Slice of Life
Paint Me Pretty
They had rented a small house in Nihonbashi from a samurai who still thought Shinta was Aoshi�s slave. Shinta did not feel the need to disabuse him of the notion. There wasn�t much in to the place�a room for sleeping, a room for cooking. The bath was shared between three other houses. But they did have a porch, and there was a garden. Shinta had remembered that he loved to garden, and grew vegetables and herbs. A tree in the corner of the yard had a bird�s nest in the top.
Shinta was very, very happy here. Aoshi went to do his Edo Palace Security thing ever so often, and Shinta stayed home. He cleaned the house and washed clothes and worked in his garden. He went to the river and the sea, but he would not go to the market by himself. He recognized too many of the men to be comfortable there. He often felt as though he was a terrible burden to Aoshi�he was a man , after all, even if he rarely felt like it. He hated feeling that he should have some kind of job and knowing that he had no skills with which to pursue that desire.
Aoshi had said calmly that Shinta had "gender issues." Shinta snorted at the thought. Sometimes he found himself kneeling before he entered a room where Aoshi was; it was horribly embarrassing, even if Aoshi never knew it was happening. Sometimes, Shinta would wrap his hair up in the elaborate styles he had once worn all the time, to feel pretty. Those were bad days. Days preceded nightmares. It had been two years since Aoshi had bought him and taken him away.
Last night had been bad. He had dreamed about Masafumi and one of his "birthdays"�the anniversary of the first time Masafumi had taken him. The anniversary of the first time Shinta had been taken, period. He had been perhaps twelve, prettier then than he was now. Just learning how to enjoy it, if he wanted to. Masafumi had come to the brothel with four friends.
They had not left until sometime the next day. Shinta had been Sakura then, and had curled into a pool of his own blood and their semen. He had wept, long and hard, and even Rumi had known better than to force him to work.
Shinta woke to find Aoshi already gone. There was a note, but Shinta could not read it, and he lay on their futon, curled into himself, trembling. Of all the mornings for the shogun to need his Aoshi . . .!
Aoshi didn�t know he kept some of the makeup. Shinta didn�t know why he had. But as the morning turned into afternoon, he crept to the hiding place in the garden and pulled the small, pine box from beneath a rock. He ran, stiff-legged with fear and sick anticipation, back into the house. There was no mirror, of course, but he hardly needed one. The reflective surface of the water in a pot was enough.
He pulled his hair back first, into a bun with little twists and turns. He stuck an old chopstick through the middle to keep it up. His hair, thick and red, stayed as he told it. Then he lifted the paints.
When he was finished he knew he looked like a china doll, something delicate and breakable. He thought people might want to break him. Thank god Aoshi had not let him keep the kimono. It would have been . . . hideously tempting.
He stared at his reflection. Fury rose inside him, and he poked a finger in the reflected Shinta�s eye. No, that wasn�t right. He was Sakura when he put on the makeup and fixed his hair. Sakura was told he was beautiful and knew exactly what he was worth�one ryo for an hour, a bit less to have him on his knees. And because Rumi would never pass by a profit, she had taken single coins, and men had grasped Sakura�s hips and rubbed their cocks against him.
"Whore," he accused his reflection. "Slut." For he had convinced himself that he enjoyed some of it, sometimes. "Worthless." Yes, now he fucked for free, and Aoshi wasn�t even here when he, Shinta, need him. "Bitch."
He continued, repeating himself when he ran out of words. He added "stupid" and "ignorant" to his list.
Finally, he washed his face. The makeup was not tear-streaked; he only cried afterward. The punishment for crying in makeup had been . . . horrendous.
So he washed his face and he hid the makeup again, and he returned to wash dishes and laundry.
He never noticed Hannya�standing at a window open to the warmth of summer, seeing it all.
Part Six |
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