But Sho shook his head. “No,” he murmured.
Relief flooded Hirata. But then, just as quickly, it evaporated, replaced by a horrid possibility. “Do you mean… you believe I’m depraved?”
Sho’s head jerked up. “Nande? Of course not!”
“Then what? I don’t understand.”
Sho hunched his shoulders, as if to protect himself against the attack of memories. “Those five men we killed… in recent months I’ve treated some of their victims. The ones unfortunate enough to have suffered their wickedness and survived.” Sho’s face changed, as if an old man who lived inside him were taking possession of his body. “I will spare you the details. But I swore then that if those ronin ever crossed my path, it would be the last action of their lives.”
Confusion still curtained Hirata’s mind. The connection between what Sho was saying and the gap between them was still unclear. “I still don’t understand. What does that have to do with me? With… us?”
Sho’s face whipped around to him. The old, tired man was suddenly gone, replaced by a look of demon fire. “There is no us, Hirata,” he ground out, teeth bared. “I’m not your Sho. I’m not anyone’s. I know you don’t understand.” Sho held up his hands. “Ichi-sensei passed all his skills on to me. The swordsmanship as well as the healing. So I could defend myself and others. But… now… having these two extremes in one body, in one mind, has made me like him. He can’t do anything else but kill with one hand and heal with the other. There is the dice game for extra coins and occasional moments of pleasure in someone’s arms. But there’s no room in such a life for friendship.” Sho’s voice had grown heavy, thick with emotions Hirata couldn’t comprehend. “Three days ago, when your path crossed mine, you witnessed my entire existence.”
For several moments, all Hirata could do was gape at him some more, robbed of any possible response. Sho had always been able to put him in his place, yet in their childhood, their disputes had been those that concerned children, innocent trifles, such as which direction to explore that day or which trees to climb or whose frog would win the race they put the creatures to. “You’re not Ichi,” he muttered. “You don’t have to live that way. There is always a place for friendship.”
“You’re wrong, Hirata. To speak of our friendship, to show up in my life and try to get back what we once had is to torment me with the past, to dangle it before me like a meatless bone for a hungry dog. Our friendship is a relic, a dead thing made of memories. Something I can never have back. If you care at all about me, Hirata, you’ll let me be.” He paused. “Like I told you, I never expected you to understand. But you can respect.”
Hot tears stung Hirata’s eyes. The chasm between himself and Sho, a space Hirata had believed only to be made of missed time, grew inexorably deeper and more mysterious than he’d ever thought possible. Could Sho’s words possibly be true? That their friendship consisted only of childhood memories that could never bridge the gap that had separated them and now continued to do so?
Once again, as his father long ago had exhorted him, he was being told that if he truly cared about Sho, he would let him go, release him to the hands of destiny. Only this time, it was Sho himself forcing him away instead of clinging to him.
The demand on his heart had been unjust then and it was unjust now. Hirata’s entire body trembled from the pressure of grief he worked to suppress. His teeth clenched until his jaw ached. Was it really so terrible to love Sho so much and want only that they could be at each other’s side, sharing the burdens and joys of life? It seemed so, for as fervently as he pursued the gift of Sho’s companionship, life pushed back at him with equal fervor.
There was no other solution but to surrender.
He exhaled, a harsh breath that caused him to double over. The movement made pain shoot through his injury, but he didn’t care.
Sho straightened, obviously alert to Hirata’s distress. “Hirata, are you—”
“I’m fine. I… will leave you. I’m just not strong enough now.” Even if he’d not wanted to stay with Sho, he genuinely was too weak to travel.
“I know.” Sho bowed his head. “You must wait until you’re fully recovered. I… I’ll take care of you until then. As soon as I get word that the ronins’ deaths have been cleared, we can go outside and then you can bathe, and I’ll wash your hair for you. So you don’t have to lift your arms.”
Tears rolled freely down Hirata’s cheeks now. “Why?” The question burst out, beyond his control. “Why should you do that?”
Sho heaved a deep sigh. “Oh, Hirata, you really don’t understand, do you? You’re… blinded by your desires.”
Hirata’s heart jumped. “If that’s really true then why did that kabuki actor keep referring to me as your samurai?”
Sho turned his body slightly so that Hirata couldn’t see his face, something he’d done since he was blinded. Sho’s unique way of not looking Hirata in the eye. “If you had Aoki’s life, you’d need a romantic dream to hold on to also. You’re a samurai. Samurai don’t understand such matters. You don’t have to lie in sexual congress with any samurai who wants you in order to earn your keep. When we first met, Aoki saw the stone around my neck and asked me about it. I told him a little bit and he built his own story around the few details I shared. That story is special to him. Who am I to rob him of a dream?”
With each word Sho uttered, the madness Hirata felt in his brain intensified. “Yes,” he nearly sobbed, “the stone. You tell me our friendship is a relic of the past and yet you wore the stone I gave you even as you lay with a kagema. Explain that.”
“I already did,” he murmured.
Silence ensued, broken only by the steady cricket song outside. Hirata remembered Sho’s cold, reasonable explanation about the stone, but he also remembered Sho’s litany as he dragged Hirata from the scene of their sword fight to this place. How frantic Sho had been over Hirata’s wound, how worried about his friend’s possible death.
Even before that, when Sho had finally admitted to knowing who he was because he’d recognized Hirata’s scent, his true feelings had come out. You’re part of me, Sho had said. Hirata wasn’t too blind to recognize Sho still loved him even as he told him in the same breath their friendship was over.
Hirata leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Physical exhaustion from his injury robbed him of his ability to pursue this conversation. There were too many contradictions woven into the hard shell surrounding Sho’s heart. “Yes,” he said softly. “You already did.”
“Thank you, Hirata. Thank you for understanding.” On hands and knees, Sho crawled closer. He groped around until his hand connected with Hirata’s abandoned bowl of gruel. Sho lifted the bowl up, offering it with both hands. “Please, now, eat. I beg you, keep up your strength.”
Hirata sniffled. As much as his spirit wanted to cry out, to fight Sho’s strange duality toward him, his body was weak, his will battered. Wordlessly, he reached out to accept the bowl. In accepting it, his hand covered Sho’s hand. The contact, unexpected, yet so wanted, forced a breath from him. An image flashed in his mind. A memory of grabbing Sho’s hand to spirit him away from Zatoichi and hide him. Seventeen years ago. The last time he’d touched Sho.
Hirata broke into sobs. “I’m sorry, Sho,” he blurted. He rubbed his thumb zealously over Sho’s skin. “I hadn’t meant it to be this way. None of it.” Even as he cried, he wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by “it,” except some sort of nebulous form that included everything that had happened since the moment he and Sho were separated.
“I know, Hirata. Neither did I.” Sho tried to pull away but Hirata grasped his wrist, nearly causing Sho to tip the bowl and its contents onto Hirata’s lap. “Please, don’t, Sho. For this little time we have, let me show you what’s in my heart.”
Sho stilled. “That’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t care!”
“Please, eat.”
“No.”
Sho exhaled. “W
ill you eat if I let you express your heart?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then.” Sho lifted the bowl closer to Hirata’s face, still with Hirata’s hand on his.
Hirata let Sho take back his hand. Sho put the bowl onto Hirata’s lap and handed him the spoon. The gruel had cooled off into a congealed paste, but Hirata forced himself to eat, not only because of the bizarre deal he’d just struck with Sho, but also because underneath it all, he knew Sho was genuinely worried.
When he’d finished, Sho took the bowl away and gave him another cup of that delicious honey-tasting drink. He drained it in a few swallows and sat back. “What is that stuff?” he asked.
Sho grinned and put a finger to his lips. “A secret. But I can tell you. It’s called mead. Fermented honey. Ichi-san’s teacher learned to make it from the Dutch traders. He had… connections.”
“Ohhh.” Sho’s confidence sent a pleasant ripple through Hirata’s chest. Obviously Sho trusted him not to reveal this sensitive information. People could get into big trouble if the authorities caught wind of any illegal contact with the Dutch. The barbarians were kept in a special, highly guarded settlement on an island off the coast and allowed contact only with officials given the shogun’s express approval. “Well, we’re fortunate he has shared this knowledge with us.”
Sho’s grin faded. “Thank you, Hirata. I know I can trust you.”
Hirata stared into Sho’s face, searching desperately for the affection he knew must be locked in there. Affection that didn’t rely only on life-or-death crisis in order to be expressed. Any sign that their friendship wasn’t truly over, as Sho had said. The sword injury began to throb, but Hirata ignored the pain. It was nothing in comparison to the pain Sho had inflicted on him this night.
“You’re welcome, Sho,” he answered in equally as soft a tone. “You can always trust me.”
Chapter Six
TWO DAYS later, Sho went out and returned that evening with the news that the local police force had attributed the ronins’ deaths to a sword fight in self-defense and had dropped the investigation. Hirata was feeling quite a bit better, although Sho discouraged him from moving too much while the layers of skin tissue healed. He did, however, usher Hirata out for the promised bath in the river the next morning.
Sho slid open the door to the house.
Daylight assaulted Hirata’s eyes. He squinted and grasped the doorpost.
“Are you all right, Hirata?” Sho lightly touched his elbow.
Hirata rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger and blinked several times. “I’ll be fine. The light….”
“I understand. I still remember that kind of thing.” His touch left Hirata’s elbow. “Take your time.”
For some reason, Sho’s patience made him feel testy. “I’m fine,” he said and stepped outside. Letting his eyes adjust, Hirata began to see the surroundings that nighttime and his injured state had not allowed him to see days before.
The spot was beautiful, idyllic really. A small dirt yard surrounding the front of the house gave way to more lush, tall grass. Only a narrow path was visible, created by the constant treading of human feet down toward the river, beyond which lay a forest topped by brilliant blue sky and a few fluffy clouds. Birdsong twittered from the trees, and a light breeze stirred the leaves. The sun warmed his face and body, bare except for the parts covered by his loincloth.
A line of rope tied to a pole stretched the distance, parallel to the path, ending at another pole at the river’s edge. Hirata assumed it to be a line to hang washing to dry since Sho stepped out beside him, undressed, and slung his kimono over it. “This way,” he told Hirata and grasped the rope with one hand, Hirata’s hand in the other. The rope was Sho’s guide between the river and the house.
“Come.” Sho gently tugged Hirata’s hand.
In halting steps, Hirata let Sho, now clad only in his loincloth, a washrag slung over one shoulder, lead him toward the water’s edge. Inwardly he grumbled at his own weakness. Weren’t normal samurai able to sustain such an injury as he’d received without needing so many days’ rest and nursing? Did he have to be so different in every way possible?
Glancing up he watched Sho’s fingers slide along the guide rope. His testy feeling intensified. As a child, Sho had adapted to his blindness seamlessly. As an adult, he’d gained even more skills. In addition to being an accomplished healer, he was as deadly a human weapon as any samurai or ninja. Hirata couldn’t help comparing himself to Sho and to every other human being he’d ever encountered. Everyone else seemed to fit somewhere in this world except him. Until two nights ago, at least, before his horrible conversation with Sho, he’d held on to the belief that the fire of love and loyalty burning in his heart for Sho distinguished him as a samurai in the true sense. Now that too seemed a paltry joke.
They reached the riverbank and Sho released the guide rope, whose end was tied to a pole a mere few steps from the river. “The water should be nice and warm.” With Hirata’s hand in his, Sho inched down the bank, toward a large rock protruding from the water. The surface of the rock reached from the water to the grassy slope, its edge an arm’s length from Sho’s guide pole and serving as a makeshift platform. Ichi-san had apparently set everything up for them perfectly, Hirata thought with a touch of bitterness. No sighted people needed.
Sho took the first step into the water. “Ahh, it’s beautiful.” He tugged Hirata’s hand again. “Come, let’s have a bath, then I’ll wash your hair.”
Hirata followed Sho into the river. Admittedly, the sun felt glorious on his back while the cool water enveloped him up to the waist. In his heavy mood, he didn’t want to allow these things to give him enjoyment, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never been truly able to shut the wonder of life out, even in the depths of missing Sho.
Releasing Hirata’s hand, Sho dipped under the water, remained under for several seconds, then came back up under a curtain of cascading water. “Wonderful,” he said with an uncharacteristically wide smile. “Go on, Hirata, wet your hair.”
Hirata paused, caught himself staring at Sho. Sunlight made the droplets of water clinging to Sho’s skin shine. Water beaded down Sho’s chest and abdomen, making small rivulets in the furrows between his muscles. Truly he appeared some sort of god in human form, standing there, the water lapping at his waist.
Sho’s smile faded. No doubt he felt Hirata’s gaze on him. “What are you waiting for?” He smoothed one hand over his closely shorn head. “Go under.”
Wordlessly, Hirata obeyed. He went under and opened his eyes. In the clear water, he had a perfect view of Sho’s legs, of his sloping thighs and calves, full of power. Sho had worn his loincloth into the water, but Hirata still caught a glimpse of the bulge in front.
His lungs ran out of air and he surfaced. Since he’d taken the tie out of his hair before leaving the house, his wet hair hung heavily over his shoulders. He pushed it back, off his face, his heart beating rather hard. A memory flashed in his mind of the kabuki actor, Aoki, in sexual congress with Sho, riding him as if astride a horse. Hirata cleared his throat, dispelling the erotic image and its painful contrast to his own experience. “You were right.”
Sho’s smile returned. “Of course I am.” He dipped the washrag into the water and stepped toward Hirata. “Neither of us was ever one to stay indoors for any length of time.”
Before Hirata could answer, Sho was right in front of him. “Now, stand still and let me wash you so you don’t keep lifting your arm.”
“Tha-thank you.”
Sho lifted the washrag and sloshed it over Hirata’s back. Up, down, around, with the same caring touch he’d used in all his ministrations. Hirata tensed in spite of how good the cloth felt against his skin, down his arms, under his arms then… over his chest and abdomen. Down below, his musuko stirred in his loincloth. The more Sho washed him, the more it hardened, rising until it pushed uncomfortably against the cloth. The sensation made Hirata feel oddly wild, abandoned, rather tha
n uptight, as sexual desire usually made him feel.
Sho slung the washrag over his shoulder again. “Dip into the water once more. So I can get your scalp clean.”
Again Hirata obeyed and then rose up again. When he did so, Sho reached up. Burrowing his fingers into Hirata’s wet hair, he began to rub Hirata’s scalp vigorously in small circles.
Immediately, Hirata’s whole body relaxed. He closed his eyes and let his head loll back a bit. Sho’s touch was heavenly. And… he thought, feeling wanton again… he wanted it all over his body. Everywhere. “What about the rest of me?” he asked.
Sho’s hands stilled. “Excuse me?”
“The other parts of me, below the water. Don’t you wash them too?”
“You don’t need to raise your arm in order to wash there,” Sho answered. “You can do that yourself.” He fell silent and resumed his work on Hirata’s scalp.
Sho’s response made that testy feeling resurge. Hirata’s misery redoubled. Like a cloud over the sun, it blocked out the pleasure of Sho’s fingers on his scalp, the sun on his skin, and the beauty of Sho’s bare physique. “If I were Aoki,” he mumbled, “you’d gladly wash my nether parts.” The words flew from him, beyond control. After all, Sho had spoken frankly and with brutal honesty the other night. Why shouldn’t he do the same now?
Sho’s hands left his hair. “Would I?”
Tension returned, gripping Hirata’s muscles with such force, his neck began to ache. “I believe so. I saw you and him with my own eyes.”
The water churned with Sho’s step back, away from Hirata. “So, because I lay with Aoki, that means I would do whatever anyone bids of me? Is that what I am? A manservant?”
“No! That’s not what I meant.” Blood rushed hot into Hirata’s face. It flowed through his veins like liquid fire. The erection in his loincloth tightened yet more.
Blind Love Page 6
