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"Nothing is enough for a man to whom enough is too little." - Epicurus
“Oh, this one is delicious!”
Kyojuro’s eyes shine like lanterns, and when he turns their vibrant gold-lined ruby light on Tengen, he feels their flame on his skin.
“Tengen, did you try this one?” Kyojuro presses, pushing the dish over.
“Not yet,” Tengen says, and, pinned by Kyojuro’s fire-bright eyes, takes a bite of the proffered dish. A warm bowl of fluffy rice, topped with tender, flaky salmon and crisp vegetables. It is delicious. Savory, but balanced with a sweetness that coats his tongue and lingers. But it is not half as delicious as the delighted expression that spreads across Kyojuro’s face as Tengen grins and nods his approval.
“That one might be my favorite,” Kyojuro declares with a bright laugh, a little too loud for a space this small, barely a dozen steps from one wall to the other, and twice as many front to back. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in quality. The shop’s other patrons look their way as Kyojuro’s laughter fills the room. But then, they’ve been looking their way since they walked in the door. Between Kyojuro’s hair that tumbles like barely controlled flame over his shoulders and Tengen’s height and stature, accented by gold bands and glittering gems, to say they stand out is more than an understatement.
Another bite of yet another dish (one of half a dozen that Kyojuro ordered for them to share) and Kyojuro closes his eyes, tipping his head back and humming deep in his chest with satisfaction. Backlit by low, orange lamplight and wreathed in the haze of steam from the kitchen, Tengen watches his friend as he relishes his meal. His heart skips uncomfortably in his chest, and he realizes that he’s not watching – he’s staring. His face heats, warmth suffusing his cheeks and creeping down his neck. Looking away sharply, he grabs his tea and drinks it fast, too fast – it’s still hot, and he feels it nearly scald his tongue and burn down the back of his throat, all the way to his belly. He doesn’t care. The heat in his throat distracts him from the heat on his skin.
“I think I’ve changed my mind,” Kyojuro says thoughtfully, oblivious to Tengen’s lapse in focus. He taps his chopsticks together idly. “This one might be my favorite.” He points to the next dish in the line and picks up a second bite. Savors. Then goes for a third.
Tengen pulls in a deep breath to steady himself, exchanges his tea for a sip of water, and takes another bite of the salmon, grounding himself back in the meal before him. Kyojuro picks up yet another bite of the same dish, one that Tengen hasn’t tried yet. It must really be good. With the heat on his tongue and throat cooled, and the flush receded from his cheeks, Tengen smirks and spins his chopsticks. He waits for an opening, then darts his arm out and snags the anago tempura from between Kyojuro’s chopsticks right before it gets to his mouth. With a flick he tosses it into his own mouth and then laughs at the utter bafflement in Kyojuro’s expression – the audacity, that look says, to take a man’s food right out of his hands.
“You’re right,” Tengen agrees, chewing slowly, “That one might be the winner. Especially with the tentsuyu – What did they mix in it, shichimi? The spice gives it that extra…” he lifts his hands, wiggling his fingers to demonstrate the extra he’s referring to.
“Pizzazz!” Kyojuro fills in, bafflement giving way to his enthusiasm.
Tengen snaps, pointing at Kyojuro with a wide smile. “Exactly,” he agrees, “Pizzazz.”
They share a laugh, and it’s easy and warm and comfortable and Tengen wishes he could freeze this moment, capture it like a photo and frame it in his mind. These nights, where there are no demons to kill, no monsters to fight, where it is just him and Kyojuro, good food and good drink, are few and far between, and all the more precious for that.
“Which one do you like best, my friend?” Kyojuro asks curiously.
Tengen folds his arms across his chest and assesses the spread of food at their table, eyes glancing from one dish to the next.
“They’re all excellent,” he finally says with a content sigh, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head, then adds, “Why pick favorites?”
Kyojuro’s gaze is on the dish before him as he savors another bite. He closes his eyes, his steady smile unwavering, and Tengen again lets himself – intentionally, now, and for just a moment – admire him. The sharp line of his jaw. The soft glow of golden hair against the pale cream of his cheek. The gentle curve of his lips. Kyojuro is not handsome in a traditional sense, maybe. His appearance is a little too eccentric to be considered that. But since the day they met, Tengen found Kyojuro’s peculiarity to be nothing short of dazzling. Kyojuro, of course, has always seemed blissfully unaware of just how captivating he is.
Kyojuro looks up and meets Tengen’s gaze. His easy smile turns knowing. “Spoken like a man with three wives,” he teases.
Tengen swallows hard. Right. Yes. Three wives. Wives he loves deeply, cares for with all his heart, would never ever hurt if he can help it. And all at once, Tengen feels horribly, unforgivably selfish.
Why isn’t it enough?
“How are they?” Kyojuro asks.
Tengen shifts on his seat. “They're wonderful. Of course– As always,” Tengen says idly, pushing some rice around his plate.
“I think a man would have his hands full with one wife,” Kyojuro muses, eyes glittering mischievously, “I’m truly not sure how you manage, my friend.”
“Well, I’m not your average man, obviously,” Tengen says, boasting just enough to draw another boisterous laugh from Kyojuro, and Tengen is helpless but to laugh with him. Easy . So easy to laugh when he’s sitting beside the Flame Hashira, despite the subtle snarl of shame lodged beneath his breast. So easy to find the humor in small moments. To feel light, weightless, all the painful memories fading to mere shadows when confronted by the blaze that is Kyojuro Rengoku. Tengen has never met someone who is more alive.
Why isn’t this enough?
This. Just this. Being together like this. Sitting together like this. Eating a meal together like this. Talking together like this. Why does it feel like there should be more? Why does it feel like something is missing?
Why?
Well. If Tengen were honest with himself, he might be able to admit the dangerous truth that his heart suspects but is afraid to face; a truth buried beneath the weight of a steadfast belief Tengen accepted at the age of fifteen when he married his wives:
He does not know, has never known, and will never know what it feels like to fall in love.
On its face, the belief is ridiculous. He loves his wives. But… It’s different, isn’t it? It must be. It isn’t organic, after all. Not really. That love… He had to cultivate it. Suma, Makio, Hinatsuru. They were chosen for him. He married them when they were all still children. And of course he fully embraced their union. But love? No. There was no love in their marriage, at least not at first. The love came much later, and it had to be learned. But it is love, nevertheless. It is stable, and safe, and comfortable and he is grateful for it. He’s lucky that he was even able to find it–many in such arrangements never do.
And yet…
Tengen, if he were honest, would admit that he can’t help wondering if this is what it is like, falling in love, when it happens without meaning to.
To have met someone, just by chance. To have gotten to know them by choice. To feel a spark, a pull, that draws you together again and again through the years. To feel fascinated by them. To think about them; dream about them. To crave them innocently—their voice and their laughter and their smile and their joy. Or…to crave them less innocently. To imagine the press of their lips, the taste of their skin, the feel of their hair tangled around your fingers and the rush of their breath on your neck and the drag of their hands on your back.
Tengen frowns at the table, fingers tight around his chopsticks, his other hand gripping his knee with enough pressure to bruise.
Why isn’t it enough to love his wives?
…or, maybe that is the wrong question.
Maybe the question he needs to ask himself is: Why isn’t it enough to have Kyojuro, just like this – a companion, a confidant, a comrade, a friend.
Why does his heart insist on wanting more?
“You’re quiet tonight, Tengen,” Kyojuro says, “Is something on your mind?”
“Hm?” Tengen starts, shaking himself out of the downward spiral of his thoughts and back into the moment, here, now, with Kyojuro at his side. He forces a smile. He doesn’t want to worry his friend. He doesn’t want to waste what time they have on these thoughts. Precious, these nights, he reminds himself. Less and less frequent, as demon activity increases in the region. He can’t allow himself to diminish the value of these hours by weighing them down with the folly of his heart.
“Where’d you go, just then?” Kyojuro asks, a crease in his brow.
Tengen lies. “Deciding if we need to order dessert to complement this meal. I saw a couple with the yuzu anmitsu when we came in, and it looked to die for.”
Pause. Hesitation. Gold and ruby eyes fixed on fuchsia, searching. Kyojuro hears the lie. For a moment, just a moment, Tengen thinks he will call him on it, and he holds his breath. But then Kyojuro shakes his head, his expression relaxes, and he chuckles fondly, “Already thinking of dessert when we haven’t gotten through half of what we’ve ordered! My friend, your appetite is like a well without a bottom.”
Relief at avoiding the impossible questions makes Tengen’s spine bow and his shoulders sag, and it is a force of will to not let Kyojuro see it. “Well, you’re one to talk about bottomless appetites, aren’t you?” he fires back, eyebrow arched playfully.
“Now that may be true,” Kyojuro says without any denial. And he’s smiling, smiling, smiling. But beneath it the traces of wary concern linger. He knows that Tengen is deflecting. He can hear it in his voice and see it in his face. It will probably sit in the back of his mind for some time, wondering what it was that Tengen didn’t tell him when it has been long-held that there are no secrets between them. None except this.
The unfortunate truth is that Kyojuro knows him far too well.
They are best friends after all.
Tengen forcibly moves away from the uncomfortable thoughts and digs into the next dish, dragging Kyojuro into a conversation about their most recent missions. Demon-talk – not something he loves to discuss in his free time, particularly with Kyojuro. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, though, and anything will do so long as it puts the threads of the previous conversation behind them.
So they eat their meal, and order the dessert, and enjoy one another’s company, and Tengen adamantly ignores the questions that prickle at the back of his neck and burn beneath his skin when they gravitate closer as the night draws on. He dismisses them when their legs bump beneath the table, and when their hands brush as they reach for the same dish. He shoves them away when he finds himself draping an arm over Kyojuro’s shoulders while he shares a funny story and Kyojuro leans into his side as he laughs. He rejects it, crumples it like paper scrap, closes it in a box and buries it deep when he feels the vibrant musicality of Kyojuro’s voice pressing against his ears, when he can’t stop himself from staring at him again and again in the moments between words. Tengen’s heart races in his chest, and he refuses the questions that match his heart’s rhythm.
Why isn’t it enough to love his wives?
Why did Tengen have to fall in love with Kyojuro too?