. Daemon wants to kill the Velaryon boys for his own sons while being sexist towards his daughters and their prospects of becoming Queen/Lady of High Tide? Boring and easy, no effort required. None of the siblings have a relationship with each other unless forced to? Don’t even have to write a line for that.

It’s simply not complex by a writing standpoint, because all of it can be written without putting in effort. The lines will write themselves, without needing to think of how everything affects the characters. In fact, nothing would affect the characters, because none of them would make the effort to be with or interact with each other. Nothing could develop or characterize them in a new way.

The better development would be for them to all come together despite those differences. To care for one another after having their initial families torn apart. The development as they all try to get along can result in arguments, and it won’t be perfect. However, everything that could happen would come from a place of love, and trying one’s best even with an odd and imperfect situation.

Jace might be uncertain about Daemon’s feelings toward his illegitimacy, but couldn’t they both be dedicated towards protecting the family? Daemon might want his blood on the throne, but shouldn’t it be easy for him to pass it through his daughters - it’s not like Baela is about to be submissive and take orders she doesn’t like from Jace. Joffrey isn’t Daemon’s son, but he will be raised by him his whole life - what’s that dynamic like? Rhaena doesn’t have a dragon, but could she be willing enough to learn diplomacy and politics and fashion from her stepmother? How does Rhaenyra even take being a stepmother, after such a bad relationship with her own? How did Rhaenyra and Daemon fully get back together - what arguments did they have, how did they resolve them, what were the better times they had together before the war? How did everyone take Rhaenyra being pregnant with Aegon after Laena just died of childbirth?

Exploring development like that would be better, and it would also be new. Not just ‘oh I wish Team Black wouldn’t get along so well and it’s so uninteresting, look at what it does to Team Green.’ We don’t need the exact relationship repeated.

It would also be nice to see a family that shouldn’t work at all, make it come together because of how dedicated they are to protecting and loving each other. That would actually be complex and interesting.

[p-artsypants]

I’ll Handle This (7)

I really just want to say thanks. I love this fandom, and I love this story…just the overwhelming excitement for this fic makes me so so happy. Everything that happens is really just me saying ‘whatever, I want to see this’. Does it make sense? Not always. Is everyone completely in character? Maybe. Am I having a blast? Absolutely! 

Thank you for all the comments and kudos! 

And sorry for the wait. Wedding planning! 

In Which Gabriel is Serenaded

(Ao3 | FF.net)

—

Day three, Adrien awoke on the pillow. He was used to it now, officially. How scary a thought! 

Plagg had laid out his outfit, thankfully so Adrien could approve, or at least warm up to the idea. 

It was one of the shirts that Marinette had Frankensteined together from the pieces they had found. Absolutely gaudy, atrocious, and a pain to look at. Stripes, polka dots, plaid, little patterns of flowers, all saturated as far top right of the Hue/Sat scale as possible. 

It would make his father cry. It would set the media into a frenzy. It was glorious, and that scared Adrien. 

It scared him that he was starting to come around. He was starting to enjoy this reckless abandon. It was cathartic to watch his world shift and change into something more chaotic, and yet somehow pleasant. Organized Chaos. 

Plagg came out of the bathroom, devoid of mohawks or any other bizarre hairstyle he could have done. His hair was just swept to the side, combed, but not gelled, into place. 

The perfect amount of wild. 

“You don’t have to wake up when I do.” Plagg stated. “I’ll just drop you in my pocket.” 

“It’s alright,” Adrien assured, yawning. “I’m used to waking up this early.”

Plagg dressed quickly, and just as he slid into his moccasins, the room glowed red, and heavy bars slammed shut over the windows. 

Both Adrien and Plagg jolted in surprise, Adrien falling into panic.

Plagg just scooped him up, and held him to his chest. “Hey kid, it’s alright. You can phase through things. You can escape if you need too.” 

This helped calm him down slightly, if ever so minutely. Plagg tucked him into his pocket, and confidently walked downstairs. 

Gabriel and Nathalie were waiting for him in the foyer. 

“What's the deal, old man?” Plagg asked, bluntly. “Akuma attack?”

“No,” replied Gabriel, his head held high. “You’re grounded. No school. No friends. Nothing.” 

Plagg scoffed. “I’m under literal house arrest?! Come on! I have a sleepover at Nino’s tonight!”

“Did you ask if you could attend this sleepover?” 

“No. You were going to say no anyways. Better to beg forgiveness then ask permission and all that.”

“Well, that really solidifies my decision to ground you then. You clearly show a clear lack of critical and mature thinking.” 

“Ah, a pompous way of calling me stupid, hmm?”

Gabriel frowned harder, a line forming at the corner of his mouth. “I am not calling you stupid. I just don’t see you making good decisions.” 

“Gabriel, before this, I wasn’t making any decisions. Everything I did was according to your will. How can you be mad at me at being bad at something I have no practice doing?” 

Gabriel’s eye twitched. “First, do not call me by my first name. Second, I have already made up my mind. If I say you’re grounded, then you’re grounded. Deal with it.” 

Oh that was not a good answer. He may have well just said, ‘because I say so.’ 

And Plagg would not stand for it. He wasn’t standing for it anyway, but he’d at least be willing to bargain with Gabriel if he was offering some excuse about safety for his well being or something.

This was just a power trip.

“Fine,” Plagg smiled maliciously. “Lock me in. But you’re locked in with me. And you’re going to hate it.” 

“I don’t have time to entertain you, Adrien, go to your room.” 

As a kwami who spent most days in Adrien’s bag, Plagg consumed a lot of media. A pair of headphones, an external battery, and a phone that connected to the school’s wifi, Plagg had days to binge all the things that Adrien was interested in. 

And some things that Adrien didn’t care about, like historical dramas, documentaries, and recently, musicals. Especially for time periods that he had witnessed and experienced. He wasn’t omnipotent, so seeing what the humans had thought was important during these periods was fascinating.

But I digress.

The point was that Plagg had a song stuck in his head from a musical and the perfect opportunity to use it had just presented itself.

Gabriel had deemed the conversation over and started to walk back to his office.

“Close every door to me,” Plagg sang, in Adrien’s sweet voice.

Gabriel halted, but did not turn around.

“Hide all the world from me.” Plagg took a step towards him, still singing softly. “Bar all the windows and shut out the light.”

Gabriel turned, raising an eyebrow. “If you think serenading me is going to make me change my—“ 

But Plagg cut him off, raising his voice slightly, “Do what you want with me, hate me and laugh at me.”

Gabriel just stared, and listened.

“Darken my daytime and torture my night…” Plagg came closer, singing with feeling, trying to convey, even for an instance, a flicker of the emotions that Adrien had.

“If my life were important I would ask ‘will I live or die?’ but I know the answers lie far from this world.”

This was horrifying to Gabriel, apparently, as he protested. “Of course your life is important! Why do you think I—“

“Close every door to me, keep those I love from me. Children of Israel are never alone.”

“Children of—what? We’re not even Jewish. What are you singing about?”

“For I know I shall find my own peace of mind. For I have been promised a land of my own.”

Confused, Gabriel just scoffed and started back to his office. Plagg stayed hot on his heels.

“Close every door to me, hide all the world from me.”

Even Gabriel saw the irony of slamming the office door in Adrien’s face, so he resisted, and let his son continue to serenade him into his office. 

“Bar all the windows and shut out the light.”

Gabriel stood at his workstation, determined to ignore his son’s weird emotional outburst, and opened his recent project. 

“Just give me a number instead of my name. Forget all about me and let me decay.”

Plagg fought the smile of victory when Gabriel hunched his shoulders. Was that guilt on his face? Perhaps Gabriel wasn’t as shallow as Plagg had thought and lyrics like this would get through to him. 

“I do not matter, I'm only one person. Destroy me completely, then throw me away.”

And Gabriel sat, staring with his wide gray eyes. His full attention on his son. 

“If my life were important I would ask ‘will I live or die?’ But I know the answers lie far from this world.”

Plagg pounded his fists on the workspace, crying out the words with passion, actually making Gabriel jump. 

“Close every door to me! Keep those I love from me!” He leapt up on a coffee table, putting his entire body, his very soul into this performance. “Children of Israel are never alone!”

Gabriel couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move?

“For we know we shall find our own peace of mind! For we have been promised a land of our own!” He held out that final note, letting it hang in the air, as Gabriel continued to stare, mouth slightly open. 

Truth me told, Plagg was just intending to annoy him to freedom, but had the song choice done more? Did Gabriel finally understand? 

“Well,” Gabriel adjusted his glasses. “That was...certainly something. If I knew you could sing like that, I would have tried to find a use for it. Never mind, I’ll add it to your resume now.” 

No. It seemed that Gabriel was as stubborn and obtuse as ever. 

“Close every door to me,” Plagg began again. 

“No no no,” Gabriel spoke over him. “One performance is more than enough.” 

“Hide all the world from me.” 

“Adrien!” 

“Darken my daytime, and torture my night.” 

Gabriel groaned, and made an effort to ignore Plagg again. A real effort this time, with no eye contact and no facial expression. When that didn’t work, he moved from his workstation and went to grab Adrien. But Plagg evaded him, continuing to sing, with every grasp.

How many times did he cycle through the song? His throat hurt, as every time he reached the climax, he belted out the notes with passion. 

It would be surprising if no one outside could hear him. 

He climbed up on a table. “If my life were important I would ask will I live or die—“ 

“Enough! Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!” Gabriel shouted. “I can’t take this anymore!” He bolted over to the security control panel, and shut off the lock down. The bars on the windows disappeared. 

“Go...please, just go.” Gabriel said desperately. 

“Cool, thanks dad!” Plagg said cheerfully, skipping out of the room. 

Gabriel collapsed onto his workstation. 

Whatever tricks Adrien had learned, whatever manipulation guru he had visited, he was good. Very very good. It would take a while to get him back under his thumb. And he might need to resort to more drastic measures. 

What was more drastic than putting the house into lockdown? He’d need a little while to contemplate that.

—

Plagg had missed several morning classes thanks to Gabriel’s stunt, but his friends heaved a relaxed sigh when he arrived.  

“Hey hey hey!” He sang, coming in the door. “What’s happening, party people?” 

“Mr. Agreste!” Miss Mendeleev barked. “You better have a good excuse for being tardy!” 

“A great excuse! My dad shut the house down to ground me, and I had to annoy him with Broadway until he opened up. He was a lot more patient than I expected.” 

“Are you serious?” Miss Mendeleev asked. 

“Madam, do you really think that my father, fashion mogul, would allow me to leave the house like this?” He gestured to his mismatched outfit.

“Point taken. You may take your seat.” 

Plagg shot a thumbs up to his friends. 

—

After school, the group of four piled into Nino’s family car and headed over to his house. 

“I’m so excited! My first sleepover!” The excitement was genuine, as this truly was Plagg’s first sleepover. Of course, his whole life had consisted in sleeping in different places that weren’t his home (the Miracle Box) but the concept of going to a friends house to eat food and gossip all night long was novel and exciting. 

“What curfew do you girls have?” Mrs. Lahiffe asked. 

“I have until 11,” beamed Alya. 

“I have to leave at 9,” Marinette pouted. “I have to help my parents in the bakery tomorrow.” 

It was also Ladybug’s solo patrol tonight, Plagg noted to himself. Kind of a saving grace, since Chat certainly wasn’t going to be on it. 

“I’ll be sure to count you both for dinner then!” Mrs. Lahiffe chirped. 

Adrien had been to Nino’s house a handful of times, all under the pretense of working on homework of course. And it wasn’t a house either, it was an apartment, like most residences in Paris. It was warm, not always clean, and the smell of their cat’s litter was just a hint in the air. 

Major Tom was a right good cat. An old gray tabby, who was far too wise for his own good. Plagg had met this family member in person, since the cat was still pretty curious in his age. 

As soon as the group of friends entered the apartment, Major Tom stretched and trotted toward them, toward Plagg, and rubbed against his leg. 

“Hi Tommy,” Plagg smiled, an inside joke passing between them. 

“I swear,” said Nino with defeat. “Major Tom likes you more than anyone else in this house...and you’ve barely met him.” 

Plagg just shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a pussy magnet.” 

“DUDE! My mom is right there!” 

Mrs. Lahiffe was not amused, but the furious giggling from behind him made it all worth it, he supposed.

“Sorry mom, Adrien’s going through a rebellious streak. He doesn’t usually make jokes like that.” 

“Yeah, sorry, Uh...I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” 

Mrs. Lahiffe shook her head. “I noticed your outfit was rather...daring. Is that from your father’s new collection?” 

“Nope! This is a Marinette original!” 

Marinette smacked him in the arm. “I told you not to associate me with that abomination!” She turned to Mrs. Lahiffe and quickly clarified, “He designed it and I carried out the deed.” 

“Oh you kids are so funny!” She laughed. “Well, you didn’t come over to entertain me! Go have fun, I’ll get pizza around 6?” 

“Thanks mom!” 

“Thanks Mrs. Lahiffe!” 

On the way to Nino’s room, he asked. “What movie do you guys want to watch tonight?”

Plagg grinned, “Have you ever seen Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat?” 

—

Chapter is kind of short, but I have delayed it long enough, and sleepover shenanigans need their own chapter.

The song Plagg sang was ‘Close Every Door’ from Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat.

[lilacerull0]

LITTLE WOMEN FANFICTION

CHAPTER 3: SEVEN

Escapism

"Please, picture me in the trees...

...before I learned civility."

- seven, Taylor Swift

***

one.

- Let's run away.

It's barely a whisper. It's said more to the open sky above them than to anybody else.

- Let's run away.

It's more than a whisper now. It's a call. An invitation for something greater than both of them. And Laurie would gladly buy a ticket for that particular train. He would. But the sun is so wonderful and the clouds are so enchanting in their unusual shapes that even getting up seems like a chore. He wants to stay here. On the grass. But Jo is persistent in her wishes. Jo March never, never, gives up.

- Won't you say something, Teddy? Can't you just see it? We could be anything, do anything, go anywhere! The world could be ours!

She, unlike him, is on her feet. She always seems to be. Gravity isn't very fond of Jo. Or at least that's what Jo will tell you. Laurie doesn't know if that's true or not, but he likes hearing her talk. He finds himself generally attached to sounds. The chipering of birds. The first note you play on the piano. Amy's chaotic laughter. Beth's soft chuckles. Meg's little mumbles. Jo's wild exclaims. That's one of the many reasons why Laurie loves the Marches. It's like these sisters have discovered an utterly fresh, vivid and extraordinary way to be alive. It's a pleasant contrast to what he's used to.

It's always quiet at home.

"What do you say Theodore Laurence, kindest and most noble of knights of this kingdom? Shall we follow the wind and see where it leads us?"

"I wouldn't want it any other way."

"Then you accept my proposal?"

"I sure do, Miss March."

People's faces usually look radically different when lightened up with smiles. They look prettier, more beautiful and somehow truer to themselves as opposed to non smiling faces. Jo's doesn't. She is smiling at him right now and her face doesn't look any different. It's just as true and warm as it was a thousand smiles before. And would Laurie even be allowed to call himself a comrade of Jo's if he didn't gift her with a smile of his own in return? He grins at her with no specific thought behind the expression. This is how people are supposed to be smiling, he thinks. Wide and real. Yes, people are supposed to be smiling just like this.

For a second, Jo and Laurie are the same person. Hair wild, shirts half unbuttoned, cheeks flushed. Laurie's hands are splattered with dirt from the ground whose hostility he was taking advantage of moments prior. Jo doesn't seem to care about that. Once he's up and standing, she grabs his arm a bit forcefully (which he doesn't mind), a bit theatrically (because this is Jo and life is a theatre piece) and they start running, both of them now embellished with dust. There's a lot of stumbling (and stumbling is blamed on the seemingly nonexistent objects that appear and disappear under commands of fairy like creatures) and there's a lot of laughter (laughter that comes in its most natural form and doesn't show any interest in being contained under anyone's wishes, especially not the ones of the world).

"Oh dearest, the world might not be for us, but us we are for the world."

***

two.

Freedom is both the most basic and the most complicated aspect of life to be gained. It is so simple of a concept, one could easily and rightfully so believe how all of thought guardians (more commonly referred to as humans) should have the right to not only experience, but spend their entire lives swimming in shinning lakes of freedom. But it's not how it all works. Some have tiny bits of freedom. Some don't have it at all. Some have loads. Some have just enough. Too much, sadly or sadly not, have none. 

Jo sometimes wishes she were a tree. High up in the sky, stretching out her branches towards infinity. She isn't a tree though.

Imagination is of grave help despite what anyone says. To a normal person, the tree is just a tree. Tree and nothing else. To Jo March, a tree is so much more. It's an opportunity. An adventure. It's a solace and a home. A sanctuary. She's climbing up one of her leaf providing friends as she's trying to figure out how to describe this moment the best. Her reflections are interrupted by a voice which surprisingly doesn't come from the bellow, but from the above instead. Once Jo spots the speaker's ground conquerors (or "shoes" if you are of dull old sameness and don't find the pleasure in crafting phrases unlike our Jo), she immediately recognizes their owner. She still isn't sure why Teddy let Amy paint his shoes with images of flowers, but she is mesmerized with the final result. And although she shall never share this with the oh, so great artist, Jo thinks Amy's creations to be exquisite.

"I presume you are coming here to put your mind at ease."

"That is correct, my boy, and I suppose you are here for the same cause. "

By the time they exchange these lines, Jo has already climbed up to the place where Laurie is. She finds herself a steady enough branch and rests her head against the surface of the wood. Her friend is positioned in a similar way, his leg gently swaying to a peculiar beat of his own making.

Two figures, who almost seem to be one with the wooden fellow, occasionally take an exceptionally deep breath. Their hands colored with bruises, souvenirs from many extraordinary expeditions, their clothes decorated with leaves. Seemingly they are flowers, nature is their most beloved companion.

It's quite a story how Jo and Teddy, these flower resembling humans, coexist without many syllables shared. The phrases they do sometimes grace each other with can end up being translated as meaningless or lacking in thought. But Teddy and Jo, among everything else, are inventors. They invented a language which only functions for them. What is mean to others represents to them a code. What is strange to some, playful and witty to them it is. What is impossible to comprehend, they understand with little to no effort.

"Language of flowers is the language of flowers for a reason. Nobody, but flowers, thinks it much sense."

***

three.

"I'M ALIVE! LOOK AT ME, EARTH!!! I! AM! BREATHING!"

This is just one of the many declarations that have furiously been shouted at the void today. Young people often have trouble befriending compromises, especially if those compromises are to be made with the creatures you live in close proximity with. Jo has again been fighting with her sisters for reasons she cannot exactly recall right this instant. It's funny, because this always happens to her. Something sparks her temper, she recklessly gives into it and at the end, it's all about the anger she doesn't know how to release. She usually goes on long walks or takes deep breaths. She basically tries to isolate herself from everyone until the storm passes.

Teddy has a different solution for her troubles, troubles that naturally turn out to be his troubles too because they are Jo and Teddy, Teddy and Jo, and they have the same troubles (which is both wonderfully relieving and awfully annoying at the same time). Jo wouldn't even call Teddy's solution a solution. They are both making these announcements of nonhuman frequency and dancing their heads off, and as ridiculous as it is, Jo feels it liberating. They aren't improving anything (just the opposite, screaming random things into the air represents the peak of impulsive behaviour) and the conclusion is: no profitable discoveries in the "containing yourself" department. But who cares? Sometimes you have to let it all out. Dance and shout the worries away. It wasn't a coincidence that Jo met Teddy under the circumstances that she did. They were both of hot tempers, strong wills and free spirits. And they needed to dance it all out out. Despite the absurdity and inappropriate mannerism a foreign eye would most certainly find in their actions.

"There exists no right nor wrong way to express one's self."

***

four.

Laurie is surprised with how much he is enjoying this. It's all very simple. Yet, he feels at peace. He feels like everything inside him has a chance to rest.

It's the fireplace and captivating movement of the fire flames.

It's the soft "click" he discovers every time Meg takes a step. Her shoes are marvellous singers.

It's the chattering of dishes he recognizes somewhere in the background. It must be Beth, cleaning the table after the meal.

It's Amy giggling mischievously after coming up with what Laurie supposes to be some kind of scheme or more accurately, a master plan. He wouldn't know what is it about, but whatever it is, Amy is destined to succeed in it.

It's Jo. This is all because of Jo. He wouldn't have come across the hidden delights of the "uncomplicated" and "boring" if it weren't for her. She takes a seat beside him interrupting the spectacular date he had with the fireplace, rests her head on his shoulder and sighs. It's like this with them. Touching has never been a big deal.

"Beautiful."

That's all Jo says. "Beautiful." He doesn't question it. He understands what she means even though he cannot explain it. He understands.

"Warmth. Choreographed chaos. Lines overlapping. Minds intertwining. Familiarity greeting you "hello". People. Family. Home."

***

five.

She cut her hair. She cut her hair and everything is supposed to be at least a little better if not completely fine. But she can feel the tears forming in her eyes as she's approaching the house. The money in her pocket is so incredibly present. No, the money is not just present in her pocket. Everything those dusty pieces of paper represent carries weight. A weight so grand Jo could swear there is somebody following her, kind of like the money has taken the shape of a person and is now accompanying her, monitoring her every move. What kind of world sees a green, ugly paper and claims of it a metaphor for greatest treasures? And the tears? The tears she cannot comprehend. Why would she care? It's just hair. If anything, she should be bursting with joy right now. She got rid of the womanly burden. But it doesn't feel right. It's all extremely selfish of her. Selfish and thoughtless.

Her sister is... not well. Her father is out there doing all sorts of heroic things and instead of crying over her sins, she's crying over this. For once she does something right, for once the part of her that's wrong different isn't screaming. And then it hits her. It's not just a part of her that's different wrong. It's her. The moment she realises this she steps into the house. Everyone is either too distant or too close to notice all that is hiding underneath her seemingly admirable actions.

Her body is barely handling the atmosphere. It's barely cultivating the facade. But her body is also covered with Teddy's waistcoat and just as she remembers this little fact she sees her best friend right there in front of her. He is not too distant nor too close. He is right where she is.

They have the same hair.

Jo is pulled towards him because this is Teddy and hugging Teddy is like hugging herself. They stay like that for a few moments, their realities greeting each other like two fellow soldiers, finally reunited in battle.

It doesn't make her feel any less hollow. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't alter the wrongs. But it does make it a little better. It offers an assurance. An assurance embodying validity so present, money can do nothing but hold a candle to. An assurance of rational absurdity. Because that's what Jo and Teddy are.

They are rationally absurd.

"It's a childish belief that all twins look the same. There exist many ways to be somebody's twin."

***

six.

She is holding his hand.

He has just told her how he doesn't fit within himself. He has just told her that and she is still here, laying on the floor with him, covered with blankets. She said it made sense. She must have been too tired or something. She must have misheard. She must have.

"Jo, are you there?"

She does not respond. She only squeezes his hand. It's not about the gesture itself. It's about everything the gesture holds.

Promises. Lifetimes. Daylights. Midnights. Setting suns. Growing spirits. Flowery Youths.

She is holding his hand.

" Mutuality sure is a wonderful creation. What is more wonderful though is mutual understanding. Mutuality means the returning of the same. Mutual understanding means accepting and loving of the different."

***

seven.

"I could run away for real this time. Explore the unknown, unravel the mystical. Encounter the miracles. Touch the heavens..."

Her words are empty. They don't mean much. They are empty and desperate. Empty, desperate and meaningless.

Her sister got married. Meg got married and she is talking to herself about running away. The wind is dancing with her again long enough hair, tangling its fingers into her rough curls, reminding her of the countless times it has done the exact same thing before. Mocking her with its endless supplies of stability and comfort. Jo is leaning over the wooden fence, despite the wishes of her dress which keeps complaining about her unlady like methods. Jo honestly does not care about the fancy bridesmaid dress and its wants. If one has the will to climb fences, one shall enjoy the act of doing so, no matter what some piece of fabric might have to say. She is trying to hold back rivers her eyes miserably wish to let flow. She cannot cry. She must not. She has an ongoing bet with Teddy about this. He was daring enough to assume she will turn herself into a paddle today and she ought to prove him wrong.

"What might a lady like yourself be doing here instead of enjoying the jolly ceremony out there in the open?"

"I am no lady Teddy, my being is in no need of such chains."

Laurie doesn't pressure her into answering the question (she would have answered it in the first place if she had the intention to) and steps on the fence beside her. He starts humming a random melody, rhythmically moving his fingers to the sound.  He must be composing something again, thinks Jo and silently envies his creative range. It's been too long since she's written anything worth sharing.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Everything."

"Isn't that a bit too much of things?"

"Oh, it's just a little over the top Teddy, but I believe I can handle it. This mind is no stranger to overcrowding."

The same tree they used to climb when they were younger is now observing them, representing an eternal and haunting reminder of everything that once was. Jo is frightened. That silent way in which Teddy is looking at her is frightening. He is looking at her in ways she longs for to be different and his eyes have too many freshly discovered stories to tell. She is frightened she won't find those stories to be very pleasant.

"Do you remember that day when I told you how I wanted to run away?"

"How could I not?"

"I need to run away again."

Laurie doesn't need to hear it twice. He jumps over the fence and starts running, his arms widely spread, his tie and jacket long forgotten. It isn't real. Jo knows they will never go anywhere. The sun is setting and the lines of separation are clearing up. The sun is setting and challenges, struggles and complications lie ahead. She knows all of this. Yet, she hikes up her skirts like she's sixteen again and follows the path her boy has chosen for as long as she knows how to. Jo and Teddy run through the endless fields of gold, specks of sunlight meeting their bones. Teddy and Jo, Jo and Teddy, high in the sky for one last time before nightfall.

They keep falling over each other and eventually end up wrestling on the grass, occasional screams and consistent laughter adorning the air around them.

The last song of Meg's shoes. The last symbol Amy will ever paint on Jo's hands. The last wide smile of Beth's. The last understood conversation of birds. The last fellow of the trees. The last arrangement of flowers.

The last.

The last.

The last.

"Oh, to live in a world where there are childhoods, fields of gold and raging hearts."

"Grab a coat, leave a note and run away with me."

- William Chapman

[kondo-hijikata]

Pairing: Pre-Relationship to Relationship Kondo/Hijikata Rating: T Summary: Hijikata had no particular interest in meeting the new Tennen Rishin Ryu heir…until he saw the size of his shoes. [AO3]

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.*Before the Storm*. Chapter 2

As the waning sun painted the tree line in crimson, a kiseru pipe was packed, lit, and brought to a shapely mouth. The first pull was slow and the exhale just as indulgent, with white smoke drifting up and out toward wide open shoji that remedied a once too-humid space with fresh air.

The summer heat was like Hijikata’s preoccupation with the young master, both lingering and vexing him relentlessly from early June to mid-July. Despite these current parallels, the two were ultimately destined to be at odds, though. The days would grow shorter as the year wore on, with promise to an end of sticky and suffocating conditions. Unfortunately for Hijikata, his interest seemed resolute to do just the opposite. It flourished and deepened all on its own, without any new fuel to feed it, or a looming conclusion in sight.

An irritated scoff suddenly filled his room and he drew from the pipe again, sitting cross-legged with an elbow against his knee and chin weighing down heavy in a supportive palm.

That he was even still thinking about Kondo was absurd. Hijikata hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day they’d met just over four weeks ago, but that brief encounter was enough to ignite a fire in his chest and fill his head with questions that only his new acquaintance could quell. As if this weren’t infuriating enough, he wasn’t rightly sure how to go about articulating the things bothering him in the first place because they were so…indicative. Personal. Revealing. And certainly not fit or fair to inquire of someone he barely even knew.

Why aren’t you judging me? Everyone else tells me I’m wasting my life, so why don’t you? Why the hell are you so…nice?

And while I’m at it! How did you even get adopted into a samurai family? You really just…let go of your status without consequence and people actually take you seriously? You think it’s possible that someday I—?

Oh, now he was really veering off the rails of rationality. Hijikata scowled further and closed his eyes. These inquiries were so inane, so annoying, and not to mention so utterly pointless. So what if Kondo hadn’t derided him? It didn’t constitute approval. So what if he’d apparently earned his status, and seemed to embody the spirit of bushido as it was meant to be? Yeah, that was rare, okay. So what if he was humble and gentle around others, but a force to be reckoned with when a weapon was in his grip?

So what if he was handsome on top of everything—immaterial, truly, but an attribute which only complemented all the other things already so damn impressive?

“So fucking what?” Hijikata grumbled aloud, removing the pipe from his lips and ridding loose ash in the bowl with a pointed tap. Why did he, should he, care? Why should any of it matter?

…He knew exactly why, however—just as well as he knew the reason for asking these obvious questions of himself in the first place. They allowed him to deflect: from the anxiety of being wrong, or the dizzying, impossible notion that he might actually be right.

His first impression of Kondo was too positive. It was too good, too utopian, too much of a wild dream come true. Ever since his childhood, Hijikata had pined for the unlikely day he might meet someone exactly like this man who appeared out of thin air to teach lessons at Hikogoro’s dojo.

The samurai he encountered through the humdrum routine of his life were lazy bottom-feeders, and the ones who weren’t would never give him the time of day because of where he’d been born. They judged him for having hands which sewed fabric, for the medicine chest that clung to his back. Neither group viewed him to be a worthy contender in kenjutsu, and each side dismissed him on preconception alone.

But Kondo hadn’t. And Kondo was like him, born in Tama and raised of the land. Unlike Hijikata though, he’d somehow managed to traverse the constraints of classism and become a real samurai who didn’t throw the weight of ego around and, and, and—

Hijikata tossed his head aside. It was too ideal to be reality, too goddamn ideal. There had to be a flaw somewhere and he needed to find it, even if the letdown would be unthinkably severe should he discover his first impression was misguided. Yet…hope was already so fleeting and fragile, and his first touch with Kondo offered a dangerous glimmer of promise to whet a faith within him that’d gone long parched.

For all his life, Hijikata had sought the validation that would prove his dreams weren’t frivolous, that his birth class didn’t define him—only to be shoved aside and ridiculed again and again, because who had ever heard of a farmer becoming a samurai?

No one. Until now.

So, what if Kondo did approve? What if he really was as great as he seemed, if he could provide the blessing Hijikata had so desperately yearned for all this time? What if Hijikata could follow in Kondo’s footsteps, if they could actually become friends and bond over a crazy mutual goal?

His heart beat a little quicker as he stared out at the carefully chosen landscaping just beyond the doors. He’d felt trapped for so long in this one place, in this one room, going nowhere and doing nothing of importance when a whole country was out there for the taking. Hijikata had longed for the day when the view from his room shifted from meticulously pruned shrubs to a field of wildflowers—a disorderly and chaotic tangle, but beautiful if only because they weren’t strangled into obedience.

The kiseru went untouched for some time while his eyes fixated in an unseeing gaze. He wanted to be right. He wanted to be right so badly. But pinning all of his hopes, the most delicate of his dreams, to one person he barely even knew was beyond reckless. He was playing with fire. And if he didn’t watch out, he could get—

“Don’t burn yourself!”

Hijikata’s spine went ramrod straight, the daze rattled clear out of his brain. The hand that held his pipe lifted from resting on his knee and his attention snapped to find Nobu on the porch, a palm braced against the shoji.

“Were you sleeping?!” She stepped quickly over the threshold and despite having posed a question, gave him no chance to reply. “You could burn the whole house down, Toshi! Don’t smoke when you’re tired!”

His expression darkened as his cheeks went alight, simultaneously feeling annoyed at her lecturing but all too grateful for the distraction. “I wasn’t sleeping!” The petulant snap of his retort was followed by his pipe clanging against the ashtray again, and once it was put out, he set it down.

Nobu pursed her lips and slowly lowered to sit in informal seiza, the chastising bite from her demeanor slipping away since there was no longer a perceived threat. That was one of the best things about her—she could be dramatic and sometimes overbearing, but practicality was always first and foremost in her mind; when it was time to let things go, Nobu did and she always moved on fast. In kind, her voice deepened with consideration as she cocked her head. “Daydreaming, then? I said your name twice but you didn’t reply.”

“I was just thinking about something.”

She swept her hand slowly over the tatami, reveling in the texture as she often did. “Like what?”

“Nothing, just forget it.” Hijikata’s lashes fell as he shook his head.

“Well, what is it, something or nothing?”

Damn it. “Nothing.” He swallowed and stiffened his back, then looked to her. “It was stupid anyway. Did you need something?”

She hummed a negative reply. “Just wanted to ask how work was today. I thought I saw you stalking past the sitting room when you got home.” To Hijikata’s consequent cht, Nobu offered a sympathetic smile. “That bad, huh?”

His shoulders crept up and over a half-sigh, he brushed his fingers through his hair and flipped the ponytail out of the way. “Not any more than usual. Some guy came in to yell at us because his wife’s kimono was the wrong colors. Mind you, she picked them out.”

Nobu squinted. “And was Murakami-san there?”

“Yep. He came running out while I was handling it.” Hijikata huffed and diverted his attention forward, his eyes narrowing while recounting the situation. “Apologized right from the get-go and said we’d remake it the right way. Then he went on to lecture me, saying I was out to make his business an enemy to the public, that I’m—” His nose went high into the air, his tone turning into one of mockery, “—never allowed to oppose any guy wearing two swords ever again.” Disgusted, Hijikata sunk back down. “Blah blah. It’s always the same shit.”

“Well, if the patron was a samurai—”

“That man was no samurai,” he interjected.

“—it’s no wonder why he’s so entitled.” Nobu stressed her words, not allowing herself to be interrupted or misconstrued.

“Neesan, it’s bullshit, all of it.”

She sat still and silent, her hands now joined in a lazy fold just over her knees. Eyes remained studiously on him, and Hijikata was all too aware that she was trying to read between the lines.

“These assholes, they just get away with everything.” Taking fistfuls of hakama, he squeezed the material over and over to abate the animosity welling up inside of him. “They get whatever the hell they want because they’re born to the right privileged dickbags who were also raised the same damn way.”

“I…see your point, Toshi, you know I do.” A pensive moment. “And you know I appreciate what you’re saying. But there’s not too much we can do about it.”

He snapped his face to her. “Are you telling me to just be complacent?!”

Nobu scoffed and sat taller. “No. No, I’m not saying that at all. You can fight back, but you have to be smart about it. You can’t do it head on.” She cut him off before the rebuke could begin to leave his tongue. “I’m aware that’s not a satisfying answer for you, but you of all people know I’m right.”

Hijikata’s mouth was set in a line, wearing discontent openly across his features but he didn’t speak out—immediately, anyway. “Neesan, I’m quitting. I can’t do it anymore.”

A deep inhale filled her chest and as it left her lungs, she shook her head in surrender. “That’s up to you, Toshizo. But you have to be the one to break the news to Tamejiro-san. You know the strings he pulled to secure your apprenticeship there.”

“Yeah, I know,” he droned. “It’s just whatever. Murakami has no backbone. He’s an enabler. I’ll just find another apprenticeship in the same field.”

“Well.” The inflection in Nobu’s voice meant unsolicited cautionary advice was about to rear its head. “I hope it’s as easy as you think it’ll be. But I have a feeling it won’t.”

“Heh. What’s another failure on the already huge pile of failures I’m sitting on?” The words left him unaffected.

“Toshi…”

“Whatever.”

Nobu’s tongue poked out to wet her lips and her eyes closed for a brief time. “Hey, you do what you need to do. Tamejiro-san won’t be happy about it, so you’ll need to find a way to do right by him. He’s just looking out for you like any good brother would.”

“If he really wants to help me, then he should mind his own damn business.”

“Come on, stop that. Don’t you know we all want the best for you?”

Hijikata deflated. Of that he’d certainly been aware, but what he hadn’t ever learned was how to explain to his family that their concern with his successfulness (or lack thereof) was smothering and sometimes more harm than otherwise. He sure as hell wasn’t about to try explaining it now.

Nobu seemed to catch the hint, though. “Anyway…look. It’s all gonna work out in the end, okay? You know I have your back, so just do whatever you have to do. If you need me to help smooth things over with Tamejiro-san, I will.”

His shoulders shook with a huff, but he couldn’t prevent the tiny smile that wanted at his lips. “Thanks.”

“Now enough of this gloomy crap!” She clapped once and her eyes caught a shine as they widened, the room suddenly feeling much lighter with the change in mood. “I have some good news for you! And I’m sure it’ll make you feel better.”

Warily, Hijikata’s brows narrowed. “Well, what is it?”

“Katsuta-san is coming by tomorrow!”

Oh, fuck. And just when Mister Golden-Perfect-Handsome-Samurai had been out of his thoughts for more than three minutes… He exhaled sharply and looked away before he gave too much away. “Okay? So?”

“So you should make sure to be around.” Nobu leaned closer. “Aren’t you interested in talking with him more?”

“Why, so niisan can jump in every other word again?” Hijikata snapped, but immediately regretted the response. It wasn’t Hikogoro’s fault for returning hastily with lunch that day, just as he’d pulled Ishida Sanyaku from his chest at Kondo’s inquiry about medicine. Hell, for all his brother-in-law knew from the level of attitude Hijikata had given him, he probably rushed back to save both men from themselves. How could he possibly have guessed that the conversation was only just getting good?

“Oh, he did, huh? I’ll have a talk with him, then.”

Wincing, Hijikata held out one hand and stammered, “Just…never mind. Forget what I said just now, will you? Anyway, thanks for the info, but it really doesn’t concern me.” Relaxing his posture, his lashes fell once again with dismissal. “I have work tomorrow.”

A snort. “Ah yes, at a place you’re quitting.”

…As always, Nobu was on point. He cracked one eye open as she stood, and then watched while she walked back to the porch. “He’ll be here around noon. Training starts midday, I believe.” Raising her brows she waited expectantly for his agreement.

“Neesan.”

“Mm?”

“You know…” Hijikata peered right past her and into the garden, and suddenly pointed to it. “We oughta move that primrose bush a few centimeters to the right.” Nobu’s face pinched in confusion and she pivoted to the flowering plant in question. Upon returning to him, suspicion was written openly across her features.

“It’d look better if everything wasn’t so evenly spaced,” he explained.

“Toshizo…” She paused with a cant of her head. “You are most welcome to dig it up and put it where you please. Just don’t kill it.”

“Aa, of course,” he said over a breath and reached to pack his pipe again. “We can’t have that, now can we…everything has its place.”

“Dinner’s at the usual time,” Nobu said slowly in parting—but lingered a moment further to glance back at the primroses. Just when it appeared that she might speak again, she set off down the porch and disappeared.

Hijikata watched the tobacco smoldering a reddish-orange hue in his pipe.

So, Kondo would be back tomorrow… That was fine, just fine. It wasn’t like Hijikata would spend the rest of the evening thinking about that, wasn’t like he’d rush out of the textile shop tomorrow to get home before his arrival.

He took a pull and let the calm wash over him. Nope, it wasn’t like that at all.

~

“Where in Edo do you think you’re going?! Hijikata!!”

Ignoring the irking shrill of Murakami’s shout from the back door he’d slipped through, Hijikata’s feet hit the dirt until he rounded a stone-walled corner and the agitated old man’s yammering no longer reached his ears. Pressing his shoulder blades to the hard surface, he panted to catch his breath and allowed a triumphant grin to spread clear across his face.

He was home free and ready to wash the sweat from his skin, not because Hijikata wanted to look presentable for Kondo or anything, oh no. The day was simply beyond humid despite it being only late morning, and he hadn’t worn a hat to shield from the sun. Where was his hat? Forgotten in his room. Certainly not on purpose. Definitely not because he didn’t want it to wreck his hairstyle.

“Fuck, it’s hot today,” he groused while pulling at his hakamashita to generate airflow, and resuming a faster-than-usual pace, all too eager to feel the comfort of cool well water easing the heat.

When Hijikata had awoken to birds chirping outside his door at some ungodly hour today, he’d flirted with the idea of just not showing up at all or sending some kind of sob story letter in his stead—but that meant he’d have to deal with the nosy people at home asking questions, especially since Tamejiro was coming to visit.

Heading out had seemed like the correct decision at the time but now, as he felt tiny droplets lining his brow after just having wiped away the previous ones, he wondered if he’d really made the right choice at all. Were the prying inquiries worth the luxury of staying much drier in the shade of his room? He was beginning to think so. He’d feel much cleaner, at least.

Whatever the case, depending on the hour, he might have still have the time to bathe and wash his hair out again before Kondo showed up, but that was entirely reliant on—

Hijikata stopped short on his heels when he turned the next corner and made no certain effort to conceal the displeasure radiating from him at the sight ahead. The brats of the neighborhood were all huddled around some crouching guy with a wide-brimmed hat—one of their hifalutin fathers, he assumed—and getting a lecture of some sort. Little bastards had probably gotten into a fight or stolen something, wrecked something, like they usually did. And while Hijikata wasn’t one to call the kettle black when he was a pot himself, his bad behavior meant consequences when he was young, not pretty little speeches or slaps on the wrist.

It wasn’t like the harsher discipline made him change his ways, though, so perhaps there was no room for him to talk. Nevertheless, he didn’t particularly want to overhear what nonsense was transpiring but avoiding the situation meant heading another street over—which meant adding three more blocks to a schedule already too tight. Therefore, the fetid kid-contaminated path would have to do. Hijikata would just hold his nose, close his ears, and walk quicker.

Strangely, none of the children were crying or looking agitated from the assumed scolding and in fact, they seemed more interested in what that hoity-toity dad was saying. What was the world coming to?

As Hijikata neared, one of the boys in the front spoke up. “So…you’re really not gonna tell my mom that I punched Mantaro then?”

The hat-clad dad shook his head. “Nope, but as long as you keep your end of the deal, okay?”

Wait a minute…

Hijikata’s eyes narrowed and his steps slowed at the sound of a voice so unsettlingly familiar. He had noticed that the dad wore a pair of swords, but dismissed it because anyone could do that in the boonies of Tama without consequence. While it was technically illegal to bear blades if one wasn’t in the samurai class, the Bakufu couldn’t protect all this wide open space like they could a crowded city and was content to turn the other cheek at the bending of the rules. As such, ordinary country peasants took up kenjutsu, not so much for status or even interest as it was protecting themselves and their possessions. Still, that didn’t mean…

“But we’re not samurai, Mister! We’re farmers. We don’t know nothin’ about…” The boy studied a word that had been written in the soil with a stick. “…bushimichi¹.”

The dad tossed his head back and laughed—and that was when Hijikata stopped dead in his tracks and felt the color drain from his cheeks. This guy was no dad, he was—!

“Good try, but it’s read bushido, not bushimichi.” Kondo stayed crouched to maintain eye level and crossed his arms over the peaks of his bent knees. “And so what about being a farmer? I’m one too, you know.”

A high pitched choir of “eh?!” rose from the lot. The same kid who spoke earlier piped up again. “But you’re a samurai!”

“I am now, but that’s because I was adopted. I was actually born in Kami-Ishihara, not too far from here.”

“What?! No way, Mister!”

He chuckled. “I mean it!”

“Are you saying that anyone can be a samurai?”

Kondo shook his head. “Oh, no. Not just anyone. If you want to become one, you need to earn that honor and live it every day, no matter where you come from.”

“But…” Another child spoke out, the gears clearly turning in his head. “What about the people born into the samurai class?”

“Especially them.” Kondo looked into all the inquisitive eyes focused on him. “I’ll tell you boys something. You’re all from Hino, right?” Enthusiastic nodding ensued. “Even if this world sees you as farmers and nothing more…” Lifting one hand, he pointed to his heart. “If bushido is in here and you let it guide you, then what they think doesn’t matter. But!” His tone went serious. “But. Understand that being a samurai isn’t about status. It isn’t about walking around just saying you are one. The most important thing is acting the role.”

And with that, Kondo reached forth and gently flicked the first outspoken kid on the forehead. “So quit picking petty fights in the middle of the street!” Giggling erupted from the lot. “That’s un-samurai-like, I’m telling you!”

Hijikata remained frozen in a mid-summer inferno, goosebumps dotting his arms while his mouth had gone dry. His attention had been unseverable from the moment he’d made the realization, and only the gods knew if he’d even blinked or drew breath since then. All that mattered, all he’d been cognizant of was Kondo, who was now rising to stand while the children dispersed and—oh no! Tossing his face aside to hide it and hoping with all hope that he wasn’t seen in his current state, Hijikata began to pivot.

“Hi—Hijikata-san?!”

Fuck.

There would be time to process this entire situation and the emotions that billowed because of what he’d just heard, but for now Hijikata swallowed hard and stowed those feelings…tried with all his might to calm his racing heart and bate his breath. He kept his features out of sight only long enough to blot the sweat from them, and upon turning again, he found Kondo approaching with that same large smile he’d shown the first day they met.

“Wow, it is you! Imagine meeting you here! –Uh.” Rubbing at his neck, Kondo chuckled. “I mean…you live here, so I guess it’s not that strange, is it?”

Hijikata forced a laugh, not that he didn’t find the clumsy statement amusing, but the recovery from it was so… Well, it was…endearing. He prayed that Kondo simply presumed the flash of heat he felt burning clear across his cheeks was from the sun. “Aa. Um, my sister mentioned you’d be visiting, but she told me it would be around noon…”

It was hard to look at Kondo directly while feeling less than put together, so Hijikata gazed down the road with a squint and idly ran fingers through his hair.

“Oh, she was definitely right,” Kondo agreed. “I have this annoying habit of always leaving too early. Which means I also arrive too early. Which means I wind up needing to walk around and bide my time so I don’t impose.”

…Was it weird to not face someone when they were speaking? It was definitely weird. And rude. Hijikata ventured a glance and this time held it, when he realized what Kondo had just said. “You don’t have to do that, you know. You’d never be imposing.” A nod. “My family talks so highly of you. I guarantee that you could waltz into our place in the dead of night and my brother-in-law would start doing backflips.”

He felt the laugh which followed, felt the good-nature of Shimazaki Katsuta wash over him. It tingled, had butterflies flitting about in his belly, made it impossible to look anywhere else. And yet, strangely, Hijikata found himself not only minding but even wanting more of this bizarre sensation.

“Hikogoro-san is something else!” Kondo shook his head. “I keep asking him to not hype things up about me like that. Honestly, and I hope you won’t repeat this because I’d hate to hurt his feelings, but it makes me a little uncomfortable.”

Hijikata blinked. “Why?”

“How about we find some shade?” Kondo suggested. “I feel bad making you stand out in the sun. That is, if you have time? In fact, do you want to wear my hat?” He began reaching for the clasp. “I can make do without it—”

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Hijikata chanted and raised his hands, equally as embarrassed as he was flattered that his comfort was being considered. Oh, why the hell didn’t he just bring his damn hat? Every sane person of an adult age wore a hat on a day like today. It was ridiculous to be without one. “Thanks, though.”

“You sure?”

“Mm. We could just head back to my place. It’s really close.” Hijikata dabbed at his face again with his sleeve. “Anyway, if someone in my family finds out that I was just hanging around with you and didn’t bring you back, I’d catch hell for it.”

Kondo grinned. “Guess we’d better get going then.”

And just like that, Hijikata was back on his way home with unexpected company at his side—company he’d needed time to ready himself for, or so he thought. Without even realizing it, the relentless self-conscious needling had slipped away while their conversation wore on and now, he was more concerned with not doing something mortifying like tripping over his own feet. He wasn’t clumsy by nature, and that was all the more reason to be super careful.

“So, yeah,” Kondo spoke up as they walked. “I respect Hikogoro-san more than I can put in words and I treasure my friendship with him in the same way.” His voice matched everything about him, Hijikata thought; it was warm and inviting, a pleasure to take in. “I’m just a regular guy, though, you know? Nothing special.”

…What? Hijikata’s face snapped to the side as he looked incredulously at Kondo over his shoulder. “But…you became a samurai.”

“By adoption,” Kondo insisted. “And I was adopted only because I was in the right place at the right time. That’s why I’m slated to take over for my father and inherit his sword style.” A breathy laugh followed and he shrugged. “It could’ve happened to anyone lucky enough, I promise.”

Despite not agreeing with that statement in the least, Hijikata let it go and his voice flattened, almost as if he’d meant to speak to himself. “You really meant what you said then.”

“Mm?” Kondo met his eyes.

“What you said to those kids back there.”

“Oh, you overheard that…”

Watching as his companion turned forward again in what appeared to be a pensive moment, Hijikata could feel the chagrin beginning to rise up from the pit of his abdomen—the looming discontent that it’d all just been a hefty bit of lip service. But then, the soft line of Kondo’s profile hardened and his chin dropped in a firm nod. “Absolutely.”

Validation. Just like that.

Approval. Freely given.

Acceptance. Affirmation. A sanction.

Hijikata’s feet halted in mid-step, and when Kondo realized the space at his side went empty, he paused and peered back. “Something wrong?”

Heat baked the dirt road that they stood upon, both as still as lifeless mannequins, as if the swelter hadn’t been oppressive and the humidity not suffocating. Neither spoke and neither moved, each reading the other like they were tangled in a high-stakes game of Go instead of friendly dialog.

At last, Hijikata moved his piece. “I didn’t expect you to say you actually meant it.”

There was silence for a moment longer, until Kondo’s expression shifted into something unexpectedly severe and his tone fell harsh in the same instant. “Do you disagree with me, Hijikata-san?”

…Apparently Kondo had been offended by the assumption that Hijikata believed samurai status was inherited, and not earned. And to leave such an incorrect premise unaddressed would simply not do, especially when it couldn’t be further from the truth. Hijikata’s bound hair swished with the shaking of his head. “Not at all. I agree with you completely.” He watched as Kondo’s demeanor immediately relaxed. “It’s just…it’s not something I expected to hear from a samurai, that’s all.”

“Hey, uh…” Kondo closed the distance between them, rubbing at his arms before setting hands on his hips. His eyes dropped to the ground for a beat before raising back to Hijikata’s. “What would you say to a match today?”

Hijikata’s brows raised, caught off guard by the abrupt change in subject. “What?”

“I mean, when we get to the dojo. Would you face off with me?”

Exasperation colored his response. “And what in the hell makes you think I have anything to do with kenjutsu?”

A breathy laugh fell from Kondo’s lips and his attention wandered off to nowhere important while he scratched at his jaw. “Sorry. I didn’t think it was an off-limit topic. Well, we all have our reasons.”

With his features going serious, Hijikata pressed, “No, answer my question. What makes you think I can fight?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” A beat. “Hijikata-san, you might sew fabric and you might sell medicine…” Kondo found his gaze then, and there was a particular directness in it that spoke novels all on its own. “But the calluses on your hands tell me those aren’t the only things they’re capable of.”

Well…shit.

¹ bushimichi: I needed the kid to misread the word bushido, so I swapped the "do" kanji reading with its other reading "michi." Suffice to say, this is a made-up word. Just wanted to make a note of it in case anyone wondered.

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