We're Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
We hope you will enjoy the show
We're Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
Sit back and let the evening go
--Lennon&McCartney

AOSHI

     It was said among the common that the heartbeat of a flea was easier to detect than a Hitokiri in hiding. The rumor pleased Himura Kenshin for no intelligent reason. Silence ever followed the Hitokiri, bloodshed a precarious enough affair. Terse feline movements, as effortless as breathing, sent him from one tiled roof to the next in a mute flurry of scarlet hair and cloth. No one would know what phantom danced above their beds with refined expertise, they would sleep ignorant. That was as it should be. He landed with a small thud on the pavement, eyes scanning the dead cluster of establishments looming side by side. The night rains had left the streets deserted, the rooftops slick and dangerous.

     I had better meet some justification for this moon jaunt.

     The sun had barely risen, its rays outlining the world in misty traces of light, the air soft and hazy. It was a time he agreed with. He reached into the fold of his gi, pulling out a tiny roll of cloth pressed against his chest. Unraveling it, he read aloud the ink slashed at the bottom.

     AOSHI.

     The sound left his lips in one short exhale. Aoshi. Pale death. The name was well-suited. He could not imagine why young lady Misao scoured the country so desperately merely for the chance to be near him. An attractive face? Surely that could not be enough. She was young yet, vulnerable to the foolishness of beauty. But no matter how beautiful, Aoshi was as cold as a sliver of ice to the bright-eyed girl who loved him. It was as if he had worked some unshakable spell. Whatever it was, Kenshin did not see it. All the better, for Aoshi was actually requesting his presence. He did not ask the same of others.

     The invitation was silk, delivered by the hands of a curious young boy. Aoshi's messenger was not the sun-darkened dwarf Yahiko was, though they were both more or less of an age. He was slender, his skin kept fair from no work in the sun, his flaxen hair kept long and tied back with expensive, foreign fabric. The boy had ceremoniously placed the folded square in his palm, saying only that it bore a message from his master. Confused but nevertheless courteous, he'd accepted the offering.

     "Arigatou."

     He hadn't left right away, lingering in the courtyard with inquisitive admiration curving his lips. Though accustomed to recognition, the lad's too blue eyes had made his hair bristle, the pointless smile daunting. He bowed curtly after Kenshin handed him a coin for his troubles, turning briskly around and strolling out the front gate. Kenshin was left pondering as the night oil burned in the Lady's Dojo. He would first and foremost be certain Sanosuke was never made aware. The youth would act rashly whether the matter concerned him or not. In all good intention, he would bring disaster. He could not allow that. There had been enough needless loss.

    Various matters troubled him. Since when did Aoshi keep young boys in his service? The lad hadn't looked like one of the Oniwabanshu of Kyoto. He kept the same complexion as his master, though. Like the belly of a fish, never once graced by the sun. And what of this request? It did not clearly indicate save the two names: The Alley and Aoshi. He did not trust either. A challenge, perhaps? Kenshin suspected something of the sort. He decided he must find out more.

     He stopped in front of a teahouse, reading the name painted in black next to the door.

     YOKOCHO. That was the alley. Teahouses were no longer given antiquated Chinese nomers like "Jade Palace of Heaven" and "Eternal Meadow's Rest".

     Teahouses were practical establishments, best given practical names. Kenshin kicked the dust off his sandals, one foot then the other. The house looked deserted but even that was no reason to enter with dirty feet.

    "Gomen," he called softly, vaguely thinking his entrance would be noted. None came. The dining room was unlit and empty, the bar scattered with leftover cups from the previous night's drinking. Red oak chairs lined the tables at the opposite side of the room. There was no one apparent in the vicinity. Hand tight on the hilt, he addressed his unseen host.

    "Aoshi."

    "Welcome." He was answered from a distant room, partioned by cloth. Kenshin's eyes narrowed, unsure of who had spoken. The voice had been pleasant, even familiar to a degree. It was the "pleasant" which concerned him. The warrior's instinct made him particularly wary when obscured rooms called forth. Kenshin felt his heart accelerate, assessing the situation. The Okashira of the Oniwabanshu was a forward and skilled young man, he had no taste for ambush. Besides, if this was indeed an ambush then Aoshi had chosen a poor spot for one. He seemed to remember that back kitchens were common sites of assassination. His hand remained on the hilt, his advance slow and secret. Past the bar, past the empty chairs and tables, he brushed aside the curtain covering the frame.

    The ceremonious precision of the seated figure halted him, the ghastly skin and gossamer robes resembling that of a Kabuki apparition. No warrior knelt before him but a woman. Not the slackened farmwife or plain servant. This was a woman to be revered as more beautiful than the deities. A courtesan, garbed in silk robes that suggested breeding. Her complexion was pale bright as the moon, making her easily detectable in the near darkness, her lips deep and red as a wet plum. Green eyes rimmed with black and purple slashed against the white plane of her face.

    "Aoshi."

    The seated lady nodded and Kenshin's cheeks turned to flame.

     The room was permeated with a lady's scent, elegant and alluring. Kenshin stared at the scene before him. It was Aoshi but it was not. The coy gestures and honeyed voice of the geisha were not bestowed by nature to all women. Their elite mannerisms were acquired only through training and then seasoned until worthy enough to be entertained by rich lords. The young man had done masterfully with his appearance but the cold decorum still lingered, giving a sharp edge to the soft candlelit smile.

     The customary accessories were present, however. A china tray of sake at his right, a silk fan and a chrysanthemum blooming in a vase to the left. As tradition demanded, he had forsaken his short blade. Weapons were forbidden. To his knowledge, courtesans were not apt for holding private discourse in secluded teahouses. What Aoshi hoped to discuss here, clad like a goddess, was beyond him and he did not trust it.
    

      "I am honored that you responded to my invitation with such haste." Each word was pronounced clear and fluid as a raindrop. Aoshi kept his head bowed respectfully, sending the tiny silver ornaments in his hair tinkling. The candles on either side burned steadily in their oil bowls, his still form dancing on the wall behind him. Kenshin let the curtain fall, concealing his back.
  

     "I am not used to communicating through messengers," he said. "I came to speak with you directly and with all sincerity."
   

     A slight smile formed on the perfect mouth.
   

     "There must be some misunderstanding," he said innocently, lowering jewel-lit eyes. "I can hardly be expected to converse with so fine a gentleman."
   

     Kenshin let his breath go audibly, indicating his irritation. "I have no time for pleasantries, Aoshi." His hand still gripped the sword. He was not permitted to seat himself before removing the backwards blade. Sensing his inhibition, Aoshi gave a simple nod.
   

     "Sit."
   

    Placing the sword on the floor outside, Kenshin knelt before his host.
   

     "This is a facade, is it not?" He asked, gesturing to the finery adorning the musty storeroom. Aoshi did not reply. With a grace that took practice, he lifted the china flask, pouring clear, steaming sake into a scarlet cup.

    "You must think me headstrong and frivolous for having addressed you without warning." He spoke angelically, avoiding the question. How like a courtesan! Kenshin was quietly infuriated. Aoshi offered him the cup as if it were a precious pearl in the palm of his hand. "But I assure you my intent is nothing artful."

    Kenshin accepted but did not drink of the sake. He found Aoshi's quiet dignity very daunting and wine poured by an enemy was never to be trusted.

    "Why do you not drink?" The haunting smile did not fade, his head tilted to the side.

    "I did not come to drink." Kenshin answered evenly, without anger. "I came to discover your purpose."

    A change passed over Aoshi's drawn features, the smile fading. He appeared hesitant. It was strange to see the warrior look that way. Not once had he ever seen Aoshi hesitate in word or action. Kenshin spoke seriously.

    "Your servant had no information. Before I drink of your wine I must know your meaning."

    A change washed over Aoshi's features, as if realizing his guest would be nothing more than concise. He averted his eyes, placing slim, pale hands on the floor in front of him.

    "Death is the shadow that mars brilliant light," he said with rehearsed melancholy. "So have you been dimmed." Spoken like a geisha, Aoshi's rhyme held no reason. Kenshin was immediately suspicious.

    "Dimmed?"

    Aoshi paused, glancing up almost timidly.

    "I have heard the tragic story, and wonder if I might offer myself as a substitute for your late companion."

    Kenshin tensed, his heart quickening far more than he thought possible in so brief a moment. The sake steaming in the tiny cup burned fiercely in his hand.

    "Aoshi..." he warned. The porcelain face was troubled.

    "Please accept my humblest apologies for my inept skill." The mock lady bowed deeper, so low his white forehead nearly met the floor. "I knew the girl."

    He lifted his head, meeting Kenshin's eyes. His own were bright, magically-produced tears cutting through the rice powder on his face, sending a thin, pale streak down his cheek. His voice did not falter, only softened like the petal of a flower.

    "I was very young when I lost those dearest to me. All the years of my life, I have had many feelings of aimlessness and futility."

    A distant sigh stirred the candlelight.

    "The Oniwabanshu filled that void for a time but..." He hesitated, blinking to send crystal droplets scattering to the floor. "...they were unfit."

    Kenshin listened, stunned profoundly. Madness indeed had prompted this meeting. This was a warrior who had devoted his entire life to the Oniwabanshu; his pride. Flowery words and dainty perfume, candlelight and wine. None of these things seemed as fitting with Aoshi as cruel blood and steel. Kenshin's thoughts were in disarray when Aoshi spoke again.

    "It was you who took them. You were the only one worthy," His breathing had become rapid, unbefitting the composed exterior. Kenshin held his own composure in a tightly clenched fist. Was he being deemed worthy of killing the Oniwabanshu? He suppressed the urge to strike him, the notion strangely absurd. Something about Aoshi's adopted femininity refused to entertain the idea.

    "I will not be bound to weak impermanence." Aoshi extended a hand to him, palm facing up. "You are also undeserving of such futility."

    Kenshin stared at the hand before him, aghast. When he found his tongue again, he was suprised by his tone.

    "Aoshi," he began. "Why do you say this? You speak of impermanence but we are all impermanent, whether we so choose or no. It has nothing to do with futility."

    "It does." Aoshi's red lip curled in a delicate sneer. "Women in particular it would seem. Your lady was murdered, was she not?"

    Kenshin paled, Lady Kaoru's face flickering in his agitated thoughts. His fist turned to iron in his lap. Futile, was she? His own sweet girl? Aoshi continued, oblivious to the horror on Kenshin's face.

    "They are not meant to become truly ours, the weak. We may grow a fondness but they never do outlast us," he sighed. "It is useless trying to cling to them. You and I are different, tho."

    Kenshin heard Aoshi's soft words through a haze of pulsing bitterness. It crept through his stomach, threatening to sear his throat and make him truly ill. Never had he witnessed such a delicately-crafted mangling. In his geisha's guise, with heartfelt theatrics, did Aoshi intend to woo?

    "We share the same fate. I wonder that we might not be companions in it?"

    "I have no desire." Kenshin began then caught himself. "I...I do not suffer as you do." Fury shook him, a warm liquid drop falling from the cup in his palm. Aoshi retracted his hand, pressing it firmly to his throat.

    "Is this so?" Slim fingers tugged gently on the folds at his collar. For the first time, he was direct, breaking the geisha's tongue through a half smile.

    "Tell me then, when was your last joining?" The dark blue shoulder of the kimono slid down his elbow, baring his skin to the candle's glow. Kenshin regretted the schooling he gave his face before his reply. Confusion turned rage smoldered in his chest.

    "Was this your intent?" If his sharp tone affected Aoshi, he gave no sign. The white shoulder rose and fell visibly with his breath.

    "What is this?" He demanded angrily, his eyes losing their usual roundness, narrowing into harsh, violet slashes. "Friendship?" He spat the word. "If you loved me, you would not have--"

    Aoshi interrupted him bluntly.

    "Love is but an option, Himura. Have you a taste for it?"

    "Yes." Kenshin replied without hesitation. Aoshi's smile was slow and deliberate. He leaned forward, so close that Kenshin could scent jasmine on his breath.

    "Love, like the fermented liquor, clouds the mind, sweetens the eye and softens the heart. Only one causes the sharper pang once the haze passes." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you love me?"

    "No."

     Aoshi lifted the flask.

     "Then, drink."

    The wine burned, mellow and sweet in his mouth. Kenshin lowered his head, cup still in hand, waiting for Aoshi to retrieve it. He did, refilling it obediently. Kenshin breathed out, letting the next shot rumble hot in his stomach, casting a warm haze over his face. The effects of alcohol were agreeable, they made the dusty illusion seem somewhat more inviting; comfortable to a degree. He sipped more of the spirits, liking the sting of it on his tongue. The sake made him want to forget that Aoshi was not truly his ally. Not all killers were unpleasant to look upon, he mused, gazing at the loosely dressed form. If he entertained himself just enough, Aoshi was the raven-haired beauty, not a madman. The dark green eyes and delicate slashes of hair framing his face suddenly became things he might yearn for.

    Aoshi's demeanor slackened significantly after Kenshin's 6th cup, his graceful back tilted, knees spread generously to support the shift in posture. One hand lay flat on the floor behind him. Kenshin noted with growing interest the open robe escaping his shoulders. More pearl flesh, his arms no darker than the stark white of his face. He watched Aoshi brush absently at his chest with a delicate hand, drawing his attention. The whisper of muscle under the silk was alluring and Aoshi seemed quite aware. Kenshin bit his lip a little, lowering his eyes to Aoshi's smile, barely noticing the coy subtlelty in the gesture. The geisha was gazing at him, rubbing a finger gently along the pale indentation beneath his collarbone; the flat, smooth area that shielded his heart. He was abominably desirable. Kenshin realized he wanted to kiss that space and he did not know why. He cleared his throat, the red flag to his discomfort.

    "The sun will be up within an hour," he began, his thoughts not at all clear.

    "Must you go with it?" Aoshi sighed, his head tilted coquettishly. Silent once more, he shifted to the balls of his feet with a nimble movement, the opening of the kimono at his chest falling indecently as he did so. His knees were drawn up and parted in Kenshin's direction, squatting rather than kneeling as he had been before. One hand rested lax on his thigh, dipping slightly into the crevice below, the other unmoving on the floor behind him. Kenshin swallowed. Geisha were not known to wear undergarments. Without meaning to, his eyes traveled to the semi-obscured realm between Aoshi's thighs. Something pale flickered briefly in the dark space, partially cloaked by the robe. Aoshi's sex beckoned with the barely perceptible sway of his body.

    "We will not need an hour...."

    White skin drenched in dust and firelight, and it was being offered. Playful gestures, clever wit, refined skill and liquor were not the lady's only assets. As he knew it was the geisha's duty to make her client feel special; unique; unlike himself, he knew what Aoshi wanted.    

     Something tugged desperately below, making his breathing harder to control. The small room, though candlelit, was cool but he felt flushed and aroused. Such stirrings he had dealt with before, the secrets of the body not alien to him. The old days had made lust and indulgence a taboo, a burning distraction in the line of duty. He had been younger then and considerably harder to control. The heads of the Ishin-shi had been wise not to neglect him in such matters lest he should start "taking". Violent, desperate sexual activity was not unheard of, especially among the younger Hitokiri. But they were extremely dangerous in attracting attention. The Batthousai was no exception. Were he to give in to the fire in his blood, the results would be disastrous. He was offered from his superiors many outlets by which to appease those incessant urgings. Expensive baishunfu, young and skilled, had been led quaking to his chambers. Whores enjoyed by the nobility. Even young boys, reared to perfection by elite masters, had been acquired when the girls proved "too weak". It was the whores that taught him, amused at first by his lack of experience and later left shuddering on the floor when it was through, gasping; occasionally bruised by his clumsiness. He'd learned to ease the ache of want through physical contact, finding release in the soft skin of whores, their whimpered pleas like music in his ears. The Batthousai reveled in the agony he caused, it had made the experience all the more interesting. Need was beauty, helplessness and vulnerability all at his command.

    The Hitokiri Batthousai had not been renounced without dire cause. As a ruroni, the exquisite displays of power were no longer his. He was not a threat, just a wanderer in rags. Thus, the danger stopped. He realized he knew little of Aoshi's method when it came to joining but he was accustomed to the presentation. Sophisticated but not pure, prim and full of want. He saw Aoshi's lips were working, anxious and brilliantly colored. The red against the stark white reminded him of blood on snow. Their fidgeting made him want to feel their texture, have that scarlet grease smeared over his face, his shoulders....

    "Very well," he set down the empty cup, a slow change to his voice. "But if this is deceit, I will not need my blade to make you regret it." Aoshi's nod sealed his silent promise. Kenshin let the red gi fall to his waist with a shrug. The stale coolness of the storeroom met his flesh in a rush, barely cutting the warmth spreading rapidly over his skin. Perhaps the perfume was to blame? A poorly suppressed sound came from Aoshi, sprawled and waiting before him.

    "You are wondrous....!"

     Kenshin's lip flickered a half smile, the wine-flush in his cheeks deepening down his throat.

    "Flattery is the sweetest invitation to the bedchamber, Aoshi. I know not why, but I accept."

-End Part 1