Love Water (Yaoi Novel) Read online

  But Masaomi had just finished his very first visit and understood nothing. He was an amateur.

  Misao knew that if this generous man were to enter a tea room with his utter lack of knowledge, he would end by paying out all the money in his pocket.

  “Um—I’m sure this is very forward of me to say, but...”

  Misao felt annoyed at himself for his stuttering speech.

  This was the first time he had ever felt concern for a customer’s well-being.

  Masaomi looked at him curiously.

  Misao let out a sigh of relief that his motives hadn’t been discovered, then hardened his heart.

  “If you’re not yet familiar with the tea house, would you like for me to explain some of its finer points for you?”

  “You?”

  Masaomi asked, then immediately seemed to notice something and looked down into a corner of the garden. Misao followed his gaze. Standing on one of the garden bridges, one of the night watchmen had raised his lantern and was looking suspiciously up at them.

  “Ah,” Misao murmured, feeling fatigued. “He thinks I’m one of the girls.”

  It was a common mistake after dark. Misao wasn’t particularly short, but his long hair blurred the line apparently.

  “He’s watching us to see if we’re planning to run away together.”

  “You and I?”

  He probably hadn’t meant anything by that. But Misao was unusually taken aback by his words.

  For a moment, he saw the image vividly in his mind: running with Masaomi, hands locked.

  At nearly the same moment, they both turned their eyes from the watchman’s lantern to each other’s faces.

  Their eyes locked.

  Misao gulped and Masaomi smiled at him gently.

  It was like a soft spring breeze, Misao thought hazily as the night air played through his hair.

  Masaomi moved slightly away from the railing and turned his back.

  “Then it appears we should go somewhere else.”

  He looked back at Misao once more, echoing his thoughts, and tilted his head ever so slightly with a gentle expression.

  “Even if you’re only going to flatter me.”

  There were small butterflies drawn on several of the thin paper lanterns, and the flames inside caused their shadows to flutter on the walls.

  They were in a room that could hold two beds, walled off by folding screens with cushions scattered about its wooden floor. It showed no sign of having been used.

  Misao felt a little uncomfortable at the fact that this was one of the rooms where the girls slept, but perhaps that was because the room was so tidy; or then again, perhaps because there was a man sitting so formally right across from him. Masaomi was someone who was buying women with money, but at the same time he gave an impression of refreshing cleanliness.

  “The second time you come, they will do the same thing.”

  Masaomi nodded wordlessly at Misao’s explanation. The light of the lanterns cut a sharp relief on his serious face.

  “The courtesan will speak to you more familiarly, but just as tonight, you will have to sleep alone. A courtesan will only loosen her sash for a guest after he visits three times.”

  Misao informed him about all the various methods of payment such as the tip, the monetary gift, and even the courtesan’s flower money, with the utmost propriety. Masaomi would occasionally raise a question and Misao would answer, until finally he finished explaining the basics. It had taken more than an hour to cover it all. There was no means to tell the time inside the room, so they didn’t know the exact hour, but it must have been near four in the morning.

  Masaomi never shifted his position during the entire discussion. He had barely even taken his eyes off of Misao the entire time. The intensity of his attention was almost frightening.

  Misao pretended to have just remembered something and glanced at the screen, fleeing Masaomi’s direct gaze.

  “When is the tea house bringing you back?” Misao asked without returning his eyes to Masaomi.

  The tip was typically paid upon leaving the brothel and often the tea house would send someone to escort the customer home.

  “I requested first thing in the morning,” Masaomi answered.

  At the brothel, “first thing in the morning” meant four in the afternoon.

  Misao turned his face back to Masaomi. He was still looking at him. It was a perfectly relaxed look, devoid of excitement.

  “Then they should be coming for you soon. Would you like to change? I can help you.”

  “Oh no, it’s still much too early for that.”

  He refused the offer assuredly, as if he carried a watch inside his head.

  His calm seemed to radiate oddly into the environment. Misao had begun to stand up, but at the sound of the man’s voice, he sat back down and gave an easy sigh.

  The last thing he wanted to do was disturb him.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  Misao knew that they needed to somehow fill this time, but Masaomi only shook his head slightly. The next moment, he looked more relaxed.

  “You’ve been a big help. Thanks.”

  Misao blinked slowly at this gratitude.

  What a strange man.

  He had no flaws.

  It troubled Misao why someone like him would come to a place like this. He had wondered about it all night.

  Masaomi ought to have attracted scores of women without needing to come to a brothel. Was it just the indulgence of a man with too much time and money, like it was for Katsuragi? Misao just couldn’t figure it out.

  There could be many reasons for him to visit a brothel for the first time.

  Simple appreciation of women. A family custom. To see someone from work. To cheer himself up. Among all those, there was one more reason; a motive purer than the rest.

  Well...that must be it.

  Everything fell into place.

  Well then.

  “Did you know that Ukigumo likes candy?” Masaomi looked surprised at Misao’s sudden inquiry.

  That must be it. He was almost certain.

  Masaomi must have seen Ukigumo on the street going out to greet a customer and fallen in love at first sight. Suddenly, it all made sense. His gift to Ukigumo had never been intended for anyone else. He had known exactly what he was doing.

  Confusion came over Masaomi’s face when Misao pulled the object from his kimono and held it out to him.

  At first he peered curiously at the handkerchief Misao held out to him, but a few moments later he let out a murmur. “Ah... that’s mine, isn’t it?”

  “I’m returning it to you.”

  Masaomi gave a slight nod. He didn’t even ask him how he’d gotten it and simply picked it up. “Thanks for going to all that trouble.”

  Misao watched him pull his hand away.

  He momentarily regretted returning it, a strange sort of attachment flitting through his heart; but when Masaomi stood up, all business, Misao no longer understood why he had felt that way.

  All he could do was shake his head at this mysteriously uncharacteristic mood.

  Masaomi appeared to be tucking the handkerchief into the pocket of his flocked jacket, which hung in a corner of the room. His back was turned, so Misao couldn’t really see what he was doing.

  They had been talking the entire night, so this was the first time Misao had seen his back.

  Why did it make his heart feel so empty?

  “Don’t you think it was a little arrogant to give the maid a token intended for her courtesan?” Misao asked quietly.

  It seemed highly unlikely that Masaomi would carry that sort of thing around with him as a matter of habit. It was much easier to imagine that he had done some research into Ukigumo’s tastes.

  Masaomi came back over to Misao and chuckled. He didn’t deny it. So he really had come to the Oumi Tea House to try and win Ukigumo.

  “Don’t you feel sorry for her?”

  Misao didn’t know why
he said something so petty. He felt almost nauseous at giving voice to these angry words and his face twisted. The eyes of the man across from him stared back, trembling like a candle flame.

  It was the face of a man who had suddenly encountered something unexpected.

  Then his eyes lowered and he looked to be deep in thought, staring at a point on the floor. It seemed Misao’s words had dug up something much deeper inside him.

  In the silence that followed, so quiet that they could hear the crackling of the fire burning in the lanterns, Misao briefly regretted his rudeness.

  There had been no reason to attack Masaomi.

  Misao knew very well how happy that small act of charity had made Sazu, even if it was unintentional. He also knew how very important the memory of it would be to her for the rest of her life.

  So then why had he said it?

  A sudden anger, quick like the flare of a match, had taken over his emotions.

  Masaomi let out a single long sigh.

  Misao held his breath and pressed his lips together.

  “I see,” Masaomi said to himself quietly. His big, round eyes closed once, briefly. “Definitely, such arrogance is highly unattractive in a person.”

  He turned to face Misao, chastising himself.

  Misao heard the pounding of his heart inside him.

  “It’s all in the name of self-gratification.”

  Misao had always thought of this place as nothing but a lie.

  Men and women held the ugly truth about themselves under layer after layer of gilding.

  The truth had no place here.

  A raspy breath escaped Misao’s slightly open lips.

  “Forgive me.”

  He bowed his head.

  “It was very petty of me to say that.”

  He had no doubt made Masaomi say things he would have rather not said.

  The man had spoken his feelings truthfully, without any pretense.

  “Forgive me,” Misao said again.

  Masaomi moved silently to sit diagonally across from him. “Sit up.”

  All Misao could see were Masaomi’s hands, resting lightly on the long kimono that covered his knees.

  “I don’t want you to apologize to me. In fact, I’m glad you said that. I need to be aware of this selfish side of myself.” Misao felt a little suspicious of this act of self-discipline.

  He slowly sat up and turned his head haltingly. This was the closest he had been to Masaomi all day. He saw that the man’s placid features bore him no grudge.

  “Hey, I still haven’t asked you your name,” Masaomi said with a light laugh. “I’m Masaomi. Masaomi Towa. And you are?”

  “Excuse me for not introducing myself earlier.”

  Misao sat up straight and reoriented his body to face Masaomi.

  “Misao. I was named for a festival.”

  Masaomi nodded.

  “That’s a pretty name. Could I be so bold as to take your hand?”

  “My hand? I don’t understand.”

  He tilted his head and held his hands out, palms up. Masaomi swept one up in his left hand.

  Misao gulped and his eyes widened. He followed the path of his hand with bulging eyes as it was raised to the level of the man’s chest, as it touched his skin, then he turned his eyes to Masaomi’s face. His eyes were lowered to Misao’s palm, the orange light of the lanterns casting the faint shadow of his eyelashes on his face.

  The pulse in Misao’s wrist thudded, as if competing with the speed of his heart’s pounding.

  He felt a single finger touch his palm, then slide over it.

  A sensation shot through Misao, threatening to choke him.

  The finger traced out a character on the taut skin of his palm.

  It was his name.

  Misao’s eyelids fluttered with each stroke.

  As he finished the last line, the man’s finger withdrew from his palm.

  “I don’t know if that helped, since it was written backwards.”

  Masaomi lifted his head and looked straight into Misao’s eyes. A tremor ran through his face and, as if he had been holding his breath, his shoulders shook slightly.

  Misao imagined what a strange face he must be making right then.

  Under normal circumstances, Misao was in perfect control of his expression. He would know it as surely as if he had checked in a mirror.

  But right now, he had no idea what he looked like.

  He had never felt so unstable before.

  “About the...”

  He looked earnestly at Masaomi, then looked everywhere but at him. Misao heard his own faint voice float out of him, like a paper balloon blown in the breeze.

  “Your handkerchief... could I have it?”

  “What?”

  Masaomi appeared taken aback. Misao was shocked himself at what he had just said.

  He covered his mouth with his hand at this unbelievable request.

  Masaomi was just about to say something when the wavering light of a hand lantern shone on the screen door.

  “That’s the owner making his rounds.”

  There was a noise in the hall. It was Kazushi’s voice. Instinctively, Misao readied himself to stand at a moment’s notice. Across from him, Masaomi slowly turned his head, like a rusty tin man, to the shadows cast by the man’s lantern on the screen.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not dressed yet,” Masaomi called through the door. His voice was more businesslike than Misao had heard it all night. “Could you please wait a moment?”

  “Would you like some help?”

  Masaomi refused Kazushi’s offer. “No need, thank you.”

  “Let me,” Misao offered quietly. Masaomi nodded and stood up. Misao stood as well, to help. Due to the urgency of the situation, Misao’s heart pounded so erratically he was afraid it might simply stop, which would be no help at all. But gradually, it calmed.

  The man pulled off his robe and Misao drew his shirt over his broad back. When he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his flocked coat, Masaomi looked over his shoulder at Misao.

  “Thank you.”

  Misao was adjusting the collar of his coat when he said it and, for some reason he didn’t quite understand, it touched him. He shook his head silently. His feelings were in strange disarray once again.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Masaomi opened the door.

  Kazushi had set the lantern on the floor and kneeled beside the door to wait. He looked up and noticed Misao standing behind Masaomi. His mouth opened and he stared stupidly.

  “Is something the matter?” Masaomi asked.

  “Uh—no, sir. Please follow me.”

  Kazushi picked up the lantern and led Masaomi down the hall, and Misao followed behind them.

  When they reached the first floor, he slipped out the gate.

  A two-passenger rickshaw was waiting in the street. A small lantern hung from its side. The owner of the introductory tea house stood in the light, waiting for his customer.

  Masaomi turned back to Misao. Misao was surprised by his sudden change in direction and he fell back a step. But Masaomi’s steps were much larger and he closed the distance, gently taking one of Misao’s hands. The feeling of his skin as he covered Misao’s hand with his own made Misao’s breath catch.

  “Thank you for all your help,” he whispered, catching Misao’s eye. Then he silently pulled his hands away and walked unerringly back to the cart. The owner sat beside him and ordered the driver to take them away, and they set off at a quick pace.

  “Guess I was wrong about you and him,” Kazushi teased, holding his lantern aloft. Misao didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze to his hands.

  The handkerchief was folded in quarters, then folded in half in the middle. There was a ten yen note tucked inside. Misao felt a leaden weight sink into his heart.

  This was much too large an amount to be called a simple tip, and when Kazushi stole a glance at it, he let out a low whistle.

  “What did you do?�
��

  One corner of Kazushi’s mouth twisted up, and for some reason Misao found that extremely offensive.

  “It wasn’t like that,” he answered glumly, and walked back through the gate. He went toward the owner’s room in the back. There was a fixed distance to reach the end of this job. He slipped his right hand into his sleeve and gathered the many bills that he kept there. It was everything he had earned from the customers that night. There must be eight yen in all. He wasn’t including the ten yen from Masaomi.

  He went into the room.

  The owner had carelessly put his bed next to the hearth. He only woke up when Misao stood next to his pillow. He lifted his head, which was going white, disagreeably.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded imperiously. But when he saw it was Misao, his mood changed.

  “Oh, it’s you, Misao. You were working late tonight. How did you do?”

  Misao knelt down silently and sat beside him. He laid each of the bills he’d received on the edge of the bed. The owner picked them up and counted them.

  “You’ve got eight yen! Well done.”

  He raised his eyebrows, impressed.

  “How much is left?” Misao choked out.

  The owner quirked a corner of his mouth and sighed. “Don’t be so stubborn. I’ve been here my whole life.”

  The owner stroked Misao’s cheek with a sticky hand, and Misao slapped it away harshly.

  “I’m not joking.”

  The owner’s throat shook with his amusement. He was obviously a pervert to derive such joy from that treatment.

  “All right, all right. You really are good.”

  He gazed at Misao, as if lost in a dream, and said the same thing he said every time Misao came to him.

  “Your face, your eyes—every day you’re more and more in the flower of your youth.”

  The owner reached out again, forgetting his lesson already, but Misao avoided him and stood up.

  “I’m tired of this. I don’t need you to tell me over and over how much I look like whatever. Thanks for your time,” Misao exploded, then headed out of the room. The owner called out to stop him, still in his bed.

  “You’ve been holding on to that thing the whole time you’ve been in here. What is it? A handkerchief?”