Major Tags: none Other Tags: rated t for some kisses at the end, nowhere in your prompt did it say "historical setting" and yet here we are Word Count: 784
i hope you enjoy! poems used are murasaki shikibu and sone no yoshitada's respective poems from the ogura hyakunin isshu.
***
Chihaya hears loudly.
Every syllable, every vowel, every breath lingers in her ears, curled around her hammer and anvil, beating persistent songs against her eardrums.
She hears the slow drip of morning dew as it trickles down a petal of thimbleweed and splatters to the ground. The market’s racket pales to the songbirds’ faraway cries and the crackle of fire thunders in the shell of her ears.
Chihaya can hear people’s voices too. Rough voices, soft voices, raspy ones, shrill ones. All kinds - but only one does she never tire of. Dainty and clear, it slices through the night’s silence the way a farmer’s sickle cuts through rice stalks.
The voice does not visit often. It whispers only some nights, when the world is doused and dim, and sighs poetry into her ears, gentle as shrine bells rustling in the breeze. Chihaya searches for its ringing, for the ethereal manner by which the voice speaks. Every word measured and weighed; as if once spoken, the word will scatter to the floor into a thousand different words of their own.
Chihaya does not want to miss a single one.
Meeting on a path: I cannot know for sure if it was he.
Every night Chihaya’s fingers clench into the duvet, knuckles turning white as she strains her ears. Her eyes squeeze shut and her nose wrinkles as she searches for the voice that cuts soft as shrine bells. She searches and searches and searches and wills the gods to bring her just one syllable, one vowel, one puff of breath.
When the voice visits, Chihaya sneaks out into the night. Crawls through the narrow opening of the paper door and nestles herself where the grass grows lowest. Then she raises her eyes up towards the Plain of High Heaven and smiles at the moon as it hides behind clouds of ink, spilled into the night sky. Glad to gaze upon something shared with the voice.
It blankets her, this feeling; covers her until she is nothing but boiling warmth.
When the voice does not, Chihaya digs her head into her pillows and says: “Louder.
I need to hear louder still.”
For the midnight moon had disappeared inside a cloud.
Her father sets up shop in a village close to the capital and promises they will stay a week - maybe two - before they move on to Heian-kyou at last. A merchant’s life is hard work, but Chihaya prefers it to the idle chatter of the scholars they meet along the road.
She is busy stalling the porcelain they bought in Lin’an when a young woman hums politely from the side of the carriage, hiding behind her long sleeves.
“Excuse me,” the woman begins, dainty and clear.
Chihaya’s breath sticks to the back of her throat. That’s. She’s. Yes.
Meeting on a path:
Chihaya’s eyes flicker down and up again, wide as the gape of her mouth. She reaches for the woman’s hand and hoovers midair, unsure, frightened. She tries to unstick her breath.
“This may sound a little strange but -,” Chihaya says, “could you speak poems to me?”
I cannot know for sure if it was she.
“Look,” Kanade says, eyes bright with laughter as she grabs for her kimono sleeve. Chihaya crawls closer and does not stop until their thighs touch, barely, and their body heat stings hot through the fabric. Until their shoulders knock together and Kanade smiles like morning dew as she brings her index finger to her elbow.
“Moon,” she whispers, loud and clear. She grins and runs her finger along her sleeve, sighing the word to life. In the crook of her elbow silver threads stitch a crescent moon.
Chihaya gasps and reaches out, grazing her fingertip over the stitching, and Kanade’s voice hitches, her cheeks tinging red.
“You sit too close, it’s quite unladylike,” she says, careful - like every word could fall. Chihaya moves to shuffle away and Kanade’s hand clasps around her wrist.
“The boatman crossing the straits of Yura’s lost the rudder, not even knowing where it goes, is this perhaps the course of love?”
Chihaya lets them scatter this time, listens to the thousand different words rolling over the floor, and smiles. The feeling blankets her, until her wrist boils warm and hot beneath Kanade’s fingers.
Kanade pulls her closer. “I did not say I mind.”
Their lips mesh and meld, soft press against press against press as Chihaya licks the taste of sweetened rice wine from between Kanade’s lips.
Moons away, Chihaya buries herself under the covers in Lin’an. Aimlessly, her finger runs circles over the rudderless boatman stitched into her hakama skirt as she listens to the shrine bells rustle sweet nothings into the breeze.
FILL: TEAM BOKUTO KOUTAROU/KUROO TETSUROU, T
Other Tags: rated t for some kisses at the end, nowhere in your prompt did it say "historical setting" and yet here we are
Word Count: 784
i hope you enjoy! poems used are murasaki shikibu and sone no yoshitada's respective poems from the ogura hyakunin isshu.
***
Chihaya hears loudly.
Every syllable, every vowel, every breath lingers in her ears, curled around her hammer and anvil, beating persistent songs against her eardrums.
She hears the slow drip of morning dew as it trickles down a petal of thimbleweed and splatters to the ground. The market’s racket pales to the songbirds’ faraway cries and the crackle of fire thunders in the shell of her ears.
Chihaya can hear people’s voices too. Rough voices, soft voices, raspy ones, shrill ones. All kinds - but only one does she never tire of. Dainty and clear, it slices through the night’s silence the way a farmer’s sickle cuts through rice stalks.
The voice does not visit often. It whispers only some nights, when the world is doused and dim, and sighs poetry into her ears, gentle as shrine bells rustling in the breeze. Chihaya searches for its ringing, for the ethereal manner by which the voice speaks. Every word measured and weighed; as if once spoken, the word will scatter to the floor into a thousand different words of their own.
Chihaya does not want to miss a single one.
Meeting on a path: I cannot know for sure if it was he.
Every night Chihaya’s fingers clench into the duvet, knuckles turning white as she strains her ears. Her eyes squeeze shut and her nose wrinkles as she searches for the voice that cuts soft as shrine bells. She searches and searches and searches and wills the gods to bring her just one syllable, one vowel, one puff of breath.
When the voice visits, Chihaya sneaks out into the night. Crawls through the narrow opening of the paper door and nestles herself where the grass grows lowest. Then she raises her eyes up towards the Plain of High Heaven and smiles at the moon as it hides behind clouds of ink, spilled into the night sky. Glad to gaze upon something shared with the voice.
It blankets her, this feeling; covers her until she is nothing but boiling warmth.
When the voice does not, Chihaya digs her head into her pillows and says: “Louder.
I need to hear louder still.”
For the midnight moon had disappeared inside a cloud.
Her father sets up shop in a village close to the capital and promises they will stay a week - maybe two - before they move on to Heian-kyou at last. A merchant’s life is hard work, but Chihaya prefers it to the idle chatter of the scholars they meet along the road.
She is busy stalling the porcelain they bought in Lin’an when a young woman hums politely from the side of the carriage, hiding behind her long sleeves.
“Excuse me,” the woman begins, dainty and clear.
Chihaya’s breath sticks to the back of her throat. That’s. She’s. Yes.
Meeting on a path:
Chihaya’s eyes flicker down and up again, wide as the gape of her mouth. She reaches for the woman’s hand and hoovers midair, unsure, frightened. She tries to unstick her breath.
“This may sound a little strange but -,” Chihaya says, “could you speak poems to me?”
I cannot know for sure if it was she.
“Look,” Kanade says, eyes bright with laughter as she grabs for her kimono sleeve. Chihaya crawls closer and does not stop until their thighs touch, barely, and their body heat stings hot through the fabric. Until their shoulders knock together and Kanade smiles like morning dew as she brings her index finger to her elbow.
“Moon,” she whispers, loud and clear. She grins and runs her finger along her sleeve, sighing the word to life. In the crook of her elbow silver threads stitch a crescent moon.
Chihaya gasps and reaches out, grazing her fingertip over the stitching, and Kanade’s voice hitches, her cheeks tinging red.
“You sit too close, it’s quite unladylike,” she says, careful - like every word could fall. Chihaya moves to shuffle away and Kanade’s hand clasps around her wrist.
not even knowing where it goes, is this perhaps the course of love?”
Chihaya lets them scatter this time, listens to the thousand different words rolling over the floor, and smiles. The feeling blankets her, until her wrist boils warm and hot beneath Kanade’s fingers.
Kanade pulls her closer. “I did not say I mind.”
Their lips mesh and meld, soft press against press against press as Chihaya licks the taste of sweetened rice wine from between Kanade’s lips.
Moons away, Chihaya buries herself under the covers in Lin’an. Aimlessly, her finger runs circles over the rudderless boatman stitched into her hakama skirt as she listens to the shrine bells rustle sweet nothings into the breeze.