Work Text:
Yatora’s cheeks flushed furiously under the withering Kyoto sun. If not for the carmine red bruise that kissed the outline of his jaw, the Tosa apprentice’s embarrassment would have been unnoticeable otherwise. Yatora shivered. Even now, the palm of his master still stung like the loving bite of a wasp. How would he ever begin to forget such a feeling? After all, it was Yatora’s own callous nature that had brought him to such punishment in the first place.
Never mind that. Today, the sky was clear. A perfect day for taking in the surrounding mountains and the cool, fragrant breeze. Yatora thought that perhaps today, he’d buy new paints and create a new scene of this vast, veridian view. It was only fitting. Time was running out and if he waited any longer to pick up the brush once more, he feared there would be no time left to prepare for the upcoming royal review. The Tosa had long been humiliated by the public’s affection towards the Kanō school’s pathetic regurgitations of older works. As their youngest apprentice, the fate of the Tosa fell on Yatora’s shoulders accordingly.
The faint mumbling of sugared words fell loosely from the lips of a patron inside the supply peddler’s store. Yatora knew such a lithe tongue all too well. Kanō no Yuka, long black hair tinged gold from the burning sun, sat at the edge of the storefront. Turned away from Yatora’s approaching figure, her delicate hand fumbled curiously with a vial of gold leaf and dandelion. This Yuka, this damn Yuka, had been the exact reasoning for Yatora’s recent scoldings. Longtime patrons of the Tosa melted under her fervent gaze. Lords of noble clans trembled at her gossamer touch. It was no secret that Yuka’s artistry was akin to the old masters of the past, and yet, Yatora found her distasteful for it. What good came from the practice of antiquity when it was now the modern day? There was no use in being stuck in the past.
“What an interesting pigment. You weren’t thinking of purchasing this, were you? It’s just that its colour is such a perfect match to the woodblock I’ve been studying recently.” Yatora smirked against the cloth of his sleeve, plucking the vial from Yuka’s grasp. She frowned.
“Yaguchi. You’re still alive? Even those all the way in Edo could hear your horrible shrieks of pain. Who knew you were immortal? You simply surprise me every day.”
Yatora felt the tips of his ears redden with the sudden jab. Ah, so she’d heard? Then there was no point in hiding his grievances now.
“So, you think of yourself as a member of the high court now, is it? Don’t act so conceited. The Kanō’s way is too outdated. In a few months, you’ll see that the shogun has since shunned your practice.”
And yet, Yuka did not reply. Her mouth curved into a sliver of a smile and her eyes turned upwards like the crescent of an autumn moon. She looked to the vial still in Yatora’s hands and laughed. Yatora hated this much about her. That arrogance.
“You really think so? Please, as if you ever had a chance. I’m surprised that the Tosa have resorted to sending someone so… ill-informed, to represent them. Keep the pigment. I’m sure your fancy little practice relies more heavily on it, anyways.”
Yuka left as she came—rouge-kissed cheeks tinted pink; the folds of her dress still pressed neatly into her arms. As the embodiment of perfection, Yatora hated her. And that was all.
㊰
The current of the flowing river does not cease, and yet the water is not the same water as before. Time in Kyoto had passed, and although not considerably, the long, sun-drenched days had already begun to dwindle. While his painter’s hand never ceased, Yatora could not help but feel the toll of pressure and pain that soon fell heavy on his shoulders.
There was a sudden clamour in the halls of the Tosa school’s drawing rooms. While the footsteps became increasingly louder, Yatora paid it no mind. For this woodblock print, he had spent weeks perfecting. Even the vial of dandelion and gold he had used to outline the shadow of the portrait’s maiden’s lips. How innovative it all was! What skill did Kanō no Yuka possess that would ever compare to such depiction of Japanese beauty, of simplistic grace? Now this, this was the prestige of the Tosa.
“Yaguchi no Yatora. May I come in?” If not for the familiar sound of his master’s voice, there would not have been a single word that would have induced Yatora from his lover’s trance.
“A-ah, yes. Pardon me.” While the lilt of his voice gave off boyish charm, Yatora sat rigid with discomfort. Ōba Sensei had always been hard to please.
“Yaguchi,” She started, closing the sliding door from the prying eyes of less fortunate apprentices, hungry for Yatora’s downfall. She examined his painting and said nothing of it. “You must be aware of the upcoming review in the presence of the shogun, no? I have to wonder if you truly are prepared.”
“Sensei, I can assure you-“
“Yaguchi, no excuses. What I’ve realized now is that what you lack… is real competition. This petty feud with that Kanō girl? Please,” Ōba laughed dryly. “Even Lady Murasaki couldn’t have written a more cliché rivalry. Never mind that, I’ve sent for someone to inform the Kanō clan that you will being staying at their residence until the day of the review. Perhaps then, you will learn what it truly means to hate someone.”
With those words only came silence, and although the current of the flowing river never ceased, Yatora found that soon, the days would seem to feel longer and longer.
㊰
As the summer bled into an imperfect autumn, Yatora would come to learn exactly two new things about Yuka. One, that her hands flushed wildly when exposed to the compliments of her peers, and that two, she could barely sleep an hour throughout the night. For the first few days, separated by a Chinese-imported silkscreen alone, Yatora paid it no mind. But even for an artist with no heart for the weak, Yatora would eventually give in to empathy.
“Ayukawa, what’s the matter?” Yatora murmured with closed eyes. Yuka’s silhouette trembled against the lamp light. She was quiet.
Curious, Yatora shifted in his futon. While he had no plans in befriending Yuka per se, there was no need in acting cold.
“Nerves, is it? I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Besides, you’re already so loved throughout Kyoto. There’s no need to act humble.”
“Shut up, Yaguchi. Like you’d understand.” Despite the sharpness of her tongue, Yuka’s words fell empty against the wooden floor. “It’s… it’s not that. Perhaps I’m just worried about the image of my family. You of all people should know very well the importance my grandmother has had on the arts of Kyoto. I cannot afford to lose now.”
And she was right. The Ayukawa clan in itself was powerful enough to rival both the Kanō and Tosa if they pleased. While Yatora could not sympathise with this filial guilt, he still understood the pressure she felt.
“Then let me ask you this question, Ayukawa. Do you really enjoy what you are doing?”
“W-what is that supposed to imply, you bastard-“
Yatora laughed. Even through the silkscreen, he imagined Yuka’s face burning hot from anger. How quick she was to bristle at even the slightest critique.
“Ah, don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m just asking. You seem so defensive for someone this prideful of their practice.”
Yuka sucked in a breath. God, she was tired. How she longed for just a day’s worth of rest.
“Does it matter what I feel? No matter what I want… I am here. I will always be here. But perhaps, if there was one day where I could be free from these restraints, then perhaps, I would have a better answer to your question.”
The lamp light went out and Yuka chuckled breathlessly. A dry sort of laugh, something filled with caked blood and regret.
“Good night, Yaguchi. You’ve worked hard.”
㊰
A few days later, Yatora found that the silkscreen had been taken down, and instead of their nightly quarrels, there now sat a pitcher of aged rice wine. Yuka had already begun to drink. Yatora had none.
“Y’know,” She slurred, a hand propped against her cheek. “I think I was wrong about you. Maybe I can learn to tolerate you, Tosa no Yatora. Just because you are arrogant and free does not mean I have to loathe you for it.”
While these honeyed words spilled endlessly from her lips, Yatora smiled. In some ways, he felt the same.
“Do you think that all will be the same after our review? I’m scared, Yatora.” This question seemed to be but a brief moment of clarity before Yuka once more began to fumble against her own prose. She caught herself, if only temporarily, and looked to the man before her. Now what was this miserable look in her eyes? How awful she looked. Yatora knew now that Yuka had long put up a self-assured guard for no other purpose than security. She just wanted to feel safe.
And while Yatora could not answer the question, for those questions who remain unanswered almost always have good reason to be, there was this; a simple pat on the cheek. Yuka blinked emptily at the touch.
“I don’t know. But as you’ve told me time and time again, you’ve worked hard. And that’s all that matters.”
㊰
On the eve of New Year’s Day, Yuka awoke with a startled gasp and dragged a fatigue-dusted Yatora from his bed. Snow had begun to fall outside the courthouse in which they stayed, and with cadent eyes, Yuka began to weep furiously. On her knees, her tears fell like pure crystals against the soft snow. Yatora grimaced against the sun’s harsh reflection, and with one hand raised above his head, he placed the other gently against the surface of Yuka’s quivering back.
“There, there.” Yatora chided, although not exactly sure why. Had they really grown closer over these past few weeks? No, perhaps not. He just hated seeing a woman in pain.
“Can’t you see it, don’t you understand?” Yuka shrieked through sobs, “Yatora… this is it. It’s my sign—a sign that nothing will ever be the same after tomorrow. You see it, don’t you? Can’t you?”
But no matter how hard Yatora tried, there was nothing but pity. Pity for this woman who had now managed to drive herself mad with grief, mad with the laws of piety that bound her to insincere loyalty. How could she escape it now? There was nothing Yatora could do.
“There, there. My lovely Yuka, I…” He stopped. The snow had ceased falling, if only for a moment. “I’m not sure if I can.”
㊰
That night, when the moonlight bathed the floor in a milky white and the crimson leaves of a dying autumn fluttered around the snowy yard, Yatora’s heart thumped wildly in his throat. Yuka had been gone for hours and if there was anything obvious to him now, it was that this disappearance was no longer natural. Yatora got up from bed, feeling much like the last wilted rose in a dead emperor’s garden. His body ached for something warm, and yet, Yatora found none. Instead, hesitant and breathless, he stumbled into the frostbitten court.
There, beyond the sprawl of willows and plums sat the canvas of Kanō no Yuka. With her back turned towards the courthouse, she held the brush in her hands just as a mother held her newborn son. Perhaps, if not for the howling winds and the fall of snow upon the sodden ground, the scene would have ignited something forbidden inside Yatora. And yet, there was this .
The portrait of the shogun’s son.
Painted onto the canvas with thick strokes of grief and madness, the face of the young man seemed to be ridden with ecstasy. These cursed whisperings of maternal love—how mistaken Yatora had been! This subject of pleasure, Prince Hashida—was it not obvious that this man was something to Yuka? Just as the lovers Orihime and Hikoboshi were destined to never feel the touch of one another ever again, Yatora knew this ending by heart. The sweet caress of the man’s lips, the drawn-out curve to every eyelash— ah , so even the reserved Kanō no Yuka could paint such emotions like this. This was no Kanō painting. She had studied the school of the Tosa.
“Who’s there?”
Yuka’s haori fluttered with the passing wind as she turned around, face flushed a bloody red from the cold. Although her lower lip trembled as she spoke, her voice rang loud and clear. If she appeared weak, it was for only a second. From behind screen doors, Yatora stood still. He understood now that it was not filial duty that troubled Yuka so. It was this affair, this horrid affair that she clung to so desperately. Her love for this prince… if unveiled to the public, it would not only mean the downfall of the Kanō, but the shogunate as well.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Yuka mumbled to herself before turning back to the sick love poem before her. “Ah, my love. What else can I do?”
㊰
The bloody day arrived, as did the respected members of both Tosa and Kanō alike. While the two had spoken of nothing to each other in the morning, Yatora could still view the bloodshot misery that carved out the whites of Yuka’s eyes. No matter the amount of oshiroi she applied to her visage, the long, dark shadows of unrest still showed.
“I have made my review of your works.” The shogun addressed the crowd, who at once settled into a deafening silence. “While I commend the talent of both young artists, I must choose only one. You have all proven yourselves worthy of this position.”
But before there came any decisions to be made, the sudden outburst of a fellow apprentice, Tosa no Yotasuke, trembled before the crowd. A clothed canvas previously hidden near the back of the room was now pushed towards the center. Unclothed and exposed, there stood the portrait of Prince Hashida in a contagious bliss. His open mouth dripped gold. His hooded gaze was enough to steer even the most devout away from the path to the Pure Land.
Yatora looked straight into the eyes of Yuka as the first shrieks sounded throughout the room. With hands clenched stiff in her lap, her face grew pale. Her eyes darted from side to side, but yet she could not move. This shame that bound her to the ground was only hers to bear. Yuka had now become a devil, a demon, in the eyes of God.
“Look upon the grotesque desires of what you call the next protégé of our generation! How sinful it all is, this Kanō scum-“
“You’re wrong, Yotasuke. This painting… it comes from my hand and only mine.”
Time stood still. The chirping of a lone sparrow could be heard from the willow it sat perched on outside the throne room’s window. Yuka began to breathe.
“Who else, if not the lone young master of the Tosa, could master such skillful strokes? Who else but Tosa no Yatora could paint something so vivid? Who else but I could manage such a feat? How could this be the work of a Kanō? Who else, who else, who else ?” Yatora began, his voice accelerating with each and every syllable. The frenzy and fear he felt compared to no other thrill. Yatora began to taste the metallic sting that seeped out from his bitten tongue and onto the floor below.
As if the world had truly stopped with the passage of time, Yatora crossed the room and lifted the canvas up high. The shogun looked down on him in disgust.
“Who else… could do this but I?”
With a blood-filled smile, Yatora took his index finger and traced the sharp curve of the crown prince’s jaw. He looked to the shogun and laughed.
“Arrest me, my sovereign. For I am all yours.”