Fic: East Wind Melts The Ice [TVXQ RPS | AU] 2/2
The days go by. Yunho comes to the bars of the cage every morning and scatters gold at Changmin’s feet, and Changmin takes his koto and goes indoors.
At first he’d been afraid that some other man would emulate Yunho and engage his services, but it seems everyone else is still afraid of Sakabe Doya’s fury.
“It’s the talk of Edo,” Moronobu says one day while Changmin waits for Yunho to arrive. “Only a foreigner would risk such a foolish venture. Either he’s very, very rich, with the kind of wealth and connections that would make Sakabe too nervous to exact revenge, or he’s a romantic willing to gamble his life on love. Which is it?”
Changmin lowers his gaze. He doesn’t know, but his heart tells him the answer. “He’s a romantic.”
“Then may Kannon help him.” Moronobu narrows his gaze. “Has he melted you, O Prince of Ice? Do you burn in his embrace?”
Yunho’s apparent indifference to his physical charms both confuses and enrages Changmin. He stares at the bars of the cage and doesn’t reply. Moronobu obviously draws his own conclusions and goes away laughing.
When Yunho appears, Changmin is slow to respond to the glinting fall of coins. The auntie has to nudge him from his seat, and by the time he carries Red Dappled Silk inside, his progress deliberately slow, Yunho is waiting for him in the usual place.
The room has much improved since his first day. The floorboards are polished to a pleasing gloss. The tatami is new, edged with coloured bindings of red and black. Three futons lie furled together, soft and inviting. A scroll hangs on one wall, a painting done in the Chinese style depicting a landscape; temples and pine trees upon a mountainside. A low lacquered table is placed underneath, and on it is a delicate porcelain vase containing a small branch of winter plum blossoms.
“You are angry with me,” Yunho says when Changmin lays Red Dappled Silk down between them.
“I’m not.” Changmin looks past him at the plum blossoms, focusing on them to help soothe his ruffled emotions.
Yunho tilts his head, considering. “Disappointed, then. I’ve disappointed you.”
“No.” The lie tastes like vinegar. Changmin can hardly tell a client that he wants him. Not when it’s the truth. It’s easier to flatter and deceive than to be honest. To make things worse, Changmin doesn’t know if he wants Yunho because of his own desires or if it’s simply because Yunho doesn’t want him.
With his mood still tangled, Red Dappled Silk sings in sorrowful, discordant tones. No matter how hard he tries to bring her to something lighter and more joyful, her notes slide towards mourning and her strings resonate with frustration.
Changmin stops playing, fearful of giving himself away entirely.
Yunho hands him a cup of wine. “No matter. If she doesn’t want to sing, it is wrong to force her. Let’s talk instead.”
“About what?” Changmin accepts the cup and takes a sip.
“You, of course.” Yunho smiles. “Were you very gifted on the koto from a young age, I wonder?”
“No. I’d never played it before I was sold to Old Uncle.” The wine relaxes him, and Changmin’s anxiety eases away. He takes another sip. “I’ve tried many times to summon memories of a home before he took me in, but there’s nothing to remember. Not even the sound of the koto.”
“And yet Red Dappled Silk came with you into this life.”
Changmin nods. “Old Uncle said he paid extra for me because he believed I could play. He set me in front of the instrument and urged me to perform. When I couldn’t, he thought I was being disobedient and beat me. Eventually he realised I had no ability whatsoever and he decided to sell the koto. A rice merchant bought it. Two days later, the merchant’s house burned down. The koto was found unharmed, wrapped in scorched silk. The rice merchant was terrified. He returned the koto to Old Uncle and wouldn’t even ask for his money back.”
Yunho raises an eyebrow. “Fires often occur in Edo, or so I hear.”
“Indeed they do,” Changmin agrees, “but the strange thing about this fire was that it didn’t spread beyond the boundaries of the rice merchant’s house.”
“Truly strange.”
Changmin finishes his wine and puts down the cup. He strokes Red Dappled Silk. “Old Uncle tried again to sell her. A magistrate took her. A fire broke out at the magistrate’s house, and this time it was much more deadly. The magistrate’s mother died alongside two servants who struggled to put out the blaze, and yet the koto was undamaged.
“By now rumour had run all around Edo that the koto was cursed, but still a third buyer was found, one of the outside daimyos residing in the city. The noble lord had priests chant over her to remove the taboo before he took her into his home. That night, a huge fire engulfed his estate. Dozens of people died and the lord was injured. He ordered his retainers to throw the koto into the river, but she floated right back to them. Terrified, they wrapped her up and carried her to their master, who ordered her sent back to Old Uncle.”
“What a peculiar tale,” Yunho says, softly, thoughtfully.
Changmin adjusts one of the ivory bridges. “Old Uncle gave up trying to sell her after that. Then a court musician came from Kyoto to examine her. He seemed very old to me, with white hair and a beard, yet his mind was agile. He praised me for keeping her oiled and cared for, then he studied her, played a few notes on her, and identified her as Red Dappled Silk.”
Yunho lays a hand on the opposite side of the koto. “Only truly great instruments are given names.”
“According to the court musician,” Changmin continues, “Red Dappled Silk was first mentioned in the archives towards the end of the reign of the Emperor Shoko more than two hundred and seventy years ago. It was given to one of the ladies-in-waiting as a wedding gift from an admirer, and when she played it, birds would fall out of the sky in wonder at the sound.”
Now Yunho laughs. “That seems unlikely, but who knows? Such things could have happened in simpler times.”
Changmin smiles a little. “The court musician said there was a rumour that the lady’s admirer was a fox-spirit. Perhaps it’s true, and Red Dappled Silk still holds some fox-magic. In any case, after she came back to me a third time, I learned how to play her. The skill came to me almost overnight.”
“You opened your heart to her,” Yunho says.
Changmin inclines his head. “A dangerous thing to do, especially for one such as I.”
Yunho’s bright gaze sharpens. “You don’t have a lover?”
A blush warms Changmin’s face beneath the smothering white of the make-up. “As I told you before, I have many suitors, but no lover. It’s... simpler.”
“Are you not lonely?”
“No.” He caresses Red Dappled Silk. “The koto keeps me company. She knows my secrets and she sings to me, and I am content with this.”
“She is almost three hundred years old,” Yunho says. “You must know that all objects of any great age have a soul and can come to life. She sings to you and enthrals you, this much I’ve seen for myself, but has she ever done anything else?”
Changmin glances up. “Such as causing fires? I don’t know. For myself, I believe Old Uncle was behind those fires. He wanted the attention rumour would bring, and he profited well from each transaction.”
There’s a short silence. Changmin thinks of the nights he’d lain awake listening to the sound of Red Dappled Silk’s music from the other side of his sleeping chamber. “I have never witnessed her doing anything other than sing,” he says truthfully, “but perhaps that’s because I am too sensible.”
“Ah,” Yunho murmurs, “so a sensible man can never be fooled?”
Changmin lifts his chin and spreads his hands in self-mockery. “You see me thus. Which of us is the bigger fool?”
Yunho gives him a serious look. “Perhaps it is I, for paying court to one beauty at the expense of another.”
* * *
“Why won’t you touch me?” Changmin asks on the fifth day. Red Dappled Silk sits silent between them. The wine-jar is empty, the cup on its side on the lacquered tray. Around them drowses the sweetness of orchids, the scent burned into the long sleeves of Changmin’s kimono. He tosses his head and demands again, “Why don’t you want me? Is my appearance not pleasing to you?”
Yunho is in the process of taking his leave. He stands at the door and regards Changmin with a wistful expression. “You please me in more ways than you can imagine.”
“Then touch me,” Changmin snaps, frustration shivering the silver bells on his hairpins. “Lie me down and love me. You’ve paid for it, so why don’t you take it?”
“Oh, Changmin. Don’t you see? It has to be your decision.” Yunho bows, deeper than ever before. “Until tomorrow.”
The following morning, Changmin sits in the cage as usual. The crowd is thinner today, perhaps gone in search of better entertainment elsewhere, and the sun glares directly into Changmin’s eyes. He fidgets when the drum-tower sounds the hour of the Snake, then forces himself to stillness. His hands rest in his lap. Once again he is dressed as Tamakazura, this time in dark blue Korean silk embroidered with plum blossoms, his under-robes pale blue shading to white.
Yunho appears through the crowd. He’s wearing russet and brown and cream, a pattern of animal tracks with zigzags of gold thread. He comes to a halt outside the bars of the cage and gazes in. There’s no glittering scatter of coins today. He doesn’t offer anything. He just looks at Changmin, his eyes dark and bright.
The crowd falls silent, then begins to murmur.
Changmin draws in a breath as realisation streaks through him. He can’t do this. It would be audacious. Unforgivable. But he does it anyway, excitement and anticipation beating inside him as he gets to his feet, takes up Red Dappled Silk, and goes indoors.
Behind him, the crowd erupts with disbelief.
What Yunho says to the auntie, Changmin has no idea. Never mind that Yunho has paid a fortune in gold these last few days-today there’s no coin, and so technically there should be no assignation. And yet after only a few moments, there’s footsteps in the hallway and the door slides open.
Yunho comes in carrying a tray set with a dish of sweet rice cakes, a wine-jar, and a single cup. He sets it all down on the tatami near the heaped futons, then turns to Changmin. “This is your decision,” Yunho says.
Changmin nods. “Yes.” He gestures at the koto. “Do you want...”
“No.” Yunho comes closer. “But if you would do one thing for me...” He smiles, tilting his head. “I want to see your face. Take off the paint.”
A protest comes to Changmin’s lips, but then he thinks better of it. He’s already broken one rule today. Why not break another?
Laughter threatens to bubble out of him, but Changmin swallows it. He can hardly believe he’s being so bold, and yet something urges him on. He takes a soft wad of tissue paper from within his sleeves and begins to wipe off the powder and paint and wax. There’s no elegant way of doing this. It’s a smearing of white and black and red, and without a mirror he can’t be sure if the mask has been wiped clean or if he resembles some misshapen demon. He scrubs at his face until his skin tingles and the paper comes away free of paint, and then he lifts his head and looks at Yunho.
“Yes,” Yunho says softly. “There you are.”
He puts out a hand and Changmin goes to him. Yunho slides an arm around Changmin’s waist and they look at one another in a kind of wonder. Yunho tilts his head, sharp features softening, his gaze almost quizzical, and Changmin kisses him.
It’s warm, their kiss. Changmin nips at Yunho’s lower lip, tugs softly until Yunho opens his mouth, and then it’s better, hotter, and desire spreads swift and urgent. Yunho’s kisses taste of autumn berries, tart and sweet; the sparkling of frost and the brush of leaves on a breeze, and Changmin wants more.
They sink down onto the futons, touching and exploring. Yunho takes out a few of Changmin’s hairpins. His hair loosens from its severe gathered style, tendrils falling to frame his face. They kiss again and again, unwrap one another from the layers of their garments. Hands move beneath clothes, silk and warm skin, and Changmin breathes in the scent of cinnamon and black ink.
Rolling over, Yunho moves against him, sweeping a hand up the back of Changmin’s neck into his hair. With a low rumble of pleasure purring in his throat, Yunho draws down the collars of kimono and under-robes and licks and licks from Changmin’s shoulders up over his nape.
Changmin melts, reshaping himself to Yunho’s desire, and then he gasps and cries out when Yunho bites him. Ecstasy pierces him; Yunho has sharp teeth, sharp like an animal, and Changmin is caught up in scent and urgency, hot and uneasy and desperate. He writhes on the futons, waiting for Yunho to mount him, but then they roll over again.
Yunho’s eyes flash bright and playful. His smile glistens. Changmin pounces on him. Silk whispers. There’s the delicate tearing of seams, the glitter of silver thread, the unwinding of gold thread. They laugh together, hot and breathless, need rising, desire tightening.
Changmin pins Yunho onto his front and mouths at his nape. It’s clumsy mimicry of what Yunho did to him a moment ago, but the effect is startling. Yunho stills, then his whole body shudders. “Yes,” he says as Changmin nips at his neck. “Yes. Like this.”
The air thickens with lust, the smell rich and musky and-animal, Changmin thinks, dazed. Like springtime. Like rut.
He can’t remember the last time he took rather than was taken. Yunho squirms restlessly beneath him, fingers bunching and kneading at the futon.
“You want,” Changmin says, anxious in case he’s misread this, “do you want-?”
Yunho rubs his head against the futon and growls. “Take me.”
Silk slides, baring skin. Changmin puts his mouth to every inch, caressing with lips and tongue, fingers stroking until Yunho makes a sharp noise, breath catching. Aware of the thunder of his pulse, Changmin strokes his hands down Yunho’s body. He has nothing to make this easier except his own saliva. Dipping his head, Changmin presses kisses along Yunho’s flank and licks at him.
Yunho’s breaths come faster. He crouches on the futon and shivers.
Changmin wets his palm and glides saliva over his cock. He covers Yunho and jabs at him, hot and hard, and Yunho groans and ramps back. They join, Changmin sinking deeper as Yunho shoves and shoves until he’s impaled. There’s a sweetness to it, but also a tangle, like sleeves caught on thorns. Taking hold of Yunho’s hips, Changmin pulls them both up, balances himself until Yunho’s back is flush against his front.
Yunho drops his head against Changmin’s shoulder, panting. He turns his face, breath hot over Changmin’s throat. They move together, a ripple of muscles and a building of tension, warmth and pressure and the hot, delicious slide of friction. Changmin runs one hand up Yunho’s chest and tugs at a nipple, making Yunho moan, making him snap his hips and grind down harder, harder.
Rocking forward again, his head bowed, Yunho works himself on Changmin’s cock. Sweat gleams across his nape and trickles down his spine. Changmin licks at it, salt and sweet on his tongue. He brings Yunho back to him and wraps a hand around Yunho’s dick, jerking him in time to the ferocious rhythm of their thrusts. Wetness coats his fingers. Yunho claws at the bunched futon and snarls.
They break within a heartbeat of one another. Yunho first, hot and tight and gasping, and Changmin drags him down, holds him there until release has gone through them both, until seed covers Changmin’s hands and Yunho’s body and there’s only softening, boneless pleasure.
They clean up with the remainder of the tissue paper then lie together, drowsy with satisfaction.
After a while, Yunho reaches out and draws the lacquered tray closer. He offers Changmin the dish of sweet rice cakes, then pours the wine into the cup. Changmin eats, the red bean paste rich and delicious. Yunho takes a drink then holds out the cup. Changmin sips from it, then Yunho drinks again. Finishing the rice cake, Changmin has a second sip of wine. Yunho refills the cup and takes a third drink before handing it back, his expression intense as he watches Changmin cradle the wine.
Changmin pauses. Three sips from the same cup represents union, a binding contract offered and agreed. He looks at Yunho and allows himself to hope. Even if he is sold to Sakabe, Changmin will take with him the knowledge that first he belonged to Yunho, and Yunho belonged to him.
Holding Yunho’s gaze, Changmin lifts the cup and drinks a third time.
* * *
Yunho arrives on the morning of the tenth day with a sandalwood casket heaped full of pearls of the finest lustre. Half of their number is creamy white; the other half is glossy black. They glimmer in the uncertain light from the lamps, and when Changmin touches them, when he picks up a handful and lets them spill through his fingers, they’re warm.
He thought he’d become accustomed to Yunho’s casual display of wealth, but this is beyond anything he could imagine. Changmin drops the last pearl from his palm into the box and pretends an indifference he doesn’t feel.
“If you wish to buy my freedom, you should apply to my master.” He looks again at the contents of the box. “That amount of pearls has a value far, far above what Sakabe Doya offered for me. I’m sure Kazen would look favourably upon your suit.”
Yunho doesn’t smile. “I want to buy Red Dappled Silk.”
Shock holds Changmin still, and then comes the pain. It howls through him like the flaying winter wind-injured pride, the shatter of betrayal, the realisation that the gentle courtship and the passion of their lovemaking has meant nothing at all.
“No.” Yunho seems to realise his error. He pushes Red Dappled Silk aside as if she was a toy made of straw and tries to take Changmin’s hands. “No. Changmin, I’m sorry-I didn’t mean it like that.”
Brittle laughter cracks through Changmin’s voice. “I fear your gallantry has deserted you when you need it most.”
Yunho seizes Changmin by the arms and stares down at him. “Trust me.”
Changmin wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He turns his head and exhales, soft and slow, trying to calm his racing heart. “I am a fool.”
“Far from it.” Yunho’s voice is rough, but the look he gives Changmin is tender. “Let me buy the koto.”
“Even though you know she is cursed?”
Yunho gives him a crooked smile. “Why, my sweet, do you fear I might perish in a fire?”
Changmin knows he should utter some cold retort, something cruel and cutting to show the depth of his disappointment and anger, but instead he blurts out, “I fear I will never see you again.”
“Oh.” Yunho touches Changmin’s face. His fingertip comes away sticky with white paint. “You will see me again. That much I promise.”
Changmin wavers. Yunho has not broken a promise yet, but there’s always a first time. He summons his hauteur. “If I give you Red Dappled Silk, I will be alone. Perhaps you will find some other boy, younger and prettier than me, to play for you.”
“Jealousy sits ill with you.” Now Yunho sounds amused. “But if your vanity demands it, then know that you are incomparable.”
“And yet you will buy my koto and not make an offer for me.” This time Changmin can’t keep the hurt from his tone.
“It is not my place to buy your freedom.” Yunho pushes the box of pearls towards him. “But perhaps Red Dappled Silk will buy it for you.”
Hesitation grips him. Changmin stares at the casket. Take the pearls and buy his freedom, or keep Red Dappled Silk and remain indentured? The decision should be easy, but the koto is his only true joy. Admirers and patrons have come and gone; only Red Dappled Silk has remained his constant.
His hands steady, his decision final, Changmin closes the lid on the pearls. “I’m sorry, but I cannot sell her.”
Yunho looks at him, gaze deep and intense. He smiles. “I understand.” Then he bows right down to the ground and gets up to leave.
A clutch of fear goes through Changmin. “When will I see you again?”
“Soon.” Yunho pauses at the door and smiles, bright in the shadows. “Very soon.”
* * *
Changmin’s time of punishment finally comes to an end. The hour of the Rooster beats out from the drum-tower. The sun is beginning to set, the sky painted through with red, the air finally warm at the death of day.
Kazen arrives with a couple of retainers to escort Changmin back to the house in Yoshicho. He thanks the auntie for her assistance over the past ten days, and money exchanges hands.
Changmin takes his time wrapping the koto in her silken shroud. One of the retainers has brought Red Dappled Silk’s cherry wood box, and Changmin lifts her into it with care.
Kazen stands nearby and scolds him for putting them all through such an ordeal. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” his master says. “More importantly, I hope you will display the right amount of humility and obedience when Sakabe calls on you again. I’ve had word that he’s arrived back in Edo and is most anxious to see you. We can only pray that he’s still willing to pay seven hundred ryo. Heaven knows what he’ll say when he discovers you accepted that foreigner’s gold!”
Changmin fastens the lid on the cherry wood box and gets to his feet. “No doubt he’s already aware of it and expects a percentage.”
His master splutters. Ignoring his complaints, Changmin lifts the weight of the koto in her box and begins to walk slowly towards the door. The whores move aside for him. A few call out good wishes for his health and happiness, and he inclines his head in grateful acknowledgement. He will never see any of these women again. Once he’s sold to Sakabe, it’s doubtful he’ll ever return to the Five Streets.
A palanquin arrives just as he sets foot over the threshold. Kazen shoves back the tattered blue curtain and stares. There’s no crest upon the palanquin’s sides, but it’s made of sandalwood, the scent low and curling, and the curtains are of heavy Chinese brocade. The bearers are blank-faced and silent, and there’s an armed escort of two guards. One steps forward and bows to Kazen.
“Honourable sir,” the guard says, “by the command of my master we have come to convey the koto-player Changmin to his home.”
Kazen clasps his hands together. “Oh my,” he breathes, almost hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement. “It seems you’ve been forgiven. Sakabe obviously can’t wait until tomorrow to see you! This is very exciting. Very promising. Perhaps I can ask for a thousand ryo after all.”
Changmin bows his head as if in deference. “What should I do?” His heart is beating very fast, hope fluttering inside him. “Should I go with them, master?”
“Stupid boy! Of course you must go with them.” Kazen gives him a little push towards the palanquin, exclaiming all the while at Changmin’s foolishness. “And tell Sakabe I will call upon him tomorrow to discuss payment!”
Keeping his expression meek and biddable, Changmin arranges Red Dappled Silk within the palanquin before climbing inside. He draws the brocade curtain, shutting out the view of his master still exhorting him to be on his best behaviour when he sees Sakabe, and settles back against feather-stuffed cushions.
The palanquin bumps as the bearers set off. Changmin curls an arm around the cherry wood box, partially to protect the koto from the jolting as they dip and sway through the streets, and partially because holding onto her keeps him calm.
They stop at the gates. The watchman glances inside then signals for them to be on their way. Changmin twitches aside the curtain and peeps out as they cross the bridge over the moat. He stares at the cluster of shops selling tea and wine and food, then tilts his head and squints ahead at the road back to the city. Edo seems far away from here, and yet it is only an hour’s distance.
He lets the curtain fall again, spreads his sleeves over the koto in her box, and rests his head on his hands.
After a while, Changmin feels the palanquin set down gently upon the ground. For a moment there’s silence, and then comes the rumble of carriage wheels and the heavy tread of oxen. The cart draws to a halt nearby. He hears the snorted breath of the animals and the creak of wood.
He pushes aside the curtain and clambers out. The setting sun pulls a long shadow from him, and already a faint mist rises across the marshland. His armed escort has vanished. So have the bearers. When Changmin turns, the palanquin has also gone. The koto lies inside her cherry wood box in the road, surrounded by leaves and twigs and knotted grasses.
An ox-cart waits alongside, the animals of purest white. The curtains on the enclosed carriage are of heavy Chinese brocade. Yunho sits in the driver’s seat. He holds neither reins nor goad. He just sits there, relaxed in his robes of cream and russet with the odd patterns, and he’s smiling.
Changmin stares. Realisation is slow, as if mired in ice, but it’s coming, it’s coming. “Where did they go?” he asks.
Yunho swings himself down from the cart and comes to stand beside Changmin. “Their services were no longer required, so I dismissed them.”
Something is missing. Changmin knows it, gropes for it. Like a fool, he looks up and down the road in search of the missing men and the vanished palanquin. Behind him, Yoshiwara fades into the mist. Ahead, Edo spreads out like spilled ink.
A heron cries, the sound harsh. Changmin jerks his gaze to the road, to his shadow. To Yunho’s shadow. It has ears. Not human ears but sharp pointed ears, an animal’s ears. It has a tail, too; a long, thick brush.
Changmin faces him, heart pounding. Yunho smiles. Human ears. No tail. Uncertain, but recognising the truth at last-why hadn’t he seen it before?-Changmin takes one more glance at the shadow before he looks back at Yunho. “You let the illusion slip. You-you’re...”
“Yes, I did.” Yunho tilts his head, eyes very dark and bright. “Yes, I am.” The air shimmers, the mist whipping back as the glitter of frost descends, and Changmin sees not one fox-tail but an array of them, fanned out behind Yunho, and he counts their number and realises-
“Nine,” Changmin whispers. “A nine-tailed fox.” He goes down onto his knees before this most powerful of creatures and bows. “Red Dappled Silk belongs to you.”
“No,” Yunho says. “She is yours.” He kneels in front of Changmin and pats the cherry wood case. “She would never sing for me, no matter what I did. But she sang for a human woman, once; sang so beautifully that I gave her the koto as a wedding gift. The lady played for me, but her husband was jealous and chased me away.
“I went wandering through these islands and across the sea until the memory of the koto’s song drew me back, but the lady and her husband were long dead, her children scattered, her children’s children even further afield. For years I’ve been searching, needing to hear the koto’s song again-and here she is. With you, the last living descendant of the woman to whom I gifted Red Dappled Silk.”
Changmin shakes his head, staring at the ground. “You should take her back.”
Yunho rises to his feet. “I cannot play,” he says, then adds softly, “But you can.”
A moment passes. Changmin looks up and meets Yunho’s gaze.
“You’re free.” Yunho says, his smile deepening. “Do as you please.”
Changmin doesn’t hesitate. He’s made his decision. He gets up, balancing the koto against him, and takes Yunho’s hand as the sun sets all around them.
At first he’d been afraid that some other man would emulate Yunho and engage his services, but it seems everyone else is still afraid of Sakabe Doya’s fury.
“It’s the talk of Edo,” Moronobu says one day while Changmin waits for Yunho to arrive. “Only a foreigner would risk such a foolish venture. Either he’s very, very rich, with the kind of wealth and connections that would make Sakabe too nervous to exact revenge, or he’s a romantic willing to gamble his life on love. Which is it?”
Changmin lowers his gaze. He doesn’t know, but his heart tells him the answer. “He’s a romantic.”
“Then may Kannon help him.” Moronobu narrows his gaze. “Has he melted you, O Prince of Ice? Do you burn in his embrace?”
Yunho’s apparent indifference to his physical charms both confuses and enrages Changmin. He stares at the bars of the cage and doesn’t reply. Moronobu obviously draws his own conclusions and goes away laughing.
When Yunho appears, Changmin is slow to respond to the glinting fall of coins. The auntie has to nudge him from his seat, and by the time he carries Red Dappled Silk inside, his progress deliberately slow, Yunho is waiting for him in the usual place.
The room has much improved since his first day. The floorboards are polished to a pleasing gloss. The tatami is new, edged with coloured bindings of red and black. Three futons lie furled together, soft and inviting. A scroll hangs on one wall, a painting done in the Chinese style depicting a landscape; temples and pine trees upon a mountainside. A low lacquered table is placed underneath, and on it is a delicate porcelain vase containing a small branch of winter plum blossoms.
“You are angry with me,” Yunho says when Changmin lays Red Dappled Silk down between them.
“I’m not.” Changmin looks past him at the plum blossoms, focusing on them to help soothe his ruffled emotions.
Yunho tilts his head, considering. “Disappointed, then. I’ve disappointed you.”
“No.” The lie tastes like vinegar. Changmin can hardly tell a client that he wants him. Not when it’s the truth. It’s easier to flatter and deceive than to be honest. To make things worse, Changmin doesn’t know if he wants Yunho because of his own desires or if it’s simply because Yunho doesn’t want him.
With his mood still tangled, Red Dappled Silk sings in sorrowful, discordant tones. No matter how hard he tries to bring her to something lighter and more joyful, her notes slide towards mourning and her strings resonate with frustration.
Changmin stops playing, fearful of giving himself away entirely.
Yunho hands him a cup of wine. “No matter. If she doesn’t want to sing, it is wrong to force her. Let’s talk instead.”
“About what?” Changmin accepts the cup and takes a sip.
“You, of course.” Yunho smiles. “Were you very gifted on the koto from a young age, I wonder?”
“No. I’d never played it before I was sold to Old Uncle.” The wine relaxes him, and Changmin’s anxiety eases away. He takes another sip. “I’ve tried many times to summon memories of a home before he took me in, but there’s nothing to remember. Not even the sound of the koto.”
“And yet Red Dappled Silk came with you into this life.”
Changmin nods. “Old Uncle said he paid extra for me because he believed I could play. He set me in front of the instrument and urged me to perform. When I couldn’t, he thought I was being disobedient and beat me. Eventually he realised I had no ability whatsoever and he decided to sell the koto. A rice merchant bought it. Two days later, the merchant’s house burned down. The koto was found unharmed, wrapped in scorched silk. The rice merchant was terrified. He returned the koto to Old Uncle and wouldn’t even ask for his money back.”
Yunho raises an eyebrow. “Fires often occur in Edo, or so I hear.”
“Indeed they do,” Changmin agrees, “but the strange thing about this fire was that it didn’t spread beyond the boundaries of the rice merchant’s house.”
“Truly strange.”
Changmin finishes his wine and puts down the cup. He strokes Red Dappled Silk. “Old Uncle tried again to sell her. A magistrate took her. A fire broke out at the magistrate’s house, and this time it was much more deadly. The magistrate’s mother died alongside two servants who struggled to put out the blaze, and yet the koto was undamaged.
“By now rumour had run all around Edo that the koto was cursed, but still a third buyer was found, one of the outside daimyos residing in the city. The noble lord had priests chant over her to remove the taboo before he took her into his home. That night, a huge fire engulfed his estate. Dozens of people died and the lord was injured. He ordered his retainers to throw the koto into the river, but she floated right back to them. Terrified, they wrapped her up and carried her to their master, who ordered her sent back to Old Uncle.”
“What a peculiar tale,” Yunho says, softly, thoughtfully.
Changmin adjusts one of the ivory bridges. “Old Uncle gave up trying to sell her after that. Then a court musician came from Kyoto to examine her. He seemed very old to me, with white hair and a beard, yet his mind was agile. He praised me for keeping her oiled and cared for, then he studied her, played a few notes on her, and identified her as Red Dappled Silk.”
Yunho lays a hand on the opposite side of the koto. “Only truly great instruments are given names.”
“According to the court musician,” Changmin continues, “Red Dappled Silk was first mentioned in the archives towards the end of the reign of the Emperor Shoko more than two hundred and seventy years ago. It was given to one of the ladies-in-waiting as a wedding gift from an admirer, and when she played it, birds would fall out of the sky in wonder at the sound.”
Now Yunho laughs. “That seems unlikely, but who knows? Such things could have happened in simpler times.”
Changmin smiles a little. “The court musician said there was a rumour that the lady’s admirer was a fox-spirit. Perhaps it’s true, and Red Dappled Silk still holds some fox-magic. In any case, after she came back to me a third time, I learned how to play her. The skill came to me almost overnight.”
“You opened your heart to her,” Yunho says.
Changmin inclines his head. “A dangerous thing to do, especially for one such as I.”
Yunho’s bright gaze sharpens. “You don’t have a lover?”
A blush warms Changmin’s face beneath the smothering white of the make-up. “As I told you before, I have many suitors, but no lover. It’s... simpler.”
“Are you not lonely?”
“No.” He caresses Red Dappled Silk. “The koto keeps me company. She knows my secrets and she sings to me, and I am content with this.”
“She is almost three hundred years old,” Yunho says. “You must know that all objects of any great age have a soul and can come to life. She sings to you and enthrals you, this much I’ve seen for myself, but has she ever done anything else?”
Changmin glances up. “Such as causing fires? I don’t know. For myself, I believe Old Uncle was behind those fires. He wanted the attention rumour would bring, and he profited well from each transaction.”
There’s a short silence. Changmin thinks of the nights he’d lain awake listening to the sound of Red Dappled Silk’s music from the other side of his sleeping chamber. “I have never witnessed her doing anything other than sing,” he says truthfully, “but perhaps that’s because I am too sensible.”
“Ah,” Yunho murmurs, “so a sensible man can never be fooled?”
Changmin lifts his chin and spreads his hands in self-mockery. “You see me thus. Which of us is the bigger fool?”
Yunho gives him a serious look. “Perhaps it is I, for paying court to one beauty at the expense of another.”
* * *
“Why won’t you touch me?” Changmin asks on the fifth day. Red Dappled Silk sits silent between them. The wine-jar is empty, the cup on its side on the lacquered tray. Around them drowses the sweetness of orchids, the scent burned into the long sleeves of Changmin’s kimono. He tosses his head and demands again, “Why don’t you want me? Is my appearance not pleasing to you?”
Yunho is in the process of taking his leave. He stands at the door and regards Changmin with a wistful expression. “You please me in more ways than you can imagine.”
“Then touch me,” Changmin snaps, frustration shivering the silver bells on his hairpins. “Lie me down and love me. You’ve paid for it, so why don’t you take it?”
“Oh, Changmin. Don’t you see? It has to be your decision.” Yunho bows, deeper than ever before. “Until tomorrow.”
The following morning, Changmin sits in the cage as usual. The crowd is thinner today, perhaps gone in search of better entertainment elsewhere, and the sun glares directly into Changmin’s eyes. He fidgets when the drum-tower sounds the hour of the Snake, then forces himself to stillness. His hands rest in his lap. Once again he is dressed as Tamakazura, this time in dark blue Korean silk embroidered with plum blossoms, his under-robes pale blue shading to white.
Yunho appears through the crowd. He’s wearing russet and brown and cream, a pattern of animal tracks with zigzags of gold thread. He comes to a halt outside the bars of the cage and gazes in. There’s no glittering scatter of coins today. He doesn’t offer anything. He just looks at Changmin, his eyes dark and bright.
The crowd falls silent, then begins to murmur.
Changmin draws in a breath as realisation streaks through him. He can’t do this. It would be audacious. Unforgivable. But he does it anyway, excitement and anticipation beating inside him as he gets to his feet, takes up Red Dappled Silk, and goes indoors.
Behind him, the crowd erupts with disbelief.
What Yunho says to the auntie, Changmin has no idea. Never mind that Yunho has paid a fortune in gold these last few days-today there’s no coin, and so technically there should be no assignation. And yet after only a few moments, there’s footsteps in the hallway and the door slides open.
Yunho comes in carrying a tray set with a dish of sweet rice cakes, a wine-jar, and a single cup. He sets it all down on the tatami near the heaped futons, then turns to Changmin. “This is your decision,” Yunho says.
Changmin nods. “Yes.” He gestures at the koto. “Do you want...”
“No.” Yunho comes closer. “But if you would do one thing for me...” He smiles, tilting his head. “I want to see your face. Take off the paint.”
A protest comes to Changmin’s lips, but then he thinks better of it. He’s already broken one rule today. Why not break another?
Laughter threatens to bubble out of him, but Changmin swallows it. He can hardly believe he’s being so bold, and yet something urges him on. He takes a soft wad of tissue paper from within his sleeves and begins to wipe off the powder and paint and wax. There’s no elegant way of doing this. It’s a smearing of white and black and red, and without a mirror he can’t be sure if the mask has been wiped clean or if he resembles some misshapen demon. He scrubs at his face until his skin tingles and the paper comes away free of paint, and then he lifts his head and looks at Yunho.
“Yes,” Yunho says softly. “There you are.”
He puts out a hand and Changmin goes to him. Yunho slides an arm around Changmin’s waist and they look at one another in a kind of wonder. Yunho tilts his head, sharp features softening, his gaze almost quizzical, and Changmin kisses him.
It’s warm, their kiss. Changmin nips at Yunho’s lower lip, tugs softly until Yunho opens his mouth, and then it’s better, hotter, and desire spreads swift and urgent. Yunho’s kisses taste of autumn berries, tart and sweet; the sparkling of frost and the brush of leaves on a breeze, and Changmin wants more.
They sink down onto the futons, touching and exploring. Yunho takes out a few of Changmin’s hairpins. His hair loosens from its severe gathered style, tendrils falling to frame his face. They kiss again and again, unwrap one another from the layers of their garments. Hands move beneath clothes, silk and warm skin, and Changmin breathes in the scent of cinnamon and black ink.
Rolling over, Yunho moves against him, sweeping a hand up the back of Changmin’s neck into his hair. With a low rumble of pleasure purring in his throat, Yunho draws down the collars of kimono and under-robes and licks and licks from Changmin’s shoulders up over his nape.
Changmin melts, reshaping himself to Yunho’s desire, and then he gasps and cries out when Yunho bites him. Ecstasy pierces him; Yunho has sharp teeth, sharp like an animal, and Changmin is caught up in scent and urgency, hot and uneasy and desperate. He writhes on the futons, waiting for Yunho to mount him, but then they roll over again.
Yunho’s eyes flash bright and playful. His smile glistens. Changmin pounces on him. Silk whispers. There’s the delicate tearing of seams, the glitter of silver thread, the unwinding of gold thread. They laugh together, hot and breathless, need rising, desire tightening.
Changmin pins Yunho onto his front and mouths at his nape. It’s clumsy mimicry of what Yunho did to him a moment ago, but the effect is startling. Yunho stills, then his whole body shudders. “Yes,” he says as Changmin nips at his neck. “Yes. Like this.”
The air thickens with lust, the smell rich and musky and-animal, Changmin thinks, dazed. Like springtime. Like rut.
He can’t remember the last time he took rather than was taken. Yunho squirms restlessly beneath him, fingers bunching and kneading at the futon.
“You want,” Changmin says, anxious in case he’s misread this, “do you want-?”
Yunho rubs his head against the futon and growls. “Take me.”
Silk slides, baring skin. Changmin puts his mouth to every inch, caressing with lips and tongue, fingers stroking until Yunho makes a sharp noise, breath catching. Aware of the thunder of his pulse, Changmin strokes his hands down Yunho’s body. He has nothing to make this easier except his own saliva. Dipping his head, Changmin presses kisses along Yunho’s flank and licks at him.
Yunho’s breaths come faster. He crouches on the futon and shivers.
Changmin wets his palm and glides saliva over his cock. He covers Yunho and jabs at him, hot and hard, and Yunho groans and ramps back. They join, Changmin sinking deeper as Yunho shoves and shoves until he’s impaled. There’s a sweetness to it, but also a tangle, like sleeves caught on thorns. Taking hold of Yunho’s hips, Changmin pulls them both up, balances himself until Yunho’s back is flush against his front.
Yunho drops his head against Changmin’s shoulder, panting. He turns his face, breath hot over Changmin’s throat. They move together, a ripple of muscles and a building of tension, warmth and pressure and the hot, delicious slide of friction. Changmin runs one hand up Yunho’s chest and tugs at a nipple, making Yunho moan, making him snap his hips and grind down harder, harder.
Rocking forward again, his head bowed, Yunho works himself on Changmin’s cock. Sweat gleams across his nape and trickles down his spine. Changmin licks at it, salt and sweet on his tongue. He brings Yunho back to him and wraps a hand around Yunho’s dick, jerking him in time to the ferocious rhythm of their thrusts. Wetness coats his fingers. Yunho claws at the bunched futon and snarls.
They break within a heartbeat of one another. Yunho first, hot and tight and gasping, and Changmin drags him down, holds him there until release has gone through them both, until seed covers Changmin’s hands and Yunho’s body and there’s only softening, boneless pleasure.
They clean up with the remainder of the tissue paper then lie together, drowsy with satisfaction.
After a while, Yunho reaches out and draws the lacquered tray closer. He offers Changmin the dish of sweet rice cakes, then pours the wine into the cup. Changmin eats, the red bean paste rich and delicious. Yunho takes a drink then holds out the cup. Changmin sips from it, then Yunho drinks again. Finishing the rice cake, Changmin has a second sip of wine. Yunho refills the cup and takes a third drink before handing it back, his expression intense as he watches Changmin cradle the wine.
Changmin pauses. Three sips from the same cup represents union, a binding contract offered and agreed. He looks at Yunho and allows himself to hope. Even if he is sold to Sakabe, Changmin will take with him the knowledge that first he belonged to Yunho, and Yunho belonged to him.
Holding Yunho’s gaze, Changmin lifts the cup and drinks a third time.
* * *
Yunho arrives on the morning of the tenth day with a sandalwood casket heaped full of pearls of the finest lustre. Half of their number is creamy white; the other half is glossy black. They glimmer in the uncertain light from the lamps, and when Changmin touches them, when he picks up a handful and lets them spill through his fingers, they’re warm.
He thought he’d become accustomed to Yunho’s casual display of wealth, but this is beyond anything he could imagine. Changmin drops the last pearl from his palm into the box and pretends an indifference he doesn’t feel.
“If you wish to buy my freedom, you should apply to my master.” He looks again at the contents of the box. “That amount of pearls has a value far, far above what Sakabe Doya offered for me. I’m sure Kazen would look favourably upon your suit.”
Yunho doesn’t smile. “I want to buy Red Dappled Silk.”
Shock holds Changmin still, and then comes the pain. It howls through him like the flaying winter wind-injured pride, the shatter of betrayal, the realisation that the gentle courtship and the passion of their lovemaking has meant nothing at all.
“No.” Yunho seems to realise his error. He pushes Red Dappled Silk aside as if she was a toy made of straw and tries to take Changmin’s hands. “No. Changmin, I’m sorry-I didn’t mean it like that.”
Brittle laughter cracks through Changmin’s voice. “I fear your gallantry has deserted you when you need it most.”
Yunho seizes Changmin by the arms and stares down at him. “Trust me.”
Changmin wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He turns his head and exhales, soft and slow, trying to calm his racing heart. “I am a fool.”
“Far from it.” Yunho’s voice is rough, but the look he gives Changmin is tender. “Let me buy the koto.”
“Even though you know she is cursed?”
Yunho gives him a crooked smile. “Why, my sweet, do you fear I might perish in a fire?”
Changmin knows he should utter some cold retort, something cruel and cutting to show the depth of his disappointment and anger, but instead he blurts out, “I fear I will never see you again.”
“Oh.” Yunho touches Changmin’s face. His fingertip comes away sticky with white paint. “You will see me again. That much I promise.”
Changmin wavers. Yunho has not broken a promise yet, but there’s always a first time. He summons his hauteur. “If I give you Red Dappled Silk, I will be alone. Perhaps you will find some other boy, younger and prettier than me, to play for you.”
“Jealousy sits ill with you.” Now Yunho sounds amused. “But if your vanity demands it, then know that you are incomparable.”
“And yet you will buy my koto and not make an offer for me.” This time Changmin can’t keep the hurt from his tone.
“It is not my place to buy your freedom.” Yunho pushes the box of pearls towards him. “But perhaps Red Dappled Silk will buy it for you.”
Hesitation grips him. Changmin stares at the casket. Take the pearls and buy his freedom, or keep Red Dappled Silk and remain indentured? The decision should be easy, but the koto is his only true joy. Admirers and patrons have come and gone; only Red Dappled Silk has remained his constant.
His hands steady, his decision final, Changmin closes the lid on the pearls. “I’m sorry, but I cannot sell her.”
Yunho looks at him, gaze deep and intense. He smiles. “I understand.” Then he bows right down to the ground and gets up to leave.
A clutch of fear goes through Changmin. “When will I see you again?”
“Soon.” Yunho pauses at the door and smiles, bright in the shadows. “Very soon.”
* * *
Changmin’s time of punishment finally comes to an end. The hour of the Rooster beats out from the drum-tower. The sun is beginning to set, the sky painted through with red, the air finally warm at the death of day.
Kazen arrives with a couple of retainers to escort Changmin back to the house in Yoshicho. He thanks the auntie for her assistance over the past ten days, and money exchanges hands.
Changmin takes his time wrapping the koto in her silken shroud. One of the retainers has brought Red Dappled Silk’s cherry wood box, and Changmin lifts her into it with care.
Kazen stands nearby and scolds him for putting them all through such an ordeal. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” his master says. “More importantly, I hope you will display the right amount of humility and obedience when Sakabe calls on you again. I’ve had word that he’s arrived back in Edo and is most anxious to see you. We can only pray that he’s still willing to pay seven hundred ryo. Heaven knows what he’ll say when he discovers you accepted that foreigner’s gold!”
Changmin fastens the lid on the cherry wood box and gets to his feet. “No doubt he’s already aware of it and expects a percentage.”
His master splutters. Ignoring his complaints, Changmin lifts the weight of the koto in her box and begins to walk slowly towards the door. The whores move aside for him. A few call out good wishes for his health and happiness, and he inclines his head in grateful acknowledgement. He will never see any of these women again. Once he’s sold to Sakabe, it’s doubtful he’ll ever return to the Five Streets.
A palanquin arrives just as he sets foot over the threshold. Kazen shoves back the tattered blue curtain and stares. There’s no crest upon the palanquin’s sides, but it’s made of sandalwood, the scent low and curling, and the curtains are of heavy Chinese brocade. The bearers are blank-faced and silent, and there’s an armed escort of two guards. One steps forward and bows to Kazen.
“Honourable sir,” the guard says, “by the command of my master we have come to convey the koto-player Changmin to his home.”
Kazen clasps his hands together. “Oh my,” he breathes, almost hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement. “It seems you’ve been forgiven. Sakabe obviously can’t wait until tomorrow to see you! This is very exciting. Very promising. Perhaps I can ask for a thousand ryo after all.”
Changmin bows his head as if in deference. “What should I do?” His heart is beating very fast, hope fluttering inside him. “Should I go with them, master?”
“Stupid boy! Of course you must go with them.” Kazen gives him a little push towards the palanquin, exclaiming all the while at Changmin’s foolishness. “And tell Sakabe I will call upon him tomorrow to discuss payment!”
Keeping his expression meek and biddable, Changmin arranges Red Dappled Silk within the palanquin before climbing inside. He draws the brocade curtain, shutting out the view of his master still exhorting him to be on his best behaviour when he sees Sakabe, and settles back against feather-stuffed cushions.
The palanquin bumps as the bearers set off. Changmin curls an arm around the cherry wood box, partially to protect the koto from the jolting as they dip and sway through the streets, and partially because holding onto her keeps him calm.
They stop at the gates. The watchman glances inside then signals for them to be on their way. Changmin twitches aside the curtain and peeps out as they cross the bridge over the moat. He stares at the cluster of shops selling tea and wine and food, then tilts his head and squints ahead at the road back to the city. Edo seems far away from here, and yet it is only an hour’s distance.
He lets the curtain fall again, spreads his sleeves over the koto in her box, and rests his head on his hands.
After a while, Changmin feels the palanquin set down gently upon the ground. For a moment there’s silence, and then comes the rumble of carriage wheels and the heavy tread of oxen. The cart draws to a halt nearby. He hears the snorted breath of the animals and the creak of wood.
He pushes aside the curtain and clambers out. The setting sun pulls a long shadow from him, and already a faint mist rises across the marshland. His armed escort has vanished. So have the bearers. When Changmin turns, the palanquin has also gone. The koto lies inside her cherry wood box in the road, surrounded by leaves and twigs and knotted grasses.
An ox-cart waits alongside, the animals of purest white. The curtains on the enclosed carriage are of heavy Chinese brocade. Yunho sits in the driver’s seat. He holds neither reins nor goad. He just sits there, relaxed in his robes of cream and russet with the odd patterns, and he’s smiling.
Changmin stares. Realisation is slow, as if mired in ice, but it’s coming, it’s coming. “Where did they go?” he asks.
Yunho swings himself down from the cart and comes to stand beside Changmin. “Their services were no longer required, so I dismissed them.”
Something is missing. Changmin knows it, gropes for it. Like a fool, he looks up and down the road in search of the missing men and the vanished palanquin. Behind him, Yoshiwara fades into the mist. Ahead, Edo spreads out like spilled ink.
A heron cries, the sound harsh. Changmin jerks his gaze to the road, to his shadow. To Yunho’s shadow. It has ears. Not human ears but sharp pointed ears, an animal’s ears. It has a tail, too; a long, thick brush.
Changmin faces him, heart pounding. Yunho smiles. Human ears. No tail. Uncertain, but recognising the truth at last-why hadn’t he seen it before?-Changmin takes one more glance at the shadow before he looks back at Yunho. “You let the illusion slip. You-you’re...”
“Yes, I did.” Yunho tilts his head, eyes very dark and bright. “Yes, I am.” The air shimmers, the mist whipping back as the glitter of frost descends, and Changmin sees not one fox-tail but an array of them, fanned out behind Yunho, and he counts their number and realises-
“Nine,” Changmin whispers. “A nine-tailed fox.” He goes down onto his knees before this most powerful of creatures and bows. “Red Dappled Silk belongs to you.”
“No,” Yunho says. “She is yours.” He kneels in front of Changmin and pats the cherry wood case. “She would never sing for me, no matter what I did. But she sang for a human woman, once; sang so beautifully that I gave her the koto as a wedding gift. The lady played for me, but her husband was jealous and chased me away.
“I went wandering through these islands and across the sea until the memory of the koto’s song drew me back, but the lady and her husband were long dead, her children scattered, her children’s children even further afield. For years I’ve been searching, needing to hear the koto’s song again-and here she is. With you, the last living descendant of the woman to whom I gifted Red Dappled Silk.”
Changmin shakes his head, staring at the ground. “You should take her back.”
Yunho rises to his feet. “I cannot play,” he says, then adds softly, “But you can.”
A moment passes. Changmin looks up and meets Yunho’s gaze.
“You’re free.” Yunho says, his smile deepening. “Do as you please.”
Changmin doesn’t hesitate. He’s made his decision. He gets up, balancing the koto against him, and takes Yunho’s hand as the sun sets all around them.