From: "Tin Mandigma" Hello, minna-san *pokes head out of lurker hole*. Eheh. Gomen for the very long, er, silence ^^;;. Been very busy with school, fics, unexpected trips... Anyway, before anything else, I'd like to extend my congratulations to all the winners in the recent RK Readers' Choice Awards! ^________^V *waves flags* Let's keep the fires burning, minna! *grin* And, yes, thanks also to all those who nominated and voted for my fiction =^_^=. Mightily appreciated *bows deeply*. And to show my appreciation, here's the long-delayed Part 4 of Ikebana: Ikebana by Tin Mandigma -------------------------------------------------------------------- This is a Rurouni Kenshin-inspired fanfic written entirely for entertainment purposes only. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Heh, heh ^____^. More OOCness, more sap, more mindless fluff, more weirdness. Not one of my subtler--and better--attempts, but what the hell, this is just for fun. Aoshi is especially out of it, so, guys, please read this chapter with an extremely large pinch of salt at hand ;). I think I've also blown cultural details to kingdom come. Please see my notes for excuses--er, explanations. Previous parts here: http://members.dencity.com/Tin/fanfics/rk/series.html Kaoru-sensei, this one's for you! ^__^ Needed the push! And yeah... *sticks tongue out back* Part 4: Misao's answer was brutally swift. "Get lost," she declared. To his chagrin, he felt himself flushing. Very slightly, of course, but the faint rush of blood which tingled his cheeks was telltale enough for him to feel embarrassed at its presence. He blinked in surprise. It was an odd feeling: embarrassment. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so--shy. It felt good, actually. If only it weren't so--he frowned-- physically uncomfortable. "I--I--well--I" Shimatta, he was even stuttering. What next? 'Drop dead in front of her, most probably,' he thought drily. Fortunately, though, Misao had other plans for him. "There's no need to make fun of me, Aoshi-sama," she snapped, eyes glinting a vivid blue beneath the fine strands of black hair which fell loosely across her face. "You told me you would help me." A significant pause. And then, icily, "You are not helping." '*Un*fortunately,' he corrected himself in wry amusement as he flinched--very slightly again--from the oh-so-silky riposte. She'd learned a lot more from him than he thought. 'Not that you would have noticed.' He squelched the thought fiercely. Not this morning. There was more than enough time for self-recrimination tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day... Forever, in fact. Today, he was determined to be free. If he couldn't let go of the past, he wanted one more chance to live in it. The good parts, at least. "But I want to help, Misao," Aoshi said mildly. "I'm *trying* to help." Delicate eyebrows arched. "You know, you could *do* that if you'd only start telling the truth, Aoshi-sama," she countered haughtily. 'All over again,' he thought, remembering long-ago afternoons when she would clamber on his lap, demanding to be carried, cajoled, sang to... Her Imperial Highness, the Tyrant of All Childhood Tyrants, was how Okina referred to her. But to Aoshi, she was simply--Misao. And now she was his Misao... all over again. 'You sentimental old fool,' he derided himself in an experimental burst of half-hearted sarcasm and nostalgia. He waited for the usual tide of guilt and self-revulsion... yes, he was a fool... unworthy... He just felt smug. It *was* nice to make fun of oneself once in a while. "Well?" "I was telling the truth!" he retorted. She eyed him suspiciously. Aoshi shifted in his stance. If he was more honest himself, he could say he 'squirmed,' but then... "I swear," he muttered defensively. He suddenly found himself staring down at her outstretched hand. "What--" "Then give me the 'manual,' Aoshi-sama," she said with deliberate sweetness. 'Oh,' he thought hollowly. "Oh," he repeated with unwitting eloquence. Misao tilted her head to one side, mouth pursed as she watched him. He was aghast to realize he was staring back, mouth hanging open. He closed it immediately, hoping he wasn't drooling as well. He wasn't ready to give that much up yet. 'You cannot let your control slip!' a part of him nagged mercilessly. Misao's mouth quivered at the corners, one end curving upward in a half-smile. He had never been tempted more in all his life to smile back. To grin, even. Or laugh? 'No! No! No!' Maybe just this once...? "Aoshi-sama?" she queried, taking a step forward. "The manual..." He cleared his throat, wrenching his gaze away to stare intently instead at the fine network of lines which criss-crossed her palm; smooth in some places, rough in others where it met the obdurate resistance of a callus or two. A faint--and obviously fresh--streak of blood on her thumb caught his attention, and his gaze sharpened. From the flowers, probably. Speaking of which... He risked another quick glance at her from beneath his lashes. The amusement was gone. Misao glowered back at him. "Well?" she bit out. 'Time,' he told himself resolutely. 'You must stall for time.' Must keep those other memories at bay. He *was* the master of denial, wasn't he? "Aoshi-sama..." It was a low contralto; melodious, soothing, silky. Under other circumstances, he might have found it immeasurably appealing as well. Especially since it came from her... If only it didn't remind him of another voice. *That* voice. His resolve strengthened by something he refused to identify as horror, Aoshi took a step back, schooling his features automatically. "Maybe we should just talk to Kakeru-san," he commented in as calm a voice as he could muster. He waited a beat, and then, "He could teach you everything you need to know about flower arrangement." Silence. He braced himself for the outburst he could practically *feel* fighting its way out of her tightly-compressed mouth. His gaze moved down to the floor, watching a small slippered foot tap once. Then twice. Thrice... "But Aoshi-sama," a gentle coaxing tone. "I want to see your manual... please?" 'Oh no,' he thought. 'Not this. It's been years--' A hand on his sleeve; slim form bending down to the waist, hands on knees; small face peering up at him pleadingly. 'All over again.' Think, he thought bracingly. What do you do when she--when she does this? But then, the Misao he'd known over the past year had been funny,loud, outrageous, exasperating, maddeningly cheerful. But she wasn't like--like *this*. This Misao was so--Misao, she was frightening. Wide blue eyes stared at him with unblinking persistence. Aoshi swallowed. He must have done *something* about this when she was a child... He couldn't have just stood by while she batted her eyelashes and smiled at him sweetly, right? Right. So... what *did* he do then? "Misao..." "Please, Aoshi-sama?" For a second, his mind went terrifyingly blank. What? What? What? Ignored her? Protested? Called Okina? And then realization dawned... Nothing. It figured. "I--" he began, but his next words locked in his throat as she smiled at him. "I--" "I'm sorry..." she murmured. He blinked. "I don't mean to be so--well, childish. It's just that... Us, like this, you know." And she shrugged, still smiling slightly. It would have been a lot easier for them both if any hint of artifice marred her actions; simpering coquettery he could spot, and withstand. But not this almost unbearable lightness, and simplicity, and a feeling of rightness so intense he couldn't have denied its presence even if he wanted to. Which he didn't. Aoshi knew that he was at the end of his tether. "It's a very strange manual," he burst out desperately. Her eyes widened. 'Perfect, Aoshi,' he told himself scathingly. 'You know just how to turn her off, do you?' A bad choice of words, as it happened. Her hand closed around his arm firmly, her hair brushing against his cheek as she nudged him toward the hallway. Too bemused to protest, he allowed himself to be half-dragged out of the kitchen, rousing only with an incoherent denial as she muttered something about 'heavy old men.' "That's not fair..." "Shut up, Aoshi-sama." He did. 'But just this once,' he reminded himself ruefully. After this, he would have his turn in the tyrant's seat. He smiled inwardly-- not without any satisfaction--at the thought. Misao dragged him unceremoniously down a turn in the hall, toward the rooms at the back to the Aoiya. "Where are we going?" he managed to say. "To your room," she huffed. Since he was being condemned to an untimely admission of past shame, he put it upon himself to intervene, for basic proprietary reasons at least. "If Okina ever finds out..." She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled her child's smile again. "I drugged him," she said with an off-hand shrug. "You didn't," he returned mildly. Misao's smile widened. "I wanted to surprise everyone, Aoshi-sama," she admitted cheerfully. "Especially you. But..." She paused as they stopped in front of his room and she glanced at him, her bright blue eyes clouded, as if suddenly uncertain. Imitating her shrug, he reached out and slid the shogi screens open, keeping his thoughts resolutely away from what certainly lay ahead for him. "But...?" The uncertainty was gone. "I didn't expect that *you* would surprise me, Aoshi-sama," she said softly. 'If only,' he thought wistfully as he stepped into his room. She followed after him quickly, eagerly. "Why couldn't you just have studied how to paint? Or sew?" he asked aloud in an aggrieved tone. "But flower arrangement? It takes talent!" "Aoshi-sama," she said slowly. "You sound like you're speaking from experience." He glared at her as he yanked a small box from underneath his table toward the middle of the room. Misao dropped down on her haunches beside him, the frayed edges of her overly large apron billowing on the floor. She looked fresh, buouyant, so very alive. Aoshi sighed. She tilted her head toward the box questioningly, blue eyes expectant. Resignedly, he reached out to open the box. Misao leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. But he harbored no illusions as to her reaction when she saw the 'manual,' and more importantly, heard the story behind it. Now that he thought about it, embarrassment was not so great, after all. Not when he faced the prospect of years worth of it in the space of a single morning. 'You must not laugh... must not laugh... must not laugh...' Misao took a deep breath as she watched Aoshi open the box with the air of a man being untimely condemned to his death. She wondered idly why he, of all people, had a manual on ikebana, of all things. A gift from his mother? Part of onmitsu training? She dismissed the possibility with a wry smile, though it did hold some merit. An image of a young Aoshi in an apron pottering about in a garden with a katana in one hand and a rake in the other flickered in her mind and she nearly burst out laughing then. Aoshi stirred, eyes darkening, his mouth pursing into what looked like--and would *have* been if it wasn't so... unbelievable--a pout. Instantly attentive, Misao stared at him wide-eyed, her own lips curving into a bemused smile. Her earliest memories of him had been those of a laughing and loving boy, who would creep into her room every night when she was a child to sing lullabies which served to awaken her more than they put her to sleep; or to tell stories guaranteed to keep her giggling uncontrollably for hours on end, much to her father's consternation. Later, when things had changed irrevocably within him and between them, and her beloved Aoshi-sama had become a mere shadow of what he had once been, she'd buried those memories under her own anguish and anger, forgotten them even when the extent of present pain had consumed everything she had, including her past. There was simply no space left in her to remember, only to create, and the Aoshi she imagined in her mind was sad and desolate and unapproachable, an Aoshi who never smiled. And now, it was as if time had stepped backward voluntarily, and allowed them to live in a piece of happiness long-forgotten. She knew it would not last, and that tomorrow, he would be the Aoshi she *knew*. But she didn't mind. She was only glad. She would remember this morning, cherish it in her soul like the precious memory it was. So that when he was back to being Aoshi, and she was back to being Misao, she would have something to beautiful to cling on. "Misao." She blinked. "Yes?" she asked absently. A long-suffering sigh, and then her hand was taken in another, much larger one, and held for a moment in a warm and strangely intimate clasp. It took a minute longer before Misao realized that Aoshi had pressed something into her palm, which rubbed against her skin with the distinctive roughness of old paper. She looked down, startled, and beheld a thin manuscript, bound at the side by worn threads which wove in and out of the paper in tiny ribbons. Equally miniscule pink flowers decorated the cover, rendered by an obviously amateur hand. And Misao, whose one virtue in life, according to Okina, was her inclination toward the arts, knew a sloppy job when she saw one, and the manual was certainly as sloppy as they come. If *this* was the best those ikebana masters can do, she decided, then I'd better start my own school... "Well?" Aoshi inquired testily. "Aren't you going to open it?" Misao frowned as she turned a page gingerly. "It looks--strange," she murmured. "Not at all what I would have expected in a--a manual in flower arrangement..." Aoshi muttered something about not judging a book by its cover. Misao stared. "Something I learned from Okon," he said defensively. "Which she probably learned from one of her foreigner boyfriends?" Misao nodded sagely. "In this case, meaning?" "Meaning, just because it looks terrible doesn't mean it *is*," Aoshi answered. Misao glared at him suspiciously. "Are you nervous, Aoshi-sama?" she asked, tongue in cheek. "No," Aoshi denied curtly. "I just want you to get on with it." Perversely, she decided to take her own sweet time. With deliberate, almost ridiculous care, Misao smoothed the pages with her fingers, glancing at Aoshi to gauge his reaction. He looked relaxed in his seat, but she could detect a glimmer of sweat trickling down the side of his cheek. And his hands were clasped so tightly the knuckles were almost white. She grinned. Oh yes. He was nervous all right. She turned another page, and caught sight of a few scribbled characters. Frowning, she peered closer, straining to read... 'Aoshi.' Wait a minute. Aoshi? "Aoshi-sama," she said, confused. "Your name's here." "What?" Aoshi snapped. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn he was actually--horrified. "That's *not* possible." Misao shook her head. "No, I'm sure of it," she muttered. "Is this a dedication?" "A dedication?" Aoshi asked in a strangled voice. She glanced at him askance. "You mean you didn't bother to read this, Aoshi-sama?" Aoshi's face looked calm. Almost too calm. "I didn't... Well, it was a gift..." "A gift?" Misao frowned. She looked at the page again. And nearly choked as the words finally registered on her mind. "'Aoshi honey,'" she began carefully, enunciating every word, "this is for you, to help you on your way *giggle*. I'll miss you lots, dahling. And remember, to me, you'll always be a flower in bloom. You go, girl. Love and kisses *mwah*, Miki-chan." There was silence in the room for a very long time. Stupefied, Misao stared down at what was probably the most disgusting document ever to be written in the history of Japan. The perfidy, the shame, the absolute horror of it all... And to think that just a few moments ago, she was waxing nostalgic about her Aoshi-sama and the wonderful time they were having, when all along, he just wanted to show her this--this memento of his past flame! And she thought he was a virgin! The wretch. The ungrateful unfaithful un-everything desirable wretch! Misao took a deep breath... and another... and another... When she thought she could speak without developing a splitting headache from the effort, she opened her mouth. And promptly lost her temper all over again when she caught a glimpse of *his* catatonic expression. Like he had the right to look stricken! "Aoshi-sama... who the *hell* is Miki-chan?!" she screeched. Aoshi wished he didn't leave his kodachi in his closet. He didn't think he could committ seppuku with a chopstick, though Misao would probably be more than willing to cut off his head. 'Aoshi, when you could no longer live with honor, then you must die with honor,' Okina's voice intruded into his thoughts. 'That is the way of a true warrior.' Well, he thought numbly, he certainly could not live with honor, not after this episode. If Misao *somehow* decided to spare him, he honestly didn't think he would ever survive the shame of what he'd just heard, anyway. Far better to die now, than to hear those words over and over in his thoughts and his dreams. Even if dying meant death from wooden splinters. 'Aoshi honey...' He shuddered. On the other hand, there might still be a way to salvage the situation. "Misao," he said carefully. "Maybe you could let me explain." Blue eyes glittered at him furiously, and he flinched very very slightly. "Explain?" she demanded. "Explain?! You damn well *better* explain!" He tried to project an air of bland concern. "There's a very good reason behind this--this," he managed to choke out. A raised eyebrow was his only answer. "It's an Oniwabanshuu affair," he said desperately. This time, her disagreement was verbal. "You don't say." "It's true," he retorted stiffly. "Aoshi-sama..." "This is not exactly easy for me, you know," he said through gritted teeth. "Kindly do not interrupt." Misao glared at him coldly. He sighed. "It happened when I was thirteen..." <"Are you sure about this, Aoshi-sama?" Haanya asked nervously, placing his ear against Aoshi's door. "Of course I am!" came the hissed answer. "This is the only way, and you know it!" "The Okashira left explicit orders that you were not to be allowed to participate in this operation," Haanya hissed back. "And if Okina finds out about this..." "He won't," was the muffled reply. A faint rustling sound was heard, followed by a muttered curse. Alarmed, Haanya leaned closer. "Aoshi-sama?" "Just one of those stupid pins... Ouch! Kuso!" "Maybe I should call Okon," Haanya said. "Don't you dare, Haanya," Aoshi responded with a low threatening growl."You know that if I don't do this, there's no way the operation would succeed." Haanya frowned. "Well, Okina and I would be there..." "You are not exactly nubile, Haanya," Aoshi retorted coldly. "So is Okina. I'm the logical choice." A pause. "Though if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll kill you." Haanya smiled. "Why not Okon then? Or Omasu?" "Because," Aoshi said patiently, "the damn whorehouse is looking for young *boys*! Don't you get it?" "But Aoshi-sama, it's dangerous..." The door slid open suddenly, revealing a *very* nubile Aoshi dressed in a fetching kimono, his hair hidden beneath a shining black wig, his face painted blindingly white. A scowl ruined the picture, however, as the fan which waved threateningly in the air like a katana. "A-A-Aoshi-sama," Haanya stuttered out. Aoshi's scowl deepened. "The danger as you put it Haanya lies in my losing patience with all this frippery and tearing them all out, including any idiot who bars my way, before I could even *approach* the assignation point." He glared at Haanya. "So I suggest that we leave *quietly*, all right, Haanya?" Haanya bowed deferentially. "Whatever you say, Aoshi-sama." He hid a smile as Aoshi walked past him, wooden sandals a-clattering. "Uh, Aoshi-sama?" "Yes?" Aoshi snapped. "I think you ought to go there barefoot lest you alert the entire Oniwabanshuu, the damn whorehouse, and the entire population of Kyoto before we, uh, approach the assignation point--ooomph!" The geta were promptly flung into his face, nearly splitting his mask. "Aoshi-sama! Wait up!"> "Let me get this straight," Misao said slowly. "You walked around Kyoto dressed as a *girl*?" "Not exactly," he muttered. "I dressed up as a boy dressed as a girl. There's a difference." "Oh," Misao said. At least she didn't sound like a virago anymore, Aoshi thought. He slid a glance at her. Misao's face was bland, almost expressionless. Even her eyes were inscrutable. He was instantly wary. "So," he said. "So..." Misao repeated. "This is all very fascinating, Aoshi-sama. But you still haven't gotten to the good parts, yet." Aoshi cleared his throat. "The good parts?" She smiled, not at all unpleasantly. "Miki-chan." He smiled back, not at all pleasantly. "Miki-chan." <"Oh! He's sooooo cute!" "Lemme at him! Lemme at him!" "Can I pinch your cheeks, sweetie?" Simpering laughter. "I absolutely adore baby fat!" He strove for control. "I am not fat," he said politely. "But you are soooooo cute!" Aoshi decided that if he heard the word 'cute' one more time, he'll stab everyone within grabbing range with one of his freaking hair pins, success of the operation and the honor of the Oniwabanshuu be damned. "Oh! Isn't he soooooo--" He tensed, an unholy light gleaming in his eyes as he waited for *the* word. 'Come on,' he thought expectantly. 'Say it. Say it...' "--adorable?! Just look at him!" Trilling exclamations of 'yes, he's sooooo adorable,' reverberated in his ears, and Aoshi mentally changed his benchmark for rampaging insanity. He should never have disobeyed Okina, he thought sullenly as he cringed from yet another pinch in his baby chock-full-of-fat cheeks. And the Okashira would probably condemn him to a life's imprisonment in this place as punishment, unless he died from sheer agony first. Aoshi clenched his jaw. When the Oniwabanshuu had agreed to cooperate with the Kyoto police force to halt the traffic of child prostitutes in the city, he had looked foward to being part of the crackdown team, and had been duly frustrated when the Okashira, Misao's father, had squelched the idea firmly. 'Aoshi is too young,' was the general consensus. 'He could prove himself some other time.' But he wanted to prove himself now, he protested. 'No,' was the unequivocal answer. And so, with typical determination and stubborness, he decided to prove that he can prove himself. Now look where it's gotten me, he muttered to himself in anguish. Right in the middle of gay limbo. And his first real assignment for the Oniwabanshuu would go down in the annals of the organization as an example in idiocy and all-out shame. He thought he'd entered the inn unobtrusively, but he'd only lasted a minute before the damn wannabe geishas sniffed him out and deposited him squarely in the middle of the room. He'd been ogled, pinched and cooed over for the past hour more times than he could care to count. 'It's dangerous, Aoshi-sama,' Haanya's voice intoned warningly in his mind. He shuddered as he contemplated the various indignities he would probably have to bear before he could safely annihilate them all. He will bear the humiliation manfully, of course. But still... Wrapped in his misery, he didn't notice the sudden silence which had swamped the room, until it was too late. A man dressed in a pink kimono beside him grabbed his arm then with the whispered admonition: "Oh, darling, you're so lucky..." Lucky? In this place, there was no such thing as 'lucky.' Unless... Aoshi swallowed as a path was cleared before him, and then a huge-- something wrapped in yards of filmy magenta gauze draped over a bright red kimono strode toward him with all the grace of a walking pumpkin. Bony hands flapped out, waving imperiously at the murmuring crowd. And then the thing paused and stared at Aoshi. Or in his general direction, anyway. Aoshi backed away hurriedly, manful composure forgotten as sudden terror seized him. A thin finger extended excitedly, crooking repeatedly in a parody of a seductive invitation. Somebody shoved him from behind and Aoshi fairly flew off his ramp, and landed in an undignified heap in front of the apparition. Face down, his butt sticking up in the air, he wished for death. For about the hundredth time. And, suddenly, the finger was brushing his chin, tilting it up. Aoshi found himself staring into dark kohl-rimmed eyes beneath a pair of pencilled eyebrows which went as far back as the receding hairline. He took a deep breath, and his head reeled from the scent of what seemed like tons of decaying flowers. "Oh honey," a deep throaty voice intoned. "You are sooooo cute!"> "Did you kill him?" Misao queried breathlessly. Aoshi scowled. "No. I didn't have the chance." Misao blinked. "You mean you didn't really want to kill him," she stated. "No," Aoshi answered. "It means I wanted to but I couldn't." She seemed to have all but forgotten her anger. Misao drew her knees up to chest level, propping her chin on her wrapped arms. "Why?" she asked curiously, half-smiling already. Somewhat mollified, Aoshi allowed himself to relax as well. Not completely, but just enough to force himself to tell the rest of the story. And maybe have a joke at her expense as well as payback. "Because my hands were busy elsewhere," he said blandly. Misao gasped. "Aoshi-sama, you didn't--" "No?" Aoshi said calmly. "But I did." <"No! Not like that! Like *this*!" He gritted his teeth, and tried again. "Like this?" An exasperated sigh. "Aoshi baby..." "Just Aoshi please," he muttered. "Aoshi... honey... don't you have any idea on how to--not there, dahling! You're--here... let me..." It was his turn to sigh. "Mikoda-san..." "It's Miki-chan," was the indignant reply. "If you call me by *that* wretched name again, I'll--I'll shave your eyebrows!" "OK," he choked out. "Miki-chan, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so new at this..." "Didn't your mother teach you how to paint your lips?" "Uh, no," he answered desperately. "Do I have to?" "But yes!" came the screeching affirmative. "People are only half-people without lip gloss!" Disconsolately, Aoshi stared at his reflection in the hand mirror he was carrying with one hand. The other hand was clasped tightly around his robe, for fear that letting would go would mean more unimaginable embarrassment. 'But Aoshi dahling,' Miki-chan's voice droned in his mind, 'think how great you'd look with body tatoos!' He shuddered. 'If Haanya and the rest could see me now, they'll probably disown me for good.' "Now," Miki-chan said briskly. "You have to learn how to darken your lids... just so..." He--or she, whatever, Aoshi thought miserably-- turned to an assistant who promptly held out an open lacquer case. "What color do you want, honey?" "Black?" he inquired hopefully. Miki-chan glared at him disapprovingly. "How dull! You'll look like a carp... Now *this* is the height of style!" "It's *scarlet*, Miki-chan!" Aoshi protested, squirming in his seat, his eyes flicking wildly around the room, looking for a sign of salvation. He had heard more about make-up, kimono, hairstyle and general tips for further cuteness in the past hour than he would care to actually *remember*. "I--I don't--" Aoshi winced as his eyelids were pried open. "Please..." "Just a little more, dahling," Miki-chan grunted. "Ah," he breathed in satisfaction. "Don't you look cute?" he beamed. Aoshi looked at his reflection once again... and wished for death once again. He looked like a half-baked gigolo with moon cakes for eyes. "Now, you only have to remember what I told you and you'll do fine," Miki-chan said, patting Aoshi's shoulder. "You have natural potential, honey. And," he giggled, "you're so pretty you make me envious! I'll bet that if you work hard, you'll even snag yourself a lord one of these days." Another trilling laugh. "But don't you forget us here, ne? Neeeee?" "No," Aoshi answered numbly. "I won't forget." The wall to his left suddenly exploded, sending wood, dust and general debris on his lap. Aoshi blinked. Miki-chan screeched. Screams promptly rent the air as mayhem ensued. Uniformed police troops streamed into the room, swords and wooden sticks ready. "What's wrong? Oh what's wrong?!" Miki-chan demanded, a hand on either side of his face. The man in the pink kimono--Yurimoto-san... no, Yuri-chan, Aoshi remembered--grabbed Miki-chan by the arm, screaming, "My dear, we have to flee! The police are upon us!" Miki-chan started to swoon. "But no...!" "If we don't leave soon," Yuri-chan choked brokenly, "who knows what they'll do to us? Put us in jail... Maybe even... Maybe even..." "Even what?" Miki-chan demanded shrilly. "Even rape us!" Aoshi blinked again. "That is a possibility I cannot endure!" Miki-chan railed, thrusting a fist into the air and catching a running policeman smack up in the jaw. "You are right, Yuri-chan. We must flee... But first..." He turned to Aoshi. "Aoshi-chan, would you like to go with us?" Aoshi only blinked in response. "The poor child's in shock," Yuri-chan said sympathetically. "Oh," Miki-chan murmured in anguish. "We must leave her. This is too much to bear..." "Come, Miki!" "Wait!" Miki-chan said imperiously as he drew something out of his kimono. "Aoshi-chan has a future ahead of her... and I cannot abandon her without leaving a small token of my appreciation,at least." He sniffed as he held up a small clumsily-bound book. "Your flower manual!" Yuri-chan gasped. "But you can't--!" "I have learned the lessons by heart," Miki-chan said resolutely. "Aoshi must learn, too. She is bright. She'll learn quickly." And he quickly scribbled something on the cover, closed the book with a heartfelt sigh, pressed it between Aoshi's open hands and pinched the boy gently on the cheek for good measure. "Take this and be happy, Aoshi honey," Miki-chan said and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd in a flurry of gauze and silk and nauseating perfume. Aoshi blinked for the umpteenth time. "You," an deep rough voice suddenly whispered into his ear with unholy glee, "are under arrest for violating the law and... the..." The man's voice tapered off as Aoshi finally looked up, eyes aglow with scarlet paint. "A-A-A-Aoshi?!" His Okashira uttered in a strangled voice. Aoshi's last memory of the night was grabbing the other man's wooden club and bonking himself on the head with it. And then blessed darkness.> Misao had buried her head into her arms, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Aoshi glared at her. "Well?" he demanded. "Is that it?" Misao said in a muffled voice. "Yes," Aoshi snapped. Misao peered up at him, blue eyes gleaming. "I just couldn't believe-- you'd actually--" "Misao," he ordered imperiously. "Don't you dare laugh or I swear I'll--" "Give me a free make-up session?" Misao grinned. Aoshi groaned. "So help me, Misao..." "Poor Aoshi-baby," Misao cooed. "It's a wonder you did not become a Kyoto sensation overnight. Jiya could have blackmailed you numerous times already..." "He didn't know," Aoshi muttered. Misao stared at him. "But that's impossible...!" "Your father decided to spare me the ordeal of a public humiliation," he said in an aggrieved tone. "Unlike his daughter, I suppose." Misao patted his arm. "Don't worry. We'll keep this between us, ne?" She winked at him and chuckled at his disgruntled expression. "At least something good came out of the entire experience." Aoshi raised an eyebrow. "Really? Aside from traumatizing me for years on end with nightmares about entering strange inns and meeting men dressed in, uh, pink, I don't understand how the experience could have been constructive." "Is that one of the reasons why you went after Himura?" Misao chortled. "Maybe," Aoshi said ruefully. "Sometimes he's too--I don't know--girly he scares me. Kinda reminds me of what I should have been," he said, straight-faced. Misao grinned at him. "What I meant was this manual, Aoshi-sama," she said, and waved the former in the air. "If it wasn't for Miki-chan's help..." She laughed again. "I guess that's the reason why you didn't even bother to read the manual, ne, Aoshi-sama? Though why you *kept* it is beyond me..." "I thought I might have use of it," Aoshi answered stiffly. Misao made a tutting sound as she flipped the pages, her eyes skimming over the characters, but... Her brow knitted. 'This is strange,' she thought as she turned the manual every which way. 'I don't understand--" "What is it, Misao?" Aoshi asked. "It's the manual," she answered. "I can't read it..." Aoshi frowned. "What?" 'This looks like--like...' Misao read the accompanying text quickly and her mouth fell open in shock. "Oh... Oh gods..." Aoshi leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to get a look at the manual. All he saw was a maze of lines and curves and little squigly things... "What's wrong?" he said hesitantly. "It's about ikebana, right?" Misao was turning blue. "It is a flower manual, yeah," she wheezed out. "Oh Aoshi-sama," and she grabbed his sleeve burying her face intpo his chest. Alarmed, he patted her heaving shoulders. She sounded like she was hyperventilating, but he couldn't be sure. He grabbed the manual from her unresisting fingers and stared intently at the strange figures. "I don't understand." "It's not about flowers," Misao whispered. "But it is--flowery... What did Miki-chan say before he gave it to you, Aoshi honey--er-- Aoshi-sama?" Aoshi stared bemusedly at her bent head. "Something about my future, and appreciation, and landing a lord before..." A terrible thought dawned on him. "Oh no. You can't mean he'd actually give me something like--like *that*?" Misao nodded. "I'm afraid he did," she said solemnly. 'And remember, to me, you'll always be a flower in bloom.' And Aoshi started laughing. NOTES: OK, I guess that was really weird *grin*. But I love making up stories about Aoshi's and Misao's, er, past ^_^v. Once again, begging your indulgence, minna-san. Now, on to the FAQ: 1. The reference to boys dressing up as girl prostitutes is a proven fact, though I'm not sure if it applied to pre-Meiji Japan ^_~. I actually based it on reports on New York prostitute dens in the late 19th century, where young, er, nubile boys put on make-up, girly clothes, etc., to please customers, such that doing so became almost custom, and not purely because of sexual reasons. Also, these boys-turned-girls are usually referred to by the female pronoun. 2. I have absolutely no verifiable knowledge on homosexuality and transvetites in 19th century Japan, though Kamatari in RKenshin is a notable example of both. However, my organized gang of gays and cross-dressers is a product of my imagination, and I mean no disrespect with regard to how I portrayed them, OK? ^_^v 3. Gomen nasai if I used Haanya in the fic, though I know that he didn't know Aoshi until the latter was around fifteen or sixteen in the series. Just for the story's purposes, ne? 4. The 'flower manual' is the product of yet another borrowing from a different cultural setting. In Nahuatl (or the language of ancient Mexica, i.e., the Aztecs), making love is usually signaled by the phrase "I shall caress him/her with flowers." Conversely, to kill another person is linguistically prologued by "I shall destroy him/her with flowers." More accurate details will be present next chapter ^_^. Yes, there *is* another chapter. Like everything else, this fic ran away from me -_-;;. Thanks, minna-san! ^_^ ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Get what you deserve with NextCard Visa! Rates as low as 2.9% Intro or 9.9% Fixed APR, online balance transfers, Rewards Points, no hidden fees, and much more! Get NextCard today and get the credit youdeserve! Apply now! Get your NextCard Visa at: http://click.egroups.com/1/912/4/_/_/_/951304640/ ------------------------------------------------------------------------