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DISCLAIMER: If the kenshingumi belonged to me, there would be many, many mini-ninja girls with long braids running around calling Aoshi ‘Daddy-sama’.
PREFACE: because Aoshi is so easy to torture. It is easiest to humiliate the guys with dignity, after all.
Shamelessly inspired by Fruit Passion, slapstick humour, Atomic Café’s Aoshi and Misao Interludes (on devart), and the many, various Let’s-torture-Aoshi! fics out there, which are wonderful to read when in need of cheering up.
Dedicated to treehuggingbran7 for staunch support of the Aoshi/Misao pairing, and being a nice reviewer. :3
Applejuice.
While it was impossible for Misao to drag Aoshi anywhere, due to their relative sizes, the small girl was making a great effort, giving the impression that she was, in fact, leading him by the hand- even though he was walking quite calmly and slowly behind her.
Bustling along as she was, her braid swayed merrily behind her, cutting swathes through the softly falling snow, which in spite of the cold weather, glistened briefly in the light of still-glowing lanterns before melting into the gravel that crunched beneath their sandals.
The early morning light cast rosy shadows over mounds of snow, pushed out from the road by shop-keepers clearing paths, and the air was crisp enough to tingle with every breath drawn in.
“Misao, it is barely an hour after dawn. I highly doubt the fruit vendors would have sold all of their wares.”
“You never know, Aoshi-sama!” the girl called back cheerfully over one scarf-wrapped shoulder, “Fruit sells quickly this time of year, and it can be months before the really good stuff starts growing again! I don’t wanna risk it, you know? And besides, Omasu said if I get her some nice peaches, she’ll make me pickled plum spring rolls, so we gotta hurry!”
Aoshi blinked once, considering whether to point out the incongruence of the girl’s statement, but decided against it. As it was, his eye was drawn to the basket swinging on her left arm, decorated brightly with scraps of silk ribbon that fluttered with every step she took into the bracing wind. It was not cold enough to hinder activity, the merest touch of chill in the air enough to sustain snowflakes and redden cheeks.
Misao’s breath puffed in clouds over her shoulder, and Aoshi knew that her cheeks would be flushed with pink and her eyes would glitter with happiness, framed by the dark hair that curved in soft locks around her face. His impression was confirmed by the cheerful smile she shot him, half-turning enough to grin up at him, but not enough to lose momentum.
He’d been to the morning markets with her many times as a child, during those brief breathers between work and battles fought in shadows, and never before had she glowed with joy as she did now.
Of course, then she had been little more than a toddler and it had been he holding her hand and leading her along, not the other way around.
“Aha! That’s the stall, Aoshi-sama! And look- there’s already people there! I told you there would be! Come on!”
She tugged his hand once, and upon noticing that he wasn’t about to break into a run with her, huffed and ran on ahead, leaving him to follow at a more sedate pace.
Misao grinned back, as always, hefting her basket into view.
“I’d like some peaches, white peaches if you’ve got ‘em, dark purple plums, and some apples please. Thanks, Hiroshi-san!”
Hiroshi’s answering smile was bright enough; that Aoshi had no problem with. The speculative gleam that sparked in eyes the colour of mud, however, caused something unpleasant to twitch in his stomach. Turning, the fruit-seller managed to rake his eyes over the young woman’s frame surreptitiously whilst gathering her chosen produce.
Again, something twitched in his stomach, and it was enough to unsettle him.
Forcing himself to ignore the small –very small- voice at the back of his mind that was howling for retribution, Aoshi tried to reason why exactly he would require a reckoning in the first place.
“Oh, you’re lucky Misao-chan! You’ve just gotten the last apples of the season. Here, try one.”
“Thanks, Hiroshi-san!”
After observing the salacious grin Misao was given, along with one small green apple –the girl oblivious to the former as she was gleefully focused on the latter- it was his mouth that twitched this time, itching to curve itself into a snarl he knew would startle the young man into propriety.
He supposed it was to be expected, though. The girl was of marriageable age, and no doubt would be keenly observed by many other young men also. She was not unattractive; he had heard enough of the running commentary by Okon and Omasu to know that she had her fair share of admirers, even if she did blithely ignore them, so it was reasonable to assume this was not a recent development.
However, that didn’t stop it from bothering him.
Aoshi focused his gaze on the man –boy, sneered his thoughts, just a little boy- and smirked with some satisfaction when he shuddered, looked up and blanched.
It would be so easy, so very easy, to make sure he never laid an inappropriate eye on her again...
Crunch.
“Hey, you’re right Hiroshi-san! These are great!” exclaimed Misao around a mouthful of apple-flesh, lips wet with juice.
“You have other shopping, Misao?”
“Just the basics, Aoshi-sama,” tossed the girl over her shoulder, not even bothering to turn to face him.
Which was irritating. Times past, she would have not only glanced over her shoulder to watch him speak but would have dropped everything, spun on the spot, braid whipping round to focus on him and with wide, awe-struck eyes, watch every word fall from his lips.
It bothered him she was not doing so now, and bothered him more that it bothered him at all.
In your new-found humility, you miss her adulation. But that is how it should be. Desire is a roadblock on the path to achievement of true nirvana.
Said small, irritating voice spoke up on the merits of the physical versus the spiritual, and Aoshi felt a nerve twitch. It was far too early in the morning for metaphysical debates over the attractiveness of Misao vs. the pursuit of Nirvana!
...I did not just think that.
“I knew you’d like them, Misao-chan!”
And that smile was far, far too liberal for a man who was hardly an acquaintance.
“I’ll take a dozen, please. And don’t forget those peaches! Hey, now- careful packing them! You know how peaches bruise!” a small finger waggled in admonishment, and the fruit seller had the grace to look embarrassed.
The other hand held a half-eaten apple, white flesh gleaming with juice and a few, scattered snowflakes.
That same waggling finger crooked at him in a gesture he did not appreciate, and after handing over far too much money for admittedly appealing but unnecessary fruit, he found himself, wallet lighter and arms laden with baskets behind a blithe Misao, who skipped merrily down the road.
“Hurry up, Aoshi-sama! We've still got to get miso and rice and be back before the breakfast rush!”
What rush? It’s the middle of winter, and the Aoi-ya has been quiet for days. Most likely you would rather be home to curl up in a still-warm bed.
Which lead to thoughts of his own bed and the fact that the early-morning light was still dim enough for at least another few hours worth of sleep...
Self denial and discipline was one thing. Sleep deprivation on account of too many late nights listening to the perverted, drunken ramblings of old men was another.
A basket carrying the sought-after peaches dangled from a slender hand whilst the other held fruit to her mouth. Aoshi, occupied with balancing a bucket of rice on one end of the pole slung over his shoulders, a bucket of dried miso powder on the other end and various parcels slung in between –essentials, Misao had claimed, that may not have been on the short list they were given but still vital (although how silk sashes were vital to the running of a successful kitchen was anyone’s guess)- watched a thin line of juice trickle down her chin, only to be flicked up by a pink tongue.
Why the girl was eating fruit with the same careless abandon most young women gave to their young men, he’d never know. That apple could not possibly taste as good as she imagined it to.
It was merely fruit, after all. Which did not explain the barely decent moan that escaped following a particularly moist crunch.
“Mm-mhm! Hiroshi-san was right when he said Okuda Orchards grew the best apples this side of Nagasaki! You want one, Aoshi-sama?”
“I have no hands free to eat it. And no, I do not. At any rate, Omasu is expecting these packages. It would be best to make haste.”
A hand-spread gesture, possibly in disgust at his refusal to eat fruit, although one never knew with Misao, pulled her kimono tighter against her slender frame. A thought that were she more buxom that would’ve been an interesting sight was firmly slapped down.
He tried to think innocent thoughts. Fruit. Rice. Sandals. Tonight’s dinner- and had to pause and wonder why he was finding it necessary to concentrate on innocent images in the first place. It was not like him to find his mind wandering so freely. Perhaps it would be best if he sequestered himself in the temple until this strange fancy passed him by?
“You’re no fun, Aoshi-sama! ‘Masu won’t mind if we’re a little late. Here- live a little!”
The apple thumped against his head, and after a mere four seconds, he managed to free a hand to catch it, admittedly by off balancing himself and landing, on his backside, in the half-melted slurry. The pole slipped from his shoulders, and packages rained down onto the ground with soft thumps, and in the case of the rice, a loud whump, which, in turn attracted the attention of a group of small children and their teacher, causing an even larger crowd to gather to find out what the commotion was about upon hearing said small children shrieking and giggling.
Great. What is it about this girl that has me channelling that clown, Himura?
(In a dojo a few days’ walk away, Kenshin sneezed suddenly, tripping over a sandal he could’ve sworn hadn’t been there before, and barrelled into a stunned Kaoru, landing them both on slippery polished floor. After prying himself from said dojo’s master’s cleavage and slipping over in his embarrassed haste, Kenshin found himself staring up the business end of a bokken and wondering why fate was so cruel. What did I- Oh. Right. Killed a lot of people. Ooh, this is gonna hurt)
Misao clamped her mouth shut, lips pressed tight together, and tried to mantain composure although her face was rapidly turning red from the force of restrained laughter.
He had to wonder whether if she turned blue from choking back giggles, and subsequently not breathing, if it would cause blue-ish blotches or just tint her whole face purple.
Aoshi tried to sit up, and something squished beneath his left thigh, leaving a wet, sticky stain to spread over his muddy, once-green yakuta. It seemed the plums from his now crushed fruit basket –the one that had been between the rice and a package of soft silks, now discoloured by the slush- had rolled from the wreckage to safety, only to find themselves sat on. Wonderful.
If shopping is not a trial to test us on our path to true enlightenment, I for one will be very surprised, thought Aoshi darkly as Misao, cheeks purple in contrast to her red face, unable to restrain herself anymore, burst into sniggering laughter.
“Misao.”
“And if you’d not worried about the rice being spilt in a puddle, that guy probably wouldn’t have walked into you. And it really wasn’t nice of you to call him that, even if he did kick you.”
“Misao...”
“...which would’ve prevented the police from becoming involved, and would’ve stopped that creep Saito from impounding our shopping as evidence, and demanding you pay for storage.”
“Misao...”
“...and you don’t have to take that tone with me. I was just pointing out the obvious. But hey, at least we still have the peaches, which is what we came to town for in the first place!”
He was finding it very hard to believe she could create something positive out of this whole... debacle, although that was the nature of one Makimachi Misao. Nevertheless, there she was, grinning up at him, three-quarters-eaten apple still in hand –how on earth it had survived intact he’d never know- and walking along with a spring in her step. Snowflakes, still falling through the now-midday sun, landed gently in coal-dark hair, and though her face was no longer red-and-purple, her cheeks were still flushed from the cool wind.
It was entirely unfair that she managed to look quite fetching whilst he –covered in half-melted snow, still-frozen snow, mud, plum juice, stray grains of rice, boot prints and with a large rip up the side of his yakuta which meant his left leg was very cold indeed- was an utter mess.
Such is life, and such misery will surely earn me a better place on the wheel of reincarnation.
“I still think if you’d been a little less serious, you’d have accepted my offer and had an apple, which means we wouldn’t have walked straight into that brawl near the Shirobeko. It’s just like Okina says- you’ve gotta lighten up. Live a little!”
“‘live a little’, Misao?”
“Yeah- you know, be more impulsive. Take a risk! Stop being so straight and narrow all the time and do something fun!”
Fun? Her definition of fun seemed to stretch to encompass activities most would consider disastrous, or in some cases, suicidal.
“Hey! What the heck happened to you two!? And why’d you take so long?”
Okon was running, arms waving madly, and if that was the police carriage parked outside the Aoi-ya, he was just going to go back to bed and sleep until summer. Surely everything would have blown over by then...?
Misao crossed her arms and nodded sagely.
“That’s your problem, Aoshi-sama. You let all the small stuff get you down. If you had more fun with life, you wouldn’t be so damn gloomy all the time.”
That little smug smile was surely the cause of his growing headache. Misao nodded once, satisfied her point had been driven across, and brought apple to mouth with a crunch.
Later, Aoshi would claim temporary loss of mind and common sense- but for now, that little, annoying, cackling voice in his head –the one that, oddly enough, sounded a lot like Misao herself- won out, and he found himself doing something spontaneous and quite possibly “fun”, whatever that meant.
Very spontaneous, and it was enough to quiet the distant howls of the Aoi-ya crew, Misao’s smug deliberation of why he wasn’t having any so-called “fun”, and the incessant chattering of that damn voice!
Misao’s mouth was warm –no doubt from the constant stream of hot air it produced- and tasted of, mostly, fruit. Her tongue flicked against his in startled curiosity, and he felt –distantly, through the warm, pleasant, apple-flavoured haze that seemed to have sunk over him- her dangling feet tap against his shins.
Some time passed, and he felt her go boneless in his arms, which was surprisingly nice. That nagging voice was quiet, although he didn’t seem to be able to bring himself to stop.
She made a little sighing noise, loud enough in the relative silence surrounding them, and a brief thought wondered what this strange tableau would look like to an observer.
Aoshi, tired of such annoying, pointless, tangent-chasing thinking –which seemed to be thew root of all his problems-, gave it a metaphorical thwack. Thankfully, his mind fell quiet once more.
More time passed, and his body pointed out that although this was quite enjoyable, and possibly the only revenge he needed against Okina and his meddling, he did need to breathe.
He let go of the girl gently, touched her sandaled feet to gravel with utmost care, and steadying her with one arm –she looked dazed enough to just topple over, there and then- blinked to clear his most-assuredly addled mind.
The words, “those apples do taste good,” slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. Misao swayed a little when he withdrew his arm, but otherwise seemed steady enough, if only semi-conscious.
Okina, staring open-mouthed next to a wolf whose expression Aoshi did not appreciate, opened said mouth once or twice, but seemed unable to produce any sound. Which was a considerable relief.
“Was that ‘living a little’, Okina? And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed.”
He brushed past Okon, pushed a basket of miraculously un-scathed plums into Jiro’s hands and stomped upstairs to a waiting futon.
The puddles on the floor from the snow he dragged with him, his ruined yakuta, and indeed, Misao herself, could all be dealt with later.
For now, all that mattered was ensuring he got a few hours sleep. After all, he had the sneaking suspicion things might be a little chaotic when he woke up...
His last thought before collapsing, face-first onto futon was, from now on, he would not get out of bed before noon, even if Misao asked him to and especially not to go shopping.
Hee. :3