Shoji

I don’t own the lovely Tomomasa and Takamichi.

Shoji
by Michalyn
Pairing: Tomomasa + Takamichi

Screening the moonlight,
sliding doors brought together
firmly into place. [1]

Courtly pleasantries and green tea cooling in narrow cups. I think the scroll there in the nook is your calligraphy.

You smile and nod, laughing politely at some witty remark, some paper-dry joke the visiting official tells you. Why is he here, again? I have made myself forget.

You are relaxed, graceful in your movements. How can you sit so calmly when the sight of your naked wrist, emerging from your kimono as you replenish the tea is enough to set me a-clamor?

Red, yellow, incandescent orange: the maple leaves shake outside the window.

Inside there is only muted spring: watery tea in delicate cups, your robes fastened and tied, your hair bound in a demure clasp. I sit in silence, watching as he watches you, this intruder come from some snow-wreathed country far away. He follows your every movement, hangs on your words.

“The state of affairs in the city? In Hokkaido our records are all in disarray. Ah, if only we could borrow your expertise, Vice-minister, Takamichi.” A smile, a sidling look.

Tittering, twittering locust.

You do not know your charms. What would happen to me if I were not here to protect you from them?

He studies you over the rim of his cup, coveting the amber of your gaze, but these eyes, they are my sunlight. The warmth that turns this twirling maple leaf to fire.

Who dares to touch our playground with frost?

“Tomomasa-dono?” You look up, puzzled.

“Yamaguchi-san, it is growing late and the emperor requires your presence. Allow me to show you to the door.”

You press your lips together, forming them into a displeased line.

But that too is spring fire.

I light the candles and slide the doors shut.

Concealed behind the glowing rice paper, I beckon to you.

End

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Notes: Haiku by Seishi Yamaguchi